12856	----	The Renaissance of the Vocal Art A Practical Study of Vitality, Vitalized Energy, of the Physical, Mental and Emotional Powers of the Singer, through Flexible, Elastic Bodily Movements BY EDMUND J. MYER F.S. Sc. (London) _Author of "Truths of Importance to Vocalists," "The Voice from a Practical Stand-Point," "Voice-Training Exercises" (a study of the natural movements of the voice), "Vocal Reinforcement," "Position and Action in Singing," etc., etc._ 1902 "_When you see something new to you in art, or hear a proposition in philosophy you never heard before, do not make haste to ridicule, deny or refute. Possibly the trouble is with yourself--who knows?_" PREFACE. To my readers once again through this little work, greetings. For the many kind things said of my former works by my friends, my pupils, the critic and the profession, thanks! To those who have understood and appreciated the principles laid down in my last book, "Position and Action in Singing," I will say that this little work will be an additional help. To my readers in general, who may not have fully understood or appreciated the principles of vitality, of vitalized energy, aroused and developed through the movements set forth in my last book, to such I will say that I hope this little work will make clearer those principles. I hope that it may lead them to a better understanding of the fundamental principles of the system, principles which are founded upon natural laws and common sense. In this work I have endeavored to logically formulate my system. As it is not possible to fully study and develop any one fundamental principle of singing without some understanding or mastery of all others, so it is not possible to write a work like this without more or less repetition. Certain subjects are so closely related, are so interdependent, that repetition cannot be avoided. I am not offering an apology for this; I am simply stating that a certain amount of repetition is necessary. CONTENTS. PREFACE EXORDIUM PART FIRST. _EVOLUTION_. ARTICLE 1. THE OLD ITALIAN SCHOOL OF SINGING " 2. THE DARK AGES OF THE VOCAL ART " 3. THE TWO PREVAILING SYSTEMS " 4. THE RENAISSANCE OF THE VOCAL ART " 5. THE COMING SCHOOL OR SYSTEM " 6. CONDITIONS " 7. THE INFLUENCE OF RIGHT BODILY ACTION RAISON D'ÊTRE PART SECOND. _VITALITY_. ARTICLE 1. THE FIRST PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC TONE-PRODUCTION " 2. THE SECOND PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC TONE-PRODUCTION " 3. THE THIRD PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC TONE-PRODUCTION PART THIRD. _AESTHETICS_. ARTICLE 1. THE FOURTH PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC SINGING " 2. THE FIFTH PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC SINGING " 3. THE SIXTH PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC SINGING " 4. THE SEVENTH PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC SINGING EXORDIUM. Man, to see far and clearly, must rise above his surroundings. To win great possessions, to master great truths, we must climb all the hills, all the mountains, which confront us. Unfortunately the vocal profession dwells too much upon the lowlands of tradition, or is buried too deep in the valleys of prejudice. Better things, however, will come. They must come. The current of the advanced thought, the higher thought, of this, the opening year of the twentieth century, will slowly but surely increase in power and influence, will slowly but surely broaden and deepen, until the light of reason breaks upon the vocal world. We may confidently look, in the near future, for the Renaissance of the Vocal Art. PART FIRST. _EVOLUTION._ ARTICLE ONE. THE OLD ITALIAN SCHOOL OF SINGING. The Shibboleth, or trade cry, of the average modern vocal teacher is "The Old Italian School of Singing." How much of value there is in this may be surmised when we stop to consider that of the many who claim to teach the true Old Italian method no two of them teach at all alike, unless they happen to be pupils of the same master. A system, a method, or a theory is not true simply because it is old. It may be old and true; it may be old and false. It may be new and false; or, what is more important, it may be new and yet true; age alone cannot stamp it with the mark of truthfulness. The truth is, we know but little of the Old Italian School of Singing. We do know, however, that the old Italians were an emotional and impulsive people. Their style of singing was the flexible, florid, coloratura style. This demanded freedom of action and emotional expression, which more largely than anything else accounts for their success. The old Italians knew little or nothing of the science of voice as we know it to-day. They did know, however, the great fundamental principles of singing, which are freedom of form and action, spontaneity and naturalness. They studied Nature, and learned of her. Their style of singing, it is true, would be considered superficial at the present day, but it is generally conceded that they did make a few great singers. If the principles of the old school had not been changed or lost, if they had been retained and developed up to the present day, what a wonderful legacy the vocal profession might have inherited in this age, the beginning of the twentieth century. Adversity, however, develops art as well as individuality; hence the vocal art has much to expect in the future. ARTICLE TWO. THE DARK AGE OF THE VOCAL ART. Even in the palmiest days of the Old Italian School, there were forces at work which were destined to influence the entire vocal world. The subtle influence of these forces was felt so gradually, and yet so surely and powerfully, that while the profession, as one might say, peacefully slept, art was changed to artificiality. Thus arose that which may be called the dark ages of the vocal art,--an age when error overshadowed truth and reason; for while real scientists, after great study and research, discovered much of the true science of voice, many who styled themselves scientists discovered much that they imagined was the true science of voice. Upon the theories advanced by self-styled scientists, many systems of singing were based, without definite proof as to their being true or false. These systems were exploited for the benefit of those who formulated them. This condition of things prevailed, not only through the latter part of the eighteenth century and the first half of the nineteenth, but still manifests itself at the present day, and no doubt will continue to do so for many years to come. The vocal world undoubtedly owes much to the study and research of the true scientist. All true art is based upon science, and none more than the art of voice and of singing. Science is knowledge of facts co-ordinated, arranged, and systematized; hence science is truth. The object of science is knowledge; the object of art is works. In art, truth is the means to an end; in science, truth is the end. The science of voice is a knowledge of certain phenomena or movements which are found under certain conditions to occur regularly. The object of the true art of voice is to study the conditions which allow these phenomena to occur. The greatest mistake of the many systems of singing, formulated upon the theories of the scientists, and of the so-called scientists, was not so much in their being based upon theories which oftentimes were wrong, as in the misunderstanding and misapplication of true theories. The general mistake of these systems was and is that they attempt by direct local effort, by direct manipulation of muscle, to compel the phenomena of voice, instead of studying the conditions which allow them to occur. In this way they attempt to do by direct control, that which Nature alone can do correctly. While it is true that the vocal world owes much to science and the scientists, yet "the highest science can never fully explain the true phenomena of the voice, which are truly the phenomena of Nature." The phenomena of the voice no doubt interest the scientists from an anatomical standpoint, but these things are of little practical value to the singer. As someone has said, "To examine into the anatomical construction of the larynx, to watch it physiologically, and learn to understand the motions of the vocal cords in their relation to vocal sounds, is not much more than looking at the dial of a clock; the movements of the hands will give you no idea of the construction of the intricate works hidden behind the face of the clock." We should never lose sight of the fact that there is a true science of voice, and that the art of song is based upon this science. The true art of song, however, is not so much a direct study of the physical or mechanical action of the parts, as it is a study of the spirituelle side; a study of the forces which move the parts automatically, in accordance with the laws of nature. In other words, voice, true voice, is more psychological than physiological; is more an expression of mind and soul than a physical expression or a physical force. It is true, the body is the medium through which the soul, the real man, gives expression to thought and feeling; and yet voice that is simply mechanical or physical is always common and meaningless and as a rule unmusical. The normal condition of true artistic voice is emotional and soulful. ARTICLE THREE. THE TWO PREVAILING SYSTEMS. The misunderstanding or the misapplication of any principle, theory or device, always leads to error. This was eminently true of the misunderstanding and misapplication on the part of many writers and teachers who based their systems upon the theories of the scientists and the self-styled scientists. The result is evident; it is that which is known as the local-effort, muscular school of the nineteenth century; the school which to this day so largely prevails; the school which makes of man a mere vocal machine, instead of a living, emotional, thinking soul. The local-effort school attempts, by direct control and manipulation of muscle and of the vocal parts, to compel the phenomena of voice. In this respect it is unique; in this respect it stands alone. The truth of this statement becomes evident when we stop to consider that in nothing known which requires muscular development, as does the art of singing, is this development or training secured by direct manipulation and control of muscle. There is nothing in the arts or sciences, nothing in the broad field of athletics or physical culture, nothing in the wide world that requires physical development, in which the attempt is made to develop by direct effort as does the local-effort school. Hence we say the mistake they make is in attempting to compel the phenomena of voice, instead of studying the conditions which allow them to occur. It might be interesting, it certainly would be very amusing, to enumerate and illustrate the many things done under the name of science, to compel the phenomena of voice; but space will not permit. Many of them are well known; many more are too ridiculous to consider except that they should be exposed for the good of the profession. The result of all this direct manipulation of muscle is ugliness--everywhere hard, unmusical, unsympathetic voices. The public is so used to hearing hard, muscular voices that the demand for beautiful tone is not what it should be. In fact, it is not generally known that it is possible to make almost any voice more or less beautiful that is at all worth training. The hard, unmusical voice of the day is a hybrid, unnatural and altogether unnecessary voice. Physical effort in singing develops physical tone and physical effect. Common tone makes common singing. A great artist must be great in tone as well as in interpretation. The disciples of the local-effort school lose sight of the fact that when a muscle is set and rigid, either in attempting to hold the breath or to force the tone, it is virtually out of action; that instead of actually helping the voice it is really preventing a free, natural production, and that other parts are then compelled to do its work; this accounts for many ruined voices. "To make a part rigid is equal to the extirpation of such part. While it is in a state of rigidity it ceases to take part in any action whatsoever: it is inert and the same as if it had ceased to exist." The local-effort school is accountable for many errors of the day. The incubus of this school is fastened upon the vocal profession with octopus-like tentacles which reach out in every direction, and which strive to strangle the truth in every possible way; but, while "life is short, art is long;" the truth must prevail. * * * * * As an outgrowth of the local-effort school, and as an attempt to counteract its evil tendencies, there is to-day in existence another school or system known as the limp or relaxed school, or the system of complete relaxation. The object of this relaxation is to overcome muscular tension and rigidity. This is the other extreme. The followers of this school forget that there can be no tonicity without tension. Flexible firmness without rigidity, the result of flexible, vitalized position and action, is the only true condition. The tone of the school of relaxation is nearly always depressed and breathy; it always lacks vitality. ARTICLE FOUR. THE RENAISSANCE OF THE VOCAL ART. We are in the habit of measuring time by days, weeks, months, years, decades and centuries. The world at large measures time by epochs and eras. While this is true in the physical world, it is equally true of the arts and sciences, and it is especially true of the art of song. Thus we have had the period known as "The Old Italian School of Singing." This was followed by the modern school, or "The Local-Effort School" of the nineteenth century, the period which may be called The Dark Ages of the Vocal Art. There is a constant evolution in all things progressive, and this evolution is felt very perceptibly to-day in the vocal world. Great principles, great truths, are of slow growth, slow development. Times change, however, and we change with them. While the changes may be slow and almost imperceptible to the observer, they are sure, and finally become evident by the accumulation of event after event. The prevailing systems of the nineteenth century tried to develop voice by direct local muscular effort. These systems have proved themselves failures. The vocal world is looking for and demanding something better. We may say that we are now on the eve of great events in the vocal art. When the morn comes, and the light breaks, we may confidently expect that awakening or reawakening which may properly be called The Renaissance of the Vocal Art. This is the age of physical culture in all its forms. There is a tendency from the artificial habits of life, back, or rather one should say forward, to Nature and Nature's laws. "Athletes appreciate the value of physical training: brain-workers appreciate the value of mental training, of thinking before acting, and if you would become either you must follow the methods of both." Many of our foremost educators in all branches of development, physical, mental and musical, are now making a bold stand for natural methods of education. However, all vocal training and development in the past, we are glad to say, has not been on the wrong side of the question. There have been, at all ages and under all circumstances and conditions, men who have been at the root or the bottom of things,--men who have preserved the truth in spite of their surroundings. So in the vocal art, there have been at every decade a few men who have known the truth, and who have handed it down through the dark ages of the vocal art. The work of these men has not been lost. Its influence has been felt, and is today more powerful than ever. Hence the trend of the best thought of the profession is away from the ideas of the local-effort school, away from rigidity and artificiality, and more in the direction of naturalness and common sense. I believe we are now, as a profession, slowly but surely awakening to truths which will grow, and which will in time bring to pass that which must come sooner or later, the new school of the twentieth century. There is to-day that which is known as "The New Movement in the Vocal Art"--a movement based upon natural laws and common sense and opposed to the ideas of the local-effort school;--movement in the direction of freedom of action, spontaneity and flexible strength as opposed to rigidity and direct effort;--a movement which advocates vitalized energy instead of muscular effort;--a movement which had its origin in the belief that no man ever learned to sing because he locally fixed or puckered his lips; because he held down his tongue with a spatulum or a spoon; because he locally lowered or raised his soft palate; because he consciously moved or locally fixed his larynx; because he consciously, rigidly set or firmly pulled in one direction or another, his breathing muscles; because he carried an unnaturally high chest at the sacrifice of form, position and strength in every other way; because he sang with a stick or a pencil or a cork in his mouth; or because he did a hundred other unnatural things too foolish to mention. No man ever learned or ever will learn to sing because of these things. It is true he may have learned to sing in spite of them, which shows that Nature is kind; but as compared to the whole, he is one in a thousand. "The New Movement" has come to stay. It will, of course, meet with bitter opposition. Why not? The custom of many has been, and is, to condemn without investigation; to condemn because it does not happen to be in the line of their teaching and study. Someone has said, "He who condemns without knowledge or investigation is dishonest." "The New Movement" is simply a study of the conditions which allow the phenomena of voice to occur naturally and automatically. The day will come, when a right training of the voice will be recognized as a flexible, artistic, physical training of the human body, and a consequent right use of the voice, as a soulful expression of the emotional nature. Matter or muscle will be taught to obey mind or will spontaneously. The thought before the effort, or rather before the action, will be the controlling influence, and vitalized emotional energy will be the true motor power of the voice. The elocutionists and the physical culturists understand this far better, as a rule, than the vocalists. Abuse brings reform in art as well as in all other things. So the abuse of Nature's laws and the lack of common sense in the training of the singing voice has led, through a gradual evolution, to "The New Movement." This movement is the outgrowth of the best or advanced thought of the profession rebelling against unnatural methods. In the fundamental principles of "The New Movement," there is nothing new claimed by its advocates. All is founded upon the science of voice, as are all true systems of teaching. The claims are made with regard to the devices used to study natural laws, to develop the God-given powers of the singer. Remember that Nature incarnates or reflects God's thoughts and desires and not man's ideas or inventions. Someone has said that there was nothing new, nor could there be anything new, in the art of singing. There are many, alas! who talk and write as did this man. Is not this simply proof of the fact that ignorance cheapens and belittles that which wisdom views with awe and admiration? And this is true of nothing so much as it is of the arts and sciences. Is, then, ours in all the world, the only profession based upon science and art that must stand still, that must accept blindly the traditions handed down to us, without investigation? Are we to feel and believe that with us progress is impossible, that we may not and cannot keep up with the spirit of the age? God forbid. Is it not true that "each age refutes much which a previous age believed, and all things human wax old and vanish away to make room for new developments, new ideals, new possibilities"? Is it possible this is true of all professions but ours? The signs of the times indicate differently. Hence we may confidently expect the Renaissance of the Vocal Art in this, the first half of the new century. ARTICLE FIVE. THE COMING SCHOOL, OR SYSTEM. This is an age of progress; and, as we have said, many educators are making a bold stand for natural, common-sense methods. The trend of the higher thought of the vocal profession is away from artificiality, and in the direction of naturalness. The coming school, or system, of the twentieth century will undoubtedly find its form, its power, its expressional and artistic force and value, its home, its life, in America. The old country is too much in the toils, too much in the ruts of tradition; hence natural forces are suppressed, and artificiality reigns supreme in the training of the voice. While this is not true in regard to the strictly aesthetic side of the question, it is painfully true as far as the fundamental principles of voice development are concerned. Of course we are glad to say there are bright and shining exceptions to this rule in all lands, but to the new country we must undoubtedly look for the new school. So far the world has produced but two great teachers. The first of these is Nature; the second is Common Sense. Nature lays down the fundamental principles of voice; Common Sense formulates the devices for development according to these principles. Therefore we say, Go to Nature and learn of her, and use Common Sense in studying and developing her principles. The nearer the approach to Nature, the higher the art; hence the new school must be founded upon artistic laws which are Nature's laws, and not upon artificiality. The coming school must teach the idealized tone. The ideal in its completeness means the truth,--all the truth,--and not, as many suppose, an exaggerated form of expression. The truth in tone, or the idealized tone, is beautiful and soulful, and demands for its production and use all the forces that Nature has given to the singer,--physical, mental, and emotional or spirituelle. Unmusical, muscular tone is not the true tone. It contains much that it should not have on the physical side, and lacks much that it should have on the spirituelle. As a rule, it means nothing; in fact, it is often simply a noise. The idealized tone always represents a thought, an idea, an emotion; it is the expression of the inner--the higher--man; it is, in reality, self-expression. "The human voice is the most delicately attuned musical instrument that God has created. It is capable of a cultivation beyond the dreams of those who have given it no thought. It maybe made to express every emotion in the gamut of human sensation, from abject misery to boundless ecstasy. It marks the man without his consent; it makes the man if he will but cultivate it." The coming school must be founded upon freedom of form and action, upon flexible bodily movements, the result of vitalized energy instead of muscular effort. There must be no set, rigid, static condition of the muscles. Artistic singing is a form of self-expression; and self-expression, to be natural and beautiful, must be the result of correct position and action. The first principle of artistic singing is the removal of all restraint. This is a fundamental law of Nature and cannot be changed. Under the influence of direct local muscular effort, the removal of all restraint is impossible. Hence the coming school must be based upon free flexible action. In this respect it will be much like the old Italian school, except that it will be as far in advance of the old school in the science of voice as the twentieth century is in advance of the eighteenth. It must also be far in advance of the old school in the devices used to develop the fundamental principles of voice. In this age of progress and knowledge of laws and facts, the new school, under the influence of Nature's laws and common sense, with the aid of flexible movements and vitalized energy, must do as much for the development of the singing voice in three or four years as the old school was able to do in eight or ten. This is necessary, both because the singing world demands it, and Nature and common sense teach us that it does not take years and years of hard study and practice simply to develop the voice. From a strictly musical standpoint, however, it does take years to ripen a great singer, to make a great artist. Many voices are ruined musically by years of hard, muscular practice. Hence we say the new school must give the voice freedom, and remove all muscular restraint by or through natural, common-sense, vitalized movements. ARTICLE SIX. CONDITIONS. Nature's laws are God's laws. All nature, the universe itself, is an expression of God's thoughts or desires in accordance with His laws. This one controlling force, this principle of law, is at the bottom of everything in nature and art. Everything which man says or does under normal, free conditions, is self-expression, an expression of his inner nature; but this expression must be under the law. If not, the expression is unnatural and therefore artificial. This principle, which holds true in all of man's expression, in all art, is in nothing more evident than in the use of the singing voice. "Nature does nothing for man except what she enables him to do for himself." Nature gives him much, but never compels him to use what she gives. Man is a free agent. He can obey or violate the laws of Nature at will; but he cannot violate Nature's laws, and not pay the penalty. This thought or principle constantly stands out as a warning to the vocal world. The student of the voice who violates Nature's laws must not expect to escape the penalty, which is hard, harsh, unmusical tone or ruined voice. Nature demands certain conditions in order to produce beautiful, artistic tone. If the student of the voice desires to develop beautiful, artistic tone he is compelled to study the conditions, the fundamental principles under the law; and this can be done only by the use of common-sense methods. All artistic tone is the result of certain conditions, conditions demanded by Nature and not man's ideas or fancies. These conditions are dependent upon form and adjustment, or we might better say adjustment and form, as form is the result of the adjustment of the parts. So far all writers on the voice, and all teachers, agree; but here comes the parting of the ways. One man attempts form and adjustment by locally influencing the parts,--the tongue, the lips, the soft palate, the larynx, etc. This results in muscular singing and artificiality. We have found that form and adjustment, to be right, must be automatic. This condition cannot be secured by any system of direct local effort, but must be the result of flexible, vitalized bodily movements--movements which arouse and develop all the true conditions of tone; movements which allow the voice to sing spontaneously. The fundamental conditions of singing demanded by Nature we find are as follows: Natural or automatic adjustment of the organ of sound, and of all the parts. Approximation of the breath bands. Inflation of all the cavities. Non-interference above the organ of sound. Automatic breath-control. Freedom of form and action of all the parts above the larynx. High placing and low resonance. Automatic articulation. Mental and emotional vitality or energy. Free, flexible, vitalized bodily position and action. It is not my intention here to enlarge upon these conditions to any extent. I have already done so in my last book, "Position and Action in Singing." I know many writers on the voice, and many teachers, do not agree with me on this subject of conditions; but facts are stubborn things, and "A physical fact is as sacred as a moral principle." "The sources of all phenomena, the sources of all life, intelligence and love, are to be sought in the internal--the spiritual realm; not in the external or material." "A man is considerably out of date who says he does not believe a thing, simply because he cannot do that thing or does not understand how the thing is done. There are three classes of people--the 'wills,' the 'won'ts,' and the 'can'ts': the first accomplish everything, the second oppose everything, and the third fail in everything." These things [these conditions] can be understood and fully appreciated by investigation only. There is no absolute definite knowledge in this world except that gained from experience. The voice in correct use is always tuned like an instrument. This must be in order to have resonance and freedom, and this is done only through natural or automatic adjustment of all the parts. In singing there are always two forces in action, pressure and resistance, or motor power and control. In order to have automatic adjustment these two forces must prevail. When the organ of sound is automatically adjusted, the breath bands approximate: This gives the true resisting or controlling force. When the breath bands approximate we have inflation of the ventricles of the larynx, the most important of all the resonance cavities, for when this condition prevails we have freedom of tone, and the inflation of all other cavities. And not only this; it also enables us to remove all restraint or interference from the parts above the larynx, and especially from the intrinsic and extrinsic muscles of the throat. This automatic adjustment, approximation of the breath bands and inflation of the ventricles, gives us a yet more important condition, namely, automatic breath control; this is beyond question the most important of all problems solved for the singer through this system of flexible vitalized movements. The removal of all interference or direct local control of the parts above the larynx, gives absolute freedom of form and action; and when the form and action are free, articulation becomes automatic and spontaneous. When all restraint is thus removed, the air current comes to the front, and we secure the important condition of high placing. Furthermore, under these conditions, when the air current strikes the roof of the mouth freely, it is reflected into the inflated cavities, and there is heard and felt, through sympathetic vibration of the air in the cavities, added resonance or the wonderful reinforcing power of inflation: in this way is secured not only the added resonance of all other cavities, but especially the resonance of the chest, the greatest of all resonance or reinforcing powers. When the voice is thus freed under true conditions, it is possible to arouse easily and quickly the mental and emotional power and vitality of the singer. In this way is aroused that which I have called the singer's sensation, or, for want of a better name, the third power of the voice. This power is not a mere fancy. It is not imagination; for it is absolutely necessary to the complete mental and emotional expression of the singer, to the development of all his powers. This life or vital force is to the singer a definite, controllable power. "Various terms have been applied to this mysterious force. Plato called it 'the soul of the world.' Others called it the 'plastic spirit of the world,' while Descartes gave it the afterward popular name of 'animal spirits.' The Stoics called it simply 'nature,' which is now generally changed to 'nervous principle.'" "The far-reaching results of so quiet and yet so tremendous a force may be seen in the lives of the men and women who have the mental acumen to understand what is meant by it." The singer who has developed and controlled "the third power" through the true conditions of voice, never doubts its reality; and he, and he only, is able to fully appreciate it. The development of all the above conditions depends upon one important thing, the education of the body; upon a free, flexible, vitalized body. ARTICLE SEVEN. THE INFLUENCE OF RIGHT BODILY ACTION. In art, as in all things else, man must be under the law until he becomes a law unto himself. In other words, he must study his technique, his method, his art, until all becomes a part of himself, becomes, as it were, second nature. There is a wide difference between art and artificiality. True art is based upon Nature's laws. Artificiality, in almost every instance, is a violation of Nature's laws, and at best is but a poor imitation. The impression prevails that art is something far off, something that is within the grasp of the favored few only. We say of a man, he is a genius, and we bow down to him accordingly. The genius is an artist by the grace of God and his own efforts. Nature has given some men the power to easily and quickly grasp and understand things which pertain to art, but if such men do not apply their understanding they never become great or useful artists. Talent is the ability to study and apply, and is of a little lower order than genius; but the genius of application, and the talent to apply that which is learned, have made the great and useful men, the great artists of the world. As someone has said, "Art is not a thing separate and apart; art is only the best way of doing things;" and while this is true of all the arts, it is eminently so of the art of voice and of song. Artistic tone, as we have found, is the result of certain conditions demanded by Nature. These conditions are dependent upon form and adjustment; and form and adjustment, to be right, must be automatic. All writers and teachers agree that correct tone is the result of form and adjustment; but here, as we have said, comes the parting of the ways. One man attempts, by directly controlling and adjusting the parts, to do that which nature alone can do correctly; result--hard, muscular tone. Another attempts, by relaxation, to secure the conditions of tone; result--vocal depression, or depressed, relaxed tone. If artistic tone be the result of conditions due to form and adjustment, and if form and adjustment, to be right, must be automatic, if these things are true, and they are as true as the fact that the world moves, then there is only one way under heaven by which it is possible to secure these conditions; that way is through a flexible, vitalized body, through flexible bodily position and action. The rigid, muscular school cannot secure these conditions, for they make flexible freedom impossible. The limp, relaxed school cannot secure them, for there is no tone without tonicity and vitality of muscle. Vitalized energy _can_ secure these true conditions, but through flexible bodily position and action only. The rigid school is muscle-bound, and lacks life and vitality. The limp school, of course, is depressed and lacks energy. The world is full of dead singers,--dead so far as vitality and emotional energy are concerned. Singing is a form of emotional or self-expression, and requires life and vitality. Life is action. Life is vital force aroused. Life in singing is emotional energy. Life is a God-given, eternal condition, and is a fundamental principle of the true art of song. It is wonderfully strange that this idea or principle of flexible, vitalized bodily position and action is not better understood by the vocal profession. That a right use or training of the body, automatically influences form and adjustment, and secures right conditions of tone, has been and is being demonstrated day by day. This is a revelation to many who have tried to sing by the rigid or limp methods. There is really nothing new claimed for it, for it is as old as the hills. Truth is eternal, and yet a great truth may be lost to the world for a time. The only things new which we claim, are the movements and the simple and effective devices used to study and apply them. These movements have a wonderful influence on the voice, for the simple reason that they are based upon Nature's laws and common sense. These truths are destined to influence, sooner or later, the entire vocal world. A great truth cannot always be suppressed, and some day someone will present these truths in a way that will compel their recognition. They are never doubted now by those who understand them, and they are appreciated by such to a degree of enthusiasm. I am well aware that when these movements are spoken of in the presence of the followers of the prevailing rigid or limp schools, they exclaim, "Why, we do the same thing. We use the body too." Of course they use the body, but it is by no means the same. Their use of the body is often abuse, and not only of the body, but of the voice as well. The influence on the singing voice of a rightly used or rightly trained body is almost beyond the ability of man to put in words. All singing should be rhythmical. These flexible bodily movements develop rhythm. All singing should be the result of vitalized energy and never of muscular effort. These movements arouse energy and make direct effort unnecessary. Singing should be restful, should be the result of power in repose or under control. These movements, and these movements alone, make such conditions possible. All singing should be idealized, should be the result of self-expression, of an expression of the emotions. This is impossible except through correct bodily action. "By nature the expression of man is his voice, and the whole body through the agency of that invisible force, sound, expresses the nobility, dignity, and intellectual emotions, from the foot to the head, when properly produced and balanced. Nothing short of the whole body can express this force perfectly in man or woman." These movements develop in a common-sense way the power of natural forces, of all the forces which Nature has given to man for the production and use of the voice. Rigid, set muscles, or relaxed, limp muscles dwarf and limit in every way the powers of the singer, physical, mental, and emotional; the physical action is wrong, the thought is wrong, and the expression is wrong. A trained, developed muscle responds to thought, to right thought, in a free, natural manner. A rigid or limp muscle is, in a certain sense, for the time being, actually out of use. An important point to consider in this connection is the fact that there is no strength properly applied without movement; but when right movements are not used, the voice is pushed and forced by local effort and by contraction of the lung cells and of the throat. This of course means physical restraint, and physical restraint prevents self-expression. Singing is more psychological than physiological; hence the importance of free self-expression. Direct physical effort produces physical effect; relaxation produces depression. All artistic tone is reinforced sound. There are two ways of reinforcing tone. First, by direct muscular effort, the wrong way; second, by expansion and inflation, the added resonance of air in the cavities, the right way. This condition of expansion and inflation is the distinguishing feature of many great voices, and is possible only through right bodily position and action. These movements are used by many great artists, who develop them as they themselves develop, through giving expression to thought, feeling, and emotion, through using the impressive, persuasive tone, the fervent voice. This brings into action the entire vocal mechanism, in fact all the powers of the singer; hence these movements become a part of the great artist. He may not be able to give a reason for them, but he knows their value. The persuasive, fervent voice demands spontaneity and automatic form and adjustment; these conditions are impossible without flexible, vitalized movements. The great artist finds by experience that the throat was made to sing and not to sing with; that he must sing from the body through the throat. He finds that the tone must be allowed and not made to sing. Hence in the most natural way he develops vitalized bodily energy. Next in importance to absolute freedom of voice, which these movements give, is the fact that through them absolute, automatic, perfect breath-control is developed and mastered. These movements give the breath without a thought of breathing, for they are all breathing movements. The singer cannot lift and expand without filling the lungs naturally and automatically, unless he purposely resists the breath. The conscious breath unseats the voice, that is, disturbs or prevents correct adjustment, and thus compels him to consciously hold it; but this very act makes it impossible to give the voice freedom. Through these movements, through correct position, we secure automatic adjustment, which means approximation of the breath bands, the principle of the double valve in the throat, which secures automatic breath-control. In other words, the singer whose position and action are correct need never give his breathing a thought. This is considered by many as the greatest problem--for the singer--solved in the nineteenth century. To study and master these movements and apply them practically, the singer needs to know absolutely nothing of the mechanism of his vocal organs. He need not consider at all the physiological side of the question. Of course the study of these movements must at first be more or less mechanical, until they respond automatically to thought or will. Then they are controlled mentally, the thought before the action, as should be the case in all singing; and finally the whole mechanism, or all movements, respond naturally and freely to emotional or self-expression. These flexible, vitalized movements are not generally understood or used, because they have not been in the line of thought or study of the rigid muscular school or the limp relaxed school; and yet they are destined to influence sooner or later all systems of singing. They have been used more or less in all ages by great artists. It is strange that they are not better understood by the profession. * * * * * In this connection it might be well to speak of the importance of physical culture for the singer. A series of simple but effective exercises should be used, exercises that will develop and vitalize every muscle of the body. There are also nerve calisthenics, nervo-muscular movements, which strengthen and control the nervous system. These nerve calisthenics generate electrical vitality and give life and confidence. "The body by certain exercises and regime may be educated to draw a constantly increasing amount of vitality from growing nature." A singer to be successful must be healthy and strong. He should take plenty of out-door exercise. Exercise, fresh air, and sunlight are the three great physicians of the world. But beside this, all singers need physical training and development, which tense and harden the muscles, and increase the lung capacity; that training which expands all the resonance cavities, especially the chest, and which directly develops and strengthens the vocal muscles themselves, particularly the extrinsic and intrinsic muscles of the throat. As we have learned, a trained muscle responds more spontaneously to thought or will than an uneducated one; flexible spontaneity the singer always needs. Beyond a doubt, the singer who takes a simple but effective course of physical training in connection with vocal training will accomplish twice as much in a given time, in regard to tone, power and control, as he could possibly do with the vocal training alone. This is the day of physical training, of physical culture in all things; and the average vocal teacher will have to awake to the fact that his pupils need it as much as, or more than, they need the constant practice of tone. Of course it is not possible to give a system of physical training in a small work like this. The student of the voice can get physical training and physical culture from many teachers and many books. It may not be training that will so directly and definitely develop and strengthen the vocal muscles and the organ of sound itself, or training that will so directly influence the voice as does our system, which is especially arranged for the singer; but any good system of physical development, any system that gives the student health and strength, is good for the singing voice. "Activity is the source of growth, both physical and mental." "Strength to be developed, must be used. Strength to be retained, must be used." RAISON D'ÊTRE. Since writing my last book, "Position and Action in Singing," and after four or five years more of experience, I have been doubly impressed and more than convinced of the power and influence of certain things necessary to a right training and use of the voice. Herbert Spencer says, "Experience is the sole origin of knowledge;" and my experience has convinced me, not only that certain things are necessary in the training of the voice, but that certain of the most important principles or conditions demanded by Nature, are entirely wanting in most systems of singing. Singers, as a rule, are artificial and unnatural. They do not use all the powers with which Nature has endowed them. This has been most forcibly impressed upon my mind by the general lack of vitality, or vital energy, among singers; by a general lack of physical vitality, and, I venture to say, largely of mental vitality, and undoubtedly of emotional vitality, often, but mistakenly, called temperament. These things have been forced upon me by the general condition of depression which prevails. Vitality, however, or vitalized energy, is in fact the true means or device whereby the singer is enabled to arouse his temperament, be it great or otherwise; to arouse it, to use it, and to make it felt easily and naturally. Out of every hundred voices tried I am safe in saying that at least ninety are physically depressed, are physically below the standard of artistic singing. Singing, it is true, is more mental than physical, and more emotional than mental; but a right physical condition is absolutely necessary, and the development of it depends upon the way the pupil is taught to think. Singing is a form of self-expression, of an expression of the emotions. This is impossible when there is physical depression. The singer must put himself and keep himself upon a level with the tone and upon a level with his song, the atmosphere of his song; upon a level with the sentiment to be expressed, physically, mentally and emotionally. This cannot be done, or these conditions cannot prevail, when there is depression. There is, to my mind, but one way to account for this condition of depression among singers. That is, the way they think, or are taught to think, in regard to the use of their bodies in singing. The way in which they breathe and control the breath, the way in which they drive and control the tone. It is the result of rigid muscular effort or relaxation, and both depress not only the voice but the singer as well. The tonal result is indisputable evidence of this. Knowledge comes through experience; and my experience in studying both sides of this question has convinced me that there is but one way to develop physical, mental and emotional vitality in the singer, and that is through some system of flexible, vitalized bodily movements. There must be flexible firmness, firmness without rigidity. The movements as given in my book, "Position and Action in Singing," and as here given, develop these conditions. They give the singer physical vitality, freedom of voice, spontaneity, absolute automatic breath control, and make self-expression, emotional expression, and tone-color, not only possible but comparatively easy. Singing is self-expression, an expression of thought and feeling. There must be a medium, however, for the expression of feeling aroused through thought; that medium is the body and the body alone. Therefore it is easy to see the importance of so training the body that it will respond automatically to the thought and will of the singer. The opposite of depression, which local effort develops, is vitalized energy, the singer's sensation, that which I have called the third power, and which is a revelation to those who have studied both sides of the question. These things, as I have said, have been given to the vocal world in my book, "Position and Action in Singing." Many have understood them, have used them, and are enthusiastic advocates of the idea. Others have not fully understood them, as was and is to be expected. For that reason I have written this little book in the hope that it might make things plainer to all. I have endeavored to embody these practical, natural, necessary movements in the formula of study given in this book. The formula which follows is systematically and logically arranged for the study and development of fundamental principles through or by the means of these flexible vitalized movements. In this way I hope to make these ideas plainer and more definite to pupil and teacher. Every correct system of voice-training is based upon principle, theory, and the devices used to develop the principles. There are certain fundamental principles of voice, which are Nature's laws laid down to man, and which cannot be violated. Upon these principles we formulate theories. The theories may be right or wrong, as they are but the works of man. If they are right, the devices used are more apt to be right. If they are wrong, wrong effort is sure to follow, and the result is disastrous. After all, the most important question for consideration is that of the devices used to develop and train the voice. All depends upon whether the writer, the teacher, and the pupil study Nature's laws through common-sense methods or resort to artificiality. If the devices used are right, if they develop vitality, emotional energy, if they avoid rigidity and depression, then the singer need not know so much about principle and theory. But with the teacher it is different. He must know what to think and how to think it before he can intelligently impart the ideas to his pupils. Hence a system based upon correct principle, theory, and device is absolutely necessary for the teacher who hopes to succeed. The following system, as formulated, is largely the outgrowth of my summer work at Point Chautauqua, on Lake Chautauqua. There we have a school every summer, not only for the professional singer and teacher, but for those who desire to become such. Beside the private lessons we give a practical normal course in class lessons. There the principles, the theory, and the devices used are studied and worked out in a practical way by lecture, by illustration, and by the study of all kinds of voices. Many who have taught for years have there obtained for the first time an idea, the true idea, of flexible vitalized movements, the devices demanded by nature for giving the voice vitality, freedom, ease, etc. These teachers who are thus aroused become the most enthusiastic supporters of, and believers in, our system of flexible vitalized movements. It is, therefore, through the Chautauqua work that I have been impressed with the importance of placing this system in a plainer and more definite way, if possible, before the vocal world. PART SECOND. _VITALITY._ ARTICLE ONE. THE FIRST PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC TONE--PRODUCTION. The first principle of artistic tone-production is _The Removal of All Restraint_. The theory founded upon this principle is as follows: Correct tone is the result of certain conditions demanded by Nature, not man's ideas. These conditions are dependent upon form and adjustment; and form and adjustment, to be right, must be automatic, and not the result of direct or local effort. The devices used for developing the above conditions are simple vocal exercises which are favorable to correct form and adjustment, and are studied and made to influence the voice through correct position and action. A correct system for training and developing the voice must be based upon principle, theory, and device; upon the principles of voice which are Nature's laws, upon the theories based upon these principles, and upon the devices for the study and development of such principles. My purpose in this little work is to give just enough musical figures or exercises to enable us to study and apply the movements, the practical part of our system. The first principle of artistic tone-production is the removal of all restraint. This no one can deny without stultifying himself. The removal of all restraint means absolute freedom, not only of form and action, but of tone. It is evident, then, that any local hardening or contracting of muscle, any tension or contraction which would prevent elasticity, would make the removal of all restraint impossible. Hence we find that this first principle is an impossibility with the rigid local-effort school. On the other hand, relaxation, while it may remove restraint, makes artistic control and tonicity impossible. Hence artistic tone, based upon this first principle, is an impossible condition with the limp or relaxed school. That tone is the result of certain conditions demanded by Nature, and that these conditions are dependent upon form and adjustment, cannot be denied; but unless form and adjustment give freedom to the voice, unless they result in the removal of all restraint, then the manner or method in which they are secured must surely be wrong. Local effort or contraction cannot do this. Relaxation cannot secure the true conditions. There is and can be but one principle which makes true form and adjustment possible: All form and adjustment must be automatic, and not the result of direct or local effort. This brings us to a study of devices; and devices, to influence correctly not only the voice but the individual, must be in accordance with natural and not artificial conditions. The singer must put himself and keep himself upon a level with the tone--upon a level with the tone physically, mentally and emotionally. The device which we use, or the formula, is, _lift, expand, and let go_. With the singer who contracts the throat muscles during the act of singing, that which may be called the center of gravity or of effort is at the throat. With the singer who carries a consciously high chest and a drawn-in or contracted diaphragm, the center of gravity is at the chest. With the singer who takes a conscious full breath, and hardens and sets the diaphragm to hold it, the center of gravity is at the diaphragm. In none of these cases is it possible to remove all restraint; for they all result in contraction, especially of the throat muscles, and make flexible expansion--a condition necessary to absolute freedom--impossible. Place the center of gravity, by thought and action, at the hips. Everything above the hips must be free, flexible, elastic and vitalized when singing. We say, _lift, expand, and let go_, which must be in the following proportion: Lift a little, expand more than you lift, and let go entirely. The lift is from the hips up, and must be done in a free, flexible manner, with a constant study to make the body lighter and lighter, and the movement more elastic and flexible. Do not lift as though lifting a weight, but lift lightly as though in response to thought or suggestion. Expand the entire body in a flexible, elastic manner. This will bring into action every muscle of the body, and apply strength and support to the voice; for, as we have found, there is no strength correctly applied except through right movement. When we lift and expand properly, we expand the body as a whole, and not the chest alone, nor the diaphragm, nor the sides. These all come into action and expand with proper movement; but there must be no conscious thought of, nor conscious local effort of, any particular part of the body. When we lift and expand properly the chest becomes active, the diaphragm goes into a singing position, and every muscle of the body is on the alert and ready to respond to the thought or desire of the singer. Not only this; when we lift and expand properly, we influence directly the form and adjustment of all the vocal muscles, and especially the organ of sound itself. In this way the voice is actually and artistically tuned for the production of correct tone, as is the violin in the hands of the master before playing. _Lift, expand, and let go_. This brings us to a consideration of the third part of this expression, _let go_. This is in some respects the most important of the three; for unless the singer knows how to let go properly, absolute freedom or the removal of all restraint is impossible, and the true conditions of tone are lacking. The _let go_ does not mean relaxation, for there must be flexible firmness without rigidity. With the beginner the tendency is to lift, expand, and harden or contract all the muscles. This, of course, means restraint. The correct idea of _let go_ may be studied and better understood by the following experiment or illustration. Stand with the right arm hanging limp by the side. Lift it to a horizontal position, the back of the hand upward. While lifting, grip and contract every muscle of the arm and hand out to the finger-tips. This is much like the contraction placed upon the muscles of the body and of the throat by the conscious-breathing, local-effort school. Lift the arm again from the side, and in lifting have the thought or sensation of letting go all contraction of the muscles. Make the arm light and flexible, and use just enough strength to lift it, and hold it in a horizontal position. This should be the condition of all the muscles of the body under the influence of correct, _lift, expand, and let go_. Lift the arm the third time without contraction or with the sensation of letting go, hold it in a horizontal position, the back of the hand upward. Now will to devitalize the entire hand from the wrist to the finger-tips. Let the hand drop or droop, the arm remaining in a horizontal position. This condition of the hand is the _let go_, or the condition of devitalization, which should be upon the muscles of the face, the mouth, the tongue, the jaw, and the extrinsic muscles of the throat during the act of singing. Thus, when we say, _lift, expand, and let go_, we mean lift from the hips, the center of gravity, in an easy, flexible manner; expand the body with a free movement without conscious thought of any part of it; have the sensation of letting go all contraction or rigidity, and absolutely release the muscles of the throat and face. The _let go_ is in reality more a negative than a positive condition, and virtually means, when you lift and expand, do not locally grip, harden, or set any muscle of the body, throat, or face. The _lift, expand, and let go_ must be in proportion to the pitch and power of the tone. This, if done properly, will result in automatic form and adjustment, the removal of all restraint, and open, free throat and voice. This is the only way in which it is possible to truly vitalize, to arouse the physical, mental and emotional powers of the singer. This is the only way in which it is possible to put yourself and keep yourself upon a level with the tone--upon a level, physically, mentally and emotionally. This is in truth and in fact the singer's true position and true condition; this is in truth and in fact self-assertion; and this, and this only, makes it possible to easily and naturally _arouse_ "the singer's sensation," the true sensation of artistic singing. We will take for our first study a simple arpeggio, using the syllables Ya ha, thus: [Illustration: FIRST STUDY. Ya, ha....] We use Ya on the first tone, because when sung freely it helps to place the tone well forward. Ya is pronounced as the German _Ja_. We use ha on all other tones of this study for the reason that it is the natural staccato of the voice. Think it and sing it "in glossic" or phonetically, thus: hA, very little h but full, inflated, expanded A. A full explanation for the use of Ya and ha may be found in "Position and Action in Singing," page 117. All the studies given in this little work for the illustration and study of the movements of our system should be sung on all keys as high and as low as they can be used without effort and without strain. It has been said that "the production of the human voice is the effect of a muscular effort born of a mental cause." Therefore it is important to know what to think and how to think it. We say, put yourself and keep yourself constantly upon a level with the tone, mentally, physically and emotionally. For the present we have to do with the mental and physical only. Stand in an easy, natural manner, the hands and arms hanging loosely by the sides. You desire to sing the above exercise. Turn the palms of the hands up in a free, flexible manner, and lift the hands up and out a little, not high, not above the waist line. When moving the hands up and out, move the body from the hips up and out in exactly the same manner and proportion. The hands and arms must not move faster than the body; the body must move rhythmically with the arms. This rhythmical movement of body and arms is highly important. In moving, the sensation is as though the body were lifted lightly and freely upon the palms of the hands. The hands say to the body, "Follow us." In this way, _lift, expand, and let go_. Do not raise the shoulders locally. The movement is from the hips up. The entire body expands easily and freely by letting go all contraction of muscle. Do not first lift, and after lifting expand, and then finally try to let go, as is the habit of many; but lift, and when lifting expand, and when lifting and expanding let go as directed. Three thoughts in one movement--three movements in one--lifting, expanding, and letting go simultaneously as one movement, which in fact it must finally become. This is the only way in which it is possible to secure all true conditions of tone. With this thought in mind, and having tried the movement without singing, sing the above exercise. Start from repose, as described, and by using the hands and body in a free, flexible manner, move to what you might think should be the level of the first tone. Just when you reach the level of the first tone let the voice sing. Move up with the arpeggio to the highest note, using hands, body, and voice with free, flexible action; then move body and hands with the voice down to the lowest note of the arpeggio; when the last tone is sung go into a position of repose. The movement from repose to the level of the first tone is highly important, for the reason that it arouses the energies of the singer, and secures all true conditions through automatic form and adjustment. Do not hesitate, do not hurry. All movement must be rhythmical and spontaneous, and never the result of effort. In singing the arpeggio the tones of the voice must be strictly staccato; but the movement of the hands and body must be very smooth, even, and continuous--no short, jerky movements. The movement of the body is very slight, and at no time, in studying these first exercises, should the hands be raised above the level of the hips or of the waist line. Of course with beginners these movements may be more or less exaggerated. When singing songs, however, they do not show, at least not nearly as much as wrong breathing and wrong effort. They simply give the singer the appearance of proper dignity, position, and self-assertion. By all means use the hands in training the movements of the body. You can train the body by the use of the hands in one-fourth of the time that it is possible to do it without using them. Be careful, however, not to raise the hands too high, as is the tendency; when lifted too high the energy is often put into the hands and arms instead of the body; in this way the body is not properly aroused and influenced, and of course true conditions are not secured. "Practical rules must rest upon theory, and theory upon nature, and nature is ascertained by observation and experience." Now, if you will practice this arpeggio with a free, flexible movement of hands and body, getting under the tone, as it were, and moving to a level of every tone, you will soon find by practice and experience that these movements are perfectly natural, that they arouse all the forces which nature gave us for the production of tone, that they vitalize the singer and give freedom to the voice. By moving properly to a level of the first tone you secure all true conditions of tone; and if you have placed yourself properly upon a level with the high tone, when that is reached you will have maintained those true conditions--you will have freedom, inflation and vitality instead of contraction and strain. By moving with the voice in this flexible manner we bring every part of the body into action, and apply strength as nature demands it, without effort or strain. Remember, there is no strength properly applied in singing without movement. In this way the voice is an outward manifestation of an inward feeling or emotion. "The voice is your inner or higher self, expressed not _at_ or _by_ but _through_ the vocal organs, aided by the whole body as a sound-board." Our next study will be a simple arpeggio sung with the _la_ sound, thus: [Illustration: SECOND STUDY. La....] This movement, of course, must be sung with the same action of hands and body, starting from repose to the level of the first tone, and keeping constantly upon a level with the voice by ascending and descending. Sing this exercise first semi staccato, afterwards legato. The special object of this exercise is to relax the jaw, the face, and the throat muscles. A stiff, set jaw always means throat contraction. In this exercise, if sung in every other respect according to directions, a stiff jaw would defeat the whole thing, and make impossible a correct production of every high tone. In singing the _la_ sound, the tip of the tongue touches the roof of the mouth, just back of the upper front teeth. Think the tone forward at this point, and let the jaw rise and fall with the tongue. Devitalize the jaw and the muscles of the face, move up in a free, flexible manner to the level of every tone, and you will be surprised at the freedom and ease with which the high tones come. The moving up in the proper way applies strength, and secures automatic form and adjustment; develops or strengthens the resisting or controlling muscles of the voice; in fact, gives the voice expansion, inflation, and tonicity. Remember that one can act in singing; and by acting I mean the movements as here described, lifting, expanding, etc., without influencing the voice or the tone, without applying the movements to the voice; of course such action is simply an imitation of the real thing. Herein, however, lies the importance of correct thinking. The thought must precede the action. The singer must have some idea of what he wants to sing and how he wants to sing it. A simple chance, a simple hit or miss idea, will not do. Make your tone mean something. Arouse the singer's sensation, and you can soon tell whether the movement is influencing the tone or not. Of course these movements are all more easily applied on the middle and low tones than on the higher tones, but these are the great successful movements for the study and development of the high tones. As we have learned in our former publications, there are but three movements in singing,--ascending, descending, and level movements. We have so far studied ascending and descending movements or arpeggios. We will now study level movements on a single tone, thus: [Illustration: THIRD STUDY. Ah.] Place yourself in a free, flexible manner upon a level with the tone by the use of the movements as before described; lift, expand, and let go without hurrying or without hesitation, and just when you reach that which you feel to be the level of the tone let the voice sing. All must be done in a moment, rhythmically and without local effort. Sing spontaneously, sing with abandon, trust the movements. They will always serve you if you trust them. If you doubt them, they are doubtful; for your very doubt brings hesitation, and hesitation brings contraction. Sing from center to circumference, with the thought of expansion and inflation, and not from outside to center. The first gives freedom and fullness of form, the latter results in local effort and contraction. The first sends the voice out full and free, the latter restrains it. Expansion through flexible movement is the important point to consider. When the tone is thus sung, it should result in the removal of all restraint, especially from the face, jaw, and throat. In this way the tone will come freely to the front, and will flow or float as long as the level of the tone is maintained without effort. Remember the most important point is the movement from repose to the level of the tone. If this is done according to directions, all restraint will be removed and all true conditions will prevail. Never influence form. Let form and adjustment be automatic, the result of right thought, position, and action. Study to constantly make these movements of the body easier and more natural. Take off all effort. Do not work hard. It is not hard work. It is play. It is a delight when properly done. Make no conscious, direct effort of any part of the body. Never exaggerate the movement or action of one part of the body at the sacrifice of the true position of another. The tendency is to locally raise the chest so high that the abdomen is unnaturally drawn in. This, of course, is the result of local effort, and is not the intention of the movements. The center of gravity must be at the hips; and all movement above that must be free, flexible, and uniform.[1] [Footnote 1: In this connection, see Supplementary Note, page 135.] Do not give a thought to any wrong thing you may be in the habit of doing in singing, but place your mind upon freeing the voice, upon the removal of all restraint through these flexible vitalized movements: think the ideal tone and sing. When the right begins to come through these movements the wrong must go. Over and against every wrong there is a right. We remove the wrong by developing the right. Sing in a free, flexible manner, the natural power of the voice. Make no effort to suppress the tone or increase its power. After the movements are understood and all restraint is removed, then study the tone on all degrees of power, but remember when singing soft and loud, and especially loud, that the first principle of artistic singing is the removal of all restraint. ARTICLE TWO. THE SECOND PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC TONE-PRODUCTION. The second principle of artistic tone-production is _Automatic Breathing and Automatic Breath-Control._ _Theory._--The singing breath should be as unconscious,--or, rather, as sub-conscious,--as involuntary, as the vital or living breath. It should be the result of flexible action, and never of local muscular effort. The muscular breath compels muscular control; hence throat contraction. The nervous breath, nervous control; hence relaxation and loss of breath. _Devices._--_Expand to breathe. Do not breathe to expand._ Expand by flexible, vitalized movements; control by position the level of the tone, and thus balance the two forces, "pressure and resistance." In this way is secured automatic adjustment and absolute automatic breath-control. More has probably been written and said upon this important question of breathing in singing than upon any other question in the broad field of the vocal art; and yet the fact remains that it is less understood than any of the really great principles of correct singing. This is due to the fact that most writers, teachers, and singers believe that they must do something--something out of the ordinary--to develop the breathing powers. The result is, that most systems of breathing are artificial; therefore unnatural. Most systems of breathing attempt to do by direct effort that which Nature alone can do correctly. Most breathing in singing is the result of direct conscious effort. The conscious or artificial breath is a muscular breath, and compels muscular control. The conscious breath--the breath that is taken locally and deliberately (one might almost say maliciously) before singing--expands the body unnaturally, and thus creates a desire to at once expel it. In order to avoid this, the singer is compelled to harden and tighten every muscle of the body; and not only of the body, but of the throat as well. Under these conditions the first principle of artistic tone-production--the removal of all restraint--is impossible. As the breath is taken, so must it be used. Nature demands--aye, compels--this. If we take (as we are so often told to do) "a good breath, and get ready," it means entirely too much breath for comfort, to say nothing of artistic singing. It means a hard, set diaphragm, an undue tension of the abdominal muscles, and an unnatural position and condition of the chest. This of course compels the hardening and contraction of the throat muscles. This virtually means the unseating of the voice; for under these conditions free, natural singing is impossible. The conscious, full, muscular breath compels conscious, local muscular effort to hold it and control it. Result: a stiff, set, condition of the face muscles, the jaw, the tongue and the larynx. This makes automatic vowel form, placing, and even freedom of expression, impossible. The conscious, artificial breath is a handicap in every way. It compels the singer to directly and locally control the parts. In this way it is not possible to easily and freely use all the forces which Nature has given to man for the production of beautiful tone. Now note the contrast. The artistic breath must be as unconscious or as involuntary as the vital or living breath. It must be the result of free, flexible action, and never of conscious effort. The artistic, automatic breath is the result of doing the thing which gives the breath and controls the breath without thought of breath. The automatic breath is got through the movements suggested when we say, _Lift, expand, and let go_. When the singer lifts and expands in a free, flexible manner the body fills with breath. One would have to consciously resist this to prevent the filling of the lungs. The breath taken in this way means expansion, inflation, ease, freedom. There is no desire to expel the breath got in this way; it is controlled easily and naturally from position--the level of the tone. When the breath is thus got through right position and action, we secure automatic form and adjustment; and correct adjustment means approximation of the breath bands, inflation of the cavities--in fact, all true conditions of tone. Nature has placed within the organ of sound the principle of a double valve,--one of the strongest forces known in mechanics,--for the control of the breath during the act of singing. This is what we mean by automatic breath-control--using the forces which Nature has given us for that purpose, using them in the proper manner. If the reader is familiar with my last two works, "Vocal Reinforcement" and "Position and Action in Singing," he will have learned through them that we have not direct, correct control of the form and adjustment of the parts which secure the true conditions of tone and automatic breath-control. These conditions, as we have learned, are secured through the flexible movements which are the ground-work of our system. Therefore we say, _Trust the movements_. If you have confidence in them, they will always serve you. If you doubt them, they are doubtful; for the least doubt on the part of the singer means more or less contraction and restraint; hence they fail to produce the true conditions. This automatic breathing, the result of the movements described, does not show effort or action half so much as the old-fashioned, conscious muscular breath. Breathing in this way means the use of all the forces which Nature has given us. Breathing in this way is Nature's demand, and the reward is Nature's help. The devices we use to develop automatic breathing and automatic breath-control are the simplest possible exercises, studied and developed through the movements, as before described. In this way through right action we expand to breathe, or rather we breathe through flexible expansion, and we control by position, by the true level of the tone. In this way, as we have found, all true conditions are secured and maintained. We will take for our first study a single tone about the middle of the voice. Exercise three in Article One of this second part of the book will suggest the idea. Sing a tone about the middle of the voice with the syllable _ah_. Lift, expand, and let go, by the use of the hands and the body, as before suggested. The lifting and expanding in a free, flexible manner will give you all the breath that is needed; and the position, the level of the tone, will hold or control the breath if you have confidence. Remember that automatic breathing depends upon first action, the movement from repose to the level of the tone. If the action is as described, sufficient breath will be the result. If the position, the level of the tone, is maintained without contraction, absolute automatic breath-control will be the result so sure as the sun shines. The tendency with beginners and with those who have formed wrong habits of breathing, is to take a voluntary breath before coming into action. This of course defeats the whole thing. Again, the tendency of beginners or of those who have formed wrong habits, is to sing before finding the level of the tone through the movements, or to start the tone before the action. This of course compels local effort and contraction, and makes success impossible. The singer must have breath; and if he does not get it automatically through the flexible movements herein described, or some such movements, he is compelled to take it consciously and locally. The conscious local breath in singing is always an artificial breath, and compels local control. Under these conditions ease and perfect freedom are impossible. As we have said, the important thing to consider in this study is the movement from repose to the level of the first tone. Move in a free, flexible manner as before described, and give no thought to breath-taking. When you have found the level of the tone, all of which is done rhythmically and in a moment, let the voice sing,--sing spontaneously. Make no effort to hold or control the breath. Maintain correct position the level of the tone, in a free, flexible manner, and sing with perfect freedom, with abandon. As the movement or action gave you the breath, so will the position hold it. The more you let go all contraction of body and throat muscles, the more freedom you give the voice, the more will the breath be controlled,--controlled through automatic form and adjustment. This is a wonderful revelation to many who have tried it and mastered it. Those who have constantly thought in the old way, and attempted to breathe and control in the old way, cannot of course understand it. The tendency of such is to condemn it,--to condemn it, we are sorry to say, without investigation. Knowledge is gained through experience. The singer or pupil who tries this system of breathing and succeeds, needs no argument to convince him that it is true, natural and correct. The greatest drawback to the mastering of it on the part of many singers and teachers, is the artificial habits acquired by years of wrong thinking and wrong effort. With the beginner it is the simplest, the easiest, and the most quickly acquired of all systems of breathing; for automatic breathing is a fundamental, natural law of artistic singing. For further illustration of this principle of breathing we will use the following exercise: [Illustration: FOURTH STUDY. Ah....] Place yourself in a free, flexible manner on a level with the first tone. If this is done properly, you will have secured automatically a singing breath and all true conditions of tone. When singing this exercise move the hands and body with the tone or voice, ascending and descending. In ascending open freely and naturally by letting go. Do not influence the form by attempting locally to open. Do not influence the form by locally preventing freedom or expansion. Let go all parts of the face, mouth and throat, and you will be surprised at the power of the tone, of the breath, and of the breath-control on the upper tone. You will be surprised to find that you will have secured or developed three or four times as much sustaining breath power as you imagined you had. In descending, care must be taken not to droop or depress, but to carry the voice by controlling the movements of the body, and only after the last tone is finished should the body go into a position of repose. Sing this exercise in all degrees of power, soft, medium and loud, maintaining the same true conditions on all. The tendency of most singers is to relax and depress on soft tone, or to pinch and contract. Soft tone should never be small in form, and it should always have the same vitality and energy as the louder tone. [Illustration: FIFTH STUDY. Ah....] This exercise should be studied and practiced in every way suggested for the study of the preceding exercises. Place yourself upon a level with the first tone, in the manner before described, and thus secure the automatic breath. Do not forget to use the hands to suggest the movement to the body. The hands should be used until the body is thoroughly trained to flexible action. It is always a question of "the thought before the action." Do not allow a conscious or local breath before the movement. Place yourself upon a level with the first tone, and allow or let the voice start spontaneously and freely. Make no effort to hold the breath. Hold from position. Sing down, moving with the voice, but do not let the body or the tone droop or relax. Neither must there be stiffness or contraction. If you find it impossible to control the voice in this way, or to prevent depression of body and of tone, then try the following way. Place yourself upon a level with the first tone in the proper manner, sing down, but lift and expand with an ascending movement of the hands and body. Open the mouth freely and naturally, and let the tone roll out. You will be surprised to find not only great breath power and control, but a power in the tone that most singers imagine can be got through physical force alone. This power is the result of expansion and inflation, the true reinforcing power. The increased vitalized energy of the tone is the result of the upward and outward movement. This movement of expansion and inflation through flexible action, is the true application of strength or of power. It is that which we call the reverse movement. We sing down and move up. It is the great movement for developing the low tones of all voices. This reverse movement may be applied at will to all the studies given; it will depend upon the effect we may desire to produce. If in descending, a quiet effect is desired, the movement is with the voice. If we want power we reverse the action. The body, when properly trained, becomes the servant of the will, and responds instantly to thought and desire. Hence the importance of correct thought. In presenting these ideas to my readers, I realize how difficult it is to put them in words, and how much they lose when they appear in cold print. In working with a living, vitalized voice, the effect is so different. The reader who may desire to experiment with these ideas should place himself before a mirror, and make his image his pupil, his subject. In this way he can better study the movements, the action, the position, the level of the tone, and the breathing. In private teaching, of course, we do not take up one subject or principle and finish that, and then take up the next one; but one idea is constantly built upon another to form the harmonious whole. The formula which we use here, as we have said, is the one adopted for the normal class at the Point Chautauqua summer school. This we do in order to have the system properly arranged for lecture, illustrations, and for a practical study of the devices, not only from the singer's, but from the teacher's standpoint as well. The teacher or singer who studies and masters this course never questions or doubts the truth and power of automatic breathing and automatic breath-control; or the wonderful influence on the voice of these movements, which we call true position and action in singing.[1] [Footnote 1: The few exercises or studies here given, as well as a number of others, may be found fully carried out with accompaniment, in "Exercises for the Training and Development of the Voice," by the author of this work. Published by William A. Pond and Company.] ARTICLE THREE. THE THIRD PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC TONE-PRODUCTION. The third principle of artistic tone-production is _High Placing and Low Resonance._ _Theory._--Tone, to be artistic, must be placed forward and high, and must be reinforced by the low cavities and chest resonance; it must be placed high, and reinforced or built down by added resonance through expansion and inflation. _Devices._--Place high by removing all restraint, all obstruction, through flexible movements. The high, forward placing is the natural focus of the voice. When the voice is thus placed and automatic control prevails, reaction and reflection occur, and the sympathetic low resonance of the inflated cavities is added to the tone. Also study the naturally high placing of E and the naturally low color of oo; then equalize all the vowels through their influence, and thus develop uniform color and quality in all. This third principle of artistic singing is a very important one, and means much more than one might, at first thought, suppose. Many singers think of placing simply as the point of contact or impact of the air current. Placing, however, means more than this. It means not only the correct focus of tone forward and high, but it also means reaction and reflection of the air current; in short, sympathetic added vibration of air in the low inflated cavities. This being true, we find that correct placing means even much more. It means the true form and adjustment of all the parts--all true conditions of tone. The prevailing idea of placing is the thought of constantly pushing up the tone. Result, the organ of sound is pushed out of place and all true conditions disturbed. The pushed-up tone means local, muscular effort, contraction, and a hard, unmusical voice. The voice thus placed may be loud and brilliant, but never soulful or beautiful. The pushed-up tone means singing from the larynx up. It means head-resonance only; and head-resonance is but one side, and that the smallest side, of this great question. Tone must be placed spontaneously, with reaction and reflection. This shows at once the importance of the first two great principles of voice-production,--freedom and automatic breath-control; for without these true placing is impossible. Tone placed in this way means the ring of the forward high placing and the added resonance of the inflated cavities and especially of the chest. In singing, as we have learned, there are two forces constantly in action,--pressure and resistance, or motor power and control. These two forces must prevail, and in order to produce the voice artistically, they must be balanced. This is done, indirectly, through the movements we advocate, through the position and action of the body. The motor power lies in the diaphragm and in the abdominal and intercostal muscles. The controlling force lies in the chest, in a properly adjusted larynx and the approximated breath-bands. These two forces must be balanced during the act of singing. Most singers are much stronger in the driving or motor power than in reaction or the controlling force; and with many, the weakness in control, reaction or adjustment, is an absolute bar to success. Hence the importance of strengthening the chest, and the position of the organ of sound, through physical culture. When these two forces, motor power and control, are not equal, the balance of force is placed upon the throat and throat muscles. This the singer can no more avoid doing than he can avoid balancing himself to keep from falling. When, in order to place, the voice is pushed up, deliberately and maliciously pushed, both forces are exerted in the same direction. They are then virtually but one force--a driving force. As there must be two forces in singing, as Nature compels this, there is nothing left for the singer to do but to use the throat and throat muscles as a controlling force. Under these conditions, as before stated, the tone may be brilliant, but it will always be unsympathetic and unmusical. I hope no one will think for a moment, in considering the movements we advocate, that we do not believe in strength and power. We do believe in applied power, applied indirectly; not by local grip and contraction, but indirectly through vitalized energy, expansion, and flexibility, through the true position and action of the singer. There is no strength properly applied in singing except through movement; through correct movement all the forces which nature has given the singer are indirectly brought into action; in this way there is constant physical and vocal development. Every tone sung, as we have learned, is a reinforced sound. There are two ways of reinforcing tone. First, by muscular tension, muscular contraction, muscular effort--the wrong way. Second, by vitalized energy, by expansion, and by added resonance of air in the inflated cavities--the right way. Of course to produce expansion and inflation, true conditions of form and adjustment must prevail, through the movements given. Form has much to do with determining the quality and character of the tone. Muscular effort, either in placing or reinforcing the tone, results in muscular contraction, and in most cases in elliptical form of voice, thus: [drawn horizontal oval] This means depressed soft palate, high larynx, contraction of the fauces, closed throat, and spread open mouth. Result--high placing impossible, no low color or reinforcement; in short, hard muscular tone. The tone may be loud but it cannot be musical. The true musical form of the voice is elongation, thus: [drawn vertical oval] This means high placing and low resonance; it means that the tone has the ring of forward high placing and the reinforcement, color, and beauty of added low resonance. Elongation is a distinguishing feature of all truly great voices. For artistic tone, the soft palate must be high, the larynx must be low, and the throat and mouth allowed to form, not made or compelled. The form must be flexible and elastic. The larynx must be low in adjustment for the production of beautiful tone, but it must never be locally adjusted. It must always be influenced indirectly through the movements we advocate, through the true position and action of singing. In this way are secured open throat, freedom of voice, all true conditions. In this way the tone may be placed by impulse, by flexible action, may be started high and instantly reflected into the inflated cavities. This means perfect poise of voice; it means the focus of the tone high and forward with the sympathetic added vibration of the low cavities and especially of the chest. This is the only true placing of voice,--the combination of head and chest resonance through automatic form and adjustment. A tight throat through local, muscular effort makes these conditions impossible. The true resonance-chamber then, as we have found, is from head to chest; sympathetically the resonance of the entire body must be added. The true artist sings with the body, through the throat, and never with the throat. In this way the entire singer is the instrument. Fill the body with sound. The higher the tone the more elongated the form. Nature demands this. If this does not occur contraction and depression are sure to follow. Also the higher the tone the lower the added resonance, when the conditions are right. In this way the form elongates and the compass expands without effort or strain. These ideas studied through flexible movements are truly wonderful, but natural means for expanding the compass of the voice. Much has been written lately on the subject of open tones. Should the tones be opened or closed, is the question. Tone should never be closed. It should always be open, but never out. If it is out of the mouth it is not a singing sound. Even the real covered tones of the voice should never be closed. The truth is, the form of the covered tones of the voice, through elongation, is larger than the form of those which we call the open tones, in contradistinction to the covered. In the clear timbre of the voice, the bright tone, the ring of high placing, predominates. In somber timbre, the dark tone, low resonance, or low color, predominates. In medium tone both are heard or felt more equally. None of this coloring or reinforcing must be done by locally influencing form or placing. The voice must be perfectly free; and the result must be due to sentiment, feeling, emotion, to the effect it may be desired to produce. If all restraint is removed, if true conditions prevail, this can always be done through the singer's sensation, through the use of the third power. It is marvelous how, under right conditions, the voice will respond to thought, to sentiment, to feeling. "The tone thus produced and thus delivered, with perfect breath-control, will set the _whole body sympathizing_, from the sole of the foot to the crown of the head. And it is _only_ tones like these--that it is possible to so adorn, and decorate, and beautify, with the due amount of emphasis, and accurate intensity of emotional feelings, and exquisitely shaded and ever-varying tinges of color in expression--that can prove capable of captivating the heart of the hearer, that can graphically impress the listener with such sentiments as the vocalist desires to convey." We will take for our first study a single tone about the middle of the voice. In studying placing and resonance, we must of course observe all the rules laid down in regard to the action, position, etc. Do not take a voluntary breath before acting--do not start the tone before the action, two things which require constant watching on the part of the beginner. Either of them will virtually cause defeat. Remove all obstruction by seeking the level of the tone through flexible action. Think the tone forward and high. Place by impulse, and never by local effort. Have the sensation as though the tone started forward and high, as though it impinged against the roof of the mouth, and instantly reflected into the low cavities, and especially into the chest. In doing this, relax the jaw, let go all face and throat contraction, expand the body, and think and feel the chest vibrant and filled with tone. In this way the tone may be started high and reinforced or built down by the added resonance of all the inflated cavities. Another way to do this, is to start the tone spontaneously by impulse through correct action; in doing so, think and feel as though the tone placed and reflected at the same instant, forward against the roof of the mouth and on the chest,--as though the contact or impingement of the tone were felt at both places simultaneously. Of course the high forward placing in mouth and face is the true placing, and the sensation on the chest is the action or reflection of the true placing. This can be done through flexible vitalized action alone. With a tight throat or local muscular effort it is impossible. This is perfect attack, and in this way all force and push are avoided. In this way freedom and inflation are secured, that condition which unites head and chest resonance. Think of a rubber pouch filled with air. Imagine you grasp it in the middle with the hand, and close the hand tight. The upper part of this pouch represents the face and high forward placing. That below the hand, or the lower part, the chest resonance. The hand holding the middle of the pouch represents the throat. So long as the hand contracts tightly the middle of the pouch, there is no connection between the air in the upper and lower parts of the pouch. If the desire is to connect these two parts, relax the hand a little, and allow an opening or a free passage between them. In singing, the same relaxation or opening must occur at the throat, if the desire is to connect the ring of high placing with the resonance of the low cavities. If the desire is to reinforce, to build down, the extrinsic muscles of the throat must relax, and the throat must expand. In thus placing and reinforcing tone, the pupil is guided or assisted not only by the sense of hearing but by the sense of feeling. There will be the sensation of freedom, of ease, of power; a feeling as though the entire body from the head down to the waist were open and filled with tone. Remember, however, this important fact, that it is possible to lift and expand, and even to let go, and yet not to influence the tone. We can act well and yet sing with a common tone. The pupil must think and feel the tone, must think and feel the effect desired. The thought must precede the action. This point is worthy of all consideration,--right thought or right feeling assists the tone in every way, has, in fact, a wonderful influence in developing right action. The idealized tone brings into action more of the true powers of the singer than it is possible to do in any other way. [Illustration: SIXTH STUDY. Ya, ah.] This study lends itself easily and naturally, not only to the development of high placing, but to correct bodily action. Sing the first tone staccato, placing the body upon a level with the tone as described. Then from the level of this first tone, through flexible vitalized action, carry the body spontaneously or by impulse to the level of the upper tone; the air current or the tone should strike the roof of the mouth well forward and instantly reflect into the low cavities. In this way all true conditions are secured, and the voice is allowed to sing instead of being made or compelled. There must be a very free lift, expansion, and let go between the first and the upper tone. Do not let the second tone start until its level is reached, or the effect will be spoiled, or at least modified. All this must be done rhythmically, which means without the least hesitation, or without the sensation of haste. To hesitate compels local effort. To hurry disturbs all true conditions. This is a very valuable exercise, if understood. [Illustration: SEVENTH STUDY. Ah....] This study is virtually the same as the sixth, except that the voice is not suspended or arrested between the first and second tones. This exercise must be studied with the same action and the same impulse as the sixth study. Some singers can get placing and reaction better on this study than on the sixth. [Illustration: EIGHTH STUDY. Ah....] Find the level of the first tone as suggested, using hands and body; move down, hands and body going with the tone, while singing the first three notes of this exercise; then, without stopping or hesitating, reverse the action or the movement, by lifting hands and body, and opening wide by dropping the lower jaw, while singing the last three notes. Of course the voice must sing from the highest to the lowest note with a continuous legato flow. The movement of the body down with the first three notes and the reverse action, moving up and out on the last three, must be smooth and continuous. If this is done properly the reverse action will give a wonderful sensation of freedom, openness, and the power of low added resonance. It demonstrates forcibly what is meant by placing up and building down. This is the great idea or the great movement for developing the low tones in all voices. When the low tones are thus developed by expansion, but without effort, the same idea of freedom and low resonance can be carried into the high tones. This can be done especially well and easily on exercises six and seven. The higher the tone the lower the resonance should be if the object be a full beautiful, free tone. [Illustration: NINTH STUDY. Ah....] Place yourself upon a level with the first tone as suggested, and allow the tone to start spontaneously, striking, as it were, the roof of the mouth and the chest simultaneously. Move body and hands down with the voice to the low tone, and then instantly but rhythmically, lift back to the level of the upper tone. Feel as though you were under the tone with body and hands in moving up, and let the tone strike by impulse, the roof of the mouth, and instantly reflect into the chest. Practice this exercise until it can be done with perfect freedom of form and action. In starting the first tone in all these exercises, feel the vibration in the face, on the forehead, and on the cheek-bones. If this is done without pushing, but by flexible action, a sympathetic vibration can be felt through the entire body. A very effective and successful study of high placing and low resonance may be got through a consideration of the natural placing and resonance of the vowel sounds. As I have written so fully on the vowel sounds in my former works, I shall simply touch upon that important question here. E as in _reed_ is naturally the highest placed vowel in the English language. U or oo as in _you_ or _do_ is naturally the lowest in color. Sing E with the freedom of action as suggested, and think it high in the face. Make no effort to influence the form. The form of E is naturally very small. E will be found in this way to be free and bright, not hard and wiry. Sing oo in the same way. The form of oo is also very small. Oo should have a flute-like sound. It will be found that in E high resonance predominates. In oo low color. In studying the vowels the aim should be to equalize them by placing, reinforcing, and coloring them as nearly alike as possible. In this way they are equalized instead of differentiated. Place E as suggested, and color it by the thought and influence of the low resonance of oo. Sing oo as suggested, and brighten it by the thought, influence, and high placing of E. In this way study all other vowels, influencing them by the high placing of E and the low resonance of oo. The high ring and brightness of the reed sounds of the voice, must be modified and influenced by the color and low resonance of the flute sounds. The flute sounds of the voice must be made more brilliant and free by the influence of the high placing and high resonance of the reed sounds. In this way we equalize all the vowels until, in a certain sense, they all have the same color and quality and sound, as though they belonged to one and the same voice. For a further study of high placing, use the second sound of O, or, as some writers classify the vowels, the second sound of U,--the sound of uh as heard in up. This is the highest, narrowest, and most elongated arch form in the English language; consequently it is, for many voices, the most favorable sound for the study of high placing. All vowel sounds, like all tones of the voice, are reinforced sounds. The tendency of most singers is to sing the reed sounds too white and the flute sounds too dark. By properly distributing brilliancy and color we influence and modify all the vowels without losing their character or individuality. PART THIRD. _AESTHETICS._ ARTICLE ONE. THE FOURTH PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC SINGING. The fourth principle of artistic singing is _Emotional or Self-Expression._ _Theory_.--Vitalized emotional energy, the "Singer's Sensation," is the true motor power of the voice. _Devices_.--A study of tone-color and tone-character; the idealized tone, applied and developed by the use of words and sentiment. The student of the voice who has studied, understood, and, to a certain extent, mastered the first three great principles of voice production--the removal of all restraint, automatic breathing, high placing, and low resonance--has certainly accomplished much. He has aroused and developed the physical and mental vitality of the singer, the vitality and energy of body and mind. This is the limit of progress or development with many, at least so far as actual tone study is concerned. There comes a time, however, in the experience of every student of the voice, a stage of the study, when, if he expects to be an artist, he must take a step in advance, a step higher; he must place himself upon a higher plane or level; he must arouse his true inner nature, the singer's sensation, that which we have called the third power. This is done by a study of emotional, or self-expression. It is done through arousing and vitalizing the emotional energy. Vitalized emotional energy, the singer's sensation, is undoubtedly the true motor power of the artist. At just what stage of development the consideration of this higher form of study or expression should be placed before the mind of the pupil, is a question. Singers are so different, physically, mentally, and emotionally. With some I have found it best not to consider this side of the question until they have developed a fair vocal technique. This should be the case with emotional, nervous, excitable temperaments. With hard, cold, stiff, mechanical pupils, this is often the only way in which it is possible to arouse them, in order to give them a start, without wasting weeks or months of precious time. The development of this principle of vitalized, emotional energy, depends, as a rule, upon freedom of voice and the true conditions of tone as before described. Therefore, in order to study this great question, in order to fully develop this higher form of expression, the singer must have mastered the flexible, vitalized movements given in this work, must have acquired through these movements absolute freedom of tone. Experience teaches us, however, that there are those who, while they learn, in a certain way, to do the movements comparatively well, yet do not entirely let go,--they do not free the voice. With such the study of tone color, and especially the study of soft color, not soft tone necessarily, but soft, emotional tone color, is their only salvation. It releases and relaxes all the rigid local tendencies. There is a stage of study, as we have said, in the experience of all students of the voice, when, in order to become artists, Nature demands of them more than mere sound. There comes a time when every tone of the voice must mean something, must express something, through the character of the tone, the idealized tone. In this way the personal magnetism of the singer is imparted, heard, and felt. This means the expression of thought and feeling through the color and character of the tone, the highest known form of expression. This principle is the greatest known agency for the development of all the powers of the singer, not only the emotional and mental powers, but the physical as well. The student of the voice who studies or who is trained in this way, develops, not only in character and beauty of tone, but in actual physical power and control. This study of tone color and tone character develops new power in every way. "The mechanical and mental alone are but half development, but this is full and complete development of the entire being." In proof of this, sing a light, bright, happy thought or tone, using the clear timbre, about the middle of the voice. It will require but little strength. Then sing a more emotional thought, sentence, or tone; express deeper feeling, and it will be found that more strength is required. Again, give utterance to tone or words which express sadness, sorrow, or intense pleading, using the somber timbre of the voice, and much more strength will be required. This will be especially noticeable in the action or energy of the diaphragm and abdominal muscles. It will be found that the low muscles of the body exert more strength on somber timbre than on clear tone. This, in order to induce the deep, low setting of the voice at the organ of sound, necessary for the production of somber or dark tone, and the expression of deep, emotional feeling. It is easy to see that this means greater physical as well as emotional development; physical development, not only of every muscle of the body, but of the organ of sound itself; a development which can be attained through the study of tone color and emotional expression only. The power of vitalized emotional energy, I might say the power of the emotional power, cannot be overestimated. The power of an emotional climax, imparted through the soft color of the voice, is often greater than that of the dramatic climax; it will often influence and affect an audience in the most startling way. We find that thought and will control all physical action in singing. If the thought is right, the action will be right; if wrong, the action will surely be wrong. When right thought and action have developed absolute freedom, then the emotional energy, the singer's sensation, the true power of the voice, should dominate everything. The mind or will controls the body through thought, but the thought must be aroused through feeling or emotion; and the feeling or emotion is inspired by the sentiment to be expressed. This means, of course, the higher form of expression, means the power of tone color and tone character; but it depends first upon all true conditions of tone, mental and physical, and then upon the temperament, upon the heart, and soul of the singer. Singing, as we have said, is more psychological than physiological. This whole system of flexible, vitalized movements, is first aroused by right thought, and finally applied and controlled through the mind or will, in response to feeling or emotional impulse. In this way we are able to arouse and use at will the persuasive, the impressive, the fervent voice; the voice that is something more than mere sound; the voice that has character and magnetism. Compare two voices that are equal in every way in regard to power of tone, compass, and control. The one varies the color and character of the tone continually with the change of thought and sentiment, and is enabled thereby not only to avoid monotony, but to use the impressive, persuasive voice, the tone the sentiment demands. In this way he has magnetic power and influence over an audience. The other voice may be bright, free, and clear, yet may use the same quality or color of tone constantly on all styles of singing, and on all degrees of power, it matters not what the thought or sentiment may be; and this style of voice is by no means uncommon, even among many of our public singers. Now consider the difference in the commercial value of these two voices, which should bear at least some relation to their artistic value. No artist can be truly great or fully developed without the power of vitalized, emotional energy, and variety of tone color and character. Sing a tone, about the middle of the voice, without other thought than that of simply pure, free tone. It will be found that in the most beautiful voice the tone will be common-place, meaningless; in many voices it will be simply sound. Now place yourself in every way upon a higher, a more lofty plane. Think of higher ideas and ideals. In other words, idealize the tone. Remember, the ideal is the truth, and not exaggeration. Appeal to your emotional energy, the singer's sensation, and give expression to thought and feeling aroused in this way. Give expression to an actual life-throb, whether it be of love or hate, of joy or sadness, of ecstasy or despair. The result, the change of tone, character, and quality, will be astonishing, will ofttimes be electrifying. In this way make the tone actually mean something. Feel like a singer, assert yourself, express thought, sentiment, feeling, emotion, and not simply sound. Simple sound, as a rule, is meaningless and unnatural. Nature demands, for the expression of beautiful, artistic tone, that all the powers she has given the singer--the powers, physical, mental, and emotional--be brought into action and put into the tone. Character and magnetism of tone must be aroused in most voices. This cannot be done through the mechanical and mental powers alone. It requires the study and development of the emotional energies of the singer. In other words, the singer must put himself, not only upon a physical and mental level, but upon the emotional level of the tone as well. All voices have two distinct color or character effects, the reed and the flute. These effects are the result of vowel forms, and of the predominating influence of high placing or of low resonance. When we desire brilliancy, the reed effect should predominate. When we desire dark color or more somber effects, the flute quality should prevail. In clear tone or timbre there is more reed effect than flute. In medium tone or color the effect of both is heard and felt. In the somber tone the flute predominates. To express joy or happiness we use the clear timbre, and the ring of high forward placing predominates. To express a deeper feeling, a more serious but not a sad tone, that which we call the emotional form, both the clear and the somber are heard in various proportions; the high placing and the low resonance are about equally balanced. To express sadness the somber color or low resonance predominates. Apply these ideas on all the exercises given. Use sentences which contain thought or sentiment that will enable you to arouse a definite feeling. For example, to study the clear timbre, sing, "My _heart_ is glad." To express the emotional tone, the tone which is not sad but serious, sing, "My _heart_ is thine." To express a somber sound or sadness, sing, "My _heart_ is sad." To express a ringing, dramatic tone, sing, "Thy _heart_ is false." Thus we express four different effects on the one word, "heart." This subject of emotional expression through tone color and tone character is so great, so important, that it is impossible to do it justice in this little work. I have written more fully on this and kindred subjects in my other works, therefore I shall here touch but lightly upon the aesthetics of the vocal art. It should be remembered that the prime object for which this book was written, was to place more clearly, if possible, before my readers, the importance and wonderful influence of the flexible, vitalized movements of our system. These movements, we find, so directly influence the voice, the singer, and the results in every way, that we feel justified in again calling attention to them. Too much cannot be said of them, for the average student of the voice is inclined to neglect them. If they have been, to a certain extent, understood and mastered, then the study of this, the fourth principle of artistic singing, becomes a comparatively easy matter. With the student who does not understand them, emotional or self-expression is always a difficult matter, and with many an impossibility; which largely accounts for the great number of mechanical singers. At least twenty years' hard work and study have been put upon these movements in order to reduce them to the simplest and most effective form. They are based upon common sense and Nature's laws. Of course no one can or should expect to understand or fully appreciate them without more or less investigation. ARTICLE TWO. THE FIFTH PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC SINGING. The fifth principle of artistic singing is _Automatic Articulation_. _Theory_.--_Articulation must be spontaneous_, the result of thought, and of the effect desired, never of direct or local effort. The thought before the action, never the action before the thought. _Devices_.--The development of the consonantal sounds through the study of the three points or places of articulation, and the application by the use of words, sentences, and sentiment, vitalized and intensified. In our course of study or in the formula here given, it will be evident to the reader that we lay much stress upon the principle of vitality or vitalized energy. In the second part of this work we have considered the principles and the devices that develop physical and mental vitality. In the article which directly precedes this, special emphasis is placed upon emotional vitality. Vitality or vitalized energy, it will be found, holds good also in this, the fifth fundamental principle of artistic voice production. Articulation, to be artistic, must be automatic and spontaneous; must be the result of thought and effect desired, and never of direct or local effort. This being true, we must recognize the importance of freedom of form and action, of the removal of all restraint, in fact, the importance of all true conditions of tone. This brings us back again to our original position, as do all the fundamental principles of singing; namely,--the importance of the free, flexible movements of our system, upon which freedom of form and action, in fact, all true conditions of tone, depend. Language, spoken language, has been considered by many a vocal weakness. Scientists have contended that the consonantal sounds weaken the resonance and power of the vowels. We have found the opposite to be true. We have found that the consonantal sounds in many ways are a wonderful help in developing the voice. This proves that which some one has so well said, "The demonstrations of yesterday are the falsehoods of to-day." A free, flexible articulation of the consonantal sounds helps to place the voice, and gives it life and freedom. Articulation, under right conditions, will not interfere with the legato flow of voice. It is not necessary, as many suppose, to sacrifice distinct utterance in song for the sake of the legato flow of voice, the most desired mode of singing. On the other hand, the free legato flow of the vowels need not interfere at all with distinct articulation. The voice is composed of two separate and distinct instruments, the organ which produces sounds or vowels, and the articulating organ which produces consonants. These two instruments, when properly trained, strengthen, complement, and support each other, and together they mold vowels and consonants into speech. It is true that with many, articulation is a difficult matter, and this is especially true on the high tones of the voice. No one who has heard the majority of the average opera and concert singers of the day, would be justified in holding that articulation is not a lost art. A free, distinct articulation and use of words in song, is the exception and not the rule. This is due largely to the following fact--with most singers there is direct or local effort on face, jaw, tongue and throat, during the act of singing; in other words, they grip the parts to hold the tone, and the higher or louder they sing, the firmer the grip or contraction. This virtually paralyzes action, and makes flexible articulation impossible. Articulation knows no pitch. It should be as easy on a high tone as on a middle or low tone. If there were no direct or local effort of the articulating muscles to hold the tone, articulation on the high tone would be as easy as on the middle or low tone. This is a fact which has been demonstrated again and again. Of course it is more difficult to learn to sustain the high tone without placing more or less effort upon the face, jaw, and throat; but under right conditions, the result of right position and action, this can be done, and has been done many times. Articulation, to be artistic, must be spontaneous,--the thought before the action. Think and feel the effect desired, and give no thought to the action of articulation. The action, under right conditions, if there is no restraint, will respond to thought and feeling; it will be automatic and spontaneous. Just as the singer, after a certain stage of study, should never produce a tone that does not mean something, that has not character, so in the use of words, he should always sing them in a persuasive, impressive manner, and with free, flexible action. As, under this system, we never locally influence vowel form, so, after a certain stage of study we never locally influence consonantal action. To be right, it must be automatic and spontaneous. Of course we recognize the fact that in all vocal study there must be a beginning. The pupil must be taught to know and think correct physical or mechanical action in singing. He must know what it is, what it means, and how to think it. Then it must be trained to respond to thought and will. This we call the first two stages of study, or the physical and mental. The mental, as the student progresses, must dominate and control the physical; and finally, as we have before stated, the true motor power is emotional energy or the singer's sensation. This order of study and development holds good in this fifth principle of artistic singing, as in all others. The device to which we first resort for the understanding and development of articulation, is a study of the three points or places of contact. On page 183 of "Vocal Reinforcement" (by the author of this work) will be found a full explanation of these three points. A vowel sound is the result of an uninterrupted flow of the vibratory air current. A consonantal sound, on the other hand, is the result of a complete obstruction and explosion, of a partial obstruction and explosion, or of a partial obstruction only. The place and manner of the obstruction and explosion, or of the obstruction only, determine the character of the sound. There are three points of obstruction or articulation: 1. The point of contact of the base or back of the tongue and of the soft palate. 2. The contact of the tip of the tongue and of the hard palate, the roof of the mouth. 3. The contact of the lips, or of the lower lip and the teeth. Almost any first-class work on the elements of the English language will give the divisions and the location of the consonantal sounds. For the singing voice it is always best to simplify, hence we divide the consonantal sounds into two general divisions: the aspirates, those which are the result of complete obstruction and explosion, or of partial obstruction only, breath and vowel sound; the sub-vocals, those which are the result of partial obstruction and explosion, or of partial obstruction only, sub-vocal and vowel sound. The sub-vocals, as ending or final consonants, are the most difficult of all to give their proper value and effect. The student of the voice should study, understand, and practically train the action of these three points or places of articulation; for at these three points, with a few exceptions, all consonantal sounds are made. Take all the consonants, and classify them in two columns, the aspirates or breath sounds in one column, and the sub-vocals in another. We will give one example of each kind, as made at each point or place of articulation. By the aid of vowels we form syllables, and thus simplify the study, and make it more definite. The study of consonantal sounds without the use of vowel sounds is very indefinite and unsatisfactory. We give the formula for the study of articulation, as found in "Exercises for the Training and Development of the Voice" (by the author of this work), on page 18. Ko-Ok--Aspirate. Thus: 1st Point. Go-Og--Sub-vocal. To-Ot--Aspirate. 2d Point. Do-Od--Sub-vocal. Po-Op--Aspirate. 3d Point. Bo-Ob--Sub-vocal Exaggerate the consonantal sounds in every instance, and the points of contact or places of articulation will be very evident. It will also be evident that the point of contact or articulation is much more positive on certain aspirates than on the sub-vocals; while on a few other aspirates the action or obstruction is so slight that it is almost impossible to tell where or how they are made. They are the exception to the general rule. To such, however, very little attention or study need be given. Having studied the formula as given, classify the consonants in three columns, under the headings of 1st, 2d, and 3d points or places of articulation. At a certain stage of study, when the student of the voice has acquired freedom and control, when he is able to release the face, jaw, tongue, and throat from all local effort or contraction,--at this stage of study it is wonderful what can be done in the way of articulation in a few days, by this system. I have known many singers who could produce beautiful tones, but who could not make themselves understood at all in the singing of a song; yet in a few lessons on these three points or places of articulation, practically applied by the use of words and sentences, they could sing the words of a song as distinctly as it was possible to speak them. For the practical application of the above principles of articulation, form groups of vowel sounds, and make syllables by adding consonants, and sing them on single or level tones. First place the consonant before the vowel, making the articulation the initial sound of the syllable. Then place the consonant after the vowel, making the articulation the final sound of the syllable. Also sing sentences on single tones or level movements. Analyze all the consonantal elements of the sentence. Take for example the following sentence, "We praise Thee, O God," and notice at which point or place of articulation each and every consonant is made. Let all articulation be free, flexible, and light in movement, not heavy or labored. Never work with articulation; play with it, but let it be distinct and definite. Make no effort of face, lips, or tongue; let all be free and pliable. Show no effort or contraction of the face in sustaining voice or pronouncing words. In other words, never sing on the outside of the face. Mouth and face must be left free and pliable for the outline of form and for expression. Use words and sentences in an impulsive, impressive manner without local effort. Articulation must be rhythmically in sympathy with the movement or the rhythm of the song. Even though the voice may flow freely on the vowels, the articulation must not be hurried, nervous or spasmodic. This style of articulation often disturbs the legato flow and spoils the general effect. While of course it is not possible to sing the consonantal sounds, a beautiful effect is often the result of playing upon the consonant rhythmically, with the movement of the song. ARTICLE THREE. THE SIXTH PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC SINGING. The sixth principle of artistic singing is _The Elocution of Singing._ _Theory._--The words and their meaning, in modern song, are, as a rule, more important than the music. _Devices._--A study to combine elastic vowel form and flexible articulation, applied by the emphasis and accent of important words and phrases; also applied through the color and character of tone, and the impressive, persuasive, fervent voice. In short, a study of pure diction. Every singer and teacher of singing should, in a certain sense, be an elocutionist as well. Not an elocutionist from the standpoint of many who are called elocutionists, who are stagey, full of mannerisms, and who exaggerate everything pertaining to elocution. Of course the better class of elocutionists are not guilty of these things; but they do idealize everything, whether they read, recite, or declaim, and this in their profession is a mark of true art. So must the teacher and singer learn to idealize not only the tone or the voice, but everything pertaining to the singing of a song. This must be done through the manner in which the sentiment, the thought, the central idea is brought out and presented to the hearer; through the impressive way in which the story is told. The elocution of singing depends upon a knowledge and control of all the principles considered up to this point of study,--a knowledge and control of physical, mental, and emotional power, of freedom of form and action, of artistic vowel form and automatic articulation, of the removal of all restraint, in fact, of all true conditions of tone. To interpret well, the singer must have mastered the elocution of singing, must be able to bring out every vowel and consonantal element of the words, must know how to use and apply tone color and tone character, the impressive, persuasive, fervent voice. The singer must idealize not only the tone, but the words of the song; "just as the painter idealizes the landscape, so the musical artist must use his powers of idealization in interpreting the work of the composer." To be able to do this, his diction must be as pure, his language as polished, as that of the most accomplished orator. The power of word vitality in the singing of a modern song, is one of the great elements of success, if not the greatest. Not an exaggerated form of pronunciation, but an intense, earnest, impressive way of bringing out the thought. It would be interesting to know what per cent of teachers and singers can read properly the words of a song; to know how many of them, or rather how few of them, have ever given this phase of the study, thought or attention. Most of them act as though they were really ashamed to try, when you ask them to read the words of a song, and when they read them, they apparently have no thought of expressing, or no idea of how to express the elevated thought or feeling, necessary to bring out the author's ideas. It is almost impossible to make them idealize the words through the elocution of singing; and yet in the artistic rendition of a song, a ballad, or a dramatic aria, the words are often of more importance than the music. The singer should study the story of a song by reading it aloud upon the highest plane or level of emotional or dramatic expression. To do this, he must know and apply the elocution of singing. Then he should endeavor to bring out the same lofty ideals when applying the words to the music. "Why do not singers read or talk as they sing?" was a question once asked by a prominent elocutionist. "Why do not elocutionists sing as they talk or read?" I replied. This, of course, at once suggests an interesting subject for discussion. To give the reason in a general way, is simply to state that singers, as a rule, do not apply the principles of their art to the talking voice. Hence they often read and talk badly. The same is true, as a rule, of elocutionists. They do not apply the principles of their art when they attempt to sing. The devices we use are a study of elastic vowel form and flexible articulation, applied by the emphasis and accent of important words in phrases and sentences. Then a study of the character and tone color necessary to express the meaning of the words. Then a use of the earnest, impressive, persuasive voice, as the text may demand. By using these forces or principles, as suggested by the thought and sentiment of the words, we arouse the emotional power, the magnetism of the voice, and thus influence the hearer. Through the elocution of singing we place our emotional, our personal expression upon a high and lofty plane. We thus express the central thought, the high ideals of the composer, and through the earnest, impressive voice impart them to the hearer. ARTICLE FOUR. THE SEVENTH PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC SINGING. The seventh principle of artistic singing is _Interpretation_. _Theory_.--Singing means infinitely more than the use of words and music; it means the expression of the author's idea as a whole. _Devices_.--The application of all true principles by drawing, as it were, a mental and emotional tone-picture, as suggested by words and music. The following article upon this subject was kindly written, especially for this book, by my friend and pupil, the well known teacher, Mr. John Randolph. Interpretation in song is the faithful reproduction of the intention of both poet and composer. This reproduction includes the revelation of the characteristics of the poem itself, whether lyric, dramatic, or in other ways distinctive. It also reveals the musical significance of the composition to which the words are set. The melodic, rhythmic, and even harmonic values must be made clear to the hearer. But interpretation includes more than this reproduction, essential though it may be. If the expression of the intention of poet and composer fulfilled the sum total of interpretation, one performance would differ little from another. A clear-cut, automatic precision would be the result, perhaps as perfect as the repetition given out by a music-box and certainly no more interesting. Another element enters into interpretation. The meaning of the poem and its accompanying music must be displayed through the medium of a temperament capable of self-expression. A personal subjective quality must enter into the performance. The singer must reveal not only the significance of words and music, but his own intellectual and emotional comment upon them. Upon this acceptance of the inner meaning of words and music, and upon his ability to weave around them some strands of his individuality, depend the character and originality of the singer's interpretation as a whole. Let us see how this comprehension of the meaning of songs may be acquired; upon what foundations rests the ability to make the meaning clear; and if we can do so, let us discover the springs of that elusive quality commonly called "temperament" which gives the personal note to one rendition as distinct from another, and without which the clearest exposition of vocal meanings becomes tame and colorless. The singer is a specialist, but all successful specialization rests upon the broad foundations of general culture. The reason why there are so many singers and so few artists who thrill us with the revelation of the intimate beauties of the songs of Franz, Grieg, and MacDowell, to take only a few names from the rich list of song writers, is because people sing without acquiring the range of vision which makes such interpretation possible. How can one sing, let us say, a German song, imbued with German romanticism and melancholy, unless he knows something of the German art, the German spirit, the German language, the German national characteristics? A knowledge of literature, art in general, and the "Humanities," to use an old-fashioned word, is absolutely necessary to interpretation of a high order. Too often, alas, the singer imagines that the study of tone production, or acquaintance with musical literature, or a polished diction, will make him sing with the combination of qualities called style. Not so! Upon the broad foundations of general culture, which distinguishes the man of refinement from his less fortunate brother, rests also the specific ability to sing with distinction. Moreover, the singer must have definite musical ability, natural and developed by study. He must thoroughly comprehend rhythm, melody, and harmony in order that his attention may not be distracted from interpretative values to ignoble necessities of time and tune. It is not possible to sing Mozart, not to say Beethoven and Wagner, without acquaintance with the vocabulary and grammar of the wonderful language in which they wrote. Familiarity with the traditions of different schools of composition and performance is necessary also in order not to sing the songs of Bach and Handel like those of Schubert and Schumann, or Brahms like the modern French composers; in order not to interpret with like effects indiscriminately songs of the oratorio and opera, of Italian, German, French, English and modern Russian schools. Unquestionably the singer must have control of the physiological and technical possibilities of his voice. No one can make words and music mean anything while he is wondering what his voice may do next. Developed intelligence, emotional richness and refinement, musical knowledge, a properly placed voice capable of flexibility and color, distinct articulation, polished diction, these are some of the preliminaries to successful interpretation in song. Let us see what special qualifications assist in the actual performance of song, in the attempt to give pleasure or artistic gratification by singing songs for others to hear. In the first place let us consider the limitations as well as the advantages of the human voice. I must ask you to remember that considered as an instrument it is smaller in power than some instruments, shorter in range than many others, often less beautiful than the tones of the violin. But in one respect it transcends all others. It is capable of revealing the mind and soul of the one who plays upon it. The speaking voice, as well as the voice in song, reveals thought and feeling to the hearer; those subtler shades of meaning which distinguish man, made in the image of God, from his humble companions, are made clear to those about him by this instrument--this wonderful, persuasive, cajoling, beseeching, enthralling, exciting, thrilling, terrifying instrument! Have you not been moved by the tones of the speaking voice? How can we train the voice in song to express these varying shades of meaning, and can we learn to use them systematically instead of accidentally or when we are impelled by strong emotion? I know that there is a popular impression that some singers possess a mysterious quality known as "temperament," and that others do not. Having this uncertain quality, one singer stirs an audience; having it not, the hearer remains unmoved. If by temperament, intelligence and emotional richness of nature are meant, I do not believe that anyone who is not to some extent possessed of these faculties can stir the feelings of his hearers to any considerable degree. But surely many, almost all people capable of conquering the physiological, psychological, technical, and musical difficulties to be overcome before learning to sing at all well, possess these qualities. And even if modern songs of the best type abound in subtle, emotional expression and varying shades of intellectual significance, it is, I believe, possible for most singers to gain in interpretative facility by learning to connect the thought and feeling underlying the song with the spoken words which are their natural outlet and expression. I say spoken words; for speech is the more spontaneous expression of thought and feeling, through which individuality attains its simplest and most complete expression. Speech is the normal method through which we make clear our ordinary thoughts, feelings, desires, repulsions, and attractions to those about us. Song is the finer flower of artistic expression, one of the means through which imagination and the creative and interpretative faculties find an adequate medium and outlet. But the words of the poem, whether spoken or sung, must first be thoroughly understood before the reader or singer attempts to make anyone else comprehend or feel them. Too often an apparent lack of "temperament" is only the failure to have a definite understanding of the meaning of the words the singer is vainly endeavoring to impress upon his audience. Let the singer recite or read aloud the words of his songs. This is a natural form of expression, and requires a less complex process of thought than singing, which demands several automatic reflexes in securing tone production; let him read aloud, trying to give out every shade of thought and feeling the poem contains, in a tone which is persuasive and appealing. Later, when he can do this with appropriate emphasis in speech, let him try to express the same meanings in his singing voice. In all probability he will find that he is much assisted by the music, if his tone production is reasonably correct and authoritative, and he be enough of a musician to grasp readily tonal values. The sense of the words, the emotion and thought underlying the words, will suggest the color and character of voice appropriate to the expression and interpretation of the song as a whole. Of course, if he tries to impress upon his hearer that he thinks it rather weak and foolish to give up completely to the full significance of the words, and to impersonate their narrative or dramatic significance, there is no help for him. I am inclined to think that the fear of seeming exuberant or foolish, the unwillingness to give one's inner self to others, or a self-consciousness which prevents it, is at the root of much apparent lack of "temperament." The singer must be both the narrator of the story of the poem and the impersonator of the principal characters in that story. Upon the completeness of his understanding of the meaning of the poem, and his revelation of its meanings, as well as upon the absence of stiffness or self-consciousness in suggesting the moods or characteristics displayed, will depend the impression of temperamental force upon his audience. The following suggestions may be of some value as devices in making songs mean something; and this, after all, is the object of all attempts at interpretation. Suppose you take a new song--one you have never seen before. Do not sit at the pianoforte, and play at it and sing at it until, after a fashion, you know it. This way of learning leads to the kind of statement recently heard after a peculiarly bad performance, "Why, I never think of the words at all when I sing!" Instead of doing this, if you have been taught to do so, read the song through, observing its general character. If thinking music without playing or singing be impossible for you, play it over, carefully noting _tempo_ and other general characteristics, until you have an understanding of the melody, rhythm, and musical content. Observe how the words fit the music, still without singing. Then read the poem silently and carefully, and decide whether it is narrative, lyric, dramatic, churchly, or in other ways distinctive. Next read the poem aloud, giving the voice character appropriate to its sentiment, phrasing it intelligibly, observing the emotional portent, and coloring it accordingly. If the poem be narrative, tell the story with life and vitality; if it be dramatic, attempt to impersonate the characters concerned; if it be devotional, recite with dignity and devotional quality. Finally, when both words and music are well in the mind, if possible with an accompaniment, but certainly standing, sing the song. Sing, making a compromise between the strict rhythmical value of the notes and the demands of the sense of the words. Keep the general outlines of the music so far as phrasing and rhythm are concerned; but whenever a sacrifice must be made, sacrifice the musical value and emphasize the emotion, the meaning, the poetry, the dramatic or narrative significance of the words. Phrase with this end in view; sacrifice anything except tone-production to this end. Do not distort the rhythm, but bend it sufficiently to emphasize important words and syllables, by holding them a little, at the expense of unimportant words or syllables. Finally, remember that misguided enthusiasm is not interpretation. No real interpretation is possible without a full comprehension of the meaning of both words and music. Study the voice. Study its possibilities and its limitations. Study music until the musical element of difficulty is reduced to a minimum, and until the character, style, and traditions of the various song forms are well within your grasp. No matter how beautiful may be the voice, or how well placed, no amount of enthusiasm or temperament can atone for a meaningless or unintelligent treatment of the intellectual, emotional, and musical characteristics of the song as a whole. SUPPLEMENTARY NOTE. The tendency of many is to raise the hands and arms too high; the hands should not be raised above the waist-line. If raised too high, the energy is often put in the action of the arms instead of the body; or the upper part of the body only is moved, and thus the most important effect or influence for power and control is wanting. The action must be from the hips up, and not only from the hips, but the hips must act and expand with the body. Remember the center of gravity must be at the hips. If it is found that the tendency is to raise the hands too high, then try or study the action as follows: Place the hands upon the hips, and when coming into action, when seeking the level of the tone, or during the act of singing, see that the hips expand freely and evenly with the body. This should be tried and practiced frequently by all in order that the movement may be from the hips up and not above the hips only. When the hips are thus brought into action, the abdominal muscles and the diaphragm are strengthened, and their position and action are correct. When the upper part of the body only is brought into action the position of the diaphragm and abdominal muscles is often weakened. Remember that the basic law or foundation principle of our whole system of movements is movement from the hips up, including the action or expansion of the hips in connection with the movements of the entire body. 
1487	----	THE PERFECT WAGNERITE: A COMMENTARY ON THE NIBLUNG'S RING by Bernard Shaw Preface to the First German Edition In reading through this German version of my book in the Manuscript of my friend Siegfried Trebitsch, I was struck by the inadequacy of the merely negative explanation given by me of the irrelevance of Night Falls On The Gods to the general philosophic scheme of The Ring. That explanation is correct as far as it goes; but, put as I put it, it now seems to me to suggest that the operatic character of Night Falls On The Gods was the result of indifference or forgetfulness produced by the lapse of twenty-five years between the first projection of the work and its completion. Now it is clear that in whatever other ways Wagner may have changed, he never became careless and he never became indifferent. I have therefore inserted a new section in which I show how the revolutionary history of Western Europe from the Liberal explosion of 1848 to the confused attempt at a socialist, military, and municipal administration in Paris in 1871 (that is to say, from the beginning of The Niblung's Ring by Wagner to the long-delayed completion of Night Falls On The Gods), demonstrated practically that the passing away of the present order was going to be a much more complicated business than it appears in Wagner's Siegfried. I have therefore interpolated a new chapter which will perhaps induce some readers of the original English text to read the book again in German. For some time to come, indeed, I shall have to refer English readers to this German edition as the most complete in existence. My obligation to Herr Trebitsch for making me a living German author instead of merely a translated English one is so great that I am bound to point out that he is not responsible for my views or Wagner's, and that it is as an artist and a man of letters, and not as a propagandist, that he is conveying to the German speaking peoples political criticisms which occasionally reflect on contemporary authorities with a European reputation for sensitiveness. And as the very sympathy which makes his translations so excellent may be regarded with suspicion, let me hasten to declare I am bound to Germany by the ties that hold my nature most strongly. Not that I like the average German: nobody does, even in his own country. But then the average man is not popular anywhere; and as no German considers himself an average one, each reader will, as an exceptional man, sympathize with my dislike of the common herd. And if I cannot love the typical modern German, I can at least pity and understand him. His worst fault is that he cannot see that it is possible to have too much of a good thing. Being convinced that duty, industry, education, loyalty, patriotism and respectability are good things (and I am magnanimous enough to admit that they are not altogether bad things when taken in strict moderation at the right time and in the right place), he indulges in them on all occasions shamelessly and excessively. He commits hideous crimes when crime is presented to him as part of his duty; his craze for work is more ruinous than the craze for drink; when he can afford secondary education for his sons you find three out of every five of them with their minds lamed for life by examinations which only a thoroughly wooden head could go through with impunity; and if a king is patriotic and respectable (few kings are) he puts up statues to him and exalts him above Charlemagne and Henry the Fowler. And when he meets a man of genius, he instinctively insults him, starves him, and, if possible, imprisons and kills him. Now I do not pretend to be perfect myself. Heaven knows I have to struggle hard enough every day with what the Germans call my higher impulses. I know too well the temptation to be moral, to be self-sacrificing, to be loyal and patriotic, to be respectable and well-spoken of. But I wrestle with it and--as far as human fraility will allow--conquer it, whereas the German abandons himself to it without scruple or reflection, and is actually proud of his pious intemperance and self-indulgence. Nothing will cure him of this mania. It may end in starvation, crushing taxation, suppression of all freedom to try new social experiments and reform obsolete institutions, in snobbery, jobbery, idolatry, and an omnipresent tyranny in which his doctor and his schoolmaster, his lawyer and his priest, coerce him worse than any official or drill sergeant: no matter: it is respectable, says the German, therefore it must be good, and cannot be carried too far; and everybody who rebels against it must be a rascal. Even the Social-Democrats in Germany differ from the rest only in carrying academic orthodoxy beyond human endurance--beyond even German endurance. I am a Socialist and a Democrat myself, the hero of a hundred platforms, one of the leaders of the most notable Socialist organizations in England. I am as conspicuous in English Socialism as Bebel is in German Socialism; but do you suppose that the German Social-Democrats tolerate me? Not a bit of it. I have begged again and again to be taken to the bosom of my German comrades. I have pleaded that the Super-Proletarians of all lands should unite. I have pointed out that the German Social-Democratic party has done nothing at its Congresses for the last ten years except the things I told them to do ten years before, and that its path is white with the bones of the Socialist superstitions I and my fellow Fabians have slain. Useless. They do not care a rap whether I am a Socialist or not. All they want to know is; Am I orthodox? Am I correct in my revolutionary views? Am I reverent to the revolutionary authorities? Because I am a genuine free-thinker they look at me as a policeman looks at a midnight prowler or as a Berlin bourgeois looks at a suspicious foreigner. They ask "Do you believe that Marx was omniscient and infallible; that Engels was his prophet; that Bebel and Singer are his inspired apostles; and that Das Kapital is the Bible?" Hastening in my innocence to clear myself of what I regard as an accusation of credulity and ignorance, I assure them earnestly that I know ten times as much of economics and a hundred times as much of practical administration as Marx did; that I knew Engels personally and rather liked him as a witty and amiable old 1848 veteran who despised modern Socialism; that I regard Bebel and Singer as men of like passions with myself, but considerably less advanced; and that I read Das Kapital in the year 1882 or thereabouts, and still consider it one of the most important books of the nineteenth century because of its power of changing the minds of those who read it, in spite of its unsound capitalist economics, its parade of quotations from books which the author had either not read or not understood, its affectation of algebraic formulas, and its general attempt to disguise a masterpiece of propagandist journalism and prophetic invective as a drily scientific treatise of the sort that used to impose on people in 1860, when any book that pretended to be scientific was accepted as a Bible. In those days Darwin and Helmholtz were the real fathers of the Church; and nobody would listen to religion, poetry or rhetoric; so that even Socialism had to call itself "scientific," and predict the date of the revolution, as if it were a comet, by calculations founded on "historic laws." To my amazement these reasonable remarks were received as hideous blasphemies; none of the party papers were allowed to print any word of mine; the very Revisionists themselves found that the scandal of my heresy damaged them more than my support aided them; and I found myself an outcast from German Social-Democracy at the moment when, thanks to Trebitsch, the German bourgeoisie and nobility began to smile on me, seduced by the pleasure of playing with fire, and perhaps by Agnes Sorma's acting as Candida. Thus you may see that when a German, by becoming a Social-Democrat, throws off all the bonds of convention, and stands free from all allegiance to established religion, law, order, patriotism, and learning, he promptly uses his freedom to put on a headier set of chains; expels anti-militarists with the blood-thirstiest martial anti-foreign ardor; and gives the Kaiser reason to thank heaven that he was born in the comparative freedom and Laodicean tolerance of Kingship, and not in the Calvinistic bigotry and pedantry of Marxism. Why, then, you may ask, do I say that I am bound to Germany by the ties that hold my nature most strongly? Very simply because I should have perished of despair in my youth but for the world created for me by that great German dynasty which began with Bach and will perhaps not end with Richard Strauss. Do not suppose for a moment that I learnt my art from English men of letters. True, they showed me how to handle English words; but if I had known no more than that, my works would never have crossed the Channel. My masters were the masters of a universal language: they were, to go from summit to summit, Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and Wagner. Had the Germans understood any of these men, they would have hanged them. Fortunately they did not understand them, and therefore only neglected them until they were dead, after which they learnt to dance to their tunes with an easy conscience. For their sakes Germany stands consecrated as the Holy Land of the capitalist age, just as Italy, for its painters' sakes, is the Holy Land of the early unvulgarized Renascence; France, for its builders' sakes, of the age of Christian chivalry and faith; and Greece, for its sculptors' sakes, of the Periclean age. These Holy Lands are my fatherlands: in them alone am I truly at home: all my work is but to bring the whole world under this sanctification. And so, O worthy, respectable, dutiful, patriotic, brave, industrious German reader, you who used to fear only God and your own conscience, and now fear nothing at all, here is my book for you; and--in all sincerity--much good may it do you! London, 23rd. October 1907. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION The preparation of a Second Edition of this booklet is quite the most unexpected literary task that has ever been set me. When it first appeared I was ungrateful enough to remonstrate with its publisher for printing, as I thought, more copies than the most sanguine Wagnerite could ever hope to sell. But the result proved that exactly one person buys a copy on every day in the year, including Sundays; and so, in the process of the suns, a reprint has become necessary. Save a few verbal slips of no importance, I have found nothing to alter in this edition. As usual, the only protests the book has elicited are protests, not against the opinions it expresses, but against the facts it records. There are people who cannot bear to be told that their hero was associated with a famous Anarchist in a rebellion; that he was proclaimed as "wanted" by the police; that he wrote revolutionary pamphlets; and that his picture of Niblunghome under the reign of Alberic is a poetic vision of unregulated industrial capitalism as it was made known in Germany in the middle of the nineteenth century by Engels's Condition of the Laboring classes in England. They frantically deny these facts, and then declare that I have connected them with Wagner in a paroxysm of senseless perversity. I am sorry I have hurt them; and I appeal to charitable publishers to bring out a new life of Wagner, which shall describe him as a court musician of unquestioned fashion and orthodoxy, and a pillar of the most exclusive Dresden circles. Such a work, would, I believe, have a large sale, and be read with satisfaction and reassurance by many lovers of Wagner's music. As to my much demurred-to relegation of Night Falls On The Gods to the category of grand opera, I have nothing to add or withdraw. Such a classification is to me as much a matter of fact as the Dresden rising or the police proclamation; but I shall not pretend that it is a matter of such fact as everybody's judgment can grapple with. People who prefer grand opera to serious music-drama naturally resent my placing a very grand opera below a very serious music-drama. The ordinary lover of Shakespeare would equally demur to my placing his popular catchpenny plays, of which As You Like It is an avowed type, below true Shakespearean plays like Measure for Measure. I cannot help that. Popular dramas and operas may have overwhelming merits as enchanting make-believes; but a poet's sincerest vision of the world must always take precedence of his prettiest fool's paradise. As many English Wagnerites seem to be still under the impression that Wagner composed Rienzi in his youth, Tannhauser and Lohengrin in his middle age, and The Ring in his later years, may I again remind them that The Ring was the result of a political convulsion which occurred when Wagner was only thirty-six, and that the poem was completed when he was forty, with thirty more years of work before him? It is as much a first essay in political philosophy as Die Feen is a first essay in romantic opera. The attempt to recover its spirit twenty years later, when the music of Night Falls On The Gods was added, was an attempt to revive the barricades of Dresden in the Temple of the Grail. Only those who have never had any political enthusiasms to survive can believe that such an attempt could succeed. G. B. S. London, 1901 Preface to the First Edition This book is a commentary on The Ring of the Niblungs, Wagner's chief work. I offer it to those enthusiastic admirers of Wagner who are unable to follow his ideas, and do not in the least understand the dilemma of Wotan, though they are filled with indignation at the irreverence of the Philistines who frankly avow that they find the remarks of the god too often tedious and nonsensical. Now to be devoted to Wagner merely as a dog is devoted to his master, sharing a few elementary ideas, appetites and emotions with him, and, for the rest, reverencing his superiority without understanding it, is no true Wagnerism. Yet nothing better is possible without a stock of ideas common to master and disciple. Unfortunately, the ideas of the revolutionary Wagner of 1848 are taught neither by the education nor the experience of English and American gentlemen-amateurs, who are almost always political mugwumps, and hardly ever associate with revolutionists. The earlier attempts to translate his numerous pamphlets and essays into English, resulted in ludicrous mixtures of pure nonsense with the absurdest distorsions of his ideas into the ideas of the translators. We now have a translation which is a masterpiece of interpretation and an eminent addition to our literature; but that is not because its author, Mr. Ashton Ellis, knows the German dictionary better than his predecessors. He is simply in possession of Wagner's ideas, which were to them inconceivable. All I pretend to do in this book is to impart the ideas which are most likely to be lacking in the conventional Englishman's equipment. I came by them myself much as Wagner did, having learnt more about music than about anything else in my youth, and sown my political wild oats subsequently in the revolutionary school. This combination is not common in England; and as I seem, so far, to be the only publicly articulate result of it, I venture to add my commentary to what has already been written by musicians who are no revolutionists, and revolutionists who are no musicians. G. B. S. Preliminary Encouragements The Ring of the Niblungs The Rhine Gold Wagner as Revolutionist The Valkyries Siegfried Siegfried as Protestant Night Falls On The Gods Why He Changed His Mind Wagner's Own Explanation The Music of The Ring The Old and the New Music The Nineteenth Century The Music of the Future Bayreuth THE PERFECT WAGNERITE PRELIMINARY ENCOURAGEMENTS A few of these will be welcome to the ordinary citizen visiting the theatre to satisfy his curiosity, or his desire to be in the fashion, by witnessing a representation of Richard Wagner's famous Ring of the Niblungs. First, The Ring, with all its gods and giants and dwarfs, its water-maidens and Valkyries, its wishing-cap, magic ring, enchanted sword, and miraculous treasure, is a drama of today, and not of a remote and fabulous antiquity. It could not have been written before the second half of the nineteenth century, because it deals with events which were only then consummating themselves. Unless the spectator recognizes in it an image of the life he is himself fighting his way through, it must needs appear to him a monstrous development of the Christmas pantomimes, spun out here and there into intolerable lengths of dull conversation by the principal baritone. Fortunately, even from this point of view, The Ring is full of extraordinarily attractive episodes, both orchestral and dramatic. The nature music alone--music of river and rainbow, fire and forest--is enough to bribe people with any love of the country in them to endure the passages of political philosophy in the sure hope of a prettier page to come. Everybody, too, can enjoy the love music, the hammer and anvil music, the clumping of the giants, the tune of the young woodsman's horn, the trilling of the bird, the dragon music and nightmare music and thunder and lightning music, the profusion of simple melody, the sensuous charm of the orchestration: in short, the vast extent of common ground between The Ring and the ordinary music we use for play and pleasure. Hence it is that the four separate music-plays of which it is built have become popular throughout Europe as operas. We shall presently see that one of them, Night Falls On The Gods, actually is an opera. It is generally understood, however, that there is an inner ring of superior persons to whom the whole work has a most urgent and searching philosophic and social significance. I profess to be such a superior person; and I write this pamphlet for the assistance of those who wish to be introduced to the work on equal terms with that inner circle of adepts. My second encouragement is addressed to modest citizens who may suppose themselves to be disqualified from enjoying The Ring by their technical ignorance of music. They may dismiss all such misgivings speedily and confidently. If the sound of music has any power to move them, they will find that Wagner exacts nothing further. There is not a single bar of "classical music" in The Ring--not a note in it that has any other point than the single direct point of giving musical expression to the drama. In classical music there are, as the analytical programs tell us, first subjects and second subjects, free fantasias, recapitulations, and codas; there are fugues, with counter-subjects, strettos, and pedal points; there are passacaglias on ground basses, canons ad hypodiapente, and other ingenuities, which have, after all, stood or fallen by their prettiness as much as the simplest folk-tune. Wagner is never driving at anything of this sort any more than Shakespeare in his plays is driving at such ingenuities of verse-making as sonnets, triolets, and the like. And this is why he is so easy for the natural musician who has had no academic teaching. The professors, when Wagner's music is played to them, exclaim at once "What is this? Is it aria, or recitative? Is there no cabaletta to it--not even a full close? Why was that discord not prepared; and why does he not resolve it correctly? How dare he indulge in those scandalous and illicit transitions into a key that has not one note in common with the key he has just left? Listen to those false relations! What does he want with six drums and eight horns when Mozart worked miracles with two of each? The man is no musician." The layman neither knows nor cares about any of these things. If Wagner were to turn aside from his straightforward dramatic purpose to propitiate the professors with correct exercises in sonata form, his music would at once become unintelligible to the unsophisticated spectator, upon whom the familiar and dreaded "classical" sensation would descend like the influenza. Nothing of the kind need be dreaded. The unskilled, untaught musician may approach Wagner boldly; for there is no possibility of a misunderstanding between them: The Ring music is perfectly single and simple. It is the adept musician of the old school who has everything to unlearn: and him I leave, unpitied, to his fate. THE RING OF THE NIBLUNGS The Ring consists of four plays, intended to be performed on four successive evenings, entitled The Rhine Gold (a prologue to the other three), The Valkyries, Siegfried, and Night Falls On The Gods; or, in the original German, Das Rheingold, Die Walkure, Siegfried, and Die Gotterdammerung. THE RHINE GOLD Let me assume for a moment that you are a young and good-looking woman. Try to imagine yourself in that character at Klondyke five years ago. The place is teeming with gold. If you are content to leave the gold alone, as the wise leave flowers without plucking them, enjoying with perfect naivete its color and glitter and preciousness, no human being will ever be the worse for your knowledge of it; and whilst you remain in that frame of mind the golden age will endure. Now suppose a man comes along: a man who has no sense of the golden age, nor any power of living in the present: a man with common desires, cupidities, ambitions, just like most of the men you know. Suppose you reveal to that man the fact that if he will only pluck this gold up, and turn it into money, millions of men, driven by the invisible whip of hunger, will toil underground and overground night and day to pile up more and more gold for him until he is master of the world! You will find that the prospect will not tempt him so much as you might imagine, because it involves some distasteful trouble to himself to start with, and because there is something else within his reach involving no distasteful toil, which he desires more passionately; and that is yourself. So long as he is preoccupied with love of you, the gold, and all that it implies, will escape him: the golden age will endure. Not until he forswears love will he stretch out his hand to the gold, and found the Plutonic empire for himself. But the choice between love and gold may not rest altogether with him. He may be an ugly, ungracious, unamiable person, whose affections may seem merely ludicrous and despicable to you. In that case, you may repulse him, and most bitterly humiliate and disappoint him. What is left to him then but to curse the love he can never win, and turn remorselessly to the gold? With that, he will make short work of your golden age, and leave you lamenting its lost thoughtlessness and sweetness. In due time the gold of Klondyke will find its way to the great cities of the world. But the old dilemma will keep continually reproducing itself. The man who will turn his back on love, and upon all the fruitful it, and will set himself single-heartedly to gather gold in an exultant dream of wielding its Plutonic powers, will find the treasure yielding quickly to his touch. But few men will make this sacrifice voluntarily. Not until the Plutonic power is so strongly set up that the higher human impulses are suppressed as rebellious, and even the mere appetites are denied, starved, and insulted when they cannot purchase their satisfaction with gold, are the energetic spirits driven to build their lives upon riches. How inevitable that course has become to us is plain enough to those who have the power of understanding what they see as they look at the plutocratic societies of our modern capitals. First Scene Here, then, is the subject of the first scene of The Rhine Gold. As you sit waiting for the curtain to rise, you suddenly catch the booming ground-tone of a mighty river. It becomes plainer, clearer: you get nearer to the surface, and catch the green light and the flights of bubbles. Then the curtain goes up and you see what you heard--the depths of the Rhine, with three strange fairy fishes, half water-maidens, singing and enjoying themselves exuberantly. They are not singing barcarolles or ballads about the Lorely and her fated lovers, but simply trolling any nonsense that comes into their heads in time to the dancing of the water and the rhythm of their swimming. It is the golden age; and the attraction of this spot for the Rhine maidens is a lump of the Rhine gold, which they value, in an entirely uncommercial way, for its bodily beauty and splendor. Just at present it is eclipsed, because the sun is not striking down through the water. Presently there comes a poor devil of a dwarf stealing along the slippery rocks of the river bed, a creature with energy enough to make him strong of body and fierce of passion, but with a brutish narrowness of intelligence and selfishness of imagination: too stupid to see that his own welfare can only be compassed as part of the welfare of the world, too full of brute force not to grab vigorously at his own gain. Such dwarfs are quite common in London. He comes now with a fruitful impulse in him, in search of what he lacks in himself, beauty, lightness of heart, imagination, music. The Rhine maidens, representing all these to him, fill him with hope and longing; and he never considers that he has nothing to offer that they could possibly desire, being by natural limitation incapable of seeing anything from anyone else's point of view. With perfect simplicity, he offers himself as a sweetheart to them. But they are thoughtless, elemental, only half real things, much like modern young ladies. That the poor dwarf is repulsive to their sense of physical beauty and their romantic conception of heroism, that he is ugly and awkward, greedy and ridiculous, disposes for them of his claim to live and love. They mock him atrociously, pretending to fall in love with him at first sight, and then slipping away and making game of him, heaping ridicule and disgust on the poor wretch until he is beside himself with mortification and rage. They forget him when the water begins to glitter in the sun, and the gold to reflect its glory. They break into ecstatic worship of their treasure; and though they know the parable of Klondyke quite well, they have no fear that the gold will be wrenched away by the dwarf, since it will yield to no one who has not forsworn love for it, and it is in pursuit of love that he has come to them. They forget that they have poisoned that desire in him by their mockery and denial of it, and that he now knows that life will give him nothing that he cannot wrest from it by the Plutonic power. It is just as if some poor, rough, vulgar, coarse fellow were to offer to take his part in aristocratic society, and be snubbed into the knowledge that only as a millionaire could he ever hope to bring that society to his feet and buy himself a beautiful and refined wife. His choice is forced on him. He forswears love as thousands of us forswear it every day; and in a moment the gold is in his grasp, and he disappears in the depths, leaving the water-fairies vainly screaming "Stop thief!" whilst the river seems to plunge into darkness and sink from us as we rise to the cloud regions above. And now, what forces are there in the world to resist Alberic, our dwarf, in his new character of sworn plutocrat? He is soon at work wielding the power of the gold. For his gain, hordes of his fellow-creatures are thenceforth condemned to slave miserably, overground and underground, lashed to their work by the invisible whip of starvation. They never see him, any more than the victims of our "dangerous trades" ever see the shareholders whose power is nevertheless everywhere, driving them to destruction. The very wealth they create with their labor becomes an additional force to impoverish them; for as fast as they make it it slips from their hands into the hands of their master, and makes him mightier than ever. You can see the process for yourself in every civilized country today, where millions of people toil in want and disease to heap up more wealth for our Alberics, laying up nothing for themselves, except sometimes horrible and agonizing disease and the certainty of premature death. All this part of the story is frightfully real, frightfully present, frightfully modern; and its effects on our social life are so ghastly and ruinous that we no longer know enough of happiness to be discomposed by it. It is only the poet, with his vision of what life might be, to whom these things are unendurable. If we were a race of poets we would make an end of them before the end of this miserable century. Being a race of moral dwarfs instead, we think them highly respectable, comfortable and proper, and allow them to breed and multiply their evil in all directions. If there were no higher power in the world to work against Alberic, the end of it would be utter destruction. Such a force there is, however; and it is called Godhead. The mysterious thing we call life organizes itself into all living shapes, bird, beast, beetle and fish, rising to the human marvel in cunning dwarfs and in laborious muscular giants, capable, these last, of enduring toil, willing to buy love and life, not with suicidal curses and renunciations, but with patient manual drudgery in the service of higher powers. And these higher powers are called into existence by the same self-organization of life still more wonderfully into rare persons who may by comparison be called gods, creatures capable of thought, whose aims extend far beyond the satisfaction of their bodily appetites and personal affections, since they perceive that it is only by the establishment of a social order founded on common bonds of moral faith that the world can rise from mere savagery. But how is this order to be set up by Godhead in a world of stupid giants, since these thoughtless ones pursue only their narrower personal ends and can by no means understand the aims of a god? Godhead, face to face with Stupidity, must compromise. Unable to enforce on the world the pure law of thought, it must resort to a mechanical law of commandments to be enforced by brute punishments and the destruction of the disobedient. And however carefully these laws are framed to represent the highest thoughts of the framers at the moment of their promulgation, before a day has elapsed that thought has grown and widened by the ceaseless evolution of life; and lo! yesterday's law already fallen out with today's thought. Yet if the high givers of that law themselves set the example of breaking it before it is a week old, they destroy all its authority with their subjects, and so break the weapon they have forged to rule them for their own good. They must therefore maintain at all costs the sanctity of the law, even when it has ceased to represent their thought; so that at last they get entangled in a network of ordinances which they no longer believe in, and yet have made so sacred by custom and so terrible by punishment, that they cannot themselves escape from them. Thus Godhead's resort to law finally costs it half its integrity--as if a spiritual king, to gain temporal power, had plucked out one of his eyes--and it finally begins secretly to long for the advent of some power higher than itself which will destroy its artificial empire of law, and establish a true republic of free thought. This is by no means the only difficulty in the dominion of Law. The brute force for its execution must be purchased; and the mass of its subjects must be persuaded to respect the authority which employs this force. But how is such respect to be implanted in them if they are unable to comprehend the thought of the lawgiver? Clearly, only by associating the legislative power with such displays of splendor and majesty as will impress their senses and awe their imaginations. The god turned lawgiver, in short, must be crowned Pontiff and King. Since he cannot be known to the common folk as their superior in wisdom, he must be known to them as their superior in riches, as the dweller in castles, the wearer of gold and purple, the eater of mighty feasts, the commander of armies, and the wielder of powers of life and death, of salvation and damnation after death. Something may be done in this way without corruption whilst the golden age still endures. Your gods may not prevail with the dwarfs; but they may go to these honest giants who will give a day's work for a day's pay, and induce them to build for Godhead a mighty fortress, complete with hall and chapel, tower and bell, for the sake of the homesteads that will grow up in security round that church-castle. This only, however, whilst the golden age lasts. The moment the Plutonic power is let loose, and the loveless Alberic comes into the field with his corrupting millions, the gods are face to face with destruction; since Alberic, able with invisible hunger-whip to force the labor of the dwarfs and to buy the services of the giants, can outshine all the temporal shows and splendors of the golden age, and make himself master of the world, unless the gods, with their bigger brains, can capture his gold. This, the dilemma of the Church today, is the situation created by the exploit of Alberic in the depths of the Rhine. Second Scene From the bed of the river we rise into cloudy regions, and finally come out into the clear in a meadow, where Wotan, the god of gods, and his consort Fricka lie sleeping. Wotan, you will observe, has lost one eye; and you will presently learn that he plucked it out voluntarily as the price to be paid for his alliance with Fricka, who in return has brought to him as her dowry all the powers of Law. The meadow is on the brink of a ravine, beyond which, towering on distant heights, stands Godhome, a mighty castle, newly built as a house of state for the one-eyed god and his all-ruling wife. Wotan has not yet seen this castle except in his dreams: two giants have just built it for him whilst he slept; and the reality is before him for the first time when Fricka wakes him. In that majestic burg he is to rule with her and through her over the humble giants, who have eyes to gape at the glorious castles their own hands have built from his design, but no brains to design castles for themselves, or to comprehend divinity. As a god, he is to be great, secure, and mighty; but he is also to be passionless, affectionless, wholly impartial; for Godhead, if it is to live with Law, must have no weaknesses, no respect for persons. All such sweet littlenesses must be left to the humble stupid giants to make their toil sweet to them; and the god must, after all, pay for Olympian power the same price the dwarf has paid for Plutonic power. Wotan has forgotten this in his dreams of greatness. Not so Fricka. What she is thinking of is this price that Wotan has consented to pay, in token whereof he has promised this day to hand over to the giants Fricka's sister, the goddess Freia, with her golden love-apples. When Fricka reproaches Wotan with having selfishly forgotten this, she finds that he, like herself, is not prepared to go through with his bargain, and that he is trusting to another great worldforce, the Lie (a European Power, as Lassalle said), to help him to trick the giants out of their reward. But this force does not dwell in Wotan himself, but in another, a god over whom he has triumphed, one Loki, the god of Intellect, Argument, Imagination, Illusion, and Reason. Loki has promised to deliver him from his contract, and to cheat the giants for him; but he has not arrived to keep his word: indeed, as Fricka bitterly points out, why should not the Lie fail Wotan, since such failure is the very essence of him? The giants come soon enough; and Freia flies to Wotan for protection against them. Their purposes are quite honest; and they have no doubt of the god's faith. There stands their part of the contract fulfilled, stone on stone, port and pinnacle all faithfully finished from Wotan's design by their mighty labor. They have come undoubtingly for their agreed wage. Then there happens what is to them an incredible, inconceivable thing. The god begins to shuffle. There are no moments in life more tragic than those in which the humble common man, the manual worker, leaving with implicit trust all high affairs to his betters, and reverencing them wholly as worthy of that trust, even to the extent of accepting as his rightful function the saving of them from all roughening and coarsening drudgeries, first discovers that they are corrupt, greedy, unjust and treacherous. The shock drives a ray of prophetic light into one giant's mind, and gives him a momentary eloquence. In that moment he rises above his stupid gianthood, and earnestly warns the Son of Light that all his power and eminence of priesthood, godhood, and kingship must stand or fall with the unbearable cold greatness of the incorruptible law-giver. But Wotan, whose assumed character of law-giver is altogether false to his real passionate nature, despises the rebuke; and the giant's ray of insight is lost in the murk of his virtuous indignation. In the midst of the wrangle, Loki comes at last, excusing himself for being late on the ground that he has been detained by a matter of importance which he has promised to lay before Wotan. When pressed to give his mind to the business immediately in hand, and to extricate Wotan from his dilemma, he has nothing to say except that the giants are evidently altogether in the right. The castle has been duly built: he has tried every stone of it, and found the work first-rate: there is nothing to be done but pay the price agreed upon by handing over Freia to the giants. The gods are furious; and Wotan passionately declares that he only consented to the bargain on Loki's promise to find a way for him out of it. But Loki says no: he has promised to find a way out if any such way exist, but not to make a way if there is no way. He has wandered over the whole earth in search of some treasure great enough to buy Freia back from the giants; but in all the world he has found nothing for which Man will give up Woman. And this, by the way, reminds him of the matter he had promised to lay before Wotan. The Rhine maidens have complained to him of Alberic's theft of their gold; and he mentions it as a curious exception to his universal law of the unpurchasable preciousness of love, that this gold-robber has forsworn love for the sake of the fabulous riches of the Plutonic empire and the mastery of the world through its power. No sooner is the tale told than the giants stoop lower than the dwarf. Alberic forswore love only when it was denied to him and made the instrument for cruelly murdering his self-respect. But the giants, with love within their reach, with Freia and her golden apples in their hands, offer to give her up for the treasure of Alberic. Observe, it is the treasure alone that they desire. They have no fierce dreams of dominion over their superiors, or of moulding the world to any conceptions of their own. They are neither clever nor ambitious: they simply covet money. Alberic's gold: that is their demand, or else Freia, as agreed upon, whom they now carry off as hostage, leaving Wotan to consider their ultimatum. Freia gone, the gods begin to wither and age: her golden apples, which they so lightly bargained away, they now find to be a matter of life and death to them; for not even the gods can live on Law and Godhead alone, be their castles ever so splendid. Loki alone is unaffected: the Lie, with all its cunning wonders, its glistenings and shiftings and mirages, is a mere appearance: it has no body and needs no food. What is Wotan to do? Loki sees the answer clearly enough: he must bluntly rob Alberic. There is nothing to prevent him except moral scruple; for Alberic, after all, is a poor, dim, dwarfed, credulous creature whom a god can outsee and a lie can outwit. Down, then, Wotan and Loki plunge into the mine where Alberic's slaves are piling up wealth for him under the invisible whip. Third Scene This gloomy place need not be a mine: it might just as well be a match-factory, with yellow phosphorus, phossy jaw, a large dividend, and plenty of clergymen shareholders. Or it might be a whitelead factory, or a chemical works, or a pottery, or a railway shunting yard, or a tailoring shop, or a little gin-sodden laundry, or a bakehouse, or a big shop, or any other of the places where human life and welfare are daily sacrificed in order that some greedy foolish creature may be able to hymn exultantly to his Platonic idol: Thou mak'st me eat whilst others starve, And sing while others do lament: Such untome Thy blessings are, As if I were Thine only care. In the mine, which resounds with the clinking anvils of the dwarfs toiling miserably to heap up treasure for their master, Alberic has set his brother Mime--more familiarly, Mimmy--to make him a helmet. Mimmy dimly sees that there is some magic in this helmet, and tries to keep it; but Alberic wrests it from him, and shows him, to his cost, that it is the veil of the invisible whip, and that he who wears it can appear in what shape he will, or disappear from view altogether. This helmet is a very common article in our streets, where it generally takes the form of a tall hat. It makes a man invisible as a shareholder, and changes him into various shapes, such as a pious Christian, a subscriber to hospitals, a benefactor of the poor, a model husband and father, a shrewd, practical independent Englishman, and what not, when he is really a pitiful parasite on the commonwealth, consuming a great deal, and producing nothing, feeling nothing, knowing nothing, believing nothing, and doing nothing except what all the rest do, and that only because he is afraid not to do it, or at least pretend to do it. When Wotan and Loki arrive, Loki claims Alberic as an old acquaintance. But the dwarf has no faith in these civil strangers: Greed instinctively mistrusts Intellect, even in the garb of Poetry and the company of Godhead, whilst envying the brilliancy of the one and the dignity of the other. Alberic breaks out at them with a terrible boast of the power now within his grasp. He paints for them the world as it will be when his dominion over it is complete, when the soft airs and green mosses of its valleys shall be changed into smoke, slag, and filth; when slavery, disease, and squalor, soothed by drunkenness and mastered by the policeman's baton, shall become the foundation of society; and when nothing shall escape ruin except such pretty places and pretty women as he may like to buy for the slaking of his own lusts. In that kingdom of evil he sees that there will be no power but his own. These gods, with their moralities and legalities and intellectual subtlety, will go under and be starved out of existence. He bids Wotan and Loki beware of it; and his "Hab' Acht!" is hoarse, horrible, and sinister. Wotan is revolted to the very depths of his being: he cannot stifle the execration that bursts from him. But Loki is unaffected: he has no moral passion: indignation is as absurd to him as enthusiasm. He finds it exquisitely amusing--having a touch of the comic spirit in him--that the dwarf, in stirring up the moral fervor of Wotan, has removed his last moral scruple about becoming a thief. Wotan will now rob the dwarf without remorse; for is it not positively his highest duty to take this power out of such evil hands and use it himself in the interests of Godhead? On the loftiest moral grounds, he lets Loki do his worst. A little cunningly disguised flattery makes short work of Alberic. Loki pretends to be afraid of him; and he swallows that bait unhesitatingly. But how, enquires Loki, is he to guard against the hatred of his million slaves? Will they not steal from him, whilst he sleeps, the magic ring, the symbol of his power, which he has forged from the gold of the Rhine? "You think yourself very clever," sneers Alberic, and then begins to boast of the enchantments of the magic helmet. Loki refuses to believe in such marvels without witnessing them. Alberic, only too glad to show off his powers, puts on the helmet and transforms himself into a monstrous serpent. Loki gratifies him by pretending to be frightened out of his wits, but ventures to remark that it would be better still if the helmet could transform its owner into some tiny creature that could hide and spy in the smallest cranny. Alberic promptly transforms himself into a toad. In an instant Wotan's foot is on him; Loki tears away the helmet; they pinion him, and drag him away a prisoner up through the earth to the meadow by the castle. Fourth Scene There, to pay for his freedom, he has to summon his slaves from the depths to place all the treasure they have heaped up for him at the feet of Wotan. Then he demands his liberty; but Wotan must have the ring as well. And here the dwarf, like the giant before him, feels the very foundations of the world shake beneath him at the discovery of his own base cupidity in a higher power. That evil should, in its loveless desperation, create malign powers which Godhead could not create, seems but natural justice to him. But that Godhead should steal those malign powers from evil, and wield them itself, is a monstrous perversion; and his appeal to Wotan to forego it is almost terrible in its conviction of wrong. It is of no avail. Wotan falls back again on virtuous indignation. He reminds Alberic that he stole the gold from the Rhine maidens, and takes the attitude of the just judge compelling a restitution of stolen goods. Alberic knowing perfectly well that the judge is taking the goods to put them in his own pocket, has the ring torn from his finger, and is once more as poor as he was when he came slipping and stumbling among the slimy rocks in the bed of the Rhine. This is the way of the world. In older times, when the Christian laborer was drained dry by the knightly spendthrift, and the spendthrift was drained by the Jewish usurer, Church and State, religion and law, seized on the Jew and drained him as a Christian duty. When the forces of lovelessness and greed had built up our own sordid capitalist systems, driven by invisible proprietorship, robbing the poor, defacing the earth, and forcing themselves as a universal curse even on the generous and humane, then religion and law and intellect, which would never themselves have discovered such systems, their natural bent being towards welfare, economy, and life instead of towards corruption, waste, and death, nevertheless did not scruple to seize by fraud and force these powers of evil on presence of using them for good. And it inevitably happens that when the Church, the Law, and all the Talents have made common cause to rob the people, the Church is far more vitally harmed by that unfaithfulness to itself than its more mechanical confederates; so that finally they turn on their discredited ally and rob the Church, with the cheerful co-operation of Loki, as in France and Italy for instance. The twin giants come back with their hostage, in whose presence Godhead blooms again. The gold is ready for them; but now that the moment has come for parting with Freia the gold does not seem so tempting; and they are sorely loth to let her go. Not unless there is gold enough to utterly hide her from them--not until the heap has grown so that they can see nothing but gold--until money has come between them and every human feeling, will they part with her. There is not gold enough to accomplish this: however cunningly Loki spreads it, the glint of Freia's hair is still visible to Giant Fafnir, and the magic helmet must go on the heap to shut it out. Even then Fafnir's brother, Fasolt, can catch a beam from her eye through a chink, and is rendered incapable thereby of forswearing her. There is nothing to stop that chink but the ring; and Wotan is as greedily bent on keeping that as Alberic himself was; nor can the other gods persuade him that Freia is worth it, since for the highest god, love is not the highest good, but only the universal delight that bribes all living things to travail with renewed life. Life itself, with its accomplished marvels and its infinite potentialities, is the only force that Godhead can worship. Wotan does not yield until he is reached by the voice of the fruitful earth that before he or the dwarfs or the giants or the Law or the Lie or any of these things were, had the seed of them all in her bosom, and the seed perhaps of something higher even than himself, that shall one day supersede him and cut the tangles and alliances and compromises that already have cost him one of his eyes. When Erda, the First Mother of life, rises from her sleeping-place in the heart of the earth, and warns him to yield the ring, he obeys her; the ring is added to the heap of gold; and all sense of Freia is cut off from the giants. But now what Law is left to these two poor stupid laborers whereby one shall yield to the other any of the treasure for which they have each paid the whole price in surrendering Freia? They look by mere habit to the god to judge for them; but he, with his heart stirring towards higher forces than himself, turns with disgust from these lower forces. They settle it as two wolves might; and Fafnir batters his brother dead with his staff. It is a horrible thing to see and hear, to anyone who knows how much blood has been shed in the world in just that way by its brutalized toilers, honest fellows enough until their betters betrayed them. Fafnir goes off with his booty. It is quite useless to him. He has neither the cunning nor the ambition to establish the Plutonic empire with it. Merely to prevent others from getting it is the only purpose it brings him. He piles it in a cave; transforms himself into a dragon by the helmet; and devotes his life to guarding it, as much a slave to it as a jailor is to his prisoner. He had much better have thrown it all back into the Rhine and transformed himself into the shortest-lived animal that enjoys at least a brief run in the sunshine. His case, however, is far too common to be surprising. The world is overstocked with persons who sacrifice all their affections, and madly trample and batter down their fellows to obtain riches of which, when they get them, they are unable to make the smallest use, and to which they become the most miserable slaves. The gods soon forget Fafnir in their rejoicing over Freia. Donner, the Thunder god, springs to a rocky summit and calls the clouds as a shepherd calls his flocks. They come at his summons; and he and the castle are hidden by their black legions. Froh, the Rainbow god, hastens to his side. At the stroke of Donner's hammer the black murk is riven in all directions by darting ribbons of lightning; and as the air clears, the castle is seen in its fullest splendor, accessible now by the rainbow bridge which Froh has cast across the ravine. In the glory of this moment Wotan has a great thought. With all his aspirations to establish a reign of noble thought, of righteousness, order, and justice, he has found that day that there is no race yet in the world that quite spontaneously, naturally, and unconsciously realizes his ideal. He himself has found how far short Godhead falls of the thing it conceives. He, the greatest of gods, has been unable to control his fate: he has been forced against his will to choose between evils, to make disgraceful bargains, to break them still more disgracefully, and even then to see the price of his disgrace slip through his fingers. His consort has cost him half his vision; his castle has cost him his affections; and the attempt to retain both has cost him his honor. On every side he is shackled and bound, dependent on the laws of Fricka and on the lies of Loki, forced to traffic with dwarfs for handicraft and with giants for strength, and to pay them both in false coin. After all, a god is a pitiful thing. But the fertility of the First Mother is not yet exhausted. The life that came from her has ever climbed up to a higher and higher organization. From toad and serpent to dwarf, from bear and elephant to giant, from dwarf and giant to a god with thoughts, with comprehension of the world, with ideals. Why should it stop there? Why should it not rise from the god to the Hero? to the creature in whom the god's unavailing thought shall have become effective will and life, who shall make his way straight to truth and reality over the laws of Fricka and the lies of Loki with a strength that overcomes giants and a cunning that outwits dwarfs? Yes: Erda, the First Mother, must travail again, and breed him a race of heroes to deliver the world and himself from his limited powers and disgraceful bargains. This is the vision that flashes on him as he turns to the rainbow bridge and calls his wife to come and dwell with him in Valhalla, the home of the gods. They are all overcome with Valhalla's glory except Loki. He is behind the scenes of this joint reign of the Divine and the Legal. He despises these gods with their ideals and their golden apples. "I am ashamed," he says, "to have dealings with these futile creatures." And so he follows them to the rainbow bridge. But as they set foot on it, from the river below rises the wailing of the Rhine maidens for their lost gold. "You down there in the water," cries Loki with brutal irony: "you used to bask in the glitter of your gold: henceforth you shall bask in the splendor of the gods." And they reply that the truth is in the depths and the darkness, and that what blazes on high there is falsehood. And with that the gods pass into their glorious stronghold. WAGNER AS REVOLUTIONIST Before leaving this explanation of The Rhine Gold, I must have a word or two about it with the reader. It is the least popular of the sections of The Ring. The reason is that its dramatic moments lie quite outside the consciousness of people whose joys and sorrows are all domestic and personal, and whose religions and political ideas are purely conventional and superstitious. To them it is a struggle between half a dozen fairytale personages for a ring, involving hours of scolding and cheating, and one long scene in a dark gruesome mine, with gloomy, ugly music, and not a glimpse of a handsome young man or pretty woman. Only those of wider consciousness can follow it breathlessly, seeing in it the whole tragedy of human history and the whole horror of the dilemmas from which the world is shrinking today. At Bayreuth I have seen a party of English tourists, after enduring agonies of boredom from Alberic, rise in the middle of the third scene, and almost force their way out of the dark theatre into the sunlit pine-wood without. And I have seen people who were deeply affected by the scene driven almost beside themselves by this disturbance. But it was a very natural thing for the unfortunate tourists to do, since in this Rhine Gold prologue there is no interval between the acts for escape. Roughly speaking, people who have no general ideas, no touch of the concern of the philosopher and statesman for the race, cannot enjoy The Rhine Gold as a drama. They may find compensations in some exceedingly pretty music, at times even grand and glorious, which will enable them to escape occasionally from the struggle between Alberic and Wotan; but if their capacity for music should be as limited as their comprehension of the world, they had better stay away. And now, attentive Reader, we have reached the point at which some foolish person is sure to interrupt us by declaring that The Rhine Gold is what they call "a work of art" pure and simple, and that Wagner never dreamt of shareholders, tall hats, whitelead factories, and industrial and political questions looked at from the socialistic and humanitarian points of view. We need not discuss these impertinences: it is easier to silence them with the facts of Wagner's life. In 1843 he obtained the position of conductor of the Opera at Dresden at a salary of L225 a year, with a pension. This was a first-rate permanent appointment in the service of the Saxon State, carrying an assured professional position and livelihood with it In 1848, the year of revolutions, the discontented middle class, unable to rouse the Church-and-State governments of the day from their bondage to custom, caste, and law by appeals to morality or constitutional agitation for Liberal reforms, made common cause with the starving wage-working class, and resorted to armed rebellion, which reached Dresden in 1849. Had Wagner been the mere musical epicure and political mugwump that the term "artist" seems to suggest to so many critics and amateurs--that is, a creature in their own lazy likeness--he need have taken no more part in the political struggles of his day than Bishop took in the English Reform agitation of 1832, or Sterndale Bennett in the Chartist or Free Trade movements. What he did do was first to make a desperate appeal to the King to cast off his bonds and answer the need of the time by taking true Kingship on himself and leading his people to the redress of their intolerable wrongs (fancy the poor monarch's feelings!), and then, when the crash came, to take his side with the right and the poor against the rich and the wrong. When the insurrection was defeated, three leaders of it were especially marked down for vengeance: August Roeckel, an old friend of Wagner's to whom he wrote a well-known series of letters; Michael Bakoonin, afterwards a famous apostle of revolutionary Anarchism; and Wagner himself. Wagner escaped to Switzerland: Roeckel and Bakoonin suffered long terms of imprisonment. Wagner was of course utterly ruined, pecuniarily and socially (to his own intense relief and satisfaction); and his exile lasted twelve years. His first idea was to get his Tannhauser produced in Paris. With the notion of explaining himself to the Parisians he wrote a pamphlet entitled Art and Revolution, a glance through which will show how thoroughly the socialistic side of the revolution had his sympathy, and how completely he had got free from the influence of the established Churches of his day. For three years he kept pouring forth pamphlets--some of them elaborate treatises in size and intellectual rank, but still essentially the pamphlets and manifestoes of a born agitator--on social evolution, religion, life, art and the influence of riches. In 1853 the poem of The Ring was privately printed; and in 1854, five years after the Dresden insurrection, The Rhine Gold score was completed to the last drum tap. These facts are on official record in Germany, where the proclamation summing up Wagner as "a politically dangerous person" may be consulted to this day. The pamphlets are now accessible to English readers in the translation of Mr. Ashton Ellis. This being so, any person who, having perhaps heard that I am a Socialist, attempts to persuade you that my interpretation of The Rhine Gold is only "my socialism" read into the works of a dilettantist who borrowed an idle tale from an old saga to make an opera book with, may safely be dismissed from your consideration as an ignoramus. If you are now satisfied that The Rhine Gold is an allegory, do not forget that an allegory is never quite consistent except when it is written by someone without dramatic faculty, in which case it is unreadable. There is only one way of dramatizing an idea; and that is by putting on the stage a human being possessed by that idea, yet none the less a human being with all the human impulses which make him akin and therefore interesting to us. Bunyan, in his Pilgrim's Progress, does not, like his unread imitators, attempt to personify Christianity and Valour: he dramatizes for you the life of the Christian and the Valiant Man. Just so, though I have shown that Wotan is Godhead and Kingship, and Loki Logic and Imagination without living Will (Brain without Heart, to put it vulgarly); yet in the drama Wotan is a religiously moral man, and Loki a witty, ingenious, imaginative and cynical one. As to Fricka, who stands for State Law, she does not assume her allegorical character in The Rhine Gold at all, but is simply Wotan's wife and Freia's sister: nay, she contradicts her allegorical self by conniving at all Wotan's rogueries. That, of course, is just what State Law would do; but we must not save the credit of the allegory by a quip. Not until she reappears in the next play (The Valkyries) does her function in the allegorical scheme become plain. One preconception will bewilder the spectator hopelessly unless he has been warned against it or is naturally free from it. In the old-fashioned orders of creation, the supernatural personages are invariably conceived as greater than man, for good or evil. In the modern humanitarian order as adopted by Wagner, Man is the highest. In The Rhine Gold, it is pretended that there are as yet no men on the earth. There are dwarfs, giants, and gods. The danger is that you will jump to the conclusion that the gods, at least, are a higher order than the human order. On the contrary, the world is waiting for Man to redeem it from the lame and cramped government of the gods. Once grasp that; and the allegory becomes simple enough. Really, of course, the dwarfs, giants, and gods are dramatizations of the three main orders of men: to wit, the instinctive, predatory, lustful, greedy people; the patient, toiling, stupid, respectful, money-worshipping people; and the intellectual, moral, talented people who devise and administer States and Churches. History shows us only one order higher than the highest of these: namely, the order of Heroes. Now it is quite clear--though you have perhaps never thought of it--that if the next generation of Englishmen consisted wholly of Julius Caesars, all our political, ecclesiastical, and moral institutions would vanish, and the less perishable of their appurtenances be classed with Stonehenge and the cromlechs and round towers as inexplicable relics of a bygone social order. Julius Caesars would no more trouble themselves about such contrivances as our codes and churches than a fellow of the Royal Society will touch his hat to the squire and listen to the village curate's sermons. This is precisely what must happen some day if life continues thrusting towards higher and higher organization as it has hitherto done. As most of our English professional men are to Australian bushmen, so, we must suppose, will the average man of some future day be to Julius Caesar. Let any man of middle age, pondering this prospect consider what has happened within a single generation to the articles of faith his father regarded as eternal nay, to the very scepticisms and blasphemies of his youth (Bishop Colenso's criticism of the Pentateuch, for example!); and he will begin to realize how much of our barbarous Theology and Law the man of the future will do without. Bakoonin, the Dresden revolutionary leader with whom Wagner went out in 1849, put forward later on a program, often quoted with foolish horror, for the abolition of all institutions, religious, political, juridical, financial, legal, academic, and so on, so as to leave the will of man free to find its own way. All the loftiest spirits of that time were burning to raise Man up, to give him self-respect, to shake him out of his habit of grovelling before the ideals created by his own imagination, of attributing the good that sprang from the ceaseless energy of the life within himself to some superior power in the clouds, and of making a fetish of self-sacrifice to justify his own cowardice. Farther on in The Ring we shall see the Hero arrive and make an end of dwarfs, giants, and gods. Meanwhile, let us not forget that godhood means to Wagner infirmity and compromise, and manhood strength and integrity. Above all, we must understand--for it is the key to much that we are to see--that the god, since his desire is toward a higher and fuller life, must long in his inmost soul for the advent of that greater power whose first work, though this he does not see as yet, must be his own undoing. In the midst of all these far-reaching ideas, it is amusing to find Wagner still full of his ingrained theatrical professionalism, and introducing effects which now seem old-fashioned and stagey with as much energy and earnestness as if they were his loftiest inspirations. When Wotan wrests the ring from Alberic, the dwarf delivers a lurid and bloodcurdling stage curse, calling down on its every future possessor care, fear, and death. The musical phrase accompanying this outburst was a veritable harmonic and melodic bogey to mid-century ears, though time has now robbed it of its terrors. It sounds again when Fafnir slays Fasolt, and on every subsequent occasion when the ring brings death to its holder. This episode must justify itself purely as a piece of stage sensationalism. On deeper ground it is superfluous and confusing, as the ruin to which the pursuit of riches leads needs no curse to explain it; nor is there any sense in investing Alberic with providential powers in the matter. THE VALKYRIES Before the curtain rises on the Valkyries, let us see what has happened since it fell on The Rhine Gold. The persons of the drama will tell us presently; but as we probably do not understand German, that may not help us. Wotan is still ruling the world in glory from his giant-built castle with his wife Fricka. But he has no security for the continuance of his reign, since Alberic may at any moment contrive to recover the ring, the full power of which he can wield because he has forsworn love. Such forswearing is not possible to Wotan: love, though not his highest need, is a higher than gold: otherwise he would be no god. Besides, as we have seen, his power has been established in the world by and as a system of laws enforced by penalties. These he must consent to be bound by himself; for a god who broke his own laws would betray the fact that legality and conformity are not the highest rule of conduct--a discovery fatal to his supremacy as Pontiff and Lawgiver. Hence he may not wrest the ring unlawfully from Fafnir, even if he could bring himself to forswear love. In this insecurity he has hit on the idea of forming a heroic bodyguard. He has trained his love children as war-maidens (Valkyries) whose duty it is to sweep through battle-fields and bear away to Valhalla the souls of the bravest who fall there. Thus reinforced by a host of warriors, he has thoroughly indoctrinated them, Loki helping him as dialectician-in-chief, with the conventional system of law and duty, supernatural religion and self-sacrificing idealism, which they believe to be the essence of his godhood, but which is really only the machinery of the love of necessary power which is his mortal weakness. This process secures their fanatical devotion to his system of government, but he knows perfectly well that such systems, in spite of their moral pretensions, serve selfish and ambitious tyrants better than benevolent despots, and that, if once Alberic gets the ring back, he will easily out-Valhalla Valhalla, if not buy it over as a going concern. The only chance of permanent security, then, is the appearance in the world of a hero who, without any illicit prompting from Wotan, will destroy Alberic and wrest the ring from Fafnir. There will then, he believes, be no further cause for anxiety, since he does not yet conceive Heroism as a force hostile to Godhead. In his longing for a rescuer, it does not occur to him that when the Hero comes, his first exploit must be to sweep the gods and their ordinances from the path of the heroic will. Indeed, he feels that in his own Godhead is the germ of such Heroism, and that from himself the Hero must spring. He takes to wandering, mostly in search of love, from Fricka and Valhalla. He seeks the First Mother; and through her womb, eternally fertile, the inner true thought that made him first a god is reborn as his daughter, uncorrupted by his ambition, unfettered by his machinery of power and his alliances with Fricka and Loki. This daughter, the Valkyrie Brynhild, is his true will, his real self, (as he thinks): to her he may say what he must not say to anyone, since in speaking to her he but speaks to himself. "Was Keinem in Worten unausgesprochen," he says to her, "bleib es ewig: mit mir nur rath' ich, red' ich zu dir." But from Brynhild no hero can spring until there is a man of Wotan's race to breed with her. Wotan wanders further; and a mortal woman bears him twins: a son and a daughter. He separates them by letting the girl fall into the hands of a forest tribe which in due time gives her as a wife to a fierce chief, one Hunding. With the son he himself leads the life of a wolf, and teaches him the only power a god can teach, the power of doing without happiness. When he has given him this terrible training, he abandons him, and goes to the bridal feast of his daughter Sieglinda and Hunding. In the blue cloak of the wanderer, wearing the broad hat that flaps over the socket of his forfeited eye, he appears in Hunding's house, the middle pillar of which is a mighty tree. Into that tree, without a word, he strikes a sword up to the hilt, so that only the might of a hero can withdraw it. Then he goes out as silently as he came, blind to the truth that no weapon from the armory of Godhead can serve the turn of the true Human Hero. Neither Hunding nor any of his guests can move the sword; and there it stays awaiting the destined hand. That is the history of the generations between The Rhine Gold and The Valkyries. The First Act This time, as we sit looking expectantly at the curtain, we hear, not the deep booming of the Rhine, but the patter of a forest downpour, accompanied by the mutter of a storm which soon gathers into a roar and culminates in crashing thunderbolts. As it passes off, the curtain rises; and there is no mistaking whose forest habitation we are in; for the central pillar is a mighty tree, and the place fit for the dwelling of a fierce chief. The door opens: and an exhausted man reels in: an adept from the school of unhappiness. Sieglinda finds him lying on the hearth. He explains that he has been in a fight; that his weapons not being as strong as his arms, were broken; and that he had to fly. He desires some drink and a moment's rest; then he will go; for he is an unlucky person, and does not want to bring his ill-luck on the woman who is succoring him. But she, it appears, is also unhappy; and a strong sympathy springs up between them. When her husband arrives, he observes not only this sympathy, but a resemblance between them, a gleam of the snake in their eyes. They sit down to table; and the stranger tells them his unlucky story. He is the son of Wotan, who is known to him only as Wolfing, of the race of the Volsungs. The earliest thing he remembers is returning from a hunt with his father to find their home destroyed, his mother murdered, and his twin-sister carried off. This was the work of a tribe called the Neidings, upon whom he and Wolfing thenceforth waged implacable war until the day when his father disappeared, leaving no trace of himself but an empty wolfskin. The young Volsung was thus cast alone upon the world, finding most hands against him, and bringing no good luck even to his friends. His latest exploit has been the slaying of certain brothers who were forcing their sister to wed against her will. The result has been the slaughter of the woman by her brothers' clansmen, and his own narrow escape by flight. His luck on this occasion is even worse than he supposes; for Hunding, by whose hearth he has taken refuge, is clansman to the slain brothers and is bound to avenge them. He tells the Volsung that in the morning, weapons or no weapons, he must fight for his life. Then he orders the woman to bed, and follows her himself, taking his spear with him. The unlucky stranger, left brooding by the hearth, has nothing to console himself with but an old promise of his father's that he shall find a weapon to his hand when he most needs one. The last flicker of the dying fire strikes on the golden hilt of the sword that sticks in the tree; but he does not see it; and the embers sink into blackness. Then the woman returns. Hunding is safely asleep: she has drugged him. She tells the story of the one-eyed man who appeared at her forced marriage, and of the sword. She has always felt, she says, that her miseries will end in the arms of the hero who shall succeed in drawing it forth. The stranger, diffident as he is about his luck, has no misgivings as to his strength and destiny. He gives her his affection at once, and abandons himself to the charm of the night and the season; for it is the beginning of Spring. They soon learn from their confidences that she is his stolen twin-sister. He is transported to find that the heroic race of the Volsungs need neither perish nor be corrupted by a lower strain. Hailing the sword by the name of Nothung (or Needed), he plucks it from the tree as her bride-gift, and then, crying "Both bride and sister be of thy brother; and blossom the blood of the Volsungs!" clasps her as the mate the Spring has brought him. The Second Act So far, Wotan's plan seems prospering. In the mountains he calls his war-maiden Brynhild, the child borne to him by the First Mother, and bids her see to it that Hunding shall fall in the approaching combat. But he is reckoning without his consort, Fricka. What will she, the Law, say to the lawless pair who have heaped incest on adultery? A hero may have defied the law, and put his own will in its place; but can a god hold him guiltless, when the whole power of the gods can enforce itself only by law? Fricka, shuddering with horror, outraged in every instinct, comes clamoring for punishment. Wotan pleads the general necessity of encouraging heroism in order to keep up the Valhalla bodyguard; but his remonstrances only bring upon him torrents of reproaches for his own unfaithfulness to the law in roaming through the world and begetting war-maidens, "wolf cubs," and the like. He is hopelessly beaten in the argument. Fricka is absolutely right when she declares that the ending of the gods began when he brought this wolf-hero into the world; and now, to save their very existence, she pitilessly demands his destruction. Wotan has no power to refuse: it is Fricka's mechanical force, and not his thought, that really rules the world. He has to recall Brynhild; take back his former instructions; and ordain that Hunding shall slay the Volsung. But now comes another difficulty. Brynhild is the inner thought and will of Godhead, the aspiration from the high life to the higher that is its divine element, and only becomes separated from it when its resort to kingship and priestcraft for the sake of temporal power has made it false to itself. Hitherto, Brynhild, as Valkyrie or hero chooser, has obeyed Wotan implicitly, taking her work as the holiest and bravest in his kingdom; and now he tells her what he could not tell Fricka--what indeed he could not tell to Brynhild, were she not, as she says, his own will--the whole story of Alberic and of that inspiration about the raising up of a hero. She thoroughly approves of the inspiration; but when the story ends in the assumption that she too must obey Fricka, and help Fricka's vassal, Hunding, to undo the great work and strike the hero down, she for the first time hesitates to accept his command. In his fury and despair he overawes her by the most terrible threats of his anger; and she submits. Then comes the Volsung Siegmund, following his sister bride, who has fled into the mountains in a revulsion of horror at having allowed herself to bring her hero to shame. Whilst she is lying exhausted and senseless in his arms, Brynhild appears to him and solemnly warns him that he must presently leave the earth with her. He asks whither he must follow her. To Valhalla, to take his place there among the heroes. He asks, shall he find his father there? Yes. Shall he find a wife there? Yes: he will be waited on by beautiful wishmaidens. Shall he meet his sister there? No. Then, says Siegmund, I will not come with you. She tries to make him understand that he cannot help himself. Being a hero, he will not be so persuaded: he has his father's sword, and does not fear Hunding. But when she tells him that she comes from his father, and that the sword of a god will not avail in the hands of a hero, he accepts his fate, but will shape it with his own hand, both for himself and his sister, by slaying her, and then killing himself with the last stroke of the sword. And thereafter he will go to Hell, rather than to Valhalla. How now can Brynhild, being what she is, choose her side freely in a conflict between this hero and the vassal of Fricka? By instinct she at once throws Wotan's command to the winds, and bids Siegmund nerve himself for the combat with Hunding, in which she pledges him the protection of her shield. The horn of Hunding is soon heard; and Siegmund's spirits rise to fighting pitch at once. The two meet; and the Valkyrie's shield is held before the hero. But when he delivers his sword-stroke at his foe, the weapon shivers on the spear of Wotan, who suddenly appears between them; and the first of the race of heroes falls with the weapon of the Law's vassal through his breast. Brynhild snatches the fragments of the broken sword, and flies, carrying off the woman with her on her war-horse; and Wotan, in terrible wrath, slays Hunding with a wave of his hand, and starts in pursuit of his disobedient daughter. The Third Act On a rocky peak, four of the Valkyries are waiting for the rest. The absent ones soon arrive, galloping through the air with slain heroes, gathered from the battle-field, hanging over their saddles. Only, Brynhild, who comes last, has for her spoil a live woman. When her eight sisters learn that she has defied Wotan, they dare not help her; and Brynhild has to rouse Sieglinda to make an effort to save herself, by reminding her that she bears in her the seed of a hero, and must face everything, endure anything, sooner than let that seed miscarry. Sieglinda, in a transport of exaltation, takes the fragments of the sword and flies into the forest. Then Wotan comes; the sisters fly in terror at his command; and he is left alone with Brynhild. Here, then, we have the first of the inevitable moments which Wotan did not foresee. Godhead has now established its dominion over the world by a mighty Church, compelling obedience through its ally the Law, with its formidable State organization of force of arms and cunning of brain. It has submitted to this alliance to keep the Plutonic power in check--built it up primarily for the sake of that soul in itself which cares only to make the highest better and the best higher; and now here is that very soul separated from it and working for the destruction of its indispensable ally, the lawgiving State. How is the rebel to be disarmed? Slain it cannot be by Godhead, since it is still Godhead's own very dearest soul. But hidden, stifled, silenced it must be; or it will wreck the State and leave the Church defenseless. Not until it passes completely away from Godhead, and is reborn as the soul of the hero, can it work anything but the confusion and destruction of the existing order. How is the world to be protected against it in the meantime? Clearly Loki's help is needed here: it is the Lie that must, on the highest principles, hide the Truth. Let Loki surround this mountain top with the appearance of a consuming fire; and who will dare penetrate to Brynhild? It is true that if any man will walk boldly into that fire, he will discover it at once to be a lie, an illusion, a mirage through which he might carry a sack of gunpowder without being a penny the worse. Therefore let the fire seem so terrible that only the hero, when in the fulness of time he appears upon earth, will venture through it; and the problem is solved. Wotan, with a breaking heart, takes leave of Brynhild; throws her into a deep sleep; covers her with her long warshield; summons Loki, who comes in the shape of a wall of fire surrounding the mountain peak; and turns his back on Brynhild for ever. The allegory here is happily not so glaringly obvious to the younger generations of our educated classes as it was forty years ago. In those days, any child who expressed a doubt as to the absolute truth of the Church's teaching, even to the extent of asking why Joshua told the sun to stand still instead of telling the earth to cease turning, or of pointing out that a whale's throat would hardly have been large enough to swallow Jonah, was unhesitatingly told that if it harboured such doubts it would spend all eternity after its death in horrible torments in a lake of burning brimstone. It is difficult to write or read this nowadays without laughing; yet no doubt millions of ignorant and credulous people are still teaching their children that. When Wagner himself was a little child, the fact that hell was a fiction devised for the intimidation and subjection of the masses, was a well-kept secret of the thinking and governing classes. At that time the fires of Loki were a very real terror to all except persons of exceptional force of character and intrepidity of thought. Even thirty years after Wagner had printed the verses of The Ring for private circulation, we find him excusing himself from perfectly explicit denial of current superstitions, by reminding his readers that it would expose him to prosecution. In England, so many of our respectable voters are still grovelling in a gloomy devil worship, of which the fires of Loki are the main bulwark, that no Government has yet had the conscience or the courage to repeal our monstrous laws against "blasphemy." SIEGFRIED Sieglinda, when she flies into the forest with the hero's son unborn in her womb, and the broken pieces of his sword in her hand, finds shelter in the smithy of a dwarf, where she brings forth her child and dies. This dwarf is no other than Mimmy, the brother of Alberic, the same who made for him the magic helmet. His aim in life is to gain possession of the helmet, the ring, and the treasure, and through them to obtain that Plutonic mastery of the world under the beginnings of which he himself writhed during Alberic's brief reign. Mimmy is a blinking, shambling, ancient creature, too weak and timid to dream of taking arms himself to despoil Fafnir, who still, transformed to a monstrous serpent, broods on the gold in a hole in the rocks. Mimmy needs the help of a hero for that; and he has craft enough to know that it is quite possible, and indeed much in the ordinary way of the world, for senile avarice and craft to set youth and bravery to work to win empire for it. He knows the pedigree of the child left on his hands, and nurses it to manhood with great care. His pains are too well rewarded for his comfort. The boy Siegfried, having no god to instruct him in the art of unhappiness, inherits none of his father's ill luck, and all his father's hardihood. The fear against which Siegmund set his face like flint, and the woe which he wore down, are unknown to the son. The father was faithful and grateful: the son knows no law but his own humor; detests the ugly dwarf who has nursed him; chafes furiously under his claims for some return for his tender care; and is, in short, a totally unmoral person, a born anarchist, the ideal of Bakoonin, an anticipation of the "overman" of Nietzsche. He is enormously strong, full of life and fun, dangerous and destructive to what he dislikes, and affectionate to what he likes; so that it is fortunate that his likes and dislikes are sane and healthy. Altogether an inspiriting young forester, a son of the morning, in whom the heroic race has come out into the sunshine from the clouds of his grandfather's majestic entanglements with law, and the night of his father's tragic struggle with it. The First Act Mimmy's smithy is a cave, in which he hides from the light like the eyeless fish of the American caverns. Before the curtain rises the music already tells us that we are groping in darkness. When it does rise Mimmy is in difficulties. He is trying to make a sword for his nursling, who is now big enough to take the field against Fafnir. Mimmy can make mischievous swords; but it is not with dwarf made weapons that heroic man will hew the way of his own will through religions and governments and plutocracies and all the other devices of the kingdom of the fears of the unheroic. As fast as Mimmy makes swords, Siegfried Bakoonin smashes them, and then takes the poor old swordsmith by the scruff of the neck and chastises him wrathfully. The particular day on which the curtain rises begins with one of these trying domestic incidents. Mimmy has just done his best with a new sword of surpassing excellence. Siegfried returns home in rare spirits with a wild bear, to the extreme terror of the wretched dwarf. When the bear is dismissed, the new sword is produced. It is promptly smashed, as usual, with, also, the usual effects on the temper of Siegfried, who is quite boundless in his criticisms of the smith's boasted skill, and declares that he would smash the sword's maker too if he were not too disgusting to be handled. Mimmy falls back on his stock defence: a string of maudlin reminders of the care with which he has nursed the little boy into manhood. Siegfried replies candidly that the strangest thing about all this care is that instead of making him grateful, it inspires him with a lively desire to wring the dwarf's neck. Only, he admits that he always comes back to his Mimmy, though he loathes him more than any living thing in the forest. On this admission the dwarf attempts to build a theory of filial instinct. He explains that he is Siegfried's father, and that this is why Siegfried cannot do without him. But Siegfried has learned from his forest companions, the birds and foxes and wolves, that mothers as well as fathers go to the making of children. Mimmy, on the desperate ground that man is neither bird nor fox, declares that he is Siegfried's father and mother both. He is promptly denounced as a filthy liar, because the birds and foxes are exactly like their parents, whereas Siegfried, having often watched his own image in the water, can testify that he is no more like Mimmy than a toad is like a trout. Then, to place the conversation on a plane of entire frankness, he throttles Mimmy until he is speechless. When the dwarf recovers, he is so daunted that he tells Siegfried the truth about his birth, and for testimony thereof produces the pieces of the sword that broke upon Wotan's spear. Siegfried instantly orders him to repair the sword on pain of an unmerciful thrashing, and rushes off into the forest, rejoicing in the discovery that he is no kin of Mimmy's, and need have no more to do with him when the sword is mended. Poor Mimmy is now in a worse plight than ever; for he has long ago found that the sword utterly defies his skill: the steel will yield neither to his hammer nor to his furnace. Just then there walks into his cave a Wanderer, in a blue mantle, spear in hand, with one eye concealed by the brim of his wide hat. Mimmy, not by nature hospitable, tries to drive him away; but the Wanderer announces himself as a wise man, who can tell his host, in emergency, what it most concerns him to know. Mimmy, taking this offer in high dudgeon, because it implies that his visitor's wits are better than his own, offers to tell the wise one something that HE does not know: to wit, the way to the door. The imperturbable Wanderer's reply is to sit down and challenge the dwarf to a trial of wit. He wagers his head against Mimmy's that he will answer any three questions the dwarf can put to him. Now here were Mimmy's opportunity, had he only the wit to ask what he wants to know, instead of pretending to know everything already. It is above all things needful to him at this moment to find out how that sword can be mended; and there has just dropped in upon him in his need the one person who can tell him. In such circumstances a wise man would hasten to show to his visitor his three deepest ignorances, and ask him to dispel them. The dwarf, being a crafty fool, desiring only to detect ignorance in his guest, asks him for information on the three points on which he is proudest of being thoroughly well instructed himself. His three questions are, Who dwell under the earth? Who dwell on the earth? and Who dwell in the cloudy heights above? The Wanderer, in reply, tells him of the dwarfs and of Alberic; of the earth, and the giants Fasolt and Fafnir; of the gods and of Wotan: himself, as Mimmy now recognizes with awe. Next, it is Mimmy's turn to face three questions. What is that race, dearest to Wotan, against which Wotan has nevertheless done his worst? Mimmy can answer that: he knows the Volsungs, the race of heroes born of Wotan's infidelities to Fricka, and can tell the Wanderer the whole story of the twins and their son Siegfried. Wotan compliments him on his knowledge, and asks further with what sword Siegfried will slay Fafnir? Mimmy can answer that too: he has the whole history of the sword at his fingers' ends. Wotan hails him as the knowingest of the knowing, and then hurls at him the question he should himself have asked: Who will mend the sword? Mimmy, his head forfeited, confesses with loud lamentations that he cannot answer. The Wanderer reads him an appropriate little lecture on the folly of being too clever to ask what he wants to know, and informs him that a smith to whom fear is unknown will mend Nothung. To this smith he leaves the forfeited head of his host, and wanders off into the forest. Then Mimmy's nerves give way completely. He shakes like a man in delirium tremens, and has a horrible nightmare, in the supreme convulsion of which Siegfried, returning from the forest, presently finds him. A curious and amusing conversation follows. Siegfried himself does not know fear, and is impatient to acquire it as an accomplishment. Mimmy is all fear: the world for him is a phantasmagoria of terrors. It is not that he is afraid of being eaten by bears in the forest, or of burning his fingers in the forge fire. A lively objection to being destroyed or maimed does not make a man a coward: on the contrary, it is the beginning of a brave man's wisdom. But in Mimmy, fear is not the effect of danger: it is natural quality of him which no security can allay. He is like many a poor newspaper editor, who dares not print the truth, however simple, even when it is obvious to himself and all his readers. Not that anything unpleasant would happen to him if he did--not, indeed that he could fail to become a distinguished and influential leader of opinion by fearlessly pursuing such a course, but solely because he lives in a world of imaginary terrors, rooted in a modest and gentlemanly mistrust of his own strength and worth, and consequently of the value of his opinion. Just so is Mimmy afraid of anything that can do him any good, especially of the light and the fresh air. He is also convinced that anybody who is not sufficiently steeped in fear to be constantly on his guard, must perish immediately on his first sally into the world. To preserve Siegfried for the enterprise to which he has destined him he makes a grotesque attempt to teach him fear. He appeals to his experience of the terrors of the forest, of its dark places, of its threatening noises its stealthy ambushes, its sinister flickering lights its heart-tightening ecstasies of dread. All this has no other effect than to fill Siegfried with wonder and curiosity; for the forest is a place of delight for him. He is as eager to experience Mimmy's terrors as a schoolboy to feel what an electric shock is like. Then Mimmy has the happy idea of describing Fafnir to him as a likely person to give him an exemplary fright. Siegfried jumps at the idea, and, since Mimmy cannot mend the sword for him, proposes to set to work then and there to mend it for himself. Mimmy shakes his head, and bids him see now how his youthful laziness and frowardness have found him out--how he would not learn the smith's craft from Professor Mimmy, and therefore does not know how even to begin mending the sword. Siegfried Bakoonin's retort is simple and crushing. He points out that the net result of Mimmy's academic skill is that he can neither make a decent sword himself nor even set one to rights when it is damaged. Reckless of the remonstrances of the scandalized professor, he seizes a file, and in a few moments utterly destroys the fragments of the sword by rasping them into a heap of steel filings. Then he puts the filings into a crucible; buries it in the coals; and sets to at the bellows with the shouting exultation of the anarchist who destroys only to clear the ground for creation. When the steel is melted he runs it into a mould; and lo! a sword-blade in the rough. Mimmy, amazed at the success of this violation of all the rules of his craft, hails Siegfried as the mightiest of smiths, professing himself barely worthy to be his cook and scullion; and forthwith proceeds to poison some soup for him so that he may murder him safely when Fafnir is slain. Meanwhile Siegfried forges and tempers and hammers and rivets, uproariously singing the while as nonsensically as the Rhine maidens themselves. Finally he assails the anvil on which Mimmy's swords have been shattered, and cleaves it with a mighty stroke of the newly forged Nothung. The Second Act In the darkest hour before the dawn of that night, we find ourselves before the cave of Fafnir, and there we find Alberic, who can find nothing better to do with himself than to watch the haunt of the dragon, and eat his heart out in vain longing for the gold and the ring. The wretched Fafnir, once an honest giant, can only make himself terrible enough to keep his gold by remaining a venomous reptile. Why he should not become an honest giant again and clear out of his cavern, leaving the gold and the ring and the rest of it for anyone fool enough to take them at such a price, is the first question that would occur to anyone except a civilized man, who would be too accustomed to that sort of mania to be at all surprised at it. To Alberic in the night comes the Wanderer, whom the dwarf, recognizing his despoiler of old, abuses as a shameless thief, taunting him with the helpless way in which all his boasted power is tied up with the laws and bargains recorded on the heft of his spear, which, says Alberic truly, would crumble like chaff in his hands if he dared use it for his own real ends. Wotan, having already had to kill his own son with it, knows that very well; but it troubles him no more; for he is now at last rising to abhorrence of his own artificial power, and looking to the coming hero, not for its consolidation but its destruction. When Alberic breaks out again with his still unquenched hope of one day destroying the gods and ruling the world through the ring, Wotan is no longer shocked. He tells Alberic that Brother Mime approaches with a hero whom Godhead can neither help nor hinder. Alberic may try his luck against him without disturbance from Valhalla. Perhaps, he suggests, if Alberic warns Fafnir, and offers to deal with the hero for him, Fafnir, may give him the ring. They accordingly wake up the dragon, who condescends to enter into bellowing conversation, but is proof against their proposition, strong in the magic of property. "I have and hold," he says: "leave me to sleep." Wotan, with a wise laugh, turns to Alberic. "That shot missed," he says: "no use abusing me for it. And now let me tell you one thing. All things happen according to their nature; and you can't alter them." And so he leaves him Alberic, raging with the sense that his old enemy has been laughing at him, and yet prophetically convinced that the last word will not be with the god, hides himself as the day breaks, and his brother approaches with Siegfried. Mimmy makes a final attempt to frighten Siegfried by discoursing of the dragon's terrible jaws, poisonous breath, corrosive spittle, and deadly, stinging tail. Siegfried is not interested in the tail: he wants to know whether the dragon has a heart, being confident of his ability to stick Nothung into it if it exists. Reassured on this point, he drives Mimmy away, and stretches himself under the trees, listening to the morning chatter of the birds. One of them has a great deal to say to him; but he cannot understand it; and after vainly trying to carry on the conversation with a reed which he cuts, he takes to entertaining the bird with tunes on his horn, asking it to send him a loving mate such as all the other creatures of the forest have. His tunes wake up the dragon; and Siegfried makes merry over the grim mate the bird has sent him. Fafnir is highly scandalized by the irreverence of the young Bakoonin. He loses his temper; fights; and is forthwith slain, to his own great astonishment. In such conflicts one learns to interpret the messages of Nature a little. When Siegfried, stung by the dragon's vitriolic blood, pops his finger into his mouth and tastes it, he understands what the bird is saying to him, and, instructed by it concerning the treasures within his reach, goes into the cave to secure the gold, the ring and the wishing cap. Then Mimmy returns, and is confronted by Alberic. The two quarrel furiously over the sharing of the booty they have not yet secured, until Siegfried comes from the cave with the ring and the helmet, not much impressed by the heap of gold, and disappointed because he has not yet learned to fear. He has, however, learnt to read the thoughts of such a creature as poor Mimmy, who, intending to overwhelm him with flattery and fondness, only succeeds in making such a self-revelation of murderous envy that Siegfried smites him with Nothung and slays him, to the keen satisfaction of the hidden Alberic. Caring nothing for the gold, which he leaves to the care of the slain; disappointed in his fancy for learning fear; and longing for a mate, he casts himself wearily down, and again appeals to his friend the bird, who tells him of a woman sleeping on a mountain peak within a fortress of fire that only the fearless can penetrate. Siegfried is up in a moment with all the tumult of spring in his veins, and follows the flight of the bird as it pilots him to the fiery mountain. The Third Act To the root of the mountain comes also the Wanderer, now nearing his doom. He calls up the First Mother from the depths of the earth, and begs counsel from her. She bids him confer with the Norns (the Fates). But they are of no use to him: what he seeks is some foreknowledge of the way of the Will in its perpetual strife with these helpless Fates who can only spin the net of circumstance and environment round the feet of men. Why not, says Erda then, go to the daughter I bore you, and take counsel with her? He has to explain how he has cut himself off from her, and set the fires of Loki between the world and her counsel. In that case the First Mother cannot help him: such a separation is part of the bewilderment that is ever the first outcome of her eternal work of thrusting the life energy of the world to higher and higher organization. She can show him no way of escape from the destruction he foresees. Then from the innermost of him breaks the confession that he rejoices in his doom, and now himself exults in passing away with all his ordinances and alliances, with the spear-sceptre which he has only wielded on condition of slaying his dearest children with it, with the kingdom, the power and the glory which will never again boast themselves as "world without end." And so he dismisses Erda to her sleep in the heart of the earth as the forest bird draws near, piloting the slain son's son to his goal. Now it is an excellent thing to triumph in the victory of the new order and the passing away of the old; but if you happen to be part of the old order yourself, you must none the less fight for your life. It seems hardly possible that the British army at the battle of Waterloo did not include at least one Englishman intelligent enough to hope, for the sake of his country and humanity, that Napoleon might defeat the allied sovereigns; but such an Englishman would kill a French cuirassier rather than be killed by him just as energetically as the silliest soldier, ever encouraged by people who ought to know better, to call his ignorance, ferocity and folly, patriotism and duty. Outworn life may have become mere error; but it still claims the right to die a natural death, and will raise its hand against the millennium itself in self-defence if it tries to come by the short cut of murder. Wotan finds this out when he comes face to face with Siegfried, who is brought to a standstill at the foot of the mountain by the disappearance of the bird. Meeting the Wanderer there, he asks him the way to the mountain where a woman sleeps surrounded by fire. The Wanderer questions him, and extracts his story from him, breaking into fatherly delight when Siegfried, describing the mending of the sword, remarks that all he knew about the business was that the broken bits of Nothung would be of no use to him unless he made a new sword out of them right over again from the beginning. But the Wanderer's interest is by no means reciprocated by Siegfried. His majesty and elderly dignity are thrown away on the young anarchist, who, unwilling to waste time talking, bluntly bids him either show him the way to the mountain, or else "shut his muzzle." Wotan is a little hurt. "Patience, my lad," he says: "if you were an old man I should treat you with respect." "That would be a precious notion," says Siegfried. "All my life long I was bothered and hampered by an old man until I swept him out of my way. I will sweep you in the same fashion if you don't let me pass. Why do you wear such a big hat; and what has happened to one of your eyes? Was it knocked out by somebody whose way you obstructed?" To which Wotan replies allegorically that the eye that is gone--the eye that his marriage with Fricka cost him--is now looking at him out of Siegfried's head. At this, Siegfried gives up the Wanderer as a lunatic, and renews his threats of personal violence. Then Wotan throws off the mask of the Wanderer; uplifts the world-governing spear; and puts forth all his divine awe and grandeur as the guardian of the mountain, round the crest of which the fires of Loki now break into a red background for the majesty of the god. But all this is lost on Siegfried Bakoonin. "Aha!" he cries, as the spear is levelled against his breast: "I have found my father's foe"; and the spear falls in two pieces under the stroke of Nothung. "Up then," says Wotan: "I cannot withhold you," and disappears forever from the eye of man. The fires roll down the mountain; but Siegfried goes at them as exultantly as he went at the forging of the sword or the heart of the dragon, and shoulders his way through them, joyously sounding his horn to the accompaniment of their crackling and seething. And never a hair of his head is singed. Those frightful flames which have scared mankind for centuries from the Truth, have not heat enough in them to make a child shut its eyes. They are mere phantasmagoria, highly creditable to Loki's imaginative stage-management; but nothing ever has perished or will perish eternally in them except the Churches which have been so poor and faithless as to trade for their power on the lies of a romancer. BACK TO OPERA AGAIN And now, O Nibelungen Spectator, pluck up; for all allegories come to an end somewhere; and the hour of your release from these explanations is at hand. The rest of what you are going to see is opera, and nothing but opera. Before many bars have been played, Siegfried and the wakened Brynhild, newly become tenor and soprano, will sing a concerted cadenza; plunge on from that to a magnificent love duet; and end with a precipitous allegro a capella, driven headlong to its end by the impetuous semiquaver triplets of the famous finales to the first act of Don Giovanni or the coda to the Leonore overture, with a specifically contrapuntal theme, points d'orgue, and a high C for the soprano all complete. What is more, the work which follows, entitled Night Falls On The Gods, is a thorough grand opera. In it you shall see what you have so far missed, the opera chorus in full parade on the stage, not presuming to interfere with the prima donna as she sings her death song over the footlights. Nay, that chorus will have its own chance when it first appears, with a good roaring strain in C major, not, after all, so very different from, or at all less absurd than the choruses of courtiers in La Favorita or "Per te immenso giubilo" in Lucia. The harmony is no doubt a little developed, Wagner augmenting his fifths with a G sharp where Donizetti would have put his fingers in his ears and screamed for G natural. But it is an opera chorus all the same; and along with it we have theatrical grandiosities that recall Meyerbeer and Verdi: pezzi d'insieme for all the principals in a row, vengeful conjurations for trios of them, romantic death song for the tenor: in short, all manner of operatic conventions. Now it is probable that some of us will have been so talked by the more superstitious Bayreuth pilgrims into regarding Die Gotterdammerung as the mighty climax to a mighty epic, more Wagnerian than all the other three sections put together, as not to dare notice this startling atavism, especially if we find the trio-conjurations more exhilarating than the metaphysical discourses of Wotan in the three true music dramas of The Ring. There is, however, no real atavism involved. Die Gotterdammerung, though the last of The Ring dramas in order of performance, was the first in order of conception and was indeed the root from which all the others sprang. The history of the matter is as follows. All Wagner's works prior to The Ring are operas. The last of them, Lohengrin, is perhaps the best known of modern operas. As performed in its entirety at Bayreuth, it is even more operatic than it appears at Covent Garden, because it happens that its most old-fashioned features, notably some of the big set concerted pieces for principals and chorus (pezzi d'insieme as I have called them above), are harder to perform than the more modern and characteristically Wagnerian sections, and for that reason were cut out in preparing the abbreviated fashionable version. Thus Lohengrin came upon the ordinary operatic stage as a more advanced departure from current operatic models than its composer had made it. Still, it is unmistakably an opera, with chorus, concerted pieces, grand finales, and a heroine who, if she does not sing florid variations with flute obbligato, is none the less a very perceptible prima donna. In everything but musical technique the change from Lohengrin to The Rhine Gold is quite revolutionary. The explanation is that Night Falls On The Gods came in between them, although its music was not finished until twenty years after that of The Rhine Gold, and thus belongs to a later and more masterful phase of Wagner's harmonic style. It first came into Wagner's head as an opera to be entitled Siegfried's Death, founded on the old Niblung Sagas, which offered to Wagner the same material for an effective theatrical tragedy as they did to Ibsen. Ibsen's Vikings in Helgeland is, in kind, what Siegfried's Death was originally intended to be: that is, a heroic piece for the theatre, without the metaphysical or allegorical complications of The Ring. Indeed, the ultimate catastrophe of the Saga cannot by any perversion of ingenuity be adapted to the perfectly clear allegorical design of The Rhine Gold, The Valkyries, and Siegfried. SIEGFRIED AS PROTESTANT The philosophically fertile element in the original project of Siegfried's Death was the conception of Siegfried himself as a type of the healthy man raised to perfect confidence in his own impulses by an intense and joyous vitality which is above fear, sickliness of conscience, malice, and the makeshifts and moral crutches of law and order which accompany them. Such a character appears extraordinarily fascinating and exhilarating to our guilty and conscience-ridden generations, however little they may understand him. The world has always delighted in the man who is delivered from conscience. From Punch and Don Juan down to Robert Macaire, Jeremy Diddler and the pantomime clown, he has always drawn large audiences; but hitherto he has been decorously given to the devil at the end. Indeed eternal punishment is sometimes deemed too high a compliment to his nature. When the late Lord Lytton, in his Strange Story, introduced a character personifying the joyousness of intense vitality, he felt bound to deny him the immortal soul which was at that time conceded even to the humblest characters in fiction, and to accept mischievousness, cruelty, and utter incapacity for sympathy as the inevitable consequence of his magnificent bodily and mental health. In short, though men felt all the charm of abounding life and abandonment to its impulses, they dared not, in their deep self-mistrust, conceive it otherwise than as a force making for evil--one which must lead to universal ruin unless checked and literally mortified by self-renunciation in obedience to superhuman guidance, or at least to some reasoned system of morals. When it became apparent to the cleverest of them that no such superhuman guidance existed, and that their secularist systems had all the fictitiousness of "revelation" without its poetry, there was no escaping the conclusion that all the good that man had done must be put down to his arbitrary will as well as all the evil he had done; and it was also obvious that if progress were a reality, his beneficent impulses must be gaining on his destructive ones. It was under the influence of these ideas that we began to hear about the joy of life where we had formerly heard about the grace of God or the Age of Reason, and that the boldest spirits began to raise the question whether churches and laws and the like were not doing a great deal more harm than good by their action in limiting the freedom of the human will. Four hundred years ago, when belief in God and in revelation was general throughout Europe, a similar wave of thought led the strongest-hearted peoples to affirm that every man's private judgment was a more trustworthy interpreter of God and revelation than the Church. This was called Protestantism; and though the Protestants were not strong enough for their creed, and soon set up a Church of their own, yet the movement, on the whole, has justified the direction it took. Nowadays the supernatural element in Protestantism has perished; and if every man's private judgment is still to be justified as the most trustworthy interpreter of the will of Humanity (which is not a more extreme proposition than the old one about the will of God) Protestantism must take a fresh step in advance, and become Anarchism. Which it has accordingly done, Anarchism being one of the notable new creeds of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The weak place which experience finds out in the Anarchist theory is its reliance on the progress already achieved by "Man." There is no such thing as Man in the world: what we have to deal with is a multitude of men, some of them great rascals, some of them great statesmen, others both, with a vast majority capable of managing their personal affairs, but not of comprehending social organization, or grappling with the problems created by their association in enormous numbers. If "Man" means this majority, then "Man" has made no progress: he has, on the contrary, resisted it. He will not even pay the cost of existing institutions: the requisite money has to be filched from him by "indirect taxation." Such people, like Wagner's giants, must be governed by laws; and their assent to such government must be secured by deliberately filling them with prejudices and practicing on their imaginations by pageantry and artificial eminences and dignities. The government is of course established by the few who are capable of government, though its mechanism once complete, it may be, and generally is, carried on unintelligently by people who are incapable of it the capable people repairing it from time to time when it gets too far behind the continuous advance or decay of civilization. All these capable people are thus in the position of Wotan, forced to maintain as sacred, and themselves submit to, laws which they privately know to be obsolescent makeshifts, and to affect the deepest veneration for creeds and ideals which they ridicule among themselves with cynical scepticism. No individual Siegfried can rescue them from this bondage and hypocrisy; in fact, the individual Siegfried has come often enough, only to find himself confronted with the alternative of governing those who are not Siegfrieds or risking destruction at their hands. And this dilemma will persist until Wotan's inspiration comes to our governors, and they see that their business is not the devising of laws and institutions to prop up the weaknesses of mobs and secure the survival of the unfittest, but the breeding of men whose wills and intelligences may be depended on to produce spontaneously the social well-being our clumsy laws now aim at and miss. The majority of men at present in Europe have no business to be alive; and no serious progress will be made until we address ourselves earnestly and scientifically to the task of producing trustworthy human material for society. In short, it is necessary to breed a race of men in whom the life-giving impulses predominate, before the New Protestantism becomes politically practicable. [*] * The necessity for breeding the governing class from a selected stock has always been recognized by Aristocrats, however erroneous their methods of selection. We have changed our system from Aristocracy to Democracy without considering that we were at the same time changing, as regards our governing class, from Selection to Promiscuity. Those who have taken a practical part in modern politics best know how farcical the result is. The most inevitable dramatic conception, then, of the nineteenth century, is that of a perfectly naive hero upsetting religion, law and order in all directions, and establishing in their place the unfettered action of Humanity doing exactly what it likes, and producing order instead of confusion thereby because it likes to do what is necessary for the good of the race. This conception, already incipient in Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, was certain at last to reach some great artist, and be embodied by him in a masterpiece. It was also certain that if that master happened to be a German, he should take delight in describing his hero as the Freewiller of Necessity, thereby beyond measure exasperating Englishmen with a congenital incapacity for metaphysics. PANACEA QUACKERY, OTHERWISE IDEALISM Unfortunately, human enlightenment does not progress by nicer and nicer adjustments, but by violent corrective reactions which invariably send us clean over our saddle and would bring us to the ground on the other side if the next reaction did not send us back again with equally excessive zeal. Ecclesiasticism and Constitutionalism send us one way, Protestantism and Anarchism the other; Order rescues us from confusion and lands us in Tyranny; Liberty then saves the situation and is presently found to be as great a nuisance as Despotism. A scientifically balanced application of these forces, theoretically possible, is practically incompatible with human passion. Besides, we have the same weakness in morals as in medicine: we cannot be cured of running after panaceas, or, as they are called in the sphere of morals, ideals. One generation sets up duty, renunciation, self-sacrifice as a panacea. The next generation, especially the women, wake up at the age of forty or thereabouts to the fact that their lives have been wasted in the worship of this ideal, and, what is still more aggravating, that the elders who imposed it on them did so in a fit of satiety with their own experiments in the other direction. Then that defrauded generation foams at the mouth at the very mention of duty, and sets up the alternative panacea of love, their deprivation of which seems to them to have been the most cruel and mischievous feature of their slavery to duty. It is useless to warn them that this reaction, if prescribed as a panacea, will prove as great a failure as all the other reactions have done; for they do not recognize its identity with any reaction that ever occurred before. Take for instance the hackneyed historic example of the austerity of the Commonwealth being followed by the licence of the Restoration. You cannot persuade any moral enthusiast to accept this as a pure oscillation from action to reaction. If he is a Puritan he looks upon the Restoration as a national disaster: if he is an artist he regards it as the salvation of the country from gloom, devil worship and starvation of the affections. The Puritan is ready to try the Commonwealth again with a few modern improvements: the Amateur is equally ready to try the Restoration with modern enlightenments. And so for the present we must be content to proceed by reactions, hoping that each will establish some permanently practical and beneficial reform or moral habit that will survive the correction of its excesses by the next reaction. DRAMATIC ORIGIN OF WOTAN We can now see how a single drama in which Wotan does not appear, and of which Siegfried is the hero, expanded itself into a great fourfold drama of which Wotan is the hero. You cannot dramatize a reaction by personifying the reacting force only, any more than Archimedes could lift the world without a fulcrum for his lever. You must also personify the established power against which the new force is reacting; and in the conflict between them you get your drama, conflict being the essential ingredient in all drama. Siegfried, as the hero of Die Gotterdammerung, is only the primo tenore robusto of an opera book, deferring his death, after he has been stabbed in the last act, to sing rapturous love strains to the heroine exactly like Edgardo in Donizetti's Lucia. In order to make him intelligible in the wider significance which his joyous, fearless, conscienceless heroism soon assumed in Wagner's imagination, it was necessary to provide him with a much vaster dramatic antagonist than the operatic villain Hagen. Hence Wagner had to create Wotan as the anvil for Siegfried's hammer; and since there was no room for Wotan in the original opera book, Wagner had to work back to a preliminary drama reaching primarily to the very beginnings of human society. And since, on this world-embracing scale, it was clear that Siegfried must come into conflict with many baser and stupider forces than those lofty ones of supernatural religion and political constitutionalism typified by Wotan and his wife Fricka, these minor antagonists had to be dramatized also in the persons of Alberic, Mime, Fafnir, Loki, and the rest. None of these appear in Night Falls On The Gods save Alberic, whose weird dream-colloquy with Hagen, effective as it is, is as purely theatrical as the scene of the Ghost in Hamlet, or the statue in Don Giovanni. Cut the conference of the Norns and the visit of Valtrauta to Brynhild out of Night Falls On The Gods, and the drama remains coherent and complete without them. Retain them, and the play becomes connected by conversational references with the three music dramas; but the connection establishes no philosophic coherence, no real identity between the operatic Brynhild of the Gibichung episode (presently to be related) and the daughter of Wotan and the First Mother. THE LOVE PANACEA We shall now find that at the point where The Ring changes from music drama into opera, it also ceases to be philosophic, and becomes didactic. The philosophic part is a dramatic symbol of the world as Wagner observed it. In the didactic part the philosophy degenerates into the prescription of a romantic nostrum for all human ills. Wagner, only mortal after all, succumbed to the panacea mania when his philosophy was exhausted, like any of the rest of us. The panacea is by no means an original one. Wagner was anticipated in the year 1819 by a young country gentleman from Sussex named Shelley, in a work of extraordinary artistic power and splendor. Prometheus Unbound is an English attempt at a Ring; and when it is taken into account that the author was only 27 whereas Wagner was 40 when he completed the poem of The Ring, our vulgar patriotism may find an envious satisfaction in insisting upon the comparison. Both works set forth the same conflict between humanity and its gods and governments, issuing in the redemption of man from their tyranny by the growth of his will into perfect strength and self-confidence; and both finish by a lapse into panacea-mongering didacticism by the holding up of Love as the remedy for all evils and the solvent of all social difficulties. The differences between Prometheus Unbound and The Ring are as interesting as the likenesses. Shelley, caught in the pugnacity of his youth and the first impetuosity of his prodigious artistic power by the first fierce attack of the New Reformation, gave no quarter to the antagonist of his hero. His Wotan, whom he calls Jupiter, is the almighty fiend into whom the Englishman's God had degenerated during two centuries of ignorant Bible worship and shameless commercialism. He is Alberic, Fafnir Loki and the ambitious side of Wotan all rolled into one melodramatic demon who is finally torn from his throne and hurled shrieking into the abyss by a spirit representing that conception of Eternal Law which has been replaced since by the conception of Evolution. Wagner, an older, more experienced man than the Shelley of 1819, understood Wotan and pardoned him, separating him tenderly from all the compromising alliances to which Shelley fiercely held him; making the truth and heroism which overthrow him the children of his inmost heart; and representing him as finally acquiescing in and working for his own supersession and annihilation. Shelley, in his later works, is seen progressing towards the same tolerance, justice, and humility of spirit, as he advanced towards the middle age he never reached. But there is no progress from Shelley to Wagner as regards the panacea, except that in Wagner there is a certain shadow of night and death come on it: nay, even a clear opinion that the supreme good of love is that it so completely satisfies the desire for life, that after it the Will to Live ceases to trouble us, and we are at last content to achieve the highest happiness of death. This reduction of the panacea to absurdity was not forced upon Shelley, because the love which acts as a universal solvent in his Prometheus Unbound is a sentiment of affectionate benevolence which has nothing to do with sexual passion. It might, and in fact does exist in the absence of any sexual interest whatever. The words mercy and kindness connote it less ambiguously than the word love. But Wagner sought always for some point of contact between his ideas and the physical senses, so that people might not only think or imagine them in the eighteenth century fashion, but see them on the stage, hear them from the orchestra, and feel them through the infection of passionate emotion. Dr. Johnson kicking the stone to confute Berkeley is not more bent on common-sense concreteness than Wagner: on all occasions he insists on the need for sensuous apprehension to give reality to abstract comprehension, maintaining, in fact, that reality has no other meaning. Now he could apply this process to poetic love only by following it back to its alleged origin in sexual passion, the emotional phenomena of which he has expressed in music with a frankness and forcible naturalism which would possibly have scandalized Shelley. The love duet in the first act of The Valkyries is brought to a point at which the conventions of our society demand the precipitate fall of the curtain; whilst the prelude to Tristan and Isolde is such an astonishingly intense and faithful translation into music of the emotions which accompany the union of a pair of lovers, that it is questionable whether the great popularity of this piece at our orchestral concerts really means that our audiences are entirely catholic in their respect for life in all its beneficently creative functions, or whether they simply enjoy the music without understanding it. But however offensive and inhuman may be the superstition which brands such exaltations of natural passion as shameful and indecorous, there is at least as much common sense in disparaging love as in setting it up as a panacea. Even the mercy and loving-kindness of Shelley do not hold good as a universal law of conduct: Shelley himself makes extremely short work of Jupiter, just as Siegfried does of Fafnir, Mime, and Wotan; and the fact that Prometheus is saved from doing the destructive part of his work by the intervention of that very nebulous personification of Eternity called Demogorgon, does not in the least save the situation, because, flatly, there is no such person as Demogorgon, and if Prometheus does not pull down Jupiter himself, no one else will. It would be exasperating, if it were not so funny, to see these poets leading their heroes through blood and destruction to the conclusion that, as Browning's David puts it (David of all people!), "All's Love; yet all's Law." Certainly it is clear enough that such love as that implied by Siegfried's first taste of fear as he cuts through the mailed coat of the sleeping figure on the mountain, and discovers that it is a woman; by her fierce revolt against being touched by him when his terror gives way to ardor; by his manly transports of victory; and by the womanly mixture of rapture and horror with which she abandons herself to the passion which has seized on them both, is an experience which it is much better, like the vast majority of us, never to have passed through, than to allow it to play more than a recreative holiday part in our lives. It did not play a very large part in Wagner's own laborious life, and does not occupy more than two scenes of The Ring. Tristan and Isolde, wholly devoted to it, is a poem of destruction and death. The Mastersingers, a work full of health, fun and happiness, contains not a single bar of love music that can be described as passionate: the hero of it is a widower who cobbles shoes, writes verses, and contents himself with looking on at the sweetheartings of his customers. Parsifal makes an end of it altogether. The truth is that the love panacea in Night Falls On The Gods and in the last act of Siegfried is a survival of the first crude operatic conception of the story, modified by an anticipation of Wagner's later, though not latest, conception of love as the fulfiller of our Will to Live and consequently our reconciler to night and death. NOT LOVE, BUT LIFE The only faith which any reasonable disciple can gain from The Ring is not in love, but in life itself as a tireless power which is continually driving onward and upward--not, please observe, being beckoned or drawn by Das Ewig Weibliche or any other external sentimentality, but growing from within, by its own inexplicable energy, into ever higher and higher forms of organization, the strengths and the needs of which are continually superseding the institutions which were made to fit our former requirements. When your Bakoonins call out for the demolition of all these venerable institutions, there is no need to fly into a panic and lock them up in prison whilst your parliament is bit by bit doing exactly what they advised you to do. When your Siegfrieds melt down the old weapons into new ones, and with disrespectful words chop in twain the antiquated constable's staves in the hands of their elders, the end of the world is no nearer than it was before. If human nature, which is the highest organization of life reached on this planet, is really degenerating, then human society will decay; and no panic-begotten penal measures can possibly save it: we must, like Prometheus, set to work to make new men instead of vainly torturing old ones. On the other hand, if the energy of life is still carrying human nature to higher and higher levels, then the more young people shock their elders and deride and discard their pet institutions the better for the hopes of the world, since the apparent growth of anarchy is only the measure of the rate of improvement. History, as far as we are capable of history (which is not saying much as yet), shows that all changes from crudity of social organization to complexity, and from mechanical agencies in government to living ones, seem anarchic at first sight. No doubt it is natural to a snail to think that any evolution which threatens to do away with shells will result in general death from exposure. Nevertheless, the most elaborately housed beings today are born not only without houses on their backs but without even fur or feathers to clothe them. ANARCHISM NO PANACEA One word of warning to those who may find themselves attracted by Siegfried's Anarchism, or, if they prefer a term with more respectable associations, his neo-Protestantism. Anarchism, as a panacea, is just as hopeless as any other panacea, and will still be so even if we breed a race of perfectly benevolent men. It is true that in the sphere of thought, Anarchism is an inevitable condition of progressive evolution. A nation without Freethinkers--that is, without intellectual Anarchists--will share the fate of China. It is also true that our criminal law, based on a conception of crime and punishment which is nothing but our vindictiveness and cruelty in a virtuous disguise, is an unmitigated and abominable nuisance, bound to be beaten out of us finally by the mere weight of our experience of its evil and uselessness. But it will not be replaced by anarchy. Applied to the industrial or political machinery of modern society, anarchy must always reduce itself speedily to absurdity. Even the modified form of anarchy on which modern civilization is based: that is, the abandonment of industry, in the name of individual liberty, to the upshot of competition for personal gain between private capitalists, is a disastrous failure, and is, by the mere necessities of the case, giving way to ordered Socialism. For the economic rationale of this, I must refer disciples of Siegfried to a tract from my hand published by the Fabian Society and entitled The Impossibilities of Anarchism, which explains why, owing to the physical constitution of our globe, society cannot effectively organize the production of its food, clothes and housing, nor distribute them fairly and economically on any anarchic plan: nay, that without concerting our social action to a much higher degree than we do at present we can never get rid of the wasteful and iniquitous welter of a little riches and a deal of poverty which current political humbug calls our prosperity and civilization. Liberty is an excellent thing; but it cannot begin until society has paid its daily debt to Nature by first earning its living. There is no liberty before that except the liberty to live at somebody else's expense, a liberty much sought after nowadays, since it is the criterion of gentility, but not wholesome from the point of view of the common weal. SIEGFRIED CONCLUDED In returning now to the adventures of Siegfried there is little more to be described except the finale of an opera. Siegfried, having passed unharmed through the fire, wakes Brynhild and goes through all the fancies and ecstasies of love at first sight in a duet which ends with an apostrophe to "leuchtende Liebe, lachender Tod!", which has been romantically translated into "Love that illumines, laughing at Death," whereas it really identifies enlightening love and laughing death as involving each other so closely as to be usually one and the same thing. NIGHT FALLS ON THE GODS PROLOGUE Die Gotterdammerung begins with an elaborate prologue. The three Norns sit in the night on Brynhild's mountain top spinning their thread of destiny, and telling the story of Wotan's sacrifice of his eye, and of his breaking off a bough from the World Ash to make a heft for his spear, also how the tree withered after suffering that violence. They have also some fresher news to discuss. Wotan, on the breaking of his spear by Siegfried, has called all his heroes to cut down the withered World Ash and stack its faggots in a mighty pyre about Valhalla. Then, with his broken spear in his hand, he has seated himself in state in the great hall, with the Gods and Heroes assembled about him as if in council, solemnly waiting for the end. All this belongs to the old legendary materials with which Wagner began The Ring. The tale is broken by the thread snapping in the hands of the third Norn; for the hour has arrived when man has taken his destiny in his own hands to shape it for himself, and no longer bows to circumstance, environment, necessity (which he now freely wills), and all the rest of the inevitables. So the Norns recognize that the world has no further use for them, and sink into the earth to return to the First Mother. Then the day dawns; and Siegfried and Brynhild come, and have another duet. He gives her his ring; and she gives him her horse. Away then he goes in search of more adventures; and she watches him from her crag until he disappears. The curtain falls; but we can still hear the trolling of his horn, and the merry clatter of his horse's shoes trotting gaily down the valley. The sound is lost in the grander rhythm of the Rhine as he reaches its banks. We hear again an echo of the lament of the Rhine maidens for the ravished gold; and then, finally, a new strain, which does not surge like the mighty flood of the river, but has an unmistakable tramp of hardy men and a strong land flavor about it. And on this the opera curtain at last goes up--for please remember that all that has gone before is only the overture. The First Act We now understand the new tramping strain. We are in the Rhineside hall of the Gibichungs, in the presence of King Gunther, his sister Gutrune, and Gunther's grim half brother Hagen, the villain of the piece. Gunther is a fool, and has for Hagen's intelligence the respect a fool always has for the brains of a scoundrel. Feebly fishing for compliments, he appeals to Hagen to pronounce him a fine fellow and a glory to the race of Gibich. Hagen declares that it is impossible to contemplate him without envy, but thinks it a pity that he has not yet found a wife glorious enough for him. Gunther doubts whether so extraordinary a person can possibly exist. Hagen then tells him of Brynhild and her rampart of fire; also of Siegfried. Gunther takes this rather in bad part, since not only is he afraid of the fire, but Siegfried, according to Hagen, is not, and will therefore achieve this desirable match himself. But Hagen points out that since Siegfried is riding about in quest of adventures, he will certainly pay an early visit to the renowned chief of the Gibichungs. They can then give him a philtre which will make him fall in love with Gutrune and forget every other woman he has yet seen. Gunther is transported with admiration of Hagen's cunning when he takes in this plan; and he has hardly assented to it when Siegfried, with operatic opportuneness, drops in just as Hagen expected, and is duly drugged into the heartiest love for Gutrune and total oblivion of Brynhild and his own past. When Gunther declares his longing for the bride who lies inaccessible within a palisade of flame, Siegfried at once offers to undertake the adventure for him. Hagen then explains to both of them that Siegfried can, after braving the fire, appear to Brynhild in the semblance of Gunther through the magic of the wishing cap (or Tarnhelm, as it is called throughout The Ring), the use of which Siegfried now learns for the first time. It is of course part of the bargain that Gunther shall give his sister to Siegfried in marriage. On that they swear blood-brotherhood; and at this opportunity the old operatic leaven breaks out amusingly in Wagner. With tremendous exordium of brass, the tenor and baritone go at it with a will, showing off the power of their voices, following each other in canonic imitation, singing together in thirds and sixths, and finishing with a lurid unison, quite in the manner of Ruy Gomez and Ernani, or Othello and Iago. Then without further ado Siegfried departs on his expedition, taking Gunther with him to the foot of the mountain, and leaving Hagen to guard the hall and sing a very fine solo which has often figured in the programs of the Richter concerts, explaining that his interest in the affair is that Siegfried will bring back the Ring, and that he, Hagen, will presently contrive to possess himself of that Ring and become Plutonic master of the world. And now it will be asked how does Hagen know all about the Plutonic empire; and why was he able to tell Gunther about Brynhild and Siegfried, and to explain to Siegfried the trick of the Tarnhelm. The explanation is that though Hagen's mother was the mother of Gunther, his father was not the illustrious Gibich, but no less a person than our old friend Alberic, who, like Wotan, has begotten a son to do for him what he cannot do for himself. In the above incidents, those gentle moralizers who find the serious philosophy of the music dramas too terrifying for them, may allegorize pleasingly on the philtre as the maddening chalice of passion which, once tasted, causes the respectable man to forget his lawfully wedded wife and plunge into adventures which eventually lead him headlong to destruction. We now come upon a last relic of the tragedy of Wotan. Returning to Brynhild's mountain, we find her visited by her sister Valkyrie Valtrauta, who has witnessed Wotan's solemn preparations with terror. She repeats to Brynhild the account already given by the Norns. Clinging in anguish to Wotan's knees, she has heard him mutter that were the ring returned to the daughters of the deep Rhine, both Gods and world would be redeemed from that stage curse off Alberic's in The Rhine Gold. On this she has rushed on her warhorse through the air to beg Brynhild to give the Rhine back its ring. But this is asking Woman to give up love for the sake of Church and State. She declares that she will see them both perish first; and Valtrauta returns to Valhalla in despair. Whilst Brynhild is watching the course of the black thundercloud that marks her sister's flight, the fires of Loki again flame high round the mountain; and the horn of Siegfried is heard as he makes his way through them. But the man who now appears wears the Tarnhelm: his voice is a strange voice: his figure is the unknown one of the king of the Gibichungs. He tears the ring from her finger, and, claiming her as his wife, drives her into the cave without pity for her agony of horror, and sets Nothung between them in token of his loyalty to the friend he is impersonating. No explanation of this highway robbery of the ring is offered. Clearly, this Siegfried is not the Siegfried of the previous drama. The Second Act In the second act we return to the hall of Gibich, where Hagen, in the last hours of that night, still sits, his spear in his hand, and his shield beside him. At his knees crouches a dwarfish spectre, his father Alberic, still full of his old grievances against Wotan, and urging his son in his dreams to win back the ring for him. This Hagen swears to do; and as the apparition of his father vanishes, the sun rises and Siegfried suddenly comes from the river bank tucking into his belt the Tarnhelm, which has transported him from the mountain like the enchanted carpet of the Arabian tales. He describes his adventures to Gutrune until Gunther's boat is seen approaching, when Hagen seizes a cowhorn and calls the tribesmen to welcome their chief and his bride. It is most exhilarating, this colloquy with the startled and hastily armed clan, ending with a thundering chorus, the drums marking the time with mighty pulses from dominant to tonic, much as Rossini would have made them do if he had been a pupil of Beethoven's. A terrible scene follows. Gunther leads his captive bride straight into the presence of Siegfried, whom she claims as her husband by the ring, which she is astonished to see on his finger: Gunther, as she supposes, having torn it from her the night before. Turning on Gunther, she says "Since you took that ring from me, and married me with it, tell him of your right to it; and make him give it back to you." Gunther stammers, "The ring! I gave him no ring--er--do you know him?" The rejoinder is obvious. "Then where are you hiding the ring that you had from me?" Gunther's confusion enlightens her; and she calls Siegfried trickster and thief to his face. In vain he declares that he got the ring from no woman, but from a dragon whom he slew; for he is manifestly puzzled; and she, seizing her opportunity, accuses him before the clan of having played Gunther false with her. Hereupon we have another grandiose operatic oath, Siegfried attesting his innocence on Hagen's spear, and Brynhild rushing to the footlights and thrusting him aside to attest his guilt, whilst the clansmen call upon their gods to send down lightnings and silence the perjured. The gods do not respond; and Siegfried, after whispering to Gunther that the Tarnhelm seems to have been only half effectual after all, laughs his way out of the general embarrassment and goes off merrily to prepare for his wedding, with his arm round Gutrune's waist, followed by the clan. Gunther, Hagen and Brynhild are left together to plot operatic vengeance. Brynhild, it appears, has enchanted Siegfried in such a fashion that no weapon can hurt him. She has, however, omitted to protect his back, since it is impossible that he should ever turn that to a foe. They agree accordingly that on the morrow a great hunt shall take place, at which Hagen shall thrust his spear into the hero's vulnerable back. The blame is to be laid on the tusk of a wild boar. Gunther, being a fool, is remorseful about his oath of blood-brotherhood and about his sister's bereavement, without having the strength of mind to prevent the murder. The three burst into a herculean trio, similar in conception to that of the three conspirators in Un Ballo in Maschera; and the act concludes with a joyous strain heralding the appearance of Siegfried's wedding procession, with strewing of flowers, sacrificing to the gods, and carrying bride and bridegroom in triumph. It will be seen that in this act we have lost all connection with the earlier drama. Brynhild is not only not the Brynhild of The Valkyries, she is the Hiordis of Ibsen, a majestically savage woman, in whom jealousy and revenge are intensified to heroic proportions. That is the inevitable theatrical treatment of the murderous heroine of the Saga. Ibsen's aim in The Vikings was purely theatrical, and not, as in his later dramas, also philosophically symbolic. Wagner's aim in Siegfried's Death was equally theatrical, and not, as it afterwards became in the dramas of which Siegfried's antagonist Wotan is the hero, likewise philosophically symbolic. The two master-dramatists therefore produce practically the same version of Brynhild. Thus on the second evening of The Ring we see Brynhild in the character of the truth-divining instinct in religion, cast into an enchanted slumber and surrounded by the fires of hell lest she should overthrow a Church corrupted by its alliance with government. On the fourth evening, we find her swearing a malicious lie to gratify her personal jealousy, and then plotting a treacherous murder with a fool and a scoundrel. In the original draft of Siegfried's Death, the incongruity is carried still further by the conclusion, at which the dead Brynhild, restored to her godhead by Wotan, and again a Valkyrie, carries the slain Siegfried to Valhalla to live there happily ever after with its pious heroes. As to Siegfried himself, he talks of women, both in this second act and the next, with the air of a man of the world. "Their tantrums," he says, "are soon over." Such speeches do not belong to the novice of the preceding drama, but to the original Siegfried's Tod, with its leading characters sketched on the ordinary romantic lines from the old Sagas, and not yet reminted as the original creations of Wagner's genius whose acquaintance we have made on the two previous evenings. The very title "Siegfried's Death" survives as a strong theatrical point in the following passage. Gunther, in his rage and despair, cries, "Save me, Hagen: save my honor and thy mother's who bore us both." "Nothing can save thee," replies Hagen: "neither brain nor hand, but SIEGFRIED'S DEATH." And Gunther echoes with a shudder, "SIEGFRIED'S DEATH!" A WAGNERIAN NEWSPAPER CONTROVERSY The devotion which Wagner's work inspires has been illustrated lately in a public correspondence on this very point. A writer in The Daily Telegraph having commented on the falsehood uttered by Brynhild in accusing Siegfried of having betrayed Gunther with her, a correspondence in defence of the beloved heroine was opened in The Daily Chronicle. The imputation of falsehood to Brynhild was strongly resented and combated, in spite of the unanswerable evidence of the text. It was contended that Brynhild's statement must be taken as establishing the fact that she actually was ravished by somebody whom she believed to be Siegfried, and that since this somebody cannot have been Siegfried, he being as incapable of treachery to Gunther as she of falsehood, it must have been Gunther himself after a second exchange of personalities not mentioned in the text. The reply to this--if so obviously desperate a hypothesis needs a reply--is that the text is perfectly explicit as to Siegfried, disguised as Gunther, passing the night with Brynhild with Nothung dividing them, and in the morning bringing her down the mountain THROUGH THE FIRE (an impassable obstacle to Gunther) and there transporting himself in a single breath, by the Tarnhelm's magic, back to the hall of the Gibichungs, leaving the real Gunther to bring Brynhild down the river after him. One controversialist actually pleaded for the expedition occupying two nights, on the second of which the alleged outrage might have taken place. But the time is accounted for to the last minute: it all takes place during the single night watch of Hagen. There is no possible way out of the plain fact that Brynhild's accusation is to her own knowledge false; and the impossible ways just cited are only interesting as examples of the fanatical worship which Wagner and his creations have been able to inspire in minds of exceptional power and culture. More plausible was the line taken by those who admitted the falsehood. Their contention was that when Wotan deprived Brynhild of her Godhead, he also deprived her of her former high moral attributes; so that Siegfried's kiss awakened an ordinary mortal jealous woman. But a goddess can become mortal and jealous without plunging at once into perjury and murder. Besides, this explanation involves the sacrifice of the whole significance of the allegory, and the reduction of The Ring to the plane of a child's conception of The Sleeping Beauty. Whoever does not understand that, in terms of The Ring philosophy, a change from godhead to humanity is a step higher and not a degradation, misses the whole point of The Ring. It is precisely because the truthfulness of Brynhild is proof against Wotan's spells that he has to contrive the fire palisade with Loki, to protect the fictions and conventions of Valhalla against her. The only tolerable view is the one supported by the known history of The Ring, and also, for musicians of sufficiently fine judgment, by the evidence of the scores; of which more anon. As a matter of fact Wagner began, as I have said, with Siegfried's Death. Then, wanting to develop the idea of Siegfried as neo-Protestant, he went on to The Young Siegfried. As a Protestant cannot be dramatically projected without a pontifical antagonist. The Young Siegfried led to The Valkyries, and that again to its preface The Rhine Gold (the preface is always written after the book is finished). Finally, of course, the whole was revised. The revision, if carried out strictly, would have involved the cutting out of Siegfried's Death, now become inconsistent and superfluous; and that would have involved, in turn, the facing of the fact that The Ring was no longer a Niblung epic, and really demanded modern costumes, tall hats for Tarnhelms, factories for Nibelheims, villas for Valhallas, and so on--in short, a complete confession of the extent to which the old Niblung epic had become the merest pretext and name directory in the course of Wagner's travail. But, as Wagner's most eminent English interpreter once put it to me at Bayreuth between the acts of Night Falls On The Gods, the master wanted to "Lohengrinize" again after his long abstention from opera; and Siegfried's Death (first sketched in 1848, the year before the rising in Dresden and the subsequent events which so deepened Wagner's sense of life and the seriousness of art) gave him exactly the libretto he required for that outbreak of the old operatic Adam in him. So he changed it into Die Gotterdammerung, retaining the traditional plot of murder and jealousy, and with it, necessarily, his original second act, in spite of the incongruity of its Siegfried and Brynhild with the Siegfried and Brynhild of the allegory. As to the legendary matter about the world-ash and the destruction of Valhalla by Loki, it fitted in well enough; for though, allegorically, the blow by which Siegfried breaks the god's spear is the end of Wotan and of Valhalla, those who do not see the allegory, and take the story literally, like children, are sure to ask what becomes of Wotan after Siegfried gets past him up the mountain; and to this question the old tale told in Night Falls On The Gods is as good an answer as another. The very senselessness of the scenes of the Norns and of Valtrauta in relation to the three foregoing dramas, gives them a highly effective air of mystery; and no one ventures to challenge their consequentiality, because we are all more apt to pretend to understand great works of art than to confess that the meaning (if any) has escaped us. Valtrauta, however, betrays her irrelevance by explaining that the gods can be saved by the restoration of the ring to the Rhine maidens. This, considered as part of the previous allegory, is nonsense; so that even this scene, which has a more plausible air of organic connection with The Valkyries than any other in Night Falls On The Gods, is as clearly part of a different and earlier conception as the episode which concludes it, in which Siegfried actually robs Brynhild of her ring, though he has no recollection of having given it to her. Night Falls On The Gods, in fact, was not even revised into any real coherence with the world-poem which sprang from it; and that is the authentic solution of all the controversies which have arisen over it. The Third Act The hunting party comes off duly. Siegfried strays from it and meets the Rhine maidens, who almost succeed in coaxing the ring from him. He pretends to be afraid of his wife; and they chaff him as to her beating him and so forth; but when they add that the ring is accursed and will bring death upon him, he discloses to them, as unconsciously as Julius Caesar disclosed it long ago, that secret of heroism, never to let your life be shaped by fear of its end. [*] So he keeps the ring; and they leave him to his fate. The hunting party now finds him; and they all sit down together to make a meal by the river side, Siegfried telling them meanwhile the story of his adventures. When he approaches the subject of Brynhild, as to whom his memory is a blank, Hagen pours an antidote to the love philtre into his drinking horn, whereupon, his memory returning, he proceeds to narrate the incident of the fiery mountain, to Gunther's intense mortification. Hagen then plunges his spear into the back of Siegfried, who falls dead on his shield, but gets up again, after the old operatic custom, to sing about thirty bars to his love before allowing himself to be finally carried off to the strains of the famous Trauermarsch. * "We must learn to die, and to die in the fullest sense of the word. The fear of the end is the source of all lovelessness; and this fear is generated only when love begins to wane. How came it that this loves the highest blessedness to all things living, was so far lost sight of by the human race that at last it came to this: all that mankind did, ordered, and established, was conceived only in fear of the end? My poem sets this forth."--Wagner to Roeckel, 25th Jan. 1854. The scene then changes to the hall of the Gibichungs by the Rhine. It is night; and Gutrune, unable to sleep, and haunted by all sorts of vague terrors, is waiting for the return of her husband, and wondering whether a ghostly figure she has seen gliding down to the river bank is Brynhild, whose room is empty. Then comes the cry of Hagen, returning with the hunting party to announce the death of Siegfried by the tusk of a wild boar. But Gutrune divines the truth; and Hagen does not deny it. Siegfried's body is brought in; Gunther claims the ring; Hagen will not suffer him to take it; they fight; and Gunther is slain. Hagen then attempts to take it; but the dead man's hand closes on it and raises itself threateningly. Then Brynhild comes; and a funeral pyre is raised whilst she declaims a prolonged scene, extremely moving and imposing, but yielding nothing to resolute intellectual criticism except a very powerful and elevated exploitation of theatrical pathos, psychologically identical with the scene of Cleopatra and the dead Antony in Shakespeare's tragedy. Finally she flings a torch into the pyre, and rides her war-horse into the flames. The hall of the Gibichungs catches fire, as most halls would were a cremation attempted in the middle of the floor (I permit myself this gibe purposely to emphasize the excessive artificiality of the scene); but the Rhine overflows its banks to allow the three Rhine maidens to take the ring from Siegfried's finger, incidentally extinguishing the conflagration as it does so. Hagen attempts to snatch the ring from the maidens, who promptly drown him; and in the distant heavens the Gods and their castle are seen perishing in the fires of Loki as the curtain falls. FORGOTTEN ERE FINISHED In all this, it will be observed, there is nothing new. The musical fabric is enormously elaborate and gorgeous; but you cannot say, as you must in witnessing The Rhine Gold, The Valkyries, and the first two acts of Siegfried, that you have never seen anything like it before, and that the inspiration is entirely original. Not only the action, but most of the poetry, might conceivably belong to an Elizabethan drama. The situation of Cleopatra and Antony is unconsciously reproduced without being bettered, or even equalled in point of majesty and musical expression. The loss of all simplicity and dignity, the impossibility of any credible scenic presentation of the incidents, and the extreme staginess of the conventions by which these impossibilities are got over, are no doubt covered from the popular eye by the overwhelming prestige of Die Gotterdammerung as part of so great a work as The Ring, and by the extraordinary storm of emotion and excitement which the music keeps up. But the very qualities that intoxicate the novice in music enlighten the adept. In spite of the fulness of the composer's technical accomplishment, the finished style and effortless mastery of harmony and instrumentation displayed, there is not a bar in the work which moves us as the same themes moved us in The Valkyries, nor is anything but external splendor added to the life and humor of Siegfried. In the original poem, Brynhild delays her self-immolation on the pyre of Siegfried to read the assembled choristers a homily on the efficacy of the Love panacea. "My holiest wisdom's hoard," she says, "now I make known to the world. I believe not in property, nor money, nor godliness, nor hearth and high place, nor pomp and peerage, nor contract and custom, but in Love. Let that only prevail; and ye shall be blest in weal or woe." Here the repudiations still smack of Bakoonin; but the saviour is no longer the volition of the full-grown spirit of Man, the Free Willer of Necessity, sword in hand, but simply Love, and not even Shelleyan love, but vehement sexual passion. It is highly significant of the extent to which this uxorious commonplace lost its hold of Wagner (after disturbing his conscience, as he confesses to Roeckel, for years) that it disappears in the full score of Night Falls On The Gods, which was not completed until he was on the verge of producing Parsifal, twenty years after the publication of the poem. He cut the homily out, and composed the music of the final scene with a flagrant recklessness of the old intention. The rigorous logic with which representative musical themes are employed in the earlier dramas is here abandoned without scruple; and for the main theme at the conclusion he selects a rapturous passage sung by Sieglinda in the third act of The Valkyries when Brynhild inspires her with a sense of her high destiny as the mother of the unborn hero. There is no dramatic logic whatever in the recurrence of this theme to express the transport in which Brynhild immolates herself. There is of course an excuse for it, inasmuch as both women have an impulse of self-sacrifice for the sake of Siegfried; but this is really hardly more than an excuse; since the Valhalla theme might be attached to Alberic on the no worse ground that both he and Wotan are inspired by ambition, and that the ambition has the same object, the possession of the ring. The common sense of the matter is that the only themes which had fully retained their significance in Wagner's memory at the period of the composition of Night Falls On The Gods are those which are mere labels of external features, such as the Dragon, the Fire, the Water and so on. This particular theme of Sieglinda's is, in truth, of no great musical merit: it might easily be the pet climax of a popular sentimental ballad: in fact, the gushing effect which is its sole valuable quality is so cheaply attained that it is hardly going too far to call it the most trumpery phrase in the entire tetralogy. Yet, since it undoubtedly does gush very emphatically, Wagner chose, for convenience' sake, to work up this final scene with it rather than with the more distinguished, elaborate and beautiful themes connected with the love of Brynhild and Siegfried. He would certainly not have thought this a matter of no consequence had he finished the whole work ten years earlier. It must always be borne in mind that the poem of The Ring was complete and printed in 1853, and represents the sociological ideas which, after germinating in the European atmosphere for many years, had been brought home to Wagner, who was intensely susceptible to such ideas, by the crash of 1849 at Dresden. Now no man whose mind is alive and active, as Wagner's was to the day of his death, can keep his political and spiritual opinions, much less his philosophic consciousness, at a standstill for quarter of a century until he finishes an orchestral score. When Wagner first sketched Night Falls On The Gods he was 35. When he finished the score for the first Bayreuth festival in 1876 he had turned 60. No wonder he had lost his old grip of it and left it behind him. He even tampered with The Rhine Gold for the sake of theatrical effect when stage-managing it, making Wotan pick up and brandish a sword to give visible point to his sudden inspiration as to the raising up of a hero. The sword had first to be discovered by Fafnir among the Niblung treasures and thrown away by him as useless. There is no sense in this device; and its adoption shows the same recklessness as to the original intention which we find in the music of the last act of The Dusk of the Gods. [*] * Die Gotterdammerung means literally Godsgloaming. The English versions of the opera are usually called The Dusk of the Gods, or The Twilight of the Gods. I have purposely introduced the ordinary title in the sentence above for the reader's information. WHY HE CHANGED HIS MIND Wagner, however, was not the man to allow his grip of a great philosophic theme to slacken even in twenty-five years if the theme still held good as a theory of actual life. If the history of Germany from 1849 to 1876 had been the history of Siegfried and Wotan transposed into the key of actual life Night Falls On The Gods would have been the logical consummation of Das Rheingold and The Valkyrie instead of the operatic anachronism it actually is. But, as a matter of fact, Siegfried did not succeed and Bismarck did. Roeckel was a prisoner whose imprisonment made no difference; Bakoonin broke up, not Walhall, but the International, which ended in an undignified quarrel between him and Karl Marx. The Siegfrieds of 1848 were hopeless political failures, whereas the Wotans and Alberics and Lokis were conspicuous political successes. Even the Mimes held their own as against Siegfried. With the single exception of Ferdinand Lassalle, there was no revolutionary leader who was not an obvious impossibilist in practical politics; and Lassalle got himself killed in a romantic and quite indefensible duel after wrecking his health in a titanic oratorical campaign which convinced him that the great majority of the working classes were not ready to join him, and that the minority who were ready did not understand him. The International, founded in 1861 by Karl Marx in London, and mistaken for several years by nervous newspapers for a red spectre, was really only a turnip ghost. It achieved some beginnings of International Trade Unionism by inducing English workmen to send money to support strikes on the continent, and recalling English workers who had been taken across the North Sea to defeat such strikes; but on its revolutionary socialistic side it was a romantic figment. The suppression of the Paris Commune, one of the most tragic examples in history of the pitilessness with which capable practical administrators and soldiers are forced by the pressure of facts to destroy romantic amateurs and theatrical dreamers, made an end of melodramatic Socialism. It was as easy for Marx to hold up Thiers as the most execrable of living scoundrels and to put upon Gallifet the brand that still makes him impossible in French politics as it was for Victor Hugo to bombard Napoleon III from his paper battery in Jersey. It was also easy to hold up Felix Pyat and Delescluze as men of much loftier ideals than Thiers and Gallifet; but the one fact that could not be denied was that when it came to actual shooting, it was Gallifet who got Delescluze shot and not Delescluze who got Gallifet shot, and that when it came to administering the affairs of France, Thiers could in one way or another get it done, whilst Pyat could neither do it nor stop talking and allow somebody else to do it. True, the penalty of following Thiers was to be exploited by the landlord and capitalist; but then the penalty of following Pyat was to get shot like a mad dog, or at best get sent to New Caledonia, quite unnecessarily and uselessly. To put it in terms of Wagner's allegory, Alberic had got the ring back again and was marrying into the best Walhall families with it. He had thought better of his old threat to dethrone Wotan and Loki. He had found that Nibelheim was a very gloomy place and that if he wanted to live handsomely and safely, he must not only allow Wotan and Loki to organize society for him, but pay them very handsomely for doing it. He wanted splendor, military glory, loyalty, enthusiasm, and patriotism; and his greed and gluttony were wholly unable to create them, whereas Wotan and Loki carried them all to a triumphant climax in Germany in 1871, when Wagner himself celebrated the event with his Kaisermarsch, which sounded much more convincing than the Marseillaise or the Carmagnole. How, after the Kaisermarsch, could Wagner go back to his idealization of Siegfried in 1853? How could he believe seriously in Siegfried slaying the dragon and charging through the mountain fire, when the immediate foreground was occupied by the Hotel de Ville with Felix Pyat endlessly discussing the principles of Socialism whilst the shells of Thiers were already battering the Arc de Triomphe, and ripping up the pavement of the Champs Elysees? Is it not clear that things had taken an altogether unexpected turn--that although the Ring may, like the famous Communist Manifesto of Marx and Engels, be an inspired guest at the historic laws and predestined end of our capitalistic-theocratic epoch, yet Wagner, like Marx, was too inexperienced in technical government and administration and too melodramatic in his hero-contra-villain conception of the class struggle, to foresee the actual process by which his generalization would work out, or the part to be played in it by the classes involved? Let us go back for a moment to the point at which the Niblung legend first becomes irreconcilable with Wagner's allegory. Fafnir in the allegory becomes a capitalist; but Fafnir in the legend is a mere hoarder. His gold does not bring him in any revenue. It does not even support him: he has to go out and forage for food and drink. In fact, he is on the way to his drinking-pool when Siegfried kills him. And Siegfried himself has no more use for gold than Fafnir: the only difference between them in this respect is that Siegfried does not waste his time in watching a barren treasure that is no use to him, whereas Fafnir sacrifices his humanity and his life merely to prevent anybody else getting it. This contrast is true to human nature; but it shunts The Ring drama off the economic lines of the allegory. In real life, Fafnir is not a miser: he seeks dividends, comfortable life, and admission to the circles of Wotan and Loki. His only means of procuring these is to restore the gold to Alberic in exchange for scrip in Alberic's enterprises. Thus fortified with capital, Alberic exploits his fellow dwarfs as before, and also exploits Fafnir's fellow giants who have no capital. What is more, the toil, forethought and self-control which the exploitation involves, and the self-respect and social esteem which its success wins, effect an improvement in Alberic's own character which neither Marx nor Wagner appear to have foreseen. He discovers that to be a dull, greedy, narrow-minded money-grubber is not the way to make money on a large scale; for though greed may suffice to turn tens into hundreds and even hundreds into thousands, to turn thousands into hundreds of thousands requires magnanimity and a will to power rather than to pelf. And to turn thousands into millions, Alberic must make himself an earthly providence for masses of workmen: he must create towns and govern markets. In the meantime, Fafnir, wallowing in dividends which he has done nothing to earn, may rot, intellectually and morally, from mere disuse of his energies and lack of incentive to excel; but the more imbecile he becomes, the more dependent he is upon Alberic, and the more the responsibility of keeping the world-machine in working order falls upon Alberic. Consequently, though Alberic in 1850 may have been merely the vulgar Manchester Factory-owner portrayed by Engels, in 1876 he was well on the way towards becoming Krupp of Essen or Carnegie of Homestead. Now, without exaggerating the virtues of these gentlemen, it will be conceded by everybody except perhaps those veteran German Social-Democrats who have made a cult of obsolescence under the name of Marxism, that the modern entrepreneur is not to be displaced and dismissed so lightly as Alberic is dismissed in The Ring. They are really the masters of the whole situation. Wotan is hardly less dependent on them than Fafnir; the War-Lord visits their work, acclaims them in stirring speeches, and casts down their enemies; whilst Loki makes commercial treaties for them and subjects all his diplomacy to their approval. The end cannot come until Siegfried learns Alberic's trade and shoulders Alberic's burden. Not having as yet done so, he is still completely mastered by Alberic. He does not even rebel against him except when he is too stupid and ignorant, or too romantically impracticable, to see that Alberic's work, like Wotan's work and Loki's work, is necessary work, and that therefore Alberic can never be superseded by a warrior, but only by a capable man of business who is prepared to continue his work without a day's intermission. Even though the proletarians of all lands were to become "class conscious," and obey the call of Marx by uniting to carry the Class struggle to a proletarian victory in which all capital should become common property, and all Monarchs, Millionaires, Landlords and Capitalists become common citizens, the triumphant proletarians would have either to starve in Anarchy the next day or else do the political and industrial work which is now being done tant bien que mal by our Romanoffs, our Hohenzollerns, our Krupps, Carnegies, Levers, Pierpont Morgans, and their political retinues. And in the meantime these magnates must defend their power and property with all their might against the revolutionary forces until these forces become positive, executive, administrative forces, instead of the conspiracies of protesting, moralizing, virtuously indignant amateurs who mistook Marx for a man of affairs and Thiers for a stage villain. But all this represents a development of which one gathers no forecast from Wagner or Marx. Both of them prophesied the end of our epoch, and, so far as one can guess, prophesied it rightly. They also brought its industrial history up to the year 1848 far more penetratingly than the academic historians of their time. But they broke off there and left a void between 1848 and the end, in which we, who have to live in that period, get no guidance from them. The Marxists wandered for years in this void, striving, with fanatical superstition, to suppress the Revisionists who, facing the fact that the Social-Democratic party was lost, were trying to find the path by the light of contemporary history instead of vainly consulting the oracle in the pages of Das Kapital. Marx himself was too simpleminded a recluse and too full of the validity of his remoter generalizations, and the way in which the rapid integration of capital in Trusts and Kartels was confirming them, to be conscious of the void himself. Wagner, on the other hand, was comparatively a practical man. It is possible to learn more of the world by producing a single opera, or even conducting a single orchestral rehearsal, than by ten years reading in the Library of the British Museum. Wagner must have learnt between Das Rheingold and the Kaisermarsch that there are yet several dramas to be interpolated in The Ring after The Valkyries before the allegory can tell the whole story, and that the first of these interpolated dramas will be much more like a revised Rienzi than like Siegfried. If anyone doubts the extent to which Wagner's eyes had been opened to the administrative-childishness and romantic conceit of the heroes of the revolutionary generation that served its apprenticeship on the barricades of 1848-9, and perished on those of 1870 under Thiers' mitrailleuses, let him read Eine Kapitulation, that scandalous burlesque in which the poet and composer of Siegfried, with the levity of a schoolboy, mocked the French republicans who were doing in 1871 what he himself was exiled for doing in 1849. He had set the enthusiasm of the Dresden Revolution to his own greatest music; but he set the enthusiasm of twenty years later in derision to the music of Rossini. There is no mistaking the tune he meant to suggest by his doggerel of Republik, Republik, Republik-lik-lik. The Overture to William Tell is there as plainly as if it were noted down in full score. In the case of such a man as Wagner, you cannot explain this volte-face as mere jingoism produced by Germany's overwhelming victory in the Franco-Prussian War, nor as personal spite against the Parisians for the Tannhauser fiasco. Wagner had more cause for personal spite against his own countrymen than he ever had against the French. No doubt his outburst gratified the pettier feelings which great men have in common with small ones; but he was not a man to indulge in such gratifications, or indeed to feel them as gratifications, if he had not arrived at a profound philosophical contempt for the inadequacy of the men who were trying to wield Nothung, and who had done less work for Wagner's own art than a single German King and he, too, only a mad one. Wagner had by that time done too much himself not to know that the world is ruled by deeds, not by good intentions, and that one efficient sinner is worth ten futile saints and martyrs. I need not elaborate the point further in these pages. Like all men of genius, Wagner had exceptional sincerity, exceptional respect for facts, exceptional freedom from the hypnotic influence of sensational popular movements, exceptional sense of the realities of political power as distinguished from the presences and idolatries behind which the real masters of modern States pull their wires and train their guns. When he scored Night Falls On The Gods, he had accepted the failure of Siegfried and the triumph of the Wotan-Loki-Alberic-trinity as a fact. He had given up dreaming of heroes, heroines, and final solutions, and had conceived a new protagonist in Parsifal, whom he announced, not as a hero, but as a fool; who was armed, not with a sword which cut irresistibly, but with a spear which he held only on condition that he did not use it; and who instead of exulting in the slaughter of a dragon was frightfully ashamed of having shot a swan. The change in the conception of the Deliverer could hardly be more complete. It reflects the change which took place in Wagner's mind between the composition of The Rhine Gold and Night Falls On The Gods; and it explains why he dropped The Ring allegory and fell back on the status quo ante by Lohengrinizing. If you ask why he did not throw Siegfried into the waste paper basket and rewrite The Ring from The Valkyries onwards, one must reply that the time had not come for such a feat. Neither Wagner nor anyone else then living knew enough to achieve it. Besides, what he had already done had reached the limit of even his immense energy and perseverance and so he did the best he could with the unfinished and for ever unfinishable work, rounding it off with an opera much as Rossini rounded off some of his religious compositions with a galop. Only, Rossini on such occasions wrote in his score "Excusez du peu," but Wagner left us to find out the change for ourselves, perhaps to test how far we had really followed his meaning. WAGNER'S OWN EXPLANATION And now, having given my explanation of The Ring, can I give Wagner's explanation of it? If I could (and I can) I should not by any means accept it as conclusive. Nearly half a century has passed since the tetralogy was written; and in that time the purposes of many half instinctive acts of genius have become clearer to the common man than they were to the doers. Some years ago, in the course of an explanation of Ibsen's plays, I pointed out that it was by no means certain or even likely that Ibsen was as definitely conscious of his thesis as I. All the stupid people, and some critics who, though not stupid, had not themselves written what the Germans call "tendency" works, saw nothing in this but a fantastic affectation of the extravagant self-conceit of knowing more about Ibsen than Ibsen himself. Fortunately, in taking exactly the same position now with regard to Wagner, I can claim his own authority to support me. "How," he wrote to Roeckel on the 23rd. August 1856, "can an artist expect that what he has felt intuitively should be perfectly realized by others, seeing that he himself feels in the presence of his work, if it is true Art, that he is confronted by a riddle, about which he, too, might have illusions, just as another might?" The truth is, we are apt to deify men of genius, exactly as we deify the creative force of the universe, by attributing to logical design what is the result of blind instinct. What Wagner meant by "true Art" is the operation of the artist's instinct, which is just as blind as any other instinct. Mozart, asked for an explanation of his works, said frankly "How do I know?" Wagner, being a philosopher and critic as well as a composer, was always looking for moral explanations of what he had created and he hit on several very striking ones, all different. In the same way one can conceive Henry the Eighth speculating very brilliantly about the circulation of his own blood without getting as near the truth as Harvey did long after his death. None the less, Wagner's own explanations are of exceptional interest. To begin with, there is a considerable portion of The Ring, especially the portraiture of our capitalistic industrial system from the socialist's point of view in the slavery of the Niblungs and the tyranny of Alberic, which is unmistakable, as it dramatizes that portion of human activity which lies well within the territory covered by our intellectual consciousness. All this is concrete Home Office business, so to speak: its meaning was as clear to Wagner as it is to us. Not so that part of the work which deals with the destiny of Wotan. And here, as it happened, Wagner's recollection of what he had been driving at was completely upset by his discovery, soon after the completion of The Ring poem, of Schopenhaur's famous treatise "The World as Will and Representation." So obsessed did he become with this masterpiece of philosophic art that he declared that it contained the intellectual demonstration of the conflict of human forces which he himself had demonstrated artistically in his great poem. "I must confess," he writes to Roeckel, "to having arrived at a clear understanding of my own works of art through the help of another, who has provided me with the reasoned conceptions corresponding to my intuitive principles." Schopenhaur, however, had done nothing of the sort. Wagner's determination to prove that he had been a Schopenhaurite all along without knowing it only shows how completely the fascination of the great treatise on The Will had run away with his memory. It is easy to see how this happened. Wagner says of himself that "seldom has there taken place in the soul of one and the same man so profound a division and estrangement between the intuitive or impulsive part of his nature and his consciously or reasonably formed ideas." And since Schopenhaur's great contribution to modern thought was to educate us into clear consciousness of this distinction--a distinction familiar, in a fanciful way, to the Ages of Faith and Art before the Renascence, but afterwards swamped in the Rationalism of that movement--it was inevitable that Wagner should jump at Schopenhaur's metaphysiology (I use a word less likely to be mistaken than metaphysics) as the very thing for him. But metaphysiology is one thing, political philosophy another. The political philosophy of Siegfried is exactly contrary to the political philosophy of Schopenhaur, although the same clear metaphysiological distinction between the instinctive part of man (his Will) and his reasoning faculty (dramatized in The Ring as Loki) is insisted on in both. The difference is that to Schopenhaur the Will is the universal tormentor of man, the author of that great evil, Life; whilst reason is the divine gift that is finally to overcome this life-creating will and lead, through its abnegation, to cessation and peace, annihilation and Nirvana. This is the doctrine of Pessimism. Now Wagner was, when he wrote The Ring, a most sanguine revolutionary Meliorist, contemptuous of the reasoning faculty, which he typified in the shifty, unreal, delusive Loki, and full of faith in the life-giving Will, which he typified in the glorious Siegfried. Not until he read Schopenhaur did he become bent on proving that he had always been a Pessimist at heart, and that Loki was the most sensible and worthy adviser of Wotan in The Rhine Gold. Sometimes he faces the change in his opinions frankly enough. "My Niblung drama," he writes to Roeckel, "had taken form at a time when I had built up with my reason an optimistic world on Hellenic principles, believing that nothing was necessary for the realization of such a world but that men should wish it. I ingeniously set aside-the problem why they did not wish it. I remember that it was with this definite creative purpose that I conceived the personality of Siegfried, with the intention of representing an existence free from pain." But he appeals to his earlier works to show that behind all these artificial optimistic ideas there was always with him an intuition of "the sublime tragedy of renunciation, the negation of the will." In trying to explain this, he is full of ideas philosophically, and full of the most amusing contradictions personally. Optimism, as an accidental excursion into the barren paths of reason on his own part, he calls "Hellenic." In others he denounces it as rank Judaism, the Jew having at that time become for him the whipping boy for all modern humanity. In a letter from London he expounds Schopenhaur to Roeckel with enthusiasm, preaching the renunciation of the Will to Live as the redemption from all error and vain pursuits: in the next letter he resumes the subject with unabated interest, and finishes by mentioning that on leaving London he went to Geneva and underwent "a most beneficial course of hydropathy." Seven months before this he had written as follows: "Believe me, I too was once possessed by the idea of a country life. In order to become a radically healthy human being, I went two years ago to a Hydropathic Establishment, prepared to give up Art and everything if I could once more become a child of Nature. But, my good friend, I was obliged to laugh at my own naivete when I found myself almost going mad. None of us will reach the promised land: we shall all die in the wilderness. Intellect is, as some one has said, a sort of disease: it is incurable." Roeckel knew his man of old, and evidently pressed him for explanations of the inconsistencies of The Ring with Night Falls On The Gods. Wagner defended himself with unfailing cleverness and occasional petulances, ranging from such pleas as "I believe a true instinct has kept me from a too great definiteness; for it has been borne in on me that an absolute disclosure of the intention disturbs true insight," to a volley of explanations and commentaries on the explanations. He gets excited and annoyed because Roeckel will not admire the Brynhild of Night Falls On The Gods; re-invents the Tarnhelm scene; and finally, the case being desperate, exclaims, "It is wrong of you to challenge me to explain it in words: you must feel that something is being enacted that is not to be expressed in mere words." THE PESSIMIST AS AMORIST Sometimes he gets very far away from Pessimism indeed, and recommends Roeckel to solace his captivity, not by conquering the will to live at liberty, but by "the inspiring influences of the Beautiful." The next moment he throws over even Art for Life. "Where life ends," he says, very wittily, "Art begins. In youth we turn to Art, we know not why; and only when we have gone through with Art and come out on the other side, we learn to our cost that we have missed Life itself." His only comfort is that he is beloved. And on the subject of love he lets himself loose in a manner that would have roused the bitterest scorn in Schopenhaur, though, as we have seen (Love Panacea), it is highly characteristic of Wagner. "Love in its most perfect reality," he says, "is only possible between the sexes: it is only as man and woman that human beings can truly love. Every other manifestation of love can be traced back to that one absorbingly real feeling, of which all other affections are but an emanation, a connection, or an imitation. It is an error to look on this as only one of the forms in which love is revealed, as if there were other forms coequal with it, or even superior to it. He who after the manner of metaphysicians prefers UNREALITY to REALITY, and derives the concrete from the abstract--in short, puts the word before the fact--may be right in esteeming the idea of love as higher than the expression of love, and may affirm that actual love made manifest in feeling is nothing but the outward and visible sign of a pre-existent, non-sensuous, abstract love; and he will do well to despise that sensuous function in general. In any case it were safe to bet that such a man had never loved or been loved as human beings can love, or he would have understood that in despising this feeling, what he condemned was its sensual expression, the outcome of man's animal nature, and not true human love. The highest satisfaction and expression of the individual is only to be found in his complete absorption, and that is only possible through love. Now a human being is both MAN and WOMAN: it is only when these two are united that the real human being exists; and thus it is only by love that man and woman attain to the full measure of humanity. But when nowadays we talk of a human being, such heartless blockheads are we that quite involuntarily we only think of man. It is only in the union of man and woman by love (sensuous and supersensuous) that the human being exists; and as the human being cannot rise to the conception of anything higher than his own existence--his own being--so the transcendent act of his life is this consummation of his humanity through love." It is clear after this utterance from the would-be Schopenhaurian, that Wagner's explanations of his works for the most part explain nothing but the mood in which he happened to be on the day he advanced them, or the train of thought suggested to his very susceptible imagination and active mind by the points raised by his questioner. Especially in his private letters, where his outpourings are modified by his dramatic consciousness of the personality of his correspondent, do we find him taking all manner of positions, and putting forward all sorts of cases which must be taken as clever and suggestive special pleadings, and not as serious and permanent expositions of his works. These works must speak for themselves: if The Ring says one thing, and a letter written afterwards says that it said something else, The Ring must be taken to confute the letter just as conclusively as if the two had been written by different hands. However, nobody fairly well acquainted with Wagner's utterances as a whole will find any unaccountable contradictions in them. As in all men of his type, our manifold nature was so marked in him that he was like several different men rolled into one. When he had exhausted himself in the character of the most pugnacious, aggressive, and sanguine of reformers, he rested himself as a Pessimist and Nirvanist. In The Ring the quietism of Brynhild's "Rest, rest, thou God" is sublime in its deep conviction; but you have only to turn back the pages to find the irrepressible bustle of Siegfried and the revelry of the clansmen expressed with equal zest. Wagner was not a Schopenhaurite every day in the week, nor even a Wagnerite. His mind changes as often as his mood. On Monday nothing will ever induce him to return to quilldriving: on Tuesday he begins a new pamphlet. On Wednesday he is impatient of the misapprehensions of people who cannot see how impossible it is for him to preside as a conductor over platform performances of fragments of his works, which can only be understood when presented strictly according to his intention on the stage: on Thursday he gets up a concert of Wagnerian selections, and when it is over writes to his friends describing how profoundly both bandsmen and audience were impressed. On Friday he exults in the self-assertion of Siegfried's will against all moral ordinances, and is full of a revolutionary sense of "the universal law of change and renewal": on Saturday he has an attack of holiness, and asks, "Can you conceive a moral action of which the root idea is not renunciation?" In short, Wagner can be quoted against himself almost without limit, much as Beethoven's adagios could be quoted against his scherzos if a dispute arose between two fools as to whether he was a melancholy man or a merry one. THE MUSIC OF THE RING THE REPRESENTATIVE THEMES To be able to follow the music of The Ring, all that is necessary is to become familiar enough with the brief musical phrases out of which it is built to recognize them and attach a certain definite significance to them, exactly as any ordinary Englishman recognizes and attaches a definite significance to the opening bars of God Save the King. There is no difficulty here: every soldier is expected to learn and distinguish between different bugle calls and trumpet calls; and anyone who can do this can learn and distinguish between the representative themes or "leading motives" (Leitmotifs) of The Ring. They are the easier to learn because they are repeated again and again; and the main ones are so emphatically impressed on the ear whilst the spectator is looking for the first time at the objects, or witnessing the first strong dramatic expression of the ideas they denote, that the requisite association is formed unconsciously. The themes are neither long, nor complicated, nor difficult. Whoever can pick up the flourish of a coach-horn, the note of a bird, the rhythm of the postman's knock or of a horse's gallop, will be at no loss in picking up the themes of The Ring. No doubt, when it comes to forming the necessary mental association with the theme, it may happen that the spectator may find his ear conquering the tune more easily than his mind conquers the thought. But for the most part the themes do not denote thoughts at all, but either emotions of a quite simple universal kind, or the sights, sounds and fancies common enough to be familiar to children. Indeed some of them are as frankly childish as any of the funny little orchestral interludes which, in Haydn's Creation, introduce the horse, the deer, or the worm. We have both the horse and the worm in The Ring, treated exactly in Haydn's manner, and with an effect not a whit less ridiculous to superior people who decline to take it good-humoredly. Even the complaisance of good Wagnerites is occasionally rather overstrained by the way in which Brynhild's allusions to her charger Grani elicit from the band a little rum-ti-tum triplet which by itself is in no way suggestive of a horse, although a continuous rush of such triplets makes a very exciting musical gallop. Other themes denote objects which cannot be imitatively suggested by music: for instance, music cannot suggest a ring, and cannot suggest gold; yet each of these has a representative theme which pervades the score in all directions. In the case of the gold the association is established by the very salient way in which the orchestra breaks into the pretty theme in the first act of The Rhine Gold at the moment when the sunrays strike down through the water and light up the glittering treasure, hitherto invisible. The reference of the strange little theme of the wishing cap is equally manifest from the first, since the spectator's attention is wholly taken up with the Tarnhelm and its magic when the theme is first pointedly uttered by the orchestra. The sword theme is introduced at the end of The Rhine Gold to express Wotan's hero inspiration; and I have already mentioned that Wagner, unable, when it came to practical stage management, to forego the appeal to the eye as well as to the thought, here made Wotan pick up a sword and brandish it, though no such instruction appears in the printed score. When this sacrifice to Wagner's scepticism as to the reality of any appeal to an audience that is not made through their bodily sense is omitted, the association of the theme with the sword is not formed until that point in the first act of The Valkyries at which Siegmund is left alone by Hunding's hearth, weaponless, with the assurance that he will have to fight for his life at dawn with his host. He recalls then how his father promised him a sword for his hour of need; and as he does so, a flicker from the dying fire is caught by the golden hilt of the sword in the tree, when the theme immediately begins to gleam through the quiver of sound from the orchestra, and only dies out as the fire sinks and the sword is once more hidden by the darkness. Later on, this theme, which is never silent whilst Sieglinda is dwelling on the story of the sword, leaps out into the most dazzling splendor the band can give it when Siegmund triumphantly draws the weapon from the tree. As it consists of seven notes only, with a very marked measure, and a melody like a simple flourish on a trumpet or post horn, nobody capable of catching a tune can easily miss it. The Valhalla theme, sounded with solemn grandeur as the home of the gods first appears to us and to Wotan at the beginning of the second scene of The Rhine Gold, also cannot be mistaken. It, too, has a memorable rhythm; and its majestic harmonies, far from presenting those novel or curious problems in polyphony of which Wagner still stands suspected by superstitious people, are just those three simple chords which festive students who vamp accompaniments to comic songs "by ear" soon find sufficient for nearly all the popular tunes in the world. On the other hand, the ring theme, when it begins to hurtle through the third scene of The Rhine Gold, cannot possibly be referred to any special feature in the general gloom and turmoil of the den of the dwarfs. It is not a melody, but merely the displaced metric accent which musicians call syncopation, rung on the notes of the familiar chord formed by piling three minor thirds on top of one another (technically, the chord of the minor ninth, ci-devant diminished seventh). One soon picks it up and identifies it; but it does not get introduced in the unequivocally clear fashion of the themes described above, or of that malignant monstrosity, the theme which denotes the curse on the gold. Consequently it cannot be said that the musical design of the work is perfectly clear at the first hearing as regards all the themes; but it is so as regards most of them, the main lines being laid down as emphatically and intelligibly as the dramatic motives in a Shakespearean play. As to the coyer subtleties of the score, their discovery provides fresh interest for repeated hearings, giving The Ring a Beethovenian inexhaustibility and toughness of wear. The themes associated with the individual characters get stamped on the memory easily by the simple association of the sound of the theme with the appearance of the person indicated. Its appropriateness is generally pretty obvious. Thus, the entry of the giants is made to a vigorous stumping, tramping measure. Mimmy, being a quaint, weird old creature, has a quaint, weird theme of two thin chords that creep down eerily one to the other. Gutrune's theme is pretty and caressing: Gunther's bold, rough, and commonplace. It is a favorite trick of Wagner's, when one of his characters is killed on the stage, to make the theme attached to that character weaken, fail, and fade away with a broken echo into silence. THE CHARACTERIZATION All this, however, is the mere child's play of theme work. The more complex characters, instead of having a simple musical label attached to them, have their characteristic ideas and aspirations identified with special representative themes as they come into play in the drama; and the chief merit of the thematic structure of The Ring is the mastery with which the dramatic play of the ideas is reflected in the contrapuntal play of the themes. We do not find Wotan, like the dragon or the horse, or, for the matter of that, like the stage demon in Weber's Freischutz or Meyerbeer's Robert the Devil, with one fixed theme attached to him like a name plate to an umbrella, blaring unaltered from the orchestra whenever he steps on the stage. Sometimes we have the Valhalla theme used to express the greatness of the gods as an idea of Wotan's. Again, we have his spear, the symbol of his power, identified with another theme, on which Wagner finally exercises his favorite device by making it break and fail, cut through, as it were, by the tearing sound of the theme identified with the sword, when Siegfried shivers the spear with the stroke of Nothung. Yet another theme connected with Wotan is the Wanderer music which breaks with such a majestic reassurance on the nightmare terror of Mimmy when Wotan appears at the mouth of his cave in the scene of the three riddles. Thus not only are there several Wotan themes, but each varies in its inflexions and shades of tone color according to its dramatic circumstances. So, too, the merry ham tune of the young Siegfried changes its measure, loads itself with massive harmonies, and becomes an exordium of the most imposing splendor when it heralds his entry as full-fledged hero in the prologue to Night Falls On The Gods. Even Mimmy has his two or three themes: the weird one already described; the little one in triple measure imitating the tap of his hammer, and fiercely mocked in the savage laugh of Alberic at his death; and finally the crooning tune in which he details all his motherly kindnesses to the little foundling Siegfried. Besides this there are all manner of little musical blinkings and shamblings and whinings, the least hint of which from the orchestra at any moment instantly brings Mimmy to mind, whether he is on the stage at the time or not. In truth, dramatic characterization in music cannot be carried very far by the use of representative themes. Mozart, the greatest of all masters of this art, never dreamt of employing them; and, extensively as they are used in The Ring, they do not enable Wagner to dispense with the Mozartian method. Apart from the themes, Siegfried and Mimmy are still as sharply distinguished from one another by the character of their music as Don Giovanni from Leporello, Wotan from Gutrune as Sarastro from Papagena. It is true that the themes attached to the characters have the same musical appropriateness as the rest of the music: for example, neither the Valhalla nor the spear themes could, without the most ludicrous incongruity, be used for the forest bird or the unstable, delusive Loki; but for all that the musical characterization must be regarded as independent of the specific themes, since the entire elimination of the thematic system from the score would leave the characters as well distinguished musically as they are at present. One more illustration of the way in which the thematic system is worked. There are two themes connected with Loki. One is a rapid, sinuous, twisting, shifty semiquaver figure suggested by the unsubstantial, elusive logic-spinning of the clever one's braincraft. The other is the fire theme. In the first act of Siegfried, Mimmy makes his unavailing attempt to explain fear to Siegfried. With the horror fresh upon him of the sort of nightmare into which he has fallen after the departure of the Wanderer, and which has taken the form, at once fanciful and symbolic, of a delirious dread of light, he asks Siegfried whether he has never, whilst wandering in the forest, had his heart set hammering in frantic dread by the mysterious lights of the gloaming. To this, Siegfried, greatly astonished, replies that on such occasions his heart is altogether healthy and his sensations perfectly normal. Here Mimmy's question is accompanied by the tremulous sounding of the fire theme with its harmonies most oppressively disturbed and troubled; whereas with Siegfried's reply they become quite clear and straightforward, making the theme sound bold, brilliant, and serene. This is a typical instance of the way in which the themes are used. The thematic system gives symphonic interest, reasonableness, and unity to the music, enabling the composer to exhaust every aspect and quality of his melodic material, and, in Beethoven's manner, to work miracles of beauty, expression and significance with the briefest phrases. As a set-off against this, it has led Wagner to indulge in repetitions that would be intolerable in a purely dramatic work. Almost the first thing that a dramatist has to learn in constructing a play is that the persons must not come on the stage in the second act and tell one another at great length what the audience has already seen pass before its eyes in the first act. The extent to which Wagner has been seduced into violating this rule by his affection for his themes is startling to a practiced playwright. Siegfried inherits from Wotan a mania for autobiography which leads him to inflict on every one he meets the story of Mimmy and the dragon, although the audience have spent a whole evening witnessing the events he is narrating. Hagen tells the story to Gunther; and that same night Alberic's ghost tells it over again to Hagen, who knows it already as well as the audience. Siegfried tells the Rhine maidens as much of it as they will listen to, and then keeps telling it to his hunting companions until they kill him. Wotan's autobiography on the second evening becomes his biography in the mouths of the Norns on the fourth. The little that the Norns add to it is repeated an hour later by Valtrauta. How far all this repetition is tolerable is a matter of individual taste. A good story will bear repetition; and if it has woven into it such pretty tunes as the Rhine maidens' yodel, Mimmy's tinkling anvil beat, the note of the forest bird, the call of Siegfried's horn, and so on, it will bear a good deal of rehearing. Those who have but newly learnt their way through The Ring will not readily admit that there is a bar too much repetition. But how if you find some anti-Wagnerite raising the question whether the thematic system does not enable the composer to produce a music drama with much less musical fertility than was required from his predecessors for the composition of operas under the old system! Such discussions are not within the scope of this little book. But as the book is now finished (for really nothing more need be said about The Ring), I am quite willing to add a few pages of ordinary musical criticism, partly to please the amateurs who enjoy that sort of reading, and partly for the guidance of those who wish to obtain some hints to help them through such critical small talk about Wagner and Bayreuth as may be forced upon them at the dinner table or between the acts. THE OLD AND THE NEW MUSIC In the old-fashioned opera every separate number involved the composition of a fresh melody; but it is quite a mistake to suppose that this creative-effort extended continuously throughout the number from the first to the last bar. When a musician composes according to a set metrical pattern, the selection of the pattern and the composition of the first stave (a stave in music corresponds to a line in verse) generally completes the creative effort. All the rest follows more or less mechanically to fill up the pattern, an air being very like a wall-paper design in this respect. Thus the second stave is usually a perfectly obvious consequence of the first; and the third and fourth an exact or very slightly varied repetition of the first and second. For example, given the first line of Pop Goes the Weasel or Yankee Doodle, any musical cobbler could supply the remaining three. There is very little tune turning of this kind in The Ring; and it is noteworthy that where it does occur, as in Siegmund's spring song and Mimmy's croon, "Ein zullendes Kind," the effect of the symmetrical staves, recurring as a mere matter of form, is perceptibly poor and platitudinous compared with the free flow of melody which prevails elsewhere. The other and harder way of composing is to take a strain of free melody, and ring every variety of change of mood upon it as if it were a thought that sometimes brought hope, sometimes melancholy, sometimes exultation, sometimes raging despair and so on. To take several themes of this kind, and weave them together into a rich musical fabric passing panoramically before the ear with a continually varying flow of sentiment, is the highest feat of the musician: it is in this way that we get the fugue of Bach and the symphony of Beethoven. The admittedly inferior musician is the one who, like Auber and Offenbach, not to mention our purveyors of drawing-room ballads, can produce an unlimited quantity of symmetrical tunes, but cannot weave themes symphonically. When this is taken into account, it will be seen that the fact that there is a great deal of repetition in The Ring does not distinguish it from the old-fashioned operas. The real difference is that in them the repetition was used for the mechanical completion of conventional metric patterns, whereas in The Ring the recurrence of the theme is an intelligent and interesting consequence of the recurrence of the dramatic phenomenon which it denotes. It should be remembered also that the substitution of symphonically treated themes for tunes with symmetrical eight-bar staves and the like, has always been the rule in the highest forms of music. To describe it, or be affected by it, as an abandonment of melody, is to confess oneself an ignoramus conversant only with dance tunes and ballads. The sort of stuff a purely dramatic musician produces when he hampers himself with metric patterns in composition is not unlike what might have resulted in literature if Carlyle (for example) had been compelled by convention to write his historical stories in rhymed stanzas. That is to say, it limits his fertility to an occasional phrase, and three quarters of the time exercises only his barren ingenuity in fitting rhymes and measures to it. In literature the great masters of the art have long emancipated themselves from metric patterns. Nobody claims that the hierarchy of modern impassioned prose writers, from Bunyan to Ruskin, should be placed below the writers of pretty lyrics, from Herrick to Mr. Austin Dobson. Only in dramatic literature do we find the devastating tradition of blank verse still lingering, giving factitious prestige to the platitudes of dullards, and robbing the dramatic style of the genuine poet of its full natural endowment of variety, force and simplicity. This state of things, as we have seen, finds its parallel in musical art, since music can be written in prose themes or in versified tunes; only here nobody dreams of disputing the greater difficulty of the prose forms, and the comparative triviality of versification. Yet in dramatic music, as in dramatic literature, the tradition of versification clings with the same pernicious results; and the opera, like the tragedy, is conventionally made like a wall paper. The theatre seems doomed to be in all things the last refuge of the hankering after cheap prettiness in art. Unfortunately this confusion of the decorative with the dramatic element in both literature and music is maintained by the example of great masters in both arts. Very touching dramatic expression can be combined with decorative symmetry of versification when the artist happens to possess both the decorative and dramatic gifts, and to have cultivated both hand in hand. Shakespeare and Shelley, for instance, far from being hampered by the conventional obligation to write their dramas in verse, found it much the easiest and cheapest way of producing them. But if Shakespeare had been compelled by custom to write entirely in prose, all his ordinary dialogue might have been as good as the first scene of As You Like It; and all his lofty passages as fine as "What a piece of work is Man!", thus sparing us a great deal of blank verse in which the thought is commonplace, and the expression, though catchingly turned, absurdly pompous. The Cent might either have been a serious drama or might never have been written at all if Shelley had not been allowed to carry off its unreality by Elizabethan versification. Still, both poets have achieved many passages in which the decorative and dramatic qualities are not only reconciled, but seem to enhance one another to a pitch otherwise unattainable. Just so in music. When we find, as in the case of Mozart, a prodigiously gifted and arduously trained musician who is also, by a happy accident, a dramatist comparable to Moliere, the obligation to compose operas in versified numbers not only does not embarrass him, but actually saves him trouble and thought. No matter what his dramatic mood may be, he expresses it in exquisite musical verses more easily than a dramatist of ordinary singleness of talent can express it in prose. Accordingly, he too, like Shakespeare and Shelley, leaves versified airs, like Dalla sua pace, or Gluck's Che fare senza Euridice, or Weber's Leise, leise, which are as dramatic from the first note to the last as the untrammelled themes of The Ring. In consequence, it used to be professorially demanded that all dramatic music should present the same double aspect. The demand was unreasonable, since symmetrical versification is no merit in dramatic music: one might as well stipulate that a dinner fork should be constructed so as to serve also as a tablecloth. It was an ignorant demand too, because it is not true that the composers of these exceptional examples were always, or even often, able to combine dramatic expression with symmetrical versification. Side by side with Dalla sua pace we have Il mio tesoro and Non mi dir, in which exquisitely expressive opening phrases lead to decorative passages which are as grotesque from the dramatic point of view as the music which Alberic sings when he is slipping and sneezing in the Rhine mud is from the decorative point of view. Further, there is to be considered the mass of shapeless "dry recitative" which separates these symmetrical numbers, and which might have been raised to considerable dramatic and musical importance had it been incorporated into a continuous musical fabric by thematic treatment. Finally, Mozart's most dramatic finales and concerted numbers are more or less in sonata form, like symphonic movements, and must therefore be classed as musical prose. And sonata form dictates repetitions and recapitulations from which the perfectly unconventional form adopted by Wagner is free. On the whole, there is more scope for both repetition and convention in the old form than in the new; and the poorer a composer's musical gift is, the surer he is to resort to the eighteenth century patterns to eke out his invention. THE NINETEENTH CENTURY When Wagner was born in 1813, music had newly become the most astonishing, the most fascinating, the most miraculous art in the world. Mozart's Don Giovanni had made all musical Europe conscious of the enchantments of the modern orchestra and of the perfect adaptability of music to the subtlest needs of the dramatist. Beethoven had shown how those inarticulate mood-poems which surge through men who have, like himself, no exceptional command of words, can be written down in music as symphonies. Not that Mozart and Beethoven invented these applications of their art; but they were the first whose works made it clear that the dramatic and subjective powers of sound were enthralling enough to stand by themselves quite apart from the decorative musical structures of which they had hitherto been a mere feature. After the finales in Figaro and Don Giovanni, the possibility of the modern music drama lay bare. After the symphonies of Beethoven it was certain that the poetry that lies too deep for words does not lie too deep for music, and that the vicissitudes of the soul, from the roughest fun to the loftiest aspiration, can make symphonies without the aid of dance tunes. As much, perhaps, will be claimed for the preludes and fugues of Bach; but Bach's method was unattainable: his compositions were wonderful webs of exquisitely beautiful Gothic traceries in sound, quite beyond all ordinary human talent. Beethoven's far blunter craft was thoroughly popular and practicable: not to save his soul could he have drawn one long Gothic line in sound as Bach could, much less have woven several of them together with so apt a harmony that even when the composer is unmoved its progressions saturate themselves with the emotion which (as modern critics are a little apt to forget) springs as warmly from our delicately touched admiration as from our sympathies, and sometimes makes us give a composer credit for pathetic intentions which he does not entertain, just as a boy imagines a treasure of tenderness and noble wisdom in the beauty of a woman. Besides, Bach set comic dialogue to music exactly as he set the recitatives of the Passion, there being for him, apparently, only one recitative possible, and that the musically best. He reserved the expression of his merry mood for the regular set numbers in which he could make one of his wonderful contrapuntal traceries of pure ornament with the requisite gaiety of line and movement. Beethoven bowed to no ideal of beauty: he only sought the expression for his feeling. To him a joke was a joke; and if it sounded funny in music he was satisfied. Until the old habit of judging all music by its decorative symmetry had worn out, musicians were shocked by his symphonies, and, misunderstanding his integrity, openly questioned his sanity. But to those who were not looking for pretty new sound patterns, but were longing for the expression of their moods in music, he achieved revelation, because, being single in his aim to express his own moods, he anticipated with revolutionary courage and frankness all the moods of the rising generations of the nineteenth century. The result was inevitable. In the nineteenth century it was no longer necessary to be a born pattern designer in sound to be a composer. One had but to be a dramatist or a poet completely susceptible to the dramatic and descriptive powers of sound. A race of literary and theatrical musicians appeared; and Meyerbeer, the first of them, made an extraordinary impression. The frankly delirious description of his Robert the Devil in Balzac's short story entitled Gambra, and Goethe's astonishingly mistaken notion that he could have composed music for Faust, show how completely the enchantments of the new dramatic music upset the judgment of artists of eminent discernment. Meyerbeer was, people said (old gentlemen still say so in Paris), the successor of Beethoven: he was, if a less perfect musician than Mozart, a profounder genius. Above all, he was original and daring. Wagner himself raved about the duet in the fourth act of Les Huguenots as wildly as anyone. Yet all this effect of originality and profundity was produced by a quite limited talent for turning striking phrases, exploiting certain curious and rather catching rhythms and modulations, and devising suggestive or eccentric instrumentation. On its decorative side, it was the same phenomenon in music as the Baroque school in architecture: an energetic struggle to enliven organic decay by mechanical oddities and novelties. Meyerbeer was no symphonist. He could not apply the thematic system to his striking phrases, and so had to cobble them into metric patterns in the old style; and as he was no "absolute musician" either, he hardly got his metric patterns beyond mere quadrille tunes, which were either wholly undistinguished, or else made remarkable by certain brusqueries which, in the true rococo manner, owed their singularity to their senselessness. He could produce neither a thorough music drama nor a charming opera. But with all this, and worse, Meyerbeer had some genuine dramatic energy, and even passion; and sometimes rose to the occasion in a manner which, whilst the imagination of his contemporaries remained on fire with the novelties of dramatic music, led them to overrate him with an extravagance which provoked Wagner to conduct a long critical campaign against his leadership. Thirty years ago this campaign was mentably ascribed to the professional jealousy of a disappointed rival. Nowadays young people cannot understand how anyone could ever have taken Meyerbeer's influence seriously. Those who remember how his reputation stood half a century ago, and who realize what a nothoroughfare the path he opened proved to be, even to himself, know how inevitable and how impersonal Wagner's attack was. Wagner was the literary musician par excellence. He could not, like Mozart and Beethoven, produce decorative tone structures independently of any dramatic or poetic subject matter, because, that craft being no longer necessary for his purpose, he did not cultivate it. As Shakespeare, compared with Tennyson, appears to have an exclusively dramatic talent, so exactly does Wagner compared with Mendelssohn. On the other hand, he had not to go to third rate literary hacks for "librettos" to set to music: he produced his own dramatic poems, thus giving dramatic integrity to opera, and making symphony articulate. A Beethoven symphony (except the articulate part of the ninth) expresses noble feeling, but not thought: it has moods, but no ideas. Wagner added thought and produced the music drama. Mozart's loftiest opera, his Ring, so to speak, The Magic Flute, has a libretto which, though none the worse for seeming, like The Rhine Gold, the merest Christmas tomfoolery to shallow spectators, is the product of a talent immeasurably inferior to Mozart's own. The libretto of Don Giovanni is coarse and trivial: its transfiguration by Mozart's music may be a marvel; but nobody will venture to contend that such transfigurations, however seductive, can be as satisfactory as tone poetry or drama in which the musician and the poet are at the same level. Here, then, we have the simple secret of Wagner's preemminence as a dramatic musician. He wrote the poems as well as composed the music of his "stage festival plays," as he called them. Up to a certain point in his career Wagner paid the penalty of undertaking two arts instead of one. Mozart had his trade as a musician at his fingers' ends when he was twenty, because he had served an arduous apprenticeship to that trade and no other. Wagner was very far from having attained equal mastery at thirty-five: indeed he himself has told us that not until he had passed the age at which Mozart died did he compose with that complete spontaneity of musical expression which can only be attained by winning entire freedom from all preoccupation with the difficulties of technical processes. But when that time came, he was not only a consummate musician, like Mozart, but a dramatic poet and a critical and philosophical essayist, exercising a considerable influence on his century. The sign of this consummation was his ability at last to play with his art, and thus to add to his already famous achievements in sentimental drama that lighthearted art of comedy of which the greatest masters, like Moliere and Mozart, are so much rarer than the tragedians and sentimentalists. It was then that he composed the first two acts of Siegfried, and later on The Mastersingers, a professedly comedic work, and a quite Mozartian garden of melody, hardly credible as the work of the straining artifices of Tanehauser. Only, as no man ever learns to do one thing by doing something else, however closely allied the two things may be, Wagner still produced no music independently of his poems. The overture to The Mastersingers is delightful when you know what it is all about; but only those to whom it came as a concert piece without any such clue, and who judged its reckless counterpoint by the standard of Bach and of Mozart's Magic Flute overture, can realize how atrocious it used to sound to musicians of the old school. When I first heard it, with the clear march of the polyphony in Bach's B minor Mass fresh in my memory, I confess I thought that the parts had got dislocated, and that some of the band were half a bar behind the others. Perhaps they were; but now that I am familiar with the work, and with Wagner's harmony, I can still quite understand certain passages producing that effect organ admirer of Bach even when performed with perfect accuracy. THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE The success of Wagner has been so prodigious that to his dazzled disciples it seems that the age of what he called "absolute" music must be at an end, and the musical future destined to be an exclusively Wagnerian one inaugurated at Bayreuth. All great geniuses produce this illusion. Wagner did not begin a movement: he consummated it. He was the summit of the nineteenth century school of dramatic music in the same sense as Mozart was the summit (the word is Gounod's) of the eighteenth century school. And those who attempt to carry on his Bayreuth tradition will assuredly share the fate of the forgotten purveyors of second-hand Mozart a hundred years ago. As to the expected supersession of absolute music, it is sufficient to point to the fact that Germany produced two absolute musicians of the first class during Wagner's lifetime: one, the greatly gifted Goetz, who died young; the other, Brahms, whose absolute musical endowment was as extraordinary as his thought was commonplace. Wagner had for him the contempt of the original thinker for the man of second-hand ideas, and of the strenuously dramatic musician for mere brute musical faculty; but though his contempt was perhaps deserved by the Triumphlieds, and Schicksalslieds, and Elegies and Requiems in which Brahms took his brains so seriously, nobody can listen to Brahms' natural utterance of the richest absolute music, especially in his chamber compositions, without rejoicing in his amazing gift. A reaction to absolute music, starting partly from Brahms, and partly from such revivals of medieval music as those of De Lange in Holland and Mr. Arnold Dolmetsch in England, is both likely and promising; whereas there is no more hope in attempts to out-Wagner Wagner in music drama than there was in the old attempts--or for the matter of that, the new ones--to make Handel the starting point of a great school of oratorio. BAYREUTH When the Bayreuth Festival Playhouse was at last completed, and opened in 1876 with the first performance of The Ring, European society was compelled to admit that Wagner was "a success." Royal personages, detesting his music, sat out the performances in the row of boxes set apart for princes. They all complimented him on the astonishing "push" with which, in the teeth of all obstacles, he had turned a fabulous and visionary project into a concrete commercial reality, patronized by the public at a pound a head. It is as well to know that these congratulations had no other effect upon Wagner than to open his eyes to the fact that the Bayreuth experiment, as an attempt to evade the ordinary social and commercial conditions of theatrical enterprise, was a failure. His own account of it contrasts the reality with his intentions in a vein which would be bitter if it were not so humorous. The precautions taken to keep the seats out of the hands of the frivolous public and in the hands of earnest disciples, banded together in little Wagner Societies throughout Europe, had ended in their forestalling by ticket speculators and their sale to just the sort of idle globe-trotting tourists against whom the temple was to have been strictly closed. The money, supposed to be contributed by the faithful, was begged by energetic subscription-hunting ladies from people who must have had the most grotesque misconceptions of the composer's aims--among others, the Khedive of Egypt and the Sultan of Turkey! The only change that has occurred since then is that subscriptions are no longer needed; for the Festival Playhouse apparently pays its own way now, and is commercially on the same footing as any other theatre. The only qualification required from the visitor is money. A Londoner spends twenty pounds on a visit: a native Bayreuther spends one pound. In either case "the Folk," on whose behalf Wagner turned out in 1849, are effectually excluded; and the Festival Playhouse must therefore be classed as infinitely less Wagnerian in its character than Hampton Court Palace. Nobody knew this better than Wagner; and nothing can be further off the mark than to chatter about Bayreuth as if it had succeeded in escaping from the conditions of our modern civilization any more than the Grand Opera in Paris or London. Within these conditions, however, it effected a new departure in that excellent German institution, the summer theatre. Unlike our opera houses, which are constructed so that the audience may present a splendid pageant to the delighted manager, it is designed to secure an uninterrupted view of the stage, and an undisturbed hearing of the music, to the audience. The dramatic purpose of the performances is taken with entire and elaborate seriousness as the sole purpose of them; and the management is jealous for the reputation of Wagner. The commercial success which has followed this policy shows that the public wants summer theatres of the highest class. There is no reason why the experiment should not be tried in England. If our enthusiasm for Handel can support Handel Festivals, laughably dull, stupid and anti-Handelian as these choral monstrosities are, as well as annual provincial festivals on the same model, there is no likelihood of a Wagner Festival failing. Suppose, for instance, a Wagner theatre were built at Hampton Court or on Richmond Hill, not to say Margate pier, so that we could have a delightful summer evening holiday, Bayreuth fashion, passing the hours between the acts in the park or on the river before sunset, is it seriously contended that there would be any lack of visitors? If a little of the money that is wasted on grand stands, Eiffel towers, and dismal Halls by the Sea, all as much tied to brief annual seasons as Bayreuth, were applied in this way, the profit would be far more certain and the social utility prodigiously greater. Any English enthusiasm for Bayreuth that does not take the form of clamor for a Festival Playhouse in England may be set aside as mere pilgrimage mania. Those who go to Bayreuth never repent it, although the performances there are often far from delectable. The singing is sometimes tolerable, and sometimes abominable. Some of the singers are mere animated beer casks, too lazy and conceited to practise the self-control and physical training that is expected as a matter of course from an acrobat, a jockey or a pugilist. The women's dresses are prudish and absurd. It is true that Kundry no longer wears an early Victorian ball dress with "ruchings," and that Fresh has been provided with a quaintly modish copy of the flowered gown of Spring in Botticelli's famous picture; but the mailclad Brynhild still climbs the mountains with her legs carefully hidden in a long white skirt, and looks so exactly like Mrs. Leo Hunter as Minerva that it is quite impossible to feel a ray of illusion whilst looking at her. The ideal of womanly beauty aimed at reminds Englishmen of the barmaids of the seventies, when the craze for golden hair was at its worst. Further, whilst Wagner's stage directions are sometimes disregarded as unintelligently as at Covent Garden, an intolerably old-fashioned tradition of half rhetorical, half historical-pictorial attitude and gesture prevails. The most striking moments of the drama are conceived as tableaux vivants with posed models, instead of as passages of action, motion and life. I need hardly add that the supernatural powers of control attributed by credulous pilgrims to Madame Wagner do not exist. Prima donnas and tenors are as unmanageable at Bayreuth as anywhere else. Casts are capriciously changed; stage business is insufficiently rehearsed; the public are compelled to listen to a Brynhild or Siegfried of fifty when they have carefully arranged to see one of twenty-five, much as in any ordinary opera house. Even the conductors upset the arrangements occasionally. On the other hand, if we leave the vagaries of the stars out of account, we may safely expect always that in thoroughness of preparation of the chief work of the season, in strenuous artistic pretentiousness, in pious conviction that the work is of such enormous importance as to be worth doing well at all costs, the Bayreuth performances will deserve their reputation. The band is placed out of sight of the audience, with the more formidable instruments beneath the stage, so that the singers have not to sing THROUGH the brass. The effect is quite perfect. BAYREUTH IN ENGLAND I purposely dwell on the faults of Bayreuth in order to show that there is no reason in the world why as good and better performances of The Ring should not be given in England. Wagner's scores are now before the world; and neither his widow nor his son can pretend to handle them with greater authority than any artist who feels the impulse to interpret them. Nobody will ever know what Wagner himself thought of the artists who established the Bayreuth tradition: he was obviously not in a position to criticize them. For instance, had Rubini survived to create Siegmund, it is quite certain that we should not have had from Wagner's pen so amusing and vivid a description as we have of his Ottavio in the old Paris days. Wagner was under great obligations to the heroes and heroines of 1876; and he naturally said nothing to disparage their triumphs; but there is no reason to believe that all or indeed any of them satisfied him as Schnorr of Carolsfeld satisfied him as Tristan, or Schroder Devrient as Fidelio. It is just as likely as not that the next Schnorr or Schroder may arise in England. If that should actually happen, neither of them will need any further authority than their own genius and Wagner's scores for their guidance. Certainly the less their spontaneous impulses are sophisticated by the very stagey traditions which Bayreuth is handing down from the age of Crummles, the better. WAGNERIAN SINGERS No nation need have much difficulty in producing a race of Wagnerian singers. With the single exception of Handel, no composer has written music so well calculated to make its singers vocal athletes as Wagner. Abominably as the Germans sing, it is astonishing how they thrive physically on his leading parts. His secret is the Handelian secret. Instead of specializing his vocal parts after the manner of Verdi and Gounod for high sopranos, screaming tenors, and high baritones with an effective compass of about a fifth at the extreme tiptop of their ranges, and for contraltos with chest registers forced all over their compass in the manner of music hall singers, he employs the entire range of the human voice freely, demanding from everybody very nearly two effective octaves, so that the voice is well exercised all over, and one part of it relieves the other healthily and continually. He uses extremely high notes very sparingly, and is especially considerate in the matter of instrumental accompaniment. Even when the singer appears to have all the thunders of the full orchestra raging against him, a glance at the score will show that he is well heard, not because of any exceptionally stentorian power in his voice, but because Wagner meant him to be heard and took the greatest care not to overwhelm him. Such brutal opacities of accompaniment as we find in Rossini's Stabat or Verdi's Trovatore, where the strings play a rum-tum accompaniment whilst the entire wind band blares away, fortissimo, in unison with the unfortunate singer, are never to be found in Wagner's work. Even in an ordinary opera house, with the orchestra ranged directly between the singers and the audience, his instrumentation is more transparent to the human voice than that of any other composer since Mozart. At the Bayreuth Buhnenfestspielhaus, with the brass under the stage, it is perfectly so. On every point, then, a Wagner theatre and Wagner festivals are much more generally practicable than the older and more artificial forms of dramatic music. A presentable performance of The Ring is a big undertaking only in the sense in which the construction of a railway is a big undertaking: that is, it requires plenty of work and plenty of professional skill; but it does not, like the old operas and oratorios, require those extraordinary vocal gifts which only a few individuals scattered here and there throughout Europe are born with. Singers who could never execute the roulades of Semiramis, Assur, and Arsaces in Rossini's Semiramide, could sing the parts of Brynhild, Wotan and Erda without missing a note. Any Englishman can understand this if he considers for a moment the difference between a Cathedral service and an Italian opera at Covent Garden. The service is a much more serious matter than the opera. Yet provincial talent is sufficient for it, if the requisite industry and devotion are forthcoming. Let us admit that geniuses of European celebrity are indispensable at the Opera (though I know better, having seen lusty troopers and porters, without art or manners, accepted by fashion as principal tenors at that institution during the long interval between Mario and Jean de Reszke); but let us remember that Bayreuth has recruited its Parsifals from the peasantry, and that the artisans of a village in the Bavarian Alps are capable of a famous and elaborate Passion Play, and then consider whether England is so poor in talent that its amateurs must journey to the centre of Europe to witness a Wagner Festival. The truth is, there is nothing wrong with England except the wealth which attracts teachers of singing to her shores in sufficient numbers to extinguish the voices of all natives who have any talent as singers. Our salvation must come from the class that is too poor to have lessons. 
14185	----	EDWARD MACDOWELL A Great American Tone Poet, His Life and Music by JOHN F. PORTE Author of _Edward Elgar_, _Sir Charles V. Stanford_, etc. With a Portrait of Edward MacDowell and Musical Illustrations in the Text New York: E.P. Dutton & Company 681 Fifth Avenue 1922 _I do like the works of the American composer MacDowell! What a musician! He is sincere and personal--what a poet--what exquisite harmonies!--Jules Massenet._ _I consider MacDowell the ideally endowed composer.--Edvard Grieg._ [Illustration] FROM MACDOWELL'S COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LECTURES. (Published as _Critical and Historical Essays_). _For it is in the nature of the spiritual part of mankind to shrink from the earth, to aspire to something higher; a bird soaring in the blue above us has something of the ethereal; we give wings to our angels. On the other hand, a serpent impresses us as something sinister. Trees, with their strange fight against all the laws of gravity, striving upward unceasingly, bring us something of hope and faith; the sight of them cheers us. A land without trees is depressing and gloomy. In spite of the strange twistings of ultra modern music, a simple melody still embodies the same pathos for us that it did for our grandparents. We put our guest, the poetic thought, that comes to us like a homing bird from out the mystery of the blue sky--we put this confiding stranger straightway into that iron bed, the "sonata form," or perhaps even the third rondo form, for we have quite an assortment. Should the idea survive and grow too large for the bed, and if we have learned to love it too much to cut off its feet and thus make it fit (as did that old robber of Attica), why we run the risk of having some critic wise in his theoretical knowledge, say, as was and is said of Chopin, "He is weak in sonata form!" In art our opinions must, in all cases, rest directly on the thing under consideration and not on what is written about it. Without a thorough knowledge of music, including its history and development, and, above all, musical "sympathy," individual criticism is, of course, valueless; at the same time the acquirement of this knowledge and sympathy is not difficult, and I hope that we may yet have a public in America that shall be capable of forming its own ideas, and not be influenced by tradition, criticism, or fashion. Every person with even the very smallest love and sympathy for art possesses ideas which are valuable to that art. From the tiniest seeds sometimes the greatest trees are grown. Why, therefore, allow these tender germs of individualism to be smothered by that flourishing, arrogant bay tree of tradition--fashion, authority, convention, etc. No art form is so fleeting and so subject to the dictates of fashion as opera. It has always been the plaything of fashion, and suffers from its changes. Always respectable in his forms, no one else could have made music popular among the cultured classes as could Mendelssohn. This also had its danger; for if Mendelssohn had written an opera (the lack of which was so bewailed by the Philistines), it would have taken root all over Germany, and put Wagner back many years. Handel's great achievement (besides being a fine composer) was to crush all life out of the then promising school of English music, the foundation of which had been so well laid by Purcell, Byrd, Morley, etc._ (On Mozart). _His later symphonies and operas show us the man at his best. His piano works and early operas show the effect of the "virtuoso" style, with all its empty concessions to technical display and commonplace, ear-catching melody ... He possessed a certain simple charm of expression which, in its directness, has an element of pathos lacking in the comparatively jolly light-heartedness of Haydn. Music can invariably heighten the poignancy of spoken words (which mean nothing in themselves), but words can but rarely, in fact I doubt whether they can ever, heighten the effect of musical declamation. To hear and enjoy music seems sufficient to many persons, and an investigation as to the causes of this enjoyment seems to them superfluous. And yet, unless the public comes into closer touch with the tone poet than the objective state which accepts with the ears what is intended for the spirit, which hears the sounds and is deaf to their import, unless the public can separate the physical pleasure of music from its ideal significance, our art, in my opinion, cannot stand on a sound basis. Music contains certain elements which affect the nerves of the mind and body, and thus possesses the power of direct appeal to the public--a power to a great extent denied to the other arts. This sensuous influence over the hearer is often mistaken for the aim and end of all music.... In declaring that the sensation of hearing music was pleasant to him, and that to produce that sensation was the entire mission of music, a certain English Bishop placed our art on a level with good things to eat and drink. Many colleges and universities of America consider music as a kind of boutonnière.... Low as it is, there is a possibility of building on such an estimate. Could such persons be made to recognize the existence of decidedly unpleasant music, it would be the first step toward a proper appreciation of the art and its various phases. In my opinion, Johann Sebastian Bach, one of the world's mightiest tone poets, accomplished his mission, not by means of the contrapuntal fashion of his age, but in spite of it. The laws of canon and fugue are based upon as prosaic a foundation as those of the rondo and sonata form; I find it impossible to imagine their ever having been a spur or an incentive to poetic musical speech. Overwhelmed by the new-found powers of suggestion in tonal tint and the riot of hitherto undreamed of orchestral combinations, we are forgetting that permanence in music depends upon melodic speech._ PREFACE Owing to the high cost of book production at the present time, the use of illustrations, both musical and photographic, has been restricted in this book. It was decided only to fully illustrate the analysis of MacDowell's "Indian" Suite for Orchestra, _Op. 48_, this being a work less accessible to the general reader than the composer's well known pianoforte pieces. The author gratefully acknowledges the help of:-- Mrs. MacDowell--Information and gift of MacDowell portraits, an original letter and a piece of MS. of the composer. Mr. W.W.A. Elkin--Information and loan of scores. Mr. Charlton Keith--Loan of _D minor Pianoforte Concerto_. Messrs. J. and W. Chester, Ltd.--Information. CONTENTS BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH MACDOWELL AS COMPOSER MACDOWELL THE MAN THE MACDOWELL COLONY REPRODUCTION OF A MACDOWELL LETTER THE MUSIC: WORKS WITH OPUS NUMBERS WORKS WITHOUT OPUS NUMBERS ALPHABETICAL INDEX TO MACDOWELL'S WORKS EDWARD MACDOWELL BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH EDWARD ALEXANDER MACDOWELL was born in New York City, U.S.A., on December 18th, 1861, of American parents descended from a Quaker family of Scotch-Irish extraction who emigrated to America about the middle of the 18th Century. He was their third son. As a boy he studied the pianoforte with Juan Buitrago, a South American, Pablo Desvernine, a Cuban, and for a short time with the famous Venezuelan pianist, Teresa Carreño. He also indulged in childish composition on his own account. He was not a "wonderful" pupil and did not like the drudgery of practising "exercises." When he was fourteen years of age he went to France, accompanied by his mother, to study pianoforte playing and the theory of music at the Paris Conservatoire under Marmontel and Savard respectively. Here one of his fellow students was Debussy, even then looked upon as having curious and unconventional ideas on his art. MacDowell had also to learn the French language, and the person who taught him French discovered that the young American had a decided gift for drawing. He showed one of the boy's sketches to a teacher at the School of Fine Arts, who offered to take the boy as a pupil for three years free of charge, and to be responsible for his maintenance during that time. With his striking imaginative powers and love of Nature, and his appreciation of Historical and Legendary lore, it is very probable that MacDowell might have become distinguished as a painter had he applied himself to painting, for he was a born artist and very fond of sketching, but he refused the offer on the advice of his music teachers, and continued his studies at the Conservatoire. After persevering for a couple of years he grew dissatisfied with the tuition he was receiving, and upon hearing Nicholas Rubinstein play, he determined to go elsewhere. Careful discussion with his mother resulted in their selection of Stuttgart, Germany, whither they accordingly removed, MacDowell entering the Conservatorium there. Here he was soon convinced, however, that the instruction given there was of no use to him, and after having studied under Lebert and Louis Ehlert and having been refused a hearing by Hans von Büllow, he left Stuttgart and entered the Frankfort Conservatorium, where his teachers were Raff, the Principal, for composition, and Carl Heymann for pianoforte playing. Raff was kind and encouraging to the young American, and once said to him, "Your music will be played when mine is forgotten." The influence of Raff's teaching is evident in a number of MacDowell's early compositions, especially the _Forest Idyls, Op. 19_, and the _First Suite for Orchestra, Op. 42_. In 1881 Heyman resigned and nominated MacDowell as his successor, a proposal seconded by Raff. The gifted American, however, possessed the criminal fault, in the eyes of jealous and intolerant old men, of being young; the fact that he was quite capable of filling the vacant post was, to them, a secondary consideration, and he was rejected. He now began to take private pupils, and among them was an American girl, Marian Nevins, who was to become his wife about three years afterwards; the _Forest Idyls, Op. 19_, are dedicated to her. Although he had failed to obtain the vacant professorship at Stuttgart, MacDowell was appointed head teacher of the pianoforte at the Conservatorium in the neighbouring town of Darmstadt. His work here was soul-killing in its drudgery and he soon relinquished it. Apart from his teaching labours, MacDowell had, in the meantime, been composing steadily, and had also been appearing at local orchestral concerts as solo pianist, and in 1882 Raff sent him to Liszt armed with his _First Pianoforte Concerto, Op. 15_. The mighty old Hungarian praised the work highly and also seemed impressed with MacDowell's playing. He was kind to the struggling young American, eventually accepted the dedication of the concerto, and recommended the performance and publication of some of MacDowell's earlier compositions, notably the _First Modern Suite, Op. 10_, and the _Second Modern Suite, Op. 14_. Composition now became more and more the dominating feature in the development of MacDowell's musical genius, although he was still obliged to teach for his living. He was fortunate in being able to persuade local conductors to try over his orchestral works, a thing that was practically impossible in his own country, as he afterwards found. In June, 1884, he returned to the United States, and in the following month (July 21st) he married his former pianoforte pupil, Marian Nevins, in whom he was to find complete happiness and a devoted companion and sympathiser. In the same year Mr. and Mrs. MacDowell returned to Frankfort, after having visited England. In 1885 MacDowell applied for a professorship at the English Royal Academy of Music, but Lady Macfarren, wife of the Principal, was instrumental in securing his rejection on account of his youth, nationality and friendship with Liszt, who, in English Victorian academic eyes, was too "modern." In 1887 MacDowell and his wife, they having returned to Germany, bought a little cottage in the woods some distance from Wiesbaden. They were very friendly with Templeton Strong, another American composer, some of whose works have been played at the Queen's Hall Promenade Concerts in London. In September, 1888, the MacDowells sold their German cottage and returned to their native country, electing to make their home in Boston, Mass. MacDowell found that his European reputation and his music had preceded him to America, and he was well received on the occasion of his first concert in his native country. Most notable were his successes when he played his _Second Pianoforte Concerto, in D minor_ (_Op_. 23), at important orchestral concerts in New York and Boston. In 1889 MacDowell played his D minor concerto in Paris, where more than twelve years before he had been a student, and it was after his return from this visit to France that his fame as a pianist and composer began to spread freely in America. In 1890 his _Second Symphonic Poem, Lancelot and Elaine_ (_Op_. 25), was played under Nikisch at Boston. The year 1891 was a successful one for MacDowell, for it saw two performances of a large orchestral work, _First Suite, in A minor_, he had just completed; the production of his symphonic _Fragments_ (_Op_. 30); and his first pianoforte recital in America. MacDowell's prestige continued to grow steadily. He was invariably received with enthusiasm on the numerous occasions of his public appearances as a pianist, while each new composition he issued was remarkably well received by the public and the newspaper musical critics. The Boston Symphony Orchestra was especially encouraging to him, placing both his _"Indian" Suite, Op. 48_, and his _First Concerto, in A minor, Op. 15_, on the programme of one of its New York concerts. Teresa Carreño, the famous pianist from whom he had had a few lessons when a boy, played some of his music at most of her recitals. She was also instrumental, with the ready help of Sir (then Mr.) Henry J. Wood, in making MacDowell's D minor concerto known in England. The popular London Queen's Hall conductor was impressed with the work, and has ever since recommended it to budding young pianists as a concerto worth studying. The occasion of MacDowell's performance of his D minor concerto with the Philharmonic Society of New York on December 14th, 1894, is worthy of note. He then achieved one of the most conspicuous triumphs of his career. His playing was described by Henry T. Finck, the distinguished American musical critic, as being of "that splendid kind of virtuosity which makes one forget the technique." MacDowell received a tremendous ovation such as was accorded only to a popular prima donna at the opera, or to a famous virtuoso of international reputation. The musical critics generally agreed that the fine feeling and the power of the concerto was as responsible for his remarkable success before the critical Philharmonic audience as his playing of it. The conductor was Anton Seidl. A few months after the above event, MacDowell created a deep impression in the same city by his playing of his _Sonata Tragica, Op. 45_, and some smaller pieces. In 1896 he bought some land near Peterboro, in the south of the state of New Hampshire. In addition to a music room connected by a passage with the house, he built a log cabin in the woods near by, where he could compose in the solitude that was needed for the transcribing of his dreams and inspirations into permanent music form. In the same year (1896) it was decided to found a department of music at Columbia University, New York, and MacDowell, described by the committee formed to appoint a Professor of Music as "the greatest musical genius America has produced," was offered the distinguished, but as it proved, laborious task of organising the new department. After some hesitation he accepted the post, as it would afford him an income free from the precariousness of private teaching. In a letter to the writer, Mrs. MacDowell says: "In taking the position of Professor of Music at Columbia University, Mr. MacDowell went into an environment quite different from anything he had ever experienced before. He had no University training, no knowledge of its methods, and brought to his work an enthusiasm and freshness which eventually meant overcrowded class rooms." During his vacation from the University in 1902-3, he undertook a great concert tour of the United States, going as far west as San Francisco. In 1903 he visited England, and on May 14th played his D minor pianoforte concerto at a concert of the Royal Philharmonic Society in Queen's Hall, London. In 1904 he resigned from Columbia because of a disagreement with the faculty concerning the proper position of music and the fine arts in the curriculum. His plans for a freer and greater relationship between University teaching and liberal public culture were considered impracticable and the authorities rejected them. MacDowell's attitude in the matter was criticised, misunderstood and misrepresented at the time. He was even accused of neglecting the duties of the position he held, whereas, as it afterwards transpired, he had laboured ungrudgingly at his task. It is pleasant to know that his students were among the first to uphold his character. His patience, his droll criticisms, and the illuminating quality of his teaching endeared him to all who studied under him. MacDowell was bitterly disappointed and hurt at the unfavourable reception of his reforming plans, but until the beginning of his fatal illness shortly afterwards, he continued his teaching privately, even giving free lessons to deserving students in whose talent he had faith. His lectures at Columbia University are preserved in permanent form under the title of _Critical and Historical Essays_. In a letter to the writer, Mrs. MacDowell says of the volume, "I think my husband would have felt that just such a title implies a more finished product than one finds, but after his death the demand was very great among his old students that these notes might be preserved in permanent form ... Mr. MacDowell had an extraordinary memory, and seldom had more than mere notes in delivering his lectures. Occasionally in preparing the lectures, without quite realising it, he dictated far more than he had intended, not always using this material in his class room. These Essays represent the result of what he dictated to me as he walked up and down his music room trying to crystallize his ideas; they were printed unedited. I sometimes think one reads in between the lines of these Essays a good deal of what the man was himself." Although the time at his command was restricted, the eight years of MacDowell's Columbia professorship saw the composition of most of his finest works. For two years he was conductor of the Mendelssohn Glee Club, one of the oldest and best Male-voice choruses in the United States, and was also, for a short time, President of the Manuscript Society, an association of American composers. Princeton University and the University of Pennsylvania conferred on him the honorary degree of Doctor of Music. In the spring of 1905, MacDowell began to suffer from nervous exhaustion. Overwork and morbid worry over disagreeable experiences, especially in connection with his resignation from Columbia, brought on insomnia. A quiet summer on his Peterboro property brought no improvement in his condition, and the eminent medical specialists who attended him soon pronounced his case to be a hopeless one of cerebral collapse. He should have rested earlier from both his crowded teaching and his composing. Slowly, but with terrible sureness, his brainpower was beginning to crumble away and his mind became as that of a little child. Day after day he would sit near a window, turning over the pages of one of his beloved books of fairy-tales, an infinitely moving and tragic figure. Time went by and the delicately poised intellect grew more and more dimmed, until at last he hardly recognised his dearest friends. A few months before the end his physical strength, hitherto well preserved, began to fail, until at last he sank rapidly, dying at 9 o'clock in the evening of January 23rd, 1908, at the age of forty-six, in the Westminster Hotel, New York, in the presence of his devoted wife. A simple service was later held at St. George's Episcopal Church, and he was buried on the Sunday following his death. His grave is on an open hilltop of his Peterboro property that he loved, and is marked by a granite boulder on which is a simple bronze tablet bearing the lines inscribed at the head of one of his last pieces, _From a Log Cabin_ (_Op_. 62, _No_. 9), an unconscious prophesy of his own tragic end:-- _A house of dreams untold, It looks out over the whispering tree-tops And faces the setting sun_. The last music that MacDowell published appeared in 1902, and indicated the beginning of a new and deeper note in his creative voice. He felt, too, that he was growing away from pianoforte work and had he lived there would have been further and more representative symphonic poems and at least one symphony from his pen, three movements of the latter being among his unfinished manuscripts. He had hoped for ultimate leisure in which to compose, free from the drudgery of earning his living by teaching, and his last great concert tour was undertaken with the idea of gathering money for the realisation of his dream. The death of MacDowell completed the blow which his failing brain-power had dealt to American music and his many sympathisers, between two and three years before. His spirit lives, however, in his music and in the wonderful MacDowell Colony at Peterboro, New Hampshire. The latter is an amazing realisation of the composer's dream of an ideal environment for creative work in Music, Art and Literature. A chapter describing the Colony will be found further on in this book. In addition to the central organisation, now known as _The Edward MacDowell Association, Incorporated_, there are springing up in many American cities offshoots known as MacDowell Clubs, which contribute towards the expenses of the Colony. MACDOWELL AS COMPOSER Macdowell's position to-day in creative musical art remains the same as it was twenty years ago--one of unassailable independence and individualism. Although these two factors, whether assailable or not, must be a feature of any composer who lays claim to greatness, in MacDowell's case they are so marked as to form the strongest bulwark of his natural position among great music makers. His tone poetry is of a quality and power that is not quite like that of any other composer, and in the portraying, or suggesting, as he preferred to call it, of Natural, Historical and Legendary subjects he stands alone. Superbly gifted as a lyrical poet both in the literary and the musical sense, and with a most refined and keen feeling for the dramatic, he spoke with a voice of singular eloquence and power. Probably his greatest achievement was his remarkable, unerring ability to create atmospheres of widely varied kinds in his music, and in this respect there is no composer quite his equal. The soft beauty, grandeur, vastness and might of Nature; the joys and sorrows of Humanity; the romance of History and imaginative Legend; the buoyancy of sunshine and wind; the mysteriousness of enchanted woods; all these he translated with inimitable vividness into music. He could suggest with as definite and unmistakable a musical atmosphere, the simple beauty of a little wild flower, as the might of the sea; as well the fanciful and imaginative scenes of fairy tale as the wild and lonely vastness of the great American prairies; as well the joviality and humour of his countrymen as the elemental strength, and rude, stern manliness of the North American Indian, and the heroic, stirring atmosphere of the ancient bards. That MacDowell was greater than is generally recognised in England is an opinion that increasingly forces itself on all who study and become closely acquainted with his best work. He is generally admitted to be great in small, lyrical forms, but it is insufficient to regard him merely as a miniaturist. The form of the well-known _Sea Pieces_ (_Op_. 55) for pianoforte is small, for example, and yet the material is big and grand enough for symphonic work. The equally well-known _Woodland Sketches, Op. 51_, contain pieces of charming and delicate conception, as well as broader writing, and can hardly be considered as the products of a restricted inspiration. The poetry is so unmistakably fresh and individual, and the atmosphere so vividly suggested, that the ability of the composer to condense his material into such small compass is remarkable to even the most casual observer. Far from shewing weakness, the small form of MacDowell's compositions is a proof of his strength, for few other composers have been able to suggest such big scenes, often of far-reaching and wide significance, on such small canvasses as those on which he painted his tone poems. The outstanding reason for his preference for writing albums of short pieces (partly due, no doubt, to lack of time for more extended work) was that he loved to seize a passing impression or inspiration and to express it in music before it faded from his mind. Nearly all his small pieces are musical photographs of the fancies of an impressionable and sensitive imagination. The criticism sometimes heard that he was only good in small forms is, however, based on a fallacy due to an imperfect acquaintance with his work and is completely shattered by the indisputable greatness of his two concertos, of his four pianoforte sonatas and of the _"Indian" Suite_ for orchestra. The sonatas, although not all of equal value, comprise some of the finest pianoforte music in existence. They are notable for their passion, breadth of style, massive momentum, dramatic power and eloquence of expression. Admirers think them only equalled by such creations as Beethoven's _Sonata Appassionata_. It is curious that MacDowell's sonatas are infrequently performed, for they bring the resources of the modern pianoforte into full and sonorous play, sweeping the whole of the keyboard with their stirring expressions. It is possible that as they are not in general demand, the average virtuoso does not consider their technical difficulties worth conquering. Nay, it is even doubtful whether the pianist's mind could always rise to the heights of fervent poetry and imagination whither MacDowell was often carried and the memories of which are embodied in his finest music. As a tone poet MacDowell has none of the sensuous emotionalism that wins popularity in the drawing room and at the musical recitals of popular pianists. He is never sentimental and his strength and passion is always finely controlled, never feverish. His music is singularly free from the emotionalisms of sex, the love-impulse with him is always noble and restrained. In all his moods there is a human spirit and some definitely suggested content, the most notable purist exceptions being the two pianoforte concertos. His tone colourings are never used densely or oppressively, but only serve to heighten the suggestiveness of the whole. He loved the pianoforte as an instrument for personal melodic and harmonic expression, and understood the range of its tonal resources. His biggest music for it is written with very broad and extended chords, strong in character, but always wonderfully clear and ringing, and eminently suited for pianoforte sonority. His tone nuances range from a shadowy, mysterious _pppp_ to a virile, massive _ffff_. MacDowell's best orchestral composition is his _Second (Indian) Suite, Op_. 48. This is one of his most noble works, scored with masterly skill and vividly suggesting the great plains and forests, the wild and lonely retreats, the festivals, sorrows, rejoicings, and romances and also the stern, rude manliness of the North American Indians, whose pathetic annals form such a stirring page in American history. MacDowell also wrote three symphonic poems for orchestra, another suite, and some symphonic sketches. The songs of MacDowell make an important section of the catalogue of his works, and are chiefly notable for their beauty and tenderness of expression, and he was at his very best when writing in the pure lyric form. His efforts comprising Ops. 56, 58 and 60 are of a rare and expressive order. He also composed a number of fine part-songs for male-voice choruses. Most of his best vocal works are set to his own verses, as he could seldom satisfy himself that words ally themselves naturally with music. Poetry furnishes a composer with inspiration for expression which, MacDowell felt, could not be clearly demonstrated in a small space, and that the music therefore is apt to distort the words if they are harnessed to it in song form. Most of MacDowell's finest pianoforte pieces bear verses in addition to titles, thus definitely indicating what the music is intended to suggest. His verses are of an uncommon and gifted order, for he was a true poet in both the literary and the musical sense. His poems were collected some years after his death and published under the title of _Book of Verses, by Edward MacDowell_. They are valuable for their own sake, quite apart from their connection with his music, and make very beautiful reading. A number of his wonderfully illuminating Columbia University lectures, to which we have referred more fully in the preceding chapter, were collected and edited by W.J. Baltzell and published in 1912 under the title of _Critical and Historical Essays (Lectures delivered at Columbia University) by Edward MacDowell_. MacDowell's work is of the kind that appeals intimately to those only who understand and feel the significance of things musical. His compositions are seldom mentioned in those terms of effusive adoration so often applied to the works of many well-known composers, neither do they figure largely in the recitals of popular pianists, for minds saturated with sensuous sentiment and the worship of tradition cannot easily follow his pure idealism and the significance of the things which he loved and expressed in his music. His compositions are "modern" in outlook, but remarkably free in spirit and never savour of the type of modernism that is little more than gilded pedanticism. Mention must be made of MacDowell as a pianist. He was capable of playing with remarkable swiftness of finger action, and his tone production ranged from the most delicate refinement to overwhelming floods of orchestral-like strength. In playing his larger works, he loved to make his music sweep in great waves, and to introduce the most wonderful contrasts and varieties of tone colour. At his recitals he played other music besides his own, and became distinguished as a pianist, although his interpretations were always more personal than traditional. MACDOWELL THE MAN The whole nature of MacDowell was singularly impressionable, imaginative, idealistic and romantic. He loved the beauty, grandeur and solemnity of Nature not only for its outward aspect, but for what he thought it symbolised. His sensitive character made him extremely sympathetic towards human nature, although he never used his understanding of his fellow men to cultivate by trickery or device their favour and praise. He loved and idealised the ancient days of romance and chivalry, when men lived the wonderful tales of heroism that are now discredited and fading before the materialism of modern civilisation, and in this respect he had an affinity with the English composer, Elgar. He derived enjoyment from fairy tales and folk-lore, and these were his apparent consolation in his tragic last years. He was a man of rare qualities, noble, sincere and unselfish to an extreme. He hated insincerity in any form, and if he had been more tolerant in this respect his path would have often been easier. He had a curious and charming love for the growing things and creatures of the woods, and although an excellent shot, he could never enjoy hunting or shooting, as it hurt him to kill birds or animals. He abhorred the copying, by Americans, of European aristocratic "sport," for the nobleness of his nature could not descend to the vicious customs of those only noble by assumption or in title. His intellectual bearing, his catholicity of tastes and his learning presented a striking contrast to the narrow outlook and brainlessness of the average high-brow type of musician, and in this respect again he was like Elgar. He dipped deeply into literature, both ancient and contemporary, and was always working out aesthetic and philosophic problems concerning music. His knowledge of his art would have done justice to a learned academician, though this he certainly was not, and he always held shrewdly formed opinions typical of his countrymen, on subjects that interested him. He had a healthy dislike of fashionable "at-homes" and dinner parties where music is "adored" and "loved" by those who may have a good knowledge of social matters, but who have little or no ability to comprehend the deeper significance and power of the art. In fact one suspects that they adopt high-class music chiefly in an attempt to indicate an intellectual status they do not possess. For sincere and able criticism, however, MacDowell always had respect and interest, and he was always touched by what he thought was honest praise and admiration. In quiet conversation he was the most charming of men, but in social gatherings he was ill at ease, and unable to take part in the tactful conversation and studied courtesies of society that make for success. His convictions were passionately idealistic, and he often stated them with a bluntness and utter lack of diplomacy that would have made Beethoven claim him as a brother; although MacDowell felt none of that old giant's bitterness towards Society. Where Beethoven felt contempt for even the praise of those he knew were not great enough to understand him, MacDowell was merely uncomfortable; both because he hated insincere attentions and because his modesty would seldom allow him to believe that he deserved even honest congratulations.[Note: When in London in 1903, MacDowell was asked to give some recitals from his compositions, after the Philharmonic performance of his _D minor Piano Concerto_, but on seeing the heavy recital list at Wigmore (then Bechstein) Hall, he characteristically decided that nobody would want to hear his music after all the other pianists had played. His London publisher, Mr. W. Elkin. however, asked him to come the following year, which he promised to do, but his fatal illness intervened and he never saw England again.] He was often sarcastic, with the humour of his countrymen, but never bitter, and even when he was so cruelly misunderstood and misrepresented about his Columbia resignation, he was more hurt and disappointed than angry. In his private life MacDowell's was a healthy, manly and robust figure. He was fond of outdoor life, of riding and walking, and of the homely hobbies of gardening, photography and carpentry. He was fairly tall, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. His features were strong and intellectual, but a captivating twinkle and humour in his eyes and a frequent sweetness of expression prevented his being stern or forbidding. He had a natural, noble bearing and an unassuming, thoughtful dignity that often gave him a look of command. In short, MacDowell was as fine as a man as he was as a composer. He loved the traditions of the great Republic whose born citizen he was, and was hopeful of her future in all things, and for her art he worked nobly and unselfishly. He suffered from discouragement in an acute form, but worked steadily on with a simple, unshakable faith in his divine gifts. At the height of his fame he was never unapproachable, but always had a kindly thought for the struggling student of limited means; and although his plans at Columbia University were defeated, he gave free private lessons to poor students of talent. His noble and unselfish action in this regard has not often been equalled among past and present successful musicians. MacDowell was very modest about his work, but he was quite conscious of the greatness of his gifts, and he had the ambition to make a name, not merely for his own sake, but also that America might be able to hold up her head as proudly in music as she does in other things. The idea of purely personal fame seldom entered his head and when it did it made him rather uncomfortable, but his belief that he was gifted and destined to make a name for his country, sustained him in the struggle against the endless drudgery that always dogged the free use of his talents. One of MacDowell's dearest wishes was that America should have a musical public capable of judging in an intellectual, educated and sincere manner the merits of music and musicians, uninfluenced by traditions and reputations introduced from other countries. He wanted Americans to encourage their own men in Music, Art and Literature and not to respect a third-rate artist simply because he came from a foreign country having traditions of culture. He insisted on the American composer being treated on absolutely equal terms with the foreigner and according to his merits. THE MACDOWELL COLONY This account of that remarkable haven for creative artists known as the "MacDowell Colony," situated at Peterboro', New Hampshire, U.S.A., about three hours from Boston, is a reprint of the prospectus of the "Edward MacDowell Association." The Colony owes a great debt to the untiring enthusiasm and energy of Mrs. MacDowell, who also finds time to give frequent recitals in various American cities of her late husband's music. In the opinion of many who know of her work, she is only comparable to Madame Schumann, in her practical devotion to her great husband's music and to the realisation of his ideals. A DREAM COME TRUE Speaking of nationalism in music--and the remark holds true of nationalism in all the arts--Edward MacDowell once said: "Before a people can find a musical writer to echo its genius, it must first possess men who truly represent the people, that is to say, men who, being part of the people, love the country for itself, and put into their music what the nation has put into its life." When MacDowell defined the essentials of a characteristic national culture, he did not know that his name would one day be associated with an enterprise ideally fitted to supply these essentials. MacDowell had a dream which he hoped might be converted into reality. This dream was shaped by influences from two different sources--an abandoned farm in New Hampshire and the American Academy at Rome. He was one of the trustees of the American Academy at Rome. In this capacity he met intimately a remarkable group of men--John W. Alexander, Augustus St. Gaudens, Richard Watson Gilder, Charles McKim, and Frank D. Millet. Contact with these men proved an inspiration to MacDowell and convinced him that there was nothing more broadening to the worker in one art than affiliation with workers in the other arts. In 1895 MacDowell purchased an old farm in Peterborough. In the deep woods, about ten minutes from the little farmhouse he built a log cabin: "A house of dreams untold It looks out over the whispering tree-tops And faces the setting sun." There he did much of his best work and there he liked to dream of a day when other artists could work in just such beautiful and peaceful surroundings. This is the dream that has come true. Until MacDowell went to Peterborough he had worked under the usual difficult conditions. During the winter he lived in the city amidst noisy surroundings; in the summer he went the rounds of country hotels and boarding-houses. Even the comparative independence of his own house never gave him the quiet and isolation that he craved at times, for there is no household whose wheels can be instantly adjusted to the needs of one member. For years MacDowell tried one makeshift after another until at last in the Log Cabin he found exactly what he needed. During the last year of MacDowell's life a society was incorporated under the name of the Edward MacDowell Memorial Association. The purpose of the society was to establish in America a fitting memorial to the work and life of the American composer along lines of MacDowell's own suggestion. A sum of about thirty thousand dollars had been raised for MacDowell's benefit. This amount was entrusted to the Association. Mrs. MacDowell deeded to the Association the farm at Peterborough and the contents of MacDowell's home. The Association at once undertook the development of what has since become known as the "Peterborough idea" and before MacDowell's death had actually established, in a modest way, a Colony for Creative Artists. LIFE IN THE COLONY In an article in the North American Review, Edwin Arlington Robinson writes: "It is practically impossible for me to say, even to myself, just what there is about this place that compels a man to work out the best that there is in him and to be discontented if he fails to do so. The abrupt and somewhat humiliating sense of isolation, liberty, and opportunity which overtakes one each morning has something to do with it, but this sense of opportunity does not in itself explain everything ... The MacDowell Colony is in all probabilities about the worst place in which to conceal one's lack of a creative faculty." There is nothing camp-like about the place either in appearance or in manner of life. There are comfortable living houses for the men and women with all the conveniences of running water, electric light, and telephone. A common dining room is in Colony Hall. Here good wholesome food is served as it would be in any well-managed household. This much for the creature comforts. For the other and the more important side of Colony life there are fifteen individual studios scattered here and there through the woods. The daily routine of life in the Colony is somewhat as follows: After breakfast there is a quick scattering of the residents as each one hurries off to his studio. It may be recalled here what an important place MacDowell's Log Cabin plays in this scheme, and how the idea has been to reproduce for as many people as might be in the Colony conditions similar to those MacDowell enjoyed--a comfortable home and an isolated workshop. Each one of the fifteen studios is out of sound and sight of the others. In order that the writer or painter may not be disturbed by the sound of a piano, the composers' studios are as isolated as possible. All the studios have open fireplaces and pleasant verandahs and are furnished simply but always attractively. Each studio has been planned for its own particular site. Some are hidden in the woods, some command views of Monadnock or East Mountain, and some long vistas through the trees. In order that the working day may be long and uninterrupted, at noon a basket lunch is left at each studio. Dinner is the time for relaxation and social intercourse. Long pleasant evenings are passed in the big living room of Colony Hall which is also the library, or in the Regina Watson Studio which is near Colony Hall and in the evening is used as a general music room, or in leisurely walks to the village. It should perhaps be added that daily life in the Colony is not the cut and dried affair that this quick resume might seem to imply. No one, of course, is required to stay in his studio all day. No one is required to do anything. These artists are independent men and women, not supervised students, and to all intents they are as free as the wind. There are only two rules to which every one must conform. One is that the studios, with the one exception of the music-room, shall not be used at night. The reason for this rule is the danger of fire. The other rule is that no one shall visit another's studio without invitation. The purpose of this rule is protection against unexpected interruptions. In all other ways the colonist is free to do as he pleases--free except for that irresistible compulsion to work which nobody who lives in the Colony can escape. For, as Mr. Robinson says, the Colony is "the worst loafing place in the world." THE TRIUMPH OF EFFORT A curious distrust of idealistic enterprises prevails in the world even among people whose own life work is idealistic. This distrust the MacDowell Colony has had to fight from the start. It has had to prove that its ideals are practical. It has had to demonstrate this to the very workers for whom it was founded and who should from their own experience have clearly understood the advantages it offers. Gradually, in the face of discouraging skepticism and in spite of inadequate equipment, it has won recognition and support. Its triumph over initial obstacles is best illustrated by the extent to which it has grown and by the number of earnest art workers who have availed themselves of its opportunities. Starting with MacDowell's home, his Log Cabin, and two hundred acres of land, the Colony now has five hundred acres of land, including three hundred and fifty acres of forest and a farm in good cultivation, well equipped farm buildings, fifteen studios, and five dwelling houses. There is also Colony Hall, a very large barn which through the generosity of Mrs. Benjamin Prince is being converted into a beautiful building. Colony Hall is the social centre of the Colony. The John W. Alexander Memorial Building, to be used for summer exhibitions of paintings and sculptures, is now under construction and will soon be completed. The Colony has also amassed equipment of another sort including the splendid Cora Dow library of some three thousand volumes and a most valuable collection of scores and costumes. Furthermore a superb open air theatre for outdoor festivals of music and drama has lately been completed. The beautiful stadium seats of this theatre are a gift from the National Federation of Musical Clubs. Such growth in the physical plant of any enterprise is evidence enough of an actual, tangible success. The number of artists who have availed themselves of the advantages offered by the Colony are proof of another kind of success. A SOCIAL ASSET It should be clearly understood that the MacDowell Colony is in no sense a philanthropic enterprise. Although it does strive as far as possible to lower the barriers which lack of means so often places in the path of talent, yet it is not intended primarily for the impecunious. The qualification for admission to the Colony is talent. A prospective colonist must either have some fine achievement to his credit, or be possessed of a talent for which two recognized artists in his own field are willing to vouch. The directors of the Association consider that it is a sound economic policy to offer the advantages of the Colony at a nominal price. They look upon the amount paid by the residents for board and lodging as the directors of a university look upon the tuition fees paid by the students. These fees are as much as the students can be expected to pay, yet they do not go far toward defraying the entire expenses of the university. The real return to be made by the student is that later contribution to society which in all likelihood will be more important on account of his years of study in the university. Similarly the directors of the Association are carrying on their undertaking for the enrichment of American Art and Letters. Like the university, the Colony must have either public or private support. In a civilization like ours where the social significance of creative art is not yet popularly recognized, support for an enterprise like the MacDowell Colony cannot be expected from the government. Such support must come from individuals. This is the reason why the directors of the MacDowell Association are appealing at this time to the friends and patrons of American art to help them raise an endowment of two hundred thousand dollars. Up to the present most of the necessary funds have been raised through the personal efforts of Mrs. MacDowell. The Directors feel that the time has come when her strength, never very great, must be more carefully conserved by lifting from her shoulders this very heavy financial burden. The Colony has had an amazing twelve years of life. Shall its future be threatened by lack of permanent income? A CHANGE IN NAME The name of the Edward MacDowell Memorial Association has been changed to the Edward MacDowell Association, Incorporated. The use of the word _Memorial_ has sometimes given people the mistaken idea that the work of the Association was in the nature of propaganda for the MacDowell music. MacDowell's work is finished. His music has long since spoken for itself and has gained whatever hearing it deserves. The concern of the Association is for contemporary work and for the future of American art in all its branches--this and nothing else. [Illustration: Handwritten Letter.] To the Hof-Capellmeister Dr. Haase, Darmstadt, 19th Oct., 1885. DEAR MR. HOF-CAPELLMEISTER, I permit myself to address you in the hope that you may perhaps feel inclined to have a little work of mine listed on a convenient occasion at a theatre. The Opus would take _at most_ 15-20 minutes in performance. Tune and scores are throughout clearly and correctly copied. You would infinitely oblige me if you would have the great kindness to grant my request. In the hope of receiving your early and favourable answer, I am, With great respect, Yours gratefully, E.A. MACDOWELL. THE MUSIC ANALYTICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE NOTES ON MACDOWELL'S COMPOSITIONS IN ORDER OF OPUS NUMBER. WORKS UNNUMBERED FOLLOW ON _NOTE_.--_In the British Empire, the more important of MacDowell's pianoforte pieces and songs published in America by Arthur P. Schmidt are obtainable from Elkin & Co., Ltd_., 8 & 10, _Beak Street, London, W.I., who issue a list of the composer's works they sell. Other MacDowell compositions are mostly obtainable through J. & W. Chester, Ltd_., II _Great Marlborough Street, London, W.I. Ops_. 24, 28 & 31 _are issued by Winthrop Rogers, Ltd_., 18, _Berners Street, London, W.I. In America, Arthur P. Schmidt for all MacDowell works_. OPUS 1 TO OPUS 8. Destroyed by the Composer. OPUS 9. TWO OLD SONGS, FOR VOICE AND PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1894. (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Deserted_. 2. _Slumber Song_. The _Two Old Songs, Op. 9_, head the list of MacDowell's published works with opus numbers. Their position in it, however, is somewhat misleading to the casual observer of the composer's artistic development, for they are the fruits of a mature period and were given the opus number they bear only as a matter of convenience. They were composed about ten or eleven years after the songs of Ops. 11 and 12, which in comparison with the _Two Old, Songs_ are weak and devoid of individuality and originality. The _Two Old Songs_ are very beautiful and expressive, exhibiting the composer's melodic gift. _Deserted_ is a setting of Robert Burns's lines, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." It is one of the most expressive of MacDowell's songs, being full of deep and very human pathos. The melody is one of the most poignant he set down, but it is subjected to repetition that becomes monotonous. The song is expressively indicated _Slow: With pathos, yet simply_. _Slumber Song_ is a setting of some of the composer's own lines, "Dearest, sleep sound." The song presents a fairly good mating of words and music, and its expression is a lovable one, inimitably MacDowell-like in effect. OPUS 10. FIRST MODERN SUITE, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Frankfort, 1880. First Played, July 11th, 1882, by the composer, at the Ninth Annual Convention of the General Society of German Musicians, held at Zurich. First Published, 1883_ (Breitkopf & Härtel). _Dedicated to Mrs. Joachim Raff_. 1. _Præludium_. 2. _Presto_. 3. _Andantino and Allegretto_. 4. _Intermezzo_. 5. _Rhapsody_. 6. _Fugue_. The first public performance of this suite was secured by Liszt, whom MacDowell had interviewed and who was entrusted with the making up of the programmes of the General Society of German Musicians at that time. It was on Liszt's recommendation, too, that this suite and its successor, the _Second Modern Suite for Pianoforte, Op. 14_, were published by Breitkopf and Härtel at Leipzig. The _First Modern Suite_ is of comparatively little importance to-day as music, but it is well written and interesting as an early work by MacDowell. Some significance may be attached to the fact that we find two movements of the suite bearing quotations showing their source of inspiration and suggesting their poetic content. Suggestive titles and verses are an outstanding feature of all MacDowell's later and finest works. Two movements of the suite were first heard in London in March, 1885, at a concert composed of American music. OPUS 11 AND OPUS 12. FIVE SONGS, FOR VOICE AND PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1883 (C.F. Kahnt Nachfolger. British Empire--Elkin & Co.). 1. _My Love and I_ (_Op. 11, No. 1_). 2. _You Love Me Not!_ (_Op. 11, No. 2_). 3. _In the Sky, where Stars are Glowing_ (_Op. 11, No. 3_). 4. _Night Song_ (_Op. 12, No. 1_). 5. _The Chain of Roses_ (_Op. 12, No. 2_). These songs are interesting as the first examples published of MacDowell's work in this form of composition. They are well written and obviously sincere, which is in itself a merit rare in song writing, but they have little of the individual charm and beauty of expression found in the composer's later song groups. _My Love and I_ is the most popular of the set, having a certain distinctive charm of its own. OPUS 13. PRELUDE AND FUGUE, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1883. (Revised Edition--Arthur P. Schmidt). This is a well-written number in conventional form, but it is obviously foreign to MacDowell's temperament, which was only at its best in subjects having some definite poetical basis. The work was later revised by the composer, and while quite a good example of its form, as a MacDowell work it is unconvincing. OPUS 14. SECOND MODERN SUITE, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Frankfort-Darmstadt_, 1881. _First Published_, 1883 (Breitkopf & Härtel). _Dedicated to Camille Saint-Saens._ 1. _Præludium_. 2. _Fugato_. 3. _Rhapsody_. 4. _Scherzino_. 5. _March_. 6. _Fantastic Dance_. Much of this music was composed in the makeshift studio of a German railway carriage, while the composer was travelling to and fro to give lessons, between Frankfort and Darmstadt and from one of these to Erbach-Fürstenau, the latter place entailing a typically tiring Continental journey. The suite, like its predecessor, the _First Modern Suite for Pianoforte, Op. 10_, was published at Leipzig by Breitkopf and Härtel on the recommendation of Liszt. The music is of little importance to-day, although it is melodious and well written. The opening _Præludium_ foreshadows the composer's later regard for significance of expression, for it bears an explanatory quotation from Byron's _Manfred_. Teresa Carreño, the masculine woman pianist, from whom MacDowell had received one or two early lessons in pianoforte playing, performed the _Suite_ in New York City on March 8th, 1884, and toured three movements of it in the following year, in other parts of the United States. OPUS 15. FIRST CONCERTO, IN A MINOR, FOR PIANOFORTE AND ORCHESTRA. _Composed, Frankfort_, 1882. _First Published_, 1885 (Breitkopf & Härtel). _Dedicated to Franz Liszt._ 1. _Maestoso, Allegro con fuoco._ 2. _Andante Tranquillo._ 3. _Presto_--_Maestoso_--_Molto piu lento_--_Presto_. Joachim Raff frightened MacDowell into composing this concerto. He called on his young American pupil one day and asked him what he had in hand? MacDowell, who stood in great awe of his master, was confused and hardly knowing what he was saying replied that he "was working at a concerto." Raff told him to bring it along on the following Sunday, but when that day arrived MacDowell had only the first movement completed, which had been commenced as soon as Raff had left him. He evaded his appointment, and his master named the following Sunday for their meeting, but MacDowell's visit had to be further postponed until the following Tuesday, and by that day he had finished the concerto. On Raff's advice he took the work to Liszt, arranging a second pianoforte part for the purpose. The old master received him kindly and asked D'Albert, who was present, to play the second pianoforte. At the finish he not only complimented MacDowell on his composition, but on his ability as a pianist, which pleased the young American immensely, for he had not yet come to regard his compositions as of any value, and pianoforte playing was his first study. Afterwards MacDowell wrote to Liszt asking him to accept the dedication of the concerto, which the venerable Hungarian did. The _First Pianoforte Concerto_ hardly ranks as one of MacDowell's finest works, it having been written before he had attained, in any notable degree, to his mature impressionist style. It is, however, brilliantly written, bold and original in harmonic treatment and full of youthful fire and vigour. With the second concerto (_Op. 23_), it is one of his few large works not having some definitely indicated poetic content. If it has not the significant expression of its greater successors, it has at least a strength and fervency that indicate a youthful genius of no common order. Its interest is not of mere historic value as an early example of MacDowell's work, for it can be performed to-day with success. It has a lasting white heat of inspiration and even in the light of the composer's greater works it still sounds remarkably brilliant and fresh. The influence of Teutonic training is evident and although the concerto cannot now be considered as thoroughly representative of MacDowell, it has a confident bearing and a certain individuality that mark it as something considerably more than a mere academic experiment. It must always be remembered, however, that a two-page piece from _Sea Pieces, Op. 55_, or _New England Idyls, Op. 62_, or any mature work by MacDowell is of greater artistic value than the whole of the concerto in question. OPUS 16. SERENATA, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1883. (Revised Edition--Arthur P. Schmidt.) This is a weak and unimportant work in MacDowell's catalogue. The conventional _morceau_ style did not suit his type of genius even before it was fully developed. Some years later the composer revised the piece, but it is still of little value, despite its outward grace and charm. OPUS 17. TWO FANTASTIC PIECES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1884 (J. Hainauer). (Revised Edition of No. 2--Arthur P. Schmidt.) 1. _Legend._ 2. _Witches' Dance_ (_Hexentanz_). The _Legend_ is interesting and by stretching the imagination may suggest some fantastic fairy tale, but its chief merit is that it is more in keeping with MacDowell's natural gift for musical suggestion than are the preceding pianoforte pieces, and also the succeeding ones comprising _Op. 18_. The _Witches' Dance_ became popular with pianoforte virtuosi, being better known under its German title of _Hexentanz_. MacDowell grew to detest its shallow outlook and the appeal it made to the flashy pianist, although he himself played it in public as late as 1891. He revised both the _Two Fantastic Pieces_ some years after their original publication. OPUS 18. TWO PIECES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1884 (J. Hainauer). (Revised Edition of No. 1--Arthur P. Schmidt.) 1. _Barcarolle in F._ 2. _Humoresque in A._ These are two more unimportant pieces in conventional style, indicating that MacDowell had not realized at that time just where his true genius lay. The revised version of _Barcarolle_ made some years after its original publication, fails to make it convincing, although it has a certain outward charm and is well written in the particular style of piece of which it is an example. Poetic significance, as we know it in MacDowell's representative works, is conspicuous by its absence in these two compositions. OPUS 19. FOREST IDYLS, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1884. New Edition, 1912 (C. F. Kahnt Nachfolger. British Empire--Elkin & Co.). _Dedicated to Miss Marian Nevins._ 1. _Forest Stillness._ 2. _Play of the Nymphs._ 3. _Rêverie._ 4. _Dance of the Dryads._ These pieces are noteworthy as early attempts at significant expression and the consequent foreshadowing of MacDowell's mature period. Their suggesting of their particular subjects as indicated in the titles is fairly well done, but they are of little importance as music, reflecting as they do the nineteenth century German romanticism that had already been fully exploited by Schumann and others. There is little of the individuality of MacDowell in any of the _Forest Idyls_. The dedication is interesting, for Miss Marian Nevins became Mrs. MacDowell in the year of the original publication of the pieces. The revised edition of _Forest Idyls_ now in circulation in England is by Robert Teichmüller, and was issued in 1912. MacDowell himself revised the _Rêverie_ (No. 3) and the _Dance of the Dryads_ (No. 4) in his later period, and these are published in America by Arthur P. Schmidt. 1. _Forest Stillness_ is an _Adagio_, opening with softly breathed chords _misterioso_. The effect is one of deep stillness, but soon becomes dull and burdensome, seeming to lack that touch of genius found in the composer's later works, which are able to preserve their interest throughout. 2. _Play of the Nymphs_ is technically clever and brilliant, but lacks interest and is too spun out. 3. _Reverie_ is a short and tuneful little piece with little or nothing MacDowell-like in it and much of nineteenth century German romanticism and harmonies. It has been arranged for orchestra, and for pianoforte and strings. 4. _Dance of the Dryads_ would doubtless attract lovers of the Sydney Smith type of salon music, if there are any of them left. It opens in quite a bewitching dance manner and then goes on tinkling away on top notes, with chromatic runs, half floating arpeggios and all the rest of the stock-in-trade of pretty salon music. There are, however, some rather characteristic touches in it, which distinguish it from its companions. The key transitions from A flat major through distant D major and then F sharp major in bars 22, 23 and 24 (Teichmüller 1912 Edition) respectively are quite personal. OPUS 20. THREE POEMS, FOR PIANOFORTE DUET. _Composed, Winter_, 1884-5. _First Published_, 1886 (J. Hainauer). 1. _Nights at Sea._ 2. _Tale of the Knights._ 3. _Ballade._ Like the _Forest Idyls, Op. 19_, these pieces have a definite poetic basis, but are conceived in a manner that only slightly suggests the individuality of the composer. They are quite musical and well written for a pianoforte duet, but lack the sustained interest one expects to find in MacDowell's work. OPUS 21. MOON PICTURES AFTER HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN, FOR PIANOFORTE DUET. _Composed, Winter_, 1884-5. _First Published_, 1886 (J. Hainauer). 1. _The Hindoo Maiden._ 2. _Stork's Story._ 3. _In Tyrol._ 4. _The Swan._ 5. _Visit of the Bear._ The titles of these pieces are quite characteristic of MacDowell, and are early indications of his love of the imaginative and fanciful atmosphere of fairy tales. The pieces were originally intended to form a suite for orchestra, but the opportunity arose to have them printed as pianoforte duets and the composer was not in a financial position to refuse the offer. Unfortunately he destroyed the orchestral sketches. The _Moon Pictures_ are as a whole charming and imaginative in conception, and represent the fancies of the immortal Hans Andersen, although they are far from being truly representative of MacDowell as we now know him. OPUS 22. FIRST SYMPHONIC POEM, HAMLET AND OPHELIA, FOR FULL ORCHESTRA. _Composed, Frankfort, Winter_, 1884-5. _First Published_, 1885 (J. Hainauer). _Dedicated to Henry Irving and Ellen Terry._ With the appearance of _Hamlet and Ophelia_ MacDowell found his reputation considerably increasing. The work was performed in a number of German towns soon after its first appearance, and within a year following its publication the _Ophelia_ section was performed in the composer's native city, New York. In the year following this latter event, the _Hamlet_ section was played in the same city. The first complete performance at Boston, Mass., was on January 28th, 1893, the Boston Symphony Orchestra playing with Nikisch as conductor. _Hamlet and Ophelia_ really consists of two separate poems for orchestra, and was first published in that form, but MacDowell himself afterwards authorised its alteration into one work, and he named it _First Symphonic Poem_. The piece is not an altogether unworthy product of his genius. It bears unmistakable evidence of Teutonic influence, but there is a certain originality of thought and a freshness of spirit about it that make for serious work. It was by far the most important of MacDowell's music up to this period, for in addition to a skill and brilliance of harmonic and orchestral colouring, it has a depth of feeling and fuller exposition of personality than its predecessors. It has a sense of romance, a beauty of melodic outline and an attempted justification of title that are, at least, sincerely effected, and although it is far from being one of its author's representative works, it must be remembered that he was but twenty-four years of age at its completion. As a youthful achievement it is very fine, the creation of a gifted, though immature, tone poet, and full of a promise that the future was to amply fulfil. The title and dedication of the work are interesting, and both indicate its link with the English dramatic world. The performance of the English Shakespearian actors, Sir Henry Irving and Ellen Terry, inspired MacDowell whilst in London in 1884, on his honeymoon trip with Mrs. MacDowell. OPUS 23. SECOND CONCERTO, IN D MINOR, FOR PIANOFORTE AND ORCHESTRA. _Probably Commenced Early in 1885 at Frankfort. Completed at Wiesbaden the same year._ _First Performance in New York City, March 5th 1889, at Chickering Hall, by the Composer and Orchestra Conducted by Theodore Thomas._ _First Published_, 1890 (Breitkopf & Härtel). _Dedicated to Teresa Carreño._ 1. _Larghetto calmato_--_Poco piu mosso._ 2. _Presto giocoso._ 3. _Largo_--_molto Allegro, etc._ This is the most frequently played of MacDowell's two concertos for pianoforte. It is much the finer of the two, being constructed with greater skill and artistic confidence than the _First Concerto, Op. 15_, and of all the works of MacDowell's early period it is the most enduring. Like its predecessor, it is one of the composer's few compositions that have no definitely indicated poetic content. As a whole it is a work full of feeling, brilliantly cohesive and logical, with good material that is handled with confident skill, but it is not to be compared with even the small works of the composer's mature period, which commences with his _Opus_ 47. Its character, however, is altogether strong and virile, containing many passages of pure tonal beauty and eloquent expressiveness. The orchestra is written for with skill and imagination and is on equal terms with the solo instrument. The only fault of the work is that its pianoforte part is far too continuously brilliant. The concerto was enthusiastically received on MacDowell's first performances of it in New York in March, 1889, and in Boston a month later. On July 12th of the same year he played it in Paris. His playing of it at a concert of the New York Philharmonic Society on December 14th, 1894, was a memorable one and created a furore, and he not only had to bow several times after each movement, but at the end was given a storm of cheering and recalled again and again to receive the acknowledgments of the Philharmonic audience, which could be very critical when occasion demanded. On May 14th, 1903, MacDowell visited London and played the concerto at a concert given by the venerable Royal Philharmonic Society held at Queen's Hall. The work had been first played in London (Crystal Palace) three years previously, by Carreño. OPUS 24. FOUR PIECES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Wiesbaden, Early Summer_, 1887. _First Published_, 1887 (J. Hainauer. British Empire--Winthrop Rogers, Ltd.). 1. _Humoresque._ 2. _March._ 3. _Cradle Song._ 4. _Czardas_ (_Friska_). The interval of time between the preceding work and these pieces is explained by the fact that MacDowell and his wife had been travelling, and the latter had passed through a dangerous illness at Wiesbaden. The _Four Pieces for Pianoforte_ (__ 24) were among the first productions of the composer after his return to Wiesbaden, and date from that delightful period when he lived with his wife in a cottage in the woods, some way from the town. The pieces under notice are tuneful and well written, but quite devoid of the individuality that distinguishes the composer's later works. The brilliant _Czardas_ was revised by MacDowell in his later period. OPUS 25. SECOND SYMPHONIC POEM, LANCELOT AND ELAINE, FOR FULL ORCHESTRA. _Composed, Wiesbaden_, 1887-8. _First American Performance at Boston, Mass., January 10th_, 1890, _at a Symphony Concert Conducted by Nikisch. First Published_, 1888 (J. Hainauer). _Dedicated to Templeton Strong._ MacDowell was not long in returning to the domain of symphonic music, the _First Symphonic Poem_, _Hamlet and Ophelia, Op. 22_, and the _Second Pianoforte Concerto, Op. 23_, having been composed only about two or three years previously and separated from it in order of opus number merely by a group of unimportant piano pieces comprising _Op. 24_. _Lancelot and Elaine_ has its poetical basis in the legends of King Arthur's days, which MacDowell loved to read about and idealize. The work as a whole follows Tennyson's poem and is essentially programme music. It is impressively scored, rich and sonorous in harmonic treatment and full of strikingly vivid and expressive poetical feeling. The brilliance of the tournament; the loveliness of Elaine; the nobleness of Lancelot; the scene of the maiden's funeral barge floating down the river, and the knight's ensuing grief--all are graphically illustrated in MacDowell's tone poem. The work embraces moods and colours from brilliant exhilaration to sombreness and poignant emotion. The climaxes are stirring and coherent, and in many places the music really attains to a considerable amount of dramatic power, contrasted by passages of infinitely expressive tenderness. The whole thing was evidently composed in a state of fervent inspiration and the feeling of Teutonic influence, which was still over MacDowell at that time, is forgotten in the power and beauty of his tone poetry, already becoming individual and distinct from that of other composers. OPUS 26. FROM AN OLD GARDEN, FOR VOICE AND PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Wiesbaden_, 1887. _First Published_, 1887 (G. Schirmer). 1. _The Pansy._ 2. _The Myrtle._ 3. _The Clover._ 4. _The Yellow Daisy._ 5. _The Bluebell._ 6. _The Mignonette._ These songs are purely lyrical and are quite delightful examples of MacDowell's work in this form, which he was to afterwards uphold as a beautiful medium for song writing. They are not quite of his very best output, but make charming solo numbers and are free from vocal emotionalism. Many flower songs of other composers are harnessed to highly emotional subjects and tend to become love-songs, MacDowell's songs are a welcome relief in their purely lyrical outlook. It will be noticed that the titles of the songs in this group are all of the simple type of flowers such as he loved, the gaudy, heavy and carefully cultivated blossoms being conspicuous by their absence. It will serve no purpose here to suggest which of the songs is the best, for each has its own particular charm and it is more a matter of taste and fancy than judgment as to which are the favourites. OPUS 27. THREE PART-SONGS, FOR MALE CHORUS. _Composed, Wiesbaden_, 1887. _First Published_, 1890 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _In the Starry Sky Above Us._ 2. _Springtime._ 3. _The Fisher-boy._ These are spirited and well written part-songs. They contain expressive matter and make good and contrasting numbers for male-voice choirs. The fact that they savour of the influence of the German romantic school does not detract from their general merit, although they are not truly MacDowell-like. OPUS 28. SIX LITTLE PIECES, IDYLS (AFTER GOETHE), FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Wiesbaden_, 1887. _First Published_, 1887 (J. Hainauer. Revised Edition--Arthur P. Schmidt. British Empire--Winthrop Rogers, Ltd.). 1. _In the Woods_. 2. _Siesta_. 3. _To the Moonlight_. 4. _Silver Clouds_. 5. _Flute Idyl_. 6. _The Bluebell_. These pieces were suggested to the composer by lines by the German poet, Goethe. The music attempts to suggest the various scenes indicated by the verses quoted at the head of each piece. It is an advance on the preceding small pieces for pianoforte, and foreshadows the later MacDowell of inimitable poetic suggestion in music. The whole set was later revised by the composer in his mature period, and in this form they are acceptable, but even now not satisfying to those who are acquainted with his greater work. OPUS 29. THIRD SYMPHONIC POEM, LAMIA (AFTER KEATS), FOR FULL ORCHESTRA. _Commenced, Wiesbaden_, 1888. _Completed, Boston,_ _Winter,_ 1888-9. _First Published_, 1908 (_Posthumously_) (Arthur P. Schmidt). _Dedicated to Henry T. Finck_. MacDowell refrained from publishing this work because he had been unable to try it over in America with an orchestra, as he had been able to do in Germany with his earlier symphonic works, and he was not altogether certain of its effect. He, however, published his two later suites for orchestra, Ops. 42 and 48, with confidence. The chief demerit of _Lamia_ is that it is obviously influenced by the music of Wagner, and has but little of MacDowell's customary individual expression. Apart from this defect, however, it is undoubtedly effective, strongly and well written, and interestingly scored. MacDowell himself considered it at least the equal of his two earlier symphonic poems, _Hamlet and Ophelia, Op. 22_, and _Lancelot and Elaine, Op. 25_, and intended revising it. The work was published after his death by friends who were anxious to provide against any future doubt as to its authenticity. The composer dedicated it to Henry T. Finck, the distinguished American musical critic, who was one of the first to recognise the significance of MacDowell's music. _Lamia_ has its poetic basis in the romantic, legendary poem by John Keats. An introductory note by the composer in the full score briefly outlines the meaning of the music:-- _Lamia, an enchantress in the form of a serpent, loves Lycius, a young Corinthian. In order to win him she prays to Hermes, who answers her appeal by transforming her into a lovely maiden. Lycius meets her in the wood, is smitten with love for her and goes with her to her enchanted palace, where the wedding is celebrated with great splendour. But suddenly Apollonius the magician appears; he reveals the magic. Lamia again assumes the form of a serpent, the enchanted palace vanishes, and Lycius is found lifeless._ The music commences with a sinister theme, _Lento misterioso, con tristezza_, given out by bassoon and celli, accompanied by a soft drum roll. This motive is the main one of the work, and may be regarded as that of Lamia. After some impassioned development, the music leads quietly into an _Allegro con fuoco_. This opens with a strong tune, having a distinctly Teutonic flavour. It is announced by the horns _con sordini_, accompanied very softly by held notes in the strings, except viola, _pizzicato_ in the celli, and tympani. From now onwards the music is graphic, and contains some passages of unmistakable dramatic power. The presence of the sinister opening theme is frequently felt. Near the end the whole sinks away, a plaintive little clarinet solo, _Lento_, indicating the death of Lycius. This is followed by a short and vigorous conclusion. OPUS 30. TWO FRAGMENTS, THE SARACENS AND THE LOVELY ALDA, FOR ORCHESTRA. _Composed, Wiesbaden, about_ 1887-8. _First Performed, November,_ 1891, _at Boston, U.S.A., by Listemann and the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra. First Published_, 1891 (Breitkopf & Härtel). These two orchestral pieces have their poetic basis in _The Song of Roland_, and were at first intended by the composer to form movements, or at least important parts, of a symphony on the same subject. The description, _Fragments_, under which MacDowell published them, after his plan for a symphony had been abandoned, is a very modest one for two such fine pieces of orchestral tone poetry. _The Saracens_ is a piece of great power, dramatic and wild in spirit and vivid in harmonic and instrumental colouring. It represents the scene in which the traitor, Ganelon, determines on the deed that results in the death of Roland. The whole passage is vividly suggested by the music. _The Lovely Alda_ is a very beautiful and human piece. Aldâ was Roland's bethrothed and the music aims at suggesting her loveliness and her mourning for her lover. There are passages of intensely impressive melancholy in the _Fragment_ and its human feeling is typical of MacDowell. Altogether the two pieces are music on a high plane and worth attention for their own intrinsic value, quite apart from their connection with the symphony that never materialised. They bear a stamp of seriousness of effort and a conscious responsibility that only the really great composer is able to indicate. OPUS 31. SIX POEMS AFTER HEINE, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Wiesbaden_, 1887. _First Published_, 1887 (J. Hainauer. Revised Edition--Arthur P. Schmidt. British Empire--Winthrop Rogers, Ltd.). 1. _We Sat by the Fisherman's Cottage._ 2. _Far Away, on the Rock-coast of Scotland._ (Scotch poem.) 3. _My Child, We Were Once Children._ 4. _We Travelled Alone in the Gloomy Post-chaise._ 5. _Shepherd Boy's a King._ 6. _Death Nothing is but Cooling Night._ (_Poeme érotique_.) Certain of these pieces, in the edition revised by the composer, are rather good, and are full of suggestive effort. They have, too, a touch of the composer's individuality about them, although not of his greater kind. The pianoforte writing is well done and effective, but lacks the sweep of line and power of the later works. As a whole, however, the _Six Poems after Heine_ are quite creditable and self contained pieces, each number bearing some Heine verses indicating its poetic basis. The first piece is contemplative and contains some distinctly MacDowell-like harmonic touches. The second graphically depicts the raging sea of the rocky coast of Scotland, a grey old castle and a beautiful, but ailing, woman harpist, whose gloomy song goes out into the storm. The music is powerful and picturesque in the storm passages, while the sad Scottish song of the woman adds vivid local colour to the whole. The third number is rather poor and devoid of any real interest. The journey in the post-chaise is told fairly graphically in the fourth piece. The music is not very interesting, although its hurried progress suggests the monotony of travel in a rumbling vehicle on a night journey. The fifth piece is lovely and tender, but not particularly expressive. The last of the set opens with a noble, half-sad melody that is typical of MacDowell. Its agitated middle section provides a good contrast. Two of the poems were played in orchestral garb for the first time in England at a London Queen's Hall Promenade Concert on October 3rd, 1916. They were No. 6, _Poeme érotique_, and No. 2, _Scotch Poem_. OPUS 32. FOUR LITTLE POEMS, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Wiesbaden, about_ 1888. _Revised by the Composer_, 1906. _Copyrighted_ 1894 _and_ 1906 (Breitkopf & Härtel). 1. _The Eagle._ 2. _The Brook._ 3. _Moonshine._ 4. _Winter._ These pieces are, in their revised version, more individual and more worth playing than any of the preceding small pianoforte works by MacDowell. They have his true ring and stamp, although even here not in its most highly-developed form, and they exemplify his already unerring power to create atmospheres of far-reaching significance, even in tiny spaces, for all four poems are but two-page pieces, and the most striking, _The Eagle_, is but twenty-six bars in length. 1. _The Eagle_ is a tone picture of Tennyson's lines:-- _He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls._ The opening high, wind-swept chords; the succeeding softly-breathed, high chromatics, with the deep-voiced bass, creating an atmosphere of the vast loneliness of wild mountain heights; the gradual descent to spell-binding silence and then the startling shriek and swoop down of the eagle--all these are suggested in this tiny piece with unmistakable power. _The Eagle_ is remarkable for its programme music aspect in the light of MacDowell's later works, for in these it is perfected suggestion and not realism that we find. 2. _The Brook_ is a clever little piece, delicate and refined. It begins with lovable simplicity, which is broken for a time by an expressive and characteristic passage marked _sotto voce_. The piece as a whole has for its motto Bulwer's lines:-- _Gay below the cowslip bank, see the billow dances; There I lay, beguiling time--when I liv'd romances; Dropping pebbles in the wave, fancies into fancies._ 3. _Moonshine_ opens softly with a broad and dignified melody. The expression soon becomes tender, but is interspersed with jocular little passages. MacDowell illustrates in his characteristic manner a lonely tramp at night, with the grotesque streaks of the moonlight breaking quaintly into the pedestrian's contemplative mood. The music is curiously lonely and suggestive of a quiet moonlight night in the country. Particularly lovable are the soft, characteristic chord progressions, followed by lonely silence, on the second page, just before the opening melody returns. The piece ends with the moon kissing the traveller good-night. 4. _Winter_ is a piece of deep feeling, quite haunting in its expression of lonely grief. Its motto is taken from some lines by Shelley:-- _A widow bird sate mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's round._ The music is of the kind that remains in the memory for a long time and is of a quality as moving in its sadness as anything MacDowell ever composed. Its suggested scene seems to be the bleak and icy winter of North America. OPUS 33. THREE SONGS, FOR TENOR OR SOPRANO AND PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Wiesbaden_, 1888. _First Published_, 1894 (J. Hainauer. Revised Edition of Nos. 2 & 3--Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Prayer._ 2. _Cradle Hymn._ 3. _Idyl._ These songs are rather beautiful, and sincerely, although not grandly, inspired. They are probably the least known in America and England of MacDowell's songs, but they do not lack a fine, spiritual outlook. OPUS 34. TWO SONGS, FOR VOICE AND PIANOFORTE. _Composed_, 1888. _First Published_, 1889 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Menie._ 2. _My Jean._ These two songs are full of freshness and charm of expression. _Menie_ is a beautiful song; _My Jean_ is, however, the more important of the two, it is inspired and characteristically human in spirit. Neither of these songs, however, can be compared for spontaneous beauty and expression with MacDowell's later groups. OPUS 35. ROMANCE, FOR VIOLONCELLO AND ORCHESTRA. _Composed, Wiesbaden_, 1888. _First Published_, 1888 (J. Hainauer). _Dedicated to David Popper._ This is an outwardly charming and melodious work, but strangely alien to MacDowell's general high tone. The usual significant poetic matter is absent, but unlike the pianoforte concertos (_Ops._ 15 and 23), which are also abstract works, the piece is altogether inferior in artistic value, even if we look upon it as an early attempt, for preceding pieces are, at least, more sincere. The two following numbers, 36 (_Etude de Concert for Pianoforte_) and 37 (_Les Orientales for Pianoforte_), and this _Romance for Violoncello and Orchestra_ present a sequence of creative work unworthy of MacDowell, a falling off common to most composers of standing at some time or other. The technical side of the work is fair, the tone quality of the violoncello having been evidently considered. The piece is dedicated to Popper, whose name is familiar to all 'cello players. OPUS 36. ETUDE DE CONCERT, IN F SHARP, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Boston, U.S.A._, 1889. _First Published_, 1889 (Arthur P. Schmidt). "Don't put that dreadful thing on your programme," was the burden of a telegram MacDowell once despatched to Teresa Carreño when he heard she was to play the _Etude de Concert in F sharp_, so we know that the composer himself came, later on, to recognise the inferior quality of this work. It is good enough for the salon composer and the show pianist, but as coming from MacDowell's pen it made a poor start as practically the first thing he composed on his return to his native country in 1888, especially as he had been preceded there by his good European reputation. The brilliant pianistic effect of the piece, however, is undeniable. OPUS 37. LES ORIENTALES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed, Boston_, 1889. _First Published_, 1889 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Clair de Lune._ 2. _Dans le Hamac._ 3. _Danse Andalouse._ The first work produced by MacDowell in Boston, _Etude de Concert, Op. 36_, was followed by music of equally poor quality, in the composer's opinion. The pieces under notice are after Hugo's _Les Orientales_, and although tolerably suggestive of their titles, are of such poor inspiration that they have little or no musical value outside the salon type of compositions that the composer himself abhorred. Even the pretty _Clair de Lune_ is shallow stuff, although it has attained some popularity as a melodious solo, both in its original version and in its arrangement for violin and pianoforte. OPUS 38. EIGHT (formerly Six) LITTLE PIECES, MARIONETTES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed about_ 1888. _Revised and rearranged by the Composer_, 1901. _First Published_, 1888 (J. Hainauer. Revised Version, 1901--Arthur P. Schmidt). _Dedicated to Miss Nina Nevins._ ORIGINAL VERSION: REVISED VERSION: 1. _Soubrette._ 1. _Prologue._ 2. _Lover._ 2. _Soubrette._ 3. _Villain._ 3. _Lover._ 4. _Lady-Love._ 4. _Witch._ 5. _Clown._ 5. _Clown._ 6. _Witch._ 6. _Villain._ 7. _Sweetheart._ 8. _Epilogue._ These little pieces are quite notable and extremely interesting both in their original and revised versions. Although the subjects they portray are the stiff-moving and grotesque figures of Marionettes, their general effect is often intensely human. The set as a whole may be viewed as a half serious, half whimsical study of characters in human life, issued under the disguise of jointed and painted dummies. Beneath the quaint, stiff movement of the music there is just that touch of seriousness, a sort of droll sadness, that makes of it something more than a doll's play. The revised edition of _Marionettes_ is the best and most characteristic, and in the United States is the accepted one. In England, however, the original edition, published at Breslau in 1888 by Julius Hainauer, is still being sold. _Soubrette_ is a stiff, but bright little piece. In places it has a wistfulness that seems to suggest that the human counterpart of the character has feelings, not being merely an emotionless puppet for public amusement. _Lover_ has much the same stiff movement as the preceding piece, but is more tender and subdued, dying softly away in the final bars. There is much human feeling in this number. _Villain_ is a realistic Marionette piece, with a quaint, foreboding and sardonic spirit, the little climax being quite villainous. _Lady-love_ brings a gentle and charming study to view, the typical quaint movement of the pieces as a whole being here considerably softened and made more flowing and graceful. _Clown_ makes a jolly number, but beneath its outward dummy-like comicalness there runs a strain of human feeling that towards the end comes uppermost, the music becoming quite subdued, growing fainter and fainter until nothing is left but a few little final jerks. _Witch_ has a grotesque and mechanical jauntiness. There are some powerful and sinister passages in it, the final gesture, with its sudden tonic minor chord, capping the realism of the piece. In the revised version of _Marionettes_ the character drawing is more skilful, and we incidentally notice the illuminating and characteristic English used in the works of MacDowell's mature period instead of the conventional Italian musical terms. The little comedy-drama is opened by a _Prologue_, in which jovial, wistful and sardonic motives variously indicate the types of characters in the play, and is rounded off by an _Epilogue_, which is one of the most beautiful of MacDowell's smaller pieces, being full of tender feeling, and indicating unmistakably the deeper and human significance of the composer's Marionette studies. The whole album comprises one of MacDowell's most interesting portrayals of everyday human nature, standing quite alone in its droll half-amusing, half-pathetic mode of expression. It is something quite apart from the more specialised romantic and heroic figures of the three symphonic poems, _Hamlet and Ophelia, Op. 22_, _Lancelot and Elaine, Op. 25_, and _Lamia, Op. 29_; the three last pianoforte sonatas, _Eroica, Op. 50_, _Norse, Op. 57_, and _Keltic, Op. 59_; or of the noble _"Indian" Suite, Op. 48_. OPUS 39. TWELVE ETUDES FOR THE DEVELOPMENT OF TECHNIQUE AND STYLE, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed, about_ 1889-90. _First Published_, 1890 (Arthur P. Schmidt). BOOK I: 1. _Hunting Song_. 2. _Alla Tarantella_. 3. _Romance_. 4. _Arabeske_. 5. _In the Forest_. 6. _Dance of the Gnomes_. BOOK II: 1. _Idyl_. 2. _Shadow Dance_. 3. _Intermezzo_. 4. _Melody_. 5. _Scherzino_. 6. _Hungarian_. These pieces have as their chief object the development of pianoforte technique, but are quite interesting as poetical music. In his technical instruction, whether through musical examples or verbally, MacDowell inspired his subject with the idealism and vivid thought of the true poet. The poetry of these studies is not of the composer's finest inspiration, but it is of a quality sufficient to prevent their being viewed solely as technical exercises. Generally, they do not require advanced executive ability to play. _Hunting Song _(_Allegretto_) is a study for accent and grace, but not particularly interesting as music. _Alla Tarantella _(_Prestissimo_) is a fairly effective study for speed and lightness of touch. It is not very difficult to play, having convenient three-note phrases. _Romance_ (_Andantino_) is fairly tuneful, but not particularly interesting. It is a study for the development of the singing touch. _Arabeske_ (_Allegro scherzando_) is a sparkling wrist study. _In the Forest_ (_Allegretto con moto_) is suggestive enough, but not in MacDowell's finest style. It does not compare favourably with the forest pieces in his delightful _Woodland Sketches, Op. 51, or with the deeply inspired and mature _New England Idyls, Op. 62_. Its technical object is the development of delicate rhythmical playing. _Dance of the Gnomes_ (_Prestissimo confuoco_), the last study of Book I, is another piece of imperfectly realised suggestive tone poetry. It is difficult to play, requiring great crispness of finger action combined with perfect control of tone volume. _Idyl_ (_Allegretto_) is No. I of Book II, and has a certain charm and lyrical beauty, although not one of the composer's best efforts. It is a study for the cultivation of delicacy, singing tone and grace. _Shadow Dance_ (_Allegrissimo_) has just that touch of fanciful romanticism that MacDowell knew how to infuse into a piece, thus heightening its interest. The piece is one of the most popular of MacDowell's shorter pieces and makes a fine solo. From a technical point of view, it is a valuable study for development of finger agility combined with lightness of touch. _Intermezzo_ (_Allegretto_) is tuneful and pleasing, but does not reach a very high level of poetic writing. It is, however, a useful exercise for development of independent action of the two middle fingers of the hand. _Melodie_ (_Andantino_) is a melodious exercise for cultivating independence of fingers. _Scherzino_ (_Allegro_) is a tuneful study for double note playing with the right hand. _Hungarian_ (_Presto con fuoco_) has the characteristic fire and syncopated rhythm of a Brahms' Hungarian Dance, and is a study for the development of dash, speed and virtuoso playing. OPUS 40. SIX LOVE SONGS, FOR VOICE AND PIANOFORTE. _Composed_, 1890. _First Published_, 1890 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Sweet Blue-Eyed Maid_. 2. _Sweetheart, Tell Me_. 3. _Thy Beaming Eyes_. 4. _For Sweet Love's Sake_. 5. _O Lovely Rose_. 6. _I Ask But This_. These songs, although not absolutely of the composer's best, have a charm, tenderness of feeling and beauty of expression that is often irresistible. They are essentially the love songs of a romantic, but refined and gifted poet. As a whole they are singularly free from sexual sensuousness, which is so often a trait in songs of their type. There is an idealism, wonderfully fresh and pure, about them, that is antagonistic to the composer's own assertion that verse often becomes doggerel when harnessed to music in song form. _Sweet Blue-Eyed Maid._ (_Daintily, not too sentimentally._) The spirit of this song is happy and it is beautifully, although simply, expressed. _Sweetheart, Tell Me._ (_Softly, tenderly_.) The ability of MacDowell to suggest a definite mood in music is clearly demonstrated in this song, which has a simple melody of wonderful appeal and tenderness. _Thy Beaming Eyes._ (_With sentiment, passionately._) This is the most widely known of all MacDowell's songs. The composer himself thought it too sentimental and was not pleased with the popularity it gained. There is no mistaking its passionate feeling, however, and it strikes the human note frankly and spontaneously, without becoming commonplace. The song is at least sincere, and its popularity can do no harm to its composer's deeper music, which is less easily understood. Gramophone records of _Thy Beaming Eyes_ have been made for "Columbia" by Charles W. Clarke, baritone, and for "His Master's Voice" by Sophie Breslau, contralto. _For Sweet Love's Sake_. (_Simply, with feeling_.) This song is not a very successful alliance of words and music. The former are of tender content, while the latter is after the style of a pleasant lullaby. The music does not in the least reflect the spirit of the words. _O Lovely Rose_. (_Slowly, with great simplicity_.) This is the pure lyric gem of the _Six Love Songs_ by MacDowell. It is very short, but has a rare charm and fragrance. _I Ask But This_. (_Moderately fast, almost banteringly_.) There is an attractive piquancy and lightness about this song that makes it distinct from its companions. It suggests light-hearted love, and its demure ending, as the lovers part, was a happy thought on the part of the composer. OPUS 41. TWO PART-SONGS, FOR MALE CHORUS. _Composed_, 1890. _First Published_, 1890 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Cradle Song_. 2. _Dance of the Gnomes_. These two part-songs are effectively written and sharply contrasted. Their contrast furnishes good reason why both should be sung in the order given, and not robbed of their natural companionship. OPUS 42. FIRST SUITE, IN A MINOR, FOR FULL ORCHESTRA. _Composed, about_ 1890-91. _First Performed, September,_ 1891, _at the Worcester, U.S.A., Musical Festival. First, Second, Fourth and Fifth Movements First Published_, 1891. _Third Movement First Published_, 1893 (Complete--Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _In a Haunted Forest_. 2. _Summer Idyl_. 3. _In October_. 4. _The Song of the Shepherdess_. 5. _Forest Spirits_. This suite, although reminiscent of the nineteenth century German romanticism amongst which MacDowell was educated, has an atmosphere of its own that at once distinguishes it as an example of the highly sensitive and suggestive tone poetry peculiar to its composer. The work is very skilfully written and is remarkable for its freshness and buoyancy of spirit. The scoring is exquisite and always illustrative of the poetical subjects of the suite. Each of the pieces has in its title a suggestion of a scene of Nature, the first and last having also the fanciful and imaginative atmosphere of folk-lore; this provided MacDowell with a task in tone painting such as he loved. In _In a Haunted Forest_ and _Forest Spirits_ we have examples of the romantic and fanciful sort of tone poetry characteristic of the composer. In the _Summer Idyl_, in the fine, mellow beauty of _In October_ and in the lovely _Song of the Shepherdess_ we have MacDowell composing in his beloved Nature style, although not in a manner quite comparable with the pianoforte pieces, _Woodland Sketches, Op. 51_, and _New England Idyls, Op. 62_. As a whole, the _First Suite for Orchestra_ is not the finest of MacDowell's orchestral works up to this stage, but it stands alone in the style of its poetic subject matter. It has not the same bearing as _Hamlet and Ophelia, Op. 22_, Lancelot and Elaine, Op. 25_, _Lamia, Op. 29_, or _The Saracens and the Lovely Alda, Op. 30_, which all have an historical or romantic outlook, but it possesses instead the wonderful spirit of mysterious Nature. Even the noble _Second (Indian) Suite for Orchestra_, the grandest of MacDowell's orchestral works, cannot alter the position of this first suite, which has an interest entirely its own. In performance the work is notable for its fresh and finely-coloured material, and makes a fine item in a concert because of its brilliancy and the charmingly interesting suggestions of its poetic sub-titles. OPUS 43. TWO NORTHERN PART-SONGS, FOR MIXED CHORUS. _Composed_, 1891. _First Published_, 1891 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _The Brook_. 2. _Slumber Song_. These are well written and effective part-songs, making lovely unaccompanied choral numbers. They have been undeservedly overshadowed by the composer's instrumental and solo songs. Both should be sung together for the sake of the intentional contrast. OPUS 44. BARCAROLLE, FOR MIXED CHORUS AND ACCOMPANIMENT FOR PIANOFORTE DUET. _First Appeared_, 1892 (Arthur P. Schmidt). This is a meritorious choral piece, skilfully written. The somewhat elaborate accompaniment for pianoforte requires two players. OPUS 45. FIRST SONATA, TRAGICA, IN G MINOR, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed_, 1892-3. _Third Movement First Publicly Played, March 18th_, 1892, _at Checkering Hall, Boston, U.S.A., by the Composer. First Public Complete Performance, March_, 1893, _at a Kneisal Quartet Concert at Chickering Hall, Boston. Played by the Composer. First Published_, 1893 (Breitkopf & Härtel). 1. _Largo maestoso--Allegro risoluto_. 2. _Molto allegro, vivace_. 3. _Largo con maesta_. 4. _Allegro eroico_. Huneker, the celebrated American writer on music, described this sonata, soon after its appearance, as "the most marked contribution to solo sonata literature since Brahms' F minor piano sonata." The work is chiefly notable for its general boldness and strength, punctuated by passages of intimate tenderness and deepness of expression, and its slow movement is one of MacDowell's most inspired efforts. The great demerit of the sonata, however, is its lack of cohesive thought. As a whole it suggests the spectacle of a highly gifted poet, full of emotional ardour and desire for self expression, but lacking the requisite skill to bind long continued effort into a cohesive whole; and who makes the mistake of trying to cramp his undoubtedly beautiful ideas by compressing them into a set form. The _Sonata Tragica_ is more of a traditional sonata than its successors, the _Eroica, Op. 50_, the _Norse, Op. 57_, and the _Keltic, Op. 59_, but as a work of art is less successful. Its subjects are quite fine, showing, individually, great strength of character and tender feeling, but they often appear to have no definite connection with each other. In the first movement especially we find this defect, for the second subject, with its lovely tenderness, contrasts awkwardly with the boldness and strength of the first. The cause of this would seem to be that a quieter second subject is demanded by the form of the sonata, but its effect on the movement as a whole is patchy and illogical. MacDowell evidently made some efforts to effect cohesion, transferring ideas from one movement to another in the process, but the attempts generally are not successful. He tries to write in the traditional form, and only succeeds in drawing the student's attention to the futility of it. Later, in the _Norse_ and the _Keltic_ sonatas, he threw form overboard when it suited him; and wrote far greater works in doing so. There is no doubting the quality of the music in the _Sonata Tragica_, however, for it contains passages of dramatic fire, breadth and sweep of line, beauty of expression and a strength of character that can only be the work of a great tone poet. The work was undoubtedly written at a white heat of inspiration, for at the time MacDowell was not only grieved over the death of his old master and friend, Joachim Raff, but was also harrassed by the drudgery and struggle of his own existence. He poured out his passionate feelings into the sonata, which is largely a reflection of the hopeless outlook of his own care-laden life. 1. The introductory _Largo maestoso_ opens with a figure of striking aspect, like a clenched, upraised fist. Immediately following this comes a quieter, more serious strain, but only to be succeeded by loud chords again, now punctuated by rushing ascents in scale and arpeggio figures, the whole culminating in a tremendous descent of double octaves bringing almost the whole range of the pianoforte keyboard into action. After a pause, the _Allegro risoluto_ enters _ppp_. Its bearing is strong and proud and has much that is akin to the nervous, resolute martial energy of Elgar. The second subject, _Dolce con tenerezza_, is exquisitely tender and contemplative, but it follows the first awkwardly, and the two as MacDowell left them are like detached scraps having no relation to one another. As we proceed the music becomes mysterious and restless until a more solid chord passage appears. The whole is soon interrupted by the arresting figure of the introduction, now appearing softly, with foreboding seriousness. With the resumption of the _Allegro risoluto_ the striving commences again and is even more restless than before. From now onwards the music becomes increasingly significant, graduating in tone power from a shadowy _ppp_ to solid and virile loud chords. The first and second subjects formally reappear and the end comes with a short coda, the feature of which is its powerful upward expansion, culminating in chords of great strength, the striking opening figure being again heard. 2. The scherzo-like second movement is inferior in quality to the rest of the sonata, and apart from some ejaculations suggesting the dramatic opening of the first movement, does not appear to have any connection with the work as a whole. Its themes are not distinguished, although there are touches of strength in many places, and the movement savours generally of Teutonic romantic influence and probably only exists at all as a concession to form. 3. The _Largo con maesta_ is the outstanding movement of the sonata, remaining to this day one of MacDowell's most impressive creations. It is full of deep feeling and gravity, contrasted with passages of tender contemplation and the impassioned poetry of despair. The whole aspect of the movement is lofty in thought, vast in tonality and altogether indicative of power and of genius. MacDowell was harassed by drudgery and care when he wrote it and the tragic note is sounded from its first bars. After exhausting itself in intense expression, the opening theme makes way for a mood of quiet, although still despairing, contemplation. This wanders on, until the music becomes impassioned and more intricate. Rushing ascending scale passages add to the restless movement of the whole, culminating in a tumultuous and despairing utterance of the contemplative theme. This gradually dies down and soon the impressive strains of the first theme are heard, now softly breathed and portraying a deep and broken sadness in place of the clenched fist attitude of their first appearance. The music becomes more and more subdued, finally becoming extinct in _pppp_ chords. The whole of this last page is one of the most impressive and soul-stirring things in contemporary pianoforte music. 4. The final movement, _Allegro eroico_, opens with a bold, heroic theme in spread chords, followed by a quieter subject. The music goes triumphantly on with increasing brilliance, complexity and heroic ardour. At length a great final version of the heroic theme is heard, _Maestoso_, and soon we come to the dramatic moment of the whole sonata. At the very height of exaltation we are overwhelmed by a shattering descent of double octaves, _precipitate_. The heroism and self-confident ardour so carefully built up are swept away and the significant strains of the introduction to the work are heard, now augmented in time value. The music bursts into fury and the sonata ends with immensely powerful and ringing chords, but it is the shout of tragedy and not of victory. Thus closes a work that may well stand to-day as a musical representation of the composer's own life story. The sonata was first played in London on February 25th, 1902, by Lucie Mawson. OPUS 46. TWELVE VIRTUOSO STUDIES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _Composed_, 1893-94. _First Published_, 1894 (Breitkopf & Härtel). 1. _Novelette_. 2. _Moto Perpetuo_. 3. _Wild Chase_. 4. _Improvisation_. 5. _Elfin Dance_. 6. _Valse Triste_. 7. _Burlesque_. 8. _Bluette_. 9. _Traumerei_. 10. _March Wind_. 11. _Impromptu_. 12. _Polonaise_. These studies, while indicated by the composer as requiring advanced technique for performance, are full of poetical thought and tonal beauty that make them worthy of study. Many of them possess that Nature tone painting, that mystic, subtle romanticism of whispering tree-tops and elfin glades, that freshness and open air spirit which distinguish MacDowell's later short pieces. _Novelette_ is an attractive study and full of the composer's own individual spirit. It is considered to be one of the best of the set. _Moto Perpetuo_ is cleverly written and musical. _Wild Chase_ is one of those exhilarating, imaginative pieces so characteristic of MacDowell. It is full of outdoor poetry and suggestive of a wild and glorious ride over the great American prairies, or of a dream gallop full of breathless fancy. _Improvisation_ exhibits the composer's finer poetry and mastery of his art. _Elfin Dance_ is suggestive and imaginative. _Valse Triste_ is expressive and interesting, although not one of the most distinguished of the set. _Burlesque_ is a musical number, bright in spirit and free from commonplace. _Bluette_ is a beautiful piece of tone painting. _Traumerei_ has a certain beauty of its own, indicating the composer's capacity for deep expression. _March Wind_ is full of the wild open-air breeziness associated in our thoughts with the subject of its inspiration, and captures the imagination. For a minute or so we can escape the heavy atmosphere confined within four walls and rush with the sweeping wind, high above cities and out over the broad, rolling country beyond. The study has a background of spaciousness that suggests American scenery. _Impromptu_ is interesting and musical. _Polonaise_ has brilliance and is well and effectively conceived for big pianoforte tone production. OPUS 47. EIGHT SONGS, FOR VOICE AND PIANOFORTE. _Composed_, 1893. _First Published_, 1893 (Breitkopf & Härtel). 1. _The Robin Sings in the Apple Tree._ 2. _Midsummer Lullaby._ 3. _Folk Song._ 4. _Confidence._ 5. _The West Wind Croons in the Cedar Trees._ 6. _In the Woods._ 7. _The Sea._ 8. _Through the Meadow._ With the composition of these songs, MacDowell fairly entered into his finest and most mature period. They are beautiful, characteristic, and full of that engaging romance, piquancy and poetic charm that distinguishes his best lyrical work. _The Robin Sings in the Apple Tree_ is written to the composer's own words, which may be found in the published book of his verses. The song is infinitely tender and tinged with that wistfulness that he so often infused into his music. Particularly beautiful is the spirit of the last verse:-- _O robin, and thou blackbird brave, My songs of love have died; How can you sing as in byegone days, When she was at my side._ _Midsummer Lullaby_ has much charm and grace in its refined and sensitive verse inspiration. _Folk Song_ is characteristic and melodious. _Confidence_ shows a lyric power of unusual quality and although the music is not always in sympathy with the verse, the true spirit of poetry is there. _The West Wind Croons in the Cedar Trees_ is written to the lines of MacDowell's little poem entitled, _To Maud_. This song is beautiful and full of feeling, and tells in its three verses of Love's expectation, doubt and disappointment. The music is allied with perfect sympathy to the words. _In the Woods_ was written to the composer's lines after Goethe. This song is a pure lyric, touched with just enough romance to deepen its significance. _The Sea_ is well written, showing some of the power and healthiness of the true MacDowell open-air spirit. _Through the Meadow_ makes an exquisite vocal piece, thoroughly attractive in its freshness. It is a song of the true nature-poet, breathing the atmosphere of its title in the most delightful and sensitive manner. OPUS 48. SECOND SUITE (INDIAN), FOR FULL ORCHESTRA. _First Performed, January_, 1896, _by the Boston Symphony Orchestra, in New York. First Performance in England, October 23rd,_ 1901, _at a London Queen's Hall Promenade Concert. Conductor, Sir (then Mr.) Henry J. Wood. First Published,_ 1897 (Breitkopf and Härtel). _Dedicated to Emil Paur and the Boston Symphony Orchestra._ _Optional Titles to Movements, Furnished by the Composer._ 1. _Legend._ 2. _Love-Song._ 3. _In War Time._ 4. _Dirge._ 5. _Village Festival._ In the _Indian Suite_ we have one of the most graphic examples of MacDowell's power of creating atmospheres and impressions of big subjects. It is the finest and most mature of his orchestral works, thoroughly individual and without a trace of the nineteenth century German romanticism that is found in his earlier productions. Its musical declamation is commanding and infinitely noble. The atmosphere of the great rolling plains, mighty forests, and vast and lonely retreats is unerringly created. The notes of wildness and an indescribably touching spirit of far away romance are sounded, telling of a forgotten and dying elemental race. In the _Suite_ the lodges of the Red men rise again before our eyes; their old legends, savage war dances, love romances, their sorrows, joys and festivities live once more. MacDowell has caught the spirit of the days when the rude, but curiously interesting aborigines of America lived; of days that are now but treasured legends that still stir the hearts of the young in many lands. He conveyed a feeling of this atmosphere in his music with an unerring touch, the effect of which is heightened by the use of material derived from the native tunes of the North American Indians. The _Indian Suite_ is undoubtedly one of the most noble and impressive works that MacDowell ever composed, containing in the _Dirge_ movement one of his most striking utterances. In his last days he expressed a preference for this above anything else he had composed. The _Suite_ is full of stirring strength, vast tonalities, depth of feeling and elemental greatness, and is scored with a mastery of orchestral tone colour used solely and unerringly to enhance the poetic suggestiveness of the whole. It was fully sketched between three and four years before its first appearance, as the composer spent much time in becoming more closely acquainted with Red Indian tunes. 1. _Legend_ (_Not fast. With much dignity and character_). This opens with a romantic horn-call of the plains that is significant of the whole _Suite_:-- [Music.] It is heard again at the end of the last movement. Indescribable is the effect of the paused note, the silence, and then the far away answer. The call is elaborated with rich effect, but the atmosphere of vastness and loneliness is preserved. The suggestiveness of this introduction is wonderfully vivid, for in a moment we are transported from the civilisation of to-day to the wildness and romance of the old days on the plains of the great West. The introduction finished, the movement proper begins (_Twice as fast. With decision._) with a long tremolo on the note B. At the fifth bar a harvest song of the Iroquois Indians appears:-- [Music.] Vivid in effect is the following striving figure:-- [Music.] The Indian theme is now elaborated at some length with much richness, and is wild in effect. After this a tender MacDowell-like second subject appears:-- [Music.] This contemplative atmosphere is soon broken as the influence of the native theme is felt, and the striving figure is also heard. The music grows more and more wild and intricate, working up to a tearing intensity and then dying away until only a few deep murmurs remain. The striving figure is heard twice, and then follows a small bridge to a repetition of the tender second subject, now heard pianissimo under a swaying, chord accompaniment. After a time it grows in intensity and imperceptibly merges into the romantic call of the introduction, the influence of which, however, is at once felt. The music now mounts to a tremendous pose of strength, double _fortissimo_, the final bars striking the same attitude in a deeper and more stolid form. There is little in music of such iron-like force as the conclusion of this _Legend_. The thundering tremolos and chords are not intricate or beautiful, their very splendour lying in their stark, magnificent elemental power. 2. _Love-Song_ (_Not fast. Tenderly_). This opens with the tune of a love song of the Iowa Indians:-- [Music.] This little after thought brings a touch of romance:-- [Music.] A new and equally tender theme follows:-- [Music.] Although not of great importance, this little episode is notable for its poetic suggestion of the Red Indian atmosphere:-- [Music.] The music now goes on its way, rich in harmonic and instrumental colour, but always clear, now soft and lulling, now approaching the passionate. The first theme is heard again, and the _Love-Song_ is then concluded by the little after thought. 3. _In War Time_ (_With rough vigour, almost savagely_). A rude war song of the Iroquois Indians opens this movement:-- [Music.] The rhythm of its continuation is afterwards made much of, particularly the active semiquaver figure:-- [Music.] The opening theme is now repeated with the implied harmonies, the whole progressing with increasing intensity, the figure of the second illustration being prominent. The music surges wildly, undulating in a manner that suggests a Redskin scalp dance, the hideous, painted figures now bending low, now holding their weapons high above their heads. At length the fury of the war dance reaches an elan that exhausts it, the barbaric figure referred to in our second illustration becoming more and more prominent, then sinking lower and lower until it is nothing more than a series of thudding accents, broken by periods of silence of increasing length. The effect is one of horses galloping further and further away into the distance. After this the whole atmosphere changes, and a mournful, lonely cry is heard:-- [Music.] We may find the significance of this in the fact that it is a prominent figure of the _Dirge_, No. 4 of the suite. The active figure is now heard again, deep and almost inaudible, softly ushering in the barbaric opening theme, now heard in the bass. The warriors appear to be returning as the music once more grows in volume. Wilder and wilder it grows--a moment's silence--only to begin again faster and faster. Still faster does it become until it is almost a scream, the conclusion coming in a magnificent series of reiterated chords thundered out with the full strength of the orchestra employed. There is no doubt that this piece is one of the most vividly imaginative and brilliant in the whole range of orchestral music, although it is rarely performed with the skill and insight it requires. 4. _Dirge_ (_Dirge-like, mournfully_). "Of all my music," said MacDowell after his last music had been published, "the _Dirge_ in the _Indian Suite_ pleases me most. It affects me deeply and did when I was writing it. In it an Indian woman laments the death of her son; but to me, as I wrote it, it seemed to express a world-sorrow rather than a particularised grief." The piece is undoubtedly one of its composer's most melancholy utterances. Under a long series of reiterated key notes of the tonic minor, the wailing phrase heard in _In War Time_ (No. 3 of the suite) appears:-- [Music.] It goes on at some length with increasing sadness and richer harmonic and instrumental colouring (indescribable is the effect of a muted horn heard off the platform). Soon comes a deep and solemn bass uttering, heart-shaking in its grief. We give it with the passage leading up to it:-- [Music.] After a while the music rises with the same lonely mournfulness to an outburst of despair:-- [Music.] The sad opening phase follows and after this the solemn bass figure. The close is mysterious but piercing in its sobbing, inconsolable grief. [Music.] This _Dirge_ is indisputably the cry of a great soul, and there is little in music which expresses grief so effectively. The sense it gives of loneliness and sombreness has never been quite equalled by any other composer. The piece is not a funeral oration weighed down with pomp, but the spontaneous grief of elemental humanity. The scene is of a mother mourning for her son; its significance is of a world sorrow. The music would honour any composer, living or dead. 5. _Village Festival_ (_Swift and light_). This number is the longest of the Suite. It opens with the tune of a squaws' dance of the Iroquois Indians:-- [Music.] This is soon followed by another of festivity:-- [Music.] The music proceeds, rich in harmonic and instrumental colouring, and vividly suggesting the wild orgies of the village festivities of the Red Indians. The whole works up to frenzied power until exhaustion comes and it dies down again. Indicated as _slightly broader_, the opening tune is now heard softly over mysterious tremolos. Particularly subdued is the wild and sombre after thought:-- [Music.] After a time, the striving figure first heard early in the first number of this suite, _Legend_, appears. The thumping accents of the festal dance are now heard again, softly, and soon we hear the opening tune. The wild excitement begins to return, growing to a frenzy in which a reminiscence of the first theme of the _Legend_ may be noticed. Soon the music sinks down again, but never losing its strongly-marked accents, and now hastening its course. The second festive theme is heard softly, high in the scale. Faster and faster, but still subdued, grows the music, the striving figure of the _Legend_ being prominent. A broadening out then comes and with it a magnificent, raw strength, in which is heard the romantic call that opens the whole work in the introduction to the first movement. The bare tonic is now struck with a gesture of great force. A roll of sound follows. Again the bare note is sounded, and again the roll of sound succeeds. The last dozen bars thunder solely on the tonic note, with a rude, but stern and manly elemental absence of harmonic colouring, typifying with undeniable dignity the savage, but often impressive and noble figure of the Red Man, forgotten now that his great race has been succeeded by the greatest and most striking nation of the white races--the Republic of the West. The _Indian Suite_ is obtainable in pianoforte score. OPUS 49. AIR AND RIGAUDON, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1894 (Breitkopf & Härtel). This work has been curiously neglected. It comes just at the beginning of MacDowell's more mature period, but nobody seems to know much about it. It is true that it lacks the definitely indicated poetic basis that is a feature of the composer's finest work, but it is a well written and melodious composition. It is at least more deserving of attention than the popular _Hexentanz, Op. 17_, and the _Etude de Concert in F sharp, Op. 36_, but these two owe their popularity to the virtuoso pianist. Grove's _Dictionary of Music and Musicians_ refers to _Op. 49_ as "some dances published in a Boston collection." OPUS 50. SECOND SONATA, EROICA, IN G MINOR, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1895 (Breitkopf & Härtel). _Dedicated to William Mason._ "_Flos regum Arthurus._" 1. _Slow, with nobility_--_Fast, passionately, etc._ 2. _Elf-like, as light and swift as possible._ 3. _Tenderly, longingly, yet with passion._ 4. _Fiercely, very fast._ The _Sonata Eroica_ is perhaps the most beautiful and noble, although not the grandest or most stirring, of MacDowell's four pianoforte sonatas. It has not the weight and power of the _Sonata Tragica, Op. 45_, but in its beauty and noble dignity it is infinitely more impressive. The whole work was inspired by the Arthurian legends that MacDowell, with his love of ancient chivalry and romance, loved to idealise. In the sonata he has illuminated his subject with compelling nobleness of thought and beauty of effect, freely adapting the traditional musical form to the needs of his poetic purpose. The work requires a considerable amount of study for its finished performance, as well as a knowledge and understanding of its source of inspiration. Heard at its best it is a magnificent solo piece, only surpassed by the composer's own two later sonatas, the _Norse, Op. 57_, and the _Keltic, Op. 59_. 1. The first movement is notable for its variety of _tempo_ and expression, every page containing new indications as to these in the illuminating and characteristic English of the composer. He has told us that the movement as a whole typifies the coming of Arthur, and as such we may leave it. The traditional sonata form is freely adapted to the poetic requirements of the movement, but the result is rather ragged. The music itself, however, is deeply inspired and full of fire. The simple, yet pathetic second subject is recalled again in the slow movement. 2. The fanciful and "elf-like" _scherzo_ movement was suggested to the composer by Doré's picture of a knight in a wood, surrounded by mythological forest folk. The music is imaginative and cleverly written, but MacDowell afterwards considered the movement as a whole to be "an aside" from the general content of the sonata. The present writer thinks that this _scherzo_ may be omitted by a performer who satisfies himself that it is not an essential part of the Arthurian concept of the whole. If the sonata is played simply as programme music, however, it benefits by the inclusion of this movement. 3. This movement is headed, _Tenderly, longingly, yet with passion_, and is considered by many of the composer's admirers to be one of his most beautiful inspirations. It is, according to MacDowell himself, a musical representation of Guinevere, Arthur's lovely queen. Quite independent of the rest of the sonata, the movement is a tone poem of rare beauty, expressiveness and passion, although the melody entering at its eleventh bar connects it with the preceding movement. 4. The last movement represents the passing of Arthur. It is strikingly suggestive of the closing days of the Arthurian drama, the tragic note being often impressively struck, although not so definitely as in the _Sonata Tragica_. The import of the movement is satisfying to those who believe that the days of romance and chivalry closed with the fall of Arthur and his knights, despite the attempts in the Middle Ages to revive the past. The movement as a whole is physically exhausting, except to the very strong. The great climax arrives some way before the end of the work, the music seeming gradually to ebb away after it as though it were but recounting the last scenes of Arthur's death. The two final pages sadly recall the opening theme of the first movement, typifying the coming of Arthur. The coda is of moving tenderness, indicating the tragedy of Guinevere. A final and elevated outburst is heard and then the sonata ends with a prolonged chord. Altogether there is something very noble and beautiful about this sonata, from which the magnificence and surpassing power and beauty of the two later ones do not detract. OPUS 51. WOODLAND SKETCHES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1896 (P.L. Jung. Assigned, 1899 to Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _To a Wild Rose._ 2. _Will o' the Wisp._ 3. _At an Old Trysting-place._ 4. _In Autumn._ 5. _From an Indian Lodge._ 6. _To a Water-lily._ 7. _From Uncle Remus._ 8. _A Deserted Farm._ 9. _By a Meadow Brook._ 10. _Told at Sunset._ These widely known pieces were composed during the last part of MacDowell's residence at Boston, just before he left for New York to take up his duties as professor of music at Columbia University. In these _Woodland Sketches_ we come for the first time to the point at which his pianoforte poems are absolutely responsive to elemental moods, unaffected in style and yet distinguished, free from commonplace, speaking with a personal note that is inimitable. They are, as a whole, mature Nature poems of an exquisite and charming order, beautiful not only for their outward manifestations, but for the deeper significance they give to their sources of inspiration. 1. _To a Wild Rose_ (_with simple tenderness_). This is one of the most charming and well known of MacDowell's small pieces. It is founded on a simple melody of the Brotherton Indians, and has a poise of the most refined and beautiful order. The composer was always afraid of the less intelligent music lovers "tearing it up by the roots." A vocal arrangement has been made by Herman Hagedorn, but the words are sickly and commonplace in sentiment, and so unnaturally cramped, that the song is artistically worthless. 2. _Will o' the Wisp_ (_Swift and light; fancifully_). This is a very imaginative piece, full of mysterious and shadowy lightness, and swift of movement. It seems to just float over the keys and in its general effect is fascinating and spirit-like, with dancing little lights flickering in the shadows. 3. _At an Old Trysting-place_ (_Somewhat quaintly; not too sentimentally_). This is the shortest piece of the set, and is only thirty bars long. It is cramped into one page in the current edition of the sketches. The melody is tender, undulating and expressive and is supported by full but always clear chords, with typical modulations. The broadness of the chord writing, together with the general tone of the piece as a whole, seems to call for orchestral colouring and foreshadows MacDowell's most advanced period. As a whole, it is contemplative, expressing the wistfulness of one who stands at a quiet place, musing on bygone meetings there. 4. _In Autumn_ (_Buoyantly, almost exuberantly_). MacDowell threw an irresistible joyous excitement into this piece (as he did later in the superb _The Joy of Autumn_, from _New England Idyls, Op. 62_). _In Autumn_ opens with a brisk staccato theme, followed by little chromatic runs which seem to suggest the whistling of the wind through the tree-tops. A middle section brings a complete change of mood, as if questioning the elements. A mysterious and fanciful little passage leads to a resumption of the opening joy of existence. In short, this piece is most exhilarating, and pulsates with life and with an exuberance that is most infectious. 5. _From an Indian Lodge_ (_Sternly, with great emphasis_). This is as strong and impressive a piece as MacDowell ever composed for the pianoforte. From the first bar the note of the stern stolidity of the Red man is struck. The rude, elemental power of the bare octaves of the introductory bars is unmistakable. The ensuing stolid oration, punctuated by emotionless grunts, is an ingenious musical sketch of a pow-wow scene in an Indian wigwam. The piece closes with a reminiscence of the last part of the introduction, first softly and then very loudly, the final chords being of orchestral-like sonority. The whole composition is one of the best in the set for showing MacDowell's ability to create atmosphere. The scene of the Indian lodge is unmistakable. 6. _To a Water-lily_ (_In dreamy, swaying rhythm_). This is a remarkable little piece of lyrical tone painting. It is in the key of F sharp major, and is mostly played on the black keys. Its chords are rich and, except in the short middle section, scored on three staves, yet always with an effect of the utmost lightness of poise. The piece is vividly suggestive of a water-lily floating delicately on quiet water, but in the questioning little middle section something seems to disturb the water, and for a moment the flower rocks uneasily. The opening theme returns and the piece ends with the utmost delicacy of effect. _To a Water-lily_ is generally admitted to be one of the most exquisite and perfect lyrics MacDowell ever composed for the pianoforte. 7. _From Uncle Remus_ (_With much humour; joyously_). American youngsters delight in the negro tales of "Uncle Remus," and this piece opens with an unbridled joviality that continues to the end. There is a wealth of jolly humour that is delightfully frank and infectious without being commonplace. It is rich and real, with a breadth that was a captivating feature of MacDowell's personal sense of humour. 8. _A Deserted Farm_ (_With deep feeling_). A deeper note is struck in this piece, the opening theme being very grave. Later a wistful tenderness comes over the whole, but the grave melody returns and in this mood the piece ends. The whole atmosphere of it is one of loneliness, and, except for a sonorous bar or two, its expression is subdued. It gives an impression of the quiet that hangs around an old country home long since deserted, where human life once existed with all its joys and sorrows. 9. _By a Meadow Brook_ (_Gracefully, merrily_). This goes bubbling and sparkling along, now swirling round a little rock, now running over a little waterfall, but always going merrily on until softer and softer grows the tonality, finally vanishing from musical sight. The piece is purely a play of tone, but never shallow, for it suggests not only a particular type of Nature scene, but the significance of the beauty and goodness it symbolises. 10. _Told at Sunset_ (_With pathos_). This piece is of some importance from the fact that it contains thematic allusions to two of the preceding numbers. It opens with a sad, reflective theme that is reminiscent of _A Deserted Farm_. It proceeds for nineteen bars, dying softly away high in the scale. After a moment's silence, a softly breathed, but firmly emphasised marching tune appears, marked _Faster sturdily_. It grows gradually louder until it is thundered out in its full strength, with something of the nervous accentuation peculiar to Elgar's music. It dies gradually away again, until nothing is left but a few last faint references to its sturdy quality. The grave theme of _A Deserted Farm_ (_No._ 8) is now introduced (transposed a semitone lower than the original to F minor), freely altered, and infused with more intense expressiveness. The conclusion is dramatic, for after twenty-four bars of deep and tender contemplation comes an impressive silence--and then the stern and solemn chords of the latter part of the introduction to _From an Indian Lodge_ are heard, first softly and then with virile orchestral _fortissimo_, and with this the piece closes. OPUS 52. THREE CHORUSES, FOR MALE VOICES. _First Published_, 1897 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Hush, hush!_ 2. _A Voice from the Sea._ 3. _The Crusaders._ These part-songs are finely written and full of suggestiveness. _Hush, hush!_ creates the atmosphere suggested by its title. _A Voice from the Sea_ and _The Crusaders_ are settings of some of the composer's own verses. The sea song tells of the north wind's wrath, the roaring sea on the rugged shore and of a woman with a torch, looking out into the darkness, moaning: "Thy will be done." The whole song graphically suggests the dangers of the sea. The third chorus is heroic and strong, not treating of the forces of nature, as does the preceding number, but with the bold, adventurous daring, fired with religious zeal, of the old Crusaders. The music of _The Crusaders_ is worthy of its theme. OPUS 53. TWO CHORUSES, FOR MALE VOICES. _First Published_, 1898 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Bonnie Ann._ 2. _The Collier Lassie._ These are charming part-songs, and bear the composer's individual stamp. The groups of male voice choruses of Ops. 52, 53 and 54, present a fine aspect of MacDowell's work, although they are not of his most important output. Presumably a good reason why they are so seldom performed in Europe is that they are little known here; it is certainly not because their inspiration or effect is poor. The composer was conductor of the Mendelssohn Glee Club, an old-established American Male Voice Choir, about the date when these part-songs were written. OPUS 54. TWO CHORUSES, FOR MALE VOICES. _First Published_, 1898 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _A Ballad of Charles the Bold._ 2. _Midsummer Clouds._ These two choruses are some of the finest of MacDowell's little known part-songs for male voices, and are both written to his own lines. The first is a stirring ballad of olden times:-- _Duke Charles rode forth at early dawn Through drifting morning mists, His armour frosted by the dew Gleamed sullenly defiance.... ... All day long the battle raged. And spirits mingled with the mist That wreathed the warring knights...._ Charles, although his charger is led by Death against the foe, himself falls a victim to the tireless Reaper. The second chorus, _Midsummer Clouds_, is in pleasant contrast to the blood and war spirit of the first. In it we have the imaginative charm and beauty of lines like the following:-- _Through the clear meadow blue Wander fleecy white lambs...._ There is a certain depth about the song, however, as if the scenic suggestion is only a symbol of something greater and more human, and this feeling is increased by the last verse:-- _And the light dies away As the silent dim shapes Sail on through the gloaming, Towards dreamland's gates._ OPUS 55. SEA PIECES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1898 (P.L. Jung. Assigned 1899 to Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _To the Sea._ 2. _From a Wandering Iceberg._ 3. _A.D. 1620._ 4. _Starlight._ 5. _Song._ 6. _From the Depths._ 7. _Nautilus._ 8. _In Mid-Ocean._ The _Sea Pieces_ contain some of the finest of MacDowell's suggestive tone poetry. They are chiefly remarkable for their exhibiting the composer's ability to suggest a big scene, or a dramatic or emotional content of far-reaching significance, in an incredibly small space. The power and breadth of some of the pieces is great, while their beauty of tone, displaying the powers of the pianoforte from _pppp_ to _fff_, is rich and full in its harmonic construction. Although the chords seem to call for orchestral colouring, the effect is always clear and ringing on the pianoforte, whilst the melodies are some of the most noble and dignified of MacDowell's short pieces. As a contrast to the strength of some of the numbers in the set, others are of an exquisite and quiet beauty. Altogether the _Sea Pieces_ make up one of the most superb pianoforte albums in existence, for they are tone poems of unsurpassed beauty, strength of character, nobleness of thought and unerring atmospheric suggestion, touching the high water mark of the composer's inspirations. Each piece is headed by a verse of the composer's own writing, except the first, sixth and seventh, which have single lines only. The poems are included in the published book of his verse. 1. _To the Sea_ (_With dignity and breadth_). This is headed:-- _Ocean, thou mighty monster_, and is a tone poem of remarkable power. It is but thirty-one bars in length and yet it contains more solid material, breadth and perfectly concentrated splendour than many an orchestral tone poem of symphonic proportions. The graduations of tone found in the piece are very fine and could only have been written by one who knew intimately the tonal resources of the modern pianoforte. The chord writing spreads over a wide area of the keyboard, but is remarkable for its clarity. It is indeed extremely difficult to call to mind any other composer who could have painted a tone picture so big in outlook and so complete in itself, in such a small space as MacDowell has done here. 2. _From a Wandering Iceberg_ (_Serenely_). This piece suggests a towering iceberg gradually approaching, passing by in all its splendour, and going on toward _realms of burning light_. The tone variety ranges from _as soft and smooth as possible_ to a virile, orchestral _fff_. The melody of the piece is very beautiful and the whole thing has a curious icy clearness about it that is remarkably realistic. The last seven bars contain music as tender and serene as anything MacDowell ever composed. 3. _A.D. 1620_ (_In unbroken rolling rhythm_). This represents the voyage of the pilgrim fathers and is a four-page piece, about double the length of the preceding two. Its character is generally stern, and the rolling of the lumbering ship is vividly suggested. The middle portion consists of a magnificent song marked _Sturdily and sternly, but without change of rhythm_. The tune is not beautiful, but it is strong and inspiring, and in these respects it is unique. Its power is remarkable even for MacDowell. As the preceding part gradually led up to the song, so in its repetition it gradually dies away, as if the ship had approached and passed by, bearing its load of the men, women and children who were to found the great Republic of the West. 4. _Starlight_ (_Tenderly_). This is a tender and beautiful little inspiration. It has a melodic and harmonic outlook of the exquisite poise that marks MacDowell's finest work. The light and shade of the piece call for perfect control of tone production on the part of the performer. It is lighter and more finely conceived than the preceding pieces in this set, and is a very perfect tone suggestion of the loveliness of a quiet, starlit sea. 5. _Song_ (_In changing moods_). This opens softly with a cheery song which has a rough and hearty chorus. A deeper emotion is sounded where the music is marked _passionately_, and after this comes a passage of wistful tenderness. The song is resumed, together with its chorus, but near the end the tender portion is recalled, and the piece ends with a subdued and thoughtful reminiscence of the air. 6. _From the Depths_ (_In languid swaying rhythm_).This is one of MacDowell's greater inspirations and is headed:-- _And who shall sound the mystery of the seas._ This is a magnificent tone poem. We first have a picture of the sea, calm, but sinister, and then we see it working up to its full power and fury in a storm. The gradations of tone range from a sombre, mysterious _ppp_ to an _fff_ of furious power. The writing is very full and rich, and there are passages of a stupendous strength and magnificence of effect seldom found outside MacDowell's own music. 7. _Nautilus_ (_Delicately, gracefully_). This is headed:-- _A fairy sail and a fairy boat_ and is the gem of the set. The writing is of exquisite gracefulness and charm. The scenery, as the little voyage proceeds, is of fresh loveliness and constantly changing, while the curious, indecisive rhythm is unmistakably suggestive of an uncanny boat trip in quiet water. The whole piece is one of perpetual charm and delight to the ear. 8. _In Mid-Ocean_ (_With deep feeling_). Here we find the deeper note struck again:-- _Inexorable! Thou straight line of eternal fate...._ The music of this piece is transporting in its majestic nobility and magnificent, sweeping strength. It is one of the most superb of MacDowell's short pieces. From the deep and sonorous opening bars, through passionately mounting fury, to the sombre and mysterious close--in all of it we are confronted with the work of an unmistakably inspired master. With this fitting, unsurpassed picture, not of the outward might of the sea alone, but of the mysterious, relentless and terrible beauty of its significance as Fate, MacDowell concluded his _Sea Pieces_--Tone poems of artistic supremacy, of inimitable strength and loveliness of expression, that will live as long as there are men and women who are stirred by the deep power of music to give expression to God's Creation. OPUS 56. FOUR SONGS, FOR VOICE AND PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1898 (P.L. Jung. Later assigned to Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Long Ago, Sweetheart Mine._ 2. _The Swan Bent Low to the Lily._ 3. _A Maid Sings Light._ 4. _As the Gloaming Shadows Creep._ This is a very beautiful group of songs, made from the best of the composer's artistic material. They are of pure and uncommonly high quality, expressing happiness, tenderness and irresistible charm. The verses of each are the composer's own, those of the last number being after Frauenlob. 1. _Long Ago_ (_Simply, with pathos_). This song has a sadness and tenderness which, together with its words, give it an irresistible appeal. The scene it suggests is that of an elderly couple, for whom life is drawing to a close, recalling the far-off days when their undying love for each other commenced. The expression of the music is very human and free from any commonplace sentiment. 2. _The Swan Bent Low to the Lily_ (_With much feeling_). This song is an exquisite and charming little lyric. 3. _A Maid Sings Light_ (_Brightly, archly_). This song has a captivating delightfulness and warns off a lad, lest he lose his heart to the fair maid who not only sings light, but loves light. 4. _As the Gloaming Shadows Creep_ (_Tenderly_). This is one of MacDowell's finest songs. The words are "after Frauenlob," and were used previously by the composer in _As the Gloaming Shadows Creep_ in _Songs from the Thirteenth Century_ (without opus number) _for Male Chorus_. The music is very tender and beautiful in expression, and these qualities atone for the fact that the song does not always show a perfect alliance between words and music; its chief merit is in the outstanding quality of the latter. _Long Ago_ and _A Maid Sings Light_ form one of the gramophone records made for "His Master's Voice" series by Alma Gluck. This lyric soprano has sung the two MacDowell songs with sympathy and perfect phrasing. The accompaniments were played by a Mr. Bourdon, who unfortunately disregarded the composer's tone and legato indications. OPUS 57. THIRD SONATA, NORSE, IN D MINOR, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1900 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Impressively; at times with impetuous vigour._ 2. _Mournfully, yet with great tenderness._ 3. _With much character and fire._ The two last sonatas, the _Norse, Op. 57_, and, the _Keltic, Op. 59_, are MacDowell's most superb achievements, banishing for ever the mistaken and ignorant assertion that he was only a miniaturist in composition. The _Norse_ sonata is separated by a wide gulf of progress from its predecessor, the _Sonata Eroica_, being greater in outlook, freer in form and altogether more strongly determined and personal in character. It has a more mature strength, nobleness and dignity, together with an inspiring and magnificent beauty and splendour of tone power. The subject of the work was one that MacDowell loved to dwell upon--the stirring tales of love and mighty heroism told in the ancient Norse sagas. The barbaric, but undoubtedly splendid spirit of those dim days seized upon his imagination as it did upon that of the English composer, Elgar, when he wrote his _Scenes from the Sagas of King Olaf_. The writing in the _Norse_ sonata is of tremendous breadth and sweep of line, only surpassed by that of the _Keltic_ sonata, (_Op. 59_), often calling forth the utmost power of which the modern pianoforte is capable and altogether ignoring the stretch of one pair of hands, which have to leap the huge chordal stretches very smartly. Notwithstanding this fullness of writing, however, the effect is always ringing and clear. The third and fourth of MacDowell's sonatas were dedicated by him to Grieg, but the printed copies of the former do not bear the inscription, though those of the _Keltic_ do so. 1. The first movement opens darkly and sombrely, suggesting the lines of the verse that heads the sonata as a whole, telling of the great rafters in the hall at night, flashing crimson in the flickering light of a dying log fire. The strong voice of a bard rings out, and through this medium the tales of battles, love and heroic valour is told. The movement has passages of tremendous vigour, passion and depth, all painted with the unerring skill of the composer. The final bars are of fierce and elemental power. 2. The second movement opens with a theme of tender beauty. It develops into passionate strength, involving much intricacy of writing and wide spread chordal work. 3. The third and last movement (it will be noted that MacDowell abandons the scherzo movement in this sonata, as it had proved an _aside_ in the two earlier ones) is impetuous and, as it proceeds, becomes increasingly difficult to play. The theme of the second movement is recalled in a passage of extreme pathos. The final coda is most impressive, beginning _Dirge-like_--_very heavy and somber_; five bars from the end there is a moment's silence, and then the opening theme of the first movement rings out and the sonata ends with the utmost breadth and strength. OPUS 58. THREE SONGS, FOR VOICE AND PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1899 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Constancy_ (_New England, A.D. 1899_). 2. _Sunrise._ 3. _Merry Maiden Spring._ The verses of these songs are MacDowell's own, and both words and music here go to make up song writing of an order that is rare in its beauty of expression, tender thought and pure lyricism. In _Constancy_ (_New England, A.D. 1899_), indicated _Simply, but with deep feeling_, we have one of MacDowell's best songs. It has a tenderness and wistfulness about it that is irresistible, and sung in the spirit of its words, which tell of an empty house and neglected garden, it is a very beautiful thing. _Sunrise_, marked _With power and authority_, is short and tells of the sorrowful spectacle of a wrecked and broken ship. The actual scene, however, seems secondary to its own significance as a symbol of human life. The music is heavy after the style of certain of the composer's pianoforte _Sea Pieces_ (_Op_. 55). The third and last song, _Merry Maiden Spring_, is charming, with a singularly bright and captivating freshness. It is indicated to be sung _Lightly, gracefully_. OPUS 59. FOURTH SONATA, KELTIC, IN E MINOR, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1901 (Arthur P. Schmidt). _Dedicated to Edvard Grieg_. 1. _With great power and dignity_. 2. _With naive tenderness_. 3. _Very swift and fierce_. The _Keltic Sonata_ is generally considered MacDowell's supreme achievement, the great culmination of his evolution toward musical expression of immense and rare power. The sonata is a work of great breadth and vitality, and has a sweep of line and noble beauty of expression that is only equalled in the supreme efforts of genius, such as Beethoven's _Appassionata_ sonata for instance. It is a most superb poetical romance, full of the passion and heroic fervour of the Celtic strain in MacDowell's own nature. It searched out his finest and deepest inspiration when he wrote it and it grew to be part of his very being afterwards. The whole thing is a reflection of the heroic and stirring romances in Celtic legend. It is full of a wild beauty and sorrow, and carries us back to those far-off days when men lived the lives that now to us seem mythical. The graduations of tone in the sonata range from _pppp_ to _ffff_, and although its technical difficulties are considerable, they are worth conquering, which is more than can be said of many things over which the modern pianist takes infinite pains. The virtuoso aspect of the _Keltic_ sonata, however, is always lost in the magnificent spirit of the music. All MacDowell's finest works require not mechanical technique only, but deep intellectual and poetical thought to bring out their finest qualities. 1. From the first bars the majesty of the work becomes apparent. The first movement as a whole is full of the fire of Celtic inspiration, tinged with a wild and piercing sorrow. The final page of it contains music of stupendous power, and the limit of extremity of tone contrast is reached in the two last bars, one of which is to be played _pppp_ and the other _ffff_. 2. The second movement opens with a tender and exquisite beauty, but the music soon becomes impassioned, the dominant mood being that wild sorrow we have already referred to. 3. The final movement is generally dark and fierce, moving swiftly and of great technical difficulty. Near the end we notice the direction, _Gradually increasing in violence and intensity_, and later an unforgettable passage occurs _With tragic pathos_. The sonata ends with a fierce rush, of enormous and elemental power. The key to the meaning of the _Keltic_ sonata is given in some lines of his own which MacDowell placed at its head, but they are only part of all that he expressed in it. They should be read together with the lines entitled _Cuchullin_ in the book of his verses. _Cuchullin_ was considered unconquerable and even his form, when at last frozen in death, awed all who saw it; and it is of the might and tragedy of this old figure in Celtic legend that the sonata seems to tell. The final pages of the last movement may be considered as a vivid expression of the scene which Standish O'Grady, whose work MacDowell loved, has so superbly described:--"Cuculain sprang forth, but as he sprang, Lewy MacConroi pierced him through the bowels. Then fell the great hero of Gael. Thereat the sun darkened, and the earth trembled ... when, with a crash, fell that pillar of heroism, and that flame of the warlike valour of Erin was extinguished." The stricken warrior made his way painfully to a tall pillar, the grave of some bygone fighter, and tied himself to it, dying with his sword in his hand and his terrifying helmet flashing in the sun. In O'Grady's words:--"So stood Cuculain, even in death-pangs, a terror to his enemies, for a deep spring of stern valour was opened in his soul, and the might of his unfathomable spirit sustained him. Thus perished Cuculain." ... Superb as these lines are, they are equalled in expression by the music of MacDowell's _Keltic_ sonata. OPUS 60. THREE SONGS, FOR VOICE AND PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1902 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Tyrant Love._ 2. _Fair Springtide._ 3. _To the Golden-rod._ This is the last song group that MacDowell published. It contains music of great charm and poetic beauty, with a grave tenderness that was ever his own. The verses are all from his pen and show his unusual literary gifts. _Tyrant Love_ (_Lightly, yet with tenderness_). This is the least fine of the three, and yet in itself it is a song of rare quality and far above the commonplace. The music is beautiful, although not free from distortion of the words. _Fair Springtide_ (_Very slow, with pathos_). This is one of the best and most mature of MacDowell's songs. It makes a lovely solo, full of sweet and tender sadness, seldom failing to move its hearers. Both as regards words and music, it comes straight from the soul of its composer. _To the Golden-rod_ (_With tender grace_). This is a pure and delectable piece of lyrical work, in MacDowell's most delightful style. The verse tells of a lissom maid whose wayward grace neither sturdy Autumn nor the frown of Winter can ever efface. The words are obviously fanciful, but the song has a graceful charm and fragrance. OPUS 61. FIRESIDE TALES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1902 (Arthur P. Schmidt). _Dedicated to Mrs. Seth Low_. 1. _An Old Love Story._ 2. _Of Br'er Rabbit._ 3. _Of Salamanders._ 4. _A Haunted House._ 5. _By Smouldering Embers._ These pieces show a significant change in the voice of MacDowell. A certain strange, farawayness of thought is apparent, and a grave tenderness that is not quite like anything he had previously written. The fine beauty of the previous short pieces here gives way to a new kind of serious and even sombre aspect, and indeed the composer seems to have entered on a new period. Unfortunately the next work after these _Fireside Tales_ is the last music he published, and so the certainty of the commencement of a new period cannot definitely be established. The writing is much more masterly than in any of the earlier short pieces, including the _Sea Pieces_, even though these have greater spirit. 1. _An Old Love Story (Simply and tenderly)._ This opens with the familiar flowing type of MacDowell melody, but with the succeeding section in D flat major, marked _ppp_, comes in a new and earnest expressiveness. After this the opening theme returns and the piece ends tenderly and subdued. _An Old Love Story_ is, on the whole, quite characteristic, and certainly very beautiful. It seems to bring with it an atmosphere of fading, but still cherished, bygone happiness, and its thought is tender and wistful. 2. _Of Br'er Rabbit (With much spirit and humour--lightly)._ This opens with a roguish and catching tune which is brilliantly worked out with much variety, droll humour, and masterly skill. The piece has, of course, an affinity with _From Uncle Remus (Woodland Sketches, Op. 51_), since Br'er Rabbit is Uncle Remus' chief hero; but the maturity and masterly handling of the material in _Of Br'er Rabbit_ is unquestionably finer than anything in the earlier piece. MacDowell had much affection for his _Br'er Rabbit_ creation, and it is certainly one of the most delightful of all his brighter compositions; the humour is so droll and so characteristic of himself. 3. _Of Salamanders (As delicately as possible)._ This is a fanciful, intricate piece, but very delicate in effect. It is technically difficult to play, requiring an absolute control of finger work. It was rather a favourite with the composer. 4. _A Haunted House (Mysteriously)._ This is one of the most imaginative and realistic of MacDowell's smaller pianoforte pieces. It opens _very dark and sombre_, developing into a wild and eerie _fortissimo_. The middle section requires swiftness of finger work to suggest the nervous expectancy aroused by the preceding mysteriousness. The ghost-like effect returns, then gradually recedes again into impenetrable gloom. 6. _By Smouldering Embers (Musingly)._ This opens with a quiet, tender theme after the style of _An Old Love Story_. The piece is quite short, but displays a mastery both of harmony and counterpoint. The music is grave and deep, but very tender. The little middle section stands out in its almost passionate, but sonorous and controlled emotion. Toward the end, the music becomes very moving and subdued, dying away with careful and sensitive tone reduction. The impression left by this piece, and by the _Fireside Tales_ as a whole, is that the composer was conscious of a heavy responsibility in his work; that he felt, as Elgar has explained, that "the creative artist suffers in creating, or in contemplating the unending influence of his creation ... for even the highest ecstacy of 'Making' is mixed with the consciousness of the sombre dignity of the eternity of the artist's responsibility." OPUS 62. NEW ENGLAND IDYLS, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1902 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _An Old Garden_. 2. _Mid-Summer_. 3. _Mid-Winter_. 4. _With Sweet Lavender_. 5. _In Deep Woods_. 6. _Indian Idyl_. 7. _To an Old White Pine_. 8. _From Puritan Days_. 9. _From a Log Cabin_. 10. _The Joy of Autumn_. This album is the last work MacDowell published. It contains, not only some of his most beautiful and advanced lyrical tone poems, but, in _Mid-Winter_ and _From a Log Cabin_, two of the most significant and inspired of all his shorter pieces. In the _New England Idyls_ as a whole, we have the eloquence and poetry of MacDowell in its fullest maturity. The American atmosphere is strong in these pieces, the scene suggested by each one belonging unmistakably to New England. In addition to the expressive and suggestive power of these idyls, they possess a fragrance and freshness that are rare in music. Each piece is headed by a verse of the composer's, and it should also be noted that he has dropped his English directions as to expression, etc., and gone back to Italian. There is no great gain in this, for the terms he uses, although in the language traditionally employed for the purpose, are by no means always the actual terms of traditional standing; he simply took the unnecessary trouble to translate his English-thought directions into a foreign language. His Italian is not always that generally used in music. 1. _An Old Garden_ (_Semplice, teneramente_). This opens with an expressive and tender little theme. In the middle part a beautifully formed lyricism appears. The opening theme eventually reappears and the piece ends with quiet, but rich and sonorous chords. 2. _Mid-Summer_ (_Come in sogno_). This is a tone impression of a drowsy summer's day:-- ... _Above, the lazy cloudlets drift, Below, the swaying wheat_.... It is exquisitely done, with the composer's usual unerring instinct for creating atmosphere. The technical mastery is finer than that shown in the _Woodland Sketches_, and the tonality ranges in the thirty-six bars of its length from _fortissimo_ to softly breathed _ppp_, and at the end even _pppp_. 3. _Mid-Winter_ (_Lento_). Here we find a piece of dramatic significance and great power. Its deeper meaning is expressed in the verses that head it:-- _In shrouded awe the world is wrapped, The sullen wind doth groan, 'Neath winding-sheet the earth is stone, The wraiths of snow have flown_. _And lo! a thread of fate is snapped, A breaking heart makes moan; A virgin cold doth rule alone From old Mid-winter's throne_. The piece opens with an impressive theme uttered _ppp_. The whole atmosphere soon becomes one of vast and solemn content, rising to an intense short outburst. Soon a new and rather bleak theme is heard with mournful, clashing harmonies; the whole effect is vividly recalled in _From a Log Cabin_, No. 9 of these idyls, the only piece in the set to equal this one in force. After some commentary, a series of three rushing, ascending scale passages are introduced, beginning _pppp_, then gradually becoming louder until they culminate on high and powerful chords. The opening theme reappears at the height of the climax and is expressed with passionate intensity. Gradually the music dies solemnly away again. The whole of this piece appears very different to anything of MacDowell's earlier work; its deep and almost fateful significance, together with its problematical character, is a bid for something even greater than the _Sea Pieces_ (_Op_. 55). 4. _With Sweet Lavender_ (_Molto tenero e delicato_). This piece opens with a tender and expressive theme, which is one of the most beautiful of the composer's inspirations. The passage marked _la melodia con molto_ introduces that new and deeper note which is a feature in MacDowell's last two pianoforte albums. It breaks out presently into passionate longing, but the return of the sweet opening theme, _ppp motto delicato_, brings the feeling of quiet wistful contemplation back again. The verses at the head of the piece attribute its mood to the reading of a packet of old love letters. 5. _In Deep Woods_ (_Largo impressivo_). This opens with loud and resounding chords, expressive of the majesty and beauty of American forests. At the eleventh bar a lovely theme enters, and the music from now onwards is written on four staves, but is always clear and fresh. As the full grandeur of the woods is felt, the theme takes on a splendid exultation, gradually sinking away as:-- ... _The mystery of immortal things Broods o'er the woods at eve_. The piece was one of the composer's favourites; he inscribed its opening bar on a portrait of himself which he gave to Mr. W.W.A. Elkin, his London publisher and friend. 6. _Indian Idyl_ (_Leggiero, ingenuo_). This is a lovely tone poem, opening with a characteristic little figure reminiscent of the opening of the _Love-Song_ in the _Indian Suite for Orchestra_ (_Op_. 48). The theme is punctuated by little flute-like embellishments. The middle section, _poco piu lento_, is idyllic, with a perfectly balanced, swaying rhythm. In playing this portion, the left hand should describe an equal series of semicircles as it alights first on the low chord, and then on the single note two octaves higher. The opening theme returns with the flute-like embellishments prominent, but all heard softly, as from ... _afar through the summer night Sigh the wooing flutes' soft strains_. 7. _To an Old White Pine_ (_Gravemente con dignità_). The characteristic feature of this piece is its sense of alternate mounting and declining strength. At about the middle of the movement a deeper solemnity is noticed, in a passage suggesting the _swaying, gentle forest trees_ that whisper at the feet of the huge old pines of an American forest. Some expressive and ingenious little woodland touches are included in the quiet concluding bars. 8. _From Puritan Days_. "_In Nomine Domini_" (_Con enfasi smisurata_). A stern theme opens this piece, while a passage marked _implorando_ seems to suggest the pious attitude of the immortal founders of the New England States. Soon the music becomes hurried and more impassioned, the pious, despairing motive being prominent. The opening theme is now thundered out _fortissimo_ and the piece ends with a sense of stern and rock-like strength of character. 9. _From a Log Cabin_ (_Con profondo espressione_). This piece, which should be played with great expression, stands on a level with _Mid-Winter_, No. 3 in this album. It strikes the new and sombre note already referred to and carries with it a sense of deep and vast import. The composer's unerring feeling for atmosphere is given full play. The piece as a whole is deep and problematic. The lines at its head: _A house of dreams untold_, _It looks out over the whispering tree-tops And faces the setting sun_. refer to MacDowell's log-cabin in which he used to compose, and they are the same that are inscribed over his grave. _From a Log Cabin_ opens quietly, with a grave theme and a clashing accompaniment that produces a different effect to that of any of the composer's earlier work, but recalls vividly the bleak second theme of _Mid-Winter_. Some powerful though small climaxes may be noticed, and then a new theme is heard softly, _con tenerezza, pensieroso_, over a florid accompaniment. After this has run its course, it is followed by intensely passionate outbursts of sorrow, the whole culminating in a thunderous repetition of the first theme. This reappears with great solemnity, which is emphasized by tolling, drum-like strokes, in the bass. The close is mysterious and impressive; the widespread chords, the wailing, clashing discords in the final bar but one, and the far away last chord, _pppp_, all tend to increase the depth and mystery of the piece. _From a Log Cabin_ is an inspired tone poem suggesting the atmosphere of a quiet evening in the woods, with the slow setting of the sun in the Golden West; a scene by which Nature often creates the sense of the mysterious more impressively and truly than any man-made attempts can equal. This view of declining day, the gradual shutting off of light and life, was strangely prophetic when MacDowell wrote it, for his own end came by a similar process in the form of an ever deepening gloom fatalling obscuring his mental light. 10. _The Joy of Autumn_ (_Allegro vivace_). This is a splendidly exhilarating piece and the longest by far of the set. The music leaps along with the sheer joy of living, the themes being singularly fresh and bright. The whole number is written in a brilliant and masterly manner, requiring a polished pianoforte technique to secure its full effect, especially in the exultant whirl and rush in the final page. A comparison of this piece with the _In Autumn_ of the _Woodland Sketches_ (_Op_. 51) makes the great advancement of MacDowell in the technique of composition obvious even to the tyro. _The Joy of Autumn_ is one of the most brilliant and spontaneous things in modern music; it is never commonplace, it is always MacDowel-like in spirit and artistic worth, and shows its author at the height of his maturity. With this joyous and beautiful piece, MacDowell bade farewell to his God-given creative art. Happily he did not know at the time that _From a Log Cabin_ was to prove a truer-expression of his future; a prophetic description of the tragic end of his life. WORKS WITHOUT OPUS NUMBERS SIX LITTLE PIECES ON SKETCHES FOR PIANOFORTE, BY J.S. BACH, Published by Arthur P. Schmidt. 1. _Courante_. 2. _Menuet_. 3. _Gigue_. 4. _Menuet_. 5. _Menuet_. 6. _Marche_. These are illuminating little MacDowell-like adaptations of some sketches by "one of the world's mightiest tone poets," as MacDowell described J.S. Bach. They are charmingly and cleverly written, although not always satisfying, it is to be feared, to the strict purist. FROM THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY (TRANSCRIPTIONS FOR PIANOFORTE OF HARPSICHORD AND CLAVICHORD PIECES). Published by Arthur P. Schmidt. BOOK I: 1. _Courante_ (_Rameau_). 2. _Sarabande_ (_Rameau_). 3. _Tempo di Minuetto_ (_Grazioli_). 4. _Le Bavolet Flottant_ (_The Waving Scarf_)(_Couperin_). 5. _Gigue_ (_Mattheson_). 6. _Sarabande_ (_Loeilly_). BOOK II: 7. _Gigue_ (_Loeilly_). 8. _La Bersan_ (_Couperin_). 9. _L'Ausonienne_ (_Couperin_). 10. _Aria from Handel's_ "_Susanna_" (_Lavignac_). 11. _Gigue_ (_Graun_). These pieces were much used by MacDowell in his lessons, as illustrations of eighteenth century music, and were published in two books about a dozen years after his death. They have not met with unanimous approval, for his transcriptions of the old pieces for the harpsichord and clavichord, in a manner suited to the modern pianoforte, is considered by many purists to be too free. The fact is that in their original form they are quite unsuitable for the modern pianoforte, being far too slight. MacDowell has, for many of us, done the right thing by filling in their implied harmonies and otherwise bringing out their qualities, so that they may be done justice under present-day keyboard conditions. TWO SONGS FROM THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY, FOR MALE CHORUS. _First Published_, 1897 (Arthur P. Schmidt). 1. _Winter Wraps his Grimmest Spell_. 2. _As the Gloaming Shadows Creep_. These are two effective male-voice choruses. The first number being a setting of MacDowell's lines after Nithart, and the second of verses by the composer, inspired by Frauenlob. These latter beautiful lines were also used in number four of the _Four Songs, Op. 56_. MacDowell composed three part-songs for Female-Voice Choir. They have no opus numbers and are entitled:-- _Summer Wind_. _Two College Songs: 1. Alma Mater. 2. At Parting_. They are well written and effective, the _College Songs_ being particularly interesting, while _Summer Wind_ has one of the composer's beloved nature subjects as its inspiration. Published by Arthur P. Schmidt. In addition to the _Six Little Sketches_ on pieces by Bach, and the pieces contained in the albums entitled _From the Eighteenth Century_, MacDowell also revised and edited for the pianoforte the following compositions:-- Alkan-MacDowell, _Perpetual Motion_. Cui, _Cradle Song_. Dubois, _Sketch_. Geisler, _Episode_. Geisler, _Pastorale_. Geisler, _The Princess Ilse_. Glinka-Balakirev, _The Lark_. Huber, _Intermezzo_. Lacombe, _Etude_. Liszt, _Eclogue_. Liszt, _Impromptu_. Martucci, _Improviso_. Moszkowski, _Air de Ballet_. Moszkowski, _Etincelles_. Pierné, _Allegro Scherzando_. Pierné, _Cradle Song_. Pierné, _Improvista_. Reinhold, _Impromptu_. Rimsky-Korsakov, _Romance in A flat_. Stcherbatcheff, _Orientate_. Ten Brink, _Gavotte in E minor_. Van Westerhout, _Gavotte in A_. Van Westerhout, _Momenta Capriccioso_. All Published by Arthur P. Schmidt. The following compositions were arranged for Male-Voice Choir by MacDowell:-- Beines, _Spring Song_. Borodine, _Serenade_. Filke, _The Brook and the Nightingale_. Moniuszko, _The Cossack_. Rimsky-Korsakov, _Folk Song_. Sokolow, _Spring_. Sokolow, _From Siberia_. Von Holstein, _Bonnie Katrine_. Von Woss, _Under Flowering Branches_. All Published by Arthur P. Schmidt. MacDowell also wrote _Technical Exercises for the Pianoforte_ (_2 Books_), in addition to the Studies comprising Ops. 39 and 46. They were at one time obtainable from Arthur P. Schmidt. TRANSCRIPTIONS. A number of well-known MacDowell pianoforte pieces have been transcribed for other instruments. The transcriptions are all published by Arthur P. Schmidt, and are as follows:-- ORGAN. SIX TRANSCRIPTIONS, SERIES 1. By Frederick N. Shackley. _Idylle_ (_Starlight, _Op. 55, No. 4_). _Pastorale_ (_To a Wild Rose, _Op. 51, No. 1_). _Romance_ (_At an Old Trysting Place, _Op. 51, No. 3_). _Legend_ (_A Deserted Farm, _Op. 51, No. 8_). _Reverie_ (_With Sweet Lavender, _Op. 62, No. 4_). _Maestoso_ (_A.D. 1620, _Op. 55, No. 3_). SIX TRANSCRIPTIONS, SERIES 2. By C. Charlton Palmer. _Nautilus_ (_Op. 55, No. 7_). _Andantino_ (_Romance, _Op. 39, No. 3_). _Sea Song_ (_Song, _Op. 55, No. 5_). _Meditation_ (_By Smouldering Embers, _Op. 61, No. 6_). _Mélodie_ (_To a Water Lily, _Op. 51, No. 6_). _In Nomine Domini_ (_From Puritan Days, _Op. 62, No. 8_). VIOLIN AND PIANOFORTE. _To a Humming Bird_ (_From Six Fancies_). _To a Wild Rose_ (_From _Op. 51_). Original and simplified editions. _Clair de Lune_ (_From _Op. 37_). _With Sweet Lavender_ (_From _Op. 62_). VIOLONCELLO AND PIANOFORTE. WOODLAND SKETCHES. _Op. 51. Arranged by Julius Klengel. _To a Wild Rose_. _At an Old Trysting Place_. _To a Water-Lily._ _A Deserted Farm_. _Told at Sunset_. SELECTED ALBUMS. Useful albums for those who desire an introduction to MacDowell's music are as follows:-- IN PASSING MOODS. Album of selected Pianoforte Pieces. 1. _Prologue_. 2. _Alia Tarantella_. 3. _An Old Love Story_. 4. _Melody_. 5. _The Song of the Shepherdess_. 6. _A Deserted Farm_. 7. _To the Sea_. 8. _Danse Andalouse_. 9. _From a Log Cabin_. 10. _Epilogue_. ALBUM OF SELECTED SONGS. (Low or High Voice.) 1. _Thy Beaming Eyes_. 2. _The Swan Bent Low_. 3. _O Lovely Rose_. 4. _Deserted_. 5. _Slumber Song_. 6. _A Maid Sings Light_. 7. _To a Wild Rose_. MACDOWELL LITERATURE. MacDowell's _Critical and Historical Essays_ (_Lectures delivered at Columbia University_), referred to earlier in this book, are published in America by Arthur P. Schmidt and in England by Macmillan & Co., Ltd. His _Verses_, a book of beautiful poetic inspirations, is published solely by Arthur P. Schmidt. An enthusiastic study of MacDowell, by Lawrence Gilman, an American musical critic, is published by John Lane & Co., in New York and London. Arthur P. Schmidt & Elkin & Co. stock all three books. EDGAR THORN PIECES. The following pieces were published by MacDowell under the pseudonym of _Edgar Thorn_. He stipulated that the royalties resulting from their sale should be paid to a nurse who was at one time needed in his household. They are mature pieces, although slight in form. AMOURETTE, FOR PIANOFORTE. This is a charming piece, published separately. It is characteristic, although not deeply inspired. FORGOTTEN FAIRY TALES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1897 (P. L. Jung). Assigned, 1899, to Arthur P. Schmidt, 1._Sung Outside the Prince's Door_. 2. _Of a Tailor and a Bear_. 3. _Beauty in the Rose-Garden._ 4. _From Dwarf-land._ These trifles are of a refined and genuinely poetical order, possessing all the composer's suggestive tone poetry in a light garb. 1. _Sung Outside the Prince's Door (Softly, wistfully)._ This opens with a tender and expressive theme. The middle section, _Pleadingly_, is described by this indication. Altogether, the piece is a little gem, full of sweet and wistful expressiveness. 2. _Of a Tailor and a Bear (Gaily, pertly)._ This is a fanciful little piece, the antics of the bear being happily suggested. The tunes are lively and the whole thing has a delightful old-world atmosphere about it. Some of the marks of expression are very characteristic, including, _Growlingly, clumsily_, etc. 3._Beauty in the Rose-Garden (Not fast;_ _sweetly and simply)._ A pleading little theme opens this number. The middle section, indicated _Well marked, almost roughly_, has a touch of passion in its feeling. The resumption of the opening tune is marked _Sadly_, and the piece concludes rather beautifully, with great tenderness. 4. _From Dwarf-land (Merrily, quaintly)._ This opens with a merry theme, and is full of quaint and delightful little touches. TWO PIECES, IN LILTING RHYTHM, FOR PIANOFORTE. These two pieces are explained by their titles and are of little importance. SIX FANCIES, FOR PIANOFORTE. _First Published_, 1898 (P.L. Jung). Assigned 1899, to Arthur P. Schmidt. 1. _A Tin Soldier's Love_. 2 ._To a Humming Bird_. 3. _Summer Song_. 4. _Across Fields_. 5. _Bluette_. 6. _An Elfin Round_. This is a characteristic album, the pieces in it being imaginative and suggestive, in tone poetry, of their subjects, although not of the composer's deepest inspiration. 1._A Tin Soldier's Love (Gently, with Feeling)._ This little piece opens with a sweet and simple theme, followed by a toy-like march tune, and these make up the material of the piece. 2. _To a Humming Bird (As fast and light as possible)._ There is nothing very striking about this piece. It is imaginative, and when played at the required speed, with lightness of touch, is effective. It has been arranged as a violin solo with pianoforte accompaniment. 3. _Summer Song (Not fast)._ This is characteristic of MacDowell in its clear-sounding harmonies, and has a certain charm and fragrance of its own. 4. _Across Fields (Lightly and joyously)._ This piece opens with a happy and characteristic tune. The whole atmosphere suggested in its two pages is singularly bright, sunny and fresh. 5. _Bluette (Gracefully)._ This is the most MacDowell-like piece of the _Six Fancies_, some of its rich harmonies and characteristic key transitions being reminiscent of the composer's finer work. 6. _An Elfin Round (Very swift and light)._ The full effect of this piece can only be felt if it is played at a great speed, with extreme lightness of touch. The feeling is not very deep, as the occasion does not demand it, but it is a fanciful and suggestive little creation. PART-SONGS. (Published under the Pseudonym of Edgar Thorn.) _The Witch_. _War Song_. _The Rose and the Gardener_. _Love and Time_. All Published by Arthur P. Schmidt. These part-songs are extremely interesting and effective, particularly in the MacDowell-like manner in which they convey musical suggestions of their literary content. ALPHABETICAL INDEX TO MACDOWELL'S WORKS The works of MacDowell are reviewed in this book in order of _opus_ number, and the following index will enable the reader to find the account of any piece of which he knows the title, but not the number. Works without opus numbers are dealt with after those having one. TITLE: OPUS NO. ORCHESTRAL WORKS: First Symphonic Poem, Hamlet and Ophelia, 22 Second Symphonic Poem, Lancelot and Elaine, 25 Third Symphonic Poem, Lamia, 29 First Suite, in A minor, 42 _In a Haunted Forest_ _Summer Idyl_ _In October_ _The Song of the Shepherdess_ _Forest Spirits_ Second Suite, Indian 48 _Legend_ _Love-Song_ _In War Time_. _Dirge_ _Village Festival_ Two Fragments, The Saracens and the Lovely Alda 30 PART-SONGS: Barcarolle (Mixed chorus and Piano duet) 44 Summer Wind (Female Voices) none Three Choruses (Male Voices) 52 _Hush, hush_! _A Voice from the Sea_ _The Crusaders_ Three Part-songs (Male Chorus) 27 _In the Starry Sky Above Us_ _Springtime_ _The Fisherboy_ Two Choruses (Male Voices) 53 _Bonnie Ann_ _The Collier Lassie_ Two Choruses (Male Voices) 54 _A Ballad of Charles the Bold_ _Midsummer Clouds_ Two College Songs (Female Voices) none _Alma Mater_ _At Parting_ Two Northern Part-songs (Mixed Chorus) 43 _The Brook_ _Slumber Song_ Two Part-songs (Male Chorus) 41 _Cradle Song_ _Dance of the Gnomes_ Two Songs from the Thirteenth Century (Male Chorus) none _Winter Wraps his Grimmest Spell_ _As the Gloaming Shadows Creep_ Published under the Pseudonym of Edgar Thorn none _The Witch_ _War Song_ _The Rose and the Gardener_ _Love and Time_ PIANOFORTE WORKS: Air and Rigaudon 49 Amourette none Etude de Concert, in F sharp 36 Fireside Tales 61 _An Old Love Story_ _Of Br'er Rabbit_ _From a German Forest_ _Of Salamanders_ _A Haunted House_ _By Smouldering Embers_ First Concerto, in A minor (With Orchestra) 15 First Modern Suite 10 _Praeludium_ _Presto_ _Andantino and Allegretto_ _Intermezzo_ _Rhapsody_ _Fugue_ First Sonata, Tragica 45 Forest Idyls 19 _Forest Stillness_ _Play of the Nymphs_ _Rêverie_ _Dance of the Dryads_ Forgotten Fairy Tales (_Published under the Pseudonym of Edgar Thorn_) none _Sung Outside the Prince's Door_ _Of a Tailor and a Bear_ _Beauty in the Rose Garden_ _From Dwarf-land_ Four Little Poems, 32 _The Eagle_ _The Brook_ _Moonshine_ _Winter_ Four Pieces, 24 _Humoresque_ _March_ _Cradle Song_ _Czardas_ Fourth Sonata, Keltic, 59 From the Eighteenth Century (Transcriptions for Pianoforte of Harpsichord and Clavichord pieces), none In Lilting Rhythm (Two Pieces) (_Published under the Pseudonym of Edgar Thorn)_, none Les Orientales, 37 _Clair de Lune_ _Dans le Hamac_ _Danse Andalouse_ Marionettes, 38 _Prologue_ _Soubrette_ _Lover_ _Witch_ _Clown_ _Villain_ _Sweetheart_ _Epilogue_ Moon Pictures (Duets), 21 _The Hindoo Maiden_ _Stork's Story_ _In Tyrol_ _The Swan_ _Visit of the Bear_ New England Idyls, 62 _An Old Garden_ _Mid-Summer_ _Mid-Winter_ _With Sweet Lavender_ _In Deep Woods_ _Indian Idyl_ _To an Old White Pine_ _From Puritan Days_ _From a Log Cabin_ _The Joy of Autumn_ Prelude and Fugue, 13 Sea Pieces, 55 _To the Sea_ _From a Wandering Iceberg_ _A.D. 1620_ _Starlight_ _Song_ _From the Depths_ _Nautilus_ _In Mid-Ocean_ Second Concerto, in D minor (With Orchestra), 23 Second Modern Suite, 14 _Præludium_ _Fugato_ _Rhapsody_ _Scherzino_ _March_ _Fantastic Dance_ Second Sonata, Eroica, 50 Serenata, 16 Six Fancies (_Published under the Pseudonym of Edgar Thorn_), none _A Tin Soldier's Love_ _To a Humming Bird_ _Summer Song_ _Across Fields_ _Bluette_ _An Elfin Round_ Six Idyls (after Goethe), 28 _In the Woods_ _Siesta_ _To the Moonlight_ _Silver Clouds_ _Flute Idyls_ _Bluebell_ Six Little Pieces on Sketches by J.S. Bach, none _Courante_ _Menuet_ _Gigue_ _Menuet_ _Menuet_ _Marche_ Six Poems after Heine including, 31 _Scotch Poem_ _Poeme érotique_ Technical Exercises for the Pianoforte, none Third Sonata, Norse, 57 Three Poems (Duets), 20 _Nights at Sea_ _Tale of the Knights_ _Ballade_ Twelve Studies for the Development of Technique and Style, 39 _Hunting Song_ _Alla Tarantella_ _Romance_ _Arabeske_ _In the Forest_ _Dance of the Gnomes_ _Idyl_ _Shadow Dance_ _Intermezzo_ _Melody_ _Scherzino_ _Hungarian_ Twelve Virtuoso Studies 46 _Novelette_ _Moto Perpetuo_ _Wild Chase_ _Improvisation_ _Elfin Dance_ _Valse Triste_ _Burlesque_ _Bluette_ _Traumerei_ _March Wind_ _Impromptu_ _Polonaise_ Two Fantastic Pieces 17 _Legend Witches' Dance (Hexentanz_) Two Pieces 18 _Barcarolle Humoresque_ Woodland Sketches 51 _To a Wild Rose_ _Will o' the Wisp_ _At an Old Trysting Place_ _In Autumn_ _From an Indian Lodge_ _To a Water-lily_ _From Uncle Remus_ _A Deserted Farm_ _By a Meadow Brook_ _Told at Sunset_ SONGS: Eight Songs_ 47 _The Robin Sings in the Apple Tree_ _Midsummer Lullaby_ _Folk Song_ _Confidence_ _The West Wind Croons in the Cedar_ _Trees_ _In the Woods_ _The Sea_ _Through the Meadow_ Five Songs _ 10 & 11 _My Love and I_ _You Love Me Not_! _In the Sky, where Stars are Glowing_ _Night Song_ _The Chain of Roses_ Four Songs _Long Ago, Sweetheart Mine_ _The Swan Bent Low to the Lily_ _A Maid Sings Light_ _As the Gloaming Shadows Creep_ From an Old Garden 26 _The Pansy_ _The Myrtle_ _The Clover_ _The Yellow Daisy_ _The Bluebell_ _The Mignonette_ Six Love Songs 40 _Sweet Blue-Eyed Maid_ _Sweetheart, Tell Me_ _Thy Beaming Eyes_ _For Sweet Love's Sake_ _0, Lovely Rose_ _I Ask But This_ Three Songs 33 _Prayer_ _Cradle Hymn_ _Idyl_ Three Songs 58 _Constancy_ _Sunrise_ _Merry Maiden Spring_ Three Songs 60 _Tyrant Love_ _Fair Springtide_ _To the Golden-rod_ Two Old Songs 9 _Deserted_ _Slumber Song_ Two Songs 34 _Menie_ _My Jean_ VIOLONCELLO AND ORCHESTRA: Romance 35 Printed in Great Britain at The Devonshire Press, Torquay. 
16225	----	Oxford University Press _London_ _Edinburgh_ _Glasgow_ _New York_ _Toronto_ _Melbourne_ _Bombay_ Humphrey Milford _M.A._ _Publisher to the University_ MUSIC AS A LANGUAGE LECTURES TO MUSIC STUDENTS BY ETHEL HOME HEAD MISTRESS OF THE KENSINGTON HIGH SCHOOL G.P.D.S.T. OXFORD AT THE CLARENDON PRESS 1916 PREFACE The following lectures were delivered to music students between the years 1907 and 1915. They have been partly rewritten so as to be intelligible to a different audience, for in all cases the lectures were followed by a discussion in which various points not dealt with in the lectures were elucidated. An experience of eight years in organizing a training course for students who wish to teach ear-training on modern lines to classes of average children in the ordinary curriculum of a school has shown me that the great need for such students is to realize the problems, not only of musical education, but of _general_ education. Owing to the nature of all art work the artist is too often inclined to see life in reference to his art alone. It is for this reason that he sometimes finds it difficult to fit in with the requirements of school life. He feels vaguely that his art matters so much more to the world than such things as grammar and geography; but when asked to give a reason for his faith, he is not always able to convince his hearers. He feels with Ruskin that: 'The end of Art is as serious as that of other beautiful things--of the blue sky, and the green grass, and the clouds, and the dew. They are either useless, or they are of much deeper function than giving amusement.' But he has not always the gift of words by means of which he can describe this function. We want our artists, and their visions, and those of them who can realize a perspective in which their art takes its place with other educative forces are among the most valuable educators of the rising generation. ETHEL HOME. KENSINGTON, _January, 1916._ CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. THE TRAINING OF THE MUSIC TEACHER 9 II. THE ORGANIZATION OF MUSICAL WORK IN SCHOOLS 15 III. THE TEACHING OF VOICE PRODUCTION AND SONGS 20 IV. THE SOL-FA METHOD 26 V. FIRST LESSONS TO BEGINNERS IN EAR-TRAINING 31 VI. THE TEACHING OF SIGHT-SINGING 35 VII. THE TEACHING OF TIME AND RHYTHM 40 VIII. THE TEACHING OF DICTATION 43 IX. THE TEACHING OF EXTEMPORIZATION AND HARMONY 48 X. THE TEACHING OF ELEMENTARY COMPOSITION 55 XI. THE TEACHING OF TRANSPOSITION 60 XII. GENERAL HINTS ON TAKING A LESSON IN EAR-TRAINING 65 XIII. THE TEACHING OF THE PIANO 70 XIV. SUGGESTIONS TO STUDENTS ON LEAVING A TRAINING DEPARTMENT 79 CHAPTER I THE TRAINING OF THE MUSIC TEACHER Let us consider the case of a young girl who has finished her school education, and has supplemented this by a special course of technical work in music, which has ended in her taking a musical diploma. She now wishes to teach. What are the chief problems which she will have to face? She must first of all make up her mind whether she wishes to confine her work to the teaching of a solo instrument, together with some work in harmony or counterpoint, along orthodox lines, or whether she wishes to be in touch with modern methods of guiding the _general_ musical education of children, as taken in some schools in the morning curriculum. If the latter, she must enter on a course of special training. There is also a practical reason why many who wish to teach music at the present time are entering a training department. In a paper recently issued by the Teachers' Registration Council we find the following paragraph dealing with 'Conditions of Registration': 'The applicant must produce evidence satisfactory to the Council of having completed successfully a course of training in the principles and methods of teaching, accompanied by practice under supervision. The course must extend over a period of at least one academic year or its equivalent.' Now, those who have studied the question of the teaching of music in accordance with modern methods have realized that music provides a _language,_ which should be used primarily for self-expression and intercourse with others. The whole of life depends on the expression of ourselves in relation to the community. 'Self-expression is a universal instinct, which can only be crushed by a course of systematic ill treatment, either self-inflicted or inflicted by others. It is self-inflicted if we conform to false standards of convention, or create for ourselves a standard of life which is out of touch with humanity as a whole. It is inflicted by others if they force us when young into a wrong educational atmosphere, and paralyse our faculties instead of developing them. To the favoured few real creative power comes by instinct, but to a great many a small degree of this power can be given by education, and in this way an extra outlet is possible for self-expression. The child should be trained when quite young to think in terms of music, in the same way in which it is trained to think in its mother-tongue. The fundamental work should be taken in class, not at an individual lesson, and should be compulsory for all children. We do not inquire whether a child is gifted in languages before we teach him French, and we must not ask whether he is gifted in the language of music before placing him in the music class. Again, short frequent lessons are more beneficial to the young beginner than longer lessons at greater intervals, for, as a new 'sense' is being opened to the pupil, a long lesson produces an unhealthy strain. The scheme of work to be followed in such a class will be dealt with later, but we may note here that training given in accordance with the above-mentioned aim will produce a marked increase in the vitality and general intelligence of a child. The reflex actions of intense concentration for a short time, followed by the giving out of creative work, will send a child back to its other lessons with an alert mind and with increased vigour. A large number of schools and private families are offering posts to teachers who are able to teach along such lines. Every year the number of such posts steadily increases, and it will not be too much to predict that in the near future few schools in the first rank will be without teaching of this kind. The salaries offered are naturally higher than those obtained by the old-fashioned 'orthodox' teacher, as more has to be done, and classes have to be managed instead of individual pupils. It is impossible to over-estimate the importance of securing plenty of experience in teaching classes of average pupils of all ages, under expert supervision. Many an apparently promising teacher has come to grief in the first post taken, because the knowledge gained has been too theoretical, and has not been checked by class experience with really average pupils. The question of discipline is an easy one with an individual pupil, but in class work it assumes a different proportion. For the purpose of teaching ear-training, without instrumental work, a high degree of musical gift is not necessary. Any one who is fond of music, sympathetic with children, and willing to work, can manage the course of work necessary before being able to teach classes up to a fair standard. The work, which often appears bewilderingly difficult to one who sees it for the first time, becomes quite simple when approached step by step, and in company with fellow students. It is also interesting to know that some of the most satisfactory results obtained in certain schools during the last few years have been arrived at by teachers possessing only an average knowledge of an instrument, but who have thrown themselves with enthusiasm into the study of music as a living language. Such teachers are bound to succeed, because they are attacking the subject in a genuinely educational spirit. A word now on another aspect of the question of training. There is going to be an enormous difference in the young girl's outlook on life. For perhaps the first time she has to adopt the attitude of the one who gives, not of the one who receives. Hitherto she has been receiving food, clothes, money, education, help in her difficulties, &c., and now, Fate waves a wand, and the child who has been the centre of interest in her home and in her school has to learn to give--and to give generously--as others gave to her. For the real teacher is never paid for all she does. Her salary is not augmented in proportion to all the extra help she gives to the backward or delicate pupil--to the hours of drudgery, outside school hours, willingly given in order to be prepared for every eventuality of school life. Such things are never paid for in money, the only reward is in the partial realization of the standard attempted. Another point. The ideal teacher must have real personality, and this is a thing of slow growth, but which can be developed under expert guidance. There must be sympathy, tact, and humour. In adopting the attitude of the giver instead of the receiver the young teacher is too apt to put away the remembrance of childish difficulties, and to forget the restless vitality which made her, as a child, long to fidget, and do anything but learn. There is another thing to bear in mind. The majority of amateurs are never subject to the same criticism as the professional. Everything is 'watered down'. 'Very good' has often been the verdict of the critic, but an unspoken addition has been--'for an amateur'. Now in a training department one of the most valuable points of the training consists in the outspoken comments. And this does not only refer to musical work, but to personal faults. We all know that if a mannerism does not interfere with the unity of a strong personality, it may be left alone. But there are some mannerisms which merely express the weaknesses of those who possess them, and which spoil the expression of the personality. These must be cured, and will be faithfully dealt with in the training department. Lastly, if the course of training be taken in connexion with a school, opportunities will be afforded of getting an insight into general organization and schemes of work for children of all ages. An accusation often levelled at the musical members of a staff is that they keep to themselves, and do not identify themselves with the general school life. In some cases this may be due to lack of willingness, but in the large majority it is due to lack of training in, and realization of, the unity of such life. A student who takes every opportunity given to her during her year of training will not only learn how to organize the general musical life of a school, through the medium of ear-training and song classes, recitals, music clubs, &c., but will be ready and proud to show initiative in other directions. We cannot do without the visions of our artists, and a country or a school, is the poorer when full use is not made of the driving force of artistic inspiration. CHAPTER II THE ORGANIZATION OF MUSICAL WORK IN SCHOOLS The musical work in a school falls roughly into four divisions: 1. Ear-training, leading on in later stages to harmony, counterpoint, &c. 2. Voice production and songs. 3. Instrumental work. 4. Concerts, music clubs, &c. To take these in order: 1. _Ear-training._ When the necessity for this work has been realized the next step is to consider how the time can be found for it in the school curriculum. Those who have seen some of the results in schools which have taken the work for some years are sometimes inclined to think that a large expenditure of time has been involved. But, provided the children have begun the training when quite young, it is neither necessary nor desirable for them to have more than one forty-minute lesson a week after they have reached the age of twelve years. We must remember that in all 'language' work the ideal plan is to begin with very short and fairly frequent lessons. Ear-training which is to be treated on the lines suggested will be opening up a new 'sense' to the pupil, and the concentration necessary is such that the children cannot stand the strain of a long lesson. The following lengths of lessons are therefore advisable: For children from four to seven years of age, a quarter of an hour four days a week. From eight to twelve years of age, twenty minutes three days a week. From thirteen years of age upwards, forty minutes once a week. Now as to schemes of work. For those between the ages of four and seven the time should be spent in singing at sight easy melodies in major keys, and in ear tests of two or three notes at a time. For those between eight and twelve sight-singing in minor keys and in two parts should be added, also the dictation of melodies and of two-part tunes. When this work is securely grasped the treatment of chords can begin, also extemporizing of melodies with the voice, together with transposition and harmonizing of easy phrases at the piano. For children of thirteen years and upwards the above can be continued, together with sight-singing in three parts, dictation in three and four parts, extemporizing at the piano, and more definite work in harmony, counterpoint, and elementary composition. After the age of fourteen it is well to make the work voluntary. By this time it is possible to distinguish between children who are sufficiently interested in music to make it worth while for them to continue the work and those who will be more profitably employed in other directions. The latter will have learnt how to take an intelligent interest in music, and how to 'listen' when music is being performed. The classes will now become smaller, an advantage for the more detailed work. It is important to note that the best results in ear-training will only be obtained if the classes do not exceed twenty-five pupils in number. 2. _Voice Production and Songs_. These classes can be larger without prejudice to the work, but the above classification as to age is desirable. Children between four and seven years of age will probably learn songs connected with their kindergarten work, so it is difficult to say exactly the amount of time to be spent in song lessons, as the work will overlap. Those between eight and twelve should have one song and voice production lesson a week, of not less than twenty minutes. Those over thirteen will probably be working at more difficult songs, and will need not less than thirty minutes once a week. 3. _Instrumental Work_. It is very desirable that all children up to the age of eight who are learning an instrument should do so in a _class_ for the first year, rather than in individual lessons. Much of the fundamental work at an instrument can become wearisome to a young child unless taken in company with others of the same age. A practical consideration involved is that this makes it possible to charge a smaller fee for each pupil, and this fact may influence a parent to let a child begin an instrument earlier than would otherwise be the case. It has been found that children started in this way develop much more rapidly than if they had individual lessons. The stimulus of class work for the average child cannot be over-estimated. When this preliminary year's work is over, the child can go on either to three twenty-minute lessons a week by itself, or two half-hours. If ear-training is being done at the same time, it is possible to shorten the amount of instrumental practice each day. In few cases should it be allowed to exceed half an hour up to the age of thirteen, and in many cases twenty minutes is found sufficient. After the age of thirteen it is again possible, as was the case with the ear-training work, to distinguish between the musical children and the others. The former should increase the amount of practising each day; the latter, if they continue to learn, should not exceed half an hour. The piano lessons will in most cases consist of two half-hours a week. 4. _Concerts, Music Clubs, &c._ It is a good plan to arrange for a short recital to be given every term, at which not only the more advanced pupils will play, but children at all stages of development. It is wise to insist on all music being played by heart, as in this way an invaluable training will be given from the very first. In the case of a prize-giving or large school function it is of course necessary to show only the best work. A music club is a great stimulus to the musical life of a school. A good plan is to arrange a series of short lectures on such subjects as the origins of harmony, acoustics, the chief difference between music of different schools and periods, &c., and to follow these by accounts of the lives and works of the great composers. Children are delighted to come to such meetings, especially if their aid be asked in illustrating the lectures by playing specimens of the music referred to. In the organization of musical work in a school it is of the utmost importance that there should be a central musical authority, responsible for bringing all those engaged in the teaching into touch with each other. If this be done, not only will overlapping of work in the various classes and lessons be avoided, but a driving force of musical comradeship will be initiated which will produce a genuine musical atmosphere. CHAPTER III THE TEACHING OF VOICE PRODUCTION AND SONGS It is perhaps more rare to find a successful teacher of songs than of any other subject in the school curriculum. There are many reasons for this. In many cases a visiting teacher takes the work, who finds it difficult to learn the names of all the children in one lesson a week, and who therefore starts at a disadvantage. Then the size of the class for songs is always larger than that of classes in other subjects, and there is therefore more inducement to inattention on the part of the children. Nothing is more pitiful than to see a young, inexperienced mistress grappling with a large class of healthy, restless children, who know from experience that the weekly song lesson may be turned to good account for their own little games! There is, of course, the born teacher, who sends an electric shock through the room directly she enters it, and who, without asking for it, secures instant silence and eager attention. Such people are rare, and it must be our task now to give a few practical suggestions to those less fortunate people who do not possess the innate gift, but who are willing to learn. To begin with, the teacher of songs must have real personality; and if she does not possess this by nature, she must do her best to develop what she has. She must be full of vitality, she must understand children, and, above all, she must be genuinely fond of music, in such a way that she cannot do without it. The last qualification often implies a certain sensitiveness, which finds a difficulty in accommodating itself to a workaday world, where people have little time, or inclination, to study the 'moods' of others. Very artistic people are a well-known difficulty to the authorities of schools. In order to excel in their art, they must not only have a 'capacity for taking pains', but a reserve store of emotional force, on which they draw for self-expression through their art. Now the possession of such a reserve store does not always imply a power of keeping it in reserve! During the course of training the attention of such people should be directed to the high ideals underlying all true educational work; they should realize the real function of music in education--that it is not to be taken as a mere accomplishment, or technical art, but as a means of self-expression. We will now consider a special case. Let us suppose that a new mistress is taking a song lesson with a large class of children, who have the reputation of being troublesome to manage. On entering the classroom it is a good plan to go straight to the platform, without speaking a word to the children on the way, whatever they may be doing. From this vantage ground the teacher should look the class over for a few seconds, still without speaking. There is nothing more impressive to a restless class than the sight of a mistress not in the least disturbed by their doings, yet taking everything in. If the mistress has cultivated a sense of repose and self-confidence this action on her part will produce the feeling of a centre of force in the room--and the force will radiate from her. The children, without knowing exactly what has happened, will feel different, and will be pliant and easy to manage. Directly the mistress is conscious of this change of atmosphere she can start the lesson. But she must now gradually merge her personality into that of the class--she must work _with_ them, not outside them. It is difficult to put this idea into words, but all real teachers will see the meaning. There is no driving force to equal that which works from within a community--not from without. Now for the lesson itself. It should start with a few simple exercises in voice production. Excellent suggestions for these will be found in a little book called _Class Singing for Schools_, with a preface by Sir Charles Stanford, published by Stainer & Bell, also in the Board of Education Memorandum on Music. A special point must be dwelt on. Children should never be allowed to use the chest register. Their voices should be trained downwards. In the singing of scales there should be a leap to, or a start on, a note high enough to be out of the chest register--such as the high E[b]. The descending scale should then be sung. Breathing exercises should be taken at the beginning of the lesson. A good exercise is to exhale on the sound 'sh'. The children will stand in easy positions for this, the hands on the ribs, so that they can feel the ribs expanding and contracting during inhalation and exhalation. The shoulders should be kept down. The advantage in using the sound 'sh' is that the teacher can thereby tell how long each child makes its breath last. When these exercises are finished, and a few scales and passages have been sung, the class should sit down while the teacher speaks about the new song to be sung. In schools where sight-singing is taken as part of the regular curriculum it is not necessary to work at this in the song class. In beginning a new song the chief thing is for the teacher to get the class to seize the spirit of it. If difficult words occur, they may be explained later, but it is absolutely essential that the children shall get hold of some idea which they can express in singing. Mr. W. Tomlins, who came over from New York in order to show some of his methods for dealing with large classes, produced some admirable results. He worked up the enthusiasm of his classes to such an extent that the effect of their singing was electrical; and it was all due to the few words he said before the song was sung, not to any corrections he made later. It is not necessary for a teacher to _conduct_ the songs all the time during the lesson, or the fact that the class is expected to watch the baton tends to make them rigid in their attitudes, and therefore, to a certain extent, in their singing. The best results are obtained when a class stands to sing. Some well-meaning teachers forget that the children have probably been sitting in their classrooms for the greater part of the morning, and are only too glad to stand for a change. They can sit between the songs, when finding their places, and so on. Songs should be chosen in which the pitch is not too low. Many people have the mistaken idea that young children cannot sing high. Listen to their shouts in the playground, to the notes they use when calling to each other, and this idea will soon be corrected. The lowest note in the voice of a young child is generally E, and it can take the high F or G quite easily. Droners should not be allowed to sing with the rest of the class, or the pitch will be lost at once, to say nothing of the spoiling of the general effect. Flat singing is often due to bad ventilation of the room, more often still to boredom. A good plan in this case is to raise the pitch a semitone; it is often just as easy for singing, and invariably produces a sense of cheerfulness. Children should never be allowed to sing loudly, especially when very young. It is most difficult to cure the habit when once formed. Attention should be paid to articulation from the very first. A useful lesson is taught the class if, from time to time, half of them go to the end of the room, and, with closed books, listen to their companions singing a verse of a song which is new to them. The difficulty they experience in following the words will not soon be forgotten. Attacks should be absolutely precise. The two-and three-part contrapuntal singing which is done in the sight-singing classes is admirable for this, as the whole effect is blurred or entirely spoilt in such clear-cut work by a false entry. For all large school functions, such as a prize-giving, the songs should be sung by heart. This is not necessary in ordinary class work, as the aim there is to teach as many good songs as possible, in order to form a standard of real musical literature. But at the set performance nothing is more delightful than to see children rise, and, without any flapping of pages, or uncomfortable attitudes for seeing the words in a book, sing straight from their hearts. However simple the music or the words, the effect will be well worth the little additional trouble. Our last consideration is that of the songs to be chosen to learn. Little children should rarely sing anything but unison songs. Folk-songs, such as those edited by Cecil Sharp and others, and, for the very little ones, traditional nursery rhymes and game songs are the best. From the ages of ten to fourteen years such books as Boosey's _National Songs_ or _Songs of Britain_ should be the staple work, while for older children the great classical songs may be added. A good book for these is the _Golden Treasury_, published by Boosey. Songs by living composers should be strictly limited in number, though not excluded. These have not stood the test of time. We teach Shakespeare in our literature classes, not a modern poet--the essays of Bacon, not those of a modern essayist. And our reason is that the only way to create a standard of taste is to take our children to the classical fountains of prose and poetry. We must do the same in music. CHAPTER IV THE SOL-FA METHOD To those who are not accustomed to the Sol-fa notation it appears at first sight a useless encumbrance. Excellent arguments are produced for this view. Many musical people can scarcely remember when they could not sing at sight and write melodies from dictation. They picked up this knowledge instinctively, and cannot see why others should not do the same. Unfortunately everybody has not proved able to do so, hence a multitude of 'methods' for teaching them. The most familiar of these consisted in trying to teach the pupil to sing intervals, _as_ intervals, at sight. Thirds, fifths, sixths, &c. were diligently practised. But pupils did not always find it easy to sing these intervals from all notes of the scale, unless in sequence. The major third from _doh_ to _me_ seemed easier than that from _fah_ to _lah_, and so on. Thus in the majority of cases sight-singing in classes resolved itself into the musical children leading, and the others following. It is rare to find a large class in which there is not one musical child, and the only sure test of progress is to make the less musical children sing at sight alone from time to time. Now, if those who have 'picked up' the knowledge of sight-singing without knowing how they did it be asked to explain how they arrive at their intervals, it will be found that _tonality_ plays a large part in their consciousness. In other words, they are perfectly certain of their key-note, and at any moment could sing it, even after complicated passages. This fact is the root of the Sol-fa system. The child is taught to think of all the notes of the scale in relation to the key-note. A very sensible objection is sometimes raised to this, i.e. that it must surely entail a great deal of detachment from the matter in hand if the mind has to grope for the key-note between every two consecutive notes of a melody. But this process becomes automatic very quickly. We are not conscious of references to the multiplication tables every time we do a sum, yet we could not do the sum without these. And it is the same with the Sol-fa system. The child need very rarely actually _sing_ the key-note when considering another note, she refers the latter to it unconsciously. There is one curious anomaly in the orthodox Sol-fa system, which has caused a good deal of amusement to its critics, and has ended by causing a cleavage on the part of many who are otherwise in cordial agreement with the broad lines of the method. This is concerned with the treatment of the minor key. The orthodox Sol-fa teacher relates the notes of the minor scale, not to the key-note, but to the third of the scale, i.e. to the key-note of the relative major. The confusion which this plan produces in the sense of tonality can readily be imagined. When singing in major keys the pupils are told to refer all notes to the key-note for 'mental effect', but in the minor key this is strictly forbidden. To take an instance. In the scale of C major the child has been trained to feel the sharp, bright effect of the note G, the fifth from the key-note C. It would naturally feel the same effect for the note E in the key of A minor, when related to the key-note A. But the orthodox Sol-fa teacher says: 'No. You must feel the calm, soothing effect of E in relation to C!' Can the child be _really_ trained in this way? If it were merely a difference in detail of the treatment of the two modes this error could be forgiven, but it is a difference in fundamental principle. One of the many difficulties caused occurs in transposition on the piano. When transposing from, say, C minor to F minor, the child must first think in E[b] major, so as to get the pivot of reference, then in A[b] major for the new pivot A[b]. Yet all the time its real sense of pivot, which, be it noted, has been admirably trained by the Sol-fa treatment of the major scale, is in favour of C and F respectively. The method evolved for the minor key by those who wish to uphold the fundamental principle of the key-note being the pivot of reference for _all_ keys, major and minor, is a very simple one. It consists in giving to the third and sixth of the harmonic form of the scale their logical names of _maw_ and _taw_. The sixth of the ascending scale in the melodic form will of course be the same in the minor as in the major. There are two other points in the orthodox Sol-fa system which are modified by those who wish to use it as a crutch to staff notation. The first of these concerns the rather complicated time notation of all but the first sets of exercises. Directly subdivisions of the beat are introduced the notation becomes difficult to read without putting a strain on the eyes. The little dots, dashes, commas, &c., worry children. Experience has proved that when a class is ready for anything beyond the very simplest time values it can leave the Sol-fa notation altogether, and keep entirely to the staff notation. This is, of course, an advantage, and is what is being aimed at. The other point is connected with the use of what are called 'bridge-notes'. When a modulation is introduced which entails a fairly long reference to a new key, the note leading directly to it is of course accidental in the first key and diatonic in the second. This is called a bridge-note, and must be thought of in two ways, first in the old key, then in the new. Thus its name must be changed, as a prelude to using the new pivot. Now, in teaching staff notation it is neither wise nor necessary to introduce extended modulations very early. The aim is to make it possible for children to sing fairly easy melodies in all keys, major and minor, with incidental modulations, as soon as possible--then to revise the work, introducing more difficult modulations. This end will be attained by deferring the use of bridge-notes until the children are ready to sing melodies in the minor keys which modulate to the relative major. If the above-mentioned plan for the treatment of the minor key be adopted, bridge-notes will be essential at this stage, and the melodies, at any rate at first, cannot be sung without their aid. A further reference to this matter is given in the chapter on the teaching of sight-singing. CHAPTER V FIRST LESSONS TO BEGINNERS IN EAR-TRAINING The form of these lessons will vary slightly according to the ages of the children. We will suppose these to lie between seven and nine years, when the children can read and write. At the first lesson the scale of C major should be played, from middle C to high C, ascending only. Then repeat middle C, and stop on it a little. Do this three or four times, telling the children to count the notes as you play up the scale. When they are all sure that eight notes have been played, ask them why they think you repeated the middle C at the end. They will probably say: 'To make it sound finished.' In other words, they have grasped the 'mental effect' of the key-note _in every key_, the pivot round which the other notes revolve. Give the hand sign for this note, according to the Sol-fa plan, and tell the children that the note is called _doh_. Now repeat the scale, but this time play it from high C to middle C, repeating the high C at the end. The children will see at once what has happened, and that the high C now 'finishes' the passage. Thus it will be called 'high _doh_', and the hand sign will be repeated, but at a higher level. Be careful not to bend the hand at the wrist when giving this sign, or the effect of finality and repose will be lost. At the second lesson, repeat this work, the children telling you what to do. Then make eight large dots on the blackboard, and against the first and eighth of these write _doh_ and _doh'_. Now play the first five notes of the scale, and repeat the first as before. Ask how many notes were played. Then play them again, but starting from the fifth downwards, and repeat the fifth at the end. Ask the children why they think you did this. At first they will not be able to express what they feel, but gradually the idea will emerge that you want to call attention to something of interest. People often call to each other by singing up a fifth. The new note is sharp and bright in sound when related to the key-note. Hence the hand sign. Give the name _soh_, and write it against the fifth dot on the board. The children should now sing from the three hand signs known, also from the notes on the board. They should also identify the notes when played in groups of two and three on the piano. When they can do all this easily, the next note, the third of the scale, is taken in the same way. The 'mental effect' is calm and soothing, hence the hand sign. In addition to singing from the hand signs, and from the Sol-fa 'modulator' which is gradually being constructed on the board, the children can now sing from the horizontal Sol-fa notation, and from the staff notation. The first of these is invaluable in the early stages, as it absolutely precludes guessing. In singing from the modulator this is possible to a certain extent, as the relation of each note to the key-note is shown roughly in _distance_ by the dots between the notes. There is no such help given in the horizontal notation. In beginning the work in staff notation the notes of the scale will be thought of as steps in a ladder. In all keys, when _doh_ is on a line, _me_ and _soh_ are also on lines, and high _doh_ is on a space; but when _doh_ is on a space, _me_ and _soh_ are on spaces, and high _doh_ is on a line. These are very simple matters, but children are simple people, and will not despise such hints. The next notes of the scale to be taken are _ray_ and _te_, then _fah_ and _lah_. The last two are the most difficult. A good pattern to fix in the children's minds is: _d f m l s t, d--_ which splits up into: _d f m--; d l s--_ If these are really known, no trouble will be found with the notes _f_ and _l_. Plenty of exercises should be given in which the notes of the scale are taken in relation to the high _doh_. Possible notes should also be taken above high _doh_ (such as high _ray_, high _me_, high _fah_ in the scale of C) and below _doh_. With regard to the latter, the key may be changed from time to time when taking Sol-fa work from hand signs or the modulator, or from Sol-fa notation, in order to get a wider range for the notes above mentioned. Thus, if the class be given the _doh_ of G major, they can sing low _te_, low _lah_, low _soh_, and low _fah_, or, as these notes are written in Sol-fa notation, _t,_ _l,_ _s,_ _f,_. These points are sometimes overlooked by mistresses, and the early training loses in thoroughness. Directly the children are sure of the diatonic notes of the key of C major they should take the sharpened fourth (_fe_), the flattened seventh (_taw_). and the sharpened fifth (_se_). Later on they will learn that these notes often introduce modulations to the dominant, subdominant, and relative minor keys respectively. Extemporizing with the voice may now begin, along the lines suggested in Chapter IX. An extra interest will thus be added to the lesson, and the child will have its first initiation into 'self-expression' through the art of music. CHAPTER VI THE TEACHING OF SIGHT-SINGING Instruction in sight-singing should begin by teaching the staff notation through the Tonic Sol-fa method. Objections to this are sometimes raised by very musical people, who have no recollection of any 'method' by means of which they themselves learnt to sing at sight, and who therefore think their pupils can pick up the knowledge in the same instinctive fashion. Experience proves that this is very rarely the case. With very little children it is well to keep entirely to hand signs and ear tests until all the notes of the scale are known, through their 'mental effect'. One reason for this is that such children cannot read or write, so no musical work can be done with them which implies this knowledge. Care must be taken to vary the lessons as much as possible. At one lesson the teacher can give the hand signs and ear tests herself. At the next, one of the class can give the hand signs for the rest of the class, and the teacher the ear tests. At the next, a child can give the ear tests, and so on. An experienced teacher will find plenty of similar ways for producing new interest in the lessons, even though the actual amount of work done be necessarily small. Nothing is gained by hurrying over the initial stages of ear-training. The foundation must be securely laid, or trouble will come later. Those who have had experience of class work in kindergartens know the special difficulties to be met--the irregularity of attendance, the constant stream of new pupils coming in, and so on. Unless plenty of opportunity is given for revision the work will suffer in thoroughness. For children who take this work between the ages of eight and twelve, no better scheme for sight-singing can be found than that contained in Somervell's _Fifty Steps in Sight-singing_, supplemented by the children's books, _A Thousand Exercises_, published by Curwen. It is essential to read carefully the appendices to this work, especially that concerned with the minor keys. Another book of sight-singing exercises which follows the same sequence is the _Rational Sight Reader_, by Everett, published by Boosey. In teaching the keys of G major and F major it is most important that the class shall themselves discover the necessity for the F[#] and B[b] in the respective signatures. Inexperienced teachers sometimes teach this as a dogma, and thereby deprive the children of the delight of discovering it for themselves. Thus, if the scale of G major be played with F[n] instead of F[#], the class will discover that _taw_ has been played instead of _te_, and will soon find out how to correct the wrong sound. Similarly, if the scale of F major be played with B[n] instead of B[b], they will say that _fe_ has been played instead of _fah_. If the order of keys taken be that of the _Fifty Steps_, the following diagram will show at a glance the underlying plan: 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 E[b] | B[b] | F || C || G | D | A It should be noted that so far as the positions of the notes on the stave are concerned, the key of A[b] is as easy to sing in as the key of A, D[b] as D, and so on. This fact is sometimes overlooked, and unnecessary difficulties are created for the children. It is important for a class to sing at sight fluently in one key before attempting a new one. Some teachers take keys in groups, and try to teach them all together. This plan rarely leads to satisfactory results. _Minor Keys._ It is wise to defer the treatment of these until all the major keys have been mastered. The harmonic form of the scale of C minor should then be taken, the children identifying the two notes new to them as the flattened third and sixth of the scale. It is a good plan to get them to sing a few melodies from the blackboard which are in C minor, but which bear the signature of C major, the flattened third and sixth being supplied. This impresses the new notes on the children. Later on, the correct signature should be evolved by experiment, and the same plan followed for the other keys, before the 'rule' for finding the signature is discussed. The melodic form of the scale can then be taught, and both forms practised to give plenty of freedom in the new tonality. The various minor keys should then be taken in the same order as that in which the major keys were taken. It is advisable to limit the work at first to melodies which do not modulate to the relative major. Later on, when the children are fairly fluent, they can take these. At first they will have to make use of 'bridge-notes' at the modulation, but, with a little practice, they will soon be able to sing at sight to _lah_. _Part-singing._ Children should not be allowed to sing part-songs until they can sing at sight in parts. The reason for this is that in the majority of part-songs the under parts are written too low for the child voice, and if they are _practised_ several times in succession, harm is likely to result. If, on the other hand, the songs can be read at sight, the parts can be interchanged, and the voices of the children do not suffer to the same extent. The greatest difficulty in teaching part-singing is a moral one: a child who takes an under part does not like the feeling of some one singing above her. The voices must be divided carefully for this work--some teachers prefer to get the balance on the side of the under parts, in order to avoid the feeling that it is necessary to shout in order to be heard! The ideal plan is to interchange the parts freely at the same lesson. Exercises should be chosen at first in which the under part starts on a fairly high note and, if possible, before the upper part enters, in order to give confidence. The under part should also move freely, and should not consist of long holding notes. Exercises in which the parts cross afford excellent practice. Good instances of easy exercises are to be found in Nos. 9, 68, 80, 101, &c. in Book III of _A Thousand Exercises_; also in the many canons to be found in that book. Sight-singing in three parts should always begin with exercises written in the contrapuntal style. There are instances of these in _Three-part Vocal Exercises_, by Raymond, published by Weekes & Sons. This book is also suitable for use where men's voices are obtainable, the two treble parts being taken by two tenors, and the transposed alto part by a bass. A good series of part-songs is to be found in the Year Book Press, which only admits songs by standard composers. CHAPTER VII THE TEACHING OF TIME AND RHYTHM It is impossible to over-estimate the importance of careful study before a teacher attempts to train children in a sense of time and rhythm. Not only must an intellectual conception of the importance of the subject be arrived at, but a subconscious realization of it. The function of rhythm in the world should be perceived, and such natural phenomena as day and night, the seasons, the tides, and countless others, seem to be examples of the same principle. The same influence may be traced in social activities. Work cannot be organized and carried on where rhythmic order is not found, and no conception of the brain or of the artistic faculty can emerge uninformed by rhythmic continuity. A human being imperfectly endowed with a sense of balance or rhythm is a danger to the community, and one who is entirely without this sense is spoken of as 'insane'. In the training of the teacher it is well to call attention first to the rhythm of speech, before entering into that of music. Those who have had a literary education have already studied the metrical properties of poetry and prose. They will readily agree that such phrases as: 'My father's father saw it not.' 'Happy New Year to you.' 'Because I sought it far from men, In deserts and alone.' 'We must go back with Policeman Day, Back to the City of Sleep.' can be thought of as written in [2/4], [3/4], [4/4], [6/8] times respectively. M. Jaques Dalcroze has shown, through his Rhythmic Gymnastics, the extraordinary effect that rhythmic movements can have, not only on physical health, but on mental and moral poise. For highly nervous children some such work is of especial benefit, but for all children it is of great value. It should be supplemented in the ear-training class by constant practice in beating time to tunes. The teacher begins by playing simple tunes, with strongly marked accents. The children should discover these accents for themselves, and should be taught to beat time, using the proper conductor's beats from the first. The French time names--_ta_, _ta-té_, &c.--are invaluable in early stages. They are based on sense impression, and are picked up quickly by the children. By taking the crotchet as the unit to start with, the old-fashioned plan of exalting the semibreve, the least used note in music, to a primary place, is avoided. If the order given in Somervell's _Fifty Steps in Sight-singing_ be followed, the question of complicated time will not be forced too early on the attention of the children. Pupils trained on other systems have sometimes been found incapable of singing melodies written in complicated time, even though they can beat time to the notes, giving the time names, without mistake. The same thing is noticeable in their instrumental work. This is due to the fact that one side of their training has been developed at the expense of the other--time at the expense of pitch. There seems little point in teaching a child such time-values as [Illustration: (crotchet tied to first note of a quaver triplet, followed by four semiquavers and another crotchet)] when it can only read at sight in the key of C major! In taking an exercise in sight-singing for the first time with a class at an elementary stage the following practice has been found beneficial: 1. The children sing the tune straight through at sight, without stopping, the teacher beating time. Mistakes are then pointed out and difficult phrases practised. 2. The children stand and sing the tune straight through again, beating time as they do so. 3. Individual children then stand and sing the tune by themselves, beating time. In this way the child gets to know the sound of its own voice, and the teacher can correct any individual faults of intonation, voice production, &c. Some children will always have an inclination to shout when they sing with others, partly through excitement and partly because they cannot hear their own voices in any other way. If this be permitted the quality of tone will rapidly degenerate, and the effect of the whole class work will suffer. Nothing is more delightful than to hear young children sing quietly, and without in any way forcing their voices. CHAPTER VIII THE TEACHING OF DICTATION So long as the work done in ear-training is in the very elementary stages the best form of dictation will be: 1. Ear tests, consisting of two to three notes at a time, which should be written in staff notation as soon as possible. 2. Monotone time tests, which should be quite short, as the constant repetition of the same note in pitch is irritating to the more sensitive ears in a class. This point is sometimes overlooked, with the result that only the less musical children get any real benefit from the tests. By the time that children can sing at sight in the key of D major they will be ready to take down from dictation short melodic phrases in time and tune. A useful plan is for the phrase to be played over three times, the children listening carefully and beating time. They should then sing the phrase once through to _lah_, and write it down. This method of dictation is more satisfactory than that of dictating a bar at a time, as it draws attention to musical phrases as a whole. Later on it will be found possible to dictate in the same way longer and longer phrases. Incidentally the memory is being trained as well as the ear. The class should be accustomed to write phrases which do not necessarily begin on the first beat of the bar. The handwriting, exact position of accidentals, &c., should be carefully watched. With young children it is well to use manuscript books which have the lines ruled very widely apart--a little child's hand soon gets cramped if it is made to write in an ordinary manuscript book. When a class can take down simple melodies correctly it is time to begin two-part work. As a preliminary, get a child to play middle C on the piano, then to combine with it each of the notes of the scale of C major in turn. The class will decide which of these two-part chords are pleasant to listen to. Opinion is generally unanimous in favour of the third, sixth, and octave, which will therefore be the basis of the first exercises in two-part dictation. Plenty of practice should be given in isolated examples of these chords, in more than one key, before the class attempts to combine time with tune. When they are ready for this, the work should begin with very simple phrases, with plenty of repetition to enable them to be quickly memorized. A later stage introduces the use of passing notes. It is better to play the exercise through first without these, and when it has been written and corrected, to play it again, inserting the passing notes. Before a class has finished the major keys it should be ready for the dictation of three-part chords. As the children are accustomed to the sound of the chord of the third on all degrees of the scale, it will be a natural experiment to play a particular combination of thirds, thus arriving at the triad. After this has been played on all degrees of the scale, the class should be asked to decide which of these chords it will be well to get to know first. They will remember that the first three keys in which they learnt to sing were C, G, and F major, and will therefore suggest that the tonic, dominant, and subdominant chords should be chosen. At this stage it should be pointed out that all the notes of the scale are contained in one or other of these chords. This is a seed which, if well planted, will suggest the first principles of harmonizing melodies later. We must now work at the three chords carefully. Begin by making the class sing them in arpeggio, and in a definite rhythm, so as to get precision. Each chord should be sung once very slowly, so as to get the notes correctly, and absolutely in tune; then twice more quickly, so as to get the feeling of harmony. This step is invaluable in its later results--a child will often be heard to sing different chords in arpeggio, when in doubt as to the chords to use in harmonizing a melody. When the three primary chords are known the others may be added, together with the dominant seventh and the inversions, in all keys. This last step must not be hurried. The average class rarely finishes three-part chords in less than a year, and unless plenty of time is given difficulties will crop up later, when four-part chords are begun. It is not enough for children to be trained to listen to the actual notes of a chord--they must feel the mental effect, in the same way in which they felt these effects in the case of the notes of the scale. A later step is to make use of the position of the chord in a sequence--for instance, the child soon gets to notice that many phrases end with the progression subdominant, dominant, tonic. We now come to the consideration of the dictation of four-part chords. These need not be sung in arpeggio. As a first experiment it will be necessary to play the chord to the class with each note doubled in turn, so that they may feel the necessity for doubling the best note. This experiment is most valuable, as it gets the child away from the cramping feeling of keeping a rule merely because it is mentioned in a text-book. Plenty of phrases with the primary chords in root position must be taken before the other chords are treated. For at least a year the class will not be able to _write_ four-part dictation; the time should be spent in identifying the chords when played. The chant form is the best for elementary work. It is very simple, and can be adapted to every sort of sequence. Passing notes, appoggiaturas, suspensions, &c., should be avoided at first. When the diatonic chords and their inversions are known the principal modulations should be studied. It will probably be necessary for the teacher to write her own tests, as there are very few books of chants published which contain enough exercises on the use of the easier chords. The last step in the teaching of dictation is the treatment of what may be called the 'mixed phrase', i.e. one in the course of which the number of parts varies. This is the most difficult stage of all, and will need the utmost patience on the part of the teacher. But by this time the children will have begun some of the practical work at the piano described in the chapter on 'The Teaching of Extemporization and Harmony', and this will help them to recognize easily the drift of the mixed phrase. CHAPTER IX THE TEACHING OF EXTEMPORIZATION AND HARMONY In early days the art of melody was developed before that of harmony. The same plan should be followed in the general musical education of the child. As every child possesses a voice, but does not in every case learn an instrument, it is clear that the fundamental training in music must be given through the use of the voice. The first step will consist in learning how to sing at sight and how to take down easy melodies from dictation. Parallel with this work the child should be taught to extemporize melodies, and to sing them. Quite little children will take pleasure in completing a musical phrase of which the first few bars have been given them. The procedure will be as follows: 1. The teacher writes two bars in C major, [2/4] time, on the blackboard. 2. The class sings it through twice, first using the Sol-fa names for the notes, then singing to _lah_. 3. Volunteers are then asked for to complete the phrase by adding another two bars. The more musical children in the class will at once respond, and their efforts will stir the ambition of the others. It will soon be a question of taking the children in turn, a few at each lesson--so eager will they be to 'express themselves' in melody. It is important not to be too critical of these early efforts. The great thing is to get the children un-self-conscious--variety of melodic outline and of rhythm will follow quickly enough. The next step will be for two children in the class to extemporize the whole phrase between them, one taking the first two bars and the other the last two. The key and time should be varied as much as possible--keys a fourth or fifth apart should be used in succession, or the children will assume that any melody can be sung by them in any key, which is obviously not the case. A melody sung in C major, which uses middle C and high F, cannot be sung in the key of G major with the child voice. The class will now find it quite easy to extemporize the whole of a four-bar phrase. Suggestions can be made by the teacher, such as: 'Begin on the third beat of the bar.' 'Introduce two triplets in the course of the phrase,' and so on. When this becomes easy to them they will be ready to begin eight-bar melodies. At first the teacher will give the first four bars, and different members of the class will finish the tune. Modulations should now be introduced. The same procedure as before should be followed, until any child in the class can give the whole of a tune, in any given key and time, and with a given modulation. Next comes the sixteen-bar tune, in which at least one modulation should be introduced. A good plan is to begin with the well-known simple form: 1. Four bars to the [6/4] [5/3] cadence. 2. Four bars to the principal modulation. 3. Repeat the first four bars. 4. Four bars to the end. Three children can be used for this, in the following way: The first child sings the first four bars, the second goes on to the end of the eighth bar, then the first child repeats what she sang, and a third child finishes. This affords excellent practice, particularly for the first child, who soon learns to confine herself to a simple opening, as this must be remembered and repeated later. Memory plays a much larger part in the power to extemporize than many people realize, and if this step in the preliminary work be conscientiously taken there will be abundant results later. We now come to the important stage of extemporizing on the piano. It must be remembered that a very thorough foundation of the knowledge of chords has been laid by the ear-training work, leading up to the power to write down chords from dictation, and to sing them in arpeggio. The first exercise will consist in playing a very simple tonic and dominant accompaniment on the piano, while a melody is extemporized with the voice. There is far more variety possible in this than appears at first sight. For instance, the sequence of the chords may run in any of the following ways, among others: I V I V I I V I } } I I V I I I V I } } I I I V I I V I } } I V V I I I V I } Those who have studied elementary algebra will recognize a simple application of the theory of permutations! It is interesting to note the ease with which children will do this exercise, if they have been carefully trained in all the preceding work. Grown-up students are usually very much slower than children at it, partly because they are inclined to be self-conscious, and to worry about the sound of their voice, &c. But the child who has been accustomed to sing at sight and to extemporize with the voice in front of a class is not in the least embarrassed at being told to go to the piano and combine a sung melody with a simple piano accompaniment. At first there will be a tendency to restrict the melodies to the actual notes of the tonic and dominant chords, but with a little practice passing notes, &c. are soon added, and graceful little tunes will result. The next exercise consists in the use of three chords, tonic, dominant, and subdominant; the melody, as before, being sung. At this stage it is wise to let the dictation work in the class take the form of phrases which can be harmonized with these chords, so as to accustom the children to use them. This gives invaluable practice in the first principles of harmonizing melodies, and should precede all formal treatment of the subject. Another useful exercise at this stage is to let the children add a second part, either above or below a given melodic phrase. This will be the foundation of later work in formal counterpoint. The class is now ready for the treatment of modulations on the piano. If the preliminary work in cadences, dominant sevenths, &c. has been conscientiously done in all keys there will be no difficulty in extemporizing a sung melody, which modulates, and adding a simple accompaniment at the piano. Other chords can now be added, and the children will be ready to extemporize short tunes, entirely at the piano, without the aid of the voice. To some people this may seem an easier thing to do than to accompany the voice, but experience has proved the contrary. The child is so accustomed to use the voice that it will at first be inclined to think of all melody as vocal, and will be a little troubled when told not to think about vocal pitch. The discipline of these early restrictions is obvious, and cannot be over-estimated. It quite does away with the 'hymn-tune' style of early composition, which is such a trap to many amateurs. Side by side with this work it is advisable to get the class to extemporize chants, under the same restrictions as have been put on the melodies, i.e. they will begin by using only tonic and dominant chords, then adding the subdominant, and so on. The double chant will give opportunities for more than one modulation being introduced at a time. This work will prepare the way for figured basses, and more formal harmony. The children will learn to avoid consecutive fifths and eighths because they gradually notice the ugliness of them, which seems a better plan than to learn to avoid them as a 'rule'. There is an interesting reference to methods of teaching harmony in the Board of Education Memorandum on Music, issued in 1914. The writer says: 'It cannot be emphasized too strongly that the current method of teaching harmony, whereby pupils are taught to resolve chords on paper by eye, quite regardless of the fact that 99 per cent. of them do not realize the sound of the chords they are writing, is musically valueless. * * * * * 'In no other language than that of music would it be tolerated that the theoretical rules of grammar and syntax should be so completely separated from the actual literature from which they are derived, that the pupil should never have perceived that there was any relation whatever between them. * * * * * 'Another very common result of the neglect of an aural basis for harmony teaching is that students who can pass a difficult examination, and write correctly by eye an advanced harmony exercise, are often quite unable to recognize that exercise played over to them on the piano, or even to write down the notes, apart from the time, of a hymn or a tune that they have known all their lives.' The whole chapter in this memorandum is well worth reading. The final stages in the teaching of extemporization will consist in: 1. Expressing a given idea in musical form, e.g. a march, or a gavotte. 2. Extemporizing on a given theme. Although these last stages may be thought to be beyond the power of the average child, experience has proved that it is not so, provided the previous work has been carefully graded, and that none of the early steps have been omitted or hurried over. CHAPTER X THE TEACHING OF ELEMENTARY COMPOSITION A wise musician has drawn attention to the fact that music has a more important educational function than any foreign language, being a common language for the expression of emotion, imaginative power, and rhythmic feeling. He went on to say that, as a training, it is of use from the very earliest years, and for all classes of the community. If we agree with this view--and it is encouraging to note the increasing number of those who do so--we must so organize the musical education of children that a time comes when they will be ready to 'express themselves' in music in the same way in which they can express themselves in their native tongue. An earlier chapter in this book has dealt with the teaching of extemporizing, first, treated as vocal expression, then as instrumental. When a class of children has arrived at the stage of being able to extemporize a tune of sixteen bars, in any given key and time, and introducing given modulations, it is quite ready to begin the more formal study of composition, and to be initiated into the mysteries of form. Hitherto the experiments of the class in this direction have been chiefly spontaneous; the teacher has of set design left the child who is extemporizing as free as possible, but the time has now come for a new 'window' to be opened in its mind. A preliminary talk should be given on the need of form in music. It must be pointed out that we cannot be intelligible without it, that it is not enough to have a language at our command; we must have _shape_ in order to convey our ideas to others. The child should realize that the great artists in all the arts are under the same necessity as the youngest beginner in composition. Inspiration must be embodied in a definite form, or others cannot share the vision of beauty. For a time the child now has to learn to select a musical form, then to choose a musical thought which can be fitly expressed in it. It will seem a cramping process after the freedom of extemporizing, but the child who loves the work will willingly submit to the discipline. It cannot be too often impressed on the young teacher that children as a whole _like_ discipline. They despise those who are indifferent to it, and give a ready submission to those who expect it, provided they feel sure of an underlying sympathy. The first lessons in form should consist of the analysis of simple tunes, preferably of the Folk Song type. The forms known as AB, ABA, and the variants derived from these will be explained, and the class will write examples of each, at first not harmonizing the melodies, but afterwards doing so. The old dance forms will then be taken. At this stage it is absolutely necessary for those of the class who are musical, and who wish to give a little extra time to music, to go through a course of strict harmony and counterpoint; endless time will be wasted if they do not do so. The work will be very much lightened because of the foundation already laid, for, without knowing it, the children have been doing a little free counterpoint for some time, when they added vocal parts to a given melody, and their knowledge of practical harmony will make it possible for them to take many a short cut in the formal work. The dance forms, together with very simple fugues and contrapuntal studies, and a few 'free' exercises in songs and short pieces, will be as far as the majority of children will get in the study of composition. But there will always be a few in each class who will be eager and able to go farther, and to begin the study of sonata form. For such children, and certainly for all teachers of music, there can be no better text-book than Hadow's _Sonata Form_, published in the Novello Primer Series. This book is often described as 'more exciting than a novel'! Somervell's Charts for Harmony and Counterpoint are also most valuable, and will save the necessity of a text-book in these subjects--at any rate for the beginner, who works under guidance. There is one curious fact about all but the most musical children when they begin to _write down_ tunes of their own composition. They make mistakes which they have never made when _extemporizing_ the same type of tune. This seems to arise from the fact that they suddenly feel self-conscious--they have more time to think when writing than when singing or playing, and are inclined to compose one bar at a time instead of phrase by phrase. They will produce a tune of seven bars--they will end on a weak beat--they will come to a full stop in the middle of an eight-bar tune on the tonic chord, root at the top--the last half of the tune will have nothing to do with the first half. We could write a page of their possible mistakes! The cure for these lapses is to insist on the tunes being sung before being written. The old unconscious habit will then assert itself, and the little tunes will fall into shape. It is a useful lesson to get a class to criticize all original tunes when played by the young composer. For one thing, the criticism of our contemporaries often carries more weight than that of our elders; and for another, the practice arouses the critical faculty, and teaches the children to listen keenly, for they have not the written tune in front of them. After a little practice quite good criticisms will be given by children. They will notice such points as a weak scheme of keys--undue repetition of the chief melody--a clumsy modulation--a trite ending--an over-laboured sequence--a tendency to borrow ideas from others, and so on. This training will be of the greatest possible value to them later on in the concert-room. As a writer in _The Times_ once put it: 'The vague impressions which are all that many people carry away from the concert-room would be replaced by definite experiences. * * * * * 'Mental analysis is not, of course, the main object in listening to music, but it is a most powerful aid to full appreciation. It is the failure to perceive any definite relation between the parts and the whole that baffles so many people, and sends them away from the concert-room remarking that they cannot understand "classical" music.' CHAPTER XI THE TEACHING OF TRANSPOSITION A great many musical people will not take up the subject of transposition seriously, because they have no idea of the lines along which to work. They all agree that the knowledge would be most useful to them, especially from the point of view of song accompaniment, but the path seems to be beset by so many difficulties, and the results of their first attempts are so pitifully small, that they generally give up all hope, and all effort. Then again, some of the books published on the subject are not very helpful to the average student. Some of them seem to start with the assumption that the student is very musical, and can do a great deal by instinct. They therefore give only the roughest directions. Others begin sensibly enough, but leave out so many steps in the work that a student may be forgiven for throwing them aside in despair. Now there are three chief reasons why the musician would do well to study transposition: 1. For the purpose of song accompaniment. 2. As an aid to committing music to memory, especially that written in a form where different keys are used for the presentment of the same material. 3. As an infallible test of a sound 'general' musical education. The last reason is not often advocated, but a little thought will show that it is impossible for the average student, not specially gifted in any way, to transpose even an easy piece of music at sight on the piano, without proving the possession of a trained ear and a knowledge of practical harmony. For class work with children it can be made a still more valuable test of progress. For the average child will be quite unable to transpose a simple ear test--such as _d f m l s t, d_--on the piano, from one key to another, say a fifth away, without a good deal of accurate knowledge. The first exercises in transposition will be very simple--any child of seven or eight years old, who can sing at sight, and take down ear tests, in the keys of C and G major, can be expected to do them. They consist in: 1. Singing any well-known hymn-tune, or simple melody of the Folk Song type, using the Sol-fa names of the notes. It should be sung phrase by phrase, until every child in the class is sure of the correct notes. 2. The children should now go in turn to the piano, and each play a phrase of the melody, first in C major, then in G. It is important to emphasize the fact that the tune must be well known to them, or an extra difficulty will be introduced. As the children learn more and more keys, these tunes should be transposed into them. Provided the class does not consist of picked musical children, there will always be a few in it who do not learn the piano. This work will be one of their opportunities for learning a little about it. Interesting results have been obtained from such children, if the teacher is enthusiastic and ready to help. By the time that the class has begun the study of three-part chords the transposition will become more and more interesting, as sequences of chords can now be transposed. When the first steps in extemporizing on the piano are begun, the transposition advances by leaps and bounds. The children will be delighted to play their little tonic and dominant accompaniments in every key--to change from major to tonic minor by flattening the third and sometimes the sixth of the scale. There is a sense of freedom and power in such work, to which the class will readily respond. They soon realize that certain melodies 'only sound nice' in such and such a key, and in this way the foundation of a 'colour sense' will be laid. Also, apart from the question of the key in which a melody sounds best to a child, another point comes into notice. The child cannot sing certain notes in certain melodies unless it keeps within a certain range of keys. This teaches them something. The point has been referred to in the preceding chapter. Altogether it will be seen that the study of transposition is opening a new window for them into the fairyland of music. Later on, when a child can compose short harmonized tunes of its own, it is well to hold up the ideal of being able to transpose them into any key, and in certain cases, where the melody lends itself to the treatment, from major to minor, and vice versa. This work must of course be voluntary, but a child is well rewarded when it finds that it is only the first step which costs, and that the second of such tunes is so much easier to transpose than the first! And the time comes when a child will sit down to the piano, and will extemporize quite happily either in F major or in F[#] major, whichever is suggested. Such work is well worth any initial trouble taken--it is a combined process of ear and mind which has a far-reaching educational effect. The last stage of all in this work consists in transposing at sight from the printed page. Hitherto the ear and the mind have been chiefly employed, but now the _eye_ must be trained to do its share. It is found useful to make children say the names of the chords aloud when they are beginning this sort of transposition. The habit sets up a connecting link between the various faculties in use, in some curious way. The eye can help by noting the intervals between successive notes in the various parts, and especially in the outer parts. It sees the general drift of the piece before the mind comes into play--the coming modulations and so on. In fact, it is not too much to say that it is best, in certain musical phrases, to rely on the eye alone, e.g. rapid decorative passages, which are not always easy to analyse at first sight. A word of warning must now be given. Those who attempt 'short cuts' in this work will certainly come to grief, unless they are born with the faculty--undoubtedly possessed by a few--of being able to transpose by a sort of instinct. Such people are fortunate, but it is not our present task to attempt to guide them. We are concerned with the average child, taught in fairly large classes, in the ordinary school curriculum, and with only a very limited amount of time at our disposal. CHAPTER XII GENERAL HINTS ON TAKING A LESSON IN EAR-TRAINING All those who teach ear-training should keep a book in which they write on one side of the page the proposed scheme of work for each lesson, and on the other the actual work done. All sorts of things may happen in the course of the lesson to upset the proposed scheme. The children may find the new work easier, or more difficult than was expected, a question from a child may suddenly reveal a piece of ignorance which necessitates a digression--every teacher is aware of the 'unknown quantities' in class work. Unless the proposed scheme of work is checked by what is done in each lesson, there will be difficulties later. Again, each lesson must form a definite link between past and future lessons. It is often a temptation to a teacher of initiative to draw attention to a new aspect of the subject, in which she happens to be specially interested at the time, when the previous work is not in a fit state to be left, even for two or three lessons. Something happens to make her realize this, and the new piece of work is hurriedly left--suspended in mid-air, as it were--and is not referred to again until an accident recalls it to her mind. Such teaching certainly has the charm of novelty to a class, but we must remember that one of the faults of childhood is an undue readiness to pass on quickly to learn 'something new' before the previous work is secure. In taking a lesson the teacher should aim at speaking in her ordinary voice. Inexperienced people sometimes imagine that it is necessary to shout when speaking in a fairly large room. But provided the voice is clear, and the articulation good, a low voice carries just as well as a loud one, and certainly produces a greater sense of repose. Another fault to avoid is monotony of tone--we need 'modulations' in speaking just as much as in music, and a class is keenly, though often unconsciously, susceptible to this. A change of position is helpful. The voice of the mistress will brighten at once if she comes down from the platform and walks about a little. But she must never turn her back on a class when actually telling them something. Musical people, who have not the same experience in such matters as the ordinary teacher, constantly do this, and will even hide the greater part of a blackboard when pointing to notes of a tune. In beginning a lesson the maximum effort will be gained if communal work be taken before individual, i.e. sight-singing before dictation, extemporizing, &c. The reason for this is obvious, a certain momentum is thus generated, which is impossible later, when the force has been diffused. Before a tune is sung at sight the class should analyse it, giving the key, time signature, starting note, modulations, sequences, general construction, &c. Remind the children from time to time that the last sharp in a signature gives the _te_ in a key, the last flat the _fah_; that when modulating to the dominant key the _fe_ of the first key becomes the _te_ of the second, in going from a key to its subdominant _taw_ becomes _fah_, for the relative minor _se_ becomes _te_, and for the relative major _taw_ becomes _soh_. Also that if in a minor key _taw_ occurs in an ascending scale passage, or is taken or left by leap, it is a sign of a modulation to the relative major. In starting the tune the tonic chord is played, and the teacher beats a whole bar, together with a fraction of the next if the tune begins on an off-beat, before the class takes it up. Do not _tap_ time when beating: it cultivates a habit of inattention on the part of a class. Nor should the teacher beat time when the class is doing so, unless for a moment, to correct an error. One reason for this is that if the time signature be anything but [2/4] or [6/8], the teacher's arm moves in a different direction in certain beats from that of the class facing her, and this is most confusing. Never correct a mistake by singing the right note yourself. This would be teaching by imitation--as we teach a bird to sing a tune--not teaching by method. Remember that we are not aiming at artistic performance in a sight-singing class, so do not hammer away at a tune until the performance of it has reached your ideal. If you do, your aim is 'performance'--not sight-singing. If a child makes a mistake in dictation, do not tell it what is wrong, unless you are very short of time. Get it to sing the phrase it has written to Sol-fa names--in this way it will find out its own mistake. In writing notes, either on the blackboard or on manuscript paper, it is not necessary to fill up all the space between the lines, as is done in printed music. If children are allowed to do this, they will spend a long time over their exercises. Teach them to turn all tails of notes _up_ which are written on lines or spaces below the third line, and _down_ for those above. The direction of the tails of notes on the third line itself will depend on the context. These directions refer, of course, to the writing of melodies. It is often necessary to remind even grown-up students that accidentals must be placed _before_ the note affected, not after it; also that a dot after a note which is written on a line must come on the space next above, not on the line itself. Children often forget that the leading note in a minor key invariably carries an accidental. We must now say a little on the subject of revision. It is a fault of the young teacher that she often entirely neglects this, with the result that her class can only sing accurately at sight, and do dictation in, the last key learned. During the first few lessons in a new key it is certainly inadvisable to give exercises in the preceding ones, as the whole attention must be concentrated on the new tonality. But other keys should be taken at least once in three weeks. An impatient person may say: 'But properly taught children could not forget so soon!' Yet, at times, we are all hazy on almost any subject, but it does not follow that we are either fools, or badly taught: we are simply human! After all, machines get out of order, so why not the most complicated machine of all--the human mind? Again, it is only the inexperienced teacher who thinks her class has been badly taught by her predecessor. Many a student in training is inclined, after the first lesson with a new class, to come to the distracting conclusion that the children know 'nothing'. This generally means that, after the holidays, the former work needs a little revision before new work is begun. In taking a fairly advanced class a teacher is often worried because there is not enough time in a single forty-minute lesson a week to touch on all of such subjects as chords, cadences, extemporizing, transposition, &c., in addition to sight-singing and dictation. It is certainly quite impossible to do so, and this is one of the reasons for apparently slow progress. But there is, however, a good side to the difficulty, for such work ought not to be hurried, and it is well to leave a little breathing space between the references to it. Teachers are sometimes heard to speak with regret of the high spirits of their classes, which lead to restlessness. But we should never regret _force_ in a child, and we must realize that all pent-up force needs a safety-valve. It must be our business to direct such force into safe channels. Keep the children really busy, give them plenty to do, and there will be no cause to regret their vitality. CHAPTER XIII THE TEACHING OF THE PIANO It is impossible, within the limits of a chapter, to do more than dwell on a few practical points connected with the teaching and organization of this work in a school. As was said in the preceding chapter, the ideal for all young children who are about to learn the piano is that they should first go through a short course of ear-training. If this be done, the progress in the first year's work will be about three times what it would otherwise be. If the ear-training be done along the lines suggested in earlier chapters, the child will have been taught to sing easy melodies at sight, she will have approached the question of time by means of the French time names, she will have learned to beat time with the proper conductor's beat, to find notes on the piano, and, what is more important, to know these notes by sound, in relation to fixed notes. In this way some of the processes which a child goes through in beginning to learn the piano are taken one at a time, in company with other children, and are therefore not hurried. When the time has come to begin the piano, the child should join a _class_ for this for one year. Such a class should not exceed six in number. During this time she will add to her knowledge the first principles of fingering, will play easy exercises for fingers, wrist, &c., and will learn a few easy pieces and duets. From the very first she will be taught to analyse a piece before she begins to play it--she will find out the key, time, cadences, sequences, passages of imitation, modulations, &c. If the melody be within the range of the child's voice she will then sing it, beating time as she does so. After these preliminaries it is only a question of technique to learn to play it. The last stage will consist in learning the piece by heart. The day has long gone by when it was considered a sign of exceptional musical gift to be able to do this. All experienced teachers know that, provided a child is having its ear trained by some such method as that suggested above, it can learn a piece of music by heart almost entirely away from the piano. That is to say, instead of the wearisome repetitions which were formerly necessary before a piece could be played by heart, it is possible, directly the technique is mastered, and in many cases before this is done, to learn the piece away from the piano. The benefit of this is obvious, and the nerves, both of the player and of the unwilling listeners, are the gainers. A little thought will show that it should be no more difficult for average children to learn a piece of music by heart in this way, than for them to learn a piece of prose or poetry by heart. The initial steps are exactly the same--the language has to be known, and it is then a question of memory, and memory alone. Who would think of learning poetry by heart by the process of repeating it aloud a hundred or more times? Yet this is what was formerly done in the case of music. Sixty years ago no girl was considered educated who could not play the piano a little. Since then a reaction has begun to set in. The standard of playing has gone up to such a degree that parents are often heard to say that their child is not musical enough for it to be worth while to teach it an instrument. This is a pity. Music is used so much in our daily life that we cannot do without our 'average performers'. The soldier marches best to a tune, the sailor heaves his anchor to a song, the ritual of all forms of religion needs the aid of music; we need it, not only in the pageantry of our processions, but in the solemn crises of life and death. For these purposes artists of the first rank are not necessary. Every child, however apparently unmusical, should be given its chance, at any rate up to the age of twelve years. During this time, the stress should be placed, for the unmusical child, not so much on perfection of technique, but on the ability of playing easy pieces really well, and to read at sight such things as duets, song accompaniments, &c. If, in addition, the children have joined an ear-training class, they will, at any rate, be intelligent listeners for the rest of their lives to other people's playing. For all children, sight reading should form part, not only of every lesson, but of every day's practice. Many books for sight reading have been published, well graded, some of them beginning with little pieces in the treble clef only, and going on to advanced tests. The following are a few, selected from many other excellent ones: Schäfer (3 vols., published by Augener). Hilliard (5 vols., published by Weekes). Somervell (2 vols., published by Augener and Weekes respectively). Taylor (1 vol., published by Bosworth). As a child will need more than one such book in the course of her study, and as she cannot play the same test twice, a plan has been made in some schools for the music to be sold second-hand from one pupil to another, through the medium of a mistress, in the same way in which ordinary school books are sometimes passed on. This reduces the expense of constantly having to buy new books for sight reading. Another plan is to establish a lending library, each child to pay 2_d._ or 3_d._ a term. In the teaching of 'pieces' music mistresses should bear in mind that children must, from time to time, revise those which they have finished. Nothing is more irritating to a parent than to be told by a child that it has 'nothing to play' to a visitor. The mistress who is anxious to get a pupil on as quickly as possible often overlooks this point, and an entirely wrong impression is given of the child's progress to the parent. We now come to the vexed question of the interpretation of music by children. An interesting point can be noted about the practice of the early classical composers. They were accustomed to give the minimum amount of indication as to tempo and general detail for the performance of their works. And to what conclusion does this lead us? Surely this--that these giants in music recognized the necessity for every performer of their works to express _themselves_ through the music, subject to the broad conditions laid down by the composer. As Hegel said: 'Music is the most subjective of all arts.' And is it not true that it is this constant necessity for personal interpretation, so strongly felt by the majority of artists, which gives the permanent interest to music? We say, 'by the majority of artists', for now and then we meet an artist who seems to have strayed from the path of beauty, and who is devoting his energies to an ascetic determination to keep alive one particular interpretation of a composer's work, or works; who dictates these interpretations to his pupils, and who talks of other artists who feel the bounden duty of self-expression through the said works as 'outsiders', and 'not in the cult'. Such musicians do not appear to see that such an attitude is 'idolatry' pure and simple. They have not pondered the well-known anecdote of Brahms, who, when asked by a singer whether his interpretation of one of his songs was 'the right one', answered: 'It is one of the many hundred possible interpretations.' A word must now be said on the organization of instrumental work in the school. It is important that this should be in the hands of one person, who will not only keep a supervising eye on questions of method, choice of music, lengths of lessons and practising, &c., but who will evolve some means of testing the progress of the pupils every term, in the same way in which their progress is tested in other subjects. The progress of the individual pupil should not be a secret between herself and her particular mistress! It is a good plan to arrange a short recital every term in a school, at which from twenty to twenty-five pupils should play at a time. Such recitals should not exceed more than 1-1/4 hours in length. Nothing is more wearisome to the outsider than to listen to amateur performances which stretch out to two and sometimes to three hours' length. If the above plan be adopted, no child will be able to play more than one short piece. A mistress who is ambitious for the success of a few specially gifted pupils will sometimes suggest that a recital shall consist of the performance of two or three of these only, and that each pupil should play more than once. Such suggestions should be frowned at. What we want, if we have an educational end in view, is not so much to give the few musical children in a school the opportunity of gaining experience in playing in public, and indirectly of showing their progress to an admiring audience, but we want to give every music pupil in turn the same opportunity. All children need experience before they can play to others in such a way that they not only do themselves justice, but give pleasure to their listeners. Pieces played at such recitals should invariably be by heart. The nervous pupil may possibly break down at her first appearance, but she will be quickly succeeded by a more confident player, the little victim of 'nerves' will be soon forgotten, and the experience gained in this way is invaluable. Before a recital a rehearsal should be held in the same room in which the recital is to take place. Few people seem to realize the immense difference made to children by a change of environment at such a time. The pupil who will play her piece on the piano without one mistake to her mistress, and in the room to which she is used, will often be troubled at playing it on another piano, and in another room. A child was once known to break down in an evening recital, and when asked the reason, said: 'I have never played that piece before with a candle near me, and I didn't like the shadows on the piano.' This sort of remark gives a real insight into the child mind. Another small point may be mentioned. In the lessons just before a recital the mistress should go to the end of the room in which the lesson is given, while the child is playing her recital piece, in order that her supporting presence near the child may not be missed at the recital. The recital will probably be followed by some form of reception by the school authorities of the parents of the pupils. No teacher should miss this opportunity of getting to know the parents of her pupils. A friendly talk over the progress, or lack of progress of a child will often result in sympathetic help being given at home, and, in any case, the teacher will probably learn something about the character and home environment of the child which will help her in her work. Partly owing to lack of time, and partly because some pieces will not be ready, a certain number of children will not be able to play at the school recital. Such children should be gathered together at the end of the term, and should play to the mistress who organizes the work. In this way they too will gain experience, and a little focus will have been made for their work. We must add one final suggestion. Each music mistress should keep a register, in which she notes not only the names of her pupils, the times of their lessons, absences, late arrivals, &c., but an exact list of all the work done by them, with dates. This is invaluable, not only for gauging their progress, but as a means of quickly ascertaining their work in musical literature. It is, alas! a day of examinations, and with the many little books of studies and pieces which have to be got up for outside examinations there is a serious fear of the systematic education of a child in classical musical literature being interrupted, or, at any rate, put on one side for a time. Such a book makes it possible for the mistress to keep a definite scheme of work in view for each pupil, and the busier the mistress, the more she will need some such aid to her memory. The pupil should also keep a register, in which she notes the exact amount of time spent daily in practising, and the way in which she divides it. This book should be brought to each music lesson, and should also be shown to the supervising mistress at the end of each term. CHAPTER XIV SUGGESTIONS TO STUDENTS ON LEAVING A TRAINING DEPARTMENT In finishing a course of training along the lines we have been considering, it is well to take a bird's-eye view of what has been done. In all communal work the results fall roughly under two heads: 1. The getting of new ideas, and of new ways of presenting old ideas. 2. The development of character, due to the mixing with fellow students and with those who are directing the work. So far as the actual work is concerned, stress has been laid on the following: 1. The necessity of considering music as a language. 2. Various methods for teaching in accordance with this idea. 3. The principle of the inclusion of the work in the regular curriculum of schools, with class treatment. In the short space of one year, which is all that can be generally spared by the student, it is impossible for her to realize the full bearing of all that has been done. It is only when we see such work in perspective, after the lapse of a little time, when it has been possible to work out at leisure some of the practical points involved, that we can perceive all the ground covered. Many students have experienced considerable difficulty at first in doing themselves what they have seen children do, who have been trained along these lines, i.e. to write down two-, three-, or four-part exercises in dictation, to transpose at sight, to extemporize without hesitation at the piano, &c. The feeling of working against time, of examinations to be passed, of discouragement at apparently slow progress, has possibly produced a state of mental indigestion, and the only cure for this is Time, the universal doctor. The student is now at the point of entering a new sphere of work. The instrument has been sharpened. How is the application to be directed? A word of warning is necessary. The young and enthusiastic teacher, fresh from the inspiration of a year's work with those interested in her development, is too often apt to be over-rigid in enforcing a new presentment of ideas. 'This way, or no way!' is her cry. Now all sound educational work must possess an intrinsic quality of pliability: it must grow, expand, and be capable of development in a hundred ways. Small points of method must be adjusted to the particular class and pupil, and a generous recognition of the useful parts of other people's 'methods' will be the surest way of obtaining recognition of our own ideals. Provided a firm attitude be maintained on essentials, it is often possible to compromise on minor details. Above all, an open mind must be preserved in the presence of advice, however inexperienced. Many a young teacher has failed in her first post because she has given the impression to those in authority that there is one, and one only, way in which she can do her work--one, and one only, possible scheme of division of classes and hours for lessons. An arrangement far short of the ideal must often be accepted, with a courteous protest, but it will assuredly be modified later by the authorities when the teacher has won confidence by arousing the interest and enthusiasm of the pupils, and by showing good results from the lessons. Has not every new presentment of every subject in the school curriculum been greeted with the same chorus of depreciation at first? Why should music, the latest arrived of the subjects on the regular curriculum, fare differently? Remember that the head of a school has often to keep in mind, not only his or her ideals in education, but the wishes of a governing body and of the parents. A short demonstration of work done under imperfect conditions will often throw a flood of light on the aims of an enthusiastic teacher, who has been struggling in difficult surroundings. 'I had no idea you were doing all _this_ with the children' has been the admiring comment of more than one former unsympathetic critic, and conditions are at once altered in a generous spirit. Above all, the young teacher must remember that it is of the first importance not to lose her enthusiasm for the work. She must keep herself up to date by being in touch with general musical life outside her immediate circle. She should belong to a musical society, and take every opportunity of attending lectures, &c. She should organize musical clubs and meetings among her pupils, and encourage a healthy attitude of kindly criticism. And, finally, she must be always working at something to do with her own music, for directly she ceases to put herself, from time to time, in the attitude of the learner, she will cease to be a sympathetic and stimulating teacher. It is a good plan to keep a musical diary, in which our own progress and that of our pupils is recorded, together with notes on current musical events--concerts attended, and so on. Such a record is most useful for reference, and for encouragement in dark hours, when it seems impossible to re-establish a lost sense of proportion. PRINTED IN ENGLAND AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 
12903	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations of the parts of the musical scores referred to in the text. See 12903-h.htm or 12903-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/2/9/0/12903/12903-h/12903-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/2/9/0/12903/12903-h.zip) SYMPHONIES AND THEIR MEANING THIRD SERIES: MODERN SYMPHONIES. by PHILIP H. GOEPP 1913 PREFACE Criticism of contemporary art is really a kind of prophecy. For the appreciation of the classical past is an act of present perception, not a mere memory of popular verdicts. The classics live only because they still express the vital feeling of to-day. The new art must do more,--must speak for the morrow. And as the poet is a kind of seer, the true critic is his prophetic herald. It is with due humility that we approach a view of the work of our own time, with a dim feeling that our best will be a mere conjecture. But we shall the more cheerfully return to our resolution that our chief business is a positive appreciation. Where we cannot praise, we can generally be silent. Certain truths concerning contemporary art seem firmly grounded in the recorded past. The new Messiah never came with instant wide acclaim. Many false prophets flashed brilliantly on the horizon to fall as suddenly as they rose. In a refracted view we see the figures of the great projected in too large dimension upon their day. And precisely opposite we fail to glimpse the ephemeral lights obscuring the truly great. The lesson seems never to be learned; indeed it can, of course, never be learned. For that would imply an eternal paradox that the present generation must always distrust its own judgment. Who could possibly imagine in Schubert's time the sway he holds to-day. Our minds reel to think that by a mere accident were recovered the Passion of Bach and the symphonies of Schubert. Or must we prayerfully believe that a Providence will make the best prevail? And, by the way, the serious nature of this appreciation appears when we see how it was ever by the greatest of his time that the future master was heralded. The symphony of the present age has perhaps fallen somewhat in estate. It was natural that it should rush to a high perfection in the halcyon days of its growth. It is easy to make mournful predictions of decadence. The truth is the symphony is a great form of art, like a temple or a tragedy. Like them it has had, it will have its special eras of great expression. Like them it will stay as a mode of utterance for new communities and epochs with varying nationality, or better still, with vanishing nationalism. The tragedy was not exhausted with Sophocles, nor with Shakespeare nor with Goethe. So the symphony has its fallow periods and it may have a new resurgence under new climes. We are ever impatient to shelve a great form, like vain women afraid of the fashion. It is part of our constant rage for novelty. The shallower artist ever tinkered with new devices,--to some effects, in truth. Such is the empiric course of art that what is born of vanity may be crowned with highest inspiration. The national element will fill a large part of our survey. It marks a strange trait of our own age that this revival of the national idea falls in the very time when other barriers are broken. Ancient folk-song grew like the flower on the battle-field of races. But here is an anxious striving for a special dialect in music. Each nation must have its proper school; composers are strictly labelled, each one obedient to his national manner. This state of art can be but of the day. Indeed, the fairest promise of a greater future lies in the morrow's blending of these various elements in the land where each citizen has a mixed inheritance from the older nations. In the bewildering midst of active spirits comes the irresistible impulse to a somewhat partisan warfare. The critic, if he could view himself from some empyraean perch, remote in time and place, might smile at his own vehemence. In the clash of aims he must, after all, take sides, for it is the tendency that is momentous; and he will be excited to greater heat the stronger the prophet that he deems false. When the strife is over, when currents are finally settled, we may take a more contented joy in the impersonal art that remains. The choice from the mass of brilliant vital endeavor is a new burden and a source almost of dismay. Why should we omit so melodious a work as Moskowski's _Jeanne d'Arc_,--full of perhaps too facile charm? It was, of course, impossible to treat all the wonderful music of the Glazounows and the Kallinikows. And there is the limpid beauty of the Bohemian _Suk_, or the heroic vigor of a _Volbach_. We should like to have mentioned _Robert Volkmann_ as a later Romanticist; and _Gade_ has ever seemed a true poet of the Scandinavian symphony. Of the modern French we are loth to omit the symphonies of _Chausson_ and of _Dukas_. In our own America it is a still harder problem. There is the masterly writing of a _Foote_; the older _Paine_ has never been fully valued in the mad race for novelty. It would have been a joy to include a symphony of rare charm by _Martinus van Gelder_. A critical work on modern art cannot hope to bestow a crown of laurels among living masters; it must be content with a view of active tendencies. The greatest classic has often come into the world amid least expectation. A critic in the year 1850 must need have omitted the Unfinished Symphony, which was then buried in a long oblivion. The present author prefers to treat the main modern lines, considering the special work mainly as example. After all, throughout the realm of art the idea is greater than the poet, the whole art more than the artist,--though the particular enshrinement in enduring design may reflect a rare personality. PHILIP H. GOEPP. NOTE: Especial thanks are owed to the Philadelphia Orchestra for a free use of its library, and to Messrs. G. Schirmer Company for a like courtesy.--P.H.G. CONTENTS CHAPTER I.--The Symphony during the Nineteenth Century CHAPTER II.--Berlioz and Liszt CHAPTER III.--Berlioz. "Romeo and Juliet." Dramatic Symphony CHAPTER IV.--A Symphony to Dante's "Divina Commedia" CHAPTER V.--The Symphonic Poems of Liszt "Les Préludes" "Tasso" "Mazeppa" "Battle of the Huns" CHAPTER VI.--The Symphonic Poems of Saint-Saëns "Danse Macabre" "Phaeton" "The Youth of Hercules" "Omphale's Spinning Wheel" CHAPTER VII.--César Franck Symphony in D minor CHAPTER VIII.--D'Indy and the Followers of Franck D'Indy's Second Symphony CHAPTER IX.--Débussy and the Innovators "The Sea"--Débussy "The Sorcerer's Apprentice"--Dukas CHAPTER X.--Tschaikowsky Fourth Symphony "Manfred" Symphony Fifth Symphony CHAPTER XI.--The Neo-Russians Balakirew. Symphony in C Rimsky-Korsakow "Antar" Symphony "Schérézade." Symphonic Suite Rachmaninow. Symphony in E minor CHAPTER XII.--Sibelius. A Finnish Symphony CHAPTER XIII.--Bohemian Symphonies Smetana. Symphonic Poem: "The Moldau River" Dvôrák. Symphony: "From the New World" CHAPTER XIV.--The Earlier Bruckner Second Symphony Fourth (Romantic) Symphony Fifth Symphony CHAPTER XV.--The Later Bruckner Ninth Symphony CHAPTER XVI.--Hugo Wolff "Penthesilea." Symphonic Poem CHAPTER XVII.--Mahler Fifth Symphony CHAPTER XVIII.--Richard Strauss. Symphonic Poems "Death and Transfiguration" "Don Juan" "Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks" "Sinfonia Domestica" CHAPTER XIX.--Italian Symphonies Sgambati. Symphony in D major Martucci. Symphony in D minor CHAPTER XX.--Edward Elgar. An English Symphony CHAPTER XXI.--Symphonies in America Henry Hadley. Symphony No. 3 Gustav Strube. Symphony in D minor Chadwick. Suite Symphonique Loeffler. "The Devil's Round." Symphonic Poem SYMPHONIES AND THEIR MEANING MODERN SYMPHONIES CHAPTER I THE SYMPHONY DURING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY After the long dominance of German masters of the musical art, a reaction could not fail to come with the restless tendencies of other nations, who, having learned the lesson, were yet jealous of foreign models and eager to utter their own message. The later nineteenth century was thus the age of refraction of the classic tradition among the various racial groups that sprang up with the rise of the national idea. We can see a kind of beginning in the Napoleonic destruction of feudal dynasties. German authority in music at the beginning of the century was as absolute as Roman rule in the age of Augustus. But the seed was carried by teachers to the various centres of Europe. And, with all the joy we have in the new burst of a nation's song, there is no doubt that it is ever best uttered when it is grounded on the lines of classic art. Here is a paramount reason for the strength of the modern Russian school. With this semi-political cause in mind it is less difficult to grasp the paradox that with all the growth of intercommunication the music of Europe moves in more detached grooves to-day than two centuries ago. The suite in the time of Bach is a special type and proof of a blended breadth and unity of musical thought in the various nations of Europe of the seventeenth century. In the quaint series of dances of the different peoples, with a certain international quality, one sees a direct effect of the Thirty Years' War,--the beneficent side of those ill winds and cruel blasts, when all kinds of nations were jostling on a common battle-ground. And as the folk-dances sprang from the various corners of Europe, so different nations nursed the artistic growth of the form. Each would treat the dances of the other in its own way, and here is the significance of Bach's separate suites,--English, French and German. Nationalism seems thus a prevailing element in the music of to-day, and we may perceive two kinds, one spontaneous and full of charm, the other a result of conscious effort, sophisticated in spirit and in detail. It may as well be said that there was no compelling call for a separate French school in the nineteenth century as a national utterance. It sprang from a political rather than an artistic motive; it was the itch of jealous pride that sharply stressed the difference of musical style on the two sides of the Rhine. The very influence of German music was needed by the French rather than a bizarre invention of national traits. The broader art of a Saint-Saëns here shines in contrast with the brilliant conceits of his younger compatriots, though it cannot be denied that the latter are grounded in classic counterpoint. With other nations the impulse was more natural: the racial song of the Scandinavians, Czechs and other Slavs craved a deliverance as much as the German in the time of Schubert. In France, where music had long flourished, there was no stream of suppressed folk-song. But the symphony must in the natural course have suffered from the very fulness of its own triumph. We know the Romantic reaction of Schumann, uttered in smaller cyclic forms; in Berlioz is almost a complete abandonment of pure music, devoid of special description. Liszt was one of the mighty figures of the century, with all the external qualities of a master-genius, shaking the stage of Europe with the weight of his personality, and, besides, endowed with a creative power that was not understood in his day. With him the restless tendency resulted in a new form intended to displace the symphony: the symphonic poem, in a single, varied movement, and always on a definite poetic subject. Here was at once a relief and a recess from the classic rigor. Away with sonata form and all the odious code of rules! In the story of the title will lie all the outline of the music. Yet in this rebellious age--and here is the significance of the form--the symphony did not languish, but blossomed to new and varied flower. Liszt turned back to the symphony from his new-fangled device for his two greatest works. It has, indeed, been charged that the symphony was accepted by the Romantic masters in the spirit of a challenge. Mendelssohn and even Schumann are not entirely free from such a suspicion. Nevertheless it remains true that all of them confided to the symphony their fairest inspiration. About the middle of the century, at the high point of anti-classical revolt, a wonderful group of symphonies, by Berlioz, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Liszt, were presented to the world. With the younger Brahms on a returning wave of neo-classicism the form became again distinctively a personal choice. Finally, in the spontaneous utterance of a national spirit on broad lines, as in the later Russian and Finnish examples, with the various phases of surging resolution, of lyric contemplation and of rollicking humor, the symphony has its best sanction in modern times. To return to the historical view, the course of the symphony during the century cannot be adequately scanned without a glance at the music-drama of Richard Wagner. Until the middle of the century, symphony and opera had moved entirely in separate channels. At most the overture was affected, in temper and detail, by the career of the nobler form. The restless iconoclasm of a Liszt was now united, in a close personal and poetic league, with the new ideas of Wagner's later drama. Both men adopted the symbolic motif as their main melodic means; with both mere iteration took the place of development; a brilliant and lurid color-scheme (of orchestration) served to hide the weakness of intrinsic content; a vehement and hysteric manner cast into temporary shade the classic mood of tranquil depth in which alone man's greatest thought is born. But a still larger view of the whole temper of art in Europe of the later century is needed. We wander here beyond the fine distinctions of musical forms. A new wave of feeling had come over the world that violently affected all processes of thought. And strangely, it was strongest in the land where the great heights of poetry and music had just been reached. Where the high aim of a Beethoven and a Goethe had been proclaimed, arose a Wagner to preach the gospel of brute fate and nature, where love was the involuntary sequence of mechanical device and ended in inevitable death, all overthrowing the heroic idea that teems throughout the classic scores, crowned in a greatest symphony in praise of "Joy." Such was the intrinsic content of a "Tristan and Isolde" and the whole "Nibelungen-Ring," and it was uttered with a sensuous wealth of sound and a passionate strain of melody that (without special greatness of its own) dazzled and charmed the world in the dramatic setting of mediaeval legend. The new harmonic style of Wagner, there is good reason to suppose, was in reality first conceived by Liszt, whose larger works, written about the middle of the century, have but lately come to light.[A] In correspondence with this moral mutiny was the complete revolt from classic art-tradition: melody (at least in theory), the vital quality of musical form and the true process of a coherent thread, were cast to the winds with earlier poetic ideals. [Footnote A: The "Dante" Symphony of Liszt was written between 1847 and 1855; the "Faust" Symphony between 1854 and 1857. Wagner finished the text of _Tristan und Isolde_ in 1857; the music was not completed until 1859. In 1863 was published the libretto of the _Nibelungen-Ring_. In 1864 Wagner was invited by King Ludwig of Bavaria to complete the work in Munich.] If it were ever true that a single personality could change an opposite course of thought, it must be held that Richard Wagner, in his own striking and decadent career, comes nearest to such a type. But he was clearly prompted and reinforced in his philosophy by other men and tendencies of his time. The realism of a Schopenhauer, which Wagner frankly adopted without its full significance (where primal will finds a redemption in euthanasia), led by a natural course of thought to Nietzsche's dreams of an overman, who tramples on his kind. In itself this philosophy had been more of a passing phase (even as Schopenhauer is lost in the chain of ethical sages) but for its strange coincidence with the Wagnerian music. The accident of this alliance gave it an overwhelming power in Germany, where it soon threatened to corrupt all the arts, banishing idealism from the land of its special haunts.[A] The ultimate weakness of the Wagnerian philosophy is that it finds in fatalism an excuse for the surrender of heroic virtue,--not in the spirit of a tragic truth, but in a glorification of the senses; just as in Wagner's final work, the ascetic, sinless type becomes a figure almost of ridicule, devoid of human reality. It is significant that with the revival of a sound art, fraught with resolute aspiration, is imminent a return to an idealistic system of philosophy. [Footnote A: In literature this movement is most marked, as may be seen by contrasting the tone of Goethe with that of Sudermann; by noting the decadence from the stories of a Chamisseau and Immermann to those of a Gottfried Keller; from the novels of Freytag to the latest of Frenssen and Arthur Schnitzler; from the poems of Heine to those of Hoffmansthal, author of the text of Strauss' later operas. Or, contrast merely the two typical dramas of love, Goethe's "Faust" and Wagner's "Tristan and Isolde."] In the musical art even of Germany the triumph was never complete. The famous feud of Brahms and Wagner partisans marked the alignment of the classical and radical traditions. Throughout the second half of the century the banner of a true musical process was upheld; the personal meeting of the youthful Brahms with the declining Schumann is wonderfully significant, viewed as a symbol of this passing of the classic mantle. And the symphonies of Gustav Mahler seem an assurance of present tendencies. The influence of Bach, revived early in the century, grew steadily as a latent leaven. Nevertheless in the prevailing taste and temper of present German music, in the spirit of the most popular works, as those of Richard Strauss (who seems to have sold his poetic birthright), the aftermath of this wave is felt, and not least in the acclaim of the barren symphonies of a Bruckner. It is well known that Bruckner, who paid a personal homage to Wagner, became a political figure in the partisan dispute, when he was put forth as the antagonist of Brahms in the symphony. His present vogue is due to this association and to his frank adoption of Wagner idiom in his later works, as well as, more generally, to the lowered taste in Germany. In all this division of musical dialect, in the shattering of the classic tower among the diverse tongues of many peoples, what is to be the harvest? The full symbol of a Babel does not hold for the tonal art. Music is, in its nature, a single language for the world, as its alphabet rests on ideal elements. It has no national limits, like prose or poetry; its home is the whole world; its idiom the blended song of all nations. In such a view there is less hope in the older than in the newer world. No single, limited song of one nation can in the future achieve a second climax of the art. It is by the actual mingling of them all that the fairest flower and fruit must come. The very absence of one prevailing native song, held a reproach to America, is in reality her strength; for hers is the common heritage of all strains of song. And it may be her destiny to lead in the glorious merging of them all. CHAPTER II BERLIOZ AND LISZT The path of progress of an art has little to do with mere chronology. For here in early days are bold spirits whose influence is not felt until a whole generation has passed of a former tradition. Nor are these patient pioneers always the best-inspired prophets; the mere fate of slow recognition does not imply a highest genius. A radical innovation may provoke a just and natural resistance. Again, a gradual yielding is not always due to the pure force of truth. Strange and oblique ideas may slowly win a triumph that is not wholly merited and may not prove enduring. To fully grapple with this mystery, we may still hold to the faith that final victory comes only to pure truth, and yet we may find that imperfect truth will often achieve a slow and late acceptance. The victory may then be viewed in either of two ways: the whole spirit of the age yields to the brilliant allurement, or there is an overweighing balance of true beauty that deserves the prize of permanence. Of such a kind were two principal composers of the symphony: Franz Liszt and Hector Berlioz. Long after they had wrought their greatest works, others had come and gone in truer line with the first masters, until it seemed these radical spirits had been quite rejected. Besides the masters of their own day, Schumann and Mendelssohn, a group of minor poets, like Raff and Goetz, appeared, and at last Brahms, the latest great builder of the symphony, all following and crowning the classical tradition. The slow reception of the larger works of Liszt strangely agrees with the startling resemblance of their manner to the Russian style that captivated a much later age. It seemed as if the spirit of the Hungarian was suddenly revived in a new national group. His humor wonderfully suited the restless and sensational temper of an age that began after his death. The very harmonies and passionate manner that influence modern audiences evoked a dull indifference in their own day.[A] They roused the first acclaim when presented in the more popular form of the music-drama. It may well be questioned whether Liszt was not the fountain source of the characteristic harmonies of Wagner's later opera. [Footnote A: Compare the similarity of the themes of the Faust Symphony of Liszt and of the _Pathétique_ of Tschaikowsky in the last chapter of vol. ii, "Symphonies and Their Meaning."] Historically considered, that is in their relation to other music preceding and following them, the symphonies of Liszt have striking interest. They are in boldest departure from all other symphonies, save possibly those of Berlioz, and they were prophetic in a degree only apparent a half-century later. If the quality of being ahead of his time be proof, instead of a symptom, of genius, then Liszt was in the first rank of masters. The use of significant motif is in both of his symphonies. But almost all the traits that startled and moved the world in Tschaikowsky's symphonies are revealed in this far earlier music: the tempestuous rage of what might be called an hysterical school, and the same poignant beauty of the lyric episodes; the sheer contrast, half trick, half natural, of fierce clangor and dulcet harmonies, all painted with the broad strokes of the orchestral palette. Doubly striking it is how Liszt foreshadowed his later followers and how he has really overshadowed them; not one, down to the most modern tone-painters, has equalled him in depth and breadth of design, in the original power of his tonal symbols. It seems that Liszt will endure as the master-spirit in this reactionary phase of the symphony. Berlioz is another figure of a bold innovator, whose career seemed a series of failures, yet whose music will not down. His art was centred less upon the old essentials, of characteristic melody and soul-stirring harmonies, than upon the magic strokes of new instrumental grouping,--a graphic rather than a pure musical purpose. And so he is the father not only of the modern orchestra, but of the fashion of the day that revels in new sensations of startling effects, that are spent in portraying the events of a story. Berlioz was the first of a line of _virtuosi_ of the orchestra, a pioneer in the art of weaving significant strains,--significant, that is, apart from the music. He was seized with the passion of making a pictured design with his orchestral colors. Music, it seems, did not exist for Berlioz except for the telling of a story. His symphony is often rather opera. A symphony, he forgot, is not a musical drama without the scenery. This is just what is not a symphony. It is not the literal story, but the pure musical utterance. Thus Berlioz's "Romeo and Juliet" symphony is in its design more the literal story than is Shakespeare's play. And yet there is ever a serious nobility, a heroic reach in the art of Berlioz, where he stands almost alone among the composers of his race. Here, probably, more than in his pictured stories, lies the secret of his endurance. He was, other than his followers, ever an idealist. And so, when we are on the point of condemning him as a scene-painter, we suddenly come upon a stretch of pure musical beauty, that flowed from the unconscious rapture of true poet. As the bee sucks, so may we cull the stray beauty and the more intimate meaning, despite and aside from this outer intent. CHAPTER III BERLIOZ. "ROMEO AND JULIET." _DRAMATIC SYMPHONY_ In the sub-title we see the growing impulse towards graphic music. A "dramatic symphony" is not promising. For, if music is the most subjective expression of the arts, why should its highest form be used to dramatize a drama? Without the aid of scene and actors, that were needed by the original poet, the artisan in absolute tones attempts his own theatric rendering. Clearly this symphony is one of those works of art which within an incongruous form (like certain ancient pictures) affords episodes of imperishable beauty. Passing by the dramatic episodes that are strung on the thread of the story, we dwell, according to our wont, on the stretches where a pure musical utterance rises to a lofty height of pathos or of rarest fantasy. In the first scene of the Second Part is the clear intent of a direct tonal expression, and there is a sustained thread of sincere sentiment. The passion of Romeo shines in the purity rather than in the intensity of feeling. The scene has a delicate series of moods, with subtle melodic touches and dramatic surprises of chord and color. The whole seems a reflection of Romeo's humor, the personal (_Allegro_) theme being the symbol as it roams throughout the various phases,--the sadness of solitude, the feverish thrill of the ball. Into the first phrase of straying violins wanders the personal motive, sadly meditative. [Music: _Allegro._ (Choir of wood, with sustained chords of strings)] Sweeter dreams now woo the muser, warming into passion, pulsing with a more eager throb of desire, in changed tone and pace. Suddenly in a new quarter amid a quick strum of dance the main motive hurries along. The gay sounds vanish, ominous almost in the distance. The sadness of the lover now sings unrestrained in expressive melody (of oboe), in long swinging pace, while far away rumbles the beat of festive drum. The song rises in surging curves, but dies away among the quick festal sounds, where the personal motive is still supreme, chasing its own ardent antics, and plunges headlong into the swirl of dance. II Penseroso (in his personal rôle) has glided into a buoyant, rollicking Allegro with joyous answer. Anon the outer revel breaks in with shock almost of terror. And now in climax of joy, through the festal strum across the never-ceasing thread of transformed meditation resound in slowest, broadest swing the [Music: _Larghetto espressivo_ (Ob. with fl. and cl. and arpeggic cellos)] warm tones of the love-song in triumph of bliss.[A] As the song dies away, the festal sounds fade. Grim meditation returns in double figure,--the slower, heavier pace below. Its shadows are all about as in a fugue of fears, flitting still to the tune of the dance and anon yielding before the gaiety. But through the returning festal ring the fateful motive is still straying in the bass. In the concluding revel the hue of meditation is not entirely banned. [Footnote A: In unison of the wind. Berlioz has here noted in the score "_Réunion des deux Thémes, du Larghetto et de L'Allegro_," the second and first of our cited phrases.] The Shakespearian love-drama thus far seems to be celebrated in the manner of a French romance. After all, the treatment remains scenic in the main; the feeling is diluted, as it were, not intensified by the music. The stillness of night and the shimmering moonlight are in the delicate harmonies of (_Allegretto_) strings. A lusty song of departing revellers breaks upon the scene. The former distant sounds of feast are now near and clear in actual words. [Music: _Adagio_ (Muted strings) (_Pizz._ basses an 8ve. lower)] There is an intimate charm, a true glamor of love-idyll about the Adagio. On more eager pulse rises a languorous strain of horn and cellos. The flow [Music: (Horn and cellos with murmuring strings)] of its passionate phrase reaches the climax of prologue where, the type and essence of the story, it plays about the lovers' first meeting. As lower strings hum the burden of desire, higher wood add touches of ecstasy, the melting violins sing the wooing song, and all break into an overwhelming rapture, as though transfigured in the brightness of its own vehemence, in midst of a trembling mystery. The restless spirit starts (_allegro agitato_) in fearsome agitation on quick nervous throb of melody; below, violas sing a soothing answer; there is a clear dialogue of wistful lovers. Instead of the classic form of several verses led by one dominant melody to varied paths and views, here almost in reverse we seem to fall from a broader lyric mood to a single note of sad yearning that [Music: (Fl. with Eng. horn an 8ve. below) (Muted violins with sustained lower strings)] grows out of the several strains. Upon such a motive a new melody sings. The delicate bliss of early love is all about, and in the lingering close the timid ecstasies of wooing phrase. But this is a mere prelude to the more highly stressed, vehement song of love that follows on the same yearning motive. Here is the crowning, summing phase of the whole poem, without a return to earlier melody save that, by significant touch, it ends in the same expressive turn as the former languorous song. The first melody does not reappear, is thus a kind of background of the scene. The whole is a dramatic lyric that moves from broader tune to a reiterated note of sad desire, driven to a splendid height of crowned bliss. The turbulence of early love is there; pure ardor in flaming tongues of ecstasy; the quick turn of mood and the note of omen of the original poem: the violence of early love and the fate that hangs over. Berlioz has drawn the subject of his Scherzo from Mercutio's speech in Scene 4 of the First Act of Shakespeare's tragedy. He has entitled it "Queen Mab, or the Fairy of Dreams," and clearly intends to portray the airy flight of Mab and her fairies. But we must doubt whether this, the musical gem of the symphony, has a plan that is purely graphic,--rather does it seem to soar beyond those concrete limits to an utterance of the sense of dreams themselves in the spirit of Mercutio's conclusion: "... I talk of dreams Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy; Which is as thin of substance as the air;" And we may add, as elusive for the enchanted mind to hold are these pranks and brilliant parade of tonal sprites. It stands one of the masterpieces of program-music, in equal balance of pure beauty with the graphic plan. Imps they are, these flitting figures, almost insects with a personality. In pace there is a division, where the first dazzling speed is simply the fairy rhythm (halted anon by speaking pauses or silences), and the second, a kind of idyll or romance in miniature. It is all a drama of fairy actors, in a dreamland of softest tone. The main figure leads its troop on gossamer thread of varied journey. [Music: (Violins) _Prestissimo_] Almost frightening in the quickest, pulsing motion is the sudden stillness, as the weird poising of trembling sprites. Best of all is the resonant beauty of the second melody in enchanting surprise of tone. [Music: (Strings without basses)] Anon, as in a varied dance, the skipping, mincing step is followed by a gentle swaying; or the figures all run together down the line to start the first dance again, or the divided groups have different motions, or one shouts a sudden answer to the other. Much slower now is the main song (in flute and English horn) beneath an ariel harmony (of overtones), while a quicker trip begins below of the same figure. And in the midst is a strange concert of low dancing strings with highest tones of harp,--strange mating of flitting sprites. We are suddenly back in the first, skipping dance, ever faster and brighter in dazzling group of lesser figures. And here is the golden note of fairy-land,--the horn in soft cheery hunter's lay, answered by echoing voices. For a moment the call is tipped with touch of sadness, then rings out brightly in a new quarter. Beautiful it sings between the quick phrases, with a certain shock of change, and there is the terror of a sudden low rumbling and the thrill of new murmuring sounds with soft beat of drum that hails the gathering fairies. There is a sudden clarion burst of the whole chorus, with clash of drum and clang of brass, and sudden pause, then faintest echoes of higher voices. A new figure now dances a joyous measure to the tinkling of harp and the sparkling strokes of high [Music: (Harp in higher 8ve.) (Clarinet with chord of horns) (Violas)] cymbals and long blown tone of horns. The very essence it is of fairy life. And so the joy is not unmixed with just a touch of awe. Amidst the whole tintinnabulation is a soft resonant echo of horns below, like an image in a lake. The air hangs heavy with dim romance until the sudden return to first fairy verse in sounds almost human. Once more come the frightening pauses. The end is in a great crash of sweet sound--a glad awakening to day and to reality. CHAPTER IV A SYMPHONY TO DANTE'S "DIVINA COMMEDIA" _FOR ORCHESTRA AND CHORUS OF SOPRANOS AND ALTOS_ The "Divina Commedia" may be said in a broad view to belong to the great design by which Christian teaching was brought into relation with earlier pagan lore. The subject commands all the interest of the epics of Virgil and of Milton. It must be called the greatest Christian poem of all times, and the breadth of its appeal and of its art specially attest the age in which it was written, when classic pagan poetry broke upon the world like a great treasure-trove. The subject was an ideal one in Dante's time,--a theme convincing and contenting to all the world, and, besides, akin to the essence of pagan poetry. The poet was needed to celebrate all the phases of its meaning and beauty. This is true of all flashes of evolutionary truth. As in the ancient epics, an idea once real to the world may be enshrined in a design of immortal art. To-day we are perhaps in too agnostic a state to be absorbed by such a contemplation. The subject in a narrower sense is true at most to those who will to cherish the solace of a salvation which they have not fully apprehended. And so the Liszt symphony of the nineteenth century is not a complete reflection of the Dante poem of the fourteenth. It becomes for the devout believer almost a kind of church-liturgy,--a Mass by the Abbé Liszt. Rare qualities there undoubtedly are in the music: a reality of passion; a certain simplicity of plan; the sensuous beauty of melodic and harmonic touches. But a greatness in the whole musical expression that may approach the grandeur of the poem, could only come in a suggestion of symbolic truth; and here the composer seems to fail by a too close clinging to ecclesiastic ritual. Yet in the agony of remorse, rising from hopeless woe to a chastened worship of the light, is a strain of inner truth that will leave the work for a long time a hold on human interest. Novel is the writing of words in the score, as if they are to be sung by the instruments,--all sheer aside from the original purpose of the form. Page after page has its precise text; we hear the shrieks of the damned, the dread inscription of the infernal portals; the sad lament of lovers; the final song of praise of the redeemed. A kind of picture-book music has our symphony become. The _leit-motif_ has crept into the high form of absolute tones to make it as definite and dramatic as any opera. I. INFERNO The legend of the portal is proclaimed at the outset in a rising phrase (of the low brass and strings) [Music: (Doubled in two lower 8ves.) _Lento_ (3 trombones and tuba: violas, cellos and brass)] _Per me si va nella cit-ta do-lente; Per me si va nell'eterno dolore;_ and in still higher chant-- _Per me si va tra la perduta gente._ Then, in antiphonal blast of horns and trumpets sounds the fatal doom in grim monotone (in descending harmony of trembling strings): [Music: (Chant in octaves of trumpets and horns) La-scia-te ogni spe-ran- - -za. (Brass, wood and _tremolo_ strings)] _Lasciate ogni speranza mi ch' entrate!_[A] [Footnote A: "Through me the way is to the city dolent; Through me the way is to eternal dole; Through me the way among the people lost. All hope abandon, ye who enter in!" --_From Longfellow's translation._] A tumult on a sigh (from the first phrase) rises again and again in gusts. In a violent paroxysm we hear the doom of the monotone in lowest horns. The fateful phrases are ringing about, while pervading all is the hope-destroying blast of the brass. But the storm-centre is the sighing motive which now enters on a quicker spur of passionate stride (_Allegro frenetico, quasi doppio movimento_). In its winding [Music: _Alla breve_ _Allegro frenetico (quasi doppio movimento)_ (Theme in violins and cellos) (Woodwind and violas)] sequences it sings a new song in more regular pace. The tempest grows wilder and more masterful, still following the lines of the song, rising to towering height. And now in the strains, slow and faster, sounds the sigh above and below, all in a madrigal of woe. The whole is surmounted by a big descending phrase, articulate almost in its grim dogma, as it runs into the line of the first legend in full tumult of gloom. It is followed by the doom slowly proclaimed in thundering tones of the brass, in midst of a tempest of surging harmonies. Only it is all more fully and poignantly stressed than before, with long, resonant echoes of the stentorian tones of lowest brass. Suddenly we are in the dulcet mood (_Quasi Andante, ma sempre un poco mosso_) 'mid light waving strings and rich swirling harp, and soothing tones of flutes and muted horns. Then, as all other voices are hushed, the clarinet sings a strain that ends in lowest notes of expressive grief (_Recit., espressivo dolente_)--where we can almost hear the words. It is answered by a sweet plaint of other wood, in [Music: _Quasi Andante, ma sempre un poco mosso_ _dolce teneremente_ (Clarinets and bassoons)] questioning accents, followed by the returning waves of strings and harp, and another phrase of the lament; and now to the pulsing chords of the harp the mellow English horn does sing (at least in the score) the words,--the central text of all: [Music: _Poco agitato_ (English horn, with arpeggic flow of harp) Nes-sun mag-gior do-lo-re che ri-cor-dar-si del tem-po fe-li-ce.[A]] [Footnote A: "There is no greater sorrow than to be mindful of the happy time in misery."--_From Longfellow's translation._] Other voices join the leader. As the lower reed start the refrain, the higher enter in pursuit, and then the two groups sing a melodic chase. But the whole phrase is a mere foil to the pure melody of the former plaint that now returns in lower strings. And all so far is as a herald to the passage of intimate sentiment (_Andante amoroso_) that lies a lyric gem in the heart of the symphony. The melting strain is stressed in tenderness by the languor of harmonies, the delicate design of elusive rhythm and the appealing whisper of harp and two violins,--tipped by the touch of mellow wood. [Music: _Andante amoroso. (Tempo rubato)_ _dolce con intimo sentimento_ (Melody in first violins; arpeggios of harp and violas; lower woodwind and strings)] With the rising passion, as the refrain spreads in wider sequences, the choirs of wood and strings are drawn into the song, one group answering the other in a true love duet. The last cadence falls into the old sigh as the dread oracle sounds once more the knell of hope. Swirling strings bring us to a new scene of the world of shades. In the furious, frenetic pace of yore (_Tempo primo, Allegro, alla breve_) there is a new sullen note, a dull martial trip of drums with demonic growls (in the lowest wood). The sigh is there, but perverted in humor. A chorus of blasphemous mockery is stressed by strident accents of lower wood and strings.[A] [Footnote A: We are again assisted by the interpreting words in the score.] Gradually we fall into the former frenzied song, amid the demon cacchinations, until we have plunged back into the nightmare of groans. Instead of the big descending phrase we sink into lower depths of gloom, wilder than ever, on the first tripping motive. As the sighing strain resounds below in the midst of a chorus of demon shrieks, there enters the chant of inexorable fate. Mockery yields to a tinge of pathos, a sense almost of majestic resignation, an apotheosis of grief. II. PURGATORIO A state of tranquillity, almost of bliss, is in the opening primal harmonies (of harp and strings and [Music: _Andante con moto quasi Allegretto. Tranquillo assai_ (Oboe _molto espressivo_) _Sempre piano e legato_ (Full arpeggic harp and muted strings)] soft horns). Indeed, what else could be the mood of relief from the horrors of hell? And lo! the reed strikes a pure limpid song echoed in turn by other voices, beneath a rich spray of heavenly harmonies. This all recurs in higher shift of tone. A wistful phrase (_piu lento_, in low strings) seems to breathe [Music: _Un poco meno mosso_ (English horn, clarinets, bassoons, French horn)] a spoken sob. Then, as in voices of a hymn, chants a more formal liturgy of plaint where the phrase is almost lost in the lowest voice. It is all but articulate, with a sense of the old sigh; but it is in a calmer spirit, though anon bursting with passionate grief (_lagrimoso_). [Music: _Lamentoso_ (In fugue of muted strings)] And now in the same vein, of the same fibre, a fugue begins of lament, first in muted strings. It is the line of sad expressive recitative that heralded the plaint and the love-scene. There is here the full charm of fugue: a rhythmic quality of single theme, the choir of concerted dirge in independent and interdependent paths, and with every note of integral melody. There is the beauty of pure tonal architecture blended with the personal significance of the human (and divine) tragedy. The fugue begins in muted strings, like plaintive human voices, though wood and brass here and there light up the phrases. Now the full bass of horns and wood strikes the descending course of theme, while higher strings and wood soar in rising stress of (sighing) grief. [Music: (In double higher 8ves.) _With lower 8ves._ (Strings, with enforcing and answering wind)] A hymnal verse of the theme enters in the wood answered by impetuous strings on a coursing phrase. The antiphonal song rises with eager stress of themal attack. A quieter elegy leads to another burst, the motive above, the insistent sigh below. The climax of fugue returns to the heroic main plaint below, with sighing answers above, all the voices of wood and brass enforcing the strings. Then the fugue turns to a transfigured phase; the theme rings triumphant retorts in golden horns and in a masterful unison of the wood; the wild answer runs joyfully in lower strings, while the higher are strumming like celestial harps. The whole is transformed to a big song of praise ever in higher harmonies. The theme flows on in ever varying thread, amidst the acclaiming tumult. But the heavenly heights are not reached by a single leap. Once more we sink to sombre depths not of the old rejection, but of a chastened, wistful wonderment. The former plaintive chant returns, in slower, contained pace, broken by phrases of mourning recitative, with the old sigh. And a former brief strain of simple aspiration is supported by angelic harps. In gentle ascent we are wafted to the acclaim of heavenly (treble) voices in the _Magnificat_. A wonderful utterance, throughout the scene of Purgatory, there is of a chastened, almost spiritual grief for the sin that cannot be undone, though it is not past pardon. The bold design of the final Praise of the Almighty was evidently conceived in the main as a service. An actual depiction, or a direct expression (such as is attempted in the prologue of Boito's Mefistofele) was thereby avoided. The Holy of Holies is screened from view by a priestly ceremony,--by the mask of conventional religion. Else we must take the composer's personal conception of such a climax as that of an orthodox Churchman. And then the whole work, with all its pathos and humanity, falls to the level of liturgy. The words of invisible angel-chorus are those of the blessed maid trusting in God her savior, on a theme for which we are prepared by preluding choirs of harps, wood and strings. It is sung on an ancient Church tone that in its height approaches the mode of secular song. With all the power of broad rhythm, and fulness of harmony and volume, the feeling is of conventional worship. With all the purity of shimmering harmonies the form is ecclesiastical in its main lines and depends upon liturgic symbols for its effect and upon the faith of the listener for its appeal. At the end of the hymn, on the entering _Hosanna!_ and _Hallelujah!_ we catch the sacred symbol (of seven tones) in the path of the two vocal parts, the lower descending, the higher ascending as on heavenly scale. In the second, optional ending the figure is completed, as the bass descends through the seven whole tones and the treble (of voices and instruments) rises as before to end in overpowering _Hallelujah!_ The style is close knit with the earlier music. A pervading motive is the former brief phrase of aspiration; upon it the angelic groups seem to wing their flight between verses of praise. By a wonderful touch the sigh, that appeared inverted in the plaintive chant of the _Purgatorio_, is finally glorified as the motive of the bass to the words of exultation. CHAPTER V THE SYMPHONIC POEMS OF LISZT Liszt was clearly a follower of Berlioz in the abandon to a pictorial aim, in the revolt from pure musical form, and in the mastery of orchestral color. If we feel in almost all his works a charming translation of story in the tones, we also miss the higher empyraean of pure fancy, unlimited by halting labels. It is a descent into pleasant, rich pastures from the cosmic view of the lofty mountain. Yet it must be yielded that Liszt's program-music was of the higher kind that dwells in symbols rather than in concrete details. It was a graphic plan of symbolization that led Liszt to choose the subjects of his symphonic poems (such as the "Préludes" and the "Ideals") and to prefer the poetic scheme of Hugo's "Mazeppa" to the finer verse of a Byron. Though not without literal touches, Liszt perceived that his subjects must have a symbolic quality. Nevertheless this pictorial style led to a revolution in the very nature of musical creation and to a new form which was seemingly intended to usurp the place of the symphony. It is clear that the symphonic poem is in very essence opposed to the symphony. The genius of the symphony lies in the overwhelming breadth and intensity of its expression without the aid of words. Vainly decried by a later age of shallower perception, it achieved this Promethean stroke by the very magic of the design. At one bound thus arose in the youngest art a form higher than any other of human device,--higher than the epic, the drama, or the cathedral. Bowing to an impatient demand for verbal meaning, Liszt invented the Symphonic Poem, in which the classic cogency yielded to the loose thread of a musical sketch in one movement, slavishly following the sequence of some literary subject. He abandoned sheer tonal fancy, surrendering the magic potency of pure music, fully expressive within its own design far beyond the literal scheme.[A] [Footnote A: Mendelssohn with perfect insight once declared,--"Notes have as definite a meaning as words, perhaps even a more definite one."] The symphonic poems of Liszt, in so far as his intent was in destructive reaction to the classic process, were precisely in line with the drama of Wagner. The common revolt completely failed. The higher, the real music is ever of that pure tonal design where the fancy is not leashed to some external scheme. Liszt himself grew to perceive the inadequacy of the new device when he returned to the symphony for his greatest orchestral expression, though even here he never escaped from the thrall of a literal subject. And strangely, in point of actual music, we cannot fail to find an emptier, a more grandiose manner in all these symphonic poems than in the two symphonies. It seems as if an unconscious sense of the greater nobility of the classic medium drove Liszt to a far higher inspiration in his melodic themes. Yet we cannot deny the brilliant, dazzling strokes, and the luscious harmonies. It was all a new manner, and alone the novelty is welcome, not to speak of the broad sweep of facile melody, and the sparkling thrills. _LES PRÉLUDES_ This work has a preface by the composer, who refers in a footnote to the "_Méditations poétiques_" of Lamartine. "What else is our life than a series of preludes to that unknown song of which the first solemn note is struck by death? Love is the morning glow of every heart; but in what human career have not the first ecstasies of bliss been broken by the storm, whose cruel breath destroys fond illusions, and blasts the sacred shrine with the bolt of lightning. And what soul, sorely wounded, does not, emerging from the tempest, seek to indulge its memories in the calm of country life? Nevertheless, man will not resign himself for long to the soothing charm of quiet nature, and when the trumpet sounds the signal of alarm, he runs to the perilous post, whatever be the cause that calls him to the ranks of war,--that he may find in combat the full consciousness of himself and the command of all his powers." How far is the music literally graphic? We cannot look for the "unknown song" in definite sounds. That would defeat, not describe, its character. But the first solemn notes, are not these the solemn rising phrase that reappears in varying rhythm and pace all about the beginning and, indeed, the whole course [Music: _Andante_ (Strings, doubled in two lower 8ves.)] of the music. Just these three notes abound in the mystic first "prelude," and they are the core of the great swinging tune of the Andante maestoso, the beginning and main pulse of the unknown song. [Music: _Andante maestoso_ (Basses of strings, wood and brass, doubled below; arpeggic harmonies in upper strings; sustained higher wood)] Now (_dolce cantando_) is a softer guise of the phrase. For death and birth, the two portals, are like [Music: (Strings, with arpeggic violins) _dolce cantando_ (_Pizz._ basses)] elements. Even here the former separate motive sounds, and so in the further turn of the song (_espressivo dolente_) on new thread. The melody that sings (_espressivo ma tranquillo_) may well stand for "love, the glow of dawn in every heart." Before the storm, both great motives (of love and death) sound together very beautifully, as in [Music: _espress. ma tranquillo_ _dolce._ (Horns and lower strings, with arpeggic harp and violins)] Tennyson's poem. The storm that blasts the romance begins with the same fateful phrase. It is all about, even inverted, and at the crisis it sings with the fervor of full-blown song. At the lull the soft guise reappears, faintly, like a sweet memory. The Allegretto pastorale is clear from the preface. After we are lulled, soothed, caressed and all but entranced by these new impersonal sounds, then, as if the sovereign for whom all else were preparing, the song of love seeks its recapitulated verse. Indeed here is the real full song. Is it that in the memory lies the reality, or at least the realization? Out of the dream of love rouses the sudden alarm of brass (_Allegro marziale animato_), with a new war-tune fashioned of the former soft disguised motive. The air of fate still hangs heavy over all. In spirited retorts the martial madrigal proceeds, but it is not all mere war and courage. Through the clash of strife break in the former songs, the love-theme in triumph and the first expressive strain in tempestuous joy. Last of all the fateful original motto rings once more in serene, contained majesty. On the whole, even with so well-defined a program, and with a full play of memory, we cannot be quite sure of a fixed association of the motive. It is better to view the melodic episodes as subjective phases, arising from the tenor of the poem. _TASSO_ Liszt's "Tasso" is probably the earliest celebration, in pure tonal form, of the plot of man's suffering and redemption, that has been so much followed that it may be called the type of the modern symphony.[A] In this direct influence the "Tasso" poem has been the most striking of all of Liszt's creations. [Footnote A: We may mention such other works of Liszt as "Mazeppa" and the "Faust" Symphony; the third symphony of Saint-Saëns; Strauss' tone poem "Death and Transfiguration"; Volbach's symphony, besides other symphonies such as a work by Carl Pohlig. We may count here, too, the Heldenlied by Dvôrák, and Strauss' Heldenleben (see Vol. II).] The following preface of the composer accompanies the score: "In the year 1849 the one hundredth anniversary of Goethe's birth was celebrated throughout Germany; the theatre in Weimar, where we were at the time, marked the 28th of August by a performance of 'Tasso.' "The tragic fate of the unfortunate bard served as a text for the two greatest poets produced by Germany and England in the last century: Goethe and Byron. Upon Goethe was bestowed the most brilliant of mortal careers; while Byron's advantages of birth and of fortune were balanced by keenest suffering. We must confess that when bidden, in 1849, to write an overture for Goethe's drama, we were more immediately inspired by Byron's reverential pity for the shades of the great man, which he invoked, than by the work of the German poet. Nevertheless Byron, in his picture of Tasso in prison, was unable to add to the remembrance of his poignant grief, so nobly and eloquently uttered in his 'Lament,' the thought of the 'Triumph' that a tardy justice gave to the chivalrous author of 'Jerusalem Delivered.' We have sought to mark this dual idea in the very title of our work, and we should be glad to have succeeded in pointing this great contrast,--the genius who was misjudged during his life, surrounded, after death, with a halo that destroyed his enemies. Tasso loved and suffered at Ferrara; he was avenged at Rome; his glory still lives in the folk-songs of Venice. These three elements are inseparable from his immortal memory. To represent them in music, we first called up his august spirit as he still haunts the waters of Venice. Then we beheld his proud and melancholy figure as he passed through the festivals of Ferrara where he had produced his master-works. Finally we followed him to Rome, the eternal city, that offered him the crown and glorified in him the martyr and the poet. "_Lamento e Trionfo_: Such are the opposite poles of the destiny of poets, of whom it has been justly said that if their lives are sometimes burdened with a curse, a blessing is never wanting over their grave. For the sake not merely of authority, but the distinction of historical truth, we put our idea into realistic form in taking for the theme of our musical poem the motive with which we have heard the gondoliers of Venice sing over the waters the lines of Tasso, and utter them three centuries after the poet: "'Canto l'armi pietose e'l Capitano Che'l gran Sepolcro liberò di Christo!' "The motive is in itself plaintive; it has a sustained sigh, a monotone of grief. But the gondoliers give it a special quality by prolonging certain tones--as when distant rays of brilliant light are reflected on the waves. This song had deeply impressed us long ago. It was impossible to treat of Tasso without taking, as it were, as text for our thoughts, this homage rendered by the nation to the genius whose love and loyalty were ill merited by the court of Ferrara. The Venetian melody breathes so sharp a melancholy, such hopeless sadness, that it suffices in itself to reveal the secret of Tasso's grief. It lent itself, like the poet's imagination, to the world's brilliant illusions, to the smooth and false coquetry of those smiles that brought the dreadful catastrophe in their train, for which there seemed to be no compensation in this world. And yet upon the Capitol the poet was clothed with a mantle of purer and more brilliant purple than that of Alphonse." With the help of the composer's plot, the intent of the music becomes clear, to the dot almost of the note. The whole poem is an exposition of the one sovereign melody, where we may feel a kindred trait of Hungarian song, above all in the cadences, that must have stirred Liszt's patriot heart. Nay,--beginning as it does with melancholy stress of the phrase of cadence and the straying into full rhythmitic exultation, it seems (in strange guise) another [Music: _Adagio mesto_ (With rhythmic harp and horns)] of Liszt's Hungarian rhapsodies,--that were, perhaps, the greatest of all he achieved, where his unpremeditated frenzy revelled in purest folk-rhythm and tune. The natural division of the Hungarian dance, with the sad _Lassu_ and the glad _Friss_, is here clear in order and recurrence. The Magyar seems to the manner born in both parts of the melody.[A] [Footnote A: A common Oriental element in Hungarian and Venetian music has been observed. See Kretschmar's note to Liszt's "Tasso" (Breitkopf & Haertel).] In the accents of the motive of cadence (_Lento_) we feel the secret grief of the hero, that turns _Allegro strepitoso_, in quicker pace to fierce revolt. In full tragic majesty the noble theme enters, in panoply of woe. In the further flow, as in the beginning, is a brief chromatic strain and a sigh of descending tone that do not lie in the obvious song, that are drawn by the subjective poet from the latent fibre. Here is the modern Liszt, of rapture and anguish, in manner and in mood that proved so potent a model with a later generation.[A] [Footnote A: See note in the final chapter of Volume II.] The verse ends in a prolonged threnody, then turns to a firm, serenely grave burst of the song in major, _Meno Adagio_, with just a hint of martial grandeur. For once, or the nonce, we seem to see the hero-poet acclaimed. In a middle episode the motive of the cadence sings expressively with delicate harmonies, rising to full-blown exaltation. We may see here an actual brief celebration, such as Tasso did receive on entering Ferrara. And here is a sudden fanciful turn. A festive dance strikes a tuneful trip,--a menuet it surely is, with all the ancient festal charm, vibrant with tune and spring, though still we do not escape the source of the first pervading theme. Out of the midst of the dance sings slyly an enchanting phrase, much like a secret love-romance. Now to the light continuing dance is joined a strange companion,--the heroic melody in its earlier majestic pace. Is it the poet in serious meditation at the feast apart from the joyous abandon, or do we see him laurel-crowned, a centre of the festival, while the gay dancers flit about him in homage? More and more brilliant grows the scene, though ever with the dominant grave figure. With sudden stroke as of fatal blast returns the earlier fierce burst of revolt, rising to agitation of the former lament, blending both moods and motives, and ending with a broader stress of the first tragic motto. Now, _Allegro con brio_, with herald calls of the brass and fanfare of running strings (drawn from the personal theme), in bright major the whole song bursts forth in brilliant gladness. At the height the exaltation finds vent in a peal of simple melody. The "triumph" follows in broadest, royal pace of the main song in the wind, while the strings are madly coursing and the basses reiterate the transformed motive of the cadence. The end is a revel of jubilation. _MAZEPPA_ The Mazeppa music is based upon Victor Hugo's poem, in turn founded upon Byron's verse, with an added stirring touch of allegory. The verses of Hugo first tell how the victim is tied to the fiery steed, how-- "He turns in the toils like a serpent in madness, And ... his tormentors have feasted in gladness Upon his despair. * * * * * "They fly.--Empty space is behind and before them * * * * * "The horse, neither bridle nor bit on him feeling, Flies ever; red drops o'er the victim are stealing: His whole body bleeds. Alas! to the wild horses foaming and champing That followed with mane erect, neighing and stamping, A crow-flight succeeds. The raven, the horn'd owl with eyes round and hollow, The osprey and eagle from battle-field follow, Though daylight alarm. * * * * * "Then after three days of this course wild and frantic, Through rivers of ice, plains and forests gigantic, The horse sinks and dies; * * * * * "Yet mark! That poor sufferer, gasping and moaning, To-morrow the Cossacks of Ukraine atoning, Will hail as their King; * * * * * "To royal Mazeppa the hordes Asiatic Will show their devotion in fervor ecstatic, And low to earth bow." In his splendid epilogue the poet likens the hero to the mortal on whom the god has set his mark. He sees himself bound living to the fatal course of genius, the fiery steed. "Away from the world--from all real existence He is borne upwards, despite his resistance On feet of steel. He is taken o'er deserts, o'er mountains in legions, Grey-hoary, thro' oceans, and into the regions Far over the clouds; A thousand base spirits his progress unshaken Arouses, press round him and stare as they waken, In insolent crowds * * * * * "He cries out with terror, in agony grasping, Yet ever the mane of his Pegasus clasping, They heavenward spring; Each leap that he takes with fresh woe is attended; He totters--falls lifeless--the struggle is ended-- And rises as King!"[A] [Footnote A: The English verses are taken for the most part from the translation of F. Corder.] The original _Allegro agitato_ in broad 6/4 time (aptly suggestive of the unbridled motion) grows [Music: (In brass and strings with lower 8ve.) (With constant clattering higher strings and chord of low wind on the middle beat)] more rapid into an _alla breve_ pace (in two beats), with dazzling maze of lesser rhythms. Throughout the work a song of primeval strain prevails. Here and there a tinge of foreshadowing pain appears, as the song sounds on high, _espressivo dolente_. But the fervor and fury of movement is undiminished. The brief touch of pathos soon merges in the general heroic mood. Later, the whole motion ceases, "the horse sinks and dies," and now an interlude sings a pure plaint (in the strain of the main motive). Then, _Allegro_, the martial note clangs in stirring trumpet and breaks into formal song of war, _Allegro marziale_. [Music: (Brass and strings) _Allegro marziale_ (With lower 8ve.)] In the wake of this song, with a relentless trip and tramp of warrior hordes, is the real clash and jingle of the battle, where the sparkling thrill of strings and the saucy counter theme are strong elements in the stirring beauty. There is a touch here of the old Goth, or rather the Hun, nearer akin to the composer's race. At the height rings out the main tune of yore, transformed in triumphant majesty. The musical design embraces various phases. First is the clear rhythmic sense of the ride. We think of other instances like Schubert's "Erl-King" or the ghostly ride in Raff's "Lenore" Symphony. The degree of vivid description must vary, not only with the composer, but with the hearer. The greatest masters have yielded to the variety of the actual graphic touch. And, too, there are always interpreters who find it, even if it was never intended. Thus it is common to hear at the very beginning of the "Mazeppa" music the cry that goes up as starts the flight. We are of course entitled, if we prefer, to feel the poetry rather than the picture. Finally it is probably true that such a poetic design is not marred merely because there is here or there a trick of onomatopoeia; if it is permitted in poetry, why not in music? It may be no more than a spur to the fancy, a quick conjuring of the association. _HUNNENSCHLACHT--"THE BATTLE OF THE HUNS"_ Liszt's symphonic poem, "Hunnenschlacht," one of the last of his works in this form, completed in 1857, was directly inspired by the picture of the German painter, Wilhelm Kaulbach, which represents the legend of the aerial battle between the spirits of the Romans and Huns who had fallen outside of the walls of Rome.[A] [Footnote A: A description of the picture is cited by Lawrence Gilman in his book, "Stories of Symphonic Music," as follows: "According to a legend, the combatants were so exasperated that the slain rose during the night and fought in the air. Rome, which is seen in the background, is said to have been the scene of this event. Above, borne on a shield, is Attila, with a scourge in his hand; opposite him Theodoric, King of the Visigoths. The foreground is a battle-field, strewn with corpses, which are seen to be gradually reviving, rising up and rallying, while among them wander wailing and lamenting women."] The evidence of the composer's intent is embodied in a letter written in 1857 to the wife of the painter, which accompanied the manuscript of an arrangement of the music for two pianos. In the letter Liszt speaks of "the meteoric and solar light which I have borrowed from the painting, and which at the Finale I have formed into one whole by the gradual working up of the Catholic _choral_ 'Crux fidelis,' and the meteoric sparks blended therewith." He continues: "As I have already intimated to Kaulbach, in Munich, I was led by the musical demands of the material to give proportionately more place to the solar light of Christianity, personified in the Catholic _choral_ ... than appears to be the case in the glorious painting, in order to win and pregnantly represent the conclusion of the Victory of the Cross, with which I both as a Catholic and as a man could not dispense." The work begins _tempestuoso_ (_allegro non troppo_), with a nervous theme over soft rolling drums and [Music: _Tempestuoso. Allegro non troppo_ (Bassoons with _tremolo_ cellos and roll of kettle-drums)] trembling low strings, that is taken up as in fugue by successive groups and carried to a height where enters a fierce call of the horns. The cries of battle spread with increasing din and gathering speed. At the first climax the whole motion has a new energy, as the strings in feverish chase attack the quickened motive with violent stress. Later, though the motion has not lessened, the theme has returned to a semblance of its former pace, and again the cries of battle (in brass and wood) sound across its path. [Music: (Strings, _tremolo_, doubled above) (Horns)] In the hush of the storm the full-blown call to arms is heard in lowest, funereal tones. Of a sudden, though the speed is the same, the pace changes with a certain terror as of a cavalry attack. Presently amid the clattering tramp sounds the big hymn,--in the ancient rhythm that moves strangely out of the rut of even time.[A] [Footnote A: Quoted on the following page.] A single line of the hymn is followed by a refrain of the battle-call, and by the charge of horse that brings back the hymn, in high pitch of trumpets. And so recur the former phases of battle,--really of threat and preparation. For now begins the serious fray in one long gathering of speed and power. The first theme here grows to full melodic song, with extended answer, led by strepitous band of lower reed over a heavy clatter of strings. We are in a [Music: (Trombones with lower 8ve) _Marcato_] maze of furious charges and cries, till the shrill trumpet and the stentorian trombone strike the full call in antiphonal song. The tempest increases with a renewed charge of the strings, and now the more distant calls have a slower sweep. Later the battle song is in the basses,--again in clashing basses and trebles; nearer strike the broad sweeping calls. Suddenly over the hushed motion in soothing harmonies sings the hymn in pious choir of all the brass. Then the gathering speed and volume is merged in a majestic tread as of ordered array (_Maestoso assai; Andante_); a brief spirited prelude of martial motives is answered by the soft religious strains of the organ on the line of the hymn: "Crux fidelis, inter omnes Arbor una nobilis, Nulla silva talem profert Fronde, flore, germine. Dulce lignum, dulces clavos, Dulce pondus sustinet."[A] [Footnote A: Faithful cross, among the trees Thou the noblest of them all! Forest ne'er doth grow a like In leaf, in flower or in seed. Blessed wood and blessed nails, Blessed burden that it bears!] As in solemn liturgy come the answering phrases of the organ and the big chorus in martial tread. As the hymn winds its further course, violins entwine about the harmonies. The last line ends in expressive strain and warm line of new major tone,--echoed in interluding organ and violins. Suddenly a strict, solemn tread, with sharp stress of violins, brings a new song of the _choral_. Strings alone play here "with pious expression"; gradually reeds add support and ornament. A lingering phrase ascends on celestial harmonies. With a stern shock the plain hymn strikes in the reed, against a rapid course of strings, with fateful tread. In interlude sound the battle-cries of yore. Again the hymn ends in the expressive cadence, though now it grows to a height of power. Here a former figure (the first motive of the battle) reappears in a new guise of bright major,[A] in full, spirited stride, and leads once more to a blast of the hymn, with organ and all, the air in unison of trumpets and all the wood. The expressive cadence merges into a last fanfare of battle, followed by a strain of hymns and with reverberating Amens, where the organ predominates and holds long after all other sounds have ceased. [Footnote A: In the whole tonality we may see the "meteoric and solar light" of which the composer speaks in the letter quoted above.] CHAPTER VI THE SYMPHONIC POEMS OF SAINT-SAËNS There is something charming and even ideal in a complete versatility, quite apart from the depth of the separate poems, where there is a never-failing touch of grace and of distinction. The Philip Sydneys are quite as important as the Miltons, perhaps they are as great. Some poets seem to achieve an expression in a certain cyclic or sporadic career of their fancy, touching on this or that form, illuminating with an elusive light the various corners of the garden. Their individual expression lies in the _ensemble_ of these touches, rather than in a single profound revelation. A symptom of the eminence of Saint-Saëns in the history of French music lies in his attitude towards the art as a whole, especially of the German masters,--the absence of national bias in his perceptions. He was foremost in revealing to his countrymen the greatness of Bach, Beethoven and Schumann. Without their influence the present high state of French music can hardly be conceived. It is part of a broad and versatile mastery that it is difficult to analyze. Thus it is not easy to find salient traits in the art of M. Saint-Saëns. We are apt to think mainly of the distinguished beauty of his harmonies, until we remember his subtle counterpoint, or in turn the brilliancy of his orchestration. The one trait that he has above his contemporaries is an inbred refinement and restraint,--a thorough-going workmanship. If he does not share a certain overwrought emotionalism that is much affected nowadays, there is here no limitation--rather a distinction. Aside from the general charm of his art, Saint-Saëns found in the symphonic poem his one special form, so that it seemed Liszt had created it less for himself than for his French successor. A fine reserve of poetic temper saved him from hysterical excess. He never lost the music in the story, disdaining the mere rude graphic stroke; in his dramatic symbols a musical charm is ever commingled. And a like poise helped him to a right plot and point in his descriptions. So his symphonic poems must ever be enjoyed mainly for the music, with perhaps a revery upon the poetic story. With a less brilliant vein of melody, though they are not so Promethean in reach as those of Liszt, they are more complete in the musical and in the narrative effect. _DANSE MACABRE_ Challenged for a choice among the works of the versatile composer, we should hit upon the _Danse Macabre_ as the most original, profound and essentially beautiful of all. It is free from certain lacks that one feels in other works, with all their charm,--a shallowness and almost frivolity; a facility of theme approaching the commonplace. There is here an eccentric quality of humor, a daemonic conceit that reach the height of other classic expression of the supernatural. The music is founded upon certain lines of a poem of _Henri Calais_ (under a like title), that may be given as follows: Zig-a-zig, zig-a-zig-a-zig, Death knocks on the tomb with rhythmic heel. Zig-a-zig, zig-a-zig-zig, Death fiddles at midnight a ghostly reel. The winter wind whistles, dark is the night; Dull groans behind the lindens grow loud; Back and forth fly the skeletons white, Running and leaping each under his shroud. Zig-a-zig-a-zig, how it makes you quake, As you hear the bones of the dancers shake. * * * * * But hist! all at once they vanish away, The cock has hailed the dawn of day. The magic midnight strokes sound clear and sharp. In eager chords of tuned pitch the fiddling ghost summons the dancing groups, where the single fife is soon followed by demon violins. Broadly sings now the descending tune half-way between a wail and a laugh. And ever in interlude is the skipping, mincing step,--here of reeds answered by solo violin with a light clank of cymbals. Answering the summoning fifes, the unison troop of fiddlers dance the main step to bright strokes of triangle, then the main ghostly violin trips in with choir of wind. And broadly again sweeps the song between tears and [Music: _In waltz rhythm_ (Flute) (Harp, with sustained bass note of strings)] smiles. Or Death fiddles the first strain of reel for the tumultuous answer of chorus. Now they build a busy, bustling fugue (of the descending song) and at the serious moment suddenly [Music: (Solo violin) _Largamente_ (_Pizz._ strings)] they skip away in new frolicsome, all but joyous, tune: a shadowy counterfeit of gladness, where the sob hangs on the edge of the smile. As if it could no longer be contained, now pours the full passionate grief of the broad descending strain. Death fiddles his mournful chant to echoing, expressive wind. On the abandon of grief follows the revel of grim humor in pranks of mocking demons. All the strains are mingled in the ghostly bacchanale. The descending song is answered in opposite melody. A chorus of laughter follows the tripping dance. The summoning chords, acclaimed by chorus, grow to appealing song in a brief lull. At the height, to the united skipping dance of overpowering chorus the brass blows the full verse of descending song. The rest is a mad storm of carousing till ... out of the whirling darkness sudden starts the sharp, sheer call of prosaic day, in high, shrill reed. On a minishing sound of rolling drum and trembling strings, sings a brief line of wistful rhapsody of the departing spirit before the last whisking steps. _PHAETON_ On a separate page between title and score is a "_Notice_,"--an epitome of the story of Phaeton, as follows: "Phaeton has been permitted to drive the chariot of the Sun, his father, through the heavens. But his unskilful hands frighten the steeds. The flaming chariot, thrown out of its course, approaches the terrestrial regions. The whole universe is on the verge of ruin when Jupiter strikes the imprudent Phaeton with his thunderbolt." There is a solemn sense at first (_Maestoso_), a mid-air poise of the harmony, a quick spring of resolution and--on through the heavens. At the outset and always is the pervading musical charm. In the beginning is the enchantment of mere motion in lightest prancing strings and harp with slowly ascending curve. In farther journey comes a spring of the higher wood and soon a firm note of horns and a blast of trumpets on a chirruping call, till the whole panoply of solar brilliance is shimmering. Now with the continuing pulse (of saltant strings) rings a buoyant, [Music: _Allegro animato_ (Violins) _Marcato_ (Trumpets and trombones)] regnant air in the brass. A (canon) chase of echoing voices merely adds an entrancing bewilderment, then yields to other symbols and visions. Still rises the thread of pulsing strings to higher empyraean and then floats forth in golden horns, as we hang in the heavens, a melody tenderly solemn, as of pent delight, or perhaps of a more fatal hue, with the solar orb encircled by his satellites. Still on to a higher pole spins the dizzy path; then at the top of the song, it turns in slow descending curve. Almost to Avernus seems the gliding fall when the first melody rings anew. But there is now an anxious sense that dims the joy of motion and in the [Music: (With trembling of violins in high B flat) (Horns)] returning first motive jars the buoyant spring. Through the maze of fugue with tinge of terror presses the fatuous chase, when--crash comes the shock of higher power. There is a pause of motion in the din and a downward flight as of lifeless figure. Now seems the soul of the sweet melody to sing, in purest dirge, without the shimmer of attendant motion save a ghostly shadow of the joyous symbol. _THE YOUTH OF HERCULES_ The "Legend" is printed in the score as follows: "Fable tells us that upon entering into life Hercules saw the two paths open before him: of pleasure and of virtue. "Insensible to the seductions of Nymphs and Bacchantes, the hero devotes himself to the career of struggle and combat, at the end of which he glimpses across the flames of the funeral pyre the reward of immortality." We can let our fancy play about the score and wonderfully hit an intention of the poet. Yet that is often rather a self-flattery than a real perception. In the small touches we may lose the greater beauty. Here, after all, is the justification of the music. If the graphic picture is added, a little, only, is gained. The main virtue of it lies in our better grasp of the musical design. In the muted strings, straying dreamily in pairs, is a vague line of the motto,--a foreshadowing of the heroic idea, as are the soft calls of the wind with wooing harp a first vision of delight. [Music: _Allegro moderato_ (Strings)] Now begins the main song in sturdy course of unmuted strings. The wood soon join in the rehearsing. But it is not all easy deciphering. The song wanders in gently agitated strings while the horns hold a solemn phrase that but faintly resembles the motto.[A] Lesser phrases play about the bigger in rising flight of aspiration, crowned at the height with a ray of glad light. [Footnote A: It is well to resist the vain search for a transnotation of the story. And here we see a virtue of Saint-Saëns himself, a national trait of poise that saved him from losing the music in the picture. His symphonic poems must be enjoyed in a kind of musical revery upon the poetic subject. He disdained the rude graphic stroke, and used dramatic means only where a musical charm was commingled.] As the dream sinks slowly away, the stern motto is buried in quick flashes of the tempting call. These are mere visions; now comes the scene itself of temptation. To ripples of harp the reed sings enchantingly in swaying rhythm; other groups in new surprise of [Music: (Flutes, oboe, clarinets and harp)] scene usurp the melody with the languishing answer, until one Siren breaks into an impassioned burst, while her sisters hold the dance. Straight upon her vanished echoes shrieks the shrill pipe of war, with trembling drum. We hear a yearning sigh of the Siren strain before it is swept away in the tide and tumult of strife. Beneath the whirl and motion, the flash and crash of arms, we have glimpses of the heroic figure. Here is a strange lay in the fierce chorus of battle-cries: the Siren song in bright insistence, changed to the rushing pace of war. The scene ends in a crash. Loud sings a solemn phrase; do we catch an edge of wistful regret? Now returns the sturdy course of the main heroic melody; only it is slower (_Andante sostenuto_), and the high stress of cadence is solemnly impassioned. As if to atone for the slower pace, the theme strikes into a lively fugue, with trembling strings (_Allegro animato_). There is an air of achievement in the relentless progress and the insistent recurrence of the masterful motive. An episode there is of mere striving and straining, before the theme resumes its vehement attack, followed by lusty echoes all about as of an army of heroes. There is the breath of battle in the rumbling basses and the shaking, quivering brass. At last the plain song resounds in simple lines of ringing brass, led by the high bugle.[A] [Footnote A: Saint-Saëns employs besides the usual 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones and tuba, a small bugle (in B-flat) and 2 cornets.] Yet the struggle, the inner combat, is not over. At the very moment of triumph sings on high over purling harp the mastering strain of Sirens, is buried beneath martial clash and emerges with its enchantment. But here the virile mood and motive gains the victory and strides on to final scene. We remember how Hercules built and ascended his own funeral pyre. In midst of quivering strings, with dashing harp and shrieking wood, a roll of drum and a clang of brass sounds the solemn chant of the trombone, descending in relentless steps. As the lowest is reached, there comes a spring of freedom in the pulsing figures, like the winging of a spirit, and a final acclaim in a brief line of the legend. _OMPHALE'S SPINNING WHEEL_ Between title and score is this _Notice_: "The subject of this symphonic poem is feminine witchery, the triumphant struggle of weakness. The spinning wheel is a mere pretext, chosen from the point of view of rhythm and the general atmosphere of the piece. "Those persons who might be interested in a study of the details of the picture, will see ... the hero groaning in the toils which he cannot break, and ... Omphale mocking the vain efforts of Hercules." The versions of the story differ slightly. After the fulfilment of his twelve labors Hercules is ordered by the oracle to a period of three years' service to expiate the killing of the son of King Eurytus in a fit of madness. Hermes placed him in the household of Omphale, queen of Lydia, widow of Tmolus. Hercules is degraded to female drudgery, is clothed in soft raiment and set to spin wool, while the queen assumes the lion skin and club. In another version he was sold as slave to Omphale, who restored him to freedom. Their passion was mutual. The story has a likeness to a similar episode of Achilles. The spinning-wheel begins _Andante_ in muted strings alternating with flutes and gradually hurries into a lively motion. Here the horn accents the spinning, while another thread (of higher wood) runs through the graceful woof. A chain of alluring harmonies preludes the ensnaring song, mainly of woodwind above the humming strings, with soft dotting of the harmony by the horns. The violins, to be sure, often enforce the melody. [Music: _Andantino_ (Fl. and muted violins) _Grazioso_ (Strings, muted)] In the second verse, with fuller chorus, the harp adds its touches to the harmony of the horns, with lightest tap of tonal drum. Later a single note of the trumpet is answered by a silvery laugh in the wood. Between the verses proceeds the luscious chain of harmonies, as with the turning of the wheel. Now with the heavily expressive tones of low, unmuted strings and the sonorous basses of reed and brass (together with a low roll of drum and soft clash of cymbals) an heroic air sings in low strings and brass, to meet at each period a shower of notes from the harp. The song grows intense with the [Music: (Wood and _trem._ violins doubled above) (Horns) _espress. e pesante_ (Cellos, basses, bassoons and trombone, doubled below)] added clang of trumpets and roll of drums,--only to succumb to the more eager attack of the siren chorus. At last the full effort of strength battling vainly with weakness reaches a single heroic height and sinks away with dull throbs. In soothing answer falls the caressing song of the high reed in the phrase of the heroic strain, lightly, quickly and, it seems, mockingly aimed. In gently railing triumph returns the pretty song of the wheel, with a new buoyant spring. Drums and martial brass yield to the laughing flutes, the cooing horns and the soft rippling harp with murmuring strings, to return like captives in the train at the height of the gaiety. CHAPTER VII CÉSAR FRANCK The new French school of symphony that broke upon the world in the latter part of the nineteenth century had its pioneer and true leader in César Franck.[A] It was he who gave it a stamp and a tradition. [Footnote A: If language and association, as against the place of birth, may define nationality, we have in César Franck another worthy expression of French art in the symphony. He was born at Liège in 1822; he died in 1890.] The novelty of his style, together with the lateness of his acclaim (of which it was the probable cause), have marked him as more modern than others who were born long after him. The works of Franck, in other lines of oratorio and chamber music, show a clear personality, quite apart from a prevailing modern spirit. A certain charm of settled melancholy seems to inhere in his wonted style. A mystic is Franck in his dominant moods, with a special sense and power for subtle harmonic process, ever groping in a spiritual discontent with defined tonality. A glance at the detail of his art discloses Franck as one of the main harmonists of his age, with Wagner and Grieg. Only, his harmonic manner was blended if not balanced by a stronger, sounder counterpoint than either of the others. But with all the originality of his style we cannot escape a sense of the stereotype, that indeed inheres in all music that depends mainly on an harmonic process. His harmonic ideas, that often seem inconsequential, in the main merely surprise rather than move or please. The enharmonic principle is almost too predominant,--an element that ought never to be more than occasional. For it is founded not upon ideal, natural harmony, but upon a conventional compromise, an expedient compelled by the limitation of instruments. This over-stress appears far stronger in the music of Franck's followers, above all in their frequent use of the whole tone "scale" which can have no other _rationale_ than a violent extension of the enharmonic principle.[A] With a certain quality of kaleidoscope, there is besides (in the harmonic manner of César Franck) an infinitesimal kind of progress in smallest steps. It is a dangerous form of ingenuity, to which the French are perhaps most prone,--an originality mainly in details. [Footnote A: Absolute harmony would count many more than the semitones of which our music takes cognizance. For purpose of convenience on the keyboard the semitonal raising of one note is merged in the lowering of the next higher degree in the scale. However charming for occasional surprise may be such a substitution, a continuous, pervading use cannot but destroy the essential beauty of harmony and the clear sense of tonality; moreover it is mechanical in process, devoid of poetic fancy, purely chaotic in effect. There is ever a danger of confusing the novel in art with new beauty.] And yet we must praise in the French master a wonderful workmanship and a profound sincerity of sentiment. He shows probably the highest point to which a style that is mainly harmonic may rise. But when he employs his broader mastery of tonal architecture, he attains a rare height of lofty feeling, with reaches of true dramatic passion. The effect, to be sure, of his special manner is somewhat to dilute the temper of his art, and to depress the humor. It is thus that the pervading melancholy almost compels the absence of a "slow movement" in his symphony. And so we feel in all his larger works for instruments a suddenness of recoil in the Finale. One can see in Franck, in analogy with his German contemporaries, an etherealized kind of "Tristan and Isolde,"--a "Paolo and Francesca" in a world of shades. Compared with his followers the quality of stereotype in Franck is merely general; there is no excessive use of one device. A baffling element in viewing the art of Franck is his remoteness of spirit, the strangeness of his temper. He lacked the joyous spring that is a dominant note in the classic period. Nor on the other hand did his music breathe the pessimism and naturalism that came with the last rebound of Romantic reaction. Rather was his vein one of high spiritual absorption--not so much in recoil, as merely apart from the world in a kind of pious seclusion. Perhaps his main point of view was the church-organ. He seems a religious prophet in a non-religious age. With his immediate disciples he was a leader in the manner of his art, rather than in the temper of his poetry. _SYMPHONY IN D MINOR_ The scoring shows a sign of modern feeling in the prominence of the brasses. With all contrast of spirit, the analogy of Franck with the Liszt-Wagner school and manner is frequently suggestive. The main novelty of outer detail is the plan of merely three movements. Nor is there a return to the original form, without the Scherzo. To judge from the headings, the "slow" movement is absent. In truth, by way of cursory preamble, the chronic vein of César Franck is so ingrainedly reflective that there never can be with him an absence of the meditative phrase. Rather must there be a vehement rousing of his muse from a state of mystic adoration to rhythmic energy and cheer.[A] [Footnote A: The key of the work is given by the composer as D minor. The first movement alone is in the nominal key. The second (in B flat) is in the submediant, the last in the tonic major. The old manner in church music, that Bach often used, of closing a minor tonality with a major chord, was probably due to a regard for the mood of the congregation. An extension of this tradition is frequent in a long coda in the major. But this is quite different in kind from a plan where all of the last movement is in insistent major. We know that it is quite possible to begin a work at some distance from the main key, leading to it by tortuous path of modulation; though there is no reason why we may not question the composer's own inscription, the controlling point is really the whole tonal scheme. Here the key of the second movement is built on a design in minor,--would have less reason in the major. For it rests on a degree that does not exist in the tonic major. To be sure, Beethoven did invent the change to a lowered submediant in a succeeding movement. And, of course, the final turn to the tonic major is virtually as great a license.] _Lento_ in basses of the strings a strain sounds like a basic motive, answered with harmonies in the wood. In further strings lies the full tenor of quiet reflection, with sombre color of tonal scheme. Motives are less controlling probably in Franck than in any other symphonist,--less so, at any rate, than his one [Music: _Lento_] special mood and manner. Yet nowhere is the strict figural plot more faithful in detail than with César Franck. The theme has an entirely new ring and answer when it enters Allegro after the Lento prelude. The further course of the tune here is in eccentric, resolute stride in the descending scale. Our new answer is much evident in the bass. The Allegro seems a mere irruption; for the Lento prelude reappears in full solemnity. Indeed, with all the title and pace, this seems very like the virtual "slow" movement. A mood of rapt, almost melancholy absorption prevails, with rare flashes of joyous utterance, where the Allegro enters as if to break the thrall of meditation. A very striking inversion of the theme now appears. The gradual growth of phrases in melodious instalments is a trait of Franck (as it is of Richard Strauss). The rough motto at each turn has a new [Music: _Allegro non troppo_ (Strings) (Wind)] phase and frequently is transfigured to a fresh tune. So out of the first chance counter-figures somehow spring beautiful melodies, where we feel the fitness and the relevance though we have not heard them before. It is a quality that Franck shares with Brahms, so that in a mathematical spirit we might care to deduce all the figures from the first phrase. This themal manner is quite analogous to the harmonic style of Franck,--a kaleidoscope of gradual steps, a slow procession of pale hues of tone that with strange aptness reflect the dim religious light of mystic musing. More and more expressive are the stages of the first figures until we have a duet _molto cantabile_ in the strings. Much of the charm of the movement lies in the balance of the new rhythms, the eccentric and the flowing. By some subtle path there grows a song [Music: _Allegro. Molto cantabile_] in big tones of unison, wood and strings and trumpets, that is the real hymnal refrain of the movement. Between this note almost of exultation and all shades of pious dreaming the mood is constantly shifting. [Music: _Allegro_] Another phrase rises also to a triumphant height (the clear reverse of the former tuneful melody) that comes now like a big _envoi_ of assuring message. Though the whole movement is evenly balanced between Allegro and Penseroso (so far as pace is concerned), the mood of reflection really finds full vent; it has no reason for a further special expression. Simple as the Allegretto appears in its suggestion of halting dance, the intent in the episodes is of the subtlest. The slow trip of strings and harp is soon given a new meaning with the melody of English horn. Throughout we are somehow divided between pure dance and a more thoughtful muse. In the first departure to an episode in major, seems to sing the essence of the former melody in gently murmuring strings, where later the whole chorus are drawn in. The song moves on clear thread and wing right out of the mood of the dance-tune; but the very charm lies in the mere outer change of guise. And so the second episode is still far from all likeness with the first dance beyond a least sense of the old trip that does appear here and there. It is all clearly a true scheme of variations, the main theme disguised beyond outer semblance, yet faithfully present throughout in the essential rhythm and harmony. In the Finale, _Allegro non troppo_, we are really clear, at the outset, of the toils of musing melancholy. [Music: _Allegro non troppo_ _Dolce cantabile_] After big bursts of chords, a tune rolls pleasantly along, _dolce cantabile_, in basses of wood and strings. Expressive after-phrases abound, all in the same jolly mood, until the whole band break boisterously on the simple song, with a new sonorous phrase of basses. Then, in sudden remove, sounds the purest bit of melody of all the symphony, in gentlest tones [Music: _Dolce cantabile_ (In the brass)] of brass (trumpet, trombone and tuba). But, though in complete recoil from the rhythmic energy of Allegro theme, it is even farther from the reflective mood than the latter. It shows, in this very contrast, the absence of the true lyric in the meditative vein, frequent with César Franck. The burst of melody blossoms ever fairer. In its later musing the tune browses in the bass. A waving phrase grows in the violins, which continues with strange evenness through the entrance of new song where we are surprised by the strange fitness of the Allegretto melody. And the second phase of the latter follows as if it belonged here. So, almost listless, without a hair of rhythmic change (_les temps ont toujours la même valeur_), the Finale theme sings again most softly in the strings. It has, to be sure, lost all of its color, without the original throb of accompanying sounds. The phase of the movement is a shadowy procession of former ideas, united in the dreamy haze that enshrouds them. The stir that now begins is not of the first pale hue of thought, rather the vein of big discussion, brewing a storm that breaks finally in full blast on the gentle melody (of the brass) transfigured in ringing triumph, in all the course of the song. Nor is the succeeding phase the mystic habit of our poet; it is a mere farther digestion of the meat of the melody that leads once more to a height of climax whence we return to first course of themes, tuneful afterphrase and all, with the old happy motion. The counterpoint here is the mere joyous ringing of many strains all about. Against all rules comes a new chorusing paean on the theme of Allegretto, led by stentorian basses, together with an enchanting after-strain, which we might have remarked before. And still another quarter, long hushed, is heard anew, as a voice sounds a faint reminder of the hymn of the first Allegro. Indeed, the combining strains before the close seem sprung all of one parental idea. The motto of the beginning sings in fittest answer to the latest phrases. The very maze of the concert forbids our turning to their first origin. The end is in joyous chanting of the Finale melody. CHAPTER VIII D'INDY AND THE FOLLOWERS OF FRANCK Perhaps the noblest essay in symphonic music of the followers of Franck is the second symphony of Vincent D'Indy.[A] His vein is indeed throughout nearest akin of all the disciples to the serious muse of the master. [Footnote A: Vincent d'Indy was born in Paris on March 27, 1852.] Though D'Indy is surpassed in a certain poetic originality by some of his compatriot contemporaries, there is in this symphony a breadth of design and detail, a clear melodic quality and a sustained lofty feeling that seem to mark it the typical French symphony of its time. The strength of the work lies in a unity that is not merely of figure and outline. If we must measure a symphony mainly by the slow movement, we cannot avoid, with all the languorous beauty, a certain conventionality of mood, stressed with an exotic use of the appoggiatura, while in the Scherzo is a refined savagery of modern cacophony. The directions are all in French; we are reminded of Schumann's departure from the Italian fashion. Each movement, save the third, has its prelude: a gathering of threads before the new story. The first notes of basses, together with the answer on high, sound a prophetic legend of the whole. The harmonic lucubrations are profoundly subtle. Indeed the very nature of the first phrase is of dim [Music: _Extrêmémént Lent._ (Woodwind) (Strings and harps)] groping; it ends in a climax of the answer and merges into the main song of the Allegro (_très vif_) in horns, with rapid trip of strings. [Music: _Très vif_ (Horns) (Strings)] Throughout (from a technical view) is a fine mastery of the device of ornamental notes, and secondary harmonies; there is also a certain modern sense of chords and their relations. Together with an infinite brilliance of these resources there is not only no weakness in cogency of form, but there is a rare unity of design. The movements are bound together, at least in themal relation, as strictly as in any symphony. While the first phrase of the Allegro theme may hark back to the answer of original motto, the second is the main thread of narrative. [Music: (Flutes, oboes and clarinets) _Sempre staccato_] Again and again is the climax rung on the first high note of the theme. Then, in lieu of cadence, out of a bright dissonance the quick notes dance upward in sturdy pace, the answer of the Allegro in sharp disguise. And then from the height descends a refreshing spray of subtlest discords, ending in another masterful burst of new harmony. The dainty, dazzling play is stopped by a rough thud of basses and a fierce clang of chords. In the sharp blare of brass on the ascending phrase is almost lost the original motto in lowest basses. It is now heard in gradually quickened speed, while the rising phrase runs more timidly. At last the quickened motto sinks gently into lulling motion, _un peu plus modéré_. Above, in strings and horns, the melody haunts us with a dim sense that takes us to the first languishing answer of the original legend. And the whole is strong-knit; for the very Allegro theme began in resolute mood of a like figure. A counter-strain rises to meet the main phrase. The whole episode is an intertwining of song in the vein of the first answer of motto. The quick rising notes suddenly return with snatches of the main motive, the chain of echoing phrases runs a gamut of moods, fitful, anxious, soothed, until the bright upward trip begins anew, with the enchanting burst of chord and descending harmonies. A climactic height is stressed by a rough meeting of opposing groups, in hostile tone and movement, ending in a trill of flutes and a reëntry of the episode. In the returning Allegro the thread is still the same, though richer in color and texture. Again there is the plunge into dark abyss, with shriek of harp, and the ominous theme in the depths. The slow ascending phrase here has a full song and sway. The end is in spirited duet of two quick motives. The second movement, _modérément lent_, begins in revery on the answer of original motive, and the stately pathos of the theme, in horns, clarinets and violas, with rhythmic strings, grows naturally out of the mood. _Plus animé_, in subtle change of pace (from 6/4 to 3/2), the episode begins with eccentric stride of harps (and added woodwind), that serves as a kind of [Music: _Modérément Lent._ (Melody in horns, clarinets and violas) (Acc'd in strings)] accompanying figure and foil for the sweeping song of the real second melody (in oboe solo, succeeded by the clarinet). [Music: (Oboe solo) _Très espress._ (Violins) (Acc't in bassoons, horns, harps and basses)] In the clash of themes and harmonies of the climax, the very limits of modern license seem to be invoked. Later the three themes are entwined in a passage of masterly counterpoint. There is a touch of ancient harmony in the delicate tune of third movement, which has the virtue of endless weaving. It is sung by solo violin, mainly supported by a choir of lower strings. A final conclusive line is given by the solo flute. Besides the constant course of varying tune, there is a power of ever changing harmony that seems to lie in some themes. [Music: _Modéré_ (Viola solo) _Très simplement_] One can hardly call it all a Scherzo. It is rather an idyll after the pathos of the Andante. Or, from another view, reversing the usual order, we may find the quality of traditional Trio in the first melody and a bacchanale of wild humor in the middle. For, out [Music: _Très animé_ (Woodwind and strings)] of a chance phrase of horns grows of all the symphony the boldest harmonic phrase (repeated through ten bars). Above rings a barbarous cry, in defiance of common time and rhythm. Suddenly we are surprised by the sound of the martial stride of the second theme of the Andante which moves on the sea of rough harmony as on a native element. One whim follows another. The same motion is all there, but as if in shadow, in softest sound, and without the jar of discord; then comes the fiercest clash of all, and now a gayest dance of the first tune, _assez vif_, in triple rhythm, various figures having their _pas seul_. A second episode returns, brilliant in high pace but purged of the former war of sounds. At the end is the song of the first tune, with new pranks and sallies. The beginning of the Finale is all in a musing review of past thoughts. The shadow of the last tune lingers, in slower pace; the ominous dirge of first motto sounds below; the soothing melody of the Andante sings a verse. In solemn fugue the original motto is reared from its timid phrase to masterful utterance, with splendid stride. Or [Music: _Modéré et solennel_ (Cellos and basses)] rather the theme is blended of the first two phrases, merging their opposite characters in the new mood of resolution. The strings prepare for the sonorous entrance of woodwind and horns. One of the greatest fugal episodes of symphonies, it is yet a mere prelude to the real movement, where the light theme is drawn from a phrase of latest cadence. And the dim hue of minor which began the symphony, and all overspread the prelude, at last yields to the clear major. There is something of the struggle of shadow and light of the great third symphony of Brahms. The continuous round of the theme, in its unstable pace (of 5/4), has a strange power of motion, the feeling [Music: (Ob.) (Strings)] of old passacaglia. To be sure, it is the mere herald and companion of the crowning tune, in solo of the reeds. From the special view of structure, there is no symphony, modern or classic, with such an overpowering combination and resolution of integral themes in one movement. So almost constant is the derivation of ideas, that one feels they must be all related. Thus, the late rush of rhythm, in the Finale, is broken by a quiet verse where with enchanting subtlety we are carried back somewhere to the idyll of third movement. Above, rises another melody, and from its simple outline grows a fervor and pathos that, aside from the basic themes of the whole work, strike the main feeling of the Finale. [Music: _Un peu moins vite_] The martial trip from the Andante joins later in the return of the whirling rhythm. At last the motto strikes on high, but the appealing counter-melody is not easily hushed. [Music: (Ob.) (Cellos with _tremolo_ violins)] It breaks out later in a verse of exalted beauty and passion. The struggle of the two ideas reminds us of the Fifth Symphony. At last the gloom of the fateful motto is relieved by the return of the original answer, and we seem to see a new source of latest ideas, so that we wonder whether all the melodies are but guises of the motto and answer, which now at the close, sing in united tones a hymn of peace and bliss. CHAPTER IX DÉBUSSY AND THE INNOVATORS At intervals during the course of the art have appeared the innovators and pioneers,--rebels against the accepted manner and idiom. The mystery is that while they seem necessary to progress they seldom create enduring works. The shadowy lines may begin somewhere among the Huebalds and other early adventurers. One of the most striking figures is Peri, who boldly, almost impiously, abandoned the contrapuntal style, the only one sanctioned by tradition, and set the dramatic parts in informal musical prose with a mere strumming of instruments. It is not easy to see the precise need of such reaction. The radical cause is probably a kind of inertia in all things human, by which the accepted is thought the only way. Rules spring up that are never wholly true; at best they are shifts to guide the student, inadequate conclusions from past art. The essence of an art can never be put in formulas. Else we should be content with the verbal form. The best excuse for the rule is that it is meant to guard the element of truth in art from meretricious pretence. And, we must not forget, Art progresses by slow degrees; much that is right in one age could not come in an earlier, before the intervening step. The masters, when they had won their spurs, were ever restive under rules.[A] Yet they underwent the strictest discipline, gaining early the secret of expression; for the best purpose of rules is liberation, not restraint. On the other hand they were, in the main, essentially conservative. Sebastian Bach clung to the older manner, disdaining the secular sonata for which his son was breaking the ground. [Footnote A: Some of the chance sayings of Mozart (recently edited by Kerst-Elberfeld) betray much contempt for academic study: "Learning from books is of no account. Here, here, and here (pointing to ear, head, and heart) is your school." On the subject of librettists "with their professional tricks," he says: "If we composers were equally faithful to our own rules (which were good enough when men knew no better), we should turn out just as poor a quality in our music as they in their librettos." Yet, elsewhere, he admits: "No one has spent so much pains on the study of composition as myself. There is hardly a famous master in music whom I have not read through diligently and often."] The master feels the full worth of what has been achieved; else he has not mastered. He merely gives a crowning touch of poetic message, while the lighter mind is busy with tinkering of newer forms. For the highest reaches of an art, the poet must first have grasped all that has gone before. He will not rebel before he knows the spirit of the law, nor spend himself on novelty for its own sake. The line between the Master and the Radical may often seem vague. For, the former has his Promethean strokes, all unpremeditated, compelled by the inner sequence,--as when Beethoven strikes the prophetic drum in the grim Scherzo of the Fifth Symphony; or in the Eroica when the horn sounds sheer ahead, out of line with the sustaining chorus; or when Bach leaps to his harmonic heights in organ fantasy and toccata; or Mozart sings his exquisite clashes in the G Minor Symphony. As the true poet begins by absorption of the art that he finds, his early utterance will be imitative. His ultimate goal is not the strikingly new but the eternally true. It is a question less of men than of a point of view. It seems sometimes that in art as in politics two parties are needed, one balancing the weaknesses of the other. As certain epochs are overburdened by the spirit of a past poet, so others are marred by the opposite excess, by a kind of neo-mania. The latter comes naturally as reaction from the former. Between them the poet holds the balance of clear vision. When Peri overthrew the trammels of counterpoint, in a dream of Hellenic revival of drama, he could not hope to write a master-work. Destructive rebellion cannot be blended with constructive beauty. An antidote is of necessity not nourishment. Others may follow the path-breaker and slowly reclaim the best of old tradition from the new soil. The strange part of this rebellion is that it is always marked by the quality of stereotype which it seeks to avoid. This is an invariable symptom. It cannot be otherwise; for the rejection of existing art leaves too few resources. Moreover, the pioneer has his eye too exclusively upon the mere manner. A wholesome reaction there may be against excess. When Gluck dared to move the hearts of his hearers instead of tickling their ears, he achieved his purpose by positive beauty, without actual loss. In this sense every work of art is a work of revolution. So Wagner, especially in his earlier dramas,[A] by sheer sincerity and poetic directness, corrected a frivolous tradition of opera. But when he grew destructive of melody and form, by theory and practice, he sank to the rôle of innovator, with pervading trait of stereotype, in the main merely adding to the lesser resources of the art. His later works, though they contain episodes of overwhelming beauty, cannot have a place among the permanent classics, alone by reason of their excessive reiteration. [Footnote A: The "Flying Dutchman," "Lohengrin" and "Tannhäuser" seemed destined to survive Wagner's later works.] One of the most charming instances of this iconoclasm is the music of Claude Débussy.[A] In a way we are reminded of the first flash of Wagner's later manner: the same vagueness of tonality, though with a different complexion and temper. Like the German, Débussy has his own novel use of instruments. He is also a rebel against episodic melody. Only, with Wagner the stand was more of theory than of practice. His lyric inspiration was here too strong; otherwise with Débussy. Each article of rebellion is more highly stressed in the French leader, save as to organic form, where the latter is far the stronger. And finally the element of mannerism cannot be gainsaid in either composer.[B] [Footnote A: Born in 1862.] [Footnote B: Some recurring traits Wagner and Débussy have in common, such as the climactic chord of the ninth. The melodic appoggiatura is as frequent in the earlier German as the augmented chord of the fifth in the later Frenchman.] Among the special traits of Débussy's harmonic manner is a mingling with the main chord of the third below. There is a building downward, as it were. The harmony, complete as it stands, seeks a lower foundation so that the plain tower (as it looked at first) is at the end a lofty minaret. It is striking that a classic figure in French music should have stood, in the early eighteenth century, a champion of this idea, to be sure only in the domain of theory. There is a touch of romance in the fate of a pioneer, rejected for his doctrine in one age, taken up in the art of two centuries later.[A] [Footnote A: Rameau, when the cyclopaedic spirit was first stirring and musical art was sounding for a scientific basis, insisted on the element of the third below, implying a tonic chord of 6, 5, 3. Here he was opposed by Fétis, Fux and other theoretic authority; judgment was definitively rendered against him by contemporary opinion and prevailing tradition. It cannot be said that the modern French practice has justified Rameau's theory, since with all the charm of the enriched chord, there is ever a begging of the question of the ultimate root.] A purely scientific basis must be shunned in any direct approach of the art whether critical or creative,--alone for the fatal allurement of a separate research. The truth is that a spirit of fantastic experiment, started by the mystic manner of a César Franck, sought a sanction in the phenomena of acoustics. So it is likely that the enharmonic process of Franck led to the strained use of the whole-tone scale (of which we have spoken above) by a further departure from tonality.[A] And yet, in all truth, there can be no doubt of the delight of these flashes of the modern French poet,--a delicate charm as beguiling as the bolder, warmer harmonies of the earlier German. Instead of the broad exultation of Wagner there is in Débussy the subtle, insinuating dissonance. Nor is the French composer wanting in audacious strokes. Once for all he stood the emancipator of the art from the stern rule of individual vocal procedure. He cut the Gordian knot of harmonic pedagogy by the mere weapon of poetic elision. He simply omitted the obvious link by a license ancient in poetry and even in prose. He devised in his harmonies the paradox, that is the essence of art, that the necessary step somehow becomes unnecessary. Though Wagner plunges without ceremony into his languorous chords, he carefully resolves their further course. Débussy has them tumbling in headlong descent like sportive leviathans in his sea of sound. Moreover he has broken these fetters of a small punctilio without losing the sense of a true harmonic sequence. Nay, by the very riotous revel of upper harmonies he has stressed the more clearly the path of the fundamental tone. When he enters the higher sanctuary of pure concerted voices, he is fully aware of the fine rigor of its rites. And finally his mischievous abandon never leads him to do violence to the profoundest element of the art, of organic design.[B] [Footnote A: As the lower overtones, discovered by a later science, clearly confirm the tonal system of the major scale, slowly evolved in the career of the art,--so the upper overtones are said to justify the whole-tone process. At best this is a case of the devil quoting scripture. The main recurring overtones, which are lower and audible, are all in support of a clear prevailing tonality.] [Footnote B: In the drama Débussy avoids the question of form by treating the music as mere scenic background. Wagner, in his later works, attempted the impossible of combining a tonal with the dramatic plot. In both composers, to carry on the comparison beyond the technical phase, is a certain reaching for the primeval, in feeling as in tonality. Here they are part of a larger movement of their age. The subjects of their dramas are chosen from the same period of mediaeval legend, strongly surcharged in both composers with a spirit of fatalism where tragedy and love are indissolubly blended.] _"THE SEA." THREE SYMPHONIC SKETCHES_ _I.--From Dawn to Noon on the Sea._ In awesome quiet of unsoothing sounds we feel, over a dual elemental motion, a quick fillip as of sudden lapping wave, while a shadowy air rises slowly in hollow intervals. Midst trembling whispers descending (like the soughing wind), a strange note, as of distant trumpet, strikes in gentle insistence--out of the other rhythm--and blows a wailing phrase. The trembling whisper has sunk to lowest depths. Still continues the lapping of waves--all sounds of unhuman nature. [Music: (Muted trumpet, with Eng. horns in lower 8ve.) _Very slowly_ _Espressivo_ (Cellos with basses in lower 8ve.)] On quicker spur the shadowy motive flits faster here and there in a slow swelling din of whispering, to the insistent plash of wave. Suddenly the sense of desolation yields to soothing play of waters--a _berceuse_ of the sea--and now a song sings softly (in horn), though strangely jarring on the murmuring lullaby. The soothing cheer is anon broken by a shift of new tone. There is a fluctuation of pleasant and strange sounds; a dulcet air on rapturous harmony is hushed by unfriendly plash of chord. Back again in the quieter play of rhythm the strange, sweet song (of horns) returns. In a ravishing climax of gentle chorus of quick plashing waves and swirling breeze the song sings on and the trumpet blows its line of tune to a ringing phrase of the clarinet. [Music: (Strings and horns) _ad lib. faster_] When this has died down, the lapping waves, as in concert, strike in full chord that spreads a hue of warmth, as of the first peep of sun. It is indeed as though the waves rose towards the sun with a glow of welcome. In the wake of the first stirring shock is a host of soft cheering sounds of bustling day, like a choir of birds or bells. The eager madrigal leads to a final blast (with acclaiming chorus of big rocking waves), echoed in golden notes of the horns. One slight touch has heightened the hue to warmest cheer; but once do we feel the full glow of risen sun. The chilling shadows return, as the wistful air of hushed trumpet sounds again. We hover between flashes of warming sun, until the waves have abated; in soothing stillness the romantic horn[A] sings a lay of legend. [Footnote A: English horn.] Now to friendly purling of playful wavelets, the sea moves in shifting harmonies. In sudden climax the motion of the waves fills all the brass in triumphant paean, in the gleam of high noon. _II.--Play of the Waves._ There is a poetic background as for the play of legend. We seem to be watching the sea from a window in the castle of _Pelléas_. For there is a touch of dim romance in a phrase of the clarinet. The movement of waves is clear, and the unconscious concert of sea-sounds, the deeper pulse of ocean (in the horns), the flowing ripples, the sharp dash of lighter surf (in the Glockenspiel), all with a constant tremor, an instability of element (in trembling strings). We cannot help feeling the illusion of scene in the impersonal play of natural sounds. Anon will come a shock of exquisite sweetness that must have something of human. And then follows a resonant clash with spray of colliding seas. Here the story of the waves begins, and there are clearly two roles. To light lapping and cradling of waters the wood sings the simple lay, while strings discourse in quicker, higher phrase. The parts are reversed. A shower of chilling wave (in gliding harps) breaks the thread. [Music: _Con anima_ (Highest and lowest figure in strings. Middle voices in octaves of wood)] Now golden tones (of horns) sound a mystic tale of one of the former figures. The scene shimmers [Music: (With rhythmic harps and strings) (Flutes) (Eng. horn) _espressivo_ (Strings) (Horns)] in sparkling, glinting waters (with harp and trilling wood and strings). But against the soothing background the story (of English horn) has a chill, ominous strain. With the returning main song comes the passionate crisis, and we are back in the mere plash and play of impersonal waves. On dancing ripples, a nixie is laughing to echoing horns and lures us back to the story. [Music: (Strings with lower 8ve.) (Cl.) _grazioso_ (Horns)] Later, it seems, two mermaids sing in twining duet. In a warm hue of light the horns sound a weird tale. It is taken up by teasing chorus of lighter voices. In the growing volume sounds a clear, almost martial call of the brass. In a new shade of scene we recover the lost burden of song; the original figures appear (in the slower air of trembling strings and the quicker play of reed, harp and bells), and wander through ever new, moving phases. A shower of chords (in strings and shaking brass) brings back the ominous melody, amidst a chorus of light chatter, but firmly resting on a warm background of harmony. And the strain roves on generous path and rises out of all its gloom to a burst of profound cheer. [Music: (1st violins with lower 8ve.) (2d violins; percussion with cellos below) (Harp with violas) (Flutes with higher 8ve.) (See page 104, line 11.)] As in all fairy tales, the scene quickly vanishes. On dancing rays and ripples is the laughing nixie; but suddenly breaks the first song of the main figures. A climactic phrase of trumpets ends with a burst of all the chorus on stirring harmony, where in diminishing strokes of bells long rings the melodic note. The teasing motive of the nixie returns while the trumpet sounds a shadowy echo of its phrase, again to dying peal of bells. A chorus of eerie voices sing the mocking air, and again sounds the refrain of trumpet as in rebuke. On a tumult of teasing cries flashes a delivering burst of brilliant light, and we are back in the first scene of the story. Only the main figure is absent. And there is in the eager tension of pace a quivering between joy and doubt. Then, in answer to the lighter phrase of the other, is the returning figure with a new song now of blended longing and content that soars into higher flights until a mighty chorus repeats the strain that rises to triumphant height of joy and transforms the mocking motive to the same mood. But it is all a play of the waves. And we are left once more to the impersonal scene where yet the fragrance of legend hovers over the dying harmonies. _III.--Dialogue of the Wind and the Sea._ Tumultuous is the humor of the beginning; early sounds the stroke of wave of the first hour of the sea. The muted trumpet blows a strain (to trembling strings) that takes us back to the first (quoted) tune of the symphony in the wistful mood of dawn. For a symphony it proves to be in the unity of themes and thought. Now unmuted and unrestrained in conflict of crashing chords, the trumpet blows again the motto of the roving sea. In various figures is the pelagic motion, in continuous coursing strings, in the sweeping phrase of the woodwind, or in the original wave-motion of the horns, now unmuted. The main burden is a plaint [Music: (Woodwind in lower octaves and touches of horns) (_Animato_) _poco rit._ (Strings in higher and lower octaves)] (in the wood) against the insistent surge (of strings), on a haunting motive as of farewell or eventide, with much stress of pathos. It is sung in sustained duet against a constant churning figure of the sea, and it is varied by a dulcet strain that grows out of the wave-motive. Indeed, the whole movement is complementary of the first, the obverse as it were. The themes are of the same text; the hue and mood have changed from the spring of dawn to the sadness of dusk. The symbol of noontide peace reappears with minor tinge, at the hush of eve. The climactic motive of the sea acclaiming the rising sun is there, but reversed. The sea too has the same tempestuous motion (indeed, the plaintive song is mainly of the wind), unrestrained by the sadder mood. At the passionate climax, where the higher figure sinks toward the rising lower, it is as if the Wind kissed the Sea. The concluding scene begins as in the first movement, save with greater extension of expressive melody. And the poignant note has a long song against a continuous rippling (of harps). More elemental figures crowd the scene; the first melody (of trumpet) has a full verse, and the dulcet phrase (of wave-motive). Toward the end the plaintive song has an ever-growing chorus of acclaiming voices. In the fever of united coursing motion the phrase loses the touch of sadness until in eager, spirited pace, as of galloping steeds, it ends with a shout of victory. _DUKAS. "THE SORCERER'S APPRENTICE"_ Chief among the companions of Claude Débussy in his adventures is Paul Dukas.[A] Though he lags somewhat in bold flights of harmonies, he shows a clearer vein of melody and rhythm, and he has an advantage in a greater freedom from the rut of repeated device. [Footnote A: Born in 1865.] It is somehow in the smaller forms that the French composer finds the trenchant utterance of his fancy. A Scherzo, after the ballad of Goethe, "The Sorcerer's Apprentice," tells the famous story of the boy who in his master's absence compels the spirit in the broom to fetch the water; but he cannot say the magic word to stop the flood, although he cleaves the demon-broom in two. After the title-page of the score is printed a prose version (by Henri Blaze) of Goethe's ballad, "Der Zauberlehrling." Of several translations the following, by Bowring, seems the best: THE SORCERER'S APPRENTICE I am now,--what joy to hear it!-- Of the old magician rid; And henceforth shall ev'ry spirit Do whatever by me is bid: I have watch'd with rigor All he used to do, And will now with vigor Work my wonders, too. Wander, wander Onward lightly, So that rightly Flow the torrent, And with teeming waters yonder In the bath discharge its current! And now come, thou well-worn broom, And thy wretched form bestir; Thou hast ever served as groom, So fulfil my pleasure, sir! On two legs now stand With a head on top; Water pail in hand, Haste and do not stop! Wander, wander Onward lightly, So that rightly Flow the torrent, And with teeming waters yonder In the bath discharge its current! See! he's running to the shore, And has now attained the pool, And with lightning speed once more Comes here, with his bucket full! Back he then repairs; See how swells the tide! How each pail he bears Straightway is supplied! Stop, for lo! All the measure Of thy treasure Now is right! Ah, I see it! woe, oh, woe! I forget the word of might. Ah, the word whose sound can straight Make him what he was before! Ah, he runs with nimble gait! Would thou wert a broom once more! Streams renew'd forever Quickly bringeth he; River after river Rusheth on poor me! Now no longer Can I bear him, I will snare him, Knavish sprite! Ah, my terror waxes stronger! What a look! what fearful sight! Oh, thou villain child of hell! Shall the house through thee be drown'd? Floods I see that widely swell, O'er the threshold gaining ground. Wilt thou not obey, O thou broom accurs'd! Be thou still, I pray, As thou wert at first! Will enough Never please thee? I will seize thee, Hold thee fast, And thy nimble wood so tough With my sharp axe split at last. See, once more he hastens back! Now, O Cobold, thou shalt catch it! I will rush upon his track; Crashing on him falls my hatchet. Bravely done, indeed! See, he's cleft in twain! Now from care I'm freed, And can breathe again. Woe oh, woe! Both the parts, Quick as darts, Stand on end, Servants of my dreaded foe! O ye gods, protection send! And they run! and wetter still Grow the steps and grows the hall. Lord and master, hear me call! Ever seems the flood to fill. Ah, he's coming! see, Great is my dismay! Spirits raised by me Vainly would I lay! "To the side Of the room Hasten, broom, As of old! Spirits I have ne'er untied Save to act as they are told." In paragraphs are clearly pointed the episodes: the boy's delight at finding himself alone to conjure the spirits; the invocation to the water, recurring later as refrain (which in the French is not addressed to the spirit); then the insistent summons of the spirit in the broom; the latter's obedient course to the river and his oft-repeated fetching of the water; the boy's call to him to stop,--he has forgotten the formula; his terror over the impending flood; he threatens in his anguish to destroy the broom; he calls once more to stop; the repeated threat; he cleaves the spirit in two and rejoices; he despairs as two spirits are now adding to the flood; he invokes the master who returns; the master dismisses the broom to the corner. There is the touch of magic in the first harmonics of strings, and the sense of sorcery is always sustained in the strange harmonies.[A] [Footnote A: The flageolet tones of the strings seem wonderfully designed in their ghostly sound for such an aerial touch. Dukas uses them later in divided violins, violas and cellos, having thus a triad of harmonics doubled in the octave. The remaining instruments are: Piccolo, 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, bass-clarinet, 3 bassoons, contra-bassoon (or contra-bass sarrusophon); 4 horns, 2 trumpets (often muted); 2 cornets-à-pistons; 3 trombones; 3 kettle-drums; harp; glockenspiel; big drum, cymbals and triangle.] After a mystic descent of eerie chords, a melodious cooing phrase begins in higher wood, echoed from one voice to the other, while the spirit-notes are still sounding. Suddenly dashes a stream of descending spray, met by another ascending; in the midst the first phrase is rapidly sounded (in muted trumpet). As suddenly the first solemn moment has returned, the phrase has grown in melody, while uncanny harmonies prevail. Amidst a new feverish rush a call rings [Music: (Wood and _pizz._ strings) _Vivace_ (Horns and trumpets)] loud and oft (in trumpets and horns) ending in an insistent, furious summons. The silence that ensues is as speaking (or in its way as deafening) as were the calls. After what seems like the grating of ancient joints, set in reluctant motion, the whole tune of the first wooing phrase moves in steady gait, in comic bassoons, to the tripping of strings, further and fuller extended as other voices join. The beginning phrase of chords recurs as answer. Ever the lumbering trip continues, with strange turn of harmony and color, followed ever by the weird answer. A fuller apparition comes with the loud, though muffled tones of the trumpets. The original tune grows in new turns and folds of melody, daintily tipped with the ring of bells over the light tones of the wood. The brilliant [Music: _Vivace_ (Melody in 3 bassoons) (Acc't in _pizz._ strings)] harp completes the chorus of hurrying voices. Now with full power and swing the main notes ring in sturdy brass, while all around is a rushing and swirling (of harps and bells and wood and strings). And still more furious grows the flight, led by the unison violins. A mischievous mood of impish frolic gives a new turn of saucy gait. In the jovial answer, chorussed in simple song, seems a revel of all the spirits of rivers and streams. At the top of a big extended period the trumpet sends a shrill defiant blast. But it is not merely in power and speed,--more in an infinite variety of color, and whim of tune and rhythmic harmony, that is expressed the full gamut of disporting spirits. Later, at fastest speed of tripping harp and wood, the brass ring out that first, insistent summons, beneath the same eerie harmonies--and the uncanny descending chords answer as before. But alas! the summons will not work the other way. Despite the forbidding command and all the other exorcising the race goes madly on. And now, if we are intent on the story, we may see the rising rage of the apprentice and at last the fatal stroke that seemingly hems and almost quells the flood. But not quite! Slowly (as at first) the hinges start in motion. And now, new horror! Where there was one, there are now two ghostly figures scurrying to redoubled disaster. Again and again the stern call rings out, answered by the wildest tumult of all. The shouts for the master's aid seem to turn to shrieks of despair. At last a mighty call overmasters and stills the storm. Nothing is heard but the first fitful phrases; now they seem mere echoes, instead of forewarnings. We cannot fail to see the fine parallel, how the masterful command is effective as was the similar call at the beginning. Significantly brief is the ending, at once of the story and of the music. In the brevity lies the point of the plot: in the curt dismissal of the humbled spirit, at the height of his revel, to his place as broom in the corner. Wistful almost is the slow vanishing until the last chords come like the breaking of a fairy trance. CHAPTER X TSCHAIKOWSKY The Byron of music is Tschaikowsky for a certain alluring melancholy and an almost uncanny flow and sparkle. His own personal vein deepened the morbid tinge of his national humor. We cannot ignore the inheritance from Liszt, both spiritual and musical. More and more does the Hungarian loom up as an overmastering influence of his own and a succeeding age. It seems as if Liszt, not Wagner, was the musical prophet who struck the rock of modern pessimism, from which flowed a stream of ravishing art. The national current in Tschaikowsky's music was less potent than with his younger compatriots; or at least it lay farther beneath the surface. For nationalism in music has two very different bearings. The concrete elements of folk-song, rhythm and scale, as they are more apparent, are far less important. The true significance lies in the motive of an unexpressed national idea that presses irresistibly towards fulfilment. Here is the main secret of the Russian achievement in modern music,--as of other nations like the Finnish. It is the cause that counts. Though Russian song has less striking traits than Hungarian or Spanish, it has blossomed in a far richer harvest of noble works of art. Facile, fluent, full of color, Tschaikowsky seems equipped less for subjective than for lyric and dramatic utterance, as in his "Romeo and Juliet" overture. In the "Manfred" Symphony we may see the most fitting employment of his talent. Nor is it unlikely that the special correspondence of treatment and subject may cause this symphony to survive the others, may leave it long a rival of Schumann's "Manfred" music. With Tschaikowsky feeling is always highly stressed, never in a certain natural poise. He quite lacks the noble restraint of the masters who, in their symphonic lyrics, wonderfully suggest the still waters that run deep. Feeling with Tschaikowsky was frenzy, violent passion, so that with all abandon there is a touch of the mechanical in his method. Emotion as the content of highest art must be of greater depth and more quiet flow. And it is part or a counterpart of an hysterical manner that it reacts to a cold and impassive mood,--such as we feel in the Andante of the Fourth Symphony. The final quality for symphonic art is, after all, less the chance flash of inspiration than a big view, a broad sympathy, a deep well of feeling that comes only with great character. Nay, there is a kind of peril in the symphony for the poet of uncertain balance from the betrayal of his own temper despite his formal plan. Through all the triumph of a climax as in the first movement of the Fourth Symphony, we may feel a subliminal sadness that proves how subtle is the expression in music of the subjective mood. There is revealed not the feeling the poet is conscious of, but, below this, his present self, and in the whole series of his works, his own personal mettle. What the poet tries to say is very different from what he does say. In a symphony, as in many a frolic, the tinge of latent melancholy will appear. _SYMPHONY NO. 4_ Reverting to a great and fascinating question as to the content of art, we may wonder whether this is not the real tragic symphony of Tschaikowsky, in the true heroic sense, in a view where the highest tragedy is not measured by the wildest lament. There may be a stronger sounding of lower depths with a firmer touch (with less of a conscious kind of abandon),--whence the recoil to serene cheer will be the greater. There is surely a magnificent aspiration in the first Allegro, a profound knell of destiny and a rare ring of triumph. Underlying all is the legend of trumpets, _Andante sostenuto_ (3/4), with a dim touch [Music: _Andante sostenuto_ (Horns and bassoons doubled in 8va.)] of tragedy. Opposite in feeling is the descending motive of strings, _Moderato con anima_ (9/8). First gently expressive, it soon rises in passion (the original [Music: _Moderato con anima_ _in movimento di valse_ (Strings and one horn, the melody doubled below)] motto always sounding) to a climax whence an ascending motive, in lowest basses, entering in manner of fugue, holds a significant balance with the former. Each in turn rears a climax for the other's [Music: (Horns doubled below) (Cellos and bassoons)] entrance; the first, lamenting, leads to the soothing hope of the second that, in the very passion of its refrain, loses assurance and ends in a tragic burst. Suddenly a very new kind of solace appears _Dolce grazioso_, in a phrase of the clarinet that leads to a duet of wood and _cantabile_ strings, impersonal almost in the sweetness of its flowing song. [Music: _Moderato assai_ (Oboe doubled in flute) (Strings)] In such an episode we have a new Tschaikowsky,--no longer the subjective poet, but the painter with a certain Oriental luxuriance and grace. It is interesting to study the secret of this effect. The preluding strain lowers the tension of the storm of feeling and brings us to the attitude of the mere observer. The "movement of waltz" now has a new meaning, as of an apparition in gently gliding dance. The step is just sustained in leisurely strings. Above is the simple melodic trip of clarinet, where a final run is echoed throughout the voices of the wood; a slower moving strain in low cellos suggests the real song that presently begins, while high in the wood the lighter tune continues. The ripples still keep spreading throughout the voices, at the end of a line. The tunes then change places, the slower singing above. With all the beauty, there is the sense of shadowy picture,--a certain complete absence of passion. Now the lower phrase appears in two companion voices (of strings), a hymnal kind of duet,--_ben sostenuto il tempo precedente_. Here, very softly in the same timid pace, enters a chorus, on high, of the old sighing motive. Each melody breaks upon the other and [Music: _Bel sostenuto il tempo (moderato)_ (Strings) (Woodwind doubled above) (Kettle-drums)] ceases, with equal abruptness. There is no blending, in the constant alternation, until the earlier (lamenting) motive conquers and rises to a new height where a culminating chorale sounds a big triumph, while the sighing phrase merely spurs a new verse of assurance. [Music: (Strings and flutes) (Doubled above and below)] A completing touch lies in the answering phrase of the chorale, where the answer of original motto is transformed into a masterful ring of cheer and confidence. As is the way with symphonies, it must all be sung and striven over again to make doubly sure. Only there is never the same depth of lament after the triumph. In a later verse is an augmented song of the answer of trumpet legend, in duet of thirds, in slow, serene pace, while the old lament sounds below in tranquil echoes and united strains. Before the end, _molto piu vivace_, the answer rings in new joyous rhythm. Somewhat the reverse of the first movement, in the second the emotional phase grows slowly from the naïve melody of the beginning. Against the main melody that begins in oboe solo (with _pizzicato_ strings), _semplice ma grazioso_, plays later a rising [Music: _Andantino in modo di canzone_ (Clarinet with lower 8ve.) (Cello) _Grazioso_ (Bassoons, with _pizz._ basses)] counter-theme that may recall an older strain. The second melody, in Greek mode, still does not depart [Music: (Strings, wood and horns)] from the naïve mood, or lack of mood. A certain modern trait is in this work, when the feeling vents and wastes itself and yields to an impassive recoil, more coldly impersonal than the severest classic. A sigh at the end of the second theme is a first faint reminder of the original lament. Of it is fashioned the third theme. A succeeding climax strongly [Music: _Piu mosso_ (Clarinet doubled below in bassoons) (Strings)] brings back the subjective hue of the earlier symphony. A counter-theme, of the text of the second melody of Allegro,--now one above, now the other--is a final stroke. Even the shaking of the trumpet figure is there at the height, in all the brass. Yet as a whole the first melody prevails, with abundant variation of runs in the wood against the song of the strings. The Scherzo seems a masterly bit of humor, impish, if you will, yet on the verge always of tenderness. The first part is never-failing in the flash and sparkle of its play, all in _pizzicato_ strings, with a wonderful daemonic quality of the mere instrumental effect. Somewhat suddenly the oboe holds a long note and [Music: _Pizzicato ostinato_ _Scherzo Allegro_ (Strings) (_Pizzicato sempre_)] then, with the bassoons, has a tune that is almost sentimental. But presently the clarinets make mocking [Music: (Oboes and bassoons)] retorts. Here, in striking scene, all the brass (but the tuba) very softly blow the first melody with eccentric halts, in just half the old pace except when they take us by surprise. The clarinet breaks in with the sentimental tune in faster time while the brass all the while are playing as before. There are all kinds of pranks, often at the same time. The piccolo, in highest treble, inverts the second melody, in impertinent drollery. The brass has still newer surprises. Perhaps the best of the fooling is where strings below and woodwind above share the melody between them, each taking two notes at a time. The first of the Finale is pure fanfare, as if to let loose the steeds of war; still it recurs as leading idea. There is a kind of sonorous terror, increased by the insistent, regular notes of the brass, the spirited pace of the motive of strings,--the barbaric ring we often hear in Slav music. At the height [Music: _Allegro con fuoco_ (Wood doubled above and below) (Violins) (_Pizz._ strings)] the savage yields to a more human vein of joyousness, though at the end it rushes the more wildly into a [Music: _Tutti_ (Doubled above and below)] series of shrieks of trebles with tramping of basses. The real battle begins almost with a lull, the mere sound of the second tune in the reeds with light strum of strings and triangle. As the theme is redoubled (in thirds of the wood), the sweep of strings of the first motive is added, with chords of horns. A rising figure is now opposed to the descent of the second melody, with shaking of woodwind that brings back the old trumpet legend. Here the storm grows apace, with increasing tumult of entering hostile strains, the main song now ringing in low brass. In various versions and changes we seem to see earlier themes briefly reappearing. Indeed there is a striking kinship of themes throughout, not so much in outline as in the air and mood of the tunes. This seems to be proven by actual outer resemblance when the motives are developed. Here in a quiet spot--though the battle has clearly not ceased--is the answer of old trumpet motto, that pervaded the first Allegro. There is a strong feeling of the Scherzo here in the _pizzicato_ answers of strings. The second theme of the Andante is recalled, too, in the strokes of the second of the Finale. In the thick of the fray is a wonderful maze of versions of the theme, diminished and augmented at the same time with the original pace. Yet it is all a clear flow of melody and rich harmony. The four beats of quarter notes, in the lengthened theme, come as high point like the figure of the leader in battle. A later play of changes is like the sport of the Scherzo. This insensibly leads to the figure of the fanfare, whence the earlier song returns with the great joyous march. The final height of climax is distinguished by a stentorian, fugal blast of the theme in the bass, the higher breaking in on the lower, while other voices are raging on the quicker phrases. It is brought to a dramatic halt by the original prelude of trumpet legend, in all its fulness. Though the march-song recurs, the close is in the ruder humor of the main themes. _THE "MANFRED" SYMPHONY_ Schumann and Tschaikowsky are the two most eminent composers who gave tonal utterance to the sombre romance of Byron's dramatic poem.[A] It is interesting to remember that Byron expressly demanded the assistance of music for the work. If we wish to catch the exact effect that is sought in the original conception, Schumann's setting is the nearest approach. It is still debated whether a scenic representation is more impressive, or a simple reading, reinforced by the music. [Footnote A: Prefixed are the familiar lines: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."] Tschaikowsky's setting is a "symphony in four pictures, or scenes (_en quatre tableaux_), after Byron's dramatic poem." In the general design and spirit there is much of the feeling of Berlioz's "Fantastic" Symphony, though the manner of the music shows no resemblance whatever. There is much more likeness to Liszt's "Faust" Symphony, in that the pervading recurrence of themes suggests symbolic labels. Moreover, in the very character of many of the motives, there is here a striking line of descent. _Lento lugubre_, the first scene or picture, begins with a theme in basses of reeds: [Music: _Lento lugubre_ (Woodwind) (Strings)] with later _pizzicato_ figure of low strings. An answering strain is one of the most important of all the melodies: [Music] On these, a bold conflict and climax is reared. If we care to indulge in the bad habit of calling names, we might see "Proud Ambition" in the first motives, intertwined with sounds of sombre discontent. The pace grows _animando_,--_piu mosso_; _moderato molto_. Suddenly Andante sings a new, expressive song, with a dulcet cheer of its own, rising to passionate periods and a final height whence, _Andante con duolo_, a loudest chorus of high wood and strings, heralded and accompanied by martial tremolo of low wood, horns, basses, and drums, sound the fateful chant that concludes the first scene, and, toward the close of the work, sums the main idea. [Music: (Strings and flutes) (Basses, wood and horns) (Same continuing rhythm)] The apparition of the Witch of the Alps is pictured in daintiest, sparkling play of strings and wood, with constant recurrence of mobile figures above and below. It seems as if the image of the fountain is fittest and most tempting for mirroring in music. Perhaps the most beautiful, the most haunting, of all the "Manfred" music of Schumann is this same scene of the Witch of the Alps. Here, with Tschaikowsky, hardly a single note of brass intrudes on this _perpetuum mobile_ of light, plashing spray until, later, strains that hark back to the first scene cloud the clear brilliancy of the cascade. Now the play of the waters is lost in the new vision, and a limpid song glides in the violins, with big rhythmic chords of harps, is taken up in clarinets, and carried on by violins in new melodic verse, _con tenerezza e molto espressione_. Then the whole chorus sing the tune in gentle volume. As it dies away, the music of the falling waters plash as before. The returning song has phases of varying sadness and passion. At the most vehement height,--and here, if we choose, we may see the stern order to retire,--the fatal chant is shrieked by full chorus in almost unison fierceness. Gradually the innocent play of the waters is heard again, though a gloomy pall hangs over. The chant sounds once more before the end. The third, "Pastoral," scene we are most free to enjoy in its pure musical beauty, with least need of definite dramatic correspondences. It seems at first as if no notes of gloom are allowed to intrude, as if the picture of happy simplicity stands as a foil to the tragedy of the solitary dreamer; for an early climax gives a mere sense of the awe of Alpine nature. Still, as we look and listen closer, we cannot escape so easily, in spite of the descriptive title. Indeed, the whole work seems, in its relation to the poem upon which it is based, a very elusive play in a double kind of symbolism. At first it is all a clear subjective utterance of the hero's woes and hopes and fears, without definite touches of external things. Yet, right in the second scene the torrent is clear almost to the eye, and the events pass before us with sharp distinctness. Tending, then, to look on the third as purest pastoral, we are struck in the midst by an ominous strain from one of the earliest moments of the work, the answer of the first theme of all. Here notes of horns ring a monotone; presently a church-bell adds a higher note. The peaceful pastoral airs then return, like the sun after a fleeting storm. The whole of this third scene of Tschaikowsky's agrees with no special one in Byron's poem, unless we go back to the second of the first act, where Manfred, in a morning hour, alone upon the cliffs, views the mountains of the Jungfrau before he makes a foiled attempt to spring into the abyss. By a direction of the poet, in the midst of the monologue, "the shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard," and Manfred muses on "the natural music of the mountain reed." The last scene of the music begins with Byron's fourth of Act II and passes over all the incidents of the third act that precede the hero's death, such as the two interviews with the Abbot and the glorious invocation to the sun. From Tschaikowsky's title, we must look for the awful gloom of the cavernous hall of Arimanes, Byron's "Prince of Earth and Air." The gray figure from most ancient myth is not less real to us than Mefistofeles in "Faust." At least we clearly feel the human daring that feared not to pry into forbidden mysteries and refused the solace of unthinking faith. And it becomes again a question whether the composer had in mind this subjective attitude of the hero or the actual figures and abode of the spirits and their king. It is hard to escape the latter view, from the general tenor, the clear-cut outline of the tunes, of which the principal is like a stern chant: [Music: (Wood, strings and horns)] The most important of the later answers lies largely in the basses. [Music: (Low wood) (Rhythmic chords in strings)] There is, on the whole, rather an effect of gloomy splendor (the external view) than of meditation; a sense of visible massing than of passionate crisis, though there is not wanting a stirring motion and life in the picture. This is to speak of the first part, _Allegro con fuoco_. The gloomy dance dies away. _Lento_ is a soft fugal chant on elemental theme; there is all the solemnity of cathedral service; after the low-chanted phrase follows a tremendous blare of the brass. The repeated chant is followed by one of the earliest, characteristic themes of the first scene. And so, if we care to follow the graphic touch, we may see here the intrusion of Manfred, at the most solemn moment of the fearful revel. As Manfred, in Byron's poem, enters undaunted, refusing to kneel, the first of the earlier phases rings out in fierce _fortissimo_. A further conflict appears later, when the opening theme of the work sounds with interruptions of the first chant of the spirits. A dulcet plaint follows, _Adagio_, in muted strings, answered by a note of horn and a chord of harp. [Music: _Adagio_ (Muted strings answered by horn and harp)] It all harks back to the gentler strains of the first movement. In the ethereal _glissando_ of harps we see the spirit of Astarte rise to give the fatal message. The full pathos and passion of the _lento_ episode of first scene is heard in brief, vivid touches, and is followed by the same ominous blast with ring of horn, as in the first picture. A note of deliverance shines clear in the final phrase of joined orchestra and organ, clearer perhaps than in Manfred's farewell line in the play: "Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die." To be sure, Schumann spreads the same solace o'er the close of his setting, with the Requiem. The sombre splendor of romance is throughout, with just a touch of turgid. In the poignant ecstasy of grief we feel vividly the foreshadowing example of Liszt, in his "Dante" and "Faust" Symphonies. _FIFTH SYMPHONY (E MINOR)_ With all the unfailing flow of lesser melodies where the charm is often greatest of all, and the main themes of each movement with a chain of derived phrases, one melody prevails and reappears throughout. The fluency is more striking here than elsewhere in Tschaikowsky. All the external sources,--all the glory of material art seem at his command. We are reminded of a certain great temptation to which all men are subject and some fall,--however reluctantly. Throughout there is a vein of daemonic. The second (Allegro) melody grows to a high point of pathos,--nay, anguish, followed later by buoyant, strepitant, dancing delight, with the melting answer, in the latest melody. The daemon is half external fate--in the Greek sense, half individual temper. The end is almost sullen; but the charm is never failing; at the last is the ever springing rhythm. [Music: _Andante_ _pesante e tenuto sempre_ (Clarinet) (Low strings)] The march rhythm of the opening Andante is carried suddenly into a quick trip, _Allegro con anima_ (6/8), where the main theme of the first movement now begins, freely extended as in a full song of verses. New accompanying figures are added, contrasting phrases or counter-melodies, to the theme. [Music: _Allegro con anima_ Solo clarinet (doubled below with solo bassoon.) (Strings)] One expressive line plays against the wilder rhythm of the theme, with as full a song in its own mood as the other. A new rhythmic motive, of great charm, _un pocchetino piu animato_, is answered by a bit of the theme. Out of it all grows, in a clear [Music: _Molto espr._ (Strings)] welded chain, another episode, where the old rhythm is a mere gentle spur to the new plaint,--_molto piu tranquillo, molto cantabile ed espressivo_. [Music: _Molto piu tranquillo_ _Molto cantabile ed espr._] To be sure, the climax has all of the old pace and life, and every voice of the chorus at the loudest. In the answering and echoing of the various phrases, rhythmic and melodic, is the charm of the discussion that follows. Later the three melodies come again in the former order, and the big climax of the plaintive episode precedes the end, where the main theme dies down to a whisper. _Andante cantabile, con alcuna licenza._ After preluding chords in lowest strings a solo horn begins a [Music: _Andante cantabile, con alcuna licenza_ (Horn) _dolce con molto espr._ (Strings)] languishing song, _dolce con molto espressione_. It is a wonderful elegy, a yearning without hope, a swan-song of desire, sadder almost than the frank despair of the Finale of the _Pathétique_ symphony,--pulsing with passion, gorgeous with a hectic glow of expressive beauty, moving too with a noble grace. Though there is a foil of lighter humor, this is overwhelmed in the fateful gloom of the returning main motto. The abounding beauty with all its allurement lacks the solace that the masters have led us to seek in the heart of a symphony. The clarinet presently twines a phrase about the tune until a new answer sounds in the oboe, that now sings in answering and chasing duet with the horn. The phrase of oboe proves to be the main song, in full extended periods, reaching a climax with all the voices. [Music: _Con moto_ (Solo oboe) _dolce espr._] Well defined is the middle episode in minor reared on a new theme of the clarinet with an almost fugal polyphony that departs from the main lyric mood. [Music: _Moderato con anima_ (Solo clar.) (Strings)] At the height all the voices fall into a united chorus on the original motto of the symphony. The first melodies of the Andante now return with big sweep and power, and quicker phrases from the episode. The motto reappears in a final climax, in the trombones, before the hushed close. We must not infer too readily a racial trait from the temper of the individual composer. There is here an error that we fall into frequently in the music of such men as Grieg and Tschaikowsky. The prevailing mood of the Pathetic Symphony is in large measure personal. Some of the more recent Russian symphonies are charged with buoyant joyousness. And, indeed, the burden of sadness clearly distinguishes the last symphony of Tschaikowsky from its two predecessors, the Fourth and the Fifth. The tune of the _valse_, _Allegro moderato_, is first played by the violins, _dolce con grazia_, with accompanying strings, horns and bassoon. In the second part, with some loss of the lilt of dance, is a subtle design--with a running phrase in _spiccato_ strings against a slower upward glide of bassoons. The duet winds on a kind of _crescendo_ of modulations. Later [Music: (_Spiccato_) (Strings) (Horns) (Bassoon)] the themes are inverted, and the second is redoubled in speed. The whole merges naturally into the first waltz, with a richer suite of adorning figures. The dance does not end without a soft reminder (in low woodwind) of the original sombre phrase. Almost for the first time a waltz has entered the shrine of the symphony. And yet perhaps this dance has all the more a place there. It came on impulse (the way to visit a sanctuary), not by ancient custom. But with all its fine variety, it is a simple waltz with all the careless grace,--nothing more, with no hidden or graphic meaning (as in Berlioz's Fantastic Symphony). The middle episode, though it lacks the dancing trip, is in the one continuing mood,--like a dream of youthful joys with just a dimming hint of grim reality in the returning motto. In the Finale the main legend of the symphony is transformed and transfigured in a new, serener mood, and is brought to a full melodic bloom. Indeed, here is the idealization of the original motto. _Andante maestoso_ it begins in the tonic major. When the theme ceases, the brass blow the rhythm on a monotone, midst an ascending _obligato of strings_. [Music: (Brass and lower woodwind) (See page 139, line 1.)] In answer comes a new phrase of chorale. Later the chorale is sounded by the full band, with intermediate beats of rhythmic march. Once more there is a well-marked episode, with a full share of melodic discussion, of clashing themes, of dramatic struggle. First in the tonic minor a theme rises from the last casual cadence in resonant march, _Allegro vivace_. Then follows a duet, almost [Music: _Allegro vivace_ (Strings and low wood) (Trill of kettle drums)] a harsh grating of an eccentric figure above against [Music: (Solo oboe) (Strings) (Low wood) (_Pizz._ cellos)] the smoother course of the latest Allegro motive. The themes are inverted. Presently out of the din rises a charming canon on the prevailing smoother phrase, that soars to a full sweep of song. A new [Music: (Violins) (Wind) (Basses 8va.) (Low strings)] hymnal melody comes as a final word. Though the main motto returns in big chorus, in full extension, in redoubled pace and wild abandon, still the latest melody seems to contend for the last say. Or, rather, [Music: (Woodwind doubled above and below) _espr._ (Strings) (See page 141, line 2.)] it is a foil, in its simple flow, to the revel of the motto, now grown into a sonorous, joyous march. And we seem to see how most of the other melodies,--the minor episode, the expressive duet--have sprung from bits of the main text. To return for another view,--the Finale begins in a mood that if not joyous, is religious. Out of the cadence of the hymn dances the Allegro tune almost saucily. Nor has this charming trip the ring of gladness, though it grows to great momentum. As a whole there is no doubt of the assurance, after the earlier fitful gloom, and with the resignation an almost militant spirit of piety. In the dulcet canon, an exquisite gem, bliss and sadness seem intermingled; and then follows the crowning song, broad of pace, blending the smaller rhythms in ecstatic surmounting of gloom. In further verse it doubles its sweet burden in overlapping voices, while far below still moves the rapid trip. But the motto will return, in major to be sure, and tempered in mercy. And the whole hymn dominates, with mere interludes of tripping motion, breaking at the height into double pace of concluding strain. Before falling back into the thrall of the legend the furious race rushes eagerly into the deepest note of bliss, where in sonorous bass rolls the broad, tranquil song. And though the revel must languish, yet we attend the refrain of all the melodies in crowning rapture. Then at last, in stern minor, sounds the motto, still with the continuing motion, in a loud and long chant. In blended conclusion of the contending moods comes a final verse of the legend in major, with full accoutrement of sounds and lesser rhythm, in majestic pace. And there is a following frolic with a verse of the serene song. The end is in the first Allegro theme of the symphony, in transfigured major tone. We must be clear at least of the poet's intent. In the Fifth Symphony Tschaikowsky sang a brave song of struggle with Fate. CHAPTER XI THE NEO-RUSSIANS For some mystic reason nowhere in modern music is the symphony so justified as in Russia. Elsewhere it survives by the vitality of its tradition. In France we have seen a series of works distinguished rather by consummate refinement than by strength of intrinsic content. In Germany since the masterpieces of Brahms we glean little besides the learnedly facile scores of a Bruckner, with a maximum of workmanship and a minimum of sturdy feeling,--or a group of "heroic" symphonies all cast in the same plot of final transfiguration. The one hopeful sign is the revival of a true counterpoint in the works of Mahler. Some national song, like the Bohemian, lends itself awkwardly to the larger forms. The native vein is inadequate to the outer mould, that shrinks and dwindles into formal utterance. It may be a question of the quantity of a racial message and of its intensity after long suppression. Here, if we cared to enlarge in a political disquisition, we might account for the symphony of Russians and Finns, and of its absence in Scandinavia. The material elements, abundant rhythm, rich color, individual and varied folk-song, are only the means by which the national temper is expressed. Secondly, it must be noted as a kind of paradox, the power of the symphony as a national utterance is increased by a mastery of the earlier classics. With all that we hear of the narrow nationalism of the Neo-Russians, we cannot deny them the breadth that comes from a close touch with the masters. Mozart is an element in their music almost as strong as their own folk-song. Here, it may be, the bigger burden of a greater national message unconsciously seeks the larger means of expression. And it becomes clear that the sharper and narrower the national school, the less complete is its utterance, the more it defeats its ultimate purpose. The broad equipment of the new Russian group is seen at the outset in the works of its founder, Balakirew. And thus the difference between them and Tschaikowsky lay mainly in the formulated aim.[A] [Footnote A: In the choice of subjects there was a like breadth. Balakirew was inspired by "King Lear," as was Tschaikowsky. And amid a wealth of Slavic legend and of kindred Oriental lore, he would turn to the rhythms of distant Spain for a poetic theme.] The national idea, so eminent in modern music, is not everywhere equally justified. And here, as in an object-lesson, we see the true merits of the problem. While one nation spontaneously utters its cry, another, like a cock on the barnyard, starts a movement in mere idle vanity, in sheer self-glorification. In itself there is nothing divine in a national idea that needs to be enshrined in art. Deliberate segregation is equally vain, whether it be national or social. A true racial celebration must above all be spontaneous. Even then it can have no sanction in art, unless it utter a primal motive of resistance to suppression, the elemental pulse of life itself. There is somehow a divine dignity about the lowest in human rank, whether racial or individual. The oppressed of a nation stands a universal type, his wrongs are the wrongs of all, and so his lament has a world-wide appeal. And in truth from the lowest class rises ever the rich spring of folk-song of which all the art is reared, whence comes the paradox that the peasant furnishes the song for the delight of his oppressors, while they boast of it as their own. Just in so far as man is devoid of human sympathy, is he narrow and barren in his song. Music is mere feeling, the fulness of human experience, not in the hedonic sense of modern tendencies, but of pure joys and profound sorrows that spring from elemental relations, of man to man, of mate to mate. Here lies the nobility of the common people and of its song; the national phase is a mere incident of political conditions. The war of races is no alembic for beauty of art. If there were no national lines, there would still be folk-song,--merely without sharp distinction. The future of music lies less in the differentiation of human song, than in its blending. Thus we may rejoice in the musical utterance of a race like the Russian, groaning and struggling through ages against autocracy for the dignity of man himself,--and in a less degree for the Bohemian, seeking to hold its heritage against enforced submergence. But we cannot take so seriously the proud self-isolation of other independent nations. _BALAKIREW.[A] SYMPHONY IN C_ [Footnote A: Mili Alexeivich Balakirew was born at Nizhni-Novgorod in 1836; he died at St. Petersburg in 1911. He is regarded as the founder of the Neo-Russian School.] The national idea shines throughout, apart from the "Russian Theme" that forms the main text of the Finale. One may see the whole symphony leading up to the national celebration. As in the opening phrase (in solemn _Largo_) with [Music: (Lower reed, with strings in three 8ves.) _Largo_] its answer are proclaimed the subjects that presently [Music: (Flute and strings)] appear in rapid pace, so the whole movement must be taken as a big prologue, forecasting rather than realizing. There is a dearth of melodic stress and balance; so little do the subjects differ that they are in essence merely obverse in outline. Mystic harmonies and mutations of the motto lead to a quicker guise (_Allegro vivo_). Independently of themes, the rough edge of tonality and the vigorous primitive rhythms are expressive of the Slav feeling. Withal there is a subtlety of harmonic manner that could come only through the grasp of the classics common to all nations. Augmentation and diminution of theme abound, together with the full fugal manner. A warm, racial color is felt in the prodigal use of lower reeds.[A] [Footnote A: Besides the English horn and four bassoons there are four clarinets,--double the traditional number.] In all the variety of quick and slower melodies a single phrase of five notes, the opening of the symphony, pervades. In all kinds of humor it sings, martial, solemn, soothing, meditative, or sprightly. Poetic in high degree is this subtle metamorphosis, so that the symphony in the first movement seems to prove the art rather than the national spirit of the Neo-Russians. Of the original answer is wrought all the balance and foil of second theme, and like the first it reaches a climactic height. But the first is the sovereign figure of the story. It enters into the pattern of every new phase, it seems the text of which all the melodies are fashioned, or a sacred symbol that must be all-pervading. In a broader pace (_Alla breve_) is a mystic discussion of the legend, as of dogma, ending in big pontifical blast of the answering theme. The whole movement is strangely frugal of joyous abandon. Instead of rolling, revelling melody there is stern proclamation, as of oracle, in the solemn pauses. The rhythm is purposely hemmed and broken. Restraint is everywhere. Almost the only continuous thread is of the meditative fugue. A single dulcet lyric verse (of the motto) is soon [Music: (Cellos with _tremolo_ of lower strings)] banished by a sudden lively, eccentric phrase that has an air of forced gaiety, with interplay of mystic symbols. At last, on a farther height, comes the first [Music] joyous abandon (in a new mask of the motto), recurring anon as recess from sombre brooding. Here the second subject has a free song,--in gentle chase of pairs of voices (of woodwind and muted strings and harp) and grows to alluring melody. As [Music: (Lower reed, with _tremolo_ of lower strings)] from a dream the eccentric trip awakens us, on ever higher wing. At the top in slower swing of chords horn and reeds chant the antiphonal legend, and in growing rapture, joined by the strings, rush once more into the jubilant revel, the chanting legend still sounding anon in sonorous bass. The climax of feeling is uttered in a fiery burst of all the brass in the former dulcet refrain from the motto. In full sweep of gathering host it flows in unhindered song. Somehow by a slight turn, the tune is transformed into the alluring melody of the second theme. When the former returns, we feel that both strains are singing as part of a single song and that the two subjects are blended and reconciled in rapture of content. A new mystic play of the quicker motto, answered by the second theme, leads to an overpowering blast of the motto in slowest notes of brass and reed, ending in a final fanfare. All lightness is the Scherzo, though we cannot escape a Russian vein of minor even in the dance. A rapid melody has a kind of perpetual motion in the strings, with mimicking echoes in the wood. But the strange part is how the natural accompanying voice below (in the bassoon) makes a haunting melody of [Music: _Vivo_ (Violins doubled below in violas) (Bassoon) (_Pizz._ cellos)] its own,--especially when they fly away to the major. As we suspected, the lower proves really the principal song as it winds on in the languorous English horn or in the higher reed. Still the returning dance has now the whole stage in a long romp with strange peasant thud of the brass on the second beat. Then the song rejoins the dance, just as in answering glee, later in united chorus. A quieter song (that might have been called the Trio) has still a clinging flavor of the soil,--as of a folk-ballad, that is not lost with the later madrigal nor with the tripping figure that runs along. Strangely, after the full returning dance, an epilogue [Music: (Trio) _Poco meno mosso_ (Strings)] of the ballad appears over a drone, as of bagpipe, through all the harmony of the madrigal. Strangest of all is the playful last refrain in the high piccolo over the constant soft strumming strings. The Andante, in pure lyric mood, is heavily charged with a certain Oriental languor. The clarinet [Music: (Clarinet) _Andante_ (Strings with harp)] leads the song, to rich strum of harp and strings, with its note of sensuous melancholy. Other, more external signs there are of Eastern melody, as in the graceful curl of quicker notes. Intermediate strains between the verses seem gently to rouse the slumbering feeling,--still more when they play between the lines of the song. The passion that is lulled in the languor of main melody, is somehow uttered in the later episode,--still more in the dual song of both [Music: (Violins doubled below) (Horns and bassoons doubled above in wood) (Strings and horns)] melodies,--though it quickly drops before a strange coquetry of other strains. Yet the climax of the main song is reached when the lighter phrase rings fervently in the high brass. Here the lyric beauty is stressed in a richer luxuriance of rhythmic setting. Once more sings the passionate tune; then in midst of the last verse of the main song is a quick alarm of rushing harp. The languorous dream is broken; there is an air of new expectancy. Instead of a close is a mere pause on a passing harmony at the portals of the high festival. With a clear martial stress the "Russian Theme" is sounded (in low strings), to the full a national [Music: _Allegro moderato_ Finale _Thème Russe_ (Cellos with basses in lower 8ve.)] tune of northern race. Enriched with prodigal harmony and play of lesser themes it flows merrily on, yet always with a stern pace, breaking out at last in a blare of warlike brass. Nor does the martial spirit droop in the second tune, though the melodies are in sheer contrast. In faster rhythm, the second is more festal so that the first returning has a tinge almost of terror. An [Music: (Cl't) (Strings)] after-strain of the second has a slightest descent to reflective feeling, from which there is a new rebound [Music: (Cellos) (Strings and harp with sustained chord of horns)] to the buoyant (festal) melody. Here in grim refrains, in dim depths of basses (with hollow notes of horns) the national tune has a free fantasy until it is joined by the second in a loud burst in the minor. Now the latter sings in constant alternation with the answering strain, then descends in turn into the depths of sombre musing. There follows a big, resonant dual climax (the main theme in lower brass), with an edge of grim defiance. In the lull we seem to catch a brief mystic play of the first motto of the symphony (in the horns) before the last joyous song of both melodies,--all with a power of intricate design and a dazzling brilliancy of harmony, in proud national celebration. A last romp is in polacca step on the tune of the Russian Theme. _RIMSKY-KORSAKOW.[A] "ANTAR," SYMPHONY_ [Footnote A: Nicholas Rimsky-Korsakow, Russian, 1844-1908.] The title-page tells us that "the subject is taken from an Arabian tale of Sennkowsky." Opposite the beginning of the score is a summary of the story, in Russian and in French, as follows: I.--Awful is the view of the desert of Sham; mighty in their desolation are the ruins of Palmyra, the city razed by the spirits of darkness. But Antar, the man of the desert, braves them, and dwells serenely in the midst of the scenes of destruction. Antar has forever forsaken the company of mankind. He has sworn eternal hatred on account of the evil they returned him for the good which he intended. Suddenly a charming, graceful gazelle appears. Antar starts to pursue it. But a great noise seems pulsing through the heavens, and the light of day is veiled by a dense shadow. It is a giant bird that is giving chase to the gazelle. Antar straightway changes his intent, and attacks the monster, which gives a piercing cry and flies away. The gazelle disappears at the same time, and Antar, left alone in the midst of ruins, soon goes to sleep while meditating on the event that has happened. He sees himself transported to a splendid palace, where a multitude of slaves hasten to serve him and to charm his ear with their song. It is the abode of the Queen of Palmyra,--the fairy Gul-nazar. The gazelle that he has saved from the talons of the spirit of darkness is none other than the fairy herself. In gratitude Gul-nazar promises Antar the three great joys of life, and, when he assents to the proffered gift, the vision vanishes and he awakes amid the surrounding ruins. II.--The first joy granted by the Queen of Palmyra to Antar are the delights of vengeance. III.--The second joy--the delights of power. IV.--Antar has returned to the fallen remains of Palmyra. The third and last gift granted by the fairy to Antar is the joy of true love. Antar begs the fairy to take away his life as soon as she perceives the least estrangement on his side, and she promises to do his desire. After a long time of mutual bliss the fairy perceives, one day, that Antar is absent in spirit and is gazing into the distance. Straightway, divining the reason, she passionately embraces him. The fire of her love enflames Antar, and his heart is consumed away. Their lips meet in a last kiss and Antar dies in the arms of the fairy. The phases of the story are clear in the chain of musical scenes, of the movements themselves and within them. In the opening Largo that recurs in this movement between the visions and happenings, a melody appears (in violas) that moves in all the [Music: (Violas) _Largo_ (Woodwind)] acts of the tragedy. It is clearly the Antar motive,--here amidst ruin and desolation. The fairy theme is also unmistakable, that first plays in the flute, against soft horns, _Allegro giocoso_, [Music: (Flute) _Allegro giocoso_ (Horns) (Harp)] and is lost in the onrushing attack, _furioso_, of a strain that begins in murmuring of muted strings. Other phrases are merely graphic or incidental. But the Antar motive is throughout the central moving figure. The scene of the desert returns at the end of the movement. In the second (_Allegro_, rising to _Molto allegro_, returning _allargando_) the Antar motive is seldom absent. The ending is in long notes of solo oboe and first violins. There is no trace of the fairy queen throughout the movement. The third movement has phases of mighty action (as in the beginning, _Allegro risoluto alla Marcia_), of delicate charm, and even of humor. The Antar melody plays in the clangor of big climax in sonorous tones of the low brass, against a quick martial phrase of trumpets and horns. Again there is in this movement no sign of the fairy queen. In the fourth movement, after a prelude, _Allegretto vivace_, with light trip of high flutes, a melody, of actual Arab origin, sings _Andante amoroso_ in the [Music: (Arabian melody) _Andante amoroso_ (Eng. horn) (Bassoon)] English horn, and continues almost to the end, broken only by the dialogue of the lover themes. At the close a last strain of the Antar melody is followed by the fairy phrase and soft vanishing chord of harp and strings. _"SCHÉRÉZADE," AFTER "A THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS." SYMPHONIC SUITE_ Prefixed to the score is a "program," in Russian and French: "The Sultan Schahriar, convinced of the infidelity of women, had sworn to put to death each of his wives after the first night. But the Sultana Schérézade saved her life by entertaining him with the stories which she told him during a thousand and one nights. Overcome by curiosity, the Sultan put off from day to day the death of his wife, and at last entirely renounced his bloody vow. "Many wonders were told to Schahriar by the Sultana Schérézade. For the stories the Sultana borrowed the verses of poets and the words of popular romances, and she fitted the tales and adventures one within the other. "I. The Sea and the Vessel of Sindbad. "II. The Tale of the Prince Kalender. "III. The Young Prince and the Young Princess. "IV. Feast at Bagdad. The Sea. The Vessel is Wrecked on a Rock on which is Mounted a Warrior of Brass. Conclusion." With all the special titles the whole cannot be regarded as close description. It is in no sense narrative music. The titles are not in clear order of events, and, moreover, they are quite vague. In the first number we have the sea and merely the vessel, not the voyages, of Sindbad. Then the story of the Prince Kalender cannot be distinguished among the three tales of the royal mendicants. The young prince and the young princess,--there are many of them in these Arabian fairy tales, though we can guess at the particular one. Finally, in the last number, the title mentions an event from the story of the third Prince Kalender, where the vessel (not of Sindbad) is wrecked upon a rock surmounted by a warrior of brass. The Feast of Bagdad has no special place in any one of the stories. The truth is, it is all a mirroring in tones of the charm and essence of these epic gems of the East. It is not like the modern interlinear description, although it might be played during a reading on account of the general agreement of the color and spirit of the music. But there is the sense and feeling of the story, _das Märchen_, and the romance of adventure. The brilliancy of harmony, the eccentricity and gaiety of rhythm seem symbolic and, in a subtle way, descriptive. As in the subject, the stories themselves, there is a luxuriant imagery, but no sign of the element of reflection or even of emotion. _I._--The opening motive, in big, broad rhythm, is clearly the Sea. Some have called it the Sindbad motive. But in essence these are not very different. The Sea is here the very feeling and type of adventure,--nay, Adventure itself. It is a necessary part of fairy stories. Here it begins and ends with its rocking theme, ever moving onward. It comes in the story of the Prince Kalender. The second of the main phrases is evidently the motive of the fairy tale itself, the feeling of "once upon a time," the idea of story, that leads us to the events themselves. It is a mere strumming of chords of the harp, with a vague line, lacking rhythm, as of musical prose. For rhythm is the type of event, of happenings, of the adventure itself. So the formless phrase is the introduction, the narrator, _Märchen_ in an Oriental dress as Schérézade. The first number passes for the most part in a rocking of the motive of the sea, in various moods and movements: _Largo e maestoso, Allegro non troppo,--tranquillo_. At one time even the theme of the story sings to the swaying of the sea.[A] [Footnote A: We remember how Sindbad was tempted after each fortunate escape from terrible dangers to embark once more, and how he tells the story of the seven voyages on seven successive days, amid luxury and feasting.] _II._--In the tale of the Prince Kalender Schérézade, of course, begins the story as usual. But the main thread is in itself another interwoven tale,--_Andantino Capriccioso, quasi recitando_, with a solo in the bassoon _dolce e espressivo_,--later _poco piu mosso_, in violins.[A] There is most of happenings here. A very strident phrase that plays in the brass _Allegro molto_, may be some hobgoblin, or rather an evil jinn, that holds the princess captive and wrecks the hero's vessel. The sea, too, plays a tempestuous part at the same time with the impish mischief of the jinn. [Footnote A: In the old version the word "Calender" is used; in the new translation by Lane we read of "The Three Royal Mendicants." In certain ancient editions they are called "Karendelees,"--i.e., "miserable beggars." Each of the three had lost an eye in the course of his misfortunes. The story (of the Third Kalender) begins with the wreck of the prince's vessel on the mountain of loadstone and the feat of the prince, who shoots the brazen horseman on top of the mountain and so breaks the charm. But there is a long chain of wonders and of troubles, of evil enchantments and of fateful happenings.] _III._--The third number is the idyll,--both of the stories and of the music. Here we are nearest to a touch of sentiment,--apart from the mere drama of haps and mishaps.[A] But there are all kinds of special events. There is no prelude of the narrator. The idyll begins straightway, _Andantino quasi allegretto_, winds through all kinds of scenes and storms, then sings again _dolce e cantabile_. Here, at last, the Schérézade phrase is heard on the violin solo, to chords of the harp; but presently it is lost in the concluding strains of the love story. [Footnote A: The story, if any particular one is in the mind of the composer, is probably that of the Prince Kamar-ez-Zemán and the Princess Budoor. In the quality of the romance it approaches the legends of a later age of chivalry. In the main it is the long quest and the final meeting of a prince and a princess, living in distant kingdoms. Through the magic of genii they have seen each other once and have exchanged rings. The rest of the story is a long search one for the other. There are good and evil spirits, long journeys by land and sea, and great perils. It is an Arab story of the proverbial course of true love.] _IV._--The last number begins with the motive of the sea, like the first, but _Allegro molto_, again followed by the phrase of the story teller. The sea returns _Allegro molto e frenetico_ in full force, and likewise the vague motive of the story in a cadenza of violin solo. Then _Vivo_ comes the dance, the pomp and gaiety of the Festival, with tripping tambourine and strings and the song first in the flutes.[A] Presently a reminder of the sea intrudes,--_con forza_ in lower wood and strings. But other familiar figures flit by,--the evil jinn and the love-idyll. Indeed the latter has a full verse,--in the midst of the carnival. [Footnote A: We may think of the revels of Sindbad before the returning thirst for adventure.] Right out of the festival, rather in full festal array, we seem to plunge into the broad movement of the surging sea, _Allegro non troppo e maestoso_, straight on to the fateful event. There are no sighs and tears. Placidly the waves play softly about. And _dolce e capriccioso_ the siren Schérézade once more reappears to conclude the tale. _RACHMANINOW. SYMPHONY IN E MINOR_[A] [Footnote A: Sergei Rachmaninow, born in 1873.] _I._--The symphony begins with the sombre temper of modern Russian art; at the outset it seems to throb with inmost feeling, uttered in subtlest design. The slow solemn prelude _(Largo)_ opens with the [Music: _Largo_ (Strings)] chief phrase of the work in lowest strings to ominous chords, and treats it with passionate stress until the main pace of Allegro. [Music: _Espr_. (Violins) (Wood and horns)] But the germ of prevailing legend lies deeper. The work is one of the few symphonies where the whole is reared on a smallest significant phrase. The first strain (of basses) is indeed the essence of the following melody and in turn of the main Allegro theme. But, to probe still further, we cannot help feeling an ultimate, briefest motive of single ascending tone against intrinsic obstacle, wonderfully expressed in the harmony, with a mingled sense of resolution and regret. And of like moment is the reverse descending tone. Both of these symbols reappear throughout the symphony, separate or blended in larger melody, as principal or accompanying figures. Aside from this closer view that makes clear the tissue of themal discussion, the first phrase is the main melodic motto, that is instantly echoed in violins with piquant harmony. In the intricate path of deep musing we feel the mantle of a Schumann who had himself a kind of heritage from Bach. And thus we come to see the national spirit best and most articulate through the medium of ancient art. The main Allegro melody not so much grows out of the Largo prelude, as it is of the same fibre and [Music: _Allegro moderato_ 4 times _molto expr._ (Violins) (Wood with _tremolo_ strings) (Strings with clarinets and bassoons)] identity. The violins sing here against a stately march of harmonies. Such is the fine coherence that the mere heralding rhythm is wrought of the first chords of the Largo, with their descending stress. And the expressive melody is of the same essence as the original sighing motto, save with a shift of accent that gives a new fillip of motion. In this movement at least we see the type of real symphony, that throbs and sings and holds us in the thrall of its spirit and song. Moments there are here of light and joy, quickly drooping to the darker mood. Following the free flight of main melody is a skein of quicker figures, on aspirant pulse, answered by broad, tragic descent in minor tones. Milder, more tranquil sings now the second melody, a striking embodiment of the sense of striving ascent. Chanted in higher reeds, it is immediately [Music: (Oboes and clarinets) (Violins) (Oboes and clar'ts) (Horns) (Bassoons) _dolce_ (_Pizz._ strings)] followed and accompanied by an expressive answer in the strings. On the wing of this song we rise to a height where begins the path of a brief nervous motive (of the first notes of the symphony) that with the descending tone abounds in various guise. As a bold glance at the sun is punished by a sight of solar figures all about, so we feel throughout the tonal story the presence of these symbols. An epilogue of wistful song leads to the repeated melodies. The main figure of the plot that follows is the first melody, now in slow, graceful notes, now in feverish pace, though the brief (second) motive moves constantly here and there. A darkest descent follows into an Avernus of deep brooding on the legend, with an ascending path of the brief, nervous phrase and a reverse fall, that finally wears out its own despair and ends in a sombre verse of the prelude, with new shades of melancholy, then plunges into an overwhelming burst on the sighing phrase. Thence the path of brooding begins anew; but it is now ascendant, on the dual pulse of the poignant motto and the brief, nervous motive. The whole current of passion is thus uttered in the prelude strain that at the outset was pregnant with feeling. At the crisis it is answered or rather interwoven with a guise of the second theme, in hurried pace, chanted by stentorian brass and wood in hallooing chorus that reaches a high exultation. To be sure the Russian at his gladdest seems tinged with sense of fate. So from the single burst we droop again. But the gloom is pierced by brilliant shafts,--herald calls (of brass and wood) that raise the mood of the returning main melody, and in their continuous refrain add a buoyant stimulus. And the verse of quicker figures has a new fire and ferment. All absent is the former descent of minor tones. Instead, in solemn hush of tempest, without the poignant touch, the tranquil second melody returns with dulcet answer of strings. A loveliest verse is of this further song where, in a dual chase of tune, the melody moves in contained rapture. In the cadence is a transfigured phase of the ascending tone, mingled with the retiring melody, all woven to a soothing cadence. But the struggle is not over, nor is redemption near. The dulcet phrases sink once more to sombre depth where there is a final, slow-gathering burst of passion on the motto, with a conclusive ring almost of fierce triumph. _II._--The second movement, _Allegro molto_, is a complete change from introspection and passion to an [Music: _Allegro molto_ (Insistent strum of strings) _Marcato_] abandon as of primitive dance. Strings stir the feet; the horns blow the first motive of the savage tune; the upper wood fall in with a dashing jingle,--like a stroke of cymbals across the hostile harmonies. Whether a recurring idiom is merely personal or belongs to the special work is difficult to tell. In reality it matters little. Here the strange rising tone is the same as in the former (second) melody. In the rude vigor of harmonies the primitive idea is splendidly stressed. Right in the answer is a guise of short, nervous phrase, that gets a new touch of bizarre by a leap of the seventh from below. In this figure that moves throughout the symphony we see an outward symbol of an inner connection.--Bells soon lend a festive ring to the main tune. In quieter pace comes a tranquil song of lower voices with a companion melody above,--all in serene major. Though it grew naturally out of the rude [Music: _Molto cantabile_] dance, the tune has a contrasting charm of idyll and, too, harks back to the former lyric strains that followed the second melody. When the dance returns, there is instead of discussion a mere extension of main motive in full chorus. But here in the midst the balance is more than restored. From the dance that ceases abruptly we go straight to school or rather cloister. On our recurring nervous phrase a fugue is rung with all pomp and ceremony (_meno mosso_); and of the dance there are mere faint echoing memories, when the [Music: _Meno mosso_ (Oboe) _molto marcato_ (Violins) staccato] fugal text seems for a moment to weave itself into the first tune. Instead, comes into the midst of sermon a hymnal chant, blown gently by the brass, while other stray [Music: _Leggiero_] voices run lightly on the thread of fugue. There is, indeed, a playful suggestion of the dance somehow in the air. A final tempest of the fugue[A] brings us back to the full verse of dance and the following melodies. But before the end sounds a broad hymnal line in the brass with a dim thread of the fugue, and the figures steal away in solemn stillness. [Footnote A: It is of the first two notes of the symphony that the fugal theme is made. For though it is longer in the strings, the brief motion is ever accented in the wood. Thus relentless is the themal coherence. If we care to look closer we see how the (following) chant is a slower form of the fugal theme, while the bass is in the line of the dance-tune. In the chant in turn we cannot escape a reminder, if not a likeness, of the second theme of the first movement.] _III._--The Adagio has one principal burden, first borne by violins,--that rises from the germ of earlier [Music: _Adagio_ (Strings with added harmony in bassoons and horns)] lyric strains. Then the clarinet joins in a quiet madrigal of tender phrases. We are tempted to find here an influence from a western fashion, a taint of polythemal virtuosity, in this mystic maze of many strains harking from all corners of the work, without a gain over an earlier Russian simplicity. Even the Slavic symphony seems to have fallen into a state of artificial cunning, where all manners of greater [Music: (Solo clarinet) _espress._ (Divided strings) _dolce_] or lesser motives are packed close in a tangled mass. It cannot be said that a true significance is achieved in proportion to the number of concerting themes. We might dilate on the sheer inability of the hearer to grasp a clear outline in such a multiple plot. There is somehow a false kind of polyphony, a too great facility of spurious counterpoint, that differs subtly though sharply from the true art where the number entails no loss of individual quality; where the separate melodies move by a divine fitness that measures the perfect conception of the multiple idea; where there is no thought of a later padding to give a shimmer of profound art. It is here that the symphony is in danger from an exotic style that had its origin in German music-drama. From this point the Rachmaninow symphony languishes in the fountain of its fresh inspiration, seems consciously constructed with calculating care. There is, after all, no virtue in itself in mere themal interrelation,--in particular of lesser phrases. One cogent theme may well prevail as text of the whole. As the recurring motives are multiplied, they must lose individual moment. The listener's grasp becomes more difficult, until there is at best a mystic maze, a sweet chaos, without a clear melodic thought. It cannot be maintained that the perception of the modern audience has kept pace with the complexity of scores. Yet there is no gainsaying an alluring beauty of these waves of sound rising to fervent height in the main melody that is expressive of a modern wistfulness. But at the close is a fierce outbreak of the first motto, with a defiance of regret, in faster, reckless pace, brief, but suddenly recurring. Exquisite is this [Music: (Ob.) _cantabile_ (Strings, wood and horns)] cooing of voices in mournful bits of the motto, with a timid upper phrase in the descending tone. On we go in the piling of Ossa on Pelion, where the motto and even the Scherzo dance lend their text. Yet all is fraught with sentient beauty as, rising in Titanic climb, it plunges into an overwhelming cry in the Adagio melody. Throughout, the ascending and descending tones, close interwoven, give a blended hue of arduous striving and regret. After a pause follow a series of refrains of solo voices in the melody, with muted strings, with mingled strains of the motto. In the bass is an undulation that recalls the second theme of former movement. And the clarinet returns with its mystic madrigal of melody; now the Adagio theme enters and gives it point and meaning. In one more burst it sings in big and little in the same alluring harmony, whence it dies down to soothing close in brilliant gamut as of sinking sun. _IV.--Allegro vivace._ Throwing aside the clinging [Music: _Allegro vivace_ _Molto marcato_ (Strings, wood and horns with reinforced harmonies)] fragments of fugue in the prelude we rush into a gaiety long sustained. Almost strident is the ruthless merriment; we are inclined to fear that the literal coherence of theme is greater than the inner connection of mood. At last the romp hushes to a whisper of drum, with strange patter of former dance. And following and accompanying it is a new hymnal (or is it martial) line, as it were the reverse of the other [Music: (Reeds and horns) (Strings with the quicker dance phrase of 2d movement)] chant. The gay figures flit timidly back,--a struggle 'twixt pleasure and fate,--but soon regain control. If we cared to interpret, we might find in the Finale a realized aspiration. The truth is the humors of the themal phrases, as of the movements, jar: they are on varying planes. The coarser vein of the last is no solace to the noble grief of the foregoing. Again the change or series of moods is not clearly defined. They seem a parade of visions. The hymn may be viewed as a guise of the former chant of the Scherzo, with the dance-trip in lowest bass. Straight from the rush and romp we plunge anew into a trance of sweet memories. The lyric vein here binds together earlier strains, whose kinship had not appeared. They seemed less significant, hidden as subsidiary ideas. If we care to look back we find a germ of phrase in the first Prelude, and then the answer of the second (Allegro) theme of first movement. There was, too, the sweep of dual melody following the rude dance of Scherzo. Above all is here the essence and spirit of the central Adagio melody of the symphony. The answering strain is of high beauty, with a melting sense of farewell. From the sad ecstasy is a [Music: (Strings with higher and lower 8ve.) (Wood and horns in 8ves.) (Basses of strings and reeds)] descent to mystic musing, where abound the symbols of rising and falling tones. More and more moving is the climactic melody of regret with a blended song in large and little. Most naturally it sinks into a full verse of the Adagio tune--whence instantly is aroused a new battle of moods. While the dance capers below, above is the sobbing phrase from the heart of the Adagio. The trip falls into the pace of hymnal march. The shadows of many figures return. Here is the big descending scale in tragic minor from the first movement. Large it looms, in bass and treble. Answering it is a figure of sustained thirds that recalls the former second (Allegro) melody. And still the trip of dance goes on. Sharpest and strongest of all these memories is the big sigh of sombre harmonies from the first Largo prelude, answered by the original legend. And the dance still goes tripping on and the tones rumble in descent. The dance has vanished; no sound but the drone of dull, falling tones, that multiply like the spirits of the sorcerer apprentice, in large form and small, with the big rumbling in a quick patter as of scurrying mice. Suddenly a new spirit enters with gathering volume and warmer harmony. As out of a dream we gradually emerge, at the end with a shock of welcome to light and day, as we awake to the returning glad dance. And here is a new entrancing counter-tune above that crowns the joy. Once again the skip falls into the ominous descent with the phantom of Scherzo dance in basses. Now returns the strange hymnal line of march and the other anxious hue. But quickly they are transformed into the tempest of gaiety in full parade. When a new burst is preparing, we see the sighing figure all changed to opposite mood. The grim tune of Scherzo dance enters mysteriously in big and little and slowly takes on a softened hue, losing the savage tinge. After the returning dance, the farewell melody sings from full throat. Before the ending revel we may feel a glorified guise of the sombre legend of the symphony. CHAPTER XII SIBELIUS. A FINNISH SYMPHONY[A] [Footnote A: Symphony No. 1, in E minor, by Jan Sibelius, born in 1865.] We must expect that the music of newer nations will be national. It goes without saying; for the music comes fresh from the soil; it is not the result of long refined culture. There is the strain and burst of a burden of racial feeling to utter itself in the most pliant and eloquent of all the languages of emotion. It is the first and noblest sentiment of every nation conscious of its own worth, and it has its counterpart in the individual. Before the utterance has been found by a people, before it has felt this sense of its own quality, no other message can come. So the most glorious period in the history of every country (even in the eyes of other nations) is the struggle for independence, whether successful or not. All on a new plane is this northernmost symphony, with a crooning note almost of savage, and sudden, fitful bursts from languorous to fiery mood. The harmony, the turn of tune have a national quality, delicious and original, though the Oriental tinge appears, as in Slav and Magyar music, both in bold and in melancholy humor. Though full of strange and warm colors, the harmonic scheme is simple; rather is the work a tissue of lyric rhapsody than the close-woven plot of tonal epic. A certain trace of revery does find a vent in the traditional art of contrary melodies. But a constant singing in pairs is less art than ancient folk-manner, like primal music in the love or dance songs of savages. The symphony begins with a quiet rhapsody of solo clarinet in wistful minor, clear without chords, though there is a straying into major. There is no accompaniment save a soft roll of drum, and that soon dies away. [Music: _Andante, ma non troppo_ _espress._ (Clarinet)] The rhapsody seems too vague for melody; yet there are motives, one in chief, winding to a pause; here is a new appealing phrase; the ending is in a [Music] return to the first. Over the whole symphony is cast the hue of this rhapsody, both in mood and in the literal tone. All opposite, with sudden spring of buoyant strings, strikes the Allegro tune ending in a quick, dancing trip. The first voice is immediately pursued by another [Music: _Allegro energico_ (2d violins) _Piu forte_ (Violins with higher 8ve.) (Cellos with higher 8ve. in violas)] in similar phase, like a gentler shadow, and soon rises to a passionate chord that is the main idiom of the movement. [Music: (Strings, wood and horns)] A second theme in clear-marked tones of reed and horns, as of stern chant, is taken up in higher wood and grows to graceful melody in flowing strings. [Music: _marcato_] There is a series of flights to an ever higher perch of harmony until the first Allegro motive rings out in fullest chorus, again with the companion tune and the cadence of poignant dissonance. A new episode comes with shimmering of harp and strings, where rare and dainty is the sense of primal [Music: _marcato_ (Flutes) (Strings with chord of harp)] harmony that lends a pervading charm to the symphony. Here the high wood has a song in constant thirds, right from the heart of the rhapsody, all bedecked as melody with a new rhythm and answer. Soon this simple lay is woven in a skein of pairs of voices, meeting or diverging. But quickly we are back in the trance of lyric song, over palpitating strings, with the refrain very like the former companion phrase that somehow leads or grows to a [Music: _Tranquillo_ (Oboe, with other wood) (Strings with higher E)] rhythmic verse of the first strain of the rhapsody. Here begins a long mystic phase of straying voices (of the wood) in the crossing figures of the song, in continuous fantasy that somehow has merged into the line of second Allegro theme, winging towards a brilliant height where the strings ring out the strain amid sharp cries of the brass in startling hues of harmony and electric calls from the first rhapsody. From out the maze and turmoil the shadowy melody rises in appealing beauty like heavenly vision and lo! is but a guise of the first strain of rhapsody. It rises amid flashes of fiery brass in bewildering blare of main theme, then sinks again to the depth of brooding, though the revery of the appealing phrase has a climactic height of its own, with the strange, palpitating harmonies. In a new meditation on bits of the first Allegro theme sounds suddenly a fitful burst of the second, that presently emerges in triumphant, sovereign song. Again, on a series of flights the main theme is reached and leaps once more to impassioned height. But this is followed by a still greater climax of moving pathos whence we descend once more to lyric meditation (over trembling strings). Follows a final tempest and climax of the phrase of second theme. The movement thus ends, not in joyous exultation, but in a fierce triumph of sombre minor. The Andante is purest folk-melody, and it is strange how we know this, though we do not know the special theme. We cannot decry the race-element as a rich fount of melody. While older nations strive and strain, it pours forth by some mystery in prodigal flow with less tutored peoples who are singing their first big song to the world. Only, the ultimate goal for each racial inspiration must be a greater universal celebration. The lyric mood is regnant here, in a melody that, springing from distant soil, speaks straight to every heart, above all with the concluding refrain. It is of the purest vein, of the primal fount, deeper than mere racial turn or trait. Moreover, with a whole coronet of gems of modern harmony, it has a broad swing and curve that gives the soothing sense of fireside; [Music: _Andante ma non troppo lento_ (Muted violins) (Sustained horns and basses with lower 8ve.; constant stroke of harp) (Clarinets)] it bears a burden of elemental, all-contenting emotion. In the main, the whole movement is one lyric flight. But there come the moods of musing and rhapsodic rapture. In a brief fugal vein is a mystic harking back to the earlier prelude. In these lesser phrases are the foil or counter-figures for the bursts of the melody. It is the first motive of the main tune that is the refrain in ever higher and more fervent exclamation, or in close pressing chase of voices. Then follows a melting episode,--some golden piece of the melody in plaintive cellos, 'neath tremulous wood or delicate choirs of strings. But there is a second tune, hardly less moving, in dulcet group of horns amid shimmering strings and harp, with a light bucolic answer in playful reed. [Music: _Molto tranquillo_ (Violins) _dolce_ (Horns) (With arpeggic harp)] And it has a glowing climax, too, with fiery trumpet, and dashing strings and clashing wood. Gorgeous in the warm depth of horns sound now the returning tones of the first noble melody, with playful trill of the wood, in antiphonal song of trumpets and strings. And there are revels of new turns of the tune (where the stirring harmony seems the best of all) that will rise to a frenzy of tintinnabulation. A quicker counter-theme lends life and motion to all this play and plot. A big, solemn stride of the middle strain (of main melody) precedes the last returning verse, with all the tender pathos of the beginning. The Scherzo is wild race-feeling let loose--national music that has not yet found a melody. Significantly the drums begin the tune, to a dancing strain of _pizzicato_ strings. The tune is so elemental that the [Music: _Allegro_ (Violins) (_Pizz._ cellos double above in violas)] drums can really play it; the answer is equally rude,--an arpeggic motive of strings against quick runs of the higher wood. Out of it grows a tinge of tune with a fresh spring of dance,--whence returns the first savage motive. This is suddenly changed to the guise of a fugal theme, with new close, that starts a maze of disputation. Right from the full fire of the rough dance, sad-stressed chords plunge into a moving plaint with much sweetness of melody and higher counter-melody. Then returns again the original wild rhythm. [Music: _Lento ma non troppo_] In the last movement the composer confesses the "Fantasy" in the title. It begins with a broad sweep of the returning rhapsody, the prologue of the symphony, though without the former conclusion. Now it sings in a strong unison of the strings _largamente ed appassionato_, and with clang of chord in lower brass. The appealing middle phrase is all disguised in strum as of dance. The various strains sing freely in thirds, with sharp punctuating chords. Throughout is a balance of the pungent vigor of harmonies with dulcet melody. In sudden rapid pace the strumming figure dances in the lower reed, then yields to the play (in the strings) of a lively (almost comic) tune of a strong national tinge,--a kind that seems native to northern countries and is not unlike a strain that crept into [Music: _Allegro molto_] American song. A tempest of pranks is suddenly halted before the entrance of a broad melody, with underlying harmonies of latent passion. The feeling of fantasy is in the further flow, with free singing chords of harp. But ever between the lines creeps in the strumming phrase, from the first prelude, returned to its earlier mood. [Music: _Andante assai_ (Violins) _cantabile ed espressivo_ (Horns) (Clarinets) (_Tremolo_ cellos, with lower C in basses)] With baffling mystery anon come other appealing phrases from the beginning, that show the whole to be the woof almost of a single figure, or at least to lie within the poetic scope of the prologue. A fugal revel of the comic phrase with the quick strum as counter-theme ends in a new carnival,--here a dashing march, there a mad chase of strident harmonies. Now sings the full romance and passion of the melody through the whole gamut from pathos to rapture. It ends with poignant stress of the essence of the song, with sheerest grating of straining harmonies. In the midst, too, is again the mystic symbol from the heart of the prelude. Then with a springing recoil comes a last jubilation, though still in the prevailing minor, with a final coursing of the quick theme. The whole is a broad alternation of moods, of wild abandon and of tender feeling,--the natural dual quality of primal music. So, at least in the Finale, this is a Finnish fantasy, on the very lines of other national rhapsody. CHAPTER XIII BOHEMIAN SYMPHONIES In the music of modern Bohemia is one of the most vital utterances of the folk-spirit. The critic may not force a correspondence of politics and art to support his theory. Yet a cause may here be found as in Russia and Finland. (Poland and Hungary had their earlier song). There is a sincerity, an unpremeditated quality in Bohemian music that is not found among its western neighbors. The spirit is its own best proof, without a conscious stress of a national note. Indeed, Bohemian music is striking, not at all in a separate tonal character, like Hungarian, but rather in a subtle emotional intensity, which again differs from the wild abandon of the Magyars. An expression it must be of a national feeling that has for ages been struggling against absorption. Since ancient times Bohemia has been part of a Teutonic empire. The story of its purely native kings is not much more than legendary. Nor has it shared the harder fate of other small nations; for the Teuton rule at least respected its separate unity. But the long association with the German people has nearly worn away the racial signs and hall-marks of its folk-song. A Bohemian tune thus has a taste much like the native German. Yet a quality of its own lies in the emotional vitality, shown in a school of national drama and, of late, in symphony. It is not necessary to seek in this modern culmination a correspondence with an impending danger of political suppression. Art does not follow history with so instant a reflection. The intensity of this national feeling appears when Smetana himself, the minstrel of the people, is charged at home with yielding to the foreign influence. Here again is the hardship of the true national poet who feels that for the best utterance of his message he needs the grounding upon a broader art; here is the narrow Chauvinism that has confined the music of many lands within the primitive forms. Two types we have in Bohemian music of later times: one, Smetana, of pure national celebration; a second, Dvôrák, who with a profound absorption of the German masters, never escaped the thrall of the folk-element and theme. _SMETANA. SYMPHONIC POEM, "THE MOLDAU RIVER"_[A] [Footnote A: Friedrich Smetana, 1824-1884, foremost among Bohemian dramatic composers, wrote a cycle of symphonic poems under the general title "My Country." Of these the present work is the second.] Simplicity is uppermost in these scores; yet the true essence is almost hidden to the mere reader. With all primitive quality they are more difficult than many a classic symphony. The latent charm of folk humor and sentiment depends more on tradition and sympathy than on notation. The naïvely graphic impulse (that we find throughout the choral works of Bach) that merely starts a chance themal line, as here of the first branch of the Moldau, does not disturb the emotional expression. And while the feeling is sustained, the art is there, not to stifle but to utter and set free the native spring of song. It must be yielded that the design is not profound; it smacks of the village fair rather than of grand tragedy. Song is ever supreme, and with all abundance of contrapuntal art does not become sophisticated. The charm is not of complexity, but of a more child-like, sensuous kind. It must all be approached in a different way from other symphonic music. The minstrel is not even the peasant in court costume, as Dvôrák once was called. He is the peasant in his own village dress, resplendent with color and proud of his rank. We cannot enjoy the music with furrowed brow. It is a case where music touches Mother Earth and rejuvenates herself. Like fairy lore and proverbs, its virtue lies in some other element than profound design. For any form of song or verse that enshrines the spirit of a people and is tried in the forge of ages of tradition, lives on more surely than the fairest art of individual poet. The stream is the great figure, rising from small sources in playful flutes, with light spray of harp and [Music: _Allegro commodo non agitato_ _lusingando_ (Flute with chord of _pizz._ strings)] strings. The first brook is joined by another (in clarinets) from a new direction. Soon grows the number and the rustle of confluent waters. The motion of the strings is wavelike, of a broader flow, though underneath we scan the several lesser currents. Above floats now the simple, happy song, that expands [Music: _dolce_ (Reeds and horns with waving strings and stroke of triangle)] with the stream and at last reaches a glad, sunny major. Still to the sound of flowing waters comes the forest hunt, with all the sport of trumpets and other brass. It is descriptive music, tonal painting if you will; but the color is local or national. The strokes are not so much of events or scenes as of a popular humor and character, which we must feel with small stress of each event. The blowing of trumpets, the purling of streams, the swaying of trees, in primal figures, all breathe the spirit of Bohemia. The hunt dies away; emerging from the forest the jolly sounds greet us of a peasant wedding. The [Music: _Tempo moderato_ (Reeds and strings)] parade reaches the church in high festivity and slowly vanishes to tinkling bells. Night has fallen; in shifted scene the stream is sparkling in the moonlight still to the quiet sweet harmonies. But this is all background for a dance of nymphs, while a dulcet, sustained song sounds through the night. At last, to the golden horns a faintest harmony is added of deeper brass. Still very softly, the brass strike a quicker phrase and we seem to hear the hushed chorus of hunt with the call of trumpets, as the other brass lead in a new verse that grows lustier with the livelier song and dance, till--with a flash we are alone with the running stream with which the dance of nymphs has somehow merged. On it goes, in happy, ever more masterful course, a symbol of the nation's career, surging in bright major and for a moment quieting before the mighty Rapids of St. Johann. Here the song of the stream is nearly lost in the rush of eddies and the strife of big currents, with the high leaps of dashing spray,--ever recurring like unceasing battle with a towering clash at the height of the tempest. At last all meet in overpowering united torrent, suddenly to hush before the stream, at the broadest, rushes majestically along in hymnal song of exalted harmonies and triumphant melody, with joyous after-strains. As the pilgrim to his Mecca, so the waters are wafted into the climactic motive of the Hradschin, the chant of the holy citadel. The rest is a long jubilation [Music: _Motiv Vyserad_ (Full orchestra, with rapid figures in the strings)] on quicker beats of the chant, amid the plash of waters and the shaking of martial brass. Strangely, as the other sounds die away, the melody of the stream emerges clear and strong, then vanishes in the distance before the jubilant Amen. In the general view we must feel a wonderful contrast here with the sophomoric state of the contemporary art in other lands where the folk-song has lost its savor,--where the natural soil is exhausted and elegant castles are built in the air of empty fantasy, or on the sands of a vain national pride. _DVÔRÁK. SYMPHONY, "FROM THE NEW WORLD."_[A] [Footnote A: Anton Dvôrák, 1841-1904.] It is a much-discussed question how far Dvôrák's American symphony is based on characteristic folk-song. Here are included other questions: to what extent the themes are based on an African type, and whether negro music is fairly American folk-song. Many, perhaps most people, will answer with a general negative. But it seems to be true that many of us do not really know the true negro song,--have quite a wrong idea of it. To be sure, all argument aside, it is a mistake to think that folk-song gets its virtue purely from a distinctive national quality,--because it is Hungarian, Scandinavian, or Slavonic. If all the national modes and rhythms of the world were merged in one republic, there would still be a folk-song of the true type and value. There is a subtle charm and strength in the spontaneous simplicity, all aside from racial color. It is here that, like Antaeus, the musician touches Mother Earth and renews his strength. So, when Dvôrák suddenly shifts in the midst of his New World fantasy into a touch of Bohemian song, there is no real loss. It is all relevant in the broad sense of folk feeling, that does not look too closely at geographical bounds. It is here that music, of all arts, leads to a true state of equal sympathy, regardless of national prejudice. What, therefore, distinguishes Dvôrák's symphony may not be mere negro melody, or even American song, but a genuine folk-feeling, in the widest meaning. In one way, Dvôrák's work reminds us of Mendelssohn's Scotch Symphony: both exploit foreign national melody in great poetic forms. One could write a Scotch symphony in two ways: one, in Mendelssohn's, the other would be to tell of the outer impression in the terms of your own folk-song. That is clearly the way Mendelssohn wrote most of the Italian Symphony,--which stands on a higher plane than the Scotch. For folk-song is the natural language of its own people. It is interesting to see the exact type that each theme represents; but it is not so important as to catch the distinction, the virtue of folk-song _per se_ and the purely natural utterance of one's own. Of course, every one writes always in his folk-tones. On the other hand, one may explore one's own special treasures of native themes, as Dvôrák himself did so splendidly in his Slavic Dances and in his Legends. So one must, after all, take this grateful, fragrant work as an idea of what American composers might do in full earnest. Dvôrák is of all later masters the most eminent folk-musician. He shows greatest sympathy, freedom and delight in revelling among the simple tones and rhythms of popular utterance, rearing on them, all in poetic spontaneity, a structure of high art. Without strain or show, Dvôrák stood perhaps the most genuine of late composers, with a firm foot on the soil of native melody, yet with the balance and restraint and the clear vision of the trained master.[A] [Footnote A: The whole subject of American and negro folk-song is new and unexplored. There are races of the blacks living on the outer reefs and islands of the Carolinas, with not more than thirty whites in a population of six thousand, where "spirituals" and other musical rites are held which none but negroes may attend. The truest African mode and rhythm would seem to be preserved here; to tell the truth, there is great danger of their loss unless they are soon recorded.] In a certain view, it would seem that by the fate of servitude the American negro has become the element in our own national life that alone produces true folk-song,--that corresponds to the peasant and serf of Europe, the class that must find in song the refuge and solace for its loss of material joys. So Dvôrák perhaps is right, with a far seeing eye, when he singles the song of the despised race as the national type. Another consideration fits here. It has been suggested that the imitative sense of the negro has led him to absorb elements of other song. It is very difficult to separate original African elements of song from those that may thus have been borrowed. At any rate, there is no disparagement of the negro's musical genius in this theory. On the contrary, it would be almost impossible to imagine a musical people that would resist the softer tones of surrounding and intermingling races. We know, to be sure, that Stephen Foster, the author of "The Old Folks at Home," "Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground," and other famous ballads, was a Northerner, though his mother came from the South. We hear, too, that he studied negro music eagerly. It is not at all inconceivable, however, Foster's song may have been devoid of negro elements, that the colored race absorbed, wittingly or unwittingly, something of the vein into their plaints or lullabies,--that, indeed, Foster's songs may have been a true type that stirred their own imitation. From all points of view,--the condition of slavery, the trait of assimilation and the strong gift of musical expression may have conspired to give the negro a position and equipment which would entitle his tunes to stand as the real folk-song of America. The eccentric accent seems to have struck the composer strongly. And here is a strange similarity with Hungarian song,--though there is, of course, no kinship of race whatever between Bohemians and Magyars. One might be persuaded to find here simply an ebullition of rhythmic impulse,--the desire for a special fillip that starts and suggests a stronger energy of motion than the usual conventional pace. At any rate, the symphony begins with just such strong, nervous phrases that soon gather big force. Hidden is the germ of the first, undoubtedly the chief theme of the whole work. It is more and more remarkable how a search will show the true foundation of almost all of Dvôrák's themes. Not that one of them is actually borrowed, or lacks an original, independent reason for being. Whether by imitation or not, the pentatonic scale of the Scotch is an intimate part of negro song. This avoidance of the seventh or leading tone is seen throughout the symphony as well as in the traditional jubilee tunes. It may be that this trait was merely confirmed in the African by foreign musical influence. For it seems that the leading-note, the urgent need for the ascending half-tone in closing, belongs originally to the minstrelsy of the Teuton and of central Europe, that resisted and conquered the sterner modes of the early Church. Ruder nations here agreed with Catholic ritual in preferring the larger interval of the whole tone. But in the quaint jump of the third the Church had no part, clinging closely to a diatonic process. The five-toned scale is indeed so widespread that it cannot be fastened on any one race or even family of nations. The Scotch have it; it is characteristic of the Chinese and of the American Indian. But, independently of the basic mode or scale, negro songs show here and there a strange feeling for a savage kind of lowering of this last note. The pentatonic scale simply omits it, as well as the fourth step. But the African will now and then rudely and forcibly lower it by a half-tone. In the minor it is more natural; for it can then be thought of as the fifth of the relative major. Moreover, it is familiar to us in the Church chant. This effect we have in the beginning of the Scherzo. Many of us do not know the true African manner, here. But in the major it is much more barbarous. And it is almost a pity that Dvôrák did not strike it beyond an occasional touch (as in the second quoted melody). A fine example is "Roll, Jordan Roll," in E flat (that opens, by the way, much like Dvôrák's first theme), where the beginning of the second line rings out on a savage D flat, out of all key to Caucasian ears. We soon see stealing out of the beginning _Adagio_ an eccentric pace in motion of the bass, that leads to the burst of main subject, _Allegro molto_, with a certain [Music: _Allegro molto_ (Strings) (Horns) _Pizz._ (Strings) (Clarinets doubled below in bassoons) (Strings)] ragged rhythm that we Americans cannot disclaim as a nation. The working up is spirited, and presently out of the answer grows a charming jingle that somehow strikes home. [Music: (Violins, with harmony in lower strings)] It begins in the minor and has a strange, barbaric touch of cadence. Many would acknowledge it at most as a touch of Indian mode. Yet it is another phase of the lowered seventh. And if we care to search, we find quite a prototype in a song like "Didn't My Lord Deliver Daniel." Soon the phrase has a more familiar ring as it turns into a friendly major. But the real second theme comes in a solo tune on the flute, in the major, [Music: (Solo flute) (Strings)] with a gait something like the first.[A] Less and less we can resist the genuine negro quality of these melodies, and, at the same time, their beauty and the value of the tonal treasure-house in our midst. [Footnote A: Again it is interesting to compare here the jubilee song, "Oh! Redeemed," in the collection of "Jubilee and Plantation Songs," of the Oliver Ditson Company.] The whole of the first Allegro is thus woven of three melodious and characteristic themes in very clear sonata-form. The second, Largo, movement is a lyric of moving pathos, with a central melody that may not have striking traits of strict African song, and yet belongs to the type closely associated with the negro vein of plaint or love-song. The rhythmic [Music: _Largo_ (English horn solo)] turns that lead to periods of excitement and climaxes of rapid motion, are absent in the main melody. But [Music: (Oboe and clarinets) (Basses _pizz._ with _tremolo_ figures in violins)] they appear in the episode that intervenes. Even here, in the midst, is a new contrast of a minor lament that has a strong racial trait in the sudden swing to major and, as quickly, back to the drearier mode. This is followed by a rhapsody or succession of rapid, primitive phrases, that leads to a crisis where, of a sudden, three themes sing at once, the two of the previous Allegro and the main melody of the Largo, in distorted pace with full chorus. This excitement is as suddenly lulled and soothed by the return of the original moving song. The Scherzo starts in a quick three-beat strum on the chord we have pointed to as a true model trait of negro music, with the lowered leading-note. The [Music: _molto vivace_ (Fl. and oboes) (Strings) (Cl't.)] theme, discussed in close stress of imitation, seems merely to mark the rapid swing in the drone of strange harmony. But what is really a sort of Trio (_poco sostenuto_) is another sudden, grateful change to major, perfectly true to life, so to speak, in this turn of mode and in the simple lines of the tune. The lyric mood all but suppresses the dance, the melody sounding like a new verse of the Largo. The trip has always lingered, but not too much for the delicious change when it returns to carry us off our feet. The Scherzo now steals in again, quite a piece, it seems, with the Trio. As the rising volume nears a crisis, the earliest theme (from the first Allegro) is heard in the basses. In the hushed discourse of Scherzo theme that follows, the old melody still intrudes. In mockery of one of its turns comes an enchanting bit of tune, as naïve an utterance as any, much like a children's dancing song. And it returns later with still new enchantment of rhythm. But the whole is too full of folk-melody to trace out, yet is, in its very fibre, true to the idea of an epic of the people. Presently the whole Scherzo and Trio are rehearsed; but now instead of the phase of latest melodies is a close where the oldest theme (of Allegro) is sung in lusty blasts of the horns and wood, with answers of the Scherzo motive. In the last movement, _Allegro con fuoco_, appears early a new kind of march tune that, without special [Music: _Allegro con fuoco_ (Horns and trumpets with full orchestra)] trick of rhythm, has the harsh note of lowered leading-note (in the minor, to be sure) in very true keeping with negro song. The march is carried on, with flowing answer, to a high pitch of varied splendor and tonal power. The second theme is utterly opposed in a certain pathetic rhapsody. Yet it rises, at the close, to a fervent burst in rapid motion. We [Music: (Solo clarinets) (_tremolo_ strings)] may expect in the Finale an orgy of folk-tune and dance, and we are not disappointed. There is, too, a quick rise and fall of mood, that is a mark of the negro as well as of the Hungarian. By a sudden doubling, we are in the midst of a true "hoe-down," in jolliest jingle, with that naïve iteration, true to life; it comes out clearest when the tune of the bass (that sounds like a rapid "Three Blind Mice") is [Music: (Strings, wood and brass) (See page 205, line 9.)] put in the treble. A pure idealized negro dance-frolic is here. It is hard to follow all the pranks; lightly as the latest phrase descends in extending melody, a rude blast of the march intrudes in discordant humor. A new jingle of dance comes with a redoubled pace of bits of the march. As this dies down to dimmest bass, the old song from the Largo rings high in the wood. Strangest of all, in a fierce shout of the whole chorus sounds twice this same pathetic strain. Later comes a redoubled speed of the march in the woodwind, above a slower in low strings. Now the original theme of all has a noisy say. Presently the sad second melody has a full verse. Once more the Largo lullaby sings its strain in the minor. In the close the original Allegro theme has a literal, vigorous dispute with the march-phrase for the last word of all. The work does less to exploit American music than to show a certain community in all true folk-song. Nor is this to deny a strain peculiar to the new world. It seems a poet of distant land at the same time and in the same tones uttered his longing for his own country and expressed the pathos and the romance of the new. Dvôrák, like all true workers, did more than he thought: he taught Americans not so much the power of a song of their own, as their right of heritage in all folk-music. And this is based not merely on an actual physical inheritance from the various older races. If the matter, in Dvôrák's symphony, is of American negro-song, the manner is Bohemian. A stranger-poet may light more clearly upon the traits of a foreign lore. But his celebration will be more conscious if he endeavor to cling throughout to the special dialect. A true national expression will come from the particular soil and will be unconscious of its own idiom. The permanent hold that Dvôrák's symphony has gained is due to an intrinsic merit of art and sincere sentiment; it has little to do with the nominal title or purpose. CHAPTER XIV THE EARLIER BRUCKNER[A] [Footnote A: Anton Bruckner, born at Annsfelden, Austria, 1828; died in Vienna in 1896.] Whatever be the final answer of the mooted question of the greatness of Bruckner's symphonies, there is no doubt that he had his full share of technical profundity, and a striking mastery of the melodious weaving of a maze of concordant strains. The question inevitably arises with Bruckner as to the value of the world's judgments on its contemporary poets. There can be no doubt that the _furore_ of the musical public tends to settle on one or two favorites with a concentration of praise that ignores the work of others, though it be of a finer grain. Thus Schubert's greatest--his one completed--symphony was never acclaimed until ten years after his death. Even his songs somehow brought more glory to the singer than to the composer. Bach's oratorios lay buried for a full century. On the other hand, names great in their day are utterly lost from the horizon. It is hard to conceive the _éclat_ of a Buononcini or a Monteverde,--whose works were once preëminent. There are elements in art, of special, sensational effect, that make a peculiar appeal in their time, and are incompatible with true and permanent greatness. One is tempted to say, the more sudden and vehement the success, the less it will endure. But it would not be true. Such an axiom would condemn an opera like "Don Giovanni," an oratorio like the "Creation," a symphony like Beethoven's Seventh. There is a wonderful difference, an immeasurable gulf between the good and the bad in art; yet the apparent line is of the subtlest. Most street songs may be poor; but some are undoubtedly beautiful in a very high sense. It is a problem of mystic fascination, this question of the value of contemporary art. It makes its appeal to the subjective view of each listener. No rule applies. Every one will perceive in proportion to his capacity, no one beyond it. So, a profound work may easily fail of response, as many works in the various arts have done in the past, because the average calibre of the audience is too shallow, while it may deeply stir an intelligent few. Not the least strange part of it all is the fact that there can, of necessity, be no decision in the lifetime of the poet. Whether it is possible for obscure Miltons never to find their meed of acclaim, is a question that we should all prefer to answer in the negative. There is a certain shudder in thinking of such a chance; it seems a little akin to the danger of being buried alive. The question of Bruckner's place can hardly be said to be settled, although he has left nine symphonies. He certainly shows a freedom, ease and mastery in the symphonic manner, a limpid flow of melody and a sure control in the interweaving of his themes, so that, in the final verdict, the stress may come mainly on the value of the subjects, in themselves. He is fond of dual themes, where the point lies in neither of two motives, but in the interplay of both; we see it somewhat extended in Richard Strauss, who uses it, however, in a very different spirit. The one evident and perhaps fatal lack is of intrinsic beauty of the melodic ideas, and further, an absence of the strain of pathos that sings from the heart of a true symphony. While we are mainly impressed by the workmanship, there is no denying a special charm of constant tuneful flow. At times this complexity is almost marvellous in the clear simplicity of the concerted whole,--in one view, the main trait or trick of symphonic writing. It is easy to pick out the leading themes as they appear in official order. But it is not so clear which of them constitute the true text. The multiplicity of tunes and motives is amazing. Of the Wagner influence with which Bruckner is said to be charged, little is perceptible in his second symphony. On the contrary, a strong academic tradition pervades. The themes are peculiarly symphonic. Moreover they show so strikingly the dual quality that one might say, as a man may see double, Bruckner sang double. Processes of augmenting and inverting abound, together with the themal song in the bass. Yet there is not the sense of overloaded learning. There is everywhere a clear and melodious polyphony. But with all masterly architecture, even enchanting changes of harmony and a prodigal play of melody, the vacuity of poetic ideas must preclude a permanent appeal. Bruckner is here the schoolmaster: his symphony is a splendid skeleton, an object lesson for the future poet. In the FOURTH (ROMANTIC) SYMPHONY the main light plays throughout on the wind. The text is a call of horns, that begins the work. It is a symphony [Music: _In tranquil motion_ (Horns, _espressivo_) (Strings)] of wood-notes, where the forest-horn is sovereign,--awakening a widening world of echoes, with a murmuring maze of lesser notes. One has again the feeling that in the quiet interweaving of a tapestry of strains lies the individual quality of the composer,--that the _forte_ blasts, the stride of big unison figures are but the interlude. In the Andante the charm is less of tune than of the delicate changing shades of the harmony and of the colors of tone. We are ever surprised in the gentlest way by a turn of chord or by the mere entrance of a horn among the whispering strings. The shock of a soft modulation may be as sudden as of the loud, sudden blare. But we cannot somehow be consoled for the want of a heart-felt melody. The Scherzo is a kind of hunting-piece, full of the sparkle, the color and romance of bugles and horns,--a spirited fanfare broken by hushed phrases of strings or wood, or an elf-like mystic dance on the softened call of trumpets. The Trio sings apart, between the gay revels, in soft voices and slower pace, like a simple ballad. The Finale is conceived in mystical retrospect, beginning in vein of prologue: over mysterious murmuring strings, long sustained notes of the reed and horn in octave descent are mingled with a soft carillon of horns and trumpets in the call of the Scherzo. In broad swing a free fantasy rises to a loud refrain (in the brass) of the first motive of the symphony. In slower pace and hush of sound sings a madrigal of tender phrases. A pair of melodies recall like figures of the first Allegro. Indeed, a chain of dulcet strains seems to rise from the past. The fine themal relevance may be pursued in infinite degree, to no end but sheer bewilderment. The truth is that a modern vanity for subtle connection, a purest pedantry, is here evident, and has become a baneful tradition in the modern symphony. It is an utter confusion of the letter with the spirit. Once for all, a themal coherence of symphony must lie in the main lines, not in a maze of unsignificant figures. Marked is a sharp alternation of mood, tempestuous and tender, of Florestan and Eusebius. The lyric phase yields to the former heroic fantasy and then returns in soothing solace into a prevailing motive that harks back to the second of the beginning movement. The fantasy, vague of melody, comes [Music: (Wood and horns) (Strings)] (in more than one sense) as relief from the small tracery. It is just to remember a like oscillation in the first Allegro. When the prologue recurs, the phrases are in ascent, instead of descent of octaves. A climactic verse of the main dulcet melody breaks out in resonant choir of brass and is followed by a soft rhapsody on the several strains that hark back to the beginning. From the halting pace the lyric episode rises in flight of continuous song to enchanting lilt. Now in the big heroic fantasy sing the first slow phrases as to the manner born and as naturally break into a paean of the full motive, mingled with strains of the original legend of the symphony, that flows on to broad hymnal cadence. In mystic musing we reach a solemn stillness where the prologue phrase is slowly drawn out into a profoundly moving hymn. Here we must feel is Meister Bruckner's true poetic abode rather than in the passion and ecstasy of romance into which he was vainly lured.[A] [Footnote A: Bruckner's Fifth Symphony (in B flat) is a typical example of closest correlation of themes that are devoid of intrinsic melody. An introduction supplies in the bass of a hymnal line the main theme of the Allegro by inversion as well as the germ of the first subject of the Adagio. Throughout, as in the Romantic Symphony, the relation between the first and the last movement is subtle. A closing, jagged phrase reappears as the first theme of the Finale. The Adagio and Scherzo are built upon the same figure of bass. The theme of the Trio is acclaimed by a German annotator as the reverse of the first motive of the symphony. In the prelude of the Finale, much as in the Ninth of Beethoven, are passed in review the main themes of the earlier movements. Each one is answered by an eccentric phrase that had its origin in the first movement and is now extended to a fugal theme. The climactic figure is a new hymnal line that moves as central theme of an imposing double fugue.] CHAPTER XV THE LATER BRUCKNER In Bruckner's later works appears the unique instance of a discipline grounded in the best traditions, united to a deft use of ephemeral devices. The basic cause of modern mannerism, mainly in harmonic effects, lies in a want of formal mastery; an impatience of thorough technic; a craving for quick sensation. With Bruckner it was the opposite weakness of original ideas, an organic lack of poetic individuality. It is this the one charge that cannot be brought home to the earlier German group of reaction against the classic idea. There is melody, almost abundant, in Wagner and Liszt and their German contemporaries. Indeed it was an age of lyricists. The fault was that they failed to recognize their lyric limitation, lengthening and padding their motives abnormally to fit a form that was too large. Hence the symphony of Liszt, with barren stretches, and the impossible plan of the later music-drama. The truest form of such a period was the song, as it blossomed in the works of a Franz. Nor has this grandiose tendency even yet spent its course. A saving element was the fashioning of a new form, by Liszt himself,--the Symphonic Poem,--far inferior to the symphony, but more adequate to the special poetic intent. Whatever be the truth of personal gossip, there is no doubt that Bruckner lent himself and his art to a championing of the reactionary cause in the form that was intrinsically at odds with its spirit. Hence in later works of Bruckner these strange episodes of borrowed romance, abruptly stopped by a firm counterpoint of excellent quality,--indeed far the best of his writing. For, if a man have little ideas, at least his good workmanship will count for something. In truth, one of the strangest types is presented in Bruckner,--a pedant who by persistent ingenuity simulates a master-work almost to perfection. By so much as genius is not an infinite capacity for pains, by so much is Bruckner's Ninth not a true symphony. Sometimes, under the glamor of his art, we are half persuaded that mere persistence may transmute pedantry into poetry. It seems almost as if the Wagnerians chose their champion in the symphony with a kind of suppressed contempt for learning, associating mere intellectuality with true mastery, pointing to an example of greatest skill and least inspiration as if to say: "Here is your symphonist if you must have one." And it is difficult to avoid a suspicion that his very partisans were laughing up their sleeve at their adopted champion. We might say all these things, and perhaps we have gone too far in suggesting them. After all we have no business with aught but the music of Bruckner, whatever may have been his musical politics, his vanity, his ill judgment, or even his deliberate partisanship against his betters. But the ideas themselves are unsubstantial; on shadowy foundation they give an illusion by modern touches of harmony and rhythm that are not novel in themselves. The melodic idea is usually divided in two, as by a clever juggler. There is really no one thought, but a plenty of small ones to hide the greater absence. We have merely to compare this artificial manner with the poetic reaches of Brahms to understand the insolence of extreme Wagnerians and the indignation of a Hanslick. As against the pedantry of Bruckner the style of Strauss is almost welcome in its frank pursuit of effects which are at least grateful in themselves. Strauss makes hardly a pretence at having melodic ideas. They serve but as pawns or puppets for his harmonic and orchestral _mise-en-scène_. He is like a play-wright constructing his plot around a scenic design. Just a little common sense is needed,--an unpremeditated attitude. Thus the familiar grouping, "_Bach_, _Beethoven_ and _Brahms_" is at least not unnatural. Think of the absurdity of "_Bach_, _Beethoven_ and _Bruckner_"![A] [Footnote A: A festival was held in Munich in the summer of 1911, in celebration of "Bach, Beethoven and Bruckner."] The truth is, the Bruckner cult is a striking symptom of a certain decadence in German music; an incapacity to tell the sincere quality of feeling in the dense, brilliant growth of technical virtuosity. In the worship at the Bayreuth shrine, somehow reinforced by a modern national self-importance, has been lost a heed for all but a certain vein of exotic romanticism, long ago run to riotous seed, a blending of hedonism and fatalism. No other poetic message gets a hearing and the former may be rung in endless repetition and reminiscence, provided, to be sure, it be framed with brilliant cunning of workmanship. Here we feel driven defiantly to enounce the truth: that the highest art, even in a narrow sense, comes only with a true poetic message. Of this Bruckner is a proof; for, if any man by pure knowledge could make a symphony, it was he. But, with almost superhuman skill, there is something wanting in the inner connection, where the main ideas are weak, forced or borrowed. It is only the true poetic rapture that ensures the continuous absorption that drives in perfect sequence to irresistible conclusion. _SYMPHONY NO. 9_ _I.--Solenne._ Solemn mystery is the mood, amid trembling strings on hollow unison, before the eight [Music: _Misterioso_ (Eight horns with _tremolo_ strings on D in three octaves)] horns strike a phrase in the minor chord that in higher echoes breaks into a strange harmony and descends into a turn of melodic cadence. In answer is another chain of brief phrases, each beginning [Music: (1st violins) (Lower reeds with strings _tremolo_ in all but basses)] with a note above the chord (the common mark and manner of the later school of harmonists[A]) and a new ascent on a literal ladder of subtlest progress, while hollow intervals are intermingled in the pinch of close harmonies. The bewildering maze here begins of multitudinous design, enriched with modern devices. [Footnote A: See Vol. II, note, page 104.] A clash of all the instruments acclaims the climax before the unison stroke of fullest chorus on the solemn note of the beginning. A favorite device of Bruckner, a measured tread of _pizzicato_ strings with interspersed themal motives, precedes the romantic episode. Throughout the movement is this alternation of liturgic chorale with tender melody. [Music: _Molto tranquillo_ (Strings) _espressivo_ (Oboes and horns)] Bruckner's pristine polyphonic manner ever appears in the double strain of melodies, where each complements, though not completes the other. However multiple the plan, we cannot feel more than the quality of _unusual_ in the motives themselves, of some interval of ascent or descent. Yet as the melody grows to larger utterance, the fulness of polyphonic art brings a beauty of tender sentiment, rising to a moving climax, where the horns lead the song in the heart of the madrigal chorus, and the strings alone sing the expressive answer. [Music: (Violins doubled in 8ve.) (Strings, woods and horns)] A third phrase now appears, where lies the main poetry of the movement. Gentle swaying calls of [Music: _Tranquillo_ (Wood and violins) (4 horns in 8ve.) (Horns) (Strings with bassoons)] soft horns and wood, echoed and answered in close pursuit, lead to a mood of placid, elemental rhythm, with something of "Rheingold," of "Ossian" ballad, of the lapping waves of Cherubini's "Anacreon." In the midst the horns blow a line of sonorous melody, where the cadence has a breath of primal legend. On the song runs, ever mid the elemental motion, to a resonant height and dies away as before. The intimate, romantic melody now returns, but it is rocked on the continuing pelagic pulse; indeed, we hear anon a faint phrase of the legend, in distant trumpet, till we reach a joint rhapsody of both moods; and in the never resting motion, mid vanishing echoes, we dream of some romance of the sea. Against descending harmonies return the hollow, sombre phrases of the beginning, with the full cadence of chorale in the brass; and beyond, the whole prelude has a full, extended verse. In the alternation of solemn and sweet episode returns the tender melody, with pretty inversions, rising again to an ardent height. The renewed clash of acclaiming chorus ushers again the awful phrase of unison (now in octave descent), in towering majesty. But now it rises in the ever increasing vehemence where the final blast is lit up with a flash of serene sonority. This motive, of simple octave call, indeed pervades the earlier symphony in big and little. And now, above a steady, sombre melodic tread of strings it rises in a fray of eager retorts, transfigured in wonderful harmony again and again to a brilliant height, pausing on a ringing refrain, in sombre hue of overpowering blast. A soft interlude of halting and diminishing strings leads to the romantic melody as it first appeared, where the multiple song again deepens and ennobles the theme. It passes straight into the waving, elemental motion, where again the hallowed horn utters its sibyl phrase, again rising to resonant height. And again merges the intimate song with the continuing pulse of the sea, while the trumpet softly sounds the legend and a still greater height of rhapsody. Dull brooding chords bring a sombre play of the awing phrase, over a faint rocking motion, clashing in bold harmony, while the horns surge in broader melody. The climactic clash ends in a last verse of the opening phrase, as of primal, religious chant. _II.--Scherzo._ In the dazzling pace of bright clashing harmonies, the perfect answers of falling and rising phrases, we are again before the semblance, at [Music: _Vivace_ (Flute with _pizz._ violins) (Flute) (_Pizz._ strings)] least, of a great poetic idea. To be sure there is a touch of stereotype in the chords and even in the pinch and clash of hostile motives. And there is not the distinctive melody,--final stamp and test of the shaft of inspiration. Yet in the enchantment of motion, sound and form, it seems mean-spirited to cavil at a want of something greater. One stands bewildered before such art and stunned of all judgment. A delight of delicate gambols follows the first brilliant dance of main motive. Amid a rougher trip of unison sounds the sonorous brass, and to softest jarring murmur of strings a pretty jingle of reed, [Music: _grazioso_ (Oboe) (_Pizz._ strings with soft chord of wind and rhythmic bassoon)] with later a slower counter-song, almost a madrigal of pastoral answers, till we are back in the ruder original dance. The gay cycle leads to a height of rough volume (where the mystic brass sound in the midst) and a revel of echoing chase. In sudden hush of changed tone on fastest fairy trip, strings and wood play to magic harmonies. In calming motion the violins sing a quieter song, ever [Music: _Piu tranquillo_ _Dolce_ (Violins) (Oboe) (Violins) (Oboes with sustained strings)] echoed by the reed. Though there is no gripping force of themal idea, the melodies are all of grateful charm, and in the perfect round of rhythmic design we may well be content. The original dance recurs with a full fine orgy of hostile euphony. _III.--Adagio._ _Feierlich,--awesome_ indeed are these first sounds, and we are struck by the originality [Music: _Molto lento (Solenne)_ (Violins, G string) _broadly_ (Strings with choir of tubas, later of trombones and contrabass-tuba)] of Bruckner's technic. After all we must give the benefit at least of the doubt. And there is after this deeply impressive _introit_ a gorgeous Promethean [Music: (Woodwind and low brass with _tremolo_ strings) (3 trumpets) (4 horns)] spring of up-leaping harmonies. The whole has certainly more of concrete beauty than many of the labored attempts of the present day. The prelude dies down with an exquisite touch of precious dissonance,--whether it came from the heart or from the workshop. The strange and tragic part is that with so much art and talent there should not be the strong individual idea,--the flash of new tonal figure that stands fearless upon its own feet. All this pretty machinery seems wasted upon the framing and presenting, at the moment of expectation, of the shadows of another poet's ideas or of mere platitudes. In the midst of the broad sweeping theme with a [Music: (Strings, with cl't and oboe) _Very broadly_ (G string)] promise of deep utterance is a phrase of horns with the precise accent and agony of a _Tristan_. The very semblance of whole motives seems to be taken from the warp and woof of Wagnerian drama. And thus the whole symphony is degraded, in its gorgeous capacity, to the reëchoed rhapsody of exotic romanticism. It is all little touches, no big thoughts,--a mosaic of a symphony. [Music: (Horns)] And so the second theme[A] is almost too heavily laden with fine detail for its own strength, though [Music: (Violins, reeds and horns) _Poco piu lento_ _dolce_ (_Pizz._ of lower strings)] it ends with a gracefully delicate answer. The main melody soon recurs and sings with a stress of warm feeling in the cellos, echoed by glowing strains of the horns. Romantic harmonies bring back the solemn air of the prelude with a new counter melody, in precise opposite figure, as though inverted in a mirror, and again the dim moving chords that seem less of Bruckner than of legendary drama. In big accoutrement the double theme moves with double answers, ever with the sharp pinch of harmonies and heroic mien. Gentlest retorts of the motives sing with fairy clearness (in horns and reeds), rising to tender, expressive dialogue. With growing spirit they ascend once more to the triumphant clash of empyraean chords, that may suffice for justifying beauty. [Footnote A: We have spoken of a prelude, first and second theme; they might have been more strictly numbered first, second and third theme.] Instead of the first, the second melody follows with its delicate grace. After a pause recurs the phrase that harks from mediaeval romance, now in a stirring ascent of close chasing voices. The answer, perfect in its timid halting descent, exquisite in accent and in the changing hues of its periods, is robbed of true effect by its direct reflection of Wagnerian ecstasies. As if in recoil, a firm hymnal phrase sounds in the strings, ending in a more intimate cadence. Another chain of rarest fairy clashes, on the motive of the prelude, leads to the central verse, the song of the first main melody in the midst of soft treading strings, and again descends the fitting answer of poignant accent. And now, for once forgetting all origin and clinging sense of reminiscence, we may revel in the rich romance, the fathoms of mystic harmony, as the main song sings and rings from the depths of dim legend in lowest brass, amidst a soft humming chorus, in constant shift of fairy tone. A flight of ascending chords brings the big exaltation of the first prophetic phrase, ever answered by exultant ring of trumpet, ending in sudden awing pause. An eerie train of echoes from the verse of prelude leads to a loveliest last song of the poignant answer of main song, over murmuring strings. It [Music: (_Tremolo_ violins with lower 8ve.) (Reeds) (Horns) (Violas)] is carried on by the mystic choir of sombre brass in shifting steps of enchanting harmony and dies away in tenderest lingering accents.[A] [Footnote A: In place of the uncompleted Finale, Bruckner is said to have directed that his "_Te Deum_" be added to the other movements.] CHAPTER XVI HUGO WOLFF[A] _"PENTHESILEA." SYMPHONIC POEM_[B] [Footnote A: Hugo Wolff, born in 1860, died in 1903.] [Footnote B: After the like-named tragedy of Heinrich von Kleist.] An entirely opposite type of composer, Hugo Wolff, shows the real strength of modern German music in a lyric vein, sincere, direct and fervent. His longest work for instruments has throughout the charm of natural rhythm and melody, with subtle shading of the harmony. Though there is no want of contrapuntal design, the workmanship never obtrudes. It is a model of the right use of symbolic motives in frequent recurrence and subtle variation. In another instrumental piece, the "Italian Serenade," all kinds of daring suspenses and gentle clashes and surprises of harmonic scene give a fragrance of dissonant euphony, where a clear melody ever rules. "Penthesilea," with a climactic passion and a sheer contrast of tempest and tenderness, uttered with all the mastery of modern devices, has a pervading thrall of pure musical beauty. We are tempted to hail in Wolff a true poet in an age of pedants and false prophets. PENTHESILEA.--A TRAGEDY BY HEINRICH VON KLEIST.[A] [Footnote A: German, 1776-1811.] As Wolff's work is admittedly modelled on Kleist's tragedy, little known to the English world, it is important to view the main lines of this poem, which has provoked so divergent a criticism in Germany. On the whole, the tragedy seems to be one of those daring, even profane assaults on elemental questions by ways that are untrodden if not forbidden. It is a wonderful type of Romanticist poetry in the bold choice of subject and in the intense vigor and beauty of the verse. Coming with a shock upon the classic days of German poetry, it met with a stern rebuke from the great Goethe. But a century later we must surely halt in following the lead of so severe a censor. The beauty of diction alone seems a surety of a sound content,--as when Penthesilea exclaims: "A hero man can be--a Titan--in distress, But like a god is he when rapt in blessedness." An almost convincing symbolism has been suggested of the latent meaning of the poem by a modern critic,[A]--a symbolism that seems wonderfully reflected in Wolff's music. The charge of perverted passion can be based only on certain lines, and these are spoken within the period of madness that has overcome the heroine. This brings us to the final point which may suggest the main basic fault in the poem, considered as art. At least it is certainly a question whether pure madness can ever be a fitting subject in the hero of a tragedy. Ophelia is an episode; Hamlet's madness has never been finally determined. Though the Erinnys hunted Orestes in more than one play, yet no single Fury could, after all, be the heroine of tragedy. Penthesilea became in the crisis a pure Fury, and though she may find here her own defense, the play may not benefit by the same plea. On the other hand, the madness is less a reality than an impression of the Amazons who cannot understand the heroine's conflicting feelings. There is no one moment in the play when the hearer's sympathy for the heroine is destroyed by a clear sense of her insanity. [Footnote A: Kuno Francke. See the notes of Philip Hale in the programme book of the Boston Symphony Orchestra of April 3-4, 1908.] For another word on the point of symbolism, it must be remembered that the whole plot is one of supernatural legend where somehow human acts and motives need not conform to conventional rule, and where symbolic meaning, as common reality disappears, is mainly eminent. It is in this same spirit that the leading virtues of the race, of war or of peace, are typified by feminine figures. The Tragedy is not divided into acts; it has merely four and twenty scenes--upon the battle-field of Troy. The characters are Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons; her chief leaders, Prothoe, Meroe and Asteria, and the high priestess of Diana. Of the Greeks there are Achilles, Odysseus, Diomede and Antilochus. Much of the fighting and other action is not seen, but is reported either by messengers or by present witnesses of a distant scene. The play begins with the battle raging between Greeks and Amazons. Penthesilea with her hosts amazes the Greeks by attacking equally the Trojans, her reputed allies. She mows down the ranks of the Trojans, and yet refuses all proffers of the Greeks. Thus early we have the direct, uncompromising spirit,--a kind of feminine Prometheus. The first picture of the heroine is of a Minerva in full array, stony of gaze and of expression until--she sees Achilles. Here early comes the conflict of two elemental passions. Penthesilea recoils from the spell and dashes again into her ambiguous warfare. For once Greeks and Trojans are forced to fight in common defence. "The raging Queen with blows of thunder struck As she would cleave the whole race of the Greeks Down to its roots.... * * * * * "More of the captives did she take Than she did leave us eyes to count the list, Or arms to set them free again. * * * * * "Often it seemed as if a special hate Against Achilles did possess her breast. * * * * * "Yet in a later moment, when His life was given straight into her hands, Smiling she gave it back, as though a present; His headlong course to Hades she did stay." In midst of the dual battle between Achilles and the Queen, a Trojan prince comes storming and strikes a treacherous blow against the armor of the Greek. "The Queen is stricken pale; for a brief moment Her arms hang helpless by her sides; and then, Shaking her locks about her flaming cheeks, Dashes her sword like lightning in his throat, And sends him rolling to Achilles' feet." The Greek leaders resolve to retreat from the futile fight and to call Achilles from the mingled chase of love and war. Achilles is now reported taken by the Amazons. The battle is vividly depicted: Achilles caught on a high ledge with his war-chariot; the Amazon Queen storming the height from below. The full scene is witnessed from the stage,--Penthesilea pursuing almost alone; Achilles suddenly dodges; the Queen as quickly halts and rears her horse; the Amazons fall in a mingled heap; Achilles escapes, though wounded. But he refuses to follow his companions to the camp; he swears to bring home the Queen wooed in the bloody strife of her own seeking. Penthesilea recoils with like vehemence from the entreaties of her maids, intent upon the further battle, resolved to overcome the hero or to die. She forbids the Festival of Roses until she has vanquished Achilles. In her rage she banishes her favorite Prothoe from her presence, but in a quick revulsion takes her back. In the next scene the high priestess and the little Amazon maids prepare the Feast, which Penthesilea had ordered in her confident attack upon the fleeing Greeks. One of the Rose-maidens recounts the passing scene of the Queen's amazing action. The indignant priestess sends her command to the Queen to return to the celebration. Though all the royal suite fling themselves in her path, Penthesilea advances to the dual battle.[A] [Footnote A: The law of the Amazons commanded them to wage war as told them by the oracle of Mars. The prisoners were brought to the Feast of Roses and wedded by their captors. After a certain time they were sent back to their homes. All male children of the tribe were put to death.] In a renewal of her personal contest, regardless of the common cause, and in her special quest of a chosen husband, Penthesilea has broken the sacred law. The flight now follows of the Amazon hosts. When the two combatants meet in the shock of lances, the Queen falls in the dust; her pallor is reflected in Achilles' face. Leaping from his horse, he bends o'er her, calls her by names, and woos life back into her frame. Her faithful maids, whom she has forbidden to harm Achilles, lead her away. And here begins the seeming madness of the Queen when she confesses her love. For a moment she yields to her people's demands, but the sight of the rose-wreaths kindles her rage anew. Prothoe defends her in these lines: "Of life the highest blessing she attempted. Grazing she almost grasped. Her hands now fail her For any other lesser goal to reach." In the last part of the scene the Queen falls more and deeper into madness. It is only in a too literal spirit that one will find an oblique meaning,--by too great readiness to discover it. In reality there seems to be an intense conflict of opposite emotions in the heroine: the pure woman's love, without sense of self; and the wild overpowering greed of achievement. Between these grinding stones she wears her heart away. A false interpretation of decadent theme comes from regarding the two emotions as mingled, instead of alternating in a struggle. Achilles advances, having flung away his armor. Prothoe persuades him to leave the Queen, when she awakes, in the delusion that she has conquered and that he is the captive. Thus when she beholds the hero, she breaks forth into the supreme moment of exaltation and of frenzied triumph. The main love scene follows: Penthesilea tells Achilles the whole story of the Amazons, the conquest of the original tribe, the rising of the wives of the murdered warriors against the conquerors; the destruction of the right breast (_A-mazon_); the dedication of the "brides of Mars" to war and love in one. In seeking out Achilles the Queen has broken the law. But here again appears the double symbolic idea: Achilles meant to the heroine not love alone, but the overwhelming conquest, the great achievement of her life. The first feeling of Penthesilea, when disillusioned, is of revulsive anger at a kind of betrayal. The Amazons recover ground in a wild desire to save their Queen, and they do rescue her, after a parting scene of the lovers. But Penthesilea curses the triumph that snatches her away; the high priestess rebukes her, sets her free of her royal duties, to follow her love if she will. The Queen is driven from one mood to another, of devoted love, burning ambition and mortal despair. Achilles now sends a challenge to Penthesilea, knowing the Amazon conditions. Against all entreaty the Queen accepts, not in her former spirit, but in the frenzy of desperate endeavor, in the reawakened rage of her ambition, spurred and pricked by the words of the priestess. The full scene of madness follows. She calls for her dogs and elephants, and the full accoutrement of battle. Amidst the terror of her own warriors, the rolling of thunder, she implores the gods' help to crush the Greek. In a final touch of frenzy she aims a dart at her faithful Prothoe. The battle begins, Achilles in fullest confidence in Penthesilea's love, unfrightened by the wild army of dogs and elephants. The scene, told by the present on-lookers, is heightened by the cries of horror and dismay of the Amazons themselves. Achilles falls; Penthesilea, a living Fury, dashes upon him with her dogs in an insane orgy of blood. The Queen in the culminating scene is greeted by the curses of the high priestess. Prothoe masters her horror and turns back to soothe the Queen. Penthesilea, unmindful of what has passed, moves once more through the whole gamut of her torturing emotions, and is almost calmed when she spies the bier with the hero's body. The last blow falls when upon her questions she learns the full truth of her deed. The words she utters (that have been cited by the hostile critics) may well be taken as the ravings of hopeless remorse, with a symbolic play of words. She dies, as she proclaims, by the knife of her own anguish. The last lines of Prothoe are a kind of epilogue: "She sank because too proud and strong she flourished. The half-decayèd oak withstands the tempest; The vigorous tree is headlong dashed to earth Because the storm has struck into its crown."[A] [Footnote A: Translations, when not otherwise credited, are by the author.] The opening scene--"Lively, vehement: Departure of the Amazons for Troy"--begins impetuous and hefty with big strokes of the throbbing motive, [Music: (_Tutti_ with higher 8ves.) (Piccolo in 8ve.) (Bass in 8ve.)] the majestic rhythm coursing below, lashed by a quicker phrase above. Suddenly trumpets sound, somewhat more slowly, a clarion call answered by a choir of other trumpets and horns in enchanting retort of changing harmonies. Ever a fresh color of [Music: (Flutes and oboes) (Answering groups of brass) (Lower strings _pizz._)] tone sounds in the call of the brass, as if here or yonder on the battle-field. Sometimes it is almost too sweetly chanting for fierce war. But presently it turns to a wilder mood and breaks in galloping pace into a true chorus of song with clear cadence. [Music: (Flutes with reeds in lower 8ve.) (Violins with upper 8ve.) (Lower strings and brass with lower 8ve.)] The joyful tinge is quickly lost in the sombre hue of another phase of war-song that has a touch of funeral trip (though it is all in 3/4 time): [Music: (Muted strings) (Horns and bassoons)] A melody in the minor plays first in a choir of horns and bassoons, later in united strings, accompanied by soft rolls of drums and a touch of the lowest brass. Harp and higher woodwind are added, but the volume is never transcendent save in a single burst when it is quickly hushed to the first ominous whisper. Out of this sombre song flows a romance of tender sentiment, _tranquillo_ in strings, followed by the wood. The crossing threads of expressive melody [Music: _Tranquillo_ (Strings) (In the midst enters a strain of solo horn)] rise in instant renewal of stress and agitation. The joy of battle has returned, but it seems that the passion of love burns in midst of the glow of battle, each in its separate struggle, and both together in one fatal strife. The sombre melody returns in full career, dying down to a pause.[A] [Footnote A: In a somewhat literal commentary attributed to Dr. Richard Batka, the Amazons here, "having reached their destination, go into night-encampment--as represented by the subdued roll of the kettle-drums, with which the movement concludes."] _Molto sostenuto_, in changed rhythm of three slow beats, comes "Penthesilea's Dream of the Feast of Roses." Over a thick cluster of harmonies in harp and strings the higher wood sing a new song in long drawn lyric notes with ravishing turns of tonal color,--a [Music: _Molto sostenuto_ (Flutes, oboes and clarinets) (Rapid arpeggic figures of harps and muted strings)] dual song and in many groups of two. The tranquil current of the dream is gradually disturbed; the main burden is dimmed in hue and in mood. Faster, more fitful is the flow of melody, with hostile intruding motive below; it dashes at last into the tragic phase--Combats; Passions; Madness; Destruction--in very rapid tempo of 2/2 rhythm. In broad, masterful pace, big contrary figures sweep up and down, cadencing in almost joyous chant, gliding, indeed, into a pure hymn, as of triumph (that harks back to the chorussing song in the beginning). Throughout the poem the musical symbols as well as the motives of passion are closely intertwined. Thus the identity of the impetuous phrase of the very beginning is clear with the blissful theme of the Dream of the Feast of Roses. Here, at the end of the chorussing verse is a play or a strife of phrases where we cannot escape a symbolic intent. To _tremolo_ of violas the cellos hold a tenor of descending melody over a rude rumbling phrase of the basses of wood and strings, while the oboe sings in the treble an expressive answer of ascending notes. A conflict is [Music: (_Molto vivace_) (cello _molto espressivo_) (Violas) (Basses and bassoons with upper 8ve.) (Oboe) _espressivo_] evident, of love and ambition, of savage and of gentle passion, of chaos and of beauty. At the height, the lowest brass intrude a brutal note of triumph of the descending theme. To the victory of Pride succeeds a crisis of passionate yearning. But at the very height is a plunge into the fit of madness, the fatal descending phrase (in trombones) is ever followed by furious pelting spurts in the distorted main theme. At last the paroxysm abates, throbbing ever slower, merging into the tender song of the Dream that now rises to the one great burst of love-passion. But it ends in a wild rage that turns right into the war-song of the beginning. And this is much fuller of incident than before. Violins now ring an hostile motive (the former rumbling phrase of basses) from the midst of the plot against the main theme in trumpets. Instead of the former pageantry, here is the pure frenzy of actual war. The trumpet melodies resound amidst the din of present battle. Instead of the other gentler episodes, here is a more furious raving of the mad Queen (in the hurried main motive), where we seem to see the literal dogs of war let loose and spurred on,--each paroxysm rising to a higher shock. Great is the vehemence of speed and sound as the dull doom of destruction drones in the basses against a grim perversion of the yearning theme above, that overwhelms the scene with a final shriek. Slowly the dream of love breathes again, rises to a fervent burst, then yields to the fateful chant and ends in a whisper of farewell. CHAPTER XVII MAHLER[A] [Footnote A: Gustav Mahler, 1860-1911.] In Mahler the most significant sign is a return to a true counterpoint, as against a mere overlading of themes, that began in Wagner and still persists in Strauss,--an artificial kind of structure that is never conceived as a whole. While we see in Mahler much of the duophonic manner of his teacher, Bruckner, in the work of the younger man the barren art is crowned with the true fire of a sentient poet. So, if Bruckner had little to say, he showed the way to others. And Mahler, if he did not quite emerge from the mantle of Beethoven, is a link towards a still greater future. The form and the technic still seem, as with most modern symphonies, too great for the message. It is another phase of orchestral virtuosity, of intellectual strain, but with more of poetic energy than in the symphonies of the French or other Germans. In other forms we see this happy reaction towards ancient art, as in the organ music of a Reger. But in the Finale of Mahler's Fifth Symphony there is a true serenity, a new phase of symphony, without the climactic stress of traditional triumph, yet none the less joyous in essence. We cannot help rejoicing that in a sincere and poetic design of symphony is blended a splendid renaissance of pure counterpoint, that shines clear above the modern spurious pretence. The Finale of Mahler's Fifth Symphony is one of the most inspired conceptions of counterpoint in all music. In it is realized the full dream of a revival of the art in all its glorious estate. _SYMPHONY NO. 5_ I.--1. _Funeral March._ 2. _In stormy motion (with greatest vehemence)._ II.--3. _Scherzo (with vigor,--not too fast)._ III.--4. _Adagietto (very slowly)._ 5. _Rondo-Finale (allegro)._ Mahler's Fifth Symphony, whatever be its intrinsic merit, that can be decided only by time and wear, undoubtedly marks a high point of orchestral splendor, in the regard of length and of the complexity of resources. By the latter is meant not so much the actual list of instruments as the pervading and accumulating use of thematic machinery.[A] [Footnote A: The symphony is probably the longest instrumental work that had appeared at the time of its production in 1904. The list of instruments comprises 4 flutes, 3 oboes, 3 clarinets, 2 bassoons, contra-bassoon, 6 horns, 4 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, kettle-drums, cymbals, bass-drum, snare-drum, triangle, glockenspiel, gong, harp and strings. Compared with D'Indy's Second Symphony, the Fifth of Mahler has a larger body of brass as well as of woodwind.] The plan of movements is very original and in a way, two-fold. There are three great divisions, of which the first comprises a Funeral March, and an untitled Allegro in vehement motion. The second division has merely the single movement, Scherzo. In the third are an Adagietto and a Rondo Finale. _I.--1. Funeral March._--A call of trumpet, of heroic air and tread, is answered by strident chords ending in a sonorous motive of horns that leads to the funeral trip, of low brass. The mournful song of the principal melody appears presently in the strings, then returns to the funeral trip and to the strident chords. The first trumpet motive now sounds with this clanging phrase and soon the original call abounds in other brass. The deep descending notes of the horns recur and the full song of the funeral melody much extended, growing into a duet of cellos and high woodwind, [Music: (Strings, bassoons and clarinets)] and further into hymnal song on a new motive. [Music: (Wood, horns and strings) (Bass notes in lowest wood and strings)] So the various melodies recur with new mood and manner. Suddenly, in fierce abandon, a martial tramp of the full band resounds, in gloomy minor, [Music: _Suddenly faster. Impassioned_ (Rapid descending figure in violins) (Trumpet) (Trombones) (Tuba and strings)] the violins in rapid rage of wailing figure: the trumpet strikes the firm note of heroic plaint. Wild grief breaks out on all sides, the strings singing in passionate answer to the trumpet, the high wood carrying on the rapid motion. At the height of the storm the woodwind gain control with measured rhythm of choral melody. Or perhaps the real height is the expressive double strain, in gentle pace, of the strings, and the wood descending from on high. [Music: (Woodwind doubled below) (Strings doubled above) _espressivo_ (Brass and strings)] The duet is carried on in wilder mood by most of the voices. A return to the solemn pace comes by imperceptible change, the softer hues of grief merging with the fiercer cries. Now various strains sound together,--the main funeral melody in the woodwind. In the close recurs the full flow of funeral song, with the hymnal harmonies. In the refrain of the stormy duet the sting of passion is gone; the whole plaint dies away amid the fading echoes of the trumpet call. _I.--2._ The second movement, the real first Allegro, is again clearly in two parts. Only, the relative paces are exactly reversed from the first movement. In tempestuous motion, with greatest vehemence, a rushing motive of the basses is stopped by a chord of brass and strings,--the chord itself reverberating to the lower rhythm. [Music: _In stirring motion. With greatest vehemence_ (Brass and strings) (Bass of wood and string) (Trumpets)] Throughout the whole symphony is the dual theme, each part spurring the other. Here presently are phrases in conflicting motion, countermarching in a stormy maze. It is all, too, like noisy preparation,--a manoeuvring of forces before the battle. Three distinct figures there are before a blast of horn in slower notes, answered by shrill call in highest wood. There enters a regular, rhythmic gait and a clearer tune, suggested by the call. [Music: (Horns, oboes and 1st violins, G string) (Strings and wood) (Tuba and strings) (Second violins)] In the brilliant medley there is ever a new figure we had not perceived. So when the tune has been told, trumpets and horns begin with what seems almost the main air, and the former voices sound like mere heralds. Finally the deep trombones and tuba enter with a sonorous call. Yet the first rapid trip of all has the main legend. As the quicker figures gradually retire, a change of pace appears, to the tramp of funeral. Yet the initial and incident strains are of the former text. Out of it weaves the new, slower melody: [Music: _Much slower_ (in the tempo of the former funeral march) (Oboes) (Flutes and clarinets) (Cellos) _molto cantando_] Throughout, the old shrill call sounds in soft lament. Hardly like a tune, a discourse rather, it winds along, growing and changing naïvely ever to a new phrase. And the soft calls about seem part of the melody. An expressive line rising in the clarinet harks back to one of the later strains of the funeral march. The second melody or answer (in low octaves of strings) is a scant disguise of the lower tune in the stormy duet of the first movement. Yet all the strains move in the gentle, soothing pace and mood until suddenly awakened to the first vehement rhythm. Before the slower verse returns is a long plaint of cellos to softest roll of drums. The gentle calls that usher in the melody have a significant turn, upwards instead of down. All the figures of the solemn episode appear more clearly. On the spur of the hurrying main motive of trumpets the first pace is once more regained. A surprise of plot is before us. In sudden recurrence of funeral march the hymnal song of the first movement is heard. As suddenly, we are plunged into the first joyful scene of the symphony. Here it is most striking how the call of lament has become triumphant, as it seems without a change of note. And still more wonderful,--the same melody that first uttered a storm of grief, then a gentle sadness, now has a firm exultant ring. To be sure, it is all done with the magic trip of bass,--as a hymn may be a perfect dance. Before the close we hear the first fanfare of trumpet from the opening symphony, that has the ring of a motto of the whole. At the very end is a transfigured entrance,--very slowly and softly, to a celestial touch of harp, of the first descending figure of the movement. _II.--3. Scherzo._ Jovial in high degree, the Scherzo begins with the thematic complexity of modern fashion. In dance tune of three beats horns lead off with a jolly call; strings strike dancing chords; the lower wind play a rollicking answer, but together with the horns, both strains continuing in dancing duet. Still the saucy call of horns seems the main text, though no single tune reigns alone. [Music: (Horns) _Scherzo. With vigor, not too fast_ (Strings and flutes) (Strings) (Clarinets and basses)] The violins now play above the horns; then the cellos join and there is a three-part song of independent tunes, all in the dance. So far in separate voices it is now taken up by full chorus, though still the basses sing one way, trebles another, and the middle horns a third. And now the high trumpet strikes a phrase of its own. But they are all in dancing swing, of the fibre of the first jolly motive. A new episode is started by a quicker _obligato_ of violins, in neighboring minor, that plays about a fugue of the woodwind on an incisive theme where the cadence has a strange taste of bitter sweet harmony in the modern Gallic manner. [Music: (Clarinets) (Violas) (Violins) (Bass of brass and wood)] Horns and violins now pursue their former duet, but in the changed hue of minor where the old concords are quaintly perverted. But this is only to give a merrier ring to the bright madrigal that follows in sweetly clashing higher wood, with the trip still in the violins. Thence the horns and violins break again into the duet in the original key. Here the theme is wittily inverted in the bass, while other strings sing another version above. So the jolly dance and the quaint fugue alternate; a recurring phrase is carried to a kind of dispute, with opposite directions above and below and much augmented motion in the strings. In the dance so far, in "three time," is ever the vigorous stamp on the third beat, typical of the German peasant "_Ländler_." Here of a sudden is a change as great as possible within the continuing dance of three steps. "More tranquil" in pace, in soft strings, without a trace of the _Ländler_ stamp, is a pure waltz in pretty imitation of tuneful theme. [Music: _More gently_ (G string) (D string) (Strings) acc't _pizzicato_] And so the return to the vigorous rough dance is the more refreshing. The merry mood yields to a darker temper. "Wild" the strings rush in angry fugue on their rapid phrase; the quaint theme is torn to shreds, recalling the fierce tempest of earlier symphony. But the first sad note of the Scherzo is in the recitative of horn, after the lull. A phrase of quiet reflection, with which the horn concludes the episode as with an "_envoi_," is now constantly rung; it is wrought from the eerie tempest; like refined metal the melody is finally poured; out of its guise is the theme now of mournful dance. "Shyly" the tune of the waltz answers in softest oboe. In all kinds of verses it is sung, in expressive duet of lower wood, of the brass, then of high reeds; in solo trumpet with counter-tune of oboe, finally in high flutes. Here we see curiously, as the first themes reappear, a likeness with the original trumpet-call of the symphony. In this guise of the first dance-theme the movements are bound together. The _envoi_ phrase is here evident throughout. At this mystic stage, to pure dance trip of low strings the waltz reënters very softly in constant growing motion, soon attaining the old pace and a new fulness of sound. A fresh spur is given by a wild motion of strings, as in the fugal episode; a new height of tempest is reached where again the distorted shreds of first dance appear, with phrases of the second. From it like sunshine from the clouds breaks quickly the original merry trip of dance. The full cycle of main Scherzo returns with all stress of storm and tragedy. But so fierce is the tempest that we wonder how the glad mood can prevail. And the sad _envoi_ returns and will not be shaken off. The sharp clash of fugue is rung again and again, as if the cup must be drained to the drop. Indeed, the serious later strain does prevail, all but the final blare of the saucy call of brass.[A] [Footnote A: In the Scherzo are chimes, accenting the tune of the dance, and even castanets, besides triangle and other percussion. The second movement employs the harp and triangle.] _III.--4. Adagietto._[A] "Very slowly" first violins carry the expressive song that is repeated by the violas. [Footnote A: The Adagietto is scored simply for harp and strings; nor are the latter unusually divided.] [Music: _Adagietto_ (Strings and harp)] A climax is reached by all the violins in unison. A new glow, with quicker motion, is in the episode, where the violins are sharply answered by the violas, rising to a dramatic height and dying away in a vein of rare lyric utterance. It is all indeed a pure lyric in tones. _III.--5. Rondo-Finale._ The whole has the dainty, light-treading humor that does not die of its own vehemence. Somewhat as in the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven,--tyrant of classical traditions, the themes appear right in the beginning as if on muster-roll, each in separate, unattended song. A last chance cadence passes down the line of voices and settles into a comfortable rhythm as prevailing theme, running in melodious extension, and merging after a [Music: (Clarinets, horns and bassoons) (Flutes and oboes) _Allegro commodo_] hearty conclusion in the jovially garrulous fugue. Here the counter-theme proves to be one of the initial tunes and takes a leading rôle until another charming strain appears on high,--a pure nursery rhyme crowning the learned fugue. Even this is a guise of one of the original motives in the mazing medley, where it seems we could trace the ancestry of each if we could linger and if it really mattered. And yet there is a rare charm in these subtle turns; it is the secret relevance that counts the most. The fugue reaches a sturdy height with one of the first themes in lusty horns, and suddenly falls into a pleasant jingle, prattling away in the train of important figures, the kind that is pertinent with no outer likeness. [Music: _Grazioso_ (Strings, bassoons and horns)] Everywhere, to be sure, the little rhythmic cadence appears; the whole sounds almost like the old children's canon on "Three Blind Mice"; indeed the themal inversion is here the main tune. Then in the bass the phrase sounds twice as slow as in the horns. There are capers and horseplay; a sudden shift of tone; a false alarm of fugue; suddenly we are back in the first placid verse of the rhythmic motive. Here is a new augmentation in resonant horns and middle strings, and the melodious extension. A former motive that rings out in high reed, seems to have the function of concluding each episode. A new stretch of fugue appears with new counter-theme, that begins in long-blown notes of horns. It really is no longer a fugue; it has lapsed into mere smooth-rolling motion underneath a verse of primal tune. And presently another variant of graceful episode brings a delicious lilt,--_tender, but expressive_. [Music: _Grazioso_ _espressivo_ (Strings)] With all the subtle design there is no sense of the lamp, in the gentle murmur of quicker figure or melodious flow of upper theme. Moving is the lyric power and sweetness of this multiple song. As to themal relation,--one feels like regarding it all as inspired madrigal, where the maze and medley is the thing, where the tunes are not meant to be distinguished. It becomes an abandoned orgy of clearest counterpoint. Throughout is a blending of fugue and of children's romp, anon with the tenderness of lullaby and even the glow of love-song. A brief mystic verse, with slow descending strain in the high wood, preludes the returning gambol of running strings, where the maze of fugue or canon is in the higher flowing song, with opposite course of answering tune, and a height of jolly revel, where the bright trumpet pours out the usual concluding phrase. The rhythmic episode, in whimsical change, here sings with surprise of lusty volume. So the merry round goes on to a big resonant _Amen_ of final acclaim, where the little phrase steals out as naturally as in the beginning. Then in quicker pace it sounds again all about, big and little, and ends, after a touch of modern Gallic scale, in opposing runs, with a last light, saucy fling. Mahler, we feel again, realizes all the craving that Bruckner breeds for a kernel of feeling in the shell of counterpoint. Though we cannot deny a rude breach of ancient rule and mode, there is in Mahler a genuine, original, individual quality of polyphonic art that marks a new stage since the first in Bach and a second in Beethoven. It is this bold revel in the neglected sanctuary of the art that is most inspiriting for the future. And as in all true poetry, this overleaping audacity of design is a mere expression of simplest gaiety. CHAPTER XVIII RICHARD STRAUSS[A] [Footnote A: Born in 1864.] Much may be wisely written on the right limits of music as a depicting art. The distinction is well drawn between actual delineation, of figure or event, and the mere suggestion of a mood. It is no doubt a fine line, and fortunately; for the critic must beware of mere negative philosophy, lest what he says cannot be done, be refuted in the very doing. If Lessing had lived a little later, he might have extended the principles of his "Laocöon" beyond poetry and sculpture into the field of music. Difficult and ungrateful as is the task of the critical philosopher, it must be performed. There is every reason here as elsewhere why men should see and think clearly. It is perhaps well that audiences should cling to the simple verdict of beauty, that they should not be led astray by the vanity of finding an answer; else the composer is tempted to create mere riddles. So we may decline to find precise pictures, and content ourselves with the music. The search is really time wasted; it is like a man digging in vain for gold and missing the sunshine above. Strauss may have his special meanings. But the beauty of the work is for us all-important. We may expect him to mark his scenes. We may not care to crack that kind of a nut.[A] It is really not good eating. Rather must we be satisfied with the pure beauty of the fruit, without a further hidden kernel. There is no doubt, however, of the ingenuity of these realistic touches. It is interesting, here, to contrast Strauss with Berlioz, who told his stories largely by extra-musical means, such as the funeral trip, the knell of bells, the shepherd's reed. Strauss at this point joins with the Liszt-Wagner group in the use of symbolic motives. Some of his themes have an effect of tonal word-painting. The roguish laugh of Eulenspiegel is unmistakable. [Footnote A: Strauss remarked that in _Till Eulenspiegel_ he had given the critics a hard nut to crack.] It is in the harmonic rather than the melodic field that the fancy of Strauss soars the freest. It is here that his music bears an individual stamp of beauty. Playing in and out among the edges of the main harmony with a multitude of ornamental phrases, he gains a new shimmer of brilliancy. Aside from instrumental coloring, where he seems to outshine all others in dazzling richness and startling contrasts, he adds to the lustre by a deft playing in the overtones of his harmonies, casting the whole in warmest hue. If we imagine the same riotous license in the realm of tonal noise,--cacophony, that is, where the aim is not to enchant, but to frighten, bewilder, or amaze; to give some special foil to sudden beauty; or, last of all, for graphic touch of story, we have another striking element of Strauss's art. The anticipation of a Beethoven in the drum of the Scherzo of the Fifth Symphony, or the rhythmic whims of a Schumann in his Romantic piano pieces suggest the path of much of this license. Again, as passing notes may run without heed of harmony, since ancient days, so long sequences of other figures may hold their moving organ-point against clashing changes of tonality. Apart from all this is the modern "counterpoint," where, if it is quite the real thing, Strauss has outdone the boldest dreams of ancient school men. But with the lack of cogent form, and the multitude of small motives it seems a different kind of art. We must get into the view-point of romantic web of infinite threads, shimmering or jarring in infinite antagonism (of delayed harmony). By the same process comes always the tremendous accumulation towards the end. As the end and essence of the theme seems a graphic quality rather than intrinsic melody, so the main pith and point of the music lies in the weight and power of these final climaxes. _TOD UND VERKLÄRUNG (DEATH AND TRANSFIGURATION), TONE POEM_ It may be well to gather a few general impressions before we attempt the study of a work radical in its departure from the usual lines of tonal design. There can be no doubt of the need of vigilance if we are to catch the relevance of all the strains. To be sure, perhaps this perception is meant to be subconscious. In any case the consciousness would seem to ensure a full enjoyment. It is all based on the motif of the Wagner drama and of the Liszt symphonies, and it is carried to quite as fine a point. Only here we have no accompanying words to betray the label of the theme. But in the quick flight of themes, how are we to catch the subtle meaning? The interrelation seems as close as we care to look, until we are in danger of seeing no woods for the trees. Again the danger of preconception is of the greatest. We may get our mind all on the meaning and all off the music. The clear fact is the themes do have a way of entering with an air of significance which they challenge us to find. The greatest difficulty is to distinguish the themes that grow out of each other, as a rose throws off its early petals, from those that have a mere chance similarity. Even this likeness may have its own intended meaning, or it may be all beside the mark. But we may lose not merely the musical, but even the dramatic sequence in too close a poring over themal derivation. On the other hand we may defy the composer himself and take simply what he gives, as if on first performance, before the commentators have had a chance to breed. And this may please him best in the end. We must always attend more to the mood than to themal detail as everywhere in real music, after all. Moments of delight and triumph we know there are in this work. But they are mere instants. For it is all the feverish dream of death. There can be no earlier rest. Snatches they are of fancy, of illusion, as, says the priest in Oedipus, is all of life. It may be worth while, too, to see how pairs of themes ever occur in Strauss, the second in answer, almost in protest, to the first. (It is not unlike the pleading in the Fifth Symphony of the second theme with the sense of doom in the first.) So we seem to find a motive of fate, and one of wondering, and striving; a theme of beauty and one of passion,--if we cared to tread on such a dangerous, tempting ground. Again, we may find whole groups of phrases expressive of one idea, as of beauty, and another of anxious pursuit. Thus we escape too literal a themal association. Trying a glimpse from the score pure and simple, we find a poem, opposite the first page, that is said to have been written after the first production. So, reluctantly, we must wait for the mere reinforcement of its evidence. _Largo_, in uncertain key, begins the throb of irregular rhythm (in strings) that Bach and Chopin and Wagner have taught us to associate with suffering. The first figure is a gloomy descent of pairs of chords, with a hopeless cry above (in the flutes). In the recurrence, the turn of chord is at last upward. A warmer hue of waving sounds (of harps) is poured about, and a gentle vision appears on high, shadowed quickly by a theme of fearful wondering. The chords return as at first. A new series of descending tones [Music: (Flute an 8ve. higher) (Oboe) _Largo_ _dolce_ (Harp with arpeggio groups of six to the quarter)] intrude, with a sterner sense of omen, and yield to a full melodic utterance of longing (again with the [Music: (Solo violin muted) (Horns) (Harp with arpeggio groups of six to the quarter)] soothing play of harp), and in the midst a fresh theme of wistful fear. For a moment there is a brief glimpse of the former vision. Now the song, less of longing than of pure bliss, sings free and clear its descending lay in solo violin, though an answering phrase (in the horns) of upward striving soon rises from below. The vision now appears again, the wondering monitor close beside. The melancholy chords return to dim the beauty. As the descending theme recedes, the rising motive sings a fuller course on high with a new note of eager, anxious fear. All these themes are of utmost pertinence in this evident prologue of the story. Or at least the germs of all the leading melodies are here. In sudden turn of mood to high agitation, a stress of wild desire rings out above in pairs of sharp ascending chords, while below the wondering theme rises in growing tumult. A whirling storm of the two phrases ends in united burst like hymn of battle, on the line of the wondering theme, but infused with [Music: _Alla breve_ _Tutti_ (Bass doubled below)] resistless energy. Now sings a new discourse of warring phrases that are dimly traced to the phase of the blissful melody, above the theme of upward striving. [Music: (Theme in woodwind) _espress._ (Strings) (Answer in basses)] They wing an eager course, undaunted by the harsh intruding chords. Into the midst presses the forceful martial theme. All four elements are clearly evident. The latest gains control, the other voices for the nonce merely trembling in obedient rhythm. But a new phase of the wistful motive appears, masterful but not o'ermastering, fiercely pressing upwards,--and a slower of the changed phrase of blissful song. The former attains a height of sturdy ascending stride. In spite of the ominous stress of chords that grow louder with the increasing storm, something of assurance comes with the ascending stride. More and more this seems the dominant idea. A new paroxysm of the warring themes rises to the first great climax where the old symbol of wondering and striving attains a brief moment of assured ecstatic triumph. In a new scene (_meno mosso_), to murmuring strings (where the theme of striving can possibly be caught) the blissful melody sings in full song, undisturbed save by the former figure that rises as if to grasp,--sings later, too, in close sequence of voices. After a short intervening verse--_leicht bewegt_--where the first vision appears for a moment, the song is resumed, still in a kind of shadowy chase of slow flitting voices, _senza espressione_. The rising, eager phrase is disguised in dancing pace, and grows to a graceful turn of tune. An end comes, _poco agitato_, with rude intrusion of the hymnal march in harsh contrast of rough discord; the note of anxious fear, too, strikes in again. But suddenly, _etwas breiter_, a new joyous mood frightens away the birds of evil omen. Right in the midst of happenings, we must be warned against too close a view of individual theme. We must not forget that it is on the contrasted pairs and again the separate groups of phrases, where all have a certain common modal purpose, that lies the main burden of the story. Still if we must be curious for fine derivation, we may see in the new tune of exultant chorus the late graceful turn that now, reversing, ends in the former rising phrase. Against it sings the first line of blissful theme. And the first tune of graceful beauty also finds a place. But they all make one single blended song, full of glad bursts and cadences. Hardly dimmed in mood, it turns suddenly into a phase of languorous passion, in rich setting of pulsing harp, where now the later figures, all but the blissful theme, vanish before an ardent song of the wondering phrase. The motive of passionate desire rises and falls, and soars in a path of "endless melody," returning on its own line of flight, playing as if with its shadow, catching its own echo in the ecstasy of chase. And every verse ends with a new stress of the insistent upward stride, that grows ever in force and closes with big reverberating blasts. The theme of the vision joins almost in rough guise of utmost speed, and the rude marching song breaks in; somehow, though they add to the maze, they do not dispel the joy. The ruling phase of passion now rumbles fiercely in lowest depths. The theme of beauty rings in clarion wind and strings, and now the whole strife ends in clearest, overwhelming hymn of triumphant gladness, all in the strides of the old wondering, striving phrase. [Music] The whole battle here is won. Though former moments are fought through again (and new melodies grow out of the old plaint), the triumphant shout is near and returns (ever from a fresh tonal quarter) to chase away the doubt and fear. All the former phrases sing anew, merging the tale of their strife in the recurring verse of united paean. The song at last dies away, breaking like setting sun into glinting rays of celestial hue, that pale away into dullest murmur. Still one returning paroxysm, of wild striving for eluding bliss, and then comes the close. From lowest depths shadowy tones sing herald phrases against dim, distorted figures of the theme of beauty,--that lead to a soft song of the triumphant hymn, _tranquillo_, in gentlest whisper, but with all the sense of gladness and ever bolder straying of the enchanting dream. After a final climax the song ends in slow vanishing echoes. The poet Ritter is said to have added, after the production of the music, the poem printed on the score, of which the following is a rather literal translation: In the miserable chamber, Dim with flick'ring candlelight, Lies a man on bed of sickness. Fiercely but a moment past Did he wage with Death the battle; Worn he sinks back into sleep. Save the clock's persistent ticking Not a sound invades the room, Where the gruesome quiet warns us Of the neighborhood of Death. O'er the pale, distended features Plays a melancholy smile. Is he dreaming at life's border Of his childhood golden days? But a paltry shrift of sleep Death begrudges to his victim. Cruelly he wakes and shakes him, And the fight begins anew,-- Throb of life and power of death, And the horror of the struggle. Neither wins the victory. Once again the stillness reigns. Worn of battle, he relapses Sleepless, as in fevered trance. Now he sees before him passing Of his life each single scene: First the glow of childhood dawn, Bright in purest innocence, Then the bolder play of youth Trying new discovered powers, Till he joins the strife of men, Burning with an eager passion For the high rewards of life.-- To present in greater beauty What his inner eye beholds, This is all his highest purpose That has guided his career. Cold and scornful does the world Pile the barriers to his striving. Is he near his final goal, Comes a thund'rous "Halt!" to meet him. "Make the barrier a stepping, Ever higher keep your path." Thus he presses on and urges, Never ceasing from his aim.-- What he ever sought of yore With his spirit's deepeth longing, Now he seeks in sweat of death, Seeks--alas! and finds it never. Though he grasps it clearer now, Though it grows in living form, He can never all achieve it, Nor create it in his thought. Then the final blow is sounded From the hammer-stroke of Death, Breaks the earthly frame asunder, Seals the eye with final night. But a mighty host of sounds Greet him from the space of heaven With the song he sought below: Man redeemed,--the world transfigured. _DON JUAN. (TONE POEM.)_ A score or more of lines from Lenau's poem of the same title stand as the subject of the music. O magic realm, illimited, eternal, Of gloried woman,--loveliness supernal! Fain would I, in the storm of stressful bliss, Expire upon the last one's lingering kiss! Through every realm, O friend, would wing my flight, Wherever Beauty blooms, kneel down to each, And, if for one brief moment, win delight! * * * * * I flee from surfeit and from rapture's cloy, Keep fresh for Beauty service and employ, Grieving the One, that All I may enjoy. My lady's charm to-day hath breath of spring, To-morrow may the air of dungeon bring. When with the new love won I sweetly wander, No bliss is ours upfurbish'd and regilded; A different love has This to That one yonder,-- Not up from ruins be my temple builded. Yea Love life is, and ever must be now, Cannot be changed or turned in new direction; It must expire--here find a resurrection; And, if 'tis real, it nothing knows of rue! Each Beauty in the world is sole, unique; So must the love be that would Beauty seek! So long as Youth lives on with pulse afire, Out to the chase! To victories new aspire! * * * * * It was a wond'rous lovely storm that drove me: Now it is o'er; and calm all round, above me; Sheer dead is every wish; all hopes o'ershrouded,-- It was perhaps a flash from heaven descended, Whose deadly stroke left me with powers ended, And all the world, so bright before, o'erclouded; Yet perchance not! Exhausted is the fuel; And on the hearth the cold is fiercely cruel.[A] [Footnote A: Translation by John P. Jackson.] In the question of the composer's intent, of general plan and of concrete detail, it is well to see that the quotation from Lenau's poem is twice broken by lines of omission; that there are thus three principal divisions. It cannot be wise to follow a certain kind of interpretation[A] which is based upon the plot of Mozart's opera. The spirit of Strauss's music is clearly a purely subjective conception, where the symbolic figure of fickle desire moves through scenes of enchantment to a climax of--barren despair. [Footnote A: In a complex commentary William Mauke finds Zerlina, Anna and "The Countess" in the music.] To some extent Strauss clearly follows the separate parts of his quotation. Fervent desire, sudden indifference are not to be mistaken. The various love scenes may be filled with special characters without great harm, save that the mind is diverted from a higher poetic view to a mere concrete play of events. The very quality of the pure musical treatment thus loses nobility and significance. Moreover the only thematic elements in the design are the various "motives" of the hero. _Allegro molto con brio_ begins the impetuous main theme in dashing ascent, [Music: _Allegro molto con brio_ (Unison strings) (Doubled in higher 8ve.)] whimsical play [Music: (Woodwind doubled in higher 8ve.)] and masterful career. [Music: (Doubled in higher 8ve.)] The various phases are mingled in spirited song; only the very beginning seems reserved as a special symbol of a turn in the chase, of the sudden flame of desire that is kindled anew. In the midst of a fresh burst of the main phrase are gentle strains of plaint (_flebile_). And now a tenderly sad motive in the wood sings against the marching phrase, amidst a spray of light, dancing chords. Another song of the main theme is spent in a vanishing tremolo of strings and harp, and buried in a rich chord whence rises a new song (_molto espressivo_) or rather a duet, the first of the longer love-passages. The main melody is begun in clarinet and horn and instantly followed (as in canon) by violins. The climax of this impassioned scene is a titanic chord of minor, breaking the spell; the end is in a distorted strain of the melody, followed by a listless refrain of the (original) impetuous motive (_senza espressione_). The main theme breaks forth anew, in the spirit of the beginning. It yields suddenly before the next episode, a languorous song of lower strings (_molto appassionato_), strangely broken into by sighing phrases in the high wood (_flebile_). After further interruption, the love song is crowned by a broad flowing melody (_sehr getragen und ausdrucksvoll_)--the main lyric utterance of all. It has a full length of extended song, proportioned to its distinguished beauty. The dual quality is very clear throughout the scene. Much of the song is on a kindred phrase of the lyric melody sung by the clarinet with dulcet chain of chords of harp. Here strikes a climactic tune in forte unison of the four horns (_molto espressivo e marcato_). It is the clear utterance of a new mood of the hero,--a purely [Music: (Four horns in unison) (Full orchestra)] subjective phase. With a firm tread, though charged with pathos, it seems what we might venture to call a symbol of renunciation. It is broken in upon by a strange version of the great love song, _agitato_ in oboes, losing all its queenly pace. As though in final answer comes again the ruthless phrase of horns, followed now by the original theme. _Rapidamente_ in full force of strings comes the coursing strain of impetuous desire. The old and the new themes of the hero are now in stirring encounter, and the latter seems to prevail. The mood all turns to humor and merrymaking. In gay dancing trip serious subjects are treated jokingly (the great melody of the horns is mockingly sung by the harp),--in fits and gusts. At the height the (first) tempestuous motive once more dashes upwards and yields to a revel of the (second) whimsical phrase. A sense of fated renunciation seems to pervade the play of feelings of the hero. In the lull, when the paroxysm is spent, the various figures of his past romances pass in shadowy review; the first tearful strain, the melody of the first of the longer episodes,--the main lyric song (_agitato_). In the last big flaming forth of the hero's passion victory is once more with the theme of renunciation,--or shall we say of grim denial where there is no choice. Strauss does not defy tradition (or providence) by ending his poem with a triumph. A final elemental burst of passion stops abruptly before a long pause. The end is in dismal, dying harmonies,--a mere dull sigh of emptiness, a void of joy and even of the solace of poignant grief. _TILL EULENSPIEGEL'S MERRY PRANKS_ _In the Manner of Ancient Rogues--In Rondo Form_ Hardly another subject could have been more happy for the revelling in brilliant pranks and conceits of a modern vein of composition. And in the elusive humor of the subject is not the least charm and fitness. Too much stress has been laid on the graphic purpose. There is always a tendency to construe too literally. While we must be in full sympathy with the poetic story, there is small need to look for each precise event. We are tempted to go further, almost in defiance, and say that music need not be definite, even despite the composer's intent. In other words, if the tonal poet designs and has in mind a group of graphic figures, he may nevertheless achieve a work where the real value and beauty lie in a certain interlinear humor and poetry,--where the labels can in some degree be disregarded. Indeed, it is this very abstract charm of music that finds in such a subject its fullest fitness. If we care to know the pranks exactly, why not turn to the text? Yet, reading the book, in a way, destroys the spell. Better imagine the ideal rogue, whimsical, spritely, all of the people too. But in the music is the real Till. The fine poetry of ancient humor is all there, distilled from the dregs of folk-lore that have to us lost their true essence. There is in the music a daemonic quality, inherent in the subject, that somehow vanishes with the concrete tale. So we might say the tonal picture is a faithful likeness precisely in so far as it does not tell the facts of the story. Indeed, in this mass of vulgar stories we cannot help wondering at the reason for their endurance through the centuries, until we feel something of the spirit of the people in all its phases. A true mirror it was of stupidity and injustice, presented by a sprite of owlish wisdom, sporting, teasing and punishing[A] all about. It is a kind of popular satire, with a strong personal element of a human Puck, or an impish Robin Hood, with all the fairy restlessness, mocking at human rut and empty custom. [Footnote A: On leaving the scene of some special mischief, Till would draw a chalk picture of an owl on the door, and write below, _Hic fuit_. The edition of 1519 has a woodcut of an owl resting on a mirror, that was carved in stone, the story goes, over Till's grave.] It is perhaps in the multitude of the stories, paradoxical though it seem, that lies the strength. In the number of them (ninety-two "histories" there are) is an element of universality. It is like the broom: one straw does not make, nor does the loss of one destroy it; somewhere in the mass lies the quality of broom. In a way Till is the Ulysses of German folk-lore, the hero of trickery, a kind of _Reinecke Fuchs_ in real life. But he is of the soil as none of the others. A satyr, in a double sense, is Till; only he is pure Teuton, of the latter middle ages. He is every sort of tradesman, from tailor to doctor. Many of the stories, perhaps the best, are not stories at all, but merely clever sayings. In most of the tricks there is a Roland for an Oliver. Till stops at no estate; parsons are his favorite victims. He is, on the whole, in favor with the people, though he played havoc with entire villages. Once he was condemned to death by the Lübeck council. But even here it was his enemies, whom he had defrauded, that sought revenge. The others excused the tricks and applauded his escape. Even in death the scandal and mischief do not cease. The directions in Strauss' music are new in their kind and dignity. They belong quite specially to this new vein of tonal painting. In a double function, they not merely guide the player, but the listener as well. The humor is of utmost essence; the humor is the thing, not the play, nor the story of each of the pranks, in turn, of our jolly rogue. And the humor lies much in these words of the composer, that give the lilt of motion and betray a sense of the intended meaning. [Music: _Gemächlich_] The tune, sung at the outset _gemächlich_ (comfortably), is presumably the rogue _motif_, first in pure innocence of mood. But quickly comes another, quite opposed in rhythm, that soon hurries into highest speed. These are not the "subjects" of old tradition. [Music: (Horn)] And first we are almost inclined to take the "Rondo form" as a new roguish prank. But we may find a form where the subjects are independent of the basic themes that weave in and out unfettered by rule--where the subjects are rather new grouping of the fundamental symbols.[A] [Footnote A: It is like the Finale of Brahms' Fourth Symphony, where an older form (of _passacaglia_) is reared together with a later, one within the other.] After a pause in the furious course of the second theme, a quick piping phrase sounds _lustig_ (merrily) in the clarinet, answered by a chord of ominous [Music: _Molto allegro_ (Clar.) _lustig_] token. But slowly do we trace the laughing phrase to the first theme. And here is a new whim. Though still in full tilt, the touch of demon is gone in a kind of ursine clog of the basses. Merely jaunty and clownish it would be but for the mischievous scream (of high flute) at the end. And now begins a rage of pranks, where the main phrase is the rogue's laugh, rising in brilliant gamut of outer pitch and inner mood. At times the humor is in the spirit of a Jean Paul, playing between rough fun and sadness in a fine spectrum of moods. The lighter motive dances harmlessly about the more serious, intimate second phrase. There is almost the sense of lullaby before the sudden plunge to wildest chaos, the only portent being a constant trembling of low strings. All Bedlam is let loose, where the rogue's shriek is heard through a confused cackling and a medley of voices here and there on the running phrase (that ever ends the second theme). The sound of a big rattle is added to the scene,--where perhaps the whole village is in an uproar over some wholesale trick of the rogue. And what are we to say to this simplest swing of folk-song that steals in naïvely to enchanting strum of rhythm. We may speculate about the Till as the [Music: (_Gemächlich_)] people saw him, while elsewhere we have the personal view. The folk-tunes may not have a special dramatic rôle. Out of the text of folk-song, to be sure, all the strains are woven. Here and there we have the collective voice. If we have watched keenly, we have heard how the tune, simply though it begins, has later all the line of Till's personal phrase. Even in the bass it is, too. Of the same fibre is this demon mockery and the thread of folk legend. We cannot pretend to follow all the literal whims. And it is part of the very design that we are ever surprised by new tricks, as by this saucy trip of dancing phrase. The purely human touches are clear, and almost moving in contrast with the impish humor. An earlier puzzle is of the second theme. As the composer has refused to help us, he will not quarrel if we find our own construction. A possible clue there is. As the story proceeds, aside from the mere abounding fun and poetry, the more serious theme prevails. Things are happening. And there come the tell-tale directions. _Liebeglühend_, aflame with love, a melody now sings in urgent pace, ending with [Music: _Liebeglühend_] a strange descending note. Presently in quieter mood, _ruhiger_, it gains a new grace, merely to dash again, _wütend_, into a fiercer rage than before. Before long we cannot escape in all this newer melody a mere slower outline of the second theme. A guess then, such as the composer invites us to make, is this: It is not exactly a Jekyll and Hyde, but not altogether different. Here (in the second theme, of horn) is Till himself,--not the rogue, but the man in his likes and loves and suffering. The rogue is another, a demon that possesses him to tease mankind, to tease himself out of his happiness. During the passionate episode the rogue is banned, save for a grimace now and then, until the climax, when all in disguise of long passionate notes of resonant bass the demon theme has full control. But for once it is in earnest, in dead earnest, we might say. And the ominous chord has a supreme moment, in the shadow of the fulfilment. A new note sounds in solemn legend of lowest wood, sadly beautiful, with a touch of funeral pace.[A] [Footnote A: Strauss told the writer that this was the march of the jurymen,--"_der Marsch der Schöffen_." Reproached for killing Till, he admitted that he had taken a license with the story and added: "In the epilogue,--there he lives."] The impish laugh still keeps intruding. But throughout the scene it is the Till motive, not the rogue, that fits the stride of the death-march. To be sure the rogue anon laughs bravely. But the other figure is in full view. [Music: (Lowest woodwind)] The sombre legend is, indeed, in a separate phase, its beauty now distorted in a feverish chase of voices on the main phrase. It is all a second climax, of a certain note of terror,--of fate. In the midst is a dash of the rogue's heartiest laugh, amid the echoes of the fearful chord, while the growing roar of the mob can be heard below. Once again it rings out undaunted, and then to the sauciest of folk-tunes, _leichtfertig_, Till dances gaily and jauntily. Presently, in a mystic passage, _schnell und schattenhaft_ [Music: _Leichtfertig_ (Strings reinforced by clarinets and horns)] (like fleeting shadow) a phantom of the rogue's figure passes stealthily across the horizon. _Etwas gemächlicher_, a graceful duet weaves prettily out of the Till motive, while the other roars very gently in chastened tones of softest horns. [Music] The first course of themes now all recurs, though some of the roguery is softened and soon trips into purest folk-dance. And yet it is all built of the rascal theme. It might (for another idle guess) be a general rejoicing. Besides the tuneful dance, the personal phrase is laughing and chuckling in between. The rejoicing has a big climax in the first folk-song of all, that now returns in full blast of horns against a united dance of strings and wood. After a roll of drum loud clanging strokes sound threatening (_drohend_) in low bass and strings, to which the rascal pipes his theme indifferently (_gleichgültig_). The third time, his answer has a simulated sound (_entstellt_). Finally, on the insistent thud comes a piteous phrase (_kläglich_) in running thirds. The dread chords at last vanish, in the strings. It is very like an actual, physical end. There is no doubt that the composer here intends the death of Till, in face of the tradition. Follows the epilogue, where in the comfortable swing of the beginning the first melody is extended in full beauty and significance. All the pleasantry of the rogue is here, and at the end a last fierce burst of the demon laugh. _"SINFONIA DOMESTICA."_ The work followed a series of tone-poems where the graphic aim is shown far beyond the dreams even of a Berlioz. It may be said that Strauss, strong evidence to the contrary, does not mean more than a suggestion of the mood,--that he plays in the humor and poetry of his subject rather than depicts the full story. It is certainly better to hold to this view as long as possible. The frightening penalty of the game of exact meanings is that if there is one here, there must be another there and everywhere. There is no blinking the signs of some sort of plot in our domestic symphony, with figures and situations. The best way is to lay them before the hearer and leave him to his own reception. In the usual sense, there are no separate movements. Though "Scherzo" is printed after the first appearance of the three main figures, and later "Adagio" and "Finale," the interplay and recurrence of initial themes is too constant for the traditional division. It is all a close-woven drama in one act, with rapidly changing scenes. Really more important than the conventional Italian names are such headings as "Wiegenlied" (Cradle-song), and above all, the numerous directions. Here is an almost conclusive proof of definite intent. To be sure, even a figure on canvas is not the man himself. Indeed, as music approaches graphic realism, it is strange how painting goes the other way. Or rather, starting from opposite points, the two arts are nearing each other. As modern painting tends to give the feeling of a subject, the subjective impression rather than the literal outline, we can conceive even in latest musical realism the "atmosphere" as the principal aim. In other words, we may view Strauss as a sort of modern impressionist tone-painter, and so get the best view of his pictures. Indeed, cacophony is alone a most suggestive subject. In the first place the term is always relative, never absolute,--relative in the historic period of the composition, or relative as to the purpose. One can hardly say that any combination of notes is unusable. Most striking it is how the same group of notes makes hideous waste in one case, and a true tonal logic in another. Again, what was impossible in Mozart's time, may be commonplace to-day. You cannot stamp cacophony as a mere whim of modern decadence. Beethoven made the noblest use of it and suffered misunderstanding. Bach has it in his scores with profound effect. And then the license of one age begets a greater in the next. It is so in poetry, though in far less degree. For, in music, the actual tones are the integral elements of the art. They are the idea itself; in poetry the words merely suggest it. A final element, independent of the notes themselves, is the official numbering of themes. Strauss indicates a first, second and third theme, obviously of the symphony, not of a single movement. The whole attitude of the composer, while it does not compel, must strongly suggest some sort of guess of intending meaning.[A] [Footnote A: At the first production, in New York, in obedience to the composer's wish, no descriptive notes were printed. When the symphony was played, likewise under the composer's direction, in Berlin in December, 1904, a brief note in the program-book mentions the three groups of themes, the husband's, the wife's and the child's, in the first movement. The other movements are thus entitled: II.--_Scherzo._ Parents' happiness. Childish play. Cradle-song (the clock strikes seven in the evening). III.--_Adagio._ Creation and contemplation. Love scene. Dreams and cares (the clock strikes seven in the morning). IV.--_Finale._ Awakening and merry dispute (double fugue). Joyous conclusion.] The "first theme" in "comfortable" pace, gliding [Music: 1st Theme _Pleasantly_ (Cellos and fagots) _Dreamily_ (Oboe) (Cellos, bassoons and horns)] into a "dreamy" phrase, begins the symphony. Presently [Music: _Peevishly_ (Clarinets)] a "peevish" cry breaks in, in sudden altered key; then on a second, soothing tonal change, a strain sings "ardently" in upward wing to a bold climax and down to gentler cadence, the "peevish" cry still breaking in. The trumpet has a short cheery [Music: _With fire_ (Strings)] call (_lustig_), followed by a brisk, rousing run in wood and strings (_frisch_). A return of the "comfortable" phrase is quickly overpowered by the "second theme," in very lively manner (_sehr lebhaft_), with an answering phrase, _grazioso_, and light trills above. [Music: 2d Theme _With great spirit_ (Strings, wood, horns and harps) _grazioso_] The incidental phrases are thus opposed to the main humor of each theme. The serene first melody has "peevish" interruptions; the assertive second yields to graceful blandishments. A little later a strain appears _gefühlvoll_, "full of feeling," (that plays a frequent part), but the main (second) theme breaks in "angrily." Soon a storm is brewing; at the height the same motive is sung insistently. In the lull, the first phrase of all sings gaily (_lustig_), and then serenely (_gemächlich_) in tuneful tenor. Various [Music: (Largely in strings)] parts of the first theme are now blended in mutual discourse. Amidst trembling strings the oboe d'amore plays the "third theme." "Very tenderly," "quietly," the [Music: 3d Theme _Quietly_ (Strings) (Oboe d'Amore)] second gives soothing answer, and the third sings a full melodious verse. Here a loud jangling noise tokens important arrivals. Fierce, hearty pulling of the door-bell excites the parents, especially the mother, who is quite in hysterics. The father takes it decidedly more calmly. The visitors presently appear in full view, so to speak; for "the aunts," in the trumpets, exclaim: "Just like Papa," and the uncles, in the trombones, cry: "Just like Mama" (_ganz die Mama_). There can be no questioning; it is all written in the book. It is at least not hazardous to guess the three figures in the domestic symphony. Now in jolly Scherzo (_munter_) begin the tricks and sport of babyhood. There is of course but one theme, with mere comments [Music: _Gaily. Scherzo_ (Oboe d'Amore) (Strings)] of parental phrases in varying accents of affection. Another noisy scene mars all the peace; father and child have a strong disagreement; the latter is "defiant"; the paternal authority is enforced. Bed-time comes with the stroke of seven, a cradle-song (Wiegenlied) (where the child's theme hums faintly below). Then, "slowly and very quietly" sings the "dreamy" phrase of the first theme, where [Music: _Rather slowly_ (Cradle song) (Clarinets singing) (Oboe d'Amore) (Fagots)] the answer, in sweeping descent, gives one of the principal elements of the later plot. It ends in a moving bit of tune, "very quietly and expressively" (_sehr ruhig und innig_). Adagio, a slow rising strain plays in the softer [Music: _Very quietly and expressively_ (Strings)] wood-notes of flute, oboe d'amore, English horn, and the lower clarinets; below sings gently the second theme, quite transformed in feeling. Those upper notes, with a touch of impassioned yearning, are not new to our ears. That very rising phrase (the "dreamy" motive), if we strain our memory, was at first below the more vehement (second) figure. So [Music: _Adagio_] now the whole themal group is reversed outwardly and in the inner feeling. Indeed, in other places crops out a like expressive symbol, and especially in the phrase, marked _gefühlvoll_, that followed the second theme in the beginning. All these motives here find a big concerted song in quiet motion, the true lyric spot of the symphony. Out of it emerges a full climax, bigger and broader now, of the first motive. At another stage the second has the lead; but at the height is a splendid verse of the maternal song. At the end the quiet, blissful tune sings again "_sehr innig_." _Appassionato_ re-enters the second figure. Mingled in its song are the latest tune and an earlier expressive phrase _(gefühlvoll)_. The storm that here ensues is not of dramatic play of opposition. There are no "angry" indications. It is the full blossoming in richest madrigal of all the themes of tenderness and passion in an aureole of glowing harmonies. The morning comes with the stroke of seven and the awakening cry of the child. The Finale begins in lively pace (_sehr lebhaft_) with [Music: (Double Fugue) 1st theme (Four Bassoons) _marcato_] a double fugue, where it is not difficult to see in the first theme a fragment of the "baby" motive. The second is a remarkably assertive little phrase from the cadence of the second theme (quoted above). The son is clearly the hero, mainly in sportive humor, although he is not free from parental interference. The maze and rigor of the fugue do not prevent a frequent appearance of all the other themes, and even of the full melodies, of which the fugal motives are built. At the climax of the fugue, in the height of speed and noise, something very delightful is happening, some furious romp, perhaps, of father and son, the mother smiling on the game. At the close a new melody that we might trace, if we cared, in earlier origin, has a full verse "quietly and simply" (_ruhig und einfach_) in wood and horns, giving the crown [Music: _Quietly and simply_ (Woodwind and horns) (With sustained chord of cellos)] and seal to the whole. The rest is a final happy refrain of all the strains, where the husband's themes are clearly dominant. CHAPTER XIX ITALIAN SYMPHONIES The present estate of music in Italy is an instance of the danger of prophecy in the broad realm of art. Wise words are daily heard on the rise and fall of a nation in art, or of a form like the symphony, as though a matter of certain fate, in strict analogy to the life of man. Italy was so long regnant in music that she seems even yet its chosen land. We have quite forgotten how she herself learned at the feet of the masters from the distant North. For music is, after all, the art of the North; the solace for winter's desolation; an utterance of feeling without the model of a visible Nature. And yet, with a prodigal stream of native melody and an ancient passion of religious rapture, Italy achieved masterpieces in the opposite fields of the Mass and of Opera. But for the more abstract plane of pure tonal forms it has somehow been supposed that she had neither a power nor a desire for expression. An Italian symphony seems almost an anomaly,--as strange a product as was once a German opera. The blunt truth of actual events is that to-day a renascence has begun, not merely in melodic and dramatic lines; there is a new blending of the racial gift of song with a power of profound design.[A] Despite all historical philosophy, here is a new gushing forth from ancient fount, of which the world may rejoice and be refreshed. [Footnote A: In the field of the _Lied_ the later group of Italians, such as Sinigaglia and Bossi, show a melodic spontaneity and a breadth of lyric treatment that we miss in the songs of modern French composers. In his Overture "_Le Baruffe Chiozzote_" (The Disputes of the People of Chiozza) Sinigaglia has woven a charming piece with lightest touch of masterly art; a delicate humor of melody plays amid a wealth of counterpoint that is all free of a sense of learning.] In a SYMPHONY BY GIOVANNI SGAMBATI,[A] IN D MAJOR, the form flows with such unpremeditated ease that it seems all to the manner born. It may be a new evidence that to-day national lines, at least in art, are vanishing; before long the national quality will be imperceptible and indeed irrelevant. [Footnote A: Born in 1843.] To be sure we see here an Italian touch in the simple artless stream of tune, the warm resonance, the buoyant spring of rhythm. The first movement stands out in the symphony with a subtler design than all the rest, though it does not lack the ringing note of jubilation. The Andante is a pure lyric somewhat new in design and in feeling. It shows, too, an interesting contrast of opposite kinds of slower melody,--the one dark-hued and legend-like, from which the poet wings his flight to a hymnal rhapsody on a clear choral theme, with a rich setting of arpeggic harmonies. A strange halting or limping rhythm is continued throughout the former subject. In the big climax the feeling is strong of some great chant or rite, of vespers or Magnificat. Against convention the ending returns to the mood of sad legend. The Scherzo is a sparkling chain of dancing tunes of which the third, of more intimate hue, somehow harks back to the second theme of the first movement. A Trio, a dulcet, tender song of the wood, precedes the return of the Scherzo that ends with the speaking cadence from the first Allegro. A Serenata must be regarded as a kind of Intermezzo, in the Cantilena manner, with an accompanying rhythm suggesting an ancient Spanish dance. It stands as a foil between the gaiety of the Scherzo and the jubilation of the Finale. The Finale is one festive idyll, full of ringing tune and almost bucolic lilt of dance. It reaches one of those happy jingles that we are glad to hear the composer singing to his heart's content. _GIUSEPPE MARTUCCI. SYMPHONY IN D MINOR._[A] [Footnote A: Giuseppe Martucci, 1856-1911.] The very naturalness, the limpid flow of the melodic thought seem to resist analysis of the design. The listener's perception must be as naïve and spontaneous as was the original conception. There is, on the one hand, no mere adoption of a classical schedule of form, nor, on the other, the over-subtle workmanship of modern schools. Fresh and resolute begins the virile theme with a main charm in the motion itself. It lies not in a tune here or there, but in a dual play of responsive phrases at the start, and then a continuous flow of further melody on the fillip of the original rhythm, indefinable of outline in a joyous chanting of bass and treble. A first height reached, an expressive line in the following lull rises in the cellos, that is the essence of the contrasting idea, followed straightway by a brief phrase of the kind, like some turns of peasant song, that we can hear contentedly without ceasing. [Music: (Cellos) (Lower reed, horns and strings)] Again, as at the beginning, such a wealth of melodies sing together that not even the composer could know which he intended in chief. We merely feel, instead of the incisive ring of the first group, a quieter power of soothing beauty. Yet, heralded by a prelude of sweet strains, the expressive line now enters like a queenly figure over a new rhythmic motion, and flows on through delighting glimpses of new harmony to a striking climax. [Music: (Flute and oboe, doubled below in clarinet) (Horn) (Strings)] The story, now that the characters have appeared, continues in the main with the second browsing in soft lower strings, while the first (in its later phase) sings above in the wood transformed in mildness, though for a nonce the first motive strikes with decisive vigor. Later is a new heroic mood of minor, quickly softened when the companion melody appears. A chapter of more sombre hue follows, all with the lilt and pace of romantic ballad. At last the main hero returns as at the beginning, only in more splendid panoply, and rides on 'mid clattering suite to passionate triumph. And then, with quieter charm, sings again the second figure, with the delighting strains again and again rehearsed, matching the other with the power of sweetness. One special idyll there is of carolling soft horn and clarinet, where a kind of lullaby flows like a distilled essence from the gentler play--of the heroic tune, before its last big verse, with a mighty flow of [Music: _dolce e tranquillo_ (Horn) (Two horns) (Clarinet)] sequence, and splendidly here the second figure crowns the pageant. At the passionate height, over long ringing chord, the latter sings a sonorous line in lengthened notes of the wood and horns. The first climax is here, in big coursing strains, then it slowly lulls, with a new verse of the idyll, to a final hush. The second movement is a brief lyric with one main melody, sung at first by a solo cello amidst a weaving of muted strings; later it is taken up by the first violins. The solo cello returns for a further song in duet with the violins, where the violas, too, entwine their melody, or the cello is joined by the violins. Now the chief melody returns for a richer and varied setting with horns and woodwind. At last the first violins, paired in octave with the cello, sing the full melody in a madrigal of lesser strains. An epilogue answers the prologue of the beginning. Equally brief is the true Scherzo, though merely entitled Allegretto,--a dainty frolic without the heavy brass, an indefinable conceit of airy fantasy, with here and there a line of sober melody peeping between the mischievous pranks. There is no contrasting Trio in the middle; but just before the end comes a quiet pace as of mock-gravity, before a final scamper. A preluding fantasy begins in the mood of the early Allegro; a wistful melody of the clarinet plays more slowly between cryptic reminders of the first theme of the symphony. In sudden _Allegro risoluto_ over rumbling bass of strings, a mystic call of horns, harking far back, spreads its echoing ripples all about till it rises in united tones, with a clear, descending answer, much like the original first motive. The latter now continues in the bass in large and smaller pace beneath a new tuneful treble of violins, while the call still roams a free course in the wind. Oft repeated is this resonation in paired harmonies, the lower phrase like an "obstinate bass." Leaving the fantasy, the voices sing in simple choral lines a hymnal song in triumphal pace, with firm cadence and answer, ending at length in the descending [Music: _Allegro risoluto_ _deciso_ (Strings, with added wood and horns)] phrase. The full song is repeated, from the entrance of the latter, as though to stress the two main melodies. The marching chorus halts briefly when the clarinet begins again a mystic verse on the strain of the call, where the descending phrase is intermingled in the horns and strings. There is a new horizon here. We can no longer speak with half-condescension of Italian simplicity, though another kind of primal feeling is mingled in a breadth of symphonic vein. We feel that our Italian poet has cast loose his leading strings and is revealing new glimpses through the classic form. Against a free course of quicker figures rises in the horns the simple melodic call, with answer and counter-tunes in separate discussion. Here comes storming in a strident line of the inverted melody in the bassoon, quarrelling with the original motive in the clarinet. Then a group sing the song in dancing trip, descending against the stern rising theme of violas; or one choir follows on the heels of another. Now into the play intrudes the second melody, likewise in serried chase of imitation. The two themes seem to be battling for dominance, and the former wins, shouting its primal tune in brass and wood, while the second sinks to a rude clattering rhythm in the bass. But out of the clash, where the descending phrase recurs in the basses, the second melody emerges in full sonorous song. Suddenly at the top of the verse rings out in stentorian brass the first theme of all the symphony to the opening chord of the Finale, just as it rang at the climax in the beginning. A gentle duet of violins and clarinet seems to bring back the second melody of the first movement, and somehow, in the softer mood, shows a likeness with the second of the Finale. For a last surprise, the former idyll (of the first Allegro) returns and clearly proves the original guise of our latest main melody. As though to assure its own identity as prevailing motto, it has a special celebration in the final joyous revel. CHAPTER XX EDWARD ELGAR. AN ENGLISH SYMPHONY[A] [Footnote A: Symphony in A flat. Edward Elgar, born in 1857.] There is a rare nobility in the simple melody, the vein of primal hymn, that marks the invocation,--in solemn wood against stately stride of [Music: (_Andante nobilmente e semplice_) (Woodwind) (Basses of strings, _staccato_)] lower strings. A true ancient charm is in the tune, with a fervor at the high point and a lilt almost of lullaby,--till the whole chorus begins anew as though the song of marching hosts. Solemnity is the essence here, not of artificial ceremony nor of rhymeless chant,--rather of prehistoric hymn. In passionate recoil is the upward storming song (Allegro) where a group of horns aid the surging crest of strings and wood,--a resistless motion of massed melody. Most thrilling after the first climax is the sonorous, vibrant stroke of the bass in the [Music: _Allegro appassionato_ (Strings, wood and horns) (See page 308, line 10.)] recurring melody. As it proceeds, a new line of bold tune is stirred above, till the song ends at the highest in a few ringing, challenging leaps of chord,--ends or, rather merges in a relentless, concluding descent. Here, in a striking phrase of double [Music: (Violins and clarinets in succession) (Harp) (Strings, the upper 3d doubled in higher reed)] song, is a touch of plaint that, hushing, heralds the coming gentle figure. We are sunk in a sweet romance, still of ancientest lore, with a sense of lost bliss in the wistful cadence. Or do these entrancing strains lead merely to the broader melody that moves with queenly tread (of descending violins) above a soft murmuring of lower figures? It is taken up [Music: (Violins) (Harp and wood doubled above)] in a lower voice and rises to a height of inner throb rather than of outer stress. The song departs as it came, through the tearful plaint of double phrase. Bolder accents merge suddenly into the former impassioned song. Here is the real sting of warrior call, with shaking brass and rolling drum, in lengthened swing against other faster sounds,--a revel of heroics, that at the end breaks afresh into the regular song. Yet it is all more than mere battle-music. For here is a new passionate vehemence, with loudest force of vibrant brass, of those dulcet strains that preceded the queenly melody. An epic it is, at the least, of ancient flavor, and the sweeter romance here rises to a tempest more overpowering than martial tumult. It is in the harking back to primal lore that we seem to feel true passion at its best and purest, as somehow all truth of legend, proverb and fable has come from those misty ages of the earth. The drooping harmonies merge in the returning swing of the first solemn hymn,--a mere line that is broken by a new tender appeal, that, rising to a moving height, [Music: (Strings) _teneramente_] yields to the former plaint (of throbbing thirds). A longer elegy sings, with a fine poignancy, bold and new in the very delicacy of texture, in the sharp impinging of these gentlest sounds. In the depths of the dirge suddenly, though quietly, sounds the herald melody high in the wood, with ever firmer cheer, soon in golden horns, at last in impassioned strings, followed by the wistful motive. A phase here begins as of dull foreboding, with a new figure stalking in the depths and, above, a brief sigh in the wind. In the growing stress these figures sing from opposite quarters, the sobbing phrase below, when suddenly the queenly melody stills the tumult. It is answered by a dim, slow line of the ominous motive. Quicker echoes of the earlier despond still flit here and there, with gleams of joyous light. The plaintive (dual) song returns and too the tender appeal, which with its sweetness at last wakens the buoyant spirit of the virile theme. And so pass again the earlier phases of resolution with the masterful conclusion; the tearful accents; the brief verse of romance, and the sweep of queenly figure, rising again to almost exultation. But here, instead of tears and recoil, is the brief sigh over sombre harmonies, rising insistent in growing volume that somehow conquers its own mood. A return of the virile motive is followed at the height by the throbbing dual song with vehement stress of grief, falling to lowest echoes. Here begins the epilogue with the original solemn hymn. Only it is now entwined with shreds and memories of romance, flowing tranquilly on through gusts of passion. And there is the dull sob with the sudden gleam of joyous light. But the hymn returns like a sombre solace of oblivion,--though there is a final strain of the wistful romance, ending in sad harmony. _II.--Allegro molto._ The Scherzo (as we may venture to call it) begins with a breath of new harmony, or is it a blended magic of rhythm, tune and chord? Far more than merely bizarre, it calls up a vision of Celtic warriors, the wild, free spirit of Northern races. The rushing jig or reel is halted [Music: _Allegro molto_ (Strings with kettle-drum)] anon by longer notes in a drop of the tune and instantly returns to the quicker run. Below plays a kind of drum-roll of rumbling strings. Other revelling pranks appear, of skipping wood, rushing harp and dancing strings, till at last sounds a clearer tune, a restrained war-march with touch of terror in the soft subdued chords, suddenly growing to expressive [Music: (Violas and clarinets) (Wood, basses and strings)] volume as it sounds all about, in treble and in bass. At last the war-song rings in full triumphant blast, where trumpets and the shrill fife lead, and the lower brass, with cymbals and drums (big and little) mark the march. Then to the returning pranks the tune roars in low basses and reeds, and at last a big conclusive phrase descends from the height to meet the rising figure of the basses. Now the reel dances in furious tumult (instead of the first whisper) and dies down through the slower cadence. An entirely new scene is here. To a blended tinkle of harp, reeds and high strings sounds a delicate air, quick and light, yet with a tinge of plaint that may be a part of all Celtic song. It were rude to spoil [Music: (Woodwind, with a triplet pulse of harp and rhythmic strings)] its fine fragrance with some rough title of meaning; nor do we feel a strong sense of romance, rather a whim of Northern fantasy. Over a single note of bass sings a new strain of elegy, taken up by other voices, varying with the [Music: (Clarinets)] tinkling air. Suddenly in rushes the first reel, softly as at first; but over it sings still the new sad tune, then yields to the wild whims and pranks that lead to the war-song in resonant chorus, joined at the height by the reel below. They change places, the tune ringing in the bass. In the martial tumult the tinkling air is likewise infected with saucy vigor, but suddenly retires abashed into its shell of fairy sound, and over it sings the elegy in various choirs. The tinkling melody falls suddenly into a new flow of moving song, rising to pure lyric fervor. The soft air has somehow the main say, has reached the high point, has touched the heart of the movement. Expressively it slowly sinks away amid echoing phrases and yields to the duet of elegy and the first reel. But a new spirit has appeared. The sting of war-song is gone. And here is the reel in slow reluctant pace. After another verse of the fairy tune, the jig plays still slower, while above sings a new melody. Still slower the jig has fallen almost to funeral pace, has grown to a new song of its own, though, to be sure, brief reminders of the first dance jingle softly here and there. And now the (hushed) shadow of the war-song in quite slower gait strides in lowest basses and passes quietly straight into the Adagio. [Music: (Strings with lower reeds and horns) _Adagio_ _cantabile_] _III._--Assured peace is in the simple sincere melody, rising to a glow of passion. But--is this a jest of our poet? Or rather now we see why there was no halt at the end of the Scherzo. For the soothing melody is in the very notes of the impish reel,--is the same tune.[A] Suddenly hushing, the song hangs on high over delicate minor harmonies. [Footnote A: There seems to be shown in this feat at once the versatility of music as well as the musician in expressing opposite moods by the same theme. The author does not feel bound to trace all such analogies, as in the too close pursuit we may lose the forest in the jungle.] In exquisite hues an intimate dialogue ensues, almost too personal for the epic vein, a discourse or madrigal of finest fibre that breaks (like rays of setting sun) into a melting cadence of regret. We are doubly thrilled in harking back to the sweet, wistful romance, the strain of the first movement. [Music: (Harp, wood and strings)] Across the gauzy play, horns and wood blow a slow phrase, like a motto of Fate in the sombre harmony, with one ardent burst of pleading. In clearer articulation sings a dual song, still softly o'ercast with sweet sadness, ever richer in the harmonies of multiple strings, tipped with the light mood,--and again the wistful cadence. Siren figures of entrancing grace that move amid the other melody, bring enchantment that has no cheer, nor escape the insistent sighing phrase. Once more come the ominous call and the passionate plea, then assurance with the returning main melody in renewed fervor. Phases of dual melody end again with the wistful cadence. The tranquil close is like one sustained fatal farewell, where the fairy figures but stress the sad burden. _IV._--The beginning is in lowest depths (Largo). First is the stalking figure of earliest movement, from the moment of despond. It is answered by a steadily striding theme, almost martial, save for the [Music: _Lento_ (_Pizz._ cellos with _stacc._ bassoons)] slowness of pace. Not unlike the hymn of the first prologue in line of tune, it bears a mood of dark resignation that breaks presently into the touching plea of the wistful cadence. The whole is a reflective prologue to the Finale: a deep meditation from which the song may roll forth on new spring. The hymn has suddenly entered with a subtly new guise; for the moment it seems part of the poignant sigh; it is as yet submerged in a flood of gloom and regret; and the former phrases still stride and stalk below. In a wild climax of gloom we hear the former sob, earlier companion of the stalking figure. Hymnal strains return,--flashes of heavenly light in the depths of hell, and one passionate sigh of the melting cadence. _Allegro_,--we are carried hack to the resolute vigor of the earlier symphony, lacking the full fiery charm, but ever striving and stirring, like Titans rearing mountain piles, not without the cheer of toil itself. At the height comes a burst of the erst yearning cadence, but there is a new masterful accent; the wistful edge does not return till the echoing phrases sink away in the depths. A new melody starts soaring on the same wing of [Music: (Strings and clarinets) _Allegro_ _cantabile_ (_Staccato_ strings _con 8ve._)] blended striving and yearning of which all this song is fraught. In its broader sweep and brighter cheer it is like the queenly melody of the first movement. The Titan toil stirs strongly below the soft cadence; the full, fierce ardor mounts heavenward. Phases now alternate of insistent rearing on the strenuous motive and of fateful submission in the marching strain, that is massed in higher and bigger chorus. As gathers the stress of climax, the brass blowing a defiant blast, the very vehemence brings a new resolution that is uttered in the returning strenuous phrase. Again rises the towering pile. At the thickest the high horns blow loud a slow, speaking legend,--the farewell motive, it seems, from the end of Adagio, fierce energy struggling with fatal regret gnawing at the heart. Gripping is the appeal of the sharp cry almost of anguish into which the toiling energy is suddenly resolved. Again the fateful march enters, now in heroic fugue of brass and opposite motion of strings and reed,--all overwhelmed with wild recurring pangs of regret. And so "double, double, toil and trouble," on goes the fugue and follows the arduous climb (into the sad motto in the horns), each relieving the other, till both yield again to the heart-breaking cry. The cheerier melody here re-enters and raises the mood for the nonce. Soon it falls amid dim harmonies. Far in the depths now growls the dull tread, answered by perverted line of the hymn. A mystic verse sounds over pious chords of harp in the tune of the march, which is sung by antiphonal choirs of strings,--later with fuller celestial chorus, almost in rapture of heavenly resignation. Only it is not final; for once again returns the full struggle of the beginning, with the farewell-legend, and in highest passion the phrase of regret rung again and again--till it is soothed by the tranquil melody. The relentless stride of march too reaches a new height, and one last, moving plaint. When the fast chasing cries are in closest tangle, suddenly the hymn pours out its benediction, while the cries have changed to angelic acclaim. Here is the transfigured song in full climactic verse that fulfils the promise of the beginning. A touch of human (or earthly joy) is added in an exultant strain of the sweeping melody that unites with the hymn at the close. CHAPTER XXI SYMPHONIES IN AMERICA When we come to a view of modern music in symphonic design, written in America, we are puzzled by a new phase of the element of nationalism. For here are schools and styles as different as of far corners of Europe. Yet they can be called nothing else than American, if they must have a national name. In the northern centre whence a model orchestra has long shed a beneficent influence far afield, the touch of new French conceits has colored some of the ablest works. Elsewhere we have cited a symphony more in line with classical tradition.[A] [Footnote A: A symphony by Wm. W. Gilchrist. Vol. II, Appendix.] Perhaps most typical is a symphony of Hadley where one feels, with other modern tradition, the mantle of the lamented MacDowell, of whom it may be said that he was first to find in higher reaches of the musical art an utterance of a purely national temper. _HENRY HADLEY. SYMPHONY NO. 3, B MINOR._[A] [Footnote A: Opus 60, Henry Hadley, American, born 1871.] With virile swing the majestic melody strides in the strings, attended by trooping chords of wood and brass, all in the minor, in triple rhythm. In [Music: _Moderato e maestoso_ (Harp and wind) (All the trebles) (Strings with lower 8ve.)] the bass is a frequent retort to the themal phrase. For a moment a dulcet line steals in, quickly broken by the returning martial stride of stentorian horns, and of the main theme in full chords. Strange, though, how a softer, romantic humor is soon spread over the very discussion of the martial theme, so that it seems the rough, vigorous march is but the shell for the kernel of tender romance,--the pageant that precedes the queenly figure. And presently, _piu tranquillo_, comes the fervent lyric song that may indeed be the chief theme in poetic import, if not in outer rank. After a moving verse in the strings, [Music: _Piu tranquillo_ (Strings) (_Pizz._ basses _8va._) (Added woodwind)] with an expressive strain in some voice of the woodwind or a ripple of the harp, it is sung in tense chorus of lower wood and horns,--soon joined by all the voices but the martial brass, ending with a soft echo of the strings. Now in full majesty the stern stride of first theme is resumed, in faster insistence,--no longer the mere tune, but a spirited extension and discussion, with retorts between the various choirs. Here the melodious march is suddenly felt in the bass (beneath our feet, as it were) of lowest brass and strings, while the noisy bustle continues above; then, changing places, the theme is above, the active motion below. Long continues the spirited clatter as of warlike march till again returns the melting mood of the companion melody, now sung by the expressive horn, with murmuring strings. And there are enchanting flashes of tonal light as the song passes to higher choirs. The lyric theme wings its rapturous course to a blissful height, where an intrusion of the main motive but halts for the moment the returning tender verse. When the first vigorous phrase returns in full career, there is somehow a greater warmth, and the dulcet after-strain is transfigured in a glow greater almost than of the lyric song that now follows with no less response of beauty. In the final spirited blending of both melodies the trumpets sound a quicker pace of the main motive. In the Andante (_tranquillo_) the sweet tinkle of church-bells with soft chanting horns quickly defines the scene. Two voices of the strings, to the [Music: (Bells and harp in continuous repetition) _Andante tranquillo_ _Espress._ (Cellos) (Strings, with added choir of lower reeds)] continuing hum of the bells, are singing a responsive song that rises in fervor as the horns and later the woodwind join the strings. Anon will sound the simple tune of the bells with soft harmonies, like echoes of the song,--or even the chant without the chimes. In more eager motion,--out of the normal measure of bells and hymn, breaks a new song in minor with a touch of passion, rising to a burst of ardor. But it passes, sinking away before a new phase,--a bucolic [Music: _Poco piu mosso_ (Oboe) (Clar'ts & horns) (Strings)] fantasy of trilling shepherd's reed (in changed, even pace), supported by strumming strings. The sacred calm and later passion have yielded to a dolorous plaint, like the dirge of the Magyar plains. Suddenly the former fervor returns with strains of the second melody amidst urging motion (in the triple pace) and startling rushes of harp-strings. At the height, trumpets blare forth the first melody, transformed from its earlier softness, while the second presses on in higher wood and strings; the trombones relieve the trumpets, with a still larger chorus in the romantic song; in final exaltation, the basses of brass and strings sound the first melody, while the second still courses in treble voices. Of a sudden, after a lull, falls again the tinkle of sacred chimes, with a verse each of the two main melodies. The Scherzo begins with a Saltarello humor, as of airy faun, with a skipping theme ever accompanied by a lower running phrase and a prancing trip of [Music: _Allegro con leggerezza, ben sostenuto_ (Cl.) (_Pizz._ strings) (Bassoon)] strings, with a refrain, too, of chirruping woodwind. Later the skipping phrase gains a melodic cadence. But the main mood is a revel of gambols and pranks of rhythm and harmony on the first phase. In the middle is a sudden shift of major tone and intimate humor, to a slower pace. With still a semblance of dance, a pensive melody sings in the cellos; the graceful cadence is rehearsed in a choir [Music: _Poco meno mosso_ (Strings) (Cello)] of woodwind, and the song is taken up by the whole chorus. As a pretty counter-tune grows above, the melody sings below, with a blending of lyric feeling and the charm of dance. At a climactic height the horns, with clumsy grace, blare forth the main lilting phrase. The song now wings along with quicker tripping counter-tunes that slowly lure the first skipping tune back into the play after a prelude of high festivity. New pranks appear,--as of dancing strings against a stride of loud, muted horns. Then the second (pensive) melody returns, now above the running counter-tune. At last, in faster gait, to the coursing of quicker figures, the (second) melody rings out in choir of brass in twice slower, stately pace. But the accompanying bustle is merely heightened until all four horns are striking together the lyric song. At the end is a final revel of the first dancing tune. The Finale, which bears the unusual mark _Allegro con giubilio_, begins with a big festive march that may seem to have an added flavor of old English merrymaking. But as in the other cantos of the poem there [Music: _Allegro con giubilio_ _Tutti_ (Basses in 8ve.)] is here, too, an opposite figure and feeling. And the more joyous the gaiety, the more sweetly wistful is the recoil. Nay there is in this very expressive strain, beautifully woven in strings, harp, woodwind and horns, a vein of regret that grows rather than lessens, whenever the melody appears alone. It is like the memory, in the midst of festival, of some blissful moment lost forever. Indeed, the next phase seems very like a disordered chase of stray memories; for here a line of martial air is displaced by a pensive strain which in [Music: (Cello and harp with harmony of wood, horns and strings) _Piu tranquillo_ _Molto espress._] turn yields to the quick, active tune that leads to a height of celebration. But here is a bewildering figure on the scene: Lustily the four horns (helped by the strings) blow in slow notes against the continuing motive an expressive melody. Slowly it breaks upon our ears as the wistful air that followed the chimes of Sunday bells. It has a stern, almost sombre guise, until it suddenly glows in transfigured light, as of a choir of celestial brass. Slowly we are borne to the less exalted pitch of the first festive march, and here follows, as at first, the expressive melody where each hearer may find his own shade of sadness. It does seem to reach a true passion of regret, with poignant sweet sighs. At length the sadness is overcome and there is a new animation as separate voices enter in fugal manner in the line of the march. Now the festive tune holds sway in lower pace in the basses; but then rings on high in answer--the wistful melody again and again, in doubled and twice redoubled pace. When we hear the _penseroso_ melody once more at the end, we may feel with the poet a state of resigned cheer. A remarkable work that shows the influence of modern French harmony rather than its actual traits, is a SYMPHONY BY GUSTAV STRUBE.[A] It is difficult to resist the sense of a strain for bizarre harmony, of a touch of preciosity. The real business of these harmonies is for incidental pranks, with an after-touch that confesses the jest, or softens it to a lyric utterance. It cannot be denied that the moving moments in this work come precisely in the release of the strain of dissonance, as in the returning melody of the Adagio. Only we may feel we have been waiting too long. The desert was perhaps too long for the oasis. _Est modus in rebus_: the poet seems niggardly with his melody; he may weary us with too long waiting, with too little staying comfort. He does not escape the modern way of symbolic, infinitesimal melody, so small that it must, of course, reappear. It is a little like the wonderful arguments from ciphers hidden in poetry. [Footnote A: Of Boston,--born in Germany in 1867.] It cannot he denied that the smallness of phrase does suggest a smallness of idea. The plan of magic motive will not hold _ad infinitesimum_. As the turn of the triplet, in the first movement, twists into a semblance of the Allegro theme, we feel like wondering with the old Philistine: ... "How all this difference can be 'Twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee!" But there is the redeeming vein of lyric melody with a bold fantasy of mischievous humor and a true climax of a clear poetic design. One reason seems sometimes alone to justify this new license, this new French revolution: the deliverance from a stupid slavery of rules,--if we would only get the spirit of them without the inadequate letter. Better, of course, the rules than a fatal chaos. But there is here in the bold flight of these harmonies, soaring as though on some hidden straight path, a truly Promethean utterance. It is significant, in the problem of future music, that of the symphonies based upon recent French ideas, the most subtly conceived and designed should have been written in America. _I._--In pale tint of harmony sways the impersonal phrase that begins with a descending tone. We may [Music: _Andante_ (Melody in flute and violas) (Violins) (Cellos with basses in lower 8ve.)] remember[A] how first with the symphony came a clear sense of tonal residence. It was like the age in painting when figures no longer hung in the gray air, when they were given a resting-place, with trees and a temple. [Footnote A: See Vol. I, Chapter I.] Here we find just the opposite flight from clear tonality, as if painting took to a Japanese manner, sans aught of locality. Where an easy half-step leads gently somewhere, a whole tone sings instead. Nothing obvious may stand. It marks, in its reaction, the excessive stress of tonality and of simple colors of harmony. The basic sense of residence is not abandoned; there is merely a bolder search for new tints, a farther straying from the landmarks. Soon our timid tune is joined by a more expressive line that rises in ardent reaches to a sudden tumult, with a fiery strain of trumpets where we catch a glimpse of the triplet figure. After a dulcet lullaby [Music: (Flute with _tremolo_ of high strings) (New melody in ob. and violas) (Cellos with sustained lower B of basses)] of the first air, the second flows in faster pace (_Allegro commodo_) as the real text, ever with new blossoming variants that sing together in a madrigal of tuneful voices, where the descending note still has a part in a smooth, gliding pace of violins. In gayer mood comes a verse of the inverted (Allegro) tune, with other melodic guises hovering about. When the theme descends to the bass, the original Andante phrase sings in the trumpet, and there is a chain of entering voices, in growing agitation, in the main legend with the quicker sprites dancing about. At the height, after the stirring song of trumpets, we feel a passionate strife of resolve and regret; and immediately after, the descending tone is echoed everywhere. A balancing (second) theme now appears, in tranquil [Music: (Horn) _Allegro dolce_ (Violas & cellos) (Sustained harmony in violins, bassoons and flute)] flow, but pressing on, at the end, in steady ascent as to Parnassian summit. Later comes a new rejoinder in livelier mood, till it is lost in a big, moving verse of the Andante song. But pert retorts from the latest new tune again fill the air, then yield in attendance upon the returning Allegro theme. Of subtle art is the woof of derived phrases. A companion melody, that seems fraught of the text of the second subject, sings with rising passion, while the lower brass blow lustily in eccentric rhythm of the Allegro phrase and at the height share in the dual triumph. We feel a kinship of mood rather than of theme, a coherence that we fear to relate to definite figures, though the descending symbol is clear against the ascending. An idyllic dialogue, with the continuing guise of the Allegro phrase turns to a gayer revel in the original pace, with a brilliant blare of trumpets. The free use of themes is shown in the opposite moods of the triplet phrase, of sadness, as in Andante, or buoyant, in Allegro. Here are both in close transition as the various verses return from the beginning, entwined about the first strain of the Andante, gliding through the descending tone into the second soothing song with the Parnassian ascent. A full verse of the first Andante melody sings at the heart of the plot, followed by the strange daemonic play that keeps the mood within bounds. Indeed, it returns once more as at first, then springs into liveliest trip and rises to an Olympian height, with a final revel of the triplet figure. _II._--With a foreshadowing drop of tone begins the prelude, not unlike the first notes of the symphony, [Music: _Adagio, ma non troppo_ (_espressivo_ Clar.) (Strings) (Clar'ts and bassoons)] answered with a brief phrase. On the descending motive the main melody is woven. Tenderly they play together, the melody with the main burden, the lighter prelude phrase in graceful accompaniment. But now the latter sings in turn a serious verse, rises to a stormy height, the horns proclaiming the passionate plea amid a tumultuous accord of the other figures, and sinks in subdued temper. In a broader pace begins a new line, though on the thread of the descending motive, and with the entering phrase of the prelude winds to a climax of passion. The true episode, of refuge and solace from the stress of tempest, is in a song of the trumpet through a shimmering gauze of strings with glinting harp, to a soft murmuring in the reeds. [Music: _Animando_ (Violins) (_Trem._ violins doubled above in oboes) (Cellos with sustained lower B of basses) Main melody in trumpets] In a new shade of tone it is echoed by the horn, then in a fervent close it is blended with a guise of the prelude phrase, that now heralds the main melody, in a duet of clarinet and violins. At last in the home tone the horn sings amid the sweet tracery the parting verse, and all about sounds the trist symbol of the first (descending) motive. _III._--The Scherzo is in one view a mad revel of demon pranks in a new field of harmonies. Inconsequential though they may seem, there is a real coherence, and, too, a subtle connection with the whole design. To be sure, with the vagueness of tune that belongs to a school of harmonic exploits a certain mutual relation of themes is a kind of incident. The less defined the phrases, the easier it is to make them similar. Undoubted likeness there is between the main elfin figure and the first phrase of the symphony. [Music: (Oboes, with lower 8ve. and higher 8ve. of piccolo) _Allegro vivace_ (Strings)] The triplet is itself a kind of password throughout. With this multiple similarity is a lack of the inner bond of outer contrast. The mood of demon humor finds a native medium in the tricks of new Gallic harmony. Early in the prelude we hear the descending tone, a streak of sadness in the mirth. Answering the first burst is a strange stroke of humor in the horn, and as if in [Music: (_Tremolo_ 1st violins) (1st horn) (Clarinets doubled above in strings)] serious balance, a smooth gliding phrase in the wood. Now the first figure grows more articulate, romping and galloping into an ecstasy of fun. A certain spirit of Till Eulenspiegel hovers about. Out of the maze blows a new line in muted trumpets, that begins with the inverted triplet figure, and in spite of the surrounding bedlam rises almost into a tune. At the height the strange jest of the horns reigns supreme. From the mad gambols of the first figure comes a relief in sparkling calls of the brass and stirring retorts in pure ringing harmonies. In the next episode is a fall into a lyric mood as the latest figure glides into even pace, singing amid gentlest pranks. Most tuneful of all sounds is the answer in dulcet trumpet while, above, the first theme intrudes softly. The heart of the idyll comes in a song of the clarinet [Music: (Cl. _espressivo_) (_Pizz._ strings with higher 8ve. of upper voice) (Wood and horn and strings) (Clar. and bassoons)] against strange, murmuring strings, ever with a soft answer of the lower reed. New invading sprites do not hem the flight of the melody. But at the height a redoubled pace turns the mood back to revelling mirth with broken bits of the horn tune. Indeed the crisis comes with a new rage of this symbol of mad abandon, in demonic strife with the fervent song that finally prevails. The first theme returns with a new companion in the highest wood. A fresh strain of serious melody is now woven about the former dulcet melody of trumpet in a stretch of delicate poesy, of mingled mirth and tenderness.--The harmonies have something of the infinitesimal sounds that only insects hear. With all virtuous recoil, here we must confess is a masterpiece of cacophonic art, a new world of tones hitherto unconceived, tinkling and murmuring with the eerie charm of the forest.--In the return of the first prelude is a touch of the descending tone. From the final revelling tempest comes a sudden awakening. In strange moving harmony sings slowly the descending symbol, as if confessing the unsuccessful flight from regret. Timidly the vanquished sprites scurry away. _IV._--The first notes of the Finale blend and bring back the main motives. First is the descending tone, but firm and resolute, with the following triplet in [Music: _Allegro energico_ (Higher figure in strings & wood) (Wood, horns and lower strings) (Strings and wood)] inversion of the Scherzo theme. It is all in triumphant spirit. From the start the mood reigns, the art for once is quite subordinate. Resonant and compelling is the motive of horns and trumpets, new in temper, though harking back to the earlier text, in its cogent ending. Splendid is [Music: (Strings) (Wood & strings doubled below) (Horns and trumpets)] the soaring flight through flashes of new chords. There is, we must yield, something Promethean, of new and true beauty, in the bold path of harmonies that the French are teaching us after a long age of slavish rules. The harking back is here better than in most modern symphonies with their pedantic subtleties: in the resurgence of joyous mood, symbolized by the inversion of phrase, as when the prankish elfin theme rises in serious aspiration. Out of these inspiriting reaches sings a new melody in canon of strings (though it may relate to some shadowy memory), while in the bass rolls the former ending phrase; then they romp in jovial turn of rhythm. [Music: (Oboes, doubled below in bassoons) (Strings, doubled below) (Horns) (_Pizz._ cello doubled below)] A vague and insignificant similarity of themes is a fault of the work and of the style, ever in high disdain of vernacular harmony, refreshing to be sure, in its saucy audacity, and anon enchanting with a ring of new, fiery chord. As the sonorous theme sings in muted brass, picking strings mockingly play quicker fragments, infecting the rest with frivolous retorts, and then a heart-felt song pours forth, where the accompanying cries have softened their mirth. Back they skip to a joyous trip with at last pure ringing harmonies. At the fervent pitch a blast of trumpets rises in challenging phrase, in incisive clash of chord, with the early sense of Parnassian ascent. At the end of this brave fanfare we hear a soft plea of the descending tone that prompts a song of true lyric melody, with the continuing gentlest touch of regret, all to a sweetly bewildering turn of pace. So tense [Music: (Continuing organ pt. of violins) (Fl. & clar. _dolce_) _Animando_ (Melody in ob. _dolce_) (Strings)] and subtle an expression would utterly convert us to the whole harmonic plan, were it not that just here, in these moving moments, we feel a return to clearer tonality. But it is a joy to testify to so devoted a work of art. With the last notes of melody a new frisking tune plays in sauciest clashes of chord, with an enchanting stretch of ringing brass. A long merriment ensues in the jovial trip, where the former theme of horns has a rising cadence; or the tripping tune sings in united chorus and again through its variants. After a noisy height the dulcet melody (from the descending tone) sings in linked sweetness. In the later tumult we rub our eyes to see a jovial theme of the bass take on the lines of the wistful melody. Finally, in majestic tread amid general joyous clatter the brass blow the gentle song in mellowed tones of richest harmony. _CHADWICK.[A] SUITE SYMPHONIQUE (IN E FLAT)._ [Footnote A: George W. Chadwick, American, born in 1854.] With a rush of harp and higher strings the Suite begins on ardent wing in exultant song of trumpets (with horns, bassoons and cellos) to quick palpitating violins that in its higher flight is given over to upper reeds and violas. It is answered by gracefully drooping melody of strings and harps topped by the oboes, that lightly descends from the heights with a cadence long delayed, like the circling flight of a great bird before he alights. Straightway begins a more pensive turn of phrase (of clarinet and lower strings) in distant tonal scene where now the former (descending) answer sings timidly in alternating groups. The pensive melody returns for a greater reach, blending with the original theme (in all the basses) in a glowing duet of two moods as well as melodies, rising to sudden brilliant height, pressing on to a full return of the first exultant melody with long, lingering, circling descent. The listener on first hearing may be warned to have a sharp ear for all kinds of disguises of the stirring theme and in a less degree, of the second subject. What seems a new air in a tranquil spot, with strum of harp,--and new it is as expression,--is our main melody in a kind of inversion. And so a new tissue of song continues, all of the original fibre, calming more and more from the first fierce glow. A tuneful march-like strain now plays gently in the horns while the (inverted) expressive air still sounds above. [Music: (Oboe with 8ve. flute) (Oboe) (Horns) _Calmato ed espressivo assai_] When all has quieted to dim echoing answers between horn and reed, a final strain bursts forth (like the nightingale's voice in the surrounding stillness) in full stress of its plaint. And so, in most natural course, grows and flows the main balancing melody that now pours out its burden in slower, broader pace, in joint choirs of wood and strings. [Music: _Meno mosso e largamente_ (Woodwind above, strings below) (_pizz._ basses)] It is the kind of lyric spot where the full stream of warm feeling seems set free after the storm of the first onset. In answer is a timid, almost halting strain in four parts of the wood, echoed in strings. A new agitation now stirs the joint choirs (with touches of brass), and anon comes a poignant line of the inverted (main) theme. It drives in rising stress under the spurring summons of trumpets and horns to a celebration of the transfigured second melody, with triumphant cadence. Nor does the big impulse halt here. The trumpets sound on midst a spirited duet of inverted and original motives until the highest point is reached, where, to quicker calls of the brass, in broadest pace the main subject strikes its inverted tune in the trebles, while the bass rolls its majestic length in a companion melody; trombones, too, are blaring forth the call of the second theme. Brief interludes of lesser agitation bring a second chorus on the reunited melodies in a new tonal quarter. In mystic echoing groups on the former descending answer of main theme the mood deepens in darkening scene. Here moves in slow strides of lowest brass a shadowy line of the second melody answered by a poignant phrase of the first. Striking again and again in higher perches the dual song reaches a climax of feeling in overpowering burst of fullest brass. In masterful stride, still with a burden of sadness, it has a solacing tinge as it ends in a chord with pulsing harp, that twice repeated leads back to the stirring first song of main theme. Thence the whole course is clear in the rehearsal of former melodies. Only the pensive air has lost its melancholy. Here is again the lyric of warm-hued horns with plaintive higher phrase, and the full romance of second melody with its timid answer, where the nervous trip rouses slowly the final exultation. Yet there is one more descent into the depths where the main melody browses in dim searching. Slowly it wings its flight upwards until it is greeted by a bright burst of the second melody in a chorus of united brass. And this is but a prelude to the last joint song, with the inverted theme above. A fanfare of trumpets on the second motive ends the movement. The Romanze is pure song in three verses where we cannot avoid a touch of Scottish, with the little acclaiming phrases. The theme is given to the saxophone (or cello) with obligato of clarinet and violas; the bass is in bassoons and _pizzicato_ of lower strings. One feels a special gratitude to the composer who will write in these days a clear, simple, original and beautiful melody. The first interlude is a fantasy, almost a variant on the theme in a minor melody of the wood, with a twittering phrase of violins. Later the strings take up the theme in pure _cantilena_ in a turn to the major,--all in expressive song that rises to a fervent height. Though it grows out of the main theme, yet the change is clear in a return to the subject, now in true variation, where the saxophone has the longer notes and the clarinet and oboe sing in concert. There follows a pure interlude, vague in motive, full of dainty touches. The oboe has a kind of _arioso_ phrase with trilling of flutes and clarinets, answered in trumpets and harp. Later the first violins (on the G string) sing the main air with the saxophone. A double character has the third movement as the title shows, though in a broadest sense it could all be taken as a Humoreske. With a jaunty lilt of skipping strings the lower reeds strike the capricious tune, where the full chorus soon falls in. The answering melody, with more of sentiment, though always in graceful swing with tricksy attendant figures, has a longer song. Not least charm has the concluding tune that leads back to the whole melodious series. Throughout are certain chirping notes that form the external connection with the Humoreske that begins with strident theme (_molto robusto_) of low strings, the whole chorus, xylophon and all, clattering about, the high wood echoing like a band of giant crickets,--all in whimsical, varying pace. The humor grows more graceful when the first melody of the Intermezzo is lightly touched. The strange figure returns (in roughest strings and clarinet) somewhat in ancient manner of imitation. Later the chirruping answer recurs. Diminishing trills are echoed between the groups. Slowly the scene grows stranger. Suddenly in eerie harmonies of newest French or oldest Tartar, here are the tricks and traits where meet the extremes of latest Romantic and primeval barbarian. In this motley cloak sounds the typical Yankee tune, first piping in piccolo, then grunting in tuba. Here is Uncle Sam disporting himself merrily in foreign garb and scene, quite as if at home. If we wished, we might see a political satire as well as musical. After a climax of the clownish mood we return to the Intermezzo melodies. The Finale begins in the buoyant spirit of the beginning and seems again to have a touch of Scotch in the jaunty answer. The whole subject is a group of phrases rather than a single melody. Preluding runs lead to the simple descending line of treble with opposite of basses, answered by the jovial phrase. In the farther course the first theme prevails, answered with an ascending brief motive of long notes in irregular ascent. Here follows a freer flow of the jolly lilting tune, blending with the sterner descending lines. Balancing this group is an expressive melody of different sentiment. In its answer we have again the weird touch of neo-barbarism in a strain of the reed, with dancing overtones of violins and harp, and strumming chords on lower strings. Or is there a hint of ancient Highland in the drone of alternating horns and bassoons? Its brief verse is answered by a fervent conclusive line where soon the old lilting refrain appears with new tricks and a big celebration of its own and then of the whole madrigal of martial melody. It simmers down with whims and turns of the skipping phrase into the quiet (_tranquillo_) episode in the midst of the other stress. [Music: (With lower 8ve.) _Tranquillo_ (With _pizz._ quarter notes in basses and strings)] The heart of the song is in the horns, with an upper air in the wood, while low strings guard a gentle rhythm. A brief strain in the wind in ardent temper is followed by another in the strings, and still a third in joint strings and wood. (Again we must rejoice in the achievement of true, simple, sincere melody.) The final glowing height is reached in all the choirs together,--final that is before the brass is added with a broader pace, that leads to the moving climax. As the horns had preluding chords to the whole song, so a single horn sings a kind of epilogue amid harmony of strings and other horns. Slowly a more vigorous pulse is stirred, in an interlude of retorting trumpets. Suddenly in the full energy of the beginning the whole main subject sounds again, with the jolly lilt dancing through all its measures, which are none too many. The foil of gentle melody returns with its answer of eerie tune and harmonies. It seems as if the poet, after his rude jest, wanted, half in amends, half on pure impulse, to utter a strain of true fancy in the strange new idiom. A new, grateful sound has again the big conclusive phrase that merges into more pranks of the jaunty tune in the biggest revel of all, so that we suspect the jolly jester is the real hero and the majestic figures are, after all, mere background. And yet here follows the most tenderly moving verse, all unexpected, of the quiet episode. The end is a pure romp, _molto vivace_, mainly on the skipping phrase. To be sure the stately figures after a festive height march in big, lengthened pace; but so does the jolly tune, as though in mockery. He breaks into his old rattling pace (in the Glockenspiel) when all the figures appear together,--the big ones changing places just before the end, where the main theme has the last say, now in the bass, amidst the final festivities. _LOEFFLER.[A] LA VILLANELLE DU DIABLE_ _(The Devil's Round)_ (After a poem by M. Rollinat. Symphonic poem for Orchestra and Organ) [Footnote A: Charles Martin Loeffler, born in Alsace in 1861.] Few pieces of program music are so closely associated with the subject as this tone picture of the Devil's Round. The translation of M. Rollinat's "Villanelle," printed in the score is as follows:[A] Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. Chuckling in clear staccato, the Devil prowling, runs about. He watches, advances, retreats like zig-zag lightning; Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. In dive and cell, underground and in the air, the Devil, prowling, runs about. Now he is flower, dragon-fly, woman, black-cat, green snake; Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. And now, with pointed moustache, scented with vetiver, the Devil, prowling, runs about. Wherever mankind swarms, without rest, summer and winter, Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. From alcove to hall, and on the railways, the Devil, prowling, runs about. He is Mr. Seen-at-Night, who saunters with staring eyes. Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. There floating as a bubble, here squirming as a worm, the Devil, prowling, runs about. He's grand seigneur, tough, student, teacher. Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. He inoculates each soul with his bitter whispering: the Devil, prowling, runs about. He promises, bargains, stipulates in gentle or proud tones. Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. Mocking pitilessly the unfortunate whom he destroys, the Devil, prowling, runs about. He makes goodness ridiculous and the old man futile. Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. At the home of the priest or sceptic, whose soul or body he wishes, the Devil, prowling, runs about. Beware of him to whom he toadies, and whom he calls "my dear sir." Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. Friend of the tarantula, darkness, the odd number, the Devil, prowling, runs about. --My clock strikes midnight. If I should go to see Lucifer?--Hell's a-burning, burning, burning; the Devil, prowling, runs about. [Footnote A: A few translated verses may give an idea of the original rhythm: Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. Cackling in his impish play, Here and there the Devil's turning, Forward here and back again, Zig-zag as the lightning's ray, While the fires burn amain. In the church and in the cell In the caves, in open day, Ever prowls the fiend of hell. But in the original the first and last lines of the first verse are used as refrains in the succeeding verses, recurring alternately as the last line. In the final verse they are united.--The prose translation is by Philip Hale.] In the maze of this modern setting of demon antics (not unlike, in conceit, the capers of Till Eulenspiegel), with an eloquent use of new French strokes of harmony, one must be eager to seize upon definite figures. In the beginning is a brief wandering or flickering motive in furious pace of harp and strings, ending ever in a shriek of the high wood. Answering [Music: _Presto (il piu possibile)_ (Woodwind) (Strings with rhythmic chords in the tonic) (With opposite descending chords)] is a descending phrase mainly in the brass, that ends in a rapid jingle. [Music: (Brass with quicker figures in strings and wood)] There are various lesser motives, such as a minor scale of ascending thirds, and a group of crossing figures that seem a guise of the first motive. To be sure the picture lies less in the separate figures than in the mingled color and bustle. Special in its humor is a soft gliding or creeping phrase of three voices against a constant trip of cellos. After a climax of the first motive a frolicking theme begins (in English horn and violas). If we were forced to guess, we could see here the dandy devil, with pointed mustachios, frisking about. It is probably another guise of the second motive which presently appears in the bass. A little later, _dolce amabile_ in a madrigal of wood and strings, we may see the gentlemanly devil, the gallant. With a crash of chord and a roll of cymbals re-enters the first motive, to flickering harmonies of violins, harp and flutes, taken up by succeeding voices, all in the whole-tone scale. Hurrying to a clamorous height, the pace glides into a _Movimento di Valzer_, in massed volume, with the frolicking figure in festive array. To softest tapping of lowest strings and drums, a shadow of the second figure passes here and there, with a flash of harp. Soon, in returning merriment, it is coursing in unison strings (against an opposite motion in the wood). At the height of revel, as the strings are holding a trembling chord, a sprightly Gallic tune of the street pipes in the reed, with intermittent flash of the harp, and, to be sure, an unfamiliar tang of harmonies and strange perversions of the tune.[A] In the midst is the original flickering figure. As the whole chorus is singing the tune at the loudest, the brass breaks into another traditional air of the Revolutionary Song of 1789.[B] While the trip is still ringing in the strings, a lusty chorus breaks into the song[C] "La Carmagnole," against a blast of the horns in a guise of the first motive. [Footnote A: "A la villette," a popular song of the Boulevard. Mr. Philip Hale, who may have been specially inspired, associates the song with the word "crapule," "tough," as he connects the following revolutionary songs, in contrapuntal use, with the word "magister," "teacher,"--the idea of the pedagogue in music. It may be less remote to find in these popular airs merely symbols or graphic touches of the swarming groups among which the Devil plies his trade.] [Footnote B: The famous "Ca ira."] [Footnote C: In the wealth of interesting detail furnished by Mr. Hale is the following: "The Carmagnole was first danced in Paris about the liberty-tree, and there was then no bloody suggestion.... The word '_Carmagnole_' is found in English and Scottish literature as a nickname for a soldier in the French Revolutionary army, and the term was applied by Burns to the Devil as the author of ruin, 'that curst carmagnole, auld Satan.'"] Grim guises of the main figures (in inverted profile) are skulking about to uncanny harmonies. A revel of new pranks dies down to chords of muted horns, amid flashing runs of the harp, with a long roll of drums. Here _Grave_ in solemn pace, violas and bassoon strike an ecclesiastical incantation, answered by the organ. Presently a Gregorian plain chant begins solemnly in the strings aided by the organ while a guise of the second profane motive intrudes. Suddenly in quick pace against a fugal tread of lower voices, a light skipping figure dances in the high wood. And now loud trumpets are saucily blowing the chant to the quick step, echoed by the wood. And we catch the wicked song of the street (in the English horn) against a legend of hell in lower voices.[A] [Footnote A: The religious phrases are naturally related to the "priest or sceptic." In the rapid, skipping rhythm, Mr. Hale finds the tarentella suggested by the "friend of the tarantula."] In still livelier pace the reeds sound the street song against a trip of strings, luring the other voices into a furious chorus. All at once, the harp and violins strike the midnight hour to a chord of horns, while a single impish figure dances here or there. To trembling strings and flashing harp the high reed pipes again the song of the Boulevard, echoed by low bassoons. In rapidest swing the original main motives now sing a joint verse in a kind of _reprise_, with the wild shriek at the end of the line, to a final crashing height. The end comes with dashes of the harp, betwixt pausing chords in the high wood, with a final stifled note. 
15604	----	Internet Archive Million Book Project Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 15604-h.htm or 15604-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/6/0/15604/15604-h/15604-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/6/0/15604/15604-h.zip) PIANO MASTERY Talks with Master Pianists and Teachers and an Account of a Von Bülow Class, Hints on Interpretation, by Two American Teachers (Dr. William Mason and William H. Sherwood) and a Summary by the Author by HARRIETTE BROWER Author of _The Art of the Pianist_ With Sixteen Portraits Frederick A. Stokes Company The Musical Observer Company 1915 [Illustration: Photo Copyright By Marran IGNACE JAN PADEREWSKI] CONTENTS PRELUDE IGNACE JAN PADEREWSKI ERNEST SCHELLING.....The Hand of a Pianist ERNESTO CONSOLO.....Making the Piano a Musical Instrument SIGISMOND STOJOWSKI.....Mind in Piano Study. RUDOLPH GANZ.....Conserving Energy in Piano Practise TINA LERNER.....An Audience the Best Teacher ETHEL LEGINSKA.....Relaxation the Keynote of Modern Piano Playing BERTHA FIERING TAPPER.....Mastering Piano Problems CARL M. ROEDER.....Problems of Piano Teachers KATHARINE GOODSON.....An Artist at Home MARK HAMBOURG.....Form, Technic, and Expression TOBIAS MATTHAY.....Watching the Artist Teacher at Work HAROLD BAUER.....The Question of Piano Tone RAOUL PUGNO.....Training the Child THUEL BURNHAM.....The "Melody" and "Coloratura" Hand EDWIN HUGHES.....Some Essentials of Piano Playing FERRUCCIO BUSONI.....An Artist at Home ADELE AUS DER OHE.....Another Artist at Home ELEANOR SPENCER.....More Light on Leschetizky's Ideas ARTHUR HOCHMAN.....How the Pianist Can Color Tone with Action and Emotion TERESA CARREÑO.....Early Technical Training WILHELM BACHAUS.....Technical Problems Discussed ALEXANDER LAMBERT.....American and European Teachers FANNIE BLOOMFIELD ZEISLER.....The Scope of Piano Technic AGNES MORGAN.....Simplicity in Piano Teaching EUGENE HEFFLEY.....Modern Tendencies GERMAINE SCHNITZER.....Modern Methods in Piano Study OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH.....Characteristic Touch on the Piano HANS VON BÜLOW.....Teacher and Interpreter WILLIAM H. SHERWOOD AND DR. WILLIAM MASON.....Hints on Interpretation POSTLUDE.....Vital Points in Piano Playing ILLUSTRATIONS Ignace Jan Paderewski Sigismond Stojowski Rudolph Ganz Katharine Goodson Mark Hambourg Tobias Matthay Harold Bauer Raoul Pugno Ferruccio Busoni Eleanor Spencer Teresa Carreño Wilhelm Bachaus Fannie Bloomfield Zeisler Ossip Gabrilowitsch Hans von Bülow Dr. William Mason PRELUDE TO AMERICAN PIANO TEACHERS AND STUDENTS The following "Talks" were obtained at the suggestion of the Editor of _Musical America_, and have all, with one or two exceptions, appeared in that paper. They were secured with the hope and intention of benefiting the American teacher and student. Requests have come from all over the country, asking that the interviews be issued in book form. In this event it was the author's intention to ask each artist to enlarge and add to his own talk. This, however, has been practicable only in certain cases; in others the articles remain very nearly as they at first appeared. The summer of 1913 in Europe proved to be a veritable musical pilgrimage, the milestones of which were the homes of the famous artists, who generously gave of their time and were willing to discuss their methods of playing and teaching. The securing of the interviews has given the author satisfaction and delight. She wishes to share both with the fellow workers of her own land. The Talks are arranged in the order in which they were secured. PIANO MASTERY PIANO MASTERY I IGNACE JAN PADEREWSKI One of the most consummate masters of the piano at the present time is Ignace Jan Paderewski. Those who were privileged to hear him during his first season in this country will never forget the experience. The Polish artist conquered the new world as he had conquered the old; his name became a household word, known from coast to coast; he traveled over our land, a Prince of Tones, everywhere welcomed and honored. Each succeeding visit deepened the admiration in which his wonderful art was held. The question has often been raised as to the reason of Paderewski's remarkable hold on an audience; wherein lay his power over the musical and unmusical alike. Whenever he played there was always the same intense hush over the listeners, the same absorbed attention, the same spell. The superficial attributed these largely to his appearance and manner; the more thoughtful looked deeper. Here was a player who was a thoroughly trained master in technic and interpretation; one who knew his Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann and Liszt. These things of themselves would not hold an audience spellbound, for there were other artists equally well equipped. In a final analysis it was doubtless Paderewski's wonderful _piano tone_, so full of variety and color, so vital with numberless gradations of light and shade, that charmed and enthralled his listeners. It mattered to no one--save the critics--that he frequently repeated the same works. What if we heard the Chromatic Fantaisie a score of times? In his hands It became a veritable Soliloquy on Life and Destiny, which each repetition invested with new meaning and beauty. What player has ever surpassed his poetic conception of Schumann's _Papillons_, or the Chopin Nocturnes, which he made veritable dream poems of love and ecstasy. What listener has ever forgotten the tremendous power and titanic effect of the Liszt Rhapsodies, especially No. 2? When Paderewski first came to us, in the flush of his young manhood, he taught us what a noble instrument the piano really is in the hands of a consummate master. He showed us that he could make the piano speak with the delicacy and power of a Rubinstein, but with more technical correctness; he proved that he could pierce our very soul with the intensity of his emotion, the poignant, heart-searching quality of his tones, the poetry and beauty of his interpretation. Paderewski is known as composer and pianist, only rarely does he find time to give instruction on his instrument. Mme. Antoinette Szumowska, the Polish pianist and lecturer was at one time termed his "only pupil." Mr. Sigismond Stojowski, the Polish composer, pianist and teacher has also studied with him. Both can testify as to his value as an instructor. Mme. Szumowska says: "Paderewski lays great stress on legato playing, and desires everything to be studied slowly, with deep touch and with full, clear tone. For developing strength he uses an exercise for which the hand is pressed against the keyboard while the wrist remains very low and motionless and each finger presses on a key, bringing, or drawing out as much tone as possible. "Paderewski advises studying scales and arpeggios with accents, for instance, accenting every third note, thus enabling each finger in turn to make the accent impulse: this will secure evenness of touch. Double passages, such as double thirds and sixths, should be divided and each half practised separately, with legato touch. Octaves should be practised with loose wrists and staccato touch. As a preparatory study practise with thumb alone. The thumb must always be kept curved, with joints well rounded out; it should touch the keys with its tip, so as to keep it on a level with the other fingers. Paderewski is very particular about this point. "It is difficult to speak of Paderewski's manner of teaching expression, for here the ideas differ with each composer and with every composition. As to tonal color, he requires all possible variety in tone production. He likes strong contrasts, which are brought out, not only by variety of touch but by skilful use of the pedals. "My lessons with Paderewski were somewhat irregular. We worked together whenever he came to Paris. Sometimes I did not see him for several months, and then he would be in Paris for a number of weeks; at such seasons we worked together very often. Frequently these lessons, which were given in my cousin's house, began very late in the evening--around ten o'clock--and lasted till midnight, or even till one in the morning. "Paderewski the teacher is as remarkable as Paderewski the pianist. He is very painstaking; his remarks are clear and incisive: he often illustrates by playing the passage in question, or the whole composition. He takes infinite trouble to work out each detail and bring it to perfection. He is very patient and sweet tempered, though he can occasionally be a little sarcastic. He often grows very enthusiastic over his teaching, and quite forgets the lapse of time. In general, however, he does not care to teach, and naturally has little time for it." * * * * * Mr. Stojowski, when questioned in regard to his work with the Polish pianist, said: "Paderewski is a very remarkable teacher. There are teachers who attempt to instruct pupils about what they do not understand, or cannot do themselves: there are others who are able to do the thing, but are not able to explain how they do it. Paderewski can both do it and explain how it is done. He knows perfectly what effects he wishes to produce, how they are to be produced, the causes which underlie and bring them about; he can explain and demonstrate these to the pupil with the greatest exactness and detail. "As you justly remark the quality of tone and the variety of tonal gradations are special qualities of Paderewski's playing. These must be acquired by aid of the ear, which tests and judges each shade and quality of tone. He counsels the student to listen to each tone he produces, for quality and variety. CLEARNESS A MUST PRINCIPLE "The player, as he sits at the piano, his mind and heart filled with the beauty of the music his fingers are striving to produce, vainly imagines he is making the necessary effects. Paderewski will say to him: 'No doubt you feel the beauty of this composition, but I hear none of the effects you fancy you are making; you must deliver everything much more clearly: distinctness of utterance is of prime importance.'' Then he shows how clearness and distinctness may be acquired. The fingers must be rendered firm, with no giving in at the nail joint. A technical exercise which he gives, and which I also use in my teaching, trains the fingers in up and down movements, while the wrist is held very low and pressed against the keyboard. At first simple five-finger forms are used; when the hand has become accustomed to this tonic, some of the Czerny Op. 740 can be played, with the hand in this position. Great care should be taken when using this principle, or lameness will result. A low seat at the piano is a necessity for this practise; sitting low is an aid to weight playing: we all know how low Paderewski himself sits at the instrument. "You ask what technical material is employed. Czerny, Op. 740; not necessarily the entire opus; three books are considered sufficient. Also Clementi's _Gradus_. Of course scales must be carefully studied, with various accents, rhythms and tonal dynamics; arpeggios also. Many arpeggio forms of value may be culled from compositions. "There are, as we all know, certain fundamental principles that underlie all correct piano study, though various masters may employ different ways and means to exemplify these fundamentals. Paderewski studied with Leschetizky and inculcates the principles taught by that master, with this difference, that he adapts his instruction to the physique and mentality of the student; whereas the Vorbereiters of Leschetizky prepare all pupils along the same lines, making them go through a similar routine, which may not in every instance be necessary. FINGERING "One point Paderewski is very particular about, and that is fingering. He often carefully marks the fingering for a whole piece; once this is decided upon it must be kept to. He believes in employing a fingering which is most comfortable to the hand, as well as one which, in the long run, will render the passage most effective. He is most sensitive to the choice of fingering the player makes, and believes that each finger can produce a different quality of tone. Once, when I was playing a Nocturne, he called to me from the other end of the room: 'Why do you always play that note with the fourth finger? I can _hear_ you do it; the effect is bad,' He has a keen power of observation; he notices little details which pass unheeded by most people; nothing escapes him. This power, directed to music, makes him the most careful and painstaking of teachers. At the same time, in the matter of fingering, he endeavors to choose the one which can be most easily accomplished by the player. The Von Bülow editions, while very erudite, are apt to be laborious and pedantic; they show the German tendency to over-elaboration, which, when carried too far becomes a positive fault. CORRECT MOTION "Another principle Paderewski considers very important is that of appropriate motion. He believes in the elimination of every unnecessary movement, yet he wishes the whole body free and supple. Motions should be as carefully studied as other technical points. It is true he often makes large movements of arm, but they are all thought out and have a dramatic significance. He may lift the finger off a vehement staccato note by quick up-arm motion, in a flash of vigorous enthusiasm; but the next instant his hand is in quiet position for the following phrase. STUDYING EFFECTS "The intent listening I spoke of just now must be of vital assistance to the player in his search for tonal variety and effect. Tone production naturally varies according to the space which is to be filled. Greater effort must be put forth in a large hall, to make the tone carry over the footlights, to render the touch clear, the accents decisive and contrasts pronounced. In order to become accustomed to these conditions, the studio piano can be kept closed, and touch must necessarily be made stronger to produce the desired power. INTERPRETATION "A great artist's performance of a noble work ought to sound like a spontaneous improvisation; the greater the artist the more completely will this result be attained. In order to arrive at this result, however, the composition must be dissected in minutest detail. Inspiration comes with the first conception of the interpretation of the piece. Afterward all details are painstakingly worked out, until the ideal blossoms into the perfectly executed performance. Paderewski endeavors uniformly to render a piece in the manner and spirit in which he has conceived it. He relates that after one of his recitals, a lady said to him: "'Why, Mr. Paderewski, you did not play this piece the same as you did when I heard you before,' "'I assure you I intended to,' was the reply. "'Oh, it isn't necessary to play it always the same way; you are not a machine,' said the lady. "This reply aroused his artist-nature. "'It is just because I am an artist that I ought at all times to play in the same way. I have thought out the conception of that piece, and am in duty bound to express my ideal as nearly as possible each time I perform it.' "Paderewski instructs, as he does everything else, with magnificent generosity. He takes no account of time. I would come to him for a stipulated half-hour, but the lesson would continue indefinitely, until we were both forced to stop from sheer exhaustion. I have studied with him at various times. One summer especially stands out in my memory, when I had a lesson almost every day." Speaking of the rarely beautiful character of Paderewski's piano compositions, Mr. Stojowski said: "I feel that the ignorance of this music among piano teachers and students is a crying shame. What modern piano sonata have we to-day, to compare with his? I know of none. And the songs--are they not wonderful! I love the man and his music so much that I am doing what lies in my power to make these compositions better known. There is need of pioneer work in this matter, and I am glad to do some of it." II ERNEST SCHELLING THE HAND OF A PIANIST As I sat in the luxurious salon of the apartments near the Park, where Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Schelling were spending the winter, sounds of vigorous piano practise floated out to me from a distant chamber. It was unusual music, and seemed to harmonize with the somewhat Oriental atmosphere and coloring of the music-room, with its heavily beamed ceiling of old silver, its paintings and tapestries. The playing ceased and soon the artist appeared, greeting the visitor with genial friendliness of manner. He was accompanied by the "lord of the manor," a beautiful white bull terrier, with coat as white as snow. This important personage at once curled himself up in the most comfortable arm-chair, a quiet, profound observer of all that passed. In the midst of some preliminary chat, the charming hostess entered and poured tea for us. The talk soon turned upon the subject in which I was deeply interested--the technical training of a pianist. "Technic is such an individual matter," began Mr. Schelling; "for it depends on so many personal things: the physique, the mentality, the amount of nervous energy one has, the hand and wrist. Perhaps the poorest kind of hand for the piano is the long narrow one, with long fingers. Far better to have a short, broad one with short fingers. Josef Hofmann has a wonderful hand for the piano; rather small, yes, but so thick and muscular. The wrist, too, is a most important factor. Some pianists have what I call a 'natural wrist,' that is they have a natural control of it; it is no trouble for them to play octaves, for instance. Mme. Carreño has that kind of wrist; she never had difficulty with octaves, they are perfect, Hofmann also has a marvelous wrist. I am sorry to say I have not that kind of wrist, and therefore have been much handicapped on that account. For I have had to work tremendously to develop not only the wrist but the whole technic. You see I was a wonder child, and played a great deal as a small boy. Then from fifteen to twenty I did not practise anything like what I ought to have done. That is the period when the bones grow, muscles develop--everything grows. Another thing against me is the length of my fingers. When the fingers are longer than the width of the hand across the knuckle joint, it is not an advantage but a detriment. The extra length of finger is only so much dead weight that the hand has to lift. This is another disadvantage I have had to work against. Yes, as you say, it is a rather remarkable hand in regard to size and suppleness. But I hardly agree that it is like Liszt's; more like Chopin's, judging from the casts I have seen of his hand. "As for technical routine, of course I play scales a good deal and in various ways. When I 'go into training,' I find the best means to attain velocity is to work with the metronome. One can't jump at once into the necessary agility, and the metronome is a great help in bringing one up to the right pitch. You see by the firmness of these muscles at the back and thumb side of my hand, that I am in good trim now; but one soon loses this if one lets up on the routine. "Then I practise trills of all kinds, and octaves. Yes, I agree that octaves are a most necessary and important factor in the player's technical equipment." Going to the piano and illustrating as he talked, Mr. Schelling continued: "Merely flopping the hand up and down, as many do, is of little use--it does not lead to strength or velocity. As you see, I hold the hand arched and very firm, and the firmness is in the fingers as well; the hand makes up and down movements with loose wrist; the result is a full, bright, crisp tone. One can play these octaves slowly, using weight, or faster with crisp, staccato touch. I play diatonic or chromatic octave scales, with four repetitions or more, on each note--using fourth finger for black keys. "I sit low at the piano, as I get better results in this way; though it is somewhat more difficult to obtain them. I confess it is easier to sit high and bear down on the hands. Yes, I thoroughly approve of 'weight touch,' and it is the touch I generally use. Sometimes it is a certain pressure on the key after it is played, using arm weight. "Ah, you are right. The young teacher or player, in listening to the artist, and noticing he does not lift his fingers to any extent, and that he always plays with weight, hastily concludes these are the principles with which he must begin to study or teach the piano. It is a mistake to begin in that way. Very exact finger movements must be learned in the beginning. As I said before, technic is such an individual matter, that after the first period of foundational training, one who has the desire to become an artist, must work out things for himself. There should be no straight-laced methods. Only a few general rules can be laid down, such as will fit most cases. The player who would rise to any distinction must work out his own salvation. "In regard to memorizing piano music, it may be said this can be accomplished in three ways: namely, with the eye, with the ear, and with the hand. For example: I take the piece and read it through with the eye, just as I would read a book. I get familiar with the notes in this way, and see how they look in print. I learn to know them so well that I have a mental photograph of them, and if necessary could recall any special measure or phrase so exactly that I could write it. All this time my mental ear has been hearing those notes, and is familiar with them. Then the third stage arrives; I must put all this on the keyboard, my fingers must have their training; impressions must pass from the mind to the fingers; then all is complete." III ERNESTO CONSOLO MAKING THE PIANO A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT In a long conversation with Ernesto Consolo, the eminent pianist and instructor, many points of vital importance to the player and teacher were touched upon. Among other things Mr. Consolo said: "It is absolutely necessary that the piano teacher should take his profession very seriously. In my opinion there is most excellent instruction to be secured right here in America, with such teachers as are willing to take their work seriously. The time is not far away, I think, when America will enjoy a very prominent position in the matter of musical instruction, and perhaps lead the world in musical advantages. The time is not here just yet, but it is surely coming. You are still young in this country, though you are wonderfully progressive. "If I have spoken of the serious aims of many teachers of piano, I cannot say as much for the students: they are often superficial and want to go too quickly; they are apt to be in a hurry and want to make a show, without being willing to spend the necessary years on preparation. No art can be hurried. Students of painting, sculpture, architecture or music must all learn the technique of their art; they must all learn to go deep into the mysteries and master technic as the means to the end, and no one requires exhaustive preparation more than the executive musician. The person who would fence, box or play baseball must know the technic of these things; how much more must the pianist be master of the technique of his instrument if he would bring out the best results. "At the very bottom and heart of this subject of mastery lies Concentration: without that, little of value can be accomplished. Students think if they sit at the piano and 'practise' a certain number of hours daily, it is sufficient. A small portion of that time, if used with intense concentration, will accomplish more. One player will take hours to learn a page or a passage which another will master in a fraction of the time. What is the difference? It may be said one has greater intelligence than the other. The greater the intelligence, the stronger the power of concentration. "If a pupil comes to me whose powers of concentration have not been awakened or developed, I sometimes give him music to read over very slowly, so slowly that every note, phrase and finger mark can be distinctly seen. Not being used to thinking intently, mistakes occur, in one hand or the other, showing that the mind was not sufficiently concentrated. It is the mind every time that wins. Without using our mental powers to their fullest extent we fail of the best that is in us. "In regard to technical equipment and routine, I do different work with each pupil, for each pupil is different. No two people have the same hands, physique or mentality; so why should they all be poured into the same mold? One student, for example, has splendid wrists and not very good fingers. Why should I give him the same amount of wrist practise that I give his brother who has feeble wrists; it would only be a waste of time. Again, a pupil with limited ideas of tonal quality and dynamics is advised to study tone at the piano in some simple melody of Schubert or Chopin, trying to realize a beautiful tone--playing it in various ways until such a quality Is secured. The piano is a responsive instrument and gives back what you put into it. If you attack it with a hard touch, it will respond with a harsh tone. It rests with you whether the piano shall be a musical instrument or not. "A student who comes to me with a very poor touch must of course go back to first principles and work up. Such an one must learn correct movements and conditions of hands, arms and fingers; and these can be acquired at a table. Along with these, however, I would always give some simple music to play, so that the tonal and musical sense shall not be neglected. "Of course I advise comprehensive scale practise; scales in all keys and in various rhythms and touches. There is an almost endless variety of ways to play scales. Those in double thirds and sixths I use later, after the others are under control. Arpeggios are also included in this scale practise. "I have said that Concentration is the keynote of piano mastery. Another principle which goes hand in hand with it is Relaxation. Unless this condition is present in arms, wrist and shoulders, the tone will be hard and the whole performance constrained and unmusical. There is no need of having tired muscles or those that feel strained or painful. If this condition arises it is proof that there is stiffness, that relaxation has not taken place. I can sit at the piano and play _forte_ for three hours at a time and not feel the least fatigue in hands and arms. Furthermore, the playing of one who is relaxed, who knows how to use his anatomy, will not injure the piano. We must remember the piano is a thing of joints; the action is so delicately adjusted that it moves with absolute freedom and ease. The player but adds another joint, which should equal in ease and adjustment the ones already there. On the other hand a person with stiff joints and rigid muscles, thumping ragtime on a good piano, can ruin it in a week; whereas under the fingers of a player who understands the laws of relaxation, it would last for many years. "This principle of relaxation is exemplified in the athlete, baseball player, and others. They have poise and easy adjustment in every part of the body: they never seem to fall into strained or stiff attitudes, nor make angular or stiff movements. Arms, shoulders, wrists and fingers are all relaxed and easy. The pianist needs to study these principles as well as the athlete, I believe in physical exercises to a certain extent. Light-weight dumb-bells can be used; it is surprising how light a weight is sufficient to accomplish the result. But it must be one movement at a time, exercising one muscle at a time, and not various muscles at once. "For memorizing piano music I can say I have no method whatever. When I know the piece technically or mechanically, I know it by heart. I really do not know when the memorizing takes place. The music is before me on the piano; I forget to turn the pages, and thus find I know the piece. In playing with orchestra I know the parts of all instruments, unless it be just a simple chord accompaniment; it would not interest me to play with orchestra and not know the music in this way. On one occasion I was engaged to play the Sgambatti concerto, which I had not played for some time. I tried it over on the piano and found I could not remember it. My first idea was to get out the score and go over it; the second was to try and recall the piece from memory. I tried the latter method, with the result that in about three hours and a half I had the whole concerto back in mind. I played the work ten days later without having once consulted the score. This goes to prove that memory must be absolute and not merely mechanical. "Students think they cannot memorize, when it would be quite easy if they would apply themselves in the right way. I ask them to look intently at a small portion, two measures, or even one, and afterward to play it without looking at the notes. Of course, as you say, this can be done away from the piano; the notes can even be recited; but there are other signs and marks to be considered and remembered, so when one can be at the piano I consider it better. "Piano playing is such an individual and complex thing. I do not require nor expect my pupils to play as I do, nor interpret as I interpret, for then I would only see just so many replicas of myself, and their individuality would be lost. I often hear them play a composition in a different way and with a different spirit from the one I find in it. But I don't say to them, 'That is wrong; you must play it as I do,' No, I let them play it as they see and feel it, so long as there is no sin against artistic taste. "I trust these few points will be helpful to both player and teacher. The latter needs all the encouragement we artists can give, for in most cases he is doing a good work. "Volumes might be added to these hurried remarks, but for that my time is too limited." IV SIGISMOND STOJOWSKI MIND IN PIANO STUDY Mr. Sigismond Stojowski, the eminent Polish pianist and composer, was found one morning in his New York studio, at work with a gifted pupil. He was willing to relax a little, however, and have a chat on such themes as might prove helpful to both teacher and student. "You ask me to say something on the most salient points in piano technic; perhaps we should say, the points that are most important to each individual; for no two students are exactly alike, nor do any two see things in precisely the same light. This is really a psychological matter. I believe the subject of psychology is a very necessary study for both teacher and student. We all need to know more about mental processes than we do. I am often asked how to memorize, for instance--or the best means for doing this; another psychological process. I recommend students to read William James' _Talks on Psychology_; a very helpful book. "The most vital thing in piano playing is to learn to think. Has it ever occurred to you what infinite pains people will take to avoid thinking? They will repeat a technical illustration hundreds of times it may be, but with little or no thought directed to the performance. Such work is absolutely useless. Perhaps that is a little too strong. With countless repetitions there may at last come to be a little improvement, but it will be very small. "There is quite a variety of views as to what the essentials of piano technic are; this is a subject on which teachers, unluckily, do not agree. For instance, on the point of finger lifting there is great diversity of opinion. Some believe in raising the fingers very high, others do not. Lifting the fingers high is not good for the tone, though it may be used for velocity playing. I use quite the reverse where I wish beautiful, singing, tone quality. The young pupil, at the beginning, must of course learn to raise fingers and make precise movements; when greater proficiency is reached, many modifications of touch are used. That the best results are not more often obtained in piano teaching and study, is as much the fault of the teacher as the pupil. The latter is usually willing to be shown and anxious to learn. It is for the teacher to correctly diagnose the case and administer the most efficient remedy. [Illustration: To Miss Harriett Brower with the kindest of remembrances, Sigismond Stojowski New York, April 1913] NATURAL TECHNIC "There is a certain amount of what I might call 'natural technic' possessed by every one--some one point which is easy for him. It Is often the trill. It has frequently come under my notice that players with little facility in other ways, can make a good trill. Some singers have this gift; Mme. Melba is one who never had to study a trill, for she was born with a nightingale in her throat. I knew a young man in London who was evidently born with an aptitude for octaves. He had wonderful wrists, and could make countless repetitions of the octave without the least fatigue. He never had to practise octaves, they came to him naturally. "The teacher's work is both corrective and constructive. He must see what is wrong and be able to correct it. Like a physician, he should find the weak and deficient parts and build them up. He should have some remedy at his command that will fit the needs of each pupil. "I give very few études, and those I administer in homeopathic doses. It is not necessary to play through a mass of études to become a good pianist. Much of the necessary technic may be learned from the pieces themselves, though scales and arpeggios must form part of the daily routine. KEEPING UP A REPERTOIRE "In keeping a large number of pieces in mind, I may say that the pianist who does much teaching is in a sense taught by his pupils. I have many advanced pupils, and in teaching their repertoire I keep up my own. Of course after a while one grows a little weary of hearing the same pieces rendered by students; the most beautiful no longer seem fresh. My own compositions are generally exceptions, as I do not often teach those. To the thoughtful teacher, the constant hearing of his repertoire by students shows him the difficulties that younger players have to encounter, and helps him devise means to aid them to conquer these obstacles. At the same time there is this disadvantage: the pianist cannot fail to remember the places at which such and such a student had trouble, forgot or stumbled. This has happened to me at various times. In my recitals I would be playing ahead, quite unconscious that anything untoward could occur--wholly absorbed in my work; when, at a certain point, the recollection would flash over me--this is where such or such a pupil stumbled. The remembrance is sometimes so vivid that I am at some effort to keep my mental balance and proceed with smoothness and certainty. "Yes, I go over my pieces mentally, especially if I am playing an entirely new program which I have never played before; otherwise I do not need to do so much of it. FILLING IN A PASSAGE "You suggest that a composer may fill in or make up a passage, should he forget a portion of the piece when playing in public. True; but improvising on a well-known work is rather a dangerous thing to do in order to improve a bad case. Apropos of this, I am reminded of an incident which occurred at one of my European recitals. It was a wholly new program which I was to give at Vevay. I had been staying with Paderewski, and went from Morges to Vevay, to give the recital. In my room at the hotel I was mentally reviewing the program, when in a Mendelssohn Fugue, I found I had forgotten a small portion. I could remember what went before and what came after, but this particular passage had seemingly gone. I went down to the little parlor and tried the fugue on the piano, but could not remember the portion in question. I hastened back to my room and constructed a bridge which should connect the two parts. When the time came to play the fugue at the recital, it all went smoothly till I was well over the weak spot, which, it seems, I really played as Mendelssohn wrote it. As I neared the last page, the question suddenly occurred to me, what had I done with that doubtful passage? What had really happened I could not remember; and the effort to recall whether I had played Mendelssohn or Stojowski nearly brought disaster to that last page. "As soon as my season closes here I shall go to London and bring out my second piano concerto with the London Symphony Orchestra, under Nikisch. I shall also play various recitals." It was my good fortune to be present at the orchestral concert at Queen's Hall, when Mr. Stojowski was the soloist. It was pleasant to see the enthusiasm aroused by the concerto itself, and the performance of it by the artist. V RUDOLPH GANZ CONSERVING ENERGY IN PIANO PRACTISE [Illustration: Rudolph Ganz] "One of the most necessary things is the conserving of vital energy in piano practise," said the pianist Rudolph Ganz to me one day. "The wrong way is to continually practise the piece as though you were playing it in public--that is to say, with all possible energy and emotion. Some of the pianists now before the public do this, and it always makes me sorry for them, for I know what a needless waste of energy and vital force it is. An actor, studying his lines, does not need to continually shout them in order to learn how they should be interpreted. Neither does the lyric actress practise her roles with full tones, for she is well used to saving her voice. Why then should the pianist exhaust himself and give out his whole strength merely in the daily routine of practise? I grant this principle of saving one's self may not be easy to learn, but it should be acquired by all players, great and small. I think a pianist should be able to practise five or six hours daily without fatigue. If the player is accustomed to husband his vital force during the daily routine of practise, he can play a long, exacting program in public without weariness. In every day practise one often does not need to play _forte_ nor use the pedals; a tone of medium power is sufficient. Suppose, for instance, you are studying the Chopin Étude Op. 10, No. 12, with the left hand arpeggio work. Every note and finger must be in place, every mark of phrasing obeyed; but during practise hours you need not give the piece all its dashing vigor and bravura at every repetition. Such a course would soon exhaust the player. Yet every effect you wish to make must be thoroughly studied, must be in mind, and used at intervals whenever a complete performance of the piece is desired. "As I said before, it is often difficult to control the impulse to 'let loose,' if the work is an exciting one. At a recent rehearsal with the Symphony Orchestra, I told the men I would quietly run through the concerto I was to play, merely indicating the effects I wanted. We began, but in five minutes I found myself playing with full force and vigor. "In regard to methods in piano study there seems to be a diversity of opinion, resulting, I think, from the various ways of touching the keys--some players using the tip and others the ball of the finger. Busoni may be cited as one who employs the end of the finger--Pauer also; while the Frenchman, Cortôt, who has an exquisite tone, plays with the hand almost flat on the keys, a method which certainly insures weight of hand and arm. Of course players generally, and teachers also, agree on the employment of arm weight in playing. The principles of piano technic are surely but few. Was it not Liszt who said: 'Play the right key with the right finger, the right tone and the right intention--that is all!' It seems to me piano technic has been pushed to its limit, and there must be a reversal; we may return to some of the older methods of touch and technic. "The vital thing in piano playing is to bring out the composer's meaning, plus your own inspiration and feeling. You must study deeply into the composer's idea, but you must also put your own feeling, intensity and emotion into the piece. And not only must you feel the meaning yourself, but you must play it in a way to touch others. There are many pianists who are not cultured musicians; who think they know their Beethoven because they can play a few sonatas. In music 'knowledge is power.' We need all possible knowledge, but we also need to feel the inspiration. One of the greatest teachers of our time holds that personal inspiration is not necessary; for the feeling is all in the music itself. All we have to do is to play with such and such a dynamic quality of tone. Like a country doctor measuring out his drugs, this master apportions so many grains of power for _forte_, for _mezzo_, for _piano_, and so on. This plan puts a damper on individuality and enthusiasm, for it means that everything must be coldly calculated. Such playing does not really warm the heart. "I believe in teaching tonal contrasts and tone color even to a beginner. Why should not the child form a concept of _forte_ and _piano_, and so get away from the deadly monotony of _mezzo_? I have written some little descriptive piano pieces, and my small boy learned one of them to play for me. There is a closing phrase like this," and Mr. Ganz illustrated at the piano; "it is to be played _forte_, and is followed by a few notes to be touched very softly, like an echo. It was really beautiful to see how the little fellow reached out for the pedal to make the loud part more emphatic, and then played the echo very softly and neatly. He had grasped the first principle of tone color--namely tone contrast, and also a poetic idea. "There are so many wonder children in these days, and many marvels are accomplished by infant prodigies. Very often however, these wonder children develop no further; they fail to fulfil their early promise, or the expectations held of them. "A youthful wonder in the field of composition is Eric Korngold, whose piano sonata I played in my New York recital. I have played this work eight times in all, during my present tour, often by request. To me it is most interesting. I cannot say it is logical in the development of its ideas; it often seems as though the boy threw in chords here and there with no particular reason. Thus the effort of memorizing is considerable, for I must always bear in mind that this C major chord has a C sharp in it, or that such and such a chord is changed into a most unusual one. One cannot predict whether the boy will develop further. As you say, Mozart was an infant prodigy, but if we judge from the first little compositions that have been preserved, he began very simply and worked up, whereas Korngold begins at Richard Strauss. His compositions are full of the influence of Strauss. The critics have much to say for and against these early works. I do not know the young composer personally, though he has written me. In a recent letter which I have here, he expresses the thought that, though the critics have found many things to disapprove of in the sonata, the fact that I have found it worth studying and bringing out more than compensates him for all adverse criticism. To make the work known in the great musical centers of America is surely giving it wide publicity." On a later occasion, Mr. Ganz said: "I thoroughly believe in preserving one's enthusiasm for modern music, even though, at first glance, it does not attract one, or indeed seems almost impossible. I enjoy studying new works, and learning what is the modern trend of thought in piano work; it keeps me young and buoyant. "One of the novelties lately added to my repertoire is the Haydn sonata in D. On the same program I place the Korngold sonata. A hundred years and more divide the two works. While I revere the old, it interests me to keep abreast of the new thought in musical art and life." VI TINA LERNER AN AUDIENCE IS THE BEST TEACHER Between the many engagements that crowded upon the close of her long American tour, Miss Tina Lerner found time to talk over certain topics of significance which bear upon pianistic problems. We began by referring to the different methods of holding the hands, moving the fingers and touching the keys, as exemplified by the various pianists now before the public. "It is true that I play with the ball of the finger on the key, which necessitates a flat position of hand, with low wrist." Here the pianist illustrated the point by playing several pearly scales with straight, outstretched fingers. "I never realized, however, that I played in this way, until Mr. Ernest Hutcheson, the pianist, of Baltimore, recently called my attention to it. The fact is, I have always taken positions of body, arms, hands and fingers, which seemed to me the most natural and easy. This I did when I began, at the age of five, and I have always kept to them, in spite of what various teachers have endeavored to do for me. Fortunately my early teachers were sensible and careful; they kept me at the classics, and did not give too difficult pieces. The principles followed by most great pianists I believe are correct; but I have always kept to my own natural way. In hand position, therefore, I am individual; perhaps no one else plays with such a finger position, so in this I am unique. "For some reason unknown to me, it has come to be imagined that I have studied with Leschetizky; this is entirely refuted when I say I have never been in Vienna. It seems we are getting away from the idea of helping ourselves out with the name of some great teacher. The question should be: What has the player in himself, what can he accomplish? not, Whose pupil is he? We know of some of Leschetizky's famous pupils, but we never hear of the thousands he must have had, who have come to nothing. A teacher can only do a certain amount for you; he can give you new ideas, which each pupil works out for himself in his own way. The piano student learns from so many different sources. He attends a piano recital and acquires many ideas of touch, tone, phrasing and interpretation; he hears a great singer or violinist and absorbs a wholly new set of thoughts, or he listens to a grand orchestra, and gains more than from all the others. Then there is life to study from: experience--living--loving: all go into the work of the musician. A musical career is indeed the most exacting one that can be chosen. "I have been asked whether I prefer to play for an audience of 'music-lovers' or one of 'music knowers.' Perhaps an equal mixture is the happy medium. Of the two sorts it seems to me the music-knowers are preferable, for even if they are very critical, they also recognize the various points you make; they see and appreciate what you are striving for. They are not inclined to say, 'I don't like such or such a player'; for the music-knower understands the vast amount of time and energy, labor and talent that go to make a pianist. He rather says, 'I prefer the playing of such or such an artist.' The word 'like' in connection with a great artist seems almost an affront. What does it matter if his work is not 'liked' by some? He knows it can stand for what it is--the utmost perfection of his powers--of himself. And after all the audience is the greatest teacher an artist can have; I have learned more from this teacher than from any other. In this school I learn what moves and touches an audience; how to improve this or that passage; how to make a greater climax here, or more sympathetic coloring there. For in conceiving how a work should sound, I get--in my study of it--a general idea of the whole, and make it as nearly perfect as I am able. But it has to be tested and tried--an audience must pass its opinion--must set the seal of approval upon it. When the work has been polished by repeated trials in this school, interpretation then becomes crystallized in the mind and the piece can always be given in nearly the same way. A painter does not change nor repaint his picture each time he exhibits it; why need the musician change his idea of the interpretation at each repetition? To trust too much to the inspiration of the moment might injure the performance as a whole. When I have my ideal of the interpretation worked out in mind, it becomes my sacred duty to play it always in this spirit--always to give my best. I can never think that because I am playing in Boston or New York, I must strive harder for perfection than if I play in a little town. No, I must give the highest that is in me, no matter where it may be. People sometimes ask me if I am nervous before a recital. It is not that I am afraid of people; but I am always anxious about being able to realize my ideal, when the moment comes. "I can say I prefer playing in America to anywhere else in the world; for there are more real appreciation and understanding here than in any other country. Of course the great music centers all over the world are about the same; but the difference lies in the smaller cities, which in America are far more advanced musically than in Europe. I have proved this to be the case repeatedly. Not long ago I was booked for a couple of recitals in a small town of not more than two thousand inhabitants. When I arrived at the little place, and saw the barn of a hotel, I wondered what these people could want with piano recitals. But when I came to the college where I was to play and found such a large, intelligent audience gathered, some of whom had traveled many miles to be present, it proved in what estimation music was held. The teacher of this school was a good musician, who had studied nine years with Leschetizky, in Vienna; the pupils understood the numbers on the program, were wide awake, and well informed as to what was going on in the world of music. "One handicap the present day pianist encounters, who plays much with orchestra, and that is the dearth of modern concertos. The familiar ten or dozen famous ones are played over and over, and one seldom hears anything new. There are new ones written, to be sure, but the public has not learned to care for them. The beautiful second concerto of Rachmaninoff has not made a success, even in the great music centers, where the most intelligent audiences have heard it. I believe that if an audience of the best musicians could be assembled in a small room and this work could be played to them, they could not fail to be impressed with its beauties. I am now studying a new concerto by Haddon Wood, which you see in manuscript there on the piano; it is one I find very beautiful." A subsequent conversation with the artist elicited the following: "I might say that I began my music when about four years old, by playing the Russian National Hymn, on a toy piano containing eight keys, which had been given me. My older sister, who was studying the piano, noticed this, showed me a few things about the notes, and I constantly picked out little tunes and pieces on the real piano. Finally one day my sister's teacher, Rudolph Heim, came to the house, mainly on my account. This was in Odessa, in the south of Russia, where I was born and where I spent my early years. On this occasion, he wanted to look at me and see what I could do. Unluckily a sudden fit of shyness overcame me and I began to cry; the exhibition could not take place, as nothing could be made out of me that day. You see I was headstrong even at that early age," said the young pianist, with one of her charming smiles. "Soon after this incident, I was taken to the Professor's studio. He examined me, considered I had talent, and thought it should be cultivated. So he took me in hand. I was then five, and my real musical education began at that time. "From the very first I adopted a position of hand which seemed to me most convenient and comfortable, and no amount of contrary instruction and advice has ever been able to make me change it. I play scales and passages with low hand and flat fingers because that position seems the most favorable for my hand. When practising, I play everything very slowly, raising my fingers high and straight from the knuckle joint. This gives me great clearness and firmness. In rapid passage work the action is reduced, but the position remains. I am said to have a clear, pearly touch, with quite sufficient power at my command for large works. "After five years of study with my first teacher, Rudolph Heim, a pupil of Moscheles, I entered the Moscow Conservatory, and continued my studies under Professor Pabst, brother and teacher of the composer of that name. I was then ten years old. Professor Pabst was very conservative, very strict, and kept me at work on the music of the older masters. This kind of music suits me, I think; at least I enjoy it. Even here I still clung to my ideas of holding my hands and of touching the keys, and always expect to do so. "I remained with this professor about six years and then began my public career. "You ask about my present studies, and how I regulate my practise. During my periods of rest from concert work, I practise a great deal--I wish I could say all the time, but that is not quite possible. I give an hour or more a day to technical practise. As to the material, I use Chopin's Études constantly, playing them with high-raised, outstretched fingers, in very slow tempo. One finds almost every technical problem illustrated in these études; octaves, arpeggios, scales in double thirds and sixths, repeated notes, as in number 7, broken chords and passage work. I keep all these études in daily practise, also using some of the Liszt _Études Transcendantes_, and, of course, Bach. The advantage of using this sort of material is that one never tires of it; it is always interesting and beautiful. With this material well in hand, I am always ready for recital, and need only to add special pieces and modern music. "In learning a new work I first study it very slowly, trying to become familiar with its meaning. I form my concept of it and _live_ with it for months before I care to bring it forward. I try to form an ideal conception of the piece, work this out in every detail, then always endeavor to render it as closely like the ideal as possible." VII ETHEL LEGINSKA RELAXATION THE KEYNOTE OF MODERN PIANO PLAYING The brilliant young pianist, Ethel Leginska, who is located for a time in America, was seen in her Carnegie Hall studio, on her return from a concert tour. The young English girl is a petite brunette; her face is very expressive, her manner at once vivacious and serious. The firm muscles of her fine, shapely hands indicate that she must spend many hours daily at the keyboard. "Yes, I have played a great deal in public--all my life, in fact--ever since I was six. I began my musical studies at Hull, where we lived; my first teacher was a pupil of McFarren. Later I was taken to London, where some rich people did a great deal for me. Afterward I went to Leschetizky, and was with him several years, until I was sixteen; I also studied in Berlin. Then I began my career, and concertized all over Europe; now I am in America for a time. I like it here; I am fond of your country already. "The piano is such a wonderful instrument to me; I feel we are only beginning to fathom its possibilities; not in a technical sense, but as a big avenue for expression. For me the piano is capable of reflecting every mood, every feeling; all pathos, joy, sorrow--the good and the evil too--all there is in life, all that one has lived." (This recalls a recently published remark of J. S. Van Cleve: "The piano can sing, march, dance, sparkle, thunder, weep, sneer, question, assert, complain, whisper, hint; in one word it is the most versatile and plastic of instruments.") "As for the technic of the piano, I think of it only as the material--only as a means to an end. In fact I endeavor to get away from the thought of the technical material, in order that I may get at the meaning of the music I wish to interpret. I am convinced there is a great future for the piano and its music. Even now we are taking piano music very seriously, and are trying to interpret it in a far deeper and broader sense than the pianists of, say, fifty years ago ever thought of doing. I fancy if Clara Schumann, for instance, could return and play to us, or even Liszt himself, we should not find their playing suited to this age at all. Some of us yet remember the hand position Mme. Schumann had, the lack of freedom in fingers and arms. It was not the fashion of her time to play with the relaxed freedom, with the breadth and depth of style which we demand of artists to-day. In those days relaxation had not received the attention it deserved, therefore we should probably find the playing of the greatest artists of a former generation stiff and angular, in spite of all we have heard of their wonderful performances. "Relaxation is a hobby with me; I believe in absolute freedom in every part of the arm anatomy, from the shoulder down to the finger-tips. Stiffness seems to me the most reprehensible thing in piano playing, as well as the most common fault with all kinds of players. When people come to play for me, that is the thing I see first in them, the stiffness. While living in Berlin, I saw much of Mme. Teresa Carreño, and she feels the same as I do about relaxation, not only at the keyboard, but when sitting, moving about or walking. She has thought along this line so constantly, that sometimes, if carrying something in hand, she will inadvertently let it drop, without realizing it--from sheer force of the habit of relaxation. "You ask how I would begin with a young pupil who never has had lessons. I use the principle of relaxation first of all, loosening arms and wrists. This principle can be taught to the youngest pupil. The wrist is elevated and lowered, as the hand is formed on the keys in its five finger position, with arched knuckles. It does not take long to acquire this relaxed condition; then come the finger movements. I do not believe in lifting the fingers high above the keys; this takes time and interferes with velocity and power. I lift my fingers but little above the keys, yet I have plenty of power, all the critics agree on that. In chords and octaves I get all the power I need by grasping the keys with weight and pressure. I do not even prepare the fingers in the air, before taking the chord; I do not find it necessary." Here the pianist played a succession of ringing chords, whose power and tonal quality bore out her words; the fingers seemed merely to press and cling; there was no striking nor percussion. "To return to the beginning pupil. As for a book to start with, I often use the one by Damm, though any foundational work may be employed, so long as correct principles are taught. It is said by Leschetizky that he has no method. That may be understood to mean a book, for he certainly has what others would call a method. There are principles and various sets of exercises to be learned; but it is quite true that none of the Vorbereiters use a book. "In teaching the piano, as you know, every pupil is different; each has his or her own peculiar hand, and a different degree of intelligence. So each pupil must be treated differently. This is really an advantage to the teacher; for it would be very monotonous if all pupils were alike. "The piano is such a revealer of character; I need only to hear a person play to know what sort of character he has. If one is inclined to much careful detail in everything, it comes out in the playing. If one is indolent and indifferent, it is seen the moment one touches the keys; or if one is built on broad, generous lines, and sees the dramatic point in life and things, all this is revealed at the piano. "To refer again to the subject of finger action. I do not believe in the so-called finger stroke; on the contrary I advocate fingers close to the keys, clinging to them whenever you can. This is also Arthur Schnabel's idea. You should hear Schnabel; all Berlin is wild over him, and whenever he gives a concert the house is sold out. He has quantities of pupils also, and is quite a remarkable teacher. One point I insist upon which he doesn't: I will not allow the joint of the finger next the tip to break or give in. I can not stand that, but Schnabel doesn't seem to care about it; his mind is filled with only the big, broad things of music. "In regard to memorizing piano compositions. I do it phrase by phrase, and at the instrument, unless I am traveling or unable to get to a piano, in which case I think it out from the notes. If the piece is very difficult I take a short passage of two or three measures and play each hand separately and then together; but generally I play the passage complete--say half a dozen times with the notes, and then repeat it the same number of times from memory. Perhaps the next day I have forgotten it, so the work has to be done over again; the second time, however, it generally sticks. "My great longing and ambition is to write music, to become a composer. With this end in view, I give whatever time I am able to the study of composition. I hope some day to create something that will be worthy the high aim I have before me." VIII BERTHA FIERING TAPPER MASTERING PIANISTIC PROBLEMS If environment and atmosphere are inspirational aids to piano teaching and playing, the students of Mrs. Thomas Tapper have the incentives of both in their lesson hours. Her apartments on the Drive have the glory of sunlight all the long afternoons. Outside the Hudson shimmers in blue and gold; indoors all is harmonious and home-like. In the large music-room, facing the river, two grand pianos stand side by side; there are many portraits and mementoes of the great in music; fresh flowers, books--everything to uplift thought; while in the midst of it all is Mrs. Tapper herself, the serious, high-minded, inspiring teacher; the "mother confessor" to a large number of young artists and teachers. "Music study means so much more than merely exercising the fingers," she said; "the student should have a good all-round education. When young people come to me for instruction, I ask what they are doing in school. If they say they have left school in order to devote their whole time to the piano, I say, 'Go back to your school, and come to me later, when you have finished your school course.' It is true that in rare cases it may be advisable for the student to leave school, but he should then pursue general or special studies at home. I often wish the music student's education in this country could be arranged as it is in at least one of the great music schools in Russia. There the mornings are given to music, while general studies are taken up later in the day. It is really a serious problem, here in America, this fitting in music with other studies. Both public and private schools try to cover so much ground that there is very little time left for music or anything else. The music pupil also needs to know musical literature, history and biography, to be familiar with the lives and writings of the great composers. Take the letters and literary articles of Robert Schumann, for instance. How interesting and inspiring they are! "In regard to methods in piano study my principles are based wholly upon my observations of Leschetizky's work with me personally, or with others. What I know he has taught me; what I have achieved I owe to him. My first eight weeks in Vienna were spent in learning, first, to control position and condition of hands and arms according to the law of balance; secondly, to direct each motion with the utmost accuracy and speed. To accomplish this I began with the most elementary exercises in five-finger position, using one finger at a time. Then came the principles of the scale, arpeggios, chords and octaves. All these things were continued until every principle was mastered. I practised at first an hour a day, then increased the amount as my hands grew stronger and the number of exercises increased. "Next came the study of tone production in various forms, a good quality invariably being the result of a free condition of the arm combined with strength of fingers and hands. "The Leschetizky principles seem to me the most perfect and correct in every particular. Yes, there are several books of the method, by different authors, but I teach the principles without a book. The principles themselves are the essential things. I aim to build up the hand, to make it strong and dependable in every part, to fill out the weak places and equalize it. That this may be thoroughly and successfully accomplished, I require that nothing but technical exercises be used for the first nine, ten, or twelve weeks. We begin with the simplest exercises, one finger at a time, then two, three and so on through the hand. I believe in thus devoting all the practise time to technic, for a certain period, so that the mind is free to master the principles, undisturbed by piece playing. When the principles have been assimilated, the attention can then be directed to the study of music itself. If any weak places appear in the hand from time to time, they can be easily corrected. "If a pupil comes to me who has played a great deal but with no idea of the principles of piano playing, who does not know how to handle herself or the keyboard, it is absolutely necessary to stop everything and get ready to play. If you attempt even a simple sonata with no legato touch, no idea of chord or scale playing, you can not make the piece sound like anything. It is like a painter trying to paint without brushes, or an artist attempting to make a pen and ink drawing with a blunt lead pencil; to do good work you must have the tools to work with. "For application of all principles, the studies of Czerny, Op. 299, 740, and others, offer unequaled opportunity. They are simple, direct, and give the student a chance for undivided attention to every position taken and to every motion made. "What happens afterward is altogether according to the individual characteristics of the student. How to recognize these and deal with them to the best advantage is the interesting task of my great master (and those who try to follow in his steps)--the man of keenest intelligence, of profound learning and experience. To learn this lesson from him has been my greatest aim, and to see him at work, as it has been my privilege to do for several summers, has been of the greatest influence and inspiration in my own work. "My chief endeavor is to create a desire for good musicianship. To this end I insist upon the study of theory, harmony, ear-training and analysis. In the piano lessons I do not have sufficient time to teach these things. I have assistant teachers who help me with these subjects and also with the technical training. Once a month during the season, my assistant teachers bring their pupils to play for me, and we have a class in piano teaching. There are sometimes eighteen or twenty students who come to a class. I can in this way supervise all the work done, and keep in touch with my teachers, their work, and with all the students. "On the first Saturday of the month I have my own pupils here for a class; they play for me and for each other. Everything is played from memory, not a printed note is used. Students tell me it is very difficult to play here, where all listen so intently. Especially is it difficult the first time a student plays in class, to keep the mind wholly on what he is doing, with sufficient concentration. Later on, at the end of the season, it comes easier. "This idea of separating the technical work at the outset from the study of music itself, secures, in my opinion, the most perfect foundation, and later on the best results. It is sometimes wonderful how, with proper training, the hand will improve and develop in a comparatively short time. I often marvel at it myself." The writer had the privilege of being one of the guests at the last audition of the season. Eight or nine young artists played a long and difficult program. Among the numbers were a Beethoven sonata, entire; Chopin's Ballade in A flat major; Cesar Franck, Prelude, Fugue and Variations; a Mozart Fantaisie; Grieg Concerto, first movement; Weber's Concertstück, and Chopin's Scherzo in E. The recital was most instructive from an educational point of view. All the players had repose and concentration, and there were no noticeable slips, though every piece was played from memory. Hands were well arched at the knuckles, fingers curved--with adequate action at the knuckle joint; wrists in normal position, and extremely loose; the whole arm swung from the shoulder and poised over the keys, thus adjusting itself to every requirement of the composition. Every note had its amount of hand or arm weight. The tone quality was full and singing. These points were exemplified even in the playing of the youngest pupils. Furthermore they had an intelligent grasp of the meaning of the music they played, and brought it out with conviction, power, and brilliancy. IX CARL M. ROEDER PROBLEMS OF PIANO TEACHERS "The progressive teacher's method must be one of accretion," said Carl Roeder, when interviewed between lesson hours in his delightful studio in Carnegie Hall. "He gains ideas from many methods and sources, and these he assimilates and makes practical for his work. At the same time he must originate and work out things for himself. This has been my experience. "I was something of a wonder child, and at an early age developed considerable facility and brilliancy. After knocking about as a pupil of various private teachers and conservatories, I became, while quite a young lad, the pupil of de Konstki, then a lion of the day." The speaker joined in the laugh his remark called up, which brought to mind the Chevalier's famous battle-horse, "The Awakening of the Lion." "De Konstki's style was very brilliant and I endeavored to imitate him in this respect. I did quite a little concert work at that time. Realizing, however, that a pianist's income must be rather precarious, I decided to teach. In those youthful days I had the idea that the teacher of the piano had an easy life. I remembered one of my professors, a man of considerable reputation, who took the duties of his profession very lightly. His method of giving a lesson was to place the music upon the piano, start the pupil going, then retire to a comfortable couch, light his pipe and smoke at ease, troubling himself little about the pupil's doings, except occasionally to call out 'Falsch!' "So I, too, began to teach the piano. But I soon discovered that teaching was something quite different from what I had imagined it to be, and that it was something I knew very little about. I now set myself to learn how to teach--how to help those pupils who came to me. "One of my first discoveries was that most of the pupils were afflicted with stiff wrists and arms, and that this stiffness must be remedied. My own playing had always been free, due to one of my early teachers having thoroughly inculcated the principle of 'weight,' so often acclaimed in these days as a modern discovery. But how to bring about this condition in others was a great problem. I studied the Mason method, and found many helpful, illuminating ideas in regard to relaxation and devitalization. I had some lessons with S.B. Mills, and later did considerable valuable work with Paolo Gallico, who opened up to me the great storehouse of musical treasure, and revealed to me among other things the spiritual technic of the pianist's art. Subsequently I investigated the Virgil and Leschetizky methods. Mr. Virgil has done some remarkable things in the way of organizing and systematizing technical requirements, and for this we owe him much. Such analyses had not before been made with anything like the care and minuteness, and his work has been of the greatest benefit to the profession. My subsequent studies with Harold Bauer revealed him to be a deep musical thinker and a remarkable teacher of the meaning of music itself. "In my teaching I follow many of the ideas of Leschetizky, modified and worked out in the manner which I have found most useful to my own technic and to that of my pupils. I have formulated a method of my own, based on the principles which form a dependable foundation to build the future structure upon. Each pupil at the outset is furnished with a blank book, in which are written the exercises thus developed as adapted to individual requirements. FOUNDATIONAL EXERCISES "We begin with table work. I use about ten different exercises which embody, as it were, in a nutshell, the principles of piano playing. The hand is first formed in an arched position, with curved fingers, and solidified. The thumb has to be taught to move properly, for many people have never learned to control it at all. "With the hand in firm, solid position, and the arm hanging freely from the shoulder, I begin to use combined arm and wrist movements, aiming to get the weight of the arm as well as its energy at the complete disposal of the finger tip. Each finger in turn is held firmly in a curved position and played with a rotary movement of arm and wrist. When this can be done we next learn hand action at the wrist from which results the staccato touch. In this form of hand staccato there is an element of percussion, as you see, but this element gives directness and precision to the staccato touch, which in my opinion are necessary. After this we come to finger action itself. This principle is taken up thoroughly, first with one finger, then with two, three, four, and five--in all possible combinations. In this way we come down from the large free-arm movements to the smaller finger movements; from the 'general to the particular,' instead of working from the smaller to the larger. I find it most necessary to establish relaxation first, then strengthen and build up the hand, before finger action to any extent is used. When these foundational points have been acquired, the trill, scales, arpeggios, chords, octaves and double notes follow in due course. At the same time the rhythmic sense is developed, all varieties of touch and dynamics introduced, and harmonic and structural analysis dwelt upon. USE OF STUDIES "Above the third or fourth grade I make frequent use of studies, selecting them from various books. Duvernoy, Op. 120; Berens, Op. 61; Czerny, Op. 740 I find far more interesting than the threadbare 299. Heller is indispensable, so melodious and musical. Arthur Foote's studies, Op. 27, are very useful; also MacDowell's, Op. 39 and 46. Sometimes I use a few of Cramer's and the Clementi 'Gradus,' though these seem rather old-fashioned now. "For more advanced pupils I find Harberbier, Op. 53 especially applicable; there is beautiful work in them. Kessler, Op. 20, and the Moszkowski studies, Op. 72, have splendid material for the advanced player, and prepare for Henselt, Rubinstein, Chopin and Liszt études. I find that studies are valuable for application of technical principles, for reacting purposes, and for the cultivation of all the refinements of playing. Some teachers believe in applying the technic directly to pieces, and use almost no studies; but I think a study is often more valuable than a piece, because a definite technical principle is treated in every kind of way. Though I do not require studies to be memorized, they must be played with all the finish of a piece, if the pupil is to derive the maximum of benefit from them. BOOKS THAT ARE HELPFUL "As aids to my studies in the art of teaching, several books have been most helpful. Among these are two volumes by Dr. Herman H. Home, _The Philosophy of Education_, and _The Psychology of Education_. Another book, from which I have profited much is William James' _Talks to Teachers on Psychology_. Every teacher should possess it. "You ask what method I pursue with new pupils who have played a great deal of music but with little idea of correct principles of piano study. Let us take, for instance, one who has had lessons for years but is in ignorance of first principles. Arms and wrists are stiff, hands and fingers held in cramped position; no freedom anywhere. My first move is to have the pupil stand and learn to relax arms, shoulders and body; then learn to breathe. But relaxation, even at first, is not the only thing; after devitalization comes organization, firmness and solidity--in the right places. It must be understood at the very beginning that piano playing is far more than sitting before the instrument working the fingers six or seven hours a day. The mechanical side is only preliminary. Some one has said that the factors in playing are a trinity of H's--head, hand and heart. I try at once to awaken thought, to give a wider outlook, to show that piano playing is the expression, through the medium of tone, of all that the poet, painter and philosopher are endeavoring to show through other means: to this end I endeavor to stimulate interest in the wonders of the visible universe, the intellectual achievements of men and the deep things of spiritual discernment. IN REGARD TO INTERPRETATION "On this subject I think we should avoid pedantry; not to say to the pupil, you must play this piece a certain way; but rather say, I see or feel it in this way, and give the reasons underlying the conception. I believe the successful teacher should be a pianist. He should understand every point and be able to _do_ the thing, else how can he really show the manner of the doing? Many of the _nuances_, subtleties of color and phrase, effects of charm or of bravura, cannot be explained; they must be illustrated. And furthermore, only he who has been over the road can be a safe or sympathetic guide. Tolstoi realized he could not be of service to the people he would uplift unless he lived among them, shared their trials and experienced their needs. The time has gone by when the musician and composer was considered a sort of freak, knowing music and nothing else. We know the great composers were men of the highest intelligence and learning, men whose aim was to work out their genius to the utmost perfection. Nothing less than the highest would satisfy them. As George Eliot said, 'Genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains.' Think of the care Beethoven took with every phrase, how many times he did it over, never leaving it till he was satisfied." In speaking of the great European teachers Mr. Roeder continued: "We hear much of the Leschetizky method; but with that master technic is quite a secondary matter over which, when once the principles are mastered, he troubles himself but little. It is the conception of the work as a whole which concerns him, how to project it, so to say, most effectively to an audience. He brings into prominence now this part, now that, accenting here, slightly exaggerating there, in order to make the picture more vivid to the listener. Harold Bauer is another illuminating master for those who have a technical equipment adequate to the performance of great works of piano literature. Some go to him who are not ready for what he has to give, but to those who can direct attention to the meaning of the music, he is a wonderful inspirational force. First he will point out a phrase here, another there, and so on through the piece, showing how the same idea takes on various aspects in the composer's thought. Then he shows how to gather up these different threads to form the perfect pattern which the author of the work had in mind; and finally the master teacher reaches down below the surface of form and design to the vital significance of the composition, and the disciple feels the glow and power of the revelation. "There is no gainsaying the fact that this age is superficial, and the great office of art is to cultivate that idealism which will uplift and inspire. In an important sense the teacher must be a preacher of righteousness. He knows that 'beautiful things are fashioned from clay, but it has first to pass through the fire,' and only those who can endure that scorching can hope to achieve success. QUESTION OF PERSONALITY "If asked to what extent a player's personality enters into the performance, my answer would be: Only in so far as the performance remains true to the composer's intention. So long as personality illumines the picture and adds charm, interest, and effectiveness to it, it is to be applauded; but when it obstructs the view and calls attention to itself it should not be tolerated. It is not art; it is vanity. "Yes, I teach both high finger action and pressure touch, once the principle of arm weight is thoroughly established, although I use high finger action only to develop finger independence and precision, and for passages where sharp delineation is required. I believe in freedom of body, arm and wrist, a firm, solid arched hand and set fingers. That freedom is best which insures such control of the various playing members as to enable the player to produce at will any effect of power, velocity or delicacy desired; thereby placing the entire mechanical apparatus under complete subjection to the mind, which dominates the performance. In other words, I am neither an anarchist who wants no government, namely unrestrained devitalization, nor a socialist, whose cry is for all government--that is, restriction and rigidity. In piano playing, as in all else, 'Virtue is the happy mean between two vices.'" X KATHARINE GOODSON AN ARTIST AT HOME When one has frequently listened to a favorite pianist in the concert room, and has studied impersonally, so to speak, the effects of touch, tone and interpretation produced during a recital, it is a satisfaction and delight to come into personal touch with the artist in the inner circle of the home; to be able to speak face to face with one who has charmed thousands from the platform, and to discuss freely the points which impress one when listening to a public performance. [Illustration: Katharine Goodson] It has been my recent privilege thus to come into intimate touch with the artist pair, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Hinton, the latter being known all over the world as Katharine Goodson. They have a quiet, beautiful home in London--a true artist's home. One feels at once on entering and enjoying its hospitality, that here at least is one instance where two musicians have perfect harmony in the home life. Mr. Hinton, as is widely known, is a composer and also a violinist and pianist. The beautiful music-room, which has been added to one side of the house and leads into the garden, contains two grand pianos on its raised platform. This music-room is Miss Goodson's own sanctum and workroom, and here piano concertos, with orchestral accompaniment supplied on the second piano, can be studied _ad infinitum_. Mr. Hinton has his own studio at the top of the house. The garden music-room is lighted at one end by a great arched window, so placed that the trees of the garden are seen through its panes. It is easy to imagine one's self in some lovely sylvan retreat--which is indeed true! All the appointments of this room, and indeed of the whole house, every article of furniture and each touch of color, betoken the artistic sense for fitness and harmony. Miss Goodson has a keen and exquisite sense for harmony in colors as well as for color in the harmonies she brings from her instrument. "My coming tour will be the fifth I have made in America," she said. "I enjoy playing in your country immensely; the cities of New York, Boston, Chicago, and Philadelphia are the most appreciative in the world. It is true we have masses of concerts in London, but few of them are really well attended and people are not so thoroughly acquainted with piano music as you are in America. And you are so appreciative of the best--even in the smaller cities. "I can recall a recital which I gave in a city of not more than forty thousand, in the West. The recital was arranged by a musical club; they asked for the program some time in advance, studied it up and thus knew every piece I was to play. There was an enormous audience, for people came from all the country round. I remember three little elderly ladies who greeted me after the recital; in parting they said, 'You will see us to-morrow,' I thought it over afterward and wondered what they meant, for I was to play at a place many miles from there the next night. What was my surprise to be greeted by the same ladles the following evening. 'You see, we are here; we told you we would come.' Fancy taking a trip from London to Edinburgh just to hear a concert! For it was a journey like that. Such incidents show the enthusiasm in America for music--and for piano music. "I hope to play both the Brahms and Paderewski concertos in America. To me the latter is a beautiful work--the slow movement is exquisite. I have as yet scarcely done anything with the composition, for I have been on a long tour through Norway, Sweden, and Finland. It was most inspiring to play for these people; they want me to come back to them now, but I cannot do so, nor can I go next season, but after that I shall go. I returned home greatly in need of rest. I shall now begin work in earnest, however, as summer is really the only time I have for study throughout the year. I shall have six full weeks now before we take our usual holiday in the Grindelwald. On the way there we shall stop at Morges and visit Paderewski, and then I will go over the concerto with him and get his ideas as to interpretation. MEMORIZING BY ANALYSIS "You ask how I memorize. First I go over the work several times to get a general idea of the whole. Then I analyze it, for I feel it absolutely necessary to know keys, chords, and construction. A work should be so well understood along these lines that it can be played in another key as well as in the one in which it is written. For the actual memorizing of the piece I generally do it phrase by phrase, not always 'each hand alone,' though occasionally I do this also. I remember learning the Bach A minor Prelude and Fugue in this way. If I were now asked to play any measure or passage in any part of it I could do so; it is mine forever, never to be forgotten." Asked about the different ways of teaching the Leschetizky method by various teachers, Miss Goodson said: "As we all know, people claim to understand and teach the Leschetizky principles who are not competent to do so. I do not recall, for instance, that the professor requires the tips of the fingers to form a straight line on the edge of the keys. I myself have never done this. I believe in a perfectly easy and natural position of hand at the keyboard. When this is the case the finger-tips form a curve, the middle fingers being placed a little farther in on the keys than is natural for the first and fifth. Of course the hand takes an arched position and the joints nearest the tip of the fingers must be firm; there should be no wavering nor giving in there. The whole arm, of course, is relaxed, and swings easily from the shoulder. A PIANO HAND "I have, as you say, a good hand for the piano; much depends on that; I have always had a good deal of what is called a natural technic. Thus when I am obliged to forego practising I do not lose my facility; an hour's work puts the hand in condition again. What do I do to accomplish this? Different things. First some finger movements, perhaps with fingers in an extended chord position; then some scales and arpeggios; then a Chopin étude, and so on. When practising regularly, I do not generally work at the piano more than four hours a day; it seems to me that amount is sufficient, if used with absolute concentration." Later we adjourned to the pretty garden back of the music-room, and here we were joined by a beautiful gray Angora cat, the pet and pride of his mistress, and a very important personage indeed. He has a trick of climbing to Miss Goodson's shoulder, from which point of vantage he surveys the world about him with all the complaisance of which an animal of such high degree is capable. XI MARK HAMBOURG FORM, TECHNIC, AND EXPRESSION [Illustration: MARK HAMBOURG] In one of the most quiet, secluded quarters of London can be found the home of the Russian pianist, Mark Hambourg. Mr. Hambourg lives on a terrace, "far from the madding crowd," and difficult enough of access to keep mere curiosity seekers at a distance. One can scarcely picture to one's self, without an actual sight of them, the quaint charm of these short passages or streets, usually termed "terraces," or "gardens." This particular terrace looks out on a restful green park, where luxuriant trees make long shadows on the sunlit turf. The house is large and comfortable--built over a hundred years ago; its rooms are spacious, and the drawing-room and library, which lead one into the other, form a fine music salon. Surely, amid such surroundings, with priceless pictures and _objets d'art_ all about, with exquisite colors, with space and quiet, an artist must find an ideal spot for both work and play. I expressed this thought to Mr. Hambourg when he entered; then we soon fell to discussing the necessary equipment of the teacher and pianist. "I agree with you," he said, "that it is the beginning of piano study which is the most difficult of all; this is where the teacher has such great responsibility and where so many teachers are so incompetent. Perhaps there are more poor teachers for the piano than for the voice. The organs of voice production cannot be seen, they can only be guessed at; so there may be a little more excuse for the vocal teacher; but for the piano we have the keys and the fingers. It should not therefore be such a very difficult thing to learn to play intelligently and correctly! Yet few seem to have got hold of the right principles or know how to impart them." "I have heard a number of the young pianists here," I remarked, "and they all play with very little finger action--with fingers close to the keys. Do you advocate this?" LOW HAND POSITION "Do not forget that for centuries England has been a country of organists; without doubt organ playing has had some effect on the piano touch. Some schools of piano playing advise lifting the fingers high above the keys, with a view to producing greater power; but I think the tone thus produced is often of a somewhat harsh and disagreeable quality. Then, too, high lifting interferes with smoothness and velocity. For myself I advocate keeping the fingers close to the keyboard, and pressing the keys, which gives the tone a warmer and more elastic quality." "A point in hand position I should like to ask you about. Some teachers advise placing the finger-tips close to the edge of the keys, forming a straight line with them; it seems to me such a position is forced and unnatural." Mr. Hambourg smiled assent. "I do not advocate anything forced and unnatural," he answered. "So many people think that a beautiful touch is 'born, not made,' but I do not agree with them. One can acquire, I am sure, a fine piano touch with the proper study. The principal requirement is, first of all, a loose wrist. This point seems simple enough, but it is a point not sufficiently considered nor understood. No matter how much the player may _feel_ the meaning of the music, he cannot express this meaning with stiff wrists and arms. Some people have a natural flexibility, and to such the securing of a musical tone presents far less difficulty; but with time, patience, and thought, I fully believe all can arrive at this goal. AMOUNT OF PRACTISE "In regard to practise I do not think it wise for the aspiring pianist to spend such a great amount of time at the piano. Four hours of concentrated work daily seems to me sufficient. Of course it is the quality of practise that counts. The old saying, 'Practise makes perfect,' does not mean constant repetition merely, but constant thinking and listening. I advise students to stop after playing a passage several times, and think over what the notes mean. This pause will rest ears and hands; in a few moments work can be resumed with fresh vigor. "I have been so frequently asked to write on the subject of technic that I have done so in a few articles which have been printed in a small booklet. From these you may see what my ideas are on these points. I do very little teaching myself--just a few talented pupils; they must be something out of the ordinary. You see, I do not live in London continuously; I am here only about four months of the year; the rest of the time is spent traveling all over the world. Only that small part of the year when I am stationary can I do any solid work. Here it is generally quiet enough: the Zoological Garden is not far away, however, and sometimes I have the roaring of the lions as an accompaniment to my piano. "I am always increasing my repertoire, though I find the public does not care for new things; it prefers the old. It may listen to the new if forced to, but it will not attend a recital unless various familiar things are on the program. "I have made several tours in America. The rush of travel from place to place over there, is fatiguing, but I feel that your people are very appreciative. You demand the best, and concert giving in America is so costly that a manager can afford to exploit only the highest artists. Here in London, where the expense is only about two hundred dollars, say, to get up a recital, almost any one can scrape together that sum and bring himself or herself before the public. In America the outlay is four or five times greater. No wonder that only a very good artist can take the risk." On leaving, Mr. Hambourg took us to another room, where he showed us with much satisfaction, a very valuable painting of the old Italian school, by Ghirlandajo, of which he is very fond. XII TOBIAS MATTHAY WATCHING THE ARTIST TEACHER AT WORK One of the first things accomplished after my arrival in London was to seek out Tobias Matthay, the composer and teacher, for an echo of his fame had reached me across the water. Matthay has done much to make the principles of piano technic so clear and simple that even a child can understand them. If he has stated facts in a way which seems to some revolutionary it is because these facts are seldom understood by the rank and file of piano teachers. The work he has done has compelled attention and admiration; his ideas are now accepted as undeniable truths by those who at first repudiated them. The writings of Mr. Matthay will doubtless be better known in America a little later on than they are at present. They consist in part of an exhaustive work on _The Act of Touch in all its Diversity; First Principles of Piano Playing; Relaxation Studies; The Child's First Steps in Piano Playing; The Principles of Fingering and Laws of Pedaling; Forearm Rotation Principle;_ and, in press, _The Principles of Teaching Interpretation_. These very titles are inspiring and suggestive, and show Matthay to be a deep thinker along educational lines. [Illustration: Cordially Yours, Tobias Matthay] Matthay's activities are enormous. He is professor of advanced piano playing at the Royal Academy of Music; also founder and head of his own school of piano playing. So occupied early and late is he, that it is almost impossible to get a word with him. I was fortunate enough, however, to obtain an hour's audience, and also permission to attend various private classes at the Royal Academy, and hear a number of pupils in recital. In appearance Matthay is a striking personality. His head and features recall pictures of Robert Louis Stevenson. His tall, muscular form has the stoop of the scholar; and little wonder when one remembers he must sit in his chair at work day in and day out. His somewhat brusk manner melts into kind amiability when discussing the topics in which he is vitally interested. In his intercourse with students he is ever kind, sympathetic and encouraging. They, on their part, treat him with profound respect. Matthay believes, and rightly, that the beginning pupil should learn essentials of note values, rhythm, time, ear-training and so on, before attempting to play anything at the piano. When first taken to the instrument, its mechanism is carefully explained to the learner, and what he must do to make a really musical tone. He says _(Child's First Steps)_: "Before you take the very first step in tone production, be sure to understand that you must never touch the piano without trying to make music. It is only too easy to sound notes without making music at all. To make music we must make all the sounds mean something, just as it is no use to pretend to speak unless the sounds we make with our lips mean something, that is unless they form reasoned phrases and sentences." Here nothing is left vague. Matthay shows clearly how all musical Form and Shape imply Movement and Progression: the movement of a phrase toward its cadence; the movement of a group of notes toward a beat or pulse ahead, or the movement of a whole piece toward its climax, etc. This original view of his regarding form, which he has advocated for the last twenty years, is now being accepted generally by the more up-to-date of the English theorists and teachers. In regard to key mechanism and what must be done to produce all varieties of touch and tone, Matthay has made exhaustive studies. He says (_First Principles of Piano Playing_): "The two chief rules of technic, as regards the key, are, therefore: Always feel how much the key resists you: feel how much the key _wants_ for every note. Second, Always listen for the moment each sound begins, so that you may learn to direct your effort to the sound only, and not to the key bed. You must never hit a key down, nor hit _at_ it. The finger-tip may fall on the key, and in gently reaching the key you may follow up such fall by acting against the key. This action against the key must be for the sole purpose of making it move--in one of the many ways which each give us quite a different kind of sound. And you must always direct such action to the point in key descent where the sound begins." I quote also this little summary from the same work: "(a) It is only by making the hammer-end of the key move that you can make a sound. (b) The swifter the movement the louder the sound. (c) The more gradual this swiftness is obtained the more beautiful the quality of sound. (d) For brilliant tone you may hit the string by means of the key, but do not, by mistake, hit the key instead. (e) You must 'aim' the key to the _beginning_ of each sound, because the hammer falls off the string as you hear that beginning, and it is too late then to influence the sound except its continuance. (f) It is wrong to squeeze the key beds, because it prevents tone, impairs musical result, impedes agility, and is, besides, fatiguing. (g) You must feel the 'giving way point' of the key, so that you may be able to tell how much force is required for each note. Never, therefore, really hit the keys." Mr. Matthay as minutely gives directions as to the muscular problems of touch and technique. For instance, he explains how all varieties of tone, good and bad, are caused, all inflections of Duration, and the laws which govern the attainment of Agility and ease of Technique; and also explains the nature of incorrect muscular actions which prevent the attainment of all these things. He shows where the released arm weight should be applied, and again, where it should be eliminated; makes clear the two opposite forms of technic implied by "flat" and "bent" finger actions, and he goes exhaustively into the little-understood question of forearm rotary exertions, the correct application of which he proves to be necessary for every note we play. In speaking of methods in piano teaching, Mr. Matthay said to me: "I can say I have no method _of playing_, and moreover I have not much faith in people who have. My teachings merely show how all playing, good or bad, is accomplished. There are certain principles, however, which every player should know, but which, I am sorry to say, are as yet scarcely apprehended even by the best teachers. The great pianists have experimented till they have hit upon effects which they can repeat if all conditions are favorable, and they are in the mood. As a rule they do not know the laws underlying these effects. You may ask the greatest pianists, for example, how to play octaves. 'Oh, I play them thus'--illustrating. Just what to do to attain this result they cannot explain. In my own case I have done much experimenting, but always with the view to discovering _how_ things are done--the facts and laws governing actual tone production and interpretation. I made a study of Rubinstein's playing, for I found he played a great deal better than I did. So I discovered many things in listening to him, which he perhaps could not have explained to me. These facts are incontrovertible and I have brought many of my colleagues to see the truth of them. More than this, I have brought many even of my older colleagues who had a life-time of wrong mental habits to impede them, to realize the truth of my teachings. "The work of a teacher should speak for itself. For my own part I never advertise, for I can point to hundreds of pupils--this is no exaggeration in the least!--who are constantly before the public, as concert pianists and successful teachers. "If there is one thing that rouses me deeply, it is the incompetence of so many teachers of piano. They say to the pupil: 'You play badly, you must play better'; but they do not tell the pupil _how_ to play better. They give doses of études, sonatas and pieces, yet never get at the heart of the matter at all. It is even worse than the fake singing teachers; I feel like saying it is damnable!" It was my privilege to be present at some of Mr. Matthay's private lessons, given at the Royal Academy. Several young men were to try for one of the medals, and were playing the same piece, one of the Strauss-Tausig Valse Caprices. Matthay listens to a complete performance of the work in hand, then turns back to the beginning and goes over it again for corrections and suggestions. He enters into it with absolute devotion, directing with movements of head and hands as a conductor might direct an orchestra; sometimes he dashes down a chord in the treble to urge more force; at other times lays a restraining hand on the player's arm, where the tone should be softer. His blue pencil is often busy adding phrasing marks. In the pauses he talks over with the pupil the character of the piece, and the effects he thinks should be made. In short his lessons are most helpful and illuminating. I also had the opportunity to attend a pupils' "Practise Concert," and here the results attained were little short of marvelous. Small children, both boys and girls, played difficult pieces, like the Grieg Variations for two pianos, the Weber _Invitation to the Dance_, and works by Chopin and Liszt, with accuracy and fluency. Almost every selection was played from memory. The tone was always musical and often of much power, and the pupils seemed thoroughly to understand what they were doing and the meaning of the music. They certainly exemplified the professor's maxim: "Never touch the piano without trying to make music." * * * * * Not long afterward I received a copy of the new book, which had just come from the press. Its comprehensive title is _Musical Interpretation, its Laws and Principles, and their Application in Teaching and Performing_. The material was first presented in the form of lectures; on repeated requests it has been issued in book form. The author at the outset claims no attempt to treat such a complex problem exhaustively; he has, however, selected the following seven points for elucidation: 1. The difference between Practise and Strumming. 2. The difference between Teaching and Cramming. 3. How one's mind can be brought to bear on one's work. 4. Correct ideas of Time and Shape. 5. Elements of Rubato and its application. 6. Elements of Duration and Pedaling and their application. 7. Some details as to the application of the Element of Tone-variety. Such themes must cause the thoughtful reader to pause and think. They are treated with illuminating originality. The great aim of the teacher must ever be to awaken thought along correct lines; the pupil must be assisted to concentrate his thought on what he is doing: to constantly think and listen. Teaching does not consist merely in pointing out faults; the teacher must make clear the _cause_ of each fault and the way to correct it. That section of the book devoted to the Element of Rubato, is illustrated with many examples from well-known compositions, by which the principle is explained. He shows how frequently this principle is misunderstood by the inexperienced, who seem to think that rubato means breaking the time; whereas true rubato is the _bending_ of the time, but not _breaking_ it. If we give extra time to certain notes, we must take some time from other notes, in order to even things up. The subject of Pedaling is aptly explained by means of numerous illustrations. The author deplores the misuse of the damper pedal, which can be made to ruin all the care and effort bestowed on phrasing and tonal effects by the fingers. The fault can, in most cases, be traced to inattention to the sounds coming from the piano. There are quotable paragraphs on every page, which in their sincerity and earnestness, their originality of expression, stamp themselves on the reader's imagination. Every teacher who is serious in his work and has the best interests of his pupils at heart, should read and ponder these pages. XIII HAROLD BAUER THE QUESTION OF PIANO TONE Buried deep in the heart of old Paris, in one of the narrow, busy thoroughfares of the city, stands the ancient house in which the master pianist, Harold Bauer, has made a home. One who is unfamiliar with Paris would never imagine that behind those rows of uninviting buildings lining the noisy, commercial street, there lived people of refined and artistic tastes. All the entrances to the buildings look very much alike--they seem to be mere slits in the walls. I stopped before one of the openings, entered and crossed a paved courtyard, climbed a winding stone stairway, rang at a plain wooden doorway, and was ushered into the artist's abode. Once within, I hardly dared to speak, lest what I saw might vanish away, as with the wave of a fairy's wand. Was I not a moment before down in that dusty, squalid street, and here I am now in a beautiful room whose appointments are all of quiet elegance--costly but in exquisite taste, and where absolute peace and quiet reign. The wide windows open upon a lovely green garden, which adds the final touch of restful repose to the whole picture. Mr. Bauer was giving a lesson in the music salon beyond, from which issued, now and again, echoes of well-beloved themes from a Chopin sonata. When the lesson was over he came out to me. "Yes, this is one of the old houses, of the sort that are fast passing away in Paris," he said, answering my remark; "there are comparatively few of them left. This building is doubtless at least three hundred years old. In this quarter of the city--in the rue de Bac, for instance--you may find old, forbidding looking buildings, that within are magnificent--perfect palaces; at the back of them, perhaps, will be a splendid garden; but the whole thing is so hidden away that even the very existence of such grandeur and beauty would never be suspected from without." He then led the way to the music-room, where we had an hour's talk. [Illustration: HAROLD BAUER] "I was thinking as I drove down here," I began, "what the trend of our talk might be, for you have already spoken on so many subjects for publication. It occurred to me to ask how you yourself secure a beautiful tone on the piano, and how you teach others to make it?" Mr. Bauer thought an instant. "I am not sure that I do make it; in fact I do not believe in a single beautiful tone on the piano. Tone on the piano can only be beautiful in the right place--that is, in relation to other tones. You or I, or the man in the street, who knows nothing about music, may each touch a piano key, and that key will sound the same, whoever moves it, from the nature of the instrument. A beautiful tone may result when two or more notes are played successively, through their _difference of intensity_, which gives variety. A straight, even tone is monotonous--a dead tone. Variety is life. We see this fact exemplified even in the speaking voice; if one speaks or reads in an even tone it is deadly monotonous. VARIETY OF TONE "Now the singer or the violinist can make a single tone on his instrument beautiful through variety; for it is impossible for him to make even _one_ tone which does not have shades of variation in it, however slight they may be, which render it expressive. But you cannot do this on the piano: you cannot color a single tone; but you can do this with a succession of tones, through their difference, through their relation to each other. On the other hand you may say any tone is beautiful if in the right place, no matter how harsh it may be. The singer's voice may break from emotion, or simulated emotion, in an impassioned phrase. The exact note on which it breaks may not be a beautiful one, it may even be very discordant, but we do not think of that, for we are moved by the meaning back of the tones. So on the piano there may be one note in a phrase which, if heard alone, would sound harsh and unpleasant, but in its relation to other tones it sounds beautiful, for it gives the right meaning and effect. Thus it is the _relation of tones_ which results in a 'beautiful tone' on the piano. "The frequent trouble is that piano teachers and players generally do not understand their instrument. A singer understands his, a violinist, flutist or drummer knows his, but not a pianist. As he only has keys to put down and they are right under his hand, he does not bother himself further. To obviate this difficulty, for those who come to me, I have had this complete model of piano-key mechanism made. You see I can touch the key in a variety of ways, and the results will be different each time. It is necessary for the pianist to look into his instrument, learn its construction, and know what happens inside when he touches a key. "As you say, there are a great many methods of teaching the piano, but to my mind they are apt to be long, laborious, and do not reach the vital points. The pianist may arrive at these after long years of study and experimenting, but much of his time will be wasted in useless labor. "In my own case, I was forced by necessity to make headway quickly. I came to Paris years ago as a violinist, but there seemed no opening for me then in that direction. There was opportunity, however, for ensemble work with a good violinist and 'cellist. So I set to work to acquire facility on the piano as quickly as possible. I consulted all the pianists I knew--and I knew quite a number--as to what to do. They told me I must spend many months on technic alone before I could hope to play respectably, but I told them I had no time for that. So I went to work to study out the effects I needed. It didn't matter to me _how_ my hand looked on the keyboard; whether my fingers were curved, flat, or stood on end. I was soon able to get my effects and to convince others that they were the effects I wanted. Later on, when I had more leisure, I took more thought about the position of hand and fingers. But I am convinced that much time is spent uselessly on externals, which do not reach the heart of the matter. "For instance, players struggle for years to acquire a perfectly even scale. Now I don't believe in that at all. I don't believe a scale ever should be even, either in tone or in rhythm. The beginner's untrained efforts at a scale sound like this"--the speaker illustrated at the piano with a scale in which all the tones were blurred and run into each other; then he continued, "After a year's so-called 'correct training,' his scale sounds like this"--again he illustrated, playing a succession of notes with one finger, each tone standing out by itself. "To my thinking such teaching is not only erroneous, it is positively poisonous--yes, _poisonous_!" "Is it to be inferred that you do not approve of scale practise?" "Oh, I advise scale playing surely, for facility in passing the thumb under and the hand over is very necessary. I do not, however, desire the even, monotonous scale, but one that is full of variety and life. "In regard to interpretation, it should be full of tonal and rhythmic modifications. Briefly it may be said that expression may be exemplified in four ways: loud, soft, fast, and slow. But within these crude divisions what infinite shades and gradations may be made! Then the personal equation also comes in. Variety and differentiation are of supreme importance--they are life! "I go to America next season, and after that to Australia; this will keep me away from my Paris home for a long time to come. I should like to give you a picture to illustrate this little talk. Here is a new one which was taken right here in this room, as I sat at the piano, with the strong sunlight pouring in at the big window at my left." * * * * * On a subsequent occasion, Mr. Bauer spoke further on some phases of his art. "As you already know I do not believe in so-called 'piano technic,' which must be practised laboriously outside of pieces. I do not believe in spending a lot of time in such practise, for I feel it is time wasted and leads nowhere. I do not believe, for instance, in the struggle to play a perfectly even scale. A scale should never be 'even,' for it must be full of variety and life. A perfectly even scale is on a dead level; it has no life; it is machine-made. The only sense in which the word 'even' may be applied to a scale is for its rhythmic quality; but even in this sense a beautiful scale has slight variations, so that it is never absolutely regular, either in tone or rhythm. "Then I do not believe in taking up a new composition and working at the technical side of it first. I study it in the first place from the musical side. I see what may be the meaning of the music, what ideas it seeks to convey, what was in the composer's mind when he wrote it. In other words, I get a good general idea of the composition as a whole; when I have this I can begin to work out the details. "In this connection I was interested in reading a statement made by Ruskin in his _Modern Painters_. The statement, which, I think, has never been refuted, is that while the great Italian painters, Raphael, Coreggio, and the rest have left many immature and imperfect pictures and studies in color, their drawings are mature and finished, showing that they made many experiments and studies in color before they thought of making the finished black and white drawing. It seems they put the art thought first before the technical detail. This is the way I feel and the way I work. AVOID RESTRICTING RULES "Because our ancestors were brought up to study the piano a certain way, and we--some of us--have been trained along the same rigid lines, does not mean there are no better, broader, less limited ways of reaching the goal we seek. We do not want to limit ourselves or our powers. We do not need to say: 'Now I have thought out the conception of this composition to my present satisfaction; I shall always play it the same way.' How can we feel thus? It binds us at once with iron shackles. How can I play the piece twice exactly alike? I am a different man to-day from what I was yesterday, and shall be different to-morrow from what I am to-day. Each day is a new world, a new life. Don't you see how impossible it is to give two performances of the piece which shall be identical in every particular? It _is_ possible for a machine to make any number of repetitions which are alike, but a human, with active thought and emotion, has a broader outlook. "The question as to whether the performer must have experienced every emotion he interprets is as old as antiquity. You remember in the Dialogues of Plato, Socrates was discussing with another sage the point as to whether an actor must have felt every emotion he portrayed in order to be a true artist. The discussion waxed warm on both sides. Socrates' final argument was, If the true artist must have lived through every experience in order to portray it faithfully, then, if he had to act a death scene he would have to die first in order to picture it with adequate fidelity!" THE QUESTION OF VELOCITY In speaking of velocity in piano playing and how it is to be acquired, Mr. Bauer continued: "I believe the quality of velocity is inherent--an integral part of one's thought. Even a child, if he has this inherent quality, can play a simple figure of five notes as fast as they need to be played. People of the South--not on this side of the water--but of Spain and Italy, are accustomed to move quickly; they gesticulate with their hands and are full of life and energy. It is no trouble for them to think with velocity. Two people will set out to walk to a given point; they may both walk fast, according to their idea of that word, but one will cover the ground much more quickly than the other. I think this idea of a time unit is again a limiting idea. There can be _no_ fixed and fast rule as to the tempo of a composition; we cannot be bound by such rules. The main thing is: Do I understand the meaning and spirit of the composition, and can I make these clear to others? Can I so project this piece that the picture is alive? If so, the fact as to whether it is a few shades slower or faster does not enter into the question at all. OBTAINING POWER "Many players totally mistake in what power consists. They think they must exert great strength in order to acquire sufficient power. Many women students have this idea; they do not realize that power comes from contrast. This is the secret of the effect of power. I do not mean to say that we must not play with all the force we have at times; we even have to pound and bang occasionally to produce the needed effects. This only proves again that a tone may be beautiful, though in itself harsh, if this harshness comes in the right time and place. "As with velocity so with power; there is _no_ fixed and infallible rule in regard to it, for that would only be another limitation to the feeling, the poetry, the emotion of the executant's _thought_. The quality and degree of power are due to contrast, and the choice of the degree to be used lies with the player's understanding of the content of the piece and his ability to bring out this content and place it in all its perfection and beauty before the listener. This is his opportunity to bring out the higher, the spiritual meaning." XIV A VISIT TO RAOUL PUGNO TRAINING THE CHILD "An audience has been arranged for you to-day, with M. Raoul Pugno; he will await you at four o'clock, in his Paris studio." Thus wrote the courteous representative of _Musical America_ in Paris. It had been very difficult to make appointments with any of the famous French musicians, owing to their being otherwise engaged, or out of the city. I therefore welcomed this opportunity for meeting at least one of the great pianists of France. At the appointed hour that afternoon, we drove through the busy rue de Clicy, and halted at the number which had been indicated. It proved to be one of those unpromising French apartment buildings, which present, to the passer-by, a stern façade of flat wall, broken by rows of shuttered windows, which give no hint of what may be hidden behind them. In this case we did not find the man we sought in the front portion of the building, but were directed to cross a large, square court. The house was built around this court, as was the custom in constructing the older sort of dwellings. At last we discovered the right door, which was opened by a neat housekeeper. "M. Pugno is not here, he lives in the country," she said, in answer to our inquiry. (How difficult these French musicians are to find; they seem to be one and all "in the country"!) "But, madame, we have an appointment with M. Pugno; will you not be good enough to see if he is not here after all?" She left us standing, but returned almost immediately with the message that M. Pugno had only that moment entered his studio, to which she would conduct us. [Illustration: RAOUL PUGNO] In another moment we had crossed the tiny foyer and were standing within the artist's sanctuary. At first glance one felt as though in an Oriental chamber of some Eastern monarch. Heavy gold and silver Turkish embroideries hung over doors and windows. The walls were covered with many rare paintings; rich _objets d'art_ were scattered about in profusion; an open door led out into a pretty garden, where flowers bloomed, and a fountain _dripped_ into its marble basin. A raised dais at one side of the room held a divan, over which were draperies of Oriental stuffs. On this divan, as on a throne, sat the great pianist we had come to see. He made a stately and imposing figure as he sat there, with his long silvery beard and his dignified bearing. Near him sat a pretty young woman, whom we soon learned was Mlle. Nadia Boulanger, a composer and musician of brilliant attainments. "I regret that I am unable to converse with you in English, as I speak no language but my own," began M. Pugno, with a courteous wave of the hand for us to be seated. "You wish to know some of my ideas on piano playing--or rather on teaching. I believe a child can begin to study the piano at a very early age, if he show any aptitude for it; indeed the sooner he begins the better, for then he will get over some of the drudgery by the time he is old enough to understand a little about music. TRAINING THE CHILD "Great care must be taken with the health of the child who has some talent for music, so that he shall not overdo in his piano study. After all a robust physical condition is of the first importance, for without it one can do little. "A child in good health can begin as early as five or six years. He must be most judiciously trained from the start. As the ear is of such prime importance in music, great attention should be paid to tone study--to listening to and distinguishing the various sounds, and to singing them if possible, in solfeggio. "At the outset a good hand position must be secured, with correct finger movements. Then there must be a thorough drill in scales, arpeggios, chords, and a variety of finger exercises, before any kind of pieces are taken up. The young student in early years, is expected to play various études, as well as the technic studies I have mentioned--Czerny, Cramer, Clementi, and always Bach. In my position, as member of the faculty of the Conservatoire, a great many students pass before me. If I personally accept any pupils, they naturally must be talented and advanced, as I cannot give my time to the children. Still it is interesting to see the child-thought develop." The conversation turned upon the charming studio with its lovely garden--where absolute quiet could be secured in spite of the noise and bustle of one of the busiest quarters of Paris. The studio itself, we were told, had formerly belonged to the painter Decamps, and some of the pictures and furnishings were once his. A fine portrait of Pugno, life size, filling the whole space above the piano, claimed our attention. He kindly rose, as we admired the painting, and sought a photograph copy. When it was found--the last one he possessed--he presented it with his compliments. We spoke of Mlle. Boulanger's work in composition, a subject which seemed deeply to interest M. Pugno. "Yes, she is writing an opera; in fact we are writing it together; the text is from a story of d'Annunzio. I will jot down the title for you." Taking a paper which I held in my hand, he wrote, _"La Ville Morte, 4 Acts de d'Annuncio; Musique de Nadia Boulanger et Raoul Pugno"_ "You will certainly have it performed in America, when it is finished; I will tell them so," I said. The great pianist smiled blandly and accepted the suggestion with evident satisfaction. "Yes, we will come to America and see the work performed, when it is completed," he said. With many expressions of appreciation we took our leave of the Oriental studio and its distinguished occupants; and, as we regained the busy, noisy rue de Clicy, we said to ourselves that we had just lived through one of the most unique experiences of our stay in Paris. * * * * * (The above is the last interview ever taken from this great French artist, who passed away a few months later.) * * * * * The following items concerning M. Pugno's manner of teaching and personal traits, were given me by Mme. Germaine Schnitzer, the accomplished French pianist and the master's most gifted pupil. "Pugno had played the piano almost from infancy, and in early youth had taken several piano prizes. Later, however, he gave much more of his time to the organ, to the seeming neglect of the former instrument. How his serious attention was reverted to the piano happened in this wise. It was announced that Edward Grieg, the noted Norwegian, was coming to Paris. Pugno was one day looking over his piano Concerto which had recently appeared. 'Why don't you play the work for the composer when he comes?' asked a friend. 'I am no pianist,' objected Pugno. 'Why not?' said his friend; 'you know enough about the piano, and there are still four weeks in which to learn the Concerto.' Pugno took the advice, practised up the work, played it in the concert given by Grieg, and scored a success. He was then thirty-nine years of age. This appearance was the beginning; other engagements and successes followed, and thus he developed into one of the great pianists of France. "Pugno was a born pianist; he had a natural gift for technic, and therefore never troubled himself much about teaching technical exercises nor practising them. If the work of a pupil contained technical faults, he made no remarks nor explanations, but simply closed the music book and refused to listen any further. The pupil, of course, retired in discomfiture. He was fond of playing along with the pupil (generally with the left hand), or singing the melodies and themes, in order to give him ideas of the meaning and interpretation of the music. This gave independence to the pupils, though it often afforded them much amusement. "With advanced students Pugno spoke much about music and what it could express; he translated themes and passages back into the feelings and emotions which had originated them; he showed how all emotions find their counterpart in tones. 'Above all let kindness and goodness control you,' he once wrote; 'if you are filled with kindness, your tone will be beautiful!' "Pugno's instruction took the form of talks on the inner meaning of the composition, and the art of interpreting it, rather than any training on the technical side; about the latter he concerned himself very little. It goes without saying that only talented pupils made progress under such a master; indeed those without talent interested him not at all. He was a wonderful teacher for those who had the insight to read between the lines, and were able to follow and absorb his artistic enthusiasms. "I have said that Pugno did not concern himself about teaching the technical side of piano playing. Even with me, his best pupil, he rarely touched upon technical points. I must mention a notable exception. He gave me one technical principle, expressed in a few simple exercises, which I have never heard of from any one else. The use of this principle has helped me amazingly to conquer many knotty passages. I have never given these exercises to any one; I am willing however, to jot them down for you." (The following is a brief plan of the exercises, as sketched by Mme. Schnitzer) [Illustration: EXERCISES] "Pugno wished the thirty-seconds and sixty-fourths to be played with the utmost quickness. This idea is not alone applicable to all scales, but can be used with any difficult passage found in a composition. "Pugno took a keen interest in my work, my progress and career. A few sentences culled here and there from the many letters of his which I have preserved, may serve to throw more light on the inner nature of the man: "'I have endeavored to make clear to your young mind the thoughts expressed in music, so that your understanding and your emotions also might grow; all this has created a link of gratitude in you and an affection within me. I have opened the windows for you and have given you light, and I have reaped the satisfaction of my sowing.' "'Hear all the music you can--do not miss any of the pianists either good or bad; there is always something to be learned, even from a poor player--if it is only what to avoid! Study great works, but even in those there are some figures and phrases which need not be brought into the foreground, lest they attain too much significance.' "(After playing with Hans Richter's Orchestra): 'What intoxication of sound--what exhilaration and collaboration in music! What a force within us, which sways us and throbs through us, developing and expressing each sentiment and instinct! What art can be compared to music, which finds expression through this medium, called an orchestra. I feel myself greater amid the orchestra, for I have a giant to converse with. I keep pace with him, I lead him where I will--I calm him and I embrace him. We supplement each other; in a moment of authority I become his master and subdue him. The piano alone is too small for me; it does not tempt me to play it except under such conditions--with a grand orchestra!'" XV THUEL BURNHAM THE "MELODY" AND "COLORATURA" HAND A prominent figure in the musical life of Paris is Thuel Burnham, pianist and teacher. Mr. Burnham is an American, who for a number of years has made his home in Paris. He has studied with the greatest masters of his instrument on both sides of the water. More than this he is a musical thinker who has worked out things for himself, amalgamating what he has found best in other methods with what he has discovered in his own experience. He has been able to simplify the whole fabric of technical material, so there is no time lost in useless labor. As a pianist Mr. Burnham takes high rank. Technical difficulties do not exist for him. He has come to the last turning of the road; before him rise the heights of supreme spiritual mastery. A touch that is limpid, clear, and capable of many gradations of tints; splendid power in _fortissimo_; delicacy, velocity and variety are all his; together with all this he has a sympathetic insight into the mood and meaning of the composer. Of late he has been giving several recitals of a semi-private nature, at which he has brought out some of the larger works in his repertoire. These recitals have taken place in his charming studios, and it was my good fortune to be present when two concertos were played, the MacDowell in D minor, and the Grieg in A minor. Mr. Burnham is a warm admirer of the works of our great American composer, and has prepared an entire program of MacDowell's music, which included the Tragica Sonata, Polonaise, and many of the shorter pieces. In a conversation with Mr. Burnham in regard to methods of teaching, he gave many helpful points, explaining how he had reduced technical difficulties to a minimum through the exercise of a few simple principles. PRINCIPLES OF TOUCH "The position and condition of the hand varies according to the character of the music, and the tone you wish to produce. If you give out a melody, you want a full, luscious tone, the weight of arm on the key, everything relaxed, and a clinging, caressing pressure of finger. Here then, you have the 'Melody Hand,' with outstretched, flat fingers. If, on the contrary, you want rapid passage work, with clear, bright, articulate touch, the hand must stand up in well-arched, normal playing position, with fingers well rounded and good finger action. Here you have the 'Technical' or 'Coloratura Hand.' MELODY HAND "The Melody Hand is weighty and 'dead,' so to speak. The touch is made with flat fingers; the ball of the finger comes in contact with the key, the whole arm, hand and fingers are relaxed--as loose as possible. You caress the keys as though you loved them, as though they were a very part of you; you cling to them as to something soft, velvety or downy--with pressure, pressure, pressure, always." (This illustration recalled to the listener's mind one of Kitty Cheatham's stories, the one about the little girl caressing a pet kitten. She was asked which she loved best--her mother or the kitten. "Of course I love her best," was the rather hesitating answer; "but I love kitty too--and she has _fur_!") "To acquire the melody touch, I teach it with the simplest exercises, sometimes with only single tones. When the idea is apprehended, the pupil works it out in some lyric piece, like a _Song without Words_, by Mendelssohn. "There are three touches for melody playing: First, the _down touch_, made by descending arm and hand; second, the _up touch_, made by elevating the wrist, while the finger lies upon the key; third, the _wiping-off touch_, which draws the finger off the key, with an arm and hand movement. THE TECHNICAL HAND "The technical hand employs finger touch and finger action; the hand is held up, in military position, so to speak; the finger movements are quick, alert and exact; the hand is _alive_, not dead and heavy, as is the melody hand. The two ways of playing are quite opposite in their fundamental character, but they can be modified and blended in endless ways. "For the technical or coloratura touch, the hand is in arched position, the five fingers are well rounded and curved, their tips are on the keys, everything is rounded. When a finger is lifted, it naturally assumes a more rounded position until it descends to the same spot on the key from which it was lifted, as though there were five little imaginary black spots on the keys, showing exactly where the finger-tips should rest. The fingers are lifted cleanly and evenly and _fall_ on the keys--no hitting nor striking. I make a great distinction between the coloratura touch and the melody touch. The first is for rapid, brilliant passage work, sparkling, glittering, iridescent--what you will--but cold. It is made, as I said, with arched hand and raised finger action. Melody touch expresses warmth and feeling; is from the heart. Then there are the down and up arm movements, for chords, and, of course, scale and arpeggio work, with coloratura touch. I generally expect pupils who come to me to go through a short course of preparatory study with my assistant, Miss Madeleine Prosser, who has been with me for years, and does most thorough work in this line. ASSIMILATION OF PRINCIPLES "Many pupils come to me with no very definite ideas as to touch and what they may express through it. They think if they _feel_ a passage sufficiently, they will be able to use the right touch for it. Sometimes they may be able to hit upon the effect they want, but they don't know quite how they got it, nor can they repeat it another time at will. I believe the principles governing certain touches can be so thoroughly learned and assimilated that _when the player sees a certain passage, he knows at once what touch is required to express it._ A great actor illustrates what I mean--he knows how to employ his features and body to express the thought of his lines. When you go to the Theatre Français in Paris, you know every member of the company is thoroughly trained in every phase of his art. You are aware that each actor has studied expression to such an extent that the features naturally fall into the required lines and curves whenever a certain emotion comes up for expression. So with the pianist--he should have the various touches at his finger-tips. The step beyond is to express himself, which he will do easily and naturally, when his has such a preparation as I have referred to. MEMORIZING "I am often questioned on the subject of memorizing. Some pupils think if they play the piece a sufficient number of times they will know it; then are troubled because they cannot at all times remember the notes. Such players must know every note of the piece away from the piano, and be able to recite them. I have students who are able to learn their music away from the instrument, and can play it to me without having tried it on the piano. I require the piece so thoroughly memorized that if I correct a measure or phrase, the pupil can go right on from that point, without being obliged to start farther back, or at the beginning. In some cases, however, if the pupil has her own method of committing to memory, and it is successful, I have no desire to change it. OCTAVE STUDIES "For octave study, form the hand with the 'octave grimace,'--that is with arched hand, the unemployed fingers slightly curved. In staccato touch of course use light wrist. Begin with one beat in sixteenths and finish with the 'wiping off' touch. Build up more and more beats in notes of the same value, always ending the passage with the same touch, as above mentioned. This exercise can be played the full length of the keyboard, in all keys, and also chromatically. It can be played in the same fashion, using four-voiced chords instead of octaves. When such an exercise can be prolonged for twenty minutes at a time, octave passages in pieces have no terrors for the pianist. For the octaves in Chopin's Polonaise Op. 53, he would merely have to learn the notes, which can be done away from the piano; there is no need for exhaustive practise of the passage. KEEPING UP REPERTOIRE "In order to keep repertoire in repair, one should have it arranged so that old pieces are gone over once a week. Group your repertoire into sections and programs. It might be well to begin the week with Chopin, playing through the whole list; after which pick out the weak places, and practise those. Tuesday, take Schumann, and treat him in the same way. Then comes Liszt, Russian music, modern composers, concertos, and chamber music. In this systematic way the whole repertoire is kept up. DETAILS OF PRACTISE "My mornings are given up to practise, my afternoons to teaching. Of these practise hours, at least one hour is given to technic, scales, arpeggios, octaves, chords--and Bach! I believe in taking one selection of Bach, say a Two-voiced Invention, and perfecting it, playing it in various ways--transposing it into all keys and polishing it to the highest degree possible. The B flat Invention is a useful one for this treatment. So with études; instead of playing _at_ so many, is it not better to perfect a few and bring them up to the highest degree of completeness? "I am very susceptible to color, anywhere, in anything--especially in pictures. Music should express color. Certain compositions seem to embody certain colors. As you suggest, red is certainly the motif of Chopin's great Polonaise, Op. 53." * * * * * Mr. Burnham should certainly look forward to success in his visit to his native land. His fine touch and tone, sincere and musicianly style, and buoyant, genial personality will make friends for his art and himself everywhere. XVI EDWIN HUGHES SOME ESSENTIALS OF PIANO PLAYING When one has read with pleasure and profit the published ideas of a musical worker and thinker, it is always an interesting experience to meet such an one personally, and have the opportunity to discuss points of special import, particularly when the meeting can take place in some ideal spot in the old world. Such was my thought in visiting Mr. Edwin Hughes, an American who has made a name and place for himself among the pianists and teachers of Europe. After years of study in Vienna with Leschetizky, where he also acted as one of the _Vorbereiters_, he has established himself in Munich, where he feels he has found a true home of music and art. Here, amid beautiful and artistic surroundings, he lives and works, dividing his time between teaching and concert playing. As a pianist Mr. Hughes has met with gratifying success in the most important cities of Germany, while as a teacher he has been sought by students from almost every State in America, from Maine to Texas, and also from Canada. What has given him special satisfaction is that during the past year a number of pupils have come to him from the Conservatory here in Munich. They have been greatly pleased with their progress, only regretting they had not come to him before. As to whether he uses the Leschetizky method in its entirety, Mr. Hughes testified in the affirmative. "If you were to ask Leschetizky about the 'Leschetizky Method,' he would probably laugh and tell you he has no method, or he would tell you his 'method' consists of only two things--firm fingers and pliable wrist. "These are the principles upon which I base the technical training of my pupils. I first establish an arched hand position, and then test the firmness of the fingers and knuckle joints by tapping them. At first the joints, particularly the nail joints, are very apt to sink in when tapped by a lead pencil; but by having the pupil continue the tapping process at home, it is not long before he acquires the feeling of conscious firmness in his fingers. "Along with this exercise it is most important to begin at once with wrist exercises, as otherwise, from the effort to acquire firmness of finger, the wrist may become stiff and unwieldy. The wrist exercises consist in raising and lowering this joint, with the hand and arm supported first on each finger separately, then on two, three, four and five fingers. The wrist should not be so limp as to be incapable of resistance; but rather it should be like a fine steel spring--a 'spring-wrist,' I call it--capable of every degree of resistance or non-resistance the quality of tone demands. "High finger action is not so necessary for beginners as most piano teachers imagine. It is much easier to teach pupils to raise their fingers high, than it is to teach them the acquisition of the _legato_ touch at the piano, which is only to be attained by playing close to the keys, without raising the fingers. It is difficult to get pupils to play a perfect _legato_ who have had years of training with high finger action, something which should be taken up for _non-legato_ and _staccato_ finger work _after_ the more difficult _legato_ touch has been mastered. TONE PRODUCTION "The subject of tone production is one which is much neglected by piano teachers. Viewed from this standpoint the piano is an instrument apart from every other, except in some respects the organ. A young violinist, 'cellist or flutist has to study for some time before he can produce a tone of good musical quality on his instrument. Think what the beginner on the violin has to go through before he can make a respectable middle C; but anybody, even a totally unmusical person, can play middle C on the piano without the least trouble. It is just this ease in tone production at the piano which leads to carelessness as to the _kind_ of tone produced; and so piano teachers, above all others, complain they cannot get their pupils to listen to what they are playing. Pupils should be made to listen, by means of a special course in tone production, which should go hand in hand with the technical exercises used at the very beginning. Otherwise they imagine they are making music when they place the printed page on the rack, and set the correct keys in motion. "There is no other instrument with which it is so easy to 'bluff' a large part of the audience; for the character of the piano is such that the general public often think it fine music if the player makes a big noise. Pianists of considerable reputation often take advantage of this lack of discrimination on the part of piano-recital audiences, which, above all the other audiences, seem peculiarly incapable of judging correctly the musical value of a performance. "Of the hundreds of piano recitals which take place yearly in the musical centers of Europe, only a comparatively small number are of real musical interest. In many cases it seems as though the players were merely repeating something learned by rote, in an unknown language; just as though I should repeat a poem in Italian. The words I might pronounce after a fashion, but the meaning of most of them would be a blank to me--so how could I make others understand them. RHYTHM IN PIANO PLAYING "The subject of rhythm is an important one, and more attention should be given it. Leschetizky once said that tones and rhythm are the only things which can keep the piano alive as a solo instrument. I find in pupils who come to me so much deficiency in these two subjects, that I have organized classes in ear-training and rhythm. "If pupils have naturally a poor sense of rhythm, there is no remedy equal to practising with a metronome, using this instrument of torture daily until results are evident, when, of course, there must be a judicious slowing down in its use. The mechanical sense of rhythm, the ability to count three or four to a measure, and to group the notes of a piece correctly, can be taught to any person, if one has the patience; but for those delicate rhythmic _nuances_ required by a Chopin mazurka or a Viennese waltz, a specific rhythmic gift must be possessed by the pupil. "Leschetizky says little to his pupils on the subject of technic; I cannot remember his having spoken a dozen words to me on the subject, during all the time I have known him. His interest, of course, lies wholly in the matter of interpretation, and technic comes into consideration only as a means and never as an end. "Leschetizky likes to have the player talk to him, ask questions, do anything but sit still and not speak. 'How do I know you comprehend my meaning,' he asks, 'that you understand what I am talking about, if you say nothing?' At first a student may be silent from nervousness, but if he is bright he will soon 'catch on,' and see what is expected of him. Leschetizky says sometimes: 'When the Lord made the ten commandments He omitted the eleventh, "Thou shalt not be stupid."' If one is not very quick, one may have a hard time with this master. "As a high school in technic I use Joseffy's _School of Advanced Piano Playing_ with my pupils. This work leads to the highest possible technical development at the keyboard, and I consider it the last word in piano technic. The hundreds of exercises have been devised with most wonderful ingenuity, and the musicianship of the author stands out on every page. The book is not a dry series of technics but has vital connection with all the big technical problems found in the literature of the piano. "In teaching, I consider a second piano an absolute necessity. There are so many things in piano playing which cannot be put into words, and the teacher must constantly illustrate. How can one teach the interpretation of a Chopin nocturne, for instance, by merely talking about it. I can say, 'play loud here--soft there'; but how far do such directions go toward an artistic conception of the piece? One cannot indicate the swell of a melody, the tonal and rhythmic _nuance_ of a _groupetto_--and a thousand other things in any other way than by the living example. Through imitation one learns rapidly and surely, until one reaches the point where the wings of one's own individuality begin to sprout. ABOUT MEMORIZING "On the subject of memorizing who can lay down rules for this inexplicable mental process, which will hold good for every one? For myself, I hear the notes mentally, and know their position on the keyboard. In actual performance much must be left to finger memory, but one must actually have the notes in his mind as well as in his fingers. Before a concert I go over all my program mentally, and find this an excellent method of practise when traveling from one city to another. To those who study with me I say, you must try various methods of memorizing; there is no universal way; each must find out by experiment which is most suited to his individual case. "With some pianists visual memory of the printed page plays the principal rôle in memorizing; with others visual memory of the notes on the keyboard; with still others ear-memory, or memory of the harmonic progressions. I believe in making the pupil familiar with all these different ways, so that he may find out which one is most helpful to him. "For pupils with weak hands and arms I recommend simple gymnastic exercises to be done morning and evening. Physical strength is a very necessary essential for a brilliant technic; the student who would accomplish big things must possess it in order to succeed. KEEPING TECHNIC IN REPAIR "The only way to keep one's technic in repair is to be constantly working at it. Technic is the mechanical part of music-making; to keep it in good working order one must be constantly tinkering with it, just as the engine driver tinkers with his locomotive or the chauffeur with his automobile. In the course of his technical study every intelligent pupil will recognize certain exercises which are particularly important for the mechanical well-being of his playing; from these exercises he will plan his daily schedule of technical practise. "In order to keep a large repertoire going at the same time, one must have a weekly practise plan, which will allow for a frequent repetition of the pieces. Those pieces which have been recently added to one's list will require more frequent repetition, while those which have been played for a longer period may be left for an occasional brushing up. Frequent playing before others, either publicly or privately, is above everything else to be recommended to the pianist, as the greatest incentive to keeping up his repertoire and toward growing in his art. AMERICAN VERSUS EUROPEAN CONDITIONS "In America many people who have little talent study music, intending to make it their profession; whereas in Europe there is such a profusion of music and music-making that only those of more than average gifts think of making music their life work. In America we are still 'in the making,' from a musical standpoint, and although we have accomplished much there is still much to be done. It is the office of the piano teacher in America to make music study easy and interesting to pupils of moderate ability. Just these conditions have brought about very excellent methods of piano and music study for American children, which have no counterpart in Europe." XVII FERRUCCIO BUSONI AN ARTIST AT HOME As a man's surroundings and environment are often reflections of his character, it is always a matter of deep interest to get in touch with the surroundings of the creative or executive musician. To meet him away from the glare of the footlights, in the privacy and seclusion of the home, gives one a far more intimate knowledge of the artist as a man. Knowing how difficult it often is to obtain such an opportunity, I can be the more thankful that this privilege has been granted me many times, even with those artists who hold themselves most aloof. I was told Busoni was exceedingly difficult to approach, and the only way I could see him was to call at his house quite unannounced, when I might have the good fortune to find him at home and willing to see me. Not wishing to take him by storm in this way, I quietly waited, until I received the following note: "While I am not fond of interviews, if you will come to tea on Thursday afternoon, you will be welcome." Busoni is located in a stately _Wohnung_ overlooking the handsome Victoria Luise Platz, in the newer western section of Berlin. Mme. Busoni met us as we arrived, and conducted us to the master, who rose from a cozy nook in a corner of the library to greet us. Tea was soon brought in and our little party, which included a couple of other guests, was soon chatting gaily in a mixture of French, German and English. During the sprightly chat I could not help glancing from time to time around the great library in which we sat, noting its artistic furnishings, and the rows upon rows of volumes in their costly bindings, which lined the walls. One appreciates what Dr. Johnson meant when he said that whenever he saw shelves filled with books he always wanted to get near enough to them to read their titles, as the choice of books indicates character. Presently Busoni turned to me: "I am composing a rhapsodie on American Indian themes." "And where did you capture the themes?" he was asked. [Illustration: Ferruccio Busoni] "From a very charming lady, a countrywoman of yours, Miss Natalie Curtis. She has taken great interest in the idea and has been most helpful to me." "One of the German music papers announced that you are about to leave Berlin, and have accepted an offer elsewhere--was it in Spain?" "I intend leaving Berlin for a time," he admitted, "and will go to Bologna--perhaps you thought that was in Spain," with a sly side glance and a humorous twinkle in his eyes. "My offer from Bologna appears most flattering. I am appointed head of the great conservatory, but I am not obliged to live in the city, nor even to give lessons. I shall, however, go there for a time, and shall probably teach. I am to conduct six large orchestral concerts during the season, but aside from this I can be absent as much as I wish. We shall probably close up our house here and go to Italy in the autumn. Living is very cheap in Bologna; one can rent a real palace for about $250 a year." Mme. Busoni now invited us to inspect other parts of the house. We passed to the adjoining room, which contains many rare old prints and paintings and quaint old furniture--"everything old," as Mme. Busoni said, with a smile. In this room stands a harpsichord, with its double keyboard and brilliant red case. It is not an antique but an excellent copy made by Chickering. Farther on is a veritable musician's den, with upright piano, and with a large desk crowded with pictures and mementoes. On the walls hang rare portraits chiefly of Chopin and Liszt. Beyond this room came the salon, with its two grand pianos side by side. This is the master's teaching and recital room, and here are various massive pieces of richly carved furniture. Mme. Busoni called our attention to the elaborate chandelier in old silver, of exquisite workmanship, which, she said, had cost her a long search to find. There are several portraits here of the composer-pianist in his youth--one as a boy of twelve, a handsome lad--_bildschön_, with his curls, his soulful eyes and his big white collar. Busoni soon joined us in the salon and the conversation was turned to his activities in the new field. "When you have finished the new rhapsodie you will come and play it to us in America--and in London also," he was urged. "Ah, London! I am almost homesick for London; it is beautiful there. I am fond of America, too. You know I lived there for some years; my son was born there; he is an American citizen. Yes, I will return, though just when I do not yet know, and then I will assuredly play the rhapsodie." XVIII ADELE AUS DER OHE ANOTHER ARTIST AT HOME Another opportunity to see the home of an artist was afforded me when Frl. Aus der Ohe invited me to visit her in her Berlin home. She also lives in the newer western portion of the city, where so many other artists are located. One feels on entering the spacious rooms that this home has the true German atmosphere. Adele Aus der Ohe, whose personality is well remembered in America, on account of her various pianistic tours, now wears her brown hair softly drawn down over her ears, in Madonna fashion, a mode which becomes her vastly. "My time is divided between playing in concert, composing, and my own studies," began the artist. "I give almost no lessons, for I have not time for them. I never have more than a couple of pupils studying with me at one time; they must be both talented and eager. The amount of time I consider necessary for practise depends, of course, on quickness of comprehension. In general, I may say four, or at most five hours are quite sufficient, If used with absolute concentration. The quality of practise is the great essential. If the passage under consideration is not understood, a thousand times going over it will be only vain repetitions; therefore, understand the construction and meaning of the passage in the beginning, and then a thousand repetitions ought to make it perfect. "There is so much practise which can be done away from the instrument, by reading the notes from the printed page and thinking about them. Is this understood in America? Always _listen_ to your playing, to every note you make on the piano; I consider this point of the very first importance. My pupils are generally well advanced or are those who intend making music a profession. I have, however, occasionally taken a beginner. This point of listening to every note, of training the ear, should stand at the very foundation. LETTING THE HAND FIND ITSELF "In regard to hand position, I endeavor not to be narrow and pedantic. If pupils play with good tone and can make reasonably good effects, I take them, at the point where they are and try to bring them forward, even if the hand position is not just what I would like. If I stop everything and let them do nothing but hand position, they will be discouraged and think they are beginning all over again. This beginning again is sometimes detrimental. To take a pupil at his present point, and carry him along was also Liszt's idea. He did not like to change a hand position to which the player has grown accustomed for one which seems unnatural, and which the pianist has to work a long time to acquire. He felt that one's time could be spent to more advantage. There are so many legitimate positions, each hand is a separate study, and is apt to take the position most natural to itself. "I shall play numerous concerts and recitals in Europe the coming season, but shall not be in America. I know your country well as I have made several tours and have lived there. I left it the last time under sad circumstances, as my sister, who always accompanied me, had just passed away after quite a long illness. So you see I have not much zest to return. "However I am fond of America, and admire the great progress you are making in music and art. And you have the courage of your convictions; you do not admire a musical work simply because some one else says you should, or the critics tell you to. You do not ask your neighbor's opinion before you applaud it. If you do not like it you are not afraid to say so. Even when it is only ragtime that pleases you, you are not afraid to own up to it. When you learn what is better you say so. It Is this honesty which leads to progressive results. You are rapidly becoming competent to judge what is best. I have found the most appreciative audiences in America." Miss Aus der Ohe had much to relate of the Woman's Lyceum. The Department of Music was founded by Aus der Ohe herself. Not long ago there was an exhibition of woman's work in music. Women composers from all over the country sent examples of their work. Our own Mrs. H.A.A. Beach, who has been located for some time in Munich, was well represented. There are branches of this institution in other German cities. Several paintings of large size and striking originality hang on the walls of the pianist's home. They all illustrate religious themes and are the work of Herr Aus der Ohe, the pianist's only brother, who passed away at the height of his career. "Yes," said the composer, "my mother, brother and sister have been taken away, since I was last in America, and now I am quite alone; but I have my art." XIX ELEANOR SPENCER MORE LIGHT ON LESCHETIZKY'S IDEAS Eleanor Spencer, whose first American tour is announced for the coming season, happened to be in Berlin during my visit there. I found her in her charming apartments in the Schönberg section of the city, far away from the noise and bustle of traffic. Her windows look out upon a wide inner court and garden, and she seems to have secured the quiet, peaceful environment so essential to an artist's development. Indeed Miss Spencer has solved the problems of how to keep house, with all the comforts of an American home, in a great German city. "I grew so tired of living in _pensions_ that I took this little apartment over two years ago," she said, "and I like it so much better. "I have been away from America for nine years, so the foreign cities where I have lived seem almost more like home to me than my native land, to which I have only paid two short visits during those nine years. But I love America, and perhaps you can imagine how eagerly I am looking forward to my coming tour. "The first eight years of my life were spent in Chicago, and then my family moved to New York. Here I studied with Dr. William Mason. When I was about fifteen I went to Europe for further study, and although I had another master at first, it was not so very long before I went to Vienna, to Leschetizky, for I felt the need of more thorough preparation than I had yet had. There is nothing like a firm technical foundation; it is a rock to build upon; one cannot do great things without it. I have had to labor hard for what I have attained, and am not ashamed to say so. I practise 'all my spare time,' as one of my colleagues expresses it; though, of course, if one studies with the necessary concentration one cannot practise more than five hours to advantage. [Illustration: To Miss Brower in appreciation and pleasant remembrance of our Berlin meeting ...ELEANOR SPENCER] "I thoroughly believe in practising technic outside of pieces; I have always done so and still continue to do it. This brings the hand into condition, and keeps it up to the mark, so that difficult compositions are more readily within the grasp, and the technical requirements in them are more easily met. When the hand is in fine condition, exhaustive technical practise in pieces is not necessary, and much wear and tear of nerve force is saved. In this technical practise, to which I give an hour or more daily, I use very simple exercises, but each one contains some principle of touch, movement or condition. Hand over thumb and thumb under hand; different qualities of tone; staccato or clinging touch; scales, arpeggios and various other forms are used. Part of the technic study period is always given to Bach. "I began my studies in Vienna with Mme. Bree, to get the preparatory foundation, but before long combined her lessons with those of the professor, and later went to him entirely." "Just here I should like to mention a trifling point, yet it seems one not understood in America by those who say they are teachers of the Leschetizky method. These teachers claim that the professor wishes the fingers placed on a straight line at the edge of the keys, and in some cases they place the tip of the thumb in the middle of its key, so that it extends considerably beyond the tips of the other fingers. Is this the position taught by the _Vorbereiters_, or favored by Leschetizky?" Miss Spencer's laugh rang out merrily. "This is the first I have ever heard of the idea! Such a position must seem very strained and unnatural. Leschetizky, on the contrary, wishes everything done in the most easy, natural way. Of course, at first, when one is seeking to acquire strength and firmness of hand and fingers, one must give time and thought to securing an arched hand and steady first joints of fingers. Later, when these conditions have been thoroughly established, the hand can take any position required. Leschetizky's hand often lies quite flat on the keys. He has a beautiful piano hand; the first joints of the fingers have so long been held firmly curved, that they always keep their position, no matter what he is doing; if he only passes his fingers through his hair, his hand is in shape. "Leschetizky is indeed a wonderful teacher! The player, however, must divine how to be receptive, how to enter into the master's thought, or it may go hard with him. If he does not understand, nor grasp the master's words he may suffer terribly during the ordeal of the lessons. I have witnessed such scenes! Those who are equal to the situation receive most illuminative instruction. "I trust I do not give you the impression of being so devoted to, and enthusiastic in, the work I enjoyed with my venerated master that I wish to exclude other masters and schools. I think narrowness one of the most unpleasant of traits, and one I should dread to be accused of. I see so much good in others, _their_ ways and ideas, that, to me, all things great and beautiful in art seem very closely related. MEMORIZING "How do I memorize a composition? I first play it over a few times to become somewhat familiar with its form and shape. Then I begin to analyze and study it, committing it by phrases, or _ideas_, one or two measures at a time. I do not always take each hand alone, unless very intricate; sometimes it is easier to learn both hands together. It is a good thing to study out the melodic line, to build each phrase, to work with it till you get it to suit you. Then come the larger proportions, the big climaxes, which have to be thought out and prepared for in advance. A composition should be so thoroughly your own that you can play it at any time, if your hand is in condition. Or, if it has been laid aside for a long time, a couple of days should bring it back. "The subject of forming a repertoire is one often overlooked or not understood. The repertoire should be comprehensive and built on broad lines. A pupil intending to make music a profession should know the literature of the piano, not only the small and unimportant works of the great composers (as is too often the case), but the big works as well. If one is well grounded in the classics at an early age, it is of great benefit afterwards. POWER AND VELOCITY "For gaining power, heavy chords are very beneficial; combinations of five notes that take in all the fingers are most useful. "The principle of velocity is the doing away with all unnecessary movement--raising the fingers as little as possible, and so on. But in early stages of study, and at all times for slow practise, exactness and clearness, the fingers must be raised, Leschetizky _is a great believer in finger action; he holds it to be absolutely necessary for finger development_. "I have been concertizing for the last three years, and studying alone. This does not mean I have learned all the masters can teach, but only that I have come to a place where I felt I had to go alone, that I must work out what is in me. No master can teach us that; we have to find ourselves alone. "I shall probably play considerably with orchestra next season. There is a Concerto by Rimsky-Korsakow which is quite short, only one movement. It Is charming and brilliant, and I think has not yet been played in America. There is also a new work by Stavenhagen for piano and orchestra, which is a novelty on the other side. I greatly enjoy playing with orchestra, but of course I shall play various recitals as well." Miss Spencer has appeared with the best orchestras in England and on the continent, and has everywhere received commendation for her pure, singing tone, plastic touch, and musical temperament. She is certain to have success in America, and to win hosts of friends there. XX ARTHUR HOCHMAN HOW THE PIANIST CAN COLOR TONE WITH ACTION AND EMOTION "A pianist, like a painter, should have an infinitude of colors on his palette," remarked Arthur Hochman, the young Russian pianist, in a recent chat about piano playing. He should paint pictures at the keyboard, just as the artist depicts them upon the canvas. The piano is capable of a wonderful variety of tonal shading, and its keys will respond most ideally to the true musician who understands how to awaken and bring forth all this tonal beauty from the instrument. "The modern pianist is often lacking in two important essentials--phrasing and shading. Inability to grasp the importance of these two points may be the cause of artistic failure. An artist should so thoroughly make his own the composition which he plays, and be so deeply imbued with its spirit, that he will know the phrasing and dynamics which best express the meaning of the piece. When he has risen to such heights, he is a law to himself in the matter of phrasing, no matter what marks may stand upon the printed page. As a rule the editing of piano music is extremely inadequate, though how can it really be otherwise? How is it possible, with a series of dots, lines, dashes and accents, to give a true idea of the interpretation of a work of musical art? It is _not_ possible; there are infinite shadings between _piano_ and _forte_--numberless varieties of touch which have not been tabulated by the schools. Great editors like von Bülow, Busoni and d'Albert have done much to make the classics clearer to the student; yet they themselves realize there are a million gradations of touch and tone, which can never be expressed by signs nor put into words. FOUR REQUISITES FOR PIANISTS "Four things are necessary for the pianist who would make an artistic success in public. They are: Variety of tone color; Individual and artistic phrasing; True feeling; Personal magnetism. Colors mean so much to me; some are so beautiful, the various shades of red, for instance; then the golden yellows, rich, warm browns, and soft liquid blues. We can make as wonderful combinations with them as ever the painters do. To me dark red speaks of something tender, heart-searching, mysterious." Here Mr. Hochman illustrated his words at the piano with an expressive fragment full of deep feeling. "On the other hand, the shades of yellow express gaiety and brightness"; here the illustrations were all life and fire, in crisp, brilliant staccatos. Other colors were just as effectively represented. "What I have just indicated at the keyboard," continued the artist, "gives a faint idea of what can be done with tone coloring, and why I feel that pianists who neglect this side of their art, or do not see this side of it, are missing just so much beauty. I could name one pianist, a great name in the world of music--a man with an absolutely flawless technic, yet whose playing to me, is dry and colorless; it gives you no ideas, nothing you can carry away: it is like water--water. Another, with great variety of tonal beauty, gives me many ideas--many pictures of tone. His name is Gabrilowitsch; he is for me the greatest pianist. MAKING CLIMAXES PIANISSIMO "In my own playing, when I color a phrase, I do not work up to a climax and make that the loudest note, as most pianists do, but rather the soft note of the phrase; this applies to lyric playing. I will show you what I mean. Here is a fragment of two measures, containing a soulful melody. I build up the crescendo, as you see, and at the highest point, which you might expect to be the loudest, you find instead that it is soft: the sharpness has been taken out of it, the thing you did not expect has happened; and so there are constant surprises, tonal surprises--tone colors not looked for. "It is generally thought that a pianist should attend many recitals and study the effects made by other pianists; I, on the contrary, feel I gain more from hearing a great singer. The human voice is the greatest of all instruments, and the player can have no more convincing lesson in tone production and tone coloring, than he can obtain from listening to a great emotional singer. The pianist should hear a great deal of opera, for there he will learn much of color, of effect, light and shade, action and emotion. WE DO NOT WANT CUT-AND-DRIED PERFORMANCES "The third requisite for the pianist, as I have said, is true feeling. I have no sympathy with dry, mechanical performance, where every effect is coldly calculated beforehand, and the player always strives to do it the same way. How can he always play the same way when he does not feel the same? If he simply seeks for uniformity where does the inspiration come in? "The true artist will never give a mechanical performance. At one time he may be in a tender, melting mood; at another in a daring or exalted one. He must be free to play as he feels, and he will be artist enough never to overstep bounds. The pianist who plays with true feeling and 'heart' can never play the same composition twice exactly alike, for he can never feel precisely the same twice. This, of course, applies more especially to public performance and playing for others. "Another essential is breath control. Respiration must be easy and natural, no matter how much physical strength is exerted. In _fortissimo_ and all difficult passages, the lips must be kept closed and respiration taken through the nostrils, as it always ought to be. DISSECTION OF DETAILS "Yes, I do a great deal of teaching, but prefer to take only such pupils as are intelligent and advanced. With pupils I am very particular about hand position and touch. The ends of the fingers must be firm, but otherwise the hand, wrist and arm, from the shoulder, are all relaxed. In teaching a composition, I am immensely careful and particular about each note. Everything is dissected and analyzed. When all is understood and mastered, it is then ready for the stage setting, the actors, the lights, and the colors!" * * * * * "I was intended for a pianist from the first. Born in Russia, I afterward came to Berlin, studying seven or eight years with Xaver Scharwenka, then with d'Albert, Stavenhagen and others. But when one has all that can be learned from others, a man's greatest teacher is himself. I have done a great deal of concert work and recital playing in Europe, and have appeared with the leading orchestras in the largest cities of America." Mr. Hochman has done considerable work in composition. Numerous songs have been published and doubtless larger works may be expected later. XXI TERESA CARREÑO EARLY TECHNICAL TRAINING A music critic remarked, "That ever youthful and fascinating pianist, Teresa Carreño is with us again." I well remember how fascinated I was, as a young girl, with her playing the first time I heard it--it was so full of fire, enthusiasm, brilliancy and charm. How I longed and labored to imitate it--to be able to play like that! I not only loved her playing but her whole appearance, her gracious manner as she walked across the stage, her air of buoyancy and conscious mastery as she sat at the piano; her round white arms and wrists, and--the red sash she wore! During a recent talk with Mme. Carreño, I recalled the above incident, which amused her, especially the memory of the sash. [Illustration: TERESA CARREÑO] "I assure you that at heart I feel no older now than in the days when I wore it," she said. The conversation then turned to questions of mastering the piano, with particular reference to the remarkable technic of the artist herself. "The fact that I began my studies at a very early age was a great advantage to me," she said. "I loved the sound of the piano, and began to pick out bits of tunes when I was little more than three. At six and a half I began to study seriously, so that when I was nine I was playing such pieces as Chopin's Ballade in A flat. Another fact which was of the utmost advantage to me was that I had an ideal teacher in my father. He saw that I loved the piano, and decided I must be properly taught. He was passionately fond of music, and if he had not been a statesman, laboring for the good of his country, he would undoubtedly have been a great musician. He developed a wonderful system for teaching the piano, and the work he did with me I now do with my pupils. For one thing he invented a series of stretching and gymnastic exercises which are splendid; they did wonders for me, and I use them constantly in my teaching. But, like everything else, they must be done in the right way, or they are not beneficial. 580 TECHNICAL EXERCISES "My father wrote out for me a great many technical exercises; to be exact, there were 580 of them! Some consisted of difficult passages from the great composers--perhaps originally written for one hand--which he would arrange for two hands, so that each hand had the same amount of work to do. Thus both my hands had equal training, and I find no difference between them. These 580 exercises took just three days to go through. Everything must be played in all keys, and with every possible variety of touch--legato, staccato, half-staccato, and so on; also, with all kinds of shading." (Think of such a drill in pure technic, O ye teachers and students, who give little or no time to such matters outside of études and pieces!) "Part of my training consisted in being shown how to criticize myself. I learned to listen, to be critical, to judge my own work; for if it was not up to the mark I must see what was the matter and correct it myself. The earlier this can be learned the better. I attribute much of my subsequent success to this ability. I still carry out this plan, for there on the piano you will find all the notes for my coming recitals, which I work over and take with me everywhere. This method of study I always try to instill into my pupils. I tell them any one can make a lot of _noise_ on the piano, but I want them, to make the piano _speak_! I can do only a certain amount for them; the rest they must do for themselves. VALUE OF TRANSPOSING "Another item my zealous teacher insisted upon was transposing. I absorbed this idea almost unconsciously, and hardly know when I learned to transpose, so natural did it seem to me. My father was a tactful teacher; he never commanded, but would merely say, 'You can play this in the key of C, but I doubt if you can play it in the key of D.' This doubt was the spur to fire my ambition and pride: I would show him I could play it in the key of D, or in any other key; and I did! "With all the technic exercises, I had many études also; a great deal of Czerny. Each étude must also be transposed, for it would never do to play an étude twice in the same key for my father. So I may say that whatever I could perform at all, I was able to play in any key. "For one year I did nothing but technic, and then I had my first piece, which was nothing less than the Capriccio of Mendelssohn, Op. 22. So you see I had been well grounded; indeed I have been grateful all my life for the thorough foundation which was laid for me. In these days we hear of so many 'short cuts,' so many new methods, mechanical and otherwise, of studying the piano; but I fail to see that they arrive at the goal any quicker, or make any more thorough musicians than those who come by the royal road of intelligent, well-directed hard work." Asked how she obtained great power with the least expenditure of physical strength, Mme. Carreño continued: "The secret of power lies in relaxation; or I might say, power _is_ relaxation. This word, however, is apt to be misunderstood. You tell pupils to relax, and if they do not understand how and when they get nowhere. Relaxation does not mean to flop all over the piano; it means, rather, to loosen just where it is needed and nowhere else. For the heavy chords in the Tschaikowsky Concerto my arms are absolutely limp from the shoulder; in fact, I am not conscious I have arms. That is why I can play for hours without the slightest fatigue. It is really mental relaxation, for one has to think it; it must be in the mind first before it can be worked out in arms and hands. We have to think it and then act it. "This quality of my playing must have impressed Breithaupt, for, as you perhaps know, it was after he heard me play that he wrote his famous book on 'Weight Touch,' which is dedicated to me. A second and revised edition of this work, by the way, is an improvement on the first. Many artists and musicians have told me I have a special quality of tone; if this is true I am convinced this quality is the result of controlled relaxation." I referred to the artist's hand as being of exceptional adaptability for the piano. "Yes," she answered, "and it resembles closely the hand of Rubinstein. This brings to mind a little incident. As a small child, I was taken to London, and on one occasion played in the presence of Rubinstein; he was delighted, took me under his wing, and introduced me all about as his musical daughter. Years afterward we came to New York, and located at the old Clarendon Hotel, which has housed so many men of note. The first day at lunch, my aunt and I were seated at a table mostly occupied by elderly ladies, who stared at us curiously. I was a shy slip of a girl, and hardly ventured to raise my eyes after the first look around the room. Beside me sat a gentleman. I glanced at his hand as it rested on the table--then I looked more closely; how much it reminded me of Rubinstein's hand! My eyes traveled slowly up to the gentleman's face--it was Rubinstein! He was looking at me; then he turned and embraced me, before all those observing ladles!" We spoke of Berlin, the home of the pianist, and of its musical life, mentioning von Bülow and Klindworth. "Both good friends of mine," she commented. "What a wonderful work Klindworth has accomplished in his editions of Beethoven and Chopin! As Goethe said of himself, we can say of Klindworth--he has carved his own monument in this work. We should revere him for the great service he has done the pianistic world. "I always love to play in America, and each time I come I discover how much you have grown. The musical development here is wonderful. This country is very far from being filled with a mercenary and commercial spirit. If Europeans think so it is because they do not know the American at home. Your progress in music is a marvel! There is a great deal of idealism here, and idealism is the very heart and soul of music. "I feel the artist has such a beautiful calling--a glorious message--to educate a people to see the beauty and grandeur of his art--of the ideal!" XXII WILHELM BACHAUS TECHNICAL PROBLEMS DISCUSSED "How do I produce the effects which I obtain from the piano?" The young German artist, Willielm Bachaus, was comfortably seated in his spacious apartments at the Ritz, New York, when this question was asked. A grand piano stood close at hand, and the pianist ran his fingers lightly over its keys from time to time, or illustrated some technical point as he talked. "In answer I would say I produce them by listening, criticizing, judging--working over the point, until I get it as I want it. Then I can reproduce it at will, if I want to make just the same effect; but sometimes I want to change and try another. [Illustration: WILHELM BACHAUS] "I am particular about the seat I use at the piano, as I sit lower than most amateurs, who in general are apt to sit too high. My piano stool has just been taken out for a few repairs, or I could show you how low it is. Then I am old-fashioned enough to still believe in scales and arpeggios. Some of the players of the present day seem to have no use for such things, but I find them of great importance. This does not necessarily mean that I go through the whole set of keys when I practise the scales; but I select a few at a time, and work at those. I start with ridiculously simple forms--just the hand over the thumb, and the thumb under the hand--a few movements each way, especially for arpeggios. The principle I have referred to is the difficult point; a few doses of this remedy, however, bring the hand up into order again." The pianist turned to the keyboard and illustrated the point very clearly. "As you see, I slant the hand considerably across the keys," he said, "but this oblique position is more comfortable, and the hand can accommodate itself to the intervals of the arpeggio, or to the passing of the thumb in scales. Some may think I stick out the elbow too much, but I don't care for that, if by this means the scale becomes smooth and even. OVERHAULING ONE'S TECHNIC "I have to overhaul my technic once or twice a week, to see that everything is all right--and of course the scales and arpeggios come in for their share of criticism. I practise them in legato, staccato and in other touches, but mostly in legato, as that is somewhat more difficult and more beautiful than the others. "Perhaps I have what might be called a natural technic; that is I have a natural aptitude for it, so that I could acquire it easily, and it stays with me. Hofmann has that kind of natural technic; so has d'Albert. Of course I have to practise technic; I would not allow it to lapse; I love the piano too much to neglect any part of the work. An artist owes it to himself and the public to keep himself up in perfect condition--for he must never offer the public anything but the best. I only mean to say I do not have to work at it as laboriously as some others have to do. However, I practise technic daily, and will add that I find I can do a great deal in a short time. When on tour I try to give one hour a day to it, not more." Speaking of the action of fingers, Mr. Bachaus continued: "Why, yes, I raise my fingers whenever and wherever necessary--no more. Do you know Breithaupt? Well, he does not approve of such technical exercises as these (illustrating); holding down some fingers and lifting others, for technical practise, but I do. As for the metronome, I approve of it to cultivate the sense of rhythm in those who are lacking in this particular sense. I sometimes use it myself, just to see the difference between the mechanical rhythm and the musical rhythm--for they are not always the same by any means. "Do you know these Technical Exercises of Brahms? I think a great deal of them, and, as you see, carry them around with me; they are excellent. "You ask me about octaves. It is true they are easy for me now, but I can remember the time when they were difficult. The only alternative is to work constantly at them. Of course they are more difficult for small hands; so care must be taken not to strain nor over-tire the hand. A little at a time, in frequent doses, ought in six months to work wonders. Rowing a boat is good to develop wrists for octave playing. "You ask if I can tell how I obtain power. That is a very difficult question. Why does one child learn to swim almost immediately, while another cannot master it for a long time? To the first it comes naturally--he has the _knack_, so to speak. And it is just so with the quality of power at the piano. It certainly is not due to physique, nor to brute strength, else only the athlete would have sufficient power. No, it is the 'knack,' or rather it is the result of relaxation, as you suggest. "Take the subject of velocity. I never work for that special thing as some do. I seldom practise with great velocity, for it interferes with clearness. I prefer to play more slowly, giving the greatest attention to clearness and good tone. By pursuing this course I find that when I need velocity I have it. "I am no pedagogue and have no desire to be one. I have no time for teaching; my own studies and concert work fill all my days. I do not think that one can both teach and play successfully. If I were teaching I should no doubt acquire the habit of analyzing and criticizing the work of others; of explaining and showing just how a thing should be done. But I am not a critic nor a teacher, so I do not always know how I produce effects. I play 'as the bird sings,' to quote an old German song. MODERN PIANO MUSIC "Your MacDowell has written some nice music, some pretty music; I am familiar with his Concerto in D minor, some of the short pieces and the Sonatas. As for modern piano concertos there are not many, it is quite true. There is the Rachmaninoff, the MacDowell I mentioned, the D minor of Rubinstein, and the Saint-Saens in G minor. There is also a Concerto by Neitzel, which is a most interesting work; I do not recall that it has been played in America. I have played it on the other side, and I may bring it out here during my present tour. This Concerto is a fine work, into which the author has put his best thought, feeling and power." A BRAHMS CONCERTO As I listened to the eloquent reading of the Brahms second Concerto, which Mr. Bachaus gave soon afterward with the New York Symphony, I was reminded of a memorable event which occurred during my student days in Berlin. It was a special concert, at which the honored guest and soloist was the great Brahms himself. Von Bülow conducted the orchestra, and Brahms played his second Concerto. The Hamburg master was not a virtuoso, in the present acceptance of the term: his touch on the piano was somewhat hard and dry; but he played the work with commendable dexterity, and made an imposing figure as he sat at the piano, with his grand head and his long beard. Of course his performance aroused immense enthusiasm; there was no end of applause and cheering, and then came a huge laurel wreath. I mentioned this episode to Mr. Bachaus a few days later. "I first played the Brahms Concerto in Vienna under Hans Richter; he had counseled me to study the work. The Americans are beginning to admire and appreciate Brahms; he ought to have a great vogue here. "In studying such a work, for piano and orchestra, I must not only know my own part but all the other parts--what each instrument is doing. I always study a concerto with the orchestral score, so that I can see it all before me." XXIII ALEXANDER LAMBERT AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN TEACHERS Among American teachers Alexander Lambert takes high rank. For over twenty-five years he has held aloft the standard of sound musicianship in the art of teaching and playing. A quarter of a century of thorough, conscientious effort along these lines must have left its impress upon the whole rising generation of students and teachers in this country, and made for the progress and advancement of American art. It means much to have a native-born teacher of such high aims living and working among us; a teacher whom no flattery nor love of gain can influence nor render indifferent to the high aim ever in view. There is no escaping a sound and thorough course of study for those who come under Mr. Lambert's supervision. Scales must be, willingly or unwillingly, the daily bread of the player; the hand must be put in good shape, the finger joints rendered firm, the arms and body supple, before pieces are thought of. Technical study must continue along the whole course, hand in hand with piece playing; technic for its own sake, outside the playing of compositions. And why not? Is the technic of an art ever quite finished? Can it ever be laid away on the shelf and considered complete? Must it not always be kept in working order? "Have you not seen many changes in the aims of students, and in the conditions of piano teaching in New York, during the years you have taught here?" I asked Mr. Lambert, in the course of a recent conversation. "Some changes, it is true, I have seen," he answered; "but I must also say that the conditions attending piano teaching in America are peculiar. We have some excellent teachers here, teachers who can hold their own anywhere, and are capable of producing finished artists. Yet let a pupil go to the best teacher in this country, and the chances are that he or she is still looking forward to 'finishing' with some European artist. They are not satisfied until they have secured the foreign stamp of approval. While this is true of the advanced pianist, it is even more in evidence in the mediocre player. He, too, is dreaming of the 'superior advantages,' as he calls them, of European study. He may have no foundation to build upon--may not even be able to play a scale correctly, but still thinks he must go abroad! "You ask if I think students can obtain just as good instruction here as in Europe? That is a little difficult to answer off-hand. I fully believe we have some teachers in America as able as any on the other side; in some ways they are better. For one thing they are morally better--I repeat, _morally_ better. For another they are more thorough: they take more interest in their pupils and will do more for them. When such a teacher is found, he certainly deserves the deep respect and gratitude of the American student. But alas, he seldom experiences the gratitude. After he has done everything for the pupil--fashioned him into a well-equipped artist, the student is apt to say: 'Now I will go abroad for lessons with this or that famous European master!' What is the result? He may never amount to anything--may never be heard of afterward. On the other hand, I have pupils coming to me, who have been years with some of the greatest foreign masters, yet who are full of faults of all kinds, faults which it takes me years to correct. Some of them come with hard touch, with tense position and condition of arms and body, with faulty pedaling, and with a lack of knowledge of some of the fundamental principles of piano playing. POWER WITHOUT EFFORT "How do I teach them to acquire power with little effort? Relaxation is the whole secret. Your arm is really quite heavy, it weighs considerable. Act on this principle then: let the arms fall with their full weight on the keys, and you will have all the power you need, provided the fingers are rounded and firm. That is the other half of the secret. The finger joints must be firm, especially the third joint. It stands to reason there can be no power, no brilliancy when this joint is wavering and wobbling. "I teach arched hand position, and, for children and beginners, decided finger action; the fingers are to be raised, in the beginning, though not too high. Some teachers may not teach finger action, because they say artists do not use it. But the artist, if questioned, would tell you he had to learn finger action in the beginning. There are so many stages in piano playing. The beginner must raise his fingers in order to acquire finger development and a good, clear touch. In the middle stage he has secured enough finger control to play the same passage with less action, and still perform it with sufficient clearness; while in the more finished stage the passage may be played with scarcely any perceptible motion, so thoroughly do the fingers respond to every mental requirement. "Sometimes pupils come to me who do not know scales, though they are playing difficult compositions. I insist on a thorough knowledge of scales and arpeggios, and a serious study of Bach. I use almost everything Bach ever wrote for the piano; the Two and Three Part Inventions, French and English Suites, Well-tempered Clavichord, and the organ Preludes and Fugues, arranged by Liszt." XXIV FANNIE BLOOMFIELD ZEISLER THE SCOPE OF PIANO TECHNIC Each year, as Mme. Bloomfleld Zeisler plays for us, we feel the growth of a deeper experience, a clearer insight into human nature, a broader outlook and grasp on art and life. Such a mentality, ever seeking for truth and the sincerest expression of it, must continually progress, until--as now--the greatest heights are reached. Mme. Zeisler is no keyboard dreamer, no rhapsodist on Art. She is a thoroughly practical musician, able to explain as well as demonstrate, able to talk as well as play. Out of the fulness of a rich experience, out of the depth of deepest sincerity and conviction the artist speaks, as she plays, with authority and enthusiasm. [Illustration: With sincerest good wishes Fannie Bloomfield Zeisler Chicago Dec 30 14] "The first thing to be done for a pupil is to see that the hand is in correct position. I explain that the wrist should be about on a level with the second joint of the middle finger, when the fingers are properly rounded. The knuckles will then be somewhat elevated; in fact they will naturally take care of themselves, other points of the hand being correct. Two things are of supreme importance: namely, firm finger joints and loose wrists; these must be insisted on from the very beginning. I sometimes use firm wrists in my own playing, if I wish to make a certain effect; but I can safely affirm, I think, that no one has ever seen me play with weak, bending fingers. WHAT TECHNIC INCLUDES "Piano technic includes so much; everything goes into it--arithmetic, grammar, diction, language study, poetry, history, and painting! In the first stages there are rules to be learned, just as in any other study. In school we had to learn the rules of grammar and mathematics. Just such rules are applicable to musical performance. I must know the rules of versification in order to scan poetic stanzas; so I must know the laws of rhythm and meter to be able to punctuate musical phrases and periods. Pupils who have long passed the stage of division and fractions do not seem able to determine the time-values of the various notes and groups of notes used in music; they do not know what must be done with triplets, dotted notes, and so on. So you see 'just technic' includes a multitude of things; it is a very wide subject. EACH PUPIL A DIFFERENT PROBLEM "Each pupil presents a different problem as to physical formation of hand and body, intelligence and talent. Those who are the most talented do not always prove the most satisfactory students. They grasp the composer's ideas quickly enough, it is true, so that sometimes in a few days, they can take up a difficult composition and clash it off with such showy effect as to blind the eyes of the superficial listener; but these students are not willing to work out the fine points of the piece and polish it artistically. Neither are they willing to get right down, to the bed rock of technic and work at that seriously and thoroughly. If this course is suggested they grow restive, think they are being held back, and some times prefer to study with a more superficial teacher. The consequence is they never really amount to anything; whereas if these same players possessed perseverance along with their talent they could become great artists. I would rather have an intelligent, earnest, serious pupil, who is obedient and willing to work, than a very gifted pupil. The two seldom go together. When you find both in one person, a marvelous musician is the result, if assisted by the right sort of training. HARMONY STUDY "One thing a teacher should insist upon, and that is that the pupil should study harmony. He should have a practical working knowledge of keys, chords, and progressions. There may be no need for him to study orchestration or composition, but he must know the foundation and structure of the material of music. My pupil must be familiar with the various chords of the scale and know how to analyze them, before I can make clear to him the rules of pedaling. Without this knowledge, my words about the use of the pedals are as so much Greek to him. He must go and learn this first, before coming to me. ACCORDING TO RULE "Experience counts for much with the teacher, but much, more with the pianist. The beginner must go according to rule, until he has thoroughly mastered the rules. He must not think because he sees a great artist holding his hands a certain way at times--turning under his unemployed fingers for octaves perhaps, or any other seeming eccentricity, that he himself is at liberty to do the same things. No, he must learn to play in a normal, safe way before attempting any tricks. What may seem eccentric to the inexperienced student may be quite a legitimate means of producing certain effects to the mature artist, who through wide experience and study knows just the effect he wants and the way to make it. The artist does many things the pupil should not attempt. The artist knows the capabilities of his own hand; his technic is, in a certain sense, individual; it should not be imitated by the learner of little or no experience. If I play a chord passage with high wrist, that I may bring out a certain effect or quality of tone at that point, the thoughtless student might be under the impression that a high wrist was habitual with me, which is not true. For this reason I do not give single lessons to any one, nor coach on single pieces. In the case of the interpretation of a piece, a student can get the ideas of it from hearing it in recital, if he can grasp and assimilate them. ON INTERPRETATION "Interpretation! That is a wide subject; how can it be defined? I try to arouse the imagination of the student first of all. We speak of the character of the piece, and try to arrive at some idea of its meaning. Is it _largo_--then it is serious and soulful; is it _scherzo_--then it should be blithe and gay. We cannot depend on metronome tempi, for they are not reliable. Those given in Schumann are generally all wrong. We try to feel the rhythm of the music, the swing of it, the spirit of it. In giving out the opening theme or subject, I feel it should be made prominent, to arrest attention, to make it clear to the listener; when it appears at other times in the piece, it can be softened or varied. Variety of effect we must have; but whether a passage is played with decreasing or increasing tone, whether this run is soft and the next loud, or vice versa, does not matter so much as to secure variety and individuality. I may look at it one way, another player an opposite way. One should be broad-minded enough to see the beauty of each interpretation. I do not expect my pupils to copy me or do things just as I do them. I show them how I do it, then leave them to work it out as they see it. "_Pianissimo_ is one of the later things to teach. A beginner should not attempt it too soon, for then it will only result in flabbiness. A true _pianissimo_ is not the result of weakness but of strength. MUSICAL CONDITIONS IN AMERICA "America has made marvelous progress in the understanding and appreciation of music; even the critics, many of them, know a great deal about music. The audiences, even in small towns, are a pleasure and delight to play to. I am asked sometimes why I attempt the last sonata of Beethoven in a little town. But just such audiences listen to that work with rapt attention; they hang on every note. How are they to learn what is best in music unless we are willing to give it to them? "The trouble with America is that it does not at all realize how much it knows--how much talent is here. We are so easily tricked with a foreign name and title; our serious and talented musicians are constantly being pushed to the wall by some unknown with a name ending in _ski_. These are the people who tour America (for one season at least), who get the best places in our music schools and colleges, crowding out our native musicians. It makes me very bitter against this utterly mistaken and fallacious idea of ours. I have many talented students, who come to me from all over the country. Some of them become most excellent concert artists. If I recommend them to managers or institutions, should not my word count for something? Ought I not to know what my students can do, and what is required of a concert artist? But instead of their securing an engagement, with such a recommendation, a foreigner with the high-sounding name is the one invariably chosen. When I first started on my career I endeavored in every way to get a proper hearing in America. But not until I had made a name for myself in Europe was I recognized here, in my own land. All honor to those who are now fighting for the musical independence of America!" A GROUP OF QUESTIONS Not long after the above conversation with Mme. Zeisler, I jotted down some questions, leading to further elucidation of her manner of teaching and playing, and sent them to her. The artist was then fully occupied with her long and arduous tours and later went to Europe. My questions remained unanswered for nearly a year. When she next played in New York, she sent for me to come to her hotel. As she entered the room to greet me, she held in her hand the paper containing the questions. I expressed surprise that she had preserved the bit of paper so long. "I am very conscientious," she answered; "I have kept this ever since you sent it, and now we will talk over the topics you suggest." (1) What means do you favor for gaining power? "I can say--none. There is no necessity for using special means to acquire power; when everything is right you will have sufficient power; you cannot help having it. If you know the piece thoroughly, your fingers have acquired the necessary strength through efficient practise, so that when the time comes to make the desired effects, you have the strength to make them, provided everything is as it should be with your technic. Power is a comparative term at best; one pianist may play on a larger scale than another. I am reminded of an amusing incident in this connection. My son Paul, when a little fellow, was fond of boasting about his mother; I could not seem to break him of it. One day he got into an argument with another boy, who asserted that his father, an amateur pianist, could play better than Paul's mother, because he 'could play louder, anyway.' I don't know whether they fought it out or not; but my boy told me about the dispute afterward. "'What do you think makes a great player?' I asked him. "'If you play soft enough and loud enough, slow enough and fast enough, and it sounds nice,' was his answer. It is the whole thing in a nutshell: and he was such a little fellow at the time! "As I said, you must have everything right with your technic, then both power and velocity will come almost unconsciously." (2) What do you do for weak finger joints? "They must be made strong at once. When a new pupil comes to me the first thing we do is to get the hand into correct position, and the fingers rounded and firm. If the pupil is intelligent and quick, this can be accomplished in a few weeks; sometimes it takes several months. But it must be done. Of what use is it to attempt a Beethoven sonata when the fingers are so weak that they cave in. The fingers must keep their rounded position and be strong enough to bear up under the weight you put upon them. As you say, this work can be done at a table, but I generally prefer the keyboard; wood is so unresponsive. "I think, for this work, children are easier to handle than their elders; they have no faults to correct; they like to hold their hands well and make them look pretty. They ought to have a keyboard adapted to their little delicate muscles, with action much less heavy than two ounces, the minimum weight of the clavier. As they grow and gain strength, the weight can be increased. If they should attempt to use my instrument with its heavy action, they would lame the hand in a few moments or their little fingers could not stand up under the weight." (3) Do you approve of finger action? "Most emphatically. Finger action is an absolute essential in playing the piano. We must have finger development. As you say, we can never make the fingers equal in themselves; we might practise five hundred years without rendering the fourth finger as strong as the thumb. Rather let us learn to so adjust the weight and pressure of each finger, that all will sound equal, whenever we wish them to do so. I tell my pupils that in regard to strength, their fingers are in this relation to each other," and the pianist drew with her pencil four little upright lines on the paper, representing the relative natural weight of the four fingers. "The fifth finger," she said, "figures very little in scale or passage playing. By correct methods of study the pupil learns to lighten the pressure of the stronger fingers and proportionately increase the weight of the weaker fingers." (4) Do you approve of technic practise outside of pieces? "I certainly do. The amount of time given to technic study varies with the pupil's stage of advancement. In the beginning, the whole four hours must be devoted to technic practise. When some degree of facility and control have been attained, the amount may be cut down to two hours. Later one hour is sufficient, and when one is far advanced a very short time will suffice to put the hand in trim; some rapid, brilliant arpeggios, or an étude with much finger work may be all that is necessary. "The player gains constantly in strength and technical control while studying pieces, provided correct methods are pursued. Every piece is first of all a study in technic. The foundation must be rightly laid; the principles can then be applied to étude and piece." (5) What do you consider the most vital technical points? "That is a difficult question, involving everything about piano playing. There are the scales of all kinds, in single and double notes. Arpeggios are of great importance, because, in one form or another, they constantly occur. Octaves, chords, pedaling, and so on." "The trill, too," I suggested. "Yes, the trill; but, after all, the trill is a somewhat individual matter. Some players seem to have it naturally, or have very little trouble with it; others always have more or less difficulty. They do not seem able to play a rapid, even trill. Many are unable to finish it off deftly and artistically. They can trill for a certain number of repetitions; when they become accustomed to the monotonous repetition it is not so easy to go into the ending without a break." (6) What means do you advise to secure velocity? "I make the same answer to this question that I made to the first--none. I never work for velocity, nor do I work _up_ velocity. That is a matter that generally takes care of itself. If you know the piece absolutely, know what it means and the effects you want to make, there will be little difficulty in getting over the keys at the tempo required. Of course this does not apply to the pupil who is playing wrong, with weak fingers, uncertain touch and all the rest of the accompanying faults. I grant that these faults may not be so apparent in a piece of slow tempo. A pupil may be able to get through Handel's Largo, for instance; though his fingers are uncertain he can make the theme sound half-way respectable, while a piece in rapid tempo will be quite beyond him. The faults were in the Largo just the same, but they did not show. Rapid music reveals them at once. Certain composers require almost a perfect technical equipment in order to render their music with adequate effect. Mozart is one of these. Much of his music looks simple, and is really quite easy to read; but to play it as it should be played is another thing entirely. I seldom give Mozart to my pupils. Those endless scales, arpeggios and passages, which must be flawless, in which you dare not blur or miss a single note! To play this music with just the right spirit, you must put yourself _en rapport_ with the epoch in which it was written--the era of crinoline, powdered wigs, snuffboxes and mincing minuets. I don't mean to say Mozart's music is not emotional; it is filled with it, but it is not the emotion of to-day, but of yesterday, of more than a century back. "For myself, I love Mozart's music. One of my greatest successes was in a Mozart concerto with the Chicago Orchestra. I afterward remarked to one of my colleagues that it had been one of the most difficult tasks I had ever accomplished. 'Yes, when one plays Mozart one is so _exposed_,' was his clever rejoinder." (7) How do you keep repertoire in repair? "If you mean my own, I would answer that I don't try to keep all my pieces up, for I have hundreds and hundreds of them, and I must always save time to study new works. A certain number are always kept in practise, different programs, according to the requirements of the hour. My method of practise is to play slowly through the piece, carefully noting the spots that are weak and need special treatment. To these I give a certain number of repetitions, and then repeat the whole to see if the weak places are equal in smoothness to the rest. If not, they must have more study. But always slow practise. Only occasionally do I go through the piece at the required velocity. "My pupils are always counseled to practise slowly. If they bring the piece for a first hearing, it must be slowly and carefully played; if for a second or third hearing, and they know it well enough to take it up to time, they can play it occasionally at this tempo before coming to me. But to constantly play a piece in rapid tempo is very harmful; it precludes all thought of analysis, of _how_ you are doing it. When you are playing at concert speed, you have no time to think of fingering, movement or condition--you are beyond all that. It is only in slow practise that you have time and opportunity to think of everything. "As an illustration, take the case of a pianist in a traveling concert company. He must play the same pieces night after night, with no opportunity to practise between. For the first few days the pieces go well; then small errors and weak spots begin to appear. There is no time for slow practise, so each nightly repetition increases the uncertainty. In a few months his playing degenerates so it is hardly fit to listen to. This is the result of constant fast playing." (8) How do you keep technic up to the standard? "If one is far advanced a few arpeggios and scales, or a brilliant étude will put the hand in condition. After one has rested, or had a vacation, some foundational exercises and finger movements may be necessary, to limber up the muscles and regain control and quickness. One may often have to review first principles, but technical facility is soon regained if it has once been thoroughly acquired. If one has stopped practise for quite a period, the return is slower, and needs to be more carefully prepared. "I use considerable Czerny for technical purposes, with my pupils. Op. 299, of course, and even earlier or easier ones; then Op. 740. A few of the latter are most excellent for keeping up one's technic. The Chopin Studies, too, are daily bread." (9) The best way to study chords? "From the wrist and with fingers of steel Small hands must of course begin with smaller positions." (10) What gymnastic exercises do you suggest? "Whatever seems necessary for the special hand. Tight hands need to be massaged to limber the fingers and stretch the web of flesh between them. The loose, flabby hand may also be strengthened and rendered firm by massage; but this is often a more difficult task than to stretch the right hand. If technical training is properly given, it is sure to render the hand flexible and strong." XXV AGNES MORGAN SIMPLICITY IN PIANO TEACHING One of the busiest of New York piano teachers, whose list of students taking private lessons in a season, almost touches the hundred mark, is Mrs. Agnes Morgan. Mrs. Morgan has been laboring in this field for more than two decades, with ever increasing success. And yet so quietly and unobtrusively is all this accomplished, that the world only knows of the teacher through the work done by her pupils. The teacher has now risen to the point where she can pick and choose her own pupils, which is a great comfort to her, for it dispels much of the drudgery of piano teaching, and is one of the reasons why she loves her work. When one teaches from nine in the morning till after six every day of the season, it is not easy to find a leisure hour in which to discuss means and methods. By a fortunate chance, however, such an interview was recently possible. The questions had been borne in upon me: By what art or influence has this teacher attracted so large a following? What is it which brings to her side not only the society girl but the serious art-student and young teacher? What is the magnet which draws so many pupils to her that five assistants are needed to prepare those who are not yet ready to profit by her instruction? When I came in touch with this modest, unassuming woman, who greeted me with simple cordiality, and spoke with quiet dignity of her work, I felt that the only magnet was the ability to impart definite ideas in the simplest possible way. "Dr. William Mason, with whom I studied," began Mrs. Morgan, "used to say that a musical touch was born, not made; but I have found it possible to so instruct a pupil that she can make as beautiful a tone as can be made; even a child can do this. The whole secret lies in arm and wrist relaxation, with arched hand, and firm nail joint. INSPIRATION FROM AN AMERICAN TEACHER "I feel that Dr. Mason himself was the one who made me see the reason of things. I had always played more or less brilliantly, for technic came rather easy to me. I had studied in Leipsic, where I may say I learned little or nothing about the principles of piano playing, but only 'crammed' a great number of difficult compositions. I had been with Moszkowski also; but it was really Dr. Mason, an American teacher, who first set me thinking. I began to think so earnestly about the reason for doing things that I often argued the points out with him, until he would laugh and say, 'You go one way and I go another, but we both reach the same point in the end.' And from that time I have gone on and on until I have evolved my own system of doing things. A teacher cannot stand still. I would be a fool not to profit by the experience gained through each pupil, for each one is a separate study. This has been a growth of perhaps twenty-five years--as the result of my effort to present the subject of piano technic in the most concise form. I have been constantly learning what is not essential, and what can be omitted. SIMPLICITY "Simplicity Is the keynote of my work. I try to teach only the essentials. There are so many études and studies that are good, Czerny, for instance, is splendid. I believe in it all, but there is not time for much of it. So with Bach. I approve of studying everything we have of his for piano, from the 'Little Pieces' up to the big Preludes and Fugues. Whenever I can I use Bach. But here again we have not time to use as much of Bach as we should like. Still I do the best I can. Even with those who have not a great deal of time to practise, I get in a Bach Invention whenever possible. "When a new pupil comes who is just starting, or has been badly taught, she must of course begin with hand formation. She learns to form the arch of the hand and secure firm finger joints, especially the nail joint. I form the hand away from the piano, at a table. Nothing can be done toward playing till these things are accomplished. I often have pupils who have been playing difficult music for years, and who consider themselves far advanced. When I show them some of these simple things, they consider them far too easy until they find they cannot do them. Sometimes nothing can be done with such pupils until they are willing to get right down to rock bottom, and learn how to form the hand. As to the length of time required, it depends on the mentality of the pupil and the kind of hand. Some hands are naturally very soft and flabby, and of course it is more difficult to render them strong. FINGER ACTION "When the arch of the hand is formed, we cultivate intelligent movement in the finger tips, and for this we must have a strong, dependable nail joint. Of course young students must have knuckle action of the fingers, but I disapprove of fingers being raised too high. As we advance, and the nail joint becomes firmer and more controlled, there is not so great need for much finger action. Velocity is acquired by less and less action of the fingers; force is gained by allowing arm weight to rest on the fingers; lightness and delicacy by taking the arm weight off the fingers--holding it back. "I use no instruction books for technical drill, but give my own exercises, or select them from various sources. Certain principles must govern the daily practise, from the first. When they are mastered in simple forms later work is only development. Loose wrist exercises, in octaves, sixths, or other forms, should form a part of the daily routine. So should scale playing, for I am a firm believer in scales of all kinds. Chords are an important item of practise. How few students, uninstructed in their principles, ever play good chords? They either flap the hand down from the wrist, with a weak, thin tone, or else they play with stiff, high wrists and arms, making a hard, harsh tone. In neither case do they use any arm weight. It often takes some time to make them see the principles of arm weight and finger grasp. QUESTIONS OF PEDALING "Another point which does not receive the attention it deserves is pedaling. Few students have a true idea of the technic of the foot on the pedal. They seem to know only one way to use the damper pedal, and that is to come down hard on it, perhaps giving it a thump at the same time. I give special preparatory exercises for pedal use. Placing the heel on the floor, and the forepart of the foot on the pedal, they learn to make one depression with every stroke of the metronome; when this can be done with ease, then two depressions to the beat, and so on. In this exercise the pedal is not pressed fully down; on the contrary there is but a slight depression; this vibration on the pedal has the effect of a constant shimmering of light upon the tones, which is very beautiful." Here the artist illustrated most convincingly with a portion of a Chopin Prelude. "One needs a flexible ankle to use the pedal properly; indeed the ankle should be as pliant as the wrist. I know of no one else who uses the pedal in just this fashion; so I feel as though I had discovered it. "Yes, I have numbers of pupils among society people; girls who go out a good deal and yet find time to practise a couple hours a day. The present tendency of the wealthy is to take a far more serious view of music study than was formerly the case. They feel its uplifting and ennobling influence, respect its teachers, and endeavor to do carefully and well whatever they attempt. "While necessary and important, the technical foundation is after all but a small part compared to the training for rhythmic sense, and for the knowledge of how to produce good and beautiful results in musical interpretation." XXVI EUGENE HEFFLEY MODERN TENDENCIES IN PIANO MUSIC Eugene Heffley, the Founder and first President of the MacDowell Club, of New York, a pianist and teacher of high ideals and most serious aims, came to New York from Pittsburg, in 1900, at the suggestion of MacDowell himself. He came to make a place for himself in the profession of the metropolis, and has proved himself a thoroughly sincere and devoted teacher, as well as a most inspiring master; he has trained numerous young artists who are winning success as pianists and teachers. Mr. Heffley, while entertaining reverence for the older masters, is very progressive, always on the alert to discover a new trend of thought, a new composer, a new gospel in musical art. He did much to make known and arouse enthusiasm for MacDowell's compositions, when they were as yet almost unheard of in America. In an equally broad spirit does he introduce to his students the works of the ultra modern school, Debussy, Rachmaninoff, Florent Schmitt, Reger, Liadow, Poldini and others. "My students like to learn these new things, and the audiences that gather here in the studio for our recitals, come with the expectation of being enlightened in regard to new and seldom heard works, and we do not disappoint them. Florent Schmitt, in spite of his German surname, is thoroughly French in his manner and idiom, though they are not of the style of Debussy; he has written some beautiful things for the piano; a set of short pieces which are little gems. I rank Rachmaninoff very highly, and of course use his Preludes, not only the well-known ones--the C and G minor--but the set of thirteen in one opus number; they are most interesting. I use a good deal of Russian music; Liadow has composed some beautiful things; but Tschaikowsky, in his piano music, is too complaining and morbid, as a rule, though he is occasionally in a more cheerful mood. It seems as though music has said all it can say along consonant lines, and regular rhythms. We must look for its advancement in the realm of Dissonance; not only in this but in the way of variety in Rhythm. How these modern composers vary their rhythms, sometimes three or four different ones going at once! It is the unexpected which attracts us in musical and literary art, as well as in other things: we don't want to know what is coming next; we want to be surprised. "Of the classic literature, I use much Bach, when I can. I used to give more Mozart than I do now; latterly I have inclined toward Haydn; his Variations and Sonatas are fine; my students seem to prefer Haydn also. I thoroughly believe in the value of polyphonic music as a mental study; it is a necessity. And Bach is such a towering figure, such a rock of strength in musical art. Bach was essentially a Christian, and this element of devoutness, of worship, shines out in everything he wrote. I do not believe that music, without this element of worship, will live. Tschaikowsky did not have it, nor Berlioz, nor even Mozart, for Mozart wrote merely from the idea of sheer beauty of sound; in that sense he was a pagan. I doubt if Strauss has it. One cannot foresee how the future will judge the music of to-day; what will it think of Schönberg? I am holding in abeyance any opinion I might form regarding his work till I have had more time to know it better. I can only say I have heard his string Quartet three times. The first time I found much in it to admire; the second time I was profoundly moved by certain parts of it, and on the third occasion I felt that the work, especially the latter part, contained some of the most beautiful music I had ever listened to. "In regard to the technical training my pupils receive, it is not so easy to formulate my manner of teaching. Each pupil is a separate study, and is different from every other. As you well know, I am not a 'method man': I have little use for the so-called piano method. To be a true teacher of the piano is a high calling indeed; for there are many pedagogues but comparatively few real teachers. I make a distinction between the two. A pedagogue is one who, filled with many rules and much learning, endeavors to pour his knowledge into the pupil; whereas the true teacher seeks to draw out what is in the pupil. He strives to find what the pupil has aptitude for, what he likes to do and can do best. The teacher must be something of a psychologist, or how can he correctly judge of the pupil's temperament, his tastes, his mentality, and what to do for him? "When a new pupil comes, I must make a mental appraisement of his capacity, his likelihood to grasp the subject, his quickness of intelligence, his health, and so on. No two pupils can be treated in the same way. One who has little continuity, who has never followed out a serious line of thought in any direction, must be treated quite differently from one of an opposite mentality and experience. It would be useless to give Bach to the first pupil, it would only be a waste of time and patience: he could not comprehend the music in any sense; he would have no conception of the great things that Bach stands for. Such a course of treatment would only make him hate music; whereas to one of a more serious and thoughtful turn of mind, you might give any amount of Bach. "A student with a poor touch and undeveloped hand, must go through a regular course of training. The hand is first placed in position, either at the keyboard or on a table; the fingers are taught to start with up movements, as the lifting muscles need special attention. A muscle or a finger, is either _taut_, _flabby_ or _stiff_; it is the taut condition I strive for--to make the finger responsive, like a fine steel spring. "It is absolutely necessary to establish correct finger action at the outset; for the sake of finger development, clearness, and accuracy. When single fingers can make accurate up and down movements, we can put two fingers together and acquire a perfect legato. I teach three kinds of legato--the _passage_ legato, the _singing_ legato, and the _accompanying_ legato; the pupil must master the first before attempting the others. I advise technic practise with each hand alone, for you must know I am a firm believer in the study of pure technic outside of pieces. "As the student advances we take up chord playing with different touches, scales, arpeggios and octaves. I institute quite early what I call polyphonic technic--one hand doing a different movement or touch from the other. This works out in scales and arpeggios with a variety of touches--one hand playing a passage or scale staccato while the other plays legato, and vice versa." Asked if he taught technical material without a book, Mr. Heffley replied: "No, I generally use the Heinrich Germer work, as it covers the ground very satisfactorily; it is compact, concise, and complete in one volume. I also use Mertke to some extent. Every form of exercise must be worked out in all keys; I find the books useful for all kinds of students. I may add that I use comparatively few études. "If the student seems to have a very imperfect rhythmic sense, I use the metronome, but as sparingly as possible, for I want to establish the inner sense of rhythm. "In regard to memorizing. I give no special advice, but counsel the student to employ the way which is easiest and most natural to him. There are three distinct ways of committing music: the Analytic, Photographic, and Muscular. The Analytic memory picks the passage apart and learns just how it is constructed, and why; the Photographic memory can see the veritable picture of the passage before the mind's eye; while the Muscular memory lets the fingers find the notes. This is not a very reliable method, but some pupils have to learn in this way. Of course the Analytical memory is the best; when the pupil has the mental ability to think music in this way, I strongly recommend it. "One point I make much of in my teaching, and that is Tone Color, as a distinct factor in musical interpretation. It is not merely a question of using the marks of expression, such as FF, MF, PP, and so on; it is more subtle than that--it is the _quality_ of tone I seek after. Sometimes I work with a pupil for several minutes over a single tone, until he really comprehends what he has to do to produce the right quality of tone, and can remember how he did it. The pedal helps wonderfully, for it is truly the 'soul of the piano.' "Some pupils have fancy but no imagination, and vice versa. The terms are not synonymous. Reading poetry helps to develop the aesthetic sense; pictures help also, and nature. I must necessarily take into account the pupil's trend of temperament while instructing him. "Interpretative expression is not a positive but a relative quantity. One player's palette is covered with large blotches of color, and he will paint the picture with bold strokes; another delights in delicate miniature work. Each will conceive the meaning and interpretation of a composition through the lens of his own temperament. I endeavor to stimulate the imagination of the pupil through reading, through knowledge of art, through a comprehension of the correlation of all the arts. "The musical interpreter has a most difficult, exacting and far-reaching task to perform. An actor plays one part night after night; a painter is occupied for days and weeks with a single picture; a composer is absorbed for the time being on one work only. The pianist, on the other hand, must, during a recital, sweep over the whole gamut of expression: the simple, the pastoral, the pathetic, the passionate, the spiritual--he is called upon to portray every phase of emotion. This seems to me a bigger task than is set before any other class of art-workers. The pianist must be able to render with appropriate sentiment the simplicity and fresh naïveté of the earlier classics, Haydn, Mozart; the grandeur of Bach; the heroic measures of Beethoven; the morbid elegance of Chopin; the romanticism of Schumann; the magnificent splendor of Liszt. "In choosing musical food for my pupils, I strive to keep away from the beaten track of the hackneyed. The mistake made by many teachers is to give far too difficult music. Why should I teach an old war-horse which the pupil has to struggle over for six months without being really able to master, and which he will thoroughly hate at the end of that time? The Scherzo Op. 31, of Chopin, and the Liszt Rhapsodies he can hear in the concert room, where he can become familiar with most of the famous piano compositions. Why should he not learn to know many less hackneyed pieces, which do not so frequently appear on concert programs? "Herein lies one of the great opportunities for the broad-minded teacher--to be individual in his work. According to his progressive individuality will his work be valued." XXVII GERMAINE SCHNITZER MODERN METHODS IN PIANO STUDY "It is difficult to define such a comprehensive term as technic, for it means so much," remarked Germaine Schnitzer the French pianist to me one day, when we were discussing pianistic problems. "There is no special sort or method of technic that will do for all players, for every mentality is different; every hand is peculiar to itself, and different from every other. Not only is each player individual in this particular, but one's right hand may differ from one's left; therefore each hand may require separate treatment. "An artistic technic can be acquired only by those who have an aptitude for it, plus the willingness to undertake the necessary drudgery; practise alone, no matter how arduous, is not sufficient. Technic is evolved from thought, from hearing great music, from much listening to great players; intent listening to one's own playing, and to the effects one strives to make. It is often said that the pianist cannot easily judge of the tonal effects he is producing, as he is too near the instrument. With me this is not the case. My hearing is so acute that I know the exact dynamics of every tone, every effect of light and shade; thus I do not have to stand at a distance, as the painter does, even if I could do so, in order to criticize my work, for I can do this satisfactorily at close range. "I hardly know when I learned technic; at all events it was not at the beginning. At the start I had some lessons with quite a simple woman teacher. We lived near Paris, and my elder sister was then studying with Raoul Pugno; she was a good student and practised industriously. She said she would take me to the master, and one day she did so. I was a tiny child of about seven, very small and thin--not much bigger than a fly. The great man pretended he could hardly see me. I was perched upon the stool, my feet, too short to reach the floor, rested on the extension pedal box which I always carried around with me, I went bravely through some Bach Inventions. When I finished, Pugno regarded me with interest. He said he would teach me; told me to prepare some more Inventions, some Czerny studies and the Mendelssohn Capriccio, Op. 22, and come to him in four weeks. Needless to say, I knew every note of these compositions by heart when I took my second lesson. Soon I was bidden to come to him every fortnight, then every week, and finally he gave me two lessons a week. "For the first five years of my musical experience, I simply played the piano. I played everything--sonatas, concertos--everything; large works were absorbed from one lesson to the next. When I was about twelve I began to awake to the necessity for serious study; then I really began to practise in earnest. My master took more and more interest in my progress and career: he was at pains to explain the meaning of music to me--the ideas of the composers. Many fashionable people took lessons of him, for to study with Pugno had become a fad; but he called me his only pupil, saying that I alone understood him. I can truly say he was my musical father; to him I owe everything. We were neighbors in a suburb of Paris, as my parents' home adjoined his; we saw a great deal of him and we made music together part of every day. When he toured in America and other countries, he wrote me frequently; I could show you many letters, for I have preserved a large number--letters filled with beautiful and exalted thoughts, expressed in noble and poetic language. They show that Pugno possessed a most refined, superior mind, and was truly a great artist. "I studied with Pugno ten years. At the end of that time he wished me to play for Emil Saur. Saur was delighted with my work, and was anxious to teach me certain points. From him I acquired the principles of touch advocated by his master, Nicholas Rubinstein. These I mastered in three months' time, or I might say in two lessons. "According to Nicholas Rubinstein, the keys are not to be struck with high finger action, nor is the direct end of the finger used. The point of contact is rather just back of the tip, between that and the ball of the finger. Furthermore we do not simply strive for plain legato touch. The old instruction books tell us that legato must be learned first, and is the most difficult touch to acquire. But legato does not bring the best results in rapid passages, for it does not impart sufficient clarity. In the modern idea something more crisp, scintillating and brilliant is needed. So we use a half staccato touch. The tones, when separated a hair's breadth from each other, take on a lighter, more vibrant, radiant quality; they are really like strings of pearls. Then I also use pressure touch, pressing and caressing the keys--feeling as it were for the quality I want; I think it, I hear it mentally, and I can make it. With this manner of touching the keys, and this constant search for quality of tone, I can make any piano give out a beautiful tone, even if it seems to be only a battered tin pan. TONE WHICH VIBRATES THROUGH THE WHOLE BODY "Weight touch is of course a necessity; for it I use not only arms and shoulders, but my whole body feels and vibrates with the tones of the piano. Of course I have worked out many of these principles for myself; they have not been acquired from any particular book, set of exercises, or piano method; I have made my own method from what I have acquired and experienced in ways above mentioned. ON MEMORIZING "In regard to memorizing piano music I have no set method. The music comes to me I know not how. After a period of deep concentration, of intent listening, it is mine, a permanent possession. You say Leschetizky advises his pupils to learn a small portion, two or four measures, each hand alone and away from the piano. Other pianists tell me they have to make a special study of memorizing. All this is not for me--it is not my way. When I have studied the piece sufficiently to play it, I know it--every note of it. When I play a concerto with orchestra I am not only absolutely sure of the piano part, but I also know each note that the other instruments play. Of course I am listening intently to the piano and to the whole orchestra during a performance; if I allowed myself to think of anything else, I should be lost. This absolute concentration is what conquers all difficulties. ABSTRACT TECHNIC "About practising technic for itself alone: this will not be necessary when once the principles of technic are mastered. I, at least, do not need to do so. I make, however, various technical exercises out of all difficult passages in pieces. I scarcely need to look at the printed pages of pieces I place on my recital programs. I have them with me, to be sure, but they are seldom taken out of their boxes. What I do is to think the pieces through and do mental work with them, and for this I must be quiet and by myself. An hour's actual playing at the piano each day is sufficient to prepare for a recital. "It must not be thought that I do not study very seriously. I do not work less than six hours a day; if on any day I fail to secure this amount of time, I make it up at the earliest moment. During the summer months, when I am preparing new programs for the next season, I work very hard. As I said, I take the difficult passages of a composition and make the minutest study of them in every detail, making all kinds of technical exercises out of a knotty section, sometimes playing it in forty or fifty different ways. For example, take the little piece out of Schumann's _Carneval_, called 'The Reconnaissance.' That needed study. I gave three solid days to it; that means from nine to twelve in the morning, and from one to five in the afternoon. At the end of that time I knew it perfectly and was satisfied with it. From that day to this I have never had to give a thought to that number, for I am confident I know it utterly. I have never had an accident to that or to any of my pieces when playing in public. In my opinion a pianist has a more difficult task to accomplish than any other artist. The singer has to sing only one note at a time; the violinist or 'cellist need use but one hand for notes. Even the orchestral conductor who aspires to direct his men without the score before him, may experience a slip of memory once in awhile, yet he can go on without a break. A pianist, however, has perhaps half a dozen notes in each hand to play at once; every note must be indelibly engraved on the memory, for one dares not make a slip of any kind. "An artist playing in London, Paris or New York--I class these cities together--may play about the same sort of programs in each. The selections will not be too heavy in character. In Madrid or Vienna the works may be even more brilliant. It is Berlin that demands heavy, solid meat. I play Bach there, Beethoven and Brahms. It is a severe test to play in Berlin and win success. "I have made several tours in America. This is a wonderful country. I don't believe you Americans realize what a great country you have, what marvelous advantages are here, what fine teachers, what great orchestras, what opera, what audiences! The critics, too, are so well informed and so just. All these things impress a foreign artist--the love for music that is here, the knowledge of it, and the enthusiasm for it. A worthy artist can make a name and success in America more quickly and surely than in any country in the world. "For one thing America is one united country from coast to coast, so it is much easier getting about here than in Europe. For another thing I consider you have the greatest orchestras in the world, and I have played with the orchestras of all countries. I also find you have the most enthusiastic audiences to be found anywhere. "In Europe a musical career offers few advantages. People often ask my advice about making a career over there, and I try to dissuade them. It sometimes impresses me as a lions' den, and I have the desire to cry out 'Beware' to those who may be entrapped into going over before they are ready, or know what to expect. Of course there are cases of phenomenal success, but they are exceptions to the general rule. "People go to Europe to get atmosphere (stimmung)--that much abused term! I could tell them they make their own atmosphere wherever they are. I have lived in music all my life, but I can say I find musical atmosphere right here in America. If I listen to the Boston Symphony Orchestra, or to the Kneisel Quartet, when these organizations are giving an incomparable performance of some masterpiece, I am entirely wrapt up in the music; am I not then in a musical atmosphere? Or if I hear a performance of a Wagner opera at the Metropolitan, where Wagner is given better even than in Bayreuth, am I not also in a musical atmosphere? To be sure, if I am in Bayreuth I may see some reminiscences of Wagner the man, or if I am in Vienna I can visit the graves of Beethoven and Schubert. But these facts of themselves do not create a musical atmosphere. "You in America can well rejoice over your great country, your fine teachers and musicians and your musical growth. After a while you may be the most musical nation in the world." XXVIII OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH CHARACTERISTIC TOUCH ON THE PIANO Arthur Hochman, Russian pianist and composer, once remarked to me, in reference to the quality of tone and variety of tonal effects produced by the various artists now before the public: "For me there is one pianist who stands above them all--his name is Gabrilowitsch." The quality of tone which this rare artist draws from his instrument, is unforgettable. I asked him one morning, when he was kind enough to give me the opportunity for a quiet chat, how he produced this luscious singing quality of tone. "A beautiful tone? Ah, that is difficult to describe, whether in one hour or in many hours. It is first a matter of experiment, of individuality, then of experience and memory. We listen and create the tone, modify it until it expresses our ideal, then we try to remember how we did it. "I cannot say that I always produce a beautiful tone; I try to produce a characteristic tone, but sometimes it may not be beautiful: there are many times when it may be anything but that. I do not think there can be any fixed rule or method in tone production, because people and hands are so different. What does for one will not do for another. Some players find it easier to play with high wrist, some with low. Some can curve their fingers, while others straighten them out. There are of course a few foundation principles, and one is that arms and wrists must be relaxed. Fingers must often be loose also, but not at the nail joint; that must always be firm. I advise adopting the position of hand which is most comfortable and convenient. In fact all forms of hand position can be used, if for a right purpose, so long as the condition is never cramped or stiff. I permit either a high or low position of the wrist, so long as the tone is good. As I said, the nail joint must remain firm, and never be crushed under by the weight of powerful chords, as is apt to be the case with young players whose hands are weak and delicate. [Illustration: TO MISS HARRIETTE BROWER, OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH] TECHNICAL STUDY "Yes, I am certainly in favor of technical practise outside of pieces. There must be scale and arpeggio study, in which the metronome can be used. But I believe in striving to make even technical exercises of musical value. If scales are played they should be performed with a beautiful quality and variety of tone; if one attempts a Czerny étude, it should be played with as much care and finish as a Beethoven sonata. Bring out all the musical qualities of the étude. Do not say, 'I'll play this measure sixteen times, and then I'm done with it.' Do nothing for mechanical ends merely, but everything from a musical standpoint. Yes, I give some Czerny to my students; not many études however. I prefer Chopin and Rubinstein. There is a set of six Rubinstein Studies which I use, including the Staccato Étude. "In regard to technical forms and material, each player may need a different tonic. I have found many useful things in a work by your own Dr. William Mason, _Touch and Technic_. I have used this to a considerable extent. To my knowledge he was the first to illustrate the principle of weight, which is now pretty generally accepted here as well as in Europe. "An ancient and famous philosopher, Seneca, is said to have remarked that by the time a man reaches the age of twenty-five, he should know enough to be his own physician, or he is a fool. We might apply this idea to the pianist. After studying the piano for a number of years he should be able to discover what sort of technical exercises are most beneficial; if he cannot do so he must be a fool. Why should he always depend on the exercises made by others? There is no end to the list of method books and technical forms; their name is legion. They are usually made by persons who invent exercises to fit their own hands; this does not necessarily mean that they will fit the hands of others. I encourage my pupils to invent their own technical exercises. They have often done so with considerable success, and find much more pleasure in them than in those made by others. "Two of the most important principles in piano playing are: full, round, exact tone; distinct phrasing. The most common fault is indistinctness--slurring over or leaving out notes. Clearness in piano playing is absolutely essential. If an actor essays the rôle of Hamlet, he must first of all speak distinctly and make himself clearly understood; otherwise all his study and characterization are in vain. The pianist must likewise make himself understood; he therefore must enunciate clearly. VELOCITY "You speak of velocity as difficult for some players to acquire. I have found there is a general tendency to play everything too fast, to rush headlong through the piece, without taking time to make it clear and intelligible. When the piece is quite clear in tone and phrasing, it will not sound as fast as it really is, because all the parts are in just relation to each other. As an illustration of this fact, there is a little Gavotte of mine, which I had occasion to play several times in Paris. A lady, a very good pianist, got the piece, learned it, then came and asked me to hear her play it. She sat down to the piano, and rushed through the piece in a way that so distorted it I could hardly recognize it. When she finished I remonstrated, but she assured me that her tempo was exactly like mine as she had heard me play the piece three times. I knew my own tempo exactly and showed her that while it did not differ so greatly from hers, yet my playing sounded slower because notes and phrasing were all clear, and everything rightly balanced. POWER "How do I gain power? Power does not depend on the size of the hand or arm; for persons of quite small physique have enough of it to play with the necessary effect. Power is a nervous force, and of course demands that arms and wrists be relaxed. The fingers must be so trained as to be strong enough to stand up under this weight of arms and hands, and not give way. I repeat, the nail joint must remain firm under all circumstances. It is so easy to forget this; one must be looking after it all the time. MEMORIZING "In regard to memorizing, I have no special rule or method. Committing to memory seems to come of its own accord. Some pieces are comparatively easy to learn by heart; others, like a Bach fugue, require hard work and close analysis. The surest way to learn a difficult composition, is to write it out from memory. There is a great deal of benefit in that. If you want to remember the name of a person or a place, you write it down. When the eye sees it, the mind retains a much more vivid impression. This is visual memory. When I play with orchestra, I of course know every note the orchestra has to play as well as my own part. It is a much greater task to write out a score from memory than a piano solo, yet it is the surest way to fix the composition in mind. I find that compositions I learned in early days are never forgotten, they are always with me, while the later pieces have to be constantly looked after. This is doubtless a general experience, as early impressions are most enduring. "An orchestral conductor should know the works he conducts so thoroughly that he need not have the score before him. I have done considerable conducting the past few years. Last season I gave a series of historical recitals, tracing the growth of the piano concerto, from Mozart down to the present. I played nineteen works in all, finishing with the Rachmaninoff Concerto." Mr. Gabrilowitsch has entirely given up teaching, and devotes his time to recital and concert, conducting, and composing. HANS VON BÜLOW AS TEACHER AND INTERPRETER Those who heard Hans von Bülow in recital during his American tour, in 1876, listened to piano playing that was at once learned and convincing. A few years before, in 1872, Rubinstein had come and conquered. The torrential splendor of his pianism, his mighty crescendos and whispering diminuendos, his marvelous variety of tone--all were in the nature of a revelation; his personal magnetism carried everything before it. American audiences were at his feet. [Illustration: HANS VON BÜLOW] In Von Bülow was found a player of quite a different caliber. Clarity of touch, careful exactness down to the minutest detail caused the critics to call him cold. He was a deep thinker and analyzer; as he played one saw, as though reflected in a mirror, each note, phrase and dynamic mark of expression to be found in the work. From a Rubinstein recital the listener came away subdued, awed, inspired, uplifted, but disinclined to open the piano or touch the keys that had been made to burn and scintillate under those wonderful hands. After hearing Von Bülow, on the other hand, the impulse was to hasten to the instrument and reproduce what had just seemed so clear and logical, so simple and attainable. It did not seem to be such a difficult thing to play the piano--like _that_! It was as though he had said: "Any of you can do what I am doing, if you will give the same amount of time and study to it that I have done. Listen and I will teach you!" Von Bülow was a profound student of the works of Beethoven; his edition of the sonatas is noted for recondite learning, clearness and exactness in the smallest details. Through his recitals in America he did much to make these works better known and understood. Nor did he neglect Chopin, and though his readings of the music of the great Pole may have lacked in sensuous beauty of touch and tone, their interpretation was always sane, healthy, and beautiful. Toward the end of a season during the eighties, it was announced that Von Bülow would come to Berlin and teach an artist class in the Klindworth Conservatory. This was an unusual opportunity to obtain lessons from so famous a musician and pedagogue, and about twenty pianists were enrolled for the class. A few of these came with the master from Frankfort, where he was then located. Carl Klindworth, pianist, teacher, critic, editor of Chopin and Beethoven, was then the Director of the school. The two men were close friends, which is proved by the fact that Von Bülow was willing to recommend the Klindworth Edition of Beethoven, in spite of the fact that he himself had edited many of the sonatas. Another proof is that he was ready to leave his work in Frankfort, and come to Berlin, in order to shed the luster of his name and fame upon the Klindworth school--the youngest of the many musical institutions of that music-ridden, music-saturated capital. * * * * * It was a bright May morning when the Director entered the music-room with his guest, and presented him to the class. They saw in him a man rather below medium height, with large intellectual head, beneath whose high, wide forehead shone piercing dark eyes, hidden behind glasses. He bowed to the class, saying he was pleased to see so many industrious students. His movements, as he looked around the room, were quick and alert; he seemed to see everything at once, and the students saw that nothing could escape that active mentality. The class met four days in each week, and the lessons continued from nine in the morning until well on toward one o'clock. It was announced that only the works of Brahms, Raff, Mendelssohn and Liszt would be taught and played, so nothing else need be brought to the class; indeed Brahms was to have the place of honor. While many interesting compositions were discussed and played, perhaps the most helpful thing about these hours spent with the great pedagogue was the running fire of comment and suggestion regarding technic, interpretation, and music and musicians in general. Von Bülow spoke in rapid, nervous fashion, with a mixture of German and English, often repeating in the latter tongue what he had said in the former, out of consideration for the Americans and English present. In teaching, Von Bülow required the same qualities which were so patent in his playing. Clearness of touch, exactness in phrasing and fingering were the first requirements; the delivery of the composer's idea must be just as he had indicated it--no liberties with the text were ever permitted. He was so honest, so upright in his attitude toward the makers of good music, that it was a sin in his eyes to alter anything in the score, though he believed in adding any marks of phrasing or expression which would elucidate the intentions of the composer. Everything he said or did showed his intellectual grasp of the subject; and he looked for some of the same sort of intelligence on the part of the student. A failure in this respect, an inability to apprehend at once the ideas he endeavored to convey, would annoy the sensitive and nervous little Doctor; he would become impatient, sarcastic and begin to pace the floor with hasty strides. When in this state he could see little that was worthy in the student's performance, for a small error would be so magnified as to dwarf everything that was excellent. When the lion began to roar, it behooved the players to be circumspect and meek. At other times, when the weather was fair in the class-room, things went with tolerable smoothness. He did not trouble himself much about technic, as of course a pupil coming to him was expected to be well equipped on the technical side; his chief concern was to make clear the content and interpretation of the composition. In the lessons he often played detached phrases and passages for and with the student, but never played an entire composition. One of the most remarkable things about this eccentric man was his prodigious memory. Nearly every work for piano which could be mentioned he knew and could play from memory. He often expressed the opinion that no pianist could be considered an artist unless he or she could play at least two hundred pieces by heart. He, of course, more than fulfilled this requirement, not only for piano but for orchestral music. As conductor of the famous Meiningen orchestra, he directed every work given without a note of score before him--considered a great feat in those days. He was a ceaseless worker, and his eminence in the world of music was more largely due to unremitting labor than to genius. From the many suggestions to the Berlin class, the following have been culled. "To play correctly is of the first importance; to play beautifully is the second requirement. A healthy touch is the main thing. Some people play the piano as if their fingers had _migrane_ and their wrists were rheumatic. Do not play on the sides of the finger nor with a sideways stroke, for then the touch will be weak and uncertain. "Clearness we must first have; every line and measure, every note must be analyzed for touch, tone, content and expression. "You are always your first hearer; to be one's own critic is the most difficult of all. "When a new theme enters you must make it plain to the listener; all the features of the new theme, the new figure, must be plastically brought out. "Brilliancy does not depend on velocity but on clarity. What is not clear cannot scintillate nor sparkle. Make use of your strongest fingers in brilliant passages, leaving out the fourth when possible. A scale to be brilliant and powerful must not be too rapid. Every note must be round and full and not too legato--rather a mezzo legato--so that single tones, played hands together, shall sound like octaves. One of the most difficult things in rhythm, is to play passages where two notes alternate with triplets. Scales may be practised in this way alternating three notes with two. "We must make things sound well--agreeably, in a way to be admired. A seemingly discordant passage can be made to sound well by ingeniously seeking out the best that is in it and holding that up in the most favorable light. Practise dissonant chords until they please the ear in spite of their sharpness. Think of the instruments of the orchestra and their different qualities of tone, and try to imitate them on the piano. Think of every octave on the piano as having a different color; then shade and color your playing. (_Also bitte coloriren_)!" If Bülow's musical trinity, Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms, had a fourth divinity added, it would surely have been Liszt. The first day's program contained chiefly works by the Hungarian master; among them _Au bord d'une Source_, Scherzo and March, and the Ballades. The player who rendered the Scherzo was advised to practise octaves with light, flexible wrist; the Kullak Octave School was recommended, especially the third book; the other books could be read through, practising whatever seemed difficult and passing over what was easy. Of the Ballades the first was termed more popular, the second finer and more earnest--though neither makes very much noise. The _Annees de Pelerinage_ received much attention. Among the pieces played were, _Les Cloches_, _Chasse Neige_, _Eclogue_, _Cloches de Geneva_, _Eroica_, _Feux Follets_ and _Ma__zeppa_. Also the big Polonaise in E, the two Études, _Waldesrauschen_ and _Gnomenreigen_; the Mazourka, Valse Impromptu, and the first Étude, of which last he remarked: "You can all play this; thirty years have passed since it was composed and people are only just finding out how fine it is. Such is the case with many of Liszt's works. We wonder how they ever could have been considered unmusical. Yet the way some people play Liszt the hearer is forced to exclaim, 'What an unmusical fellow Liszt was, to be sure, to write like that!' "Exactness in everything is of the greatest importance," he was fond of saying. "We must make the piano speak. As in speaking we use a separate movement of the lips for each word, so in certain kinds of melody playing, the hand is taken up after each note. Then, too, we cannot make the piano speak without very careful use of the pedals." The Mazourka of Liszt was recommended as one of the most delightful of his lighter pieces. The _Waldesrauschen_ also, was termed charming, an excellent concert number. "Begin the first figure somewhat louder and slightly slower, then increase the movement and subdue the tone. _Everything which_ _is to be played softly should be practised forte."_ Of Joachim Raff the Suite Op. 91 held the most important place. Each number received minute attention, the Giga being played by Ethelbert Nevin. The _Metamorphosen_ received a hearing, also the Valse Caprice, Op. 116, of which the master was particular about the staccato left hand against the legato right. Then came the Scherzo Op. 74, the Valse Caprice and the Polka, from Suite Op. 71. Von Bülow described the little group of notes in left hand of middle section as a place where the dancers made an unexpected slip on the floor, and suggested it be somewhat emphasized. "We must make this little witticism," he said, as he illustrated the passage at the piano. "Raff showed himself a pupil of Mendelssohn in his earlier compositions; his symphonies will find more appreciation in the coming century--which cannot be said of the Ocean Symphony, for instance." Of Mendelssohn the Capriccios Op. 5 and 22 were played, also the Prelude and Fugue in E. Von Bülow deplored the neglect which was overtaking the works of Mendelssohn, and spoke of the many beauties of his piano compositions. "There should be no sentimentality about the playing of Mendelssohn's music," he said; "the notes speak for themselves. "The return to a theme, in every song or instrumental work of his is particularly to be noticed, for it is always interesting; this Fugue in E should begin as though with the softest register of the organ." The subject of Brahms has been deferred only that it may be spoken of as a whole. His music was the theme of the second, and a number of the following lessons. Bülow was a close friend of the Hamburg master, and kept in touch with him while in Berlin. One morning he came in with a beaming face, holding up a sheet of music paper in Beethoven's handwriting, which Brahms had discovered and forwarded to him. It seemed that nothing could have given Bülow greater pleasure than to receive this relic. [Illustration: DR. WILLIAM MASON] The first work taken up in class was Brahms' Variations on a Handel theme. Von Bülow was in perfect sympathy with this noble work of Brahms and illumined many passages with clear explanations. He was very exact about the phrasing, "What cannot be sung in one breath cannot be played in one breath," he said; "many composers have their own terms for expression and interpretation; Brahms is very exact in these points--next to him comes Mendelssohn. Beethoven not at all careful about markings and Schumann extremely careless. Brahms, Beethoven, and Wagner have the right to use their own terms. Brahms frequently uses the word _sostenuto_ where others would use _ritardando_." Of the Clavier Stücke, Op. 76, Von Bülow said: "The Capriccio, No. 1 must not be taken too fast. First page is merely a prelude, the story begins at the second page. How wonderfully is this melody formed, so original yet so regular. Compare it with a Bach gigue. Remember, andante does not mean dragging (_schleppando_), it means going (_gehend_)." To the player who gave the Capriccio, No. 5 he said: "You play that as if it were a Tarantelle of Stephan Heller's. Agitation in piano playing must be carefully thought out; the natural sort will not do at all. We do not want _blind_ agitation, but _seeing_ agitation (_aufregung_). A diminuendo of several measures should be divided into stations, one each for F, MF, M, P, and PP. Visit the Zoological Gardens, where you can learn much about legato and staccato from the kangaroos." The Ballades were taken up in these lessons, and the light thrown upon their poetical content was often a revelation. The gloomy character of the _Edward Ballade_, Op. 10, No. 1, the source of the Scottish poem, the poetic story, were dwelt upon. The opening of this first Ballade is sad, sinister and mysterious, like the old Scotch story. The master insisted on great smoothness in playing it--the chords to sound like muffled but throbbing heartbeats. A strong climax is worked up on the second page, which dies away on the third to a _pianissimo_ of utter despair. From the middle of this page on to the end, the descending chords and octaves were likened to ghostly footsteps, while the broken triplets in the left hand accompaniment seem to indicate drops of blood. The third Ballade also received an illumination from Von Bülow. This is a vivid tone picture, though without motto or verse. Starting with those fateful fifths in the bass, it moves over two pages fitfully gloomy and gay, till at the end of the second page a descending passage leads to three chords so full of grim despair as to impart the atmosphere of a dungeon. The player was hastily turning the leaf. "Stop!" cried the excited voice of the master, who had been pacing restlessly up and down, and now hurried from the end of the salon. "Wait! We have been in prison--but now a ray of sunshine pierces the darkness. You must always pause here to make the contrast more impressive. There is more music in this little piece than in whole symphonies by some of the modern composers." Both Rhapsodies Op. 79 were played; the second, he said, has parts as passionate as anything in the _Götterdammerung_. Both are fine and interesting works. Again and again the players were counseled to make everything sound well. Some intervals, fourths for instance, are harsh; make them as mild as possible. For one can play correctly, but horribly! Some staccatos should be shaken out of the sleeve as it were. The first time a great work is heard there is so much to occupy the attention that only a small amount of pleasure can be derived from it. At the second hearing things are easier and by the twelfth time one's pleasure is complete. The pianist must consider the listener in a first rendering, and endeavor to soften the sharp discords. With a group of five notes, play two and then three--it sounds more distinguished. Remember that unlearning gives much more trouble than learning. * * * * * In this brief résumé of the Von Bülow lessons, the desire has been to convey some of the hints and remarks concerning the music and its interpretation. The master's fleeting sentences were hurriedly jotted down during the lessons, with no thought of their ever being seen except by the owner. But as Bülow's fame as a teacher became so great, these brief notes may now be of some value to both teacher and student. If it were only possible to create a picture of that Berlin music-room, with its long windows opening out to a green garden--the May sunshine streaming in; the two grand pianos in the center, a row of anxious, absorbed students about the edge of the room--and the short figure of the little Doctor, pacing up and down the polished floor, or seating himself at one piano now and then, to illustrate his instruction. This mental picture is the lifelong possession of each of those players who were so fortunate as to be present at the sessions. It can safely be affirmed, I think, that the principles of artistic rectitude, of exactness and thorough musicianship which were there inculcated, ever remained with the members of that class, as a constant incentive and inspiration. HINTS ON INTERPRETATION FROM TWO AMERICAN TEACHERS WILLIAM H. SHERWOOD AND DR. WILLIAM MASON WILLIAM H. SHERWOOD While a young student the opportunity came to attend a Summer Music School, founded by this eminent pianist and teacher. He had surrounded himself with others well known for their specialties in voice, violin and diction; but the director himself was the magnet who attracted pianists and teachers from the four corners of the land. Perhaps the most intimate way to come in touch with a famous teacher, is to study with him during the summer months, in some quiet, retired spot. Here the stress of the metropolis, with its rush and drive, its exacting hours, its remorseless round of lesson giving, is exchanged for the freedom of rural life. Hours may still be exact, but a part of each day, or of each week, is given over to relaxation, to be spent in the open, with friends and pupils. It was under such conditions that I first met Mr. Sherwood. I had never even heard him play, and was glad the session opened with a piano recital. His playing delighted me; he had both power and delicacy, and his tone impressed me as being especially mellow and fine. There was deep feeling as well as poetry in his reading of both the Chromatic Fantaisie of Bach, and the Chopin Fantaisie in F minor which were on the program. This opinion was strengthened at each subsequent hearing, for he gave frequent recitals and concerts during the season. My summer study with Mr. Sherwood consisted mainly in gaining ideas on the interpretation of various pieces. Many of these ideas seem to me beautiful and inspiring, and I will set them down as fully as I can from the brief notes jotted down at the time. I trust I may be pardoned a few personal references, which are sometimes necessary to explain the situation. With advanced students Mr. Sherwood gave great attention to tone study and interpretation, even from the first lesson. He laid much stress on the use of slow, gentle motions in practise and in playing; on the spiritualization of the tones, of getting behind the notes to find the composer's meaning. He had, perhaps, a more poetic conception of piano playing than any master I have known, and was able to impart these ideas in clear and simple language. The first composition considered was Schumann's Nachtstück, the fourth of the set. He had a peculiar way of turning the hand on the middle finger, as on a pivot, for the extended chords, at the same time raising the whole outer side of the hand, so that the fifth finger should be able to play the upper melody notes round and full. In the middle section he desired great tenderness and sweetness of tone. "There are several dissonances in this part," he said, "and they ought to be somewhat accented--suspensions I might call them. In Bach and Handel's time, the rules of composition were very strict--no suspensions were allowed; so they were indicated where it was not permitted to write them." Chopin's étude in sixths came up for analysis. "This study needs a very easy, quiet, limpid touch--the motions all gliding and sliding rather than pushing and forceful. I would advise playing it at first _pianissimo_; the wrist held rather low, the knuckles somewhat high, and the fingers straightened. In preparation for each pair of notes raise the fingers and let them down--not with a hard brittle touch, if I may use the word, but with a soft, velvety one. A composition like this needs to be idealized, spiritualized, taken out of everyday life. Take, for instance, the Impromptu Op. 36, Chopin; the first part of it is something like this étude, soft, undulating--smooth as oil. There is something very uncommon, spiritual, heavenly, about the first page of that Impromptu--very little of the earth, earthy. The second page is in sharp contrast to the first, it comes right down to the hard, everyday business of life--it is full of harsh, sharp tones. Well, the idea of that first page we get in this study in sixths. I don't want the bare tones that stand there on the printed page; I want them spiritualized--that is what reveals the artist. In the left hand the first note should have a clear, brittle accent, with firm fifth finger, and the double sixths played with the creeping, clinging movement I have indicated. If I should practise this étude for half an hour, you might be surprised at the effects I could produce. Perhaps it might take ten hours, but in the end I am confident I could produce this floating, undulating effect. I heard Liszt play nearly all these études at one time; I stood by and turned the pages. In this étude he doubled the number of sixths in each measure; the effect was wonderful and beautiful. "The Chopin Octave study, number 22, needs firm, quiet touch, elevating the wrist for black keys (as Kullak explains) and depressing it for white keys. The hand must be well arched, the end fingers firm and strong, and the touch very pressing, clinging, and grasping. You always want to cling whenever there is any chance for clinging in piano playing. The second part of this étude should have a soft, flowing, poetic touch in the right hand, while the left hand part is well brought out. The thumb needs a special training to enable it to creep and slide from one key to another with snake-like movements. "Rubinstein's Barcarolle in G major. The thirds on the first page are very soft and gentle. I make a good deal of extra motion with these thirds, raising the fingers quite high and letting them fall gently on the keys. The idea of the first page of this barcarolle is one of utter quietness, colorlessness; one is alone on the water; the evening is quiet and still; not a sound breaks the hushed silence. The delicate tracery of thirds should be very soft, thin--like an airy cloud. The left hand is soft too, but the first beat should be slightly accented, the second not; the first is positive, the second negative. Herein lies the idea of the barcarolle, the ebb and flow, the undulation of each measure. "Begin the first measure very softly, the second measure a trifle louder, the third louder still, the fourth falling off again. As you stand on the shore and watch the great waves coming in, you see some that are higher and larger than others; so it is here. The concluding passage in sixths should diminish--like a little puff of vapor that ends in--nothing. On the second page we come upon something more positive; here is a tangible voice speaking to us. The melody should stand out clear, broad, beautiful; the accompanying chords should preserve the same ebb and flow, the advancing and receding wave-like movement. The exaggerated movement I spoke of a moment ago, I use in many ways. Any one can hit the piano, with a sharp, incisive touch; but what I refer to is the reaching out of the fingers for the notes, the passing of the hand in the air and the final gentle fall on the key, not in haste to get there, but with confidence of reaching the key in time. If you throw a stone up in the air it will presently fall back again with a sharp thud; a bird rising, hovers a moment and descends gently. This barcarolle is not at all easy; there is plenty of work in it for flexible hands; it is a study in _pianissimo_--in power controlled, held back, restrained." Taking up the Toccatina of Rheinberger, Mr. Sherwood said: "I like this piece, there is good honest work in it; it is very effective, and most excellent practise. You ought to play this every day of the year. It is written in twelve-eighths, which give four beats to the measure, but I think that gives it too hard and square a character. I would divide each measure into two parts and slightly accent each. Though your temperament is more at home in the music of Chopin and Schumann, I recommend especially music of this sort, and also the music of Bach; these give solidity and strength to your conception of musical ideas." We went through the Raff Suite, Op. 94. "The Preludio is very good," he said; "I like it. The Menuetto is, musically, the least strong of any of the numbers, but it has a certain elegance, and is the most popular of them all. The Romanza is a great favorite of mine, it is very graceful, flowing and melodious. The concluding Fugue is a fine number; you see how the theme is carried from one hand to the other, all twisted about, in a way old Bach and Handel never thought of doing. I consider this Raff fugue one of the best examples of modern fugue writing." Mr. Sherwood was fond of giving students the Josef Wieniawski Valse, for brilliancy. "There are many fine effects which can be made in this piece; one can take liberties with it--the more imagination you have the better it will go. I might call it a _stylish_ piece; take the Prelude as capriciously as you like; put all the effect you can into it. The Valse proper begins in a very pompous style, with right hand very staccato; all is exceedingly coquettish. On the fifth page you see it is marked _amoroso_, but after eight measures the young man gives the whole thing away to his father! The beginning of the sixth page is very _piano_ and light--it is nothing more than a breath of smoke, an airy nothing. But at the _poco piu lento_, there is an undercurrent of reality; the two parts are going at the same time--the hard, earthly part, with accents, and the spiritual, thin as air. To realize these qualities in playing is the very idealization of technic." The Chopin-Liszt _Maiden's Wish_, was next considered. "The theme here is often overlaid and encrusted with the delicate lace-like arabesques that seek to hide it; but it must be found and brought out. There is so much in being able to find what is hidden behind the notes. You must get an insight into the inner idea; must feel it. This is not technic, not method even; it is the spiritualization of playing. There are pieces that will sound well if the notes only are played, like the little F minor Moment Musicale of Schubert; yet even in this there is much behind the notes, which, if brought out, will make quite another thing of the piece. "Schumann's Andante, for two pianos, should have a very tender, caressing touch for the theme. The place where the four-sixteenths occur, which make rather a square effect, can be softened down. On the second page, be sure and do not accent the grace notes; let the accent come on the fifth finger every time. For the variation containing chords, use the grasping touch, which might be described as a certain indrawing of force in the end of the finger, as though taking a long breath. The variation in triplets seems at first sight almost a caricature, a burlesque on the theme, but I don't think that Schumann had any such idea. On the contrary he meant it as a very sweet, gentle, loving thought. The last page has something ethereal, ideal about it; it should be breathed out, growing fainter and fainter to the end. "The G minor Ballade, of Chopin, begins slowly, with much dignity. The opening melody is one of sadness, almost gloom. The _a tempo_ on second page contains four parts going on at the same time. At the _piu forte,_ care must be taken to have the outer side of the hand well raised, and moved from the wrist. The idea here is one of great agitation and unrest. The fifth page needs great power and the legato octaves well connected and sustained. The feeling of unrest is here augmented until it becomes almost painful, and not until the _animato_ does a restful feeling come. This should be played lightly and delicately, the left hand giving the rhythm. The _presto_ demands great power and dash. Let the wrist be low when beginning the chords, raise it after the first and let it fall after the second. Always accent the second chord. Begin the final double runs slowly and increase in speed and tone. So, too, with the octaves, begin slowly and increase in power and fire." Numerous other compositions were analyzed, but the ones already quoted stand out in memory, and give some idea of Mr. Sherwood's manner of teaching. DR. WILLIAM MASON Years after the foregoing experiences I had the privilege of doing some work with the dean of all American piano masters, Dr. William Mason. I had spent several years in European study, with Scharwenka, Klindworth and von Bülow, and had returned to my own land to join its teaching and playing force. My time soon became so largely occupied with teaching that I feared my playing would be entirely pushed to the wall unless I were under the guidance of some master. With this thought in mind, I presented myself to Dr. Mason. "You have studied with Sherwood," he began. "He has excellent ideas of touch and technic. Some of these ideas came from me, though I don't wish to claim too much in the matter. Sherwood has the true piano touch. Very few pianists have it; Klindworth did not have it, nor von Bülow, nor even Liszt, entirely, for he as well as the others, sought for a more orchestral manner of playing. Sherwood has this touch; Tausig had it, and de Pachmann and Rubinstein most of all. It is not taught in Germany as it should be. The best American teachers are far ahead in this respect; in a few years the Europeans will come to us to learn these things." (This was Sherwood's idea also.) The first composition played to Dr. Mason was the G minor Rhapsodie of Brahms, with which, as it happened, he was unfamiliar. I played the entire piece through without interruption, and he seemed pleased. "You have a beautiful tone--a really beautiful tone, and you play very artistically; much of this must be natural to you, you could not have acquired it. You also have an excellently trained hand. I may say that in my forty years of teaching I have never had any one come to me with a better position, or more natural and normal condition. Now, what do you think I can do for you?" I explained that I needed some new ideas in my teaching, and wished to keep up my own practise. "I will explain my theories to you, and we will then study some compositions together. "There is everything in knowing how to practise, but it is something that cannot be taught. I played in public ten years before I found out the secret. "Practise slowly and in sections. Not only must all the notes be there, they must be dwelt on. There must be a firm and rock-like basis for piano playing; such a foundation can only be laid by patient and persevering slow practise. If the player has not the control over his fingers to play a piece slowly, he certainly cannot play it fast. Slow practise--one difficulty at a time--one hand at a time; Napoleon's tactics, 'one division at a time,' applies to music study. Above all do not hurry in fugue playing, a universal fault. Bach needs a slower trill than modern music. Chords are not to be played with percussion but with pressure. The main things in piano playing are tone and sentiment. When you take up a new piece, practise a few measures slowly, till you know them, then play faster; take the next few measures in the same way; but at first do not practise the whole piece through at once. "Just as in life every experience of great joy or great grief leaves one better or more callous, so every time you practise you have either advanced or gone back. Right playing, like good manners in a well-trained child, becomes habitual from always doing right. As we are influenced for good or evil by those we associate with, so are we influenced by the character and quality of the tones we make and hear. Be in earnest; put your heart, your whole soul, your whole self into your playing." Among other pieces we studied together was the Schumann sonata in F minor, the _Eusebius Sonata_--a glorious work! In the opening movement the left hand should be very serious and ponderous, with the hand and fingers held close to the keys; using arm weight. The melody in octaves in right hand is beseeching, pleading, imploring. In many places the touch is very elastic. The second movement begins very softly, as though one heard something faintly in the distance, and did not quite know what it was, but thought it might be music. The accents in this movement are to be understood in a comparative degree, and are not as strong as the marks seem to indicate. The Scherzo is extremely pompous and is to be played with heavy accents and a great deal of vim and go; the chords with the utmost freedom and dash. One must use the "letting-go" principle, which Paderewski has to perfection. We next took up the Grieg Concerto; the Peter's edition of this work has been corrected by the composer. At the first lesson, Dr. Mason accompanied on a second piano, and seemed pleased with the work I had done, making no corrections, except to suggest a somewhat quicker tempo. "Not that I would do anything to impair your carefulness and accuracy, but you must take a risk, and from the beginning, too. I am reminded of the young man who has been very carefully brought up. When the time comes for him to strike out and take his chance in life, he holds back and is afraid, while another with more courage, steps in and takes away his opportunity." We discussed the slow movement at great length. "Note in this movement the slow, dreamy effect that can be made at the ending of the second solo, and the artistic use of the pedal in the following chords. The third movement must have great swing and 'go'; the octave passage cadenza should be practised in rhythmical groups, and the final Andante must be fast." The third time we played the concerto I had it well in hand. Dr. Mason accompanied as only he could do, and at the close praised me on the way I had worked it up, and the poetry and fire I was able to put into it. Who could help playing with fire and enthusiasm when led by such a master! Dr. Mason was a most inspiring teacher, quick to note and praise what was good, and equally vigilant in correcting what was blameworthy. His criticisms were of the utmost value, for he had such wide experience, and such a large acquaintance with music and musicians. Best of all he was a true artist, always ready to demonstrate his art for the benefit of the pupil, always encouraging, always inspiring. VITAL POINTS IN PIANO PLAYING COMPOSITE PRINCIPLES DEDUCED FROM TALKS WITH EMINENT PIANISTS AND TEACHERS SECTION I How things are done, how others do them, and the reasons for the doing of them in one way and not in another, used to occupy my thoughts back as far as I can remember. As a child I was fond of watching any one doing fine needlework or beautiful embroidery, and tried to imitate what I saw, going into minutest details. This fondness for exactness and detail, when, applied to piano study, led me to question many things; to wonder why I was told to do thus and so, when other people seemed to do other ways; in fact I began to discover that every one who played the piano played it in a different fashion. Why was there not one way? One memorable night I was taken to hear Anton Rubinstein. What a marvelous instrument the piano was, to be sure, when its keys were moved by a touch that was at one moment all fire and flame, and the next smooth as velvet or soft and light as thistle-down. What had my home piano in common with this wonder? Why did all the efforts at piano playing I had hitherto listened to sink into oblivion when I heard this master? What was the reason of it all? More artists of the piano came within my vision, Mehlig, Joseffy, Mason, and others. As I listened to their performances it was brought to me more clearly than ever that each master played the piano in the manner which best suited himself; at the same time each and every player made the instrument utter tones and effects little dreamed of by the ordinary learner. What was the secret? Was it the manner of moving the keys, the size of hand, the length of finger, or the great strength possessed by the player? I had always been taught to play slowly and carefully, so that I should make no mistakes; these great pianists had wonderful fearlessness; Rubinstein at least did not seem to care whether or not he hit a few wrong notes here and there, if he could only secure the speed and effect desired. Whence came his fearless velocity, his tremendous power? ESSENTIALS OF PIANISM Little by little I began to realize the essentials of effective piano playing were these: clear touch, intelligent phrasing, all varieties of tone, all the force the piano would stand, together with the greatest delicacy and the utmost speed. These things the artists possessed as a matter of course, but the ordinary student or teacher failed utterly to make like effects, or to play with sufficient clearness and force. What was the reason? In due course I came under the supervision of various piano pedagogues. To the first I gave implicit obedience, endeavoring to do exactly as I was told. The next teacher said I must begin all over again, as I had been taught "all wrong." I had never learned hand position nor independence of fingers--these must now be established. The following master told me finger independence must be secured in quite a different fashion from the manner in which I had been taught, which was "all wrong." The next professor said I must bend the finger squarely from the second joint, and not round all three joints, as I had been doing. This so-called fault took several months to correct. To the next I am indebted for good orthodox (if somewhat pedantic) ideas of fingering and phrasing, for which he was noted. The hobby of the next master was slow motions with soft touch. This course was calculated to take all the vim out of one's fingers and all the brilliancy out of one's playing in less than six months. To the next I owe a comprehension of the elastic touch, with devitalized muscles. This touch I practised so assiduously that my poor piano was ruined inside of a year, and had to be sent to the factory for a new keyboard. The next master insisted on great exactness of finger movements, on working up velocity with metronome, on fine tone shading and memorizing. THE DESIRE FOR REAL KNOWLEDGE Such, in brief, has been my experience with pedagogues and teachers of the piano. Having passed through it (and in passing having tried various so-called and unnamed methods) I feel I have reached a vantage ground upon which I can stand and look back over the course. The desire to know the experience of the great artists of the keyboard is as strong within me as ever. What did they not have to go through to master their instrument? And having mastered it, what do they consider the vital essentials of piano technic and piano playing? Surely they must know these things if any one can know them. They can tell, if they will, what to do and what to avoid, what to exclude as unnecessary or unessential and what to concentrate upon. The night Rubinstein's marvelous tones fell upon my childish ears I longed to go to him, clasp his wonderful hands in my small ones and beg him to tell me how he did it all. I now know he could not have explained how, for the greater the genius--the more spontaneous its expression--the less able is such an one to put into words the manner of its manifestation. In later years the same impulse has come when listening to Paderewski, Hofmann and others. If they could only tell us exactly what is to be done to master the piano, what a boon it would be to those who are awake enough to profit by and follow the directions and experiences of such masters. In recognition of the strength of this desire, months after a half-forgotten wish had been expressed by me, came a request by _Musical America_ to prepare a series of interviews with the world famed pianists who were visiting our shores, and also with prominent teachers who were making good among us, and who were proving by results attained that they were safe and efficient guides. SEARCHING FOR TRUTH Never was an interesting and congenial labor undertaken with more zest. The artists were plied with questions which to them may have seemed prosaic, but which to the interrogator were the very essence of the principles of piano technic and piano mastery. It is not a light task for an artist to sit down and analyze his own methods. Some found it almost impossible to put into language their ideas on these subjects. They had so long been concerned with the highest themes of interpretation that they hardly knew how the technical effects were produced, nor could they put the manner of making them into words. They could only say, with Rubinstein, "I do it this way," leaving the questioner to divine how and then to give an account of it. However, with questions leading up to the points I was anxious to secure light upon, much information was elicited. One principle was ever before me, namely the Truth. I desired to find out the truth about each subject and then endeavored to set down what was said, expressed in the way I felt would convey the most exact meaning. In considering the vital points or heads under which to group the subjects to be considered, the following seem to cover the ground pretty thoroughly: 1. Artistic piano technic; how acquired and retained. 2. How to practise. 3. How to memorize. 4. Rhythm and tone color in piano playing. SECTION II _Hand Position, Finger Action, and Artistic Touch_ WHAT TECHNIC INCLUDES When we listen to a piano recital by a world-famous artist, we think--if we are musicians--primarily of the interpretation of the compositions under consideration. That the pianist has a perfect technic almost goes without saying. He must have such a technic to win recognition as an artist. He would not be an artist without a great technic, without a complete command over the resources of the instrument and over himself. Let us use the word technic in its large sense, the sense which includes all that pertains to the executive side of piano playing. It is in this significance that Harold Bauer calls technic "an art in itself." Mme. Bloomfield Zeisler says: "Piano technic includes so much! Everything goes into it: arithmetic, grammar, diction, language study, poetry, history and painting. In the first stages there are rules to be learned, just as in any other study. I must know the laws of rhythm and meter to be able to punctuate musical phrases and periods. Pupils who have long since passed the arithmetic stage have evidently forgotten all about fractions and division, for they do not seem to grasp the time values of notes and groups of notes used in music; they do not know what must be done with triplets, dotted notes and so on. Thus you see technic includes a multitude of things; it is a very wide subject." HAND POSITION The first principle a piano teacher shows his pupil is that of hand position. It has been my effort to secure a definite expression on this point from various artists. Most of them agree that an arched position with rounded finger joints is the correct one. It was Paderewski who said, "Show me how the player holds his hands at the piano, and I will tell you what kind of player he is"--showing the Polish pianist considers hand position of prime importance. "I hold the hand arched and very firm,"--Ernest Schelling. "The hand takes an arched position, the finger-tips forming a curve on the keys, the middle finger being placed a little farther in on the key than is natural for the first and fifth."--Katharine Goodson. "The hand is formed on the keys in its five-finger position, with arched knuckles."--Ethel Leginska. "The hand is formed in an arched position, with curved fingers, and solidified."--Carl Roeder. "The hand, in normal playing position, must stand up in well arched form, with fingers well rounded."--Thuel Burnham. "I first establish an arched hand position, with firm fingers."--Edwin Hughes. "I teach arched hand position."--Alexander Lambert. "One must first secure an arched hand, with steady first joints of the fingers."--Eleanor Spencer. "The first thing to do for a pupil is to see that the hand is in correct position; the knuckles will be somewhat elevated and the fingers properly rounded."--Bloomfield Zeisler. "A pupil must first form the arch of the hand and secure firm finger joints. I form the hand away from the piano, at a table."--Agnes Morgan. Leschetizky teaches arched hand position, with rounded fingers, and all who have come under his instruction advocate this form. It is the accepted position for passage playing. A few pianists, notably Alfred Cortôt and Tina Lerner, play their passage work with flat fingers, but this, in Miss Lerner's case, is doubtless caused by the small size of the hand. It is clear from the above quotations, and from many other opinions which could be cited, that the authorities agree the hand should be well arched, the end of the finger coming in contact with the key; furthermore there should be no weakness nor giving in at the nail joint. FINGER ACTION The question of lifting the fingers seems to be one on which various opinions are held. Some pianists, like Godowsky for instance, will tell you they do not approve of raising the fingers--that the fingers must be kept close to the keys. It is noticeable, however, that even those who do not speak favorably of finger action, use it themselves when playing passages requiring distinctness and clearness. Other players are rather hazy on the subject, but these are generally persons who have not gone through the routine of teaching. The accepted idea of the best teachers is that at the beginning of piano study positive finger movements must be acquired; finger action must be so thoroughly grounded that it becomes second nature, a very part of the player, something he can never forget nor get away from. So fixed should it become that no subsequent laxity, caused by the attention being wholly centered on interpretation can disturb correct position, condition, or graceful, plastic movement. "For passage work I insist on finger action; the fingers must be raised and active to insure proper development. I think one certainly needs higher action when practising technic and technical pieces than one would use when playing the same pieces before an audience."--Clarence Adler. Alexander Lambert speaks to the point when he says: "I teach decided finger action in the beginning. Some teachers may not teach finger action because they say artists do not use it. But the artist, if questioned, would tell you he had to acquire finger action in the beginning. There are so many stages in piano playing. The beginner must raise his fingers in order to acquire finger development and a clear touch. In the middle stage he has secured enough finger control to play the same passages with less action, yet still with sufficient clearness, while in the more or less finished stages the passage may be played with scarcely any perceptible motion, so thoroughly do the fingers respond to every mental requirement." It is this consummate mastery and control of condition and movement that lead the superficial observer to imagine that the great artist gives no thought to such things as position, condition and movements. Never was there a greater mistake. The finest perfection of technic has been acquired with painstaking care, with minute attention to exacting detail. At some period of his career, the artist has had to come down to foundation principles and work up. Opinions may differ as to the eminence of Leschetizky as a teacher, but the fact remains that many of the pianists now before the public have been with him at one time or another. They all testify that the Viennese master will have nothing to do with a player until he has gone through a course of rigorous preparation spent solely in finger training, and can play a pair of Czerny études with perfect control and effect. ARTISTIC TOUCH One of the greatest American teachers of touch was Dr. William Mason, who made an exhaustive study of this subject. His own touch was noted for its clear, bell-like, elastic quality. He remarked on one occasion, in regard to playing in public: "It is possible I may be so nervous that I can hardly walk to the piano; but once I have begun to play I shall hold the audience still enough to hear a pin drop, simply by the beauty of my touch and tone." Dr. Mason's touch specialties were "pressure" and "elastic" or "drawing-off" touches. He found these gave both weight and crisp lightness to the tones. Mr. Tobias Matthay, of London, has given much time and thought to the study of touch and key mechanism. He says: "The two chief rules of technic, as regards the key are: Always feel how much the key resists you, feel how much the key _wants_ for every note. Second, always listen for the moment each sound begins, so that you may learn to direct your effort to the sound only and not to the key bed. It is only by making the hammer end of the key move that you can make a sound. The swifter the movement, the louder the sound. The more gradual the movement the more beautiful the quality of sound. For brilliant tone, you may hit the string by means of the key, but do not, by mistake, hit the key instead." Thuel Burnham, a pupil of Mason and Leschetizky, has welded the ideas of these two masters into his own experience, and simplifies the matter of piano touch as follows: MELODY AND COLORATURA HANDS "The position and condition of the hand varies according to the character of the music and the quality of tone you wish to produce. If you give out a melody, you want a full, luscious tone, the weight of arm on the key, everything relaxed and a clinging, caressing pressure of finger. Here you have the 'Melody Hand,' with outstretched, flat fingers. On the contrary, if you wish rapid passage work, with clear, bright, articulate touch, the hand must stand up in well-arched, normal playing position, with fingers well rounded and good finger action. Here you have the 'Technical' or 'Coloratura Hand.'" The distinction made by Mr. Burnham clears up the uncertainty about arched hand and articulate touch, or low hand and flat fingers. Both are used in their proper place, according to the demands of the music. The player, however, who desires a clean, reliable technic, should first acquire a coloratura hand before attempting a melody hand. SECTION III _The Art of Practise_ We have seen that if the pianist hopes to perfect himself in his art he must lay the foundation deep down in the fundamentals of hand position, body condition, correct finger movements and in careful attention to the minutest details of touch and tone production. The remark is often heard, from persons who have just listened to a piano recital: "I would give anything in the world to play like that!" But would they even give the necessary time, to say nothing of the endless patience, tireless energy and indomitable perseverance which go to the making of a virtuoso. How much time does the artist really require for study? Paderewski owns to devoting _all_ his time to it during the periods of preparation for his recital tours. At certain seasons of the year most of the artists give a large portion of each day to the work. Godowsky is an incessant worker; Burnham devotes his entire mornings to piano study; Germaine Schnitzer gives six hours daily to her work, and if interrupted one day the lost time is soon made up. Eleanor Spencer "practises all her spare time," as she quaintly puts it. A professional pianist must give a number of hours each day to actual practise at the keyboard, besides what is done away from it. The work is mentally going on continually, whether one really sits at the instrument or not. The point which most concerns us is: How shall one practise so as to make the most of the time and accomplish the best results? What études, if any, shall we use, and what technical material is the most useful and effectual? Wilhelm Bachaus, whose consummate technic we have so often admired, says: "I am old-fashioned enough to still believe in scales and arpeggios. Some of the players of the present day seem to have no use for such things, but I find them of great importance. This does not necessarily mean that I go through the whole set of keys when I practise the scales. I select a few at a time and work at those. I start with ridiculously simple forms--just the thumb under the hand and the hand over the thumb--a few movements each way, but these put the hand in trim for scales and arpeggios. I practise the latter about half an hour a day. I have to overhaul my technic once or twice a week to see that everything is in order. Scales and arpeggios come in for their share of criticism. I practise them in various touches, but oftener in _legato_, as that is more difficult and also more beautiful than the others. I practise technic, when possible, an hour a day, including Bach." Sigismond Stojowski considers that scales and arpeggios must form a part of the daily routine. Thuel Burnham says: "Of my practise hours at least one is given to technic, scales, arpeggios, octaves, chords, and Bach! I believe in taking one selection of Bach and perfecting it--transposing it in all keys and polishing it to the highest point possible. So with études, it is better to perfect a few than to play _at_ so many." THE PIANIST A MECHANIC Edwin Hughes, the American pianist and teacher in Munich, remarks: "Technic is the mechanical part of music making; to keep it in running order one must be constantly tinkering with it, just as the engine driver with his locomotive or the chauffeur with his automobile. Every intelligent player recognizes certain exercises as especially beneficial to the mechanical well-being of his playing; from these he will plan his daily schedule of technical practise." Teresa Carreño asserts she had in the beginning many technical exercises which her teacher wrote out for her, from difficult passages taken from the great composers. There were hundreds of them, so many that it took just three days to go the rounds. She considers them invaluable, and constantly uses them in her own practise and in her teaching. Each exercise must be played in all keys and with every possible variety of touch and tone. Paderewski gives much time daily to pure technic practise. He has been known to play scales and arpeggios in a single key for three quarters of an hour at a stretch. These were played with every variety of touch, velocity, dynamic shading and so on. It is seen from the instances quoted that many great pianists believe in daily technic practise, or the study of pure technic apart from pieces. Many more testify that scales, chords, arpeggios and octaves constitute their daily bread. Some have spoken to me especially of octave practise as being eminently beneficial. They feel these things are essential to the acquiring of a fine technic, and keeping it up to concert pitch. Some artists are partial to certain technical studies. Bachaus highly recommends those of Brahms, for instance. All artists use Bach in connection with their technic practise; in fact the works of Bach may be considered to embody pure technic principles, and pianists and teachers consider them a daily necessity. INVENTING EXERCISES Together with their studies in pure technic alone, the artists invent exercises out of the pieces they study, either by playing passages written for both hands with one hand, by turning single notes into octaves, by using more difficult fingering than necessary, thus bringing into use the weaker fingers, changing the rhythm, and in numerous other ways increasing the effort of performance, so that when the passage is played as originally written, it shall indeed seem like child's play. Another means to acquire technical mastery is through transposition. One would think Bach's music difficult enough when performed as written, but the artists think nothing of putting it through the different keys. Burnham relates that during early lessons with Dr. Mason, that master gave him a Bach Invention to prepare, casually remarking it might be well to memorize it. The simple suggestion was more than sufficient, for the ambitious pupil presented himself at the next lesson with not only that particular Invention learned by heart, but likewise the whole set! De Pachmann, in his eagerness to master the technic and literature of the piano, says that when a Bach Prelude and Fugue was on one occasion assigned him by his teacher, he went home and learned the whole twenty-four, which he was able to play in every key for the next lesson! SLOW PRACTISE The question is often put to artists: "Do you deem it necessary to work for velocity, or do you practise the composition much at the required speed?" Many pianists practise very slowly. This was William H. Sherwood's custom. Harold Bauer believes velocity to be inherent in the individual, so that when the passage is thoroughly comprehended it can be played at the necessary rate of speed. Bachaus testifies he seldom works for velocity, saying that if he masters the passage he can play it at any required tempo. "I never work for velocity as some do," he remarks. "I seldom practise fast, for it interferes with clearness. I prefer to play more slowly, giving the greatest attention to clearness and good tone. By pursuing this course I find that when I need velocity I have it." Clarence Adler counsels pupils always to begin by practising slowly--faster tempo will develop later, subconsciously. Velocity is only to be employed after the piece has been thoroughly learned, every mark of expression observed, all fingering, accents and dynamic marks mastered. "You would scarcely believe," he adds, "how slowly I practise myself." A FEW EXCEPTIONS There are very few exceptions to the general verdict in favor of technic practise apart from pieces. Godowsky asserts he never practises scales. Bauer cares little for pure technic practise, believing the composition itself contains sufficient material of a technical nature. Whether or not these brilliant exceptions merely prove the rule, the thoughtful student of the piano must decide for himself. He has already discovered that modern piano playing requires a perfect technic, together with the personal equation of vigorous health, serious purpose and many-sided mentality. Mme. Rider-Possart says: "Technic is something an artist has to put in the background as something of secondary importance, yet if he does not possess it he is nowhere." The student will not overlook the fact that to acquire the necessary technical control he must devote time and thought to it outside of piece playing. He must understand the principles and follow out a certain routine in order to secure the best results in the quickest and surest way. While each one must work out his own salvation, it is an encouragement to know that even the greatest artists must toil over their technic, must keep eternally at it, must play slowly, must memorize bit by bit. The difference between the artist and the talented amateur often lies in the former's absolute concentration, perseverance and devotion to the highest ideals. SECTION IV _How to Memorize_ At the present stage of pianistic development, an artist does not venture to come before the public and "use his notes." No artist who values his reputation would attempt it. Everything must be performed from memory--solos, concertos, even accompaniments. The pianist must know every note of the music he performs. The star accompanist aspires to the same mastery when he plays for a famous singer or instrumentalist. We also have the artist conductor, with opera, symphony or concerto at his finger-tips. Hans von Bülow, who claimed that a pianist should have more than two hundred compositions in his repertoire, was himself equally at home in orchestral music. He always conducted his Meiningen Orchestra without notes. Let us say, then, that the present-day pianist ought to have about two hundred compositions in his repertoire, all of which must be played without notes. The mere fact of committing to memory such a quantity of pages is no small item in the pianist's equipment. The problem is to discover the best means of memorizing music quickly and surely. Here again we are privileged to inquire of the artist and of the artist teacher. His knowledge and experience will be practical, for he has evolved it and proved it over and over again. It is a well-known fact that Leschetizky advises memorizing away from the instrument. This method at once shuts the door on all useless and thoughtless repetition employed by so many piano students, who repeat a passage endlessly, to avoid thinking it out. Then they wonder why they cannot commit to memory! The Viennese master suggests that a short passage of two or four measures be learned with each hand alone, then tried on the piano. If not yet quite fixed in consciousness the effort should be repeated, after which it may be possible to go through the passage without an error. The work then proceeds in the same manner throughout the composition. ONE YEAR'S MEMORIZING A player who gives five or six hours daily to study, and who has learned how to memorize, should be able to commit one page of music each day. This course, systematically pursued, would result in the thorough assimilation of at least fifty compositions in one year. This is really a conservative estimate, though at first glance it may seem rather large. If we cut the figure in half, out of consideration for the accumulative difficulties of the music, there will still remain twenty-five pieces, enough for two programs and a very respectable showing for a year's study. It may be that Leschetizky's principle of memorizing will not appeal to every one. The player may find another path to the goal, one more suited to his peculiar temperament. Or, if he has not yet discovered the right path, let him try different ways till he hits upon one which will do the work in the shortest and most thorough manner. All masters agree that analysis and concentration are the prime factors in the process of committing music to memory. Michael von Zadora, pianist and teacher, said to me recently: "Suppose you have a difficult passage to learn by heart. The ordinary method of committing to memory is to play the passage over and over, till the fingers grow accustomed to its intervals. That is not my manner of teaching. The only way to master that passage is to analyze it thoroughly, know just what the notes are, the sequences of notes, if you will, their position on the keyboard, the fingering, the positions the hands must take to play these notes, so that you know just where the fingers have to go before you put them on the keys. When you thus thoroughly understand the passage or piece, have thought about it, lived with it, so that it is in the blood, we might say, the fingers can play it. There will be no difficulty about it and no need for senseless repetitions." PHRASE BY PHRASE Most of the artists agree that memorizing must be done phrase by phrase, after the composition has been thoroughly analyzed as to keys, chords, and construction. This is Katharine Goodson's way, and also Eleanor Spencer's and Ethel Leginska's, three of Leschetizky's pupils now before the public. "I really know the composition so thoroughly that I can play it in another key just as well as the one in which it is written, though I do not always memorize it each hand alone," says Miss Goodson. "I first play the composition over a few times to become somewhat familiar with its form and shape," says Eleanor Spencer, "then I begin to analyze and study it, committing it by phrases, or ideas, one or two measures at a time. I do not always take the hands alone, unless the passage is very intricate, for sometimes it is easier to learn both hands together." Germaine Schnitzer avers that she keeps at a difficult passage until she really knows it perfectly, no matter how long it takes. "What is the use of going on," she says, "until you are absolutely sure of the work in hand." It is plain from the opinions already cited and from many I have heard expressed that the artists waste no time over useless repetitions. They fully realize that a piece is not assimilated nor learned until it is memorized. When they have selected the composition they wish to learn, they begin at once to memorize from the start. The student does not always bring to his work this definiteness of aim; if he did, much precious time would be saved. The ability to memorize ideas expressed in notes grows with use, just as any other aptitude grows with continued effort. Instead, then, of playing _with_ a piece, why do you not at once begin to make it your own? Look at the phrases so intently that they become as it were, photographed on your mind. Ruskin said: "Get the habit of looking intently at words." We might say the same of notes. Look at the phrase with the conviction that it can be remembered after a glance or two. It is only an indication of indolence and mental inertness to look continually at the printed page or passage and keep on playing it over and over, without trying to fix it indelibly in the mind. In my work as teacher I constantly meet students, and teachers too, who do little or no memorizing. Some do not even approve of it, though it is difficult to conceive how any one in his right mind can disapprove knowing a thing thoroughly. The only way to know it thoroughly is to know it by heart. CONSTANT REPAIRS NECESSARY A repertoire once committed must be constantly kept in repair. The public player, in his seasons of study, generally has a regular system of repetition, so that all compositions can be gone over at least once a week. One artist suggests that the week be started with the classics and concluded with modern compositions and concerted numbers. Thus each day will have its allotted task. The pieces are not merely to be played over, but really overhauled, and all weak places treated to a dose of slow, careful practise, using the printed pages. Artists on tour, where consecutive practise is difficult or unattainable, always carry the printed notes of their repertoire with them, and are ceaselessly studying, repairing, polishing their phrases, thinking out their effects. To those who wish to become pianists, I would say: "Keep your memory active through constant use. Be always learning by heart; do it systematically, a little at a time. So it will be daily progress. So your repertoire is built!" SECTION V _Rhythm and Tone Color in Piano Playing_ How shall two such opposites as rhythm and tone color be connected, even in name, some will ask. One belongs to the mechanical side of piano playing, while the other appertains to the ideal, the poetic, the soulful. The two subjects, however, are not so wide apart as might at first appear; for the beauty and variety of the second depends largely upon the mastery of the first. You must play rhythmically before you can play soulfully; you must first be able to keep time before you can attempt to express color and emotion through any fluctuation of rhythm. One depends on the other, therefore time and rhythm come first; when these are well under control, not before, we can go further and enter the wider field of tonal variety. Rhythm is one of the pianist's most important assets, something he cannot do without. It might be said that the possession of a well-developed rhythmic sense is one point in which the artist differs greatly from the amateur. The latter thinks nothing of breaking the rhythm at any time and place that suits his fancy; while the artist is usually conscientious about such matters, because his time sense is more highly developed. A perfect time sense is often inherent in the artist, a part of the natural gift which he has cultivated to such a high state of achievement. It may be he has never had any difficulty with this particular point in piano playing, while the amateur has constantly to struggle with problems of time and rhythm. THE METRONOME When the subject of using such a mechanical aid as the metronome to cultivate rhythmic sense, is broached to the executive artist, it does not always meet with an assenting response. With such bred-in-the-bone sense of time as the artist commands, it is little wonder he takes no great interest in mechanical time-beating. Josef Hofmann's censure of the metronome was probably due to his inborn rhythmic and artistic sense; yet his words have doubtless had their effect on many students, who, lacking his sense of rhythm, would have been greatly benefited by its use. Godowsky, when asked his opinion of the metronome, replied: "I assuredly approve of its use; I have even devoted a chapter to the metronome in the _Progressive Series_, my great work on piano playing." Edwin Hughes remarks: "If pupils have naturally a poor sense of rhythm, there is no remedy equal to practising with the metronome, using it daily until results are evident, when there can be a judicious letting up of the discipline. The mechanical sense of rhythm, the ability to count and to group the notes of a piece correctly, can be taught to any person, if one has the patience; but for the delicate rhythmic _nuances_ required by a Chopin Mazourka or a Viennese Valse, a special rhythmic gift is necessary." Artists and teachers who have come under Leschetizky's influence and use his principles, are generally in favor of the metronome, according to their own testimony. The fact is, they as teachers often find such deficiency in their pupils on the subject of time sense and accuracy in counting, that they are forced to institute strict measures to counteract this lack of rhythmic comprehension. Granting, then, that the correct use, not the abuse, of the metronome is of great assistance in establishing firm rhythmic sense, let us turn our thought to the fascinating subject of-- TONE COLOR When De Pachmann affirmed that he uses certain fingers to create certain effects, the idea was thought to be one of the eccentric pianist's peculiar fancies. Other players, however, have had the same thought, and have worked along the same line--the thought that on the fingering used depends the quality of tone. For instance you might not play an expressive melody with a consecutive use of the fifth finger, which is called a "cold finger" by Thuel Burnham. He would use instead the third, a "warm finger," to give out a soulful melody. TONAL VARIETY The pianist who desires to play effectively, must continually strive for variety of tone, for tonal coloring. These can be studied in scales, chords, arpeggios and other technical forms. The singer seeks to make a tone of resonant color, not a straight, flat tone; the pianist, on his part, endeavors to give color and variety to his playing in the same way. Harold Bauer thinks variety must be secured by the contrast of one tone with another. Even a very harsh tone may be beautiful in its right place, owing to its relation to other tones, and its ability to express an idea. To render the playing expressive by the contrast of light and shade, by tonal gradations, by all varieties of touch, by all the subtleties of _nuance_, is a great art, and only the most gifted ever master it in its perfection. These are the things that enchant us in Paderewski's performance, and in the tonal coloring of Gabrilowitsch. Hofmann's playing is a marvel of atmosphere and color; such playing is an object lesson to students, a lesson in variety of light and shade, the shifting of exquisite tonal tints. The sensitive musician is highly susceptible to color effects in nature, in art or in objects about him. Certain colors attract him, for he sees an affinity between them and the tonal effects he strives to produce. Other colors repel, perhaps for the opposite reason. Brilliant red is a warlike color, and finds analogous expression in such pieces as Chopin's Polonaise _Militaire_, and MacDowell's Polonaise. We cannot help seeing, feeling the color red, when playing such music. Soft pink and rose for love music, tender blues and shades of gray for nocturnes and night pieces are some of the affinities of tone and color. Warm shades of yellow and golden brown suggest an atmosphere of early autumn, while delicate or vivid greens give thoughts of spring and luscious summer. Certain pieces of Mozart seem to bring before us the rich greens of a summer landscape; the Fantaisie in C minor, and the Pastorale Varie are of this type. Arthur Hochman says: "Colors mean so much to me; some are so beautiful, the various shades of red for instance, then the golden yellows, rich warm browns, and liquid blues. We can make as wonderful combinations in tone color as ever painter put upon canvas. To me dark red speaks of something tender, heart-searching, mysterious. On the other hand the shades of yellow express gaiety and brightness." It has been said that a pianist should study color effects in order to express them in his playing. He can do this to special advantage at the theater or opera, where he can see unrolled before him the greatest possible variety in light and shade, in colors, and in the constantly changing panorama of action and emotion. The pianist can receive many ideas of tone color when listening to a great singer, and watching the infinite tonal gradations produced on the "greatest of all instruments," the human voice. In short the pianist draws from many sources the experience, the feeling and emotion with which he strives to inspire the tones he evokes from his instrument. The keener his perceptions, the more he labors, suffers, and _lives_, the more he will be able to express through his chosen medium--the piano! 
16342	----	_SEVENTH EDITION_ A Treatise on Simple Counterpoint in Forty Lessons By Friedrich J. Lehmann _Instructor of Theory in the Oberlin Conservatory of Music Author of "Lessons in Harmony"_ G. SCHIRMER, INC. NEW YORK PREFACE The purpose of this work is to supply the need in the Oberlin Conservatory of Music of a text-book on Simple Counterpoint containing a definite assignment of lessons, and affording more practice than usual in combining species. It is a treatise on strict counterpoint, but strict in a limited sense only. In two-part counterpoint with other than the first species in both parts, dissonances are permitted under certain conditions, and in three- and four-part writing the unprepared seventh and ninth, and the six-four chord, are allowed in certain ways. While the illustrations have been written in close score, it is nevertheless urged that all exercises be written out in open score, as the movement of the different parts is thus more clearly seen. The use of the C-clefs is left optional with the teacher. A knowledge of harmony is presupposed, hence nothing is said pertaining to it. The author wishes to express his indebtedness to Professor A.E. Heacox for his help and advice. F.J. LEHMANN. OBERLIN, OHIO, _Jan. 6, 1907._ TABLE OF CONTENTS SIMPLE COUNTERPOINT LESSON I. Definitions and Illustrations. SIMPLE COUNTERPOINT IN TWO PARTS First Species: Note against Note. Examples and Exercises. LESSON II. Second Species: Two Notes against One. Examples and Exercises. LESSON III. Second Species in Both Parts. Examples. Second Species Mixed in Both Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON IV. Third Species: Four Notes against One. First Species against Six Notes. Second Species Continuously in Both Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON V. Third Species in Both Parts; Mixed. Third Species Continuously in Both Parts. Two Notes against Four; Two against Six; Three against Six. Examples and Exercises. LESSON VI. Fourth Species: Two Notes Syncopated against One. Three Notes Syncopated against One. Two Notes against Four; Two against Six; Three against Six. Examples and Exercises. LESSON VII. Fourth Species (continued). Mixed, in Both Parts. Three Notes Syncopated against One. Examples and Exercises. LESSON VIII. Fourth Species (continued). Two Notes Syncopated against Two; Two against Four; Two against Six; Three against Six. Examples and Exercises. LESSON IX. Fifth Species: Florid Counterpoint. Examples and Exercises. LESSON X. Florid Counterpoint (continued). Combining Fifth Species with Second; with Third; with Fourth; with Fifth. Examples and Exercises. SIMPLE COUNTERPOINT IN THREE PARTS LESSON XI. First Species in All Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XII. Second Species in One Part. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XIII. Second Species in Two or More Parts. First and Second Species Mixed in All Parts. Second Species in All Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XIV. Third Species in One Part. Second Species in All Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XV. Third Species in Two or More Parts. First and Third Species Mixed in All Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XVI. Third Species (continued). Mixing First, Second, and Third Species in All Parts. Third Species in All Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XVII. Fourth Species in One Part. Three Notes Syncopated in One Part. Combining First, Second, and Third Species. Examples, and Exercises. LESSON XVIII. Fourth Species (continued). Mixed in All Parts. Combining First, Second, and Fourth Species, and First, Third, and Fourth. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XIX. Fifth Species in One Part. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XX. Fifth Species (continued). Combining First, Second, and Fifth; First, Third, and Fifth; First, Fourth, and Fifth; Fifth in Two Parts. Example and Exercises. LESSON XXI. Combining the Various Species: Second, Third, and Fourth; Second, Third, and Fifth; Second, Fourth, and Fifth; Third, Fifth, and Fifth; Fourth, Fifth, and Fifth. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXII. Fifth Species in All Parts. Examples and Exercises. SIMPLE COUNTERPOINT IN FOUR PARTS LESSON XXIII. First Species in All Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXIV. Second Species in One Part. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXV. Third Species in One Part. Second Species Mixed in Three Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXVI. Third Species (continued). Mixed in Three Parts. Second Species Continuously in Two Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXVII. Fourth Species in One Part. A Cantus Firmus with First, Second, and Third Species in the Other Three Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXVIII. Fourth Species (continued). A given Cantus Firmus, with First, Second, and Fourth Species; with First, Third, and Fourth; with Fourth Species Mixed. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXIX. Fifth Species in One Part. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXX. Fifth Species in Two Parts. Mixing Second, Third, and Fourth Species in All Parts. Combining First, Second, Third, and Fourth Species. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXXI. Fifth Species in Three or Four Parts. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXXII. Fifth Species in All Parts, with Imitation. Examples and Exercises. FLORID MELODIES AS CANTI FIRMI LESSON XXXIII. Two-part Florid Counterpoint. Free Harmonization. Examples and Exercises. LESSONS XXXIV and XXXV. Three-part Florid Counterpoint. Free Harmonization. Examples and Exercises. LESSON XXXVI. Three-part Florid Counterpoint (continued). Exercise in Original Writing. LESSONS XXXVII to XL. Four-part Florid Counterpoint, Example and Exercises. SIMPLE COUNTERPOINT LESSON I Counterpoint is the art of combining two or more melodies of equal melodic individuality. In simple counterpoint all parts must remain in the same relative position to one another. The Cantus Firmus is a given melodic phrase that is to receive contrapuntal treatment, that is, one or more parts are to be added above or below it. The Counterpoint is any part other than the Cantus Firmus. Intervals are harmonic or melodic. An Harmonic interval is the difference in pitch between two tones sounding at the same time. A Melodic interval is the difference in pitch between two tones sounded in succession by the same voice. [Fig. 1.] [Illustration: Fig. 1.] Harmonic intervals are divided into Consonances and Dissonances. Consonances are classed as perfect or imperfect. The Perfect consonances are the Unison, Fifth, and Octave. [Fig. 2_a_.] The Imperfect consonances are the Major and Minor Thirds and Sixths. [Fig. 2_b_.] All other intervals are dissonances. [Illustration: Fig. 2.] A Diatonic progression is one in which both name and pitch are changed. [Fig. 3_a_.] A Chromatic progression is one in which the pitch is changed a semitone, while the name remains the same. [Fig. 3_b_.] [Illustration: Fig. 3.] Progression from one chord to another is called Harmonic progression; from one tone to another, Melodic progression. In melodic progression all major, minor, perfect and diminished intervals are allowed except the major and minor seventh. The minor seventh may, however, be used when harmony does not change (_a_). [Fig. 4.] [Illustration: Fig. 4.] In counterpoint there are Five Species, or orders. When the counterpoint has one note for each note of the cantus firmus, it is of the First Species (_a_); if it has two notes for each note of the cantus firmus, it is the Second Species (_b_); if four notes, the Third Species (_c_); if two notes syncopated, the Fourth Species (_d_); and a mixture of these species is the Fifth Species, or Florid Counterpoint (_e_). [Fig. 5.] [Illustration: Fig. 5.] SIMPLE COUNTERPOINT IN TWO PARTS FIRST SPECIES Two-part counterpoint comprises a cantus firmus and a counterpoint. [Fig. 6.] [Illustration: Fig. 6.] Although in two-part counterpoint we have to deal with intervals, rather than harmonies, still the harmonic progressions represented by these intervals should be regarded. The exercises should begin and close with tonic harmony. At the beginning the unison, fifth or octave, and at the close the unison or octave, are permitted. [Fig. 7.] [Illustration: Fig. 7.] After the first measure it is better to use imperfect consonances only. The perfect consonances, however, may be used sparingly when a more melodious counterpoint is thereby obtained. The unison may be used in the first and last measures only. [Fig. 7.] All progressions must be diatonic, and parts should not cross. The repetition of a note in a lower part should be avoided wherever possible. In a higher part, repetition to the extent of three notes in succession is allowed. Do not use more than three thirds or sixths in succession. [Fig. 8.] [Illustration: Fig. 8.] Successive similar skips, except the minor third (_a_), in one direction, are to be avoided. Successive skips of a fourth are good when the tones are the fifths of the triads on I, IV and vii°. The last tone should return one degree (_b_). [Fig. 9.] Do not move more than an octave in one direction in two skips. [Fig. 9_c_.] [Illustration: Fig. 9.] Covered fifths and octaves, except from I to V, or V to I, are forbidden. [Fig. 10.] [Illustration: Fig. 10.] Both parts skipping in contrary motion to a fifth or octave should be avoided in two-part writing. [Fig. 11.] [Illustration: Fig. 11.] Avoid consecutive perfect intervals. [Fig. 12.] [Illustration: Fig. 12.] The augmented fourth (Tritone) is not only considered bad as a melodic interval by some authorities, but its appearance between different parts in successive intervals is also prohibited. This prohibition, however, holds good only when the chords in which it appears are in fundamental position, as in Fig. 13_a_. This is shown by the fact, that if one part skips as at _b_, there is no unpleasant effect. [Illustration: Fig. 13.] Avoid consecutive major thirds in major keys. In minor keys they are good. [Fig. 14.] [Illustration: Fig. 14.] Use adjacent voices in writing, and do not exceed the vocal compass of a voice. Modulation may be resorted to within the exercises, but only to nearly related keys; for example, in C, to G, F, a, e, or d. At the close parts should proceed stepwise to the unison, or octave. [Fig. 15_a_.] [Illustration: Fig. 15.] A close as in Fig. 15_b_ may be used occasionally. In this case the leading-tone is better in the higher part. EXERCISES To each of the following canti firmi write two counterpoints above, and two below. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 16.] LESSON II SECOND SPECIES [Illustration: Fig. 17.] All rules for the first species must be observed. Two notes are written in the counterpoint to one of the cantus firmus, except in the last measure. [Fig. 18_a_.] In the last measure but one the first species may sometimes be used. [Fig. 18_b_.] [Illustration: Fig. 18.] Repetition of a note in any but the first species is forbidden. [Fig. 19.] [Illustration: Fig. 19.] The counterpoint may begin on the first or the second half of the measure, preference being given to the second half. When it begins on the first half it must be a unison, fifth, or octave; when on the second half, it may be any consonance. [Fig. 20.] [Illustration: Fig. 20.] After the first measure the interval on the first beat should be an imperfect consonance, as in the first species, but the fifth, or octave, may be used occasionally. In this and succeeding lessons, all notes in the measure not belonging to the harmony implied on the first beat, must be treated as dissonances, e.g., those belonging to the implied harmony may be left by a skip (_a_) or stepwise progression (_b_) unless dissonant with the cantus firmus; then avoid their use; if foreign to it, whether consonant (_c_) with the C.F. or not (_d_), they must be treated as embellishments or passing-tones. [Fig. 21.] [Illustration: Fig. 21.] The embellishment may be used as follows: when above the principal tone, it may be a semitone (_a_) or a whole tone (_b_) distant from it; and when below, a semitone (_c_). [Fig. 22.] [Illustration: Fig. 22.] When the counterpoint is below the cantus firmus, the fifth of the chord needs special treatment. It is permitted on the weak beat when the lower is treated as an harmonic passing-tone. An harmonic passing-tone is the second of three tones belonging to the same chord. [Fig. 23_a_.] While the third tone should be a member of the chord containing the fifth as an harmonic passing-tone, the chord above it may change as in Fig. 23_b_. The fifth is permitted on the strong beat when it is only an implied fifth (six-four chord); that is, the third and fifth appear on the strong beat, and the root does not come in until the second half of the measure. [Fig. 23_c_.] [Illustration: Fig. 23.] The unison is permitted on the weak beat. [Fig. 24.] [Illustration: Fig. 24.] Avoid broken-chord effects, that is, do not use more than three tones belonging to the same chord in succession. [Fig. 25.] [Illustration: Fig. 25.] Avoid frequent skipping of parts. [Fig. 26.] [Illustration: Fig. 26.] Parts may cross occasionally, but should return immediately [Fig. 27.] [Illustration: Fig. 27.] Consecutive fifths or octaves on consecutive strong beats are bad; but they are good on the weak beats _if the second fifth or octave is approached in the opposite direction from the first_. [Fig. 28.] [Illustration: Fig. 28.] In minor the sixth degree may occasionally be raised on the strong beat, if it is desired to proceed upward to the raised seventh degree. [Fig. 29.] [Illustration: Fig. 29.] In the last measure but one, both the supertonic and leading tone should appear. [Fig. 30.] [Illustration: Fig. 30.] _Three_ notes may be written to one of the cantus firmus, as in Fig. 31. For this no new rules are required. [Illustration: Fig. 31.] The cadences in Fig. 32 are good. It will be seen that the cadences of the first species may also be used. [Illustration: Fig. 32.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write two counterpoints above and two below in the first species. To cantus firmus _b_ write two above and two below in the second species. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 33.] LESSON III SECOND SPECIES IN BOTH PARTS[1] [Illustration: Fig. 34.] [1] In this and similar cases the term "species" will be understood as referring simply to the number of notes, or to the note-combinations, of the contrapuntal part or parts in question. "Second species in both parts" means, therefore, that both parts progress in half-notes. When writing second species in both parts no cantus firmus is used, both parts being original. One part begins on the first beat, the other may begin on either the first or second beat. [Fig. 35.] [Illustration: Fig. 35.] The interval formed by the two notes appearing on the second beat should be a consonance, or one of the following dissonances: The augmented fourth, the diminished fifth, the minor or diminished seventh when properly resolved, and the perfect fourth when approached in contrary motion. All tones not belonging to the harmony implied on the first beat, must be treated as dissonances. [Fig. 36.] [Illustration: Fig. 36.] The seventh or ninth of the implied harmony of a measure, when approached in an upward direction, may be used in either part, provided it is consonant with the other part, or comes within the requirements of the exceptions. [Fig. 37.] The passing major seventh and its root may appear on the weak beat, even when approached in similar motion as in Fig. 37_a_. The seventh must then be treated as a passing-tone. [Illustration: Fig. 37.] The cadences in Fig. 38 are good when writing second species in both parts. Those having the second species in one part only, may also be used. [Illustration: Fig. 38.] Writing the second species in both parts will, in this lesson, be confined to a mixture of the first and second species, as in Fig. 39. In this do not use the second species more than four measures continuously in one part. It will be noticed that the second species may occasionally be used in both parts. In later lessons opportunity will be given to write it continuously in both parts. [Illustration: Fig. 39.] EXERCISES Write two eight-measure phrases mixing the first and second species. [Fig. 39.] To cantus firmus _a_ write one counterpoint above and one below, three notes to the measure. [Fig. 31.] To cantus firmus _b_ write one above and one below, in the second species. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 40.] LESSON IV THIRD SPECIES [Illustration: Fig. 41.] In this species, four notes are written in the counterpoint to each note of the cantus firmus. The counterpoint may begin on the first, second, or fourth quarter. The second quarter is, however, the most usual. [Fig. 42.] [Illustration: Fig. 42.] The exercises should begin and end with tonic harmony. When the counterpoint begins on the first quarter it must form a perfect consonance with the cantus firmus. When on the second or fourth quarter, any consonance may be used. All previous rules are to be regarded, unless exceptions are made. At least one of the first three quarter-notes of a measure should be left degreewise. [Fig. 43.] [Illustration: Fig. 43.] The last quarter of a measure is usually left degreewise. If approached by a skip or by a degreewise progression of at least two quarter-notes, it may be left by a skip in the opposite direction from which it was approached. A skip of a third in the same direction is also good when this skip is preceded by a skip of a third (_d_). [Fig. 44.] [Illustration: Fig. 44.] Parts may cross occasionally. The use of non-harmonic tones, as in Fig. 45, is good in either part. At _a_ the passing-tone, instead of progressing directly to the adjacent chord-tone, skips a third to the other side of it and then returns. The embellishment is treated in the same way, but is most effective when the principal tone is the leading-tone, as at _b_. In both cases the counterpoint should continue degreewise through the chord-tone. [Fig. 45.] [Illustration: Fig. 45.] The fifth, when in the lower part, may be used on any but the first quarter, provided it is treated as a passing-tone, e.g., approached and left by stepwise progression in one direction. [Illustration: Fig. 46.] Consecutive fifths and octaves are forbidden when appearing on the accented beats of successive measures; between prominent notes of successive measures not more than four quarters apart; and between a prominent note of one measure and the first quarter of the next. [Fig. 47.] [Illustration: Fig. 47.] Oblique motion to the unison is bad. It is permitted if it continues in the same direction through the unison. [Fig. 48.] [Illustration: Fig. 48.] The unison may be used on any but the first quarter of a measure. Frequent repetition of a figure as in Fig. 49 is not good. [Illustration: Fig. 49.] The embellishment may be used either above or below, whether a semitone or a whole tone; but when it is a whole tone below, it is most satisfactory as the ninth of the implied chord. [Fig. 50.] [Illustration: Fig. 50.] In minor the sixth and seventh degrees of the scale are raised both ascending and descending, when used in harmonies containing the leading-tone as a chord-tone. They are unaltered both ascending and descending in harmonies containing the sixth degree of the scale as a chord-tone. In other harmonies they are raised in ascending only. The sixth or seventh degrees may be chromatically altered with only one note intervening. [Fig. 51.] [Illustration: Fig. 51.] Six notes may be written to one of the cantus firmus, as in Fig. 52. [Illustration: Fig. 52.] The cadences in Fig. 53 are good. [Illustration: Fig. 53.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write three counterpoints above and three below, in the third species. Write two eight-measure phrases, using second species continuously in both parts. [Fig. 34.] CANTUS FIRMUS [Illustration: Fig. 54.] LESSON V THIRD SPECIES IN BOTH PARTS [Illustration: Fig. 55.] The suggestions given for writing second species in both parts apply here, except that when both parts move degreewise, any interval may come on the second and fourth quarters, preferably a consonance. The third quarter is treated the same as the second half when writing the second species in both parts. The augmented fourth, and diminished fifth and seventh, may be approached in similar motion. [Fig. 56.] [Illustration: Fig. 56.] The augmented fourth following the perfect fourth, as in Fig. 56_a_, is good. The minor seventh, and the major and minor ninth of a chord, may be used freely on any but the first quarter, but must be consonant with the other part. [Fig. 57.] [Illustration: Fig. 57.] The first and third species may be mixed, as in Fig. 58. [Illustration: Fig. 58.] The second species may be used in one part and the third in the other, also six notes in one part and two in the other, and six in one and three in the other. All tones appearing simultaneously, must comply with the suggestions for tones appearing on the weak beat given in previous lessons, where both parts have other than the first species. [Fig. 59.] [Illustration: Fig. 59.] The cadences in Fig. 60 are good, and will suggest others. [Illustration: Fig. 60.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write one counterpoint above and one below, in the third species. To cantus firmus _b_ write counterpoints in six notes, one above and one below. [Fig. 52.] Write one eight-measure phrase, mixing the first and third species. [Fig. 58.] Write two eight-measure phrases, using third species in both parts. [Fig. 55.] CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 61.] LESSON VI FOURTH SPECIES [Illustration: Fig. 62.] This species is the same as the second, except that the last note of the measure is tied to the first note of the next, forming a syncopation. As in the second species, the first note of the counterpoint should form a unison, octave or fifth, and when the counterpoint begins on the second half it may also be an imperfect consonance. When the counterpoint begins on the first half, the second half is treated the same as the second half of succeeding measures, described in the next paragraph. After the first measure, the second half of the measure should contain a consonance (Fig. 63_a_), the first half a consonance (_b_), or dissonance (_c_), preferably the latter, in which case a suspension is formed. This is the most desirable form of syncopation. When the first half contains a dissonance, the counterpoint must descend--or ascend in retardation (_d_)--one degree to an imperfect consonance (_c_). When the first half is a consonance, it may be left by a skip to some other chord-tone (_e_), or by degreewise progression (_f_). In the latter case the second note is non-harmonic, and therefore should not be used to prepare a syncopation except as in Fig. 63_d_ (Retardation of the root in I_6). [Illustration: Fig. 63.] When writing three notes to one in the fourth species, the suspension may resolve on the second beat (_a_), or the third (_b_). In the latter case, the suspension skips (_c_) to some other chord-tone, before resolving. The resolution to the leading-tone (_d_) forms an important exception to this rule. [Fig. 64.] [Illustration: Fig. 64.] The fifth may be used in the lower part if it becomes the preparation of a suspension (Fig. 65_a_). It may also be used in the lower part, as in Fig. 65_b_, provided it resolves by skipping to the third of the chord. In skipping from the fifth to the root, or the reverse, in the lower part, do so in an upward direction. The fifth, when treated as an harmonic passing-tone, may, however, be approached either ascending or descending. [Illustration: Fig. 65.] The retardation should be used only when prepared by the leading-tone. It rises a semitone in resolving. [Fig. 66.] [Illustration: Fig. 66.] The following dissonant intervals may be used on the first half of the measure:--When the counterpoint is above, the fourth and seventh in suspension, and second and fifth in retardation; and when below, the second in suspension, and the fourth and seventh in retardation. [Fig. 67.] [Illustration: Fig. 67.] Consecutive fifths on consecutive strong beats of the measure are good when one of the tones of the second fifth is prepared, as in Fig. 68. [Illustration: Fig. 68.] The following cadences are good: [Illustration: Fig. 69.] EXERCISES Write one eight-measure phrase with two notes to the measure in one part and six in the other; one with three notes in one and six in the other; and one with two notes in one part and four in the other. (Fig. 59.) In combining the species in this and succeeding lessons the student may place any species in any part. To the cantus firmus write two counterpoints above and two below, in the fourth species. CANTUS FIRMUS [Illustration: Fig. 70.] LESSON VII FOURTH SPECIES (Continued) The first and fourth species may be mixed as in Fig. 71. Rules for writing other than the first species in both parts are to be regarded. [Illustration: Fig. 71.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write two counterpoints above and two below, in the fourth species. To cantus firmus _b_ write two above and two below, three half-notes to the measure, with syncopations. Write two eight-measure phrases, mixing the first and fourth species. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 72.] LESSON VIII COMBINING THE FOURTH SPECIES WITH THE OTHERS All previous rules for combining species still apply. In combining the fourth species with other than the first, the following intervals may be used on the first half of the measure, in addition to those mentioned in Lesson VI: When the counterpoint is below, the fourth, fifth and seventh in suspension, and the ninth in retardation; and when above, the fifth in suspension, and the seventh in retardation; but in every such case the part having other than the fourth species must skip to some other chord-tone before resolving the suspension. [Fig. 73.] [Illustration: Fig. 73.] The leading-tone may be doubled as in Fig. 74. Here the leading-tone that is prepared skips to some other chord-tone, while the new leading-tone remains stationary. [Illustration: Fig. 74.] The minor or diminished seventh, major or minor ninth, may be used as preparation of a suspension in either part, provided it is approached by a skip in an upward direction, and is consonant with the other part, or is one of the permitted dissonances. [Fig. 75.] [Illustration: Fig. 75.] The fourth species may be combined with the second or third species, and two or three notes syncopated may be written in one part with six in the other. [Fig. 76.] [Illustration: Fig. 76.] EXERCISES To the cantus firmus write one counterpoint above and one below, in the fourth species. Write one eight-measure phrase each, of the following combinations: The fourth species with the second; the fourth with the third; two notes syncopated against six notes; and three notes syncopated against six notes. Write some in major and some in minor. [Fig. 76.] CANTUS FIRMUS [Illustration: Fig. 77.] LESSON IX FIFTH SPECIES: FLORID COUNTERPOINT [Illustration: Fig. 78.] Florid counterpoint is a mixture of the second, third and fourth species. In addition to these species eighth-notes may be used in groups of two on the second and fourth quarters of the measure. Both notes should be approached and left stepwise, with the exception that the first may be taken by a skip. [Fig. 79.] [Illustration: Fig. 79.] Not more than one and one-half measures of any one species should be used continuously in one part. [Fig. 80.] [Illustration: Fig. 80.] In the use of quarter-notes it is necessary to exercise care. They may be used on the first half when preceded by quarter-notes, when the entire measure is filled, or when they precede a half-note which is the preparation of a suspension. On the second half they are always good. [Fig. 81.] [Illustration: Fig. 81.] For the present the suspension should not be less than a half-note or its rhythmic equivalent in the ornamental resolution. In this species the suspension may resolve ornamentally, that is, it may have some note or notes interpolated between the suspension and its resolution. The relative position of the suspension and its resolution must remain the same as in the regular resolution. [Fig. 82.] When the suspension is left by a leap, the note skipped to should be consonant with the other part (_b_). When eighth-notes are used, as at _a_, they must be approached and left stepwise. The suspension, instead of being sustained as a half-note, may be repeated on the second quarter, as at _c_. In this case it is best to continue stepwise through the tone of resolution. At _d_ the resolution, instead of coming on the second half, appears on the quarters on either side. This is good. [Illustration: Fig. 82.] The ornamental resolution may be used in either part. Use the suspension freely. The solutions should be musical, and are to be written over and over again until such are secured. All cadences of the second, third and fourth species, or any combination of these, may be used. EXERCISES To canti firmi _a_ and _b_ write two counterpoints above and two below, in the fifth species CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 83.] LESSON X FLORID COUNTERPOINT (Continued) When florid counterpoint is combined with other than first species, the dotted half followed by a quarter-note (_a_), or two eighth-notes (_b_), is good. Also, a rhythmic figure, as at _c_, where a half-note occupies the second and third quarters, may be used. [Fig. 84.] [Illustration: Fig. 84.] EXERCISES Write one eight-measure phrase, each, of the following combinations: The fifth species with the second; the fifth with the third; and the fifth with the fourth. Write also two eight-measure phrases with fifth species in both parts. [Fig. 85.] [Illustration: Fig. 85.] SIMPLE COUNTERPOINT IN THREE PARTS LESSON XI FIRST SPECIES [Illustration: Fig. 86.] Regard all rules for two-part counterpoint, unless otherwise mentioned. If possible, each measure should contain a complete chord. When in the first species it becomes necessary to double an interval, let it be preferably the root. The third should be doubled only when a decidedly smoother melodic progression is thereby obtained; and when both thirds are in outer parts, each should be approached and left stepwise in one direction (Fig. 87). The doubling of the fifth is, of course, impossible, since it necessitates the omission of the third. [Illustration: Fig. 87.] All triads may be used in their first inversion. Diminished and augmented triads, however, are best used in their first inversion. The six-four chord may be used at the close as the cadencing tonic six-four chord. Do not approach the root and fifth in similar motion, as at _b_. [Fig. 88.] [Illustration: Fig. 88.] The dominant seventh may be used in any but its second inversion, the fifth being omitted.[2] The seventh requires no preparation. Other chords of the seventh are better not used until second species and later. If possible, let the chord in the first measure appear complete. The last chord but one should be complete, unless some form of V or V_7 is used. [Fig. 89.] [2] In severely strict counterpoint all parts above the lowest must be consonant with it. Dissonances, when entering simultaneously with it, must be treated as suspensions, and when used in the progression of a part from one chord to another, should be treated as passing-tones or embellishments. This excludes the use of the unprepared seventh and ninth; all diminished and augmented triads except in their first inversion; and all six-four chords, except when the lowest part is treated as a passing-tone. [Illustration: Fig. 89.] Consecutive major thirds may be used when three or more parts are employed. [Fig. 90.] [Illustration: Fig. 90.] A note may now be repeated in the lowest part when it becomes the seventh of a dominant seventh-chord. [Fig. 91.] [Illustration: Fig. 91.] In writing, use soprano, alto and tenor, or alto, tenor and bass; and do not separate upper parts more than an octave. For a chord or two they may (for the sake of better voice-leading) separate a tenth. All hidden fifths and octaves are bad, except between I and V and V and I. [Fig. 92_a, b_.] The perfect fifth following the diminished fifth is good when taken in an upward direction stepwise in the higher parts. [Fig. 92_c_.] [Illustration: Fig. 92.] All cadences used in harmony are good. Unless otherwise mentioned, put the cantus firmus in any part, but avoid its continued use in the same part. EXERCISES To canti firmi _a_ and _b_ write the first species in all parts. Write each three times, setting the cantus firmus in a different part in each solution. This necessitates transposing the cantus firmus, when setting it in the other parts. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 93.] LESSON XII THE SECOND SPECIES [Illustration: Fig. 94.] The second species is written in one part and the first in the other two. All suggestions made for the second species in two-part counterpoint are to be observed, unless otherwise mentioned. Those regarding consecutive perfect intervals are especially to be observed. The fifth, when in the lowest voice, should be used as in two-part counterpoint, except when used in V4/3 or the cadencing tonic six-four chord. The V4/3 chord may be used on the weak beat, necessitating the omission of the third. [Fig. 95_a_.] The third may be omitted (_b_), or doubled (_c_), on the weak beat in this and succeeding species. [Fig. 95.] [Illustration: Fig. 95.] The minor or diminished seventh may be approached by a skip in an upward direction on the weak beat in any part. This usually necessitates the omission of some other chord-member on the weak beat. The major or minor ninth may also be used in the same way, except in the lowest part, provided it is at least a ninth above the root. [Fig. 96.] [Illustration: Fig. 96.] The progression from vii_6° to V in root-position or any inversion in the same measure, is good. [Fig. 97.] Use _b_ and _c_ only when using other than first species in two or more parts. [Illustration: Fig. 97.] Each measure should usually contain a complete chord. If not complete on the first beat, bring the missing interval in on the second. [Fig. 98.] [Illustration: Fig. 98.] The cadences in Fig. 99 are good, and will suggest others. The use of the fourth species is permitted as at _a_. A note may be repeated in the final cadence in all species as at _b_. [Illustration: Fig. 99.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write the first species in all parts, as previously directed. To cantus firmus _b_ write second species in one part. Write three times, changing cantus firmus and counterpoint about so that they will appear in each part in turn. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 100.] LESSON XIII SECOND SPECIES IN TWO PARTS [Illustration: Fig. 101.] The suggestions for second species in both parts, in two-part counterpoint, apply for the two parts having the second species in three-part counterpoint. Accidental harmonies sometimes appear on the weak beat. All tones in this accidental harmony foreign to the chord on the strong beat must be treated as dissonances. This must be regarded whenever two or more parts have other than the first species. [Fig. 102.] [Illustration: Fig. 102.] At Fig. 102_a_, the accidental harmony _f-a-c_ is on the weak beat. The _f_ and _a_, being foreign to the chord _c-e-g_ on the strong beat, are correctly treated as dissonances. At _b_, the _f_ and _a_ are left by skip, which is not permitted. The second species may be written continuously in all parts; the tones appearing on the weak beat must be harmonically related to one another, and those foreign to the chord on the strong beat must be treated as dissonances. [Fig. 103.] [Illustration: Fig. 103.] The first and second species may be mixed, as in Fig. 104. [Illustration: Fig. 104.] The cadences in Fig. 105 are good, and will suggest others. Those with first species in all parts may also be used. [Illustration: Fig. 105.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write a counterpoint in the second species in one part. Write three settings, as directed in the previous lesson. Write two eight-measure phrases mixing the first and second species in all parts. To cantus firmus _b_ write counterpoints in the second species in the other two parts. Write two settings, with the cantus firmus in different parts. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 106.] LESSON XIV THIRD SPECIES [Illustration: Fig. 107.] The suggestions for third species in two-part counterpoint, as well as those for writing the second species in three-part counterpoint, apply when writing third species in three-part counterpoint. The cadences at Fig. 108 are good, and will suggest others. [Illustration: Fig. 108.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write third species in one part. Write three settings as previously directed. To cantus firmus _b_ write second species in two parts, as previously directed. Write one eight-measure phrase, using second species in all parts. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 109.] LESSON XV THIRD SPECIES IN TWO OR MORE PARTS [Illustration: Fig. 110.] Previous suggestions when two or more parts have other than first species, apply here. In using the ninth of a chord it is well to keep it at least a seventh distant from the third, as well as a ninth above the root, except in the case of the dominant ninth in minor keys, where it may be separated by only an augmented second ([b]). [Fig. 111.] [Illustration: Fig. 111.] In writing the third species in all parts, notes appearing simultaneously should be harmonically related. Treat all tones foreign to the chord on the first quarter as dissonances. The cadences in Fig. 112 are good. [Illustration: Fig. 112.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write third species in one part, as previously directed. To cantus firmus _b_ write third species in two parts, as in Fig. 110_b_. Write twice, changing the cantus firmus about. Write one eight-measure phrase, mixing first and third species as in Fig. 110_a_. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 113.] LESSON XVI THIRD SPECIES (Continued) EXERCISES To the cantus firmus write third species in one part, as previously directed. Write one eight-measure phrase, mixing first and third species; also one mixing first, second and third. [Fig. 114.] Write one eight-measure phrase, using third species in all parts. [Fig. 110_c_.] [Illustration: Fig. 114.] CANTUS FIRMUS [Illustration: Fig. 115.] LESSON XVII FOURTH SPECIES [Illustration: Fig. 116.] When the syncopation is a suspension or retardation, it is treated the same as in harmony. The retardation should always be prepared by the leading-tone. When the syncopated note belongs to the harmony of the measure, it may be left by a skip or stepwise progression. [Fig. 117.] [Illustration: Fig. 117.] The third may be omitted on the strong beat in this species, provided the part having fourth species skips to the missing third, as at Fig. 117_a_. Consecutive fifths, but not octaves, are saved by the suspension. Whenever they occur, do not use the note of resolution as preparation of a suspension, or tie it into the next measure (_a_), since it is really the passing seventh, and that does not lend itself well to either of the above, except in sequence as at _b_. [Fig. 118.] [Illustration: Fig. 118.] The seventh or ninth of a chord, except the major seventh, may be used as preparation of a suspension when approached by a skip in an upward direction, as in Fig. 119. [Illustration: Fig. 119.] This species may also be written in triple rhythm. [Fig. 120.] [Illustration: Fig. 120.] The cadences in Fig. 121 are good, as well as those of the second species. [Illustration: Fig. 121.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write fourth species in one part. Write three settings, as usual. To cantus firmus _b_ write fourth species in one part in triple rhythm. Write three settings, as above. To cantus firmus _b_ write second species in one part and third in the other. [Fig. 122.] [Illustration: Fig. 122.] CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 123.] LESSON XVIII FOURTH SPECIES (Continued) EXERCISES Write two eight-measure phrases, using the fourth species mixed in all parts. [Fig. 124_a_.] To cantus firmus _a_ write second species in one part and fourth in the other. [Fig. 124_b_.] To cantus firmus _b_ write third species in one part and fourth in the other. [Fig. 124_c_.] [Illustration: Fig. 124.] CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 125.] LESSON XIX FIFTH SPECIES [Illustration: Fig. 126.] No suggestions other than have already been given for two- and three-part counterpoint are necessary for this species. EXERCISES To canti firmi _a_ and _b_ write fifth species in one part. Write each three times, as usual. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 127.] LESSON XX FIFTH SPECIES (Continued) EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write second species in one part and fifth in the other. [Fig. 128_a_.] To cantus firmus _b_ write third species in one part and fifth in the other. [_b_.] To cantus firmus _c_ write fourth species in one part and fifth in the other. [_c_.] To cantus firmus _d_ write fifth species in two parts. [_d_.] [Illustration: Fig. 128.] CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 129.] LESSON XXI COMBINING THE VARIOUS SPECIES EXERCISES Write one eight-measure phrase each, of the following combinations: (1) 2nd, 3rd and 4th species (Fig. 130a); (2) 2nd, 3rd and fifth species (_b_) (3) 3rd, 5th and 5th species (_c_); (4) 2nd, 4th and 5th species (_d_); (5) 4th, 5th and 5th species (_e_). [Illustration: Fig. 130.] LESSON XXII FIFTH SPECIES IN ALL PARTS EXERCISES Write five eight-measure phrases with fifth species in all parts, making use of imitation at the beginning as in Fig. 131. The imitation need only be relative and continue for three or four notes. It is also well, when a part uses a striking melodic figure, to have some other part imitate it immediately after. [Illustration: Fig. 131.] SIMPLE COUNTERPOINT IN FOUR PARTS LESSON XXIII [Illustration: Fig. 132.] No new suggestions are needed, except as follows: All covered fifths and octaves permitted in harmony are allowed here. When the cantus firmus is in the lowest part and the choice of the last chord but one is V4/3 or vii_6°, use the latter, as in Fig. 133. [Illustration: Fig. 133.] EXERCISES To canti firmi _a_ and _b_ write the first species in the other parts. Write each four times, setting the cantus firmus in each part in turn. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 134.] LESSON XXIV [Illustration: Fig. 135.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write the first species in all parts, as in the previous lesson. To cantus firmus _b_ write the second species in one part. Write four times, and change with each solution, so that both the cantus firmus and the second species will appear in each part. [Fig. 135.] CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 136.] LESSON XXV [Illustration: Fig. 137.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write second species in one part as previously directed. To cantus firmus _b_ write the first and second species mixed in the other three parts. [Fig. 137_a_.] To cantus firmus _c_ write third species in one part, as directed for the second species (_b_). CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 138.] LESSON XXVI [Illustration: Fig. 139.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write the second species in two parts and the first in the others. Write twice, changing the parts about. [Fig. 139_a_.] To cantus firmus _b_ write third species in one part as previously directed. To cantus firmus _c_ write third species mixed in the other three parts, as at Fig. 139_b_. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 140.] LESSON XXVII [Illustration: Fig. 141.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write the first, second and third species in the other three parts. Write twice, changing the parts about [Fig. 141_a_.] To cantus firmus _b_ write fourth species in one part, as directed in previous lessons. [Fig. 141_b_.] To cantus firmus _c_ write third species mixed in the other three parts. [Fig. 139_b_.] CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 142.] LESSON XXVIII [Illustration: Fig. 143.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write the fourth species in one part, as usual. To cantus firmus _b_ write first, second and fourth species in the other three parts. [Fig. 143_a_.] To cantus firmus _c_ write the first, third and fourth species in the other three parts. [Fig. 143_b_.] To cantus firmus _c_ write fourth species mixed in the other parts. [Fig. 143_c_.] CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 144.] LESSON XXIX [Illustration: Fig. 145.] EXERCISES To canti firmi _a_ and _b_ write fifth species in one part, as before. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 146.] LESSON XXX [Illustration: Fig. 147.] EXERCISES To the cantus firmus write the fifth species in two parts. Write four times, changing the cantus firmus into every part. [Fig. 147_a_.] Write one eight-measure phrase mixing the second, third and fourth species (_b_). Also write one exercise combining the first, second, third and fourth species (_c_). CANTUS FIRMUS [Illustration: Fig. 148.] LESSON XXXI [Illustration: Fig. 149.] EXERCISES To the cantus firmus write the fifth species in all of the other parts. [Fig. 149_a_.] Write four eight-measure phrases with the fifth species in all parts. [Fig. 149_b_.] CANTUS FIRMUS [Illustration: Fig. 150.] LESSON XXXII [Illustration: Fig. 151.] EXERCISES Write six eight-measure phrases, using the fifth species in all the parts. Let the parts begin one after the other in imitation. [Fig. 151.] LESSON XXXIII FLORID MELODIES AS CANTI FIRMI FREE HARMONIZATION IN TWO-PART COUNTERPOINT [Illustration: Fig. 152.] Thus far, all notes in the measure foreign to the harmony on the first beat were treated as dissonances. Now, the cantus firmus may be harmonized at pleasure, the only restriction being that any tone foreign to the chord with which it enters must be treated as a dissonance. [Fig. 152.] It is not necessary that each part be strictly florid, but that the effect of the parts as a whole should be so. This applies from this point to the end of these lessons. The suspension may now be a quarter-note, or its rhythmic equivalent. It then comes on the first (_a_) or third (_b_) quarter of the measure, and the resolution on the quarter following. The preparation should be as long as, or longer than, the suspension. [Fig. 153.] [Illustration: Fig. 153.] The eighth-note as in Fig. 154_a_ is good. It should be used only on the second half of a weak beat, and be preceded by a dotted quarter-note. Sixteenth-notes may be used in place of the eighth-note, but should be approached and left step-wise. [Fig. 154_b_.] [Illustration: Fig. 154.] The first species may be employed occasionally in the course of an exercise. Make plentiful use of imitation. When more than one line of a choral is used, it may be treated by having the other parts continue through the holds, as at _a_, or letting them rest, as at _b_. [Fig. 155.] When, in place of the hold, the movement continues, it is necessary to interpolate a full measure in place of the hold. [Fig. 155 and Fig. 159.] [Illustration: Fig. 155.] The note under the hold may be continued the extra measure, or the part may rest and then reënter. All that is required is that it begin after the lapse of one measure, i.e., when the line ends on the accent the next line begins on the weak beat of the measure following, and if it ends on the weak beat then on the accent of the next measure. The interval at any hold except the last of a choral may be either a perfect (_a_) or imperfect consonance (_b_). [Fig. 156.] [Illustration: Fig. 156.] Modulation often occurs at the holds. If so, make it clear. In this and in succeeding lessons set the cantus firmus in any part, and transpose if necessary. EXERCISES To cantus firmus _b_ write two counterpoints above and two below. To cantus firmus _a_ write one above and one below, with both parts resting at the hold. Also do the same _with the counterpoint continuing at the hold_. [Fig. 155_a, b._] CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 157.] LESSON XXXIV FREE HARMONIZATION IN THREE-PART COUNTERPOINT When writing in three or more parts, it is well to let a part rest occasionally, and, when it reënters, have it imitate one of the other parts. [Fig. 158.] [Illustration: Fig. 158.] EXERCISES To cantus firmus _a_ write two counterpoints above and two below in two-part counterpoint. Write two original eight-measure phrases in two-part counterpoint. To cantus firmus _b_ write one example in three-part counterpoint with continuous movement at the hold. [Fig. 159.] [Illustration: Fig. 159.] CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 160.] LESSON XXXV To canti firmi _a_ and _b_ write two parts. Write each three times, setting the cantus firmus in all parts in turn. Write one of the solutions of the choral with continuous movement at the hold. CANTI FIRMI [Illustration: Fig. 161.] LESSON XXXVI Write two eight-measure phrases, and one sixteen-measure phrase, of original counterpoint in three parts. LESSON XXXVII FREE HARMONIZATION IN FOUR-PART COUNTERPOINT [Illustration: Fig. 162.] EXERCISES To the cantus firmus write three parts. Write two sixteen-measure phrases of original four-part counterpoint, one major and one minor. CANTUS FIRMUS [Illustration: Fig. 163.] LESSON XXXVIII In this and the following lessons have the parts in some of the exercises begin one after the other in imitation. [Fig. 151.] EXERCISES Write two eight-measure phrases, and one sixteen-measure phrase, of original four-part counterpoint. LESSON XXXIX Write two sixteen-measure phrases of original four-part counterpoint. LESSON XL Write an original exercise in four-part counterpoint, extended to thirty-two measures. 
16488	----	DEBUSSY'S PELLÉAS ET MÉLISANDE [Illustration: _Claude Debussy (From the painting by Jacques Blanche)_] A GUIDE TO THE OPERA WITH MUSICAL EXAMPLES FROM THE SCORE BY LAWRENCE GILMAN AUTHOR OF "PHASES OF MODERN MUSIC," "THE MUSIC OF TO-MORROW," "STORIES OF SYMPHONIC MUSIC," "EDWARD MACDOWELL" (IN "LIVING MASTERS OF MUSIC" SERIES) "STRAUSS' 'SALOME,'" ETC. NEW YORK G. SCHIRMER 1907 TO THE MEMORY OF GUSTAVE SCHIRMER A MUSIC LOVER OF LIBERAL TASTE AND SENSITIVE APPRECIATION AND AN INFLUENTIAL FORCE IN THE PROMOTION OF THE FINER THINGS OF THE ART TO WHICH HIS LIFE WAS DEVOTED CONTENTS I. DEBUSSY AND HIS ART II. THE PLAY ITS QUALITIES ITS ACTION III. THE MUSIC A REVOLUTIONARY SCORE THE THEMES AND THEIR TREATMENT DEBUSSY'S PELLÉAS ET MÉLISANDE "It is not an ill thing to cross at times the marches of silence and see the phantoms of life and death in a new way. It is not an ill thing, even if one meet only the fantasies of beauty."--FIONA MACLEOD. I DEBUSSY AND HIS ART With the production at Paris in the spring of 1902 of Claude Debussy's _Pelléas et Mélisande_, based on the play of Maeterlinck, the history of music turned a new and surprising page. "It is necessary," declared an acute French critic, M. Jean Marnold, writing shortly after the event, "to go back perhaps to _Tristan_ to find in the opera house an event so important in certain respects for the evolution of musical art." The assertion strikes one to-day, five years after, as, if anything, over-cautious. _Pelléas et Mélisande_ exhibited not simply a new manner of writing opera, but a new kind of music--a new way of evolving and combining tones, a new order of harmonic, melodic and rhythmic structure. The style of it was absolutely new and absolutely distinctive: the thing had never been done before, save, in a lesser degree, by Debussy himself in his then little known earlier work. Prior to the appearance of _Pelléas et Mélisande_, he had put forth, without appreciably disturbing the musical waters, all of the extraordinary and individual music with which his fame is now associated, except the three orchestral "sketches," _La Mer_ (composed in 1903-1905 and published in the latter year), the piano pieces _Estampes_ (1903), and _Images, Masques, l'Île joyeuse_ (1905), and a few songs. Certain audiences in Paris had heard, nine years before, his setting of Rossetti's "Blessed Damozel" (_La Demoiselle Élue_), a "lyric poem" for two solo voices, female chorus, and orchestra; in the same year (1893) his string quartet was played by Ysaÿe and his associates; in 1894 his _Prélude à l'Après-midi d'un Faune_ was produced at a concert of the National Society of Music; the first two Nocturnes for orchestra, _Nuages_ and _Fêtes_, were played at a Lamoureux concert in 1900; the third, _Sirènes_, was performed with the others in the following year. Yet it was not until _Pelléas et Mélisande_ was produced at the Opéra-Comique in April, 1902, that his work began seriously to be reckoned with outside of the small and inquisitive public, in Paris and elsewhere, that had known and valued--or execrated--it. In this score Debussy went far beyond the point to which his methods had previously led him. It was, for all who heard it or came to know it, a revelation of the possibilities of tonal effect--this dim and wavering and elusive music, with its infinitely subtle gradations, its gossamer fineness of texture, its delicate sonorities, its strange and echoing dissonances, its singular richness of mood, its shadowy beauty, its exquisite and elaborate art--this music which drifted before the senses like iridescent vapor, suffused with rich lights, pervasive, imponderable, evanescent. It was music at once naïve and complex, innocent and impassioned, fragile and sonorous. It spoke with an accent unmistakably grave and sincere; yet it spoke without emphasis: indirectly, flexibly, with fluid and unpredictable expression. It was eloquent beyond denial, yet its reticence, its economy of gesture, were extreme--were, indeed, the very negation of emphasis. Is it strange that such music--hesitant, evasive, dream-filled, strangely ecstatic, with its wistful and twilight loveliness, its blended subtlety and simplicity--should have been as difficult to trace to any definite source as it was, for the general, immensely astonishing and unexpected? There was nothing like it to be found in Wagner, or in his more conspicuous and triumphant successors--in, so to speak, the direct and royal line. Richard Strauss was, clearly, not writing in that manner; nor were the brother musicians of Debussy in his own France; nor, quite as obviously, were the Russians. The immediate effect of its strangeness and newness was, of course, to direct the attention of the larger world of music, within Paris and without, to the artistic personality and the previous attainments of the man who had surprisingly put forth such incommensurable music. Achille[1] Claude Debussy was born at St. Germain-en-Laye (Seine-et-Oise), France, August 22, 1862. He was still a youth when he entered the Paris Conservatory, where he studied harmony under Lavignac, composition under Guiraud, and piano playing with Marmontel. He was only fourteen when he won the first medal for _solfège_, and fifteen when he won the second pianoforte prize. [1] He no longer uses the first of these given names. In 1884, when he was in his twenty-second year, his cantata, _l'Enfant prodigue_, won for him the _Prix de Rome_ by a majority of twenty-two out of twenty-eight votes--it is said to have been the unanimous opinion of the jury that the score was "one of the most interesting that had been heard at the _Institut_ for years." While at the Villa Médicis he composed, in 1887, his _Printemps_ for chorus and orchestra, and, in the following year, his setting of Rossetti's "Blessed Damozel," of which the authorities at the Conservatory saw fit to disapprove because of certain liberties which Debussy even then was taking with established and revered traditions. He performed his military service upon his return from Rome; and there is a tradition told, as bearing upon his love of recondite sonorities, to the effect that while at Évreux he delighted in the harmonic clash caused by the simultaneous sounding of the trumpet call for the extinguishing of lights and the sustained vibrations of some neighboring convent bells. From this time forward his output was persistent and moderately copious. To the year 1888 belong, in addition to _La Demoiselle Élue_, the remarkably individual "Ariettes,"[2] six settings for voice and piano of poems by Verlaine. To 1889-1890 belong the _Fantaisie_ for piano and orchestra and the striking "Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire" (_Le Balcon_, _Harmonie du Soir_, _Le Jet d'Eau_, _Recueillement_, _La Mort des Amants_). In 1891 came some less significant piano pieces; but the following two years were richly productive, for they brought forth the exquisite _Prélude à l'Après-midi d'un Faune_ for orchestra, after the Éclogue of Mallarmé--the first extended and inescapable manifestation of Debussy's singular gifts--and the very personal but less important string quartet. In 1893-1895 he was busied with _Pelléas et Mélisande_,[3] and with the _Proses lyriques_, four songs--not of his best--to words of his own (_De Rêve_, _De Grève_, _De Fleurs_, _De Soir_). The next four years--1896-1899--saw the issue of the extremely characteristic and uncompromising Nocturnes for orchestra (_Nuages_, _Fêtes_, _Sirènes_), and the fascinating and subtle _Chansons de Bilitis_, after Pierre Louys--songs in which, aptly observed his colleague Bruneau, "he mingled an antique and almost evaporated perfume with penetrating modern odors." The collection "Pour le Piano" (_Prélude_, _Sarabande_, _Toccata_)--inventions of distinguished and original style--and some less representative songs and piano pieces, completed his achievements before the production of _Pelléas et Mélisande_ brought him fame and a measure of relief from lean and pinching days. He has from time to time made public appearances in Paris as a pianist in concerts of chamber music; and he has even resorted--one wonders how desperately?--to the writing of music criticism for various journals and reviews. "Artists," he has somewhat cynically observed, "struggle long enough to win their place in the market; once the sale of their productions is assured, they quickly go backward." There is as yet no sign that he himself is fulfilling this prediction; for his most recent published performance,[4] the superbly fantastic and imaginative _La Mer_--completed three years after the production of _Pelléas_--is charged to the brim with his peculiar and potent quality. [2] A revised version of these songs was published fifteen years later, in 1903, dedicated _à Miss Mary Garden, inoubliable Mélisande_. [3] M. Debussy sends me the information that, although the music of _Pelléas et Mélisande_ was begun as early as September, 1893, he was not finally through with it until nine years later. In the spring of 1901 the last scene of the fourth act (the love-scene at the fountain in the park, with its abrupt and tragic close) was rewritten, and in 1902, after the first rehearsals at the Opéra-Comique, it was found necessary to lengthen the orchestral interludes between the different tableaux in order that the scene-shifters might have sufficient time to change the settings. These extended interludes are included in the edition of the score for piano and voices, with French and English text, published in 1907. [4] The above is written in July, 1907. What are the more prominent traits of the music of this man who is the product of no school, who has no essential affinities with his contemporaries, who has been accurately characterized as the "très exceptionnel, très curieux, très solitaire M. Claude Debussy"? One is struck, first of all, in savoring his art, by its extreme fluidity, its vagueness of contour, its lack of obvious and definite outline. It is cloudlike, evanescent, impalpable; it passes before the aural vision (so to speak) like a floating and multicolored mist; it is shifting, fugitive, intangible, atmospheric. Its beauty is not the beauty that issues from clear and transparent designs, from a lucid and outspoken style: it is a remote and inexplicable beauty, a beauty shot through with mystery and strangeness, baffling, incalculable. It is unexpected and subtle in accent, wayward and fantastic in rhythm. Harmonically it obeys no known law--consonances, dissonances, are interfused, blended, re-echoed, juxtaposed, without the smallest regard for the rules of tonal relationship established by long tradition. It recognizes no boundaries whatsoever between the different keys; there is constant flux and change, and the same tonality is seldom maintained beyond a single beat of the measure. There are key-signatures, but they strike one as having been put in place as a mere yielding to what M. Debussy doubtless regards indulgently as an amiable and harmless prejudice. His melodic schemes suggest no known model--they conform to patterns which intertwine and melt and are suddenly and surprisingly transformed; they are without punctuation, uncadenced, irregular, unpredictable, indescribably sensitive and supple. There is a marked indifference to the possibilities of contrapuntal effect, a dependence upon a method fundamentally homophonic rather than polyphonic--this music is a rich and shimmering texture of blended chord-groups, rather than a pattern of interlaced melodic strands. One cannot but note the manner in which it abhors and shuns the easily achieved, the facile, the expected. Its colors and designs are rare and far-sought and most heedfully contrived; its eloquence is never unrestrained; and this hatred of the obvious is as plainly sincere as it is passionate and uncompromising; it is not the fastidiousness of a _précieux_, but of an extravagantly scrupulous and austerely exacting artist. Here, then, is as anomalous an aesthetic product as one could well imagine. In a day when magnitude of plan and vividness of color, rhetorical emphasis and dynamic brilliancy, are the ideals which preëminently sway our tonal architects, emerges this reticent, half-lit, delicately structured, subtly accented music; which is incorrigibly unrhetorical; which never declaims or insists: an art alembicated, static, severely restrained--for even when it is most harmonically untrammeled, most rhythmically fantastic, one is aware of a quietly inexorable logic, an uncompromising ideal of form, underlying its seemingly unregulated processes. It is the product of a temperament unique in music, though familiar enough in the modern expression of the other arts. Debussy is of that clan who have uncompromisingly "turned their longing after the wind and wave of the mind." He is, as I have elsewhere written, of the order of those poets and dreamers who persistently heed, and seek to continue in their art, not the echoes of passional and adventurous experience, but the vibrations of the spirit beneath. He is of the brotherhood of those mystical explorers, of peculiarly modern temper, who are perhaps most essentially represented in the plays and poetry and philosophies of Mr. Yeats and M. Maeterlinck: those who dwell--it has before been said--"upon the confines of a crepuscular world whose every phase is full of subtle portent, and who are convinced (in the phrase of M. Maeterlinck himself) 'that there are in man many regions more fertile, more profound, and more interesting than those of his reason or his intelligence.'" It is an order of temperament for which the things of the marginal world of the mind are of transcendent consequence--that world which is perpetually haunted, for those mystics who are also the slaves of beauty, by remote illusions and disquieting enchantments: where it is not dreams, but the reflections of dreams, that obsess; where passion is less the desire of life than of the shadow of life. It is a world of images and refractions, of visions and presentiments, a world which swims in dim and opalescent mists--where gestures are adored and every footfall is charged with indescribable intimations; where, "even in the swaying of a hand or the dropping of unbound hair, there is less suggestion of individual action than of a divinity living within, shaping an elaborate beauty in a dream for its own delight." It is, for those who inhabit it, a world as exclusively preoccupying and authentic as it is, for those who do not, incredible and inaccessible. The reports of it, intense and gleaming as they may be, which are contained in the art of such of its inhabitants as Debussy, are, admittedly, little likely to conciliate the unbeliever. This is music which it is hopeless to attempt to justify or promote. It persuades, or it does not; one is attuned to it, or one is not. For those who do savor and value it, it is reasonable only to attempt some such notation of its qualities as is offered here. Debussy's ancestry is not easily traced. Wagner, whom he has amused himself by decrying in the course of his critical excursions, shaped certain aspects of his style. In some of the early songs one realizes quite clearly his indebtedness to the score of _Tristan_; yet in these very songs--say the _Harmonie du Soir_ and _La Mort des Amants_ (composed in 1889-1890)--there are amazingly individual pages: pages which even to-day sound ultra-modern. And when one recalls that at the time these songs were written the score of _Parsifal_ had been off Wagner's desk for only seven years, that Richard Strauss was putting forth such tentative things as his _Don Juan_ and _Tod und Verklärung_, that the "revolutionary" Max Reger was a boy of sixteen, and that Debussy himself was not yet thirty, one is in a position forcibly to realize the early growth and the genuineness of his independence. Adolphe Jullien, the veteran French critic, discerns in his earlier writing the influence of such Russians as Borodine, Rimsky-Korsakoff, and Mussorgsky--a discovery which one finds some difficulty in crediting. Later, Debussy was undoubtedly affected, in a slight degree, by César Franck; and there were moments--happily infrequent--during what one may call his middle period, when a whiff of the perfumed sentiment of Massenet blew disturbingly across his usually sincere and poetic pages. But for traces of Liszt, or Berlioz, or Brahms, one will search fruitlessly. That he does not, to-day, touch hands at any point with his brother musicians of the elder school in France--with such, for example, as the excellent and brilliant and superbly unimaginative Saint-Saëns--goes almost without saying. With Vincent d'Indy, a musician of wholly antipodal qualities, he disputes the place of honor among the elect of the "younger" school (whose members are not so young as they are painted); and he is the worshiped idol of still younger Frenchmen who envy, depreciate, and industriously imitate his fascinating and dangerously luring art. He has traveled far on the path of his particular destiny; not since Wagner has any modern music-maker perfected a style so saturated with personality--there are far fewer derivations in his art than in the art of Strauss, through whose scores pace the ghosts of certain of the greater dead. All that Wagner could teach him of the potency of dissonance, of structural freedom and elasticity, of harmonic daring, Debussy eagerly learned and applied, as a foundation, to his own intricately reasoned though spontaneous art; yet Wagner would have gasped alike at the novelty and the exquisite art of _Pelléas et Mélisande_, of the _Nocturnes_, even of the comparatively early _Prélude à l'Après-midi d'un Faune_; for this is music of a kind which may, indeed, have been dreamed of, but which certainly had never found its way upon paper, before Debussy quietly recorded it in his scores. What is the secret principle of his method?--if one can call that a "method" which is, in effect, nothing if not airily unmethodical, and that principle "secret" which is neither recondite nor perplexing. It is simply that Debussy, instead of depending upon the strictly limited major and minor modes of the modern scale system, employs almost continuously, as the structural basis of his music, the mediaeval church modes, with their far greater latitude, freedom, and variety. It is, to say the least, a novel procedure. Other modern composers before Debussy had, of course, utilized the characteristic plain-song progressions to secure, for special purposes, a particular and definite effect of color; but no one had ever before deliberately adopted the Gregorian chant as a substitute for the modern major and minor scales, with their deep-rooted and ineradicable harmonic tendencies, their perpetual suggestion of traditional cadences and resolutions. To forget the principles underlying three centuries of harmonic practice and revert to the methods of the mediaeval church composers, required an extraordinary degree of imaginative intuition; purposely and consistently to employ those methods as a foundation upon which to erect an harmonic structure most richly and elastically contrived--to vitalize the antique modes with the accumulated product of modern divination and accomplishment--was little less than an inspiration. Debussy must undoubtedly have realized that the familiar scales, which have so long and so faithfully served the expressional needs of the modern composer, tend now to give issue to musical forms that are beginning to seem _clichée_: forms too rigidly patterned, too redolent of outworn formulas--in short, too completely crystallized. Chopin, Liszt, Wagner, and after them the modern Germans and their followers, found in a scale of semitones a limited avenue of escape from the confinement of the modern diatonic modes, and bequeathed to contemporary music an inheritance of ungoverned chromaticism which still clogs its progress and obstructs its independence. Debussy, through his appreciation of the living value of the old church modes, has been enabled to shape for himself a manner of utterance which derives from none of these influences. It is anything but chromatic; indeed, one of its most striking characteristics is its use of whole-tone progressions, a natural result, of course, of its dependence upon the old modes. Other contemporary Frenchmen have made occasional use of Gregorian effects; but Debussy was the first to adopt them deliberately as the basis of a settled manner of utterance, and he has employed them with increasing consistency and devotion. His example has indubitably served to enrich the expressional material at the disposal of the modern music-maker--there cannot conceivably, in reason, be two opinions as to that: he has acted upon a principle which is, beyond question, liberating and stimulating. And the adaptability to his own peculiar temperament of the wavering and fluid order of discourse which is permitted by the flexibility and variety of the antique modes is sufficiently obvious. His resort to Gregorian principles is, it has been observed, far from being a matter of recent history with him. Almost twenty years ago we find him writing in the spirit of the old modes. Examine the opening phrases of his song, _Harmonie du Soir_ (composed in 1889-1890), and note the felicitous adaptation to modern use of the "authentic" mode known as the Lydian, which corresponds to a C-major scale with F-sharp. Observe the use of the same mode in the introductory measures, and elsewhere, of his setting of Verlaine's _Il pleure dans mon coeur_ (1889), the second of the "Ariettes." Five years later, in _Pelléas et Mélisande_, the trait is omnipresent--too extensive and obvious, indeed, to require detailed indication. One might point out, at random, the derivation from the seventh of the ecclesiastical modes (the Mixolydian) of the phrase in the accompaniment to Arkël's words in the final scene, "L'âme humaine aime à s'en aller seule;" or the relationship between the opening measures of the orchestral introduction to the drama and the first of the "authentic" modes, the Dorian; or between the same mode (corresponding to the D-minor scale without accidentals) and Mélisande's song at the tower window at the beginning of the third act. * * * * * It remains only to be said, by way of conclusion to this brief survey, that, for those who are disposed to open their sensibilities to the appeal of this music, its high and haunting beauty must exert an increasing sway over the heart and the imagination. It is making no excessive or invidious claim for it to assert that, after one has truly savored its quality, other music, transcendent though it may demonstrably be, seems a little coarse-fibred, a little otiose, a little--as Jules Laforgue might have said--_quotidienne_. But, however it may come to be ranked, there are few, I think, who will not recognize here an accent that is personal and unique, a peculiar ecstasy, a pervading and influential magic. II THE PLAY ITS QUALITIES Maurice Maeterlinck's _Pelléas et Mélisande_, published in 1892, stands fifth in the chronological order of his dramatic works. It was preceded by _La Princesse Maleine_ (1889); _L'Intruse_, _Les Aveugles_ (1890); and _Les sept Princesses_ (1891). Since its appearance Maeterlinck has published these plays: _Alladine et Palomides_; _Intérieur_; _La Mort de Tintagiles: Trois petits drames pour Marionnettes_ (1894); _Aglavaine et Selysette_ (1896); _Ariane et Barbe-Bleue_; _Soeur Béatrice_ (1901); _Monna Vanna_ (1902); _Joyzelle_ (1903). _Pelléas et Mélisande_, dedicated to Octave Mirbeau "in token of deep friendship, admiration, and gratitude," was first performed at the Bouffes-Parisiens, Paris, on May 17, 1893, with this cast: _Pelléas_, Mlle. Marie Aubry; _Mélisande_, Mlle. Meuris; _Arkël_, Émile Raymond; _Golaud_, Lugné-Poë; _Geneviève_, Mme. Camée; _Le petit Yniold_, Georgette Loyer. "Take care," warns The Old Man in that most simply touching of Maeterlinck's plays, _Intérieur_; "we do not know how far the soul extends about men." It is a subtle and characteristic saying, and it might have been used by the dramatist as a motto for his _Pelléas et Mélisande_; for not only does it embody the central thought of this poignant masque of passion and destiny, but it summarizes Maeterlinck's attitude as a writer of drama. "In the theatre," he says in the introduction to his translation of Ruysbroeck's _l'Ornement des Noces Spirituelles_, "I wish to study ... man, not relatively to other people, not in his relations to others or to himself; but, after sketching the ordinary facts of passion, to look at his attitude in presence of eternity and mystery, to attempt to unveil the eternal nature hidden under the accidental characteristics of the lover, father, husband.... Is the thought an exact picture of that something which produced it? Is it not rather a shadow of some struggle, similar to that of Jacob with the Angel?" Art, he has said, "is a temporary mask, under which the unknown without a face puzzles us. It is the substance of eternity, introduced ...by a distillation of infinity. It is the honey of eternity, taken from a flower of eternity." Everywhere, throughout his most deeply characteristic work, he emphasizes this thought--he would have us realize that we are the unconscious protagonists of an overshadowing, vast, and august drama whose significance and _dénouement_ we do not and cannot know, but of which mysterious intimations are constantly to be perceived and felt. The characters in his plays live, as the old king, Arkël, says in _Pelléas et Mélisande_, like persons "whispering about a closed room," This drama--at once his most typical, moving, and beautiful performance--swims in an atmosphere of portent and bodement; here, as Pater noted in the work of a wholly different order of artist, "the storm is always brooding;" here, too, "in a sudden tremor of an aged voice, in the tacit observance of a day," we become "aware suddenly of the great stream of human tears falling always through the shadows of the world." Mystery and sorrow--these are its keynotes; separately or in consonance, they are sounded from beginning to end of this strange and muted tragedy. It is full of a quality of emotion, of beauty, which is as "a touch from behind a curtain," issuing from a background vague and illimitable. One is aware of vast and inscrutable forces, working in silence and indirection, which somehow control and direct the shadowy figures who move dimly, with grave and wistful pathos, through a no less shadowy pageant of griefs and ecstasies and fatalities. They are little more than the instruments of a mysterious will, these vague and mist-enwrapped personages, who seem always to be unconscious actors in some secret and hidden drama whose progress is concealed behind the tangible drama of passionate and tragic circumstance in which they are ostensibly taking part. "Maeterlinck's man," says S.C. de Soissons in a penetrating study of the Belgian's dramatic methods, "is a being whose sensuous life is only a concrete symbol of his infinite transcendental side; and, further, is only a link in an endless change of innumerable existences, a link that remains in continual communication, in mutual union with all the other links.... In Maeterlinck's dramas the whole of nature vibrates with man, either warning him of coming catastrophes or taking on a mournful attitude after they have happened. He considers man to be a great, fathomless mystery, which one cannot determine precisely, at which one can only glance, noting his involuntary and instinctive words, exclamations and impressions. Maeterlinck consciously deprives nature of her passive rôle of a soulless accessory, he animates her, orders her to collaborate actively in the action of the drama, to speak mysteriously beside man and to man, to forecast future incidents and catastrophes, in a word, to participate in all the actions of that fragment of human life which is called a drama." This "rhythmic correspondence," as Mr. James Huneker calls it, between man and his environment, is nowhere more effectively insisted upon by Maeterlinck than in _Pelléas et Mélisande_. Note the incident at the conclusion of the first act, where the departure of the ship and the gathering of the storm are commented upon by the two lovers in a scene which is charged with an inescapable atmosphere of foreboding; note the incident of the fugitive doves in the scene at Mélisande's tower window; or the episodic passage near the end of the third act, during the tense and painful scene of Golaud's espionage: "Do you see those poor people down there trying to kindle a little fire in the forest?--It has rained. And over there, do you see the old gardener trying to lift that tree that the wind has blown down across the road?--He cannot; the tree is too big ... too heavy; ... it will lie where it fell." Note, further on (in the third scene of the fourth act), just in advance of the culmination of the tragedy, the strange and ominous scene wherein Little Yniold describes the passing of the flock of sheep: "Why, there is no more sun.... They are coming, the little sheep. How many there are! They fear the dark! They crowd together! They cry! and they go quick! They are at the crossroads, and they know not which way to turn!... Now they are still.... Shepherd! why do they not speak any more? THE SHEPHERD (_who is out of sight_) "Because it is no longer the road to the fold. YNIOLD "Where are they going?--Shepherd! Shepherd!--where are they going?--Where are they going to sleep to-night? Oh! oh! it is too dark!--I am going to tell something to somebody." Always the setting, the accessories, reflect and underscore the inner movement of the drama, and always with arresting and intense effect. It tempts one to extravagant praise, this heart-shaking and lovely drama; this _vieille et triste légende de la forêt_, with its indescribable glamour, its affecting sincerity, its restraint, its exquisite and unflagging simplicity. The hesitant and melancholy personages who invest its scenes--Mélisande, timid, naïve, child-like, wistful, mercurial, infinitely pathetic; Pelléas, dream-filled, ardent, yet honorable in his passion; old Arkël, wise, gentle, and resigned; the tragic and brooding figure of Golaud; Little Yniold, artless and pitiful, a figure impossible anywhere save in Maeterlinck; the grave and simple diction, at times direct and homely in phrasing and imagery, at times rapturous, subtle, and evasive; the haunting _mise-en-scène_: the dim forest, the fountain in the park, the luminous and fragrant nightfall, the occasional glimpses, sombre and threatening, of the sea, the silent and gloomy castle,--all these unite to form a dramatic and poetic and pictorial ensemble which completely fascinates and enchains the mind. The result would have been as inconceivable before Maeterlinck undertook the writing of drama as, to-day, it is inimitable and untouched. ITS ACTION Maeterlinck's play, as adapted by Debussy for musical setting, becomes a "lyric drama in five acts and twelve tableaux." Certain portions have been left out--as the scenes, at the beginning of Act I and Act V, in which the servingwomen of the castle appear; the fourth scene of Act II, in which Pelléas is persuaded by Arkël to postpone his journey to the bedside of his dying friend Marcellus; the opening scene of Act III, between Pelléas, Mélisande, and Yniold. Numerous passages that are either not essential to the development of the action, or that do not invite musical transmutation, have been curtailed or omitted, with the result that the movement of the drama has been compressed and accelerated throughout. In outlining very briefly the action of the play (which should be read in the original by all who would know Debussy's setting of it) I shall adhere to the slightly altered version which forms the actual text of the opera. The characters are these: ARKËL, _King of Allemonde_ PELLÉAS & GOLAUD, _half-brothers, grandsons of_ ARKËL MÉLISANDE, _an unknown princess; later the bride of_ GOLAUD LITTLE YNIOLD, _Son of_ GOLAUD _by a former marriage_ GENEVIÈVE, _Mother of_ PELLÉAS _and_ GOLAUD A PHYSICIAN _Servants, Beggars, etc._ ACT I The opening scene is in a forest, in an unknown land. It is autumn. Golaud, gray-bearded, stern, a giant in stature ("I am made of iron and blood," he says of himself), has been hunting a wild boar, and has been led astray. His dogs have left him to follow a false scent. He is about to retrace his steps, when he comes upon a young girl weeping by a spring. She is very beautiful, and very timid. She would flee, but Golaud reassures her. Her dress is that of a princess, though her garments have been torn by the briars. Golaud questions her. Her name, she says, is Mélisande; she was born "far away;" she has fled, and is lost; but she will not tell her age, or whence she came, or what injury has been done her, or who it is that has harmed or threatened her--"Every one! every one!" she says. Her golden crown has fallen into the water--"It is the crown he gave me," she cries; "it fell as I was weeping." Golaud would recover it for her, but she will have no more of it.... "I had rather die at once!" she protests. Golaud prevails upon her to go with him--the night is coming on, and she cannot remain alone in the forest. She refuses, at first, in terror, then reluctantly consents. "Where are you going?" she asks. "I do not know.... I, too, am lost," replies Golaud. They leave together. The scene changes to a hall in the castle--the silent and forbidding castle near the sea, surrounded by deep forests, where Golaud, with his mother Geneviève and his little son Yniold (the child of his first wife, now dead), lives with his aged father, Arkël, king of Allemonde. Here, too, lives Golaud's young half-brother, Pelléas--for they are not sons of the same father. Half a year has passed, and it is spring. Geneviève reads to her father, the ancient Arkël, a letter sent by Golaud to Pelléas. After recounting the circumstances of his meeting with Mélisande, Golaud continues: "It is now six months since I married her, and I know as little of her past as on the day we met. Meanwhile, dear Pelléas, you whom I love more than a brother, ... make ready for our return. I know that my mother will gladly pardon me; but I dread the King, in spite of all his kindness. If, however, he will consent to receive her as if she were his own daughter, light a lamp at the summit of the tower overlooking the sea, upon the third night after you receive this letter. I shall be able to see it from our vessel. If I see no light, I shall pass on and shall return no more." They decide to receive Golaud and his child-bride, although the marriage has prevented a union which, for political reasons, Arkël had arranged for his grandson. Again the scene changes. Mélisande and Geneviève are walking together in the gardens, and they are joined by Pelléas. "We shall have a storm to-night," he says, "yet it is so calm now.... One might embark unwittingly and come back no more." They watch the departure of a great ship that is leaving the port, the ship that brought Golaud and his young wife. "Why does she sail to-night?... She may be wrecked," says Mélisande.... "The night comes quickly," observes Pelléas. A silence falls between them. "It is time to go in," says Geneviève. "Pelléas, show the way to Mélisande. I must go 'tend to little Yniold," and she leaves them alone. "Will you let me take your hand?" says Pelléas to Mélisande. Her hands are full of flowers, she responds. He will hold her arm, he says, for the road is steep. He tells her that he has had a letter from his dying friend Marcellus, summoning him to his bedside, and that he may perhaps go away on the morrow. "Oh! why do you go away?" says Mélisande. ACT II The second act begins at an old and abandoned fountain in the park--the "Fountain of the Blind," so called because it once possessed miraculous healing powers. Pelléas and Mélisande enter together. It is a stifling day, and they seek the cool tranquillity of the fountain and the shadow of the overarching trees--"One can hear the water sleep," says Pelléas. Their talk is dangerously intimate. Mélisande dips her hand in the cool water, and plays with her wedding-ring as she lies stretched along the edge of the marble basin. She throws the ring in the air and it falls into the deep water. Mélisande displays agitation: "What shall we say if Golaud asks where it is?" "The truth, the truth," replies Pelléas. The scene changes to an apartment in the castle. Golaud lies upon a bed, with Mélisande bending over him. He has been wounded while hunting. Mélisande is compassionate, perhaps remorseful. She too, she confesses, is ill, unhappy, though she will not tell Golaud what it is that ails her. Her husband discovers the absence of her wedding-ring, and harshly, suspiciously, asks where it is. Mélisande, confused and terrified, dissembles, and answers that she must have lost it in a grotto by the seashore, when she went there in the morning to pick shells for little Yniold. She is sure it is there. Golaud bids her go at once and search for it. She fears to go alone, and he suggests that she ask Pelléas to accompany her. The next scene discovers Mélisande with Pelléas in the grotto. They are deeply agitated. It is very dark, but Pelléas describes to her the look of the place, for, he tells her, she must be able to answer Golaud if he should question her. The moon breaks through the clouds and illumines brightly the interior, revealing three old and white-haired beggars asleep against a ledge of rock. Mélisande is uneasy, and would go. They depart in silence. ACT III The opening scene of the third act shows the exterior of one of the towers of the castle, with a winding staircase passing beneath a window at which sits Mélisande, combing her unbound hair, and singing in the starlit darkness--"like a beautiful strange bird," says Pelléas, who enters by the winding stair. He entreats her to lean further forward out of the window, that he may come closer, that he may touch her hand; for, he says, he is leaving on the morrow. She leans further out, telling him that he may take her hand if he will promise not to leave on the next day. Suddenly her long tresses fall over her head and stream about Pelléas. He is enraptured. "I have never seen such hair as yours, Mélisande! See! see! Though it comes from so high, it floods me to the heart!... And it is sweet, sweet as though it fell from heaven!... I can no longer see the sky through your locks.... My two hands can no longer hold them.... They are alive like birds in my hands. And they love me, they love me more than you do!" Mélisande begs to be released, Pelléas kisses the enveloping tresses.... "Do you hear my kisses?--They mount along your hair." Doves come from the tower--Mélisande's doves--and fly about them. They are frightened, and are flying away. "They will be lost in the dark!" laments Mélisande. Golaud enters by the winding stair, and surprises them. Mélisande is entrapped by her hair, which is caught in the branches of a tree. "What are you doing here?" asks Golaud. They are confused, and stammer inarticulately. "Mélisande, do not lean so far out of the window," cautions her husband. "Do you not know how late it is? It is almost midnight. Do not play so in the darkness. You are a pair of children!" He laughs nervously. "What children!" He and Pelléas go out, and the scene shifts to the vaults in the depths under the castle,--dank, unwholesome depths, that exhale an odor of death, where the darkness is "like poisoned slime." Golaud leads his brother through the vaults, which Pelléas had seen only once, long ago. "Here is the stagnant water of which I spoke; do you smell the death-odor?--That is what I wanted you to perceive," insinuates Golaud. "Let us go to the edge of this overhanging rock, and do you lean over a little. You will feel it in your face.... Lean over; have no fear; ... I will hold you ... give me ... no, no, not your hand, it might slip.... Your arm, your arm! Do you see down into the abyss, Pelléas?" "Yes, I think I can see to the bottom of the abyss," rejoins Pelléas. "Is it the light that trembles so?" He straightens up, turns, and looks at Golaud. "Yes, it is the lantern," answers Mélisande's husband, his voice shaking. "See--I moved it to throw light on the walls." "I stifle here.... Let us go!" exclaims Pelléas. They leave in silence. The succeeding scene shows them on a terrace at the exit of the vaults. Golaud warns Pelléas. "About Mélisande: I overheard what passed and what was said last night. I realize that it was but child's play; but it must not be repeated.... She is very delicate, and it is necessary to be more than usually careful, as she is perhaps with child, and the least emotion might cause serious results. It is not the first time I have noticed that there might be something between you.... You are older than she; it will suffice to have said this to you. Avoid her as much as possible, though not too pointedly." The next scene passes before the castle. Golaud and his little son Yniold, the innocent playfellow of Mélisande and Pelléas, are together. Golaud questions him. "You are always with mama.... See, we are just under mama's window now. She may be saying her prayers at this moment.... Tell me, Yniold, she is often with your uncle Pelléas, is she not?" The child's naïve answers inflame his jealousy, confirm his suspicions, though they baffle him. "Do they never tell you to go and play somewhere else?" he asks. "No, papa, they are afraid when I am not with them.... They always weep in the dark.... That makes one weep, too.... She is pale, papa." "Ah! ah!... patience, my God, patience!" cries the anguished Golaud.... "They kiss each other sometimes?" he queries. "Yes ... yes; ... once ... when it rained." "They kissed each other?--But how, how did they kiss?" "So, papa, so!" laughs the boy, and then cries out as he is pricked by his father's beard. "Oh, your beard!... It pricks! It is getting all gray, papa; and your hair, too--all gray, all gray!" Suddenly the window under which they are sitting is illuminated, and the light falls upon them. "Oh, mama has lit her lamp!" exclaims Yniold. "Yes," observes Golaud; "it begins to grow light." Yniold wishes to go, but Golaud restrains him. "Let us stay here in the shadow a little longer.... One cannot tell, yet.... I think Pelléas is mad!" he exclaims violently. He lifts Yniold up to the window, cautioning him to make no noise, and asks him what he sees. The child reports that Mélisande is there, and that his uncle Pelléas is there, too. "What are they doing? Are they near each other?" "They are looking at the light." "They do not say anything?" "No, papa, they do not close their eyes.... Oh! oh!... I am terribly afraid!" "Why, what are you afraid of?--look! look!" demands Golaud. "Oh, oh! I am going to cry, papa!--let me down! let me down!" insists Yniold, in nameless terror. ACT IV Mélisande and Pelléas meet in an apartment in the castle. Pelléas is about to leave, to travel, he tells her, now that his father is recovering; but before he goes he must see her alone--he must speak to her that night. He asks that she meet him in the park, at the "Fountain of the Blind." It will be the last night, he says, and she will see him no more. Mélisande consents to meet him, but she will not hear of his going away. "I shall see you always; I shall look upon you always," she tells him. "You will look in vain," says Pelléas; "I shall try to go very far away." They separate. Arkël enters. He tells Mélisande that he has pitied her since she came to the castle: "I observed you. You were listless--but with the strange, astray look of one who, in the sunlight, in a beautiful garden, awaits ever a great misfortune.--I cannot explain.--But I was sad to see you thus. Come here; why do you stay there mute and with downcast eyes?--I have kissed you but once hitherto, the day of your coming; and yet the old need sometimes to touch with their lips a woman's forehead or the cheek of a child, that they may still keep their faith in the freshness of life and avert for a moment the menaces of death. Are you afraid of my old lips? How I have pitied you these months!" She tells him that she has not been unhappy. But perhaps, he says, she is of those who are unhappy without knowing it. Golaud enters, ferocious and distraught. He has blood on his forehead. It is nothing, he says--he has passed through a thicket of thorns. Mélisande would wipe his brow. He repulses her fiercely. "I will not have you touch me, do you understand?" he cries. "I came to get my sword." "It is here, on the prie-Dieu," says Mélisande, and she brings it to him. "Why do you tremble so?" he says to her. "I am not going to kill you.--You hope to see something in my eyes without my seeing anything in yours? Do you suppose I may know something?" He turns to Arkël. "Do you see those great eyes?--it is as if they gloried in their power." "I see," responds Arkël, "only a great innocence." "A great innocence!" cries Golaud wildly. "They are more than innocent!... They are purer than the eyes of a lamb.--They might teach God lessons in innocence! A great innocence! Listen! I am so near them that I can feel the freshness of their lashes when they close--and yet I am less far from the great secrets of the other world than from the smallest secret of those eyes!--A great innocence?--More than innocence! One would say that the angels of heaven celebrated there an unceasing baptism. I know those eyes! I have seen them at their work! Close them! close them! or I shall close them forever!--You need not put your right hand to your throat so; I am saying a very simple thing--I have no concealed meaning. If I had, why should I not speak it? Ah!--do not attempt to flee!--Here!--Give me that hand!--Ah! your hands are too hot!--Away! the touch of your flesh disgusts me!--Here!--You shall not escape me now!" He seizes her by the hair. "Down on your knees! On your knees before me!--Ah! your long hair is of some use at last!" He throws her from side to side, holding her by her hair. "Right, left!--Left, right!--Absalom! Absalom!--Forward! now back! To the ground! to the ground! Ha! ha! you see, I laugh already like an imbecile!" Arkël, running up, seeks to restrain him. Golaud affects a sudden and disdainful calmness. "You are free to act as you please," he says.--"It is of no consequence to me.--I am too old to care; and, besides, I am not a spy. I shall await my chance; and then.... Oh! then!... I shall simply act as custom demands." "What is the matter?--Is he drunk?" asks Arkël. "No, no!" cries Mélisande, weeping. "He hates me--and I am so wretched! so wretched!" "If I were God," ruminates the aged king, "how infinitely I should pity the hearts of men!" The scene changes once more to the fountain in the park. Yniold is discovered seeking to move a great rock behind which his golden ball has rolled. Night is coming on. The distant bleating of sheep is heard. Yniold looks over the edge of the terrace and sees the flock crowding along the road. Suddenly they cease their crying. Yniold calls to the shepherd. "Why do they not speak any more?" "Because," answers the shepherd, who is concealed from sight, "it is no longer the road to the fold." "Where are they going to sleep to-night?" cries the child. There is no answer, and he departs, exclaiming that he must find somebody to speak to.[5] Pelléas enters, to keep his tryst with Mélisande. "It is the last time," he meditates. "It must all be ended. I have been playing like a child with what I did not understand. I have played, dreaming about the snares of fate. By what have I been suddenly awakened? Who has aroused me all at once? I shall depart, crying out for joy and woe like a blind man fleeing from his burning house. I shall tell her I am going. My father is out of danger; and I can no longer lie to myself.--It is late; she is not coming. [5] Although this scene was set to music by Debussy, and appears in both the orchestral and piano scores, it is omitted from the performances at the Opéra-Comique. --It would be better to go away without seeing her again.--But I must look well at her this time.--There are some things that I no longer recall.--It seems at times as though I had not seen her for a hundred years.--And I have not yet looked deep into her gaze. There remains nothing to me if I go away thus. And all those memories!--it is as if I were to carry away a little water in a muslin bag.--I must see her one last time, see to the bottom of her heart.--I must tell her all that I have never told her." Mélisande enters. Their greeting is simple. Pelléas bids her come under the shade of the linden. She wishes to remain where it is lighter; she wishes to stay where she may be seen. Golaud, she says, is sleeping. It is late. In an hour the great gates of the castle will be closed. Pelléas tells her that it is perhaps the last time he shall see her, that he must go away forever. She asks him why it is that he is always saying that. "Must I tell you what you know already?" rejoins Pelléas. "You know not what I am going to tell you?" "Why, no; I know nothing," says Mélisande. "You know not why I must go? You know not that it is because [he kisses her abruptly] I love you?" "I love you too," says Mélisande simply, in a low voice. "You love me? you love me too?" cries Pelléas. "Since when have you loved me?" "Since I saw you first," she answers. "Oh, how you say that!" cries Pelléas. "Your voice seems to have blown across the sea in spring!... You say it so frankly--like an angel questioned.--Your voice! your voice! It is cooler and more frank than the water is!--It is like pure water on my lips!--Give me, give me your hands!--Oh, how small your hands are!--I did not know you were so beautiful! I have never before seen anything so beautiful!--I was filled with unrest; I sought everywhere; yet I found not beauty.--And now I have found you!--I do not believe there can be upon the earth a woman more beautiful!" Their love-scene is harshly interrupted. "What is that noise?" asks Pelléas. "They are closing the gates!--We cannot return now. Do you hear the bolts?--Listen!--the great chains!--It is too late!" "So much the better!" cries Mélisande, in passionate abandonment. "Do you say that?" exclaims her lover. "See, it is no longer we who will it so! Come, come!" They embrace. "Listen! my heart is almost strangling me! Ah! how beautiful it is in the shadows!" "There is some one behind us!" whispers Mélisande. Pelléas has heard nothing. "I hear only your heart in the darkness." "I heard the crackling of dead leaves," insists Mélisande. "A-a-h! he is behind a tree!" she whispers. "Who?" "Golaud!--he has his sword!" "And I have none!" cries Pelléas. "He does not know we have seen him," he cautions. "Do not stir; do not turn your head.--He will remain there so long as he thinks we do not know he is watching us.--He is still motionless.--Go, go at once this way. I will wait for him--I will hold him back." "No, no, no!" cries Mélisande. "Go! go! he has seen everything!--He will kill us!" "All the better! all the better!" "He is coming!--Your mouth! your mouth!" "Yes! Yes! Yes!" They kiss desperately. "Oh, oh! All the stars are falling!" cries Pelléas. "Upon me also!" "Again! Again!--Give! give!" "All! all! all!" Golaud rushes upon them with drawn sword and kills Pelléas, who falls beside the fountain. Mélisande flees in terror, crying out as she goes, "Oh! oh! I have no courage! I have no courage!" Golaud pursues her in silence through the forest. ACT V The last act opens in an apartment in the castle. Mélisande is stretched unconscious upon a bed. Golaud, Arkël, and the physician stand in a corner of the room. Some days earlier Mélisande and her husband had been found stretched out senseless before the castle gate, Golaud having still in his side the sword with which he had sought to kill himself. Mélisande had been wounded,--"a tiny little wound that would not kill a pigeon;" yet her life is despaired of; and on her death-bed she has been delivered of a child--"a puny little girl such as a beggar might be ashamed to own--a little waxen thing that came before its time, that can be kept alive only by being wrapped in wool." The room is very silent. "It seems to me that we keep too still in her room," says Arkël; "it is not a good sign; look how she sleeps--how slowly.--It is as if her soul were forever chilled." Golaud laments that he has killed her without cause. "They had kissed like little children--and I--I did it in spite of myself!" Mélisande wakes. She wishes to have the window open, that she may see the sunset. She has never felt better, she says, in answer to Arkël's questioning. She asks if she is alone in the room. Her husband is present, answers Arkël. "If you are afraid, he will go away. He is very unhappy." "Golaud is here?" she says; "why does he not come to me?" Golaud staggers to the bed. He begs the others to withdraw for a moment, as he must speak with her alone. When they have left him, his torturing suspicions, suspicions that will not down, find voice. He entreats her to tell him the truth. "The truth must be spoken to one about to die." Did she love Pelléas? he asks in agony. "Why, yes, I loved him--where is he?" The answer maddens him. "Do you not understand? Will you not understand? It seems to me--it seems to me--well, then, it is this: I ask you if you loved him with a guilty love? Were you--were you both guilty?" "No, no; we were not guilty," she replies; "why do you ask me that?" Arkël and the physician appear at the door. "You may come in," says Golaud despairingly; "it is useless, I shall never know! I shall die here like a blind man!" "You will kill her," warns Arkël. "Is it you, grandfather?" questions Mélisande; "is it true that winter is already coming?--it is cold, and there are no more leaves." "Are you cold? Shall I close the windows?" asks Golaud. "No, no, not till the sun has sunk into the sea--it sets slowly." Arkël asks her if she wishes to see her child. "What child?" she inquires. Arkël tells her that she is a mother. The child is brought, and put into her arms. Mélisande can scarcely lift her arms to take her. "She does not laugh, she is little," says Mélisande; "she, too, will weep--I pity her." Gradually the room has filled with the women-servants of the castle, who range themselves in silence along the walls and wait. "She is going to sleep," observes Arkël; "her eyes are full of tears. It is her soul, now, that weeps. Why does she stretch her arms out so?--what does she wish?" "Toward her child, without doubt," answers the physician. "It is the struggle of motherhood against...." "At this moment?--At once?" cries Golaud, in a renewed outburst of anguish.... "Oh, oh! I must speak to her! Mélisande! Mélisande!--leave me alone with her!" "Trouble her not," gravely interposes Arkël. "Do not speak to her again.--You know not what the soul is.--We must speak in low tones now. She must no longer be disturbed. The human soul is very silent. The human soul likes to depart alone. It suffers so timidly! But the sadness, Golaud, the sadness of all we see!" At this moment the servants fall suddenly on their knees at the back of the room. Arkël turns suddenly: "What is the matter?" The physician approaches the bed and examines the body of Mélisande. "They are right," he says. There is a silence. "I saw nothing. Are you sure?" questions Arkël. "Yes, yes." "I heard nothing. So quickly! so quickly! She goes without a word!" Golaud sobs aloud. "Do not remain here," says Arkël. "She must have silence now. Come; come. It is terrible, but it is not your fault. It was a little being, so quiet, so timid, and so silent. It was a poor little mysterious being like everyone. She lies there as though she were the elder sister of her baby. Come; the child should not stay here in this room. She must live, now, in her place. It is the poor little one's turn." III THE MUSIC A REVOLUTIONARY SCORE Debussy's _Pelléas et Mélisande, drame lyrique en 5 actes et 12 tableaux_, was performed for the first time on any stage at the Opéra-Comique, Paris, April 30, 1902. Its first performance outside of Paris was at the Théâtre de la Monnaie, Brussels, January 9, 1907; its second was at Frankfort, April 19, 1907. Its third will be the coming production at the Manhattan Opera House, New York. The original Paris cast was as follows: _Pelléas_, M. Jean Périer; _Mélisande_, Miss Mary Garden; _Arkël_, M. Vieuille; _Golaud_, M. Dufrane; _Geneviève_, Mlle. Gerville-Réache; _Le petit Yniold_, M. Blondin; _Un Médicin_, M. Viguié. M. André Messager was the conductor. The work was admirably mounted under the supervision of the Director of the Opéra-Comique, M. Albert Carré. The fortunes of the opera have not been altogether happy. It has been said that Debussy conceived the idea of writing music for Maeterlinck's play soon after its first performance at the Bouffes-Parisiens in 1893; that, although it was necessary to secure the dramatist's consent to its adaptation, he did not solicit Maeterlinck's permission until he had thought out his musical scheme to a considerable degree of elaboration; and that Maeterlinck (being of that complacent majority of literary men who neither care for nor are intelligently curious concerning musical art) was immensely surprised to learn that his play had suggested a tonal setting. There was much correspondence between composer and dramatist before Maeterlinck finally heard the music of Debussy at a rehearsal at the Opéra-Comique: so, at least, runs the legend. Just when or precisely how the famous and probably inevitable rupture occurred between them, tradition does not make altogether clear. Maeterlinck is alleged to have become incensed on account of certain excisions made by Debussy in fitting the text of the play to music; then, it appears, there was a quarrel over the choice of a singer for the performance, and Maeterlinck published a letter of protest in which he declared that "the _Pelléas_ of the Opéra-Comique" was "a piece which had become entirely foreign" to him, and that, as he was "deprived of all control over it," he could only hope "that its fall would be prompt and noisy." The matter is important only as contributing to the history of Debussy's work, and would scarcely reward detailed examination or discussion. One would have said, in advance of the event, that Debussy, of all composers, living or dead, was best fitted to write music for Maeterlinck's beautiful and perturbing play. He was not only best fitted, he was ideally fitted; in listening to this music one catches oneself imagining that it and the drama issued from the same brain. It is impossible to conceive of the play wedded to any other music, and it is difficult, indeed, after knowing the work in its lyric form, to think of it apart from its tonal commentary. For Debussy has caught and re-uttered, with almost incredible similitude, the precise poetic accent of the dramatist. He has found poignant and absolute analogies for its veiled and obsessing loveliness, its ineffable sadness, the strange and fate-burdened atmosphere in which it is steeped--these things have here attained a new voice and tangibility. In calling this a "revolutionary" score one is being simply and baldly literal. To realize the justness of the epithet, one has only to speculate upon what Wagner would have said, or what Richard Strauss may think, of an opera (let us adhere, for convenience, to an accommodating if inaccurate term) written for the voices, from beginning to end, in a kind of recitative which is virtually a chant; an opera in which there is no vocal melody whatsoever, and comparatively little symphonie development of themes in the orchestra; in which an enigmatic and wholly eccentric system of harmony is exploited; in which there are scarcely more than a dozen _fortissimo_ passages in the course of five acts; in which, for the greater part of the time, the orchestra employed is the orchestra of Mozart,--surely, this is something new in modern musico-dramatic art; surely, it requires some courage, or an indifference amounting to courage, to write thus in a day when the plangent and complex orchestra of the _Ring_ is considered inadequate, and the 113 instrumentalists of _Salome_, like the trumpeters of an elder time, are storming the operatic ramparts of two continents. The radicalism of the music was fully appreciated at the time of the first performances in Paris. To the dissenters, Debussy's musical personages were mere "stammering phantoms," and he was regaled with the age-worn charge of having "ignored melody altogether." Debussy has defended his methods with point and directness. "I have been reproached," he says, "because in my score the melodic phrase is always in the orchestra, never in the voice. I tried, with all my strength and all my sincerity, to identify my music with the poetical essence of the drama. Before all things, I respected the characters, the lives of my personages; I wished them to express themselves independently of me, of themselves. I let them sing in me. I tried to listen to them and to interpret them faithfully. I wished--intended, in fact--that the action should never be arrested; that it should be continuous, uninterrupted. I wished to dispense with parasitic musical phrases. When listening to a work, the spectator is wont to experience two kinds of emotions which are quite distinct: the musical emotion, on the one hand; the emotion of the character [in the drama], on the other; generally they are felt successively. I have tried to blend these two emotions, and make them simultaneous. Melody is, if I may say so, almost anti-lyric, and powerless to express the constant change of emotion or life. Melody is suitable only for the song (_chanson_), which confirms a fixed sentiment. I have never been willing that my music should hinder, through technical exigencies, the changes of sentiment and passion felt by my characters. It is effaced as soon as it is necessary that these should have perfect liberty in their gestures as in their cries, in their joy as in their sorrow." However much one may hesitate to subscribe to Debussy's generalities, the final justification for his procedure is in the fact that it is ideally suited to its especial purpose,--the tonal utterance of Maeterlinck's rhymeless, metreless, and broken phrases. To have set them in the sustained arioso style of _Tristan und Isolde_ would have been as impossible as it would have been inept. As it is, the writing for the voices in _Pelléas_ never, as one might reasonably suppose, becomes monotonous. The achievement--an astonishing _tour de force_, at the least--is as artistically successful as it is unprecedented in modern music. In his treatment of the orchestra, Debussy makes a scarcely less resolute departure from tradition. There is little symphonic development in the Wagnerian sense. His orchestra reflects the emotional implications of the text and action with absolute and scrupulous fidelity, but suggestively rather than with detailed emphasis. The drama is far less heavily underscored than with Wagner; the note of passion or of conflict or of tragedy is never forced. His personages love and desire, exult and hate and die, with a surprising economy of vehemence and insistence. Yet, unrhetorical as the music is, it is never pallid; and in such truly climacteric moments as that of Golaud's agonized outbreak in the scene with Mélisande, in the fourth act, and the ecstatic culmination of the final love-scene, the music supports the dramatic and emotional crisis with superb competency and vigor. He follows Wagner to the extent of using the inescapable device of representative themes, though he has, with his usual airy inconsistency, characterized the Wagnerian _Leitmotiv_ system as "rather coarse." It is true, however, that his typical phrases are employed far more sparingly and subtly than modern precedent would have led one to expect. They are seldom set in sharp and vividly dramatic contrast, as with Wagner; nor are they polyphonically deployed. Often they are mere sound-wraiths, intended to denote moods and nuances of emotion so impalpable and evanescent, so vague and interior, that it is more than a little difficult to mark their precise significance. Often they are mere fragments of themes, mere patches of harmonic color, evasive and intangible, designed almost wholly to translate phases of that psychic penumbra in which the characters and the action of the drama are enwrapped. They have a common kinship in their dim and muted loveliness, their grave reticence, the deep and immitigable sadness with which, even at their most rapturous, they are penetrated. This is a score rich in beauty and strangeness, yet the music has often a deceptive naïveté, a naïveté that is so extreme that it reveals itself, finally, as the quintessence of subtlety and reticence--in which respect, again, we are reminded of its perfect, its well-nigh uncanny, correspondence with the quality of Maeterlinck's drama. As it has been remarked, Debussy's orchestra is here, with few exceptions, the orchestra of Mozart's day. On page after page he writes for strings alone, or for strings with wood-wind and horns. He uses the full modern orchestra only upon the rarest occasions, and then more often for color than for volume. He has an especial affection for the strings, particularly in the lower registers; and he is exceedingly fond of subdividing and muting them. It is rare to find him using the wood-wind choir alone, or the wood and brass without the strings. His orchestra contains the usual modern equipment--3 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, an English horn, 3 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, glockenspiel, cymbals, 2 harps, and strings; yet one may count on but little more than the fingers of both hands the pages in which this apparatus is employed in its full strength. And in spite of this curious and unpopular reticence, we listen here, as M. Bruneau has observed, to "a magic orchestra"--an orchestra of indescribable richness, delicacy, and suppleness--an orchestra that melts and shimmers with opalescent hues--an orchestra that has substance without density, sonority without blatancy, refinement without thinness. The music, as a whole, is as insinuating as it is unparalleled. Many passages are of an hypnotic and abiding fascination. There is something necromantic in the art which can so swiftly and so surely cast an ineluctable spell upon the heart and the imagination: such a spell as is cast in the scene at the _Fontaine des Aveugles_, in the second act; or when, from the window in the castle tower, Mélisande's unbound hair falls and envelops Pelléas--an unforgettable page; or when the lovers meet for the last time at the Fountain of the Blind; or in the scene of Mélisande's death--one of the most pathetic and affecting pages in all music. One must wonder at the elasticity and richness of the harmonic texture--which, while it is incurably "irregular," is never crude or inchoate; at the distinction of the melodic line; at the rhythmical variety; at the masterly and individual orchestration. No faculty of trained perception is required justly to value the excellences of Debussy's score. There is great beauty, great eloquence, in this music. It has sincerity, dignity, and reserve, yet it is both deeply impassioned and enamoringly tender; and it is as absolutely personal, as underived, as was _Tristan_ forty years ago. THE THEMES AND THEIR TREATMENT The score of _Pelléas et Mélisande_ ill brooks the short and ruthless method of the thematic annotator. As I have pointed out in the foregoing pages, its themes are often so indeterminate, so shadowy and elusive, as to rebuke the analyst who would disengage and expose them. Many of them are simply harmonic hues and half-lights, melodic shreds and fragments, whose substance is as impalpable as mist and whose outlines waver and fade almost before they are perceived. Few of them are clearly and definitely articulated; for the most part they are, as I have called them, mere "sound-wraiths," intentionally suggestive rather than definitive, evocative rather than descriptive. If one ventures to exhibit and to name them, one does so rather for the purpose of drawing attention to their beauty, their singularity, and their delicate potency, than with any thought of imposing an arbitrary character upon them or of insisting upon what seems to be their essential meaning--which is often altogether too recondite for positive identification. I shall not, therefore, attempt to dissect the music measure by measure, but shall endeavor rather to survey it "in the large," to offer simply a general indication of its more significant features. Nor shall I offer any further justification or apology for the titles which I have adopted for the various representative themes than to say that they have seemed to me to be sufficiently supported by their association with the moods and events of the drama. It is, of course, entirely possible that apter designations might be found for them; I offer those that I have chosen more as an invitation to the sympathetic and the inquisitive than from any desire to impose my own interpretation upon unwilling, dissenting, or indifferent minds. ACT I A brief orchestral prelude, less than twenty measures in length, introduces the opening scene of the first act. Divided and muted 'cellos, double-basses, and bassoons intone, _pp_, a solemn and brooding theme[6] designed to evoke the thought of the forest, which, sombre, mysterious, and oppressive, forms the background against which the events of the drama are projected (page 1, measure 1):[7] [6] Its curious progressions, based on the Dorian mode of the plain-chant (corresponding to a scale of D-minor without accidentals), I have alluded to in a previous chapter. [7] These indications refer to the arrangement of the score for voices and piano, with French and English text, published by A. Durand & Fils of Paris in 1907. I have indicated in each case, in addition to the page, the measure in which the example begins. I. THE FOREST [Illustration: Très modéré] This is immediately followed by one of the most important themes in the opera, that which seems to typify the veiled and overshadowing destiny which is very close to the central thought of Maeterlinck's play. Strangely harmonized, this _Fate_ theme (it is in the second measure that its kernel is contained, and it is this portion of it that is most frequently repeated) is sounded, _pp, très modéré_, by oboes, English horn, and clarinets (page 1, measure 5): II. FATE [Illustration] These two themes are repeated, with altered harmonization; then follows one of the two principal themes of the score--that of _Mélisande_, sung, _doux et expressif_, by the oboe over tremolos in the divided strings (page 1, measure 14): III. MÉLISANDE [Illustration: _p doux et expressif_] It is followed by a derivative theme which, in the drama, suggests the naïveté of Mélisande's personality (page 1, measure 1): IV. MÉLISANDE'S NAÏVETÉ [Illustration] Flute, oboe and clarinet repeat it over a counterpoint formed by the _Fate_ theme (2 horns), and the curtain opens to the accompaniment of the _Forest_ motive. This latter theme, with the motive of _Fate_, underscores the earlier portions of the dialogue between Golaud and Mélisande. At Golaud's words: "Oh! you are beautiful!" we hear (page 7, measure 1) an ardent phrase in the strings expressive of his awakened passion for the distressful little princess: V. GOLAUD'S LOVE [Illustration: Animée] This theme is sounded again, with peculiarly penetrating effect, in the divided strings, as Golaud entreats Mélisande not "to weep so" (page 9, measure 4), and, later in the scene (page 19, measure 1), when he tells her that she must not stay in the forest alone after nightfall, and urges her to go with him. As he informs her that he is "Prince Golaud, grandson of Arkël, the aged king of Allemonde," we hear, on the bassoons and horns, his own motive (page 14, measure 8): VI. GOLAUD [Illustration: Très soutenu] "You look like a mere child," he says, and the _Mélisande_ theme is given out, _doux et calme_, by the divided strings (page 18, measure 2). As the two go out together, the motive of _Fate_ is quietly intoned by the horns (page 22, measure 3). An interlude of some fifty measures, in which the _Forest, Fate_, and _Mélisande_ themes are exploited, introduces the second scene of the act. To an accompaniment of long-sustained chords varied by recurrences of the _Mélisande_ theme, Geneviève reads to the venerable Arkël Golaud's letter to his brother. The entrance of Pelléas is accompanied by the theme which characterizes him throughout--the second of the two motives (that of Mélisande being the other) which most conspicuously dominate the score. It is announced (page 33, measure 10) by three flutes and a clarinet, over a viola accompaniment: VII. PELLÉAS [Illustration: Animez un peu] The scene closes with a variant of this, and there is an interlude in which the orchestra weaves a commentary out of the themes of _Fate_ and _Golaud's Love_. As the third scene opens (before the castle), the _Mélisande_ theme is sung, _mélancolique et doux_, by the oboe against a murmuring accompaniment of the strings. Together with the _Pelléas_ theme, it accompanies the opening portion of the scene. A suggestive use is made of a fragment of the _Fate_ theme at Mélisande's words, after Pelléas prophesies the approach of a storm: "And yet it is so calm now!" (page 44, measure 5). Just before the voices of the departing sailors are heard, the curious student will note a characteristic passage in the orchestra (page 45, measure 1)--a sequence of descending "ninth-chords" built on a downward scale of whole tones. The _Fate_ theme, combined with that of _Mélisande_, colors the rest of the scene to the end. The conclusion of the act is striking: two flutes outline a variant of the _Mélisande_ motive; a horn sounds the first three notes of the second measure of the _Fate_ theme, and four horns and flute sustain, _pp_, an unresolved suspension--C#-F#-A#-D#-G#. VIII [Illustration: _presque plus rien_] ACT II The _Pelléas_ theme, sung by two flutes, opens the brief introduction to the second act. It is repeated, interwoven with harp arpeggios. Immediately preceding the entrance of Pelléas and Mélisande a muted horn, two flutes, two oboes, and harp sound a chord of singularly liquid quality--one of those fragmentary effects in the invention of which Debussy is so curiously happy. It is the motive of _The Fountain_.[8] [8] I quote it in the completer and more beautiful form in which it appears on page 57, measures 1-3. IX. THE FOUNTAIN [Illustration: Modéré] It is repeated, with still more magical effect (scored for divided violins and violas, two muted horns, and harp), as Mélisande remarks upon the clearness of the water, while the violins and violas weave about it a shimmering figure in sixteenth-notes with which its appearances are usually associated. As Pelléas warns Mélisande to take care, while she leans above the water along the marble edge of the basin, the clarinet, over a string accompaniment, announces an impassioned phrase (page 62, measure 3)--the theme of _Awakening Desire_: X. AWAKENING DESIRE [Illustration: En animant] As Pelléas questions Mélisande about the ring with which she is playing,--her wedding-ring,--and when it falls into the water while she is tossing it in the air, we hear persistently the theme of _Fate_, which, with the _Golaud_ theme (portentously sounded, _pp_, by horns and bassoons), closes the scene. There is an interlude in which the _Golaud_, _Mélisande_, and _Fate_ themes are heard. The rhythm of the latter theme mutters ominously in the bass as the second scene is disclosed. When _Golaud_, lying wounded on his bed, describes to Mélisande how, "at the stroke of noon," his horse "swerved suddenly, with no apparent cause," and threw him, as he was hunting in the forest ("could he have seen something extraordinary?"), the oboe recalls the theme of _Awakening Desire_, which was first heard as Mélisande and Pelléas sat together by the fountain in the forest during the heat of midday. The rhythm of the _Fate_ motive is hinted by violas, 'cellos, and horns as Golaud, in answer to Mélisande's compassionate questioning, observes that he is "made of iron and blood." Mélisande weeps, and the oboe sounds a plaintive variant of her motive (page 82, measure 2); the strings repeat it as she complains that she is ill. Nothing has happened, no one has harmed her, she answers, in response to Golaud's questionings: "It is no one. You do not understand me. It is something stronger than I," she says; and we hear the _Pelléas_ theme, dulcetly harmonized, in the strings. When, later, Golaud mentions his brother's name inquiringly, and she replies that she thinks he dislikes her, although he speaks to her sometimes, we hear, very softly, the theme of _Awakening Desire_. As their talk progresses to its climax, there is a recurrence of the _Fate_ theme; then, as Golaud, upon discovering the loss of her wedding-ring, harshly tells her that he "would rather have lost everything than that," the trombones and tuba declaim (page 99, measure 5) a threatening and sinister phrase which will later be more definitely associated with the thought of Golaud's vengeful purpose: XI. VENGEANCE [Illustration: Anime, un peu retenu] This is repeated still more vehemently three measures further on, and there is a return of the _Fate_ motive as Mélisande, at the bidding of Golaud, goes forth to seek the missing ring. An interlude, in which are blended the variant of the _Mélisande_ theme, which denotes her grieving, and the shimmering figure in sixteenth-notes heard during the dialogue at the fountain, leads into the scene before the grotto. As Pelléas and Mélisande stand in the darkness of the cavern we hear again (page 110, measure 2) the variant of the _Fate_ motive which marked the close of the preceding scene; then, as a sudden shaft of moonlight illuminates the grotto, it is expanded and transmuted into a gleaming flood of orchestral and harmonic color (two flutes, oboe, two harps _glissando_, string tremolos, cymbals _pp_). While they talk of the beggars sleeping in a corner of the cave, an oboe and flute trace a tenuous and melancholy phrase (_doux et triste_) which continues almost to the end of the scene; it leads into a quiet coda formed out of the theme of _Fate_. ACT III After several bars of preluding by flute, harp, violas, and 'cellos (harmonics), on an arpeggio figure, _ppp_, flutes and oboe present (page 115, measure 6) a theme which, in an ampler version, dominates the entire scene. Its complete form, in which I conceive it to be suggestive of the magic of night, is as follows (page 118, measure 2): XII. NIGHT [Illustration: Modéré sans lenteur] It continues in the orchestra until, as Pelléas urges Mélisande to lean further out of the window that he may see her hair unbound, a new theme enters, seeming to characterize the ardor of Pelléas' mood (page 120, measure 3[9]): [9] I quote it as it appears in its maturer form on page 125 (measure 3). XIII. ARDOR [Illustration: Animez toujours] As Mélisande leans further and further out of her window, these two themes (_Night_ and _Ardor_) grow increasingly insistent. They are interrupted at Pelléas' words, "I see only the branches of the willow drooping over the wall," by a rich passage for divided violins, violas, and 'cellos (page 124, measure 3), and by a brief phrase to which attention should be drawn because of its essentially Debussy-like quality--the progression in the first measure of page 125 (scored for violins and violas). Then suddenly Mélisande's unloosed hair streams down from the open window and envelops Pelléas, and we hear (a famous passage) in the strings alone, _ff_, a precipitate descending series of seventh-chords built on the familiar whole-tone scale which Debussy finds so impelling (page 127, measure 1). XIV [Illustration: Animez toujours] Then begins (page 128, measure 1) a delectable episode. Over a murmurous accompanying figure given out by violas, 'cellos, harp, and horn, a clarinet sings a variant of the _Mélisande_ theme. The harmonic changes are kaleidoscopic, the orchestral color of prismatic variety. The lovely rhapsody over his belovèd's XV [Illustration: Moins vite et passionnément contenu] tresses which Maeterlinck puts into the mouth of Pelléas is exquisitely enforced by the music. There is ravishing tenderness and beauty here, and an intensity of expression as penetrating as it is restrained. As Mélisande's doves come from the tower and fly about the heads of the lovers, we hear, tremolo in the strings, a variation of her motive. Golaud enters by the winding stair, and the threatening phrase quoted as Ex. XI is heard sombrely in the horns, bassoons, violas, and 'cellos--its derivation from Golaud's own theme (see Ex. VI) is here apparent. The latter motive sounds, _p_, as he warns Mélisande that she will fall from the window if she leans so far out. It is followed by the _Fate_ theme as he departs, laughing nervously. A short interlude is evolved from the _Mélisande_ theme (the _Pelléas_ motive forming a counterpoint), and the _Fate_ and _Vengeance_ motives--the latter outlined, over a roll of the timpani and a sustained chord in the horns and wood-wind, by a muted trumpet, _pp_. No new thematic matter is presented during the two succeeding scenes (in the vaults under the castle and, afterward, on the terrace), nor are there significant reminiscences of themes already brought forward. The music of the vault scene forms a pointed commentary on the implications of the action and dialogue--in character it is dark-hued, forbidding, sinister. As Golaud and Pelléas emerge from the vaults, much use is made in the orchestra of a jubilant figure in triplets (first given out _fortissimo_ by flutes and oboes, over an undulating accompaniment, on page 152, measure 1) which seems to express a certain irresponsible exuberance on the part of Pelléas; it accompanies his light-hearted remarks about the odor of the flowers, the sheen of the water, and the invigorating air, as they come out upon the sunlit terrace. As the scene changes again, a very short interlude introduces a new theme--that of Little Yniold, Golaud's son, whom he is to use as the innocent tool of his suspicions. This motive, which occurs repeatedly during the ensuing scene, is one of the less important, but most typical and haunting ones, in the entire score. It is first presented (page 158, measure 4) by the oboe, _doux et expressif_: XVI. YNIOLD [Illustration: _p doux et expressif_] It is heard again as an accompaniment to Yniold's naïve answers to Golaud's interrogations (page 160); when he cries out that his father, in his agitation, has hurt him (page 164); and, in a particularly touching form, on page 165, measure 4, when Golaud promises that he will give him a present on the morrow if Yniold will tell him what he knows concerning Mélisande and Pelléas. We hear the _Pelléas_ theme in the strings and wood-wind (page 172, measure 7) when Yniold says that they "weep always in the dark," and that "that makes one weep also," and again when he tells of having seen them kiss one day--"when it rained." Thereafter it is heard repeatedly in varying forms to the end of the scene, at times underlying a persistent triplet-figure which has the effect of an inverted pedal-point. A tumultuous and agitated _crescendo_ passage brings the act to a portentous close. ACT IV A variant of the _Pelléas_ theme, with the opening notes of the _Fate_ motive as an under voice, begins the short prelude to the fourth act; there is a hint of the _Yniold_ theme, and the first two notes of the _Pelléas_ motive introduce the first scene. The interview between Mélisande and her lover, in which they arrange their tryst at the fountain in the park, is treated with restraint; an expressive phrase sung by the 'cellos (page 194, measure 11) may be noted at the point where Pelléas informs Mélisande that she will look in vain for his return after he has gone. The _Mélisande_ theme, in a new form, opens the moving scene between Mélisande and Arkël in which he tells her of his compassionate observation of her since first she came to the castle. During his speech and her replies we hear her motive and that of _Fate_ (page 205), the latter theme announcing the entrance of Golaud, distraught, blood-bespattered, seeking, he says, his sword. The music of the ensuing scene does not call for extended description--rather for the single comment that in it Debussy has proved once for all his power of forceful, direct, and tangible dramatic utterance: the music here, to apply to it Golaud's phrase in the play, is compact of "blood and iron"--as well it needed to be for the accentuation of this perturbing and violent episode. The _Fate_ motive courses ominously through its earlier portions. We hear, too, what I have called the "second" _Mélisande_ theme--that which seems to denote her naïveté (see Ex. IV), and a strange variant of the first _Mélisande_ theme (page 212, measure 4). At the climax of the scene, when Golaud seizes his wife by her long hair and flings her from side to side, the music is as brutal, as "virile," as the most exigent could reasonably demand. Later, as he hints at his purpose,--"I shall await my chance,"--the trombones, tubas, and double-basses _pizzicato_ mutter, _pp_, the motive of _Vengeance_. The orchestral interlude is long and elaborate. We hear a variant of the _Fate_ theme, which reaches a climax in a _fortissimo_ outburst of the full orchestra. The theme in this form is developed at length; there is a reminiscence of the _Mélisande_ theme, and the music, by a gradual _diminuendo_, passes into the third scene of the act--in the park, before the Fountain of the Blind. At the beginning occurs the incident of the passing flock of sheep observed by Yniold. This scene need not detain us long, since it is musically as well as dramatically episodic. There are no new themes, and no significant recurrences of familiar ones, though the music is rich in suggestive and imaginative details; as I have previously noted, it is omitted in the performances at the Opéra-Comique. Pelléas enters, and there is an impassioned declaration of his theme, scored, _f_, for wood-wind, horns, and strings, as he observes that he is about to depart, "crying out for joy and woe like a blind man fleeing from his burning house." There is a return of the _Mélisande_ theme; and then, as she herself enters, and Pelléas urges her not to stay at the edge of the moonlight, but to come with him into the shadow of the linden, there enters a theme of great beauty and tenderness, announced, _mystérieusement_, by horns and 'cellos (page 236, measure 6). I may call it, for want of a better name, the motive of _The Shadows_, since it appears only in association with the thought of sheltering darkness and concealment: XVII. THE SHADOWS [Illustration: Modéré] We hear the _Fate_ motive when Mélisande warns Pelléas that it is late, that they must take care, as the gates of the castle will soon be closed for the night. There is a gracious variant of this motive as Mélisande tells how she caught her gown on the nails of the gate as she left the castle, and so was delayed. Then comes a reminiscence of the _Fountain_ theme (the authentic wonder of which is that it is not a theme at all, but merely a single chord introduced by a grace-note; yet the vividness of its effect is indisputable), suggested, _pp_, by horns and harp, at Mélisande's words: "We have been here before." As Pelléas asks her if she knows why he has bidden her to meet him, strings and horn give out, _pp et très expressif_, a lovely phrase derived from the _Pelléas_ theme (page 242, measure 1). Their mutual XVIII [Illustration: Modéré] confessions of love, so simply uttered in the text, are entirely unaccompanied by the orchestra; but as Pelléas exclaims: "The ice is melted with glowing fire!" four solo 'cellos, with sustained harmonics in the violins and violas, sound, _pianissimo_, a ravishing series of "ninth-chords" (page 244, measure 6)--a sheer Debussy-esque effect, for the relation between the chords is as absolutely anarchistic as it is deeply beautiful. "Your voice seems to have XIX [Illustration: Lent] [Illustration] blown across the sea in spring," says Pelléas, and a horn, accompanied by violins in six parts, announces the motive of _Ecstasy_ (page 245, measure 7): XX. ECSTASY [Illustration: Modéré] The 'cellos intone the _Mélisande_ theme as Pelléas tells her that he has never seen anyone so beautiful as she; the theme of _Ecstasy_ follows in the strings, horns, and wood-wind, _forte_; the theme of _The Shadows_ returns as Pelléas again invites her into the darkness beneath the trees; there is a dolorous hint of the _Mélisande_ theme as she says that she is happy, yet sad. And then the amorous and caressing quality of the music is sharply altered. There is a harsh and sinister muttering in the double-basses as Pelléas, startled by a distant sound, cries that they are closing the gates of the castle, and that they are shut out. The _Golaud_ motive is recalled with sombre force in the strings as the rattle of the great chains is heard. "All the better! All the better!" cries Mélisande; and, as they embrace in sudden abandonment, we hear, introduced by an exquisite interplay of tonalities, the motive of _Rapture_, announced, _pp_, by divided strings and flutes (page 258, measure 12): XXI. RAPTURE [Illustration: Modéré] As Mélisande whispers suddenly to Pelléas that there is some one behind them, a menacing version of the _Vengeance_ theme is played, _pp_, by the basses, trombones, and timpani. This theme and that of _Rapture_ hasten the music toward its culminating point of intensity. The _Pelléas_ theme is given out by the 'cellos, the _Mélisande_ theme (this is not indicated in the piano version) by the violins, and as the lovers embrace desperately, a _crescendo_ leads to a _fortissimo_ proclamation, by all the orchestral forces, of a greatly broadened version of the motive of _Ecstasy_. As Golaud rushes upon them and strikes down Pelléas, the _Fate_ theme is declaimed by four horns in unison over string tremolos; and, as he turns and silently pursues the fleeing Mélisande through the forest, his _Vengeance_ theme brings the act, by a rapid _crescendo_, to a crashing close. ACT V The last act opens with a dolorous phrase derived from the variant of the _Mélisande_ theme noted on page 82 of the piano score. It is played by the violas, with harp accompaniment. The violins repeat it, and two flutes announce a new theme (page 268, measure 5), the motive of _Pity_: XXII. PITY [Illustration: Lent et triste] As Golaud bends with Arkël over the unconscious figure of Mélisande where she lies stretched upon her bed, muted horns and 'cellos play a gentle variant of the _Fate_ theme, followed by the _Mélisande_ motive as Golaud exclaims that they had but "kissed like little children." The theme of _Pity_ accompanies Mélisande's awakening, and a new motive is heard as she responds, to Arkël's question: "I have never been better." This new theme (page 274, measure 4), of extraordinary poignancy, is given out by an oboe supported by two flutes, and its expression is marked _triste et très doucement expressif_. I shall call it the motive of _Sorrow_, for it seems like the comment of the music upon the transporting and utter sadness of the play's dénouement. It voices a gentle and passive commiseration, rather than a profound and shaking grief: XXIII. SORROW [Illustration: Lent et triste] A third new theme, also of searching pathos, occurs in the strings, _p, très doux_, as Mélisande quietly greets her husband (page 279, measure 1), and later, when she says that she forgives him (page 282, measure 1). It may be called the motive of _Mélisande's Gentleness_: XXIV. MÉLISANDE'S GENTLENESS [Illustration: _très doux_] As Golaud's still unvanquished doubts and suspicions torture him into harsh interrogations, and he asks her if she loved Pelléas "with a forbidden love," an oboe and two flutes recall, _p et doux_, the _Rapture_ motive. Later, in succession, we hear (on a solo violin over flute and clarinets) the _Pelléas_ theme (page 289, measure 2), the motive of _Gentleness_, for the last time (page 290, measure 3), and the _Mélisande_ theme (pages 290-292). As Mélisande recognizes Arkël, and asks if it be true "that the winter is coming," a solo violin, solo 'cello, and two clarinets play an affecting phrase (page 294, measure 5). She tells Arkël that she does not wish the windows closed until the sun has sunk into the sea, and the orchestra accompanies her in a passage of curiously delicate sonority (page 295, measure 6). The final scene of the act is treated with surpassing reticence, dignity, and simplicity, yet with piercing intensity of expression. Nothing could be at the same time more sparing of means and more exquisitely eloquent in result than Debussy's setting of the scene of Mélisande's death--it is music which dims the eyes and subdues the spirit. The _pianissimo_-repeated chords in the divided strings which accentuate Arkël's warning words (page 304, measure 8); the blended tones of the harp and the distant bell at the moment of dissolution (page 306, measure 11); Arkël's simple requiem over the body of the little princess, with the grave and tender orchestral commentary woven out of familiarly poignant themes (pages 308-309); the murmurous coda, with its muted trumpet singing a gentle dirge under an accompaniment of two flutes (page 310, measure 7),--these things are easy to XXV [Illustration: Très lent] value, but they may not easily be praised with adequacy. Concerning felicities of structural and technical detail in the work as a whole, this has not been the place to speak; but if curious appreciators, or others who are merely curious, should perhaps be induced, by what has been written here, to explore for themselves Debussy's beautiful and in many ways incomparable score, the purpose of this study will have been achieved. 
15446	----	[Illustration: To Miss Harriette Brower Very Sincerely Enrico Caruso N.Y. 1919] VOCAL MASTERY TALKS WITH MASTER SINGERS AND TEACHERS COMPRISING INTERVIEWS WITH CARUSO, FARRAR, MAUREL, LEHMANN, AND OTHERS BY HARRIETTE BROWER Author of "Piano Mastery, First and Second Series," "Home-Help in Music Study," "Self-Help in Piano Study" WITH TWENTY PORTRAITS NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS 1917, by OLIVER DITSON COMPANY 1918, 1919, by THE MUSICAL OBSERVER COMPANY 1920, by FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY FOREWORD It has long been a cherished desire to prepare a series of Talks with famous Singers, which should have an equal aim with Talks with Master Pianists, namely, to obtain from the artists their personal ideas concerning their art and its mastery, and, when possible, some inkling as to the methods by which they themselves have arrived at the goal. There have been unexpected and untold difficulties in the way of such an undertaking. The greater the artist the more numerous the body-guard which surrounds him--or her; the more stringent the watch over the artist's time and movements. If one is able to penetrate this barrier and is permitted to see the artist, one finds usually an affable gentleman, a charming woman, with simple manners and kindly intentions. However, when one is fortunate enough to come in touch with great singers, one finds it difficult to draw from them a definite idea of the process by which they have achieved victory. A pianist can describe his manner of tone production, methods of touch, fingering, pedaling; the violinist can discourse on the bow arm, use of left hand, on staccato and pizzicati; but the singer is loath to describe his own instrument. And even if singers could analyze, the description might not fit any case but their own. For the art of singing is an individual art, the perfecting an instrument hidden from sight. Each artist must achieve mastery by overcoming difficulties which beset his own personal path. Despite these obstacles, every effort has been put forth to induce artists to speak from an educational standpoint. It is hoped the various hints and precepts they have given, may prove of benefit to singers and teachers. Limitations of space prevent the inclusion of many other artists and teachers. HARRIETTE BROWER. 150 West 80 Street, New York City. CONTENTS FOREWORD ENRICO CARUSO ... The Value of Work GERALDINE FARRAR ... The Will to Succeed a Compelling Force VICTOR MAUREL ... Mind Is Everything A VISIT TO MME. LILLI LEHMANN AMELITA GALLI-CURCI ... Self-teaching the Great Essential GIUSEPPE DE LUCA ... Ceaseless Effort Necessary for Artistic Perfection LUISA TETRAZZINI ... The Coloratura Voice ANTONIO SCOTTI ... Training American Singers for Opera ROSA RAISA ... Patience and Perseverance Win Results LOUISE HOMER ... The Requirements of a Musical Career GIOVANNI MARTINELLI ... "Let Us Have Plenty of Opera in America" ANNA CASE ... Inspired Interpretation FLORENCE EASTON ... Problems Confronting the Young Singer MARGUERITE D'ALVAREZ ... The Message of the Singer MARIA BARRIENTOS ... Be Your Own Critic CLAUDIA MUZIO ... A Child of the Opera EDWARD JOHNSON (EDOUARDO DI GIOVANNI) ... The Evolution of an Opera Star REINALD WERRENRATH ... Achieving Success on the Concert Stage SOPHIE BRASLAU ... Making a Career in America MORGAN KINGSTON ... The Spiritual Side of the Singer's Art FRIEDA HEMPEL ... A Lesson with a Prima Donna WITH THE MASTER TEACHERS DAVID BISPHAM ... The Making of Artist Singers OSCAR SAENGER ... Use of Records in Vocal Study HERBERT WITHERSPOON ... Memory, Imagination, Analysis YEATMAN GRIFFITH ... Causation J.H. DUVAL ... Some Secrets of Beautiful Singing THE CODA ... A Resumé ILLUSTRATIONS Enrico Caruso _Frontispiece_ Geraldine Farrar Victor Maurel Amelita Galli-Curci Giuseppe de Luca Luisa Tetrazzini Antonio Scotti Rosa Raisa Louise Homer Giovanni Martinelli Anna Case Florence Easton Marguerite d'Alvarez Maria Barrientos Claudia Muzio Edward Johnson Reinald Werrenrath Sophie Braslau Morgan Kingston Frieda Hempel VOCAL MASTERY I =ENRICO CARUSO= THE VALUE OF WORK Enrico Caruso! The very name itself calls up visions of the greatest operatic tenor of the present generation, to those who have both heard and seen him in some of his many rôles. Or, to those who have only listened to his records, again visions of the wonderful voice, with its penetrating, vibrant, ringing quality, the impassioned delivery, which stamps every note he sings with the hall mark of genius, the tremendous, unforgettable climaxes. Not to have heard Caruso sing is to have missed something out of life; not to have seen him act in some of his best parts is to have missed the inspiration of great acting. As Mr. Huneker once wrote: "The artistic career of Caruso is as well known as that of any great general or statesman; he is a national figure. He is a great artist, and, what is rarer, a genuine man." And how we have seen his art grow and ripen, since he first began to sing for us. The date of his first appearance at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, was November 23rd, 1903. Then the voice was marvelous in its freshness and beauty, but histrionic development lagged far behind. The singer seemed unable to make us visualize the characters he endeavored to portray. It was always Caruso who sang a certain part; we could never forget that. But constant study and experience have eliminated even this defect, so that to-day the singer and actor are justly balanced; both are superlatively great. Can any one who hears and sees Caruso in the rôle of Samson, listen unmoved to the throbbing wail of that glorious voice and the unutterable woe of the blind man's poignant impersonation? IN EARLY DAYS Enrico Caruso was born in Naples, the youngest of nineteen children. His father was an engineer and the boy was taught the trade in his father's shop, and was expected to follow in his father's footsteps. But destiny decreed otherwise. As he himself said, to one listener: "I had always sung as far back as I can remember, for the pure love of it. My voice was contralto, and I sang in a church in Naples from fourteen till I was eighteen. Then I had to go into the army for awhile. I had never learned how to sing, for I had never been taught. One day a young officer of my company said to me: 'You will spoil your voice if you keep on singing like that'--for I suppose I was fond of shouting in those days. 'You should learn _how_ to sing,' he said to me; 'you must study.' He introduced me to a young man who at once took an interest in me and brought me to a singing master named Vergine. I sang for him, but he was very discouraging. His verdict was it would be hopeless to try to make a singer out of me. As it was, I might possibly earn a few lire a night with my voice, but according to his idea I had far better stick to my father's trade, in which I could at least earn forty cents a day. "But my young friend would not give up so easily. He begged Vergine to hear me again. Things went a little better with me the second time and Vergine consented to teach me. RIGID DISCIPLINE "And now began a period of rigid discipline. In Vergine's idea I had been singing too loud; I must reverse this and sing everything softly. I felt as though in a strait-jacket; all my efforts at expression were most carefully repressed; I was never allowed to let out my voice. At last came a chance to try my wings in opera, at ten lire a night ($2.00). In spite of the régime of repression to which I had been subjected for the past three years, there were still a few traces of my natural feeling left. The people were kind to me and I got a few engagements. Vergine had so long trained me to sing softly, never permitting me to sing out, that people began to call me the Broken Tenor. THE FIRST REAL CHANCE "A better chance came before long. In 1896 the Opera House in Salerno decided to produce _I Puritani_. At the last moment the tenor they had engaged to sing the leading rôle became ill, and there was no one to sing the part. Lombardi, conductor of the orchestra, told the directors there was a young singer in Naples, about eighteen miles away, who he knew could help them out and sing the part. When they heard the name Caruso, they laughed scornfully. 'What, the Broken Tenor?' they asked. But Lombardi pressed my claim, assured them I could be engaged, and no doubt would be glad to sing for nothing. "So I was sent for. Lombardi talked with me awhile first. He explained by means of several illustrations, that I must not stand cold and stiff in the middle of the stage, while I sang nice, sweet tones. No, I must let out my voice, I must throw myself into the part, I must be alive to it--must live it and in it. In short, I must act as well as sing. A REVELATION "It was all like a revelation to me. I had never realized before how absolutely necessary it was to act out the character I attempted. So I sang _I Puritani_, with as much success as could have been expected of a young singer with so little experience. Something awoke in me at that moment. From that night I was never called a 'Broken Tenor' again. I made a regular engagement at two thousand lire a month. Out of this I paid regularly to Vergine the twenty-five per cent which he always demanded. He was somewhat reconciled to me when he saw that I had a real engagement and was making a substantial sum, though he still insisted that I would lose my voice in a few years. But time passes and I am still singing. RESULTS OF THE REVELATION "The fact that I could secure an opera engagement made me realize I had within me the making of an artist, if I would really labor for such an end. When I became thoroughly convinced of this, I was transformed from an amateur into a professional in a single day. I now began to take care of myself, learn good habits, and endeavored to cultivate my mind as well as my voice. The conviction gradually grew upon me that if I studied and worked, I would be able one day to sing in such a way as to satisfy myself." THE VALUE OF WORK TO THE SINGER Caruso believes in the necessity for work, and sends this message to all ambitious students: "To become a singer requires work, work, and again work! It need not be in any special corner of the earth; there is no one spot that will do more for you than other places. It doesn't matter so much where you are, if you have intelligence and a good ear. Listen to yourself; your ear will tell you what kind of tones you are making. If you will only use your own intelligence you can correct your own faults." CEASELESS STUDY This is no idle speech, voiced to impress the reader. Caruso practices what he preaches, for he is an incessant worker. Two or three hours in the forenoon, and several more later in the day, whenever possible. He does not neglect daily vocal technic, scales and exercises. There are always many rôles to keep in rehearsal with the accompanist. He has a repertoire of seventy rôles, some of them learned in two languages. Among the parts he has prepared but has never sung are: _Othello, Fra Diavolo, Eugen Onegin, Pique Dame, Falstaff_ and _Jewels of the Madonna_. Besides the daily review of opera rôles, Caruso examines many new songs; every day brings a generous supply. Naturally some of these find their way into the waste basket; some are preserved for reference, while the favored ones which are accepted must be studied for use in recital. I had the privilege, recently, of spending a good part of one forenoon in Mr. Caruso's private quarters at his New York Hotel, examining a whole book full of mementos of the Jubilee celebration of March, 1919, on the occasion when the great tenor completed twenty-five years of activity on the operatic stage. Here were gathered telegrams and cablegrams from all over the world. Many letters and cards of greeting and congratulation are preserved in this portly volume. Among them one noticed messages from Mme. Schumann-Heink, the Flonzaley Quartet, Cleofonte Campanini and hosts of others. Here, too, is preserved the Jubilee Programme booklet, also the libretto used on that gala occasion. Music lovers all over the world will echo the hope that this wonderful voice may be preserved for many years to come! A LAST WORD The above article was shown to Mr. Caruso, at his request, and I was asked a few days later to come to him. There had been the usual rehearsal at the Opera House that day. "Ah, those rehearsals," exclaimed the secretary, stopping his typewriter for an instant; "no one who has never been through it has any idea of what a rehearsal means." And he lifted hands and eyes expressively. "Mr. Caruso rose at eight, went to rehearsal at ten and did not finish till after three. He is now resting, but will see you in a moment." Presently the great tenor opened the door and entered. He wore a lounging coat of oriental silk, red bordered, and on the left hand gleamed a wonderful ring, a broad band of dull gold, set with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. He shook hands, said he had read my story, that it was quite correct and had his entire approval. "And have you a final message to the young singers who are struggling and longing to sing some day as wonderfully as you do?" "Tell them to study, to work always,--and--to sacrifice!" His eyes had a strange, inscrutable light in them, as he doubtless recalled his own early struggles, and life of constant effort. And so take his message to heart: "Work, work--and--sacrifice!" II =GERALDINE FARRAR= THE WILL TO SUCCEED A COMPELLING FORCE "To measure the importance of Geraldine Farrar (at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York) one has only to think of the void there would have been during the last decade, and more, if she had not been there. Try to picture the period between 1906 and 1920 without Farrar--it is inconceivable! Farrar, more than any other singer, has been the triumphant living symbol of the new day for the American artist at the Metropolitan. She paved the way. Since that night, in 1906, when her Juliette stirred the staid old house, American singers have been added year by year to the personnel. Among these younger singers there are those who will admit at once that it was the success of Geraldine Farrar which gave them the impetus to work hard for a like success." [Illustration: GERALDINE FARRAR] These thoughts have been voiced by a recent reviewer, and will find a quick response from young singers all over the country, who have been inspired by the career of this representative artist, and by the thousands who have enjoyed her singing and her many characterizations. I was present on the occasion of Miss Farrar's début at the greatest opera house of her home land. I, too, was thrilled by the fresh young voice in the girlish and charming impersonation of Juliette. It is a matter of history that from the moment of her auspicious return to America she has been constantly before the public, from the beginning to end of each operatic season. Other singers often come for part of the season, step out and make room for others. But Miss Farrar, as well as Mr. Caruso, can be depended on to remain. Any one who gives the question a moment's thought, knows that such a career, carried through a score of years, means constant, unremitting labor. There must be daily work on vocal technic; repertoire must be kept up to opera pitch, and last and perhaps most important of all, new works must be sought, studied and assimilated. The singer who can accomplish these tasks will have little or no time for society and the gay world, inasmuch as her strength must be devoted to the service of her art. She must keep healthy hours, be always ready to appear, and never disappoint her audiences. And such, according to Miss Farrar's own words is her record in the service of art. While zealously guarding her time from interruption from the merely curious, Miss Farrar does not entrench herself behind insurmountable barriers, as many singers seem to do, so that no honest seeker for her views of study and achievement can find her. While making a rule not to try voices of the throng of young singers who would like to have her verdict on their ability and prospects, Miss Farrar is very gracious to those who really need to see her. Again--unlike others--she will make an appointment a couple of weeks in advance, and one can rest assured she will keep that appointment to the day and hour, in spite of many pressing calls on her attention. To meet and talk for an hour with an artist who has so often charmed you from the other side of the footlights, is a most interesting experience. In the present instance it began with my being taken up to Miss Farrar's private sanctum, at the top of her New York residence. Though this is her den, where she studies and works, it is a spacious parlor, where all is light, color, warmth and above all, _quiet_. A thick crimson carpet hushes the footfall. A luxurious couch piled with silken cushions, and comfortable arm chairs are all in the same warm tint; over the grand piano is thrown a cover of red velvet, gold embroidered. Portraits of artists and many costly trifles are scattered here and there. The young lady who acts as secretary happened to be in the room and spoke with enthusiasm of the singer's absorption in her work, her delight in it, her never failing energy and good spirits. "From the day I heard Miss Farrar sing I felt drawn to her and hoped the time would come when I could serve her in some way. I did not know then that it would be in this way. Her example is an inspiration to all who come in touch with her." In a few moments Miss Farrar herself appeared, and the young girl withdrew. And was this Farrar who stood before me, in the flush of vigorous womanhood, and who welcomed me so graciously? The first impression was one of friendliness and sincerity, which caused the artist for the moment to be forgotten in the unaffected simplicity of the woman. Miss Farrar settled herself comfortably among the red silk cushions and was ready for our talk. The simplicity of manner was reflected in her words. She did not imply--there is only one right way, and I have found it. "These things seem best for my voice, and this is the way I work. But, since each voice is different, they might not fit any one else. I have no desire to lay down rules for others; I can only speak of my own experience." THE QUESTION OF HEALTH "And you would first know how I keep strong and well and always ready? Perhaps the answer is, I keep regular hours and habits, and love my work. I have always loved to sing, as far back as I can remember. Music means everything to me--it is my life. As a child and young girl, I was the despair of my playmates because I would not join their games; I did not care to skate, play croquet or tennis, or such things. I never wanted to exercise violently, and, to me, unnecessarily, because it interfered with my singing; took energy which I thought might be better applied. As I grew older I did not care to keep late hours and be in an atmosphere where people smoked and perhaps drank, for these things were bad for my voice and I could not do my work next day. My time is always regularly laid out. I rise at half past seven, and am ready to work at nine. I do not care to sit up late at night, either, for I think late hours react on the voice. Occasionally, if we have a few guests for dinner, I ask them, when ten thirty arrives, to stay as long as they wish and enjoy themselves, but I retire. TECHNICAL STUDY "There are gifted people who may be called natural born singers. Melba is one of these. Such singers do not require much technical practice, or if they need a little of it, half an hour a day is sufficient. I am not one of those who do not need to practice. I give between one and two hours daily to vocalizes, scales and tone study. But I love it! A scale is beautiful to me, if it is rightly sung. In fact it is not merely a succession of notes; it represents color. I always translate sound into color. It is a fascinating study to make different qualities of tonal color in the voice. Certain rôles require an entirely different range of colors from others. One night I must sing a part with thick, heavy, rich tones; the next night my tones must be thinned out in quite another timbre of the voice, to fit an opposite character." Asked if she can hear herself, Miss Farrar answered: "No, I do not actually hear my voice, except in a general way; but we learn to know the sensations produced in muscles of throat, head, face, lips and other parts of the anatomy, which vibrate in a certain manner to correct tone production. We learn the _feeling_ of the tone. Therefore every one, no matter how advanced, requires expert advice as to the results. WITH LEHMANN "I have studied for a long time with Lilli Lehmann in Berlin; in fact I might say she is almost my only teacher, though I did have some instruction before going to her, both in America and Paris. You see, I always sang, even as a very little girl. My mother has excellent taste and knowledge in music, and finding I was in danger of straining my voice through singing with those older than myself, she placed me with a vocal teacher when I was twelve, as a means of preservation. "Lehmann is a wonderful teacher and an extraordinary woman as well. What art is there--what knowledge and understanding! What intensity there is in everything she does. She used to say: 'Remember, these four walls which inclose you, make a very different space to fill compared to an opera house; you must take this fact into consideration and study accordingly.' No one ever said a truer word. If one only studies or sings in a room or studio, one has no idea of what it means to fill a theater. It is a distinct branch of one's work to gain power and control and to adapt one's self to large spaces. One can only learn this by doing it. "It is sometimes remarked by listeners at the opera, that we sing too loud, or that we scream. They surely never think of the great size of the stage, of the distance from the proscenium arch to the footlights, or from the arch to the first set of wings. They do not consider that within recent years the size of the orchestra has been largely increased, so that we are obliged to sing against this great number of instruments, which are making every possible kind of a noise except that of a siren. It is no wonder that we must make much effort to be heard: sometimes the effort may seem injudicious. The point we must consider is to make the greatest possible effect with the least possible exertion. "Lehmann is the most painstaking, devoted teacher a young singer can have. It is proof of her excellent method and her perfect understanding of vocal mastery, that she is still able to sing in public, if not with her old-time power, yet with good tone quality. It shows what an artist she really is. I always went over to her every summer, until the war came. We would work together at her villa in Gruenewald, which you yourself know. Or we would go for a holiday down nearer Salzburg, and would work there. We always worked wherever we were. MEMORIZING "How do I memorize? I play the song or rôle through a number of times, concentrating on both words and music at once. I am a pianist anyway; and committing to memory is very easy for me. I was trained to learn by heart from the very start. When I sang my little songs at six years old, mother would never let me have any music before me: I must know my songs by heart. And so I learned them quite naturally. To me singing was like talking to people. CONTRASTING COLORATURA AND DRAMATIC SINGING "You ask me to explain the difference between the coloratura and the dramatic organ. I should say it is a difference of timbre. The coloratura voice is bright and brilliant in its higher portion, but becomes weaker and thinner as it descends; whereas the dramatic voice has a thicker, richer quality all through, especially in its lower register. The coloratura voice will sing upper C, and it will sound very high indeed. I might sing the same tone, but it would sound like A flat, because the tone would be of such totally different timbre. TO THE YOUNG SINGER "If I have any message to the young singer, it would be: Stick to your work and study systematically, whole-heartedly. If you do not love your work enough to give it your best thought, to make sacrifices for it, there is something wrong with you. Then choose some other line of work, to which you can give undivided attention and devotion. For music requires this. As for sacrifices, they really do not exist, if they promote the thing you honestly love most. "Do not fancy you can properly prepare yourself in a short time to undertake a musical career, for the path is a long and arduous one. You must never stop studying, for there is always so much to learn. If I have sung a rôle a hundred times, I always find places that can be improved; indeed I never sing a rôle twice exactly in the same way. So, from whatever side you consider the singer's work and career, both are of absorbing interest. "Another thing; do not worry, for that is bad for your voice. If you have not made this tone correctly, or sung that phrase to suit yourself, pass it over for the moment with a wave of the hand or a smile; but don't become discouraged. Go right on! I knew a beautiful American in Paris who possessed a lovely voice. But she had a very sensitive nature, which could not endure hard knocks. She began to worry over little failures and disappointments, with the result that in three years her voice was quite gone. We must not give way to disappointments, but conquer them, and keep right along the path we have started on. MODERN MUSIC "Modern music requires quite a different handling of the voice and makes entirely different demands upon it than does the older music. The old Italian operas required little or no action, only beautiful singing. The opera houses were smaller and so were the orchestras. The singer could stand still in the middle of the stage and pour out beautiful tones, with few movements of body to mar his serenity. But we, in these days, demand action as well as song. We need singing actors and actresses. The music is declamatory; the singer must throw his whole soul into his part, must act as well as sing. Things are all on a larger scale. It is a far greater strain on the voice to interpret one of the modern Italian operas than to sing one of those quietly beautiful works of the old school. "America's growth in music has been marvelous on the appreciative and interpretive side. With such a musical awakening, we can look forward to the appearance of great creative genius right here in this country, perhaps in the near future. Why should we not expect it? We have not yet produced a composer who can write enduring operas or symphonies. MacDowell is our highest type as yet; but others will come who will carry the standard higher. VOICE LIMITATIONS "The singer must be willing to admit limitations of voice and style and not attempt parts which do not come within the compass of her attainments. Neither is it wise to force the voice up or down when it seems a great effort to do so. We can all think of singers whose natural quality is mezzo--let us say--who try to force the voice up into a higher register. There is one artist of great dramatic gifts, who not content with the rich quality of her natural organ, tried to add several high notes to the upper portion. The result was disastrous. Again, some of our young singers who possess beautiful, sweet voices, should not force them to the utmost limit of power, simply to fill, or try to fill a great space. The life of the voice will be impaired by such injurious practice. VOCAL MASTERY "What do I understand by vocal mastery? It is something very difficult to define. For a thing that is mastered must be really perfect. To master vocal art, the singer must have so developed his voice that it is under complete control; then he can do with it whatsoever he wishes. He must be able to produce all he desires of power, pianissimo, accent, shading, delicacy and variety of color. Who is equal to the task?" Miss Farrar was silent a moment; then she said, answering her own question: "I can think of but two people who honestly can be said to possess vocal mastery: they are Caruso and McCormack. Those who have only heard the latter do little Irish tunes, have no idea of what he is capable. I have heard him sing Mozart as no one else I know of can. These two artists have, through ceaseless application, won vocal mastery. It is something we are all striving for!" III =VICTOR MAUREL= MIND IS EVERYTHING Mr. James Huneker, in one of his series of articles entitled "With the Immortals," in the New York _World_, thus, in his inimitable way characterizes Victor Maurel: "I don't suppose there is to be found in musical annals such diversity of aptitudes as that displayed by this French baritone. Is there an actor on any stage to-day who can portray both the grossness of Falstaff and the subtlety of Iago? Making allowance for the different art medium that the singing actor must work in, and despite the larger curves of operatic pose and gesture, Maurel kept astonishingly near to the characters he assumed. He was Shakespearian; his Falstaff was the most wonderful I ever saw." [Illustration: VICTOR MAUREL] And then Iago: "In the Maurel conception, Othello's Ancient was not painted black in black--the heart of darkness, but with many nuances, many gradations. He was economical of gesture, playing on the jealous Moor as plays a skillfully handled bow upon a finely attuned violin. His was truly an objective characterization. His Don Giovanni was broadly designed. He was the aristocrat to the life, courtly, brave, amorous, intriguing, cruel, superstitious and quick to take offense. In his best estate, the drinking song was sheer virtuosity. Suffice to add that Verdi intrusted to him the task of "originating" two such widely sundered rôles as Iago and Falstaff. An extraordinary artist!" One evening we were discussing the merits of various famous singers of the past and present. My friend is an authority whose opinion I greatly respect. He is not only a singer himself but is rapidly becoming a singing master of renown. After we had conferred for a long time, my friend summed it all up with the remark: "You know who, in my opinion, is the greatest, the dean of them all, a past master of the art of song--Victor Maurel." Did I not know! In times gone by had we not discussed by the hour every phase of Maurel's mastery of voice and action? Did we not together listen to that voice and watch with breathless interest his investiture of Don Giovanni, in the golden days when Lilli Lehmann and the De Reszkes took the other parts. Was there ever a more elegant courtly Don, a greater Falstaff, a more intriguing Iago? In those youthful days, my friend's greatest ambition was to be able to sing and act like Maurel. To this end he labored unceasingly. Second only to this aim was another--to know the great baritone personally, to become his friend, to discuss the finest issues of art with him, to consult him and have the benefit of his experience. The consummation of this desire has been delayed for years, but it is one of the "all things" which will surely come to him who waits. Maurel is now once more on American soil, and doubtless intends remaining for a considerable period. My friend is also established in the metropolis. The two have met, not only once but many times--indeed they have become fast friends. "I will take you to him," promised friend Jacque,--knowing my desire to meet the "grand old man"; "but don't ask for too many of his opinions about singers, as he does not care to be quoted." Late one afternoon we arrived at his residence. At the moment he was in his music room, where, for the last hour he had been singing _Falstaff_! If we could only have been hidden away in some quiet corner to listen! He came running down the stairway with almost the agility of a boy, coming to meet us with simple dignity and courtesy. After the first greetings were over we begged permission to examine the many paintings which met the eye everywhere. There was a large panel facing us, representing a tall transparent vase, holding a careless bunch of summer flowers, very artistically handled. Near it hung an out-of-door sketch, a garden path leading into the green. Other bits of landscape still-life and portraits made up the collection. They had all been painted by the same artist--none other than Maurel himself. As we examined the flower panel, he came and stood by us. "Painting is a great art," he said; "an art which requires profound study. I have been a close student of this art for many years and love it more and more." "M. Maurel aims now to express himself through the art of color and form, as he has always done through voice and gesture," remarked my friend. "Art is the highest means of expression," went on the master, "whether through music, painting, sculpture, architecture or the theater. The effort to express myself through another art-medium, painting, has long been a joy to me. I have studied with no teacher but myself, but I have learned from all the great masters; they have taught me everything." He then led the way to his music room on the floor above. Here were more paintings, many rare pieces of furniture and his piano. A fine portrait of Verdi, with an affectionate autograph, stood on a table; one of Ambroise Thomas, likewise inscribed, hung near. "A serious man, almost austere," said Maurel, regarding the portrait of Verdi thoughtfully, "but one of the greatest masters of all time." Praying us to be seated, he placed himself on an ottoman before us. The talk easily drifted into the subject of the modern operatic stage, and modern operas of the Italian school, in which one is so often tempted to shout rather than sing. The hero of Mozart's Don Giovanni, who could sing his music as perhaps no one else has ever done, would not be likely to have much patience with the modern style of explosive vocal utterance. "How do you preserve your voice and your repertoire?" I questioned. M. Maurel gazed before him thoughtfully. "It is entirely through the mind that I keep both. I know so exactly how to produce tone qualities, that if I recall those sensations which accompany tone production, I can induce them at will. How do we make tones, sing an aria, impersonate a rôle? Is not all done with the mind, with thought? I must think the tone before I produce it--before I sing it; I must mentally visualize the character and determine how I will represent it, before I attempt it. I must identify myself with the character I am to portray before I can make it _live_. Does not then all come from thinking--from thought? "Again: I can think out the character and make a mental picture of it for myself, but how shall I project it for others to see? I have to convince myself first that I am that character--I must identify myself with it; then I must convince those who hear me that I am really that character." Maurel rose and moved to the center of the room. "I am to represent some character--Amonasro, let us say. I must present the captive King, bound with chains and brought before his captors. I must feel with him, if I am really going to represent him. I must believe myself bound and a prisoner; then I must, through pose and action, through expression of face, gesture, voice, everything--I must make this character real to the audience." And as we looked, he assumed the pose of the man in chains, his hands seemed tied, his body bent, his expression one in which anger and revenge mingled; in effect, he was for the moment Amonasro. "I have only made you see my mental concept of Amonasro. If I have once thoroughly worked out a conception, made it my own, then it is mine. I can create it at any moment. If I feel well and strong I can sing the part now in the same way as I have always sung it, because my thought is the same and thought produces. Whether I have a little more voice, or less voice, what does it matter? I can never lose my conception of a character, for it is in my mind, and mind projects it. So there is no reason to lose the voice, for that also is in mind and can be thought out at will. "Suppose I have an opposite character to portray,--the elegant Don Giovanni, for example"; and drawing himself up and wrapping an imaginary cloak about him, with the old well-remembered courtly gesture, his face and manner were instantly transformed at the thought of his favorite character. He turned and smiled on us, his strong features lighted, and his whole appearance expressed the embodiment of Mozart's hero. "You see I must have lived, so to say, in these characters and made them my own, or I could not recall them at a moment's notice. All impersonation, to be artistic, to be vital, must be a part of one's self; one must get into the character. When I sing Iago I am no longer myself--I am another person altogether; self is quite forgotten; I am Iago, for the time being. "In Paris, at the Sorbonne, I gave a series of lectures; the first was on this very subject, the identification of one's self with the character to be portrayed. The large audience of about fifteen hundred, contained some of the most famous among artists and men of letters"; and Maurel, with hands clasped about his knee, gazed before him into space, and we knew he was picturing in mental vision, the scene at the Sorbonne, which he had just recalled. After a moment, he resumed. "The singer, though trying to act out the character he assumes, must not forget to _sing_. The combination of fine singing and fine acting is rare. Nowadays people think if they can act, that atones for inartistic singing; then they yield to the temptation to shout, to make harsh tones, simply for effect." And the famous baritone caricatured some of the sounds he had recently heard at an operatic performance with such gusto, that a member of the household came running in from an adjoining room, thinking there must have been an accident and the master of the house was calling for help. He hastily assured her all was well--no one was hurt; then we all had a hearty laugh over the little incident. And now we begged to be allowed to visit the atelier, where the versatile artist worked out his pictures. He protested that it was in disorder, that he would not dare to take us up, and so on. After a little he yielded to persuasion, saying, however, he would go up first and arrange the room a little. As soon as he had left us my friend turned to me: "What a remarkable man! So strong and vigorous, in spite of his advanced age. No doubt he travels those stairs twenty times a day. He is as alert as a young man; doubtless he still has his voice, as he says. And what a career he has had. You know he was a friend of Edward the Seventh; they once lived together. Then he and Verdi were close friends; he helped coach singers for Verdi's operas. He says it was a wonderful experience, when the composer sat down at the piano, put his hands on the keys and showed the singers how he wanted his music sung! "Early in his career Maurel sang in Verdi's opera, _Simone Boccanegra_, which one never hears now, but it has a fine baritone part, and a couple of very dramatic scenes, especially the final scene at the close. This is the death scene. Maurel had sung and acted so wonderfully on a certain occasion that all the singers about him were in tears. Verdi was present at this performance and was deeply moved by Maurel's singing and acting. He came upon the stage when all was over, and exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion: 'You have created the rôle just as I would have it; I shall write an opera especially _for you_!' This he did; it was _Othello_, and the Iago was composed for Maurel. In his later years, when he seldom left his home, the aged composer several times expressed the wish that he might go to Paris, just to hear Maurel sing once more. "It is very interesting that he was led to speak to us as he did just now, about mental control, and the part played by mind in the singer's study, equipment and career. It is a side of the question which every young singer must seriously consider, first, last and always. But here he comes." Again protesting about the appearance of his simple studio, the master led the way up the stairways till we reached the top of the house, where a north-lighted room had been turned into a painter's atelier. With mingled feelings we stepped within this modest den of a great artist, which held his treasures. These were never shown to the casual observer, nor to the merely curious; they were reserved for the trusted few. The walls were lined with sketches; heads, still life, landscapes, all subjects alike interested the painter. A rugged bust of Verdi, over life size, modeled in plaster, stood in one corner. On an easel rested a spirited portrait of Maurel, done by himself. "My friends tell me I should have a larger studio, with better light; but I am content with this, for here is quiet and here I can be alone, free to commune with myself. Here I can study my art undisturbed,--for Art is my religion. If people ask if I go to church, I say No, but I worship the immortality which is within, which I feel in my soul, the reflection of the Almighty!" In quiet mood a little later we descended the white stairway and passed along the corridors of this house, which looks so foreign to American eyes, and has the atmosphere of a Paris home. The artist accompanied us to the street door and bade us farewell, in his kindly dignified manner. As the door closed and we were in the street, my friend said: "A wonderful man and a rare artist. Where shall we find his like to-day?" IV A VISIT TO MME. LILLI LEHMANN A number of years before the great war, a party of us were spending a few weeks in Berlin. It was midsummer; the city, filled as it was for one of us at least, with dear memories of student days, was in most alluring mood. Flowers bloomed along every balcony, vines festooned themselves from windows and doorways, as well as from many unexpected corners. The parks, large and small, which are the delight of a great city, were at their best and greenest--gay with color. Many profitable hours were spent wandering through the galleries and museums, hearing concerts and opera, and visiting the old quarters of the city, so picturesque and full of memories. Two of us, who were musicians, were anxious to meet the famous dramatic soprano, Lilli Lehmann, who was living quietly in one of the suburbs of the city. Notes were exchanged, and on a certain day we were bidden to come, out of the regular hours for visitors, by "special exception." How well I remember the drive through the newer residential section of Berlin. The path before long led us through country estates, past beautifully kept gardens and orchards. Our destination was the little suburb of Gruenewald, itself like a big garden, with villas nestling close to each other, usually set back from the quiet, shaded streets. Some of the villas had iron gratings along the pathway, through which one saw gay flowers and garden walks, often statuary and fountains. Other homes were secluded from the street by high brick walls, frequently decorated on top by urns holding flowers and drooping vines. Behind such a picturesque barrier, we found the gateway which led to Mme. Lehmann's cottage. We rang and soon a trim maid came to undo the iron gate. The few steps leading to the house door did not face us as we entered the inclosure, but led up from the side. We wanted to linger and admire the shrubs and flowering plants, but the maid hastened before us so we had to follow. From the wide entrance hall doors led into rooms on either hand. We were shown into a salon on the left, and bidden to await Madame's coming. In the few moments of restful quiet before she entered, we had time to glance over this sanctum of a great artist. To say it was filled with mementos and _objets d'art_ hardly expresses the sense of repleteness. Every square foot was occupied by some treasure. Let the eye travel around the room. At the left, as one entered the doorway, stood a fine bust of the artist, chiseled in pure white marble, supported on a pedestal of black marble. Then came three long, French windows, opening into a green garden. Across the farther window stood a grand piano, loaded with music. At the further end of the room, if memory serves, hung a large, full length portrait of the artist herself. A writing desk, laden with souvenirs, stood near. On the opposite side a divan covered with rich brocade; more paintings on the walls, one very large landscape by a celebrated German painter. Before we could note further details, Mme. Lehmann stood in the doorway, then came forward and greeted us cordially. How often I had seen her impersonate her great rôles, both in Germany and America. They were always of some queenly character. Could it be possible this was the famous Lehmann, this simple housewife, in black skirt and white blouse, with a little apron as badge of home keeping. But there was the stately tread, the grand manner, the graceful movement. What mattered if the silver hair were drawn back severely from the face; there was the dignity of expression, classic features, penetrating glance and mobile mouth I remembered. After chatting a short time and asking many questions about America, where her experiences had been so pleasant, our talk was interrupted, for a little, by a voice trial, which Madame had agreed to give. Many young singers, from everywhere, were anxious to have expert judgment on their progress or attainments, so Lehmann was often appealed to and gave frequent auditions of this kind. The fee was considerable, but she never kept a penny of it for herself; it all went to one of her favorite charities. The young girl who on this day presented herself for the ordeal was an American, who, it seemed, had not carried her studies very far. EXAMINING A PUPIL Mme. Lehmann seated herself at the piano and asked for scales and vocalizes. The young girl, either from fright or poor training, did not make a very fortunate impression. She could not seem to bring out a single pure steady tone, much less sing scales acceptably. Madame with a resigned look finally asked for a song, which was given. It was a little song of Franz, I remember. Then Lehmann wheeled around on the stool and said to us, in German: "The girl cannot sing--she has little or no voice to begin with, and has not been rightly trained." Then to the young girl she said, kindly, in English: "My dear young lady, you have almost everything to learn about singing, for as yet you cannot even sing one tone correctly; you cannot even speak correctly. First of all you need physical development; you must broaden your chest through breathing exercises; you are too thin chested. You must become physically stronger if you ever hope to sing acceptably. Then you must study diction and languages. This is absolutely necessary for the singer. Above all you must know how to pronounce and sing in your own language. So many do not think it necessary to study their own language; they think they know that already; but one's mother tongue requires study as well as any other language. "The trouble with American girls is they are always in a hurry. They are not content to sit down quietly and study till they have developed themselves into something before they ever think of coming to Europe. They think if they can just come over here and sing for an artist, that fact alone will give them prestige in America. But that gives them quite the opposite reputation over here. American girls are too often looked upon as superficial, because they come over here quite unprepared. I say to all of them, as I say to you: Go home and study; there are plenty of good teachers of voice and piano in your own land. Then, when you can _sing_, come over here, if you wish; but do not come until you are prepared." After this little episode, we continued our talk for a while longer. Then, fearing to trespass on her time, we rose to leave. She came to the door with us, followed us down the steps into the front garden, and held the gate open for us, when we finally left. We had already expressed the hope that she might be able to return to America, at no very distant day, and repeat her former triumphs there. Her fine face lighted at the thought, and her last words to us were, as she held open the little iron wicket. "I have a great desire to go to your country again; perhaps, in a year or two--who knows--I may be able to do it." She stood there, a noble, commanding figure, framed in the green of her garden, and waved her handkerchief, till our cab turned a corner, and she was lost to our view. THE MOZART FESTIVAL Several years later, a year before the world war started, to be exact, we had the pleasure of meeting the artist again, and this time, of hearing her sing. It was the occasion of the Mozart Festival in Salzburg. It is well known that Lehmann, devoted as she has always been to the genius of Mozart, and one of the greatest interpreters of his music, had thrown her whole energy into the founding of a suitable memorial to the master in his native city. This memorial was to consist of a large music school, a concert hall and home for opera. The Mozarteum was not yet completed, but a Festival was held each year in Salzburg, to aid the project. Madame Lehmann was always present and sang on these occasions. We timed our visit to Mozart's birthplace, so that we should be able to attend the Festival, which lasted as usual five days. The concerts were held in the Aula Academica, a fine Saal in the old picturesque quarter of the city. At the opening concert, Lehmann sang a long, difficult Concert Aria of Mozart. We could not help wondering, before she began, how time had treated this great organ; whether we should be able to recognize the famous Lehmann who had formerly taken such high rank as singer and interpreter in America. We need not have feared that the voice had become impaired. Or, if it had been, it had become rejuvenated on this occasion. Mme. Lehmann sang with all her well-remembered power and fervor, all her exaltation of spirit, and of course she had a great ovation at the close. She looked like a queen in ivory satin and rare old lace, with jewels on neck, arms and in her silver hair. In the auditorium, three arm chairs had been placed in front of the platform. The Arch-duke, Prince Eugen, the royal patron of the Festival, occupied one. When Madame Lehmann had finished her Aria, she stepped down from the platform. The Prince rose at once and went to meet her. She gave him her hand with a graceful curtesy and he led her to the armchair next his own, which had evidently been placed in position for her special use. At the close of the concert we had a brief chat with her. The next day she was present at the morning concert. This time she was gowned in black, with an ermine cape thrown over her shoulders. The Arch-duke sat beside her in the arm chair, as he had done the evening before. We had a bow and smile as she passed down the aisle. We trust the Mozarteum in Salzburg, for which Mme. Lehmann has labored with such devotion, will one day fulfill its noble mission. LEHMANN THE TEACHER As a teacher of the art of singing Madame Lehmann has long been a recognized authority, and many artists now actively before the public, have come from under her capable hands. Her book, "How to Sing,"--rendered in English by Richard Aldrich--(Macmillan) has illumined the path, for many a serious student who seeks light on that strange, wonderful, hidden instrument--the voice. Madame Lehmann, by means of many explanations and numerous plates, endeavors to make clear to the young student how to begin and how to proceed in her vocal studies. BREATHING On the important subject of breathing she says: "No one can sing without preparing for it mentally and physically. It is not enough to sing well, one must know how one does it. I practice many breathing exercises without using tone. Breath becomes voice through effort of will and by use of vocal organs. When singing emit the smallest quantity of breath. Vocal chords are breath regulators; relieve them of all overwork. "At the start a young voice should be taught to begin in the middle and work both ways--that is, up and down. A tone should never be forced. Begin piano, make a long crescendo and return to piano. Another exercise employs two connecting half tones, using one or two vowels. During practice stand before a mirror, that one may see what one is doing. Practice about one hour daily. Better that amount each day than ten hours one day and none the next. The test will be; do you feel rested and ready for work each morning? If not you have done too much the day before." REGISTERS In regard to registers Madame Lehmann has this to say: "In the formation of the voice no registers should exist or be created. As long as the word is kept in use, registers will not disappear." PHYSIOLOGY In spite of the fact there are many drawings and plates illustrating the various organs of head and throat which are used in singing, Madame Lehmann says: "The singer is often worried about questions of physiology, whereas she need--must--know little about it. THE NASAL QUALITY "The singer must have some nasal quality, otherwise the voice sounds colorless and expressionless. We must sing toward the nose: (not necessarily through the nose). "For many ills of the voice and tone production, I use long, slow scales. They are an infallible cure. USE OF THE LIPS "The lips play a large part in producing variety of tone quality. Each vowel, every word can be colored, as by magic, by well controlled play of the lips. When lips are stiff and unresponsive, the singing is colorless. Lips are final resonators, through which tones must pass, and lip movements can be varied in every conceivable manner." POWER AND VELOCITY She humorously writes: "Singers without power and velocity are like horses without tails. For velocity, practice figures of five, six, seven and eight notes, first slowly, then faster and faster, up and down." V =AMELITA GALLI-CURCI= SELF-TEACHING THE GREAT ESSENTIAL No singer can rise to any distinction without the severest kind of self-discipline and hard work. This is the testimony of all the great vocalists of our time--of any time. This is the message they send back from the mountain top of victory to the younger ones who are striving to acquire the mastery they have achieved. Work, work and again--work! And if you have gained even a slight foothold on the hill of fame, then work to keep your place. Above all, be not satisfied with your present progress,--strive for more perfection. There are heights you have not gained--higher up! There are joys for you--higher up, if you will but labor to reach them. [Illustration: _Photo by De Strelecki, N.Y._ AMELITA GALLI-CURCI] Perhaps there is no singer who more thoroughly believes in the gospel of work, and surely not one who more consistently practices what she preaches, than Amelita Galli-Curci. She knows the value of work, and she loves it for its own sake. There is no long cessation for her, during summer months, "to rest her voice." There is no half-day seclusion after a performance, to recover from the fatigue of singing a rôle the night before. No, for her this event does not spell exhaustion but happiness, exhilaration. It is a pleasure to sing because it is not wearisome--it is a part of herself. And she enjoys the doing! Thus it happens that the morning after a performance, she is up and abroad betimes, ready to attend personally to the many calls upon her time and attention. She can use her speaking voice without fear, because she has never done anything to strain it; she is usually strong and well, buoyant and bright. Those soft, dark eyes are wells of intelligent thinking; the mouth smiles engagingly as she speaks; the slight figure is full of life and energy. Yet there is a deep sense of calm in her presence. A brave, bright spirit; a great, wonderful artist! These thoughts faintly glimpse my first impression of Mme. Galli-Curci, as she entered her big, sunny parlor, where I was waiting to see her. Her delicate, oval face was aglow with the flush of healthful exercise, for she had just come in from a shopping expedition and the wintry air was keen. "I love to go shopping," she explained, "so I always do it myself." She bade me sit beside her on a comfortable divan, and at once began to speak of the things I most wished to hear. "I am often asked," she began, "to describe how I create this or that effect, how I produce such and such tones, how I make the voice float to the farthest corner, and so on. I answer, that is my secret. In reality it is no secret at all, at least not to any one who has solved the problem. Any one possessing a voice and intelligence, can acquire these things, who knows how to go to work to get them. But if one has no notion of the process, no amount of mere talking will make it plain. Singing an opera rôle seems such an easy thing from the other side of the footlights. People seem to think, if you only know how to sing, it is perfectly natural and easy for you to impersonate a great lyric rôle. And the more mastery you have, the easier they think it is to do it. The real truth of the matter is that it requires years and years of study--constant study, to learn how to sing, before attempting a big part in opera. "There are so many organs of the body that are concerned in the process of breathing and tone production; and most of these organs must be, if not always, yet much of the time, relaxed and in an easy pliable condition when you sing. There is the diaphragm--then the throat, larynx, the lungs, nose, lips--all of them help to make the tone. Perhaps I might say the larynx is the most important factor of all. If you can manage that, you have the secret. But no human being can tell you exactly how to do it. Some singers before the public to-day have no notion of how to manage this portion of their anatomy. Others may do so occasionally, but it may only be by accident. They sometimes stumble upon the principle, but not understanding how they did so, they cannot reproduce the desired effects at will. The singer who understands her business must know just how she produces tones and vocal effects. She can then do them at all times, under adverse circumstances, even when nervous, or not in the mood, or indisposed. SELF-STUDY "How did I learn to know these things? By constant study, by constant listening--for I have very keen ears--by learning the sensations produced in throat and larynx when I made tones that were correctly placed, were pleasing and at the same time made the effects I was seeking. "Milan is my home city--beautiful Milano under the blue Italian skies, the bluest in the world. As a young girl, the daughter of well-to-do parents, I studied piano at the Royal Conservatory there, and also musical theory and counterpoint. I shall ever be grateful I started in this way, with a thorough musical foundation, for it has always been of great advantage to me in further study. When my father met with reverses, I made good use of my pianistic training by giving piano lessons and making a very fair income for a young girl. "But I longed to sing! Is it not the birthright of every Italian to have a voice? I began to realize I had a voice which might be cultivated. I had always sung a little--every one does; song is the natural, spontaneous expression of our people. But I wished to do more--to express myself in song. So I began to teach myself by singing scales and vocalizes between my piano lessons. Meanwhile I studied all the books on singing I could lay hands on, and then tried to put the principles I learned in this way in practice. In trying to do this I had to find out everything for myself. And that is why I know them! I know exactly what I am about when I sing, I know what muscles are being used, and in what condition they ought to be; what parts of the anatomy are called into action and why. Nature has given me two great gifts, a voice and good health; for both these gifts I am deeply grateful. The first I have developed through arduous toil; the second I endeavor to preserve through careful living, regular hours and plenty of exercise in the fresh air. I have developed the voice and trained it in the way that seemed to me best for it. There are as many kinds of voices as there are persons; it seems to me each voice should be treated in the way best suited to its possessor. How can any other person tell you how that should be done?" And the singer gave me a bright look, and made a pretty deprecating gesture. "You yourself must have the intelligence to understand your own case and learn how to treat it. NEVER STRAIN THE VOICE "A singer who would keep her voice in the best condition, should constantly and reasonably exercise it. I always do a half hour or so of exercises, vocalizes and scales every morning; these are never neglected. But I never do anything to strain the voice in any way. We are told many fallacies by vocal teachers. One is that the diaphragm must be held firmly in order to give support to the tone. It seems to me this is a serious mistake. I keep the diaphragm relaxed. Thus tone production, in my case, is made at all times with ease; there is never any strain. You ask if it is not very fatiguing to sing against a large orchestra, as we have to, and with a temperamental conductor, like Marinuzzi, for instance, I do not find it so; there is a pure, clear tone, which by its quality, placement and ease of production, will carry farther than mere power ever can. It can be heard above a great orchestra, and it _gets over_. USE OF THE VOWELS "Young singers ask me what vowels to use in vocal practice. In my own study I use them all. Of course some are more valuable than others. The O is good, the E needs great care; the Ah is the most difficult of all. I am aware this is contrary to the general idea. But I maintain that the Ah is most difficult; for if you overdo it and the lips are too wide apart, the result is a white tone. And on the other hand, if the lips are nearer--or too near together, or are not managed rightly, stiffness or a throaty quality is apt to result; then the tone cannot 'float.' I have found the best way is to use the mixed vowels, one melting into the other. The tone can be started with each vowel in turn, and then mingled with the rest of the vowels. Do you know, the feathered songster I love best--the nightingale--uses the mixed vowels too. Ah, how much I have learned from him and from other birds also! Some of them have harsh tones--real quacks--because they open their bills too far, or in a special way. But the nightingale has such a lovely dark tone, a 'covered tone,' which goes to the heart. It has the most exquisite quality in the world. I have learned much from the birds, about what not to do and what to do. MEMORIZING "In taking up a new rôle I begin with the story, the libretto, so I may first learn what it is about, its meaning and psychology. I take it to bed with me, or have it by me if lying down, because I understand musical composition and can get a clear idea of the composer's meaning without going to the instrument. After a short time I begin to work it out at the piano, in detail, words and music together. For a great rôle like the _Somnambula_ or _Traviata_, I must spend three or four years, perhaps more, in preparation, before bringing it to public performance. It takes a long time to master thoroughly an operatic rôle, to work it out from all sides, the singing, the acting, the characterization. To the lay mind, if you can sing, you can easily act a part and also memorize it. They little know the labor which must be bestowed on that same rôle before it can be presented in such a shape as to be adequate, in a way that will get it across. It does not go in a few weeks or even months; it is the work of years. And even then it is never really finished, for it can always be improved with more study, with more care and thought. THE NECESSITY FOR LANGUAGES "We hear much about need for study of languages by the singer, and indeed too much stress cannot be placed on this branch of the work. I realize that in America it is perhaps more difficult to impress people with this necessity, as they have not the same need to use other languages in every day life. The singer can always be considered fortunate who has been brought up from earliest years to more than one language. My mother was Spanish, my father Italian, so this gave me both languages at home. Then in school I learned French, German and English, not only a little smattering of each, but how to write and speak them." "You certainly have mastered English remarkably well," I could not help remarking, for she was speaking with great fluency, and with hardly any accent. This seemed to please her, for she gave me one of those flashing smiles. COLORATURA AND DRAMATIC "Would you be pleased," I asked, "if later on your voice should develop into a dramatic soprano?" Mme. Galli-Curci thought an instant. "No," she said, "I think I would rather keep the voice I have. I heartily admire the dramatic voice and the rôles it can sing. Raisa's voice is for me the most beautiful I know. But after all I think, for myself, I prefer the lyric and coloratura parts, they are so beautiful. The old Italian composers knew well how to write for the voice. Their music has beauty, it has melody, and melodic beauty will always make its appeal. And the older Italian music is built up not only of melody and fioriture, but is also dramatic. For these qualities can combine, and do so in the last act of _Traviata_, which is so full of deep feeling and pathos. BREATH CONTROL "Perhaps, in Vocal Mastery, the greatest factor of all is the breathing. To control the breath is what each student is striving to learn, what every singer endeavors to perfect, what every artist should master. It is an almost endless study and an individual one, because each organism and mentality is different. Here, as in everything else, perfect ease and naturalness are to be maintained, if the divine song which is the singer's concept of beauty, is to be 'floated on the breath,' and its merest whisper heard to the farthest corner of the gallery. THE MATTER IN A NUTSHELL "To sum up then, the three requirements of vocal mastery are: a, Management of the Larynx; b, Relaxation of the Diaphragm; c, Control of the Breath. To these might be added a fourth; Mixed Vowels. "But when all these are mastered, what then? Ah, so much more it can never be put into words. It is self-expression through the medium of tone, for tone must always be a vital part of the singer's individuality, colored by feeling and emotion. Tone is the outlet, the expression of all one has felt, suffered and enjoyed. To perfect one's own instrument, one's medium of expression, must always be the singer's joy and satisfaction." "And you will surely rest when the arduous season is over?" "Yes, I will rest when the summer comes, and will return to Italy this year. But even though I seem to rest, I never neglect my vocal practice; that duty and pleasure is always performed." And with a charming smile and clasp of the hand, she said adieu. VI =GIUSEPPE DE LUCA= CEASELESS EFFORT NECESSARY FOR ARTISTIC PERFECTION "A Roman of Rome" is what Mr. Giuseppe De Luca has been named. The very words themselves call up all kinds of enchanting pictures. Sunny Italy is the natural home of beautiful voices: they are her birthright. Her blue sky, flowers and olive trees--her old palaces, hoary with age and romantic story, her fountains and marbles, her wonderful treasures of art, set her in a world apart, in the popular mind. Everything coming from Italy has the right to be romantic and artistic. If it happens to be a voice, it should of necessity be beautiful in quality, rich, smooth, and well trained. [Illustration: To Mrs. Harriette Brower cordially Giuseppe De Luca] While all singers who come from the sunny land cannot boast all these qualifications, Mr. De Luca, baritone of the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, can do so. Gifted with a naturally fine organ, he has cultivated it arduously and to excellent purpose. He began to study in early youth, became a student of Saint Cecilia in Rome when fifteen years of age, and made his début at about twenty. He has sung in opera ever since. In 1915,--November 25th to be exact--De Luca came to the Metropolitan, and won instant recognition from critics and public alike. It is said of him that he earned "this success by earnest and intelligent work. Painstaking to a degree, there is no detail of his art that he neglects or slights--so that one hesitates to decide whether he is greater as a singer or as an actor." Perhaps, however, his most important quality is his mastery of "_bel canto_"--pure singing--that art which seems to become constantly rarer on the operatic and concert stage. "De Luca does such beautiful, finished work; every detail is carefully thought out until it is as perfect as can be." So remarked a member of the Metropolitan, and a fellow artist. Those who have listened to the Roman baritone in the various rôles he has assumed, have enjoyed his fine voice, his true _bel canto_ style, and his versatile dramatic skill. He has never disappointed his public, and more than this, is ever ready to step into the breach should necessity arise. A man who has at least a hundred and twenty operas at his tongue's end, who has been singing in the greatest opera houses of the world for more than twenty years, will surely have much to tell which can help those who are farther down the line. If he is willing to do so, can speak the vernacular, and can spare a brief hour from the rush of constant study and engagement, a conference will be possible. It was possible, for time was made for it. THE MUSICAL GIFT Mr. De Luca, who speaks the English language remarkably well, greeted the writer with easy courtesy. His genial manner makes one feel at home immediately. Although he had just come from the Opera House, where he had sung an important rôle, he seemed as fresh and rested as though nothing had happened. "I think the ability to act, and also, in a measure, to sing, is a gift," began the artist. "I remember, even as a little child, I was always acting out in pantomime or mimicry what I had seen and felt. If I was taken to the theater, I would come home, place a chair for audience, and act out the whole story I had just seen before it. From my youngest years I always wanted to sing and act. A REMARKABLE TEACHER "As early as I could, at about the age of fifteen, I began to study singing, with a most excellent teacher; who was none other than Signor Wenceslao Persischini, who is now no longer living. He trained no fewer than seventy-four artists, of which I was the last. Battestini, that wonderful singer, whose voice to-day, at the age of sixty-five, is as remarkable as ever, is one of his pupils. We know that if a vocal teacher sings himself, and has faults, his pupils are bound to copy those faults instinctively and unconsciously. With Persischini this could not be the case; for, owing to some throat trouble, he was not able to sing at all. He could only whisper the tones he wanted, accompanying them with signs and facial grimaces." And Mr. De Luca illustrated these points in most amusing fashion. Then he continued: "But he had unerring judgment, together with the finest ear. He knew perfectly how the tone should be sung and the student was obliged to do it exactly right and must keep at it till it was right. He would let nothing faulty pass without correction. I also had lessons in acting from Madame Marini, a very good teacher of the art. THE ARTIST LIFE "After five years of hard study I made my début at Piacenza, as Valentine, in _Faust_, November 6th, 1897. Then, you may remember, I came to the Metropolitan in the season of 1915-1916, where I have been singing continually ever since. "The artist should have good health, that he may be always able to sing. He owes this to his public, to be always ready, never to disappoint. I think I have never disappointed an audience and have always been in good voice. It seems to me when one is no longer able to do one's best it is time to stop singing." "It is because you study constantly and systematically that you are always in good voice." "Yes, I am always at work. I rise at eight in the morning, not later. Vocalizes are never neglected. I often sing them as I take my bath. Some singers do not see the necessity of doing exercises every day; I am not one of those. I always sing my scales, first with full power, then taking each tone softly, swelling to full strength, then dying away--in mezza voce. I use many other exercises also--employing full power. English is also one of the daily studies, with lessons three times a week. CONSTANTLY ON THE WATCH "When singing a rôle, I am always listening--watching--to be conscious of just what I am doing. I am always criticizing myself. If a tone or a phrase does not sound quite correct to me as to placement, or production, I try to correct the fault at once. I can tell just how I am singing a tone or phrase by the feeling and sensation. Of course I cannot hear the full effect; no singer ever can actually hear the effect of his work, except on the records. There he can learn, for the first time, just how his voice sounds. LEARNING A NEW RÔLE "How do I begin a new part? I first read over the words and try to get a general idea of their meaning, and how I would express the ideas. I try over the arias and get an idea of those. Then comes the real work--the memorizing and working out the conception. I first commit the words, and know them so well I can write them out. Next I join them to the music. So far I have worked by myself. After this much has been done, I call in the accompanist, as I do not play the piano very well; that is to say, my right hand will go but the left lags behind! ALWAYS BEING SURE OF THE WORDS "Yes, as you say, it requires constant study to keep the various rôles in review, especially at the Metropolitan, where the operas are changed from day to day. Of course at performance the prompter is always there to give the cue--yet the words must always be in mind. I have never yet forgotten a word or phrase. On one occasion--it was in the _Damnation of Faust_, a part I had already sung a number of times--I thought of a word that was coming, and seemed utterly unable to remember it. I grew quite cold with fear--I am inclined to be a little nervous anyway--but it was quite impossible to think of the word. Luckily at the moment when I needed the word I was so fearful about, it suddenly came to me. NATURAL ANXIETY "Of course there is always anxiety for the artist with every public appearance. There is so much responsibility--one must always be at one's best; and the responsibility increases as one advances, and begins to realize more and more keenly how much is expected and what depends on one's efforts. I can assure you we all feel this, from the least to the greatest. The most famous singers perhaps suffer most keenly. "I have always sung in Italian opera, in which the language is easy for me. Latterly I have added French operas to my list. _Samson and Delilah_, which I had always done in Italian, I had to relearn in French; this for me was very difficult. I worked a long time on it, but mastered it at last. "This is my twenty-second season in opera. I have a repertoire of about one hundred and twenty rôles, in most of which I have sung many times in Italy. Some I wish might be brought out at the Metropolitan. Verdi's _Don Carlos_, for instance, has a beautiful baritone part; it is really one of the fine operas, though it might be considered a bit old-fashioned to-day. Still I think it would be a success here. I am preparing several new parts for this season; one of them is the Tschaikowsky work--_Eugene Onegin_. So you see I am constantly at work. "My favorite operas? I think they are these"; and Mr. De Luca hastily jotted down the following: _Don Carlos, Don Giovanni, Hamlet, Rigoletto, Barbier, Damnation of Faust_, and last, but not least, _Tannhauser_. GROWTH OF MUSICAL APPRECIATION IN AMERICA Asked if he considered appreciation for music had advanced during his residence in America, his answer was emphatically in the affirmative. "The other evening I attended a reception of representative American society, among whom were many frequenters of the Metropolitan. Many of them spoke to me of the opera _Marouf_. I was surprised, for this modern French opera belongs to the new idiom, and is difficult to understand. 'Do you really like the music of _Marouf_?' I asked. 'Oh, yes indeed,' every one said. It is one of my longest parts, but not one of my special favorites. "In the summer! Ah, I go back to my beloved Italy almost as soon as the Metropolitan season closes. I could sing in Buenos Aires, as the season there follows the one here. But I prefer to rest the whole time until I return. I feel the singer needs a period of rest each year. To show you how necessary it is for the singer to do daily work on the voice, I almost feel I cannot sing at all during the summer, as I do no practicing, and without vocalizes one cannot keep in trim. If I am asked to sing during vacation, I generally refuse. I tell them I cannot sing, for I do not practice. It takes me a little while after I return, to get the vocal apparatus in shape again. "Thus it means constant study, eternal vigilance to attain the goal, then to hold what you have attained and advance beyond it if possible." VII =LUISA TETRAZZINI= THE COLORATURA VOICE Luisa Tetrazzini has been called the greatest exponent of coloratura singing that we have at the present time. Her phenomenal successes in various quarters of the globe, where she has been heard in both opera and concert, are well known, and form pages of musical history, full of interest. This remarkable voice, of exquisite quality and development, is another proof that we have as beautiful voices to-day, if we will but realize the fact, as were ever known or heard of in the days of famous Italian songsters. [Illustration: LOUISA TETRAZZINI] Portraits often belie the artist, by accentuating, unduly, some individuality of face or figure, and Tetrazzini is no exception. From her pictures one would expect to find one of the imperious, dominating order of prima donnas of the old school. When I met the diva, I was at once struck by the simplicity of her appearance and attire. There was nothing pompous about her; she did not carry herself with the air of one conscious of possessing something admired and sought after by all the world, something which set her on a high pedestal apart from other singers. Not at all. I saw a little lady of plump, comfortable figure, a face which beamed with kindliness and good humor, a mouth wreathed with smiles. Her manner and speech were equally simple and cordial, so that the visitor was put at ease at once, and felt she had known the great singer for years. Before the conference could begin a pretty episode happened, which showed the human side of the singer's character, and gave a glimpse into her every day life. Mme. Tetrazzini was a little late for her appointment, as she had been out on a shopping expedition, an occupation which she greatly enjoys. Awaiting her return was a group of photographers, who had arranged their apparatus, mirrors and flash-light screen, even to the piano stool on which the singer was to be placed. She took in the situation at a glance, as she entered, and obediently gave herself into the hands of the picture makers. "Ah, you wish to make me beautiful," she exclaimed, with her pretty accent; "I am not beautiful, but you may try to make me look so." With patience she assumed the required poses, put her head on this side or that, drew her furs closer about her or allowed them to fall away from the white throat, with its single string of pearls. The onlooker suggested she be snapped with a little black "Pom," who had found his way into the room and was now an interested spectator, on his vantage ground, a big sofa. So little "Joy" was gathered up and held in affectionate, motherly arms, close against his mistress' face. It was all very human and natural, and gave another side to the singer's character from the side she shows to the public. At last the ordeal was over, and Madame was free to leave her post and sit in one of the arm chairs, where she could be a little more comfortable. The secretary was also near, to be appealed to when she could not make herself intelligible in English. "My English is very bad," she protested; "I have not the time now to learn it properly; that is why I speak it so very bad. In the summer, or next year, I will really learn it. Now, what is it I can tell you? I am ready." FOR THE DÉBUTANTE To ask such a natural born singer how she studies and works, is like asking the fish swimming about in the ocean, to tell you where is the sea! She could not tell you how she does it. Singing is as the breath of life to Tetrazzini--as natural as the air she breathes. Realizing this, I began at the other end. "What message have you, Madame, for the young singer, who desires to make a career?" "Ah, yes, the débutante. Tell her she must practice much--very much--" and Madame spread out her hands to indicate it was a large subject; "she must practice several hours every day. I had to practice very much when I began my study--when I was sixteen; but now I do not have to spend much time on scales and exercises; they pretty well go of themselves"; and she smiled sweetly. "You say," she continued, "the débutante--the young singer--does not know--in America--how much she needs the foreign languages. But she should learn them. She should study French, Italian and Spanish, and know how to speak them. Because, if she should travel to those countries, she must make herself understood, and she must be able to sing in those languages, too. "Besides the languages, it is very good for her to study piano also; she need not know it so well as if she would be a pianist, but she should know it a little; yet it is better to know more of the piano--it will make her a better musician." THE COLORATURA VOICE "You love the coloratura music, do you not, Madame?" "Ah, yes, I love the coloratura,--it suits me; I have always studied for that--I know all the old Italian operas. For the coloratura music you must make the voice sound high and sweet--like a bird--singing and soaring. You think my voice sounds something like Patti's? Maybe. She said so herself. Ah, Patti was my dear friend--my very dear friend--I loved her dearly. She only sang the coloratura music, though she loved Wagner and dramatic music. Not long before she died she said to me: 'Luisa, always keep to the coloratura music, and the beautiful _bel canto_ singing; do nothing to strain your voice; preserve its velvety quality.' Patti's voice went to C sharp, in later years; mine has several tones higher. In the great aria in Lucia, she used to substitute a trill at the end instead of the top notes; but she said to me--'Luisa, _you_ can sing the high notes!'" "Then the breathing, Madame, what would you say of that?" "Ah, the breathing, that is very important indeed. You must breathe from here, you know--what you call it--from the diaphragm, and from both sides; it is like a bellows, going in and out," and she touched the portions referred to. "One does not sing from the chest,--that would make queer, harsh tones." She sang a few tones just to show how harsh they would be. "You have shown such wonderful breath control in the way you sustain high tones, beginning them softly, swelling then diminishing them." "Ah, yes, the coloratura voice must always be able to do those things," was the answer. "Should you ever care to become a dramatic singer?" she was asked. Tetrazzini grew thoughtful; "No, I do not think so," she said, after a pause; "I love my coloratura music, and I think my audience likes it too; it goes to the heart--it is all melody, and that is what people like. I sing lyric music also--I am fond of that." "Yes, and you sing songs in English, with such good diction, that we can all understand you--almost every word." Madame beamed. "I promise you I will learn English better next year; for I shall come back to my friends in America next autumn. I shall be in Italy in the summer. I have two homes over there, one in Italy and one in Switzerland. "Do I prefer to sing in opera or concert, you ask? I believe I like concert much better, for many reasons. I get nearer to the audience; I am freer--much freer, and can be myself and not some other person. There is no change of costume, either; I wear one gown, so it is easier; yes, I like it much more. "In traveling over your big country--you see I have just been out to California and back--I find your people have advanced so very much in appreciation of music; you know so much more than when I was here before; that was indeed a long time ago--about twelve years,--" and Madame made a pretty little gesture. "But in one way your great big country has scarcely advanced any if at all; you have not advanced in providing opera for your music lovers. You need permanent opera companies in all the larger cities. The opera companies of New York and Chicago are fine, oh yes,--but they cannot give opera to the whole country. There are a few traveling companies too, which are good. But what are they in your big country? You should have opera stock companies all over, which would give opera for the people. Then your fine American girls would have the chance to gain operatic experience in their own country, which they cannot get now. That is why the foreign singer has such a chance here, and that is why the native singer can hardly get a chance. All the American girls' eyes turn with longing to the Metropolitan Opera House; and with the best intentions in the world the Director can only engage a small number of those he would like to have, because he has no room for them. He can not help it. So I say, that while your people have grown so much in the liking and in the understanding of music, you do not grow on this side, because your young singers are obliged to travel to a foreign land to get the practice in opera they are unable to get at home. You need to do more for the permanent establishing of opera in the large and small cities of your country." Madame did not express her thoughts quite as consecutively as I have set them down, but I am sure she will approve, as these are her ideas of the musical situation in this country. As I listened to the words of this "second Patti," as she is called, and learned of her kindly deeds, I was as much impressed by her kindness of heart as I had been by her beautiful art of song. She does much to relieve poverty and suffering wherever she finds it. As a result of her "vocal mastery," she has been able to found a hospital in Italy for victims of tuberculosis, which accommodates between three and four hundred patients. The whole institution is maintained from her own private income. During the war she generously gave of her time and art to sing for the soldiers and aided the cause of the Allies and the Red Cross whenever possible. For her labors of love in this direction, she has the distinction of being decorated by a special gold medal of honor, by both the French and Italian Governments; a distinction only conferred on two others beside herself. After our conference, I thanked her for giving me an hour from her crowded day. She took my hand and pressed it warmly in both hers. "Please do not quite forget me, Madame." "Indeed not, will you forget me?" "No, I shall always remember this delightful hour." "Then, you see, I cannot forget you!" and she gave my hand a parting squeeze. VIII =ANTONIO SCOTTI= TRAINING AMERICAN SINGERS FOR OPERA A singer of finished art and ripe experience is Antonio Scotti. His operatic career has been rich in development, and he stands to-day at the top of the ladder, as one of the most admired dramatic baritones of our time. One of Naples' sons, he made a first appearance on the stage at Malta, in 1889. Successful engagements in Milan, Rome, Madrid, Russia and Buenos Aires followed. In 1899 he came to London, singing _Don Giovanni_ at Covent Garden. A few months thereafter, he came to New York and began his first season at the Metropolitan. His vocal and histrionic gifts won instant recognition here and for the past twenty years he has been one of the most dependable artists of each regular season. CHARACTERIZATION [Illustration: [handwritten note] To Miss Harriette Brower Cordially A Scotti New York 1920] With all his varied endowments, it seldom or never falls to the lot of a baritone to impersonate the lover; on the contrary it seems to be his métier to portray the villain. Scotti has been forced to hide his true personality behind the mask of a Scarpia, a Tonio, an Iago, and last but not least, the most repulsive yet subtle of all his villains--Chim-Fang, in _L'Oracolo_. Perhaps the most famous of them all is Scarpia. But what a Scarpia, the quintessence of the polished, elegant knave! The refinement of Mr. Scotti's art gives to each rôle distinct characteristics which separate it from all the others. OPPORTUNITY FOR THE AMERICAN SINGER Mr. Scotti has done and is doing much for the young American singer, by not only drilling the inexperienced ones, but also by giving them opportunity to appear in opera on tour. To begin this enterprise, the great baritone turned impresario, engaged a company of young singers, most of them Americans, and, when his season at the Metropolitan was at an end, took this company, at his own expense, on a southern trip, giving opera in many cities. Discussing his venture on one occasion, Mr. Scotti said: "It was an experiment in several ways. First, I had an all-American company, which was indeed an experiment. I had some fine artists in the principal rôles, with lesser known ones in smaller parts. With these I worked personally, teaching them how to act, thus preparing them for further career in the field of opera. I like to work with the younger and less experienced ones, for it gives me real pleasure to watch how they improve, when they have the opportunity. "Of course I am obliged to choose my material carefully, for many more apply for places than I can ever accept. ITALIAN OPERA IN AMERICA "So closely is Italy identified with all that pertains to opera," he continued, "that the question of the future of Italian opera in America interests me immensely. It has been my privilege to devote some of the best years of my life to singing in Italian opera in this wonderful country of yours. One is continually impressed with the great advance America has made and is making along all musical lines. It is marvelous, though you who live here may not be awake to the fact. Musicians in Europe and other parts of the world, who have never been here, can form no conception of the musical activities here. "It is very gratifying to me, as an Italian, to realize that the operatic compositions of my country must play an important part in the future of American musical art. It seems to me there is more intrinsic value--more variety in the works of modern Italian composers than in those of other nations. We know the operas of Mozart are largely founded on Italian models. "Of the great modern Italian composers, I feel that Puccini is the most important, because he has a more intimate appreciation of theatrical values. He seems to know just what kind of music will fit a series of words or a scene, which will best bring out the dramatic sense. Montemezzi is also very great in this respect. This in no way detracts from what Mascagni, Leoncavallo and others have accomplished. It is only my personal estimate of Puccini as a composer. The two most popular operas to-day are _Aïda_ and _Madame Butterfly_, and they will always draw large audiences, although American people are prone to attend the opera for the purpose of hearing some particular singer and not for the sake of the work of the composer. In other countries this is not so often the case. We must hope this condition will be overcome in due time, for the reason that it now often happens that good performances are missed by the public who are only attracted when some much heralded celebrity sings." AMERICAN COMPOSERS Asked for his views regarding American operatic composers, Mr. Scotti said: "American composers often spoil their chances of success by selecting uninteresting and uninspired stories, which either describe some doleful historic incident or illustrate some Indian legend, in which no one of to-day is interested, and which is so far removed from actual life that it becomes at once artificial, academic and preposterous. Puccini spends years searching for suitable librettos, as great composers have always done. When he finds a story that is worthy he turns it into an opera. But he will wait till he discovers the right kind of a plot. No wonder he has success. In writing modern music dramas, as all young Americans endeavor to do, they will never be successful unless they are careful to pick out really dramatic stories to set to music." OPERATIC TRAINING On a certain occasion I had an opportunity to confer with this popular baritone, and learn more in regard to his experiences as impresario. This meeting was held in the little back office of the Metropolitan, a tiny spot, which should be--and doubtless is--dear to every member of the company. Those four walls, if they would speak, could tell many interesting stories of singers and musicians, famed in the world of art and letters, who daily pass through its doors, or sit chatting on its worn leather-covered benches, exchanging views on this performance or that, or on the desirability or difficulty of certain rôles. Even while we were in earnest conference, Director Gatti-Casazza passed through the room, stopping long enough to say a pleasant word and offer a clasp of the hand. Mr. Guard, too, flitted by in haste, but had time to give a friendly greeting. Mr. Scotti was in genial mood and spoke with enthusiasm of his activities with a favorite project--his own opera company. To the question as to whether he found young American singers in too great haste to come before the public, before they were sufficiently prepared, thus proving they were superficial in their studies, he replied: "No, I do not find this to be the case. As a general rule, young American singers have a good foundation to build upon. They have good voices to start with; they are eager to learn and they study carefully. What they lack most--those who go in for opera I mean--is stage routine and a knowledge of acting. This, as I have said before, I try to give them. I do not give lessons in singing to these young aspirants, as I might in this way gain the enmity of vocal teachers; but I help the untried singers to act their parts. Of course all depends on the mentality--how long a process of training the singer needs. The coloratura requires more time to perfect this manner of singing than others need; but some are much quicker at it than others. "It is well I am blessed with good health, as my task is extremely arduous. When on tour, I sing every night, besides constantly rehearsing my company. We are ninety in all, including our orchestra. It is indeed a great undertaking. I do not do it for money, for I make nothing personally out of it, and you can imagine how heavy the expenses are; four thousand dollars a week, merely for transportation. But I do it for the sake of art, and to spread the love of modern Italian opera over this great, wonderful country, the greatest country for music that exists to-day. And the plan succeeds far beyond my hopes; for where we gave one performance in a place, we now, on our second visit, can give three--four. Next year we shall go to California. "So we are doing our part, both to aid the young singer who sorely needs experience and to educate the masses and general public to love what is best in modern Italian opera!" IX =ROSA RAISA= PATIENCE AND PERSEVERANCE WIN RESULTS To the present day opera goers the name of Rosa Raisa stands for a compelling force. In whatever rôle she appears, she is always a commanding figure, both physically, dramatically and musically. Her feeling for dramatic climax, the intensity with which she projects each character assumed, the sincerity and self forgetfulness of her naturalistic interpretation, make every rôle notable. Her voice is a rich, powerful soprano, vibrantly sweet when at its softest--like a rushing torrent of passion in intense moments. At such moments the listener is impressed with the belief that power and depth of tone are limitless; that the singer can never come to the end of her resources, no matter how deeply she may draw on them. There are such moments of tragic intensity, in her impersonation of the heroine in _Jewels of the Madonna_, in _Sister Angelica_, in _Norma_, as the avenging priestess, in which rôle she has recently created such a remarkable impression. [Illustration: Rosa Raisa] A PRIMA DONNA AT HOME If one has pictured to one's self that because the Russian prima donna can show herself a whirlwind of dynamic passion on the stage, therefore she must show some of these qualities in private life, one would quickly become disabused of such an impression when face to face with the artist. One would then meet a slender, graceful young woman, of gentle presence and with the simplest manners in the world. The dark, liquid eyes look at one with frankness and sincerity; the wide, low brow, from which the dark hair is softly drawn away, is the brow of a madonna. In repose the features might easily belong to one of Raphael's saints. However, they light up genially when their owner speaks. Mme. Raisa stood in the doorway of her New York apartment, ready to greet us as we were shown the way to her. Her figure, clad in close-fitting black velvet, looked especially slender; her manner was kind and gracious, and we were soon seated in her large, comfortable salon, deep in conference. Before we had really begun, the singer's pet dog came bounding to greet us from another room. The tiny creature, a Mexican terrier, was most affectionate, yet very gentle withal, and content to quietly cuddle down and listen to the conversation. "I will speak somewhat softly," began Mme. Raisa, "since speaking seems to tire me much more than singing, for what reason I do not know. We singers must think a little of our physical well being, you see. This means keeping regular hours, living very simply and taking a moderate amount of exercise. "Yes, I always loved to sing; even as a little child I was constantly singing. And so I began to have singing lessons when I was eight years old. Later on I went to Italy and lived there for a number of years, until I began to travel. I now make my home in Naples. My teacher there was Madame Marchesio, who was a remarkable singer, musician and teacher--all three. Even when she reached the advanced age of eighty, she could still sing wonderfully well. She had the real _bel canto_, understood the voice, how to use it and the best way to preserve it. I owe so much to her careful, artistic training; almost everything, I may say. THE SINGER'S LIFE "One cannot expect to succeed in the profession of music without giving one's best time and thought to the work of vocal training and all the other subjects that go with it. A man in business gives his day, or the most of it, to his office. My time is devoted to my art, and indeed I have not any too much time to study all the necessary sides of it. "During the season, I do regular vocal practice each day and keep the various rôles in review. During the summer I study new parts, for then I have the time and the quiet. That is what the singer needs--quiet. I always return to Naples for the vacation, unless I go to South America and sing there. Then I must have a little rest too, that I may be ready for the labors of the following season. VOCAL TRAINING "Even during the busiest days technic practice is never neglected. Vocalizes, scales, terzetta--what you call them--broken thirds, yes, and long, slow tones in _mezza di voce_, that is, beginning softly, swelling to loud then gradually diminishing to soft, are part of the daily régime. One cannot omit these things if one would always keep in condition and readiness. When at work in daily study, I sing softly, or with medium tone quality; I do not use full voice except occasionally, when I am going through a part and wish to try out certain effects. "ONE VOICE" "I was trained first as a coloratura and taught to do all the old Italian operas of Bellini, Rosini, Donizetti and the rest of the florid Italian school. This gives the singer a thorough, solid training--the sort of training that requires eight or ten years to accomplish. But this is not too much time to give, if one wishes to be thoroughly prepared to sing all styles of music. In former days, when singers realized the necessity of being prepared in this way, there existed I might say--_one voice;_ for the soprano voice was trained to sing both florid and dramatic music. But in these days sopranos are divided into High, Lyric, Coloratura and Dramatic; singers choose which of these lines seems to suit best their voice and temperament. COLORATURA AND DRAMATIC "It is of advantage to the singer to be trained in both these arts. In the smaller opera houses of Italy, a soprano, if thus trained, can sing _Lucia_ one night and _Norma_ the next; _Traviata_ one night and _Trovatore_ the next. "Modern Italian opera calls for the dramatic soprano. She must be an actress just as well as a singer. She must be able to express in both voice and gesture intense passion and emotion. It is the period of storm and stress. Coloratura voices have not so much opportunity at the present time, unless they are quite out of the ordinary. And yet, for me, a singer who has mastery of the beautiful art of _bel canto,_ is a great joy. Galli-Curci's art is the highest I know of. For me she is the greatest singer. Melba also is wonderful. I have heard her often--she has been very kind to me. When I hear her sing an old Italian air, with those pure, bell-like tones of hers, I am lifted far up; I feel myself above the sky. DO NOT YIELD TO DISCOURAGEMENT "The younger singer need not yield to discouragement, for she must know from the start, that the mastery of a great art like singing is a long and arduous task. If the work seems too difficult at times, do not give up or say 'I cannot.' If I had done that, I should have really given up many times. Instead I say; 'I can do it, and not only I can but I will!' MUSICIANSHIP "There are so many sides to the singer's equipment, besides singing itself"; and Mme. Raisa lifted dark eyes and spread out her graceful hands as though to indicate the bigness of the subject. "Yes, there is the piano, for instance; the singer is much handicapped without a knowledge of that instrument, for it not only provides accompaniment but cultivates the musical sense. Of course I have learned the piano and I consider it necessary for the singer. "Then there are languages. Be not content with your own, though that language must be perfectly learned and expressed, but learn others." "You of course speak several languages?" questioned the listener. "Yes, I speak eight," she answered modestly. "Russian, of course, for I am Russian; then French, Italian, German, Spanish, Polish, Roumanian and English. Besides these I am familiar with a few dialects. HAVE PATIENCE "So many young singers are so impatient; they want to prepare themselves in three or four years for a career," and Madame frowned her disapproval. "Perhaps they may come before the public after that length of time spent in study; but they will only know a part--a little of all they ought to know. With a longer time, conscientiously used, they would be far better equipped. The singer who spends nine or ten years in preparation, who is trained to sing florid parts as well as those which are dramatic--she indeed can sing anything, the music of the old school as well as of the new. In Rome I gave a recital of old music, assisted by members of the Sistine Chapel choir. We gave much old music, some of it dating from the sixth century. "Do I always feel the emotions I express when singing a rôle? Yes, I can say that I endeavor to throw myself absolutely into the part I am portraying; but that I always do so with equal success cannot be expected. So many unforeseen occurrences may interfere, which the audience can never know or consider. One may not be exactly in the mood, or in the best of voice; the house may not be a congenial space, or the audience is unsympathetic. But if all is propitious and the audience with you--then you are lifted up and carry every one with you. Then you are inspired and petty annoyances are quite forgotten. VOCAL MASTERY "You ask a very difficult question when you ask of what vocal mastery consists. If I have developed perfect control throughout the two and a half octaves of my voice, can make each tone with pure quality and perfect evenness in the different degrees of loud and soft, and if I have perfect breath control as well, I then have an equipment that may serve all purposes of interpretation. "Together with vocal mastery must go the art of interpretation, in which all the mastery of the vocal equipment may find expression. In order to interpret adequately one ought to possess a perfect instrument, perfectly trained. When this is the case one can forget mechanism, because confident of the ability to express whatever emotion is desired." "Have you a message which may be carried to the young singers?" she was asked. "Tell them to have patience--patience to work and patience to wait for results. Vocal mastery is not a thing that can be quickly accomplished; it is not the work of weeks and months, but of years of consistent, constant effort. It cannot be hurried, but must grow with one's growth, both mentally and physically. But the reward of earnest effort is sure to come!" X =LOUISE HOMER= THE REQUIREMENTS OF A MUSICAL CAREER Madame Louise Homer is a native artist to whom every loyal American can point with pardonable pride. Her career has been a constant, steady ascent, from the start; it is a career so well known in America that there is hardly any need to review it, except as she herself refers to it on the rare occasions when she is induced to speak of herself. For Mme. Homer is one of the most modest artists in the world; nothing is more distasteful to her than to seek for publicity through ordinary channels. So averse is she to any self-seeking that it was with considerable hesitation that she consented to express her views to the writer, on the singer's art. As Mr. Sidney Homer, the well known composer and husband of Mme. Homer, remarked, the writer should prize this intimate talk, as it was the first Mme. Homer had granted in a very long time. [Illustration: LOUISE HOMER] The artist had lately returned from a long trip, crowded with many concerts, when I called at the New York residence of this ideal musical pair and their charming family. Mme. Homer was at home and sent down word she would see me shortly. In the few moments of waiting, I seemed to feel the genial atmosphere of this home, its quiet and cheer. A distant tinkle of girlish laughter was borne to me once or twice; then a phrase or two sung by a rich, vibrant voice above; then in a moment after, the artist herself descended and greeted me cordially. "We will have a cup of tea before we start in to talk," she said, and, as if by magic, the tea tray and dainty muffins appeared. How wholesome and fresh she looked, with the ruddy color in her cheeks and the firm whiteness of neck and arms. The Japanese robe of "midnight blue," embroidered in yellows, heightened the impression of vigorous health by its becomingness. FOR THE GIRL WHO WANTS TO MAKE A CAREER "There is so much to consider for the girl who desires to enter the profession," began Mme. Homer, in response to my first query. "First, she must have a voice, there is no use attempting a career without the voice; there must be something to develop, something worth while to build upon. And if she has the voice and the means to study, she must make up her mind to devote herself exclusively to her art; there is no other way to succeed. She cannot enter society, go to luncheons, dinners and out in the evening, and at the same time accomplish much in the way of musical development. Many girls think, if they attend two or three voice lessons a week and learn some songs and a few operatic arias, that is all there is to it. But there is far more. They must know many other things. The vocal student should study piano and languages; these are really essential. Not that she should strive to become a pianist; that would not be possible if she is destined to become a singer; but the more she knows of the piano and its literature, the more this will cultivate her musical sense and develop her taste. HOW AN ARTIST WORKS "I am always studying, always striving to improve what I have already learned and trying to acquire the things I find difficult, or that I have not yet attained to. I do vocal technic every day; this is absolutely essential, while one is in the harness. It is during the winter that I work so industriously, both on technic and repertoire, between tours. This is when I study. I believe in resting the voice part of the year, and I take this rest in the summer. Then, for a time, I do not sing at all. I try to forget there is such a thing as music in the world, so far as studying it is concerned. Of course I try over Mr. Homer's new songs, when they are finished, for summer is his time for composition. "Since the voice is such an intangible instrument, the singer needs regular guidance and criticism, no matter how advanced she may be. As you say, it is difficult for the singer to determine the full effect of her work; she often thinks it much better than it really is. That is human nature, isn't it?" she added with one of her charming smiles. THE START IN OPERA "How did you start upon an operatic career?" the singer was asked. Just here Mr. Homer entered and joined in the conference. "I do not desire to go into my life-history, as that would take too long. In a few words, this is how it happened--years ago. "We were living in Boston; I had a church position, so we were each busy with our musical work. My voice was said to be 'glorious,' but it was a cumbersome, unwieldy organ. I could only sing up to F; there were so many things I wanted to do with my voice that seemed impossible, that I realized I needed more training. I could have remained where I was; the church people were quite satisfied, and I sang in concert whenever opportunity offered. But something within urged me on. We decided to take a year off and spend it in study abroad. Paris was then the Mecca for singers and to Paris we went. I plunged at once into absorbing study; daily lessons in voice training and repertoire; languages, and French diction, several times a week, and soon acting was added, for every one said my voice was for the theater. I had no idea, when I started out, that I should go into opera. I had always loved to sing, as far back as I can remember. My father was a Presbyterian clergyman, and when we needed new hymn books for church or Sunday School, they used to come to our house. I would get hold of every hymn book I could find and learn the music. So I was always singing; but an operatic career never entered my thought, until the prospect seemed to unfold before me, as a result of my arduous study in Paris. Of course I began to learn important arias from the operas. Every contralto aspires to sing the grand air from the last act of _Le Prophete;_ you know it of course. I told my teacher I could never do it, as it demanded higher tones than I had acquired, going up to C. He assured me it would be perfectly easy in a little while, if I would spend a few moments daily on those high notes. His prediction was correct, for in a few months I had no trouble with the top notes. "I studied stage deportment and acting from one of the greatest singing actors of the French stage, Paul Lherie. What an artist he was! So subtle, so penetrating, so comprehensive. The principles he taught are a constant help to me now, and his remarks often come back to me as I study a new rôle. "As I say, I studied this line of work, not knowing what would grow out of it; I did it on faith, hoping that it might prove useful." "It seems to me," remarked the composer, "that young singers would do well to make a study of acting, along with languages and piano. Then, if the voice developed and an operatic career opened to them, they would be so much better prepared; they would have made a start in the right direction; there would not be so much to learn all at once, later on." "If the girl could only be sure she was destined for a stage career," said Mme. Homer, thoughtfully, "she might do many things from the start that she doesn't think of doing before she knows. "To go on with my Paris story. I kept faithfully at work for a year, preparing myself for I knew not just what; I could not guess what was in store. Then I got my first opera engagement, quite unexpectedly. I was singing for some professional friends in a large _saale_. I noticed a man standing with his back to me, looking out of one of the long windows. When I finished, he came forward and offered me an engagement at Vichy, for the summer season. The name Vichy only suggested to my mind a kind of beverage. Now I learned the town had a flourishing Opera House, and I was expected to sing eight rôles. Thus my stage career began." WHAT ARE THE ASSETS FOR A CAREER? "And what must the girl possess, who wishes to make a success with her singing?" was asked. "First of all, as I have already said, she must have a voice; she can never expect to get very far without that. Voice is a necessity for a singer, but it rests with her what she will do with it, how she will develop it. "The next asset is intelligence; that is as great a necessity as a voice. For through the voice we express what we feel, what we are; intelligence controls, directs, shines through and illumines everything. Indeed what can be done without intelligence? I could mention a young singer with a good natural voice, who takes her tones correctly, who studies well; indeed one can find no fault with the technical side of her work; but her singing has no meaning--it says absolutely nothing; it only represents just so many notes." "That is because she has not a musical nature," put in Mr. Homer. "To my mind that is the greatest asset any one can have who wishes to become a musician in any branch of the art. What can be done without a musical nature? Of course I speak of the young singer who wishes to make a career. There are many young people who take up singing for their own pleasure, never expecting to do much with it. And it is a good thing to do so. It gives pleasure to their family and friends--is a healthful exercise, and last but not least, is financially good for the teacher they employ. "But the trouble comes when these superficial students aspire to become opera singers, after a couple of seasons' study. Of course they all cast eyes at the Metropolitan, as the end and aim of all striving. "Just as if, when a young man enters a law office, it is going to lead him to the White House, or that he expects it will," said Mr. Homer. "Then," resumed the artist, "we have already three requirements for a vocal career; Voice, Intelligence and a Musical Nature. I think the Fourth should be a Capacity for Work. Without application, the gifts of voice, intelligence and a musical nature will not make an artist. To accomplish this task requires ceaseless labor, without yielding to discouragement. Perhaps the Fifth asset would be a cheerful optimism as proof against discouragement. "That is the last thing the student should yield to--discouragement, for this has stunted or impaired the growth of many singers possessed of natural talent. The young singer must never be down-hearted. Suppose things do not go as she would like to have them; she must learn to overcome obstacles, not be overcome by them. She must have backbone enough to stand up under disappointments; they are the test of her mettle, of her worthiness to enter the circle with those who have overcome. For she can be sure that none of us have risen to a place in art without the hardest kind of work, struggle and the conquering of all sorts of difficulties. "The sixth asset ought to be Patience, for she will need that in large measure. It is only with patient striving, doing the daily vocal task, and trying to do it each day a little better than the day before, that anything worth while is accomplished. It is a work that cannot be hurried. I repeat it; the student must have unlimited patience to labor and wait for results. COLORATURA AND DRAMATIC "I would advise every student to study coloratura first. Then, as the voice broadens, deepens and takes on a richer timbre, it will turn naturally to the more dramatic expression. The voice needs this background, or foundation in the old Italian music, in order to acquire flexibility and freedom. I was not trained to follow this plan myself, but my daughter Louise, who is just starting out in her public career, has been brought up to this idea, which seems to me the best. MEMORIZING "I memorize very easily, learning both words and music at the same time. In taking up a new rôle, my accompanist plays it for me and we go over it carefully noting all there is in language and notes. When I can take it to bed with me, and go over it mentally; when I can go through it as I walk along the street, then it has become a part of me; then I can feel I know it." "Mme. Homer holds the banner at the Metropolitan, for rapid memorizing," said her husband. "On one occasion, when _Das Rheingold_ was announced for an evening performance, the Fricka was suddenly indisposed and unable to appear. Early in the afternoon, the Director came to Mme. Homer, begging her to do the part, as otherwise he would be forced to close the house that night. A singer had tried all forenoon to learn the rôle, but had now given it up as impossible. Mme. Homer consented. She started in at three o'clock and worked till six, went on in the evening, sang the part without rehearsal, and acquitted herself with credit. This record has never been surpassed at the Metropolitan." "I knew the other Frickas of the Ring," said Madame, "but had never learned the one in the _Rheingold_; it is full of short phrases and difficult to remember, but I came through all right. I may add, as you ask, that perhaps _Orfeo_ is my favorite rôle, one of the most beautiful works we have." VOCAL MASTERY "What do I understand by Vocal Mastery? The words explain themselves. The singer must master all difficulties of technic, of tone production, so as to be able to express the thought of the composer, and the meaning of the music." "Don't forget that the singer must have a musical nature," added Mr. Homer, "for without this true vocal mastery is impossible." XI =GIOVANNI MARTINELLI= "LET US HAVE PLENTY OF OPERA IN AMERICA" Said the Professor: "How well I remember the first time I heard Martinelli. We were traveling in Italy that summer, and had arrived in Verona rather late in the afternoon. The city seemed full of people, with many strangers, and we could not at first secure accommodations at the hotel. Inquiring the cause, the answer was: 'Does not the signer know that to-day is one holiday, and to-night, in the Amphitheater, _Aïda_ will be sung, under the stars.' We finally secured rooms, and of course heard the opera that night. Young Martinelli was the Rhadames, and I shall never forget how splendidly his voice rang out over those vast spaces of the Arena. It was a most unusual experience to hear that music sung in the open--'under the stars,' and it was unforgettable." [Illustration: GIOVANNI MARTINELLI] Giovanni Martinelli, who has been for several years one of the leading tenors at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, has warmly entrenched himself in the hearts of music lovers in America. To be a great singer, as some one has said, requires, first, voice; second, voice; third, voice. However, at the present hour a great singer must have more than voice; we demand histrionic ability also. We want singing actors as well as great singers. Mr. Martinelli is the possessor of a beautiful voice and, moreover, is a fine actor and an excellent musician. He was, first of all, a clarinetist before he became a singer, and so well did he play his chosen instrument that his services were in great demand in his home town in Italy. Then it was discovered he had a voice and he was told he could make a far greater success with that voice than he ever could playing the clarinet. He set to work at once to cultivate the voice in serious earnest and under good instruction. After a considerable time devoted to study, he made his début in Milan, in Verdi's _Ernani_. His success won an engagement at Covent Garden and for Monte Carlo. A visit to the singer's New York home is a most interesting experience. He has chosen apartments perched high above the great artery of the city's life--Broadway. From the many sun-flooded windows magnificent views of avenue, river and sky are visible, while at night the electrical glamour that meets the eye is fairy-like. It is a sightly spot and must remind the singer of his own sun lighted atmosphere at home. The visitor was welcomed with simple courtesy by a kindly, unaffected gentleman, who insists he cannot speak "your English," but who, in spite of this assertion, succeeds in making himself excellently well understood. One feels his is a mentality that will labor for an object and will attain it through force of effort. There is determination in the firm mouth, which smiles so pleasantly when speaking; the thoughtful brow and serious eyes add their share to the forceful personality. The Titian-tinted hair indicates, it is said, a birthplace in northern Italy. This is quite true in the case of Mr. Martinelli, as he comes from a village not far from Padua and but fifty miles from Venice--the little town of Montagnana. DAILY STUDY "You ask about my daily routine of study. In the morning I practice exercises and vocalizes for one hour. These put the voice in good condition, tune up the vocal chords and oil up the mechanism, so to speak. After this I work on repertoire for another hour. I always practice with full voice, as with half voice I would not derive the benefit I need. At rehearsals I use half voice, but not when I study. In the afternoon I work another hour, this time with my accompanist; for I do not play the piano myself, only just enough to assist the voice with a few chords. This régime gives me three hours' regular study, which seems to me quite sufficient. The voice is not like the fingers of a pianist, for they can be used without limit. If we would keep the voice at its best, we must take care not to overwork it. TREATMENT OF THE VOICE "In regard to the treatment of the voice, each singer must work out his own salvation. A great teacher--one who understands his own voice and can sing as well as teach--may tell how he does things, may explain how he treats the voice, may demonstrate to the student his manner of executing a certain phrase or passage, or of interpreting a song. But when this is done he can do little more for the student, for each person has a different mentality and a different quality of voice--indeed there are as many qualities of voice as there are people. After general principles are thoroughly understood, a singer must work them out according to his own ability. This does not mean that he cannot be guided and helped by the greater experience of a master higher up, who can always criticize the _result_ of what the student is trying to do. The voice is a hidden instrument, and eventually its fate must rest with its possessor. A NEW RÔLE "When I take up a new part I read the book very carefully to get a thorough idea of the story, the plot and the characters. Then comes the study of my own part, of which I memorize the words first of all. As soon as the words are committed I begin on the music. When these are both well in hand, work with the accompanist follows. "I have many tenor rôles in my repertoire and am working on others. If you ask for my favorite opera, or operas, I would answer, as most Italians would do, that I enjoy singing the music of Verdi more than that of any composer. I love his _Aïda_ perhaps best of all. _Ernani_ is a beautiful opera, but maybe would be thought too old-fashioned for New York. I sing various rôles in French as well as Italian--_Faust, Sans Gene_, and many more. In Italy we know Wagner very well--_Lohengrin, Tannhauser, Tristan_ and _Meistersinger_,--but of course they are always sung in Italian. OPERA IN EVERY CITY "The Metropolitan is one of the greatest opera houses in the world--but it is only _one_. You have a wonderful country, yet most of its cities must do without opera. Do not forget that in Italy every city and town has its opera house and its season of opera, lasting ten weeks or more. Of course the works are not elaborately produced, the singers may not be so great or high-salaried, but the people are being educated to know and love the best opera music. Performances are given Wednesdays and Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays; the singers resting the days between. They need to as they are obliged to sing at every performance. "Ah, if you would follow some such plan in America! It would create a great love for good music in the smaller cities and towns where people hear so little, and so seldom this kind of music. You do so much for music in every other style, but not for opera. Of course I must except the half dozen cities large enough and rich enough to be favored with a season of extended operatic performances; these are the real music centers of your country. "I will show you what we do for opera in Italy. Here is an Italian musical journal, which I have just received." Mr. Martinelli took up a single-sheet newspaper which lay upon his desk. "You will find all the large cities and most of the small ones reported here. Accordingly, accounts are given of what works are being performed, what artists are singing and where, and how long each season will last. Thus we can glance over the whole field and keep in touch with every singer. Naturally, the time and length of the seasons of performance differ widely in the different places. Thus a singer of reputation can make engagements in various places, then go from one town to another in a complete tour, without conflicting. "I have had the pleasure of singing a number of seasons at the Metropolitan. During the summer I do not always go back to Italy when the season is over here; last year I sang in Buenos Aires. This keeps me at work the whole year. Buenos Aires is a beautiful city, and reminds one of Milan. Yes, I like New York. It is more commercial, of course, but I have grown accustomed to that side of it." As the visitor was leaving, courteously conducted through the corridor by Mr. Martinelli, a small chariot was encountered, crammed with dolls and toys, the whole belonging to little Miss Martinelli, aged eleven months. "Shall you make a singer of the little lady?" the artist was asked. "Ah, no; one singer in a family is enough," was the quick response. "But who can tell? It may so happen, after all." XII =ANNA CASE= INSPIRED INTERPRETATION Anna Case, known from one end of our land to the other, in song recital, is surely one hundred per cent. American. She was born in the little State of New Jersey, and received her entire vocal training right here in New York City, of a single teacher. No running about from one instructor to another, "getting points" from each, for this singer. She knew from the first moment that she had found the right teacher, one who understood her, what she wanted to do, and could bring her to the goal. And when one has discovered just the right person to develop talent, one should have the good sense and loyalty to stick to that person. This is exactly what Miss Case has done, for along with other gifts she has the best gift of all--common sense. "Mme. Ostrom-Renard has been my only teacher," she says; "whatever I am or have accomplished I owe entirely to her. She has done everything for me; I feel she is the most wonderful teacher in the world." [Illustration: ANNA CASE] A life of constant travel and almost daily concerts and recitals, lies before Miss Case from early in the Autumn to the end of Spring, with but a few breathing places here and there, between the tours, when she returns home to rest up. During one of these oases it was a pleasant experience to meet and talk with the charming young singer, in her cozy New York apartment. She had just come in from a six weeks' trip, which had included concerts in Texas and Mexico, where the usual success had attended her everywhere. It must surely give a sense of relief to know that the quiet home is awaiting one's return; that there are to be found one's favorite books, music, piano, the silken divan, soft lights, pictures,--all the familiar comforts one is deprived of on the road. The visitor, coming in from the biting winds without, was impressed with the comfort and warmth of the small salon, as the mistress of it entered. Clad in soft draperies of dull blue, which but thinly veiled the white arms and fell away from the rounded throat, Miss Case was just as beautiful to look upon as when she stands in bewildering evening gown before a rapt audience. And, what is much more to the point, she is a thoroughly sensible, sincere American girl, with no frills and no nonsense about her. After greetings were over, the singer settled herself among the silken cushions of her divan ready for our talk. "I believe I always wanted to sing, rather than do anything else in the way of music. I studied the piano a little at first, but that did not exactly appeal to me. I also began the violin, because my father is fond of that instrument and wanted me to play it. But the violin was not just what I wanted either, for all the time I longed to sing. Singing is such a part of one's very self; I wanted to express myself through it. I had no idea, when I started, that I should ever make a specialty of it, or that, in a comparatively few years I should be singing all over the country. I did not know what was before me, I only wanted to learn to sing. "Now I cannot tell just how I do the different things one must do to sing correctly. I know that, if I have to master some subject, I just sit down and work at that thing till I can do it--till it is done. My teacher knows every organ in the anatomy, and can describe the muscles, bones and ligaments found in the head, face and throat. She can make a diagram of the whole or any part. Not that such knowledge is going to make a singer, but it may help in directing one's efforts." TONE PLACEMENT "Can you describe tone placement?" she was asked. "For the deeper tones--as one makes them--they seem to come from lower down: for the middle and higher tones, you feel the vibrations in facial muscles and about the eyes, always focused forward, just at the base of the forehead, between the eyes. It is something very difficult to put into words; the sensations have to be experienced, when making the tones. The singer must judge so much from sensation, for she cannot very well hear herself. I do not really hear myself; I mean by this I cannot tell the full effect of what I am doing." WHEN TO PRACTICE "No doubt you do much practice--or is that now necessary?" Miss Case considered this thoughtfully. "I never practice when I am tired, for then it does more harm than good. It is much better for the voice to rest and not use it at all, than to sing when not physically fit. One must be in good condition to make good tones; they will not be clear and perfect if one is not strong and in good health. I can really study, yet not sing at all. For the whole work is mental anyway. USING FULL VOICE "When I work on the interpretation of a song, in the quiet of my music room here, I try to sing it just as I would before an audience; I have not two ways of doing it, one way for a small room and another for a large one. If your tone placement is correct, and you are making the right effects, they will carry equally in a large space. At least this is my experience. But," she added, smiling, "you may find other artists who would not agree to this, who would think quite differently. Each one must see things her own way; and singing is such an individual thing after all. THE SUBJECT OF INTERPRETATION "The interpretation of a rôle, or song, is everything--of course. What are mere notes and signs compared to the thoughts expressed through them? Yet it is evident there are people who don't agree to this, for one hears many singers who never seem to look deeper than the printed page. They stand up and go through their songs, but the audiences remain cold; they are not touched. The audiences are blamed for their apathy or indifference, but how can they be warmed when the singer does not kindle them into life? "To me there is a wonderful bond of sympathy between the audience and myself. I feel the people, in a sense, belong to me--are part of my family. To them I pour out all my feelings--my whole soul. All the sorrow of the sad songs, all the joy of the gay ones, they share with me. In this spirit I come before them; they feel this, I am sure. It awakens a response at once, and this always inspires me. I put myself in a receptive mood; it has the desired effect; my interpretation becomes inspired through their sympathy and my desire to give out to them. THE WORDS OF A SONG PARAMOUNT "I feel the greatest thing about a song is the words. They inspired the music, they were the cause of its being. I cannot imagine, when once words have been joined to music, how other words can be put to the same music, without destroying the whole idea. The words must be made plain to the audience. Every syllable should be intelligible, and understood by the listener. I feel diction is so absolutely essential. How can a singer expect the audience will take an interest in what she is doing, if they have no idea what it is all about? And this applies not only to English songs but to those in French as well. In an audience there will be many who understand French. Shall the singer imagine she can pronounce a foreign tongue in any old way, and it will go--in these days? No, she must be equally careful about all diction and see that it is as nearly perfect as she can make it; that it is so correct that anybody can understand every word. When she can do this, she has gone a long way toward carrying her audience with her when she sings. "When the diction is satisfactory, there is yet something much deeper; it is the giving out of one's best thought, one's best self, which must animate the song and carry it home to the listener. It touches the heart, because it comes from one's very inmost being. I am a creature of mood. I cannot sing unless I feel like it. I must be inspired in order to give an interpretation that shall be worth anything. GROWTH OF APPRECIATION "In traveling over the country, I have found such wonderful musical growth, and it seems to increase each year. Even in little places the people show such appreciation for what is good. And I only give them good music--the best songs, both classical and modern. Nothing but the best would interest me. In my recent trip, down in Mexico and Oklahoma, there are everywhere large halls, and people come from all the country round to attend a concert. Men who look as though they had driven a grocery wagon, or like occupation, sit and listen so attentively and with such evident enjoyment. I am sure the circulation of the phonograph records has much to do with America's present wonderful advancement in musical understanding." Just here a large cat slipped through the doorway; such a beautiful creature, with long gray and white fur and big blue eyes. "It is a real chinchilla, of high degree," said Miss Case, caressing her pet. "I call her Fochette. I am so fond of all animals, especially dogs and cats." "You must know the country well, having been over it so much." "Yes, but oh, the long distances! It often takes so many hours to go from one place to another. I think there is a reason why foreign singers are apt to be rather stout; they are not worn out by traveling great distances, as cities are so much nearer together than over here!" And Miss Case smiled in amusement. "But, in spite of all discomforts of transportation and so on, the joy of bringing a message to a waiting audience is worth all it costs. I often think, if one could just fly to Chicago or Philadelphia, for instance, sing one's program and return just as quickly, without all these hours of surface travel, how delightful it would be! I had a wonderful experience in an airplane last summer. Flying has the most salutary effect on the voice. After sailing through the air for awhile, you feel as though you could sing anything and everything, the exhilaration is so great. One takes in such a quantity of pure air that the lungs feel perfectly clear and free. One can learn a lesson about breathing from such an experience." Before parting a final question was asked: "What, in your opinion, are the vital requisites necessary to become a singer?" Almost instantly came the reply: "Brains, Personality, Voice." With this cryptic answer we took leave of the fair artist. XIII =FLORENCE EASTON= PROBLEMS CONFRONTING THE YOUNG SINGER English by birth, American by marriage, beloved in every country where her art is known, Florence Easton, after ten years of activity in the music centers of Europe, is now making her home in America. Mme. Easton is a singer whose attitude towards music is one of deepest sincerity. No one could witness her beautiful, sympathetic investiture of the Saint Elizabeth, of Liszt, or some of her other important rôles, without being impressed with this complete, earnest sincerity. It shines out of her earnest eyes and frank smile, as she greets the visitor; it vibrates in the tones of her voice as she speaks. What can even a whole hour's talk reveal of the deep undercurrents of an artist's thought? Yet in sixty minutes many helpful things may be said, and Mme. Easton, always serious in every artistic thing she undertakes, will wish the educational side of our talk to be uppermost. THE YOUNG SINGER "I have a deep sympathy for the American girl who honestly wishes to cultivate her voice. Of course, in the first place, she must have a voice to start with; there is no use trying to train something which doesn't exist. Given the voice and a love for music, it is still difficult to tell another how to begin. Each singer who has risen, who has found herself, knows by what path she climbed, but the path she found might not do for another. "There are quantities of girls in America with good voices, good looks and a love for music. And there are plenty of good vocal teachers, too, not only in New York, but in other large cities of this great country. There is always the problem, however, of securing just the right kind of a teacher. For a teacher may be excellent for one voice but not for another. THE STUDIO VERSUS THE CONCERT ROOM [Illustration: FLORENCE EASTON] "The American girl, trained in the studio, has little idea of what it means to sing in a large hall or opera house. In the small room her voice sounds very pretty, and she can make a number of nice effects; she may also have a delicate pianissimo. These things are mostly lost when she tries them in a large space. It is like beginning all over again. She has never been taught any other way but the studio way. If young singers could only have a chance to try their wings frequently in large halls, it would be of the greatest benefit. If they could sing to a public who only paid a nominal sum and did not expect great things; a public who would come for the sake of the music they were to hear, because they wanted the enjoyment and refreshment of it, not for the sake of some singers with big names, they would judge the young aspirant impersonally, which would be one of the best things for her. VALUE OF HONEST CRITICISM "Frequently the trouble with the young singer is that her friends too often tell her how wonderful she is. This is a hindrance instead of a help. She should always have some one who will criticize her honestly. The singer cannot really hear herself, that is, not until she is well advanced in her work. Therefore she should always have the guidance of a teacher. I never think of giving a program without going through it for criticism. The office of critic is a very difficult one, especially if you are to criticize some one you are fond of. Mr. Maclennan and I try to do it for each other. I assure you it is no easy task to sing a program knowing some one is listening who will not spare you, and will tell you all your faults. I know this is all very salutary, but it is human nature to wish to hear one's good points rather than the poor ones. I sometimes say: 'Do tell me the good things I did.' But he says he does not need to speak of those; I only need to know my faults in order that they may be corrected. "It is so easy to overdo a little, one way or the other. For instance, you make a certain effect,--it goes well. You think you will make it a little more pronounced next time. And so it goes on, until before you know it you have acquired a definite habit, which the critics will call a mannerism and advise you to get rid of. So the artist has to be constantly on the watch, to guard against these incipient faults." BREATHING EXERCISES Asked what kind of breathing exercises she used, Mme. Easton continued: "No doubt each one has her own exercises for the practice and teaching of breath control. For myself, I stand at the open window, for one should always breathe pure air, and I inhale and exhale slowly, a number of times, till I feel my lungs are thoroughly clear and filled with fresh air. Then I frequently sing tones directly after these long inhalations. A one-octave scale, sung slowly in one breath, or at most in two, is an excellent exercise. You remember Lilli Lehmann's talks about the 'long scale'? But the way in which she uses it perhaps no one but a Lehmann could imitate. What a wonderful woman she was--and is! She has such a remarkable physique, and can endure any amount of effort and fatigue. Every singer who hopes to make a success in any branch of the musical profession, should look after the physical side, and see that it is cared for and developed. "STUDY THE PIANO!" "If a girl is fond of music, let her first of all study the piano, for a knowledge of the piano and its music is really at the bottom of everything. If I have a word of advice to mothers, it should be: 'Let your child study the piano.' All children should have this opportunity, whether they greatly desire it or not. The child who early begins to study the piano, will often--almost unconsciously--follow the melody she plays with her voice. Thus the love of song is awakened in her, and a little later it is discovered she has a voice that is worth cultivating. How many of our great singers began their musical studies first at the piano. "On the other hand, the girl with a voice, who has never worked at the piano, is greatly handicapped from the start, when she begins her vocal studies. As she knows nothing of the piano, everything has to be played for her,--she can never be independent of the accompanist; she loses half the pleasure of knowing and doing things herself." FULL OR HALF VOICE Asked if she used full or half voice for practice, Mme. Easton replied: "I do not, as a rule, use full voice when at work. But this admission, if followed, might prove injurious to the young singer. In the earlier stages of study, one should use full voice, for half voice might result in very faulty tone production. The advanced singer, who has passed the experimental stage can do many things the novice may not attempt, and this is one of them. IN REGARD TO MEMORIZING "Here again my particular method of work can hardly be of value to others, as I memorize with great rapidity. It is no effort for me; I seem to be able to visualize the whole part. Music has always been very easy to remember and with sufficient concentration I can soon make the words my own. I always concentrate deeply on what I am doing. Lately I was asked to prepare a leading rôle in one of the season's new operas, to replace a singer at short notice, should this be necessary. I did so and accomplished the task in four days. Mr. Caruso laughingly remarked I must have a camera in my head. I know my own parts, both voice and accompaniment. In learning a song, I commit both voice and words at the same time. FEELING DEEPLY DURING PERFORMANCE "I feel the meaning of the music, the tragedy or comedy, the sadness or gayety of it each time I perform it, but not, as a rule, to the extent of being entirely worn out with emotion. It depends, however, on the occasion. If you are singing in a foreign language, which the audience does not understand, you make every effort to 'put it over,' to make them see what you are trying to tell them. You strive to make the song intelligible in some way. You may add facial expression and gesture, more than you would otherwise do. All this is more wearing because of the effort involved. LANGUAGE "This brings us to another point, the study of languages. The Italian sings nearly all his rôles in his own tongue, with a few learned in French. With the Frenchman, it is the same: he sings in his own tongue and learns some parts in Italian. But we poor Americans are forced to learn our parts in all three languages. This, of itself, greatly adds to our difficulties. We complain that the American sings his own language so carelessly. An Italian, singing his own language for his own people, may not be any more careful than we are, but he will make English, if he attempts it, more intelligible than we do, because he takes extra care to do so. The duty is laid upon Americans to study other languages, if they expect to sing. I know how often this study is neglected by the student. It is another phase of that haste to make one's way which is characteristic of the young student and singer. "Take, for example, the girl in the small town, who is trying to do something with her voice. She believes if she can get to New York, or some other music center, and have six months' lessons with some well known teacher, she will emerge a singer. She comes and finds living expenses so great that only one lesson a week with the professor is possible. There is no chance for language or diction study, or piano lessons; yet all these she ought to have. And one vocal lesson a week is entirely inadequate. The old way of having daily lessons was far more successful. The present way vocal teachers give lessons is not conducive to the best development. The pupils come in a hurry, one after another, to get their fifteen or twenty minutes of instruction. Yet one cannot blame the teacher for he must live. THE IDEAL WAY "The ideal way is to have several lessons a week, and not to take them in such haste. If the pupil arrives, and finds, on first essay, that her voice is not in the best of trim, how much better to be able to wait a bit, and try again; it might then be all right. But, as I said, under modern conditions, this course seems not to be possible, for the teacher must live. If only vocal lessons could be free, at least to the talented ones! It seems sad that a gifted girl must pay to learn to sing, when it is a very part of her, as much as the song of the bird. Ah, if I had plenty of money, I would see that many of them should have this privilege, without always looking at the money end of it. AMOUNT OF DAILY PRACTICE "It seems to me the young singer should not practice more than two periods of fifteen or twenty minutes each. At most one should not use the voice more than an hour a day. We hear of people practicing hours and hours daily, but that is probably in books. The voice cannot be treated as the pianist or violinist does his fingers. One must handle the voice with much more care. OPPORTUNITIES FOR THE YOUNG SINGER IN AMERICA "The chances for the American singer to make a career in concert and recital are abundant. In no other country in the world do such opportunities exist. If she can meet the requirements, she can win both fame and fortune on the concert stage. "In opera, on the other hand, opportunities are few and the outlook anything but hopeful. Every young singer casts longing eyes at the Metropolitan, or Chicago Opera, as the goal of all ambition. But that is the most hopeless notion of all. No matter how beautiful the voice, it is drill, routine, experience one needs. Without these, plus musical reputation, how is one to succeed in one of the two opera houses of the land? And even if one is accepted 'for small parts,' what hope is there of rising, when some of the greatest artists of the world hold the leading rôles? What the American singer needs is opportunity to gain experience and reputation in smaller places. Several years' drill and routine would fit the aspirant for a much broader field. This would give her command over her resources and herself, and perfect her voice and impersonations, if she has the gifts and constantly studies to improve them. Even England, so small compared to America, has seven opera companies that travel up and down the land, giving opera; they have done this during all the years of the war. "This question of providing opportunity for operatic experience in America, is one which has long been discussed and many experiments have been tried, without arriving at satisfactory results. What is needed is to awaken interest in opera in small places--just little out-of-the-way towns. My idea would be to have a regular stock local opera company, and have the standard operas studied. Have a little orchestra of about twenty and a small chorus. The small parts to be learned by the most competent singers in the place. Then have the few principal rôles taken by 'guest artists,' who might make these engagements in regular route and succession. It seems to me such a plan could be carried out, and what a joy it would be to any small community! But people must gradually awake to this need: it will take time." XIV =MARGUERITE D'ALVAREZ= THE MESSAGE OF THE SINGER A great podium backed with green, reminding one of a forest of palms; dim lights through the vast auditorium; a majestic, black-robed figure standing alone among the palms, pouring out her voice in song; a voice at once vibrant, appealing, powerful, filled now with sweeping passion, again with melting tenderness; such was the stage setting for my first impression of Mme. Marguerite d'Alvarez, and such were some of the emotions she conveyed. Soon after this experience, I asked if I might have a personal talk with the artist whose singing had made such a deep impression upon me. It was most graciously granted, and at the appointed hour I found myself in a charmingly appointed yet very home-like salon, chatting with this Spanish lady from Peru, who speaks such beautiful English and is courtesy itself. This time it was not a somber, black-robed figure who came forward so graciously to greet me, for above a black satin walking skirt, Madame had added a blouse of soft creamy lace, which revealed the rounded curves of neck and arms; the only ornament being a string of pearls about the full throat. Later in our talk I ventured to express my preference for creamy draperies instead of black, for the concert room; but the singer thought otherwise. "No," she said; "my gown must be absolutely unobtrusive--negative. I must not use it to heighten effect, or to attract the audience to me personally. People must be drawn to me by what I express, by my art, by what I have to give them." But to begin at the beginning. In answer to my first question, "What must one do to become a singer?" Madame said: [Illustration: MARGUERITE D'ALVAREZ] "To become a singer, one must have a voice; that is of the first importance. In handling and training that voice, breathing is perhaps the most vital thing to be considered. To some breath control seems to be second nature; others must toil for it. With me it is intuition; it has always been natural. Breathing is such an individual thing. With each person it is different, for no two people breathe in just the same way, whether natural or acquired. Just as one pianist touches the keys of the instrument in his own peculiar way, unlike the ways of all other pianists. For instance, no two singers will deliver the opening phrase of 'My heart at thy sweet voice,' from _Samson_, in exactly the same way. One will expend a little more breath on some tones than on others; one may sing it softer, another louder. Indeed how can two people ever give out a phrase in the same way, when they each feel it differently? The great thing is to control the management of the breath through intelligent study. But alas,"--with a pretty little deprecating gesture,--"many singers do not seem to use their intelligence in the right way. They need to study so many things besides vocalizes and a few songs. They ought to broaden themselves in every way. They should know books, pictures, sculpture, acting, architecture,--in short everything possible in the line of art, and of life. For all these things will help them to sing more intelligently. They should cultivate all these means of self-expression. For myself, I have had a liberal education in music--piano, harmony, theory, composition and kindred subjects. And then I love and study art in all its forms and manifestations." "Your first recital in New York was a rich and varied feast," I remarked. "Indeed I feel I gave the audience too much; there was such a weight of meaning to each song, and so many! I cannot sing indifferent or superficial songs. I must sing those which mean much, either of sadness or mirth, passion or exaltation. No one knows (who has not been through it) what it means to face a great audience of strangers, knowing that something in you must awake those people and draw them toward you: you must bare your very soul to them and bring theirs to you, in answering response, just by your voice. It is a wonderful thing, to bring to masses of people a message in this way. I feel this strongly, whenever I stand before a large audience, that with every note I sing I am delivering something of the God-given gift which has been granted to me--that I can do some good to each one who hears. If they do not care for me, or if they misunderstand my message, they may hate me--at first. When they do understand, then they adore me. SENTIMENT VERSUS TEMPERAMENT "You can well believe it is far more difficult to sing a recital program than to do an operatic rôle. In the recital you are absolutely alone, and entirely responsible for your effect on the audience. You must be able to express every variety of emotion and feeling, must make them realize the difference between sorrow and happiness, revenge or disdain; in short, make them, for the moment, experience these things. The artist who can best vivify these varying emotions must have temperament. On the piano, you may hear players who express sentiment, feeling, fine discrimination in tone color and shading; but comparatively few possess real temperament. There is great difference between that quality and sentiment. The one can be learned, to a certain extent; but temperament is one's very life and soul, and is bound to sweep everything before it. Of this one thing I am very sure; the singer cannot express all these emotions without feeling them to the full during performance. I always feel every phrase I sing--live it. That is why, after a long and exhausting program, I am perfectly limp and spent. For I have given all that was in me. Friends of Sara Bernhardt say that after a performance, they would find her stretched prone on a couch in her dressing room, scarcely able to move or speak. The strain of a public appearance, when one gives one's heart's blood, is beyond words"; and Madame's upturned face and expressive gesture denoted how keenly alive she was to this experience. After a little pause, I said: "Let us come down to earth, while you tell me just how you study. No doubt you do some daily technical practice." MASSAGE THE VOICE "Oh, yes, technic is most important; one can do nothing without it. When I begin to study in the morning, I give the voice what I call a massage. One's voice cannot be driven, it must be coaxed, enticed. This massage consists of humming exercises, with closed lips. Humming is the sunshine of the voice." The singer illustrated the idea with a short musical figure, consisting of three consecutive tones of the diatonic scale, ascending and descending several times; on each repetition the phrase began on the next higher note of the scale. "You see," she continued, "this little exercise brings the tone fully forward. As you feel the vibration, it should be directly between the eyes. "Now, after you have coaxed the voice forward in this way, and then opened your lips to sing a full tone, this tone should, indeed must, be right in the same place where the humming tones were,--it cannot be anywhere else." Madame illustrated again, first humming on one tone, then letting it out with full resonance, using the vowel Ah, which melted into O, and later changed into U, as the tone died away. "This vibration in the voice should not be confounded with a tremolo, which is, of course, very undesirable. A voice without vibrato, would be cold and dead, expressionless. There must be this pulsing quality in the tone, which carries waves of feeling on it. "Thus the singer entices the voice to come forward and out, never treating it roughly or harshly, never forcing or straining it. Take pleasure in every tone you make; with patience and pleasure much is accomplished. I could not give you a more useful tip than this." "Will you tell me how you learn a song?" she was asked. "I first read over the text and get a good idea of its meaning. When I begin to study the song, I never separate the music from the words, but learn both together. I play the piano of course, and thus can get a good idea of the accompaniment, and of the whole _ensemble_. "I feel so strongly that real art, the highest art, is for those who truly understand it and its mission. A dream of mine is one day to found a school of true art. Everything in this school shall be on a high plane of thought. The instructors shall be gifted themselves and have only lofty ideals. And it will be such a happiness to watch the development of talent which may blossom into genius through having the right nurture. I shall watch this work from a distance, for I might be too anxious if I allowed myself to be in the midst of the work. But this is my dream, and I hope it will one day come true." XV =MARIA BARRIENTOS= BE YOUR OWN CRITIC It is often remarked that the world has grown far away from coloratura singing; that what we want to-day is the singing actor, the dramatic singer, who can portray passion--tear it to tatters if need be--but at least throw into voice gesture and action all the conflicting emotions which arise when depicting a modern dramatic character. It is said, with much truth, composers do not write coloratura parts in these days, since audiences do not care to listen to singers who stand in the middle of the stage, merely to sing beautiful arias and tonal embroideries. Therefore there are very few coloratura singers at present, since their opportunities are so limited. To the last objection it can be answered that audiences do still flock to hear a great coloratura artist, for they know they will hear pure, beautiful melodies when they listen to the old Italian operas. And melody proves to be a magnet every time; it always touches the heart. Again, the coloratura singer is not obliged to stand in the middle of the stage, while she warbles beautiful tones, with seemingly little regard for the rôle she is enacting. The coloratura singer, who is an artist, can act as well as sing. Tetrazzini, as she moves about the room, greeting her guests, as she does in _Traviata_ or _Lucia_, can at the same time keep right on with her florid song, proving she can think of both arts at once. It is quite true there are not many coloratura singers of the first rank to-day. When you have mentioned Galli-Curci, Tetrazzini, Barrientos, and Frieda Hempel--the last is both lyric and coloratura--you have named all the great ones who are known to us here in America. There are a couple of younger artists, Garrison and Macbeth, who are rapidly gaining the experience which will one day place them in the charmed circle. [Illustration: MARIA BARRIENTOS] Consider for an instant the three first named singers. They stand at the very top of their profession; they are each and all great in their chosen line, to which they are fitted by reason of their special vocal gifts. Yet how absolutely different is each from the other! They cannot even be compared. They all sing the great florid arias, but each with her own peculiar timbre of voice, her individual nuance and manner of expression. And it is well this should be so. We would not have all coloratura singing of the same pattern of sameness or quality, for we find uniformity is monotonous. There is one peculiar mode of mastery for Galli-Curci, another for Tetrazzini, still another for Barrientos; each in her particular _genre_ is unique, apart. Perhaps this is especially the case with the Spanish prima donna, Barrientos, who has for several years past come to the Metropolitan for part of the season. She lives very quietly--almost in seclusion--in the great city, keeping very much to herself, with her mother and the members of her household, and does not care to have the simple routine she plans for herself interrupted by any outside demands on her crowded days. Thus it happens that very few come face to face with the Spanish artist except her personal friends. But once in a while she breaks the strict rule, and will consent to speak with a serious questioner about her manner of study, how she happened to take up a musical career, also some of the characteristics of her country, its people and its musical art. As her own art of song is most delicate and pure, as her instrument is the most fragile and ethereal of any of the voices of her class, so the singer herself is of slight and delicate physique. Her oval face, with its large luminous eyes, has a charm more pronounced than when seen on the other side of the footlights. Her manner is simple and sincere, in common with that of all great artists. "Although I always loved singing, I never expected to become a singer," began Mme. Barrientos, as we were seated on a comfortable divan in her artistic music room. "As a very young girl, hardly more than a child, my health became delicate. I had been working very hard at the Royal Conservatory of Music, in Barcelona, my native city, studying piano, violin and theory, also composition. I was always a delicate child, and the close application required for these studies was too much for me. Singing was prescribed in order to develop my chest and physique; I took it up as a means of health and personal pleasure, without the slightest idea to what it might lead. "You speak of the responsibility of choosing a good and reliable vocal instructor. This is indeed a difficult task, because each teacher is fully persuaded that his method is the only correct one. But there are so _many teachers_, and some of them do not even sing themselves at all. Can you imagine a vocal teacher who cannot sing himself, who is so to say voiceless, unable to demonstrate what he teaches? A piano or violin teacher must play his instrument, or he will not be able to show the pupils how it ought to be done. But the vocal teacher thinks to instruct without demonstrating what he is trying to impart. BEGINNING VOCAL STUDY WITH OPERA "So I did not begin my studies with a regular vocal teacher, but with a dilettante--I do not know just how you say that in English. This gentleman was not a professional; he was a business man who at the same time was a good musician. Instead of starting me with a lot of scales and exercises, we began at once with the operas. I was twelve years old when I began, and after one year of this kind of study, made my début in the rôle of Inez, in _L'Africaine_. About this time I lost my kind instructor, who passed away. I then worked by myself until I was sixteen, when I began to study technic systematically. As you see, then, I am practically self-taught. It seems to me, if one has voice and intelligence, one can and should be one's own teacher. No one else can do as much for you as you can do for yourself. You can tell what the sensations are, what parts are relaxed and what parts are firm, better than any one else. You can listen and work on tone quality until it reaches the effect you desire. I do not neglect vocal technic now, for I know its value. I do about three quarters of an hour technical practice every day--scales and exercises. MEMORIZING "I memorize very easily; it only takes a few weeks to learn an operatic rôle. I spent three weeks on _Coq d'Or_, and that is a difficult part, so many half tones and accidentals. But I love that music, it is so beautiful; it is one of my favorite rôles. Some parts are longer and more difficult than others. Of course I know most of the Italian operas and many French ones. I should like to sing _Mireille_ and _Lakmé_ here, but the Director may wish to put on other works instead. SPANISH OPERA "Yes, we have native opera in Spain, but the works of our operatic composers are little known in other lands. The Spanish people are clannish, you see, and seem to lack the ambition to travel abroad to make their art known to others; they are satisfied to make it known to their own people. Casals and I--we are perhaps the ones who regularly visit you, though you have several Spanish singers in the opera who reside here permanently. "As for Spanish composers of instrumental music, you are here somewhat familiar with the names of Grovelez and Albeniz; Granados you know also, both his opera, _Goyescas_, which was performed at the Metropolitan, and his personality. He came to America to witness the premier of his opera, and while here proved he was a most excellent pianist as well as a composer of high merit, which fact was revealed in his piano and vocal compositions. The American people were most kind and appreciative to him. When the disaster came and he was lost at sea, the testimonial they sent his orphaned children was a goodly sum, though I hardly think the children appreciated your goodness. "Among the composers in Spain who have turned their gifts toward operatic channels I can mention Pedrell, Morea, Falla, Vives and Breton. Vives is now writing an opera for me, entitled _Abanico_. Gradually, no doubt, the music of our country, especially its opera, will find its way to other lands. Even in England, I am told, Spanish music is very little known; our many distinguished modern musicians are hardly even names. Of course the world knows our Toreador songs, our castanet dances, and the like; perhaps they think we have little or no serious music, because it is still unknown. Spanish music is peculiar to the country; it is permeated with the national spirit and feeling." Asked if she would sing in South America during the vacation, the singer answered: "I have sung there with great success. But I shall not be able to go there this summer. My little boy has been placed in a school in France; it is the first time we have been separated, and it has been very hard for me to have the ocean between us. I shall sing at Atlanta, the first week of May, and then sail the middle of the month for France. Yes, indeed, I hope to return to America next season. "I trust you have been able to understand my poor English," she said smiling, as she parted with her visitor; "we speak several languages here in my home--Spanish with my mother and friends, French and Italian with others in the household. But there seems little necessity for using English, even though I am living in the heart of the metropolis. Perhaps next year, I shall master your language better." And the picture of her, as she stood in her artistic, home-like salon, with its lights, its pictures and flowers, is even more lasting than any to be remembered on the operatic stage. XVI =CLAUDIA MUZIO= A CHILD OF THE OPERA [Illustration: CLAUDIA MUZIO] In tales of romance one reads sometimes of a gifted girl who lives in a musical atmosphere all her life, imbibing artistic influences as naturally and almost as unconsciously as the air she breathes. At the right moment, she suddenly comes out into the light and blossoms into a full fledged singer, to the surprise and wonder of all her friends. Or she is brought up behind the scenes in some great Opera House of the world, where, all unnoticed by her elders, she lives in a dream world of her own, peopled by the various characters in the operas to which she daily listens. She watches the stage so closely and constantly that she unconsciously commits the rôles of the heroines she most admires, to memory. She knows what they sing, how they act the various parts, how they impersonate the characters. Again, at the right moment, the leading prima donna is indisposed, there is no one to take her place; manager is in despair, when the slip of a girl, who is known to have a voice, but has never sung in opera, offers to go on in place of the absent one. She is finally permitted to do so; result, a popular success. Some pages of Claudia Muzio's musical story read like the romantic experiences of a novel-heroine. She, too, was brought up in great opera houses, and it seemed natural, that in due course of time, she should come into her own, in the greatest lyric theater of the land of her adoption. When she returned to America, a couple of years ago, after gaining experience in Europe, she arrived toward the end of the season preceding her scheduled début here, to prepare herself more fully for the coming appearance awaiting her. I was asked to meet and talk with the young singer, to ascertain her manner of study, and some of her ideas regarding the work which lay before her. * * * * * "It was always my dream to sing at the Metropolitan, and my dream has come true." Claudia Muzio said the words with her brilliant smile, as her great soft dark eyes gazed luminously at the visitor. The day was cold and dreary without, but the singer's apartment was of tropical warmth. A great bowl of violets on the piano exhaled delicious fragrance; the young Italian in the bloom of her oriental beauty, seemed like some luxuriant tropical blossom herself. Claudia Muzio, who was just about to take her place among the personnel of the Metropolitan, is truly to the manner born,--a real child of the opera. She has lived in opera all her life, has imbibed the operatic atmosphere from her earliest remembrance. It must be as necessary for a singer who aspires to fill a high place in this field of artistic endeavor, to live amid congenial surroundings, as for a pianist, violinist or composer to be environed by musical influences. "Yes, I am an Italian," she began, "for I was born in Italy; but when I was two years old I was taken to London, and my childhood was passed in that great city. My father was stage manager at Covent Garden, and has also held the same post at the Manhattan and Metropolitan Opera Houses in New York. So I have grown up in the theater. I have always listened to opera--daily, and my childish imagination was fired by seeing the art of the great singers. I always hoped I should one day become a singer, so I always watched the artists in action, noting how they did everything. As a result, I do not now have to study acting as a separate branch of the work, for acting comes to me naturally. I am very temperamental; I feel intuitively how the rôle should be enacted. "All tiny children learn to sing little songs, and I was no exception. I acquired quite a number, and at the age of six, exhibited my accomplishments at a little recital. But I never had singing lessons until I began to study seriously at about the age of sixteen. Although I did not study the voice till I reached that age, I was always occupied with music, for I learned as a little girl to play both harp and piano. "We lived in London, of which city I am very fond, from the time I was two, till I was fourteen, then we came to America. After residing here a couple of years, it was decided I should make a career, and we went to Italy. I was taken to Madame Anna Casaloni at Turino. She was quite elderly at that time, but she had been a great singer. When she tried my voice, she told me it was quite properly placed--so I had none of that drudgery to go through. "At first my voice was a very light soprano, hardly yet a coloratura. It became so a little later, however, and then gradually developed into a dramatic soprano. I am very happy about this fact, for I love to portray tears as well as laughter--sorrow and tragedy as well as lightness and gayety. The coloratura manner of singing is all delicacy and lightness, and one cannot express deep emotion in this way. "We subsequently went to Milano, where I studied with Madame Viviani, a soprano who had enjoyed great success on the operatic stage. "After several years of serious study I was ready to begin my career. So I sang in Milan and other Italian cities, then at Covent Garden, and now I am in the Metropolitan. In Italy I created the rôle of Fiora in _Amore del tre Re_, and sang with Ferrari-Fontana. I also created Francesca in _Francesca da Rimini_, under its composer, Zandonai. I have a repertoire of about thirty operas, and am of course adding to it constantly, as one must know many more than thirty rôles. Since coming to New York, I have learned _Aïda_, which I did not know before, and have already appeared in it. It was learned thoroughly in eight days. Now I am at work on _Madame Butterfly_. TECHNICAL PRACTICE "I work regularly every morning on vocal technic. Not necessarily a whole hour at a stretch, as some do; but as much time as I feel I need. I give practically my whole day to study, so that I can make frequent short pauses in technical practice. If technic is studied with complete concentration and vigor, as it always should be, it is much more fatiguing than singing an opera rôle. "You ask about the special forms of exercises I use. I sing all the scales, one octave each--once slow and once fast--all in one breath. Then I sing triplets on each tone, as many as I can in one breath. I can sing about fifteen now, but I shall doubtless increase the number. For all these I use full power of tone. Another form of exercise is to take one tone softly, then go to the octave above, which tone is also sung softly, but there is a large crescendo made between the two soft tones. My compass is three octaves--from C below middle C, to two octaves above that point. I also have C sharp, but I do not practice it, for I know I can reach it if I need it, and I save my voice. Neither do I work on the final tones of the lowest octave, for the same reason--to preserve the voice. BREATH CONTROL "Every singer knows how important is the management of the breath. I always hold the chest up, taking as long breaths as I can conveniently do. The power to hold the breath, and sing more and more tones with one breath, grows with careful, intelligent practice. There are no rules about the number of phrases you can sing with a single breath. A teacher will tell you; if you can sing two phrases with one breath, do so; if not, take breath between. It all rests with the singer. MEMORIZING "I learn words and music of a rôle at the same time, for one helps the other. When I have mastered a rôle, I know it absolutely, words, music and accompaniment. I can always play my accompaniments, for I understand the piano. I am always at work on repertoire, even at night. I don't seem to need very much sleep, I think, and I often memorize during the night; that is such a good time to work, for all is so quiet and still. I lie awake thinking of the music, and in this way I learn it. Or, perhaps it learns itself. For when I retire the music is not yet mastered, not yet my own, but when morning comes I really know it. "Of course I must know the words with great exactness, especially in songs. I shall do English songs in my coming song recital work, and the words and diction must be perfect, or people will criticize my English. I always write out the words of my rôles, so as to be sure I understand them and have them correctly memorized. KEEPING UP REPERTOIRE "Most singers, I believe, need a couple of days--sometimes longer--in which to review a rôle. I never use the notes or score when going over a part in which I have appeared, for I know them absolutely, so there is no occasion to use the notes. Other singers appear frequently at rehearsal with their books, but I never take mine. My intimate knowledge of score, when I assisted my father in taking charge of operatic scores, is always a great help to me. I used to take charge of all the scores for him, and knew all the cuts, changes and just how they were to be used. The singers themselves often came to me for stage directions about their parts, knowing I had this experience. "Yes, as you suggest, I could sing here in winter, then in South America in summer." (Miss Muzio accomplished this recently, with distinguished success and had many thrilling adventures incident to travel.) "This would mean I would have no summer at all, for that season with them is colder than we have it here. No, I want my summer for rest and study. During the season at the Metropolitan I give up everything for my art. I refuse all society and the many invitations I receive to be guest of honor here and there. I remain quietly at home, steadfastly at work. My art means everything to me, and I must keep myself in the best condition possible, to be ready when the call comes to sing. One cannot do both, you know; art and society do not mix well. I have never disappointed an audience; it would be a great calamity to be obliged to do so." XVII =EDWARD JOHNSON= (=EDOUARDO DI GIOVANNI=) THE EVOLUTON OF AN OPERA STAR The story of Edward Johnson's musical development should prove an incentive, nay more, a beacon light along the path of consistent progress toward the goal of vocal and operatic achievement. Indeed as a tiny child he must have had the desire to become a singer. A friend speaks of musical proclivities which began to show themselves at an early age, and describes visits of the child to their home, where, in a little Lord Fauntleroy suit, he would stand up before them all and sing a whole recital of little songs, to the delight of all his relatives. The singer's progress, from the musical child on and up to that of an operatic artist, has been rational and healthy, with nothing hectic or overwrought about it; a constant, gradual ascent of the mountain. And while an enviable vantage ground has been reached, such an artist must feel there are yet other heights to conquer. For even excellence, already achieved, requires constant effort to be held at high water mark. And the desire for greater perfection, which every true artist must feel, is a never-ending urge to continued struggle. In a recent conversation with the tenor, Mr. Johnson spoke of early days, when he desired above everything else to become a musician and follow a musical career, though his family expected him to enter the business world. He came to New York to look the ground over, hoping there might be opportunity to continue his studies and make his way at the same time. He was fortunate enough to secure a church position, and sang subsequently in some of the best New York and Brooklyn churches. After this period he did much concert work, touring through the Middle West with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and singing in many Music Festivals throughout the country. [Illustration: Edward Johnson] But church and concert singing did not entirely satisfy; he longed to try his hand at opera,--in short to make an operatic career. He was well aware that he would not find this field nor gain the necessary experience in America; he must go to Italy, the land of song, to gain the required training and experience. He was also fully aware of the fact that there was plenty of hard work, and probably many disappointments before him, but he did not shrink from either. "Fortunately, I have a fund of humor," he said, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. "It is a saving grace, as you say; without it I believe I should have many times given up in sheer despair." Mr. Johnson went to Italy in 1909, beginning at once his studies with Lombardi, in Florence. In the ten years of his absence from his home land he has built up a reputation and made a career in the great operatic centers of Italy, Spain and South America. After his début in Padua, he became leading tenor at La Scala, Milan, for five consecutive seasons. In Rome he spent four seasons at the Costanzi Theater, in the meantime making two visits to the Colon Theater, Buenos Aires, and filling engagements in Madrid, Bologna, Florence and Genoa. "How could I stay away from America for such a length of time? you ask. For various reasons. I was getting what I had come to Italy for, experience and reputation. I was comfortable and happy in my work. I loved the beautiful country, and the life suited me. The people were kind. I had my own home in Florence, which is still there and to which I can return when my season is over here. Best of all I had the opportunity of creating all the new tenor rôles in the recent operas of Puccini, Montemezzi, Pizzetti and Gratico. I also created the rôle of _Parsifal_ in Italian, and the first season at La Scala, it was performed twenty-seven times." "With your permission let us go a little into detail in regard to the needs of the young singer and his method of study, so that he may acquire vocal mastery. What do you consider the most important and necessary subject for the young singer, or any one who wishes to enter the profession, to consider?" "A musical education," was the prompt, unhesitating reply. "So many think if they have a good natural voice and take singing lessons, that is quite sufficient; they will soon become singers. But a singer should also be a musician. He should learn the piano by all means and have some knowledge of theory and harmony. These subjects will be of the greatest benefit in developing his musicianship; indeed he cannot well get on without them. A beautiful voice with little musical education, is not of as much value to its possessor as one not so beautiful, which has been well trained and is coupled with solid musical attainments. A MUSICAL CAREER "If one goes in for a musical career, one should realize at the start, something of what it means, what is involved, and what must go with it. Singing itself is only a part, perhaps even the smaller part, of one's equipment. If opera be the goal, there are languages, acting, make up, impersonation, interpretation, how to walk, how to carry oneself, all to be added to the piano and harmony we have already spoken of. The art of the singer is a profession--yes, and a business too. You prepare yourself to fill a public demand; you must prove yourself worthy, you must come up to the standard, or there will not be a demand for what you have to offer. And it is right this should be so. We should be willing to look the situation fairly in the eye, divesting it of all those rose colored dreams and fancies; then we should get right down to work. NOT MANY RULES "If you get right down to the bottom, there are in reality not so many singing rules to learn. You sing on the five vowels, and when you can do them loudly, softly, and with mezzo voce, you have a foundation upon which to build vocal mastery. And yet some people study eight, ten years without really laying the foundation. Why should it take the singer such a long time to master the material of his equipment? A lawyer or doctor, after leaving college, devotes three or four years only to preparing himself for his profession, receives his diploma, then sets up in business. It ought not to be so much more difficult to learn to sing than to learn these other professions. THE EAR "Of course the ear is the most important factor, our greatest ally. It helps us imitate. Imitation forms a large part of our study. We hear a beautiful tone; we try to imitate it; we try in various ways, with various placements, until we succeed in producing the sound we have been seeking. Then we endeavor to remember the sensations experienced in order that we may repeat the tone at will. So you see Listening, Imitation and Memory are very important factors in the student's development. BEL CANTO "I have just spoken of a beautiful tone. The old Italian operas cultivate the _bel canto_, that is--beautiful singing. Of course it is well for the singer to cultivate this first of all, for it is excellent, and necessary for the voice. But modern Italian opera portrays the real men and women of to-day, who live, enjoy, suffer, are angry and repentant. _Bel canto_ will not express these emotions. When a man is jealous or in a rage, he will not stand quietly in the middle of the stage and sing beautiful tones. He does not think of beautiful tones at all. Hatred and jealousy should be expressed in the voice as well as in action and gesture; they are far from lovely in themselves, and to be natural and true to life, they will not make lovely tones in the voice. We want singing actors to-day, men and women who can adequately portray the characters they impersonate through both voice and action. LEARNING A RÔLE "In taking up a new part I vocalize the theme first, to get an idea of the music; then I learn the words. After this I work with the accompanist who comes to me every morning. Of course, besides this, I do daily vocalizes and vocal exercises; one must always keep up one's vocal technic. "But learning words and music is only a part of the work to be done on a rôle. It must then be interpreted; more than this it must be visualized. This part of the work rests largely with the singer, and gives opportunity for his individuality to assert itself. Of course the general idea of the characterization is given us, the make-up, posturing and so on. To work out these ideas, to make the part our own, to feel at home in it, so that it shall not seem like acting, but appear perfectly natural--all this takes a great deal of thought, time and study. It is all a mental process, as every one knows; we must project our thought out to the audience, we must 'get it over,' or it will never strike fire!" INTERPRETATION On the subject of individuality in interpretation, Mr. Johnson was convincing. "I feel that if I have worked out a characterization, I must stick to my idea, in spite of what others say. It is my own conception, and I must either stand or fall by it. At times I have tried to follow the suggestions of this or that critic and have changed my interpretation to suit their taste. But it always rendered me self conscious, made my work unnatural and caused me speedily to return to my own conception. LEARNING BY DOING "The singer finds the stage a great teacher. Before the footlights he has constant opportunity to try out this or that effect, to note which placement of the voice best fits the tones he wishes to produce. Then, too, he soon learns to feel whether he has made the impression he had hoped, whether he has the audience with him. If he cannot win the audience, he takes careful thought to see why. In order to win his hearers, to get his work across the footlights, there are certain things he must have, virtues he must possess. For instance,"--and the artist counted them off on his finger tips,--"he must have Accent, Diction, Characterization, and above all, Sincerity. No matter what other good qualities he may possess, he must be sincere before anything else. If he lack this the audience soon finds it out. There's nothing that wins its way like the grace of sincerity. You see I give prominent place to accent and diction. Whatever fault the critics found with me, they have always conceded to me both these virtues. "But time passes and soon the work of the night will begin. I trust that our informal conference may contain a few points of personal experience which may be helpful to those who are striving to enter the field of opera." And with his pleasant smile and genial greeting, Mr. Johnson closed the conference. XVIII =REINALD WERRENRATH= ACHIEVING SUCCESS ON THE CONCERT STAGE At the close of a recital by Reinald Werrenrath, the listener feels he has something to carry away, a tangible impression, a real message. What is the impression--can it be defined? Perhaps it is more the complete effect as a whole that makes the deepest impression. The voice is always agreeable, the diction so clear and distinct that every syllable can be followed from the topmost corner of Carnegie Hall, so there is no need to print a program book for this singer. Different qualities of voice render the picture or mood more vivid, and all is accomplished with perfect ease, in itself a charm. People settle in their seats as if certain that a song recital by Werrenrath is sure to bring enjoyment and satisfaction. And Mr. Werrenrath has proven, through season after season of concert giving in America, that he is filling his own special niche in the scheme of the country's musical life; that he has his own message of the beautiful--the natural--in vocal art to deliver to the people all over the land, and he is accomplishing this with ever increasing ability and success. To go through a season filled with concert tours, such as a popular singer has laid out for him, means so many weeks and months of strenuous toil and travel. There may be a few brief hours or days here and there, when he can be at home among family and friends; but soon he is off again--"on the road." Mr. Werrenrath is the sort of singer who is generally on the wing, or if not exactly that, is so rushed with work, record making and rehearsing for occasional opera appearances, that it is very difficult to get a word with him. I was exceedingly fortunate however, one day recently, to catch a glimpse of him between a Metropolitan rehearsal on the one hand, and some concert business on the other. He entered the room where I waited, tall, vigorous, his fine face lighted by a rapid walk in the fresh air; he seemed the embodiment of mental vigor and alertness. VOCAL CONTROL [Illustration: REINALD WERRENRATH] I plunged at once into the subject I had come for, telling him I wanted to know how he had worked to bring about such results as were noted in his recent recital in Carnegie Hall; in what way he had studied, and what, in his opinion, were the most important factors, from an educational point of view, for the young singer to consider. "That is entirely too difficult a question to be answered briefly, even in a half hour, or in an hour's talk. There are too many angles;" his clear gray eyes looked at me frankly as he spoke. "Voice culture, voice mastery, what is it? It is having control of your instrument to such an extent that you put it out of your thought completely when you sing. The voice is your servant and must do your bidding. This control is arrived at through a variety of means, and can be considered from a thousand angles, any one of which would be interesting to follow up. I have been on the concert stage for nearly a score of years, and ought to know whereof I speak; yet I can say I have not learned it all even now, not by any means. Vocal technic is something on which you are always working, something which is never completed, something which is constantly improving with your mental growth and experience--if you are working along the right lines. People talk of finishing their vocal technic; how can that ever be done? You are always learning how to do better. If you don't make the effect you expected to, in a certain place, when singing in public, you take thought of it afterward, consider what was the matter, _why_ you couldn't put it over--why it had no effect on the audience. Then you work on it, learn how to correct and improve it. EARLY EXPERIENCES "As you may know, my father was a great singer; he was my first teacher. After I lost him I studied for several years with Dr. Carl Duft and later with Arthur Mees. In all this time I had learned a great deal about music from the intellectual and emotional sides, music in the abstract and so on. In fact, I thought I knew about all there was to be learned about the art of song; I settled back on my oars and let the matter go at that. At last, however, I awoke to see that I didn't know it all yet; I discovered I couldn't put the feeling and emotion which surged within me across to others in the way I wanted to--in the way which could move and impress them; I could not make the effects I wanted; I was getting into a rut. This was seven years ago. At that time I went to Percy Rector Stevens, who has done me an immense amount of good, and with whom I constantly keep in touch, in case there should be anything wrong with my instrument anywhere. Mr. Stevens understands the mechanics of the voice perhaps better than any one I know of. If I go to him and say: 'I made some tones last night that didn't sound right to me,' or 'I couldn't seem to put over this or that effect; I want you to tell me what is the matter.' He will say: 'Sing for me, show me the trouble and we'll see what we can do for it.' So I sing and he will say: 'You are tightening your throat at that place,' or 'your diaphragm is not working properly,' or there is some other defect. He can always put his finger directly on the weak spot. He is my vocal doctor. Your whole vocal apparatus must work together in entire harmony. We hear of teachers who seem to specialize on some one part of the anatomy to the exclusion of other parts. They are so particular about the diaphragm, for instance; that must be held with exactly the right firmness to support the tone. That is all very well; but what about the chest, the larynx, the throat, the head and all the rest of the anatomy? The truth is the whole trunk and head of the body are concerned in the act of tone production; they form the complete instrument, so to say. When the singer is well and strong and in good condition, all the parts respond and do their work easily and efficiently. DAILY PRACTICE "I do not go through a routine of scales and exercises daily--at least not in the season, for I have no time. If you are going to take your automobile out for a spin you don't ride it around for half an hour in the yard to see whether it will go. No, you first look after the machinery, to see if all is in working order, and then you start out, knowing it will go. I do a lot of gymnastics each day, to exercise the voice and limber up the anatomy. These act as a massage for the voice; they are in the nature of humming, mingled with grunts, calls, exclamations, shouts, and many kinds of sounds--indeed so many and various they cannot be enumerated. But they put the voice in condition, so there is no need for all these other exercises which most singers find so essential to their vocal well-being. I will say right here that I am working with two masters; the first for the mechanics of the voice, the second who helps me from quite an opposite angle--interpretation and finish. WITH MAUREL "The master from whom I have learned so much that it cannot be estimated is Victor Maurel. He is a most remarkable man, a great thinker and philosopher. If he had turned his attention to any other art or science, or if he had been but a day laborer, he would be a great man anywhere, in any capacity. "I have been with him, whenever possible, for two years now. He has shown me the philosophy, the psychology of singing. He has taught me the science of intense diction. By means of such diction, I can sing _mezza voce_, and put it over with less effort and much more artistic effect than I ever used to do, when I employed much more voice. You hear it said this or that person has a big voice and can sing with great power. A brass band can make a lot of noise. I have stood beside men, who in a smaller space, could make much more noise than I could. But when they got out on the stage you couldn't hear them at the back of the hall. It is the knowing how to use the voice with the least possible effort, coupled with the right kind of diction, that will make the greatest effect. Now I can express myself, and deliver the message I feel I have to give. THE SINGER BEFORE AN AUDIENCE "You ask if I hear myself, when I am singing for an audience. In a general way, yes. Of course I do not get the full effect of what I am doing; a singer never does. It takes the records to tell me that, and I have been making records for a good number of years. But I know the sensations which accompany correct tone production, and if I feel they are different in any place or passage, I try to make a mental note of the fact and the passage, that I may correct it afterwards. But I must emphasize the point that when I sing, I cast away all thought of _how_ I do anything technical; I want to get away from the mechanics of the voice; I must keep my thought clear for the interpretation, for the message I have brought to the audience. To be constantly thinking--how am I doing this or that--would hamper me terribly. I should never get anywhere. I must have my vocal apparatus under such control that it goes of itself. A pianist does not think of technic when playing in public, neither should a singer think of his vocal technic. Of course there may be occasions when adverse circumstances thrust conditions upon me. If I have a slight cold, or tightness of throat, I have to bring all my resources to bear, to rise above the seeming handicap, and sing as well as I can in spite of it. I can say gratefully, without any desire to boast, that during the past eleven years, I have never once missed an engagement or disappointed an audience. Of course I have had to keep engagements when I did not feel in the mood, either physically or mentally. Many singers would have refused under like conditions. But it does not seem fair to the audience to disappoint, or to the manager either; it puts him in a very difficult and unpleasant position. It seems to me the artist should be more considerate of both manager and audience, than to yield to a slight indisposition and so break his engagement. THE SINGER IN HIS STUDIO "It makes such a difference--in quality of tone and in effect--whether you sing in a small or large space. Things you do in the studio and which may sound well there, are quite different or are lost altogether in a large hall. You really cannot tell what the effect will be in a great space, by what you do in your studio. In rehearsing and study, I use half voice, and only occasionally do I use full voice, that is when I wish to get a better idea of the effect." VOCAL MASTERY As we stood at the close of the conference, I asked the supreme question--What do you understand by Vocal Mastery? The artist looked as though I were making an impossible demand in requiring an answer to so comprehensive a subject. He took a few strides and then came back. "I can answer that question with one word--Disregard. Which means, that if you have such control of your anatomy, such command of your vocal resources that they will always do their work, that they can be depended upon to act perfectly, then you can disregard mechanism, and think only of the interpretation--only of your vocal message. Then you have conquered the material--then you have attained Vocal Mastery!" XIX =SOPHIE BRASLAU= MAKING A CAREER IN AMERICA A fact, often overlooked when considering the career of some of our great singers of to-day, is the fact that they started out to become an instrumentalist rather than a singer. In other words they become proficient on some instrument before taking up serious study of the voice. In this connection one thinks of Mme. Sembrich, who was both pianist and violinist before becoming known as a singer. It would be interesting to follow up this idea and enumerate the vocalists who have broadened their musicianship through the study of other instruments than their own voices. But this delightful task must be reserved for future leisure. For the present it can be set down here that Miss Sophie Braslau, probably the youngest star in the constellation of the Metropolitan artists, is an accomplished pianist, and intended to make her career with the aid of that instrument instead of with her voice. But we will let the young artist speak for herself. On the occasion in question, she had just returned from a walk, her arms full of rosebuds. "I never can resist flowers," she remarked, as she had them placed in a big silver vase. Then she carried the visitor off to her own special rooms, whose windows overlooked an inner garden, where one forgot one was in the heart of New York. "Indeed it is not like New York at all, rather like Paris," said Miss Braslau, answering my thought. On a _chaise longue_ in this ivory and rose sanctum, reposed a big, beautiful doll, preserved from childish days. The singer took it up; "I don't play with it now," she said with a smile, "but I used to." She placed it carefully in a chair, then settled herself to talk. [Illustration: SOPHIE BRASLAU] "Yes, I intended to make the piano my instrument and began my studies at the age of six. Before long it was seen that I had something of a voice, but no one gave it much thought, supposing I was to be a pianist; indeed I have the hand of one," holding it up. "I don't think, in those early years, I was so very anxious to become a player. I did not love scales--do not now, and would quite as soon have sat at the piano with a book in my lap, while my fingers mechanically did their stunts. But my mother looked after my practice, and often sat near me. She required a regular amount of time given to music study each day. I am so grateful that she was strict with me, for my knowledge of piano and its literature is the greatest joy to me now. To my thinking all children should have piano lessons; the cost is trifling compared to the benefits they receive. They should be made to study, whether they wish to or not. They are not prepared to judge what is good for them, and if they are given this advantage they will be glad of it later on. "In due time I entered the Institute of Musical Art, taking the full piano course. Arthur Hochmann was my teacher for piano, and I found him an excellent master. He did a great deal for me; in interpretation, in fineness of detail, in artistic finish I owe him very much. Later I studied several years with Alexander Lambert. "While at work with my piano, it grew more apparent that I had a voice that should be cultivated. So I began. Afterwards I worked three years with Signor Buzzi Peccia, who started me on an operatic career and finally brought me to the Metropolitan. "It was a great ordeal for a young singer, almost a beginner, to start at our greatest Opera House! It meant unremitting labor for me. I worked very hard, but I am not afraid of work. Toscanini held sway when I began, and he was a marvelous musician and conductor. Such exactness, such perfection of detail; he required perfection of every one. He did not at first realize how much of a beginner I was, though I had really learned a large number of rôles. He was so strict in every detail that I wept many bitter tears for fear I would not come up to the mark. I knew the music, but had not gained experience through routine. It seems to me every singer should gain this experience in some smaller places before attempting the highest. My advice would be to go and get experience in Europe first. I have never been in Germany, but in Italy and France there are many small opera houses where one may learn routine. "Another thing. There is a mistaken notion that one cannot reach any height in opera without 'pull' and great influence. I am sure this is not true; for while a pull may help, one must be able to deliver the goods. If one cannot, all the backing in the world will not make one a success. The singer must have the ability to 'put it over.' Think of the artists who can do it--Farrar, Gluck, Schumann-Heink. There is never any doubt about them; they always win their audiences. What I have done has been accomplished by hard work, without backing of any kind. Really of what use is backing anyway? The public can judge--or at least it can _feel_. I know very well that when my chance came to sing _Shanewis_, if I had not been able to do it, no amount of influence would have helped the situation. I had it in my own hand to make or mar my career. I often wonder whether audiences really know anything about what you are trying to do; whether they have any conception of what is right in singing, or whether they are merely swayed by the temperament of the singer. "Whether we are, or are not to be a musical nation should be a question of deep interest to all music lovers. If we really become a great musical people, it will be largely due to the work of the records. We certainly have wonderful advantages here, and are doing a tremendous lot for music. "I had an interesting experience recently. It was in a little town in North Carolina, where a song recital had never before been given. Can you fancy a place where there had never even been a concert? The people in this little town were busy producing tobacco and had never turned their thought toward music. In the face of the coming concert what did those people do? They got a program, studied what pieces I had sung on the Victor, got the music of the others; so they had a pretty good idea of what I was going to sing. When I stepped on the platform that night and saw the little upright piano (no other instrument could be secured) and looked into those eager faces, I wondered how they would receive my work. My first number was an aria from _Orfeo_. When I finished, the demonstration was so deafening I had to wait minutes before I could go on. And so it continued all the evening. "How do I work? Very hard, at least six hours a day. Of these I actually sing perhaps three hours. I begin at nine and give the first hour to memory work on repertoire. I give very thorough study to my programs; for I must know every note in them, both for voice and piano. I make it a point to know the accompaniments, for in case I am ever left without an accompanist, I can play for myself, and it has a great effect on audiences. They may not know or care whether you can play Beethoven or Chopin, but the fact that you can play while you sing, greatly impresses them. "In committing a song, I play it over and sing it sufficiently to get a good idea of its construction and meaning; then I work in detail, learning words and music at the same time, usually. Certain things are very difficult for me, things requiring absolute evenness of passage work, or sustained calm. Naturally I have an excess of temperament; I feel things in a vivid, passionate way. So I need to go very slowly at times. To-day I gave several hours to only three lines of an aria by Haendel, and am not yet satisfied with it. Indeed, can we ever rest satisfied, when there is so much to learn, and we can always improve? "The second hour of my day is given to vocalizes. Of course there are certain standard things that one must do; but there are others that need not be done every day. I try to vary the work as much as I can. "The rest of the day is given to study on repertoire and all the things that belong to it. There is so much more to a singer's art than merely to sing. And it is a sad thing to find that so many singers lack musicianship. They seem to think if they can sing some songs, or even a few operas, that is all there is to it. But one who would become an artist must work most of the time. I am sure Charles Hackett knows the value of work; so does Mabel Garrison and many other Americans. And when you think of it, there are really a brave number of our own singers who are not only making good, but making big names for themselves and winning the success that comes from a union of talent and industry." XX =MORGAN KINGSTON= THE SPIRITUAL SIDE OF THE SINGER'S ART "A man who has risen to his present eminence through determined effort and hard work, who has done it all in America, is a unique figure in the world of art. He can surely give much valuable information to students, for he has been through so much himself." Thus I was informed by one who was in a position to understand how Morgan Kingston had achieved success. The well known tenor was most kind in granting an audience to one seeking light on his ideas and experiences. He welcomed the visitor with simple, sincere courtesy, and discussed for an hour and a half various aspects of the singer's art. "In what way may I be of service to you?" began Mr. Kingston, after the first greetings had been exchanged. "There are many questions to ask," was the answer; "perhaps it were best to propound the most difficult one first, instead of reserving it till the last. What, in your opinion, goes into the acquiring of Vocal Mastery?" "That is certainly a difficult subject to take up, for vocal mastery includes so many things. First and foremost it includes vocal technic. One must have an excellent technic before one can hope to sing even moderately well. The singer can do nothing without technic, though of course there are many people who try to sing without it. They, however, never get anywhere when hampered by such a lack of equipment. Technic furnishes the tools with which the singer creates his vocal art work; just as the painter's brushes enable him to paint his picture. RULES OF TECHNIC [Illustration: MORGAN KINGSTON] "I said the singer should have a finished technic in order to express the musical idea aright, in order to be an artist. But technic is never finished; it goes on developing and broadening as we ourselves grow and develop. We learn by degrees what to add on and what to take away, in our effort to perfect technic. Students, especially in America, are too apt to depend on rules merely. They think if they absolutely follow the rules, they must necessarily become singers; if they find that you deviate from rule they tell you of it, and hold you up to the letter of the law, rather than its meaning and spirit. I answer, rules should be guides, not tyrants. Rules are necessary in the beginning; later we get beyond them,--or rather we work out their spirit and are not hide-bound by the letter. EARLY STRUGGLES "As you may know, I was born in Nottinghamshire, England. I always sang, as a small boy, just for the love of it, never dreaming I would one day make it my profession. In those early days I sang in the little church where Lord Byron is buried. How many times I have walked over the slab which lies above his vault. When I was old enough I went to work in the mines, so you see I know what hardships the miners endure; I know what it means to be shut away from the sun for so many hours every day. And I would lighten their hardships in every way possible. I am sure, if it rested with me, to choose between having no coal unless I mined it myself, I would never dig a single particle. But this is aside from the subject in hand. "I always sang for the love of singing, and I had the hope that some day I could do some good with the gift which the good God had bestowed on me. Then, one day, the opportunity came for me to sing in a concert in London. Up to that time I had never had a vocal lesson in my life; my singing was purely a natural product. On this occasion I sang, evidently with some little success, for it was decided that very night that I should become a singer. Means were provided for both lessons and living, and I now gave my whole time and attention toward fitting myself for my new calling. The lady who played my accompaniments at that concert became my teacher. And I can say, with gratitude to a kind Providence, that I have never had, nor wished to have any other. When I hear young singers in America saying they have been to Mr. S. to get his points, then they will go to Mr. W. to learn his point of view, I realize afresh that my experience has been quite different and indeed unique; I am devoutly thankful it has been so. WHAT THE TEACHER SHOULD DO FOR THE STUDENT "My teacher made a study of me, of my characteristics, mentality and temperament. That should be the business of every real teacher, since each individual has different characteristics from every other. "It is now ten years since I began to study the art of singing. I came to America soon after the eventful night which changed my whole career; my teacher also came to this country. I had everything to learn; I could not even speak my own language; my speech was a dialect heard in that part of the country where I was brought up. I have had to cultivate and refine myself. I had to study other languages, Italian, French and German. I learned them all in America. So you see there is no need for an American to go out of his own country for vocal instruction or languages; all can be learned right here at home. I am a living proof of this. What I have done others can do. THE TECHNICAL SIDE "As for technical material, I have never used a great quantity. Of course I do scales and vocalizes for a short time each day; such things are always kept up. Then I make daily use of about a dozen exercises by Rubini. Beyond these I make technical studies out of the pieces. But, after one has made a certain amount of progress on the technical side, one must work for one's self--I mean one must work on one's moral nature. THE MORAL SIDE "I believe strongly that a singer cannot adequately express the beautiful and pure in music while cherishing at the same time, a bad heart and a mean nature behind it. Singing is such a personal thing, that one's mentality, one's inner nature, is bound to reveal itself. Each one of us has evil tendencies to grapple with, envy, jealousy, hatred, sensuality and all the rest of the evils we are apt to harbor. If we make no effort to control these natural tendencies, they will permanently injure us, as well as impair the voice, and vitiate the good we might do. I say it in all humility, but I am earnestly trying to conquer the errors in myself, so that I may be able to do some good with my voice. I have discovered people go to hear music when they want to be soothed and uplifted. If they desire to be amused and enjoy a good laugh, they go to light opera or vaudeville; if they want a soothing, quieting mental refreshment, they attend a concert, opera or oratorio. Therefore I want to give them, when I sing, what they are in need of, what they are longing for. I want to have such control of myself that I shall be fitted to help and benefit every person in the audience who listens to me. Until I have thus prepared myself, I am not doing my whole duty to myself, to my art or to my neighbor. "We hear about the petty envy and jealousy in the profession, and it is true they seem to be very real at times. Picture two young women singing at a concert; one receives much attention and beautiful flowers, the other--none of these things. No doubt it is human nature, so-called, for the neglected one to feel horribly jealous of the favored one. Now this feeling ought to be conquered, for I believe, if it is not, it will prevent the singer making beautiful, correct tones, or from voicing the beauty and exaltation of the music. We know that evil thoughts react on the body and result in diseases, which prevent the singer from reaching a high point of excellence. We must think right thoughts for these are the worth while things of life. Singing teachers utterly fail to take the moral or metaphysical side into consideration in their teaching. They should do this and doubtless would, did they but realize what a large place right thinking occupies in the development of the singer. "One could name various artists who only consider their own self-aggrandizement; one is compelled to realize that, with such low aims, the artist is bound to fall short of highest achievement. It is our right attitude towards the best in life and the future, that is of real value to us. How often people greet you with the words: 'Well, how is the world treating you to-day?' Does any one ever say to you--'How are you treating the world to-day?' That is the real thing to consider. "As I said a few moments ago, I have studied ten years on vocal technic and repertoire. I have not ventured to say so before, but I say it to-night--I can sing! Of course most of the operatic tenor rôles are in my repertoire. This season I am engaged for fourteen rôles at the Metropolitan. These must be ready to sing on demand, that is at a moment's notice,--or say two hours' notice. That means some memory work as well as constant practice. "Would I rather appear in opera, recital or oratorio? I like them all. A recital program must contain at least a dozen songs, which makes it as long as a leading operatic rôle. "The ten years just passed, filled as they have been with close study and public work, I consider in the light of preparation. The following ten years I hope to devote to becoming more widely known in various countries. And then--" a pleasant smile flitted over the fine, clean-cut features,--"then another ten years to make my fortune. But I hasten to assure you the monetary side is quite secondary to the great desire I have to do some good with the talent which has been given me. I realize more and more each day, that to develop the spiritual nature will mean happiness and success in this and in a future existence, and this is worth all the effort and striving it costs." XXI =FRIEDA HEMPEL= A LESSON WITH A PRIMA DONNA There is no need to say that Frieda Hempel is one of the most admired artists on the opera and concert stage to-day. Every one knows the fact. Miss Hempel has endeared herself to all through her lovely voice, her use of it, her charm of manner and the sincerity of her art. [Illustration: _Photo by Alfred Chancy Johnston_ FRIEDA HEMPEL] It is seven years since Miss Hempel first came to sing at the Metropolitan. America has advanced very greatly in musical appreciation during this period. Miss Hempel herself has grown in artistic stature with each new character she has assumed. This season she has exchanged the opera field for that of the concert room, to the regret of opera patrons and all music lovers, who desired to see her at the Metropolitan. Being so constantly on the wing, it has been extremely difficult to secure a word with the admired artist. Late one afternoon, however, toward the end of her very successful concert season, she was able to devote an hour to a conference with the writer on the principles of vocal art. How fair, slender and girlish she looked, ensconced among the cushions of a comfortable divan in her music room, with a favorite pet dog nestling at her side. "And you ask how to master the voice; it seems then, I am to give a vocal lesson," she began, with an arch smile, as she caressed the little creature beside her. BREATHING "The very first thing for the singer to consider is breath control; always the breathing--the breathing. She thinks of it morning, noon and night. Even before rising in the morning, she has it on her mind, and may do a few little stunts while still reclining. Then, before beginning her vocal technic in the morning, she goes through a series of breathing exercises. Just what they are is unnecessary to indicate, as each teacher may have his own, or the singer has learned for herself what forms are most beneficial. VOCAL TECHNIC "The pianist before the public, or the player who hopes to master the instrument in the future, never thinks of omitting the daily task of scales and exercises; he knows that his chances for success would soon be impaired, even ruined, if he should neglect this important and necessary branch of study. "It is exactly the same thing with the singer. She cannot afford to do without scales and exercises. If she should, the public would soon find it out. She must be in constant practice in order to produce her tones with smoothness and purity; she must also think whether she is producing them with ease. There should never be any strain, no evidence of effort. Voice production must always seem to be the easiest thing in the world. No audience likes to see painful effort in a singer's face or throat. VOCAL PRACTICE "The young singer should always practice with a mirror--do not forget that; she must look pleasant under all circumstances. No one cares to look at a singer who makes faces and grimaces, or scowls when she sings. This applies to any one, young or older. Singing must always seem easy, pleasant, graceful, attractive, winning. This must be the mental concept, and, acted upon, the singer will thus win her audience. I do not mean that one should cultivate a grin when singing; that would be going to the other extreme. "Let the singer also use a watch when she practices, in order not to overdo. I approve of a good deal of technical study, taken in small doses of ten to fifteen minutes at a time. I myself do about two hours or more, though not all technic; but I make these pauses for rest, so that I am not fatigued. After all, while we must have technic, there is so much more to singing than its technic. Technic is indeed a means to an end, more in the art of song than in almost any other form of art. Technic is the background for expressive singing, and to sing expressively is what every one should be striving for. WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A SINGER "A beautiful voice is a gift from heaven, but the cultivation of it rests with its possessor. Here in America, girls do not realize the amount of labor and sacrifice involved, or they might not be so eager to enter upon a career. They are too much taken up with teas, parties and social functions to have sufficient time to devote to vocal study and all that goes with it. There are many other things to study; some piano if possible, languages of course, physical culture and acting, to make the body supple and graceful. I say some piano should be included, at least enough to play accompaniments at sight. But when she has mastered her song or rôle, she needs an accompanist, for she can never play the music as it should be played while she endeavors to interpret the song as that should be sung. One cannot do complete justice to both at the same time. "In order to study all the subjects required, the girl with a voice must be willing to give most of her day to the work. This means sacrificing the social side and being willing to throw herself heart and soul into the business of adequately preparing for her career. AMERICAN VOICES "I find there are quantities of lovely voices here in America. The quality of the American female voice is beautiful; in no country is it finer, not even in Italy. You have good teachers here, too. Then why are there so few American singers who are properly prepared for a career? Why do we hear of so few who make good and amount to something? If the girl has means and good social connections, she is often not ready to sacrifice social gayeties for the austere life of the student. If she is a poor girl, she frequently cannot afford to take up the subjects necessary for her higher development. Instruction is expensive here, and training for opera almost impossible. The operatic coach requires a goodly fee for his services. And when the girl has prepared several rôles where shall she find the opportunity to try them out? Inexperienced singers cannot be accepted at the Metropolitan; that is not the place for them. At the prices charged for seats the management cannot afford to engage any but the very best artists. Until there are more opera houses throughout the country, the American girl will still be obliged to go to Europe for experience and routine. In Europe it is all so much easier. Every little city and town has its own opera house, where regular performances are given and where young singers can try their wings and gain experience. The conductor will often help and coach the singer and never expect a fee for it. THE YOUNG SINGER BEFORE AN AUDIENCE "The singer who wishes to make a career in concert, should constantly study to do things easily and gracefully. She is gracious in manner, and sings to the people as though it gave her personal pleasure to stand before them. She has a happy expression of countenance; she is simple, unaffected and sincere. More than all this her singing must be filled with sentiment and soul; it must be deeply felt or it will not touch others. Of what use will be the most elaborate technic in the world if there is no soul back of it. So the young singer cultivates this power of expression, which grows with constant effort. The artist has learned to share her gift of song with her audience, and sings straight across into the hearts of her listeners. The less experienced singer profits by her example. "Shall the singer carry her music in a song recital, is a much discussed question. Many come on with nothing in hand. What then happens? The hands are clasped in supplication, as though praying for help. This attitude becomes somewhat harrowing when held for a whole program. Other singers toy with chain or fan, movements which may be very inappropriate to the sentiment of the song they are singing. For myself I prefer to hold in hand a small book containing the words of my songs, for it seems to be more graceful and Jess obtrusive than the other ways I have mentioned. I never refer to this little book, as I know the words of my songs backward; I could rise in the middle of the night and go through the program without a glance at words or music, so thoroughly do I know what I am singing. Therefore I do not need the book of words, but I shall always carry it, no matter what the critics may say. And why should not the executive artist reassure himself by having his music with him? It seems to me a pianist would feel so much more certain of himself if he had the notes before him; he of course need not look at them, but their presence would take away the fear that is often an obsession. With the notes at hand he could let himself go, give free reign to fancy, without the terrible anxiety he must often feel. OPERA OR CONCERT "People often ask whether I prefer to sing in opera or concert. I always answer, I love both. I enjoy opera for many reasons; I love the concert work, and I am also very fond of oratorio. Of course in the opera I am necessarily restrained; I can never be Frieda Hempel, I must always be some one else; I must always think of the others who are playing with me. In concert I can be myself and express myself. I get near the people; they are my friends and I am theirs. I am much in spirit with oratorio also. COLORATURA OR DRAMATIC "Do I think the coloratura voice will ever become dramatic? It depends on the quality of the voice. I think every dramatic singer should cultivate coloratura to some extent--should study smooth legato scales and passages. To listen to some of the dramatic rôles of to-day, one would think that smooth legato singing was a lost art. Nothing can take its place, however, and singers should realize this fact." Miss Hempel believes that every singer, no matter how great, should realize the advantage of constant advice from a capable teacher, in order to prevent the forming of undesirable habits. She also considers Vocal Mastery implies the perfection of everything connected with singing; that is to say, perfect breath control, perfect placement of the voice, perfect tone production, together with all requisite grace, feeling and expressiveness. WITH THE MASTER TEACHERS XXII =DAVID BISPHAM= THE MAKING OF ARTIST SINGERS If we were asked to name one of the best known, and best loved of American singers, the choice would surely fall on David Bispham. This artist, through his vocal, linguistic and histrionic gifts, his serious aims and high ideals, has endeared himself to musicians and music lovers alike. We are all proud of him as an American, and take a sort of personal pride in his achievements. Mr. Bispham has been before the public as actor-singer for many years. There is no other artist in the English-speaking world who has had greater experience in all kinds of vocal work than this "Quaker Singer," as he calls himself, for he comes from Philadelphia, and is of old English, Quaker, Colonial stock. His professional début was made in London, in 1891, with the Royal English Opera Company, as the Duc De Longueville, in the beautiful Opera Comique, _The Basoche_, by Messager. The following year he appeared in Wagnerian Music Drama at the Royal Opera, Covent Garden, performing the part of Kurwenal, in _Tristan and Isolde_, without rehearsal. His adaptability to music in English, French, Italian and German, caused him to be at once accepted as a member of that distinguished company. In 1896, Mr. Bispham joined the forces of the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, and remained there for a number of years, singing each season alternately on both sides of the ocean. Of recent years he has devoted most of his time to concerts, though he is one of the founders and officers of the Society of American Singers, with which artistic body he frequently appears in the classic operas of Mozart, Pergolesi, Donizetti and others. My first conference with Mr. Bispham was held in his New York studio. Here, in this artistic retreat where absolute quiet reigns, though located in the heart of the great city's busy life, the noted singer teaches and works out his programs and various characterizations. THE PROBLEM OF BREATH CONTROL "The singer should breathe as easily and naturally as animals and people do when they sleep," he began. "But we are awake when we sing; correct breath control, therefore, must be carefully studied, and is the result of understanding and experience. The best art conceals art. The aim is to produce tones with the utmost ease and naturalness, though these must be gained with patient toil. A child patting the keyboard with his tiny hands, is _unconsciously_ natural and at ease, though he does not know what he is doing; the great pianist is _consciously_ at ease because he understands principles of ease and relaxation, and has acquired the necessary control through years of training. "The singer acquires management of the breath through correct position and action of his anatomy. The body is held erect, chest active; the network of abdominal muscles constantly gain strength as they learn to push, push, push the air up through the lungs to the windpipe, then through the mouth and nasal cavities." Mr. Bispham illustrated each point in his own person as he described it. "When the manner of taking breath, and the way to develop the diaphragm and abdominal muscles, is understood, that is only a beginning. Management of the breath is an art in itself. The singer must know what to do with the breath once he has taken it in, or he may let it out in quarts the moment he opens his mouth. He has to learn how much he needs for each phrase. He learns how to conserve the breath; and while it is not desirable to hold one tone to attenuation, that the gallery may gasp with astonishment, as some singers do, yet it is well to learn to do all one conveniently can with one inhalation, provided the phrase permits it. TECHNICAL MATERIAL "I give many vocalizes and exercises, which I invent to fit the needs of each pupil. I do not require them to be written down, simply remembered. At the next lesson quite a different set of exercises may be recommended. I also make exercises out of familiar tunes or themes from operatic airs. It will be found that technical material in the various manuals is often chosen from such sources, so why not use them in their original form. Thus while the student is studying technic he is also acquiring much beautiful material, which will be of great value to him later on. THE STUDY OF REPERTOIRE "Repertoire is a wide subject and offers a fascinating study to the vocal student. He must have both imagination and sentiment, also the ability to portray, through movement and facial expression, the various moods and states of feeling indicated by words and music. "In taking up a new rôle, I read the story to get at the kernel or plot, and see what it means. The composer first saw the words of poem or libretto, and these suggested to him suitable music. So the singer begins his work by carefully reading the words. "I then have the music of the whole work played for me on the piano, so as to discover its trend and meaning--its content. If the composer is available I ask him to do this. I next begin to study my own part in detail, not only the important sections but the little bits, which seem so small, but are often so difficult to remember." CHARACTERIZATION Under this head the singer spoke at length of the difficulty some singers encounter when they endeavor to portray character, or differentiate emotions. There is endless scope in this line, to exercise intelligence and imagination. "Some singers," continued the artist, "seem incapable of characterizing a rôle or song. They can do what I call 'flat work,' but cannot individualize a rôle. A singer may have a beautiful voice yet not be temperamental; he may have no gift for acting, nor be able to do character work. "At the present moment I am preparing several new rôles, three of them are of old men. It rests with me to externalize these three in such a way that they shall all be different, yet consistent with the characters as I understand them. Each make-up must be distinctive, and my work is to portray the parts as I see and feel them. I must get into the skin of each character, so to say, then act as I conceive that particular person would behave under like circumstances. Many singers cannot act, and most actors cannot sing. When the two are combined we have a singing actor, or an actor-singer. Once there was a popular belief that it was not necessary for the singer to know much about acting--if he only had a voice and could sing. The present is changing all that. Many of us realize how very much study is required to perfect this side of our art. "In this connection I am reminded of my London début. I was to make it with the Royal English Opera Company. They heard me three times before deciding to take me on. With this formality over, rehearsals began. I soon found that my ideas of how my rôle--an important one--was to be acted, did not always coincide with the views of the stage director, and there were ructions. The manager saw how things were going, and advised me to accept seemingly the ideas of the stage director during rehearsals, but to study acting with the highest authorities and then work out the conception after my own ideas. Accordingly, I spent an hour daily, before the morning rehearsal, with one of the finest actors of comedy to be found in London. Later in the day, after rehearsal, I spent another hour with a great tragic actor. Thus I worked in both lines, as my part was a mixture of the tragic and the comic. I put in several weeks of very hard work in this way, and felt I had gained greatly. Of course this was entirely on the histrionic side, but it gives an idea of the preparation one needs. "When the day of the dress rehearsal arrived, I appeared on the scene in full regalia, clean shaven (I had been wearing a beard until then), and performed my rôle as I had conceived it, regardless of the peculiar ideas of the stage director. At the first performance I made a hit, and a little later was engaged for grand opera at Covent Garden, where I remained for ten years. KNOWLEDGE OF ANATOMY "While I believe in understanding one's anatomy sufficiently for proper tone production, and all that goes with it, there are many peculiar and unnecessary fads and tricks resorted to by those who call themselves teachers of singing. The more fantastic the theories inculcated by these people, the more the unwary students seem to believe in them. People like to be deluded, you know. But I am not able to gratify their desires in this direction; for I can't lie about music! "I was present at a vocal lesson given by one of these so-called instructors. 'You must sing in such a way that the tone will seem to come out of the back of your head,' he told the pupil, and he waved his arms about his head as though he were drawing the tone out visibly. Another pupil was placed flat on his back, then told to breathe as though he were asleep, and then had to sing in that position. Another teacher I know of makes pupils eject spit-balls of tissue paper at the ceiling, to learn the alleged proper control of the breath. What criminal nonsense this is! "As I have said, I believe in knowing what is necessary about anatomy, but not in too great measure. A new book will soon be issued, I am told, which actually dissects the human body, showing every bone and muscle in any way connected with breath or voice. All this may be of interest as a matter of research, but must one go into such minutiae in order to teach singing? I think the answer must ever be in the negative. You might as well talk to a gold-fish in a bowl-and say: 'If you desire to proceed laterally to the right, kindly oscillate gently your sinister dorsal fin, and you will achieve the desired result.' Oh, Art, what sins are committed in thy name!" IN THE STUDIO It is often affirmed that an artist finds experience the best teacher. It must be equally true that the artist-teacher of wide experience in both performance and instruction, should be a safe guide, just because of this varied experience. I was impressed with this fact when I recently had the privilege of visiting Mr. Bispham's studio during lesson hours, and listening to his instruction. A most interesting sanctum is this studio, filled as it is with souvenirs and pictures of the artist's long career on the operatic stage. Here hangs a drawing in color of Bispham as Telramund, in shining chain armor; there a life-size portrait as "Beethoven," and again as himself. In the midst of all is the master, seated at a table. In front of him, at the piano, stands the student. It is an English song she is at work on, for Mr. Bispham thoroughly believes in mastering English as well as other languages. How alert he is as he sits there; how keen of eye and ear. Not the slightest fault escapes him. He often sings the phrase himself, then calls for its repetition. "Sing that passage again; there is a tone in it that is not pleasant--not well-sounding; make it beautiful!" "Careful of your consonants there, they are not distinct; let them be clearer, but don't make them over distinct." "Don't scoop up the ends of the phrases; make the tones this way"; and he illustrates repeatedly. "Sing this phrase in one breath if you can, if not, breathe here--" indicating the place. The student now takes up an Italian aria. Of course the master teacher has no need of printed score; he knows the arias by heart. He merely jots down a few remarks on a slip of paper, to be referred to later. The aria goes quite well. At its close the singer goes to her seat and another takes her place. A voice of rich, warm timbre. More English--and it must be most exact, to suit Mr. Bispham's fastidious ear. "Make the word _fire_ in _one_ syllable, not _two_. Do not open the mouth quite so wide on the word _desire_, for, by doing so you lose the balance and the tone is not so good." VOCALIZES Another student--with a fine tenor--was asked to vocalize for a number of minutes. He sang ascending and descending tone-figures, sometimes doing them in one breath, at others taking a fresh breath at top. Some of the syllables used were: la, ma, may, and mi. He then sang single tones, swelling and diminishing each. It was found that passing from _forte_ to _piano_ was much more difficult than swelling from soft to loud. The aria "Be not afraid," was now taken up; it was pronounced one of the most difficult solos ever written, and a very valuable composition for vocal training. "You sing that phrase too loud," cautioned the instructor. "This is not a human being who is speaking, rather it is a heavenly voice. That high note of the phrase should be made softer, more ethereal. Make it a _young tone_--put the quality of Spring into it. The whole thing should be more spiritual or spiritualized. Now go through it again from beginning to end." When this was finished a halt was called; there had been enough work done for that day. Soon the class was dismissed. The young singers--some if not all of them known upon the concert stage--filed out. One young woman remained; she was to have a drama lesson. The master of singing showed himself equally efficient as master of English diction for the spoken drama. And here, for a time, we must leave him at his work. XXIII OSCAR SAENGER USE OF RECORDS IN VOCAL STUDY Mr. Oscar Saenger has been termed "maker of artists," since a number of our great singers have come from under his capable hands. He has a rare gift for imparting instruction in a way that is concise and convincing. A man of wide experience, profound knowledge of his subject, commanding personality and winning courtesy, he impresses all who come within his radius that he knows whereof he speaks. A man who "knows what he knows" is one to be followed. Mr. Saenger had just returned from a season of travel over America as far as the Coast. A most profitable trip he called it, filled with many interesting and unique experiences. He had been lecturing also, in a number of cities, on his new method of vocal study with the aid of the Victor Talking Machine. When he learned I had come expressly to ask for his ideas on vocal technic and study, he said: "I think you will be interested to hear about my latest hobby, the study of singing with the aid of records." Then he plunged at once into the most absorbingly interesting account of his ideas and achievements in this line I had ever listened to. TEACHER, ARTIST AND ACCOMPANIST IN ONE "This is my own idea, of combining the teacher, artist and accompanist in one trinity," he began. "And, by the way, my idea is now patented in Washington. It is the result of nine years' thought and labor, before the idea could be brought out in its finished form. The design has been to make the method and its elucidation so simple that the girl from a small town can understand it. "The method consists of twenty lessons for each of the five kinds of voices: Soprano, Mezzo-Soprano, Tenor, Baritone and Bass. Each portfolio holds twenty records, together with a book containing minute directions for studying and using the records. I believe that any one, with good intelligence, who wishes to learn to sing, can take the book and records and begin his studies, even though he has never sung before. He can thus prepare himself for future lessons. For you must understand this method is not meant to replace the teacher, but to aid the teacher. I can assure you it aids him in ways without number. It gives him a perfect exemplar to illustrate his principles. If he be fatigued, or unable to sing the passage in question, here is an artist who is never wearied, who is always ready to do it for him. I myself constantly use the records in my lessons. If I have taught a number of consecutive hours, it is a relief to turn to the artist's record and save my own voice. SIMPLICITY "As I have said, the design has been to make everything plain and simple. I wrote the book and sent it to the Victor people. They returned it, saying I had written an excellent book, but it was not simple enough. They proposed sending a man to me who was neither a musician nor a singer. If I could make my meaning clear enough for him to understand, it was likely the girl from a little Western town could grasp it. "So this man came and we worked together. If I talked about head tones, he wanted to know what I meant; if about throaty tones, I had to make these clear to him. When he understood, I was sure any one could understand. "Thus the books as they stand came into being. The records themselves represent an immense amount of care and effort. Will you believe we had to make over two thousand in order to secure the one hundred needed for the present series? The slightest imperfection is enough to render an otherwise perfect record useless. Even the artists themselves would sometimes become discouraged at the enormous difficulties. It is nerve-racking work, for one must be on tension all the time. IMITATION A FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE "If you are interested, I will go a little more into detail. The main idea of this unique method of study, is imitation. Every human being likes to imitate--from the tiny child to the adult. Acting upon this idea, we take the artist as model. Everything the model does, the student strives to imitate. By means of the record, it is possible for the student to do this over and over again, until he has learned to copy it as accurately as it is possible. And here is where the knowledge and experience of the teacher come in. During the lesson he tests each tone, each phrase, advising the pupil how nearly he approaches the perfect model, or showing him his faults and why he does not succeed in imitating the model more correctly." FOR BEGINNERS "Do you mean to say, Mr. Saenger, that this method of vocal study can be taken up by one who knows really nothing of the voice, or singing, and can be used with success; that such a person can become a singer through self-study?" "It is indeed possible," was the answer; "and it is being done every day. If the student has much intelligence, determination and concentration, she can learn to sing from these directions and these records. They are a great boon to young aspirants in small towns, where there are really no good teachers. In such places local teachers can study and teach from these records. "Again, you often find people too shy, or too ashamed to go to a teacher for a voice trial or lessons. They want to sing--every one would like to do that; but they don't know how to go at it. With these records they can begin to study, and thus get ready for later lessons. With these records those who are far from a music center can have the benefit of expert instruction at small cost. I might work with a pupil for several months in the ordinary way--without the records--and not be able to teach him even with half the accuracy and quickness obtainable by the new method. THE ACCOMPANIST "All singers know how important, how necessary it is to have services of an expert accompanist. The student of this method has one at hand every hour of the day; a tireless accompanist, who is willing to repeat without complaint, as often as necessary. THE SPEAKING VOICE "A very important branch of the work, for the would-be singer, is to cultivate the speaking voice. Tones in speaking should always be made beautiful and resonant. Even in children a pleasant quality of voice in speaking can be acquired. Mothers and teachers can be trained to know and produce beautiful tones. The ear must be cultivated to know a pure, beautiful tone and to love it. BREATHING EXERCISES "The management of the breath is a most important factor, as the life of the tone depends on the continuance of the breath. The student must cultivate the power of quickly inhaling a full breath and of exhaling it so gradually that she can sing a phrase lasting from ten to twenty seconds. This needs months of arduous practice. In all breathing, inhale through the nose. The lower jaw during singing should be entirely relaxed. "The tone should be focused just back of the upper front teeth. The way to place the tone forward is to _think_ it forward. The student must think the tone into place. "To 'attack' a tone is to sing it at once, without any scooping, and with free open throat. When the throat is tightened the student loses power to attack her tones in the right way. PHRASING "Phrasing, in a limited sense, is simply musical punctuation. In its broader sense it is almost synonymous with interpretation. For it has to do not only with musical punctuation but with the grouping of tones and words in such a way that the composition is rendered intelligible as a whole, so as to express the ideas of the composer. This is where the intellectual and musical qualities of the singer are brought into requisition. She must grasp the content, whether it be song or aria, in order to effect this grouping intelligently. _Accent, crescendo_ and _diminuendo_ are the most important factors in phrasing. From the very beginning the student should be careful how and where she takes breath and gives accent; there must always be a reason, and thought will generally make the reason clear. TONE PRODUCTION "The first thing to be considered is the position of the body; for beauty of tone cannot be obtained unless all efforts harmonize to produce the desired result. An easy, graceful, buoyant position is essential; it can be cultivated in front of a mirror, from the first lesson. "Tone production is the result of thought. Picture to yourself a beautiful tone; sing it on the vowel Ah. If you stood in rapture before an entrancing scene you would exclaim, Ah, how beautiful. Producing a beautiful tone rests on certain conditions. First, breath control; Second, Freedom of throat; Third, Correct focus of tone. "We know that a stiff jaw and tongue are the greatest hindrances to the emission of good tone. Muscles of chin and tongue must be trained to become relaxed and flexible. Do not stiffen the jaw or protrude the chin, else your appearance will be painful and your tones faulty. "To think the tone forward is quite as important as to sing it forward. Without the mental impression of correct placing, the reality cannot exist. It is much better to think the tone forward for five minutes and sing one minute, than to practice the reverse. One should practice in fifteen-minute periods and rest at least ten minutes between. The student should never sing more than two hours a day--one in the morning and one in the afternoon. As most singers love their work, many are inclined to overdo. "Do not tamper with the two or three extreme upper or lower tones of your voice lest you strain and ruin it permanently. Never practice when suffering from a cold. "Ideal attack is the tone which starts without any scooping, breathiness or explosiveness. Breathe noiselessly, the secret of which is to breathe from down, up. Faulty emissions of tone are: nasal, guttural, throaty and tremulous. I will give you examples of all these from the record No. 33, which will show you first the fault and then the perfect example. If the pupil studies these perfect emissions of tone and tries to imitate them, there is no need for her to have the common faults mentioned. SUSTAINED TONES "The next step is to study sustained tones. As you see the artist begins in the middle of her voice--always the best way--and sings a whole tone on A, with the syllable Ah, always waiting a whole measure for the pupil to imitate the tone. Next she sings A flat and so on down to lower A, the pupil imitating each tone. She now returns to middle A and ascends by half steps to E natural, the pupil copying each tone after it is sung by the artist. "The tone should be free, round and full, but not loud, and the aim be to preserve the same quality throughout. Do not throw or push the tone, _but spin it_. UNITING SEVERAL TONES "We first begin by uniting two tones, smoothly and evenly, then three in the same way. After each pair or group of tones, the accompaniment is repeated and the pupil imitates what the artist has just sung. Now comes the uniting of five tones, up and down; after this the scale of one octave. The scale should be sung easily with moderate tone quality. A slight accent can be given to the first and last tones of the scale. We all realize the scale is one of the most important exercises for the building of the voice; the preceding exercises have prepared for it. ARPEGGIOS "For imparting flexibility to the voice, nothing can exceed the Arpeggio, but like all vocal exercises, it must be produced with precision of tone, singing each interval clearly, with careful intonation, always striving for beauty of tone. "There are various forms of arpeggios to be used. The second form is carried a third above the octave; the third form a fifth above. This makes an exercise which employs every tone in the scale save one, and gives practice in rapid breathing. Remember, that the note before, taking breath is slightly shortened, in order to give time for taking breath, without disturbing the rhythm. THE TRILL "The trill is perhaps the most difficult of all vocal exercises, unless the singer is blessed with a natural trill, which is a rare gift. We begin with quarter notes, then add eighths and sixteenths. This exercise, if practiced daily, will produce the desired result. It is taken on each tone of the voice--trilling in major seconds. VOCALIZES "The purpose of vocalizes is to place and fix the voice accurately and to develop taste, while singing rhythmically and elegantly. The records give some Concone exercises, ably interpreted by one of our best known voices. You hear how even and beautiful are the tones sung, and you note the pauses of four measures between each phrase, to allow the student to repeat the phrase, as before. "I firmly believe this method of study is bound to revolutionize vocal study and teaching. You see it goes to the very foundation, and trains the student to imitate the best models. It even goes farther back, to the children, teaching them how to speak and sing correctly, always making beautiful tones, without harshness or shouting. Young children can learn to sing tones and phrases from the records. Furthermore, I believe the time is coming when the _technic and interpretation of every instrument will be taught in this way_. "It is my intention to follow up this set of foundational records by others which will demonstrate the interpretation of songs and arias as they are sung by our greatest artists. The outlook is almost limitless. "And now, do you think I have answered your questions about tone production, breath control and the rest? Perhaps I have, as convincingly as an hour's talk can do." XXIV =HERBERT WITHERSPOON= MEMORY, IMAGINATION, ANALYSIS No doubt the serious teacher, who may be occupied in any branch of musical activity, has often pictured to himself what an ideal institution of musical art might be like, if all students assembled should study thoroughly their particular instrument, together with all that pertained to it. They should by all means possess talent, intelligence, industry, and be far removed from a superficial attitude toward their chosen field. The studio used for instruction in this imagined institution, should also be ideal, quiet, airy, home-like, artistic. Some such vision perhaps floats before the minds of some of us teachers, when we are in the mood to dream of ideal conditions under which we would like to see our art work conducted. It has been possible for Mr. Herbert Witherspoon, the distinguished basso and teacher, to make such a dream-picture come true. For he has established an institution of vocal art--in effect if not in name--where all the subjects connected with singing, are considered and taught in the order of their significance. Not less ideal is the building which contains these studios, for Mr. Witherspoon has fitted up his private home as a true abiding place for the muse. At the close of a busy day, marked like all the rest with a full complement of lessons, the master teacher was willing to relax a little and speak of the work in which he is so deeply absorbed. He apologized for having run over the time of the last lesson, saying he never could teach by the clock. "I do not like to call this a school," he began, "although it amounts to one in reality, but only in so far as we take up the various subjects connected with vocal study. I consider languages of the highest importance; we have them taught here. There are classes in analysis, in pedagogy--teaching teachers how to instruct others. We have an excellent master for acting and for stage deportment: I advise that students know something of acting, even if they do not expect to go in for opera; they learn how to carry themselves and are more graceful and self-possessed before an audience. "The work has developed far beyond my expectations. There are over two hundred students, and I have eight assistants, who have been trained by me and know my ways and methods. Some of these give practice lessons to students, who alternate them with the lessons given by me. These lessons are quite reasonable, and in combination with my work, give the student daily attention. "My plan is not to accept every applicant who comes, but to select the most promising. The applicants must measure up to a certain standard before they can enter. To this one fact is due much of our success." "And what are these requirements?" "Voice, to begin with; youth (unless the idea is to teach), good looks, musical intelligence, application. If the candidate possesses these requisites, we begin to work. In three months' time it can be seen whether the student is making sufficient progress to come up to our standard. Those who do not are weeded out. You can readily see that as a result of this weeding process, we have some very good material and fine voices to work with. "We have many musicals and recitals, both public and private, where young singers have an opportunity to try their wings. There is a most generous, unselfish spirit among the students; they rejoice in each others' success, with never a hint of jealousy. We have had a number of recitals in both Aeolian and Carnegie Halls, given by the artist students this season. On these occasions the other students always attend and take as much interest as though they were giving the recital themselves." BEL CANTO "You have remarked lately that 'singers are realizing that the lost art of _bel canto_ is the thing to strive for and they are now searching for it.' Can you give a little more light on this point?" "I hardly meant to say that in any sense the art of bel canto was lost; how could it be? Many singers seem to attach some uncanny significance to the term. Bel canto means simply _beautiful singing_. When you have perfect breath control, and distinct, artistic enunciation, you will possess bel canto, because you will produce your tones and your words beautifully. "Because these magic words are in the Italian tongue does not mean that they apply to something only possessed by Italians. Not at all. Any one can sing beautifully who does so with ease and naturalness, the American just as well as those of any other countries. In fact I consider American voices, in general, better trained than those of Italy, Germany or France. The Italian, in particular, has very little knowledge of the scientific side; he usually sings by intuition. "We ought to have our own standards in judging American voices; until we do so, we will be constantly comparing them with the voices of foreign singers. The quality of the American voice is different from the quality found in the voices of other countries. To my mind the best women's voices are found right here in our midst. MEMORY "I have also said that there are three great factors which should form the foundation stones upon which the singer should rear his structure of musical achievement. These factors are Memory, Imagination, Analysis. I have put memory first because it is the whole thing, so to say. The singer without memory--a cultivated memory--does not get far. Memory lies at the very foundation of his work, and must continue with it the whole journey through, from the bottom to the top. In the beginning you think a beautiful tone, you try to reproduce it. When you come to it again you must remember just how you did it before. Each time you repeat the tone this effort of memory comes in, until at last it has become second nature to remember and produce the result; you now begin to do so automatically. "As you advance there are words to remember as well as notes and tones. Memory, of course, is just as necessary for the pianist. He must be able to commit large numbers of notes, phrases and passages. In his case there are a number of keys to grasp at once, but the singer can sing but one tone at a time. Both notes and words should be memorized, so the singer can come before the audience without being confined to the printed page. When acting is added there is still more to remember. Back of memory study lies concentration; without concentration little can be accomplished in any branch of art. IMAGINATION "The central factor is imagination; what can be done without it! Can you think of a musician, especially a singer, without imagination? He may acquire the letter--that is, execute the notes correctly, but the performance is dead, without life or soul. With imagination he comprehends what is the inner meaning of the text, the scene; also what the composer had in mind when he wrote. Then he learns to express these emotions in his own voice and action, through the imaginative power, which will color his tones, influence his action, render his portrayal instinct with life. Imagination in some form is generally inherent in all of us. If it lies dormant, it can be cultivated and brought to bear upon the singer's work. This is absolutely essential. ANALYSIS "I have put analysis last because it is the crowning virtue, the prime necessity. We study analysis here in the studios, learning how to separate music into its component parts, together with simple chord formations, general form and structure of the pieces, and so on. Can you comprehend the dense ignorance of many music students on these subjects? They will come here to me, never having analyzed a bit of music in their lives, having not an inkling of what chord structure and form in music mean. If they played piano even a little, they could hardly escape getting a small notion of chord formation. But frequently vocal students know nothing of the piano. They are too apt to be superficial. It is an age of superficiality--and cramming: we see these evils all the way from the college man down. I am a Yale man and don't like to say anything about college government, yet I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that men may spend four years going through college and yet not be educated when they come out. Most of us are in too much of a hurry, and so fail to take time enough to learn things thoroughly; above all we never stop to analyze. "Analysis should begin at the very outset of our vocal or instrumental study. We analyze the notes of the music we are singing, and a little later its form. We analyze the ideas of the composer and also our own thoughts and ideas, to try and bring them in harmony with his. After analyzing the passage before us, we may see it in a totally different light, and so phrase and deliver it with an entirely different idea from what we might have done without this intelligent study." CONSCIOUS OR UNCONSCIOUS CONTROL "Do you advise conscious action of the parts comprising the vocal instrument, or do you prefer unconscious control of the instrument, with thought directed to the ideal quality in tone production and delivery?" was asked. "By all means unconscious control," was the emphatic answer. "We wish to produce beautiful sounds; if the throat is open, the breathing correct, and we have a mental concept of that beautiful sound, we are bound to produce it. It might be almost impossible to produce correct tones if we thought constantly about every muscle in action. There is a great deal of nonsense talked and written about the diaphragm, vocal chords and other parts of the anatomy. It is all right for the teacher who wishes to be thoroughly trained, to know everything there is to know about the various organs and muscles; I would not discourage this. But for the young singer I consider it unnecessary. Think supremely of the beautiful tones you desire to produce; listen for them with the outer ear--and the inner ear--that is to say--mentally--and you will hear them. Meanwhile, control is becoming more and more habitual, until it approaches perfection and at last becomes automatic. When that point is reached, your sound producing instrument does the deed, while your whole attention is fixed on the interpretation of a master work, the performance of which requires your undivided application. If there is action, you control that in the same way until it also becomes automatic; then both singing and acting are spontaneous." DOES THE SINGER HEAR HIMSELF? This question was put to Mr. Witherspoon, who answered: "The singer of course hears himself, and with study learns to hear himself better. In fact I believe the lack of this part of vocal training is one of the greatest faults of the day, and that the singer should depend more upon hearing the sound he makes than upon feeling the sound. In other words, train the _ear_, the court of ultimate resort, and the only judge--and forget sensation as much as possible, for the latter leads to a million confusions. "Undoubtedly a singer hears in his own voice what his auditors do not hear, for he also hears with his inner ear, but the singer must learn to hear his own voice as others hear it, which he can do perfectly well. Here we come to analysis again. "The phonograph records teach us much in this respect, although I never have considered that the phonograph reproduces the human voice. It comes near it in some cases, utterly fails in others, and the best singers do not always make the best or most faithful reproductions." XXV =YEATMAN GRIFFITH= CAUSATION "The causation of beautiful singing can only be found through a pure and velvety production of the voice, and this is acquired in no other way than by a thorough understanding of what constitutes a perfect beginning--that is the attack or start of the tone. If the tone has a perfect beginning it must surely have a perfect ending." Thus Mr. Yeatman Griffith began a conference on the subject of vocal technic and the art of song. He had had a day crowded to the brim with work--although all days were usually alike filled--yet he seemed as fresh and unwearied as though the day had only just begun. One felt that here was a man who takes true satisfaction in his work of imparting to others; his work is evidently not a tiresome task but a real joy. Mrs. Griffith shares this joy of work with her husband. "It is most ideal," she says; "we have so grown into it together; we love it." As is well known, this artist pair returned to their home land at the outbreak of the war, after having resided and taught for five years in London, and previous to that for one year in Florence, Italy. Of course they were both singers, giving recitals together, like the Henschels, and appearing in concert and oratorio. But constant public activity is incompatible with a large teaching practice. One or the other has to suffer. "We chose to do the teaching and sacrifice our public career," said Mr. Griffith. During the five years in which these artists have resided in New York, they have accomplished much; their influence has been an artistic impulse toward the ideals of beautiful singing. Among their many artist pupils who are making names for themselves, it may be mentioned that Florence Macbeth, a charming coloratura soprano, owes much of her success to their careful guidance. "Michael Angelo has said," continued Mr. Griffith, "that 'a perfect start is our first and greatest assurance of a perfect finish.' And nowhere is this precept more truly exemplified than in vocal tone production. The tone must have the right beginning, then it will be right all through. A faulty beginning is to blame for most of the vocal faults and sins of singers. Our country is full of beautiful natural voices; through lack of understanding many of them, even when devoting time and money to study, never become more than mediocre, when they might have developed into really glorious voices if they had only had the right kind of treatment. TONE PLACEMENT "We hear a great deal about tone placement in these days; the world seems to have gone mad over the idea. But it is an erroneous idea. How futile to attempt to place the tone in any particular spot in the anatomy. You can focus the tone, but you cannot place it. There is but one place for it to come from and no other place. It is either emitted with artistic effect or it is not. If not, then there is stiffness and contraction, and the trouble ought to be remedied at once. "Every one agrees that if the vocal instrument were something we could see, our task would be comparatively easy. It is because the instrument is hidden that so many false theories about it have sprung up. One teacher advocates a high, active chest; therefore the chest is held high and rigid, while the abdominal muscles are deprived of the strength they should have. Another advises throwing the abdomen forward; still another squares the shoulders and stiffens the neck. These things do not aid in breath control in the least; on the contrary they induce rigidity which is fatal to easy, natural tone emission. IN THE BEGINNING "When the pupil comes to me, we at once establish natural, easy conditions of body and an understanding of the causes which produce good tone. We then begin to work on the vowels. They are the backbone of good singing. When they become controlled, they are then preceded by consonants. Take the first vowel, A; it can be preceded by all the consonants of the alphabet one after another, then each vowel in turn can be treated in the same way. We now have syllables; the next step is to use words. Here is where difficulties sometimes arise for the student. The word becomes perfectly easy to sing if vowels and consonants are properly produced. When they are not, words become obstacles. Correct understanding will quickly obviate this. BREATH CONTROL "Breath control is indeed a vital need, but it should not be made a bugbear to be greatly feared. The young student imagines he must inflate the lungs almost to bursting, in order that he may take a breath long enough to sing a phrase. Then, as soon as he opens his lips, he allows half the air he has taken in to escape, before he has uttered a sound. With such a beginning he can only gasp a few notes of the phrase. Or he distends the muscles at the waist to the fullest extent and fancies this is the secret of deep breathing. In short, most students make the breathing and breath control a very difficult matter indeed, when it is, or should be an act most easy and natural. They do not need the large quantity of breath they imagine they do; for a much smaller amount will suffice to do the work. I tell them, 'Inhale simply and naturally, as though you inhaled the fragrance of a flower. And when you open your lips after this full natural breath, do not let the breath escape; the vocal chords will make the tone, if you understand how to make a perfect start. If the action is correct, the vocal chords will meet; they will not be held apart nor will they crowd each other. Allow the diaphragm and respiratory muscles to do their work, never forcing them; then you will soon learn what breath control in singing means. Remember again, not a particle of breath should be allowed to escape. Every other part of the apparatus must be permitted to do its work, otherwise there will be interference somewhere.' CAUSATION "Everything pertaining to the study of vocal technic and the art of singing may be summed up in the one word--Causation. A cause underlies every effect. If you do not secure the quality of tone you desire, there must be a reason for it. You evidently do not understand the cause which will produce the effect. That is the reason why singers possessing really beautiful voices produce uneven effects and variable results. They may sing a phrase quite perfectly at one moment. A short time after they may repeat the same phrase in quite a different way and not at all perfectly. One night they will sing very beautifully; the next night you might hardly recognize the voice, so changed would be its quality. This would not be the case if they understood causation. A student, rightly taught, should know the cause for everything he does, how he does thus and so and why he does it. A singer should be able to produce the voice correctly, no matter in what position the rôle he may be singing may require the head or body to be in. In opera the head or body may be placed in difficult unnatural positions, but these should not interfere with good tone production. REGISTERS "I am asked sometimes if I teach registers of the voice. I can say decidedly no, I do not teach registers. The voice should be one and entire, from top to bottom, and should be produced as such, no matter in what part of the voice you sing. Throughout the voice the same instrument is doing the work. So, too, with voices of different caliber, the coloratura, lyric and dramatic. Each and all of these may feel the dramatic spirit of the part, but the lighter quality of the voice may prevent the coloratura from expressing it. The world recognizes the dramatic singer in the size of the voice and of the person. From an artistic point of view, however, there are two ways of looking at the question, since the lyric voice may have vivid dramatic instincts, and may be able to bring them out with equal or even greater intensity than the purely dramatic organ. VOCAL MASTERY "Vocal Mastery is acquired through correct understanding of what constitutes pure vowel sounds, and such control of the breath as will enable one to convert every atom of breath into singing tone. This establishes correct action of the vocal chords and puts the singer in possession of the various tints of the voice. "When the diaphragm and respiratory muscles support the breath sufficiently and the vocal chords are permitted to do their work, you produce pure tone. Many singers do not understand these two vital principles. They either sing with too much relaxation of the diaphragm and respiratory muscles, or too much rigidity. Consequently the effort becomes local instead of constitutional, which renders the tone hard and strident and variable to pitch. Again the vocal chords are either forced apart or pinched together, with detriment to tone production. "The real value of control is lost when we attempt to control the singing instrument and the breath by seeking a place for the tone the singing instrument produces. When the vocal chords are allowed to produce pure vowels, correct action is the result and with proper breath support, Vocal Mastery can be assured." XXVI =J.H. DUVAL= SOME SECRETS OF BEAUTIFUL SINGING A young French girl had just sung a group of songs in her own language and had won acclaim from the distinguished company present. They admired the rich quality of her voice, her easy, spontaneous tone production and clear diction. A brilliant future was predicted for the young singer. One critic of renown remarked: "It is a long time since I have heard a voice so well placed and trained." "And who is your teacher?" she was asked. "It is Mr. Duval; I owe everything to him. He has really made my voice; I have never had another teacher and all my success will be due to him," she answered. We at once expressed a desire to meet Mr. Duval and hear from his own lips how such results were attained. A meeting was easily arranged and we arrived at the appointed hour, just in time to hear one of the brilliant students of this American-French singing master. Mr. Duval is young, slim and lithe of figure, with sensitive, refined features, which grow very animated as he speaks. He has a rich fund of humor and an intensity of utterance that at once arrests the listener. He came forward to greet the visitor with simple cordiality, saying he was pleased we could hear one of his latest "finds." The young tenor was at work on an air from _Tosca_. His rich, vibrant voice, of large power and range and of real Caruso-like quality, poured forth with free and natural emission. With what painstaking care this wise teacher aided him to mold each tone, each phrase, till it attained the desired effect. Being a singer himself, Mr. Duval is able to show and demonstrate as well as explain. He does both with the utmost clearness and with unfailing interest and enthusiasm. Indeed his interest in each pupil in his charge is unstinted. The lesson over, Mr. Duval came over to us. "There is a singer I shall be proud of," he said. "Several years ago I taught him for a few months, giving him the principles of voice placement and tone production. This was in Europe. I had not seen him since then till recently, when circumstances led him to New York. He never forgot what he had previously learned with me. He now has a lesson every day and is a most industrious worker. I believe he has a fortune in that voice. Next season will see him launched, and he will surely make a sensation." "Will you give some idea of the means by which you accomplish such results?" "The means are very simple and natural. So many students are set on the wrong track by being told to do a multitude of things that are unnecessary, even positively harmful. For instance, they are required to sing scales on the vowels, A, E, I, O, U. I only use the vowel Ah, for exercises, finding the others are not needed, especially excluding E and U as injurious. Indeed one of the worst things a young voice can do is to sing scales on E and U, for these contract the muscles of the lips. Another injurious custom is to sing long, sustained tones in the beginning. This I do not permit. "After telling you the things I forbid, I must enlighten you as to our plan of study. "The secret of correct tone emission is entire relaxation of the lips. I tell the pupil, the beginner, at the first lesson, to sing the vowel Ah as loudly and as deeply as possible, thinking constantly of relaxed lips and loose lower jaw. Ah is the most natural vowel and was used exclusively in the old Italian school of Bel Canto. Long sustained tones are too difficult. One should sing medium fast scales at first. If we begin with the long sustained tone, the young singer is sure to hold the voice in his throat, or if he lets go, a tremolo will result. Either a throaty, stiff tone or a tremolo will result from practicing the single sustained tone. "Singing pianissimo in the beginning is another fallacy. This is one of the most difficult accomplishments and should be reserved for a later period of development. "The young singer adds to scales various intervals, sung twice in a breath, beginning, not at the extreme of the lower voice, but carried up as high as he can comfortably reach. I believe in teaching high tones early, and in showing the pupil how to produce the head voice. Not that I am a high tone specialist," he added smiling, "for I do not sacrifice any part of the voice to secure the upper notes. But after all it is the high portion of the voice that requires the most study, and that is where so many singers fail. "The young student practices these first exercises, and others, two half hours daily, at least two hours after eating, and comes to me three times a week. I suggest she rest one day in each week, during which she need not sing at all, but studies other subjects connected with her art. As the weeks go by, the voice, through relaxed lips and throat and careful training, grows richer and more plentiful. One can almost note its development from day to day. WORDS IN THE VOICE "When the time comes to use words, the important thing is to put _the words in the voice, not the voice in the words_, to quote Juliani, the great teacher, with whom I was associated in Paris. More voices have been ruined by the stiff, exaggerated use of the lips in pronouncing, than in any other way. When we put the words in the voice, in an easy, natural way, we have bel canto. "Another thing absolutely necessary is breath support. Hold up the breath high in the body, for high tones, though always with the throat relaxed. This point is not nearly enough insisted upon by teachers of singing. "The points I have mentioned already prove that a vocal teacher who desires the best results in his work with others, must know how to sing himself; he should have had wide experience in concert and opera before attempting to lead others along these difficult paths. Because a man can play the organ and piano and has accompanied singers is not the slightest cause for thinking he can train voices in the art of song. I have no wish to speak against so-called teachers of singing, but say this in the interests of unsuspecting students. "It is impossible," continued Mr. Duval, "to put the whole method of vocal training into a few sentences. The student advances gradually and naturally, but surely, from the beginnings I have indicated, to the trill, the pizzicati, to more rapid scales, to learning the attack, and so on. Of course diction plays a large part in the singer's development. With the first song the student learns to put other vowels in the same voice with which the exercises on Ah have been sung, and to have them all of the same size, easily and loosely pronounced. Never permit the pronunciation to be too broad for the voice. The pronunciation should never be mouthed, but should flow into the stream of the breath without causing a ripple. This is bel canto! "In teaching I advise two pupils sharing the hour, for while one is singing the other can rest the voice and observe what is being taught. It is too fatiguing to a young voice to expect it to work a full half hour without rest. "I was teaching in my Paris studio for a number of months after the war started, before coming to America. It is my intention, in future, to divide my time between New York and Paris. I like teaching in the French capital for the reason I can bring out my pupils in opera there. I am also pleased to teach in my own land, for the pleasant connections I have made here, and for the fresh, young American voices which come to me to be trained." VOCAL MASTERY "What is Vocal Mastery? There are so many kinds! Every great artist has his own peculiar manner of accomplishing results--his own vocal mastery. Patti had one kind, Maurel another, Lehmann still another. Caruso also may be considered to have his own vocal mastery, inasmuch as he commands a vocal technic which enables him to interpret any rôle that lies within his power and range. The greatest singer of to-day, Shalyapin, has also his individual vocal mastery, closely resembling the sort that enabled Maurel to run such a gamut of emotions with such astonishing command and resource. "In fine, as every great artist is different from his compeers, there can be no fixed and fast standard of vocal mastery, except the mastery of doing a great thing convincingly." XXVII =THE CODA= A RESUMÉ The student, seeking light on the many problems of vocal technic, the training for concert and opera, how to get started in the profession, and kindred subjects of vital importance, has doubtless found, in the foregoing talks a rich fund of help and suggestion. It is from such high sources that a few words of personal experience and advice, have often proved to be to the young singer a beacon light, showing what to avoid and what to follow. It were well to gather up these strands of suggestion from great artists and weave them into a strong bulwark of precept and example, so that the student may be kept within the narrow path of sound doctrine and high endeavor. At the very outset, two points must be borne in mind: 1. Each and every voice and mentality is individual. 2. The artist has become a law unto himself; it is not possible for him to make rules for others. First, as to difference in voices. When it is considered that the human instrument, unlike any fabricated by the hand of man, is a purely personal instrument, subject to endless variation through variety in formation of mouth and throat cavities, also physical conditions of the anatomy, it is no cause for wonder that the human instrument should differ in each individual. Then think of all sorts and conditions of mentality, environment, ambitions and ideals. It is a self evident fact that the vocal instrument must be a part of each person, of whom there are "no two alike." Artists in general have strongly expressed themselves on this point: most of them agree with Galli-Curci, when she says: "There are as many kinds of voices as there are persons; therefore it seems to me each voice should be treated in the manner best suited to its possessor." "Singing is such an individual thing, after all," says Anna Case; "it is a part of one's very self." "Each person has a different mentality and a different kind of voice," says Martinelli; "indeed there are as many qualities of voice as there are people." Granting, then, that there are no two voices and personalities in the world, exactly alike, it follows, as a natural conclusion, that the renowned vocalist, who has won his or her way from the beginning up to fame and fortune, realizes that her instrument and her manner of training and handling it are peculiarly personal. As she has won success through certain means and methods, she considers those means belong to her, in the sense that they especially suit her particular instrument. She is then a law unto herself and is unwilling to lay down any laws for others. Geraldine Farrar does not imply there is only one right way to train the voice, and she has found that way. In speaking of her method of study, she says: "These things seem best for my voice, and this is the way I work. But, since each voice is different, my ways might not suit any one else. I have no desire to lay down rules for others; I can only speak of my own experience." Galli-Curci says: "The singer who understands her business must know just how she produces tones and vocal effects. She can then do them at all times, even under adverse circumstances, when nervous or not in the mood. I have developed the voice and trained it in the way that seemed to me best for it. How can any other person tell you how that is to be done?" "It rests with the singer what she will do with her voice--how she will develop it," remarks Mme. Homer. Martinelli says: "The voice is a hidden instrument and eventually its fate must rest with its possessor. After general principles are understood, a singer must work them out according to his ability." Florence Easton remarks: "Each singer who has risen, who has found herself, knows by what path she climbed, but the path she found might not do for another." Instead of considering this reticence on the part of the successful singer, to explain the ways and means which enabled him to reach success, in the light of a selfish withholding of advice which would benefit the young student, we rather look upon it as a worthy and conscientious desire not to lead any one into paths which might not be best for his or her instrument. In the beginning the student needs advice from an expert master, and is greatly benefited by knowing how the great singers have achieved. Later on, when principles have become thoroughly understood, the young singers learn what is best for their own voices; they, too, become a law unto themselves, capable of continuing the development of their own voices in the manner best suited to this most individual of all instruments. AMERICAN VOICES We often hear slighting things said of the quality of American voices, especially the speaking voice. They are frequently compared to the beauty of European voices, to the disparagement of those of our own country. Remembering the obloquy cast upon the American voice, it is a pleasure to record the views of some of the great singers on this point. "There are quantities of girls in America with good voices, good looks and a love for music," asserts Mme. Easton. Mme. Hempel says: "I find there are quantities of lovely voices here in America. The quality of the American female voice is beautiful; in no country is it finer, not even in Italy." Herbert Witherspoon, who has such wonderful experience in training voices, states: "We ought to have our own standards in judging American voices; until we do so, we will be constantly comparing them with the voices of foreign singers. The quality of the American voice is different from the quality found in the voices of other countries. To my mind, the best women's voices are found right here in our midst." And he adds: "Any one can sing beautifully who does so with ease and naturalness, the American just as well as those of any other country. In fact I consider American voices, in general, better trained than those of Italy, Germany or France. The Italian, in particular, has very little knowledge of the scientific side; he usually sings by intuition." AMERICAN VOICE TEACHERS If this be accepted, that American voices are better trained than those of other countries, and there is no reason to doubt the statement of masters of such standing, it follows there must be competent instructors in the art of song right in our own land. Mme. Easton agrees with this. "There are plenty of good vocal teachers in America," she says, "not only in New York City, but in other large cities of this great country. There is always the problem, however, of securing just the right kind of a teacher. For a teacher may be excellent for one voice but not for another." Morgan Kingston asserts: "There is no need for an American to go out of his own country for vocal instruction or languages; all can be learned right here at home. I am a living proof of this. What I have done others can do." "You have excellent vocal teachers right here in America," says Mme. Hempel. Then she marvels, that with all these advantages at her door, there are not more American girls who make good. She lays it to the fact that our girls try to combine a social life with their musical studies, to the great detriment of the latter. ARE AMERICAN VOCAL STUDENTS SUPERFICIAL? It is doubtless a great temptation to the American girl who possesses a voice and good looks, who is a favorite socially, to neglect her studies at times, for social gaiety. She is in such haste to make something of herself, to get where she can earn a little with her voice; yet by yielding to other calls she defeats the very purpose for which she is striving by a lowered ideal of her art. Let us see how the artists and teachers view this state of things. Lehmann says: "The trouble with American girls is they are always in a hurry. They are not content to sit down quietly and study till they have developed themselves into something before they ever think of coming to Europe. They think if they can only come over here and sing for an artist, that fact alone will give them prestige in America. With us American girls are too often looked upon as superficial because they come over here quite unprepared. I say to them: Go home and study; there are plenty of good teachers of voice and piano in your own land. Then, when you can _sing_, come here if you wish." Frieda Hempel speaks from close observation when she says: "Here in America, girls do not realize the amount of labor and sacrifice involved, or they might not be so eager to enter upon a musical career. They are too much taken up with teas, parties, and social functions to have sufficient time to devote to vocal study and to all that goes with it. In order to study all the subjects required, the girl with a voice must be willing to give most of her day to work. This means sacrificing the social side, and being willing to throw herself heart and soul into the business of adequately preparing herself for her career." THE VOCAL STUDENT MUST NOT BE AFRAID TO WORK In the words of Caruso's message to vocal students, they must be willing "to work--to work always--and to sacrifice." But Geraldine Farrar does not consider this in the light of sacrifice. Her message to the young singer is: "Stick to your work and study systematically, whole-heartedly. If you do not love your work enough to give it your best thought, to make sacrifices for it, then there is something wrong with you. Better choose some other line of work, to which you can give undivided attention and devotion. For music requires both. As for sacrifices, they really do not exist, if they promote the thing you honestly love most. You must never stop studying, for there is always so much to learn." "I have developed my voice through arduous toil," to quote Mme. Galli-Curci. Raisa says: "One cannot expect to succeed in the profession of music without giving one's best time and thought to the work of vocal training and all the other subjects that go with it. A man in business gives his day, or the most of it, to his office. My time is devoted to my art, and indeed I have not any too much time to study all the necessary sides of it." "I am always studying, always striving to improve what I have already learned and trying to acquire the things I find difficult, or have not yet attained to," testifies Mme. Homer. THE REQUIREMENTS FOR A VOCAL CAREER Those who have been through the necessary drudgery and struggle and have won out, should be able to give an authoritative answer to this all important question. They know what they started with, what any singer must possess at the beginning, and what she must acquire. Naturally the singer must have a voice, for there is no use trying to cultivate something which does not exist. All artists subscribe to this. They also affirm she should have good looks, a love for music and a musical nature. Let us hear from Mme. Homer on this subject. "1. Voice, first of all. 2. Intelligence; for intelligence controls, directs, shines through and illumines everything. What can be done without it? 3. Musical nature. 4. Capacity for Work. Without application, the gifts of voice, intelligence and a musical nature will not make an artist. 5. A cheerful optimism, which refuses to yield to discouragement. 6. Patience. It is only with patient striving, doing the daily vocal task, and trying to do it each day a little better than the day before, that anything worth while is accomplished. The student must have unlimited patience to labor and wait for results." Mr. Witherspoon states, that students coming to him must possess "Voice, to begin with; youth, good looks, musical intelligence and application. If the candidate possess these requisites, we begin to work." Anna Case answers the question as to the vital requisites necessary to become a singer: "Brains, Personality, Voice." Quotations could be multiplied to prove that all artists fully concur with those already mentioned. There must be a promising voice to cultivate, youth, good looks, (for a public career) and the utmost devotion to work. WHAT BRANCHES OF STUDY MUST BE TAKEN UP? All agree there are many other subjects to study besides singing; that alone is far from sufficient. Edward Johnson says: "Singing itself is only a part, perhaps the smaller part of one's equipment. If opera be the goal, there are languages, acting, make up, impersonation, interpretation, how to walk, all to be added to piano, harmony and languages. The most important of all is a musical education." Most of the great singers have emphatically expressed themselves in favor of piano study. Indeed, many were pianists in the beginning, before they began to develop the voice. Among those who had this training are: Galli-Curci, Lehmann, Raisa, D'Alvarez, Barrientos, Braslau, Case. Miss Braslau says: "I am so grateful for my knowledge of the piano and its literature; it is the greatest help to me now. To my thinking all children should have piano lessons; the cost is trifling compared with the benefits they receive. They should be made to study, whether they wish it or not, for they do not know what is best for them." Mme. Raisa says: "There are so many sides to the singer's equipment besides singing itself. The piano is a necessity; the singer is greatly handicapped without a knowledge of that instrument, for it not only provides accompaniment but cultivates musical sense." "The vocal student should study piano as well as languages," asserts Mme. Homer; "both are the essentials. Not that she need strive to become a pianist; that would not be possible if she is destined to be a singer. But the more she knows of the piano and its literature, the more this will cultivate her musical sense and develop her taste." Florence Easton is even more emphatic. "If a girl is fond of music, let her first study the piano, for a knowledge of the piano and its music is at the bottom of everything. All children should have this opportunity, whether they desire it or not. The child who early begins to study piano, will often unconsciously follow the melody with her voice. Thus the love of song is awakened in her, and a little later it is discovered she has a voice worth cultivating." On the subject of languages, artists are equally specific. Languages are an absolute necessity, beginning with one's mother tongue. The student should not imagine that because he is born to the English language, it does not require careful study. Galli-Curci remarks: "The singer can always be considered fortunate who has been brought up to more than one language. I learned Spanish and Italian at home. In school I learned French, German and English, not only a little smattering of each, but how to write and speak them." Rosa Raisa speaks eight languages, according to her personal statement. Russian, of course, as she is Russian, then French, Italian, German, Spanish, Polish, Roumanian and English. "The duty is laid upon Americans to study other languages, if they expect to sing," says Florence Easton. "I know how often this study is neglected by the student. It is only another phase of that haste which is characteristic of the young student and singer." BREATH CONTROL Following the subject of requirements for a vocal career, let us get right down to the technical side, and review the ideas of artists on Breath Control, How to Practice, What are the Necessary Exercises, What Vowels Should be Used, and so on. All admit that the subject of Breath Control is perhaps the most important of all. Lehmann says: "I practice many breathing exercises without using tone. Breath becomes voice through effort of will and by use of vocal organs. When singing, emit the smallest quantity of breath. Vocal chords are breath regulators; relieve them of all overwork." Mme. Galli-Curci remarks: "Perhaps, in vocal mastery, the greatest factor of all is the breathing. To control the breath is what each student is striving to learn, what every singer endeavors to perfect, what every artist should master. It is an almost endless study and an individual one, because each organism and mentality is different." Marguerite d'Alvarez: "In handling and training the voice, breathing is perhaps the most vital thing to be considered. To some breath control seems second nature; others must toil for it. With me it is intuition. Breathing is such an individual thing. With each person it is different, for no two people breathe in just the same way." Claudia Muzio: "Every singer knows how important is the management of breath. I always hold up the chest, taking as deep breaths as I can conveniently. The power to hold the breath and sing more and more tones with one breath, grows with careful, intelligent practice." Frieda Hempel: "The very first thing for a singer to consider is breath control--always the breathing, the breathing. She thinks of it morning, noon and night. Even before rising in the morning she has it on her mind, and may do a few little stunts while still reclining. Then, before beginning vocal technic in the morning, she goes through a series of breathing exercises." David Bispham: "Correct breath control must be carefully studied and is the result of understanding and experience. When the manner of taking breath and the way to develop the diaphragm and abdominal muscles, is understood, that is only a beginning. Management of the breath is an art in itself. The singer must know what to do with the breath once he has taken it in, or he may let it out in quarts when he opens his mouth. He learns how much he needs for each phrase; he learns how to conserve the breath." Oscar Saenger: "The management of the breath is a most important factor, as the life of the tone depends on a continuance of the breath. The student must cultivate the power of quickly inhaling a full breath, and exhaling it so gradually that she can sing a phrase lasting from ten to twenty seconds. This needs months of arduous practice. In all breathing, inhale through the nose." Yeatman Griffith: "Breath control is indeed a vital need, but should not be made a bugbear to be greatly feared. Most students make breathing and breath control a difficult matter, when it should be a natural and easy act. They do not need the large amount of breath they imagine they do, for a much smaller quantity will suffice. When you open the lips after a full, natural breath, do not let the breath escape; the vocal chords will make the tone, if you understand how to make a perfect start." SPECIFIC EXERCISES Great singers are chary of giving out vocal exercises which they have discovered, evolved, or have used so constantly as to consider them a part of their own personal equipment, for reasons stated earlier in this chapter. However, a few artists have indicated certain forms which they use. Mme. d'Alvarez remarks: "When I begin to study in the morning, I give the voice what I call a massage. This consists of humming exercises, with closed lips. Humming is the sunshine of the voice. One exercise is a short figure of four consecutive notes of the diatonic scale, ascending and descending several times; on each repetition of the group of phrases, the new set begins on the next higher note of the scale. This exercise brings the tone fully forward." Lehmann counsels the young voice to begin in the middle and work both ways. Begin single tones piano, make a long crescendo and return to piano. Another exercise employs two connecting half tones, using one or two vowels. During practice stand before a mirror. Raisa assures us she works at technic every day. "Vocalizes, scales, broken thirds, long, slow tones in mezza di voce--that is beginning softly, swelling to loud, then diminuendo to soft, are part of the daily régime." Farrar works on scales and single tones daily. Muzio says: "I sing all the scales, one octave each, once slow and once fast--all in one breath. Then I sing triplets on each tone, as many as I can in one breath. Another exercise is to take one tone softly, then go to the octave above; this tone is always sung softly, but there is a large crescendo between the two soft tones." Kingston says: "As for technical material, I have never used a great quantity. I do scales and vocalizes each day. I also make daily use of about a dozen exercises by Rubini. Beyond these I make technical exercises out of the pieces." De Luca sings scales in full power, then each tone alone, softly, then swelling to full strength and dying away. Bispham: "I give many vocalizes and exercises, which I invent to fit the need of each student. They are not written down, simply remembered. I also make exercises out of familiar tunes or themes from opera. Thus, while the student is studying technic, he is acquiring much beautiful material." Oscar Saenger: "We begin by uniting two tones smoothly and evenly, then three in the same way; afterwards four and five. Then the scale of one octave. Arpeggios are also most important. The trill is the most difficult of all vocal exercises. We begin with quarter notes, then eighths and sixteenths. The trill is taken on each tone of the voice, in major seconds." Werrenrath: "I do a lot of gymnastics each day, to exercise the voice and limber up the anatomy. These act as a massage for the voice; they are in the nature of humming, mingled with grunts, calls, exclamations, shouts, and many kinds of sounds. They put the voice in condition, so there is no need for all these other exercises which most singers find so essential to their vocal well being." Duval asserts: "Long, sustained tones are too difficult for the young voice. One should sing medium fast scales at first." LENGTH OF TIME FOR DAILY PRACTICE It may be helpful to know about how much time the artists devote to daily study, especially to technical practice. It is understood all great singers work on vocalizes and technical material daily. Caruso is a constant worker. Two or three hours in the forenoon, and several more later in the day, whenever possible. Farrar devotes between one and two hours daily to vocalizes, scales and tone study, Lehmann counsels one hour daily on technic. Galli-Curci gives a half hour or so to vocalizes and scales every morning. Martinelli practices exercises and vocalizes one hour each morning; then another hour on repertoire. In the afternoon an hour more--three hours daily. Easton says: "It seems to me a young singer should not practice more than an hour a day, at most, beginning with two periods of fifteen or twenty minutes each." Anna Case says: "I never practice when I am tired, for then it does more harm than good. One must be in good condition to make good tones. I can study and not sing at all, for the work is all mental anyway." Muzio states she gives practically her whole day to study, dividing it into short periods, with rest between. Frieda Hempel says: "I do about two hours or more, though not all of this for technic. I approve of a good deal of technical study, taken in small doses of ten to fifteen minutes at a time. Technic is a means to an end, more in the art of song than in almost any other form of art. Technic is the background of expressive singing." Sophie Braslau is an incessant worker,--"at least six hours a day. Of these I actually sing three hours. The first hour to memory work on repertoire. The second hour to vocalizes. The rest of the time is given to repertoire and the things that belong to it." Barrientos states she gives about three-quarters of an hour to vocal technic--scales and exercises--each day. Duval advises the young student to practice two half hours daily, two hours after eating, and rest the voice one day each week, during which she studies other subjects connected with her art. Oscar Saenger says: "One should practice in fifteen-minute periods, and rest at least ten minutes between. Sing only two hours a day, one in the morning and one in afternoon." WHAT VOWELS TO USE There seems a divergence of opinion as to what vowels are most beneficial in technical practice and study. Galli-Curci says: "In my own study I use them all, though some are more valuable than others. The Ah is the most difficult of all. The O is good; E needs great care. I have found the best way is to use mixed vowels, one melting into the other. The tone can be started with each vowel in turn, then mingled with the rest of the vowels." Mme. d'Alvarez often starts the tone with Ah, which melts into O and later changes to U, as the tone dies away. Bispham has the student use various vowel syllables, as: Lah, Mah, May, and Mi. With Oscar Saenger the pupil in early stages at least, uses Ah for vocalizes. Duval requires students to use the vowel Ah, for exercises and scales, finding the others are not needed, especially excluding E and U as injurious. Griffith uses each vowel in turn, preceded by all the consonants of the alphabet, one after another. HALF OR FULL VOICE? Shall the young singer practice with half or full voice seems a matter depending on one's individual attainments. De Luca uses full power during practice, while Raisa sings softly, or with medium, tone, during study hours, except occasionally when she wishes to try out certain effects. Martinelli states he always practices with full voice, as with half voice he would not derive the needed benefit. Mme. Easton admits she does not, as a rule, use full voice when at work; but adds, this admission might prove injurious to the young singer, for half voice might result in faulty tone production. Anna Case says when at work on a song in her music room, she sings it with the same power as she would before an audience. She has not two ways of doing it, one for a small room and another for a large one. Mr. Duval advises the young pupil to sing tones as loudly and deeply as possible. Singing pianissimo is another fallacy for a young voice. This is one of the most difficult accomplishments, and should be reserved for a later period. Oscar Saenger: "The tone should be free, round and full, but not loud." HEARING YOURSELF Does the singer really hear himself is a question which has been put to nearly every artist. Many answered in a comparative negative, though with qualifications. Miss Farrar said: "No, I do not actually hear my voice, except in a general way, but we learn to know the sensations produced in throat, head, face, lips and other parts of the anatomy, which vibrate in a certain manner to correct tone production. We learn the _feeling_ of the tone." "I can tell just how I am singing a tone or phrase," says De Luca, "by the feeling and sensation; for of course I cannot hear the full effect; no singer can really hear the effect of his work, except on the records." "The singer must judge so much from sensation, for she cannot very well hear herself, that is, she cannot tell the full effect of what she is doing," says Anna Case. Mr. Witherspoon says: "The singer of course hears himself and with study learns to hear himself better. The singer should depend more on hearing the sound he makes than on feeling the sound. In other words, train the _ear_, the court of ultimate resort, and the only judge, and forget sensation as much as possible, for the latter leads to a million confusions." VOCAL MASTERY, FROM THE ARTISTS' VIEWPOINT Farrar: "A thing that is mastered must be really perfect. To master vocal art, the singer must have so developed his voice that it is under complete control; then he can do with it what he wishes. He must be able to produce all he desires of power, pianissimo, accent, shading, delicacy and variety of color." Galli-Curci: "To sum up: the three requirements of vocal mastery are: Management of the Larynx; Relaxation of the Diaphragm; Control of the Breath. To these might be added a fourth: Mixed Vowels. But when these are mastered, what then? Ah, so much more it can never be put into words. It is self-expression through the medium of tone, for tone must always be a vital part of the singer's individuality, colored by feeling and emotion. To perfect one's own instrument, must always be the singer's joy and satisfaction." Raisa: "If I have developed perfect control throughout the two and a half octaves of my voice, can make each tone with pure quality and perfect evenness in the different degrees of loud and soft, and if I have perfect breath control as well, I then have an equipment that may serve all purposes of interpretation. For together with vocal mastery must go the art of interpretation, in which all the mastery of the vocal equipment may find expression. In order to interpret adequately one ought to possess a perfect instrument, perfectly trained. When this is the case one can forget mechanism, because confident of the ability to express any desired emotion." Homer: "The singer must master all difficulties of technic, of tone production in order to be able to express the thought of the composer, and the meaning of the music." Werrenrath: "I can answer the question in one word--Disregard. For if you have complete control of your anatomy and such command of your vocal resources that they will always do their work; that they can be depended on to act perfectly, then you can disregard mechanism and think only of the interpretation--only of your vocal message. Then you have conquered the material and have attained Vocal Mastery." Kingston: "Vocal Mastery includes so many things. First and foremost, vocal technic. One must have an excellent technic before one can hope to sing even moderately well. Technic furnishes the tool with which the singer creates his vocal art work. Then the singer must work on his moral nature so that he shall express the beautiful and pure in music. Until I have thus prepared myself, I am not doing my whole duty to myself, my art or to my neighbor." Griffith: "Vocal Mastery is acquired through correct understanding of what constitutes pure vowel sounds, and such control of the breath as will enable one to convert every atom of breath into singing tone. This establishes correct action of the vocal chords and puts the singer in possession of the various tints of the voice. "When the vocal chords are allowed to produce pure vowels, correct action is the result, and with proper breath support, Vocal Mastery can be assured." Duval: "What is Vocal Mastery? Every great artist has his own peculiar manner of accomplishing results--has his own vocal mastery. Patti had one kind, Maurel another, Lehmann still another. Caruso may also be said to have his own vocal mastery. "In fine, as every great artist is different from his compeers, there can be no fixed and fast standard of vocal mastery, except the mastery of doing a great thing greatly and convincingly." THE END 
18567	----	TINTINNALOGIA: OR, THE ART OF RINGING. Wherein Is laid down plain and easie Rules for Ringing all sorts of _Plain Changes_. Together with Directions for Pricking and Ringing all _Cross Peals_; with a full Discovery of the Mystery and Grounds of each Peal. _As Also_ Instructions for _Hanging of Bells_, with all things belonging thereunto. _by a Lover of that ART._ A. Persii Sat. V. Disce: sed ira cadat naso, rugosaque sanna, LONDON, Printed for _F.S._ and are to be Sold by _Tho. Archer_, at his Shop under the _Dyal_ of St. _Dunstan's Church_ in _Fleet-street_, 1671. TO THE NOBLE SOCIETY OF COLLEDGE-YOUTHS. GENTLEMEN, I have seen a Treatise intituled, _de Tintinnabulis_--that is, of little Bells, the Language Latin, but pen'd by a _Dutchman_, being a Discourse of striking tunes on little Bells with traps under the feet, with several Books on several Instruments of Music, and Tunes prick't for the same; Then considering that the Well-wishers to either of them, took great pains to make plain the use of them, I thought it worth a Dayes labour, to write something on this Art or Science, that the Rules thereof might not be lost and obscured to some, as the _Chronicles_ before _William_ the Conqueror, being given only by Tradition from Father to Son. Wherefore I humbly intreat you favourably to accept this small Treatise, as a foundation whereon may be raised a famous Structure; and if any one objects a fault, excuse it with the Ringing term--He was Over-bell'd--So you will much oblige him that is a Well-wisher to your Recreation, CAMPANISTA. On the Ingenious Art of RINGING. What Musick is there that compar'd may be To well-tun'd Bells enchanting melody! Breaking with their sweet sound the willing Air, And in the listning ear the Soul ensnare; The ravisht Air such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand Echoes still prolongs each close; And gliding streams which in the Vallies trills, Assists its speed unto the neighbouring Hills; Where in the rocks & caves, with hollow gounds, The warbling lightsome Element rebounds. This for the Musick: In the Action's Health, And every Bell is a _Wit's_ Common-wealth For here by them we plainly may discern, How that Civility we are to learn. The Treble to the Tenor doth give place, And goes before him for the better grace: But when they chance to change, 'tis as a dance, They foot _A Galliard, à la mode de France_. An Eighteenscore's a figure dance, but _Grandsire_ Hath the Jig-steps! & Tendrings Peal doth answer The manner of _Corants_: A plain Six-score, Is like a _Saraband_, the motion slower. When Bells Ring round, and in their Order be, They do denote how Neighbours should agree; But if they Clam, the harsh sound spoils the sport, And 'tis like Women keeping _Dover_ Court For when all talk, there's none can lend an ear The others story, and her own to hear; But pull and hall, straining for to sputter What they can hardly afford time to utter. Like as a valiant Captain in the Field, By his Conduct, doth make the Foe to yield; Ev'n so, the leading Bell keeping true time, The rest do follow, none commits a Crime: But if one Souldier runs, perhaps a Troop Seeing him gone, their hearts begin to droop; Ev'n so the fault of one Bell spoils a Ring, (And now my _Pegasus_ has taken Wing.) Upon the Presentation of GRANDSIRE BOB To the COLLEDGE-YOUTHS, By the AUTHOR of that PEAL. Gentlemen of the Noble Crew Of _Colledge-Youths_, there lately blew A wind, which to my Noddle flew (upon a day when as it Snew;) Which to my Brains the Vapors drew And there began to work and brew, 'Till in my _Pericranium_ grew _Conundrums_, how some Peal that's New Might be compos'd? and to pursue These thoughts (which did so whet and hew My flat Invention) and to shew What might be done, I strait withdrew Myself to ponder--whence did accrue This _Grandsire Bob_, which unto you I Dedicate, as being due Most properly; for there's but few Besides, so ready at their Q---- (Especially at the first View) To apprehend a thing that's New; Though they'l pretend, and make a shew, As if the intricat'st they knew; What _Bob_ doth mean, and _Grandsire True_, And read the course without a Clue Of this new Peal: Yet though they screw Their shallow Brains, they'l ne're unglue The Method on't (and I'm a Jew) If I don't think this to be true, They see no more on't than blind _Hugh_. Well, let their tongues run _Titere tu_, Drink muddy Ale, or else _French Lieve_, Whil'st we our Sport and Art renew, And drink good Sack till Sky looks blew, So _Grandsire_ bids you All adieu. R.R. THE ART OF RINGING. Of the Beginning of _Changes_. It is an ancient _Proverb_ with us in _England_ (That _Rome_ was not built in a day) by which expression is declared, That difficult things are not immediately done, or in a short time accomplished: But for the _Art of Ringing_, it is admirable to conceive in how short a time it hath increased, that the very depth of its intricacy is found out; for within these Fifty or Sixty years last past, _Changes_ were not known, or thought possible to be _Rang_: Then were invented the _Sixes_, being the very ground of a _Six score_: Then the _Twenty_, and _Twenty-four_, with several other _Changes_. But _Cambridge Forty-eight_, for many years, was the greatest _Peal_ that was _Rang_ or invented; but now, neither _Forty-eight_, nor a _Hundred_, nor _Seven-hundred and twenty_, nor any Number can confine us; for we can _Ring Changes_, _Ad infinitum_. Although _Philosophers_ say, _No Number is infinite, because it can be numbred_; for _infinite_ is a quantity that cannot be taken or assigned, but there is (_infinitum quoad hos_) as they term it, that is _infinite_ in respect of our apprehension: Therefore a _Ringers_ knowledge may seem _infinite_ to dive so _infinitely_ into such an _infinite_ Subject; but least my Discourse should be _infinite_, I will conclude it, and proceed to the _Peals_ following. Before I Treat of the method and diversity of _Peals_, I think it not impertinent to speak something of the _Properties_ wherewith a _Young Ringer_ ought to be qualified, and then proceed to the _Peals_. _First_ then, before he is entred into a _Company_, it is presupposed, that he is able to _Set a Bell Fore-stroke and Back-stroke_, as the terms are: Next, that he know how to _Ring Round_, or _Under-sally_: Then, that he may be complete, it is convenient, that he understand the _Tuning of Bells_; for what is a _Musician_, unless he can _Tune_ his _Instrument_, although he plays never so well? To do which, let him learn on some _Instrument_, or _Wyer-Bells_, to know a _Third_, _Fifth_, and _Eighth_, which are the principal _Concords_: Or otherwise, let him get a _Pipe_ called a _Pitch-pipe_, which may be made by any _Organ-maker_, to contain _eight Notes_, or more, (according to his pleasure) with their _Flatts_ and _Sharps_, which will be very useful in the _Tuning of Bells_. And then this is a general Rule, begin at the _Tenor_, or _biggest Bell_, and count 3 _whole Notes_, then a _half Note_, or _Sharp_, 3 _whole Notes_, then a _half Note_, or _Sharp_; and so on, until you come to the _least Bell_ or _Treble_. For example on _four Bells_, 1:234, here the 432 are _whole_ _Notes_, and the _half Note_ or _Sharp_ is between 1 and 2. On _Five Bells_, 12:345 the 543 are _whole Notes_; and the _half Note_ or _Sharp_ is between 2 and 3. On _Six_, 123:456 the _half Note_ or _Sharp_ is between 3 and 4. On _Eight Bells_, 1:2345:678, one _half Note_ or _Sharp_ is between 5 and 6, and the other between 1 and 2. On _Ten_, 123:4567:8910; here one _half Note_ is between 7 and 8, and the next between 3 and 4. On _Twelve Bells_, 12:345:6789:10 11 12. Here one _half Note_ or _Sharp_ is between 9 and 10, the next between 5 and 6, and the other between 2 and 3, which last is made contrary to the former Rule, it being but _two whole Notes_ from the next _half Note_ to it; the reason is this, the _Ninth_ is one _whole Note_ below the _Eighth_, therefore the 2 must be a _whole Note_ below the _Treble_, otherwise they would not be a true _Eighth_, therefore the _half Note_ is put between 2 and 3. Now he that hath these Rules, and a good ear to judge of the _Concords_, may at any time cast his Verdict (as to Bells, whether they are well in _Tune_ or not) amongst the chief of the _Company_. Of the _Changes_. A _Change_ is made between _two Bells_ that strikes next to each other, by removing into each others places, as in these _two Figures_ 1, 2. make a _Change_ between them, and they will stand 2, 1. which is called a _Change_; make another _Change_ between them, and they will stand in their right places, as at first, 1, 2. These _two Changes_ are all that can be made on _two Bells_. The _Changes_ on three Bells. On _three Bells_ there are _six several Changes_ to be made; in _Ringing_ of which, there is _one Bell_ to be observed, which is called the _Hunt_, and the other two are _Extream Bells_ (but they cannot properly be so called, because every _Bell_ _hunts_ in the _six Changes_; yet because 'tis commonly _Rang_ by observing a _Hunt_ and _two Extream Bells_, I will therefore proceed in that course.) The name of _Hunt_ is properly given to it, because of its continual motion up and down amongst the other _Bells_, which motion is called _Hunting_, and the other _two_ are called _Extream Bells_, because when the _Hunt_ is either before or behind them, that is at the _Extream_, or utmost place, there is a _Change_ then to be made between them, called an _Extream Change_. There are two several wayes to _Ring_ the _six Changes_. One whereof is to make the _Treble_ the _Hunt_, and the other way is to make the _Tenor_ the _Hunt_. I will give an Example in _hunting_ the _Treble_, the _Bells_ are supposed to stand thus.-- 123 Now the _Treble_ must be _hunted_ up over the _Second_ and _Third_, which is to be done, by making a _Change_ between the _Treble_, and each of those two Bells in order; therefore first I remove the _Treble_ up over the _Second_, into the _seconds_ place, by making a _Change_ between the _Treble_ and _Second_, thus.-- 213 The _Treble_ being removed up over the _Second_, it must next be removed up over the _Third_, as in this _Change_.-- 231 Alwayes observe, that when the _Hunt_ moves from the foremost _Bell_ toward the hindmost, then it _hunts_ up, as in the _Changes_ next before; but when it moves or _hunts_ from the hindmost Bell, toward the Bell that leads, then it _hunts_ down, as appears by the _Changes_ following. The _Treble_ being _hunted_ up behind the _Extream_ Bells, an _Extream Change_ is next to be made between them.-- 321 Here you may observe, that if the _Hunt_ had been _hunted_ down without an _Extream Change_ first made, those _Changes_ in _hunting_ it down, would have been the same with those that were made in _hunting_ it up. The _Extream Change_ being made, the _Treble_ must be _hunted_ down again before the Bells thus.-- 312 132 The _Treble_ being now _hunted_ down, the next is to be an _Extream Change_.-- 123 which is the last _Change_ of the _six_. The other way to _Ring_ the _six Changes_, is, to make the _Tenor_ the _Hunt_, which being behind already, it must first be _hunted_ down, as in these _Changes_.-- 123 132 312 The _Third_, which is the _Hunt_, being _hunted_ down before the Bells, the _Extream Change_ must next be made between the 2, and 1. Which are the _Extream Bells_, thus.-- 321 The _Extream Change_ being made, the _Third_ must be _hunted_ up again.-- 231 213 The _Third_ being _hunted_ up, another _Extream_ must be made, which brings the Bells round in their right places.-- 123 The _Plain Changes_ on four Bells. On four Bells, there are _Twenty four several Changes_, in _Ringing_ of which, there is one Bell called the _Hunt_, and the other three are _Extream_ Bells; the _Hunt_ moves, and _hunts_ up and down continually, and lies but once in one place, except only when it comes before or behind the Bells, at which time it lies there twice together; it has the same course here, as in the _six Changes_ before set down; two of the _Extream_ Bells makes a _Change_ every time the _Hunt_ comes before or behind them. An Example I will here give, making the _Treble_ the _Hunt_, and the _Extream Changes_ I make between the two farthest _Extream_ Bells from the _Hunt_. I set down the _four Figures_, representing the _four Bells_, thus.-- 1234 The _Treble_ must now be _hunted_ up behind the Bells, where it is to lie twice together, and then to _hunt_ down before them, where it must lie twice, and then _hunt_ up again as before. The _Hunt_ is alwayes one of the two Bells which makes every _Change_, except only when it comes before or behind the Bells, and it moves only over one Bell at a time; 'tis to be _hunted_ up after this manner.-- 2134 2314 2341 The _Treble_ being _hunted_ up behind the Bells, as appears by the last _Changes_, the next is to be an _Extream Change_ between the two farthest _Extream_ Bells from the _Hunt_, which are the _Second_ and _Third_, thus.-- 3241 The _Extream_ being made, the _Treble_ must be _hunted_ down again, as in these _Changes_.-- 3214 3124 1324 The Treble being hunted down, there is another Extream Change to be made between the two farthest Bells from it, which are the Second and Fourth.-- 1342 The Extream being made, the Treble must be hunted as before, and so to the end of the Peal, making an Extream Change every time the Hunt comes before and behind the Bells.-- 3142 3412 3421 4321 4312 4132 1432 1423 4123 4213 4231 2431 2413 2143 1243 1234 The Twenty-four Changes are to be Rang another way, in hunting up the Treble, which is, by making every Extream Change between the two nearest Bells to the Hunt, as in these Changes, first I hunt the Treble up.-- 1234 2134 2314 2341 The Treble being hunted up, the Extream Change is to be made between the 3 and 4, which are the two nearest Bells to it, as in this Change, 2431 and so to the end of the Peal, making every Extream between the two nearest Bells to the Hunt all the way. These two wayes in _Ringing_ the _Twenty-four_, differs only in making the _Extream Changes_, one whereof is to make them between the two farthest _Extream_ Bells from the _Hunt_, and the other to make them between the two nearest Bells to it. The _Twenty-four Changes_ are to be _Rang_ two wayes more in _hunting_ down the _Treble_; one way, is to make the _Extreams_ between the two farthest Bells from the _Hunt_; and the other, is to make them between the two nearest, as before. A short Example I will set down, the Bells stand thus.-- 1234 The _Treble_ should now be _hunted_ down, but it being already before the Bells, insomuch that it can be removed no lower; therefore the first must be an _Extream Change_, either between the two nearest, or two farthest Bells from the _Hunt_ at pleasure; the _Extream_ being made, the _Treble_ is to _hunt_ up, and so to the end of the _Peal_, in the same course as before. 1243 2143 2413 2431 4231 4213 4123 1423 1432 4132 4312 4321 3421 3412 3142 In _hunting_ the _Second_, _Third_, or _Fourth_, there is to be observed the same course, as in _hunting_ the _Treble_: A short Example I will set down, in _hunting_ the _Third_ up, and making the _Extream Changes_ between the two farthest _Bells_ from it.-- 1234 1243 2143 2134 2314 3214 _First_, I _hunt_ up the _third_ over the _fourth_; the _Hunt_ being up, I make an _extream_ between the _treble_ and _second_, and then _hunt_ down the _third_ again, as in these _changes_, which course is to be observed to the end of the _Peal_. I have insisted the longer upon the directions to the _Twenty-four changes_, because it is the ground and method in _Ringing_ all _plain changes_; and by understanding this aright, the Learner will more easily apprehend the course of all _plain_ and _single changes_ whatsoever. The _Twenty-four plain changes_ are to be _Rang_ sixteen several wayes; in _hunting_ one Bell, it is to be _Rang_ four ways; that is, two wayes in _hunting_ it up, and the other two wayes in _hunting_ it down, (as appears in my directions before in _hunting_ the _treble_:) so that in _hunting_ the 4 Bells, 'tis to be _Rang_ 4 times 4 wayes, which makes 16, some of which I have here set down. Treble Hunt up, Extream between the 2 farthest Bells from it. 1234 2134 2314 2341 3241 3214 3124 1324 1342 3142 3412 3421 4321 4312 4132 1432 1423 4123 4213 4231 2431 2413 2143 1243 1234 Second up, extream between the 2 nearest to it. 1234 1324 1342 1432 1423 1243 2143 2413 4213 4123 4132 4312 4321 4231 2431 2341 3241 3421 3412 3142 3124 3214 2314 2134 1234 Fourth down, Extream between the two farthest Bells from it. 1234 1243 1423 4123 4132 1432 1342 1324 3124 3142 3412 4312 4321 3421 3241 3214 2314 2341 2431 4231 4213 2413 2143 2134 1234 Some persons do observe to _Ring_ the _Twenty-four changes_ with a _whole Hunt_, and _half Hunt_; but that is an imperfect course; for there cannot be one _half hunt_ only, but there will unavoidably be three _half Hunts_ in one and the same _Twenty-four_; therefore I have set down the other way to _ring_ it, by observing a _hunt_, and _three extream_ Bells, which course is much more easie and true. In the _Twenty-four Changes_ are contained the _six Changes_; the _three Extream Bells_ in the _Twenty-four_ makes the _six Changes_ in course, every _extream change_ being one of the _six_, and the _Hunt_ hunting through each of the _six Changes_, makes _Twenty-four_: For Example, take the _three Extream_ Bells in the first _Twenty-four_ set down before, which are 234, and set down the _six Changes_ on them, thus.-- 234 324 342 432 423 243 234 Now take the first _Change_, which is 234, set the _Treble_ before it, and _hunt_ it through, thus.-- 1234 2134 2314 2341 The _Treble_ being _hunted_ up behinde, take the next _Change_ of the _six_, which is 324, set it directly under the _First_, and _hunt_ the _Treble_ down through it, thus.-- 3241 3214 3124 1324 And so take each of the other _six Changes_, and _hunt_ the _Treble_ through them, it will make _Twenty-four_. I will here insert two or three old _Peals_ on five Bells, which (though rejected in these dayes, yet) in former times were much in use, which for _Antiquity sake_, I here set down. And first, The _Twenty_ all over. The course is this--every Bell _hunts_ in order once through the Bells, until it comes behind them; and first the _Treble_ _hunts_ up, next the _Second_, and then the 3, 4 and 5, which brings the Bells round in their right places again, at the end of the _Twenty Changes_, as in this following _Peal_.-- 12345 21345 23145 23415 23451 32451 34251 34521 34512 43512 45312 45132 45123 54123 51423 51243 51234 15234 12534 12354 12345 This Peal is to be Rang, by hunting the Bells down, beginning with the Tenor, next the fourth, and so the third, second, and treble, which will bring the Bells round in course as before. An Eight and Forty. In this _Peal_, the _Fifth_ and _Fourth_ are both _whole Hunts_, each of which does _hunt_ down before the Bells by turns, and lies there twice together and then _hunts_ up again: The 1, 2 and 3 goes the _six changes_, one of which is made every time, either of the _whole Hunts_ lies before the Bells, as in the following _Changes_, where the _fifth_ hunts down the _first_; and lying before the Bells, there is a _change_ made between the 1 & 2, which is one of the _six changes_; and then the _fifth_ _hunts_ up again into its place, and the _fourth_ _hunts_ down, which lying before the Bells, there is another of the _six changes_ made between the 1 and 3, and then the _fourth_ _hunts_ up again, and the _fifth_ _hunts_ down next; in which course it continues to the end of the _Peal_, each of the _whole Hunts_ lying but twice at one time before the Bells, as in these following _changes_. 12345 12354 12534 15234 51234 52134 25134 21534 21354 21345 21435 24135 42135 42315 24315 23415 23145 23154 23514 25314 52314 53214 35214 32514 32154 32145 32415 34215 43215 43125 34125 31425 31245 31254 31524 35124 53124 51324 15324 13524 13254 13245 13425 14325 41325 41235 14235 12435 12345 _Cambridge_ Eight and Forty. Wherein it is observed, that the _Treble_ and _Second_ does never come behind, neither does the _Fifth_ and _Fourth_ come before, as in the following _Changes_. 12345 21345 21354 21534 25134 25314 23514 23154 32154 32514 35214 35124 31524 31254 31245 31425 34125 34215 32415 32145 23145 23415 24315 24135 21435 21453 24153 24513 25413 25143 21543 12543 15243 15423 14523 14253 12453 12435 14235 14325 13425 13245 13254 13524 15324 15234 12534 12354 12345 The _Plain Changes_ on five Bells. There are _Six-score Changes_ to be _Rang_ on _five Bells_, which are to be _Rang_, by observing a _whole Hunt_, a _half Hunt_, and _three Extream Bells_; the course of the _whole Hunt_, is the same with the _Hunt_ in the _Twenty-four Changes_, and _hunts_ up and down in the same manner. The _half Hunt_ moves once, that is, over one Bell every time, the _whole Hunt_ comes before and behind the Bells; but when the _half Hunt_ is removed either before or behind the _Extream Bells_, then there is an _Extream Change_ to be made. For Example, I make the _Treble_ the _whole Hunt_, and _hunt_ it up; and the _Second_ the _half Hunt_ and _half hunt_ it up, making every _Extream Change_ between the two farthest _Extream Bells_ from the _half Hunt_; the _Extream Bells_ are the _Third_, _Fourth_, _Fifth_: Now observe, that whereas in the _Twenty-four Changes_, an _Extream Change_ was alwayes made, when the _whole Hunt_ came before or behind the _Bells_, in these _Six-score_ _Changes_ an _Extream_ is alwayes to be made, when the _Half Hunt_ comes before or behind the _Extream Bells_; first the Treble is to be _hunted_ up, as in these _Changes_.-- 12345 21345 23145 23415 23451 The _whole Hunt_ being _hunted_ up, the _Second_, which is the _half Hunt_, must be _hunted_ up over one _Bell_, as in this _Change_.-- 32451 The _half Hunt_ being removed up over one _Bell_, the _whole Hunt_ must be _hunted_ down again, as in these _Changes_.-- 32415 32145 31245 13245 The _whole Hunt_ being _hunted_ down, the _half Hunt_ is to be removed up over the _Fourth_, which is the next _Bell_ to it.-- 13425 The _whole Hunt_ is to _hunt_ up as before.-- 31425 34125 34215 34251 Now the _half Hunt_ is to be _hunted_ up over the _Fifth_, which is the next _Bell_ to it, thus.-- 34521 Here the _Second_, which is the _half Hunt_, is removed quite up behind the _Extream_ _Bells_; yet the _Extream Change_ is not to be made, until the _whole Hunt_ has removed down through the _Bells_, as in these _Changes_.-- 34512 34152 31452 13452 And it is a constant Rule, that whensoever the _half Hunt_ has removed up behind the _Extream Bells_, or down before them, the _whole Hunt_ must _hunt_ through the Bells, before the _Extream Change_ is made, as in the last _Change_ but four, which is 3, 4, 5, 2, 1. the _Second_ being the _half Hunt_, is removed up behind the 3, 4, and 5. which are the _Extream_ Bells; and then the _whole Hunt_ being behind, _hunts_ immediately down; and now the _Extreame Change_ is to be made between the 3, and 4. which are the two farthest _Extream_ Bells from the _half Hunt_, as in this _Change_.-- 14352 The _Extream_ being made, the _whole Hunt_ and _half Hunt_ are to remove again; and first the _whole Hunt_ must be _hunted_ up.-- 41352 43152 43512 43521 Now the _half Hunt_ is to be _hunted_ down under one Bell, thus.-- 43251 The _half Hunt_ being removed, the _whole Hunt_ is to be _hunted_ down.-- 43215 43125 41325 14325 The _half Hunt_ is to be removed down under another Bell, as in this _Change_.-- 14235 Now I hunt up the Treble.-- 41235 42135 42315 42351 The Treble being _hunted_ up, I _hunt_ down the _Second_ before the _Extream_ Bells.-- 24351 Now I _hunt_ down the Treble again, and then make the _Extream Change_, as in these _Changes_.-- 24315 24135 21435 12435 12453 The last is the _Extream Change_, which is made between the _Third_ and _Fifth_; and this course is to be observed to the end of the _Six-score Changes_, which is set down at large at the end of the directions to this _Peal_. Another short Example I will insert, which is _Second_ down, and _Fourth_ up, (for that is the common Phrase amongst _Ringers_) whereby 'tis alwayes to be observed, that the first Bell which is named, is the _whole Hunt_, and the second that is named, is the _half Hunt_, as herein you may perceive; where _Second_ down, is meant, that the _Second_ Bell is the _whole Hunt_, and to _hunt_ down the first _Change_; and the _Fourth_ Bell is the _half Hunt_, and to _half hunt_ up, that is, to move up towards the hindmost Bell the first time it moves at the beginning of the _Peal_; which are only directions in making the first _Changes_, for one _whole Hunt_ and _half Hunt_ may be hunted several wayes, either up or down at pleasure. First, I _hunt_ down the _Second_.-- 12345 21345 The _Second_ being _hunted_ down, the _Fourth_, which is the _half Hunt_, must be removed up over one Bell, thus.-- 21354 The _half Hunt_ being removed, I must _hunt_ up the _Second_, as in these _Changes_.-- 12354 13254 13524 13542 31542 31524 31254 32154 23154 23145 Now the _Fourth_, which is the _half Hunt_, being behind the _Extream_ Bells, the next is to be an _Extream Change_, which may be made either between the two farthest Bells from the _half Hunt_, or the two nearest to it; and after the _Extream Change_ is made, the _whole Hunt_ and _half Hunt_ must be _hunted_ as before. These _Six-score Changes_ of _Second_ and _Fourth_, I have set down at large, at the end of my directions to these _Changes_ on five Bells. In every _Six-score_, the _Extream Changes_ may be made either between the two farthest _Extream_ Bells from the _half Hunt_, or between the two nearest to it, observing to make all the _Extreams_ in one _Six-score_ alike; that is, if you make the first _Extream Change_ between the two farthest _Extream_ Bells from the _half Hunt_, you must make all the following _Extreams_ in the same _Six score_ between the two farthest _Extream_ Bells also; or if you make the first _Extream_ in any _Six-score_ between the two nearest to the _half Hunt_, you must make all the following _Extreams_ in the same _Six-score_ between the two nearest also. The _Six-score_ plain and single _Changes_, are to be _Rang_ Eight-score several wayes; for although there are but _Six-score_ several _Changes_ on five _Bells_, yet by altering the _whole Hunt_, the _half Hunt_, and _Extreams_, the course of the _Changes_ are so altered, that the same _Changes_ doe not come all along together in any two of those Eight-score wayes. With one _whole Hunt_ and _half Hunt_, the _Six-score Changes_ are to be _Rang_, or set down eight several wayes; one way, is by _hunting_ the _whole Hunt_, and _half Hunt_ both up; the second way, is by _hunting_ the _whole Hunt_ and _half Hunt_ both down; the third way, is in _hunting_ the _whole Hunt_ up, and the _half Hunt_ down; the fourth way, is by _hunting_ the _whole Hunt_ down, and the _half Hunt_ up; each of these four wayes is to be _Rang_ two wayes more; one is, in making the _Extreams_ between the two farthest Extream Bells from the half Hunt, and the other way is in making them between the two nearest; for Example, in making the treble the whole Hunt, and second the half Hunt, the Six-score are to be Rang eight several wayes (viz.) Extream Changes to be made between the 2 farthest Extream Bells from the half Hunt. Treble and second both up Treble and second both down Treble down, and second up Treble up, and second down Extream Changes to be made between the two nearest Extream Bells to the half Hunt, which is called _Mediums_. Treble and second both up Treble and second both down Treble down, and second up Treble up, and second down On five Bells there are 20 Hunts, (i.e.) a whole Hunt, and half Hunt twenty times, and not one; and the same whole Hunt, and half Hunt twice, as appears by the following Figures, where they stand two and two together; one of which is the whole Hunt, and the other the half Hunt: for Example, the 2 highest Figures are 1.2 where the treble is the whole Hunt, and the second the half Hunt. The two next Figures are 1.3 where the treble is the whole Hunt, and the third the half Hunt; and likewise the two last, or lowest Figures, are 5.4 the fifth is the whole Hunt, and the fourth the half Hunt; and so of all the rest, the first Figure representing the whole Hunt, and the next to it the half Hunt. 1.2 2.1 3.1 4.1 5.1 1.3 2.3 3.2 4.2 5.2 1.4 2.4 3.4 4.3 5.3 1.5 2.5 3.5 4.5 5.4 So that there being twenty Hunts, and every one making eight Six-scores (as in the Example of treble and second) that is twenty (which are the number of Hunts;) multiplied by eight (which are the number of Six-scores made by each Hunt) does produce Eight-score several wayes to Ring the Six-score Changes. In the Six-score Changes are comprehended the Twenty-four, and the Six Changes: The Twenty-four Changes are made between the half Hunt, and the three Extream Bells; and the Six are made between the Extream Bells alone: The half Hunt in the Six-score, is the whole Hunt in the Twenty-four; and there is one Change in the Twenty-four made every time the whole Hunt comes before and behind the Bells; and one Change in the Six made every Extream: So that the Six-score rightly understood, is nothing else but hunting the half Hunt through every Change of the Six, which makes Twenty-four Changes: and then hunting the whole Hunt through each Change of the Twenty-four, which makes Six-score; for instance, in the first Six-score before set down, where the treble is the whole Hunt, the second the half Hunt, and the 345 the Extream Bells. I take the Extream Bells, and set down the six Changes on them thus.-- 345 435 453 543 534 354 345 Now I take the first of the six, which is 345, and set the second (which was the half Hunt in the Six-score) to it, and hunt it up behind thus.-- 2345 3245 3425 3452 Now I take the second Change of the six, which is 435, and set it directly under 345, and the second Bell to it, and hunt it down thus.-- 4352 4325 4235 2435 The second being hunted through the Change, I take the third Change in the six, which is 453, and hunt the second Bell through it, as before.-- 2453 4253 4523 4532 And in the same course, the second being hunted through each Change of the six, will make Twenty-four, one Change of the six, hunting the second Bell through it, makes four Changes; so that the six Changes by hunting the second through each of them, will make six times four Changes (i.e.) Twenty-four. And now hunt the Treble through each of the Twenty-four Changes, and 'twill make Six-score; the first of the Twenty-four is 2345, take the Treble, and hunt it through it thus.-- 12345 21345 23145 23415 23451 Now take the next Change of the Twenty-four, which is 3245, set it under the other Change, and hunt the Treble through it thus.-- 32451 32415 32145 31245 13245 And in the same manner, hunting the Treble through each Change of the Twenty-four, will produce Twenty-four times five Changes, which makes Six-score; one Change of the Twenty-four (in hunting the Treble through it) makes five Changes. In every Six-score on 5 Bells, there are 6 Extream Changes, there being twenty Changes from one Extream to another. It would be an endless undertaking to set down all these Peals at large, but for the convenience of the Learner, I have set down some part of several of them, which may with ease be prickt out to the end of each Peal, as the Learner pleases. Note, That in the following Peals there is a Line drawn at each Extream Change between the Figures, to shew where the Extreams are made; as in the next Peal there is a Line drawn between the Figures just 20 Changes from the beginning of the Peal, the change next after the Line is the Extream Change, which is 14352, and so of the rest; the Change next following each Line is the Extream. Treble and second both up, Extream between the two farthest Extream Bells from the half Hunt. 12345 21345 23145 23415 23451 32451 32415 32145 31245 13245 13425 31425 34125 34215 34251 34521 34512 34152 31452 13452 ----- 14352 41352 43152 43512 43521 43251 43215 43125 41325 14325 14235 41235 42135 42315 42351 24351 24315 24135 21435 12435 ----- 12453 21453 24153 24513 24531 42531 42513 42153 41253 14253 14523 41523 45123 45213 45231 45321 45312 45132 41532 14532 ----- 15432 51432 54132 54312 54321 54231 54213 54123 51423 15423 15243 51243 52143 52413 52431 25431 25413 25143 21543 12543 ----- 12534 21534 25134 25314 25341 52341 52314 52134 51234 15234 15324 51324 53124 53214 53241 53421 53412 53142 51342 15342 ----- 13542 31542 35142 35412 35421 35241 35214 35124 31524 13524 13254 31254 32154 32514 32541 23541 23514 23154 21354 12354 ----- 12345 Treble up, fifth down, Extreams between the two farthest Extream Bells from the half Hunt. 12345 21345 23145 23415 23451 23541 23514 23154 21354 12354 12534 21534 25134 25314 25341 52341 52314 52134 51234 15234 ----- 15243 51243 52143 52413 52431 25431 25413 25143 21543 12543 12453 21453 24153 24513 24531 24351 24315 24135 21435 12435 ----- 14235 41235 42135 42315 42351 42531 42513 42153 41253 14253 14523 41523 45123 45213 45231 54231 54213 54123 51423 15423 ----- 15432 51432 54132 54312 54321 45321 45312 45132 41532 14532 14352 41352 43152 43512 43521 43251 43215 43125 41325 14325 ----- 13425 31425 34125 34215 34251 34521 34512 34152 31452 13452 13542 31542 35142 35412 35421 53421 53412 53142 51342 15342 ----- 15324 51324 53124 53214 53241 35241 35214 35124 31524 13524 13254 31254 32154 32514 32541 32451 32415 32145 31245 13245 ----- 12345 Second down, and fourth up, Extream between the two farthest Bells from the half Hunt. 12345 21345 21354 12354 13254 13524 13542 ----- 31542 31524 31254 32154 23154 23145 32145 31245 31425 31452 34152 34125 34215 32415 23415 24315 42315 43215 43125 43152 ----- 43512 43521 43251 42351 24351 23451 Second and third both down, Extream between the two farthest Extream Bells from the half Hunt. 12345 21345 23145 32145 31245 31425 31452 ----- 31542 31524 31254 32154 23154 21354 12354 13254 13524 13542 15342 15324 15234 12534 21534 21543 12543 15243 15423 15432 51432 51423 51243 52143 Third and fifth both up, Extream between the two farthest Extream Bells from the half Hunt. 12345 12435 12453 ----- 21453 21435 21345 23145 32145 32154 23154 21354 21534 21543 25143 25134 25314 23514 32514 35214 53214 52314 52134 52143 ----- 52413 52431 Fourth down, Treble up, Extream between the two nearest Extream Bells to the half Hunt. 12345 12435 14235 41235 42135 24135 21435 21345 21354 23154 23145 23415 24315 42315 42351 24351 23451 23541 23514 ----- 25314 25341 25431 24531 42531 42513 24513 25413 25143 25134 21534 21543 21453 24153 42153 41253 14253 12453 12543 12534 ----- 15234 15243 15423 14523 41523 45123 54123 51423 51243 51234 52134 52143 52413 54213 45213 45231 54231 52431 52341 52314 ----- 53214 53241 Fifth down, treble up, Extream Changes between the two farthest Extream Bells from the Half Hunt. 12345 12354 12534 15234 51234 52134 25134 21534 21354 21345 23145 23154 23514 25314 52314 52341 25341 23541 23451 23415 32415 32451 32541 35241 53241 53214 35214 32514 32154 32145 31245 31254 Treble & second both down. 12345 12354 21354 23154 23514 23541 32541 32514 32154 31254 13254 13524 31524 35124 35214 35241 35421 Second & treble both down. 12345 21345 21354 12354 13254 13524 13542 31542 31524 31254 32154 23154 23514 32514 35214 35124 35142 35412 The Changes on six Bells. On six Bells there are Seven-hundred and twenty Changes to be made; but there are Peals of Six-score and Twelve-score Changes to be Rang on them. The Six-score Changes are to be made, by observing a whole Hunt and half Hunt, which are to be hunted in the same course, as in the Six-score on five Bells, and the Extream Changes to be made by the same Rule as they were on five Bells. The only difference between the Six-score on six Bells, and those on five, are this; whereas on five there are but three Extream Bells, on six there are four Extream Bells. And on five Bells, there are six Extream Changes in every Six-score; but on six, there are but four Extream Changes. And moreover, whereas in every Six-score on five Bells, the Changes were the same in each, although altered in course; but the Changes on six Bells are not the same in each, for several Six-scores has several Changes, one Six-score having many Changes which another has not, as in this Peal, treble and second both up, which is, 123456 213456 231456 234156 234516 234561 324561 324516 324156 321456 312456 132456 134256 314256 341256 342156 342516 342561 345261 345216 345126 341526 314526 134526 134562 314562 341562 345162 345612 345621 ------ 435621 435612 435162 431562 413562 143562 143526 413526 431526 435126 435216 435261 432561 432516 432156 431256 413256 143256 142356 412356 421356 423156 423516 423561 243561 243516 243156 241356 214356 124356 ------ 124365 214365 241365 243165 243615 243651 423651 423615 423165 421365 412365 142365 143265 413265 431265 432165 432615 432651 436251 436215 436125 431625 413625 143625 143652 413652 431652 436152 436512 436521 ------ 346521 346512 346152 341652 314652 134652 134625 314625 341625 346125 346215 346251 342651 342615 342165 341265 314265 134265 132465 312465 321465 324165 324615 324651 234651 234615 234165 231465 213465 123465 ------ 123456 There are other Peals to be Rang on six Bells, as Six-scores on the five smallest, the tenor lying behind all the way. Treble and second, or treble and fifth, with the tenor lying behind, makes very good Musick: Of which Peals I need not give you any Example, these Six-scores being the same with those on five Bells set down before. The Twelve-score Changes being only part of the Seven-hundred and twenty, and consequently the course of each being one and the same, I will therefore shew the course and method of the Seven-hundred and twenty, wherein the Twelve-score Changes are also included. In Ringing the Seven-hundred and Twenty, there is a whole Hunt, a half Hunt, a quarter Hunt, and three Extream Bells; the whole Hunt and half Hunt does hunt in the same course and method, as they did in the Six-score on five Bells, and in the last Six-score; and the quarter Hunt removes in the same course under the half Hunt, as the half Hunt does under the whole Hunt: for instance, when the whole Hunt is hunted either before or behind the Bells, then the half Hunt removes over one Bell; and when the half Hunt is removed before or behind the quarter Hunt and Extream Bells (at which time in a Six-score the Extream is made) then the quarter Hunt removes over one Bell, in the same course as the half hunt moves, when the whole Hunt is before or behind. An Example I will set down, which is 1, 2 and 3 all up, that is to say, treble the whole Hunt, and to hunt up, second the half Hunt, and to half hunt up, and third the quarter Hunt, and to quarter hunt up 4, 5 and 6 are Extream Bells; there is alwayes an Extream Change to be made when the quarter Hunt comes before or behind the Extream Bells, there are two wayes to make the Extreams, which are the same here, as in the Six-score on five, and made by the same Rule, I will here make it between the two farthest Extream Bells from the quarter Hunt. Now the treble and second being the whole Hunt and half Hunt, must be hunted in the same course, as in the Six-score on five Bells, after this manner. 123456 213456 231456 234156 234516 234561 324561 324516 324156 321456 312456 132456 134256 314256 341256 342156 342516 342561 345261 345216 345126 341526 314526 134526 134562 314562 341562 345162 345612 345621 The half Hunt being hunted up, the third is to remove up over one Bell, and then the whole Hunt and half Hunt to remove again thus. 435621 435612 435162 431562 413562 143562 143526 413526 431526 435126 435216 435261 432561 432516 432156 431256 413256 143256 142356 412356 421356 423156 423516 423561 243561 243516 243156 241356 214356 124356 The whole Hunt and half Hunt being hunted down, the quarter Hunt must remove up over the fifth, and then the whole Hunt and half Hunt must hunt up again, as in the following Changes. 124536 214536 241536 245136 245316 245361 425361 425316 425136 421536 412536 142536 145236 415236 451236 452136 452316 452361 453261 453216 453126 451326 415326 145326 145362 415362 451362 453162 453612 453621 The whole Hunt and half Hunt being hunted up, the quarter Hunt must be removed quite up over the sixth, as in this Change 456321 the quarter Hunt being hunted up behind the Extream Bells, yet the Extream Change is not to be made, until the whole Hunt and half Hunt have both removed thorough the Bells, as in these Changes. 456312 456132 451632 415632 145632 145623 415623 451623 456123 456213 456231 452631 452613 452163 451263 415263 145263 142563 412563 421563 425163 425613 425631 245631 245613 245163 241563 214563 124563 It is to be observed for a constant Rule, that when the quarter Hunt removes either quite up behind the Extream Bells, or down before them, the whole Hunt and half Hunt must hunt through the Bells before the Extream Change is to be made, as appears by the last Changes. The Extream Change is now to be made between the 4 and 5, being the two farthest Extream Bells from the third, which is the quarter Hunt, thus.-- 125463 The Extream being made, the whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt must be hunted as before; and first the whole Hunt and half Hunt are to be hunted up, as in these Changes. 215463 251463 254163 254613 254631 524631 524613 524163 521463 512463 152463 154263 514263 541263 542163 542613 542631 546231 546213 546123 541623 514623 154623 154632 514632 541632 546132 546312 546321 The whole Hunt and half Hunt being hunted up, the quarter Hunt must hunt down under the sixth, which is the next Bell to it, and then the whole Hunt and half Hunt must hunt down again, as in the Changes following. 543621 543612 543162 541362 514362 154362 154326 514326 541326 543126 543216 543261 542361 542316 542136 541236 514236 154236 152436 512436 521436 524136 524316 524361 254361 254316 254136 251436 215436 125436 The quarter Hunt must be hunted down under the Fourth, and then the whole Hunt and half Hunt are to hunt up again, as appears by these changes. 125346 215346 251346 253146 253416 253461 523461 523416 523146 521346 512346 152346 153246 513246 531246 532146 532416 532461 534261 534216 534126 531426 513426 153426 153462 513462 531462 534162 534612 534621 Now the quarter hunt is to be hunted down before the Extream Bells, and then the whole Hunt and half Hunt to hunt again before the Extream Change is made. 354621 354612 354162 351462 315462 135462 135426 315426 351426 354126 354216 354261 352461 352416 352146 351246 315246 135246 132546 312546 321546 325146 325416 325461 235461 235416 235146 231546 213546 123546 The quarter Hunt being before the Extream Bells, the Extream Change is to be made: Here are just Twelve-score Changes already set down, and the Bells may either be brought round, and so make an end at the Twelve-score, or else proceed forward to the end of the Seven hundred and twenty. If the bells are not brought round here, they cannot come round, until the Seven-hundred and twenty Changes are all made, and then they come round in course. To bring the Bells round at the end of these Twelve-score Changes, the Extream is to be made between the 5 and 4, which were the two Bells that made the last Extream Change, and brings them round in their right places again, as appears by these figures 123456. There are but two Extream Changes in every Twelve-score, wherein 'tis constantly observed, that the last Extream Change is to be made between those two Bells which made the first Extream, otherwise the Bells would not come round at the end of the Twelve-score. Here I have somewhat deviated from my directions before, in making the Extream Changes; for in the last Change, which is 123456, I made the Extream between the two nearest Extream Bells to the quarter Hunt; but the Twelve-score Changes are an imperfect Peal, being only a third part of the Changes which are to be made on six Bells, and therefore not to be brought round, unless the last Extream Change is made out of course. To have proceeded forward in the 720, the last Extream should have been made between the 4 and 6, which are the two farthest Extream Bells from the quarter Hunt, the Change next before the Extream, is 123546; now the 4 and 6 making an Extream Change, the Bells stand thus, 123564; the Extream being made, the whole _hunt_, half _hunt_, and quarter _hunt_ are to be hunted as before, and the Extream Changes to be made between the two farthest Extream Bells from the quarter _hunt_, which course will bring the Bells round in their right places at the end of the 720. In every 720, there are six Extream Changes, there being Six-score Changes between each. The Twelve-score Changes are to be Rang with any whole _hunt_, half _hunt_, and quarter _hunt_, observing to make the last Extream Change between those two Bells which made the first. The 720 plain Changes are to be rang or set down One thousand four hundred and forty several wayes, by altering the whole _hunt_, half _hunt_, quarter _hunt_, and Extream Bells (but the course of each is the same with that which is before set down) which I thus demonstrate. On 6 Bells, there are 120 several _hunts_, (viz.) a whole _hunt_, half _hunt_, and quarter _hunt_ Six-score several times, and not one and the same whole _hunt_, half _hunt_, and quarter _hunt_ twice, as appears by these Figures.-- 123 213 312 412 512 612 124 214 314 413 513 613 125 215 315 415 514 614 126 216 316 416 516 615 132 231 321 421 521 621 134 234 324 423 523 623 135 235 325 425 524 624 136 236 326 426 526 625 142 241 341 431 531 631 143 243 342 432 532 632 145 245 345 435 534 634 146 246 346 436 536 635 152 251 351 451 541 641 153 253 352 452 542 642 154 254 354 453 543 643 156 256 356 456 546 645 162 261 361 461 561 651 163 263 362 462 562 652 164 264 364 463 563 653 165 265 365 465 564 654 --- --- --- --- --- --- These Figures stand three and three together, each three represents the three Hunts; that is, the first is the whole Hunt, the second Figure the half Hunt, and the third the quarter Hunt; for Example, the first three are 123, the treble is the whole Hunt, the second the half Hunt, and the third the quarter Hunt: The next three Figures are 124, there the treble is the whole Hunt, the second the half Hunt, and the fourth the quarter Hunt; and the last three Figures are 654, where the sixth is the whole Hunt, the fifth the half Hunt, and the fourth the quarter Hunt, and so of all the rest. With one whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt, the Seven-hundred and twenty Changes are to be Rang, or set down twelve several wayes; for instance, take the first three Hunts in these Figures, which are 123, where the treble is the whole Hunt, the second the half Hunt, and the third the quarter Hunt, which may be hunted six several wayes, as followeth. Treble, second and third, all up. Treble and second up, third down. Treble up, second and third down. Treble, second and third, all down. Treble and second down, third up. Treble down, second and third up. Each of these are to be Rang two wayes, one is to make the Extreams between the two farthest Extream Bells from the quarter Hunt, and the other way is to make the Extream between the two next Bells to the quarter Hunt. By treble, second and third all up, is meant, that the treble is the whole _hunt_, and to hunt up the first Change at the beginning of the Peal; the second is the half _hunt_, and to half hunt up; that is, to move up towards the hindmost Bells the first time it moves at the beginning of the Peal; and the third is the quarter _hunt_, and to move likewise toward the hindmost Bells the first time it removes. And by treble and second up, and third down, is meant, that the treble and second are to move up towards the hindmost Bell, the first time each removes at the beginning of the Peal; and the third being the quarter _hunt_, is to move down the first time, which are only directions for moving the _hunts_ at first, because they may be hunted either up or down. Sometimes it happens, that the _hunts_ cannot be hunted that way which is proposed, as in the 720, treble, second and third all down.-- 123456 The whole _hunt_ which is the treble, should now be hunted down; but it being already before the Bells, insomuch that it can be removed no lower; I should therefore remove the half _hunt_ down, but that being also down as low as it can go, I should move the quarter _hunt_; and that being also down before the Extream Bells, I can move it no lower, unless I should move it down under the second, which is the half _hunt_, which must not be done; for when the quarter _hunt_ is down next before the _Extream Bell_, it must be removed no lower; and when it is up next behind _Extream Bell_, it is to be removed up no higher; therefore it being now before the _Extream Bell_, the _Extream Change_ is to be made the first of all; and when that is done, the treble, second and third must be hunted up in course. Or if you make treble and second down, and third up, then the first Change is to be made, by moving the quarter _Hunt_ up over one _Bell_. And again, if you make Treble and Tenor both up, and Third down, first hunt up the Treble, and then the Tenor, which is the half _Hunt_, should be moved up; but it being already behind, the quarter _Hunt_, which is the Third, must move under one _Bell_, and then the whole _Hunt_ and half are to hunt in course after each other: Many Examples of this Nature I could set down, which for brevity sake I omit. I might demonstrate how the 720 are to be Rang twelve wayes, with each of the Six-score Hunts, as I did that of treble, second and third; but I think that altogether needless, since that Example makes it most plain and easie to be understood: But I will give a general Rule for hunting any whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt, so as to produce six several wayes to Ring the 720 Changes, which is this: Whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt, all hunted up. Whole Hunt, and half Hunt hunted up, and quarter Hunt down. Whole Hunt hunted up, half Hunt and quarter Hunt down. Whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt hunted down. Whole Hunt and half Hunt hunted down, and quarter Hunt up. Whole Hunt hunted down, half Hunt and quarter Hunt hunted up. Which is a general Rule to Ring the 720 six wayes on any one of the Six-score Hunts; each of which six wayes, may be Rang two wayes more, by altering the _Extream Changes_, one of which is to make the _Extream Changes_ between the two next _Extream Bells_ to the quarter Hunt, and the other way is to make the _Extreams_ between the two farthest _Extream_ Bells from it. The 720 Changes are to be Rang 12 wayes with one whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt; so that with the Six-score Hunts, it is to be Rang Six-score times twelve wayes, which makes One thousand four hundred and forty several wayes to Ring this 720 plain Changes. In the 720, the half Hunt, the quarter Hunt, and the three _Extream_ Bells, makes the Six-score Changes on 5 Bells in a perfect course, the half Hunt and quarter hunt in the 720, being the whole Hunt and half Hunt in the Six-score; for Example, take the 23456, and set down the Six-score Changes on them, making the second the whole hunt, and the third the half hunt; which when you have set down, then take the Treble, and hunt it through every Change of that Six-score, and it will make 720 Changes, the same with those which I have set down before, The Twenty-four Changes on four Bells, and the six changes on three Bells, have also a perfect course in the 720, in the same manner as I told you they had in the Six-scores on five Bells. There is always one change in the Six-score made every time the whole hunt comes before or behind the bells, which is every sixth change; and there's one change of the Twenty-four made, every time the whole hunt and half hunt comes before or behind the bells, which is once in thirty changes; and one change of the six made every extream, that is once in six-score changes. You may take the six-score changes on five bells, treble the whole, and second the half hunt, before set down; and hunt the sixth bell through every change of that six score, which will make the 720 changes; Tenor the whole hunt, Treble the half hunt, and Second the quarter hunt. This is not material for a Learner to know, it being only for the instructions of those that know how to Ring it, but yet are ignorant of the true grounds thereof; therefore I have dissected it, and shewed the grounds of each part of it. In this place, I will add a word or two to those that practise to Ring the Changes. They that Ring the extream bells in the Twenty-four changes, must mind and observe the motion of the hunt, that they may the better know when to make the extream changes; and likewise in a six-score on five bells, he that Rings the half hunt, must observe the motion of the whole hunt; and they that Ring the extream bells, must observe the motions both of the whole hunt, and half hunt, that they may know when the half hunt is to move, and also when to make the extream changes; or else he that does Ring the half hunt, may give notice of the extream changes (by saying _Extream_) the change next before the extream is to be made. The same is to be observed in the changes on six bells. The whole hunt is the easiest bell to Ring in any changes, the half hunt is more plain and easie to Ring, than an extream bell. All changes are to be Rang either by _walking_ them (as the term is) or else Whole-pulls, or Half-pulls. By _walking_ them, is meant, that the bells go round, four, six, eight times, or more, in one change, which is commonly used by young Practisers; it may be sometimes on five bells, Ringing the Twenty-four changes on the treble, second, third, and fourth, the fifth bell striking behind every change; and many other changes of the like nature may be practised this way by young Ringers. Whole-pulls, is to Ring two Rounds in one change, that is, Fore-stroke and Back-stroke, and in a change; so that every time you pull down the bells at Sally, you make a new change differing from that at the Back-stroke next before; this Whole-pulls was altogether practised in former time, but of late there is a more quick and ready way practised, called Half-pulls, which is--only one round in a change, that is, one change made at the Fore-stroke, and another at the Back-stroke, which way is now altogether in use (unless it be at some great bells, which are too weighty to be managed up so high a Compass at the Back-stroke, as Half-pulls requires) it being now a common thing in _London_ to Ring the 720 _Changes_, _Trebles and Doubles_, and _Grandsire Bob_, _Half-pulls_, (which is commonly Rang with so round and quick a Compass, that in the space of half an hour, or little more, the 720 Changes are Rang out from the beginning to the end.) And also the Six-scores _Doubles and Singles_, _Old Doubles_, _Grandsire_, and many other cross Peals on five bells, are commonly Rang Half-pulls. In Ringing Half-pulls some Peals do cut Compass, that is--the whole _hunt_ comes to lead at the Back-stroke, to remedy which, make the first change of the Peal at the Back-stroke. By these following Rules, you shall know what Peals do cut Compass, and what not (i.e.) of plain and single changes. _On six Bells_, In hunting either the treble, the third, or the fifth bells down, cuts Compass; hunting them up, does not cut Compass. In hunting the second, fourth, or sixth bells up, cuts Compass; but hunting them down, does not cut Compass. These Rules (leaving out the Tenor) serves for five bells; and leaving out the fifth and Tenor, they serve for four bells. The Twelve score LONG HUNTS: Or the ESQUIRE'S Twelve-score. This Peal is to be Rang on six bells, having two whole _hunts_, and one half _hunt_; the common way of Ringing, it is to make the fifth and Tenor the whole _hunts_, and the Treble the half _hunt_. The Tenor and fifth does each _hunt_ down by turns, and when either of them comes down before the bells, it leads twice, and then _hunts_ up again. The Treble, second, third, and fourth, makes the Twenty-four changes, one of which is made every time either of the whole _hunts_ leads: For instance, the Tenor is first to be _hunted_ down, thus.-- 123456 123465 123645 126345 162345 612345 The tenor being hunted down, and lying before the bells, there is one change in the Twenty-four now to be made between treble and second, thus.-- 621345 The tenor is to be hunted up into its place, and the fifth hunts down.-- 261345 216345 213645 213465 213456 213546 215346 251346 521346 The fifth being now before the bells, there is another change in the Twenty-four to be made between the treble and third, as in this change.-- 523146 The fifth is now to hunt up, and the tenor to hunt down again, in which course they continue to the end of the Peal, observing to make an extream change, when the treble (which is the hunt in the Twenty-four) comes before or behind the extream bells. 253146 235146 231546 231456 231465 231645 This Peal may be Rang by making the Twenty-four changes Doubles and Singles, in the place of the Twenty-four plain Changes, and many other wayes, which I leave to the Learner to practise. The Variety of Changes on any Number of Bells. The changes on bells do multiply infinitely. On two bells there are two changes. On three bells are three times as many changes as there are on two; that is--three times two changes, which makes six. On four bells there are four times as many changes as on three; that is--four times six changes, which makes Twenty-four. On five bells there are five times as many changes as there are on four bells; that is--five times Twenty-four changes, which makes Six-score. On six bells are six times as many changes as there are on five; that is--six times Six-score changes, which makes Seven-hundred and twenty: And in the same manner, by increasing the number of bells, they multiply innumerably, as in the Table of Figures next following; where each of the Figures in the Column of the left hand, standing directly under one another (which are 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10.11.12.) do represent the number of bells; and the Figures going along towards the right hand, directly from each of those twelve Figures, are the number of changes to be rung on that number of bells which the Figure represents: For Example, the uppermost Figure on the left hand is 2, which stands for two bells; and the Figure next to it on the right hand is also 2, which stands for two changes; that is to say, on two bells there are two changes. The next Figure below in the left Column is 3, which stands for three Bells; and the Figure next to it on the right hand is 6, which stands for six changes; that is--on three bells are six changes, and so of the rest as follows. bells changes 2 2 3 6 4 24 5 120 6 720 7 5040 8 40320 9 362880 10 3628800 11 39916800 12 479001600 The lowest of these figures are 479001600, that is, Four hundred seventy nine Millions, one thousand six hundred, which are all the changes that can be made on twelve bells: And supposing that twelve men should take 12 bells with intent to ring the changes on them, they would be Seventy five Years, ten Months, one Week and three Dayes in ringing them, according to the proportion of ringing 720 changes in an hour; reckoning 24 hours to the day, and 365 dayes in the Year. Having given Directions for all sorts of plain and single Changes, I will now proceed to Cross-peals, and first to Doubles and Singles on four Bells. Doubles And Singles on four Bells. On four bells there are 24 changes to be made Doubles and Singles, wherein are twelve double changes, and 12 single; next to every double change, there is a single; so that 2 double changes do not come together in any place throughout the Peal, neither does two single changes at any time come together; but one change is double, and the next is single, to the end of the Peal. Every double change is made between the four bells; that is--there are two changes made at one time, between the bells in treble and seconds places, and the bells in third and fourths places. Every single change is made between the two bells in the middle (i.e.) in seconds and thirds places; excepting the extream changes, which are single, and made between the two farthest extream bells from the Hunt. An Example I here set down, making the treble the Hunt, and I hunt it up at the beginning of the Peal (for it may be hunted either up or down at pleasure) and I make an extream change every time the whole Hunt comes before the bells. In ringing it, 'tis observed, that every bell hunts in course, and lies twice before, and twice behind, except only when the extream is to be made, and then the two farthest extream bells from the Hunt, does make a dodge, and then moves in their former course, as in these changes.-- 1234 2143 2413 4231 4321 3412 3142 1324 Now the hunt is before the bells, there is an extream change made between the two farthest bells from it, which are the 2 and 4, thus.-- 1342 The extream change being made, the bells are to move, as before, observing to make an extream change every time the whole hunt comes before the bells. 3124 3214 2341 2431 4213 4123 1432 1423 4132 4312 3421 3241 2314 2134 1243 1234 In this last Twenty-four, the treble is hunted up at the beginning; it may be rang by hunting it down, which is to be down, by making the first a single change, and then hunt it up as before. With one hunt this Peal may be rang six wayes (viz.) three wayes in hunting it up at the beginning of each Peal, and the other three wayes by hunting it down; the three wayes in hunting it up, differs only in making the extream changes; in one of the three wayes you must make an extream change every time the hunt comes before the bells to lead, as in the Twenty-four changes before set down. Another way is to make an extream every time the hunt comes behind. And the third way, is to make an extream every time the hunt comes before and behind the bells. The three wayes in hunting it down, are to be rang by making the extream changes, as in the three wayes before; in hunting one bell, there are six wayes to ring this Peal; therefore with the four bells (in making each of them to hunt) there are four times six wayes to ring it, which makes Twenty-four several wayes. And for the benefit of the Learner, I have set down certain Rules, shewing how to begin any of the aforesaid Peals (viz.) In hunting either the treble or third up, the first change is double; but in hunting either of them down, the first is single. In hunting the second or the fourth up, the first change is single; but in hunting either of them down, the first change in each Peal must be double. Doubles and Singles on five Bells. There is a Peal to be rang on five bells, called Doubles and Singles, wherein are Six-score several changes, sixty of which are double changes, and sixty are single; the double and single changes are so intermixt, that two double changes does not at any time come together in the Six-score; neither are two single changes made next to each other in any part of this Peal, but one change is double, and the next single, in which course they are made to the end. Every double change is made between the four foremost bells (i.e.) in treble, second, third, and fourth places. When the whole hunt is hunting up, each single change is made between the whole hunt, and the next bell above it. In hunting down the single changes are made between the whole hunt, and the next bell below it, the whole hunt being alwayes one of the two bells which makes every single change, except only when it leads, and then the single change is made in third and fourths places; but the extream is also a single change, and made (when the whole hunt leads) between the two farthest extream bells from the half hunt; the half hunt is to lie either before or behind the extream bells, when the extream changes are made, of which I shall shew you more anon. In this Peal there is a whole hunt, a half hunt, and three extream Bells; the whole hunt in a direct course does hunt up and down, and lies twice before, and twice behind all the way; every other bell leads twice together throughout the Peal. And when the whole hunt leaves the thirds place, hunting up, then every bell that comes into second and thirds places, does lie in each of those places twice together, until the whole hunt comes down again into thirds place, at which time the bell in fourths place lies there twice, and then makes a dodge with the bell in thirds place (unless an extream change is to be made) and so removes directly down before the bells. And that bell which comes into the tenors place (when the whole hunt leaves that place hunting down) lies still there, until the whole hunt removes up into that place again, except only when the extream is made behind, and then the bell in fourths place moves into tenors place, and lies there until the whole hunt moves up into that place. With one whole hunt, and half hunt, this Peal may be rang six wayes, in three of which the whole hunt is to be hunted up at the beginning of each Peal, which three wayes differs only in making the extream changes. One way, is to make an extream change every time the half hunt comes before the extream bells, as in the following Six-score. The second way, is to make an extream change every time the half hunt comes behind the extream bells. And the third way, is to make an extream every time, the half hunt comes before and behind the extream bells. In this last way there are six extreams in each Peal, but in the other two ways there are but three extreams in each Peal. The three wayes aforesaid, are to be rang, by hunting up the whole hunt; but it may be rang three wayes more, in hunting down the same whole hunt, in which three ways the extreams are to be made, as I shewed you before. The whole hunt is alwayes to lead when every extream change is made. This Peal I have set down at large, making the treble the whole hunt, the second the half hunt; and an extream change every time the half hunt comes before the extream bells, as in the following changes. I have drawn a Line between the figures at the extream changes, that next below the Line is the extream. 12345 21435 24135 42315 42351 24531 24513 42153 41253 14523 14253 41523 45123 54213 54231 45321 45312 54132 51432 15342 15432 51342 53142 35412 35421 53241 53214 35124 31524 13254 13524 31254 32154 23514 23541 32451 32415 23145 21345 12435 ----- 12453 21543 25143 52413 52431 25341 25314 52134 51234 15324 15234 51324 53124 35214 35241 53421 53412 35142 31542 13452 13542 31452 34152 43512 43521 34251 34215 43125 41325 14235 14325 41235 42135 24315 24351 42531 42513 24153 21453 12543 ----- 12534 21354 23154 32514 32541 23451 23415 32145 31245 13425 13245 31425 34125 43215 43251 34521 34512 43152 41352 14532 14352 41532 45132 54312 54321 45231 45213 54123 51423 15243 15423 51243 52143 25413 25431 52341 52314 25134 21534 12354 ----- 12345 This Peal may be rang Six-score several wayes; there being twenty hunts on five bells (that is--a whole hunt, and half hunt twenty times on five bells, and not one and the same whole hunt and half hunt twice, as I shewed more at large in the plain changes on five bells before set down) and with each hunt, that is, with one whole hunt and half hunt, it may be rang six wayes; so that multiply twenty, (which are the number of hunts) by six, (which are the number of Peals to be rung on each hunt) and it will produce Six-score several wayes to ring it. It may be prick't, or rang Six-score several wayes more, by making the extream changes when the whole hunt lies behind the bells, but those wayes are never practised; neither do I think it material to say any thing more of them in this place, having only inserted this, to shew the great variety there is in this Peal. It being somewhat difficult to know the true way of beginning each Peal, I have therefore set down certain Rules, shewing how the first changes in each are to be made. In hunting the treble, the third, or the fifth bells up, the first change in each Peal is to be made double. In hunting the treble down, the first change is single in third and fourths places, unless the half hunt lies so, as that the extream is to be made. In hunting the third or fifth down, the first change is to be made single, between the whole hunt, and the next bell below it. In hunting up the second or fourth, the first change in each Peal is single, between the whole hunt, and the next bell above it. In hunting down the second or fourth, the first change is to be made double. Every double change in all the Peals of Doubles and Singles, is made between the four foremost bells; that is--in treble, second, third and fourths places. Tendring's Six-score on five Bells. In this Peal are contained Six-score changes, which are Doubles and Singles, there being sixty double changes in it, and sixty single, which are so intermixt, that two double changes does not come together in any part of the Peal; neither are there 2 single changes at any time made together, but one change is double, and the next to it is single; in which course the changes are all made to the end of the Peal. Every single change is made between the 2 hindmost bells. There is a whole hunt and half hunt in it. The observation in ringing it, is this: When the whole hunt lies before the bells, and is to hunt up, first it moves up into seconds place, where it lies twice; then into thirds place, where it lies also twice; then into the fourths place, where it lies once; and in the tenors place once: Then it makes a dodge with the bell in fourths place, after which it lies twice behind; then it moves down into fourths place, and makes a dodge with the bell in tenors place, and then moves down into thirds place, where it lies twice, and in the seconds place twice, and then it leads four times; after which, it hunts again, as before. The course of the other four bells are exactly the same with that of the whole hunt, in moving up and down, except only when the Bob changes are made, and then they differ; but after the Bobs are made, their course is the same as before; every bell lies four times together before the bells, and twice in the seconds place without any alteration. In this Peal are two sorts of Bobs; one of which is called a double Bob, and the other a single Bob. The Rule for making the double Bob is this, when the whole hunt is hunting down, and lies in the seconds place, and the half hunt lies behind, then there's a double Bob; that is, two Bob-changes; one of which is made the next change, wherein the whole hunt moves down to lead; where having led four times, there is then another Bob-change to be made, in which the whole hunt moves up into the seconds place. The Rule for making the single Bob, is this, when the whole hunt has led four times, and the half hunt lies in thirds place; then the next change following is a single Bob, that is--one Bob-change, in which the whole hunt moves out of the trebles place up into the seconds place, every Bob is a double change, and made between the two first, and two last bells, the bell in thirds place lying still when each Bob is made, where it lies four times together, and then moves down; every time the whole hunt comes before the bells, there is either a single Bob, or a double Bob made. At every double Bob, those two bells that do dodge behind at the first Bob-change, continues dodging until the whole hunt moves up, and parts them: And likewise at the single Bob, those 2 bells which do dodge behind at the Bob-change, continue dodging until the whole hunt moves up, and parts them, as in the following changes, where the treble is the whole hunt, the tenor the half hunt, and the first is a Bob-change, being supposed to be the second Bob-change of a double Bob. 12345 21354 21345 23154 23145 32415 32451 34215 34251 43521 43512 45321 45312 54132 54123 51432 51423 15243 15234 12543 12534 21543 21534 25143 25134 52314 52341 53214 53241 35421 35412 34521 34512 43152 43125 41352 41325 14352 14325 13452 13425 31452 31425 34152 34125 43215 43251 42315 42351 24531 24513 25431 25413 52143 52134 51243 51234 15324 15342 13524 13542 31524 31542 35124 35142 53412 53421 54312 54321 45231 45213 42531 42513 24153 24135 21453 21435 12453 12435 14253 14235 41253 41235 42153 42135 24315 24351 23415 23451 32541 32514 35241 35214 53124 53142 51324 51342 15432 15423 14532 14523 41532 41523 45132 45123 54213 54231 52413 52431 25341 25314 23541 23514 32154 32145 31254 31245 13254 13245 12354 12345 This Peal was made out of _Grandsire_ on five bells, the Bob-changes in this, being the same with those in _Grandsire_, and made by the same Rule. Paradox on five Bells. This Peal of _Paradox_ is to be rang on five bells, wherein are Six-score changes, they are Doubles and Singles; that is--one change double, and another single; in which course they are made to the end of the Peal. Every single change is made in second and thirds places, except only when the whole Hunt leads, and then 'tis made in third and fourths places; but the extream Changes are (also single) and made between the two farthest extream bells from the half Hunt; the whole Hunt lies before the bells, when every extream change is made. Every bell lies four times together before, and four times behind, except only when the extream changes are made behind. There is a whole Hunt, a half Hunt, and three extream bells; the course of the whole Hunt is this, it being before the bells, first it moves up into the second and thirds places, then it makes a dodge with the bell in seconds place, and moves out of the thirds place up into fourths, where it lies alwayes twice, then moves up behind, where it lies four times, and then moves down into fourths place, where having lay twice, it hunts down into seconds place, and makes a dodge with the bell in thirds place, and then moves down before the bells, where having lay twice, it hunts as before; each of the other bells has the same course (in hunting up and down) as the whole Hunt until the whole Hunt leads, at which time every bell that comes into seconds place lies there twice together, unless the extream change is to be made in second and thirds places. In this following Peal the treble is the whole Hunt, and the second the half Hunt; the extream changes are made, when the half Hunt lies before the extream bells. 12435 21435 24135 21453 24153 42513 45213 42531 45231 54321 53421 54312 53412 35142 31542 35124 31524 13254 13524 15342 15432 51342 53142 51324 53124 35214 32514 35241 32541 23451 24351 23415 24315 42135 41235 42153 41253 14523 14253 12435 ----- 12453 21543 25143 21534 25134 52314 53214 52341 53241 35421 34521 35412 34512 43152 41352 43125 41325 14235 14325 13452 13542 31452 34152 31425 34125 43215 42315 43251 42351 24531 25431 24513 25413 52143 51243 52134 51234 15324 15234 12543 ----- 12534 21354 23154 21345 23145 32415 34215 32451 34251 43521 45321 43512 45312 54132 51432 54123 51423 15243 15423 14532 14352 41532 45132 41523 45123 54213 52413 54231 52431 25341 23541 25314 23514 32154 31254 32145 31245 13425 13245 12354 ----- 12345 I have drawn a Line between the Figures at the extream changes, that next below each Line is the extream; the first extream is Forty changes from the beginning. This Peal is grounded on the Twenty-four changes Doubles and Singles on four bells. The half Hunt, and three extream bells in this Peal, makes the Twenty four changes in a perfect course. There are four changes made in the Twenty-four every time the whole Hunt leads, which coming before the bells six times in the Six-score, and each time lying there four times together, makes six times four changes, which is Twenty four. 'Tis easily made out, if you take every change that is made when the whole Hunt is before the bells in the Six-score before, and set the changes down by themselves (leaving out the treble) where you will find, that the second, third, fourth and fifth, make the Twenty-four changes Doubles and Singles, in a perfect course; second is the Hunt, and the extreams are made when the Hunt is before. _Paradox_ may be rang Six-score several wayes. With one whole Hunt, and half Hunt, it may be rang six wayes, in three of which the whole Hunt is to be hunted up; and in the other three wayes it is to be hunted down, in which six wayes the extream changes are to be made by the same Rules, and in the same manner, as I shewed before in the Six-score Doubles and Singles on five bells; so that with the twenty Hunts, it may be prick't or rang twenty times six wayes, which makes Six-score. This Peal may be prick't Six-score wayes more, by making the extreams when the whole Hunt lies behind the bells, but that being never practised, I will say no more of it. I have here set down some general Rules for beginning the several Peals of _Paradox_ by the former course (i.e.) in making the extreams when the whole Hunt is before the bells. In hunting the treble up, the first change is double between the four first bells, thus.-- 12345 21435 In hunting the treble down, the first change is single in third and fourths places (thus.--12345 12435) unless the half Hunt lies so, that the extreams may be made. Second up, the first change is single in second and thirds places, thus.-- 12345 13245 Second down, the first change is double between the four first bells. Third up, the first change is double between the four first bells. Third down, the first change is single in second and thirds places. Fourth up, the first change is double between the four hindmost bells, thus.-- 12345 13254 Fourth down, the first change is double between the four first bells. Fifth up, the first change is single in second and thirds places. Fifth down, the first change is double between the four hindmost bells. If you observe these Rules aright, together with my former directions, you may with much ease prick down any Peal of _Paradox_. PHOENIX. On five Bells. This Peal has Six score changes in it, which are Doubles and Singles; the tenor is the whole Hunt, and the fourth the half Hunt. Every bell lies twice before, and four times behind; every single change is made in second and thirds places, and every bell that comes into fourths place, lies there twice together, until the tenor comes behind; at which time, the fourth lying in the seconds place, the next single change is made in third and fourths places; but the tenor lying behind, and the fourth in thirds place, then the two next following single changes are in third and fourths places. 12345 21354 23154 32514 35214 53241 52341 25431 24531 42513 45213 54123 51423 15432 14532 41352 43152 34125 34215 43125 41325 14352 13452 31542 35142 53124 51324 15234 12534 21543 25143 52413 54213 45231 42531 24351 23451 32415 32145 23415 23145 32154 31254 13524 15324 51342 53142 35412 34512 43521 45321 54231 52431 25413 24513 42153 41253 14235 14325 41235 42135 24153 21453 12543 15243 51234 52134 25314 23514 32541 35241 53421 54321 45312 43512 34152 31452 13425 13245 31425 31245 13254 12354 21534 25134 52143 51243 15423 14523 41532 45132 54312 53412 35421 34521 43251 42351 24315 24135 42315 43215 34251 32451 23541 25341 52314 53214 35124 31524 13542 15342 51432 54132 45123 41523 14253 12453 21435 21345 12435 12345 London Pleasure on five Bells. In this Peal called _London Pleasure_, are Six-score changes, which are all single. It being a confused Peal to ring, I shall say nothing more of it, but expose it to view, as in the following changes. 12345 21345 21354 12354 12534 21534 25134 25314 23514 23154 23145 23415 23451 23541 25341 52341 52314 52134 51234 15234 15243 51243 52143 25143 21543 12543 12453 21453 24153 24513 25413 52413 52431 25431 24531 24351 24315 24135 21435 12435 14235 41235 41253 14253 14523 41523 45123 45213 42513 42153 42135 42315 42351 42531 45231 54231 54213 54123 51423 15423 ----- 15432 ----- 51432 54132 45132 41532 14532 14352 41352 43152 43512 45312 54312 54321 45321 43521 43251 43215 43125 41325 14325 13425 31425 31452 13452 13542 31542 35142 35412 34512 34152 34125 34215 34251 34521 35421 53421 53412 53142 51342 15342 15324 51324 53124 35124 31524 13524 13254 31254 32154 32514 35214 53214 53241 35241 32541 32451 32415 32145 31245 13245 ----- 12345 What you please. Doubles and Singles on 5 Bells. Every bell leads four times, and lies behind twice, except when the extream is made behind, and twice in the seconds place, except when the extream is before; and note, when the treble is before the fourth stroke, the single is in second and third, the next time the single is behind; but at other times, the single is in third and fourths places. When any bell leaves leading, the double change is on the two first, and two last, and the extreams are made by turns, first behind, then before, and so on to the end, for there are six extreams. 12345 21354 21534 25143 25413 52431 52341 53214 53124 35142 35412 34521 34251 43215 43125 41352 41532 14523 14253 12435 ----- 12453 21435 21345 23154 23514 32541 32451 34215 34125 43152 43512 45321 45231 54213 54123 51432 51342 15324 15234 12543 ----- 15243 51234 51324 53142 53412 35421 35241 32514 32154 23145 23415 24351 24531 42513 42153 41235 41325 14352 14532 15423 ----- 15432 51423 51243 52134 52314 25341 25431 24513 24153 42135 42315 43251 43521 34512 34152 31425 31245 13254 13524 15342 ----- 13542 31524 31254 32145 32415 23451 23541 25314 25134 52143 52413 54231 54321 45312 45132 41523 41253 14235 14325 13452 ----- 13425 31452 31542 35124 35214 53241 53421 54312 54132 45123 45213 42531 42351 24315 24135 21453 21543 12534 12354 13245 ----- 12345 Reading Doubles. On five Bells. In this Peal are Six-score changes, the treble is a Hunt; and note when treble is in thirds place hunting up, the two foremost bells dodge until it comes into the same place hunting downwards; and alwayes when the treble is going to lead, the four first bells makes the double change, if the third be behind; but if it be before, the double is on the two first and two last; every bell lieth twice behind, except when the treble goes to lead, if the third be before; and note, when it is 1, 3, 2, there is a single in second and thirds places, which is twice, once at the Three-score end, and Six-score end. 12345 21435 24153 42513 24531 42351 24315 42135 41253 14523 15432 51342 53124 35214 53241 35421 53412 35142 31524 13542 15324 51234 52143 25413 52431 25341 52314 25134 21543 12453 14235 41325 43152 34512 43521 34251 43215 34125 31452 13425 14352 41532 45123 54213 45231 54321 45312 54132 51423 15243 12534 21354 23145 32415 23451 32541 23514 32154 31245 13254 12354 21534 25143 52413 25431 52341 25314 52134 51243 15423 14532 41352 43125 34215 43251 34521 43512 34152 31425 13452 14325 41235 42153 24513 42531 24351 42315 24135 21453 12543 15234 51324 53142 35412 53421 35241 53214 35124 31542 13524 15342 51432 54123 45213 54231 45321 54312 45132 41523 14253 12435 21345 23154 32514 23541 32451 23415 32145 31254 13245 12345 Old Doubles. On five Bells. This Peal call'd _Old Doubles_, is to be rang on five bells, wherein are Six-score changes, which are all Doubles, except only when the whole Hunt leads, and then there is always a single change made. It has a whole Hunt, a half Hunt, and three extream bells; every bell leads twice together all the way, and lies twice behind, except only when the whole Hunt leads, and then the bell behind lies there four times together, unless the extream is made behind, and then but twice. Every bell hunts in a perfect course, until the whole Hunt leads, and then the single is to be made, at which time the bell in seconds place lies there twice (unless the extream is made in second and thirds place) and every single change is made in third and fourths places, except the extreams which are (in this Peal) made by the same rule and after the same manner, as I shewed before in the Six-score call'd Doubles and Singles on five bells. In making the single changes in third and fourths places, it is observed, that the bell which lies in fourths place (the change next before the single) is hunting up; and in making the single change, it does dodge with the bell in thirds place, and so hunts up behind; and likewise the bell that lies in thirds place (in the change next before the single) is hunting down, and in making the single it does dodge with the bell in fourths place, and then hunts directly down. In this following Peal, the treble is the whole Hunt, the second the half Hunt, and an extream change is alwayes made, when the half Hunt lies before the extream bells next to the whole Hunt; every extream is made between the two farthest extream bells from the half Hunt, as in the following changes. 12345 21435 24153 42513 45231 54321 53412 35142 31524 13254 13524 31254 32145 23415 24351 42531 45213 54123 51432 15342 15432 51342 53124 35214 32541 23451 24315 42135 41253 14523 14253 41523 45132 54312 53421 35241 32514 23154 21345 12435 12453 21543 25134 52314 53241 35421 34512 43152 41325 14235 14325 41235 42153 24513 25431 52341 53214 35124 31542 13452 13542 31452 34125 43215 42351 24531 25413 52143 51234 15324 15234 51324 53142 35412 34521 43251 42315 24135 21453 12543 12534 21354 23145 32415 34251 43521 45312 54132 51423 15243 15423 51243 52134 25314 23541 32451 34215 43125 41352 14532 14352 41532 45123 54213 52431 25341 23514 32154 31245 13425 13245 31425 34152 43512 45321 54231 52413 25143 21534 12354 12345 This Peal of _Old Doubles_, is grounded on the Twenty-four changes Doubles and Singles on four bells, which are made in a perfect course herein; every time the whole Hunt leads, there are two changes made in the Twenty-four; the half Hunt, and three extream bells, makes the Twenty-four changes, and every single change in this Peal, is a single change in the Twenty-four. This Peal may be rang Six-score several wayes; with one whole Hunt, and half Hunt, it is to be rang six wayes (i.e.) three wayes in hunting up the whole Hunt at the beginning of the Peal, and the other wayes in hunting it down; in which six wayes, the Extream Changes are to be made by the same rule, and in the same manner, as those in the Six-score Doubles and Singles on five Bells, and _Paradox_ before set down; so that with the twenty Hunts, it may be rang twenty times six wayes, which makes Six-score. In these Six-score wayes, the whole Hunt is before the Bells when every single Change is made; but it may be rang Six-score several wayes more, by making the single Changes when the whole Hunt lies behind them, which being never practised, I will say no more of it. For the convenience and benefit of the Practitioner, I have set down certain rules, shewing how to begin each Peal of _Old Doubles_ (with any Hunt) by the former course (i.e.) in making the single Changes, when the whole Hunt lies before the Bells, these Rules serving only for moving the whole Hunt at the beginning of each Peal, for it may be hunted either up or down. In hunting either the treble, third, or fifth Bells up, the first change is made between the four foremost Bells, thus.-- 12345 21435 --The treble down, the first change is single in third and fourths places, unless the half Hunt lies so, as that the Extream is to be made. --The third or fifth down, the first change is between the four hindmost Bells, thus.-- 12345 13254 --The second or fourth up, the first change is between the four hindmost Bells. --The second or fourth down, the first change between the four foremost Bells. In ringing any of these Peals, where the first change is made between the four hindmost Bells, it must be made at the Back-stroke, otherwise the Bells will cut Compass all the way; every double change is made either between the four foremost, or four hindmost bells. New Doubles. On five Bells. In this Peal of _New Doubles_, there are Six-score Changes, which are all double, except only when the whole Hunt leads, and then there is alwayes a single Change made; it has a whole Hunt, a half Hunt, and three Extream Bells. The whole Hunt has a perfect course in hunting up and down, and lies twice before, and twice behind. When the whole Hunt leaves the thirds place hunting up, then each Bell that comes into that place, lies there twice, and then moves up behind; and the Bells in treble and seconds places, does continue dodging from the time that the whole Hunt hunts up out of thirds place, until it comes into that place again hunting down; and that Bell which comes into thirds place (when the whole Hunt leaves it hunting down, lies there twice, and then moves up behind) and the next Bell that comes into that place, lies there twice also, and then moves down before the Bells. But note, that Bell which lies in the thirds place (in the Change next before the Extream) continues there, until the whole Hunt hunts up into that place, and then it moves down; when the whole Hunt leads the Bell in seconds place, lies there twice together, and then moves down before the Bells; and every Bell that comes behind, lies there twice, except only in the Change next before, and that next after the whole Hunt leads; every single Change is made in third and fourths places, except the Extreams, which are also single Changes, and made between the two hindmost Bells, when the half Hunt lies before the Extream Bells next to the whole Hunt. These directions are only for Ringing this Peal next following; but it may be Rang many other wayes, by making the Extream Changes in other places, of which I shall speak more anon. 12345 21354 23145 32415 23451 32541 23514 32154 31245 13254 13524 31542 35124 53214 35241 53421 35412 53142 51324 15342 15432 51423 54132 45312 54321 45231 54213 45123 41532 14523 14253 41235 42153 24513 42531 24351 42315 24135 21453 12435 ----- 12453 21435 24153 42513 24531 42351 24315 42135 41253 14235 14325 41352 43125 34215 43251 34521 43512 34152 31425 13452 13542 31524 35142 53412 35421 53241 35214 53124 51342 15324 15234 51243 52134 25314 52341 25431 52413 25143 21534 12543 ----- 12534 21543 25134 52314 25341 52431 25413 52143 51234 15243 15423 51432 54123 45213 54231 45321 54312 45132 41523 14532 14352 41325 43152 34512 43521 34251 43215 34125 31452 13425 13245 31254 32145 23415 32451 23541 32514 23154 21345 12354 ----- 12345 This Peal may be Rang Six-score several wayes. With one whole Hunt, and half Hunt, it may be Rang six wayes; in three of which, the whole Hunt is to be hunted up, and in the other three wayes it is to be hunted down; which six wayes are to be Rang, by making the Extream changes by the same rules, and in the same manner, as in Doubles and Singles on five Bells, _Old Doubles_, and _Paradox_, before set down; so that with the twenty Hunts, it may be Rang twenty times six wayes; which makes Six-score. This Peal is grounded on the Twenty-four Changes, Doubles and Singles on four Bells, the half Hunt and three Extream Bells makes the Twenty-four Changes in perfect course; and in the same manner, as I shewed you in _Paradox_, and _Old Doubles_. These following rules shews how to begin any Peal of _New Doubles_. In hunting either the treble or fourth up, the first change must be double between the two first, and two last Bells, thus.-- 12345 21354 In hunting the treble down, the first change is single in third and fourths places, unless the extream is to be made. --The fourth down, the first change is between the four first Bells. Second up, first change double between the four hindmost Bells. Second down, the first change is double between the two first, and two last Bells. Third up, first change double between the four foremost Bells. Third down, first change double between the four hindmost Bells. Fifth up, double between the four first Bells. Fifth down, first change double, two first and two last Bells. Grandsire on five Bells. _Grandsire_ is the best and most ingenious Peal that ever was composed, to be rang on five bells, it having no dependance on the course of any other Peal. There are Sixscore changes in it, in pricking of which, there is the greatest variety of any other Peal whatsoever; for it may be prick't or rang some thousands of wayes. The common way of ringing it, is to make the Bobs and single changes when the whole Hunt leads, which course and method I will first set down, and afterward say something of the other wayes in ringing it. It has a whole hunt and half hunt, the changes are all double except two, which are single. The whole hunt has a perfect course in hunting up and down, and lies twice together before, and twice behind all the way; every other bell has the same course as the whole hunt, in moving and hunting up and down; and each bell lead twice together all the way, and lie twice together behind, except only at the Bobs. Every Bob-change is made between the two first and two last bells, the bell in thirds place lies full when every Bob-change is made, and then moves down; and every other double change is made between the four bells that stand together (viz.) either the four first, or four last bells. There are two sorts of Bobs, one of which is call'd a single Bob, and the other a double. The Rule for making the single Bob is this--When the whole hunt leads, and the half hunt lies in thirds place, the next is a Bob-change; in making of which, the whole hunt moves out of the trebles place up into the seconds place hunting up, and the bell which lies behind in the change next before the Bob, makes a dodge with the bell in fourths place, and then lies twice behind; and that bell which did dodge with the bell in tenors place, moves directly down; this is a single Bob, that is, one Bob-change. The Rule for making the double Bob is this--When the whole hunt lies in the seconds place hunting down, and the half hunt behind, then there is a double Bob, that is, two Bob-changes, one of which is made the next change wherein the whole Hunt moves out of the seconds place down before the bells, and the other bob is made the next change but one to it, in which the whole Hunt moves from before the bells up into the seconds place; the bell which lies in the thirds place when every Bob-change is made, lies there twice, and then moves down. And at every double Bob, the two hindmost bells continue dodging until the whole Hunt moves up into the seconds place, and parts them. Every time the whole Hunt comes before the bells, there is either a single Bob, or double Bob made, which comes by turns, one single, and the next double throughout the Peal. The greatest variety of this Peal consists in making the single changes. In this way of Ringing it (with any whole Hunt and half Hunt) the first single change may be made either at the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, or sixth Bobs, at the single or double Bobs at pleasure; observing for a constant Rule, that the half Hunt is alwayes one of the two bells which makes every single change; for the single changes are so contrived, that (in making them) the whole Hunt and half Hunt are to continue their constant course as at other times. At the single Bob, the single change is made in seconds and thirds places; and at the double Bob, 'tis made in fourth and fifths places, the other three bells lying still in their places, whil'st each single change is made; the next change to each single, is a Bob-change; every single change is made when the whole hunt lies before the bells; there being alwayes sixty changes, from the first single change to the second; if the first single change is made at a single bob, then the second single change must be made at the third single bob from it; or if the first single change is made at a double bob, the second single change must be made at the third double bob from that where the first was made. This Peal may be rang without making any single change therein, which is done by making a double change to supply the place of it. There are two of these double changes in each Peal; the first of them may be made at any bob within sixty changes from the beginning of the Peal, and the second is to be made just sixty changes from the first. At a double bob, it may be made at either of the two bob-changes; at the first of them, 'tis made by moving the whole Hunt down, and the bell in thirds place up over two bells at once into the tenors place, thus:-- 41325 14253 In making it at the second bob change of the double bob, 'tis the same as at the first, only in that the whole Hunt moved down to lead; but in this it must move up from before the bells into the seconds place, as in this change:-- 12435 21354 The changes next following these, are the same as at other times. At the single bob, 'tis to be made when the whole Hunt lies in the seconds place hunting down; in which place it may be made two wayes, in one of which the bell in thirds place is to be moved up behind, in the same manner as I showed you at the double bob: The other way, is to move the bell in tenors place down into the thirds place, thus:-- 51423 15342 Now the reason wherefore at this place it may be made two wayes, and at each of the double bob changes but one way, is this; At the double bob, the half Hunt lies behind, which cannot be moved into thirds place, for that would put it out of its course; but in the single bob, the half Hunt lying before the bells, and the whole Hunt in seconds place, so that neither of those bells are concerned therein; therefore it may be made either by moving the bell in thirds place up behind, or else by moving the hindmost bell down into thirds place, both which are to one effect, though different changes; for these changes are so continued, that (in making them) the whole Hunt and half Hunt are to continue their constant course, as at other times. I have here set down this Peal of Grandsire, making the treble the whole Hunt, and the tenor the half Hunt, and the first single change is made the sixth bob; that is, the third double bob, which is sixty changes from the beginning of the Peal; you may know the single change, by the line drawn between the figures at the single change, that next after the line is the single: Grandsire is most commonly rang, as it is here prickt; but it may be rang any other way, according to my directions before. 12345 21354 23145 32415 34251 43521 45312 54132 51423 15243 12534 21543 25134 52314 53241 35421 34512 43152 41325 14352 13425 31452 34125 43215 42351 24531 25413 52143 51234 15324 13542 31524 35142 53412 54321 45231 42513 24153 21435 12453 14235 41253 42135 24315 23451 32541 35214 53124 51342 15432 14523 41532 45123 54213 52431 25341 23514 32154 31245 13254 ----- 13245 31254 32145 23415 24351 42531 45213 54123 51432 15342 13524 31542 35124 53214 52341 25431 24513 42153 41235 14253 12435 21453 24135 42315 43251 34521 35412 53142 51324 15234 12543 21534 25143 52413 54231 45321 43512 34152 31425 13452 14325 41352 43125 34215 32451 23541 25314 52134 51243 15423 14532 41523 45132 54312 53421 35241 32514 23154 21345 12354 ----- 12345 Grandsire may be rang another way (i.e.) in making the bobs when the whole Hunt is before the bells (as in the former way) and to make the single changes when it lies behind (viz.) the first single change may be made at any time when the whole Hunt comes behind, provided it be made within sixty changes from the beginning of the Peal; if it is made the next time the whole Hunt comes behind after a single bob, it is in treble and seconds places; after a double bob, it is made in third and fourths places, the whole Hunt lying behind when each single change is made, and the second single change must be made just sixty changes from the first. In all the several Peals of Grandsire by the course aforesaid, the first changes in each Peal must be made by these following Rules: With these ten Hunts, the whole Hunt is to be hunted up at the beginning of each Peal. B 1,3 B 1,5 2,3 2,4 3,2 3,5 4,1 4,5 5,1 5,4 With these ten Hunts, the first change in each Peal is made by hunting the whole Hunt down. 1,2 1,4 2,1 B 2,5 3,1 3,4 4,2 4,3 5,2 5,3 These are the twenty Hunts on five bells, which are set down in Page 26. The two figures which stand together, do represent the whole Hunt and half Hunt; for instance, the uppermost figures are 1,3; the 1 is the whole Hunt, and the 3 is the half Hunt, and so of the rest. Where the letter B stands by the Hunt, the first change that Hunt makes is a Bob: But with all the other Hunts, the first change is either between the four first, or four last bells; yet the first change in many of them may be made single, as in 1,2: 1,3: 1,4: 1,5: 2,1: 2,3: 3,1: 3,5: 4,1: 4,3: 1,5: 5,1: 5,4: In hunting the treble down, the first change is made between the four hindmost bells; and in hunting the fifth bell up, the first change is made between the four foremost bells. There is another way to Ring this Peal of Grandsire, which is, to make the bobs and single changes when the whole hunt lies behind the bells; but this is not convenient to be practised, therefore I will say no more of it in this place, having only mentioned this, to shew the great variety there is in this Peal. This Peal of Grandsire is to be Rang by another course, viz. to make the bobs when the whole hunt is behind the bells, and the single changes, when it lies before them. This is the absolute foundation from whence the excellent Peal of Grandsire bob (on six bells) had its beginning and method, and by practising to prick down this Peal, and by observing the true course and method of the bobs and single changes herein, you may with the greatest ease understand the true course of the bobs and single changes in Grandsire bob on six bells, for the half hunt, the quarter hunt, and the three extream bells (in Grandsire bob on six bells) do make these sixscore changes; every time the whole hunt leads in Grandsire bob, there are two changes made in this Peal of Grandsire on five bells: And so consequently, the single changes in Grandsire bob are made by the same rule and method as they are in this Peal. The Rule for making the bobs in this Peal, is this (viz.) when the whole hunt lies in the fourths place hunting up, and the half hunt leads, the next is a double Bob: And when the whole hunt lies in the tenors place, and the half hunt in thirds place, then the next change is a single bob, the bobs are made between the two first and two last bells, that in thirds place lies still in the bob change, and then moves up. The single changes are made when the whole hunt leads; the first single change (in Ringing it with any whole hunt and half hunt) may be made at any time when the whole hunt leads, within sixty changes from the beginning of the Peal, accounting the bells as they stand round at the beginning for one of the sixty changes. The single change that is made the next time the whole hunt leads after a single bob, is made in fourth and fifths places; and that which is made next after a double bob, is made in second and thirds places, the half hunt is alwayes one of the two bells which makes every single change. If the first single change is made after a single bob, then the second single change must be made when the whole hunt leads next after the third single bob from that after which the first single was made; and the same is observed, in making them after a double bob: there being alwayes sixty changes from the first to the second single change in each Peal. This Peal I have here set down, in which I make the treble the whole hunt, the fifth the half hunt, and the first single change is made when the whole hunt comes to lead next after the first single bob: You may know the single change, by the line drawn between the figures; the change next below the line, is the single, as in the following Peal. 12345 13254 31524 35142 53412 35421 53241 35214 53124 51342 15432 14523 41253 42135 24315 23451 32541 23514 32154 31245 13425 ----- 13452 31542 35124 53214 35241 53421 35412 53142 51324 15234 12543 21453 24135 42315 43251 34521 43512 34152 31425 13245 12354 21534 25143 52413 25431 52341 25314 52134 51243 15423 14532 41352 43125 34215 32451 23541 32514 23154 21345 12435 14253 41523 45132 54312 45321 54231 45213 54123 51432 15342 13524 31254 32145 23415 24351 42531 24513 42153 41235 14325 ----- 14352 41532 45123 54213 45231 54321 45312 54132 51423 15243 12534 21354 23145 32415 34251 43521 34512 43152 41325 14235 12453 21543 25134 52314 25341 52431 25413 52143 51234 15324 13542 31452 34125 43215 42351 24531 42513 24153 21435 12345 This Peal may be Rang without making any single change therein, there are two double changes which may be made to supply the places of the two single changes; the first of these double changes in any Peal may be made any time when the whole hunt lies in fourths place hunting up, provided you make it within sixty changes from the beginning of the Peal. At a double bob, it may be made at either of the two bob changes, by moving the bell which lies in thirds place down under two bells at once into the trebles place: Now suppose it were to be made the first time the whole hunt lies in the fourths place hunting up in the Peal next before, which is at a double bob, the bells lie thus, 53412; now the treble being the whole hunt must move up behind, and the fourth bell being in thirds place, must move down under two bells at once into the trebles place, thus, 45321; or else it may be made at the next bob change of the double bob, 53241; here the treble must be moved down into fourths place, and the second bell into trebles place, thus, 25314. It may also be made the change next before the single bob, in which change it may be made two wayes; viz. either by moving the bell in thirds place down into trebles place, as in the changes next before, or else by moving the bell in trebles place up into thirds place; for instance, two changes before the first single bob (as in the Peal before set down) the bells be thus, 24315; now the change may be made, either by moving the third bell into the trebles place, thus, 32451; or else the bell that leads up into thirds place, thus, 43251; in both which wayes, the whole hunt is to be moved up behind. There are only two of these double changes to be made in each Peal: if the first is made at a double bob, then the second must be made at the third double bob from it; or if the first of them is made at a single bob, then the second must be made at the third single bob from that where the first was made, there being alwayes just sixty changes from the first of these double changes to the second in each Peal. These double changes are the same which in Grandsire bob on six bells, are called true changes; those true changes in Grandsire bob being made by the same rule, and in the same manner as these are. In all the Peals of Grandsire, wherein the bobs are made when the whole hunt is behind (according to the Rules next before set down) the first changes in each Peal must be made by these Rules following. With these ten Hunts, the first change in each Peal is made by hunting down the whole Hunt. 1,2 1,5 2,1 2,5 3,1 3,4 4,2 4,3 B 5,1 B 5,3 With these ten Hunts, the first change in each Peal is made by hunting the whole Hunt up. 1,3 1,4 2,3 2,4 3,1 3,5 B 4,1 4,5 5,4 5,2 Where the letter B stands next to any hunt; the first change which that hunt makes, is a bob: But with all the other hunts, the first change in each Peal is made double, either between the four first, or four last bells; yet in many of them, the first change may be made single, as in 1,2: 1,5: 2,1: 2,3: 2,5: 3,5: 4,3: 4,5: 5,2: 5,3: Before I conclude my directions to this excellent Peal of Grandsire, I will set down one general Rule for making the single changes in any Peal (at places differing from any of the former Rules) viz. wheresoever the whole hunt and half hunt meets together to make a change (which constantly happens every time the whole hunt hunts up, and every time it hunts down in every Peal) the other three bells may lie still in their places, whil'st the whole hunt and half hunt makes the change; which being made, the whole hunt, the half hunt, and the other bells are immediately to proceed in their course; which single change is as effectual, as those which are made by the Rules aforesaid. Observing to make the first single change in any Peal, within sixty changes from the beginning; and the second single change must be made (just sixty changes from the first) between the whole hunt, and half hunt, which two bells will in course lie in the same places where the first single change was made. The Seven-score and four on six Bells. This Peal containing Seven-score and four changes, is to be Rang on six bells, in which, the treble and tenor are both whole hunts, and the second is half hunt; the whole hunts do both hunt at one and the same time in a direct course, one up, and the other down; and alwayes when one of them lies before the bells, the other lies behind them; and when that hunt which lies before the bells, leaves the trebles place hunting up, the other hunt lying behind, leaves the tenors place hunting down; each hunt lies only twice together before the bells, and twice behind throughout the Peal. The second bell is the half hunt in this following Peal, for the second, third, fourth and fifth bells make the twenty four changes herein; every time the whole hunts come before and behind the bells, there is one change made in the Twenty-four (which is alwayes once in six changes) the second bell being the hunt on the Twenty-four; so that every time it comes before or behind the extream bells, there is an extream change to be made, which in the following Peal is made between the two farthest extream bells from the second. I have only set down part of this Peal, which is sufficient to shew the course and method thereof. 123456 213465 231645 236145 263415 623451 632451 362415 326145 321645 312465 132456 134256 314265 341625 346125 364215 634251 634521 364512 346152 341652 314562 134526 ------ 143526 413562 431652 436152 463512 643521 643251 463215 436125 431625 413265 143256 142356 412365 421635 At the extream change next before, I have drawn a line between the figures, that next below the line is the extream: The aforesaid Peal may be Rang with any other whole hunt, or half hunt; and also the Twenty-four changes doubles and singles, may be made in the room of the plain Twenty-four in the aforesaid Peal. Trebles and Doubles on six Bells. There are many Peals of Trebles and Doubles to be Rang on six bells, as, Six-score changes, Seven-score and four, Twelve-score, and Seven-hundred and twenty. In each of which Peals, the changes that are made from the time that the whole hunt leaves the trebles place hunting up, until it comes down into that place again, are all made in one and the same manner, so that the only difference in these Peals, consists in making the changes when the whole hunt leads. These Peals are called Trebles and Doubles, because one is a treble change (that is, 3 changes made together, in which all the six bells do change their places, thus, 123456:214365:) and the next is a double change between the 4 bells, in the midst, thus, 241635: And in this course the changes are alwayes made from the time that the whole hunt leaves the trebles place hunting up, until it comes down into the trebles place again; and in Ringing this Peal, 'tis observed, that every bell does hunt in a perfect and direct course, and be twice together before, and twice behind, until the whole hunt leads. The manner of Ringing the Seven-score and four, is this; the treble and tenor are both whole hunts, and the second is the half hunt; the first change is a treble change, and the next a double change, as I shewed you before; in which course they are made, until the treble leads again, and the tenor lie behind; at which time there's a single change to be made in third and fourths places: But when the half hunt lies next to the treble, then the next single change must be made in fourths and fifths places, as in this following Peal, where I have only set down part of it for an example. 123456 214365 241635 426153 462513 645231 654321 563412 536142 351624 315264 132546 135246 312564 321654 236145 263415 624351 642531 465213 456123 541632 514362 153426 154326 513462 531642 356124 365214 632541 623451 264315 246135 421653 412563 145236 142536 415263 451623 546132 564312 653421 635241 362514 326154 231645 213465 124356 ------ 124536 215463 251643 526134 562314 653241 This Peal is grounded on the Twenty-four changes doubles and singles, the second, third, fourth and fifth makes the Twenty-four changes; the second bell is the hunt in the Twenty-four, therefore the extream in the Peal next before, is made between the two farthest extream bells from it when it lies before them: At the extream changes there's a line drawn between the figures, but the extreams may be made every time the second lies behind the extream bells; or else, every time it lies before and behind them, in the same manner, as I told you before in my directions to the Twenty-four Doubles and Singles: And this Peal may be also Rang with any other whole hunts, or half hunts. In the Six-score Trebles and Doubles, the changes are the same as in the Peal next before, until the whole hunt leads, at which time (in this Peal) there is a double change to be made between the four hindmost bells; but when the whole hunt leads, and the half hunt lies next to it, then there is a single change to be made, either between the two nearest bells to the half hunt, or else between the two farthest bells from it; there are but two single changes in the Peal, and the second single change must be made between those two bells which made the first. In this following, the treble is the whole hunt, and the second the half hunt, and the first single change is made when the bells do lie 124365: which is sixty changes from the beginning of the Peal; after the whole hunt has at first hunted up and down again: I have set down only those changes which are made every time the whole hunt leads. 123456 214365 241635 426153 462513 645231 654321 563412 536142 351624 315264 132546 135264 ------ 153624 156342 ------ 165432 164523 146253 142635 ------ 124365 ------ 123465 ------ 132645 136254 ------ 163524 165342 156432 154623 ------ 145263 142536 ------ 124356 ------ 123456 The course of the Twelve-score, and the Seven-hundred and twenty, are both one and the same; for the Twelve-score changes, are only part of the Seven-hundred and twenty. There's a whole hunt, a half hunt, a quarter hunt, and three extream bells in the Seven-hundred and twenty; the changes are all treble and double (in the same course, as in the Six-score next before set down) until the whole hunt leads, and the half hunt lies next to it, at which time there's a single change to be made in fourth and fifths places: But when the whole hunt leads, and the half hunt lies next to it, and the quarter hunt lies next to the half hunt, then there's an extream to be made, which is a single change, and made between the two farthest extream bells from the quarter hunt; and by observing this course, you may prick down, or Ring the Seven-hundred and twenty: But if you would only Ring Twelve-score changes (and then end there, by bringing the bells round) you must make no extream change at all; for in making every single change in fourth and fifths places, the bells will come round in course at the end of Twelve-score changes if you make no extream change to carry the Peal forward. In the following changes, the treble is the whole hunt, the 2 is the half hunt, the 3 the quarter hunt, and the 4, 5, and 6, are the extream bells. It being not much material to set down this Peal at large, therefore after the treble (which is the whole hunt) has hunted twice up and down, I have put down only the two changes which are made every time the treble leads to the end of the Twelve-score, as follows. 123456 214365 241635 426153 462513 645231 654321 563412 536142 351624 315264 132546 135264 312546 321456 234165 243615 426351 462531 645213 654123 561432 516342 153624 156342 ------ 165432 164523 ------ 146253 142635 ------ 124365 single 124635 ------ 142365 143256 ------ 134526 135462 ------ 153642 156324 ------ 165234 162543 ------ 126453 single 126543 ------ 162453 164235 ------ 146325 143652 ------ 134562 135426 153246 152364 ------ 125634 single 125364 ------ 152634 156243 ------ 165423 164532 ------ 146352 143625 ------ 134265 132456 ------ 123546 The last change is 123456: which is at the end of Twelve-score changes; and here you see, that the whole hunt, the half hunt, and quarter hunt, do lie next to each other before the extream bells; therefore the bells may either be brought round, by making the single change in the same place, as those next before, are made thus, 123456: or else, if you would proceed forward to the end of the Seven-hundred and twenty, then the next must be an extream change between the fourth and sixth, which are the 2 hindmost bells, thus, 123564: and by observing to make an extream change behind every time the 1, 2, 3, lie together before the bells, the bells will come round in course at the end of the Seven-hundred and twenty; at the end of every Three score changes, there's a single change throughout the Peal, and an extream change at the end of every Twelve-score. This Peal (by the Rules aforesaid) may be Rang with any whole hunt, half hunt, and quarter hunt. In this Peal is contained the Six-score changes of Old Doubles on five bells, and also the Twenty-four changes Doubles and Singles on four bells; the half hunt, the quarter hunt, and three extream bells, makes the Six-score changes of Old Doubles in a perfect course; and the quarter hunt, and three extream bells, do make the Twenty-four changes Doubles and Singles. Every time the whole hunt leads, there are made two changes of the Six-score; and every time the whole hunt leads, and the half hunt lies next to it, there are two changes mades in the Twenty-four. _Grandsire Bob_. On six Bells. In this Peal of Grandsire Bob, there are Seven-hundred and twenty changes, in Ringing of which, there is the same course, as in Trebles and Doubles (before set down) until the bob-changes come to be made; this Peal may more properly be called Trebles and Doubles than the former, because all the changes throughout the Seven-hundred and twenty, are treble and double, except only the two single changes: But in Ringing an Eighteen-score (which is half the Seven-hundred and twenty, and a complete Peal of it self) the changes are all treble and double without any single change therein; for you must know, that in any Peal of Grandsire bob, the bells will come round in course at the end of Eighteen-score changes, if you make no single change to carry it on farther to the end of the Seven-hundred and twenty. This Peal has a whole hunt, a half hunt, a quarter hunt, and three extream bells; every bell hunts in a direct course, and lies twice together before, and twice behind, until the whole hunt leads, and then the four hindmost bells do dodge, that is, they make a double change; in which 'tis alwayes observed, that the two bells which lie in third and fifths places (in the change next before the dodge) are hunting down, and in making this double change, each of those bells do dodge with the bell next above it, that is, they move up over one bell, and then each of them moves directly down; and the two bells that lie in fourth and tenors places in the change next before every dodge, are hunting up, and in making the dodge change, each of those bells do move down under one bell, and then they move up again in their course, as before; the dodge changes in all Peals of Trebles and Doubles, are made in the same manner as these. There are two sorts of bobs in this Peal, viz. a single, and a double Bob; the Rule for making the single bob, is this, when the whole hunt leads, and the half hunt lies in tenors place, and the quarter hunt in fourths place, the next change is a bob; and when the whole hunt leads, and the half hunt lies in fifths place, and the quarter hunt in seconds place, then there is a double bob, that is, two bob-changes; one of which is made the next change, and the other is made the next time the whole hunt leads after. The bobs are all double changes, and made in one and the same manner (i.e.) the leading bell, and that in fourths place, do both lie still, whil'st the two bells in second and thirds places, and those in fifth and tenors places make the bob-change; and as soon as 'tis made, the bell in fourths place moves directly down. The half hunt is alwayes one of the two hindmost bells which makes every bob-change. In Ringing this Peal, there is a Rule observed, whereby the person that does Ring the quarter hunt, may give notice of the bobs before they come to be made, without which it were impossible to Ring it; the Rule is this: In the dodge which is made between the four hindmost bells every time the whole hunt leads, if the half hunt and quarter hunt do dodge in fifth and tenors place, then the next time the whole hunt leads, there's a single bob; if they dodge in fourth and thirds places, then there's a double bob that is, two bob-changes, one of which is made the next time, the whole hunt leads after the dodge, and the other is made the next time the whole hunt leads after the former is made: He that does Ring the quarter hunt, may give notice of every bob-change, by saying (Bob) when the whole hunt is going to lead, which is a change next before the bob is to be made. There are certain Rules very convenient to be known by all that practise to Ring this Peal; (viz.) he that does Ring the whole hunt, must observe that the bell which he first follows when he leaves the trebles place hunting up, he must follow the same bell the next time he lies behind; and the second bell which he follows in hunting up, he must also follow the same bell when he next leaves the tenors place hunting down; and likewise, the third bell which he follows in hunting up, he must also follow the same bell when he leaves the fifths place hunting down: For instance, in the first change of the following Peal, the bells stand thus: 214365: here the treble (being the whole hunt) does first follow the second, therefore when the treble has hunted up, and lies behind, it follows the second again, as in this change, 654321: And again, the second change of the following Peal, is 241635: here the fourth is the second bell, which the treble follows in hunting up, therefore he follows that bell again the next time he leaves the tenors place hunting down, as in this change, 563412: which course is observed throughout the Peal. And in Ringing any other bell (beside the whole Hunt) 'tis observed, that the next time you lie before the bells after a bob, that bell which you first follow in hunting up, you must also follow the same bell when you lie behind; and the same bell you must first follow every time you hunt up, and every time you lie behind, until the next bob comes to be made, but if the whole hunt is the second bell which you follow in hunting up, then you must follow the whole Hunt when you lie behind; and the next time you lead, and lie behind, you must follow the former bell as before, until the bobs come to be made; and after the bobs, the course is the same (though you do not follow the same bell) as before. These Rules and Directions before set down, are to be observed in Ringing any Peal of Grandsire bob with any whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt: An Example I have here set down, wherein the treble is the whole Hunt, the second the half Hunt, and the fourth the quarter Hunt, as in these following changes. 123456 214365 241635 426153 462513 645231 654321 563412 536142 351624 315264 132546 135264 312546 321456 234165 243615 426351 462531 645213 654123 561432 516342 153624 156342 513624 531264 352146 325416 234561 243651 426315 462135 641253 614523 165432 ------ 156423 514632 541362 453126 435216 342561 324651 236415 263145 621354 612534 165243 162534 615243 651423 564132 546312 453621 435261 342516 324156 231465 213645 126354 123645 216354 261534 625143 652413 564231 546321 453612 435162 341526 314256 132465 134256 312465 321645 236154 263514 625341 652431 564213 546123 451632 415362 143526 ------ 134562 315426 351246 532164 523614 256341 265431 624513 642153 461235 416325 143652 ------ 134625 316452 361542 635124 653214 562341 526431 254613 245163 421536 412356 143265 142356 413265 431625 346152 364512 635421 653241 562314 526134 251643 215463 124536 125463 214536 241356 423165 432615 346251 364521 635412 653142 561324 516234 152643 156234 512643 521463 254136 245316 423561 432651 346215 364125 631452 613542 165324 163542 615324 651234 562143 526413 254631 245361 423516 432156 341265 314625 136452 ------ 163425 614352 641532 465123 456213 542631 524361 253416 235146 321564 312654 136245 132654 316245 361425 634152 643512 465321 456231 542613 524163 251436 215346 123564 125346 213564 231654 326145 362415 634251 643521 465312 456132 541623 514263 152436 154263 512436 521346 253164 235614 326541 362451 634215 643125 461352 416532 145623 ------ 154632 516423 561243 652134 625314 263541 236451 324615 342165 431256 413526 145362 ------ 154326 513462 531642 356124 365214 632541 623451 264315 246135 421653 412563 145236 142563 415236 451326 543162 534612 356421 365241 632514 623154 261345 216435 124653 126435 214653 241563 425136 452316 543261 534621 356412 365142 631524 613254 162345 163254 612345 621435 264153 246513 425631 452361 543216 534126 351462 315642 136524 135642 316524 361254 632145 623415 264351 246531 425613 452163 541236 514326 153462 ------ 135426 314562 341652 436125 463215 642351 624531 265413 256143 521634 512364 153246 152364 513246 531426 354162 345612 436521 463251 642315 624135 261453 216543 125634 126543 215634 251364 523146 532416 354261 345621 436512 463152 641325 614235 162453 164235 612453 621543 265134 256314 523641 532461 354216 345126 431562 413652 146325 ------ 164352 613425 631245 362154 326514 235641 253461 524316 542136 451263 415623 146532 ------ 164523 615432 651342 563124 536214 352641 325461 234516 243156 421365 412635 146253 142635 416253 461523 645132 654312 563421 536241 352614 325164 231546 213456 124365 Here are just Eighteen-Score changes already made, and the bells may either be brought round in their places, by making a dodg-change behind (according to the common course), thus, 124365 123456 but to have proceeded forward in the 720, the last should have been a single change in third and fourths places, thus, 124365 123465 the single change being made, all the following changes to the end of the 720 are to be made, by the same rule and course as those before set down, the last change of the 720 being also a single change, and to be made in the same place, and between those two bells which made the former single, thus, 124356 123456 which single change brings the bells round in their right places at the end of the 720. This Peal of Grandsire bob may be Rang with any whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt; but there being some difficulty in beginning many of the Peals, I have therefore set down Directions for beginning each Peal, as follows. 1.2.4 1.2.5 1.3.2 2.3.6 1.4.6 1.5.3 1.5.4 1.6.3 In Ringing Grandsire bob with any of these eight Hunts, the first changes in each Peal are to be made in the same manner, as those in the Peal before set down, until the first bob in each Peal comes to be made. 1.2.3 1.2.6 1.3.5 1.4.2 1.4.5 With these five Hunts, the first change in each Peal is a dodge between the four hindmost bells: thus, 123456 124365 Each three figures that stand together next before, do represent a whole Hunt, a half Hunt, and quarter Hunt: for instance, the uppermost figures in the first Column, are 1.2.4. there the treble is the whole Hunt, the second the half Hunt, and the fourth the quarter Hunt, and so of the rest. In making the treble the whole Hunt, the fifth the half Hunt, and the sixth the quarter Hunt; the first change is a dodge between the four hindmost bells, in which the half and quarter Hunt do dodge together in fifth and tenors places, therefore the next time the whole hunt comes before the bells, there's a single bob. In ringing treble, tenor, and fifth, the whole Hunt moves up the first change, thus 214365, and so on in the common course until it comes next before the bells, at which time there's a single bob. In ringing treble, fourth, and third, the whole Hunt moves up the first change, thus, 214365, and so forward in the common course, until it leads again; at which time there's a bob-change to be made, and another the next time the whole Hunt leads after that, it being a double bob. In ringing treble, third, and fourth, the first is a dodge-change between the four hindmost bells, in which the half Hunt and quarter Hunt do dodge together in third and fourths places, therefore a double bob is next to be made, one of which bob-changes is the next time the whole Hunt leads, and the other the next following. In ringing treble, fifth, and second, the first is a bob-change; and the next time the whole Hunt leads, there's another bob-change, it being a double bob. In Ringing treble, sixth, and second, and treble, sixth, and fourth, the first change in each of these two Peals is a bob. 2.4.6 5.3.4 6.1.2 5.3.1 With these four Hunts, the first change is treble, and the next double, thus, 214365, and so on, till the whole Hunt leads. 3.5.2 4.6.2 6.2.1 2.3.5 6.3.5 With these five Hunts, the first change must be made between the four bells in the midst, thus, 132546. In Ringing tenor, treble, and second, there's a single bob the first time the whole Hunt comes before the bells. In all Peals of Grandsire bob, where the first change is either a bob, or a dodge between the four hindmost bells, or else a double change between the four bells in the midst, it must be made at the back-stroke of the bells, otherwise the Peal would cut compass all the way, that is, every bell would come to lead at the back-stroke. In the Eighteen-score changes before set down, there's a line drawn between the figures at every bob, the changes next below each line is a bob-change. In the Seven-hundred and twenty changes of Grandsire bob, there are two single changes to be made. The first single change in any Peal is most commonly made as near the end of Eighteen-score changes (from the beginning) as may be, and 'tis the best way, and most convenient: For instance, sometimes it happens that one or more of those persons who do Ring this Peal, may be weary before they have Rang Eighteen-score changes, therefore upon notice given, the single change may be forborn, and then the bells will in course come round at the end of Eighteen-score changes, making a complete Peal; but after the first single change is made, the bells cannot be brought round in course, until the Seven-hundred and twenty are all made. There is great variety in making the single changes in each Peal, which may be made at divers places (viz.) The first single change in any Peal may be made the second time the whole Hunt leads after the last bob-change of the first or second double bobs, at which places the whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt, do alwayes lie together before the bells, and the single change is to be made in third and fourths places. The first single change in any Peal may also be made the second time the whole Hunt leads after the first or second single bobs, at which place the whole Hunt and half Hunt do alwayes lie together before the bells; and the quarter Hunt lies behind, therefore it must be made between the two hindmost bells. Or if the first bob in any Peal is a double bob, then the first single change may be made the second time the whole Hunt leads after the third double bob in that Peal, at which place the whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt do lie together before the bells, and the single is made in third and fourths places. Or if the first bob in any Peal is a single bob, then the first single change may be made the second time the whole Hunt leads after the third single bob, where the whole Hunt and half Hunt do alwayes lie together before the bells, and the quarter Hunt behind, therefore the single change must be made behind. The first single change in any Peal may also be made either at the first, second, or third single bobs, at which places the whole Hunt leads, the half Hunt lies in tenors place, and the quarter Hunt in fourths place, therefore it must be made behind. The first single change in any Peal may also be made the next time the whole Hunt leads after the last bob-change of the first or second double bobs, at which place the whole Hunt, and quarter Hunt do alwayes lie together before the bells, and the half Hunt in fourths place, therefore the single change must be made in third and fourths places. And in most Peals, the first single change may be made the next time the whole Hunt leads after the last bob-change of the third double bob; and in some Peals, the first single change may be made the second time the whole Hunt leads after the third double bob (nothwithstanding the first bob-change in that Peal is a single bob, as in the Eighteen-score treble, second and fourth before set down) which falls out according as the first bob change happens to be made either nearer the beginning of the Peal, or farther from it; for in some Peals, the bells will come round in course the next time the whole Hunt leads after the last bob-change of the third double bob. And in many Peals, the bells will come round at the fore-stroke the second time the whole Hunt leads after the last bob-change of the third double bob, &c. There are two single changes in every Seven-hundred and twenty, which are alwayes made when the whole Hunt leads, the last single change in every Peal being constantly made just Eighteen-score changes from the first; for making of which, observe these Rules. If the first single change (in any Peal) is made the second time the whole Hunt leads after a double bob, then the second single change must be made the second time the whole Hunt leads after the third double bob, accounting from the place where the first single change was made. If the first single change in any Peal is made the second time the whole Hunt leads after a single bob, then the second single change must be made the second time the whole Hunt leads after the third single bob, accounting from the place where the first single change was made. Or if the first single change is made at a single bob, then the second single change must be made at the third single bob, accounting from the place where the first single change was made. The second single change in every Peal must be made between those two bells, and in the same place where the first single change was made; and the whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt, will in course lie in the same places at the second single change, where they lay at the first: either the half Hunt, or quarter Hunt, are alwayes one of the two bells which makes every single change. But there are many other wayes to make the single changes, viz. to make them between the half Hunt, and quarter Hunt, at any dodge, where those two bells do dodge together next before a bob, &c. of which I need not say any thing more in this place, having already set down all those wayes which are most easie and convenient to be practised. In Ringing this Peal of Grandsire bob, (with any whole Hunt, half Hunt, and quarter Hunt) if there's no single change made within Eighteen-score changes from the beginning of the Peal, the bells will in course come round in their right places, just at the end of Eighteen-score changes. In any Peal of Grandsire bob, where the first is a double change, and made at the back-stroke, the last change of the Peal (which brings the bells round in their right places) is a treble change, and made at the fore-stroke. The Seven-hundred and twenty changes of Grandsire Bob may be Rang without making any single change therein, which way of Ringing it, is call'd _Grandsire Bob True_: that is, the changes are all true trebles and doubles without any single change therein. There are made two double changes (contrary to the course of all the double changes in the Peal) to supply the place of the two single changes, which two are called True changes; and to be made divers wayes, and at several places. The first true change in any Peal may be made at the first, second, or third double bobs either at the first or second bob-change of each. At the first bob-change of any double bob it may be made, by moving the Bell in fourths place down under two Bells at once into the seconds place, and the two hindmost Bells must make a change at the same time: for Example, in the Eighteen-score of treble, second and fourth before set down, at the first bob-change of the first double Bob, the Bells stand thus, 143526. Now the true change is made, by moving the Bell which lies in fourths place down under two Bells at once into seconds place, and the two hindmost Bells are at the same time to make a change thus, 154362. At this place it may be made another way, by moving the hindmost Bell down under two Bells at once into the fourths place, and the two Bells in second and thirds places are at the same time to make a change thus, 134652. At the last Bob-change of each double Bob, it may also be made two wayes; one of which, is to move the Bell in fourths down into the seconds place, and the two hindmost Bells at the same time to make a change, as I shewed you before: But the best and easiest way is to move the bell which lies in fourths place up over two bells at once into the tenors place, and the two bells in second and thirds places to make a change as at a bob: for instance, at the last bob-change of the first double bob in the Eighteen-score before set down, the figures stand thus, 143652. Now the bell in fourths place must be moved up behind, and the two bells in second and thirds places are to make a change, 134526. The second True change in every Peal must be made just Eighteen-score changes from the first, in making of which, these Rules are to be observed. If the first true change in any Peal is made at the first bob-change of a double bob, then the second true change must be made at the first bob-change of the third double bob, accounting from the place where the first true change is made, but not reckoning that for one of the three: or if the first true change is made at the last bob-change of a double bob, then the second true change must be made at the last bob-change of the third double bob, accounting from the place where the first true change was made, but not reckoning that for one of the three. And the second true change in every Peal must be made in the same manner and place as the first, the true and single changes in Grandsire bob, are both to one and the same effect (i.e.) to alter the course of the extream bells; for in making these changes, the whole hunt, half hunt, and quarter hunt are to continue their constant course without variation, neither of those 3 bells being any otherwise concerned therein, than at the change which should have been made, if the single or true change had been forborn. There is another way to Ring this Peal of Grandsire Bob, by a course differing from the former. When the whole Hunt leads, the half Hunt lies in fifths place, and the quarter Hunt in fourths place, then the next change is a single bob; and when the whole Hunt leads, and the half Hunt lies in fifths place, and the quarter Hunt in thirds place, then the next change is the first bob-change of a double bob; the bobs and dodge-changes herein are made in the same manner, as those in the former way: But the bobs herein are called by a Rule differing from the former, viz. when the whole Hunt and half Hunt do lie together before the bells, and the quarter Hunt (lying in fourths place) dodges with the bell in thirds place, then the second time the whole Hunt comes before the bells (from that place) there is made the first bob-change of a double bob, the second bob-change being made the next time the whole Hunt leads after. When the whole Hunt and half Hunt, do lie together before the bells, and the quarter Hunt (lying in fifths place) dodges with the bell in tenors place, then the second time the whole Hunt leads (from that place) is made a single bob. There are two single changes in the Seven-hundred and twenty, the first single change in any Peal may be made at the first, second, or third single bobs, at which places it must be made between the 2 hindmost bells; or the first single change may be made the next time the whole Hunt leads after the first, second, or third single bobs, at which places 'tis alwayes made between the two hindmost bells. The first single change may also be made the next time the whole Hunt leads after the last bob-change of the first, second, or third double bobs, where it must alwayes be made in third and fourths places. But in some few Peals it happens, that the bells will come round at the fore-stroke the next time the whole Hunt leads after the third single bob, and also after the last bob-change of the third double bob, which falls out according as the first bob-change in each Peal is made, either nearer the beginning, or farther off. The second single change (in every Peal) must be made Eighteen-score changes from the first, in making of which, these Rules must be observed. If the first single change is made at a single bob, then the second single change must be made at the third single bob from the place where the first was made. Or if the first single change is made the next time the whole Hunt leads after a single bob, then the second single change must be made the next time the whole Hunt leads after the third single bob, accounting from the place where the first single change was made. And the same Rule is observed in making it after a double bob. The second single change in every Peal must be made in the same place, and between those two bells which made the first single change: But (in Ringing this Peal) if you make no single change, the bells will in course come round at the end of Eighteen-score changes. The way to begin several of these Peals, is as follows. In Ringing treble, third, and fifth; and second, third, and fifth; and also third, fifth, and second; the first change is treble, and the next double, and so forward in the common course of trebles and doubles, until the first Bob in each comes to be made. In treble, second and third, the first changes are treble and double in the common course; and the second time the treble leads, there's a double Bob. In treble, tenor and second, the first changes are treble and double in the common course; and the second time the treble leads, there's a single Bob. In treble, second and fifth, the first change is a dodge between the four hindmost Bells; and the second time the treble leads, there's a single Bob. In second, fourth and tenor, the first change is made between the 4 Bells in the midst. In treble, second and fourth, the first change is a dodge behind; and the second time the treble leads, there's a double Bob. Changes on eight Bells. There are 40320 several changes on 8 bells, which to Ring it is altogether impossible; the greatest Peal that ever was Rang on 8 Bells, is 1680, being only a third part of the changes on seven Bells, which are to be Rang with a whole Hunt, half Hunt, quarter Hunt, half quarter Hunt (for so you may term it) and three extream Bells: But the most complete and musical Peal that ever was Rang on eight Bells, is Grandsire Bob, treble, second and fifth, Half-pulls, on 1.2.3.5.6.7. the fourth and the tenor lying behind every change, thus, 123567,48. which has of late been practised by the _Colledge-Youths_, and excellently well performed by them. Grandsire, and Tendring Six-score on eight Bells makes good Musick, 7.4.8. lying behind every change: And a Six-score (four extreams) on the six Bells in the midst, the treble leading all the way, and the tenor lying behind, making a change at first between the 4 and 5, and then proceeds forwards in the Six-score, making the second the whole Hunt, and the seventh the half Hunt, it makes excellent Musick; but after the Six-score changes are made, the fourth and fifth must change their places again to bring the Bells round. 35678,241 12357,864 12357,468 12357,648 12356,748 34567,218 45678,321 12368,574 The most musical Peals that are commonly Rang on eight Bells, are these Six-scores on five, the other three Bells lying behind every change: For example, the uppermost fig. are 35678,241. here the 35678, makes the Six-score changes, 3 the whole hunt, and 8 the half Hunt, or any others, and 241. strikes behind every change, in the same order as they now lie, and so of the rest. The three Bells which are to lie behind, must first be hunted up one after the other in order, before any of the Six-score changes are made. The Seven-score and four on the six middle Bells, the treble leading, and the tenor lying behind every change, makes good Musick. Of Hanging Bells. First, for the Stock, much need not be said, but of placing the Cannons or Crown of the Bell into it, which is called _Hanging of a Bell_, I shall speak something: First, find out whether the Cannons be upright and true, then raise the Bell up by some Rope tyed to the Cannons, and so that the Bell hang level, which you may find, by applying a Plumet to the brim, then fasten a string to the Crown-staple within the Bell, then (a Plumet being tyed to the other end of the string) if the string hang in the midst between the two sides of the Bell whereon the Clapper should strike, the Crown-staple is cast into the Bell true: Now when you have hung the Bell, and let the Gudgeons in true by Keys (for therein consists the main point of the going of a Bell) then if the Clapper hang in the midst between the two striking sides, and the Stock stand upright, the Bell is well hung. If a Bell have a longer stroke on the one side, than the other, truss up that side which hath the short stroke more, or let the other side down, and put a piece or two of Leather in, according to the stroke; but sometimes the fault of the stroke is in the Sally, which you may remedy, by tying the Fillet (or little Cord about the rim of the Wheel, which causeth the dancing of the Rope) nearer, or farther off the main Spoke; nearer makes a short stroke, farther off the Spoke, a long one. And observe, that the trussing or taking up of a great Bell far into the Stock by a notch, makes the Bell go easier, and lie lighter at hand (that is) when it is set, for the farther the brim of the Bell is from the centre of gravity, the heavier it is: Now the centre of gravity is a supposed line drawn through the Stock from one Gudgeon to the other; but note, if you truss a Bell up, that the Crown-staple be much above the Gudgeons, you must fasten a false Eye to the Crown-staple, and to this false Eye hang the Clapper, otherwise it will not strike so freely: Now small Bells must be trussed up short, for else the Bell hanging low, and fetching a great Compass in the swing, and having but little Compass in the brim, the Clapper keeps along by the side of the Bell, and gives no blow at all; but being hung short, the Bell fetches a quick and short Compass, equal to the bigness of the brim, and the Clapper strikes well. Now for the tempering of the Gudgeons, I leave it to the judgment of the Workman; but a word or two of the polishing of it. After it is filed, or turned exactly round, take two pieces of Oak, and oyl one side of each, and strew fine Sand thereon, and clap them in a Smiths Vice, with the round of the Gudgeon between, then turn it about, until you think it is sufficiently polished, then oyl the sides of the pieces of Oak wherein there is no Sand, and so clap them in a Vice, with the Gudgeon between, as before, then turn it round, and it will polish the Gudgeon wonderful smooth; and if the Brasses are likewise well polished, the Bell will go as well at the first, as ever: Now by the neglect of this, the roughness of the Gudgeon will wear the Brasses so unequally, that the Bell will never go smooth and steddy. Now I would advise all Bell hangers to hang Bells with bolts of Iron to come from the Cannons through the Stock, and to fasten them with Keys at the top of the Stock, and not with plates nailed on the sides; for they are mighty inconvenient to fasten a bell that is loose in the Stock, or to alter the stroke. As for the Rowle, let it not be without, nor within the hollow of the side of the Wheel; nor above, nor below the hollow at the bottom of the Wheel. Now the bigger a Wheel is, if the Frame will permit, the bell will go the better; when the wheel is new, nail Stays from the Stock to each Spoke, to keep it from warping. 'Tis very convenient (if the Frame will permit) to fasten a piece of Timber about half a foot long on the end of the main Spoke at the top of the Wheel (whereon the end of the bell-rope is fastned) with a notch on the end of it; so at the setting of the bell, the Rope will hit into that notch from the Rowle, and this will make the bell lie easier at hand when it is set, and flie better. FINIS. 
16658	----	PIANO AND SONG _HOW TO TEACH, HOW TO LEARN,_ AND HOW TO FORM A JUDGMENT OF MUSICAL PERFORMANCES. Translated from the German OF FRIEDRICH WIECK. BOSTON: LOCKWOOD, BROOKS, & COMPANY. 1875. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by NOYES, HOLMES, AND COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. _Cambridge:_ _Press of John Wilson and Son._ TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. FRIEDRICH WIECK, the author of the work a translation of which is here offered to the public, was during his long life a distinguished teacher of music. He died in the autumn of 1873. He was the father and teacher of the celebrated pianist, Clara Wieck, now Fr. Dr. Clara Schumann, widow of the renowned composer Robert Schumann, who was also a pupil of Wieck. His second daughter, Fräulein Marie Wieck, is well known in Germany as an artistic performer on the piano-forte. I have translated this little book, with the belief that a knowledge of the author's views will be no less valuable in America than in his own country; and with the hope that it may find readers who will be glad to receive the suggestions of so experienced a teacher. In illustration of his method, in addition to the two Etudes, already published by F. Whistling, Leipzig, a number of piano exercises, &c., selected from the literary remains of Wieck, by his daughter Marie Wieck and his pupil Louis Grosse, are, it is said, about to be published. I have omitted in the translation a few portions on the composition and management of the opera, on the giving of concerts, and on the construction of the piano, thinking that they would be of little interest or practical value to the general public. MARY P. NICHOLS. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. I here present to the musical public a book written in a style of my own, not a scientific and systematically well-arranged treatise. This no reasonable man would expect of an old music-master, who, in his long practice in the realm of tones, could not arrive at learned and too often fruitless deductions. Nature made me susceptible to that which is good and beautiful; a correct instinct and a tolerable understanding have taught me to avoid the false and the vicious; a desire for increased knowledge has led me to observe carefully whatever I met with in my path in life; and I may say, without hesitation, that I have endeavored, according to my ability, to fill the position to which I have been called. This is no vain boast, but only the justifiable assertion of a good conscience; and this no man needs to withhold. For these reasons, I have been unwilling to refrain from giving to the world a true expression of my opinions and feelings. I trust they will meet with a few sympathizing spirits who are willing to understand my aims; but I shall be still more happy if, here and there, a music-teacher will adopt the views here set forth, at the same time carefully and thoughtfully supplying many things which it did not enter into my plan to explain more in detail. Abundant material lay spread out before me, and even increased upon my hands while I was writing. Art is indeed so comprehensive, and every thing in life is so closely connected with it, that whoever loves and fosters it will daily find in it new sources of enjoyment and new incitements to study. The most experienced teacher of art must be a constant learner. I have always held and still hold the opinions advanced in this work, and I have neglected no opportunity to impress them upon my pupils. I may be allowed to mention here, with some satisfaction, my daughters Clara and Marie; and, among numerous other pupils, I speak with equal pleasure of the estimable Herr Waldemar Heller, of Dresden, and Prof. E.F. Wenzel, of Leipzig. I have always enjoyed their affection and gratitude, and I feel a pride that they continue to defend and to teach the principles which they have received from me. This is not the first time that I have appeared as an author. The "Signale für die musikalische Welt," as well as the "Neue Zeitschrift für Musik," have published numerous essays from my pen under various titles. The approval which they met with, at the time of their appearance, has induced me to undertake this larger work. Several of those earlier writings are included in this book, but in a partially altered form. The frequently recurring character, the teacher Dominie, originated with these essays; I need hardly say that he represents my humble self. Those who are otherwise unacquainted with me will through him understand my character, and will moreover see that a man of such caustic brevity can be, by no means, a master of polished style. May this last acknowledgment appease all those critics whose hair is made to stand on end by my inelegant mode of writing. I will make no further apology for my style. I have often availed myself of the dialogue form, because it was conducive to brevity; not less frequently I have made use of the form of the epistle and of personal discourse, as being more congenial to my individual manner than that of a serious treatise. I have also undertaken to say something about singing! A piano-teacher, if he is possessed of mind and talent, as I suppose him to be, whether he teaches the elements or occupies himself with more advanced instruction, should understand the art of singing; he, at least, should show a warm interest in it, and should have an earnest love for it. When I speak in general of singing, I refer to that species of singing which is a form of beauty, and which is the foundation for the most refined and most perfect interpretation of music; and, above all things, I consider the culture of beautiful tones the basis for the finest possible touch upon the piano. In many respects, the piano and singing should explain and supplement each other. They should mutually assist in expressing the sublime and the noble, in forms of unclouded beauty. My book will make this evident to many; but whether it will succeed with all, I doubt. Not a few will even be found who will lay aside my book with contempt, and who will scorn the zeal of the "man of the past age." I am quite prepared for this: it is the fashion at present to undervalue the old times and their defenders; but I shall continue to be conservative, until the "men of the future" shall be able to show me results which shall excel those of the past, or at least shall equal them. And now I commend my little book to the public, trusting that it will instruct the willing, correct the erring, incite the indolent, and chastise those who wilfully persist in the wrong. THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. CHAP. I. ON ELEMENTARY PIANO-FORTE INSTRUCTION II. AN EVENING ENTERTAINMENT AT HERR ZACH'S III. MANY STUDENTS OF THE PIANO AND FEW PLAYERS IV. A CONVERSATION WITH MRS. SOLID, AND FOUR LESSONS TO HER DAUGHTER V. ON THE PEDAL VI. THE SOFT-PEDAL SENTIMENT VII. A MUSICAL TEA-PARTY AT THE HOUSE OF JOHN SPRIGGINS VIII. SINGING AND SINGING-TEACHERS IX. THOUGHTS ON SINGING X. VISIT AT MRS. N.'S XI. SECRETS XII. THOUGHTS ON PIANO-PLAYING XIII. ON MUSICAL TALENT XIV. EXTRAVAGANCES IN SINGING AND PIANO-PLAYING XV. CONCLUSION PIANO AND SONG. CHAPTER I. ON ELEMENTARY PIANO-FORTE INSTRUCTION. You ask, my dear friend, for some particular information about my piano method, especially with regard to my mode of elementary instruction, which differs essentially from that in common use. I give you here the main points; and, if you place confidence in my experience of forty years, and if you will supply those details which I have omitted, your own varied experience as a thoughtful, talented, and earnest piano-teacher will enable you to understand my theory, from the following dialogue between my humble self under the title of Dominie, my friend, and the little Bessie:-- DOMINIE. My dear friend, how have you managed to make piano-playing so utterly distasteful to little Susie? and how is it that the instruction which you have given her for the last three years actually amounts to nothing? FRIEND. Well, I will tell you how I have proceeded. First I taught her the names of the keys, that was pretty dull work for her; then I made her learn the treble notes, which was a difficult matter; after that I taught her the bass notes, which puzzled her still more; then I undertook to teach her a pretty little piece, which she hoped to perform for the delight of her parents. Of course she constantly confused the bass and treble notes, she could not keep time, she always used the wrong fingers and could not learn it at all. Then I scolded her,--she only cried; I tried a little coaxing,--that made her cry worse; finally I put an end to the piano lessons, and she begged me never to begin them again; and there you have the whole story. DOMINIE. You certainly might have begun more judiciously. How is it possible for a child to climb a ladder when not only the lower rounds, but a great many more, are wanting? Nature makes no leaps, least of all with children. FRIEND. But did she not begin to climb the ladder at the bottom? DOMINIE. By no means. She certainly never was able to reach the top. I should say, rather, that she tumbled down head foremost. To speak mildly, she began to climb in the middle; and even then you tried to chase her up, instead of allowing her, carefully and quietly, to clamber up one step at a time. Bring me your youngest daughter, Bessie, and I will show you how I give a first lesson. DOMINIE. Bessie, can you say your letters after me? so,--_c_, _d_, _e_, _f_. BESSIE. _c_, _d_, _e_, _f_. DOMINIE. Go on,--_g_, _a_, _b_, _c_. BESSIE. _g_, _a_, _b_, _c_. DOMINIE. Once more: the first four again, then the next four. That's right: now all the eight, one after the other, _c_, _d_, _e_, _f_, _g_, _a_, _b_, _c_. BESSIE. _c_, _d_, _e_, _f_, _g_, _a_, _b_, _c_. DOMINIE. (_after repeating this several times_). That's good: now you see you have learned something already. That is the musical alphabet, and those are the names of the white keys on the piano-forte. Presently you shall find them out, and learn to name them yourself. But, first, you must take notice (I strike the keys in succession with my finger, from the one-lined _c_ to the highest treble) that these sounds grow higher and become sharper one after the other; and in this way (I strike the keys from one-lined _c_ to the lowest bass) you hear that the sounds grow lower and heavier. The upper half, to the right, is called the treble; the lower half is the bass. You quite understand now the difference between the high sharp tones and the low deep ones? Now we will go on. What you see here, and will learn to play upon, is called the key-board, consisting of white keys and black ones. You shall presently learn to give the right names both to the white keys and the black; you see there are always two black keys and then three black keys together, all the way up and down the key-board. Now put the fore-finger of your right hand on the lower one of any of the two black keys that are together, and let it slip off on to the white key next below it; now you have found the key called _c_; what is the name of the next key above it? Say the whole musical alphabet. BESSIE. _c_, _d_, _e_, _f_, _g_, _a_, _b_, _c_. DOMINIE. Well, then, that key is called _d_. BESSIE. Then this one must be _e_. DOMINIE. And now comes _f_. Anywhere on the key-board you can find _f_ just as easily, if you put your finger on the lowest of any three black keys that are together, and let it slip off on to the white key next below it. If you remember where these two keys, _f_ and _c_, are, both in the treble and the bass, you can easily find the names of all the other keys. Now what is the next key above _f_? BESSIE. _g_, and then _a_, _b_, _c_. DOMINIE. Now we will say over several times the names of the keys, upwards and downwards, and learn to find them skipping about in any irregular order. At the end of the lesson we will try them over once more, and before the next lesson you will know the names of all the white keys. You must practise finding them out by yourself; you can't make a mistake, if you are careful to remember where the _c_ and the _f_ are. I told you that the sounds this way (I strike the keys upward) grow higher, and this way (I strike them downwards) they grow lower. So you see no tones are just alike: one is either higher or lower than the other. Do you hear the difference? Now turn round so as not to see the keys; I will strike two keys, one after the other; now which is the highest (the sharpest), the first or the second? (I go on in this way, gradually touching keys nearer and nearer together; sometimes, in order to puzzle her and to excite close attention, I strike the lower one gently and the higher one stronger, and keep on sounding them, lower and lower towards the bass, according to the capacity of the pupil.) I suppose you find it a little tiresome to listen so closely; but a delicate, quick ear is necessary for piano-playing, and by and by it will become easier to you. But I won't tire you with it any more now, we will go on to something else. Can you count 3,--1, 2, 3? BESSIE. Yes, indeed, and more too. DOMINIE. We'll see; now keep counting 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, as evenly and regularly as you can. (I lead her to count steadily, and strike at the same time a chord in three even quarter-notes.) Now we'll see if you can count evenly by yourself. (I count 1 of the chord with her, and leave her to count 2 and 3 by herself; or else I count with her at 2, and let her count 1 and 3 alone; but I am careful to strike the chord promptly and with precision. Afterwards I strike the chord in eighth-notes, and let her count 1, 2, 3; in short, I give the chord in various ways, in order to teach her steadiness in counting, and to confine her attention. In the same way I teach her to count 1, 2, 1, 2; or 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6; at the same time telling her that music is sometimes counted in triple time, and sometimes in 2/4 or 4/4 time.) Now, Bessie, you have learned to count very well, and to know the difference in the tones. It is not every child that learns this in the first lesson. If you don't get tired of it, you will some time learn to be a good player. As soon as you are rested, I will tell you about something else, that you will have to listen to very carefully. BESSIE. But I like it, and will take pains to listen just as closely as I can. DOMINIE. When several tones are struck at the same time, if they sound well together, they make what we call a chord. But there are both major and minor chords: the major chord sounds joyous, gay; the minor, sad, dull, as you would say; the former laugh, the latter weep. Now take notice whether I am right. (I strike the chord of C major; then, after a short pause, that of C minor; and try, by a stronger or lighter touch, to make her listen first to the major and then to the minor chords. She usually distinguishes correctly; but it will not do to dwell too long upon these at first, or to try to enforce any thing by too much talk and explanation.) Now I will tell you that the difference in the sounds of these chords is in the third, counted upwards from the lower note _c_, and depends upon whether you take it half a tone higher or lower, _e_ or _e_ flat. I shall explain this better to you by and by, when you come to learn about the tonic, the third, the fifth or dominant, the octave, and so on. (It is advantageous and psychologically correct to touch occasionally, in passing, upon points which will be more thoroughly taught later. It excites the interest of the pupil. Thus the customary technical terms are sometimes made use of beforehand, and a needful, cursory explanation given of them.) That is right; you can tell them pretty well already; now we will repeat once more the names of the keys, and then we will stop for to-day. Just see how many things you have learned in this lesson. BESSIE. It was beautiful! DOMINIE. I hope you will always find it so. BESSIE. When may I have another lesson? DOMINIE. Day after to-morrow; at first, you must have at least three lessons a week. BESSIE. What shall I do in the next lesson? DOMINIE. I shall repeat all that I have taught you to-day; but I shall teach you a great deal of it in a different way, and every time I shall teach it to you differently, so that it shall always be interesting to you. In the next lesson we will begin to play, first on the table, and at last on the piano. You will learn to move your fingers lightly and loosely, and quite independently of the arm, though at first they will be weak; and you will learn to raise them and let them fall properly. Besides that, we will contrive a few exercises to teach you to make the wrist loose, for that must be learned in the beginning in order to acquire a fine touch on the piano; that is, to make the tones sound as beautiful as possible. I shall show you how to sit at the piano and how to hold your hands. You will learn the names of the black keys and the scale of C, with the half-step from the 3d to the 4th and also that from the 7th to the 8th, which latter is called the leading note, which leads into C. (This is quite important for my method, for in this way the different keys can be clearly explained.) You will learn to find the chord of C in the bass and the treble, and to strike them with both hands together. And then in the third or fourth lesson, after you know quite perfectly all that I have already taught you, I will teach you to play a little piece that will please you, and then you will really be a player, a pianist. FRIEND. From whom have you learned all this? It goes like the lightning-train. DOMINIE. A great many people can learn _what_ is to be taught; but _how_ it is to be taught I have only found out by devoting my whole mind, with real love and constant thought, to the musical improvement and general mental development of my pupils. The advancement will unquestionably be rapid, for it proceeds step by step, and one thing is founded upon another; the pupil learns every thing quietly, thoughtfully, and surely, without going roundabout, without any hindrances and mistakes to be unlearned. I never try to teach too much or too little; and, in teaching each thing, I try to prepare and lay the foundation for other things to be afterwards learned. I consider it very important not to try to cram the child's memory with the teacher's wisdom (as is often done in a crude and harsh way); but I endeavor to excite the pupil's mind, to interest it, and to let it develop itself, and not to degrade it to a mere machine. I do not require the practice of a vague, dreary, time and mind killing piano-jingling, in which way, as I see, your little Susie was obliged to learn; but I observe a musical method, and in doing this always keep strictly in view the individuality and gradual development of the pupil. In more advanced instruction, I even take an interest in the general culture and disposition of the pupil, and improve every opportunity to call forth the sense of beauty, and continually to aid in the intellectual development. FRIEND. But where are the notes all this time? DOMINIE. Before that, we have a great deal to do that is interesting and agreeable. I keep constantly in view the formation of a good technique; but I do not make piano-playing distasteful to the pupil by urging her to a useless and senseless mechanical "practising." I may perhaps teach the treble notes after the first six months or after sixty or eighty lessons, but I teach them in my own peculiar way, so that the pupil's mind may be kept constantly active. With my own daughters I did not teach the treble notes till the end of the first year's instruction, the bass notes several months later. FRIEND. But what did you do meanwhile? DOMINIE. You really ought to be able to answer that question for yourself after hearing this lesson, and what I have said about it. I have cultivated a musical taste in my pupils, and almost taught them to be skilful, good players, without knowing a note. I have taught a correct, light touch of the keys from the fingers, and of whole chords from the wrist; to this I have added the scales in all the keys; but these should not be taught at first, with both hands together. The pupil may gradually acquire the habit of practising them together later; but it is not desirable to insist on this too early, for in playing the scales with both hands together the weakness of the fourth finger is concealed, and the attention distracted from the feeble tones, and the result is an unequal and poor scale. At the same time, I have in every way cultivated the sense of time, and taught the division of the bars. I have helped the pupils to invent little cadences with the dominant and sub-dominant and even little exercises, to their great delight and advantage; and I have, of course, at the same time insisted on the use of the correct fingering. You see that, in order to become practical, I begin with the theory. So, for instance, I teach the pupil to find the triad and the dominant chord of the seventh, with their transpositions in every key, and to practise them diligently; and to make use of these chords in all sorts of new figures and passages. But all this must be done without haste, and without tiring the pupil too much with one thing, or wearing out the interest, which is all-important. After that, I teach them to play fifty or sixty little pieces, which I have written for this purpose. They are short, rhythmically balanced, agreeable, and striking to the ear, and aim to develop gradually an increased mechanical skill. I require them to be learned by heart, and often to be transposed into other keys; in which way the memory, which is indispensable for piano playing, is unconsciously greatly increased. They must be learned _perfectly_ and played well, often, according to the capacity of the pupil, even finely; in strict time (counting aloud is seldom necessary) and without stumbling or hesitating; first slowly, then fast, faster, slow again, _staccato_, _legato_, _piano_, _forte_, _crescendo_, _diminuendo_, &c. This mode of instruction I find always successful; but I do not put the cart before the horse, and, without previous technical instruction, begin my piano lessons with the extremely difficult acquirement of the treble and bass notes. In a word, I have striven, as a psychologist and thinker, as a man and teacher, for a many-sided culture. I have also paid great attention to the art of singing, as a necessary foundation for piano-playing. I have devoted some talent, and at least an enthusiastic, unwearied love to the subject. I have never stood still; have learned something of teaching every day, and have sought always to improve myself; I have always been something new and different, in every lesson and with every child; I have always kept up a cheerful, joyous courage, and this has usually kindled the same in my pupil, because it came from the heart. Moreover, I have never been a man of routine, have never shown myself a pedant, who is obliged to hold fast to certain ideas and views. I have lived up to the century, and have tried to understand and to advance the age; have heard every thing great and fine in music, and have induced my pupils also to hear it. I have opposed with determination all the prejudices and false tendencies of the times, and never have allowed impatient parents to give advice about my lessons. I have insisted upon a good and well-tuned instrument for my pupils, and have endeavored to merit the love and confidence both of my pupils and of their parents. In fact, I have devoted myself thoroughly to my calling, and have been wholly a teacher, always fixing my eye on the true, the beautiful, and the artistic; and in this way have been of service to my pupils. FRIEND. But how do you find parents who sympathize with your ideas and with your lofty views? DOMINIE. I have found that almost all the parents of my pupils have entered into my views, if not immediately, at least after they had been present at a few lessons. In the case of those few who would not enter into them, I have abandoned the lessons; but, nevertheless, I have found that my time has been fully occupied. My friend, do you not think that views like these will assist in the training of young and inexperienced teachers, who are striving for improvement? and do you not think they will be useful even to those who already possess general mental culture, and who are animated by an ardent love for their calling? I especially avoid giving here any exclusive method, a servile following of which would be entirely contrary to my intentions, and, in fact, contrary to my method. But as for the rest! Alas, all those who do not understand me, or who choose to misunderstand me, those are the worst!--especially the ill-natured people, the _classical_ people who bray about music, stride straight to the notes, and have no patience till they come to Beethoven; who foolishly prate and fume about my unclassical management, but at bottom only wish to conceal their own unskilfulness, their want of culture and of disinterestedness, or to excuse their habitual drudgery. Lazy people without talent I cannot undertake to inspirit, to teach, and to cultivate. This chapter will, almost by itself, point out to unprejudiced minds my method of giving more advanced instruction, and will show in what spirit I have educated my own daughters, even to the highest point of musical culture, without using the slightest severity. It will, indeed, cause great vexation to the ill-minded and even to the polite world, who attribute the musical position of my daughters in the artistic world to a tyranny used by me, to immoderate and unheard-of "practising," and to tortures of every kind; and who do not hesitate to invent and industriously to circulate the most absurd reports about it, instead of inquiring into what I have already published about teaching, and comparing it with the management which, with their own children, has led only to senseless thrumming. CHAPTER II. AN EVENING ENTERTAINMENT AT HERR ZACH'S. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. HERR ZACH, _formerly a flute-player, not very wealthy._ HIS WIFE, _of the family of Tz. (rather sharp-tempered)._ STOCK, _her son, 17 years old (is studying the piano thoroughly)._ MR. BUFFALO, _music-master of the family._ DOMINIE, _piano-teacher (rather gruff)._ CECILIA, _his daughter, 13 years old (shy)._ ZACH (_to Dominie_). I regret that I was unable to attend the concert yesterday. I was formerly musical myself and played on the flute. Your daughter, I believe, plays pretty well. DOMINIE. Well, yes! perhaps something more than _pretty well_. We are in earnest about music. MADAME, of the Tz. family (_envious because Cecilia received applause for her public performance yesterday, and because Mr. Buffalo had been unable to bring out Stock,--all in one breath_). When did your daughter begin to play? Just how old is she now? Does she like playing? They say you are very strict, and tie your daughters to the piano-stool. How many hours a day do you make her practise? Don't you make her exert herself too much? Has she talent? Isn't she sickly? DOMINIE. Don't you think she looks in good health, madam,--tall and strong for her years? MADAME, of the Tz. family. But perhaps she might look more cheerful, if she was not obliged to play on the piano so much. DOMINIE (_bowing_). I can't exactly say. ZACH (_suddenly interrupting, and holding Dominie by the button-hole_). They say you torment and ill-treat your daughters dreadfully; that the eldest was obliged to practise day and night. Well, you shall hear my Stock play this evening, who, some time, by the grace of God, is to take the place of Thalberg in the world. Now give me your opinion freely (of course, I was only to praise): we should like very much to hear what you think about his playing, though perhaps Mr. Buffalo may not agree with you. (_Mr. Buffalo is looking through the music-case and picking out all the Etudes, by listening to which Dominie is to earn his supper._) DOMINIE (_resigned and foreseeing that he shall be bored_). I have heard a great deal of the industry of your son, Stock. What are you studying now, Mr. Stock? STOCK (_in proud self-consciousness, rather Sophomoric_). I play six hours a day, two hours scales with both hands together, and four hours Etudes. I have already gone through the first book of Clementi and four books of Cramer. Now I am in the Gradus ad Parnassum: I have already studied the right fingering for it. DOMINIE. Indeed, you are very much in earnest: that speaks well for you, and for Mr. Buffalo. But what pieces are you studying with the Etudes? Hummel, Mendelssohn, Chopin, or Schumann? STOCK (_contemptuously_). Mr. Buffalo can't bear Chopin and Schumann. Mr. Buffalo lately played through Schumann's "Kinderscenen," that people are making such a talk about. My mamma, who is also musical, and used to sing when papa played the flute, said, "What ridiculous little things are those? Are they waltzes for children? and then the babyish names for them! He may play such stuff to his wife, but not to us." DOMINIE. Well, these "Kinderscenen" _are_ curious little bits for grown-up men's hands. Your mother is right, they are too short: there certainly ought to be more of them. But they are not waltzes! STOCK. Indeed, I am not allowed to play waltzes at all. My teacher is very thorough: first, I shall have to dig through all the Gradus ad Parnassum; and then he is going to undertake a concerto of Beethoven's with me, and will write the proper fingering over it. I shall play that in public; and then, as he and my aunt say, "I shall be the death of you all." MR. BUFFALO (_who has overheard him, steps up_). Now, Herr Dominie, how do you like my method? Perhaps you have a different one? Nevertheless, that shan't prevent our being good friends. Certainly, if any thing is to be accomplished in these times, it is necessary to keep at work,--that is my doctrine. But Stock, here, has unusual patience and perseverance. He has worked through all Cramer's 96 Etudes in succession without grumbling. He was wretched enough over them; but his papa bought him a saddle-horse to ride round on every day, and he revived in the fresh air. (_Herr Zach with his wife and an old aunt are playing cards in the further room._) DOMINIE. But do you not combine the study of musical pieces with the study of exercises, in order that the cultivation of the taste may go hand in hand with mechanical improvement? MR. BUFFALO. My dear friend, you are too narrow-minded there,--you make a mistake: taste must come of itself, from much playing and with years. Your Cecilia played the two new waltzes, and the Nocturne of Chopin, and Beethoven's trio very nicely. But then that was all drilled into her: we could tell that well enough by hearing it,--Stock and I. DOMINIE. Did it sound unnatural to you,--mannered? and did you think it wooden, dry, dull? MR. BUFFALO. Not exactly that; but the trouble was it sounded _studied_. The public applauded, it is true; but they don't know any thing. Stock and I thought-- DOMINIE. Do you not think that the taste for a beautiful interpretation may be early awakened, without using severity with the pupil? and that to excite the feeling for music, to a certain degree, even in early years, is in fact essential? The neglect of this very thing is the reason that we are obliged to listen to so many players, who really have mechanically practised themselves to death, and have reduced musical art to mere machinery,--to an idle trick of the fingers. MR. BUFFALO. That's all nonsense. I say teach them the scales, to run up and down the gamut! Gradus ad Parnassum's the thing! Classical, classical! Yesterday you made your daughter play that Trill-Etude by Carl Meyer. Altogether too fine-sounding! It tickles the ear, to be sure, especially when it is played in such a studied manner. _We_ stick to Clementi and Cramer, and to Hummel's piano-school,--the good old school. You have made a great mistake with your eldest daughter. DOMINIE. The world does not seem to agree with you. MADAME, of the Tz. family (_has listened and lost a trick by it, steps up quickly, and says maliciously_). You must agree that she would have played better, if you had left her for ten years with Cramer and Clementi. We don't like this tendency to Schumann and Chopin. But what folly to talk! One must be careful what one says to the father of such a child! It is quite a different thing with us. Mr. Buffalo is bound to our Stock by no bond of affection. He follows out his aim without any hesitation or vanity, and looks neither to the right nor to the left, but straightforward. DOMINIE. I beg your pardon, madam: you may be right,--from your point of view. We must be a little indulgent with sensitive people. But will not your son play to us? (_Stock plays two Etudes of Clementi, three of Cramer, and four from the Gradus, but did not even grow warm over them. The horse his father gave him has made him quite strong._) * * * * * I may be asked, "But how did Stock play?" How? I do not wish to write a treatise: my plan is only to give hints and suggestions. I am not writing in the interest of Stock, Buffalo, & Co. After the playing, we went to supper: the oysters were good, but the wine left a little sharp taste. My timid daughter did not like oysters; but she ate a little salad, and at table listened instead of talking. A few innocent anecdotes were related at table about horses and balls and dogs and Stock's future. On taking leave, Madame said condescendingly to Cecilia, "If you keep on, my dear, one of these days you will play very nicely." CHAPTER III. MANY STUDENTS OF THE PIANO AND FEW PLAYERS. _(A Letter addressed to the Father of a Piano Pupil)._ It is a pity that you have no sons, for a father takes great delight in his sons; but I agree with you, when you say that, if you had one, you would rather he should break stones than pound the piano. You say you have many friends who rejoice in that paternal felicity, and whose sons, great and small, bright and dull, have been learning the piano for three years or more, and still can do nothing. You are doubtless right; and, further, they never will learn any thing. You ask, Of what use is it to man or boy to be able to stammer through this or that waltz, or polonaise or mazurka, with stiff arms, weak fingers, a stupid face, and lounging figure? What gain is it to art? You say, Is not time worth gold, and yet we are offered lead? And the poor teachers torment themselves and the boys, abuse art and the piano; and at the end of the evening, in despair, torment their own wives, after they have all day long been scolding, cuffing, and lamenting, without success or consolation. You speak the truth. I have had the same experience myself, though not to the same degree, and though I did not bring home to my wife a dreary face, but only a good appetite. But I did not give myself up to lamentation over piano-teaching. I gathered up courage and rose above mere drudgery. I reflected and considered and studied, and tried whether I could not manage better, as I found I could not succeed with the boys; and I have managed better and succeeded better, because I have hit upon a different way, and one more in accordance with nature than that used in the piano schools. I laid down, as the first and most important principle, the necessity for "the formation of a fine touch," just as singing-teachers rely upon the culture of a fine tone, in order to teach singing well. I endeavored, without notes, to make the necessary exercises so interesting that the attention of the pupils always increased; and that they even, after a short time, took great pleasure in a sound, tender, full, singing tone; an acquirement which, unfortunately, even many _virtuosos_ do not possess. In this way, we made an opening at the beginning, not in the middle: we harnessed the horse _before_ the wagon. The pupil now obtained a firm footing, and had something to enjoy, without being tormented at every lesson with dry matters to be learned, the advantage of which was not obvious to him, and the final aim of which he did not perceive. Until a correct touch has been acquired, it is of no use to talk about a fine singing tone. How can we expect to arouse an interest by mere toneless tinkling, while stiff, inflexible fingers are struggling with the notes; while the pupil sees only his inability to do any thing right, and receives nothing but blame from the teacher; while, at the same time, so much is to be kept in mind, and he must be required to observe the time, and to use the right fingers? Poor, stupid children! Later, after teaching the notes, I did not fall into the universal error of selecting pieces which were either too difficult, or such as, though purely musical, were not well adapted to the piano; but I chose short, easy pieces, without prominent difficulties, in the correct and skilful performance of which the pupil might take pleasure. Consequently, they were studied carefully, slowly, willingly, and with interest, which last is a great thing gained; for the pupil rejoiced in the anticipation of success. The struggle over single difficult places destroys all pleasure, palsies talent, creates disgust, and, what is worse, it tends to render uncertain the confirmation of the faculty already partially acquired,--of _bringing out a fine legato tone, with loose and quiet fingers and a yielding, movable wrist, without the assistance of the arm_. You suppose that talent is especially wanting, and not merely good teachers; for otherwise, with the zealous pursuit of piano-playing in Saxony, we should produce hundreds who could, at least, play correctly and with facility, if not finely. Here you are mistaken: we have, on the contrary, a great deal of musical talent. There are, also, even in the provincial cities, teachers who are not only musical, but who also possess so much zeal and talent for teaching that many of their pupils are able to play tolerably well. I will add further, that the taste for music is much more cultivated and improved, even in small places, by singing-societies and by public and private concerts, than was formerly the case. We also have much better aids in instruction books, études, and suitable piano pieces; but still we find everywhere "jingling" and "piano-banging," as you express it, and yet no piano-playing. Let us consider this aspect of the subject a little more closely. In the first place, the proper basis for a firm structure is wanting. The knowledge of the notes cannot afford a proper basis, except in so far as it is of service in the execution of a piece. Of what use are the notes to a singer, if he has no attack, and does not understand the management of the voice? of what use to the piano-learner, if he has no touch, no tone on the piano-forte. Is this to be acquired by playing the notes? But how then is it to be learned? One thing more. Owing to an over-zeal for education, children are kept in school from seven to ten hours in a day, and then they are required to work and commit to memory in their free hours, when they ought to be enjoying the fresh air. But when are they then to have their piano lessons? After they have escaped from the school-room, and consequently when the children are exhausted and their nerves unstrung. What cruelty! Instead of bread and butter and fresh air, piano lessons! The piano ought to be studied with unimpaired vigor, and with great attention and interest, otherwise no success is to be expected. Besides this, much writing, in itself, makes stiff, inflexible fingers. But when is the child to find time for the necessary practice of the piano lessons? Well, in the evening, after ten o'clock for refreshment, while papa and mamma are in bed! And now, after the school-days are happily over, and the children have possibly retained their red cheeks, then their occupations in life lay claim to their time; or, if they are girls, they are expected to busy themselves with embroidery, knitting, sewing, crochet, making clothes, house-work, tea parties, and alas! with balls; and now, too, comes the time for lovers. Do you imagine that the fingers of pupils sixteen years old can learn mechanical movements as easily as those of children nine years old? In order to satisfy the present demands in any degree, the technique should be settled at sixteen. Under all these circumstances, we find the best teachers become discouraged, and fall into a dull routine, which truly can lead to no success. In conclusion, I beg you to invite the piano teacher, Mr. Strict, to whom you have confided the instruction of your only daughter, Rosalie, to pay me a visit, and I will give him particular directions for a gradual development in piano-playing, up to Beethoven's op. 109 or Chopin's F minor concerto. But I shall find him too fixed in his own theories, too much of a composer, too conceited and dogmatic, and not sufficiently practical, to be a good teacher, or to exert much influence; and, indeed, he has himself a stiff, restless, clumsy touch, that expends half its efforts in the air. He talks bravely of études, scales, &c.; but the question with regard to these is _how they are taught_. The so-called practising of exercises, without having previously formed a sure touch, and carefully and skilfully fostering it is not much more useful than playing pieces. But I hear him reply, with proud and learned self-consciousness: "Music, music! Classical, classical! Spirit! Expression! Bach, Beethoven, Mendelssohn!" That is just the difficulty. Look at his pupils, at his pianists! See how his children are musically stifled, and hear his daughter sing the classical arias composed by himself! However, it is all musical! Farewell. CHAPTER IV. A CONVERSATION WITH MRS. SOLID, AND FOUR LESSONS TO HER DAUGHTER. MRS. SOLID. I should be glad to understand how it is that your daughters are able to play the numerous pieces which I have heard from them so correctly and intelligently, without bungling or hesitation, and with so much expression, and the most delicate shading; in fact, in such a masterly manner. From my youth upwards, I have had tolerable instruction. I have played scales and études for a long time; and have taken great pleasure in studying and industriously practising numerous compositions of Kalkbrenner and Hummel, under their own direction. I have even been celebrated for my talent; but, nevertheless, I never have had the pleasure of being able to execute any considerable piece of music to my own satisfaction or that of others; and I fear it will be the same with my daughter Emily. DOMINIE. In order to give a satisfactory answer to your question, I will lay before you a few of my principles and opinions in respect to musical culture, with special reference to piano-playing. Educated ladies of the present time make greater pretensions and greater demands than formerly in regard to music and musical execution; and consequently their own performances do not usually correspond with their more or less cultivated taste for the beautiful, which has been awakened by their careful general education. Thus they are aware that they are not able to give satisfaction, either to themselves or to others; and from this arises a want of that confidence in their own powers, which should amount almost to a consciousness of infallibility, in order to produce a satisfactory musical performance. This confidence has its foundation in a full, firm, clear, and musical touch, the acquisition of which has been, and is still, too much neglected by masters and teachers. A correct mechanical facility and its advanced cultivation rest upon this basis alone; which, moreover, requires special attention upon our softly leathered pianos, which are much more difficult to play upon than the old-fashioned instruments. It is a mistake to suppose that a correct touch, which alone can produce a good execution, will come of itself, through the practice of études and scales. Even with masters, it is unusual to meet with a sound, fine, unexceptionable touch, like that of Field and Moscheles, and among the more recent that of Thalberg, Chopin, Mendelssohn, and Henselt. I will speak now of the selection of pieces. Our ladies are not contented to play simple music, which presents few difficulties and requires no involved fingering; and from which they might gradually advance by correct and persevering study to more difficult pieces. They at once seize upon grand compositions by Beethoven, C.M. von Weber, Mendelssohn, Chopin, and others, and select also, for the sake of variety, the bravoura pieces of Liszt, Thalberg, Henselt, &c. How can they expect to obtain a command of such pieces, when their early education was insufficient for our exalted demands in mechanical skill, and their subsequent instruction has also been faulty and without method? If you were to request me to supply in some degree your own deficiencies, before I proceed to the further education of your daughter, I should not begin with the wisdom of our friend Mr. Buffalo: "Madam, you must every day practise the major and minor scales, in all the keys, with both hands at once, and also in thirds and in sixths; and you must work three or four hours daily at études of Clementi, Cramer, and Moscheles; otherwise, your playing will never amount to any thing." Such advice has frequently been given by teachers like Mr. Buffalo, and is still daily insisted on; but we will, for the present, set such nonsense aside. I shall, in the first place, endeavor to improve your touch, which is too thin, feeble, and incorrect; which makes too much unnecessary movement, and tries to produce the tone in the air, instead of drawing it out with the keys. This will not require a long time, for I have well-formed, young hands to work upon, with skilful fingers in good condition. I will employ, for this purpose, several of the short exercises mentioned in my first chapter, and shall require them to be transposed into various keys, and played without notes, in order that you may give your whole attention to your hands and fingers. Above all things, I wish you to observe how I try to bring out from the piano the most beautiful possible tone, with a quiet movement of the fingers and a correct position of the hand; without an uneasy jerking of the arm, and with ease, lightness, and sureness. I shall certainly insist upon scales also, for it is necessary to pay great care and attention to passing the thumb under promptly and quietly, and to the correct, easy position of the arm. But I shall be content with the practice of scales for a quarter of an hour each day, which I require to be played, according to my discretion, _staccato_, _legato_, fast, slow, _forte_, _piano_, with one hand or with both hands, according to circumstances. This short time daily for scale-practice is sufficient, provided, always, that I have no stiff fingers, or unpractised or ruined structure of the hand to educate. For very young beginners with weak fingers, the scales should be practised only _piano_, until the fingers acquire strength. I should continue in this way with you for two weeks, but every day with some slight change. After a short time, I would combine with this practice the study of two or three pieces, suitably arranged for the piano; for example, Mozart's minuet in E flat, arranged by Schulhoff, and his drinking-song, or similar pieces. We will, at present, have nothing to do with Beethoven. You are, perhaps, afraid that all this might be tedious; but I have never been considered tedious in my lessons. I wish you, for the present, not to practise any pieces or exercises except in my presence, until a better touch has been thoroughly established. You must also give up entirely, for a time, playing your previous pieces; for they would give you opportunity to fall again into your faulty mode of playing. I shall also soon put in practice one of my maxims in teaching; viz., that, merely for the acquisition of mechanical facility, all my pupils shall be in the habit of playing daily some appropriate piece, that by its perfect mastery they may gain a fearless confidence. They must regard this piece as a companion, friend, and support. I wish you to learn to consider it a necessity every day, before practising or studying your new piece of music, to play this piece, even if it is done quite mechanically, two or three times, first slowly, then faster; for without ready, flexible fingers, my teaching and preaching will be valueless. MRS. SOLID. But what pieces, for instance? DOMINIE. For beginners, perhaps one or two of Hünten's Etudes Melodiques; a little later, one of Czerny's very judicious Etudes from his opus 740; and for more advanced pupils, after they are able to stretch easily and correctly, his Toccata, opus 92,--a piece which my three daughters never give up playing, even if they do not play it every day. They practise pieces of this description as a remedy for mechanical deficiencies, changing them every three or four months. In the selection of these, I aim especially at the practice of thirds, trills, stretches, scales, and passages for strengthening the fourth finger; and I choose them with reference to the particular pieces, sonatas, variations, concertos, &c., which they are at the time studying. Likewise, in the choice of the latter, I pursue a different course from that which the teachers alluded to above and others are accustomed to follow; though I hope my management is never pedantic, but cautious, artistic, and psychologic. It is easy to see that many teachers, by giving lessons continually, particularly to pupils without talent, are led, even with the best intentions, to fall into a mere routine. We find them often impatient and unsympathetic, especially in the teaching of their own compositions; and again, by their one-sided opinions and capricious requirements, by devoting attention to matters of small importance, and by all sorts of whimsicalities, they contract the intellectual horizon of their pupils, and destroy their interest in the lessons. MRS. SOLID. Your careful mode of proceeding is certainly extremely interesting and convincing; but allow me to request an answer to various objections and considerations which are now and then brought forward, particularly by teachers. DOMINIE. To that I am quite accustomed. The good and the beautiful never obtain uncontested recognition. No one has ever offered any new improvement, and fearlessly spoken the truth, without being attacked, defamed, and despised, or entirely misunderstood. Our age can show many proofs of this; for example, let us remember homoeopathy and magnetism. Clara Wieck was not appreciated in Leipzig until she had been admired in Paris; nor Marie Wieck, because she does not play exactly as her sister Clara does. The same is the case with my present book, which relentlessly treads upon the incredible follies and lamentable errors of the times. I am quite prepared for opposition of any kind. MRS. SOLID. I should like to suggest to you that there are other teachers who have given themselves a great deal of trouble, and who are very particular; but it is not their good fortune to have daughters like yours to educate. DOMINIE. Have given themselves a great deal of trouble? What do you mean by that? If they do not take pains in the right way, or at the right time and place, it is all labor in vain. Of what use is mere unskilful, stupid industry? For instance, when a teacher, in order to correct a stiff use of the fingers and wrist, and the general faulty touch of his pupil, gives some wonderful étude or a piece with great stretches and arpeggios for the left hand, and gives himself unwearied trouble over it, it is a proof of abundant painstaking; but it is labor thrown away, and only makes the imperfect mode of performance the worse. And now with regard to my daughters. It has been their fortune to have had me for a father and teacher: they certainly have talent, and I have been successful in rousing and guiding it. Envy, jealousy, pride, and offended egotism have tried as long as possible to dispute this; but at last the effort is abandoned. They say that it requires no art to educate such talent as theirs, that it almost "comes of itself." This assertion is just as false and contrary to experience as it is common, even with educated and thoughtful people, who belong to no clique. Lichtenburg says: "It is just those things upon which everybody is agreed that should be subjected to investigation." Well, I have made a thorough investigation of these accusations, with regard to my three daughters, and all the talented pupils whom I have been able to educate for good amateurs, and, according to circumstances, for good public performers. The great number of these suffices for my justification. I must add, still further, that it is exactly the "great talents" for singing, or for the piano, who require the most careful, thoughtful, and prudent guidance. Look around at the multitude of abortive talents and geniuses! Talented pupils are just the ones who have an irresistible desire to be left to their own discretion; they esteem destruction by themselves more highly than salvation by others. MRS. SOLID. But it is said that you have been able to educate only your three daughters, and none others for public performers. DOMINIE. Madam, you cannot be serious. If I were to declaim Leporello's list, you might justly consider it an exaggeration; but if, instead of replying to you, I should urge you to read what I have written on the subject, or if I should present your daughter Emily to you, after three or four years, as a superior performer, you might pardon my vanity and my ability. I do not possess any magic wand, which envy and folly could not impute to me as an offence. Nevertheless, unless circumstances were very adverse, I have, at all events, been able in a short time to accomplish for my pupils the acquisition of a good, or at least an improved, musical touch; and have thus laid a foundation, which other teachers have failed to do by their method, or rather want of method. But you have something else on your mind? MRS. SOLID. You anticipate me. I was educated in Berlin, and in that capital of intelligence a taste prevails for opposition, negation, and thorough criticism. How can you educate artists and _virtuosos_, when you yourself are so little a _virtuoso_? You are not even a composer or learned contrapuntist. A teacher of music wins much greater consideration, if he himself plays concertos and composes pretty things, and if he can calculate and give vent to his genius in double and triple fugues, and in inverse and retrograde canons. You cannot even accompany your pupils with the violin or flute, which is certainly very useful and improving. DOMINIE. The egotist is seldom capable of giving efficient instruction: that lies in the nature of the case. Even a child will soon perceive whether the teacher has a sole eye to its interest, or has other and personal aims in view. The former bears good fruits, the latter very doubtful ones. I will say nothing about the stand-point of those egotistical teachers whose first aim is to bring themselves into prominence, and who at the same time are perhaps travelling public performers and composers. They are, it may be, chiefly occupied with double and triple fugues (the more inverted the more learned), and they consider this knowledge the only correct musical foundation. At the same time, they often possess a touch like that of your brother, Mr. Strict, mentioned in my third chapter, and are utterly devoid of true taste and feeling. While pursuing their fruitless piano lessons, which are quite foreign to their customary train of thought, they regard their occupation only as a milch cow; and they obtain the money of sanguine parents, and sacrifice the time of their pupils. You may try such agreeable personages for yourself: I could wish you no greater punishment. And now I will speak of the violin and the flute. I have never availed myself of those expedients; it is a method which I have never learned. I will describe for your amusement a few interesting incidents, which I had an opportunity to witness in a not inconsiderable city, while on a journey with my daughters. The teacher with the flute was a gentle, quiet, mild musician; he was on very good terms with his pupil, and indulged in no disputes; every thing went on peaceably, without passion, and "in time." They both twittered tenderly and amicably, and were playing, in celebration of the birthday of an old aunt who was rather hard of hearing, a sonata by Kuhlau, which was quite within the power of both. The old aunt, who, of course, could hear but little of the soft, flute tones, and the light, thin, modest, square piano, kept asking me: "Is not that exquisite? what do you think of it?" I nodded my head and praised it, for the music was modest and made no pretension. I will pass next to the violin. The possessor of this was a type of presumption, vulgarity, and coarseness, and understood how to make an impression on his pupils and their parents by the assumption of extraordinary ability. He consequently enjoyed a certain consideration. He was, moreover, a good musician, and played the violin tolerably in accompanying the piano, in Beethoven's opus 17 and 24. In this portrait you have a specimen of the violinist as a piano teacher. Of course he understood nothing of piano-playing, and took no interest in Wieck's rubbish about beauty of tone; he cared only for Beethoven. He now and then tried to sprawl out a few examples of fingering, in a spider-like fashion; but they were seldom successful. His pupils also possessed the peculiar advantage of playing "in time," when they did not stick fast in the difficult places. At such times he always became very cross and severe, and talked about "precision;" in that way instilling respect. His pupils did not jingle, but they had a peculiarly short, pounding touch; and floundered about among the keys with a sort of boldness, and with resolute, jerking elbows. They certainly had no tone, but the violin was therefore heard the better; and after each performance we might have heard, "Am I not the first teacher in Europe?" MRS. SOLID. You certainly have shown up two ridiculous figures. DOMINIE. True; but I leave it to every one to make themselves ridiculous. MRS. SOLID. I am very glad that you have furnished me here with the criticisms of which I stand in need; for I might otherwise have been in danger of supplying you with an example at the next soirée, perhaps at the banker's, Mr. Gold's. But, as I should like to hear your answer, I will listen to, and report to you, what is said in a certain though not very numerous clique, who are opposed to you and your labors. DOMINIE. Those people would act more wisely, if they were to study my writings; in which I will make any corrections, if there is any thing that I can add to them, for the advantage of truth, right, and beauty. And now allow me, Miss Emily, since you are pretty well advanced, and are not quite spoiled, to show you in a few lessons how to study these variations by Herz (Les Trois Graces, No. 1, on a theme from "The Pirates"). They are not easy; but I will teach them in a way that shall not weary you or give you a distaste for them. I have intentionally chosen these variations, because they do not lay claim to great musical interest; and, consequently, their mode of performance, their execution, gives them their chief value. Moreover, they possess the disadvantage for teaching that they are of unequal difficulty, and require, therefore, the more skill on the part of the teacher to compensate for this. _First Lesson._ Miss Emily, these are very clear, graceful variations, which require an extremely nice, delicate execution; and, especially, a complete mechanical mastery of their various difficulties. Although these variations may seem to you too easy, I am governed in the selection of them by the maxim that "what one would learn to play finely must be below the mechanical powers of the pupil." The theme of the Italian song, which is the basis of these variations, is very well chosen, and you must take great pains to execute it as finely as possible, and to produce a singing effect upon the piano-forte. After the piece is thoroughly learned, you will be greatly aided in the production of this imitation of singing by the careful and correct use of the pedal which raises the dampers. The theme does not offer great mechanical difficulties; but it requires a loose, broad, full, and yet tender touch, a good _portamento_, and a clear and delicately shaded delivery; for you must remember that "in the performance of a simple theme the well-taught pupil may be recognized." EMILY. But you do not begin at the beginning: there is an introduction to the piece. DOMINIE. Perhaps we shall take that at the last: I can't tell yet when. A great many things in my instruction will seem to you misplaced: it may be that the final result will restore to me the approval which I desire. EMILY. Do you always give such a preliminary description before you begin a piece with a pupil? DOMINIE. I like to do so; for I wish to create an interest in the piece, and to state in connection my principles and views about music and piano-playing. Now we will try the theme, first quite slowly; and then the first easy variation, with the last bars at the end of it, which introduce the theme once more, and which should be played very clearly and smoothly. We will then take from the introduction only the right hand, and study the most appropriate fingering for it. I never write this out fully; but only intimate it here and there, in order not to interfere with the spontaneous activity of the learner. We will also take a few portions for the left hand from the finale. In these you must carefully observe the directions which are given for its performance, and try to execute every thing correctly and clearly; for a careless bass is prejudicial to the very best playing in the treble. My lesson is now at an end; for we have taken up a good deal of time at the beginning with the scales, and passing the thumb under correctly, with the different species of touch, and the appropriate exercises for these. I do not wish you yet to practise the first variation with both hands together, for you do not yet strike the skipping bass evenly enough and with sufficient precision; and you might accustom yourself to inaccuracies, especially as your left hand has, as usual, been neglected, and is inferior to the right in lightness and rapidity. We shall find this a hindrance; for the object is not to practise much, but to practise correctly. Therefore play these passages first slowly, then quicker, at last very fast; then slow again, sometimes _staccato_, sometimes _legato_, _piano_, and also moderately loud; but never when the hands and fingers are fatigued, therefore not too continuously; but many times in the course of the day, and always with fresh energy. At present, you need not play _fortissimo_, or with the pedal: for in that way you might be led into a tramping style, with a weak, stiff touch, and a habit of striking at the keys with straight fingers; and that I do not like. We will look for the true and the beautiful in a very different treatment of the piano; and, first of all, in a clear, unaffected, healthy performance, free from any forced character. _Second Lesson._ Transposition of the triads and dominant chord in their three positions, and in various kinds of measure; and practice of these, with careful attention to a correct touch and loose wrist; cadences on the dominant and sub-dominant; practice of the skipping bass in the theme, and in the first and third variations, with practice in striking and leaving the chords, observing carefully the precise value of the notes. You must attend also to striking them not too forcibly or too feebly, and take special care with regard to the fourth and fifth fingers, which do not easily give the tone with so full a sound as the other three fingers. Now we will try the theme with both hands together, and consider the correct expression, and likewise the _piano_ and _forte_, as well as the nicest _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_. We will then take the first easy variation, of which you have already acquired a mastery: we will play it exactly _a tempo_ and with the bass chords, which should usually be given _staccato_, and which must be played with delicacy and flexibility; but it will be well for you to practise first the bass part once alone, in order that you may hear whether all the tones sound evenly. Now the first variation will go pretty well with both hands together; with increasing mastery of it, the requisite shading in the right hand can be produced. As your right hand is not yet tired, play to me now several times, first slowly and then faster, the passages which I gave you from the introduction. When the right hand becomes a little fatigued, take a portion from the finale for the left hand. You may also try over the adagio; but I recommend for your special practice the part for the right hand in the third variation. You cannot make a mistake about it, if you do not try to play it too fast, and if you carefully observe the fingering indicated. Now I will play the theme to you, as nearly as possible as I heard the famous tenor Rubini sing it. You see I place the fingers gently upon the keys and avoid raising them too high, in order not to injure the nice connection of the tones, and to produce a singing tone as far as possible. At the end of the lesson you will play the theme to me once more.... I perceive you play it with too much embarrassment, and not freely enough. It will go still better two days hence, if you play it frequently during that time, slowly, and become quite accustomed to it. In addition, you will practise industriously every thing which we have gone through, especially the first variation; but you must always do it with interest, and never with weariness. Of course you will practise _without notes_ all the little exercises for the touch, and for the fourth and fifth fingers, and the cadences. _Third Lesson._ Other little exercises; trills, scales with shading for one hand alone and for both together; the skipping basses, &c. We will begin to-day with the bass part of the second variation. You observe that often there are even eighth notes in the treble, while in the bass there are even triplet eighth notes. In order to play these properly together, even with only mechanical correctness, it is necessary that the left hand shall acquire a perfectly free and independent movement, and shall bring out the bass with perfect ease. You must pay special attention to any weak notes, and accustom yourself not to give the last triplet, in each bar, and the last note of this triplet, too hurriedly, too sharply, or with too little tone. Notice how much difficulty this equal playing of the triplets occasions to the right hand, which moves in even eighth notes. While you play the left hand, I will play the right: you must listen as little as possible to my playing, and preserve your own independence. You must learn to play this variation entirely by yourself with both hands together; but we must not be too much in a hurry about it, and must give time to it. All restless urging, all hurry, leads to inaccuracies in playing. You have learned enough for to-day; but you may play the other variations, with the whole finale, straight through, that you may not get into the habit of stopping at the difficult passages which you have already learned. _Fourth Lesson._ New exercises for striking stretches, and for the extension of the hand and fingers; but this must be done prudently, that the sound touch, which is always of the first importance, shall not be endangered. Besides this, the repetition of the exercises learned in the preceding lessons; but all to be played with a certain shading and delicacy. We will to-day begin at the beginning, with the introduction. I will now make amends for my want of regularity, and show you that I can begin at the beginning, like other people; but all in good time. To-day, in those portions of which you have acquired a mastery, we will give particular attention to the expression, and to the correct use of the pedal. If what I suggest to you with regard to the shading at any place does not entirely correspond to your understanding of the piece, or to your feeling, you must at once express your difference of opinion, and ask me for the reason of my view. You, perhaps, do not like to play this place _crescendo_, but _diminuendo_. Very well; only play it finely in your own way; it will also sound very well so. I proposed the _crescendo_ there, because the feeling grows more intense; perhaps, in the next lesson, you will acknowledge that I was right. This place I should play a very little slower, though without a striking _ritardando_; then a little faster here; do you think it ought to be played _crescendo_ or _diminuendo_? We must try in this variation to present nicely shaded little pictures. Here you might use more energy and decision. This place you should play merely with a correct mechanical execution, but without special expression; for we require shadow, in order that the succeeding idea, eminently suggestive of the theme, shall be brought out with more brilliancy. In general, the whole must be made to sound natural, without musical pretension, and as if it were the production of the moment; and should not create a distorted, overdrawn effect, or exhibit modern affectation. Each piece that I undertake to teach you will give me an opportunity to talk to you a great deal about the correct expression in playing, and about its innumerable beauties, shades, and delicacies; while I shall pay constant attention to the production of a beautiful singing tone. The next piece will be Chopin's Notturno in E flat; for your touch has already gained in fulness, and is now unobjectionable. This is the tyranny with regard to correct execution, which stupidity and folly have taxed me with having exercised towards my daughters. "Expression must come of itself!" How cheap is this lazy subterfuge of the followers of routine, and of teachers wanting in talent! We see and hear a great many _virtuosos_, old and young, with and without talent, renowned and obscure. They either play in an entirely mechanical manner and with faulty and miserable touch, or else, which is less bearable, they strut with unendurable affectation and produce musical monstrosities. In order to conceal their indistinct mode of execution, they throw themselves upon the two pedals, and are guilty of inconceivable perversions. But let us proceed with your instruction. You already play your piece intelligently, with interest and enthusiasm, and without any of the modern, empty affectations. If any other passage should occur to you at the _fermata_ in the second part, which shall lead appropriately to the dominant, try it; and combine it, perhaps, with that which is written. You may make two passing shakes upon the four final sixteenth notes; but you must play them very distinctly and clearly, and the last one weaker than the first, in order to give it a delicate effect, as is done by singers. With light variations of this kind, it is allowable to introduce various ornaments, provided they are in good taste and nicely executed. The case is quite different in the performance of the compositions of Beethoven, Mozart, Weber, and others, where reverence for the composer requires a stricter interpretation, although even this is sometimes carried to a point of exaggeration and pedantry. Now try the first variation once more. That is better: you already play the skipping bass with more precision, more briskly and evenly. We begin to perceive the correct speaking tone in the bass, and a certain delicacy and freedom in the treble. You need not play both hands together in the second variation, which is the most difficult, until the next lesson. To-day you may first play the bass alone, while I play the treble; and afterwards we will change parts, and you can play the treble while I play the bass. But we will not go farther than the fourth variation. I have not much more to say about this piece. We will begin next a beautiful Etude by Moscheles, which I recommend highly to you, in order to strengthen and give facility to the fourth and fifth fingers: this may be your companion and friend during the next two or three months. MRS. SOLID. Your very careful mode of instruction assures me that Emily will acquire a mastery of these variations, and will learn to perform them finely. DOMINIE. She will be able, after a week or two, to execute this piece with understanding and confidence, and to play it to her own satisfaction and that of others; while her awakened consciousness of its beauties and of her ability to interpret it will preserve her interest for it. The objection is quite untenable "that children lose their pleasure in a piece, if they are obliged to practise it until they know it." Do people suppose that it gives more pleasure, when the teacher begins in a stupid, helpless way, and tries to make the pupil swallow several pieces at once, while he continually finds fault and worries them, than when the pupil is enabled to play a few short, well-sounding exercises, with perfect freedom and correctness, and to take delight in his success? or when afterwards, or perhaps at the same time, he is conscious that he can play one piece nicely and without bungling, while it is all accomplished in a quiet and pleasant manner? MRS. SOLID. Do you pursue the same course with longer and more difficult pieces? DOMINIE. Certainly, on the same principle. MRS. SOLID. But, if you are so particular about every piece, and always take so much pains to improve the touch, it will be a long time before Emily will be able to execute several long pieces and can learn other new ones beside. DOMINIE. Do you wish your daughter to learn to jingle on the piano, in order to become musical? or shall she grow more musical by learning to play finely? I am sure the latter is your wish, as it is mine: otherwise, you would be contented with an ordinary teacher. You must consider that, when she has made a beginning, by learning to play one piece thoroughly and quite correctly, the following pieces will be learned more and more quickly; for she will have acquired a dexterity in playing, as you may observe with yourself and with every one. To be able to drum off fifty pieces in an imperfect manner does not justify the expectation that the fifty-first piece will be learned more easily or better; but to attain a perfect mastery of four or five pieces gives a standard for the rest. In this way, and by mechanical studies, such as I have begun with Emily, the greatest ease in reading at sight is gradually developed, in which all my pupils excel, when they have remained long enough under my instruction, and in which my daughters are pre-eminent. But for this it is necessary to continue to study single pieces, industriously and artistically, and with great exactness; for otherwise the practice of reading at sight, which often amounts to a passion, leads very soon to slovenliness in piano-playing and to more or less vulgar machine-music. MRS. SOLID. I am more and more convinced that a style of instruction which is illogical, intermittent, superficial, and without method, can lead to no good result, or at least to nothing satisfactory, even with extraordinary talents; and that the unsound and eccentric manifestations and caricatures of art, which cause the present false and deplorable condition of piano-playing, are the consequence of such a prevalent mode of instruction. CHAPTER V. ON THE PEDAL. I have just returned exhausted and annihilated from a concert, where I have been hearing the piano pounded. Two grand bravoura movements have been thundered off, with the pedal continually raised; and then were suddenly succeeded by a soft murmuring passage, during which the thirteen convulsed and quivering bass notes of the _fortissimo_ were all the time resounding. It was only by the aid of the concert programme that my tortured ears could arrive at the conclusion that this confusion of tones was meant to represent two pieces by Döhler and Thalberg. Cruel fate that invented the pedal! I mean the pedal which raises the dampers on the piano. A grand acquisition, indeed, for modern times! Good heavens! Our piano performers must have lost their sense of hearing! What is all this growling and buzzing? Alas, it is only the groaning of the wretched piano-forte, upon which one of the modern _virtuosos_, with a heavy beard and long hanging locks, whose hearing has deserted him, is blustering away on a bravoura piece, with the pedal incessantly raised,--with inward satisfaction and vain self-assertion! Truly time brings into use a great deal that is far from beautiful: does, then, this raging piano revolutionist think it beautiful to bring the pedal into use at every bar? Unhappy delusion. But enough of this serious jesting. Hummel never used the pedal. He was an extremist; and, in his graceful, clear, elegant, neat, though not grand playing, often lost fine effects, which would have been produced by the correct and judicious use of the pedal; particularly on the instruments of Stein, Brodmann, Conrad Graff, and others then in use, which were usually lightly leathered, and had a thin, sharp tone. The use of the pedal, of course always allowing it to fall frequently with precision, was especially desirable in the upper treble, in cases where the changes of the harmony were not very frequent; for the tone of those instruments, although sweet and agreeable, had not much depth, and the action had but little strength and elasticity. But on our instruments, frequently too softly leathered, which have a full tone, and are so strong and penetrating, especially in the bass, it is enough to endanger one's sense of hearing to be subjected to such a senseless, incessant, ridiculous, deafening use of the pedal; frequently, moreover, combined with a hard, stiff touch, and an unsound, incorrect technique. A musical interpretation in any degree tolerable is out of the question. You cannot call that art, it cannot even be called manual labor: it is a freak of insanity! A few words to the better sort of players. The foot-piece to the right on the piano-forte raises the dampers, and in that way makes the tones resound and sing, and takes from them the dryness, shortness, and want of fulness, which is always the objection to the piano-forte, especially to those of the earlier construction. This is certainly an advantage; the more the tone of the piano-forte resembles singing, the more beautiful it is. But, in order not to injure the distinctness and detract from the clear phrasing of the performance, a very skilful and prudent use of the pedal is necessary in rapid changes of harmony, particularly in the middle and lower portion of the instrument. You all use the pedal too much and too often, especially on large, fine concert pianos of the new construction, which, with their heavy stringing, have in themselves a fuller, more vibrating tone; at least you do not let it fall frequently enough, and with precision. You must listen to what you are playing. You do not play for yourselves alone; frequently you play to hearers who are listening for the first time to the pieces you are performing. Try a few passages without pedal,--for instance, those in which the changes of the harmony succeed each other rapidly, even in the highest treble,--and see what repose, what serene enjoyment, what refreshment is afforded, what delicate shading is brought out. Or at first listen, and try to feel it in the playing of others; for your habit is so deeply rooted that you no longer know when and how often you use the pedal. Chopin, that highly gifted, elegant, sensitive composer and performer, may serve as a model for you here. His widely dispersed, artistic harmonies, with the boldest and most striking suspensions, for which the fundamental bass is essential, certainly require the frequent use of the pedal for fine harmonic effect. But, if you examine and observe the minute, critical directions in his compositions, you can obtain from him complete instruction for the nice and correct use of the pedal. By way of episode to my sorrowful lecture on the pedal, we will take a walk through the streets some beautiful evening. What is it that we hear in almost every house? Unquestionably it is piano-playing; but what playing! It is generally nothing but a continual confusion of different chords, without close, without pause; slovenly passages, screened by the raised pedal; varied by an empty, stiff, weak touch, relying upon the pedal for weight. We will escape into the next street. Oh, horrors! what a thundering on this piano, which, by the way, is sadly out of tune! It is a grand--that is, a long, heavy--étude, with the most involved passages, and a peculiar style of composition, probably with the title "On the Ocean," or "In Hades," or "Fancies of the Insane;" pounded off with the pedal raised through the most marvellous changes of harmonies. Finally, the strings snap, the pedal creaks and moans; conclusion,--_c_, _c_ sharp, _d_, _d_ sharp resound together through a few exhausted bars, and at last die away in the warm, soft, delicious air. Universal applause from the open windows! But who is the frantic musician who is venting his rage or this piano? It is a Parisian or other travelling composer, lately arrived with letters of recommendation, who has just been giving a little rehearsal of what we may expect to hear shortly in a concert at the "Hôtel de Schmerz." CHAPTER VI. THE SOFT-PEDAL SENTIMENT. You exclaim: "What is that?--a sentiment for the soft pedal! a sentiment of any kind in our times! most of all, a musical sentiment! I have not heard of such a thing in a concert-room for a long time!" When the foot-piece to the left on the piano is pressed down, the key-board is thereby moved to the right; so that, in playing, the hammers strike only two of the three strings, in some pianos only one. In that way the tone is made weaker, thinner, but more singing and more tender. What follows from this? Many performers, seized with a piano madness, play a grand bravoura piece, excite themselves fearfully, clatter up and down through seven octaves of runs, with the pedal constantly raised,--bang away, put the best piano out of tune in the first twenty bars,--snap the strings, knock the hammers off their bearings, perspire, stroke the hair out of their eyes, ogle the audience, and make love to themselves. Suddenly they are seized with a sentiment! They come to a _piano_ or _pianissimo_, and, no longer content with one pedal, they take the soft pedal while the loud pedal is still resounding. Oh, what languishing! what soft murmuring, and what a sweet tinkling of bells! what tenderness of feeling! what a soft-pedal sentiment! The ladies fall into tears, enraptured by the pale, long-haired young artist. I describe here the period of piano mania, which has just passed its crisis; a period which it is necessary to have lived through, in order to believe in the possibility of such follies. When, in the beginning of this century, the piano attained such conspicuous excellence and increased power, greater technical skill could not fail to be called out; but, after a few years, this degenerated into a heartless and worthless dexterity of the fingers, which was carried to the point of absurdity and resulted in intellectual death. Instead of aiming to acquire, before all things, a beautiful, full tone on these rich-sounding instruments, which admit of so much and such delicate shading, essential to true excellence of performance, the object was only to increase mechanical facility, and to cultivate almost exclusively an immoderately powerful and unnatural touch, and to improve the fingering in order to make possible the execution of passages, roulades, finger-gymnastics, and stretches, which no one before had imagined or considered necessary. From this period dates the introduction of _virtuoso_ performances with their glittering tawdriness, without substance and without music, and of the frightful eccentricities in art, accompanied by immeasurable vanity and self-conceit,--the age of "finger-heroes." It is indeed a melancholy reflection, for all who retain their senses, that this charlatanry is made the solitary aim of numberless ignoble performers, sustained by the applause of teachers and composers equally base. It is sad to see how, engaged in artificial formalisms and in erroneous mechanical studies, players have forgotten the study of tone and of correct delivery, and that few teachers seek to improve either themselves or their pupils therein. Otherwise they would see and understand that, on a good piano, such as are now to be found almost everywhere, it is possible with correct playing, founded on a right method, to play, without external aids, _forte_, _fortissimo_, _piano_, _pianissimo_,--in a word, with every degree of shading, and with at least formal expression; and that this style of playing, with the requisite mechanical skill, sounds far more pure, and is more satisfactory than when a feeling is affected through the crude, unskilful, and absurd use of the pedal, especially of the soft pedal of which we are now speaking. This affectation only gives one more proof of our unhealthy, stupid, and unmusical infancy in piano performances. A good-natured public, drummed up and brought together by patient persuasion and by urgent recommendations, of which _virtuosos_ can obtain an abundance (for the tormented cities which they have visited cannot otherwise get rid of them), attend these concerts and listen to dozens of such inexperienced piano-players. One plays exactly like another, with more or less faulty mechanical execution; and none of them are able, with all their thumping and caressing of the keys, to bring out from the instrument a broad, healthy, full, and beautiful tone, delicately shaded and distinct even to the softest _pp._ But, instead of this, they fall into a pedal sentiment; _i.e._, they play with outside pretension, and with intrinsic emptiness. You unworthy performers, who have so disgusted the artistic public with piano-playing that they will no longer listen to fine, intelligent, sensible artists, whose dignity does not permit them to force themselves into the concert-hall, or to drag people into it from the streets! you base mortals, who have exposed this beautiful art to shame! I implore you to abandon the concert platform, your battle-field! Hack at the piano no longer! Find positions on a railroad or in a factory. There you may perhaps make yourselves useful; while by the lessons you give (for it usually comes to that, after you have travelled all over the world) you will only ruin our young people, now growing up with promising talent for piano-playing, and will produce successors like yourselves, but not artists. I must whisper one thing more in your ear. I will say nothing about simple truthfulness, about tenderness and sincerity of feeling, or wholesome refinement, about poetry, inspiration, or truly impassioned playing. But, if your ears are not already too much blunted, you should be able to discover, at least in a very few minutes, on any instrument, unless it is of the worst sort, or has already been battered to pieces by you, how far you can carry the _pianissimo_ and _fortissimo_, and still preserve the tone within the limits of beauty and simplicity. You will thus be able to interpret a piece with at least superficial correctness, without mortally wounding a cultivated ear by exaggerations and by maltreatment of the instrument and its two pedals. This style of playing has nevertheless found its numerous defenders and admirers in our century, which has made every thing possible. This senseless enslavement and abuse of the piano has been said to be "all the rage;" a fine expression of our piano critics to justify insane stamping and soft-pedal sentimentality. How far what I have here said relates to our modern errors in singing, and how far it may be applied to them, I leave to the intelligence of my readers and to my explanations in subsequent chapters. To return to my theme: I have still one word on this subject for rational players. Even they use the soft pedal too much and too often, and at unsuitable places; for instance, in the midst of a piece, without any preparatory pause; in melodies which require to be lightly executed; or in rapid passages which are to be played _piano_. This is especially to be noticed with players who are obliged to use instruments of a powerful tone and stiff, heavy action, on which it is difficult to insure a delicate shading in _piano_ and _forte_. For this reason, a sensible and experienced teacher, whose sole aim is the true and the beautiful, should make the attainment of an elastic touch and well-grounded style of playing an indispensable requirement. I prefer that the soft pedal should be used but seldom, and, if the pedal which raises the dampers is used at the same time, it must be only with the greatest nicety. The soft pedal may be used in an echo; but should be preceded by a slight pause, and then should be employed throughout the period, because the ear must accustom itself gradually to this tender, maidenly, sentimental tone. There must again be a slight pause before the transition to the usual more masculine tone, with the three strings. The soft pedal is, moreover, most effective in slow movements with full chords, which allow time to bring out the singing tone, in which consists the advantage of the stroke of the hammers on two strings alone. CHAPTER VII. A MUSICAL TEA-PARTY AT THE HOUSE OF JOHN SPRIGGINS. I once more introduce my readers to the scenes of my active, musical life, with an invitation to accompany me to a musical tea-party. My object is, in a short and entertaining manner, to remove very common prejudices; to correct mistaken ideas; to reprove the followers of mere routine; to oppose to malicious cavilling the sound opinions of an experienced teacher; to scourge dogmatic narrow-mindedness; and in this way to advance my method of instruction. * * * * * DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. JOHN SPRIGGINS _(jovial and narrow-minded, a member of an ancient musical family)._ MRS. SPRIGGINS _(irritable, envious, and malicious)._ LIZZIE, _their daughter, 13, years old (lively and pert)._ SHEPARD, _her piano-teacher (very laborious)._ DOMINIE, _a piano-master (very stern)._ EMMA, _his daughter, a pianist (silent and musical)._ MRS. SPRIGGINS (_to Dominie_). So this is your daughter who is to give a concert to-morrow? She is said to have less talent than your eldest daughter. With her, they say, nothing requires any labor. DOMINIE. You must ask my eldest daughter herself about that. I have hitherto held the opinion that both of them played correctly, musically, and perhaps finely, and yet both differently: that is the triumph of a musical education. But this cheap comparative criticism is already too thoroughly worn out. Pray what else have you on your mind? MRS. S. Have you not yet sent your younger daughter to school? They say your eldest could neither read nor write at fourteen years of age. DOMINIE. My daughters always have a private teacher in the house, in connection with whom I instruct them in music, in order that their literary education shall occupy fewer hours, and that they shall have time left for exercise in the open air to invigorate the body; while other children are exhausted with nine hours a day at schools and institutes, and are obliged to pay for this with the loss of their health and the joyousness of youth. MRS. S. It is very well known that your daughters are obliged to play the whole day long. DOMINIE. And not all night too? You probably might explain their skill in that way. I am astonished that you have not heard that too, since you have picked up so many shocking stories about me and my daughters. MRS. S. (_dismisses the subject, and asks suddenly_). Now just how old is your daughter Emma? DOMINIE. She is just sixteen years and seven weeks old. MRS. S. Does she speak French? DOMINIE. Oui, elle parle Français, and in musical tones, too,--a language which is understood all over the world. MRS. S. But she is so silent! Does she like to play? DOMINIE. You have given her no opportunity to speak, she is certainly not forth-putting. For the last two years she has taken great pleasure in playing. MRS. S. You acknowledge, then, that formerly you had to force her to it? DOMINIE. In the earlier years of her natural development, as she was a stranger to vanity and other unworthy motives, she certainly played, or rather pursued her serious studies, chiefly from obedience and habit. Does your daughter of thirteen years old always practise her exercises without being required to do so? Does she like to go to school every day? Does she always sew and knit without being reminded of it? MRS. S. (_interrupting_). Oh, I see you are quite in love with your daughters! But they say you are terribly strict and cruel in the musical education of your children; and, in fact, always. DOMINIE. Do you suppose I do this from affection? or do you infer it, because they have proved artists, or because they look so blooming and healthy, or because they write such fine letters, or because they have not grown crooked over embroidery, or because they are so innocent, unaffected, and modest? or-- MRS. S. (_irritably_). We will drop that subject. But I must give you one piece of good advice. Do not make your daughter Emma exert herself too much, as you have done with your eldest daughter. DOMINIE. If that is so, Mrs. Spriggins, it seems to have agreed with her very well. MRS. S. (_vehemently_). But she would have been better-- DOMINIE. If she had not played at all? That I can't tell exactly, as I said yesterday. Well, you are satisfied now with Emma's state of health? MRS. S. It is of no use to advise such people as you. DOMINIE. I have always devoted myself to my business as a teacher, and have daily taken counsel with myself about the education of my daughters, and of other pupils whom I have formed for artists; and, it must be acknowledged, I have done so with some ability. MRS. S. (_not attending to him, but turning to Emma_). But does it not make your fingers ache to play such difficult music? DOMINIE. Only when her teacher raps her on the knuckles, and that I never do. (_Emma looks at the parrot which is hanging in the parlor, and strokes the great bull-dog._) JOHN SPRIGGINS (_entering with his daughter Lizzie_). Herr Dominie, will you be so good as to hear our daughter Lizzie play, and advise us whether to continue in the same course. Music is, in fact, hereditary in our family. My wife played a little, too, in her youth, and I once played on the violin; but my teacher told me I had no talent for it, no ear, and no idea of time, and that I scraped too much. DOMINIE. Very curious! He must have been mistaken! JOHN S. But I always was devotedly fond of music. My father and my grandfather, on our estate, often used to play the organ for the organist in church, and the tenants always knew when they were playing. My father used often to tell that story at table. Ha, ha! It was very droll! DOMINIE. Curious! JOHN S. Well, to return to my violin. I gave it up after a year, because it seemed rather scratchy to me, too. DOMINIE. Curious! Probably your ear and your taste had become more cultivated. JOHN S. Afterwards, when I accepted an office, my wife said to me, "My dear, what a pity it is about your violin." So I had it restrung, and took a teacher. It seems as if it were only yesterday. DOMINIE (_casting down his eyes,--the servant brings ice_). That was very curious! JOHN S. But the government horn-player thought he could not get on in duets with me. DOMINIE. Curious! So you were obliged to play only solos? But to return to your daughter. Will you be good enough to play me something, Miss Lizzie? MRS. S. (_condescendingly, in a low voice_). She is a little timid and embarrassed at playing before your daughter Emma. EMMA. You really need not be so. MRS. S. Bring "Les Graces" by Herz, and Rosellen's "Tremolo." LIZZIE. But, mamma, I have forgotten that piece by Herz, and I have not learned the "Tremolo" very well yet. That is always the way with me. Mr. Shepard says I may console myself: it was always the same with his other scholars. He says I shall finally make my way. But Mr. Shepard is so strict. Are you very strict, Herr Dominie? MRS. S. Why, my child, you have heard me say so before. Herr Dominie is the very strictest--but (_playfully_) he will not acknowledge it. DOMINIE. There is one thing you must allow, Mrs. Spriggins,--that my pupils always take pleasure in my lessons; and that must be the case because their progress is evident and gives them delight, and every thing is developed in the most natural way. MRS. S. (_less sharply_). We won't discuss that; but how are your daughters able to play so many pieces to people, and moreover without notes, if they have not been obliged to practise all day long, and if you have not been very cruel with them, while my Lizzie cannot play a single thing without bungling? DOMINIE. Allow me, madam, it must be the fault of Mr. Shep-- MRS. S. No, no! you must excuse me, but we don't permit any reflections on our Mr. Shepard: he is very particular and unwearied. DOMINIE. It does not depend entirely upon that, but-- JOHN S. Upon my honor, it is marvellous to see how talented pupils always seem to flock to _you_. It is easy to teach such! Ha, ha! You must not forget, however, that my grandfather played on the organ. Now, Lizzie, sit down and play something. (_She chooses a cavatina from "The Pirates," with variations. The introduction begins with _e_ flat in unison. Lizzie strikes _e_ in unison and the same in the bass, and exclaims: "There, mamma, didn't I tell you so? I don't remember it now." Mr. Shepard enters, steps up hastily, and puts her finger on _e_ flat._) SHEPARD. Pardon me, Herr Dominie, I will only set her going: it makes her a little confused to play before such connoisseurs; she loses her eyesight. Don't you see, Lizzie, there are three flats in the signature? JOHN S. Courage now! Aha! Lizzie can't get at the pedal, the bull-dog is lying over it. John, take him out. (_After the removal of the bull-dog, Lizzie plays as far as the fourth bar, when she strikes _c_ sharp instead of _c_, and stops._) MRS. S. Never mind, begin again. Herr Dominie is pleased to hear that: he has gone through it all with his own children. (_Lizzie begins again at the beginning, and goes on to the eighth bar, where she sticks fast._) SHEPARD. Don't make me ashamed of you, Lizzie. Now begin once more: a week ago it went quite tolerably. (_Lizzie begins once more, and plays or rather scrambles through it, as far as the eighteenth bar; but now it is all over with her, and she gets up._) DOMINIE. Skip the introduction, it is too difficult: begin at once on the theme. JOHN S. (_to his wife_). We will go away and leave the gentlemen alone. By and by, gentlemen, we will talk about it further over a cup of tea. (_Lizzie refuses to play._) DOMINIE. Mr. Shepard, let Lizzie play a few scales or some chords; a few finger exercises, or some easy dance without notes. SHEPARD. She has nothing of that kind ready. You see I always take up one piece after another, and have each one played as well as I can; she repeats the difficult parts, I write the proper fingering over them, and am very particular that she does not use the wrong fingers. I have taken a great deal of pains, and quite worn myself out over the lessons. Lizzie does the same, and practises her pieces two hours a day; but--but-- (_Lizzie goes away with Emma._) DOMINIE. Mr. Shepard, with the best intentions in the world, you will never accomplish your end. Even if Miss Lizzie is only to play as an amateur, and is not intended for any thing higher, for which in fact she has not sufficient talent, you must pay some attention beforehand to the acquirement of a correct tone, and get rid of this robin-red-breast touch; and you must then endeavor, by scales and exercises of every kind, to give to her hands and fingers so much firmness, decision, and dexterity, that she can master her pieces, at least with a certain distinct tone and a tolerable touch. You are not less in error in the choice of her pieces, which are far too difficult,--a fault of most teachers, even with the most skilful pupils. The pieces which your pupils are to execute should be below their mechanical powers; for, otherwise, the struggle with difficulties robs the player of all confidence in the performance, and gives rise to stumbling, bungling, and hurry. The mechanical powers should be cultivated by studies and exercises, in preference to pieces, at least to those of certain famous composers, who do not write in a manner adapted to the piano; or who, at any rate, regard the music as of more importance than the player. This may apply even to Beethoven, in the higher grade of composition; for his music is full of danger for the performer. The only course which can ever lead to a sure result, without wearying both pupil and parent, and without making piano-playing distasteful, is first to lay a foundation in mechanical power, and then to go on with the easier pieces by Hünten and Burgmüller. If you try to produce the mechanical dexterity essential for piano performance by the study of pieces, except with the most careful selection, you will waste a great deal of time and deprive the pupil of all pleasure and interest; and the young Lizzie will be much more interested in the hope of a husband than in the satisfaction of performing a piece which will give pleasure to herself and her friends. There can be no success without gradual development and culture, without a plan, without consideration and reflection,--in fact, without a proper method. How can there be any good result, if the pupil has to try at the same time to play with a correct touch, with the proper fingering, in time, with proper phrasing, to move the fingers rightly, to gain familiarity with the notes, and to avoid the confusion between the treble and the bass notes,--and in fact has to struggle with every thing at once? And what vexations! what loss of time without success! (_Shepard listened with attention, and a light seemed to dawn upon him._) (_Dominie and Shepard go in to tea._) MRS. S. Well, gentlemen, have you come to any conclusion? Is not Lizzie a good pupil? She is obliged to practise two hours every day, however tired she may be. Do you think we should continue in the same course, Herr Dominie? SHEPARD. Herr Dominie has called my attention to some points which will be of use to me. DOMINIE. Only a few trifles. JOHN S. After tea will not Miss Emma play to us? EMMA. The piano is very much out of tune, some of the keys stick, the action is too light, and the instrument generally is not calculated for the successful execution of any thing. JOHN S. I beg your pardon: it was considered by everybody a very fine instrument when we bought it, sixteen years ago. We had a great bargain in it at the time, for we purchased it of a neighbor who had improved it very much by use. Mr. Shepard will confirm what I say, Miss. (_Emma bows her head thoughtfully, and looks at Shepard suspiciously._) JOHN S. My violin has very much improved during the last twenty years. On my honor, if Lizzie were a boy, she should learn to play on the violin, to keep it in the family. Ha, ha, ha! DOMINIE. That would be curious! (_Dominie wishes to take leave with his daughter._) MRS. S. (_condescendingly_). I hope you will come to see us again soon. The next time Lizzie will play you Rosellen's "Tremolo;" and Miss Emma must play us a piece too. DOMINIE. You are extremely kind! (_Takes leave._) CHAPTER VIII. SINGING AND SINGING-TEACHERS. _(A Letter to a Young Lady Singer.)_ MY DEAR MISS ----,--You are endowed with an admirable gift for singing, and your agreeable though not naturally powerful voice has vivacity and youthful charm, as well as a fine tone: you also possess much talent in execution; yet you nevertheless share the lot of almost all your sisters in art, who, whether in Vienna, Paris, or Italy, find only teachers who are rapidly helping to annihilate the opera throughout Europe, and are ruling out of court the simple, noble, refined, and true art of singing. This modern, unnatural style of art, which merely aspires to superficial effects, and consists only in mannerisms, and which must ruin the voice in a short time, before it reaches its highest perfection, has already laid claim to you. It is scarcely possible to rescue your talent, unless, convinced that you have been falsely guided, you stop entirely for a time, and allow your voice to rest during several months, and then, by correct artistic studies, and with a voice never forced or strong, often indeed weak, you improve your method of attack by the use of much less and never audible breathing, and acquire a correct, quiet guidance of the tones. You must also make use of the voice in the middle register, and strengthen the good head-tones by skilfully lowering them; you must equalize the registers of the voice by a correct and varied use of the head-tones, and by diligent practice of _solfeggio_. You must restore the unnaturally extended registers to their proper limits; and you have still other points to reform. Are you not aware that this frequent tremulousness of the voice, this immoderate forcing of its compass, by which the chest-register is made to interfere with the head-tones, this coquetting with the deep chest-tones, this affected, offensive, and almost inaudible nasal _pianissimo_, the aimless jerking out of single tones, and, in general, this whole false mode of vocal execution, must continually shock the natural sentiment of a cultivated, unprejudiced hearer, as well as of the composer and singing-teacher? What must be the effect on a voice in the middle register, when its extreme limits are forced in such a reckless manner, and when you expend as much breath for a few lines of a song as a correctly educated singer would require for a whole aria? How long will it be before your voice, already weakened, and almost always forced beyond the limits of beauty, shall degenerate into a hollow, dull, guttural tone, and even into that explosive or tremulous sound, which proclaims irremediable injury? Is your beautiful voice and your talent to disappear like a meteor, as others have done? or do you hope that the soft air of Italy will in time restore a voice once ruined? I fall into a rage when I think of the many beautiful voices which have been spoiled, and have dwindled away without leaving a trace during the last forty years; and I vent my overflowing heart in a brief notice of the many singing-teachers, whose rise and influence I have watched for twenty years past. The so-called singing-teachers whom we usually find, even in large cities and in musical institutions, I exempt from any special criticism, for they would not be able to understand my views. They permit soprano voices to sing scales in all the five vowels at once; begin with _c_ instead of _f_; allow a long holding of the notes, "in order to bring out the voice," until the poor victim rolls her eyes and grows dizzy. They talk only of the fine chest-tones which must be elicited, will have nothing to do with the head-tones, will not even listen to them, recognize them, or learn to distinguish them. Their highest principle is: "Fudge! we don't want any rubbish of Teschner, Miksch, and Wieck. Sing in your own plain way: what is the use of this murmuring without taking breath? For what do you have lungs if you are not to use them? Come, try this aria: 'Grâce,' 'grâce!' Produce an effect! Down on your knees!" There are again others who allow screaming,--"the more the better,"--in order to produce power and expression in the voice, and to make it serviceable for public performances. They may, indeed, require the singing of _solfeggio_, and prattle about the requisite equality of the tones; and they consequently make the pupil practise diligently and strongly on the two-lined _a_, _b_ flat, _b_, where kind Nature does not at first place the voice, because she has reserved for herself the slow and careful development of it. As for the unfortunate gasping medium voices, which are still less docile, and which sigh in the throat, and after all can only speak, such teachers postpone the cultivation of these to the future, or else they exclaim in a satisfied way, "Now we will sing at sight! Hit the notes! Let us have classical music!" Of these, also, I forbear to speak. And as for the singing-teachers, whose business it is to educate the voice for "the opera of the future," I am really unable to write about them. In the first place, I know nothing about "the future," the unborn; and, in the second place, I have more than enough to do with the present. And now I come to those who honestly wish to teach better, and who in a measure do so. But even they are too pedantic: with prejudiced views, they pursue one-sided aims. Without looking around to the right or to the left or forwards, and without daily learning, reflecting, and striving, they run in a groove, always ride their particular hobby, cut every thing after one pattern, and use up the time in secondary matters, in incredible trifles. For the formation of a fine tone, not a minute should be lost, particularly with lady singers, who are not strong, and usually cannot or ought not to sing more than twenty days in a month, and who surely ought to be allowed to use their time in a reasonable manner. Moreover, these are the teachers whom it is most difficult to comprehend. Though they use only seven tones, they are plunged in impenetrable mysteries, in incomprehensible knowledge and a multitude of so-called secrets, out of which, indeed, nothing can ever be brought to light. For this, however, they do not consider themselves to blame, not even their hobby-horses; but, as they say, "the higher powers." We will, for once, suppose that three-fourths of the measures which they are accustomed to employ in their treatment of the voice and of the individual are good and correct (the same is true of many piano-teachers); but the remaining fourth is sufficient to ruin the voice, or to prevent its proper development, and therefore nothing correct is to be gained. There are other teachers who never can get beyond the formation of the tone, and are lost in the pursuit of _perfection_,--that "terrestrial valley of tears." Truly a beautiful country, but which is only to be found in Paradise! Others, instead of thinking, "I will try for the present to do better than others have done," so harass and torment the poor mortal voices with their aim at perfect equality and perfect beauty of tone, the result often is that every thing becomes unequal and far from beautiful. Some teachers make their pupils so anxious and troubled that, owing to their close attention to the tone, and the breath, and the pronunciation, they sing their songs in an utterly wooden manner, and so in fact they, too, are lost in optimism and in tears; whereas, for singing, a happy confidence in the ability to succeed is essential. Others pursue an opposite course, and are guilty of worse faults, as you will see if you look around. Some of them have no standard of perfection, but use up the time in an exchange of ideas with their pupils, with mysterious and conceited "ifs" and "buts." They are very positive, but only within the narrow circle of their own ideas. They make no advance in a correct medium path. Some allow pupils to practise only _staccato_, and others only _legato_, aiming thereby at nobody knows what. Some allow them to sing too loud, others too feebly; some philosophize earnestly about beauty in the voice, and others grumble about unpleasantness in the same; some are enthusiastic about extraordinary talents, others fret about the want of talent; some have a passion for making all the sopranos sing alto, others do just the reverse; some prefer a shadowy, others a clear voice. They all rest their opinions upon the authority of some famous screaming-master who has written a singing-system. Upon like authority, some cultivate chiefly the deep tones, because it is very fine, and "creates an effect," for soprano voices to be able suddenly to sing like men, or rather to growl, and because it is the fashion in Paris. Others, on the contrary, pride themselves upon the head-tones; but they are none of them willing to pay much attention to the medium voices: that is too critical and too delicate a matter, and requires too much trouble, for the modern art of singing. As a last resort, they bethink themselves of kind Nature, and lay the blame upon her. Well, I will say no more upon this point, but will proceed. Have I not already, in my piano instructions, insisted on the importance of a gradual and careful use of every proper expedient to extend, strengthen, beautify, and preserve the voice? I am thought, however, to infringe upon the office of the singing-masters, who hold their position to be much more exalted than that of the poor piano-teacher. Still, I must be allowed to repeat that voices are much more easily injured than fingers; and that broken, rigid voices are much worse than stiff, unmanageable fingers, unless, after all, they amount to the same thing. I demand of singing-teachers that they show themselves worthy of their position, and allow no more voices to go to destruction, and that they give us some satisfactory results. I believe in fact, in my homely simplicity, that the whole thing may be accomplished without any mystery, without trading in secrets or charlatanry; without the aid of modern anatomical improvement, or rather destruction, of the worn-out throat, through shortening or increasing the flexibility of the palate, through the removal of the unnecessary glands or by attempts to lengthen the vocal passage, or by remedying a great many other things in which Nature has made a mistake, and on which special doctors for the voice, in Paris and London, are now employed. We supply the want of all these by the following little rule:-- Three trifles are essential for a good piano or singing-teacher,-- _The finest taste, The deepest feeling, The most delicate ear,_ and, in addition, the requisite knowledge, energy, and some practice. _Voilà tout!_ I cannot devote myself to the treatment of the throat, for which I have neither time not fitness; and my lady singers are so busy with the formation of true tone, and in attention to the care and preservation of their voices, that they only wish to open their mouths for that object, and not for anatomical purposes. In piano-playing also, I require no cutting of the interdigital fold, no mechanical hand-support, no accelerator for the fingers or stretching machine; and not even the "finger-rack" invented and used, without my knowledge, by a famous pupil[A] of mine, for the proper raising of the third and fourth fingers. My dear young lady, if the Creator has made the throat badly for singing, he alone is responsible. I cannot come to his assistance by destroying the throat with lunar caustic, and then reconstructing it. If the throat is really worn out, may it not perhaps be owing to the teacher, and to his mistaken management? Nature does many things well, and before the introduction of this modern fashion of singing produced many beautiful voices: has she all at once become incapable of doing any thing right? We will, then, simply return to the _three trifles_ above-mentioned; and in these we will live and work "with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our mind." [A] Reference is here made to Robert Schumann, who, in order to facilitate the use of the weaker fingers, employed a machine for raising the fingers artificially, which resulted in loss of power over them, and necessitated the abandonment of piano-playing.--_Tr._ CHAPTER IX. THOUGHTS ON SINGING. Our vocal composers, followed by many singing-teachers and singing institutions, have almost banished from music the true art of singing; or, at least, have introduced an unnatural, faulty, and always disagreeable mode of delivery, by which the voice has been destroyed, even before it has attained its full development. The consideration of this fact induces me to communicate some portions from my journal, and to unite with them a few opinions of the noted singing-master, Teschner, of Berlin. * * * * * Must we again and again explain to German composers that, though we do not require them to compose in Italian, they ought, at least, to learn to write in German in a manner suited for singing? otherwise, in their amazing ignorance and infatuation, they will wear out the powers of opera singers, and torture the public, apparently without a suspicion that it is possible to write both grand and light operas with true, characteristic German thoroughness. Even German opera requires a constant attention to the right use of the voice, and a methodical, effective mode of singing. It tolerates no murderous attacks on single male and female voices, or on the full opera company; it is opposed to that eager searching after superficial effect, which every sincere friend of the opera must lament. Is it, then, so difficult to obtain the requisite knowledge of the human voice, and to study the scores of Gluck, Haydn, Mozart, Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti with a special regard to this? Do our vocal composers make too great a sacrifice to their creative genius in making a study of those things which are essential? You consider it mortifying to inquire of those who understand singing, and you are sensitive about any disturbance of your vain over-estimate of your own powers; but you are not ashamed to cause the destruction of man's noblest gift,--the human voice! If taste, feeling, and a fine ear are, and always must be, the chief requirements in composing for the great public, I ask you how you can lay claim to these three trifles, when you constantly violate them? COMPOSER. If Mrs. N. had executed my aria to-day in as earnest and masterly a style, and with as agreeable a voice, as she did that of Rossini yesterday, she would have given as much satisfaction; for it is much more interesting and expressive both musically and harmonically, and written with more dramatic effect. SINGER. You make a mistake, and you always will do so, as long as you consider the study of the voice as of secondary importance, or, in fact, pay no attention whatever to it. The latter aria, which is composed with a regard to the voice, and to the employment of its most agreeable tones, puts me into a comfortable mood, and gives me a feeling of success; yours, on the contrary, into one of dissatisfaction and anticipation of failure. Of what importance is the musical value of a composition, if it can only be sung with doubtful success, and if the voice is obliged to struggle with it, instead of having it under control? You attach less importance to the free, agreeable exercise of the voice than does the unanimous public. I do not wish to excite compassion, but to give pleasure by a beautifully developed style of singing. You pay some attention to adaptability to the piano or the violin: why are you usually regardless of fitness for the voice? Critics have often asked, Why does Jenny Lind sing so coolly? why does she not sing grand, passionate parts? why does she not select for her performances some of the later German or even Italian operas? why does she always sing Amina, Lucia, Norma, Susanna, &c.? In reply to these and similar questions, I will ask, Why does she wish always to remain Jenny Lind? why does she endeavor to preserve her voice as long as possible? why does she select operas in which she may use her pure, artistic, refined mode of singing, which permits no mannerism, no hypocritical sentiment, and which possesses an ideal beauty? why does she choose operas in which she can give the most perfect possible image of her own personality? why operas in which she may allow the marvellous union of her powers of song to shine conspicuously, without doing violence to her voice and forcing its tones, or casting doubt upon her lofty, noble, and beautiful art? why does she first regard the singing, and only afterwards the music, or both united? This is the answer to the same questions which are likewise asked about Henrietta Sontag and all great singers. Even the passionate Schröder-Devrient seldom made an exception to this rule, although she was not independent of the theatres. These questions should be an urgent warning to our young female singers not to sacrifice themselves to any of the modern screaming operas, unsuited for singing; but to preserve and watch over their voices, and to guard them from immoderate, continued, and often inartistic exertion; in fact, to sing always in the voice-register with which nature has endowed them, and never to shriek; to renounce the present, fashionable, so-called "singing effects," and the modern scene-screaming, as Jenny Lind and Henrietta Sontag have always done. Then their voices would remain useful for the opera, as was formerly the case, from ten to twenty years; and they would not have to mourn, as is too common, after a very short time, a feeble, broken voice and departed health. Let Jenny Lind and Henrietta Sontag be placed as the finest models before our young, gifted, ambitious singers. They are to be regarded as miraculous phenomena; especially in our times, when the modern style of singing has, for reasons difficult to justify, so widely deviated from the old school which was so fruitful in brilliant results,--that of Pistocchi, Porpora, and Bernacchi. What could show more clearly the destructiveness of our present opera style than the sublime beauty of their singing, combined with their noble, refined, sound voices, such as may perhaps still be found among you? * * * * * The managers of our theatres are in want of tenor singers who can act. They should consider that tenors who have any voices left have never learned to act, and tenors who are able to act no longer have any voices; because, as a rule, they either have studied too little, or have studied erroneously. Unless the voice has received a correct and fine culture, the German comic operas lead immediately to destruction of the voice, especially of the sensitive, easily injured German tenor voice. Here I take occasion to remark upon the universal prejudice, that "a tenor ought to develop the chest-tones as far as possible, that they are the finest." In tenors, with very few exceptions, this mistaken treatment has been speedily followed by the loss both of voice and health. Nicely shaded singing, from _piano_ onwards, is thereby rendered impossible; and tones which are always forced must remain unpleasant, even although powers thus laboriously gained may sometimes have a fine effect in the opera. A tenor who wishes to preserve his voice and not to scream in the upper tones, who desires always to have a _piano_ at command and to possess the necessary shading and lightness as well as elegance and flexibility, should cultivate the _falsetto_, and endeavor to bring it down as far as possible into the chest-register. This is as indispensable as is the use of the head-tones for the soprano. When the _falsetto_ has too striking a resemblance to the chest-voice, and is even inferior to it in power, it is the result of want of perseverance and prudence in its cultivation. It ought to be almost imperceptibly connected with the chest-register by the introduction of the mixed tones. * * * * * We shall probably soon be called upon to read an "Address of Young Female Singers to the Composers of Germany," as follows: "Freedom of thought! freedom in composition! freedom in the opera! but no annihilation of the throat! You are hereby notified that we protest against all operas which are repugnant to the true art of singing; for it is not in your power to compensate us for the loss of our voices, although it may be possible for you, after using up our talent as quickly as possible, to look around for others, with whom you can do the same. First learn to understand singing, or, rather, first learn to sing, as your predecessors have done, and as Italian composers still do, and then we will talk with you again." * * * * * "What a pedantic outcry about German want of adaptability for singing! Pray where is there the most singing?" It is, I agree, in Germany. "Is not singing taught in the public schools? And consider, too, the innumerable singing clubs, singing societies, and singing institutions!" That is just the misfortune which requires a thorough investigation. How many promising voices do these institutions annually follow to the grave? Who is it who sing in the schools? Boys and girls from thirteen to fifteen years old. But boys ought not to be allowed to sing while the voice is changing; and girls, also from physical reasons, ought not to sing at all at that age. And what kind of instructors teach singing here? Our epistolary and over-wise age overwhelms our superintendents and corporations with innumerable petitions and proposals; but no true friend of humanity, of music, and of singing, has yet been found to enlighten these authorities, and to prove to them that the most beautiful voices and finest talents are killed in the germ by these unsuitable so-called singing-lessons, especially in the public schools. Girls' voices may be carefully awakened, and skilfully practised, and made flexible and musical; but they should be used only in _mezzo-voce_, and only until the period of their development, or up to the thirteenth year, or a few months sooner or later. This ought also to be done with great experience, delicacy, practical knowledge and circumspection. But where are we to find suitable singing-professors, and who is to pay them a sufficient salary? Therefore, away with this erroneous instruction of children in singing! away with this abortion of philanthropy and the musical folly of this extravagant age! Can such a premature, unrefined, faulty screaming of children, or croaking in their throats, without artistic cultivation and guidance, compensate for the later inevitable hoarseness and loss of voice, and for the destruction of the organs of singing? The tenors who belong to these singing societies and institutions force out and sacrifice their uncultured voices, and scream with throat, palate, and nasal tones, in the execution of four-part songs by this or that famous composer, which are far from beautiful, and which serve only to ruin the voice. Who was the lady who sang the solo in yonder singing academy? That girl, a year ago, had a fresh, beautiful, sonorous voice; but, although she is only twenty years old, it already begins to fail her, and she screws and forces it, by the help of the chest-tones, up to the two-lined _a_, without any thing having ever been done for the adjustment of the voice-registers and for the use of the head-tones, and without proper direction from a competent superintendent. Instead of this, he was continually exclaiming: "Loud! forcibly! _con espressione!_" While even the street boys in Italy sing clearly, and often with great ability, their national songs, so well suited to the voice, and in their most beautiful language, our northern voices, which are obliged to contend with the great difficulties of the German language, are sacrificed in the most cold-blooded and self-satisfied manner in the schools and singing societies, while all artistic preparation, by which alone the voice may be preserved and cultivated, is neglected. Who are at the head of these institutions and societies? Musicians it is true; but they are strangers to any special education in singing, or are not skilful singing-teachers, who understand how to combine methodical cultivation of the voice with practical execution. Their entire instruction consists, at most, in hitting the notes and keeping time. These musicians say: "Whoever joins my society must know how to sing!" What does that mean? Where are they to learn it? And, even when you have succeeded in obtaining for your academy a few imprudent but well-taught singers, does not the preservation of their voices then require the greatest care and watchfulness? Is that in your power? Have you the requisite knowledge for it? Are not these few well-educated voices obliged to sing by the side of singers who have been taught in a wrong manner, and who have no pure, correct intonation? Then what do these societies amount to? Do they improve or destroy the voice? They make the members musical. A fine consolation for the loss of the voice! They teach them to hit the notes and to keep time. A great comfort after the voice has been destroyed by false culture! * * * * * A singing-teacher who has no firm, decided principle, who is constantly wavering backwards and forwards, and who frequently leads others into error by his untenable opinions; who cannot quickly discern the special talent and capacity of his pupils, or discover the proper means to get rid of what is false or wrong, and adopt the speediest road to success, without any one-sided theories of perfection; who mistrusts and blames, worries, offends, and depresses, instead of encouraging; who is always dissatisfied instead of cordially acknowledging what is good in the pupil; who at one time rides a high horse instead of kindly offering a helping hand, and at another time praises as extravagantly as he before has blamed, and kills time in such ways as these,--he may be an encyclopædia of knowledge, but his success will always fall short of his hopes. Firmness, decision, energy, and a delicate, quick perception; the art not to say too much or too little, and to be quite clear in his own mind, and with constant considerate kindness to increase the courage and confidence of his pupils,--these are requisite above all things for a singing-master as well as for a piano-teacher. * * * * * "My singers are to be educated for the public, for the stage, and must therefore sing loud, study hard, force their execution, and make use of a great deal of breath. How else will they be able to produce an effect?" _Answer._ What, then, is the effect of your culture? I know of none, except that they at first are applauded, because they are young and pretty, and are novelties; because they have good voices, and the benevolent public wishes to encourage them; and then they disappear in a year or two without leaving any trace. "The singing-teacher can succeed in cultivating not more than one good voice in twenty, with any noteworthy result. Hence the decadence of the art of singing." _Answer._ Unless some unusual disturbance or sickness occur, all voices improve till the twenty-fourth year. When this is not the case, it is to be attributed only to the singing-teacher. "Many voices acquire a sharp tone, which is the precursor of decay." _Answer._ All voices are, and will remain, more or less tender, if their culture is correct. "Only Jenny Lind and Henrietta Sontag were allowed by the public to give out their voices naturally and lightly without straining them, and to sing _piano_ and _pianissimo_, and their celebrity is a justification of this privilege." _Answer._ But how would they have obtained their celebrity, if this were not the true, correct, and pure mode of singing? "Our singers also try the _piano_ and _pianissimo_; but they can produce no effect on their audiences by it, as you may see every day." _Answer._ Good heavens! I should think so! With such a _piano_, with strained voices, faulty attack, and the use of too much breath,--a _piano_ which only gurgles in the throat, or deeper! That I do not mean: I must refer you again to the three trifles mentioned in my eighth chapter. "But some voices have no _piano_, and many singers do not take the right course to acquire it." _Answer._ What a wide-spread, groundless excuse! Here we may see the error of our times. People look for the fault outside of themselves, and not in themselves. The inventive power of the age is here truly astonishing! When, owing to false management, the voice soon degenerates instead of improving with time, it is the consequence of a faulty formation of the throat, and of the neglect of London throat brushes! If such badly educated voices can no longer produce a _piano_, it is owing to the unskilfulness of nature, and to the false construction of the necessary organs! If the _piano_ is only a wheeze, the reason is found in the deficiency of palate, and excess of muscles! If several times in the month, the worn out, weary voice can only groan and sigh, or cannot emit a sound, it is the result of a change in the weather, or other meteorological conditions! If we complain of unpleasant, shrieking tones, occasioned by the mouth being too widely stretched, then "the rays of sound take an oblique, instead of a direct course"! If the poor, strained medium voice, even with the help of a great deal of breath, can only produce dull, hollow, veiled, and unpleasant tones, that is said to be a necessary crisis, of which cruel Nature requires a great many in the course of her development of the voice! Finally, if from long and forced holding of the chest-tones, they are changed into noises like the bellowing of calves and the quacking of ducks, and the instructor finally perceives it, then again we have a crisis! And, alas! no one thinks of "the three trifles." * * * * * What occasions the want of success of our singing-teachers, many of whom are musical, possess a delicate ear, fine culture and feeling, have studied systems of singing, and exert themselves zealously to teach rightly? They fail in the culture of the tone, which is not to be learned from books or by one's self, but only from verbal communication. To learn to produce a clear tone, with a light, free, natural attack; to understand how to draw forth the sound with the use of no unnecessary breath, and to cause the sound to strike against the roof of the mouth above the upper row of teeth; to improve the pronunciation; to adjust the registers,--these, with many other things, may seem very easy; but to teach them all in the shortest time, without wearing out the voice and without falling into errors; to persevere in teaching to the end, even if the pupil already sings correctly; to know what is still wanting and how it is to be attained,--all these one must acquire by long and constant experience. When Schröder-Devrient came from Vienna to Dresden, a young but already celebrated singer, though at that time wanting in the proper foundation for singing, she was not a little surprised when Miksch called her attention to this deficiency. She devoted herself thoroughly to the primary formation of the tone under the instruction of Miksch, and must still remember the old master, and his extraordinary practice in this particular. Miksch learned it from Caselli, a pupil of Bernacchi. He had just sung as a young tenor, with great applause, in a concert, and introduced himself to Caselli, who was present, expecting to receive his approbation; but the latter, instead of commending, assured him frankly that his mode of singing was false, and that with such misuse his voice would succumb within a year, unless he adopted a correct culture of tone. After much hard struggle, the young Miksch renounced all further public applause, and studied the formation of tone assiduously and perseveringly with Caselli, after having previously allowed his over-strained voice a time for rest. If a singing-teacher has, by chance, met with a docile pupil, possessed of a voice of unusual beauty, it frequently happens that the studies are not pursued with sufficient perseverance; and, perhaps, are continued only for a few weeks or months, instead of allowing a year or more, according to circumstances. Richard Wagner agrees with me, when he says, "Why, then, write operas to be sung, when we no longer have either male or female singers?" * * * * * Since modern progress has come to regard "the three trifles" as belonging entirely to the past, and in their place has proclaimed, "Boldness, Spirit, Power," two evil spirits have had rule: they go hand in hand, ruin the voice, wound the cultivated ear, and provide for us--only empty opera houses. One of these evils has been frequently alluded to by me. It is "the expenditure of a great deal too much breath." The finest voices are obliged to practise with full breath until they shriek, and the result is mere sobbing, and the heavy drawing of the breath, just at the time when the tone should still be heard. Even if every thing else could be right, in such a culture of the tone, which must very shortly relax the muscles of the voice, that one thing, in itself, would be sufficient to destroy all promise of success. The second evil endangers even the male voice, which is able to endure much ill-treatment; while the female voice is quickly forced by it into a piercing shrillness, or is driven back into the throat, soon to be entirely exhausted, or is, at least, prevented from attaining a natural, fine development. This second evil is the reckless and destructive straining of single tones to their extreme limits, even to perfect exhaustion. The poor singer urges and squeezes out the voice, and quivers to the innermost marrow, in order that the two requirements of "Boldness" and "Power" may be satisfied. But the "Spirit" is still wanting, which should be shown in a light and well-shaded delivery. The effect of extreme shading, however, is accomplished in a single "romanza." The unfortunate, misdirected singer, who must aim at effect, lays out so much force on single tones, or even on whole lines, and that, too, in the best register of his voice (the other registers do not permit this), that the succeeding tones are forced to retire powerless into the throat; and the beautiful, fresh, youthful tenor or bass voice concludes with exhausted groaning and mere speaking tones. The "romanza" is now at an end, and certainly "Boldness, Spirit, and Power" have worked in union. The task is executed the better, because a rude accompaniment has probably sustained the singer in a most striking manner, and has completed the total effect. By such management, to which I must emphatically add the continual holding of the tones, even in the _forte_, voices are expected "to come out," to be developed, inspired, and made beautiful. What healthy ear can endure such enormities in tone formation, such tortures in singing? These, then, are the modern contributions for the embellishment of art! A curse on these evil spirits! If my feeble pen shall assist in bringing such singing-teachers to their senses, and shall help to save only a few of our fine voices, I shall consider my mission fulfilled, and the aim of this book, so far as it concerns singing, accomplished. * * * * * I have heretofore combated many prejudices, both in earnest and in sport, successfully and unsuccessfully; but one I find very obstinate,--it has pursued me incessantly for years. A piano-player, with a rigid, strained, and vicious touch, proceeding from the arm, may play a great deal, but his playing is thoroughly vulgar and without beauty. He feels this himself, and the playing of my pupils pleases him better. He wishes me to change his style to their better manner; but he still continues to pound, to bang, to exaggerate, and to play in his own way, and only wishes his style to be improved, and his power of execution to be increased. If a performer of this sort is not much more than twenty years of age, something may yet be done for the improvement of his touch, and consequently of his style of playing; but this is only possible by laying aside all his accustomed pieces of music, and by diligently practising, daily, small easy exercises, which must be played delicately, with loose fingers, and without allowing the arm to give the slightest assistance; otherwise, all labor will be thrown away upon him. How else can you begin, except by laying a proper foundation for a better style? I have frequently urged this principle both by speech and in writing; but the difficulty always returns, and especially in the cultivation of female singers. A girl of eighteen comes to me: she has heard of the excellent cultivation of my lady singers, and wishes to obtain the same for herself. In order that I may hear her voice, she selects the "Erlkönig," by Schubert, that perilous piece, which is apt to lead even highly cultivated singers into frightful atrocities. Heavens! what must I hear? With the remains of a fine, youthful voice, whose registers are already broken up and disconnected, she shrieks out the "Erlkönig," between sobs and groans, with screwed-up chest-tones, and many modern improprieties, but nevertheless with dramatic talent. The piercing voice, forced to its utmost, fills me with horror; but also with pity for such a glorious endowment, and such an unnatural development. At the conclusion, her voice succumbed to the effort, and she could only groan hoarsely, and wheeze without emitting a sound. She has, however, frequently produced great effect in society, and drawn tears with this performance: it is her favorite piece. Let us abandon this singing for parties, this melancholy _dilettantismus_, everywhere so obtrusive! The girl is only eighteen years old: is she beyond salvation? I endeavor to build her voice up again, gradually, by gentle practice. She succeeds very well in it, and after six lessons her natural docility arouses hope. The head-tones again make their appearance, and the practice of _solfeggio_ brings out once more the stifled voice which had been forced back into the throat by senseless exertions; a better attack begins to be developed, and the chest-register returns to its natural limits. She now declared, with her mother's approval, that she really would continue to study in this way, but she could not give up the performance of her effective and spirited conception of the "Erlkönig." She came a few times more: I could perceive that the good structure was tottering. After a few months, she had entirely sacrificed her voice to this single "Erlkönig." In such tender years, one such idol is sufficient. What a price for an "Erlkönig"! The old, experienced singing-teacher, Miksch, of Dresden (with the exception of Rossini, the last famous champion of the old school), has often warned me that radical amendment is seldom possible with such over-strained and broken voices, which already are obliged to struggle with enfeebled muscles, even although youth may excite great and decided hopes. There is also another difficulty: that one of these strong, over-strained voices must hereafter be used with much less strength, if we wish to cultivate a correct tone; and it is impossible to tell whether the chest-tones, when they are restored to their true limit, will ever come out again as powerful and at the same time as beautiful. Let no musician, however talented and cultivated he may be, ever adopt the teaching of singing, unless he can combine with firmness of character great patience, perseverance, and disinterestedness; otherwise, he will experience very little pleasure and very little gratitude. Even if the "Erlkönig" does not stand in the way, every voice presents new and peculiar difficulties. _A Few Words addressed to Singing-Teachers on the Accompaniment of Etudes, Exercises, Scales, &c._ It is common for teachers to play their accompaniments as furiously as if they had to enter into a struggle for life and death with their singers. At the beginning of the lesson, the lady singer ought to commence quite _piano_, at _f_ in the one-lined octave, and to sing up and down from there through five or six notes, without any expenditure of breath, and should guide and bring out her voice by a gentle practice of _solfeggio_; and yet you bang, and pound on the keys, as if you had to accompany drums and trumpets. Do you not perceive that in this way you induce your pupils to strain and force their voices, and that you mislead them into a false method? In such a noise, and while you are making such a monstrous expenditure of strength, to which you add a sharp, uneasy touch, and a frequent spreading of the chords, how can you watch the delicate movements of the singer's throat? Is it necessary for me to explain how such a rude accompaniment must interfere with the effort to sing firmly and delicately? Are you not aware that a light and agreeable, but at the same time firm and decided, accompaniment encourages and sustains the singer, and also assists and inspires her? You ought, in every way, to seek to cultivate in your pupil the feeling for the right, the true, and the beautiful; but what is the girl of eighteen to think of _your_ culture and _your_ sentiment, if you pound the keys as if you were one of the "piano-furies"? While this is your mode of accompanying the études, how then do you accompany the aria, the song? If, for instance, the pupil is singing tenderly, and wishes to bring out an artistic, delicate shading, you take advantage of that occasion to make yourself heard, and to annoy the singer and the audience with your rough shading. A singing-teacher who does not take pains to acquire a good, delicate touch, and who neglects to pay constant attention to it, is wanting in the first requirement; and this is closely connected with the want of "the three trifles." CHAPTER X. VISIT AT MRS. N.'S. MRS. N. _Her daughter_ FATIMA, _eighteen years old_. AN AUNT. DOMINIE. _Towards the end of the evening, the piano-teacher_, MR. FEEBLE. DOMINIE (_rather anxiously to Fatima_). Will you do me the favor, Miss, to play something on the piano? Your aunt has told me a great deal about your playing. FATIMA (_smiling graciously_). But, really, the piano is out of tune,--so my teacher says. DOMINIE. But does not your teacher attend to having your piano always kept in tune? FATIMA. Mamma says it is too expensive to have it tuned so often; it gets out of tune again so quickly. It is an old, small-legged piano, as you see: mamma is always saying, when I am older I shall have a Chickering. The tuner comes regularly once in three months; the time is not yet up. DOMINIE. But is your teacher satisfied with the tuning of your piano? FATIMA. Well, he has got used to it. It is the same with the other instruments he teaches on. MRS. N. Now, pet, play us something. Mr. Dominie likes music; he is a judge of it; his daughters play too. FATIMA. But what shall I play, mamma? MRS. N. You have got heaps of notes there. Mr. Dominie, pray select something. DOMINIE. But I don't know which pieces Miss Fatima can master, and which she has now at her fingers' ends. AUNT. Pray, Mr. Dominie, choose any thing. They are all fine pieces. It makes no difference to her which she plays. DOMINIE. But do you play that whole heap? AUNT. She has played it all. She has played ever since she was ten years old, and she has a very good teacher. He taught here when my sister used to accompany her lover's solos on the flute. Oh, those were charming musical evenings! And the teacher often played the guitar with them _extempore_. It was just like a concert. DOMINIE. Indeed! that must have been very fine. Now, Miss, I beg-- FATIMA. But, mamma, just say what I shall play. DOMINIE. Is not your teacher here this evening? He will know best. AUNT (_whispers to Dominie_). He is busy this evening, composing some grand bravoura variations, which are to be dedicated to Fatima on her eighteenth birthday, the day after to-morrow. You must come to see us on that day. Fatima will play them at sight. MRS. N. Fatima, don't hold back any longer. Play "The Huguenots" by Thalberg: that's a very fine piece. DOMINIE. Pray do! I have not heard it since I heard Thalberg play it. AUNT (_to Dominie_). Don't you make your daughters play it then? Oh, that magnificent choral! That brings tears to my eyes! But the dear child always takes it too fast: her fingers run away with her. MRS. N. Here it is. Please turn round so that you can see her hands, Mr. Dominie. You are such a famous teacher, perhaps you can make some suggestions. (_I was expected only to admire._) DOMINIE. I don't like to disturb her freedom in playing; but I will turn round, if you say so. (_Fatima scurries through the piece excitedly, and plays in a bold way,--not, however, without ability, but with a feeble touch, without proper fingering, without tone, without time; and gets over the first two pages, with her foot always on the pedal, in such a senseless, indistinct manner that Dominie, in despair, was forced to interrupt with the remark, "But you might take the _tempo_ a little more quietly."_) (_Fatima leans back amazed, and stops playing, looking at her mother with a contemptuous expression._) AUNT. It is owing to her great execution, and then, too, her youthful enthusiasm. Don't you like her natural expression? FATIMA. My teacher always makes me play it so. It is in that way that I have learned to play so much at sight. DOMINIE. But don't you study your pieces? FATIMA. For the last four years I have played only at sight, so that now I can get on anywhere in the musical clubs. That is what mamma likes. DOMINIE. But do you not play any scales and études? do you not practise any exercises? AUNT. She has not done those things for the last four years. My sister thinks it is rather a hindrance, and is too pedantic. Her teacher thinks so too, and he teaches her the fine concert pieces of Döhler, Liszt, Dreyschock, Willmer, and Thalberg. She learns execution by these. She has gone through all Thalberg's music; and we have sent to Leipzig for Willmer's "Pompa di Festa." DOMINIE. All this shows great enthusiasm, but really a little too much hot haste. (_Dominie wishes to continue the conversation, in order to escape the unpleasant necessity of "turning round to the piano."_) MRS. N. (_interrupts_). My child, just begin again at the beginning, and let us enjoy the whole of "The Huguenots." Mr. Dominie likes it. (_Fatima consents, and hurries through the whole Potpourri with a confident, conceited air, to the great despair of Dominie. At the choral, the aunt taps him on the shoulder, and whispers._) AUNT. Is not that touching? It is a little too fast, you will agree; but then the execution! Has not the girl a great deal of talent? Just hear! * * * * * But what did Dominie say after the performance was over? He only bowed stiffly, and what he said to himself will always remain a secret. He only _felt_. They go in to supper. All who submitted to hearing the daughter perform on the badly tuned piano, which was at least a tone and a half too low, were invited to supper and handsomely treated. The wine was better than the piano. Presently the teacher, Mr. Feeble, having finished his birthday bravoura composition, appeared and was introduced. Fatima whispered to him, giggling, "I played the whole of 'The Huguenots;' it went splendidly." Mr. Feeble simpered. Dominie and he talked together, unheard, at the end of the table. * * * * * DOMINIE. The young lady has talent, Mr. Feeble. MR. FEEBLE. Indeed she has! DOMINIE. How is it, Mr. Feeble, that she does not combine serious studies with her playing? MR. FEEBLE. Oh! I used to make her play exercises by A.E. Mueller, and some Etudes of Czerny's, and sometimes a few scales. But the child was so volatile, and had so little perseverance, and was so quick at learning every thing! And then her mother wanted her to play modern pieces for parties, and we had to busy ourselves with those. But our method has borne good fruit, as you can see. Is not it so? DOMINIE. Do you not think, with firmness and decision, you could have set Mrs. N. on the right track? Could not you cultivate the mechanical powers of your pupil, and combine an understanding of the musical construction of the piece, with her "playing at sight"? The young lady, not to speak of other faults, has no tone on the piano. MR. FEEBLE. She can use the pedal for that, and, when she is older, she will acquire more strength; her touch is a little too weak at present. And, besides, she is not to play in public for money, but only in company, and because it is the fashion. Indeed, my dear sir, if I insisted on scales and exercises, I should have very few lessons in this city. I have a wife and children to support, and my old father, the former organist, is dependent upon me. You can do all this with your own children; but think how much time it requires to _study_ the music! (_The company bid each other "good-night."_) FATIMA (_flippantly to Dominie_). I believe your daughter Emma is a very good player; but they say she has not so much talent as your eldest daughter. DOMINIE. Indeed! who told you that? CHAPTER XI. SECRETS. _(A Discourse on Piano-Playing, delivered to an Audience of Lady Pupils.)_ Ladies,--As I am about to make a journey of a few weeks with my daughters, we will suspend for a short time our musical meetings. On my return, you will resume them with fresh interest. We will then not only play and sing together, but occasionally talk upon kindred subjects. Your friends will be made welcome, provided they are really interested in simple and noble musical performances, which make no attempt at display. We will exclude from our circle malicious criticism and idle curiosity: we require the accompaniment of the violin and 'cello, but not of those two disturbing elements. To-day I wish to propound a query in regard to piano-playing, to the partial solution of which you will perhaps be glad to give some attention. You may be sure that I shall always speak only upon subjects which are not even mentioned in the most crowded piano-schools. _Query._ Why is it that our young, educated ladies, who enjoy the advantages of sufficient talent, industry, a serious purpose, and all the necessary aids, are usually dissatisfied with their progress and with their success in piano-playing? Their education is a sufficiently careful one, extending to all branches of knowledge; but their intellectual advancement in music (although it has been fostered for years, by constantly listening to good music, and frequently to the performances of distinguished players, and by a critical comparison of their own performances with these) is still small in proportion to their power of execution, and to the mechanical facility which they have acquired. These are certainly essential to a correct and agreeable rendering of a piece of music: the compositions which are to be performed ought, however, never to demand the exercise of all the mechanical skill which has been acquired, for in that case, by the struggle with mechanical difficulties, only embarrassment, discouragement, and anxious haste are apt to take the place of boldness, confidence in one's self, and command of the music. It is the duty of teachers, in choosing studies for the improvement of technique, to select only such as are within the mechanical powers of the pupil, in order that he may make steady progress, and may acquire a pure and delicate style of execution, retaining at the same time a lively interest in his pursuit. But why has the acquirement of this technique been usually unsuccessful? 1. Because you begin to acquire it too late. In order to gain facility and flexibility of the fingers and wrist (which a child in the sixth or seventh year, with a skilful teacher, may acquire in four lessons), from fifteen to twenty lessons, according to the construction of the hand, are necessary with persons from ten to fourteen years old. For other reasons also, we must urge that the mechanical facility should usually be acquired, or at least a complete foundation for it laid in childhood, and not left to be formed by a course which is destructive of all spirit, at an age when labor is performed with self-consciousness,--an age when our ladies are talking a great deal of musical interpretations, of tenderness and depth of feeling, of poetry and inspiration in playing, to which they are led by the possession of our classical piano compositions and immortal master-works, and by intellectual friends and teachers aiming at the highest culture. You reply: "But even if your mode of elementary instruction should meet with faithful disciples, how, in such young pupils, are we to find perseverance and sense enough to continue these severe exercises, even in your interesting manner?" My dear ladies, children ought to do it merely from habit, although in many cases, after the beginning, talent and correct musical instinct may make their appearance. Uninterrupted enjoyment would indeed be unnatural, and where you find it vanity will usually be its moving spring, and this seldom bears good fruit. You may as well ask whether our great literary men and artists always like to go to school, or whether they did not delight in a holiday. Let this be the answer to the strange question, Do your daughters like to play? Good heavens! After they are able to play, and that without much effort, and a little at sight; when they can master, with a musical appreciation, easy, graceful salon music, or even the easier compositions of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Hummel, Moscheles, &c.,--then they take pleasure in playing, and they play a great deal, and with enthusiasm. 2. But, in case children should sometimes begin in their sixth year, you must remember what is said, in the first chapter of this work, with regard to the prevalent false method of teaching beginners. You, however, are supposed to have had better and more sensible teachers. Let me nevertheless quote for your amusement the remark which I have heard so frequently in the course of my long life as a piano-teacher: "In the beginning, a poor, rattling piano, that is forty years old, and that is tuned regularly once a year, and a cheap teacher, will do well enough. As soon as the children learn to play really well, then we will have a better piano and a better teacher." Yes; but that time never comes, and the parents soon conclude that even the most gifted children have no talent, and take no pleasure in music; and so they stop learning, only to regret it when they are older. But the parents console themselves, and after a while the old piano is never tuned at all. But, as I have told you, I do not refer here to _your_ teachers, for whom I have a personal regard, and who teach on excellent pianos. 3. Don't be angry with me for my suggestion, ladies: _you do not make enough use of the minutes_. While our learned education absorbs so much time, while our friends require so many hours, while, alas! balls and dinners consume whole days, we must be sparing of the remaining minutes. "Now I must rush to the piano! I must go to dinner in ten minutes: two scales, two finger exercises, two difficult passages out of the piece I have to learn, and one exercise to invent on the dominant and sub-dominant, are soon done; and then the dinner will taste all the better." "My dear Agnes, we might talk for ever about this dreadful snow, it won't melt the sooner for it: how do you like this passage that I am going to play to you? It is from a charming Nocturne, by Chopin, and is so difficult that I shall have to play it over fifty times, or else I shall always stumble at this place, and I never shall know the Nocturne to play to any one. Don't you think it is beautiful?--so spiritual and original! I can tell you it will be something to boast of, when I have accomplished that. You like it better the oftener I play it? So do I." "We have an invitation out. Mother has a great deal to arrange, and directions to give. We shall have to go in ten minutes. I must rush to the piano, though I am in rather an inconvenient toilette: I may as well accustom myself to play in it. I shall have to spend three hours this evening without any music. Well, to make up for it, I will occupy myself for the next ten minutes with an exercise for this obstinate fourth finger, though it is pretty dry. That weak finger has been a hindrance to many a fine passage and scale. That is better! Now I can put on my tight gloves. Suppose I should put on the left glove on the way." Well, my young ladies, how many hours do you think all those minutes would make in a year? But I hear you say, "What is the use of worrying to pick up all those stray minutes, like lost pins? We have a whole hour to practise every day, when nothing prevents." Exactly, when nothing prevents. I will now tell you a few of my secrets for piano performers. If in piano-playing, or in any art, you wish to attain success, you must resolve to work every day, at least a little, on the technique. Sickness and other unavoidable interruptions deprive you of days enough. Practise always with unexhausted energy: the result will be tenfold. Do you not frequently use the time for practising, when you have already been at work studying for five or six hours? Have you then strength and spirit enough to practise the necessary exercises for an hour or more, and to study your music-pieces carefully and attentively, as your teacher instructed you? Is not your mind exhausted, and are not your hands and fingers tired and stiff with writing, so that you are tempted to help out with your arms and elbows, which is worse than no practice at all? But, my dear ladies, if you practise properly, several times every day, ten minutes at a time, your strength and your patience are usually sufficient for it; and, if you are obliged to omit your regular "hour's practice," you have, at any rate, accomplished something with your ten minutes before breakfast, or before dinner, or at any leisure moment. So, I beg of you, let me have my minutes. Practise often, slowly, and without pedal, not only the smaller and larger études, but also your pieces. In that way you gain, at least, a correct, healthy mode of playing, which is the foundation of beautiful playing. Do you do this when neither your teacher, nor your father or mother is present to keep watch over you? Do you never say, "Nobody is listening"? Do you take enough healthy exercise in the open air? Active exercise, in all weather, makes strong, enduring piano fingers, while subsisting on indoor-air results in sickly, nervous, feeble, over-strained playing. Strong, healthy fingers are only too essential for our present style of piano-playing, which requires such extraordinary execution, and for our heavy instruments. So I still beg for the minutes: your walks take up hours enough. Excessive and fatiguing feminine occupations, and drawing, or painting, are by no means consistent with an earnest, practical musical education; not only because both those occupations require so much time, but because they deprive the fingers of the requisite pliability and dexterity, while knitting, according to the latest discoveries, produces an unnatural nervous excitement, which is unfavorable to healthy progress in music. I at least, in my instruction on the piano, have never been able to accomplish much with ladies who are devoted to knitting, crochet, and embroidering. My dear ladies, you who have been born in fortunate circumstances, and have been educated by your parents, without regard to expense, should, at least, allow the poor girl in the country, who is obliged to hide her talents under a bushel, the small privilege of making a collar for your mother's or your aunt's birthday present. I assure you your mother or your aunt, if you surprise them instead with a fine piano performance, will be as much pleased as if you strained your eyes and bent your back for days and nights over the needle-work. And now as regards painting: painting and music, though theoretically so nearly related, agree but poorly in practice; at least, if you are in earnest about either. You say painters often play on the guitar and the flute. That may be true: I will allow them those two instruments. But piano-playing stands on a different footing, even for mere amateurs. Sweet melodies on those instruments may afford an agreeable companionship for the painter in his rambles through the woods and over the hills; but piano-playing should be the friend of a life-time, ennobled by the elevating enjoyment of lofty master-works. Therefore, I beg you, do not dissipate your powers too much. Leave the art of painting to your friends, who are either without talent for music, or who have no opportunity to study it. Our short lives do not allow the successful practice of several arts. Of what advantage to our higher culture is it to be able to do ten things tolerably well; what gain for the future, for humanity, or for the true happiness of the individual? And even if you can succeed in painting something which scarcely can be said to resemble a rose, of what advantage is it, when we have so many real roses to admire? My dear ladies, I warn you, generally, do not be afraid of the so-called classical, heavy music, especially Beethoven's, if you desire to learn from it, only or chiefly, repose, lightness, facility, elasticity, graceful, delicate playing, and a fine touch. It is necessary to play such music after those brilliant qualities have already been, to a certain degree, acquired by mere studies and appropriate pieces. It is, however, still more foolish and impractical, when parents (who perhaps are skilful musicians, but who have no recollection of their own youth) hold the mistaken opinion that their children ought, from the very beginning, to practise and play only fine classical music, in order that the children's ears may not be injured by false progressions, by insignificant finger exercises, and by easily comprehensible Italian airs, and that they themselves may not be ruined body and soul. Gracious heavens! how much pure music, suited to the piano, have not my daughters, as well as many others whom I have brought up to be fine performers, played and studied!--such, for instance, as the music of Hünten, Czerny, Burgmüller, Kalkbrenner, A. and J. Schmitt, Herz, and many others. Who finds fault now with their musical culture, with their sound taste, or their want of love for classical music? What a long road a child has to travel through Etudes of Cramer, Moscheles, and Chopin, before he comes to Bach's Well-tempered Clavichord, or before he is able, or ought even, to study Beethoven's Sonate Pathétique! It is not well, though quite in the spirit of the times, to condemn without experience, from one's own prejudiced point of view, the methods which those skilled in their business have for years successfully tried and practised. It is possible to make pupils musical in the above way, but they will be only dull, clumsy bunglers on the piano; not fine artists, who alone can give a worthy and noble interpretation of classical music. I desire that my daughters may never forget my well-considered instructions, sustained by the experience of many years; and that they may, in grateful remembrance of their father and teacher, repay to their pupils what they owe to him. But I see among my audience several beginners in singing, and I beg to be allowed a word to them. So long as many of our German song composers consider it beneath their dignity to study the art of singing in the old Italian master-works, and under the guidance of well-qualified singing masters,--as Gluck, Naumann, Hasse, Händel, Haydn, Mozart, Salieri, Winter, and others have done,--I warn you to take care of your tender voices, which are so easily ruined, and not to allow yourselves to be misled by ingenious opinions, and by music otherwise good. The loss of your voices follows in the footsteps of modern tortures in singing, as you may see sufficiently in all our theatres, or, indeed, may experience yourselves in numberless German songs. Apply also to singing what I have just said about piano-playing: as you should choose for the piano music suited to the piano, so for your studies in singing select only that which is adapted to the voice; under the guidance of prudent and educated teachers, not of modern voice breakers, who allow you to scream, "in order to bring out the voice." When you have acquired a good technique, when your attack is sure, and a certain skilfulness in singing has been developed, then only you may try, by way of experiment, a few pieces of such spirited but unskilled song composers, who frequently commit sins in every line against correct representation, the register of the voice, the breathings, the pronunciation, and a hundred other things. Look around and see who sing these so-called classical songs. They are either singers who do not know what singing is, and who have no taste for it, which, in consequence of their education, they never can have; or those who no longer have any voice, and accordingly sing every thing, or, rather, declaim it, because they cannot sing. I recommend you to sing (to mention the names of two only of our most excellent song composers) the charming songs of Fr. Schubert and Mendelssohn, who, in constant intercourse with the most judicious masters of singing in Vienna and Italy, have striven constantly to compose scientifically, and have at the same time produced clever songs; but you should sing them not too often, or too many of them. Singing in the German language, and in syllables, and often with clumsy melodies, requires a great deal of voice, and easily leads to many faults and to a false manner. Remember how strictly Jenny Lind selected, for performance in her concerts, the songs of Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Schumann. In this way she succeeded in winning great success, even with small, short songs. Finally, one more secret for performers, which weighs heavy in the balance. You ought, especially if you have not received good early instruction, to acquire a habit of moving the fingers very frequently, at every convenient opportunity; and particularly of letting them fall loosely and lightly upon any hard object, while the hand lies upon something firm, in an extended position. You must accustom yourselves to do this unconsciously. For example, while reading, at table, or while listening to music, allow your hand to lie upon the table, raise the fingers, and let them fall, one at a time, quite independently of the wrist; particularly the weak fourth and fifth fingers, which require to be used a hundred times more than the others, if you wish to acquire evenness in the scales. If it attracts attention to do this on the table, then do it in your lap, or with one hand over the other. To drum with your fingers and stretch your hands on the backs of other people is not often practicable, and is not necessary. That was only pardoned in the zealous and original Adolph Henselt, who, though otherwise such a modest and amiable artist, even now, in St. Petersburg, makes himself ridiculous in this way, by his practice of finger movements. Now you perceive the reason why I cannot answer the question which has been asked me innumerable times. How much do your daughters practise? I cannot count up the finger movements and the stray ten minutes just spoken of; but it is certain that they practise fewer hours in the day than many thousands who learn nothing, for they never practise and never have practised wrongly, but always correctly and advantageously. One thing more. After my experienced, watchful eye had observed in our circle many moving fingers in consequence of my lecture, a distinguished lady of Vienna whispered in my ear: "But, my dear Herr Wieck, my Amelia is not to be a professional player: I only want her to learn a few of the less difficult sonatas of Beethoven, to play correctly and fluently, without notes." My dear ladies, I do not aim with you at any thing more than this. A great many circumstances must combine for the formation of fine concert performers; in fact, the whole education, from the earliest youth, must have reference to this end. If this were not so, Germany especially, on account of its natural musical talent, would be able annually to furnish thousands of _virtuoso_ performers. Has my lecture been too long to-day? I ask your pardon. My desire to make myself useful to you must be my excuse, if I cannot dispose of such an extensive subject in a few words. I have not yet exhausted it. CHAPTER XII. THOUGHTS ON PIANO-PLAYING. My daughters play the music of all the principal composers, and also the best salon music. Limited views of any kind are injurious to art. It is as great a mistake to play only Beethoven's music as to play none of it, or to play either classical or salon music solely. If a teacher confines himself to the study of the first, a good technique, a tolerably sound style of playing, intelligence, and knowledge are generally sufficient to produce an interpretation in most respects satisfactory. The music usually compensates for a style which may be, according to circumstances, either dry, cold, too monotonous or too strongly shaded, and even for an indifferent or careless touch. Interest in the composition frequently diverts the attention of even the best player from a thoroughly correct and delicate mode of execution, and from the effort to enhance the beauty of the composition, and to increase its appreciation with the hearer. In the performance of classical music, inspiration--that is, the revelation of an artistic nature and not empty affectation--can be expected only from an artist, and not from a pupil. Therefore, with more advanced pupils, I take up in my lessons, in connection with a sonata by Beethoven, a nocturne or waltz by Chopin, and a piece by St. Heller or Schulhoff, Henselt, C. Meyer, &c. Elegance and polish, a certain coquetry, nicety, delicacy, and fine shading cannot be perfected in the study of a sonata by Beethoven; for which, however, the latter pieces present much greater opportunities. Besides this, variety is much more sustaining to the learner; it excites his interest; he does not so soon become weary, and is guarded from carelessness; his artistic knowledge is increased, and he is agreeably surprised to find himself able to perform three pieces so distinct in character. * * * * * "Expression cannot be taught, it must come of itself." But when are we to look for it? When the stiff fingers are fifty or sixty years old, and the expression is imprisoned in them, so that nothing is ever to be heard of it? This is a wide-spread delusion. Let us look at a few of those to whom expression has come of itself. X. plays skilfully and correctly, but his expression continues crude, cold, monotonous; he shows too pedantic a solicitude about mechanical execution and strict time; he never ventures on a _pp._, uses too little shading in _piano_, and plays the _forte_ too heavily, and without regard to the instrument; his _crescendi_ and _diminuendi_ are inappropriate, often coarse and brought in at unsuitable places; and--his _ritardandi_! they are tedious indeed! "But Miss Z. plays differently and more finely." Truly, she plays differently; but is it more finely? Do you like this gentle violet blue, this sickly paleness, these rouged falsehoods, at the expense of all integrity of character? this sweet, embellished, languishing style, this _rubato_ and dismembering of the musical phrases, this want of time, and this sentimental trash? They both have talent, but their expression was allowed to be developed of itself. They both would have been very good players; but now they have lost all taste for the ideal, which manifests itself in the domain of truth, beauty, and simplicity. If pupils are left to themselves, they imitate the improper and erroneous easily and skilfully; the right and suitable with difficulty, and certainly unskilfully. Even the little fellow who can hardly speak learns to use naughty, abusive words more quickly and easily than fine, noble expressions. What school-master has not been surprised at this facility, and what good old aunt has not laughed at it? But you say, "It is not right to force the feelings of others!" That is quite unnecessary; but it is possible to rouse the feelings of others, to guide and educate them, without prejudicing their individuality of feeling, and without restraining or disturbing them, unless they are on the wrong path. Who has not listened to performers and singers who were otherwise musical, but whose sentiment was either ridiculous or lamentable? * * * * * It is generally acknowledged that, among other things, I have succeeded more or less with all my scholars in the attainment of a fine touch. People desire to obtain from me the requisite exercises for the development of this; but not much can be gained from these. The important thing is _how_ and _when_ they are to be used; and that most careful attention shall be paid in the selection of other études and pieces, in order that nothing shall be played which shall endanger the confirmation of the correct touch already acquired, or shall undo what has been accomplished in the lessons. As I have said before, it does not depend upon much practising, but upon correct practising; and that the pupils shall not be allowed to fall into errors. I am constantly asked, "How many hours a day do your daughters practise?" If the number of hours spent in practising gives the measure of the standing of a _virtuoso_, then my daughters are among the most insignificant, or in fact should not belong to the order at all. This is the place for me to explain myself more fully with regard to playing with a loose wrist, in order that I shall not be misunderstood. The tones which are produced with a loose wrist are always more tender and more attractive, have a fuller sound, and permit more delicate shading than the sharp tones, without body, which are thrown or fired off or tapped out with unendurable rigidity by the aid of the arm and fore-arm. A superior technique can with few exceptions be more quickly and favorably acquired in this way than when the elbows are required to contribute their power. I do not, however, censure the performance of many _virtuosos_, who execute rapid octave passages with a stiff wrist; they often do it with great precision, in the most rapid _tempo_, forcibly and effectively. It must, after all, depend upon individual peculiarities whether the pupil can learn better and more quickly to play such passages thus or with a loose wrist. The present style of bravoura playing for _virtuosos_ cannot dispense with facility in octave passages; it is a necessary part of it. I will now consider the use of loose and independent fingers, in playing generally; _i.e._, in that of more advanced pupils who have already acquired the necessary elementary knowledge. The fingers must be set upon the keys with a certain decision, firmness, quickness, and vigor, and must obtain a command over the key-board; otherwise, the result is only a tame, colorless, uncertain, immature style of playing, in which no fine _portamento_, no poignant _staccato_, or sprightly accentuation can be produced. Every thoughtful teacher, striving for the best result, must, however, take care that this shall only be acquired gradually, and must teach it with a constant regard to individual peculiarities, and not at the expense of beauty of performance, and of a tender, agreeable touch. * * * * * It is a mortifying fact for many critics, artists, composers, and teachers, that the general public show much more correct judgment and appreciation of a fine, noble piano performance, and of a simple, pure, well-taught style of singing, and also understand the characteristics of the performer, much more quickly than they do. The sensibility and appreciation of beauty with the public is less prejudiced, less spurious, more receptive, and more artless. Its perceptions are not disturbed by theories, by a desire to criticise, and many other secondary matters. The public do not take a biassed or stilted view. The admiration for Jenny Lind is a striking proof of this, as is also the appreciation of many piano-players. * * * * * The age of progress announces, in piano-playing also, "a higher beauty" than has hitherto existed. Now, I demand of all the defenders of this new style, wherein is this superior beauty supposed to consist? It is useless to talk, in a vague way, about a beauty which no one can explain. I have listened to the playing--no, the thrumming and stamping--of many of these champions of the modern style of beauty; and I have come to the conclusion, according to my way of reasoning, that it ought to be called a higher,--quite different, inverted beauty,--a deformed beauty, repugnant to the sensibilities of all mankind. But our gifted "age of the future" protests against such cold conservatism. The period of piano fury which I have lived to see, and which I have just described, was the introduction to this new essay, only a feeble attempt, and a preliminary to this piano future. Should this senseless raging and storming upon the piano, where not one idea can be intelligently expressed in a half-hour, this abhorrent and rude treatment of a grand concert piano, combined with frightful misuse of both pedals, which puts the hearer into agonies of horror and spasms of terror, ever be regarded as any thing but a return to barbarism, devoid of feeling and reason? This is to be called music! music of the future! the beauty of the future style! Truly, for this style of music, the ears must be differently constructed, the feelings must be differently constituted, and a different nervous system must be created! For this again we shall need surgeons, who lie in wait in the background with the throat improvers. What a new and grand field of operations lies open to them! Our age produces monsters, who are insensible to the plainest truths, and who fill humanity with horror. Political excesses have hardly ceased, when still greater ones must be repeated in the world of music. But comfort yourselves, my readers: these isolated instances of madness, these last convulsions of musical insanity, with however much arrogance they may be proclaimed, will not take the world by storm. The time will come when no audience, not even eager possessors of complimentary tickets, but only a few needy hirelings, will venture to endure such concert performances of "the future." * * * * * I ought to express myself more fully with regard to expression in piano-playing. It is difficult to perform this task, at least in writing; for it can more easily be practically explained to individual learners. Intelligent teachers, who are inclined to understand my meaning, will find abundant material, as well as all necessary explanations, in the preceding chapters; and I will merely say that a teacher who is endowed with the qualities which I have designated as "the three trifles" will seek to excite the same in his pupils; will refine and cultivate them, according to his ability, with disinterestedness, with energy, and with perseverance; and truth and beauty will everywhere be the result. Thus he will remain in the present, where there is so much remaining to be accomplished. These three trifles certainly do not have their root in folly, want of talent, and hare-brained madness; therefore the possessors of the latter must look to the "future," and proclaim a "higher," that is, an "inverted beauty." _Rules for Piano Pupils._ You must never begin to learn a second piece until you have entirely conquered the first. You ought to fix your eyes very carefully on the notes, and not to trust to memory; otherwise, you will never learn to play at sight. In order to avoid the habit of false fingering, you should not play any piece which is not marked for the proper fingers. You should learn to play chords and skipping notes, without looking at the keys, as this interferes with a prompt reading of the notes. You must learn to count nicely in playing, in order always to keep strict time. To use for once the language of the times, which boldly proclaims, "Such things as these belong to a stand-point which we have already reached," I wish that the musicians of "the future" may as happily reach their "stand-point," not by hollow phrases and flourishes, and the threshing of empty straws, but by practical, successful efforts, and striving for that which is better. * * * * * "What is the value of your method, in the instruction of pupils who have for years played many pieces from notes, but have played them badly, and whom we are called upon to lead into a better way of playing?" A reply to this frequent inquiry can be found in my first chapter. Above all things, let the notes which have already been played be laid aside for a long time; for a mistaken style of playing these has become so confirmed that to improve them is hopeless, and the tottering edifice must fall to the ground. First, improve the touch; help to acquire a better and more connected scale; teach the formation of different cadences on the dominant and sub-dominant; and the construction of various passages on the chord of the diminished seventh, to be played with correct, even, and quiet fingering, _legato_ and _staccato_, _piano_, and _forte_; pay strict attention to the use of loose fingers and a loose wrist; and allow no inattentive playing. You may soon take up, with these studies, some entirely unfamiliar piece of music, suited to the capacity of the pupil. It is not possible or desirable to attempt to make a sudden and thorough change with such pupils, even if they should show the best intentions and docility. You should select a light, easy piece of salon music, but of a nature well adapted to the piano, which shall not be wearisome to the pupil, and in the improved performance of which he will take pleasure. But, if you still find that he falls into the old, faulty manner of playing, and that the recently acquired technique, which has not yet become habitual, is endangered by it, lay this too aside, and take instead some appropriate étude, or perhaps a little prelude by Bach. If, in the place of these, you choose for instruction a ponderous sonata, in which the music would distract the attention of the pupil from the improved technique, you give up the most important aim of your instruction, and occupy yourself with secondary matters; you will censure and instruct in vain, and will never attain success. You must consider, reflect, and give your mind to the peculiar needs of the pupil, and you must teach in accordance with the laws of psychology. You will succeed after a while, but precipitation, compulsion, and disputes are useless. The improvement of a soprano voice, ruined by over-screaming, requires prudence, patience, calmness, and modesty, and a character of a high type generally. It is also a very thankless task, and success is rare; while on the piano a fair result may always be accomplished. * * * * * I return once more to the subject so frequently discussed, that I may try to relieve the universal difficulty of our lady pianists. I have heard much playing of late, in parties both small and large, on well-tuned and on ill-tuned pianos, on those with which the performer was familiar, and on those to which she was unaccustomed; from the timid and the self-possessed; from ladies of various ages, possessed of more or of less talent, and in various cities: the result was always the same. We hear from the ladies that they could play their pieces at home before their parents or their teachers; but this is never sufficient to enable them to save their hearers from weariness, anxiety, and all sorts of embarrassment. My honored ladies, you play over and over again two mazourkas, two waltzes, two nocturnes, and the Funeral March of Chopin, the Mazourka and other pieces by Schulhoff, the Trill-Etude, and the Tremolo by Carl Meyer, &c.: "it makes no difference to you which." You might be able to master these pieces pretty well, but, instead of this, you yourselves are mastered. You become embarrassed, and your hearers still more so: the affair ends with apologies on both sides, with equivocal compliments, with encouragement to continue in the same course, with acknowledgment of fine hands for the piano, with uneasy, forced congratulations to the parents and teacher; but it is always a happy moment when the fatal soirée is over. The next day I am forced to sigh again over the same, miserable, poorly and tediously performed Funeral March of Chopin, and over the timorous B major Mazourka by Schulhoff. The left hand is always left in the lurch in the difficult, skipping basses of this piece, and in others of the present style, which are rich in harmony and modulations. The bass part in this piece is apt to suffer from timid and false tones; frequently the fundamental tone is omitted, or the little finger remains resting upon it, instead of giving the eighth note with a crisp, elastic, and sprightly touch, and the chords are tame and incomplete. You do not give them their full value; you leave them too quickly, because you are afraid of not striking the next low note quickly enough; but, on the other hand, you do not strike it at all, and one missing tone brings another one after it. The right hand, being the most skilful, is supposed to play with expression, and really does so; but this only makes the performance the worse. The fundamental tone is wanting, and you are led to make a mistake in the skip, and strike the wrong key. Finally, the whole thing is ended in terror. I have an uneasy night; I dream of your fine hands, but the false and the weak notes start up between like strange spectres or will o' the wisps, and I wake with the headache, instead of with pleasant memories. Allow me to give you a piece of advice. Play and practise the bass part a great deal and very often, first slowly, then quicker, during one or two weeks, before playing the right hand with it, in order that you may give your whole attention to playing the bass correctly, delicately, and surely. Even when you can get through the mazourka tolerably well, you must not think, on that account, that you will be able to play it in company, under trying circumstances. You ought to be able to play the piece by yourself with ease, very frequently, perfectly, and distinctly, and in very rapid _tempo_, before you trust yourself to perform it even slowly in company. At least, practise the more difficult passages for the right hand very frequently, particularly the difficult and bold conclusion, that it may not strike the hearer as rough, weak, tame, or hurried. It is an old rule, "If you begin well and end well, all is well." You ought to practise the skipping bass over and over again by itself, otherwise it will not go. An incorrect or deficient bass, without depth of tone and without accentuation, ruins every thing, even the good temper of the hearer. One thing more: you know very well Chopin's Nocturne in E flat, and have played it, among other things, for the last four weeks. Suddenly you are called upon to play in company. You choose this Nocturne because you have played it nearly every day for four weeks. But alas! the piano fiends have come to confuse you! You strike a false bass note, and at the modulation the weak little finger touches too feebly: bah! the fundamental tone is wanting. You are frightened, and grow still more so; your musical aunt is frightened also; the blood rushes to your teacher's face, and I mutter to myself, "_C'est toujours la même._" The present style of skipping basses requires a great deal of practice and perfect security; it is necessary for you to know the piece by heart, in order to give your whole attention to the left hand. It is also essential that you shall have acquired a clear, sound touch; otherwise, you cannot give a delicate accent and shading. You must never allow yourself, _without previous preparation_, to play those pieces of music in company, in which an elegant mode of execution is all-important; otherwise, you will be taken by surprise by unexpected difficulties. You must always pay special attention to the fundamental tones, even if there should be imperfections elsewhere. Where one fault is less important than another, of two evils choose the least. You have been playing now for six or eight years: are you repaid for the trouble, if it only enables you to prepare embarrassments for others? You are not willing to play easy, insignificant pieces; and such pieces as you choose require industry, earnestness, and perseverance. * * * * * Young ladies, it is easy to discover the character of a person from his manner of standing, walking, moving, and speaking, from the way he bows, puts on and takes off his hat, or the arrangements of the household; and we seldom are in error about it. It is also possible to infer beforehand how you will play and what sort of a performance you will give, from the manner in which you take your seat at the piano. You sidle up to the piano lazily, bent over in a constrained manner; in your embarrassment, you place yourself before the one-lined or two-lined _c_, instead of before _f_; you sit unsteadily, either too high or too low, only half on the seat, leaning either too much to the right or to the left; in a word, as if you did not belong to the fatal music-stool. Your manner awakens no confidence, and in this way announces that you have none yourself. How do you expect to exercise control over a grand seven octave piano, if you do not sit exactly in the middle, with the body erect and the feet on the two pedals? You are not willing to look the friend straight in the face, with whom you are to carry on a friendly, confidential discourse! Even if your attitude and bearing were not so injurious and dangerous for the performer as it is, still propriety and good sense would require that you should excite the confidence of your hearers in you and in your playing by a correct position of the body, and by a certain decision and resolution, and should prepare him to form a good opinion of you. There are, indeed, many _virtuosos_ who think they give evidence of genius, by throwing themselves on to the music-stool in a slovenly, lounging manner, and try to show in this way their superiority to a painstaking performance, and to make up by a showy _nonchalance_ for what is wanting in their playing. You are, however, a stranger to such assertion of superior genius, and to such an expression of intensity of feeling; you do it only from embarrassment, and from a modest want of confidence in your own powers, which is quite unnecessary. Our great masters, such as Field, Hummel, Moscheles, Mendelssohn, and others, had no taste for such improprieties, for such manifestations of genius. They applied themselves to their task with earnest devotion, and with respect for the public. CHAPTER XIII. ON MUSICAL TALENT. A large and varied experience is required for a correct estimate of musical talent in the young. Do not be deceived by the early evidences of talent; for instance, interest in melodies, correct feeling for time, an instinct for accenting the important notes, inclination for some peculiar though often perverted style of performance, quick apprehension, a natural aptitude for playing, a nice hearing, animation, rapid progress, docility, superficial gayety; even if all or a part of these traits are observable in early youth, they must not excite too sanguine hopes. I have often met with such phenomena, and have been called upon to educate such little piano prodigies. They advanced quite rapidly, and understood every thing readily, if I did not make too much demand upon their wavering attention. I dreamed of the extraordinary surprises that these marvellous youths would create at twelve or fourteen years of age; but the fulfilment of my ideal I saw only in my mind's eye, for just then the improvement came to a sudden stand-still,--a fatal moment, when the teacher is perplexed to know what to do next. The musical nature seemed to have exhausted itself, to have out-lived itself. The pupil even felt this: his interest in the piano and in music generally grew feeble, his playing suddenly became careless, powerless, spiritless; he played with evident indifference. Out into the fresh air! into open natural scenes! Now for a journey! I allowed a long vacation to intervene; the pupil was quite contented, and had no desire for the piano, or, if so, only jingled a little. At last we began again, but we spent our time without much result; he was nevertheless still musical, but he finally ranked at best with dozens of other players, and ended as an ordinary piano teacher. Similar halts in progress occur in fact with all pupils, especially with female scholars; but they are not usually so lasting, so discouraging, or so significant of exhaustion. They are surmounted, after a short interval, by the discontinuance of serious musical studies; perhaps by reading at sight for a while; by occupying the pupil for a time with the theory, or with attempts at composition or improvisation; by allowing him to listen to other players better or worse; by giving him interesting books to read; by making him acquainted with Beethoven, or in other ways. From our observation of such sudden changes, and of the frequent occurrence of unskilful management, we can explain the sudden appearance and equally sudden disappearance of innumerable infant prodigies in our age, who have excited hopes, and have almost all of them been lost, or have passed out of sight, and resulted in nothing of value. I have always preferred a gradual, even a slow development, step by step, which often made no apparent progress, but which still proceeded with a certain constancy, and with deliberation, and which was combined with dreamy sensibility and a musical instinct, requiring slow awakening, and even with a certain flightiness, one for which the patient labor and perseverance of six years or more was required, and where childishness allowed no encouragement to sordid speculations for the future. In such cases, when my instructions were not disturbed by untoward circumstances, the result has always been a desirable one. But how much patience and perseverance has this required! I have reflected much and have often spoken, both seriously and playfully, of the slow advancement of my pupils. Allow me here to describe five phases or stages of human development. _First Stage._ In the first two or three years, man is far behind the animal, whose quick instinct distinguishes the good from the bad, the useful from the injurious. The child, without hesitation, rolls off the table, or knocks his brains out, or destroys himself with poisonous herbs or arsenic. Nevertheless, let him at that age hear plenty of pure sounds, music, singing, &c. He will soon learn to listen, like the little black poodle. He already has a dim suspicion that other things exist which are not evil, besides mamma, papa, the nurse, the doll, and the sound of words. _Second Stage._ From the fourth to the seventh year, instinct is developed; which, in the animal, surprises the observer in the first two weeks of life. Now we should begin with the technique, at least with the correct movement of the fingers upon the table. The child should be told that he shall soon produce the pleasant tones, which he has been accustomed to hear from infancy; but that for this a quick and quiet movement of the fingers is necessary, which must be acquired by daily practice. This is entirely in accordance with nature, for man is appointed to learn. Let the child lay his hand upon the table, and knock upon it with the first finger (_i.e._, the thumb) stretched out, without using the muscles of the arm, then with the second, third, and fourth fingers, in an almost perpendicular position, and with the fifth finger extended. Then let him strike a third with the first and third fingers together; a fourth, with the first and fourth fingers; first with the right hand, then with the left hand, and afterwards with both together, &c. _Third Stage._ From the seventh to the twelfth year. At this stage unruliness makes its appearance, and at the same time--the notes; but not Beethoven. That would indeed be an unfortunate musical indulgence. Violent outbreaks of untamed strength; unexpected freaks; alternations of rude instinct and quick intelligence, of lofty fancy and artless simplicity; disobedience; much appetite, &c.,--all these must be shaped, and made subservient to the object we have in view. Do you understand me, gentlemen? _Fourth Stage._ Excellent parents, who desire to see the ripe fruits of your care and labor, have patience! First there comes the foreshadowing of manhood,--a very interesting period. The youth steps out of the animal into the human kingdom, and often is unable to forget his earlier condition, but revels in sweet remembrance of it. Try now, gently and timidly, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann, and the like. This extraordinary being, "one-fourth animal and three-fourths human," requires to be awakened, excited, and to have the imagination aroused; and, above all, requires the most careful guidance. It is necessary to stir and agitate the nature, in order that reflection, conscience, the sensibilities of the soul, feeling, creative power, and all inward conditions shall be developed; and that out of this chaos shall be brought a clear and beautiful order. _Fifth Stage._ The adult man in his eighteenth year. The year, however, varies with individuals, and can be modified at will. If I should enter into details of the four earlier stages of humanity, and treat in addition of the adult man, I should be obliged to write a philosophical work on the subject, and that might not be entertaining. I should be obliged to beg your indulgence for a tedious book, and my daughters certainly would not thank me for it; they are very sensitive. But I must, nevertheless, secretly whisper in your ear that "my daughters, like the daughters of many others, have been carried through these five stages in the most careful and thorough manner." I ought to know that best. Here you have the answer to many strange questions. _Cautions._ I warn pianists, and others also, in playing: 1. Against any showy and unsuitable display. Why should you wish to attract attention, and to create an effect by foppishness and all sorts of grimaces, or by curious and marvellous exhibitions of _virtuoso_-ship? You have only to play musically and beautifully, and to deport yourselves with modesty and propriety. Direct your whole attention to the business in hand,--that is, to your performance; and endeavor to secure for it the interest of the public, who are so easily rendered inattentive. We want no more public performances from eccentric geniuses. 2. Do not devote yourself exclusively to pieces calculated to show the skill of the performer. Why desire always to show off your power in octave passages, your trills, your facility in skips, your unprecedented stretches, or other fantastic feats? You only produce weariness, satiety, and disgust, or, at least, you make yourselves ridiculous. 3. Play good music in a musical and rational manner. The public are tired of hearing Potpourris, made up of odds and ends, tedious Etudes, Rhapsodies, Fantasias without fancy, dismal monotonies and endless, cheap, silly cadences that mean nothing. Learn to understand the age, and the world in which you live. 4. Do not make yourselves ridiculous by new inventions in piano-playing. I mention, for example, one of the most foolish affectations of modern times. You try to quiver on a note, just as violin and 'cello players are unfortunately too much inclined to do. Do not expose yourselves to the derision of every apprentice in piano manufacture. Have you no understanding of the construction of the piano? You have played upon it, or have, some of you, stormed upon it, for the last ten years; and yet you have not taken pains to obtain even a superficial acquaintance with its mechanism. The hammer, which by its stroke upon the string has produced the sound, falls immediately when the tone resounds; and after that you may caress the key which has set the hammer in motion, fidget round on it as much as you please, and stagger up and down over it, in your intoxicated passion,--no more sound is to be brought out from it, with all your trembling and quivering. It is only the public who are quivering with laughter at your absurdity. 5. Give up the practice of extreme stretches. Widely dispersed harmonies may sometimes produce a good effect, but not by too frequent and too eager an employment of them at every opportunity. Even the greatest beauties in art can lead to mannerism, and this again to one-sidedness. Art should be many-sided, and you must never produce the impression that you are inclined to make the means an end. I beg you to reflect that too much practice of very wide stretches enfeebles the muscles and the power of the hand and fingers, endangers an even, sound touch, and makes the best style of playing a doubtful acquisition. Teachers ought therefore to use great prudence, and only gradually to permit their pupils, especially young girls, to practise great extensions and wide stretches. To learn to be able to strike ten notes is quite enough. 6. Before you perform a piece, play a few suitable chords, and a few appropriate passages or scales up and down (but play no stupid trash, such as I have heard from many _virtuosos_), in order to try whether the condition of the instrument presents any unexpected difficulties. Try carefully also the unavoidable pedal. A creaking, rattling, grating pedal is a frightful annoyance; I wonder if the piano of "the future" is to suffer from this also. Chopin's Funeral March, with obligato accompaniment of a squeaking pedal sentiment, even although the omissions and mistakes in the bass do not occur,--alas! who can describe the effect of this melancholy march? 7. I have written a special article on the manner of sitting at the piano, and I will refer you once more to that. 8. Use no mechanical aids in practising, not even the dumb key-board; although, with very careful use, that is not without value. Strength will come with time; do not try to hurry nature. The table is the best "dumb key-board," as I have already explained. The "hand-guide" is also unnecessary: its value is compensated by its disadvantages. 9. Do not let your hearers crowd too near while you are playing. Do not play the same piece _da capo_. You may be justified in breaking off in the midst of a piece, if there is loud and continuous talking, &c. I hope you will give me the honor of your company again at my soirées: I am no writer of comedies, but I can tell you a great deal that is interesting and amusing which I have myself experienced. CHAPTER XIV. EXTRAVAGANCES IN SINGING AND PIANO-PLAYING. _(An Evening Party at Mr. Gold's.)_ DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. MR. GOLD, _the banker (fond of music)._ MRS. GOLD _(sings, and is an invalid.)_ MR. SILVER, _bookkeeper (formerly a singer with Strauss)._ MR. PIOUS, _a friend of the family (a musical impostor, and a hypocrite generally)._ MR. FORTE, _a foreign piano virtuoso (of weak nerves)._ DOMINIE, _a piano-teacher._ EMMA, _his daughter._ (_Mrs. Gold has just been singing in the modern Italian manner; suddenly alternating exaggerated high and low tones, given in a jerking manner, with inaudible _pianissimo_ in the throat, and quavering on every note, with many ornaments, and always a quarter of a tone too flat. She sang all the four verses of "Fondly I Think of Thee" by Krebs._) DOMINIE. Will you not go on, Mrs. Gold? The piano is a little too high, and you are obliged to accustom yourself a little to it. MRS. GOLD. I cannot sing any more. That beautiful song has taken such hold of me, and I feel so badly. (_Whispers to Dominie._) Mr. Forte did not accompany me well, either: sometimes he did not come in right, and played too feebly; and sometimes he improvised too much in playing, and overpowered my voice, which is a little weak just now. DOMINIE (_aside to Emma_). What an evening of singing! Oh dear! MR. GOLD (_who has been earnestly talking about stocks all the evening in an adjoining room, rushes in, but rather late, after the close of the song, and impetuously presses his wife's hand_). Marvellous! magnificent! delicious! wonderful! My dear, you are in excellent voice this evening. If Jenny Lind could only have heard you! MR. PIOUS. Charming! superb! how touching! There is a religious character in this piece, something holy about it! I beg of you, do sing that air by Voss, "True Happiness." That will make our enjoyment complete; it is truly ravishing! There is something divine in singing, and your expression, your feeling, Madam! You give yourself up so entirely to the composition! (_Mrs. Gold has already taken up "True Happiness," and can hardly wait while Mr. Forte murmurs off the introduction, quite after his own fancy, with a sentimental _piano_. Mr. Pious drops a tear at the close of the introduction, the four bars of which have been transformed into eight bars by the great _virtuoso_. During the tremulous, affected performance of "True Happiness," Mr. Pious rolls up his moistened eyes; and, at the end of the first verse, where the accompanist once more gives the reins to his fancy, he says, "I am speechless, I cannot find words to express my emotion!"_) DOMINIE (_aside to Emma_). That you may call forged sentiment, the counterfeit of feeling. You hear now how one ought _not_ to sing. For an earnest, true musician, such a warmth in singing is only empty affectation, disgusting, sentimental rubbish, and hollow dissimulation. You will, however, frequently meet with such amateur infelicities. (_Mrs. Gold has finished singing all the verses of "True Happiness," and seems now to have almost entirely recovered. Mr. Gold continues to converse about stocks in the adjoining room. Dominie remains with Emma at the end of the parlor, depressed and worried._) MR. FORTE (_keeps his seat at the piano, and says in French to Mrs. Gold_). Madam, you have reached the climax of the beautiful in music. I count it one of the happiest moments of my artistic tour to be allowed to breathe out my soul at the piano, in the presence of one like yourself. What a loss, that your position must prevent you from elevating the German opera to its former greatness, as its most radiant star! MRS. GOLD (_by this time quite well_). I must confess that Jenny Lind never quite satisfied me when she was here. She is, and must always remain, a Swede,--utterly cold. If she had been educated here, she would have listened to more passionate models than in Stockholm, and that would have given the true direction to her sensibility. MR. FORTE. You are quite right; you have a just estimate of her. In Paris, where she might have heard such examples, she lived in perfect retirement. I was giving concerts there at the time; but she refused to sing in my concerts, and therefore she did not even hear me. MR. SILVER (_whom the excitement of the singing has at length reached_). Do you feel inclined now, Madam, to execute with me the duet from "The Creation," between Adam and Eve? MRS. GOLD. Here is "The Creation," but we will sing it by and by. Mr. Forte is just going to play us his latest composition for the left hand, and some of the music of that romantic, deeply sensitive Chopin. MR. GOLD (_rushes in from his stock discussion_). Oh, yes! Chopin's B major mazourka! That was also played at my house by Henselt, Thalberg, and Dreyschock. Oh, it is touching! ALL (_except Mr. Silver, Dominie, and Emma_). Oh, how touching! DOMINIE (_to his daughter_). If he plays it in the same manner in which he accompanied "True Happiness," you will hear how this mazourka should _not_ be played. It, by the way, is not at all _touching_: it gives quite boldly the Polish dance rhythm, as it is improvised by the peasants in that country; but it is, however, idealized after Chopin's manner. (_Mr. Forte plays several perilous runs up and down with various octave passages, all the time keeping his foot on the pedal; and connects with these immediately, and without a pause, the mazourka, which he commences _presto_. He played it without regard to time or rhythm, but with a constant _rubato_, and unmusical jerks. A few notes were murmured indistinctly _pp._, and played very _ritardando_; then suddenly a few notes were struck very rapidly and with great force, so that the strings rattled; and the final B major chord cost the life of one string._) MR. GOLD. Excellent! bravissimo! What a comprehension of the piece! Such artistic performances make one even forget the stock-exchange! MRS. GOLD. You agitate my inmost nerves! The English poet, Pope, holds that no created man can penetrate the secrets of nature; but you have penetrated the secrets of my soul. Now do play at once the F sharp minor mazourka, opus 6. MR. PIOUS. What a musical evening Mrs. Gold has prepared for us! What sublime sorrow lies in this production! MR. SILVER (_aside_). What would Father Strauss say to this affected, unmusical performance, that bids defiance to all good taste? DOMINIE. Mrs. Gold, it would be well to send for the tuner to replace this broken B string. The next one will break soon, for it is already cracked, and its tone is fallen. MR. FORTE (_with a superior air_). It is of no consequence. That frequently happens to me; but I never mind it. The piano is a battle-field where there must be sacrifices. DOMINIE (_whispers to Emma_). He thinks that if the sound is not musical, still it makes a noise; and tones out of tune produce more effect than those that are pure. EMMA. Where did he learn piano-playing? DOMINIE. My child, he has not _learned_ it. That is genius, which comes of itself. Instruction would have fettered his genius, and then he would have played distinctly, correctly, unaffectedly, and in time; but that would be too much like the style of an amateur. This uncontrolled hurly-burly, which pays no regard to time, is called the soaring of genius. (_Mr. Forte storms through various unconnected chords with the greatest rapidity, with the pedal raised; and passes without pause to the F sharp minor mazourka. He accents vehemently, divides one bar and gives it two extra quarter notes, and from the next bar he omits a quarter note, and continues in this manner with extreme self-satisfaction till he reaches the close; and then, after a few desperate chords of the diminished seventh, he connects with it Liszt's Transcription of Schubert's Serenade in D minor. The second string of the two-lined b snaps with a rattle, and there ensues a general whispering "whether the piece is by Mendelssohn, or Döhler, or Beethoven, or Proch, or Schumann," until finally Mr. Silver mentions Schubert's Serenade. Mr. Forte concludes with the soft pedal, which in his inspired moments he had already made frequent use of._) DOMINIE (_to Emma_). You should never play in company, without mentioning previously what you are going to perform. You observe, as soon as the Serenade was mentioned, it put a stop to the guessing. ALL (_except Mr. Silver and Dominie_). What a glorious performance! what an artistic treat! MRS. GOLD. What spirituality in his playing! MR. SILVER (_asking Mr. Forte for information_). I noticed, in the Serenade, you made only one bar of the two where it modulates to F major, in your rapid playing of the passage. Was that accidental? EMMA (_aside_). He ought to have played a little slower just there. MR. FORTE. In such beautiful passages, every thing must be left to the suggestion of one's feelings. Perhaps another time I may make three bars, just as inspiration and genius may intimate. Those are æsthetic surprises. Henselt, Moscheles, Thalberg, and Clara Wieck do not execute in that manner, and consequently can produce no effect, and do not travel. DOMINIE (_to Emma_). I hope that your natural taste and your musical education will preserve you from such preposterous extravagances. EMMA. Such playing makes one feel quite uncomfortable and worried. Probably that is what you call "devilish modern"? DOMINIE. Yes. EMMA. But do people like it? DOMINIE. Certainly: a great many people do. It has the superior air of genius, and sounds very original. (_Mrs. Gold has "The Creation" in her hand, and Mr. Silver leads her to the piano for the execution of the grand duet between Adam and Eve. Mr. Forte is exhausted, and Dominie plays the accompaniment. Mr. Silver sings intelligently and unaffectedly; Mrs. Gold, as before, but with still less regard to time, and more out of tune; but she tries to compensate for this by introducing very long ornaments at the _fermate_ in the _allegro_, sung with her thin, piercing, over-strained voice; and she frequently rolls up her black eyes. At the conclusion, Mrs. Gold was led to the arm-chair, in great exhaustion of feeling._) MR. PIOUS. The divine art of music celebrates its perfect triumph in such interpretations of Haydn. Mrs. Gold, were those delicious _fermate_ of your own invention? MRS. GOLD. NO: the charming Viardot-Garcia first introduced them as Rosina in "The Barber of Seville," and I had them written down by a musician in the theatre. But the employment of them in this duet is my own idea. I have already surprised and delighted a great many people with them in parties. The grand, rushing, chromatic scale with which the artistic Garcia astonishes every one, when acting the dreaming, fainting Amina in "La Somnambula," I introduce in the grand aria of the divine "Prophet;" rather timidly, it is true, for the boldness of a Garcia can only be acquired on the stage. EMMA. But, father, Jenny Lind sang in this duet in Vienna, quite simply, and with a pure religious spirit. DOMINIE. That is the reason Mrs. Gold says that Jenny Lind sings too coldly, and ought to listen to more passionate models. But we will talk more about this at home. MRS. GOLD. Now, Mr. Dominie, will not your daughter Emma play us some little trifle? Afterwards I will execute with Mr. Silver, "By thy loving kindness, O Lord," and a few duets by Kücken, and finish, if the company wishes, with the "Grâce" aria. DOMINIE. Will you allow me first to replace this broken string? (_After Dominie has finished, Mr. Forte strides up to the piano, and plays his Etude for the left hand, with the right hand extended towards the company._) DOMINIE (_to Mr. Forte, after the conclusion of the piece_). Would it not have been easier and more to the purpose, if you had used both hands? MR. FORTE. We must forgive old people such pedantic observations. You entirely mistake my stand-point. Do you not see that I am standing with one foot in the future? Are you not aware that the public wish not only to listen, but to see something strange? Do you not perceive also that my appearance of ill-health produces a great musical effect? MR. PIOUS. Do you not feel the special charm and the fine effect which is produced by the left hand playing alone, and no less by the right hand extended? DOMINIE. Is it so? Well, probably feeling has taken a false direction with me. I shall be obliged to accustom myself to such Parisian flights of sentiment. (_Emma played Chopin's Ballad in A flat major, after Dominie had previously announced it. The company were attentive._) MR. FORTE (_at the conclusion_). Bravo! A very good beginning, Mr. Dominie. I am sorry that I am obliged to take leave now: I am obliged to go to two more soirées this evening, and have many letters of introduction to deliver. MR. SILVER. Miss Emma, I have just heard that you play finely a great deal of Chopin's music. Let us hear his two latest nocturnes. MRS. GOLD (_to Emma_). Have you heard the famous Camilla Pleyel play Kalkbrenner's charming D minor concerto? Do you not also play such brilliant music? for example, Döhler's beautiful, pathetic Notturno in D flat. Mr. X. lately played that to us enchantingly. EMMA. I know it. I am teaching it to my little sister, Cecilia. DOMINIE. Will you allow her now to play Chopin's two nocturnes, Opus 48? * * * * * I will say nothing about the conclusion of the singing,--the "Grâce" aria. At midnight there was a grand supper, washed down with sweet wine, and seasoned with bitter recollections of this musical evening. CHAPTER XV. CONCLUSION. I have received the following communication from an old literary friend, to whom I sent my eighth chapter, requesting his opinion of it:-- MOTTO. _There are unreceptive times, but that which is eternal outlives all times._--JOH. VON MÜLLER. MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have read your eighth chapter. What you facetiously call "the three trifles" seem to me to be three most important points, even if you had described them simply as _fine_ taste, _deep_ feeling, and _a good_ ear. Who expects superlative excellence from the age in which he lives, and who dares to attack it, in its most vulnerable parts? You grow more harsh and disagreeable, and you do not seem to consider how many enemies you make, among those who think that they have long ago advanced beyond these three points. Just now, too, when there is so much said about "the intellectual" in music, and about "the inner nature of the future," and when such fine expressions are invented about it, you come forward with your three unseasonable trifles in the superlative degree. Do you imagine that our intelligent age cannot discern your hidden satire? You say that our times are in need of your three trifles, _and_ the necessary knowledge and experience. _Voilà tout!_ As for Prince Louis Ferdinand, Dussek, Clementi, Himmel, Hummel, C.M.v. Weber, Beethoven, &c.,--who has not heard all about them? After them, comes the period of "piano fury," and the compositions appropriate for it. Now the three trifles required are _distorted_ taste, _hypocritical_ feeling, and a _depraved_ ear, combined with the necessary superficiality and some power of production. _Voilà tout!_ After that, musicians bethink themselves once more of the genuine three trifles, and return to reason, and we are allowed to take delight in Chopin, Mendelssohn, Fr. Schubert, Robert Schumann, and a few others of the same sort, and again in Beethoven. These were succeeded by mere dry imitators; they were not, however, of much significance. Finally, the very latest progress introduces a still more extravagant piano fury. The three trifles are now _distorted_ taste, _no_ feeling, and _no_ ear for tone; and with these are required the necessary audacity, immeasurable vanity, senseless exhibitions of strength, a poor touch upon the piano, and what they call "intellect." The compositions are now embellished with appropriate pictures on the cover, and with attractive title-pages. In addition, there is much talk about a "higher beauty," "the stand-points which have been already surmounted," "artistic flights," and the "misunderstanding of the inner consciousness," "Genius must be free," &c. My old conservative friend, you are seen through. Your influence, and more especially your ideas about singing, belong only to a past age. They date from the last century. You will be derided with your Jenny Lind and Henrietta Sontag. They are lifeless images of singers, to be kept in a glass case. Are you willing to remain ignorant of the magnificent modern style of voice? Can you not go forward with the advancing age? Progressive philosophers will rap you over the knuckles. You imagine that our times will stop for a couple of lectures! You will yet have to learn what "intellect" signifies. In short, I should not like to stand in your shoes. You should conclude your book with "Pater, peccavi." Even in misfortune, Your sympathizing friend, _V.E._ 
17474	----	HOW TO LISTEN TO MUSIC HINTS AND SUGGESTIONS TO UNTAUGHT LOVERS OF THE ART BY HENRY EDWARD KREHBIEL _Author of "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," "Notes on the Cultivation of Choral Music," "The Philharmonic Society of New York," etc._ _SEVENTH EDITION_ NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1897 COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS TROW DIRECTORY PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY NEW YORK * * * * * TO W.J. HENDERSON WHO HAS HELPED ME TO RESPECT MUSICAL CRITICISM * * * * * AUTHOR'S NOTE The author is beholden to the Messrs. Harper & Brothers for permission to use a small portion of the material in Chapter I., the greater part of Chapter IV., and the Plates which were printed originally in one of their publications; also to the publishers of "The Looker-On" for the privilege of reprinting a portion of an essay written for them entitled "Singers, Then and Now." CONTENTS [Sidenote: CHAP. I.] _Introduction_ Purpose and scope of this book--Not written for professional musicians, but for untaught lovers of the art--neither for careless seekers after diversion unless they be willing to accept a higher conception of what "entertainment" means--The capacity properly to listen to music as a touchstone of musical talent--It is rarely found in popular concert-rooms--Travellers who do not see and listeners who do not hear--Music is of all the arts that which is practised most and thought about least--Popular ignorance of the art caused by the lack of an object for comparison--How simple terms are confounded by literary men--Blunders by Tennyson, Lamb, Coleridge, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, F. Hopkinson Smith, Brander Matthews, and others--A warning against pedants and rhapsodists. _Page 3_ [Sidenote: CHAP. II.] _Recognition of Musical Elements_ The dual nature of music--Sense-perception, fancy, and imagination--Recognition of Design as Form in its primary stages--The crude materials of music--The co-ordination of tones--Rudimentary analysis of Form--Comparison, as in other arts, not possible--Recognition of the fundamental elements--Melody, Harmony, and Rhythm--The value of memory--The need of an intermediary--Familiar music best liked--Interrelation of the elements--Repetition the fundamental principle of Form--Motives, Phrases, and Periods--A Creole folk-tune analyzed--Repetition at the base of poetic forms--Refrain and Parallelism--Key-relationship as a bond of union--Symphonic unity illustrated in examples from Beethoven--The C minor symphony and "Appassionata" sonata--The Concerto in G major--The Seventh and Ninth symphonies. _Page 15_ [Sidenote: CHAP. III.] _The Content and Kinds of Music_ How far it is necessary for the listener to go into musical philosophy--Intelligent hearing not conditioned upon it--Man's individual relationship to the art--Musicians proceed on the theory that feelings are the content of music--The search for pictures and stories condemned--How composers hear and judge--Definitions of the capacity of music by Wagner, Hauptmann, and Mendelssohn--An utterance by Herbert Spencer--Music as a language--Absolute music and Programme music--The content of all true art works--Chamber music--Meaning and origin of the term--Haydn the servant of a Prince--The characteristics of Chamber music--Pure thought, lofty imagination, and deep learning--Its chastity--Sympathy between performers and listeners essential to its enjoyment--A correct definition of Programme music--Programme music defended--The value of titles and superscriptions--Judgment upon it must, however, go to the music, not the commentary--Subjects that are unfit for music--Kinds of Programme music--Imitative music--How the music of birds has been utilized--The cuckoo of nature and Beethoven's cuckoo--Cock and hen in a seventeenth century composition--Rameau's pullet--The German quail--Music that is descriptive by suggestion--External and internal attributes--Fancy and Imagination--Harmony and the major and minor mode--Association of ideas--Movement delineated--Handel's frogs--Water in the "Hebrides" overture and "Ocean" symphony--Height and depth illustrated by acute and grave tones--Beethoven's illustration of distance--His rule enforced--Classical and Romantic music--Genesis of the terms--What they mean in literature--Archbishop Trench on classical books--The author's definitions of both terms in music--Classicism as the conservative principle, Romanticism as the progressive, regenerative, and creative--A contest which stimulates life. _Page 36_ [Sidenote: CHAP. IV.] _The Modern Orchestra_ Importance of the instrumental band--Some things that can be learned by its study--The orchestral choirs--Disposition of the players--Model bands compared--Development of instrumental music--The extent of an orchestra's register--The Strings: Violin, Viola, Violoncello, and Double-bass--Effects produced by changes in manipulation--The wood-winds: Flute, Oboe, English horn, Bassoon, Clarinet--The Brass: French Horn, Trumpet and Cornet, Trombone, Tuba--The Drums--The Conductor--Rise of the modern interpreter--The need of him--His methods--Scores and Score-reading. _Page 71_ [Sidenote: CHAP. V.] _At an Orchestral Concert_ "Classical" and "Popular" as generally conceived--Symphony Orchestras and Military bands--The higher forms in music as exemplified at a classical concert--Symphonies, Overtures, Symphonic Poems, Concertos, etc.--A Symphony not a union of unrelated parts--History of the name--The Sonata form and cyclical compositions--The bond of union between the divisions of a Symphony--Material and spiritual links--The first movement and the sonata form--"Exposition, illustration, and repetition"--The subjects and their treatment--Keys and nomenclature of the Symphony--The _Adagio_ or second movement--The _Scherzo_ and its relation to the Minuet--The Finale and the Rondo form--The latter illustrated in outline by a poem--Modifications of the symphonic form by Beethoven, Schumann, Berlioz, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Saint-Saëns and Dvorák--Augmentation of the forces--Symphonies with voices--The Symphonic Poem--Its three characteristics--Concertos and Cadenzas--M. Ysaye's opinion of the latter--Designations in Chamber music--The Overture and its descendants--Smaller forms: Serenades, Fantasias, Rhapsodies, Variations, Operatic Excerpts. _Page 122_ [Sidenote: CHAP. VI.] _At a Pianoforte Recital_ The Popularity of Pianoforte music exemplified in M. Paderewski's recitals--The instrument--A universal medium of music study--Its defects and merits contrasted--Not a perfect melody instrument--Value of the percussive element--Technique; the false and the true estimate of its value--Pianoforte literature as illustrated in recitals--Its division, for the purposes of this study, into four periods: Classic, Classic-romantic, Romantic, and Bravura--Precursors of the Pianoforte--The Clavichord and Harpsichord, and the music composed for them--Peculiarities of Bach's style--His Romanticism--Scarlatti's Sonatas--The Suite and its constituents--Allemande, Courante, Sarabande, Gigue, Minuet, and Gavotte--The technique of the period--How Bach and Handel played--Beethoven and the Sonata--Mozart and Beethoven as pianists--The Romantic composers--Schumann and Chopin and the forms used by them--Schumann and Jean Paul--Chopin's Preludes, Études, Nocturnes, Ballades, Polonaises, Mazurkas, Krakowiak--The technique of the Romantic period--"Idiomatic" pianoforte music--Development of the instrument--The Pedal and its use--Liszt and his Hungarian Rhapsodies. _Page 154_ [Sidenote: CHAP. VII.] _At the Opera_ Instability of popular taste in respect of operas--Our lists seldom extend back of the present century--The people of to-day as indifferent as those of two centuries ago to the language used--Use and abuse of foreign languages--The Opera defended as an art-form--Its origin in the Greek tragedies--Why music is the language of emotion--A scientific explanation--Herbert Spencer's laws--Efforts of Florentine scholars to revive the classic tragedy result in the invention of the lyric drama--The various kinds of Opera: _Opera seria_, _Opera buffa_, _Opera semiseria_, French _grand Opéra_, and _Opéra comique_--Operettas and musical farces--Romantic Opera--A popular conception of German opera--A return to the old terminology led by Wagner--The recitative: Its nature, aims, and capacities--The change from speech to song--The arioso style, the accompanied recitative and the aria--Music and dramatic action--Emancipation from set forms--The orchestra--The decay of singing--Feats of the masters of the Roman school and La Bastardella--Degeneracy of the Opera of their day--Singers who have been heard in New York--Two generations of singers compared--Grisi, Jenny Lind, Sontag, La Grange, Piccolomini, Adelina Patti, Nilsson, Sembrich, Lucca, Gerster, Lehmann, Melba, Eames, Calvé, Mario, Jean and Edouard de Reszke--Wagner and his works--Operas and lyric dramas--Wagner's return to the principles of the Florentine reformers--Interdependence of elements in a lyric drama--Forms and the endless melody--The Typical Phrases: How they should be studied. _Page 202_ [Sidenote: CHAP. VIII.] _Choirs and Choral Music_ Value of chorus singing in musical culture--Schumann's advice to students--Choristers and instrumentalists--Amateurs and professionals--Oratorio and _Männergesang_--The choirs of Handel and Bach--Glee Unions, Male Clubs, and Women's Choirs--Boys' voices not adapted to modern music--Mixed choirs--American Origin of amateur singing societies--Priority over Germany--The size of choirs--Large numbers not essential--How choirs are divided--Antiphonal effects--Excellence in choir singing--Precision, intonation, expression, balance of tone, enunciation, pronunciation, declamation--The cause of monotony in Oratorio performances--_A capella_ music--Genesis of modern hymnology--Influence of Luther and the Germans--Use of popular melodies by composers--The chorale--Preservation of the severe style of writing in choral music--Palestrina and Bach--A study of their styles--Latin and Teuton--Church and individual--Motets and Church Cantatas--The Passions--The Oratorio--Sacred opera and Cantata--Epic and Drama--Characteristic and descriptive music--The Mass: Its secularization and musical development--The dramatic tendency illustrated in Beethoven and Berlioz. _Page 253_ [Sidenote: CHAP. IX.] _Musician, Critic and Public_ Criticism justified--Relationship between Musician, Critic and Public--To end the conflict between them would result in stagnation--How the Critic might escape--The Musician prefers to appeal to the public rather than to the Critic--Why this is so--Ignorance as a safeguard against and promoter of conservatism--Wagner and Haydn--The Critic as the enemy of the charlatan--Temptations to which he is exposed--Value of popular approbation--Schumann's aphorisms--The Public neither bad judges nor good critics--The Critic's duty is to guide popular judgment--Fickleness of the people's opinions--Taste and judgment not a birthright--The necessity of antecedent study--The Critic's responsibility--Not always that toward the Musician which the latter thinks--How the newspaper can work for good--Must the Critic be a Musician?--Pedants and Rhapsodists--Demonstrable facts in criticism--The folly and viciousness of foolish rhapsody--The Rev. Mr. Haweis cited--Ernst's violin--Intelligent rhapsody approved--Dr. John Brown on Beethoven--The Critic's duty. _Page 297_ * * * * * PLATES I. VIOLIN--(CLIFFORD SCHMIDT).--II. VIOLONCELLO--(VICTOR HERBERT).--III. PICCOLO FLUTE--(C. KURTH, JUN.).--IV. OBOE--(JOSEPH ELLER).--V. ENGLISH HORN--(JOSEPH ELLER).--VI. BASSOON (FEDOR BERNHARDI).--VII. CLARINET--(HENRY KAISER).--VIII. BASS CLARINET--(HENRY KAISER).--IX. FRENCH HORN--(CARL PIEPER).--X. TROMBONE--(J. PFEIFFENSCHNEIDER).--XI. BASS TUBA--(ANTON REITER).--XII. THE CONDUCTOR'S SCORE. _Page 325_ INDEX _Page 351_ How to Listen to Music I _Introduction_ [Sidenote: _The book's appeal._] This book has a purpose, which is as simple as it is plain; and an unpretentious scope. It does not aim to edify either the musical professor or the musical scholar. It comes into the presence of the musical student with all becoming modesty. Its business is with those who love music and present themselves for its gracious ministrations in Concert-Room and Opera House, but have not studied it as professors and scholars are supposed to study. It is not for the careless unless they be willing to inquire whether it might not be well to yield the common conception of entertainment in favor of the higher enjoyment which springs from serious contemplation of beautiful things; but if they are willing so to inquire, they shall be accounted the class that the author is most anxious to reach. The reasons which prompted its writing and the laying out of its plan will presently appear. For the frankness of his disclosure the author might be willing to apologize were his reverence for music less and his consideration for popular affectations more; but because he is convinced that a love for music carries with it that which, so it be but awakened, shall speedily grow into an honest desire to know more about the beloved object, he is willing to seem unamiable to the amateur while arguing the need of even so mild a stimulant as his book, and ingenuous, mayhap even childish, to the professional musician while trying to point a way in which better appreciation may be sought. [Sidenote: _Talent in listening._] The capacity properly to listen to music is better proof of musical talent in the listener than skill to play upon an instrument or ability to sing acceptably when unaccompanied by that capacity. It makes more for that gentleness and refinement of emotion, thought, and action which, in the highest sense of the term, it is the province of music to promote. And it is a much rarer accomplishment. I cannot conceive anything more pitiful than the spectacle of men and women perched on a fair observation point exclaiming rapturously at the loveliness of mead and valley, their eyes melting involuntarily in tenderness at the sight of moss-carpeted slopes and rocks and peaceful wood, or dilating in reverent wonder at mountain magnificence, and then learning from their exclamations that, as a matter of fact, they are unable to distinguish between rock and tree, field and forest, earth and sky; between the dark-browns of the storm-scarred rock, the greens of the foliage, and the blues of the sky. [Sidenote: _Ill equipped listeners._] Yet in the realm of another sense, in the contemplation of beauties more ethereal and evanescent than those of nature, such is the experience which in my capacity as a writer for newspapers I have made for many years. A party of people blind to form and color cannot be said to be well equipped for a Swiss journey, though loaded down with alpenstocks and Baedekers; yet the spectacle of such a party on the top of the Rigi is no more pitiful and anomalous than that presented by the majority of the hearers in our concert-rooms. They are there to adventure a journey into a realm whose beauties do not disclose themselves to the senses alone, but whose perception requires a co-operation of all the finer faculties; yet of this they seem to know nothing, and even of that sense to which the first appeal is made it may be said with profound truth that "hearing they hear not, neither do they understand." [Sidenote: _Popular ignorance of music._] Of all the arts, music is practised most and thought about least. Why this should be the case may be explained on several grounds. A sweet mystery enshrouds the nature of music. Its material part is subtle and elusive. To master it on its technical side alone costs a vast expenditure of time, patience, and industry. But since it is, in one manifestation or another, the most popular of the arts, and one the enjoyment of which is conditioned in a peculiar degree on love, it remains passing strange that the indifference touching its nature and elements, and the character of the phenomena which produce it, or are produced by it, is so general. I do not recall that anybody has ever tried to ground this popular ignorance touching an art of which, by right of birth, everybody is a critic. The unamiable nature of the task, of which I am keenly conscious, has probably been a bar to such an undertaking. But a frank diagnosis must precede the discovery of a cure for every disease, and I have undertaken to point out a way in which this grievous ailment in the social body may at least be lessened. [Sidenote: _Paucity of intelligent comment._] [Sidenote: _Want of a model._] It is not an exaggeration to say that one might listen for a lifetime to the polite conversation of our drawing-rooms (and I do not mean by this to refer to the United States alone) without hearing a symphony talked about in terms indicative of more than the most superficial knowledge of the outward form, that is, the dimensions and apparatus, of such a composition. No other art provides an exact analogy for this phenomenon. Everybody can say something containing a degree of appositeness about a poem, novel, painting, statue, or building. If he can do no more he can go as far as Landseer's rural critic who objected to one of the artist's paintings on the ground that not one of the three pigs eating from a trough had a foot in it. It is the absence of the standard of judgment employed in this criticism which makes significant talk about music so difficult. Nature failed to provide a model for this ethereal art. There is nothing in the natural world with which the simple man may compare it. [Sidenote: _Simple terms confounded._] It is not alone a knowledge of the constituent factors of a symphony, or the difference between a sonata and a suite, a march and a mazurka, that is rare. Unless you chance to be listening to the conversation of musicians (in which term I wish to include amateurs who are what the word amateur implies, and whose knowledge stands in some respectable relation to their love), you will find, so frequently that I have not the heart to attempt an estimate of the proportion, that the most common words in the terminology of the art are misapplied. Such familiar things as harmony and melody, time and tune, are continually confounded. Let us call a distinguished witness into the box; the instance is not new, but it will serve. What does Tennyson mean when he says: "All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune?" [Sidenote: _Tune and time._] Unless the dancers who wearied Maud were provided with even a more extraordinary instrumental outfit than the Old Lady of Banbury Cross, how could they have danced "in tune?" [Sidenote: _Blunders of poets and essayists._] Musical study of a sort being almost as general as study of the "three Rs," it must be said that the gross forms of ignorance are utterly inexcusable. But if this is obvious, it is even more obvious that there is something radically wrong with the prevalent systems of musical instruction. It is because of a plentiful lack of knowledge that so much that is written on music is without meaning, and that the most foolish kind of rhapsody, so it show a collocation of fine words, is permitted to masquerade as musical criticism and even analysis. People like to read about music, and the books of a certain English clergyman have had a sale of stupendous magnitude notwithstanding they are full of absurdities. The clergyman has a multitudinous companionship, moreover, among novelists, essayists, and poets whose safety lies in more or less fantastic generalization when they come to talk about music. How they flounder when they come to detail! It was Charles Lamb who said, in his "Chapter on Ears," that in voices he could not distinguish a soprano from a tenor, and could only contrive to guess at the thorough-bass from its being "supereminently harsh and disagreeable;" yet dear old Elia may be forgiven, since his confounding the bass voice with a system of musical short-hand is so delightful a proof of the ignorance he was confessing. [Sidenote: _Literary realism and musical terminology._] But what shall the troubled critics say to Tennyson's orchestra consisting of a flute, violin, and bassoon? Or to Coleridge's "_loud_ bassoon," which made the wedding-guest to beat his breast? Or to Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe's pianist who played "with an airy and bird-like touch?" Or to our own clever painter-novelist who, in "Snubbin' through Jersey," has Brushes bring out his violoncello and play "the symphonies of Beethoven" to entertain his fellow canal-boat passengers? The tendency toward realism, or "veritism," as it is called, has brought out a rich crop of blunders. It will not do to have a character in a story simply sing or play something; we must have the names of composers and compositions. The genial gentleman who enriched musical literature with arrangements of Beethoven's symphonies for violoncello without accompaniment has since supplemented this feat by creating a German fiddler who, when he thinks himself unnoticed, plays a sonata for violin and contralto voice; Professor Brander Matthews permits one of his heroines to sing Schumann's "Warum?" and one of his heroes plays "The Moonlight Concerto;" one of Ouida's romantic creatures spends hours at an organ "playing the grand old masses of Mendelssohn;" in "Moths" the tenor never wearies of singing certain "exquisite airs of Palestrina," which recalls the fact that an indignant correspondent of a St. Louis newspaper, protesting against the Teutonism and heaviness of an orchestra conductor's programmes, demanded some of the "lighter" works of "Berlioz and Palestrina." [Sidenote: _A popular need._] Alas! these things and the many others equally amusing which Mr. G. Sutherland Edwards long ago catalogued in an essay on "The Literary Maltreatment of Music" are but evidences that even cultured folk have not yet learned to talk correctly about the art which is practised most widely. There is a greater need than pianoforte teachers and singing teachers, and that is a numerous company of writers and talkers who shall teach the people how to listen to music so that it shall not pass through their heads like a vast tonal phantasmagoria, but provide the varied and noble delights contemplated by the composers. [Sidenote: _A warning against writers._] [Sidenote: _Pedants and rhapsodists._] Ungracious as it might appear, it may yet not be amiss, therefore, at the very outset of an inquiry into the proper way in which to listen to music, to utter a warning against much that is written on the art. As a rule it will be found that writers on music are divided into two classes, and that neither of these classes can do much good. Too often they are either pedants or rhapsodists. This division is wholly natural. Music has many sides and is a science as well as an art. Its scientific side is that on which the pedant generally approaches it. He is concerned with forms and rules, with externals, to the forgetting of that which is inexpressibly nobler and higher. But the pedants are not harmful, because they are not interesting; strictly speaking, they do not write for the public at all, but only for their professional colleagues. The harmful men are the foolish rhapsodists who take advantage of the fact that the language of music is indeterminate and evanescent to talk about the art in such a way as to present themselves as persons of exquisite sensibilities rather than to direct attention to the real nature and beauty of music itself. To them I shall recur in a later chapter devoted to musical criticism, and haply point out the difference between good and bad critics and commentators from the view-point of popular need and popular opportunity. II _Recognition of Musical Elements_ [Sidenote: _The nature of music._] Music is dual in its nature; it is material as well as spiritual. Its material side we apprehend through the sense of hearing, and comprehend through the intellect; its spiritual side reaches us through the fancy (or imagination, so it be music of the highest class), and the emotional part of us. If the scope and capacity of the art, and the evolutionary processes which its history discloses (a record of which is preserved in its nomenclature), are to be understood, it is essential that this duality be kept in view. There is something so potent and elemental in the appeal which music makes that it is possible to derive pleasure from even an unwilling hearing or a hearing unaccompanied by effort at analysis; but real appreciation of its beauty, which means recognition of the qualities which put it in the realm of art, is conditioned upon intelligent hearing. The higher the intelligence, the keener will be the enjoyment, if the former be directed to the spiritual side as well as the material. [Sidenote: _Necessity of intelligent hearing._] So far as music is merely agreeably co-ordinated sounds, it may be reduced to mathematics and its practice to handicraft. But recognition of design is a condition precedent to the awakening of the fancy or the imagination, and to achieve such recognition there must be intelligent hearing in the first instance. For the purposes of this study, design may be held to be Form in its primary stages, the recognition of which is possible to every listener who is fond of music; it is not necessary that he be learned in the science. He need only be willing to let an intellectual process, which will bring its own reward, accompany the physical process of hearing. [Sidenote: _Tones and musical material._] Without discrimination it is impossible to recognize even the crude materials of music, for the first step is already a co-ordination of those materials. A tone becomes musical material only by association with another tone. We might hear it alone, study its quality, and determine its degree of acuteness or gravity (its pitch, as musicians say), but it can never become music so long as it remains isolated. When we recognize that it bears certain relationships with other tones in respect of time or tune (to use simple terms), it has become for us musical material. We do not need to philosophize about the nature of those relationships, but we must recognize their existence. [Sidenote: _The beginnings of Form._] Thus much we might hear if we were to let music go through our heads like water through a sieve. Yet the step from that degree of discrimination to a rudimentary analysis of Form is exceedingly short, and requires little more than a willingness to concentrate the attention and exercise the memory. Everyone is willing to do that much while looking at a picture. Who would look at a painting and rest satisfied with the impression made upon the sense of sight by the colors merely? No one, surely. Yet so soon as we look, so as to discriminate between the outlines, to observe the relationship of figure to figure, we are indulging in intellectual exercise. If this be a condition precedent to the enjoyment of a picture (and it plainly is), how much more so is it in the case of music, which is intangible and evanescent, which cannot pause a moment for our contemplation without ceasing to be? [Sidenote: _Comparison with a model not possible._] There is another reason why we must exercise intelligence in listening, to which I have already alluded in the first chapter. Our appreciation of beauty in the plastic arts is helped by the circumstance that the critical activity is largely a matter of comparison. Is the picture or the statue a good copy of the object sought to be represented? Such comparison fails us utterly in music, which copies nothing that is tangibly present in the external world. [Sidenote: _What degree of knowledge is necessary?_] [Sidenote: _The Elements._] [Sidenote: _Value of memory._] It is then necessary to associate the intellect with sense perception in listening to music. How far is it essential that the intellectual process shall go? This book being for the untrained, the question might be put thus: With how little knowledge of the science can an intelligent listener get along? We are concerned only with his enjoyment of music or, better, with an effort to increase it without asking him to become a musician. If he is fond of the art it is more than likely that the capacity to discriminate sufficiently to recognize the elements out of which music is made has come to him intuitively. Does he recognize that musical tones are related to each other in respect of time and pitch? Then it shall not be difficult for him to recognize the three elements on which music rests--Melody, Harmony, and Rhythm. Can he recognize them with sufficient distinctness to seize upon their manifestations while music is sounding? Then memory shall come to the aid of discrimination, and he shall be able to appreciate enough of design to point the way to a true and lofty appreciation of the beautiful in music. The value of memory is for obvious reasons very great in musical enjoyment. The picture remains upon the wall, the book upon the library shelf. If we have failed to grasp a detail at the first glance or reading, we need but turn again to the picture or open the book anew. We may see the picture in a changed light, or read the poem in a different mood, but the outlines, colors, ideas are fixed for frequent and patient perusal. Music goes out of existence with every performance, and must be recreated at every hearing. [Sidenote: _An intermediary necessary._] Not only that, but in the case of all, so far as some forms are concerned, and of all who are not practitioners in others, it is necessary that there shall be an intermediary between the composer and the listener. The written or printed notes are not music; they are only signs which indicate to the performer what to do to call tones into existence such as the composer had combined into an art-work in his mind. The broadly trained musician can read the symbols; they stir his imagination, and he hears the music in his imagination as the composer heard it. But the untaught music-lover alone can get nothing from the printed page; he must needs wait till some one else shall again waken for him the "Sound of a voice that is still." [Sidenote: _The value of memory._] This is one of the drawbacks which are bound up in the nature of music; but it has ample compensation in the unusual pleasure which memory brings. In the case of the best music, familiarity breeds ever-growing admiration. New compositions are slowly received; they make their way to popular appreciation only by repeated performances; the people like best the songs as well as the symphonies which they know. The quicker, therefore, that we are in recognizing the melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic contents of a new composition, and the more apt our memory in seizing upon them for the operation of the fancy, the greater shall be our pleasure. [Sidenote: _Melody, Harmony, and Rhythm._] [Sidenote: _Comprehensiveness of Melody._] In simple phrase Melody is a well-ordered series of tones heard successively; Harmony, a well-ordered series heard simultaneously; Rhythm, a symmetrical grouping of tonal time units vitalized by accent. The life-blood of music is Melody, and a complete conception of the term embodies within itself the essence of both its companions. A succession of tones without harmonic regulation is not a perfect element in music; neither is a succession of tones which have harmonic regulation but are void of rhythm. The beauty and expressiveness, especially the emotionality, of a musical composition depend upon the harmonies which either accompany the melody in the form of chords (a group of melodic intervals sounded simultaneously), or are latent in the melody itself (harmonic intervals sounded successively). Melody is Harmony analyzed; Harmony is Melody synthetized. [Sidenote: _Repetition._] [Sidenote: _A melody analyzed._] The fundamental principle of Form is repetition of melodies, which are to music what ideas are to poetry. Melodies themselves are made by repetition of smaller fractions called motives (a term borrowed from the fine arts), phrases, and periods, which derive their individuality from their rhythmical or intervallic characteristics. Melodies are not all of the simple kind which the musically illiterate, or the musically ill-trained, recognize as "tunes," but they all have a symmetrical organization. The dissection of a simple folk-tune may serve to make this plain and also indicate to the untrained how a single feature may be taken as a mark of identification and a holding-point for the memory. Here is the melody of a Creole song called sometimes _Pov' piti Lolotte_, sometimes _Pov' piti Momzelle Zizi_, in the patois of Louisiana and Martinique: [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _Motives, phrases, and periods._] It will be as apparent to the eye of one who cannot read music as it will to his ear when he hears this melody played, that it is built up of two groups of notes only. These groups are marked off by the heavy lines across the staff called bars, whose purpose it is to indicate rhythmical subdivisions in music. The second, third, fifth, sixth, and seventh of these groups are repetitions merely of the first group, which is the germ of the melody, but on different degrees of the scale; the fourth and eighth groups are identical and are an appendage hitched to the first group for the purpose of bringing it to a close, supplying a resting-point craved by man's innate sense of symmetry. Musicians call such groups cadences. A musical analyst would call each group a motive, and say that each successive two groups, beginning with the first, constitute a phrase, each two phrases a period, and the two periods a melody. We have therefore in this innocent Creole tune eight motives, four phrases, and two periods; yet its material is summed up in two groups, one of seven notes, one of five, which only need to be identified and remembered to enable a listener to recognize something of the design of a composer if he were to put the melody to the highest purposes that melody can be put in the art of musical composition. [Sidenote: _Repetition in music._] Repetition is the constructive principle which was employed by the folk-musician in creating this melody; and repetition is the fundamental principle in all musical construction. It will suffice for many merely to be reminded of this to appreciate the fact that while the exercise of memory is a most necessary activity in listening to music, it lies in music to make that exercise easy. There is repetition of motives, phrases, and periods in melody; repetition of melodies in parts; and repetition of parts in the wholes of the larger forms. [Sidenote: _Repetition in poetry._] The beginnings of poetic forms are also found in repetition; in primitive poetry it is exemplified in the refrain or burden, in the highly developed poetry of the Hebrews in parallelism. The Psalmist wrote: "O Lord, rebuke me not in thy wrath, Neither chasten me in thy hot displeasure." [Sidenote: _Key relationship._] Here is a period of two members, the latter repeating the thought of the former. A musical analyst might find in it an admirable analogue for the first period of a simple melody. He would divide it into four motives: "Rebuke me not | in thy wrath | neither chasten me | in thy hot displeasure," and point out as intimate a relationship between them as exists in the Creole tune. The bond of union between the motives of the melody as well as that in the poetry illustrates a principle of beauty which is the most important element in musical design after repetition, which is its necessary vehicle. It is because this principle guides the repetition of the tone-groups that together they form a melody that is perfect, satisfying, and reposeful. It is the principle of key-relationship, to discuss which fully would carry me farther into musical science than I am permitted to go. Let this suffice: A harmony is latent in each group, and the sequence of groups is such a sequence as the experience of ages has demonstrated to be most agreeable to the ear. [Sidenote: _The rhythmical stamp._] [Sidenote: _The principle of Unity._] In the case of the Creole melody the listener is helped to a quick appreciation of its form by the distinct physiognomy which rhythm has stamped upon it; and it is by noting such a characteristic that the memory can best be aided in its work of identification. It is not necessary for a listener to follow all the processes of a composer in order to enjoy his music, but if he cultivates the habit of following the principal themes through a work of the higher class he will not only enjoy the pleasures of memory but will frequently get a glimpse into the composer's purposes which will stimulate his imagination and mightily increase his enjoyment. There is nothing can guide him more surely to a recognition of the principle of unity, which makes a symphony to be an organic whole instead of a group of pieces which are only externally related. The greatest exemplar of this principle is Beethoven; and his music is the best in which to study it for the reason that he so frequently employs material signs for the spiritual bond. So forcibly has this been impressed upon me at times that I am almost willing to believe that a keen analytical student of his music might arrange his greater works into groups of such as were in process of composition at the same time without reference to his personal history. Take the principal theme of the C minor Symphony for example: [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _A rhythmical motive pursued._] This simple, but marvellously pregnant, motive is not only the kernel of the first movement, it is the fundamental thought of the whole symphony. We hear its persistent beat in the scherzo as well: [Music illustration] and also in the last movement: [Music illustration] More than this, we find the motive haunting the first movement of the pianoforte sonata in F minor, op. 57, known as the "Sonata Appassionata," now gloomily, almost morosely, proclamative in the bass, now interrogative in the treble: [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _Relationships in Beethoven's works._] [Sidenote: _The C minor Symphony and "Appassionata" sonata._] [Sidenote: _Beethoven's G major Concerto._] Schindler relates that when once he asked Beethoven to tell him what the F minor and the D minor (Op. 31, No. 2) sonatas meant, he received for an answer only the enigmatical remark: "Read Shakespeare's 'Tempest.'" Many a student and commentator has since read the "Tempest" in the hope of finding a clew to the emotional contents which Beethoven believed to be in the two works, so singularly associated, only to find himself baffled. It is a fancy, which rests perhaps too much on outward things, but still one full of suggestion, that had Beethoven said: "Hear my C minor Symphony," he would have given a better starting-point to the imagination of those who are seeking to know what the F minor sonata means. Most obviously it means music, but it means music that is an expression of one of those psychological struggles which Beethoven felt called upon more and more to delineate as he was more and more shut out from the companionship of the external world. Such struggles are in the truest sense of the word tempests. The motive, which, according to the story, Beethoven himself said indicates, in the symphony, the rappings of Fate at the door of human existence, is common to two works which are also related in their spiritual contents. Singularly enough, too, in both cases the struggle which is begun in the first movement and continued in the third, is interrupted by a period of calm reassuring, soul-fortifying aspiration, which in the symphony as well as in the sonata takes the form of a theme with variations. Here, then, the recognition of a simple rhythmical figure has helped us to an appreciation of the spiritual unity of the parts of a symphony, and provided a commentary on the poetical contents of a sonata. But the lesson is not yet exhausted. Again do we find the rhythm coloring the first movement of the pianoforte concerto in G major: [Music illustration] Symphony, concerto, and sonata, as the sketch-books of the master show, were in process of creation at the same time. [Sidenote: _His Seventh Symphony._] Thus far we have been helped in identifying a melody and studying relationships by the rhythmical structure of a single motive. The demonstration might be extended on the same line into Beethoven's symphony in A major, in which the external sign of the poetical idea which underlies the whole work is also rhythmic--so markedly so that Wagner characterized it most happily and truthfully when he said that it was "the apotheosis of the dance." Here it is the dactyl, [dactyl symbol], which in one variation, or another, clings to us almost as persistently as in Hood's "Bridge of Sighs:" "One more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death." [Sidenote: _Use of a dactylic figure._] We hear it lightly tripping in the first movement: [Music illustration] and [Music illustration]; gentle, sedate, tender, measured, through its combination with a spondee in the second: [Music illustration]; cheerily, merrily, jocosely happy in the Scherzo: [Music illustration]; hymn-like in the Trio: [Music illustration] and wildly bacchanalian when subjected to trochaic abbreviation in the Finale: [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _Intervallic characteristics._] Intervallic characteristics may place the badge of relationship upon melodies as distinctly as rhythmic. There is no more perfect illustration of this than that afforded by Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Speaking of the subject of its finale, Sir George Grove says: "And note--while listening to the simple tune itself, before the variations begin--how _very_ simple it is; the plain diatonic scale, not a single chromatic interval, and out of fifty-six notes only three not consecutive."[A] [Sidenote: _The melodies in Beethoven's Ninth Symphony._] Earlier in the same work, while combating a statement by Lenz that the resemblance between the second subject of the first movement and the choral melody is a "thematic reference of the most striking importance, vindicating the unity of the entire work, and placing the whole in a perfectly new light," Sir George says: "It is, however, very remarkable that so many of the melodies in the Symphony should consist of consecutive notes, and that in no less than four of them the notes should run up a portion of the scale and down again--apparently pointing to a consistent condition of Beethoven's mind throughout this work." [Sidenote: _Melodic likenesses._] Like Goethe, Beethoven secreted many a mystery in his masterpiece, but he did not juggle idly with tones, or select the themes of his symphonies at hap-hazard; he would be open to the charge, however, if the resemblances which I have pointed out in the Fifth and Seventh Symphonies, and those disclosed by the following melodies from his Ninth, should turn out through some incomprehensible revelation to be mere coincidences: From the first movement: [Music illustration] From the second: [Music illustration] The choral melody: [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _Design and Form._] From a recognition of the beginnings of design, to which identification of the composer's thematic material and its simpler relationships will lead, to so much knowledge of Form as will enable the reader to understand the later chapters in this book, is but a step. FOOTNOTES: [A] "Beethoven and His Nine Symphonies," p. 374. III _The Content and Kinds of Music_ [Sidenote: _Metaphysics to be avoided herein._] Bearing in mind the purpose of this book, I shall not ask the reader to accompany me far afield in the region of æsthetic philosophy or musical metaphysics. A short excursion is all that is necessary to make plain what is meant by such terms as Absolute music, Programme music, Classical, Romantic, and Chamber music and the like, which not only confront us continually in discussion, but stand for things which we must know if we would read programmes understandingly and appreciate the various phases in which music presents itself to us. It is interesting and valuable to know why an art-work stirs up pleasurable feelings within us, and to speculate upon its relations to the intellect and the emotions; but the circumstance that philosophers have never agreed, and probably never will agree, on these points, so far as the art of music is concerned, alone suffices to remove them from the field of this discussion. [Sidenote: _Personal equation in judgment._] Intelligent listening is not conditioned upon such knowledge. Even when the study is begun, the questions whether or not music has a content beyond itself, where that content is to be sought, and how defined, will be decided in each case by the student for himself, on grounds which may be said to be as much in his nature as they are in the argument. The attitude of man toward the art is an individual one, and in some of its aspects defies explanation. [Sidenote: _A musical fluid._] The amount and kind of pleasure which music gives him are frequently as much beyond his understanding and control as they are beyond the understanding and control of the man who sits beside him. They are consequences of just that particular combination of material and spiritual elements, just that blending of muscular, nervous, and cerebral tissues, which make him what he is, which segregate him as an individual from the mass of humanity. We speak of persons as susceptible or insusceptible to music as we speak of good and poor conductors of electricity; and the analogy implied here is particularly apt and striking. If we were still using the scientific terms of a few decades ago I should say that a musical fluid might yet be discovered and its laws correlated with those of heat, light, and electricity. Like them, when reduced to its lowest terms, music is a form of motion, and it should not be difficult on this analogy to construct a theory which would account for the physical phenomena which accompany the hearing of music in some persons, such as the recession of blood from the face, or an equally sudden suffusion of the same veins, a contraction of the scalp accompanied by chilliness or a prickling sensation, or that roughness of the skin called goose-flesh, "flesh moved by an idea, flesh horripilated by a thought." [Sidenote: _Origin of musical elements._] [Sidenote: _Feelings and counterpoint._] It has been denied that feelings are the content of music, or that it is the mission of music to give expression to feelings; but the scientific fact remains that the fundamental elements of vocal music--pitch, quality, and dynamic intensity--are the results of feelings working upon the vocal organs; and even if Mr. Herbert Spencer's theory be rejected, it is too late now to deny that music is conceived by its creators as a language of the emotions and so applied by them. The German philosopher Herbarth sought to reduce the question to an absurdity by expressing surprise that musicians should still believe that feelings could be "the proximate cause of the rules of simple and double counterpoint;" but Dr. Stainer found a sufficient answer by accepting the proposition as put, and directing attention to the fact that the feelings of men having first decided what was pleasurable in polyphony, and the rules of counterpoint having afterward been drawn from specimens of pleasurable polyphony, it was entirely correct to say that feelings are the proximate cause of the laws of counterpoint. [Sidenote: _How composers hear music._] It is because so many of us have been taught by poets and romancers to think that there is a picture of some kind, or a story in every piece of music, and find ourselves unable to agree upon the picture or the story in any given case, that confusion is so prevalent among the musical laity. Composers seldom find difficulty in understanding each other. They listen for beauty, and if they find it they look for the causes which have produced it, and in apprehending beauty and recognizing means and cause they unvolitionally rise to the plane whence a view of the composer's purposes is clear. Having grasped the mood of a composition and found that it is being sustained or varied in a manner accordant with their conceptions of beauty, they occupy themselves with another kind of differentiation altogether than the misled disciples of the musical rhapsodists who overlook the general design and miss the grand proclamation in their search for petty suggestions for pictures and stories among the details of the composition. Let musicians testify for us. In his romance, "Ein Glücklicher Abend," Wagner says: [Sidenote: _Wagner's axiom._] "That which music expresses is eternal and ideal. It does not give voice to the passion, the love, the longing of this or the other individual, under these or the other circumstances, but to passion, love, longing itself." Moritz Hauptmann says: [Sidenote: _Hauptmann's._] "The same music will admit of the most varied verbal expositions, and of not one of them can it be correctly said that it is exhaustive, the right one, and contains the whole significance of the music. This significance is contained most definitely in the music itself. It is not music that is ambiguous; it says the same thing to everybody; it speaks to mankind and gives voice only to human feelings. Ambiguity only then makes its appearance when each person attempts to formulate in his manner the emotional impression which he has received, when he attempts to fix and hold the ethereal essence of music, to utter the unutterable." [Sidenote: _Mendelssohn's._] [Sidenote: _The "Songs without Words."_] Mendelssohn inculcated the same lesson in a letter which he wrote to a young poet who had given titles to a number of the composer's "Songs Without Words," and incorporated what he conceived to be their sentiments in a set of poems. He sent his work to Mendelssohn with the request that the composer inform the writer whether or not he had succeeded in catching the meaning of the music. He desired the information because "music's capacity for expression is so vague and indeterminate." Mendelssohn replied: "You give the various numbers of the book such titles as 'I Think of Thee,' 'Melancholy,' 'The Praise of God,' 'A Merry Hunt.' I can scarcely say whether I thought of these or other things while composing the music. Another might find 'I Think of Thee' where you find 'Melancholy,' and a real huntsman might consider 'A Merry Hunt' a veritable 'Praise of God.' But this is not because, as you think, music is vague. On the contrary, I believe that musical expression is altogether too definite, that it reaches regions and dwells in them whither words cannot follow it and must necessarily go lame when they make the attempt as you would have them do." [Sidenote: _The tonal language._] [Sidenote: _Herbert Spencer's definition._] [Sidenote: _Natural expression._] [Sidenote: _Absolute music._] If I were to try to say why musicians, great musicians, speak thus of their art, my explanation would be that they have developed, farther than the rest of mankind have been able to develop it, a language of tones, which, had it been so willed, might have been developed so as to fill the place now occupied by articulate speech. Herbert Spencer, though speaking purely as a scientific investigator, not at all as an artist, defined music as "a language of feelings which may ultimately enable men vividly and completely to impress on each other the emotions they experience from moment to moment." We rely upon speech to do this now, but ever and anon when, in a moment of emotional exaltation, we are deserted by the articulate word we revert to the emotional cry which antedates speech, and find that that cry is universally understood because it is universally felt. More than speech, if its primitive element of emotionality be omitted, more than the primitive language of gesture, music is a natural mode of expression. All three forms have attained their present stage of development through conventions. Articulate speech has led in the development; gesture once occupied a high plane (in the pantomimic dance of the ancients) but has now retrograded; music, supreme at the outset, then neglected, is but now pushing forward into the place which its nature entitles it to occupy. When we conceive of an art-work composed of such elements, and foregoing the adventitious helps which may accrue to it from conventional idioms based on association of ideas, we have before us the concept of Absolute music, whose content, like that of every noble artistic composition, be it of tones or forms or colors or thoughts expressed in words, is that high ideal of goodness, truthfulness, and beauty for which all lofty imaginations strive. Such artworks are the instrumental compositions in the classic forms; such, too, may be said to be the high type of idealized "Programme" music, which, like the "Pastoral" symphony of Beethoven, is designed to awaken emotions like those awakened by the contemplation of things, but does not attempt to depict the things themselves. Having mentioned Programme music I must, of course, try to tell what it is; but the exposition must be preceded by an explanation of a kind of music which, because of its chastity, is set down as the finest form of absolute music. This is Chamber music. [Sidenote: _Chamber music._] [Sidenote: _History of the term._] [Sidenote: _Haydn a servant._] In a broad sense, but one not employed in modern definition, Chamber music is all music not designed for performance in the church or theatre. (Out-of-door music cannot be considered among these artistic forms of aristocratic descent.) Once, and indeed at the time of its invention, the term meant music designed especially for the delectation of the most eminent patrons of the art--the kings and nobles whose love for it gave it maintenance and encouragement. This is implied by the term itself, which has the same etymology wherever the form of music is cultivated. In Italian it is _Musica da Camera_; in French, _Musique de Chambre_; in German, _Kammermusik_. All the terms have a common root. The Greek [Greek: kamara] signified an arch, a vaulted room, or a covered wagon. In the time of the Frankish kings the word was applied to the room in the royal palace in which the monarch's private property was kept, and in which he looked after his private affairs. When royalty took up the cultivation of music it was as a private, not as a court, function, and the concerts given for the entertainment of the royal family took place in the king's chamber, or private room. The musicians were nothing more nor less than servants in the royal household. This relationship endured into the present century. Haydn was a _Hausofficier_ of Prince Esterhazy. As vice-chapelmaster he had to appear every morning in the Prince's ante-room to receive orders concerning the dinner-music and other entertainments of the day, and in the certificate of appointment his conduct is regulated with a particularity which we, who remember him and reverence his genius but have forgotten his master, think humiliating in the extreme. [Sidenote: _Beethoven's Chamber music._] Out of this cultivation of music in the private chamber grew the characteristics of Chamber music, which we must consider if we would enjoy it ourselves and understand the great reverence which the great masters of music have always felt for it. Beethoven was the first great democrat among musicians. He would have none of the shackles which his predecessors wore, and compelled aristocracy of birth to bow to aristocracy of genius. But such was his reverence for the style of music which had grown up in the chambers of the great that he devoted the last three years of his life almost exclusively to its composition; the peroration of his proclamation to mankind consists of his last quartets--the holiest of holy things to the Chamber musicians of to-day. [Sidenote: _The characteristics of Chamber music._] Chamber music represents pure thought, lofty imagination, and deep learning. These attributes are encouraged by the idea of privacy which is inseparable from the form. Composers find it the finest field for the display of their talents because their own skill in creating is to be paired with trained skill in hearing. Its representative pieces are written for strings alone--trios, quartets, and quintets. With the strings are sometimes associated a pianoforte, or one or more of the solo wind instruments--oboe, clarinet, or French horn; and as a rule the compositions adhere to classical lines (see Chapter V.). Of necessity the modesty of the apparatus compels it to forego nearly all the adventitious helps with which other forms of composition gain public approval. In the delineative arts Chamber music shows analogy with correct drawing and good composition, the absence of which cannot be atoned for by the most gorgeous coloring. In no other style is sympathy between performers and listeners so necessary, and for that reason Chamber music should always be heard in a small room with performers and listeners joined in angelic wedlock. Communities in which it flourishes under such conditions are musical. [Sidenote: _Programme music._] [Sidenote: _The value of superscriptions._] [Sidenote: _The rule of judgment._] Properly speaking, the term Programme music ought to be applied only to instrumental compositions which make a frank effort to depict scenes, incidents, or emotional processes to which the composer himself gives the clew either by means of a descriptive title or a verbal motto. It is unfortunate that the term has come to be loosely used. In a high sense the purest and best music in the world is programmatic, its programme being, as I have said, that "high ideal of goodness, truthfulness, and beauty" which is the content of all true art. But the origin of the term was vulgar, and the most contemptible piece of tonal imitation now claims kinship in the popular mind with the exquisitely poetical creations of Schumann and the "Pastoral" symphony of Beethoven; and so it is become necessary to defend it in the case of noble compositions. A programme is not necessarily, as Ambros asserts, a certificate of poverty and an admission on the part of the composer that his art has got beyond its natural bounds. Whether it be merely a suggestive title, as in the case of some of the compositions of Beethoven, Schumann, and Mendelssohn, or an extended commentary, as in the symphonic poems of Liszt and the symphonies of Berlioz and Raff, the programme has a distinct value to the composer as well as the hearer. It can make the perceptive sense more impressible to the influence of the music; it can quicken the fancy, and fire the imagination; it can prevent a gross misconception of the intentions of a composer and the character of his composition. Nevertheless, in determining the artistic value of the work, the question goes not to the ingenuity of the programme or the clearness with which its suggestions have been carried out, but to the beauty of the music itself irrespective of the verbal commentary accompanying it. This rule must be maintained in order to prevent a degradation of the object of musical expression. The vile, the ugly, the painful are not fit subjects for music; music renounces, contravenes, negatives itself when it attempts their delineation. A classification of Programme music might be made on these lines: [Sidenote: _Kinds of Programme music._] I. Descriptive pieces which rest on imitation or suggestion of natural sounds. II. Pieces whose contents are purely musical, but the mood of which is suggested by a poetical title. III. Pieces in which the influence which determined their form and development is indicated not only by a title but also by a motto which is relied upon to mark out a train of thought for the listener which will bring his fancy into union with that of the composer. The motto may be verbal or pictorial. IV. Symphonies or other composite works which have a title to indicate their general character, supplemented by explanatory superscriptions for each portion. [Sidenote: _Imitation of natural sounds._] [Sidenote: _The nightingale._] [Sidenote: _The cat._] [Sidenote: _The cuckoo._] The first of these divisions rests upon the employment of the lowest form of conventional musical idiom. The material which the natural world provides for imitation by the musician is exceedingly scant. Unless we descend to mere noise, as in the descriptions of storms and battles (the shrieking of the wind, the crashing of thunder, and the roar of artillery--invaluable aids to the cheap descriptive writer), we have little else than the calls of a few birds. Nearly thirty years ago Wilhelm Tappert wrote an essay which he called "Zooplastik in Tönen." He ransacked the musical literature of centuries, but in all his examples the only animals the voices of which are unmistakable are four fowls--the cuckoo, quail (that is the German bird, not the American, which has a different call), the cock, and the hen. He has many descriptive sounds which suggest other birds and beasts, but only by association of idea; separated from title or text they suggest merely what they are--musical phrases. A reiteration of the rhythmical figure called the "Scotch snap," breaking gradually into a trill, is the common symbol of the nightingale's song, but it is not a copy of that song; three or four tones descending chromatically are given as the cat's mew, but they are made to be such only by placing the syllables _Mi-au_ (taken from the vocabulary of the German cat) under them. Instances of this kind might be called characterization, or description by suggestion, and some of the best composers have made use of them, as will appear in these pages presently. The list being so small, and the lesson taught so large, it may be well to give a few striking instances of absolutely imitative music. The first bird to collaborate with a composer seems to have been the cuckoo, whose notes [Music illustration: Cuck-oo!] had sounded in many a folk-song ere Beethoven thought of enlisting the little solo performer in his "Pastoral" symphony. It is to be borne in mind, however, as a fact having some bearing on the artistic value of Programme music, that Beethoven's cuckoo changes his note to please the musician, and, instead of singing a minor third, he sings a major third thus: [Music illustration: Cuck-oo!] [Sidenote: _Cock and hen._] As long ago as 1688 Jacob Walter wrote a musical piece entitled "Gallina et Gallo," in which the hen was delineated in this theme: [Music illustration: _Gallina._] while the cock had the upper voice in the following example, his clear challenge sounding above the cackling of his mate: [Music illustration: _Gallo._] The most effective use yet made of the song of the hen, however, is in "La Poule," one of Rameau's "Pièces de Clavecin," printed in 1736, a delightful composition with this subject: [Music illustration: Co co co co co co co dai, etc.] [Sidenote: _The quail._] The quail's song is merely a monotonic rhythmical figure to which German fancy has fitted words of pious admonition: [Music illustration: Fürch-te Gott! Lo-be Gott!] [Sidenote: _Conventional idioms._] [Sidenote: _Association of ideas._] [Sidenote: _Fancy and imagination._] [Sidenote: _Harmony and emotionality._] The paucity of examples in this department is a demonstration of the statement made elsewhere that nature does not provide music with models for imitation as it does painting and sculpture. The fact that, nevertheless, we have come to recognize a large number of idioms based on association of ideas stands the composer in good stead whenever he ventures into the domain of delineative or descriptive music, and this he can do without becoming crudely imitative. Repeated experiences have taught us to recognize resemblances between sequences or combinations of tones and things or ideas, and on these analogies, even though they be purely conventional (that is agreed upon, as we have agreed that a nod of the head shall convey assent, a shake of the head dissent, and a shrug of the shoulders doubt or indifference), the composers have built up a voluminous vocabulary of idioms which need only to be helped out by a suggestion to the mind to be eloquently illustrative. "Sometimes hearing a melody or harmony arouses an emotion like that aroused by the contemplation of a thing. Minor harmonies, slow movements, dark tonal colorings, combine directly to put a musically susceptible person in a mood congenial to thoughts of sorrow and death; and, inversely, the experience of sorrow, or the contemplation of death, creates affinity for minor harmonies, slow movements, and dark tonal colorings. Or we recognize attributes in music possessed also by things, and we consort the music and the things, external attributes bringing descriptive music into play, which excites the fancy, internal attributes calling for an exercise of the loftier faculty, imagination, to discern their meaning."[B] The latter kind is delineative music of the higher order, the kind that I have called idealized programme music, for it is the imagination which, as Ruskin has said, "sees the heart and inner nature and makes them felt, but is often obscure, mysterious, and interrupted in its giving out of outer detail," which is "a seer in the prophetic sense, calling the things that are not as though they were, and forever delighting to dwell on that which is not tangibly present." In this kind of music, harmony, the real seat of emotionality in music, is an eloquent factor, and, indeed, there is no greater mystery in the art, which is full of mystery, than the fact that the lowering of the second tone in the chord, which is the starting-point of harmony, should change an expression of satisfaction, energetic action, or jubilation into an accent of pain or sorrow. The major mode is "to do," the minor, "to suffer:" [Sidenote: _Major and minor._] [Music illustration: Hur-rah! A-las!] [Sidenote: _Music and movement._] How near a large number of suggestions, which are based wholly upon experience or association of ideas, lie to the popular fancy, might be illustrated by scores of examples. Thoughts of religious functions arise in us the moment we hear the trombones intone a solemn phrase in full harmony; an oboe melody in sixth-eighth time over a drone bass brings up a pastoral picture of a shepherd playing upon his pipe; trumpets and drums suggest war, and so on. The delineation of movement is easier to the musician than it is to the poet. Handel, who has conveyed the sensation of a "darkness which might be felt," in a chorus of his "Israel in Egypt," by means which appeal solely to the imagination stirred by feelings, has in the same work pictured the plague of frogs with a frank _naïveté_ which almost upsets our seriousness of demeanor, by suggesting the characteristic movement of the creatures in the instrumental accompaniment to the arioso, "Their land brought forth frogs," which begins thus: [Sidenote: _Handel's frogs._] [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _The movement of water._] We find the gentle flux and reflux of water as if it were lapping a rocky shore in the exquisite figure out of which Mendelssohn constructed his "Hebrides" overture: [Music illustration] and in fancy we ride on mighty surges when we listen to the principal subject of Rubinstein's "Ocean" symphony: [Music illustration] In none of these instances can the composer be said to be imitative. Music cannot copy water, but it can do what water does, and so suggest water. [Sidenote: _High and low._] Some of the most common devices of composers are based on conceptions that are wholly arbitrary. A musical tone cannot have position in space such as is indicated by high or low, yet so familiar is the association of acuteness of pitch with height, and gravity of pitch with depth, that composers continually delineate high things with acute tones and low things with grave tones, as witness Handel in one of the choruses of "The Messiah:" [Music illustration: Glo-ry to God in the high-est, and peace on earth.] [Sidenote: _Ascent, descent, and distance delineated._] Similarly, too, does Beethoven describe the ascent into heaven and the descent into hell in the Credo of his mass in D. Beethoven's music, indeed, is full of tone-painting, and because it exemplifies a double device I make room for one more illustration. It is from the cantata "Becalmed at Sea, and a Prosperous Voyage," and in it the composer pictures the immensity of the sea by a sudden, extraordinary spreading out of his harmonies, which is musical, and dwelling a long time on the word "distance" (_Weite_) which is rhetorical: [Music illustration: In der un-ge-heu-'ren Wei-te.] [Sidenote: _Bald imitation bad art._] [Sidenote: _Vocal music and delineation._] [Sidenote: _Beethoven's canon._] The extent to which tone-painting is justified is a question which might profitably concern us; but such a discussion as it deserves would far exceed the limits set for this book, and must be foregone. It cannot be too forcibly urged, however, as an aid to the listener, that efforts at musical cartooning have never been made by true composers, and that in the degree that music attempts simply to copy external things it falls in the scale of artistic truthfulness and value. Vocal music tolerates more of the descriptive element than instrumental because it is a mixed art; in it the purpose of music is to illustrate the poetry and, by intensifying the appeal to the fancy, to warm the emotions. Every piece of vocal music, moreover, carries its explanatory programme in its words. Still more tolerable and even righteous is it in the opera where it is but one of several factors which labor together to make up the sum of dramatic representation. But it must ever remain valueless unless it be idealized. Mendelssohn, desiring to put _Bully Bottom_ into the overture to "A Midsummer Night's Dream," did not hesitate to use tones which suggest the bray of a donkey, yet the effect, like Handel's frogs and flies in "Israel," is one of absolute musical value. The canon which ought continually to be before the mind of the listener is that which Beethoven laid down with most painstaking care when he wrote the "Pastoral" symphony. Desiring to inform the listeners what were the images which inspired the various movements (in order, of course, that they might the better enter into the work by recalling them), he gave each part a superscription thus: [Sidenote: _The "Pastoral" symphony._] I. "The agreeable and cheerful sensations awakened by arrival in the country." II. "Scene by the brook." III. "A merrymaking of the country folk." IV. "Thunder-storm." V. "Shepherds' song--feelings of charity combined with gratitude to the Deity after the storm." In the title itself he included an admonitory explanation which should have everlasting validity: "Pastoral Symphony; more expression of feeling than painting." How seriously he thought on the subject we know from his sketch-books, in which occur a number of notes, some of which were evidently hints for superscriptions, some records of his convictions on the subject of descriptive music. The notes are reprinted in Nottebohm's "Zweite Beethoveniana," but I borrow Sir George Grove's translation: [Sidenote: _Beethoven's notes on descriptive music._] "The hearers should be allowed to discover the situations." "Sinfonia caracteristica, or a recollection of country life." "All painting in instrumental music, if pushed too far, is a failure." "Sinfonia pastorella. Anyone who has an idea of country life can make out for himself the intentions of the author without many titles." "People will not require titles to recognize the general intention to be more a matter of feeling than of painting in sounds." "Pastoral symphony: No picture, but something in which the emotions are expressed which are aroused in men by the pleasure of the country (or), in which some feelings of country life are set forth."[C] As to the relation of programme to music Schumann laid down an admirable maxim when he said that while good music was not harmed by a descriptive title it was a bad indication if a composition needed one. [Sidenote: _Classic and Romantic._] There are, among all the terms used in music, no words of vaguer meaning than Classic and Romantic. The idea which they convey most widely in conjunction is that of antithesis. When the Romantic School of composers is discussed it is almost universally presented as something opposed in character to the Classical School. There is little harm in this if we but bear in mind that all the terms which have come into use to describe different phases of musical development are entirely artificial and arbitrary--that they do not stand for anything absolute, but only serve as platforms of observation. If the terms had a fixed meaning we ought to be able, since they have established themselves in the language of history and criticism, to describe unambiguously and define clearly the boundary which separates them. This, however, is impossible. Each generation, nay, each decade, fixes the meaning of the words for itself and decides what works shall go into each category. It ought to be possible to discover a principle, a touchstone, which shall emancipate us from the mischievous and misleading notions that have so long prompted men to make the partitions between the schools out of dates and names. [Sidenote: _Trench's definition of "classical."_] The terms were borrowed from literary criticism; but even there, in the words of Archbishop Trench, "they either say nothing at all or say something erroneous." Classical has more to defend it than Romantic, because it has greater antiquity and, in one sense, has been used with less arbitrariness. "The term," says Trench, "is drawn from the political economy of Rome. Such a man was rated as to his income in the third class, such another in the fourth, and so on, and he who was in the highest was emphatically said to be of the class, _classicus_, a class man, without adding the number as in that case superfluous; while all others were _infra classem_. Hence by an obvious analogy the best authors were rated as _classici_, or men of the highest class; just as in English we say 'men of rank' absolutely for men who are in the highest ranks of the State." Thus Trench, and his historical definition, explains why in music also there is something more than a lurking suggestion of excellence in the conception of "classical;" but that fact does not put away the quarrel which we feel exists between Classic and Romantic. [Sidenote: _Romantic in literature._] [Sidenote: _Schumann and Jean Paul._] [Sidenote: _Weber's operas._] [Sidenote: _Mendelssohn._] As applied to literature Romantic was an adjective affected by certain poets, first in Germany, then in France, who wished to introduce a style of thought and expression different from that of those who followed old models. Intrinsically, of course, the term does not imply any such opposition but only bears witness to the source from which the poets drew their inspiration. This was the imaginative literature of the Middle Ages, the fantastical stories of chivalry and knighthood written in the Romance, or Romanic languages, such as Italian, Spanish, and Provençal. The principal elements of these stories were the marvellous and the supernatural. The composers whose names first spring into our minds when we think of the Romantic School are men like Mendelssohn and Schumann, who drew much of their inspiration from the young writers of their time who were making war on stilted rhetoric and conventionalism of phrase. Schumann touches hands with the Romantic poets in their strivings in two directions. His artistic conduct, especially in his early years, is inexplicable if Jean Paul be omitted from the equation. His music rebels against the formalism which had held despotic sway over the art, and also seeks to disclose the beauty which lies buried in the world of mystery in and around us, and give expression to the multitude of emotions to which unyielding formalism had refused adequate utterance. This, I think, is the chief element of Romanticism. Another has more of an external nature and genesis, and this we find in the works of such composers as Von Weber, who is Romantic chiefly in his operas, because of the supernaturalism and chivalry in their stories, and Mendelssohn, who, while distinctly Romantic in many of his strivings, was yet so great a master of form, and so attached to it, that the Romantic side of him was not fully developed. [Sidenote: _A definition of "Classical" in music._] [Sidenote: _The creative and conservative principles._] [Sidenote: _Musical laws of necessity progressive._] [Sidenote: _Bach and Romanticism._] [Sidenote: _Creation and conservation._] If I were to attempt a definition it would be this: Classical composers are those of the first rank (to this extent we yield to the ancient Roman conception) who have developed music to the highest pitch of perfection on its formal side and, in obedience to generally accepted laws, preferring æsthetic beauty, pure and simple, over emotional content, or, at any rate, refusing to sacrifice form to characteristic expression. Romantic composers are those who have sought their ideals in other regions and striven to give expression to them irrespective of the restrictions and limitations of form and the conventions of law--composers with whom, in brief, content outweighs manner. This definition presents Classicism as the regulative and conservative principle in the history of the art, and Romanticism as the progressive, regenerative, and creative principle. It is easy to see how the notion of contest between them grew up, and the only harm which can come from such a notion will ensue only if we shut our eyes to the fact that it is a contest between two elements whose very opposition stimulates life, and whose union, perfect, peaceful, mutually supplemental, is found in every really great art-work. No law which fixes, and hence limits, form, can remain valid forever. Its end is served when it enforces itself long enough to keep lawlessness in check till the test of time has determined what is sound, sweet, and wholesome in the innovations which are always crowding eagerly into every creative activity in art and science. In art it is ever true, as _Faust_ concludes, that "In the beginning was the deed." The laws of composition are the products of compositions; and, being such, they cannot remain unalterable so long as the impulse freshly to create remains. All great men are ahead of their time, and in all great music, no matter when written, you shall find instances of profounder meaning and deeper or newer feeling than marked the generality of contemporary compositions. So Bach frequently floods his formal utterances with Romantic feeling, and the face of Beethoven, serving at the altar in the temple of Beauty, is transfigured for us by divine light. The principles of creation and conservation move onward together, and what is Romantic to-day becomes Classic to-morrow. Romanticism is fluid Classicism. It is the emotional stimulus informing Romanticism which calls music into life, but no sooner is it born, free, untrammelled, nature's child, than the regulative principle places shackles upon it; but it is enslaved only that it may become and remain art. FOOTNOTES: [B] "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," p. 22. [C] "Beethoven and His Nine Symphonies," by George Grove, C.B., 2d ed., p. 191. IV _The Modern Orchestra_ [Sidenote: _The orchestra as an instrument._] [Sidenote: _What may be heard from a band._] The most eloquent, potent, and capable instrument of music in the world is the modern orchestra. It is the instrument whose employment by the classical composers and the geniuses of the Romantic School in the middle of our century marks the high tide of the musical art. It is an instrument, moreover, which is never played upon without giving a great object-lesson in musical analysis, without inviting the eye to help the ear to discern the cause of the sounds which ravish our senses and stir up pleasurable emotions. Yet the popular knowledge of its constituent parts, of the individual value and mission of the factors which go to make up its sum, is scarcely greater than the popular knowledge of the structure of a symphony or sonata. All this is the more deplorable since at least a rudimentary knowledge of these things might easily be gained, and in gaining it the student would find a unique intellectual enjoyment, and have his ears unconsciously opened to a thousand beauties in the music never perceived before. He would learn, for instance, to distinguish the characteristic timbre of each of the instruments in the band; and after that to the delight found in what may be called the primary colors he would add that which comes from analyzing the vast number of tints which are the products of combination. Noting the capacity of the various instruments and the manner in which they are employed, he would get glimpses into the mental workshop of the composer. He would discover that there are conventional means of expression in his art analogous to those in the other arts; and collating his methods with the effects produced, he would learn something of the creative artist's purposes. He would find that while his merely sensuous enjoyment would be left unimpaired, and the emotional excitement which is a legitimate fruit of musical performance unchecked, these pleasures would have others consorted with them. His intellectual faculties would be agreeably excited, and he would enjoy the pleasures of memory, which are exemplified in music more delightfully and more frequently than in any other art, because of the rôle which repetition of parts plays in musical composition. [Sidenote: _Familiar instruments._] [Sidenote: _The instrumental choirs._] The argument is as valid in the study of musical forms as in the study of the orchestra, but it is the latter that is our particular business in this chapter. Everybody listening to an orchestral concert recognizes the physical forms of the violins, flutes, cornets, and big drum; but even of these familiar instruments the voices are not always recognized. As for the rest of the harmonious fraternity, few give heed to them, even while enjoying the music which they produce; yet with a few words of direction anybody can study the instruments of the band at an orchestral concert. Let him first recognize the fact that to the mind of a composer an orchestra always presents itself as a combination of four groups of instruments--choirs, let us call them, with unwilling apology to the lexicographers. These choirs are: first, the viols of four sorts--violins, violas, violoncellos, and double-basses, spoken of collectively as the "string quartet;" second, the wind instruments of wood (the "wood-winds" in the musician's jargon)--flutes, oboes, clarinets, and bassoons; third, the wind instruments of brass (the "brass")--trumpets, horns, trombones, and bass tuba. In all of these subdivisions there are numerous variations which need not detain us now. A further subdivision might be made in each with reference to the harmony voices (showing an analogy with the four voices of a vocal choir--soprano, contralto, tenor, and bass); but to go into this might make the exposition confusing. The fourth "choir" (here the apology to the lexicographers must be repeated with much humility and earnestness) consists of the instruments of percussion--the kettle-drums, big drum, cymbals, triangle, bell chime, etc. (sometimes spoken of collectively in the United States as "the battery"). [Illustration: SEATING PLAN OF THE NEW YORK PHILHARMONIC SOCIETY.] [Sidenote: _How orchestras are seated._] [Sidenote: _Plan of the New York Philharmonic._] The disposition of these instruments in our orchestras is largely a matter of individual taste and judgment in the conductor, though the general rule is exemplified in the plan given herewith, showing how Mr. Anton Seidl has arranged the desks for the concerts of the Philharmonic Society of New York. Mr. Theodore Thomas's arrangement differed very little from that of Mr. Seidl, the most noticeable difference being that he placed the viola-players beside the second violinists, where Mr. Seidl has the violoncellists. Mr. Seidl's purpose in making the change was to gain an increase in sonority for the viola part, the position to the right of the stage (the left of the audience) enabling the viola-players to hold their instruments with the F-holes toward the listeners instead of away from them. The relative positions of the harmonious battalions, as a rule, are as shown in the diagram. In the foreground, the violins, violas, and 'cellos; in the middle distance, the wood-winds; in the background, the brass and the battery; the double-basses flanking the whole body. This distribution of forces is dictated by considerations of sonority, the most assertive instruments--the brass and drums--being placed farthest from the hearers, and the instruments of the viol tribe, which are the real backbone of the band and make their effect by a massing of voices in each part, having the place of honor and greatest advantage. Of course it is understood that I am speaking of a concert orchestra. In the case of theatrical or operatic bands the arrangement of the forces is dependent largely upon the exigencies of space. [Sidenote: _Solo instruments._] Outside the strings the instruments are treated by composers as solo instruments, a single flute, oboe, clarinet, or other wind instrument sometimes doing the same work in the development of the composition as the entire body of first violins. As a rule, the wood-winds are used in pairs, the purpose of this being either to fill the harmony when what I may call the principal thought of the composition is consigned to a particular choir, or to strengthen a voice by permitting two instruments to play in unison. [Sidenote: _Groupings for harmony effects._] [Sidenote: _Wagner's instrumental characterization._] [Sidenote: _An instrumental language._] Each choir, except the percussion instruments, is capable of playing in full harmony; and this effect is frequently used by composers. In "Lohengrin," which for that reason affords to the amateur an admirable opportunity for orchestral study, Wagner resorts to this device in some instances for the sake of dramatic characterization. _Elsa_, a dreamy, melancholy maiden, crushed under the weight of wrongful accusation, and sustained only by the vision of a seraphic champion sent by Heaven to espouse her cause, is accompanied on her entrance and sustained all through her scene of trial by the dulcet tones of the wood-winds, the oboe most often carrying the melody. _Lohengrin's_ superterrestrial character as a Knight of the Holy Grail is prefigured in the harmonies which seem to stream from the violins, and in the prelude tell of the bringing of the sacred vessel of Christ's passion to Monsalvat; but in his chivalric character he is greeted by the militant trumpets in a strain of brilliant puissance and rhythmic energy. Composers have studied the voices of the instruments so long and well, and have noted the kind of melodies and harmonies in which the voices are most effective, that they have formulated what might almost be called an instrumental language. Though the effective capacity of each instrument is restricted not only by its mechanics, but also by the quality of its tones--a melody conceived for one instrument sometimes becoming utterly inexpressive and unbeautiful by transferrence to another--the range of effects is extended almost to infinity by means of combination, or, as a painter might say, by mixing the colors. The art of writing effectively for instruments in combination is the art of instrumentation or orchestration, in which Berlioz and Wagner were Past Grand Masters. [Sidenote: _Number of instruments._] The number of instruments of each kind in an orchestra may also be said to depend measurably upon the music, or the use to which the band is to be put. Neither in instruments nor in numbers is there absolute identity between a dramatic and a symphonic orchestra. The apparatus of the former is generally much more varied and complex, because of the vast development of variety in dramatic expression stimulated by Wagner. [Sidenote: _Symphony and dramatic orchestras._] The modern symphony, especially the symphonic poem, shows the influence of this dramatic tendency, but not in the same degree. A comparison between model bands in each department will disclose what is called the normal orchestral organization. For the comparison (see page 82), I select the bands of the first Wagner Festival held in Bayreuth in 1876, the Philharmonic Society of New York, the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. [Sidenote: _Instruments rarely used._] Instruments like the corno di bassetto, bass trumpet, tenor tuba, contra-bass tuba, and contra-bass trombone are so seldom called for in the music played by concert orchestras that they have no place in their regular lists. They are employed when needed, however, and the horns and other instruments are multiplied when desirable effects are to be obtained by such means. [Sidenote: _Orchestras compared._] New York Instruments Bayreuth. Philharmonic. Boston. Chicago. First violins 16 18 16 16 Second violins 16 18 14 16 Violas 12 14 10 10 Violoncellos 12 14 8 10 Double-basses 8 14 8 9 Flutes 3 3 3 3 Oboes 3 3 2 3 English horn 1 1 1 1 Clarinets 3 3 3 3 Basset-horn 1 0 0 0 Bassoons 3 3 3 3 Trumpets or cornets 3 3 4 4 Horns 8 4 4 4 Trombones 3 3 3 3 Bass trumpet 1 0 0 1 Tenor tubas 2 0 2 4 Bass tubas 2 1 2 1 Contra-bass tuba 1 0 1 0 Contra-bass trombone 1 0 0 1 Tympani (pairs) 2 2 2 2 Bass drum 1 1 1 1 Cymbals (pairs) 1 1 1 1 Harps 6 1 1 2 [Sidenote: _The string quartet._] [Sidenote: _Old laws against instrumentalists._] [Sidenote: _Early instrumentation._] [Sidenote: _Handel's orchestra._] The string quartet, it will be seen, makes up nearly three-fourths of a well-balanced orchestra. It is the only choir which has numerous representation of its constituent units. This was not always so, but is the fruit of development in the art of instrumentation which is the newest department in music. Vocal music had reached its highest point before instrumental music made a beginning as an art. The former was the pampered child of the Church, the latter was long an outlaw. As late as the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries instrumentalists were vagabonds in law, like strolling players. They had none of the rights of citizenship; the religious sacraments were denied them; their children were not permitted to inherit property or learn an honourable trade; and after death the property for which they had toiled escheated to the crown. After the instruments had achieved the privilege of artistic utterance, they were for a long time mere slavish imitators of the human voice. Bach treated them with an insight into their possibilities which was far in advance of his time, for which reason he is the most modern composer of the first half of the eighteenth century; but even in Handel's case the rule was to treat them chiefly as supports for the voices. He multiplied them just as he did the voices in his choruses, consorting a choir of oboes and bassoons, and another of trumpets of almost equal numbers with his violins. [Sidenote: _The modern band._] The so-called purists in England talk a great deal about restoring Handel's orchestra in performances of his oratorios, utterly unmindful of the fact that to our ears, accustomed to the myriad-hued orchestra of to-day, the effect would seem opaque, heavy, unbalanced, and without charm were a band of oboes to play in unison with the violins, another of bassoons to double the 'cellos, and half a dozen trumpets to come flaring and crashing into the musical mass at intervals. Gluck in the opera, and Haydn and Mozart in the symphony, first disclosed the charm of the modern orchestra with the wind instruments apportioned to the strings so as to obtain the multitude of tonal tints which we admire to-day. On the lines which they marked out the progress has been exceedingly rapid and far-reaching. [Sidenote: _Capacity of the orchestra._] [Sidenote: _The extremes of range._] In the hands of the latter-day Romantic composers, and with the help of the instrument-makers, who have marvellously increased the capacity of the wind instruments, and remedied the deficiencies which embarrassed the Classical writers, the orchestra has developed into an instrument such as never entered the mind of the wildest dreamer of the last century. Its range of expression is almost infinite. It can strike like a thunder-bolt, or murmur like a zephyr. Its voices are multitudinous. Its register is coextensive in theory with that of the modern pianoforte, reaching from the space immediately below the sixth added line under the bass staff to the ninth added line above the treble staff. These two extremes, which belong respectively to the bass tuba and piccolo flute, are not at the command of every player, but they are within the capacity of the instruments, and mark the orchestra's boundaries in respect of pitch. The gravest note is almost as deep as any in which the ordinary human ear can detect pitch, and the acutest reaches the same extremity in the opposite direction. [Sidenote: _The viols._] [Sidenote: _The violin._] With all the changes that have come over the orchestra in the course of the last two hundred years, the string quartet has remained its chief factor. Its voice cannot grow monotonous or cloying, for, besides its innate qualities, it commands a more varied manner of expression than all the other instruments combined. The viol, which term I shall use generically to indicate all the instruments of the quartet, is the only instrument in the band, except the harp, that can play harmony as well as melody. Its range is the most extensive; it is more responsive to changes in manipulation; it is endowed more richly than any other instrument with varieties of timbre; it has an incomparable facility of execution, and answers more quickly and more eloquently than any of its companions to the feelings of the player. A great advantage which the viol possesses over wind instruments is that, not being dependent on the breath of the player, there is practically no limit to its ability to sustain tones. It is because of this long list of good qualities that it is relied on to provide the staff of life to instrumental music. The strings as commonly used show four members of the viol family, distinguished among themselves by their size, and the quality in the changes of tone which grows out of the differences in size. The violins (Appendix, Plate I.) are the smallest members of the family. Historically they are the culmination of a development toward diminutiveness, for in their early days viols were larger than they are now. When the violin of to-day entered the orchestra (in the score of Monteverde's opera "Orfeo") it was specifically described as a "little French violin." Its voice, Berlioz says, is the "true female voice of the orchestra." Generally the violin part of an orchestral score is two-voiced, but the two groups may be split into a great number. In one passage in "Tristan und Isolde" Wagner divides his first and second violins into sixteen groups. Such divisions, especially in the higher regions, are productive of entrancing effects. [Sidenote: _Violin effects._] [Sidenote: _Pizzicato._] [Sidenote: _"Col legno dall'arco."_] [Sidenote: _Harmonics._] [Sidenote: _Vibrato._] [Sidenote: _"Con sordino."_] The halo of sound which streams from the beginning and end of the "Lohengrin" prelude is produced by this device. High and close harmonies from divided violins always sound ethereal. Besides their native tone quality (that resulting from a string stretched over a sounding shell set to vibrating by friction), the violins have a number of modified qualities resulting from changes in manipulation. Sometimes the strings are plucked (_pizzicato_), when the result is a short tone something like that of a banjo with the metallic clang omitted; very dainty effects can thus be produced, and though it always seems like a degradation of the instrument so pre-eminently suited to a broad singing style, no less significant a symphonist than Tschaikowsky has written a Scherzo in which the violins are played _pizzicato_ throughout the movement. Ballet composers frequently resort to the piquant effect, but in the larger and more serious forms of composition, the device is sparingly used. Differences in quality and expressiveness of tone are also produced by varied methods of applying the bow to the strings: with stronger or lighter pressure; near the bridge, which renders the tone hard and brilliant, and over the end of the finger-board, which softens it; in a continuous manner (_legato_), or detached (_staccato_). Weird effects in dramatic music are sometimes produced by striking the strings with the wood of the bow, Wagner resorting to this means to delineate the wicked glee of his dwarf _Mime_, and Meyerbeer to heighten the uncanniness of _Nelusko's_ wild song in the third act of "L'Africaine." Another class of effects results from the manner in which the strings are "stopped" by the fingers of the left hand. When they are not pressed firmly against the finger-board but touched lightly at certain places called nodes by the acousticians, so that the segments below the finger are permitted to vibrate along with the upper portion, those peculiar tones of a flute-like quality called harmonics or flageolet tones are produced. These are oftener heard in dramatic music than in symphonies; but Berlioz, desiring to put Shakespeare's description of Queen Mab, "Her wagon-spokes made of long spinner's legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams--" into music in his dramatic symphony, "Romeo and Juliet," achieved a marvellously filmy effect by dividing his violins, and permitting some of them to play harmonics. Yet so little was his ingenious purpose suspected when he first brought the symphony forward in Paris, that one of the critics spoke contemptuously of this effect as sounding "like an ill-greased syringe." A quivering motion imparted to the fingers of the left hand in stopping the strings produces a tremulousness of tone akin to the _vibrato_ of a singer; and, like the vocal _vibrato_, when not carried to excess, this effect is a potent expression of sentimental feeling. But it is much abused by solo players. Another modification of tone is caused by placing a tiny instrument called a sordino, or mute, upon the bridge. This clamps the bridge, makes it heavier, and checks the vibrations, so that the tone is muted or muffled, and at times sounds mysterious. [Sidenote: _Pizzicato on the basses._] [Sidenote: _Tremolo._] These devices, though as a rule they have their maximum of effectiveness in the violins, are possible also on the violas, violoncellos, and double-basses, which, as I have already intimated, are but violins of a larger growth. The _pizzicato_ is, indeed, oftenest heard from the double-basses, where it has a much greater eloquence than on the violins. In music of a sombre cast, the short, deep tones given out by the plucked strings of the contra-bass sometimes have the awfulness of gigantic heart-throbs. The difficulty of producing the other effects grows with the increase of difficulty in handling the instruments, this being due to the growing thickness of the strings and the wideness of the points at which they must be stopped. One effect peculiar to them all--the most used of all effects, indeed, in dramatic music--is the _tremolo_, produced by dividing a tone into many quickly reiterated short tones by a rapid motion of the bow. This device came into use with one of the earliest pieces of dramatic music. It is two centuries old, and was first used to help in the musical delineation of a combat. With scarcely an exception, the varied means which I have described can be detected by those to whom they are not already familiar by watching the players while listening to the music. [Sidenote: _The viola._] The viola is next in size to the violin, and is tuned at the interval of a fifth lower. Its highest string is A, which is the second string of the violin, and its lowest C. Its tone, which sometimes contains a comical suggestion of a boy's voice in mutation, is lacking in incisiveness and brilliancy, but for this it compensates by a wonderful richness and filling quality, and a pathetic and inimitable mournfulness in melancholy music. It blends beautifully with the violoncello, and is often made to double that instrument's part for the sake of color effect--as, to cite a familiar instance, in the principal subject of the Andante in Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. [Sidenote: _The violoncello._] [Sidenote: _Violoncello effects._] The strings of the violoncello (Plate II.) are tuned like those of the viola, but an octave lower. It is the knee-fiddle (_viola da gamba_) of the last century, as the viola is the arm-fiddle (_viola da braccio_), and got its old name from the position in which it is held by the player. The 'cello's voice is a bass--it might be called the barytone of the choir--and in the olden time of simple writing, little else was done with it than to double the bass part one octave higher. But modern composers, appreciating its marvellous capacity for expression, which is next to that of the violin, have treated it with great freedom and independence as a solo instrument. Its tone is full of voluptuous languor. It is the sighing lover of the instrumental company, and can speak the language of tender passion more feelingly than any of its fellows. The ravishing effect of a multiplication of its voice is tellingly exemplified in the opening of the overture to "William Tell," which is written for five solo 'celli, though it is oftenest heard in an arrangement which gives two of the middle parts to violas. When Beethoven wished to produce the emotional impression of a peacefully rippling brook in his "Pastoral" symphony, he gave a murmuring figure to the divided violoncellos, and Wagner uses the passionate accents of four of these instruments playing in harmony to support _Siegmund_ when he is pouring out the ecstasy of his love in the first act of "Die Walküre." In the love scene of Berlioz's "Romeo and Juliet" symphony it is the violoncello which personifies the lover, and holds converse with the modest oboe. [Sidenote: _The double-bass._] The patriarchal double-bass is known to all, and also its mission of providing the foundation for the harmonic structure of orchestral music. It sounds an octave lower than the music written for it, being what is called a transposing instrument of sixteen-foot tone. Solos are seldom written for this instrument in orchestral music, though Beethoven, with his daring recitatives in the Ninth Symphony, makes it a mediator between the instrumental and vocal forces. Dragonetti and Bottesini, two Italians, the latter of whom is still alive, won great fame as solo players on the unwieldy instrument. The latter uses a small bass viol, and strings it with harp strings; but Dragonetti played a full double-bass, on which he could execute the most difficult passages written for the violoncello. [Sidenote: _The wood-winds._] Since the instruments of the wood-wind choir are frequently used in solos, their acquaintance can easily be made by an observing amateur. To this division of the orchestra belong the gentle accents in the instrumental language. Violent expression is not its province, and generally when the band is discoursing in heroic style or giving voice to brave or angry emotion the wood-winds are either silent or are used to give weight to the body of tone rather than color. Each of the instruments has a strongly characteristic voice, which adapts itself best to a certain style of music; but by use of different registers and by combinations among them, or with the instruments of the other choirs, a wide range of expression within the limits suggested has been won for the wood-winds. [Sidenote: _The flute._] [Sidenote: _The piccolo flute._] [Sidenote: _Janizary music._] [Sidenote: _The story of the flute._] The flute, which requires no description, is, for instance, an essentially soulless instrument; but its marvellous agility and the effectiveness with which its tones can be blended with others make it one of the most useful instruments in the band. Its native character, heard in the compositions written for it as a solo instrument, has prevented it from being looked upon with dignity. As a rule, brilliancy is all that is expected from it. It is a sort of _soprano leggiero_ with a small range of superficial feelings. It can sentimentalize, and, as Dryden says, be "soft, complaining," but when we hear it pour forth a veritable ecstasy of jubilation, as it does in the dramatic climax of Beethoven's overture "Leonore No. 3," we marvel at the transformation effected by the composer. Advantage has also been taken of the difference between its high and low tones, and now in some romantic music, as in Raff's "Lenore" symphony, or the prayer of _Agathe_ in "Der Freischütz," the hollowness of the low tones produces a mysterious effect that is exceedingly striking. Still the fact remains that the native voice of the instrument, though sweet, is expressionless compared with that of the oboe or clarinet. Modern composers sometimes write for three flutes; but in the older writers, when a third flute is used, it is generally an octave flute, or piccolo flute (Plate III.)--a tiny instrument whose aggressiveness of voice is out of all proportion to its diminutiveness of body. This is the instrument which shrieks and whistles when the band is playing at storm-making, to imitate the noise of the wind. It sounds an octave higher than is indicated by the notes in its part, and so is what is called a transposing instrument of four-foot tone. It revels in military music, which is proper, for it is an own cousin to the ear-piercing fife, which annually makes up for its long silence in the noisy days before political elections. When you hear a composition in march time, with bass and snare drum, cymbals and triangle, such as the Germans call "Turkish" or "Janizary" music, you may be sure to hear also the piccolo flute. The flute is doubtless one of the oldest instruments in the world. The primitive cave-dwellers made flutes of the leg-bones of birds and other animals, an origin of which a record is preserved in the Latin name _tibia_. The first wooden flutes were doubtless the Pandean pipes, in which the tone was produced by blowing across the open ends of hollow reeds. The present method, already known to the ancient Egyptians, of closing the upper end, and creating the tone by blowing across a hole cut in the side, is only a modification of the method pursued, according to classic tradition, by Pan when he breathed out his dejection at the loss of the nymph Syrinx, by blowing across the tuneful reeds which were that nymph in her metamorphosed state. [Sidenote: _Reed instruments._] [Sidenote: _Double reeds._] The flute or pipe of the Greeks and Romans was only distantly related to the true flute, but was the ancestor of its orchestral companions, the oboe and clarinet. These instruments are sounded by being blown in at the end, and the tone is created by vibrating reeds, whereas in the flute it is the result of the impinging of the air on the edge of the hole called the embouchure, and the consequent stirring of the column of air in the flue of the instrument. The reeds are thin slips or blades of cane. The size and bore of the instruments and the difference between these reeds are the causes of the differences in tone quality between these relatives. The oboe or hautboy, English horn, and the bassoon have what are called double reeds. Two narrow blades of cane are fitted closely together, and fastened with silk on a small metal tube extending from the upper end of the instrument in the case of the oboe and English horn, from the side in the case of the bassoon. The reeds are pinched more or less tightly between the lips, and are set to vibrating by the breath. [Sidenote: _The oboe._] [Sidenote: _The English horn._] The oboe (Plate IV.) is naturally associated with music of a pastoral character. It is pre-eminently a melody instrument, and though its voice comes forth shrinkingly, its uniqueness of tone makes it easily heard. It is a most lovable instrument. "Candor, artless grace, soft joy, or the grief of a fragile being suits the oboe's accents," says Berlioz. The peculiarity of its mouth-piece gives its tone a reedy or vibrating quality totally unlike the clarinet's. Its natural alto is the English horn (Plate V.), which is an oboe of larger growth, with curved tube for convenience of manipulation. The tone of the English horn is fuller, nobler, and is very attractive in melancholy or dreamy music. There are few players on the English horn in this country, and it might be set down as a rule that outside of New York, Boston, and Chicago, the English horn parts are played by the oboe in America. No melody displays the true character of the English horn better than the _Ranz des Vaches_ in the overture to Rossini's "William Tell"--that lovely Alpine song which the flute embroiders with exquisite ornament. One of the noblest utterances of the oboe is the melody of the funeral march in Beethoven's "Heroic" symphony, in which its tenderness has beautiful play. It is sometimes used effectively in imitative music. In Haydn's "Seasons," and also in that grotesque tone poem by Saint-Saëns, the "Danse Macabre," it gives the cock crow. It is the timid oboe that sounds the A for the orchestra to tune by. [Sidenote: _The bassoon._] [Sidenote: _An orchestral humorist._] [Sidenote: _Supernatural effects._] The grave voice of the oboe is heard from the bassoon (Plate VI.), where, without becoming assertive, it gains a quality entirely unknown to the oboe and English horn. It is this quality that makes the bassoon the humorist _par excellence_ of the orchestra. It is a reedy bass, very apt to recall to those who have had a country education the squalling tone of the homely instrument which the farmer's boy fashions out of the stems of the pumpkin-vine. The humor of the bassoon is an unconscious humor, and results from the use made of its abysmally solemn voice. This solemnity in quality is paired with astonishing flexibility of utterance, so that its gambols are always grotesque. Brahms permits the bassoon to intone the _Fuchslied_ of the German students in his "Academic" overture. Beethoven achieves a decidedly comical effect by a stubborn reiteration of key-note, fifth, and octave by the bassoon under a rustic dance intoned by the oboe in the scherzo of his "Pastoral" symphony; and nearly every modern composer has taken advantage of the instrument's grotesqueness. Mendelssohn introduces the clowns in his "Midsummer-Night's-Dream" music by a droll dance for two bassoons over a sustained bass note from the violoncellos; but when Meyerbeer wanted a very different effect, a ghastly one indeed, in the scene of the resuscitation of the nuns in his "Robert le Diable," he got it by taking two bassoons as solo instruments and using their weak middle tones, which, Berlioz says, have "a pale, cold, cadaverous sound." Singularly enough, Handel resorted to a similar device in his "Saul," to accompany the vision of the Witch of Endor. [Sidenote: _The double bassoon._] In all these cases a great deal depends upon the relation between the character of the melody and the nature of the instrument to which it is set. A swelling martial fanfare may be made absurd by changing it from trumpets to a weak-voiced wood-wind. It is only the string quartet that speaks all the musical languages of passion and emotion. The double-bassoon is so large an instrument that it has to be bent on itself to bring it under the control of the player. It sounds an octave lower than the written notes. It is not brought often into the orchestra, but speaks very much to the purpose in Brahms's beautiful variations on a theme by Haydn, and the glorious finale of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. [Sidenote: _The clarinet._] [Sidenote: _The bass clarinet._] The clarinet (Plate VII.) is the most eloquent member of the wood-wind choir, and, except some of its own modifications or the modifications of the oboe and bassoon, the latest arrival in the harmonious company. It is only a little more than a century old. It has the widest range of expression of the wood-winds, and its chief structural difference is in its mouth-piece. It has a single flat reed, which is much wider than that of the oboe or bassoon, and is fastened by a metallic band and screw to the flattened side of the mouth-piece, whose other side is cut down, chisel shape, for convenience. Its voice is rich, mellow, less reedy, and much fuller and more limpid than the voice of the oboe, which Berlioz tries to describe by analogy as "sweet-sour." It is very flexible, too, and has a range of over three and a half octaves. Its high tones are sometimes shrieky, however, and the full beauty of the instrument is only disclosed when it sings in the middle register. Every symphony and overture contains passages for the clarinet which serve to display its characteristics. Clarinets are made of different sizes for different keys, the smallest being that in E-flat, with an unpleasantly piercing tone, whose use is confined to military bands. There is also an alto clarinet and a bass clarinet (Plate VIII.). The bell of the latter instrument is bent upward, pipe fashion, and its voice is peculiarly impressive and noble. It is a favorite solo instrument in Liszt's symphonic poems. [Sidenote: _Lips and reeds._] [Sidenote: _The brass instruments._] [Sidenote: _Improvements in brass instruments._] [Sidenote: _Valves and slides._] The fundamental principle of the instruments last described is the production of tone by vibrating reeds. In the instruments of the brass choir, the duty of the reeds is performed by the lips of the player. Variety of tone in respect of quality is produced by variations in size, shape, and modifications in parts like the bell and mouth-piece. The _forte_ of the orchestra receives the bulk of its puissance from the brass instruments, which, nevertheless, can give voice to an extensive gamut of sentiments and feelings. There is nothing more cheery and jocund than the flourishes of the horns, but also nothing more mild and soothing than the songs which sometimes they sing. There is nothing more solemn and religious than the harmony of the trombones, while "the trumpet's loud clangor" is the very voice of a war-like spirit. All of these instruments have undergone important changes within the last few score years. The classical composers, almost down to our own time, were restricted in the use of them because they were merely natural tubes, and their notes were limited to the notes which inflexible tubes can produce. Within this century, however, they have all been transformed from imperfect diatonic instruments to perfect chromatic instruments; that is to say, every brass instrument which is in use now can give out all the semitones within its compass. This has been accomplished through the agency of valves, by means of which differing lengths of the sonorous tube are brought within the command of the players. In the case of the trombones an exceedingly venerable means of accomplishing the same end is applied. The tube is in part made double, one part sliding over the other. By moving his arm, the player lengthens or shortens the tube, and thus changing the key of the instrument, acquires all the tones which can be obtained from so many tubes of different lengths. The mouth-pieces of the trumpet, trombone, and tuba are cup-shaped, and larger than the mouth-piece of the horn, which is little else than a flare of the slender tube, sufficiently wide to receive enough of the player's lips to form the embouchure, or human reed, as it might here be named. [Sidenote: _The French horn._] [Sidenote: _Manipulation of the French horn._] The French horn (Plate IX.), as it is called in the orchestra, is the sweetest and mellowest of all the wind instruments. In Beethoven's time it was but little else than the old hunting-horn, which, for the convenience of the mounted hunter, was arranged in spiral convolutions that it might be slipped over the head and carried resting on one shoulder and under the opposite arm. The Germans still call it the _Waldhorn_, _i.e._, "forest horn;" the old French name was _cor de chasse_, the Italian _corno di caccia_. In this instrument formerly the tones which were not the natural resonances of the harmonic division of the tube were helped out by partly closing the bell with the right hand, it having been discovered accidentally that by putting the hand into the lower end of the tube--the flaring part called the bell--the pitch of a tone was raised. Players still make use of this method for convenience, and sometimes because a composer wishes to employ the slightly muffled effect of these tones; but since valves have been added to the instrument, it is possible to play a chromatic scale in what are called the unstopped or open tones. [Sidenote: _Kinds of horns._] [Sidenote: _The trumpet._] [Sidenote: _The cornet._] Formerly it was necessary to use horns of different pitch, and composers still respect this tradition, and designate the key of the horns which they wish to have employed; but so skilful have the players become that, as a rule, they use horns whose fundamental tone is F for all keys, and achieve the old purpose by simply transposing the music as they read it. If these most graceful instruments were straightened out they would be seventeen feet long. The convolutions of the horn and the many turns of the trumpet are all the fruit of necessity; they could not be manipulated to produce the tones that are asked of them if they were not bent and curved. The trumpet, when its tube is lengthened by the addition of crooks for its lowest key, is eight feet long; the tuba, sixteen. In most orchestras (in all of those in the United States, in fact, except the Boston and Chicago Orchestras and the Symphony Society of New York) the word trumpet is merely a euphemism for cornet, the familiar leading instrument of the brass band, which, while it falls short of the trumpet in the quality of its tone, in the upper registers especially, is a more easily manipulated instrument than the trumpet, and is preferable in the lower tones. [Sidenote: _The trombone._] Mendelssohn is quoted as saying that the trombones (Plate X.) "are too sacred to use often." They have, indeed, a majesty and nobility all their own, and the lowest use to which they can be put is to furnish a flaring and noisy harmony in an orchestral _tutti_. They are marvellously expressive instruments, and without a peer in the whole instrumental company when a solemn and spiritually uplifting effect is to be attained. They can also be made to sound menacing and lugubrious, devout and mocking, pompously heroic, majestic, and lofty. They are often the heralds of the orchestra, and make sonorous proclamations. [Sidenote: _Trombone effects._] [Sidenote: _The tuba._] The classic composers always seemed to approach the trombones with marked respect, but nowadays it requires a very big blue pencil in the hands of a very uncompromising conservatory professor to prevent a student engaged on his _Opus 1_ from keeping his trombones going half the time at least. It is an old story how Mozart keeps the instruments silent through three-fourths of his immortal "Don Giovanni," so that they may enter with overwhelming impressiveness along with the ghostly visitor of the concluding scene. As a rule, there are three trombones in the modern orchestra--two tenors and a bass. Formerly there were four kinds, bearing the names of the voices to which they were supposed to be nearest in tone-quality and compass--soprano, alto, tenor, and bass. Full four-part harmony is now performed by the three trombones and the tuba (Plate XI.). The latter instrument, which, despite its gigantic size, is exceedingly tractable can "roar you as gently as any sucking dove." Far-away and strangely mysterious tones are got out of the brass instruments, chiefly the cornet and horn, by almost wholly closing the bell. [Sidenote: _Instruments of percussion._] [Sidenote: _The xylophone._] [Sidenote: _Kettle-drums._] [Sidenote: _Pfund's tuning device._] [Sidenote: _Pitch of the drums._] [Sidenote: _Qualifications of a drummer._] The percussion apparatus of the modern orchestra includes a multitude of instruments scarcely deserving of description. Several varieties of drums, cymbals, triangle, tambourine, steel bars (_Glockenspiel_), gongs, bells, and many other things which we are now inclined to look upon as toys, rather than as musical instruments, are brought into play for reasons more or less fantastic. Saint-Saëns has even utilized the barbarous xylophone, whose proper place is the variety hall, in his "Danse Macabre." There his purpose was a fantastic one, and the effect is capital. The pictorial conceit at the bottom of the poem which the music illustrates is Death, as a skeleton, seated on a tombstone, playing the viol, and gleefully cracking his bony heels against the marble. To produce this effect, the composer uses the xylophone with capital results. But of all the ordinary instruments of percussion, the only one that is really musical and deserving of comment is the kettle-drum. This instrument is more musical than the others because it has pitch. Its voice is not mere noise, but musical noise. Kettle-drums, or tympani, are generally used in pairs, though the vast multiplication of effects by modern composers has resulted also in the extension of this department of the band. It is seldom that more than two pairs are used, a good player with a quick ear being able to accomplish all that Wagner asks of six drums by his deftness in changing the pitch of the instruments. This work of tuning is still performed generally in what seems a rudimentary way, though a German drum-builder named Pfund invented a contrivance by which the player, by simply pressing on a balanced pedal and watching an indicator affixed to the side of the drums, can change the pitch to any desired semitone within the range of an octave. The tympani are hemispherical brass or copper vessels, kettles in short, covered with vellum heads. The pitch of the instrument depends on the tension of the head, which is applied generally by key-screws working through the iron ring which holds the vellum. There is a difference in the size of the drums to place at the command of the player the octave from F in the first space below the bass staff to F on the fourth line of the same staff. Formerly the purpose of the drums was simply to give emphasis, and they were then uniformly tuned to the key-note and fifth of the key in which a composition was set. Now they are tuned in many ways, not only to allow for the frequent change of keys, but also so that they may be used as harmony instruments. Berlioz did more to develop the drums than any composer who has ever lived, though Beethoven already manifested appreciation of their independent musical value. In the last movement of his Eighth Symphony and the scherzo of his Ninth, he tunes them in octaves, his purpose in the latter case being to give the opening figure, an octave leap, of the scherzo melody to the drums solo. The most extravagant use ever made of the drums, however, was by Berlioz in his "Messe des Morts," where he called in eight pairs of drums and ten players to help him to paint his tonal picture of the terrors of the last judgment. The post of drummer is one of the most difficult to fill in a symphonic orchestra. He is required to have not only a perfect sense of time and rhythm, but also a keen sense of pitch, for often the composer asks him to change the pitch of one or both of his drums in the space of a very few seconds. He must then be able to shut all other sounds out of his mind, and bring his drums into a new key while the orchestra is playing--an extremely nice task. [Sidenote: _The bass drum._] The development of modern orchestral music has given dignity also to the bass drum, which, though definite pitch is denied to it, is now manipulated in a variety of ways productive of striking effects. Rolls are played on it with the sticks of the kettle-drums, and it has been emancipated measurably from the cymbals, which in vulgar brass-band music are its inseparable companions. [Sidenote: _The conductor._] [Sidenote: _Time-beaters and interpreters._] [Sidenote: _The conductor a necessity._] In the full sense of the term the orchestral conductor is a product of the latter half of the present century. Of course, ever since concerted music began, there has been a musical leader of some kind. Mural paintings and carvings fashioned in Egypt long before Apollo sang his magic song and "Ilion, like a mist, rose into towers," show the conductor standing before his band beating time by clapping his hands; and if we are to credit what we have been told about Hebrew music, Asaph, Heman, and Jeduthun, when they stood before their multitudinous choirs in the temple at Jerusalem, promoted synchronism in the performance by stamping upon the floor with lead-shodden feet. Before the era which developed what I might call "star" conductors, these leaders were but captains of tens and captains of hundreds who accomplished all that was expected of them if they made the performers keep musical step together. They were time-beaters merely--human metronomes. The modern conductor is, in a sense not dreamed of a century ago, a mediator between the composer and the audience. He is a virtuoso who plays upon men instead of a key-board, upon a hundred instruments instead of one. Music differs from her sister arts in many respects, but in none more than in her dependence on the intermediary who stands between her and the people for whose sake she exists. It is this intermediary who wakens her into life. "Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter," is a pretty bit of hyperbole which involves a contradiction in terms. An unheard melody is no melody at all, and as soon as we have music in which a number of singers or instrumentalists are employed, the taste, feeling, and judgment of an individual are essential to its intelligent and effective publication. In the gentle days of the long ago, when suavity and loveliness of utterance and a recognition of formal symmetry were the "be-all and end-all" of the art, a time-beater sufficed to this end; but now the contents of music are greater, the vessel has been wondrously widened, the language is become curiously complex and ingenious, and no composer of to-day can write down universally intelligible signs for all that he wishes to say. Someone must grasp the whole, expound it to the individual factors which make up the performing sum and provide what is called an interpretation to the public. [Sidenote: _"Star" conductors._] That someone, of course, is the conductor, and considering the progress that music is continually making it is not at all to be wondered at that he has become a person of stupendous power in the culture of to-day. The one singularity is that he should be so rare. This rarity has had its natural consequence, and the conductor who can conduct, in contradistinction to the conductor who can only beat time, is now a "star." At present we see him going from place to place in Europe giving concerts in which he figures as the principal attraction. The critics discuss his "readings" just as they do the performances of great pianists and singers. A hundred blowers of brass, scrapers of strings, and tootlers on windy wood, labor beneath him transmuting the composer's mysterious symbols into living sound, and when it is all over we frequently find that it seems all to have been done for the greater glory of the conductor instead of the glory of art. That, however, is a digression which it is not necessary to pursue. [Sidenote: _Mistaken popular notions._] [Sidenote: _What the conductor does._] [Sidenote: _Rests and cues._] Questions and remarks have frequently been addressed to me indicative of the fact that there is a widespread popular conviction that the mission of a conductor is chiefly ornamental at an orchestral concert. That is a sad misconception, and grows out of the old notion that a conductor is only a time-beater. Assuming that the men of the band have played sufficiently together, it is thought that eventually they might keep time without the help of the conductor. It is true that the greater part of the conductor's work is done at rehearsal, at which he enforces upon his men his wishes concerning the speed of the music, expression, and the balance of tone between the different instruments. But all the injunctions given at rehearsal by word of mouth are reiterated by means of a system of signs and signals during the concert performance. Time and rhythm are indicated by the movements of the bâton, the former by the speed of the beats, the latter by the direction, the tones upon which the principal stress is to fall being indicated by the down-beat of the bâton. The amplitude of the movements also serves to indicate the conductor's wishes concerning dynamic variations, while the left hand is ordinarily used in pantomimic gestures to control individual players or groups. Glances and a play of facial expression also assist in the guidance of the instrumental body. Every musician is expected to count the rests which occur in his part, but when they are of long duration (and sometimes they amount to a hundred measures or more) it is customary for the conductor to indicate the entrance of an instrument by a glance at the player. From this mere outline of the communications which pass between the conductor and his band it will be seen how indispensable he is if music is to have a consistent and vital interpretation. [Sidenote: _Personal magnetism._] The layman will perhaps also be enabled, by observing the actions of a conductor with a little understanding of their purposes, to appreciate what critics mean when they speak of the "magnetism" of a leader. He will understand that among other things it means the aptitude or capacity for creating a sympathetic relationship between himself and his men which enables him the better by various devices, some arbitrary, some technical and conventional, to imbue them with his thoughts and feelings relative to a composition, and through them to body them forth to the audience. [Sidenote: _The score._] [Sidenote: _Its arrangement._] [Sidenote: _Score reading._] What it is that the conductor has to guide him while giving his mute commands to his forces may be seen in the reproduction, in the Appendix, of a page from an orchestral score (Plate XII). A score, it will be observed, is a reproduction of all the parts of a composition as they lie upon the desks of the players. The ordering of these parts in the score has not always been as now, but the plan which has the widest and longest approval is that illustrated in our example. The wood-winds are grouped together on the uppermost six staves, the brass in the middle with the tympani separating the horns and trumpets from the trombones, the strings on the lowermost five staves. The example has been chosen because it shows all the instruments of the band employed at once (it is the famous opening _tutti_ of the triumphal march of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony), and is easy of comprehension by musical amateurs for the reason that none of the parts requires transposition except it be an octave up in the case of the piccolo, an instrument of four-foot tone, and an octave down in the case of the double-basses, which are of sixteen-foot tone. All the other parts are to be read as printed, proper attention being given to the alto and tenor clefs used in the parts of the trombones and violas. The ability to "read score" is one of the most essential attributes of a conductor, who, if he have the proper training, can bring all the parts together and reproduce them on the pianoforte, transposing those which do not sound as written and reading the different clefs at sight as he goes along. V _At an Orchestral Concert_ [Sidenote: _Classical and Popular._] [Sidenote: _Orchestras and military bands._] In popular phrase all high-class music is "classical," and all concerts at which such music is played are "classical concerts." Here the word is conceived as the antithesis of "popular," which term is used to designate the ordinary music of the street and music-hall. Elsewhere I have discussed the true meaning of the word and shown its relation to "romantic" in the terminology of musical critics and historians. No harm is done by using both "classical" and "popular" in their common significations, so far as they convey a difference in character between concerts. The highest popular conception of a classical concert is one in which a complete orchestra performs symphonies and extended compositions in allied forms, such as overtures, symphonic poems, and concertos. Change the composition of the instrumental body, by omitting the strings and augmenting the reed and brass choirs, and you have a military band which is best employed in the open air, and whose programmes are generally made up of compositions in the simpler and more easily comprehended forms--dances, marches, fantasias on popular airs, arrangements of operatic excerpts and the like. These, then, are popular concerts in the broadest sense, though it is proper enough to apply the term also to concerts given by a symphonic band when the programme is light in character and aims at more careless diversion than should be sought at a "classical" concert. The latter term, again, is commended to use by the fact that as a rule the music performed at such a concert exemplifies the higher forms in the art, classicism in music being defined as that principle which seeks expression in beauty of form, in a symmetrical ordering of parts and logical sequence, "preferring æsthetic beauty, pure and simple, over emotional content," as I have said in Chapter III. [Sidenote: _The Symphony._] [Sidenote: _Mistaken ideas about the form._] As the highest type of instrumental music, we take the Symphony. Very rarely indeed is a concert given by an organization like the New York and London Philharmonic Societies, or the Boston and Chicago Orchestras, at which the place of honor in the scheme of pieces is not given to a symphony. Such a concert is for that reason also spoken of popularly as a "Symphony concert," and no confusion would necessarily result from the use of the term even if it so chanced that there was no symphony on the programme. What idea the word symphony conveys to the musically illiterate it would be difficult to tell. I have known a professional writer on musical subjects to express the opinion that a symphony was nothing else than four unrelated compositions for orchestra arranged in a certain sequence for the sake of an agreeable contrast of moods and tempos. It is scarcely necessary to say that the writer in question had a very poor opinion of the Symphony as an Art-form, and believed that it had outlived its usefulness and should be relegated to the limbo of Archaic Things. If he, however, trained in musical history and familiar with musical literature, could see only four unrelated pieces of music in a symphony by Beethoven, we need not marvel that hazy notions touching the nature of the form are prevalent among the untaught public, and that people can be met in concert-rooms to whom such words as "Symphony in C minor," and the printed designations of the different portions of the work--the "movements," as musicians call them--are utterly bewildering. [Sidenote: _History of the term._] [Sidenote: _Changes in meaning._] [Sidenote: _Handel's "Pastoral Symphony."_] The word symphony has itself a singularly variegated history. Like many another term in music it was borrowed by the modern world from the ancient Greek. To those who coined it, however, it had a much narrower meaning than to us who use it, with only a conventional change in transliteration, now. By [Greek: symphônia] the Greeks simply expressed the concept of agreement, or consonance. Applied to music it meant first such intervals as unisons; then the notion was extended to include consonant harmonies, such as the fifth, fourth, and octave. The study of the ancient theoreticians led the musicians of the Middle Ages to apply the word to harmony in general. Then in some inexplicable fashion it came to stand as a generic term for instrumental compositions such as toccatas, sonatas, etc. Its name was given to one of the precursors of the pianoforte, and in Germany in the sixteenth century the word _Symphoney_ came to mean a town band. In the last century and the beginning of this the term was used to designate an instrumental introduction to a composition for voices, such as a song or chorus, as also an instrumental piece introduced in a choral work. The form, that is the extent and structure of the composition, had nothing to do with the designation, as we see from the Italian shepherds' tune which Handel set for strings in "The Messiah;" he called it simply _pifa_, but his publishers called it a "Pastoral symphony," and as such we still know it. It was about the middle of the eighteenth century that the present signification became crystallized in the word, and since the symphonies of Haydn, in which the form first reached perfection, are still to be heard in our concert-rooms, it may be said that all the masterpieces of symphonic literature are current. [Sidenote: _The allied forms._] [Sidenote: _Sonata form._] [Sidenote: _Symphony, sonata, and concerto._] I have already hinted at the fact that there is an intimate relationship between the compositions usually heard at a classical concert. Symphonies, symphonic poems, concertos for solo instruments and orchestra, as well as the various forms of chamber music, such as trios, quartets, and quintets for strings, or pianoforte and strings, are but different expressions of the idea which is best summed up in the word sonata. What musicians call the "sonata form" lies at the bottom of them all--even those which seem to consist of a single piece, like the symphonic poem and overture. Provided it follow, not of necessity slavishly, but in its general structure, a certain scheme which was slowly developed by the geniuses who became the law-givers of the art, a composite or cyclical composition (that is, one composed of a number of parts, or movements) is, as the case may be, a symphony, concerto, or sonata. It is a sonata if it be written for a solo instrument like the pianoforte or organ, or for one like the violin or clarinet, with pianoforte accompaniment. If the accompaniment be written for orchestra, it is called a concerto. A sonata written for an orchestra is a symphony. The nature of the interpreting medium naturally determines the exposition of the form, but all the essential attributes can be learned from a study of the symphony, which because of the dignity and eloquence of its apparatus admits of a wider scope than its allies, and must be accepted as the highest type, not merely of the sonata, but of the instrumental art. It will be necessary presently to point out the more important modifications which compositions of this character have undergone in the development of music, but the ends of clearness will be best subserved if the study be conducted on fundamental lines. [Sidenote: _What a symphony is._] [Sidenote: _The bond of unity between the parts._] The symphony then, as a rule, is a composition for orchestra made up of four parts, or movements, which are not only related to each other by a bond of sympathy established by the keys chosen but also by their emotional contents. Without this higher bond the unity of the work would be merely mechanical, like the unity accomplished by sameness of key in the old-fashioned suite. (See Chapter VI.) The bond of key-relationship, though no longer so obvious as once it was, is yet readily discovered by a musician; the spiritual bond is more elusive, and presents itself for recognition to the imagination and the feelings of the listener. Nevertheless, it is an element in every truly great symphony, and I have already indicated how it may sometimes become patent to the ear alone, so it be intelligently employed, and enjoy the co-operation of memory. [Sidenote: _The first movement._] [Sidenote: _Exposition of subjects._] [Sidenote: _Repetition of the first subdivision._] It is the first movement of a symphony which embodies the structural scheme called the "sonata form." It has a triple division, and Mr. Edward Dannreuther has aptly defined it as "the triune symmetry of exposition, illustration, and repetition." In the first division the composer introduces the melodies which he has chosen to be the thematic material of the movement, and to fix the character of the entire work; he presents it for identification. The themes are two, and their exposition generally exemplifies the principle of key-relationship, which was the basis of my analysis of a simple folk tune in Chapter II. In the case of the best symphonists the principal and second subjects disclose a contrast, not violent but yet distinct, in mood or character. If the first is rhythmically energetic and assertive--masculine, let me say--the second will be more sedate, more gentle in utterance--feminine. After the two subjects have been introduced along with some subsidiary phrases and passages which the composer uses to bind them together and modulate from one key into another, the entire division is repeated. That is the rule, but it is now as often "honored in the breach" as in the observance, some conductors not even hesitating to ignore the repeat marks in Beethoven's scores. [Sidenote: _The free fantasia or "working-out" portion._] [Sidenote: _Repetition._] The second division is now taken up. In it the composer exploits his learning and fancy in developing his thematic material. He is now entirely free to send it through long chains of keys, to vary the harmonies, rhythms, and instrumentation, to take a single pregnant motive and work it out with all the ingenuity he can muster; to force it up "steep-up spouts" of passion and let it whirl in the surge, or plunge it into "steep-down gulfs of liquid fire," and consume its own heart. Technically this part is called the "free fantasia" in English, and the _Durchführung_--"working out"--in German. I mention the terms because they sometimes occur in criticisms and analyses. It is in this division that the genius of a composer has fullest play, and there is no greater pleasure, no more delightful excitement, for the symphony-lover than to follow the luminous fancy of Beethoven through his free fantasias. The third division is devoted to a repetition, with modifications, of the first division and the addition of a close. [Sidenote: _Introductions._] [Sidenote: _Keys and Titles._] First movements are quick and energetic, and frequently full of dramatic fire. In them the psychological story is begun which is to be developed in the remaining chapters of the work--its sorrows, hopes, prayers, or communings in the slow movement; its madness or merriment in the scherzo; its outcome, triumphant or tragic, in the finale. Sometimes the first movement is preceded by a slow introduction, intended to prepare the mind of the listener for the proclamation which shall come with the _Allegro_. The key of the principal subject is set down as the key of the symphony, and unless the composer gives his work a special title for the purpose of providing a hint as to its poetical contents ("Eroica," "Pastoral," "Faust," "In the Forest," "Lenore," "Pathétique," etc.), or to characterize its style ("Scotch," "Italian," "Irish," "Welsh," "Scandinavian," "From the New World"), it is known only by its key, or the number of the work (_opus_) in the composer's list. Therefore we have Mozart's Symphony "in G minor," Beethoven's "in A major," Schumann's "in C," Brahms's "in F," and so on. [Sidenote: _The second movement._] [Sidenote: _Variations._] The second movement in the symphonic scheme is the slow movement. Musicians frequently call it the Adagio, for convenience, though the tempi of slow movements ranges from extremely slow (_Largo_) to the border line of fast, as in the case of the Allegretto of the Seventh Symphony of Beethoven. The mood of the slow movement is frequently sombre, and its instrumental coloring dark; but it may also be consolatory, contemplative, restful, religiously uplifting. The writing is preferably in a broadly sustained style, the effect being that of an exalted hymn, and this has led to a predilection for a theme and variations as the mould in which to cast the movement. The slow movements of Beethoven's Fifth and Ninth Symphonies are made up of variations. [Sidenote: _The Scherzo._] [Sidenote: _Genesis of the Scherzo._] [Sidenote: _The Trio._] The Scherzo is, as the term implies, the playful, jocose movement of a symphony, but in the case of sublime geniuses like Beethoven and Schumann, who blend profound melancholy with wild humor, the playfulness is sometimes of a kind which invites us to thoughtfulness instead of merriment. This is true also of some Russian composers, whose scherzos have the desperate gayety which speaks from the music of a sad people whose merrymaking is not a spontaneous expression of exuberant spirits but a striving after self-forgetfulness. The Scherzo is the successor of the Minuet, whose rhythm and form served the composers down to Beethoven. It was he who substituted the Scherzo, which retains the chief formal characteristics of the courtly old dance in being in triple time and having a second part called the Trio. With the change there came an increase in speed, but it ought to be remembered that the symphonic minuet was quicker than the dance of the same name. A tendency toward exaggeration, which is patent among modern conductors, is threatening to rob the symphonic minuet of the vivacity which gave it its place in the scheme of the symphony. The entrance of the Trio is marked by the introduction of a new idea (a second minuet) which is more sententious than the first part, and sometimes in another key, the commonest change being from minor to major. [Sidenote: _The Finale._] [Sidenote: _Rondo form._] The final movement, technically the Finale, is another piece of large dimensions in which the psychological drama which plays through the four acts of the symphony is brought to a conclusion. Once the purpose of the Finale was but to bring the symphony to a merry end, but as the expressive capacity of music has been widened, and mere play with æsthetic forms has given place to attempts to convey sentiments and feelings, the purposes of the last movement have been greatly extended and varied. As a rule the form chosen for the Finale is that called the Rondo. Borrowed from an artificial verse-form (the French _Rondeau_), this species of composition illustrates the peculiarity of that form in the reiteration of a strophe ever and anon after a new theme or episode has been exploited. In modern society verse, which has grown out of an ambition to imitate the ingenious form invented by mediæval poets, we have the Triolet, which may be said to be a rondeau in miniature. I choose one of Mr. H.C. Bunner's dainty creations to illustrate the musical refrain characteristic of the rondo form because of its compactness. Here it is: [Sidenote: _A Rondo pattern in poetry._] "A pitcher of mignonette In a tenement's highest casement: Queer sort of a flower-pot--yet That pitcher of mignonette Is a garden in heaven set, To the little sick child in the basement-- The pitcher of mignonette, In the tenement's highest casement." [Sidenote: _Other forms for the Finale._] If now the first two lines of this poem, which compose its refrain, be permitted to stand as the principal theme of a musical piece, we have in Mr. Bunner's triolet a rondo _in nuce_. There is in it a threefold exposition of the theme alternating with episodic matter. Another form for the finale is that of the first movement (the Sonata form), and still another, the theme and variations. Beethoven chose the latter for his "Eroica," and the choral close of his Ninth, Dvorák, for his symphony in G major, and Brahms for his in E minor. [Sidenote: _Organic Unities._] [Sidenote: _How enforced._] [Sidenote: _Berlioz's "idée fixe."_] [Sidenote: _Recapitulation of themes._] I am attempting nothing more than a characterization of the symphony, and the forms with which I associated it at the outset, which shall help the untrained listener to comprehend them as unities despite the fact that to the careless hearer they present themselves as groups of pieces each one of which is complete in itself and has no connection with its fellows. The desire of composers to have their symphonies accepted as unities instead of compages of unrelated pieces has led to the adoption of various devices designed to force the bond of union upon the attention of the hearer. Thus Beethoven in his symphony in C minor not only connects the third and fourth movements but also introduces a reminiscence of the former into the midst of the latter; Berlioz in his "Symphonie Fantastique," which is written to what may be called a dramatic scheme, makes use of a melody which he calls "_l'idée fixe_," and has it recur in each of the four movements as an episode. This, however, is frankly a symphony with programme, and ought not to be treated as a modification of the pure form. Dvorák in his symphony entitled "From the New World," in which he has striven to give expression to the American spirit, quotes the first period of his principal subject in all the subsequent movements, and then sententiously recapitulates the principal themes of the first, second, and third movements in the finale; and this without a sign of the dramatic purpose confessed by Berlioz. [Sidenote: _Introduction of voices._] [Sidenote: _Abolition of pauses._] In the last movement of his Ninth Symphony Beethoven calls voices to the aid of his instruments. It was a daring innovation, as it seemed to disrupt the form, and we know from the story of the work how long he hunted for the connecting link, which finally he found in the instrumental recitative. Having hit upon the device, he summons each of the preceding movements, which are purely instrumental, into the presence of his augmented forces and dismisses it as inadequate to the proclamation which the symphony was to make. The double-basses and solo barytone are the spokesmen for the tuneful host. He thus achieves the end of connecting the Allegro, Scherzo, and Adagio with each other, and all with the Finale, and at the same time points out what it is that he wishes us to recognize as the inspiration of the whole; but here, again, the means appear to be somewhat extraneous. Schumann's example, however, in abolishing the pauses between the movements of the symphony in D minor, and having melodic material common to all the movements, is a plea for appreciation which cannot be misunderstood. Before Schumann Mendelssohn intended that his "Scotch" symphony should be performed without pauses between the movements, but his wishes have been ignored by the conductors, I fancy because he having neglected to knit the movements together by community of ideas, they can see no valid reason for the abolition of the conventional resting-places. [Sidenote: _Beethoven's "choral" symphony followed._] Beethoven's augmentation of the symphonic forces by employing voices has been followed by Berlioz in his "Romeo and Juliet," which, though called a "dramatic symphony," is a mixture of symphony, cantata, and opera; Mendelssohn in his "Hymn of Praise" (which is also a composite work and has a composite title--"Symphony Cantata"), and Liszt in his "Faust" symphony, in the finale of which we meet a solo tenor and chorus of men's voices who sing Goethe's _Chorus mysticus_. [Sidenote: _Increase in the number of movements._] A number of other experiments have been made, the effectiveness of which has been conceded in individual instances, but which have failed permanently to affect the symphonic form. Schumann has two trios in his symphony in B-flat, and his E-flat, the so-called "Rhenish," has five movements instead of four, there being two slow movements, one in moderate tempo (_Nicht schnell_), and the other in slow (_Feierlich_). In this symphony, also, Schumann exercises the license which has been recognized since Beethoven's time, of changing the places in the scheme of the second and third movements, giving the second place to the jocose division instead of the slow. Beethoven's "Pastoral" has also five movements, unless one chooses to take the storm which interrupts the "Merry-making of the Country Folk" as standing toward the last movement as an introduction, as, indeed, it does in the composer's idyllic scheme. Certain it is, Sir George Grove to the contrary notwithstanding, that the sense of a disturbance of the symphonic plan is not so vivid at a performance of the "Pastoral" as at one of Schumann's "Rhenish," in which either the third movement or the so-called "Cathedral Scene" is most distinctly an interloper. [Sidenote: _Further extension of boundaries._] [Sidenote: _Saint-Saëns's C minor symphony._] Usually it is deference to the demands of a "programme" that influences composers in extending the formal boundaries of a symphony, and when this is done the result is frequently a work which can only be called a symphony by courtesy. M. Saint-Saëns, however, attempted an original excursion in his symphony in C minor, without any discoverable, or at least confessed, programmatic idea. He laid the work out in two grand divisions, so as to have but one pause. Nevertheless in each division we can recognize, though as through a haze, the outlines of the familiar symphonic movements. In the first part, buried under a sequence of time designations like this: _Adagio_--_Allegro moderato_--_Poco adagio_, we discover the customary first and second movements, the former preceded by a slow introduction; in the second division we find this arrangement: _Allegro moderato_--_Presto_--_Maestoso_--_Allegro_, this multiplicity of terms affording only a sort of disguise for the regulation scherzo and finale, with a cropping out of reminiscences from the first part which have the obvious purpose to impress upon the hearer that the symphony is an organic whole. M. Saint-Saëns has also introduced the organ and a pianoforte with two players into the instrumental apparatus. [Sidenote: _The Symphonic Poem._] [Sidenote: _Its characteristics._] Three characteristics may be said to distinguish the Symphonic Poem, which in the view of the extremists who follow the lead of Liszt is the logical outcome of the symphony and the only expression of its æsthetic principles consonant with modern thought and feeling. _First_, it is programmatic--that is, it is based upon a poetical idea, a sequence of incidents, or of soul-states, to which a clew is given either by the title or a motto; _second_, it is compacted in form to a single movement, though as a rule the changing phases delineated in the separate movements of the symphony are also to be found in the divisions of the work marked by changes in tempo, key, and character; _third_, the work generally has a principal subject of such plasticity that the composer can body forth a varied content by presenting it in a number of transformations. [Sidenote: _Liszt's first pianoforte concerto._] The last two characteristics Liszt has carried over into his pianoforte concerto in E-flat. This has four distinct movements (viz.: I. _Allegro maestoso_; II. _Quasi adagio_; III. _Allegretto vivace, scherzando_; IV. _Allegro marziale animato_), but they are fused into a continuous whole, throughout which the principal thought of the work, the stupendously energetic phrase which the orchestra proclaims at the outset, is presented in various forms to make it express a great variety of moods and yet give unity to the concerto. "Thus, by means of this metamorphosis," says Mr. Edward Dannreuther, "the poetic unity of the whole musical tissue is made apparent, spite of very great diversity of details; and Coleridge's attempt at a definition of poetic unity--unity in multiety--is carried out to the letter." [Sidenote: _Other cyclical forms._] [Sidenote: _Pianoforte and orchestra._] It will readily be understood that the other cyclical compositions which I have associated with a classic concert, that is, compositions belonging to the category of chamber music (see Chapter III.), and concertos for solo instruments with orchestral accompaniment, while conforming to the scheme which I have outlined, all have individual characteristics conditioned on the expressive capacity of the apparatus. The modern pianoforte is capable of asserting itself against a full orchestra, and concertos have been written for it in which it is treated as an orchestral integer rather than a solo instrument. In the older conception, the orchestra, though it frequently assumed the privilege of introducing the subject-matter, played a subordinate part to the solo instrument in its development. In violin as well as pianoforte concertos special opportunity is given to the player to exploit his skill and display the solo instrument free from structural restrictions in the cadenza introduced shortly before the close of the first, last, or both movements. [Sidenote: _Cadenzas._] [Sidenote: _Improvisations by the player._] [Sidenote: _M. Ysaye's opinion of Cadenzas._] Cadenzas are a relic of a time when the art of improvisation was more generally practised than it is now, and when performers were conceded to have rights beyond the printed page. Solely for their display, it became customary for composers to indicate by a hold ([fermata symbol]) a place where the performer might indulge in a flourish of his own. There is a tradition that Mozart once remarked: "Wherever I smear that thing," indicating a hold, "you can do what you please;" the rule is, however, that the only privilege which the cadenza opens to the player is that of improvising on material drawn from the subjects already developed, and since, also as a rule, composers are generally more eloquent in the treatment of their own ideas than performers, it is seldom that a cadenza contributes to the enjoyment afforded by a work, except to the lovers of technique for technique's sake. I never knew an artist to make a more sensible remark than did M. Ysaye, when on the eve of a memorably beautiful performance of Beethoven's violin concerto, he said: "If I were permitted to consult my own wishes I would put my violin under my arm when I reach the _fermate_ and say: 'Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached the cadenza. It is presumptuous in any musician to think that he can have anything to say after Beethoven has finished. With your permission we will consider my cadenza played.'" That Beethoven may himself have had a thought of the same nature is a fair inference from the circumstance that he refused to leave the cadenza in his E-flat pianoforte concerto to the mercy of the virtuosos but wrote it himself. [Sidenote: _Concertos._] [Sidenote: _Chamber music._] Concertos for pianoforte or violin are usually written in three movements, of which the first and last follow the symphonic model in respect of elaboration and form, and the second is a brief movement in slow or moderate time, which has the character of an intermezzo. As to the nomenclature of chamber music, it is to be noted that unless connected with a qualifying word or phrase, "Quartet" means a string quartet. When a pianoforte is consorted with strings the work is spoken of as a Pianoforte Trio, Quartet, or Quintet, as the case may be. [Sidenote: _The Overture._] [Sidenote: _Pot-pourris._] The form of the overture is that of the first movement of the sonata, or symphony, omitting the repetition of the first subdivision. Since the original purpose, which gave the overture its name (_Ouverture_ = aperture, opening), was to introduce a drama, either spoken or lyrical, an oratorio, or other choral composition, it became customary for the composers to choose the subjects of the piece from the climacteric moments of the music used in the drama. When done without regard to the rules of construction (as is the case with practically all operetta overtures and Rossini's) the result is not an overture at all, but a _pot-pourri_, a hotch-potch of jingles. The present beautiful form, in which Beethoven and other composers have shown that it is possible to epitomize an entire drama, took the place of an arbitrary scheme which was wholly aimless, so far as the compositions to which they were attached were concerned. [Sidenote: _Old styles of overtures._] [Sidenote: _The Prelude._] [Sidenote: _Gluck's principle._] [Sidenote: _Descriptive titles._] The earliest fixed form of the overture is preserved to the current lists of to-day by the compositions of Bach and Handel. It is that established by Lully, and is tripartite in form, consisting of a rapid movement, generally a fugue, preceded and followed by a slow movement which is grave and stately in its tread. In its latest phase the overture has yielded up its name in favor of Prelude (German, _Vorspiel_), Introduction, or Symphonic Prologue. The finest of these, without borrowing their themes from the works which they introduce, but using new matter entirely, seek to fulfil the aim which Gluck set for himself, when, in the preface to "Alceste," he wrote: "I imagined that the overture ought to prepare the audience for the action of the piece, and serve as a kind of argument to it." Concert overtures are compositions designed by the composers to stand as independent pieces instead of for performance in connection with a drama, opera, or oratorio. When, as is frequently the case, the composer, nevertheless, gives them a descriptive title ("Hebrides," "Sakuntala"), their poetical contents are to be sought in the associations aroused by the title. Thus, in the instances cited, "Hebrides" suggests that the overture was designed by Mendelssohn to reflect the mood awakened in him by a visit to the Hebrides, more particularly to Fingal's Cave (wherefore the overture is called the "Fingal's Cave" overture in Germany)--"Sakuntala" invites to a study of Kalidasa's drama of that name as the repository of the sentiments which Goldmark undertook to express in his music. [Sidenote: _Serenades._] [Sidenote: _The Serenade in Shakespeare._] A form which is variously employed, for solo instruments, small combinations, and full orchestra (though seldom with the complete modern apparatus), is the Serenade. Historically, it is a contemporary of the old suites and the first symphonies, and like them it consists of a group of short pieces, so arranged as to form an agreeable contrast with each other, and yet convey a sense of organic unity. The character of the various parts and their order grew out of the purpose for which the serenade was originated, which was that indicated by the name. In the last century, and earlier, it was no uncommon thing for a lover to bring the tribute of a musical performance to his mistress, and it was not always a "woful ballad" sung to her eyebrow. Frequently musicians were hired, and the tribute took the form of a nocturnal concert. In Shakespeare's "Two Gentlemen of Verona," _Proteus_, prompting _Thurio_ what to do to win _Silvia's_ love, says: "Visit by night your lady's chamber window With some sweet concert: to their instruments Tune a deploring dump; the night's dread silence Will well become such sweet complaining grievance." [Sidenote: _Out-of-doors music._] [Sidenote: _Old forms._] [Sidenote: _The "Dump."_] [Sidenote: _Beethoven's Serenade, op. 8._] It was for such purposes that the serenade was invented as an instrumental form. Since they were to play out of doors, _Sir Thurio's_ musicians would have used wind instruments instead of viols, and the oldest serenades are composed for oboes and bassoons. Clarinets and horns were subsequently added, and for such bands Mozart wrote serenades, some of which so closely approach the symphony that they have been published as symphonies. A serenade in the olden time opened very properly with a march, to the strains of which we may imagine the musicians approaching the lady's chamber window. Then came a minuet to prepare her ear for the "deploring dump" which followed, the "dump" of Shakespeare's day, like the "dumka" of ours (with which I am tempted to associate it etymologically), being a mournful piece of music most happily characterized by the poet as a "sweet complaining grievance." Then followed another piece in merry tempo and rhythm, then a second _adagio_, and the entertainment ended with an _allegro_, generally in march rhythm, to which we fancy the musicians departing. The order is exemplified in Beethoven's serenade for violin, viola, and violoncello, op. 8, which runs thus: _March_; _Adagio_; _Minuet_; _Adagio_ with episodic _Scherzo_; _Polacca_; _Andante_ (variations), the opening march repeated. [Sidenote: _The Orchestral Suite._] [Sidenote: _Ballet music._] The Suite has come back into favor as an orchestral piece, but the term no longer has the fixed significance which once it had. It is now applied to almost any group of short pieces, pleasantly contrasted in rhythm, tempo, and mood, each complete in itself yet disclosing an æsthetic relationship with its fellows. Sometimes old dance forms are used, and sometimes new, such as the polonaise and the waltz. The ballet music, which fills so welcome a place in popular programmes, may be looked upon as such a suite, and the rhythm of the music and the orchestral coloring in them are frequently those peculiar to the dances of the countries in which the story of the opera or drama for which the music was written plays. The ballets therefore afford an excellent opportunity for the study of local color. Thus the ballet music from Massenet's "Cid" is Spanish, from Rubinstein's "Feramors" Oriental, from "Aïda" Egyptian--Oriental rhythms and colorings being those most easily copied by composers. [Sidenote: _Operatic excerpts._] [Sidenote: _Gluck and Vestris._] The other operatic excerpts common to concerts of both classes are either between-acts music, fantasias on operatic airs, or, in the case of Wagner's contributions, portions of his dramas which are so predominantly instrumental that it has been found feasible to incorporate the vocal part with the orchestral. In ballet music from the operas of the last century, some of which has been preserved to the modern concert-room, local color must not be sought. Gluck's Greeks, like Shakespeare's, danced to the rhythms of the seventeenth century. Vestris, whom the people of his time called "The god of the dance," once complained to Gluck that his "Iphigénie en Aulide" did not end with a chaconne, as was the rule. "A chaconne!" cried Gluck; "when did the Greeks ever dance a chaconne?" "Didn't they? Didn't they?" answered Vestris; "so much the worse for the Greeks." There ensued a quarrel. Gluck became incensed, withdrew the opera which was about to be produced, and would have left Paris had not Marie Antoinette come to the rescue. But Vestris got his chaconne. VI _At a Pianoforte Recital_ [Sidenote: _Mr. Paderewski's concerts._] No clearer illustration of the magical power which lies in music, no more convincing proof of the puissant fascination which a musical artist can exert, no greater demonstration of the capabilities of an instrument of music can be imagined than was afforded by the pianoforte recitals which Mr. Paderewski gave in the United States during the season of 1895-96. More than threescore times in the course of five months, in the principal cities of this country, did this wonderful man seat himself in the presence of audiences, whose numbers ran into the thousands, and were limited only by the seating capacity of the rooms in which they gathered, and hold them spellbound from two to three hours by the eloquence of his playing. Each time the people came in a gladsome frame of mind, stimulated by the recollection of previous delights or eager expectation. Each time they sat listening to the music as if it were an evangel on which hung everlasting things. Each time there was the same growth in enthusiasm which began in decorous applause and ended in cheers and shouts as the artist came back after the performance of a herculean task, and added piece after piece to a programme which had been laid down on generous lines from the beginning. The careless saw the spectacle with simple amazement, but for the judicious it had a wondrous interest. [Sidenote: _Pianoforte recitals._] [Sidenote: _The pianoforte's underlying principles._] I am not now concerned with Mr. Paderewski beyond invoking his aid in bringing into court a form of entertainment which, in his hands, has proved to be more attractive to the multitude than symphony, oratorio, and even opera. What a world of speculation and curious inquiry does such a recital invite one into, beginning with the instrument which was the medium of communication between the artist and his hearers! To follow the progressive development of the mechanical principles underlying the pianoforte, one would be obliged to begin beyond the veil which separates history from tradition, for the first of them finds its earliest exemplification in the bow twanged by the primitive savage. Since a recognition of these principles may help to an understanding of the art of pianoforte playing, I enumerate them now. They are: 1. A stretched string as a medium of tone production. 2. A key-board as an agency for manipulating the strings. 3. A blow as the means of exciting the strings to vibratory action, by which the tone is produced. [Sidenote: _Their Genesis._] [Sidenote: _Significance of the pianoforte._] Many interesting glimpses of the human mind and heart might we have in the course of the promenade through the ancient, mediæval, and modern worlds which would be necessary to disclose the origin and growth of these three principles, but these we must forego, since we are to study the music of the instrument, not its history. Let the knowledge suffice that the fundamental principle of the pianoforte is as old as music itself, and that scientific learning, inventive ingenuity, and mechanical skill, tributary always to the genius of the art, have worked together for centuries to apply this principle, until the instrument which embodies it in its highest potency is become a veritable microcosm of music. It is the visible sign of culture in every gentle household; the indispensable companion of the composer and teacher; the intermediary between all the various branches of music. Into the study of the orchestral conductor it brings a translation of all the multitudinous voices of the band; to the choir-master it represents the chorus of singers in the church-loft or on the concert-platform; with its aid the opera director fills his imagination with the people, passions, and pageantry of the lyric drama long before the singers have received their parts, or the costumer, stage manager, and scene-painter have begun their work. It is the only medium through which the musician in his study can commune with the whole world of music and all its heroes; and though it may fail to inspire somewhat of that sympathetic nearness which one feels toward the violin as it nestles under the chin and throbs synchronously with the player's emotions, or those wind instruments into which the player breathes his own breath as the breath of life, it surpasses all its rivals, save the organ, in its capacity for publishing the grand harmonies of the masters, for uttering their "sevenfold chorus of hallelujahs and harping symphonies." [Sidenote: _Defects of the pianoforte._] [Sidenote: _Lack of sustaining power._] This is one side of the picture and serves to show why the pianoforte is the most universal, useful, and necessary of all musical instruments. The other side shows its deficiencies, which must also be known if one is to appreciate rightly the many things he is called upon to note while listening intelligently to pianoforte music. Despite all the skill, learning, and ingenuity which have been spent on its perfection, the pianoforte can be made only feebly to approximate that sustained style of musical utterance which is the soul of melody, and finds its loftiest exemplification in singing. To give out a melody perfectly, presupposes the capacity to sustain tones without loss in power or quality, to bind them together at will, and sometimes to intensify their dynamic or expressive force while they sound. The tone of the pianoforte, being produced by a blow, begins to die the moment it is created. The history of the instrument's mechanism, and also of its technical manipulation, is the history of an effort to reduce this shortcoming to a minimum. It has always conditioned the character of the music composed for the instrument, and if we were not in danger of being led into too wide an excursion, it would be profitable to trace the parallelism which is disclosed by the mechanical evolution of the instrument, and the technical and spiritual evolution of the music composed for it. A few points will be touched upon presently, when the intellectual activity invited by a recital is brought under consideration. [Sidenote: _The percussive element._] [Sidenote: _Melody with drum-beats._] [Sidenote: _Rhythmical accentuation._] [Sidenote: _A universal substitute._] It is to be noted, further, that by a beautiful application of the doctrine of compensations, the factor which limits the capacity of the pianoforte as a melody instrument endows it with a merit which no other instrument has in the same degree, except the instruments of percussion, which, despite their usefulness, stand on the border line between savage and civilized music. It is from its relationship to the drum that the pianoforte derives a peculiarity quite unique in the melodic and harmonic family. Rhythm is, after all, the starting-point of music. More than melody, more than harmony, it stirs the blood of the savage, and since the most vital forces within man are those which date back to his primitive state, so the sense of rhythm is the most universal of the musical senses among even the most cultured of peoples to-day. By themselves the drums, triangles, and cymbals of an orchestra represent music but one remove from noise; but everybody knows how marvellously they can be utilized to glorify a climax. Now, in a very refined degree, every melody on the pianoforte, be it played as delicately as it may, is a melody with drum-beats. Manufacturers have done much toward eliminating the thump of the hammers against the strings, and familiarity with the tone of the instrument has closed our ears against it to a great extent as something intrusive, but the blow which excites the string to vibration, and thus generates sound, is yet a vital factor in determining the character of pianoforte music. The recurrent pulsations, now energetic, incisive, resolute, now gentle and caressing, infuse life into the melody, and by emphasizing its rhythmical structure (without unduly exaggerating it), present the form of the melody in much sharper outline than is possible on any other instrument, and much more than one would expect in view of the evanescent character of the pianoforte's tone. It is this quality, combined with the mechanism which places all the gradations of tone, from loudest to softest, at the easy and instantaneous command of the player, which, I fancy, makes the pianoforte, in an astonishing degree, a substitute for all the other instruments. Each instrument in the orchestra has an idiom, which sounds incomprehensible when uttered by some other of its fellows, but they can all be translated, with more or less success, into the language of the pianoforte--not the quality of the tone, though even that can be suggested, but the character of the phrase. The pianoforte can sentimentalize like the flute, make a martial proclamation like the trumpet, intone a prayer like the churchly trombone. [Sidenote: _The instrument's mechanism._] [Sidenote: _Tone formation and production._] In the intricacy of its mechanism the pianoforte stands next to the organ. The farther removed from direct utterance we are the more difficult is it to speak the true language of music. The violin player and the singer, and in a less degree the performers upon some of the wind instruments, are obliged to form the musical tone--which, in the case of the pianist, is latent in the instrument, ready to present itself in two of its attributes in answer to a simple pressure upon the key. The most unmusical person in the world can learn to produce a series of tones from a pianoforte which shall be as exact in pitch and as varied in dynamic force as can Mr. Paderewski. He cannot combine them so ingeniously nor imbue them with feeling, but in the simple matter of producing the tone with the attributes mentioned, he is on a level with the greatest virtuoso. Very different is the case of the musician who must exercise a distinctly musical gift in the simple evocation of the materials of music, like the violinist and singer, who both form and produce the tone. For them compensation flows from the circumstance that the tone thus formed and produced is naturally instinct with emotional life in a degree that the pianoforte tone knows nothing of. [Sidenote: _Technical manipulation._] [Sidenote: _Touch and emotionality._] In one respect, it may be said that the mechanics of pianoforte playing represent a low plane of artistic activity, a fact which ought always to be remembered whenever the temptation is felt greatly to exalt the technique of the art; but it must also be borne in mind that the mechanical nature of simple tone production in pianoforte playing raises the value of the emotional quality which, nevertheless, stands at the command of the player. The emotional potency of the tone must come from the manner in which the blow is given to the string. Recognition of this fact has stimulated reflection, and this in turn has discovered methods by which temperament and emotionality may be made to express themselves as freely, convincingly, and spontaneously in pianoforte as in violin playing. If this were not so it would be impossible to explain the difference in the charm exerted by different virtuosi, for it has frequently happened that the best-equipped mechanician and the most intellectual player has been judged inferior as an artist to another whose gifts were of the soul rather than of the brains and fingers. [Sidenote: _The technical cult._] [Sidenote: _A low form of art._] The feats accomplished by a pianoforte virtuoso in the mechanical department are of so extraordinary a nature that there need be small wonder at the wide prevalence of a distinctly technical cult. All who know the real nature and mission of music must condemn such a cult. It is a sign of a want of true appreciation to admire technique for technique's sake. It is a mistaking of the outward shell for the kernel, a means for the end. There are still many players who aim to secure this admiration, either because they are deficient in real musical feeling, or because they believe themselves surer of winning applause by thus appealing to the lowest form of appreciation. In the early part of the century they would have been handicapped by the instrument which lent itself to delicacy, clearness, and gracefulness of expression, but had little power. Now the pianoforte has become a thing of rigid steel, enduring tons of strain from its strings, and having a voice like the roar of many waters; to keep pace with it players have become athletes with "Thews of Anakim And pulses of a Titan's heart." [Sidenote: _Technical skill a matter of course._] They care no more for the "murmurs made to bless," unless it be occasionally for the sake of contrast, but seek to astound, amaze, bewilder, and confound with feats of skill and endurance. That with their devotion to the purely mechanical side of the art they are threatening to destroy pianoforte playing gives them no pause whatever. The era which they illustrate and adorn is the technical era which was, is, and ever shall be, the era of decay in artistic production. For the judicious technique alone, be it never so marvellous, cannot serve to-day. Its possession is accepted as a condition precedent in the case of everyone who ventures to appear upon the concert-platform. He must be a wonder, indeed, who can disturb our critical equilibrium by mere digital feats. We want strength and velocity of finger to be coupled with strength, velocity, and penetration of thought. We want no halting or lisping in the proclamation of what the composer has said, but we want the contents of his thought, not the hollow shell, no matter how distinctly its outlines be drawn. [Sidenote: _The plan of study in this chapter._] [Sidenote: _A typical scheme of pieces._] The factors which present themselves for consideration at a pianoforte recital--mechanical, intellectual, and emotional--can be most intelligently and profitably studied along with the development of the instrument and its music. All branches of the study are invited by the typical recital programme. The essentially romantic trend of Mr. Paderewski's nature makes his excursions into the classical field few and short; and it is only when a pianist undertakes to emulate Rubinstein in his historical recitals that the entire pre-Beethoven vista is opened up. It will suffice for the purposes of this discussion to imagine a programme containing pieces by Bach, D. Scarlatti, Handel, and Mozart in one group; a sonata by Beethoven; some of the shorter pieces of Schumann and Chopin, and one of the transcriptions or rhapsodies of Liszt. [Sidenote: _Periods in pianoforte music._] Such a scheme falls naturally into four divisions, plainly differentiated from each other in respect of the style of composition and the manner of performance, both determined by the nature of the instrument employed and the status of the musical idea. Simply for the sake of convenience let the period represented by the first group be called the classic; the second the classic-romantic; the third the romantic, and the last the bravura. I beg the reader, however, not to extend these designations beyond the boundaries of the present study; they have been chosen arbitrarily, and confusion might result if the attempt were made to apply them to any particular concert scheme. I have chosen the composers because of their broadly representative capacity. And they must stand for a numerous _epigonoi_ whose names make up our concert lists: say, Couperin, Rameau, and Haydn in the first group; Schubert in the second; Mendelssohn and Rubinstein in the third. It would not be respectful to the memory of Liszt were I to give him the associates with whom in my opinion he stands; that matter may be held in abeyance. [Sidenote: _Predecessors of the pianoforte._] [Sidenote: _The Clavichord._] [Sidenote: _"Bebung."_] The instruments for which the first group of writers down to Haydn and Mozart wrote, were the immediate precursors of the pianoforte--the clavichord, spinet, or virginal, and harpsichord. The last was the concert instrument, and stood in the same relationship to the others that the grand pianoforte of to-day stands to the upright and square. The clavichord was generally the medium for the composer's private communings with his muse, because of its superiority over its fellows in expressive power; but it gave forth only a tiny tinkle and was incapable of stirring effects beyond those which sprang from pure emotionality. The tone was produced by a blow against the string, delivered by a bit of brass set in the farther end of the key. The action was that of a direct lever, and the bit of brass, which was called the tangent, also acted as a bridge and measured off the segment of string whose vibration produced the desired tone. It was therefore necessary to keep the key pressed down so long as it was desired that the tone should sound, a fact which must be kept in mind if one would understand the shortcomings as well as the advantages of the instrument compared with the spinet or harpsichord. It also furnishes one explanation of the greater lyricism of Bach's music compared with that of his contemporaries. By gently rocking the hand while the key was down, a tremulous motion could be communicated to the string, which not only prolonged the tone appreciably but gave it an expressive effect somewhat analogous to the vibrato of a violinist. The Germans called this effect _Bebung_, the French _Balancement_, and it was indicated by a row of dots under a short slur written over the note. It is to the special fondness which Bach felt for the clavichord that we owe, to a great extent, the cantabile style of his music, its many-voicedness and its high emotionality. [Sidenote: _Quilled instruments._] [Sidenote: _Tone of the harpsichord and spinet._] [Sidenote: _Bach's "Music of the future."_] The spinet, virginal, and harpsichord were quilled instruments, the tone of which was produced by snapping the strings by means of plectra made of quill, or some other flexible substance, set in the upper end of a bit of wood called the jack, which rested on the farther end of the key and moved through a slot in the sounding-board. When the key was pressed down, the jack moved upward past the string which was caught and twanged by the plectrum. The blow of the clavichord tangent could be graduated like that of the pianoforte hammer, but the quills of the other instruments always plucked the strings with the same force, so that mechanical devices, such as a swell-box, similar in principle to that of the organ, coupling in octaves, doubling the strings, etc., had to be resorted to for variety of dynamic effects. The character of tone thus produced determined the character of the music composed for these instruments to a great extent. The brevity of the sound made sustained melodies ineffective, and encouraged the use of a great variety of embellishments and the spreading out of harmonies in the form of arpeggios. It is obvious enough that Bach, being one of those monumental geniuses that cast their prescient vision far into the future, refused to be bound by such mechanical limitations. Though he wrote _Clavier_, he thought organ, which was his true interpretative medium, and so it happens that the greatest sonority and the broadest style that have been developed in the pianoforte do not exhaust the contents of such a composition as the "Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue." [Sidenote: _Scarlatti's sonatas._] The earliest music written for these instruments--music which does not enter into this study--was but one remove from vocal music. It came through compositions written for the organ. Of Scarlatti's music the pieces most familiar are a Capriccio and Pastorale which Tausig rewrote for the pianoforte. They were called sonatas by their composer, but are not sonatas in the modern sense. Sonata means "sound-piece," and when the term came into music it signified only that the composition to which it was applied was written for instruments instead of voices. Scarlatti did a great deal to develop the technique of the harpsichord and the style of composing for it. His sonatas consist each of a single movement only, but in their structure they foreshadow the modern sonata form in having two contrasted themes, which are presented in a fixed key-relationship. They are frequently full of grace and animation, but are as purely objective, formal, and soulless in their content as the other instrumental compositions of the epoch to which they belong. [Sidenote: _The suite._] [Sidenote: _Its history and form._] [Sidenote: _The bond between the movements._] The most significant of the compositions of this period are the Suites, which because they make up so large a percentage of _Clavier_ literature (using the term to cover the pianoforte and its predecessors), and because they pointed the way to the distinguishing form of the subsequent period, the sonata, are deserving of more extended consideration. The suite is a set of pieces in the same key, but contrasted in character, based upon certain admired dance-forms. Originally it was a set of dances and nothing more, but in the hands of the composers the dances underwent many modifications, some of them to the obvious detriment of their national or other distinguishing characteristics. The suite came into fashion about the middle of the seventeenth century and was also called _Sonata da Camera_ and _Balletto_ in Italy, and, later, _Partita_ in France. In its fundamental form it embraced four movements: I. Allemande. II. Courante. III. Sarabande. IV. Gigue. To these four were sometimes added other dances--the Gavotte, Passepied, Branle, Minuet, Bourrée, etc.--but the rule was that they should be introduced between the Sarabande and the Gigue. Sometimes also the set was introduced by a Prelude or an Overture. Identity of key was the only external tie between the various members of the suite, but the composers sought to establish an artistic unity by elaborating the sentiments for which the dance-forms seemed to offer a vehicle, and presenting them in agreeable contrast, besides enriching the primitive structure with new material. The suites of Bach and Handel are the high-water mark in this style of composition, but it would be difficult to find the original characteristics of the dances in their settings. It must suffice us briefly to indicate the characteristics of the principal forms. [Sidenote: _The Allemande._] The Allemande, as its name indicates, was a dance of supposedly German origin. For that reason the German composers, when it came to them from France, where the suite had its origin, treated it with great partiality. It is in moderate tempo, common time, and made up of two periods of eight measures, both of which are repeated. It begins with an upbeat, and its metre, to use the terms of prosody, is iambic. The following specimen from Mersenne's "Harmonie Universelle," 1636, well displays its characteristics: [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _Iambics in music and poetry._] Robert Burns's familiar iambics, "Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care!" might serve to keep the rhythmical characteristics of the Allemande in mind were it not for the arbitrary changes made by the composers already hinted at. As it is, we frequently find the stately movement of the old dance broken up into elaborate, but always quietly flowing, ornamentation, as indicated in the following excerpt from the third of Bach's English suites: [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _The Courante._] The Courante, or Corrente ("Teach lavoltas high and swift corantos," says Shakespeare), is a French dance which was extremely popular in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries--a polite dance, like the minuet. It was in triple time, and its movement was bright and brisk, a merry energy being imparted to the measure by the prevailing figure, a dotted quarter-note, an eighth, and a quarter in a measure, as illustrated in the following excerpt also from Mersenne: [Music illustration] The suite composers varied the movement greatly, however, and the Italian Corrente consists chiefly of rapid running passages. [Sidenote: _The Sarabande._] The Sarabande was also in triple time, but its movement was slow and stately. In Spain, whence it was derived, it was sung to the accompaniment of castanets, a fact which in itself suffices to indicate that it was originally of a lively character, and took on its solemnity in the hands of the later composers. Handel found the Sarabande a peculiarly admirable vehicle for his inspirations, and one of the finest examples extant figures in the triumphal music of his "Almira," composed in 1704: [Sidenote: _A Sarabande by Handel._] [Music illustration] Seven years after the production of "Almira," Handel recurred to this beautiful instrumental piece, and out of it constructed the exquisite lament beginning "_Lascia ch'io pianga_" in his opera "Rinaldo." [Sidenote: _The Gigue._] [Sidenote: _The Minuet._] [Sidenote: _The Gavotte._] Great Britain's contribution to the Suite was the final Gigue, which is our jolly and familiar friend the jig, and in all probability is Keltic in origin. It is, as everybody knows, a rollicking measure in 6-8, 12-8, or 4-4 time, with twelve triplet quavers in a measure, and needs no description. It remained a favorite with composers until far into the eighteenth century. Shakespeare proclaims its exuberant lustiness when he makes _Sir Toby Belch_ protest that had he _Sir Andrew's_ gifts his "very walk should be a jig." Of the other dances incorporated into the suite, two are deserving of special mention because of their influence on the music of to-day--the Minuet, which is the parent of the symphonic scherzo, and the Gavotte, whose fascinating movement is frequently heard in latter-day operettas. The Minuet is a French dance, and came from Poitou. Louis XIV. danced it to Lully's music for the first time at Versailles in 1653, and it soon became the most popular of court and society dances, holding its own down to the beginning of the nineteenth century. It was long called the Queen of Dances, and there is no one who has grieved to see the departure of gallantry and grace from our ball-rooms but will wish to see Her Gracious Majesty restored to her throne. The music of the minuet is in 3-4 time, and of stately movement. The Gavotte is a lively dance-measure in common time, beginning, as a rule, on the third beat. Its origin has been traced to the mountain people of the Dauphiné called Gavots--whence its name. [Sidenote: _Technique of the Clavier players._] [Sidenote: _Change in technique._] The transferrence of this music to the modern pianoforte has effected a vast change in the manner of its performance. In the period under consideration emotionality, which is considered the loftiest attribute of pianoforte playing to-day, was lacking, except in the case of such masters of the clavichord as the great Bach and his son, Carl Philipp Emanuel, who inherited his father's preference for that instrument over the harpsichord and pianoforte. Tastefulness in the giving out of the melody, distinctness of enunciation, correctness of phrasing, nimbleness and lightness of finger, summed up practically all that there was in virtuosoship. Intellectuality and digital skill were the essential factors. Beauty of tone through which feeling and temperament speak now was the product of the maker of the instrument, except again in the case of the clavichord, in which it may have been largely the creation of the player. It is, therefore, not surprising that the first revolution in technique of which we hear was accomplished by Bach, who, the better to bring out the characteristics of his polyphonic style, made use of the thumb, till then considered almost a useless member of the hand in playing, and bent his fingers, so that their movements might be more unconstrained. [Sidenote: _Bach's touch._] [Sidenote: _Handel's playing._] [Sidenote: _Scarlatti's style._] Of the varieties of touch, which play such a rôle in pianoforte pedagogics to-day, nothing was known. Only on the clavichord was a blow delivered directly against the string, and, as has already been said, only on that instrument was the dynamic shading regulated by the touch. Practically, the same touch was used on the organ and the stringed instruments with key-board. When we find written praise of the old players it always goes to the fluency and lightness of their fingering. Handel was greatly esteemed as a harpsichord player, and seems to have invented a position of the hand like Bach's, or to have copied it from that master. Forkel tells us the movement of Bach's fingers was so slight as to be scarcely noticeable; the position of his hands remained unchanged throughout, and the rest of his body motionless. Speaking of Handel's harpsichord playing, Burney says that his fingers "seemed to grow to the keys. They were so curved and compact when he played that no motion, and scarcely the fingers themselves, could be discovered." Scarlatti's significance lies chiefly in an extension of the technique of his time so as to give greater individuality to the instrument. He indulged freely in brilliant passages and figures which sometimes call for a crossing of the hands, also in leaps of over an octave, repetition of a note by different fingers, broken chords in contrary motion, and other devices which prefigure modern pianoforte music. [Sidenote: _The sonata._] That Scarlatti also pointed the way to the modern sonata, I have already said. The history of the sonata, as the term is now understood, ends with Beethoven. Many sonatas have been written since the last one of that great master, but not a word has been added to his proclamation. He stands, therefore, as a perfect exemplar of the second period in the scheme which we have adopted for the study of pianoforte music and playing. In a general way a sonata may be described as a composition of four movements, contrasted in mood, tempo, sentiment, and character, but connected by that spiritual bond of which mention was made in our study of the symphony. In short, a sonata is a symphony for a solo instrument. [Sidenote: _Haydn._] When it came into being it was little else than a convenient formula for the expression of musical beauty. Haydn, who perfected it on its formal side, left it that and nothing more. Mozart poured the vessel full of beauty, but Beethoven breathed the breath of a new life into it. An old writer tells us of Haydn that he was wont to say that the whole art of composing consisted in taking up a subject and pursuing it. Having invented his theme, he would begin by choosing the keys through which he wished to make it pass. "His exquisite feeling gave him a perfect knowledge of the greater or less degree of effect which one chord produces in succeeding another, and he afterward imagined a little romance which might furnish him with sentiments and colors." [Sidenote: _Beethoven._] [Sidenote: _Mozart's manner of playing._] Beethoven began with the sentiment and worked from it outwardly, modifying the form when it became necessary to do so, in order to obtain complete and perfect utterance. He made spirit rise superior to matter. This must be borne in mind when comparing the technique of the previous period with that of which I have made Beethoven the representative. In the little that we are privileged to read of Mozart's style of playing, we see only a reflex of the players who went before him, saving as it was permeated by the warmth which went out from his own genial personality. His manipulation of the keys had the quietness and smoothness that were praised in Bach and Handel. "Delicacy and taste," says Kullak, "with his lifting of the entire technique to the spiritual aspiration of the idea, elevate him as a virtuoso to a height unanimously conceded by the public, by connoisseurs, and by artists capable of judging. Clementi declared that he had never heard any one play so soulfully and charmfully as Mozart; Dittersdorf finds art and taste combined in his playing; Haydn asseverated with tears that Mozart's playing he could never forget, for it touched the heart. His staccato is said to have possessed a peculiarly brilliant charm." [Sidenote: _Clementi._] [Sidenote: _Beethoven as a pianist._] The period of C.P.E. Bach, Haydn, and Mozart is that in which the pianoforte gradually replaced its predecessors, and the first real pianist was Mozart's contemporary and rival, Muzio Clementi. His chief significance lies in his influence as a technician, for he opened the way to the modern style of play with its greater sonority and capacity for expression. Under him passage playing became an entirely new thing; deftness, lightness, and fluency were replaced by stupendous virtuosoship, which rested, nevertheless, on a full and solid tone. He is said to have been able to trill in octaves with one hand. He was necessary for the adequate interpretation of Beethoven, whose music is likely to be best understood by those who know that he, too, was a superb pianoforte player, fully up to the requirements which his last sonatas make upon technical skill as well as intellectual and emotional gifts. [Sidenote: _Beethoven's technique._] [Sidenote: _Expression supreme._] Czerny, who was a pupil of Beethoven, has preserved a fuller account of that great composer's art as a player than we have of any of his predecessors. He describes his technique as tremendous, better than that of any virtuoso of his day. He was remarkably deft in connecting the full chords, in which he delighted, without the use of the pedal. His manner at the instrument was composed and quiet. He sat erect, without movement of the upper body, and only when his deafness compelled him to do so, in order to hear his own music, did he contract a habit of leaning forward. With an evident appreciation of the necessities of old-time music he had a great admiration for clean fingering, especially in fugue playing, and he objected to the use of Cramer's studies in the instruction of his nephew by Czerny because they led to what he called a "sticky" style of play, and failed to bring out crisp staccatos and a light touch. But it was upon expression that he insisted most of all when he taught. [Sidenote: _Music and emotion._] More than anyone else it was Beethoven who brought music back to the purpose which it had in its first rude state, when it sprang unvolitionally from the heart and lips of primitive man. It became again a vehicle for the feelings. As such it was accepted by the romantic composers to whom he belongs as father, seer, and prophet, quite as intimately as he belongs to the classicists by reason of his adherence to form as an essential in music. To his contemporaries he appears as an image-breaker, but to the clearer vision of to-day he stands an unshakable barrier to lawless iconoclasm. Says Sir George Grove, quoting Mr. Edward Dannreuther, in the passages within the inverted commas: [Sidenote: _Beethoven a Romanticist._] "That he was no wild radical altering for the mere pleasure of alteration, or in the mere search for originality, is evident from the length of time during which he abstained from publishing, or even composing works of pretension, and from the likeness which his early works possess to those of his predecessors. He began naturally with the forms which were in use in his days, and his alteration of them grew very gradually with the necessities of his expression. The form of the sonata is 'the transparent veil through which Beethoven seems to have looked at all music.' And the good points of that form he retained to the last--the 'triune symmetry of exposition, illustration, and repetition,' which that admirable method allowed and enforced--but he permitted himself a much greater liberty than his predecessors had done in the relationship of the keys of the different movements, and parts of movements, and in the proportion of the clauses and sections with which he built them up. In other words, he was less bound by the forms and musical rules, and more swayed by the thought which he had to express, and the directions which that thought took in his mind." [Sidenote: _Schumann and Chopin._] It is scarcely to be wondered at that when men like Schumann and Chopin felt the full force of the new evangel which Beethoven had preached, they proceeded to carry the formal side of poetic expression, its vehicle, into regions unthought of before their time. The few old forms had now to give way to a large variety. In their work they proceeded from points that were far apart--Schumann's was literary, Chopin's political. In one respect the lists of their pieces which appear most frequently on recital programmes seem to hark back to the suites of two centuries ago--they are sets of short compositions grouped, either by the composer (as is the case with Schumann) or by the performer (as is the case with Chopin in the hands of Mr. Paderewski). Such fantastic musical miniatures as Schumann's "Carnaval" and "Papillons" are eminently characteristic of the composer's intellectual and emotional nature, which in his university days had fallen under the spell of literary romanticism. [Sidenote: _Jean Paul's influence._] [Sidenote: _Schumann's inspirations._] While ostensibly studying jurisprudence at Heidelberg, Schumann devoted seven hours a day to the pianoforte and several to Jean Paul. It was this writer who moulded not only Schumann's literary style in his early years, but also gave the bent which his creative activity in music took at the outset. To say little, but vaguely hint at much, was the rule which he adopted; to remain sententious in expression, but give the freest and most daring flight to his imagination, and spurn the conventional limitations set by rule and custom, his ambition. Such fanciful and symbolical titles as "Flower, Fruit, and Thorn Pieces," "Titan," etc., which Jean Paul adopted for his singular mixtures of tale, rhapsody, philosophy, and satire, were bound to find an imitator in so ardent an apostle as young Schumann, and, therefore, we have such compositions as "Papillons," "Carnaval," "Kreisleriana," "Phantasiestücke," and the rest. Almost always, it may be said, the pieces which make them up were composed under the poetical and emotional impulses derived from literature, then grouped and named. To understand their poetic contents this must be known. [Sidenote: _Chopin's music._] [Sidenote: _Preludes._] Chopin's fancy, on the other hand, found stimulation in the charm which, for him, lay in the tone of the pianoforte itself (to which he added a new loveliness by his manner of writing), as well as in the rhythms of the popular dances of his country. These dances he not only beautified as the old suite writers beautified their forms, but he utilized them as vessels which he filled with feeling, not all of which need be accepted as healthy, though much of it is. As to his titles, "Preludes" is purely an arbitrary designation for compositions which are equally indefinite in form and character; Niecks compares them very aptly to a portfolio full of drawings "in all stages of advancement--finished and unfinished, complete and incomplete compositions, sketches and mere memoranda, all mixed indiscriminately together." So, too, they appeared to Schumann: "They are sketches, commencements of studies, or, if you will, ruins, single eagle-wings, all strangely mixed together." Nevertheless some of them are marvellous soul-pictures. [Sidenote: _Études._] [Sidenote: _Nocturnes._] The "Études" are studies intended to develop the technique of the pianoforte in the line of the composer's discoveries, his method of playing extended arpeggios, contrasted rhythms, progressions in thirds and octaves, etc., but still they breathe poetry and sometimes passion. Nocturne is an arbitrary, but expressive, title for a short composition of a dreamy, contemplative, or even elegiac, character. In many of his nocturnes Chopin is the adored sentimentalist of boarding-school misses. There is poppy in them and seductive poison for which Niecks sensibly prescribes Bach and Beethoven as antidotes. The term ballad has been greatly abused in literature, and in music is intrinsically unmeaning. Chopin's four Ballades have one feature in common--they are written in triple time; and they are among his finest inspirations. [Sidenote: _The Polonaise._] Chopin's dances are conventionalized, and do not all speak the idiom of the people who created their forms, but their original characteristics ought to be known. The Polonaise was the stately dance of the Polish nobility, more a march or procession than a dance, full of gravity and courtliness, with an imposing and majestic rhythm in triple time that tends to emphasize the second beat of the measure, frequently syncopating it and accentuating the second half of the first beat: [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _The Mazurka._] National color comes out more clearly in his Mazurkas. Unlike the Polonaise this was the dance of the common people, and even as conventionalized and poetically refined by Chopin there is still in the Mazurka some of the rude vigor which lies in its propulsive rhythm: [Music illustration] or [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _The Krakowiak._] The Krakowiak (French _Cracovienne_, Mr. Paderewski has a fascinating specimen in his "Humoresques de Concert," op. 14) is a popular dance indigenous to the district of Cracow, whence its name. Its rhythmical elements are these: [Music illustration] and [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _Idiomatic music._] [Sidenote: _Content higher than idiom._] In the music of this period there is noticeable a careful attention on the part of the composers to the peculiarities of the pianoforte. No music, save perhaps that of Liszt, is so idiomatic. Frequently in Beethoven the content of the music seems too great for the medium of expression; we feel that the thought would have had better expression had the master used the orchestra instead of the pianoforte. We may well pause a moment to observe the development of the instrument and its technique from then till now, but as condemnation has already been pronounced against excessive admiration of technique for technique's sake, so now I would first utter a warning against our appreciation of the newer charm. "Idiomatic of the pianoforte" is a good enough phrase and a useful, indeed, but there is danger that if abused it may bring something like discredit to the instrument. It would be a pity if music, which contains the loftiest attributes of artistic beauty, should fail of appreciation simply because it had been observed that the pianoforte is not the most convenient, appropriate, or effective vehicle for its publication--a pity for the pianoforte, for therein would lie an exemplification of its imperfection. So, too, it would be a pity if the opinion should gain ground that music which had been clearly designed to meet the nature of the instrument was for that reason good pianoforte music, _i.e._, "idiomatic" music, irrespective of its content. [Sidenote: _Development of the pianoforte._] In Beethoven's day the pianoforte was still a feeble instrument compared with the grand of to-day. Its capacities were but beginning to be appreciated. Beethoven had to seek and invent effects which now are known to every amateur. The instrument which the English manufacturer Broadwood presented to him in 1817 had a compass of six octaves, and was a whole octave wider in range than Mozart's pianoforte. In 1793 Clementi extended the key-board to five and a half octaves; six and a half octaves were reached in 1811, and seven in 1851. Since 1851 three notes have been added without material improvement to the instrument. This extension of compass, however, is far from being the most important improvement since the classic period. The growth in power, sonority, and tonal brilliancy has been much more marked, and of it Liszt made striking use. [Sidenote: _The Pedals._] [Sidenote: _Shifting pedal._] [Sidenote: _Damper pedal._] Very significant, too, in their relation to the development of the music, were the invention and improvement of the pedals. The shifting pedal was invented by a Viennese maker named Stein, who first applied it to an instrument which he named "Saiten-harmonika." Before then soft effects were obtained by interposing a bit of felt between the hammers and the strings, as may still be seen in old square pianofortes. The shifting pedal, or soft pedal as it is popularly called, moves the key-board and action so that the hammer strikes only one or two of the unison strings, leaving the other to vibrate sympathetically. Beethoven was the first to appreciate the possibilities of this effect (see the slow movement of his concerto in G major and his last sonatas), but after him came Schumann and Chopin, and brought pedal manipulation to perfection, especially that of the damper pedal. This is popularly called the loud pedal, and the vulgarest use to which it can be put is to multiply the volume of tone. It was Chopin who showed its capacity for sustaining a melody and enriching the color effects by releasing the strings from the dampers and utilizing the ethereal sounds which rise from the strings when they vibrate sympathetically. [Sidenote: _Liszt._] [Sidenote: _A dual character._] It is no part of my purpose to indulge in criticism of composers, but something of the kind is made unavoidable by the position assigned to Liszt in our pianoforte recitals. He is relied upon to provide a scintillant close. The pianists, then, even those who are his professed admirers, are responsible if he is set down in our scheme as the exemplar of the technical cult. Technique having its unquestioned value, we are bound to admire the marvellous gifts which enabled Liszt practically to sum up all the possibilities of pianoforte mechanism in its present stage of construction, but we need not look with unalloyed gratitude upon his influence as a composer. There were, I fear, two sides to Liszt's artistic character as well as his moral. I believe he had in him a touch of charlatanism as well as a magnificent amount of artistic sincerity--just as he blended a laxity of moral ideas with a profound religious mysticism. It would have been strange indeed, growing up as he did in the whited sepulchre of Parisian salon life, if he had not accustomed himself to sacrifice a little of the soul of art for the sake of vainglory, and a little of its poetry and feeling to make display of those dazzling digital feats which he invented. But, be it said to his honor, he never played mountebank tricks in the presence of the masters whom he revered. It was when he approached the music of Beethoven that he sank all thought of self and rose to a peerless height as an interpreting artist. [Sidenote: _Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies._] [Sidenote: _Gypsies and Magyars._] Liszt's place as a composer of original music has not yet been determined, but as a transcriber of the music of others the givers of pianoforte recitals keep him always before us. The showy Hungarian Rhapsodies with which the majority of pianoforte recitals end are, however, more than mere transcriptions. They are constructed out of the folk-songs of the Magyars, and in their treatment the composer has frequently reproduced the characteristic performances which they receive at the hands of the Gypsies from whom he learned them. This fact and the belief to which Liszt gave currency in his book "Des Bohémiens et de leur musique en Hongrie" have given rise to the almost universal belief that the Magyar melodies are of Gypsy origin. This belief is erroneous. The Gypsies have for centuries been the musical practitioners of Hungary, but they are not the composers of the music of the Magyars, though they have put a marked impress not only on the melodies, but also on popular taste. The Hungarian folk-songs are a perfect reflex of the national character of the Magyars, and some have been traced back centuries in their literature. Though their most marked melodic peculiarity, the frequent use of a minor scale containing one or even two superfluous seconds, as thus: [Sidenote: _Magyar scales._] [Music illustration] may be said to belong to Oriental music as a whole (and the Magyars are Orientals), the songs have a rhythmical peculiarity which is a direct product of the Magyar language. This peculiarity consists of a figure in which the emphasis is shifted from the strong to the weak part by making the first take only a fraction of the time of the second, thus: [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _The Scotch snap._] [Sidenote: _Gypsy epics._] In Scottish music this rhythm also plays a prominent part, but there it falls into the beginning of a measure, whereas in Hungarian it forms the middle or end. The result is an effect of syncopation which is peculiarly forceful. There is an indubitable Oriental relic in the profuse embellishments which the Gypsies weave around the Hungarian melodies when playing them; but the fact that they thrust the same embellishments upon Spanish and Russian music, in fact upon all the music which they play, indicates plainly enough that the impulse to do so is native to them, and has nothing to do with the national taste of the countries for which they provide music. Liszt's confessed purpose in writing the Hungarian Rhapsodies was to create what he called "Gypsy epics." He had gathered a large number of the melodies without a definite purpose, and was pondering what to do with them, when it occurred to him that "These fragmentary, scattered melodies were the wandering, floating, nebulous part of a great whole, that they fully answered the conditions for the production of an harmonious unity which would comprehend the very flower of their essential properties, their most unique beauties," and "might be united in one homogeneous body, a complete work, its divisions to be so arranged that each song would form at once a whole and a part, which might be severed from the rest and be examined and enjoyed by and for itself; but which would, none the less, belong to the whole through the close affinity of subject matter, the similarity of its inner nature and unity in development."[D] [Sidenote: _The Czardas._] The basis of Liszt's Rhapsodies being thus distinctively national, he has in a manner imitated in their character and tempo the dual character of the Hungarian national dance, the Czardas, which consists of two movements, a _Lassu_, or slow movement, followed by a _Friss_. These alternate at the will of the dancer, who gives a sign to the band when he wishes to change from one to the other. FOOTNOTES: [D] Weitzmann, "Geschichte des Clavierspiels," p. 197. VII _At the Opera_ [Sidenote: _Instability of taste._] [Sidenote: _The age of operas._] Popular taste in respect of the opera is curiously unstable. It is surprising that the canons of judgment touching it have such feeble and fleeting authority in view of the popularity of the art-form and the despotic hold which it has had on fashion for two centuries. No form of popular entertainment is acclaimed so enthusiastically as a new opera by an admired composer; none forgotten so quickly. For the spoken drama we go back to Shakespeare in the vernacular, and, on occasions, we revive the masterpieces of the Attic poets who flourished more than two millenniums ago; but for opera we are bounded by less than a century, unless occasional performances of Gluck's "Orfeo" and Mozart's "Figaro," "Don Giovanni," and "Magic Flute" be counted as submissions to popular demand, which, unhappily, we know they are not. There is no one who has attended the opera for twenty-five years who might not bewail the loss of operas from the current list which appealed to his younger fancy as works of real loveliness. In the season of 1895-96 the audiences at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York heard twenty-six different operas. The oldest were Gluck's "Orfeo" and Beethoven's "Fidelio," which had a single experimental representation each. After them in seniority came Donizetti's "Lucia di Lammermoor," which is sixty-one years old, and has overpassed the average age of "immortal" operas by from ten to twenty years, assuming Dr. Hanslick's calculation to be correct. [Sidenote: _Decimation of the operatic list._] [Sidenote: _Dependence on singers._] The composers who wrote operas for the generation that witnessed Adelina Patti's _début_ at the Academy of Music, in New York, were Bellini, Donizetti, Verdi, and Meyerbeer. Thanks to his progressive genius, Verdi is still alive on the stage, though nine-tenths of the operas which made his fame and fortune have already sunk into oblivion; Meyerbeer, too, is still a more or less potent factor with his "Huguenots," which, like "Lucia," has endured from ten to twenty years longer than the average "immortal;" but the continued existence of Bellini and Donizetti seems to be as closely bound up with that of two or three singers as was Meleager's life with the burning billet which his mother snatched from the flames. So far as the people of London and New York are concerned whether or not they shall hear Donizetti more, rests with Mesdames Patti and Melba, for Donizetti spells "Lucia;" Bellini pleads piteously in "Sonnambula," but only Madame Nevada will play the mediator between him and our stiff-necked generation. [Sidenote: _An unstable art-form._] [Sidenote: _Carelessness of the public._] [Sidenote: _Addison's criticism._] [Sidenote: _Indifference to the words._] Opera is a mixed art-form and has ever been, and perhaps must ever be, in a state of flux, subject to the changes of taste in music, the drama, singing, acting, and even politics and morals; but in one particular the public has shown no change for a century and a half, and it is not quite clear why this has not given greater fixity to popular appreciation. The people of to-day are as blithely indifferent to the fact that their operas are all presented in a foreign tongue as they were two centuries ago in England. The influence of Wagner has done much to stimulate a serious attitude toward the lyric drama, but this is seldom found outside of the audiences in attendance on German representations. The devotees of the Latin exotic, whether it blend French or Italian (or both, as is the rule in New York and London) with its melodic perfume, enjoy the music and ignore the words with the same nonchalance that Addison made merry over. Addison proves to have been a poor prophet. The great-grandchildren of his contemporaries are not at all curious to know "why their forefathers used to sit together like an audience of foreigners in their own country, and to hear whole plays acted before them in a tongue which they did not understand." What their great-grandparents did was also done by their grandparents and their parents, and may be done by their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren after them, unless Englishmen and Americans shall take to heart the lessons which Wagner essayed to teach his own people. For the present, though we have abolished many absurdities which grew out of a conception of opera that was based upon the simple, sensuous delight which singing gave, the charm of music is still supreme, and we can sit out an opera without giving a thought to the words uttered by the singers. The popular attitude is fairly represented by that of Boileau, when he went to hear "Atys" and requested the box-keeper to put him in a place where he could hear Lully's music, which he loved, but not Quinault's words, which he despised. [Sidenote: _Past and present._] It is interesting to note that in this respect the condition of affairs in London in the early part of the eighteenth century, which seemed so monstrously diverting to Addison, was like that in Hamburg in the latter part of the seventeenth, and in New York at the end of the nineteenth. There were three years in London when Italian and English were mixed in the operatic representations. "The king or hero of the play generally spoke in Italian and his slaves answered him in English; the lover frequently made his court and gained the heart of his princess in a language which she did not understand." [Sidenote: _Polyglot opera._] At length, says Addison, the audience got tired of understanding half the opera, "and to ease themselves entirely of the fatigue of thinking, so ordered it that the whole opera was performed in an unknown tongue." [Sidenote: _Perversions of texts._] There is this difference, however, between New York and London and Hamburg at the period referred to: while the operatic ragout was compounded of Italian and English in London, Italian and German in Hamburg, the ingredients here are Italian, French, and German, with no admixture of the vernacular. Strictly speaking, our case is more desperate than that of our foreign predecessors, for the development of the lyric drama has lifted its verbal and dramatic elements into a position not dreamed of two hundred years ago. We might endure with equanimity to hear the chorus sing [Sidenote: _"Robert le Diable."_] "_La soupe aux choux se fait dans la marmite, Dans la marmite on fait la soupe aux choux_" at the beginning of "Robert le Diable," as tradition says used to be done in Paris, but we surely ought to rise in rebellion when the chorus of guards change their muttered comments on Pizarro's furious aria in "Fidelio" from [Sidenote: _"Fidelio."_] _"Er spricht von Tod und Wunde!"_ to _"Er spricht vom todten Hunde!"_ as is a prevalent custom among the irreverent choristers of Germany. Addison confesses that he was often afraid when seeing the Italian performers "chattering in the vehemence of action," that they were calling the audience names and abusing them among themselves. I do not know how to measure the morals and manners of our Italian singers against those of Addison's time, but I do know that many of the things which they say before our very faces for their own diversion are not complimentary to our intelligence. I hope I have a proper respect for Mr. Gilbert's "bashful young potato," but I do not think it right while we are sympathizing with the gentle passion of _Siebel_ to have his representative bring an offering of flowers and, looking us full in the face, sing: _"Le patate d'amor, O cari fior!"_ [Sidenote: _"Faust."_] [Sidenote: _Porpora's "Credo."_] It isn't respectful, and it enables the cynics of to-day to say, with the poetasters and fiddlers of Addison's day, that nothing is capable of being well set to music that is not nonsense. Operatic words were once merely stalking-horses for tunes, but that day is past. We used to smile at Brignoli's "_Ah si! ah si! ah si!_" which did service for any text in high passages; but if a composer should, for the accommodation of his music, change the wording of the creed into "_Credo, non credo, non credo in unum Deum_," as Porpora once did, we should all cry out for his excommunication. As an art-form the opera has frequently been criticised as an absurdity, and it is doubtless owing to such a conviction that many people are equally indifferent to the language employed and the sentiments embodied in the words. Even so serious a writer as George Hogarth does not hesitate in his "Memoirs of the Opera" to defend this careless attitude. [Sidenote: _Are words unessential?_] "The words of an air are of small importance to the comprehension of the business of the piece," he says; "they merely express a sentiment, a reflection, a feeling; it is quite enough if their general import is known, and this may most frequently be gathered from the situation, aided by the character and expression of the music." [Sidenote: _"Il Trovatore."_] I, myself, have known an ardent lover of music who resolutely refused to look into a libretto because, being of a lively and imaginative temperament, she preferred to construct her own plots and put her own words in the mouths of the singers. Though a constant attendant on the opera, she never knew what "Il Trovatore" was about, which, perhaps, is not so surprising after all. Doubtless the play which she had fashioned in her own mind was more comprehensible than Verdi's medley of burnt children and asthmatic dance rhythms. Madame de Staël went so far as to condemn the German composers because they "follow too closely the sense of the words," whereas the Italians, "who are truly the musicians of nature, make the air and the words conform to each other only in a general way." [Sidenote: _The opera defended as an art-form._] [Sidenote: _The classic tragedy._] Now the present generation has witnessed a revolution in operatic ideas which has lifted the poetical elements upon a plane not dreamed of when opera was merely a concert in costume, and it is no longer tolerable that it be set down as an absurdity. On the contrary, I believe that, looked at in the light thrown upon it by the history of the drama and the origin of music, the opera is completely justified as an art-form, and, in its best estate, is an entirely reasonable and highly effective entertainment. No mean place, surely, should be given in the estimation of the judicious to an art-form which aims in an equal degree to charm the senses, stimulate the emotions, and persuade the reason. This, the opera, or, perhaps I would better say the lyric drama, can be made to do as efficiently as the Greek tragedy did it, so far as the differences between the civilizations of ancient Hellas and the nineteenth century will permit. The Greek tragedy was the original opera, a fact which literary study would alone have made plain even if it were not clearly of record that it was an effort to restore the ancient plays in their integrity that gave rise to the Italian opera three centuries ago. [Sidenote: _Genesis of the Greek plays._] Every school-boy knows now that the Hellenic plays were simply the final evolution of the dances with which the people of Hellas celebrated their religious festivals. At the rustic Bacchic feasts of the early Greeks they sang hymns in honor of the wine-god, and danced on goat-skins filled with wine. He who held his footing best on the treacherous surface carried home the wine as a reward. They contended in athletic games and songs for a goat, and from this circumstance scholars have surmised we have the word tragedy, which means "goat-song." The choric songs and dances grew in variety and beauty. Finally, somebody (tradition preserves the name of Thespis as the man) conceived the idea of introducing a simple dialogue between the strophes of the choric song. Generally this dialogue took the form of a recital of some story concerning the god whose festival was celebrating. Then when the dithyrambic song returned, it would either continue the narrative or comment on its ethical features. [Sidenote: _Mimicry and dress._] The merry-makers, or worshippers, as one chooses to look upon them, manifested their enthusiasm by imitating the appearance as well as the actions of the god and his votaries. They smeared themselves with wine-lees, colored their bodies black and red, put on masks, covered themselves with the skins of beasts, enacted the parts of nymphs, fauns, and satyrs, those creatures of primitive fancy, half men and half goats, who were the representatives of natural sensuality untrammelled by conventionality. [Sidenote: _Melodrama._] Next, somebody (Archilocus) sought to heighten the effect of the story or the dialogue by consorting it with instrumental music; and thus we find the germ of what musicians--not newspaper writers--call melodrama, in the very early stages of the drama's development. Gradually these simple rustic entertainments were taken in hand by the poets who drew on the legendary stores of the people for subjects, branching out from the doings of gods to the doings of god-like men, the popular heroes, and developed out of them the masterpieces of dramatic poetry which are still studied with amazement, admiration, and love. [Sidenote: _Factors in ancient tragedy._] The dramatic factors which have been mustered in this outline are these: 1. The choric dance and song with a religious purpose. 2. Recitation and dialogue. 3. Characterization by means of imitative gestures--pantomime, that is--and dress. 4. Instrumental music to accompany the song and also the action. [Sidenote: _Operatic elements._] [Sidenote: _Words and music united._] All these have been retained in the modern opera, which may be said to differ chiefly from its ancient model in the more important and more independent part which music plays in it. It will appear later in our study that the importance and independence achieved by one of the elements consorted in a work by nature composite, led the way to a revolution having for its object a restoration of something like the ancient drama. In this ancient drama and its precursor, the dithyrambic song and dance, is found a union of words and music which scientific investigation proves to be not only entirely natural but inevitable. In a general way most people are in the habit of speaking of music as the language of the emotions. The elements which enter into vocal music (of necessity the earliest form of music) are unvolitional products which we must conceive as co-existent with the beginnings of human life. Do they then antedate articulate speech? Did man sing before he spoke? I shall not quarrel with anybody who chooses so to put it. [Sidenote: _Physiology of singing._] Think a moment about the mechanism of vocal music. Something occurs to stir up your emotional nature--a great joy, a great sorrow, a great fear; instantly, involuntarily, in spite of your efforts to prevent it, maybe, muscular actions set in which proclaim the emotion which fills you. The muscles and organs of the chest, throat, and mouth contract or relax in obedience to the emotion. You utter a cry, and according to the state of feeling which you are in, that cry has pitch, quality (_timbre_ the singing teachers call it), and dynamic intensity. You attempt to speak, and no matter what the words you utter, the emotional drama playing on the stage of your heart is divulged. [Sidenote: _Herbert Spencer's laws._] The man of science observes the phenomenon and formulates its laws, saying, for instance, as Herbert Spencer has said: "All feelings are muscular stimuli;" and, "Variations of voice are the physiological results of variations of feeling." It was the recognition of this extraordinary intimacy between the voice and the emotions which brought music all the world over into the service of religion, and provided the phenomenon, which we may still observe if we be but minded to do so, that mere tones have sometimes the sanctity of words, and must as little be changed as ancient hymns and prayers. [Sidenote: _Invention of Italian opera._] [Sidenote: _Musical declamation._] The end of the sixteenth century saw a coterie of scholars, art-lovers, and amateur musicians in Florence who desired to re-establish the relationship which they knew had once existed between music and the drama. The revival of learning had made the classic tragedy dear to their hearts. They knew that in the olden time tragedy, of which the words only have come down to us, had been musical throughout. In their efforts to bring about an intimacy between dramatic poetry and music they found that nothing could be done with the polite music of their time. It was the period of highest development in ecclesiastical music, and the climax of artificiality. The professional musicians to whom they turned scorned their theories and would not help them; so they fell back on their own resources. They cut the Gordian knot and invented a new style of music, which they fancied was like that used by the ancients in their stage-plays. They abolished polyphony, or contrapuntal music, in everything except their choruses, and created a sort of musical declamation, using variations of pitch and harmonies built up on a simple bass to give emotional life to their words. In choosing their tones they were guided by observation of the vocal inflections produced in speech under stress of feeling, showing thus a recognition of the law which Herbert Spencer formulated two hundred and fifty years later. [Sidenote: _The music of the Florentine reformers._] [Sidenote: _The solo style, harmony, and declamation._] [Sidenote: _Fluent recitatives._] The music which these men produced and admired sounds to us monotonous in the extreme, for what little melody there is in it is in the choruses, which they failed to emancipate from the ecclesiastical art, and which for that reason were as stiff and inelastic as the music which in their controversies with the musicians they condemned with vigor. Yet within their invention there lay an entirely new world of music. Out of it came the solo style, a song with instrumental accompaniment of a kind unknown to the church composers. Out of it, too, came harmony as an independent factor in music instead of an accident of the simultaneous flow of melodies; and out of it came declamation, which drew its life from the text. The recitatives which they wrote had the fluency of spoken words and were not retarded by melodic forms. The new style did not accomplish what its creators hoped for, but it gave birth to Italian opera and emancipated music in a large measure from the formalism that dominated it so long as it belonged exclusively to the composers for the church. [Sidenote: _Predecessors of Wagner._] [Sidenote: _Old operatic distinctions._] [Sidenote: _Opera buffa._] [Sidenote: _Opera seria._] [Sidenote: _Recitative._] Detailed study of the progress of opera from the first efforts of the Florentines to Wagner's dramas would carry us too far afield to serve the purposes of this book. My aim is to fix the attitude proper, or at least useful, to the opera audience of to-day. The excursion into history which I have made has but the purpose to give the art-form a reputable standing in court, and to explain the motives which prompted the revolution accomplished by Wagner. As to the elements which compose an opera, only those need particular attention which are illustrated in the current repertory. Unlike the opera audiences of two centuries ago, we are not required to distinguish carefully between the various styles of opera in order to understand why the composer adopted a particular manner, and certain fixed forms in each. The old distinctions between _Opera seria_, _Opera buffa_, and _Opera semiseria_ perplex us no more. Only because of the perversion of the time-honored Italian epithet _buffa_ by the French mongrel _Opéra bouffe_ is it necessary to explain that the classic _Opera buffa_ was a polite comedy, whose musical integument did not of necessity differ from that of _Opera seria_ except in this--that the dialogue was carried on in "dry" recitative (_recitativo secco_, or _parlante_) in the former, and a more measured declamation with orchestral accompaniment (_recitativo stromentato_) in the latter. So far as subject-matter was concerned the classic distinction between tragedy and comedy served. The dry recitative was supported by chords played by a double-bass and harpsichord or pianoforte. In London, at a later period, for reasons of doubtful validity, these chords came to be played on a double-bass and violoncello, as we occasionally hear them to-day. [Sidenote: _Opera semiseria._] [Sidenote: _"Don Giovanni."_] Shakespeare has taught us to accept an infusion of the comic element in plays of a serious cast, but Shakespeare was an innovator, a Romanticist, and, measured by old standards, his dramas are irregular. The Italians, who followed classic models, for a reason amply explained by the genesis of the art-form, rigorously excluded comedy from serious operas, except as _intermezzi_, until they hit upon a third classification, which they called _Opera semiseria_, in which a serious subject was enlivened with comic episodes. Our dramatic tastes being grounded in Shakespeare, we should be inclined to put down "Don Giovanni" as a musical tragedy; or, haunted by the Italian terminology, as _Opera semiseria_; but Mozart calls it _Opera buffa_, more in deference to the librettist's work, I fancy, than his own, for, as I have suggested elsewhere,[E] the musician's imagination in the fire of composition went far beyond the conventional fancy of the librettist in the finale of that most wonderful work. [Sidenote: _An Opera buffa._] [Sidenote: _French Grand Opéra._] [Sidenote: _Opéra comique._] [Sidenote: _"Mignon."_] [Sidenote: _"Faust."_] It is well to remember that "Don Giovanni" is an _Opera buffa_ when watching the buffooneries of _Leporello_, for that alone justifies them. The French have _Grand Opéra_, in which everything is sung to orchestra accompaniment, there being neither spoken dialogue nor dry recitative, and _Opéra comique_, in which the dialogue is spoken. The latter corresponds with the honorable German term _Singspiel_, and one will not go far astray if he associate both terms with the English operas of Wallace and Balfe, save that the French and Germans have generally been more deft in bridging over the chasm between speech and song than their British rivals. _Opéra comique_ has another characteristic, its _dénouement_ must be happy. Formerly the _Théatre national de l'Opéra-Comique_ in Paris was devoted exclusively to _Opéra comique_ as thus defined (it has since abolished the distinction and _Grand Opéra_ may be heard there now), and, therefore, when Ambroise Thomas brought forward his "Mignon," Goethe's story was found to be changed so that _Mignon_ recovered and was married to _Wilhelm Meister_ at the end. The Germans are seldom pleased with the transformations which their literary masterpieces are forced to undergo at the hands of French librettists. They still refuse to call Gounod's "Faust" by that name; if you wish to hear it in Germany you must go to the theatre when "Margarethe" is performed. Naturally they fell indignantly afoul of "Mignon," and to placate them we have a second finale, a _dénouement allemand_, provided by the authors, in which _Mignon_ dies as she ought. [Sidenote: _Grosse Oper._] [Sidenote: _Comic opera and operetta._] [Sidenote: _Opéra bouffe._] [Sidenote: _Romantic operas._] Of course the _Grosse Oper_ of the Germans is the French _Grand Opéra_ and the English grand opera--but all the English terms are ambiguous, and everything that is done in Covent Garden in London or the Metropolitan Opera House in New York is set down as "grand opera," just as the vilest imitations of the French _vaudevilles_ or English farces with music are called "comic operas." In its best estate, say in the delightful works of Gilbert and Sullivan, what is designated as comic opera ought to be called operetta, which is a piece in which the forms of grand opera are imitated, or travestied, the dialogue is spoken, and the purpose of the play is to satirize a popular folly. Only in method, agencies, and scope does such an operetta (the examples of Gilbert and Sullivan are in mind) differ from comedy in its best conception, as a dramatic composition which aims to "chastise manners with a smile" ("_Ridendo castigat mores_"). Its present degeneracy, as illustrated in the _Opéra bouffe_ of the French and the concoctions of the would-be imitators of Gilbert and Sullivan, exemplifies little else than a pursuit far into the depths of the method suggested by a friend to one of Lully's imitators who had expressed a fear that a ballet written, but not yet performed, would fail. "You must lengthen the dances and shorten the ladies' skirts," he said. The Germans make another distinction based on the subject chosen for the story. Spohr's "Jessonda," Weber's "Freischütz," "Oberon," and "Euryanthe," Marschner's "Vampyr," "Templer und Jüdin," and "Hans Heiling" are "Romantic" operas. The significance of this classification in operatic literature may be learned from an effort which I have made in another chapter to discuss the terms Classic and Romantic as applied to music. Briefly stated, the operas mentioned are put in a class by themselves (and their imitations with them) because their plots were drawn from the romantic legends of the Middle Ages, in which the institutions of chivalry, fairy lore, and supernaturalism play a large part. [Sidenote: _Modern designations._] [Sidenote: _German opera and Wagner._] These distinctions we meet in reading about music. As I have intimated, we do not concern ourselves much with them now. In New York and London the people speak of Italian, English, and German opera, referring generally to the language employed in the performance. But there is also in the use of the terms an underlying recognition of differences in ideals of performance. As all operas sung in the regular seasons at Covent Garden and the Metropolitan Opera House are popularly spoken of as Italian operas, so German opera popularly means Wagner's lyric dramas, in the first instance, and a style of performance which grew out of Wagner's influence in the second. As compared with Italian opera, in which the principal singers are all and the _ensemble_ nothing, it means, mayhap, inferior vocalists but better actors in the principal parts, a superior orchestra and chorus, and a more conscientious effort on the part of conductor, stage manager, and artists, from first to last, to lift the general effect above the conventional level which has prevailed for centuries in the Italian opera houses. [Sidenote: _Wagner's "Musikdrama."_] [Sidenote: _Modern Italian terminology._] In terminology, as well as in artistic aim, Wagner's lyric dramas round out a cycle that began with the works of the Florentine reformers of the sixteenth century. Wagner called his later operas _Musikdramen_, wherefore he was soundly abused and ridiculed by his critics. When the Italian opera first appeared it was called _Dramma per musica_, or _Melodramma_, or _Tragedia per musica_, all of which terms stand in Italian for the conception that _Musikdrama_ stands for in German. The new thing had been in existence for half a century, and was already on the road to the degraded level on which we shall find it when we come to the subject of operatic singing, before it came to be called _Opera in musica_, of which "opera" is an abbreviation. Now it is to be observed that the composers of all countries, having been taught to believe that the dramatic contents of an opera have some significance, are abandoning the vague term "opera" and following Wagner in his adoption of the principles underlying the original terminology. Verdi called his "Aïda" an _Opera in quattro atti_, but his "Otello" he designated a lyric drama (_Dramma lirico_), his "Falstaff" a lyric comedy (_Commedia lirica_), and his example is followed by the younger Italian composers, such as Mascagni, Leoncavallo, and Puccini. [Sidenote: _Recitative._] In the majority of the operas of the current list the vocal element illustrates an amalgamation of the archaic recitative and aria. The dry form of recitative is met with now only in a few of the operas which date back to the last century or the early years of the present. "Le Nozze di Figaro," "Don Giovanni," and "Il Barbiere di Siviglia" are the most familiar works in which it is employed, and in the second of these it is used only by the bearers of the comedy element. The dissolute _Don_ chatters glibly in it with _Zerlina_, but when _Donna Anna_ and _Don Ottavio_ converse, it is in the _recitativo stromentato_. [Sidenote: _The object of recitative._] [Sidenote: _Defects of the recitative._] [Sidenote: _What it can do._] In both forms recitative is the vehicle for promoting the action of the play, preparing its incidents, and paving the way for the situations and emotional states which are exploited, promulgated, and dwelt upon in the set music pieces. Its purpose is to maintain the play in an artificial atmosphere, so that the transition from dialogue to song may not be so abrupt as to disturb the mood of the listener. Of all the factors in an opera, the dry recitative is the most monotonous. It is not music, but speech about to break into music. Unless one is familiar with Italian and desirous of following the conversation, which we have been often told is not necessary to the enjoyment of an opera, its everlasting use of stereotyped falls and intervallic turns, coupled with the strumming of arpeggioed cadences on the pianoforte (or worse, double-bass and violoncello), makes it insufferably wearisome to the listener. Its expression is fleeting--only for the moment. It lacks the sustained tones and structural symmetry essential to melody, and therefore it cannot sustain a mood. It makes efficient use of only one of the fundamental factors of vocal music--variety of pitch--and that in a rudimentary way. It is specifically a product of the Italian language, and best adapted to comedy in that language. Spoken with the vivacity native to it in the drama, dry recitative is an impossibility in English. It is only in the more measured and sober gait proper to oratorio that we can listen to it in the vernacular without thought of incongruity. Yet it may be made most admirably to preserve the characteristics of conversation, and even illustrate Spencer's theory of the origin of music. Witness the following brief example from "Don Giovanni," in which the vivacity of the master is admirably contrasted with the lumpishness of his servant: [Sidenote: _An example from Mozart._] [Music illustration: _Sempre sotto voce._ DON GIOVANNI. LEPORELLO. _Le-po-rel-lo, o-ve sei? Son qui per_ Le-po-rel-lo, where are you? I'm here and D.G. LEP. _dis-gra-zi-a! e vo-i? Son qui. Chi è_ more's the pit-y! and you, Sir? Here too. Who's D.G. _mor-to, voi, o il vec-chio? Che do-_ been killed, you or the old one? What a LEP. _man-da da bes-tia! il vec-chio. Bra-vo!_ ques-tion, you boo-by! the old one. Bra-vo!] [Sidenote: _Its characteristics._] Of course it is left to the intelligence and taste of the singers to bring out the effects in a recitative, but in this specimen it ought to be noted how sluggishly the disgruntled _Leporello_ replies to the brisk question of _Don Giovanni_, how correct is the rhetorical pause in "you, or the old one?" and the greater sobriety which comes over the manner of the _Don_ as he thinks of the murder just committed, and replies, "the old one." [Sidenote: _Recitative of some sort necessary._] [Sidenote: _The speaking voice in opera._] I am strongly inclined to the belief that in one form or the other, preferably the accompanied, recitative is a necessary integer in the operatic sum. That it is possible to accustom one's self to the change alternately from speech to song we know from the experiences made with German, French, and English operas, but these were not true lyric dramas, but dramas with incidental music. To be a real lyric drama an opera ought to be musical throughout, the voice being maintained from beginning to end on an exalted plane. The tendency to drop into the speaking voice for the sake of dramatic effect shown by some tragic singers does not seem to me commendable. Wagner relates with enthusiasm how Madame Schroeder-Devrient in "Fidelio" was wont to give supreme emphasis to the phrase immediately preceding the trumpet signal in the dungeon scene ("Another step, and you are _dead_!") by speaking the last word "with an awful accent of despair." He then comments: "The indescribable effect of this manifested itself to all like an agonizing plunge from one sphere into another, and its sublimity consisted in this, that with lightning quickness a glimpse was given to us of the nature of both spheres, of which one was the ideal, the other the real." [Sidenote: _Wagner and Schroeder-Devrient._] I have heard a similar effect produced by Herr Niemann and Madame Lehmann, but could not convince myself that it was not an extremely venturesome experiment. Madame Schroeder-Devrient saw the beginning of the modern methods of dramatic expression, and it is easy to believe that a sudden change like that so well defined by Wagner, made with her sweeping voice and accompanied by her plastic and powerful acting, was really thrilling; but, I fancy, nevertheless, that only Beethoven and the intensity of feeling which pervades the scene saved the audience from a disturbing sense of the incongruity of the performance. [Sidenote: _Early forms._] [Sidenote: _The dialogue of the Florentines._] The development which has taken place in the recitative has not only assisted in elevating opera to the dignity of a lyric drama by saving us from alternate contemplation of the two spheres of ideality and reality, but has also made the factor itself an eloquent vehicle of dramatic expression. Save that it had to forego the help of the instruments beyond a mere harmonic support, the _stilo rappresentativo_, or _musica parlante_, as the Florentines called their musical dialogue, approached the sustained recitative which we hear in the oratorio and grand opera more closely than it did the _recitative secco_. Ever and anon, already in the earliest works (the "Eurydice" of Rinuccini as composed by both Peri and Caccini) there are passages which sound like rudimentary melodies, but are charged with vital dramatic expression. Note the following phrase from _Orpheus's_ monologue on being left in the infernal regions by _Venus_, from Peri's opera, performed A.D. 1600, in honor of the marriage of Maria de' Medici to Henry IV. of France: [Sidenote: _An example from Peri._] [Music illustration: _E voi, deh per pie-tà, del mio mar-ti-re Che nel mi-se-ro cor di-mo-ra e-ter-no, La-cri-ma-te al mio pian-to om-bre d'in-fer-no!_] [Sidenote: _Development of the arioso._] [Sidenote: _The aria supplanted._] [Sidenote: _Music and action._] Out of this style there grew within a decade something very near the arioso, and for all the purposes of our argument we may accept the melodic devices by which Wagner carries on the dialogue of his operas as an uncircumscribed arioso superimposed upon a foundation of orchestral harmony; for example, _Lohengrin's_ address to the swan, _Elsa's_ account of her dream. The greater melodiousness of the _recitativo stromentato_, and the aid of the orchestra when it began to assert itself as a factor of independent value, soon enabled this form of musical conversation to become a reflector of the changing moods and passions of the play, and thus the value of the aria, whether considered as a solo, or in its composite form as duet, trio, quartet, or _ensemble_, was lessened. The growth of the accompanied recitative naturally brought with it emancipation from the tyranny of the classical aria. Wagner's reform had nothing to do with that emancipation, which had been accomplished before him, but went, as we shall see presently, to a liberation of the composers from all the formal dams which had clogged the united flow of action and music. We should, however, even while admiring the achievements of modern composers in blending these elements (and I know of no more striking illustration than the scene of the fat knight's discomfiture in _Ford's_ house in Verdi's "Falstaff") bear in mind that while we may dream of perfect union between words and music, it is not always possible that action and music shall go hand in hand. Let me repeat what once I wrote in a review of Cornelius's opera, "Der Barbier von Bagdad:"[F] [Sidenote: _How music can replace incident._] "After all, of the constituents of an opera, action, at least that form of it usually called incident, is most easily spared. Progress in feeling, development of the emotional element, is indeed essential to variety of musical utterance, but nevertheless all great operas have demonstrated that music is more potent and eloquent when proclaiming an emotional state than while seeking to depict progress toward such a state. Even in the dramas of Wagner the culminating musical moments are predominantly lyrical, as witness the love-duet in 'Tristan,' the close of 'Das Rheingold,' _Siegmund's_ song, the love-duet, and _Wotan's_ farewell in 'Die Walküre,' the forest scene and final duet in 'Siegfried,' and the death of _Siegfried_ in 'Die Götterdämmerung.' It is in the nature of music that this should be so. For the drama which plays on the stage of the heart, music is a more truthful language than speech; but it can stimulate movement and prepare the mind for an incident better than it can accompany movement and incident. Yet music that has a high degree of emotional expressiveness, by diverting attention from externals to the play of passion within the breasts of the persons can sometimes make us forget the paucity of incident in a play. 'Tristan und Isolde' is a case in point. Practically, its outward action is summed up in each of its three acts by the same words: Preparation for a meeting of the ill-starred lovers; the meeting. What is outside of this is mere detail; yet the effect of the tragedy upon a listener is that of a play surcharged with pregnant occurrence. It is the subtle alchemy of music that transmutes the psychological action of the tragedy into dramatic incident." [Sidenote: _Set forms not to be condemned._] [Sidenote: _Wagner's influence._] [Sidenote: _His orchestra._] [Sidenote: _Vocal feats._] For those who hold such a view with me it will be impossible to condemn pieces of set forms in the lyric drama. Wagner still represents his art-work alone, but in the influence which he exerted upon contemporaneous composers in Italy and France, as well as Germany, he is quite as significant a figure as he is as the creator of the _Musikdrama_. The operas which are most popular in our Italian and French repertories are those which benefited by the liberation from formalism and the exaltation of the dramatic idea which he preached and exemplified--such works as Gounod's "Faust," Verdi's "Aïda" and "Otello," and Bizet's "Carmen." With that emancipation there came, as was inevitable, new conceptions of the province of dramatic singing as well as new convictions touching the mission of the orchestra. The instruments in Wagner's latter-day works are quite as much as the singing actors the expositors of the dramatic idea, and in the works of the other men whom I have mentioned they speak a language which a century ago was known only to the orchestras of Gluck and Mozart with their comparatively limited, yet eloquent, vocabulary. Coupled with praise for the wonderful art of Mesdames Patti and Melba (and I am glad to have lived in their generation, though they do not represent my ideal in dramatic singing), we are accustomed to hear lamentations over the decay of singing. I have intoned such jeremiads myself, and I do not believe that music is suffering from a greater want to-day than that of a more thorough training for singers. I marvel when I read that Senesino sang cadences of fifty seconds' duration; that Ferri with a single breath could trill upon each note of two octaves, ascending and descending, and that La Bastardella's art was equal to a perfect performance (perfect in the conception of her day) of a flourish like this: [Sidenote: _La Bastardella's flourish._] [Music illustration] [Sidenote: _Character of the opera a century and a half ago._] [Sidenote: _Music and dramatic expression._] I marvel, I say, at the skill, the gifts, and the training which could accomplish such feats, but I would not have them back again if they were to be employed in the old service. When Senesino, Farinelli, Sassarelli, Ferri, and their tribe dominated the stage, it strutted with sexless Agamemnons and Cæsars. Telemachus, Darius, Nero, Cato, Alexander, Scipio, and Hannibal ran around on the boards as languishing lovers, clad in humiliating disguises, singing woful arias to their mistress's eyebrows--arias full of trills and scales and florid ornaments, but void of feeling as a problem in Euclid. Thanks very largely to German influences, the opera is returning to its original purposes. Music is again become a means of dramatic expression, and the singers who appeal to us most powerfully are those who are best able to make song subserve that purpose, and who to that end give to dramatic truthfulness, to effective elocution, and to action the attention which mere voice and beautiful utterance received in the period which is called the Golden Age of singing, but which was the Leaden Age of the lyric drama. [Sidenote: _Singers heard in New York._] For seventy years the people of New York, scarcely less favored than those of London, have heard nearly all the great singers of Europe. Let me talk about some of them, for I am trying to establish some ground on which my readers may stand when they try to form an estimate of the singing which they are privileged to hear in the opera houses of to-day. Madame Malibran was a member of the first Italian company that ever sang here. Madame Cinti-Damoreau came in 1844, Bosio in 1849, Jenny Lind in 1850, Sontag in 1853, Grisi in 1854, La Grange in 1855, Frezzolini in 1857, Piccolomini in 1858, Nilsson in 1870, Lucca in 1872, Titiens in 1876, Gerster in 1878, and Sembrich in 1883. I omit the singers of the German opera as belonging to a different category. Adelina Patti was always with us until she made her European début in 1861, and remained abroad twenty years. Of the men who were the artistic associates of these _prime donne_, mention may be made of Mario, Benedetti, Corsi, Salvi, Ronconi, Formes, Brignoli, Amadeo, Coletti, and Campanini, none of whom, excepting Mario, was of first-class importance compared with the women singers. [Sidenote: _Grisi._] [Sidenote: _Jenny Lind._] [Sidenote: _Lilli Lehmann._] Nearly all of these singers, even those still living and remembered by the younger generation of to-day, exploited their gifts in the operas of Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti, the early Verdi, and Meyerbeer. Grisi was acclaimed a great dramatic singer, and it is told of her that once in "Norma" she frightened the tenor who sang the part of _Pollio_ by the fury of her acting. But measured by the standards of to-day, say that set by Calvé's _Carmen_, it must have been a simple age that could be impressed by the tragic power of anyone acting the part of Bellini's Druidical priestess. The surmise is strengthened by the circumstance that Madame Grisi created a sensation in "Il Trovatore" by showing signs of agitation in the tower scene, walking about the stage during _Manrico's_ "_Ah! che la morte ognora_," as if she would fain discover the part of the castle where her lover was imprisoned. The chief charm of Jenny Lind in the memory of the older generation is the pathos with which she sang simple songs. Mendelssohn esteemed her greatly as a woman and artist, but he is quoted as once remarking to Chorley: "I cannot think why she always prefers to be in a bad theatre." Moscheles, recording his impressions of her in Meyerbeer's "Camp of Silesia" (now "L'Étoile du Nord"), reached the climax of his praise in the words: "Her song with the two concertante flutes is perhaps the most incredible feat in the way of bravura singing that can possibly be heard." She was credited, too, with fine powers as an actress; and that she possessed them can easily be believed, for few of the singers whom I have mentioned had so early and intimate an association with the theatre as she. Her repugnance to it in later life she attributed to a prejudice inherited from her mother. A vastly different heritage is disclosed by Madame Lehmann's devotion to the drama, a devotion almost akin to religion. I have known her to go into the scene-room of the Metropolitan Opera House in New York and search for mimic stumps and rocks with which to fit out a scene in "Siegfried," in which she was not even to appear. That, like her super-human work at rehearsals, was "for the good of the cause," as she expressed it. [Sidenote: _Sontag._] Most amiable are the memories that cluster around the name of Sontag, whose career came to a grievous close by her sudden death in Mexico in 1854. She was a German, and the early part of her artistic life was influenced by German ideals, but it is said that only in the music of Mozart and Weber, which aroused in her strong national emotion, did she sing dramatically. For the rest she used her light voice, which had an extraordinary range, brilliancy, and flexibility, very much as Patti and Melba use their voices to-day--in mere unfeeling vocal display. "She had an extensive soprano voice," says Hogarth; "not remarkable for power, but clear, brilliant, and singularly flexible; a quality which seems to have led her (unlike most German singers in general) to cultivate the most florid style, and even to follow the bad example set by Catalani, of seeking to convert her voice into an instrument, and to astonish the public by executing the violin variations on Rode's air and other things of that stamp." [Sidenote: _La Grange._] [Sidenote: _Piccolomini._] [Sidenote: _Adelina Patti._] [Sidenote: _Gerster._] [Sidenote: _Lucca and Nilsson._] [Sidenote: _Sembrich._] Madame La Grange had a voice of wide compass, which enabled her to sing contralto rôles as well as soprano, but I have never heard her dramatic powers praised. As for Piccolomini, read of her where you will, you shall find that she was "charming." She was lovely to look upon, and her acting in soubrette parts was fascinating. Until Melba came Patti was for thirty years peerless as a mere vocalist. She belongs, as did Piccolomini and Sontag, to the comic _genre_; so did Sembrich and Gerster, the latter of whom never knew it. I well remember how indignant she became on one occasion, in her first American season, at a criticism which I wrote of her _Amina_ in "La Sonnambula," a performance which remains among my loveliest and most fragrant recollections. I had made use of Catalani's remark concerning Sontag: "_Son genre est petit, mais elle est unique dans son genre_," and applied it to her style. She almost flew into a passion. "_Mon genre est grand!_" said she, over and over again, while Dr. Gardini, her husband, tried to pacify her. "Come to see my _Marguerite_ next season." Now, Gounod's _Marguerite_ does not quite belong to the heroic rôles, though we can all remember how Lucca thrilled us by her intensity of action as well as of song, and how Madame Nilsson sent the blood out of our cheeks, though she did stride through the opera like a combination of the _grande dame_ and Ary Scheffer's spirituelle pictures; but such as it is, Madame Gerster achieved a success of interest only, and that because of her strivings for originality. Sembrich and Gerster, when they were first heard in New York, had as much execution as Melba or Nilsson; but their voices had less emotional power than that of the latter, and less beauty than that of the former--beauty of the kind that might be called classic, since it is in no way dependent on feeling. [Sidenote: _Melba and Eames._] [Sidenote: _Calvé._] [Sidenote: _Dramatic singers._] [Sidenote: _Jean de Reszke._] [Sidenote: _Edouard de Reszke and Plançon._] Patti, Lucca, Nilsson, and Gerster sang in the operas in which Melba and Eames sing to-day, and though the standard of judgment has been changed in the last twenty-five years by the growth of German ideals, I can find no growth of potency in the performances of the representative women of Italian and French opera, except in the case of Madame Calvé. For the development of dramatic ideals we must look to the singers of German affiliations or antecedents, Mesdames Materna, Lehmann, Sucher, and Nordica. As for the men of yesterday and to-day, no lover, I am sure, of the real lyric drama would give the declamatory warmth and gracefulness of pose and action which mark the performances of M. Jean de Reszke for a hundred of the high notes of Mario (for one of which, we are told, he was wont to reserve his powers all evening), were they never so lovely. Neither does the fine, resonant, equable voice of Edouard de Reszke or the finished style of Plançon leave us with curious longings touching the voices and manners of Lablache and Formes. Other times, other manners, in music as in everything else. The great singers of to-day are those who appeal to the taste of to-day, and that taste differs, as the clothes which we wear differ, from the style in vogue in the days of our ancestors. [Sidenote: _Wagner's operas._] [Sidenote: _Wagner's lyric dramas._] [Sidenote: _His theories._] [Sidenote: _The mission of music._] [Sidenote: _Distinctions abolished._] [Sidenote: _The typical phrases._] [Sidenote: _Characteristics of some motives._] A great deal of confusion has crept into the public mind concerning Wagner and his works by the failure to differentiate between his earlier and later creations. No injustice is done the composer by looking upon his "Flying Dutchman," "Tannhäuser," and "Lohengrin" as operas. We find the dramatic element lifted into noble prominence in "Tannhäuser," and admirable freedom in the handling of the musical factors in "Lohengrin," but they must, nevertheless, be listened to as one would listen to the operas of Weber, Marschner, or Meyerbeer. They are, in fact, much nearer to the conventional operatic type than to the works which came after them, and were called _Musikdramen_. "Music drama" is an awkward phrase, and I have taken the liberty of substituting "lyric drama" for it, and as such I shall designate "Tristan und Isolde," "Die Meistersinger," "Der Ring des Nibelungen," and "Parsifal." In these works Wagner exemplified his reformatory ideas and accomplished a regeneration of the lyric drama, as we found it embodied in principle in the Greek tragedy and the _Dramma per musica_ of the Florentine scholars. Wagner's starting-point is, that in the opera music had usurped a place which did not belong to it.[G] It was designed to be a means and had become an end. In the drama he found a combination of poetry, music, pantomime, and scenery, and he held that these factors ought to co-operate on a basis of mutual dependence, the inspiration of all being dramatic expression. Music, therefore, ought to be subordinate to the text in which the dramatic idea is expressed, and simply serve to raise it to a higher power by giving it greater emotional life. So, also, it ought to vivify pantomime and accompany the stage pictures. In order that it might do all this, it had to be relieved of the shackles of formalism; only thus could it move with the same freedom as the other elements consorted with it in the drama. Therefore, the distinctions between recitative and aria were abolished, and an "endless melody" took the place of both. An exalted form of speech is borne along on a flood of orchestral music, which, quite as much as song, action, and scenery concerns itself with the exposition of the drama. That it may do this the agencies, spiritual as well as material, which are instrumental in the development of the play, are identified with certain melodic phrases, out of which the musical fabric is woven. These phrases are the much mooted, much misunderstood "leading motives"--typical phrases I call them. Wagner has tried to make them reflect the character or nature of the agencies with which he has associated them, and therefore we find the giants in the Niblung tetralogy symbolized in heavy, slowly moving, cumbersome phrases; the dwarfs have two phrases, one suggesting their occupation as smiths, by its hammering rhythm, and the other their intellectual habits, by its suggestion of brooding contemplativeness. I cannot go through the catalogue of the typical phrases which enter into the musical structure of the works which I have called lyric dramas as contra-distinguished from operas. They should, of course, be known to the student of Wagner, for thereby will he be helped to understand the poet-composer's purposes, but I would fain repeat the warning which I uttered twice in my "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama:" [Sidenote: _The phrases should be studied._] "It cannot be too forcibly urged that if we confine our study of Wagner to the forms and names of the phrases out of which he constructs his musical fabric, we shall, at the last, have enriched our minds with a thematic catalogue and--nothing else. We shall remain guiltless of knowledge unless we learn something of the nature of those phrases by noting the attributes which lend them propriety and fitness, and can recognize, measurably at least, the reasons for their introduction and development. Those attributes give character and mood to the music constructed out of the phrases. If we are able to feel the mood, we need not care how the phrases which produce it have been labelled. If we do not feel the mood, we may memorize the whole thematic catalogue of Wolzogen and have our labor for our pains. It would be better to know nothing about the phrases, and content one's self with simple sensuous enjoyment than to spend one's time answering the baldest of all the riddles of Wagner's orchestra--'What am I playing now?' [Sidenote: _The question of effectiveness._] "The ultimate question concerning the correctness or effectiveness of Wagner's system of composition must, of course, be answered along with the question: 'Does the composition, as a whole, touch the emotions, quicken the fancy, fire the imagination?' If it does these things, we may, to a great extent, if we wish, get along without the intellectual processes of reflection and comparison which are conditioned upon a recognition of the themes and their uses. But if we put aside this intellectual activity, we shall deprive ourselves, among other things, of the pleasures which it is the province of memory to give; and the exercise of memory is called for by music much more urgently than by any other art, because of its volatile nature and the rôle which repetition plays in it." FOOTNOTES: [E] "But no real student can have studied the score deeply, or listened discriminatingly to a good performance, without discovering that there is a tremendous chasm between the conventional aims of the Italian poet in the book of the opera and the work which emerged from the composer's profound imagination. Da Ponte contemplated a _dramma giocoso_; Mozart humored him until his imagination came within the shadow cast before by the catastrophe, and then he transformed the poet's comedy into a tragedy of crushing power. The climax of Da Ponte's ideal is reached in a picture of the dissolute _Don_ wrestling in idle desperation with a host of spectacular devils, and finally disappearing through a trap, while fire bursts out on all sides, the thunders roll, and _Leporello_ gazes on the scene, crouched in a comic attitude of terror, under the table. Such a picture satisfied the tastes of the public of his time, and that public found nothing incongruous in a return to the scene immediately afterward of all the characters save the reprobate, who had gone to his reward, to hear a description of the catastrophe from the buffoon under the table, and platitudinously to moralize that the perfidious wretch, having been stored away safely in the realm of Pluto and Proserpine, nothing remained for them to do except to raise their voices in the words of the "old song," _"Questo è il fin di chi fa mal: E dei perfidi la morte Alla vita è sempre ugual."_ "New York Musical Season, 1889-90." [F] "Review of the New York Musical Season, 1889-90," p. 75. [G] See "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," chapter I. VIII _Choirs and Choral Music_ [Sidenote: _Choirs a touchstone of culture._] [Sidenote: _The value of choir singing._] No one would go far astray who should estimate the extent and sincerity of a community's musical culture by the number of its chorus singers. Some years ago it was said that over three hundred cities and towns in Germany contained singing societies and orchestras devoted to the cultivation of choral music. In the United States, where there are comparatively a small number of instrumental musicians, there has been a wonderful development of singing societies within the last generation, and it is to this fact largely that the notable growth in the country's knowledge and appreciation of high-class music is due. No amount of mere hearing and study can compare in influence with participation in musical performance. Music is an art which rests on love. It is beautiful sound vitalized by feeling, and it can only be grasped fully through man's emotional nature. There is no quicker or surer way to get to the heart of a composition than by performing it, and since participation in chorus singing is of necessity unselfish and creative of sympathy, there is no better medium of musical culture than membership in a choir. It was because he realized this that Schumann gave the advice to all students of music: "Sing diligently in choirs; especially the middle voices, for this will make you musical." [Sidenote: _Singing societies and orchestras._] [Sidenote: _Neither numbers nor wealth necessary._] There is no community so small or so ill-conditioned that it cannot maintain a singing society. Before a city can give sustenance to even a small body of instrumentalists it must be large enough and rich enough to maintain a theatre from which those instrumentalists can derive their support. There can be no dependence upon amateurs, for people do not study the oboe, bassoon, trombone, or double-bass for amusement. Amateur violinists and amateur flautists there are in plenty, but not amateur clarinetists and French-horn players; but if the love for music exists in a community, a dozen families shall suffice to maintain a choral club. Large numbers are therefore not essential; neither is wealth. Some of the largest and finest choirs in the world flourish among the Welsh miners in the United States and Wales, fostered by a native love for the art and the national institution called Eisteddfod. [Sidenote: _Lines of choral culture in the United States._] The lines on which choral culture has proceeded in the United States are two, of which the more valuable, from an artistic point of view, is that of the oratorio, which went out from New England. The other originated in the German cultivation of the _Männergesang_, the importance of which is felt more in the extent of the culture, prompted as it is largely by social considerations, than in the music sung, which is of necessity of a lower grade than that composed for mixed voices. It is chiefly in the impulse which German _Männergesang_ carried into all the corners of the land, and especially the impetus which the festivals of the German singers gave to the sections in which they have been held for half a century, that this form of culture is interesting. [Sidenote: _Church and oratorio._] [Sidenote: _Secular choirs._] The cultivation of oratorio music sprang naturally from the Church, and though it is now chiefly in the hands of secular societies, the biblical origin of the vast majority of the texts used in the works which are performed, and more especially the regular performances of Handel's "Messiah" in the Christmastide, have left the notion, more or less distinct, in the public mind, that oratorios are religious functions. Nevertheless (or perhaps because of this fact) the most successful choral concerts in the United States are those given by oratorio societies. The cultivation of choral music which is secular in character is chiefly in the hands of small organizations, whose concerts are of a semi-private nature and are enjoyed by the associate members and invited guests. This circumstance is deserving of notice as a characteristic feature of choral music in America, though it has no particular bearing upon this study, which must concern itself with choral organizations, choral music, and choral performances in general. [Sidenote: _Amateur choirs originated in the United States._] [Sidenote: _The size of old choirs._] Organizations of the kind in view differ from instrumental in being composed of amateurs; and amateur choir-singing is no older anywhere than in the United States. Two centuries ago and more the singing of catches and glees was a common amusement among the gentler classes in England, but the performances of the larger forms of choral music were in the hands of professional choristers who were connected with churches, theatres, schools, and other public institutions. Naturally, then, the choral bodies were small. Choirs of hundreds and thousands, such as take part in the festivals of to-day, are a product of a later time. [Sidenote: _Handel's choirs._] "When Bach and Handel wrote their Passions, Church Cantatas, and Oratorios, they could only dream of such majestic performances as those works receive now; and it is one of the miracles of art that they should have written in so masterly a manner for forces that they could never hope to control. Who would think, when listening to the 'Hallelujah' of 'The Messiah,' or the great double choruses of 'Israel in Egypt,' in which the voice of the composer is 'as the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of many thunderings, saying, "Alleluia, for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!"' that these colossal compositions were never heard by Handel from any chorus larger than the most modest of our church choirs? At the last performance of 'The Messiah' at which Handel was advertised to appear (it was for the benefit of his favorite charity, the Foundling Hospital, on May 3, 1759--he died before the time, however), the singers, including principals, numbered twenty-three, while the instrumentalists numbered thirty-three. At the first great Handel Commemoration, in Westminster Abbey, in 1784, the choir numbered two hundred and seventy-five, the band two hundred and fifty; and this was the most numerous force ever gathered together for a single performance in England up to that time. [Sidenote: _Choirs a century ago._] [Sidenote: _Bach's choir._] "In 1791 the Commemoration was celebrated by a choir of five hundred and a band of three hundred and seventy-five. In May, 1786, Johann Adam Hiller, one of Bach's successors as cantor of the St. Thomas School in Leipsic, directed what was termed a _Massenaufführung_ of 'The Messiah,' in the Domkirche, in Berlin. His 'masses' consisted of one hundred and eighteen singers and one hundred and eighty-six instrumentalists. In Handel's operas, and sometimes even in his oratorios, the _tutti_ meant, in his time, little more than a union of all the solo singers; and even Bach's Passion music and church cantatas, which seem as much designed for numbers as the double choruses of 'Israel,' were rendered in the St. Thomas Church by a ludicrously small choir. Of this fact a record is preserved in the archives of Leipsic. In August, 1730, Bach submitted to the authorities a plan for a church choir of the pupils in his care. In this plan his singers numbered twelve, there being one principal and two ripienists in each voice; with characteristic modesty he barely suggests a preference for sixteen. The circumstance that in the same document he asked for at least eighteen instrumentalists (two more if flutes were used), taken in connection with the figures given relative to the 'Messiah' performances, gives an insight into the relations between the vocal and the instrumental parts of a choral performance in those days."[H] [Sidenote: _Proportion of voices and instruments._] This relation has been more than reversed since then, the orchestras at modern oratorio performances seldom being one-fifth as large as the choir. This difference, however, is due largely to the changed character of modern music, that of to-day treating the instruments as independent agents of expression instead of using them chiefly to support the voices and add sonority to the tonal mass, as was done by Handel and most of the composers of his day. [Sidenote: _Glee unions and male choirs._] I omit from consideration the Glee Unions of England, and the quartets, which correspond to them, in this country. They are not cultivators of choral music, and the music which they sing is an insignificant factor in culture. The male choirs, too, need not detain us long, since it may be said without injustice that their mission is more social than artistic. In these choirs the subdivision into parts is, as a rule, into two tenor voices, first and second, and two bass, first and second. In the glee unions, the effect of whose singing is fairly well imitated by the college clubs of the United States (pitiful things, indeed, from an artistic point of view), there is a survival of an old element in the male alto singing above the melody voice, generally in a painful falsetto. This abomination is unknown to the German part-songs for men's voices, which are written normally, but are in the long run monotonous in color for want of the variety in timbre and register which the female voices contribute in a mixed choir. [Sidenote: _Women's choirs._] There are choirs also composed exclusively of women, but they are even more unsatisfactory than the male choirs, for the reason that the absence of the bass voice leaves their harmony without sufficient foundation. Generally, music for these choirs is written for three parts, two sopranos and contralto, with the result that it hovers, suspended like Mahomet's coffin, between heaven and earth. When a fourth part is added it is a second contralto, which is generally carried down to the tones that are hollow and unnatural. [Sidenote: _Boys' choirs._] The substitution of boys for women in Episcopal Church choirs has grown extensively within the last ten years in the United States, very much to the promotion of æsthetic sentimentality in the congregations, but without improving the character of worship-music. Boys' voices are practically limitless in an upward direction, and are naturally clear and penetrating. Ravishing effects can be produced with them, but it is false art to use passionless voices in music conceived for the mature and emotional voices of adults; and very little of the old English Cathedral music, written for choirs of boys and men, is preserved in the service lists to-day. [Sidenote: _Mixed choirs._] The only satisfactory choirs are the mixed choirs of men and women. Upon them has devolved the cultivation of artistic choral music in our public concert-rooms. As we know such choirs now, they are of comparatively recent origin, and it is a singular commentary upon the way in which musical history is written, that the fact should have so long been overlooked that the credit of organizing the first belongs to the United States. A little reflection will show this fact, which seems somewhat startling at first blush, to be entirely natural. Large singing societies are of necessity made up of amateurs, and the want of professional musicians in America compelled the people to enlist amateurs at a time when in Europe choral activity rested on the church, theatre, and institute choristers, who were practically professionals. [Sidenote: _Origin of amateur singing societies._] [Sidenote: _The German record._] [Sidenote: _American priority._] [Sidenote: _The American record._] As the hitherto accepted record stands, the first amateur singing society was the Singakademie of Berlin, which Carl Friedrich Fasch, accompanist to the royal flautist, Frederick the Great, called into existence in 1791. A few dates will show how slow the other cities of musical Germany were in following Berlin's example. In 1818 there were only ten amateur choirs in all Germany. Leipsic organized one in 1800, Stettin in 1800, Münster in 1804, Dresden in 1807, Potsdam in 1814, Bremen in 1815, Chemnitz in 1817, Schwäbisch-Hall in 1817, and Innsbruck in 1818. The Berlin Singakademie is still in existence, but so also is the Stoughton Musical Society in Stoughton, Mass., which was founded on November 7, 1786. Mr. Charles C. Perkins, historian of the Handel and Haydn Society, whose foundation was coincident with the sixth society in Germany (Bremen, 1815), enumerates the following predecessors of that venerable organization: the Stoughton Musical Society, 1786; Independent Musical Society, "established at Boston in the same year, which gave a concert at King's Chapel in 1788, and took part there in commemorating the death of Washington (December 14, 1799) on his first succeeding birthday;" the Franklin, 1804; the Salem, 1806; Massachusetts Musical, 1807; Lock Hospital, 1812, and the Norfolk Musical, the date of whose foundation is not given by Mr. Perkins. [Sidenote: _Choirs in the West._] When the Bremen Singakademie was organized there were already choirs in the United States as far west as Cincinnati. In that city they were merely church choirs at first, but within a few years they had combined into a large body and were giving concerts at which some of the choruses of Handel and Haydn were sung. That their performances, as well as those of the New England societies, were cruder than those of their European rivals may well be believed, but with this I have nothing to do. I am simply seeking to establish the priority of the United States in amateur choral culture. The number of American cities in which oratorios are performed annually is now about fifty. [Sidenote: _The size of choirs._] [Sidenote: _Large numbers not essential._] [Sidenote: _How "divisions" used to be sung._] In size mixed choirs ordinarily range from forty voices to five hundred. It were well if it were understood by choristers as well as the public that numbers merely are not a sign of merit in a singing society. So the concert-room be not too large, a choir of sixty well-trained voices is large enough to perform almost everything in choral literature with good effect, and the majority of the best compositions will sound better under such circumstances than in large rooms with large choirs. Especially is this true of the music of the Middle Ages, written for voices without instrumental accompaniment, of which I shall have something to say when the discussion reaches choral programmes. There is music, it is true, like much of Handel's, the impressiveness of which is greatly enhanced by masses, but it is not extensive enough to justify the sacrifice of correctness and finish in the performance to mere volume. The use of large choirs has had the effect of developing the skilfulness of amateur singers in an astonishing degree, but there is, nevertheless, a point where weightiness of tone becomes an obstacle to finished execution. When Mozart remodelled Handel's "Messiah" he was careful to indicate that the florid passages ("divisions" they used to be called in England) should be sung by the solo voices alone, but nowadays choirs of five hundred voices attack such choruses as "For unto us a Child is Born," without the slightest hesitation, even if they sometimes make a mournful mess of the "divisions." [Sidenote: _The division of choirs._] [Sidenote: _Five-part music._] [Sidenote: _Eight part._] [Sidenote: _Antiphonal music._] [Sidenote: _Bach's "St. Matthew Passion."_] The normal division of a mixed choir is into four parts or voices--soprano, contralto, tenor, and bass; but composers sometimes write for more parts, and the choir is subdivided to correspond. The custom of writing for five, six, eight, ten, and even more voices was more common in the Middle Ages, the palmy days of the _a capella_ (_i.e._, for the chapel, unaccompanied) style than it is now, and, as a rule, a division into more than four voices is not needed outside of the societies which cultivate this old music, such as the Musical Art Society in New York, the Bach Choir in London, and the Domchor in Berlin. In music for five parts, one of the upper voices, soprano or tenor, is generally doubled; for six, the ordinary distribution is into two sopranos, two contraltos, tenor, and bass. When eight voices are reached a distinction is made according as there are to be eight real parts (_a otto voci reali_), or two choruses of the four normal parts each (_a otto voci in due cori reali_). In the first instance the arrangement commonly is three sopranos, two contraltos, two tenors, and one bass. One of the most beautiful uses of the double choir is to produce antiphonal effects, choir answering to choir, both occasionally uniting in the climaxes. How stirring this effect can be made may be observed in some of Bach's compositions, especially those in which he makes the division of the choir subserve a dramatic purpose, as in the first chorus of "The Passion according to St. Matthew," where the two choirs, one representing _Daughters of Zion_, the other _Believers_, interrogate and answer each other thus: I. "Come, ye daughters, weep for anguish; See Him! II. "Whom? I. "The Son of Man. See Him! II. "How? I. "So like a lamb. See it! II. "What? I. "His love untold. Look! II. "Look where? I. "Our guilt behold." [Sidenote: _Antiphony in a motet._] Another most striking instance is in the same master's motet, "Sing ye to the Lord," which is written for two choirs of four parts each. (In the example from the "St. Matthew Passion" there is a third choir of soprano voices which sings a chorale while the dramatic choirs are conversing.) In the motet the first choir begins a fugue, in the midst of which the second choir is heard shouting jubilantly, "Sing ye! Sing ye! Sing ye!" Then the choirs change rôles, the first delivering the injunction, the second singing the fugue. In modern music, composers frequently consort a quartet of solo voices, soprano, contralto, tenor, and bass, with a four-part chorus, and thus achieve fine effects of contrast in dynamics and color, as well as antiphonal. [Sidenote: _Excellence in choral singing._] [Sidenote: _Community of action._] [Sidenote: _Individualism._] [Sidenote: _Dynamics._] [Sidenote: _Beauty of tone._] [Sidenote: _Contralto voices._] The question is near: What constitutes excellence in a choral performance? To answer: The same qualities that constitute excellence in an orchestral performance, will scarcely suffice, except as a generalization. A higher degree of harmonious action is exacted of a body of singers than of a body of instrumentalists. Many of the parts in a symphony are played by a single instrument. Community of voice belongs only to each of the five bodies of string-players. In a chorus there are from twelve to one hundred and fifty voices, or even more, united in each part. This demands the effacement of individuality in a chorus, upon the assertion of which, in a band, under the judicious guidance of the conductor, many of the effects of color and expression depend. Each group in a choir must strive for homogeneity of voice quality; each singer must sink the _ego_ in the aggregation, yet employ it in its highest potency so far as the mastery of the technics of singing is concerned. In cultivating precision of attack (_i.e._, promptness in beginning a tone and leaving it off), purity of intonation (_i.e._, accuracy or justness of pitch--"singing in tune" according to the popular phrase), clearness of enunciation, and careful attention to all the dynamic gradations of tone, from very soft up to very loud, and all shades of expression between, in the development of that gradual augmentation of tone called _crescendo_, and the gradual diminution called _diminuendo_, the highest order of individual skill is exacted from every chorister; for upon individual perfection in these things depends the collective effect which it is the purpose of the conductor to achieve. Sensuous beauty of tone, even in large aggregations, is also dependent to a great degree upon careful and proper emission of voice by each individual, and it is because the contralto part in most choral music, being a middle part, lies so easily in the voices of the singers that the contralto contingent in American choirs, especially, so often attracts attention by the charm of its tone. Contralto voices are seldom forced into the regions which compel so great a physical strain that beauty and character must be sacrificed to mere accomplishment of utterance, as is frequently the case with the soprano part. [Sidenote: _Selfishness fatal to success._] [Sidenote: _Tonal balance._] Yet back of all this exercise of individual skill there must be a spirit of self-sacrifice which can only exist in effective potency if prompted by universal sympathy and love for the art. A selfish chorister is not a chorister, though possessed of the voice of a Melba or Mario. Balance between the parts, not only in the fundamental constitution of the choir but also in all stages of a performance, is also a matter of the highest consideration. In urban communities, especially, it is difficult to secure perfect tonal symmetry--the rule is a poverty in tenor voices--but those who go to hear choral concerts are entitled to hear a well-balanced choir, and the presence of an army of sopranos will not condone a squad of tenors. Again, I say, better a well-balanced small choir than an ill-balanced large one. [Sidenote: _Declamation._] [Sidenote: _Expression._] [Sidenote: _The choruses in "The Messiah."_] [Sidenote: _Variety of declamation in Handel's oratorio._] I have not enumerated all the elements which enter into a meritorious performance, nor shall I discuss them all; only in passing do I wish to direct attention to one which shines by its absence in the choral performances not only of America but also of Great Britain and Germany. Proper pronunciation of the texts is an obvious requirement; so ought also to be declamation. There is no reason why characteristic expression, by which I mean expression which goes to the genius of the melodic phrase when it springs from the verbal, should be ignored, simply because it may be difficult of attainment from large bodies of singers. There is so much monotony in oratorio concerts because all oratorios and all parts of any single oratorio are sung alike. Only when the "Hallelujah" is sung in "The Messiah" at the gracious Christmastide is an exaltation above the dull level of the routine performances noticeable, and then it is communicated to the singers by the act of the listeners in rising to their feet. Now, despite the structural sameness in the choruses of "The Messiah," they have a great variety of content, and if the characteristic physiognomy of each could but be disclosed, the grand old work, which seems hackneyed to so many, would acquire amazing freshness, eloquence, and power. Then should we be privileged to note that there is ample variety in the voice of the old master, of whom a greater than he said that when he wished, he could strike like a thunderbolt. Then should we hear the tones of amazed adoration in [Music illustration: Be-hold the Lamb of God!] of cruel scorn in [Music illustration: He trust-ed in God that would de-li-ver Him, let him de-li-ver him if he de-light in him.] of boastfulness and conscious strength in [Music illustration: Let us break their bonds a-sun-der.] and learn to admire as we ought to admire the declamatory strength and truthfulness so common in Handel's choruses. [Sidenote: _Mediæval music._] [Sidenote: _Madrigals._] There is very little cultivation of choral music of the early ecclesiastical type, and that little is limited to the Church and a few choirs specially organized for its performance, like those that I have mentioned. This music is so foreign to the conceptions of the ordinary amateur, and exacts so much skill in the singing of the intervals, lacking the prop of modern tonality as it does, that it is seldom that an amateur body can be found equal to its performance. Moreover, it is nearly all of a solemn type. Its composers were churchmen, and when it was written nearly all that there was of artistic music was in the service of the Church. The secular music of the time consisted chiefly in Madrigals, which differed from ecclesiastical music only in their texts, they being generally erotic in sentiment. The choristers of to-day, no less than the public, find it difficult to appreciate them, because they are not melodic in the sense that most music is nowadays. In them the melody is not the privileged possession of the soprano voice. All the voices stand on an equal footing, and the composition consists of a weaving together, according to scientific rules, of a number of voices--counterpoint as it is called. [Sidenote: _Homophonic hymns._] [Sidenote: _Calvin's restrictive influence._] Our hymn-tunes are homophonic, based upon a melody sung by one voice, for which the other voices provide the harmony. This style of music came into the Church through the German Reformation. Though Calvin was a lover of music he restricted its practice among his followers to unisonal psalmody, that is, to certain tunes adapted to the versified psalms sung without accompaniment of harmony voices. On the adoption of the Genevan psalter he gave the strictest injunction that neither its text nor its melodies were to be altered. "Those songs and melodies," said he, "which are composed for the mere pleasure of the ear, and all they call ornamental music, and songs for four parts, do not behoove the majesty of the Church, and cannot fail greatly to displease God." [Sidenote: _Luther and the German Church._] Under the influence of the German reformers music was in a very different case. Luther was not only an amateur musician, he was also an ardent lover of scientific music. Josquin des Pres, a contemporary of Columbus, was his greatest admiration; nevertheless, he was anxious from the beginning of his work of Church establishment to have the music of the German Church German in spirit and style. In 1525 he wrote: [Sidenote: _A German mass._] "I should like to have a German mass, and I am indeed at work on one; but I am anxious that it shall be truly German in manner. I have no objection to a translated Latin text and Latin notes; but they are neither proper nor just (_aber es lautet nicht artig noch rechtschaffen_); text and notes, accent, melodies, and demeanor must come from our mother tongue and voice, else will it all be but a mimicry, like that of the apes." [Sidenote: _Secular tunes used._] [Sidenote: _Congregational singing._] In the Church music of the time, composed, as I have described, by a scientific interweaving of voices, the composers had got into the habit of utilizing secular melodies as the foundation on which to build their contrapuntal structures. I have no doubt that it was the spirit which speaks out of Luther's words which brought it to pass that in Germany contrapuntal music with popular melodies as foundations developed into the chorale, in which the melody and not the counterpoint was the essential thing. With the Lutheran Church came congregational singing; with congregational singing the need of a new style of composition, which should not only make the participation of the people in the singing possible, but should also stimulate them to sing by freeing the familiar melodies (the melodies of folk-songs) from the elaborate and ingenious, but soulless, counterpoint which fettered them. [Sidenote: _Counterpoint._] [Sidenote: _The first congregational hymns._] The Flemish masters, who were the musical law-givers, had been using secular tunes for over a century, but only as stalking-horses for counterpoint; and when the Germans began to use their tunes, they, too, buried them beyond recognition in the contrapuntal mass. The people were invited to sing paraphrases of the psalms to familiar tunes, it is true, but the choir's polyphony went far to stifle the spirit of the melody. Soon the free spirit which I have repeatedly referred to as Romanticism, and which was powerfully encouraged by the Reformation, prompted a style of composition in which the admired melody was lifted into relief. This could not be done until the new style of writing invented by the creators of the opera (see Chapter VII.) came in, but as early as 1568 Dr. Lucas Ostrander published fifty hymns and psalms with music so arranged "that the congregation may join in singing them." This, then, is in outline the story of the beginning of modern hymnology, and it is recalled to the patrons of choral concerts whenever in Bach's "Passion Music" or in Mendelssohn's "St. Paul" the choir sings one of the marvellous old hymns of the German Church. [Sidenote: _The Church and conservatism._] [Sidenote: _Harmony and emotion._] Choral music being bound up with the Church, it has naturally participated in the conservatism characteristic of the Church. The severe old style has survived in the choral compositions of to-day, while instrumental music has grown to be almost a new thing within the century which is just closing. It is the severe style established by Bach, however, not that of Palestrina. In the Church compositions prior to Palestrina the emotional power of harmony was but little understood. The harmonies, indeed, were the accidents of the interweaving of melodies. Palestrina was among the first to feel the uplifting effect which might result from a simple sequence of pure consonant harmonies, and the three chords which open his famous "Stabat Mater" [Sidenote: _Palestrina's "Stabat Mater."_] [Sidenote: _Characteristics of his music._] [Music illustration: Sta-bat ma-ter] are a sign of his style as distinct in its way as the devices by means of which Wagner stamps his individuality on his phrases. His melodies, too, compared with the artificial _motivi_ of his predecessors, are distinguished by grace, beauty, and expressiveness, while his command of ætherial effects, due to the manner in which the voices are combined, is absolutely without parallel from his day to this. Of the mystery of pure beauty he enjoyed a wonderful revelation, and has handed it down to us in such works as the "Stabat Mater," "Missa Papæ Marcelli," and the "Improperia." [Sidenote: _Palestrina's music not dramatic._] [Sidenote: _A churchman._] [Sidenote: _Effect of the Reformation._] This music must not be listened to with the notion in mind of dramatic expression such as we almost instinctively feel to-day. Palestrina does not seek to proclaim the varying sentiment which underlies his texts. That leads to individual interpretation and is foreign to the habits of churchmen in the old conception, when the individual was completely resolved in the organization. He aimed to exalt the mystery of the service, not to bring it down to popular comprehension and make it a personal utterance. For such a design in music we must wait until after the Reformation, when the ancient mysticism began to fall back before the demands of reason, when the idea of the sole and sufficient mediation of the Church lost some of its power in the face of the growing conviction of intimate personal relationship between man and his creator. Now idealism had to yield some of its dominion to realism, and a more rugged art grew up in place of that which had been so wonderfully sublimated by mysticism. [Sidenote: _The source of beauty in Palestrina's music._] It is in Bach, who came a century after Palestrina, that we find the most eloquent musical proclamation of the new régime, and it is in no sense disrespectful to the great German master if we feel that the change in ideals was accompanied with a loss in sensuous charm, or pure æsthetic beauty. Effect has had to yield to idea. It is in the flow of the voices, the color effects which result from combination and registers, the clarity of the harmonies, the reposefulness coming from conscious ease of utterance, the loveliness of each individual part, and the spiritual exaltation of the whole that the æsthetic mystery of Palestrina's music lies. [Sidenote: _Bach._] Like Palestrina, Bach is the culmination of the musical practice of his time, but, unlike Palestrina, he is also the starting-point of a new development. With Bach the old contrapuntal art, now not vocal merely but instrumental also and mixed, reaches its climax, and the tendency sets in which leads to the highly complex and dramatic art of to-day. Palestrina's art is Roman; the spirit of restfulness, of celestial calm, of supernatural revelation and supernal beauty broods over it. Bach's is Gothic--rugged, massive, upward striving, human. In Palestrina's music the voice that speaks is the voice of angels; in Bach's it is the voice of men. [Sidenote: _Bach a German Protestant._] [Sidenote: _Church and individual._] [Sidenote: _Ingenuousness of feeling._] Bach is the publisher of the truest, tenderest, deepest, and most individual religious feeling. His music is peculiarly a hymning of the religious sentiment of Protestant Germany, where salvation is to be wrought out with fear and trembling by each individual through faith and works rather than the agency of even a divinely constituted Church. It reflects, with rare fidelity and clearness, the essential qualities of the German people--their warm sympathy, profound compassion, fervent love, and sturdy faith. As the Church fell into the background and the individual came to the fore, religious music took on the dramatic character which we find in the "Passion Music" of Bach. Here the sufferings and death of the Saviour, none the less an ineffable mystery, are depicted as the most poignant experience of each individual believer, and with an ingenuousness that must forever provoke the wonder of those who are unable to enter into the German nature. The worshippers do not hesitate to say: "My Jesus, good-night!" as they gather in fancy around His tomb and invoke sweet rest for His weary limbs. The difference between such a proclamation and the calm voice of the Church should be borne in mind when comparing the music of Palestrina with that of Bach; also the vast strides made by music during the intervening century. [Sidenote: _The motet._] Of Bach's music we have in the repertories of our best choral societies a number of motets, church cantatas, a setting of the "Magnificat," and the great mass in B minor. The term Motet lacks somewhat of definiteness of the usage of composers. Originally it seems likely that it was a secular composition which the Netherland composers enlisted in the service of the Church by adapting it to Biblical and other religious texts. Then it was always unaccompanied. In the later Protestant motets the chorale came to play a great part; the various stanzas of a hymn were given different settings, the foundation of each being the hymn tune. These were interspersed with independent pieces, based on Biblical words. [Sidenote: _Church cantatas._] The Church Cantatas (_Kirchencantaten_) are larger services with orchestral accompaniment, which were written to conform to the various religious festivals and Sundays of the year; each has for a fundamental subject the theme which is proper to the day. Again, a chorale provides the musical foundation. Words and melody are retained, but between the stanzas occur recitatives and metrical airs, or ariosos, for solo voices in the nature of commentaries or reflections on the sentiment of the hymn or the gospel lesson for the day. [Sidenote: _The "Passions."_] [Sidenote: _Origin of the "Passions."_] [Sidenote: _Early Holy Week services._] The "Passions" are still more extended, and were written for use in the Reformed Church in Holy Week. As an art-form they are unique, combining a number of elements and having all the apparatus of an oratorio plus the congregation, which took part in the performance by singing the hymns dispersed through the work. The service (for as a service, rather than as an oratorio, it must be treated) roots in the Miracle plays and Mysteries of the Middle Ages, but its origin is even more remote, going back to the custom followed by the primitive Christians of making the reading of the story of the Passion a special service for Holy Week. In the Eastern Church it was introduced in a simple dramatic form as early as the fourth century A.D., the treatment being somewhat like the ancient tragedies, the text being intoned or chanted. In the Western Church, until the sixteenth century, the Passion was read in a way which gave the service one element which is found in Bach's works in an amplified form. Three deacons were employed, one to read (or rather chant to Gregorian melodies) the words of Christ, another to deliver the narrative in the words of the Evangelist, and a third to give the utterances and exclamations of the Apostles and people. This was the _Cantus Passionis Domini nostri Jesu Christe_ of the Church, and had so strong a hold upon the tastes of the people that it was preserved by Luther in the Reformed Church. [Sidenote: _The service amplified._] [Sidenote: _Bach's settings._] Under this influence it was speedily amplified. The successive steps of the progress are not clear, but the choir seems to have first succeeded to the part formerly sung by the third deacon, and in some churches the whole Passion was sung antiphonally by two choirs. In the seventeenth century the introduction of recitatives and arias, distributed among singers who represented the personages of sacred history, increased the dramatic element of the service which reached its climax in the "St. Matthew" setting by Bach. The chorales are supposed to have been introduced about 1704. Bach's "Passions" are the last that figure in musical history. That "according to St. John" is performed occasionally in Germany, but it yields the palm of excellence to that "according to St. Matthew," which had its first performance on Good Friday, 1729, in Leipsic. It is in two parts, which were formerly separated by the sermon, and employs two choirs, each with its own orchestra, solo singers in all the classes of voices, and a harpsichord to accompany all the recitatives, except those of _Jesus_, which are distinguished by being accompanied by the orchestral strings. [Sidenote: _Oratorios._] [Sidenote: _Sacred operas._] In the nature of things passions, oratorios, and their secular cousins, cantatas, imply scenes and actions, and therefore have a remote kinship with the lyric drama. The literary analogy which they suggest is the epic poem as contra-distinguished from the drama. While the drama presents incident, the oratorio relates, expounds, and celebrates, presenting it to the fancy through the ear instead of representing it to the eye. A great deal of looseness has crept into this department of music as into every other, and the various forms have been approaching each other until in some cases it is become difficult to say which term, opera or oratorio, ought to be applied. Rubinstein's "sacred operas" are oratorios profusely interspersed with stage directions, many of which are impossible of scenic realization. Their whole purpose is to work upon the imagination of the listeners and thus open gate-ways for the music. Ever since its composition, Saint-Saëns's "Samson and Delilah" has held a place in both theatre and concert-room. Liszt's "St. Elizabeth" has been found more effective when provided with pictorial accessories than without. The greater part of "Elijah" might be presented in dramatic form. [Sidenote: _Influence of the Church plays._] [Sidenote: _Origin of the oratorio._] [Sidenote: _The choral element extended._] [Sidenote: _Narrative and descriptive choruses._] [Sidenote: _Dramatization._] Confusing and anomalous as these things are, they find their explanation in the circumstance that the oratorio never quite freed itself from the influence of the people's Church plays in which it had its beginning. As a distinct art-form it began in a mixture of artistic entertainment and religious worship provided in the early part of the sixteenth century by Filippo Neri (now a saint) for those who came for pious instruction to his oratory (whence the name). The purpose of these entertainments being religious, the subjects were Biblical, and though the musical progress from the beginning was along the line of the lyric drama, contemporaneous in origin with it, the music naturally developed into broader forms on the choral side, because music had to make up for the lack of pantomime, costumes, and scenery. Hence we have not only the preponderance of choruses in the oratorio over recitative, arias, duets, trios, and so forth, but also the adherence in the choral part to the old manner of writing which made the expansion of the choruses possible. Where the choruses left the field of pure reflection and became narrative, as in "Israel in Egypt," or assumed a dramatic character, as in the "Elijah," the composer found in them vehicles for descriptive and characteristic music, and so local color came into use. Characterization of the solo parts followed as a matter of course, an early illustration being found in the manner in which Bach lifted the words of Christ into prominence by surrounding them with the radiant halo which streams from the violin accompaniment. In consequence the singer to whom was assigned the task of singing the part of _Jesus_ presented himself to the fancy of the listeners as a representative of the historical personage--as the Christ of the drama. [Sidenote: _The chorus in opera and oratorio._] The growth of the instrumental art here came admirably into play, and so it came to pass that opera and oratorio now have their musical elements of expression in common, and differ only in their application of them--opera foregoing the choral element to a great extent as being a hindrance to action, and oratorio elevating it to make good the absence of scenery and action. While oratorios are biblical and legendary, cantatas deal with secular subjects and, in the form of dramatic ballads, find a delightful field in the world of romance and supernaturalism. [Sidenote: _The Mass._] [Sidenote: _Secularization of the Mass._] Transferred from the Church to the concert-room, and considered as an art-form instead of the eucharistic office, the Mass has always made a strong appeal to composers, and half a dozen masterpieces of missal composition hold places in the concert lists of the singing societies. Notable among these are the Requiems of Mozart, Berlioz, and Verdi, and the Solemn Mass in D by Beethoven. These works represent at one and the same time the climax of accomplishment in the musical treatment and the secularization of the missal text. They are the natural outcome of the expansion of the office by the introduction of the orchestra into the Church, the departure from the _a capella_ style of writing, which could not be consorted with the orchestra, and the growth of a desire to enhance the pomp of great occasions in the Church by the production of masses specially composed for them. Under such circumstances the devotional purpose of the mass was lost in the artistic, and composers gave free reign to their powers, for which they found an ample stimulus in the missal text. [Sidenote: _Sentimental masses._] [Sidenote: _Mozart and the Mass._] [Sidenote: _The masses for the dead._] [Sidenote: _Gossec's Requiem._] The first effect, and the one which largely justifies the adherents of the old ecclesiastical style in their crusade against the Catholic Church music of to-day, was to make the masses sentimental and operatic. So little regard was had for the sentiment of the words, so little respect for the solemnity of the sacrament, that more than a century ago Mozart (whose masses are far from being models of religious expression) could say to Cantor Doles of a _Gloria_ which the latter showed him, "_S'ist ja alles nix_," and immediately sing the music to "_Hol's der Geier, das geht flink!_" which words, he said, went better. The liberty begotten by this license, though it tended to ruin the mass, considered strictly as a liturgical service, developed it musically. The masses for the dead were among the earliest to feel the spirit of the time, for in the sequence, _Dies iræ_, they contained the dramatic element which the solemn mass lacked. The _Kyrie_, _Credo_, _Gloria_, _Sanctus_, and _Agnus Dei_ are purely lyrical, and though the evolutionary movement ended in Beethoven conceiving certain portions (notably the _Agnus Dei_) in a dramatic sense, it was but natural that so far as tradition fixed the disposition and formal style of the various parts, it should not be disturbed. At an early date the composers began to put forth their powers of description in the _Dies iræ_, however, and there is extant in a French mass an amusing example of the length to which tone-painting in this music was carried by them. Gossec wrote a Requiem on the death of Mirabeau which became famous. The words, _Quantus tremor est futurus_, he set so that on each syllable there were repetitions, _staccato_, of a single tone, thus: [Music illustration: Quan-tus tre---mor, tre-- etc.] This absurd stuttering Gossec designed to picture the terror inspired by the coming of the Judge at the last trumpet. [Sidenote: _The orchestra in the Mass._] [Sidenote: _Beethoven and Berlioz._] The development of instrumentation placed a factor in the hands of these writers which they were not slow to utilize, especially in writing music for the _Dies iræ_, and how effectively Mozart used the orchestra in his Requiem it is not necessary to state. It is a safe assumption that Beethoven's Mass in D was largely instrumental in inspiring Berlioz to set the Requiem as he did. With Beethoven the dramatic idea is the controlling one, and so it is with Berlioz. Beethoven, while showing a reverence for the formulas of the Church, and respecting the tradition which gave the _Kyrie_ a triple division and made fugue movements out of the phrases "_Cum sancto spiritu in gloria Dei patris--Amen_," "_Et vitam venturi_," and "_Osanna in excelsis_," nevertheless gave his composition a scope which placed it beyond the apparatus of the Church, and filled it with a spirit that spurns the limitations of any creed of less breadth and universality than the grand Theism which affectionate communion with nature had taught him. [Sidenote: _Berlioz's Requiem._] [Sidenote: _Dramatic effects in Haydn's masses._] [Sidenote: _Berlioz's orchestra._] Berlioz, less religious, less reverential, but equally fired by the solemnity and majesty of the matter given into his hands, wrote a work in which he placed his highest conception of the awfulness of the Last Judgment and the emotions which are awakened by its contemplation. In respect of the instrumentation he showed a far greater audacity than Beethoven displayed even in the much-mooted trumpets and drums of the _Agnus Dei_, where he introduces the sounds of war to heighten the intensity of the prayer for peace, "_Dona nobis pacem_." This is talked about in the books as a bold innovation. It seems to have escaped notice that the idea had occurred to Haydn twenty-four years before and been realized by him. In 1796 Haydn wrote a mass, "In Tempore Belli," the French army being at the time in Steyermark. He set the words, "_Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi_," to an accompaniment of drums, "as if the enemy were already heard coming in the distance." He went farther than this in a Mass in D minor, when he accompanied the _Benedictus_ with fanfares of trumpets. But all such timid ventures in the use of instruments in the mass sink into utter insignificance when compared with Berlioz's apparatus in the _Tuba mirum_ of his Requiem, which supplements the ordinary symphonic orchestra, some of its instruments already doubled, with four brass bands of eight or ten instruments each, sixteen extra drums, and a tam-tam. FOOTNOTES: [H] "Notes on the Cultivation of Choral Music," by H.E. Krehbiel, p. 17. IX _Musician, Critic, and Public_ [Sidenote: _The newspapers and the public._] I have been told that there are many people who read the newspapers on the day after they have attended a concert or operatic representation for the purpose of finding out whether or not the performance gave them proper or sufficient enjoyment. It would not be becoming in me to inquire too curiously into the truth of such a statement, and in view of a denunciation spoken in the introductory chapter of this book, I am not sure that it is not a piece of arrogance, or impudence, on my part to undertake in any way to justify any critical writing on the subject of music. Certain it is that some men who write about music for the newspapers believe, or affect to believe, that criticism is worthless, and I shall not escape the charge of inconsistency, if, after I have condemned the blunders of literary men, who are laymen in music, and separated the majority of professional writers on the art into pedants and rhapsodists, I nevertheless venture to discuss the nature and value of musical criticism. Yet, surely, there must be a right and wrong in this as in every other thing, and just as surely the present structure of society, which rests on the newspaper, invites attention to the existing relationship between musician, critic, and public as an important element in the question How to Listen to Music. [Sidenote: _Relationship between musician, critic, and public._] [Sidenote: _The need and value of conflict._] As a condition precedent to the discussion of this new element in the case, I lay down the proposition that the relationship between the three factors enumerated is so intimate and so strict that the world over they rise and fall together; which means that where the people dwell who have reached the highest plane of excellence, there also are to be found the highest types of the musician and critic; and that in the degree in which the three factors, which united make up the sum of musical activity, labor harmoniously, conscientiously, and unselfishly, each striving to fulfil its mission, they advance music and further themselves, each bearing off an equal share of the good derived from the common effort. I have set the factors down in the order which they ordinarily occupy in popular discussion and which symbolizes their proper attitude toward each other and the highest potency of their collaboration. In this collaboration, as in so many others, it is conflict that brings life. Only by a surrender of their functions, one to the other, could the three apparently dissonant yet essentially harmonious factors be brought into a state of complacency; but such complacency would mean stagnation. If the published judgment on compositions and performances could always be that of the exploiting musicians, that class, at least, would read the newspapers with fewer heart-burnings; if the critics had a common mind and it were followed in concert-room and opera-house, they, as well as the musicians, would have need of fewer words of displacency and more of approbation; if, finally, it were to be brought to pass that for the public nothing but amiable diversion should flow simultaneously from platform, stage, and press, then for the public would the millennium be come. A religious philosopher can transmute Adam's fall into a blessing, and we can recognize the wisdom of that dispensation which put enmity between the seed of Jubal, who was the "father of all such as handle the harp and pipe," and the seed of Saul, who, I take it, is the first critic of record (and a vigorous one, too, for he accentuated his unfavorable opinion of a harper's harping with a javelin thrust). [Sidenote: _The critic an Ishmaelite._] [Sidenote: _The critic not to be pitied._] [Sidenote: _How he might extricate himself._] [Sidenote: _The public like to be flattered._] We are bound to recognize that between the three factors there is, ever was, and ever shall be _in sæcula sæculorum_ an irrepressible conflict, and that in the nature of things the middle factor is the Ishmaelite whose hand is raised against everybody and against whom everybody's hand is raised. The complacency of the musician and the indifference, not to say ignorance, of the public ordinarily combine to make them allies, and the critic is, therefore, placed between two millstones, where he is vigorously rasped on both sides, and whence, being angular and hard of outer shell, he frequently requites the treatment received with complete and energetic reciprocity. Is he therefore to be pitied? Not a bit; for in this position he is performing one of the most significant and useful of his functions, and disclosing one of his most precious virtues. While musician and public must perforce remain in the positions in which they have been placed with relation to each other it must be apparent at half a glance that it would be the simplest matter in the world for the critic to extricate himself from his predicament. He would only need to take his cue from the public, measuring his commendation by the intensity of their applause, his dispraise by their signs of displeasure, and all would be well with him. We all know this to be true, that people like to read that which flatters them by echoing their own thoughts. The more delightfully it is put by the writer the more the reader is pleased, for has he not had the same idea? Are they not his? Is not their appearance in a public print proof of the shrewdness and soundness of his judgment? Ruskin knows this foible in human nature and condemns it. You may read in "Sesame and Lilies:" "Very ready we are to say of a book, 'How good this is--that's exactly what I think!' But the right feeling is, 'How strange that is! I never thought of that before, and yet I see it is true; or if I do not now, I hope I shall, some day.' But whether thus submissively or not, at least be sure that you go at the author to get at his meaning, not to find yours. Judge it afterward if you think yourself qualified to do so, but ascertain it first." [Sidenote: _The critic generally outspoken._] As a rule, however, the critic is not guilty of the wrong of speaking out the thought of others, but publishes what there is of his own mind, and this I laud in him as a virtue, which is praiseworthy in the degree that it springs from loftiness of aim, depth of knowledge, and sincerity and unselfishness of purpose. [Sidenote: _Musician and Public._] [Sidenote: _The office of ignorance._] [Sidenote: _Popularity of Wagner's music not a sign of intelligent appreciation._] Let us look a little into the views which our factors do and those which they ought to entertain of each other. The utterances of musicians have long ago made it plain that as between the critic and the public the greater measure of their respect and deference is given to the public. The critic is bound to recognize this as entirely natural; his right of protest does not accrue until he can show that the deference is ignoble and injurious to good art. It is to the public that the musician appeals for the substantial signs of what is called success. This appeal to the jury instead of the judge is as characteristic of the conscientious composer who is sincerely convinced that he was sent into the world to widen the boundaries of art, as it is of the mere time-server who aims only at tickling the popular ear. The reason is obvious to a little close thinking: Ignorance is at once a safeguard against and a promoter of conservatism. This sounds like a paradox, but the rapid growth of Wagner's music in the admiration of the people of the United States might correctly be cited as a proof that the statement is true. Music like the concert fragments from Wagner's lyric dramas is accepted with promptitude and delight, because its elements are those which appeal most directly and forcibly to our sense-perception and those primitive tastes which are the most readily gratified by strong outlines and vivid colors. Their vigorous rhythms, wealth of color, and sonority would make these fragments far more impressive to a savage than the suave beauty of a symphony by Haydn; yet do we not all know that while whole-hearted, intelligent enjoyment of a Haydn symphony is conditioned upon a considerable degree of culture, an equally whole-hearted, intelligent appreciation of Wagner's music presupposes a much wider range of sympathy, a much more extended view of the capabilities of musical expression, a much keener discernment, and a much profounder susceptibility to the effects of harmonic progressions? And is the conclusion not inevitable, therefore, that on the whole the ready acceptance of Wagner's music by a people is evidence that they are not sufficiently cultured to feel the force of that conservatism which made the triumph of Wagner consequent on many years of agitation in musical Germany? [Sidenote: _"Ahead of one's time."_] In one case the appeal is elemental; in the other spiritual. He who wishes to be in advance of his time does wisely in going to the people instead of the critics, just as the old fogy does whose music belongs to the time when sensuous charm summed up its essence. There is a good deal of ambiguity about the stereotyped phrase "ahead of one's time." Rightly apprehended, great geniuses do live for the future rather than the present, but where the public have the vastness of appetite and scantness of taste peculiar to the ostrich, there it is impossible for a composer to be ahead of his time. It is only where the public are advanced to the stage of intelligent discrimination that a Ninth Symphony and a Nibelung Tetralogy are accepted slowly. [Sidenote: _The charlatan._] [Sidenote: _Influencing the critics._] Why the charlatan should profess to despise the critic and to pay homage only to the public scarcely needs an explanation. It is the critic who stands between him and the public he would victimize. Much of the disaffection between the concert-giver and the concert-reviewer arises from the unwillingness of the latter to enlist in a conspiracy to deceive and defraud the public. There is no need of mincing phrases here. The critics of the newspaper press are besieged daily with requests for notices of a complimentary character touching persons who have no honest standing in art. They are fawned on, truckled to, cajoled, subjected to the most seductive influences, sometimes bribed with woman's smiles or manager's money--and why? To win their influence in favor of good art, think you? No; to feed vanity and greed. When a critic is found of sufficient self-respect and character to resist all appeals and to be proof against all temptations, who is quicker than the musician to cite against his opinion the applause of the public over whose gullibility and ignorance, perchance, he made merry with the critic while trying to purchase his independence and honor? [Sidenote: _The public an elemental force._] [Sidenote: _Critic and public._] [Sidenote: _Schumann and popular approval._] It is only when musicians divide the question touching the rights and merits of public and critic that they seem able to put a correct estimate upon the value of popular approval. At the last the best of them are willing, with Ferdinand Hiller, to look upon the public as an elemental power like the weather, which must be taken as it chances to come. With modern society resting upon the newspaper they might be willing to view the critic in the same light; but this they will not do so long as they adhere to the notion that criticism belongs of right to the professional musician, and will eventually be handed over to him. As for the critic, he may recognize the naturalness and reasonableness of a final resort for judgment to the factor for whose sake art is (_i.e._, the public), but he is not bound to admit its unfailing righteousness. Upon him, so he be worthy of his office, weighs the duty of first determining whether the appeal is taken from a lofty purpose or a low one, and whether or not the favored tribunal is worthy to try the case. Those who show a willingness to accept low ideals cannot exact high ones. The influence of their applause is a thousand-fold more injurious to art than the strictures of the most acrid critic. A musician of Schumann's mental and moral stature could recognize this and make it the basis of some of his most forcible aphorisms: "'It pleased,' or 'It did not please,' say the people; as if there were no higher purpose than to please the people." "The most difficult thing in the world to endure is the applause of fools!" [Sidenote: _Depreciation of the critic._] [Sidenote: _Value of public opinion._] The belief professed by many musicians--professed, not really held--that the public can do no wrong, unquestionably grows out of a depreciation of the critic rather than an appreciation of the critical acumen of the masses. This depreciation is due more to the concrete work of the critic (which is only too often deserving of condemnation) than to a denial of the good offices of criticism. This much should be said for the musician, who is more liable to be misunderstood and more powerless against misrepresentation than any other artist. A line should be drawn between mere expression of opinion and criticism. It has been recognized for ages--you may find it plainly set forth in Quintilian and Cicero--that in the long run the public are neither bad judges nor good critics. The distinction suggests a thought about the difference in value between a popular and a critical judgment. The former is, in the nature of things, ill considered and fleeting. It is the product of a momentary gratification or disappointment. In a much greater degree than a judgment based on principle and precedent, such as a critic's ought to be, it is a judgment swayed by that variable thing called fashion--"_Qual piùm' al vento._" [Sidenote: _Duties of the critic._] [Sidenote: _The musician's duty toward the critic._] But if this be so we ought plainly to understand the duties and obligations of the critic; perhaps it is because there is much misapprehension on this point that critics' writings have fallen under their own condemnation. I conceive that the first, if not the sole, office of the critic should be to guide public judgment. It is not for him to instruct the musician in his art. If this were always borne in mind by writers for the press it might help to soften the asperity felt by the musician toward the critic; and possibly the musician might then be persuaded to perform his first office toward the critic, which is to hold up his hands while he labors to steady and dignify public opinion. No true artist would give up years of honorable esteem to be the object for a moment of feverish idolatry. The public are fickle. "The garlands they twine," says Schumann, "they always pull to pieces again to offer them in another form to the next comer who chances to know how to amuse them better." Are such garlands worth the sacrifice of artistic honor? If it were possible for the critic to withhold them and offer instead a modest sprig of enduring bay, would not the musician be his debtor? [Sidenote: _The critic should steady public judgment._] [Sidenote: _Taste and judgment must be achieved._] Another thought. Conceding that the people are the elemental power that Hiller says they are, who shall save them from the changeableness and instability which they show with relation to music and her votaries? Who shall bid the restless waves be still? We, in America, are a new people, a vast hotch-potch of varied and contradictory elements. We are engaged in conquering a continent; employed in a mad scramble for material things; we give feverish hours to win the comfort for our bodies that we take only seconds to enjoy; the moments which we steal from our labors we give grudgingly to relaxation, and that this relaxation may come quickly we ask that the agents which produce it shall appeal violently to the faculties which are most easily reached. Under these circumstances whence are to come the intellectual poise, the refined taste, the quick and sure power of analysis which must precede a correct estimate of the value of a composition or its performance? "A taste or judgment," said Shaftesbury, "does not come ready formed with us into this world. Whatever principles or materials of this kind we may possibly bring with us, a legitimate and just taste can neither be begotten, made, conceived, or produced without the antecedent labor and pains of criticism." [Sidenote: _Comparative qualifications of critic and public._] Grant that this antecedent criticism is the province of the critic and that he approaches even remotely a fulfilment of his mission in this regard, and who shall venture to question the value and the need of criticism to the promotion of public opinion? In this work the critic has a great advantage over the musician. The musician appeals to the public with volatile and elusive sounds. When he gets past the tympanum of the ear he works upon the emotions and the fancy. The public have no time to let him do more; for the rest they are willing to refer him to the critic, whose business it is continually to hear music for the purpose of forming opinions about it and expressing them. The critic has both the time and the obligation to analyze the reasons why and the extent to which the faculties are stirred into activity. Is it not plain, therefore, that the critic ought to be better able to distinguish the good from the bad, the true from the false, the sound from the meretricious, than the unindividualized multitude, who are already satisfied when they have felt the ticklings of pleasure? [Sidenote: _The critic's responsibilities._] [Sidenote: _Toward the musician._] [Sidenote: _Position and power of the newspaper._] But when we place so great a mission as the education of public taste before the critic, we saddle him with a vast responsibility which is quite evenly divided between the musician and the public. The responsibility toward the musician is not that which we are accustomed to hear harped on by the aggrieved ones on the day after a concert. It is toward the musician only as a representative of art, and his just claims can have nothing of selfishness in them. The abnormal sensitiveness of the musician to criticism, though it may excite his commiseration and even honest pity, should never count with the critic in the performance of a plain duty. This sensitiveness is the product of a low state in music as well as criticism, and in the face of improvement in the two fields it will either disappear or fall under a killing condemnation. The power of the press will here work for good. The newspaper now fills the place in the musician's economy which a century ago was filled in Europe by the courts and nobility. Its support, indirect as well as direct, replaces the patronage which erstwhile came from these powerful ones. The evils which flow from the changed conditions are different in extent but not in kind from the old. Too frequently for the good of art that support is purchased by the same crookings of "the pregnant hinges of the knee" that were once the price of royal or noble condescension. If the tone of the press at times becomes arrogant, it is from the same causes that raised the voices and curled the lips of the petty dukes and princes, to flatter whose vanity great artists used to labor. [Sidenote: _The musician should help to elevate the standard of criticism._] [Sidenote: _A critic must not necessarily be a musician._] [Sidenote: _Pedantry not wanted._] The musician knows as well as anyone how impossible it is to escape the press, and it is, therefore, his plain duty to seek to raise the standard of its utterances by conceding the rights of the critic and encouraging honesty, fearlessness, impartiality, intelligence, and sympathy wherever he finds them. To this end he must cast away many antiquated and foolish prejudices. He must learn to confess with Wagner, the arch-enemy of criticism, that "blame is much more useful to the artist than praise," and that "the musician who goes to destruction because he is faulted, deserves destruction." He must stop the contention that only a musician is entitled to criticise a musician, and without abating one jot of his requirements as to knowledge, sympathy, liberality, broad-mindedness, candor, and incorruptibility on the part of the critic, he must quit the foolish claim that to pronounce upon the excellence of a ragout one must be able to cook it; if he will not go farther he must, at least, go with the elder D'Israeli to the extent of saying that "the talent of judgment may exist separately from the power of execution." One need not be a composer, but one must be able to feel with a composer before he can discuss his productions as they ought to be discussed. Not all the writers for the press are able to do this; many depend upon effrontery and a copious use of technical phrases to carry them through. The musician, alas! encourages this method whenever he gets a chance; nine times out of ten, when an opportunity to review a composition falls to him, he approaches it on its technical side. Yet music is of all the arts in the world the last that a mere pedant should discuss. But if not a mere pedant, then neither a mere sentimentalist. [Sidenote: _Intelligence versus emotionalism._] "If I had to choose between the merits of two classes of hearers, one of whom had an intelligent appreciation of music without feeling emotion; the other an emotional feeling without an intelligent analysis, I should unhesitatingly decide in favor of the intelligent non-emotionalist. And for these reasons: The verdict of the intelligent non-emotionalist would be valuable as far as it goes, but that of the untrained emotionalist is not of the smallest value; his blame and his praise are equally unfounded and empty." [Sidenote: _Personal equation._] [Sidenote: _Exact criticism._] So writes Dr. Stainer, and it is his emotionalist against whom I uttered a warning in the introductory chapter of this book, when I called him a rhapsodist and described his motive to be primarily a desire to present himself as a person of unusually exquisite sensibilities. Frequently the rhapsodic style is adopted to conceal a want of knowledge, and, I fancy, sometimes also because ill-equipped critics have persuaded themselves that criticism being worthless, what the public need to read is a fantastic account of how music affects them. Now, it is true that what is chiefly valuable in criticism is what a man qualified to think and feel tells us he did think and feel under the inspiration of a performance; but when carried too far, or restricted too much, this conception of a critic's province lifts personal equation into dangerous prominence in the critical activity, and depreciates the elements of criticism, which are not matters of opinion or taste at all, but questions of fact, as exactly demonstrable as a problem in mathematics. In musical performance these elements belong to the technics of the art. Granted that the critic has a correct ear, a thing which he must have if he aspire to be a critic at all, and the possession of which is as easily proved as that of a dollar-bill in his pocket, the questions of justness of intonation in a singer or instrumentalist, balance of tone in an orchestra, correctness of phrasing, and many other things, are mere determinations of fact; the faculties which recognize their existence or discover their absence might exist in a person who is not "moved by concord of sweet sounds" at all, and whose taste is of the lowest type. It was the acoustician Euler, I believe, who said that he could construct a sonata according to the laws of mathematics--figure one out, that is. [Sidenote: _The Rhapsodists._] [Sidenote: _An English exemplar._] Because music is in its nature such a mystery, because so little of its philosophy, so little of its science is popularly known, there has grown up the tribe of rhapsodical writers whose influence is most pernicious. I have a case in mind at which I have already hinted in this book--that of a certain English gentleman who has gained considerable eminence because of the loveliness of the subject on which he writes and his deftness in putting words together. On many points he is qualified to speak, and on these he generally speaks entertainingly. He frequently blunders in details, but it is only when he writes in the manner exemplified in the following excerpt from his book called "My Musical Memories," that he does mischief. The reverend gentleman, talking about violins, has reached one that once belonged to Ernst. This, he says, he sees occasionally, but he never hears it more except [Sidenote: _Ernst's violin._] "In the night ... under the stars, when the moon is low and I see the dark ridges of the clover hills, and rabbits and hares, black against the paler sky, pausing to feed or crouching to listen to the voices of the night.... "By the sea, when the cold mists rise, and hollow murmurs, like the low wail of lost spirits, rush along the beach.... "In some still valley in the South, in midsummer. The slate-colored moth on the rock flashes suddenly into crimson and takes wing; the bright lizard darts timorously, and the singing of the grasshopper--" [Sidenote: _Mischievous writing._] [Sidenote: _Musical sensibility and sanity._] Well, the reader, if he has a liking for such things, may himself go on for quantity. This is intended, I fancy, for poetical hyperbole, but as a matter of fact it is something else, and worse. Mr. Haweis does not hear Ernst's violin under any such improbable conditions; if he thinks he does he is a proper subject for medical inquiry. Neither does his effort at fine writing help us to appreciate the tone of the instrument. He did not intend that it should, but he probably did intend to make the reader marvel at the exquisite sensibility of his soul to music. This is mischievous, for it tends to make the injudicious think that they are lacking in musical appreciation, unless they, too, can see visions and hear voices and dream fantastic dreams when music is sounding. When such writing is popular it is difficult to make men and women believe that they may be just as susceptible to the influence of music as the child Mozart was to the sound of a trumpet, yet listen to it without once feeling the need of taking leave of their senses or wandering away from sanity. Moreover, when Mr. Haweis says that he sees but does not hear Ernst's violin more, he speaks most undeserved dispraise of one of the best violin players alive, for Ernst's violin now belongs to and is played by Lady Hallé--she that was Madame Norman-Neruda. [Sidenote: _A place for rhapsody._] [Sidenote: _Intelligent rhapsody._] Is there, then, no place for rhapsodic writing in musical criticism? Yes, decidedly. It may, indeed, at times be the best, because the truest, writing. One would convey but a sorry idea of a composition were he to confine himself to a technical description of it--the number of its measures, its intervals, modulations, speed, and rhythm. Such a description would only be comprehensible to the trained musician, and to him would picture the body merely, not the soul. One might as well hope to tell of the beauty of a statue by reciting its dimensions. But knowledge as well as sympathy must speak out of the words, so that they may realize Schumann's lovely conception when he said that the best criticism is that which leaves after it an impression on the reader like that which the music made on the hearer. Read Dr. John Brown's account of one of Hallé's recitals, reprinted from "The Scotsman," in the collection of essays entitled "Spare Hours," if you would see how aptly a sweetly sane mind and a warm heart can rhapsodize without the help of technical knowledge: [Sidenote: _Dr. Brown and Beethoven._] "Beethoven (Dr. Brown is speaking of the Sonata in D, op. 10, No. 3) begins with a trouble, a wandering and groping in the dark, a strange emergence of order out of chaos, a wild, rich confusion and misrule. Wilful and passionate, often harsh, and, as it were, thick with gloom; then comes, as if 'it stole upon the air,' the burden of the theme, the still, sad music--_Largo e mesto_--so human, so sorrowful, and yet the sorrow overcome, not by gladness but by something better, like the sea, after a dark night of tempest, falling asleep in the young light of morning, and 'whispering how meek and gentle it can be.' This likeness to the sea, its immensity, its uncertainty, its wild, strong glory and play, its peace, its solitude, its unsearchableness, its prevailing sadness, comes more into our minds with this great and deep master's works than any other." That is Beethoven. [Sidenote: _Apollo and the critic--a fable._] [Sidenote: _The critic's duty to admire._] [Sidenote: _A mediator between musician and public._] [Sidenote: _Essential virtues._] Once upon a time--it is an ancient fable--a critic picked out all the faults of a great poet and presented them to Apollo. The god received the gift graciously and set a bag of wheat before the critic with the command that he separate the chaff from the kernels. The critic did the work with alacrity, and turning to Apollo for his reward, received the chaff. Nothing could show us more appositely than this what criticism should not be. A critic's duty is to separate excellence from defect, as Dr. Crotch says; to admire as well as to find fault. In the proportion that defects are apparent he should increase his efforts to discover beauties. Much flows out of this conception of his duty. Holding it the critic will bring besides all needful knowledge a fulness of love into his work. "Where sympathy is lacking, correct judgment is also lacking," said Mendelssohn. The critic should be the mediator between the musician and the public. For all new works he should do what the symphonists of the Liszt school attempt to do by means of programmes; he should excite curiosity, arouse interest, and pave the way to popular comprehension. But for the old he should not fail to encourage reverence and admiration. To do both these things he must know his duty to the past, the present, and the future, and adjust each duty to the other. Such adjustment is only possible if he knows the music of the past and present, and is quick to perceive the bent and outcome of novel strivings. He should be catholic in taste, outspoken in judgment, unalterable in allegiance to his ideals, unswervable in integrity. PLATES [Illustration: PLATE I VIOLIN--(CLIFFORD SCHMIDT)] [Illustration: PLATE II VIOLONCELLO--(VICTOR HERBERT)] [Illustration: PLATE III PICCOLO FLUTE--(C. KURTH, JUN.)] [Illustration: PLATE IV OBOE--(JOSEPH ELLER)] [Illustration: PLATE V ENGLISH HORN--(JOSEPH ELLER)] [Illustration: PLATE VI BASSOON--(FEDOR BERNHARDI)] [Illustration: PLATE VII CLARINET--(HENRY KAISER)] [Illustration: PLATE VIII BASS CLARINET--(HENRY KAISER)] [Illustration: PLATE IX FRENCH HORN--(CARL PIEPER)] [Illustration: PLATE X TROMBONE--(J. PFEIFFENSCHNEIDER)] [Illustration: PLATE XI BASS TUBA--(ANTON REITER)] [Illustration: PLATE XII THE CONDUCTOR'S SCORE] INDEX Absolute music, 36 Academy of Music, New York, 203 Adagio, in symphony, 133 Addison, 205, 206, 208 Allegro, in symphony, 132 Allemande, 173, 174 Alto clarinet, 104 Alto, male, 260 Amadeo, 241 Ambros, August Wilhelm, 49 Antiphony, 267 Archilochus, 213 Aria, 235 Arioso, 235 Asaph, 115 Bach, C.P.E., 180, 185 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 69, 83, 148, 167, 169, 170, 171, 174, 176, 180, 181, 184, 192, 257, 259, 267, 268, 278, 281, 282, 283, 286, 287, 289; his music, 281 _et seq._; his technique as player, 180, 181, 184; his choirs, 257, 259; compared with Palestrina, 278; "Magnificat," 283; Mass in B minor, 283; Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue, 171; Suites, 174, 176; "St. Matthew Passion," 267, 278, 282, 286, 289; Motet, "Sing ye to the Lord," 268; "St. John Passion," 286 _Balancement_, 170 Balfe, 223 Ballade, 192 Ballet music, 152 _Balletto_, 173 Bass clarinet, 104 Bass trumpet, 81, 82 Basset horn, 82 Bassoon, 74, 82, 99, 101 _et seq._ Bastardella, La, 239 Bayreuth Festival orchestra, 81, 82 _Bebung_, 169, 170 Beethoven, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 44, 46, 47, 49, 53, 60, 62, 63, 70, 92, 94, 101, 102, 103, 106, 113, 120, 125, 131, 132, 133, 136, 137, 138, 140, 141, 146, 147, 151, 167, 182, 184, 186, 187, 193, 195, 196, 203, 208, 232, 292, 321, 322; likenesses in his melodies, 33, 34; unity in his works, 27, 28, 29; his chamber music, 47; his sonatas, 182; his democracy, 46; not always idiomatic, 193; his pianoforte, 195; his pedal effects, 196; missal compositions, 292, 294; his overtures, 147; his free fantasias, 131; his technique as a player, 186; "Eroica" symphony, 100, 132, 136; Fifth symphony, 28, 29, 30, 31, 92, 103, 120, 125, 133; "Pastoral" symphony, 44, 49, 53, 62, 63, 94, 102, 132, 140, 141; Seventh symphony, 31, 32, 132, 133; Eighth symphony, 113; Ninth symphony, 33, 34, 35, 94, 133, 136, 138, 305; Sonata, op. 10, No. 3, 321; Sonata, op. 31, No. 2, 29; Sonata "Appassionata," 29, 30, 31; Pianoforte concerto in G, 31; Pianoforte concerto in E-flat, 146; Violin concerto, 146; "Becalmed at Sea," 60; "Fidelio," 203, 208, 232; Mass in D, 60, 292, 294; Serenade, op. 8, 151 Bell chime, 74 Bellini, 203, 204, 242, 245; "La Sonnambula," 204, 245; "Norma," 242 Benedetti, 242 Berlin _Singakademie_, 262 Berlioz, 49, 80, 87, 89, 90, 94, 100, 102, 104, 113, 137, 138, 139, 294, 295; "_L'idée fixe_," 137; "Symphonie Fantastique," 137; "Romeo and Juliet," 90, 94, 139; Requiem, 113, 294, 295 Bizet, "Carmen," 238, 242 Boileau, 206 Bosio, 241 Boston Symphony Orchestra, 81, 82, 108 Bottesini, 94 Bourrée, 173 Brahms's "Academic overture," 101 Branle, 173 Brass instruments, 74, 104 _et seq._ Brignoli, 209, 242 Broadwood's pianoforte, 195 Brown, Dr. John, 321 _Bully Bottom_ in music, 61 Bunner, H.C., 136 Burns's "Ye flowery banks," 175 Caccini, "Eurydice," 234 Cadences, 23 Cadenzas, 145 Calvé, Emma, 242, 247 Calvin and music, 275 Campanini, 242 Cantatas, 290 Cat's mew in music, 52 Catalani, 245, 246 Chaconne, 153 Chamber music, 36, 44 _et seq._, 144 Chicago Symphony Orchestra, 81, 82, 108 Choirs, 253 _et seq._; size of, 257 _et seq._, 264, 271; men's, 255, 260; boys', 261; women's, 261; mixed, 262, 264; division of, 260, 266; growth of, in Germany, 262; history of, in America, 263; in Cincinnati, 264; contralto voices in, 270 Choirs, orchestral, 74 Chopin, 167, 188, 190, 191, 192, 196; his romanticism, 188; Preludes, 190; Études, 191; Nocturnes, 191; Ballades, 192; Polonaises, 192; Mazurkas, 192; his pedal effects, 196 Choral music, 253 _et seq._; antiphonal, 267; mediæval, 274; Calvin on, 275; Luther's influence on, 276; congregational, 277; secular tunes in, 276, 277; Romanticism, influence on, 277; preponderance in oratorio, 289; dramatic and descriptive, 289 Chorley, H.F., on Jenny Lind's singing, 243 Church cantatas, 284 Cicero, 309 Cincinnati, choirs in, 264 Cinti-Damoreau, 241 Clarinet, 47, 74, 78, 82, 103 _et seq._, 151 Classical concerts, 122 _et seq._ Classical music, 36, 64, 122 _et seq._ Clavichord, 168, 181 _Clavier_, 171, 173 Clementi, 185, 195 Cock, song of the, 51, 53, 54 Coleridge, 11, 144 Coletti, 242 Comic opera, 224 Composers, how they hear music, 40 Concerto, 128, 144 _et seq._ Conductor, 114 _et seq._ Content of music, 36 _et seq._ Contra-bass trombone, 81, 82 Contra-bass tuba, 81, 82 Co-ordination of tones, 17 Coranto, Corrente, 173, 176 Cornelius, "Barbier von Bagdad," 236 Cornet, 73, 82, 108 Corno di bassetto, 81, 82 Corsi, 242 Couperin, 168 Courante, 173, 176 Covent Garden Theatre, London, 224, 226 Cowen, "Welsh" and "Scandinavian" symphonies, 132 Cracovienne, 193 Creole tune analyzed, 23, 24 Critics and criticism, 13, 297 _et seq._ Crotch, Dr., 322 Cuckoo, 51, 52, 53 Cymbals, 74, 82 Czardas, 201 Czerny, 186 Dactylic metre, 31 Dance, the ancient, 43, 212 Dannreuther, Edward, 129, 144, 187 Depth, musical delineation of, 59, 60 De Reszke, Edouard, 248 De Reszke, Jean, 247 Descriptive music, 51 _et seq._ Design and form, 16 De Staël, Madame, 210 D'Israeli, 315 Distance, musical delineation of, 60 Dithyramb, 212, 213 "Divisions," 265 Doles, Cantor, 292 Donizetti, 203, 204, 242; "Lucia," 203, 204 Double-bass, 74, 78, 82, 94 Double-bassoon, 103 Dragonetti, 94 Dramatic ballads, 290 Dramatic orchestras, 81, 82 _Dramma per musica_, 227, 249 Drummers, 113 Drums, 73, 74, 82, 110 _et seq._ Duality of music, 15 "Dump" and _Dumka_, 151 _Durchführung_, 131 Dvorák, symphonies, "From the New World," 132, 138; in G major, 136 Eames, Emma, 247 Edwards, G. Sutherland, 12 Elements of music, 15, 19 Emotionality in music, 43 English horn, 82, 99, 100 English opera, 223 Ernst's violin, 320 Esterhazy, Prince, 46 Euler, acoustician, 317 Expression, words of, 43 Familiar music best liked, 21 Fancy, 15, 16, 58 Farinelli, 240 Fasch, C.F., 262 Feelings, their relation to music, 38 _et seq._, 215, 216 Ferri, 239, 240 Finale, symphonic, 135 First movement in symphony, 131 Flageolet tones, 89 Florentine inventors of the opera, 217, 227, 234, 249 Flute, 73, 74, 78, 82, 95 _et seq._ Form, 16, 17, 22, 35 Formes, 242, 248 Frederick the Great, 263 Free Fantasia, 131 French horn, 47, 106 _et seq._ Frezzolini, 242 _Friss_, 201 Frogs, musical delineation of, 58, 62 "Gallina et Gallo," 53 Gavotte, 173, 179 German opera, 226 Gerster, Etelka, 242, 245 Gesture, 43 Gigue, 173, 174, 178 Gilbert, W.S., 208, 224 Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas, 224 _Glockenspiel_, 110 Gluck, 84, 148, 153, 202, 203, 238; his dancers, 153; his orchestra, 238; "Alceste," 148; "Iphigénie en Aulide," 153; "Orfeo," 202, 203 Goethe, 34, 140, 223 Goldmark, "Sakuntala" overture, 149 Gong, 110 Gossec, Requiem, 293 Gounod, "Faust," 209, 224, 238, 246 _Grand Opéra_, 223, 224 Greek Tragedy, 211 _et seq._ Grisi, 241, 242 _Grosse Oper_, 224 Grove, Sir George, 33, 63, 141, 187 Gypsy music, 198 _et seq._ Hallé, Lady, 320 Hamburg, opera in, 206, 207 Handel, 58, 60, 62, 83, 102, 126, 148, 174, 177, 178, 181, 182, 184, 256, 257, 258, 259, 265, 272; his orchestra, 84; his suites, 174; his overtures, 148; his technique as a player, 181, 182, 184; his choirs, 257; Commemoration, 258; his _tutti_, 258; "Messiah," 60, 126, 256, 257, 265, 272; "Saul," 102; "Almira," 177; "Rinaldo," 178; "Israel in Egypt," 58, 62, 257, 259, 289; "_Lascia ch'io pianga_," 178 Hanslick, Dr. Eduard, 203 Harmonics, on violin, 89 Harmony, 19, 21, 22, 218 Harp, 82 Harpsichord, 168, 170 Hauptmann, M., 41 Hautboy, 99 Haweis, the Rev. Mr., 318 _et seq._ Haydn, 46, 84, 100, 127, 168, 183, 295; his manner of composing, 183; dramatic effects in his masses, 295; "Seasons," 100 Hebrew music, 114; poetry, 25 Height, musical delineation of, 59, 60 Heman, 115 Hen, song of, in music, 52, 53, 54 Herbarth, philosopher, 39 Hiller, Ferdinand, 307, 310 Hiller, Johann Adam, 258 Hogarth, Geo., "Memoirs of the Opera," 210, 245 Horn, 82, 105, 106 _et seq._, 151 Hungarian music, 198 _et seq._ Hymn-tunes, history of, 275 Iambics, 175 "_Idée fixe_," Berlioz's, 137 Identification of themes, 35 Idiomatic pianoforte music, 193, 194 Idioms, musical, 44, 51, 55 Imagination, 15, 16, 58 Imitation of natural sounds, 51 Individual attitude of man toward music, 37 Instrumental musicians, former legal status of, 83 Instrumentation, 71 _et seq._; in the mass, 293 _et seq._ Intelligent hearing, 16, 18, 37 Intermediary necessary, 20 _Intermezzi_, 221 Interrelation of musical elements, 22 Janizary music, 97 Jean Paul, 67, 189, 190 Jeduthun, 115 Jig, 179 Judgment, 311 Kalidasa, 149 Kettle-drums, 111 _et seq._ Key relationship, 26, 129 Kinds of music, 36 _et seq._ _Kirchencantaten_, 284 Krakowiak, 193 Kullak, 184 Lablache, 248 La Grange, 241, 245 Lamb, Charles, 10 Language of tones, 42, 43 _Lassu_, 201 Laws, musical, mutability of, 69 Lehmann, Lilli, 233, 244, 247 Lenz, 33 Leoncavallo, 228 Lind, Jenny, 241, 243 Liszt, 132, 140, 142, 143, 167, 168, 193, 197, 198, 228; his music, 168, 193, 197; his transcriptions, 167; his rhapsodies, 167, 198; his symphonic poems, 142; "Faust" symphony, 132, 140; Concerto in E-flat, 143; "St. Elizabeth," 288 Literary blunders concerning music, 9, 10, 11, 12 Local color, 152, 153 London opera, 206, 207, 226 Louis XIV., 179 Lucca, Pauline, 242, 246, 247 Lully, his overtures, 148; minuet, 179; "Atys," 206 Luther, Martin, 276 Lyric drama, 231, 234, 237, 251 Madrigal, 274 Magyar music, 198 _et seq._ Major mode, 57 Male alto, 260 Male chorus, 255, 260 Malibran, 241 _Männergesang_, 255, 260 Marie Antoinette, 153 Mario, 242, 247, 271 Marschner, "Hans Heiling," 225; "Templer und Jüdin," 225; "Vampyr," 225; his operas, 248 Mascagni, 228 Mass, the, 290 _et seq._ Massenet, "Le Cid," 152 Materials of music, 16 Materna, Amalia, 247 Matthews, Brander, 11 Mazurka, 192 Melba, Nellie, 204, 238, 245, 247, 271 Melody, 19, 21, 22, 24 Memory, 19, 21, 73 Mendelssohn, 41, 42, 49, 59, 61, 67, 102, 109, 132, 139, 140, 149, 168, 243, 278, 288, 289, 322; on the content of music, 41, 42; his Romanticism, 67; on the use of the trombones, 109; opinion of Jenny Lind, 243; "Songs without Words," 41; "Hebrides" overture, 59, 149; "Midsummer Night's Dream," 61, 102; "Scotch" symphony, 132, 139; "Italian" symphony, 132; "Hymn of Praise," 140; "St. Paul," 278; "Elijah," 288, 289 Mersenne, "Harmonie universelle," 175, 176 Metropolitan Opera House, New York, 203, 224, 226, 244 Meyerbeer, 89, 102, 203, 204, 208, 242, 243, 244; "L'Africaine," 89; "Robert le Diable," 102, 208, 244; "Huguenots," 204; "L'Étoile du Nord," 243 Military bands, 123 Minor mode, 57 Minuet, 134, 151, 173, 179 Mirabeau, 293 Model, none in nature for music, 8, 180 Monteverde, "Orfeo," 87 Moscheles, on Jenny Lind's singing, 243 Motet, 283 Motives, 22, 24 Mozart, 84, 109, 132, 145, 151, 168, 183, 184, 195, 202, 203, 221, 224, 228, 230, 238, 244, 265, 292; his pianoforte technique, 184; on Doles's mass, 292; his orchestra, 238; his edition of Handel's "Messiah," 265; on cadenzas, 145; his pianoforte, 195; his serenades, 151; "Don Giovanni," 109, 202, 221, 222, 228, 230; "Magic Flute," 203; G-minor symphony, 132; "Figaro," 202, 228 _Musica parlante_, 234 Musical instruction, deficiencies in, 9 Musician, Critic, and Public, 297 _Musikdrama_, 227, 238, 249 Neri, Filippo, 288 Nevada, Emma, 204 Newspaper, the modern, 297, 298, 313 New York Opera, 206, 226, 241 Niecks, Frederick, 192 Niemann, Albert, 233 Nightingale, in music, 52 Nilsson, Christine, 242, 246, 247 Nordica, Lillian, 247 Norman-Neruda, Madame, 320 Notes not music, 20 Nottebohm, "Beethoveniana," 63 Oboe, 47, 74, 78, 82, 84, 98 _et seq._ Opera, descriptive music in, 61; history of, 202 _et seq._; language of, 205; polyglot performances of, 207 _et seq._; their texts perverted, 207 _et seq._; words of, 209, 210; elements in, 214; invention of, 216 _et seq._; varieties of, 220 _et seq._; comic elements in, 221; action and incident in, 236; singing in, 239; singers compared, 241 _et seq._ _Opéra bouffe_, 220, 221, 225 _Opera buffa_, 220 _Opéra comique_, 223 _Opéra, Grand_, 223 _Opera in musica_, 228 _Opera semiseria_, 221 _Opera seria_, 220 _Opus_, 132 Oratorio, 256, 287 _et seq._ Orchestra, 71 _et seq._ Ostrander, Dr. Lucas, 278 "Ouida," 12 Overture, 147 _et seq._, 174 Paderewski, his recitals, 154 _et seq._; his Romanticism, 167; "Krakowiak," 193 Painful, the, not fit subject for music, 50 Palestrina and Bach, 278 _et seq._; his music, 279 _et seq._; "Stabat Mater," 279, 280; "Improperia," 280; "Missa Papæ Marcelli," 280 Pandean pipes, 98 Pantomime, 43 Parallelism, 25 Passepied, 173 "Passions," 284 _et seq._ Patti, Adelina, 203, 204, 238, 242, 245, 247 Pedals, pianoforte, 195, 196 Pedants, 13, 315 Percussion instruments, 110 _et seq._ Peri, "Eurydice," 234 Periods, musical, 22, 24 Perkins, C.C., 263 Pfund, his drums, 112 Philharmonic Society of New York, 76, 77, 81, 82 Phrases, musical, 22, 24 Physical effects of music, 38 Pianoforte, history and description of, 154 _et seq._; its music, 154 _et seq._, 166 _et seq._; concertos, 144; trios, 147 Piccolo flute, 85, 97 Piccolomini, 242, 245 Pictures in music, 40 _Pifa_, Handel's, 126 _Pizzicato_, 88, 91 Plançon, 248 Polonaise, 192 Polyphony and feelings, 39 Popular concerts, 122 Porpora, 209 "_Pov' piti Momzelle Zizi_," 23 Preludes, 148, 174 Programme music, 36, 44, 48 _et seq._, 64, 142 Puccini, 228 Quail, call of, in music, 51, 54 Quartet, 147 Quilled instruments, 170 Quinault, "Atys," 206 Quintet, 147 Quintillian, 309 Raff, 49, 96, 132; "Lenore" symphony, 96, 132; "Im Walde" symphony, 132 Rameau, 168 Recitative, 219, 220, 228 _et seq._ Reed instruments, 98 _et seq._ Reformation, its influence on music, 275, 278, 280 Refrain, 25 Register of the orchestra, 85 Repetition, 22, 25 Rhapsodists among writers, 13, 315 _et seq._ Rhythm, 19, 21, 26, 160 "_Ridendo castigat mores_," 225 Rinuccini, "Eurydice," 234 Romantic music, 36, 64 _et seq._, 71, 277 Romantic opera, 225 Ronconi, 242 Rondeau and Rondo, 135 Rossini, 147, 228, 242; his overtures, 147; "Il Barbiere," 228; "William Tell," 93, 100 Rubinstein, 59, 152, 167, 168, 287; his historical recitals, 167; his sacred operas, 287; "Ocean" symphony, 59; "Feramors," 152 Ruskin, John, 302 Russian composers, 134 Sacred Operas, 287 Saint-Saëns, "Danse Macabre," 101, 111; symphony in C minor, 141; "Samson and Delilah," 288 Salvi, 242 Sarabande, 173, 174, 177 Sassarelli, 240 Scarlatti, D., 167, 172, 182; his technique, 172; "Capriccio" and "Pastorale," 172 Scheffer, Ary, 246 Scherzo, 133, 179 Schröder-Devrient, 232 Schubert, 168 Schumann, 49, 64, 132, 133, 139, 140, 141, 167, 188, 189, 190, 196, 254, 308, 310; his Romanticism, 188; and Jean Paul, 189; his pedal effects, 196; on popular judgment, 308, 310; symphony in C, 132; symphony in D minor, 139; symphony in B-flat, 140; "Rhenish" symphony, 140, 141; "Carnaval," 189, 190; "Papillons," 189, 190; "Kreisleriana," 190; "Phantasiestücke," 190 Score, 120 "Scotch snap," 52, 200 Second movement in symphony, 133 Seidl, Anton, 77 Sembrich, Marcella, 242, 245 Senesino, 239, 240 Sense-perception, 18 Serenade, 149 _et seq._ Shaftesbury, Lord, 311 Shakespeare, his dances, 153, 179; his dramas, 202; a Romanticist, 221; "Two Gentlemen of Verona," 150; Queen Mab, 90 Singing, physiology of, 215, 218; operatic, 239; choral, 268 Singing Societies, 253 _et seq._ _Singspiel_, 223 Smith, F. Hopkinson, 11 _Sonata da Camera_, 173 Sonata, 127, 182, 183 Sonata form, 127 _et seq._ Sontag, 241, 244, 245, 246 Sordino, 90 Space, music has no place in, 59 Speech and music, 43 Spencer, Herbert, 39, 43, 216, 218, 230 Spinet, 168, 170 Spohr, "Jessonda," 225 Stainer, Dr., 39, 316 Stein, pianoforte maker, 196 _Stilo rappresentativo_, 234 Stories, in music, 40 Strings, orchestral, 74, 82, 86 _et seq._, 102 Sucher, Rosa, 247 Suite, 129, 152, 173 _et seq._ Symphonic poem, 142 Symphonic prologue, 148 Symphony, 124 _et seq._, 183 Syrinx, 98 Talent in listening, 4 Tambourine, 110 Tappert, "Zooplastik in Tönen," 51 Taste, 311 Technique, 163 _et seq._ Tennyson, 9 Terminology, musical, 8 _Théatre nationale de l'Opéra-Comique_, 223 Thespis, 212 Thomas, "Mignon," 223 _Tibia_, 98 Titiens, 242 Tonal language, 42, 43 Tones, co-ordination of, 17 Touch, 163 _et seq._ _Tragedia per musica_, 227 Tremolo, 91 Trench, Archbishop, 65, 66 Triangle, 74, 110 Trio, 134 Triolet, 136 Trombone, 82, 105, 106, 109 _et seq._ Trumpet, 105, 108 Tschaikowsky, 88, 132; "Symphonie Pathétique," 132 Tuba, 82, 85, 106, 108 "Turkish" music, 97 Tympani, 82, 111 _et seq._ Ugly, the, not fit for music, 50 United States, first to have amateur singing societies, 257, 262; spread of choral music in, 263 Unity in the symphony, 27, 137 Vaudevilles, 224 Verdi, 152, 203, 210, 228, 236, 238, 242, 243; "Aïda," 152, 228, 238; "Il Trovatore," 210, 243; "Otello," 228, 238; "Falstaff," 228, 236; Requiem, 290 Vestris, 153 Vibrato, 90 Vile, the, unfit for music, 50 Viola, 74, 77, 82, 92, 93 _Viole da braccio_, 93 _Viole da gamba_, 93 Violin, 73, 74, 77, 82, 86 _et seq._, 144, 162 Violin concertos, 145 Violoncello, 74, 77, 82, 92, 93, 94 Virginal, 168, 170 Vocal music, 61, 215 _Vorspiel_, 148 Wagner, 41, 79, 80, 81, 88, 89, 94, 111, 205, 206, 219, 226, 227, 232, 235, 237, 238, 244, 248, 249, 250, 251, 303, 305, 314; on the content of music, 41; his instrumentation, 80, 111; his dramas, 219, 226, 227, 248; _Musikdrama_, 227, 249; his dialogue, 235; his orchestra, 238, 250; his operas, 248; his theories, 249; endless melody, 250; typical phrases, 250; "leading motives," 250; popularity of his music, 303; on criticism, 314; "Flying Dutchman," 248; "Tannhäuser," 248; "Lohengrin," 79, 88, 235, 248; "Die Meistersinger," 249; "Tristan und Isolde," 87, 237, 249; "Rheingold," 237; "Die Walküre," 94, 237; "Siegfried," 237, 244; "Die Götterdämmerung," 237; "Ring of the Nibelung," 249, 251, 305; "Parsifal," 249 _Waldhorn,_ 107 Wallace, W.V., 223 Walter, Jacob, 53 Water, musical delineation of, 58, 59 Weber, 67, 96, 244, 248; his Romanticism, 67; "Der Freischütz," 96, 225; "Oberon," 225; "Euryanthe," 225 Weitzmann, "Geschichte des Clavierspiels," 201 Welsh choirs, 255 Wood-wind instruments, 74, 77, 78, 95 Xylophone, 111 Ysaye, on Cadenzas, 146 SOME MUSICAL BOOKS THE LETTERS OF FRANZ LISZT. Edited and collected by LA MARA. With portraits. Crown 8vo, 2 vols., $6.00. RICHARD WAGNER'S LETTERS to his Dresden Friends--Theodore Uhlig, Wilhelm Fischer, and Ferdinand Heine. Translated by J.S. SHEDLOCK. Crown 8vo, $3.50. JENNY LIND THE ARTIST, 1820-1851. Memoir of Madame Jenny Lind-Goldschmidt. Her Art Life and Dramatic Career, from original documents, etc. By CANON H.S. HOLLAND and W.S. ROCKSTRO. With illustrations, 12mo, $2.50. WAGNER AND HIS WORKS. The Story of his Life, with Critical Comments. By HENRY T. FINCK. Third edition. With portraits. 2 vols., 12mo, $4.00. CHOPIN AND OTHER MUSICAL ESSAYS. By HENRY T. FINCK. 12mo, $1.50. A CONCISE HISTORY OF MUSIC, from the Commencement of the Christian Era to the present time. By H.G.B. HUNT. With numerous tables. 12mo, $1.00. CHARLES GOUNOD, AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL REMINISCENCES, with Family Letters and Notes on Music. Translated by the HON. W. HUTCHINSON. With portrait. 8vo, $3.00. THE GREAT MUSICIANS SERIES. Edited by F. HUEFFER. 14 vols., 12mo, each, $1.00. THE STUDENT'S HELMHOLTZ. Musical Acoustics, or the Phenomena of Sound. By JOHN BROADHOUSE. With musical illustrations and examples. 12mo, $3.00. CYCLOPEDIA OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. Edited by JOHN DENISON CHAMPLIN, JR. Critical editor, W.F. APTHORP. Popular edition. Large octavo, 3 vols., $15.00 net. LETTERS OF A BARITONE. By FRANCIS WALKER. 16mo, $1.25. MUSICIANS AND MUSIC LOVERS, AND OTHER ESSAYS. By W.F. APTHORP. 12mo, $1.50. THE WAGNER STORY BOOK. Firelight Tales of the Great Music-Dramas. By W.H. FROST. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50. MASTERS OF CONTEMPORARY MUSIC. 4 vols., 12mo. Illustrated. Each, $1.75. Masters of English Music, by Charles Willeby; Masters of French Music, by Arthur Hervey; Masters of German Music, by J.A. Fuller-Maitland; Masters of Italian Music, by R.A. Streatfield. THE EVOLUTION OF CHURCH MUSIC. By Rev. F.L. HUMPHREYS, 12mo, $1.75 net. THE STORY OF BRITISH MUSIC, from the Earliest Times to the Tudor Period. By F.J. CROWEST. Illustrated. 8vo, $3.50. THE HISTORY OF MUSIC, from the Earliest Times to the Time of the Troubadours. By J.F. ROWBOTHAM. 12mo, $2.50. THE LEGENDS OF THE WAGNER DRAMA. Studies in Mythology and Romance. By JESSIE L. WESTON. 12mo, $2.25. _A Descriptive List of Musical Books (112 pages) sent upon application._ Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers, 153-157 Fifth Ave., New York. 
19116	----	HOW TO SING [MEINE GESANGSKUNST] BY LILLI LEHMANN [Illustration: MADAME LILLI LEHMANN.] TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY RICHARD ALDRICH New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 1902 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped November, 1902. Norwood Press J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: In this e-text, characters with macrons are preceded by an equal sign and enclosed in brackets, e.g., [=a]. Characters with breves are preceded by a right parenthesis and enclosed in brackets, e.g., [)e]. Superscripted characters are preceded by a carat, e.g., Gretel^e.] CONTENTS PAGE MY PURPOSE 1 MY TITLE TO WRITE ON THE ART OF SONG 5 SECTION I PRELIMINARY PRACTICE 11 SECTION II OF THE BREATH 19 SECTION III OF THE BREATH AND WHIRLING CURRENTS 27 SECTION IV THE SINGER'S PHYSIOLOGICAL STUDIES 35 SECTION V EQUALIZING THE VOICE; BREATH; FORM 45 SECTION VI THE ATTACK 69 SECTION VII NASAL. NASAL SINGING 73 SECTION VIII SINGING TOWARD THE NOSE. HEAD VOICE 78 SECTION IX THE HEAD VOICE 86 SECTION X SENSATION AND POSITION OF THE TONGUE 99 SECTION XI THE SENSATIONS OF THE PALATE 102 SECTION XII THE SENSATION OF THE RESONANCE OF THE HEAD CAVITIES 108 SECTION XIII SINGING COVERED 123 SECTION XIV ON VOCAL REGISTERS 133 SECTION XV DEVELOPMENT AND EQUALIZATION 142 SECTION XVI WHITE VOICES 154 SECTION XVII THEODOR WACHTEL 158 SECTION XVIII THE HIGHEST HEAD TONES 162 SECTION XIX EXTENSION OF THE COMPASS AND EQUALIZATION OF REGISTERS 169 SECTION XX THE TREMOLO 170 SECTION XXI THE CURE 176 SECTION XXII THE TONGUE 181 SECTION XXIII PREPARATION FOR SINGING 189 SECTION XXIV THE POSITION OF THE MOUTH (CONTRACTION OF THE MUSCLES OF SPEECH) 192 SECTION XXV CONNECTION OF VOWELS 196 SECTION XXVI THE LIPS 212 SECTION XXVII THE VOWEL SOUND _AH_ 214 SECTION XXVIII ITALIAN AND GERMAN 219 SECTION XXIX AUXILIARY VOWELS 226 SECTION XXX RESONANT CONSONANTS 229 SECTION XXXI PRACTICAL EXERCISES 232 SECTION XXXII THE GREAT SCALE 239 SECTION XXXIII VELOCITY 245 SECTION XXXIV TRILL 251 SECTION XXXV HOW TO HOLD ONE'S SELF WHEN PRACTISING 256 SECTION XXXVI CONCERNING EXPRESSION 263 SECTION XXXVII BEFORE THE PUBLIC 265 SECTION XXXVIII INTERPRETATION 270 SECTION XXXIX IN CONCLUSION 279 NOTE.--A GOOD REMEDY FOR CATARRH AND HOARSENESS 281 MY PURPOSE My purpose is to discuss simply, intelligibly, yet from a scientific point of view, the sensations known to us in singing, and exactly ascertained in my experience, by the expressions "singing open," "covered," "dark," "nasal," "in the head," or "in the neck," "forward," or "back." These expressions correspond to our sensations in singing; but they are unintelligible as long as the causes of those sensations are unknown, and everybody has a different idea of them. Many singers try their whole lives long to produce them and never succeed. This happens because science understands too little of singing, the singer too little of science. I mean that the physiological explanations of the highly complicated processes of singing are not plainly enough put for the singer, who has to concern himself chiefly with his sensations in singing and guide himself by them. Scientific men are not at all agreed as to the exact functions of the several organs; the humblest singer knows something about them. Every serious artist has a sincere desire to help others reach the goal--the goal toward which all singers are striving: to sing well and beautifully. The true art of song has always been possessed and will always be possessed by such individuals as are dowered by nature with all that is needful for it--that is, healthy vocal organs, uninjured by vicious habits of speech; a good ear, a talent for singing, intelligence, industry, and energy. In former times eight years were devoted to the study of singing--at the Prague Conservatory, for instance. Most of the mistakes and misunderstandings of the pupil could be discovered before he secured an engagement, and the teacher could spend so much time in correcting them that the pupil learned to pass judgment on himself properly. But art to-day must be pursued like everything else, by steam. Artists are turned out in factories, that is, in so-called conservatories, or by teachers who give lessons ten or twelve hours a day. In two years they receive a certificate of competence, or at least the diploma of the factory. The latter, especially, I consider a crime, that the state should prohibit. All the inflexibility and unskilfulness, mistakes and deficiencies, which were formerly disclosed during a long course of study, do not appear now, under the factory system, until the student's public career has begun. There can be no question of correcting them, for there is no time, no teacher, no critic; and the executant has learned nothing, absolutely nothing, whereby he could undertake to distinguish or correct them. The incompetence and lack of talent whitewashed over by the factory concern lose only too soon their plausible brilliancy. A failure in life is generally the sad end of such a factory product; and to factory methods the whole art of song is more and more given over as a sacrifice. I cannot stand by and see these things with indifference. My artistic conscience urges me to disclose all that I have learned and that has become clear to me in the course of my career, for the benefit of art; and to give up my "secrets," which seem to be secrets only because students so rarely pursue the path of proper study to its end. If artists, often such only in name, come to a realization of their deficiencies, they lack only too frequently the courage to acknowledge them to others. Not until we artists all reach the point when we can take counsel with each other about our mistakes and deficiencies, and discuss the means for overcoming them, putting our pride in our pockets, will bad singing and inartistic effort be checked, and our noble art of singing come into its rights again. MY TITLE TO WRITE ON THE ART OF SONG Rarely are so many desirable and necessary antecedents united as in my case. The child of two singers, my mother being gifted musically quite out of the common, and active for many years not only as a dramatic singer, but also as a harp virtuoso, I, with my sister Marie, received a very careful musical education; and later a notable course of instruction in singing from her. From my fifth year on I listened daily to singing lessons; from my ninth year I played accompaniments on the pianoforte, sang all the missing parts, in French, Italian, German, and Bohemian; got thoroughly familiar with all the operas, and very soon knew how to tell good singing from bad. Our mother took care, too, that we should hear all the visiting notabilities of that time in opera as well as in concert; and there were many of them every year at the Deutsches Landestheater in Prague. She herself had found a remarkable singing teacher in the Frankfort basso, Föppel; and kept her voice noble, beautiful, young, and strong to the end of her life,--that is, till her seventy-seventh year,--notwithstanding enormous demands upon it and many a blow of fate. She could diagnose a voice infallibly; but required a probation of three to four months to test talent and power of making progress. I have been on the stage since my eighteenth year; that is, for thirty-four years. In Prague I took part every day in operas, operettas, plays, and farces. Thereafter in Danzig I sang from eighteen to twenty times a month in coloratura and soubrette parts; also in Leipzig, and later, fifteen years in Berlin. In addition I sang in very many oratorios and concerts, and gave lessons now and then. As long as my mother lived she was my severest critic, never satisfied. Finally I became such for myself. Now fifteen years more have passed, of which I spent eight very exacting ones as a dramatic singer in America, afterward fulfilling engagements as a star, in all languages, in Germany, Austria, Hungary, France, England, and Sweden. My study of singing, nevertheless, was not relaxed. I kept it up more and more zealously by myself, learned something from everybody, learned to _hear_ myself and others. For many years I have been devoting myself to the important questions relating to singing, and believe that I have finally found what I have been seeking. It has been my endeavor to set down as clearly as possible all that I have learned through zealous, conscientious study by myself and with others, and thereby to offer to my colleagues something that will bring order into the chaos of their methods of singing; something based on science as well as on sensations in singing; something that will bring expressions often misunderstood into clear relation with the exact functions of the vocal organs. In what I have just said I wish to give a sketch of my career only to show what my voice has endured, and why, notwithstanding the enormous demands I have made upon it, it has lasted so well. One who has sung for a short time, and then has lost his voice, and for this reason becomes a singing teacher, has never sung consciously; it has simply been an accident, and this accident will be repeated, for good or for ill, in his pupils. The talent in which all the requirements of an artist are united is very rare. Real talent will get along, even with an inferior teacher, in some way or another; while the best teacher cannot produce talent where there is none. Such a teacher, however, will not beguile people with promises that cannot be kept. My chief attention I devote to artists, whom I can, perhaps, assist in their difficult, but glorious, profession. One is never done with learning; and that is especially true of singers. I earnestly hope that I may leave them something, in my researches, experiences, and studies, that will be of use. I regard it as my duty; and I confide it to all who are striving earnestly for improvement. GRÜNEWALD, Oct. 31, 1900. SECTION I PRELIMINARY PRACTICE It is very important for all who wish to become artists to begin their work not with practical exercises in singing, but with serious practice in tone production, in breathing in and out, in the functions of the lungs and palate, in clear pronunciation of all letters, and with speech in general. Then it would soon be easy to recognize talent or the lack of it. Many would open their eyes in wonder over the difficulties of learning to sing, and the proletariat of singers would gradually disappear. With them would go the singing conservatories and the bad teachers who, for a living, teach everybody that comes, and promise to make everybody a great artist. Once when I was acting as substitute for a teacher in a conservatory, the best pupils of the institution were promised me,--those who needed only the finishing touches. But when, after my first lesson, I went to the director and complained of the ignorance of the pupils, my mouth was closed with these words, "For Heaven's sake, don't say such things, or we could never keep our conservatory going!" I had enough, and went. The best way is for pupils to learn preparatory books by heart, and make drawings. In this way they will get the best idea of the vocal organs, and learn their functions by sensation as soon as they begin to sing. The pupil should be subjected to strict examinations. _In what does artistic singing differ from natural singing?_ In a clear understanding of all the organs concerned in voice production, and their functions, singly and together; in the understanding of the sensations in singing, conscientiously studied and scientifically explained; in a gradually cultivated power of contracting and relaxing the muscles of the vocal organs, that power culminating in the ability to submit them to severe exertions and keep them under control. The prescribed tasks must be mastered so that they can be done without exertion, with the whole heart and soul, and with complete understanding. How is this to be attained? Through natural gifts, among which I reckon the possession of sound organs and a well-favored body; through study guided by an excellent teacher _who can sing well himself_,--study that must be kept up for at least six years, without counting the preliminary work. Only singers formed on such a basis, after years of work, deserve the title of artist; only such have a right to look forward to a lasting future, and only those equipped with such a knowledge ought to teach. _Of what consists artistic singing?_ Of a clear understanding, first and foremost, of breathing, in and out; of an understanding of the form through which the breath has to flow, prepared by a proper position of the larynx, the tongue, and the palate. Of a knowledge and understanding of the functions of the muscles of the abdomen and diaphragm, which regulate the breath pressure; then, of the chest-muscle tension, against which the breath is forced, and whence, under the control of the singer, after passing through the vocal cords, it beats against the resonating surfaces and vibrates in the cavities of the head. Of a highly cultivated skill and flexibility in adjusting all the vocal organs and in putting them into minutely graduated movements, without inducing changes through the pronunciation of words or the execution of musical figures that shall be injurious to the tonal beauty or the artistic expression of the song. Of an immense muscular power in the breathing apparatus and all the vocal organs, the strengthening of which to endure sustained exertion cannot be begun too long in advance; and the exercising of which, as long as one sings in public, must never be remitted for a single day. As beauty and stability of tone do not depend upon excessive _pressure_ of the breath, so the muscular power of the organs used in singing does not depend on convulsive rigidity, but in that snakelike power of contracting and loosening,[1] which a singer must consciously have under perfect control. [Footnote 1: In physiology when the muscles resume their normal state, they are said to be _relaxed_. But as I wish to avoid giving a false conception in our vocal sensations, I prefer to use the word "loosening."] The study needed for this occupies an entire lifetime; not only because the singer must perfect himself more and more in the rôles of his repertory--even after he has been performing them year in and year out,--but because he must continually strive for progress, setting himself tasks that require greater and greater mastery and strength, and thereby demand fresh study. _He who stands still, goes backward._ Nevertheless, there are fortunately gifted geniuses in whom are already united all the qualities needed to attain greatness and perfection, and whose circumstances in life are equally fortunate; who can reach the goal earlier, without devoting their whole lives to it. Thus, for instance, in Adelina Patti everything was united,--the splendid voice, paired with great talent for singing, and the long oversight of her studies by her distinguished teacher, Strakosch. She never sang rôles that did not suit her voice; in her earlier years she sang only arias and duets or single solos, never taking part in ensembles. She never sang even her limited repertory when she was indisposed. She never attended rehearsals, but came to the theatre in the evening and sang triumphantly, without ever having seen the persons who sang and acted with her. She spared herself rehearsals which, on the day of the performance, or the day before, exhaust all singers, because of the excitement of all kinds attending them, and which contribute neither to the freshness of the voice nor to the joy of the profession. Although she was a Spaniard by birth and an American by early adoption, she was, so to speak, the greatest Italian singer of my time. All was absolutely good, correct, and flawless, the voice like a bell that you seemed to hear long after its singing had ceased. Yet she could give no explanation of her art, and answered all her colleagues' questions concerning it with an "Ah, je n'en sais rien!" She possessed, unconsciously, as a gift of nature, a union of all those qualities that all other singers must attain and possess _consciously_. Her vocal organs stood in the most favorable relations to each other. Her talent, and her remarkably trained ear, maintained control over the beauty of her singing and of her voice. The fortunate circumstances of her life preserved her from all injury. The purity and flawlessness of her tone, the beautiful equalization of her whole voice, constituted the magic by which she held her listeners entranced. Moreover, she was beautiful and gracious in appearance. The accent of great dramatic power she did not possess; yet I ascribe this more to her intellectual indolence than to her lack of ability. SECTION II OF THE BREATH The breath becomes voice through the operation of the will, and the instrumentality of the vocal organs. To regulate the breath, to prepare a passage of the proper form through which it shall flow, circulate, develop itself, and reach the necessary resonating chambers, must be our chief task. Concerning the breath and much more besides there is so much that is excellent in Oscar Guttmann's "Gymnastik der Stimme" that I can do no better than to refer to it and recommend it strongly to the attention of all earnest students. How do I breathe? Very short of breath by nature, my mother had to keep me as a little child almost sitting upright in bed. After I had outgrown that and as a big girl could run around and play well enough, I still had much trouble with shortness of breath in the beginning of my singing lessons. For years I practised breathing exercises every day without singing, and still do so with especial pleasure, now that everything that relates to the breath and the voice has become clear to me. Soon I had got so far that I could hold a swelling and diminishing tone from fifteen to eighteen seconds. I had learned this: to draw in the abdomen and diaphragm, raise the chest and hold the breath in it by the aid of the ribs; in letting out the breath _gradually_ to relax the body and to let the chest fall slowly. To do everything _thoroughly_ I doubtless exaggerated it all. But since for twenty-five years I have breathed in this way almost exclusively, with the utmost care, I have naturally attained great dexterity in it; and my abdominal and chest muscles and my diaphragm, have been strengthened to a remarkable degree. Yet I was not satisfied. A horn player in Berlin with the power of holding a very long breath, once told me in answer to a question, that he drew in his abdomen and diaphragm very strongly, but immediately relaxed his abdomen again as soon as he began to play. I tried the same thing with the _best results_. Quite different, and very naïve, was the answer I once got from three German orchestral horn players in America. They looked at me in entire bewilderment, and appeared not to understand in the least my questions as to how they breathed. Two of them declared that the best way was not to think about it at all. But when I asked if their teachers had never told them how they should breathe, the third answered, after some reflection, "Oh, yes!" and pointed in a general way to his stomach. The first two were right, in so far as too violent inhalation of breath is really undesirable, because thereby _too much_ air is drawn in. But such ignorance of the subject is disheartening, and speaks ill for the conservatories in which the players were trained, whose performances naturally are likely to give art a black eye. Undoubtedly I took in too much air in breathing, and thereby stiffened various organs, depriving my muscles of their elasticity. Yet, with all my care and preparation, I often, when I had not given special thought to it, had too little breath, rather than too much. I felt, too, after excessive inhalation, as if I must emit a certain amount of air before I began to sing. Finally I abandoned all superfluous drawing in of the abdomen and diaphragm, inhaled but little, and began to pay special attention to emitting the smallest possible amount of breath, which I found very serviceable. How do I breathe now? My diaphragm I scarcely draw in consciously, my abdomen never; I feel the breath fill my lungs, and my upper ribs expand. Without raising my chest especially high, I force the breath against it, and hold it fast there. At the same time I raise my palate high and prevent the escape of breath through the nose. The diaphragm beneath reacts against it, and furnishes pressure from the abdomen. Chest, diaphragm, the closed epiglottis, and the raised palate all form a supply chamber for the breath. Only in this way is the breath under the control of the singer, through the pressure against the chest tension muscles. (_This is very important._) From now on the breath must be emitted from the supply chamber very sparingly, but with unceasing uniformity and strength, without once being held back, to the vocal cords, which will further regulate it as far as possible. The more directly the breath pressure is exerted against the chest,--one has the feeling, in this, of singing the tone against the chest whence it must be _pressed_ out,--the less breath flows through the vocal cords, and the less, consequently, are these overburdened. In this way, under control, in the passage formed for it above the tongue by that organ, it reaches the resonance chambers prepared for it by the raising and lowering of the soft palate, and those in the cavities of the head. Here it forms whirling currents of tone; these now must circulate uninterrupted for as long as possible and fill all the accessible resonating surfaces, which must be maintained in an elastic state. This is necessary to bring the tone to its perfect purity. Not till these currents have been sufficiently used up and passed through the "bell," or cup-shaped resonating cavity, of the mouth and lips, may it be allowed to stream from the mouth unimpeded. Yet the _sensation_ must be as if the breath were constantly escaping from the mouth. To observe and keep under control these many functions, singly or in conjunction, forms the ceaseless delight of the never failing fountain of song study. Thus, in shaping the passage for the breath, the larynx, tongue, and palate, which can be placed at will, are employed. The vocal cords, which can best be imagined as inner lips, we have under control neither as beginners nor as artists. _We do not feel them._ We first become conscious of them through the controlling apparatus of the breath, which teaches us to _spare_ them, by emitting breath through them in the least possible quantity and of even pressure, whereby a steady tone can be produced. I even maintain that all is won, when--as Victor Maurel says--we regard them directly as the breath regulators, and relieve them of all overwork through the controlling apparatus of the chest-muscle tension. Through the form prepared by the larynx, tongue, and palate, we can direct the breath, previously under control and regulation, toward the particular resonating surfaces on the palate, or in the cavities of the head, which are suitable to each tone. This rule remains the same for all voices. As soon as the breath leaves the larynx, it is divided. (Previously, in inhalation, a similar thing happens; but this does not concern us immediately, and I prefer to direct the singer's chief attention to the second occurrence.) One part may press toward the palate, the other toward the cavities of the head. The division of the breath occurs regularly, from the deepest bass to the highest tenor or soprano, step for step, vibration for vibration, without regard to sex or individuality. Only the differing size or strength of the vocal organs through which the breath flows, the breathing apparatus, or the skill with which they are used, are different in different individuals. The seat of the breath, the law of its division, as well as the resonating surfaces, are always the same and are differentiated at most through difference of habit. SECTION III OF THE BREATH AND WHIRLING CURRENTS (SINGING FORWARD) The veriest beginner knows that in order to use the breath to the fullest advantage, it must remain very long diffused back in the mouth. A mistaken idea of "singing forward" misleads most to _press_ it forward and thus allow it to be speedily dissipated. The column of breath coming in an uninterrupted stream from the larynx, must, as soon as it flows into the form prepared for it according to the required tone, by the tongue and palate, fill this form, soaring through all its corners, with its vibrations. It makes whirling currents, which circulate in the elastic form surrounding it, and it must remain there till the tone is high enough, strong enough, and sustained enough to satisfy the judgment of the singer as well as the ear of the listener. Should there be lacking the least element of pitch, strength, or duration, the tone is imperfect and does not meet the requirement. Learning and teaching to hear is the first task of both pupil and teacher. One is impossible without the other. It is the most difficult as well as the most grateful task, and it is the only way to reach perfection. Even if the pupil unconsciously should produce a flawless tone, it is the teacher's duty to acquaint him clearly with the _causes_ of it. It is not enough to sing well; one must also know how one does it. The teacher must tell the pupil constantly, making him describe clearly his sensations in singing, and understand fully the physiological factors that coöperate to produce them. The sensations in singing must coincide with mine as here described, if they are to be considered as correct; for mine are based logically on physiological causes and correspond precisely with the operation of these causes. Moreover, all my pupils tell me--often, to be sure, not till many months have passed--how exact my explanations are; how accurately, on the strength of them, they have learned to feel the physiological processes. They have learned, slowly, to be sure, to become conscious of their errors and false impressions; for it is very difficult to ascertain such mistakes and false adjustments of the organs. False sensations in singing and disregarded or false ideas of physiological processes cannot immediately be stamped out. A long time is needed for the mind to be able to form a clear image of those processes, and not till then can knowledge and improvement be expected. The teacher must repeatedly explain the physiological processes, the pupil repeatedly disclose every confusion and uncertainty he feels, until the perfect consciousness of his sensations in singing is irrevocably impressed upon his memory, that is, has become a habit. Among a hundred singers hardly one can be found whose single tones meet every requirement. And among a thousand listeners, even among teachers, and among artists, hardly one hears it. I admit that such perfect tones sometimes, generally quite unconsciously, are heard from young singers, and especially from beginners, and never fail to make an impression. The teacher hears that they are good, so does the public. Only a very few know why, even among singers, because only a very few know the laws governing perfect tone production. Their talent, their ear perchance, tell them the truth; but the causes they neither know nor look for. On such "unconscious singing" directors, managers, and even conductors, build mistakenly their greatest hopes. No one hears what is lacking, or what will soon be lacking, and all are surprised when experienced singers protest against it. They become enthusiastic, properly, over beautiful voices, but pursue quite the wrong path in training them for greater tasks. As soon as such persons are obtained, they are immediately bundled into _all_ rôles; they have hardly time to learn one rôle by heart, to say nothing of comprehending it and working it up artistically. The stars must shine _immediately_! But with what resources? With the fresh voice alone? Who is there to teach them to use their resources on the stage? Who to husband them for the future? The manager? the director? Not at all. When the day comes that they can no longer perform what, not they themselves, but the directors, expected of them, they are put to one side, and if they do not possess great energy and strength, often entirely succumb. They could not meet the demands made upon them, because they did not know how to use their resources. I shall be told that tones well sung, even unconsciously, are enough. But that is not true. The least unfavorable circumstance, over-exertion, indisposition, an unaccustomed situation, anything can blow out the "unconscious" one's light, or at least make it flicker badly. Of any self-help, when there is ignorance of all the fundamentals, there can be no question. Any help is grasped at. Then appears the so-called (but false) "individuality," under whose mask so much that is bad presents itself to art and before the public. This is not remarkable, in view of the complexity of the phenomena of song. Few teachers concern themselves with the fundamental studies; they often do not sing at all themselves, or they sing quite wrongly; and consequently can neither describe the vocal sensations nor test them in others. Theory alone is of no value whatever. With old singers the case is often quite the contrary--so both seize whatever help they can lay hold of. The breath, that vibrates against the soft palate, when it is raised, or behind it in the cavities of the head, produces whirling currents through its continuous streaming forth and its twofold division. These currents can circulate only in unbroken completeness of form. The longer their form remains unimpaired, and the more economically the continuous breath pressure is maintained, the less breath do these currents need, the less is emitted unused from the mouth. If an elastic form is found in the mouth in which the currents can circulate untouched by any pressure or undue contraction or expansion of it, the breath becomes practically unlimited. That is the simple solution of the paradox that without deep breathing one may often have much breath, and, after elaborate preparations, often none at all; because the chief attention is generally directed to inhalation, instead of to the elastic forming of the organs for the breath, sound currents, and tone. The one thing needed is the knowledge of the causes, and the necessary skill in preparing the form, avoiding all pressure that could injure it, whether originating in the larynx, tongue, or palate, or in the organs that furnish the breath pressure. The singer's endeavors, consequently, must be directed to keeping the breath as long as possible sounding and vibrating not only forward but back in the mouth, since the resonance of the tone is spread upon and above the entire palate, extends from the front teeth to the wall of the throat. He must concern himself with preparing for the vibrations, pliantly and with mobility, a powerful, elastic, almost floating envelope, which must be filled entirely, with the help of a continuous vocal mixture,--a mixture of which the components are indistinguishable. SECTION IV THE SINGER'S PHYSIOLOGICAL STUDIES Science has explained all the processes of the vocal organs in their chief functions, and many methods of singing have been based upon physiology, physics, and phonetics. To a certain extent scientific explanations are absolutely necessary for the singer--as long as they are confined to the sensations in singing, foster understanding of the phenomenon, and summon up an intelligible picture. This is what uninterpreted sensations in singing cannot do; of which fact the clearest demonstration is given by the expressions, "bright," "dark," "nasal," "singing forward," etc., that I began by mentioning and that are almost always falsely understood. They are quite meaningless without the practical teachings of the sensations of such singers as have directed their attention to them with a knowledge of the end in view, and are competent to correlate them with the facts of science. The singer is usually worried by the word "physiology"; but only because he does not clearly understand the limits of its teachings. The singer need, will, and must, know a little of it. We learn so much that is useless in this life, why not learn that which is of the utmost service to us? What, in brief, does it mean? Perfect consciousness in moving the vocal organs, and through the aid of the ear, in placing them at will in certain relations with each other; the fact that the soft palate can be drawn up against the hard palate; that the tongue is able to take many different positions, and that the larynx, by the assistance of the vocal sound oo, takes a low position, and by that of the vowel [=a] a high one; that all muscles contract in activity and in normal inactivity are relaxed; that we must strengthen them by continued vocal gymnastics so that they may be able to sustain long-continued exertion; and must keep them elastic and use them so. It includes also the well-controlled activity of diaphragm, chest, neck, and face muscles. This is all that physiology means for the vocal organs. Since these things all operate together, one without the others can accomplish nothing; if the least is lacking, singing is quite impossible, or is entirely bad. [Illustration: Cavity of the forehead, high range. Nasal cavity, middle range. Palatal resonance, low range. Soft palate laid back against the wall of the throat in low tones, lowered in high tones. Red lines denote the resonance.] Physiology is concerned also with muscles, nerves, sinews, ligaments, and cartilage, all of which are used in singing, but all of which we cannot feel. We cannot even feel the vocal cords. Certainly much depends for the singer upon their proper condition; and whether as voice producers or breath regulators, we all have good reason always to spare them as much as possible, and never to overburden them. Though we cannot feel the vocal cords, we can, nevertheless, hear, by observing whether the tone is even,--in the emission of the breath under control,--whether they are performing their functions properly. Overburdening them through pressure, or emitting of the breath without control, results in weakening them. The irritation of severe coughing, thoughtless talking or shouting immediately after singing may also set up serious congestion of the vocal cords, which can be remedied only through slow gymnastics of the tongue and laryngeal muscles, by the pronunciation of vowels in conjunction with consonants. Inactivity of the vocal organs will not cure it, or perhaps not till after the lapse of years. A good singer can _never_ lose his voice. Mental agitation or severe colds can for a time deprive the singer of the use of his vocal organs, or seriously impair them. Only those who have been singing without consciously correct use of their organs can become disheartened over it; those who know better will, with more or less difficulty, cure themselves, and by the use of vocal gymnastics bring their vocal organs into condition again. For this reason, if for no other, singers should seek to acquire accurate knowledge of their own organs, as well as of their functions, that they may not let themselves be burnt, cut, and cauterized by unscrupulous physicians. Leave the larynx and all connected with it alone; strengthen the organs by daily vocal gymnastics and a healthy, _sober_ mode of life; beware of catching cold after singing; do not sit and talk in restaurants. Students of singing should use the early morning hours, and fill their days with the various branches of their study. Sing every day only so much, that on the next day you can practise again, feeling fresh and ready for work, as _regular_ study requires. Better one hour every day than ten to-day and none tomorrow. The public singer should also do his practising early in the day, that he may have himself well in hand by evening. How often one feels indisposed in the morning! Any physical reason is sufficient to make singing difficult, or even impossible; it need not be connected necessarily with the vocal organs; in fact, I believe it very rarely is. For this reason, in two hours everything may have changed. I remember a charming incident in New York. Albert Niemann, our heroic tenor, who was to sing _Lohengrin_ in the evening, complained to me in the morning of severe hoarseness. To give up a rôle in America costs the singer, as well as the director, much money. My advice was to wait. _Niemann._ What do you do, then, when you are hoarse? _I._ Oh, I practise and see whether it still troubles me. _Niem._ Indeed; and what do you practise? _I._ Long, slow scales. _Niem._ Even if you are hoarse? _I._ Yes; if I want to sing, or have to, I try it. _Niem._ Well, what are they? Show me. _The great scale, the infallible cure._ I showed them to him; he sang them, with words of abuse in the meantime; but gradually his hoarseness grew better. He did not send word of his inability to appear in the evening, but sang, and better than ever, with enormous success. I myself had to sing _Norma_ in Vienna some years ago, and got up in the morning quite hoarse. By nine o'clock I tried my infallible remedy, but could not sing above A flat, though in the evening I should have to reach high D flat and E flat. I was on the point of giving up, because the case seemed to me so desperate. Nevertheless, I practised till eleven o'clock, half an hour at a time, and noticed that I was gradually getting better. In the evening I had my D flat and E flat at my command and was in brilliant form. People said they had seldom heard me sing so well. I could give numberless instances, all going to show that you never can tell early in the day how you are going to feel in the evening. I much prefer, for instance, not to feel so very well early in the day, because it may easily happen that the opposite may be the case later on, which is much less agreeable. If you wish to sing only when you are in good form, you must excuse yourself ninety-nine times out of a hundred. You must learn to know your own vocal organs thoroughly and be able to sing; must do everything that is calculated to keep you in good condition. This includes chiefly rest for the nerves, care of the body, and gymnastics of the voice, that you may be able to defy all possible chances. Before all, never neglect to practise every morning, regularly, proper singing exercises through the whole compass of the voice. Do it with _painful_ seriousness; and never think that vocal gymnastics weary the singer. On the contrary, they bring refreshment and power of endurance to him who will become master of his vocal organs. SECTION V EQUALIZING THE VOICE; BREATH; FORM Through the lowering of the pillars of the fauces, which is the same as raising the soft palate, the outflowing breath is divided into two parts. I have sketched the following representation of it:-- Division of the breath. By raising the pillars of the fauces, which closes off the throat from the cavities of the head, the chest voice is produced; that is, the lowest range of all kinds of voices. This occurs when the main stream of breath, spreading over against the high-arched palate, completely utilizes all its resonating surfaces. This is the palatal resonance, in which there is the most power (Plate A). [Illustration: A Red lines denote division of the breath in palatal resonance, lower range of male and female voices.] When the soft palate is raised high behind the nose, the pillars of the fauces are lowered, and this frees the way for the main stream of breath to the head cavities. This now is poured out, filling the nose, forehead, and head cavities. This makes the head tone. Called head tone in women, falsetto in men, it is the highest range of all classes of voices, the resonance of the head cavities (Plate C). [Illustration: C Resonance of the cavity of the forehead. Red lines denote division of the breath in the resonance of the head cavity, high range.] Between these two extreme functions of the palate and breath, one stream of breath gives some of its force to the other; and when equally divided they form the medium range of all classes of voices (Plate B). [Illustration: B Red lines denote division of the breath in the middle range.] The singer must always have in his mind's eye a picture of this divided stream of breath. As I have already said, in the lowest tones of all voices the main stream of breath is projected against the palate; the pillars of the fauces, being stretched to their fullest extent, and drawn back to the wall of the throat, allow _almost_ no breath to reach the head cavities. I say _almost_ none, for, as a matter of fact, a branch stream of breath, however small, must be forced back, behind and above the pillars, first into the nose, later into the forehead and the cavities of the head. This forms the overtones (head tones) which must vibrate with all tones, even the lowest. These overtones lead over from the purest chest tones, slowly, with a constantly changing mixture of both kinds of resonance, first to the high tones of bass and baritone, the low tones of tenor, the middle tones of alto and soprano, finally, to the purest head tones, the highest tones of the tenor-falsetto or soprano. (See the plates.) The extremely delicate gradation of the scale of increase of the resonance of the head cavities in ascending passages, and of increase of palatal resonance in descending, depends upon the skill to make the palate act elastically, and to let the breath, under control of the abdominal and chest pressure, flow uninterruptedly in a gentle stream into the resonating chambers. Through the previous preparation of the larynx and tongue, it must reach its resonating surfaces as though passing through a cylinder, and must circulate in the form previously prepared for it, proper for each tone and vowel sound. This form surrounds it gently but firmly. The supply of air remains continuously the same, _rather increasing than diminishing_, notwithstanding the fact that the quantity which the abdominal pressure has furnished the vocal cords from the supply chamber is a very small one. That it may not hinder further progression, the form must remain elastic and sensitive to the most delicate modification of the vowel sound. If the tone is to have life, it must always be able to conform to any vowel sound. The least displacement of the form or interruption of the breath breaks up the whirling currents and vibrations, and consequently affects the tone, its vibrancy, its strength, and its duration. In singing a continuous passage upward, the form becomes higher and more pliant; the most pliable place on the palate is drawn upward. (See Plate A.) When I sing a single tone I can give it much more power, much more palatal or nasal resonance, than I could give in a series of ascending tones. In a musical figure I must attack the lowest note in such a way that I can easily reach the highest. I must, therefore, give it much more head tone than the single tone requires. (Very important.) When advancing farther, I have the feeling on the palate, above and behind the nose, toward the cavities of the head, of a strong but very elastic rubber ball, which I fill like a balloon with my breath streaming up far back of it. And this filling keeps on in even measure. That is, the branch stream of the breath, which flows into the head cavities, must be free to flow very strongly without hindrance. (See Plate B.) I can increase the size of this ball above, to a pear shape, as soon as I think of singing higher; and, indeed, I heighten the form _before_ I go on from the tone just sung, making it, so to speak, _higher_ in that way, and thus keep the form, that is, the "propagation form," ready for the next higher tone, which I can now reach easily, as long as no interruption in the stream of breath against the mucous membrane can take place. For this reason the breath must _never be held back_, but must always be emitted in a more and more powerful stream. The higher the tone, the more numerous are the vibrations, the more rapidly the whirling currents circulate, and the more unchangeable must the form be. Catarrh often dries up the mucous membrane; then the tones are inclined to break off. At such times one must sing with peculiar circumspection, and with an especially powerful stream of breath behind the tone: it is better to take breath frequently. In a descending scale or figure I must, on the contrary, preserve very carefully the form taken for the highest tone. I must not go higher, nor yet, under any circumstances, lower, but must imagine that I remain at the same pitch, and must suggest to myself that I am striking the same tone again. The form may gradually be a little modified at the upper end: that is, the soft palate is lowered very carefully behind the nose: keeping almost always to the form employed for the highest tone, sing the figure to its end, toward the nose, with the help of the vowel _oo_. (This auxiliary vowel _oo_ means nothing more than that the larynx is slowly lowered in position.) When this happens, the resonance of the head cavities is diminished, that of the palate increased; for the soft palate sinks, and the pillars of the fauces are raised more and more. Yet the head tone must not be entirely free from palatal resonance. Both remain to the last breath united, mutually supporting each other in ascending and descending passages, and alternately but inaudibly increasing and diminishing. These things go to make up the form:-- The raising and lowering of the soft palate, and the corresponding lowering and raising of the pillars of the fauces. The proper position of the tongue: the tip rests on the lower front teeth--mine even as low as the roots of the teeth. The back of the tongue must stand high and free from the throat, ready for any movement. A furrow must be formed in the tongue, which is least prominent in the lowest tones, and in direct head tones may even completely disappear. As soon as the tone demands the palatal resonance, the furrow must be made prominent and kept so. In my case it can always be seen. This is one of the most important matters, upon which too much emphasis can hardly be laid. As soon as the furrow in the tongue shows itself, the tone must sound right; for then the mass of the tongue is kept away from the throat, and, since its sides are raised, it is kept out of the way of the tone. [Illustration: Side of the tongue kept high. Furrow.] [Illustration: Red line denotes: Sensation in raising the soft palate for high notes. Sensation of the form in rapid upward passages. Division of the breath favors the resonance of head cavities.] It lies flattest in the lowest tones because the larynx then is in a very low position, and thus is out of its way. [Illustration: Red line denotes sensation of the form in slow progression of tones.] [Illustration: Red line denotes sensation for the propagation form.] Furthermore, there is the unconstrained position of the larynx, which must be maintained without pressure of the throat muscles. From it the breath must stream forth evenly and uninterruptedly, to fill the form prepared for it by the tongue and palate and supported by the throat muscles. This support must not, however, depend in the least upon _pressure_,--for the vibrating breath must float above,--but upon the greatest elasticity. One must play with the muscles, and be able to contract and relax them at pleasure, having thus perfect mastery over them. For this incessant practice is required, increasing control of the breath through the sense of hearing and the breath pressure. At first a very strong will power is needed to hold the muscles tense without pressure; that is, to let the tone, as it were, soar through the throat, mouth, or cavities of the head. The stronger the improper pressure in the production of the tone, the more difficult it is to get rid of. The result is simply, in other words, a strain. The contraction of the muscles must go only so far that they can be slowly relaxed; that is, can return to their normal position _easily_. Never must the neck be swelled up, or the veins in it stand out. Every convulsive or painful feeling is wrong. SECTION VI THE ATTACK To attack a tone, the breath must be directed to a focal point on the palate, which lies under the critical point for each different tone; this must be done with a certain decisiveness. There must, however, be no pressure on this place; for the overtones must be able to soar above, and sound with, the tone. The palate has to furnish, besides, the top cover against which the breath strikes, also an extremely elastic floor for the breath sounding above it against the hard palate or in the nose. This breath, by forming the overtones, makes certain the connection with the resonance of the head cavities. In order to bring out the color of the tone the whirling currents must vivify all the vowel sounds that enter into it, and draw them into their circles with an ever-increasing, soaring tide of sound. The duration of the tone must be assured by the gentle but uninterrupted outpouring of the breath behind it. Its strength must be gained by the breath pressure and the focal point on the palate, by the complete utilization of the palatal resonance; without, however, injuring the resonance of the head cavities. (See plate, representing the attack.) [Illustration: Sensation of pitch. Red line denotes sensation in the attack.] SECTION VII NASAL. NASAL SINGING By raising the back of the tongue toward the soft palate and lowering the soft palate toward the tongue, we produce nasal sound, such as is heard in the pronunciation of the word "hanger," for instance. The air is then expelled chiefly through the nose. The nasal sound can be much exaggerated--something that very rarely happens; it can be much neglected--something that very often happens. Certain it is that it is not nearly enough availed of. That is my own everyday experience. We Germans have only small opportunity to make the acquaintance of the nasal sound; we know it in only a few words: "E_ng_el," "la_ng_e," "ma_ng_el," etc.,--always where _ng_ occurs before or after a vowel. The French, on the contrary, always sing and speak nasally, with the pillar of the fauces raised high, and not seldom exaggerate it. On account of the rounding up of the whole soft palate, which, through the power of habit, is cultivated especially by the French to an extraordinary degree, and which affords the breath an enormous space as a resonating surface to act upon, their voices often sound tremendous. The tenor Silva is a good example of this. Such voices have only the one drawback of easily becoming monotonous. At first the power of the organ astonishes us; the next time we are disappointed--the tone color remains always the same. The tone often even degenerates into a hollow quality. [Illustration: Red lines denote movement of the tongue and palate for the nasal tone.] On the other hand, voices that are not sufficiently nasal sound clear and expressionless. Madame Melba, for instance, whose voice is cultivated to favor the head tones, and sounds equally well in all its ranges, apparently lowers the pillars of the fauces too much, and has her chief resonance in the head cavities; she cannot draw upon the palatal resonance for single accents of expression. Consequently she loses in vocal color. This procedure, as soon as it becomes a habit, results in monotony. In the first case somewhat less, in the second somewhat more, nasal resonance would help to a greater variety of effect. There are singers, too, who pursue the middle path with consummate art. Thus Madame Sembrich, in recent years, appears to have devoted very special study to nasal tones, whereby her voice, especially in the middle register, has gained greatly in warmth. To fix the pupil's attention on the nasal tone and the elasticity of the palate, he should often be given exercises with French words. SECTION VIII SINGING TOWARD THE NOSE. HEAD VOICE When the peak of the softest part of the palate is placed forward toward the nose, instead of being drawn up high behind the nose, as in the head voice (see plate, head voice and nasal tone), it forms a kind of nasal production which, as I have already said, cannot be studied enough, because it produces very noble tonal effects and extraordinary connections. It ought always to be employed. By it is effected the connection of tones with each other, from the front teeth back to a point under the nose; from the lower middle tones to the head tones. In truth, all the benefit of tonal connection depends upon this portion of the soft palate; that is, upon its conscious employment. This is all that singers mean when they speak of "nasal singing"--really only singing toward the nose. The soft palate placed toward the nose offers a resonating surface for the tone. The reason why teachers tell their pupils so little of this is that many singers are quite ignorant of what nasal singing means, and are tormented by the idea of "singing toward the nose," when by chance they hear something about it. They generally regard the voice as one complete organ acting by itself, which is once for all what it is. What can be made of it through knowledge of the functions of all the coöperating organs they know nothing of. Blind voices are often caused by the exaggerated practice of closing off the throat too tightly from the head cavities; that is, drawing the pillars of the fauces too far toward the wall of the throat. The large resonating chamber thus formed yields tones that are powerful close at hand, but they do not carry, because they are poor in overtones. The mistake consists in the practice of stretching the pillars too widely in the higher vocal ranges, also. In proportion as the pillars are extended, the breath spreads over the entire palate, instead of being concentrated on only one point of it, and bringing at the same time the resonance of the head cavities into play. The soft palate must first be drawn up to, then behind, the nose, and the attack of the higher tones be transferred thither. The pillars of the fauces must necessarily be relaxed by this action of the soft palate. Thereby breath is introduced into the cavities of the head to form the overtones, which contribute brilliancy and freshness to the voice. Many singers persist in the bad habit here described, as long as nature can endure it; in the course of time, however, even with the most powerful physiques, they will begin to sing noticeably flat; with less powerful, the fatal tremolo will make its appearance, which results in the ruin of so many singers. [Illustration: Red lines denote vocal sensations of soprano and tenor singers.] [Illustration: The singer's nasal tone. Red line denotes: The soft palate raised high in the back, for further progression with the head tone. Vocal sensation. Red line denotes: Soft palate drawn toward the nose, for a descending progression. Vocal sensation.] SECTION IX THE HEAD VOICE The head tone signifies, for all voices, from the deepest bass to the highest soprano,--excepting for the fact that it furnishes the overtones for each single tone of the whole vocal gamut,--youth. A voice without vibrancy is an _old_ voice. The magic of youth, freshness, is given by the overtones that sound with every tone. So to utilize the head voice (resonance of the head cavities) that every tone shall be able to "carry" and shall remain high enough to reach higher tones easily, is a difficult art, without which, however, the singer cannot reckon upon the durability of his voice. Often employed unconsciously, it is lost through heedlessness, mistaken method, or ignorance; and it can hardly ever be regained, or, if at all, only through the greatest sacrifice of time, trouble, and patience. The _pure_ head voice (the third register) is, on account of the thinness that it has by nature, the neglected step-child of almost all singers, male and female; its step-parents, in the worst significance of the word, are most singing teachers, male and female. It is produced by the complete lowering of the pillars of the fauces, while the softest point of the palate--behind the nose--is thrown up very high, seemingly, almost into the head; in the highest position, as it were, above the head. The rear of the tongue stands high, but is formed into a furrow, in order that the mass of the tongue may not be in the way, either in the throat or in the mouth. In the very highest falsetto and head tones the furrow is pretty well filled out, and then no more breath at all reaches the palatal resonance. The larynx stands high--mine leans over to one side. (See plates of larynx.) [Illustration: A Normal position of the larynx. B The position of my larynx in the high range.] The vocal cords, which we cannot feel, now approach very near each other. The pupil should not read about them until he has learned to hear correctly. I do not intend to write a physiological work, but simply to attempt to examine certain infallible vocal sensations of the singer; point out ways to cure evils, and show how to gain a correct understanding of that which we lack. Up to a certain pitch, with tenors as well as with sopranos, the head tones should be mixed with palatal resonance. With tenors this will be a matter of course, though with them the chest tones are much abused; with sopranos, however, a judicious mixture may be recommended because more expression is required (since the influence of Wagner has become paramount in interpreting the meaning of a composition, especially of the words) than in the brilliant fireworks of former times. The head voice, too, must not be regarded as a definite register of its own, which is generally produced in the middle range through too long a persistence in the use of the palatal and nasal resonance. If it is suddenly heard alone, after forcing tones that have preceded it, which is not possible under other circumstances, it is of course noticeably thin, and stands out to its disadvantage--like every other sharply defined register--from the middle tones. In the formation of the voice no "register" should exist or be created; the voice must be made even throughout its entire range. I do not mean by this that I should sing neither with chest tones nor with head tones. On the contrary, the practised artist should have at his command all manner of different means of expression, that he may be able to use his single tones, according to the expression required, with widely diverse qualities of resonance. This, too, must be cared for in his studies. But these studies, because they must fit each individual case, according to the genius or talent of the individual, can be imparted and directed only by a good teacher. The head voice, when its value is properly appreciated, is the most valuable possession of all singers, male and female. It should not be treated as a Cinderella, or as a last resort,--as is often done too late, and so without results, because too much time is needed to regain it, when once lost,--but should be cherished and cultivated as a guardian angel and guide, like no other. Without its aid all voices lack brilliancy and carrying power; they are like a head without a brain. Only by constantly summoning it to the aid of all other registers is the singer able to keep his voice fresh and youthful. Only by a careful application of it do we gain that power of endurance which enables us to meet the most fatiguing demands. By it alone can we effect a complete equalization of the whole compass of all voices, and extend that compass. This is the great secret of those singers who keep their voices young till they reach an advanced age. Without it all voices of which great exertions are demanded infallibly meet disaster. Therefore, the motto must be always, practice, and again, practice, to keep one's powers uninjured; practice brings freshness to the voice, strengthens the muscles, and is, for the singer, far more interesting than any musical composition. If in my explanations I frequently repeat myself, it is done not unintentionally, but deliberately, because of the difficulty of the subject, as well as of the superficiality and negligence of so many singers who, after once hastily glancing through such a treatise,--if they consider it worth their while at all to inform themselves on the subject,--think they have done enough with it. One must read continually, study constantly by one's self, to gain even a faint idea of the difficulty of the art of singing, of managing the voice, and even of one's own organs and mistakes, which are one's second self. The phenomenon of the voice is an elaborate complication of manifold functions which are united in an extremely limited space, to produce a single tone; functions which can only be heard, scarcely felt--indeed, should be felt as little as possible. Thus, in spite of ourselves, we can only come back again to the point from which we started, as in an eddy, repeating the explanations of the single functions, and relating them to each other. Since in singing we sense none of the various activities of the cartilage, muscles, ligaments, and tendons that belong to the vocal apparatus, feel them only in their coöperation, and can judge of the correctness of their workings only through the ear, it would be absurd to think of them while singing. We are compelled, in spite of scientific knowledge, to direct our attention while practising, to the sensations of the voice, which are the only ones we can become aware of,--sensations which are confined to the very palpable functions of the organs of breathing, the position of the larynx, of the tongue, and of the palate, and finally, to the sensation of the resonance of the head cavities. The perfect tone results from the combined operations of all these functions, the sensations of which I undertake to explain, and the control of which the ear alone can undertake. This is the reason why it is so important to learn to hear one's self, and to sing in such a way that one can always so hear. Even in the greatest stress of emotion the power of self-control must never be lost; you must never allow yourself to sing in a slovenly, that is, in a heedless, way, or to exceed your powers, or even to reach their extreme limit. That would be synonymous with roughness, which should be excluded from every art, especially in the art of song. The listener must gain a pleasing impression from every tone, every expression of the singer; much more may be given if desired. Strength must not be confounded with roughness; and the two must not go hand in hand together. Phenomenal beings may perhaps be permitted to go beyond the strength of others; but to the others this must remain forbidden. It cannot become a regular practice, and is best limited to the single phenomenon. We should otherwise soon reach the point of crudest realism, from which at best we are not far removed. Roughness will never attain artistic justification, not even in the case of the greatest individual singers, because it is an offence. The public should witness from interpretative art only what is good and noble on which to form its taste; there should be nothing crude or commonplace put before it, which it might consider itself justified in taking as an example. Of the breath sensation I have already spoken at length. I must add that it is often very desirable in singing to breathe through the nose with the mouth closed; although when this is done, the raising of the palate becomes less certain, as it happens somewhat later than when the breath is taken with the mouth open. It has, however, this disadvantage, that neither cold air nor dust is drawn into the larynx and air passages. I take pleasure in doing it very often. At all events, the singer should often avail himself of it. We feel the larynx when the epiglottis springs up ("stroke of the glottis," if the tone is taken from below upward). We can judge whether the epiglottis springs up quickly enough if the breath comes out in a full enough stream to give the tone the necessary resonance. The low position of the larynx can easily be secured by pronouncing the vowel _oo_; the high, by pronouncing the vowel _[=a]_. Often merely thinking of one or the other is enough to put the larynx, tongue, and palate in the right relations to each other. Whenever I sing in a high vocal range, I can plainly feel the larynx rise and take a diagonal position. (See plate.) The movement is, of course, very slight. Yet I have the feeling in my throat as if everything in it was stretching. I feel the pliability of my organs plainly as soon as I sing higher. SECTION X SENSATION AND POSITION OF THE TONGUE We feel the placing of its tip against or beneath the front teeth; and place the tip very low, so that it really curves over in front. (See plate.) Its hinder part must be drawn back toward the palate, in the pronunciation of every letter. Furthermore, by looking in the mirror we can _see_ that the sides of the tongue are raised as soon as we wish to form a furrow in it; that is, as we _must_ do to produce the palatal resonance. (Only in the head tone--that is, the use of the resonance of the head cavities without the added palatal resonance--has the tongue no furrow; it must, however, lie very high, since otherwise its mass, when it lies flat, presses against the larynx and produces pinched or otherwise disagreeable tones.) The best way is to get the mass of the tongue out of the way by forming the furrow in it. In high notes, when the larynx must stand as high as possible, the back of the tongue also must stand very high; but since there is a limit to this, we are often compelled to make the larynx take a lower position. [Illustration: Correct. Incorrect.] The correct position of the tongue, preparatory to singing, is gained by saying the vowel sound _aou_, as if about to yawn. The tongue must not scrape around upward with its tip. As soon as the tip has been employed in the pronunciation of the consonants _l_, _n_, _s_, _t_, and _z_, in which its service is very short and sharp, it must return to its former position, and keep to it. It is best to watch the movements of the tongue in the mirror until we have formed the correct habit permanently. The more elastic the tongue is in preparing the form for the breath to pass through, the stiller will it appear, the stiller will it feel to us. It is well, however, for a considerable time to watch in a mirror all functions of the organs that can be seen; the expression of the face, the position of the mouth, and the movement of the lips. SECTION XI THE SENSATIONS OF THE PALATE The sensations of the palate are best made clear to us by raising the softest part behind the nose. This part is situated very far back. Try touching it carefully with the finger. This little part is of immeasurable importance to the singer. By raising it the entire resonance of the head cavities is brought into play--consequently the head tones are produced. When it is raised, the pillars of the fauces are lowered. In its normal position it allows the pillars to be distended and to close the head cavities off from the throat, in order to produce the chest tones; that is, to permit the breath to make fullest use of the palatal resonance. As soon as the soft palate is lowered under the nose, it makes a point of resonance for the middle range of voice, by permitting the overtones to resound at the same time in the nose. (See plate, middle range.) [Illustration: Red lines denote middle range of soprano, contralto, and tenor. In the German names of the notes, _h_ represents _b_ in the English.] [Illustration: Red line denotes peak, or softest point of the palate.] Thus the palate performs the whole work so far as concerns the different resonances, which can be united and separated by it, but must _always work together in close relation, always bound together in all tones, in all kinds of voices_. The lowest chest tones of the bass, the highest head tones of the soprano, are thus the two poles between which the entire gamut of all voices can be formed. From this it can be perceived that with a certain degree of skill and willingness to work, every voice will be capable of great extension. SECTION XII THE SENSATION OF THE RESONANCE OF THE HEAD CAVITIES The sensation of the resonance of the head cavities is perceived chiefly by those who are unaccustomed to using the head tones. The resonance against the occipital walls of the head cavities when the head tones are employed, at first causes a very marked irritation of the nerves of the head and ear. But this disappears as soon as the singer gets accustomed to it. The head tones can be used and directed by the breath only with a clear head. The least depression such as comes with headaches, megrim, or moodiness may have the worst effect, or even make their use quite impossible. This feeling of oppression is lost after regular, conscious practice, by which all unnecessary and disturbing pressure is avoided. In singing very high head tones I have a feeling as if they lay high above the head, as if I were setting them off into the air. (See plate.) Here, too, is the explanation of singing _in the neck_. The breath, in all high tones which are much mixed with head tones or use them entirely, passes very far back, directly from the throat into the cavities of the head, and thereby, and through the oblique position of the larynx, gives rise to the sensations just described. A singer who inhales and exhales carefully, that is, with knowledge of the physiological processes, will always have a certain feeling of pleasure, an attenuation in the throat as if it were stretching itself upward. The bulging out of veins in the neck, that can so often be seen in singers, is as wrong as the swelling up of the neck, looks very ugly, and is not without danger from congestion. With rapid scales and trills one has the feeling of great firmness of the throat muscles, as well as of a certain stiffness of the larynx. (See "Trills.") An unsteady movement of the latter, this way and that, would be disadvantageous to the trill, to rapid scales, as well as to the cantilena. For this reason, because the changing movements of the organs must go on quite imperceptibly and inaudibly, it must be more like a shifting than a movement. In rapid scales the lowest tone must be "placed" with a view to the production of the highest, and in descending, the greatest care must be exercised that the tone shall not tumble over each other single, but shall produce the sensation of closely connected sounds, through being bound to the high tone position and pressed toward the nose. In this all the participating vocal organs must be able to keep up a muscular contraction, often very rigid: a thing that is to be achieved only gradually through long years of careful and regular study. Excessive practice is of no use in this--only regular and intelligent practice; and success comes only in course of time. [Illustration: Red line denotes vocal sensation of soprano and tenor.] Never should the muscular contractions become convulsive and produce pressure which the muscles cannot endure for a long time. They must respond to all necessary demands upon their strength, yet remain elastic in order that, easily relaxing or again contracting, they may promptly adapt themselves to every nuance in tone and accent desired by the singer. A singer can become and continue to be master of his voice and means of expression only as long as he practises daily correct vocal gymnastics. In this way alone can he obtain unconditional mastery over his muscles, and, through them, of the finest controlling apparatus, of the beauty of his voice, as well as of the art of song as a whole. Training the muscles of the vocal organs so that their power to contract and relax to all desired degrees of strength, throughout the entire gamut of the voice, is always at command, makes the master singer. As I have already said, the idea of "singing forward" leads very many singers to force the breath from the mouth without permitting it to make full use of the resonating surfaces that it needs, yet it streams forth from the larynx really very far back in the throat, and the straighter it rises in a column behind the tongue, the better it is for the tone. The tongue must furnish the surrounding form for this, for which reason it must not lie flat in the mouth. (See plate, the tongue.) The whirling currents of tone circling around their focal point (the attack) find a cup-shaped resonating cavity when they reach the front of the mouth and the lips, which, through their extremely potent auxiliary movements, infuse life and color into the tone and the word. Of equal importance are the unimpeded activity of the whirling currents of sound and their complete filling of the resonating spaces in the back of the throat, the pillars of the fauces, and the head cavities in which the vocalized breath must be kept soaring above the larynx and _soaring undisturbed_. In the lowest range of the voice the entire palate from the front teeth to the rear wall of the throat must be thus filled. (See plate.) [Illustration: Red lines denote division of the breath in the palatal resonance: lower range of male and female voices.] With higher tones the palate is lowered, the nostrils are inflated, and above the hard palate a passage is formed for the overtones. (See plate.) [Illustration: Red lines denote division of the breath in the middle range and higher middle range.] This air which soars above must, however, not be in the least compressed; the higher the tone, the less pressure should there be; for here, too, whirling currents are formed, which must be neither interrupted nor destroyed. The breath must be carried along on the wall of the throat without compression, in order to accomplish its work. (See plate, high tones.) [Illustration: Resonance of the cavity of the forehead. Red lines denote division of the breath in the resonance of the head cavities, high range.] Singing forward, then, does not mean pressing the whole of the _breath_ or the tone forward, but only part of it; that is, in the middle register, finding a resonating focus in front, caused by the lowering of the front of the palate. This permits a free course only to that part of the breath which is used up by the whirling currents in the resonant throat form, and serves to propagate the outer waves, and carry them farther through space. SECTION XIII SINGING COVERED We sing covered as soon as the soft palate is lowered toward the nose (that is, in the middle register), and the resonance and attack are transferred thither so that the breath can flow over the soft palate through the nose. This special function of the palate, too, should be carefully prepared for in the tones that precede it, and mingled with them, in order not to be heard so markedly as it often is. In men's voices this is much more plainly audible than in women's; but both turn it to account equally on different tones. This often produces a new register that should not be produced. This belongs to the chapter on registers. [Music illustration] The tone is concentrated on the front of the palate instead of being spread over all of it--but this must not be done too suddenly. [See illustrations on pages 127, 129, 131, 133.] [Illustration: Red lines denote covered tones for contralto and soprano.] [Illustration: Red lines denote covered tones for bass and baritone.] [Illustration: Red lines denote change of attack. (Soprano, contralto, and tenor.)] [Illustration: Red lines denote change of attack. (Bass and baritone.)] SECTION XIV ON VOCAL REGISTERS What is a vocal register? A series of tones sung in a certain way, which are produced by a certain position of the vocal organs--larynx, tongue, and palate. Every voice includes three registers--chest, middle, and head. But all are not employed in every class of voice. Two of them are often found connected to a certain extent in beginners; the third is usually much weaker, or does not exist at all. Only very rarely is a voice found naturally equalized over its whole compass. Do registers exist by nature? No. It may be said that they are created through long years of speaking in the vocal range that is easiest to the person, or in one adopted by imitation, which then becomes a fixed habit. If this is coupled with a natural and proper working of the muscles of the vocal organs, it may become the accustomed range, strong in comparison with others, and form a register by itself. This fact would naturally be appreciated only by singers. If, on the other hand, the muscles are wrongly employed in speaking, not only the range of voice generally used, but the whole voice as well, may be made to sound badly. So, in every voice, one or another range may be stronger or weaker; and this is, in fact, almost always the case, since mankind speaks and sings in the pitch easiest or most accustomed, without giving thought to the proper position of the organs in relation to each other; and people are rarely made to pay attention as children to speaking clearly and in an agreeable voice. In the most fortunate instances the range thus practised reaches limits on both sides, not so much those of the person's power, as those set by his lack of skill, or practice. Limitations are put on the voice through taking account only of the easiest and most accustomed thing, without inquiring into the potentialities of the organs or the demands of art. [Illustration: Red lines denote a register is formed when as many tones as possible are forced upon one and the same point of resonance. (Bass and baritone.)] [Illustration: Red lines denote a register is formed when as many tones as possible are forced upon one and the same point of resonance. (Soprano, contralto, and tenor.)] Now, suppose such a peculiarity which includes, let us say, three or four tones, is extended to six or eight, then, in the course of time, in the worst cases, a break is produced at the outside limits. In the most favorable cases the tones lying next beyond these limits are conspicuously weak and without power compared with those previously forced. This one way of singing can be used no farther; another must be taken up, only, perhaps, to repeat farther the incorrect procedure. Three such limits or ways of singing can be found and used. Chest, middle, and head voice, all three form registers when exaggerated; but they should be shaded off and melt into each other. The organs, through the skilful training of the teacher, as well as by the exercise of the pupil's talent and industry, must be accustomed to taking such positions that one register leads into another imperceptibly. In this way beauty, equality, and increased compass of the voice will be made to enhance its usefulness. When the three ways of singing are too widely different and too sharply contrasted, they become separate registers. These are everywhere accepted as a matter of course, and for years have been a terror in the teaching of singing, that has done more than anything else to create a dreadful bewilderment among singers and teachers. To eradicate it is probably hopeless. Yet, these registers are nothing more than three disconnected manners of using the vocal and resonating apparatus. With all the bad habits of singers, with all the complete ignorance of cause and effect, that prevail, it is not surprising that some pretend to tell us that there are two, three, four, or five registers, although as a matter of fact there can be at most three in any voice. It will be much more correct to call every tone of every voice by the name of a new additional register, for in the end, every tone will and _must_ be taken in a different relation, with a different position of the organs, although the difference may be imperceptible, if it is to have its proper place in the whole. People cling to the appellations of chest, middle, and head _register_, confounding voice with register, and making a hopeless confusion, from which only united and very powerful forces can succeed in extricating them. As long as the word "register" is kept in use, the registers will not disappear. And yet, the register question must be swept away, to give place to another class of ideas, sounder views on the part of teachers, and a truer conception on the part of singers and pupils. SECTION XV DEVELOPMENT AND EQUALIZATION Naturally, a singer can devote more strength to the development of one or two connected ranges of his voice than to a voice perfectly equalized in all its accessible ranges. For this are required many years of the most patient study and observation, often a long-continued or entire sacrifice of one or the other limit of a range for the benefit of the next-lying weaker one; of the head voice especially, which, if unmixed, sounds uneven and thin in comparison with the middle range, until by means of practised elasticity of the organs and endurance of the throat muscles a positive equalization can take place. Voices which contain only one or two registers are called short voices, for their availability is as limited as they are themselves. Yet it must be remembered that all voices alike, whether short or long, even those of the most skilful singers, when age comes on, are apt to lose their highest ranges, if they are not continually practised throughout their entire compass with the subtlest use of the head tones. Thence it is to be concluded that a singer ought always to extend the compass of his voice as far as possible, in order to be certain of possessing the compass that he needs. On the formation of the organs depends much of the character of the voice. There are strong, weak, deep, and high voices by nature; but every voice, by means of proper study, can attain a certain degree of strength, flexibility, and compass. Unfortunately, stubbornness enters largely into this question, and often works in opposition to the teacher. Many, for instance, wish to be altos, either because they are afraid of ruining their voices by working for a higher compass, or because it is easier for them, even if their voices are not altos at all. Nowadays operas are no longer composed for particular singers and the special characteristics of their voices. Composers and librettists express what they feel without regard to an alto singer who has no high C or a soprano who has no low A flat or G. But the _artist_ will always find what he needs. Registers exist in the voices of almost all singers, but they ought not to be heard, ought not, indeed, to exist. Everything should be sung with a mixed voice in such a way that no tone is forced at the expense of any other. To avoid monotony the singer should have at his disposal a wealth of means of expression in all ranges of his voice. (See the Varieties of Attack and Dynamic Power.) Before all else he should have knowledge of the advantages in the resonance of certain tones, and of their connection with each other. The _soul_ must provide the color; skill and knowledge as to cause and effect, management of the breath, and perfection of the throat formation must give the power to produce every dynamic gradation and detail of expression. Registers are, accordingly, produced when the singer forces a series of tones, generally ascending, upon one and the same resonating point, instead of remembering that in a progression of tones no one tone can be exactly like another, because the position of the organs must be different for each. The palate must remain elastic from the front teeth to its hindmost part, mobile and susceptible, though imperceptibly, to all changes. Very much depends on the continuous harmony of action of the soft and hard palate, which must always be in full evidence, the raising and extension of the former producing changes in the tone. If, as often happens when the registers are sharply defined, tones fall into a _cul de sac_, escape into another register is impossible, without a jump, which may lead to disaster. With every tone that the singer has to sing, he must always have the feeling that he _can_ go higher, and that the attack for different tones must not be forced upon one and the same point. The larynx must not be _suddenly_ pressed down nor jerked up, except when this is desired as a special effect. That is, when one wishes to make a transition, _legato_, from a chest tone to a tone in the middle or head register, as the old Italians used to do, and as I, too, learned to do, thus:-- [Music illustration] In this case the chest tone is attacked very nasal, in order that the connection may remain to the upper note, and the larynx is suddenly jerked up to the high tone. This was called breaking the tone; it was very much used, and gave fine effects when it was well done. I use it to-day, especially in Italian music, where it belongs. It is an exception to the rule for imperceptible or inaudible change of position of the organs,--that it should not be made _suddenly_. The scale proceeds from one semitone to another; each is different; each, as you go on, requires greater height, wherefore the position of the organs cannot remain the same for several different tones. But, as there should never be an abrupt change audible in the way of singing, so should there never be an abrupt change felt in the sensations of the singer's throat. Every tone must be imperceptibly prepared in an elastic channel and must produce an easy feeling in the singer, as well as an agreeable impression upon the listener. The small peak indicated in the illustration is enormously extensible and can be shifted into infinite varieties of position. However unimportant its raising and lowering may appear, they are nevertheless of great importance for the tone and the singer. The focal point of the breath, that forms simultaneously the attack and the body of the tone, by the operation of the abdominal breath pressure against the chest, is always firmly placed on, beneath, or behind the nose. Without body even the finest pianissimo has no significance. The very highest unmixed head tones are an exception, and they can express nothing. There can be no body expected in them. Their soaring quality of sound endures no pressure, and consequently gives no expression, which is possible only through an admixture of palatal resonance. Their only significance is gained through their pure euphony. All vowels, too, must keep their point of resonance uninterruptedly on the palate. All beauty in the art of song, in cantilena as well as in all technique, consists chiefly in uninterrupted connection between the tone and the word, in the flexible connection of the soft palate with the hard, in the continually elastic adjustment of the former to the latter. This means simply the elastic form, which the breath must fill in every corner of resonating surface without interruption, as long as the tone lasts. [Illustration: Red line denotes softest point on the palate.] If the singer will control his tone,--and in practising he must always do so,--he needs only to test it to see whether he can easily make it softer without perceptible change in the position of the organs, and carry it higher toward the nose and the cavities of the forehead; that is, prepare a form for its continuation upward. _In this way he can learn how much height a tone needs without being too high, and how much it often lacks in height and duration to sound high enough._ In this way remarkable faults become evident! The reason why a tone sounds too low--the so-called transition tones from the lower to the middle range and from this to the higher, come up for consideration chiefly--is that the pillars of the fauces are raised too high toward the back, preventing the head tones from sounding at the same time; or the soft palate is lowered too far under the nose, which results in pressing the tone too long and too far toward the teeth. This fault is met with in very many singers, in all kinds of voices, and in almost the same places. It comes only from an unyielding retention of the same resonating point for several tones and a failure to bring in the resonance of the head cavities. The "propagation form," or continuing form,[2] must always be prepared consciously, for without it artistic singing is not to be thought of. [Footnote 2: "Fortpflanzungsform": the preparation made in the vocal organs for taking the next tone before leaving the one under production, so that the succeeding tones shall all be of like character and quality.] The neglect of this most important principle usually results in overstraining the vocal cords and throat muscles. This is followed first by singing flat, and later by the appearance of the hideous tremolo (see Tremolo) to which so many singers fall victims. The cause of a tone's being too sharp is the dwelling too long on the resonance of the head cavities, where the tone should already have been mixed with palatal resonance. With very young voices this can easily happen, and can also result from weariness, when the bodily strength is not developed sufficiently to endure the fatigue of practising. A very circumspect course must then be followed. SECTION XVI WHITE VOICES There are also singers, male and female, who use too much head tone through their entire compass; such voices are called "white." Their use of the palatal resonance being insufficient, they are not able to make a deeper impression, because their power of expression is practically nothing. Frau Wedekind and Madame Melba are instances of this. In such cases it would be advisable to raise the pillars of the fauces a little higher, and place the larynx somewhat lower, and to mingle judiciously with all the other vowels, the vowel sound _oo_, that requires a lower position of the larynx. The voices would become warmer and would sound more expressive. As soon as the singer is able to create easily and inaudibly on every tone the correct propagation form for the next tone, all questions as to register must disappear. He must not, however, be drilled on _registers_; several tones must not be forced on one and the same point. Every tone should be put naturally into its own place; should receive the pitch, duration, and strength it needs for its perfection. And one master rules it all,--the ear! The goal is, unfortunately, so seldom reached because it can be reached only through the moderation that comes from mastery; and, alas! only true masters practise it. It may be accepted as true that the lower ranges of the voice have the greatest strength, the middle ranges the greatest power of expression, the higher the greatest carrying power. The best mixture--all three together--may be developed to the highest art by the skill of the individual, often, indeed, only by a good ear for it. Whenever expression of the word's significance, beauty of the vocal material, and perfection of phrasing are found united in the highest degree, it is due either to knowledge or to a natural skill in the innumerable ways of fitting the sung word to the particular resonance--connections that are suitable to realize its significance, and hence its spirit. They are brought out by a stronger inclination toward one or the other of the resonance surfaces, without, however, injuring the connection or the beauty of the musical phrase. Here aesthetic feeling plays the chief part, for whatever may be its power and its truthfulness, the result must always be beautiful,--that is, restrained within proper limits. This law, too, remains the same for all voices. It is a question of the entire compass of a voice trained for artistic singing, one that is intrusted with the greatest of tasks, to interpret works of art that are no popular songs, but, for the most part, human tragedies. Most male singers--tenors especially--consider it beneath them, generally, indeed, unnatural or ridiculous, to use the falsetto, which is a part of all male voices, as the head tones are a part of all female voices. They do not understand how to make use of its assistance, because they often have no idea of its existence, or know it only in its unmixed purity--that is, its thinnest quality. Of its proper application they have not the remotest conception. Their singing is generally in accordance with their ignorance. The mixture is present by nature in all kinds of voices, but singers must possess the skill and knowledge to employ it, else the natural advantage goes for nothing. SECTION XVII THEODOR WACHTEL The most perfect singer that I remember in my Berlin experience was Theodor Wachtel in this respect, that with his voice of rare splendor, he united all that vocal art which, as it seems, is destined quite to disappear from among us. How beautiful were his coloratura, his trills,--simply flawless! Phrasing, force, fulness of tone, and beauty were perfect, musically without a blemish. If he did not go outside the range of Arnold, G. Brown, Stradella, Vasco, the Postillion and Lionel, it was probably because he felt that he was not equal to interpreting the Wagnerian spirit. In this he was very wise. As one of the first of vocal artists, whose voice was superbly trained and was preserved to the end of his life, I have had to pay to Wachtel the tribute of the most complete admiration and recognition, in contrast to many others who thought themselves greater than he, and yet were not worthy to unloose the latchet of his shoes. Recently the little Italian tenor Bonci has won my hearty admiration for his splendidly equalized voice, his perfect art, and his knowledge of his resources; and notwithstanding the almost ludicrous figure that he cut in serious parts, he elicited hearty applause. Cannot German tenors, too, learn to sing _well_, even if they do interpret Wagner? Will they not learn, for the sake of this very master, that it is their duty not to use their voices recklessly? Is it not disrespectful toward our greatest masters that they always have to play hide and seek with the _bel canto_, the trill, and coloratura? Not till one has fully realized the difficulties of the art of song, does it really become of value and significance. Not till then are one's eyes opened to the duty owed not only to one's self but to the public. The appreciation of a difficulty makes study doubly attractive; the laborious ascent of a summit which no one can contest, is the attainment of a goal. Voices in which the palatal resonance--and so, power--is the predominating factor, are the hardest to manage and to preserve. They are generally called chest voices. Uncommon power and fulness of tone in the middle ranges are extremely seductive. Only rarely are people found with sense enough to renounce such an excess of fulness in favor of the head tones,--that is, the least risky range to exploit and preserve,--even if this has to be done only temporarily. Copious vocal resources may with impunity be brought before the public and thereby submitted to strain, only after long and regular study. The pure head tone, without admixture of palatal resonance, is feeble close at hand, but penetrating and of a carrying power equalled by no other. Palatal resonance without admixture of the resonance of the head cavities (head tones) makes the tone very powerful when heard near by, but without vibrancy for a large auditorium. This is the proof of how greatly _every_ tone needs the proper admixture. SECTION XVIII THE HIGHEST HEAD TONES As we have already seen, there is almost no limit to the height that can be reached by the pure head tone without admixture of palatal resonance. Very young voices, especially, can reach such heights, for without any strain they possess the necessary adaptability and skill in the adjustment to each other of the larynx, tongue, and pillars of the fauces. A skill that rests on ignorance of the true nature of the phenomenon must be called pure chance, and thus its disappearance is as puzzling to teacher and listener as its appearance had been in the first place. How often is it paired with a total lack of ability to produce anything but the highest head tones! As a general rule such voices have a very short lease of life, because their possessors are exploited as wonders, before they have any conception of the way to use them, of tone, right singing, and of cause and effect in general. An erroneous pressure of the muscles, a wrong movement of the tongue (raising the tip, for instance, [Illustration]), an attempt to increase the strength of the tone,--all these things extinguish quickly and for all time the wonder-singer's little light. We Lehmann children in our youth could sing to the very highest pitch. It was nothing for my sister Marie to strike the 4-line _e_ a hundred times in succession, and trill on it for a long time. She could have sung in public at the age of seven. But since our voices, through the circumstances of our life and surroundings, were forced to early exertions, they lost their remarkable high notes; yet enough was left to sing the _Queen of Night_ (in Mozart's opera "Die Zauberflöte"), with the high _f_. After I had been compelled to use my lower and middle ranges much more, in the study of dramatic parts, I omitted the highest notes from my practice, but could not then always have relied on them. Now that I know on what it all depends, it is very easy for me to strike high _f_, not only in passing, but to combine it with any tone through three octaves. But upon the least pressure by any organ, the head resonance loses its brilliancy; that is, the breath no longer streams into the places where it should, and can create no more whirling currents of sound to fill the spaces. But one should not suppose that the head tones have no power. When they are properly used, their vibrancy is a substitute for any amount of power. As soon as the head tones come into consideration, one should _never_ attempt to sing an open _ah_, because on _ah_ the tongue lies flattest. One should think of an _[=a]_, and in the highest range even an _[=e]_; should mix the _[=a]_ and _[=e]_ with the _ah_, and thereby produce a position of the tongue and soft palate that makes the path clear for the introduction of the breath into the cavities of the head. [Illustration: Red lines denote vocal sensation in the highest head tones without mixture.] Singers who, on the other hand, pronounce _[=a]_ and _[=e]_ too sharply, need only introduce an admixture of _oo_; they thereby lower the position of the larynx, and thus give the vowel and tone a darker color. Since the stream of breath in the highest tones produces currents whirling with great rapidity, the more rapidly the higher the tone is, the slightest pressure that may injure the form in which they circulate may ruin the evenness of the tone, its pitch, perhaps the tone itself. Each high tone must _soar gently_, like the overtones. The upper limits of a bass and baritone voice are [Music illustration] where, consequently, the tones must be mixed. Pure head tones, that is, falsetto, are never demanded higher than this. I regard it, however, as absolutely necessary for the artist to give consideration to his falsetto, that he may include it among his known resources. Neither a bass nor a baritone should neglect to give it the proper attention, and both should learn to use it as one of their most important auxiliary forces. With what mastery did Betz make use of it; how noble and beautiful his voice sounded in all its ranges; of what even strength it was, and how infallibly fresh! And let no one believe that Nature gave it to him thus. As a beginner in Berlin he was quite unsatisfactory. He had the alternative given him either to study with great industry or to seek another engagement, for his successor had already been selected. Betz chose to devote himself zealously to study; he began also to play the 'cello; he learned to _hear_, and finally raised himself to be one of our first singers, in many rôles never to be forgotten. Betz knew, like myself, many things that to-day are neither taught nor learned. SECTION XIX EXTENSION OF THE COMPASS AND EQUALIZATION OF REGISTERS The whole secret of both consists in the proper raising and lowering of the soft palate, and the pillars of the fauces connected with it. This divides into two resonating divisions the breath coming from the source of supply, and forced against the chest, whereby it is put under control, as it escapes vocalized from the larynx. It consists also in the singer's natural adaptability and skill, in so placing the palate and resonance of the head cavities, or keeping them in readiness for every tone, as the pitch, strength, and duration of the individual tones or series of connected tones, with their propagation form, shall demand. SECTION XX THE TREMOLO Big voices, produced by large, strong organs, through which the breath can flow in a broad, powerful stream, are easily disposed to suffer from the tremolo, because the outflow of the breath against the vocal cords occurs too _immediately_. The breath is sent directly out from the lungs and the body, instead of being driven by the abdominal pressure forward against the chest and the controlling apparatus. Not till this has been done, should it be admitted, in the smallest amounts, and under control to the vocal cords. It does not pause, but streams through them without burdening them, though keeping them always more or less stretched, in which the muscular power of contraction and relaxation assists. Streaming _gently_ out from the vocal cords, it is now led, with the support of the tongue, to its resonance chambers, all the corners of which it fills up equally. Even the strongest vocal cords cannot for any length of time stand the uncontrolled pressure of the breath. They lose their tension, and the result is the tremolo. In inhaling, the chest should be raised not at all or but very little. (For this reason exercises for the expansion of the chest must be practised.) The pressure of the breath _against_ the chest must be maintained as long as it is desired to sustain a tone or sing a phrase. As soon as the pressure of the abdomen and chest ceases, the tone and the breath are at an end. Not till toward the very end of the breath, that is, of the tone or the phrase, should the pressure be slowly relaxed, and the chest slowly sink. While I am singing, I must press the breath against the chest _evenly_, for in this way alone can it be directed evenly against the vocal cords, which is the chief factor in a steady tone and the only possible and proper use of the vocal cords. The uninterrupted control of the breath pressure against the chest gives to the tone, as soon as it has found a focal point on the raised palate at the attack, the basis, the body, which must be maintained even in the softest pianissimo. Control of the breath should never cease. The tone should never be made too strong to be kept under control, nor too weak to be kept under control. This should be an inflexible rule for the singer. I direct my whole attention to the pressure against the chest, which forms the door of the supply chamber of breath. Thence I admit to the vocal cords uninterruptedly only just so much as I wish to admit. I must not be stingy, nor yet extravagant with it. Besides giving steadiness, the pressure against the chest (the controlling apparatus) establishes the strength and the duration of the tone. Upon the proper control depends the length of the breath, which, without interruption, rises from here toward the resonating chambers, and, expelled into the elastic form of the resonating apparatus, there must obey our will. [Illustration: Vocal Cords.] It can now be seen how easily the vocal cords can be injured by an uncontrolled current of breath, if it is directed against them in all its force. One need only see a picture of the vocal cords to understand the folly of exposing these delicate little bands to the explosive force of the breath. They cannot be protected too much; and also, they cannot be too carefully exercised. They must be spared all work not properly theirs; this must be put upon the chest tension muscles, which in time learn to endure an out-and-out thump. Even the vibrato, to which full voices are prone, should be nipped in the bud, for gradually the tremolo, and later even worse, is developed from it. Life can be infused into the tone by means of the lips--that is, in a way that will do no harm. But of that later. Vibrato is the first stage, tremolo the second; a third and last, and much more hopeless, shows itself in flat singing on the upper middle tones of the register. Referable in the same way to the overburdening of the vocal cords is the excessive straining of the throat muscles, which, through continual constriction, lose their power of _elastic_ contraction and relaxation because pitch and duration of the tone are gained in an incorrect way, by forcing. Neither should be forced; pitch should be merely maintained, as it were, soaring; strength should not be gained by a cramped compression of the throat muscles, but by the completest possible filling with breath of the breath-form and the resonance chambers, under the government of the controlling apparatus. _Neglect of the head tones (overtones) is paid for dearly._ The more violent exertions are made to force them, and to keep them, the worse are the results. For most of the unhappy singers who do this, there is but one result: the voice is lost. How pitiful! If the first and second stages of tremolo are difficult to remedy, because the causes are rarely understood and the proper measures to take for their removal still more rarely, the repair of the last stage of the damage is nothing less than a fight, in which only an unspeakable patience can win the victory. SECTION XXI THE CURE There are no magic cures for the singer. Only slowly, vibration upon vibration, can the true pitch be won back. In the word "soaring" lies the whole idea of the work. No more may the breath be allowed to flow uncontrolled through the wearied vocal cords; it must be forced against the chest, always, as if it were to come directly out thence. The throat muscles must lie fallow until they have lost the habit of cramped contraction; until the overtones again soar as they should, and are kept soaring long, though quite _piano_. At first this seems quite impossible, and is indeed very difficult, demanding all the patient's energy. But it is possible, and he cannot avoid it, for it is the only way to a thorough cure. The patient has an extremely disagreeable period to pass through. If he is industrious and careful, he will soon find it impossible to sing in his old way; but the new way is for the most part quite unfamiliar to him, because his ear still hears as it has previously been accustomed to hear. It may be that years will pass before he can again use the muscles, so long maltreated. But he should not be dismayed at this prospect. If he can no longer use his voice in public as a singer, he certainly can as a teacher--for _a teacher must be able to sing well_. How should he describe to others sensations in singing which he himself never felt? Is it not as if he undertook to teach a language that he did not speak himself? or an instrument that he did not play himself? When he himself does not hear, how shall he teach others to hear? The degree of the evil, and the patient's skill, naturally have much to do with the rapidity of the cure. But one cannot throw off a habit of years' standing like an old garment; and every new garment, too, is uncomfortable at first. One cannot expect an immediate cure, either of himself or of others. If the singer undertakes it with courage and energy, he learns to use his voice with conscious understanding, as should have been done in the beginning. And he must make up his mind to it, that even after a good cure, the old habits will reappear, like corns in wet weather, whenever he is not in good form physically. That should not lead to discouragement; persistence will bring success. As I have already said, singers with disabled voices like best to try "magic cures"; and there are teachers and pupils who boast of having effected such magic cures in a few weeks or hours. _Of them I give warning!_ and _equally_, of unprincipled physicians who daub around in the larynx, burn it, cut it, and make everything worse instead of better. I cannot comprehend why singers do not unite to brand such people publicly and put an end to their doings once for all. There is no other remedy than a slow, very careful study of the _causes_ of the trouble, which in almost all cases consist in lack of control of the stream of breath through the vocal cords, and in disregard of the head tones, that is, of the overtones; as well as in forcing the pitch and power of the tone upon a wrong resonating point of the palate, and in constricting the throat muscles. In these points almost invariably are all mistakes to be looked for; and in the recognition of them the proper means for correcting them are already indicated. The cure is difficult and tedious. It needs an endless patience on the part of the sufferer as well as of the physician--that is, of the pupil and the _singing teacher_ (the only proper physician for this disease)--because the nerves of the head are already sufficiently unstrung through the consciousness of their incapacity; yet they should be able to act easily and without effort in producing the head tones. The repairing of a voice requires the greatest sympathetic appreciation and circumspection on the part of the teacher, who should always inspire the pupil with courage; and on the part of the pupil, all his tranquillity, nervous strength, and patience, in order to reach the desired goal. _Where there is a will there is a way!_ SECTION XXII THE TONGUE Since it is the function of the tongue to conduct the column of breath above the larynx to the resonance chambers, too much attention cannot be given to it and its position, in speaking as well as in singing. If it lies too high or too low, it may, by constricting the breath, produce serious changes in the tone, making it pinched or even shutting it off entirely. It has an extremely delicate and difficult task to perform. It must be in such a position as not to press upon the larynx. Tongue and larynx must keep out of each other's way, although they always work in coöperation; but one must not hamper the other, and when one can withdraw no farther out of the way, the other must take it upon itself to do so. For this reason the back of the tongue must be raised high, the larynx stand low. The tongue must generally form a furrow. With the lowest tones it lies relatively flattest, the tip _always_ against and beneath the front teeth, so that it can rise in the middle. As soon as the furrow is formed, the mass of the tongue is put out of the way, since it stands high on both sides. It is almost impossible to make drawings of this; it can best be seen in the mirror. As soon as the larynx is low enough and the tongue set elastically against the palate and drawn up behind (see plate _a_), the furrow is formed of itself. In pronouncing the vowel _ah_ (which must always be mixed with _[=oo]_ and _o_), it is a good idea to think of yawning. The furrow must be formed in order to allow the breath to resonate against the palate beneath the nose, especially in the middle range; that is, what a bass and a baritone (whose highest range is not now under consideration) would call their high range, all other voices their middle. Without the furrow in the tongue, no tone is perfect in its resonance, none can make full use of it. The only exception is the very highest head and falsetto tones, which are without any palatal resonance and have their place solely in the head cavities. Strong and yet delicate, it must be able to fit any letter of the alphabet; that is, help form its sound. It must be of the greatest sensitiveness in adapting itself to every tonal vibration, it must assist every change of tone and letter as quick as a flash and with unerring accuracy; without changing its position too soon or remaining too long in it, in the highest range it must be able almost to speak out in the air. With all its strength and firmness this furrow must be of the utmost sensitiveness toward the breath, which, as I have often said, must not be subjected to the least pressure above the larynx or in the larynx itself. Pressure must be limited to the abdominal and chest muscles; and this might better be called stress than pressure. Without hindrance the column of breath, at its upper end like diverging rays of light, must fill and expand all the mucous membranes with its vibrations equally, diffuse itself through the resonance chambers and penetrate the cavities of the head. When the back of the tongue can rise no higher, the larynx must be lowered. This often happens in the highest ranges, and one needs only to mingle an _oo_ in the vowel to be sung, which must, however, be sounded not forward in the mouth but _behind the nose_. When the larynx must stand very low, the tongue naturally must not be _too_ high, else it would affect the position of the larynx. The mass of the tongue must then be disposed of elsewhere; that is, by the formation of a furrow (see plate). One must learn to feel and hear it. To keep the larynx, the back of the tongue, and the palate always in readiness to offer mutual assistance, must become a habit. I feel the interplay of tongue and larynx in my own case as shown in the plates. As soon as we have the tongue under control,--that is, have acquired the habit of forming a furrow,--we can use it confidently as a support for the breath and the tone, and for vowels. On its incurving back it holds firmly the vowels; with its tip, many of the consonants. With all its elasticity, it must be trained to great strength and endurance. I, for instance, after every syllable, at once jerk my tongue with tremendous power back to its normal position in singing; that is, with its tip below the front teeth and the base raised [Illustration]. That goes on constantly, as quick as a flash. At the same time my larynx takes such a position that the tongue cannot interfere with it, that is, press upon it. By quickly raising the tongue toward the back, it is taken out of the way of the larynx, and the mass of the tongue is cleared from the throat. In the middle range, where the tongue or the larynx might be too high or too low, the furrow, which is of so much importance, is formed, in order to lead the vocalized breath first against the front of the palate beneath the nose, then slowly along the nose and behind it. Then when the highest point (the peak, which is extremely extensible) is reached, the pillars of the fauces are lowered, in order to leave the way for the head tones to the head cavities entirely free. In doing this, the sides of the tongue are raised high. Every tongue should occupy only so much space as it can occupy without being a hindrance to the tone. The bad, bad tongue! one is too thick, another too thin, a third too long, a fourth much too short. _Ladies and gentlemen, these are nothing but the excuses of the lazy!_ [Illustration: Red lines denote that with the inspiration of breath: I, the diaphragm is sensibly stretched backward; II, enlarges the capacity of the chest by the drawing down of its floor; III, and so forms the supply chamber for the breath; IV, indicates the pressure of the breath against the chest tension muscles; V, the attack.] SECTION XXIII PREPARATION FOR SINGING No one can sing properly without first preparing for it, mentally and physically, with all the organs concerned in the production of the voice. We have in this to perform three functions, simultaneously:-- _First_, to draw breath quietly, not too deeply; to force the breath against the chest and hold it there firmly till the upward and outward streaming--that is, singing--begins. (See plate, The Path of the Breath.) _Second_, to raise the soft palate at the same time toward the nose, so that the breath remains stationary until the singing begins. _Third_, to jerk the tongue backward at the same time, its back being thus raised, and elastic, ready to meet all the wishes of the singer,--that is, the needs of the larynx. The larynx must not be pressed either too low or too high, but must work freely. The breath is enabled to stream forth from it like a column, whose form is moulded above the larynx by the base of the tongue. When these three functions have been performed, all is ready. Now the pitch of the tone is to be considered, as the singing begins. The consummation (Höhepunkt) of the tone, above the palate, gives the point of attack itself, under the palate. Now further care must be given that the point of attack on the palate--that is, the focal point of the breath--be not subjected to pressure, and that the entire supply of breath be not expended upon the palatal resonance. For this the palate must remain elastic, for it has a twofold duty to perform. It must not only furnish resistance for the focal point of the breath,--except in the very highest head tones,--around which it can be diffused; the same resistance, which stands against the stream of breath from below, must also afford a firm, pliant, and elastic floor for the overtones, which, soaring above the palate, shift, as is needed, to or above the hard and soft palate, or are divided in the nose, forehead, and head cavities. It can easily be seen how any pressure in singing can be dangerous everywhere, and how careful the singer is forced to be to avoid such mistakes. SECTION XXIV THE POSITION OF THE MOUTH (CONTRACTION OF THE MUSCLES OF SPEECH) What must my sensations be with the muscles of speech? How shall I control them? The best position of the mouth, the means of securing the proper use of the muscles of speech and of the vocal organs, is established by pronouncing the vowel _[=a]_, not too sharply, in the middle range of the voice, and trying to retain the position of the muscles after the sound has ceased. This cannot be done without a _smiling_ position of the mouth, consequently with a strong contraction of the muscles of the mouth, tongue, and throat, which can be felt to be drawn up as far as the ears. In doing so the tongue--as far as the tip--lies of a pretty nearly even height to the back [Illustration], the soft palate soars without arching, but rather somewhat depressed over it. In pronouncing the vowels _[=a]_ and _[=e]_, the bright vowels, the full stream of the breath, in the given position, can only partly pass between the tongue and the palate. The other part is forced--unless the larynx stands too high and can choke it off--above the palate into the nasal cavities, to seek its opportunity for resonance. The path for _[=a]_ and _[=e]_ above the palate is worthy of all attention as a place for the overtones of the middle voice. If the soft palate, in the lower middle tones, is forced too far toward the hard palate, the covered tones are without vibrancy. One must needs secure the help of the nose especially, when the palate is sunk beneath the nose, by inflating the nostrils and letting air stream in and out of them. I repeat the warning, not to force several tones upon the same resonating point, but to see that upon each tone the form necessary for succeeding tones is prepared. Neglect of this will sooner or later be paid for dearly. Notwithstanding the strong muscular contraction that the vocal organs must undergo in pronouncing the vowel _[=a]_, the breath must be able to flow gently and without hindrance through its form, in order completely to fill up its resonance chambers. Again, and always, attention must be given that in singing, and in speaking as well, nothing shall be cramped or held tense, except the pressure of the breath against the chest. It is of the utmost importance to maintain this position for _all_ vowels, with the least possible perceptible modifications. How can this be done? _A_ and _e_ are bright vowels, must be sung with a pleasant, almost smiling, position of the mouth. _U_ and _o_, on the contrary, are dark vowels, for which the lips must be drawn into a sort of spout. Look at the position of the throat in these vowels: (1) as they are usually sung and spoken; (2) as I feel it, in singing, as I sing them, and as they must be sung and felt. SECTION XXV CONNECTION OF VOWELS How do I connect them with each other? If I wish to connect closely together two vowels that lie near to or far from each other, I must first establish the muscular contractions for _[=a]_, and introduce between the two vowels, whether they lie near together or far apart, a very well-defined _y_. Then (supposing, for instance, that I want to connect _[=a]_ and _[=e]_) I must join the _[=a]_ closely to the _y_, and the _y_ closely to the _[=e]_, so that there is not the least resonating space between the two that is not filled during the changes in the position of the organs, however carefully this is undertaken. There must be no empty space, no useless escape of breath, between any two of the sounds. [Illustration: oo [=e] o [=a] ah oo o [=e] y ah y [=a] y] [Illustration: Bad. oo [=e] o [=a] ah Good. oo o [=e] ah [=a]] [Illustration: Wrong. oo [=e] o [=a] ah Right. oo o [=e] ah [=a]] At first only two, then three and four, and then all the vowels in succession must be so practised:-- _A-ye, a-ye-yu, a-ye-yoo-yü, a-ye-yo-yü-yu-ye-yah._ But there must be never more than so much breath at hand as is needed to make the vowel and the tone perfect. The more closely the vowels are connected with the help of the _y_, the less breath is emitted from the mouth unused, the more intimate is the connection of tone, and the less noticeable are the changes of the position of the organs in relation to each other. When I pass from _y[=a]-y[=e]_ to _yoo_, I am compelled to develop very strongly the muscular contraction of the lips, which are formed into a long projecting spout; and this movement cannot be sufficiently exaggerated. With every new _y_ I must produce renewed muscular contractions of the vocal organs, which gradually, through continuous practice, are trained to become almost like the finest, most pliable steel, upon which the fullest reliance may be placed. From _yoo_ it is best to go to _yü_, that lies still farther forward and requires of the lips an iron firmness; then to _yo_, touching slightly on the _e_ that lies above the _o_; then return to _y[=a]_, and not till then going to _ye-ah_, which must then feel thus:-- e oo-o ah-[=a] y The _y_ is taken under the _ah_, that the word may not slide under; for usually the thought of _ah_ relaxes all the organs: the tongue lies flat, the larynx becomes unsteady, is without definite position, and the palate is not arched and is without firmness. In this way _ah_ becomes the most colorless and empty vowel of the whole list. With every change of vowel, or of any other letter, there are changes in the position of the organs, since tongue, palate, and larynx must take different positions for different sounds. With _[=a]_ and _[=e]_ the larynx stands higher, the palate is sunk, or in its normal position. With _oo_, _o_, and _ah_ the larynx stands low, the palate is arched. With _a_, _e_, and _ah_ the lips are drawn back. With _oo_, _o_, _ü_, and _ö_ they are extended far forward. The auxiliary sound _y_ connects them all with each other, so that the transitions are made quite imperceptibly. Since it is pronounced with the tongue drawn high against the palate, it prevents the base of the tongue from falling down again. This should be practised very slowly, that the sensations may be clearly discerned, and that no vibration that gives the vowel its pitch and duration may escape attention. The muscular contraction described comprises the chief functions of the vocal organs, and is as necessary for singing as the breath is for the tone. Year in and year out every singer and pupil must practise it in daily exercises as much as possible, on every tone of the vocal compass. In the lowest as well as in the highest range the sharpness of the _a_ is lost, as well as the clear definition of all single vowels. _A_ should be mingled with _oo_, _ah_, and _e_. In the highest range, the vowels are merged in each other, because then the principal thing is not the vowel, but the high sound. Even the _thought_ of _[=a]_ and _[=e]_, the latter especially, raises the pitch of the tone. The explanation of this is that _[=a]_ and _[=e]_ possess sympathetic sounds above the palate that lead the breath to the resonance of the head cavities. For this reason tenors often, in high notes, resort to the device of changing words with dark vowels to words with the bright vowel _e_. They could attain the same end, without changing the whole word, by simply _thinking_ of an _e_. [Illustration: Pronounce in English [=a] [=e] üoo oah[=e]] Without over-exertion, the singer can practise the exercises given above twenty times a day, in periods of ten to fifteen minutes each, and will soon appreciate the advantage of the muscular strengthening they give. They make the voice fresh, not weary, as doubtless many will suppose. What, then, can be expected of an untrained organ? Nothing! Without daily vocal gymnastics no power of endurance in the muscles can be gained. They must be so strong that a great operatic rôle can be repeated ten times in succession, in order that the singer may become able to endure the strain of singing in opera houses, in great auditoriums, and make himself heard above a great orchestra, without suffering for it. When I, for instance, was learning the part of _Isolde_, I could without weariness sing the first act alone six times in succession, with expression, action, and a full voice. That was my practice with all my rôles. After I had rehearsed a rôle a thousand times in my own room, I would go into the empty theatre and rehearse single scenes, as well as the whole opera, for hours at a time. That gave me the certainty of being mistress of my resonances down to the last note; and very often I felt able to begin it all over again. So must it be, if one wishes to accomplish anything worth while. Another end also is attained by the same exercise,--the connection, not only of the vowels, but of all letters, syllables, words, and phrases. By this exercise the form for the breath, tone, and word, in which all the organs are adjusted to each other with perfect elasticity, is gradually established. Slowly but surely it assures greatest endurance in all the organs concerned in speaking and singing, the inseparable connection of the palatal resonance with the resonance of the head cavities. In this way is gained perfection in the art of singing, which is based, not on chance, but on knowledge; and this slow but sure way is the only way to gain it. By the above-described method all other alphabetical sounds can be connected, and exercises can be invented to use with it, which are best adapted to correct the mistakes of pupils, at first on one, then step by step on two and three connected tones, etc. At the same time it is necessary to learn to move the tongue freely, and with the utmost quickness, by jerking it back, after pronouncing consonants, as quick as a flash, into the position in which it conducts the breath to the resonating chambers for the vowels. With all these movements is connected the power of elastically contracting and relaxing the muscles. SECTION XXVI THE LIPS Of special importance for the tone and the word are the movements of the lips, which are so widely different in the bright and in the dark vowels. These movements cannot be too much exaggerated in practising. The same strength and elasticity to which we have to train the muscles of the throat and tongue must be imparted to the lips, which must be as of iron. Upon their coöperation much of the life of the tone depends, and it can be used in many shadings, as soon as one is able to exert their power consciously and under the control of the will. Every vowel, every word, every tone, can be colored as by magic in all sorts of ways by the well-controlled play of the lips; can, as it were, be imbued with life, as the lips open or close more or less in different positions. The lips are the final cup-shaped resonators through which the tone has to pass. They can retard it or let it escape, can color it bright or dark, and exert a ceaseless and ever varying influence upon it long before it ceases and up to its very end. No attempt should be made to use the play of the lips until complete mastery of the absolutely even, perfect tone, and of the muscular powers, has been acquired. The effect must be produced as a result of power and practice; and should not be practised as an effect _per se_. SECTION XXVII THE VOWEL-SOUND _AH_ There is much discussion as to whether _ah_, _oo_, or some other vowel is the one best adapted for general practice. In former times practice was entirely on the vowel-sound _ah_. The old Italians taught it; my mother was trained so, and never allowed her pupils to use any other vowel during the first months of their instruction. Later, to be sure, every letter, every word, was practised and improved continually, till it was correct, and had impressed itself upon the memory, as well as the ear, of the pupil for all time. I explain the matter thus:-- The singer's mouth should always make an agreeable impression. Faces that are forever grinning or showing fish mouths are disgusting and wrong. The pleasing expression of the mouth requires the muscular contractions that form the bright vowel _ah_. Most people who are not accustomed to using their vocal resonance pronounce the _ah_ quite flat, as if it were the vowel-sound lying lowest. If it is pronounced with the position of the mouth belonging to the bright vowels, it has to seek its resonance, in speaking as well as in singing, in the same place as the dark vowels, on the high-arched palate. To permit this, it must be mingled with _oo_. The furrows in the tongue must also be formed, just as with _oo_ and _o_, only special attention must be given that the back of the tongue does not fall, but remains high, as in pronouncing _[=a]_. In this way _ah_ comes to lie between _oo-o'ah'y[=a]_, and forms at the same time the connection between the bright and the dark vowels, and the reverse. For this reason it was proper that _ah_ should be preferred as the practice vowel, as soon as it was placed properly between the two extremes, and had satisfied all demands. I prefer to teach it, because its use makes all mistakes most clearly recognizable. It is the most difficult vowel. If it is well pronounced, or sung, it produces the necessary muscular contractions with a pleasing expression of the mouth, and makes certain a fine tone color by its connection with _oo_ and _o_. If the _ah_ is equally well formed in all ranges of the voice, a chief difficulty is mastered. Those who have been badly taught, or have fallen into bad ways, should practise the vocal exercise I have given above, with _ya-ye-yah_, etc., slowly, listening to themselves carefully. Good results cannot fail; it is an infallible means of improvement. Italians who sing well never speak or sing the vowel sound _ah_ otherwise than mixed, and only the neglect of this mixture could have brought about the decadence of the Italian teaching of song. In Germany no attention is paid to it. The _ah_, as sung generally by most Italians of the present day, quite flat, sounds commonplace, almost like an affront. It can range itself, that is connect itself, with no other vowel, makes all vocal connection impossible, evolves very ugly registers; and, lying low in the throat, summons forth no palatal resonance. The power of contraction of the muscles of speech is insufficient, and this insufficiency misleads the singer to constrict the throat muscles, which are not trained to the endurance of it; thereby further progress is made impossible. In the course of time the tone becomes flat at the transitions. The fatal tremolo is almost always the result of this manner of singing. Try to sing a scale upward on _ah_, placing the tongue and muscles of speech at the same time on _[=a]_, and you will be surprised at the agreeable effect. Even the thought of it alone is often enough, because the tongue involuntarily takes the position of its own accord. I remember very well how Mme. Désirée Artot-Padilla, who had a low mezzo-soprano voice, used to toss off great coloratura pieces, beginning on the vowel-sound _ah_, and then going up and down on _a_, _ee_, _aüoah_. At the time I could not understand why she did it; now I know perfectly,--because it was easier for her. The breath is impelled against the cavities of the head, the head tones are set into action. Behind the _a_ position there must be as much room provided as is needed for all the vowels, with such modifications as each one requires for itself. The matter of chief importance is the position of the tongue _in_ the throat, that it shall not be in the way of the larynx, which must be able to move up and down, even though very slightly, without hindrance. All vowels must be able to flow into each other; the singer must be able to pass from one to another without perceptible alteration, and back again. SECTION XXVIII ITALIAN AND GERMAN How easy it is for the Italians, who have by nature, through the characteristics of their native language, all these things which others must gain by long years of practice! A single syllable often unites three vowels; for instance, "tuoi" (tuoy[=e]), "miei" (myeay[=e]), "muoja," etc. The Italians mingle all their vowels. They rub them into and color them with each other. This includes a great portion of the art of song, which in every language, with due regard to its peculiar characteristics, must be learned by practice. To give only a single example of the difficulty of the German words, with the everlasting consonant endings to the syllables, take the recitative at the entrance of Norma:-- "Wer lässt hier Aufruhrstimme_n_, Kriegsruf ertöne_n_, wollt Ihr die Götter zwinge_n_, Eurem Wahnwitz zu fröhne_n_? Wer wagt vermesse_n_, gleich der Propheti_n_ der Zukunft Nacht zu lichte_n_, wollt Ihr der Götter Pla_n_ vorschnell vernichte_n_? Nicht Menschenkraft Könne_n_ die Wirre_n_ dieses Landes schlichte_n_." Twelve endings on _n_! "Sediziosi voci, voci di guerra, avvi [Transcriber's Note: corrected "avoi" in original] chi alzar si attenta presso all'ara del Dio! V'ha chi presume dettar responsi alla vegente Norma, e di Roma affrettar il fato arcano. Ei non dipende, no, non dipende da potere umano!" From the Italians we can learn the connection of the vowels, from the French the use of the nasal tone. The Germans surpass the others in their power of expressiveness. But he who would have the right to call himself an artist must unite all these things; the _bel canto_, that is, beautiful--I might say good--singing, and all the means of expression which we cultivated people need to interpret master works of great minds, should afford the public ennobling pleasure. A tone full of life is to be produced only by the skilful mixture of the vowels, that is, the unceasing leaning of one upon the others, without, however, affecting any of its characteristics. This means, in reality, only the complete use of the resonance of the breath, since the mixture of the vowels can be obtained only through the elastic conjunction of the organs and the varying division of the stream of breath toward the palatal resonance, or that of the cavities of the head, or the equalization of the two. The larynx must rise and descend unimpeded by the tongue, soft palate and pillars of the fauces rise and sink, the soft palate always able more or less to press close to the hard. Strong and elastic contractions imply very pliable and circumspect relaxation of the same. I think that the feeling I have of the extension of my throat comes from the very powerful yet very elastic contraction of my muscles, which, though feeling always in a state of relaxability, appear to me like flexible steel, of which I can demand everything,--because never too much,--and which I exercise daily. Even in the entr'actes of grand operas I go through with such exercises; for they refresh instead of exhausting me. The unconstrained coöperation of all the organs, as well as their individual functions, must go on elastically without any pressure or cramped action. Their interplay must be powerful yet supple, that the breath which produces the tone may be diffused as it flows from one to another of the manifold and complicated organs (such as the ventricles of Morgagni), supporting itself on others, being caught in still others, and finding all in such a state of readiness as is required in each range for each tone. Everything must be combined in the right way as a matter of habit. The voice is equalized by the proper ramification of the breath and the proper connection of the different resonances. The tone is colored by the proper mixture of vowels; _oo_, _o_, and _ah_ demanding more palatal resonance and a lower position of the larynx, _a_ and _e_ more resonance of the head cavities and a higher position of the larynx. With _oo_, _o_, _ü_, and _ah_ the palate is arched higher (the tongue forming a furrow) than with _[=a]_, _[=e]_, and _ü_, where the tongue lies high and flat. There are singers who place the larynx too low, and, arching the palate too high, sing too much toward _oo_. Such voices sound very dark, perhaps even hollow; they lack the interposition of the _[=a]_,--that is, the larynx is placed too low. On the other hand, there are others who press it upward too high; their _a_ position is a permanent one. Such voices are marked by a very bright, sharp quality of tone, often like a goat's bleating. Both are alike wrong and disagreeable. The proper medium between them must be gained by sensitive training of the ear, and a taste formed by the teacher through examples drawn from his own singing and that of others. If we wish to give a noble expression to the tone and the word, we must mingle its vocal sound, if it is not so, with _o_ or _oo_. If we wish to give the word merely an agreeable expression, we mingle it with _ah_, _[=a]_, and _[=e]_. That is, we must use all the qualities of tonal resonance, and thus produce colors which shall benefit the tone and thereby the word and its expression. Thus a single tone may be taken or sung in many different ways. In every varying connection, consequently, the singer must be able to change it according to the expression desired. But as soon as it is a question of a _musical phrase_, in which several tones or words, or tones alone, are connected, the law of progression must remain in force; expression must be sacrificed, partly at least, to the beauty of the musical passage. If he is skilful enough, the singer can impart a certain expression of feeling to even the most superficial phrases and coloratura passages. Thus, in the coloratura passages of Mozart's arias, I have always sought to gain expressiveness by _crescendi_, choice of significant points for breathing, and breaking off of phrases. I have been especially successful with this in the _Entführung_, introducing a tone of lament into the first aria, a heroic dignity into the second, through the coloratura passages. Without exaggerating petty details, the artist must exploit all the means of expression that he is justified in using. SECTION XXIX AUXILIARY VOWELS Like the auxiliary verbs "will" and "have," _[=a]_, _[=e]_, and _oo_ are auxiliary vowels, of whose aid we are constantly compelled to avail ourselves. It will perhaps sound exaggerated when I present an example of this, but as a matter of fact pronunciation is consummated in this way; only, it must not become noticeable. The method seems singular, but its object is to prevent the leaving of any empty resonance space, and to obviate any interruptions that could affect the perfection of the tone. For example, when I wish to sing the word "Fräulein," I must first, and before all else, think of the pitch of the tone, before I attack the _f_. With the _f_, the tone must be there already, _before_ I have pronounced it; to pass from the _f_ to the _r_ I must summon to my aid the auxiliary vowel _oo_, in order to prevent the formation of any unvocalized interstices in the sound. The _r_ must not now drop off, but must in turn be joined to the _oo_, while the tongue should not drop down behind, [Illustration] but should complete the vibrations thus, [Illustration] in a straight line. (See plate.) [Illustration] It is very interesting to note how much a word can gain or lose in fulness and beauty of tone. Without the use of auxiliary vowels no connection of the resonance in words can be effected; there is then no beautiful tone in singing, only a kind of hacking. Since it must be quite imperceptible, the use of auxiliary vowels must be very artistically managed, and is best practised in the beginning very slowly on single tones and words, then proceeding with great care to two tones, two syllables, and so on. In this way the pupil learns to _hear_. But he must learn to hear very slowly and for a long time, until there is no failure of vibration in the tone and word, and it is all so impressed upon his memory that it can never be lost. The auxiliary vowels must always be present, but the listener should be able to hear, from the assistance of the _oo_, only the warmth and nobility of the tone, from the _a_ and _e_ only the carrying power and brilliancy of it. SECTION XXX RESONANT CONSONANTS _K_, _l_, _m_, _n_, _p_, _s_, and _r_ at the end of a word or syllable must be made resonant by joining to the end of the word or syllable a rather audible _[)e]_ (_eh_); for instance, Wandel^e, Gretel^e, etc. A thing that no one teaches any longer, or knows or is able to do, a thing that only Betz and I knew, and with me will probably disappear entirely, is the dividing and ending of syllables that must be effected under certain conditions. It may have originated with the Italian school. I was taught it especially upon double consonants. When two come together, they must be divided; the first, as in Him-mel, being sounded dull, and without resonance, the syllable and tone being kept as nasal as possible, the lips closed, and a pause being made between the two syllables; not till then is the second syllable pronounced, with a new formation of the second consonant. And this is done, not only in case of a doubling of one consonant, but whenever two consonants come together to close the syllable; for instance, win-ter, dring-en, kling-en, bind-en; in these the nasal sound plays a specially important part. The tediousness of singing without proper separation of the syllables is not appreciated till it has been learned how to divide the consonants. The nasal close of itself brings a new color into the singing, which must be taken into account; and moreover, the word is much more clearly intelligible, especially in large auditoriums, where an appreciable length of time is needed for it to reach the listener. By the nasal close, also, an uninterrupted connection is assured between the consonant and the tone, even if the latter has to cease, apparently, for an instant. I teach all my pupils thus. But since most of them consider it something unheard of to be forced to pronounce in this way, they very rarely bring it to the artistic perfection which alone can make it effective. Except from Betz, I have never heard it from any one. After me no one will teach it any more. I shall probably be the last one. A pity! SECTION XXXI PRACTICAL EXERCISES The practical study of singing is best begun with single sustained tones, and with preparation on the sound of _ah_ alone, mingled with _o_ and _oo_. A position as if one were about to yawn helps the tongue to lie in the right place. In order not to weary young voices too much, it is best to begin in the middle range, going upward first, by semitones, and then, starting again with the same tone, going downward. All other exercises begin in the lower range and go upward. The pupil must first be able to make a single tone good, and judge it correctly, before he should be allowed to proceed to a second. Later, single syllables or words can be used as exercises for this. The position of the mouth and tongue must be watched in the mirror. The vowel _ah_ must be mingled with _o_ and _oo_, and care must be taken that the breath is forced strongly against the chest, and felt attacking here and on the palate at the same time. Begin _piano_, make a long _crescendo_, and gradually return and end on a well-controlled _piano_. My feeling at the attack is as shown in the plate. At the same instant that I force the breath against the chest, I place the tone _under_ its highest point on the palate, and let the overtones soar above the palate--the two united in one thought. Only in the lowest range can the overtones, and in the highest range the undertones (resonance of the head cavities and of the palate), be dispensed with. With me the throat never comes into consideration; I feel absolutely nothing of it, at most only the breath gently streaming through it. A tone should never be forced; _never press_ the breath against the resonating chambers, but only against the chest; and NEVER hold it back. The organs should not be cramped, but should be allowed to perform their functions elastically. The contraction of the muscles should never exceed their power to relax. A tone must always be sung, whether strong or soft, with an easy, conscious power. Further, before all things, sing always with due regard to the pitch. In this way the control of the ear is exercised over the pitch, strength, and duration of the tone, and over the singer's strength and weakness, of which we are often forced to make a virtue. In short, one learns to recognize and to produce a perfect tone. [Illustration: Attack. Red lines denote that with the inspiration of breath: I, the diaphragm is sensibly stretched backward; II, enlarges the capacity of the chest by the drawing down of its floor; III, and so forms the supply chamber for the breath; IV, indicates the pressure of the breath against the chest tension muscles; V, the attack.] In all exercises go as low and as high as the voice will allow without straining, and always make little pauses to rest between them, even if you are not tired, in order to be all the fresher for the next one. With a certain amount of skill and steady purpose the voice increases its compass, and takes the proper range, easiest to it by nature. The pupil can see then how greatly the compass of a voice can be extended. For amateurs it is not necessary; but it is for every one who practises the profession of a singer in public. For a second exercise, sing connectedly two half-tones, slowly, on one or two vowels, bridging them with the auxiliary vowels and the _y_ as the support of the tongue, etc. Every tone must seek its best results from all the organs concerned in its production; must possess power, brilliancy, and mellowness in order to be able to produce, before leaving each tone, the propagation form for the next tone, ascending as well as descending, and make it certain. No exercise should be dropped till every vibration of every tone has clearly approved itself to the ear, not only of the teacher, but also of the pupil, as _perfect_. It takes a long time to reach the full consciousness of a tone. After it has passed the lips it must be diffused outside, before it can come to the consciousness of the listener as well as to that of the singer himself. So practise _singing_ slowly and _hearing_ slowly. SECTION XXXII THE GREAT SCALE This is the most necessary exercise for all kinds of voices. It was taught to my mother; she taught it to all her pupils and to us. But _I_ am probably the only one of them all who practises it faithfully! I do not trust the others. As a pupil one must practise it twice a day, as a professional singer at least once. [Music illustration] The breath must be well prepared, the expiration still better, for the duration of these five and four long tones is greater than would be supposed. The first tone must be attacked not too _piano_, and sung only so strongly as is necessary to reach the next one easily without further crescendo, while the propagation form for the next tone is produced, and the breath wisely husbanded till the end of the phrase. The first of each of the phrases ends nasally in the middle range, the second toward the forehead and the cavities of the head. The lowest tone must already be prepared to favor the resonance of the head cavities, by thinking of _[=a]_, consequently placing the larynx high and maintaining the resonating organs in a _very_ supple and elastic state. In the middle range, _ah_ is mingled particularly with _oo_, that the nose may be reached; further, the auxiliary vowel _e_ is added to it, which guides the tone to the head cavities. In descending the attack must be more concentrated, as the tone is slowly directed toward the nose on _oo_ or _o_, to the end of the figure. When _oo_, _a_, and _e_ are auxiliary vowels, they need not be plainly pronounced. (They form an exception in the diphthongs, "Trauuum," "Leiiid," "Lauuune," "Feuyer," etc.) As auxiliary vowels they are only means to an end, a bridge, a connection from one thing to another. They can be taken anywhere with any other sound; and thence it may be seen how elastic the organs can be when they are skilfully managed. The chief object of the great scale is to secure the pliant, sustained use of the breath, precision in the preparation of the propagation form, the proper mixture of the vowels which aid in placing the organs in the right position for the tone, to be changed for every different tone, although imperceptibly; further, the intelligent use of the resonance of the palate and head cavities, especially the latter, whose tones, soaring above everything else, form the connection with the nasal quality for the whole scale. The scale must be practised without too strenuous exertion, but not without power, gradually extending over the entire compass of the voice; and that is, if it is to be perfect, over a compass of two octaves. These two octaves will have been covered, when, advancing the starting-point by semitones, the scale has been carried up through an entire octave. So much every voice can finally accomplish, even if the high notes must be very feeble. The great scale, properly elaborated in practice, accomplishes wonders: it equalizes the voice, makes it flexible and noble, gives strength to all weak places, operates to repair all faults and breaks that exist, and controls the voice to the very heart. Nothing escapes it. By it ability as well as inability is brought to light--something that is extremely unpleasant to those without ability. In my opinion it is the ideal exercise, but the most difficult one I know. By devoting forty minutes to it every day, a consciousness of certainty and strength will be gained that ten hours a day of any other exercise cannot give. This should be the chief test in all conservatories. If I were at the head of one, the pupils should be allowed for the first three years to sing at the examinations only _difficult_ exercises, like this great scale, before they should be allowed to think of singing a song or an aria, which I regard only as cloaks for incompetency. For teaching me this scale--this guardian angel of the voice--I cannot be thankful enough to my mother. In earlier years I used to like to express myself freely about it. There was a time when I imagined that it strained me. My mother often ended her warnings at my neglect of it with the words, "You will be very sorry for it!" And I was very sorry for it. At one time, when I was about to be subjected to great exertions, and did not practise it every day, but thought it was enough to sing coloratura fireworks, I soon became aware that my transition tones would no longer endure the strain, began easily to waver, or threatened even to become too flat. The realization of it was terrible! It cost me many, many years of the hardest and most careful study; and it finally brought me to realize the necessity of exercising the vocal organs continually, and in the proper way, if I wished always to be able to rely on them. Practice, and especially the practice of the great, slow scale, is the only cure for all injuries, and at the same time the most excellent means of fortification against all over-exertion. I sing it every day, often twice, even if I have to sing one of the greatest rôles in the evening. I can rely absolutely on its assistance. If I had imparted nothing else to my pupils but the ability to sing this one great exercise well, they would possess a capital fund of knowledge which must infallibly bring them a rich return on their voices. I often take fifty minutes to go through it only once, for I let no tone pass that is lacking in any degree in pitch, power, and duration, or in a single vibration of the propagation form. SECTION XXXIII VELOCITY Singers, male and female, who are lacking velocity and the power of trilling, seem to me like horses without tails. Both of these things belong to the art of song, and are inseparable from it. It is a matter of indifference whether the singer has to use them or not; he must be able to. The teacher who neither teaches nor can teach them to his pupils is a _bad teacher_; the pupil who, notwithstanding the urgent warnings of his teacher, neglects the exercises that can help him to acquire them, and fails to perfect himself in them, is a _bungler_. There is no excuse for it but lack of talent, or laziness; and neither has any place in the higher walks of art. To give the voice velocity, practise first slowly, then faster and faster, figures of five, six, seven, and eight notes, etc., upward and downward. If one has well mastered the great, slow scale, with the nasal connection, skill in singing rapid passages will be developed quite of itself, because they both rest on the same foundation, and without the preliminary practice can never be understood. Put the palate into the nasal position, the larynx upon _oe_; attack the lowest tone of the figure with the thought of the highest; force the breath, as it streams very vigorously forth from the larynx, toward the nose, but allow the head current entire freedom, without entirely doing away with the nasal quality; and then run up the scale with great firmness. In descending, keep the form of the highest tone, even if there should be eight to twelve tones in the passage, so that the scale slides down, not a pair of stairs, but a smooth track, the highest tone affording, as it were, a guarantee that on the way there shall be no impediment or sudden drop. The resonance form, kept firm and tense, must adapt itself with the utmost freedom to the thought of every tone, and with it, to the breath. The pressure of the breath against the chest must not be diminished, but must be unceasing. To me it is always as if the pitch of the highest tone were already contained in the lowest, so strongly concentrated upon the whole figure are my thoughts at the attack of a single tone. By means of _ah-e-[=a]_, larynx, tongue, and palatal position on the lowest tone are in such a position that the vibrations of breath for the highest tones are already finding admission into the head cavities, and as far as possible are in sympathetic vibration there. The higher the vocal figures go the more breath they need, the less can the breath and the organs be pressed. The higher they are, the more breath must stream forth from the epiglottis; therefore the _[=a]_ and the thought of _e_, which keep the passages to the head open. But because there is a limit to the scope of the movement of larynx and tongue, and they cannot rise higher and higher with a figure that often reaches to an immense height, the singer must resort to the aid of the auxiliary vowel _oo_, in order to lower the larynx and so make room for the breath: [Music illustration] A run or any other figure must never sound thus: [Music illustration] but must be nasally modified above, and tied; and because the breath must flow out unceasingly in a powerful stream from the vocal cords, an _h_ can only be put in beneath, which makes us sure of this powerful streaming out of the breath, and helps only the branch stream of breath into the cavities of the head. Often singers hold the breath, concentrated on the nasal form, firmly on the lowest tone of a figure, and, without interrupting this nasal form, or the head tones, that is, the breath vibrating in the head cavities, finish the figure alone. When this happens the muscular contractions of the throat, tongue, and palate are very strong. [Music illustration: L'oiselet. Chopin-Viardat] The turn, too, based on the consistent connection of the tonal figure with the nasal quality,--which is obtained by pronouncing the _oo_ toward the nose,--and firmly held there, permits no interruption for an instant to the vowel sound. How often have I heard the _ha-ha-ha-haa_, etc.,--a wretched tumbling down of different tones, instead of a smooth decoration of the cantilena. Singers generally disregard it, because no one can do it any more, and yet even to-day it is of the greatest importance. (See _Tristan und Isolde_.) The situation is quite the same in regard to the appoggiatura. In this the resonance is made nasal and the flexibility of the larynx,--which, without changing the resonance, moves quickly up and down--accomplishes the task alone. Here, too, it can almost be imagined that the _thought_ alone is enough, for the connection of the two tones cannot be too close. But this must be practised, and done _consciously_. [Music illustration: Adelaide, by Beethoven A-bend-lüft-chen im zar-ten Lau-be flü-stern] [Transcriber's Note: Corrected "L'au-be" in original to "Lau-be"] SECTION XXXIV TRILL There still remains the trill, which is best practised in the beginning as follows:-- [Music illustration] The breath is led very far back against the head cavities by the _[=a]_, the larynx kept as stiff as possible and placed high. Both tones are connected as closely, as heavily as possible, upward nasally, downward _on_ the larynx, for which the _y_, again, is admirably suited. They must be attacked as high as possible, and very strongly. The trill exercise must be practised almost as a scream. The upper note must always be strongly _accented_. The exercise is practised with an even strength, without decrescendo to the end; the breath streams out more and more strongly, uninterruptedly to the finish. Trill exercises must be performed with great energy, on the whole compass of the voice. They form an exception to the rule in so far that in them more is given to the throat to do--always, however, under the control of the chest--than in other exercises. That relates, however, to the muscles. The breath vibrates _above_ the larynx, but does not stick in it, consequently this is not dangerous. The exercise is practised first on two half, then on two whole, tones of the same key (as given above), advancing by semitones, twice a day on the entire compass of the voice. It is exhausting because it requires great energy; but for the same reason it gives strength. Practise it first as slowly and vigorously as the strength of the throat allows, then faster and faster, till one day the trill unexpectedly appears. With some energy and industry good results should be reached in from six to eight weeks, and the larynx should take on the habit of performing its function by itself. This function gradually becomes a habit, so that it seems as if only _one_ tone were attacked and held, and as if the second tone simply vibrated with it. As a matter of fact, the larynx will have been so practised in the minute upward and downward motion, that the singer is aware only of the vibrations of the breath that lie _above_ it, while he remains mindful all the time only of the pitch of the upper note. One has the feeling then as of singing or holding only the _lower_ tone (which must be placed very high), while the upper one vibrates with it simply through the habitude of the accentuation. The union of the two then comes to the singer's consciousness as if he were singing the lower note somewhat too high, halfway toward the upper one. This is only an aural delusion, produced by the high vibrations. But the trill, when fully mastered, should always be begun, as in the exercise, on the _upper_ note. Every voice must master the trill, after a period, longer or shorter, of proper practice. Stiff, strong voices master it sooner than small, weak ones. I expended certainly ten years upon improving it, because as a young girl I had so very little strength, although my voice was very flexible in executing all sorts of rapid passages. To be able to use it anywhere, of course, requires a long time and much practice. For this reason it is a good plan to practise it on syllables with different vowels, such as can all be supported on _[=a]_, and on words, as soon as the understanding needed for this is in some degree assured. If the larynx has acquired the habit properly, the trill can be carried on into a _piano_ and _pianissimo_ and prolonged almost without end with _crescendi_ and _decrescendi_, as the old Italians used to do, and as _all Germans_ do who have learned anything. SECTION XXXV HOW TO HOLD ONE'S SELF WHEN PRACTISING In practising the singer should always stand, if possible, before a large mirror, in order to be able to watch himself closely. He should stand upright, quietly but not stiffly, and avoid everything that looks like restlessness. The hands should hang quietly, or rest lightly on something, without taking part in the interpretation of the expression. The first thing needed is to bring the body under control, that is, to remain quiet, so that later, in singing, the singer can do everything intentionally. The pupil must always stand in such a way that the teacher can watch his face, as well as his whole body. Continual movements of the fingers, hands, or feet are not permissible. The body must serve the singer's purposes freely and must acquire no bad habits. The singer's self-possession is reflected in a feeling of satisfaction on the part of the listener. The quieter the singer or artist, the more significant is every expression he gives; the fewer motions he makes, the more importance they have. So he can scarcely be quiet enough. Only there must be a certain accent of expression in this quietude, which cannot be represented by indifference. The quietude of the artist is a reassurance for the public, for it can come only from the certainty of power and the full command of his task through study and preparation and perfect knowledge of the work to be presented. An artist whose art is based on power cannot appear other than self-possessed and certain of himself. An evident uneasiness is always inartistic, and hence does not belong where art is to be embodied. All dependence upon tricks of habit creates nervousness and lack of flexibility. Therefore the singer must accustom himself to quietude in practising, and make his will master of his whole body, that later he may have free command of all his movements and means of expression. The constant playing of single tones or chords on the piano by the teacher during the lesson is wrong, and every pupil should request its discontinuance. The teacher can hear the pupil, but the latter cannot hear himself, when this is done; and yet it is of the utmost importance that he should learn to hear himself. I am almost driven distracted when teachers bring me their pupils, and drum on the piano as if possessed while they sing. Pupils have the same effect on me when they sit and play a dozen chords to one long note. Do they sit in the evening when they sing in a concert? Do they hear themselves, when they do this? Unfortunately, I cannot hear them. Poor pupils! It is enough for a musical person to strike a single note on the piano when he practises alone, or perhaps a common chord, after which the body and hands should return to their quiet natural position. Only in a standing posture can a free deep breath be drawn, and mind and body be properly prepared for the exercise or the song to follow. It is also well for pupils to form sentences with the proper number of syllables upon which to sing their exercises, so that even such exercises shall gradually gain a certain amount of expressiveness. Thus the exercises will form pictures which must be connected with the play of the features, as well as with an inner feeling, and thus will not become desultory and soulless and given over to indifference. Of course not till the mere tone itself is brought under complete control, and uncertainty is no longer possible, can the horizon of the pupil be thus widened without danger. Only when a scene requires that a vocal passage be sung kneeling or sitting must the singer practise it in his room long before the performance and at all rehearsals, in accordance with dramatic requirements of the situation. _Otherwise the singer should always_ STAND. We must also look out for unaccustomed garments that may be required on the stage, and rehearse in them; for instance, hat, helmet, hood, cloak, etc. Without becoming accustomed to them by practice, the singer may easily make himself ridiculous on the stage. Hence comes the absurdity of a Lohengrin who cannot sing with a helmet, another who cannot with a shield, a third who cannot with gauntlets; a Wanderer who cannot with the big hat, another who cannot with the spear, a Jose who cannot with the helmet, etc. All these things must be practised before a mirror until the requirements of a part or its costume become a habit. To attain this, the singer must be completely master of his body and all his movements. It must be precisely the same with the voice. The singer must be quite independent of bad habits in order consciously to exact from it what the proper interpretation of the work to be performed requires. He should practise only so long as can be done without weariness. After every exercise he should take a rest, to be fresh for the next one. After the great scale he should rest _at least_ ten minutes; and these resting times must be observed as long as one sings. Long-continued exertion should not be exacted of the voice at first; even if the effects of it are not immediately felt, a damage is done in some way. In this matter pupils themselves are chiefly at fault, because they cannot get enough, as long as they take pleasure in it. For this reason it is insane folly to try to sing important rôles on the stage after one or two years of study; it may perhaps be endured for one or two years without evil results, but it can never be carried on indefinitely. Agents and managers commit a crime when they demand enormous exertions of such young singers. The rehearsals, which are held in abominably bad air, the late hours, the irregular life that is occasioned by rehearsals, the strain of standing around for five or six hours in a theatre,--all this is not for untrained young persons. No woman of less than twenty-four years should sing soubrette parts, none of less than twenty-eight years second parts, and none of less than thirty-five years dramatic parts; that is early enough. By that time proper preparation can be made, and in voice and person something can be offered worth while. And our fraternity must realize this sooner or later. In that way, too, they will learn more and be able to do more, and fewer sins will be committed against the art of song by the incompetent. SECTION XXXVI CONCERNING EXPRESSION When we wish to study a rôle or a song, we have first to master the intellectual content of the work. Not till we have made ourselves a clear picture of the whole should we proceed to elaborate the details, through which, however, the impression of the whole should never be allowed to suffer. The complete picture should always shine out through all. If it is too much broken into details, it becomes a thing of shreds and patches. So petty accessories must be avoided, that the larger outline of the whole picture shall not suffer. The complete picture must ever claim the chief interest; details should not distract attention from it. In art, subordination of the parts to the whole is an art of itself. Everything must be fitted to the larger lineaments that should characterize a masterpiece. A word is an idea; and not only the idea, but how that idea in color and connection is related to the whole, must be expressed. Therein is the fearsome magic that Wagner has exercised upon me and upon all others, that draws us to him and lets none escape its spell. That is why the elaboration of Wagner's creations seems so much worth while to the artist. Every elaboration of a work of art demands the sacrifice of some part of the artist's ego, for he must mingle the feelings set before him for portrayal with his own in his interpretation, and thus, so to speak, lay bare his very self. But since we must impersonate human beings, we may not spare ourselves, but throw ourselves into our task with the devotion of all our powers. SECTION XXXVII BEFORE THE PUBLIC In the wide reaches of the theatre it is needful to give an exaggeration to the expression, which in the concert hall, where the forms of society rule, must be entirely abandoned. And yet the picture must be presented by the artist to the public from the very first word, the very first note; the mood must be felt in advance. This depends partly upon the bearing of the singer and the expression of countenance he has during the prelude, whereby interest in what is coming is aroused and is directed upon the music as well as upon the poem. The picture is complete in itself; I have only to vivify its colors during the performance. Upon the management of the body, upon the electric current which should flow between the artist and the public,--a current that often streams forth at his very appearance, but often is not to be established at all,--depend the glow and effectiveness of the color which we impress upon our picture. No artist should be beguiled by this into giving forth more than artistic propriety permits, either to enhance the enthusiasm or to intensify the mood; for the electric connection cannot be forced. Often a tranquillizing feeling is very soon manifest on both sides, the effect of which is quite as great, even though less stimulating. Often, too, a calm, still understanding between singer and public exercises a fascination upon both, that can only be attained through a complete devotion to the task in hand, and renunciation of any attempt to gain noisy applause. To me it is a matter of indifference whether the public goes frantic or listens quietly and reflectively, for I give out only what I have undertaken to. If I have put my individuality, my powers, my love for the work, into a rôle or a song that is applauded by the public, I decline all thanks for it to myself personally, and consider the applause as belonging to the master whose work I am interpreting. If I have succeeded in making him intelligible to the public, the reward therefor is contained in that fact itself, and I ask for nothing more. Of what is implied in the intelligent interpretation of a work of art, as to talent and study, the public has no conception. Only they can understand it whose lives have been devoted to the same ideals. The lasting understanding of such, or even of a part of the public, is worth more than all the storm of applause that is given to so many. All the applause in the world cannot repay me for the sacrifices I have made for art, and no applause in the world is able to beguile me from the dissatisfaction I feel over the failure of a single tone or attempted expression. What seems to me bad, because I demand the greatest things of myself, is, to be sure, good enough for many others. I am, however, not of their opinion. In any matter relating to art, only the best is good enough for any public. If the public is uncultivated, one must make it know the best, must educate it, must teach it to understand the best. A naïve understanding is often most strongly exhibited by the uncultivated--that is, the unspoiled--public, and often is worth more than any cultivation. The cultivated public should be willing to accept only the best; it should ruthlessly condemn the bad and the mediocre. It is the artist's task, through offering his best and most carefully prepared achievements, to educate the public, to ennoble it; and he should carry out his mission without being influenced by bad standards of taste. The public, on the other hand, should consider art, not as a matter of fashion, or as an opportunity to display its clothes, but should feel it as a true and profound enjoyment, and do everything to second the artist's efforts. Arriving late at the opera or in the concert hall is a kind of bad manners which cannot be sufficiently censured. In the same way, going out before the end, at unfitting times, and the use of fans in such a way as to disturb artists and those sitting near, should be avoided by cultivated people. Artists who are concentrating their whole nature upon realizing an ideal, which they wish to interpret with the most perfect expression, should not be disturbed or disquieted. On the other hand, operatic performances, and concerts especially, should be limited in duration and in the number of pieces presented. It is better to offer the public a single symphony or a short list of songs or pianoforte pieces, which it can listen to with attention and really absorb, than to provide two or three hours of difficult music that neither the public can listen to with sufficient attention nor the artist perform with sufficient concentration. SECTION XXXVIII INTERPRETATION Let us return to the subject of Expression, and examine a song; for example, _"Der Nussbaum" by Schumann._ The prevailing mood through it is one of quiet gayety, consequently one demanding a pleasant expression of countenance. The song picture must rustle by us like a fairy story. The picture shows us the fragrant nut tree putting forth its leaves in the spring; under it a maiden lost in reverie, who finally falls asleep, happy in her thoughts. All is youth and fragrance, a charming little picture, whose colors must harmonize. None of them should stand out from the frame. Only one single word rises above the rustling of the tree, and this must be brought plainly to the hearing of the listening maiden--and hence, also, of the public--the second "_next_" year. The whole song finds its point in that one word. The nut tree before the house puts forth its green leaves and sheds its fragrance; its blossoms are lovingly embraced by the soft breezes, whispering to each other two by two, and offer their heads to be kissed, nodding and bowing; the song must be sung with an equal fragrance, each musical phrase in one breath: that is, with six inaudible breathings, without ritenuto. They whisper of a maiden who night and day is thinking, she knows not of what herself. Between "selber" and "nicht was" a slight separation of the words can be made, by breaking off the _r_ in "selber" nasally; and holding the tone nasally, without taking a fresh breath, attacking the "nicht" anew. In this way an expression of uncertainty is lent to the words "nicht was." But now all becomes quite mysterious. "They whisper, they whisper"--one must bend one's thoughts to hear it; who can understand so soft a song? But now I hear plainly, even though it be very soft--the whisper about the bridegroom and the next year, and again quite significantly, the _next_ year. That is so full of promise, one can scarcely tear one's self away from the thoughts, from the word in which love is imparted, and yet that, too, comes to an end! Now I am the maiden herself who listens, smiling in happiness, to the rustling of the tree, leaning her head against its trunk, full of longing fancies as she sinks to sleep and to dream, from which she would wish never to awaken. _"Feldeinsamkeit" by Brahms._ This song interprets the exalted mood of the soul of the man who, lying at rest in the long grass, watches the clouds float by, and whose being is made one with nature as he does so. A whole world of insects buzzes about him, the air shimmers in the bright sunlight, flowers shed their perfume; everything about him lives a murmuring life in tones that seem to enhance the peace of nature, far from the haunts of men. As tranquil as are the clouds that pass by, as peaceful as is the mood of nature, as luxurious as are the flowers that spread their fragrance, so tranquil and calm must be the breathing of the singer, which draws the long phrases of the song over the chords of the accompaniment, and brings before us in words and tones the picture of the warm peace of summer in nature, and the radiant being of a man dissolved within it. I mark the breathing places with _V_. "Ich liege still im Nohen grünen Gras _V_ und sende lange meinen Blick _V_ nach oben _V_ [and again comfortably, calmly] nach oben. "Von Grillen rings umschwärmt _V_ ohn' Unterlass _V_ von Himmelsbläue wundersam umwoben _V_ von Himmelsbläue _V_ _wundersam umwoben_." Each tone, each letter, is connected closely with the preceding and following; the expression of the eyes and of the soul should be appropriate to that of the glorified peace of nature and of the soul's happiness. The last phrase should soar tenderly, saturated with a warm and soulful coloring. "Die schönen weissen Wolken zieh'n dahin _V_ durch's _tiefe_ Blau _V_, [I gaze at it for a moment] wie schöne, stille Träume _V_ [losing one's self] wie schöne stille Träume. _V_ [A feeling of dissolution takes away every thought of living and being.] Mir ist _V_ als ob _V_ ich längst _V_ gestorben bin! [The whole being is dissolved in the ether; the end comes with outstretched wings soaring above the earth.] und ziehe selig mit _V_ durch ew'ge Räume _V_ und ziehe selig mit _V_ durch ew'ge Räume. [Dissolution of the soul in the universe must sound forth from the singer's tone.] _"The Erlking," by Schubert._ For him who is familiar with our native legends and tales, the willows and alders in the fields and by the brooks are peopled with hidden beings, fairies, and witches. They stretch out ghostly arms, as their veils wave over their loose hair, they bow, cower, raise themselves, become as big as giants or as little as dwarfs. They seem to lie in wait for the weak, to fill them with fright. The father, however, who rides with his child through the night and the wind, is a man, no ghost; and his faithful steed, that carries both, no phantom. The picture is presented to us vividly; we can follow the group for long. The feeling is of haste, but not of ghostliness. The prelude should consequently sound simply fast, but not overdrawn. The first phrases of the singer should be connected with it as a plain narrative. Suddenly the child hugs the father more closely and buries his face in terror in his bosom. Lovingly the father bends over him; _quietly_ he asks him the cause of his fear. Frightened, the child looks to one side, and asks, in disconnected phrases, whether his father does not see the Erlking, the Erlking with his crown and train. They had just ridden by a clump of willows. Still quietly, the father explains _smilingly_ to his son that what he saw was a bank of fog hanging over the meadow. But in the boy's brain the Erlking has already raised his enticing whisper.[3] The still, small voice, as though coming from another world, promises the child golden raiment, flowers, and games. [Footnote 3: The voice of the Erlking is a continuous, soft, uninterrupted stream of tone, upon which the whispered words are hung. The Erlking excites the thoughts of the fever-sick boy. The three enticements must be sung very rapidly, without any interruption of the breath. The first I sing as far as possible in one breath (if I am not hampered by the accompanist), or at most in two; the second in two, the third in three; and here for the first time the words "reizt" and "branch ich Gewalt" emerge from the whispered pianissimo.] Fearfully he asks his father if he does not hear the Erlking's whispered promises. "It is only the dry leaves rustling in the wind." The father quiets him, and his voice is full of firm and loving reassurance, but he feels that his child is sick. For but a few seconds all is still; then the voice comes back again. In a low whisper sounds and words are distinguished. Erlking invites the boy to play with his daughters, who shall dance with him and rock him and sing to him. In the heat of fever the boy implores his father to look for the Erlking's daughters. The father sees only an old gray willow; but his voice is no longer calm. Anxiety for his sick child makes his manly tones break; the comforting words contain already a longing for the journey's end--quickly, quickly, must he reach it. Erlking has now completely filled the feverish fancy of the child. With ruthless power he possesses himself of the boy--all opposition is vain--the silver cord is loosened. Once more he cries out in fear to his father, then his eyes are closed. The man, beside himself, strains every nerve--his own and his horse's; his haste is like a wild flight. The journey's end is reached; breathless they stop--but the race was in vain. A cold shudder runs through even the narrator; his whole being is strained and tense, he must force his mouth to utter the last words. SECTION XXXIX IN CONCLUSION The class of voice is dependent upon the inborn characteristics of the vocal organs. But the development of the voice and all else that appertains to the art of song, can, providing talent is not lacking, be learned through industry and energy. If every singer cannot become a _famous_ artist, every singer is at least in duty bound to have learned something worth while, and to do his best according to his powers, as soon as he has to appear before any public. As an artist, he should not afford this public merely a cheap amusement, but should acquaint it with the most perfect embodiments of that art whose sole task properly is to ennoble the taste of mankind, and to bestow happiness; to raise it above the miseries of this workaday world, withdraw it from them, to idealize even the hateful things in human nature which it may have to represent, without departing from truth. But what is the attitude of artists toward these tasks? CLEVELAND, January 11, 1902. NOTE _A Good Remedy for Catarrh and Hoarseness_ Pour boiling hot water into a saucer, and let a large sponge suck it all up. Then squeeze it firmly out again. Hold the sponge to the nose and mouth, and breathe alternately through the nose and mouth, in and out. I sing my exercises, the great scale, passages, etc., and all the vowels into it, and so force the hot steam to act upon the lungs, bronchial tubes, and especially on the mucous membranes, while I am breathing in and out through the sponge. After this has been kept up for ten or fifteen minutes, wash the face in cold water. This can be repeated four to six times a day. The sponge should not be full of water, but must be quite squeezed out. This has helped me greatly, and I can recommend it highly. It can do no injury because it is natural. But after breathing in the hot steam, do not go out immediately into the cold air. 
19138	----	RESONANCE IN SINGING AND SPEAKING BY THOMAS FILLEBROWN, M.D., D.M.D. TWENTY-ONE YEARS PROFESSOR OF OPERATIVE DENTISTRY AND ORAL SURGERY IN HARVARD UNIVERSITY; MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION, THE ACADEMY OF DENTAL SCIENCE, THE NEW ENGLAND OTOLOGICAL AND LARYNGOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, ETC.; LECTURER ON VOICE DEVELOPMENT. THIRD EDITION [Illustration: THE MUSIC STUDENTS LIBRARY] BOSTON OLIVER DITSON COMPANY NEW YORK CHAS. H. DITSON & CO. CHICAGO LYON & HEALY _Copyright, MCMXI_ BY OLIVER DITSON COMPANY International Copyright secured [Transcriber's Note: Text in bold is surrounded by =. Text in italics is surrounded by _.] TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM HASKELL STOCKBRIDGE PUPIL OF VANNUCCINI AND MY FIRST INSTRUCTOR IN VOICE CULTURE, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED PREFACE Efforts to develop my own voice, and the voices of my patients after operations for cleft palate, aided by anatomical study, resulted in a plan for the focusing and development of the human voice quite different from any other yet published, or, so far as I know, yet proposed. This plan has proved so successful in my later life that I feel emboldened to offer it for the consideration of speakers and singers. While twenty-five years ago few of the principles here described were acknowledged or even recognized, within the last decade almost all have been advocated separately by different teachers or writers. At the present time, therefore, originality consists only in the classification of the principles into a systematic, progressive whole, and in arranging a simpler and more practical method of applying them, thus making the desired results much more quickly attainable. It is attempted in this volume only to describe the value of each element in the production of the perfect tone and to demonstrate the principles which, if properly and faithfully applied, will develop the best that is possible in each individual voice and prepare the pupil to enter upon the more advanced arts of speaking and singing. In 1903 I prepared a series of papers on _The Art of Vocalism_, which were published in _The Étude_ in May, June, and July of that year. These articles are incorporated in this work. In connection with different organs and conditions, important principles are stated and restated. This repetition is thought desirable in order that the fundamentals may be kept prominently before the mind and impressed upon the attention. I believe that a careful study of this volume will prove of essential service to teachers and advanced pupils of singing and oratory, especially to young teachers just entering upon their duties. Its method will be found adapted to the instruction of pupils of all grades, from the kindergarten to the Conservatory of Music and the School of Oratory. I shall be gratified if this outcome of years of experience, constant study, and tested methods shall prove helpful to those who seek mastery of the art of beautiful speaking and singing. [Illustration: [signature] Thomas Fillebrown] CONTENTS PREFACE vii INTRODUCTION 1 I. THE VOCAL INSTRUMENT 6 II. THE SPEAKING VOICE AND PRONUNCIATION 16 III. BREATH CONTROL 23 IV. BREATHING EXERCISES 33 V. REGISTERS 38 VI. RESONANCE IN GENERAL 43 VII. HEAD AND NASAL RESONANCE 51 VIII. PLACING THE VOICE 56 IX. THROAT STIFFNESS 74 X. SOME GENERAL CONSIDERATIONS 77 XI. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF VOCAL CULTURE 82 BOOKS CONSULTED 86 INDEX 89 RESONANCE IN SINGING AND SPEAKING INTRODUCTION When a youth it was my lot to be surrounded by examples of faulty vocalism, such as prevailed in a country town, and to be subjected to the errors then in vogue, having at the same time small opportunity for training in the application of principles, even as then imperfectly taught. At middle life I had given up all attempt at singing and had difficulty in speaking so as to be heard at any considerable distance or for any considerable length of time. Professional obligations to my patients, however, compelled me later to take up the subject of vocal physiology. This I did, guided by the ideas current on the subject. About 1880 I became satisfied that many of the current ideas were incorrect, and determined to start anew, and to note in detail the action of each organ used in vocalization and articulation. To this end I sought vocal instruction and advice, which, modified by my own observations, have produced the most gratifying results. Up to that time it had been held that the nasal cavities must be cut off from the mouth by the closing of the soft palate against the back of the throat; that the passage of ever so little of the sound above the palate would give a nasal twang, and that the sound was reinforced and developed only in the cavities of the throat and mouth. My practice in Oral Surgery, coupled with my own vocal studies exposed this fallacy and revealed to me the true value of nasal resonance. The late Mme. Rudersdorff had begun to recognize the effect of nasal resonance, but she left no published record of her conclusions. It does not appear that she or her contemporaries realized the true value of the nasal and head cavities as reinforcing agents in the production of tone, or appreciated their influence upon its quality and power. There are perhaps few subjects on which a greater variety of opinion exists than on that of voice culture, and few upon which so many volumes have been written. Few points are uncontested, and exactly opposite statements are made in regard to each. Formerly great stress was laid upon the distinction between "head tones" and "chest tones," "closed tones" and "open tones." The whole musical world was in bondage to "registers of the voice," and the one great task confronting the singer and vocal teacher was to "blend the registers," a feat still baffling the efforts of many instructors. Many teachers and singers have now reached what they consider a demonstrated conclusion that registers are not a natural feature of the voice; yet a large contingent still adhere to the doctrine of "register," depending for their justification upon the unreliable evidence furnished by the laryngoscope, not realizing that there will be found in the little lens as many different conditions as the observers have eyes to see. Garcia himself, the inventor of the laryngoscope, soon modified his first claims as to its value in vocal culture. On this point we have the testimony of his biographer, M.S. McKinley: "As far as Garcia was concerned, the laryngoscope ceased to be of any special use as soon as his first investigations were concluded. By his examination of the glottis he had the satisfaction of proving that all his theories with regard to the emission of the voice were absolutely correct. Beyond that he did not see that anything further was to be gained except to satisfy the curiosity of those who might be interested in seeing for themselves the forms and changes which the inside of the larynx assumed during singing and speaking." Of similar purport is the word of the eminent baritone, Sir Charles Santley, who, in his _Art of Singing_, says: "Manuel Garcia is held up as the pioneer of scientific teaching of singing. He was--but he taught singing, not surgery! I was a pupil of his in 1858 and a friend of his while he lived;[1] and in all the conversations I had with him I never heard him say a word about larynx or pharynx, glottis or any other organ used in the production and emission of the voice. He was perfectly acquainted with their functions, but he used his knowledge for his own direction, not to parade it before his pupils." [Footnote 1: Garcia died July 1, 1906, at the age of 101.] The eminent London surgeon and voice specialist, Dr. Morell Mackenzie, says of the laryngoscope, "It can scarcely be said to have thrown any new light on the mechanism of the voice"; and Dr. Lennox Browne confesses that, "Valuable as has been the laryngoscope in a physiological, as undoubtedly it is in a medical sense, it has been the means of making all theories of voice production too dependent on the vocal cords, and thus the importance of the other parts of the vocal apparatus has been overlooked." Not only in regard to "registers" but in regard to resonance, focus, articulation, and the offices and uses of the various vocal organs, similar antagonistic opinions exist. Out of this chaos must some time come a demonstrable system. A generation ago the art of breathing was beginning to be more an object of study, but the true value of correct lateral abdominal breathing was by no means generally admitted or appreciated. It was still taught that the larynx (voice-box) should bob up and down like a jack-in-a-box with each change of pitch, and that "female breathing" must be performed with a pumping action of the chest and the elevation and depression of the collar bone. Fortunately, teachers and singers recognized a good tone when they heard it, and many taught much better than they knew, so that the public did not have to wait for the development of accurate knowledge of the subject before hearing excellent singing and speaking. Yet many singers had their voices ruined in the training, and their success as vocalists made impossible; while others, a little less unfortunate, were still handicapped through life by the injury done by mistaken methods in early years. Jenny Lind's perfect vocal organs were quite disabled at twelve years of age by wrong methods, and they recovered only after a protracted season of rest. As a consequence her beautiful voice began to fail long before her splendid physique, and long before her years demanded. Singers taught in nature's way should be able to sing so long as strength lasts, and, like Adelaide Phillips, Carl Formes, and Sims Reeves, sing their sweetest songs in the declining years of life. Martel, at seventy years of age, had a full, rich voice. He focused all his tones alike, and employed deep abdominal breathing. The whole matter of voice training has been clouded by controversy. The strident advocates of various systems, each of them "the only true method," have in their disputes overcast the subject with much that is irrelevant, thus obscuring its essential simplicity. The "scientific" teachers, at one extreme, have paid too exclusive attention to the mechanics of the voice. The "empiricists" have gone to the other extreme in leaving out of account fundamental facts in acoustics, physiology, and psychology. The truth is that no purely human function, especially one so subtle as singing, can be developed mechanically; nor, on the other hand, can the mere _ipse dixit_ of any teacher satisfy the demands of the modern spirit. PRINCIPLES ADVOCATED The positions here advocated, because they seem both rational and simple, are: =1. That the singing and speaking tones are identical, produced by the same organs in the same way, and developed by the same training.= =2. That breathing is, for the singer, only an amplification of the correct daily habit.= =3. That "registers" are a myth.= =4. That "head tones, chest tones, closed tones, open tones," etc., as confined to special parts of the range of the voice, are distracting distinctions arising from false education.= =5. That resonance determines the quality and carrying power of every tone, and is therefore the most important element in the study and training of the voice.= =6. That the obstacles to good speaking and singing are psychologic rather than physiologic.= =7. That, in the nature of things, the right way is always an easy way.= CHAPTER I THE VOCAL INSTRUMENT Since the vocal organism first became an object of systematic study, discussion has been constant as to whether the human vocal instrument is a stringed instrument, a reed instrument, or a whistle. Discussion of the question seems futile, for practically it is all of these and more. The human vocal organs form an instrument, _sui generis_, which cannot be compared with any other one thing. Not only is it far more complex than any other instrument, being capable, as it is, of imitating nearly every instrument in the catalogue and almost every sound in nature, but it is incomparably more beautiful, an instrument so universally superior to any made by man that comparisons and definitions fail. ELEMENTS The human vocal instrument has the three elements common to all musical instruments,--a motor, a vibrator, and a resonator; to which is added--what all other instruments lack--an articulator. 1. The respiratory muscles and lungs for a =motor=. 2. The vocal cords for a =vibrator=. 3. The throat, mouth, and the nasal and head cavities for a =resonator=. 4. The tongue, lips, teeth, and palate for an =articulator=. These elements appear in as great a variety of size and proportion as do the variations of individual humanity, and each element is, moreover, variable according to the will or feeling of the individual. This susceptibility to change constitutes a modifying power which gives a variety in tone quality possible to no other instrument and makes it our wonder and admiration. The modification and interaction of these various parts produced by the emotions of the singer or speaker give qualities of tone expressive of the feelings, as of pain or pleasure, grief or joy, courage or fear. [Illustration: FIGURE 1.--Section of the head and throat locating the organs of speech and song, including the upper resonators. The important maxillary sinus cannot well be shown. It is found within the maxillary bone (cheek bone). The inner end of the line marked _Nasal cavity_ locates it.] TIMBRE The minute differences in these physical conditions, coupled with the subtler differences in the psychical elements of the personality, account for that distinctive physiognomy of the voice called =timbre=, which is only another name for individuality as exhibited in each person. The same general elements enter into the composition of all voices, from the basso profundo to the high soprano. That the reader may better understand the proportion and relations of the different parts of the vocal apparatus, a sectional drawing of the head is here produced, showing the natural position of the vocal organs at rest. As the drawing represents but a vertical section of the head the reader should note that the sinuses, like the eyes and nostrils, lie in pairs to the right and left of the centre of the face. The location of the maxillary sinuses within the maxillary or cheek bones cannot be shown in this drawing. The dark shading represents the cavities of the throat, nose, and head. The relations of the parts are shown more accurately than is possible in any diagram. It will be noticed that the vibrations from the larynx would pass directly behind the soft palate into the nasal chamber, and very directly into the mouth. The nasal roof is formed by two bones situated between the eyes; the sphenoid or wedge-bone, which is connected with all other bones of the head, and the ethmoid or sieve-like bone. The structure of these two bones, especially of the ethmoid, consists of very thin plates or laminæ, forming a mass of air cavities which communicate by small openings with the nasal cavity below. Thus, the vibrations in the nose are transmitted to the air spaces above, and the effective qualities of the head vibrations are added to the tone. THE LARYNX The larynx or voice-box contains the vocal cords. Just above the vocal cords on each side is a large, deep cavity, called the ventricle. These cavities reinforce the primary vibrations set up by the cords and serve to increase their intensity as they are projected from the larynx. The larynx is the vibrating organ of the voice. It is situated at the base of the tongue and is so closely connected with it by attachment to the hyoid bone, to which the tongue is also attached, that it is capable of only slight movement independent of that organ; consequently it must move with the tongue in articulation. The interior muscles of the larynx vary the position of its walls, thus regulating the proximity and tension of the vocal cords. The male larynx is the larger and shows the Adam's apple. In both sexes the larynx of the low voice, alto or bass, is larger than that of the high voice, soprano or tenor. The larynx and tongue should not rise with the pitch of the voice, but drop naturally with the lower jaw as the mouth opens in ascending the scale. The proper position of the tongue will insure a proper position for the larynx. The less attention the larynx receives the better. THE VOCAL CORDS The vocal cords are neither cords nor bands, but instead are thick portions of membrane extending across the inner surface of the larynx. On account of familiarity the name _vocal cords_ will still be used. They are fairly well represented by the lips of the cornet player when placed on the mouthpiece of the instrument. The pitch of the tone is fixed by the tension of the vocal cords and the width and length of the opening between them. Their tension and proximity are self-adjusted to produce the proper pitch without any conscious volition of the singer. They can have no special training, needing only to be left alone. The work of the vocal cords, though essentially important, is, when naturally performed, light and consequently not exhausting. If the larynx and all of its supporting muscles are relaxed as they are in free and easy breathing, then when the air passes out through the larynx, the vocal cords will automatically assume a tension sufficient to vocalize the breath and give the note the proper pitch. The normal action of the cords will never cause hoarseness or discomfort. The sound should seem to be formed, not in the throat,--thus involving the vocal cords,--but in the resonance chambers. THE EPIGLOTTIS The epiglottis is the valve which closes over the upper opening of the larynx. It not only closes the mouth of the larynx when food is swallowed, but aids materially in converting into tone the vibrations set up by the vocal cords. THE PHARYNX The pharynx extends from the larynx to the nasal cavity. The size of the opening into the nasal chamber is controlled by the soft palate and is frequently entirely closed. The size of the pharynx is varied by the contraction and relaxation of the circular muscles in its tissue; when swallowing its walls are in contact. The pharynx acts as does the expanding tube of brass instruments. It increases the force and depth of the tone waves. The wider the pharynx is opened, without constraint, the fuller the resonance and the better the tone. THE UNDER JAW The under jaw furnishes attachment for the muscles of the tongue and hyoid or tongue bone. It also controls, owing to the connections of the larynx with the hyoid bone, the muscles that fix the position of the larynx. The pterygoid muscles, which move the under jaw forward and backward, do not connect with the larynx, so their action does not compress that organ or in any way impede the action of the vocal apparatus. A relaxed under jaw allows freer action of the vocal cords and ampler resonance. The under jaw should drop little by little as the voice ascends the scale, thus opening the mouth slightly wider with each rise in the pitch of the tone. In ascending the scale it is well to open the throat a little wider as you ascend. The delivery will be much easier, and the tone produced will be much better. At the highest pitch of the voice the mouth should open to its full width. At the same time care must be taken _not_ to draw the corners of the mouth back, as in smiling, because this lessens the resonance of the tone and gives it a flat sound. The under jaw must have considerable latitude of motion in pronunciation, but by all means avoid chewing of the words and cutting off words by closing the jaw instead of finishing them by the use of the proper articulating organs, which are the tongue and lips. THE SOFT PALATE Writers on the voice have almost universally claimed that the principal office of the soft palate is to shut off the nasal and head cavities from the throat, and to force the column of vibrations out through the mouth, thus allowing none, or at most a very small part, to pass into the nasal passages. This contention implies that the vibrations are imparted to the upper cavities, if at all, through the walls of the palate itself, and not through an opening behind the palate. This is entirely at variance with the facts as verified by my own experience and observation and the observation of others who are expert specialists. The true office of the soft palate is to modify the opening into the nose and thus attune the resonant cavities to the pitch and timbre of the note given by the vocal cords and pharynx. To develop the vowel sounds, the soft palate should be drawn forward, allowing a free passage into the nose; it should be closed only to form the consonants which require a forcible expulsion of breath from the mouth. The uvula, the pendulous tip of the soft palate, serves as a valve to more accurately adjust the opening behind the soft palate to the pitch of the voice. In producing a low tone the soft palate is relaxed and hangs low down and far forward. As the voice ascends the scale the tension of the soft palate is increased and it is elevated and the uvula shortened, thus decreasing the opening behind the palate, but never closing it. In fact the larger the opening that can be maintained, the broader and better the tone. The author was himself unable fully to appreciate this until he had become able to sense the position of the soft palate during vocalization. THE HARD PALATE AND TEETH The hard palate and upper teeth form in part the walls of the mouth. As they are solid fixtures, nothing can be done in the way of training. They furnish a point of impingement in articulation, and play their part in sympathetic resonance. The bones which form the roof of the mouth serve also for the floor of the nasal cavity. The under teeth also serve as walls of resistance to support the tongue during the performance of its functions. THE NASAL AND HEAD CAVITIES The nasal and head cavities are resonating chambers incapable of special training, but their form, size, and the use made of them have a wonderful effect upon the resonance of the voice. If the vibrations are strong here, all other parts will vibrate in harmonious action. When responding to the perfectly focused tone the thin walls of the cavities and the contained air vibrate with surprising force, often for the moment blinding the singer when sounding a note intensely. Having in my surgical work demonstrated the existence of a hitherto unrecognized connecting passage or canal between the air cavities of the face and those of the forehead,[2] the play of resonance in the cavities above the nostrils is more easily understood. The function of the cavities known as the _frontal sinuses_ (see Fig. 1) has long been a mystery, but now that their direct connection with the lower cavities is proven, and the great significance of resonance is also beginning to be recognized, the mystery disappears. The same may be said of the other sinuses--_ethmoidal_, _sphenoidal_, and _maxillary_, and their interconnection. [Footnote 2: Dr. Fillebrown's paper, _A Study of the Relation of the Frontal Sinus to the Antrum_, was read before the American Dental Association, at Saratoga, August 5, 1895. His investigation showed that the funnel-shaped passage known as the _infundibulum_ extends from the _frontal sinus_ directly into the antrum or _maxillary sinus_. This was afterwards confirmed by Dr. W.H. Cryer and others.] INFLUENCE OF THE RESONANCE CAVITIES ON THE PITCH OF THE TONE In instruments changes in the length and form of the resonance chambers affect the pitch as well as the quality of the tone. This is demonstrated in the trombone, French horn, and other wind instruments. The lengthening of the tube of the trombone lowers the pitch of the tone, and the projection of the hand of the performer into the bell of the French horn has the effect of raising the pitch of the sound. If the variation in length or form is only slight, the result is sharp or flat, and the instrument is out of tune. In the human instrument all the organs act together as a unit; so the fact that the cavities alone may affect the pitch is practically of no great significance. THE TONGUE The tongue and the lips are the articulating organs, and the former has an important part to play in altering through its movements the shape of the mouth cavity. The tip of the tongue should habitually rest against the under front teeth. The tip of the tongue, however, must frequently touch the roof of the mouth near the upper front teeth, as when pronouncing the consonants _c_, _d_, _g_ or _j_, _l_, _n_, _s_, and _t_. The back part of the tongue must rise a little to close against the soft palate when pronouncing _g_ hard, and _k_, and hard _c_, _q_, and _x_. The soft palate comes down so far to meet the tongue that the elevation of the latter need be but very slight. When speaking, the demand is not so imperative, but when singing, the body of the tongue should lie as flat as possible, so as to enlarge the mouth, especially when giving the vowel sounds. If the tongue is sometimes disposed to be unruly, it is the result of rigidity or misplaced effort in the surrounding parts. This tendency will only be aggravated by artificial restraint of any kind. The true way is to dismiss tongue consciousness, _let go_, and a normal flexibility will easily manifest itself. THE LIPS The lips, equally with the tongue, are organs of articulation. The upper lip is the principal factor of the two; the under lip seems to follow the lead of the upper. The lips need much training, and it can readily be given them. While practising to educate the lips, both lips should be projected forward and upward, at the same time pronouncing the word "too." Bring the edge of the upper lip as high toward the nose as possible in practice. This will bring the corners of the mouth forward and lift the lips clear and free from the teeth, and thus add one more resonance cavity. This position of the lips also gives freedom for pronunciation. "The upper lip plays the most active part in the shaping of the vowels. It should never be drawn against the teeth when producing vowel tones; indeed, there should be often a little space between the upper lip and the teeth, so that the vibrations of the sound-waves can have free play." THE NOSTRILS The nostrils should be dilated as much as possible, as a free, wide, open nose gives a free, well-rounded tone, while a contracted nostril induces the nasal tone so much dreaded. A proper training of the facial muscles makes this dilation possible. Lifting the upper lip and projecting it forward aids the action to a great degree. There is a strong tendency to unity of action between the nostrils and the lips and the soft palate. The soft palate moves downward and forward when the upper lip protrudes and the nostrils dilate, and moves backward and upward when the nostrils are contracted and the upper lip allowed to rest upon the teeth. As a rule the best singers have full, round, wide, open nostrils, either given by nature or acquired by practice. THE FACE Not only must the lips and nose be trained, but the muscles of the face also. These muscles are capable, if educated, of doing important service. The artist on the operatic stage or the speaker on the platform, without facial expression begotten of muscular activity, may lessen by half his power over an audience. To train the facial muscles is a complicated task. To do this, stand before a mirror and make all the faces ever thought of by a schoolboy to amuse his schoolmates. Raise each corner of the lip, wrinkle the nose, quilt the forehead, grin, laugh. The grimaces will not enter into a performance, but their effect upon it will be markedly beneficial. CHAPTER II THE SPEAKING VOICE AND PRONUNCIATION A generation ago the speaking voice was even less understood than the singing voice. That the two were intimately connected was but half surmised. Only an occasional person recognized what is now generally conceded, that a good way to improve the speaking voice is to cultivate the singing voice. In 1887 I published a paper in the _Independent Practitioner_ defining the singing voice and the speaking voice as identical, and contending that the training for each should be the same so far as tone formation is involved, a conclusion at which I had arrived several years before. Subsequent experience has only served to confirm this opinion. The past has produced many good speakers, among them Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, Edwin Booth, Wm. Charles Macready, and Edward Everett. Of the last Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote: "It is with delight that one who remembers Edward Everett in his robes of rhetorical splendor, recalls his full blown, high colored, double flowered periods; the rich, resonant, grave, far-reaching music of his speech, with just enough of the nasal vibration to give the vocal sounding-board its proper value in the harmonies of utterance." These examples of correct vocalization, however, were exceptions to the general rule; they happened to speak well, but the physiologic action of the vocal organs which produced such results in those individual cases was not understood, and hence the pupil ambitious to imitate them and develop the best of which his voice was capable had no rule by which to proceed. Few could speak with ease, still fewer could be heard by a large assembly, and sore throats seemed to be the rule. DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SINGING AND SPEAKING In singing the flow of tone is unbroken between the words, but in speaking it is interrupted. In singing tone is sustained and changed from one pitch to another by definite intervals over a wide compass that includes notes not attempted in speech. In speaking tone is unsustained, not defined in pitch, is limited to a narrow compass, and the length of the tones is not governed by the measure of music. Notwithstanding these differences, singing and speaking tones are produced by the vocal organs in the same way, are focused precisely alike, have the same resonance, and are delivered in the same manner. It has been said that speech differs from song as walking from dancing. Speech may be called the prose, and song the poetry of vocalization. During the past decade the knowledge of the speaking voice has been greatly broadened, and the art of cultivating tone has made progress. The identity of the singing and speaking voice is becoming more fully recognized, and methods are being used to develop the latter similar to those in use for the training of the former. As Dr. Morell Mackenzie says: "Singing is a help to good speaking, as the greater includes the less." The recognition of this truth cannot fail to be a great aid to the progress of singing in the public schools, since every enlargement of exercises common to both speaking and singing helps to solidarity and _esprit de corps_ in teaching and in learning. An accurate sense of pitch, melody, harmony, and rhythm is necessary to the singer, but the orator may, by cultivation, develop a speaking voice of musical quality without being able to distinguish _Old Hundred_ from _The Last Rose of Summer_. PRONUNCIATION It is a matter of common observation that American singers, although they may be painstaking in their French and German, are indifferent, even to carelessness, in the clear and finished enunciation of their native tongue. Mr. W.J. Henderson, in his recent work, _The Art of the Singer_, says: "The typical American singer cannot sing his own language so that an audience can understand him; nine-tenths of the songs we hear are songs without words." Happily this condition is gradually yielding to a better one, stimulated in part by the examples of visiting singers and actors. In story-telling songs and in oratorio, slovenly delivery is reprehensible, but when the words of a song are the lyric flight of a true poet, a careless utterance becomes intolerable. Beauty of tone is not everything; the singing of mere sounds, however lovely, is but a tickling of the ear. The shortcoming of the Italian school of singing, as of composition, has been too exclusive devotion to sensuous beauty of tone as an end in itself. The singer must never forget that his mission is to =vitalize text with tone=. The songs of Schubert, Schumann, Franz, Brahms, Grieg, Strauss, and Wolf, as well as the Wagnerian drama, are significant in their inseparable union of text and music. The singer is therefore an interpreter, not of music alone, but of text made potent by music. Pronunciation, moreover, concerns not only the listener, but the singer and speaker, for pure tone and pure pronunciation cannot be divorced, one cannot exist without the other. In his interesting work, _The Singing of the Future_, Mr. Ffrangcon-Davies insists that, "the quickest way to fine tone is through fine pronunciation." We cannot think except in words, nor voice our thought without speech. Vocal utterance is thought articulate. Therefore, instead of prolonged attention to tone itself, training should be concentrated upon the uttered word. The student should aim "to sing a word rather than a tone." Correct pronunciation and beautiful tone are so interdependent as to be inseparable. The singer and speaker require all sounds in their purity. To seek to develop the voice along the narrow limits of any single vowel or syllable, as for instance the syllable _ah_, is harmful. Not only is this vowel sound, as Lilli Lehmann says, "the most difficult," but the proper pronunciation of all words within the whole range of the voice is thereby impeded. Diction and tone work should therefore go hand in hand. "The way in which vowel melts into vowel and consonants float into their places largely determines the character of the tone itself." Without finished pronunciation speech and song of emotional power are impossible. Gounod, the composer, says, "Pronunciation creates eloquence." Mr. Forbes-Robertson, the English master of dramatic diction, speaking for his own profession says: "The trouble with contemporary stage elocution springs from the actor's very desire to act well. In his effort to be natural he mumbles his words as too many people do in everyday life. Much of this can be corrected by constantly bearing in mind the true value of vowels, the percussive value of consonants, and the importance of keeping up the voice until the last word is spoken. There must be, so to speak, plenty of wind in the bellows. The great thing is to have the sound come from the front of the mouth.... The actor must learn to breathe deeply from the diaphragm and to take his breath at the proper time. Too often the last word is not held up, and that is very often the important word.... Schools for acting are valuable, ... but, after all, the actors, like other folk, must be taught how to speak as children in the home, at school, and in society." In pronunciation the words should seem to be formed by the upper lip and to come out through it. By this method it will be found easy to pronounce distinctly. The words will thus be formed outside the mouth and be readily heard, as is a person talking in front of, instead of behind, a screen. A single, intelligent trial will be sufficient to show the correctness of the statement. Thinking of the upper lip as the fashioner of the words makes speaking easy and singing a delight. To smile while talking gives to the words a flat, silly sound, hence the corners of the mouth should be kept well forward. THE SINGER'S SCALE OF VOWEL SOUNDS [Illustration: 1 n_ee_ 2 n_i_t 3 n_e_t 4 n_a_y 5 n_ai_r 6 n_a_t 7 n_i_gh 8 N_a_h 7' n_o_t 6' n_a_w 5' n_e_r 4' n_u_t 3' n_o_ 2' n_oo_k 1' n_oo_.] It may fasten this in mind to remember that at one end of the vowel scale is--_me_, at the other--_you_. The teeth and lips are most closed at the extremes of this scale, and gradually open toward _ah_, with which vowel they are widest apart. In the series 1-8 the tongue is highest in the centre for _ee_ and gradually descends until it lies flat in the mouth for _ah_. The _upper_ pharynx is most closed in 1, most open in 8, and closes more and more in the descending series 7'-1'. The _lower_ pharynx gradually opens in the descending series 7'-1'. The researches of Helmholtz, Koenig, Willis, Wheatstone, Appunn, Bell, and others have shown that each vowel sound has its own characteristic pitch. The Scale of Vowel Sounds given above corresponds closely to the order of resonance pitch from the highest _ee_ to the lowest _oo_. In the natural resonance of the vowels _ee_ is highest in the head, _ah_ is midway in the scale, and _oo_ is lowest in resonance. LIP POSITION Figure 2 shows the best position of the lips to give the sound of _ee_. Hold the under jaw without stiffness and as far from the upper teeth as is consistent with delivery of the pure sound of this vowel. Figure 3 shows the best position of the lips to produce the vowel _oo_. Figure 4 shows the position of the lips for the vowel sound of long _o_. The opening of the lips should be made as round as is the letter _o_. When preparing the lips to give the sound of _o_, the inclination is strong to drop the lower jaw; in practice, to develop action of the lips, the under jaw would better be held quite immovable. It will be found possible to produce all of the vowel sounds without any change except in the form of the opening of the lips. The vowel sound of _i_ is an exception; for as a compound of _ah_ and _ee_, the extremes of the vowel scale, it requires two distinct positions for its utterance with a movement of transition between; it is not, therefore, a good vowel for initial practice. [Illustration: FIGURE 2.] [Illustration: FIGURE 3.] [Illustration: FIGURE 4.] [Illustration: FIGURE 5.] Figure 5 shows that the sound _aw_ is produced from _o_ by raising the edge of the upper lip outward and upward, and flattening the raised portion laterally. Figure 6 shows the position for producing _ah_. It differs from the position assumed for _aw_ in that the opening of the lips is larger, the upper lip is raised higher, the flat portion is wider, and the under lip is a little relaxed. The form of the opening to produce _aw_ is oval; the form for _ah_ is more nearly square. [Illustration: FIGURE 6.] [Illustration: FIGURE 7.] Figure 7 shows the under jaw relaxed, as it should be in practice, to enlarge the throat and give roundness and largeness to the tone. The use of the word _hung_ will accomplish this end. The vowel sounds illustrated above are embodied in a series of vocal exercises to be found in Chapter VIII on _Placing the Voice_. CHAPTER III BREATH CONTROL It has been said that "breathing is singing." This statement is equally applicable to speaking. While the aphorism is not literally true, it is true that without properly controlled breathing the best singing or speaking tone cannot be produced, for tone is but vocalized breath; hence in the cultivation of the voice, breathing is the first function to receive attention. For singer or speaker, the correct use of the breathing apparatus determines the question of success or failure; for without mastery of the motive power all else is unavailing. For a voice user, therefore, the first requisite is a well-developed chest, the second, complete control of it. It must not be supposed that a singer's breathing is something strange or complex, for it is nothing more than _an amplification of normal, healthy breathing_. In contrast, however, to the undisciplined casual breathing of the general public, the singer is a professional breather. THE MUSCLES OF RESPIRATION There are two sets of respiratory muscles, one for inspiration and another for expiration,--twenty-two or more in all. The principal muscles of inspiration are the diaphragm and the intercostal muscles that elevate the ribs. The chief muscles of expiration are the four sets of abdominal muscles and the intercostal muscles that depress the ribs. The diaphragm is _not_ a muscle of _expiration_. THE DIAPHRAGM The diaphragm is in form like an inverted bowl (Fig. 8). It forms the floor of the thorax (chest) and the roof of the abdomen. It is attached by a strong tendon to the spinal column behind, and to the walls of the thorax at its lowest part, which is below the ribs. In front its attachment is to the cartilage at the pit of the stomach. It also connects with the transverse abdominal muscle. The diaphragm being convex, in inspiration the contraction of its fibres flattens it downward and presses down the organs in the abdomen, thus increasing the depth of the thorax. Expiration depends wholly on other muscles. [Illustration: FIGURE 8.] The muscles so far mentioned are all that need "conscious education;" the others will act with them voluntarily, automatically. The abdominal muscles relax during inspiration and the diaphragm relaxes during expiration, thus rendering the forces nearly equal, though the strength is in favor of the expiratory muscles. This is what is needed, for the breath while speaking or singing must go out under much greater tension than is necessary for inhalation. Inspiration should be as free as possible from obstruction when singing or speaking. Expiration must be under _controlled_ pressure. THE LUNGS The lungs are spongy bodies which have no activity of their own beyond a little elasticity. They are controlled by the muscles of respiration. Figure 8 shows the organs of the body in their natural positions. The diaphragm is relaxed and curved upward, as in expiration. During inspiration the diaphragm is drawn down until it lies nearly flat. INSPIRATION The intercostal muscles raise the ribs. The diaphragm is drawn down by contraction, thus adding to the enlargement of the chest by increasing its depth. The abdominal muscles relax and allow the stomach, liver, and other organs in the abdomen to move downward to make room for the depressed diaphragm. This causes a vacuum in the chest. The lungs expand to fill this vacuum and the air rushes in to fill the expanding lungs. EXPIRATION The intercostal, and a part of the abdominal, muscles depress the ribs and lessen the chest cavity anteriorly and laterally. The abdominal muscles compress the abdomen and force up the diaphragm which is now relaxed, thus lessening the depth of the thorax. This pressure forces the air from the lungs and prepares them for another inspiration. CORRECT METHOD That the lateral-abdominal--more accurately chest-abdominal--breathing is correct and natural for both male, and female, and that the shoulders should remain as fixed as were Demosthenes' under the points of the swords hung over them, is now so generally admitted as to need no argument here. If any one has still a doubt on the subject let him observe a sleeping infant. It affords a perfect example of lateral-abdominal breathing, and no one can have a suspicion of sex from any difference in this function. Among the lower animals sex shows no difference in breathing at any age. All the peculiarities of female breathing are the results of habits acquired in after life. Chest and shoulder heaving are vicious and evidence impeded breathing. The singer who, forgetting the lower thorax, breathes with the upper only is sure to fail. Therefore breathe from the _lower_ part of the trunk, using the whole muscular system coördinately--_from below_ upward. In other words breathe deeply, and _control deeply_, but with the whole body--from below, not with the upper chest only, or with lateral expansion only, or abdominal expansion only. Every teacher and pupil should remember that "singing and speaking require wind and muscle," hence the breathing power must be fully developed. Weak breathing and failure to properly focus the voice are the most frequent causes of singing off the key. They are much more common and mischievous than lack of "ear." Dr. May tested the breathing of 85 persons, most of them Indians, and found that 79 out of the 85 used abdominal breathing. The chest breathers were from classes "civilized" and more or less "cultured." Nature has provided that for quiet breathing when at rest the air shall pass through the nose. But when a person is taking active exercise, and consequently demands more air, he naturally and of necessity opens the mouth so as to breathe more fully. While speaking or singing the air is necessarily taken in through the mouth. BREATH CONTROL Firmness of tone depends upon steadiness of breath pressure. Steadiness of tone depends upon a control of the breath which allows a minimum volume of air to pass out under sufficient tension to produce vocalization. The tension and flow of breath can be gradually lessened until the tone vanishes and not even a whisper remains. Power and largeness of tone depend first upon the =right use of the resonant cavities=, and second upon the =volume of breath used under proper control=. In producing high tones the breath is delivered in less amount than for the low tones, but under greater tension. Absolute control of the breath is necessary to produce the best results of which a voice is capable. Full control of the breath insures success to a good voice; without it the best voice is doomed to failure. When muscular action is fully mastered, and the proper method of breathing understood and established, the muscles of inspiration and expiration will act one against the other, so that the act of breathing may be suspended at any moment, whether the lungs are full, or partly full, or empty. This is muscular control of the breath. Correct breathing is health giving and strength giving; it promotes nutrition, lessens the amount of adipose tissue, and reinforces every physical requisite essential to speaking and singing. A CURE FOR NERVOUSNESS It cannot be too widely advertised that the surest remedy for that torture of singers and speakers, nervousness, is the great tranquillizer,--quiet, deep breathing, deeply controlled. The breath of nervousness is quick, irregular, and shallow, therefore, take a few, slow, deliberate, deep, and _rhythmic_ inhalations of pure air through the nostrils, and the panting gasp of agitation will vanish. As a help toward deepening the breath and overcoming the spasmodic, clavicular habit, inhale quietly and slowly through the nose, or slowly sip the air through the nearly closed lips as if you were sipping the inmost breath of life itself. NECESSITY OF BREATHING EXERCISES To acquire control of breathing, proper exercises must be intelligently and persistently followed. In mankind, nature seems to have been diverted from her normal course so that we seldom find an individual who breathes correctly without education in the matter. What we have said on breathing is based on the premise that respiration involves coördinate action of the body from collar-bone to the base of the abdomen; that is, expanding and contracting the chest and abdomen simultaneously. This is called "lateral-abdominal" breathing; as the chest is the thoracic cavity, "abdomino-thoracic" has been suggested as brief and more strictly scientific. Work on any other lines fails to develop the full power and quality of the voice. Weak breathing is a prime cause of throaty tones. In such cases an effort is made to increase the tone by pinching the larynx. But this compresses the vocal cords, increases the resistance to the passage of the breath, and brings rigidities that prevent proper resonance. The true way is to increase the wind supply, as does the organist. CORRECT BREATHING ILLUSTRATED The following figures show the outline of correct breathing. The inner abdominal line shows the limit of expiration; the outer line shows the limit of full inspiration. Figure 9 shows the limit of full expiration and inspiration of the male, side view. Figure 10 shows the lateral expansion of the ribs in both expiration and inspiration, front view of the male. The expansion cannot be great at this part of the chest, as the side is so short a distance from the backbone to which the ribs are attached. The movement of the ribs in front is much greater, as Fig. 9 shows. Figure 11 shows the front expansion and contraction in the breathing of the female, side view. Figure 12 shows the lateral expansion of the chest in the female, front view. These diagrams are made from photographs, and thus true to life. It will be noticed that there is no difference in the breathing outline between these subjects. The female subject, though a good singer, had had no training in breathing. She previously insisted that she used only the chest breathing, and did not use the abdominal muscles, but actual test revealed the condition to be that shown in Figure 11 and convinced her that she was mistaken. [Illustration: FIGURE 9.] [Illustration: FIGURE 10.] [Illustration: FIGURE 11.] [Illustration: FIGURE 12.] It is not unlikely that many other singers who now think they are using only the high chest respiration would, if subjected to the same test, find themselves similarly mistaken. The contraction incident to forced expiration is much more tense than the enlargement of forced inspiration. When singing or speaking, forced inspiration is not used. Experience shows that the change in size of the body during speaking or singing is usually small. Occasionally, long passages in music demand that the expulsive power of the breathing apparatus be used to its limit. ECONOMY OF BREATH The quantity of air taken in with a single inspiration is, in quiet breathing, according to Prof. Mills,[3] from twenty to thirty cubic inches, but this may be increased in the deepest inspiration to about one hundred cubic inches. In forcible expiration about one hundred cubic inches may be expelled, but even then the residual air that cannot be expelled is about one hundred cubic inches. [Footnote 3: Dr. Wesley Mills, _Voice Production_, 1906.] It is not, however, the quantity of breath inhaled that is significant, it is the amount _controlled_. Get, therefore, all the breath necessary, and keep it, but without undue effort and _without rigidity_. To test the amount of breath used in prolonged vocalization, a person skilled in the art of breathing, after an ordinary inspiration, closed his lips, stopped his nostrils, and began to vocalize. He found that the mouth with distended cheeks held sufficient breath to continue a substantial tone for twenty-three seconds. While these experiments show that very little amount or force of breath is needed to produce effective tones, the impression must exist in the mind of the performer that there is a free flow of breath through the larynx; otherwise the tone will seem restricted and will be weak. The forced holding back of the breath begets a restraint that has a bad effect on the singer's delivery. While the breath must be controlled, there is such a thing as an exaggerated "breath control" that makes free delivery of the voice impossible. It is quite possible to _overcrowd_ the lungs with air. Do not, therefore, make the mistake of always taking the largest possible breath. Reserve this for the climaxes, and inhale according to the requirements of the phrase and its dynamics. The constant taking of too much breath is a common mistake, but trying to sing too long on one breath is another. THE INITIAL USE OF BREATH FORCE The breath force when properly employed seems to be expended in starting the vibrations in the larynx; the vibrations are then transmitted to the air in the resonance cavities, and there the perfected tone sets the outer air in motion, through which the tone vibrations are conveyed to the ear of the listener. RESERVE BREATH POWER The correctly trained singer or speaker will never allow the breath power to be exhausted. Some breath should be taken in at every convenient interval between the words, according to the punctuation, but never between syllables of a word; this is correct phrasing. In this way the lungs are kept nearly full, and breathing is at its best. The chief cause of breath exhaustion is _wasted_ breath. This waste comes from exhaling more breath (more motive power) than the tone requires, and _breath that does not become tone is wasted_. This fault is largely induced by lack of proper resonance adjustment. The singer should always feel able to sing another note or to speak another word. To sing or speak thirty or forty counts with one breath is useful practice but poor performance. Occasionally, long runs in singing may compel an exception. Half-empty lungs lower the pitch of the tone, lessen the resonance, and weaken the voice, rendering the last note of the song and the last word of the sentence inaudible. The breathing must not be forced, but enough air must be furnished to produce the proper full vibrations. BREATH MASTERY What then does perfect control of the breath mean? 1. Ability to fill the lungs to their capacity either quickly or slowly. 2. Ability to breathe out as quickly or slowly as the occasion demands. 3. Ability to suspend inspiration, with the throat open, whether the lungs are full or not, and to resume the process at will without having lost any of the already inspired air. 4. Ability to exhale under the same restrictions. The above four points are common to speaking and singing, but singing involves further: 5. Ability to sing and sustain the voice on an _ordinary_ breath. 6. Ability to _quietly_ breathe as often as text and phrase permit. 7. Ability to breathe so that the fullest inspiration _brings no fatigue_. 8. Ability to so economize the breath that the _reserve is never exhausted_. 9. The ability to breathe so naturally, so unobtrusively, that _neither breath nor lack of breath is ever suggested to the listener_--this is the very perfection of the art. CHAPTER IV BREATHING EXERCISES Enough has been said in the preceding chapter to make clear the necessity of breath control, and to show what constitutes this control for the singer--the professional breather. If the singer's breathing is nothing but an amplification of normal, healthy breathing, why dwell upon it, why not let it develop of itself? Unfortunately, many teachers have taken this attitude, overlooking the fact that, although life is dependent on normal, healthy breathing, such breathing is, in civilized communities, not the rule but the exception, simply because normal living is rare; the artificiality of modern life forbids it. The high pressure under which most people live induces mental tension together with the consequent nervous and muscular tension. We are, without being conscious of it, so habituated to unnatural tension that automatic breathing is shallow and irregular instead of being deep and rhythmic. The task, therefore, is to reclaim a neglected birthright--natural breathing--to make it habitual and amplify it. PRELIMINARY SUGGESTIONS 1. Breathing exercises to be invigorating and purifying demand plenty of fresh air. 2. At first do not practise longer than ten minutes at a time, three times a day. 3. Gradually lengthen the time without overdoing. When tired stop. 4. The best time is before dressing in the morning, with the window open. The worst time is directly after a meal. 5. Maintain throughout an easy, flexible poise. 6. Breathe as _deeply_ as possible without abdominal distention. The greatest expansion should be felt at the lower end of the breast-bone. 7. Breathe as _broadly_ as possible, expanding the sides without tension. 8. Breathe as _high_ as possible without shoulder movement or stiffness. 9. Use not the high breath alone, or the mid-breath, or the low breath, but use the _complete_ breath. 10. Breathe _rhythmically_ by counting mentally. 11. Breathe _thoughtfully_ rather than mechanically. 12. Do not crowd the lungs or lay stress on the mere quantity of air you can inhale. The intake of breath is, for the singer, secondary to its control, economy, and application in song. Increase of lung capacity will duly appear. 13. When not singing, speaking or practising an exercise that demands it, _keep your mouth shut_. ATTITUDE Dress the neck and body loosely, so as to give the throat and trunk perfect freedom. Place the hands on the hips, so as to free the chest from the weight of the arms. Stand erect, evenly upon the balls of the feet; the body straight, but not strained. Raise the back of the head slightly without bending the neck. This action will straighten the spine, place the chest forward, and bring the abdomen backward into its proper relation. The great majority of people are shallow breathers, chest breathers, who when told to take a "deep breath" do not know what is meant. It is therefore necessary for them first to learn what a deep breath is, and then how to take it. Exercise I FOR THOSE WHO DO NOT KNOW WHAT A DEEP BREATH IS Before rising in the morning, remove your pillow and while flat on your back place one hand lightly on the abdomen, the other on the lower ribs. Relax the whole body, giving up your whole weight to the bed. Inhale through the nostrils slowly, evenly, and deeply, while mentally counting one, two, three, four, etc. As you inhale, notice (_a_) the gradual expansion of the abdomen, (_b_) the side expansion of the lower ribs, (_c_) the rise and inflation of the chest, without raising the shoulders. Hold the breath while mentally counting four (four seconds), then suddenly let the breath go, and notice the collapse of the abdomen and lower chest. Remember _the inspiration must be slow and deep, the expiration sudden and complete_. Practise this preliminary exercise for not more than ten minutes each morning for a week. The second week hold the breath six seconds, instead of four, and gradually increase the time, without overdoing. While, for a novice, the exercises may be taken at first in bed, this is but a preliminary to their practise standing in easy poise as directed in the preceding section. Exercise II SLOW INHALATION WITH SUDDEN EXPULSION Inhale as in I; hold the breath four counts (seconds) or more; then expel the air vigorously in one breath through the wide open mouth. The beginner is often helped in acquiring a deep breath by slowly sipping breath. Therefore as a variant to Exercise II practise: Exercise III SIPPING THE BREATH, WITH QUICK EXHALATION Through the smallest possible opening of the lips, while mentally counting, inhale very slowly and steadily; hold two to four counts, then expel the air all at once through the wide open mouth. Exercise IV FOR RIB EXPANSION To more completely arouse dormant muscles that should play an important part in breathing, place the hands against the sides, thumbs well back, take, through the nostrils or the slightly parted lips, six short catch-breaths, moving the ribs _out at the side_ with each catch-breath. Hold the breath two counts, and exhale through the mouth with six short expiratory puffs, drawing the ribs _in at the side_ with each puff. Exercise V SLOW INHALATION WITH SLOW EXPIRATION Inhale as in I, while mentally counting one, two, three, four, etc., until the inhalation seems complete. Hold the breath four or more counts; then exhale through the nostrils slowly and evenly while mentally counting to the number reached in the inspiration. With practice the number of counts will gradually increase. Do not, however, force the increase. The muscles that control inspiration are powerful; do not, therefore, make the mistake of seeking to control expiration by contraction of the glottis. Practise these exercises with an open throat and depend on the breathing muscles for control of the outgoing air. Remember that _singing is control of breath in exit_. Exercise VI RAPID INSPIRATION WITH SLOW EXPIRATION Inhale through the nostrils quickly, deeply, and forcefully (one count); hold two counts; exhale through the nostrils evenly, steadily, and as slowly as possible while mentally counting one, two, three, four, etc. With practice gradually increase the number of counts for the exhalation. Exercise VII FARINELLI'S GREAT EXERCISE The Cavalier, Don Carlo Broschi, better known as Farinelli (1705-1782), the world's greatest singer in bravura and coloratura, was a pupil of Porpora and Bernacchi. There was no branch of the art which he did not carry to the highest perfection, and the successes of his youth did not prevent him from continuing his study, or, when his name was famous, from acquiring by much perseverance another style and a superior method. His breath control was considered so marvelous in that day of great singers, it is said, that the art of taking and keeping the breath so softly and easily that no one could perceive it began and died with him. He is said to have spent several hours daily in practising the following exercise: As in Exercise III, sip the breath slowly and steadily through the smallest possible opening of the lips; hold it a few counts, then exhale very slowly and steadily through the smallest possible opening of the lips. Farinelli's exercise is not for beginners. Exercise VIII THE CLEANSING BREATH For ventilating and sweeping the lungs, for quick refreshment after fatigue, and for use always at the close of your exercises, inhale through the nostrils slowly a complete breath; hold two to four counts, purse the lips tightly and expel through them a small puff of air, hold two counts, puff one, hold two counts, puff one, and so on until the exhalation is complete. A few trials should convince you that this simple exercise is of great value. HALF-BREATH In both singing and speaking, the sustained delivery of long phrases or sentences sometimes makes unusual demands on the breath supply. It is a law of good singing that every phrase should end with the breath unexhausted. When the flow of text and music forbid the taking of a full breath, half-breaths must be quietly taken at convenient points. Instead of letting the whole reservoir of motive power exhaust itself and then completely refill it, we should, by taking these half-breaths, maintain a reserve. A notable advocate of the use of the half-breath in singing is that past mistress of sustained and smooth delivery, Marcella Sembrich. CHAPTER V REGISTERS The subject of registers has always been the _bête noire_ of vocalists, a source of controversy and confusion. The term "register," as commonly used, means a series of tones of a characteristic clang or quality, produced by the same mechanism. The term "break" is generally used to indicate the point at which a new register with sudden change appears. The advocates of registers lay stress either on the changes in laryngeal action, or the changes in tone quality. Before the days of the laryngoscope, registers were treated simply as different qualities of tone, characterizing a certain portion of the voice's compass. Those who encourage the cultivation of register consciousness claim to do so for the sake of the differences in tone-color which they associate with the different "registers." The purpose of the following chapters is to show that the quality or color of a tone is altogether a matter of resonance, and _not_ a question of laryngeal action. Moreover, the mechanism of the larynx is not voluntary in its action, but automatic, and even if a singer knew how the vocal cords should act it would not help him in the least to govern their action. The fact is that the results of laryngoscopic study of the vocal cords have been disappointing and contradictory and investigators have failed to define what correct laryngeal action is. There are those who even deny that the vocal cords govern the pitch of the voice. In her thoughtful _Philosophy of Singing_, Clara Kathleen Rogers, while upholding "registers," says that considered physiologically "the different registers of the voice should be regarded by the singer as only so many _modifications in the quality of tone_, which modifications are inherent in the voice itself." She then adds significantly: "These modifications are not brought about by conscious adjustments of the parts employed, as any interference with the parts will produce that obstacle to quality we call a 'break.'" One of the greatest of modern singers, Mme. Lilli Lehmann, in her interesting work, _How to Sing_, says: "Do registers exist by nature? No. It may be said that they are created through long years of speaking in the vocal range that is easiest to the person, or in one adopted by imitation." She speaks of three ranges of the voice, or, rather, three sections of the vocal range, as chest, middle, and head, saying, "All three form registers _when exaggerated_." After speaking of the hopeless confusion that results from clinging to the appellations of chest, middle, and head _register_, confounding voice with register, she concludes: "As long as the word 'register' is kept in use the registers will not disappear, and yet the register question must be swept away, to give place to another class of ideas, sounder views on the part of teachers, and a truer conception on the part of singers and pupils." The trend of recent thought on this subject is further shown in Ffrangcon-Davies' important work, _The Singing of the Future_, where, having in mind "the useless torture to which thousands of students have been subjected," he characterizes "breaks" and "registers" as "paraphernalia supplied by credulity to charlatanism"; and adds: "How many a poor pupil has become a practical monomaniac on the subject of _that break in my voice between D and D sharp_!" My own studies convince me that there is but one register, or, rather, no such thing as register, save as it applies to the compass of the voice; and that chest, middle, head, and all other registers are creations of false education. Training based upon the theory of many registers results in an artificial and unnatural division of the voice. THE VOICE AND INSTRUMENTS COMPARED The organ of the voice has long been considered the analogue of every other instrument except in regard to registers. Investigation indicates that it is analogous in this respect also. Compare the voice instrument with the pianoforte, violin, and organ and the similarity will plainly appear. The artificial instruments undergo no change when making a tone of higher or lower pitch other than the attuning of the vibrator to the pitch desired. All other parts remain the same. So when the voice is correctly focused and delivered, the only change incident to altered pitch is that made in the vibrator so as to give the proper number of vibrations for the pitch required. If the scale is sung down, using the same vowel sound for the whole scale, the comparison will be appreciated; the pupil will not be conscious of any change in the vocal organ or experience any difficulty in descending the scale. Faithful advocates of the theory of many registers say: "Whenever in doubt about the production of a tone, sing _down_ to it from some tone above it, never _upward_ from a tone below," for they find that singing down "blends the registers." This we believe is because in singing down muscular and nerve tension is gradually relaxed and consequently there is no "register" change in the voice. A study of the church organ will, I think, make this matter clear. The organ has many so-called registers, as the _vox humana_, _flute_, _oboe_, etc. These differ in the character of tone produced, because of the size and shape of the different sets of pipes and the material, wood or metal, of which they are made. But each similarly constructed set of pipes forms only one register, and the pitch of the set varies from low to high without any abrupt change in quality. All the tones are produced by the same methods and means, the bellows, the vibrator, and the pipe. In length and diameter, the pipe is proper to the tone produced: a short pipe of small diameter for the high tones, and a long, wide pipe for the bass tones. The short vibrations of the high tones are perceived by the ear as affecting the air only, while the tones of the lowest bass pipes shake the solid foundations as well as the superstructure. So with the human voice. The coarser tissues cannot answer to the short vibrations of the upper tones, because they cannot move so quickly, while they can, and do, respond to the vibrations of the low tones. This may cause some difference in degree, but not in kind. With all tones focused alike, the low tones of the human organ may be regarded as head tones plus the vibrations of the coarser tissues. It has been said of registers that they are "acoustic illusions which disappear in the perfectly trained voice." As soon as the singer has learned to use his voice normally all these defective changes disappear. TWO CASES The following incident illustrates the fact that registers are an artificial creation: A young lady who had been a patient of the author since her childhood studied elocution in a metropolitan city, and to improve her voice took vocal music lessons of a teacher of more than local repute. He found no end of trouble in teaching her to "blend the registers," and she had utterly failed to acquire the art. One summer she came back for professional services and told her troubles. During the few weeks of her stay she followed the author's suggestions, and was fully convinced of their correctness and efficiency. Upon returning to her lessons, she followed, without any explanations, the method that had been outlined for her. Her success in "blending the registers" was a surprise to her teacher who heartily congratulated her upon what she had accomplished during the summer. Another case is that of a young lady who was under the author's direction as to vocal culture from childhood. As early as four years of age she was taught by the use of a few exercises to focus the voice in the nose and head, and to recognize the head vibrations by a light touch of the finger. When about seven years old, she took ten lessons of a teacher on the same lines, and at fifteen years of age took another brief course. In the meantime she had only the practice obtained by singing with the pupils in the schools she attended. Later, of her own volition, she sang more, and carefully applied the principles she had been taught, with the result that her voice compassed nearly two octaves, evenly and smoothly, with no break or change of focus or quality, or other intimation of "register," and she developed a speaking voice of more than ordinary quality and resonance. It has also been my lot to aid in the development of the voices of many patients after a surgical operation for cleft palate. Success has proven the correctness and efficacy of the principles set forth in these pages. A majority of the more than fifty authors whose works I have examined have laid great stress on the distinction between head and chest tones, open and closed tones, pure and impure tones, have warned against the nasal tone, and have constantly advocated a natural tone. That there is no essential difference between a head tone and a chest tone has already been discussed and, it would seem, conclusively proven. Any tone, closed or open, is pure and musical if properly focused and delivered, and the singer is at liberty to use either upon any note of the scale if it will serve better to express the sentiment he wishes to convey to the hearer. The cooing of the love song, the cry of alarm for help, and the shout of the military charge require very different qualities of voice to express the feelings, yet each may be musical and will be so if properly delivered. CHAPTER VI RESONANCE IN GENERAL The intimate relationship existing between voice culture and the science of acoustics was formerly slightly perceived. The teaching of singing, as an art, then rested altogether on an empirical basis, and the acoustics of singing had not received the attention of scientists. With the publication in 1863 of Helmholtz's great work[4] a new era began, although singer and scientist yet continue to look upon each other with suspicion. Teachers of the voice, casting about for a scientific basis for their work, were greatly impressed with Helmholtz's revelations in regard to vocal resonance--the fact that tones are modified in quality as well as increased in power by the resonance of the air in the cavities of pharynx and head. [Footnote 4: _Die Lehre von den Tonempfindungen als physiologische Grundlage für die Theorie der Musik._ (The Sensations of Tone as a Physiological Basis for the Theory of Music.)] Writing in 1886, Edmund J. Meyer speaks of the importance of a "study of the influence of the different resonance cavities as the voice is colored by one or the other, and the tuning each to each and each to all"; yet, he adds, "the subject is seldom heard of outside of books." The basic importance of resonance in the use of the voice is still too little recognized, though obvious enough in the construction of musical instruments. With the exception of a few instruments of percussion, all musical instruments possess three elements,--a _motor_, a _vibrator_, and a _resonator_. The violin has the moving bow for a motor, the strings for a vibrator, and the hollow body for a resonator. The French horn has the lungs of the performer for a motor, the lips for a vibrator, and the gradually enlarging tube, terminating in the flaring bell, for a resonator. In the pianoforte the hammer-stroke, the strings, and the sounding-board perform the corresponding offices. Though improvements in other parts of the piano have done much to increase the volume of the tone, yet in the radical change of form, size, and other physical qualities of the sounding-board consists the evolution of the modern pianoforte from the primitive clavichord. In all these instruments the quality and power of the tone depend upon the presence of these three elements,--the perfection of their construction, their proper relation as to size and position, and the perfect adaptation of each part. A split sounding-board spoils the pianoforte, the indented bell destroys the sweet tone of the French horn, and a cracked fiddle is the synonym for pandemonium itself. The quality and power of resonance is well illustrated by a tuning-fork, which, if set in vibration, can, unaided, scarcely be heard by the person holding it. But if rested on a table, or a plate of glass, or, better still, on the bridge of a violin, its tones may be distinctly heard throughout a large hall. The vibrating violin string when detached from the body of this instrument, although attuned to pitch, gives absolutely no musical sound; the lips of the player placed on the mouthpiece detached from the tube and bell of the brass instrument produce only a splutter; and a pianoforte without a sounding-board is nil. The air column in the tube of the French horn, and the sounding-board of the pianoforte develop the vibrations caused by the lips and strings into musical tones pleasing to the ear. The tuning-fork alone can scarcely be heard, while the induced vibrations it sets up through properly adjusted resonance may be audible far away. The vocal cords alone cannot make music any more than can the lips of the cornet player apart from his instrument. _The tone produced by the vibrations alone of the two very small vocal bands must, in the nature of things, be very feeble._ Ninety-and-nine persons if asked the question, what produces tone in the human-voice, would reply, "the vibrations of the vocal cords," and stop there, as if that were all; whereas the answer is very incomplete--not even half an answer. A great deal of the irrational and injurious "teaching" of singing that prevails everywhere, and of the controversy that befogs the subject, is due to the widely prevalent notion that the little vocal cords are the principal cause of tone, whereas they are in themselves insignificant as sound producers. =It is the vibrations of the air in the resonance chambers of the human instrument, together with the induced vibrations of the instrument itself, which give tone its sonority, its reach, its color, and emotional power.= That this is not an empirical statement but a scientific fact, a few simple experiments will demonstrate. Tone, in the musical sense, is the result of rapid periodic vibration. The pitch of tone depends upon the _number_ of vibrations in a given period; the loudness of tone depends upon the _amplitude_ of the vibrations; the quality of tone depends upon the _form_ of the vibrations; and the form of the vibrations depends upon the _resonator_. The fact that pure white light is a compound of all the tints of the rainbow into which it may be resolved by the prism is well known, but the analogous fact that a pure musical tone is a compound of tones of different rates of vibration, tones of different pitch, is not so much a matter of common knowledge, and not so obvious. Analysis shows that a musical tone consists of a fundamental note and a series of overtones.[5] The ear is quite capable of recognizing many of these overtones and may be trained to do so. The most obvious can be readily separated from a fundamental by a simple experiment. [Footnote 5: For fuller exposition see Tyndall on _Sound_, or the section devoted to _Acoustics_ in any text-book on Physics.] The overtones arrange themselves in a definite order, as follows: (1) the fundamental or prime tone; (2) an overtone one octave above the fundamental; (3) an overtone a fifth above No. 2; (4) an overtone a fourth above No. 3 (two octaves above the fundamental); (5) an overtone a major third above No. 4; (6) an overtone a minor third above No. 5. There are others in still higher range but those indicated are easily demonstrated on the piano. For C they would be as follows: [Music illustration] Experiment I Step to your piano, noiselessly press and hold down the key of No. 2, then strike the fundamental No. 1, with force and immediately release it. As a result No. 2 will sound clearly, and if your ears are keen you will at the same time hear No. 6. In succession hold down the keys of 3, 4, 5, and 6, while you strike and release the fundamental No. 1. If your piano is "in tune" you will probably hear No. 6 when holding the key of any other note of the series. In a musical tone of rich quality the overtones just indicated are present in their fulness, while tone that is weak and thin is made so by the absence or weakness of the overtones. I have stated that the quality of a tone depends on the _form_ of its vibrations, and that the form of its vibrations is determined by the character of the _resonator_. We can now amplify this by saying that while the relative presence or absence of overtones determines the clang or color of a tone, their presence or absence is determined by the _character of the resonance_. An English writer records that he was once in the garden at the back of a house while a gentleman was singing in the drawing-room. The tone-quality was good, and the pitch so unusually high he hastened to learn who sang tenor high C so beautifully. On entering the room, instead of the tenor he had supposed, he found the singer was a baritone, and the note sung was only middle C. The fundamental tone had not reached him in the garden but the first overtone, an octave above it, had. Concrete illustrations will make the subject still clearer. Experiment II If an ordinary tuning-fork when vibrating is held in the hand its intrinsic tone is too weak to carry far. Rest the handle of the vibrating fork on a bare table or the panel of the door, and the sound is greatly augmented. _The vibrations of the fork have by contact induced similar vibrations in the wooden table or panel which reinforce the primary tone._ Experiment III Place the handle of the vibrating tuning-fork on a small upturned empty box, or, better still, in contact with the body of a violin, and the sound will be stronger than in the previous experiment, because to the vibrations of the wood are added the vibrations of the air enclosed in the box or the violin. _To the resonance of the wood has been added the sympathetic resonance of the confined air._ Experiment IV Hold the vibrating fork over the mouth of an empty fruit-jar and there will probably be little or no reinforcement; but gently pour in water, thereby shortening the air column within the jar, and the sound of the fork will be gradually intensified until at a certain point it becomes quite loud. If you pour in still more water the sound will gradually become feebler. This shows that _for every tone an air column of a certain size most powerfully reinforces that tone_. Experiment V As a sequence to the last experiment, take two fruit-jars of the same size, and, having learned to what point to fill them for the greatest resonance, fill one jar (after warming it) to the required point with hot water, the other with cold water, and you will find that the resonance of the heated, therefore expanded, air is much less than the denser air of the cold jar. This shows that _the degree of density of the air affects its resonance_. Experiment VI To demonstrate the resonance of the oral cavity, apart from the voice, hold a vibrating tuning-fork before the open mouth. Vary the shape and size of the cavity until the sound of the fork suddenly increases in volume, showing that the right adjustment for resonance has been made. _This intensification of the sound is due to the vibration of the air in the mouth cavity, together with the sympathetic vibration of the surrounding walls._ Experiment VII As an illustration of sympathetic resonance without contact, sing forcibly a tone that is within easy range, and at the same time silently hold down the corresponding key of the piano. On ceasing to sing you will hear the tone sounding in the piano. This may be further illustrated by playing on the open string of one violin while another, tuned to the same pitch, rests untouched near by. Through _sympathetic resonance_ the corresponding string of the second violin will vibrate and sound its note. The louder the first violin is played the louder will be the sympathetic tone of the second. The deep pedal-tones of a church organ often induce sympathetic resonance that may be felt beneath the feet of the listener. One writer, a singer, speaks of living in the same house with two deaf-mutes. He lodged on the first floor, they on the third. One day, meeting at luncheon, one of the deaf-mutes told the singer that he had begun practice earlier that morning than usual. Surprised, the writer asked how he knew. The deaf-mute replied that they always knew when he was singing because they felt the floor of their room vibrate. If tone vibrations can be transmitted so readily throughout a house, it is not difficult to understand how easily the vibrations of bone and tissue can be transmitted until the whole framework of the body responds in perceptible vibration. It is said that Pascal at the age of twelve wrote a dissertation on acoustics suggested by his childish discovery that when a metal dish was struck by a knife the resulting sound could be stopped by touching the vibrating dish with a finger. With this in mind it is not difficult to understand how compression of the human instrument by the pressure of tight clothing without, or by false muscular tension within, must interfere with its free vibration and so rob the produced tone of just so much of perfection. From these experiments we can understand that, while the tones of the voice are initiated by or at the vocal cords, the volume and character of the tones are dependent upon _resonance_,--the vibration of the air in the various resonance chambers of the body, together with the sympathetic vibration of the walls of these chambers and the bony framework that supports them. In respect to resonance, as in other respects, the human voice is far superior to all other instruments, for their resonators are fixed and unchanging, while the human resonator is flexible,--in Helmholtz's words "admits of much variety of form, so that many more qualities of tone can be thus produced than on any instrument of artificial construction." We are now prepared to realize the error of the common notion that loudness of tone is due entirely to increase of breath pressure on the vocal cords. Simple experiments with the tuning-fork have shown that while the volume of sound it gives forth is due in part to the amplitude of its vibrations, its loudness is _chiefly_ due to the character of the _resonance_ provided for it. The larger the resonance chamber the greater is its reinforcing capacity. The largest air chamber in the body is the chest, which serves not only as a wind-chest, but as a resonance chamber. The necessity for chest expansion, therefore, is not, as generally supposed, merely for air, but to increase its size as a resonance chamber. In view of the laws of tone, how great is the common error of speaking of the larynx as if it alone were the vocal organ, when the principal vibrations are _above_ the vocal cords in the chambers of _resonance_! Since the musical value, the beauty of tone, as well as its volume, comes only from right use of the resonator, our principal business must be the acquiring control of the vibratory air current _above the larynx_. The acquirement of this control involves the proper focusing or placing of the tone, with the free uncramped use of all the vocal organs; power will then take care of itself. CHAPTER VII HEAD AND NASAL RESONANCE Of the four component factors in the production of speech and song, the first, the _motor_, has been considered in Chapter III, and the second, the _vibrator_, in Chapter I. In one respect there is marked contrast between these two factors. Until right habits are so thoroughly formed that the singer's breathing is automatically controlled, conscious effort is necessary, while the action of the vibrator, the vocal cords, is involuntary, not subject to conscious control. The subtle adjustments of the delicate mechanism of the larynx belong to the realm of reflex action--to a spontaneous activity that, left unhindered, does its part in perfect nicety. The vocal cords must, in their action, be free from the disturbance of uncontrolled breath action below them, or the hindrance due to misdirected effort above them. To direct consciousness to the vocal cords is to cramp them and prevent that free vibration and that perfect relaxation of the throat without which pure tone and true pitch are impossible. As a surgeon I well know the value of thorough anatomical knowledge, but from the singer's standpoint I cannot too strongly emphasize the unwisdom of directing the attention of sensitively organized pupils to their vocal mechanism by means of the laryngoscope. This instrument belongs to the physician, not to the singer. The importance of the third factor, the _resonator_, has been considered in Chapter V, on Resonance, but the fourth element in voice production, _articulation_, is so coördinated to resonance that the significance and primacy of the latter are too often overlooked. Placing or "focusing the voice" I have found to be chiefly a matter of control and use of the resonator, consisting of chest, pharynx, mouth, and the nasal and head cavities. A tone lacking in resonance is ineffective,--devoid of carrying power,--is diffuse and unfocused; while a resonant tone, no matter how soft dynamically, has carrying power and is focused in its vibration. Now "voice placing" depends primarily on correct _vowel placing_, which in turn depends on proper adjustment of the resonators, which again depends chiefly on the positions and motions of the organs of articulation. The interdependence of tone quality and pronunciation is therefore obvious. Constant emphasis must be laid upon the fact that focusing a tone is a matter of resonance, and that perhaps the most important element in this is _nasal_ resonance. In this country, particularly, teachers have, in their desire to overcome the too common nasal twang, mistakenly sought to shut out the nasal chamber from all participation in speech and song. There are those who, partly recognizing the importance of _head_ resonance, would secure it while ignoring _nasal_ resonance. It is impossible to secure head resonance in this fashion, for it is only through free nasal resonance that the coördinate resonance in the air sinuses above the nasal cavity and connected with it can be established. The fear of nasal twang and failure to distinguish between it and true nasal resonance has been the stumbling block. They are very different,--one is to be shunned, the other to be cultivated. The first is an obvious blemish, the second is an important essential of good singing. Nasal tones are caused by a raised or stiffened tongue, a sagging soft palate, a stiffened jaw, or by other rigidities that prevent free tone emission and which at the same time--note this--prevent true nasal resonance. As tone, or vocalized breath, issues from the larynx, it is divided into two streams or currents by the pendent veil of the soft palate. One stream flows directly into the mouth, where it produces oral resonance; the other stream passes through the nasopharynx into the hollow chambers of the face and head, inducing nasal and head resonance. It is commonly supposed that tone passing in whole or in part through the nasal cavities must be nasal in quality; whereas a tone of objectionable nasal quality can be sung equally well with the nostrils either closed or open. Browne and Behnke state the matter thus: "However tight the closure of the soft palate may be, it is never sufficient to prevent the air in the nasal cavities being thrown into co-vibrations with that in the mouth. These co-vibrations are, in fact, necessary for a certain amount of the brilliancy of the voice, and if they are prevented by a stoppage of the posterior openings of the nasal passages, the voice will sound dull and muffled. This is of course due, to an _absence of nasal resonance_, and must on no account be described as nasal _twang_. It is, indeed, the very opposite of it." Nasal tone quality and nasal resonance must not be confounded. A nasal tone is constricted, while a tone with nasal resonance is free. Again, a tone may be unmarred by the nasal quality, yet if it lacks nasal resonance it lacks vibrancy, carrying power. Nasal tones are produced, not because the vibrations pass through the nasal passage, but because they are obstructed in their passage through them. A nasal tone is always a cramped tone, due to impediment, tension, or muscular contraction, particularly in the nasopharynx. The congestion and consequent thickening of the mucous membrane lining the cavities of the nose and head, resulting from a cold, make the tone muffled and weak, owing to the inability of the parts to respond to the vibrations and add to the tone normal nasal resonance. The elder Booth (Junius Brutus), about 1838, suffered from a broken nose which defaced his handsome visage and spoiled his splendid voice. His disability was so great that afterward he seldom played. That the cause of this impairment of Booth's voice was due to the contraction and more or less complete obstruction of the nasal passages is too evident to call for comment. Many singers have sweet but characterless voices that lack the fulness, power, and ring they might have because they fail to avail themselves of the augmenting power of the resonance cavities. The singer must learn to habitually use all of the resonance cavities and use them simultaneously. Lilli Lehmann, in _How to Sing_, says that, "although the nasal sound can be exaggerated,--which rarely happens,--it can be much neglected,--something that very often happens." The context makes clear that what in the English translation of the great singer's book is called "nasal sound" is exactly what we term _nasal resonance_. After charging the monotonous quality or lack of color in the voice of a famous opera star to lack of nasal resonance, Madame Lehmann speaks of the consummate art of Marcella Sembrich who "in recent years appears to have devoted very special study to nasal resonance, whereby her voice, especially in the middle register, has gained greatly in warmth." She says further that nasal resonance "cannot be studied enough. It ought always to be employed." "How often," she says, "have I heard young singers say, 'I no longer have the power to respond to the demands made upon me,' whereas the trouble lies only in the insufficient use of the resonance of the head cavities." From the foregoing, the conclusion follows that the head vibrations are not only an essential element, but that nasal resonance is a most important element in imparting to tone its brilliance and carrying power. Without thought of the mechanism of _how_ nasal resonance is produced, the singer has control over it by direct influence of the will. The tones, low as well as high, should seem to start in the nose and head, and the vibrations of the perfect tone can be plainly felt upon any part of the nose and head. Without the head vibrations no tone can be perfect, for nothing else will compensate for the lack of these. Vocal organs used as here described will suffer no fatigue from reasonable use; hoarseness will be to them a thing unknown, and "minister's sore throat" an unheard of complaint. Not only is faulty voice production a source of great discomfort, but it is the cause of many diseases of the chest, throat, and head. The gentle practice in easy range of the exercises given in the chapter following, will do much to restore a normal condition. CHAPTER VIII PLACING THE VOICE What is called "placing the voice" or "tone production" or "focusing the voice" is, as already stated in the previous chapter, chiefly a matter of resonance--of control of the resonator. Now vocalization is largely vowelization, and vocal tones are a complex of sound and resonance. The character of a vowel is given it by the shape of the vowel chamber; and the shaping of the vowel chamber depends upon delicate adjustment of the movable parts,--jaw, lips, cheeks, tongue, veil of the palate, and pharynx. While this adjustment is made through more or less conscious muscular action, the parts must never be forced into position; local effort to this end will invariably defeat itself. The important consideration in all voice movements is a flexible, _natural_ action of all the parts, and all the voice movements are so closely allied, so sympathetically related, that if one movement is constrained the others cannot be free. It is a happy fact that _the right way is the easiest way_, and a fundamental truth that =right effort is the result of right thought=. From these axiomatic principles we deduce the very first rule for the singer and speaker,--=THINK the right tone, mentally picture it; then concentrate upon the picture, not upon the mechanism=. WHEN IS THE VOCAL ACTION CORRECT? There are two sound criterions for judging the correctness of vocal action,--first, the _ease_ of the action, its naturalness, its flexibility. As Mills concisely states it: "He sings or speaks best who attains the end with the least expenditure of energy." Second, the _beauty_ of the result. Harsh, unlovely tones are a sure indication of misplaced effort, of tension somewhere, of wrong action. On the other hand the nearer the tones approach to perfection the closer does the organism come to correct action. _Beauty of tone_, then, is the truest indication of proper vocal action. Judgment as to the relative beauty of a tone depends on the training of the ear. Pupils should habitually listen to their own voices, for between the hearing and feeling of the voice a knowledge of progress can be obtained. The function of the ear in governing voice production is thus stated by Prof. Mills: "The nervous impulses that pass from the ear to the brain are the most important guides in determining the necessary movements." Mr. Ffrangcon-Davies maintains that, "The training of the ear is one-half of the training of the voice." The student should improve every opportunity to hear the best singers and speakers, for both consciously and unconsciously we learn much by imitation. Good examples are often our best teachers. Keeping well in mind the principles stated above, we are now ready to begin their application in placing the voice--that is, in setting it free--not by learning some strange and difficult action, but by cultivating normal action. EXERCISES FOR PRACTICE The following exercises are designed for the primary development of a correct tone and for the test of the perfection of every tone at every stage of development. They are based upon the assumption that all tones of the voice should be focused and delivered precisely alike. Their use should constitute a part of the daily practice of the singer or speaker. I give but few exercises for each point to be gained. Intelligent teachers and pupils will add an infinite variety to suit each case, but the exercises given appear to me to be the best for initial practice. It is important that each exercise in its order shall be thoroughly mastered before taking up the next. Only in this way can rapid progress be made, for it is not the multiplicity of exercises, but the thoughtful application of principles in the few, that leads to results. The sound of _hng_ will always place the voice in proper focus by developing the resonance of the nose and head. The thin bones of the nose will first respond to the sound and after practice the vibrations can be felt on any part of the head and even more distinctly on the low than on the high tones. To attain this, repeat the sound _hung_ times without number, prolonging the _ng_ sound at least four counts. To insure the proper course of the vowel sounds through the nasal passages, follow _hung_ with the vowel _ee_, as this vowel is more easily focused than any other; then with _oo_, _oh_, _aw_ and _ah_. _Ah_ is by far the most difficult sound to focus and should never be used for initial practice. Much valuable time has been lost by the custom of using this sound at first. It should come last. The _h_ is chosen to introduce the vowel sound because in the preparation to produce the sound of the letter _h_ the epiglottis is wide open and the vocal cords entirely relaxed, and because less change of the tongue is required when the vowel sound follows. Preliminary Exercise _Practise this softly on any pitch easy for the voice._ [Music illustration: Hung-ee. Hung-oo. Hung-oh. Hung-aw. Hung-ah. Hung-ee _etc._] Begin the tone quietly on an easy pitch and continue it softly to the end. Later, after these exercises are mastered on one pitch, use every note within the easy compass of the voice. Leave stridency of tone to the locust. It is no part of a perfect tone. It never appeared in the voices of the most famous singers. Those who allowed themselves to use it passed off the stage early in life. Much better results will be obtained by practising without any accompaniment. The sound of the piano or other instrument distracts the pupil, prevents both pupil and teacher from hearing the voice, and hinders progress. IMPORTANT DIRECTIONS The manner in which Exercise I and those that follow is practised is of the utmost importance. Therefore carefully note and apply the following: 1. Fully pronounce the word _hung_ (_u_ as in _stung_) at once, and prolong the tone, not on the vowel sound but on the _ng_ sound. This establishes the proper head and nasal resonance at the very beginning of the exercise. 2. In passing from _ng_ to _ee_ be very careful not to change the initial focus or lose the sensation of nasal and head resonance. Do not therefore move the lips or the chin. The only change at this point is the slight movement of the tongue required to pronounce _ee_, which must be a pure vowel without a trace of the preceding _g_. 3. In passing from _ee_ to _oo_, from _oo_ to _oh_, and so on, do so with the least possible movement of lips and chin. _The initial sensation of nasal and head resonance must not be lost._ 4. Each vowel sound must be distinct in enunciation and pure in quality. Avoid blurring one with the other. Give each its true individuality. 5. As jewels of different hue hung on a string, so must this exercise be the stringing of vowels on a continuous stream of sound. Exercise I TO ESTABLISH NASAL AND HEAD RESONANCE This is an exercise for focusing or placing the voice and developing the vibrations of the nasal and head cavities, the most essential parts of the resonant apparatus. If the nostrils are kept fully open, no nasal twang will be heard. The strength of the tone will correspond to the force of the vibrations of the nose and head, which can be plainly felt by resting the finger lightly upon the side of the nose. The vibrations may eventually be plainly felt on the top and back of the head. Attack, that is, begin the tone, _softly_ and on no account force it in the least. Pronounce the full word _at once_, prolong the _ng_ four counts as indicated, and sing the five vowel sounds on a continuous, unbroken tone. Articulate entirely with the lips and without moving the under jaw. In this, as in the following exercises, keep the under jaw relaxed and open the mouth so as to separate the teeth as wide apart as is consistent with the action of the lips. See also the illustrations of proper lip position given at the close of Chapter II. _Practice this exercise on any pitch easy for the voice._ [Music illustration: Hung-ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] Repeat this many times until the nose and head vibrations are fully recognized and established. After mastery of this exercise is acquired, any words ending in _ng_ may be repeated. The word _noon_ sung quietly on each note of the voice with the final consonant prolonged will be found helpful. EXERCISES FOR SPEAKERS When the placing of the voice is accomplished on the one tone (Exercise I), the speaker can go on with practice in reading and reciting, allowing the voice to change its pitch at its will, only being careful that all the tones are alike in quality. A profitable exercise for speakers is to pronounce any word or syllable ending with _ng_, as _ming_, _bing_, _sing_, _ring_, _ting_, and follow it with some familiar lines in a monotone, being sure that the tone is the same and produces the same vibrations in the nose and head. In the case of a person already a public speaker, this new _régime_ may not immediately manifest itself in performance, but gradually the right principles will assume control, and speaking be done with ease and effectiveness. Continual daily practice of exercises should be kept up. If a speaker has a musical ear and some musical knowledge, he will derive great benefit by following out the practice of the exercises for singers. In no way can the voice for speaking be improved so rapidly or decisively as by musical training. Exercise II TO ESTABLISH HEAD AND NASAL RESONANCE As in Exercise I, sing softly, seeking purity of vowel sounds and quality of tone. Fully pronounce _hung_ at once, prolonging the _ng_ four counts as indicated. Pass from one vowel to the next with the least possible change in the position of the lips and chin. The stream of sound is to be unbroken, the tone focus unchanged, and the sensation of resonance in the upper chambers continuous. [Music illustration: Hung-ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] [Music illustration: Hung-ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] Exercise III UPPER RESONANCE CONTINUED Follow the directions for Exercise I. Sing quietly in a pitch that is easy for the voice, and modulate up or down by half steps. [Music illustration: Hung-ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] Exercise IV UPPER RESONANCE CONTINUED The last exercise carried the voice an interval of a third; this carries the voice an interval of a fifth. Follow carefully the directions of Exercise I. Be sure to pronounce _hung_ at once, prolonging the tone not on the vowel but on the _ng_. _Sing softly._ Vary the pitch to suit the voice. [Music illustration: Hung-ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] Exercise V UPPER RESONANCE CONTINUED The last exercise carried the voice an interval of a fifth, this one has a range of a sixth, while Exercise VI has a range of an octave. Carefully follow the Important Directions on page 60. _Sing softly_ in a pitch that is easy for the voice. [Music illustration: Hung-ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] [Music illustration: Hung-ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] Exercise VI TO ENLARGE THE THROAT AND THUS MAGNIFY THE TONE Pronounce the word _hung_ at once, opening the mouth well. Prolonging the _ng_ sound as indicated will insure the proper focus. Sing the five vowel sounds throughout the scale as indicated. At first practise only on scales that are in easy range. [Music illustration: 1. Hung-ee 2. Hung-oo 3. Hung-oh 4. Hung-aw 5. Hung-ah _etc._] VIa [Music illustration: 1. Hung-ee 2. Hung-oo 3. Hung-oh 4. Hung-aw 5. Hung-ah _etc._] Exercise VII FOR PRODUCTION OF THE VOWEL SOUNDS IN PROPER FOCUS Produce the _hung_ at once, and add the vowel. _Be sure that the vowel sound follows the same course as the "ng" sound which precedes it, and produces the same sensation in the nose._ The vowels are arranged in the order chosen because _ee_ is the most easily focused while _ah_ is by far the most difficult to focus, and hence the worst possible sound for initial practice. _Think_ of the tone as being made in the nose and head. Let there be no break or stopping of the tone when passing from the _ng_ sound to the vowel. Simply change the tone into the vowel desired by the proper change in the articulating organs. Sing the five vowel sounds connectedly, being sure that each vowel is correctly placed before passing to the next. The proper use of the lips will aid greatly in focusing the vowels. Start with the scale that is in comfortable range. [Music illustration: Hung-ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] [Music illustration: Hung-ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] Exercise VIII TO ENLARGE THE THROAT AND FOCUS THE VOWELS Open the mouth well and be sure that the vowel sounds are delivered as in the previous exercises; this will insure largeness with proper resonance. When practising this exercise, be careful, as with the others, that each vowel sound in its order is correctly given before passing to the next. Only in this way can rapid progress be made. The words _bing_, _sing_, _ting_, _fling_, _swing_ are excellent to use for further practice. [Music illustration: 1. Hung-ee 2. Hung-oo 3. Hung-oh 4. Hung-aw 5. Hung-ah _etc._] [Music illustration: 1. Hung-ee 2. Hung-oo 3. Hung-oh 4. Hung-aw 5. Hung-ah _etc._] Exercise IX QUICK CHANGING NOTES WITHOUT CHANGING RESONANCE The important point in this flexible exercise is to _keep the vowel-color, the focus or resonance, unchanged throughout the phrase_. Begin quietly, give the _ng_ freedom and the upper resonance will adjust itself. This phrase is longer than in previous exercises; be sure then that you still have breath at the end--breath enough to sing further. Sing quietly. Pitch the exercise to suit the voice. [Music illustration: 1. Hung-ee 2. Hung-oo 3. Hung-oh 4. Hung-aw 5. Hung-ah _etc._] Exercise X FOR AGILITY Sing each vowel sound separately before passing to the next. Be sure to start each vowel sound in purity and maintain it without change. Pitch the exercise to suit the voice. [Music illustration: 1. Ee 2. Oo 3. Oh 4. Aw 5. Ah _etc._] For variants on the above use as initial consonants _b_, _p_, _m_, _f_, _v_, _d_, _k_, _n_, _t_, and _l_. Exercise XI TO DEVELOP THE USE OF THE LIPS AND UNDER JAW When practising this exercise protrude the lips and raise them toward the nose as far as possible; also make an effort to enlarge and widen the nostrils. This exercise may be practised more quickly than the preceding, but never at the expense of clearness of vowel distinction. Carry the exercise higher or lower, and in different keys, to suit individual voices. With a slight initial accent sing each two-measure section smoothly as one phrase. Avoid accenting each separate vowel sound. To do so would produce a series of jerks. [Music illustration: Ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] After practising the above as written modify it as follows: 1. Bee-boo-boh-baw-bah. 2. Pee-poo-poh-paw-pah. 3. Mee-moo-moh-maw-mah. 4. Fee-foo-foh-faw-fah. 5. Vee-voo-voh-vaw-vah. 6. Dee-doo-doh-daw-dah. 7. Kee-koo-koh-kaw-kah. 8. Nee-noo-noh-naw-nah. 9. Tee-too-toh-taw-tah. 10. Lee-loo-loh-law-lah. Exercise XII FOR FACILITY AND QUICK VOWEL CHANGE Be careful not to blur the vowel sounds; each must be distinct and pure, and the change from one to the next must be made with a minimum of effort and without disturbing the focus of the tone. [Music illustration: Ee-oo-oh-aw-ah _etc._] The divisions (_a_ and _b_) of each of the above four variants may be regarded as distinct exercises or not. For further practice use as initial consonants any or all of the following: _b_, _p_, _m_, _f_, _v_, _d_, _k_, _n_, _t_, and _l_. Exercise XIII ASCENDING AND DESCENDING SCALE As in the previous exercises practise quietly with unvarying focus and aim to finish the phrase with breath unexhausted. Pitch the exercise to suit the voice. [Music illustration: Hung-ee Hung-oo Hung-oh Hung-aw Hung-ah _etc._] Exercise XIV THE LONG SCALE Sing this scale exercise in medium range, without blurring either the vowel sounds or the notes. [Music illustration: 1. Hung-ee 2. Hung-oo 3. Hung-oh 4. Hung-aw 5. Hung-ah _etc._] [Music illustration: 1. Hung-ee 2. Hung-oo 3. Hung-oh 4. Hung-aw 5. Hung-ah _etc._] The exercises thus far given have employed the five vowel sounds found most helpful in gaining a free resonance. These should now be supplemented by the use of _all_ the vowel sounds. It is obvious that unless the singer is at home with every vowel and on any pitch in his vocal range perfect pronunciation is impossible. In Chapter II a Scale of Vowel Sounds is given. For convenience it is repeated here: [Illustration: 1 n_ee_ 2 n_i_t 3 n_e_t 4 n_a_y 5 n_ai_r 6 n_a_t 7 n_i_gh 8 N_a_h 7' n_o_t 6' n_a_w 5' n_e_r 4' n_u_t 3' n_o_ 2' n_oo_k 1' n_oo_.] Having so far mastered the previous exercises as to establish a free head and nasal resonance, take the Scale of Vowel Sounds and apply it to the now familiar exercises. Next, as suggested in Exercise X, use as initial consonants in connection with the Vowel Scale the consonants _b_, _p_, _m_, _f_, _v_, _d_, _k_, _n_, _t_ and _l_. Keep before you the formula that articulation should _seem_ to be done entirely with and through the upper lip; _i.e._, the _thought_ should be that the words are projected through the upper lip. When by practise of the exercises given the voice has been focused and resonance established without any instrument, scale exercises and simple vocalises may be taken up with or without the piano. In practising scales start each a semitone higher until the _easy limit_ of the voice is reached, and no farther. Gain will be more rapid by working to deliver the tones within the voice's normal compass. Then when occasional effort is made the organs will be found ready to deliver the highest pitch of which the voice is capable. When sufficient progress has been made in mastering the execution of scales and easy vocalises, the pupil will be ready to begin the study of songs. If one foregoes the singing of songs during the few weeks occupied with primary lessons, results are obtained much more quickly. While practising exercises or songs the less the pianoforte is used, except to compare the pitch, the better. Such practice increases the confidence of the performer. The instrument prevents the singer's listening to the tone he is producing and judging of its effectiveness. Pupils with high or very low voices may continue their practice higher or lower as the voice is soprano, or bass, or contralto, but much practice on the extremes of the voice is unadvisable. If pure tones are produced in the medium range of the voice the highest or lowest tones will be found ready when called for. Therefore practise the extremes of the voice only enough to know the limits of the voice and to be assured the tones are there. When the singer can perform the preceding simple exercises and know that the tones are all focused, or placed and delivered, precisely alike, he is ready to practise any scale, down or up, and to execute any musical exercise or song for which he is intellectually fitted. CHAPTER IX THROAT STIFFNESS What is the most frequent obstacle to good singing, the difficulty with which pupil and teacher most contend? Throat stiffness. What more than anything else mars the singing of those we hear in drawing-rooms, churches, and the concert room? Throat stiffness. This is the vice that prevents true intonation, robs the voice of its expressiveness, limits its range, lessens its flexibility, diminishes its volume, and makes true resonance impossible. This great interferer not only lessens the beauty of any voice, but directly affects the organ itself. The muscles of the larynx are small and delicate, and the adjustments they make in singing are exceedingly fine. When, however, the voice user stiffens his throat, these delicate muscles in their spontaneous effort to make the proper adjustments are compelled to contract with more than their normal strength. Every increase in throat stiffness demands a corresponding increase in muscle effort, an overexertion that persisted in must result in injury to the organ itself. Such misuse of the voice is bound to show injurious results. Every throat specialist knows this, and an untold multitude of those who, beginning with promise, have had to give up singing as a career, learn it too late. Singers are so accustomed to the sound of their own voices as to be usually quite unconscious of their own throat stiffness, though they may recognize it in their neighbor. Unfortunately throat stiffness by its very nature tends to aggravate itself, to constantly increase while the voice becomes less and less responsive to the singer's demands. There are a number of contributing causes to throat stiffness, but the principal cause is _throat consciousness_ and misplaced effort, due largely to current misconceptions regarding the voice. A common notion is that we sing with the throat, whereas we sing _through_ it. Akin to this error is the notion, as common as it is fallacious, that force of tone, carrying power, originates in the larynx, whereas the initial tone due to the vibration of the vocal cords is in itself comparatively feeble. As shown at length in Chapters VI and VII, volume of tone, its color and carrying power, is acoustically and vocally a matter of _resonance_. Many there are who sing by dint of sheer force and ignorance, but their careers are necessarily short. The too common vulgar striving for power rather than for beauty or purity of tone induces unnatural effort and strain that both directly and sympathetically affect the throat with stiffness. Unnatural effort in breathing, over-effort in breath control, as well as singing without adequate breath, all induce tension that is reflected at once in the sensitive throat. Impatience of results, American hurry, beget unnatural effort and tension. "Unclasp the fingers of a rigid civilization from off your throat." The student of the violin or the piano soon learns that only by a long and patient preparation can he fit himself to entertain even his admiring friends. The embryo singer, on the contrary, expects with far less expenditure of time and effort to appear in public. The human voice is a direct expression of the man himself; it registers spontaneously his mental and emotional states, even when he would wish them hidden. Mental conditions tinged with impatience, with fear, or with anything that begets tension of any sort are reflected instantly in the voice, robbing it of its better qualities and inducing stiffness in the throat. Reduced to its lowest terms voice culture to-day is a struggle with throat stiffness. The causes indicate the remedy. Foremost, then, is dropping all throat consciousness, all thought of the throat, all drawing of attention to it. The larynx must be left uncramped, unhindered to do its work in free unconsciousness, which it will do if not disturbed by tension in its neighborhood, or by misdirected thought. The stream of consciousness must in singing be directed to the breathing which is below the throat, and to resonance and pronunciation which are above it. These functions are more or less consciously controlled until at last mastery makes their action automatic. I would once more emphasize the fact that the free use of all the resonance chambers, and the recognition of the great function of resonance, will do more than anything else to set the voice free and emancipate the singer from all interfering rigidity. CHAPTER X SOME GENERAL CONSIDERATIONS THE NATURAL VOICE Pupils are constantly urged to sing and speak naturally, because the "natural" tone is correct. This is exceedingly indefinite. It is natural for a child to imitate the first sound it hears, whether it be correct or incorrect. In either case the child imitates it, and for that child it becomes the natural tone. The child reared in the wilderness, beyond the hearing of a human voice, will imitate the notes of the whip-poor-will, the chatter of the monkey, and the hoot of the owl, and for him they are natural tones. To be natural is the hardest lesson to learn and it is only the result of imitation or prolonged discipline. Untrained naturalness is the perfection of awkwardness. The involuntary functions of organic life are the only ones naturally performed correctly. Nature's method of breathing, circulation, and digestion can be depended upon until disarranged by subsequent conditions, but unless proper vocalization is established by imitation and discipline this function is sure to be corrupted by false examples. AGE TO BEGIN After the child begins to talk, the sooner his vocal education begins the better. Even at that early age he can be made to understand the merits of head vibrations and by simple exercises produce them, and once taught will never forget them. Vocalizing, like every other art, is most easily learned by imitation, and the advantage of the early years, when that faculty is most active, should not be lost. In olden times the importance of this was fully realized. More than three centuries ago, old Roger Ascham wrote: "All languages, both learned and mother tongues, are begotten and gotten solely by imitation. For as ye used to hear so ye learn to speak. If ye hear no other, ye speak not yourself; and of whom ye only hear, of them ye only learn." Nineteen centuries ago Quintillian wrote: "Before all let the nurses speak properly. The boy will hear them first and will try to shape his words by imitating them." If the right way of using the voice is early taught it will be a guard against the contraction of bad habits which can only be corrected later with infinite trouble. It certainly would be unwise to put a young child under continued training; but even in the kindergarten the right method of voice production can and should be taught. Teachers of kindergarten and primary schools should be familiar with the principles of voice training and be able to start the pupils at once on the right road. IN PUBLIC SCHOOLS The sooner this branch of education is made a part of the curriculum of our common schools, the sooner shall we produce a race of good speakers and singers. If, during the pupil's school life, proper attention is paid to these primary principles and to _correct articulation_, a large majority of students will graduate from our common schools prepared to advance in the art of elocution or of singing without being obliged first to unlearn a vast amount of error and to correct a long list of bad habits. If each day in the public schools a few minutes only are devoted to the subject by a teacher who understands it and who will call the attention of the pupils to the proper applications of the principles in their daily recitations, it will be found amply sufficient to develop and establish a good speaking and singing voice. ARTISTRY If artistry is to be attained, every organ must be individually well trained. Yet, during performance, no one part should be given undue prominence. The voice should be the product of all the organs equally well developed. Continued practice will enable the performer to correlate the whole--blend the strength of all in one. It goes without saying that no one in singing or speaking should appear to be governed by a "method." During the early stages of education, pupils should be amenable to rules and methods, but they must not expect to be acceptable performers until able to forget their lessons and simply and unconsciously make use of all the advantages of their training. Even when the education is finished, and the _prima donna_ has made her successful debut, continued daily repetition of primary exercises is necessary to maintain excellence and insure the progress that every performer desires. Our best singers to-day are as diligent students of the technique of the voice as are the tyros struggling with the first elements. LIFE'S PERIODS Human life is divided into three periods: _first_, that of effort to get an education; _second_, of effort to maintain it; and _third_, of effort to resist the natural decline which comes with advancing years. The singer and speaker must drill to develop the voice, must drill to keep it in condition, and must drill to resist the encroachments of senility. Eternal vigilance is the price of vocal success. APPLICATION OF ESSENTIALS The application of the principles here discussed will show that a musical voice is not the product of mysterious systems, but a matter of scientific certainty. The essentials are good breathing, good focusing, good resonance, and good articulation. These four elements are so interdependent that one cannot be perfected without the other. With these attained, the intellect, the sentiment, and the emotion of the performer will culminate in artistic excellence. REPOSE AS A PREPARATION FOR VOCAL EXERCISE The nervousness or fear which manifests itself in constraint and rigidity of the muscles and sometimes in stage fright is a serious hindrance to progress. The effectual offset to this painful condition is repose. The art of inducing a condition of repose can be readily acquired by any one who will carefully and faithfully do as follows: Place yourself in an easy lying or lounging position in a quiet place, with fresh air. Physical repose prepares for and invites mental repose. Now allow the mind to work care free at its own sweet will without any attempt to control it. Close the eyes and _breathe slowly, gently, and deeply, with steady rhythm_. In two or three minutes a sensation of quiet restful repose will be experienced, which may be continued for several minutes or may even lead to a natural sound sleep. This result may not be attained at the first or the second trial, but a few repetitions of the exercise will insure success in almost every case. After the art is attained in this formal way, ability to induce the same repose when sitting upright, or while standing, will be quickly developed. This repose is the fitting preparation for a lesson or a performance and may be induced during the progress of either, to allay any trepidation incident to the situation. A mastery of this simple art will make progress in the work of voice development much more rapid, and make attainable a degree of discipline that is impossible without it. It will prove for the beginner a sure prevention of stage fright and a great relief to the most chronic sufferer from this malady. THE VIBRATO The _vibrato_ is a rhythmic pulsation of the voice. It often appears in untrained voices; in others it appears during the process of cultivation. Some have thought it the perfection of sympathetic quality; others esteem it a fault. The vibrato is caused by an undulating variation of pitch or power, often both. The voice does not hold steadily and strictly to the pitch, and according to the amount of the variation a corresponding vibrato, or tremolo, is produced. The action of stringed instruments illustrates this statement. The finger of the violinist vibrates on the string by rocking rapidly back and forth and the vibrato is the result. The same is true of the human instrument. By variation of the tension, the vocal apparatus sends forth several tones in alternation, of a slightly different pitch, which together produce the effect. Three sources are ascribed for the vibrato; one is a rapid, spasmodic vibration of the diaphragm, causing variation of breath pressure; another is the alternate tension and relaxation of the larynx and vocal cords; a third is that commonest of faults--throat stiffness. Either cause is possible, and variation in the pitch or intensity of the tone is the result. Sufficient investigations have not been made to make the matter certain, but tremolo, trembling of the vocal organs, and muscular stiffness, or unnatural tension, seem to go together. It is quite possible in the early stages of culture so to train the voice as to use the vibrato or not at will, but if not early controlled this, like other bad habits, gains the mastery. Excessive vibrato has spoiled many good voices. It is not a fundamental quality of the voice. A little vibrato may occasionally be desirable when properly and skilfully used; more than this is to be shunned as a dangerous vice. CHAPTER XI THE PSYCHOLOGY OF VOCAL CULTURE Mental conception precedes execution. The picture must exist in the artist's mind before it can be drawn on the canvas. The architect must mentally see the majestic cathedral in all its details before he can draw the plans from which it can be built. In the field of physical activity no movement is made until the mind has gone before and prepared the way. A person's ability to do is in a great degree measured by his determination to do, but sitting in a rocking-chair and thinking will never make an athlete. Mental action is necessary, but only through trained muscular action can the mental action materialize in a finished performance. So too the mind must anticipate the action of the vocal organs, but the organs themselves must be led to interpret the mental concept until such action becomes spontaneous. Action in turn quickens the mental process, and the mental picture becomes more vivid. Note with emphasis that the mental concept _precedes_ the action and governs it. Therefore, instead of producing tone by local effort, by conscious muscular action of any sort, correctly _think the tone_, correctly shape and color it _mentally_. =Every vocal tone is a mental concept made audible.= The beginner and the confirmed bungler alike fail in this prime essential--they do not make this mental picture of tone before singing it. Kindred to this is deficiency in hearing, in discriminating between good tone color and poor. The student must constantly compare his tone as it is sung with the picture in his mind. Training the voice is therefore largely a training of mind and ear, a developing of nicety in discrimination. Singing is mental rather than physical, psychologic rather than physiologic. Think therefore of the effect desired rather than of the process. In considering the details of voice production analytically we are apt to forget that man, notwithstanding his complexity, is a _unit_ and acts as a unit. Back of all and underlying man's varied activity is the psychical. In the advanced stages of the art of speech and song this psychical element is of pre-eminent importance. The speaker who essays to give expression to his own thoughts must have his ideas sharply defined and aflame in order to so utter them that they will arouse his hearers to enthusiasm. The speaker or singer who would successfully interpret the thoughts of others must first make those thoughts his very own. When this is attained, then the voice, action, and the whole spirit of the performer, responding to the theme, will beget a like responsiveness in his audience. THE SINGER BEHIND THE VOICE Books upon books have been written on voice training, and will continue to be written. The preceding pages have been devoted to the fundamental subject of tone production, but it is time to suggest that back of the voice and the song is the singer himself with his complex personality. Back of the personality is the soul itself, forever seeking utterance through its mask of personality. All genuine impulse to sing is from the soul in its need for expression. Through expression comes growth in soul consciousness and desire for greater and greater self-expression. Singing is far more than "wind and muscle," for, as Ffrangcon-Davies puts it, "The whole spiritual system, spirit, mind, sense, _soul_, together with the whole muscular system from feet to head, will be in the wise man's singing, _and the whole man will be in the tone_." Of all the expressions of the human spirit in art form, the sublimated speech we call song is the most direct. Every other art requires some material medium for its transmission, and in music, subtlest of all the arts, instruments are needed, except in singing only. FREEDOM In song the singer himself is the instrument of free and direct expression. Freedom of expression, complete utterance, is prevented only by the singer himself. No one hinders him, no one stands in the way but himself. The business of the teacher is to _set free_ that which is latent. His high calling is by wise guidance to help the singer to get out of his own way, to cease standing in front of himself. Technical training is not all in all. Simple recognition of the existence of our powers is needed even more. Freedom comes through the recognition and appropriation of inherent power; recognition comes first, the appropriation then follows simply. The novice does not know his natural power, his birthright, and must be helped to find it, chiefly, however, by helping himself, by cognizing and re-cognizing it. No student of the most human of all arts--singing--need give up if he has burning within him the _song impulse_, the _hunger to sing_. This inner impulse is by its strength an evidence of the power to sing; the very hunger is a promise and a prophecy. DETERRENTS The deterrents to beautiful singing are physical in appearance, but these are outer signs of mental or emotional disturbance. Normal poise, which is strength, smilingly expresses itself in curves, in tones of beauty. _Mental discord_ results in angularity, rigidity, harshness. _Impatience_ produces feverishness that makes vocal poise impossible; and impatience induces the modern vice of forcing the tone. Growth is a factor for which hurried forcing methods make no allowance. _Excess of emotion_ with its loss of balance affects the breathing and play of the voice. _Exertion_, trying effort, instead of easy, happy activity induces hampering rigidities. _Intensity_, over-concentration, or rather false concentration, emotional tension, involves strain, and strain is always wrong. _Over-conscientiousness_, with its fussiness about petty detail, and insistence on non-essentials, is a deterrent from which the robust are free. _Over-attention to the mechanics_ of voice production is a kindred deterrent. Both deterrents prevent that prime characteristic of expression--spontaneity. _Anxiety_ is a great contractor of muscle, a great stiffener. Anxiety always forgets the _power_ within, and falsely says to the song-hunger, "You shall never be satisfied." _Self-repression_ is a great deterrent that afflicts the more sensitive, particularly those of puritanic inheritance. It is a devitalizer and a direct negative to expression, which is vital, is _life_. All of these deterrents are negative and may be overcome by fuller recognition of the inner power that by its very nature must perpetually seek positive expression. CONCLUSION In conclusion, the student can perpetually find encouragement in a number of happy facts. Man is endowed by nature, except in rare instances, with a perfect vocal apparatus. When abnormal conditions are found they are usually in the adult voice, and are due solely to misuse. In other words defects are not inherent but acquired and _can be removed_. By nature the human voice is beautiful, for the tendency of nature is always in the direction of beauty. Whatever is unlovely in singing, as in all else, is _un_natural. True method is therefore never artificial in its action, but simple, because the natural is always simple. Finally, no, not finally, but firstly and secondly and thirdly and perpetually, every student of singing and every teacher of it must constantly bear in mind the happy law: =THE RIGHT WAY IS ALWAYS AN EASY WAY= BOOKS CONSULTED TITLE AUTHOR PUBLISHED An Essay on the History and Theory of Music, and of the Qualities and Capacity of the Human Voice Isaac Nathan London, 1823. Elements of Vocal Science Richard Mackenzie Bacon London, 1824. Orthophony; or the Cultivation of the Voice in Elocution William Russell Boston, 1859. Vocal Physiology Charles Alex. Guilmette New York, 1860. Die Lehre von den Tonempfindungen als physiologische Grundlage für die theorie der Musik H.L.F. Helmholtz Brunswick, 1863. The Sensations of Tone as a Physiological Basis for the Theory of Music H.L.F. Helmholtz (Translation of above) (Translated by A.J. Ellis) London, 1875. Sound John Tyndall London, 1867. Principles of Elocution and Voice Culture Benj. W. Atwell Providence, 1868. The Voice, Its Artistic Production, Development and Preservation George J. Lee London, 1870. The Cultivation of the Speaking Voice John Pyke Hullah Oxford, 1870. Voice Building Horace R. Streeter Boston, 1871. Principles of Elocution and Voice Culture Benjamin Atwell Boston, 1872. Hints for Pronunciation in Singing Georgiana Weldon London, 1872. The Voice in Singing Emma Seiler Philadelphia, 1872 The Voice as an Instrument Ange A. Pattou New York, 1878. The Vocal Process John Howard New York, 1878. Speech in Song Alexander J. Ellis London, 1878. Voice and Vocalization Wm. P. Robert London, 1879. The Human Voice and Connected Parts Joseph Montgomery Farrar London, 1881. The Mechanism of the Human Voice Emil Behnke London, 1882. Gymnastics of the Voice Oskar Guttmann Albany, 1882. The Art of Voice Production with Special Reference to the Methods of Correct Breathing Ange A. Pattou New York, 1882. The Old Italian School of Singing Leo Kofler Albany, 1882. The Secrets of the Voice in Singing Emilio Belari New York, 1883. Deep Breathing Sophia A. Ciccolina New York, 1883. Artistic Voice in Speech and Song Charles Lunn London, 1884. Voice, Song and Speech Lennox Browne and Emil Behnke London, 1884. Modern Singing Methods, Their Use and Abuse John Franklin Botume Boston, 1885. The Diaphragm and Its Functions J.M.W. Kitchen Albany, 1885. The Voice from a Practical Standpoint Edmund J. Meyer New York, 1886. The Hygiene of the Vocal Organs Morrell Mackenzie, M.D. London, 1886. How to Sing Wm. Henry Daniell New York, 1887. The Art of Breathing as the Basis for Tone Production Leo Kofler New York, 1887. The Voice. How to Train It Edward Barrett Warman Boston, 1890. Scientific Voice. Artistic Singing and Effective Singing Thomas Chater London, 1890. Voice Figures Mrs. Margaret Watts Hughes London, 1891. The Human Voice; Its Cultivation W.H. Griffiths London, 1892. The Philosophy of Singing Clara Kathleen Rogers New York, 1893. The What and How of Vocal Culture F. Rowena Medini New York, 1893. Exercises in Vocal Technique John Franklin Botume Boston, 1894. Text-Book on the Natural Use of the Voice George E. Thorp and William Nicholl London, 1895. Respiration for Advanced Singers John Franklin Botume Boston, 1897. Voice Building and Tone Placing Henry Holbrook Curtis, M.D. New York, 1896. Twenty Lessons on the Development of the Voice George E. Thorp London, 1896. Voxometric Revelation (The Problem Surrounding the Production of the Human Voice Finally Discovered) Alfred Augustus North London, 1896. The Art of Singing Wm. Shakespeare London and Boston, 1898. The Rightly-Produced Voice Edward Davidson Palmer London, 1898. How to Train Children's Voices T. Maskell Hardy London, 1899. How to Sing (Meine Gesangskunst) Lilli Lehmann New York, 1902. Scientific Tone Production Mary Ingles James Boston, 1903. English Diction for Singers and Speakers Louis Arthur Russell Boston, 1905. The Training of Boys' Voices Clarke Ellsworth Johnson Boston, 1906. Voice Production in Singing and Speaking Wesley Mills, M.D. Philadelphia, 1906. The Art of the Singer W.J. Henderson New York, 1906. The Commonplaces of Vocal Art Louis Arthur Russell Boston, 1907. The Singing of the Future David Ffrangcon-Davies London, 1908. The Art of Singing and Vocal Declamation Sir Charles Santley London, 1908. INDEX ABDOMINAL BREATHING, employed by Martel, 4, 26; lateral, 3. (See also _Chest-abdominal breathing_ and _Lateral abdominal breathing_.) ACOUSTICS, 43; experiments in, 46-48; Pascal on, 49. ACTOR, enunciation of the, 19; importance of deep breathing for, 19. ADAM'S APPLE, the male larynx, 9. AGE to begin study of voice, 77. AH-sound, narrow limits of, 18; how produced, 22; Lilli Lehmann on, 19; place of, in practice, 57. AIR CAVITIES (see _Sinuses_). ANXIETY, a deterrent to beautiful singing, 85. APPLICATION OF ESSENTIALS, 79. APPUNN, on pitch of vowel sounds, 20. ARTICULATION, differing opinions concerning, 3; relation of, to resonance, 51; through upper lip, 72. (See also _Pronunciation_.) ARTICULATOR, 6. ARTISTRY, 79. ASCHAM, ROGER, on voice culture through imitation, 77. AW-sound, lip position for, 22; in exercises, 59, etc. BEAUTY OF TONE, a criterion of correct vocal action, 56. BELL, on pitch of vowel sounds, 20. BOOTH, EDWIN, as a good speaker, 16. BOOTH, JUNIUS BRUTUS, impairment of his voice, 53. BREATH CONTROL, 23-32; importance of, in both speaking and singing, 23; muscles of respiration in, 23; the diaphragm in, 23; muscles in, 24; the lungs in, 25; inspiration, 25; expiration, 25; correct method of, 25; a cure for nervousness, 27; necessity of exercises, 27; economy a factor in, 30; exaggerated, 30; initial use of, 31; exercises for, 33-37; of Farinelli, 37. BREATH FORCE, initial use of, 31; reserve, 31; wasted, 31. BREATH MASTERY, meaning of, 32. BREATHING, art of, 3; an amplification of the daily habit, 5; defined as singing, 23; correct, 25, 28; not differing in sex, 26; vicious habits of, 26; controlling deeply, 26; tests of, 26; nose versus mouth, 26; regularity of, 26; in obtaining power and largeness of tone, 27; for high tones, 27; relation of, to nervousness, 27; rhythmic, 27; necessity of exercises, 27; illustrations of, 28, 29; exercises in, 33-37; economy in, 30; tests in, by Professor Mills, 30; exaggerated control of, 30; exhaustion, 31; initial force in, 31; reserve power in, 31; mastery of, 32. (See also _Abdominal breathing_.) BROSCHI, DON CARLO, breath control of, 36. BROWNE, DR. LENNOX, on the laryngoscope, 3. BROWNE and BEHNKE, on nasal resonance, 53. CHEST, expansion of and resonance, 49. CHEST-ABDOMINAL BREATHING, 25; illustrated in sleeping child, 25; tests in, 26; illustrated, 28, 29. CHEST TONES, former emphasis given to, 2; wrongly termed, 5. CLAY, HENRY, as a good speaker, 16. CLOSED TONES, former emphasis given to, 2; wrongly termed, 5. CRYER, DR. W.H., on the frontal sinus, 12. CULTURE OF THE VOICE (see _Voice culture_). DEEP BREATHING, importance of, for the actor, 19. (See also _Breathing_.) DETERRENTS TO BEAUTIFUL SINGING, 84, 85. DIAPHRAGM, in breathing, 19; not a muscle of expiration, 23; described, 23, 24; in inspiration, 24; in expiration, 24; illustrated, 24, 29. DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SINGING AND SPEAKING, 17. EAR, function of, in tone production, 57; training of, 57. EE-sound, lip position for, 20; in exercises, 57, 59, etc. EFFORT, TENSE, a deterrent to beautiful singing, 84. EMOTION, effect on tone quality, 7; excess of, a deterrent to beautiful singing, 84. EMPIRICISTS, where they have failed, 4. EPIGLOTTIS, 10. ESSENTIALS, application of, 79. ETHMOID BONE, 8. ETHMOIDAL SINUSES, illustrated, 7; function of, 12. EVERETT, EDWARD, as a good speaker, 16. EXERCISES, BREATHING: necessity of, 27, 33; preliminary suggestions, 33, 34; attitude in taking, 34; I, to show what a deep breath is, 34; II, slow inhalation with sudden expulsion, 35; III, sipping the breath, with quick exhalation, 35; IV, for rib expansion, 35; V, slow inhalation with slow expiration, 36; VI, rapid inspiration with slow expiration, 36; VII, Farinelli's great exercise, 36; VIII, the cleansing breath, 37; half breath, 37. EXERCISES, VOCAL: I, to establish nasal and head resonance, 58-61; for speakers, 60, 61; II, to establish head and nasal resonance, 61; III, IV, V, upper resonance, 62-64; VI, to enlarge the throat and thus magnify the tone, 64; VII, for production of the vowel sounds in proper focus, 65; VIII, to enlarge the throat and focus the vowels, 66; IX, quick changing notes without changing resonance, 67; X, for agility, 67, 68; XI, to develop the use of the lips and under jaw, 68, 69; XII, for facility and quick vowel change, 69, 70; XIII, ascending and descending scale, 71; XIV, the long scale, 71; additional, 72, 73; repose as a preparation for, 80. EXPIRATION, muscles of, 23, 24; under controlled pressure, 24; described, 25; the lungs in, 25; illustrated, 28, 29. FACE, training muscles of, 15. FARINELLI, breath control of, 36. FFRANGCON-DAVIES, on pronunciation, 18; on registers, 39; on function of ear in voice training, 57; definition of singing of, 83. FOCUSING THE VOICE (see _Voice placing_). FORBES-ROBERTSON, on diction, 19. FORMES, CARL, voice of, in declining years, 4. FREEDOM IN SINGING, 84. FRONTAL SINUSES, function of, 12; illustration of, 7. GARCIA, MANUEL, inventor of laryngoscope, 2; use of laryngoscope, 2; Sir Charles Stanley on, 3. GOUNOD, on pronunciation, 19. HALF-BREATH, Sembrich and, 37. HARD PALATE, function of, 12. HARSHNESS, an indication of tension, 56. HEAD CAVITIES, a resonator for the voice, 6; effect of, on resonance, 12. HEAD TONES, in previous years, 2; wrongly termed, 5. HELMHOLTZ, on pitch of vowel sounds, 20; on acoustics, 43, 49. HENDERSON, W.J., on pronunciation, 18. HIGH TONES, breath control necessary for, 27. HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL, on Edward Everett's voice, 16. HYOID BONE, 8, 10. I-sound, described, 21. IMPATIENCE, a deterrent to beautiful singing, 84. INSPIRATION, muscles of, 23, 24; process of, described, 25; illustrated, 28, 29. (See also _Breath control_ and _Breathing_.) INSTRUMENT, MUSICAL, elements of, 43, 44. INTENSITY, INVOLVING STRAIN, a deterrent to beautiful singing, 84. KINDERGARTEN TEACHERS, instruction by, 78. KOENIG, on pitch of vowel sounds, 20. LARYNGOSCOPE, and registers, 2; Garcia the inventor of, 2; usefulness of, 2; limitations of, 3; disappointing results of, 38; not an instrument for the singer, 51. LARYNX, moving, 3; viewed through the laryngoscope, 3; illustrated, 7; description of, 8, 9; relation of size of, to pitch, 9; automatic action of, 38; not alone the vocal organ, 50; reflex action of, 51; force of tone does not originate in, 75; must be left uncramped, 75. LATERAL ABDOMINAL BREATHING, 3, 25, 28. LEHMANN, MADAME LILLI, on use of Ah, 19; on registers, 39; on nasal resonance, 54. LIFE'S PERIODS, 79. LIND, JENNY, effects of wrong methods on, 4. LIPS, in articulation, 14; position of, 20-22; illustrated, 21, 22. LUNGS, a motor for the voice, 6; illustrated, 24; described, 25; overcrowding, 31. MACKENZIE, DR. MORELL, on the laryngoscope, 3; on singing and speaking, 17. MACREADY, WM. CHARLES, as a good speaker, 16. MARTEL, voice of, at seventy, 4. MAXILLARY SINUSES, 7, 8, 12. MAY, DR., breathing tests made by, 26. MCKINLEY, M.S., on Garcia and the laryngoscope, 2. MENTAL DISCORD, a deterrent to beautiful singing, 84. MEYER, EDMUND J., on resonance, 43. MILLS, DR. WESLEY, on breath measure, 30; on ease of vocal action, 56; on the function of the ear in tone production, 57. MOTOR OF THE VOCAL INSTRUMENT, 6. MOUTH, theory of its function, 1; a resonator for the voice, 6. MUSCLES OF RESPIRATION, 23. MUSIC TEACHERS, scientific, 4; empirical, 4. NASAL CAVITIES, as reinforcing agents in tone production, 2; a resonator for the voice, 6; illustrated, 7; formation of, 8; vibrations in, 8; effect on resonance, 12; Edward Everett's use of, 16; as a resonator, 52, 53; obstruction of, in Booth, 53. NASAL RESONANCE, erroneous theories concerning, 1, 2; Madame Rudersdorff recognized effect of, 2; involved in head resonance, 52; versus nasal tone quality, 53; Lilli Lehmann on, 54; Sembrich's study of, 54; importance of, 54. NATURAL VOICE, what is meant by, 77. NERVOUSNESS, a cure for, 27, 80. NOSTRILS, relation of, to tone quality, 14. O-sound, lip position for, 20; illustrated, 21; in exercises, 59, etc. OO-sound, lip position for, 20, 21; in exercises, 59, etc. OPEN TONES, 2, 5. ORAL SURGERY, 2. ORATORIO, faulty diction in, 18. OVER-CONSCIENTIOUSNESS, a deterrent to beautiful singing, 84. OVERTONES, 45, 46. PERSONALITY, effect on the voice, 83. PHARYNX, function of, 10. PHILLIPS, ADELAIDE, voice of, in declining years, 4. PITCH OF TONE, influence of resonance cavities on, 12, 13. PLACING THE VOICE (see _Tone production_). POWER OF TONE, dependent on resonant cavities and breath control, 27. PRINCIPLES ADVOCATED, 5. PRONUNCIATION, indifference of American singers to, 17; W.J. Henderson on, 18; change of attitude toward, 18; importance of, to singer, 18; relation of, to tone, 18; Ffrangcon-Davies on, 18; sing words rather than tones, 18; Lilli Lehmann on, 19; emotional power impossible without, 19; Gounod on, 19; Forbes-Robertson on, 19; upper lip in, 19; effect of smile on, 19. PSYCHOLOGY OF VOCAL CULTURE, 82-85. PTERYGOID MUSCLES, and the under jaw, 10. PUBLIC SCHOOLS, voice training in, 78. REEVES, SIMS, voice of, 4. REGISTERS, 38-42; blending the, 2, 41; not a natural feature of the voice, 2; fallacy of theory of, 2; a myth, 5; the _bête noire_ of vocalists, 38; defined, 38; Clara Kathleen Rogers on, 38; Lilli Lehmann on, 39; Ffrangcon-Davies on, 39; of the organ, 40; of voice and instruments compared, 40, 41; an artificial creation, 41, 42. REPOSE, AS A PREPARATION FOR VOCAL EXERCISES, 80; how to induce, 80. RESONANCE, differing opinions concerning, 3; principle of, 5; nasal and head cavities in, 12; influence of resonance cavities on pitch, 12; pitch of vowels in, 20; and power, 27; and breath force, 31; in general, 43-50; development of science of, 43; quality and power of, 44; significance of, 45; experiments to demonstrate, 46-50; induced, 47; sympathetic, 47, 48; density of air and, 47; volume and character of tones dependent on, 49; head and nasal, 51-55; relation of articulation to, 51; focusing tone a matter of, 52; effect of its absence, 54; exercises to establish, 58-72. RESONATOR OF THE VOICE, 6. RESPIRATION (see _Breath control_ and _Breathing_). RESPIRATORY MUSCLES, a motor for the voice, 6; described, 23, 28; action of, 25; illustrated, 24, 29. ROGERS, CLARA KATHLEEN, on registers, 38. RUDERSDORFF, MADAME, and nasal resonance, 2. SANTLEY, SIR CHARLES, on Garcia and the laryngoscope, 3. SCALE OF VOWEL SOUNDS, 20, 72. SELF-REPRESSION, a deterrent to beautiful singing, 84. SEMBRICH, MARCELLA, and the half-breath, 37; use of nasal resonance, 54. SINGING, subtlety of, 4; obstacles to, 5, 74, 84; versus speaking, 5, 17; mission of singer, 18; defined as breathing, 23; age to begin, 77; in public schools, 78; by method, 79; vibrato in, 80; psychology of, 82-85; sublimated speech, 83; defined by Ffrangcon-Davies, 83; freedom in, 84; deterrents to, 84. SINUSES, illustrated, 7; pairs of, 8; function of, 12. SMILE, EFFECT OF, on pronunciation, 19. SOFT PALATE, office of, 11, 52. SPEAKING, obstacles to, 5; tones of, identical with singing tones, 5; difference from singing, 17; expression in, 83. SPEAKING VOICE, misunderstood, 16; connection with singing voice, 16; how cultivated, 16; identity with singing voice, 17; and pronunciation, 18, 19. SPHENOID BONE, 8. SPHENOIDAL SINUSES, illustrated, 7; pairs of, 8; function of, 12. STAGE ELOCUTION, criticism of Forbes-Robertson on, 19. TEETH, function of, in use of voice, 12. THROAT, theory of sound in, 1; a resonator, 6; illustrated, 7; relation to voice, 8. (See _Larynx_ and _Pharynx_.) THROAT STIFFNESS, most frequent obstacle to good singing, 74; effect on larynx, 74; difficulty in recognizing one's own, 74; throat consciousness a common cause of, 74; induced by lack of breath mastery, 75; American hurry begets, 75; voice culture a struggle with, 75; remedies for, 75, 76. TIMBRE OF VOICE, defined and explained, 7, 8. TONE, defined, 45; analyzed 45; experiments to determine composition and resonance of, 46-50; focusing of, 52; vocal, a mental concept, 82; whole man in, 83. TONE PRODUCTION, largely a matter of resonance, 56; effect of right thought on, 56; judged by naturalness and beauty of result, 56; function of the ear in governing, 57; cultivating normal, 57; exercises to aid in, 58-73; effect of throat stiffness on, 74; natural, 77; age to begin study of, 77. TONE QUALITY, variety in, 6; effect of emotion upon, 7, 75, 84; relation of pronunciation to, 18; how to secure purity of, 18, 19; experiments to determine, 46-50; and resonance, 5, 44, 45, 49, 50; cause of nasal, 52-54; beauty or harshness of, a criterion of judgment, 56, 57; effect of throat stiffness on, 74-76; dependent on mind and ear, 82; related to personality of singer, 83; natural and unnatural, 85. TONGUE, as an articulator, 6; illustrated, 7; connection with larynx, 9; position of, in speaking and singing, 13; tongue consciousness, 14. UNDER JAW, 10; in ascending the scale, 10. UPPER LIP, in pronunciation, 19; in practising, 68; in articulation, 72. UVULA, office of, 11. VENTRICLE IN THE LARYNX, 8. VIBRATO, 80, 81. VIBRATOR, of the voice, 6; of instruments, 43. VITALIZING TEXT WITH TONE, the singer's mission, 18. VOCAL CORDS, vibrator for the voice, 6; in the larynx, 8; described, 9; not the principal cause of tone, 44, 45, 49; necessity of free action of, 51. VOCAL INSTRUMENT, discussion of, 6-15; beauty and complexity of, 6; three elements of, 6, 7; illustrated, 7; relation of parts of, 8; larynx, 8, 9; vocal cords, 9; epiglottis, 10; pharynx, 10; under jaw, 10; soft palate, 11; hard palate and teeth, 12; nasal and head cavities, 12; tongue, 13; lips, 14; nostrils, 14; face, 15; defects in, 85. VOCAL TONE, an audible mental concept, 82. VOICE CULTURE, opinions concerning, 2; wrong methods of a generation ago, 3, 4; cannot be developed mechanically, 4; principles advocated, 5; the right way the easy way, 5; resonance an important factor of, 5, 43, 45, 50, 52, 54; should begin in childhood, 77; learned by imitation, 77; Roger Ascham on, 77, 78; in public schools, 78; artistry in, 78, 79; three periods of, 79; application of essentials of, 79; repose as a preparation for, 80; the vibrato in, 80; psychology of, 82-85; personality in, 83; freedom in, 84; deterrents in, 84, 85. VOICE PLACING, 51, 52, 56-73. VOICE TIMBRE, defined, 7, 8. VOWEL SOUNDS, 11, 18, 19; singer's scale of, 20, 72; each has its own pitch, 20; lip position for, 20-22; placing of, 52; exercises for practice, 58-73. WEBSTER, DANIEL, as a good speaker, 16. WHEATSTONE, on pitch of vowel sounds, 20. WILLIS, on pitch of vowel sounds, 20. THE MUSIC STUDENTS LIBRARY [Illustration: THE MUSIC STUDENTS LIBRARY] =A series of Educational Text-books suited to the requirements of the average student and covering every essential branch of musical instruction.= _Note_:--Unless otherwise specified, books are bound in cloth. PIANO =Burrowes' Piano Primer.= Frederic Field Bullard, Editor. An enlarged edition with pronouncing dictionary. _Paper_ 75 A =Ears, Brain and Fingers.= Howard Wells. 1 25 A =Half Hour Lessons in Music.= Mrs. Hermann Kotzschmar. Class work for beginners. Practical for teachers and mothers. Illus. 1 25 A =Interpretation of Piano music.= Mary Venable. 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Outlines the various schools from all nations with a rich series of programs and over one hundred portraits. 2 00 A =Some Essentials in Musical Definitions.= M.F. MacConnell. Covers the needed information on all points connected with musical theory, and therefore of special value to piano, singing, violin, and organ students. 1 25 A [Illustration] THE MUSICIANS LIBRARY =This notable series has been planned to embrace all the masterpieces of song and piano literature; to gather into superbly made volumes of uniform size and binding the best work of the best composers, edited by men of authority. Each volume is independent, complete in itself, and sold by itself.= Paper, Cloth Back, per Volume $2 50 A Cloth, Gilt, per Volume. 3 50 A PIANO VOLUMES =Bach Piano Album= Vol. I. Shorter Compositions. Edited by Dr. Ebenezer Prout. =Bach Piano Album= Vol. II. Larger Compositions. Edited by Dr. Ebenezer Prout. =Beethoven Piano Compositions= Vols. I and II. 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Bemberg to Franck. Vol. II. Georges to Widor. Edited by Philip Hale. =One Hundred English Folk-songs= Medium Voice. Edited by Cecil J. Sharp. =One Hundred Folk-Songs of all Nations.= Medium Voice. Edited by Granville Bantock. =One Hundred Songs by Ten Masters= High Voice. Low Voice. Edited by Henry T. Finck. Vol. I. Schubert, Schumann, Franz, Rubinstein and Jensen. Vol. II. Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Grieg, Wolf and Strauss. =One Hundred Songs of England= High Voice. Low Voice. Edited by Granville Bantock. =Seventy Scottish Songs= High Voice. Low Voice. Edited by Helen Hopekirk. =Sixty Folk-songs of France= Medium Voice. Edited by Julien Tiersot. =Sixty Irish Songs= High Voice. Low Voice. Edited by William Arms Fisher. =Sixty Patriotic Songs of All Nations= Medium Voice. Edited by Granville Bantock. =Songs by Thirty Americans= High Voice. Low Voice. Edited by Rupert Hughes. =Songs From the Operas for Soprano= Edited by H.E. Krehbiel. =Songs From the Operas for Mezzo Soprano= Edited by H.E. Krehbiel. =Songs From the Operas for Alto= Edited by H.E. Krehbiel. =Songs From the Operas for Tenor= Edited by H.E. Krehbiel. =Songs From the Operas for Baritone and Bass= Edited by H.E. Krehbiel. Other volumes are in preparation. Booklets, giving full particulars, with portraits of Editors, and contents of volumes published, FREE on request. 
19354	----	LESSONS IN MUSIC FORM A MANUAL OF ANALYSIS OF ALL THE STRUCTURAL FACTORS AND DESIGNS EMPLOYED IN MUSICAL COMPOSITION BY PERCY GOETSCHIUS, MUS. DOC. (Royal Württemberg Professor) AUTHOR OF THE MATERIAL USED IN MUSICAL COMPOSITION, THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF TONE-RELATIONS, THE HOMOPHONIC FORMS OF MUSICAL COMPOSITION, MODELS OF THE PRINCIPAL MUSIC FORMS, EXERCISES IN MELODY WRITING, APPLIED COUNTERPOINT, ETC. $1.50 BOSTON OLIVER DITSON COMPANY New York -------- Chicago CHAS. H. DITSON & CO. -------- LYON & HEALY COPYRIGHT. MCMIV, BY OLIVER DITSON COMPANY MADE IN U. S. A. [Transcriber's note: This book contains a few page references, e.g., "...on page 122". In such cases the target page number has been formatted between curly braces, e.g. "{122}", and inserted into this e-text in a location matching that page's physical location in the original book.] FOREWORD. The present manual treats of the structural designs of musical composition, not of the styles or species of music. Read our AFTERWORD. It undertakes the thorough explanation of each design or form, from the smallest to the largest; and such comparison as serves to demonstrate the principle of natural evolution, in the operation of which the entire system originates. This explanation--be it well understood--is conducted solely with a view to the _Analysis_ of musical works, and is not calculated to prepare the student for the application of form in practical composition. For the exhaustive exposition of the technical apparatus, the student must be referred to my "Homophonic Forms." The present aim is to enable the student to recognize and trace the mental process of the composer in executing his task; to define each factor of the structural design, and its relation to every other factor and to the whole; to determine thus the synthetic meaning of the work, and thereby to increase not only his own appreciation, interest, and enjoyment of the very real beauties of good music, but also his power to _interpret_, intelligently and adequately, the works that engage his attention. * * * * * * The choice of classic literature to which most frequent reference is made, and which the student is therefore expected to procure before beginning his lessons, includes:-- The Songs Without Words of Mendelssohn; the _Jugend Album_, Op. 68, of Schumann; the pianoforte sonatas of Mozart (Peters edition); the pianoforte sonatas of Beethoven. Besides these, incidental reference is made to the symphonies of Beethoven, the sonatas of Schubert, the mazurkas of Chopin, and other pianoforte compositions of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, Chopin, and Brahms. PERCY GOETSCHIUS. BOSTON, MASS., Sept., 1904. TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.--INTRODUCTION. THE NECESSITY OF FORM IN MUSIC THE EVIDENCES OF FORM IN MUSIC UNITY AND VARIETY CHAPTER II.--FUNDAMENTAL DETAILS. TIME TEMPO BEATS MEASURES RHYTHM MELODY CHAPTER III.--FIGURE AND MOTIVE. THE MELODIC FIGURE DEFINING THE FIGURES THE MELODIC MOTIVE, OR PHRASE-MEMBER PRELIMINARY TONES CHAPTER IV.--THE PHRASE. THE PHRASE LENGTH OF THE REGULAR PHRASE EXCEPTIONS CONTENTS OF THE PHRASE CHAPTER V.--CADENCES. CADENCES IN GENERAL MODIFICATION, OR DISGUISING OF THE CADENCE THE ELISION SPECIES OF CADENCE PERFECT CADENCE SEMICADENCE LOCATING THE CADENCES CHAPTER VI.--IRREGULAR PHRASES. CAUSES OF IRREGULARITY THE SMALL AND LARGE PHRASES THE PRINCIPLE OF EXTENSION INHERENT IRREGULARITY CHAPTER VII.--THE PERIOD-FORM. PHRASE-ADDITION THE PERIOD CHAPTER VIII.--ENLARGEMENT OF THE PERIOD-FORM. ENLARGEMENT BY REPETITION THE PHRASE-GROUP THE DOUBLE-PERIOD CHAPTER IX.--THE TWO-PART SONG-FORM. THE SONG-FORM, OR PART-FORM THE PARTS THE FIRST PART THE SECOND PART CHAPTER X.--THE THREE-PART SONG-FORM. DISTINCTION BETWEEN BIPARTITE AND TRIPARTITE FORMS PART I PART II PART III CHAPTER XI.--ENLARGEMENT OF THE THREE-PART SONG-FORM. REPETITION OF THE PARTS EXACT REPETITIONS MODIFIED REPETITIONS THE FIVE-PART FORM GROUP OF PARTS CHAPTER XII.--THE SONG-FORM WITH TRIO. THE PRINCIPAL SONG THE TRIO, OR SUBORDINATE SONG THE "DA CAPO" CHAPTER XIII.--THE FIRST RONDO-FORM. EVOLUTION THE RONDO-FORMS THE FIRST RONDO-FORM CHAPTER XIV.--THE SECOND RONDO-FORM. DETAILS CHAPTER XV.--THE THIRD RONDO-FORM. THE EXPOSITION THE MIDDLE DIVISION THE RECAPITULATION CHAPTER XVI.--THE SONATINE-FORM. CLASSIFICATION OF THE LARGER FORMS THE SONATINE-FORM CHAPTER XVII.--THE SONATA-ALLEGRO FORM. ORIGIN OF THE NAME THE SONATA-ALLEGRO FORM THE EXPOSITION THE DEVELOPMENT, OR MIDDLE DIVISION THE RECAPITULATION DISSOLUTION RELATION TO THE THREE-PART SONG-FORM CHAPTER XVIII.--IRREGULAR FORMS. CAUSES AUGMENTATION OF THE REGULAR FORM ABBREVIATION OF THE REGULAR FORM DISLOCATION OF THEMATIC MEMBERS MIXTURE OF CHARACTERISTIC TRAITS CHAPTER XIX.--APPLICATION OF THE FORMS. APPLICATION OF THE SEVERAL DESIGNS IN PRACTICAL COMPOSITION AFTERWORD LESSONS IN MUSIC FORM. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. THE NECESSITY OF FORM IN MUSIC.--So much uncertainty and diversity of opinion exists among music lovers of every grade concerning the presence of Form in musical composition, and the necessity of its presence there, that a few general principles are submitted at the outset of our studies, as a guide to individual reflection and judgment on the subject. Certain apparently defensible prejudices that prevail in the minds of even advanced musical critics against the idea of Form in music, originate in a very manifest mistake on the part of the "formalists" themselves, who (I refer to unimpassioned theorists and advocates of rigid old scholastic rules) place too narrow a construction upon Form, and define it with such rigor as to leave no margin whatever for the exercise of free fancy and emotional sway. Both the dreamer, with his indifference to (or downright scorn of) Form; and the pedant, with his narrow conception of it; as well as the ordinary music lover, with his endeavor to discover some less debatable view to adopt for his own everyday use,--need to be reminded _that Form in music means simply Order in music_. Thus interpreted, the necessity of form, that is, Order, in the execution of a musical design appears as obvious as are the laws of architecture to the builder, or the laws of creation to the astronomer or naturalist; for the absence of order, that is, Disorder, constitutes a condition which is regarded with abhorrence and dread by every rational mind. A musical composition, then, in which Order prevails; in which all the factors are chosen and treated in close keeping with their logical bearing upon each other and upon the whole; in which, in a word, there is no disorder of thought or technique,--is music with Form (_i.e._ good Form). A sensible arrangement of the various members of the composition (its figures, phrases, motives, and the like) will exhibit both agreement and contrast, both confirmation and opposition; for we measure things by comparison with both like and unlike. Our nature demands the evidence of _uniformity_, as that emphasizes the impressions, making them easier to grasp and enjoy; but our nature also craves a certain degree of _variety_, to counteract the monotony which must result from too persistent uniformity. When the elements of Unity and Variety are sensibly matched, evenly balanced, the form is good. On the other hand, a composition is formless, or faulty in form, when the component parts are jumbled together without regard to proportion and relation. Which of these two conditions is the more desirable, or necessary, would seem to be wholly self-evident. The error made by pedantic teachers is to demand _too much_ Form; to insist that a piece of music shall be a model of arithmetical adjustment. This is probably a graver error than apparent formlessness. Design and logic and unity there must surely be; but any _obtrusive_ evidence of mathematical calculation must degrade music to the level of a mere handicraft. * * * * * * Another and higher significance involved in the idea of Form, that goes to prove how indispensable it may be in truly good music, rests upon the opposition of Form to the material. There are two essentially different classes of music lovers:--the one class takes delight in the mere sound and jingle of the music; not looking for any higher purpose than this, they content themselves with the purely sensuous enjoyment that the sound material affords. To such listeners, a comparatively meaningless succession of tones and chords is sufficiently enjoyable, so long as each separate particle, each beat or measure, is euphonious in itself. The other class, more discriminating in its tastes, looks beneath this iridescent surface and strives to fathom the underlying _purpose_ of it all; not content with the testimony of the ear alone, such hearers enlist the higher, nobler powers of Reason, and no amount of pleasant sounds could compensate them for the absence of well-ordered parts and their logical justification. This second class is made up of those listeners who recognize in music an embodiment of artistic aims, an object of serious and refined enjoyment _that appeals to the emotions through the intelligence_,--not a plaything for the senses alone; and who believe that all music that would in this sense be truly artistic, must exhibit "Form" as the end, and "Material" only as a means to this end. * * * * * * Still another, and possibly the strongest argument of all for the necessity of form in music, is derived from reflection upon the peculiarly vague and intangible nature of its art-material--tone, sound. The words of a language (also sounds, it is true) have established meanings, so familiar and definite that they recall and re-awaken impressions of thought and action with a vividness but little short of the actual experience. Tones, on the contrary, are not and cannot be associated with any _definite_ ideas or impressions; they are as impalpable as they are transient, and, taken separately, leave no lasting trace. Therefore, whatever stability and palpability a musical composition is to acquire, _must be derived from its form, or design_, and not from its totally unsubstantial material. It must fall back upon the network traced by the disposition of its points and lines upon the musical canvas; for this it is that constitutes its real and palpable contents. THE EVIDENCES OF FORM IN MUSIC.--The presence of form in music is manifested, first of all, by the disposition of tones and chords in symmetrical measures, and by the numerous methods of tone arrangement which create and define the element of Rhythm,--the distinction of short and long time-values, and of accented and unaccented (that is, heavy and light) pulses. This is not what is commonly supposed to constitute form in music, but it is the fundamental condition out of which an orderly system of form may be developed. As well might the carpenter or architect venture to dispense with scale, compass and square in their constructive labors, as that the composer should neglect beat, measure and rhythm, in his effort to realize a well-developed and intelligible design in the whole, or any part, of his composition. The beats and measures and phrases are the barley-corn, inch and ell of the musical draughtsman, and without these units of measurement and proportion, neither the vital condition of Symmetry nor the equally important condition of well-regulated Contrast could be clearly established. The _beat_ is the unit of measurement in music. The _measure_ is a group of beats,--two, three, four, or more, at the option of the composer. The bounds of the measures are visibly represented (on the written or printed page) by vertical lines, called bars; and are rendered orally recognizable (to the hearer who does not see the page) by a more or less delicate emphasis, imparted--by some means or other--to the _first_ pulse or beat of each measure, as accent, simply to mark where each new group begins. Those who play or sing can imagine how vague, and even chaotic, a page of music would look if these vertical bars were omitted; and how much more difficult it would be to read than when these (not only accustomed, but truly necessary) landmarks are present. Precisely the same unintelligible impression must be, and is, conveyed to the hearer when _his_ landmarks, the accents, are not indicated with sufficient emphasis or clearness to render him sensible of the beginning of each new measure. * * * * * * The same primary system of measurement and association which is employed in enlarging the beats to measures, is then applied to the association of the measures themselves in the next larger units of musical structure, the Motive, Phrase, Period, and so forth. Unlike the measures, which are defined by the accents at their _beginning_, these larger factors of form are defined chiefly at their _end_, by the impression of occasional periodic interruption, exactly analogous to the pauses at the end of poetic lines, or at the commas, semicolons and the like, in a prose paragraph. These interruptions of the musical current, called Cadences, are generally so well defined that even the more superficial listener is made aware of a division of the musical pattern into its sections and parts, each one of which closes as recognizably (though not as irrevocably) as the very last sentence of the piece. Cadences serve the same purpose in music, then, as do the punctuation marks in rhetoric; and an idea of the senselessness and confusion of a musical composition, if left devoid of cadences in sufficient number and force, may be gleaned from an experimental test of the effect of a page of prose, read with persistent disregard of its commas, colons, and other marks of "cadence." * * * * * * Another evidence of Form in music, that is at once subtle and powerful, rests upon what might be termed the _linear_ quality of melody. The famous old definition of a line as a "succession of points," tallies so accurately with that of melody (as a "succession of single tones"), that it is not only proper, but peculiarly forceful, to speak of melodies as _tone-lines_. Our conception of a melody or tune, our ability to recognize and reproduce it, depends far more upon its undulations, its rising, falling, or resting level, than upon its rhythmic features (the varying lengths of its tones). These movements trace a resonant line before our mind's eye as surely, though perhaps not as distinctly, as the pencil of the artist traces the lines of an image upon the paper; and this process is going on constantly, from beginning to end, in every piece of music. In a portrait it describes the contours of face and figure,--in a word, the _Form_; in the musical composition it fulfils, to a great extent, the self-same mission, that of defining the Form. One clear, predominating tone-line traces the "air" or tune of the piece; and this is often the only line that arrests the hearer's attention; but there are other tone-lines, less prominent and less extended and coherent, gliding along harmoniously beside the Melody proper, which (something like the shading in a picture) contribute to the richness of the design, and perform their share in proving and illuminating the Form of the whole. This is most salient in music for orchestra, where each player describes an individual tone-line, rendered all the more distinct and recognizable by the specific "color" of his instrument; and that is the chief, perhaps the sole, reason why the orchestra is esteemed the most complete and perfect medium of musical expression. UNITY AND VARIETY.--As much as opinions and beliefs may differ, among music critics, as to the necessity of Form in music, and the conditions of its existence, no reasonable objection can be taken to the hypothesis that _Clearness and Attractiveness_ are the two vital requisites upon which the enjoyment of any art depends. The artist's utterances or creations must be intelligible, and they must be interesting. The lack, partial or total, of either of these qualities neutralizes the force of the intended impression, in precise proportion to the default. In musical composition these two requisites are embodied in the principles of Unity and Variety. _Unity_--in its various technical phases of Uniformity, Regularity, Similarity, Equality, Agreement, or whatever other synonym we may find it convenient to use--is the condition out of which the composer must secure intelligibility, clearness, definiteness of expression. Glance at Ex. 2, and note the evidences of unity (similarity) in the rhythmic and melodic formation of the first four measures. _Variety_--in its most comprehensive application--is the medium he must employ to arouse and sustain the hearer's interest. Glance again at Ex. 2, and note the contrast between the two halves of the first four measures, and between these and the following two measures. These conditions are, of course, squarely opposed to each other, though their interaction is reciprocal rather than antagonistic; and, from what has been said, it is obvious that they are of equal importance. Hence, as was declared on the second page, the great problem of the art-creator consists in so balancing their operations that neither may encroach upon the domain of the other. For too constant and palpable Unity will inevitably paralyze interest; while too much Variety will as surely tend to obscure the distinctness of the design. * * * * * * The workings of the principle of Unity (to which attention must first be given, because it appears to come first in the order of creation) are shown in the following elementary details of composition:-- (1) Music is not an art that deals with space, but with Time; therefore the units of its metrical structure are not inches and the like, but divisions of time, the basis of which is the _beat_. The principle of Unity dictates that the beats which are associated in one and the same musical sentence shall be of equal duration. Every musician admits the necessity of keeping "strict time"--that is, marking the beats in regular, equal pulses. The sub-divisions of the beats (for example, the eighth or sixteenth notes within a beat) must also be symmetric. So imperative is this law that it generally prevails through the entire piece, with only such temporary elongations or contractions (marked _ritardando_ or _accelerando_) as may be introduced for oratorical effects. (2) The beats are grouped in _measures_ of uniform duration; that is, containing equal numbers of beats. (3) The natural _accent_ falls upon the corresponding beat, namely, the first, of each measure; therefore it recurs regularly, at uniform intervals of time. (4) The _melodic contents_ of the first measure, or measures, are copied (more or less literally) in the next measure, or measures; and are encountered again and again in the later course of the piece, thus insuring a fairly uniform melodic impression from which the character and identity of the composition are derived. Turn to the 8th Song Without Words of Mendelssohn, and observe how insistently the figure [Illustration: first fragment of 8th Song] and its inversion [Illustration: second fragment of 8th Song] run through the whole number. (5) The specific figure of the _accompaniment_ is usually reproduced from measure to measure (or group to group) throughout whole sections of the piece. Observe, in the 37th Song Without Words, how constantly the ascending figure of six tones recurs in the lower part (left hand). Glance also at No. 30; No. 1; No. 25. Many other evidences of Unity are invariably present in good music, so naturally and self-evidently that they almost escape our notice. Some of these are left to the student's discernment; others will engage our joint attention in due time. * * * * * * In every one of these manifestations of unity there lies the germ of the principle of Variety, which quickens into life with the action of the former, always following, as offspring and consequence of the primary unity. Thus:-- (1) The _beats_, though uniform in duration, differ from each other in force. The first pulse in each measure (or metric group of any size) is heavier, stronger, than the following. It--the first--is the "impulse," and is what is called the accent. This dynamic distinction it is that gives rise to the two fundamental classes of rhythm, the duple and triple. In duple rhythm the accent is followed by one unaccented or lighter beat, so that regular alternation of heavy and light pulses prevails incessantly. In triple rhythm the accent is followed by _two_ lighter beats, creating similarly constant, but _irregular_ alternation of heavy and light pulses. [Illustration: Duple and Triple Rhythm] This distinction is so significant and so striking, that the music lover who is eager to gain the first clues to the structural purpose of a composition, should endeavor to recognize which one of these two rhythmic species underlies the movement to which he is listening. It is fairly certain to be one or the other continuously. Of duple measure, the march and polka are familiar examples; of triple measure, the waltz and mazurka. The "regularity" of the former rhythm imparts a certain stability and squareness to the entire piece, while triple rhythm is more graceful and circular in effect. (2) The same dynamic distinction applies also to whole _measures_, and (3) to _accents_. The first of two successive measures, or of two or more accents, is always a trifle heavier than the other. (4) The _melodic contents_ of the first measure may be exactly reproduced in the succeeding measure; but if this is the case, they are very unlikely to appear still again in the next (third) measure, for that would exaggerate the condition of Unity and create the effect of monotony. [Illustration: Example 1. Fragment of Folk-song.] The measure marked _b_ is exactly like _a_. But _c_ is all the more contrasting, on account of this similarity. Or, the melodic contents of a measure may be thus reproduced, as far as the rhythm and direction of the tones are concerned, but--for variety--they may be shifted to a higher or lower place upon the staff, or may be otherwise modified. [Illustration: Example 2. Fragment of Beethoven.] Compare the groups marked _a_ and _b_, and observe how the principles of unity and variety are both active in these four measures, and how their effect is heightened by the formation of _c_. (5) The figures of the accompaniment, though reproduced in uniform rhythmic values and melodic direction, undergo constant modifications in pitch and in shape, similar, to those shown in Ex. 2. See, again, No. 37 of the Songs Without Words and note the changes in the formation of the otherwise uniform six-tone groups. LESSON 1.--The student is to study this chapter thoroughly, and write answers to the following questions; if possible, without reference to the text:-- 1. What does Form in music mean? 2. Define the conditions which constitute good form. 3. When is a composition faulty in form? 4. What do discriminating listeners recognize in music? 5. What is the difference between the sounds of music and those of language? 6. How does this prove the necessity of form? 7. By what is the presence of form in music shown? 8. What is the beat? 9. What is the measure? 10. By what means are the measures indicated, (1) to the reader; (2) to the listener? 11. To what does the further multiplication of the beats give rise? 12. What are cadences? 13. What purpose do they serve in music? 14. What is the best general name for a melody? 15. What object does it fulfil in music form? 16. What are the two vital requisites upon which the enjoyment of an art creation depends? 17. What purpose does Unity serve? 18. What purpose does Variety serve? 19. What is the great problem of the art-creator? 20. Define the conditions that confirm the principle of unity in music. 21. Define the evidences of variety in music. CHAPTER II. FUNDAMENTAL DETAILS. TIME.--Time is the same thing in music that it is everywhere else in nature. It is what passes while a piece of music is being played, sung, or read. It is like the area of the surface upon which the musical structure is to be erected, and which is measured or divided into so many units for this, so many for that, so many for the other portion of the musical Form. Time is that quantity which admits of the necessary reduction to units (like the feet and inches of a yardstick), whereby a System of Measurement is established that shall determine the various lengths of the tones, define their rhythmic conditions, and govern the co-operation of several melodies sung or played together. Time is the canvas upon which the musical images are drawn--in melodic _lines_. TEMPO.--This refers to the degree of motion. The musical picture is not constant, but panoramic; we never hear a piece of music all at once, but as a panorama of successive sounds. Tempo refers to the rate of speed with which the scroll passes before our minds. Thus we speak of rapid tempo (_allegro_, and the like), or slow tempo (_adagio_), and so forth. BEATS.--The beats are the units in our System of Measurement,--as it were, the inches upon our yardstick of time; they are the particles of time that we mark when we "count," or that the conductor marks with the "beats" of his baton. Broadly speaking, the ordinary beat (in moderate tempo) is about equivalent to a second of time; to less or more than this, of course, in rapid or slow tempo. Most commonly, the beat is represented in written music by the quarter-note, as in 2-4, 3-4, 4-4, 6-4 measure. But the composer is at liberty to adopt any value he pleases (8th, 16th, half-note) as beat. In the first study in Clementi's "Gradus ad Parnassum," the time-signature is 3-1, the whole note as beat; in the 8th Sung Without Words it is 6-16, the sixteenth note as beat; in the last pianoforte sonata of Beethoven (op. 111), last movement, the time-signatures are 9-16, 6-16, and 12-32, the latter being, probably, the smallest beat ever chosen. MEASURES.--A measure is a group of beats. The beats are added together, in measures, to obtain a larger unit of time, because larger divisions are more convenient for longer periods; just as we prefer to indicate the dimensions of a house, or farm, in feet or rods, rather than in inches. Measures differ considerably in extent in various compositions, inasmuch as the number of beats enclosed between the vertical bars may be, and is, determined quite arbitrarily. What is known as a Simple measure contains either the two beats (heavy-light) of the fundamental duple group, or the three beats (heavy-light-light) of the triple group, shown in the preceding chapter. Compound measures are such as contain more than two or three beats, and they must always be multiplications, or groups, of a Simple measure; for whether so small as to comprise only the fundamental groups of two or three beats (as in 2-4, 3-8, 3-4 measure), or so large as to embrace as many as twelve beats or more (as in 4-4, 6-4, 6-8, 9-8, 12-8 measure), the measure represents, practically, either the duple or triple species, Simple or Compound. Thus, a measure of four beats, sometimes called (needlessly) quadruple rhythm, is merely twice two beats; the species is actually _duple_; the alternation of heavy and light pulses is regular; and therefore the third beat is again an accent, as well as the first, though _less heavy_. A measure of 6-8 is triple species, with accents at beats one and four, precisely as if an additional vertical bar were inserted after the third beat. In a word, then, the size of the adopted measure is of no consequence, as long as it is retained uniformly through the section to which it belongs; and there is no _real_ difference between 2-4 and 4-4 measure, excepting in the number of bars used. A curious and rare exception to this rule of the compound measure occurs when five or seven beats are grouped together. This involves a mingling of the duple and triple species, and, consequently, an irregular disposition of the accents; for instance, 5-4 measure is either 3+2 or 2+3 beats, with corresponding accentuation: [Illustration: Beat accentuation] RHYTHM.--This word signifies arrangement,--a principle applied, in music, to the distribution or arrangement of the tones according to their various _time-values_. The system of measurement (or metric system) furnishes tone material with all the details of division, proportion and comparison; but this, alone, is not rhythm. The metric system affords the basis for rational and definable rhythm, but "rhythm" itself does not enter into the proposition until differentiated factors are associated and opposed to each other. [Illustration: Example 3. Rhythm.] The first measure of this hymn is, by itself, merely an exponent of the metric principle, for it consists of three uniform quarter-notes. The second measure, however, is a rhythmic one, because, by dotting the first of the three beats, three different time-values are obtained (dotted quarter, eighth, and quarter). Further, by association and comparison with each other, both measures assume a collective rhythmic significance. The rhythmic disposition of the tones is to a certain extent optional with the composer, but by no means wholly so; the rules of rhythm are probably the most definite and obvious of all the rules of music writing. They do not concern the analytical student intimately, but at least the general distinction between regular and irregular rhythm should be understood:--We have seen that the natural accent (the "heavy" pulse) is invariably represented by the first beat of a rhythmic group; and that one or two lighter pulses intervene before the next accent appears. Further, it is self-evident that the rhythmic weight of a tone is proportionate to its length, or time-value; longer tones produce heavier, and shorter tones lighter, impressions. The deduction from these two facts is, then, that the rhythmic arrangement is _regular_ when the comparatively longer tones occupy the accented beats, or the accented fractions of the beats; and _irregular_ when shorter tones occupy the accents, or when longer tones are shifted to any comparatively lighter pulse of the measure or group. The rhythm of the second measure in Ex. 3 is regular, because the longest tone stands at the beginning of the measure, thus confirming (and, in fact, creating) the accent. The rhythm in Ex. 1 is also regular, throughout, the light eighth-notes occupying the light third beat, and the heavy dotted-quarter the heavy pulse (in the third measure). Ex. 2 is strikingly definite in rhythm, because the time-values are so greatly diversified; and the arrangement is regular. On the other hand, the following is an example of irregular rhythm: [Illustration: Example 4. Fragment of Beethoven.] The longer (heavier) tones are placed in the middle of the measure, between the beats; the tie at the end of measure 3 places the heavy note at the end, instead of the beginning, of the measure, and cancels the accent of the fourth measure. These irregular forms of rhythm are called syncopation. See also Ex. 6, second Phrase. MELODY.--Any succession of _single_ tones is a melody. If we strike the keys of the piano with two or more fingers of each hand simultaneously, we produce a body of tones, which--if they are so chosen that they blend harmoniously--is called a Chord; and a series of such chords is an illustration of what is known as Harmony. If, however, we play with one finger only, we produce a melody. The human voice, the flute, horn,--all instruments capable of emitting but one tone at a time,--produce melody. Melody constitutes, then, a _line of tones_. If, as we have said, Time is the canvas upon which the musical images are thrown, Melodies are the lines which trace the design or form of these images. This indicates the extreme importance of the melodic idea in music form. Without such "tone-lines" the effect would be similar to that of daubs or masses of color without a drawing, without the evidence of contour and shape. A _good_ melody, that is, a melody that appeals to the intelligent music lover as tuneful, pleasing, and intelligible, is one in which, first of all, each successive tone and each successive group of tones stands in a rational harmonic relation to the one before it, and even, usually, to several preceding tones or groups. In other words, the tones are not arranged haphazard, but with reference to their harmonious agreement with each other. For a model of good melody, examine the very first sentence in the book of Beethoven's pianoforte sonatas:-- [Illustration: Example 5. Fragment of Beethoven.] The tones bracketed _a_, if struck all together, unite and blend in one harmonious body, so complete is the harmonic agreement of each succeeding tone with its fellows; the same is true of the group marked _c_. The tones bracketed _b_ and _d_ do not admit of being struck simultaneously, it is true, but they are all parts of the same key (F minor), and are closely and smoothly connected; hence their concurrence, though not one of harmony (chord), is one of intimate tone relation and proximity. Further, the whole group marked 2 corresponds in its linear formation, its rising, poising and curling, exactly to the preceding group, marked 1. This, then, is a _good_ melody,--tuneful, interesting, intelligible, striking and absolutely definite. In the second place, the tones and groups in a good melody are measured with reference to harmony of time-values; that is, their metric condition, and their rhythmic arrangement, corroborate the natural laws already defined:--uniformity of fundamental pulse, uniform recurrence of accent, and sufficient regularity of rhythmic figure to insure a distinct and comprehensible total impression. This also may be verified in the time-values of Ex. 5. Scrutinize also, the melodic and rhythmic conditions of Exs. 1 and 2,--and the examples on later pages,--and endeavor to vindicate their classification as "good" melodies. Ex. 4, though an exposition of irregular rhythm, is none the less excellent on that account; on the contrary, this irregularity, because wisely balanced by sufficient evidence of harmonious and logical agreement, only heightens the beauty and effectiveness of the melody. * * * * * * Whenever whole bodies of tone are played successively, a number of melody lines are being described,--as many, in fact, as there are tones in each body. For example, in playing a hymn-tune we describe (on the keyboard) the four separate melodies known as the soprano, alto, tenor and bass voices. In a duet, unaccompanied, there are two melodic lines; if accompanied, other melodic lines are added to these. Thus we recognize the same system of associated lines in music as in architecture or drawing. Very rarely indeed does one single unbroken line portray a complete image. But in music, as in drawing, the lines differ in their degrees of importance and prominence; and, very commonly, one line over-shadows all, or nearly all the rest. This strongest tone-line is therefore apt to be designated, somewhat unfairly, _the_ melody (the "tune" or "air" is more just). But, at all events, _this predominating melodic line is the most important factor of the form, the one upon which the definition and recognition of the "form" depend_; and it is therefore necessary that the student learn to distinguish it, to acquire the habit of centring his attention upon it,--in reading, listening to, or analyzing music; and, in playing, to give it the emphasis it requires. The importance of a tone-line depends solely upon its conspicuousness. The principal melody--_the_ Melody--is the one which is most salient, which most attracts the hearer's attention. For this reason the composer is induced to place his chief melody _above the rest of the tone-lines, because the uppermost tone strikes the ear more acutely than the lower ones_, and therefore the succession of highest tones constitutes a conspicuous line that attracts and impresses the sense most keenly. Here then, at the top of the harmonic tone-complex, we look for the chief melody; and here it will be found,--excepting when arbitrary emphasis (by accentuation) is imparted to some lower tone-line, so that it, for the time being, assumes a prominence equal, or superior, to that of the uppermost line. (This divided prominence is seen in the 18th Song Without Words--the _duet_.) LESSON 2.--Write careful and complete answers to the following questions:-- 1. What is Time, as applied to music? 2. What is _tempo_? 3. Give a full definition of the beat. 4. By what time-value is it most commonly indicated? 5. Give a full definition of the measure. 6. Why do measures differ in size? 7. What is a simple measure? 8. What is a compound measure? 9. Define duple and triple rhythms. (See also Chap. I.) 10. What does the term rhythm signify? 11. How is it applied in music? 12. When is the rhythm regular? 13. When is the rhythm irregular? 14. Define the difference between melody and harmony. 15. Give a full definition of melody. 16. What are the conditions of a good melody? 17. In what respect does music resemble architecture or drawing? 18. Are the tone-lines in a composition of equal importance? 19. What significance is to be attached to the principal tone-line? 20. Upon what does the importance of a tone-line depend? 21. Where is the chief melody usually placed? CHAPTER III. FIGURE AND MOTIVE. THE MELODIC FIGURE.--The smallest unit in musical composition is the single tone. The smallest cluster of successive tones (from two to four or five in number) that will convey a definite musical impression, as miniature musical idea, is called a Figure. Assuming the single tone to represent the same unit of expression as a letter of the alphabet, the melodic figure would be defined as the equivalent of a complete (small) word;--pursuing the comparison further, a series of figures constitutes the melodic Motive, equivalent to the smallest group of words (a subject with its article and adjective, for example); and two or three motives make a Phrase, equivalent to the complete, though comparatively brief, sentence (subject, predicate, and object). This definition, amply illustrated in the following examples, serves also to point out the significant resemblance between the structure of language and of music. The principal melody is, as it were, the voice of the speaker, whose message is framed wholly out of the primary tones, or letters of the musical alphabet. The association of primary tone-units, in successive order, results first in the figure, then in the motive, then the phrase, period, and so forth, in the manner of natural growth, till the narrative is ended. The following example, though extending beyond our present point of observation, is given as an illustration of this accumulative process (up to the so-called Period):-- [Illustration: Example 6. Fragment of Beethoven.] [Illustration: Example 6 continued.] The tones bracketed _a_ are the Figures; two (in the last measures, three) of these are seen to form Motives; two of these motives make the Phrase; and the whole sentence, of two phrases, is a Period. See also Ex. 1 and Ex. 2, in which the formation of figures is very distinct. The pregnancy and significance of each of these tiny musical "words" (or figures, as we are to call them),--small and apparently imperfect as they are,--can best be tested by concentrating the attention upon each as if it stood alone upon the page; it is such vitality of the separate particles that invests a musical masterwork with its power and permanency of interest. * * * * * * DEFINING THE FIGURES.--It is not always easy to distinguish the figures in a melodic sentence. While they are unquestionably analogous to the words in speech, they are by no means as concrete, nor are they separated as distinctly, as the words upon a written or printed sheet. This is in keeping with the intangible quality of music, and the peculiar vagueness of its medium of expression; the quality which veils its intrinsic purport from the mass of music admirers, and lends it such exquisite and inexplicable charm to all hearers alike. In a word, it is not the common practice for a composer to cut up his melodic sentences into separately recognizable small particles, by distinctly marking each component _figure_. Here and there it is done, by way of contrast, or emphasis, or for a definite rhythmic effect,--as shown in Ex. 2 and Ex. 6. But more generally the figures are so closely interlinked that the whole sentence may impress the hearer as one coherent strain, with an occasional interruption. The very minute "breaks" between figures are often nearly or quite imperceptible; and in many cases it is possible to define the figures of a motive in various, equally plausible ways, simply because the "breaks" (which are of course surely present, and become more and more apparent between the larger members of a composition) are likely to be too inconsiderable among these, smallest factors of the melodic form. The following three guides may serve to indicate the extremities of the melodic figures:-- (1) A brief rest, or a longer tone, usually marks the end of a figure. This is fully illustrated in Ex. 6. See also Ex. 10, Ex. 12. (2) Similarity of formation (rhythm and melodic direction) almost invariably defines the mutually opposed, and therefore separable, divisions of the melody,--both small and large. For example (the figures are bracketed _a_):-- [Illustration: Example 7. Fragments of Czerny, Mendelssohn, and Schumann.] See also Ex. 1. The operation of this exceedingly important rule of "corresponding formation" (about which more will be said later on) is seen--on a larger scale--in Ex. 2, Ex. 5, and Ex. 6, where it defines the whole _motive_. (3) In default of more definite signs, the figures may be found to correspond to the metric groups (that is, in lengths of whole or half measures). Thus:-- [Illustration: Example 8. Fragments of Beethoven.] This example illustrates the interlinking of the figures, and suggests the difficulty that may be encountered in the effort to define melodic figures. The difficulty is probably greatest in melodies of a lyric character, where it is necessary to sustain the coherency of the sentence; for instance, in many of the Songs Without Words,--see No. 40, No. 22, and others, in which an entirely definite separation of the figures is well-nigh a hopeless task. For this reason,--that is, because the melodic divisions are so minute and vague between these smaller particles of the musical sentence,--it is advisable _to give no heed to any factor smaller than the "motive,"_ and to undertake the analysis of nothing less than the latter; for even the most scrupulous "phrasing," in the playing of a composition, must avoid the risk of incoherency almost certain to result from distinctly separating all the figures. The melodies in Ex. 8 should not betray the secret of their formation. THE MELODIC MOTIVE OR PHRASE-MEMBER.--This, as has already been stated, is a somewhat longer section, compounded of two or more figures. Being thus longer, the "breaks" or spaces between motives are generally more emphatic and recognizable than those between the figures, and therefore it is easier, as a rule, to define the extremities of motives. Melodic motives differ in length from one to four measures; by far the most common extent, however, is two measures, and the student will do wisely to accept this dimension and analyze accordingly, unless there is unmistakable evidence to the contrary. The indications are precisely the same as those illustrated in the preceding two examples as guides for the definition of figures. For example:-- [Illustration: Example 9. Fragments of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Mozart.] In the first of these examples the extent of the motives is proven by each of the three given guides: the rest, which marks the end of the first member; the similarity of melodic and rhythmic formation, which proclaims the beginning of the second member, parallel with that of the first; and the regular (two-measure) dimension. In Nos. 2 and 3 there are no rests between the motives, and the melodic formation differs; here it is the standard of two measures that defines the members. Ex. 3 is a two-measure motive. In Exs. 2, 5, and 6, the motives are all two measures in length. In the following:-- [Illustration: Example 10. Fragment of Beethoven.] one is tempted to call each _single_ measure a motive, because of the number of tones it contains, and the weight (length) of the final tone, which makes a much more emphatic interruption than commonly occurs between figures. And in the following, on the other hand:-- [Illustration: Example 11. Fragment of Beethoven.] the entire four-measure sentence is evidently one motive, for there is no recognizable indication of an interruption at any point. The same is true of the two melodies given in Ex. 8. The following illustrates an irregular (uneven) association of members:-- [Illustration: Example 12. Fragment of Mozart.] Here again, there may be a disposition to adopt the upper line of brackets, assigning a single measure to each motive. But both here, _and in Ex. 10_, the student is advised to adhere to the two-measure standard; he will avoid much needless confusion by so doing,--at least until he shall have so developed and sharpened his sense of melodic syntax that he can apprehend the finer shades of distinction in the "motion and repose" of a melody. Adopting the lower line of brackets, we discover successive members of unequal length, the first one containing two, the next one three measures. PRELIMINARY TONES.--It is a singularly effective and pregnant quality of the element of musical rhythm, that its operations are not bounded by the vertical bars which mark off the measures. That is to say, a rhythmic figure (and, in consequence, a melodic figure or motive) does not necessarily extend from bar to bar, but may run from the middle (or any other point) of one measure, to the middle (or corresponding point) of the next; precisely as prosodic rhythm comprises poetic feet which begin either with an accented or with an unaccented syllable. See Ex. 10. Hence the significant rule, _that a melodic member may begin at any part of a measure_, upon an accented or an unaccented beat, or upon any fraction of a beat. For example:-- [Illustration: Example 13. Fragments of Mendelssohn.] [Illustration: Example 13 continued. Fragments of Mendelssohn and Mozart.] In No. 1, the motive begins squarely with the measure, upon the accented beat. In No. 2, the same motive is enlarged by two tones at the outset, which locates its beginning upon the fourth 8th--the second half of the second beat. In No. 3 the motive begins upon an accented beat, but it is the lighter (secondary) accent of the 3d beat. The various conditions of unaccented beginnings in Nos. 4, 5 and 6 are easily recognizable. In No. 7 quite a large fraction of a measure precedes the first accent (at the beginning of the full measure). Examine, also, all the preceding examples, and note the different accented or unaccented locations of the first tone, in each figure and motive. When a figure or motive starts at the accented beat, it begins, so to speak, in the right place; _any tone or tones which precede the accent are merely preliminary or introductory tones_. While they are very desirable and necessary, in the fulfilment of certain purposes, they are not an _essential_ part of the motive; they appear to represent the ornamental rather than the stable element of the melodic sentence, and their employment is therefore a matter of option and taste rather than of absolute necessity. The accent indicates the point where the body of the motive begins; the accent is the point where the stake is driven; all that goes before is simply preparatory,--the changeable material which flutters about the fixed center. Therefore the preliminary tones do not indicate the _essential_ or actual beginning of the motive, but its apparent or conditional beginning only; or what might be called its _melodic_ beginning. For this reason, also, the actual "first measure" of a motive or phrase or sentence of any kind is always the first FULL measure,--the measure which contains the first primary accent; that is to say, the preliminary tone or tones do not count as first measure. For this reason, further, it is evident that preliminary tones are invariably to be regarded as borrowed from the final measure of the preceding motive or phrase; they must be accounted for in someway,--must derive their metric pulse from some group,--and as they cannot be a part of the first measure, they obviously form a borrowed portion of the (preceding) last measure. This will be better understood by reference to Ex. 14, No. 3; the two 16ths at the end of the 4th measure (preliminary tones of the following phrase) are borrowed from the _f_ which precedes,--the final tone of the first phrase, that would, but for this reduction, have been the full half-note necessary to complete the four measures (like the final _g_). Perhaps the most striking feature of this rule of preliminary tones is the absolute freedom of its application. It is _always_ wholly optional with the composer to begin his figure or motive at whatever part of the measure he may elect; at the accent or not; with or without preliminary tones; to borrow beats from the preceding ending or not, as his judgment or taste, or possibly some indirect requirement, may decide. So valid is this license, that it is by no means unusual to find consecutive members of the same phrase beginning at different points in the measure. This results, apparently, in motives of irregular, unsymmetric lengths; but no confusion is possible if the student will recollect and apply the rule that the objective point (the heart, so to speak) of each motive is the first primary accent it contains; counting from these points, all irregularities of melodic extent become purely accidental and harmless. For illustration (the preliminary tones are marked _a_):-- [Illustration: Example 14. Fragments of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn.] In No. 1, the first motive evidently ends with the longer tone, _g_-sharp. In No. 2, each one of the four motives differs from the others in length; the sum of them is, however, exactly 24 beats, or 8 measures; hence, each one is _actually_ a two-measure motive, counting from accent to accent. The upper numbers indicate the _actual, vital_ beginning of each motive. This very natural, and fairly common, inequality increases the difficulty of analysis somewhat. A knowledge of the principal chords, and familiarity with their manner of employment in composition, greatly facilitates the task, because the harmonic design furnishes in many cases the only unmistakable clue to the extremities of the melodic members. The difficulty finally vanishes only when the student has learned to appreciate the declamatory quality of all good melody, and can detect its inflections, its pauses; can _feel_ which (and how many) of its tones are coherent and inseparable, and where the points of repose interrupt the current, and thus divulge the sense of the melodic sentence. LESSON 3.--Analyze the third Song Without Words of Mendelssohn (A major, the so-called Hunting Song); first of all, locate the principal melody,--it is not always the uppermost line of tones; then divide this melody into its melodic motives, marking the "breaks" which separate each from the following one; the figures may be noted, also, but only mentally. No. 35 may also be analyzed in the same manner. CHAPTER IV. THE PHRASE. THE PHRASE.--It is not altogether easy to give a precise definition of the phrase. Like so many of the factors which enter into the composition of this most abstract, ideal, and intangible of the arts, the phrase demands considerable latitude of treatment, and will not readily submit to strict limitations or absolute technical conditions. Perhaps the most correct definition is, that the term phrase is equivalent to "sentence," and represents the smallest musical section that expresses a _complete_ idea; not necessarily wholly finished, and therefore independent of other adjoining phrases, but at least as complete _in itself_ as is an ordinary brief sentence in grammar, with its subject, predicate, and object. It should be sufficiently long to establish the sense of tonality, the consciousness of beginning, course, and ending, and should exhibit a certain (though limited) amount of palpable and satisfying melodic and harmonic contents. For this reason, the Phrase, and nothing smaller, should be regarded as the structural basis of musical form. The factors defined in the preceding chapter (the figure and motive) are, as a rule, decidedly less than is demanded of a complete phrase, which--as has been intimated--usually consists in the union of two (possibly more) motives,--just as the motive is compounded of figures, and the latter of single tones. In some, comparatively rare, cases the composer gives a phrase an independent place upon his page, as complete miniature sentence, not directly connected with other phrases. This may be seen, very plainly, at the beginning (the first four or five measures) of the Songs Without Words, Nos. 28, 41, 35, 3, 4, 16. Examine each, carefully, and the nature of the phrase in its most definite form will become apparent. Such independent phrases are most likely to be found, like the above, at the beginning or end of a larger composition, to which they are related indirectly, as isolated introduction, or postlude. Thus, the following complete phrase appears at the beginning of a song: [Illustration: Example 15. Fragment of Schubert.] Its division into two melodic motives, and the subdivision of these into figures, is plainly marked. When the phrase assumes such a conspicuous position, and is so complete and definite in its effect as the ones just seen, there is naturally no difficulty in recognizing and defining its extremities. But the task of phrase analysis is by no means always thus easy. LENGTH OF THE REGULAR PHRASE.--Fortunately for the work of analysis, there are certain established landmarks of forms, so conscientiously observed, and so firmly grounded in the practices of classic writing (because the necessary consequences of natural law), that it is generally practicable to fix fairly regular and plausible boundaries to the phrase, notwithstanding the freedom and elasticity which characterize the application of the syntactic principle in music. Therefore the student will find that a phrase, in the great majority of cases, covers exactly _four measures_, and will seldom be misled if he looks for the end of his phrase four measures beyond its beginning. This refers, be it understood, only to measures of average size (in the ordinary time denominations, 3-4, 4-4, 6-8 measure). If the measures are uncommonly large (9-8, 12-8), the phrase will probably cover no more than two of them; or, if small (2-4, or 3-4 in rapid tempo), the phrase may extend to the eighth measure. The operation of this four-measure rule is exhibited with striking regularity and persistence in the _Jugend Album_ of Schumann (op. 68); throughout its forty-three numbers there are probably no more than a half-dozen phrases whose length differs from this standard. For example: [Illustration: Example 16. Fragment of Schumann, Op. 68, No. 11.] It will be observed that the first (and also the third) of these phrases consists of two exactly similar two-measure motives. This seems to lend some confirmation to the idea of a two-measure phrase; but the student is warned against deviating from his four-measure standard, upon such evidence as this. Many instances will be found, like these, in which the impression of a complete phrase is not gained until the motive of two measures has been thus repeated; _the repetition is necessary_, in order to finish the sentence, and this proves that the two measures alone do not constitute the "complete idea" which we expect the phrase to represent. The same regularity of dimension will usually be found in all kinds of dance music; in technical exercises (for instance, the études of Czerny and others); and in all music of a simple or popular character. * * * * * * EXCEPTIONS.--In its ordinary, normal condition the phrase is a musical sentence four measures in length. But this rule has its necessary exceptions; necessary because, as we have learned, the principle of Variety is quite as vital as that of Unity or symmetry. The phrase is not always regular; by various means and for various reasons, it occasionally assumes an irregular form. When such irregular phrases are encountered (phrases of less or more than four measures) the student will best distinguish them by defining their extremities, their beginning and ending--as "beginning" and "ending," without reference to their length. This should not be attended with any serious difficulty; at least not to the observant student who reads his musical page thoughtfully, and attaches some meaning to the figures and motives of the melody; who endeavors to recognize the extent to which the successive tones appear to cling together (like the letters in a word) and constitute an unbroken melodic number,--and, in so doing, also recognizes the points where this continuity is broken, and a new number is announced. Much assistance may be derived from the fact--striking in its simplicity--that the ending of one phrase defines, at the same time, the beginning of the next, and _vice versa_. The locating of one, therefore, serves to locate the other. There is, usually, something sufficiently indicative about a "beginning," to render it noticeable to a careful observer, and the same is true of an "ending." This is illustrated in the following: [Illustration: Example 17. Fragments of Beethoven.] No. 1 is from the pianoforte sonata, op. 10, No. 3, second movement; see the original. This phrase exhibits an ending, unmistakably, in the _fifth_ measure, and not in the fourth. Its form is therefore irregular. In No. 2 (from the first pianoforte sonata), the first phrase ends with the fourth measure, obviously, for the evidence of a new "beginning" in the following measure is perfectly clear; the phrase is therefore regular. But the next phrase runs on to the _sixth_ measure from this point (the tenth from the beginning of the whole), because there is no earlier evidence of an "ending." Observe that the first phrase has a preliminary quarter-note, the second phrase none. Turning to Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words, the very first (introductory) phrase of No. 3 is five measures in length; the first one in No. 35 also contains five measures; the first one in No. 16, and in No. 9, contains three measures. The irregular phrase will be again considered (in a different aspect) in a later chapter. The recognition of these syntactic traits of the melodic sentence is of great moment to the player, for they constitute the information upon which conscious, intelligent, effective _phrasing_ depends; and without intelligent phrasing, without a clear exposition of the formation and arrangement of the members and phrases, full comprehension and adequate enjoyment of a musical composition is impossible. * * * * * * CONTENTS OF THE PHRASE.--The question may arise, what is it that makes a phrase,--the rhythm, harmony, or melody? Strictly speaking, all three; for music subsists in the ceaseless co-operation of these three primary elements of composition, and no phrase is wholly complete without the evidence of each and all. Generalizing the definitions already given, the function of each of these primary elements may be thus described: The element of harmony regulates the choice of the tones that are to sound together; the upright shafts of tone (chords) which determine the _body_, or framework, of the music. The element of melody regulates the choice of single tones, selected from the successive shafts of harmony, that are to form a connected line or strand of tones (in horizontal order, so to speak),--something like a chain or chains stretched from harmonic post to post, which describe the figure or _outline_ of the musical image. The element of rhythm gives the whole body its _life_,--regulates the choice of varying lengths, defining the infinitely varied "tapping" of the musical mechanism. It is evident, from this, that no vivid, satisfying musical impression can be created in the absence of any one of these essential elements. But, for all that, they are not of equal importance; and, in determining the extremities of the phrase (and of all other factors of musical structure), the melody takes precedence over harmony and rhythm. That is to say, that in his analysis of figures, motives, phrases, periods, and so forth, the student's attention should be centered upon the melody,--that chain of successive single tones which, as repeatedly stated, usually describes the _uppermost_ line of the harmonic and rhythmic body. That is the reason why the illustrations given in this book are so frequently limited to the melody alone; it is the pencil point which traces the design, describes the form, of the musical composition. LESSON 4.--Procure the _Jugend Album_, op. 68, of Schumann, and mark the phrases in Nos. 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 13, 18, 20, and others. In the given numbers the phrases are all regular,--four measures in length. Analyze in the same manner Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words, Nos. 27, 22 (first phrase, five measures), 48, 28, 35, and others; occasional irregularities may be encountered. Also Beethoven, pianoforte sonata; op. 14, No. 2, second movement (C major, _andante_); and op. 26, first movement. A few cautious experiments may also be made in analyzing any composition which the student may chance to be studying, especially if not too elaborate. The necessary safeguard consists in simply passing over every confusing point, limiting the analysis to those phrases that are self defining, for the present,--until greater experience and fuller information shall have been gained. CHAPTER V. CADENCES. CADENCES IN GENERAL.--A cadence is the ending of a phrase. Strictly speaking, every interruption or "break" between figures, and between all melodic members, is a cadence; but the term "cadence" is applied to nothing smaller than entire phrases. The cadence is the point of Repose which creates the necessary contrast with the condition of Action that prevails more or less constantly during the phrase; and the effect of this point of repose is, therefore, to separate one phrase from the next. The cadential effect is generally produced by two or three chords, the last one of which is called the cadence-chord, and stands, when the cadence is perfectly regular, upon an accented beat of the final measure. This, according to our definition of the phrase, will most commonly be the fourth measure. For example: [Illustration: Example 18. Fragment of Schumann.] The first chord in the fourth measure, on the accented beat, is the "cadence-chord"; but the preceding chord (and possibly the one before that, also) is naturally inseparable from the final one, and therefore the entire cadence would be defined technically as embracing both (or all three) of these chords. The effect of repose is obtained _by the length of the final chord_, which exceeds that of any other melody tone in the phrase; its time-value is a dotted quarter, because of the preliminary tone (_e_, before the first accent) which, in the original (op. 68, No. 28), precedes the next phrase in exactly the same manner. Illustrations of the regular cadence will be found, also, in Ex. 15 and Ex. 16; in the latter,--consisting as it does of four consecutive phrases, four cadences occur, distinctly marked by the _longer tone_ on the accented beat of each successive fourth measure. MODIFICATION OR DISGUISING OF THE CADENCE.--The most natural and characteristic indication of a cadence is the _longer tone_, seen in the examples to which reference has just been made; for a tone of greater length than its fellows is, in itself, the most conclusive evidence of a point of repose, as compared with the shorter tones in the course of the sentence, whose more prompt succession indicates the action of the phrase. (See Ex. 29.) From this the student is not to conclude that every long tone marks a cadence. The rhythmic design of a melody is obtained by a constant interchange of long and short tones, without direct reference to the cadence alone; and numerous examples will be found in which tones of equal, or even greater, length than the cadence-tone occur in the course of the phrase. We have already seen that the end of a motive, or even of a figure, may be marked by a longer tone, or its equivalent in rests; and have been taught to expect a cadence in the fourth measure only, as a rule. But the direct evidence of a cadence afforded by a longer tone is considered not only unnecessary, but in many cases distinctly undesirable. While cadences are indispensable, in music of clearly recognizable form, it is equally true that they must not be so emphatic as to check the current of melody and harmony too frequently or completely, or destroy the continuity and coherence of the members. And it is therefore an almost invariable practice, especially in music of a higher order, to modify and disguise the cadences by some means or other; that is, to diminish the weight of the characteristic "longer tone,"--to counteract, partially or entirely, the impression of actual cadential cessation, by continuing (instead of interrupting) the rhythmic pulse. This is so very common, and so confusing a device, that the effect of the various methods employed to conceal or disguise a cadence must be thoroughly understood. It is necessary to remember, always, the rule that governs the actual body of the phrase, and its possible preliminary tones; namely, that the vital, essential starting-point of a phrase (and other factors of musical form) is _the first primary accent_, the first beat of the first _full_ measure. The length of the phrase is reckoned from this point, and consequently, the cadence-chord is entitled to all the beats that remain, from its accent to the very end of the final measure. For example: [Illustration: Example 19. Fragment of Mozart.] In this case the cadence-chord is not modified or disguised in the least, but takes full advantage of the six beats that make the sum of the fourth measure. This important fact concerning the actual value of the cadence-chord remains unchanged, through all the licenses taken in disguising or (apparently) diminishing its value. Whatever means may be resorted to, in modifying the cadence, they do not alter the fact that _the cadence-chord is always entitled to this full sum of beats_; and these beats virtually represent the cadence-chord, either in its unchanged form (as in Ex. 19 and Ex. 16) or in any of the manifold disguised forms illustrated in the following examples. One of the simplest forms is shown in Ex. 15:--The cadence-chord, on the accented beat of the fourth measure, is entitled to the six beats contained in that final measure. One beat is borrowed for the preliminary tone of the next phrase (that does not appear in our example, but corresponds to the preliminary tone at the beginning); and three beats are represented by rests, which cancel the resonance of the melody-tone _g_, but do not actually negate the effect of the cadence-chord. In consequence of these two reductions, the time-value of the _cadence-tone_ is diminished to two beats, and the whole cadence assumes a lighter, less obstinate and stagnant character. Of the six beats belonging to the cadence-chord, four are occupied by the tones of the accompaniment, which thus serves to bridge over the measure of repose without destroying the impression of a cadence. The treatment of the cadence is similar to this in Ex. 18. In Ex. 17, No. 1, the cadence-chord falls, properly, upon the primary accent (first beat) of the final measure--in this instance the fifth measure, as we have learned. The six beats to which it is entitled are all occupied by the simple reiteration of the final melody tone, while the sense of "interruption" is imparted by the long rest in the lower parts. It is by thus sustaining the rhythmic pulse, during the measure allotted to the cadence-chord, that the desired dual impression,--that of cadential interruption without actual cessation,--is secured. It is like rounding off a corner that might otherwise be too angular or abrupt. * * * * * * The question naturally arises: What tones are chosen to provide material for this continuation of the rhythm? They are usually derived from the cadence-chord, or its auxiliary embellishments; and the methods employed may be classified as follows: (1) The rhythmic pulse is marked in the accompanying (subordinate) parts, as seen in Ex. 15, Ex. 18, and the following:-- [Illustration: Example 20. Fragment of Mendelssohn.] [Illustration: Example 20 continued.] The point of repose is marked by the longer melody tone _f_, on the accent of the fourth measure. The value of the cadence-chord is recorded, however, in the living tones of the accompanying figure, which here (as in almost every similar case in composition) continues its rhythmic movement undisturbed. (2) The cadence-chord, or, more properly, the _cadence-tone_ in the melody, is shifted to some later beat in the cadence measure. Thus: [Illustration: Example 21. Fragment of Mozart.] In this example there is in reality no irregularity, because the cadence-tone rests upon an _accented beat_ (the fourth, in 6-8 measure), and the conditions of a cadence are fulfilled by _any_ accent, primary or secondary, of the final measure. But it belongs, nevertheless, to this class of disguised cadences; for whatever results, thus, in abbreviating the value of the cadence-chord, lightens the effect of the cadence, and serves the desirable purpose so persistently pursued by all good writers. Further:-- [Illustration: Example 22. Fragment of Beethoven.] [Illustration: Example 22 continued. Fragments of Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Mozart.] Nos. 2 and 3 illustrate the method most commonly adopted in shifting the cadence-tone forward to a later beat; namely, by placing an embellishing tone (usually the upper or lower neighbor) of the cadence-tone upon the accented beat belonging properly to the latter. Nos. 4 and 5 are both extreme cases; the actual cadence-tone is shifted to the very end of the measure, so that the effect of cadential interruption is very vague and transient,--and will be quite lost unless the player is intelligent enough to emphasize, slightly, the phrasing (by making a distinct, though very brief, pause before attacking the following measure). See also Ex. 17, No. 2, the first phrase; here, again, the melody runs on (through tones which embellish the cadence-chord, _f-a-c_) to the last 8th-note of the fourth measure. (3) A certain--entirely optional--number of tones are borrowed from the value of the cadence-chord, as _preliminary tones_ of the following phrase. An illustration of this has already been seen in Ex. 14, No. 2 and No. 3. It is the employment of such preliminary tones, that, as thoroughly explained in Chapter III, creates a distinction between the _melodic_ beginning and the actual vital starting point of the phrase; or that gives the phrase an apparently shifted location in its measures. Further (the actual cadence-tone is marked):-- [Illustration: Example 23. Fragments of Beethoven and Mendelssohn.] [Illustration: Example 23 continued. Fragment of Mendelssohn.] No. 1 illustrates, again, the absence of preliminary tones in one phrase, and their presence in the next. In each of these examples (excepting, perhaps, No. 2) the cadence is so thoroughly disguised that there is little, if any, evidence left of the "point of repose." In No. 4, particularly, the cadence-measure is rhythmically the most active one in the phrase. And yet the presence of a genuine cadence at each of these places, marked *, is as certain and indisputable as in Ex. 19. The ear will accept a cadence upon the slightest evidence _in the right place_,--where a cadence is expected. See, also, Mozart pianoforte sonata No. 10 (in D major), first 12 measures; measure 8 is a _cadence-measure_. Here follow a few more examples which illustrate the most extreme application of this principle of borrowed tones,--a mode of treatment very common in the music of Mozart, Haydn, and, in fact, all classic writers:-- [Illustration: Example 24. Fragments of Mozart.] [Illustration: Example 24 continued. Fragment of Beethoven.] It is difficult to believe that in each of these cases the long array of 16th-notes should not constitute the actual beginning of the phrase, but are only preliminary; and yet this is the only correct view to take of it, and it is the view which will simplify all analysis, when thoroughly comprehended. It must be seen that the cluster of 16th-notes in the cadence-measure (of the preceding phrase) is _one-sixteenth short of a full measure_, and, therefore, it does not represent the first measure of the next phrase, because our inviolable rule is that the first measure of a phrase is its first _full_ measure. The above examples emphasize the correct manner of counting the measures; and they simply illustrate possible methods of _disguising the cadence_. In some cases it is difficult to determine whether the tones which thus disturb the "repose" of the cadence-measure belong to the cadence-chord (that is, to the _present_ phrase), or, as preliminary tones, to the following phrase. Upon careful scrutiny, however, it will be found possible to decide, by examining their melodic bearing, to which phrase they pertain. In Example 22, they are manifestly (even in No. 5) a part of the present phrase; in Example 23 and 24 they are as certainly preliminary to the phrase which follows. In the following example they seem to constitute an entirely independent little "interlude," without direct reference to either phrase: [Illustration: Example 25. Fragment of Mozart.] * * * * * * THE ELISION.--Finally, there are some (very rare) instances where the composer appears to yield to the seductive influence of such extensive preliminary groups as those seen in Example 24, and by setting aside the trifling discrepancy, permits the apparent preliminary tones to represent the _actual first measure of the next phrase_. This is easily accomplished, when, as in Example 24, No. 2, it is only one 16th-note short of a full measure. And although this 16th, being the cadence-chord, is actually equivalent to the whole measure, it is sometimes less confusing to the hearer to silence it. This is called stifling the cadence (or Elision); and its presence depends simply upon sufficient proof that what was supposed to be the cadence-measure (and to a certain extent is such) is at the same time _really the first measure of the next sentence_. The following contains an illustration of the elision of a cadence: [Illustration: Example 26. Fragment of Mozart.] [Illustration: Example 26 continued.] The proofs of this very singular and apparently untrustworthy analysis are: (1) That there is absolutely no doubt about the first cadence, marked *; (2) that a cadence is consequently due, and expected, four measures later,--this proving the measure in question to be the "cadence-measure of the old phrase," as it is marked and as it appeals to our sense of cadence; (3) that the last four measures unmistakably represent a regular, compact phrase,--this proving that the "cadence-measure of the old phrase" is unquestionably _at the same time the first measure, or actual beginning, of the new phrase_. In a word, one measure is lost--not in effect, for the elements of the expected cadence are all present,--but in the counting. This lost measure is the stifled cadence-measure, omitted by Elision. Such cases are, as stated, very rare; so rare that the student will do wisely to leave them quite out of his calculations. In order to elucidate the embarrassing matter still more fully, we shall take two more examples of a very misleading character, which the superficial observer would probably define as elisions, but which are almost certainly regular cases of disguised cadence merely: [Illustration: Example 27. Fragment of Mozart.] Here again there is no doubt of the presence of a cadence at the first *; but this "cadence-measure" appears almost as certainly to be at the same time the initial measure of a new phrase. This, however, proves not to be the case, because _there are four measures left, without this one_. That is, counting backward from the final cadence, we locate the "first measure" after, not _with_, the cadence-measure. And this is the way the passage was meant to sound by its author, and the way it will and must sound to the student who has properly cultivated his sense of cadence. [Illustration: Example 28. Fragment of Beethoven.] This case is extremely misleading; it is hard to believe (and feel) that the characteristic onset of the 16th-triplet figure does not herald the new phrase; but all the indications of strict, unswerving analysis (not to be duped by appearances) point to the fact that this is one of the common cases of disguised cadence, and not an elision of the cadence. The _sforzando_ marks of Beethoven confirm this view, and, as in Example 27, we have our four measures to the next cadence, without this "cadence-measure." The characteristic traits of all these various phases of cadence formation are:-- (1) That the actual cadence-tone in the melody may be of any time-value, from the full extent of the cadence-measure down to the smallest fraction of that measure. In Ex. 19 it was the former, unbroken; in Ex. 17, No. 1, also, but broken into the six pulses of the measure; in Ex. 20 it was shortened, by a rest, to one-half its real value; in Ex. 26 it was reduced to one-quarter of its true value; in Ex. 25, to one 8th-note; and in Ex. 24, No. 3, to one 16th-note. (2) That the cadence-tone in the melody may be shifted forward to almost any point beyond its expected position upon the primary accent. In Ex. 20 (and many other of the given illustrations) it stands in its legitimate place, at the beginning of the measure; in Ex. 21 it stands upon the _second_ accent of the measure; in Ex. 22, No. 1, on the second beat in 3-4 measure; in Ex. 22, No. 5, on the third beat of the triple-measure; in Ex. 22, No. 4, on the last eighth note in the measure. (3) That in almost every case the effect of absolute cessation is softened by marking the rhythm of the cadence-measure; in no case is the rhythm permitted to pause (not even in Ex. 19, where the accompaniment, not shown, is carried along in unbroken 8th-notes). In some part or other, by some means or other, the cadence-measure is kept alive; either by continuing the accompaniment, as in Exs. 18 and 20, or by quickly picking up a new rhythm, as in Exs. 27 and 28. Conspicuous exceptions to this rule will be found, it is true, in hymn-tunes and the like; though occasionally even there, as the student may recall, the rhythm, in some cadence-measures, is carried along by one or more of the inner voices; for example, in the hymn-tune "Lead, Kindly Light," of J. B. Dykes. (See also Ex. 29.) SPECIES OF CADENCE.--In text-books and musical dictionaries several varieties of the cadence are distinguished, but they are chiefly distinctions without any more than one essential point of difference, namely, difference in force or weight. It is therefore feasible to reduce all these varieties to two,--the heavy cadence and the light cadence. The former is represented by the so-called Perfect cadence, the latter by the many grades of Semicadence. PERFECT CADENCE.--There is one method of checking the current of the melodic phrase with such emphasis and determination as to convey the impression of finality; either absolute finality, as we observe it at the very end of a composition, or such relative finality as is necessary for the completion of some independent section of the piece,--conclusive as far as that section is concerned, though not precluding the addition of other sections to this, after the desired degree of repose has been felt. This is known as the perfect cadence, or full stop. It is always made upon the _tonic harmony_ of some key as cadence-chord, with the _keynote itself in both outer parts_, and--when desired in its strongest form (without such disguising as we have seen)--upon an _accented_ beat, and of somewhat longer duration than its fellow tones. For illustration:-- [Illustration: Example 29. Fragment of Schubert.] At the end of this four-measure phrase there is a perfect cadence, exhibited in its strongest, most conclusive form. It is practically undisguised, though the cadence-chord is reduced to three beats (from the four to which it is entitled) to make room for the preliminary beat of the next phrase (calculated to correspond to the one at the beginning of this phrase). The cadence-chord is the tonic harmony of C minor; upon the primary accent of the 4th measure; it is considerably longer than any other tone in the phrase; and the keynote _c_ is placed both at the top and at the bottom of the harmonic body. See also Ex. 15; the cadence is perfect, because the cadence-chord, on the accent of the 4th measure, is the tonic harmony of G major, with the keynote as highest and as lowest tone. It is abbreviated by rests, which very slightly diminish its weight. Ex. 17, No. 2, closes with a perfect cadence; it is the tonic harmony of C major, on an accent, and with the keynote in the two extreme parts. See also Ex. 20. In the following: [Illustration: Example 30. Fragment of Schumann.] the cadence-chord stands upon the secondary accent (3d beat) of the final measure. This method of shifting the cadence forward is generally adopted in large species of measure (6-8, 9-8, and the like), and has been defined among the devices employed in disguising or _lightening_ the cadence. In Ex. 22, No. 5, the cadence-chord is shifted to the last beat (unaccented) of the final measure; this lightens the cadence very materially, but it does not affect any of its essential properties as perfect cadence. The following is similar:-- [Illustration: Example 31. Fragment of Schumann.] The cadence-chord occupies the unaccented (2d) beat, and is no longer than any other chord in the phrase. Despite its striking brevity, it is nevertheless a perfect cadence, disguised; it is the tonic chord of C major, with the keynote at top and bottom. See also Ex. 23, No. 1. The following illustrations come under the head of the disguised cadences seen in Ex. 24:-- [Illustration: Example 32. Fragments of Mendelssohn and Schubert.] In No. 1 the cadence is perfect, for it is the tonic chord of G major, keynote _g_ at top and bottom, and on the primary accent of the fourth measure; but the uninterrupted continuation of the movement of 16ths, in the right hand, shortens the uppermost keynote to a single 16th-note, and would entirely conceal the cadence, were it not for the distinct evidence of repose in the lower part. In No. 2 the movement in the upper part appears to shatter the cadence; the keynote does not appear on the accent, and its announcement at the end of the first triplet is very brief. For all that, it is an unmistakable perfect cadence; the chord thus shattered (or "broken," technically speaking) is the tonic harmony of the key, and the keynote _does_ appear as uppermost (and therefore most prominent) tone, in the same order of percussion as that given to each of the preceding melody tones. * * * * * * At the end of an entire piece of music, or of some larger section of the piece, the cadence-chord, on the other hand, is often lengthened considerably, for the sake of the greater weight and decision of cadential interruption required at that place. Thus:-- [Illustration: Example 33. Fragment of Schubert.] The last two measures are merely the prolongation of the final cadence-chord. See also, Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words, No. 4, last five measures; No. 8, last eight measures; and others. Another peculiarity of the final cadence is, that sometimes the _uppermost_ tone is the 3d or 5th of the tonic chord, instead of the keynote,--a significant device to counteract the dead weight of the cadence-chord, especially when prolonged as just seen. See No. 10 of the Songs Without Words, last six measures; it is the tonic chord of B minor, but the tone _d_ (the 3d) is placed at the top, instead of _b_. Also No. 16, last chord; No. 38, last chord; No. 6, last three measures (the 5th of the tonic chord as uppermost tone). At any other point in the piece this default of the keynote would, as we shall presently see, almost certainly reduce the weight of the cadence from "perfect" to "semicadence"; at the very end, however, it cannot mislead, because it does not affect the condition of actual finality. SEMICADENCE.--Any deviation from the formula of the perfect cadence--either in the choice of some other than the tonic chord, or in the omission of the keynote in either (or both) of the outer parts--weakens the force of the interruption, and transforms the cadence into a lighter, more transient, point of repose, for which the term semicadence (or half-stop) is used. The semicadence indicates plainly enough the end of its phrase, but does not completely sever it from that which follows. It is these lighter, transient forms of cadence to which a number of different names are given; for the student of analysis (and the composer, also, for that matter) the one general term "semicadence," or half-cadence, is sufficient, and we shall use no other. If, then, a cadence is final in its effect, it is a perfect one; if not, it is a semicadence. The harmony most commonly chosen as the resting-place of a semicadence is the chord of the _dominant_,--the fifth step of the momentary key,--that being the harmony next in importance to that of the tonic (the one invariably used for the perfect cadence). The following example illustrates the dominant semicadence:-- [Illustration: Example 34. Fragment of Brahms.] The cadence-chord is the dominant harmony (root _e_) in the key of A minor; neither of the two upper tones on the first and second beats is the root of the chord; it is quite sufficient that the root appears as lowermost tone, and even this is not necessary. The "point of repose" is shifted to the second beat, in the manner so amply illustrated in the examples of the disguised cadence; the methods we have seen may be applied to _any_ kind of cadence. See also Ex. 18; the key, and therefore the chord, at the semicadence is the same as that of the above example (simply major instead of minor). Also Ex. 23, No. 4; the semicadence chord is the dominant harmony of E-flat major; it is skillfully disguised. Ex. 25, dominant harmony of A major. Ex. 26, last four measures; the semicadence is made upon the dominant of C minor. In the following: [Illustration: Example 35. Fragment of Schumann.] the semicadence in the fourth measure is made with the dominant harmony of C major (the tones _g-b-d-f_); it is so disguised as to remove all signs of interruption; but the chord _prevails_ throughout the measure, and (as may be seen by reference to the original, op. 68, No. 3) the next measure--the fifth--exactly corresponds to the first; this indicates another "beginning," and proves our "ending." But though the dominant is thus generally employed at the semicadence, it is by no means the only available chord. It must be remembered that every cadence which does not fulfil the definite conditions of the perfect cadence, is a semicadence. Examine each of the following, and determine why the point of repose is each time a semicadence:--Ex. 1; Ex. 9, No. 3; Ex. 14, No. 2, fourth measure; Ex. 14, No. 3, fourth measure; Ex. 19; Ex. 22, Nos. 3 and 4; Ex. 23, No. 2, fourth measure. The distinction between the two species of cadence becomes most subtle when the _tonic harmony_ is chosen for the semicadence, _but with some other part of the chord than the keynote as uppermost (or lowermost) tone_. This might appear to lighten the perfect cadence too immaterially to exercise so radical an influence upon the value (weight) of the interruption. The _keynote_, however, is so decisive and final in its harmonic and melodic effect--everywhere in music--that its absence more or less completely cancels the terminating quality of the cadence-chord; in other words, the force of a tonic cadence depends upon the weight and prominence of the _keynote_. For example: [Illustration: Example 36. Fragment of Schubert.] The first, second, and third of these cadences is made upon the tonic harmony, on the accent of each successive fourth measure. But they are only _semicadences_, as the melody (uppermost part) rests upon the Third of the chord, _c_, instead of the keynote; this substitution of _c_ for _a-flat_ is sufficient to frustrate the perfect cadence and diminish it to a transient interruption. The final cadence is perfect, however, because there the uppermost tone _is_ the keynote. See also Ex. 21; and Ex. 17, No. 2, fourth measure (semicadence, with _a_ instead of _f_ as principal tone in upper part, and disguised by the continuation of rhythmic movement to the end of the cadence-measure). In Ex. 17, No. 1, the cadence is made with the tonic harmony of G minor, but with the Third (_b-flat_) at the top. LOCATING THE CADENCES.--Next to the recognition and comparison of the different melodic sections of a composition (in a word, the _melodic delineation_ of the whole), the most significant task in music analysis is the locating and classifying of the cadences. They are the angles of the design, so to speak; and have the same bearing upon the sense of the music as punctuation marks have in rhetoric. Intelligent and effective phrasing, adequate interpretation of the composer's purpose, is impossible without a distinct exposition of the cadences,--if not of the inferior points of interruption between motives, also. The best general rule for locating cadences is, probably, to look for them in the right place, namely, in the _fourth measure_ from the beginning of each phrase. The fairly regular operation of this rule has been verified in Lesson 4. But exceptions have also been seen (in Ex. 17), and many more are certain to be encountered, simply because the principle of Unity (exemplified by the prevalence of the four-measure standard) must interact with the principle of Variety (exemplified in all phrases of irregular extent). Therefore, the more reliable method, as already stated, is _to define the beginning of the following phrase_,--for each successive beginning involves a foregone cadence, of course. No very definite directions can be given; experience, observation, careful study and comparison of the given illustrations, will in time surely enable the student to recognize the "signs" of a beginning,--such as the recurrence of some preceding principal member of the melody, or some such change in melodic or rhythmic character as indicates that a new phrase is being announced. LESSON 5. Analyze, again, Schumann, _Jugend Album_ (op. 68), No. 6, locating every cadence and defining its quality,--as perfect cadence or semicadence. Also Nos. 22, 24, 26, 28, 30, 33, 14, 15, 16, 3,--and others. As a curious illustration of the difficulty which may sometimes attend the analysis of phrases and cadences, the student may glance at No. 31 (_Kriegslied_, D major); a more baffling example will rarely be found, for the piece abounds in irregular phrase-dimensions, and cadences that are disguised to the verge of unrecognizability; the only fairly reliable clue the composer has given lies in the formation of the melodic members (the clue intimated in the explanatory text following Ex. 35). Also Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words, No. 34 (first phrase six measures long); No. 40; No. 18. Also Beethoven's pianoforte sonata, op. 22, third movement (_Menuetto_); op. 28, second movement (_Andante_). Again the student is reminded that it is not only permissible, but wise and commendable, to pass by all confusing cases; without being careless or downright superficial, to observe a certain degree of prudent indifference at confusing points, trusting to that superior intelligence which he shall surely gain through wider experience. CHAPTER VI. IRREGULAR PHRASES. CAUSES.--The possibility of deviating from the fundamental standard of phrase-dimension (four measures) has been repeatedly intimated, and is treated with some detail in the text preceding Example 17, which should be reviewed. It is now necessary to examine some of the conditions that lead to this result. The causes of irregular phrase-dimension are two-fold; it may result (1) from simply inserting an additional cadence, or from omitting one. Or (2) it may be the consequence of some specific manipulation of the phrase-melody with a view to its extension or expansion, its development into a broader and more exhaustive exposition of its contents. THE SMALL AND LARGE PHRASES.--If a cadence is inserted before it is properly due, it is almost certain to occur exactly _half-way_ along the line toward the expected (regular) cadence,--that is, in the _second_ measure. This is likely to be the case only when the tempo is so slow, or the measures of so large a denomination, that two of them are practically equal to four _ordinary_ measures. By way of distinction, such a two-measure phrase is called a Small phrase. For example:-- [Illustration: Example 37. Fragment of Mendelssohn.] There is no reasonable doubt of the semicadence in the second measure, because enough pulses have been heard, up to that point, to represent the sum of an ordinary phrase. If this were written in 6-8 measure (as it might be), it would contain four measures. See, also, Song No. 22 of Mendelssohn,--9-8 measure, adagio tempo; the phrases are "Small"; note particularly the last two measures. The same is true in No. 17. About Schumann, op. 68, No. 43 (_Sylvesterlied_), there may be some doubt; but the measures, though of common denomination, contain so many tones, in moderate tempo, that the effect of a cadence is fairly complete in the second measure. If, on the other hand, one of the regular cadences is omitted,--owing to the rapidity of the tempo, or a small denomination of measure,--the phrase will attain just double the ordinary length; that is, _eight_ measures. An eight-measure phrase is called a Large phrase. For illustration:-- [Illustration: Example 38. Fragment of Beethoven.] There is not the slightest evidence of repose or interruption in the fourth measure, nor of a new beginning in the fifth, wherefore the cadence is not expected until four more measures have passed by. The inferior points of repose in the upper parts, at the beginning of the 5th, 6th and 7th measures, serve only to establish melodic, or rather rhythmic, variety, and have no cadential force whatever. See Mendelssohn, Song No. 8; the first cadence appears to stand in the _eighth_ measure; the tempo is rapid and the measures are small; it is obviously a large phrase. The phrase which follows is regular, however; there _is_ a cadence in the twelfth measure, thus proving that Large phrases may appear in company with regular phrases, in the same composition. In other words, the omission of an expected cadence (or the insertion of an additional one) may be an _occasional_ occurrence,--not necessarily constant. See, again, No. 22 of the Songs Without Words; the first and second phrases are small; the third phrase, however (reaching from measure 6 to 9 without cadential interruption), is of regular dimensions. THE PRINCIPLE OF EXTENSION.--The other cause of modified phrase-dimension is one of extreme importance, as touching upon the most vital process in musical composition, namely, that of _phrase-development_. Setting aside all critical discussion with reference to the question, "What is good music?" and simply accepting those types of classic composition universally acknowledged to be the best, as a defensible standard (to say the least), we find that such a page of music exhibits the pursuit of some leading thought (melodic motive or phrase), with precisely the same coherence and consistency, the same evidence of determined aim, as is displayed in the creation of a forcible essay, a masterly poem, an imposing architectural plan, or any other work of art that betrays intelligence and a definite, fixed, purpose. This is no more nor less than might be expected from the dominion of the law of Unity. The equally inflexible demands of Variety are satisfied by presenting this self-same leading thought in ever new and changing aspects,--_not_ by exchanging the thought itself for a new one at each successive angle. This latter faulty process would naturally lead to a conglomeration of impressions, baffling comprehension and jeopardizing real enjoyment. In a classic page of music we perceive that each successive unit grows, more or less directly, out of those which go before; not so directly, or with such narrow insistence as to produce the impression of sameness and monotony, but with such consistency of design as to impart a unified physiognomy to the whole. Hence, it will often be found that every melodic figure, during a certain section (if not the whole) of a composition, may be traced to one or another of the figures which characterized the first phrase, or the first two or three phrases, of the piece. This was emphasized by our reference, near the end of the first chapter, to the 8th Song Without Words of Mendelssohn. If the student, in analyzing the melody of that composition, will endeavor to penetrate some of the clever disguises employed by the composer (for the sake of Variety), he will find the whole piece reducible to a very few melodic figures, announced at or near the beginning. See also No. 45 (C major), No. 36, No. 26. Also Schumann, op. 68, No. 7, No. 8, No. 18, No. 23. Also Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 10, No. 2, last movement; op. 26, last movement. In musical composition this process is known as thematic development, and it generally extends over the whole, or a greater part, of the piece. Its operation on a smaller scale, with more limited reference to one phrase alone, effects the development of the phrase _by extension_. The process of extension or expansion, by means of which the phrase usually assumes a somewhat irregular length, consists mainly in the varied repetition of the figures or motives that it contains; and the continuity of the whole, as extension of the _one phrase_, is maintained by suppressing the cadence--suspending all cadential interruption--during the lengthening process. For example: [Illustration: Example 39. Fragment of Mendelssohn.] These six measures result from a repetition (variated) of the third and fourth measures of the original--regular--four-measure phrase. A cadence is due in the fourth measure, but it is not permitted to assert itself; and if it did, its cadential force would be neutralized by the entirely obvious return to (repetition of) the motive just heard. Further:-- [Illustration: Example 40. Fragment of Mendelssohn.] There is no cadence in the fourth measure,--the current of the melody obliterates it and hurries on, voicing the last measure again and again until it dies away in the tenth measure, where a cadence ends it. That it should be the _tenth_ measure is purely accidental; the number of measures is of little account in the act of extension; here, it was continued until a convenient place was found (with reference to chord and key) for the cadence. Further:-- [Illustration: Example 41. Fragment of Mendelssohn.] Measures 1, 2, 3 and 8 constitute the original regular four-measure phrase. The following regular phrase (to be found in the last movement of Beethoven's pianoforte sonata, op. 28):-- [Illustration: Example 42. Fragment of Beethoven.] is immediately followed by this lengthy and elaborate extension:-- [Illustration: Example 43. Fragment of Beethoven.] [Illustration: Example 43 continued.] The portion marked _b_ is a complete repetition, with quaint variation, of the original four-measure phrase, marked _a_ in Ex. 42; _c_ is a repetition of the last figure (just one measure) of the phrase, with the melodic parts inverted, or exchanged; _d_ and _e_ are a literal repetition of the two preceding measures--(_c_) and _c_; _f_ is another recurrence of (_c_), with still another inversion of the melodies; _g_ repeats _e_ an octave higher; and _h_ is nothing more or less than a curious repetition of _g_, in longer tones, and in reversed direction. Distinct cadential interruption is carefully avoided after the original phrase has been announced, that is, throughout Ex. 43,--which is the significant proof (borne out by the manifest identity of the _melodic_ members) that these measures form part and parcel of the original phrase, as extension or development of it, and _not_ a new phrase. The total length is sixteen measures, developed thus out of the original four. For an exhaustive explanation of phrase-extension, with all the technical details, the student is referred to my HOMOPHONIC FORMS, Chapter III. * * * * * * Another method of extending a phrase consists in prefacing a measure or two of purely _introductory_ material; it is, therefore, rather anticipation than prolongation, and is composed most commonly of the figure of the accompaniment, announced briefly before the actual phrase-melody begins. This is shown very clearly in the first measure of the 22d Song Without Words; also in the first measure of No. 7, No. 31, No. 42, No. 40, and others; the first _two_ measures of No. 34, and No. 1; the first _three_ measures of No. 19, No. 26, and No. 37,--and needs no further illustration. It emphasizes the necessity of vigilance in defining the correct _starting-point_ of the first phrase; for a mistake at the beginning may interfere seriously with the locating of the cadences (according to our fundamental four-measure rule). For instance, in No. 42 the cadences do _not_ fall in the 4th, 8th, 12th measures--and so on--but in the 5th, 9th, 13th, 17th, from the very beginning of the piece. When the introductory passage is longer than _three_ measures, it probably constitutes a complete phrase by itself, with its own cadence; in which case, of course, it must not be analyzed as "extension." For example, at the beginning of No. 29; still more apparently at the beginning of No. 28, No. 41, and others. * * * * * * INHERENT IRREGULARITY.--Finally,--there exists another, third, condition, besides those mentioned at the head of this chapter, whereby a phrase may assume an irregular dimension; not by doubling or dividing its length (as in the large and small phrases) nor by the processes of extension,--but by an arbitrary and apparently incalculable act of _melodic liberty_,--by allowing the melody to choose its own time for the cadential interruption. This comparatively rare occurrence is illustrated in Ex. 17, No. 1 (five-measure phrase), and Ex. 17, No. 2, second phrase (six measures long). It is true that in each of these cases the "extra" measures might be accounted for as "extension by modified repetition,"--for instance, in No. 1 the _second_ measure might be called a reproduction (or extension) of the first measure. But cases will be encountered where a phrase of three, five, six, or seven measures will admit of no such analysis. In such instances the student is compelled to rely simply upon the evidence of _the cadence_. As was advised in the context of Ex. 17, he must endeavor to define the phrase by recognition of its "beginning" and "ending," as such; or by exercising his judgment of the "cadential impression." See also Ex. 48, second phrase (six measures). See Schubert, pianoforte sonata No. 1 (A minor, op. 42) _Scherzo_-movement; first 28 measures, divided into 5 phrases,--as demonstrated by the melodic formation--of 5, 5, 5, 7 and 6 measures. Also Schubert, _Impromptu_, op. 90, No. 3, measures 42 to 55 (phrases of 5, 5 and 4 measures.) LESSON 6. Analyze the following examples, locating the cadences and defining their value (as perfect or semicadence); and determining the nature of each irregular phrase (as small, large, or extended phrase): Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 22, second movement (_Adagio_), first 30 measures. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 28, _Scherzo_-movement. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 14, No. 3, _Menuetto_. Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words: No. 4, first 5 measures. No. 46, last 9 1/2 measures. No. 42, last 15 measures. No. 45, last 11 measures. No. 12, last 12 measures. No. 14, last 11 measures. No. 36, last 22 measures. No. 37, last 11 measures. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 27, No. 2, last movement; measures 7 to 23 from the second double-bar. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 28, first movement; from the double-bar (near the middle of the movement) measures 21 to 94 (_fermata_ symbol); in this extraordinary specimen of phrase-development, the original four-measure phrase yields seventy-four successive measures, with very few cadences to divide it even into sections. Same sonata, last movement, last eighteen measures. CHAPTER VII. THE PERIOD-FORM. PHRASE-ADDITION.--The phrase is the structural basis of all musical composition. By this is meant, not necessarily the single phrase, but the phrase in its collective sense. The phrase is, after all, only a unit; and the requirements of Variety cannot be wholly satisfied by the mere development and extension of a single phrase, except it be for a certain limited section of the piece, or for a brief composition in small form (like Schumann, op. 68, No. 8). The act of _addition_ does therefore enter into the processes of music-writing, as well as _extension_. Phrase may be added to phrase, in order to increase the primary material, and to provide for greater breadth of basis, and a richer fund of resources. The condition to be respected is, that such aggregation shall not become the ruling trait, and, by its excess, supplant the main purpose,--that of _development_. That is, it must be held rigidly within the domain of Unity. The student of the classic page will therefore expect to find a more or less marked family resemblance, so to speak; prevailing throughout the various phrases that may be associated upon that page. Each additional phrase should be, and as a rule will be, sufficiently "new" in some respect or other to impart renewed energy to the movement; but--so long as it is to impress the hearer as being the same movement--there will still remain such points of contact with the foregoing phrase or phrases as to demonstrate its derivation from them, its having "grown out" of them. This process of addition (not to be confounded with the methods of extending a single phrase, illustrated in the preceding chapter) is exhibited first, and most naturally, in the so-called Period-form. THE PERIOD.--The Period-form is obtained by the addition of a second phrase to the first. It is therefore, in a sense, a double phrase; that is, it consists of two connected phrases, covering _eight ordinary measures_, or just double the number commonly assigned to the single phrase. Each one of these phrases must, of course, have its individual cadence, or point of repose; the first--called the _Antecedent phrase_--has its cadence in the fourth measure, and the second--called the _Consequent phrase_--in the eighth measure. The effect of the Period-form is that of a longer sentence interrupted exactly in the middle,--not unlike a bridge of two spans, resting on a central pier. But, precisely as the central pier is only an intermediate point of support, and not terra firma, so the ending of the Antecedent phrase is never anything more weighty than a semicadence, while the definite, conclusive, perfect cadence appears at the end of the Consequent phrase,--or of the entire period-form. The reason for this distinction of cadence is obvious. A period is not two separate phrases, but two related and coherent phrases which mutually balance each other. The Consequent phrase is not merely an "addition" to the first, but is its complement and "fulfilment." The two phrases represent the musical analogy of what, in rhetoric, would be called thesis and antithesis, or, simply, question and answer. In a well-constructed period the Antecedent phrase is, therefore, always more or less _interrogative_, and the Consequent phrase _responsive_, in character. For illustration (Mendelssohn, No. 28):-- [Illustration: Example 44. Fragment of Mendelssohn.] The co-operation, or interaction, of the principles of Unity and Variety, is nowhere more strikingly shown than in the formulation of the musical period. Either element has the right to predominate, to a reasonable degree, though never to the exclusion or injury of the other. In the above example, the principle of Unity predominates to a somewhat unusual extent:--not only the figures (marked 1-2-3-4), and the motives (_a-b_), are uniform, in the Antecedent phrase itself, but the melody of the Consequent phrase corresponds very closely throughout to that of the Antecedent, only excepting a trifling change in the course (marked _N. B._), and the last few tones, which are necessarily so altered as to transform the semicadence into a perfect cadence. It is this significant change, _at the cadence_, which prevents the second phrase from being merely a "repetition" of the first one,--which makes it a "Consequent," a response to the one that precedes. Further (Mendelssohn, No. 23):-- [Illustration: Example 45. Fragment of Mendelssohn.] In this example also, the Consequent phrase is a complete affirmation of its Antecedent, agreeing in its melodic form with the latter until the cadence is nearly due, when an extra measure is inserted (as extension), and the usual digression into the necessary perfect cadence is made. The condition of Unity predominates, but a noticeable infusion of Variety takes place. Further (Mozart, pianoforte sonata):-- [Illustration: Example 46. Fragment of Mozart.] Here, again, the condition of Unity prevails, but with a still greater infusion of Variety; the melody of the Consequent phrase _resembles_ that of the Antecedent in every detail; the rhythm is identical, and it is evident that the second phrase is designed to balance the first, figure for figure, the principal change being that some of the figures are simply turned upside down (compare the places marked _N. B._). The semicadence rests upon a dominant chord (fifth-step) of D major; the perfect cadence upon the same chord, it is true, but as _tonic_ harmony of A major, with keynote in the extreme parts. Being a keynote, though not in the original key, it is valid as perfect cadence. Further (Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 13):-- [Illustration: Example 47. Fragment of Beethoven.] [Illustration: Example 47 continued.] In this example, the condition of Variety predominates decidedly. The Consequent melody differs totally from the Antecedent, even in rhythm, and the necessary portion of Unity is exhibited only in equality of length, _uniformity of accompaniment_, and similarity of character (tonality, and general harmonic and rhythmic effect). Observe the diversity of melodic extent, in the two phrases, in consequence of the preliminary tone borrowed from the semicadence for the Consequent phrase. Greater variety than here will rarely be found between two successive phrases that are intended to form the halves of one coherent period. For more minute technical details see the HOMOPHONIC FORMS, Chapter V. LESSON 7. Analyze the following examples. Locate the cadences; compare the phrases and define the degrees of Unity and of Variety exhibited in the melody, or elsewhere; and mark such irregularities of forms (or extensions) as may be found:-- Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words, No. 35, measures 5 1/2-13. (By 5 1/2 is meant the _middle_ of the fifth measure, instead of its beginning.) No. 45, first 8 measures. No. 29, measures 4 1/2-12. No. 14, " 1-8. No. 34, " 1-10. No. 18, " 1-9; 10-17. No. 9, " 3 1/2-7. No. 27, " 5-12. Schumann, op. 68, No. 3, measures 1-8; 9-16. No. 5, measures 1-8; 9-16. (Do not overlook the preliminary tones which precede the first measure.) The first eight measures of Nos. 6, 7, 8, 9, 11, 12, 15, 22, 23, 24, 26, 30, 32, 39. Also Nos. 13 and 28, first _ten_ measures. Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas: op. 2, No. 1, _Adagio_, measures 1-8. Same sonata, third movement, "Trio," measures 1-10. Op. 2, No. 2, _Largo_, measures 1-8; also _Scherzo_, measures 1-8; also _Rondo_, measures 1-8. Op. 2, No. 3, measures 1-13; also _Scherzo_, measures 1-16; also last movement, measures 1-8. Op. 10, No. 1, _Finale_, measures 1-8; and measures 16 1/2-28. Op. 10, No. 3, measures 1-10; also _Largo_, measures 1-9; 9 1/2-17; also _Menuetto_, measures 1-16; also _Rondo_, measures 1-9. Op. 14, No. 2, measures 1-8; also _Andante_, measures 1-8; also _Scherzo_, measures 1-8. After analyzing these examples, the student may venture to define the periods in other compositions, classic or popular, especially such as he may chance to be learning. CHAPTER VIII.--ENLARGEMENT OF THE PERIOD-FORM. The processes of extension and development are applied to the period in the same general manner as to the phrase. The results, however, are broader; partly because every operation is performed on a correspondingly larger scale, and partly because the resources of technical manipulation increase, naturally, with the growth of the thematic material. Among the various methods adopted, there are three, each significant in its own peculiar way, that provide sufficiently exhaustive directions for the student of structural analysis. ENLARGEMENT BY REPETITION.--The first and simplest method is to increase the length of the period-form by the process of _repetition_; repetition of the entire sentence, or of any one--or several--of its component members, in a manner very similar to that already seen in connection with the single phrase (Chap. VI, Ex. 39, etc.), and under the same conditions of Unity and Variety; that is, the repetitions may be nearly or quite literal, or they may have been subjected to such alterations and variations as the skill and fancy of the composer suggested. An example of complete repetition (that is, the repetition of the entire period), with simple but effective changes, may be found in Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 13, _Adagio_, measures 1 to 16. Examine it carefully, and observe, among other details, the treatment of the perfect cadence (in the 8th measure). See also, Song Without Words, No. 27, measures 5 to 20. The repetition of one of the two phrases is exhibited in the following (Mozart, sonata No. 14):-- [Illustration: Example 48. Fragment of Mozart.] The Antecedent is a regular four-measure phrase, with semicadence (made on the tonic chord, but with _3d_ as uppermost tone); the Consequent is a six-measure phrase, with perfect cadence, and is repeated, with partial change of register. The whole is a "period with repeated Consequent." A somewhat elaborate example of extension by detail-repetition is seen in the following (Chopin, Mazurka No. 20, op. 30, No. 3--see the original): [Illustration: Example 49. Fragment of Chopin.] [Illustration: Example 49 continued.] These sixteen measures are the product out of eight measures, by extension; that is, they are reducible to a simple period-form (as may be verified by omitting the passages indicated under dotted lines), and they represent in reality nothing more than its manipulation and development. The original 8-measure period makes a complete musical sentence, and was so devised in the mind of the composer, _without the extensions_. The method of manipulation is ingenious; observe the variety obtained by the striking dynamic changes from _ff_ to _pp_; and, hand in hand with these, the changes from major to minor, and back (as shown by the inflection of _b_-flat to _b_-double-flat). These are first applied to members only, of the Antecedent, as indicated by the brackets _a_ and _b_, and then to the entire Consequent phrase. Observe, also, that in the repeated form of the latter, the rhythm is modified to a smoother form, during two measures. The result here achieved is constant Unity and constant Variety from almost every point of view, admirably counterbalanced. THE PHRASE-GROUP.--A second method consists in enlarging the period-form to three phrases, by the same process of addition which, as explained in the preceding chapter, transforms the single phrase into the double-phrase or period. In order to preserve the continuity of the three phrases, it is evident that the second phrase must _also_ close with a semicadence,--the perfect cadence being deferred until the last phrase is concluded. {78} This form, be it well understood, does not include any of the triple-phrase designs which may result from merely repeating one or the other of the two phrases that make a period, as is shown in Ex. 48. _All such phrase-clusters as are reducible to two phrases_, because nothing more than simple repetition has been employed in their multiplication, should always be classed among ordinary periods; for two successive phrases, if connected (that is, unless they are purposely broken asunder by a definite perfect cadence at the end of the first phrase) always represent the analogy of Question and Answer. The enlarged form we are at present considering consists of three _different_ phrases, as a general rule; probably very closely related, or even distinctly resembling one another; but too independent, nevertheless, to constitute actual repetition, and therefore to admit of reduction to two phrases. For this very reason it cannot justly be called "period" at all, but takes the name of "phrase-group." An illustration by diagram will make the distinction clear:-- [Illustration: Phrase group diagram.] Observe that the classification depends upon the number of phrases,--upon the _melodic_ identity of the phrases,--and upon the _quality of the cadences_. No. 1 is illustrated in Ex. 15; No. 2, in Ex. 42 and the first four measures of Ex. 43 (cadence not perfect, it is true, but same phrase-melody and _same cadence_); No. 3 is seen in Ex. 44 (phrase-melody similar, but cadences different)--also in Ex. 47; No. 4 is seen in Ex. 48; No. 5 is rare, but an example will be discovered in Lesson 8; No. 6 is illustrated in the following (Grieg, op. 38, No. 2):-- [Illustration: Example 50. Fragment of Grieg.] Comparing this sentence with Ex. 48, we discover the following significant difference: There, no more than two phrases were present; the whole sentence was _reducible_ to two phrases. Here (Ex. 50), however, no such reduction is possible; three sufficiently similar--and sufficiently different--phrases are coherently connected, without evidence of mere repetition; it is the result of Addition, and the form is a _phrase-group_. The first cadence is, strictly speaking, a _perfect_ one; but of that somewhat doubtful rhythmic character, which, in conjunction with other indications, may diminish its conclusive effect, and prevent the decided separation which usually attends the perfect cadence. This is apt to be the case with a perfect cadence _so near the beginning_ (like this one) that the impression of "conclusion" is easily overcome. In a word, there is no doubt of the unbroken connection of these three phrases, despite the unusual weight of the first cadence. See also the first cadence in Ex. 51. By simply continuing the process of addition (and avoiding a decisive perfect cadence) the phrase-group may be extended to more than three phrases, though this is not common. THE DOUBLE-PERIOD.--A third method consists in expanding the period into a double-period (precisely as the phrase was lengthened into a double-phrase, or period), _by avoiding a perfect cadence at the end of the second phrase_, and adding another pair of phrases to balance the first pair. It thus embraces four _coherent_ phrases, with a total length of sixteen measures (when regular and unextended). An important feature of the double-period is that the second period usually resembles the first one very closely, at least in its first members. That is, the second phrase contrasts with the first; _the third corroborates the first_; and the fourth either resembles the second, or contrasts with all three preceding phrases. This is not always--though nearly always--the case. The double-period in music finds its poetic analogy in almost any stanza of four fairly long lines, that being a design in which we expect unity of meaning throughout, the progressive evolution of one continuous thought, uniformity of metric structure (mostly in _alternate_ lines), the corroboration of rhyme, and, at the same time, some degree and kind of contrast,--as in the following stanza of Tennyson's: Phrase 1. "The splendor falls on castle walls, Phrase 2. And snowy summits old in story; Phrase 3. The long light shakes across the lakes, Phrase 4. And the wild cataract leaps in glory." The analogy is not complete; one is not likely to find, anywhere, absolute parallelism between music and poetry; but it is near enough to elucidate the musical purpose and character of the double-period. And it accounts for the very general choice of this form for the hymn-tune. The following illustrates the double-period, in its most regular and convincing form (Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 49, No. 1):-- [Illustration: Example 51. Fragment of Beethoven.] Each phrase is four measures long, as usual; the first one ends (as in Ex. 50) with one of those early, transient perfect cadences that do not break the continuity of the sentence; the second phrase ends with a semicadence,--therefore the sentence remains unbroken; phrase three is _exactly_ like the first, and is therefore an Antecedent, as before; phrase four bears close resemblance to the second one, but differs at the end, on account of the perfect cadence. The evidences of Unity and Variety are easily detected. The main points are, that the second pair of phrases balances the first pair, and that the two periods are connected (not _separate_ periods). See also Ex. 53, first 16 measures. LESSON 8.--Analyze the following examples. They are not classified; therefore the student must himself determine to which of the above three species of enlargement each belongs: Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words, No. 29, measures 1-21, (first 4 measures an introductory phrase). No. 37, first 17 measures. No. 30, first 15 measures (last phrase irregular). No. 16, measures 4-9 (small phrases). No. 33, first 12 measures. No. 27, first 20 measures (introductory phrase). No. 3, first 29 measures, to double-bar (introductory phrase). No. 36, first 27 measures (the similarity between phrase one and phrase three proves the double-period form; the extra phrases are extension by "addition," as in the group form). No. 6, measures 8-17. Mozart, pianoforte sonata. No. 13 (Peters edition), first 16 measures. Sonata No. 2, first 16 measures (last four measures are extension). Sonata No. 3, last movement, first 16 measures. Sonata No. 10, second movement, first 16 measures. Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas; op. 49, No. 2, first 12 measures. Op. 10, No. 3, first 16 measures. Op. 10, No. 2, first 12 measures. Op. 26, first 16 measures. Op. 31, No. 2, last movement, first 31 measures (extension by repetition). Schumann, op. 68, Nos. 16, 20, 33, first 16 measures of each; No. 13, first 10 measures; No. 15, first 16 measures. CHAPTER IX. THE TWO-PART SONG-FORM. THE SONG-FORM OR THE PART-FORM.--Almost every musical composition of average (brief) dimensions, if designed with the serious purpose of imparting a clear formal impression, will admit of division into either two or three fairly distinct sections, or Parts, of approximately equal length. The distinctness with which the points of separation are marked, and the degree of independence of each of these two or three larger sections, are determined almost entirely by the length of the whole. And whether there be two or three such divisions depends to some extent also upon the length of the piece, though chiefly upon the specific structural idea to be embodied. A composition that contains two such sections is called a Two-Part (or bipartite, or binary) form; and one that contains three, a Three-part (tripartite, or ternary) form. Such rare exceptions to these structural arrangements as may be encountered in musical literature, are limited to sentences that, on one hand, are so brief as to require no radical division; and, on the other, to compositions of very elaborate dimensions, extending beyond this structural distinction; and, furthermore, to fantastic pieces in which the intentional absence of classified formal disposition is characteristic and essential. The terms employed to denote this species ("Song-form" or "Part-form") do not signify that the music is necessarily to be a vocal composition of that variety known as the "Song"; or that it is to consist of several voices (for which the appellation "parts" is commonly used). They indicate simply a certain _grade_,--not a specific variety,--of form; an intermediate grade between the smallest class (like brief hymn-tunes, for example), and the largest class (like complete sonata-movements). An excellent {84} type of this grade of Form is found in the Songs Without Words of Mendelssohn, the Mazurkas of Chopin, and works of similar extent. The word Part (written always with a capital in these lessons) denotes, then, one of these larger sections. The design of the Part-forms was so characteristic of the early German _lied_, and is so common in the _song_ of all eras, that the term "Song-form" seems a peculiarly appropriate designation, irrespective of the vocal or instrumental character of the composition. The student will perceive that it is the smallest class of forms--the Phrase-forms,--embracing the phrase, period and double-period, to which the preceding chapters have been devoted. These are the designs which, as a general rule, _contain only one decisive perfect cadence_, and that at the end; and which, therefore, though interrupted by semicadences, _are continuous and coherent_, because the semicadence merely interrupts, and does not sever, the continuity of the sentence. (This grade of forms might be called One-Part forms). THE PARTS.--If we inquire into the means employed, in the larger Part-forms, to effect the division of the whole into its broader Parts, we find that the prime factors, here again, are Cadence and Melody. The strongest sign of the consummation of a Part is a _decisive perfect cadence_, resting, as usual, upon the tonic harmony of the chosen key; a cadence sufficiently emphatic to interrupt the closer cohesion of the phrases which, precede, and bring them, as completed Part, to a conclusion. Such a cadence, marking the end of the First Part, may be verified in Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words, No. 23, measure 15; No. 3, measure 29 (at the double-bar,--a sign which frequently appears at the termination of Part One); No. 20, measure 21; No. 27, measure 12; No. 34, measure 10. Another indication of the Part-form is a palpable change in melodic character in passing from one Part into the next; sufficient to denote a more striking "new beginning" than marks the announcement of a new _phrase_ only. The change, however, is as a rule _not very marked_; it is sometimes, in fact, so slight as to be no more than simply palpable, though scarcely definable on the page. For these divisions are, after all, the several "Parts" of one and the same song-form, and, therefore, any such radical change in melodic or rhythmic character, or in general style, as would make each Part appear to be a _wholly independent_ musical idea (subject or theme), would be manifestly inconsistent. Generally, both these factors (cadence and melody) unite to define the end of one Part and the beginning of the next. Should either one be feeble, or absent, the other factor will be all the more pronounced. Thus, the cadence of Part One may be less decisive, if the change in melodic character at the beginning of Part Two is well marked; this is seen in No. 33, measure 12. The reverse--a strong cadence and but little melodic change,--in No. 13, measure 20. THE FIRST PART.--Part One may be designed as period, double-period, or phrase-group; sometimes, though very rarely, as single phrase, repeated. It ends, usually, with a strong perfect cadence on the tonic chord of the original key, or of some related key (that is, one whose _signature_ closely resembles that of the original key). An introductory phrase, or independent prelude, may precede it. THE SECOND PART.--Part Two, as intimated, is likely to begin with a more or less palpable change of melodic character,--by no means is this always the case. It may be designed, also, as period, double-period, or phrase-group, and is somewhat likely to be a little longer (more extended) than Part One. A concluding section (called codetta if small, coda if more elaborate) often follows, after a decided perfect cadence in the original key has definitely concluded the Part. The following is one of the simplest examples of the Two-Part Song-form (a German _lied_ by Silcher):-- [Illustration: Example 52. Fragment of German _lied_.] The whole embraces four phrases, and might, for that reason, be mistaken for a double-period. But the _strong perfect cadence_ at the end of the first period (reinforced by the repetition), and the contrasting melodic formation of the second period, so separate and distinguish the two periods as to make them independent "Parts" of the whole. It is not one "double-period," but _two fairly distinct periods_. The first cadence (in measure 4) has again, strictly speaking, the elements of a perfect cadence, but, like others we have seen (Exs. 50, 51), too near the beginning to possess any plausible concluding power. A somewhat similar specimen may be found in the theme of Mendelssohn's Variations in D minor, op. 54, which see. Each Part is a regular period-form, with correct semicadence and perfect cadence. The problem of "agreement and independence" in the relation of Part II to Part I is admirably solved; it is a masterly model of well-matched Unity and Variety, throughout. For a longer and more elaborate example, see No. 6 of the Songs Without Words, in which, by the way, the principle of enlargement by the addition of an independent prefix (introduction) and affix (coda) is also illustrated:-- First number the forty-six measures with pencil. The first cadence occurs in measure 7, and marks the end of the prélude. Part I begins in measure 8. In measure 11 there is a semicadence, at end of Antecedent phrase; in measure 17, a strong perfect cadence, which, in connection with the subsequent change of melodic form, distinctly defines the end of Part I (period-form, extended). Part II therefore begins in measure 18. In measures 21, 25, 29, cadences occur, but none conclusive enough to close the Part. This conclusion takes place, however, in measure 34. Part II proves to be a double-period. A coda begins in measure 35; its first members resemble the first phrase of Part I. In measure 40 another section of the coda begins, borrowed from the prélude. For exhaustive technical details of the Two-Part Song-form, see the HOMOPHONIC FORMS, Chapters 9 and 10. LESSON 9.--Analyze the following examples of the Two-Part Song-form. Define the form of each Part, marking and classifying all cadences; and indicate introductions and codas (or codettas), if present. _The first step in the analysis of these forms is to divide the whole composition into its Parts, by defining the end of Part One_. The next step is to define the beginning of Part One, and end of Part Two, by separating the introduction and coda (if present) from the body of the form. Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas: op. 57, Andante, Theme. Op. 109, _Andante_, Theme. Op. 111, last movement, Theme of Variations. Op. 79, _Andante_, first 8 measures (unusually small); same sonata, last movement, first 16 measures. Op. 54, first 24 measures (each Part repeated). Op. 31, No. 3, _Menuetto_ (without Trio). Op. 26, "Trio" of _Scherzo_; also last movement, first 28 measures (second Part repeated). Op. 27, No. 2, "Trio" of _Allegretto_. Mozart, pianoforte sonatas: No. 2 (Peters edition), _Andante_, measures 1-20; and measures 21-40. Schumann, op. 68, No. 7; No. 4; No. 35; No. 42; No. 23 repeated; last 16 1/2 measures, (coda). CHAPTER X.--THE THREE-PART SONG-FORM. DISTINCTION BETWEEN BIPARTITE AND TRIPARTITE FORMS.--We learned, in the preceding chapter, that the Two-Part Song-form is a composition of rather brief extent, with so decisive a perfect cadence in its course as to divide it, in a marked manner, into two separate and fairly individual sections or "Parts." Between this and the next higher form,--that with _three_ such Parts,--there is a distinction far more essential and characteristic than that of mere extent; a distinction that does not rest simply upon the number of Parts which they respectively contain. Each of the two classes of formal design, the Two-Part and the Three-Part, embodies a peculiar structural idea; and it is the evidence of these respective ideas,--the true content of the musical form,--which determines the species. The "number" of sections is, in this connection, nothing more than the external index of the inherent idea. The Two-Part forms embody the idea of _progressive growth_. To the first Part, a second Part (of similar or related melodic contents) is added, in coherent and logical succession. It should not be, and in good clear form it is not, a purely numerical enlargement, for the association of the second Part with a foregoing one answers the purposes of confirmation and of balance, and is supposed to be so effectuated as to institute and maintain unity of style, and some degree of progressive development. But the second Part, in this bipartite design, does little or nothing more, after all, than thus to project the musical thought on outward in a straight line (or along parallel lines) to a conclusion more or less distant from the starting-point,--from the melodic members which constitute the actual germ, or the "text" of the entire musical discourse. A very desirable, not to say vital, condition is therefore {90} lacking, in the Two-Part forms; namely, the corroboration of this melodic germ by an emphatic return to the beginning and an unmistakable re-announcement of the first (leading) phrase or phrases of the composition. Nothing could be more natural than such corroboration. Any line of conduct, if pursued without deviation, simply carries its object farther and farther away from its origin. If, as in the circle, this line is led back to the starting-point, it describes the most satisfying and perfect figure; it perfects, by enclosing space. Whereas, if it goes straight onward, it ultimately loses itself, or loses, at least, its connection with its beginning and source. Nowhere is this principle of _Return_ more significant and imperative than in music, which, because of its intangibility, has need of every means that may serve to define and illuminate its design; and hence the superior frequency and perfection of the Three-Part form, _which, in its Third Part, provides for and executes this Return to the beginning_. Its superiority and greater adaptability is fully confirmed in the practice of composition; the number of Three-Part forms exceeds the Two-Part, in musical literature, to an almost surprising degree; and it may therefore be regarded as the design peculiarly adapted to the purposes of ordinary music writing within average limits. The three successive divisions of the Three-Part Song-form may then be characterized as follows:-- PART I.--The statement of the principal idea; the presentation of the melodic and rhythmic contents of the leading thought, out of which the whole composition is to be developed. It is generally a period-form, at least, closing with a firm perfect cadence in the principal key, or one of its related keys. PART II.--The departure (more or less emphatic) from this leading melodic statement. It is, for a time, probably an evident continuation and development of the melodic theme embodied in the First Part; but it does not end there; it exhibits a retrospective bent, and--when thoroughly legitimate--its last few measures prepare for, and lead into, the melodic member with which the piece began. Its form is optional; but, as a rule, decisive cadence-impressions are avoided, unless it be the composer's intention to _close_ it with a perfect cadence (upon any _other_ than the principal tonic), and accomplish the "return to the beginning" by means of a separate returning passage, called the Re-transition. PART III.--The recurrence and corroboration of the original statement; _the reproduction of Part I_, and therewith the fulfilment of the important principle of return and confirmation. The reproduction is sometimes exact and complete; sometimes slight changes, or even striking variations, possibly certain radical alterations, occur; sometimes it is only a partial recurrence, the first few measures being sufficient to prove the "Return"; sometimes, on the other hand, considerable material (more or less related) is added, so that Part III is longer than the First Part. From this it appears that much latitude is given to the composer, in his formulation of the Third Part. All that the Part has to prove, is its identity as confirmation of the leading motive, and this it may do in many ways, and with great freedom of detail, without obscuring the main purpose. It is precisely this richness of opportunity, this freedom of detail, which enhances the beauty and value of the tripartite forms. The following is a very regular example of the Three-Part Song-form (Schumann, op. 68, No. 20):-- [Illustration: Example 53. Fragment of Schumann.] [Illustration: Example 53 continued.] This version is as complete as it can conveniently be made upon one single staff (chosen in order to economize space); but the student will find the formal design somewhat more plastically defined in the original, complete form, and he is therefore expected to refer to the latter. Part I is an unusually regular double-period, with three semicadences and a strong perfect cadence, on the original tonic, to mark its conclusion; the double-bar is an additional confirmation of the end of the Part. The second Part runs in the key of E major (the dominant of the original key) throughout; its form is only a phrase, but repeated,--as is proven by the almost literal agreement of the second phrase with the preceding one, _cadence and all_. Part III agrees literally with Part I in its melodic formation, but differs a little in the treatment of the lower (accompanying) voices. In the theme of Mendelssohn's pianoforte Variations in E-flat major (op. 82), which see, the design is as follows:--Part I is a period of eight measures. Part II is also an 8-measure period, ending upon the tonic chord of B-flat major (the dominant key), as first eighth-note of the 16th measure; the following eighth-note, b-natural, represents what we have called the Retransition (in its smallest conceivable form), as it fulfils no other purpose than that of leading back into the first tone of the First Part. Part III is _only a phrase_, and therefore shorter than Part I; but it corroborates the _beginning_, and, in fact, the entire contents of the First Part. The plan of Mendelssohn's 28th Song Without Words is as follows:--First number the 38 measures, _carefully_. The first four measures are an introductory phrase, or prélude; Part I begins in the second half of measure 4 (after the double-bar) and extends, as regular 8-measure period, to measure 12. Part II follows, during the same measure; its form is a period, extending to measure 20, and closing with a very distinctly marked semicadence on the dominant chord (chord of D). Part III is 14 measures long, containing therefore six more measures than the First Part; its first phrase is almost exactly like the first phrase of Part I; its second phrase (measures 25-28) differs from any portion of Part I, but closely resembles the melodic formation of Part II; its third phrase is based upon the preceding one (_not_ as repetition, however), and is expanded to the 34th measure. The form of Part III is phrase-group. The last four measures are codetta, or postlude, and corroborate the prélude. For exhaustive technical details of the Three-Part Song-form, see the HOMOPHOBIC FORMS, Chapters 11, 12, 13, 14 and 15. LESSON 10.--Analyze the following examples of the Three-Part Song-form. The first step, here again, is to fix _the end of the First Part_; the next, to mark the beginning of the Third Part, by determining where the _return to the beginning_ is made. These points established, it remains to fix the beginning of Part I, by deciding whether there is an introductory sentence or not; then the end of Part II, by deciding whether it leads directly into Part III, or comes to a conclusion somewhat earlier, to make room for a Retransition; then the end of Part III, by deciding whether a codetta or coda has been added. The extremities of the three Parts being thus determined, there will be no difficulty in defining the _form_ of each. Very particular attention must be devoted to _the comparison of Part III with Part I_, in order to discover, and accurately define, the difference between them,--in form, in extent, in melodic formation, or in technical treatment. Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words: No. 22, No. 35, No. 32, No. 45, No. 42, No. 31, No. 27, No. 46, No. 25, No. 20, No. 26 (Re-transition, middle of measure 25 to measure 29); No. 36 (beginning of Part III, measure 60, somewhat disguised); No. 47, No. 12, No. 15, No. 3, No. 43, No. 40, No. 37, No. 2, No. 33, No. 30, No. 1. Schumann, op. 68; No. 3; No. 12, first 24 measures; No. 14, No. 16, No. 17, No. 21 (Part I closes with a semicadence, but made in such a manner that it answers its purpose without the least uncertainty); No. 24, No. 25, No. 26, No. 28; No. 29, last 48 measures (including coda); No. 33 (long coda); No. 34; No. 37, first 32 measures; No. 38; No. 40, first movement (2-4 measure); No. 41. Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas: op. 2, No. 1, third movement,--both the _Menuetto_ and the _Trio_. Op. 2, No. 2, third movement,--both _Scherzo_ and _Trio_. Same sonata, last movement, first 16 measures (Parts II and III consist of a single phrase each; therefore the whole is diminutive in extent; but it is unquestionably Three-Part Song-form, because of the completeness of Part I, and the unmistakable _return to the beginning_). Op. 7, _Largo_, first 24 measures. Same sonata, third movement; also the _Minore_. Same sonata, last movement, first 16 measures. Op. 10, No. 2, second movement, first 38 measures. Op. 10, No. 3, _Menuetto_. Op. 14, No. 1, third movement; also the _Maggiore_. Op. 14, No. 2, second movement, first 20 measures. Op. 22, _Menuetto_; also the _Minore_. Op. 26, first 34 measures; same sonata. _Scherzo_; same sonata, _Funeral march_ (also the _Trio_; what is its form?). Mozart, pianoforte sonatas: No. 15 (Peters Edition), _Andante_, first 32 measures. No. 1, last movement, first 50 measures. No. 12, first 18 measures. Same sonata, _Trio_ of the second movement (Part III returns to the beginning very briefly, and is otherwise different from the First Part almost throughout). No. 13, _Adagio_, first 16 measures. Chopin, _Mazurkas_ (Peters edition), No. 11, No. 22, No. 24, No. 40, No. 49. In the following examples, the student is to determine whether the form is Two-Part or Three-Part:-- Mendelssohn, op. 72 (six pianoforte pieces), No. 1; No. 2; No. 3, No. 4, No. 6.--Etudes, op. 104, No. 1, No. 3. A curious example may be found in Schumann, op. 68, No. 32; the form is actually Two-Part, but with a very brief reminiscence of the beginning (scarcely to be called a Return) in the _last two measures_,--which are, strictly speaking, no more than a codetta. The Second Part is repeated. In Schumann's op. 68, Nos. 8, 9, and 11 (first 24 measures), the _second_ Part is unusually independent in character; completely detached from Part III, and exhibiting no symptoms of leading into the latter, as second Parts have commonly been observed to do. CHAPTER XI. ENLARGEMENT OF THE THREE-PART SONG-FORM. REPETITION OF THE PARTS.--The enlargement of the Three-Part Song-form is effected, in the majority of cases, by simply repeating the Parts. The composer, in extending the dimensions of his original design, resorts as usual to the most legitimate and natural means at his disposal--that of _repetition_. By so doing, he reinforces the principle of Unity, and, instead of obscuring, places the contents of his design in a stronger and more convincing light. It is true that the act of mere repetition involves the risk of monotony; but against this the composer has an efficient safeguard,--that of _variation_. He may modify and elaborate the repetition in any manner and to any extent that seems desirable or necessary, the only limitations being that the identity of the original Part must be preserved beyond all danger of misapprehension, and (as a rule) that the cadences shall not be altered. The act of repetition is applied to the First Part alone, and to the _Second and Third Parts together_; very rarely to the Second Part alone, or to the Third Part alone. EXACT REPETITIONS.--When Part I,--or Parts II and III together,--are to be repeated without any changes, it is customary to employ the familiar repetition-marks (double-bar and dots); with "first and second ending," if, for any reason, some modification of the cadence-measure is required. This is illustrated in the 7th Song Without Words; Part I is repeated alone, and Parts II and III together; both repetitions are indicated by the customary signs, and each has a double ending. See also, Schumann, op. 68, No. 1; Part I is repeated exactly, with repetition-marks; Parts II and III are also repeated literally (all but the very last tone in the lower part), but written out,--apparently without necessity. Also No. 2; the literal repetition of Part I is written out; Parts II and III have the repetition-marks. MODIFIED REPETITIONS.--The quality and extent of the changes that may be made, in order to enrich the composition without altering its structural design, depend, as has been intimated, upon the judgment and fancy of the composer. The student will find no part of his analytical efforts more profitable and instructive than the careful comparison of these modified repetitions with the original Parts; nothing can be more fascinating and inspiring to the earnest musical inquirer, than thus to trace the operation of the composer's mind and imagination; to witness his employment of the technical resources in re-stating the same idea and developing new beauties out of it,--especially when the variations are somewhat elaborate. It must be remembered that mere repetition (even when modified,--as long as it can be proven to be nothing more than repetition) does not alter the form. A phrase, repeated, remains a phrase; _nothing less than a decided alteration of the cadence itself_ will transform it into a double-phrase (or period). Similarly, a period, repeated, remains a period, and does not become a double-period; and a Part, repeated, remains the same Part. Therefore, the student will find it necessary to concentrate his attention upon these larger forms, and exercise both vigilance and discrimination in determining which sections of his design come under the head of "modified repetition." For an illustration of the _repeated First Part_, see the 9th Song Without Words; Part I is a four-measure period (of two small phrases) closing in the seventh measure; the following four measures are its modified repetition. For an example of the _repeated Second and Third Parts_, see No. 48. In No. 29, both repetitions occur, with interesting changes; the repetition of Part I begins in measure 13; that of Parts II and III in measure 35; the last 10 1/2 measures are a coda. {98} THE FIVE-PART FORM. The repetition of the Second and Third Parts together is sometimes subjected to changes that are almost radical in their nature, and therefore appear to modify the form itself. These important changes chiefly _affect the Second Part, when it reappears as "Fourth" Part_. When the alteration of the Second Part (that is, the difference between Part IV and Part II) is sufficiently radical to suggest the presence of a virtually new Part, the design is called the Five-part Song-form. The possible repetition of the First Part, it will be inferred, does not affect this distinction in the least; it hinges solely upon the treatment of the reproduction of _Part Two_. For illustration: [Illustration: Diagram of Parts.] The Five-Part form is illustrated in the 14th Song Without Words;--(first, number the measures; observe that the two endings of Part I are to be counted as the _same measure_, and not separately; they are both measure 8):--Part I extends to the double-bar, and is repeated literally, only excepting the _rhythmic_ modification of the final measure; Part II extends from measure 9 to 23; Part III, measures 24-35; Part IV, measures 36-47; Part V, measures 48-60; coda to the end. The comparison of Part IV with Part II discloses both agreement and diversity; they are, obviously, _practically the same Part_, but differ in key, in form, and in extent. The comparison of Parts I, III, and V reveals a similar condition, though the agreement here is much closer, and each confirms the leading statement. A more characteristic example will be found in the familiar F major _Nachtstück_ of Schumann, op. 23, No. 4, which see:--Part I extends from measure 2 to 9 (after 1 1/2 measures of recitative introduction); Part II, measures 10-13; Part III, measures 14-21; Part IV, measures 22-32; Part V, measures 33-40; codetta to end. The Fourth Part bears very little resemblance to the Second, and assumes rather the character of a wholly independent Part. GROUP OF PARTS.--In some, comparatively rare, instances, the arrangement of perfect cadences is such that,--coupled with independence of melodic formation and character,--the composition seems to separate into _four or more individual sections_ or Parts, with or without a recurrence of the First one; or into three _different_ Parts, lacking the evidence of the return to the beginning. When such irregularities are encountered, or when any conditions appear which elude or baffle natural classification among the Three-Part Song-forms (simple or enlarged), the piece may be called a group of Parts. The use of this term is entirely legitimate, and is commended to the student on account of its convenience, for all examples of the Song-form which, _upon thoroughly conscientious analysis_, present confusing features, at variance with our adopted classification. Of one thing only he must assure himself,--that the design is a _Song-form_ (_i.e._ an association of _Parts_), and not one of the larger forms to be explained in later chapters. The definition is given in Chapter IX (on page 84). A fair illustration of the utility of the term "Group of Parts" is seen in Schumann, op. 68, No. 18. Others will be cited in the following Lesson. LESSON 11.--Analyze the following examples of the enlarged Three-Part Song-form. As before, the form of each Part should be defined, and introductions and codas (if present) properly marked. All of the given examples belong to this chapter, but are not classified; it is purposely left to the student to determine where repetitions occur, and whether they are exact, or variated,--in a word, to decide which of the above diagrams the composition represents. Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words, No. 3, No. 4, No. 8, No. 10, No. 11, No. 12, No. 16, No. 17, No. 19, No. 21, No. 23, No. 24, No. 27, No. 31, No. 34, No. 39, No. 43, No. 44, No. 46. Schumann, op. 68, No. 5; No. 6; No. 10; No. 13; No. 15; No. 19; No. 22; No. 30; No. 36; No. 43. Mendelssohn, op. 72, No. 5. Chopin, _Prélude_, op. 28, No. 17. Mozart, pianoforte sonata No. 8, _Andante_ (entire). Mozart, No. 18, _Andantino_ (of the "Fantasia"). Chopin, _Mazurkas_, No. 1, No. 2, No. 4, No. 5, No. 8, No. 15, No. 16, No. 18, No. 37, No. 44, No. 48. GROUPS OF PARTS: Chopin, _Mazurkas_, No. 3 (apparently five Parts, not counting repetitions; Part V corroborates Part I, but the intervening sections are too independent to be regarded as one long Second Part,--as would be the case if this corroboration were Part III). Also No. 7 (same design); No. 14 (four Parts, the last like the first); No. 19 (four Parts, the fourth like the second); No. 20: No. 21; No. 27 (Part V like I, Part IV like II); No. 34; No. 39; No. 41. Schubert, _Momens musicals_, op. 94, No. 3. CHAPTER XII. THE SONG-FORM WITH TRIO. Another method of enlargement consists in associating two different--though somewhat related--Song-Forms. The practice was so common in certain of the older dances, particularly in the minuet, that this design is also known as the _Minuet Form_. THE PRINCIPAL SONG.--The first division, called the principal song, is either a Two-Part or a Three-Part Song-form,--most commonly the latter. It is generally entirely complete in itself; the fact that another division is to be added, does not affect its character, form, or conception. THE "TRIO," OR SUBORDINATE SONG.--The division which follows, as second song-form, was formerly called the "Trio," and it has retained the name in the majority of examples of this form, although the old custom that gave rise to the term has long since been discontinued. A more accurate designation, and one that we shall here adopt, is "Subordinate Song." (Other names, which the student will encounter, are "maggiore," "minore," "intermezzo," "alternative," etc.). Like the principal song, its fellow (the subordinate song) may be either a Two-Part or a Three-Part design. It is very likely to resemble its principal song in species of measure, tempo, and general style; and its key may be the same as that of the principal division, or, at least, related to it. But similarity of style is by no means obligatory, the element of contrast having become more important than Unity, in a design of such extent. It is also usually complete in itself, though its connection with its principal song may involve a few measures of transitional material. THE "DA CAPO."--This association of song-forms is subject to the principle which governs all tripartite forms, namely, the return to the beginning, and confirmation of the first (or principal) statement; not only because of the general desirability of such a return, but because _the necessity for it increases with the growth of the form_. In a design that comprises a number of entire song-forms, it may be regarded as indispensable. Therefore, the subordinate song is followed by a recurrence of the principal song,--called the _da capo_ (or "from the beginning"), because of those Italian words of direction given to the player upon reaching the end of the "Trio," or subordinate song. The reproduction of the principal division is likely to be literal, so that the simple directions "_da capo_" suffice, instead of re-writing the entire division. But, here again, changes may be made,--generally unimportant variations which do not obscure the form; or an abbreviation, or even slight extension. And a codetta or coda is sometimes added to the whole. The Song with Trio is thus seen to correspond to the Three-Part Song-form, upon a larger scale. The several _Parts_ of the latter become complete _Song-forms_. An important distinction, to which especial attention must be directed, is the _completeness_ of the contents of each song-form, and their fairly distinct _separation_ from each other, in the Song with Trio. The significance of these traits will become apparent to the analytic student, as he progresses along the line of form-evolution into the still larger designs. LESSON 12.--The following examples all belong to the Song with Trio. They should be analyzed as usual, each Song separately, defining the Parts, their form, and other details, as minutely as possible. Careful analysis is the first condition of intelligent interpretation; and the more complete the analysis, the fuller and more authoritative the interpretation:-- Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas: op. 2, No. 1, third movement; the divisions are called _Menuetto_ and _Trio_, therefore this is an authentic type of the present design; each is a complete Three-Part Song-form; the key is the same, though a change from minor into major takes place; after the _Trio_, the _Menuetto_ does not re-appear (on the printed page), but its reproduction is demanded by the words _Menuetto da capo_, at the end of the Trio. Op. 2, No. 2, _Scherzo_ and _Trio_. Op. 2, No. 3, _Scherzo_ and _Trio_. Op. 7, third movement, _Allegro_ and _Minore_. Op. 10, No. 2, second movement, _Allegretto_ (the subordinate song is not marked, but is easily distinguished; there are no _da capo_ directions, because the principal song is re-written, with alterations). Op. 10, No. 3, _Menuetto_ and _Trio_. Op. 14, No. 1, second movement. _Allegretto_ and _Maggiore_; a coda is added. Op. 22, _Menuetto_ and _Minore_. Op. 26, _Scherzo_ and _Trio_. Op. 27, No. 1, second movement, _Allegro molto_; the Trio is not marked; the "_da capo_" is variated, and a coda follows. Op. 27, No. 2, _Allegretto_ and _Trio_. Op. 28, _Scherzo_ and _Trio_. Op. 31, No. 3, _Menuetto_ and _Trio_. Schumann, op. 68, No. 11; here there are no outward indications of the Song with Trio, but that is the design employed; for the subordinate song the measure is changed from 6-8 to 2-4, but the key remains the same; the reproduction of the principal song is indicated in German, instead of Italian. No. 12, No. 29, No. 39 (here the _da capo_ is considerably changed). In No. 37 the "subordinate song" is represented by no more than a brief Interlude (measures 33-40) between the principal song and its recurrence,--just sufficient to provide an occasion for the latter (which, by the way, is also abbreviated). Mozart, pianoforte sonatas: No. 2, _Andante cantabile_; each song-form has two Parts; the subordinate song changes into the minor. No. 9, second movement, _Menuettos_; the subordinate song is marked "Menuetto II," a custom probably antedating the use of the word "Trio" (see Bach, 2d English Suite, _Bourrée_ I and II). No. 12, _Menuetto_. Schubert, _Momens musicals_, op. 94, Nos. 1, 4, and 6. Schumann, op. 82 (_Waldscenen_), Nos. 7 and 8. Chopin, _Mazurkas_, Nos. 6, 12, 23, 47, 50. In Nos. 10, 45, 46 and 51, the subordinate song consists of one Part only, but is sufficiently distinct, complete, and separate to leave no doubt of the form. Also Chopin, _Nocturne_ No. 13 (op. 48, No. 1). Examples of this compound Song-form will also be found, almost without exception, in Marches, Polonaises, and similar Dance-forms; and in many pianoforte compositions of corresponding broader dimensions, which, _if extended beyond the very common limits of the Three-Part form_, will probably prove to be Song with Trio. This the student may verify by independent analysis of pianoforte literature,--never forgetting that uncertain examples may need (if small) to be classed among the group-forms, or (if large) may be suspected of belonging to the higher forms, not yet explained, and are therefore to be set aside for future analysis. Mention must be made of the fact that in some rare cases--as in Mendelssohn's well-known "Wedding March"--_two Trios_, and consequently two _da capos_, will be found. CHAPTER XIII. THE FIRST RONDO-FORM. EVOLUTION.--It cannot have escaped the observant student of the foregoing pages, that the successive enlargement of the structural designs of musical composition is achieved by a process of natural growth and progressive evolution. No single form intrudes itself in an arbitrary or haphazard manner; each design emerges naturally and inevitably out of the preceding, in response to the necessity of expansion, and conformably with the same constant laws of unity and variety,--the active agents, along the entire unbroken line of continuous evolution, being _reproduction_ (Unity) and legitimate _modification_ (Variety); or, in other words, _modified repetition_. It is upon the indisputable evidence of such normal evolution in the system of musical structure, that our conviction of the legitimacy and permanence of this system rests. The diagrams which appear on pages 78 and 98 partly illustrate the line of evolution, which, in its fullest significance, may be traced as follows: the _tone_, by the simplest process of reproduction, became a _figure_; the figure, by multiplication or repetition, gave rise to the _motive_; the latter, in the same manner, to the _phrase_. The repetition of the phrase, upon the infusion of a certain quality and degree of modification (chiefly affecting the cadences) became the _period_; the latter, by the same process, became the double-period. The limit of coherent phrase-succession (without a determined interruption) being therewith reached, the larger Part-forms became necessary. The _Two-Part_ form emerged out of the double-period, the two "connected" periods of which separated into two "independent" Parts, by the determined interruption in the center. And, be it well understood, each new design having once been thus established, its enlargement within its own peculiar boundaries followed as a matter of course; I mean, simply, that the two Parts did not need to remain the _periods_ that were their original type; the process of growth cannot be stopped. The _Three-Part_ form resulted from adding to the Two-Part the perfecting reversion to the starting-point, and confirmation of the principal statement. The _Five-part_ form, and the _Song with Trio_ are enlargements of the Three-Part forms by repetition or multiplication; and with the latter the limit of this particular process appears to be achieved. Any further growth must take place from within, rather than by addition from without. But the process of evolution continues steadily, as the student will witness. To one vital fact his attention is here called,--a fact which he is enjoined to hold in readiness for constant application,--namely, _that perfection of structural design is attained in the Three-Part form, and that every larger (or higher) form will have its type in this design, and its basis upon it_. The coming designs will prove to be expansions of the Three-Part form. THE RONDO-FORMS.--The structural basis of the Rondo, and other larger or (as they are sometimes called) higher forms, is the Subject or Theme. The form and contents of this factor, the Theme, are so variable that a precise definition can scarcely be given. It is a musical sentence of very distinct character, as concerns its melodic, harmonic and, particularly, its rhythmic consistency; and of sufficient length to establish this individuality,--seldom, if ever, less than an entire period or double-period; often a Two-Part, not infrequently a complete Three-Part Song-form, though never more than the latter. In the Rondo-forms, two or three such Themes are associated in such _alternating succession that, after each new Theme, the first or Principal Theme recurs_. The term "Rondo" may be referred to this trait, the periodic return of the Principal theme, which, in thus "coming round" again, after each digression into another theme, imparts a characteristic circular movement (so to speak), to the design. In the rondos, then, all the movements of musical development revolve about one significant sentence or theme, the style of which therefore determines the prevailing character of the whole composition. This, which is naturally called the Principal theme, is placed at the beginning of the rondo. Its end being reached, it is temporarily abandoned for a second sentence, called the Subordinate theme, of more or less emphatically contrasting style and of nearly or quite equal length (generally shorter, however), and always in a different key. After this there occurs the momentous _return to the beginning_,--the most insistent and vital fundamental condition of good, clear, musical form, of whatsoever dimension or purport,--and the _Principal_ theme reasserts itself, recurring with a certain degree of variation and elaboration (occasionally abbreviation), thus vindicating its title as Principal theme, and stamping its fellow-theme as a mere digression. After this,--if a still broader design is desired,--another digression may be made into a new Subordinate theme, in still another key, followed by the persistent return to the Principal theme. And so on. Upon the Subordinate theme, or themes, devolves the burden of variety and contrast, while the Principal theme fulfils the requirements of corroboration and concentration. A coda, sometimes of considerable length, is usually added; it appears to be necessary, as a means of supplying an instinctive demand for balance, increased interest, and certain other scarcely definable conditions of very real importance in satisfactory music form. Of the Rondo-forms there are three grades, distinguished respectively _by the number of digressions_ from the Principal theme:-- The First Rondo-form, with one digression (or Subordinate theme), and one return to the Principal theme; The Second Rondo-form, with two digressions, and two returns; The Third Rondo-form, with three digressions and three returns. The persistent recurrence of the Principal theme, something like a refrain, and the consequent regular alternation of the chief sentence with its contrasting subordinate sentences, are the distinctive structural features of the Rondo. {108} THE FIRST RONDO-FORM.--This consists, then, of a Principal theme (generally Two-Part or Three-Part Song-form); a Subordinate theme in a different key (probably a smaller form); a recurrence of the Principal theme (usually more or less modified or elaborated); and a coda. Thus:-- _Principal Theme. Subordinate Theme. Prin. Theme. Coda._ 2- or 3-Part Period, Double-period, As before, Optional Song-form. 2- or 3-Part usually Probably a form. Different variated. perfect cadence. style and key. Sometimes Possibly a few Possibly a brief abbreviated. beats or measures codetta; and of transitional usually a few material, leading measures of into next theme. Re-transition. The design is that of the tripartite forms. But it is not to be confounded with the Three-Part _Song-form_, because at least one of its Themes, and probably both, will be a Part-form by itself. It is an association of Song-forms, and therefore corresponds in design to the _Song with Trio_. The first Rondo differs from the latter, however, in being more compact, more coherent and continuous, and more highly developed. This manifests itself in the relation of the Themes to each other, which, despite external contrast, is more intimate than that between the Principal and Subordinate Song (or Trio); further, in the transitional passages from one Theme into the other (especially the Re-transition, or "returning passage"); in the customary elaboration of the recurring Principal Theme; and in the almost indispensable coda, which often assumes considerable importance, and an elaborate form and character. The evolution of the First Rondo-form of the Song with Trio may be clearly traced in classic literature. Many intermediate stages appear, naturally; and it is sometimes difficult to determine whether the design is Rondo or compound Song-form, simply because it is scarcely possible to decide just when the "Trio" assumes the more intimate relation of a Subordinate theme, or when the freedom and comparative looseness of association (peculiar to the Song with Trio) is transformed into the closer cohesion and greater smoothness of finish _which fuses all the component Parts of the design into one compact whole_,--the distinctive stamp of all so-called "higher" forms. The thoughtful examination and comparison of the following four examples will elucidate the matter:-- 1. Beethoven, first pianoforte sonata (op. 2, No. 1), _Menuetto_ and _Trio_. Already analyzed as a perfectly genuine Song with Trio. 2. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 28, second movement, _Andante_. The principal Song is in the Three-Part form, with exact repetitions. The subordinate song differs so radically in style, and each song is so complete and distinct from the other, that the form is almost certainly Song with Trio; but there is a strong intimation of the Rondo-form in the elaborate variation of the _da capo_, and in the treatment of the coda (last 17 measures), in which motives from both Songs are associated so closely as to vindicate their kinship. In a word, this movement possesses,--despite the apparent independence of its Songs,--some degree of that continuity, compactness and artistic finish which culminate in the genuine Rondo-form. 3. Mozart, pianoforte sonata, No. 10, second movement (_Rondeau en polonaise_). The continuity and unity of this composition is so complete that it is certainly a Rondo-form; the principal theme is a fairly large Three-Part form; the subordinate theme (measure 47-69) is a Two-Part form, the second part corresponding in contents to the second Part of the principal theme; the _recurrence_ of the principal theme is abbreviated to one of its three Parts, and is merged in the coda (last seven measures), which assumes the nature of a mere extension. Despite all this evidence, there still remains a certain impression of structural independence, which, so to speak, betrays the "seams," and militates somewhat against the spirit of the perfect Rondo-form. See also, No. 13, Adagio. 4. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 2, No. 2, _Largo_; the unessential details omitted in the following (in order to economize space) appear, of course, in the original,--to which the student is expected to refer. [Illustration: Example 54. Fragment of Beethoven.] [Illustration: Example 54 continued.] [Illustration: Example 54 continued.] This is a genuine First Rondo-form. All the factors of which it is composed, Phrases, Parts and Themes, are so closely interlinked that the continuity, cohesion and _unity_ of the whole is complete. The variety of contents which these factors exhibit (greatest, naturally, between the two themes), does not disturb the impression that the whole movement is a unit. This is due, at least partly, to the manner in which the perfect cadences are disguised; each one is passed over with the least possible check of rhythmic movement (measures 8, 19, etc.), thus snugly dove-tailing the structural factors. The coda is elaborate and unusually long; it consists of several "sections," as follows (see the original): from measure 1 (the last measure in Ex. 54) to measure 4, a phrase, derived from the second Part of the Principal theme; measures 5-7, an abbreviated repetition; measures 8-14, a phrase, derived from the Principal theme; measures 15-17, a transitional passage; measures 18-25, a period, closely resembling Part I of the Principal theme; measures 26-30, final phrase. LESSON 13.--Analyze the following examples. They are not classified; the student must determine whether the form is pure First Rondo, or an intermediate grade between Rondo and "Song with Trio." One of the examples is a genuine Song with Trio; and one is a _Three-Part Song-form_; with reasonable vigilance the student will detect these "catches." To distinguish these three designs from each other, recollect-- That the Three-Part Song-form consists of three _single Parts_, fairly similar in character, fairly small in form, and severed either by a firm cadence, or by unmistakable proof of new "beginning;" That in the first Rondo-form, at least one of the themes (if not both) contains _two_ (or three) Parts; and, That in the Song with Trio, the two "Songs" are more independent of each other, and more decisively separated, than are the "themes" of the Rondo-form. With reference to all uncertain cases, it must be remembered that _the more doubtful a distinction is, the less important is its decision_. These designs naturally merge one in another, and at times it is folly to impose a definite analysis upon them. The analysis should be as minute as possible, nevertheless. The first step is to define the extremities of the two themes. This fixes the coda (and the introduction, if present); the re-transition (returning passage into the Principal theme); and the transition into the Subordinate theme--if present. The form of each theme must be defined in detail, as in Ex. 54:-- Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas: op. 2, No. 1, _Adagio_. Op. 7, _Largo_. Op. 2, No. 3, _Adagio_. Op. 79, _Andante_. Op. 27, No. 1, _Allegro molto_. Schubert, pianoforte _Impromptus_, op. 90, No. 2; and No. 3. Chopin, _Mazurka_, No. 26. Chopin, _Nocturnes_: op. 27, No. 1. Op. 32, No. 2. Op. 37, No. 2. Op. 48, No. 1. Op. 55, No. 1; and No. 2 Op. 62, No. 1. Op. 72, No. 1 (E minor, posthumous). CHAPTER XIV. THE SECOND RONDO-FORM. As described in the preceding chapter, the Second Rondo-form contains two digressions from the Principal theme, called respectively the first and second Subordinate themes. It bears the same relation to the Five-Part Song-form, that the First Rondo-form bears to the Three-Part Song-form. For the sake of effective contrast, _the two Subordinate themes are generally differentiated_ to a marked degree; more precisely stated, the _second_ Subordinate theme is likely to differ strikingly both from the Principal theme and from the first Subordinate theme; the result is that, as a general rule, the second digression is more emphatic than the first. To prevent the enlarged design from assuming too great dimensions, the several themes are apt to be more concise than in the first Rondo-form; the Two-Part form is therefore more common than the Three-Part; the first Subordinate theme is generally brief, and the Principal theme upon its recurrences, is frequently abbreviated,--especially the last one, which often merges in the coda. An example of the second Rondo-form (which may be sufficiently illustrated without notes) will be found in the last movement of Beethoven's pianoforte sonata, op. 49, No. 2 (G major). Number the one hundred and twenty measures, and define the factors of the form with close reference to the following indications--the figures in parenthesis denoting the measures: _Principal theme_. Part I (1-8), period-form; Part II (9-12), phrase; Part III (13-20), period-form. _Transition_, period-form (21-27), leading into the new key. _First Subordinate theme_, period-form (28-36), with _Codetta_, repeated (37-42). _Re-transition_ (43-47). _Principal theme_, as before (48-67). _Second Subordinate theme_, double-period (68-83); the process of _Re-transition_ manifests its inception about one measure before (82), and is carried on to measure 87. _Principal theme_, as before (88-107). _Coda_, period, with modified repetition of consequent phrase (108-119),--followed by an extra perfect cadence, as extension. LESSON 14.--Analyze the following examples, as usual. Review the directions given in Lesson 13:-- Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas: op. 10, No. 3, last movement. Op. 14, No. 2, last movement (called _Scherzo_). Op. 79, last movement (very concise). Op. 13, _Adagio_ (still more concise. Is this not a Five-Part Song-form?) Beethoven, _Polonaise_ for the pianoforte, op. 89. Mozart, _Rondo_ in A minor, for pianoforte. CHAPTER XV. THE THIRD RONDO-FORM. In this form of composition there are three digressions from the Principal theme. But, in order to avert the excess of variety, so imminent in a design of such length, the digressions are so planned that _the third one corresponds to the first_. That is, there are here again only two Subordinate themes (as in the Second Rondo-form), which alternate with each other, so that the succession of thematic factors is as follows: Principal Theme; 1st Subordinate Theme; Principal Theme; 2d Subordinate Theme; Principal Theme; 1st Subordinate Theme; Principal Theme; and coda. It will be observed that this arrangement is another confirmation and embodiment of the Three-Part (tripartite) form, with its "recurrence of the first section," magnified into larger proportions than any examples thus far seen. The three portions are called, _Divisions_. The first is known as the _Exposition_, comprising the Principal Theme, First Subordinate Theme, and recurrence of the Principal Theme; the second division consists of the Second Subordinate Theme only; the Third Division is the _Recapitulation_ of the first Division. THE EXPOSITION.--This first Division, the "statement," compounded of two themes and a recurrence, is in itself a complete (though probably very concise) First Rondo-form; therefore, in order to confirm the intended design, at least one of its themes must contain two (or more) Parts,--otherwise it would be no more, all together, than a Three-Part Song-form, and the _whole_ Rondo would be reduced to the design of the First Rondo-form. In a word, the Exposition must correspond concisely to the table given on page 108. The First Subordinate theme takes its usual emphatic position in a different key,--generally closely related to the key of the Principal theme. Sometimes, but by no means regularly, the Exposition closes with a decisive perfect cadence in the original key. The Middle Division.--As this should balance (at least approximately), the Exposition, it is likely to be a fairly broad design,--not greater, however, than a Three-Part Song-form (possibly with repetitions), and often no more than a Two-Part form. As intimated in the preceding chapter, the Second Subordinate theme is usually strongly contrasted with the other themes, in character, key, and length; but the same unity of total effect is necessary, as in the smaller Rondo-forms. The re-transition (or returning passage) is often quite lengthy and elaborate; it is seldom an independent section of the form, however, but generally developed out of the last phrase of the theme, by the process of "dissolution,"--to be explained more fully in Chapter XVII. THE RECAPITULATION.--This corresponds, theoretically, to the _da capo_ in the Song with Trio, or to the variated recurrence of the Principal theme in the First Rondo-form. But it is more than either of these. The term "Recapitulation" is more comprehensive than "recurrence" (in the sense in which we have thus far employed the latter word), as it always refers to the reproduction of a _collection_ of themes, and, chiefly on this account, is subject to certain specific conditions of technical treatment. Recapitulation, in the larger designs of composition, _invariably involves transposition_, or change of key,--the transposition of the First Subordinate theme, from the key chosen for its first announcement (in the Exposition) back _to the principal key_ of the piece. This, as may be inferred, greatly affects the original transition and re-transition; and it may necessitate changes within the theme itself, in consequence of the change of register. Further, the last recurrence of the Principal theme being no less than its fourth announcement, is rarely complete; as a rule, a brief intimation (the first motive or phrase) is deemed sufficient, and this is then dissolved into the coda; or the Principal theme, as such, is omitted, or affiliated with the coda, or one of its sections. {119} For an illustration of the Third Rondo-form, the student is referred to the last movement of Beethoven's pianoforte sonata, op. 2, No. 2, the diagram of which is as follows:-- _Middle_ _Exposition._ _Division_ _Recapitulation._ ------------------------ ---------- ---------------------------------- Pr.Th. 1stSub.Th. Pr.Th. 2d Sub.Th. Pr.Th. 1st Sub.Th. Pr.Th. and Coda ------------------------ ---------- ---------------------------------- A maj. E maj. A maj. A minor A maj. A maj. A maj. For its detailed analysis, number the measures as usual (there are 187, the "second ending" not being counted), and define each factor of the form by reference to the given indications,--the figures in parenthesis again denoting the measures:-- _Principal Theme_, Part I (1-8), period-form. Part II (9-12), phrase. Part III (13-16), phrase. _Transition_, period-form (17-26), leading into the new key. _First Sub. Theme_, period, Antecedent (27-32), Consequent (33-39). _Re-transition_ (40). _Principal Theme_, as before, (41-56). This ends the EXPOSITION. _Second Sub. Theme_, Part I (57-66), period, literal repetition. Part II (67-74) period-form. Part III (75-79) phrase. Parts II and III repeated (80-92); the process of _re-transition_ begins one measure earlier (91), and is pursued to measure 99. The RECAPITULATION begins in the next measure with the _Principal Theme_, as before, slightly modified (100-115). _Transition_, as before, slightly abbreviated (116-123). _First Subordinate Theme_, as before, but transposed to the principal key, A major, and somewhat modified (124-135). _Principal Theme_ begins in measure 135, where the preceding theme ends; consequently, there is an Elision. In measure 140 it is dissolved into the _Coda_: Section 1 (to measure 148). Section 2 (149-160). Section 3 (161-172). Section 4 (173-180). Section 5 (to end). LESSON 15.--Analyze the following examples, as usual. They represent chiefly the Third Rondo-form, but _one example each_ of the First and Second Rondo-forms have been introduced, to stimulate the vigilance of the student. Review the directions given in Lesson 13: Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas: op. 26, last movement, (very concise, but a perfect model of the form). Op. 28, last movement. Op. 7, last movement. Op. 2, No. 3, last movement. Op. 13, last movement. Op. 22, last movement. Op. 14, No. 1, last movement. Op. 31, No. 1, _Adagio_. Beethoven, _Rondos_ for pianoforte, op. 51, No. 1; and op. 51, No. 2. Mozart, pianoforte sonata, No. 4, last movement; No. 3, last movement. CHAPTER XVI. THE SONATINE FORM. CLASSIFICATION OF THE LARGER FORMS.--The Sonatine form is the smaller variety of two practically kindred designs, known collectively as the Sonata-allegro forms. In order to obtain a clear conception of its relation to the latter, and also to the Rondo-forms, it is necessary to subject the entire group of so-called "higher" forms to a brief comparison. The larger, broader, or "higher" designs of musical composition are divided into two classes: the three _Rondo-forms_, and the two _Sonata-allegro forms_. The latter constitute the superior of the two classes, for the following reasons:-- In the first place, the rondos rest upon a narrower thematic basis, centering in one single theme--the Principal one--about which the other themes revolve. Further, their most salient structural feature is nothing more significant than simple _alternation_ (of the Principal theme with its one or more Subordinates) the Principal theme recurs after each digression with a persistence that lends a certain one-sidedness to the form,--only excepting in the Third (and highest) Rondo-form, which, by virtue of its broad Recapitulation of the first Division, approaches most nearly the rank of the Sonata-allegro design, as will be seen. In the Sonata-allegro forms, on the other hand, the leading purpose is _to unite two co-ordinate themes upon an equal footing_; one is to appear as often as the other; and the two themes _together_ constitute the thematic basis of the design. These are, as in the rondos, a Principal theme (called principal because it appears first, and thus becomes in a sense the index of the whole movement), and a Subordinate theme (so called in contradistinction to the other),--contrasting in character, as usual, but actually of equal importance, and of nearly or quite equal length. To these, there is commonly added a codetta (or "concluding theme" as it is {122} sometimes called, though it seldom attains to the dignity of a _theme_),--sometimes two, or even more, codettas, which answer the general purpose of a coda, rounding off and balancing this Division of the design. This union of the two or three thematic components that are to represent the contents of the design, is the _Exposition_, or first Division, of the Sonata-allegro forms. It indicates a point of contact between the latter and the rondo,--in the _Third_ form of which we also find an Exposition. Careful comparison of the two types of exposition reveals the significant difference between the two classes, however; in the Third Rondo, the exposition was an _alternation_ of themes, with decided preference for the principal one; in the Sonata-allegro it is a _union_ of themes, without preference, resulting in a broader thematic basis. THE SONATINE FORM.--In the Sonatine-form, or the smaller variety of the sonata-allegro designs, this Exposition (or first Division) is followed _at once_,--or after a few measures of interlude, or re-transitional material,--by a Recapitulation of the Division, as was seen in the Third Rondo-form, and under the same conditions of transposition as there. The diagram of the form is therefore as follows:-- Exposition. Recapitulation. ----------------------------- ------------------------------ PR. TH. SUB. TH. CODETTA. Very PR. TH. SUB. TH. CODETTA. ----------------------------- brief ------------------------------ As usual. In some Optional. Inter- As In the Also in related lude before. principal principal key. key. key. An additional coda is, as usual, likely to appear at the end. This diagram should be very carefully compared with that of the Third Rondo-form on page 119, and the points both of agreement and dissimilarity noted. More minute details of the Sonatine form will be given in the next chapter, in connection with the larger and more fully developed Sonata-allegro form. An illustration of the Sonatine-form will be found in Mozart, 6th pianoforte sonata, _adagio_. Number the measures, as usual, and analyze with reference to the indications given; the figures in parenthesis again denote the measures. _Principal Theme_, B-flat major, period-form,--possibly double-period, because of the slow tempo and large measures (1-8). There is no Transition. _Subordinate Theme_, F major, period-form, extended. Antecedent (9-12); consequent, very similar (13-16); extension by addition of new phrase, as in the group-form (16 1/2-19). _Codetta_, also in F major, very brief, only one-half measure, and repeated as usual (19 1/2-20). This ends the Exposition. _Interlude_, the remaining beats of measure 20; it is, of course, a brief re-transition, and is therefore strongly suggestive of the First Rondo-form, the _details of which exactly coincide, thus far, with the above factors of the sonatine-form_. Such coincidences merely confirm the unbroken line of evolution, and are to be expected in the system of legitimate, rational music designs. The RECAPITULATION (the original _da capo_) follows, beginning with the _Principal Theme_, B-flat major, as before (21-28) but somewhat embellished. Again, there is no Transition. (Here the similarity to the First Rondo ends.) _Subordinate Theme_, corresponds very closely to the former version, but transposed to B-flat major, the principal key, and variated (29-39). _Codetta_, also in B-flat major (39 1/2-40), slightly extended. There is no coda. LESSON 16.--Analyze the following examples of the sonatine-form, in the usual exhaustive manner:-- Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas; op. 10, No. 1, _Adagio_. Op. 31, No. 2, _Adagio_. Mendelssohn, _Andante cantabile_ in B-flat major (pianoforte). Mozart, pianoforte sonata. No. 17, _Andante amoroso_ (somewhat longer interlude). Mendelssohn, _Presto agitato_ in B minor for pianoforte (preceded by an "Andante cantabile" which has no connection with the sonatine-form of the _presto_, but may also be analyzed). This design is very broad; each factor is expanded to its fullest legitimate extent, especially the "codetta" section. {124} CHAPTER XVII. THE SONATA-ALLEGRO FORM. ORIGIN OF THE NAME.--The fully developed Sonata-allegro form is the design in which the classic overture and the first movement of the symphony, sonata and concerto are usually framed. The student must be careful not to confound this musical form with the _complete_ sonata of three or four movements. It is not to be called the "sonata form," but the "sonata-allegro form." It is to one movement only, generally the first one, which is (or was) very commonly an _allegro_ tempo in the sonata and symphony, that the present design refers; and its name, sonata-allegro, is derived from that old historic species of the sonata which consisted originally of but one movement, generally an _allegro_. THE SONATA-ALLEGRO FORM.--As distinguished from the sonatine-form, with its two Divisions, this larger species, based upon precisely the same structural idea, has _three Divisions_,--the Exposition, a middle Division called the Development (growing out of the brief interlude of the sonatine-form), and the Recapitulation. The diagram (the keys of which correspond to the plan of Beethoven, op. 14, No. 2, first movement) is as follows: Exposition. Middle Div. Recapitulation. ---------------------- ------------- ------------------------- Pr. Sub. Codetta. Development, Phr. Sub. Codetta Th. Th. various keys, Th. Th. and Coda. ---------------------- ending with ------------------------- G maj. D maj. D maj. Retransition. G maj. G maj. G maj. Compare this diagram, also, with that of the Third Rondo-form, and note, accurately, the points of resemblance and contrast. Compare it, further, with the diagram of the sonatine-form, on page 122. It will be observed that here the Recapitulation does not follow the Exposition at once, as there, but that a complete middle division intervenes, instead of the brief interlude or re-transition; from which the student may conclude that the sonatine-form gradually grows into the sonata-allegro form, as this interlude becomes longer, more elaborate, and more like an independent division of the design. Or inversely, and perhaps more correctly, the sonata-allegro becomes a sonatine-design _by the omission (or contraction) of the middle Division_. THE EXPOSITION.--The presentation of the thematic factors, the statement or Exposition of the two themes and codetta, is made exactly as in the sonatine-form, though probably upon a broader scale. The Principal theme is usually a Two-Part Song-form, at least; often Three-Part. In broader designs, a separate transitional passage appears; in more concise designs, the transition is developed out of the last Part of the Principal theme by the process of dissolution--as will be seen. The object of the transition is, as usual, _to lead into the new key_ (of the Subordinate theme). It is sometimes, though very rarely, omitted. The Subordinate theme contrasts notably with its fellow, but asserts equal importance, as a rule, and may be of equal, or nearly equal, length. The addition of a codetta is almost indispensable, and frequently two or more appear, growing successively shorter, and generally repeated. In the sonata-allegro _the Exposition closes, as a rule, with a very decisive perfect cadence_, followed by a double-bar, and--especially in older sonatas--repetition-marks; the repetition of the Exposition being justly considered important, as a means of emphasizing the "statement," and enforcing the hearer's attention to the thematic contents before preceding to their development in the second division of the form. In the sonatine-form, on the contrary, this positive termination of the Exposition (and consequently the double-bar and repetition) will very rarely be found. THE DEVELOPMENT, OR MIDDLE DIVISION. The second division of the sonata-allegro form is devoted to a more or less extensive and elaborate manipulation and combination of such figures, motives, phrases or Parts of the Exposition as prove inviting and convenient for the purpose, or challenge the imaginative faculty of the composer. In this division, opportunity is provided for the exhibition of technical skill, imagination and emotional passion; for the creation of ingenious contrasts and climaxes, and, in a word, for the development of unexpected resources not strikingly manifest in the more sober presentation of the thematic factors during the Exposition. The intermingling of _new material_ is naturally also involved in the process of development; sometimes to such an extent that the new predominates over the old,--in which case the middle Division is more properly called an EPISODE. This second Division of the sonata-allegro form (the Development or Episode) corresponds precisely, as will be recognized, to the second Part of the Three-Part Song-form; consequently, it represents the "departure" (see page 90), and entails, in rational form, the significant "return" to the beginning. Further, it matches to some degree the "digression" in the rondo-forms. At all events, its important structural function is to establish contrast; and the necessity for corroboration of the leading thematic ideas--in consequence of this contrast--is satisfied in the Division which succeeds. It is sometimes possible to mark the exact point where the Development ends and the process of re-transition commences; but usually the return to the beginning is accomplished so gradually that no sensible interruption occurs. THE RECAPITULATION.--This, the third Division, is, as usual, a review of the original presentation of the thematic material,--the recurrence of the Exposition. It is sometimes a nearly exact reproduction, _excepting the necessary change of key in the Subordinate theme and codetta_, and such modification of the transitional section as may be thereby involved. Sometimes, however, considerable alteration is made, at times so elaborate (especially in broader examples) that, though preserving easy recognizability, the Recapitulation assumes the appearance of a new version of the Exposition, and becomes a more independent part of the design. A _coda_ is almost always added; sometimes brief, but occasionally so elaborate and extensive as to merit the appellation "second Development." DISSOLUTION.--When any section of a higher form starts out with a perfectly definite structural intention, pursues this intention for a time (sufficient to establish it), but then insensibly diverges and gradually adopts a new modulatory direction,--as transition into the following section,--the form is said to be dissolved. Such dissolution takes place, naturally, within the _later_ section of the theme, or Part, or whatever it may be, whose actual, definite ending in the expected key is thus frustrated. For instance, the second (or third) Part of a theme may be dissolved; or the last phrase of a period or double-period; or the repetition of a phrase. And the dissolution is invariably applied before a transition or re-transition, as a means of interlocking the factors of the form more closely and coherently. Therefore it is a process peculiarly adapted to the higher designs of composition, and is seldom omitted in the sonata-allegro form. For an illustration, see Beethoven's sonata, op. 14, No. 2, first movement: The Principal theme is a Two-Part Song-form; Part I, a period, from measures 1 to 8; Part II begins in measure 9, and has every appearance of becoming also a period; its Antecedent phrase closes in measure 12, its Consequent begins in measure 13--but its end, _as Second Part_, in the usual definite manner, cannot be indicated; the key is quietly changed from G to D, and then to A, in obedience to the call of the Subordinate theme (beginning in measure 26), into which these last 10 or 12 measures have evidently been a Transition. The Second Part of the Principal theme therefore includes the transition; but where the Second Part (as such) ends, and the transition (as such) begins, it is impossible to point out accurately. The definition of this Principal theme is, "Two-Part form with dissolved Second Part," or, still better, "_with transitional Second Part_." * * * * * * In our illustration of the sonata-allegro form it is necessary, on account of limited space, to select a very concise example, of unusual brevity,--Beethoven, sonata, op. 49, No. 1, first movement; the original may be referred to, for the omitted details:-- [Illustration: Example 55. Fragment of Beethoven.] [Illustration: Example 55 continued.] [Illustration: Example 55 continued.] [Illustration: Example 55 continued.] The thematic factors are small, but none is omitted; every essential component is represented. For a more extended and fully developed example of the sonata-allegro form, see Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 14, No. 2, first movement; number the 200 measures, and verify all the details according to the following analysis (figures in parenthesis refer as usual to the measures):-- _Principal Theme_, Part I, period-form (1-8). Part II (9- ), dissolved (about 14) into _Transition_ ( -25). _Subordinate Theme_, Part I, period, extended (26-36). Part II, period, probably (37-41-47). _Codetta I_, period, extended (48-58). _Codetta II_, Small phrase, extended (59-63). Here the Exposition closes, with the customary double-bar and repetition marks. _Development_, Section I (64-73), from Principal theme. Section 2 (74-80), from Subordinate theme. Section 3 (81-98), from Principal theme. Section 4 (99-107), closely resembling the Principal theme, but in a remote key. This section practically ends the Development, inasmuch as it culminates upon the _dominant of the original key_. Section 5 (107-115), establishment of the dominant. Section 6 (115-124), the _Re-transition_. The _Recapitulation_ begins with the _Principal Theme_, Part I, period (125-132). Part II, group of phrases, longer than before (133-152). _Subordinate Theme_, as before, but in the principal key (153-174). _Codetta (I)_, as before, but slightly extended (175-187). The second codetta is omitted. _Coda_, phrase, repeated and extended (188-200). RELATION TO THE THREE-PART SONG-FORM.--In a former chapter (XIII) the Three-Part form was defined as the type of perfect structural design, upon which every larger (or higher) form is based. Nowhere is the connection more striking, and the process of natural evolution out of this germ more directly apparent, than in the sonata-allegro design. See the diagram on page 124. The Exposition corresponds to the First Part, _so expanded as to comprise the two themes and codetta_, fused into one larger division; the "statement" of a more comprehensive thematic group than the ordinary Part contains, but no more, for all that, than the usual initial "statement." The Development corresponds to the Second Part (proportionately expanded), and the Recapitulation to the Third Part, or recurrence and confirmation of the "statement." Any Three-Part Song-form, the moment that its First Part expands and divides into the semblance of two fairly distinct thematic sections, becomes what might be called a miniature sonata-allegro form. Many Three-Part Song-forms are so broad, and many sonata-allegros so diminutive, that it is here again often difficult to determine the line of demarcation between them. Example 55 (cited because of its comparative brevity) is scarcely more than such a broadly expanded Three-Part Song-form. An example which approaches much more nearly the unmistakable Three-Part song, may be found in Mozart, sonata No. 12, _Menuetto_:-- _Part I_, section one (embryo of a principal theme), measures 1-10, period, extended; section two (embryo of a subordinate theme) measures 11-18, period, _in different key_. _Part II_, group of three phrases, measures 19-30. _Part III_, section one, as before, measures 31-40; section two, as before, _but in the principal key_, measures 41-48. This is, of course, a Three-Part Song-form; but the essential features of the Sonata-allegro are unquestionably present, in miniature. See also, Beethoven, sonata, op. 101, first movement; certainly a sonata-allegro design, but diminutive. * * * * * * The superiority of the sonata-allegro form over all other musical designs, is amply vindicated by the breadth of its thematic basis, the straightforwardness and continuity of its structural purpose, the perfection of its thematic arrangement, and the unexcelled provision which it affords for unity, contrast, corroboration, balance, and whatever else a thoroughly satisfactory structural design seems to demand. Hence, while brief triumphs of apparent "originality" may be achieved by simply running counter to this and similar designs, it seems scarcely possible that any musical form could be contrived that would surpass the sonata-allegro, the last and highest of the forms of composition. LESSON 17.--Analyze the following examples, as usual, carefully defining all the details of the form, according to the general plan adopted in our text:-- Beethoven, pianoforte sonatas; op. 2, No. 1, first movement (diminutive, but very complete and perfect). Op. 2, No. 2, first movement. Op. 10, No. 3, _Largo_. Op. 22, first movement (four or five codettas). Op. 14, No. 1, first movement. Op. 22. _Adagio_. Op. 27, No. 2, last movement. Op. 28, first movement. Op. 31, No. 1, first movement. Op. 31, No. 3, first movement (the last 2 1/2 measures of the Exposition are a transitional Interlude, which leads back into the repetition, and on into the Development). Same sonata, _Scherzo_. Op. 31, No. 2, last movement (coda contains the entire principal theme). Op. 78, first movement (diminutive). Op. 79, first movement. Op. 90, first movement, (no "double-bar"). Op. 57, first movement. Same sonata, last movement. Mozart, sonatas: No. 7, first movement. No. 3, first movement. No. 4, first movement; also _Andante_. No. 8, first movement. No. 5, first movement. No. 10, first movement. No. 6, first movement. No. 1, _Andante_. No. 6, last movement. Mendelssohn, pianoforte _Caprice_, op. 33, No. 2 (brief introduction). Sonata, op. 6, first movement. Op. 7, No. 7. _Fantasia_, op. 28, last movement. Schubert, pianoforte sonatas: op. 143, first movement. Op. 42, first movement. Op. 120, first movement. Op. 147, first movement (in the Recapitulation, the principal theme is transposed). Op. 164, first movement (the same). Beethoven, symphony, No. 5, first movement. Symphony, No. 1, first _Allegro_; also the second movement; and the _Finale_. CHAPTER XVIII. IRREGULAR FORMS. CAUSES.--Despite the many points of resemblance between the various forms to which our successive chapters have been devoted,--the natural consequence of a continuous line of structural evolution to which each plan owes its origin,--they are separate and independent designs, with individual character and purpose; so much so, that the composer may, and usually does, select and apply his form according to the purpose which he has in view. But the form is made for the music, not the music for the form; no serious composer writes music for the sake of the form, but chooses the form merely as a means to an end. The highest ideal of structural dignity and fitness is, to work from the thematic germ _outward_, and to let the development of this germ, _the musical contents_, determine and justify the structural plan and arrangement. But the aims of the composer outnumber the regular forms, and therefore modifications are unavoidable, in order to preserve the latitude which perfect freedom of expression demands. The student may rest assured of the existence of many irregular species of these fundamental forms (as exceptions to the rule) and must expect to encounter no little difficulty and uncertainty in defining the class to which his example belongs,--until wider experience shall have made him expert. All such irregular (or, in a sense, intermediate) varieties of form must necessarily either admit of demonstration as modification of the regular designs; or they will evade demonstration altogether, as lacking those elements of logical coherence which constitute the vital and only condition of "form and order" in musical composition. To these latter comparatively "_formless_" designs belong:--all the group-forms; the majority of fantasias, the potpourri, and, as a rule, all so-called tone-poems, and descriptive (program) music generally. On the other hand, those irregular designs which nevertheless admit of analysis according to the fundamental principles of structural logic, and are therefore directly referable to one or another of the regular forms, may be classified in the following four-fold manner--as Augmentation, Abbreviation, Dislocation, or Mixture, of the proximate fundamental design. 1. AUGMENTATION OF THE REGULAR FORM.--To this species belong those forms (small and large) which are provided with a separate Introduction, or Interludes, or an _independent_ Coda (in addition to, or instead of, the usual consistent coda). For example, Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 13, first movement; the first ten measures (_Grave_) are a wholly independent Introduction, in phrase-group form, with no other relation to the following than that of key, and no connection with the fundamental design excepting that of an extra, superfluous, member. The principal theme of the movement (which is a sonata-allegro) begins with the _Allegro di molto_, in the 11th measure. Similar superfluous sections, derived from this Introduction, reappear as Interlude between the Reposition and Development, and near the end, as independent sections of the coda. In a manner closely analogous to that just seen, the fundamental design of any movement in a _concerto_ is usually expanded by the addition of periodically recurring sections, called the "_tutti_-passages," and by a "_cadenza_," occurring generally within the regular coda. In some concerto-allegros (for instance, in the classic forms of Mozart, Beethoven and others), the first orchestral _tutti_ is a complete _introductory_ Exposition, in concise form, of the thematic material used in the body of the movement. See the first piano-forte concerto of Beethoven, first movement. Further, when the design is one of unusual breadth, as in some symphonic movements, or in elaborate chamber music, the number of fundamental thematic members may be so multiplied that it is necessary to assume the presence of _two successive Subordinate themes_, of equal independent significance,--such significance that neither of them could be confounded with a mere codetta, or any other inferior thematic member. See Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 7, first movement; the Subordinate theme runs from measure 41 to 59; it is followed by another thematic section (60-93) which is so independent, important and lengthy, that it evidently ranks coordinate with the former, as _second Subordinate theme_. It might, it is true, be called the second Part of the Subordinate theme (the latter being no more than a repeated period); or it might be regarded as the first codetta; its thematic independence seems, however, to stamp it Second Subordinate theme. Further, it is not uncommon to extend the sonatine-form by adding, at the end, a more or less complete recurrence of the Principal theme,--instead of, or dissolved into, the customary coda. This may be seen in Mozart, pianoforte sonata, No. 3, _Andantino_; the superfluous recurrence of the Principal theme begins in measure 19 from the end, after the regular sonatine-design has been achieved, fully, though concisely. 2. ABBREVIATION OF THE REGULAR FORM.--This consists chiefly in the omission of the Principal theme after the Development (that is, in beginning the Recapitulation with the Subordinate theme). Other contractions, by omission of _portions_ (Parts) of important thematic members, during the Recapitulation, are also possible, but not so common. An illustration of the omitted Principal theme may be found in Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words, No. 5:-- _Principal Theme_, period, extended (measures 1-11, dissolved into Transition--18). _Subordinate Theme_, phrase, repeated and extended (19-28). _Codetta_ (28-33). _Double-bar_. _Development_ (measures 34-58). _Retransition_ (59-62). _Principal Theme_--omitted. _Subordinate Theme_, as before (63-76). _Codetta_. 3. DISLOCATION OF THEMATIC MEMBERS.--By this is meant, any exchange or alteration of the regular and expected arrangement of members. This can refer, naturally, only to what occurs _after the Exposition_,--that is, during the Recapitulation; for it is the Exposition which determines the plan, and regular order, of the thematic members. For example, Mozart, pianoforte sonata. No. 13, first movement:-- _Principal Theme_, with _Transition_ (measures 1-27). _Subordinate Theme_ (28-41). _Codetta I_ (42-53). _Codetta II_ (54-58). In the Recapitulation, the arrangement is thus:-- _Principal Theme, Codetta I, Subordinate Theme, Codetta II_; that is, the first codetta appears before, instead of after, the Subordinate theme. 4. MIXTURE OF CHARACTERISTIC TRAITS.--This process tends to affiliate the two distinct classes of larger or higher forms, whose respective characteristics were explained and compared at the beginning of Chapter XVI. Upon very careful revision of this explanation, and reference to the given diagrams, the student will perceive that the distinctive trait of the sonata-allegro form is the section of Development which it contains; and that of the three Rondo-forms is the absence of such a Development. Of the mixed forms under consideration there are two: one in which a section of _Development_ is introduced into the Rondo (as substitute for one of its Subordinate themes); and the other a sonata-allegro, in which the Development is omitted, and a new theme (a sort of additional Subordinate theme) inserted in its place. In other words, a Rondo (second or third form--probably _not_ the first rondo-form) with a Development; and a sonata-allegro with a new Middle theme, or Episode (as we have already called it). The Rondo with Development is illustrated in Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 27, No. 1, last movement; it is the third rondo-form, designed as follows:-- _Principal Theme_, Two-Part form (measures 1-24). _Transition_ (25-35). _First Subordinate Theme_, period, extended,--or phrase-group (36-56). _Codetta_ (57-72). _Re-transition_ (73-81). _Principal Theme_ (82-97). _Transition_ (98-106). Then, instead of the Second Subordinate theme, a _Development_ (106-138); followed by an elaborate _Re-transition_ (139-166), and a regular _Recapitulation_. Two wholly independent coda-sections are added, an _Adagio_ (derived from the third movement of the sonata) and a _Presto_, based upon the Principal theme. The sonata-allegro with new Middle theme is illustrated in Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 14, No. 1, first movement; the middle Division contains a preliminary allusion to the Principal theme, but is otherwise an entirely new thematic member, very suggestive of the "Second Subordinate theme" of the Rondos (17-measures long,--up to the Re-transition, in which, again, the Principal theme is utilized). LESSON 18.--Analyze the following examples of Irregular form. They are classified, as in the text:-- 1. Beethoven, sonata, op. 81, first movement. Beethoven, sonata, op. 49, No. 2, first movement. Beethoven, sonata, op. 2, No. 3, first movement. Beethoven, sonata, op. 49, No. 1, last movement (_not_ "Rondo," as marked, but sonatine-form, augmented). Mozart, sonata No. 1, first movement. Mozart, sonata No. 17, last movement (Rondo, with three Subordinate themes). Mendelssohn, _Capriccio brillant_, in B minor. Schubert, pianoforte sonata No. 8 (Peters ed.). _Adagio_. 2. Mendelssohn, _Praeludium_, op. 35, No. 3. Mozart, sonata No. 8, last movement. Schubert, sonata No. 8, last movement. Brahms, pianoforte _Capriccio_, op. 116, No. 1. Chopin, pianoforte sonata, op. 35, first movement. 3. Mozart, sonata No. 3, first movement. Mozart, sonata No. 13, last movement (the Development occurs _after_ instead of before the Principal theme,--in the Recapitulation). 4. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 31, No. 1, last movement. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 90, last movement. Mendelssohn, pianoforte étude, op. 104, No. 2. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 10, No. 1, first movement. Beethoven, pianoforte sonata, op. 2, No. 1, last movement. Mozart, sonata No. 7, _Andante_. Mozart, sonata No. 14, last movement. CHAPTER XIX. APPLICATION OF THE FORMS. The use of the various forms of composition, that is, their selection with a view to general fitness for the composer's object, is, primarily, simply a question of length. The higher aesthetic law of adjusting the design to the contents, of which we spoke in the preceding chapter, comes into action after the main choice has been determined. The smallest complete form, that of the PHRASE, can scarcely be expected to suffice for an independent piece of music, though its occurrence as independent _section_ of an entire composition is by no means rare. The nearest approach to the former dignity is the use of the Large phrase in one instance by Beethoven, as theme for his well-known pianoforte Variations in C minor; this theme, and consequently each variation, is a complete and practically independent composition. At the beginning of Beethoven's pianoforte sonata, Op. 27, No. 1, the student will find a succession of independent four-measure phrases, each with a definite perfect cadence, and therefore complete in itself; this chain of independent phrases is, in fact, the structural basis of the entire first movement, interrupted but briefly by the contrasting _Allegro_. The simple phrase may, also, find occasional application in brief exercises for song or piano; and we have witnessed its use as introduction, and as codetta, in many of the larger designs. The next larger complete form, the PERIOD, is somewhat more likely to be chosen for an entire composition, but by no means frequently. The early grades of technical exercises (public-school music, and similar phases of elementary instruction) are commonly written in period-form, and some of the smallest complete songs in literature (a few of Schumann's, Schubert's, and others) may be defined as period-forms, extended. The theme of the Chaconne (found in the works of Handel, Bach, and even some modern writers) is usually a period. Of the Préludes of Chopin for pianoforte (op. 28), at least four do not exceed the design of the extended period. But these are, naturally, exceptional cases; the proper function of the period-form in music is, to represent the _Parts_, and other fairly complete and independent thematic members of larger forms. This is very largely true of the DOUBLE-PERIOD, also; though it is a very appropriate and common design for the hymn-tune, and similar vocal compositions; and is somewhat more likely to appear as complete composition (in exercises, smaller piano pieces and songs) than is the single period. Nine of Chopin's Préludes are double-periods. The TWO-PART SONG-FORM, as already intimated, is not as common as might be supposed. It is sometimes employed in smaller compositions for piano (variation-themes and the like), or voice; and is probably the form most frequently chosen for the hymn-tune. But its most important place in composition is in the larger forms, as its design adapts it peculiarly to the purposes of the themes, both principal and subordinate. The THREE-PART SONG-FORM, on the contrary, is unquestionably the most common of all the music designs. Probably three-fourths of all our literature are written in this form, with or without the repetitions, or in the related Five-Part form. It is therefore difficult to enumerate the styles of composition to which this admirable design is well adapted, and for which it is employed. The GROUP-FORMS will be found in many songs, études, anthems, and compositions of a fantastic, capricious, rather untrammeled character, in which freedom of expression overrules the consideration of clear, definite form. It is the design perhaps most commonly selected for the Invention, Fugue, and--particularly--the various species of Prélude; though these styles, and others of decidedly fanciful purpose, are not unlikely to manifest approximate, if not direct, correspondence to the Three-Part Song-form. The modern Waltz is usually a group of Song-forms. The SONG-FORM WITH TRIO is encountered in older dances, especially the Menuetto, Passapied, Bourrée, and Gavotte (though even these are often simple Three-Part form, without Trio); and in many modern ones,--excepting the Waltz. It is characteristic of the March, Polonaise, modern Minuet, Gavotte and other dances, and of the Minuet--or Scherzo-movement, in sonatas and symphonies. The FIRST RONDO-FORM is sometimes substituted for the Song with Trio (to which it exactly corresponds in fundamental design, as we have learned) in compositions whose purpose carries them beyond the limits of the Three- or Five-Part forms, and in which greater unity, fluency and cohesion are required than can be obtained in the song with trio; for instance, in larger Nocturnes, Romanzas, Ballades, Études, and so forth. The peculiar place for the First Rondo-form in literature, however, is in the "slow movement" (_adagio, andante, largo_) of the sonata, symphony and concerto, for which it is very commonly chosen. It may also be encountered in the _small_ Rondos of a somewhat early date; and is of course possible in broader vocal compositions (large opera, arias, anthems, etc.). From what has just been said, the student will infer that the rondo-form is not employed exclusively in pieces that are called "Rondo." In the sense in which we have adopted the term, it applies to a _design_, and not to a style, of composition; precisely as the sonata-allegro form may appear in a composition that is not a sonata. This must not be overlooked. Furthermore, there are a few cases in literature in which a movement marked "Rondo" is not written according to the rondo-form. The Second and Third Rondo-forms are so similar in purpose and character that they are generally applied in the same manner, with no other distinction than that of length. Besides occasional occurrence as independent compositions (for instance, the two Rondos of Beethoven, op. 51, the A minor Rondo of Mozart, the Rondos of Field, Dussek, Hummel, Czerny, etc.), these designs are most commonly utilized for the _Finale_ (last movement) of the complete sonata, concerto, string-quartet, trio, and other chamber-music styles; more rarely for the finale of the symphony. The SONATINE and SONATA-ALLEGRO FORMS, likewise, serve corresponding purposes, and are chosen according to the length or breadth of design desired. The sonatine-form may therefore be expected in the first movement of smaller sonatas, or sonatinas (as they are often called), but it is not infrequently employed in the "slow movement" of larger sonatas or symphonies. The most distinguished of all music-designs, the sonata-allegro form, is almost invariably chosen for the opening movement of sonatas, symphonies, concertos, trios, string-quartets and similar compositions, sometimes in greatly augmented dimensions. It is also not unlikely to appear in the slow movement, and _finale_, of the symphony. LESSON 19.--The student may now indulge in independent research, in the careful analysis of the following works: The pianoforte sonatas of Haydn (every movement of each). The sonatas for pianoforte and violin of Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Rubinstein, Grieg, and others. The Trios of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Schubert. The String-quartets (in pianoforte arrangement) of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Schubert. The Overtures (in pianoforte arrangement) of Mozart, Beethoven, Weber, Cherubim. The Concertos (pianoforte or violin) of Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Rubinstein, Saint-Saëns, Schumann, Grieg, Chopin. Also a number of smaller (single) pianoforte compositions:--the études of Chopin; a few études of Czerny, Cramer, Clementi, Heller; the mazurkas, nocturnes, and préludes of Chopin; and miscellaneous pieces by modern writers,--Grieg, Rubinstein, Tschaikowsky (and other Russians), Sgambati, Saint-Saëns, Moszkowski, Raff, Reinecke, Scharwenka, Schütte, MacDowell,--or any other compositions, vocal or instrumental, in which the student may be interested, or which he may be studying. * * * * * * AFTERWORD. The expression "Musical Forms" is often used, somewhat carelessly and erroneously, with reference to _Styles_ or _Species_ of composition, instead of to the structural design upon which the music is based. The "Barcarolle," "Mazurka," "Étude," "Anthem," and so forth, are _styles_ of composition, and not necessarily identified with any of the structural _designs_ we have been examining. Read, again, our FOREWORD. The general conditions which enter into the distinctions of _style_ are enumerated in my "Homophonic Forms," paragraph 97, which the student is earnestly advised to read. As to the manifold styles themselves, with which the present book is not directly concerned, the student is referred to Ernst Pauer's "Musical Forms," and to the music dictionaries of Grove, Baker, Riemann, and other standard writers, where a description of each style or species of composition may be found. THE END. 
19493	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 19493-h.htm or 19493-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/4/9/19493/19493-h/19493-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/4/9/19493/19493-h.zip) The musical illustrations also have been transcribed and collected in two pdf files, links to which can be found at the beginning and the end of the html version. The Exercises follow the Exercises as numbered in the book in chapter II (The Head Voice). The remainder of the musical fragments, which are unlabeled in the book, are noted as Figures A through Q (in the order in which they appear), and can be found in the Figures pdf. THE HEAD VOICE AND OTHER PROBLEMS Practical Talks on Singing by D. A. CLIPPINGER Author of Systematic Voice Training The Elements of Voice Culture 1.00 [Illustration] Boston Oliver Ditson Company New York Chicago Chas. H. Ditson & Co. Lyon & Healy Copyright MCMXVII By Oliver Ditson Company International Copyright Secured _To_ MY STUDENTS _Past, Present and Future_ INTRODUCTION The following chapters are the outgrowth of an enthusiasm for the work of voice training, together with a deep personal interest in a large number of conscientious young men and women who have gone out of my studio into the world to engage in the responsible work of voice teaching. The desire to be of service to them has prompted me to put in permanent form the principles on which I labored, more or less patiently, to ground them during a course of three, four, or five years. The fact that after having stood the "grind" for that length of time they are still asking, not to say clamoring, for more, may, in a measure, justify the decision to issue this book. It is not an arraignment of vocal teachers, although there are occasional hints, public and private, which lead me to believe that we are not altogether without sin. But if this be true we take refuge in the belief that our iniquity is not inborn, but rather is it the result of the educational methods of those immediately preceding us. This at least shifts the responsibility. Words are dangerous things, and are liable at any moment to start a verbal conflagration difficult to control. Nowhere is this more likely to occur than in a discussion of voice training. From a rather wide acquaintance with what has been said on this subject in the past hundred years, I feel perfectly safe in submitting the proposition that the human mind can believe anything and be conscientious in it. Things which have the approval of ages emit the odor of sanctity, and whoever scoffs does so at his peril. Charles Lamb was once criticised for speaking disrespectfully of the equator, and a noted divine was severely taken to task for making unkind remarks about hell. Humanity insists that these time honored institutions be treated with due respect. I have an equal respect for those who believe as I do and those who do not; therefore if anything in this book is not in accord with popular opinion it is a crack at the head of the idol rather than that of the worshipper. There is no legislative enactment in this great and free country to prevent us from _believing_ anything we like, but there should be some crumbs of comfort in the reflection that we cannot _know_ anything but the truth. One may believe that eight and three are thirteen if it please him, but he cannot know it because it is not true. Everything that is true has for its basis certain facts, principles, laws, and these are eternal and unchangeable. The instant the law governing any particular thing becomes definitely known, that moment it becomes undebatable. All argument is eliminated; but while we are searching for these laws we are dealing largely in opinions, and here the offense enters, for as Mr. Epictetus once said, "Men become offended at their opinion of things, not at the things themselves." We can scarcely imagine any one taking offense at the multiplication table, neither is this interesting page from the arithmetic any longer considered a fit subject for debate in polite society, but so far as we know this is the only thing that is immune. Our musical judgments, which are our opinions, are governed by our experience; and with the growth of experience they ripen into solid convictions. For many years I have had a conviction that voice training is much simpler and less involved than it is generally considered. I am convinced that far too much is made of the vocal mechanism, which under normal conditions always responds automatically. Beautiful tone should be the primary aim of all voice teaching, and more care should be given to forming the student's tone concept than to that of teaching him how to control his throat by direct effort. The controlling power of a right idea is still much underestimated. The scientific plan of controlling the voice by means of mechanical directions leaves untouched the one thing which prevents its normal, automatic action, namely tension. But, someone inquires, "If the student is singing with rigid throat and tongue would you say nothing about it?" I would correct it, but not by telling him to hold his tongue down. A relaxed tongue is always in the right place, therefore all he needs to learn about the tongue is how to relax it. It has been hinted that he who subscribes to Dr. Fillebrown's declaration that [A]"The process of singing is psychologic rather than physiologic" has nothing tangible to work with. Now tone concept and musical feeling are absolutely essential to singing, and they are definite entities to one who has them. All musical temperaments must be vitalized. Imaginations must be trained until they will burst into flame at the slightest poetic suggestion. Musical natures are not fixed quantities. They are all subject to the law of growth. Every vocal student is an example of the law of evolution. Few people find it easy in the beginning to assume instantly a state of intense emotion. These things are habits of mind which must be developed, and they furnish the teacher with definite problems. [A] _Resonance in Singing and Speaking_, by Thomas Fillebrown. To repeat, _the tone is the thing_, and _how it sounds_ is what determines whether it is right or wrong. And so we come back again to the ear, which is the taste. Does it please the ear? If so, is the ear reliable? Not always. If all teachers were trying for the same tone quality there would be no need of further writing on the subject, but they are not. On the contrary no two of them are trying for exactly the same quality. Each one is trying to make the voice produce his idea of tone quality, and the astounding thing about the human voice is that for a time at least, it can approximate almost anything that is demanded of it. If a voice is ruined, the ear of the teacher is directly responsible. It is useless to try to place the blame elsewhere. Truth is always simple. If it seems difficult it is due to our clumsy way of stating it. Thought, like melodies, should run on the line of the least resistance. In the following pages I have eschewed all mystifying polysyllabic verbiage, and as Mark Twain once said, have "confined myself to a categorical statement of facts unincumbered by an obscuring accumulation of metaphor and allegory." It is hoped that this book will be useful. It is offered as a guide rather than as a reformer. It aims to point in the right direction, and "do its bit" in emphasizing those things which are fundamental in voice training. Whatever is true in it will reach and help those who need it. Nothing more could be asked or desired. [Illustration: (signed) D. A. Clippinger] Kimball Hall, Chicago. May, 1917. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION I. VOICE PLACING II. THE HEAD VOICE III. A GENERAL SURVEY OF THE SITUATION IV. HINTS ON TEACHING V. THE NATURE AND MEANING OF ART VI. SINGING AS AN ART VII. THE CONSTRUCTION OF A SONG VIII. HOW TO STUDY A SONG IX. SCIENTIFIC VOICE PRODUCTION BIBLIOGRAPHY THE HEAD VOICE AND OTHER PROBLEMS. I VOICE PLACING "The path of the sound, being formed of elastic and movable parts, varies its dimensions and forms in endless ways, and every modification--even the slightest--has a corresponding and definite influence on the voice." Garcia. _Hints on Singing_. Vocal teachers are rated primarily on their ability as voice builders. When students look for a teacher the first thing they want to know is: "Can he build a voice?" His ability as an interpreter in most instances is taken for granted. Why this is so is easily understood. There is a moving appeal in the pure singing tone of the human voice that cannot even be approximated by any other instrument. We have all heard voices that were so beautiful that to hear one of them vocalize for half an hour would be a musical feast. Such a voice is so full of feeling, so vibrant with life and emotion that it moves one to the depths even if no words are used. It is only natural that all singers should be eager to possess such a voice, for it covers up a multitude of other musical misdemeanors. While it does not take the place altogether of the interpretative instinct, it does make the work of the singer much easier by putting his audience in sympathy with him from the beginning, thus to a considerable extent disarming criticism. The old Italians attached so much importance to beautiful tone that they were willing to work conscientiously for half a dozen years to obtain it. To the beautiful tone they added a faultless technic. Altogether it required from five to eight years to prepare and equip a singer for a career, but when he was thus prepared he could do astounding things in the way of trills, roulades, and cadenzas. The stories of many of these singers have come down to us through the musical histories, and the singing world has come to believe that the teachers alone were responsible. Owing to her geographic location, her climate, language, and racial characteristics Italy at one time furnished most of the great singers of the world, and the world with its usual lack of judgment and discrimination gave Italian teachers all of the credit. That the best of the Italian teachers were as near right as it is humanly possible to be, I have no doubt whatever, but along with the few singers who became famous there were hundreds who worked equally hard but were never heard of. A great voice is a gift of the creator, and the greater the gift the less there is to be done by the teacher. But in addition to what nature has done there is always much to be done by the teacher, and the nature of the vocal instrument is such that its training is a problem unique and peculiar. The voice can do so many different things, produce so many different kinds of tone, in such a variety of ways that the ability to determine which is right and which is wrong becomes a matter of aesthetic judgment rather than scientific or mechanical. If the scale, power, quality, and compass of the human voice were established as are those of the piano, the great problem in the training of a singer would be much simplified, possibly eliminated; but the singer must form the pitch, power, and quality of each tone as he uses it; therefore in the training of a singer we are constantly facing what has crystallized into the term =Voice Placing=. This term has been used as a peg upon which to hang every whim, fancy, formula, and vocal vagary that has floated through the human mind in the last two centuries. It has furnished an excuse for inflicting upon vocal students every possible product of the imagination, normal and abnormal, disguised in the word =Method=, and the willingness with which students submit themselves as subjects for experiment is beyond belief. The more mysterious and abnormal the process the more faith they have in its efficacy. The nature of the vocal instrument, its wide range of possibilities, and its intimate relation to the imagination make it a peculiarly fit subject for experiment. The scientist has tried to analyze it, the mechanic has tried to make it do a thousand things nature never intended it to do, the reformer has tried to reform both, and the psychologist, nearest right of all, has attempted to remove it from the realm of the material altogether. There seems to be no way to stop this theorizing, and it doubtless will continue until the general musical intelligence reaches such a point that it automatically becomes impossible. We are constantly hearing such remarks as "Mr. S knows how to place the voice." "Mr. G does not." "Mr. B places the voice high." "Mr. R does not place the voice high enough." "Mr. X is great at bringing the tone forward," etc., etc. This goes on through a long list of fragments of English difficult to explain even by those who use them. Now voice placing means just one thing, not half a dozen. It means learning to produce =beautiful tone=. When one can produce beautiful tone throughout his vocal compass his voice is placed, and it is not placed until he can. The injunction to _place the voice_ invariably leaves in the mind of the student the idea that he must direct the tone to some particular point, in fact he is often urged to do so, whereas the truth is that when the tone is properly produced there is no thought of trying to put it anywhere. It seems to sing itself. There is a well established belief among students that the tone must be consciously directed to the point where it is supposed to focus. This belief is intimately associated with another equally erroneous, that the only way to tell whether a tone is good or bad, right or wrong, is by the way it feels. A tone is something to hear. It makes its appeal to the ear, and why one should rely on the sense of feeling to tell whether it sounds right or wrong is something difficult to understand. Further, explicit directions are given for the action and control of everything involved in making tone except the mind of the student. The larynx seems to be particularly vulnerable and is subject to continuous attack. One says it should be held low throughout the compass. Another says it should rise as the pitch rises, and still another, that it should drop as the pitch rises. Instructions of this kind do not enlighten, they mystify. If there be any one thing upon which voice teachers theoretically agree it is "free throat". Even those who argue for a fixed larynx agree to this, notwithstanding it is a physical impossibility to hold the larynx in a fixed position throughout the compass without a considerable amount of rigidity. It is like believing in Infinite Love and eternal punishment at the same time. When the larynx is free it will not and should not be in the same position at all times. It will be a little lower for somber tones than for bright tones. It will be a little higher for the vowel e than for oo or o, but the adjustments will be _automatic_, never conscious. It cannot be too often reiterated that every part of the vocal mechanism must act automatically, and it is not properly controlled until it does. The soft palate also comes in for its share of instruction. I was once taught to raise it until the uvula disappeared. Later I was taught to relax it. Both of these movements of the soft palate were expected to result in a beautiful tone. Now if two things which are directly opposed to each other are equal to the same thing, then there is no use in bothering our heads further with logic. Such directions I believe to be of doubtful value, if not irrelevant. We must learn that _an idea has definite form_, and that when the mechanism is free, that is, plastic, the idea molds it into a corresponding form and the expression becomes a perfect picture of the idea. This is what is meant by indirect control, involuntary, automatic action. One could write indefinitely on the peculiarities of voice training, the unique suggestions made, the mechanical instructions given, the unbelievable things students are made to do with lips, tongue and larynx as a necessary preparation to voice production. In this as in everything else there are extremists. Some have such an exquisite sense of detail that they never get beyond it. At the other extreme are those who trust everything to take care of itself. Both overlook the most important thing, namely, how the voice sounds. It requires much time, study and experience to learn that voice training is simple. It is a fact that truth is naturally, inherently simple. Its mastery lies in removing those things which seem to make it difficult and complex. Training the voice, this so called "voice placing," is simple and easy when one has risen above that overwhelming amount of fiction, falsity, and fallacy that has accumulated around it, obscuring the truth and causing many well intentioned teachers to follow theories and vagaries that have no foundation in fact, and which lead both teacher and pupil astray. If there is any truth applicable to voice training it has an underlying principle, for truth is the operation of principle. If we start wrong we shall end wrong. If we start right and continue according to principle we shall reach the desired goal. =Voice training has its starting point, its basis, its foundation, in beautiful tone.= This should be the aim of both teacher and pupil from the beginning. To produce something beautiful is the aim of all artistic activity. Beautiful tone, as Whistler said of all art, has its origin in absolute truth. That which is not beautiful cannot possibly be true, for real nature, which is the expression of Infinite Mind, is always perfect, and no perfect thing can be ugly, discordant, or inharmonious. The imperfection we see is the result of our own imperfect understanding of the real universe. A _tone is something to hear_, and =hearing is mental=. An old French anatomist once said: "The eye sees what it is looking for, and it is looking only for what it has in mind." The same is true of the ear. We hear the tone mentally before we sing it, and we should hear it as distinctly as if it were sung by another. A tone first of all is a mental product, and its pitch, power, and quality are definite mental entities. When we wish to convey this tone to another we do it through the sound producing instrument which nature has provided for this purpose. That everything exists first as idea has been the teaching of the philosophers for ages. That the idea is the controlling, governing force is equally well understood. Therefore, inasmuch as the aim of all voice building is to produce beautiful tone we must start with the right idea of tone. This is where the first and greatest difficulty appears. To most people a tone is intangible and difficult to define. One will rarely find a student that can formulate anything approaching a definition of a musical tone and I fancy many teachers would find it far from easy. Unless one has a grasp of the psychology of voice, and a great many have not, he will begin to work with what he can see. Here enters the long dreary mechanical grind that eventually ruins the temper of both teacher and student, and results in nothing but mechanical singing, instead of a joyous, inspiring musical performance. In studying the pure singing tone we find the following: It is _smooth_, _steady_, _firm_, _rich_, _resonant_, _sympathetic_. We shall also find that all of its qualities and attributes are mental. It must contain the element of freedom (mental), firmness (mental), security (mental), sympathy (mental), enthusiasm, sentiment, joy, compassion, pity, love, sorrow (all mental). These are all qualities of the singing tone. They are not intangible. On the contrary, to the one who has them they are definite and are the things he works for from the beginning. They are basic and fundamental. All are combined in what I call _tone concept_, which is another word for musical ear, or musical taste. This tone concept is by far the most important thing in voice training. The student will not sing a tone better than the one he conceives mentally, therefore the mental concept of tone, or tone concept must be the basis of voice placing. This tone concept, or mental picture of tone qualities controls the vocal instrument by indirection. True tone color does not come as the result of trying by some physical process to make the tone light or dark, but _from the automatic response to musical concept or feeling_. In leaving this subject I wish to pay my respects to that company of cheerful sinners--the open throat propagandists. I was taught in my youth that the punishment for a sin committed ignorantly was none the less pungent and penetrating, and I trust that in administering justice to these offenders the powers will be prompt, punctilious and persevering. It is a worthy activity. No mistake of greater magnitude was ever made since voice training began than that of holding the throat open by direct effort. It never resulted in a tone a real musician's ear could endure, nevertheless during the latter part of the nineteenth century and even the early part of the twentieth it was made such an integral part of voice culture that it seemed to be incorporated in the law of heredity, and vocal students, even before they were commanded, would try to make a large cavity in the back of the throat. I believe however, that there is much less of this than formerly. Vocal teachers are beginning to see that the one important thing is a free throat and that when this is gained the response of the mechanism to the mental demand is automatic and unerring. II THE HEAD VOICE Let him take care, however, that the higher the notes, the more it is necessary to touch them with softness, to avoid screaming. Tosi. (1647-1727) _Observations on Florid Song_. That the development of the upper, or head voice, is the most difficult as well as the most important part of the training of the singing voice, will be readily admitted by every experienced singing teacher. That the upper voice should be produced with as much comfort as the middle or lower, is scarcely debatable. That a majority of singers produce their upper voice with more or less difficulty, need not be argued. Why is it that after two, three or more years of study so many upper voices are still thick, harsh and unsteady? There is nothing in the tone world so beautiful as the male or female head voice when properly produced, and there is nothing so excruciatingly distressing as the same voice when badly produced. The pure head voice is unique in its beauty. It is full of freedom, elasticity, spiritual exaltation. It seems to float, as it were, in the upper air without connection with a human throat. Its charm is irresistible. It is a joy alike to the singer and the listener. It is the most important part of any singer's equipment. Why is it so difficult and why do so few have it? Various reasons are at hand. The spirit of American enterprise has found its way into voice teaching. It is in the blood of both teacher and pupil. The slogan is "Put it over." This calls for big tone and they do not see why they should not have it at once. The ability to use the full power of the upper voice when occasion demands is necessary and right, but merely to be able to sing high and loud means nothing. All that is required for that is a strong physique and determination. Such voice building requires but little time and no musical sense whatever; but to be able to sing the upper register with full power, emotional intensity, musical quality and ease, is the result of long and careful work under the ear of a teacher whose sense of tone quality is so refined that it will detect instantly the slightest degree of resistance and not allow it to continue. The ambitious young singer who has been told by the village oracle that she has a great voice and all she needs is a little "finishing," balks at the idea of devoting three or four years to the process, and so she looks for some one who will do it quickly and she always succeeds in finding him. To do this work correctly the old Italians insisted on from five to eight years with an hour lesson each day. To take such a course following the modern plan of one or two half hours a week, would have the student treading on the heels of Methuselah before it was completed. It is not always easy to make students understand that the training of the voice means the development of the musical mentality and at best is never a short process. To most of them voice culture is a physical process and as they are physically fit, why wait? Now the fact is that there is nothing physical in voice production save the instrument, and a strong physique has no more to do with good singing than it has with good piano playing. Voice production is a mental phenomenon. It is mentality of the singer impressing itself on the vocal instrument and expressing itself through it. The idea that the vocal instrument alone without mental guidance will produce beautiful tone is as fallacious as that a grand piano will produce good music whether the one at the keyboard knows how to play it or not. Let it be understood once for all that _it is the mentality of the individual, not his body, that is musical or unmusical_. Both teacher and student must learn that there is much more to do mentally and much less to do physically than most people suspect. They must learn that a musical mentality is no less definite than a physical body, and is at least equally important; also that right thinking is as necessary to good voice production as it is to mathematics. At this point there will doubtless be a strenuous objection from those who assert that tone cannot be produced without effort, and that a considerable amount of it is necessary, especially in the upper voice. It will be readily admitted that the application of force is required to produce tone, but how much force? Certainly not that extreme physical effort that makes the singer red in the face and causes his upper tones to shriek rather than sing. Such a display of force discloses an erroneous idea of how to produce the upper voice. When there is the right relation existing between the breath and the vocal instrument, when there is the proper poise and balance of parts, no such effort is necessary. On the contrary the tone seems to flow and the effort required is only that of a light and pleasant physical exercise. The pianist does not have to strike the upper tones any harder than the lower ones in order to bring out their full power. Why should the upper part of the voice require such prodigious effort? Now _all voices should have a head register_. It is a part of nature's equipment, and this calls for a word on the classification of voices. It ought not to be difficult to determine whether a voice is soprano, alto, tenor, baritone or bass, but I find each year a considerable number that have been misled. Why? A number of things are responsible. One of the most common is that of mistaking a soprano who has a chest register for an alto. This singer finds the low register easier to sing than the upper, consequently she and her friends decide she is an alto. Thereafter she sings low songs and takes the alto part in the choir. The longer she follows this plan the less upper voice she will have, and when she goes to a teacher, unless he has a discriminating and analytical ear, he will allow her to remain in the alto class. There is always something in the fiber of a tone, even though it be badly produced, that will disclose to the trained ear what it will be when rightly produced. Again, the human voice can produce such a variety of tone qualities that sometimes a soprano will cultivate a somber style of singing and a majority of people will call her alto. It requires a trained ear to detect what she is doing. The baritone also, because he often sings the bass part in a quartet, tries to make himself sound like a bass; this he does by singing with a somber, hollow quality which has little or no carrying power. Another mistake is that of classifying a voice according to its compass. This is the least reliable method of all. The mere fact of having high tones does not necessarily make one a soprano, neither is a voice always to be classified as alto by reason of not being able to sing high. It is _quality_ that decides what a voice is. Soprano is a quality. Alto is a quality. The terms tenor, baritone, bass, refer to a quality rather than a compass. These qualities are determined primarily by the construction of the organ. But when voices are properly trained there is not so much difference in the compass as most people suppose. For example: the female head voice lies approximately within this compass [Illustration: Figure A] and altos who learn to use the real head voice will have no difficulty in vocalizing that high. At the lower end of the voice sopranos who have a chest register will often sing as low as most altos. But whether they sing high or low it is always the quality that determines the classification of the voice. Many lyric sopranos have no chest register, and it would be a mistake to attempt to develop one. In such voices, which rarely have anything below middle C, the middle register must be strengthened and carried down and made to take the place of the chest voice. It must not be understood that there is but one soprano quality, one alto quality, etc. The voice is so individual that it cannot be thus limited. There are many soprano qualities between the coloratura and the dramatic, and the same is true of alto, tenor, baritone and bass. When the voice is rightly produced, its natural quality will invariably appear, and there it must be allowed to remain. An attempt to change it always means disaster. It will be observed that the piano string diminishes in length and thickness as the pitch rises, and the voice must do something which corresponds to this. Otherwise it will be doing that which approximates stretching the middle C string, for example, until it will produce its octave. In discussing the head voice it is the purpose to avoid as much as possible the mechanical construction of the instrument. This may be learned from the numerous books on the anatomy and physiology of the voice. It is an interesting subject, but beyond an elementary knowledge it is of little value to the teacher. A correct knowledge of how to train the voice must be gained in the studio, not in the laboratory. Its basis is the musical sense rather than the mechanical or scientific. All of the scientific or mechanical knowledge that the world has to offer is no preparation for voice training. A knowledge of the art of teaching begins when the teacher takes his first pupil, not before. Therefore the aim shall be to present the subject as it appears to the teacher. We hear much of the value of vocal physiology as a guide to good voice production. It is also claimed that a knowledge of it will prevent the singer from misusing his voice and at the same time act as a panacea for vocal ills. These statements do not possess a single element of truth. The only way the singer can injure the vocal instrument is by forcing it. That is, by setting up a resistance in the vocal cords that prevents their normal action. If this is persevered in it soon becomes a habit which results in chronic congestion. Singing becomes increasingly difficult, especially in the upper voice, and in course of time the singer discovers that he has laryngitis. Will a knowledge of vocal physiology cure laryngitis? Never. Will it prevent any one from singing "throaty?" There is no instance of the kind on record. In a majority of cases laryngitis and other vocal ills are the direct results of bad voice production and disappear as the singer learns to produce his upper tones without resistance. These things are effects, not causes, and to destroy the effect we must remove the cause. This will be found to be a wrong habit and habits are mental, not physical. When a mental impulse and its consequent response become simultaneous and automatic the result is a habit, but it is the mental impulse that has become automatic. The terms, _tension_, _rigidity_, _interference_, _resistance_, all mean essentially the same thing. They mean the various forms of contraction in the vocal instrument which prevents its involuntary action. If we follow these things back far enough we shall find that they all have their origin in some degree of fear. This fear, of which anxiety is a mild form, begins to show itself whenever the singer attempts tones above the compass of his speaking voice. Here is undeveloped territory. The tone lacks power, quality and freedom, and as power is what the untrained singer always seeks first, he begins to force it. In a short time he has a rigid throat, and the longer he sings the more rigid it becomes. By the time he decides to go to a teacher his voice is in such a condition that he must take his upper tones with a thick, throaty quality or with a light falsetto. Among female voices I have seen many that could sing nothing but a full tone in the upper register, and that only with an unsteady, unsympathetic quality. Now a point upon which all voice teachers can agree is that the upper voice is not properly trained until it has a perfect _messa di voce_ that is, until the singer can swell the tone from the lightest pianissimo to full voice and return, on any tone in his compass, without a break and without sacrificing the pure singing quality. How shall this be accomplished? If the singer is forcing the upper voice it is safe to say in the beginning that it never can be done by practicing with full voice. Such practice will only fasten the habit of resistance more firmly upon the singer. To argue in the affirmative is equivalent to saying that the continued practice of a bad tone will eventually produce a good tone. There is but one way to the solution of the problem; the singer must get rid of resistance. When he has succeeded in doing that the problem of the head voice is solved. The bugaboo of voice placing permanently disappears. The difficulty so many have in placing the upper voice lies in this, that they try to do it without removing the one thing which prevents them from doing it. When the voice is free from resistance it places itself, that is, it produces without effort whatever quality the singer desires. The term "head voice," doubtless grew out of the sensation in the head which accompanies the upper tones, and this sensation is the result of the vibration of the air in the air head cavities. Many have taken this sensation as a guide to the production of the head voice, and in order to make sure of it they instruct the student to direct the tone into the head. This is not only an uncertain and unnecessary procedure, but is almost sure to develop a resistance which effectually prevents the tone from reaching the head cavities. When there is no interference the tone runs naturally into the proper channel. It is not necessary to use force to put it there. HEAD RESONANCE Whether or not the head cavities act as resonators is one of the many mooted points in voice training. Those who believe they do are much in the majority, but those in the minority are equally confident they do not. What are the arguments? That there is a sensation in the head cavities when singing in the upper part of the compass no one can deny. Does it affect tone quality? The minority offers the argument that it cannot do so because the soft palate automatically rises in singing a high tone, thus closing the passage through the nose. On the other side it is argued, and rightly, that the soft palate can be trained to remain low in singing high tones. But whether the soft palate is high or low does not settle the matter. It is not at all necessary that breath should pass through the nasal cavities in order to make them act as resonators. In fact it is necessary that it should not. It is the air that is already in the cavities that vibrates. All who are acquainted with resonating tubes understand this. Neither is it necessary that the vibrations should be transmitted to the head cavities by way of the pharynx and over the soft palate. They may be transmitted through the bones of the head. John Howard proved this, to his satisfaction at least, many years ago. I recall that in working with Emil Behnke he used an exercise to raise the soft palate and completely close the channel, yet no one can deny that his pupils had head resonance. There are certain facts in connection with this that are hard to side-step. Plunket Greene once told me that at one time he lost the resonance in the upper part of his voice, and on consulting a specialist he found a considerable growth on the septum. He had it removed and at once the resonance returned. Other equally strong arguments could be offered in support of the claim that the head cavities do act as resonators. At any rate the high or low palate is not the deciding factor. Too much cannot be said on the subject of interference, or resistance. So long as there is any of it in evidence it has its effect on tone quality. It is the result of tension, and tension is a mental impulse of a certain kind. Its antidote is relaxation, which is a mental impulse of an opposite nature. It is necessary for most singers to work at this until long after they think they have it. In preparing the head voice the student must begin with a tone that is entirely free from resistance and build from that. In a large majority of voices it means practicing with a light, soft tone. A voice that cannot sing softly is not rightly produced. While the student is working for the freedom which will give him a good half voice he is preparing the conditions for a good full voice. The conditions are not right for the practice of full voice until the last vestige of resistance has disappeared. The light voice is as necessary to artistic success as the full voice. The singer must have both, but he must never sacrifice quality for power. In the female voice the readjustments of the mechanism known as changes of register usually occur at about [Illustration: Figure B]. In many lyric soprano voices I have found the same readjustment at the B and C above the staff [Illustration: Figure C]. I have also noted in many bass voices a similar change of adjustment at the E and F below the bass clef [Illustration: Figure D]. It would seem therefore, that in a majority of voices until an even scale has been developed, that these readjustments appear at about the E and F and B and C throughout the vocal compass. The exceptions to this rule are so numerous however, that it can scarcely be called a rule. Some voices will have but one noticeable readjustment, and it may be any one of the three. In some voices the changes are all imperceptible. In others, due to wrong usage, they are abrupt breaks. In every instance the teacher must give the voice what it needs to perfect an even scale. There should be no more evidence of register changes in the vocal scale than in the piano scale. Leaving the lower two changes for the moment, let us consider the one at the upper E and F. This one is so common among sopranos that there are few who have not one, two, or three weak tones at this point. To avoid these weak tones many are taught to carry the thicker tones of the middle register up as far as they can force them in order to get the "big tone" which seems to be the sole aim of much modern voice teaching. The victims of this manner of teaching never use the real head voice, and one thing happens to them all. As time goes on the upper voice grows more and more difficult, the high tones disappear one by one, and at the time when they should be doing their best singing they find themselves vocal wrecks. Some of them change from soprano to alto and end by that route. Now these are not instances that appear at long intervals. They are in constant evidence and the number is surprisingly large. The cause is ignorance of how to treat the upper voice, together with an insane desire for a "big tone" and a lack of patience to await until it grows. The incredible thing is that there is a teacher living whose ear will tolerate such a thing. Now there is a way to develop the head voice that gives the singer not only the full power of his upper voice, but makes it free, flexible and vibrant, a sympathetic quality, a perfect _messa di voce_, and enables him to sing indefinitely without tiring his voice. He must learn that it is possible to produce a full tone with a light mechanism. This is the natural way of producing the head voice. Further, the light mechanism must be carried far below the point where the so called change of register occurs. Every voice should have a head register, and it may be developed in the following way. With altos and sopranos I start with this exercise [Illustration: Exercise No. 1] Altos should begin at A. The student should neither feel nor hear the tone in the throat. Therefore he should begin with a soft _oo_. The throat should be free, lips relaxed but slightly forward. There should be no puckering of the lips for _oo_. The tone should seem to form itself around the lips, not in the throat. In the beginning the exercise must be practiced softly. No attempt must be made to increase the power, until the tone is well established in the light mechanism. When the _oo_ can be sung softly and without resistance as high as E flat use the same exercise with _o_. The next step is to blend this light mechanism with the heavier mechanism. It may be done in this way, [Illustration: Exercise No. 2] Sing this descending scale with a crescendo, always beginning it _pp_. It should be practiced very slowly at first, and with portamento. Carrying the head voice down over the middle and the middle down over the lower will in a short time blend all parts of the voice, and lay the foundation of an even scale. The exercise should be transposed upward by half steps as the voice becomes more free until it reaches F or F sharp. The next step is the building process. Use the following: [Illustration: Exercise No. 3] Altos should begin at A. In practicing these swells great care must be taken. Tone quality is the first consideration, and the tone must be pressed no further than is possible while retaining the pure singing quality. Where voices have been forced and are accustomed to sing nothing but thick tones this building process is sometimes slow. The student finds an almost irresistible tendency to increase the resistance as he increases the power of the tone. Therefore the louder he sings the worse it sounds. This kind of practice will never solve the problem. When the student is able to swell the tone to full power without increasing the resistance the problem is solved. The progress of the student in this, as in everything in voice training, depends upon _the ear of the teacher_. The untrained ear of the student is an unreliable guide. The sensitive ear of the teacher must at all times be his guide. The belief that every one knows a good tone when he hears it has no foundation in fact. If the student's concept of tone were perfect he would not need a teacher. He would have the teacher within himself. Every one knows what he likes, and what he likes is of necessity his standard at that particular time, but it is only the measure of his taste and may be different the next day. All things in voice training find their court of last resort in the ear of the teacher. All other knowledge is secondary to this. He may believe any number of things that are untrue about the voice, but if he have a thoroughly refined ear it will prevent him from doing anything wrong. His ear is his taste, his musical sense, and it is his musical sense, his musical judgment, that does the teaching. So in building the head voice the teacher must see to it that musical quality is never sacrificed for power. A full tone is worse than useless, unless the quality is musical and this can never be accomplished until the vocal instrument is free from resistance. Exercise No. 3 should be transposed upward by half steps, but never beyond the point at which it can be practiced comfortably. As tension shows most in the upper part of the voice the student should have, as a part of his daily practice, exercises which release the voice as it rises. Use the following: [Illustration: Exercise No. 4] Begin with medium power and diminish to _pp_ as indicated. The upper tone must not only be sung softly, but the throat must be entirely free. There must be no sense of holding the tone. Transpose to the top of the voice. [Illustration: Exercise No. 5] No. 5 is for the same purpose as No. 4 but in an extended form. Begin with rather full voice and diminish to _pp_ ascending. Increase to full voice descending. Continue the building of the upper voice using the complete scale. [Illustration: Exercise No. 6] Thus far in preparing the head voice we have used the vowels _oo_ and _o_. We may proceed to the vowel _ah_ in the following way. Using Ex. No. 6 first sing _o_ with loose but somewhat rounded lips. When this tone is well established sing _o_ with the same quality, the same focus, or placing without rounding the lips. It amounts to singing _o_ with the _ah_ position. When this can be done then use short _u_ as in the word _hum_. This gives approximately the placing for _ah_ in the upper voice. When these vowels can all be sung with perfect freedom transpose upward by half steps. [Illustration: Exercise No. 7] In No. 7 when the crescendo has been made on the upper tone carry the full voice to the bottom of the scale. [Illustration: Exercise No. 8] This is another way of blending the different parts of the voice. It should be sung portamento in both directions. When sung by a female voice it will be Middle, Head, Middle as indicated by the letters M, H, M. When sung by the male voice it will be Chest, Head, Chest as indicated by the letters C, H, C. Transpose upward by half steps. When the foregoing exercises are well in hand the head voice may be approached from the middle and lower registers in scale form as in the following: [Illustration: Exercise No. 9] [Illustration: Exercise No. 10] [Illustration: Exercise No. 11.] [Illustration: Exercise No. 12.] [Illustration: Exercise No. 13.] The fact that male voices are more often throaty in the upper register then female voices calls for special comment. The following diagram showing the relationship of the two voices will help to elucidate the matter. [Illustration: Figure E] I have here used three octaves of the vocal compass as sufficient for the illustration. Remembering that the male voice is an octave lower than the female voice we shall see that the female voice is a continuation, as it were, of the male voice; the lower part of the female compass overlapping the upper part of the male compass, the two having approximately an octave G to G in common. Further it will be seen that both male and female voices do about the same thing at the same absolute pitches. At about E flat or E above middle C the alto or soprano passes from the chest to the middle register. It is at the same absolute pitches that the tenor passes from what is usually called open to covered tone, but which might better be called from chest to head voice. There is every reason to believe that the change in the mechanism is the same as that which occurs in the female voice at the same pitches. That there is oftentimes a noticeable readjustment of the mechanism in uncultivated voices at these pitches no observing teacher will deny, and these are the voices which are of special interest to the teacher, and the ones for which books are made. It will be observed that this change in the male voice takes place in the upper part of his compass instead of in the lower, as in the female voice. This change which is above the compass of the speaking voice of the tenor or baritone, adds greatly to its difficulty. For this reason the training of the male head voice requires more care and clearer judgment than anything else in voice training. In treating this part of the female voice we have learned that if the heavy, or chest voice, is carried up to G or A above middle C it weakens the tones of the middle register until they finally become useless. Then the chest tones become more difficult and disappear one by one and the voice has no further value. Identically the same thing happens to the tenor who, by reason of sufficient physical strength forces his chest voice up to G, A, or B flat. He may be able to continue this for awhile, sometimes for a few years, but gradually his upper tones become more difficult and finally impossible and another vocal wreck is added to the list. In restoring the female voice that has carried the chest voice too high it is necessary to carry the middle register down, sometimes as low as middle C until it has regained its power. The tenor or baritone must do essentially the same thing. He must carry the head voice, which is a lighter mechanism than the chest voice, down as low as this c [Illustration: Figure F] using what is often called mixed voice. When the pitches [Illustration: Figure G] are practiced with a sufficiently relaxed throat the tone runs naturally into the head resonator with a feeling almost the equivalent of that of a nasal tone, but this tone will be in no sense nasal. It will be head voice. THE FALSETTO Does the falsetto have any part in the development of the head voice? This inoffensive thing is still the subject of a considerable amount of more of less inflammatory debate both as to what it is and what it does. Without delay let me assure every one that it is perfectly harmless. There is no other one thing involved in singing, immediate or remote, from which the element of harm is so completely eliminated. It is held by some that it is produced by the false vocal chords. This position is untenable for the reason that I have known many singers who could go from the falsetto to a full ringing tone and return with no perceptible break. Now since it will hardly be argued that a ringing, resonant tone could be produced by the false vocal cords, it is evident that the singer must change from the false to the true vocal cords somewhere in the process--a thing which is unthinkable. It is held by others that the falsetto is a relic of the boy's voice, which has deteriorated from lack of use. This seems not unreasonable, and a considerable amount of evidence is offered in support of it. We may safely assume however that it is produced by the true vocal cords and the lightest register in the male voice. What is its use? Unless its quality can be changed it has little or no musical value. There are some teachers who claim that the falsetto mechanism is the correct one for the tenor voice and should be used throughout the entire compass. I am not prepared to subscribe to this. There are others who believe that the falsetto should be developed, resonated, so that it loses its flute quality, and blended with the head voice. This seems in the light of my experience to be reasonable. When this can be done it gives the singer the most perfect mechanism known. But it cannot always be done. The voice is individual, and the entire sum of individual experience leaves its impression on it. I have found many voices where the falsetto was so completely detached from the head voice that it would be a waste of time to attempt to blend them. But there is one place in voice training where the practice of the falsetto has a distinct value. I have seen many tenors and baritones who forced the heavy chest voice up until they developed an automatic clutch, and could sing the upper tones only with extreme effort. To allow them to continue in that way would never solve their problem. In such a condition half voice is impossible. It must be one thing or the other, either the thick chest voice or falsetto. The falsetto they can produce without effort, and herein lies its value. They become accustomed to hearing their high tones without the association of effort, and after a time the real head voice appears. The thing which prevented the head voice from appearing in the beginning was extreme resistance, and as soon as the resistance disappeared the head voice made its appearance. This was accomplished by the practice of the very light register known as falsetto. When the head voice appears the use of the falsetto may be discontinued. The thing expected of the teacher is results and he should not be afraid to use anything that will contribute to that end. It is in the upper part of the voice that mistakes are most likely to be made and ninety nine per cent of the mistakes is forcing the voice, that is, singing with too much resistance. So long as the resistance continues a good full tone is impossible. The plan outlined above for eliminating resistance has been tested with many hundreds of voices and has never failed. The idea held by some that such practice can never produce a large tone shows a complete misunderstanding of the whole matter. That it produces the full power of the voice without sacrificing its musical quality is being proved constantly. Every day we hear the story of voices ruined by forcing high tones. Who is responsible? Each one must answer for himself. With the hope of diminishing it in some degree, this outline is offered. III A GENERAL SURVEY OF THE SITUATION "I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove: I will roar you an't were any nightingale." Shakespeare. _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. The singing world is confronted with a situation unique in its humor. On every side we hear the lachrymose lament that voice training is in a chaotic condition, that _bel canto_ is a lost art, and that the golden age of song has vanished from the earth. The unanimity of this dolorous admission would seem to be a sad commentary on the fraternity of voice teachers; but here enters the element of humor. There is not recorded a single instance of a voice teacher admitting that his own knowledge of the voice is chaotic. He will admit cheerfully and oftentimes with ill concealed enthusiasm that every other teacher's knowledge is in a chaotic condition, but his own is a model of order and intelligence. If we accept what voice teachers think of themselves the future looks rosy. If we accept what they think of each other the future is ominous and the need for reform is dire and urgent. But if a reform be ordered where shall it begin? Obviously among the teachers themselves. But judging from the estimate each one puts upon himself how shall we reform a thing which is already perfect? On the other hand, if we take the pessimistic attitude that all teachers are wrong will it not be a case of the blind leading the blind, in which instance their destination is definitely determined somewhere in the New Testament. Verily the situation is difficult. Nevertheless it is not altogether hopeless. The impulse to sing still remains. More people are studying singing, and more people sing well today than at any other time in the history of the world. The impulse to sing is as old as the human race. When the joy of life first welled up within man and demanded utterance the vocal instrument furnished by nature was ready to respond and the art of singing began, and if we may venture a prophecy it will never end in this world or the next. It cannot be destroyed even by the teachers themselves. It is this natural, inborn desire to sing that is directly responsible for the amazing perseverance of many vocal students. If after a year or two of study they find they are wrong they are not greatly disturbed, but select another teacher, firm in the faith that eventually they will find the right one and be safely led to the realization of their one great ambition--to be an artist. It is this that has kept the art alive through the centuries and will perpetuate it. This impulse to sing is something no amount of bad teaching can destroy. THE REFORM Everything in the universe that has come under the scrutiny of mortal man has been subjected to a perpetual reformation. Nothing is too great or too small to engage the attention of the reformer. Religion, politics, medicine and race suicide are objects of his special solicitude, but nothing else has been forgotten. No phase of human activity has been allowed to remain at rest. So far as we know nothing but the multiplication table has escaped the reformer. There is a general feeling that nothing is exactly right. This may be the operation of the law of progress, doubtless it is, but it occasions a mighty unrest, and keeps the world wondering what will happen next. This law of progress is but another name for idealism to which the world owes everything. Idealism is that which sees a better condition than the one which now obtains. The process of realizing this better condition is in itself reformation. As far back as we have any knowledge of the art of singing the reformers have been at work, and down through the centuries their energies have been unflagging. We owe to them whatever advance has been made toward a perfect system of voice training, but they are also responsible for many things pernicious in their nature which have been incorporated in present day methods of teaching, for it must be admitted that there are false prophets among singing teachers no less than among the members of other professions. There is one interesting thing connected with the work of these vocal reformers. From the beginning they have insisted that the art of _bel canto_ is lost. Tosi (1647-1727), Porpora (1686-1766), Mancini (1716-1800), three of the greatest teachers of the old Italian school, all lamented the decadence of the art of singing. Others before and since have done the same thing. It seems that in all times any one who could get the public ear has filled it with this sort of pessimistic wail. From this we draw some interesting conclusions: First, that the real art of singing was lost immediately after it was found. Second, that the only time it was perfect was when it began. Third, that ever since it began we have been searching for it without success. If any of this is true it means that all of the great singers of the past two hundred years have been fakers, because they never really learned how to sing. It is surprising that we did not see through these musical Jeremiahs long ago. In all ages there have been good teachers and bad ones, and it would not be surprising if the bad ones outnumbered the good ones; but the weak link in the chain of argument is in estimating the profession by its failures. This is a cheap and much overworked device and discloses the egotism of the one using it. There are teachers today who thoroughly understand the art of _bel canto_. They have not lost it, and the others never had it. This condition has obtained for centuries and will continue indefinitely. An art should be measured by its best exponents, not by its worst. To measure it by its failures is illogical and dishonest. In recent years the process of reformation has been applied to all branches of music teaching with the hope of reducing these failures to a minimum. The profession has suddenly awakened to the fact that it must give a better reason for its existence than any heretofore offered. It has become clear to the professional mind that in order to retain and enlarge its self-respect music must be recognized as a part of the great human uplift. To this end it has been knocking at the doors of the institutions of learning asking to be admitted and recognized as a part of public education. The reply has been that music teaching must first develop coherence, system and standards. This has caused music teachers to look about and realize as never before that the profession as a whole has no organization and no fixed educational standards. Every teacher fixes his own standard and is a law unto himself. The standard is individual, and if the individual conscience is sufficiently elastic the standard gives him no serious concern. But as a result of this awakening there is a concerted action throughout the country to standardize, to define the general scope of learning necessary to become a music teacher. The trend of this is in the right direction, and good may be expected from it, although at best it can be but a very imperfect method of determining one's fitness to teach. The determining factors in teaching are things which cannot be discovered in any ten questions. In fact an examination must necessarily confine itself to general information, but in teaching, the real man reveals himself. His high sense of order, logic, patience, his love and appreciation of the beautiful, his personality, his moral sense, the mental atmosphere of his studio, these all enter into his teaching and they are things difficult to discover in an examination. Unconsciously the teacher gives out himself along with the music lesson, and it is equally important with his knowledge of music. Therefore it is as difficult to establish definite standards of teaching as it is of piano or violin making. In attempting to establish standards of voice teaching the problem becomes positively bewildering. The voice is so completely and persistently individual, and in the very nature of things must always remain so, that an attempt to standardize it or those who train it is dangerous. Yet notwithstanding this, voice teachers are the most industrious of all in their efforts to organize and standardize. The insistence with which this aim is prosecuted is worthy of something better than is likely to be achieved. That there is no standard among voice teachers save that of the individual will be admitted without argument; and until there is such a thing as a fixed standard of musical taste this condition will remain, for the musical taste of the teacher is by far the most potent factor in the teaching of tone production. Of late there have been vigorous efforts to establish a standard tone for singers. This, according to the apostles of "Harmony in the ranks," is the one way of unifying the profession. As an argument this is nothing short of picturesque, and can be traced to those unique and professedly scientific mentalities that solve all vocal problems by a mathematical formula. As an example of the chimerical, impossible and altogether undesirable, it commands admiration. If it is impossible to establish a standard tone for pianos where the problem is mechanical, what may we expect to do with voice where the problem is psychological? When we have succeeded in making all people look alike, act alike, think alike; when we have eliminated all racial characteristics and those resulting from environment; when people are all of the same size, weight, proportion, structure; when skulls are all of the same size, thickness and density; when all vocal organs and vocal cavities are of the same form and size; when we have succeeded in equalizing all temperaments; when there is but one climate, one language, one government, one religion; when there is no longer such a thing as individuality--then perhaps a standard tone may be considered. Until that time nothing could be more certain of failure. The great charm of voices is their individuality, which is the result not alone of training, but of ages of varied experience, for man is the sum of all that has preceded him. It is, to say the least, an extraordinary mentality that would destroy this most vital element in singing for the sake of working out a scientific theory. But there is no immediate danger. Nature, whose chief joy is in variety and contrast, is not likely to sacrifice it suddenly to a mere whim. When we speak of a standard tone we enter the domain of acoustics and must proceed according to the laws of physics. In this standard tone there must be a fundamental combined with certain overtones. But who shall say which overtones, and why the particular combination? The answer must be "because it sounds best." A tone being something to hear, this is a logical and legitimate answer. But if the listener knows when it sounds right he knows it entirely separate and apart from any knowledge he may have of its scientific construction; hence such knowledge is of no value whatever in determining what is good and what is bad in tone quality. A tone is not a thing to see and the teacher cannot use a camera and a manometric flame in teaching tone production. Any knowledge he may have gained from the use of such instruments in the laboratory is valueless in teaching. If it were possible to adopt as a standard tone a certain combination of fundamental and overtones (which it is not), and if it were possible to make all singers use this particular tone (which, thank heaven it is not), then all voices would sound alike and individuality would at once disappear. The advocates of this kind of standard tone cannot disengage themselves from the belief that all vocal organs are alike. The exact opposite is the truth. Vocal organs are no more alike than are eyes, noses, hands and dispositions. Each of these conforms only to a general type. The variation is infinite. MENTALITY The mentality of the individual forms the organ through which it can express itself, and this mentality is the accumulation of all of the experience which has preceded it. Further, muscles and cartilages are not all of the same texture. Thyroid cartilages vary in size and shape. The vocal cavities, pharynx, mouth and nasal cavities are never exactly the same in any two people. The contours of the upper and lower jaw and teeth, and of the palatal arch are never found to be exactly alike. All of these variations are a part of the vocal instrument and determine its quality. Every vocal organ when properly directed will produce the best quality of which that particular instrument is capable. An attempt to make it produce something else must necessarily be a failure. The structure of the instrument determines whether the voice is bass, tenor, alto or soprano with all of the variations of these four classes. The individuality of the voice is fixed by nature no less definitely. The effort to standardize tone quality discloses a misapprehension of what it means to train a voice. Its advocates look upon man as so much matter, and the voice as something which must be made to operate according to fixed mathematical rules and ignore completely its psychology. But the rich humor of it all appears when the propagandists of standard tone meet to establish the standard. It is soon observed that there are as many standards as there are members present and the only result is a mental fermentation. GETTING TOGETHER In recent years many attempts have been made by vocal teachers to "get together." As nearly as can be ascertained this getting together means that all shall teach in the same way, that all shall agree on the disputed points in voice training, or that certain articles of faith to which all can subscribe, shall be formulated; but when it comes to deciding whose way it shall be or whose faith shall be thus exalted, each one is a Gibraltar and the only perceptible result is an enlargement of the individual ego. And so it endeth. WHY TEACHERS DISAGREE Voice teachers are divided into two general classes--those who make a knowledge of vocal physiology the basis of teaching and those who do not. The members of the first class follow the teachings of some one of the scientific investigators. Each one will follow the scientist or physiologist whose ideas most nearly coincide with his own, or which seem most reasonable to him. In as much as the scientists have not yet approached anything resembling an agreement, it follows that their disciples are far from being of one mind. The members of the second class hold that a knowledge of vocal anatomy and physiology beyond the elements has no value in teaching, and that the less the student thinks about mechanism the better. The scientific voice teachers usually believe in direct control of the vocal organs. The members of the opposite class believe in indirect control. This establishes a permanent disagreement between the two general classes, but the disagreement between those who believe in indirect control is scarcely less marked. Here it is not so much a matter of how the tone is produced, but rather the tone itself. This is due entirely to the difference in taste among teachers. The diversity of taste regarding tone quality is even greater than that regarding meat and drink. This fact seems to be very generally overlooked. It is this that so mystifies students. After studying with a teacher for one or more years they go to another to find that he at once tries to get a different tone quality from that of the first. When they go to the third teacher he tries for still another quality. If they go to a half dozen teachers each one will try to make them produce a tone differing in some degree from all of the others. The student doubtless thinks this is due to the difference in understanding of the voice among teachers, but this is not so. It is due entirely to their differing tastes in tone quality. The marvelous thing is that the voice will respond in a degree to all of these different demands made upon it; but it forces the student to the conclusion that voice training is an indefinite something without order, system, or principle. So, in studying the conditions which obtain in voice teaching at the present time it must be admitted that the evidence of unity is slight; and the probability of increasing it by organization or legislative enactment is not such as to make one enthusiastic. What one believes is very real to himself. In fact it is the only thing that seems right to him, therefore he sees no valid reason why he should change his belief or why others should not believe as he does. This positive element in the human ego is advantageous at times, but it is also responsible for all conflicts from mild disagreements to war among nations. But arguments and battles rarely ever result in anything more than an armed truce. Difference of opinion will continue indefinitely, but of this we may be sure, that the solution of the vocal problem will never come through a study of vocal mechanism however conscientious and thorough it may be, but through a purer musical thought, a deeper musical feeling, a clearer vision of what is cause and what is effect, a firmer conviction of the sanctity of music, an unerring knowledge of the relationship existing between the singer and his instrument. IV HINTS ON TEACHING "We live in a world of unseen realities, the world of thoughts and feelings. But 'thoughts are things,' and frequently they weigh more and obtain far more in the making of a man than do all the tangible realities which surround him. Thoughts and feelings are the stuff of which life is made. They are the language of the soul. By means of them we follow the development of character, the shaping of the soul which is the one great purpose of life." _Appreciation of Art_. Loveridge. Every year a large number of young men and women go in quest of a singing teacher. The impulse to sing, which is inborn, has become so insistent and irrepressible that it must be heeded; and the desire to do things well, which is a part of the mental equipment of every normal human being, makes outside assistance imperative. Wherever there is a real need the supply is forthcoming, so there is little difficulty in finding some one who is ready, willing, in fact rather anxious, to undertake the pleasant task of transforming these enthusiastic amateurs into full-fledged professionals. The meeting of the teacher and student always takes place in the studio, and it is there that all vocal problems are solved. Let no one imagine that any vocal problem can be solved in a physics laboratory. Why? _Because not one of the problems confronting the vocal student is physical. They are all mental._ The writer has reached this conclusion not from ignoring the physical, but from making a comprehensive study of the vocal mechanism and its relation to the singer. The anatomy and physiology of the vocal mechanism are absorbing to one who is interested in knowing how man, through untold centuries of growth has perfected an instrument through which he can express himself; but no matter how far we go in the study of anatomy and physiology all we really learn is what mind has done. If man has a more perfect and highly organized vocal instrument than the lower animals it is because his higher manifestation of mind has formed an instrument necessary to its needs. When man's ideas and needs were few and simple his vocabulary was small, for language is the means by which members of the species communicate with each other. Whenever man evolved a new idea he necessarily invented some way of communicating it, and so language grew. A word is the symbol of an idea, but invariably the idea originates the word. The word does not originate the idea. The idea always arrives first. All we can ever learn from the study of matter is phenomena, the result of the activity of mind. Thus we see that so called "scientific study" of the vocal mechanism is at best, but a study of phenomena. It creates nothing. It only discovers what is already taking place, and what has been going on indefinitely without conscious direction will, in all probability, continue. The value attached by some to the study of vocal physiology is greatly overestimated. In fact its value is so little as to be practically negligible. It furnishes the teacher nothing he can use in giving a singing lesson, unless, perchance he should be so unwise as to begin the lesson with a talk on vocal mechanism, which, by the way, would much better come at the last lesson than the first. All we can learn from the study of vocal physiology is the construction of the vocal instrument, and this bears the same relation to singing that piano making bears to piano playing. The singer and his instrument are two different things, and a knowledge of the latter exerts very little beneficial influence on the former. To reach a solution of the vocal problem we must understand the relation existing between the singer and his instrument. The singer is a mentality, consequently everything he does is an activity of his mentality. Seeing, hearing, knowing, is this mentality in action. The two senses most intimately associated with artistic activity are seeing and hearing, and these are mental. In painting, sculpture, and architecture we perceive beauty through the eye. In music it reaches us through the ear; but _the only thing that is cognizant is the mind_. To man the universe consists of mental impressions, and that these impressions differ with each individual is so well understood that it need not be argued. Two people looking at the same picture will not see exactly the same things. Two people listening to a musical composition may hear quite different things and are affected in different ways, because _it is the mind that hears_, and as no two mentalities are precisely the same, it must be apparent that the impressions they receive will be different. The things these mentalities have in common they will see and hear in common, but wherein they differ they will see and hear differently. Each will see and hear to the limit of his experience, but no further. To be a musician one must become conscious of that particular thing called music. He must learn to think music. The elements of music are rhythm, melody, harmony, and form, and their mastery is no less a mental process than is the study of pure mathematics. The human mind is a composite. It is made up of a large number of faculties combined in different proportions. The germs of all knowledge exist in some form and degree in every mind. When one faculty predominates we say the individual has talent for that particular thing. If the faculty is abnormally developed we say he is a genius, but all things exist as possibilities in every mind. Nature puts no limitations on man. Whatever his limitations, they are self imposed, nature is not a party to the act. Now this is what confronts the teacher whenever a student comes for a lesson. He has before him a mentality that has been influenced not only by its present environment, but by everything that has preceded it. "Man is," as an old philosopher said, "a bundle of habits," and habits are mental trends. His point of view is the product of his experience, and it will be different from that of every one else. The work of the teacher is training this mentality. Understanding this it will be seen how futile would be a fixed formula for all students, and how necessarily doomed to failure is any method of voice training which makes anatomy and physiology its basis. Further, there is much to be done in the studio beside giving the voice lesson. Whistler said that natural conditions are never right for a perfect picture. From the picture which nature presents the artist selects what suits his purpose and rejects the rest. It is much the same in the training of a singer. In order that the lesson be effective the conditions must be right. This only rarely obtains in the beginning. The student's attitude toward the subject must be right or the lesson will mean little to him. The lesson to be effective must be protected by _honesty_, _industry_ and _perseverance_. If these are lacking in various degrees, as they often are, little progress will be made. If the student is studying merely for "society purposes," not much can be expected until that mental attitude is changed. Students always want to sing well, but they are not always willing to make the sacrifice of time and effort; consequently they lack concentration and slight their practice. Sometimes the thought uppermost in the student's mind is the exaltation of the ego, in other words, fame. Sometimes he measures his efforts by the amount of money he thinks he may ultimately earn, be it great or small. Sometimes he overestimates himself, or what is equally bad, underestimates himself. It is a very common thing to find him putting limitations on himself and telling of the few things he will be able to do and the large number he never will be able to do, thus effectually barring his progress. Then there is always the one who is habitually late. She feels sure that all of the forces of nature are leagued in a conspiracy to prevent her from ever being on time anywhere. She, therefore, is guiltless. There is another one who is a riot of excuses, apologies and reasons why she has not been able to practice. Her home and neighborhood seem to be the special object of providential displeasure, which is manifested in an unbroken series of calamitous visitations ranging from croup to bubonic plague, each one making vocal practice a physical and moral impossibility. All of these things are habits of mind which must be corrected by the teacher before satisfactory growth may be expected. In fact he must devote no inconsiderable part of his time to setting students right on things which in themselves are no part of music, but which are elements of character without which permanent success is impossible. A great musical gift is of no value unless it is protected by those elements of character which are in themselves fundamentally right. Innumerable instances could be cited of gifted men and women who have failed utterly because their gifts were not protected by honesty, industry and perseverance. I have spoken at some length of the importance of the right mental attitude toward study and the necessity of correcting false conceptions. Continuing, it must be understood that the work of the teacher is all that of training the mind of his student. It is developing concepts and habits of mind which when exercised result in beautiful tone and artistic singing. It must also be understood that the teacher does not look at the voice, he listens to it. Here voice teachers automatically separate themselves from each other. No two things so diametrically opposite as physics and metaphysics can abide peaceably in the same tent. Let me emphasize the statement that _the teacher does not look at the voice, he listens to it_. The teacher who bases his teaching on what he can see, that is, on watching the singer and detecting his mistakes through the eye, is engaged in an activity that is mechanical, not musical. No one can tell from observation alone whether a tone is properly produced. A tone is something to hear, not something to see, and no amount of seeing will exert any beneficial influence on one's hearing. The process of learning to read vocal music at sight is that of learning to _think tones_, to _think in the key_, and to _think all manner of intervals and rhythmic forms_. It is altogether mental, and it is no less absurd to hold that a knowledge of anatomy is necessary to this than it is essential to the solution of a mathematical problem. The formation of tone quality is no less a mental process than is thinking the pitch. If the student sings a wrong pitch it is because he has thought a wrong pitch, and this is true to a large extent at least, if his tone quality in not good. He may at least be sure of this, that _he never will sing a better tone than the one he thinks_. A large part of the vocal teacher's training should be learning how to listen and what to listen for. This means training the ear, which is the mind, until it is in the highest degree sensitive to tone quality as well as to pitch. When there is a failure in voice training it may be counted upon that the teacher's listening faculty is defective. The gist of the whole thing is what the teacher's ear will stand for. If a tone does not offend his ear he will allow it to continue. If it does offend his ear he will take measures to stop it. More is known of vocal mechanism today than at any other time in the world's history, and yet who dares to say that voice teaching has been improved by it? Is voice teaching any more accurate now than it was a hundred years ago? Did the invention of the laryngoscope add anything of value to the voice teacher's equipment? No. Even the inventor of it said that all it did was to confirm what he had always believed. An enlarged mechanical knowledge has availed nothing in the studio. The character of the teacher's work has improved to the degree in which he has recognized two facts--first, the necessity of developing his own artistic sense as well as that of his pupil, second, that the process of learning to sing is psychologic rather than physiologic. When the student takes his first singing lesson what does the teacher hear? He hears the tone the student sings, but what is far more important, he hears in his own mind the tone the student ought to sing. He hears his own tone concept and this is the standard he sets for the student. He cannot demand of him anything beyond his own concept either in tone quality or interpretation. Young teachers and some old ones watch the voice rather than listen to it. At the slightest deviation from their standard of what the tongue, larynx, and soft palate ought to do they pounce upon the student and insist that he make the offending organ assume the position and form which they think is necessary to produce a good tone. This results in trying to control the mechanism by direct effort which always induces tension and produces a hard, unsympathetic tone. The blunder here is in mistaking effect for cause. The tongue which habitually rises and fills the cavity of the mouth does so in response to a wrong mental concept of cause. The only way to correct this condition is to change the cause. The rigid tongue we see is effect, and to tinker with the effect while the cause remains is unnecessarily stupid. An impulse of tension has been directed to the tongue so often that the impulse and response have become simultaneous and automatic. The correction lies in directing an impulse of relaxation to it. When it responds to this impulse it will be found to be lying in the bottom of the mouth, relaxed, and ready to respond to any demand that may be made upon it. To try to make the tongue lie in the bottom of the mouth by direct effort while it is filled with tension is like trying to sweep back the tide with a broom. The only way to keep the tide from flowing is to find out what causes it to flow and remove the cause. The only way to correct faulty action of any part of the vocal mechanism is to go back into mentality and remove the cause. It will always be found there. DIRECT AND INDIRECT CONTROL In view of the generally understood nature of involuntary action and the extent to which it obtains in all good singing it is difficult to understand why any teacher should work from the basis of direct control. It is a fact, however, that teachers who have not the psychological vision find it difficult to work with a thing they cannot see. To such, direct control seems to be the normal and scientific method of procedure. Let me illustrate: A student comes for his first lesson. I "try his voice." His tone is harsh, white, throaty and unsympathetic. It is not the singing tone and I tell him it is "all wrong." He does not contradict me but places himself on the defensive and awaits developments. I question him to find out what he thinks of his own voice, how it impresses him, etc. I find it makes no impression on him because he has no standard. He says he doesn't know whether he ought to like his voice or not, but rather supposes he should not. As I watch him I discover many things that are wrong and I make a mental note of them. Suppose I say to him as a very celebrated European teacher once said to me: "Take a breath, and concentrate your mind on the nine little muscles in the throat that control the tone." This is asking a good deal when he does not know the name or the exact location of a single one of them, but he seems impressed, although a little perplexed, and to make it easier for him I say as another famous teacher once said to me: "Open your mouth, put two fingers and a thumb between your teeth, yawn, now sing _ah_." He makes a convulsive effort and the tone is a trifle worse than it was before. I say to him, "Your larynx is too high, and it jumps up at the beginning of each tone. You must keep it down. It is impossible to produce good tone with a high larynx. When the larynx rises, the throat closes and you must always have your throat open. Don't forget, your throat must be _open_ and you can get it open only by keeping the larynx low." He tries again with the same result and awaits further instructions. I take another tack and say to him, "Your tongue rises every time you sing and impairs the form of the vocal cavity. Keep it down below the level of the teeth, otherwise your vowels will be imperfect. You should practice a half hour each day grooving your tongue." I say these things impressively and take the opportunity to tell him some interesting scientific facts about fundamental and upper partials, and how different combinations produce different vowels, also how these combinations are affected by different forms of the vocal cavities, leading up to the great scientific truth that he must hold the tongue down and the throat open in order that these great laws of acoustics may become operative. He seems very humble in the presence of such profound erudition and makes several unsuccessful attempts to do what I tell him, but his tone is no better. I tell him so, for I do not wish to mislead him. He is beginning to look helpless and discouraged but waits to see what I will do next. He vexes me not a little, because I feel that anything so simple and yet so scientific as the exercises I am giving him ought to be grasped and put into practice at once; but I still have resources, and I say to him, "Bring the tone forward, direct it against the hard palate just above the upper teeth, send it up through the head with a vigorous impulse of the diaphragm. You must always feels the tone in the nasal cavities. That is the way you can tell whether your tone is right or not." He tries to do these things, but of necessity fails. This sort of thing goes on with mechanical instructions for raising the soft palate, making the diaphragm rigid, grooving the tongue, etc., etc., and at the end of the lesson I tell him to go home and practice an hour a day on what I have given him. If he obeys my instructions he will return in worse condition, for he will be strengthening the bad habits he already has and forming others equally pernicious. This is a sample of teaching by direct control. It is not overdrawn. It is a chapter from real life, and I was the victim. You will have observed that this lesson was devoted to teaching the student how to do certain things with the vocal mechanism. The real thing, the tone, the result at which all teaching should aim was placed in the background. It was equivalent to trying to teach him to do something but not letting him know what. It was training the body, not the mind, and the result was what invariably happens when this plan is followed. In the lesson given above no attempt was made to give the student a correct mental picture of a tone, and yet this is the most important thing for him to learn, for _he never will sing a pure tone until he has a definite mental picture of it_. _A tone is something to hear and the singer himself must hear it before he can sing it._ Not one of the suggestions made to this student could be of any possible benefit to him at the time. Not even the sensation of feeling the tone in the head can be relied upon, for physical sensations are altogether uncertain and unreliable. As I have observed in numberless instances, there may be a sensation in the head when there are disagreeable elements in the tone. If the ear of the teacher does not tell him when the tone is good and when it is bad he is hopeless. If his ear is reliable, why resort to a physical sensation as a means of deciding? In the properly produced voice there is a feeling of vibration in the head cavities, especially in the upper part of the voice, but that alone is not a guaranty of good tone. This teaching from the standpoint of sensation and direct control will never produce a great singer so long as man inhabits a body. It is working from the wrong end of the proposition. Control of the mechanism is a very simple matter when the mental concept is formed. It is then only a question of learning how to relax, how to free the mechanism of tension, and the response becomes automatic. Is there no way out of this maze of mechanical uncertainties? There is. Is voice culture a sort of catch-as-catch-can with the probabilities a hundred to one against success? It is not. Is singing a lost art? It is not. Let us get away from fad, fancy and formula and see the thing as it is. The problem is psychologic rather than physiologic. The fact that one may learn all that can be known about physiology and still know nothing whatever about voice training should awaken us to its uselessness. Man is a mental entity. When I speak to a student _it is his mind that hears, not his body_. It is his mind that acts. It is his mind that originates and controls action. Therefore it is his mind that must be trained. Action is not in the body. In fact, the body as matter has no sensation. Remove mind from the body and it does not feel. It is the mind that feels. If you believe that the body feels you must be prepared to explain where in the process of digestion and assimilation the beefsteak and potato you ate for dinner become conscious, because to feel they must be conscious. We know that the fluids and solids composing the body have no sensation when they are taken into the body, nor do they ever become sentient. Therefore the body of itself has no initiative, no action, no control. All of these are the functions of mind, hence the incongruity of attempting to solve a problem which is altogether psychological, which demands qualities of mind, habits of mind, mental concepts of a particular kind and quality, by a process of manipulation of the organ through which mind expresses itself, making the training of the mind a secondary matter; and then absurdly calling it scientific. In every form of activity two things are involved: first, the idea: second, its expression. It must be apparent then, that the quality of the thing expressed will be governed by the quality of the idea. Or, to put it in another way: In the activity of art two things are involved--subject-matter and technic. The subject-matter, the substance of art, is mental. Technic is gaining such control of the medium that the subject-matter, or idea, may be fully and perfectly expressed. Ideas are the only substantial things in the universe, and that there is a difference in the quality of ideas need not be argued. Two men of the same avoirdupois may be walking side by side on the street, but one of them may be a genius and the other a hod carrier. I have dwelt at some length on this because I wish to show where the training of a singer must begin, and that when we understand the real nature of the problem its solution becomes simple. INDIRECT CONTROL What is meant by indirect control? It means, in short, the automatic response of the mechanism to the idea. By way of illustration. If I should ask my pupil to make her vocal cords vibrate at the rate of 435 times per second she could not do it because she would have no mental concept of how it should sound: but if I strike the A above middle C and ask her to sing it her vocal cords respond automatically at that rate of vibration. It is the concept of pitch which forms the vocal instrument, gives it the exact amount of tension necessary to vibrate at the rate of the pitch desired, but the action is automatic, not the result of direct effort. It may be said that in artistic singing everything is working automatically. There can be no such thing as artistic singing until everything involved is responding automatically to the mental demands of the singer. Mention has been made of the automatic response of the vocal cords to the thought of pitch. That part of the mechanism which is so largely responsible for tone quality, the pharynx and mouth, must respond in the same way. This it will do unerringly if it is free from tension. But if the throat is full of rigidity, as is so often the condition, it cannot respond; consequently the quality is imperfect and the tone is throaty. The vocal cavity must vibrate in sympathy with the pitch in order to create pure resonance. It can do this only when it is free and is responding automatically to the concept of tone quality. To form the mouth and throat by direct effort and expect a good tone to result thereby, is an action not only certain of failure but exceedingly stupid. VOICE TRAINING IS SIMPLE There is a belief amounting to a solid conviction in the public mind that the training of the voice is so difficult that the probabilities of success are about one in ten. What is responsible for this? Doubtless the large number of failures. But this calls for another interrogation. What is the cause of these failures? Here is one. All students have done more or less singing before they go to a teacher. During that time they have, with scarcely an exception, formed bad habits. Now bad habits of voice production are almost invariably some form of throat interference, referred to as tension, rigidity, resistance, etc. Instances without number could be cited where students have been told to keep right on singing and eventually they would outgrow these habits. Such a thing never happened since time began. One may as well tell a drunkard to keep on drinking and eventually he will outgrow the habit. No. Something definite and specific must be done. The antidote for tension is relaxation. A muscle cannot respond while it is rigid, therefore the student must be taught how to get rid of tension. TWO THINGS INVOLVED There is nothing in voice training that is necessarily mysterious and inscrutable. On the contrary, if one will acquaint himself with its fundamental principles he will find that the truth about voice training, like all truth, is simple and easily understood, and when understood the element of uncertainty is eliminated. These principles are few in number, in fact they may all be brought under two general heads. The first is =KNOW WHAT YOU WANT=. The second is =HAVE THE CONDITIONS RIGHT=. The meaning of these statements can never be learned from a study of vocal physiology; nevertheless they contain all of the law and the prophets on this subject. Any musician may be a successful teacher of singing if he will master them. I use the word _musician_ advisedly, because musical sense is of such vital importance that no amount of mechanical knowledge can take its place. To undertake the training of voices with only a mechanical knowledge of the subject is a handicap which no one can overcome. It is universally true that the less one knows of the art of singing the more he concerns himself with the mechanism; and it is also true that the more one is filled with the spirit of song the less he concerns himself with the construction of the vocal instrument. People with little or no musicianship have been known to wrangle ceaselessly on whether or not the thyroid cartilage should tip forward on high tones. It is such crude mechanics masquerading under the name of science that has brought voice training into general disrepute. The voice teacher is primarily concerned with learning to play upon the vocal instrument rather than upon its mechanical construction, two things which some find difficulty in separating. KNOW WHAT YOU WANT This means much. In voice production it means the perfect tone concept. It means far more than knowing what one likes. What one likes and what he ought to like are usually quite different things. What one likes is the measure of his taste at that particular time and may or may not be an argument in its favor. I have never seen a beginner whose taste was perfectly formed, but the great majority of them know what they like, and because they like a certain kind of tone, or a certain way of singing, they take it for granted that it is right until they are shown something better. This error is by no means confined to beginners. If your pupil does not produce good tone one of two things is responsible for it. Either he does not know a good tone or else the conditions are not right. In the beginning it is usually both. Your pupil must create his tone mentally before he sings it. He must create its quality no less than its pitch. In other words _he must hear his tone before he sings it and then sing what he hears_. Until he can do this his voice will have no character. His voice will be as indefinite as his tone concept, and it will not improve until his concept, which is his taste, improves. Inasmuch as everything exists first as idea, it follows that everything which is included in the rightly produced voice and in interpretation are first matters of concept. The singer uses a certain tone quality because he mentally conceives that quality to be right. He delivers a word or phrase in a certain way because that is his concept of it. A word at this point on imitation. One faculty of a musical mind is that of recording mentally what it hears and of producing it mentally whenever desired. Most people possess this in some degree, and some people in a marked degree. Almost any one can hear mentally the tone of a cornet, violin, or any instrument with which he is acquainted. In the same way the vocal student must hear mentally the pure singing tone before he can sing it. It is the business of the teacher to assist him in forming a perfect tone concept, and if he can do this by example, as well as by precept, he has a distinct advantage over the one who cannot. Arguments against imitation are not uncommon, and yet the teachers who offer them will advise their students to hear the great singers as often as possible. Such incongruities do not inspire confidence. On this human plane most things are learned by imitation. What language would the child speak if it were never allowed to hear spoken language? It would never be anything but "An infant crying in the night. And with no language but a cry." There are but few original thinkers on earth at any one time. The rest are imitators and none too perfect at that. We are imitators in everything from religion to breakfast foods. Few of us ever have an original idea. We trail along from fifty to a hundred years behind those we are trying to imitate. When there is little else but imitation going on in the world why deny it to vocal students? The argument against imitation can come from but two classes of people--those who cannot produce a good tone and those who are more interested in how the tone is made than in the tone itself. The following are the qualities the teacher undertakes to develop in the student in preparing him for artistic singing. They are fundamental and must be a part of the singer's equipment no matter what method is employed. They are what all musicians expect to hear in the trained singer. They all exist first as concepts. An even scale from top to bottom of the voice. Every tone full of strength and character. A sympathetic quality. Ample power. A clear, telling resonance in every tone. A pure legato and sostenuto. Perfect freedom in production throughout the compass. A perfect swell, that is, the ability to go from pianissimo to full voice and return, on any tone in the compass, without a break, and without sacrificing the tone quality. The ability to pronounce distinctly and with ease to the top of the compass. Equal freedom in the delivery of vowels and consonants. Sufficient flexibility to meet all technical demands. An ear sensitive to the finest shades of intonation. An artistic concept or interpretive sense of the highest possible order. The process of acquiring these things is not accretion but _unfoldment_. It is the unfoldment of ideas or concepts. The growth of ideas is similar to that of plants and flowers. The growth of expression follows the growth of the idea, it never precedes it. From the formation of the first vowel to the perfect interpretation of a song the teacher is dealing with mental concepts. At the Gobelin Tapestry works near Paris I was told that the weavers of those wonderful tapestries use twenty-four shades of each color, and that their color sense becomes so acute that they readily recognize all of the different shades. Now there are about as many shades of each vowel, and the mental picture of the vowel must be so definite, the mental ear so sensitive, that it will detect the slightest variation from the perfect form. Direct control could never accomplish this. Only the automatic response of the mechanism to the perfect vowel concept can result in a perfect vowel. All of those qualities and elements mentioned above as constituting the artist come under the heading =KNOW WHAT YOU WANT=. The second step =HAVE THE CONDITIONS RIGHT= means, in short, to free the mechanism of all interference and properly manage the breath. This getting rid of interference could be talked about indefinitely without wasting time. It is far more important than most people suspect. Few voices are entirely free from it, and when it is present in a marked degree it is an effectual bar to progress. So long as it is present in the slightest degree it affects the tone quality. Most students think they are through with it long before they are. This interference, which is referred to as tension, rigidity, throatiness, etc., is in the nature of resistance to the free emission of tone. It is not always confined to the vocal cords, but usually extends to the walls of the pharynx and the body of the tongue. The vocal cavities, the pharynx and mouth, exert such a marked influence on tone quality that the least degree of rigidity produces an effect that is instantly noticeable to the trained ear. These parts of the vocal mechanism which are so largely responsible not only for perfect vowels, but for perfect tone quality as well, must at all times be so free from tension that they can respond instantly to the tone concept. If they fail to respond the tone will be imperfect, and these imperfections are all classed under the general head "throaty." Throaty tone means that there is resistance somewhere, and the conditions will never be right until the last vestige of it is destroyed. The difficulty in voice placing which so many have, lies in trying to produce the upper tones without first getting rid of resistance. This condition is responsible for a number of shop-worn statements, such as "bring the tone forward," "place the tone in the head," "direct the tone into the head," etc. I recall a writer who says that the column of breath must be directed against the hard palate toward the front of the mouth in order to get a resonant tone. Consider this a moment. When the breath is properly vocalized its power is completely destroyed. Any one may test this by vocalizing in an atmosphere cold enough to condense the moisture in his breath. If he is vocalizing perfectly, he will observe that the breath moves lazily out of the mouth and curls upward not more than an inch from the face. The idea that this breath, which has not a particle of force after leaving the vocal cords, can be directed against the hard palate with an impact sufficient to affect tone quality is the limit of absurdity. If the writer had spoken of directing the sound waves to the front of the mouth there would have been an element of reasonableness in it, for sound waves can be reflected as well as light waves; but breath and sound are quite different things. What does the teacher mean when he tells the pupil to place the tone in the head? He doubtless means that the student shall call into use the upper resonator. If one holds a vibrating tuning-fork before a resonating tube, does he direct the vibrations into that resonating cavity? No. Neither is it necessary to try to drive the voice into the cavities of the head. Such instructions are of doubtful value. They are almost sure to result in a hard unsympathetic tone. They increase rather than diminish the resistance. The only possible way to place the tone in the head is to let it go there. This will always occur when the resistance is destroyed and the channel is free. In numerous instances the resistance in the vocal cords is so great that it is impossible to sing softly, or with half voice. It requires so much breath pressure to start the vibration, that is, to overcome the resistance, that when it does start it is with full voice. In a majority of male voices the upper tone must be taken either with full chest voice or with falsetto. There is no _mezza voce_. This condition is abnormal and is responsible for the "red in the face" brand of voice production so often heard. Of this we may be sure, that no one can sing a good full tone unless he can sing a good _mezza voce_. When the mechanism is sufficiently free from resistance that a good pianissimo can be sung then the conditions are right to begin to build toward a _forte_. Further, when the mechanism is entirely free from resistance there is no conscious effort required to produce tone. The singer has the feeling of letting himself sing rather than of making himself sing. The engineer of a great pumping station once told me that his mammoth Corliss engine was so perfectly balanced that he could run it with ten pounds of steam. When the voice is free, and resting on the breath as it were, it seems to sing itself. An illustration of the opposite condition, of extreme resistance was once told me by the president of a great street railway system that was operated by a cable. He said it required eighty-five per cent of the power generated to start the machinery, that is, to overcome the resistance, leaving but fifteen per cent for operating cars. It is not at all uncommon to hear singers who are so filled with resistance that it requires all of their available energy to make the vocal instrument produce tone. Such singers soon find themselves exhausted and the voice tired and husky. It is this type of voice production rather than climatic conditions, that causes so much chronic laryngitis among singers. I have seen the truth of this statement verified in the complete and permanent disappearance of many cases of laryngitis through learning to produce the voice correctly. The second step in securing right conditions is the proper management of the breath. BREATH CONTROL An extremist always lacks the sense of proportion. He allows a single idea to fill his mental horizon. He is fanciful, and when an idea comes to him he turns his high power imagination upon it, and it immediately becomes overwhelming in magnitude and importance. Thereafter all things in his universe revolve around it. The field of voice teaching is well stocked with extremists. Everything involved in voice production and many things that are not, have been taken up one at a time and made the basis of a method. One builds his reputation on a peculiar way of getting the tone into the frontal sinuses by way of the infundibulum canal, and makes all other things secondary. Another has discovered a startling effect which a certain action of the arytenoid cartilages has on registers, and sees a perfect voice as the result. Another has discovered that a particular movement of the thyroid cartilage is the only proper way to tense the vocal cords and when every one learns to do this all bad voices will disappear. Another has discovered something in breath control so revolutionary in its nature that it alone will solve all vocal problems. Perhaps if all of these discoveries could be combined they might produce something of value; but who will undertake it? Not the extremists themselves, for they are barren of the synthetic idea, and their sense of proportion is rudimentary. They would be scientists were it not for their abnormal imaginations. The scientist takes the voice apart and examines it in detail, but the voice teacher must put all parts of it together and mold it into a perfect whole. The process is synthetic rather than analytic, and undue emphasis on any one element destroys the necessary balance. The immediate danger of laying undue emphasis on any one idea in voice training lies in its tendency toward the mechanical and away from the spontaneous, automatic response so vitally necessary. Here the extremists commit a fatal error. To make breath management the all-in-all of singing invariably leads to direct control, and soon the student has become so conscious of the mechanism of breathing that his mind is never off of it while singing; he finds himself becoming rigid trying to prevent his breath from escaping, and the more rigid he becomes the less control he has. A large number of examples of this kind of breath management have come under my observation. They all show the evil results of over working an idea. But the followers of "the-breath-is-the-whole-thing" idea say "You can't sing without breath control." Solomon never said a truer thing, but the plan just mentioned is the worst possible way to secure it. Every one should know that not a single one of the processes of voice production is right until it is working automatically, and automatic action is the result of indirect, never of direct control. The profession has become pretty thoroughly imbued with the idea that deep breathing, known as abdominal, or diaphragmatic is the best for purposes of singing. But how deep? The answer is, the deeper the better. Here again it is easy to overstep the bounds. I have in mind numerous instances where the singer, under the impression that he was practicing deep breathing tried to control the breath with the lower abdominal muscles, but no matter how great the effort made there was little tonal response, for the reason that the pressure exerted was not against the lungs but against the contents of the abdomen. The diaphragm is the point of control. The lungs lie above it, not below it. To concentrate the thought on the lower abdominal muscles means to lose control of the diaphragm, the most important thing involved in breath management. The process of breathing is simple. The lungs are enclosed in an air tight box of which the diaphragm is the bottom. It rests under the lungs like an inverted saucer. In the act of contracting it flattens toward a plane and in so doing it moves downward and forward, away from the lungs. The ribs move outward, forward and upward. The lungs which occupy this box like a half compressed sponge follow the receding walls, and a vacuum is created which air rushes in to fill. In exhalation the action is reversed. The ribs press against the lungs and the diaphragm slowly returns to its original position and the breath is forced out like squeezing water out of a sponge. The one important thing in breath management is the diaphragm. If the student has the right action of the diaphragm he will have no further trouble with breath control. In my Systematic Voice Training will be found a list of exercises which thoroughly cover the subject of breath control and if properly used will correct all errors. Let this be understood, that there is nothing in correct breathing that should make one tired. On the contrary the practice of breathing should leave one refreshed. Above all, the student should never make himself rigid when trying to control the flow of breath. This is not only of no advantage, but will effectually defeat the end for which he is striving. REGISTERS In securing right conditions the teacher is often confronted with the problem of registers. The literature on this subject is voluminous and varied. Opinions are offered without stint and the number of registers which have been discovered in the human voice ranges from none to an indefinite number. How one scientist can see two, and another one five registers in the same voice might be difficult to explain were it not a well known fact that some people are better at "seeing things" than others. But here again the teacher soon learns that laboratory work is of little value. His view point is so different from that of the physicist that they can hardly be said to be working at the same problem. The physicist tries to discover the action of the mechanism, in other words, how the tone is made. The voice teacher is concerned primarily with how it sounds. One is looking at the voice, the other is listening to it, which things, be it known, are essentially and fundamentally different; so different that their relationship is scarcely traceable. The ability to train the voice comes through working with voices where the musical sense, rather than the scientific sense, is the guide. It is a specific knowledge which can be gained in no other way. It begins when one takes an untrained voice and attempts to make it produce a musical tone. The problem of registers is, in short, how to make an even scale out of an uneven one. It must be solved in the studio. Anatomical knowledge is of no avail. The teacher who has learned how to produce an even scale possesses knowledge which is of more value to the student than all of the books ever written on vocal mechanism. The depressions in the voice known as "changes of register" result from tension. With one adjustment of the vocal cords the singer can, by adding tension, make a series of four or five tones, then by a change of adjustment he can produce another similar series, and so on to the top of his compass. These changes occur when there is such an accumulation of tension that no more can be added to that adjustment without discomfort. The solution of this problem lies in gaining such freedom from tension in the vocal instrument that it automatically readjusts itself for each tone. The tension is then evenly distributed throughout the scale and the sudden changes disappear. This is precisely what happens when the singer has learned to produce an even scale throughout his compass; his voice production is not right until he can do this. The statement is frequently made in public print that there are no registers in the trained voice. This order of wisdom is equally scintillating with that profound intellectual effort which avers that a bald headed man has no hair on the top of his head, or that hot weather is due to a rise in the temperature. These statements may be heavy-laden with truth, but to the voice teacher they are irrelevant. His work is at least seven-eighths with untrained voices. By the time he has worked out an even scale with all of the other problems that go hand in hand with it, for a great deal of the art of singing will naturally accompany it, a large majority of his pupils are ready to move on. Only a small per cent prepare for a musical career. Most of his work is with voices that still need to be perfected. It is for voices of this kind that the teacher lives. It is for such voices that vocal methods are evolved and books written. A lighthearted, easy going assurance is not sufficient alone to compass the problems that present themselves in the studio. If the teacher is conscientious there will be times when he will feel deeply the need of something more than human wisdom. The work in the studio has more to do with the future than with the immediate present. The singing lesson is a small part of what the student carries with him. The atmosphere of the studio, which is the real personality of the teacher, his ideals, aims, the depth of his sincerity, in short, his concept of the meaning of life, goes with the student and will be remembered when the lesson is forgotten. V THE NATURE AND MEANING OF ART One function, then, of art is to feed and mature the imagination and the spirit, and thereby enhance and invigorate the whole of human life. _Ancient Art and Ritual_. Jane Ellen Harrison. A large percentage of the population of the civilized world has more or less to do with what is called art. In its various forms art touches in some degree practically the entire human race. Its various activities have developed great industries, and for the entertainment it affords fabulous sums of money are spent. What is this thing called art which takes such a hold upon the human race? If it has no social or economic value then a vast amount of time and money are wasted each year in its study and practice. A brief inquiry into the nature and meaning of art may well be associated with a discussion of the art of singing. Art as a whole comes under the head of Aesthetics, which may be defined as the philosophy of taste, the science of the beautiful. It will doubtless be admitted without argument that ever since the dawn of consciousness the visible world has produced sense impressions differing from each other--some pleasant, some unpleasant. From these different sense impressions there gradually evolved what is known as beauty and ugliness. An attempt to discover the principles underlying beauty and ugliness resulted in Aesthetics, the founder of which was Baumgarten (1714-1762). It will be interesting to hear what he and the later aestheticians have to say about art. Most of them connect it in some way with that which is beautiful, that is, pleasing, but they do not all agree in their definition of beauty. Baumgarten defined beauty as the perfect, the absolute, recognized through the senses. He held that the highest embodiment of beauty is seen by us in nature, therefore the highest aim of art is to copy nature. Winkelmann (1717-1768) held the law and aim of art to be beauty independent of goodness. Hutcheson (1694-1747) was of essentially the same opinion. According to Kant (1724-1804) beauty is that which pleases without the reasoning process. Schiller (1758-1805) held that the aim of art is beauty, the source of which is pleasure without practical advantage. These definitions do not wholly satisfy. They do not accord to art the dignified position it should hold in social development. But there are others who have a clearer vision. Fichte (1762-1814) said that beauty exists not in the visible world but in the beautiful soul, and that art is the manifestation of this beautiful soul, and that its aim is the education of the whole man. In this we begin to see the real nature and activity of art. There are other aestheticians who define art in much the same way. Shaftesbury (1670-1713) said that beauty is recognized by the mind only. God is fundamental beauty. Hegel (1770-1831) said: "Art is God manifesting himself in the form of beauty. Beauty is the idea shining through matter. Art is a means of bringing to consciousness and expressing the deepest problems of humanity and the highest truths." According to Hegel beauty and truth are one and the same thing. Thus we see that the great thinkers of the world make art of supreme importance in the perfecting of the human race. They all agree that art is not in material objects, but is a condition and activity of spirit. They agree in the main that beauty and truth emanate from the same source. Said Keats: "Beauty is truth and truth beauty, That is all ye know on earth and all ye need know." Said Schelling: "Beauty is the perception of the Infinite in the finite." But perhaps the highest concept of art is from the great artist Whistler. He said: "Art is an expression of eternal absolute truth, and starting from the Infinite it cannot progress, IT IS." Art in some form and in some degree finds a response in every one. Why? Because every one consciously or unconsciously is looking toward and striving for perfection. This is the law of being. Every one is seeking to improve his condition, and this means that in some degree every one is an idealist. Ever since time began idealism has been at work, and to it we owe every improved condition--social, political and religious. Hegel believed that the aim of art is to portray nature in perfect form, not with the imperfections seen around us; and Herbert Spencer defined art as the attempt to realize the ideal in the present. The artist tries to make his picture more perfect than what he sees around him. The poet, the sculptor, the musician, the craftsman, the mechanic, are all striving for a more perfect expression, because perfection is the fundamental, eternal law of being. Wagner said: "The world will be redeemed through art," and if Whistler's definition be accepted he is not far from the truth. The important thing to remember is that art is not a mere pastime, but a great world force operating to lift mortals out of mortality. It is the striving of the finite to reach the Infinite. In human history art, no less than languages, has conformed to the theory of evolution. Language in the beginning was monosyllabic. Far back in the early dawn of the race, before the development of the community spirit, when feelings, emotions, ideas, were simple and few the medium of expression was simple, and it grew with the demand for a larger expression. This same process of evolution is seen in the growth of each individual. The child, seeing grimalkin stalk stealthily into the room, points the finger and says "cat." This is the complete expression of itself on that subject. It is the sum total of its knowledge of zoology at that particular moment; and a long process of development must follow before it will refer to the same animal as a "Felis Domestica." In a similar way musical expression keeps step with musical ideas. In the beginning musical ideas were short, simple, fragmentary, monosyllabic, mere germs of melody (adherents of the germ theory will make a note of this). The Arab with his rudimentary fiddle will repeat this fragment of melody [Illustration: Figure H] by the hour, while a company of his unlaundered brethren dance, until exhausted, in dust to their ankles, with the temperature near the boiling point. This musical monosyllable is ample to satisfy his artistic craving. In other words it is the complete musical expression of himself. The following is a complete program of dance music for the aborigines of Australia. [Illustration: Figure I] The repetition of this figure may continue for hours. If it were inflicted on a metropolitan audience it would result in justifiable homicide, but to the Australian it furnishes just the emotional stimulus he desires. [Illustration: Figure J] This one from Tongtoboo, played Allegro, would set the heels of any company, ancient or modern, in motion. These people may be said to be in the rhythmic stage of music, that is, a stage of development in which a rhythmic movement which serves to incite the dance furnishes complete artistic satisfaction. As it is a long distance from the monosyllabic expression of the child to the point where he can think consecutively in polysyllabic dissertation, so it is an equally long distance from the inarticulate musical utterances of the barbarous tribes to the endless melodies of Wagner, which begin at 8 P. M. and continue until 12.15 A. M. without repetition. Following the course of music from the beginning we shall see that it has kept pace with civilization. As the race has grown mentally it has expressed itself in a larger and more perfect way in its literature, its painting and music. Physically the race has not grown perceptibly in the last five thousand years, but mentally its growth can scarcely be measured. If we follow each nation through the past thousand years we shall see that its art product has not only kept pace with its development, but that in its art we may see all of its racial characteristics, those habits of mind which are peculiarly its own. A nation left to itself will develop a certain trend of thought which will differentiate it from all other nations. A trend of thought which will affect its art, literature, politics, religion, and in course of time will produce marked physical characteristics. This is noticeable in all nations which have lived long unto themselves. But modern methods of communication are destroying this. As nations are brought into closer contact with each other they begin to lose their peculiarities. The truth of this statement may be seen in the fact that in the past fifty years composers all over the world have been affected by the modern German school of composition. Not one has escaped. While a nation lived unto itself it could preserve its national life in its art, but more and more the life of each nation is becoming a composite of the life of all nations. The musical output of the world shows this unmistakably. What will be the music of the future? We know the music of yesterday and today, but the music of the future can be foretold only by the prophet whose vision is clear enough to see unmistakably what the trend of civilization will be during the coming years. There are mighty forces operating in the world today. If they succeed in bringing humanity to a saner, more normal state of mind, to a clearer realization of what is worth while and what is worthless, then all art will become purer and more wholesome, more helpful and necessary, and music speaking a language common to all will be supreme among the arts. VI SINGING AS AN ART No artist can be graceful, imaginative, or original, unless he be truthful. Ruskin. _Modern Painters_. "Art is a transfer of feeling" said Tolstoy. While this applies to art in general it has a particular application to the art of singing. The material of the singer's art is feeling. By means of the imagination he evokes within himself feelings he has experienced and through the medium of his voice he transfers these feelings to others. By his ability to reconstruct moods, feelings and emotions within himself and express them through his voice, the singer sways multitudes, plays upon them, carries them whithersoever he will from the depths of sorrow to the heights of exaltation. His direct and constant aim is to make his hearers _feel_, and feel deeply. As a medium for the transfer of feeling the human voice far transcends all others. Since the beginning of the human race the voice has been the means by which it has most completely revealed itself, but the art is not in the voice, but in the feeling transferred. It is the same whether the medium be the voice, painting, sculpture, poetry or a musical instrument. We speak of a painting as being a great work of art, but the art is not in the painting, the art is the feeling of beauty which the painting awakes in the observer. When we listen to an orchestra the music is what we feel. Said Walt Whitman: "Music is what awakes within us when we are reminded by the instruments." Nothing exists separate from cognition. Real art therefore consists of pure feeling rather than of material objects. _If the singer succeeds in transferring his feelings to others he is an artist_, this regardless of whether his voice is great or small. Voice alone does not constitute an artist. One must have something to give. Schumann said: "The reason the nightingale sings love songs and the lap dog barks is because the soul of the nightingale is filled with love and that of the lap dog with bark." It will be apparent therefore, that the study of the art of singing should devote itself to developing in the singer the best elements of his nature--all that is good, pure and elevating. We have no right to transfer to others any feeling that is impure or unwholesome. The technic of an art is of small moment compared with its subject matter. _An unworthy poem cannot be purified by setting it to music no matter how beautiful the music may be._ THE PRINCIPLES OF INTERPRETATION I fancy there is nothing more intangible to most people than the term "_phrasing_." I have asked a great many students to give me the principles of phrasing, but as yet I have seen none who could do it, and yet all singers, from the youngest to the oldest must make some use of these principles every time they sing. Now a thing in such general use should be, and is, subject to analysis. _All of the rules of phrasing, like the rules of composition, grow out of what sounds well._ Beauty and ugliness are matters of mental correspondence. In music a thing to be beautiful must satisfy a mental demand, and this demand is one's _taste_. The sense of fitness must obtain. When the singer interprets a song the demand of the listener is that he shall do well what he undertakes to do: that he shall portray whatever phase of life the song contains, accurately, definitely, that he shall have a _definite intent and purpose_, that he shall be in the mood of the song. The singer must not portray one mood with his face, another with his voice, while the poem suggests still a third. He must avoid incongruity. All things must work together. There must be therefore, the evidence of intelligent design in every word and phrase. The song is a unit and each phrase contains a definite idea, therefore it must not be detached or fragmentary, but must have the element of continuity and each and every part must be made to contribute to the central idea. The element of insecurity must not be allowed to enter. If it does, the listener feels that the singer is not sure of himself, that he cannot do what he set out to do: therefore he is a failure. Another demand is that the singer shall be intelligent. A poem does not lose its meaning or its strength by being associated with music, and to this end the singer must deliver the text with the same understanding and appreciation of its meaning as would a public reader. Now from the above we infer certain principles. The demand for continuity means that the singer must have a pure _legato_. That is, he must be able to connect words smoothly, to pass from one word to another without interrupting the tone, that the tone may be continuous throughout each phrase. The feeling of security lies in what is known as _sostenuto_, the ability to sustain the tone throughout the phrase with no sense of diminishing power. It means in short the organ time. From the demand for design in each word and phrase comes _contrast_. This may be made in the power of the tone by means of cres. dim. sfz. It may be made in the tempo by means of the retard, accelerando, the hold, etc. It may also be made in the quality of the tone by using the various shades from bright to somber. The basis of phrasing then, may be found in legato, sostenuto and contrast. All of the other things involved in interpretation cannot make a good performance if these fundamental principles be lacking. A more complete outline of interpretation follows: AN OUTLINE OF INTERPRETATION { Pitches READING { Note Lengths { Rhythm { Vowels { Enunciation { Consonants DICTION { Pronunciation { Accent { Emphasis { Even Scale VOICE { Quality { Freedom { Breath Control { Attack TECHNIC { Flexibility { Execution { Legato PHRASING { Sostenuto { Power { Contrast { Tempo { Color { Proportion { Emotional Concept MOOD { Facial Expression { Stage Presence Most of the things mentioned in this outline of interpretation have been discussed elsewhere, but the subject of diction requires further explanation. DICTION The mechanism of speech might be discussed at any length, but to reduce it to its simplest form it consists of the sound producing instrument,--the vocal cords, the organs of enunciation--lips, tongue, teeth and soft palate, and the channel leading to the outer air. When the vocal cords are producing pitch and the channel is free the result is a vowel. If an obstruction is thrown into the channel the result is a consonant. Vowels and consonants, then, constitute the elements of speech. The vowels are the emotional elements and the consonants are the intellectual elements. By means of vowel sounds alone emotions may be awakened, but when definite ideas are expressed, words which are a combination of vowels and consonants must be used. It is nothing short of amazing that with this simple mechanism, by using the various combinations of open and obstructed channel in connection with pitch, the entire English language or any other language for that matter can be produced. Vowels are produced with an open channel from the vocal cords to the outer air. Consonants are produced by partial or complete closing of the channel by interference of the lips, tongue, teeth and soft palate. If language consisted entirely of vowels learning to sing would be much simpler than it is. It is the consonants that cause trouble. It is not uncommon to find students who can vocalize with comparative ease, but the moment they attempt to sing words the mechanism becomes rigid. The tendency toward rigidity is much greater in enunciating consonants than it is in enunciating vowels, and yet they should be equally easy. Here is where the student finds his greatest difficulty in mastering English diction. The most frequent criticism of American singers is their deficiency in diction. Whether it please us or no, it must be admitted that on the whole the criticism is not without foundation. The importance of effective speech is much underestimated by students of singing, and yet it requires but a moment's consideration to see that the impression created by speech is the result of forceful diction no less than of subject matter. Words mean the same thing whether spoken or sung, and the singer no less than the speaker should deliver them with a full understanding of their meaning. The proposition confronting the singer is a difficult one. When he attempts the dramatic he finds that it destroys his legato. He loses the sustained quality of the organ tone, which is the true singing tone, and _bel canto_ is out of the question. This is what is urged against the operas of Wagner and practically everything of the German school since his day. The dramatic element is so intense and the demand so strenuous that singers find it almost, if not quite impossible, to keep the singing tone and reach the dramatic heights required. They soon find themselves shouting in a way that not only destroys the singing tone but also the organ that produces it. The truth of this cannot be gainsaid. There is a considerable amount of vocal wreckage strewn along the way, the result of wrestling with Wagnerian recitative. Wagnerian singers are, as a rule, vocally shorter lived than those that confine themselves to French and Italian opera. But it will be argued by some that these people have not learned how to sing, that if they had a perfect vocal method they could sing Wagner as easily as Massenet. That they have not learned to sing Wagner is evident, and this brings us to the question--Shall the singer adjust himself to the composer or the composer to the singer? A discussion of this would probably lead nowhere, but I submit the observation, that many modern composers show a disregard for the possibilities and limitations of the human voice that amounts to stupidity. Because a composer can write great symphonies the public is inclined to think that everything he writes is great. Let it be understood once for all that bad voice writing is bad whether it is done by a symphonic writer or a popular songwriter. In the present stage of human development there are certain things the voice can do and other things it cannot do, and these things can be known only by those who understand the voice, and are accustomed to working with it. To ignore them completely when writing for voices is no evidence of genius. Composers seem to forget that the singer must create the pitch of his instrument as well as its quality at the moment he uses it. They also forget that his most important aid in this is the feeling of tonality. When this is destroyed and the singer is forced to measure intervals abstractedly he is called upon to do something immeasurably more difficult than anything that is asked of the instrumentalist. Many modern composers have lost their heads and run amuck on the modern idiom, and their writing for voices is so complex that it would require a greater musician to sing their music than it did to write it. But to return, I do not say that it is impossible to apply the principles of _bel canto_ to Wagner's dramatic style of utterance. On the contrary I believe it is possible to gain such a mastery of voice production and enunciation that the Wagnerian roles may be sung, not shouted, and still not be lacking in dramatic intensity, but it requires a more careful study of diction and its relation to voice production than most singers are willing to make. A majority of singers never succeed in establishing the right relation between the vocal organ and the organs of enunciation. Years of experience have verified this beyond peradventure. It is a very common thing for singers to vocalize for an indefinite period with no ill effect, but become hoarse with ten minutes of singing. The reason is apparent. They have learned how to produce vowels with a free throat but not consonants. The moment they attempt to form a consonant, tension appears, not only in those parts of the mechanism which form the consonant, but in the vocal organ as well. Under such treatment the voice soon begins to show wear, and this is exactly what happens to those singers who find it difficult to sing the Wagner operas. The solution of this problem lies in the proper study of diction. The intellectual elements of speech consonants are formed almost entirely in the front of the mouth with various combinations of lips, tongue and teeth. Three things are necessary to their complete mastery. =First,=--consonants must be produced without tension. It will be well to remember in this connection that consonants are not to be sung. They are points of interference and must be distinct but short. The principle of freedom applies to consonants no less than to vowels. =Second,=--consonants must not be allowed to interrupt the continuity of the pitch produced by the vocal cords. This is necessary to preserve legato. Some consonants close the channel completely, others only partially. It is a great achievement to be able to sing all consonant combinations and still preserve a legato. =Third,=--consonants must in no way interfere with the freedom of the vocal organ. If the student attempts to sing the consonants, that is, to prolong them he is sure to make his throat rigid and the pure singing tone at once disappears. He must therefore learn dramatic utterance without throwing the weight of it on the throat. To do this he must begin with a consonant which offers the least resistance and practice it until the three points mentioned have been mastered. The one which will give the least trouble is l. At the pitch G sing ah-lah-lah-lah-lah, until it can be done with relaxed tongue, with perfect continuity of tone, and with perfect freedom in the vocal instrument. In the same way practice n, d, v, th, m, and the sub vocals, b, d, g. Always begin with a vowel. If the singer has the patience to work the problem out in this way he can apply the principles of _bel canto_ to dramatic singing. The road to this achievement is long, longer than most people suspect, but if one is industrious and persevering it may be accomplished. But there remains yet to be mentioned the most important element of artistic singing. To the pure tone and perfect diction must be added the imagination. The _imagination_ is the image making power of the mind, the power to create or reproduce ideally that which has been previously perceived: the power to call up mental images. By means of the imagination we take the materials of experience and mold them into idealized forms. The aim of creative art is to idealize, that is, to portray nature and experience in perfect forms not with the imperfections of visible nature. "In this" says Hegel, "art is superior to nature." The activity of the imagination is directly responsible for that most essential thing--emotional tone. Taking intelligence for granted, the imagination is the most important factor involved in interpretation. If the imagination be quick and responsive it will carry the singer away from himself and temporarily he will live the song. Every song has an atmosphere, a metaphysical something which differentiates it from every other song. The singer must discover it and find the mood which will perfectly express it. If his imagination constructs the image, creates the picture, recalls the feeling, the emotion, the result will be artistic singing. The song is that which comes from the soul of the singer. It is not on the printed page. If I study a Schubert song until I have mastered it, I have done nothing to Schubert. It is I who have grown. Through the activity of the imagination, guided by the intelligence, I have built up in my consciousness as nearly as possible what I conceive to have been Schubert's feeling when he wrote the song, but the work has all been done on myself. A chapter might be written on the artistic personality. It reveals itself in light, shade, nuance, inflection, accent, color, always with a perfect sense of proportion, harmony and unity, and free from all that is earthy. It is the expression of individuality. It cannot be imitated. If you ask me for its source I repeat again Whistler's immortal saying: "Art is an expression of eternal, absolute truth, and starting from the Infinite it cannot progress, =IT IS=." VII THE CONSTRUCTION OF A SONG. Has he put the emphasis on his work in the place where it is most important? Has he so completely expressed himself that the onlooker cannot fail to find his meaning? _Appreciation of Art_. Loveridge. When you listen to a song and at its close say, "That is beautiful," do you ever stop and try to discover why it is beautiful? The quest may lead you far into the field of Aesthetics, and unless you are accustomed to psychological processes you may find yourself in a maze from which escape is difficult. Let us remember that in studying the construction of a song we are dealing with states of mind. A song is the product of a certain mood and its direct aim is to awaken a similar mood in others. It is a well established fact that sound is the most common and the most effective way of expressing and communicating the emotions, not only for man but for the lower animals as well. This method of communication doubtless began far back in the history of the race and was used to express bodily pain or pleasure. The lower animals convey their feelings to each other by sounds, not by words, and these sounds awaken in others the same feeling as that which produced them. We see, then, that emotion may be expressed by sound and be awakened by sound, and this obtains among human beings no less than among the lower animals. In the long process of ages sound qualities have become indissolubly associated with emotional states, and have become the most exciting, the most powerful sense stimulus in producing emotional reactions. The cry of one human being in pain will excite painful emotions in another. An exclamation of joy will excite a similar emotion in others, and so on through the whole range of human emotions. Herbert Spencer holds that the beginning of music may be traced back to the cry of animals, which evidently has an emotional origin and purpose. It is a far cry from the beginning of music as described by Spencer to the modern art song, but from that time to this the principle has remained the same. The emotional range of the lower animals is small, doubtless limited to the expression of bodily conditions, but the human race through long ages of growth has developed an almost unlimited emotional range, hence the vehicle for its expression has of necessity increased in complexity. To meet this demand music as a science has evolved a tone system. That is, from the infinite number of tones it has selected something over a hundred having definite mathematical relationships, fixed vibrational ratios. The art of music takes this system of tones and by means of combinations, progressions and movements which constitute what is called musical composition, it undertakes to excite a wide variety of emotions. The aim and office of music is to create moods. It does not arrive at definite expression. There is no musical progression which is universally understood as an invitation to one's neighbor to pass the bread. The pianist cannot by any particular tone combination make his audience understand that his left shoe pinches, but he can make them smile or look serious. He can fill them with courage or bring them to tears without saying a word. In listening to the Bach _B Minor Mass_ one can tell the _Sanctus_ from the _Gloria in Excelsis_ without knowing a word of Latin. The music conveys the mood unmistakably. A song is a union of music and poetry, a wedding if you please and as in all matrimonial alliances the two contracting parties should be in harmony. The poem creates a mood not alone by what it expresses directly but by what it implies, what it suggests. Its office is to stimulate the imagination rather than to inform by direct statement of facts. The office of music is to strengthen, accentuate, and supplement the mood of the poem, to translate the poem into music. The best song then, will be one in which both words and music most perfectly create the same mood. Arnold Bennett's definition of literature applies equally well to the song. He says: "That evening when you went for a walk with your faithful friend, the friend from whom you hid nothing--or almost nothing--you were, in truth, somewhat inclined to hide from him the particular matter which monopolized your mind that evening, but somehow you contrived to get on to it, drawn by an overpowering fascination. And as your faithful friend was sympathetic and discreet, and flattered you by a respectful curiosity, you proceeded further and further into the said matter, growing more and more confidential, until at last you cried out in a terrific whisper: 'My boy she is simply miraculous:' At that moment you were in the domain of literature." Now when such impassioned, spontaneous utterance is brought under the operation of musical law we have a perfect song. The composer furnished the words and music, but the thing which makes it a song comes from the singer, from the earnestness and conviction with which he delivers the message. Songs are divided into two general classes: those expressing the relationships of human beings, such as love, joy, sorrow, chivalry, patriotism, etc., and those expressing the relationship of man to his creator; veneration, devotion, praise, etc. The two great sources of inspiration to song writers have always been love and religion. What are the principles of song construction? They are all comprised in the law of fitness. The composer must do what he sets out to do. The materials with which he has to work are rhythm, melody and harmony. The most important thing in a song is the melody. This determines to a very great extent the health and longevity of the song. Most of the songs that have passed the century mark and still live do so by reason of their melody. There must be a sense of fitness between the poem and the melody. A poem which expresses a simple sentiment requires a simple melody. A simple story should be told simply. If the poem is sad, joyous, or tragic the melody must correspond. Otherwise the family discords begin at once. Poetry cannot adapt itself to music, because its mood is already established. It is the business of the composer to create music which will supplement the poem. A lullaby should not have a martial melody, neither should an exhortation to lofty patriotism be given a melody which induces somnolence. The same sense of fitness must obtain in the accompaniment. The office of the accompaniment is not merely to keep the singer on the pitch. It must help to tell the story by strengthening the mood of the poem. It must not be trivial or insincere, neither must it overwhelm and thus draw the attention of the listeners to itself and away from the singer. The accompaniment is the clothing, or dress, of the melody. Melodies, like people, should be well dressed but not over dressed. Some melodies, like some people, look better in plain clothes than in a fancy costume. Other melodies appear to advantage in a rich costume. Modern songwriters are much inclined to overdress their melodies to the extent that the accompaniment forces itself upon the attention to the exclusion of the melody. Such writing is as incongruous as putting on a dress suit to go to a fire. The significance of the theme should indicate the nature of the accompaniment. To take a simple sentiment and overload it with a modern complex harmonic accompaniment is like going after sparrows with a sixteen inch siege gun. Comedy in the song should not be associated with tragedy in the accompaniment. A lively poem should not have a lazy accompaniment. The great songwriters were models in this respect. This accounts for their greatness. Take for example Schubert's _Wohin_ and _Der Wanderer_, Schumann's _Der Nussbaum_, Brahms' _Feldeinsamkeit_. These accompaniments are as full of mood as either poem or melody. The element of proportion enters into songwriting no less than into architecture. A house fifteen by twenty feet with a tower sixty feet high and a veranda thirty feet wide would be out of proportion. A song with sixty-four measures of introduction and sixteen measures for the voice would be out of proportion. Making a song is similar to painting a landscape. In the painting the grass, flowers, shrubbery etc., are in the foreground, then come the hills and if there be a mountain range it is in the background. If the mountain range were in the foreground it would obscure everything else. So in making a song. If it tells a story and reaches a climax the climax should come near the end of the song. When the singer has carried his audience with him up to a great emotional height then all it needs is to be brought back safely and quickly to earth and left there. ASSOCIATION I have mentioned the principles of song construction, but there are other things which have to do with making a song effective. One of the most important of these is association. Let us remember that the effect and consequent value of music depends upon the class of emotions it awakens rather than upon the technical skill of the composer, and that these emotions are dependent to a considerable extent upon association. We all remember the time honored expedient of tying a string around a finger when a certain thing is to be remembered. The perception of the digital decoration recalls the reason for it and thus the incident is carried to a successful conclusion. In like manner feelings become associated with ideas. Church bells arouse feelings of reverence and devotion. To many of us a brass band awakens pleasant memories of circus day. _Scots Wha Hae_ fills the Scotchman with love for his native heather. The odor of certain flowers is offensive because we associate it with a sad occasion. The beauty of a waltz is due not only to its composition but also to our having danced to it under particularly pleasant circumstances. At the opera there are many things that combine to make it a pleasant occasion--the distant tuning of the orchestra, the low hum of voices, the faint odor of violets, and the recollection of having been there before with that miracle of a girl,--all combine to fill us with pleasurable anticipation. In this way we give as much to the performance as it gives to us. According to some Aestheticians the indefinable emotions we sometimes feel when listening to music are the reverberations of feelings experienced countless ages ago. This may have some foundation in fact, but it is somewhat like seeing in a museum a mummy of ourselves in a previous incarnation. Songs which have the strongest hold upon us are those which have been in some way associated with our experience. The intensity with which such songs as _Annie Laurie_, _Dixie_, _The Vacant Chair_, _Tramp, Tramp, Tramp_ grip us is due almost entirely to association. Therefore the value of a song consists not alone in what it awakens in the present, but in what it recalls from the past. Man is the sum of his experience; and to make past experience contribute to the joy of the present is to add abundance to riches. VIII HOW TO STUDY A SONG The accent of truth apparent in the voice when speaking naturally is the basis of expression in singing. Garcia. _Hints on Singing_. First determine the general character of the song. A careful study of the words will enable the student to find its general classification. It may be dramatic, narrative, reminiscent, introspective, contemplative, florid, sentimental. The following are examples: Dramatic, _The Erl King_, Schubert. Narrative, _The Two Grenadiers_, Schumann. Reminiscent, _Der Doppelgänger_, Schubert. Florid, _Indian Bell Song_, from Lakme, Delibes. Introspective, _In der Frühe_, Hugo Wolf. Contemplative, _Feldeinsamkeit_, Brahms. Songs of sentiment. This includes all songs involving the affections and the homely virtues. To these might be added songs of exaltation, such as Beethoven's "Nature's Adoration." Character songs, in which the singer assumes a character and expresses its sentiments. A good example of this is "The Poet's Love" cycle by Schumann. Classifying the song in this way is the first step toward discovering its atmosphere. There is always one tempo at which a song sounds best and this tempo must grow out of a thorough understanding of its character. Metronome marks should be unnecessary. Intelligent study of a song will unerringly suggest the proper tempo. Next, study the poem until it creates the mood. Read it, not once, but many times. Imbibe not only its intellectual but its emotional content. It is the office of poetry to stimulate the imagination. It is under the influence of this stimulus that songs are written, and under its influence they must be sung. Hugo Wolf said that he always studied the poem until it composed the music. This means that he studied the poem until he was so filled with its mood that the proper music came of itself. Fix in mind the principal points in the poem and the order in which they occur. There usually is development of some kind in a poem. Learn what it is. Notice which part of the poem contains the great or central idea. Read it aloud. Determine its natural accent. The singing phrase grows out of the spoken phrase. Singing is elongated, or sustained, speech, but it should be none the less intelligent by reason of this. Now adapt the words to the music. If the music has grown out of the words as it should, it will follow the development of the poem and give it additional strength. By this time one should be in the mood of the song, and he should not emerge from it until the song is finished. If one is filled with the spirit of the song, is sincere and earnest, and is filled with a desire to express what is beautiful and good he will not sing badly even if his voice be ordinary. The composer may do much toward creating the mood for both singer and listener by means of his introduction. The introduction to a song is not merely to give the singer the pitch. It is for the purpose of creating the mood. It may be reminiscent of the principal theme of the song, it may consist of some fragment of the accompaniment, or any other materials which will tend to create the desired mood. In the introduction to _Rhein-gold_ where Wagner wishes to portray a certain elemental condition he uses 136 measures of the chord of E flat major. In _Feldeinsamkeit_ (The Quiet of the Fields) where the mood is such as would come to one lying in the deep grass in the field watching "the fair white clouds ride slowly overhead," in a state of complete inaction, Brahms establishes the mood by this treatment of the major chord. [Illustration: Figure K] In _Der Wanderer_ (The Wanderer) Schubert uses this musical figure to indicate the ceaseless motion of one condemned to endless wandering. [Illustration: Figure L] In _The Maid of the Mill_ cycle where the young miller discovers the brook Schubert uses this figure, which gives a clear picture of a chattering brooklet. This figure continues throughout the song. [Illustration: Figure M] In the song _On the Journey Home_, which describes the feelings of one who, after a long absence returns to view the "vales and mountains" of his youth, Grieg, with two measures of introduction grips us with a mood from which we cannot escape. [Illustration: Figure N] But one of the most striking examples of the operation of genius is Schubert's introduction to _Am Meer_ (By the Sea). Here with two chords he tells us the story of the lonely seashore, the deserted hut, the tears, the dull sound of breakers dying on a distant shore, and all around the unfathomable mystery of the mighty deep. [Illustration: Figure O] Classic song literature is full of interesting examples of this kind. If we learn how to study the works of these great ones of the earth we shall see how unerring is the touch of genius, and some day we shall awaken to see that these kings and prophets are our friends, and that they possess the supreme virtue of constancy. IX SCIENTIFIC VOICE PRODUCTION The immediate effect of the laryngoscope was to throw the whole subject into almost hopeless confusion by the introduction of all sorts of errors of observation, each claiming to be founded on ocular proof, and believed in with corresponding obstinacy. Sir Morell Mackenzie. _Hygiene of the Vocal Organs_. He who studies the voice in a physics laboratory naturally considers himself a scientific man, and those teachers who make his discoveries the basis of their teaching believe they are teaching the science of voice production. The scientist says: "Have I not studied the voice in action? I have seen, therefore I know." But the element of uncertainty in what he has seen makes his knowledge little more than speculative. But suppose he is sure of what he has seen. Of what importance is it? He has seen a vocal organ in the act of producing tone under trying conditions, for one under the conditions necessary to the use of the laryngoscope is not at all likely to reach his own standard of tone production. Scientists would have us believe that the action of the vocal mechanism is the same in all voices. This claim must necessarily be made or there would be no such thing as scientific production. But of all the vocal vagaries advanced this has the least foundation in fact. Scientifically and artistically speaking there is no such thing at present as perfect voice, and there will be no such thing until man manifests a perfect mind. The best examples of voice production are not altogether perfect, and most of them are still a considerable distance from perfection. It is with these imperfect models that the scientific man in dealing and on which he bases his deductions. Be it right or wrong singers do not all use the vocal mechanism in the same way. I have in mind two well known contraltos one of whom carried her chest register up to A, and even to B flat occasionally. The other carried her middle register down to the bottom of the voice. Can the tenor who carries his chest voice up to [Illustration: Figure P] be said to use his voice in the same way as one who begins his head voice at [Illustration: Figure Q]? In the examination of a hundred voices selected at random all manner of different things would be observed. Perhaps this is responsible for the great diversity of opinion among scientists, for it must be said that so far there is little upon which they agree. Before absolute laws governing any organ or instrument can be formulated the nature of the instrument must be known. The scientists have never come anywhere near an agreement as to what kind of an instrument man has in his throat. They have not decided whether it is a stringed instrument, a brass, a single or double reed, and these things are vital in establishing a scientific basis of procedure. Not knowing what the instrument is, it is not strange that we are not of one mind as to how it should be played upon. If we are to know the science of voice production we must first know the mechanism and action of the vocal organ. This instrument, perhaps an inch and a half in length, produces tones covering a compass, in rare instances, of three octaves. How does it do it? According to the books, in a variety of ways. A majority of those voice teachers who believe in registers recognize three adjustments, chest middle, and upper, or chest medium, and head, but Dr. MacKenzie claims that in four hundred female voices which he examined he found in most cases the chest mechanism was used throughout. Mancini (1774) says there are instances in which there is but one register used throughout. Garcia says there are three mechanisms--chest, falsetto, and head, and makes them common to both sexes. Behnke divides the voice into five registers--lower and upper thick, lower and upper thin, and small. Dr. Guilmette says that to hold that all of the tones of the voice depend on one mechanism or register is an acknowledgment of ignorance of vocal anatomy. He further declares that the vocal cords have nothing to do with tone--that it is produced by vibration of the mucous membrane of the trachea, larynx, pharynx, mouth; in fact, all of the mucous membrane of the upper half of the body. When it comes to the falsetto voice, that scarehead to so many people who have no idea what it is, but are morally sure it is wicked and ungodly, the scientists give their imaginations carte blanche. Dr. Mackenzie, who says there are but two mechanisms, the long and short reed, says the falsetto is produced by the short reed. Lehfeldt and Muller hold that falsetto is produced by the vibrations of the inner edges or mucous covering of the vocal cords, the body of the cords being relaxed. Mr. Lunn feels sure that the true vocal cords are not involved in falsetto, that voice being produced by the false vocal cords. Mantels says that in the falsetto voice the vocal cords do not produce pitch, that the quality and mechanism are both that of the flute, that the cords set the air in vibration and the different tones are made by alterations in the length of the tube. Davidson Palmer says that the falsetto is the remnant of the boy's voice which has deteriorated through lack of use, but which is the correct mechanism to be used throughout the tenor voice. Mr. Chater argues along the same lines as Mr. Mantels except that he makes the instrument belong to the clarinet or oboe class. Others believe the vocal cords act as the lips do in playing a brass instrument. But the action of the vocal cords is but the first part of the unscientific controversy. What takes place above the vocal cords is equally mystifying. The offices of the pharynx, the mouth, the nasal cavities, the entire structure of the head in fact, are rich in uncertainties. Some think the cavities of the pharynx and head are involved acoustically and in some way enlarge, refine and purify the tone, but one famous man says the head has nothing whatever to do with it. Another gentleman of international reputation says the nose is the most important factor in singing. If your nasal cavities are right you can sing, otherwise you cannot. And so this verbal rambling continues; so the search for mind in matter goes on, with a seriousness scarcely equalled in any other line of strife. There is nothing more certain to permanently bewilder a vocal student than to deluge him with pseudo-scientific twaddle about the voice. And this for the simple reason that he comes to learn to sing, not for a course in anatomy. What is scientific voice production? Books without number have been written with the openly expressed intention to give a clear exposition of the subject, but the seeker for a scientific method soon finds himself in a maze of conflicting human opinions from which he cannot extricate himself. We are told with much unction and warmth that science means to know. That it is a knowledge of principles or causes, ascertained truths or facts. A scientific voice teacher then must know something. What must he know? Books on scientific voice production usually begin with a picture of the larynx, each part of which is labeled with a Greek word sometimes longer than the thing itself. It then proceeds to tell the unction of each muscle and cartilage and the part it plays in tone production. Now if this is scientific, and if science is exact knowledge, and this exact knowledge is the basis of scientific voice teaching, then every one who has a perfect knowledge of these facts about the voice, must in the eternal and invariable nature of facts be a perfect voice teacher, and every one of these perfect voice teachers must teach in exactly the same way and produce exactly the same results. Does history support this argument? Quite the reverse. There is a science of acoustics, and in this science one may learn all about tones, vibrating bodies, vibrating strings, vibrating cavities, simple, compound and complex vibrations. Will this knowledge make him a scientific voice teacher? When he has learned all of this he has not yet begun to prepare for voice teaching. There is no record of a great voice teacher having been trained in a physics laboratory. It is possible to analyze a tone and learn how fundamental and upper partials are combined and how these combinations affect quality. Does this constitute scientific voice production? This knowledge may all be gained from the various hand books on acoustics. Has any one the hardihood to assert that such knowledge prepares one for the responsible work of training voices? One may know all of this and still be as ignorant of voice training as a Hottentot is of Calvinism. Further, who shall decide which particular combination of fundamental and upper partials constitutes the perfect singing tone? If a tone is produced and we say, there is the perfect tone, all it proves is that it corresponds to our mental concept of tone. It satisfies our ear, which is another term for our taste. Can a tone be disagreeable and still be scientifically produced? One combination of fundamental and overtones is, strictly speaking, just as scientific as another combination. The flute tone with its two overtones is just as scientific as the string tone with its six or eight. A tone is pleasant or disagreeable according as it corresponds to a mental demand. Even the most hardened scientist would not call a tone which offends his ear scientific. Therefore he must first produce, or have produced the tone that satisfies his ear. The question then naturally arises--when he has secured the tone that satisfies his ear of what value beyond satisfying his curiosity is a physical analysis? A tone is something to hear, and when it satisfies the ear that knows, that in itself is unmistakable evidence that it is rightly produced. If this scientific knowledge of tone is necessary then every great artist in the world is unscientific, because not one of them makes any use whatsoever of such knowledge in his singing. No. All of the scientific knowledge one may acquire is no guaranty of success as a teacher, but is rather in the nature of a hindrance, because it is likely to lead him into mechanical ways of doing things. Further, the possession of such knowledge is no indication that one will use it in his teaching. How much of such knowledge can one use in teaching? How can he tell, save from the tone itself whether the pupil is producing it scientifically? It is a well established fact that the more the teacher tries to use his scientific information in teaching the less of an artist he becomes. Could it be possible that a beautiful tone could be produced contrary to the laws of science? It would be an extraordinary mind that would argue in the affirmative. =The most beautiful tone is the most perfectly produced, whether the singer knows anything of vocal mechanism or not.= In such a tone there is no consciousness of mechanics or scientific laws. The vocal mechanism is responding automatically to the highest law in the universe--the law of beauty. The most scientific thing possible is a beautiful idea perfectly expressed, because a thing inherently beautiful is eternally true, hence it is pure science. Every tone of the human voice is the expression of life, of an idea, a feeling, an emotion, and unless interfered with the vocal mechanism responds automatically. He who by experiment or reading has learned the action of the vocal mechanism, and attempts to make his pupil control every part of it by direct effort may imagine that he is teaching scientific voice production, but he is not, he is only doing a mechanical thing in a clumsy way. Is it a scientific act to tell a pupil to hold his tongue down, as one writer argued recently? Is a teacher calling into action the eternal laws of science when he tells his pupil to drive the tone through the head, hoist the soft palate, groove the tongue, and make the diaphragm rigid? No. He is simply doing a mechanical thing badly for want of a better way. It is no more scientific than kicking the cat out of the way if she gets under your feet. Any one who has learned the elements of psychology or philosophy knows that everything exists first as idea. The real universe is the one that exists in the mind of the creator. The real man is the part of him that thinks. To hold that the body thinks or acts is equivalent to saying that Gray's "Elegy" was in the pen with which the poet wrote. To a natural scientist the only real thing is what he can see, therefore he bases his faith on what he conceives to be matter; but if we study the great ones--Oswald, Huxley, Grant, Allen, and the like, we find that they have long ago reached the conclusion that there is no such thing as matter. According to Schopenhauer the world is idea, and this so called material environment is thought objectifying itself. Vocal teachers, like the members of other professions, are not altogether immune to an attack of intellect, and at such times the thought that they are doing something scientific is particularly agreeable. The only study of science that can benefit any one is the study of causation, and causation cannot be cognized by the physical senses. We never see, hear, feel, taste, or smell cause. What we see or hear is effect. Causation is mental. Natural science is dealing with phenomena, with effect not cause. A regular recurrence of phenomena may establish a so called natural law, but the law is that which caused the phenomena, "Law is force" says Hegel, and it is therefore mental. We are told that the law of the earth is its path around the sun. This is not true, the law of the earth is the mind which makes it revolve around the sun. If we would learn the nature, activity, and cause of anything we must look for it in _mind_ not in matter. For this reason the process of voice production is _psychologic_ not physiologic. When a pupil sings, what we hear is _effect_ not cause. If he is doing all manner of unnecessary things with his lips, tongue, larynx, etc. what we see is effect and the cause is in wrong _mental_ concepts. The thing which caused the tone is _mental_, the force which produced it is _mental_, and the means by which we know whether it is good, or bad is _mental_. Of this we may be sure, that the tone the pupil sings will not be better than the one he has in mind. _A tone exists first as a mental concept, and the quality of the mental concept determines the quality of the tone._ If there be such a thing as scientific voice production it will be found in the sense of what is inherently beautiful, and the scientific tone is one which will perfectly express a right idea or emotion, and in the nature of things there is an appropriate tone for everything that may be legitimately expressed, for they are correlated ideas. Whence originated this so called scientific voice teaching? That the old Italian knew nothing of it is well understood. They considered the process artistic rather than scientific. _How does it sound_, was their slogan. The thing uppermost in their minds was beautiful tone, and they were wise enough to know that when one has a definite concept of the pure singing tone he has a more valuable asset than all the mechanical knowledge he can acquire. They had but one end in view, namely, a finished artist, and everything they did was made to contribute to it. The artist always has in mind the _finished product_. The scientist tries to find out _how it is done_. The artist begins with the idea and works forward to its complete expression. The scientist begins with the physical mechanism and works backward toward the idea. What is responsible for the change from the methods of the the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries? It is safe to say that it did not come through the voice teachers. In the early part of the nineteenth century an interesting thing happened. How it happened or why it happened at that particular time is not known nor does it matter. The human mind became all at once aggressively inquisitive. The desire to get at the ultimate of everything took possession of humanity and still holds it. The result was an era of scientific analysis and invention, the aim of which was to control the forces of nature. Previous to that time methods of living, production, transportation, agriculture, etc. were little different from that of biblical times. People and nations lived much to themselves. They looked within for their inspiration and developed their own national characteristics. But with the invention of the steamship, railway, and telegraph a change came. These improved methods of transportation and communication brought all of the mentalities of the world together, and soon all habitable parts of the globe were in daily and hourly contact. The result was a mental fermentation which increased the complexity of civilization immeasurably and the present exaggerated and unnatural condition of society is the outgrowth. Between 1809 and 1813 were born Mendelssohn, Chopin, Schumann, Liszt, and Wagner. These men are known as the founders of the modern romantic school of music. They grew up with the new civilization and could not do otherwise than reflect its complexity in their music. That the new civilization was responsible for the new art there is no doubt whatever. All old types have passed away. All branches of art have suffered radical changes in conforming to new ideals. Since the wave of scientific investigation started around the world nothing has been able to escape it. The hand of the scientist has been upon everything, and to him rather than to the voice teachers must be given the credit for originating scientific voice teaching. When the scientists began publishing the results of their investigations voice teachers at once became interested. The plan looked promising. It offered them a method shorn of uncertainties. A method that brought everything under the operation of physical laws; a method that dealt only with finalities, and would operate in spite of a lack of musical intelligence on the part of the student, and at the same time enable them to lay to their souls the flattering unction of science. True it ignored altogether the psychology of the matter. It said "do it this way and a beautiful tone will come whether you are thinking it or not, because scientific laws eternally operating in the same way eternally produce the same results." The scientific method gave voice teachers an opportunity to work with something tangible, something they could see; whereas the development of tone concept, the artistic instinct, musical feeling, and musicianship had to do with things which to most of them were intangible and elusive. No one doubts the honesty of the teachers who became obsessed with the scientific idea. To them it meant increased efficiency and accuracy, quicker results with less effort, and so they broke with the old Italians, the basis of whose teaching was beautiful tone and beautiful singing. In spite of the honesty of purpose of all those who followed the new way, the results were calamitous. The art of singing received a serious setback. Voices without number were ruined. From the middle to the end of the nineteenth century the scientific idea was rampant, and during that period it is probable that the worst voice teaching in the history of the world was done. Large numbers of people with neither musicianship nor musical instincts acquired a smattering of anatomy and a few mechanical rules and advertised themselves as teachers of scientific voice production. The great body of vocal students, anxious to learn to sing in the shortest possible time, having no way of telling the genuine from the spurious except by trying it, fell an easy prey, and the amount of vocal damage and disaster visited upon singers in the name of science is beyond calculation. Fortunately the reaction has begun. Slowly but surely we are returning to a saner condition of mind. Every year adds to the number of those who recognize singing as an art, whose vision is clear enough to see that the work of the scientific investigator should be confined to the laboratory and that it has no place in the studio. We are beginning to see that the basic principle of singing is _freedom in the expression of the beautiful_, and that the less there is of the mechanical in the process the better. BIBLIOGRAPHY The Italian School of Florid Song. Pier Franceso Tosi. London, 1743. Practical Reflections on the Figurative Art of Singing. Mancini (1716-1800) English Edition. Boston, 1912. The Psychology of Singing. David Taylor. New York, 1908. The Philosophy of Singing. Clara Kathleen Rogers. New York, 1898. My Voice and I. Clara Kathleen Rogers. Chicago, 1910. The Rightly Produced Voice. Davidson Palmer. London, 1897. Expression in Singing. H. S. Kirkland. Boston, 1916. The Art of the Singer. W. J. Henderson. New York, 1906. English Diction for Singers and Speakers. Louis Arthur Russell. Boston, 1905. Resonance in Speaking and Singing. Thomas Fillebrown. Boston, 1911. Hints of Singing. Garcia. London, 1894. The Singing of the Future. D. Ffrangcon-Davies. London, 1908. Voice, Song, and Speech. Brown and Behnke. London, 1884. Voice Building and Tone Placing. H. Holbrook Curtis, M. D. New York, 1896. Vocal Physiology. Alex. Guilmette, M. D. Boston, 1878. The Philosophy of Art. Edward Howard Griggs. New York, 1913. Ancient Art and Ritual. Jane Ellen Harrison. New York, 1913. The Musical Amateur. Robert Schauffler. New York, 1913. Art for Art's Sake. John C. Van Dyke. New York, 1914. What is Art. Count Leo Tolstoi. New York. The Life of Reason. George Santayana. New York, 1913. The Creative Imagination. Ribot. Chicago, 1906. Esthetics. Kate Gordon. New York, 1913. The New Laocoon. Irving Babbit. Boston, 1910. A New Esthetic. Ferrucio Busoni. New York, 1911. The Scientific Use of the Imagination. Fragments of Science. John Tyndall. London. The Philosophy of Style. Herbert Spencer. The Evolution of the Art of Music. Hubert Parry. New York, 1908. Studies in Modern Music. W. H. Hadow. London, 1904. Appreciation of Art. Blanche Loveridge. Granville, O., 1912. Music and Nationalism. Cecil Forsyth. London, 1911. The Sensations of Tone. H. L. F. Helmholtz. London, 1885. 
19499	----	Alex Guzman for the realization of the figured bass in Figure 67, and to Bunji Hisamori and the Classical Midi Connection (http://www.classicalmidiconnection.com) for the MIDI sequence of the Beethoven Sonata Op. 31, No. 3. Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations and also audio files to which the reader can listen. See 19499-h.htm or 19499-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/4/9/19499/19499-h/19499-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/4/9/19499/19499-h.zip) Transcriber's note: In this e-text, a superscript is indicated by a carat (^) and a subscript by a single underscore (_). Italics are indicated by two underscores, e.g. _larghetto_. The Czech r (with its diacritical) is represented by [vr], e.g. Dvo[vr]ák.] MUSIC NOTATION AND TERMINOLOGY by KARL W. GEHRKENS, A.M. Associate Professor of School Music Oberlin Conservatory of Music [Illustration: [publisher logo]] The A. S. Barnes Company New York 1914 Copyright, 1914, by The A. S. Barnes Company PREFACE The study of _music notation and terminology_ by classes in conservatories and in music departments of colleges and normal schools is a comparative innovation, one reason for the non-existence of such courses in the past being the lack of a suitable text-book, in which might be found in related groups clear and accurate definitions of the really essential terms. But with the constantly increasing interest in music study (both private and in the public schools), and with the present persistent demand that music teaching shall become more systematic and therefore more efficient in turning out a more _intelligent_ class of pupils, it has become increasingly necessary to establish courses in which the prospective teacher of music (after having had considerable experience with music itself) might acquire a concise and accurate knowledge of a fairly large number of terms, most of which he has probably already encountered as a student, and many of which he knows the general meaning of, but none of which he perhaps knows accurately enough to enable him to impart his knowledge clearly and economically to others. To meet the need of a text-book for this purpose in his own classes the author has been for several years gathering material from all available sources, and it is hoped that the arrangement of this material in related groups as here presented will serve to give the student not only some insight into the present meaning of a goodly number of terms, but will also enable him to see more clearly _why_ certain terms have the meaning which at present attaches to them. To this latter end the derivations of many of the terms are given in connection with their definition. The aim has not been to present an exhaustive list, and the selection of terms has of course been influenced largely by the author's own individual experience, hence many teachers will probably feel that important terms have been omitted that should have been included. For this state of affairs no apology is offered except that it would probably be impossible to write a book on this subject which would satisfy everyone in either the selection or actual definition of terms. In formulating the definitions themselves an attempt has been made to use such words as _note_, _tone_, et cetera with at least a fair degree of accuracy, and while the attitude of the author on this point may be criticized as being puristic and pedantic, it is nevertheless his opinion that the next generation of music students and teachers will be profited by a more accurate use of certain terms that have been inaccurately used for so long that the present generation has to a large extent lost sight of the fact that the use is inaccurate. The author is well aware of the fact that reform is a matter of growth rather than of edict, but he is also of the belief that before reform can actually begin to come, the _need_ of reform must be felt by a fairly large number of actively interested persons. It is precisely because so few musicians realize the need of any change in music terminology that the changes recommended by committees who have given the matter careful thought are so slow in being adopted. It is hoped that some few points at which reform in the terminology of music is necessary may be brought to the attention of a few additional musicians thru this volume, and that the cause may thus be helped in some slight degree. It is suggested that in using the book for class-room purposes the teacher emphasize not only the definition and derivation of all terms studied, but the spelling and pronunciation as well. For this latter purpose a pronouncing index has been appended. It is impossible to give credit to all sources from which ideas have been drawn, but especial mention should be made of the eminently clear and beautifully worded definitions compiled by Professor Waldo S. Pratt or the Century Dictionary, and the exceedingly valuable articles on an almost all-inclusive range of topics found in the new edition of Grove's Dictionary. Especial thanks for valuable suggestions as to the arrangement of the material, etc., are also due to Dr. Raymond H. Stetson, Professor of Psychology, Oberlin College; Arthur E. Heacox, Professor of Theory, Oberlin Conservatory of Music; and Charles I. Rice, Supervisor of Music, Worcester, Mass., as well as to various members of the Music Teachers' National Association who have offered valuable advice along certain specific lines. K.W.G. OBERLIN CONSERVATORY OF MUSIC, _June, 1913_ CONTENTS CHAPTER I.--Some Principles of Correct Notation 1 1. Note. 2, 3. Rules for turning stems. 4. Use of cross-stroke. 5. Rest. 6. G Clef. 7. F Clef and C Clef. 8. Sharp and double-sharp. 9. Flat, double-flat and natural. 10. Tie. 11. Dot after a note. CHAPTER II.--Symbols of Music Defined 5 12. Staff and Great Staff. 13. Leger Lines. 14. Staff degrees. 15. Clef. 16. Treble and bass Clefs. 17. Movable C Clef. 18. Sharp. 19. Flat. 20. Double-sharp and double-flat. CHAPTER III.--Symbols of Music Defined (_continued_) 8 21. Natural 22, 23. Key-signature; how determine whether a major or minor key. 24, 25. Accidentals; with tie across bar. 26. Rules concerning altered staff degrees. 27. Enharmonic. 28. Notes; pitch and length of tones. 29. Rests. 30. Lists of notes and rests. 31. English names for. 32. Less common forms. 33. Whole rest, peculiar use of. 34. Bar. 35. Double-bar. CHAPTER IV.--Abbreviations, Signs, etc. 13 36-40. Signs for repetition. 41. Continuation. 42. Rest. 43. Pause. 44. Hold. 45-47. Alteration of Pitch. 48. Octave names. CHAPTER V.--Abbreviations, Signs, etc. (_continued_) 17 49-51. Dots after notes. 52. Dots over or under notes. 53. Dash over note. 54. Tie. 55. Slur. 56. Slur or tie with dots. 57. Dash over note. 58. Dash and dot over note. 59. Accent marks. 60. m.d., m.g., etc. 61. Arpeggio. 62. Messa di voce. 63. Violin bow signs. CHAPTER VI.--Embellishments 22 64. Definition and kinds. 65. Trill. 66-68. Mordent. 69-72. Turn. 73, 74. Appoggiatura. 75. Acciaccatura. CHAPTER VII.--Scales 27 76. Definition, and old forms. 77. Origin. 78. Key. 79. Three general classes. 80. Diatonic, defined. 81. Major diatonic. 82. Tetrachords. 83. The fifteen positions. CHAPTER VIII.--Scales (_continued_) 33 84. Minor diatonic. 85. Original form. 86. Harmonic minor. 87. Melodic minor. 88. Eleven positions. 89. Relative minor. 90. Tonic minor. 91. Diatonic scale names. 92. Syllable-names. 93. Chromatic scale. 94. Nine positions. 95. Whole-step scale. CHAPTER IX.--Auxiliary Words and Endings 42 CHAPTER X.--Measure 44 97. Definition.--Two essential characteristics. Rhythm vers measure. 98. Syncopation. 99. Simple and compound measures. 100. Commonest varieties. 101. Other varieties. 102. Rare varieties. 103. The signs, C and [cut-time symbol]. CHAPTER XI.--Tempo 48 104. Misuses of the word "time." 105-107. How to correct these: by substituting "rhythm," "measure," and "tempo." 108. Three ways of finding the correct tempo. 109. A convenient grouping of tempo-terms. CHAPTER XII.--Tempo (_continued_) 52 110-119. Tempo-terms. CHAPTER XIII.--Dynamics 56 120-131. Terms relating to dynamics. CHAPTER XIV.--Terms Relating to Forms and Styles 62 132. Definition of form. 133. Basis of form. 134. Difference between form and style. 135. Introductory. 136. Two styles. 137. Monophonic music. 138. Polyphonic music. 139. Counterpoint. 140. Imitation. 141. Canon. 142. School round. 143. Fugue. CHAPTER XV.--Terms Relating to Forms and Styles (_continued_) 67 144. Phrase-section. 145. Period. Antecedent. Consequent. 146. Primary forms. 147. Theme. 148. Thematic development. 149. Rondo. 150. Suite. 151. Dances in suite. 152. Scherzo. 153. Sonata. 154. Trio. Quartet. Chamber Music. 155. Concerto. 156. Symphony. 157. Sonata-form. 158. Sonatina. Grand Sonata. 159. Program music. 160. Symphonic or tone poem. CHAPTER XVI.--Terms Relating to Vocal Music 76 161. Anthem. 162. A capella. 163. Motet. 164. Choral. 165. Mass. 166. Cantata. 167. Oratorio. 168. Opera. 169. Libretto. 170. Recitative. 171. Aria. 172. Lied. 173. Ballad. 174. Folk-song. 175. Madrigal. 176. Glee. 177. Part-song. CHAPTER XVII.--Rhythm, Melody, Harmony and Intervals 82 178. The four elements of music. 179. Rhythm. 180. Melody. 181. Harmony. 182. Timbre. 183. Interval--harmonic and melodic. 184. Number name and specific name. 185. Prime. 186. Second. 187. Third. 188. Fourth. 189. Fifth. 190. Sixth. 191. Seventh. 192. Octave. 193. Ninth. 194. Major, minor, perfect, diminished and augmented intervals. 195. Inverted intervals. CHAPTER XVIII.--Chords, Cadences, etc. 87 196. Chord. Triad. Root. 197. Major, minor, diminished, augmented triads. 198. The Common chords. 199. Fundamental position. First inversion. Second inversion. 200. Figured bass. 201. Seventh-chord. Ninth chord. 202. Cadence. 203. Authentic cadence. 204. Perfect authentic. Imperfect authentic. 205. Plagal cadence. 206. Half-cadence. 207. Deceptive cadence. 208. Sequence. 209. Modulation, harmonic and melodic: Dominant Seventh. 210. Suspension. 211. Retardation. 212. Anticipation. 213. Pedal point. 214. Close and open position. 215. Transposition. CHAPTER XIX.--Miscellaneous Terms 95 CHAPTER XX.--Miscellaneous Terms (_continued_) 98 APPENDIX A.--The History of Music Notation 101 APPENDIX B.--Musical Instruments 112 1. Two classes. 2. Piano. 3, 4. Organ, reed and pipe. 5. Instruments used for ensemble playing. 6. Band. 7. Orchestra. 8. The stringed instruments. 9. Wood-wind. 10. Brass. 11. Percussion. 12. Proportion of instruments, in an orchestra. 13. Books recommended. 14. Violin. 15. Viola. 16. Violoncello. 17. Double-bass. 18. Flute. 19. Piccolo. 20. Oboe family. 21. Clarinet and bass clarinet; saxophone. 22. French horn. 23. Trumpet. 24. Cornet. 25. Trombone. 26. Tuba. 27. Kettle-drum. 28. Harp. APPENDIX C.--Acoustics 131 1. Definition. 2. Sound, production of. 3. Sound, transmission of. 4. Rate of travel. 5. Intensification of. 6. Classification of. 7. Tones, properties of. 8. Pitch. 9. Intensity. 10. Quality. 11. Overtones. 12. Equal temperament. 13. Standards of pitch. APPENDIX D.--Terminology Reform 139 APPENDIX E.--Analysis of Beethoven Sonata, Op. 31, No. 3 149 PRONOUNCING INDEX 159 CHAPTER I SOME PRINCIPLES OF CORRECT NOTATION 1. The _note_ (from _nota_--Latin--a mark or sign) consists of either one, two, or three parts, ([Illustration]) these being referred to respectively as head, stem, and hook. The hook is often called _tail_ or cross-stroke. The stem appears on the right side of the head when turned up, but on the left side when turned down.[1] [Illustration] The hook is always on the right side.[2] [Illustration] [Footnote 1: It should be noted at the outset that this statement regarding the down-turned stem on the left side of the note-head, and also a number of similar principles here cited, refer more specifically to music as it appears on the printed page. In the case of hand-copied music the down-turned stem appears on the right side of the note, thus [note symbol]. This is done because of greater facility in writing, and for the same reason other slight modifications of the notation here recommended may sometimes be encountered. In dealing with children it is best usually to follow as closely as possible the principles according to which _printed_ music is notated, in order to avoid those non-satisfying and often embarrassing explanations of differences which will otherwise be unavoidable.] [Footnote 2: An exception to this rule occurs in the case of notes of unequal value stroked together, when the hook appears on the left side, thus [Illustration].] In writing music with pen the head and hook are best made with a heavy pressure on the pen point, but in writing at the board they are most easily made by using a piece of chalk about an inch long, turned on its side. 2. When only one part (or voice) is written on the staff, the following _rules for turning stems_ apply: (1) If the note-head is _below_ the third line, the stem must turn up. (2) If the note-head is _above_ the third line the stem must turn down. (3) If the note-head is _on_ the third line the stem is turned either up or down with due regard to the symmetrical appearance of the measure in which the note occurs. The following examples will illustrate these points. [Illustration: Fig. 1.] 3. When two parts are written on the same staff, the stems of the upper part all turn up, and those of the lower part turn down, in order that the parts may be clearly distinguished. (Fig. 2.) But in music for piano and other instruments on which complete chords can be sounded by _one_ performer and also in simple, four-part vocal music in which all voices have approximately the same rhythm, several notes often have one stem in common as in Fig. 3. [Illustration: Fig. 2.] [Illustration: Fig. 3.] 4. Notes of small denomination (eighths and smaller) are often written in groups of two or more, all stems in the group being then connected by _one cross-stroke_. In such a case all the stems must of course be turned the same way, the direction being determined by the position of the majority of note-heads in the group. Notes thus _stroked_ may be of the same or of different denomination. See Fig. 4. [Illustration: Fig. 4.] In vocal music notes are never thus stroked when a syllable is given to each note. (See p. 19, Sec. 55, C.) 5. _Rests_, like notes, are best made with a heavy pen stroke or by using a piece of chalk on its side. (See note under Sec. 1.) The double-whole rest, whole rest, and half rest occupy the third space unless for the sake of clearness in writing two parts on the same staff they are written higher or lower. The rests of smaller denomination may be placed at any point on the staff, the hooks being always placed on the spaces. The hook of the eighth rest is usually placed on the _third_ space. Rests are sometimes dotted, but are never tied. 6. The _G clef_ should be begun at the second line rather than below the staff. Experiments have shown clearly that beginners learn to make it most easily in this way, and the process may be further simplified by dividing it into two parts, thus, [Illustration]. The descending stroke crosses the ascending curve at or near the fourth line. The circular part of the curve occupies approximately the first and second spaces. 7. The _F clef_ is made either thus, [bass clef symbol], or thus, [old bass clef symbol], the dots being placed one on either side of the fourth line of the staff, which is the particular point that the clef marks. The C _clef_ has also two forms, [C clef symbol] and [tenor clef symbol]. 8. The _sharp_ is made with two light vertical strokes, and two heavy slanting ones, the slant of the latter being upward from left to right, [sharp]. The sharp should never be made thus, [Illustration]. The _double sharp_ is made either thus [double-sharp symbol] or [old double-sharp symbol], the first form being at present the more common. 9. The _flat_ is best made by a down stroke retraced part way up, the curve being made without lifting pen from paper. The _double flat_ consists of two flats,[3] [flat][flat]. The _natural_ or _cancel_ is made in two strokes, down-right and right-down, thus [Illustration]. [Footnote 3: It is to be hoped that the figure for the double-flat suggested by Mattheson (who also suggested the St. Andrew's cross ([symbol]) for the double-sharp) may some time be readopted. This figure was the Greek letter B, made thus, [Greek: b], and its use would make our notation one degree more uniform than it is at present.] 10. The _tie_ usually connects the _heads_ of notes, thus [tie symbol]. 11. The _dot after a note_ always appears on a space, whether the note-head is on a line or space. (See Fig. 5.) In the case of a dot after a note on a line, the dot usually appears on the space _above_ that line if the next note is higher in position and on the space below it if the following note is lower. [Illustration: Fig. 5.] _Note._--Correct notation must be made a habit rather than a theory, and in order to form the habit of writing correctly, _drill_ is necessary. This may perhaps be best secured by asking students to write (at the board or on ruled paper) from verbal dictation, thus: Teacher says, "Key of B[flat], three-quarter measure: First measure, DO a quarter note, RE a quarter, and MI a quarter. Second measure, SOL a quarter, LA a quarter, and SOL a quarter. Third measure, LA, TI, DO, RE, MI, eighths, stroked in pairs. Fourth measure, high DO a dotted half." Pupils respond by writing the exercise dictated, after which mistakes in the turning of stems, etc., are corrected. The _pitch names_ may be dictated instead of the syllables if desired, and still further practice may be provided by asking that the exercise be transposed to other keys. CHAPTER II SYMBOLS OF MUSIC DEFINED 12. A _staff_ is a collection of parallel lines, together with the spaces belonging to them. The modern staff has five lines and six spaces, these being ordinarily referred to as first line, second line, third line, fourth line, and fifth line (beginning with the lowest); and space below (_i.e._, space below the first line), first space, second space, third space, fourth space, and space above. The definition and discussion above refer more specifically to one of the portions of the "great staff," the latter term being often applied to the combination of treble and bass staffs (with one leger line between) so commonly used in piano music, etc. 13. The _extent of the staff_ may be increased either above or below by the addition of short lines called _leger lines_,[4] and notes may be written on either these lines or on the spaces above and below them. [Footnote 4: The word _leger_ is derived from the French word _LÉGER_, meaning light, and this use of the word refers to the fact that the leger lines, being added by hand, are lighter--_i.e._, less solid in color--than the printed lines of the staff itself.] 14. The lines and spaces constituting the staff (including leger lines if any) are often referred to as _staff degrees_, _i.e._, each separate line and space is considered to be "a degree of the staff." The tones of a scale are also sometimes referred to as "degrees of the scale." 15. A _clef_[5] is a sign placed on the staff to designate what pitches are to be represented by its lines and spaces. Thus, _e.g._, the G clef shows us not only that the second line of the staff represents G, but that the first line represents E, the first space F, etc. The F clef similarly shows us that the fifth line of the bass staff represents the first A below middle C, the fourth line the first F below middle C, etc. [Footnote 5: The word _clef_ is derived from _CLAVIS_--a key--the reference being to the fact that the clef unlocks or makes clear the meaning of the staff, as a key to a puzzle enables us to solve the puzzle.] The student should note that these clefs are merely modified forms of the letters G and F, which (among others) were used to designate the pitches represented by certain lines when staff notation was first inaugurated. For a fuller discussion of this matter see Appendix A, p. 101. [Transcriber's Note: Corrected error "Appendix I" in original.] 16. When the G clef is used the staff is usually referred to as the _treble staff_, and when the F clef is used, as the _bass staff_. Such expressions as "singing from the treble clef," or "singing in the treble clef," and "singing in the bass clef" are still frequently heard, but are preferably replaced by "singing from the treble staff," and "singing from the bass staff." Fig. 6 shows the permanent names of lines and spaces when the G and F clefs are used.[6] [Footnote 6: The Germans use the same pitch designations as we do with two exceptions, viz., our B is called by them H, and our B[flat] is called B. The scale of C therefore reads: C, D, E, F, G, A, H, C; the scale of F reads F, G, A, B, C, D, E, F. The signatures are in all cases written exactly as we write them. In France and Italy where the "fixed DO" system is in vogue, pitches are usually referred to by the syllable names; _e.g._, C is referred to as DO (or UT), D as RE, etc.] [Illustration: Fig. 6.] 17. _The movable C clef_ [C clef symbol] or [tenor clef symbol], formerly in very common use, is now utilized for only two purposes, viz., (1) in music written for certain orchestral instruments (cello, viola, etc.) of extended range, in order to avoid having to use too many leger lines; and (2) for indicating the tenor part in vocal music. This latter usage seems also to be disappearing however, and the tenor part is commonly written on the treble staff, it being understood that the tones are to be sung an octave lower than the notes would indicate. The C clef as used in its various positions is shown in Figs. 7, 8, and 9. It will be noted that in each case the line on which the clef is placed represents "middle C." [Illustration: Fig. 7. Soprano clef.] [Illustration: Fig. 8. Alto clef.] [Illustration: Fig. 9. Tenor clef.] 18. A _sharp_ is a character which causes the degree of the staff with which it is associated to represent a pitch one half-step higher than it otherwise would. Thus in Fig. 10 (_a_) the fifth line and first space represent the pitch F, but in Fig. 10 (_b_) these same staff degrees represent an entirely different tone--F[sharp]. The student should note that the sharp does not then _raise_ anything; it merely causes a staff degree to represent a higher tone than it otherwise would. There is just as much difference between F and F[sharp] as between B and C, and yet one would never think of referring to C as "B raised"! [Illustration: Fig. 10.] 19. A _flat_ is a character that causes the degree of the staff with which it is associated to represent a tone one half-step lower than it otherwise would. (See note under Sec. 18 and apply the same discussion here.) 20. A _double-sharp_ causes the staff degree on which it is placed to represent a pitch one whole-step higher than it would without any sharp. Similarly, a double-flat causes the staff degree on which it is placed to represent a pitch one whole-step lower than it would without any flat. Double-sharps and double-flats are generally used on staff degrees that have already been sharped or flatted, therefore their practical effect is to cause staff degrees to represent pitches respectively a half-step higher and a half-step lower than would be represented by those same degrees in their diatonic condition. Thus in Fig. 10 (_b_) the first space in its diatonic condition[7] represents F-sharp, and the double-sharp on this degree would cause it to represent a pitch one-half step higher than F-sharp, _i.e._, F-double-sharp. [Footnote 7: The expression "diatonic condition" as here used refers to the staff after the signature has been placed upon it, in other words after the staff has been prepared to represent the pitches of the diatonic scale.] CHAPTER III SYMBOLS OF MUSIC DEFINED (_Continued_) 21. The _natural_[8] (sometimes called _cancel_) annuls the effect of previous sharps, flats, double-sharps, and double-flats, within the measure in which it occurs. After a double-sharp or double-flat the combination of a natural with a sharp, or a natural with a flat is often found: in this case only one sharp or flat is annulled. (Sometimes also the single sharp or flat will be found by itself, cancelling the double-sharp or double-flat). The natural is often used when a composition changes key, as in Fig. 11, where a change from E to G is shown. [Footnote 8: It has already been noted (p. 6, Note) that in the German scale our b-flat is called b, and our b is called H. From this difference in terminology has grown up the custom of using the H (now made [natural]) to show that _any_ staff-degree is in _natural_ condition, _i.e._, not sharped or flatted.] [Illustration: Fig. 11.] 22. The group of sharps or flats (or absence of them) at the beginning of a staff partially indicates the key in which the composition is written. They are called collectively the _key-signature_. 23. The same key-signature may stand for either one of two keys, the major key, or its relative minor, hence in order to determine in what key a melody is one must note whether the tones are grouped about the major tonic DO or the minor tonic LA. In a harmonized composition it is almost always possible to determine the key by referring to the last bass note; if the final chord is clearly the DO chord the composition is in the major key, but if this final chord is clearly the LA chord then it is almost certain that the entire composition is in the minor key. Thus if a final chord appears as that in Fig. 12 the composition is clearly in G major, while if it appears as in Fig. 13, it is just as surely in E minor. [Illustration: Fig. 12.] [Illustration: Fig. 13.] 24. Sharps, flats, naturals, double-sharps and double-flats, occurring in the course of the composition (_i.e._, after the key signature) are called _accidentals_, whether they actually cause a staff degree to represent a different pitch as in Fig. 14 or simply make clear a notation about which there might otherwise be some doubt as in Fig. 15, measure two. The effect of such accidentals terminates at the bar. [Illustration: Fig. 14.] [Illustration: Fig. 15.] 25. In the case of a _tie across a bar_ an accidental remains in force until the combined value of the tied notes expires. In Fig. 16 first measure, third beat, an accidental sharp makes the third space represent the pitch C sharp. By virtue of the tie across the bar the third space continues to represent C sharp thru the first beat of the second measure, but for the remainder of the measure the third space will represent C unless the sharp is repeated as in Fig. 17. [Illustration: Fig. 16.] [Illustration: Fig. 17.] 26. The following rules for making staff degrees represent pitches different from those of the diatonic scale will be found useful by the beginner in the study of music notation. These rules are quoted from "The Worcester Musical Manual," by Charles I. Rice. 1. To sharp a natural degree, use a sharp. Fig. 18. 2. To sharp a sharped degree, use a double sharp. Fig. 19. 3. To sharp a flatted degree, use a natural. Fig. 20. 4. To flat a natural degree, use a flat. Fig. 21. 5. To flat a flatted degree, use a double flat. Fig. 22. 6. To flat a sharped degree, use a natural. Fig. 23. [Illustration: Fig. 18.] [Illustration: Fig. 19.] [Illustration: Fig. 20.] [Illustration: Fig. 21.] [Illustration: Fig. 22.] [Illustration: Fig. 23.] 27. When two different notations represent the same pitch, the word _enharmonic_ is applied. Thus we may say that F sharp and G flat (on keyboard instruments at least) are enharmonically the same. This word _enharmonic_ is used in such expressions as enharmonic change, enharmonic keys, enharmonic interval, enharmonic modulation, enharmonic relation, etc., and in all such combinations it has the same meaning, viz.--a change in notation but no change in the pitch represented. 28. A _note_ is a character expressing relative duration, which when placed on a staff indicates that a certain tone is to be sounded for a certain relative length of time. The pitch of the tone to be sounded is shown by the position of the note on the staff, while the length of time it is to be prolonged is shown by the shape of the note. Thus _e.g._, a half-note on the second line of the treble staff indicates that a specific pitch (g') is to be played or sung for a period of time twice as long as would be indicated by a quarter-note in the same composition. 29. A _rest_ is a character which indicates a rhythmic silence of a certain relative length. 30. The _notes and rests in common use_ are as follows: [symbol] Whole-note. An open note-head without stem. [symbol] Half-note. An open note-head with stem. [symbol] Quarter-note. A closed note-head with stem. [symbol] Eighth-note. A closed note-head with stem and one hook. [symbol] Sixteenth-note. A closed note-head with stem and two hooks. [symbol] Thirty-second-note. A closed note-head with stem and three hooks. [symbol] Whole-rest. [symbol] Half-rest. [symbol] Quarter-rest. [symbol] Eighth-rest. [symbol] Sixteenth-rest. [symbol] Thirty-second-rest. 31. The _English names_ for these notes are: Whole-note--semi-breve. Half-note--minim. Quarter-note--crotchet. Eighth-note--quaver. Sixteenth-note--semi-quaver. Thirty-second-note--demi-semi-quaver. The corresponding rests are referred to by the same system of nomenclature: _e.g._, _semi-breve rest_, etc. 32. _Sixty-fourth_ and _one-hundred-and-twenty-eighth-notes_ are occasionally found, but are not in common use. The _double-whole-note_ (_breve_), made [breve symbol] or [old breve symbol], is still used, especially in English music, which frequently employs the half-note as the beat-unit. Thus in four-half measure the breve would be necessary to indicate a tone having four beats. 33. The _whole-rest_ has a peculiarity of usage not common to any of the other duration symbols, viz., that it is often employed as a _measure-rest_, filling an entire measure of beats, no matter what the measure-signature may be. Thus, not only in four-quarter-measure, but in two-quarter, three-quarter, six-eighth, and other varieties, the whole-rest fills the entire measure, having a value sometimes greater, sometimes less than the corresponding whole-note. Because of this peculiarity of usage the whole-rest is termed _Takt-pausa_ (measure-rest) by the Germans. 34. A _bar_ is a vertical line across the staff, dividing it into measures. The word _bar_ is often used synonymously with _measure_ by orchestral conductors and others; thus, "begin at the fourteenth bar after J." This use of the word, although popular, is incorrect. 35. A _double-bar_ consists of two vertical lines across the staff, at least one of the two being a heavy line. The double bar marks the end of a division, movement, or entire composition. CHAPTER IV ABBREVIATIONS, SIGNS, ETC. 36. A _double bar_ (or single heavy bar) with either two or four dots indicates that a section is to be repeated. If the repeat marks occur at only one point the entire preceding part is to be repeated, but if the marks occur twice (the first time at the right of the bar but the second time at the left), only the section thus enclosed by the marks is to be repeated. [Illustration] 37. Sometimes a different cadence (or ending) is to be used for the repetition, and this is indicated as in Fig. 24. [Illustration: Fig. 24.] 38. The Italian word _bis_ is occasionally used to indicate that a certain passage or section is to be repeated. This use is becoming obsolete. 39. The words _da capo_ (_D.C._) mean literally "from the head," _i.e._, repeat from the beginning. The words _dal segno_ (_D.S._) indicate a repetition from the sign ([segno symbol] or [segno symbol]) instead of from the beginning. In the case of both _D.C._ and _D.S._ the word _fine_ (meaning literally _the end_) is ordinarily used to designate the point at which the repeated section is to terminate. The fermata ([fermata symbol]) was formerly in common use for this same purpose, but is seldom so employed at present. _D.C._ (_sin_[9]) _al fine_ means--repeat from the beginning to the word "fine." [Footnote 9: The word _sin_ is a contraction of the Italian word _sino_, meaning "as far as" or "until"; in the term given above (Sec. 39) it is really superfluous as the word _al_ includes in itself both preposition and article, meaning "to the."] _D.C. al_ [fermata symbol] means--repeat to the fermata (or hold). _D.C. senza repetizione_, or _D.C. ma senza repetizione_, [Transcriber's Note: Corrected misspelling "repetitione"] both mean--repeat from the beginning, but without observing other repeat marks during the repetition. _D.C. e poi la coda_ means--repeat the first section only to the mark [coda symbol], then skip to the coda. (See p. 74, Sec. 157, for discussion of _coda_). 40. In certain cases where the repetition of characteristic figures can be indicated without causing confusion, it is the practice of composers (especially in orchestral music) to make use of certain _signs of repetition_. Some of the commonest of these abbreviations are shown in the following examples. [Illustration: Fig. 25.] [Illustration: Fig. 26.] [Illustration: Fig. 27.] In Fig. 28 the repetition of an entire measure is called for. [Illustration: Fig. 28.] 41. The word _simile_ [Transcriber's Note: Corrected error "similie"] (sometimes _segue_) indicates that a certain effect previously begun is to be continued, as _e.g._, staccato playing, pedalling, style of bowing in violin music, etc. The word _segue_ is also occasionally used to show that an accompaniment figure (especially in orchestral music) is to be continued. 42. _When some part is to rest for two or more measures_ several methods of notation are possible. A rest of two measures is usually indicated thus [Illustration]. Three measures thus [Illustration]. Four measures thus [Illustration]. Rests of more than four measures are usually indicated in one of the following ways: [Illustration]. Sometimes the number of measures is written directly on the staff, thus; [Illustration]. 43. The letters G.P. (general pause, or grosse pause), the words _lunga pausa_, or simply the word _lunga_, are sometimes written over a rest to show that there is to be a prolonged pause or rest in all parts. Such expressions are found only in ensemble music, _i.e._, music in which several performers are engaged at the same time. 44. The _fermata_ or _hold_ [fermata symbol] over a note or chord indicates that the tone is to be prolonged, the duration of the prolongation depending upon the character of the music and the taste of the performer or conductor. It has already been noted that the hold over a bar was formerly used to designate the end of the composition, as the word _fine_ is employed at present, but this usage has practically disappeared and the hold over the bar now usually indicates a short rest between two sections of a composition. 45. The sign _8va......_ (an abbreviation of _all'ottava_, [Transcriber's Note: Corrected error "al ottava" in original.] literally at the octave) above the staff, indicates that all tones are to be sounded an octave higher than the notes would indicate. When found below the staff the same sign serves to indicate that the tones are to be sounded an octave lower. The term _8va bassa_ has also this latter signification. 46. Sometimes the word _loco_ (in place) is used to show that the part is no longer to be sounded an octave higher (or lower), but this is more often indicated by the termination of the dotted (or wavy) line. 47. The sign _Col 8_ (_coll'ottava_--with the octave) shows that the tones an octave higher or lower are to be sounded _with_ the tones indicated by the printed notes. [Transcriber's Note: Corrected error "col ottava" in original.] 48. For the sake of definiteness in referring to pitches, a particular name is applied to each octave, and all pitches in the octave are referred to by means of a uniform nomenclature. The following figure will make this system clear: [Illustration: Fig. 29.] Thus _e.g._, "great G" (written simply G), is the G represented by the first line of the bass staff. Small A (written a), is represented by the fifth line of the bass staff. Two-lined G, (written [2-lined g symbol]), is represented by the space above the fifth line, treble staff. Three-lined C, (written [3-lined c symbol]), is represented by the second added line above the treble staff, etc. The _one-lined octave_ may be described as the octave from _middle C_ to the B represented by the third line of the treble staff, and any tone within that octave is referred to as "one-lined." Thus--_one-lined_ D, _one-lined_ G, etc. In scientific works on acoustics, etc., the pitches in the sub octave (or sub-contra octave as it is often called) are referred to as C_2, D_2, E_2, etc.; those in the contra octave as C_1, D_1, etc.; in the great octave, as c^1, d^1, etc.; in the small octave as c^2, d^2, etc. CHAPTER V ABBREVIATIONS, SIGNS, ETC., (_Continued_) 49. _A dot after a note_ shows that the value of the note is to be half again as great as it would be without the dot, _i.e._, the value is to be three-halves that of the original note. [Illustration] 50. _When two dots follow the note_ the second dot adds half as much as the first dot has added, _i.e._, the entire value is seven-fourths that of the original note. [Illustration] 51. _When three dots follow the note_ the third dot adds one-half the value added by the second, _i.e._, the entire value of the triple-dotted note is fifteen-eighths that of the original note. [Illustration] 52. _A dot over or under a note_ is called the _staccato mark_ and indicates that the tone is to be sounded and then instantly released. [Illustration] In music for organ and for some other instruments the staccato note is sometimes interpreted differently, this depending on the character of the instrument. On stringed instruments of the violin family the staccato effect is usually secured by a long, rapid stroke of the bow for each tone; in the case of harp and drum the hand is quickly brought in contact with the vibrating body, thus stopping the tone instantly. On the organ the tone is often prolonged to one-half the value of the printed note before the keys are released. 53. _The wedge-shaped dash over the note_ (staccatissimo) was formerly employed to indicate a tone still more detached than that indicated by the dot, but this sign is really superfluous, and is seldom used at present. [Illustration] 54. _A tie_ is a curved line connecting the heads of two notes that call for the same tone. It indicates that they are to be sounded as one tone having a duration equal to the combined value of both notes. _E.g._, a half-note tied to a quarter-note would indicate a tone equal in duration-length to that shown by a dotted half-note; two half-notes tied would indicate a tone equal in duration to that shown by a whole-note. (See examples under Sections 49, 50, and 51). Fig. 30 illustrates the more common variety of tie, while Fig. 31 shows an example of the _enharmonic[10] tie_. [Footnote 10: For definition of enharmonic see p. 10, Sec. 27.] [Illustration: Fig. 30.] [Illustration: Fig. 31.] 55. The _slur_ is used in so many different ways that it is impossible to give a general definition. It consists of a curved line, sometimes very short (in which case it looks like the tie), but sometimes very long, connecting ten, fifteen, or more notes. Some of the more common uses of the slur are: A. _To indicate legato_ (sustained or connected) _tones_, as contrasted with staccato (detached) ones. In violin music this implies playing all tones thus slurred in one bow; in music for the voice and for wind instruments it implies singing or playing them in one breath. B. _As a phrase-mark_, in the interpretation of which the first tone of the phrase is often accented slightly, and the last one shortened in value. This interpretation of the phrase is especially common when the phrase is short (as in the two-note phrase), and when the tones constituting the phrase are of short duration, _e.g._, the phrase given in Fig. 32 would be played approximately as written in Fig. 33. [Illustration: Fig. 32.] [Illustration: Fig. 33.] But if the notes are of greater value, especially in slow tempi, the slur merely indicates legato, _i.e._, sustained or connected rendition. Fig. 34 illustrates such a case. [Illustration: Fig. 34.] This is a matter of such diverse usage that it is difficult to generalize regarding it. The tendency seems at present to be in the direction of using the slur (_in instrumental music_) as a phrase-mark exclusively, it being understood that unless there is some direction to the contrary, the tones are to be performed in a connected manner. C. In vocal music, to show that two or more tones are to be sung to one syllable of text. See Fig. 35. [Illustration: Fig. 35. MENDELSSOHN (_S. Paul_) re-mem-bers His chil-dren.] In notes of small denomination (eighths and smaller) this same thing is often indicated by _stroking_ the stems together as in Fig. 36. This can only be done in cases where the natural grouping of notes in the measure will not be destroyed. [Illustration: Fig. 36. ev-er and ev-er, for ev-er and] D. To mark special note-groups (triplets, etc.), in which case the slur is accompanied by a figure indicating the number of notes in the group. See Fig. 37 (_a_) The most common of these irregular note-groups is the _triplet_, which consists of three notes to be performed in the time ordinarily given to two of the same value. Sometimes the triplet consists of only two notes as in Fig. 37 (_b_). In such a case the first two of the three notes composing the triplet are considered to be tied. [Illustration: Fig. 37.] When the triplet form is perfectly obvious, the Fig. 3 (as well as the slur) may be omitted. Other examples of irregular note-groups, together with the names commonly applied, follow. [Illustration: Doublet. Quintuplet or Quintolet. Sextuplet or Sextolet. Septolet or Septimole.] 56. The _combination of slur or tie and dots_ over the notes indicates that the tones are to be somewhat detached, but not sharply so. [Illustration] This effect is sometimes erroneously termed _portamento_ (lit. _carrying_), but this term is more properly reserved for an entirely different effect, _viz._, when a singer, or player on a stringed instrument, passes from a high tone to a low one (or vice versa) touching lightly on some or all of the diatonic tones between the two melody tones. 57. The horizontal _dash over a note_ [Illustration] indicates that the tone is to be slightly accented, and sustained. This mark is also sometimes used after a staccato passage to show that the tones are no longer to be performed in detached fashion, but are to be sustained. This latter use is especially common in music for stringed instruments. 58. The combination of _dash and dot over a note_ [Illustration] indicates that the tone is to be slightly accented and separated from its neighboring tones. 59. _Accent marks_ are made in a variety of fashions. The most common forms follow. [horizontal accent symbol] [vertical accent symbol] _sf_ _fz_. All indicate that a certain tone or chord is to be differentiated from its neighboring tones or chords by receiving a certain relative amount of stress. 60. In music for keyboard instruments it is sometimes necessary to indicate that a certain part is to be played by a certain hand. The abbreviations r.h. (right hand), m.d. (mano destra, It.), and m.d. (main droite, Fr.), designate that a passage or tone is to be played with the right hand, while l.h. (left hand), m.s. (mano sinistra, It.), and m.g. (main gauche, Fr.), show that the left hand is to be employed. 61. _The wavy line placed vertically beside a chord_ [Illustration] indicates that the tones are to be sounded consecutively instead of simultaneously, beginning with the lowest tone, all tones being sustained until the duration-value of the chord has expired. This is called _arpeggio playing_. When the wavy line extends through the entire chord (covering both staffs) as in Fig. 38, all the tones of the chord are to be played one after another, beginning with the lowest: but if there is a separate wavy line for each staff as at Fig. 39 then the lowest tone represented on the upper staff is to be played simultaneously with the lowest tone represented on the bass staff. [Illustration: Fig. 38.] [Illustration: Fig. 39.] The word arpeggio (plural arpeggi) is a derivation of the Italian word _arpa_ (meaning harp), and from this word _arpa_ and its corresponding verb _arpeggiare_ (to play on the harp) are derived also a number of other terms commonly used in instrumental music. Among these are--arpeggiamento, arpeggiando, arpeggiato, etc., all of these terms referring to a _harp style_ of performance, the tones being sounded one after another in rapid succession instead of simultaneously as on the piano. 62. The sign [crescendo-decrescendo symbol] over a note indicates that the tone is to be begun softly, gradually increased in power, and as gradually decreased again, ending as softly as it began. In vocal music this effect is called _messa di voce_. 63. In music for stringed instruments of the violin family, the sign [down-bow symbol] indicates down-bow and the sign [up-bow symbol] up-bow. In cello music the down-bow sign is sometimes written [cello down-bow symbol]. CHAPTER VI EMBELLISHMENTS 64. _Embellishments (or graces) (Fr. agréments_) are ornamental tones, either represented in full in the score or indicated by certain signs. The following are the embellishments most commonly found: Trill (or shake), mordent, inverted mordent (or prall trill), turn (gruppetto), inverted turn, appoggiatura and acciaccatura. Usage varies greatly in the interpretation of the signs representing these embellishments and it is impossible to give examples of all the different forms. The following definitions represent therefore only the most commonly found examples and the most generally accepted interpretations. 65. The _trill (or shake_) consists of the rapid alternation of two tones to the full value of the printed note. The lower of these two tones is represented by the printed note, while the upper one is the next higher tone in the diatonic scale of the key in which the composition is written. The interval between the two tones may therefore be either a half-step or a whole-step. Whether the trill is to begin with the principal tone (represented by the printed note) or with the one above is a matter of some dispute among theorists and performers, but it may safely be said that the majority of modern writers on the subject would have it begin on the principal tone rather than on the tone above. Fig. 40. When the principal note is preceded by a small note on the degree above, it is of course understood that the trill begins on the tone above. Fig. 41. The trill is indicated by the sign [trill symbol]. [Illustration: Fig. 40.] [Illustration: Fig. 41.] The above examples would be termed _perfect trills_ because they close with a turn. By inference, an _imperfect trill_ is one closing without a turn. 66. The _mordent_ [mordent symbol] consists of three tones; first the one represented by the printed note; second the one next below it in the diatonic scale; third the one represented by the printed note again. [Illustration: Fig. 42.] 67. The _double (or long) mordent_ has five tones (sometimes seven) instead of three, the first two of the three tones of the regular mordent being repeated once or more. (See Fig. 43.) In the case of both mordent and double-mordent the tones are sounded as quickly as possible, the time taken by the embellishment being subtracted from the value of the principal note as printed. [Illustration: Fig. 43.] 68. The _inverted mordent_ [inverted mordent symbol] (note the absence of the vertical line) is like the mordent except that the tone below is replaced by the tone above in each case. This ornament is sometimes called a "transient shake" because it is really only a part of the more elaborate grace called "trill." (See Fig. 44.) [Illustration: Fig. 44.] The confusion at present attending the interpretation of the last two embellishments described, might be largely obviated if the suggestion of a recent writer[11] to call the one the _upward mordent_, and the other the _downward mordent_ were to be universally adopted. [Footnote 11: Elson--Dictionary of Music, article _mordent_.] 69. The _turn_ consists of four tones; first, the diatonic scale-tone above the principal tone; second, the principal tone itself; third, the tone below the principal tone; and fourth, the principal tone again. When the sign ([turn symbol] or [fancy turn symbol]) occurs over a note of small value in rapid tempo (Fig. 45) the turn consists of four tones of equal value; but if it occurs over a note of greater value, or in a slow tempo, the tones are usually played quickly (like the mordent), and the fourth tone is then held until the time-value of the note has expired. (Fig. 46.) [Illustration: Fig. 45.] [Illustration: Fig. 46.] 70. _When the turn-sign is placed a little to the right of the note_ the principal tone is sounded first and held to almost its full time-value, then the turn is played just before the next tone of the melody. In this case the four tones are of equal length as in the first example. (See Fig. 47.) [Illustration: Fig. 47.] The student should note the difference between these two effects; in the case of a turn _over_ the note the turn comes at the beginning, but in the case of the sign _after_ the note the turn comes at the very end. But in both cases the time taken by the embellishment is taken from the time-value of the principal note. For further details see Grove's Dictionary of Music and Musicians, Vol. V, p. 184. Also Elson, op. cit. p. 274. 71. Sometimes an accidental occurs with the turn, and in this case when written above the sign it refers to the highest tone of the turn, but when written below, to the lowest (Fig. 48). [Illustration: Fig. 48.] 72. In the _inverted turn_ the order of tones is reversed, the lowest one coming first, the principal tone next, the highest tone third, and the principal tone again, last. [Illustration: Fig. 49.] 73. The _appoggiatura_ (lit. _leaning note_) consists of an ornamental tone introduced before a tone of a melody, thus delaying the melody tone until the ornamental tone has been heard. The time taken for this ornamental tone is taken from that of the melody tone. The appoggiatura was formerly classified into _long appoggiatura_ and _short appoggiatura_, but modern writers seem to consider the term "short appoggiatura" to be synonymous with acciaccatura[12], and to avoid confusion the word _acciaccatura_ will be used in this sense, and defined under its own heading. [Footnote 12: In organ music the acciaccatura is still taken to mean that the embellishing tone and the melody tone are to be sounded together, the former being then instantly released, while the latter is held to its full time-value.] 74. Three rules for the interpretation of the appoggiatura are commonly cited, viz.: (1) When it is possible to divide the principal tone into halves, then the appoggiatura receives one-half the value of the printed note. (Fig. 50.) (2) When the principal note is dotted (division into halves being therefore not possible), the appoggiatura receives two-thirds of the value. (Fig. 51.) (3) When the principal note is tied to a note of smaller denomination the appoggiatura receives the value of the first of the two notes. (Fig. 52.) [Illustration: Fig. 50.] [Illustration: Fig. 51.] [Illustration: Fig. 52.] 75. The _acciaccatura_ (or short appoggiatura) is written like the appoggiatura except that it has a light stroke across its stem. [Illustration] It has no definite duration-value, but is sounded as quickly as possible, taking its time from that of the principal tone. The appoggiatura is always accented, but the acciaccatura never is, the stress always falling on the melody tone. (See Grove, op. cit. Vol. I, p. 96.) The use of embellishments is on the wane, and the student of to-day needs the above information only to aid him in the interpretation of music written in previous centuries. In the early days of instrumental music it was necessary to introduce graces of all sorts because the instruments in use were not capable of sustaining tone for any length of time; but with the advent of the modern piano with its comparatively great sustaining power, and also with the advent in vocal music of a new style of singing (German Lieder singing as contrasted with Italian coloratura singing), ornamental tones were used less and less, and when found now are usually written out in full in the score instead of being indicated by signs. CHAPTER VII SCALES 76. A _scale_ (from _scala_, a Latin word meaning _ladder_; Ger. _Ton-leiter_) is an ascending or descending series of tones, progressing according to some definite system, and all bearing (in the case of tonality scales at least) a very intimate relation to the first tone--the _key-tone_ or _tonic_. (See p. 28, Sec. 78; also note 1 at bottom of p. 38.) Many different kinds of scales have existed in various musical eras, the point of resemblance among them all being the fact that they have all more or less recognized the _octave_ as the natural limit of the series. The difference among the various scales has been in the selection of intervals between the scale-tones, and, consequently, in the number of tones within the octave. Thus _e.g._, in our major scale the intervals between the tones are all whole-steps except two (which are half-steps), and the result is a scale of _eight_ tones (including in this number both the key-tone and its octave): but in the so-called _pentatonic_ scale of the Chinese and other older civilizations we find larger intervals (_e.g._, the step-and-a-half), and consequently a smaller number of tones within the octave. Thus in the scale upon which many of the older Scotch folk songs are based the intervals are arranged as follows: 1 whole 2 whole 3 step-and- 4 whole 5 step-and- 6 step step a-half step a-half The result is a scale of six tones, corresponding approximately with C--D--E--G--A--C in our modern system. The term _pentatonic_ is thus seen to be a misnomer since the sixth tone is necessary for the completion of the series, just as the eighth tone is essential in our diatonic scales. The following Chinese tune (called "Jasmine") is based on the pentatonic scale. [Illustration] 77. In studying the theory of the scale the student should bear in mind the fact that a scale is not an arbitrary series of tones which some one has invented, and which others are required to make use of. It is rather the result of accustoming the ear to certain melodic combinations (which were originally hit upon by accident), and finally analyzing and systematizing these combinations into a certain definite order or arrangement. The application of this idea may be verified when it is recalled that most primitive peoples have invented melodies of some sort, but that only in modern times, and particularly since the development of instrumental music, have these melodies been analyzed, and the scale upon which they have been based, discovered, the inventors of the melodies being themselves wholly ignorant of the existence of such scales. 78. A _key_ is a number of tones grouping themselves naturally (both melodically and harmonically) about a central tone--the key tone. The word _tonality_ is often used synonymously with _key_ in this sense. The difference between _key_ and _scale_ is therefore this, that while both _key_ and _scale_ employ the same tone material, by _key_ we mean the material in general, without any particular order or arrangement in mind, while by _scale_ we mean the same tones, but now arranged into a regular ascending or descending series. It should be noted in this connection also that not all scales present an equally good opportunity of having their tones used as a basis for tonality or key-feeling: neither the chromatic nor the whole-step scale possess the necessary characteristics for being used as tonality scales in the same sense that our major and minor scales are so used. 79. There are _three general classes of scales_ extant at the present time, viz.: (1) Diatonic; (2) Chromatic; (3) Whole-tone.[13] [Footnote 13: If strictly logical terminology is to be insisted upon the whole-tone scale should be called the "whole-step" scale.] 80. The word _diatonic_ means "through the tones" (_i.e._, through the tones of the key), and is applied to both major and minor scales of our modern tonality system. In general a diatonic scale may be defined as one which proceeds by half-steps and whole-steps. There is, however, one exception to this principle, viz., in the progression six to seven in the harmonic minor scale, which is of course a step-and-a-half. (See p. 33, Sec. 86.) 81. A _major diatonic scale_ is one in which the intervals between the tones are arranged as follows: 1 whole 2 whole 3 half 4 whole 5 whole 6 whole 7 half 8 step step step step step step step In other words, a major diatonic scale is one in which the intervals between three and four, and between seven and eight are half-steps, all the others being whole-steps. A composition based on this scale is said to be written in the major mode, or in a major key. The major diatonic scale may begin on any one of the twelve pitches C, C[sharp] or D[flat], D, D[sharp] or E[flat], E, F, F[sharp] or G[flat], G, G[sharp] or A[flat], A, A[sharp] or B[flat], B, but in each case it is the same scale because the intervals between its tones are the same. We have then one major scale only, but this scale may be written in many different positions, and may be sung or played beginning on any one of a number of different pitches. 82. It is interesting to note that the major scale consists of two identical series of four tones each; _i.e._, the first four tones of the scale are separated from one another by exactly the same intervals and these intervals appear in exactly the same order as in the case of the last four tones of the scale. Fig. 53 will make this clear. The first four tones of any diatonic scale (major or minor) are often referred to as the _lower tetrachord_[14] and the upper four tones as the _upper tetrachord_. [Footnote 14: The word _tetrachord_ means literally "four strings" and refers to the primitive instrument, the four strings of which were so tuned that the lowest and the highest tones produced were a perfect fourth apart. With the Greeks the tetrachord was the unit of analysis as the octave is with us to-day, and all Greek scales are capable of division into two tetrachords, the arrangement of the intervals between the tones in each tetrachord differentiating one scale from another, but the tetrachords themselves always consisting of groups of four tones, the highest being a perfect fourth above the lowest.] [Illustration: Fig. 53.] It is interesting further to note that the upper tetrachord of any _sharp_ scale is always used without change as the lower tetrachord of the next major scale involving sharps, while the lower tetrachord of any _flat_ scale is used as the upper tetrachord of the next flat scale. See Figs. 54 and 55. [Illustration: Fig. 54.] [Illustration: Fig. 55.] 83. From the standpoint of staff notation the major scale may be written in fifteen different positions, as follows: [Illustration] It will be observed that in the above series of scales those beginning on F[sharp] and G[flat] call for the same keys on the piano, _i.e._, while the notation is different, the actual tones of the scale are the same. The scales of C[sharp] and D[flat] likewise employ the same tones. When two scales thus employ the same tones but differ in notation they are said to be _enharmonic_, (cf. p. 38, Sec. 93.) _Note_.--The student is advised to adopt some uniform method of writing scales, preferably the one followed in those given above, the necessary sharps and flats appearing before the notes in the scale and then repeated collectively at the end as a signature. He is also advised to repeat these scales and signatures over and over until absolute familiarity is attained. _E.g._, E--F[sharp]--G[sharp]--A--B--C[sharp]--D[sharp]--E; signature, four sharps, F, C, G, and D. CHAPTER VIII SCALES (_Continued_) 84. The _minor diatonic scale_ is used in several slightly different forms, but the characteristic interval between the first and third tones (which differentiates it from the major scale) remains the same in every case. This interval between the first and third tones consists of four half-steps in the major scale and of three half-steps in the minor scale and this difference in size has given rise to the designation _major_ for the scale having the larger third, and _minor_ for the scale having the smaller one. 85. _The original (or primitive) form_ of the minor scale has its tones arranged as follows. 1 whole 2 half 3 whole 4 half 5 half 6 whole 7 whole 8 step step step step step step step As its name implies, this is the oldest of the three forms (being derived from the old Greek Aeolian scale), but because of the absence of a "leading tone" it is suitable for the simplest one-part music only, and is therefore little used at present. 86. _The harmonic minor scale_ is like the primitive form except that it substitutes a tone one half-step higher for the seventh tone of the older (_i.e._, the primitive) form. This change was made because the development of writing music in several parts (particularly _harmonic_ part-writing) made necessary a "leading tone," _i.e._, a tone with a strong tendency to move on up to the key-tone as a closing point. In order to secure a tone with such a strongly upward tendency the interval between _seven_ and _eight_ had to be reduced in size to a half-step. It should be noted that this change in the seventh tone of the scale caused an interval of a step-and-a-half between the sixth and seventh tones of the scale. 1 whole 2 half 3 whole 4 whole 5 half 6 step and 7 half 8 step step step step step a half step 87. _The melodic minor scale_ substitutes a tone one half-step higher than six as well as one a half-step higher than seven, but this change is made in the ascending scale only, the descending scale being like the primitive form. The higher sixth (commonly referred to as the "raised sixth") was used to get rid of the unmelodic interval of a step-and-a-half[15] (augmented second), while the return to the primitive form in descending is made because the ascending form is too much like the tonic major scale. [Footnote 15: The step-and-a-half (augmented second) is "unmelodic" because it is the same size as a _minor third_ and the mind finds it difficult to take in as a _second_ (notes representing it being on adjacent staff-degrees) an interval of the same size as a third.] 1 whole 2 half 3 whole 4 whole 5 whole 6 whole 7 half 8 step step step step step step step 7 whole 6 half 5 whole 4 whole 3 half 2 whole 1 step step step step step step This form is used only to a very limited extent, and then principally in vocal music, the harmonic form being in almost universal use in spite of the augmented second. 88. The minor scale in its various positions (up to five sharps and five flats) and in all three forms follows: a composition based on any one of these forms (or upon a mixture of them, which often occurs) is said to be _in the minor mode_. It will be noted that the first four tones are alike in all three forms; _i.e._, the lower tetrachord in the minor scale is invariable no matter, what may happen to the upper tetrachord. The sign + marks the step-and-a-half. [Illustration] _Note._--The student is advised to recite the _harmonic form_ of the minor scale as was suggested in the case of the major scale, noting that the "raised seventh" does not affect the key-signature. _E.g._,--E--F[sharp]--G--A--B--C--D[sharp]--E; signature, one sharp, F. 89. A minor scale having the same signature as a major scale is said to be its _relative minor_. _E.g._,--e is the relative minor of G, c of E[flat], d of F, etc., the small letter being used to refer to the minor key or scale, while the capital letter indicates the major key or scale unless accompanied by the word _minor_. Relative keys are therefore defined as those having the same signature. G and e are relative keys, as are also A and f[sharp], etc. 90. A minor scale beginning with the same tone as a major scale is referred to as its _tonic minor_. Thus, _e.g._, c with three flats in its signature is the tonic minor of C with all degrees in natural condition; e with one sharp is the tonic minor of E with four sharps, etc. Tonic keys are therefore those having the same key-tone. 91. The eight tones of the diatonic scale (both major and minor) are often referred to by specific names, as follows: 1. _Tonic_--the tone. (This refers to the fact that the tonic is the principal tone, or generating tone of the key, _i.e._, it is _the_ tone.) 2. _Super-tonic_--above the tone. 3. _Mediant_--midway between tonic and dominant. 4. _Sub-dominant_--the under dominant. (This name does not refer to the position of the tone under the dominant but to the fact that the fifth below the tonic is also a dominant tone--the under dominant--just as the fifth above is the upper dominant). 5. _Dominant_--the governing tone. (From the Latin word _dominus_ meaning _master_.) 6. _Super-dominant_--above the dominant. Or _Sub-mediant_--midway between tonic and sub-dominant. 7. _Leading tone_--the tone which demands resolution to the tonic (one-half step above it). 8. _Octave_--the eighth tone. 92. The syllables commonly applied to the various major and minor scales in teaching sight-singing are as follows:[16] [Footnote 16: These syllables are said to have been derived originally from the initial syllables of the "Hymn to Saint John," the music of which was a typical Gregorian chant. The application of these syllables to the scale tones will be made clear by reference to this hymn as given below. It will be observed that this hymn provided syllables only for the six tones of the _hexachord_ then recognized; when the octave scale was adopted (early in the sixteenth century) the initial letters of the last line (s and i) were combined into a syllable for the seventh tone. [Illustration: _Ut_ que-ant lax-is _Re_-so-na-re fi-bris _Mi_-ra ges-to-rum _Fa_-mu-li tu-o-rum _Sol_-ve pol-lu-ti _La_-bi-i re-a-tum Sanc-te Jo-han-nes.]] Major--DO, RE, MI, FA, SOL, LA, TI, DO. Minor[17]--original--LA, TI, DO, RE, MI, FA, SOL, LA. harmonic--LA, TI, DO, RE, MI, FA, SI, LA. melodic--LA, TI, DO, RE, MI, FI, SI, LA, SOL, FA, MI, RE, DO, TI, LA. [Footnote 17: A considerable number of teachers (particularly those who did not learn to sing by syllable in childhood) object to calling the tonic of the minor scale _la_, insisting that both major and minor tonic should be called _do_. According to this plan the syllables used in singing the harmonic minor scale would be: DO, RE, ME, FA, SOL, LE, TI, DO. There is no particular basis for this theory, for although all scales must of course begin with the key-tone or tonic, this tonic may be referred to by any syllable which will serve as a basis for an association process enabling one to feel the force of the tone as a closing point--a _home tone_. Thus in the Dorian mode the tonic would be RE, in the Phrygian, MI, etc.] It is interesting to study the changes in both spelling and pronunciation that have occurred (and are still occurring) in these syllables. The first one (ut) was changed to _DO_ as early as the sixteenth century because of the difficulty of producing a good singing tone on _ut_. For the same reason and also in order to avoid having two diatonic syllables with the same initial letter, the tonic-sol-fa system (invented in England about 1812 and systematized about 1850) changed SI to TI and this change has been almost universally adopted by teachers of sight-singing in this country. The more elaborate tonic-sol-fa spelling of the diatonic syllables (DOH, LAH, etc.), has not, however, been favorably received in this country and the tendency seems to be toward still further simplification rather than toward elaboration. It is probable that further changes in both spelling and pronunciation will be made in the near future, one such change that seems especially desirable being some other syllable than RE for the second tone of the major scale, so that the present syllable may be reserved for "flat-two," thus providing a uniform vowel-sound for all intermediate tones of the descending chromatic scale, as is already the case in the ascending form. 93. The _chromatic scale_[18] is one which proceeds always by half-steps. Its intervals are therefore always equal no matter with what tone it begins. Since, however, we have (from the standpoint of the piano keyboard) five pairs of tones[19] which are enharmonically the same, it may readily be seen that the chromatic scale might be notated in all sorts of fashions, and this is in fact the real status of the matter, there being no one method uniformly agreed upon by composers. [Footnote 18: The student should differentiate between the so-called "tonality" scales like the major and minor, the tones of which are actually used as a basis for "key-feeling" with the familiar experience of coming home to the tonic after a melodic or harmonic excursion, and on the other hand the purely artificial and mechanical construction of the chromatic scale.] [Footnote 19: Many other enharmonic notations are possible, altho the "five pairs of tones" above referred to are the most common. Thus E[sharp] and F are enharmonically the same, as are also C[flat] and B, C[sharp] and B[double-sharp], etc.] Parry (Grove's Dictionary, article _chromatic_) recommends writing the scale with such accidentals as can occur in chromatic chords without changing the key in which the passage occurs. Thus, taking C as a type, "the first accidental will be D[flat], as the upper note of the minor ninth on the tonic; the next will be E[flat], the minor third of the key; the next F[sharp], the major third of the super-tonic--all of which can occur without causing modulation--and the remaining two will be A[flat] and B[flat], the minor sixth and seventh of the key." According to this plan the chromatic scale beginning with C would be spelled--C, D[flat], D, E[flat], E, F, F[sharp], G, A[flat], A, B[flat], B, C--the form being the same both ascending and descending. This is of course written exclusively from a harmonic standpoint and the advantage of such a form is its definiteness. 94. For _sight-singing purposes_ the chromatic scale[20] is usually written by representing the intermediate tones in ascending by sharps, (in some cases naturals and double-sharps), and the intermediate tones in descending by flats (sometimes naturals and double-flats). The chromatic scale in nine different positions, written from this standpoint, follows, and the syllables most commonly applied in sight-singing have also been added. In the first two scales the student of harmony is asked to note that because of the very common practice of modulating to the dominant and sub-dominant keys, the intermediate tones [sharp]4 and [flat]7 are quite universally used in both ascending and descending melody passages. In other words the scales that follow would more nearly represent actual usage if in each case [sharp]4 (FI) were substituted for [flat]5 (SE) in the descending scale; and if [flat]7 (TE) were substituted for [sharp]6 (LI) in the ascending form. [Footnote 20: The word _chromatic_ means literally _colored_ and was first applied to the intermediate tones because by using them the singer could get smoother and more diversely-shaded progressions, _i.e._, could get more _color_ than by using only the diatonic tones. Composers were not long discovering the peculiar value of these additional tones and soon found that these same tones were exceedingly valuable also in modulating, hence the two uses of intermediate tones at the present time--first, to embellish a melody; second, to modulate to another key.] [Illustration] _Note._--In writing chromatic scales from this sight-singing standpoint the student is urged to adopt a three-step process; first, writing the major diatonic scale both ascending and descending; second, marking the half-steps; third, inserting accidental notes calling for the intermediate tones. In the above chromatic scales these intermediate tones have been represented by black note-heads so as to differentiate them from the notes representing diatonic scale tones. 95. The _whole-step scale_ (the third type mentioned in Sec. 79) is, as its name implies, a scale in which the intervals between the tones consist in every instance of whole-steps. This reduces the number of tones in the scale to seven. Beginning with C the scale reads: C, D, E, F[sharp] or G[flat], A[flat], B[flat], C. This scale has been used somewhat extensively by the ultramodern French school of composition represented by Debussy, Ravel, and others, but is not making any progress toward universal adoption. The remarks of a recent English writer[21] on this subject may be interesting to the student who is puzzled by the apparent present-day tendencies of French music. He says: "The student of some interesting modern developments will also speedily discover that the adoption of the so-called whole-tone scale as a basis of music is, except upon a keyed instrument tuned to the compromise of equal temperament, unnatural and impossible. No player upon a stringed instrument can play the scale of whole-tones and arrive at an octave which is in tune with the starting note, unless he deliberately changes one of the notes on the road and alters it while playing it. The obvious result of the application of the whole-tone scale to an orchestra or a string quartet would be to force them to adopt the equal temperament of the pianoforte, and play every interval except the octave out of tune. When this modification had taken hold all music in the pure scale would be distorted and destroyed, unless string players were to face the practically impossible drudgery of studying both the equal temperament and the pure scale from the start, and were able to tackle either form at a moment's notice. A thorough knowledge of the natural genesis of the scale of western nations will be the best antidote to fads founded upon ignorance of it. It is a curious commentary upon this question that Wagner, in the opening of the third act of _Tristan_ (bars 6 to 10), experimented with the whole-tone scale and drew his pen through it, as was to be expected from a composer whose every work proves the writer to have had the pure scale inbred in him." [Footnote 21: Stanford--Musical Composition (1911) p. 17.] There may be some difference of opinion among acousticians as to whether Mr. Stanford is correct in his scientific assumptions regarding the difference between "tempered" and "pure" scales,[22] but even so, there is a far more potent reason why the whole-step scale will probably never become popular as the major and minor scales now are, viz., the fact that it offers no possibility of _inculcating tonality feeling_, which has always been the basis of even the simplest primitive music. Tonality scales give rise to a feeling of alternate periods of contraction and relaxation--an active tone (or chord) followed by a passive one, but no such effect is possible in the whole-step scale, and it seems suitable therefore only for that class of music whose outlines are _purposely intended to be_ vague and indefinite--the impressionistic style of music writing. [Footnote 22: Recent tests in Germany seem to prove conclusively that the _tempered_ scale is the scale ordinarily employed by both vocalists and players on stringed instruments, and that the ideal of and agitation for a _pure_ (_i.e._, _untempered_) scale in vocal and in string music is somewhat of a myth.] CHAPTER IX AUXILIARY WORDS AND ENDINGS 96. Being a list of articles, adverbs, conjunctions, prepositions, and endings, often utilized in compounding terms relating to musical effects. _A_--preposition--variously translated to, at, for, by, in, with, towards. _A cappella_--in church style. _A capriccio_--at the fancy of the performer. _À deux mains_--for two hands. _A mezza voce_--with half voice. _À la_, or _alla_--in the manner of. _Alla marcia_--in the style of a march. _Assai_--very, or very much. _Allegro assai_--very fast. _Ben_--well. _Ben marcato_--well marked. _Coi, con, col, colla, colle, collo_--with, or with the. _Con amore_--with tenderness. _Colla voce_--with the voice. _Come_--as, like. _Come primo_--as at first. _Contra_--against. In compound words means "an octave below." _Da_--from. _Da Capo_--from the head. _Di_--by, with, of, for. _Di bravura_--with daring. _Di molto_--exceedingly--very much. _Allegro di molto_--exceedingly rapid. _Doppio_--double. _Doppio movimento_--double movement. _E, ed, et_--and. _Cresc. et accel._--louder and faster. _Ensemble_--together, the opposite of solo. _Il, La, l', le_--the. _Il basso_--the bass. _L'istesso tempo_--the same speed. _Il più_--the most. _Il più forte possible_--as loudly as possible. _Issimo_--Italian superlative ending. _Forte_--_fortissimo_. _Ino, etto_--Italian diminutive endings. _Andante_--_andantino_. _Poco_--_pochetto_. _Meno_--less. _Meno forte_--less loud. _Mente_--the ending which changes a noun or adjective to an adverb. _Largo largamente_. _Mezzo_ or _mezza_--half, or medium. _Mezzo forte_--medium loud. _Molto_--much, or very much. _Molto cresc._--very much louder. _Nel, nella, etc._--in the, or at the. _Nel battere_--at the down beat. _Non_--not. _Non tanto_--not too much. _Ossia_--or else. _Ossia più facile_--or else more easily. _Per_--for. _Per il violino_--for the violin. _Peu_--little. _Un peu cresc._--a little increase in tone. _Più_--more. _Più forte_--more loudly. _Poco_--little. _Poco a poco_--little by little. _Poi_--then. _E poi la coda_--and then the coda. _Possibile_--possible. _Forte possibile_--as loudly as possible. [Transcriber's Note: Corrected error "possible" for Italian "possibile".] _Quasi_--in the manner of. _Allegro quasi andante_--a fairly rapid movement, yet in the style of an andante; almost as slow as an andante. _Sans_--without. _Sans pedales_--without pedals. _Sempre_--always, or continually. _Sempre forte_--a long passage to be played forte throughout its entirety. _Senza_--without. _Senza accompagnamento_--without accompaniment. _Sino, sin_--as far as. See p. 14, note. _Solo_--alone. Opposite of ensemble. _Sub_--under or lower. _Sub-dominant_--the under dominant. _Tanto_--same as _troppo_, q.v. _Tre_--three. _Tre corde_--three strings. _Très_--very. _Très vivement_--very lively. _Troppo_--too much. _Non tanto allegro_, or _non troppo allegro_--not too fast. _Una, un, uno_--one, or a. _Una corda_--one string. _Un peu_--a little. A working knowledge of these auxiliary terms will aid the student greatly in arriving at the meaning of hundreds of terms without stopping to look up each individual one. CHAPTER X MEASURE 97. From the standpoint of the eye, a _measure_ is that portion of the staff found between two bars, (in certain cases this space may be less than a measure, as _e.g._, at the beginning and end of a movement); but from the standpoint of the ear a single, isolated measure is not possible, and the term must therefore be defined in the plural form. _Measures_ are similarly accented groups of evenly-spaced beats, each group having at least one accented and one non-accented beat. The strongest accent falls normally on the first beat in the measure. Two essential characteristics are involved in the ordinary musical measure: (1) A group of even beats (or pulses), always felt, though not always actually sounded, one or more of these beats being stronger than the rest; (2) Certain rhythmic figures ([Illustration], etc.) which form the actual musical content of these groups. The student will note the essential difference between rhythm and measure. Rhythm is the regular recurrence of accent in a series of beats (or pulses), while measure is the grouping of these beats according to some specified system. In listening to a piece of music, two hearers A and B may feel the _rhythm_ equally strongly, but A may subjectively group the beats into--_one_, two | _one_, two |--etc., while B feels the groups as--_one_, two, _three_, four | _one_, two, _three_, four |--etc. Rhythm is thus seen to be a fundamental thing, inherent in the music itself, while measure is to a certain extent at least an arbitrary grouping which musicians have adopted for practical purposes. 98. In _syncopation_ the normal system of accenting is temporarily suspended and the accented tone falls on the regularly unaccented part of the measure. Syncopation may therefore be defined as the temporary interruption of a normal series of accents, _i.e._, accenting a beat that is usually not accented. Thus _e.g._, in Fig. 56, measure _one_ has the regular system of accents normally found in four-quarter-measure, (strong accent on one, secondary accent on three); but measure _three_ has only one accent, and it falls on the second beat. [Illustration: Fig. 56.] 99. Measures are usually classified as _simple_ and _compound_. A _simple measure_ is one which has but a single accent, _i.e._, the measure cannot be divided into smaller constituent groups. There are two main classes of simple measures, two-beat measure, and three-beat measure. A _compound measure_ is (as its name implies) one made up by combining two or more simple measures, or by the elaboration of a single measure (in slow tempo) into several constituent groups. The principal compound measures are four-beat and six-beat, both being referred to as compound-duple measures. Five-beat, seven-beat, nine-beat, and twelve-beat measures are also classified as compound measures. An English writer[23] classifies measures as duple, triple, or quadruple, specifying that a simple measure is one in which each beat is represented by a note whose value can be divided into halves ([Illustration] etc.) and that a compound measure is one in which each beat is represented by a dotted-note, whose value can be divided into three parts, ([Illustration]). There is thus seen to be considerable difference of opinion as to the meaning of the words _simple_ and _compound_ when applied in this connection, the principal question at issue being whether four-beat measure is an individual variety, or whether it is a variety compounded out of two-beat measures, either by placing two of these in a group or by the elaboration of a single measure into a larger number of beats, as is often necessary in slow tempi. Perhaps the easiest way out of the difficulty is to admit that both may be true--but in different compositions. That is, it is frequently impossible to tell whether a composition that is being listened to is in two-beat, or in four-beat measure; and yet it _is_ sometimes possible so to discriminate. Since, however, one cannot in the majority of cases distinguish between two-beat and four-beat measures, it will probably be best to leave the original classification intact and regard four-beat measure as a compound variety. [Footnote 23: Pearse--Rudiments of Musical Knowledge, p. 37.] 100. The _commonest varieties of measure_ are: 1. _Duple_ (sometimes called even measure, or even time), in which there are two beats, the first one being accented. Examples of duple measure are 2/4, 2/8, 2/2, two-quarter,[24] two-eighth, and two-half measure, respectively. [Footnote 24: For explanation of terminology, see p. 48, Sec. 106.] 2. _Triple_, (the old perfect measure), in which there are three beats, the first one being accented, the second and third unaccented. Examples are 3/8, 3/4, 3/2, three-eighth, three-quarter, and three-half measure, respectively. 3. _Quadruple_, in which there are four beats, the first and third being accented (primary accent on _one_, secondary accent on _three_), the second and fourth unaccented. (See note above, under Sec. 99.) 4. _Sextuple_, in which there are six beats, the first and fourth being accented, the others not. In rapid tempi this is always taken as compound duple measure, a dotted quarter note having a beat. It will be noted that the two measures [Illustration] are identical in effect with [Illustration]. 101. Other varieties of measure sometimes found are 9/8 and 12/8, but these are practically always taken as three-beat and four-beat measures respectively, being equivalent to these if each group of three tones is thought of as a triplet. [Illustration] is identical in effect with [Illustration]. 102. _Quintuple_ (five-beat) and _septuple_ (seven-beat) measures are occasionally met with, but these are rare and will always be sporadic. The five-beat measure is taken as a combination of three and two, or of two and three (sometimes a mixture of both in the same composition), while the seven-beat measure is taken in groups of four and three, or of three and four. 103. The sign [common-time symbol] is usually understood to mean four-quarter measure, and the sign [cut-time symbol], two-half measure, but usage varies somewhat, and the second sign is sometimes used to indicate four-half measure. It may safely be said however that the sign [cut-time symbol] always indicates that a half-note has a beat. [Double cut-time symbol] may occasionally be found indicating four-half measure but this is rare. The student will note that the sign [common-time symbol] is not a _letter_ C, but an incomplete circle, differentiating two-beat (imperfect) measure from three-beat (perfect) measure. See Appendix A, p. 106. [Transcriber's Note: page number missing in original.] CHAPTER XI TEMPO 104. The word _time_ in musical nomenclature has been greatly abused, having been used to indicate: (1) Rhythm; as "the time was wrong." (2) Variety of measure-signature; as "two-four time." (3) Rate of speed; as "the time was too slow." To obviate the confusion naturally resulting from this three-fold and inexact use of the word, many teachers of music are adopting certain _changes in terminology_ as noted in Sections 105, 106, and 107. Such changes may cause some confusion at first, but seem to be necessary if our musical terminology is to be at all exact. 105. The _first of the changes_ mentioned in the above paragraph is to substitute the word _rhythm_ for the word _time_ when correcting mistakes involving misplaced accent, etc. _E.g._, "Your _rhythm_ in the third measure of the lower score was wrong," instead of "Your _time_--was wrong." 106. The _second change_ mentioned would eliminate such blind and misleading expressions as "two-four time," "three-four time," "four-four time," "six-eight time," etc., and substitute therefor such self-explanatory designations as "two-quarter measure," "three-quarter measure," "four-quarter measure," "six-eighth measure," etc. _E.g._, "The first movement of the Beethoven Sonata Op. 2, No. 3, is in _four-quarter measure_." 107. The _third change_ referred to above would substitute the word _tempo_ (plural--_tempi_) for the word _time_ in all allusions to rate of speed. _E.g._, "The scherzo was played in very rapid _tempo_." The word _tempo_ has been used in this connection so long by professional musicians that there can be no possible objection to it on the ground of its being a foreign word. In fact there is a decided advantage in having a word that is understood in all countries where modern music (_i.e._, civilized music) is performed, and just here is found the principal reason for the popularity of the Italian language in musical terminology. Schumann, MacDowell and other well known composers have tried to break down this popularity by using their own respective vernaculars in both tempo and dynamic indications, but in spite of these attempts the Italian language is still quite universally used for this purpose, and deservedly so, for if we are to have a _music notation_ that is universal, so that an American is able to play music written by a Frenchman or a German, or a Russian, then we ought also to have a certain number of expressions referring to tempo, etc., which will be understood by all, _i.e._, a music terminology that is universal. The Italian language was the first in the field, is the most universally known in this particular at the present time, and is entirely adequate. It should therefore be retained in use as a sort of musical Esperanto. 108. There are several _ways of finding the correct tempo_ of a composition: 1. From the metronomic indication found at the beginning of many compositions. Thus _e.g._, the mark M.M. 92 (Maelzel's Metronome 92) means that if the metronome (either Maelzel's or some other reliable make) is set with the sliding weight at the figure 92 there will be 92 clicks per minute, and they will serve to indicate to the player or singer the rate at which the beats (or pulses) should follow one another. This is undoubtedly the most accurate means of determining tempi in spite of slight inaccuracies in metronomes[25] and of the mistakes which composers themselves often make in giving metronomic indications. [Footnote 25: To test the accuracy of a metronome, set the weight at 60 and see if it beats seconds. If it gives more than 62 or 63 or less than 57 or 58 clicks per minute it will not be of much service in giving correct tempi and should be taken to a jeweller to be regulated.] 2. Another means of determining the tempo of a composition is to play it at different tempi and then to choose the one that "feels right" for that particular piece of music. This is perhaps the best means of getting at the correct tempo but is open only to the musician of long experience, sure judgment, and sound scholarship. 3. A third method of finding tempi is through the interpretation of certain words used quite universally by composers to indicate the approximate rate of speed and the general mood of compositions. The difficulty with this method is that one can hardly find two composers who employ the same word to indicate the same tempo, so that no absolute rate of speed can be indicated, and in the last analysis the conductor or performer must fall back on the second method cited above--_i.e._, individual judgment. 109. In spite of the inexactness of use in the case of expressions relating to tempo, these expressions are nevertheless extremely useful in giving at least a hint of what was in the composer's mind as he conceived the music that we are trying to interpret. Since a number of the terms overlap in meaning, and since the meaning of no single term is absolute, these expressions relating to tempo are best studied in groups. Perhaps the most convenient grouping is as follows: 1. _Grave_ (lit. weighty, serious), _larghissimo_, _adagissimo_, and _lentissimo_--indicating the very slowest tempo used in rendering music. 2. _Largo_,[26] _adagio_,[27] and _lento_--indicating quite a slow tempo. [Footnote 26: Largo, larghetto, etc., are derivatives of the Latin word _largus_, meaning large, broad.] [Footnote 27: Adagio means literally at ease.] 3. _Larghetto_ (_i.e._, _a little largo_) and _adagietto_ (_a little adagio_)--a slow tempo, but not quite so slow as _largo_, etc. 4. _Andante_ (going, or walking, as contrasted with running) and _andantino_--indicating a moderately slow tempo. _Andantino_ is now quite universally taken slightly faster than _andante_, in spite of the fact that if _andante_ means "going," and if "_ino_" is the diminutive ending, then _andantino_ means "going less," _i.e._, more slowly! 5. _Moderato_--a moderate tempo. 6. _Allegro_ and _allegretto_[28]--a moderately quick tempo, _allegretto_ being usually interpreted as meaning a tempo somewhat slower than _allegro_. [Footnote 28: There has been some difference of opinion as to which of these two terms indicates the more rapid tempo: an analysis tells us that if _allegro_ means quick, and if _etto_ is the diminutive ending, then _allegretto_ means a little quick--_i.e._, slower than _allegro_. These two terms are, however, so closely allied in meaning that a dispute over the matter is a mere waste of breath.] The word _allegro_ means literally happy, joyous, and this literal meaning is still _sometimes_ applicable, but in the majority of instances the term refers only to rate of speed. 7. _Vivo_, _vivace_, (lit. lively)--a tempo between _allegro_ and _presto_. 8. _Presto_, _prestissimo_, _vivacissimo_, and _prestissimo possibile_--the most rapid tempo possible. CHAPTER XII TEMPO (_Continued_) 110. Innumerable combinations of the words defined in Sec. 109 with one another and with other words occur. Some of these combinations with their approximate meanings follow. The meaning of any such expression not found in the list may usually be arrived at by consulting the terms defined in paragraph 109 and recalling the use of certain auxiliary terms quoted in Chapter IX. _Largo assai_--very slow. _Largo di molto_--very slow. _Largo ma non troppo_--slow, but not too slow. _Largo un poco_--slow, but not so slow as _largo_. (_Cf. larghetto_.) _Lentemente_--slowly. _Lentando_--with increasing slowness. _Très lentement_--very slowly. _Lentissamente_--very slowly. _Lentissamamente_--very slowly. _Lento assai_--very slowly. _Lento a capriccio_--slowly but capriciously. _Lento di molto_--very slowly. _Andante affettuoso_--moderately slow, and with tenderness and pathos. [Transcriber's Note: Corrected error "affetuoso" in original.] _Andante amabile_--moderately slow, and lovingly. _Andante cantabile_--moderately slow, and in singing style. _Andante grazioso_--moderately slow, and gracefully. _Andante maestoso_--moderately slow, and majestically. _Andante con moto_--slightly faster than _andante_. _Andante (ma) non troppo_--not too slowly. _Andante pastorale_--moderately slow, and in simple and unaffected style; (lit. rural, pastoral). _Andante quasi allegro_--almost as rapid in tempo as _allegro_; (lit. an _andante_ in the style of _allegro_). _Andante sostenuto_--moderately slow and sustained. _Allegrissimo_--much faster than _allegro_. (The superlative degree of _allegro_.) _Allegro agitato_--a moderately rapid tempo, and in agitated style. _Allegro appassionata_--a moderately rapid tempo, and in passionate style. _Allegro assai_ (very _allegro_)--faster than _allegro_. _Allegro commodo_--a conveniently rapid tempo. _Allegro con brio_--an _allegro_ played in brilliant style. Faster than _allegro_. _Allegro con fuoco_--an _allegro_ played with fire, _i.e._, with extreme animation. Faster than _allegro_. _Allegro con spirito_--an _allegro_ performed with spirit. _Allegro con moto_--faster than _allegro_. _Allegro di bravura_--an _allegro_ performed in brilliant style, _i.e._, demanding great skill in execution. _Allegro furioso_ (furiously)--quicker than _allegro_; very brilliant. _Allegro giusto_--an _allegro_ movement, but in exact rhythm. _Allegro ma grazioso_--an _allegro_ played in graceful style. _Allegro (ma) non tanto_--an _allegro_ movement, but not too rapid. _Allegro (ma) non troppo_--an _allegro_ movement, but not too rapid. _Allegro (ma) non presto_--an _allegro_ movement, but not too rapid. _Allegro moderato_--slower than _allegro_. _Allegro vivace_--faster than _allegro_. _Presto assai_--as rapidly as possible. _Presto (ma) non troppo_--a _presto_ movement, but not too rapid. 111. There are certain _terms which indicate a modification of the normal tempo_ of a movement, these being divided into two classes, (a) those terms which indicate in general a slower tempo, and (b) those which indicate in general a more rapid tempo. The further subdivisions of these two classes are shown below. (_a_) Terms indicating a slower tempo. 1. Terms indicating a _gradual_ retard. _Ritenente_, (_rit._), _ritenuto_ (_rit._), _ritardando_ (_rit._), _rallentando_ (_rall._), _slentando_. 2. Terms indicating a tempo which is to become definitely slower _at once_. _Più lento_ (lit. more slowly), _meno mosso_ (lit. less movement). 3. Terms indicating a slower tempo combined with an increase in power. _Largando_, _allargando._ These words are both derived from _largo_, meaning large, broad. (For terms indicating both slower tempo and softer tone, see page 59, Sec. 127.) The student should note the difference between groups 1 and 2 as given above: the terms in group 1 indicate that each measure, and even each pulse in the measure, is a little slower than the preceding one, while such terms as _più lento_ and _meno mosso_ indicate a rate of speed becoming instantly slower and extending over an entire phrase or passage. Some composers (_e.g._, Beethoven and Couperin) have evidently had this same distinction in mind between _rallentando_ and _ritardando_ on the one hand, and _ritenuto_ and _ritenente_ on the other, considering the former (_rall._ and _rit._) to indicate a gradually slackening speed, and the latter (_ritenuto_ and _ritenente_) to indicate a definitely slower rate. The majority of composers do not however differentiate between them in this way, and it will therefore hardly be worth while for the student to try to remember the distinction. (_b_) Terms indicating a more rapid tempo. 1. Terms indicating a gradual acceleration. _Accelerando_, _affrettando_ [Transcriber's Note: Corrected misspelling "affretando" in original] (this term implies some degree of excitement also), _stringendo_, _poco a poco animato_. 2. Terms indicating a tempo which is to become definitely faster at once. _Più allegro_, _più tosto_, _più mosso_, _stretto_, _un poco animato_. 112. After any modification in tempo (either faster or slower) has been suggested it is usual to indicate a return to the normal rate by some such expression as _a tempo_ (lit. in time), _a tempo primo_ (lit. in the first time), _tempo primo_, or _tempo_. 113. _Tempo rubato_ (or _a tempo rubato_) means literally _in robbed time_, _i.e._, duration taken from one measure or beat and given to another, but in modern practice the term is quite generally applied to any irregularity of rhythm or tempo not definitely indicated in the score. The terms _ad libitum_, (_ad lib._), _a piacere_, and _a capriccio_, also indicate a modification of the tempo at the will of the performer. _Ad libitum_ means at liberty; _a piacere_, at pleasure; and _a capriccio_, at the caprice (of the performer). 114. The term _tempo giusto_ is the opposite of _tempo rubato_ (and of the other terms defined in paragraph 113). It means literally _in exact time_. (_Tempo giusto_ is sometimes translated _quite rapidly_,[29] but this is very unusual.) [Footnote 29: Bussler--Elements of Notation and Harmony, p. 76.] 115. _L'istesso tempo_ means--at the same rate of speed. _E.g._, when a measure signature changes from 2/4 to 6/8 with a change in beat-note from a quarter to a dotted-quarter, but with the same tempo carried through the entire movement. 116. _Tenuto_ (_ten._) indicates that a tone or chord is to be held to its full value. This word is sometimes used after a staccato passage to show that the staccato effect is to be discontinued, but is often used merely as a warning not to slight a melody-tone--_i.e._, to give it its full value. 117. _Veloce_ means--swiftly, and is applied to brilliant passages (_e.g._, cadenzas) which are to be played as rapidly as possible without much regard for measure rhythm. The words _rapidamente_, _brillante_ and _volante_ (flying) have the same meaning as _veloce_. 118. The following _expressions referring to tempo_ are also in common use but cannot easily be classified with any of the groups already defined. _Con moto_--with motion; _i.e._, not too slow. _Pesante_--slowly, heavily. _Doppio movimento_--twice as rapid as before. _Tempo ordinario_--in ordinary tempo. _Tempo commodo_--in convenient tempo. _Sempre lento malinconico assai_--always slowly and in a very melancholy style. _Animando_, _animato_, _con anima_--with animation. _Agitato_--agitated. 119. _Tempo di marcia_ is given by Riemann (Dictionary of Music, p. 783) as equivalent to _andante_, M.M. 72-84. The same writer gives _tempo di menuetto_ as equivalent to _allegretto_, and _tempo di valso_ as equivalent to _allegro moderato_ (which he regards as indicating a more rapid tempo than _allegretto_). CHAPTER XIII DYNAMICS 120. The word _dynamics_ (cf. dynamic--the opposite of static) as used in the nomenclature of music has to do with the various degrees of power (_i.e._, the comparative loudness and softness) of tones. As in the case of words referring to tempo, the expressions referring to _dynamics_ are always relative, never absolute; it is possible to indicate that one measure is to be louder than another, but it is not possible (nor desirable) to indicate exactly how loud either is to be. Thus _dynamics_, perhaps even more than tempo, will be seen to depend on the taste of the performer or conductor. The following _words referring to dynamics_ are in common use: _Pianisissimo_ (_ppp_)--as softly as possible. (It will be noted that this is a sort of hyper-superlative of _piano_.) _Pianissimo_ (_pp_)--very softly. (The superlative of _piano_.) _Piano_ (_p_)--softly. _Mezzo piano_ (_mp_)--medium softly. _Mezzo forte_ (_mf_)--medium loudly. _Forte_ (_f_)--loudly (lit. strong). _Fortissimo_ (_ff_)--very loudly. (The superlative of _forte_.) _Fortisissimo_ (_fff_)--as loudly as possible. The lack of a one-word comparative degree in the case of both _piano_ and _forte_ seems to necessitate the hyper-superlative degree as given above, but the practice of using four, or even five _p_'s or _f_'s is not desirable. 121. The terms defined in Sec. 120 are often combined with others, as _e.g._, _Pianissimo possibile_--as softly as possible. _Piano assai_--very softly. _Fortissimo possibile_--as loudly as possible. _Forte piano_ (_fp_)--loud, followed at once by soft. As in the case of terms relating to tempo, the meaning of many other expressions relating to _dynamics_ may easily be arrived at by recalling the list of auxiliary terms quoted under Sec. 96. 122. The terms _sforzando_, _forzando_, _sforzato_ and _forzato_ all indicate a strong accent on a single tone or chord. These words are abbreviated as follows:--_sf_,_fz_, and _sfz_, the abbreviation being placed directly above (sometimes below) the note or chord affected. The signs [vertical accent symbol] and [horizontal accent symbol] are also commonly used to indicate such an accent. In interpreting these accent marks the student must bear in mind again the fact that they have a relative rather than an absolute meaning: the mark _sf_ occurring in the midst of a _piano_ passage will indicate a much milder form of accent than would the same mark occurring in the midst of a _forte_ passage. 123. The words _rinforzando_ and _rinforzato_ (abb.--_rinf._ and _rfz._) mean literally _reinforced_, and are used to indicate a sudden increase in power usually extending over an entire phrase or passage instead of applying only to a single tone or chord as in the case of _sforzando_, etc. 124. _Crescendo_ (abb.--_cresc._ or [crescendo symbol]) means a gradual increase in power. It will be noted that this word does not mean _loud_, nor does it mean a sudden increase in power unless accompanied by some auxiliary term such as _subito_, or _molto_. Broadly speaking there are _two varieties of crescendo_: (1) that in which the same tone increases in power while being prolonged; (2) that in which succeeding tones are each sounded more strongly than the preceding one. The first variety is possible only on instruments giving forth a tone which can be varied _after it begins_. Thus _e.g._, the human voice, the violin, the organ enclosed in a swell box, and certain wind instruments, are all capable of sounding a tone softly at first and gradually increasing the volume until the maximal point of power has been reached. But on the piano, organ not enclosed in a swell-box, kettle drum, etc., the power of the tone cannot be varied after the tone has once been sounded, and a _crescendo_ effect is therefore possible only in a _passage_, in rendering which each succeeding tone is struck more forcibly than its immediate predecessor. This second variety of _crescendo_ offers a means of dramatic effect which may be employed most strikingly, as _e.g._, when a long passage begins very softly and increases in power little by little until the utmost resources of the instrument or orchestra have been reached. A notable example of such an effect is found in the transition from the third to the fourth movements of the Beethoven Fifth Symphony. The difference between _sforzando_, _rinforzando_, and _crescendo_ should now be noted: _sforzando_ indicates that a single tone or chord is to be louder; _rinforzando_, that an entire passage is to be louder, beginning with its first tone; but _crescendo_ indicates that there is to be a gradual increase in power, this increase sometimes occurring during the sounding of a single tone, but more often in a passage. 125. Certain _combinations of the word crescendo_ with other words are so common that they should be especially noted. Among these are: _Crescendo al fortissimo_--keep on gradually increasing in power until the fortissimo (or very loud) point has been reached. _Crescendo subito_--increase in power suddenly (or rapidly). _Crescendo poco a poco_--increase in power very, very gradually. _Crescendo poi diminuendo_--first increase, then diminish the tone. _Crescendo e diminuendo_--same as _cresc. poi dim._ _Crescendo molto_--increase in power very greatly. _Crescendo ed animando poco a poco_--growing gradually louder in tone and quicker in _tempo_. _Crescendo ed affrettando_--gradually louder and faster. [Transcriber's Note: Corrected misspelling "affretando" in original.] _Crescendo poco a poco sin al fine_--crescendo gradually even up to the very end. 126. _Decrescendo_ (_decresc._ or [decrescendo symbol]) means a gradual diminishing of the tone. It is the opposite of _crescendo_. The word _diminuendo_ is synonymous with _decrescendo_. _Decrescendo_ (or _diminuendo_) _al pianissimo_ means--decrease gradually in power until the _pianissimo_ (or very soft) point is reached. 127. A number of _terms referring to both softer tone and slower tempo_ are in use. The most common of these are:--_mancando_, _moriente_,[30] _morendo_, _perdendo_ (from _perdere_--to lose), _perdendosi_, _calando_, and _smorzando_.[31] Such expressions are usually translated--"gradually dying away." [Footnote 30: Both _moriente_ and _morendo_ mean literally--_dying_.] [Footnote 31: From _smorzare_ (It.)--to extinguish.] 128. In piano music the abbreviation _Ped._ indicates that the damper pedal (the one at the right) is to be depressed, while the sign [damper release symbol] shows that it is to be released. In many modern editions this depression and release of the damper pedal are more accurately indicated by the sign [damper symbol]. The term _senza sordini_ is also occasionally found in old editions, indicating that the damper pedal is to be depressed, while _con sordini_ shows that it is to be released. These expressions are taken from a usage in music for stringed instruments, in which the term _con sordini_ means that the mute (a small clamp of metal, ivory or hardwood) is to be affixed to the bridge, this causing a modification in both power and quality of the tone. The damper on the piano does not in any way correspond to the mute thus used on stringed instruments, and the terms above explained as sometimes occurring in piano music are not to be recommended, even though Beethoven used them in this sense in all his earlier sonatas. 129. The words _una corda_ (lit.--one string) indicate that the "soft pedal" (the one at the left) is to be depressed, while the words _tre corde_ (lit. three strings) or _tutte le corde_ (all the strings) show that the same pedal is to be released. These expressions refer to the fact that on grand pianos the "soft pedal" when depressed moves the hammers to one side so that instead of striking three strings they strike only two (in the older pianos only one, hence _una corda_), all three strings (_tre corde_) being struck again after the release of the pedal. 130. Other terms relating either directly or indirectly to the subject of dynamics are: _Con alcuna licenza_--with some degree of license. _Con amore_--with tenderness. _Con bravura_--with boldness. _Con celerita_--with rapidity. _Con delicato_--with delicacy. _Con energico_--with energy. _Con espressione_--with expression. _Con forza_--with force. _Con fuoco_--with fire and passion. _Con grand' espressione_--with great expression. _Con grazia_--with grace. _Con melinconia_--with melancholy. [Transcriber's Note: archaic form of "malinconia".] _Con passione_--with passion. _Con spirito_--with spirit. _Con tenerezza_--with tenderness. _Delicato_--delicately. _Dolce_--sweetly, gently. _Dolcissimo_--most sweetly. _Dolce e cantabile_--gently and with singing tone. _Dolente_ } _Doloroso_ } plaintively or sorrowfully. _Espressivo_--expressively. _Grandioso_--grandly, pompously. _Grazioso_--gracefully. _Giocoso_--humorously, (cf. jocose). _Giojoso_--joyfully, (cf. joyous). _Lacrimando_, _lacrimoso_--sorrowfully. _Legato_--smoothly. _Leggiero_--lightly. _Leggierissimo_--most lightly; almost a staccato. _Lusingando_--caressingly, coaxingly, tenderly. _Maesta_, _maestoso_--majestically. _Martellando_, _martellato_--strongly accented, (lit.--hammered). _Marziale_--martial--war-like. _Mesto_--pensively. _Mezzo voce_--with half voice. _Misterioso_--mysteriously. _Parlando_--well accented or enunciated; applied to melody playing. (The word parlando means literally-speaking.) _Pastorale_--in simple and unaffected style, (lit.--pastoral, rural). _Pomposo_--pompously. _Precipitoso_--precipitously. _Recitativo_--well enunciated. (This meaning applies only in instrumental music in which a melody is to stand out above the accompaniment. For def. of recitative in vocal music, see p. 78.) _Risoluto_--firmly, resolutely. _Scherzando_, _scherzoso_, etc.--jokingly. These terms are derived from the word _scherzo_ meaning _a musical joke_. _Semplice_--simply. _Sempre marcatissimo_--always well marked, _i.e._, strongly accented. _Sentimento_--with sentiment. _Solenne_--solemn. _Sotto voce_--in subdued voice. _Spiritoso_--with spirit. _Strepitoso_--precipitously. _Tranquillo_--tranquilly. _Tristamente_--sadly. 131. Many other terms are encountered which on their face sometimes seem to be quite formidable, but which yield readily to analysis. Thus _e.g._, _crescendo poco a poco al forte ed un pochettino accelerando_, is seen to mean merely--"increase gradually to _forte_ and accelerate a very little bit." A liberal application of common sense will aid greatly in the interpretation of such expressions. CHAPTER XIV TERMS RELATING TO FORMS AND STYLES 132. A _form_ in music is a specific arrangement of the various parts of a composition resulting in a structure so characteristic that it is easily recognized by the ear. Thus _e.g._, although every fugue is different from all other fugues in actual material, yet the arrangement of the various parts is so characteristic that no one who knows the _fugue form_ has any doubt as to what kind of a composition he is hearing whenever a fugue is played. The word _form_ is therefore seen to be somewhat synonymous with the word _plan_ as used in architecture; it is the structure or design underlying music. Examples of form are the canon, the fugue, the sonata, etc. Speaking broadly we may say that _form_ in any art consists in the placing together of certain parts in such relations of proportion and symmetry as to make a unified whole. In music this implies unity of tonality and of general rhythmic effect, as well as unity in the grouping of the various parts of the work (phrases, periods, movements) so as to weld them into one whole, giving the impression of completeness to the hearer. 133. The primal _basis of form_ is the repetition of some characteristic effect, and the problem of the composer is to bring about these repetitions in such a way that the ear will recognize them as being the same material and will nevertheless not grow weary of them. This is accomplished by varying the material (cf. thematic development), by introducing contrasting material, and by choice of key. 134. The student should note at the outset of this topic the _difference in meaning between_ the terms _form_ and _style_: A _form_ is a plan for building a certain definite kind of composition, but a _style_ is merely a manner of writing. Thus _e.g._, the _fugue_ is a _form_--_i.e._, it is a plan, which although capable of variation in details, is yet carried out fairly definitely in every case; but _counterpoint_ is merely a _style_ or manner of writing (just as Gothic architecture is a style of building), which may be cast into any one of several _forms_. 135. The material found in the following sections is an attempt to explain in simple language certain terms relating to _forms_ and _styles_ which are in common use; in many cases the definition is too meagre to give anything but a very general idea, but it is hoped that the student will at least be set to thinking and that he will eventually be led to a more detailed and scholarly study of the subject. (The article "Form" and the separate articles under each term here defined, as found in Grove's Dictionary, are especially recommended. For examples of the various forms described, see also Mason and Surette--"The Appreciation of Music," Supplementary Volume.) 136. In a very general way there may be said to be _two styles of musical composition_, the monophonic (or homophonic)--the one-voiced--and the polyphonic--the many voiced. The polyphonic[32] style antedates the monophonic historically. [Footnote 32: Polyphonic music flourished from 1000 A.D. to about 1750 A.D., the culmination of the polyphonic period being reached in the music of Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750). Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and the later writers have used the monophonic style more than the polyphonic, although a combination of the two is often found, as _e.g._, in the later works of Beethoven.] 137. In _monophonic music_ there is one voice which has a pronounced melody, the other voices (if present) supporting this melody as a harmonic (and often rhythmic) background. An example of this is the ordinary hymn-tune with its melody in the highest part, and with three other voices forming a "four-part harmony." The sonata, symphony, opera, modern piano piece, etc., are also largely _monophonic_, though polyphonic passages by way of contrast are often to be found. 138. In _polyphonic music_ each voice is to a certain extent melodically interesting, and the "harmony" is the result of combining several melodies in such a way as to give a pleasing effect, instead of treating a melody by adding chords as an accompaniment or support. Counterpoint, canon, round, fugue, etc., are all _polyphonic_ in style. The word _contrapuntal_ is often used synonymously with _polyphonic_. (Sections 139 to 143 relate especially to terms describing polyphonic music.) 139. _Counterpoint_ is the art of adding one or more parts or melodies to a given melody, the latter being known as the "cantus firmus," or subject. It may therefore be broadly defined as "the art of combining melodies." The word _counterpoint_ comes from the three words "_punctus contra punctum_," meaning "point against point." The word point as here used refers to the _punctus_--one of the neumae of the mediaeval system, these neumae being the immediate predecessors of modern notes. Both vocal and instrumental music have been written in contrapuntal style. The familiar two- and three-part "inventions" by Bach are excellent examples of instrumental counterpoint, while such choruses as those in "The Messiah" by Handel illustrate the highest type of vocal counterpoint. 140. _Imitation_ is the repetition by one part, of a subject or theme previously introduced by another part. If the imitation is exact, the term _strict imitation_ is applied, but if only approximate, then the term _free imitation_ is used in referring to it. The repetition need not have the exact pitches of the subject in order to be _strict_; on the contrary the imitation is usually at the interval of an octave, or a fifth, or a second, etc. Fig. 57 shows an example of strict imitation in which the _third_ part comes in an octave _lower_ than the first part. 141. A _canon_ is a contrapuntal composition in the style of strict imitation, one part repeating exactly (but at any interval) what another part has played or sung. The term "canonic style" is sometimes applied to music in which the imitation is not exact. An example of three-part canon is given in Fig. 57. [Illustration: CANON IN THREE VOICES, IN THE UNISON AND OCTAVE Fig. 57. MOZART] The word _canon_ means _law_, and was applied to this particular form of composition because the rules relating to its composition were invariable. It is because of this non-flexibility that the _canon_ is so little used as a form at the present time: the modern composer demands a plan of writing that is capable of being varied to such an extent as to give him room for the exercise of his own particular individuality of conception, and this the _canon_ does not do. For this same reason too the fugue and the sonata have successively gone out of fashion and from Schumann down to the present time composers have as it were created their own forms, the difficulty in listening arising from the fact that no one but the composer himself could recognize the form _as_ a form because it had not been adopted to a great enough extent by other composers to make it in any sense universal. The result is that in much present-day music it is very difficult for the hearer to discover any trace of familiar design, and the impression made by such music is in consequence much less definite than that made by music of the classic school. It is probable that a reaction from this state of affairs will come in the near future, for in any art it is necessary that there should be at least enough semblance of structure to make the art work capable of standing as a universal thing rather than as the mere temporary expression of some particular composer or of some period of composition. 142. The common _school round_ is an example of canon, each voice repeating exactly what the first voice has sung, while this first voice is going on with its melody. The _round_ is therefore defined as a variety of canon in which the imitation is always in unison with the subject. 143. The _fugue_ (Latin, _fuga_ = flight) is a form of contrapuntal composition in which the imitation is always in the dominant key, _i.e._, a fifth above or a fourth below. The imitation (called "the answer") may be an exact repetition of the subject (sometimes called "the question"), but is usually not so. The _fugue_ differs from the canon also in that the subject is given in complete form before the answer begins, while in the canon the imitation begins while the subject is still going on. The _fugue_ is not nearly so strict in form as the canon and gives the composer much greater opportunity for expressing musical ideas. A canon may be perfect in _form_ and yet be very poor music; this same statement might of course be made about any form, but is especially true in the stricter ones. CHAPTER XV TERMS RELATING TO FORMS AND STYLES (_Continued_) (Sections 144 to 160 relate particularly to terms used in descriptions of _monophonic_ music[33].) [Footnote 33: There is a very pronounced disagreement among theorists as to what terms are to be used in referring to certain forms and parts of forms and it seems impossible to make a compromise that will satisfy even a reasonable number. In order to make the material in this chapter consistent with itself therefore it has been thought best by the author to follow the terminology of some single recognized work on form, and the general plan of monophonic form here given is therefore that of the volume called _Musical Form_, by Bussler-Cornell.] 144. A _phrase_ is a short musical thought (at least two measures in length) closing with either a complete or an incomplete cadence. The typical _phrase_ is four measures long. The two-measure _phrase_ is often called _section_. The word _phrase_ as used in music terminology corresponds with the same word as used in language study. 145. A _period_ is a little piece of music typically eight measures long, either complete in itself or forming one of the clearly defined divisions of a larger form. The _period_ (when complete in itself) is the smallest monophonic form. The essential characteristic of the _regular period_ is the fact that it usually consists of two balanced phrases (often called _antecedent_ and _consequent_ or _thesis_ and _antithesis_), the first phrase giving rise to the feeling of incompleteness (by means of a cadence in another key, deceptive cadence, etc.,) the second phrase giving the effect of completeness by means of a definite cadence at the close. The second half of the period is sometimes a literal repetition of the first half, in all respects except the cadence, but in many cases too it is a repetition of only one of the elements--rhythm, intervals, or general outline. Figs. 58 and 59 show examples of both types. The principle almost invariably holds that the simpler the music (cf. folk-tunes) the more obvious the form of the period, while the more complex the music, the less regular the period. [Illustration: Fig. 58. MOZART] [Illustration: Fig. 59. SCHUBERT] 146. The _primary forms_ are built up by combining two or more periods. The _small two-part primary form_ (often called _song-form_ or _Lied-form_) consists of two periods so placed that the second constitutes a consequent or antithesis to the first. The second half of this second period is often exactly the same as the second half of the first period, thus binding the two periods together into absolute unity. The theme of the choral movement of the Ninth Symphony (Beethoven) quoted below is a perfect example of this form. Other examples are "Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes," and "The Last Rose of Summer." [Illustration: BEETHOVEN] The _small three-part primary form_ is like the two-part primary form except that it has a section of contrasting material interpolated between the two periods. This middle part is usually an eight-measure phrase. The _large two- and three-part primary forms_ usually have sixteen-measure periods instead of eight-measure ones, but are otherwise similar in construction. These various _primary forms_ are used in constructing many varieties of compositions, among them the _theme and variations_, the _polka_, the _waltz_, the _march_, etc., as well as most of the shorter movements in sonatas, quartets, etc. They are used in vocal music also, but are less apt to be regular here because the form of vocal music is largely dependent upon the structure of the text. 147. A _theme_ is a fragment of melody used as the subject of a fugue, as the basis of the development section in "sonata form," etc. Sometimes it is a complete tune (often in period form), on which variations are made, as _e.g._, in the familiar _theme and variations_. 148. _Thematic development_ consists in taking a short theme (or several short themes) and by means of transposition, interval expansion and contraction, rhythmic augmentation and diminution, inversion, tonality changes, etc., building out of it a lengthy composition or section of a composition. Fig. 60 _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, and _f_ show how the theme given in Fig. 60 (_a_) may be varied in a few of these ways. There are hundreds of other fashions in which this same theme might be varied without destroying its identity. For other examples of thematic development see the development section of Sonata Op. 31, No. 3, as analyzed in Appendix E. [Transcriber's Note: Corrected error "Sec. 3" in original.] [Illustration: Fig. 60.] For further illustrations of development in the case of this same theme, see--Christiani--The Principles of Expression in Pianoforte playing, p. 144, ff. from which the foregoing themes have been adapted. 149. A _rondo_ is an instrumental composition (in homophonic style) in which a certain theme appears several times almost always in the same form (_i.e._, not thematically varied), the repetitions of this theme being separated by contrasting material. The _rondo_ is the oldest of the larger monophonic forms and has been used in many different ways, but perhaps its most characteristic construction is as follows: (1) Principal subject; (2) second subject in dominant key; (3) principal subject; (4) third subject; (5) first subject again; (6) second subject, in _tonic key_; (7) coda (or ending). The student should note particularly the problem of repetition and contrast (mentioned in Sec. 134) as here worked out, as the rondo was the first monophonic form in which this matter was at all satisfactorily solved, and its construction is especially interesting because it is readily seen to be one of the direct predecessors of the highest form of all--the sonata. Examples of rondos may be found in any volume of sonatas or sonatinas. 150. A _suite_ is a set of instrumental dances all in the same or in nearly related keys. The first dance is usually preceded by an introduction or prelude, and the various dances are so grouped as to secure contrast of movement--a quick dance being usually followed by a slower one. The suite is interesting to students of the development of music as being the first form _in several movements_ to be generally adopted by composers. It retained its popularity from the beginning of the seventeenth to the end of the eighteenth centuries, being finally displaced by the sonata, whose immediate predecessor it is thus seen to be. The _suite_ was formerly written for solo instrument only (harpsichord, clavichord, piano) but modern composers like Dvo[vr]ák, Lachner, Moszkowski, and others have written suites for full orchestra also. 151. Among the dances commonly found in suites are the following: _Allemande_--duple or quadruple measure. _Bolero_--triple measure. _Bourée_--duple or quadruple measure. _Chaconne_--triple measure. _Courante_--a very old dance in triple measure. _Csardas_--Hungarian dance in duple or quadruple measure. _Gavotte_--quadruple measure. _Gigue_ (or _jig_)--duple measure. _Habanera_--Spanish dance in triple measure. _Minuet_--slow dance in triple measure. _Mazurka_--Polish dance in triple measure. _Polonaise_--Polish dance in triple measure. _Rigaudon_--lively dance in duple or triple measure. _Sarabande_--triple measure. _Tarantella_--swift Italian dance in sextuple measure. The _allemande_ is especially interesting to students of music form because of its relation to the sonata, it being the prototype of the sonata-allegro (_i.e._, the first movement of the sonata). The _sarabande_ and _courante_ are likewise interesting as the prototypes of the second movement, and the _bourée_, _minuet_, etc., for their connection with the third movement. 152. The _scherzo_ (lit. musical joke) is a fanciful instrumental composition. It was used by Beethoven as the third movement of the sonata instead of the more limited minuet, but is also often found as an independent piece. 153. A _sonata_ is an instrumental composition of three or more movements (usually four), the first and last of which are almost always in rapid tempo. Each of these movements is a piece of music with a unity of its own, but they are all merged together in a larger whole with a broad underlying unity of larger scope. The composition receives its name from the fact that its first movement is cast in _sonata-form_. (See Sec. 157 for description of sonata-form.) When the _sonata_ has four movements, these are usually arranged as follows: 1. A quick movement (_allegro_, _presto_, etc.), often preceded by a slower introduction. 2. A slow movement (_largo_, _andante_, _adagio_, etc.). 3. A minuet or scherzo, often with a trio added, in which case the part preceding the trio is repeated after the trio is played. 4. A quick movement--the finale, sometimes a rondo, sometimes another sonata-form, sometimes a theme with variations. These movements are all in closely related keys, but in a variety of contrasting rhythms. 154. A _trio_ is a sonata for three instruments (such as piano, violin, and cello), while a _quartet_ is a sonata for four instruments, the most common quartet combination being as follows: First and second violins, viola, and violoncello. The term _chamber music_ is often applied to instrumental music for trio, quartet, quintet, and other similar combinations which are suitable for a small room rather than for a large concert hall. The words _trio_ and _quartet_ are also applied to vocal works for three and four voices respectively, these having no relation whatsoever to the sonata as described above. The word _trio_ is also applied to the middle section of minuets, scherzas, marches, etc., the term originating in the old usage of writing this part for three instruments only. 155. A _concerto_ is a sonata for a solo instrument with orchestral accompaniment, the form being usually somewhat modified so as to adapt it to a composition in which there must necessarily be opportunity for a good deal of technical display. There are usually but three movements in the _concerto_. The great majority of _concertos_ are for piano and orchestra, but examples of concertos for violin, cello, flute, oboe, and other solo instruments (all with orchestral accompaniment) have also been written. A few modern composers have applied the term _concerto_ to certain large organ works (with no orchestral accompaniment, the composition being written for just the one instrument), but this use of the word is so contrary to the accepted definition that it is hardly justifiable. When a concerto is played on two pianos (without orchestra), this does not mean that there is no orchestral part, but that there is no orchestra to play it, and so the parts that should be played by the orchestral instruments have simply been arranged for a second piano (sometimes organ). 156. A _symphony_ is a sonata for full orchestra. In general its construction is the same as that of the sonata, but it is usually of much larger proportions and has in it much greater variety of both tonal and rhythmic material. The symphony is generally conceded to be the highest type of instrumental music ever evolved. The _symphony_ was accepted as a standard form in the time of Haydn (1732-1809) and was developed enormously by Haydn himself, Mozart (1756-1791), and Beethoven (1770-1827), reaching perhaps its highest point in the famous "Nine Symphonies" of the last-named composer. Later symphony writers whose works are at present being performed include Schumann, Tschaikowsky, and Dvo[vr]ák. The word _symphony_ was formerly used synonymously with _ritornelle_, both words being applied to instrumental interludes between parts of vocal works, but this usage has now entirely disappeared. 157. _Sonata-form_ (sometimes called _sonata-allegro_) is a plan for the construction of instrumental music (sonatas, quartets, symphonies, etc.), in which three rather definite divisions always occur, the third division being a more or less literal repetition of the first. These _three parts of sonata-form_ with their usual subdivisions are: I. EXPOSITION (1) Principal theme (or first subject). (2) Link-episode (or modulation group). (3) Secondary theme (or song group), always in a nearly related key. (4) Closing group. (5) Coda. II. DEVELOPMENT SECTION Treating the themes introduced in the exposition in an almost infinite variety of fashions, according to the principles of thematic development. (See Sec. 148). III. RECAPITULATION (OR REPRISE) Consisting essentially of the same subdivisions found in the _exposition_, but differing from this first section in one essential point, viz., that instead of stating the secondary theme in a _related_ key, the entire recapitulation is in the _principal_ key. This third section is always followed by a coda (which may either be very short or quite extended), bringing the whole movement to a more definite close. The second part of _sonata-form_ (the development section) is sometimes the longest and most intricate of the three divisions, and it is at this point that the composer has an opportunity of displaying to the full his originality and inventive skill. It is principally because of this development section that the sonata is so far superior as a _form_ to its predecessors. For an analyzed example of _sonata-form_, see Appendix E. The student is advised to take other sonatas and go through the first movements with a view to finding at least the three main divisions mentioned above. In some cases the form will of course be so irregular that all the parts indicated cannot be discovered, but the general outlines of the scheme will always be present. 158. A _sonatina_, as its name implies, is a little sonata. It differs from the sonata proper principally in having little or no development, the second section being of slight importance as compared with the corresponding section of a sonata. A _grand sonata_ is like an ordinary sonata in form, but is of unusually large dimensions. 159. _Program music_ is instrumental music which is supposed to convey to the listener an image or a succession of images that will arouse in him certain emotions which have been previously aroused in the composer's mind by some scene, event, or idea. The clue to the general idea is usually given at the beginning of the music in the form of a poem or a short description of the thing in the mind of the composer, but there are many examples in which there is no clue whatsoever except the title of the composition. _Program music_ represents a mean between _pure music_ (cf. the piano sonata or the string quartet) on the one hand, and _descriptive music_ (in which actual imitations of bird-calls, whistles, the blowing of the wind, the galloping of horses, the rolling of thunder, etc., occur), on the other. Most program music is written for the orchestra, examples being Liszt's "The Preludes," Strauss' "Till Eulenspiegel," etc. 160. A _symphonic poem_ (or _tone poem_) is an orchestral composition of large dimensions (resembling the symphony in size), usually embodying the program idea. It has no prescribed form and seems indeed to be often characterized by an almost total lack of design, but there are also examples of symphonic poems in which the same theme runs throughout the entire composition, being adapted at the various points at which it occurs to the particular moods expressed by the _program_ at those points. The _symphonic poem_ was invented by Liszt (1811-1886) and has since been used extensively by Strauss, Saint-Saëns and others. It came into existence as a part of the general movement which has caused the fugue and the sonata successively to go out of fashion, viz., the tendency to invent forms which would not hamper the composer in any way, but would leave him absolutely free to express his ideas in his own individual way. CHAPTER XVI TERMS RELATING TO VOCAL MUSIC 161. An _anthem_ is a sacred choral composition, usually based on Biblical or liturgical[34] words. It may or may not have an instrumental accompaniment, and is usually written in four parts, but may have five, six, eight, or more. [Footnote 34: A _liturgy_ is a prescribed form or method of conducting a religious service, and the parts sung in such a service (as _e.g._, the holy communion, baptism, etc.), are referred to as the _musical_ liturgy.] The word _anthem_ is derived from _antifona_ (or _antiphona_), meaning a psalm or hymn sung responsively, _i.e._, _antiphonally_, by two choirs, or by choir and congregation. A _full anthem_ is one containing no solo parts; a _solo anthem_ is one in which the solo part is predominant over the chorus, while a _verse anthem_ is one in which the chorus parts alternate with passages for concerted solo voices (_i.e._, trios, quartets, etc.). 162. _A capella_ (sometimes spelled _cappella_) or _alla capella music_ is part-singing (either sacred or secular) without accompaniment. This term means literally "in chapel style," and refers to the fact that in the early days of the church all singing was unaccompanied. 163. _A motet_ is a sacred choral composition in contrapuntal style. It has no solo parts, thus corresponding to the madrigal (q.v.) in secular music. The motet is intended for _a capella_ performance, but is often given with organ accompaniment. 164. A _choral_ is a hymn-tune of the German Protestant Church. It is usually harmonized in four voices. The _choral_ (sometimes spelled _chorale_) is described as having "a plain melody, a strong harmony, and a stately rhythm." It differs from the ordinary English and American hymn-tune in being usually sung at a much slower tempo, and in having a pause at the end of each line of text. 165. The _mass_ is the liturgy for the celebration of the Lord's Supper in the service of the Roman Catholic Church. As used in the terminology of music the word refers to the six hymns which are always included when a composer writes a musical _mass_, and which form the basis of the celebration of the Communion.[35] These six hymns are as follows: [Footnote 35: It should be understood that this statement refers to the service called "the high mass" only, there being no music at all in connection with the so-called "low mass."] _Kyrie._ _Gloria_ (including the _Gratias agimus_, _Qui tollis_, _Quoniam_, _Cum Sancto Spirito_). _Credo_ (including the _Et Incarnatus_, _Crucifixus_, and _Et Resurrexit_). _Sanctus_ (including the _Hosanna_). _Benedictus._ _Agnus Dei_ (including the _Dona nobis_). The _requiem mass_ is the "mass for the dead" and differs considerably from the ordinary mass. Both regular and requiem _masses_ have been written by many of the great composers (Bach, Beethoven, Verdi, Gounod), and in many cases these _masses_ are so complex that they are not practicable for the actual service of the Church, and are therefore performed only by large choral societies, as concert works. 166. A _cantata_ is a vocal composition for chorus and soloists, the text being either sacred or secular. The accompaniment may be written for piano, organ, or orchestra. When sacred in character the _cantata_ differs from the oratorio in being shorter and less dramatic, in not usually having definite characters, and in being written for church use, while the oratorio is intended for concert performance. When secular in subject the _cantata_ differs from the opera in not usually having definite characters, and in being always rendered without scenery or action. Examples of the _sacred cantata_ are: Stainer's "The Crucifixion," Clough-Leighter's "The Righteous Branch," and Gaul's "The Holy City." Examples of the _secular cantata_ are: Bruch's "Armenius," Coleridge-Taylor's "Hiawatha." 167. An _oratorio_ is a composition on a large scale for chorus, soloists, and orchestra, the text usually dealing with some religious subject. The _oratorio_, as noted above, is not intended for the church service, but is written for concert performance. 168. An _opera_ is a composition for vocal soloists, chorus, and orchestra, with characters, action, scenery, and dramatic movement. It is a drama set to music. _Grand opera_ is opera with a serious plot, in which everything is sung, there being no spoken dialog at all. _Opera comique_ is a species of opera in which part of the dialog is spoken and part sung. _Opera comique_ is not synonymous with _comic opera_, for the plot of opera comique is as often serious as not. In fact the entire distinction between the terms _grand opera_ and _opera comique_ is being broken down, the latter term referring merely to operas first given at the Opera Comique in Paris, and the former term to those given at the Grand Opera House in the same city. A _comic opera_ is a humorous opera, the plot providing many amusing situations and the whole ending happily. It corresponds with the _comedy_ in literature. A _light opera_ is one with an exceedingly trivial plot, in which songs, dances, and pretty scenery contribute to the amusement of the audience. The music is lively, but usually as trivial as the plot. The term _music drama_ was used by Wagner in referring to his own _operas_, and is also sometimes applied to other modern _operas_ in which the dramatic element is supposed to predominate over the musical. 169. A _libretto_ (lit.--little book) is the word-text of an opera, oratorio, cantata, or some other similar work. 170. _Recitative_ is a style of vocal solo common to operas, oratorios, and cantatas, especially those written some time ago. Its main characteristic is that the word-text is of paramount importance, both rhythm and tone-progression being governed by rhetorical rather than by musical considerations. _Recitative_ undoubtedly originated in the intoning of the priest in the ritualistic service of the Church, but when applied to the opera it became an important means of securing dramatic effects, especially in situations in which the action of the play moved along rapidly. _Recitative_ is thus seen to be a species of musical declamation. In the early examples of _recitative_ there was scarcely any accompaniment, often only one instrument (like the cello) being employed to play a sort of obbligato melody: when full chords were played they were not written out in the score, but were merely indicated in a more or less general way by certain signs and figures. (See "thorough-bass," p. 85, Sec. 200.) But about the middle of the seventeenth century a slightly different style of _recitative_ was invented, and in this type the orchestra was employed much more freely in the accompaniment, especially in the parts between the phrases of the text, but to some extent also to support the voice while singing. This new style was called _recitativo stromento_ (_i.e._, accompanied recitative), while the original type was called _recitativo secco_ (_i.e._, dry recitative). During the last century the style of _recitative_ has been still further developed by Gluck and Wagner, both of whom used the orchestra as an independent entity, with interesting melodies, harmonies and rhythms all its own, while the vocal part is a sort of obbligato to this accompaniment. But even in this latest phase of _recitative_, it is the word-text that decides the style of both melody and rhythm in the voice part. Fig. 61 shows an example of _dry recitative_, taken from "The Messiah." [Illustration: ALTO VOICE. Be-hold! a vir-gin shall con-ceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Em-man-u-el; God with us.] 171. _Aria_ is likewise a style of vocal solo found in operas, etc., but its predominating characteristic is diametrically opposed to that of the recitative. In the _aria_ the word-text is usually entirely subordinate to the melody, and the latter is often very ornate, containing trills, runs, etc. The rendition of this ornate style of music is often referred to as "coloratura singing," but it should be noted that not all _arias_ are coloratura in style. The familiar solos from The Messiah--"Rejoice Greatly," and "The trumpet shall sound" are good examples of the aria style. 172. A _lied_ (Ger. = song) is a vocal solo in which the text, the melody, and the accompaniment contribute more or less equally to the effect of the whole. Strictly speaking the word _lied_ means "a poem to be sung," and this meaning will explain at once the difference between the _lied_ on the one hand, and the Italian recitative and aria on the other, for in the _lied_ the text is of great importance, but the music is also interesting, while in the recitative the text was important but the music very slight, and in the aria the text was usually inconsequential while the music held the center of interest. The most pronounced characteristic of the _lied_ is the fact that it usually portrays a single mood, sentiment, or picture, thus differing from the ballad, which is narrative in style. It will be noted that this "single mood, or sentiment, or picture" was originally conceived by the poet who wrote the word-text, and that the composer in writing music to this text has first tried to get at the thought of the poet, and has then attempted to compose music which would intensify and make more vivid that thought. This intensification of the poet's thought comes as often through the rhythm, harmony, and dynamics of the accompaniment as through the expressiveness of the voice part. The style of song-writing in which each verse is sung to the same tune is called the "strophe form," while that in which each verse has a different melody is often referred to as the "continuous" or "through-composed" form (Ger. durch-componiert). 173. A _ballad_ was originally a short, simple song, the words being in narrative style, _i.e._, the word-text telling a story. In the earlier _ballads_ each verse of the poem was usually sung to the same tune (strophe form), but in the _art-ballad_ as developed by Loewe and others the continuous style of composition is employed, this giving the composer greater opportunities of making vivid through his music the events described by the poem. These later _ballads_ are in consequence neither "short" nor "simple" but compare in structure with the lied itself. 174. A _folk-song_ is a short song sung by and usually originating among the common people. Its dominant characteristic is usually _simplicity_, this applying to word-text, melody, and accompaniment (if there is one). The text of the _folk-song_ is usually based on some event connected with ordinary life, but there are also many examples in which historical and legendary happenings are dealt with. Auld Lang Syne, and Comin' thru the Rye, are examples of _folk-songs_. There has been some difference of opinion as to whether a song, the composer of which is known, can ever constitute a real _folk-song_: recent writers seem to be taking the sensible view of the matter, viz.: that if a song has the characteristics of a folk- rather than an art-song, and if it remains popular for some time among the common people, then it is just as much a _folk-song_ whether the composer happens to be known or not. 175. A _madrigal_ is a secular vocal composition having from three to eight parts. It is in contrapuntal style, like the motet, and is usually sung a capella. 176. A _glee_ is a vocal composition in three or more parts, being usually more simple in style than the madrigal, and sometimes having more than one movement. The _glee_ may be either gay or sad in mood, and seems to be a composition peculiar to the English people. 177. A _part-song_ is a composition for two or more voices, (usually four) to be sung a capella. It is written in monophonic rather than in polyphonic style, thus differing from the madrigal and glee. Morley's "Now is the Month of Maying" is an example of the _part-song_, as is also Sullivan's "O Hush Thee, My Baby." The term _part-song_ is often loosely applied to glees, madrigals, etc. CHAPTER XVII RHYTHM, MELODY, HARMONY AND INTERVALS 178. The _four elements_ commonly attributed to music (in the order of their development) are: Rhythm, Melody, Harmony, and Timbre (or tone-color). 179. _Rhythm_ is the regular recurrence of accent. In music it is more specifically the regular recurrence of groups of accented and non-accented beats (or pulses)--according to some specified measure-system. Since rhythm implies continuity, there must usually be at least two such measure groups in order to make musical rhythm possible. (See p. 44, Sec. 97.) 180. A _melody_ is a succession of single tones of various pitches so arranged that the effect of the whole will be unified, coherent, and pleasing to the ear. The soprano part of hymn-tunes and other simple harmonized compositions is often referred to as "the melody." 181. _Harmony_ is the science of chord construction and combination. The term _harmony_ refers to tones sounding simultaneously, _i.e._, to _chords_, as differentiated from tones sounding consecutively, as in melody. The word _harmony_ may therefore be applied to any group of tones of different pitches sounded as a chord, although specifically we usually refer to a _succession_ of such chords when we speak of "harmony." It is possible to use the same combination of tones in either melody or harmony; in fact these two elements as applied to modern music have developed together and the style of present-day melody is directly based upon the development that has recently taken place in harmonic construction. _Harmony_ (as contrasted with _counterpoint_) first began to be an important factor in music about 1600 A.D., _i.e._, at the time when opera and oratorio came into existence, when form was established, and when our modern major and minor scales were adopted. Before this practically all music was composed on a contrapuntal basis. 182. _Timbre_ is that peculiar quality of sound which enables one to distinguish a tone produced by one instrument (or voice) from a tone produced by an equal number of vibrations on another instrument. The word _timbre_ is synonymous with the terms _quality of tone_, and _tone quality_ (Ger.--Klang-farbe), the excuse for using it being that it expresses adequately in one word an idea that in our language takes at least two: this excuse would disappear (and incidentally a much-mispronounced word would be eliminated) if the single word _quality_ were to be adopted as the equivalent of _timbre_. Thus, _e.g._, the soprano voice singing c' has a _quality_ different from the contralto voice singing the same tone. (The remainder of this chapter and all of Chapter XVIII deal with terms commonly encountered in the study of _harmony_. Courses in this subject usually begin with a study of scales, but since this subject has already been somewhat extensively treated, this chapter will omit it, and will begin with the next topic in harmony study, viz.--the interval.) 183. An _interval_ is the relation of two tones with regard to pitch. If the two tones are sounded simultaneously the result is an _harmonic interval_, but if sounded consecutively the result is a _melodic interval_. Fig. 62 represents the pitches f' and a' as a harmonic interval, while Fig. 63 represents the same pitches arranged as a melodic interval. [Illustration: Fig. 62.] [Illustration: Fig. 63.] 184. In classifying intervals two facts should be constantly kept in mind: (1) The _number name_ of the interval (third, fifth, sixth, etc.), is derived from the order of letters as found in the diatonic scale. Thus the interval C--E is a _third_ because E is the third tone from C (counting C as one) in the diatonic scale. C--G is a _fifth_ because G is the fifth tone above C in the diatonic scale. It should be noted however that the same _number-names_ apply even though one or both letters of the interval are qualified by sharps, flats, etc. Thus _e.g._, C--G[sharp] is still a _fifth_, as are also C[sharp]--G[flat] and C[flat]--G[sharp]. (2) In determining the _specific_ name of any interval (_perfect_ fifth, _major_ third, etc.), the half-step and whole-step (often referred to respectively as _minor second_, and _major second_) are used as units of measurement. The _half-step_ is usually defined as "the smallest usable interval between two tones." Thus, C--C[sharp] is a _half-step_, as are also B--C, F--G[flat], etc. A _whole-step_ consists of two half-steps. C--D is a _whole-step_, as are also B[flat]--C, E--F[sharp], F[sharp]--G[sharp], G[flat]--A[flat], etc. The expressions _half-step_ and _whole-step_ are much to be preferred to _half-tone_ and _whole-tone_, as being more clear and definite. Thus _e.g._, the sentence "The two tones are a _half-step_ apart" is much better than "The two tones are a _half-tone_ apart." 185. A _prime_ is the relation between two tones whose pitches are properly represented by the same degree of the staff. A _perfect prime_ is one whose tones have the same pitch. Middle C sounded by piano and violin at the same time would offer an example. An _augmented prime_ is one whose second tone is one half-step higher than the first. Ex. C--C[sharp]. 186. A _second_ is the relation between two tones whose pitches are properly represented by adjacent degrees of the staff. (The first line and first space are adjacent degrees, as are also the third line and fourth space.) A _minor second_ is one comprising one half-step. Ex. B--C. A _major second_ is one comprising two half-steps. Ex. B--C[sharp]. An _augmented second_ is one comprising three half-steps. Ex. F--G[sharp]. 187. A _third_ is an interval comprising two seconds. A _diminished third_ has two minor seconds (_i.e._, two half-steps). C--E[double-flat]. A _minor third_ has one minor and one major second (_i.e._, three half-steps). C--E[flat]. A _major third_ has two major seconds (_i.e._, four half-steps). C--E. 188. _A fourth_ is an interval comprising three seconds. A _diminished fourth_ has two minor and one major second. C[sharp]--F. A _perfect fourth_ has one minor and two major seconds. C--F. An _augmented fourth_ (tritone) has three major seconds. C--F[sharp]. 189. A _fifth_ is an interval comprising four seconds. A _diminished fifth_ has two minor and two major seconds. C--G[flat]. A _perfect fifth_ has one minor and three major seconds. C--G. An _augmented fifth_ has four major seconds. C--G[sharp]. 190. A _sixth_ is an interval comprising five seconds. A _minor sixth_ has two minor and three major seconds. C--A[flat]. A _major sixth_ has one minor and four major seconds. C--A. An _augmented sixth_ has five major seconds. C--A[sharp]. 191. A _seventh_ is an interval comprising six seconds. A _diminished seventh_ has three minor and three major seconds. C--B[double-flat]. A _minor seventh_ has two minor and four major seconds. C--B[flat]. A _major seventh_ has one minor and five major seconds. C--B. 192. An _octave_ is an interval comprising seven seconds. A _diminished octave_ has three minor and four major seconds. C--C[flat]. _A perfect octave_ has two minor and five major seconds. C--C. An _augmented octave_ has one minor and six major seconds. C--C[sharp]. 193. A _ninth_ is usually treated as a second, a _tenth_ as a third, etc. The interval of two octaves is often referred to as a _fifteenth_. 194. If the major diatonic scale be written and the interval between each tone and the key-tone noted, it will be observed that the intervals are all either major or perfect. See Fig. 64. [Illustration: Fig. 64.] In this connection also it will be noted that the interval next smaller than _major_ is always _minor_, while that next smaller than _perfect_ or _minor_ is always _diminished_: but that the interval next larger than both _major_ and _perfect_ is _augmented_. 195. An interval is said to be _inverted_ when the tone originally the upper becomes the lower. Thus C--E, a major third, inverted becomes E--C, a minor sixth. CHAPTER XVIII CHORDS, CADENCES, ETC. 196. A _chord_ is a combination of several tones sounding together and bearing an harmonic relation to each other. The simplest chord is the _triad_, which consists of a fundamental tone called the _root_, with the third and fifth above it. C--E--G is a triad, as are also D--F--A, F--A--C, and G--B--D. 197. Triads are classified as _major_, _minor_, _diminished_, or _augmented_. A _major triad_ has a major third and a perfect fifth, _i.e._, it is a major third with a minor third on top of it. Ex. C--E--G. A _minor triad_ has a minor third and a perfect fifth, _i.e._, it is a minor third with a major third on top of it. Ex. C--E[flat]--G. A _diminished triad_ has a minor third and a diminished fifth, _i.e._, it is a minor third with another minor third on top of it. Ex. C--E[flat]--G[flat]. An _augmented triad_ has a major third and an augmented fifth, _i.e._, it is a major third with another major third on top of it. Ex. C--E--G[sharp]. 198. A triad may be built on any scale-tone, but those on I, IV, and V, are used so much oftener than the others that they are often called the _common chords_. In referring to triads the Roman numerals are used to show on what scale-tone the triad is based, the size of the numeral (with other signs) indicating the kind of triad found on each tone of the scale. Thus _e.g._, the large I shows that the triad on the first tone (in major) is a _major triad_, the small II shows that the triad on the second tone is minor, etc. The following figure will make this clear. [Illustration: Fig. 65.] The triads in the minor scale are as follows: [Illustration] 199. A triad is said to be _in fundamental position_ when its root is the lowest tone. It is said to be in the _first inversion_ when the _third_ is the lowest tone, and in the _second inversion_ when the fifth is the lowest tone. Thus _e.g._, in Fig. 66 the same chord (C--E--G) is arranged in three different positions, at (a) in fundamental position, at (b) in the first inversion, and at (c) in the second inversion. [Illustration: Fig. 66.] 200. When the root is not the bass note, figures are sometimes used to show what chord is to be played or written. Thus, _e.g._, the figure 6 over a bass note means that the note given is the _third_ of a chord, the root being found by going up a sixth from the bass note: _i.e._, the chord is to be sounded in its first inversion. In the same way the figures 6/4 indicate that the note given is the _fifth_ of the chord, the root and fifth being found by going up a sixth and a fourth from the note given; _i.e._, the chord is to be sounded in its second inversion. The use of these and other similar figures and signs is called _figured bass_ (or _thorough bass_) _notation_. An example of a _figured bass_ is given in Fig. 67. [Illustration: Fig. 67.] _Thorough bass notation_ was formerly used extensively in writing accompaniments to vocal works, the accompanist having to interpret the notes and signs given, and then to make up an interesting accompaniment as he went along. Much of Handel's music was written in this way, but in modern editions of these works the chords have been printed in full and the signs omitted. 201. A _seventh chord_ consists of a fundamental tone with its third, fifth, and seventh. The fifth is sometimes omitted. A _ninth chord_ consists of a fundamental with its third, fifth, seventh, and ninth. 202. A _cadence_ is the close of a musical phrase: in melody it refers to the last two tones; in harmony to the last two chords. The word _cadence_ is derived from _cadere_, a Latin word meaning to _fall_, the reference being to the falling of the voice (_i.e._, the dropping to the normal pitch) at the close of a sentence. 203. The most frequent cadence in harmony is that involving the chord on I preceded by the chord on V. Because of its directness the cadence V--I is called the _authentic cadence_. 204. The most satisfactory form (to the ear) of the authentic cadence is that in which the highest voice (the soprano) of the final chord is the _root_ of that chord. When the final chord appears in this position the cadence is called _perfect_[36] _authentic_, and when the third or fifth of the chord appear in the soprano, the cadence is called _imperfect authentic_. Fig. 68 shows the chord G--B--D cadencing to C--E--G in three different ways. The first one (a) is called a _perfect authentic cadence_, but the last two (c) and (d) are _imperfect authentic_. [Footnote 36: Many theorists (including Durand in his monumental "Treatise on Harmony") consider the V--I cadence to be the only one which may legitimately be called _perfect_, but the majority of writers seem to take the view that either authentic or plagal cadence may be either perfect or imperfect, depending upon the soprano tone, as noted above.] [Illustration: Fig. 68.] 205. A _plagal cadence_ is one in which the tonic chord is preceded by the sub-dominant chord (IV--I). The _plagal cadence_ (sometimes called the _church cadence_, or _amen cadence_), like the authentic, is described as being _perfect_ when the soprano of the tonic chord is the root of that chord, and _imperfect_ when the soprano of the final chord is the third or fifth of that chord. Fig. 69 shows the chord F--A--C cadencing to C--E--G in three ways. The first one (a) is called a _perfect plagal cadence_, the last two are _imperfect plagal_. [Illustration: Fig. 69.] 206. A _half-cadence_ occurs when the dominant chord is used as the final chord of a phrase, and is immediately preceded by the tonic chord. This form is used to give variety in the course of a composition, but is not available at the end because it does not give a definite close in the tonic key. Fig. 70 shows the use of the _half-cadence_ at the close of such a phrase. [Illustration: Fig. 70. BACH] 207. A _deceptive cadence_ is the progression of the dominant chord to some other chord than the tonic, the word _deceptive_ implying that the ear expects to hear V resolve to I and is deceived when it does not do so. The most common form of _deceptive cadence_ is that in which V (or V^7) resolves to VI. It is used to give variety, but as in the case of the half-cadence, is not available at the end of a composition. Fig. 71 gives an example. [Illustration: Fig. 71. WM. MATHER] 208. A _sequence_ is a succession of similar harmonic progressions, these resulting from a typical or symmetrical movement of the bass part. See Fig. 72. [Illustration: Fig. 72.] The word _sequence_ is also applied to a succession of similar melodic progressions, as in Fig. 73. [Illustration: Fig. 73.] 209. _Modulation_ is a change of key without any break in the continuity of chords or melody tones. _Harmonic modulations_ are usually effected through the medium of a chord, some or all of whose tones are common to both keys. Examples of both _harmonic_ and _melodic modulations_ are shown in Figs. 74 and 75. [Illustration: Fig. 74.] The chord most frequently used in modulating is the _dominant seventh_, _i.e._, a seventh chord (see Sec. 201) on the dominant tone of the key. In the key of C this chord is G--B--D--F; in the key of D it is A--C[sharp]--E--G; in the key of A[flat] it is E[flat]--G--B[flat]--D[flat], etc. [Illustration: Fig. 75.] 210. A _suspension_ is the temporary substitution of a tone a degree higher than the regular chord-tone, this temporary tone being later replaced by the regular chord-tone. See Fig. 76 (_a_). [Illustration: Fig. 76.] 211. A _retardation_ is the temporary substitution of a tone a degree lower than the regular tone, this tone (as in the case of the suspension) being later replaced by the regular chord tone. See Fig. 77 (_a_). [Illustration: Fig. 77.] The "regular chord tone" to which both suspension and retardation resolve is called the _tone of resolution_. 212. The _anticipation_ is a chord-tone introduced just before the rest of the chord to which it belongs is sounded. See Fig. 78 (_a_). [Illustration: Fig. 78.] 213. A _pedal point_ (or _organ point_) is a tone sustained through a succession of harmonic progressions, to the chords of some of which it usually belongs. The term _pedal point_ originated in organ playing, (where the foot on a pedal can sustain a tone while the hands are playing a succession of harmonies), but as now used it may be applied to any kind of music. The dominant and tonic are the tones most often used in this way. See Fig. 79. [Illustration: Fig. 79. SCHUMANN] 214. When the upper three voices of a four-voice composition are written close together (the soprano and tenor never appearing more than an octave apart), the term _close position_ is applied. But when the upper voices are not written close together, the term _open position_ is applied. 215. By _transposition_ is meant playing, singing, or writing a piece of music in some other key than the original. Thus _e.g._, if a song written in the key of G is too high in range for a soloist, the accompanist sometimes _transposes_ it to a lower key (as F or E), thus causing all tones to sound a second or a third lower than they did when the same song was played in the original key. CHAPTER XIX MISCELLANEOUS TERMS _A battuta_--with the beat; in strict rhythm. [Transcriber's Note: Corrected error "battua" in original.] _À quatre mains_--for four hands. _Accompagnamento_--the accompaniment. _All'unisono_--in unison. _Alla breve_--2/2 measure. The term _alla breve_ is also sometimes used as a tempo indication, to show a rate of speed so great that a half-note has a beat, _i.e._, only two beats in a measure--hence twice as fast as before. _Alla capella_--usually the same as a capella (see p. 76, Sec. 162) but sometimes _used_ in the same sense as _alla breve_. _Alla marcia_--in march style. _Alla zingara_--in gypsy style. _Alt_--see _in alt_. _Alto_--the lowest female voice. Range approximately g-e''. The word _alto_ is derived from the Latin word _altus_, meaning _high_, the term being formerly applied to the highest male voice, which originally sang (and still does so in many male choirs) the alto part. _Animato come sopra_--in animated style as above. _Antiphony_ (_antiphonal_)--the responsive singing of two choirs, usually one at either end of the church, or at either side of the chancel. _Arabesque_--an instrumental composition in light, somewhat fantastic style. The term _arabesque_ is derived from the word _Arabian_, and was originally applied to a style of decoration. _Arioso_--in the style of an air or song, _i.e._, a flowing, vocal style. _Attacca_--attack the next division without any pause. _Attacca subito_--same as _attacca_. _Attacca subito il seguente_--attack at once that which follows. [Transcriber's Note: In last 3 entries, corrected misspelling "attaca" in original.] _Attack_--the promptness or firmness with which a phrase is begun. _Bagpipe_--A Scotch instrument on which the tone is produced by a combination of bellows and reeds. Its characteristic effect is the continuous sounding of a low tone (sometimes several tones) while the melody is being played on the higher reeds. _Barcarole_ (or _barcarolle_)--a boat song. Also applied to a vocal or instrumental composition in the style of the gondolier's boat song. _Baritone_ (or _barytone_)--the male voice having a range between that of the tenor and that of the bass. Approximate range G-g'. _Bass_--the lowest male voice. Approximate range E-e'. _Basso_--same as _bass_. _Berceuse_--a cradle song. _Binary form_--a form in two parts. _Binary measure_--a measure having two beats. _Bis_--twice. Used to indicate a repetition. (Rare.) _Brace_--the sign used to join several staffs, showing that all tones represented on these staffs are to be performed together. The term is often used also in referring to the music written on staffs so joined; as--"Begin with the upper _brace_." _Broken chord_--a chord whose tones are not all sounded simultaneously, as _e.g._, in an accompaniment group. _Broken octave_--an octave whose tones are sounded one at a time instead of simultaneously. _Cacophony_--harsh, discordant, unpleasant, especially _incorrect_ combinations of tones. The opposite of _euphony_. _Cadenza_--A brilliant passage, usually in an instrumental composition, introduced just before the close of a movement. The _cadenza_ was formerly improvised by the performer, (thus giving an opportunity of displaying his technical skill), but since Beethoven, composers have usually written their own _cadenzas_. _Cantabile_--in a singing style. _Cantando_--same as _cantabile_. _Canto_--the highest voice part; _i.e._, the soprano part. Note the derivation of _canto_, _cantabile_, etc., from the Latin word _cantus_, meaning a _song_. _Carol_--a hymn of joyful praise, usually sung in connection with Easter or Christmas festivities. The word _carol_ meant originally _a dance_, hence the _happy_ character of songs of this type. _Catch_--a round set to humorous words. _Chromatic_ (noun)--a term somewhat loosely applied to any tone not belonging to the key as indicated by the signature. Many teachers are replacing the word _chromatic_ in this sense with the term _intermediate tone_, this term being applicable whether the foreign tone is actually used for ornamental purposes as a _chromatic_, or to effect a modulation. Thus _e.g._, "F[sharp] is the _intermediate tone_ between F and G in the key of C." _Clavichord_--an instrument with keys, resembling the square piano in appearance. The tone was produced by forcing wedge-shaped pieces of metal against the strings, thus setting them in vibration. The _clavichord_ was one of the immediate predecessors of the piano, much of the music written by Bach being composed for it, although this music is now played on the modern piano. _Colla voce_--with the voice: _i.e._, play the accompaniment according to the soloist's performance rather than strictly according to the rhythm indicated in the score. _Colla parte_--same as _colla voce_. _Coloratura_--florid passages in singing. Also applied to the style of singing employed in rendering such passages. (See p. 76, Sec. 171.) _Consonance_--A combination of tones agreeable to the ear and requiring no resolution to other tone-combinations in order to give the effect of finality. The major triad C--E--G is an example of a consonant chord. _Contralto_--same as _alto_. _Con variazioni_--with variations. _Direct_--a sign ([direct symbol]) placed at the end of the last staff on a page, to indicate what the first note on the next page is going to be. This sign is now practically obsolete. _Dirge_--a funeral chant. The dirge is named from the first word of a chant used in the "office for the dead," which begins--_Dirige Domine, Deus meus, in conspectu tuo viam meam_ (Direct, O Lord, My God, my way in Thy sight). _Discord_--an ugly, unharmonious combination of tones. _Dissonance_--a harmonic combination of tones giving rise to the feeling of incompleteness or unrest, and therefore requiring resolution to some other combination which has an agreeable or final feeling. (cf. consonance.) The diminished triad C--E[flat]--G[flat] is an example of a dissonant chord. _Divisi_--divided. An indication showing that the first violins, or the sopranos, or any other body of performers ordinarily sounding in unison are now to divide into two or more parts. _Duet_--a composition for two performers. (From the It. word _due_--two.) _École_--a school or style of composition or performance. _Etude_--a study. Also an instrumental composition in the style of a study, but intended for artistic performance. _Euphony_--agreeable tone combinations; the opposite of cacophony. (From the Greek word meaning _well-sounding_.) _Facile_--easy. _Fanfare_--a trumpet call. _Fantasia_--An instrumental composition not based on any regular form. _Fiasco_--a complete failure or breakdown. This use of the word _fiasco_ (which means in Italian a flask, or bottle) is said to have reference to the bursting of a bottle, the complete ruin of the bottle being compared with the complete failure of a performance. _Gamut_--all the tones of a scale. _Glissando_--playing a scale on the keyboard by drawing the finger along over the keys, thus depressing them in very rapid succession. The word is derived from the French word _glisser_--to glide. _Harpsichord_--one of the immediate predecessors of the piano. _Humoresque_--a capricious, fantastic composition. (Cf. _fantasia_.) _Idyl_--a short, romantic piece of music in simple and unaffected style. _In alt_--pitches in the first octave above the treble staff. Thus _e.g._, "C in alt" is the C represented by the second added line above the treble staff. _In altissimo_--pitches in the octave above the _alt_ octave. _Instrumentation_--see _orchestration_. _Interlude_--a short movement between two larger movements. _Loco_--place; _i.e._, play as written. (See p. 15, Sec. 46.) _Lunga trillo_--a long trill. CHAPTER XX MISCELLANEOUS TERMS (_Continued_) _Lyric_--a short, song-like poem of simple character. Also applied to instrumental pieces of like character. _Maggiore_--major. _Marcato il canto_--the melody well marked; _i.e._, subdue the accompaniment so that the melody may stand out strongly. _Melos_--melody. This word _melos_ is also applied to the peculiar style of vocal solo found in Wagner's music dramas. See _recitative_ (p. 75, Sec. 170). _Mellifluous_--pleasing; pleasant sounding. _Menuetto, menuet_--same as _minuet_. (See p. 68, Sec. 151.) _Mezzo soprano_--a woman's voice of soprano quality, but of somewhat lower compass than the soprano voice. Range approximately b to g''. _Minore_--minor. _Nocturne_ (sometimes spelled _nocturn_, _notturna_, _nokturne_, etc.)--a night piece; a quiet, melodious, somewhat sentimental composition, usually for piano solo. _Nuance_--delicate shading; subtle variations in tempo and dynamics which make the rendition of music more expressive. _Obbligato_ (sometimes incorrectly spelled _obligato_)--an accessory melody accompanying harmonized music, (usually vocal music). The word _obbligato_ (It. _bound_, or _obliged_) refers to the fact that this is usually a melody of independent value, so important that it cannot be omitted in a complete performance. _Offertory_ (sometimes spelled _offertoire_, or _offertorium_)--a piece of music played or sung during the taking up of the offering in the church service. The word is often applied by composers to any short, simple piece of music (usually for organ) that is suitable for the above purpose. _Opus_--work; used by composers to designate the order in which their compositions were written, as _e.g._, Beethoven, Op. 2, No. 1. _Orchestration_--the art of writing for the orchestra, this implying an intimate knowledge of the range, quality, and possibilities of all the orchestral instruments. _Ossia_--or else; used most often to call the attention of the performer to a simpler passage that may be substituted for the original one by a player whose skill is not equal to the task he is attempting to perform. _Overture_--(from _overt_--open)--an instrumental prelude to an opera or oratorio. The older _overtures_ were independent compositions and bore no particular relation to the work which was to follow, but in modern music (cf. Wagner, Strauss, etc.), the _overture_ introduces the principal themes that are to occur in the work itself, and the introduction thus becomes an integral part of the work as a whole. The word _overture_ is sometimes applied to independent orchestral compositions that have no connection with vocal works, as the _Hebrides Overture_ by Mendelssohn. _Pizzicato_--plucked. A term found in music for stringed instruments, and indicating that for the moment the bow is not to be used, the tone being secured by _plucking_ the string. _Polacca_--a Polish dance in three-quarter measure. _Polonaise_--same as _polacca_. _Postlude_--(lit. after-play)--an organ composition to be played at the close of a church service. _Prelude_--(lit. before-play)--an instrumental composition to be played at the beginning of a church service, or before some larger work (opera, etc.). The term is also applied to independent piano compositions of somewhat indefinite form. (Cf. _preludes_ by Chopin, Rachmaninoff, etc.) _Prière_--a prayer; a term often applied (especially by French composers) to a quiet, devotional composition for organ. _Quintole, quintuplet_--a group of five notes to be performed in the time ordinarily given to four notes of the same value. There is only one accent in the group, this occurring of course on the first of the five tones. _Religioso, religiosamente_--in a devotional style. _Requiem_--the mass for the dead in the Roman Catholic service. It is so called from its first word _requiem_ which means _rest_. (See p. 77, Sec. 165.) _Rhapsody_--an irregular instrumental composition of the nature of an improvisation. A term first applied by Liszt to a series of piano pieces based on gypsy themes. _Ribattuta_--a device in instrumental music whereby a two-note phrase is gradually accelerated, even to the extent of becoming a trill. (See Appendix E, p. 150, for an example.) [Transcriber's Note: Corrected misspelling "Ribbatua" in original.] _Ritornello, ritornelle_--a short instrumental prelude, interlude, or postlude, in a vocal composition, as _e.g._, in an operatic aria or chorus. _Schottische_--a dance in two-quarter measure, something like the _polka_. _Sec, secco_--dry, unornamented: applied to a style of opera recitative (see p. 75, Sec. 170), and also to some particular chord in an instrumental composition which is to be sounded and almost instantly dropped. _Score_--a term used in two senses: 1. To designate some particular point to which teacher or conductor wishes to call attention; as _e.g._, "Begin with the _lower score_, third measure." The word _brace_ is also frequently used in this sense. 2. To refer to all the parts of a composition that are to be performed simultaneously, when they have been assembled on a single page for use by a chorus or orchestral conductor. The term _vocal score_ usually means all chorus parts together with an accompaniment arranged for piano or organ, while the terms _full score_ and _orchestral score_ refer to a complete assemblage of _all parts_, each being printed on a separate staff, but all staffs being braced and barred together. _Senza replica, senza repetizione_--without repetition; a term used in connection with such indications as _D.C._, _D.S._, etc., which often call for the repetition of some large division of a composition, the term _senza replica_ indicating that the smaller repeats included within the larger division are not to be observed the second time. [Transcriber's Note: Corrected misspelling "senza repetitione" in original.] _Serenade, serenata_--an evening song. _Sextet_--a composition for six voices or instruments. _Sextuplet_--a group of six notes to be performed in the time ordinarily given to four of the same value. The sextuplet differs from a pair of _triplets_ in having but one accent. _Simile, similiter_--the same; indicating that the same general effect is to be continued. _Solfeggio, solfège_--a vocal exercise sung either on simple vowels or on arbitrary syllables containing these simple vowel sounds. Its purpose is to develop tone quality and flexibility. These terms are also often applied to classes in sight-singing which use the sol-fa syllables. _Sopra_--above. _Soprano_--the highest female voice. Range approximately b--c'''. _Sostenuto_--sustained or connected; the opposite of _staccato_. _Sotto_--under. _E.g._, _sotto voce_--under the voice, _i.e._, with subdued tone. _Solmization_--sight-singing by syllable. _Staccato_--detached; the opposite of _legato_. _Subito_--suddenly. _Tenor_--the highest male voice. Range approximately d--c''. _Tenuto_--(from _teneo_, to hold)--a direction signifying that the tones are to be prolonged to the full value indicated by the notes. _Toccata_--a brilliant composition for piano or organ, usually characterized by much rapid staccato playing. _Triplet_--a group of three tones, to be performed in the time ordinarily given to two of the same value. The first tone of the triplet is always slightly accented. _Tutti_--(derived from _totus_, _toti_, Latin--all)--a direction signifying that all performers are to take part. Also used occasionally to refer to a passage where all performers do take part. APPENDIX A THE HISTORY OF MUSIC NOTATION Many conflicting statements have been made regarding the history and development of music writing, and the student who is seeking light on this subject is often at a loss to determine what actually did happen in the rise of our modern system of writing music. We have one writer for example asserting that staff notation was begun by drawing a single red line across the page, this line representing the pitch _f_ (fourth line, bass staff), the _neumae_ (the predecessors of our modern _notes_) standing either for this pitch _f_, or for a higher or lower pitch, according to their position _on_ the line, or _above_ or _below_ it. "Another line," continues this writer, "this time of yellow color, was soon added above the red one, and this line was to represent c' (middle C). Soon the colors of these lines were omitted and the _letters_ F and C were placed at the beginning of each of them. From this arose our F and C clefs, which preceded the G clef by some centuries."[37] [Footnote 37: Elson--Music Dictionary, article, "Notation."] Another writer[38] gives a somewhat different explanation, stating that the staff system with the use of clefs came about through writing a letter (C or F) in the margin of the manuscript and drawing a line from this letter to the neume which was to represent the tone for which this particular letter stood. [Footnote 38: Goddard--The Rise of Music, p. 177.] A third writer[39] asserts that because the alphabetical notation was not suitable for recording melodies because of its inconvenience in sight-singing "points were placed at definite distances above the words and above and below one another." "In this system ... everything depended on the accuracy with which the points were interspersed, and the scribes, as a guide to the eye, began to scratch a straight line across the page to indicate the position of one particular scale degree from which all the others could be shown by the relative distances of their points. But this was not found sufficiently definite and the scratched line was therefore colored red and a second line was added, colored yellow, indicating the interval of a fifth above the first." [Footnote 39: Williams in Grove's Dictionary, article, "Notation."] It will be noted that all three writers agree that a certain thing happened, but as in the case of the four Gospels in the New Testament, not all the writers agree on details and it is difficult to determine which account is most nearly accurate in detail as well as in general statement. Communication was much slower a thousand years ago than now and ideas about new methods of doing things did not spread rapidly, consequently it is entirely possible that various men or groups of men in various places worked out a system of notation differing somewhat in details of origin and development but alike in final result. The point is that the development of musical knowledge (rise of part-writing, increased interest in instrumental music, etc.), demanded a more exact system of notation than had previously existed, just as the development of science in the nineteenth century necessitated a more accurate scientific nomenclature, and in both cases the need gave rise to the result as we have it to-day. Out of the chaos of conflicting statements regarding the development of music notation, the student may glean an outline-knowledge of three fairly distinct periods or stages, each of these stages being intimately bound up with the development of _music_ itself in that period. These three stages are: (1) The Greek system, which used the letters of the alphabet for representing fixed pitches. (2) The period of the neumae. (3) The period of staff notation. Of the Greek system little is known beyond the fact that the letters of the alphabet were used to represent pitches. This method was probably accurate enough, but it was cumbersome, and did not afford any means of writing "measured music" nor did it give the eye any opportunity of grasping the general outline of the melody in its progression upward and downward, as staff notation does. The Greek system seems to have been abandoned at some time preceding the fifth century. At any rate it was about this time that certain _accent marks_ began to be written above the text of the Latin hymns of the church, these marks serving to indicate in a general way the progress of the melody. E.g., an upward stroke of the pen indicated a rise of the melody, a downward stroke a fall, etc. In the course of two or three centuries these marks were added to and modified quite considerably, and the system of notation which thus grew up was called "neume notation," the word _neume_ (sometimes spelled _neuma_, or _pneuma_) being of Greek origin and meaning a _nod_ or _sign_. This system of neumes was in some ways a retrogression from the Greek letter system, for the neumes indicated neither definite pitches nor definite tone-lengths. But it had this advantage over the Greek system, that the position of the signs on the page indicated graphically to the eye the general direction of the melody, as well as giving at least a hint concerning the relative highness or lowness of each individual tone (the so-called _diastematic system_), and this was a great aid to the eye in singing, just as the relative highness and lowness of notes on the modern staff is of great value in reading music at the present time. Thus although the neumae did not enable one to sing a new melody at sight as our modern staff notation does, yet they served very well to recall to the eye the general outline of a melody previously learned by ear and therefore enabled the singer (the system was used for vocal music only) to differentiate between that particular melody and the dozens of others which he probably knew. Neume notation was used mostly in connection with the "plain-song melodies" of the Church, and since the words of these chants were sung as they would be pronounced in reading, the deficiency of the neume system in not expressing definite duration values was not felt. But later on with the rise of so-called "measured music" (cf. invention of opera, development of independent instrumental music, etc.), this lack was seen to be one of the chief disadvantages of the system. The elements of neume-writing as given by Riemann in his Dictionary of Music are: "(1) The signs for a single note: Virga (Virgula) and Punctus (Punctum). (2) The sign for a rising interval: Pes (Podatus). (3) The sign for a falling interval: Clinis (Flexa). (4) Some signs for special manners of performance: Tremula (Bebung), Quilisma (shake), Plica (turn), etc. The others were either synonyms of the above-named or combinations of them...." Since music in the middle ages was always copied by hand, it will readily be understood that these neumae were not uniform either in shape or size, and that each writer made use of certain peculiarities of writing, which, although perfectly intelligible to himself, could not readily be interpreted by others (cf. writing shorthand). Here then we observe the greatest weakness of the neume system--its lack of uniformity and its consequent inability accurately to express musical ideas for universal interpretation. Examples of several neumes are given merely in order to give the beginner a general idea of their appearance. Virga [virga symbol] or [virga symbol]. Punctus [punctus symbol] or [punctus symbol]. Pes [pes symbol] or [pes symbol]. Clinis [clinis symbol] or [clinis symbol]. As music grew more and more complex, and especially as writing in several parts came into use (cf. rise of organum, descant, and counterpoint), it became increasingly difficult to express musical ideas on the basis of the old notation, and numerous attempts were made to invent a more accurate and usable system. Among these one of the most interesting was that in which the words of the text were written in the spaces between long, parallel lines, placing the initial letters of the words _tone_ and _semi-tone_ at the beginning of the line to indicate the scale interval. An example will make this clear. [Illustration] This indicated the precise melodic interval but did not give any idea of the rhythm, and the natural accents of the text were the only guide the singer had in this direction, as was the case in neume-notation and in early staff-notation also. Various other attempts to invent a more definite notation were made, but all were sporadic, and it was not until the idea of using the lines (later lines and spaces) to represent definite pitches, and writing notes of various shapes (derived from the neumae) to indicate relative duration-values--it was only when this combination of two elements was devised that any one system began to be universally used. Just how the transition from _neume_ to _staff_ notation was made no one knows: it was not done in a day nor in a year but was the result of a gradual process of evolution and improvement. Nor is it probable that any one man deserves the entire credit for the invention of staff notation, although this feat is commonly attributed to an Italian monk named Guido d'Arezzo (approximate dates 995-1050). To this same monk we are indebted, however, for the invention of the syllables (UT, RE, MI, etc.) which (in a somewhat modified form) are so widely used for sight-singing purposes. (For a more detailed account of the transition to staff notation, see Grove, op. cit. article _notation_.) It will now be readily seen that our modern notation is the result of a combination of two preceding methods (the Greek letters, and the neumes) together with a new element--the staff, emphasizing the idea that _higher tones_ are written _higher_ on the staff than lower ones. The development of the neumes into notes of various shapes indicating relative time values and the division of the staff into measures with a definite measure signature at the beginning are natural developments of the earlier primitive idea. In the system of "musica mensurabilis" or _measured music_ which was inaugurated a little later, the _virga_ (which had meanwhile developed into a square-headed neume) was adopted as the _longa_ or long note, and the punctus in two of its forms as _breve_ and _semi-breve_ (short and half-short). The longa is now extinct, but the modern form of the breve is still used as the double-whole-note, and the semi-breve is our modern whole-note. Red-colored notes were sometimes used to indicate changes in value and before long outline notes (called _empty notes_) came into use, these being easier to make than the solid ones. The transition from square- and diamond-shaped notes to round and oval ones also came about because of the greater facility with which the latter could be written, and for the same reason notes of small denomination were later "tied together" or _stroked_. This latter usage began about 1700 A.D. It is interesting to find that when "measured music" was finally inaugurated there were at first but two measure-signatures, viz.--the circle, standing for three-beat measure (the so-called _perfect measure_) and the semi-circle (or broken circle) which indicated two-beat measure. Occasionally three-beat measure was indicated by three vertical strokes at the beginning of the melody, while two-beat measure was shown by two such strokes. Upon the basis of these two varieties of measure, primitive in conception though they may have been, has been built nevertheless the whole system now employed, and in the last analysis all forms of measure now in use will be found to be of either the two-beat or the three-beat variety. The circle has disappeared entirely as a measure-sign, but the broken circle still survives, and from it are derived the familiar signs [common-time symbol] and [cut-time symbol], which are sometimes erroneously referred to as being the initial letter of our word _common_ (as used in the expression "common time"). The transition from the older style of measure-signature to the present one seems to have occurred during the century following the invention of opera, _i.e._, from about 1600 to about 1700 A.D. The rest came into use very soon after "measured music" began to be composed and we soon find rests corresponding with the various denominations of notes in use, viz.: [Illustration] The terms applied to these rests vary in different authorities, but it will be noted that the _pausa_, _semi-pausa_, and _suspirum_ correspond respectively to the double-whole-rest, whole-rest, and half-rest in use at present. The bar and double bar may be developments of the _maxima rest_ (as some writers suggest) but are probably also derived from the practice of drawing a line vertically through the various parts of a score to show which notes belonged together, thus facilitating score reading. The bar may occasionally be found as early as 1500, but was not employed universally until 1650 or later. The number of lines used in the staff has varied greatly since the time of Guido, there having been all the way from four to fifteen at various times and in various places, (_four_ being the standard number for a long time). These lines (when there were quite a number in the staff) were often divided into _groups of four_ by _red_ lines, which were not themselves used for notes. These red lines were gradually omitted and the staff divided into sections by a space, as in modern usage. The number of lines in each section was changed to five (in some cases six) for the sake of having a larger available range in each section. The clefs at the beginning of the staffs are of course simply altered forms of the letters F, C, and G, which were written at first by Guido and others to make the old neume notation more definite. The staccato sign seems not to have appeared until about the time of Bach, the legato sign being also invented at about the same time. The fermata was first used in imitative part-writing to show where each part was to stop, but with the development of harmonic writing the present practice was inaugurated. Leger lines came into use in the seventeenth century. Sharps and flats were invented because composers found it necessary to use other tones than those that could be represented by the staff degrees in their natural condition. The history of their origin and development is somewhat complicated and cannot be given here, but it should be noted once more that it was the need of expressing more than could be expressed by the older symbols that called forth the newer and more comprehensive method. The use of sharps and flats in key signatures grew up early in the seventeenth century. In the earlier signatures it was customary to duplicate sharps or flats on staff degrees having the same pitch-name, thus: [Illustration] [Illustration]. (The use of the G clef as here shown did not of course exist at that time.) The double-sharp and double-flat became necessary when "equal temperament" (making possible the use of the complete cycle of keys) was adopted. This was in the time of Bach (1685-1750). Signs of expression (relating to tempo and dynamics) date back at least as far as the year 1000 A.D., but the modern terms used for this purpose did not appear until some years after the invention of opera, the date given by C.F.A. Williams in Grove's Dictionary being 1638. These words and signs of expression were at first used only in connection with instrumental music, but were gradually applied to vocal music also. Other systems of notation have been invented from time to time in the course of the last two or three centuries, but in most cases they have died with their inventors, and in no case has any such system been accepted with anything even approaching unanimity. The tonic-sol-fa system[40] is used quite extensively in England for vocal music, but has gained little ground anywhere else and the chances are that the present system of notation, with possibly slight additions and modifications, will remain the standard notation for some time to come in spite of the attacks that are periodically made upon it on the ground of cumbersomeness, difficulty in teaching children, etc. The main characteristics of staff notation may be summed up as follows: [Footnote 40: The _tonic-sol-fa system_ represents an attempt to invent a simpler notation to be used by beginners, (especially in the lower grades of the public schools) and by singers in choral societies who have never learned to interpret staff notation and who therefore find some simpler scheme of notation necessary if they are to read music at all. In this system the syllables _do_, _re_, _mi_, etc., (in phonetic spelling) are used, the tone being arrived at in each case, first by means of a firmly established sense of tonality, and second by associating each diatonic tone with some universally felt emotional feeling: thus _do_ is referred to as the _strong_ tone, _mi_ as the _calm_ one, and _la_ as the _sad_ tone, great emphasis being placed upon _do_ as the center of the major tonality, and upon _la_ as the center of the minor. The system is thus seen to have one advantage over staff notation, viz.: that in presenting it _the teacher is compelled to begin with a presentation of actual tones_, while in many cases the teacher of staff notation begins by presenting facts regarding the staff and other symbols before the pupil knows anything about tone and rhythm as such. The symbol for each diatonic tone is the initial letter of the syllable (_i.e._, d for _do_, r for _re_, etc.), the key being indicated by a letter at the beginning of the composition. The duration-value of tones is indicated by a system of bars, dots, and spaces, the bar being used to indicate the strongest pulse of each measure (as in staff notation) the beats being shown by the mark: a dash indicating the continuation of the same tone through another beat. If a beat has two tones this is indicated by writing the two initial letters representing them with a . between them. A modulation is indicated by giving the new key letter and by printing the syllable-initials from the standpoint of both the old and the new _do_-position. The figure ' above and to the right of the letter indicates the tone in the octave above, while the same figure below and to the right indicates the octave below. A blank space indicates a rest. The tune of My Country, 'Tis of Thee, as printed in tonic sol-fa notation below will make these points clear. Key F |d :d :r |t_1 :-.d :r |m :m :f |m :-.r :d |r :d :t_1 |d :-- :-- | |s :s :s |s :-.f :m |f :f :f |f :-.m :r |m :f.m :r.d |m :-.f :s | |l.f:m :r |d :-- :-- | The advantages of the system are (1) the strong sense of key-feeling aroused and the ease with which modulations are felt; and (2) the fact that it is necessary to learn to sing in but one key, thus making sight-singing a much simpler matter, and transposition the easiest process imaginable. But these are advantages from the standpoint of the vocalist (producing but one tone at a time) only, and do not apply to instrumental music. The scheme will therefore probably be always restricted to vocal music and will hardly come into very extensive use even in this field, for the teacher of music is finding it perfectly possible to improve methods of presentation to such an extent that learning to sing from the staff becomes a very simple matter even to the young child. And even though this were not true, the tonic-sol-fa will always be hampered by the fact that since all letters are printed in a straight horizontal line the ear does not have the assistance of the eye in appreciating the rise and fall of melody, as is the case in staff notation.] 1. Pitches represented by lines and spaces of a staff, the higher the line, the higher the pitch represented, signs called clefs at the beginning of each staff making clear the pitch names of the lines and spaces. 2. Duration values shown by _shapes_ of notes. 3. Accents shown by position of notes on the staff with regard to bars, _i.e._, the strongest accent always falls just after the bar, and the beat relatively least accented is found just before the bar. 4. Extent and description of beat-groups shown by measure-signs. 5. Key shown by key signature placed at the beginning of each staff. 6. Rate of speed, dynamic changes, etc., shown by certain Italian words (_allegro_, _andante_, etc.), whose meaning is as universally understood as staff notation itself. APPENDIX B MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS 1. Broadly speaking, musical instruments may be divided into two classes, viz.: (1) those that have a keyboard and are therefore capable of sounding several tones simultaneously; (2) those that (as a rule) sound only one tone at a time, as the violin and trumpet. The piano is of course the most familiar example of the first class, and a brief description is therefore given. The _piano_ was invented about two hundred years ago by Cristofori (1651-1731), an Italian. It was an enormous improvement over the types of keyboard instrument that were in use at that time (clavichord, harpsichord, spinet, virginal) and has resulted in an entirely different style of composition. See note on embellishments, p. 26. 2. The most characteristic things about the _piano_ as contrasted with its immediate predecessors are: (1) that on it the loudness and softness of the tone can be regulated by the force with which the keys are struck (hence the name _pianoforte_ meaning literally the _soft-loud_); (2) the fact that the piano is capable of sustaining tone to a much greater extent than its predecessors. In other words the tone continues sounding for some little time after the key is struck, while on the earlier instruments it stopped almost instantly after being sounded. The essentials of the piano mechanism are: 1. Felt hammers controlled by keys, each hammer striking two or three strings (which are tuned in unison) and immediately rebounding from these strings, allowing them to vibrate as long as the key is held down. The mechanism that allows the hammers to rebound from the strings and fall into position for another blow is called the _escapement_. 2. A damper (made of softer felt) pressing against each string and preventing it from vibrating until it is wanted. 3. A keyboard action that controls both hammers and dampers, causing the damper to leave the string at the same instant that the hammer strikes it. 4. A pedal (damper pedal) controlling all of the dampers, so that at any moment all the strings may be released so as to be free to vibrate. Other interesting details are: 1. The strings are stretched over a thin sheet of wood called the sound-board. This aids greatly in intensifying the tone. 2. The soft pedal (the one at the left) in an _upright piano_ causes the hammers to move up nearer the strings, and the shorter swing thus afforded causes a less violent blow and consequently a softer tone. In the _grand piano_ this same pedal shifts the mechanism to one side so that the hammers strike only one or two of the strings, this resulting in a softer tone of somewhat modified quality. These details regarding the mechanism of the piano can easily be verified by removing the front of any ordinary upright piano and observing what takes place when the keys are struck or the pedals depressed. 3. There are two familiar types of _organ_ in use at the present time, (1) the reed organ, (2) the pipe-organ. The _reed organ_ is very simple in construction, the tone being produced by the vibration of metal reeds (fixed in little cells), through which air is forced (or sucked) from the bellows, the latter being usually worked by the feet of the player. More power may be secured either by drawing additional stops, thus throwing on more sets of reeds, or by opening the knee swells which either throw on more reeds (sometimes octave couplers) or else open a _swell box_ in which some of the reeds are enclosed, the tone being louder when the box is open than when closed. More tone may also be secured by pumping harder. 4. The essential characteristic of the _pipe-organ_ is a number of sets or registers of pipes called _stops_, each set being capable (usually) of sounding the entire chromatic scale through a range of five or six octaves. Thus for example when the stop _melodia_ is drawn (by pulling out a stop-knob or tilting a tablet), one set of pipes only, sounds when the keyboard is played on: but if the stop _flute_ is drawn with _melodia_, two pipes speak every time a key is depressed. Thus if an organ has forty _speaking stops_, all running through the entire keyboard, then each time one key is depressed forty pipes will speak, and if a chord of five tones is played, two hundred pipes will speak. The object of having so many pipes is not merely to make possible a very powerful tone, but, rather, to give greater variety of tone-color. The pipe-organ usually has a pedal keyboard on which the feet of the performer play a bass part, this part often sounding an octave (or more) lower than the notes indicate. An _eight-foot stop_ on the organ produces tones of the same pitches as the piano when corresponding keys are struck: A _four-foot stop_ sounds tones an octave higher and a _two-foot stop_ tones two octaves higher. A _sixteen-foot stop_ sounds tones an octave lower than the piano, and a _thirty-two foot_ stop, tones two octaves lower, while some organs have also a _sixty-four foot_ stop which sounds three octaves lower. This gives the organ an exceedingly wide range, its compass being greater than that of any other single instrument, and comparable in both range of pitches and variety of color only with the modern orchestra. Modern pipe-organs always have a number of _combination pedals_ or _pistons_ (usually both), by means of which the organist is enabled to throw on a number of stops with one movement. The selection and use of suitable stops, couplers, combinations, etc., is called _registration_. 5. The instruments mentioned at the beginning of this appendix as belonging to the second class are more familiar in connection with ensemble playing, being commonly associated with either band or orchestra. 6. A _band_ is a company of musicians all of whom play upon either wind or percussion instruments, the main body of tone being produced by the brass and wood-wind divisions. Sousa's band is usually made up in somewhat the following manner: 4 flutes and piccolos, 12 B[flat] clarinets, 1 E[flat] clarinet, 1 alto clarinet, 1 bass clarinet, 2 oboes, 2 bassoons, 2 sarrusophones, 4 saxophones, 4 cornets, 2 trumpets, 1 soprano saxhorn (fluegelhorn), 4 French horns, 4 trombones, 2 contra-bass tubas, 4 tubas, 1 snare drum, 1 bass drum, 2 kettle drums, cymbals, triangle, bells, castanets, xylophone, etc. 7. An _orchestra_ is a company of musicians performing upon stringed instruments as well as upon wind and percussion. It is differentiated from the band by the fact that the main body of tone is produced by the strings. There are _four classes of instruments_ in the orchestra, viz., _strings_, _wood-wind_, _brass_ (_wind_) and _percussion_. In addition to these four classes, there is the _harp_, which although a stringed instrument, does not belong in the same group as the other strings because the manner of producing the tone is altogether different. 8. In the first group (the _strings_) are found the first and second violins, viola, violoncello (usually spelled _cello_), and double-bass. The first and second violins are identical in every way (but play different parts), while the other members of the family merely represent larger examples of the same type of instrument. 9. In the second group (the _wood-wind_) are found the flute, piccolo, oboe, bassoon, English horn, double-bassoon, clarinet, and bass clarinet. The English horn, double-bassoon, bass clarinet, and piccolo are not called for in the older compositions, hence are not always present in the orchestra. 10. In the third group (the _brass choir_) are found the French horn, (usually referred to as _the horn_), trumpet (sometimes replaced by the cornet) trombone, and tuba. 11. The fourth group (_percussion_) consists of kettle drums, bass drum, cymbals, snare drum, triangle, bells, etc. 12. In an orchestra of about 100 players the proportion of instruments is as about as follows, although it varies somewhat according to the taste of the conductor, the style of composition to be performed, etc.: 18 first violins, 16 second violins, 14 violas, 12 cellos, 10 basses, 1 harp, 3 flutes, 1 piccolo, 3 oboes, 1 English horn, 3 clarinets, 1 bass clarinet, 3 bassoons, 1 contra (or double) bassoon, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, 1 tuba, 3 kettle drums, 1 bass drum, 1 snare drum, 1 each of triangle, cymbals, bells, and other instruments of percussion, several of which are often manipulated by one performer. 13. The cuts and brief descriptions here added will give at least a rudimentary idea of the appearance and possibilities of the instruments most commonly used in bands and orchestras. For fuller descriptions and particulars regarding range, quality, etc., the student is referred to Mason's "The Orchestral Instruments and What They Do," Lavignac's "Music and Musicians," and to the various articles which describe each instrument under its own name in Grove's Dictionary or in any good encyclopaedia. For still fuller details some work on orchestration will have to be consulted. 14. The _violin_ has four strings, tuned thus [Illustration: g d' a' e''], these making available a range of about three and one-half octaves (g--c''''). This range[41] may be extended upward somewhat further by means of _harmonics_, these being produced by lightly touching the string at certain points (while the bow is moving across it) instead of holding it down against the finger-board. The highest string of the _violin_ (viola and cello also) is often called the _chanterelle_ because it is most often used for playing the melody. The _violin_ ordinarily produces but one tone at a time, but by _stopping_ two strings simultaneously and so drawing the bow as to set both in vibration, two tones may be produced at the same time, while three and four tones can be sounded _almost_ simultaneously. [Footnote 41: The ranges noted in connection with these descriptions of instruments are ordinarily the _practical orchestral or band_ ranges rather than those which are possible in solo performance.] [Illustration: VIOLIN. Length, 23-1/2 inches. Length of bow, 29-1/2 inches.] The _mute_ (or _sordino_) is a small clamp made of metal, wood, or ivory, which when clipped to the top of the bridge causes the vibrations to be transmitted less freely to the body of the violin, giving rise to a tone modified in quality, and decreased in power. For certain special effects the player is directed to pluck the string (_pizzicato_), this method of playing giving rise to a dry, detached tone instead of the smooth, flowing one that is so characteristic of the _violin_ as commonly played. _Violins_ in the orchestra are divided into firsts and seconds, the _first violins_ being always seated at the left of the audience and the _seconds_ at the right. [Illustration: VIOLA. Length, 26 in. Length of bow, 28.] 15. The _viola_ has four strings, also tuned in fifths, thus [Illustration: c g d' a']. The _viola_ looks exactly like the violin at a little distance, and is really only a larger sized violin, having a range a fifth lower. Its tone is not so incisive as that of the violin, being rather heavier--"more gloomy," as it is often described. The _viola_ is not so useful as the violin as a solo instrument because it is not capable of producing so many varieties of color, nevertheless it is invaluable for certain effects. In orchestral music it is of course one of the most valuable instruments for filling in the harmony. The _viola_ players are usually seated behind the second violin players in the orchestra. [Illustration: VIOLONCELLO. Length, 3 ft. 10 in. Length of bow, 28 in.] 16. The _violoncello_ or _cello_ (sometimes called _bass viol_) has four strings, tuned thus: [Illustration: C G d a]. Its range is about three and one-half octaves (from C to e'' or f''), but in solo work this range is sometimes extended much higher. The _cello_ is much more universally used as a solo instrument than the viola and its tone is capable of a much greater degree of variation. In the orchestra it plays the bass of the string quartet (reinforced by the double-bass), but is also often used for solo passages. _Con sordino_ and _pizzicato_ passages occur as often for the _cello_ as for the violin. 17. The _double bass_ differs from the other members of the string family in that it is tuned in _fourths_ instead of in _fifths_. Its four strings are tuned as follows [Illustration: EE AA D G] the entire range of the instrument being from EE to a. In music written for double-bass the notes are always printed an octave higher than the tones are to sound: that is, when the bass-player sees the note [Illustration: c] he plays [Illustration: C] this being done to avoid leger lines. The tone of the _bass_ is much heavier and the instrument itself is much more clumsy to handle than the other members of the group, hence it is almost never used as a solo instrument but it is invaluable for reinforcing the bass part in orchestral music. The mute is rarely used on the _double-bass_, but the _pizzicato_ effect is very common and the bass pizzicato tone is much fuller and richer than that of any other stringed instrument. [Illustration: DOUBLE-BASS. Length, 6 ft. 6 in. Length of bow, 23-1/2 in.] 18. The _flute_ has a range of three octaves. [Illustration: c' c''''] It is used in both solo and orchestral playing as well as in bands. The flute was formerly always made of wood, but is at present often made of metal. 19. The _piccolo_ is a flute playing an octave higher than the one described above. The notes are printed as for the flute, but the player understands that the tone is to sound an octave higher. The _piccolo_ is used widely in band music and quite often in orchestral music also, but since the tone is so brilliant and penetrating and is incapable of any great variation, it is not suitable for solo performance. [Illustration: OBOE. (hautboy.) Length, 24-1/2 in. Range b e'''. CONTRA BASSOON. (Double bassoon.) Length 6 ft. Range about an octave lower than bassoon, but not all tones in this range are practicable. ENGLISH HORN. (Cor. Anglais.) Length, 2 ft. 11-1/2 in. Range e a''. PICCOLO. Length, 13 in. (Note that this is approximately half the length of the flute.) FLUTE. Length, 26-1/2 in. BASSOON. (fagotto.) Length, 4 ft. 3-1/2 in. Range BB-flat b-flat'.] 20. The next four instruments to be described (_oboe_, _bassoon_, _English horn_, and _contra bassoon_) are often referred to as the _oboe family_ since the principle of tone production and general manipulation is the same in all four. The tone in these instruments is produced by the vibration of two very thin pieces of cane, which are called together a _double-reed_. The _oboe_ is especially valuable in the orchestra as a solo instrument, and its thin, nasal tones are suggestive of rustic, pastoral simplicity, both _oboe_ and _English horn_ being often used by orchestral composers in passages intended to express the idea of rural out-of-door life. The _English horn_ is also often used in passages where the idea of melancholy and suffering is to be conveyed to the audience. In a military band the oboe corresponds to the first violin of the orchestra. The _bassoon_ and _contra-bassoon_ are used mostly to provide a bass part for the harmony of the wood-wind group, but they are also sometimes employed (especially the _bassoon_) to depict comic or grotesque effects. [Illustration: BASS CLARINET. Length, 3 ft. 3 in. Range D to b-flat'] [Illustration: CLARINET. Length 28 in.] 21. The next two types of instruments to be described (_clarinet_ and _saxophone_) are alike in that the tone is produced by the vibration of a _single_ strip of cane (called _single reed_) which is held against the lower lip of the player. The _clarinet_ and _bass clarinet_ are made of wood and are used in both bands and orchestras, but the _saxophone_ is usually made of metal, and, the tone being more strident and penetrating, the instrument is ordinarily used only in combination with other wind instruments, _i.e._, in bands. Since the fingering of the _clarinet_ is excessively difficult the performer can play in only certain keys on the same instrument, hence to play in different keys _clarinets_ in several keys must be provided, there being usually three in all. The music is written as though it were to be played in the key of C, but the tones produced are actually in other keys. For this reason the _clarinet_ is called a _transposing instrument_. The range of the _clarinet_ is the greatest possessed by any of the wind instruments, that of the clarinet in C being from [Illustration: e] to [Illustration: g''']. [Illustration: SAXOPHONES. SOPRANO. ALTO. Length, 15-3/4 in. TENOR. Length, 2 ft. 7-1/2 in. BASS. Length, 3 ft. 9 in. Combined range AA to g-flat'''] [Illustration: SARRUSOPHONE.] The _sarrusophone_ is an instrument with a double-reed. It is made of brass and exists in several sizes, the only one ever used in the orchestra being the double-bass _sarrusophone_, which has approximately the same range as the double-bassoon and is sometimes (but rarely) made use of in the orchestra instead of the latter instrument. The tone of the _sarrusophone_ is something like that of the bassoon. [Illustration: FRENCH HORN. Length, 22-3/4 in.] 22. The _French horn_ (often called _valve horn_ or simply _horn_) really consists of a long tube (about 16 feet) which is bent into circular form for convenience in handling. Its range is from [Illustration: BB] to [Illustration: f'']. In the orchestra _French horns_ are used in pairs, two of the players taking the higher tones, and two the lower. The tone is intensely mellow but incapable of any extensive variation, but in spite of this lack of variety the tone itself is so wonderfully beautiful that the instrument is one of the most useful in the orchestra both in solo passages and to fill in the harmony. The _horn_ (as well as the trumpet and trombone) differs from most of the wood-wind instruments in that its mouthpiece contains no reed, the lips of the player constituting the vibrating body as they are stretched across the mouthpiece and air is forced against them. The _horn_ is used in bands as well as in orchestras. [Illustration: TRUMPET. Length, 22-1/2 in.] 23. The range of the _trumpet_ is [Illustration: g b''], the typical tone being brilliant and ringing. It is used in both band and orchestra, playing the highest parts assigned to the brass choir. The _trumpet_ is often replaced in both band and orchestra by its less refined cousin the _cornet_ because of the ease with which the latter can be played as compared with the trumpet, and the larger number of players that are available in consequence of this ease of execution. 24. The _cornet_ looks something like the trumpet, but is not so slim and graceful in appearance. Its tube is only four and one-half feet long, as compared with a length of about eight feet in the trumpet, and sixteen feet in the French horn. The range of the _cornet_ in B[flat] is from [Illustration: e] to [Illustration: b-flat'']. The tone is somewhat commonplace as compared with the trumpet, but because of its great agility in the rendition of trills, repeated tones, etc., it is universally used in all sorts of combinations, even (as noted above) taking the place of the trumpet in many small orchestras. [Illustration: CORNET. Length, 13-3/4 in.] [Illustration: SLIDE TROMBONE. Length, 3 ft. 9 in. Range of tenor trombone (the size ordinarily used) E to b-flat'] 25. The pitch sounded by the _trombone_ is altered by lengthening or shortening the tube of which the instrument is constructed, this being possible because the lower part slides into the upper and can be pulled out to increase the total length of the tube through which the air passes. There are usually three _trombones_ in the orchestra, each playing a separate part, and the combination of this trio (with the _tuba_ reinforcing the bass part) is majestic and thrilling, being powerful enough to dominate the entire orchestra in _Fortissimo_ passages. But the _trombones_ are useful in soft passages also, and their tone when playing pianissimo is rich, serene, and sonorous. 26. The _bass tuba_ is a member of the saxhorn family[42] and supplies the lowest part of the brass choir, as the double-bass does in the string choir. It is used in both orchestra and band, being often supported in the larger bands by a still lower-toned member of the same family--the _contra-bass tuba_. The range of the _tuba_ is from [Illustration: GG] to [Illustration: g']. [Footnote 42: The _saxhorn_ was invented about 1840 by Adolphe Sax, a Frenchman. The _saxophone_ is the invention of the same man.] [Illustration: BASS TUBA. Length, 3 ft. 3 in.] [Illustration: BASS DRUM. Diameter about 2-1/2 ft.] [Illustration: CYMBALS. Diameter, 13-1/4 in.] 27. The _kettle-drum_ is the most important member of the percussion family and is always used either in pairs or in threes. The size of these instruments varies somewhat with the make, but when two drums are used the diameter is approximately that given under the illustration. The range of a pair of _drums_ is _one octave_ [Illustration: F f] and when but two drums are used the larger one takes the tones from F to about C of this range, and the smaller takes those from about B[flat] to F. The most common usage is to tune one drum to the _tonic_, and the other to _the dominant_ of the key in which the composition is written. The pitch of the _kettle-drum_ can be varied by increasing or lessening the tension of the head by means of thumb-screws which act on a metal ring. [Illustration: KETTLE-DRUMS. Diameter of Head, 24-1/2 in. and 27-1/2 in.] The other important members of the percussion family are shown on this and the following page, their use being so obvious as to require no detailed explanation. [Illustration: TAMBOURINE. Diameter, 10 to 12 in.] [Illustration: BELLS. (Fr. carillon; Ger. Glockenspiel.)] [Illustration: SIDE DRUM. Diameter, about 15-1/2 in.] [Illustration: TRIANGLE. Height, about 8 in.] 28. The _harp_ is one of the oldest of instruments (dating back over 6000 years), but it is only in comparatively recent years that it has been used in the symphony orchestra. Its range is from [Illustration: CC-flat] to [Illustration: f-flat''']. [Illustration: HARP. Height, 5 ft. 8 in.] The modern _double-action harp_ has forty-six strings, which are tuned in half-steps and whole-steps so as to sound the scale of C[flat] major. It has a series of seven pedals around its base, each pedal having two _notches_ below it, into either of which the pedal may be lowered and held fast. The first pedal shortens the F[flat] string so that it now sounds F, (giving the key of G[flat]); the second one shortens the C[flat] string so that it sounds C (giving the key of D[flat]); the third pedal shortens the G[flat] string so that it sounds G (giving the key of A[flat]); the fourth changes D[flat] to D (giving the key of E[flat]), and so on until, when all the pedals are fixed in their first notches, the scale of C is sounded instead of C[flat] as was the case before any of the pedals were depressed. But if the first pedal is now pushed down into the second notch the original F[flat] string is still further shortened and now sounds the pitch F[sharp] (giving us the key of G), and if all the other pedals are likewise successively lowered to the second notch we get in turn all the _sharp keys_--D, A, E, B, F[sharp] and C[sharp], the last-named key being obtained as the result of having all the pedals fixed in their second notches, thus making all the tones of the original C[flat] scale a whole-step higher so that they now sound the C[sharp] scale. Chords of not more than four tones for each hand may be played simultaneously on the harp, but arpeggio and scale passages are the rule, and are more successful than simultaneous chords. The notation of harp music is essentially like that of piano music. APPENDIX C ACOUSTICS NOTE:--It is usually taken for granted that the student of music is familiar with the significance of such terms as _over-tone_, _equal temperament_, etc., and with principles such as that relating to the relation between vibration rates and pitches: the writer has in his own experience found, however, that most students are not at all familiar with such data, and this appendix is therefore added in the hope that a few facts at least regarding the laws of sound may be brought to the attention of some who would otherwise remain in entire ignorance of the subject. 1. _Acoustics_ is the science which deals with sound and the laws of its production and transmission. Since all sound is caused by vibration, _acoustics_ may be defined as the science which treats of the phenomena of sound-producing vibration. 2. All sound (as stated above) is produced by vibration of some sort: strike a tuning-fork against the top of a table and _see_ the vibrations which cause the tone, or, if the fork is a small one and the vibrations cannot be seen, hold it against the edge of a sheet of paper and hear the blows it strikes; or, watch one of the lowest strings of the piano after striking the key a sharp blow; or, look closely at the heavier strings of the violin (or better still, the cello) and watch them oscillate rapidly to and fro as the bow moves across them. The vibrating body may be a string, a thin piece of wood, a piece of metal, a membrane (cf. drum), the lips (cf. playing the cornet), the vocal cords, etc. Often it is a column of air whose vibrations give rise to the tone, the reed or other medium merely serving to set the air in vibration. 3. Sound is _transmitted_ through the air in somewhat this fashion: the vibrating body (a string for example) strikes the air-particles in its immediate vicinity, and they, being in contact with other such air-particles, strike these others, the latter in turn striking yet others, and so on, both a forward and backward movement being set up (oscillation). These particles lie so close together that no movement at all can be detected, and it is only when the disturbance finally reaches the air-particles that are in contact with the ear-drum that any effect is evident. This phenomenon of sound-transmission may perhaps be made more clear by the old illustration of a series of eight billiard balls in a row on a table: if the first ball is tapped lightly, striking gently against ball number 2, the latter (as well as numbers 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7) will not apparently move at all, but ball number 8 at the other end will roll away. The air-particles act upon each other in much this same fashion, the difference being that when they are set in motion by a vibrating body a complete vibration backward and forward causes a similar _backward and forward_ movement of the particles (oscillation) instead of simply a _forward jerk_ as in the case of the billiard balls. Another way of describing the same process is this: the vibration of some body produces waves in the air (cf. waves in the ocean, which carry water forward but do not themselves move on continuously), these waves spread out spherically (i.e. in all directions) and finally reach the ear, where they set the ear-drum in vibration, thus sending certain sound-stimuli to the nerves of hearing in the inner ear, and thus to the brain. An important thing to be noted in connection with sound-transmission is that sound will not travel in a vacuum: some kind of a medium is essential for its transmission. This medium may be air, water, a bar of iron or steel, the earth, etc. 4. The _rate_ at which sound travels through the air is about 1100 feet per second, the rapidity varying somewhat with fluctuations in temperature and humidity. In water the rate is much higher than in air (about four times as great) while the velocity of sound through other mediums (as _e.g._, steel) is sometimes as much as sixteen times as great as through air. 5. Sound, like light, may be _intensified_ by a suitable reflecting surface directly back of the vibrating body (cf. sounding board); it may also be reflected by some surface at a distance from its source in such a way that at a certain point (the focus) the sound may be very clearly heard, but at other places, even those _nearer_ the source of sound, it can scarcely be heard at all. If there is such a surface in an auditorium (as often occurs) there will be a certain point where everything can be heard very easily, but in the rest of the room it may be very difficult to understand what is being said or sung. _Echoes_ are caused by sound-reflection, the distance of the reflecting surface from the vibrating body determining the number of syllables that will be echoed. The _acoustics_ of an auditorium (_i.e._, its hearing properties) depend upon the position and nature of the reflecting surfaces and also upon the length of time a sound persists after the vibrating body has stopped. If it persists longer than 2-1/4 or 2-1/3 seconds the room will not be suitable for musical performances because of the mixture of persisting tones with following ones, this causing a blurred effect somewhat like that obtained by playing a series of unrelated chords on the piano while the damper-pedal is held down. The duration of the reverberation depends upon the size and height of the room, material of floor and walls, furniture, size of audience, etc. 6. Sound may be classified roughly into _tones_ and _noises_ although the line of cleavage is not always sharply drawn. If I throw stones at the side of a barn, sounds are produced, but they are caused by irregular vibrations of an irregularly constructed surface and are referred to as _noise_. But if I tap the head of a kettle-drum, a regular series of vibrations is set up and the resulting sound is referred to as _tone_. In general the material of music consists of tones, but for special effects certain noises are also utilized (cf. castanets, etc.). 7. Musical tones have three properties, viz.: 1. Pitch. 2. Intensity. 3. Quality (timbre). By _pitch_ is meant the highness or lowness of tone. It depends upon rate of vibration. If a body vibrates only 8 or 10 times per second no tone is heard at all: but if it vibrates regularly at the rate of 16 or 18 per second a tone of very low pitch is heard. If it vibrates at the rate of 24 the pitch is higher, at 30 higher still, at 200 yet higher, and when a rate of about 38,000 per second has been reached the pitch is so high that most ears cannot perceive it at all. The highest tone that can ordinarily be heard is the E[flat] four octaves higher than the highest E[flat] of the piano. The entire range of sound humanly audible is therefore about eleven octaves (rates 16-38,000), but only about _eight_ of these octaves are utilized for musical purposes. The tones of the piano (with a range of 7-1/3 octaves) are produced by vibration rates approximately between 27 and 4224. In the orchestra the range is slightly more extended, the rates being from 33 to 4752. Certain interesting facts regarding the relation between vibration-rates and pitches have been worked out: it has been discovered for instance that if the number of vibrations is doubled, the pitch of the resulting tone is an octave higher; _i.e._, if a string vibrating at the rate of 261 per second gives rise to the pitch c', then a string one-half as long and vibrating twice as rapidly (522) will give rise to the pitch c'', _i.e._, an octave higher than c'. In the same way it has been found that if the rate is multiplied by 5/4 the pitch of the tone will be a _major third_ higher; if multiplied by 3/2, a _perfect fifth_ higher, etc. These laws are often stated thus: the ratio of the octave to the fundamental is as two is to one; that of the major third as five is to four; that of the perfect fifth as three is to two, and so on through the entire series of pitches embraced within the octave, the _ratio_ being of course the same for all octaves. 9. The _intensity_ (loudness or softness) of tones depends upon the amplitude (width) of the vibrations, a louder tone being the result of vibrations of greater amplitude, and vice versa. This may be verified by plucking a long string (on cello or double-bass) and noting that when plucked gently vibrations of small amplitude are set up, while a vigorous pluck results in much wider vibrations, and, consequently, in a louder tone. It should be noted that the _pitch_ of the tone is not affected by the change in amplitude of vibration. The intensity of tones varies with the medium conveying them, being usually louder at night because the air is then more elastic. Tone intensity is also affected by _sympathetic vibrations_ set up in other bodies. If two strings of the same length are stretched side by side and one set in vibration so as to produce tone the other will soon begin to vibrate also and the combined tone will be louder than if only one string produced it. This phenomenon is the basis of what is known as resonance (cf. body of violin, resonance cavities of nose and mouth, sounding board of piano, etc.). 10. _Quality_ depends upon the shape (or form) of the vibrations which give rise to the tone. A series of simple vibrations will cause a simple (or colorless) tone, while complex vibrations (giving rise to overtones of various kinds and in a variety of proportions) cause more individualistic peculiarities of quality. Quality is affected also by the shape and size of the resonance body. (Cf. last part of sec. 9 above.) 11. Practically every musical tone really consists of a combination of several tones sounding simultaneously, the combined effect upon the ear giving the impression of a single tone. The most important tone of the series is the _fundamental_, which dominates the combination and gives the pitch, but this fundamental is practically always combined with a greater or less number of faint and elusive attending tones called _overtones_ or _harmonics_. The first of these overtones is the octave above the fundamental; the second is the fifth above this octave; the third, two octaves above the fundamental, and so on through the series as shown in the figure below. The presence of these _overtones_ is accounted for by the fact that the string (or other vibrating body) does not merely vibrate in its entirety but has in addition to the principal oscillation a number of sectional movements also. Thus it is easily proved that a string vibrates in halves, thirds, etc., in addition to the principal vibration of the entire string, and it is the vibration of these halves, thirds, etc., which gives rise to the _harmonics_, or _upper partials_ as they are often called. The figure shows _Great C_ and its first eight overtones. A similar series might be worked out from any other fundamental. [Illustration: (NOTE:--The B[flat] in this series is approximate only.)] It will be recalled that in the section (10) dealing with _quality_ the statement was made that _quality_ depends upon the shape of the vibrations; it should now be noted that it is the form of these vibrations that determines the nature and proportion of the overtones and hence the quality. Thus _e.g._, a tone that has too large a proportion of the fourth upper partial (_i.e._, the _third_ of the chord) will be _reedy_ and somewhat unpleasant. This is the case with many voices that are referred to as _nasal_. Too great a proportion of overtones is what causes certain pianos to sound "tin-panny." The tone produced by a good tuning-fork is almost entirely free from overtones: it has therefore no distinctive quality and is said to be a _simple_ tone. The characteristic tone of the oboe on the other hand has many overtones and is therefore highly individualistic: this enables us to recognize the tone of the instrument even though we cannot see the player. Such a tone is said to be _complex_. 12. The mathematical ratio referred to on page 134, if strictly carried out in tuning a keyboard instrument would cause the half-steps to vary slightly in size, and playing in certain keys (especially those having a number of sharps or flats in the signature) would therefore sound out of tune. There would be many other disadvantages in such a system, notably the inability to modulate freely to other keys, and since modulation is one of the predominant and most striking characteristics of modern music, this would constitute a serious barrier to advances in composition. To obviate these disadvantages a system of _equal temperament_ was invented and has been in universal use since the time of Bach (1685-1750) who was the first prominent composer to use it extensively. _Equal temperament_ means simply dividing the octave into twelve equal parts, thus causing all scales (as played on keyboard instruments at least) to sound exactly alike. To show the practicability of equal temperament Bach wrote a series of 48 _preludes and fugues_, two in each major and two in each minor key. He called the collection "The Well-tempered Clavichord." 13. Various _standards of pitch_ have existed at different times in the last two centuries, and even now there is no absolute uniformity although conditions are much better than they were even twenty-five years ago. Scientists use what is known as the "scientific standard" (sometimes called the "philosophic standard"), viz., 256 double vibrations for "middle C." This pitch is not in actual use for musical purposes, but is retained for theoretical purposes because of its convenience of computation (being a power of 2). In 1885 a conference of musicians at Vienna ratified the pitch giving Middle C 261 vibrations, this having been adopted by the French as their official pitch some 26 years before. In 1891 a convention of piano manufacturers at Philadelphia adopted this same pitch for the United States, and it has been in practically universal use ever since. This pitch (giving Middle C 261 vibrations) is known as "International Pitch." _Concert pitch_ is slightly higher than _International_, the difference between the two varying somewhat, but being almost always less than one-half step. This higher pitch is still often used by bands and sometimes by orchestras to give greater brilliancy to the wind instruments. REFERENCES Lavignac--Music and Musicians, pp. 1-66. Broadhouse--The Student's Helmholz. Helmholtz--Sensations of Tone. Hamilton--Sound and its Relation to Music. NOTE:--For a simple and illuminating treatment of the subject from the standpoint of the music student, the books by Lavignac and Hamilton are especially recommended. APPENDIX D TERMINOLOGY REFORM A recent writer[43] on _vocal terminology_ makes the following statement as an introduction to certain remarks advocating a more definite use of terms relating to tone production by the human voice:--"The correct use of words is the most potent factor in the development of the thinker." If this statement has any basis of fact whatsoever to support it then it must be evident to the merest novice in musical work that the popular use of many common terms by musicians is keeping a good many people from clear and logical thought in a field that needs accurate thinkers very badly! However this may be, it must be patent to all that our present terminology is in many respects neither correct nor logical, and the movement inaugurated by the Music Section of the National Education Association some years ago to secure greater uniformity in the use and definition of certain expressions should therefore not only command the respect and commendation, but the active support of all progressive teachers of music. [Footnote 43: Floyd S. Muckey--"Vocal Terminology," _The Musician_, May, 1912, p. 337.] Let it be noted at the outset that such reforms as are advocated by the committee will never come into general use while the rank and file of teachers throughout the country merely _approve_ the reports so carefully compiled and submitted each year: these reforms will become effective only as individual teachers make up their minds that the end to be attained is worth the trouble of being careful to use only correct terminology every day for a month, or three months, or a year--whatever length of time may be necessary in order to get the new habits fixed in mind and muscle. The Terminology Committee was appointed by the Department of Music of the N.E.A. in 1906 and made its first report at Los Angeles in 1907. Since then the indefatigable chairman of the committee (Mr. Chas. I. Rice, of Worcester, Mass.) has contributed generously of both time and strength, and has by his annual reports to the Department set many of us to thinking along certain new lines, and has caused some of us at any rate to adopt in our own teaching certain changes of terminology which have enabled us to make our work more effective. In his first report Mr. Rice says: "Any one who has observed the teaching of school music in any considerable number of places in this country cannot fail to have remarked the great diversity of statement employed by different teachers regarding the facts which we are engaged in teaching, and the equal diversity of terminology used in teaching the symbols by which musicians seek to record these facts. To the teacher of exact sciences our picturesque use of the same term to describe two or more entirely different things never ceases to be a marvel.... Thoughtful men and women will become impressed with the untruthfulness of certain statements and little by little change their practice. Others will follow, influenced by example. The revolutionists will deride us for not moving faster while the conservatives will be suspicious of any change." At this meeting in Los Angeles a list of thirteen points was recommended by the committee and adopted by the Music Department. These points are given in the N.E.A. Volume of Proceedings for 1907, p. 875. Since 1907 the committee (consisting of Chas. I. Rice, P.C. Hayden, W.B. Kinnear, Leo R. Lewis, and Constance Barlow-Smith) have each year selected a number of topics for discussion, and have submitted valuable reports recommending the adoption of certain reforms. Some of the points recommended have usually been rejected by the Department, but many of them have been adopted and the reports of the committee have set many teachers thinking and have made us all more careful in the use and definition of common terms. A complete list of all points adopted by the Department since 1907 has been made by Mr. Rice for _School Music_, and this list is here reprinted from the January, 1913, number of that magazine. TERMINOLOGY ADOPTIONS, 1907-1910 1. _Tone:_ Specific name for a musical sound of definite pitch. Use neither _sound_, a general term, nor _note_, a term of notation. 2. _Interval:_ The pitch relation between _two_ tones. Not properly applicable to a single tone or scale degree. Example: "Sing the fifth tone of the scale." Not "sing the fifth interval of the scale." 3. _Key:_ Tones in relation to a tonic. Example: In the key of G. _Not_ in the scale of G. Scales, major and minor are composed of a definite selection from the many tones of the key, and all scales extend through at least one octave of pitch. The chromatic scale utilizes all the tones of a key within the octave. 4. _Natural:_ Not a suitable compound to use in naming pitches. Pitch names are either _simple_: B, or _compound_: B sharp, B double-sharp, B flat or B double-flat, and there is no pitch named "B natural." Example: Pitch B, _not_ "B natural." NOTE:--L.R.L. thinks that B natural should be the name when the notation suggests it. 5. _Step, Half-step:_ Terms of interval _measurement_. Avoid _tone_, _semi-tone_ or _half-tone_. Major second and minor second are interval _names_. Example: How large are the following intervals? (1) Major second, (2) minor second, (3) augmented prime. Answer: (1) a step, (2) a half-step, (3) a half-step. 6. _Chromatic:_ A tone of the key which is not a member of its diatonic scale. (N.B.) An accidental (a notation sign) is not a chromatic sign _unless_ it makes a staff-degree represent a chromatic tone. 7. _Major; Minor:_ Major and Minor keys having the same signature should be called relative major and minor. Major and minor keys having the same tonic, but different signatures, should be called tonic major and minor. Not "parallel" major or minor in either case. 8. _Staff:_ Five horizontal lines and their spaces. Staff _lines_ are named (numbered) upward in order, first to fifth. _Spaces:_ Space below, first-second-third-fourth-space, and space above[44]. (Six in all.) Additional short lines and their short spaces numbered outward both ways from the main staff, viz: line below, second space below. The boundary of the staff is always a space. [Footnote 44: NOTE:--Not "space below the staff" or "space above the staff."] 9. _G Clef, F Clef, C Clef:_ These clefs when placed upon the staff, give its degrees their first, or primary pitch meaning. Each makes the degree it occupies represent a pitch of its respective name. Example: The G clef makes the second line represent the pitch G. Avoid "_fixes G on_." The staff with clef in position represents only pitches having _simple_ or _one-word_ names, A, B, C, etc. 10. _Sharps, Flats:_ Given a staff with clef in position as in example above, sharps and flats make staff degrees upon which they are placed represent pitches a half-step higher or lower. These pitches have compound or two-word names. Example: The second line stands for the pitch G (simple name). Sharp the second line and it will stand for the pitch G sharp. (Compound name.) The third line stands for the pitch B. (Simple name.) Flat it, and the line will stand for the pitch B flat. (Compound name.) N.B. These signs do not "_raise_" or "_lower_" notes, tones, pitches, letters or staff degrees. 11. _Double-sharp, Double-flat:_ Given a staff with three or more degrees sharped in the signature, double-sharps are used (subject to the rules governing composition) to make certain of these degrees, already sharped, represent pitches one half-step higher yet. Similarly, when three or more degrees are flatted in the signature, double-flats are used to make certain degrees already flatted, represent pitches one half-step lower yet. Examples: To represent sharp 2 in the key of B major, double-sharp the C degree, or (equally good) double-sharp the third space (G clef). To represent flat 6 in the key of D flat major, double-flat the B degree, or (equally good) double flat the third line (G clef). _Do not say_: "Put a double-sharp on 6" or "put a double-sharp on C," or "_indicate"_ a higher or lower pitch "_on_" a sharped or flatted degree. 12. _Signature:_ Sharps or flats used as signatures affect the staff degrees they occupy and all octaves of the same. Example: With signature of four sharps, the first one affects the fifth line and the first space; the second, the third space; the third, the space above and the second line; the fourth, the fourth line and the space below. _Do not say_: "F and C are sharped," "ti is sharped," "B is flatted," "fa is flatted." "Sharpened" or "flattened" are undesirable. 13. _Brace:_ The two or more staffs containing parts to be sounded together; also the vertical line or bracket connecting such staffs. _Not_ "line" or "score." "Staff" is better than "line" for a single staff, and "score" is used meaning the book containing an entire work, as "vocal score," "orchestral score," "full score." 14. _Notes:_ Notes are characters designed to represent relative duration. When placed on staff-degrees they _indicate_ pitch. (Note the difference between "represent" and "indicate.") "Sing what the note calls for" means, sing a tone of the pitch represented by the staff degree occupied by the note-head. The answer to the question: "What is that note?" would be "half-note," "eighth-note" according to the denomination of the note in question, whether it was on or off the staff. 15. _Measure-sign:_ 4-4, 2-4, 6-8, are _measure-signs_. Avoid "time signatures," "meter-signatures," "the fraction," "time-marks." Example: What is the measure-sign? (C) Ans. A broken circle. What is its meaning? Ans. Four-quarter measure. (Not four-four time, four-four rhythm, four-four meter.) 16. _Note Placing:_ Place a quarter note on the fourth line. Not "put a quarter note on D." 17. _Beat-Pulse:_ A tone or rest occurs on a certain beat or pulse of a measure. Not on a certain _count_. 18. _Signature Terminology:_ The right hand sharp in the signature is on the staff degree that represents seven of the major scale. Not "always on 7 or ti." 19. _Signature Terminology:_ The right hand flat in the signature is on the staff degree that represents four of the major scale. Not "always on fa." 20. _Rote, Note, Syllable:_ Singing by rote means that the singer sings something learned by ear without regard to notes. Singing by note means that the singer is guided to the correct pitch by visible notes. Singing by syllable means that the singer sings the tones of a song or part to the sol-fa syllables instead of to words, neutral vowels or the hum. "Sing by note" is not correct if the direction means simply to sing the sol-fa syllables, whether in sight reading, rote singing, or memory work. "Sing by syllable" would be correct in each case. ADOPTIONS OF THE 1911 MEETING AT SAN FRANCISCO Arabic numerals, either 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9, or 12, placed on the staff directly after the signature and above the third line, show the number of beats in a measure. A note, either a quarter or a dotted quarter, placed in parenthesis under the numeral, represents the length of one beat and is called the beat-note. The numeral and the beat-note thus grouped constitute the measure-sign. Illustrative statements covering proper terminology: the tune "America" is written in three-quarter measure. The chorus: "How lovely are the Messengers" is written in two-dotted quarter measure. The above forms of statement were adopted at Denver in 1909, and are recommended for general use when speaking of music written with the conventional measure-signs, etc. In place of: "two-two time, three-eight time, four-four time," say as above: "This piece is written in two-half measure, three-eighth measure, four-quarter measure." MINOR SCALES _Primitive Minor (ascending)_ The minor scale form having minor sixth and minor seventh above tonic to be called Primitive Minor. Illustrative examples. A minor: a, b, c, d, e, f, g, a; C minor: c, d, e flat, f, g, a flat, b flat, c. [Transcriber's Note: Supplied b flat missing from original.] _Primitive Minor (descending)_ Same pitches in reverse order. _Harmonic Minor (ascending)_ The minor scale form having minor sixth and major seventh above tonic to be called Harmonic Minor. Illustrative examples. A minor: a, b, c, d, e, f, g sharp, a; C minor: c, d, e flat, f, g, a flat, b, c. _Harmonic Minor (descending_) Same pitches in reverse order. _Melodic Minor (ascending)_ The minor scale form having major sixth and major seventh above tonic to be called Melodic Minor. Illustrative examples. A minor: a, b, c, d, e, f sharp, g sharp, a; C minor: c, d, e flat, f, g, a, b, c. _Melodic Minor (descending)_ Same as the Primitive. ADOPTIONS OF THE 1912 MEETING AT CHICAGO _Pulse and Beat_ The Committee finds that the words: Pulse and Beat are in general use as synonymous terms, meaning one of the succession of throbs or impulses of which we are conscious when listening to music. Each of these pulses or beats has an exact point of beginning, a duration, and an exact point of ending, the latter coincident with the beginning of the next pulse or beat. When thus used, both words are terms of ear. _Beat_ One of these words, Beat, is also in universal use, meaning one of a series of physical motions by means of which a conductor holds his group of performers to a uniform movement. When thus used it becomes a term of eye. The conductor's baton, if it is to be authoritative, cannot wander about through the whole duration of the pulse but must move quickly to a point of comparative repose, remaining until just before the arrival of the next pulse when it again makes a rapid swing, finishing coincidently with the initial tone (or silence) of the new pulse. Thus it is practically the end of the conductor's beat that marks the beginning of the pulse. The Committee is of opinion that Beat might preferably be used as indicating the outward sign. _Beat-Note_ This term "beat-note" is already in use in another important connection (see Terminology Report, 1911) and the Committee recommends that those using the above terms shall say: "This note is an on-the-beat note; this one is an after-the-beat note; this one a before-the-beat note." DEFINITIONS _Matters of Ear_ Pulse: The unit of movement in music, one of a series of regularly recurring throbs or impulses. Measure: A group of pulses. Pulse-Group: Two or more tones grouped within the pulse. _Matters of Eye_ Beat: One of a series of conventional movements made by the conductor. This might include any unconventional motion which served to mark the movement of the music, whether made by conductor, performer or auditor. Beat-Note: A note of the denomination indicated by the measure-sign as the unit of note-value in a given measure. _Example_ Given the following measure-signs: 2-4, 2-2, 2-8, quarter, half, or eighth notes, respectively, are beat-notes. Beat-Group: A group of notes or notes and rests, of smaller denomination than the beat-note which represents a full beat from beginning to end and is equal in value to the beat-note. (A beat-group may begin with a rest.) On-the-Beat Note (or rest): Any note (or rest) ranging in value from a full beat down, which calls for musical action (or inaction) synchronously with the conductor's beat. After-the-Beat Note: Any note in a beat-group which indicates that a tone is to be sounded after the beginning, and before or at the middle of the pulse. Before-the-Beat Note: Any note in a beat-group which indicates that a tone is to be sounded after the middle of the pulse. To illustrate terminology and to differentiate between Pulse and Beat as terms, respectively of ear and eye, the following is submitted: Whenever a brief tone involves the musical idea of syncopation, it may be regarded as an after-the-pulse tone and the note that calls for it as an after-the-beat note; when it involves the idea of anticipation or preparation it may be regarded as a before-the-pulse tone, and the note that calls for it, as a before-the-beat note. _Measure and Meter_ "What is the measure-sign?" "What is the meter-signature?" These two words are used synonymously, and one of them is unnecessary. The Committee recommends that Measure be retained and used. Meter has its use in connection with hymns. * * * * * The author does not find it possible at present to agree with all the recommendations made in the above report, but the summary is printed in full for the sake of completeness. The Music Teacher's National Association has also interested itself mildly in the subject of terminology reform, and at its meeting in Washington, D.C., in 1908, Professor Waldo S. Pratt gave his address as president of the Association on the subject "System and Precision in Musical Speech." This address interested the members of the Association to such an extent that Professor Pratt was asked to act as a committee whose purpose it should be to look into the matter of reforms necessary in music terminology and report at a later session. In 1910 Professor Pratt read a report in which he advocated the idea of making some changes in music nomenclature, but took the ground that the subject is too comprehensive to be mastered in the short time that can be given to it by a committee, and that it is therefore impossible to recommend specific changes. He also took occasion to remark that one difficulty in the whole matter of terminology is that many terms and expressions are used _colloquially_ and that such use although usually not scientific, is often not distinctly harmful and is not of sufficient importance to cause undue excitement on the part of reformers. Quoting from the report at this point:--"A great deal of confusion is more apparent than real between _note_ and _tone_, between _step_ and _degree_, between _key_ and _tonality_. No practical harm is done by speaking of the _first note_ of a piece when really _first tone_ would be more accurate. To say that a piece is written _in the key of B[flat]_ is more convenient than to say that it is written in the _tonality of which B[flat] is the tonic_. The truth is that some of the niceties of expression upon which insistence is occasionally laid are merely fussy, not because they have not some sort of reason, but because they fail to take into account the practical difference between colloquial or off-hand speech and the diction of a scientific treatise. This is said without forgetting that colloquialism always needs watching and that some people form the habit of being careless or positively uncouth as if it were a mark of high artistic genius." Professor Pratt's report is thus seen to be philosophic rather than constructive, and terminology reform will undoubtedly make more immediate progress through the efforts of the N.E.A. Committee with its specific recommendations (even though these are sometimes admittedly _fussy_) than through the policy of the M.T.N.A. of waiting for some one to get time to take up the subject in a scholarly way. Nevertheless the philosophic view is sometimes badly needed, especially when the spirit of reform becomes too rabid and attaches too great importance to trifles. A judicious intermingling of the two committees in a series of joint meetings would undoubtedly result in mutual helpfulness, and possibly also in a more tangible and convincing statement of principles than has yet been formulated by either. APPENDIX E Sonata Op. 31, No. 3 by Beethoven Analysis by ARTHUR E. HEACOX, Oberlin Conservatory of Music First Subject 17 measures, E[flat] major, as follows: 8 meas. presentation, one meas. link, 8 meas. repetition oct. higher. Rhythmic elements are A, B, C, all presented in first 8 meas. [Transcriber's Note: The analysis is presented as notations on the musical score of the sonata. Please see the HTML version of this e-text to view the score with the notations and to listen to a MIDI version.] [Illustration: Sonata Op. 31, No. 3] INDEX eh = a as in face; ah = a as in far; ch = ch as in chair; final eh = e as in met. A (_ah_), 95 A battuta (_ah-baht-too'-tah_), 95 A capella (_cah-pel'-lah_), 76 A capriccio (_cah-pritch'-eo_), 54 Accelerando (_aht-cheh-leh-rahn'-do_), 54 Accented tones, 20 Accent marks, 20 Accent in measures, 44 Acciaccatura (_aht-cheea-cah-too'-ra_), 25, 26 Accidentals, 9 Accompagnamento (_ahc-com-pahn-yah-men'-to_), 95 Acoustics (_ah-kow'-stics_), def., 131 of auditoriums, 133 Adagietto (_ah-dah-jee-et'-to_), 50 Adagio (_ah-dah'-jee-o_), 50 À deux mains (_doo-mahng_), 42 Ad libitum, 54 Affrettando (_ahf-fret-tahn'-do_), 54 Agitato (_ah-jee-tah'-to_), 55 Agréments (_ah-greh-mahng_), 22 À la or alla (_ahl'-lah_), 42 Alla breve (_breh'-veh_), 95 Alla marcia (_mar'-chee-ah_), 95 Allargando (_ahl-lahr-gahn'-do_), 53 Alla zingara (_tseen-gah'-rah_), 95 Allegretto (_ahl-leh-gret'-to_), 51 Allegrissimo, 52 Allegro (_ahl-leh'-gro_), 50 Allegro agitato (_ah-jee-tah'-to_), 52 Allegro appassionata (_-ah'-tah_), 52 Allegro assai (_ahs-sah'-ee_), 52 Allegro commodo (_kom-mo'-do_), 52 Allegro con brio (_bree'-o_), 52 Allegro con fuoco (_foo-o'-ko_), 53 Allegro con moto (_mo'-to_), 53 Allegro con spirito (_spee'-ree-to_), 53 Allegro di bravura (_dee brah-voo'-rah_), 53 Allegro di molto (_mohl'-to_), 53 Allegro furioso (_foo-ree-o'-so_), 53 Allegro giusto (_jew-sto_), 53 Allegro ma grazioso (_mah grah-tsi-o'-so_), 53 Allegro (ma) non tanto (_tahn'-to_), 53 Allegro (ma) non troppo (_trop'-po_), 53 Allegro moderato (_mod-e-rah'-to_), 53 Allegro quasi andante (_quah-see ahn-dahn'-teh_), 53 Allegro vivace (_vee-vah'-cheh_), 53 Allemande (_al-mahnd_), 71 All'unisono (_oo-nee-so'-no_), 95 All'ottava (_ot-tah'-vah_), 15 Alt (_ahlt_), 95 Alto (_ahl-to_), 95 A mezza voce (_met'-zah-vo'-cheh_), 42 Amore (_ah-mo'-reh_), 42, 59 Andante (_ahn-dahn'-teh_), 50 Andante affettuoso (_ahf-fet-too-o'-so_), 52 Andante amabile (_ah-mah'-bee-leh_), 52 Andante cantabile (_cahn-tah'-bee-leh_), 52 Andante con moto (_mo'-to_), 52 Andante grazioso (_grah-tsi-o'-so_), 52 Andante maestoso (_mah-es-to'-so_), 52 Andante (ma) non troppo (_mah non trop'-po_), 52 Andante pastorale (_pahs-to-rah'-leh_), 52 Andante quasi allegro (_quah-see ahl-leh'-gro_), 52 Andante sostenuto (_sos-teh-noo'-to_), 52 Animando (_ah-nee-mahn'-do_), 55 Animato (_ah-nee-mah'-to_), 55 Animato come sopra (_co-meh so'-prah_), 55 Andantino (_ahn-dahn-tee'-no_), 50 Antecedent, 67 Anthem, 76 Anticipation, 93 Antiphony (_an-tif'-o-ny_), 95 Antithesis (_an-tith'-_), 67 A piacere (_pee-ah-cheh'-reh_), 54 Appoggiatura (_ap-pod-jea-too'-rah_), def., 25 À quatre mains (_kahtr-mahng_), 95 Arabesque, 95 Aria (_ah'-ree-ah_), 79 Arioso (_ah-ree-o'-so_), 95 Arpeggiando (_ar-ped-jee-ahn'-do_), 21 Arpeggiato (_-ah'-to_), 21 Arpeggiento (_-en'-to_), 21 Arpeggio (_ar-ped'-jee-o_), 21 Art-ballad, 80 Assai (_ahs-sah'-ee_), 42 A tempo, 54 A tempo primo (_pree'-mo_), 54 A tempo rubato (_roo-bah'-to_), 54 Attacca (_aht-tah'-kah_), 95 Attacca subito (_soo'-bee-to_), 95 Attacca subito il seguente (_eel seg-wen'-teh_), 95 Attack, 95 Bagpipe, 95 Ballad, 80 Band, 115 Bar, def. and use, 12 double, 12 Barcarole (_bar'-cah-rohl_), 95 Baritone, 95 Bass, 95 Bass clarinet, 121 Basso (_bahs'-so_), 95 Bassoon, 121 Bass staff, 6 Bass tuba, 125 Bass viol, 118 Ben (_behn_), 42 Ben marcato (_mahr-kah'-to_), 42 Berceuse (_behr-soos'_), 95 Binary form, 95 Binary measure, 95 Bis (_bees_), 96 Bolero (_bo-leh'-ro_), 71 Bourrée (_boo-reh'_), 71 Brace, 96 Brass instruments, 116 Brillante (_breel-ahn'-teh_), 55 Broken chord, 96 Broken octave, 96 Cacophony (_kak-of'-o-ny_), 96 Cadence, 89 Cadenza, 96 Calando (_kah-lahn'-do_), 59 Cancel, 3, 8 Cantabile (_kahn-tah'-bee-leh_), 96 Cantando (_kakn-tahn'-do_), 96 Canto (_kahn'-to_), 96 Cantus firmus, 64 Canon, 64 Cantata (_kahn-tah'-tah_), 77 Carol, 96 Catch, 96 C clef 3, 6 Cello (_chel'-lo_), 118 Chaconne (_shah-con'_), 71 Chamber music, 72 Chanterelle (_shong-tah-rel'_), 117 Chinese scale, 27 Choral, 76 Chords def. and lands, 87 inversions of, 88 common, 87 seventh, 89 dominant seventh, 92 Chromatic, 96 Chromatic scale, 38 Clarinet, 121 Classes of instruments in orchestra, 115 Clavichord, 96 Clefs, 3, 5 Close position, 94 Coda, 70 Coi (_co'-ee_), 42 Col, 42 Colla, 42 Colla parte (_par'-teh_), 96 Colla voce (_vo'-cheh_), 96 Colle, 42 Collo, 42 Coloratura singing, 79, 96 Coll'ottava (_ot-tah'-vah_), 15 Combination pedals, 115 Come (_koh'-meh_), 42 Come primo (_pree'-mo_), 42 Common chords, 87 Compound measure, 45 Compound duple measure, 45 Con, 42 Con alcuna licenza (_ahl-koo'-nah lee-chen'-tsah_), 59 Con amore (_ah-mo'-reh_), 42, 59 Con anima (_ah'-nee-mah_), 55 Con bravura (_brah-voo'-rah_), 59 Con celerita (_che-leh'-ree-tah_), 59 Concerto (_con-cher'-to_), 72 Concert pitch, 138 Con delicato (_deh-lee-cah'-to_), 59 Con energico (_en-er-jee'-ko_), 59 Con espressione (_es-pres-see-o'-neh_), 59 Con forza (_fort'-za_), 60 Con fuoco (_foo-o'-ko_), 60 Con grand' espressione (_grahnd' es-pres-see-o'-neh_), 60 Con grazia (_grahts-yah_), 60 Con melinconia (or malinconia) (_-leen-ko'-ne-eh_), 60 Con moto, 55 Con passione (_pas-se-o'-neh_), 60 Consequent, 67 Consonance, 96 Con spirito (_spe'-ree-to_), 60 Con tenerezza (_teh-neh-ret'-za_), 60 Continuous form, 80 Contra, 42 Contra bass tuba, 126 Contra octave, 16 Contralto, 96 Con variazione (_vah-ri-ah-tsi-o'-neh_), 96 Cornet, 124 Counterpoint, def., 64, 62, 82 Courante (_koo-rahnt'_), 71 Crescendo (_kre-shen'-do_), 57 Crescendo al fortissimo, 58 Crescendo ed affrettando (_ahf-fret-tahn'-do_), 58 Crescendo ed animando poco a poco (_ah-ni-mahn'-do_), 58 Crescendo e diminuendo (_eh de-me-noo-en'-do_), 58 Crescendo molto (_mohl'-to_), 58 Crescendo poco a poco, 58 Crescendo poco a poco sin al fine (_seen ahl fee'-neh_), 58 Crescendo poi diminuendo (_po'-ee dee-mee-noo-en'-do_), 58 Crescendo subito (_soo'-bee-to_), 58 Cross-stroke, 1, 2 Csardas (_tsar'-dahs_), 71 Da (_dah_), 42 Da capo (_kah'-po_), 13 Dal segno (_sehn'-yo_), 13 Dances, 71 Dash over note, 17, 20 Decrescendo (_deh-kreh-shen'-do_), 58 Decrescendo al pianissimo (_ahl pee-ahn-is'-si-mo_), 58 Degrees of staff, 5 Delicato (_deh-lee-kah'-to_), 60 Descriptive music, 74 Di (_dee_), 42 Diatonic condition, 7 Diatonic scale, 28 Di bravura (_brah-voo'-rah_), 42 Diminuendo (_dee-mee-noo-en'-do_), 58 Di molto (_mohl'-to_), 42 Direct, 96 Dirge, 97 Discord, 97 Dissonance (_dis'_), 97 Divisi (_di-ve'-ze_), 97 Dolce (_dohl'-cheh_), 60 Dolce e cantabile (_eh kahn-tah'-bee-leh_), 60 Dolcissimo (_dohl-chis'-see-mo_), 60 Dolente (_do-len'-teh_), 60 Dominant, 36 Dominant Seventh, 92 Doloroso (_do-lo-ro'-so_), 60 Doppio (_dop'-pee-o_), 42 Doppio movimento (_mo-vi-men'-to_), 55 Dot--where placed, 3 uses of, 17 with slur or tie, 20 with dash, 20 Double bar, 12 Double bass, 118 Double bassoon, 121 Double flat, 3, 7 Double mordent, 23 Double sharp, 3, 7 Doublet, 20 Duet, 97 Duple measure, 46 Dynamics, 56 E (_eh_), 42 École (_eh'-kole_), 97 Ed, 42 Eight-foot stop, 114 Elements of music, 82 Embellishments, 22 English names for notes, 11 English horn, 121 Enharmonic, def., 10 Enharmonic scale, 32 Enharmonic tie, 18 Ensemble (_ong-sombl_), 42 Equal temperament, 137 E poi la coda (_eh-po'-ee_), 14 Espressivo (_ehs-pres-see'-vo_), 60 Et, 42 Etto, 42 Etude, 97 Euphony (_yu'-fo-ny_), 97 Even measure, 46 Facile (_fah-chee'-leh_), 97 Fanfare (_fahn'-fehr_), 97 Fantasia (_fahn-tah-ze'-ah_), 97 F Clef, 3, 5, 6 Fermata (_fehr-mah'-ta_), 14, 15 Fiasco (_fe-ahs'-ko_), 97 Figured bass, 89 Fine (_fee'-neh_), 13 Five-lined octave, 16 Flat, 3, 7 Flute, 119 Folk-song, 81 Form, def., 62 binary, 95 Forte (_for'-teh_), 56 Forte piano (_pee-ah'-no_), 56 Forte possibile (_pos-see'-bee-leh_), 43 Fortissimo, 56 Fortissimo possibile (_pos-see-bee-leh_), 56 Fortisissimo, 56 Forzando (_for-tsahn'-do_), 57 Forzato (_for-tsah'-to_), 57 Four-foot stop, 114 Four-lined octave, 16 Free imitation, 64 French horn, 123 French pitch designations, 6 Fugue, 66 Fundamental, 135 Gamut (_gam'-ut_), 97 Gavotte (_gah-vot'_), 71 G Clef, 3, 5, 6 General pause, 15 German pitch designation, 6 Gigue (_zheeg_), 71 Giocoso (_jee-o-ko'-so_), 60 Giojoso (_jee-o-yo'-so_), 60 Glee, 81 Glissando (_glis-sahn'-do_), 97 Graces, 22 Grandioso (_grahn-dee-o'-so_), 60 Grand sonata, 74 Grave (_grah'-veh_), 50 Grazioso (_grah-tsi-o'-so_), 60 Great octave, 16 Great staff, 5 Grosse pause (_gros-seh pah-oo'-za_) or (_gros-seh pow-zeh_), 15 Gruppetto (_groo-pet'-to_), 22 Habanera (_hah-bah-neh'-rah_), 71 Half-step, 83 Harmonic minor scale, 33 Harmonics, 136 Harmonics on violin, 117 Harmony, 82 Harp, 129 Harpsichord, 97 Head of note, 1 Hold, 15 Homophonic style, 63 Hook, 1 Humoresque (_hoo-mo-resk'_), 97 Hymn to St. John, 37 Idyl, 97 Il (_eel_), 42 Il basso (_bahs'-so_), 42 Il più (_pee'-oo_), 42 Il più forte possibile (_pos-see'-bee-leh_), 42 Imitation, 64 Imperfect trill, 23 In alt (_in ahlt_), 97 In altissimo (_ahl-tis'-si-mo_), 97 Ino (_ee'-no_), 42 Instrumentation, 97 Instruments, classification of, 112 Intensity of tones, 135 Interlude, 97 Intermediate tones, 38 see "Chromatic," p. 96 International pitch, 138 Interval, def., 83 enharmonic, 10 harmonic, 83 melodic, 83 names of, 83 Inversion, in thematic development, 69 Inversions of chords, 88 Inverted mordent, 23 Inverted turn, 25 Issimo, 42 Kettle-drum, 126 Key, def., 28 signature, 8 enharmonic keys, 10 key-tone, 27, 28 how different from scale, 28 L, 42 La (_lah_), 42 Lacrimando (_lah-kri-mahn'-do_), 60 Lacrimoso (_lah-kri-mo'-so_), 60 Largamente (_lar-gah-men'-teh_), 42 Largando (_lar-gahn'-do_), 53 Larghetto (_lar-get'-to_), 50 Largo, 50 Largo assai (_ahs-sah'-ee_), 52 Largo di molto (_de mohl'-to_), 52 Largo ma non troppo (_mah non trop'-po_), 52 Largo un poco (_oon po'-co_), 52 Le (_leh_), 42 Leading tone, 33, 36 Legato (_leh-gah'-to_), 18, 60 Leger lines, 5 Leggierissimo (_led-jah-ris'-si-mo_), 60 Leggiero (_led-jee'-ro_), 60 Lentando (_len-tahn'-do_), 52 Lentemente (_len-tah-men'-teh_), 52 Lentissimamente (_-men'-teh_), 52 Lentissamente (_-men'-teh_), 52 Lento, 50 Lento a capriccio (_ah-cah-preet'-chee-o_), 52 Lento assai (_ahs-sah'-ee_), 52 Lento di molto (_de mohl'-to_), 52 Libretto (_lee-bret'-to_), 78 Lied (_leed_), 80 L'istesso tempo (_lis-tes'-so_), 42, 55 Loco, 15, 97 Long appoggiatura (_ap-pod-jea-too'-rah_), 25 Lower tetrachord, 29 Lunga pausa (_loong-ah pow'-zeh_) or (_loon-gah pah-oo'-za_), 15 Lunga trillo, 97 Lusingando (_loos-in-gahn'-do_), 60 Lyric, 98 Madrigal (_mad'-ri-gal_), 81 Maesta (_mah'-es-tah_), 60 Maestoso (_mah-es-to'-so_), 60 Maggiore (_mahd-jo'-reh_), 98 Main droite (_mahng droa_), 20 Main gauche (_mahng gowsh_), 20 Major key, 8 Major scale, def., 29 positions, 30 origin of name, 33 Mancando (_mahn-kahn'-do_), 59 Mano destra (_mah'-no dehs'-trah_), 20 Mano sinistra (_si-nees'-trah_), 20 Marcato il canto (_mar-kah'-to eel kahn'-to_), 98 Martellando (_mar-tel-lahn'-do_), 59 Martellato (_mar-tel-lah'-to_), 59 Marziale (_mart-se-ah'-leh_), 59 Mass, 77 Mazurka (_mah-zoor'-ka_), 71 Measure, def., 44 how differs from "bar," 12 how differs from "rhythm," 44 syncopation in, 44 simple and compound, 45 duple or even, 46 triple or perfect, 46 quadruple, 46 sextuple, 46 compound duple, 46 signature, 48 binary, 95 Mediant, 36 Mellifluous (_mel-lif'-loo-us_), 98 Melodic minor scales, 34 Melody, 82 Melos (_meh'-los_), 98 Meno (_meh'-no_), 42 Meno mosso (_mos'-so_), 53 Mente (_men'-teh_), 42 Menuet (_meh-noo-eh'_), 98 Menuetto (_meh-noo-et'-to_), 98 Messa di voce (_mes'-sa dee vo'-cheh_), 21 Mesto (_mehs'-to_), 60 Metronome, 49 Mezza (_med'-zah_), 42 Mezzo (_med'-zo_), 42 Mezzo forte (_for'-teh_), 42, 56 Mezzo piano (_pe-ah'-no_), 56 Mezzo soprano (_so-prah'-no_), 98 Mezzo voce (_vo'-cheh_), 60 Minor key, 8 Minore (_me-no'-reh_), 98 Minor scale, def., 33 positions, 34 Minuet, 71 Misterioso (_mis-teh-ri-o'-so_), 60 Moderato (_mod-e-rah'-to_), 51 Modulation, def., 92 enharmonic, 10 Molto (_mohl'-to_), 42 Molto crescendo (_kre-shen'-do_), 42 Monophonic style, 63, 67 Mordent, 22, 23 Morendo (_mo-ren'-do_), 59 Moriente (_mo-ri-en'-teh_), 59 Motet (_mo-tet'_), 76 Movable C Clef, 6 Mute, 117 Natural, 3, 8 Natural condition of staff-degrees, 8 Nel, 42 Nel battere (_baht-teh'-reh_), 42 Nella, 42 Neumae (_neoo'-mee_), 104 Nocturne, 98 Non (_non_), 42 Non tanto (_tahn'-to_), 42 Non tanto allegro (_ahl-leh'-gro_), 53 Non troppo allegro (_trop'-po_), 53 Notation, history of music, 101 Notes, def., 10 kinds of, 11 English names for, 11 dotted, 17 staccato, 17 irregular note-groups, 19 parts of, 1 how made, 1 Nuance (_noo-angs_), 98 Obbligato (_ob-blee-gah'-to_), 98 Oboe (_o'-bo_), 121 Octave, def., 36 Octaves, names of, 16 Offertory, 98 One-lined octave, 16 Open position, 94 Opera, 78 Opus, 98 Oratorio, 77 Orchestra, 115 Orchestration, 98 Organ, reed, 113 pipe, 114 point, 98 Original minor scale, 33 Origin of scale, 28 Ossia (_os'-see-ah_), 42, 98 Ossia più facile (_pe-oo' fah-chee'-leh_), 42 Overtones, 136 Overture, 98 Parlando (_par-lahn'-do_), 60 Part song, 81 Pastorale (_pas-to-rah'-leh_), 60 Pedal point, 93 Pentatonic scale, 27 Per (_pehr_), 42 Percussion instruments, 116 Perdendo (_pehr-den'-do_), 59 Perdendosi (_pehr-den-do'-see_), 59 Perfect measure, 46 Perfect trill, 23 Per il violino (_eel ve-o-le'-no_), 42 Period, 67 Pesante (_peh-sahn'-teh_), 55 Peu (_peuh_), 42 Phrase, 67 Phrase mark, 18 Pianissimo (_pee-ahn-is'-si-mo_), 56 Pianissimo possibile (_pos-see'-bee'-leh_), 56 Pianisissimo (_pee-ahn-is-is'-si-mo_), 56 Piano (_pee-ah'-no_), 56 Piano assai (_ahs-sah'-ee_), 56 Piano, description of, 112 Piccolo (_pik'-ko-lo_), 119 Pipe organ, 114 Pitch, def., 134 pitch names, 6 standards of, 137 concert pitch, 138 international pitch, 138 Più (_pe-oo'_), 42 Più allegro (_ahl-leh'-gro_), 54 Più forte (for'-teh), 42 Più lento, 53 Più mosso (_mos'-so_), 54 Più tosto (_tos'-to_), 54 Pizzicato (_pits-e-kah'-to_), 99, 117 Pochetto (_po-ket'-to_), see ino, 42 Poco, 43 Poco a poco animando (_ah-nee-mahn'-do_), 54 Poi (_po' ee_), 42 Polacca (_po-lahk'-kah_), 99 Polka, 69 Polonaise (_pol-o-nez'_), 71, 99 Polyphonic style, 64 Pomposo (_pom-po'-so_), 60 Portamento (_por'-tah-men'-to_), 20 Position, open and close, 94 Possibile (_pos-see'-bee-leh_), 43 Postlude, 99 Prall trill, 22 Precipitoso (_preh-che-pi-to'-so_), 60 Prelude, 99 Prestissimo (_pres-tis'-see-mo_), 51 Prestissimo possibile (_pos-see'-bee-leh_), 51 Presto, 51 Presto assai (_ahs-sah'-ee_), 53 Presto (ma) non troppo (_mah non trop'-po_), 53 Prière (_pre-ehr'_), 99 Primary forms, 68 Primitive minor scale, 33 Program music, 74 Pure music, 74 Pure scale, 40 Quadruple measure, 46 Quality, 136 Quartet, 72 Quasi (_quah'-see_), 43 Quintole (_kwin'-to-leh_), 99 Quintolet, 20 Quintuplet, 20, 99 Raised sixth, 34 Rallentando (_rahl-len-tahn'-do_), 53 Rapidamente (_rah-pid-a-men'-teh_), 55 Rate of speed, of sound, 132 Recitative (_res-i-tah-teev'_), 78 Recitativo (_reh-chee-ta-tee'-vo_), 60 Reed organ, 113 Relative minor, 8, 35 Religioso (_reh-lee-jo'-so_), 99 Repetition and contrast, 62, 70 Requiem (_re'-kwi-em_), 99 Rests, def., 10 rules for making, 2 kinds of, 11 peculiar use of, 11 several measures of, 14 Retardation, 93 Rhapsody, 99 Rhythm, def., 82 element of music, 82 how differs from "measure," 44 correct use of word, 48 Rhythmic augmentation, 69 Rhythmic diminution, 69 Rhythmic figures, 44 Ribattuta (_re-baht-too'-tah_), 99 Rigaudon (_rig'-o-don_), 71 Rinforzando (_rin-for-tsahn'-do_), 57 Rinforzato (_rin-for-tsah'-to_), 57 Risoluto (_ree-so-loo'-to_), 60 Ritardando (_ree-tar-dahn'-do_), 53 Ritenente (_ree-ten-en'-teh_), 53 Ritenuto (_ree-ten-oo'-to_), 53 Ritornelle (_ree-tor-nell'_), 99 Ritornello (_ree-tor-nel'-lo_), 99 Rondo, 70, 71 Rules: For writing music, 1, 2 For turning stems, 1, 2 For altered staff degrees, 10 For embellishments, 22-26 For repeats, 13, 14 For writing chromatic scale, 38 Sans (_sahng_), 43 Sans pedales (_peh-da-leh_), 43 Sarabande (_sar-ah-bahn'-deh_), 71 Sarrusophone (_sar-reoos-o-fohn'_), 123 Saxhorn, p. 125 (footnote) Saxophone, 121 Scales, def., 27 origin, 28 how different from keys, 28 positions of: major, 30 minor, 34 chromatic, 38 tones of, called, 5, 36, 37 Chinese, 27 Scotch, 27 Scherzando (_skehr-tsahn'-do_), 60 Scherzo (_skehr'-tso_), 71, 72 Scherzoso (_skehr-tzo'-so_), 60 School-round, 66 Schottische (_shot'-tish_), 99 Score, 99 Scotch scale, 27 Sec (_sek_), 99 Secco (_sek'-ko_), 99 Section, 67 Segue (_sehg'-weh_), 14 Semplice (_sem-plee'-cheh_), 60 Sempre (_sem'-preh_), 43 Sempre forte (_for'-teh_), 43 Sempre lento malinconico assai (_mah-leen-ko'-ni-ko ahs-sah'-ee_), 55 Sempre marcatissimo (_mar-kah-tis'-si-mo_), 60 Sentimento (_sen-tee-men'-to_), 60 Senza (_sen-tza_), 42 Senza accompagnamento (_ahc-com-pahn-yah-men'-toh_), 42 Senza repetizione (_reh-peh-titz-e-o'-neh_), 14, 99 Senza replica (_reh'-ple-kah_), 99 Septimole, 20 Septolet, 20 Sequence, 91 Serenade, 99 Serenata (_seh-re-nah'-tah_), 99 Seventh chord, 89 Sextet, 99 Sextolet, 20 Sextuple measure, 46 Sextuplet, 20, 100 Sforzando (_sfortz-ahn'-do_), 57 Sforzato (_sfortz-ah'-to_), 57 Shake, 22 Sharp, 3, 7 Short appoggiatura (_ap-pod-jea-too-rah_), 25 Simile (_see'-mee-leh_), 14, 100 Similiter (_see-mil'-i-ter_), 100 Simple measure, 45 Simple tone, 137 Sin (_seen_), 43 Sin al fine (_ahl-fee'-neh_), 14 Sino (_see'-no_), 43 Sixteen-foot stop, 114 Sixty-four-foot stop, 114 Slentando (_slen-tahn'-do_), 53 Slur, 18 Small octave, 16 Smorzando (_smor-tzahn'-do_), 59 Solenne (_so-len'-neh_), 59 Solfège (_sul-fezh'_), 100 Solfeggio (_sol-fed'-jo_), 100 Solmization, 100 Solo, 43 Sonata (_so-nah'-tah_), 71 Sonata allegro (_ahl-leh'-gro_), 73 Sonata form, 73 Sonatina (_so-na-tee'-nah_), 74 Song form, 68 Sopra (_so'-prah_), 100 Soprano (_so-prah'-no_), 100 Sordino (_sor-dee'-no_), 117 Sostenuto (_sos-teh-noo'-to_), 100 Sotto (_sot'-to_), 100 Sotto voce (_vo'-cheh_), 59 Sound, App. C, 131 Production of, 131 Transmission of, 131 Rate of travel of, 131 Intensification of, 133 Reflection of, 133 Classification of, 133 Spiritoso (_spee-ree-to'-so_), 60 Staccatissimo (_stahk-kah-tis'-si-mo_), 17 Staccato (_stahk-kah'-to_), 17, 20, 100 Staff, 5 Staff degrees, 5 Standards of pitch, 137 Stems, 1 Step, half and whole, 83 Strepitoso (_streh-pee-to'-so_), 61 Stretto (_stret'-to_), 54 Strict imitation, 64 Stringed instruments, 115 Stringendo (_strin-jen'-do_), 54 Stroking notes, 2 Strophe form (_stro'-feh_), 80 Styles, kinds of, 63 how differ from forms, 62 Sub, 43 Sub-dominant, 36 Subject, 64 Subito (_soo-bee'-to_), 100 Sub-mediant, 36 Sub-octave, 16 Suite (_sweet_), 70 Super-dominant, 36 Super-tonic, 36 Suspension, 92 Swell-box, 114 Syllables for sight-singing, 37 Symphonic poem, 75 Symphony, def., 73 Syncopation, 44 Tail of note, 1 Takt pausa (_tahkt pow'-zeh_ or _pah-oo'-za_), 11 Tanto (_tahn'-to_), 43 Tarantella (_tah-rahn-tel'-lah_), 71 Tempered scales, 137 Tempo, 48-50 Tempo commodo (_ko-mo'-do_), 55 Tempo di marcia (_de mar'-chee-ah_), 55 Tempo di menuetto (_meh-noo-et'-to_), 55 Tempo di valso (_vahl'-so_), 55 Tempo giusto (_jew-sto_), 54 Tempo ordinario (_or-dee-nah'-ree-o_), 55 Tempo primo (_pree'-mo_), 54 Tempo rubato (_roo-bah'-to_), 54 Tenor, 100 Tenuto (_teh-noo'-to_), 55, 100 Terminology Reforms, App. D., p. 139 Tetrachords in scales, 29 Thematic development, 69 Theme, 69 Theme and variations, 69 Thesis, 67 Thirty-two-foot stop, 114 Thorough-bass, 89 Three-lined octave, 16 Through-composed form, 80 Tie, 18 Timbre (_tambr_), 82 Time, wrong uses of word, 48 Toccata (_tok-kah'-tah_), 100 Tonality scale, 27, 28, 38 Tone, how represented, 10 ornamental tone, 22 key-tone, 27 of resolution, 93 Tone-poem, 75 Tonic, 36 Tonic minor, 36 Tranquillo (_trahn-quil'-lo_), 61 Transposition, 94 Tre (_treh_), 43 Treble staff, 6 Tre corde (_kor'-deh_), 43, 59 Très (_treh_), 43 Très lentement (_lahng-te-mahng_), 52 Très vivement (_ve'-veh-mahng_), 42 Triad, def., 87, 88 Trill, 22 Trio, 72 Triple measure, 46 Triplet, 19, 100 Tristamente (_tris-tah-men'-teh_), 61 Trombone, 125 Troppo (_trop'-po_), 43 Trumpet, 124 Tuba, 125 Turn, 24, 25 Tutte le corde (_toot'-teh leh kor'-deh_), 59 Tutti (_toot'-tee_), 100 Two-foot stop, 114 Two-lined octave, 16 Un (_oon_), 43 Una (_oo'-nah_), 43 Una corda, 43, 59 Uno (_oo'-no_), 43 Un peu (_oon peuh_), 43 Un peu crescendo (_kre-shen'-do_), 43 Un poco animate (_ah-ni-mah-'to_), 54 Untempered scale, 40 Upper partials, 136 Upper tetrachord, 29 Veloce (_veh-lo'-cheh_), 55 Viola (_vee-o'-lah_), 117 Violin, 117 Violoncello (_vee-o-lohn-chel'-lo_), 118 Vivo (_vee'-vo_), 51 Vivace (_vee-vah'-cheh_), 51 Vivacissimo (_vee-vah-chis'-see-mo_), 51 Vocal music, 76 Volante (_vo-lahn'-teh_), 55 Waltz, 68 Whole-step, 83 Whole-step scale, 28, 40 Wood-wind instruments, 115 
19880	----	VOICE PRODUCTION IN SINGING AND SPEAKING BASED ON SCIENTIFIC PRINCIPLES BY WESLEY MILLS, M.A., M.D., F.R.S.C. EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF PHYSIOLOGY IN McGILL UNIVERSITY, AND LECTURER ON VOCAL PHYSIOLOGY AND HYGIENE IN THE McGILL UNIVERSITY CONSERVATORIUM OF MUSIC, MONTREAL, CANADA _FOURTH EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED_ [Illustration: publisher logo] PHILADELPHIA & LONDON J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY The Rights of Translation and all other Rights Reserved COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY Electrotyped and Printed by J.B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A. [Transcriber's Notes: In this e-text, illustrations of music notation have been rendered using standard text notation, e.g.: C = C two octaves below middle C; c = C one octave below middle C; c' = middle C; c'' = C one octave above middle C, etc. Macrons are indicated thus: [=a], [=e], [=i], [=o], [=u].] [Illustration: Illustrations of the appearance of the larynx during phonation in two special cases. (Grünwald.)] EXPLANATION OF THE COLORED ILLUSTRATIONS. They contrast with each other in that the one (upper) is too red; the other, too pale. The upper represents appearances such as one gets with the laryngoscope when the subject has a very severe cold, or even inflammation of the larynx, including the central vocal bands. In this particular case, a young woman of twenty-five years of age, there was inflammation with a certain amount of weakness of the internal thyro-arytenoid muscles. Speaking was almost impossible, and such voice as was produced was of a very rough character. In the lower illustration we have the appearances presented in a man affected with tuberculosis of the lungs and larynx. The pallor of the larynx is characteristic. There is weakness of the internal thyro-arytenoid muscle on the right side, which results in imperfect tension of the vocal band on that side, so that the voice is uncertain and harsh. Such illustrations are introduced to impress the normal by contrast. The reader is strongly advised to compare these figures with others in the body of the work, especially those of Chapter VII. PREFACE TO THE FOURTH REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION. In addition to certain emendations, etc., introduced throughout the work, I have thought it well to add a chapter in which the whole subject is treated in a broad and comprehensive way in the light of the latest scientific knowledge. In this review the psychological aspects of the subject have not been neglected, and the whole has been related to practice to as great an extent as the character of the book permits. It is significant that on both sides of the Atlantic there is a growing conviction that the foundations for speaking and singing as an art must be made as scientific as the state of our knowledge will permit. THE AUTHOR. January, 1913. PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. No preface to the Second Edition was written, so few were the changes that were made in the work, and the same might apply to this Third Edition. However, the fact that within a period of less than two years, a Second English and a Third American Edition have been called for, seems to the Author to be so conclusive an endorsement of the application of science to vocal art, that he may be entitled at least to express his gratification at the progress the cause, to which he has devoted his pen, is making. It would seem that the better portion at least of that public that is interested in the progress of vocal art has made up its mind that the time has come when sense and science must replace tradition and empiricism. THE AUTHOR. MONTREAL, September, 1908. PREFACE. The present work is based on a life study of the voice, and has grown out of the conviction that all teaching and learning in voice-culture, whether for the purposes of singing or speaking, should as far as possible rest on a scientific foundation. The author, believing that practice and principles have been too much separated, has endeavored to combine them in this book. His purpose has not been to write an exhaustive work on vocal physiology, with references at every step to the views of various authors; rather has he tried always to keep in mind the real needs of the practical voice-user, and to give him a sure foundation for the principles that must underlie sound practice. A perusal of the first chapter of the work will give the reader a clearer idea of the author's purpose as briefly expressed above. The writer bespeaks an unprejudiced hearing, being convinced that in art as in all else there is but one ultimate court of appeal: to the scientific, the demonstrable--to what lies at the very foundations of human nature. In conclusion, the author desires to thank those publishers and authors who have kindly permitted the use of their illustrations. THE AUTHOR. MCGILL UNIVERSITY, Montreal, October, 1906. TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE CLAIMS AND IMPORTANCE OF VOCAL PHYSIOLOGY. Science and art--The engineer, architect, physician, nurse, and others, compared with the vocal teacher and learner--Unfavorable tendencies--The old masters--The great elocutionists--Causes of failure--The lack of an adequate technique--Correct methods are physiological--Summary of the advantages of teaching and learning based on scientific principles--Illustrations of the application of physiological principles to actual cases--The evils from which speakers and singers suffer owing to wrong methods--Speaking and singing based on the same principles--Relation of hygiene to physiology 17 CHAPTER II. GENERAL PHYSIOLOGICAL PRINCIPLES. Relations of animals to each other--Common properties of living matter--Explanation of these--The mammal and man--The stimulus and its results--The one-celled animal--Various "systems"necessary--Complexity of structure and function--Harmony through the nervous system--The rule of nervous centres--Means by which they are influenced, and by which they influence--Reflex action--Muscular mechanisms and neuro-muscular mechanisms--Work of the singer and speaker largely reflex in character--Summary 34 CHAPTER III. BREATHING CONSIDERED THEORETICALLY AND PRACTICALLY. Breathing the great essential--Misconceptions--Purpose of breathing as a vital process--The respiratory organs--Their nature--Relations of the lungs to the chest-wall--Expansion of the chest--Its diameters--The muscles of respiration--Personal observation--The diaphragm--Varying quantities of air breathed--Breathing when properly carried out by the singer or speaker is healthful 44 CHAPTER IV. BREATHING FURTHER CONSIDERED THEORETICALLY AND PRACTICALLY. Relations of the nervous system to breathing--The respiratory centre--Reflex action in breathing--Methods of preventing nervousness--Tones produced by the outgoing breath--Waste of breath--The happy combination for good singing or speaking 57 CHAPTER V. BREATHING WITH SPECIAL REGARD TO PRACTICAL CONSIDERATIONS. The well-developed chest--The voice-user a kind of athlete--The tremolo--Exercises recommended for the development of the chest--Forms of dress that hamper breathing--Weighing and measuring, re-measurement, etc.--Specific directions for methods to develop the chest--Warnings--Additional exercises--Breathing through the nose and through the mouth--Exercises for the development of the diaphragm and abdominal muscles--Relation of the diaphragm to the staccato effect--Forms of general exercise for the voice-user--Summary 62 CHAPTER VI. THE SPECIAL VOICE-PRODUCING MECHANISM, THE LARYNX. Not the only voice-producing apparatus--Specific structures of the larynx in use when the subject phonates--Muscles and their attachments--The cartilages of the larynx--The lining mucous membrane--Changes in it when one has a "cold"--The vocal bands--Functions of the epiglottis--The "middle line" and relative position of parts--Adam's apple--Ventricle of the larynx--The importance of the arytenoid cartilages--Muscles of the larynx in detail--Sphincter action--Straining--Position of the larynx--Practical considerations--Dissection of a "pluck" and especially of the larynx--Hygiene--How disorder of one part may affect another--Summary 74 CHAPTER VII. SOUND--THE LARYNGOSCOPE--THE LARYNX RECONSIDERED. Some study of physics desirable--Sound and vibrations--The sounding body--Experiments to illustrate the principles of sound--Qualities of sound--Animals and perception of sound--The range of hearing in man--The larynx as a musical instrument--Experiments of Johannes Müller--Discovery of the laryngoscope by Garcia--Description of the instrument--Method of using the laryngoscope--The difficulties--Auto-laryngoscopy--The importance of both laryngoscopy and auto-laryngoscopy--Change in size of the larynx due to use--Delicate changes in the laryngeal mechanism--Changes in the larynx during adolescence--Warnings--The "breaking" of the voice--Analogies with fatigue, etc.--When should singing be begun?--Singing with others--Choral singing 97 CHAPTER VIII. FURTHER CONSIDERATION OF BREATHING, LARYNGEAL ADJUSTMENT, ETC. Various kinds of breathing, as "abdominal," "clavicular," etc., discussed--Control of the whole of the breathing mechanism urged--Correct breathing as a habit--Breathing in the most vigorous speaking and singing--Different views expressed by a diagram--Economy of energy in art--Reserve energy in breathing--"Pumping"--_Coup de glotte_--"Attack"--Breath-adjustment--Quality of sound the prime consideration in tone-production--Tremolo and other faults--Tests of good breathing--Mouth-breathing--Exercises--Singing of a single tone--Its relation to scale-singing--Summary and review 118 CHAPTER IX. THE RESONANCE-CHAMBERS. Vocal bands and resonance-chambers compared--Improvised mechanism to illustrate resonance--Musical instruments as resonance-bodies--A vowel in relation to the resonance-chambers--Description of the resonance-chambers--How the quality of tones may be made to vary--New views as to the sounding-chambers--Summary 140 CHAPTER X. THE REGISTERS OF THE SINGING VOICE. A controverted subject--Definitions of a register--Qualifications for dealing with this subject--Madame Seiler--Tabular statement of her views--Garcia's and Behnke's divisions of registers--Sir Morell Mackenzie's views in detail--The author's earlier investigations--Madame Marchesi's views and practice 151 CHAPTER XI. FURTHER CONSIDERATION OF THE REGISTERS OF THE SINGING VOICE. Auto-laryngoscopy and photography of the larynx--Dogmatism and science--Confusion and controversy--The break--Ignoring registers--Modification of tones, or "covering"--Points of agreement between different writers on the subject--The falsetto for males--Madame Seiler's special qualifications--Behnke's and Mackenzie's views--The author's conclusions--Rule for the extension of a register--Why certain artists deteriorate while others do not---Males and females compared as to registers--The division of the registers for female voices recommended by the author--Teacher and pupil as regards registers--Objection to registers answered--The manner of using the breath and registers--How to distinguish registers--The teacher's part--Hearing singers of eminence is recommended--Madame Melba--Guiding sensations--Summary 161 CHAPTER XII. FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES UNDERLYING VOICE-PRODUCTION. Artistic expression only through movements--Emotions and technique--Relation of ideas to movements--Memories and movements--Guiding sensations essential for movements--The principles underlying all movements the same--Associated reflexes and habits--How habits are formed--inhibitions and their importance--Early practices only before the teacher--Careful practice with concentration of energy the best--Queries as to practice--Fatigue a warning--Practice in the early hours of the day, and short of fatigue--Quality to be aimed at rather than quantity--The total amount of time to be devoted to practice--"Hasten slowly;" "Little and often"--The treatment of the voice ruined by wrong methods--Summary 179 CHAPTER XIII. CHIEFLY AN APPLICATION TO VOICE-PRODUCTION OF FACTS AND PRINCIPLES PREVIOUSLY CONSIDERED. Vowels, consonants, noise--Consonants and pauses--Voice-production and vowels--Certain vowel sounds common to most languages--Why German and English are relatively unmusical--The needs of the musical artist--The mechanism required for the production of a vowel sound--Reconsideration of the resonance-chambers--The larynx to be steadied but not held rigidly immovable--The principal modifiers of the shape of the mouth-cavity--Breath to be taken through the mouth--The lips--Tongue and lip practice before a mirror--Importance of the connection between the ear and the mouth parts, etc--"Open mouth"--The mouth in singing a descending scale--Undue opening of the mouth--Proper method of opening the mouth--Causes of compression and the consequences 195 CHAPTER XIV. SOME SPECIFIC APPLICATIONS OF PRINCIPLES IN TONE-PRODUCTION. Principles and their expression in a few exercises--Analysis of the methods of tone-production--The sustained tone--Smoothly linked tones--The legato--The staccato and kindred effects--The mechanisms concerned--Perfection requires years of careful practice--The bel canto and the swell--The same exercises for singer and speaker--"Forward," "backward," etc., production--Escape of breath--The action of the soft palate--When to use "forward" and when "backward" production--Voice-placement--Nasal resonance, not nasal twang--Summary 207 CHAPTER XV. THE ELEMENTS OF SPEECH AND SONG. The subject may be made dry or the reverse--Vowels, consonants, noise--The position of the lips and the shape of the mouth-cavity in sounding the various vowels--How to demonstrate that the mouth-cavity is a resonance-chamber--Practical considerations growing out of the above--Speaker, vocalist, and composer--Bearing of these facts on the learning of languages--Consonants as musical nuisances--Their great variation in pitch--Brücke's division of consonants--Tabulation of the same 218 CHAPTER XVI. FURTHER THEORETICAL AND PRACTICAL CONSIDERATION OF VOWELS AND CONSONANTS. The best vowel to use in practice--Necessary to practise all--The guttural _r_ and the lingual _r_--Consonants that favor nasality of tone--Overtones and fundamental tones--Relation of intensity and quality--The carrying power of a tone--Unusual distinctness in practice as related to ease--The registers of the speaking voice according to Madame Seiler--The range in speaking--Summary 230 CHAPTER XVII. THE HEARING APPARATUS AND HEARING IN MUSIC. Why this chapter is introduced--The essential mechanism of hearing--The part played by waves and vibrations--Divisions of the ear--The external ear in lower animals--The drum-head or tympanic membrane--The middle ear and its connections--Relation of the throat and the ear--The inner ear or labyrinth--The end-organ and its relations--The connection of the ear and various parts of the brain--The musician's ear--Relation of music and hearing--Lack of ear and inattention--The artist and the musician--The ear and the speaking voice--General musical training in relation to intonation, etc--The appreciation of music, and training to that end--The art of listening with close attention--Summary 236 CHAPTER XVIII. CONSIDERATION OF GENERAL AND SPECIAL HYGIENE AND RELATED SUBJECTS. Hygienic as related to physiological principles--Hygiene in the widest sense--Unfavorable conditions in the public life of an artist--Qualifications for success--Technique and a public career--The isolation of the artist and its dangers--The need for greater preparation now than ever--Choral singing and its possible dangers--The tendencies of the Wagner music-drama--Special faults, as the "scoop," "_vibrato_," "_tremolo_," "pumping"--Desirability of consultations by teachers of the use of the voice--Things the voice-user should avoid--Mouth-toilets--Lozenges--The sipping of water--What one should and should not eat--Tea and Coffee--The whole subject of congestion from compression, straining, etc., of the utmost importance--A sore throat when frequent should give rise to inquiry as to methods--Constipation--Exercise--Bathing 251 CHAPTER XIX. FURTHER TREATMENT OF PHYSICAL AND MENTAL HYGIENE. Stammering and stuttering--Those who have broken down--The increase of the range of a voice--The part the student plays in settling such questions--Selections to be avoided--Conservation of energy--Change and contrast--The voice as related to the building in which it is produced--The listener and pauses--Nervousness, and how to ward it off--General conclusion 268 CHAPTER XX. REVIEW AND REVISION. The object of the speaker or singer--The idea of co-ordination--The study of vocalization may be considered a study of movements--The psychic condition--The instrument which is played upon--How is this instrument played upon?--Vibration of the air--Breathing--The aim of all training--The whole subject of breathing--Breathing exercises--The resonance chambers--The formation of vowels--Muscular efforts for the production of consonants--The pronunciation of words--General health of great importance 276 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. FIG. PAGE Appearance of the larynx during phonation in two special cases (in colors) _Frontispiece_ 1. Muscle-fibres from the heart, much magnified 34 2. Small portion of muscle, moderately magnified 34 3. Muscle-cells from coats of intestine 35 4. Body of a nerve-cell of the spinal cord 38 5. Large nerve-cell from spinal cord of an ox 38 6. Cell from the cortex cerebri 38-39 7. Nerve terminating in a muscle 38-39 8. Muscle-fibres with capillaries around and between them 39 9. Parts of the respiratory apparatus 44 10. Trachea and bronchial tubes 45 11. Heart, lungs, and diaphragm 45 12. Diagram showing changes in shape of chest during inspiration 49 13. Diagram showing depression of the diaphragm during inspiration 50 14. Position of diaphragm, abdominal walls, etc., during expiration 55 15. Diagram illustrating reflex action 58 16. A well-developed, healthy chest 62 17. A chest deformed by corsets 62 18. Normal position of diaphragm and vital organs 63 19. Vital organs misplaced by compression of the chest 63 20. Thyroid and cricoid cartilages, side view 76 21. Thyroid and cricoid cartilages, front view 76 22. Back surface of cricoid cartilage 77 23. Cricoid cartilage, side view. 77 24. Arytenoid cartilages 77 25. A view of the larynx from behind 78 26. Epiglottis, thyroid and cricoid cartilages, etc. 78-79 27. Hyoid bone, crico-thyroid muscle, etc. 78-79 28. Posterior view of the larynx 79 29. Diagram showing relation of parts to the thyroid cartilage 80 30. Diagram showing the action of crico-thyroid muscle 82 31. View of larynx from above 83 32. Transverse section of larynx 83 33. False and true vocal bands, etc. 86 34. Inner surface of the larynx 87 35. Diagram to show the action of the laryngeal muscles 96 36. Registering the vibrations of a tuning-fork 100 37. Illustrating the transmission of vibrations 101 38. Illustrating the theory and practice of laryngoscopic examination 104 39. Illustrating the practice of laryngoscopic examination 106 40. Laryngoscopic picture of male larynx 112 41. Laryngoscopic picture of female larynx 112 42. Larynx during an attack of a common "cold" 113 43. The vocal bands as seen with laryngoscope during deep inspiration 113 44. Diagram showing form of chest and abdomen in forced abdominal breathing 122 45. The vocal bands during the production of a high-pitched tone 138 46. Water being poured into a tube until the remaining air-space becomes a resonator of a tuning-fork 142 47. Soft palate, fauces, and tonsils 142-143 48. Nares and soft palate, from behind 142-143 49. Turbinated bones of the nose 143 50. Madame Seiler's division of the registers 155 51. Appearance of the vocal bands when sounding first E and then F sharp 164 52. Diagram to show the nature of registers and breaks 166 53. Diagram of the processes involved in singing 186 54. Highly magnified diagramatic representation of a section through the superficial part of the great brain 188 55. Nerve-cell from the outer rind of the great brain, much magnified 189 56. Position of parts in sounding the vowel A 219 57. Position of the parts in sounding I 220 58. Position of the parts in sounding OU 222 59. Position of the parts in sounding T, K, F, R, N, and P 227 60. Vertical section of the auditory apparatus 237 61. Diagram of the auditory apparatus 238 62. Two of the ear-bones (malleus and incus), enlarged 239 63. The complete chain of auditory ossicles 240 VOICE PRODUCTION CHAPTER I. THE CLAIMS AND IMPORTANCE OF VOCAL PHYSIOLOGY. To know consciously and to do with special reference to guiding principles are to be distinguished from carrying out some process without bearing in mind the why or wherefore. Science is exact and related knowledge, facts bound together by principles. Art is execution, doing, and has not necessarily any conscious reference to principles. While every art has its corresponding science, their relation is in some cases of much greater practical importance than in others. While a painter may be the better for knowing the laws of light, there can be no question that he may do very good work without any knowledge whatever of the science of optics. He is at least in no danger of injuring any part of his person. Entirely otherwise is it with the voice-user. He employs a delicate and easily injured vital apparatus. His results depend on the most accurate adjustment of certain neuro-muscular mechanisms, and one might suppose that it would be obvious to all who are concerned with this art that a knowledge of the structure and functions of these delicate arrangements of Nature would be at least of great if not of essential importance. The engineer knows the structure and uses of each part of his engine, and does not trust to unintelligent observation of the mere working of mechanisms which others have constructed. The architect studies not only the principles of design, etc., but also the nature and relative value of materials. In his own way he is a kind of anatomist and physiologist. We do not trust the care of our bodies to those who have picked up a few methods of treatment by experience or the imitation of others. The doctor must have, we all believe, a knowledge of the structure and working of the animal body; he must understand the action of drugs and other healing agents. We expect him not only to diagnose the disease--to tell us exactly what is the matter--but also to be able to predict with, some degree of certainty the course of the malady. Even the nurse of the day must show some grasp of the principles underlying her art. In connection with all the largest and best equipped universities in America there are officials to plan and direct the courses in physical culture. This matter is no longer entrusted to a "trainer," who has only his experience and observation to rely upon. It is realized that the building up of the mechanism which they are supposed to train in an intelligent manner rests upon well-established principles. It would be just as reasonable for an engineer to point to the fact that his engine works well, as evidence of his ability, as for the teacher of voice-production to make the same claim in regard to the vocal mechanism. In each case there is a certain amount of justification for the claim, but such teaching cannot be called scientific. Is it even enlightened? It is just as rational to follow in medicine methods that seem to lead to good results, without any reference to the reason why, as to train for results in speaking and singing by methods which have for the student and teacher no conscious basis in scientific knowledge. The physician to-day who treats disease without reference to anatomy and physiology is, at best, but a sort of respectable charlatan. Why should students and teachers of voice-production be content to remain, in the advanced present, where they were hundreds of years ago? Indeed, there is much more reason now than formerly why the vocalist, speaker, and teacher should have a theoretical and practical knowledge of the structure and workings of the mechanism employed. Many tendencies of the present day work against successful voice-training--worst of all, perhaps, the spirit of haste, the desire to reach ends by short cuts, the aim to substitute tricky for straightforward vocalization, and much more which I shall refer to again and again. They hurt this cause; and I am deeply impressed with the conviction that, if we are to attain the best results in singing and speaking, we must betake ourselves in practice to the methods in vogue at a time which may be justly characterized as the golden age of voice-production. We have advanced, musically, in many respects since the days of the old Italian masters, but just as we must turn to the Greeks to learn what constitutes the highest and best in sculpture, so must we sit at the feet of these old masters. Consciously or unconsciously they taught on sound physiological principles, and they insisted on the voice-training absolutely necessary to the attainment of the best art. However talented any individual may be, he can only produce the best results as a singer, actor, or speaker, when the mechanisms by which he hopes to influence his listeners are adequately trained. Why do we look in vain to-day for elocutionists such as Vandenhoff, Bell, and others? Why are there not actors with the voices of Garrick, Kean, Kemble, or Mrs. Siddons, or singers with the vocal powers of a score of celebrities of a former time? It is not that voices are rarer, or talent less widely bestowed by nature. It is because _we do not to-day pursue right methods for a sufficient length of time_; because our methods rest frequently on a foundation less physiological, and therefore less sound. Take a single instance, breath-control. In this alone singers to-day are far behind those of the old Italian period, not always because they do not know how to breathe, but because often they are unwilling to give the time necessary for the full development of adequate breathing power and control. There was probably never a time when so much attention was paid to the interpretation of music, yet the results are often unsatisfactory because of inadequate technique. People seem to hope to impress us, on the stage, with voices that from a technical point of view are crude and undeveloped, and accordingly lack beauty and expressiveness. Speakers to-day have often every qualification except voice--a voice that can arrest attention, charm with its music, or carry conviction by the adequate expression of the idea or emotion intended. Is it not strange that a student of the piano or violin is willing to devote perhaps ten years to the study of the technique of his instrument, while the voice-user expects to succeed with a period of vocal practice extending over a year or two, possibly even only a few months? When the anatomy and physiology of the larynx are considered, it will be seen that the muscular mechanisms concerned in voice-production are of a delicacy unequalled anywhere in the body except possibly in the eye and the ear. And when it is further considered that these elaborate and sensitive mechanisms of the larynx are of little use except when adequately put into action by the breath-stream, which again involves hosts of other muscular movements, and the whole in relation to the parts of the vocal apparatus above the larynx, the mouth, nose, etc., it becomes clear that only long, patient, and _intelligent_ study will lead to the highest results. It should also be remembered that such an apparatus can easily acquire habits which may last for life, for good or ill, artistically considered. Such delicate mechanisms can also be easily injured or hopelessly ruined; and, as a matter of fact, this is being done daily. A great musical periodical has made the statement that thousands of voices are being ruined annually, in America alone, by incompetent teaching. My experience when a practising laryngologist made me acquainted with the extent of the ruin that may be brought about by incorrect methods of using the voice, both as regards the throat and the voice itself; and contact with teachers and students has so impressed me with the importance of placing voice-production on a sound foundation, not only artistic but physiological, that I have felt constrained to tell others who may be willing to hear me what I have learned as to correct methods, with some reference also to wrong ones, though the latter are so numerous that I shall not be able to find the space to deal at length with them. The correct methods of singing and speaking are always, of necessity, physiological. Others may satisfy a vitiated or undeveloped public taste, but what is artistically sound is also physiological. None have ever sung with more ease than those taught by the correct methods of the old Italian masters; as none run so easily as the wisely trained athlete, and none endure so well. People in singing and speaking will, as in other cases, get what they work for, but have no right to expect to sing or speak effectively by inspiration, any more than the athlete to win a race because he is born naturally fleet of foot or with a quick intelligence. In each case the ideas are converted into performance, the results attained, by the exercise of neuro-muscular mechanisms. I am most anxious that it shall be perceived that this is the case, that the same laws apply to voice-production as to running or any other exercise. The difference is one of delicacy and complexity so far as the body is concerned. It will be understood that I speak only of the technique. For art there must be more than technique, but there is no art without good methods of execution, which constitute technique. The latter is nothing more than method--manner of performance. Behind these methods of performance, or the simplest part of them, there must be some idea. The more intelligent the student, speaker or singer, as to his art and generally, the better for the teacher who instructs scientifically, though such intelligence is largely lost to the teacher who depends on tradition and pure imitation. In the present work I shall be so concerned with the physical that I shall be able only to refer briefly to the part that intelligence and feeling play in the result. The qualifications for the successful treatment of vocal physiology--that is, such a discussion of the subject as shall lead to a clear comprehension of the nature of the principles involved, and place them on a practical foundation, make them at once usable in actual study and in teaching--such qualifications are many, and, in their totality and in an adequate degree, difficult to attain. After more than twenty years of the best study I could give to this subject in both a theoretical and a practical manner, I feel that I have something to say which may be useful to a large class, and, so far as I know, that is my reason for writing this book. For myself music is indispensable. The one instrument we all possess is a voice-mechanism. I am one of those who regret that so little attention is paid, especially in America, to pleasing and expressive use of the voice in ordinary conversation. Yet how much pleasure cannot a beautiful speaking voice convey! The college undergraduate rarely finds vocal study among the requirements, in spite of the fact that the voice is an instrument that he will use much more than the pen. The truth is, the home methods of voice-production are those we are most likely to carry with us through life, and, unfortunately, little attention is given to the subject. Sometimes a love of sweet sounds may be a hidden cause for much that would otherwise be inexplicable in an entire career, as in my own case. It led to an early study of singers and actors and their performances; it gave rise to an effort to form a voice that would meet the requirements of an unusually sensitive ear; it led to the practice and teaching of elocution, and, later, to much communion with voice-users, both singers and speakers. In the meantime came medical practice, with speedy specialization as a laryngologist, when there were daily consultations with singers and speakers who had employed wrong methods of voice-production; this again led on to the scientific investigation of voice problems, with a view of settling certain disputed points; then came renewed and deeper study of music, both as an art and as a science, with a profound interest in the study of the philosophy of musical art and the psychological study of the musical artist, all culminating in this attempt to help those who will listen to me without prejudice. I do not think I know all that is to be known, but I believe I do know how to form and preserve the voice according to physiological principles; I at least ask the reader to give my teachings and recommendations a fair trial. He shall have reasons for what is presented and recommended to him. Once more let it be said that I do not deny that good practical results may follow teaching that is not put before the pupil as physiology; but what is claimed for physiological teaching is that-- 1. It is more rational. The student sees that things must be thus and so, and not otherwise. 2. Faults can be the better recognized and explained. 3. The student can the more surely guide his own development, and meet the stress and storm that sooner or later come to every professional voice-user. 4. Injured voices can be the more effectively restored. 5. The physical welfare of the student is advanced--a matter which I find is often neglected by teachers of music, though more so in the case of instrumental than vocal teachers. 6. The student can much more effectively learn from the performances of others, because he sees that singing and speaking are physical processes leading to artistic ends. This is perhaps one of the most valuable results, and I can testify to the greater readiness with which analysis of a performance can be made after even moderate advancement. The teacher who is wise will encourage the student to hear those who excel, and to analyze the methods which successful artists employ. The student can much more readily accomplish this than detect the mental movements of the artist, though the two really go hand in hand to a large extent. The above are some of the advantages, but by no means all, of a method of study of voice-production which I must claim is the only rational one--certainly, the only one that rests on a scientific foundation. It does not follow that such study, to be scientific, shall be made repellent by the use of technical terms the significance of which the reader is left to guess at, but finds unexplained. I fear such treatment of vocal physiology has brought it into disrepute. The aim of the writer will be to give a clear scientific treatment of the subject, which shall not be obscured by unexplained technical terms, and which shall be _practical_--capable of immediate use by student and teacher. If he did not believe the latter possible he would not think it worth while to attempt the former, especially as this has often been done before, he regrets to say, badly enough. Although the author has not now the tune to give regular lessons in voice-production, he is frequently consulted, especially when abroad, during his vacations, by speakers and especially singers who are anxious to learn how they may increase their efficiency in the profession by which they earn their livelihood and make their reputation; and the reader may be gratified to learn how, in such cases, the writer applies the principles he so strongly recommends to others. Let two or three illustrations suffice: 1. A tenor of world renown consulted him in regard to the position of the larynx in singing, as he had a suspicion that his practice was not correct, inasmuch as his voice seemed to be deteriorating to some extent. The answer to his question need not be given here, as this subject is discussed adequately in a later chapter. 2. The second was the case of a young lady, an amateur singer, who was anxious to know why she failed to get satisfactory results. The author heard her in a large room, without any accompaniment (to cover up defects, etc.), and standing at first at some distance from her, then nearer. Her tones were delightfully pure and beautiful, but her performance suggested rather the sound of some instrument than singing in the proper sense. It was impossible to learn the ideas to be imparted, as the words could not be distinctly made out; there was a monotony in the whole performance, though, it must be confessed, a beautiful monotony, and there was a total lack of that vigor and sureness that both educated and uneducated listeners must be made to feel, or there results a sense of dissatisfaction, if not even irritation. The beauty of tone was owing to a production that was to a certain extent sound, and this explained why the voice carried well in spite of its being small. This young lady was well educated, had heard much good music, possessed a sensitive ear and a fine æsthetic taste, and, perhaps most important of all, in this case at least, was able to think for herself. She was very slight of body, with an ill-developed chest, and, from her appearance, could not have enjoyed robust health. It was at once evident that this was an admirable case by which to test the views advocated. Accordingly, the author addressed the young lady as follows: "Your voice is beautiful in quality, and carries well; you observe the registers properly; but your vocalization is feeble, and your singing is ineffective. This is due largely to the lack of robustness in your voice, but not wholly. You do not tell your story in song so that the listener may know what you have to say to him. The imperfections in your method of speaking, so common in America--an imperfect articulation and a limp texture of voice--are evident in your singing; you do not phrase well, and you paint all in one color. This is due chiefly to your breathing and your attacks. One may observe that at no time do you fill your chest completely. You use the lower chest and the diaphragm correctly, but you rob yourself of one half of your breathing power, and your chest is not at all well developed. You do not use the parts above your voice-box with vigor and efficiency, and you direct so much attention to the quality of the tone that you neglect its quantity and the ideas to be expressed. You have been correctly but inadequately instructed. Your teachers have evidently understood registers practically, as few do, but they have only half taught you breathing and attack. Their fidelity to that high ideal of quality of tone as the final consideration wins my respect." The writer thought, but did not say, that they must have understood little of vocal physiology, or they would not have left this young lady so ill-developed physically, at least so far as the chest is concerned. I then asked this earnest and intelligent student, as she proved to be, to take a full breath. She did not understand this, and was absolutely incapable of doing it. She had been taught to begin breathing below, to expand from the lower chest upward, and, as a natural result, she never filled the upper chest. She was at once shown how it was done, when she seemed greatly surprised, and said: "I never have done that in my whole life." "Did you not run and shout as a child?" "No, I never did run enough or shout enough to fill up my chest." The latter was small, and flat. The method of attack was next explained and illustrated, first without reference to words, and then to show its importance in conveying ideas, and the causes of the defects in speaking were indicated, and the corrections named and illustrated. The lady was then asked to sing again, making the improvements suggested, with the result that it was clear that every principle set forth had been clearly apprehended, though of course as yet only imperfectly carried out. The student was recommended to take walking exercise, and to practice filling the chest in the manner to be explained later. After six weeks she again asked to be heard. The change effected was wonderful; she was another type of vocalist now. Without any loss in quality her voice had a volume and intensity that made it adequate for singing in at least a small hall; her attacks were good, though not perfect; and at the end of a very large room it could easily be seen that her chest was, when necessary, filled full, so that she was able to produce a large and prolonged tone. But, best of all, her health had greatly improved, and she had gained in size and weight. It is but fair to point out that, in the present case, the student was an unusually intelligent and thoughtful person. Had it been otherwise, more consultations would have been necessary, with probably many detailed instructions and much practice before the teacher. But the case sufficed to convince me afresh that only physiological teaching meets the needs of pupil and teacher. I do not claim, of course, that it is a panacea. It will not supply the lack of a musical ear or an artistic temperament. Vocalization does not make an artist, but there can be no artist without sound vocalization. All the author's experience as a laryngologist tended to convince him that most of those evils from which speakers and singers suffer, whatever the part of the vocal mechanism affected, arise from faulty methods of voice-production, or excess in the use of methods in themselves correct. A showman may have a correct method of voice-production--indeed, the writer has often studied the showman with admiration--but if he speak for hours in the open air in all sorts of weather, a disordered throat is but the natural consequence; and the Wagnerian singer who will shout instead of sing must not expect to retain a voice of musical quality, if, indeed, he retain one at all. Throughout this work it will be assumed that the speaker and the singer should employ essentially the same vocal methods. The singer should be a good speaker, even a good elocutionist, and the speaker should be able to produce tones equal in beauty, power, and expressiveness to those of the singer, but, of course, within a more limited range, and less prolonged, as a rule. To each alike is voice-training essential, if artistic results are to follow; neither rhetorical training on the one hand nor musical training on the other will alone suffice. So that it may be clear that the same physiological principles apply to the vocal mechanism as to all others in the body, a short chapter dealing with this subject is introduced, before taking up the structure and functions of any part of that apparatus by which the speaker or singer produces his results as a specialist. The laws of health known as hygiene follow so naturally on those of physiology that brief references to this subject, from time to time, with a chapter at the end of the work bearing specially on the life of the voice-user, will probably suffice. CHAPTER II. GENERAL AND PHYSIOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS. The principle that knowledge consists in a perception of relations will now be applied to the structure and functions or uses of the different parts of the body. The demonstration that all animals, even all living things, have certain properties or functions in common is one of the great results of modern science. Man no longer can be rightly viewed apart from other animals. In many respects he is in no wise superior to them. The most desirable course to pursue is to learn wherein animals resemble and wherein they differ, without dwelling at great length on the question of relative superiority or inferiority. It may be unhesitatingly asserted that all animals live, move, and have their being, in every essential respect, in the same way. Whether one considers those creatures of microscopic size living in stagnant ponds, or man himself, it is found that certain qualities characterize them all. That minute mass of jelly-like substance known as protoplasm, constituting the one-celled animal amoeba, may be described as _ingestive_, _digestive_, _secretory_, _excretory_, _assimilative_, _respiratory_, _irritable_, _contractile_, and _reproductive_: that is to say, the amoeba must take in food; must digest it, or change its form; must produce some fluid within itself which acts on food; must cast out from itself what is no longer of any use; must convert the digested material into its own substance--perhaps the most wonderful property of living things; must take up into its own substance oxygen, and expel carbonic acid gas (carbon dioxide); and possess the power to respond to a stimulus, or cause of change, the property of changing form, and, finally, the ability to bring into being others like itself. [Illustration: FIG. 1. Muscle-fibres from the heart, much magnified, showing cross-stripings, nuclei, or the darkly stained central bodies very important to the life of the cell, also the divisions and points of union. (Schäfer's _Histology_.)] [Illustration: FIG. 2. Appearance of a small portion of muscle under a moderate magnification. Between the muscle-cells proper a form of binding tissue may be seen.] [Illustration: FIG. 3. Muscle-cells isolated from the muscular coats of the intestine. Similar cells are found in some part of most of the internal organs, including the bronchial tubes. These cells are less ready in responding to a stimulus, contract more slowly, and tend to remain longer contracted when they pass into this condition than striped muscle cells. (Schäfer.)] Before justifying these statements in detail it will be desirable to say something of the anatomy or structure of a mammal, and we may select man himself, though it is to be remembered that one might apply exactly the same treatment to a dog, pig, mouse, or any other member of this group of animals. The amoeba and creatures like it live immersed in water; man, at the bottom of an ocean of air. Both move in their own medium, the amoeba creeping with extreme slowness, man moving with a speed incalculably greater. In each case the movements are determined by some cause from without which is termed by physiologists a _stimulus_. The slightest movement of the thin cover-glass placed over the drop of water in which an amoeba is immersed, on a microscopic slide, suffices to act as a stimulus, and serves much the same purpose as an electric shock to the muscles of a man. In man an elaborate apparatus exists for the process known as respiration, but in this and in all other cases the mechanism is composed of what is known technically as _cells_, the latter being the units of structure, the individual bricks of the building, so to speak; and just as any edifice is made up of individual pieces some of which differ from one another while others do not to any appreciable extent, so is it with the body. The individual cells of a muscle are alike in structure and function, but they differ widely from those of a gland or secreting organ, as the liver. But it is to be ever remembered that the statements with which we set out hold: that is, that however cells may differ, they have in all animals certain properties in common. Of the muscle-cell, the liver-cell, and the one-celled animal we may affirm the same properties, but the difference is that while all are secretory the liver-cell is eminently so, and produces bile, which other cells do not; that while it is but feebly contractile, or susceptible of change of form, the muscle-cell is characterized by this property above all others. The lower we descend in the animal scale the more simple are the mechanisms by which results are attained. The one-celled animal may be said to breathe with its whole body, while the man employs a large number of muscles, not to speak, at present, of other arrangements. But when a muscle is examined under the microscope, it is found to consist of cells, each one of which is physiologically in all essentials like an amoeba, so that we may say that a muscle or other tissue or organ is really a sort of colony of cells of similar structure and function, all working in harmony like a happy family. We actually do find colonies of unicellular animals much like amoeba, so that the muscle-cells and all other cells of the body may be compared to amoeba and other one-celled animals. But while in such unicellular creatures all functions are properties of the individual cell, among higher forms _systems_ take the place of the protoplasm of the single cell. There is a circulatory system, a respiratory system, etc.; but we must once more point out that such systems are made up of cells, so that every function of the highest animal may be finally reduced to what takes place in the unicellular animal. A circulatory system consists of a heart and blood-vessels, all filled with blood, which latter is "the life," as was known from the earliest times; yet this same blood is of no more use for the nourishment of the body while it is contained in those tubes which constitute the blood-vessels than is bread locked up in a pantry to a hungry boy. That which really provides the nutriment for the body is a fluid derived from the blood, a something like the liquid part of blood and known as _lymph_. This latter is to the cells of any tissue, as a muscle, as is the water filled with the food on which an amoeba lives. In like manner, in spite of the complicated apparatus which supplies oxygen and removes carbon dioxide, the respiratory system, respiration is finally the work of the cell, as in amoeba; a muscle-cell respires exactly as does the one-celled animal. When we consider the marvellous complexity of structure of one of the higher animals, and the amazing variety of its functions, the question naturally arises as to how all this is brought about without any sort of clashing of the interests of one part with those of another. Why is it that the stomach has enough and not too much blood? By what means has Nature solved the problem of supplying more oxygen to parts in action than to those at rest? How is it that one set of muscles acts with instead of antagonizing another set, as in any complicated series of movements, such as walking? To bring about this harmonization, or _co-ordination_, the nervous system has been provided. As the nervous and muscular systems are of preëminent importance in voice-production, they will now be considered with more detail than it is necessary to give to other systems. Complicated as is the nervous system, modern advances in the sciences of anatomy and physiology have made the comprehension of the subject easier. It is now known that the nervous system, in spite of its wide ramifications, is also made up of cells which are structurally and functionally related to each other, and make connection with every part of the whole community, the body. A nerve-cell, or _neurone_, may be very complicated in its structure because of its many branches or extensions from the main body of the cell. [Illustration: FIG. 4. Body of a nerve-cell of the spinal cord, specially stained so as to show the minute structure. (Schäfer's _Histology_.)] [Illustration: FIG. 5. A large nerve-cell from the spinal cord of the ox, magnified 175 diameters. (Schäfer.)] [Illustration: FIG. 6. A cell of another form, from the superficial or outer part of the greater brain (cortex cerebri). The great amount of branching is suggestive of the power to receive and to transmit nervous influences (impulses) from various other cells; in other words, complexity of structure suggests a corresponding complexity of function.] [Illustration: FIG. 7. Representation of the manner in which a nerve is seen to terminate in a muscle, such ending being one form of "nerve-ending" termed a "muscle plate." It tends to emphasize the close relationship existing between muscle and nerve, and to justify the expression "neuro-muscular mechanism," the nervous system being as important for movements as the muscles. (Schäfer's _Histology_.)] [Illustration: FIG. 8. Three muscle-fibres lying beside each other, with the small blood-vessels (capillaries) around and between them. Such are the appearances presented under the microscope by skeletal or striped muscles such as those of the larynx. (Schäfer.)] It may be said, in general terms, that the nervous _centres_, the brain and the spinal cord, which are parts of one anatomical whole, are characterized by the presence of the cell-bodies as well as their extensions, while nerves consist only of the extensions or arms of the cell-bodies. The nerve-cell whose body is in the top of the brain may have an extension or arm which may reach practically to the end of the spinal cord, and there make communication with another cell whose arm, in turn, may reach as far as the toe. Such nerve arms or extensions constitute the _nerve-fibres_, and bundles of these _nerves_, or _nerve-trunks_. Usually nerve-fibres make connection with the cells of an organ by a special modification of structure known as a _nerve-ending_. A nervous message or influence (_nerve-impulse_) may pass either to the centre--_i.e._, toward a cell-body--or from it; in other words, a nervous impulse may originate in the centre or in some organ more or less distant from it; a nervous impulse may be _central_ or _peripheral_. Nearly all central impulses, we now know, arise because of the peripheral ones. One may illustrate this important relation by a telegraph system. The message a railroad operator sends out--_e.g._, that which determines whether a train is to be held at a certain station or sent on--might depend wholly on information received from another office. The extra flow of blood to the stomach when food enters it is owing to such a relation of things. The food acts as a stimulus to the ends of the nerve-fibres, and, in consequence, there is an ingoing (_afferent_) message or impulse, and, by reason of this, an outgoing (_efferent_) one to the muscle-cells of the small blood-vessels, owing to which they contract less strongly and the calibre of these vessels is increased; hence more blood reaches the smallest vessels of all (_capillaries_.) Such a physiological relation of things is termed _reflex action_. For such reflex action there are required structurally at least two neurones or nerve-cells, and functionally a stimulus of a certain strength and quality. Of course, if more blood passes to the stomach there must be less somewhere else, as the total volume of the blood is limited. The value of the knowledge of such a fact is obvious. It must be unwise to exercise vigorously immediately after meals, for this determines blood to the muscles which would serve a better purpose in the digestive organs. For a like reason the singer who would do his best before the public will refrain from taking a large meal before appearing. As this subject of reflex action is of the highest importance, the reader is advised to make himself thoroughly familiar with the principles involved before perusing the future chapters of this work. Fig. 16 shows the structural relations for reflex action. It also indicates how such nervous relations may be complicated by other connections of the nerve-cells involved in the reflex action. It will be seen that they make many upward connections with the brain, in consequence of which consciousness may be involved. Ordinarily one is more or less conscious of reflex action, though the will is not involved; in fact, a willed or voluntary action is usually considered the reverse of a reflex or involuntary action. But for a reflex action the brain is not essential. As is well known, a snake's hinder part will move in response to a touch when completely severed from the head end; and movements of considerable complexity can be evoked in a headless frog. Herein, then, lies the solution of the problem. This is Nature's way of bringing one part into harmonious relations with another. As by a telegraphic system the most distant parts of a vast railway system may be brought into harmonious working, so is it with the body by means of the nervous system. The nerve-centres correspond to the heads of the railway system, or, perhaps more correctly, to the various officials resident in some large city who from this centre regulate the affairs of the whole line. The muscular system is made up of cells of two kinds, those characteristic of the muscles used in ordinary movements, and those employed for the movements of the internal organs. The muscles of the limbs are made up of striped muscle-cells; those of the stomach, etc., of unstriped cells. These latter are slower to act when stimulated, contract more slowly, and cease to function more tardily when the stimulus is withdrawn. The muscular mechanisms used by the singer and speaker are of the skeletal variety. If it be true that the welfare of one part of the body is bound up with that of every other, as are the interests of one member of a firm with those of another, in a great business, it will at once appear that the most perfect results can follow for the voice-user only under certain conditions. However perfect by nature the vocal mechanism, the result in any case must be largely determined by the character of the body as a whole. The man of fine physique generally has naturally more to hope for than one with an ill-developed body. In the natural working of the body the stimulus to a muscle is nervous; hence we may appropriately, and often to advantage, speak of _neuro-muscular_ mechanism, the nervous element being as important as the muscular. In a later chapter it will be shown that the work of the singer and speaker when most successfully carried out must be largely reflex in nature--a fact on which hang weighty considerations with regard to many questions, among them methods of practice, the influence of example, etc.--be he ever so much the natural artist. It will be the writer's aim, however, to give such warnings and advice as may assist each reader in his own best development. Many who began with a comparatively poor physical stock in trade have surpassed the self-satisfied ones who trusted too much to what nature gave them. Singers as well as others would do well to believe that _Labor omnia vincit_. SUMMARY. The same fundamental physiological principles apply to the lowest and to the highest animals. To all belong certain properties or qualities. As structure is differentiated, or as one animal differs from another owing to greater or less complexity of form, there is a corresponding differentiation of function, none, however, ever losing the fundamental properties of protoplasm. Each organ comes to perform some one function better than all others. This is specialization, and implies advance among animals as it does in civilization. The neuro-muscular system is of great moment to the voice-user. He is a specialist as regards the neuro-muscular systems of the vocal mechanism. But the same laws apply to it as to other neuro-muscular mechanisms. It is of great theoretical and practical importance to recognize this, and that one part of the body is related to every other, which relationship is maintained chiefly by the nervous system, and largely through reflex action. CHAPTER III. BREATHING CONSIDERED THEORETICALLY AND PRACTICALLY. If the old orator was right in considering _delivery_ as the essence of public speaking as an art, it may with equal truth be said of singing, the term being always so extended in signification as to imply what Rossini named as the essential for the singer--_voice_. Looking at it from the physiological point of view, we may say that the one absolutely essential thing for singers and speakers is breathing. Without methods of breathing that are correct and adequate there may be a perfect larynx and admirably formed resonance-chambers above the vocal bands, with very unsatisfactory results. The more the writer knows of singers and speakers, the more deeply does he become convinced that singing and speaking may be resolved into the correct use of the breathing apparatus, above all else. Not that this alone will suffice, but it is the most important, and determines more than any other factor the question of success or failure. Breathing is the key-note with which we must begin, and to which we must return again and again. The extent to which this subject has been misunderstood, misrepresented, and obscured in works on the voice, and its neglect by so large a number of those who profess to understand how to teach singing and public speaking, are truly amazing. That many should fail to fully appreciate its importance in attaining artistic results is not so surprising as that the process itself should have been so ill understood, especially as it is open to any one to observe in himself, or in our domestic animals, Nature's method of getting air into and out of the body. [Illustration: FIG. 9. A front view of parts of the respiratory apparatus. (Halliburton's Physiology.)] [Illustration: FIG. 9. A back view of the parts represented in Fig. 9. (Halliburton's Physiology.)] [Transcriber's Note: numbered thus in original.] [Illustration: FIG. 10 (Spalteholz). A view of the lower part of the trachea, dividing into the main bronchial tubes, which again branch into a tree-like form. The air-cells are built up around the terminations of the finest bronchial tubes, of which they are a sort of membranous extension.] [Illustration: FIG. 11 (Spalteholz). Shows well the relations of heart, lungs, and diaphragm. The lungs have been drawn back, otherwise the heart would be covered almost wholly by them. It will be noted that the heart-covering is attached to the diaphragm. The fact that the stomach and other important organs of the abdomen lie immediately beneath the diaphragm is a significant one for the voice-user. Manifestly, a full stomach and free, vigorous breathing are incompatible.] This misapprehension is in all probability to be traced to the dependence of the student and teacher on tradition rather than observation--on authority rather than rational judgment. If a great teacher or singer makes any announcement whatever in regard to the technique of his art, it is natural that it should be considered with attention, but it may prove a great misfortune for the individual to accept it without thoughtful consideration. The author will illustrate, from time to time, the truth of the above. In this and all other chapters of this work the student, by which term I mean every one who is seriously interested in the use of the voice, is recommended to give attention, before reading on any subject, to the illustrations employed, perusing very carefully the explanatory remarks beneath them. The author considers the summaries at the conclusion of the chapters of much importance. They not only furnish exact and condensed statements of the main facts and principles involved, but afford the reader a test of the extent to which the foregoing chapter has been comprehended. As the author has a horror of what is termed "cramming," he expresses the hope that no student will use these synopses, which have been prepared with much care, for so great a misuse of the mind as cramming implies. Breathing is essential for life. The oxygen of the air is, of all food-stuffs, the most important. Without it a mammal will perish in less than three minutes; hence there is no need of the body so urgent as that of oxygen. It is also of great moment that the waste--the carbon dioxide, or carbonic acid gas--should be got rid of rapidly; nevertheless, it is not this gas which kills when the air-passages are closed, though it is highly deleterious. The body is a sort of furnace in which combustions are continually going on, and oxygen is as essential for these as for the burning of a candle, and the products are in each case the same. Whether the voice-user respires, like others, to maintain the functions of the body, or whether he employs the breathing apparatus to produce sound, it is to be borne in mind that he uses the same physical mechanisms, so that the way is at once clear to consider the anatomy and physiology of the breathing organs. It has been already pointed out that respiration is in all animals, in the end, the same process. The one-celled animal and the muscle-cell respire in the same way, and with the same results--oxidation, combustion, and resulting waste products. In the animal of complicated structure special mechanisms are necessary that the essential oxygen be brought to the blood and the useless carbon dioxide removed. The respiratory organs or tract include the mouth, nose, larynx, trachea, bronchial tubes, and the lung-tissue proper or the air-cells. The mouth, nose, and larynx, in so far as they are of special importance in voice-production, will be considered later. The air enters the trachea, or windpipe, through a relatively narrow slit in the larynx, or voice-box, known as the _glottis_, or _chink of the glottis_, which is wider when air is being taken in (_inspiration_) than when it is being expelled (_expiration_). Life depends on this chink being kept open. The windpipe is composed of a series of cartilaginous or gristly rings connected together by softer tissues. These rings are not entire, but are completed behind by soft tissues including muscle. It follows that this tube is pliable and extensible--a very important provision, especially when large movements of the neck are made, during vigorous exercise, and also in singing and speaking. The bronchial tubes are the tree-like branches of the trachea, and extend to the air-cells themselves, which may be considered as built up around them in some such fashion as a toy balloon on its wooden stem, but with many infoldings, etc. (Fig. 10). The air-cells are composed of a membrane which may be compared to the walls of the balloon, but we are of course dealing with living tissue supplied by countless blood-vessels of the most minute calibre, in which the blood is brought very near to the air which passes over them. Throughout, the respiratory tract is lined with mucous membrane. Mucous membranes are so named because they secrete mucus, the fluid which moistens the nose, mouth, and all parts of the respiratory tract. When one suffers from a cold the mucous membrane, in the early stages, may become dry from failure of this natural secretion; hence sneezing, coughing, etc., as the air then acts as an irritant. At no time do we breathe pure oxygen, but "air"--_i.e._, a mixture of 21 parts of the former with 79 parts of an inert gas, nitrogen; and there is always in the air more oxygen than the blood actually takes from it in the air-cells. The intaking of air is termed by physiologists _inspiration_, and its expulsion _expiration_, the whole process being _respiration_. Expiration takes a very little longer than inspiration, and the rapidity of respiration depends on the needs of the body. The more active the exercise, the more rapidly vital processes go on, the more ventilation of the tissues is required and the more is actually effected. When one is at rest breathing takes place at the rate of from 14 to 18 inspirations and expirations in the minute; but of all the processes of the body none is more variable than respiration, and of necessity, for every modification of action, every movement, implies a demand for an increased quantity of oxygen. It is not surprising, therefore, that the very exercise of singing tends in itself to put one out of breath. [Illustration: FIG. 12. In the above, the shaded outlines indicate the shape of the bony cage of the chest during inspiration, and the lighter ones the same during expiration. The alterations in the position of the ribs and in the diameters of the chest, giving rise to its greater capacity during inspiration, are evident.] [Illustration: FIG. 13. This figure is intended to indicate, in a purely diagrammatic way, by dotted lines, the position of the diaphragm (1) when inspiration is moderate, and (2) when very deep. The unbroken curved line above the dotted ones indicates the position of the diaphragm (only approximately, of course) after expiration.] Attention will now be directed to some facts that it is of the utmost importance to clearly understand, if one is to know how to breathe and the reasons for the method employed. The lungs are contained in a cavity the walls of which are made up of a domed muscular (and tendinous) structure below, and elsewhere of bony and cartilaginous tissues filled in with soft structures, chiefly muscles. This cage is lined within by a smooth membrane which is kept constantly moist by its own secretion. The lungs are covered by a similar membrane, both of these fitting closely like the hand to a glove, so that there are two smooth membranes in opposition. It cannot be too well remembered that these two, the inner surface of the chest walls and the outer surface of the lungs, are in the closest contact. This is so whatever the changes that take place in the size and shape of the chest. The lungs are concave below, and so fit accurately to the fleshy partition between the chest and the abdomen which constitutes the lower boundary of the chest, if we may use the term "chest" somewhat loosely. Above, suiting the shape of the chest, the lungs are somewhat conical. The pressure of the air tends of itself to expand the lungs, which are highly elastic, even when one does not breathe at all. But if more air is to enter there must be additional space provided; hence greater expansion of the lungs can only follow an enlargement of the chest cavity in one or in all directions. These are spoken of as _diameters_. It follows that it is possible to conceive of the chest being enlarged in three, and only three, directions; so that it may be increased in size in its vertical, its transverse, and its antero-posterior diameter, or diameter from before backwards. This expansion, as in the case of all other movements, can be effected only by muscles, or, to speak more accurately, by neuro-muscular mechanisms. Exactly what muscles are employed may be learned from the accompanying illustrations and by observation. While it is highly important to know in a general way which muscles are chiefly concerned, or, rather, where they are situated, it cannot be deemed essential for every reader to learn their names, attachments, etc., down to the minutest details, as in the case of a student of anatomy proper. The author does, however, deem it of the highest importance that the student should learn by actual observation on his own person that his chest does expand in each of the three directions indicated above. It is not necessary to dissect to observe muscles; in fact, they can be seen in action only on the living subject. All who would really understand breathing should study the chest when divested of all clothing and before a sufficiently large mirror. He may then observe the following during a fairly deep inspiration: 1. The chest is enlarged as a whole. 2. The abdominal walls move outward. 3. The ribs pass from a more oblique to a less oblique position, and may become almost horizontal; their upper edges are also turned out slightly, though this is not so easy to observe. 4. Again, in the case of a very deep and sudden inspiration, the abdomen and the lower ribs also are drawn inward. The changes above referred to are brought about in this way: 1. The total enlargement is due to the action of many muscles which function in harmony with each other. 2. The chief changes are brought about by those muscles attached between the ribs (_intercostales_); but these act more efficiently owing to the coöperation of other muscles which steady the ribs and chest generally, such as those attached to the shoulder-bones and the upper ribs; indeed, the most powerful inspiration possible can only be effected when most of the other muscles of the body are brought into action. One may observe that even the arms and legs are called into requisition when a tenor sings his highest tone as forcibly as possible, though this is often overdone in a way to be condemned. Art should not be reduced to a gymnastic feat. The most important muscle of inspiration is the _diaphragm_, or midriff, because it produces a greater change in the size of the chest than any other single muscle. Some animals can get the oxygen they require to maintain life by the action of this large muscle alone, when all other respiratory muscles are paralyzed. As it is so important, and above all to the voice-user, it merits special consideration. In studying the action of a muscle it is necessary to note its _points of attachment_ to harder structures, either bone or cartilage. Nearly always one such point is more fixed than the other, and from this the muscle pulls when it contracts. The diaphragm is peculiar in that it is somewhat circular in shape and is more or less tendinous or sinew-like in the middle. Being attached to the spinal column behind and to the lower six or seven ribs, when the muscle contracts it becomes less domed in shape--less convex upward--and of course descends to a variable degree depending on the extent of the muscular contraction. As to whether the ribs, and with them the abdominal muscles, are drawn in or the reverse, is determined wholly by the degree of force with which the contraction takes place and the extent to which it is resisted. Throughout the body muscles are arranged in sets which may either coöperate with or antagonize each other, as required. The forcible bending of one's arm by another person may be resisted by one through the use of certain muscles. In this the action of the muscles which bend the arm is imitated by the agent seeking to perform this movement for us. The muscles acting in opposition to certain others are said to be their _antagonists_. Were the diaphragm to contract moderately the ribs would be but little drawn in, even if no muscles acted as antagonists. But, as a matter of fact, this domed muscle descends at the same time as the ribs ascend, because of the action of the muscles attached to them. The diaphragm being concave below toward the abdomen, the contents of this cavity fit closely to its under surface. There are found the liver, stomach, intestines, etc.--a part of great practical importance, as will be shown presently. Naturally, in breathing, the organs of the abdomen, especially those above, are pressed down somewhat with the descent of the diaphragm in inspiration, and, in turn, push out the abdominal walls. If, however, the midriff contract so powerfully that the lower ribs are drawn inward, the abdominal walls follow them. Although the actual extent of the descent of the diaphragm is small in itself, since the total surface is large it effects a very considerable enlargement of the chest in the vertical diameter. The capacity of the lungs for air is a very variable quantity: 1. The quantity of air taken in with a single inspiration in quiet breathing (_tidal air_) is about 20-30 cubic inches. 2. The quantity taken in with the deepest possible inspiration (_complemental air_) is about 100 cubic inches. 3. The quantity that may be expelled by the most forcible expiration (_supplemental air_) is about 100 cubic inches. 4. The quantity that can under no circumstances be expelled (_residual air_) is about 100 cubic inches. 5. The quantity that can be expelled after the most forcible inspiration--_i.e._, the amount of air that can be moved--indicates the _vital capacity_. This varies very much with the individual, and depends not a little on the elasticity of the chest walls, and so diminishes with age. It follows that youth is the best period for the development of the chest, and the time to learn that special breath-control so essential to good singing and speaking. When the ribs have been raised by inspiration and the abdominal organs pressed down by the diaphragm, the chest, on the cessation of the act, tends to resume its former shape, owing to elastic recoil quite apart from all muscular action; in other words, inspiration is active, expiration largely passive. With the voice-user, especially the singer, expiration becomes the more important, and the more difficult to control, as will be shown later. It must now be apparent that such use of the voice as is necessitated by speaking for the public, or by singing, still more, perhaps, must tend to the general welfare of the body--_i.e._, the hygiene of respiration is evident from the physiology. Actual experience proves this to be the case. The author has known the greatest improvement in health and vigor follow on the judicious use of the voice, owing largely to a more active respiration. It also follows, however, that exhaustion may result from the excessive use of the respiratory muscles, as with any others, even when the method of chest-expansion is quite correct. Before condemning any vocal method one does well to inquire in regard to the extent to which it has been employed, as well as the circumstances of the voice-user. A poor clergyman worried with the fear of being supplanted by another man, or a singer unable to secure employment, possibly from lack of means to advertise himself, is not likely to grow fat under any method of vocal exercise, be it ever so physiological; while the prima donna who has chanced to please the popular taste and become a favorite may "wax fat and kick." [Illustration: FIGS. 14, A and B, are to be compared: that on the left shows the position of the diaphragm, abdominal walls, etc., during expiration; the one on the right, during inspiration. The relative quantities of air in the chest in each case are approximately indicated by the shaded areas.] CHAPTER IV. BREATHING FURTHER CONSIDERED THEORETICALLY AND PRACTICALLY. When one takes into account the large number of muscles employed in respiration, and remembers that these muscles must act in perfect harmony with each other if the great end is to be attained, he naturally inquires how this complex series of muscular contractions has been brought into concerted action so as to result in that physiological unity known as breathing. It is impossible to conceive of such results being effected except through the influence of the nervous system, which acts as a sort of regulator throughout the whole economy. All the parts of the respiratory tract are supplied with nerves, which are of both kinds--those which carry nervous impulses or messages from and those which convey them to the nervous centres concerned; in other words, to and from the bodies of the nerve-cells whose extensions are termed nerves. These centres are the central offices where the information is received and from which orders are issued, so to speak. The chief respiratory centre--_the_ centre--is situated in that portion of the brain just above the spinal cord, in its continuation, in fact, and is known as the _medulla oblongata_, or _bulb_. But while this is the head centre, at which the ingoing (_afferent_) impulses are received and from which the outgoing (_efferent_) ones proceed, it makes use of many other collections of nerve-cells, or subordinate centres--_e.g._, those whose nerve-extensions or nerve-fibres proceed from the spinal cord to the muscles of respiration. [Illustration: FIG. 15. The purpose of this diagram is to indicate the relation between ingoing (afferent) and outgoing (efferent) nervous influences (impulses)--in other words, to illustrate _reflex action_. The paths of the ingoing impulses are indicated by black lines, and those of the outgoing ones by red lines, the point of termination being shown by an arrow-tip. The result of an ingoing message may be either favorable or unfavorable. The nervous impulse that reaches the brain through the eye may be either exhilarating or depressing. The experienced singer is usually stimulated by the sight of an audience, while the beginner may be rendered nervous, and this may express itself in many and widely distant parts of the body. An unfavorable message may reach the diaphragm or intercostal muscles, and render breathing shallow, irregular, or, in the worst cases, almost gasping. The heart or stomach, even the muscles of the larynx, the limbs, etc., may be affected, and trembling be the result. On the other hand, the laryngeal and other muscles may be toned up, and the voice rendered better than usual, as a result of applause--_i.e._, by nervous impulses through the ear--or, again, by the sight of a friend. Even a very tight glove or a pinching shoe may suffice to hamper the action of the muscles required for singing or speaking. All this is a result of reflex action--_i.e._, outgoing messages set up by ingoing ones--the "centre" being either the brain or the spinal cord. From all this it is evident that the singer or speaker must guard against everything unfavorable, to an extent that an ordinary person need not. The stomach, as the diagram is also meant to show, may express itself on the brain, and give rise, as in fact it often does, owing to indiscretion in eating, to unpleasant outward effects on the muscles required in singing or speaking. Of course, no attempt has been made in the above figure to express anatomical forms and relations exactly.] When all the ingoing impulses from the lungs, etc., are cut off, if respiration does not actually cease, it is carried out in a way so ineffective that life cannot be long sustained. It follows that as the muscular contractions necessary for the chest and other respiratory movements are dependent on the impulses passing in from the lungs, etc., breathing belongs to the class of movements known as reflex--chiefly so, at all events. It will thus be seen that respiration is a sort of self-regulative process, the movements being in proportion to the needs of the body. The greater the need for oxygen, the more are the nerve-terminals in the lungs and the centre itself stimulated, with, as a result, corresponding outgoing impulses to muscles. As the respiratory centre is readily reached by impulses from every part of the body, like one who keeps open house, there are many different sorts of visitors, not all desirable. If, for example, a drop of a fluid that produces no special effect when on the tongue gets into the larynx, trachea, or lungs, the most violent coughing follows. This is one illustration of the _protective_ character of many reflexes. This violent action of the respiratory apparatus is not in itself a desirable thing, because it disturbs if it does not exhaust, but it is preferable to the inflammation that might result if the fluid, a bread-crumb, etc., were to pass into the lungs. In like manner, the deep breath and the "Oh!" that follow a fear-inspiring sight, a very loud noise, or a severe pinch of the skin, are examples of reflex action. They are quite independent of the will, though in some cases they may be prevented by it. This reflex nature of breathing throws much light on many matters of great interest to the speaker and singer, some of which, as the formation of good habits of breathing, will be considered later. Unfortunately for the nervous débutant, his breathing is anything but what he could wish it. The pale face and almost gasping respiration, in the worst cases, are not unknown to the experienced observer. In such cases the preventive (_inhibitory_) influence of certain ingoing impulses is but too obvious. Such undesirable messages may pass in through the eyes when the young singer looks out on the throng that may either approve or condemn; or they may originate within, and pass from the higher part of the brain to the lower breathing centre. The beginner may have high ideals of art, and fear that they will be but ill realized in his performance. His ideals in this instance do not help but hinder, for they interfere with the regular action of the breathing centre. A few deep breaths after the platform has been reached greatly help under such circumstances. It is also wise for the singer to avoid those songs that begin softly and require long breaths and very evenly sustained tones. It is much better to begin with a selection that brings the breathing organs into fairly active exercise at once. One feeble, hesitating, or otherwise ineffective tone is in itself a stimulus of the wrong kind, sending in unfavorable messages which are only too apt to reach the breathing and other centres concerned in voice-production; but of this subject of nervousness again. It is important to realize that sounds, whether musical or the reverse, are produced by the outgoing stream of breath, by an expiratory effort. Breath is taken in by the voice-producer in order to be converted into that expiratory force which, playing on the vocal bands, causes them to vibrate or pass into the rapid movements which give rise to similar movements of the air in the cavities above the larynx, the resonance-chambers, and on which the final result as regards sound is dependent. Important as is inspiration to the speaker and singer, expiration is much more so. Many persons fill the lungs well, but do not understand how to husband their resources, and so waste breath instead of converting every particle into sound, so to speak. After the larynx has been studied the importance of the expiratory blast will be better understood. For the voice-user, it cannot be too soon realized that _all breath that does not become sound is wasted_, or, to express the same truth otherwise, the sole purpose of breathing is to cause effective vibrations of the vocal bands. In these two words, _effective vibrations_, lies the whole secret of voice production, the whole purpose of training, the key to the highest technical results, the cause of success or failure for those who speak or sing. Before the larynx, the apparatus that produces sound-vibrations, can be effectively employed, the source of power, the bellows, must be developed. To some Nature has been generous--they have large chests; to others she has given a smaller wind-chest, but has perhaps compensated by providing an especially fine voice-box. Happy are they who have both, and thrice happy those who have all three requirements: a fine chest, a well-constructed larynx, and beautifully formed resonance-chambers. If with all these there are the musical ear and the artistic temperament, we have the singer who is born great. These are the very few. To most it must be--if greatness at all--greatness thrust upon them, greatness the result of long and patient effort to attain perfect development. Indeed, even those with the most complete natural outfit can only reach the highest results of which they are capable by long and patient application. Those who do not believe in attainment only through labor would do well to abandon an art career, as there is already a great deal too much poor speaking and bad singing. CHAPTER V. BREATHING WITH SPECIAL REGARD TO PRACTICAL CONSIDERATIONS. The first great requisite for a voice-user is a well-developed chest; the next, complete control of it, or, to put it otherwise, the art of breathing, as briefly explained above. The chest may be large enough, yet not be, in the physiological sense, developed. The voice-user is a sort of athlete, a specialist whose chest muscles must be strong and not covered up by very much superfluous tissue in the form of fat, etc. Whatever the public may think of the goodly form, the singer must remember that fat is practically of no use to any one in voice-production, and may prove a great hindrance, possibly in some cases being a coöperative cause of that _tremolo_ so fatal to good singing. [Illustration: FIG. 16. The appearance of a well-developed, healthy person, with special reference to the chest.] [Illustration: FIG. 17. The appearance of the chest after undue compression, as with corsets.] [Illustration: FIG. 18. In this figure, the dark curved line in the middle is meant to represent the position, etc., of the diaphragm, beneath which, and fitting closely to it, are the liver, stomach, and other abdominal organs, in this case not pressed upon or injured in any way. This represents the normal human being.] [Illustration: FIG. 19. A condition the reverse of that represented in the preceding. The vital organs are pressed upon, with results some of which are obvious; others equally serious are not such as appear to the eye.] The voice-user should eschew ease and take plenty of exercise, but most of all must he use those forms of exercise which develop the breathing apparatus and tend to keep it in the best condition. Walking, running, and hill climbing are all excellent, but do not in themselves suffice to develop the chest to the utmost. To the beginner the following exercises are strongly recommended. They are highly important for all, whether beginners or not, who would have the best development of the breathing apparatus. Deep breathing, such a use of the respiratory organs as leads to the greatest possible expansion of the chest, should be learned and practised, if not absolutely before vocal exercises are attempted, at all events as soon after as possible. As in all cases where muscles are employed, the exercise should be _graduated_. It may be even harmful to attempt to fill the chest to its utmost capacity at once. It is better to breathe very moderately for several days. Any such symptoms as dizziness or headache accompanying or following the exercises indicate that they have been too vigorous, too long continued, or carried out under unsuitable conditions. Above all must the air be pure, and the body absolutely unhampered--most of all, the chest--by any form of clothing. Last century most ladies and some men applied to the chest a form of apparatus known as corsets, under the mistaken belief that they were for women a necessary support and improved the figure. They no doubt were responsible for much lack of development, and feeble health, and, as has been proved by examination of the body after death, led to compression of the liver and other organs. No voice-user should use such an effective means of preventing the very thing he should most desire, a full and free use of the breathing apparatus. Before carrying out the exercises suggested or others equally good, the student is recommended to be weighed, and especially to have the chest carefully _measured_. This can be done with sufficient accuracy by the use of a tape-measure. It will be well to take the circumference a few inches above and below a certain point, so that it may be ascertained that the chest expands in every region. The measurements should be taken under the following conditions: 1. The chest should be almost or wholly divested of clothing. 2. Its circumference is to be ascertained--(_a_) when the breath has been allowed to pass out gently, and before a new breath is taken; (_b_) with the deepest possible inspiration; (_c_) after the deepest possible expiration, which has been preceded by a similar inspiration. After about three weeks the individual should be again measured, by the same person, in exactly the same way, in order to learn whether there has been development or not, and, if so, how much. It is important that the measurements should be made at exactly the same horizontal planes, and with this end in view it is desirable to put a small mark of some kind on the chest, which may remain till the next measurements are made. The method of breathing recommended is as follows: 1. Inhale very slowly through the nostrils, with closed mouth, counting mentally one, two, three, four, etc., with regularity. 2. Hold the breath thus taken, but only for a short time, counting in the same manner as before. 3. Exhale slowly, still counting. After a few moments' rest the exercise may be again carried out in the same way. These exercises may be in series, several times a day. The following warnings are especially to be observed: 1. Never continue any exercise when there is a sense of discomfort of any kind whatever. Such usually indicates that it is being carried out too vigorously. 2. Increase the depth of the inspirations daily, but not very rapidly. 3. The inspirations and expirations should both be carried out very slowly at first. 4. Cease the exercise before any sense of fatigue is experienced. Fatigue is Nature's warning, and should be always obeyed. It indicates that the waste products which result from the use of the muscles are accumulating and proving harmful. After a week of such exercises the following modification of them is recommended: 1. Inhale with the lips slightly apart. 2. Gradually increase the length of the time the breath is held, but let it never exceed a few seconds. 3. Through open lips allow the breath to pass out, but with extreme slowness. The student should try to increase this last, somewhat, daily, as it is above all what is required in singing, and also in speaking, though to a somewhat less degree--a slow, regulated expulsion of the breath. If when the chest is full of air the subject gently raises the arms over the head, or directs them backward, he will experience a sense of pressure on the chest. If this be carefully done, its effect is to strengthen, and it is especially valuable for those inclined to stoop. The recommendation to inspire through the open lips applies only when one is in a room, or in the open air when it is warm enough and free from dust. But the student should learn to inspire through the slightly open mouth, as to breathe through the nose in speaking, and especially in singing, is objectionable for several reasons which can be better explained later; so that the rule is to _breathe through the nose when not using the voice, and through the mouth when one does_. Though all the exercises thus far referred to tend to develop the diaphragm and abdominal muscles, these may be strengthened by special exercises. The diaphragm is the soft floor of the chest, and must at once bear the strain of the air that acts on the approximated vocal bands, and assist in applying that pressure with just the amount of force required, and no more; hence it is important that this muscle be both strong and under perfect control. This large central muscle is probably not only the most generally effective of all the respiratory muscles, but has an action more precise and often more delicate, more nicely controlled, than that of any other. It is possible to make very powerful movements of this muscle, and an exercise that will cause it to descend deeply and remain in a tense condition is valuable. To effect this, one pushes it down as far as possible, and holds it there for a few seconds, then permits it to relax gradually. The extent to which this is successful can be inferred from the degree to which the abdominal wall bulges forward. The sudden though slight movements required in those forms of vocalization that bear more or less resemblance to what vocalists term _staccato_, and which are so effective in dramatic speaking and singing, can be prepared for by larger but sudden movements of the diaphragm, as when one taking a full breath imitates coughing movements, but in a regular and measured way, the throat being used but little. At the same time, or separately, the abdominal muscles may be effectively exercised by being drawn in and thrust out with considerable force. None of these movements are elegant--they scarcely put one in an artistic light; but they are highly effective in strengthening parts every voice-user must employ. To furnish adequate support for the diaphragm and chest in a very vigorous use of the voice, as in the most trying passages a tragic actor has to speak or a vocalist to sing, the abdominal muscles must remain more or less tense, and to do so effectually they must have strength beyond that possessed by the corresponding muscles in ordinary persons; hence the desirability of employing special exercises to increase their vigor. Hill climbing and bicycling also tend to this end, but the latter is for many reasons not a form of exercise to be recommended to one who wishes to attain the highest results with the voice. Wind, dust, a stooping position, excessive heat of the body, etc., are all among the many factors of risk for the delicate vocal mechanism. As the expiratory blast is so important in voice-production, the exercises above recommended should be followed by others in which this principle is specially recognized. 1. Inspire so as to fill the chest to the fullest with considerable rapidity; then allow the breath-stream to pass out with the utmost slowness. 2. Fill the chest with special reference to its lower or its upper part, as desired, and very rapidly, letting the breath flow out slowly. SUMMARY. The primary purpose of respiration in all animals is the same--namely, to furnish oxygen and remove carbon dioxide (carbonic acid). The lowest animals, as the amoeba, breathe by the whole surface of the body. In all vertebrates the anatomical mechanism is essentially the same: a membrane (covered with flat cells) in which the blood is distributed in the minutest blood-vessels (capillaries). Respiration is finally effected in the tissues (cells) of the body. The more active the animal, or the higher in the scale, the more need of frequent interchange between the air, the blood, and the tissues. The respiratory organs in mammals are the mouth, nose, larynx, trachea, bronchial tubes, and lung-tissue or air-cells proper. The windpipe is made up of cartilaginous rings completed by membrane, muscle, etc. (behind). The bronchial tubes are the continuation of the windpipe, and branch tree-like until they become very fine. The air-cells are built round these latter. The lung-tissue is highly elastic. The lungs are made up of an elastic membrane, covered with flat cells, and very abundantly supplied with a mesh-work of the finest blood-vessels. The whole of the respiratory tract as far as the air-cells is lined by mucous membrane. The air consists essentially of 21 parts of oxygen and 79 parts of nitrogen, with a variable quantity of watery vapor. Only a small portion of the total oxygen of the air is removed before it is exhaled. The respiratory act consists of (1) inspiration, and (2) expiration; the latter is of a little longer duration than the former. The rate of breathing in man is from 14 to 18 per minute, in the resting state, or about one respiration to three or four heart-beats. The quantity of air inspired depends on (1) the size of the thorax, and (2) the extent of its movements. These are effected solely by muscular contractions, and give rise to an increase in all the diameters of the thorax. The lungs are closely applied (but not attached) to the inside of the chest wall, and remain so under all circumstances. When the chest cavity is enlarged by inspiration, the air, pressing down into the elastic lungs, expands them as much as possible, that is, as much as the chest walls will allow; but the lungs are never at any time either filled with or emptied of air to their utmost capacity. At most, the amount of expansion is very moderate. _The Quantity of Air in the Lungs._ 1. The quantity of air inspired in quiet breathing is about 20-30 cubic inches. 2. The quantity that can be added to this by a deep inspiration is about 100 cubic inches. 3. The quantity that can be expelled by a forcible expiration is about 100 cubic inches. 4. The quantity that cannot be expelled at all is about 100 cubic inches. The above are named: (1) The tidal air; (2) complemental air; (3) supplemental air; (4) residual air. The quantity that can be expelled by the most forcible expiration after the most forcible inspiration, that is, the air that can be moved, indicating the "vital capacity," is about 225-250 inches. The chest is enlarged by the muscles of inspiration, the principal of which is the diaphragm or midriff. This muscle (tendinous in the centre) is attached to the spinal column (behind) and to the last six or seven ribs. When it contracts it becomes less domed upward, and is pressed down more or less on the contents of the abdomen; hence the walls of the latter move outward. During ordinary inspiration the lower ribs are steadied by other muscles, so that no indrawing of these ribs takes place, but a very forcible expiration makes such indrawing very noticeable. In addition to the enlargement of the chest by the descent of the diaphragm, the ribs are elevated and everted by the muscles attached to them, with the total result that the chest cavity is enlarged in all its three diameters during inspiration. The first rib is fixed by muscles from above. During extremely forced inspiration a large proportion of all the muscles of the body may act. Ordinary expiration is the result largely of the elastic recoil of the chest walls, only a few muscles taking part. The diaphragm ascends and becomes more domed. During forced expiration many other muscles are called into action. It is of importance for the singer and speaker to note: (1) That the chest cavity should be increased in all its directions; (2) that the muscular action should be easy and under perfect control, but also vigorous when required; (3) that the breath be taken through the nostrils when the individual is not actually vocalizing or about to do so; (4) that the breath be kept in or let out in the proportion required. Breathing is a reflex or involuntary act. The respiratory centre, consisting of an expiratory and inspiratory division, is situated in the bulb, or medulla oblongata, the portion of the brain just above the spinal cord. All the ingoing nervous impulses affect respiration through the outgoing impulses that pass along the nerves to the muscles; that is, the ingoing impulses pass up by the nerves from the lungs to the centre, and thence along other nerves to the respiratory muscles. The condition of the blood determines the activity of the respiratory centre, but the incoming impulses regulate this activity. The respiratory centre can be approached from every part of the body. _Hygiene._ Every thing that favors the full and free expansion of the chest in a pure atmosphere is favorable, and the reverse unfavorable. Corsets are against the laws of beauty, are unnecessary for support, and may by compression injure and displace important organs, as the liver, stomach, etc.; and must interfere with the fullest expansion of the chest. They have militated against the physical, and indirectly the moral and mental advancement of the race. _Practical Exercises._ I. Measurements of the chest. II. Exercises to strengthen muscles, promote complete expansion, regulate inflow and outflow of air, etc. 1. (_a_) Inspiring slowly, with counting. (_b_) Holding. (_c_) Expiring slowly, with counting. 2. The same, holding longer. 3. The same, with shorter inspiration and longer expiration. Gradually diminish first and lengthen last. 4. Breathing through open lips. 5. Exercises to strengthen diaphragm. 6. Exercises to improve shape of chest and strengthen muscles. 7. Exercises to strengthen abdominal muscles. CHAPTER VI. THE SPECIAL VOICE-PRODUCING MECHANISM, THE LARYNX. The larynx, or voice-box, is not the sole voice-producing apparatus, as is often supposed, but it is of great, possibly the greatest, importance. In describing the parts of this portion of the vocal mechanism the author deems it wiser to use the terms commonly employed by anatomists and physiologists, as others are awkward and inadequate. Moreover, there is this great advantage in learning the technical names of structures, that should the reader desire to consult a special work on anatomy in reference to this or other important organs, he will find in use the same terms as he has himself already learned. Such are, as a matter of fact, not difficult to learn or remember if one knows their derivation or other reason for their employment. All the muscles of the larynx have names which are not arbitrary but based on the names of the structures to which they are attached, so that one has but to know their connections and the names of the solid structures, which are few, to have a key to the whole nomenclature. When one is not using the voice the larynx is simply a part of the respiratory apparatus, but when one phonates this organ assumes a special function for which specific structures are essential. As sound is caused by vibrations of the air, and these may be set up by vibrations of the vocal cords, it may with absolute correctness be said that the whole larynx exists for the vocal bands so far as voice-production is concerned. Such a view renders the study of the larynx much more interesting and rational; one is then engaged in working out that solution of a problem which Nature has accomplished. The vocal cords, we can conceive, might be either relaxed or tightened, and lengthened or shortened, or both, and beyond that we can scarcely understand how they might have been modified so as to be effective in the production of sounds of different pitch. As a matter of fact, these are the methods Nature has employed to accomplish her purpose. For each vocal cord one fixed point, and only one, is required. We know of only one method in use by Nature to cause movement in living structures--viz., contraction, and muscle is the tissue which above all others has that property; hence the movements of the vocal cords are brought about by muscles. But both for the attachment of the muscles and the vocal cords themselves solid, relatively hard structures are required. Bone would prove too unyielding, but cartilage, or gristle, meets the case exactly. The entire framework of the larynx--its skeleton, so to speak--is made up of a series of cartilages united together so as to ensure sufficient firmness with pliability. The cartilages have been named from their shape, as that appealed to the original observers, and the terms employed are of Greek origin. The largest and strongest is the _thyroid_ (_thureos_, a shield) cartilage, which resembles somewhat two shields put together in front without any visible joint, and open behind but presenting a strongly convex surface externally, in front and laterally. "Front" (anterior) and "back" (posterior) always refer in anatomy to the subject described, and not to the observer's position. In observing another's larynx the subject observed and the observer naturally stand front to front, and it is impossible to see or touch the back of the larynx as it is covered behind by the other structures of the neck. This thyroid, the largest of the cartilages, is attached to the hyoid or tongue bone above by a membrane, so that the whole larynx hangs suspended from this bone by a membrane, though not by it alone, for muscles are attached to it which also serve for its support. It is of practical importance to remember that the larynx is free to a very considerable extent, otherwise it would go ill with the voice-producer in the vigorous use of the voice, not to mention the advantages of mobility as well as pliability in the movements of the neck generally. [Illustration: FIG. 20 (Spalteholz). Shows the thyroid cartilage above and the cricoid below both viewed from the side. The anterior surface is turned toward the right.] [Illustration: FIG. 21 (Spalteholz). A front view of FIG. 20.] [Illustration: FIG. 22 (Spalteholz). The back or signet surface of the cricoid or ring cartilage, to which several muscles are attached.] [Illustration: FIG. 23 (Spalteholz). The cricoid cartilage, seen from the side, and showing behind and laterally the articular or joint surfaces by which it connects with the thyroid below and the arytenoid cartilage above.] [Illustration: FIG. 24 (Spalteholz). Shows the arytenoid cartilages, the most important of all the cartilages of the larynx, inasmuch as to the part termed "vocal process" the vocal band is attached on each side. The movements of the vocal bands are nearly all determined by the movements of these cartilages, which have a swivel-like action. In the above the front surfaces are turned toward each other.] The _cricoid_ (_krikos_, a signet-ring) is the cartilage next in size. It is situated below the thyroid cartilage, with which it is connected by a membrane, the crico-thyroid. The wider part of this signet-ring is situated behind, where it affords attachment to large muscles. It also furnishes a base of support for two very important structures, the _arytenoid_ (_arutaina_, a ladle) cartilages. As the vocal bands are attached behind to them, and as they have a large degree of mobility, they are from a physiological point of view the most important of all the solid structures of the larynx. There are two pairs of small bodies, the _cartilages of Santorini_, or _cornicula laryngis_, surmounting the arytenoids, and the _cuneiform_, or _cartilages of Wrisberg_, situated in the folds of mucous membrane on each side of the arytenoids; but these structures are of little importance. The whole of the inner surface of the larynx is lined with mucous membrane, though that covering over the true vocal bands is very thin, and so does not cause them to appear red like the false vocal bands, which are merely folds of the mucous membrane. However, the true vocal bands may become red and thickened when inflamed, because of this same mucous membrane, which, though ordinarily not visible to the eye, becomes so when the condition referred to is present; for inflammation is always attended by excess in the blood supply, with a prominence of the small blood-vessels resulting in a corresponding redness. The same thing happens, in fact, as in inflammation of the eyes or the nose, both of which are more open to observation. Bearing this in mind one can readily understand why in such a condition, which is often approached if not actually present in the case of "a cold," the voice becomes so changed. Such vocal bands are clumsy in movement, as the arms or any other part would be if thus swollen. The plain remedy is rest, cessation of function--no speaking, much less attempts at singing. Like the nose the larynx, and especially the vocal bands, may be catarrhal, and such a condition may call for medical treatment before the speaker or singer can do the most effective vocal work. While the _false vocal bands_ have little or nothing to do with phonation directly, they do serve a good purpose as protectors to the more exalted true vocal bands. When coughing, swallowing, vomiting, holding the breath tightly, etc., these folds of mucous membrane close over the true bands, often completely, and thus shut up for the moment the whole of that space between the bands known as the glottis, or glottic chink, to which reference was made in a previous chapter as the space through which the air finally gains access to the lungs. The true vocal cords (which, because of having some breadth and being rather flat, are better termed vocal bands) are composed largely of _elastic tissue_. The reader may be familiar with this structure, which is often to be found in the portions of the neck of the ox that the butcher sells as soup beef. It is yellow in color, and stretching it has furnished many a boy with amusement. It is so unmanageable when raw that when it falls to the dog he usually bolts it, the case being otherwise hopeless. Such elastic tissue is, however, the very material for the construction of vocal bands, as they require to be firm yet elastic. [Illustration: FIG. 25 (Spalteholz). A view of the larynx from behind. Several of the muscles are well shown, of which the two indicated above are of the most importance. The arytenoideus proprius tends to bring the cartilages from which it is named, and therefore the vocal bands, toward each other; while the posterior crico-thyroid, from its attachments and line of pull, tends to separate these and lengthen the vocal bands.] [Illustration: FIG. 26 (Spalteholz). Showing structures as indicated above. The mucous membrane, that naturally covers all parts within the vocal mechanism, has been dissected away to show the muscles.] [Illustration: FIG. 27 (Spalteholz). Showing the parts indicated above; and of these the crico-thyroid muscle is to be especially observed. The oblique (especially so in the posterior part) direction of its fibres is evident, so that when it contracts, it must pull up the ring cartilage in front, and so tilt back its hinder portion and with it the arytenoid cartilages, and so lengthen and tense the vocal bands, as in the utterance of low tones.] [Illustration: FIG. 28 (Spalteholz). A back (posterior) view of the larynx, etc. Note how the arytenoid cartilages rest on the cricoid; how the epiglottis overhangs, as its name implies, the glottis; and that the posterior part of the windpipe is closed in by soft structures, including (unstriped) muscle.] It is important to remember the relative position of parts and to bear in mind that most of the laryngeal structures are in pairs. To this last statement the thyroid and cricoid cartilages and the epiglottis are exceptions, being single. Of the _epiglottis_, a flexible cartilage, it is necessary to say little, as its function in voice-production, if it have any, has never been determined. It hangs as a flexible protective lid over the glottis, and food in being swallowed passes over and about it. It no doubt acts to keep food and drink out of the larynx, yet in its absence, in some cases, owing to disease, no very great difficulty was experienced, probably because certain muscles acted more vigorously than usual and tended to close up the glottic chink. The following simple diagram will, it is hoped, make the relative position of parts plain so far as the anterior (front) attachments of parts to the thyroid cartilage are concerned. It will be understood that the inner anterior surface is meant, and that by "middle line" is intended the middle line of the body, the imaginary vertical diameter passing like a plumb-line from the middle plane of the head, let us suppose, downward just in front of the larynx. [Illustration: FIG. 29.] The angle made above and in front where the two wings of the thyroid cartilage meet is termed _Adam's apple_ (_Pomum Adami_), and in some cases, mostly males, is very prominent. Adam's apple has in itself, however, no special significance in voice-production. The little concavity between the false vocal bands above and the true vocal bands below is termed the _ventricle of the larynx_. It allows of more space for the free movements of the bands, especially those more important in voice-production. The vocal bands are attached behind to the projecting angle of the base of the arytenoid cartilage, which is itself somewhat triangular in shape, the base of the triangle being downward and resting on the upper and posterior (back) surface of the cricoid cartilage, with which it makes a free joint, so that it can move swivel-like in all directions. This is most important, because through it is explained the fact that the vocal bands may be either tensed and lengthened or relaxed and shortened. _The muscles act on these movable cartilages, and nearly all the changes in the vocal bands are brought about through the alterations in position of the arytenoid cartilages, to which they are attached behind._ Before describing the muscles of the larynx, the reader is reminded of the order of structures from above downward, in front, which is as follows: The hyoid bone. The thyro-hyoid membrane. The thyroid cartilage. The crico-thyroid membrane. The cricoid cartilage. The trachea. The latter is connected with the cricoid cartilage by its membrane. All the above structures can be felt in one's own person, the more readily if he be thin and have a long neck. The hyoid bone, or tongue-bone, is that hard structure just above the cricoid cartilage, and which one may easily demonstrate to be much more movable than the larynx itself. The tongue muscles are attached to it above, and from it, below, the larynx is suspended, as already explained. The muscles of the larynx are best understood if the principle of antagonistic action already referred to be remembered. Speaking generally, the muscles are arranged _in pairs_ which have an opposite or antagonistic action--viz.: (1) Those that open and close the glottis; (2) those that regulate the tension, or degree of tightness, of the vocal bands. 1. The muscles whose action tends to approximate the vocal bands--the _adductors_--are the _arytenoid[=e]us proprius_ and the _thyro-arytenoid[=e]us_. The former is attached to the posterior or back surface of both arytenoid cartilages; the latter, as its name indicates, to the anterior and inner surface of the thyroid and the anterior lower surface or angle (_vocal process_) of the arytenoid. The opening or widening of the glottis is effected on each side (one muscle of the pair and its action being alone described in this and other cases) by the antagonist of these muscles, the _crico-arytenoid[=e]us posticus_, whose attachments are exactly as indicated by the names--viz., to the posterior part of the two cartilages named. When reading the description of these or other muscles it is absolutely necessary to have a pictorial illustration or the real object before one. The pull of this muscle is from the more fixed point, as in all other cases; hence the force is applied in a direction from below and outward, with the result that the arytenoid cartilage is tilted outward, and with it the vocal band is moved from the middle line. [Illustration: FIG. 30 (Chapman). Diagram showing action of crico-thyroid muscle, stretching of the vocal cords, and lengthening of them. The dotted lines indicate the position assumed when the muscle has contracted.] [Illustration: FIG. 31 (Spalteholz). View of the larynx as looked at from above. The illustration shows particularly well both the true and the false vocal bands. The true vocal bands are placed much as they are when a barytone is singing a very low tone. The part of the figure lowest on the page represents the back part of the larynx.] [Illustration: FIG. 32 (Spalteholz). A cross-section transverse to the larynx, such as can be readily made with a strong knife.] The _crico-thyroid_ also tends to open the glottis. Just as the diaphragm is the most important muscle of breathing, so is the crico-thyroid the most important in ordinary speaking and in singing in the lower register. It is a relatively large and strong muscle with an oblique direction in the main, though it is composed in reality of several sets of fibres some of which are much more oblique in direction than others (Fig. 28). As its name indicates, its points of attachment are to the thyroid and the cricoid cartilages, but the most fixed point (_origin_) is its point of attachment to the larger cartilage; hence its direction of pull is from the thyroid, with the result that the anterior part of the cricoid is drawn up, the posterior part down, and the arytenoid cartilage, resting on the upper part of the cricoid, backward, so that the vocal band is rendered longer and more tense (see especially Fig. 29). It is important to note that this is the muscle most used in singing the lower tones of the scale, and that its action must necessarily cease, to a great extent, when a certain point in the pitch is reached, as there is a limit to the degree of contraction of all muscles; and, besides, the crico-thyroid space is of very moderate size, and the cricoid cartilage can ascend only within the limits thus determined. It thus follows that Nature has provided in the change of mechanism for a new register, which is nothing else than a change of mechanism with a corresponding change of function. It will be at once apparent that the claim that registers are an invention of men, and without foundation in nature, is without support in anatomy and physiology. The crico-thyroid is probably, however, of much more importance to tragic actors and barytones than to tenors or sopranos. This, however, is no excuse for the neglect of its development by the latter class, as often happens, for without it the best tones of the lower register are impossible. On the other hand, the elocutionists who prescribe for students practices that involve the excessive use of this muscle, with a cramped position of the vocal organs, the larynx being greatly drawn down, with the view of producing disproportionately heavy lower tones, must take no comfort from the above anatomical and physiological facts. Art implies proportion, and it was one of the ambitions of all the best actors in the golden age of histrionic art to have an "even voice"--_i.e._, one equally good through the whole range required. The tragic actor, elocutionist, and public speaker, and the singer, whether soprano or bass, should neglect no muscle, though they may be justified in developing some in excess of others, but ever with a watchful eye on the weakest part. 2. The muscles which regulate the tension of the vocal bands are the following: (_a_) The _thyro-arytenoid[=e]us_ (pair), which by tilting the arytenoid cartilages forward relaxes the tension of the vocal bands. When they act with the adductors--_e.g._, the arytenoid[=e]us proprius--the result must be relaxation and approximation behind, which implies a greater or less degree of shortening, as usually happens when a certain point in an ascending scale is reached in persons whose methods of voice-production have not been in some way modified, and a new register begins, which in most female voices is marked by a more or less distinct and abrupt alteration of the quality of the tone. The crico-thyroids are the antagonists of the above-named muscles, and they may act either very much alone or, to some extent, in coöperation with the above, to regulate or steady their action; for in movements so complicated as those required for voice-production it is highly probable that we are inclined to reduce our explanations of muscular action to a simplicity that is excessive, and to appreciate but inadequately the delicacy and complexity of the mechanism and the processes involved. It is quite certain that in the production of the highest tones of a tenor or soprano several muscles coöperate, and one, especially, seems to be of great importance in the formation of such tones, most of all, perhaps, in high sopranos. The muscle referred to is the thyro-arytenoid already described. It is not only attached to the two cartilages indicated by its name, but also along the whole of the external or outer surface of the vocal band. It will be remembered that practically all the muscles are arranged in pairs, one on each side of the middle line. The muscle now under consideration, more, perhaps, than any other, is complex in its action. Apparently a very few of its fibres may act more or less independently of all the others at a particular moment and with a specific and very delicate result, a very slight change in pitch. Exactly how this is attained no one has as yet adequately explained; but it is doubtful whether any singer who does not possess a perfect control over this muscle can produce the highest tones of the soprano with ease and effectiveness. It is especially the muscle of the human birds of the higher flights. (_b_) To these thyro-arytenoids, which for most singers and all speakers are probably chiefly relaxing in action, must be added as aiding in this function another pair, the _lateral crico-arytenoids_. They are situated between the cricoid and arytenoid cartilages, and the direction of action is obliquely from below and forward, upward, and backward, so that the arytenoids are brought forward and also approximated more or less, which involves relaxed tension, at least, possibly also shortening of the vocal bands. When a tenor or soprano singer reaches the upper tones, say about [Illustration: e'' f'' g''], or higher, there is considerable closing up in the larynx, much in the way in which the parts of the month are brought together in sucking. This is termed _sphincter action_, the mouth and the eyes being closed by such action, of which they are the most easily observed examples. As a result of this squeezing there is in some cases that reddening of the face and that tightness which is often felt uncomfortably, and which is _straining_, because when present in more than a very slight degree it is injurious, owing to congestion or accumulation of blood in the blood-vessels, with all the bad consequences of such a state of things. When the tightening does not go beyond a certain point it is normal--indeed, such sphincter action is inevitable; but it is the excess which is so common in tenors and others who strain for undue power, and to produce tones too high in pitch for their development or their method, which is so disastrous to the throat and to the best art also. [Illustration: FIG. 33 (Spalteholz). Shows various structures, and especially well the false and the true vocal bands, with the space between them (ventricle of Morgagni), but which has no special function in phonation, unless it acts as a small resonance-chamber, which is possible. This space is a natural result of the existence of two pairs of vocal bands in such close proximity.] [Illustration: FIG. 34 (Spalteholz). Parts have been cut away to expose to view the whole of the inner surface of the larynx (lined with mucous membrane). An excellent view of the vocal bands and of the "ventricle" of the larynx, between them, is afforded.] When the vocal bands are in action their vibrations are accompanied by corresponding vibrations of the cartilages of the larynx--a fact of which any one may convince himself by laying his fingers on the upper part of the thyroid, especially when a low and powerful tone is produced. This vibration is not confined to the larynx, but extends to other parts--_e.g._, the chest itself, for when one speaks or sings a distinct vibration of the chest walls can be felt, though the extent to which this is present is very variable in different persons. As an ascending scale is sung the larynx can be felt (by the fingers) to rise, and the reverse as the pitch is lowered. This is due partly to the action of those muscles attached to the larynx which are not connected with the movements of the vocal bands, and partly to the influence of the expiratory air-blast. The glottis, partially closed as it must be in phonation, presents considerable resistance to the outgoing stream of air, hence the upward movement of the larynx when it is left free, and not held down by muscular action. In singing and speaking the larynx should be steadied, otherwise the "attack," or application of the air-blast to the vocal bands, cannot be perfect. On the other hand, it is obviously incorrect to attempt to hold the larynx always in the same position. Holding down this organ by main force, as in the production of the so-called "straw bass," is one of the surest methods of producing congestion and consequent disorders of the vocal organs; and the author wishes to warn all voice-producers against such unnatural practices. Students of elocution and young actors often sin in a similar way, and "clergyman's sore throat" is almost always due to this or some similar misuse of the vocal organs. One's own sensations and common sense should never be disregarded, however eminent the teacher who recommends unphysiological methods. PRACTICAL CONSIDERATIONS. When the student has read the above description of the structure and functions of the larynx, and studied the illustrations well, he will be prepared to deal with the subject in a practical manner, and without that it is feared his ideas will remain somewhat hazy. First of all, he should try to find the parts mentioned in his own person, following this up by examinations of others, for which purpose children make good subjects, as they have usually necks that are not too deeply padded with fat, and they may be easily led to take the examinations as a sort of fun. From above downward one feels in the middle line the parts in the order previously mentioned, beginning with the hyoid bone. One may learn that the larynx is movable and yielding, a hard structure covered with softer tissues, but what these are, and much more, can only be learned by examination of the larynx after it has been removed from some animal. Every butcher can provide the material for getting a sound, practical knowledge of the respiratory apparatus. He may be asked to supply the following: 1. A pig's "pluck"--_i.e._, the "lights," or lungs, with the windpipe attached. The liver, heart, etc., are not required, though to observe the relations of the circulatory system--_i.e._, the heart and large blood-vessels--to the respiratory system will be time well spent. Unless special instructions are given, the larynx, which the butcher may term the "weezend," may be lacking or mutilated. It should be explained that this organ, with a part of the windpipe and the extreme back part of the tongue, and all below it, are required. For one sitting this single "pluck" will suffice, as it will serve for a general examination. The lungs may be dilated by inserting a tube into the windpipe, tying it in position, and blowing into it with greater or less force. It should be especially observed how suddenly the lungs collapse when the breath force is removed, as this illustrates well their _elasticity_. By cutting through the windpipe lengthwise and following it downward one learns how numerous are the branches of the bronchial tree, etc. For a second sitting one should secure at least two specimens of the larynx of the pig or sheep, though the former is more like the human, and so the better on the whole. A case of dissecting instruments is not essential; a sharp pocket-knife will serve the purpose. In order that the student may have a clear idea of the cartilages, all the soft tissues must be cut or scraped away. It is necessary to exercise great care, or the membranes connecting the cartilages together will be cut through; and on the other hand, unless the work in the neighborhood of the arytenoids be cautiously done, these cartilages may be injured, and it is most important that their swivel-like action and their relations to the true vocal bands be observed. The glottic chink can be seen from above or below, and should be observed from both view-points. Its margins are formed by the true vocal bands. Then, with the figures before him, the student should endeavor to isolate each of the muscles described. The muscles can always be recognized by their red color, but it is to be remembered that those on the inner surface of the larynx, such as the crico-arytenoid, are covered with mucous membrane, which after death is very pale. This can by careful dissection be removed, and if in doing this a small pair of forceps be employed, the work will be greatly facilitated. One must be very skilful indeed if he would get all the muscles "out," or well exposed to view as individuals, on a single specimen. Likely several will be required before entirely satisfactory results are reached, but these are well worth all the time and labor required. The action of the muscles can in some measure be demonstrated by pulling on them in the direction of their loosest attachment, though it must be confessed this is much more difficult in the case of most of the muscles of the larynx than in those of other parts of the body. Should the specimens be very successfully dissected, it may be worth while to keep them for future observation, in rather weak alcohol (40 per cent.), in, say, a preserve jar. All examinations of the vocal bands may leave the observer disappointed; he may fail to realize, most likely, how such wonderful results can be accomplished by structures so simple as those he sees before him. But when the laryngoscope is brought into use, then comes a revelation. This instrument will be described in the next chapter. HYGIENE. Some of the hygienic principles involved have already been referred to and illustrated, and others follow from the facts already set forth. It is very important for the voice-user to bear in mind that his larynx is a part of the respiratory tract, and that the whole of this region and the entire digestive tract, part of which is common to both, are lined with mucous membrane. If the nose be affected with catarrh, the throat does not usually long escape; and if the back of the mouth cavity (_pharynx_) be disordered, the vocal bands and other parts of the larynx are almost sure to be involved more or less. The condition of the stomach is reflexly, if not by direct continuity through the mucous membrane, expressed in the throat generally; hence as experience shows, the voice-user cannot exercise too great care as to what and how much he eats, especially before a public appearance. He must know himself what best suits him, in this regard, to a degree that is necessary for few others. When singing, more blood is sent to the organs used, hence the great danger of that excess of blood being retained in the parts too long, as might easily happen from pressure about the neck, etc. It is scarcely necessary to point out that draughts, cold rooms, etc., will also determine the blood from the skin inward, and set up that complicated condition of multiform evils known as "a cold." The obvious principle of prevention lies in keeping the body, and especially the neck, shoulders, and chest, warm after using the vocal organs in any way in public. To hand the singer a wrap after leaving the platform is always wise, and the judicious friend will see that conversation is not allowed, much less forced on the possibly breathless and wearied voice-user--a precaution that is probably more honored in the breach than in the observance, for in this as in other cases one's friends are sometimes his worst enemies. SUMMARY. The larynx is the most important organ in voice-production, and consists of cartilages, muscles, the vocal bands, true and false, membranes and ligaments, folds of mucous membrane, etc. It is situated between the hyoid (tongue) bone above and the trachea below. The cartilages are the (1) epiglottis, (2) thyroid, cricoid, arytenoid, the two small, unimportant cornicula laryngis, or cartilages of Santorini, surmounting the arytenoids, and the two cuneiform, or cartilages of Wrisberg, in the folds of mucous membrane on each side of the arytenoids. The muscles are attached to the main cartilages. In addition to the muscles that are concerned with the movements of the vocal bands, others that hold the larynx in place or raise and lower it are attached _externally_ to these, especially to the large thyroid cartilage. The epiglottis, the false vocal cords, the true vocal cords, and the thyro-arytenoid muscles are attached to the interior anterior surface of the thyroid in this order from above down. The false vocal bands have no direct function in phonation. _The whole larynx, so far as phonation is concerned, may be said to exist for the true vocal bands._ They are attached close together to the internal and anterior surface of the thyroid in front and to the lower anterior angles (vocal processes) of the arytenoids behind. Between the false vocal bands above and the true vocal bands below there is a cavity (the ventricle of Morgagni). The false vocal bands are protective, and approximate closely during coughing, swallowing, etc. It is very important to note that the arytenoid cartilages move freely on their base, swivel-like, so that nearly all the changes effected in the movements and tension of the vocal bands are brought about through alterations in the position of these cartilages; and this implies that all the muscles concerned are attached to them. From above down, in front, the order of structures is as follows: Hyoid bone. Membrane. Thyroid cartilage. Membrane. Cricoid cartilage. Trachea. The hyoid bone is not a part of the larynx, but from it the larynx is suspended. The bone itself gives attachment to the muscles of the tongue. The glottis is the chink between the true vocal bands. The muscles of the larynx may be divided into the following: (1) Those that open and those that close the glottis; (2) those which regulate the tension of the vocal bands. The latter include the (_a_) crico-thyroids, which tense and elongate them, (_b_) thyro-arytenoids, which relax and shorten them. The crico-thyroid may be considered the most important muscle of phonation, because it is so much used and so effective. By its action the cricoid is pulled up in front and down behind, so that the arytenoids are drawn back, and thus the vocal bands tensed and lengthened. The lateral crico-arytenoids and the thyro-arytenoids have the opposite effect--_i.e._, they relax and shorten the vocal bands; hence when they come into play a new register begins. The thyro-arytenoids, attached along the whole length of the vocal bands externally, have a very important but not well-understood action in the production of the higher tones, and probably also of the falsetto. The whole larynx is lined with mucous membrane, that covering the true vocal bands being very thin. The false vocal bands are made up chiefly of mucous membrane; the true vocal bands abound in elastic tissue. The larynx rises during the production of high tones, and during phonation its vibrations may be felt, as also those of the chest. _Practical._ 1. Feel in your own person the parts of the larynx, etc., from above down. 2. Note the vibration of the larynx when a vowel is spoken or sung. A similar vibration of the chest walls may be felt by the hands laid over them. 3. Note the change of position of the larynx in singing a scale. 4. Dissect a pig's or sheep's pluck and some specimens of the larynx. [Illustration: FIG. 35. These three figures illustrate perhaps more clearly the _action_ of the muscles indicated FIGS. 26-34. The arrows show the direction of the pull of the muscles. The result of this action is the new position of the cartilages and vocal bands, which is shown by red outlines. The muscle is also depicted in red. The heavier outer rim is to indicate the thyroid cartilage. By comparing the upper and the lowest figure it will be seen that they are opposites. Of course, in phonation the vocal bands are never so much separated as shown in the illustrations. Rather does the lower figure indicate a case of extreme separation due to a very deep inspiration. However, these illustrations are merely diagrams meant to indicate in a general way the manner of the working of parts. For exact pictures of the vocal bands and related parts, see Chapter VII.] CHAPTER VII. SOUND--THE LARYNGOSCOPE--THE LARYNX RECONSIDERED. Before discussing our subject further it is desirable that some attention be given to a few of the fundamental principles of that department of physics termed _acoustics_, and which deals with the subject of sound. If the student has the opportunity to study this subject theoretically and practically, as it is set forth in some good work on physics, he will have no reason to regret the time spent. A deep knowledge of the laws of sound is not absolutely essential, or even highly necessary, for a sufficient understanding of the principles involved in voice-production. It is, however, all-important that a few facts and principles be thoroughly grasped. For those who feel that they have the time for a study of acoustics, the author would especially recommend Tyndall's work on sound, in which the subject is treated with wonderful clearness and charm. What we endeavor now to bring before the reader we have found sufficient for nearly all the purposes of the voice-user. An observer on the street, looking at a military band, notices certain movements of one member of the organization which result in what he termed the sound of the drum; but a deaf man by his side, though he sees the movements, hears nothing. This, being analyzed, means that the movements of the drummer's arm, conveyed through the drumstick to the membrane of the drum, give rise to movements in it which set up corresponding movements of the air within the drum, which again cause movements of the body of the instrument, the whole causing movements of the external air; and here the purely physical process ends. The movements other than muscular ones are not readily observed, but experiments not only prove that they exist, but demonstrate their nature, even to their exact rate of occurrence, their size, etc. These movements are termed _vibrations_, and, as has been indicated previously, they are the sole physical cause of sound. But that the latter is not due wholly to a physical origin is evident from the fact that sound for the deaf does not exist. It must, therefore, be a personal, a subjective experience, and as the sleeping, unconscious person does not necessarily hear a sound, the process is not wholly a corporeal or physiological process; it is finally an experience of the mind, the consciousness, and so is psychological as well as physiological. The fact that sound has a physical basis in the vibrations of bodies, either solid, liquid, or gaseous, may be brought home to one in various ways. Concussion or shaking of some kind is essential to start these vibrations. The air is made up of its particles, and one being moved sets up, inevitably, movements in neighboring particles on all sides, hence vibrations travel in all directions; which explains why a sound in the street may be heard by those in every part of the street not too distant, and also in the upper rooms of the houses and below in the basements. This is an important fact for the singer or speaker to bear in mind. His purpose must be to set up vibrations that will travel with great perfection and rapidity in all directions. The following experiments of a simple kind will serve to convince those who may not have given much attention to the subject that sound is due to movements of some object, which we term the sounding body, strictly that which starts the vibrations by its own movements or vibrations. If a sufficiently flexible band of metal or a stiff piece of whalebone be fixed at one end in a vice, and then sharply pulled to one side and suddenly let go, a sound results. The same effect is produced when a tight cord or small rope is plucked at and then suddenly released. In each of these cases, if actual movements are not seen, a certain haze which seems to surround the object may be observed. The same can be seen when a tuning-fork is set into action by a bow, a blow, etc. In the case of the fork a graphic tracing (Fig. 36) can be readily taken on smoked paper, thus demonstrating to the eye that vibrations exist, that they occur with perfect regularity and with a frequency that can be measured. [Illustration: FIG. 36 (Tyndall). Illustrates how the vibrations of a tuning-fork are registered on a blackened (smoked) glass. In order that the movements of the fork shall be traced in the form of regular curves, the surface must be kept moving at a definite regular rate.] A similar observation can be made in the case of stringed instruments. If pieces of paper be laid on the strings of a violin, and the bow then drawn across them, the bits of paper will fly off owing to the movements--_i.e._, the vibrations--of the strings. That a force applied at one end of several objects in a line or series causes an obvious effect at the other end, can be well illustrated in a simple way. If a number of individuals stand one behind another in a line, each with his hands laid firmly on the shoulders of the one next to him, and the person at the end be pushed, the force will be conveyed through all the intermediate individuals, and cause the unsupported person at the distant end to move. So is it with the particles of which the air is composed. The movements begun in the drum set up by contact corresponding movements or vibrations in the adjacent air, which ultimately reach the hearing subject's ear, thereby affect his brain, and are accompanied by that change in consciousness which he terms "hearing." It will be observed that these events constitute a chain, and a break anywhere will prevent a sound being heard; there is then, in fact, no sound. Sounds are characterized by _pitch_, _volume_, and _quality_. The _pitch_ is determined by the number of vibrations that reach the ear within a certain time; the more numerous the sound-waves (vibrations) in a second, the higher the pitch. [Illustration: FIG. 37 (Tyndall). Meant to illustrate vibrations. The impulse communicated by the ball pushed from the hand to all the intervening ones causes only the last to actually move bodily.] Animals differ a good deal as to the limits of hearing. Cats hear very high-pitched sounds, as of mice, that human beings may not notice, and it is likely that insects hear sounds altogether beyond the limit of the human ear. But it is wonderful how much human beings differ among themselves in regard to this matter. It has surprised the author to find that many persons cannot hear the high-pitched note of certain birds, as the wax-wing. The lower limit, speaking generally, is for most persons 16 vibrations, and the highest 38000 vibrations a second, according to Helmholtz, hence the entire range of the human ear would be fully 11 octaves; but the practical range of musical sounds is within 40 and 4000 vibrations a second--_i.e._, about 7 octaves--and, as is well known, even this range is beyond the appreciation of most persons, though as to this much depends on cultivation--attention to the subject extending over a considerable period of time. The _volume_, or loudness, of a sound depends on the size of the vibrations, just as one feels a blow from a large object, other things being equal, more than from a small one. The ear drum-head is in the case of a large sound beaten, as it were, more powerfully. The singers that give us bigness of sound instead of quality belabor our ears, so to speak; they treat us as persons of mean understanding--dull intellects; the thing is essentially vulgar. The _quality_ of a sound is determined by the form of the vibrations. A sound of good quality is to the ear what a beautiful statue or picture is to the eye. As will be explained later, the form or quality depends largely on the shape, etc., of the resonance-chambers above the vocal bands. Much discussion has taken place from time to time as to the nature of the larynx as a musical instrument, some being inclined to regard it as most closely allied to a stringed instrument, others to a wind-instrument. It has obviously points of resemblance to both, but the most recent researches make it clearer than ever that it is neither one nor the other, strictly speaking, but that it stands in a class by itself. It is, however, helpful, in considering many questions, to bear in mind its resemblances to both wind and stringed instruments. The vocal bands are not wholly free throughout their length, like the strings of a violin, nor do they bear any great resemblance to the reed of such an instrument as the clarinet, but as in the latter the force causing the vibrations is a blast of air. We have already pointed out that the vocal bands are set into vibration solely by the _expiratory_ blast of air. THE LARYNGOSCOPE. The distinguished physiologist Johannes Müller demonstrated the working of the larynx by special experiments. He fixed into the windpipe a bellows, and showed, in the dead larynx, of course, that the blast from this source could cause the vocal bands to vibrate and thus produce sounds, which by varying the strength of the force, etc., were made to vary in pitch. While such experiments indicate the essential principles of a possible voice-production, as the conditions in life were not and could not be fully met these results were rather suggestive than demonstrative of Nature's methods. These investigations served a good purpose, but they were manifestly inadequate, and this was felt by one thoughtful vocal teacher so keenly that he pondered much on the subject, in the hope of finding a method of observing the larynx during actual phonation. To this distinguished teacher, Manuel Garcia, belongs the honor of inventing the means of observing the vocal bands in action. This was accomplished in 1854, and, soon after, Garcia read an account of his observations to the Royal Society of London; and though much in this paper required correction by subsequent observations, it remains to this day the foundation of our knowledge of the action of the larynx in voice-production. [Illustration: FIG. 38 (Bosworth). Intended to illustrate the optical principles involved and the practical method of carrying out laryngoscopic examination. The dotted lines show the paths of the light-rays.] As usually employed, the laryngoscope consists of two mirrors, the head-mirror, so called because it is usually attached to the forehead by an elastic band, and the throat-mirror, which is placed in the back part of the mouth cavity. The purpose of the head-mirror is to reflect the light that reaches it from a lamp or other source of illumination into the mouth cavity so perfectly that not only the back of the mouth, etc., but the larynx itself may be well lighted up; but inasmuch as this illumination may be accomplished, under favorable circumstances, by direct sunlight, the head-mirror is, though mostly indispensable, not an absolutely essential part of the laryngoscope. There is, indeed, one advantage in the use of direct sunlight, in that the color of the parts seen remains more nearly normal. Lamplight tends, because of its yellow color, to make parts seem rather of a deeper red than they actually are; but this to the practised observer, always using the same source of illumination, is not a serious matter--his standards of comparison remain the same. Moreover, this objection does not apply equally to electric light, now so much used. [Illustration: FIG. 39. This illustration is meant to show more especially the relative position of observer and observed. The observer, on the right, is wearing the head-mirror, while two throat-mirrors seem to be in position--in reality, the same mirror in two different positions. One is placed so as to reflect the picture of the nasal chambers, especially their hinder portion. The walls of the nose, etc., may for the purposes of this illustration be considered transparent, so that the scroll (turbinated) bones, etc., come into view. The tongue is protruded. The light, not seen in this figure, is usually placed on the left of the subject, as in Fig. 38.] It being a fundamental law of light that the angle of reflection and the angle of incidence correspond--are, in fact, the same--it was necessary that the throat-mirror should be set at an angle to its stem, so that the light passing up by reflection from the larynx should, when striking on the surface of this plane throat-mirror, be reflected outward in a straight line to the eye, which must be in the same horizontal plane with it. This and all the other facts and principles involved can only be understood by a careful inspection of the accompanying figures, which it is hoped will make the subject plain. The throat-mirror is none other than the mouth-mirror of the dentists, and in use by them before Garcia discovered how it might be employed to throw light on the larynx, in a double sense. The essentials, then, for a view of the interior of the larynx are: A source of illumination; a mirror to reflect the light reaching it from this source into the back of the throat and larynx; and a second mirror to reflect the light outward which is, in the first instance, reflected from below, from the interior of the larynx. The principles involved are few and simple, but their application to any particular case is not easy, and is sometimes well-nigh impossible. The throat-mirror should be placed against that curtain suspended in the back of the mouth cavity known as the soft palate, so that it must be pushed back out of the line of view. But many persons find such a foreign object in the throat a sufficient cause of unpleasant sensations so that retching may be the result. Generally there is a tendency to raise the tongue behind in a way fatal to a view of the mirror and the picture reflected from it. These difficulties, however, can be overcome by a deft hand using the mirror brought to "blood heat" by placing it in warm water or holding it over some source of heat, as a small lamp, and directing the subject observed to breathe freely and _through the mouth_. This latter tends to quiet that unruly member, the tongue, and lead it to assume the flat position so important to an unobstructed view. It is for the same reason the author urges mouth breathing during speaking and singing. No other tends so well to put the tongue in the correct position. The extent to which one feels the annoyance of a small mirror held gently in the throat depends really on the amount of attention directed to it, and the degree of determination with which he resolves to exercise self-control. The author has examined an entire class of students of voice-production and found only one person who did not succeed in at once giving him a view of the larynx. But it must be at once said that of all persons examined by the author during his experience as an investigator of voice-production and in special medical practice, none have been able to show their throats, the larynx included, so well as speakers and, above all, singers; which in itself indicates that speaking and singing do give control of the throat--that all its parts respond to the will of the observed person. The author must further, however, remark that he has found this control associated not so much with vocal power as with intelligent study. Intelligence tells in music a good deal more than many people have yet learned to believe; but on this point the reader will long since have learned the author's views--in fact, so deep are his convictions on this subject that he hopes he may be pardoned for frequent reference to them, in one form or another. One anatomical fact may be so invincible that a view of the glottis cannot be obtained at all: the epiglottis may so overhang the opening to the larynx that a good view of its interior is absolutely impossible, in other cases only occasionally and under very favorable circumstances. Such cases are, however, of the rarest occurrence, while there are not a few persons in whom one may even see down the windpipe as far as its division into the two main bronchial tubes, and inflammation may thus often be traced from the vocal bands far down the mucous membrane common to the larynx, windpipe, etc. As has been remarked previously, it is only by the use of the laryngoscope that one can see the vocal mechanism of the larynx in action, so that for investigation laryngoscopy is essential. Auto-laryngoscopy, or the use of the laryngoscope by the subject to observe his own larynx, has its special difficulties and advantages, the greatest of the latter being, perhaps, that the observer may use himself as often and as long as he will, while he would hesitate to make observations on others at great length or with frequent repetition. There are no new principles involved in auto-laryngoscopy. The observer must simply see that a good light is reflected into his own throat, and that the picture in his throat-mirror is reflected into another into which he may gaze, an ordinary small hand-glass usually sufficing. Only rarely is the individual met who can himself so control his tongue that assistance from the observing laryngologist is unnecessary. In by far the greater number of instances the tongue, after being protruded, must be gently held by the left hand of the observer, a small napkin covering the tip of the organ. The auto-laryngologist must, of course, control his own tongue, and better if without any hand contact. It is scarcely necessary to say that before placing the mirror in the mouth its temperature must be tested by touching it for a moment against the back of the hand. Nearly all the facts of importance in phonation, several of which have already been referred to, or will be mentioned in the "Summary and Review" below, could only have been discovered by the use of the laryngoscope. The difference in the larynx in the two sexes and in different types of singers and speakers, though open to ordinary observation, dissection, etc., are still better brought out by the use of the instrument now under consideration. One naturally expects any organ to be larger and heavier in the male than in the female, and to this the larynx is no exception; and individual differences are equally pronounced. There may be almost if not quite as much difference between the larynx of a barytone and of a tenor as between that of an ordinary man who is not a public voice-user and the larynx of the ordinary woman. The larynx of the contralto may in its size and general development remind one of the same organ in the male. The vocal bands of the bass singer may be to those of a soprano as are the strings of a violoncello to those of a violin--using these examples, it will be understood, merely as rough illustrations. The change in the size of the larynx produced by even a few months' judicious practice may be astonishing. As already hinted, it is important that in bringing about this development exclusive attention should not be given, as is sometimes done, especially in the case of speakers, to the lower tones, though it is not so important for them as for singers to have an even development up to the highest range. But again the author would urge the voice-user to aim at attaining that delicate control of muscles (neuro-muscular mechanisms, to speak more scientifically) so important for the finest vocal effects, rather than be satisfied with mere power. The vocalist and speaker must indeed be athletic specialists, but they should not aim at being like the ordinary athlete, much less mere strong men of the circus. It is said that Madame Mara within her range of three octaves could effect 2100 changes of pitch, or 100 between each two tones of the twenty-one in her compass, which would represent a successive change in the length of the vocal bands of a small fraction, possibly not more than 1/17000 of an inch--something unapproachable in nicety in the use of any other instrument. Even if we make large deductions from the above, the performances of those who have reached the highest laryngeal control must remain marvellous, all the more when it is remembered that this control over the larynx, to be efficient for musical purposes, must be accompanied by a corresponding mastery of the art of breathing. Is it necessary to point out that such wonderful development and control can only be attained after years of steady work by the best methods? At one period in the life of the individual changes of such importance take place in the entire nature, physical, mental, and moral, that he becomes almost a new being. This epoch is known as the period of puberty or adolescence, and may be considered that of the gravest moment during one's whole life; for then, for better or worse, great changes inevitably occur. It is incomparably the period of greatest development, and, unfortunately, there may also spring into being, with striking suddenness, physical and psychic traits which cause the greatest anxiety. In any case, the thoughtful must then regard the youth or maiden with feelings of the deepest interest, if not anxiety; and in the case of the voice-user, especially the singer, this period may come laden with the destinies of the future. The vocal organs, especially in males, undergo very marked changes in relative proportions and actual growth. So marked is this that the boy soprano may actually become a barytone, or, unfortunately, no longer have a singing voice at all. [Illustration: FIG. 40 (Grünwald). If this be compared with the next illustration (FIG. 41), some of the differences between the larynx of the male and that of the female may be noted. The vocal bands in FIG. 40, being those of a male, are heavier and wider. They are more covered by the epiglottis than in the other case--that of a female (FIG. 41). The false vocal bands are well seen in both cases, and by their redness (dark in the figures) contrast with the whiteness of the true vocal bands. In both illustrations the bands are in the inspiration position.] [Illustration: FIG. 41 (Grünwald). Laryngoscopic picture of the female larynx--to be contrasted with that of a male, shown in FIG. 40.] [Illustration: FIG. 42 (Grünwald). In this case, owing to the subject having a cold, it is with difficulty that the true can be distinguished from the false vocal bands, so reddened (dark, in the figure) were the former, with corresponding changes in the character of the voice. This view was obtained as the subject was phonating, so that the vocal bands are approximated somewhat closely.] [Illustration: FIG. 43 (Grünwald). Shows the larynx as it may be seen only by the use of the laryngoscope. The above is an example of the appearance of the vocal bands during a deep inspiration, and in this subject, as in those illustrated by FIGS. 40, 41, the circumstances were so favorable that the observer could see even the trachea, the rings of which are indicated in the picture. The reader will bear in mind that in this and all laryngoscopic pictures, while right remains right, front becomes back, and back front, so that the back of the larynx appears toward the observer--_i.e._, is lowest on the page.] So far as the larynx is concerned the changes are less pronounced, usually, in the girl; nevertheless, the period is one of such change for the female that the greatest care should be exercised at this time, especially in the case of city girls. The body requires all its available resources for the growth and development which is so characteristic of this biological and psychological epoch; hence it may be ruinous for the future of the girl if at this time the same strain is put upon her as on the adult, whether in the direction of study, physical exertion, or social excitement, and of course the voice must suffer with all the rest. The farmer who would attempt to work the colt of a year or two old as he does the horse of four or five would be regarded as either grossly ignorant of his business or utterly reckless as to his own interests, if not positively cruel. Do our modern usages not show a neglect of facts of vital moment still more marked? Unfortunately, the woman all her life must live, to a greater or less extent, on a sort of periodic up-curve or down-curve of vitality; and that this fact is so generally ignored by society and educators is one of those peculiarities of our age at which, in spite of its great advancement in so many directions, a future generation must wonder. To use the voice when the health is even slightly disordered is not without risk to the vocal organs, and it is the clear duty of every teacher of vocal culture, at all events, to allow no practice and to give no lessons that imply the actual use of the vocal organs at these times. Nor is this a great loss, rightly considered, for the intellectual side of the subject, which requires so much attention, may readily be made to take the place of the vocal for a few days. The so-called "breaking" of the voice is largely confined to males, because the growth changes, etc., as already said, are most marked in boys. At this time, also, there is frequently an excess of blood supplied to the larynx, with possibly some degree of stagnation or congestion, which results in a thickening of the vocal bands, unequal action of muscles, etc., which must involve imperfections in the voice. In all such cases common sense and physiology alike plainly indicate that rest is desirable. All shouting, singing, etc., should be refrained from, and even ordinary speech, as much as possible, in very marked cases, especially when the individual is even slightly indisposed or weary. In other cases the changes are so gradual and so little marked that it is not at all necessary to discontinue vocal practice, if carried out with care and under the guidance of an intelligent friend or teacher; but because of the possibility of the voice changing in quality, there is no time when the advice of an experienced and enlightened teacher or laryngologist is more necessary. The condition present in the vocal bands and larynx generally of the boy at puberty is more or less akin to that found in fatigue, ill-health, hoarseness, etc., as well as in old age, when muscular action is very uncertain, so that in the weak larynx, as elsewhere, the old man may approach the undeveloped youth, and for much the same reason--lack of co-ordinated or harmonious control of parts. These remarks imply, of course, that the youth has already begun studies in voice-production, and that raises another important question, viz.: When should the individual who is sufficiently endowed musically begin to sing, or study public utterance practically in some of its forms? No faculty develops earlier than the musical, and this is a strong argument in itself for the early study of music, apart altogether from other considerations about which there is room for more difference of opinion. Should the child get his musical development through the use of his own musical instrument or another? If he shows natural ability for the use of the voice, should he be trained very early? Against early training may be urged the facts above referred to--the liability of great changes taking place in the larynx at puberty, especially in the boy. But marked are the changes that take place in other parts of the body also, and this is not urged against exercises for general development, for the boy. It is a remarkable fact that many of the great composers sang as boys, and possibly this has had something to do with their writing music for the voice, later, when they were most of them by no means fine singers; but on this too much stress should not be laid. The question at issue is to be sharply marked off from another--the public appearance of children as soloists, reciters, etc. In this case the question is more complicated, and cannot be settled by physiological considerations alone. Our problem is also to be kept apart from another very important question--the singing of children, or, indeed, adults, in classes, choirs, etc. If a child shows himself a desire to sing, and especially if he has musical ability above the average and a voice that is of fair range and quality, one can scarcely see why he should not be encouraged, and placed under a wise teacher; for it is doubtful if there be any better way of developing the ear and musical nature, even if in future the child shows that he will accomplish more as an instrumentalist. Such vocal training tends to development of the larynx, and that can scarcely be wholly lost, no matter what changes puberty may bring about. At the same time, one must take care not to be too hopeful in regard to child singers. Nature gives us some surprises, and not always pleasant ones. But as to the cultivation of the vocal organs with the view of producing a beautiful speaking voice by processes akin to those used for the singer, as the teaching of this work constantly implies, there can be no doubt. Unless the individual acquires a respect for the beautiful in the speaking voice when young, it is feared he may never get it, as the existing state of things only too clearly shows. It is hoped that enough has been said on this subject to indicate the principles, at all events so far as physiology is concerned, on which the decisions regarding some weighty questions must be made. The question of singing with others, as usually carried out in schools, seems to the author a very doubtful procedure, to say the least, as for those with fine throats it may prove injurious, and for those who have feeble musical endowments it does little; but of this subject and concerted singing generally again. CHAPTER VIII. FURTHER CONSIDERATION OF BREATHING, LARYNGEAL ADJUSTMENT, ETC. Experience proves that breathing, for the speaker and singer, is one of those subjects that may be very inadequately comprehended by the student, and, the author regrets to say, may be positively misrepresented by teachers and writers. Some--indeed, a great many--teachers direct their students to employ "abdominal" or "diaphragmatic" breathing, others "clavicular" respiration. A little consideration must convince those who have read the chapters on breathing that such distinctions, in which one part of an entire process is treated as if it were the whole, cannot be justified. By "clavicular" breathing some mean upper chest breathing, and others a form of respiration in which the shoulders (clavicles, or key-bones) are raised with inspiration in an objectionable manner. The latter is, of course, to be condemned; yet, very exceptionally, a tenor of excellent training may feel that he can, under the circumstances of the hour, reach a certain tone very high in his range only by the utmost exertion. We all know how a singer's reputation may be more or less ruined should he fail to reach such a high note--one, indeed, by which he may, owing to the vitiated taste of the public, have acquired a reputation beyond his artistic merits. Under these circumstances such a singer might be justified in a momentary use of every resource of what physiologists term _forced respiration_, including clavicular breathing; but in general any raising of the shoulders should be absolutely avoided. When "clavicular" breathing is used in the sense of upper chest breathing, it is correct as far as it goes, but the term is not a happy one to employ in this sense, and it has led to error in theory and practice. In the same way, "diaphragmatic" breathing is perfectly correct, but its exclusive use cannot be justified, for Nature teaches us otherwise. It is true that the lower part of the chest, which always should expand with the descent of the diaphragm, is wider than the upper; it is true that by a very well-developed diaphragmatic breathing a singer or speaker is fairly well provided with breath power; but why teach this method exclusively, when thereby the voice-user is being robbed of possibly from one quarter to one third of his total breathing efficiency? It is likely that teachers have insisted on diaphragmatic breathing, especially in the case of females, because, unfortunately, prevalent modes of dress so restrict the lower chest, etc., that individuals instinctively seek relief in upper chest or clavicular breathing, in which case it may be observed that the actual breath power of the singer is very small. It cannot be denied that few people ever adequately fill the chest--least of all, few women--and if admonitions as to diaphragmatic breathing accomplish this purpose, the practice must be commended. But another remedy should obviously precede this one: the respiratory prisoner should first be released. No doubt, in the most vigorous singing and speaking the lower part of the chest, with the diaphragm, is of the greatest importance, but often both the speaker and the singer, as in a short, rapid passage, require to take breath, and the only way in which they can really meet the case is by a short, more or less superficial action of the respiratory apparatus, in which the upper chest must play the chief part. There is no opportunity to fill the whole chest, so that any admonition in regard to abdominal breathing is then quite out of place. The fact is, the voice-user should have control of his whole breathing mechanism, and use one part more or less than another, or all parts equally and to the fullest extent, as the circumstances require; and if the student has not already learned such control, the author recommends his practising breathing with special attention first to filling the upper chest completely, and then the lower. It must be remembered that for a long time breathing, for the voice-user, must be a voluntary process, which, as has been pointed out, is not the usual and natural one for the individual when not phonating, which latter is essentially reflex or involuntary. The voice-user, in other words, must, with a definite purpose in view, take charge of himself. In time, breathing for him too will become reflex--_i.e._, correct breathing for the purposes of his art will become a habit. It must be pointed out that the breathing for any particular composition, literary or musical, should be carefully studied out, for this is nothing else than determining how this part of the voice-user's mechanism can be employed with the best artistic result. This, fortunately, is now recognized by a large number of teachers, for the fact is, the artistic is at present much better understood and appreciated than the technical; were it not so, such erratic literature on the subject of breathing could never have appeared. On another aspect of the subject there is room for much greater difference of opinion. Among even eminent singers and teachers there is lack of agreement in regard to the part the diaphragm and abdomen should play in the most vigorous (_fortissimo_) singing. Singers of renown practise what may be termed a sort of "forced" abdominal or diaphragmatic breathing. The breath is so taken that the whole chest is filled, the diaphragm brought well down, and the abdominal walls drawn in (retracted), which gives the singer, in all parts above and below, a bellows with tense walls in all parts, with the great advantage that such breathing permits of a firmness otherwise unattainable, and he is enabled to exert his breath force with great certainty and power, and, as some maintain, with all the control necessary for even delicate effects. [Illustration: FIG. 44. Intended to express to the eye the two views of respiration discussed in the body of the work (p. 113-117). The dotted lines indicate the form of the chest and abdomen advocated by some as the best for the singing or speaking of long and vigorous passages.] Against this it has been urged that it is unnatural, not according to what is found in man and other animals in nature. It is perhaps forgotten that when we make a great effort, as in lifting, we put the breathing apparatus into just this state; we gird up our loins--or the equivalent of that process--so that this method cannot be said to be contrary to nature. The only question seems to be as to whether it is necessary and advantageous, or wasteful of energy. For ordinary efforts it does not seem to be necessary, though the chest must in singing and speaking always be _held_ more or less full, not by any deliberate and painful effort, but in a quiet, unobtrusive way. The diagram (Fig. 44) will make the difference in the theories referred to clear. Up to the present the student has been urged to fill his chest, after days of less vigorous practice, to the fullest, retain the mechanism in this condition for a short time, and then in the slowest and most regular fashion relax it, the purpose being development and control. In actual speaking and singing such breathing is not usually either possible or desirable. Nature herself always works with the least possible expenditure of energy and with power in reserve. These must be the voice-user's principles, to be deliberately and persistently applied. To fill the chest to the fullest on all occasions is to use up energy to no purpose and to induce fatigue. Art is ever economical. Effort, obvious effort, detracts from the listener's enjoyment. Ease in the executant corresponds with enjoyment in the listener, or, at all events, if nothing more, it puts him in such a frame of mind, that the more positive qualities of the performance find him in an undisturbed, receptive state. The singer or speaker must breathe easily and adequately, but not so as to waste his energies. Prior to the execution of his task, he should consider what respiratory efficiency calls for in the case of any particular phrase, and meet this without waste--_i.e._, fully, but with something to spare. For the best art, as well as the soundest technique, there should always be in the executant enough and to spare. Let the last word be so uttered or sung that the listener may feel, however vigorous the passage, that more could have been done had it been required; in other words, _speak or sing the last word feeling that several others might follow did one so choose_. When this principle of reserve force is not observed, the voice-user may distress himself or his audience in a variety of ways, among others by a bad habit known as "pumping"--_i.e._, endeavoring to produce sound when the breath power is really spent. It is only necessary to refer to it for a moment that its unwisdom and physiological unrighteousness may be apparent. Another term, _coup de glotte_ (blow or shock of the glottis), has led to so much confusion and misunderstanding, which unfortunately, has been followed by erroneous practice, that it would be well if its further employment were abandoned. Breathing, so far as voice-production is concerned, is for the sole purpose of causing the vocal bands to vibrate; and at this stage we may say that the perfection of any vocal result depends wholly on the efficiency with which these vibrations are produced, so that breathing and tone are brought together, so to speak, by the mediation of these little bands, the vocal cords; and this is the justification for speaking of the larynx as _the_ vocal organ. This usage, however, is objectionable, as it tends to narrowness and to divert the mind from other highly important parts of the vocal mechanism. In one sense, the respiratory organs and the resonance-chambers are each as important as the larynx. The term _coup de glotte_ has been sometimes employed as the equivalent of "attack," and again as the synonym of nearly all that is bad in voice-production. As to this latter, all depends on the sense in which the term is employed. Before the vocal bands can be set into suitable vibrations the expiratory breath-stream must be directed against them in a special manner, and they themselves must be adapted to the blast. It is a case of complex and beautiful adaptation. The clarinet or flute player must learn to "blow," and equally must the singer learn to use his breath. The processes each employs, though not identical, are closely related; both use the breath to cause vibrations, and there can be none that are effective, in either case, except a certain relation of adaptation of breath-stream to instrument be effected--with the clarinet-player, adjustment of breath to reed, and with the voice-user, of breath to vocal bands. Exactly what changes are made in the larynx, and by what means, have already been described, and will be again considered in more than one part of this volume. The main fact is that owing to a multitude of neuro-muscular mechanisms the different parts of the respiratory and laryngeal apparatus are brought to work in harmony for the production of tones. The nature of the vibrations of the vocal bands, and, therefore, the character of the sounds produced, depend in no small measure on one thing, to which attention cannot be too carefully given. To a large extent the pitch, the volume, the quality, the carrying power, etc., of a tone depend on the adjustment now referred to--one of the facts which were, if not physiologically, at least practically recognized by the old Italian masters. Teachers everywhere felt the need of some technical term to express the adjustment we are considering, hence the expression _coup de glotte_, which is not in itself necessarily either incorrect or for other reason to be condemned. All depends on the sense in which it is used, as we have already said. It must, however, be admitted that it does; to most persons, convey the idea of something that is more or less violent as well as sudden, so that there seems to lurk in this term a tendency to mislead, to say the least. There really should never be a blow or shock of the glottis; the vocal bands should never strike together violently, or, indeed, strike together at all, in the ordinary sense of the term. They should, however, be approximated with considerable rapidity and with a perfect adjustment to the breath-stream, and this must be associated with a like perfect adaptation of the breath-stream to them through the harmonious working of the many muscles (neuro-muscular mechanisms) which constitute the most important part of the respiratory mechanism. In brief, the adjustment of the breathing and laryngeal mechanisms resulting in the adequate and suitable approximation of the vocal bands for tone-production constitutes the _coup de glotte_, or, as the author prefers to term it, the "attack." To get this perfect should be one of the aims of teachers and one of the ambitions of students. Without a good attack the singer or speaker fails to do himself justice, and the listener is left unsatisfied. The good attack suggests physiological and technical perfection, so far as it goes; artistically, it implies power and sureness, and for the listener satisfaction, a feeling that what has been attempted has been accomplished; and the best of it is that the auditor at the end of a large hall experiences this sense of satisfaction quite as fully as the persons sitting in the first row of seats. Without good attacks there can be no intellectual singing or speaking, no broad phrasing, and much more that all should aim at who come before the public, and which listeners have, indeed, a right to expect. But just because many persons feel this to be true, they make serious errors in attempting to attain the result; they substitute main force for the correct method. Impatience and eagerness may defeat the voice-user's purpose. In this and all other cases the action should be performed with but moderate force, or even, at first, softly, and with gradual increase in vigor, and always in relation to the quality of the sound produced; quality must always be the first if not also the last consideration. If the method be correct, power can be attained with patience; if wrong, the throat and voice may be absolutely ruined. This point will be considered later, but we must at once express the opinion that a bungling attack in which main force is substituted for the proper method is one of the most dangerous, as it is one of the most serious errors in the technique of modern singing, and the same may often be charged against our public speaking. Another of the worst faults of singing, the _tremolo_, is due to unsteadiness in attack and in maintaining the proper relations between the breathing and the laryngeal mechanism. If the voice-user fails to get a tone of good quality easily and without escape of breath to any appreciable extent, he must consider that his method is incorrect. There must be no wasted breath in the best vocal technique. This leads to ineffectiveness in the voice-producer and lack of satisfaction in the listener. Breath must, for a perfect technique, mean tone--all tone--and this must be produced so that the singer is not aware, by any unpleasant feelings, that he has vocal bands or a larynx at all; in a perfect technique one must only be distinctly aware of certain sensations in the parts above the larynx, in his mouth cavity, etc. His consciousness is concerned with tone--the result. But, to attain this, the method must be physiological--_i.e._, natural, and not only that, but carried out with an approach to perfection in the details of the process which takes time and calls for infinite patience and care, all permeated by sound and clear ideas of what is being aimed at by the voice-user. Nothing should be attempted till the method and the end are understood thoroughly; to do otherwise is to waste time, defeat the purpose, and court failure and disappointment; and the more the student can think for himself, and the less dependent he is on his teacher, the better will it be for both and for art itself. From all that has been hitherto said it will be inferred that one of the best tests of a good attack, or any other feature in voice-production, is the absence of escape of breath, as such, from the mouth. Many persons begin wrongly; they attempt to produce tones by forcing the breath out in such a way that all their resources in breathing are at once spent, instead of being husbanded with the care of a miser. As time is the most precious possession of man, as man, so is breath for the singer or speaker. It is his hoard. Nothing must be paid out of this always limited capital for which the best value is not obtained. The test for perfect economy of breath known to older generations of actors still remains the best. They were accustomed to hold a candle a few inches from the mouth when speaking. If the flame did not flicker, it was clear that breath was not being uselessly expelled. Instead of feeling that the breath passes out, the voice-producer should rather feel, when phonating, as if it passed in--an illusion, it is true, but still a safe one. It will be found that holding a mirror or the hand with the back turned toward the mouth, and a few inches (four to six) from it, will serve fairly well to indicate whether the breath is escaping or not, though in sensitiveness and convincing power this is not equal to the flame test. We would again urge that in every instance of phonation in either speaker or singer, the breath be taken through the open mouth. Only in this way can enough breath be inhaled in the mere moment available for this purpose. Often the singer or actor must take breath with absolutely the greatest rapidity possible, and the narrow passages of the nose do not suffice to admit enough air within the time for action. But even more important, perhaps, is the fact that when breath is taken through the nostrils the singer may find that on opening his mouth to sing the tongue and soft palate are in an unfavorable position for good tone-production; his sounds may be muffled, throaty; but if breath be inhaled through the open mouth, and not through the nose at all, the tongue tends to lie flat, and this organ and other parts assume the correct position for good intonation. Mouth breathing, for the purposes of tone-production, is the only method which has physiological justification. Many singers especially complain of having trouble with the tongue; some believe it too large, others that it is beyond their control. These so-called large tongues have one advantage--they may exercise a great influence on the quality of the tone; and correct breathing brings them to good behavior. The author has time and again, by explaining the influence of mouth respiration, brought sudden joy to the heart of the singer who had been all his life troubled with the tongue, and worried by the consciousness that his tones lacked in clearness, carrying power, etc. Nose breathing is of course to be used exclusively when the subject is not phonating. During the latter many opportunities occur to close the mouth; and the idea that drying of the mucous membrane of the mouth, etc., will occur by reason of mouth breathing in speaking and singing is purely imaginary. EXERCISES. The student, whatever his degree of advancement, will find the exercises about to be recommended, or others closely resembling them, of great value. It cannot be too well borne in mind, obvious though it is, that all speaking and singing, whatever else they be, are tone-production; hence the first thing for every one to ascertain regarding himself is the extent to which he can form and hold tones of good quality--in other words, the success with which he can establish the essential co-ordinations or harmonious actions of the breathing and laryngeal mechanisms, and maintain them for a considerable length of time. Many singers can produce a fairly good and powerful tone, but it is a sort of vocal explosion rather than a tone, which will continue to do the singer's bidding for as long as he will. The correctly produced and sustained tone is the foundation of all that is best in voice-production; all the rest is but a series of variations on this. Hence the author recommends the following practice to all, whatever else they may do or have done. It is to be a test of inspiration, attack, economy of breath, adjustment of the vocal bands, the resonance-chambers, etc. 1. Inhale slowly through the somewhat open mouth, filling the chest moderately full, and at once attack so as to produce a tone of but moderate force, but of the best quality possible. 2. Continue to hold this tone as long as the breath is easily sufficient, taking care that the tone be on no account sustained after there is the slightest difficulty in maintaining it of the same quality and power as before. Steadiness and perfection in quality are to be the chief considerations. 3. The student is advised, after a few days' practice in this manner, to note with a watch the time during which he can hold a tone under the restrictions above referred to, and to endeavor to increase the holding power daily by a little. It will, of course, be necessary to fill the chest more completely day by day. 4. It will also be well for the voice-producer to practise taking very deep and rapid inspirations, followed by the most prolonged expirations. 5. This method of breathing may then be put to the actual test in intonation. Another exercise very valuable in giving breath-control is the following: Produce a tone exactly as before, but every now and then, at regular intervals at first, then at irregular ones, cut the tone off short by suddenly arresting the breath, and, after a very short pause, continue again in exactly the same way _without_ taking a fresh breath; and, as in the above and all other exercises, frequently apply the hand and, when more practised, the more exacting flame test. The first of the above exercises may be represented to the eye by a continuous straight line; the second by straight lines with short spaces between them. In all these exercises there must never be any sort of _push_ anywhere, neither in the chest nor throat. Such methods are absolutely wrong, because so wasteful of energy. The tone should come as spontaneously and inevitably as the gas from a soda-water bottle when the cork is slightly loosened, or, if this illustration be too strong (it is employed because gas, air, is concerned in each case), let us say, as water from the pipe of a waterworks' system when the tap is turned. _The tone should come, the breath must tarry._ If the student does not feel ease, certainty, and inevitableness in result, he has not made a good attack. If he cannot sustain the tone for a few seconds, he should conclude that his method of using his breath is wasteful. In time a tone should be easily held for at least ten seconds. The purpose of the second exercise is to give still more fully breath-control, and to lead the voice-user to realize how important is breathing for intonation. The student may ask: "Why not begin, as is often done, by the singing of scales?" Really useful scales are too complex; they imply the use of a series of tones formed according to the principles insisted upon above. The first thing is to get one perfect tone--to use the vocal mechanism under simple conditions; and _that tone should be chosen which the voice-user can produce of best quality and with greatest ease, with least expenditure of energy_. It should never be selected from the extremes of the subject's range. From the favorite or best tone he should work down and up the scale. After this the scale comes easy, and all actual singing is scale singing--the use of intervals--and all speaking the same thing; so that, from every point of view, this exercise should be the first in intonation, and the student will do well not to leave it till the conditions above prescribed can be fully met. Some singers have continued such exercises throughout a long artistic career. It is to be understood always that the exercises, etc., recommended in this work are intended for all voice-users, whether they are singers or speakers. It is easy for a speaker to pass from such prolonged tones to the shorter ones required in speaking, but after such exercises he can do so with a feeling of ease, mastery of himself, improved ear, and purity of speech not otherwise attainable. The author would also insist, in the most emphatic manner, on the great importance of making all such exercises musical. Every tone should be the best then possible to the voice-user, and power must on no account be aimed at for some time. Thus are developed and go hand in hand, as they always should, a sound technique with the artistic conscience and perceptions. SUMMARY AND REVIEW. _The Principles of Physics, etc., Involved._ Sound (tone) is a mental result having its origin in certain changes in the ear and the brain, owing to vibrations of the air. Tones have _pitch_, depending on the number of vibrations in a second, _volume_ (power), depending on the size of the waves or vibrations, and _quality_ (_timbre_), determined by the shape of the waves. Pitch is determined by the vocal bands, volume by the same, in great part, and quality by the shape of the resonance-chambers above the vocal bands. The resonance-chambers influence volume also. A tone is augmented by resonance. The larynx bears certain resemblances to both stringed and wind instruments, but it is really unique (_sui generis_). The vibrations of the vocal bands are caused solely by the expiratory current of air, which is more or less held back by the cords, owing to their approximation, so that the greater the obstruction the stronger must the blast of air be, other things being equal, and the result increase in pitch. The problem Nature had to solve is very complex. The laryngoscope was invented in 1854 by a teacher of singing, Manuel Garcia, who soon after gave an account of it to the Royal Society of England. The instrument consists essentially of two mirrors, the external, or "head-mirror," which is concave and reflects into the larynx, and the internal, or "mouth-mirror," which reflects the picture outward to the eye. The latter mirror is plane, and set at an angle. The picture may show, under the most favorable circumstances, all the upper parts of the larynx, including the vocal bands, but sometimes, also, the windpipe as far down as its division into the two main bronchial tubes. The difficulties commonly met with in the use of the instrument are a constrained action of the throat and mouth parts of the subject, unnatural breathing, an unruly tongue, etc. The epiglottis may, also, naturally so overhang the glottis that a good view of the vocal cords is impossible. It is difficult to see more than one-half to two-thirds of the length of the vocal bands. The picture seen is that of the parts of the larynx reversed--_i.e._, while right remains right, posterior becomes anterior. The laryngoscope shows that (1) in singing an ascending scale the vocal bands are for a certain time in action (vibration) throughout their whole length; that (2) there may be observed a rather sudden change when the vocal bands are relaxed and shortened, and that this process of shortening goes on, the bands approaching more and more, both behind and in front, till (3) in the highest tones of a soprano of great range there is only a small portion of each vocal cord toward the centre that is not approximated somewhat closely. With certain qualifications, it may be said that the action of the vocal bands is alike for all voices. In all cases a certain degree of approximation of the vocal bands is absolutely necessary for phonation, and the mechanism is generally similar in males and females till the highest tones, above alluded to, are reached. This is in harmony with the following facts: (1) The crico-thyroids are the muscles most in use in ordinary speech and in singing the lower tones. (2) Several muscles combine in relaxing and shortening the vocal bands. (3) The peculiar mechanism of the highest tones in a soprano voice of great compass is only to be explained by a combined action of several muscles, and a very delicate and precise use of the internal thyro-arytenoids attached along the whole length of the outer surface of the vocal bands. The larynx of the male differs from that of the female chiefly in its greater size, weight, etc. The vocal bands in the male may measure from three-fifths to four-fifths of an inch when relaxed, and from four-fifths to one inch when tense; in the female, from two-fifths to three-fifths of an inch when relaxed, and from three-fifths to four-fifths of an inch when tense. There are structural differences corresponding to and determining the kind of voice, as to range and power more especially. The bass singer has, as a rule, the largest larynx and the longest and heaviest vocal bands. At puberty the changes that take place in the body generally are associated with corresponding alterations in the larynx. The larynx grows, changes its proportions, etc., often somewhat rapidly, and the result may be a corresponding alteration in voice, as regards range, power, and quality. The voice, because of imperfect anatomical and physiological adjustment, may "break," to a greater or less extent. The same may take place, owing to similar imperfect adjustment, in old age, and temporarily, owing to disease, weakness, nervousness, fatigue, faulty production, etc. These facts indicate that under such circumstances the voice should be used with great care, not at all, or in a whisper, when the vocal bands are practically not in action. [Illustration: FIG. 45. Represents what the author has frequently seen, by the use of the laryngoscope, when a soprano is producing a very high head-tone, say C, D, or E in alt. It will be observed that the vocal bands approximate in front and behind ("stopped"), so that the only parts of the bands capable of vibration are those short portions which form the margins of the oval opening shown in the illustration. Only a very limited number of singers are capable of the delicate adjustments required.] In a singer highly endowed by nature and perfected by long training based on the soundest principles, the action of the muscles of the larynx may reach a degree of perfection only to be compared with that of the eye and ear. Consideration of the _coup de glotte_, the attack, or adjustment of mechanisms to produce tone that begins correctly; breathing, with open mouth, with effectiveness and economy of energy; singing for children, in choirs, etc., have been discussed. Practical exercises should be related to the principles underlying them. Musical and æsthetic principles are always to be associated with a sound technique. The artistic and technical or physiological conscience should be associated. CHAPTER IX. THE RESONANCE-CHAMBERS. When it is borne in mind that the vocal bands have little or nothing to do with the quality of tones, the importance of those parts of the vocal apparatus which determine quality, and the error of speaking of the larynx as if it alone were the sole vocal organ, become apparent. It may be strictly said that the vocal bands serve the purpose of making the resonance mechanism available. What one hears may be said to be vibrations of this resonance apparatus, and not, strictly, those of the vocal bands, though this expression would also be correct, but would not indicate the final link in the series of vibrations. The tone caused by the vibration of two such small bands as the vocal cords must, in the nature of the case, be very feeble. It becomes important for the reader to convince himself of the importance of resonance in sounding bodies and musical instruments. When the stem of a tuning-fork so small that it can be scarcely heard when in vibration, except by, the person holding it, is laid against a solid body, as a table, its sound is at once so increased that it can be heard in the most distant part of a large room. When the same fork is held over an empty jar of suitable size and shape, a similar but much, less marked increase of its tone is to be observed. If a cord of but moderate thickness be fastened at each end to a thin piece of wood, say a split shingle, and a little block of wood, in imitation of the bridge of a violin, be placed under the cord so as to render it tense, we have the essentials of a stringed instrument, the pitch of which can be made to vary by moving the block about and thus varying the tightness of the cord. But the sound of such an improvised instrument, produced by drawing a bow across the cord, is ridiculously feeble. In the actual violin the volume of sound, as well as its quality, depends on the size, shape, and weight of the instrument. The strings serve the purpose of causing the body of the instrument, the air within it, and, in consequence, the air without, between it and the ear of the auditor, to vibrate or move in a specific manner. Similarly, the imposing size of the grand piano is associated inevitably with loudness, as compared with a smaller instrument. A violoncello must produce a larger tone than a violin, though not necessarily one more intense. These principles of resonance apply in the case of the singer and the speaker. The bass and barytone produce tones of larger volume (as well as different quality) than those of the tenor, because their resonance apparatus is different in size and shape. It is true, their vocal bands, their wind-power, and the laryngeal muscles are different--they are not of the same size, etc.--and, in a more remote sense, this is the cause of the differences in the tones they produce; but the immediate cause is to be sought in the resonance mechanism, and, above all, in the resonance-chambers. It is true that when one speaks or sings, the chest, windpipe, and larynx may be felt to vibrate, but the essential vibrations are _supra-glottic_--above the vocal bands. These resonance-chambers are the _mouth cavity_, in the widest sense, and the _nasal chambers_. It is highly probable that the vibrations of the chest walls and of the bones of the head may to some degree modify the vibrations of the air within the resonance-chambers, chiefly in the direction of intensification; but the idea that the hollow spaces in certain of the bones of the head have any appreciable influence on the tones of the speaker or singer, can at best not be considered as demonstrated, and it serves no practical purpose to take into account this possibility. The great facts, the facts which are so plain that they may be demonstrated to a child, are these: that the quality of any tone--_e.g._, a vowel--is absolutely determined by the shape of these cavities, the mouth and nasal chambers. This subject will be treated further when the tones, etc., of speech are considered, but inasmuch as no one can sing, in the proper sense of the term, without the use of vowels, at least, and as we produce different vowels with ease, one may at once demonstrate to himself that this is done by altering the shape of his mouth cavity, and chiefly by the agency of the tongue and soft palate. [Illustration: FIG. 46 (Tyndall). Representing water being poured into the vessel A B, till the air-space is just sufficient to respond to the vibrations of the tuning-fork. The air thus becomes a resonator of the fork.] [Illustration: FIG. 47 (Spalteholz). The mouth is extremely widely opened. The soft palate is seen terminating in the uvula, and on each side, extending from it, are the pillars of the fauces, a pair of folds between which the tonsil is seen to lie.] [Illustration: FIG. 48. View of the nose, etc., from behind, showing the parts enumerated above. It is not hard to understand that any considerable amount of swelling of the lining mucous membrane might give rise to difficulty in breathing through the nose, and even compel mouth-breathing.] [Illustration: FIG. 49 (Spalteholz). Showing well the scroll (turbinated) bones of the nose, which break up the space and make it more cavernous. It can be seen that there is free communication behind, between the mouth and the nasal cavities, and that if the soft palate and the tongue approximate, the breath-stream must pass into and through the nose, giving rise to nasality in utterance.] A short description of a part to which many voice-users remain strangers all their lives will now be given. These resonance-chambers remain, for many, an apparatus used daily and absolutely essential, yet never examined. Fortunately, a few illustrations, which should be followed by an examination of the student's own resonance-chambers and their various parts as they may be seen in a mirror, will remove all difficulty in the understanding of them, and prepare for that detailed study to be recommended in a subsequent chapter. Passing from before backward, one meets the _lips_, the _teeth_ and _gums_, the _hard palate_, which is a continuation of the gums; then, suspended from the hard palate, behind, is the _soft palate_, back of which lies the _pharynx_ (often termed "the throat"), and above it and constituting its continuation, the _naso-pharynx_; and lying on the floor of the mouth there is the _tongue_. Certain of these parts, as the teeth, gums, hard palate, nasal bones, etc., constitute fixed structures, and though they determine in no small measure the shape of the resonance-chambers, and so to a degree the quality of the voice, so movable are the lips, soft palate, and, above all, the tongue, that there is the widest scope for varying the quality and even the volume of the voice; so that it is a good thing, practically, for every one to believe that so far as quality, at all events, is concerned, he is the master of his own destinies. Though we are accustomed to believe that the mouth and nose are, though neighbors, quite separate and independent of each other, such is not the case. Indeed, in the pre-natal condition these are not two, but one; and in some instances they remain imperfectly separated, owing to the failure of the hard palate to develop to the full--a condition known as "cleft palate," and giving rise to a peculiar nasal intonation, to be explained presently. The _nasal chambers_ are divided into two by a vertical partition, as one can readily demonstrate by the use of his fingers, and are still further broken up by certain bones, the scroll-shaped or _turbinated_ bones, so that the nasal chambers are of very limited size, and much divided up by bony outgrowths from their walls. The _vertical septum_, while bony above, is cartilaginous and flexible below. Without the aid of instruments and a good light the nose can be but indifferently examined from the front, while it requires the greatest skill on the part of a laryngologist to see it well from behind. However, the whole difficulty can be got over by visiting a butcher and securing a sheep's head split through from before back. In a few moments one can learn all the essential facts, including that one of great practical importance--viz.: that every part of the resonance-chambers is lined by the same mucous membrane which is also continued downward into the larynx and the gullet. It will be thus observed that the throat and nose communicate in the freest manner behind, and that the only way of closing off the mouth cavity from the nasal chambers is by means of the tongue and the soft palate working together. As in the proper use of the tongue and soft palate lie many of the secrets of the art of the speaker and singer, special attention must be given to these parts. The _tongue_, which completely fills the floor of the mouth, is made up of several muscles of different attachments, which explains why this organ is so movable. To say that it can with the greatest ease and rapidity be turned toward every one of the thirty-two points marked on a mariner's compass, is but to feebly express its capacity for movements. What we are most concerned with now is its power to alter the shape of the mouth cavity in every part. The _soft palate_ is suspended like a curtain from the hard palate, behind. It is composed of muscles arranged in pairs, and is continued into a conical tip below known as the _uvula_, and on each side into folds, the _pillars of the fauces_, between which lie the _tonsils_, which are in shape like very small almond nuts. When quite normal these should not protrude much, if at all, beyond the cavity made by the folds referred to above. Both the tonsils and the uvula may become so enlarged as to be a source of awkwardness or more serious evil to the voice-user. They may, in fact, require operative interference. So serious, however, is the decision to operate, or the reverse, for the voice-user, that the author recommends that such operations be entrusted only to laryngologists who have some knowledge of their influence on voice-production. It is of the greatest moment to observe that the quality of tones can be made to vary in the highest degree by the joint use of the tongue and soft palate. When in vocalizing the tongue is raised behind and the soft palate made to approach it, or actually to meet it, the tone assumes a more or less nasal character. The reason of this is that the cavity of the mouth proper, or "mouth" in the narrower sense, the forward part, is shut off from the hinder part, or the pharynx, so that the breath is then directed upward and passes chiefly through the nose, producing a nasal tone or twang--always a fault, and one fearfully common in America. When the tongue alone is raised behind, or drawn back unduly, tones become muffled--indistinct, etc. This is also a very common fault, but is found in England and Germany also. English speech is often hard and guttural, German unduly guttural, if not so hard, and American slovenly and horribly nasal. But what may in a certain degree be disagreeable and a vocal error, is in another a positive excellence; so, in this case, the use of the tongue and soft palate in the proper degree and at the right moment gives us emotional expression. This subject will, however, be considered again later; in the meantime, the student is advised to do a little experimenting in the use of his tongue and soft palate, with a view of noting how the quality of tone may be thus made to vary. He is also advised to use a hand-glass with the object of observing the parts mentioned in this chapter, and if he can also find a friend willing to lend his mouth for observation, so much the better. The sooner any voice-user comes to feel that his vocal destinies lie in his own hands, the better. "Know thyself" is as necessary an admonition for the speaker and singer as for any other artist, but with that must go another, "Believe in thyself"--that thou canst produce tones of beautiful and expressive quality if thou wilt; it may be only after much wisely directed work, but yet it is possible. Allusion must be made to the danger of those engaged in mathematical and physical investigations applying their conclusions in too rigid a manner to the animal body. It was held till recently that the pitch of a vocal tone was determined solely by the number of vibrations of the vocal bands, as if they acted like the strings of a violin or the reed of a clarinet, while the resonance-chambers were thought to simply take up these vibrations and determine nothing but the quality of tone; they were believed not to have any influence on pitch. Against this view the author long ago demurred. To Prof. Scripture, however, belongs the credit of demonstrating that the resonance-chambers determine pitch also. It seems probable that the vocal bands so beat the air within the resonance-chambers as to determine the rate of vibration of the air of these cavities, and so the pitch of the tone produced. These chambers not having rigid walls, one can the better understand that the tension of these parts may not only be different in individuals, but vary in the same person from time to time, according to the condition of his health, etc. Herein we find another source of explanation of variations in the voice. All these considerations make the resonance-chambers more important than ever, so that there is greater objection to speaking of the larynx as _the_ vocal organ than we were aware of before these investigations were undertaken. SUMMARY. Without a resonator, which may be solid or hollow, the sound made by a reed or tense string is feeble. That the mouth can act as a resonator may be proved by holding a vibrating tuning-fork of suitable pitch before this chamber when open. The resonating chambers of importance are supra-glottic. Of these the "mouth" including all as far back as the pharynx and the nasal chambers are the principal. These two main cavities are separated from each other by the hard palate, which is a bony floor, covered with mucous membrane, as are all the parts of the resonance-chambers. The hard palate extends horizontally from the gums backward, and is continued as the soft palate. The latter is a muscular and therefore movable curtain that divides, with varying degrees of completeness, the mouth (in the narrower sense) from the pharynx and naso-pharynx--_i.e._, the space back of the soft palate and the posterior nares (back nostrils) respectively. By the elevation of the back of the tongue and the lowering of the soft palate as when one speaks nasally, the mouth proper is largely shut off from the nasal chambers, so that the breath must be directed through the nose. "Cleft palate" also connects undesirably the mouth and nasal chambers. The tonsils lie between two folds, the pillars of the fauces, connected with the soft palate. When normal in size the tonsils should scarcely extend beyond these folds. The uvula is the central lower tip of the soft palate. The nasal chambers are divided by a central bony and cartilaginous partition, the septum nasi, but are further encroached upon, on each side, by three scroll-like (turbinated) bones. The tongue is composed of several muscles, which explains why its movements may be so complicated and delicate. The mouth cavity is bounded in front by the gums, teeth, and lips. The form and, to some extent, possibly; the size of the resonance-chambers determine the quality of the tone produced in speaking and singing. The shape and size of the mouth can be made to vary by the soft palate and lips, but chiefly by the tongue, so that the movements of the latter, especially, cannot be too well studied. It was formerly considered that pitch was determined solely by the rate of vibration of the vocal bands; though the author opposed this view as rigidly applied. Very recently Prof. Scripture, by the use of new methods, has shown that the supra-glottic chambers cannot be correctly likened to a resonator with rigid walls. It is held that the vocal bands give a number of sudden shocks to the air in the resonators, so that, in a sense, the resonance-chambers determine both the pitch and the quality of the tone; and as the tension of the resonators varies with both the physical and psychical condition of the individual, variations in tone-production, more especially as to quality, can now be the better understood. According to this view these chambers are not properly resonators but sounding cavities. The reader's attention is particularly drawn to the new views of the method of action of the vocal bands, etc., referred to on this page. Since the above was written, such views have become more widely known, and it is hoped that as they are very radical they may be established by other methods. CHAPTER X. THE REGISTERS OF THE SINGING VOICE.[1] [Footnote 1: The chapters on the Registers of the Singing Voice may be omitted by readers whose practical interest is confined to the Speaking Voice.] About no subject in the whole range of voice-production has there been so much confusion, difference of opinion, and controversy as that of registers; so that it is important at the very outset to define register, and throughout to aim at the utmost precision and clearness. "A register is a series of consecutive and homogeneous sounds rising from the grave to the acute, produced by the development of the same mechanical principle, the nature of which essentially differs from any other series of sounds equally consecutive and homogeneous, produced by another mechanical principle" (Manuel Garcia). "A register consists of a series of tones which are produced by the same mechanism" (Behnke). "A register is the series of tones of like quality producible by a particular adjustment of the vocal cords" (Mackenzie). From a consideration of the above proposed definitions it will be seen that for the successful or, at all events, complete or ideal investigation of a subject so many-sided and difficult, many qualifications are desirable, if not absolutely essential. It is not too much to say that the ideal investigator of the registers should have a practical knowledge of general anatomy and physiology, together with a detailed and exact knowledge of the vocal organs; be versed in the laws of sound; have an adequate knowledge of music; be capable of examining himself with the laryngoscope (auto-laryngoscopy) as well as others (laryngoscopy); possess an acute ear for the pitch and quality of tones; be himself able to use his voice at least fairly well in singing and speaking; be provided with the all-important ballast of common sense, and an impartial mind longing above all things to learn the truth. As few can hope to unite all these qualities in themselves in even a moderate degree, openness of mind, temperance in the expression of opinion, and common sense with experience, must be largely relied on to furnish working conclusions. A discussion of a subject so difficult and complicated is not easy to follow. It is but just to other investigators, and fair to the reader, to present the views of those who have possessed special qualifications for dealing with the questions involved. The author will endeavor to present the grounds on which others have taken their stand, in a few words and clearly, if the reader will patiently follow. There will at first seem, possibly, to be little agreement, but it will be shown that on some of the most essential points there is substantial unity of opinion; and the subject is of such vital moment, as the author will endeavor to make clear, that it is hoped that the most patient examination will be given to the questions that arise, from the beginning to the end of the discussion. For the author to express a dogmatic opinion, and simply state his disagreement or agreement with others, would be contrary to the whole spirit of this work, and leave the subject where it once was--in the realm of hopeless disagreement and controversy. If the problem of the registers is to be solved to the satisfaction of the rational thinker, it must be by evidence, and not the mere opinions of any teacher or writer, however eminent. To lay this evidence before the reader is now the author's task. One of those most eminently equipped, by a great variety of qualities, for the investigation of this subject, or any other question of the voice, was Madame Seiler. Whenever the author is obliged to differ from this really great investigator, he does so with the sense of the highest respect for her opinions generally, because she always sought for scientific grounds for such opinions. Her views may be thus briefly presented: She recognized three registers, chest, falsetto, and head, with their subdivisions. (1) The first chest register extends (1) The whole glottis (vocal to [Illustration: a b-flat] in men, bands) is moved in loose and to [Illustration: c' c-sharp'] vibrations. in women. (2) The second chest register extends (2) The vocal ligaments (or to [Illustration: f' f-sharp'] in both ligamentous glottis) alone sexes. are in action. (3) The first falsetto extends in (3) The edges alone of the females to [Illustration: c'' c-sharp''] vocal bands vibrate, but the and in males to [Illustration: e'' whole glottis is in action. e-flat'']. (4) The second falsetto in the (4) The edges only of the female extends to [Illustration: vocal bands are used, and the f'' f-sharp''] and to [Illustration: g''] vocal ligaments alone are in in women. action. [Transcriber's Note: So in original; "female" should probably be "male."] (5) Above this point head tones (5) Edges only of the vocal begin. bands in vibration; partial closure of the ligaments posteriorly (behind). It will be noted that Madame Seiler spoke of the vocal bands (cords) proper as the "ligamentous glottis," and included in the "glottis" the arytenoid cartilages themselves, or, at all events, that part of them, their lower anterior angles, known as the vocal processes (or extensions), to which the vocal bands proper are attached. The above tabular statement shows (1) that Madame Seiler recognized five registers for both male and female voices; (2) that she used the term "falsetto" in a sense different from its ordinary one. Usually this term is not applied at all to the female voice, but only to that special modification of the male voice seldom employed now, and almost never except by tenors. With this writer, "falsetto" as applied to female voices replaces "middle," in the commoner usage. [Illustration: FIG. 50. Tabular representation of Madame Seiler's division of the register.] Garcia, also, recognized five registers. Behnke, a teacher of singing, who practised laryngoscopy and auto-laryngoscopy in the investigation of the registers, used "lower thick," "upper thick," "lower thin," "upper thin," and "small," as answering to the "first chest," "second chest," etc., of Madame Seiler and others. Nearly all writers have used the term "break" to indicate the point at which a new register begins. Behnke held that the break between the thick and the thin register occurred in _both_ sexes at about [Illustration: f' f-sharp']. The vocal bands in this part of the scale vibrate in their entire breadth, and the series of tones above the point just referred to is produced by a new mechanism, but one which is the same for all voices and both sexes--_i.e._, only the inner edges of the vocal bands vibrate. According to Behnke, the male voice has but two registers, the thick and the thin, but the female voice three, the thick, the thin, and the small. These terms were not original with Behnke, but had been used earlier by Curwen. Behnke was emphatic on one point, to which we would call special attention, in his own words: "If there is _straining_ anywhere, it is during the attempt to carry the mechanism of the upper thick beyond its natural limit." Mackenzie (afterwards Sir Morell Mackenzie) held that "It is certain that however over-refined musicians may multiply the 'registers' of the voice, physiologically there are but two--_i.e._, 'chest' and 'head,' the falsetto of the man answering to the head production of women." According to the same author, "The essential factor in chest production is the long reed, whilst the essential factor in head delivery is the short reed." The terms "long reed" and "short reed" were the equivalents of Madame Seiler's "glottis" and "ligamentous glottis" respectively. Mackenzie held that the cartilaginous (inter-arytenoid) glottis is generally open in the lower and gently closed in the upper tones of the chest register, while a segment of the ligamentous glottis (vocal bands proper) is tightly closed in the head voice. As the result of the examination of 50 persons gifted with fine voices, 42 of whom were "trained" singers and 8 "natural" singers, Mackenzie formulated his conclusions as follows: 1. In tenor voices the whole glottis may be open to [Illustration: g a b] and not unfrequently to [Illustration: g']. Beyond this point there is closure of the cartilaginous glottis. Sometimes the whole glottis is open throughout. 2. In barytone voices the whole glottis is often open to [Illustration: a b], and occasionally to [Illustration: c']. Beyond this point the cartilaginous glottis is closed, except in rare cases. 3. In bass voices the whole glottis is sometimes open to [Illustration: g b]. Beyond this point, except in a few instances, the cartilaginous glottis is gradually closed. 4. In sopranos and mezzo-sopranos the whole glottis is sometimes open to [Illustration: f' g'], often to [Illustration: c''], beyond which the cartilaginous glottis is usually closed. The glottis is sometimes closed throughout the scale, and in one case it was open throughout. 5. In contralto voices the whole of the glottis is often open to [Illustration: f' g'], beyond which the cartilaginous portion is closed. 6. In the head voice of women and the falsetto voice of men "stop-closure" (_i.e._, closure so tight that the cords in this region do not vibrate) always takes place in the posterior portion of the ligamentous glottis, and sometimes at the anterior part also. This writer also held that "Boys who sing alto always use the chest register." He was of opinion that "The quality of the voice generally, but not always, indicates which mechanism is being used." The views of the author, published at a former period, and based on the special examination of a large number of persons with the laryngoscope, etc., and on auto-laryngoscopy, may be briefly stated as follows: A nomenclature for the registers involving no theory would be best, such, for example, as _lower_, _middle_, and _upper_ registers. Mandl, who recognized only two registers, spoke of them as "lower" and "upper," equivalent to "chest" and "head," as commonly used. The author examined with the laryngoscope 50 persons, who might (with Grützner) be divided into "trained singers," "natural singers," and "non-singers." The whole glottis was found to be open in all voices in the lowest tones of the chest register, and this condition obtained up to about [Illustration: f-sharp' g'], beyond which another mechanism came into play, except in rare cases. The high falsetto of men and the head voice of women are produced by a similar mechanism and method. In the investigation of registers more attention should be given to the use of the breathing organs than has hitherto been done by those writing on this subject. As Madame Marchesi, of Paris, has taught with preëminent success, and with the greatest practical consideration for the preservation of the voice and the vocal organs in an unimpaired condition, and as the author has had, through her kindness, the opportunity to become acquainted with her methods by observation, her views on the registers are here presented. It is to be understood that as she teaches only ladies, her views are considered, so far as she is concerned, as applying only to female voices. These views are further presented because Madame Marchesi was herself taught by Garcia, who was in the direct line of the old Italian masters, though it will be observed that the pupil has retained only the essentials of the master's views on the registers. 1. There are three registers in female voices: chest, middle, and head. 2. While there are small differences in voices and individuals as regards the registers, the following principles apply to all of them: (_a_) The chest register must never be carried above [Illustration: f-sharp']. (_b_) [Illustration: e' f'] should be "covered" or modified chest tones. (_c_) In all cases [Illustration: f-sharp''] must be a head tone. (_d_) In quick passages chest should not be carried beyond [Illustration: d-flat']--_i.e._, [Illustration: d' e' f'] are middle in quick passages. CHAPTER XI. FURTHER CONSIDERATION OF THE REGISTERS OF THE SINGING VOICE. It will, it is hoped, be apparent to the reader that the subject now under treatment may be considered either theoretically or practically. If science be exact, systematized, and, when complete, unified knowledge, then every source of information must be employed in the investigation of so difficult a subject as the registers. There may be differences of opinion as to the relative importance of some of these means of investigation--_e.g._, auto-laryngoscopy, but that it should be utilized, there can be no question. The value of photography of the larynx, as carried out up to the present, may be questioned; but there can be no doubt that if this method of studying the action of the vocal bands could be pushed to a certain point, much light might be thrown on the questions at issue. Merely to assume that a method of treating the registers which has given, apparently, good practical results in the hands of one teacher is sound, and rests on a scientific basis, is unwarranted. It may be simply a little better or a little worse than some other. How is the student to distinguish, in his choice, between Mr. A and Mr. B, in the case of two successful teachers, both of whom recognize registers? A physiologist may be sound as far as he goes, yet lack that practical knowledge of the voice which the vocal teacher properly considers requisite in determining how a pupil shall use the registers. Among those who are most dogmatic on this and other questions there is often a plentiful lack of knowledge of the vocal organs; and some clever laryngologists must have learned, when they were carried into the discussion of this subject, that some knowledge of music and singing is absolutely indispensable, and that enough cannot be picked up, even by an able man, in a few minutes devoted to interrogating singers, especially when these vocalists have been trained by widely different methods, and have, as is too often the case, given but little real _thought_ to the scientific, or, indeed, any other side of their art. We find "break" confounded with "register," and the meaning attached to the latter, at best, one-sided or inadequate in some respects. The truth is, such a subject cannot be settled by the physiologist, even when a laryngologist, as such; nor can the solution to a scientific question of this kind be given by a singer, as a singer. Such a problem can only be settled, as we have throughout insisted, by those possessing many qualifications, and even when the investigator unites in himself every intellectual qualification, something will depend on his temperament and spirit. An atmosphere of controversy is not favorable to scientific investigation, and among the dangers that ever lie in the path of the teacher are pride and prejudice. The assumption that one is prepared to teach is too often associated with views and feelings that prevent the guide from remaining himself a student and being ready to learn even from the very beginner, as he must if he have the true spirit. Unfortunately, several of the most highly qualified writers on this subject have formulated their views under conditions unfavorable to the attainment of the whole truth. It is to be borne in mind always that a register implies (1) a series of tones of a characteristic clang, _timbre_, color, or quality; (2) that this is due to the employment of a special mechanism of the larynx in a particular manner. It follows that in thinking of registers scientifically, one must take into account both the tones and the mechanisms by which they are produced. Naturally, with most untrained people the passage from one register to another is associated with a suddenness of change which is unpleasant, and which is termed the _break_. It is often suggestive of weakness, uncertainty, etc., and to an ear at once sensitive and exacting through training is intolerable when very pronounced. Often this break is very marked in contraltos, and is invariably so pronounced in the male voice when it passes to the upper falsetto that even the dullest ear does not fail to notice the change. It is, therefore, not surprising that teachers should have sought to lessen the unpleasant surprise for the listener caused by the break. Some have looked on registers as almost an invention of the Evil One, and forbidden the use of the term to their students; but such ostrich-like treatment of the subject--such burying of the head in the sand--does not do away with a difficulty, much less can such a plain fact as the existence of registers be ignored without the most detrimental results, as we shall endeavor to make plain. Some, feeling that the break was an artistic abomination, have proceeded to teach the student to reduce all tones to the same quality, which is about as rational as asking a painter to give us pictures, by the use of but one pigment. To attempt to abolish registers would be like leaving but one string to the violin; which instrument, in its present form, has a register for each string; and the player endeavors to avoid the breaks that naturally occur in passing from string to string, and to get a smooth series of tones just as the intelligent vocalist does. The registers may be represented to the eye by the method illustrated in figure 52. The wise instructor recognizes registers; they are a fact in nature, and one to be valued. The more colors, the greater the range of the artist's powers, other things being equal, whether the artist paint with pigments or tones; but just as the painter uses intermediate tones of color to prevent rude transitions or breaks, so must the singer modify or "cover" the tones between the registers--_i.e._, use to some extent the mechanism of both neighboring registers. The reader who has perused the previous chapter thoughtfully may naturally ask: "With such difference of opinion among eminent authors like those quoted, how am I to know which one to follow, and what to believe on this subject?" The answer to that question we propose now to give. It will be wise to endeavor to show just wherein the writers quoted differ and on what they agree. A careful examination will show that there is substantial agreement on the most important points: 1. All agree that there are registers, or natural changes of quality of tone, corresponding to changes of mechanism or method. 2. All, with the exception of Madame Seiler, agree that the most important changes take place at or near [Illustration: a'] in female voices, and the majority consider that this applies to both sexes equally. 3. Often in males there is some laryngeal change lower than this. 4. All agree that the high falsetto of tenors is of a special quality, and produced by a mechanism of its own--_i.e._, all consider it a separate register--and often, at least, it begins naturally about [Illustration: f-sharp'], which is usually, however, written an octave higher, though really sung as given above. [Illustration: FIG. 51. A photographic representation of the appearances of the vocal bands when the subject is sounding first E and then F sharp, in which latter case "the vibratory portions of the vocal bands are shortened about one-sixteenth inch," according to Dr. French, who has been eminently successful in photographing the larynx. It will be noted that this is the point in the scale at which the change of register usually takes place--_i.e._, there is a change of mechanism corresponding to the change in quality. (French-Raymond.)] The point of greatest strain is generally, for both sexes, about this point, and many persons cannot sing higher than this--_i.e._, about [Illustration: f-sharp'] for males, and its octave for females. It is to be remembered, as Madame Seiler has pointed out, that at the period of greatest perfection in vocal training, some hundred and fifty years or more ago, concert pitch was very much lower than it is to-day; so that to teach tenors to sing in one register up to [Illustration: a''] then, was quite a different matter from what that would be to-day. The old Italian masters were accustomed to train singers to the use of the falsetto, and whatever views may be held as to the desirability of the tenor using this register, so far as art is concerned, there can be no question whatever that physiologically it is easy, and one of the means by which relief may be sought from the high tension caused by carrying up the lower register. The author, after a special investigation of this and other questions connected with the registers, came to the conclusion that the falsetto in males and the head voice in females are produced by a similar mechanism. In the high falsetto the vocal bands do not vibrate throughout their whole breadth, and there must be, for a successful result, in every case a feeling of ease, due to the relaxation of certain mechanisms in use up to that point and the employment of new ones. [Illustration: FIGS. 52. These figures are meant to convey through the eye some of the main truths regarding the nature of registers and breaks. The figure on the left applies to the case of one with three registers in the voice, and with the breaks only very moderately marked; the illustration on the right applies to the same person after training, when the breaks have become indistinct, almost imperceptible. For teaching purposes the author is accustomed to use a similar diagram, but in shades of the same color, the difference being rendered less obvious by intermediate shades _between_ the register shades in the right-hand figure.] The author now offers, with all respect, but confidence, a few criticisms on the eminent investigators whose conclusions and methods he has been discussing. Madame Seiler was the writer who, as has been already said, brought more numerous and higher qualifications of a scientific and practical kind to the investigation of this subject than any other person. However, the study of physics, involving as it does the use of methods of extreme precision, tends to beget habits of mind which are not in all respects the best for the consideration of biological problems. Madame Seiler and her master, the physicist Helmholtz, regarded the vocal mechanism very much in the same light as they did their laboratory apparatus. Only in this way can the author explain some of Madame Seiler's positions; but on this assumption one can understand why she should make five registers, and consider them all, apparently, of equal importance. This latter, together with the tendency generally to present her views in too rigid a form, was, we think, her great error. Behnke admitted that all five registers might be heard, especially in contraltos, but he did not attach equal importance to each of these registers. Mackenzie the author conceives to have been misled by the very method that he considered a special virtue in his investigations--the examination of trained singers. Surely, if one would learn what is Nature's teaching on this subject, he must not draw conclusions from trained vocalists alone! By training one may learn to walk well on his hands, but this does not prove such a method the natural one, nor would it be good reasoning to draw this conclusion, even if a few individuals were found who could thus walk more rapidly than in the usual way. The diversity that Mackenzie found in singers does not, in the author's opinion, exist in nature; much if not most of it was due to training, and all that can be said is that several people may sing in different ways with not greatly different æsthetic results; but such methods of investigation may, as in this case, lead to conclusions that are dangerously liberal. The author holds to-day, as he did when he published his results many years ago, that "Impressions from general laryngoscopic observations or conclusions drawn from single cases will not settle these questions. Very likely differences such as these writers allude to may exist to a slight degree; but if they do, I question whether they are sufficiently open to observation ever to be capable of definition; nor is it likely that they interfere with methods of voice-production which are alike operative in all persons." Holding these views, not only can the author not agree with those who believe that the change in a register occurs in different persons of the same voice (_e.g._, soprano) at appreciably different levels in the scale, and even varies naturally from day to day, but he holds that to believe this in theory and embody it in practice is to pursue a course not only detrimental to the best artistic results, but contrary to the plain teachings of physiology in general and that of the vocal organs in particular. The change in a register should be placed _low_ enough in the scale to suit all of the same sex. _It is safe to carry a higher register down, but it is always risky, and may be injurious to the throat, to carry a lower up beyond a certain point._ The latter leads not only to a limitation of resources in tone coloring, but also to straining, to which we have before alluded. Though this process may not be at once obviously injurious, it _invariably_ becomes so as time passes, and no vocalist who hopes to sing much and to last can ignore registers, much less make the change at a point to any appreciable extent removed from those that scientific investigation and equally sound practice teach us are the correct ones at which to make the changes. Why is it that some artists of world-wide reputation sing as well to-day as twenty years ago, while others have broken down or have become hopelessly defective in their vocal results in a few years? There is but one answer in a large proportion of these cases: correct methods in the former and wrong methods in the latter class of singers--and "correct" in no small degree refers to a strict observance of registers. The author has known a professional soprano to sing every tone in the trying "Hear, O Israel" (_Elijah_) in the chest register. How can such a singer hope to retain either voice or a sound throat? But so long as audiences will applaud exhibitions of mere lung-power and brute force the teachings of physiology and healthy art will be violated. But, surely, all artists themselves and all enlightened teachers should unite in condemning such violations of Nature's plain teachings! The question of the registers is generally considered now a somewhat simpler one for males than for females. Basses and barytones sing in the chest register only; tenors are usually taught to sing in the chest register; but few teachers believe that the high falsetto is worth the expenditure of the time and energy necessary to attain facility in its use. Probably in many male voices there are the distinctions of register Madame Seiler alludes to--_i.e._, first chest and second chest, or some change analogous to the middle of females; but, from one cause and another, this seems to readily disappear. Whether it would not be worth maintaining is a question that the author suggests as at least worth consideration. Certain it is that, speaking generally, there is no change in males equally pronounced with the passage from the lowest to the next higher (chest to middle) register in females. What, then, are the views that the author believes so well grounded, in regard to the registers, that they may be made, in all confidence, the basis of teaching? Without hesitation, he recommends that arrangement of the registers set forth in the last chapter. It is not the exclusive invention nor the basis of practice of any one person, but it may fittingly enough be associated with the name of a woman who for over fifty years has taught singing with so much regard for true art and for Nature's teachings--_i.e._, for physiological as well as artistic principles. Such a method for female voices is wholly consistent with the best scientific teaching known to the author; it is in harmony with the laws of vocal hygiene; it gives the singer beautiful tones, and leaves her with improved, and not injured, vocal organs. Such an arrangement of the registers is not marred by the rigidity of Madame Seiler's nor the laxity of Mackenzie's, but combines flexibility with sufficiently definite limitations. As to just how much a teacher of singing should say to the pupil on the subject of registers, and especially in a physiological way, must depend on circumstances. About the wisdom of teachers of singing (and elocution) understanding the vocal mechanism, and carefully weighing the matter of registers from every point of view, the reader of this book will have no doubt, by this time, the author ventures to hope. Of course, one may object that for every tone, as it differs slightly in quality from its neighbor in the scale, there should be a new register--a new mechanism. Such an objection, though theoretically sound, is of no practical weight. What students wish to know and instructors to teach is how to attain to good singing--the kind that gives genuinely artistic results, and leaves the throat and entire body of the vocalist the better for his effort. The teaching of this work in regard to the registers and other subjects is intended to accomplish this, and not to occupy the attention of readers with vocal or physiological refinements of no practical importance. The author has always been of opinion that those who have investigated and written on this subject have devoted insufficient attention to one point--viz., the manner of using the breath. The breathing in the use of the high falsetto, for example, is as different as are the laryngeal processes; and this is a point of practical importance, for the voice-user must ever consider economy in breathing. It is expenditure in this direction that most taxes all singers, even the best trained and the most highly endowed. But the student, deeply impressed with the importance of the subject of registers, may ask: "How am I to distinguish between one register and another? How am I to know when I am singing with chest, middle, or head voice?" The answer is: "By sensations"--chiefly by hearing, but also by certain sensations (less properly termed "feelings") in the resonance-chambers and to a certain extent in the larynx. Of course, before one can thus identify any register, he must have heard a singer of fairly good voice form the tones of this particular register. One who has never heard sounds of a particular color or quality cannot, of course, learn to recognize them from mere description, though by this means he is often _prepared_ to hear, and to associate clear ideas with that hearing. As the registers are of such great practical importance, especially for the female voice, there is no period when it is of so much value to have a lady teacher as just when the voice is being "placed"--which should mean the recognition of its main quality, and the teaching of registers by imitation as well as description. The student should be made to understand, by practical examples, the subject of "covering," or modification. Certainly, the training of a vocalist cannot be adequately undertaken by even the most learned musician, however good an instrumentalist, if he has paid no attention to the voice practically. Much of the teaching done by those ignorant of voice-production, however well meant, may be a positive drawback, and leave the would-be singer with faults that may never be wholly eradicated. The author would recommend all students who have begun a serious practical study of the registers to hear, if possible, some singer of eminence who observes register formation strictly. In this way more can often be done in getting a clear notion of their characteristic qualities, in a single evening, than by listening to an ordinary amateur, or to such a voice as an otherwise excellent vocal teacher can bring to her work, on many occasions; better one hour listening to a Melba, with her observance of registers, covering, etc., as set forth by the author in this chapter, than a score of vocalists of indifferent, even if not incorrect production. One then has before her an individual who, after long and careful training, attains results not, indeed, within the reach of all, but such as may be approached if the same methods are pursued long enough; and in Madame Melba, and others that might be named, the student has examples of how those using correct methods, and not worshipping at the shrine of mere vocal power, may retain the vocal organs uninjured and the voice unimpaired after the lapse of well-nigh a score of years of exacting public singing. Teachers will do well to encourage their pupils to hear the best singers; for do not students need inspiration as well as discipline? Granted that the ear can at once determine what register the pupil herself or another singer may be using, what other guide has she? There are certain sensations, as already said, felt within the resonance-chambers and larynx, which are sure guides. In a person who had learned to recognize the correct register formation by the help of the ear and those sensations now referred to, the latter would suffice to be a partial guide, at least, even had he become deaf. While these sensations are absolutely characteristic, it is difficult to describe them; they must be experienced to be understood. To attempt to describe the taste of a peach to one who knew that of an apple but had never eaten a peach would be, perhaps, not absolutely useless, but would certainly serve little purpose. The sensation must accompany the correct formation of the tone. The term "straining" carries with it the idea of unpleasant sensations; all understand practically what this term means; yet the sensation of strain in a tenor carrying his chest register too high is no more marked than the sensation of relief when he changes to the falsetto. When once the voice has been well placed, little attention need be, or is usually, paid _consciously_ to the sensations associated of necessity with all changes in the vocal organs. When one becomes unduly conscious of any of the normal sensations of the body, he is no longer a perfectly healthy person. At the same time, as we have pointed out in Chapter II., and shall do more at length shortly, sensations are absolutely essential guides for all muscular and other processes of the body; but they should enter just so much into consciousness, and no more. It is practically helpful to the voice-producer and the teacher to think of the resonance-chambers and the ear as bearing a close relationship to the movements essential to tone-production. The sensations from these parts are of importance above all others in voice-production. They are the chief guides, and the attention may to advantage be concentrated on them. No doubt the question of registers for the speaker must be considered, but this can be done to greater advantage in a later chapter. SUMMARY. All good definitions of a register must recognize two things: change of quality in the voice, and change of mechanism in the vocal apparatus. A break is not a register, but occurs because of the existence of registers. The abrupt transition, or break, is to be avoided by covering, or modification of the upper tones of the lower (at least) register. For an adequate scientific examination of the question of registers, many qualifications are required in the investigator; and the student, when not an investigator, should endeavor to weigh the evidence presented so as to choose with caution from among conflicting opinions. He should be suspicious of those who scout the value of scientific study of this or any other subject, and also of those who claim that experience is of no importance in settling such a question. Though several well-qualified persons who have written on the subject differ in some respects, they are in agreement as to many of the more important points. They are practically all convinced that there is commonly a change of register for all voices, at or near one point in the scale (F), and that if this be practically disregarded, dangerous straining may result. Conclusions drawn from trained singers, alone, may be misleading. All classes of persons should be examined with the laryngoscope, if correct and far-reaching generalizations are to be safely made. The precision and rigidity of physics and mathematics cannot be introduced with safety into a subject of this character; otherwise the division and limits of registers will be fixed with a narrowness of margin that does not comport with Nature's methods. In all questions of register, the method of breathing--_i.e._, the nature of the application of the expiratory blast--must be duly considered. With male voices, the subject is usually considered much simpler than in the case of female voices. Men sing mostly in the chest register; basses and barytones wholly so, with the rarest exceptions. Tenors are taught to do so. Whether there might not be a subdivision of this register made to advantage in training, the author leaves as an open question; but about straining, in the case of tenors and all others, and as to the importance of recognizing three registers for female voices, there is in his mind no question. The fact that some may not be able to produce head tones does not justify carrying up the chest register to any appreciable extent, even by altos. Now, as in past times, the high falsetto for males, if good, the result of proper training, has the warrant of both art and sound physiology. In the use of registers, sensations are infallible guides. Of these, the most important are those associated with the organs of hearing, but those arising in the vocal organs are also valuable. Those only should expect to sing artistically, and to preserve their voices unimpaired for a long period, who wisely observe Nature's teachings in regard to registers. CHAPTER XII. FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES UNDERLYING VOICE-PRODUCTION. It is highly important for the speaker or singer to realize early in his career that all forms of artistic expression can be carried out only through movements--muscular movements; in other words, technique or execution implies the use of neuro-muscular mechanisms. However beautiful the conception in the mind of the painter, it can only become an artistic thing when it assumes material form--when it is put on canvas. The most beautiful melody is no possession of the world while it is in the mind of the composer alone; till it is _expressed_, it is as good as non-existent. Even poetry can only affect us when it exists in the form of words produced by lip or pen. Between the glowing thought of the poet and the corresponding emotion produced in ourselves there must intervene some form of technique--_i.e._, some application of neuro-muscular action. This latter term is a convenient one, and has been already explained. It is a condensed expression for that use of the nervous and muscular systems that results in movements, simple or complex. Without nerve-cells and muscles movements are impossible, speaking generally, and for a willed or voluntary movement there must be something more, an idea or concept. Before one can make a movement resulting in a simple line or even dot on a piece of paper, he must have the idea of that line or dot in mind. In like manner, before one plays or sings a single note, he must have the idea of that note in mind; in other words, the idea is the antecedent to the movement, and absolutely essential. To have such an idea, memory is necessary. It is impossible to sing a tone after another, as an imitative effort, unless one has the power to retain that tone in memory for at least a brief period of time; and before this same tone can be reproduced on sight of it as represented by a written note, the memory of the sound to which it answers must first be recalled; and not only so, but other memories--indeed, memories of all the sensations associated with the bodily mechanism used in producing it. This applies to all movements, of whatever kind, that we at any time execute. Without the past--_i.e._, without memories--no present. Some of the memories associated with an act may be lost, and others, sufficient for its performance in some fashion, remain. A man may forget, after the lapse of months or years, how to tie his necktie in a certain way, as he stands before a mirror; yet on turning away he may succeed at once. In this case the visual memories, those that come through the eyes, were lost, but others, those associated with muscular movements, remain. The muscular sense may prove an adequate guide when the visual is ineffective. In the same way, one may call up a melody by moving the fingers over the piano keys, when it cannot otherwise be recovered, or one rescues an air from oblivion by humming a few of its tones; all of which is explained by the revival of muscular and similar memories. All voluntary movements are at first accomplished relatively slowly and with difficulty. They soon weary us. A child learns to walk with the greatest difficulty, and only after numberless failures or errors. The first tones of the would-be pianist or violinist are produced but slowly and with great difficulty, in spite of the most determined effort. If the attempts to vocalize are any more successful, it is because one has already learned to talk--a process that in the first instance (in infancy) was even more laborious than that of walking. The degree to which any one succeeds in his earliest efforts to sing a scale will depend on the readiness with which he can use a variety of neuro-muscular mechanisms--indeed, all those associated with the respiratory, laryngeal, and resonance apparatus. Fortunately for the voice-user, this apparatus has all been in use in ordinary speaking. But when this latter process is analyzed, it is found that it is not essentially different from singing. In each the same mechanism is used, and in much the same way; but every one knows that not all who can talk are able to sing, and it is usual to say that those who cannot have no "ear" for music; and this expresses a part of the truth, though not in a scientific way. What is really the truth is found to be, on analysis, that certain guiding sensations, chiefly those from the hearing apparatus (ear, nerves, brain), are insufficient, owing either to natural defect or lack of training; but that this is not the only explanation is plain from the fact that many composers with the most vivid musical imagination, the most perfect auditory memory, and the most acute ear, cannot sing in any but the most imperfect manner. As we have said before, the speaker of great power to affect his fellows through tones, or the artistic singer, must be a sort of vocal athlete. In the athlete there is a very perfect association into one whole of certain sensations from eye, skin, muscles, etc., and certain movements. These exist in all men, but in very unequal degree. The singer is a tone specialist in whom the perception of the pitch and the quality of sounds may not be more acute than in the composer, possibly less so, but he can do what the composer of music often cannot--viz., associate these sensations with muscular movements of a highly perfect character; in different words, he has the technique which others have not in an equal degree. In the singer and speaker there is a very close association between the sensations of the resonance-chambers, the larynx, and other parts of the vocal mechanism, and those from the ear. So perfect does this become from training that the necessary technique at last becomes easy. But it is of the greatest importance that the exact nature of this process be realized by both students and teachers, for weighty considerations grow out of it. We wish to impress the fact that the nature of all neuro-muscular processes is essentially the same. Learning to sing is like learning to talk, and the latter is not radically different from learning to walk. This last is at first slow, imperfect, laborious, and largely a voluntary or willed process, or, more strictly, a series of processes. As progress is made, there is less of the voluntary and more that is involuntary, or what physiologists term reflex. When ideas, feelings, etc., enter into a process which is carried out reflexly, a _habit_ is formed. One may say that talking implies a series of associated reflexes, the parts associated being the respiratory, the laryngeal, and the resonance apparatus. Singing only approaches this condition of reflex action and habit after practice, and yet no air is perfectly sung except when the result is the outcome of a sort of new habit. Every song involves, the learning of new vocal habits. One forms a new habit of an athletic character all the more readily because of previous ones. A man learns to play one game of ball the better, usually, if he have already played at another, the reason being that he has only to modify the action of neuro-muscular mechanisms, not associate new mechanisms together to the same extent as in the formation of a habit of a widely different kind, as rowing a boat. At the same time, one must always unlearn something--break up old habits, to some extent. An opera singer often makes a failure of oratorio at first. The sets of reflexes or the habits, bodily and mental, which he has found valuable for the one form of art do not suit the other perfectly; nevertheless, the same materials are used, the reflexes are in the main the same. He must use preventions, or _inhibitions_, as the physiologists term them. Rather is it that he must avoid doing certain things--_i.e._, modify his neuro-muscular processes or reflexes, than form wholly new ones. Were it not for reflexes and habits, learning would be so slow one lifetime would not suffice to make an artist. It must be apparent that habits and reflexes are Nature's ways of economizing energy. As the best have but a limited amount of energy, it should be the aim of every one who will not be a mere reckless spendthrift to economize, to make the most of what Nature has given him; hence the purpose of practice is not only to render success more certain and more perfect, but to make efforts tell to the fullest extent with as little expenditure of energy to the speaker or singer as possible. _He sings or speaks best who attains the end with the least expenditure of energy._ It may with scientific accuracy be said that the object of the student should be to attain to the formation of correct habits in singing and speaking, and of the teacher to guide in this process. It follows that all practice by the beginner should be carried out only in the presence of one who knows the correct methods and can teach the student how to form his habits wisely. Practice alone may not only do little good, but, by the formation of wrong habits of production, be positively mischievous; yet a trainer of athletes often lays more restrictions on his ward as to when and how he shall practise, and exercises more supervision over it, than do some teachers of singing, in spite of the fact that the apparatus the singer or speaker uses is much more delicate, and wrong habits much more injurious. The admonition "Practise, practise," is greatly overdone. The best results cannot be obtained in either singing, speaking, or playing, with the lengthy and necessarily more or less imperfect if not careless practice in which many students of music indulge. Better ten minutes with the whole attention of a fresh and interested mind given intelligently to a subject than ten hours of mere mechanical movement. It is a mistake to suppose that the acquirement of a sound technique is a purely mechanical process. We have shown that for all successful effort there must be the idea, and as soon as that fades, from weariness, etc., the practice should be discontinued. Students are not treated fairly when given exercises the meaning or purpose of which is not explained to them. There is now more need than ever that the teacher of music or elocution should be intellectual and not mechanical in his methods. Technique is mechanism, but it should be mechanism subordinated to ideas. Technique is essential to art, but it is not art. Art is the soul, technique the body. The soul will be unknown to the world without technique; hence the author strives in this book to teach the principles on which a sound vocal technique rests, but only that what is best in the soul be not hidden, that the one noble or poetic thought shall be multiplied a thousand times--indeed, that if it be sufficiently worthy, it shall, like Tennyson's Brook, "go on forever." To believe, on the one hand, that the highest art can be attained with a very mediocre technique, and, on the other, that a perfect technique is the main object of musical training, are alike great and mischievous errors. The author has been asked frequently such questions as the following: "When is the best time to practise? How long should a singer practise at one time, and for how long during a single day? Should one practise softly (_piano_) or vigorously (_forte_)?"--etc. Often the student is puzzled by contradictory opinions on this subject. One celebrated prima donna states that she never practises more than one hour a day; another, equally distinguished, that she has often spent several hours in almost continuous strenuous practice. What is the student to believe, and whom to follow? No one, for no two persons are alike. All the above questions can be safely and surely answered in the light of science and experience combined, but such questions cannot be settled by the dictum of any singer, teacher, or writer, nor does the experience, in itself, of any one person furnish an adequate guide for others. [Illustration: FIG. 53. By this diagram the author has attempted to give the reader some idea of the nature of the chain of processes involved in singing a single tone, from the time the eye looks on the note till the muscles concerned have given it utterance as a tone. The various nervous centres concerned are all in the brain (though the spinal cord supplies some subordinate centres). There are sensory centres, or those for the eye and the ear, and motor centres, or those sending the commands to the muscles involved. Further, these must be _connected_ by paths not shown in detail, but represented by one centre spoken of as an "association" centre, which may also, possibly, have much to do with emotions, etc. But, at all events, the dependence of movements on ingoing messages or sensations is emphasized. The deaf cannot speak or sing, and the blind cannot read (ordinary) music. The defect may not be in either senses or muscles, but in the relating nervous mechanism between them. As explained in the body of the work, execution depends on at least two factors, sensations, or ingoing messages, and movements determined by these. Now the _connection_ between the ingoing and the outgoing impulses is the most important and the least understood part, but the above diagram will at least serve to emphasize the fact that such connections exist, and that in a general way the result, performance, can be explained. No attempt has been made to trace the path of other sensory impulses than those from eye and ear, as this would make the diagram too complicated.] Investigation has shown that the use of muscles tends to the accumulation of the waste products of vital activity; that such accumulation is associated with the experience in consciousness of what we term "fatigue," and which is preceded by "weariness." The latter is a warning that the more serious condition is approaching, but is to be distinguished from another feeling not necessary to name, often present in unwilling youthful students, and for which various forms of treatment are sometimes tried so unsuccessfully that it is as well to discontinue study altogether. 1. The time at which, as a rule, any work can best be carried out is during the early hours of the day, so that if it is possible, practice should be begun early, and after some preliminary exercise for the good of the body generally--_e.g._, a short walk, during which the lungs may be filled with pure air. As the muscles of the chest, etc., are to be used in voice-production, such a walk or other form of general exercise should not be lengthy. Energy should be reserved for the muscular activities involved in vocal practice. 2. The principle that guides in all use of the muscles, all exercise, is that it be taken under the most favorable circumstances and short of fatigue, even of weariness; hence the question whether the student should practise five minutes or one hour is one that he himself, and he alone, can determine, provided he is old enough and observant enough to know when he begins to feel weary in his vocal mechanism, whether it be in the respiratory organs, the larynx, or the resonance-chambers. With some there is a weak spot, and this settles the question for all other parts. As a rule, beginners will do well not to practice, at first, for longer at one time than five minutes, not only because of the possible weariness, but because at the outset it is difficult to keep the attention fixed. The ear and brain tire as well as the muscles. Naturally, the condition of the student at the time has much to do with the length of a practice, but all things are determined by the sensible application of that principle which science and experience alike show to be a safe guide. Naturally, as in other exercises, the duration of an exercise may be gradually lengthened with experience. One singer may find an hour a day sufficient, if she be already perfectly trained in every respect--be "in good form," or "fit," as the athletes say--and have only light or _coloratura_ parts to sing; but would this suffice to form a singer to sustain the heaviest dramatic parts for hours together before a large public audience? The training of a hundred-yards sprinter should not be the same as that prescribed for a long-distance runner or a wrestler. [Illustration: FIG. 54. The above is a diagrammatic representation of a highly magnified section (or very thin slice) through the outermost or most superficial part of the great brain (cortex cerebri), and is inserted to help the reader to form some idea of the complexity of structure of the most important part of the brain so far as the highest mental processes are concerned. This complexity is greater in man than in other animals.] [Illustration: FIG. 55. A nerve-cell from the outer rind of the great brain (cortex cerebri), much magnified. (Schäfer.)] 3. In all practice it is ever to be borne in mind that the end, even in an exercise, is artistic. Tones of that quality only which is the best possible to the singer at the time are to be produced, and everything else must yield to this. 4. No wise trainer ever allows his charges to go on a racing track and at once run a hundred yards at the highest possible speed. Such a course would be against all sound knowledge and all the best experience. Hence the question of _piano_ and _forte_ practice answers itself; the singer should never begin any exercise _forte_, but either _piano_ or _moderato_--as to which depends on the individual. Some persons can only after long study produce really good tones _piano_; such if not most persons should, of course, begin practising with moderate force. Certainly, the voice-user should, in order to gain volume, gradually increase the vigor of his practice, but exactly how to do this, and to what extent daily, are questions in which the advice of a sensible and experienced teacher is of great value, though the principle on which that opinion should be founded is clear enough. 5. The questions as to the total amount of time to be devoted to practice in a single day, and as to whether practice should be continued day after day for weeks and months without interruption, must be decided by the condition of the student, and not by any arbitrary opinion. Some individuals and some racers have a capacity for steady work not possessed by others, and happy are they; but there are others who go on by spurts, and such natures are often capable of reaching lofty artistic heights, if they be wisely managed. They need much the same sort of care as a very fleet but uncertain race-horse, and they are often a source of disgust to themselves and of worry to their teachers; but they in some cases get far beyond what the more steady ones can attain to, while others are so unsteady without being talented that they are a trial, and a trial only, to all concerned. Such people should, even when clever, not be encouraged in their vagaries, but brought gradually and tactfully under a stricter discipline. 6. "Hasten slowly" applies to all musical practice, that of the voice included, and there never was a time in the history of the world, unfortunately, when people believed in it less. The author would especially warn the student against attempting to force progress by violent or unduly long-continued practices, for if the vocal apparatus be strained, it may remain impaired for months or even for life. "Little and often" is a good maxim for vocal practice, all the more as the discontinuation, for the time, of voice-production need not imply that the mind must cease to act. An artist is not formed by vocalization alone, but by processes of education that are many and complicated, into which we might be tempted to enter did they not lie beyond the range of the present work. If the principles set forth in this chapter are scientifically reliable, and we believe they will not be questioned, certain practical considerations are well worthy of special attention. If practice, repetition, leads to the formation of habits more or less fixed, then there can be no surer way to ruin a speaker or vocalist than to permit him to practise by a wrong method; the more he practises, the more he stamps in what is bad. It follows that the most hopeless cases eminent teachers have to deal with are to be found among those vocalists who come to them after years of professional life before the public. One must look on some of these people as on a building spoiled by a bad architectural design. In some cases there is nothing to do but to take the whole structure apart and put it together afresh. It may be humiliating to the vocalist, and it is a severe condemnation of certain methods of teaching, but there is often no other course open, the only question being as to whether the material is good enough to warrant such a radical proceeding. Every eminent teacher can recall such cases, and might fill volumes with their histories. If more of these were published as warnings to students and teachers, a good purpose would be served. It is truly sad to find that the prospects of one who might have been formed into a fine artist have been hopelessly ruined by years of practice based on principles that are radically unsound. In the next chapter some specific applications of the principles discussed in the foregoing pages will be considered. SUMMARY. All forms of artistic and other expression imply movements. For a willed or voluntary movement there are required (1) an idea, (2) a neuro-muscular mechanism. Such movements may be relatively simple or highly complex. They all tend, when frequently carried out, to become reflex, and to some extent unconscious or subconscious. Combinations of reflexes when associated with consciousness become habits. Movements only attain their highest perfection when they reach this stage. It follows that the purpose of all musical practice should be to establish those reflexes which attain the end, the ideal, and to form correct habits. A poem properly recited or a song satisfactorily sung implies a combination of certain reflexes or habits. Some of these are in their main features common to all speech and song, but many are peculiar to each example. As phonation implies the use of the muscles (neuro-muscular mechanisms) of the (1) respiratory organs, (2) vocal bands, (3) resonance-chambers, and as these must all work in harmony, or be "co-ordinated," it will be seen that speaking and singing are physiologically highly complex. When, in addition, ideas and feelings are associated, and determine the exact form of these co-ordinations, the whole matter is seen to be still more complex. The emission of a single tone implies (1) an idea--the nature of the sound as to pitch and quality, (2) such an arrangement of all the parts of the mechanism as will produce it. The former involves memory of the tone; the latter, memories of former movements. Then, partly as a series of voluntary acts and partly reflexly, according as the student is more or less advanced, or the particular tone new or old in experience, do the various neuro-muscular arrangements pass into orderly action. In this process the ear is the chief guide, always in relation to memories. When one uses the printed page, the eyes also guide--_i.e._, the nervous impulses that pass in through these avenues determine the outgoing ones that bring the muscles into action. In doing so they rouse many others (associated nervous connections) which are highly important when an artistic result is to be reached. To consider a single case: Assume that the note [Illustration: a'] is to be sung. The following are required: (1) Memory of this tone. (2) Adaptation through eye and ear of all the neuro-muscular mechanisms required for (_a_) bringing the vocal bands into the correct position and degree of tension; (_b_) the proper shape, tension, etc., of the resonance-chambers; (_c_) that use of the breathing apparatus suitable to cause the proper vibrations of the vocal bands. All use of the voice implies this much, but in most instances there are _associated_ nervous mechanisms and ideas that are highly important in determining the exact volume, quality, etc., of the tone as related to expression of ideas and feelings according to conventional usage. The breath-stream must in all cases be so employed that there shall be economy of energy--no waste. Waste occurs whenever air escapes to any appreciable extent through the glottis chink, as that implies an imperfect adjustment of the vocal bands and the expiratory current. From this and other points of view it may be said that _he is the best singer who gets the most perfect result with the least expenditure of energy_. It is of the highest importance that during every practice, and every moment of each practice, attention be given to as perfect a result as possible, and that the same method be invariably employed. All questions as to methods of practising can be decided on well-known scientific principles which harmonize with experience, and need not be left in that loose and unsatisfactory condition when the dictum of some individual is substituted for principles capable of actual experimental demonstration. CHAPTER XIII. CHIEFLY AN APPLICATION TO VOICE PRODUCTION OF FACTS AND PRINCIPLES PREVIOUSLY CONSIDERED. Certain sounds may be made without the use of words or syllables, even without the employment of vowels or consonants, but intonation proper cannot be carried out without vowels, at least. The exact nature of vowels and consonants will be considered in the next chapter, but in the meantime it may be pointed out that a vowel is a free and open sound requiring for its production a certain form of the resonance-chambers. Neither vowels nor consonants are absolutely pure--that is, entirely free from foreign elements, from noise; but for all practical purposes a vowel is a pure sound, a consonant a sound accompanied inevitably by much noise. This noise is largely due to the difficulties of sounding consonants, the breath breaking against the vocal organs, especially the teeth, lips, etc., much as the waves of the sea against a rocky beach. So far then as musical quality is concerned, a consonant is an unmitigated nuisance. On the other hand, none but the most elemental communication by sounds could be carried out by the use of vowels alone. The consonants stop the breath-current, separate the vowels, and thus lay the foundation for the expression of ideas. Ideas imply differences; a new idea is conveyed by a new word, which in its simplest form is a syllable. When a consonant is introduced after a vowel sound, a momentary arrest is produced in the breath-flow, and this has its corresponding effect on the mind. It is, in fact, equivalent to a pause--say a comma or a period. If introduced before a vowel, it is marked off in a more definite way. The effect of this is to enable the ear the better to grasp the sounds. There is the principle of differentiation and the principle of rest, both highly important in all sensory and other psychic or mental processes. Consider the sentence "He is a man"--composed purely of monosyllables. Remove the consonants, and we have the following: "e i a a." Their ineffectiveness in conveying ideas is at once plain, for though "a man" conveys two ideas, such are not expressed by the vowels, which are identical, while "e" and "i" are common to too many words of one syllable to serve any useful purpose, alone, in the conveyance of _definite_ ideas. The consonants at once mark off the limitations; they fence around the ideas, so to speak. For the communication of ideas they are indispensable; nevertheless, being largely noises, they are musically abominable. It follows that voice-production should begin with vowel sounds, and not words--not even syllables. For successful intonation, the first steps should be made as simple as possible, as we have already endeavored to show, hence no such complication as a consonantal noise should be introduced. Upon this point there is room for no difference of opinion, though as to which vowel sound is best suited for the beginner, and for more advanced voice-production, there has been great diversity in teaching--a diversity which we propose to show, in the next chapter, need not exist to any appreciable extent. Certain vowel sounds may be said to be common to most of the languages used by civilized peoples. These are _u_ (_oo_), _[=o]_, _a_ (_ah_), _[=a]_, _i_ (_ei_), and _[=e]_. There is, fortunately, among teachers considerable agreement as to the question of the best vowel sound with which to begin intonation, or the process of forming musical tones. There can be no question that _a_ (ah) is for general purposes the best, the reason for which will appear later. Unfortunately, there is not in the minds of students or teachers generally a sufficiently deep conviction of the importance of forming the voice by long-continued practice with vowels only, for which lack the spirit of the times is largely responsible. Until a student of either speaking or singing can form every vowel perfectly, which implies the recognition of these sounds as pure and perfect, and the ability to sing them as the tones of a musical scale, he should not take a single step in any other direction. To do so is to waste tune and to lower artistic ideals. When words are to be used, the question as to which language should be employed is for the singer, at least, a very important one. The ideal vocalist who will bring before the ideal public the best in vocal music must sing in Italian, French, German, and English, at least. Each of these languages produces its own effects through the voice, and each presents its own advantages and difficulties; but all competent to judge are agreed that Italian, because of the abundance of vowels in its words, is the best language in which to sing, or, at all events, to begin with as a training. Because of the prevalence of consonants, the German and the English languages are relatively unmusical. The English abounds in hissing sounds, which are a trial to the singer with an exacting ear and perfect taste, and produce most unwelcome effects on the refined listener who really puts music first and the conveyance of ideas second in a vocal composition. It should, of course, be the aim of the student to overcome these difficulties, as German and English, the languages of Goethe, Schiller, and Shakespeare, are for dramatic and some other purposes not equalled by any other languages. But the artist, and above all the musical artist, must be a citizen of the world. He deals with those forms of emotion common to all mankind, and not with the peculiar little combinations of ideas that grow up in a province, city, or village; though of course he will not neglect local coloring, so well illustrated in the folk-songs or popular melodies that have survived for ages in different countries. Though a vowel can be produced pure only when the resonance-chambers assume a certain form, this is, of course, only one link in the chain of production. The breathing apparatus and the larynx are also concerned, and we are again brought back, as ever, to the triple combination of the three sets of mechanisms so often alluded to, yet, we venture to think, very inadequately linked in the minds of learners, if not also of teachers. In producing a vowel sound the end aimed at is, on the one hand, purity, on the other, as a result, the easy and effective use of mechanisms--_i.e._, the technique. In every case the breath must be used without waste--just enough, and no more; the laryngeal apparatus, the vocal bands, must be so adapted as to set the air of the resonance-chambers into perfect vibration, which only occurs when the expiratory blast is applied in the correct way and at the right moment to the properly adjusted vocal bands. This latter we have defined as the attack. It implies giving a good start to the tone. It is not all, but it is a large half, in the artist and for the auditor. RECONSIDERATION OF THE RESONANCE-CHAMBERS We shall now give further attention to some of the more important parts of the resonance-chambers, in so far as they bear directly on voice-production. In singing and speaking, the larynx should be _steadied_, but not held rigidly fixed in any one position. It will be remembered that to this part of the vocal mechanism are attached, below, the trachea, and above, the tongue, indirectly through the hyoid bone and the thyro-hyoid membrane, as well as certain muscles which influence the relative position of these various parts, so that to maintain the larynx in the same position, absolutely, must be against Nature's methods. The tongue alone must in its movements tend to alter the position of the larynx, as we have before pointed out. At the same time, the laxness and lack of control which some singers permit in their vocal organs, under the mistaken idea that all the parts of the "throat" cannot be too free, prevents them from getting the effects they desire, with that vigor and certainty the public so much admires, and rightly so. The golden mean should be observed; between undue tension, which implies inability to control, whether it be in the larynx or the breathing apparatus, and a looseness inconsistent with neat and certain results, the voice-producer must choose, with that common sense so indispensable to success in all undertakings, but which will never be adequately encouraged till students look more frequently for the reasons of the procedures recommended to them, and teachers strive to gain influence with their pupils by showing them that what they recommend lies beyond their own minds--that it, in fact, has its foundation in the laws of Nature. Of the tongue, soft palate, and lips, which are the principal modifiers of the shape of the mouth cavity, the tongue has by far the most influence. When the tongue lies flat in the mouth, it may be considered to be in its primary position, and it is important that in singing and speaking the student learn to begin his voice-production with this organ in that position, or a slight modification of it, for it is only when it is thus placed that a tone at once round, full, and pure can be produced. In order to secure this result, the vocalist or speaker must begin by taking breath through the mouth, as we have already insisted, and at once, before there is time for any stiffening of parts, commence to intonate--_i.e._, as soon as enough air has been inhaled for the purpose intended. The correct position is facilitated when one taking breath through the mouth acts as if about to _yawn_. If this act be well imitated, the student will find, on looking into a hand-glass, that the tongue is more or less furrowed behind in the middle--in other words, it forms a sort of trough; and the deeper the trough the student learns to form at will, the better, for there are times in actual singing and speaking when this must be as deep as possible. It is clear that in this way the central convexity above, formed by the hard palate, forms with the corresponding concavity in the tongue a sort of trumpet-shaped organ admirably adapted for the production of the desired tone. The tongue is important in the highest degree not only in the formation of vowels, as will be shown more fully in the next chapter, but also in shaping consonants. It is sometimes important to move the tongue from one position to another with great rapidity. Such a composition as Figaro's song (cavatina) in Rossini's "Barber of Seville" could not be properly sung by any one not possessing great control over the tongue. Indeed, this composition may be considered a perfect test of the extent to which the singer is a master of mouth gymnastics; and this is only one of many such works. In like manner, many passages in Shakespeare and others of the best writers in all languages can only be spoken with effect by those with a mastery over the tongue, lips, soft palate, etc., but above all, the tongue. Important as are the lips, many persons tend to use them too much, and the tongue too little, in speaking and singing. They attempt to make up for a mouth almost closed in front by the teeth, by excessive movements of the lips. Special tongue and lip practice should be carried out before a mirror. The lips should be kept rather close to the gums, and moved away as little as possible (_i.e._, the lips), as to do so serves no good purpose, and is unpleasant to the eye of the observer. Teeth and lips must be regarded, so far as musical sounds are concerned, as danger regions--rocks on the shore, against which the singer or speaker may shipwreck his tones. His object should be to use them adequately to form vowels and consonants--in other words, in the formation, not the spoiling, of words, as is so often the case. We cannot too much insist on both speaker and singer attending to forming a connection between his ear and his mouth cavity. He is to hear, that he may produce good tones, and the tones cannot be correctly formed if they be not well observed. To listen to one's self carefully and constantly is a most valuable but little practised art. The student should listen as an inexorable critic, accepting only the best from himself. This leads to the consideration of the question of the open mouth. The expression "open mouth" means, no doubt, to most people, the open lips rather than the open mouth cavity--_i.e._, open in front, the teeth well separated. In voice-production, by "open mouth" both open cavity and open lips must be understood. There is a special tendency in many, perhaps in most persons, to close the mouth cavity unduly in singing a descending scale. This is often accompanied by a bad use of the breath, and a general relaxation of the vocal apparatus, which is possibly more frequent in sopranos and tenors, whose chief effects are often produced by their high tones. But to-day, more than ever, when refined intellectual and emotional effects are demanded, is it important that the lower tones, so effective in producing emotional states, should not be neglected by any singer of whatever voice; while for speakers high tones are really comparatively little used. Much more attention is paid by teachers and students to the open mouth at the present time than formerly; in fact, like some other good things, it is often overdone. The individuality of the singer and speaker must always be borne in mind. If some are obliged to open the mouth as much as others, the result will not be happy. Any one may demonstrate to himself that the quality of a tone may be at once changed by unduly opening or closing the mouth. One may say that _the mouth should be sufficiently opened to produce the best possible effect_. We have never seen the mouth opened to such an extent that it was positively unsightly--reminding one of the rhinoceros at a zoo--without feeling that the tone had suffered thereby. If all would remember that the mouth is best opened by simply _dropping the lower jaw_, passively, in the easiest manner possible, the difficulties some students experience would disappear. Many act as if the process were chiefly an active one, while the reverse is the case, as one may observe in the sleeper when the muscles become unduly relaxed--a condition that is often accompanied by snoring, which is produced by a mouth-breathing that gives rise to vibrations of the soft palate. We mean to say that the lower jaw drops when muscles relax, and that opening the mouth is largely a passive thing, while closing the mouth is an active process. The position of the head in its influence on tone-production is an insufficiently considered subject. It is impossible that the head be much raised or lowered without changes being produced in the vocal apparatus, especially the larynx, and if the tone is not to suffer in consequence, special care must be taken to make compensatory changes in the parts affected. It is only necessary to sing any vowel, and then raise the chin greatly, to observe a distinct change in the quality of the tone, with corresponding sensations in the vocal organs. To speak or sing with the head turned to one side is plainly unfavorable to the well-being of the parts used, because it leads to compression, which gives rise to that congestion before referred to as the source of so many evils in voice-users. To sit at a piano and sing is an unphysiological proceeding, because it implies that the head is bent in reading the music on a page much lower than the eyes, and when, with this, the head is turned to one side to allow of reading the music on the distant side of the page, furthest from the middle line of the head, the case is still worse. If all who thus use the vocal organs do not give evidence of the truth of the above by hoarseness, etc., it is simply because in young and vigorous organs there may be considerable power of resisting unfavorable influences. The student is recommended to use his voice in the standing position only, when possible, as all others are more or less unnatural. One often has the opportunity to observe how the effect is lost when a reader bends his head downward to look at his book or manuscript; and he himself, if the process is long-continued, will almost certainly feel the injurious influence of this acting on his vocal organs. CHAPTER XIV. SOME SPECIFIC APPLICATIONS OF PRINCIPLES IN TONE PRODUCTION. It is no doubt valuable, indeed for most singers essential, to employ a series of elaborate exercises, or _vocalises_, which in some cases differ from each other only by slight gradations; but it is to be borne in mind that all the actual principles involved can be expressed practically in a very few exercises. These are: (1) The single sustained tone; (2) the tones of a scale sung so as to be smoothly linked together; (3) the same, sung somewhat more independently of each other; (4) the same, but each tone beginning and ending very suddenly. If the execution of any vocal musical composition be analyzed, it will be found that these four methods cover substantially the whole ground. As one other is very extensively used in giving expression in the form of shading, it is worthy of special mention--viz., (5) the swell. All others are modifications of the above. As these methods of tone-production are of so much importance, it will be worth while to analyze them. It will be found that in each there is a characteristic use of the breathing mechanism. The larynx and the resonance-chambers are of course intermediate, as usual, between the breath-stream and the result, the tone; without them there could be no tones. But if the student have clearly in mind the memory of the tone he wishes to produce, including its various properties of pitch, volume, quality, etc., it will be found that the point requiring strict attention, in production, is the breathing, especially the manner of using the expiratory current. 1. The sustained tone requires an amount of breath proportional to its length, and the great aim in its production should be to convert, so to speak, all the breath into tone, as we explained in a previous chapter. This sustained tone, which may be practised with advantage on every one of the notes of a scale, is, in the nature of things, the very foundation of all good singing and speaking. 2. In the second and third exercises the differences in the method lie in the attack and the manner of using the breath. The smoothly linked tones are the more difficult for most people, since they require special control over the laryngeal mechanism and the breathing apparatus. Between the singing of a scale in this manner (_legato_), and as it is frequently done, there is the same difference as in walking up-stairs as does a perfectly trained ballet-dancer, and this act as carried out by a rough countryman, used only to ploughed fields, etc. For a perfect execution, the attack, while decisive enough, must be most carefully regulated, and the breathing, which is always to be considered in a good attack, must be of the most even character; the outflow requires the most perfectly controlled movements of the respiratory apparatus. In the other form of exercise (detached tones) there is often, at least, a little more emphasis on the attack, and the breathing is perhaps not always so even, but in some passages, in actual singing, the method employed for these less closely linked tones is in most respects the same as the last. 3. Very different from all the preceding is the mode of production usually designated by musicians _staccato_, _marcato_, etc. The tone is attacked suddenly, and as suddenly dropped, which, expressed physiologically, means that the entire vocal mechanism is rapidly adjusted, one part to another, and as suddenly relaxed; and the one seems to be about as difficult as the other. In this a certain sudden tension of the vocal apparatus is essential. The whole respiratory apparatus, after the breath is taken, is held more or less tense. In executing these abrupt (staccato) effects the diaphragm is the chief agent, and operates against the column of air in the lungs, the chest and abdominal walls being kept more or less tense. Though this is the case, the voice-producer will succeed best if he gives attention to the resonance-chambers, after having put the breathing mechanism into the right condition. There should be as little movement of the chest walls, diaphragm, larynx, etc., as possible. The whole is a question of tension, but not rigidity, and the reason the staccato effect is so difficult for most persons is that they attempt to accomplish it by _excessive movements_ of the breathing apparatus or larynx. The _mind_ must be relieved of any feeling of undue tension, and the result attained by the establishment of a close connection between the ear and the resonance-chambers. The first interrupted effects should be of very brief duration and as _piano_ as possible, but the attempt to produce the real staccato may to great advantage be preceded by an exercise recommended in Chapter VIII.,--viz., singing a tone of some duration, then suddenly interrupting it, and, with the same breath, beginning the tone again as suddenly as it was interrupted. In fact, till this can be done with ease the staccato proper should not be attempted, for though the principles involved are the same, the execution requires far more skill than the exercise recommended for an earlier stage, and which it is well to continue throughout. Simple as these exercises seem from mere description, or as carried out with a certain degree of success, perfection in them is not to be attained short of years of the most diligent study. How many singers living can sing an ascending and a descending scale, in succession, with a perfect staccato, to mention no other effect? Yet among all the resources of dramatic singing and speaking none is more important than this one. What so eloquent as the silence after a perfect stop--a complete and satisfactory arrest of the tone? How many modern actors are capable of it? How many singers? Instead of the perfect arrest, the listener is conscious, not of the rounded and complete tone, but of an edge more or less ragged. There is some noise with the actual tone. The above exercises, when carried out to a perfect result, give us _bel canto_ singing, for which the old Italian school was so noted, and which is now largely a lost art, not so much because the methods are not known to teachers, as because students will not do the work necessary to attain to this _bel canto_. We seek for short cuts, and we get corresponding results. The _bel canto_ is, simply, beautiful singing, the result of perfect technique, and is opposed to effects which are not truly artistic, though no doubt often highly expressive to the unmusical and the inartistic. They may appeal to us as feats, but they are not artistic results, and, as we have before insisted, they are injurious in many cases to the vocal organs, while good voice-production strengthens them. 5. The swell is simply a modification of the sustained tone. When a tone is perfectly sustained, without any change in volume, etc., we have a most valuable effect, and one very difficult to achieve, because it implies such a steady application of the breath power and such nice adjustments of all the parts concerned. To produce a tone with variations in it is easy enough, and that is what is usually given us instead of the perfectly even tone, reminding us of a straight line. In the swell, as the name suggests, the tone should rise gradually in volume or loudness, and as gradually decline. If this can be done readily, and continued for several seconds, it will be easy to produce other effects, as the sudden swell, but such effects should come after, not before, the slower ones. A critical observer soon realizes the defects of modern technique when he listens to a singer's tones when attempting slow effects, as in a softly sustained melody. Only the well-trained vocalist can hope to sing such a melody, especially if long sustained, in a way to meet the demands of an exacting ear and advanced musical taste. It will be apparent that the swell is the basis of shading, a quality that is so highly appreciated in this refined age. He who can manage the swell perfectly has the secret of this effect in his possession as have none others. Although we have referred more to the singer than to the speaker, in this chapter, it is to be understood that these and all other exercises suggested are of great value in forming the voice for public speaking. It is not so important, it must be admitted, for the speaker as for the singer that his tones be musically perfect, as he relies more on ideas than on tones, still, with every idea employed by the public speaker there is the inseparable feeling, or "feeling-tone;" so that the speaker, as well as the singer, is to some extent dependent on tone painting--indeed, must be, if he will be no mere man of wood, a "dry stick," to some extent, in spite of the use of appropriate language, gestures, etc. There are many avenues to the heart, and that by tones cannot with impunity be neglected by the speaker, though for his purpose the singing of tones need occupy only weeks or months, while for singers, in the case of all who would attain to a high degree of excellence, it must extend over years. "FORWARD," "BACKWARD," ETC., PRODUCTION. Certain expressions are in common use by teachers and singers, such as "to direct the breath forward," "forward production," "backward production," etc. No doubt such terms may serve a practical purpose, though they are often used with lamentable vagueness, but it must be understood that they do not answer to any clearly demonstrated physiological principles. There is, for example, no clear evidence that the breath can be directed toward the hard palate in the neighborhood of the teeth, as the drawings sometimes published would indicate. It has already been many times urged that when breathing is satisfactory, breath does not escape to any considerable extent into the mouth cavity, but that the expiratory blast is used to set the air of the resonance-chambers into vibration. The changes that must be made in these cavities, to lead to certain effects, are accompanied by characteristic sensations, and these, and not the direction of the breath, are largely responsible for the ideas on which the above expressions rest. As before shown, the soft palate is constantly being used more or less, and when it and the tongue unite in action so as to cut off the mouth cavity, or, more strictly, the anterior portion of it, from the nasal chambers, a very pronounced modification in the tone results, and, of necessity, such actual escape of breath as occurs takes place through the nose. In reality, there is a special modification of the shape of the resonance-chambers for every tone produced, and especially when the color or quality is changed, as well as the pitch. There is, therefore, not only "forward" and "backward" but also middle production, though, in reality, these terms at best but imperfectly describe, even for practical purposes, what happens. It is to be feared that with some teachers of both singing and speaking "forward production" has become a sort of panacea for all vocal ills; but it is not, and just the reverse teaching is required in certain cases. If a voice be brilliant, yet hard, it will be improved by a more backward production, judiciously employed, and in this way the French language is often to be recommended to such singers, as it favors this backward production, with such use of the nasal resonance as mellows the tones. The tenor who has not learned the use of the nasal resonance, to give richness to the tones of his middle and upper range, has missed a valuable principle. On the other hand, for voices that are too soft, lack brightness, and fail in carrying-power, a more forward production will often improve the quality of the voice greatly. But a little consideration must convince the student that if he is to be master of his voice-production throughout, if he is to produce tones of every shade of quality, he must be able to shift that voice about in every quarter as occasion demands; in other words, _all the changes possible in the resonance-chambers must be at his command_. Such is the case in the very greatest singers of both sexes; and, of course, this applies equally, if not still more, to speakers. When the voice-producer has learned to intonate surely, when the voice is "placed," and the secrets of the registers are known to him, he will do well to experiment a little, cautiously, with his own resonance-chambers, so as to widen his practical knowledge of the principles underlying the modification of tones. Why should the student of the voice remain a mere imitator, when the one who works in any other direction is, or should be, encouraged to be an original investigator? The inability of students to judge of either the grounds for or the value of the exercises and methods recommended to them by their teachers seems to the author to indicate a regrettable state of things, which teachers of every form of vocal culture should endeavor to remedy. Some teachers do not use the terms "backward" and "forward," but "darkening" and "brightening" the voice; and, of course, the result of a certain use of the tongue and soft palate is to darken or veil the quality of the voice. But the attentive reader will scarcely mistake the author's meaning in the above and other references to this subject. It is scarcely necessary to point out that in what has been said no encouragement is intended to be given to the nasal twang, or any thing resembling it--and it is easy to so use the nasal resonance that it becomes a defect; but the value of a judicious use of the nose in singing and speaking is, we are convinced, not as well known in vocal teaching as it deserves to be. SUMMARY. The relation of vowels and consonants to singing and speaking. Intonation should be by vowels only, at first. Consonants are a necessary evil in singing, but all-important in the formation of words--_i.e._, in imparting ideas. Every language has its own special merits and defects for the purposes of song and speech. That language which abounds in vowels is the best adapted for vocal exercises, etc. It is a cardinal error to begin a course in speaking and especially singing with exercises based on words. Vowel sounds should be exclusively employed at first. In the formation of vowels and consonants the resonance-chambers are especially involved. The tongue, soft palate, and lips are the most movable parts, and so have the largest share in giving color and meaning to sounds--_i.e._, they are the organs most important in the formation of the elements of words. The "open mouth" should mean open mouth cavity and duly separated lips. It is important that there be control of all parts of the resonance-chambers, and always in relation to other parts of the vocal apparatus. CHAPTER XV. THE ELEMENTS OF SPEECH AND SONG. The subject treated in this chapter may be made dry enough; but if the student will, while reading the descriptions given, endeavor to form the sounds described, observing at the same time his own resonance-chambers (mouth parts) carefully in a hand-glass, and then follow up the applications made, the reader's experience will be, in all probability, like the author's: the more the subject is studied the more interesting does it become, especially if one experiments with his own resonance apparatus. Vowels and consonants are the elements of syllables, and words are composed of the latter. However pure a vowel is, it is accompanied in its utterance by some noise; a consonant, by relatively a great deal of noise. A _noise_, in distinction to a musical tone, is characterized by irregularity as regards the vibrations that reach the ear, while in the case of a tone a definite number of vibrations strikes against the drum-head of the ear within a given time; so that so far as syllables and words, even vowels, are concerned, we are not dealing with pure tones. For the formation of each vowel a definite form of the resonance-chambers is essential. In uttering, either for the purposes of speech or song, the vowel _u_ (_oo_), the mouth cavity has the form of a large flask such as chemists use for their manipulations, but the neck in this case is short. The whole resonance cavity is elongated, and the lips are protruded; the larynx is depressed, and the root of the tongue and the fauces (folds from the soft palate, usually spoken of as the "pillars of the fauces") approach. The pitch of this vowel is very low. [Illustration: FIG. 56 (Beaunis). Shows the position of parts in sounding the vowel _a_. By comparing this illustration with those following, the relatively greater size of the cavity of the mouth in this case will be evident. The reader is recommended to at once test the correctness of these representations by sounding the vowels, and observing the parts of his own vocal mechanism with a hand-mirror.] In _[=o]_ the lips are nearer to the teeth, and the neck of the flask is shorter and wider; the larynx is somewhat more elevated than in the last case, and the pitch of the sound is higher. When sounding _a_ (as in _father_) the mouth cavity has the shape of a funnel, wide in front; the tongue lies rather flat on the floor of the mouth, the lips are wide apart, and the soft palate is somewhat raised. In _[=a]_ (as in _fate_) there is some modification of the last, the tongue and larynx being more raised. The pitch of this vowel is higher than is that of the more open _a_. In the case of _[=e]_ (as in _me_) the flask is relatively small, and the neck is long and narrow, the larynx much raised, the lips drawn back against the teeth, and the tongue greatly elevated, so as to form the narrow neck of the flask. The pitch of this vowel is high. [Illustration: FIG. 57 (Beaunis). Shows the relative position of parts in sounding _I_. In sounding _E_ the position is a good deal like that for _I_.] When sounding _[=i]_ (as in _mine_) the cavity of the mouth behind resembles a small-bellied flask with a long, narrow neck, the larynx is at its highest, and the lips assume a position much as in the case of _[=e]_; between the hard palate and the back of the tongue there is only a narrow passage--a mere furrow. The pitch of this vowel is also high. It is thus seen that every vowel has its characteristic quality and pitch, the order as regards the latter being from below upward, _u_, _o_, _a_, _[=a]_, _e_, _i_. That the mouth cavity really can act as a resonance-chamber can be easily demonstrated by holding a small vibrating tuning-fork before the open mouth, and varying the shape and size of the cavity till the sound of the fork is observed to be suddenly increased in volume. The cavity then is a resonance-chamber for the fork, and thus intensifies its sound; in other words, the air in the mouth cavity vibrates in harmony with the tuning-fork. To demonstrate in a simple manner that each vowel has its own pitch, the mouth cavity is put into the form usual in sounding the vowel, and the finger is filliped against the cheek, when a tone answering in pitch to that of the vowel in question results. The demonstration is easier with the lower-pitched, broader vowels, but the correctness of the order of the pitch mentioned above can thus be shown to be established. Some very important principles for the speaker and singer hinge upon the above-mentioned facts. It follows, for example, that it is impossible to give a vowel its _perfect_ sound in any but one position of the mouth parts, so that for a singer to utter a word containing the vowel _[=u]_ (_oo_) at a high pitch is a practical impossibility. The listener may know what syllable is meant, and overlook the defect either from habit or from an uncritical attitude, but composers of vocal music should bear such facts in mind and not impose impossibilities on singers. At the same time, the vocalist, in order to satisfy a modern audience, is obliged to sound every word and every syllable as correctly as possible, even if the tone suffer somewhat thereby. It is wonderful how fully the best poets have, with the insight of genius, adapted their words (vowels) to the ideas they wish to convey, and had all composers of vocal music done the same, the path of the singer would not have been strewn with so many thorns. The difficulties in the case of the speaker are similar, but less marked, as his range is so much more limited as regards pitch. [Illustration: FIG. 58 (Beaunis). Shows the relative position of the parts in sounding _OU_.] This subject has also most important bearings on the learning of languages. One is born with tendencies toward certain mouth positions, etc., and from infancy he is constantly using the resonance-chambers in certain characteristic ways. In the course of years these positions, etc., become such fixed habits that it is difficult to change them, so that for this as well as many other reasons the learning of languages by persons beyond a certain age is a difficult matter. But to all students of a foreign tongue it is really essential to explain the physical mechanism by which the various sounds are made. The author has known an adult to struggle for months with French and German pronunciation, and get into a state of discouragement, fearing that he never would be able to learn the languages in which he wished to speak and sing, when a few moments spent in explaining just what we have written above for vowels, and what we have earlier and shall now more fully set forth in this chapter as regards consonants, have been followed by the lifting of the cloud from the mind and of a load of heaviness from the heart. The learner should (1) hear the sound (elemental--a vowel, say) from the lips of the teacher, and actually perceive just what that sound is--_i.e._, he must really hear it; (2) observe the shape of the resonance-chambers; (3) try to produce the same shape of his own, and under the guidance of his ear and his eye (watching the mouth of the teacher) so utter the sound correctly. This sound should be fixed in the mind, and the ear trained by comparing it with other sounds, as the wise teacher will do, and require imitations. Any language can be pronounced correctly in a short time, if this method be followed. It is, indeed, the only one that rests on science and common sense. The student when away from the teacher, after he has once learned to form the vowels correctly, should practise with a hand-glass before him for some time, at least. The learning of a new language is the acquiring of a new mouth, or, at all events, entirely new methods of using the old one. In reality, however, this is not so fully the case as it at first seems. In all the languages one wishes to acquire, the same vowels occur, and for the learner it is often a question of lower or higher pitch, or greater or less breadth, though all this involves the formation of new habits and the fighting of old ones, and often in the case of the adult the struggle is a long-continued and severe one. Some nations speak at a lower pitch than others, and if a foreigner enunciate ever so well, yet at the pitch of his own and not that of the new language, his utterance may seem foreign. The Germans speak at a much lower pitch than Americans, and their tongue, even when grammatically spoken by the latter, is apt to have a sort of foreign flavor. It slightly disturbs the listener, who is not accustomed to hear his mother-tongue transposed into another key, so to speak. We have known a learner to derive great benefit from having it pointed out to him that certain of his vowel sounds would at once cease to be incorrect if their pitch were altered. Of course, in doing this, there were at once many changes made in the resonance-chambers, in order to get the changed pitch. Pitch, accent, and duration of the sound throw much light on the subject of dialect, as a little analysis of Irish or Scotch will show. Consonants are, as we have already said, noisy nuisances for the singer, but indispensable for word-formation, and so for human intercourse. Each has also its own pitch, and investigators have come to a measurable degree of agreement on this subject. To illustrate: Madame Seiler found that _r_ and _s_ are separated from each other by an interval of many octaves: [Illustration: C], _r_; [Illustration: b-flat'''], _s_. The latter, _s_, cannot be sounded without more or less of a hissing sound, suggesting escape of air, which is very unpleasant to the ear, and, unfortunately, these hissing sounds are very common in English, so that the speaker or singer is called upon to use all his art to overcome this disagreeable effect. This is also prominent in _whispering_--_i.e._, the escape of breath, with its corresponding effect on the ear. Whispering is effected chiefly, if not solely, by the resonance-chambers, the vocal bands taking only the slightest part, if any at all. The physiologist Brücke, treating of the utterance of consonants, considered that they were formed by the more or less complete closure of certain doors in the course of the outgoing blast of air, and we have already referred to a consonant as an unpleasant interrupter, musically considered. Perhaps we should be disposed to compare them to the people that talk during the performance at a concert, did we not wish to avoid bringing such useful members of the speech community into undeserved disrepute. Consonants, like vowels, have their own mouth positions. This follows from their having pitch, but, in addition, they require the use of the tongue, lips, etc., in a special way. The principal articulation positions are the following: (1) Between the lips; (2) between the tongue and the hard palate; (3) between the tongue and the soft palate; (4) between the vocal bands. To indicate this, certain terms have been employed, and as they are in common use by those who treat of this subject, it will be well to explain them. _Explosives_ are consonants in uttering which there is complete closure with a sudden opening of the resonance-chambers in front, as in _b_ and _p_. [Illustration: FIG. 59 (Beaunis). Representation of the relative position of the parts and the resulting shape of the sounding chamber when the consonants indicated are formed vocally. Verification of the truthfulness of the illustrations will prove profitable.] _Vibratives_ call for an almost complete closure of the door and a vibration of its margin, as in _r_. _Aspirates_ partly close the opening, which is at once suddenly opened again, as in _f_, _v_, etc. _Resonants_ close the mouth, so the sound must find its way out through the nose, as in _m_, _n_, _ng_. The above may be put in tabular form as follows: Articulation Positions. Explosives. Aspirates. Vibrates. Resonants. 1 _b, p_ _f, v, w_ _m_ 2 _t, d_ _s, z, l, sch, th_ _n_ 3 _k, g_ _j, ch_ Palatal _r_ _ng_ 4 _h_ Of course the above is only one of many possible classifications, and expresses only a part of the whole truth, for the formation of a single consonant is a very complicated process, the exact nature of which can only be very imperfectly analyzed and expressed in words. In complexity of action the resonance-chambers are wonderful beyond any instrument devised by man, and the more one studies the subject, the greater the wonder becomes at the amount and complexity of the work done in a single day's speaking. It is also easy to understand how difficult it is to attain to absolutely perfect results. To enable one's fellow-creatures to understand him in even his mother-tongue involves an amount of effort and energy, a complexity and facility in function, that can only be reached after months of practice in infancy; but to attain to that degree of perfection that makes an artist in speaking, how much greater is the expenditure in vital capital! Is not the result when attained worth the best efforts of the most talented individual? CHAPTER XVI. FURTHER THEORETICAL AND PRACTICAL CONSIDERATION OF VOWELS AND CONSONANTS. The reader will now be prepared to consider the answer to be given to the question as to the _vowels_ most suitable for practice in intonation. Plainly, _a_ (_ah_) puts the resonance-chambers into the easiest and best position to form a good pure tone. The pitch of the vowel is intermediate--not very low and not high in the scale. For the higher tones, evidently, _[=a]_, _e_, and _i_ are better than _a_ (_ah_), much less _o_ and _u_, which are quite out of the question, comparatively speaking. However, as music must be sung with vowels in every position, it is plainly necessary to learn to sound all the vowels well throughout the scale. In fact, one might wisely, after preliminary practice on _a_, begin a scale below with _u_, then go on to _o_, _a_, _[=a]_, _e_, and _i_. Some have recommended that the vocalist begin his scale practices with _a_, and when the higher middle tones are reached, that he use _[=a]_, and for head tones _[=a]_ and _e_, an advice which is obviously sound, as it is based on scientific principles. Sounds that are very expressive in public utterance, whether in speech or song, are _l_ and especially _r_. In ordinary speech most persons use only the guttural _r_, in the formation of which the soft palate takes a prominent part; but for the speaker and the singer the lingual _r_ is often much more effective. It is produced by the vibration of the tip of the tongue, and can only be formed well, in most cases, after long-continued and persevering practice. Certain consonants tend to nasality. These are _m_, _n_, _ng_, and of these all persons who are disposed to this production to the point of excess must especially beware. These letters, with such people, should be given a rapid and forward production, while singers with hard and metallic voices will do well to sing syllables beginning with these consonants, such as _maw_, _naw_, _ang_, _eng_, etc. According to the teachings of physics, the quality of a tone is determined largely by the number and variety of the _overtones_ accompanying the fundamental tone. Practically all musical tones, whether vocal or instrumental, are made up of the ground tone and certain others less loud and prominent, and the latter are the overtones. These may be very numerous, and some are favorable and others unfavorable to excellence in quality. It has been thought, as the result of scientific investigation, that when the first octave of the fundamental tone and its fifth interval are prominent, the voice is soft, and with the fifth and seventh well in evidence, the voice is bright and clear. It might be said that the voice-user should endeavor to keep out of his voice certain overtones, especially those which are not within the range of our modern harmonies. A harsh voice is one in which such unharmonic intervals preponderate. The most beautiful quality of tone is produced by keeping intensity within limits, and by a sudden, elastic attack, a point on which we dwelt at some length before; but this only emphasizes the importance of all who use the voice employing, not only when beginners, but throughout their career, exercises with vowels alone. Only in this way will the association between the hearing of pure tones and their production be established. Such exercises are also necessary to give good carrying power to the voice. If more attention were given to this point, and less to the production of mere volume of sound, it would be well for the best musical art. Naturally, the higher the pitch of tones, within certain limits, the greater their carrying power, and the reverse, of course, with the lower tones; so that it is very important that the speaker and singer use all reasonable means to produce these lower tones well, else they are muffled, and the words associated with them are not heard. This principle should be borne in mind especially by tenors and light sopranos, in whom the lower tones are not usually the best, or the easiest to produce; so that a good attack and careful and neat syllable-formation, with all attention to both vowels and consonants, should be especially studied, and, above all, in tones below about G on the treble clef. The tendency to close the mouth, especially in a descending scale, below this point, and to confound blurring with soft (_piano_) singing, is common. A _piano_ tone should be formed with especial care as to attack, open mouth, etc., and all words associated with the duller, lower-pitched vowels be spoken with the greatest distinctness, both in singing and speaking. At the same time, the barytone and contralto should not boast themselves over the tenor or soprano, if they are more successful with lower tones and the words associated with them, for the latter class of singers can often revel like birds in regions not approachable by the deeper-voiced singers. Each in its own order! It follows that if the organs of speech are used so as to produce vowels, consonants, and their combinations, with unusual and, for practical purposes, unnecessary distinctness, the actual performance, as demanded by a critical ear, will be easier. One that can run two hundred yards as readily as another can one hundred is in a better position for the shorter sprint than the other man; hence the wisdom of the singer and speaker practising first with unusual and indeed unnecessary distinctness, so far as the listener is concerned, in order that he may satisfy even the critical with _ease_--that all-important principle in art. All persons must, of necessity, speak in some register, and even an ear but little cultivated can recognize that the pitch and quality of the tones of adult males, adult females, and children differ greatly from each other. Madame Seiler has thus expressed herself on this subject: "Women use mostly tones of the second chest and first falsetto registers, sometimes also those of the first chest register. Men speak an octave lower than women, and use mostly the upper half of the chest register. In public speaking, as well as on the stage, the second chest register is used by men, and sometimes also the lowest tones of the voice. The second falsetto and head registers are used only by little children." It will be remembered that Madame Seiler's "second chest" corresponds to the upper chest tones of some writers, and that "falsetto" is equivalent to "middle," as generally employed. Ordinary speech is economical, and a range of very few tones, usually not more than two to four intervals of the scale, suffices, but on the stage, and by some of our best public speakers, twice this range may be exceeded. In nature, the cat, under the excitement of a heated interview with a fellow-vocalist, may pass through an entire octave. SUMMARY. The shape of the resonance-chambers varies in the formation of vowels and consonants, which may be classified accordingly, or according to their pitch. Practical implications for singing and speaking, the learning of foreign languages, the study of dialects, etc. The importance of special attention to those words containing the low-pitched and dark vowels, especially when low in the scale, and when sung _piano_. Overtones, and their bearing on the quality of the voice. The carrying power of the voice, determined by the method of its production, is more important than its volume. The value of practice with the use of a mirror, and of the formation of the sounds in practice with a distinctness in excess of the actual needs of the listener. Ease is essential to art. CHAPTER XVII. THE HEARING APPARATUS AND HEARING IN MUSIC. So important are the ingoing sensory messages (impulses) that originate in the ear, as a guide not only in the appreciation of musical sounds but in those movements on which all musical execution, all vocal effects, whether of song or speech, depend, that we think the reader will welcome a chapter on the ear, even though it be no part of the vocal apparatus proper. The essential mechanism used by Nature to give us the sensation of sound consists of (1) a complicated form of nerve-ending; (2) an auditory nerve leading from, and a continuation, in a certain sense, of, the latter; (3) nerve tracts and hearing centres in the brain. The whole constitutes a very complicated mechanism, but the principles on which it is constructed may be reduced to a few. Mechanical or physical principles, as well as physiological ones, are involved. The entire apparatus has for its purpose the conversion of the vibrations of the air into the vibrations of a fluid, which thus stimulates the end-organ, and brings about those changes in the nerve which result in corresponding changes in the brain, that are associated, in some way we cannot explain, to that state of consciousness we term hearing. Complicated as is the auditory apparatus, it can be readily enough comprehended, if the reader accompany the perusal of the text by an examination of the figures introduced. [Illustration: FIG. 60. (Beaunis). In this illustration parts are exposed to view by the removal of others. The whole of the inner ear lies within bone, which in this figure is cut away. The drum-head (membrana tympani); the Eustachian tube, extending from the back of the throat, and opening into the middle ear; the semicircular canals (which are not concerned with hearing, but with the maintenance of equilibrium); the cochlea, (snail-shell), which contains the various parts most essential to hearing, as the "hair-cells," the terminals of the auditory nerve, the latter nerve itself, and several other parts--are well shown. Should the Eustachian tube be closed owing to swelling of its lining mucous membrane, a certain amount of temporary deafness may result, because, the air within the middle ear (drum) being absorbed, and fresh air not being admitted, the outer air presses against the drum-head uncounteracted, and renders the conducting mechanism too rigid.] Anatomists speak of (1) an outer or external ear, (2) a middle ear, drum, or tympanum, and (3) an inner ear, or labyrinth. [Illustration: FIG. 61 (Beaunis). Diagrammatic representation of the auditory apparatus. The external, middle, and internal ear are separated by dotted lines. A, the external; B, the middle; C, the internal ear; 1, auricle; 2, external auditory meatus; 3, tympanum (middle ear), with its chain of bones, 7, 8, 9. Into it opens 5, Eustachian tube, leading from back of throat; 4, membrana tympani or drum-head, closing the middle ear off from the external ear. The most important part of the inner ear is 13, the cochlear canal, in which the "hair-cells" are found, around which latter the final branches of the auditory nerve end. Above it is the scala vestibuli and below it the scala tympani, passages filled with fluid. The openings to these canals are closed with membrane. Attached to the membrane of the oval opening is the stapes (stirrup). It is thus seen that vibrations communicated to the chain of bones from the tympanic membrane are passed on to the fluid filling the passages (scalæ) of the cochlea, and thus affect the hair-cells, and so the nerve of hearing, and through it the brain. The parts indicated by 12 and 16 are important in the maintenance of equilibrium, but are not concerned in hearing.] The purpose of the _outer ear_ is to collect the air vibrations and convey them to the middle ear, which passes them on to the inner ear, where they produce the vibrations in the fluid therein contained and which affect the end-organ and nerve-endings, and thus initiate the essential physiological processes in the nerve of hearing. It follows that we have an instance of the conversion of one kind of vibrations, those of the air, into another kind, those of fluid, which latter furnish a sufficiently delicate stimulus or excitation of the fine hair-like extensions (_processes_) of the cells known as _hair-cells_, about which the nerves in their final smallest branches wrap themselves. [Illustration: FIG. 62 (Beaunis). Two of the bones of the ear (the malleus or hammer and the incus or anvil) enlarged. These small ear-bones have joints like larger ones. The line of conveyance of vibrations is indicated by B A.] When we ourselves hear sounds when under water, we are affected directly by the vibrations of that water; in this case we, in our whole body, represent the hair-cells which are stimulated by the fluid (_endolymph_) which surrounds them. [Illustration: FIG. 63 (Beaunis). The complete chain of bones. The arrows indicate in a general way the direction of the line of transmission of vibrations from the tympanic membrane on to the fluid within the passages of the inner ear.] The external ear, well developed in many of the lower animals, being often highly movable, is practically immovable in man, and is wholly wanting in some animals, as the frog. The circular plate one sees behind the eye of the frog is the drum-head of the middle ear. From the _drum-head_, or _tympanic membrane_, the vibrations, which are now those of a solid, are communicated by a series of very small bones, most beautifully linked together by perfect joints, to another membrane, which closes a small hole in the outer wall of the inner ear. The _middle ear_, it will be seen, is a drum with its stretched membrane like any other drum, and it too has a communication with the exterior air through a tube, the _Eustachian tube_, which leads from the drum into the back part of the throat. When one has a cold, the mucous membrane which lines this tube may become swollen or even catarrhal, and be so closed that no air can enter from the throat; the air already within the drum being absorbed, the outer air presses unduly against the drum-head, with the result that the whole conducting apparatus is put more or less out of condition, and a certain degree of deafness naturally results. The tension of the drum-head is regulated by a muscle attached to the bone which is connected with the inner part of this membrane. It is now easy to understand how any unfavorable condition of the throat may affect the ear, or that of the ear influence the throat. In the hearing mechanism of man, the _inner ear_, or _labyrinth_, well so named because of its complexity, is really situated in the inner hardest portion of the "temporal" bone. It consists of a membrane and a bony portion, the former containing the essential mechanism of hearing, the latter being chiefly protective to it. The membranous portion consists of a series of canals communicating with some similarly membranous sacs, the whole being surrounded by and filled with fluid. These latter communicate with an extension termed the _cochlea_, which contains a central canal in which that collection of cells is found which constitutes the _end-organ_, among them the hair-cells, about which the nerve ends. This end-organ in the cochlea may be compared very fitly to the telephone which receives the message, and that portion of the brain where the auditory tract ends, to the telephone at the distant end of the path, the listener there representing consciousness. The auditory path within the brain is long and complicated, there being, in fact, many way-stations through which the message passes before it reaches the final one. The auditory nerve proceeds first to the lowest or hindermost portion of the brain, known as the _bulb_, or _medulla oblongata_; thence a continuation of the nerve tract passes forward to a central region, the _posterior corpora quadrigemina_, then, by a new relay of nerve-fibres, to the highest and most important part of the brain, that most closely associated with consciousness, the _cortex of the temporal lobe_, where there is situated the most important of all the centres of hearing. It will be apparent, on consideration, that "hearing" is a very elaborate result, the outcome of many physiological processes (initiated by physical ones), the initial and final being better understood than the intermediate ones. One asks, with natural curiosity and interest, "Is the auditory apparatus of the highly endowed musician different from and superior to that of the individual with little talent for music?" It is not easy to give a short and definite answer to this question. No special examinations of the essential parts of the ears of eminent musicians have been made, so far as we are aware, and as yet few of the brains of this class of men. It is, however, practically certain that there is a brain development peculiar to the born musician, and that this, whatever else it may be, involves a special excellence of the auditory path within the brain, rather than any unusual development of the essential parts of the ear. The individual who is a musical prodigy has, without question, _a more perfect connection_ established between his auditory apparatus, in the widest sense of the word, and those muscular mechanisms employed in the execution of music, whether vocal or instrumental, than is the case with the average man. Usually, with this goes a wide series of brain associations or connections, we may presume, between the auditory tracts and other regions, for without this it is difficult to explain temperament and artistic perception. That they are not necessarily associated, however, is clear from the fact that some have a high degree of executive ability and little real artistic development. It must never be forgotten, however, that whatever else music may be, it is essentially and primarily a sensuous experience. The one who enjoys music must feel its sensuous charm, and the artist who furnishes that which is enjoyed addresses himself primarily to our auditory mechanism. Executing music is hearing music, and enjoying music is hearing music, though both may involve much more than this, and herein individuals must differ greatly, owing to education, past experience, etc.; but all who have the power to really appreciate music must be capable of the sensuous enjoyment of tones. In this all everywhere find something in common; often that which we enjoy is of the most varied nature. One thing is certain: those connections between the hearing and the motor processes we term singing or playing should be made early in life, if they are to reach that degree of facility and general excellence essential to success. We think there is good reason to begin voice-production early, as well as the practice of an instrument, though we do not maintain that the argument is as strong in the one case as in the other. That the "ear for music" may be well developed, in the sense that one may know perfectly what is correct in time and tune, without the power to execute well, there can be no doubt, as witness the case of many composers, but the reverse does not hold. There can be no doubt that _the nervous impulses that pass from the ear to the brain are of all sensory messages the most important guides for the outgoing ones that determine the necessary movements_. The author would advise every serious student of music to believe in the unlimited capacity of his own ear for improvement. The lack of "ear" of many people is due largely, if not solely, to inattention. Indeed, an excess of temperament may be a positive hindrance to musical development, both as regards appreciation and execution, for it may be accompanied by inattentive listening and consequent inadequate hearing. On the other hand, no one should, because he has a good faculty for time and tune and the memorizing of airs, conclude that he is an artist. The one faculty may exist altogether apart from the capacity for the highest art. It is a matter of history that several vocalists now before the public, and who rank in the highest class of musical artists, displayed at one period of their career a lack of perception as to pitch or rhythm that was, to say the least, very discouraging, and which, but for their force of character, would have kept them from ever being eminent. If one have neither ear, temperament, nor artistic perception, he should not waste his energies on musical study--at least, not extended efforts; but if he have the two last, and but a moderate ear, he will do well to try to improve the lower for the sake of the higher qualities. In children the difficulty often is due wholly to inattention. Those who would cultivate the speaking voice are frequently discouraged from lack of "ear," and when urged to follow such exercises as have been recommended in this work, complain that they have not the "ear" to do so. To such the author would say, "Persevere; believe in your ear; learn to listen--_i.e._, to attend to sounds having musical qualities." Besides, it must not be forgotten that in addition to the "ear"--_i.e._, the ability to appreciate relative pitch, tune, and rhythm--there is also the entirely distinct faculty that appreciates the _quality_ of sounds. The latter is really more important for the speaker, who can succeed with a very moderate development of the faculty for time and tune, but to whom the power to appreciate the _quality_ of sounds is essential. No doubt the first and fundamental qualities in the make-up of a musician are the capacities to appreciate pitch and rhythm, but no result worthy the term "artistic" can be produced in which attention is not given to the quality of sounds, hence the technical and artistic should be developed together. The lack of attention on the part of a certain class of vocal teachers to the quality of the tones produced is one of the special defects in the instruction of the day. In the early weeks of vocal training, when the student should intone only before his teacher, the former need not be left without musical culture, and it is for each teacher to give the pupil that training, at this time, which will forestall disgust and impatience at the apparent slowness of his progress. At this time much can be done to cultivate the ear in all its various powers. And the author would like to put in a plea for the development of the _appreciation of music_. Whatever difference of opinion there may be as to choral singing, singing in schools, etc., there can be no question that time spent in developing the appreciation of musical art is well spent, and makes for the development and provides for the innocent and elevating sources of enjoyment of a people. If some of the time spent in bad piano-playing were devoted to the development of the power to appreciate and delight in really good music, including the sweet sounds of speech and song, the world would thereby be greatly the gainer. The author would impress on all students of music, and of the voice as used in both singing and speaking, the paramount importance of learning early to listen most attentively to others when executing music; and, above all, to listen with the greatest care to themselves, and never to accept any musical tone that does not fully satisfy the ear. When one considers how much harshness is passed as singing or speaking, by the student, even by those who pose as public singers and speakers, one must often wonder where they keep their ears. As a matter of fact, the ideal listeners are rare, and the critical ear, like a sentinel on guard, is among students, really seldom to be met with, if one extend the term "listening" to mean giving attention equally and in the most critical way, not only to pitch and rhythm, but also to the quality of sounds, the effects of pauses, shading, etc., all of which are perceived through the ear. If such listening requires, as it does, the closest attention, it must give rise to fatigue, so that it is clear that the lengthy practices some undertake are against the plainest laws of physiology and psychology, even if the hearing processes alone be considered; but as we have before shown, there are other reasons why such long-continued exercises as some attempt are in every way unwise; in fact, in the author's opinion, they are in the musical world a great evil under the sun. SUMMARY. Hearing is finally a psychological or mental condition, a state of consciousness, but is always associated with certain physiological processes, which are initiated by a physical stimulus in the form of waves in a fluid surrounding the hair-cells of the auditory end-organ; which waves may again be traced to the movements of the bones of the middle ear, caused by the swinging to and fro of the drum-head, owing to vibrations of the air produced by a sounding body. The ear is anatomically divisible into external, middle (tympanum or drum), and internal (labyrinth). The outer ear collects the vibrations, the middle ear conducts them, and the internal converts them into a special physiological condition of the hair-cells and the auditory nerve. This condition is communicated to the other links in the anatomical hearing chain, until the highest part of the brain, or cortex, is reached. Hearing, from the physiological point of view, is the outcome of a series of processes having their development in a corresponding series of centres, or collections of nerve-cells. The perceptions associated with the ear, in the mind of the musician, are those of the pitch, rhythm (and time), and quality of tones. The loudness of a tone is, of course, recognized by the ear also, but this is hardly a musical quality proper. In reality, like all that belongs to hearing, these perceptions are the result of a series of physiological processes, in which the ear takes an important but not the sole or even the chief part, which is to be referred to the brain. It is practically important to recognize that these various qualities are distinct perceptions, and that the "ear" for relative pitch may exist well developed and the color, clang, or quality of a tone be imperfectly recognized, and the reverse. The most comprehensive ear-training involves attention to each of the above characters of tones, and then uniting them in a musically perfect result. Lack of "ear" is often simply want of attention to the characters of sounds. The auditory messages are the most important of all the nervous impulses that reach the brain, for the musician, whether appreciation or execution be considered. They are the chief guides for the outgoing nervous impulses to the muscles. The good executant must, above all, be a good listener. CHAPTER XVIII. CONSIDERATION OF GENERAL AND SPECIAL HYGIENE AND RELATED SUBJECTS. Hygiene deals with the laws by the observance of which health is to be maintained and disease prevented; but as such laws must be based on physiological principles, hygiene follows from physiology. Accordingly, throughout this work our method has been to point out the correct way as soon as the physiological principle has been laid down, so that the reason for the recommendation made would be obvious. However, it may be well if now some of the more important tendencies, errors, bad habits, and dangers to be guarded against by the singer and speaker be pointed out afresh, briefly, with some additional observations that experience has shown to be of practical importance. Hygiene, for all persons, should, in the widest sense, refer to the whole man, his body, intellect, feelings, and will, though the term has usually been restricted to the preservation of bodily health. But, fortunately, it is being more and more recognized that man is a whole, and that one part of him cannot suffer without the others participating, so we shall pursue the broader course, and consider the general welfare of the voice-user as properly coming under consideration. He, being a human being like his fellows, must, of course, observe the same laws for the preservation of his general health as they, but just because he comes before the public, his case is peculiar, and he must, in addition, take special precautions to avoid every form of temporary or permanent disability. There is, of course, much in the life of a public speaker or singer that conduces to health of body and mind, such as the vigorous use of the breathing apparatus, the favorable effect of praise expressed in one way and another, etc., but even with the most successful, all this may be more than counter-balanced by other unfavorable factors. When one considers the necessary travelling, often including night journeys, the late hours, the concentrated efforts essential to success, the uncertainty of the public taste, the rivalries, jealousies, exhaustion, etc., often associated with a public career, it must be clear that no one should embark upon it without counting well the cost. For one with mediocre ability, imperfect training, voice of very limited range, power, and quality, feeble will, an imperfectly developed body, and indifferent health, to enter on a public career is practically to court failure and to ensure disappointment and unhappiness. It is to be remembered that never was the world so exacting of the artist, and never were there so many aspirants to popular favor, so that the competition in the ranks of the actors and singers, at least, is very keen. At the same time, there is room for a certain class of persons--viz., those with good health, excellent physique, first-rate ability, self-control, sound moral principles, perseverance, industry, musical feeling, and artistic insight, with vocal organs trained like the muscles of the athlete, and, in the case of singers, sound musical knowledge and an exacting and reliable ear. Considering that the actor, often the public speaker, and the singer are constantly being put under excessive strain, it follows that (1) such persons should begin with an unusually good physical organization--others can scarcely hope to get into the first class, even with the best abilities; and (2) because there is a tendency to exhaustion of the body and mind through emotional and other expenditure, the public voice-user must take precautions, on the one hand, to prevent this, and, on the other, to make good his outlay by special means. He needs more sleep and rest generally than others, and he should counteract the influence of unhealthy conditions on the stage or platform by some quiet hours in the open air, all the better if with some congenial friend, sympathetic with his aims, yet belonging, preferably perhaps, to another profession, and who will speak of topics other than those that are ever recurring in the life of an artist. The uninterrupted pursuit of one thing, without the mind and spirit being fed from other springs, can be good for no human being. The specialist who is only a specialist will never reach the very highest point. The artist must seek sources of inspiration and mental nutriment outside of his own line of thought, or he will suffer professionally and in his own spirit. The reader will by this time understand why the author considers that for one who would be an artist to enter on his public career without the fullest mental equipment and vocal training is an exceedingly unwise course. Technique should be acquired before an aspirant to success steps on a public stage or platform, and this is exactly what is so seldom done in these days, and why we have so few singers, actors, and public speakers of the highest rank. Many, very many, know what they wish to express, and, in a sense, how to express it, but they have neither the formed voice nor the control of that voice by which their ideas are to be embodied. Let no one delude himself into the belief that technique will be learned in public; such is rarely, if ever, the case. Expression, style, etc., may come to the vocalist or speaker all the more readily if he occasionally goes before the public; but that such may be so, he must first have voice and technique. It is because of the neglect of this training for the acquirement of technique that so many naturally good voices are of little practical use for the public, and this explains why the ranks of the professions are crowded with inferior artists, if, indeed, artists they may be called. The _isolation_ of the dramatic and musical artist from his fellows generally is a great evil. Much that society complains of in the lives of artists would never exist but for this isolation, in spite of the fact that the artistic temperament is so moody and so impulsive, so little regardful of ordinary conventionalities. That it is so is partly the fault of society. It is quite true that because of journeying, rehearsals, etc., the travelling artist has little time to meet the members of the community in private life; but this state of things could be mitigated were society and the artists themselves convinced that for any class of people to live in little hives, wholly separated from their fellows, must be unfortunate for them and society. Artists as men and women are practically unknown to the world, though their false selves as represented by sensational paragraphs in newspapers are only too familiar to us. It may truly be said of the artist: "Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny." It is within the power of society to alter this, and it should do so. Why is it that actors and singers do not prepare themselves by as prolonged and thorough a vocal training as in a past time? Considering that there never was a period when there was the same scope for art, never a time when the public was so eager to hear and so able to pay for art, as now, never a period of such widespread intelligence on all subjects, music included, the question is a very pertinent one. We believe there are many factors underlying the technical decadence we must regret. The orchestra has greatly developed, choral singing is common in all countries, and the spirit of the times has changed. So analytical, so refined is our age, that singing sometimes becomes a sort of musical declamation, but, unfortunately, without that power to declaim possessed by the actors and often the opera-singers of a former period. A singer often attempts now to make up by an expressive reading of a song, for technical defects. We must all commend every evidence of intellectuality in music, but this does not imply that we should accept good intentions for execution--performance. Let us have every possible development of orchestral music; let every village have, if possible, its choral society, but let none enter it who have not been trained vocally. Out of the author's own experience he could a tale unfold of the evil done to the vocal organs by those who have sung in choirs without adequate vocal training. Choristers are tempted to reach high tones by a process of their own, without any regard to registers, and with corresponding effects on their throats, some of which imply also lasting injury to the voice itself. In choral singing there is the tendency to lean on certain singers who are natural leaders, with the result that there is little independent listening and individual culture, even if the singer could hear his own voice well, which is not usually the case. The same objections and others apply to class singing in schools, which does little for music, and tends to make slovenly singers. If some of the time given to school singing were taken up in illustrating why certain musical selections are good, and others mere rubbish--in other words, in forming the taste of the nation in the children--a valuable work would be done; but school class singing, as commonly carried out, tends rather to injure than develop voices and good musical taste. We cannot honestly pass by the subject of Wagner's music and some of its tendencies. Wagner was an intellectual giant among men, and his works are amazingly grand, yet they unfortunately are, in a certain sense, responsible for much bad singing and not a little injury to fine voices. First of all, Wagner's operas are, in their present form, too long. To sing these compositions night after night is beyond human powers, even in the case of those of the most perfect musical and technical training. If they were divided into two, and one half sung on one evening and the other on the next, it would be a gain for the public and the artists. It is impossible for even the musically cultivated to absorb and assimilate the whole of such an opera as "Siegfried" or "Tristan and Isolde" in one evening, and it is too much to expect any artist to sing them through without a rest. Again, they call for such strong accents, such deep and strenuous breathing, that the artist impersonating a hero or a god or goddess is put to a degree of exertion that is too great for human powers when continued for more than a very moderate period; besides, there is a temptation to a wrong use of the larynx--a forcible _coup de glotte_, or attack--that is exceedingly dangerous, and has injured many voices and ruined others. The man or woman who would sing Wagner's greater music dramas should, in addition to a strong physique, be master of a wonderfully perfect technique. These operas should never be attempted by very young singers of either sex, and especially not by very young women. They are for the powerful, the mature, the perfectly trained, the experienced. Turning to some special faults, we would warn against the "scoop," the excessive use of the _portamento_, or glide, so common a fault at the present time, and the _vibrato_ and _tremolo_. The two former are musical faults, so we pass them by without further consideration. Otherwise is it with the last two faults; they both result from a wrong use of the vocal organs. They are both due to some unsteadiness and lack of control, and, unfortunately, when once acquired, are very difficult to remedy. The unsteadiness may be almost anywhere in the vocal organs, but is usually referable to the respiratory apparatus or to the larynx. A _vibrato_ is the milder form of the evil, and is encouraged, we regret to say, by some teachers, while the _tremolo_ is due to an extreme unsteadiness, and, so far as we are aware, is universally condemned. It is about the worst fault any singer can have. It is evident in some cases only when the vocalist sings _piano_, but mostly in vigorous singing, and often arises from straining, disregard of registers, etc. It may be due to the singer trying to control too large a supply of air, or from bringing a blast to bear on the vocal bands too strong for them. In every case there is lack of adjustment between the vocal bands and the respiratory organs. The remedy must be adapted to the case, but usually the singer must for a time give up the use of the voice in _forte_ singing altogether, and gradually again learn to control his vocal mechanism. Associated sometimes with this fault is another, which, indeed, often gives rise to the former--viz., "pumping," or attempting to vocalize after the breath power is exhausted. One should always have enough air in reserve to sing at least two tones more than what is required. It will be observed that good singing and speaking are always physiological--_i.e._, they depend on the observance of well-known physiological principles; we wish we could add, principles clearly recognized by singers and teachers generally. It is to those who do that we would recommend the student of the vocal art to go at the outset of his career, otherwise much time may be lost and possibly much injury done. We distinguish, of course, between the teacher who recognizes physiological principles only practically and the one who does so consciously. The former may be an excellent and safe teacher, though, we think, not so good, other things being equal, as one of the latter type,--as yet somewhat rare. At an earlier period we referred to the important matter of classifying the voice. It often happens that one who is a tenor is trained as a barytone, or a contralto as a soprano, and the reverse, only to discover later that a mistake has been made. If it could become the custom to have vocal consultations among teachers, as medical ones among doctors, the author is convinced it would be well. Often a patient is sent a long distance to consult a medical man, and to return to his own physician for treatment based on the diagnosis made. In these instances the doctor consulted is expected to write his views privately to the patient's doctor, and to recommend treatment. Why should the same not occur in the vocal teacher's profession? It is considered scandalous in the medical profession to "steal" another physician's patient, and why should not a similar etiquette prevail in the profession now under consideration? The teacher in doubt about a voice might thus obtain the views of another member of his profession, of longer experience, on such a vital point as the classification of a voice, and with satisfaction alike to himself and to his pupil. If the teacher or pupil were not satisfied with the diagnosis, another eminent vocal teacher might be consulted, which would only be following custom in the medical profession. We would again remind the reader that voices are to be _classified by quality_, and not by range, at least not to any appreciable extent. Of all persons, the singer should know himself. He must learn his limitations, and the sooner the better. At the outset of his career he may be able to take certain liberties with himself with apparent impunity, but sooner or later he will pay the penalty; so that we recommend him to live with all the care of an athlete in training. However it may be with other men, spirits in every form, tobacco, etc., are not for him. Both tend to irritate and relax if not to inflame the throat, not to mention their bad effects on the general health, both psychical and physical. This advice is all the more necessary when one considers the exacting nature of the professional life of the artist. Strenuous exertion tends to fatigue and exhaustion, with a natural desire to relieve them by some special means, such as alcohol. To do so is often but to make a beginning of the end. How many bright lights in the dramatic and musical professions have been prematurely quenched through indulgence in the delusive draught! If tonics, sedatives, etc., are to be taken, which should not be a habitual practice, they should be used only under the direction of a medical man, and not self-prescribed. As the speaker and singer must often practise their art in an atmosphere that is far from pure, they will do well to carry out in a routine way some sort of mouth toilet on their return home and the next morning. Various simple mouth and throat washes may be used, such as (1) water with a little common salt dissolved in it; (2) water containing a few drops of carbolic acid--just enough to be distinctly tasted; (3) water containing listerine; (4) either of the last two with the addition of a pinch of bicarbonate of sodium to a teacupful of the fluid, when there is a tendency to catarrh. The use of lozenges in a routine way is not to be commended, and those containing morphia, cocaine, etc., should be employed only under the supervision of a medical practitioner. Sometimes, especially in the case of nervousness, a licorice pellet or a particle of gum arabic serves a good purpose in aiding in keeping the mouth moist. For one with a healthy throat the sipping of water is unnecessary, and the habit is one on no account to be learned, for the most admirable effect may be spoiled through the speaker stopping to sip water; there is the fatal and rapid descent from the lofty to the little. It is much more important to avoid eating certain things which interfere with the voice than to take anything to improve it before singing or speaking. Each individual should learn just what he can or cannot with safety eat. Certain kinds of fruit, cheese, fat meat, pastry, nuts, occasionally even butter, not to mention puddings, etc., must be put on the list of what singers and speakers had better not partake of before a public appearance. But the quantity is quite as important as the quality of the food taken. About one half the usual quantity, at most, and of very simple but nourishing food, is enough for any one who would do himself justice before the public. If blood and energy be drawn off to the stomach by a large meal, it cannot be available for the uses of the artist. Moreover, a full stomach pressing up under the diaphragm greatly hampers the movements of this, the most important of all the muscles of breathing. Of course, the public singer or speaker should eat after his work is done, of what and how much he can best learn by experience. As the author has felt called upon to condemn the use of alcohol in every form, he should, perhaps, point out that to take a cup of such a mild stimulant as tea or coffee during an interval, in the case of those who feel weary, is generally an unobjectionable, indeed, often a useful, procedure; but the less the artist coddles himself, especially while still young, the better. We would again call attention to one anatomical fact of great importance for the explanation of certain facts of experience--viz.: that the whole respiratory tract, the larynx included, is lined with a _mucous membrane_, which is continuous with that covering the inner surface of the digestive organs. That is to say, the nose, the mouth, the back of the throat, the larynx, the windpipe, the bronchial tubes, the gullet, the stomach and intestines are all brought into structural connection by this common lining membrane. Moreover, these parts have to some extent the same nerve supply, and are, in fact, so related that derangement in one region must affect sooner or later, and to a variable degree according to the resisting power of each individual, other related parts. Thus it is that a disordered stomach affects the voice, that a cold may affect digestion, that a catarrh of the nose will eventually reach the vocal bands, etc. Another principle of wide-reaching importance is that all sorts of _compression_ must, of necessity, be attended by functional disorders, which, if long continued, will result in organic or structural changes implying deterioration of a kind that must be more or less permanent. Whatever the cause of compression of the chest or neck, the result is the same: a retention of blood in parts for too long a period--a condition of things which must inevitably be injurious. The tissues are made up of cells, which are the individuals of the bodily community. Around these cells are found the smallest of the blood-vessels, the capillaries, between which and the tissues a sort of physiological barter is continually going on, the capillaries handing over oxygen and food supplies from the blood, and receiving waste materials in return, as the blood creeps along at a very slow rate. If, however, in consequence of pressure on a part, the blood be kept back in these minute vessels too long, there is naturally a double evil: first, the food and oxygen supplies fail--they have been used up already--and, secondly, the waste products accumulate in the tissue cells, so that there is a combination of starvation and poisoning--a sort of physiological slum life, with corresponding degradation; so that it is not at all difficult to understand why tight collars, neckbands, corsets, etc., must be unmixed evils, apart altogether from the fact that they so greatly hamper the very movements the voice-user most requires for the successful execution of his task. All sorts of straining or forcing also involve this same evil, known to medical men as _congestion_. The sore throats so common with those who force, owing to methods essentially wrong, or simply to the too vigorous use of methods correct in themselves, are to be traced to the above--_i.e._, to this congestion, which is bad, and bad only. If one who had a naturally sound throat at the outset finds that after vocal exercise he experiences either a soreness or an undue weariness of parts, he should conclude, if he is living under healthy conditions, that the methods he is employing are incorrect, and seek the natural remedy. Proper vocal exercise should, in those with healthy vocal organs, always improve them and the condition of the whole man. The author has met those who have been ruined vocally for life by the use of certain methods recommended by would-be professional guides. Why should not all who assume the responsibility of guiding speakers and especially singers be required by the state to show that they have not only a knowledge of music and vocal technique, but also at least a moderate amount of practical knowledge of the anatomy and physiology of the vocal organs, with some elementary information on general physiology? If the injury done by incompetent teachers were realized, we feel certain that the above proposition would not be questioned. A common cause of congestion of the digestive organs, with which, of course, other parts sympathize physiologically, is _constipation_, very often the result of insufficient exercise, and injurious in many ways. Speakers and singers very generally ride to and from their engagements, so that there is special reason why they should see to it that some time is set aside for general exercise, as walking in the open air, which would of itself work against that tendency to grow fat which is the physical curse that seems to fall on artists above most others. It seems scarcely necessary to point out how important it is for those who propose to take up the life of the stage or the platform to look to hardening themselves against catching cold, by friction of the skin, cold bathing, etc. The use of a sponge-bath of cold salt and water to the upper parts of the body, especially the neck and chest, will prove valuable in many cases, but the enervating effects of hot water should be avoided by all. The remarks made in regard to Wagner's music on page 257 have been among the very few to which exception has been taken by my reviewers. To those who disagree with me on the merits of the case I have nothing to say, but some have assumed that the writer was speaking out of pure theory, in real ignorance of Wagner's works. I wish to set that class of critics right. I have spent a great many seasons in Germany, and have heard Wagner's works under a great variety of circumstances, and have heard them also in several other countries. I have also had the opportunity of getting behind the scenes in a way that falls to the lot of few, so I think I am entitled to speak with rather more than the usual authority. My convictions as expressed in the foregoing chapter have in the interval rather strengthened than weakened. I am firmly convinced that it would be in the interests of art, the singer, and the auditor alike, either to shorten these operas, or to produce them in some way which will relieve the continuous strain. It must not be forgotten, either, that the poor overworked and greatly underpaid orchestral player often suffers severely in his nervous system from long continued Wagner playing. CHAPTER XIX. FURTHER TREATMENT OF PHYSICAL AND MENTAL HYGIENE. _Stammering_ and _stuttering_ are allied but not identical defects. They require special treatment, the earlier the better. Much can be done by the exercise of a little patience and kind consideration, to make the subject of these infirmities feel at ease, and so manifest the defects as little as possible. It is, of course, as a general rule, very unwise to take any notice whatever of such imperfections, as they are thereby made worse. As a rule, they are best treated practically by those who have made this branch a specialty. Those who have been badly taught, or who have overworked the vocal organs and, in consequence, may have broken down, are among the most discouraging if they be not the very worst cases that come under the treatment of the physician or vocal teacher. If the throat be out of order, a specialist should be consulted. He will likely enjoin complete rest of the vocal organs, and his advice should be implicitly followed. But usually the time comes when some sort of vocal exercises may be resumed. When this is the case, the choice of a teacher becomes of the utmost importance, more so than in ordinary cases, for further injudicious treatment may lead to the utter ruin of the voice. Assuming that medical treatment is no longer or not at all required, we recommend: (1) That all practices be only _piano_, or, at most, _moderato_, for some time; (2) that they be of very brief duration at any one period, so as to avoid fatigue; (3) that they be well within the range of the singer. The same principles apply to speakers who have broken down, whether owing to bad methods or to over-use of the voice. It is most important that strength and facility be gradually gained, and that weariness, not to say fatigue, be strictly avoided. If the general health be good, time, patience, and the utmost care in the application of the above principles, under the direction of an enlightened teacher, will in a large proportion of cases restore the voice for efficient use in at least moderate efforts. Of course, much depends on the age, general health, intelligence, etc., of the subject. On the question of the extent to which a singer's range can be safely increased, the greatest difference of opinion exists, and very extreme views have been held. On the one hand are those who almost ridicule the idea of "making" tones, and on the other, those who maintain that the range of all young singers can be increased by proper training. As a matter of fact, there are many singers before the public to-day whose range, either upward or downward, has been increased by many tones, in some cases almost an octave, and these singers are successful artists and sound vocalists; while others have sought to add but two or three tones to their range, and in vain. This is quite intelligible. As a rule, those of the former class have fallen into the hands of very good teachers, while yet young, have had excellent health and well-formed vocal organs, and been patient and attentive students. The acquisition has been gradual, and never forced. We have before said that if a pupil felt his throat the worse for a lesson in vocal culture, there was something wrong: either the method was incorrect in itself, or the practice was continued too long or carried out too vigorously. Of course, it is always assumed that the vocal organs are in a normal condition, and the student's health good not only generally but on the day of the practice. It is in every case for the student himself to determine, from his own feelings, whether the attempt to reach a certain tone produces straining, and for the teacher to judge whether this be so, from the appearance of the face of the pupil, the character of the tone, etc. One thing is certain: harm, and harm only, is done by any form of forcing or straining. At the same time, as the athlete increases the height to which he can jump, or the speed with which he can run, even during a single season, it seems illogical to conclude that in no case can a singer safely reach tones that are not originally in his voice--meaning thereby that he is unable to sing them at the outset of his career. This is one of those subjects on which common sense and science unite in admonishing us to test cautiously and to progress gradually, if the purpose is to be achieved with good results for the individual and for art. It is also unwise for a singer to attempt those selections in public the range of which taxes him to the very utmost. They lead to undue anxiety as to success, violate the principle of reserve force, to which reference has several times been made, and may lead to vocal failure, if not to injury to the throat. Though it is true that occasionally a song suffers by transposition to a lower key, if the vocalist is determined to sing a composition even slightly beyond his easy range, it is better to resort to it than to risk the possibilities mentioned above and other undesirable ones. Everyone who purposes to follow the arduous career of the vocal or dramatic artist would do well to realize early the importance of learning the art of conserving energy, or making the most of all that Nature has given him. When a man or woman is small, and has less breath power than some others, it becomes more important that they observe the laws of contrast, rest, etc., in their public efforts. A _forte_ has much the same effect, if it be preceded by darker, quieter tones, as if it were really louder. In like manner, a pause may often serve a very good purpose in preparing the ear of the listener for an effect that should be telling, yet a difficult one for a person of limited physical powers. In reality, all the best art recognizes, mostly unconsciously, the peculiarities of our physical and mental nature. A continuous _forte_, for example, ceases to be a _forte_, in reality, since the ear and the mind weary under it, and all the effect of contrast is lost. As we have more than once said, good art is physiological--in harmony with the laws of the body, as well as of the mind. It follows that each one should study especially how to make the wisest, the most effective, use of his powers, for what is best for one may not be so for another. A singer or speaker, by reason of a voice somewhat small in volume, may seem to be shut out from certain buildings. This need rarely be the case. The artist must simply the more carefully consider how he shall vary his effects, how so use his powers that they shall suffice. A loud voice may be a very bad one for the hearer, and may annoy and weary rather than please. When a building is large, nearly all effects should be increased--_e.g._, all pauses lengthened, the _tempo_ taken a little slower, the contrasts made stronger, etc.,--rather than the volume of tone increased. The method of attack becomes of the utmost importance; all low or soft passages should be sung or uttered with the greatest distinctness, all final letters most perfectly finished. It is especially important for a speaker to be aware of his favorite--_i.e._, most easy and natural--pitch, and also that pitch which best adapts his voice to a certain building. Many forget that sound does not, in reality, travel very rapidly, and that allowance must be made for this, so that one tone shall not break on the ear before another has had time to be attended to--one idea to be grasped before another is presented. Of all things pauses are of the greatest importance, to the listener, that he may apprehend the ideas presented, and to the speaker, that he may have time to take breath and a brief rest, and also seize the opportunity to readdress himself, so to speak, to his auditors, by the use of another accent, pitch of tone, or whatever he deems most apt to his purpose. Speakers who make suitable pauses with intention (not from lack of ideas), or from an artistic instinct, give pleasure, as well as effect their intellectual purpose, for the listener also gets his moments for rest, perceives readily what is meant, and enjoys the purely sensuous in the art far more than when the speaker's utterance rushes on like a torrent. All this applies to a certain extent to the singer, though it is but very inadequately observed--we must say, however, much better than at a former period, when "ranting," on the stage especially, was a very common fault. In an earlier chapter attention was given to the precautions to be taken before a public appearance, especially by those who are inexperienced; and we would again emphasize the fact that those who have the best training, and have made the most perfect special preparation for the coming event, are least likely to suffer from that great disturber, nervousness; and when they are somewhat tense, the well-disciplined often recover rapidly, and frequently astonish their friends by the success of their first appearance. We strongly recommend all who can to take rest on the day preceding and following a hard evening's work, and preferably, in summer, in the open air. A quiet walk in a park, where one may think or observe or not, as he feels inclined, is an excellent thing to do, either before or after a strenuous artistic effort. If the battery is to be well charged, it must not be discharged even partially before the right moment. Amateurs and the inexperienced are particularly apt to neglect such precaution for success, and to fritter away their energies by attention to details, possibly trivial ones, up to the last moment. Happy is he who, well prepared for his task, free from worries, unmoved by envy, jealousy, or undue ambition, can step before the public resolved to do his best for art, and who, having done it, can rest in the satisfaction that he has contributed something to the innocent and ennobling enjoyment of his fellows, and so has helped to advance those of his own generation; caring little for either the flatteries of admirers or a criticism that may be ignorant, unjust, or malignant, but feeling that the best reward is the approval of his own conscience, knowing that "Art is long, and life short." CHAPTER XX. REVIEW AND REVISION. All the most important truths of any subject may be stated in a brief space. The Author proposes to make this final chapter one of a restatement of the essentials of the subject in the light of our present-day knowledge, and with a distinct relation to practice. The object of the speaker or singer is to produce certain sounds which shall as easily as possible convey to the listener his own state of mind. It follows that he must have a clear idea of these sounds, that he must hear them mentally prior to their utterance; in other words, the psychological must precede the physiological. Voice production for the purpose of speaking and singing implies a coöperation of the psychic and the physiological, a co-ordination of processes that are psychic, and physical, somatic or physiological. It is well to regard the subject from as many points of view as possible, and to consider the various ways in which the same truth may be stated. Stress must be laid on the idea of co-ordination, for processes may be independently satisfactory yet fail to lead to the desired result if they are not connected, harmonised or co-ordinated. The latter is the better term because it suggests a certain order of progress. As a matter of fact, first the psychic, then the physiological. The idea may be clear, yet from a physical defect, as in stammering, the result does not follow, though this physiological imperfection in movement may itself be the result of a psychic condition and generally is so. A clearer case is that of paralysis of the vocal organs. The ideas to be expressed may be perfectly clear in the mind yet impossible of expression. The defect is at the distal end of the combination--_i.e._, in the physical, somatic or bodily part of the process to express the same idea by the use of different terms. The consideration of conditions of defect or pathological states may make normal psychological and physiological ones clearer, as has been shown by the above illustrations. The practical importance of the co-ordination of processes is very great. It is not possible for one born deaf to speak because the necessary mental or psychic conditions for co-ordination do not exist--_i.e._, there is no sound in the mind to be expressed--not because there is any serious anatomical defect. In like manner the student of singing will produce no better tone than he has in mind no matter how much he practices vocalization. It follows, therefore, that the psychic state of the student should be kept in advance of his actual powers of execution. This he will most successfully do by listening to the best artists either directly or if this be impossible by hearing their gramophone records--all this in addition to the best the teacher can do for him by the correction of faults, giving him illustrations of better tone by his own efforts, etc. If the student has the opportunity of hearing himself by means of a phonographic record, he should not fail to do so. No one ever hears himself as others hear him. As the mind and the brain are always associated in thought and feeling; in other words, in psychic processes, and these latter find expression chiefly through movements, in one sense a study of vocalization may be considered a study of movements. These are always brought about by the use of several muscles which act together for a definite end--_i.e._, they are co-ordinated. As such movements generally involve many muscles and to be effective must be exact and under perfect control, much practice is necessary, though "much" should have reference rather to the clearness of the mind in reference to what is to be attained and the means of accomplishing it, rather than to the amount of time spent over the actual performance. We may confidently assert that technique or the physical side of putting the ideas into execution, which is simply making certain movements, is successful largely in proportion to the perfection of the psychic processes involved. A clear head should precede the moving hand, or functioning vocal organs. The student should think technique before and after its actual execution. This is even yet, in spite of a great advance in recent years, the weakest part of the student's method of work. All that we know of science as well as the results of all rightly directed practice emphasizes the importance of this central truth. Assuming that the psychic condition is satisfactory for the production of a definite tone--_i.e._, that it is heard mentally, what follows before it is actually produced, before it becomes a tone from the physicist's point of view? What is the chain of physical, somatic, bodily or anatomical (to use several words that express similar but slightly different aspects of the same main idea) connections involved, and what is the nature of the physiological processes; in other words, what are the parts of the body involved and how do they act? This will be clearer if we first consider the mechanism concerned and its functions in a general way. The instrument which is played upon, which finally gives rise to the tone, may be spoken of as that connected series of cavities for which we have no single term but which are generally named the resonance chambers when regarded from the physicist's point of view. To the musician they are the instrument, to the physiologist and anatomist a set of chambers communicating with each other. Plainly all the rest of the vocal mechanism exists for them, and too much stress cannot be laid on this fact. However excellent the state of training of the part below them this is of no avail except in so far as it can affect these resonance cavities. How is this instrument played upon and how are these cavities made actually into resounding chambers? In the answer to this, in the recognition of the relationship of the three distinct parts of the vocal apparatus lies the one great fundamental conception of the manner in which tone is produced. To understand this clearly is to comprehend in its main outlines the whole subject of voice production in a scientific way. Before a tone is heard vibrations of the atmospheric air must reach the ear. These are set up by the vibration of the air within the resonance chambers, and this again is effected by the mechanism below them--_i.e._, by the movements of the vocal bands of the larynx which are due to the blast of air emanating from the lungs, this itself being brought into being by the movements of the chest, using the term in the widest sense, thus including the diaphragm, etc. Breathing has for its object so far as phonation is concerned no other purpose than to so affect the vocal bands, that the resonance chambers really do resound. The question is how is this breathing best accomplished so that the instrument shall be most efficiently played upon? We cannot alter the anatomical structure of the instrument appreciably, but we can improve the functioning of the several parts of the whole apparatus. Breathing can be improved as regards power and control. More can be done with less expenditure of energy than originally if there be judicious training. How shall we train? As the outgoing stream of air alone affects the vocal bands, it is clear that we must aim to so apply and regulate this outflow that the desired result shall follow from the least possible expenditure of energy. How the air is got in is important only in relation to its expenditure. But the easier the supply is furnished the better. This law of the conservation of energy is one of the greatest importance, for all beings have but a limited supply of energy and our problem must ever be how best to husband this as a wise man should study how best to spend his limited income. One must not only consider what is called for in ordinary conversational speaking, or in singing in a small room, but also when the greatest possible efforts are demanded. In all cases when movements are concerned, indeed whenever activity of any kind psychic or physiological is involved the _law of habit_ should be borne in mind--_i.e._, one should so think and do that a habit may be established, for a habit implies, when a good one, that there is economy of both mental and bodily energy. The aim of all training is to establish good habits--ways of doing things which will leave the subject with more capital to invest so to speak, as he wastes less. It follows that the same methods should always be used in trying to attain the same end. There are few subjects of equal importance so little considered by students of music in a conscious intelligent way. A clear conviction as to the foundation for close adherence to certain methods of doing things is an invaluable mental asset for any student. The whole subject of breathing has been so fully considered in previous chapters--indeed more or less in all parts of this work--that it is not necessary to go into much detail now. The investigations of physiologists in the internal have only emphasised the author's teaching on this subject. The present position of the subject may be stated thus: (1) In inspiration the whole chest is enlarged, this involving the descent of the diaphragm. (2) The amount of mobility is much greater in the lower half of the chest. (3) This lower half of the chest and the diaphragm act together, constituting a special mechanism of great importance. (4) The abdominal muscles discharge a coöperative function. It follows that the advice of a present day famous tenor to "breathe low" is sound. Nevertheless, it must not be forgotten that inspiration begins above and that the upper chest has its functions also. It is not merely a region of support for the lower mechanism, important as this function is. The terms "abdominal" and "diaphragmatic" respiration have led to misunderstanding. Neither the abdominal muscles nor the diaphragm ever act alone in normal respiration, though they are important coöperative factors. Breathing exercises should be based on broad views of the subject, and no part of the respiratory mechanism should be neglected. Small an organ as is the larynx it is through it the energy of the expiratory act is transmitted effectively or the reverse to the all-important resonance chambers. This should be so done that there is no waste; in other words, that there be perfect co-ordination between the breathing and the laryngeal mechanism. The vocal bands must be so related in function to the expiratory mechanism that the outgoing blast of air shall be as effective as possible. There must be no waste of power--_i.e._, of the expiratory blast through escape of air that accomplishes no purpose. The blast must be so applied to the vocal bands, or, in other words, they must be so adapted to the blast that there is no waste of energy. If the bands approximate a little too late there is waste of breath power. The bands must further so beat the air of the resonance chambers as to get the greatest possible result with the least possible expenditure of energy. As all these co-ordinations imply the action of many muscles in a related way, it is plain that intelligent and prolonged training is necessary; and if our scientific knowledge had no other result than to establish such a conviction on a sure basis it would be well worth while; but it is a light unto the feet of the student and teacher at every step, only it must be a clear light, not one seen through a mental haze. If there be failure the fault must not be set down to science but to ourselves. It is ever to be borne in mind that when anything is done in the right way not only is there no pain, unpleasant feeling or evil after-effects, but when real skill has been attained through training, the result is accomplished with a sense of ease and all the accompanying feelings are agreeable. The singer need not know that he has a throat by any disagreeable reminder. At the same time a function may be correctly discharged but continued too long, so that weariness or positive fatigue with some evil consequences may follow. Fatigue always implies more or less poisoning of the system. Of the resonance chambers, the mouth cavity, the pharyngeal cavity and the naso-pharynx, which may both be regarded as a part of the mouth cavity, and the nasal chambers, the latter may be considered the least variable in shape; nevertheless they can, by means of the soft palate, be to a large extent shut off from the other parts of this series of chambers. The means by which the size and shape of the resonance chambers can be varied are chiefly the soft palate and the tongue, the latter being of the greatest importance. The changes in the shape of the mouth cavity necessary for the formation of vowels are due chiefly to the movements of the tongue, and the tongue is more largely concerned in the utterance of consonants than any other moveable part of the upper voice mechanism. For practical ends it is important to realize that one speaks with the tongue; and if one believed that everything depended on this organ, other parts--including the outer mouth or lips merely to be kept out of the way--the result would on the whole likely be gain. In the formation of vowels the result may be good when the lips take but the slightest active part, and the student is advised to practice vowel formation without the use of the lips. He is likely to use them enough in any case provided he ensures the formation of pure vowel sounds, and people seem to have an extraordinary facility for over-doing the use of lip movements, for getting the teeth in the way and thus spoiling tone, that was begun well, before it has escaped from the mouth. It may be observed that those who get their living on the streets by the use of the voice, and who use the voice much and often speak rapidly, and in spite of this are heard well, so construct their words that the lips are not seen to move to any appreciable extent except as the lower jaw moves. The lips seem to be always apart. It is not the amount of movement that is important but the kind of movement, especially its rapidity. Muscular efforts for the production of consonants should be neat, decisive, sharp, rather than held ones, which tend to spoil the word as a whole. As a rule, one is safe in holding the vowel as long as possible and in making the time dwelt on the consonant as short as possible--_i.e._, consistent with distinct and musical utterance. The same applies to singing with even greater force. In speaking especially short pauses not printed in the text may be made to great advantage, and this is often better than dwelling on consonants. The mouth of the speaker and still more that of the singer should not attract the attention of the listener, so the less movement of the lips of a kind readily open to observation, the better. Besides such movements being unnecessary are a waste of muscular and nervous energy. Singers are not warranted in departing to any appreciable extent from the pronunciation of words laid down as standard for speakers--_e.g._, "shall" should not be sung as "sholl," and in such a word as "motion," the final syllable should not be made equally important with the first one. Singers should observe the laws of a good elocution; in other words, such treatment of the language of the song as an approved reader would employ. The author would go so far as to say that no singer should appear in public till he can utter every syllable as he sings so that it is readily recognised by the listener. At present such is rarely the case even with the best vocalists. All prospective vocalists should study utterance by the speaking voice first and continue it when the study of singing has been begun. The words of every song, etc., should be mastered in all respects before they are sung. As the degree of success in singing or speaking depends so far as technique is concerned on a series of co-ordinations the condition of both the psychic and bodily mechanism as determined by training and the general health of the individual is of great importance; and it is not to be forgotten that the mind as well as the body is to be considered in all questions of hygiene. INDEX. A Abdominal muscles, 66 Acoustics, 97 Adam's apple, 80 Adductors, 82 Air, 48 complemental, 70 quantity of, in lungs, 70 residual, 70 supplemental, 70 tidal, 70 Amateurs, 274 American speech, 146 Americans, pitch of, 224 Antagonists, 53 Anatomy, 35 Art, 17, 272 Artist, isolation of, 254 Artistic, 246 perception, 245 temperament, 31 Arytenoid cartilages, 77 Aspirates, 228 Attack, 30, 125, 127, 208 best tests of a good, 129 good, 127, 232 Auditory messages, 250 Auto-laryngoscopy, 109, 110, 152, 161 B "Backward" production, 213 Bel Canto, 211 Break, 162 Breath, 60, 72 control of, 20, 21 exercise for, 133, 134 in phonation, 130 manner of using, 172, 208 stream, 22, 125, 194 Breathing, 44-73, 118, 124 abdominal, 118 clavicular, 118, 119 deep, 63 diaphragmatic, 118, 119 exercises, 131 mechanism, control of, 120 method of, 64, 177 nose, 131 C Cartilage of Santorini, 77 Wrisberg, 77 Cells, 36 Chest, 50, 62, 71 cavity of, 71 complete control of, 62 position of, in singing, 123 in speaking, 123 Children, public appearance of, 116 register of, 234 Choral singing, 247 Choristers, 256 Circulatory system, 37 Clergyman's sore-throat, 88 Cold, a, 77, 92 prevention of, 93 Color, 214 Composers, 116 Consonant, a, 195, 196 Consonants, 223, 225, 226, 230-235 mouth positions of, 226-228 Corsets, evil effects of, 72 Coup de glotte, 124-127, 139 Cramming, 46 Cricoid cartilage, 77, 81 thyroid, 83, 85 membrane, 81 Curwen, 156 D Dialects, 225, 235 Diameters, 50 Diaphragm, 52, 53, 66, 71 E Ear, 182, 236, 245, 248 connection with mouth cavity, 203 drum-head of, 240 external, purpose of, 240 for music, 244 lack of, 245, 249 inner, 237, 241 middle, 237, 241 musical, 31 outer, 237 purpose of, 238 Ease, 123, 233 English, 198 speech, 146 Epiglottis, 79 Eustachian tube, 241 Execution, 179, 256 Exercises, 131-135, 139 practical, 73 Expiration, 49 Expiratory blast, 60, 68, 88, 103, 177 current, 136, 208 Explosives, 226 Expression, 254 F Falsetto, 154 high, 170, 178 in males, 160, 179 "Feeling-tone", 212 Food, 263 "Forward" production, 213 Fundamental principles, 179-194 application of, 195-206 tone, 231 G Garcia, Manuel, 105, 138, 159 German language, 198 speech, 146 Germans, pitch of, 224 Glide, 258 Glottis, 47, 78, 82, 88, 126, 159 in barytone voices, 157 bass voices, 157 contralto voices, 158 mezzo-soprano voices, 158 tenor voices, 157 ligamentous, 157 H Head, position of, 205 Hearing, 101, 236-250 difference in animals, 101 highest limit of, 102 lower limit of, 102 Helmholtz, 167 Hygiene, 33, 72, 92, 93, 251-275 Hyoid bone, 81, 95 I Illustration of principles, 27, 28 Impulses, 236 Inhibitions, 184 Inspiration, 48, 51, 71 Intonation, 195, 196, 230 correct position for good, 131 Italian language, 198 K Knowledge, principle of, 34 L Larynx, 60, 74-96, 136, 148, 258 anatomy of, 21 as a musical instrument, 102 change in size of, 111 control over, 112 difference in size, 110 growth of, 138 in action, 109 in singing and speaking, 198 muscles of, 81, 95 of the male 138 photography of, 161 physiology of, 21 ventricle of, 80 vibrations of, 96 whole, 94 Laryngoscope, 91, 103, 136 Ligamentous glottis, 157 Lips, 202 Lungs, 49, 63 Lymph, 37 M Mackenzie, Sir Morell, 156, 167, 168 Mara, Madame, range of, 111 Marcato production, 209 Marchesi, Madame, teaching of, 159 Men, register of, 234 Messages, Auditory, 250 Methods, correct, 22, 23 faulty, 32 Middle production, 214 Midriff, see diaphragm Mind, 210 Mirror, use of, 235 Mouth, as a resonance chamber, 221 resonator, 148 cavity, 149 respiration, 131 toilet of, 262 Movements, 192 Muscles, 36, 82 abdominal, 66 Muscular action, 71 mechanism, 42 movements, 179 Music, 243 appreciation of, 247 intellectuality in, 256 intelligence in, 108 interpretation of, 21 Musical artist, 198 ear, 31 prodigy, 243 faculty develops early, 115 faults, 258 sounds, practical range of, 102 tones, 231 Musician, fundamental qualities of, 246 N Nasal chambers, 144, 149, 214 Nasality, 231 Nerve-cells, 38 Nervous centres, 39 impulses, 244, 250 system, 38 Nervousness, 274 Neuro-muscular mechanisms, 17, 42, 181 processes, 183 system, 43 New language, learning of, 224 Noise, 218 O Open mouth, 203, 204, 217 Ordinary speech, 230 Overtones, 231, 235 P Palate, cleft, 149 hard, 149, 213 soft, 145, 214, 216, 231 Phonation, 192, 193 breath in, 130 example of, 193 Physics, principles of involved, 135 Physiological considerations, 34-43 teachings, 26, 31 Piano production, 259 Pillars of the fauces, 145 Pitch, 101, 136, 150, 214 favorite, 273 Portamento production, 258 Practical considerations, 88 Practice, 132, 185-192 best time to, 186, 187 by wrong method, 191 for sustained tone, 132 methods of, 194 Puberty, at, 112, 138 in boys, 114, 115 in girls, 113 Public singing, age to begin, 115 speaking, 212 Pumping, 259 Q Quality, 101, 136, 214 R R and s, interval between, 225 Reed, long, 157 short, 157 Reflex action, 40 Reflexes, associated, 183 protective character of, 58, 59 sets of, 184 Register, 233 change in, 169, 177 chest, 160 definition of, 176 in female voices, 160 of basses and barytones, 170 of tenors, 170 Registers, 151-178 Behnke on, 155, 156, 167 Garcia on, 155 Mackenzie on, 156, 167, 168 Madame Seiler on, 153, 165, 170 Mandl on, 158 Resonance chambers, 102, 136, 140-150, 175, 182, 198, 213, 223, 224, 228, 234 in sounding bodies, 140 of musical instruments, 140, 141 Resonants, 228 Resonator, 148 Respiration, 46, 48, 68, 69 forced, 119 hygiene of, 55 mouth, 131 Respiratory centre, 57, 58, 172 efficiency, 124 organs, 47 system, 37 tract, 26 S Science, 17 Scripture, Prof., 150 Seiler, Madame, 153, 165, 170 Selections in public, 271 Sensations, 172, 174, 175, 178 Septum nasi, 149 Singer, purpose of, 99 range of, 269 Singing, choral, 256 class, 257 fortissimo, 121 good, 259 in schools, 247 Song, elements of, 218-229 Soprano, highest tones of, 137 light, 232 Sound, 60, 97-103, 135, 225 quality of, 102, 246 Tyndall on, 97 volume of, 101, 102, 136 Sounding body, 99 Speaker, purpose of, 99 Speaking, good, 259 Speech, elements of, 218-229 organs of, 233 purity of, 135 Sphincter action, 86 Staccato production, 209 Stammering, 268 Stop-closure, 158 Straining, 86, 175 Straw bass, 88 Stuttering, 268 Style, 254 Swell, 207, 212 T Technique, 23, 179, 183, 185, 186, 254, 255 Teeth, 202 Temperament, 245 Tenors, 232 Throat mirror, 107 sore, 265 Thyro-arytenoideus, 84, 85 hyoid membrane, 81 Thyroid cartilage, 76, 81 Timbre, 136 Tone, 132, 135, 136 carrying power of, 126 color of, 214 ground, 231 head, 160 piano, 233 pitch of, 126 production, 132, 207-217 quality of, 128, 142, 150, 231 the sustained, 208 volume of, 126 Tones, 189 head, 177 highest, 137 lower, 137 quality of, 146 timbre of, 136 upper, 86 Tongue, 131, 145, 149, 214 control of, 202 influence of, 201 Tonsils, 145, 149 Trachea, 81 Tremolo, 128, 258, 259 Tuning fork, 99 U Uvula, 145 V Vibrations, 61, 98, 100, 236 Vibratives, 228 Vibrato, 258 Vital capacity, 71 Vocal athlete, 182 Vocal bands, 87, 103, 126 action of, 137 false, 78 true, 77, 78, 80, 94 vibrations of, 136 cords, false, 95 Madame Seiler on, 154 true, 95 methods, 32 physiology, 17-32 training, early weeks of, 246 Vocalises, 207 Vocalist, ideal, 198 Vocalization, 19, 31 Voice, 44, 254 breaking of, 114 brightening the, 216 carrying power of, 232 darkening the, 216 even, 84 harsh, 232 head, in females, 166 in ill health, 114 loud, 272 placed, 215 position in use of, 206 production, 22, 244 small in volume, 272 user, 17, 33, 46 exercises for, 135 well placed, 175 Voices, classification of, 260, 261 injured, 26 Vowel, a, 195 purity of, 199 sounds, 196, 197, 216 Vowels, adaptation of, to ideas, 222 and consonants, 230, 235 dark, 235 formation of, 218-221 low-pitched, 235 mouth positions of, 218 perfect sound of, 221 pitch of, 221, 225, 230 quality of, 221 W Wagner, 257 Whispering, 225, 226 Women, register of, 234 
20069	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 20069-h.htm or 20069-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/0/6/20069/20069-h/20069-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/0/6/20069/20069-h.zip) CARUSO AND TETRAZZINI ON THE ART OF SINGING by ENRICO CARUSO and LUISA TETRAZZINI Metropolitan Company, Publishers, New York, 1909. PREFACE In offering this work to the public the publishers wish to lay before those who sing or who are about to study singing, the simple, fundamental rules of the art based on common sense. The two greatest living exponents of the art of singing--Luisa Tetrazzini and Enrico Caruso--have been chosen as examples, and their talks on singing have additional weight from the fact that what they have to say has been printed exactly as it was uttered, the truths they expound are driven home forcefully, and what they relate so simply is backed by years of experience and emphasized by the results they have achieved as the two greatest artists in the world. Much has been said about the Italian Method of Singing. It is a question whether anyone really knows what the phrase means. After all, if there be a right way to sing, then all other ways must be wrong. Books have been written on breathing, tone production and what singers should eat and wear, etc., etc., all tending to make the singer self-conscious and to sing with the brain rather than with the heart. To quote Mme. Tetrazzini: "You can train the voice, you can take a raw material and make it a finished production; not so with the heart." The country is overrun with inferior teachers of singing; men and women who have failed to get before the public, turn to teaching without any practical experience, and, armed only with a few methods, teach these alike to all pupils, ruining many good voices. Should these pupils change teachers, even for the better, then begins the weary undoing of the false method, often with no better result. To these unfortunate pupils this book is of inestimable value. He or she could not consistently choose such teachers after reading its pages. Again the simple rules laid down and tersely and interestingly set forth not only carry conviction with them, but tear away the veil of mystery that so often is thrown about the divine art. Luisa Tetrazzini and Enrico Caruso show what not to do, as well as what to do, and bring the pupil back to first principles--the art of singing naturally. THE ART OF SINGING By Luisa Tetrazzini [Illustration: LUISA TETRAZZINI] LUISA TETRAZZINI INTRODUCTORY SKETCH OF THE CAREER OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS PRIMA DONNA Luisa Tetrazzini, the most famous Italian coloratura soprano of the day, declares that she began to sing before she learned to talk. Her parents were not musical, but her elder sister, now the wife of the eminent conductor Cleofante Campanini, was a public singer of established reputation, and her success roused her young sister's ambition to become a great artist. Her parents were well to do, her father having a large army furnishing store in Florence, and they did not encourage her in her determination to become a prima donna. One prima donna, said her father, was enough for any family. Luisa did not agree with him. If one prima donna is good, she argued, why would not two be better? So she never desisted from her importunity until she was permitted to become a pupil of Professor Coccherani, vocal instructor at the Lycée. At this time she had committed to memory more than a dozen grand opera rôles, and at the end of six months the professor confessed that he could do nothing more for her voice; that she was ready for a career. She made her bow to the Florentine opera going public, one of the most critical in Italy, as Inez, in Meyerbeer's "L'Africaine," and her success was so pronounced that she was engaged at a salary of $100 a month, a phenomenal beginning for a young singer. Queen Margherita was present on the occasion and complimented her highly and prophesied for her a great career. She asked the trembling débutante how old she was, and in the embarrassment of the moment Luisa made herself six years older than she really was. This is one noteworthy instance in which a public singer failed to discount her age. Fame came speedily, but for a long time it was confined to Europe and Latin America. She sang seven seasons in St. Petersburg, three in Mexico, two in Madrid, four in Buenos Aires, and even on the Pacific coast of America before she appeared in New York. She had sung Lucia more than 200 times before her first appearance at Covent Garden, and the twenty curtain calls she received on that occasion came as the greatest surprise of her career. She had begun to believe that she could never be appreciated by English-speaking audiences and the ovation almost overcame her. It was by the merest chance that Mme. Tetrazzini ever came to the Manhattan Opera House in New York. The diva's own account of her engagement is as follows: "I was in London, and for a wonder I had a week, a wet week, on my hands. You know people will do anything in a wet week in London. "There were contracts from all over the Continent and South America pending. There was much discussion naturally in regard to settlements and arrangements of one kind and another. "Suddenly, just like that"--she makes a butterfly gesture--"M. Hammerstein came, and just like that"--a duplicate gesture--"I made up my mind that I would come here. If his offer to me had been seven days later I should not have signed, and if I had not I should undoubtedly never have come, for a contract that I might have signed to go elsewhere would probably have been for a number of years." Voice experts confess that they are not able to solve the mystery of Mme. Tetrazzini's wonderful management of her breathing. "It is perfectly natural," she says. "I breathe low down in the diaphragm, not, as some do, high up in the upper part of the chest. I always hold some breath in reserve for the crescendos, employing only what is absolutely necessary, and I renew the breath wherever it is easiest. "In breathing I find, as in other matters pertaining to singing, that as one goes on and practices, no matter how long one may have been singing, there are constantly new surprises awaiting one. You may have been accustomed for years to take a note in a certain way, and after a long while you discover that, while it is a very good way, there is a better." Breath Control The Foundation of Singing There is only one way to sing correctly, and that is to sing naturally, easily, comfortably. The height of vocal art is to have no apparent method, but to be able to sing with perfect facility from one end of the voice to the other, emitting all the notes clearly and yet with power and having each note of the scale sound the same in quality and tonal beauty as the ones before and after. There are many methods which lead to the goal of natural singing--that is to say, the production of the voice with ease, beauty and with perfect control. Some of the greatest teachers in the world reach this point apparently by diverging roads. Around the art of singing there has been formed a cult which includes an entire jargon of words meaning one thing to the singer and another thing to the rest of the world and which very often doesn't mean the same thing to two singers of different schools. In these talks with you I am going to try to use the simplest words, and the few idioms which I will have to take from my own language I will translate to you as clearly as I can, so that there can be no misunderstanding. Certainly the highest art and a lifetime of work and study are necessary to acquire an easy emission of tone. There are quantities of wonderful natural voices, particularly among the young people of Switzerland and Italy, and the American voice is especially noted for its purity and the beauty of its tone in the high registers. But these naturally untrained voices soon break or fail if they are used much unless the singer supplements the natural, God-given vocal gifts with a conscious understanding of how the vocal apparatus should be used. The singer must have some knowledge of his or her anatomical structure, particularly the structure of the throat, mouth and face, with its resonant cavities, which are so necessary for the right production of the voice. Besides that, the lungs and diaphragm and the whole breathing apparatus must be understood, because the foundation of singing is breathing and breath control. A singer must be able to rely on his breath, just as he relies upon the solidity of the ground beneath his feet. A shaky, uncontrolled breath is like a rickety foundation on which nothing can be built, and until that foundation has been developed and strengthened the would-be singer need expect no satisfactory results. From the girls to whom I am talking especially I must now ask a sacrifice--the singer cannot wear tight corsets and should not wear corsets of any kind which come up higher than the lowest rib. In other words, the corset must be nothing but a belt, but with as much hip length as the wearer finds convenient and necessary. In order to insure proper breathing capacity it is understood that the clothing must be absolutely loose around the chest and also across the lower part of the back, for one should breathe with the back of the lungs as well as with the front. In my years of study and work I have developed my own breathing capacity until I am somewhat the despair of the fashionable modiste, but I have a diaphragm and a breath on which I can rely at all times. In learning to breathe it is well to think of the lungs as empty sacks, into which the air is dropping like a weight, so that you think first of filling the bottom of your lungs, then the middle part, and so on until no more air can be inhaled. Inhale short breaths through the nose. This, of course, is only an exercise for breath development. Now begin to inhale from the bottom of the lungs first. Exhale slowly and feel as if you were pushing the air against your chest. If you can get this sensation later when singing it will help you very greatly to get control of the breath and to avoid sending too much breath through the vocal chords. The breath must be sent out in an even, steady flow. You will notice when you begin to sing, if you watch yourself very carefully, that, first, you will try to inhale too much air; secondly, you will either force it all out at once, making a breathy note, or in trying to control the flow of air by the diaphragm you will suddenly cease to send it forth at all and will be making the sound by pressure from the throat. There must never be any pressure from the throat. The sound must be made from the continued flow of air. You must learn to control this flow of air, so that no muscular action of the throat can shut it off. Open the throat wide and start your note by the pressure breath. The physical sensation should be first an effort on the part of the diaphragm to press the air up against the chest box, then the sensation of a perfectly open throat, and, lastly, the sensation that the air is passing freely into the cavities of the head. The quantity of sound is controlled by the breath. In diminishing the tone the opening of the throat remains the same. Only the quantity of breath given forth is diminished. That is done by the diaphragm muscles. "Filare la voce," to spin the voice from a tiny little thread into a breadth of sound and then diminish again, is one of the most beautiful effects in singing. It is accomplished by the control of the breath, and its perfect accomplishment means the complete mastery of the greatest difficulty in learning to sing. I think one of the best exercises for learning to control the voice by first getting control of the breath is to stand erect in a well-ventilated room or out of doors and slowly snuff in air through the nostrils, inhaling in little puffs, as if you were smelling something. Take just a little bit of air at a time and feel as if you were filling the very bottom of your lungs and also the back of your lungs. When you have the sensation of being full up to the neck retain the air for a few seconds and then very slowly send it out in little puffs again. This is a splendid exercise, but I want to warn you not to practice any breathing exercise to such an extent that you make your heart beat fast or feel like strangling. Overexercising the lungs is as bad as not exercising them enough and the results are often harmful. Like everything else in singing, you want to learn this gradually. Never neglect it, because it is the very foundation of your art. But don't try to develop a diaphragm expansion of five inches in two weeks. Indeed, it is not the expansion that you are working for. I have noticed this one peculiarity about young singers--if they have an enormous development of the diaphragm they think they should be able to sing, no matter what happens. A girl came to see me once whose figure was really entirely out of proportion, the lower part of the lungs having been pressed out quite beyond even artistic lines. "You see, madam," she exclaimed, "I have studied breathing. Why, I have such a strong diaphragm I can move the piano with it!" And she did go right up to my piano and, pushing on this strong diaphragm of hers, moved the piano a fraction of an inch from its place. I was quite aghast. I had never met such an athletic singer. When I asked her to let me hear her voice, however, a tiny stream of contralto sound issued from those powerful lungs. She had developed her breathing capacity, but when she sang she held her breath back. I have noticed that a great many people do this, and it is one of the things that must be overcome in the very beginning of the study of singing. Certain young singers take in an enormous breath, stiffening every muscle in order to hold the air, thus depriving their muscles of all elasticity. They will then shut off the throat and let only the smallest fraction of air escape, just enough to make a sound. Too much inbreathing and too violent an effort at inhaling will not help the singer at all. People have said that they cannot see when I breathe. Well, they certainly cannot say that I am ever short of breath even if I do try to breathe invisibly. When I breathe I scarcely draw my diaphragm in at all, but I feel the air fill my lungs and I feel my upper ribs expand. In singing I always feel as if I were forcing my breath against my chest, and, just as in the exercises according to Delsarte you will find the chest leads in all physical movements, so in singing you should feel this firm support of the chest of the highest as well as the lowest notes. I have seen pupils, trying to master the art of breathing, holding themselves as rigidly as drum majors. Now this rigidity of the spinal column will in no way help you in the emission of tone, nor will it increase the breath control. In fact, I don't think it would even help you to stand up straight, although it would certainly give one a stiff appearance and one far removed from grace. A singer should stand freely and easily and should feel as if the chest were leading, but should not feel constrained or stiff in any part of the ribs or lungs. From the minute the singer starts to emit a tone the supply of breath must be emitted steadily from the chamber of air in the lungs. It must never be held back once. The immediate pressure of the air should be felt more against the chest. I know of a great many singers who, when they come to very difficult passages, put their hands on their chests, focusing their attention on this one part of the mechanism of singing. The audience, of course, thinks the prima donna's hand is raised to her heart, when, as a matter of fact, the prima donna, with a difficult bit of singing before her, is thinking of her technique and the foundation of that technique--breath control. This feeling of singing against the chest with the weight of air pressing up against it is known as "breath support," and in Italian we have even a better word, "apoggio," which is breath prop. The diaphragm in English may be called the bellows of the lungs, but the apoggio is the deep breath regulated by the diaphragm. The attack of the sound must come from the apoggio, or breath prop. In attacking the very highest notes it is essential, and no singer can really get the high notes or vocal flexibility or strength of tone without the attack coming from this seat of respiration. In practicing the trill or staccato tones the pressure of the breath must be felt even before the sound is heard. The beautiful, clear, bell-like tones that die away into a soft piano are tones struck on the apoggio and controlled by the steady soft pressure of the breath emitted through a perfectly open throat, over a low tongue and resounding in the cavities of the mouth or head. Never for a moment sing without this apoggio, this breath prop. Its development and its constant use mean the restoration of sick or fatigued voices and the prolonging of all one's vocal powers into what is wrongly called old age. The Mastery of the Tongue The tongue is a veritable stumbling block in the path of the singer. The tongue is an enormous muscle compared with the other parts of the throat and mouth, and its roots particularly can by a slight movement block the passage of the throat pressing against the larynx. This accounts for much of the pinched singing we hear. When the tongue forms a mountain in the back part of the mouth the singer produces what you call in English slang "a hot potato tone"--that is to say, a tone that sounds as if it were having much difficulty to get through the mouth. In very fact, it is having this difficulty, for it has to pass over the back of the tongue. The would-be singer has to learn to control the tongue muscles and, above all things, to learn to relax the tongue and to govern it at will, so that it never stiffens and forms that hard lump which can be plainly felt immediately beneath the chin under the jaw. It requires a great deal of practice to gain control of the tongue, and there are many different exercises which purport to be beneficial in gaining complete mastery over it. One, for instance, is to throw the tongue out as far forward as possible without stiffening it and then draw it back slowly. This can be done in front of a mirror by trying to throw the tongue not only from the tip, but from the root, keeping the sides of the tongue broad. Another way is to catch hold of the two sides of the tongue with the fingers and pull it out gently. For my part, I scarcely approve of these mechanical ways of gaining control of the tongue except in cases where the singer is phlegmatic of temperament and cannot be made to feel the various sensations of stiff tongue or tongue drawn far back in other ways. Ordinarily I think they make the singer conscious, nervous and more likely to stiffen the tongue in a wild desire to relax it and keep it flat. These exercises, however, combined with exercises in diction, help to make the tongue elastic, and the more elastic and quick this muscle becomes the clearer will be the singer's diction and the more flexible will be her voice. The correct position of the tongue is raised from the back, lying flat in the mouth, the flattened tip beneath the front teeth, with the sides slightly raised so as to form a slight furrow in it. When the tongue is lying too low a lump under the chin beneath the jaw will form in singing and the tight muscles can be easily felt. When the jaw is perfectly relaxed and the tongue lies flat in the mouth there will be a slight hollow under the chin and no stiffness in the muscles. The tip of the tongue of course is employed in the pronunciation of the consonants and must be so agile that the minute it has finished its work it at once resumes the correct position. In ascending the scale the furrow in the tongue increases as we come to the higher notes. It is here that the back of the palate begins to draw up in order to add to the resonance of the head notes, giving the cavities of the head free play. You can easily see your back palate working by opening your mouth wide and giving yourself the sensation of one about to sneeze. You will see far back in the throat, way behind the nose, a soft spot that will draw up of itself as the sneeze becomes more imminent. That little point is the soft palate. It must be drawn up for the high notes in order to get the head resonance. As a singer advances in her art she can do this at will. The adjustment of throat, tongue and palate, all working together, will daily respond more easily to her demands. However, she should be able consciously to control each part by itself. The conscious direction of the voice and command of the throat are necessary. Frequently in opera the singer, sitting or lying in some uncomfortable position which is not naturally convenient for producing the voice, will consciously direct her notes into the head cavities by opening up the throat and lifting the soft palate. For instance, in the rôle of Violetta the music of the last act is sung lying down. In order to get proper resonance to some of the high notes I have to start them in the head cavity by means, of course, of the apoggio, or breath prop, without which the note would be thin and would have no body to it. The sensation that I have is of a slight pressure of breath striking almost into a direct line into the cavity behind the forehead over the eyes without any obstruction or feeling in the throat at all. This is the correct attack for the head tone, or a tone taken in the upper register. Before I explain the registers to you I must tell you one of the funniest compliments I ever received. A very flattering person was comparing my voice to that of another high soprano whom I very much admire. "Her voice is beautiful, particularly in the upper register," I insisted when the other lady was being criticized. "Ah, madame," responded the flattering critic, "but your registers give out so much more warmth." I think this joke is too good to lose, also the criticism, while unjust to the other singer, is interesting to the student, because in the high register, which includes in some voices all the notes above middle C, the notes are thin and cold unless supported by the apoggio, the breath prop, of which I have told you so much. People ask whether there are such things as vocal registers. Certainly there are. There are three always and sometimes four in very high voices. The ordinary registers are the low, the middle, the high voice, or head voice, and sometimes the second high voice, which has been called the flagellant voice. A vocal register is a series of tones which are produced by a certain position of the larynx, tongue and palate. In the woman's voice the middle register takes in the notes from E on the first line of the staff about to middle C. The head voice begins at middle C and runs up sometimes to the end of the voice, sometimes to B flat or C, where it joins the second head register, which I have heard ascend into a whistle in phenomenal voices cultivated only in this register and useless for vocal work. Though the registers exist and the tones in middle, below and above are not produced in the same manner, the voice should be so equalized that the change in registers cannot be heard. And a tone sung with a head voice and in the low voice should have the same degree of quality, resonance and power. As the voice ascends in the scale each note is different, and as one goes on up the positions of the organ of the throat cannot remain the same for several different tones. But there should never be an abrupt change, either audible to the audience or felt in the singer's throat. Every tone must be imperceptibly prepared, and upon the elasticity of the vocal organs depends the smoothness of the tone production. Adjusting the vocal apparatus to the high register should be both imperceptible and mechanical whenever a high note has to be sung. In the high register the head voice, or voice which vibrates in the head cavities, should be used chiefly. The middle register requires palatal resonance, and the first notes of the head register and the last ones of the middle require a judicious blending of both. The middle register can be dragged up to the high notes, but always at the cost first of the beauty of the voice and then of the voice itself, for no organ can stand being used wrongly for a long time. This is only one of the reasons that so many fine big voices go to pieces long before they should. In an excess of enthusiasm the young singer attempts to develop the high notes and make them sound--in her own ears, at all events--as big as the middle voice. The pure head tone sounds small and feeble to the singer herself, and she would rather use the chest quality, but the head tone has the piercing, penetrating quality which makes it tell in a big hall, while the middle register, unless used in its right place, makes the voice muffled, heavy and lacking in vibrancy. Though to the singer the tone may seem immense, in reality it lacks resonance. A singer must never cease listening to herself intelligently and never neglect cultivating the head tone or over-tone of the voice, which is its salvation, for it means vibrancy, carrying power and youth to a voice. Without it the finest voice soon becomes worn and off pitch. Used judiciously it will preserve a voice into old age. Tone Emission and Attack In my first talk I said a few words, but not half enough, on the subject of breath control. My second talk was the physiological aspect of the throat, head and tongue, for it is necessary to become thoroughly acquainted with the mechanism with which you are to work before you can really sing. Today I'm going to take up the subject of tone emission and the attack. A great many singers suffer from the defect called "throatiness" of the emission--that is to say, they attack or start the note in the throat. Sooner or later this attack will ruin the most beautiful voice. As I have said before, the attack of the note must come from the apoggio, or breath prop. But to have the attack pure and perfectly in tune you must have the throat entirely open, for it is useless to try to sing if the throat is not sufficiently open to let the sound pass freely. Throaty tones or pinched tones are tones which are trying to force themselves through a half-closed throat blocked either by insufficient opening of the larynx or by stoppage of the throat passage, due to the root of the tongue being forced down and back too hard or possibly to a low, soft palate. In order to have the throat perfectly open it is necessary to have the jaw absolutely relaxed. I have found in studying different nationalities that it is fairly easy for the French and Spanish people to learn this relaxation of jaw and the opening of the throat, but the English-speaking people generally talk with the throat half shut and even talk through half-shut teeth. Sometime, when you are talking rapidly, suddenly put your hand up to your jaw. You will find that it is stiff; that the muscles beneath it (tongue muscles) are tight and hard; that the jaw seldom goes down very far in pronouncing any of the English words, whereas in singing the jaw should be absolutely relaxed, going down and back just as far as it can with ease. The jaw is attached to the skull right beneath the temples in front of the ears. By placing your two fingers there and dropping the jaw you will find that a space between the skull and jaw grows as the jaw drops. In singing this space must be as wide as is possible, for that indicates that the jaw is dropped down, giving its aid to the opening at the back of the throat. It will help the beginner sometimes to do simple relaxing exercises, feeling the jaw drop with the fingers. It must drop down, and it is not necessary to open the mouth wide, because the jaw is relaxed to its utmost. However, for a beginner it is as well to practice opening the mouth wide, being sure to lower the jaw at the back. Do this many times a day without emitting any sound merely to get the feeling of what an open throat is really like. You will presently begin to yawn after you have done the exercise a couple of times. In yawning or in starting to drink a sip of water the throat is widely open, and the sensation is a correct one which the singer must study to reproduce. I have noticed a great many actors and actresses in America who speak with jaws tightly closed, or at least closed to such an extent that only the smallest emission of breath is possible. Such a voice production will never allow the actor to express any varying degree of emotion and will also completely eradicate any natural beauty of tone which the voice may have. However, this is a fault which can easily be overcome by practicing this daily relaxation of the jaw and always when singing breathing as if the jaw hung perfectly loose, or, better still, as if you had none at all. When you can see a vocalist pushing on the jaw you can be perfectly certain that the tone she is emitting at that moment is a forced note and that the whole vocal apparatus is being tortured to create what is probably not a pleasant noise. Any kind of mental distress will cause the jaw to stiffen and will have an immediate effect upon the voice. This is one of the reasons why a singer must learn to control her emotions and must not subject herself to any harrowing experiences, even such as watching a sensational spectacle, before she is going to sing. Fear, worry, fright--stage as well as other kinds--set the jaw. So does too great a determination to succeed. A singer's mind must control all of her feelings if it is going to control her voice. She must be able even to surmount a feeling of illness or stage fright and to control her vocal apparatus, as well as her breath, no matter what happens. The singer should feel as if her jaw were detached and falling away from her face. As one great singer expresses it: "You should have the jaw of an imbecile when emitting a tone. In fact, you shouldn't know that you have one." Let us take the following passage from "The Marriage of Figaro," by Mozart: [Illustration: Voi-che sa-pe-te-] This would make an excellent exercise for the jaw. Sing only the vowels, dropping the jaw as each one is attacked--"o, eh, ah." The o, of course, is pronounced like the English o and the i in voi like e. The e in che is pronounced like the English a. Sapete is pronounced sahpata. You now have the vowels, o, ee, a, ah, a. Open the throat wide, drop the jaw and pronounce the tones on a note in the easiest part of your voice. Do not attack a note at the same time that you are inhaling. That is too soon. Take the breath through the nose, of course, and give it an instant to settle before attacking the sound. In this way you will avoid the stroke of the glottis which is caused by the sudden and uncontrolled emission of the accumulated breath. In attacking a note the breath must be directed to the focusing point on the palate which lies just at the critical spot, different for every tone. In attacking a note, however, there must be no pressure on this place, because if there is the overtones will be unable to soar and sound with the tone. From the moment the note is attacked the breath must flow out with it. It is a good idea to feel at first as if one were puffing out the breath. This is particularly good for the high notes on which a special stress must be laid always to attack with the breath and not to press or push with the throat. As long as the tone lasts the gentle but uninterrupted outpouring of the breath must continue behind it. This breath pressure insures the strength and, while holding the note to the focusing point on the palate, insures its pitch. In a general way it can be said that the medium tones of the voice have their focusing point in the middle part of the palate, the lower tones coming nearer to the teeth to be centralized and the high notes giving the sensation of finding their focusing point in the high arch at the back of the mouth and going out, as it were, through the crown of the head. The resonance in the head cavities is soon perceived by those who are beginning to sing. Sometimes in producing their first high notes young people become nervous and irritated when singing high tones at the curious buzzing in the head and ears. After a short time, however, this sensation is no longer an irritation, and the singer can gauge in a way where his tones are placed by getting a mental idea of where the resonance to each particular tone should be. High notes with plenty of head vibration can only be obtained when the head is clear and the nasal cavities unobstructed by mucous membrane or by any of the depression which comes from physical or mental cause. The best way to lose such depression is to practice. Practicing the long scale, being careful to use the different registers, as described later, will almost invariably even out the voice and clear out the head if continued long enough, and will enable the singer to overcome nervous or mental depression as well. The different sensations in producing the tone vary according to the comparative height and depth. Beginning from the medium tones, the singer will feel as if each tone of the descending scale were being sung farther outside of the mouth, the vibration hitting the upper teeth as it goes out, whereas with the ascending scale the vibrations pass through the nasal cavities, through the cavity in the forehead and up back into the head, until one feels as if the tone were being formed high over the head at the back. I want to say right here that whenever a young singer feels uncomfortable when singing he or she is singing incorrectly. In attacking the note on the breath, particularly in the high notes, it is quite possible that at first the voice will not respond. For a long time merely an emission or breath or perhaps a little squeak on the high note is all that can be hoped for. If, however, this is continued, eventually the head voice will be joined to the breath, and a faint note will find utterance which with practice will develop until it becomes an easy and brilliant tone. The reason that the tone has not been able to come forth is because the vocal apparatus cannot adjust itself to the needs of the vocal chords or because they themselves have not accustomed themselves to respond to the will of the singer and are too stiff to perform their duty. The scale is the greatest test of voice production. No opera singer, no concert singer, who cannot sing a perfect scale can be said to be a technician or to have achieved results in her art. Whether the voice be soprano, mezzo or contralto, each note should be perfect of its kind, and the note of each register should partake sufficiently of the quality of the next register above or below it in order not to make the transition noticeable when the voice ascends or descends the scale. This blending of the registers is obtained by the intelligence of the singer in mixing the different tone qualities of the registers, using as aids the various formations of the lips, mouth and throat and the ever present apoggio without which no perfect scale can be sung. Facial Expression and Mirror Practice In studying a new rôle I am in the habit of practicing in front of a mirror in order to get an idea of the effect of a facial expression and to see that it does not take away from the correct position of the mouth. The young singer should practice constantly in front of a mirror as soon as she begins to sing songs or to express emotions in her music, for the girl with the expressive face is likely to contort her mouth so that the correct emission of tones is impossible. The dramatic artist depends largely for her expression on the changing lines of the mouth, chin and jaw, and in any lines spoken which denote command or will you will see the actor's jaw setting and becoming rigid with the rest of the facial mask. Now, a singer can never allow the facial expression to alter the position of the jaw or mouth. Facial expression for the singer must concern itself chiefly with the eyes and forehead. The mouth must remain the same, and the jaw must ever be relaxed, whether the song is one of deep intensity or a merry scale of laughter. The mouth in singing should always smile lightly. This slight smile at once relaxes the lips, allowing them free play for the words which they and the tongue must form and also gives the singer a slight sensation of uplift necessary for singing. It is impossible to sing well when mentally depressed or even physically indisposed slightly. Unless one has complete control over the entire vocal apparatus and unless one can simulate a smile one does not feel the voice will lack some of its resonant quality, particularly in the upper notes, where the smiling position of the mouth adjusts the throat and air passages for the emission of light tones. The lips are of the greatest aid in shaping and shading the tones. Wagnerian singers, for instance, who employ trumpet-like notes in certain passages are often seen shaping their lips like the mouthpiece of a trumpet, with a somewhat square opening, the lips protruding. However, this can be practiced only after perfect relaxation of the jaw and control of the tongue have been accomplished. A singer's mouth must always look pleasant, not only because it creates a disagreeable impression on the audience to see a crooked and contorted mouth, but also because natural and correct voice production requires a mouth shaped almost into a smile. Too wide a smile often accompanies what is called "the white voice." This is a voice production where a head resonance alone is employed, without sufficient of the apoggio or enough of the mouth resonance to give the tone a vital quality. This "white voice" should be thoroughly understood and is one of the many shades of tone a singer can use at times, just as the impressionist uses various unusual colors to produce certain atmospheric effects. For instance, in the mad scene in "Lucia" the use of the "white voice" suggests the babbling of the mad woman, as the same voice in the last act of "Traviata" or in the last act of "Bohème" suggests utter physical exhaustion and the approach of death. An entire voice production on these colorless lines, however, would always lack the brilliancy and the vitality which inspire enthusiasm. One of the compensations of the "white voice" singer is the fact that she usually possesses a perfect diction. The voice itself is thrust into the head cavities and not allowed to vibrate in the face and mouth and gives ample room for the formation of vowels and consonants. And the singer with this voice production usually concentrates her entire attention on diction. The cure for this tone emission is, first of all, the cultivation of the breath prop, then attacking the vowel sound o o in the medium voice, which requires a low position of the larynx, and exercises on the ascending scale until the higher notes have been brought down, as it were, and gain some of the body and support of the lower notes without losing their quality. The singer's expression must concern itself chiefly with the play of emotion around the eyes, eyebrows and forehead. You have no idea how much expression you can get out of your eyebrows, for instance, until you study the question and learn by experiment that a complete emotional scale can be symbolized outwardly in the movements of the eyelids and eyebrows. A very drooping eyebrow is expressive of fatigue, either physical or mental. This lowered eyelid is the aspect we see about us most of the time, particularly on people past their first youth. As it shows a lack of interest, it is not a favorite expression of actors and is only employed where the rôle makes it necessary. Increasing anxiety is depicted by slanting the eyebrows obliquely in a downward line toward the nose. Concentrated attention draws the eyebrows together over the bridge of the nose, while furtiveness widens the space again without elevating the eyebrows. In the eyebrows alone you can depict mockery, every stage of anxiety or pain, astonishment, ecstasy, terror, suffering, fury and admiration, besides all the subtle tones between. In singing rôles of songs it is necessary to practice before the mirror in order to see that this facial expression is present and that it is not exaggerated; that the face is not contorted by lines of suffering or by the lines of mirth. Another thing the young singer must not forget in making her initial bow before the public is the question of dress. When singing on the platform or stage, dress as well as you can. Whenever you face the public have at least the assurance you are looking your very best; that your gowns hang well, are well fitted and are of a becoming color. It is not necessary that they should be gorgeous or expensive, but let them always be suitable, and for big cities let them be just as sumptuous as you can afford. At morning concerts in New York, velvets and hand-painted chiffons are considered good form, while in the afternoon handsome silk or satin frocks of a very light color are worn with hats. If a singer chooses to wear a hat let her be sure that its shape will not interfere with her voice. A very large hat, for instance, with a wide brim that comes down over the face, acts as a sort of blanket to the voice, eating up the sound and detracting from the beauty of tone, which should go forth into the audience. It is also likely to shade the singer's features too much and hide her from view from those sitting in the balconies or galleries. As a rule, the singer's hat should be small or with a flaring brim, which does not detract from the tone. Another word on the subject of corsets. There is no reason in the world why a singer should not wear corsets, and if singers have a tendency to grow stout a corset is usually a necessity. A singer's corset should be especially well fitted around the hips and should be extremely loose over the diaphragm. If made in this way it will not interfere in the slightest degree with the breath. Now as to diet and the general mode of life. Every singer must take care of her health. But that does not necessarily mean that she must wrap herself in cotton batting and lead a sequestered existence. I don't believe that any person who wants to make a public career can accomplish it and also indulge in social dissipations. Society must be cut out of the life of the would-be singer, for the demands made by it on time and vitality can only be given at a sacrifice to one's art. The care of the health is an individual matter, and what agrees well with me would cause others to sicken. I eat the simplest food always, and naturally, being an Italian, I prefer the food of my native land. But simple French or German cookery agrees with me quite as well. And I allow the tempting pastry, the rich and overspiced pâté, to pass me by untouched and console myself with quantities of fruit and fresh vegetables. Personally I never wear a collar and have hardened my throat to a considerable extent by wearing slightly cutout gowns always in the house, and even when I wear furs I do not have them closely drawn around the neck. I try to keep myself at an even bodily temperature, and fresh air has been my most potent remedy at all times when I have been indisposed. Appreciative Attitude and Critical Attitude There is nothing so beneficial to the young artist as the kindly and just criticism of a person who knows and nothing so stimulating as his praise. Among my most priceless possessions I treasure the words of encouragement given me by Patti and Sembrich, those wonderful artists, when I was beginning my career. Mme. Patti is a splendid example of the many sidedness necessary to artistic perfection. Her wonderful voice was always supplemented by complete knowledge of the art of singing, and her mastery of languages and of different fields of art made her not only a great artist, but a most interesting woman. To hear an artist of this kind is one of the most profitable parts of a musical education. But there are two ways of listening to a singer. There is the appreciative way, and there is the entirely critical. The beginner usually tries to show her knowledge by her intensely critical attitude. The older you become in your art the more readily you will be able to appreciate and learn from the singers you hear on the opera or concert stage. The greatest and the humblest singer can teach you something. But to learn you must be in a receptive attitude. The public has no real conception of what an amount of intelligent work besides talent and art is necessary to achieve the results which it sees or hears. Only those whose lives are devoted to the same ideals can understand the struggles of other artists, and it is for that reason that appreciation and not condemnation should be on the tongues of those who themselves have studied. The artist may demand the greatest things of herself, and what may be good enough for others is not good enough for her. As the poet says, "Art is long," though life may be short, and singing is one of the most fleeting of all arts, since once the note is uttered it leaves only a memory in the hearer's mind and since so many beautiful voices, for one reason or other, go to pieces long before their time. If the singer's health is good the voice should end only with life itself, provided, of course, it has been used with understanding and with art. In performing before the public one should be governed by the tastes of the public, not by one's own tastes. Just as the comedian usually wishes to play Hamlet and the man of tragic mien thinks he could be a comedy star, the singer who could make a fortune at interpreting chansonnettes usually wishes to sing operatic rôles, and the singer with a deep and heavy voice is longing to inflict baby songs on a long suffering public. It is easy enough to find out what the public wishes to hear, and, though one should always be enlarging one's repertory, it is not a bad idea to stick to that field for which one is particularly fitted vocally and physically. In studying a rôle after one has mastered the technical difficulties one should try to steep one's personality into that of the character one is to portray, and for that reason all study, no matter what it is, and reading of all kinds help one in developing a part. The great Italian tragedienne, Duse, told me that one of her greatest pleasures was to wander about the streets incognito watching the types of people, following them round, observing them in their daily lives and remembering all the small details of action, gesture or expression which she could some day embody into a rôle. The more one sees and studies people with sympathy, the more points one gets for the study of life which is embodied in the art one gives forth. But it is sympathy with one's fellow beings and kindly observation which help one here, never the critical attitude. An artist can only afford to be coldly critical toward his own work and not toward the work of others. Recently a young woman who started her vocal career as a contralto has sung the most difficult of Wagnerian soprano parts. Her high notes, it is true, were not the high notes of a natural soprano voice, but the care and perfection with which each high note was attacked were worthy of closest attention and admiration and defied criticism. Hearing the smaller singers, the beginners who are still struggling with their art, should awaken in the heart of the intelligent listener not contemptuous criticism, but should be one means of realizing one's own vocal defects and the possible ways of overcoming them. There are bad singing teachers, of course, but often the pupils are worse and will not listen to advice. The large and shrieking voice usually belongs to this type of pupil, for it is easier to force the voice when the temperament is robust and the vocal cords equally strong than it is to learn gently and quietly the correct and natural position in voice placement, and it is easier to make a noise as best you can than to use intelligently the different resonance cavities for the blending of the perfect tone. Another fault severely criticised in the youthful singer is a lack of correct pronunciation or diction. It is only after the voice is perfectly controlled that the lips and tongue can function freely for the pronunciation of syllables. While the voice is in what might be called a state of ferment the singer is only anxious to produce tones, and diction slips by the wayside. The appreciative listener should be able to know whether a lack of diction on the singer's part means immaturity or simply slovenliness. Still another fault in voice production is the tremolo. It is the over-ambitious singer, the singer who forces a small, light organ to do heavy work, who develops the tremolo. The tremolo is a sure sign that the vocal chords have been stretched beyond their natural limits, and there is only one thing can cure this. That is absolute rest for some time and then beginning the study of the voice, first singing with the mouth closed and relying entirely on very gentle breath pressure for the production of the sound. The pupil suffering from tremolo or even very strong vibrato must have courage to stop at once and to forego having a big voice. After all, the most beautiful voices in the world are not necessarily the biggest voices, and certainly the tremolo is about the worst fault a singer can have. But that, like almost any other vocal defect, can be cured by persistent effort of the right kind. In singing in public as well as when practicing the singer must stand so that the body will be perfectly and firmly poised. One should always stand in such a position as to be able to inhale comfortably and control a large breath, to allow the throat absolute freedom, with the head sufficiently raised to let the inflowing air penetrate all the resonance cavities. The great thing to avoid is stiffness or discomfort of any kind in the pose. At the same time one must have a gracious air, and while feeling perfectly solidly poised on the feet, must make the impression of a certain lightness and freedom from all bodily restraint. I have not meant in these short articles to give you anything but a very general idea of the salient points of the art of singing. After all, each one must do the real work herself. The road is full of discouragements and hardships, but there is always something new and interesting to learn, and to achieve success, whether for the public or merely for the home circle, is worth all the trouble one can take. And so I wish you all success. THE ART OF SINGING By Enrico Caruso [Illustration: ENRICO CARUSO] The Career of Enrico Caruso HOW A NEAPOLITAN MECHANIC'S SON BECAME THE WORLD'S GREATEST TENOR Enrico Caruso enjoys the reputation of being the greatest tenor since Italo Campanini. The latter was the legitimate successor of Brignoli, an artist whose wonderful singing made his uncouth stage presence a matter of little moment. Caruso's voice at its best recalls Brignoli to the veteran opera habitué. It possesses something of the dead tenor's sweetness and clarity in the upper register, but it lacks the delicacy and artistic finish of Campanini's supreme effort, although it is vastly more magnetic and thrill inspiring. That Caruso is regarded as the foremost living tenor is made good by the fact that he is the highest priced male artist in the world. Whenever and wherever he sings multitudes flock to hear him, and no one goes away unsatisfied. He is constantly the recipient of ovations which demonstrate the power of his minstrelsy, and his lack of especial physical attractiveness is no bar to the witchery of his voice. Caruso is a Neapolitan and is now thirty-five years of age. Unlike so many great Italian tenors, he is not of peasant parentage. His father was a skilled mechanic who had been put in charge of the warehouses of a large banking and importing concern. As a lad Enrico used to frequent the docks in the vicinity of these warehouses and became an expert swimmer at a very early age. In those halcyon days his burning ambition was to be a sailor, and he had a profound distaste for his father's plan to have him learn a trade. At the age of ten he was still a care free and fun loving boy, without a thought beyond the docks and their life. It was then that his father ruled that since he would not become a mechanic he must be sent to school. He had already learned to read a little, but that was all. He was sent to a day school in the neighborhood, and he accepted the restraint with such bad grace that he was in almost constant disgrace. His long association with the water front had made him familiar with the art of physical defense, and he was in frequent trouble on that account. The head master of the school was a musician, and he discovered one day that his unruly pupil could sing. He was an expert in the development of the boy soprano and he soon realized that in young Caruso he had a veritable treasure. He was shrewd enough to keep his discovery to himself for some time, for he determined to profit by the boy's extraordinary ability. The lad was rehearsed privately and was stimulated to further effort by the promise of sweetmeats and release from school duties. Finally the unscrupulous master made engagements for the young prodigy to sing at fashionable weddings and concerts, but he always pocketed the money which came from these public appearances. At the end of the second year, when Caruso was twelve years of age, he decided that he had had enough of the school, and he made himself so disagreeable to the head master that he was sent home in disgrace. His irate father gave him a sound thrashing and declared that he must be apprenticed to a mechanical engineer. The boy took little interest in his new work, but showed some aptitude for mechanical drawing and calligraphy. In a few months he became so interested in sketching that he began to indulge in visions of becoming a great artist. When he was fifteen his mother died, and, since he had kept at the mechanical work solely on her account, he now announced his intention of forsaking engineering and devoting himself to art and music. When his father heard of this open rebellion he fell into a great rage and declared that he would have no more of him, that he was a disgrace to the family and that he need not show his face at home. So Caruso became a wanderer, with nothing in his absolute possession save a physique that was perfect and an optimism that was never failing. He picked up a scanty livelihood by singing at church festivals and private entertainments and in time became known widely as the most capable boy soprano in Naples. Money came more plentifully, and he was able to live generously. In a short time his voice was transformed into a marvelous alto, and he soon found himself in great demand and was surfeited with attention from the rich and powerful. It was about this time that King Edward, then Prince of Wales, heard him sing in a Neapolitan church and was so delighted that he invited the boy to go to England, an invitation which young Caruso did not accept. Now that he had "arrived" Naples was good enough for him. One day something happened which plunged him into the deepest despair. Without a warning of any sort his beautiful alto voice disappeared, leaving in its place only the feeblest and most unmusical of croaks. He was so overcome at his loss that he shut himself up in his room and would see no one. It was the first great affliction he had ever known, and he admits that he meditated suicide. He had made many friends, and some of them would have been glad to comfort him, but his grief would admit of no partnership. One evening when he was skulking along an obscure highway, at the very bottom of the well of his despair, a firm hand was laid on his shoulder and a cheery voice called out: "Whither so fast? Come home with me, poor little shaver!" It was Messiani, the famous baritone, who had always felt an interest in the boy and who would not release him in spite of his vigorous efforts to escape. The big baritone took him to his lodging and when he had succeeded in cheering the unhappy lad into a momentary forgetfulness of his misery asked him to sing. "But I can't," sobbed Caruso. "It has gone!" Messiani went to the piano and struck a chord. The weeping boy piped up in a tone so thin and feeble that it was almost indistinguishable. "Louder!" yelled the big singer, with another full chord. Caruso obeyed and kept on through the scale. Then Messiani jumped up from the piano stool, seized the astonished boy about the waist and raised him high off his feet, at the same time yelling at the top of his voice: "What a little jackass! What a little idiot!" Almost bursting with rage, for the miserable boy thought his friend was making sport of him, Caruso searched the apartment for some weapon with which he might avenge himself. Seizing a heavy brass candlestick, he hurled it at Messiani with all his force, but it missed the baritone and landed in a mirror. "Hold, madman!" interposed the startled singer. "Your voice is not gone. It is magnificent. You will be the tenor of the century." Messiani sent him to Vergine, then the most celebrated trainer of the voice in Italy. The maestro was not so enthusiastic as Messiani, but he promised to do what he could. He offered to instruct Caruso four years, only demanding 25 per cent. of his pupil's receipts for his first five years in opera. Caruso signed such a contract willingly, although he realized afterward that he was the victim of a veritable Shylock. When Vergine was through with the young tenor he dismissed him without lavish commendation, but with a reminder of the terms of his contract. Caruso obtained an engagement in Naples, but did not achieve marked success at once. On every payday Vergine was on hand to receive his percentage. His regularity finally attracted the attention of the manager, and he made inquiry of Caruso. The young tenor showed him his copy of the contract and was horrified to be told that he had bound himself to his Shylock for a lifetime; that the contract read that he was to give Vergine five years of actual singing. Caruso would have reached the age of fifty before the last payment came. The matter was finally adjusted by the courts, and the unscrupulous teacher lost 200,000 lire by the judgment. In Italy every man must serve his time in the army, and Caruso was checked in his operatic career by the call to go into barracks. Not long, however, was he compelled to undergo the tedium of army life. In consideration of his art he was permitted to offer his brother as a substitute after two months, and he returned to the opera. He was engaged immediately for a season at Caserta, and from that time his rise has been steady and unimpeded. After singing in one Italian city after another he went to Egypt and thence to Paris, where he made a favorable impression. A season in Berlin followed, but the Wagner influence was dominant, and he did not succeed in restoring the supremacy of Italian opera. The next season was spent in South America, and in the new world Caruso made his first triumph. From Rio he went to London, and on his first appearance he captured his Covent Garden audience. When he made his first appearance in the United States he was already at the top of the operatic ladder, and, although many attempts to dislodge him have been made, he stands still on the topmost rung. From a Personal Viewpoint Of the thousands of people who visit the opera during the season few outside of the small proportion of the initiated realize how much the performance of the singer whom they see and hear on the stage is dependent on previous rehearsal, constant practice and watchfulness over the physical conditions that preserve that most precious of our assets, the voice. Nor does this same great public in general know of what the singer often suffers in the way of nervousness or stage fright before appearing in front of the footlights, nor that his life, outwardly so fêted and brilliant, is in private more or less of a retired, ascetic one and that his social pleasures must be strictly limited. These conditions, of course, vary greatly with the individual singer, but I will try to tell in the following articles, as exemplified in my own case, what a great responsibility a voice is when one considers that it is the great God-given treasure which brings us our fame and fortune. I am perhaps more favored than many in the fact that my voice was always "there," and that, with proper cultivation, of course, I have not had to overstrain it in the attempt to reach vocal heights which have come to some only after severe and long-continued effort. But, on the other hand, the finer the natural voice the more sedulous the care required to preserve it in its pristine freshness to bloom. This is the singer's ever present problem--in my case, however, mostly a matter of common sense living. As regards eating--a rather important item, by the way--I have kept to the light "continental" breakfast, which I do not take too early; then a rather substantial luncheon toward two o'clock. My native macaroni, specially prepared by my chef, who is engaged particularly for his ability in this way, is often a feature in this midday meal. I incline toward the simpler and more nourishing food, though my tastes are broad in the matter, but lay particular stress on the excellence of the cooking, for one cannot afford to risk one's health on indifferently cooked food, no matter what its quality. On the nights when I sing I take nothing after luncheon, except perhaps a sandwich and a glass of Chianti, until after the performance, when I have a supper of whatever I fancy within reasonable bounds. Being blessed with a good digestion, I have not been obliged to take the extraordinary precautions about what I eat that some singers do. Still, I am careful never to indulge to excess in the pleasures of the table, for the condition of our alimentary apparatus and that of the vocal chords are very closely related, and the unhealthy state of the one immediately reacts on the other. My reason for abstaining from food for so long before singing may be inquired. It is simply that when the large space required by the diaphragm in expanding to take in breath is partly occupied by one's dinner the result is that one cannot take as deep a breath as one would like and consequently the tone suffers and the all-important ease of breathing is interfered with. In addition a certain amount of bodily energy is used in the process of digestion which would otherwise be entirely given to the production of the voice. These facts, seemingly so simple, are very vital ones to a singer, particularly on an "opening night." A singer's life is such an active one, with rehearsals and performances, that not much opportunity is given for "exercise," and the time given to this must, of course, be governed by individual needs. I find a few simple physical exercises in the morning after rising, somewhat similar to those practiced in the army, or the use for a few minutes of a pair of light dumbbells, very beneficial. Otherwise I must content myself with an occasional automobile ride. One must not forget, however, that the exercise of singing, with its constant deep inhalation (and acting in itself is considerable exercise also), tends much to keep one from acquiring an over-supply of embonpoint. A proper moderation in eating, however, as I have already said, will contribute as much to the maintenance of correct proportion in one's figure as any amount of voluntary exercise which one only goes through with on principle. As so many of you in a number of States of this great country are feeling and expressing as well as voting opinions on the subject of whether one should or should not drink intoxicants, you may inquire what practice is most in consonance with a singer's well being, in my opinion. Here, again, of course, customs vary with the individual. In Italy we habitually drink the light wines of the country with our meals and surely are never the worse for it. I have retained my fondness for my native Chianti, which I have even made on my own Italian estate, but believe and carry out the belief that moderation is the only possible course. I am inclined to condemn the use of spirits, whisky in particular, which is so prevalent in the Anglo-Saxon countries, for it is sure to inflame the delicate little ribbons of tissue which produce the singing tone and then--_addio_ to a clear and ringing high C! Though I indulge occasionally in a cigarette, I advise all singers, particularly young singers, against this practice, which can certainly not fail to have a bad effect on the delicate lining of the throat, the vocal chords and the lungs. You will see by all the foregoing that even the gift of a good breath is not to be abused or treated lightly, and that the "goose with the golden egg" must be most carefully nurtured. Outside of this, however, one of the great temptations that beset any singer of considerable fame is the many social demands that crowd upon him, usually unsought and largely undesired. Many of the invitations to receptions, teas and dinners are from comparative strangers and cannot be considered, but of those from one's friends which it would be a pleasure to attend very few indeed can be accepted, for the singer's first care, even if a selfish one, must be for his health and consequently his voice, and the attraction of social intercourse must, alas, be largely foregone. The continual effort of loud talking in a throng would be extremely bad for the sensitive musical instrument that the vocalist carries in his throat, and the various beverages offered at one of your afternoon teas it would be too difficult to refuse. So I confine myself to an occasional quiet dinner with a few friends on an off night at the opera or any evening at the play, where I can at least be silent during the progress of the acts. In common with most of the foreign singers who come to America, I have suffered somewhat from the effects of your barbarous climate, with its sudden changes of temperature, but perhaps have become more accustomed to it in the years of my operatic work here. What has affected me most, however, is the overheating of the houses and hotels with that dry steam heat which is so trying to the throat. Even when I took a house for the season I had difficulty in keeping the air moist. Now, however, in the very modern and excellent hotel where I am quartered they have a new system of ventilation by which the air is automatically rendered pure and the heat controlled--a great blessing to the over-sensitive vocalist. After reading the above the casual person will perhaps believe that a singer's life is really not a bit of a sinecure, even when he has attained the measure of this world's approval and applause afforded by the "great horseshoe." The Voice and Tone Production The question, "How is it done?" as applied to the art of singing brings up so many different points that it is difficult to know where to begin or how to give the layman in any kind of limited space a concise idea of the principles controlling the production of the voice and their application to vocal art. Every singer or singing master is popularly supposed to have a method by following out which he has come to fame. Yet if asked to describe this method many an artist would be at a loss to do so, or else deny that he had any specific method at all, such a subtle and peculiarly individual matter it is that constitutes the technical part of singing. Most singers--in fact, all of them--do many things in singing habitually, yet so inconspicuously that they could not describe how or why they did them. Yet this little set of "artistic" habits all arise from most logical causes and have become habits from their fitness to the personality of their owner and their special value in enabling that singer to do his best work by their aid. For instance, a singer will know from trials and experience just the proper position of the tongue and larynx to produce most effectively a certain note on the scale, yet he will have come by this knowledge not by theory and reasoning, but simply oft repeated attempts, and the knowledge he has come by will be valuable to him only, for somebody else would produce the same note equally well, but in quite a different way. So one may see that there are actually as many methods as there are singers, and any particular method, even if accurately set forth, might be useless to the person who tried it. This is what I really would reply to anyone putting this question to me--that my own particular way of singing, if I have any, is, after all, peculiarly suited to me only, as I have above described. However, there are many interesting and valuable things to be said about the voice in a general way. Speaking first of the classification of voices, many young singers are put much in doubt and dilemma because they are unable to determine what sort of voice they really possess, whether soprano, mezzo or contralto. Of course, it is easy enough to distinguish between the extremes of these, between a "real" tenor and a low bass, but the difference between a high baritone and tenor is rather more difficult to discern, and a young man studying has often been at great disadvantage by imagining, for instance, that he had a tenor voice and trying constantly to sing music too high for him, since he in reality had only a high baritone. In the course of development a voice very often increases its range and changes its quality sufficiently to pass from a baritone to a tenor, and it is sometimes a problem to place it during the transition process. Perhaps the surest way to determine the real character of a voice is to see on what notes words can be most easily pronounced. For the average tenor the notes up to A above middle C, for the baritone, D above middle C, and for the bass up to middle C itself, can be pronounced on the best. One should never try to change the tessitura, or natural character of the voice. A voice will become higher just when it should by the development due to rational work and never by forcing it. Nothing is easier than to force a voice upward or downward, but to cause it to "recede," as it were, in either direction, is another matter. A baritone who tries to increase his upper range by main strength will surely in time lose his best lower notes, and a light tenor who attempts to force out notes lower than his range will never be able to sing legitimate tenor rôles, and after two or three years may not be able to sing at all. It may be well to speak now of a very important point in singing--what is called the "attack" of the tone. In general this may be described as the relative position of the throat and tongue and the quality of voice as the tone is begun. The most serious fault of many singers is that they attack the tone either from the chest or the throat. Even with robust health the finest voice cannot resist this. This is the reason one sees so many artists who have made a brilliant debut disappear from sight very soon or wind up later on a mediocre career. Singers who use their voices properly should be at the height of their talents at forty-five and keep their voices in full strength and virility up to at least fifty. At this latter age, or close after it, it would seem well to have earned the right to close one's career. A great artist ought to have the dignity to say farewell to his public when still in full possession of his powers and never let the world apprise him of his falling off. To have the attack true and pure one must consciously try to open the throat not only in front, but from behind, for the throat is the door through which the voice must pass, and if it is not sufficiently open it is useless to attempt to get out a full, round one; also the throat is the outlet and inlet for the breath, and if it is closed the voice will seek other channels or return quenched within. It must not be imagined that to open the mouth wide will do the same for the throat. If one is well versed in the art, one can open the throat perfectly without a perceptible opening of the mouth, merely by the power of respiration. It is necessary to open the sides of the mouth, at the same time dropping the chin well, to obtain good throat opening. In taking higher notes, of course, one must open the mouth a little wider, but for the most part the position of the mouth is that assumed when smiling. It is a good idea to practice opening the throat before a mirror and try to see the palate, as when you show your throat to a doctor. In pronouncing the sound "ah" one must always attack it in the back part of the throat, taking care, however, before uttering the syllable, to have the throat well open; otherwise what is called "stroke of the glottis" occurs and the tone formed is hard and disagreeable. If you ever hear this stroke of glottis on the attack, you may know that the singer did not attack far enough back in the throat. The tone once launched, one must think how it may be properly sustained, and this is where the art of breathing is most concerned. The lungs, in the first place, should be thoroughly filled. A tone begun with only half filled lungs loses half its authority and is very apt to be false in pitch. To take a full breath properly, the chest must be raised at the same moment the abdomen sinks in. Then with the gradual expulsion of the breath a contrary movement takes place. The diaphragm and elastic tissue surrounding and containing the stomach and vital organs and the muscles surrounding, by practice acquire great strength and assist considerably in this process of respiration and are vital factors in the matter of controlling the supply which supports the tone. The diaphragm is really like a pair of bellows and serves exactly the same purpose. It is this ability to take in an adequate supply of breath and to retain it until required that makes or, by contrary, mars all singing. A singer with a perfect sense of pitch and all the good intentions possible will often sing off the key and bring forth a tone with no vitality to it, distressing to hear, simply for lack of breath control. This art of respiration once acquired, the student has gone a considerable step on the road to Parnassus. To practice deep breathing effectively it is an excellent plan to breathe through the nose, which aids in keeping the confined breath from escaping too soon. The nose also warms and filters the air, making it much more agreeable to the lungs than if taken directly through the mouth. In the practice of slow breathing make sure that the lungs are as nearly emptied as possible on the expulsion of the breath before beginning a new inspiration, as this gives extra impetus to the fresh supply of air and strengthens all the breathing muscles. If this is not done, moreover, the effect is like two people trying to get in and out of the same narrow door at the same time. The voice is naturally divided into three registers--the chest, medium and head. In a man's voice of lower quality this last is known as "falsetto," but in the case of a tenor he may use a tone which in sound is almost falsetto, but is really a mezza voce, or half voice. This latter legitimately belongs to a man's compass; a falsetto does not. The most important register is the medium, particularly of tenors, for this includes the greater part of the tenor's voice and can be utilized even to the top of his range if rightly produced. In the matter of taking high notes one should remember that their purity and ease of production depend very much on the way the preceding notes leading up to them are sung. Beginning in the lower register and attacking the ascending notes well back, a balance must be maintained all the way up, so that the highest note receives the benefit and support of the original position of the throat, and there is no danger, consequently, of the throat closing and pinching the quality of the top notes. Singers, especially tenors, are very apt to throw the head forward in producing the high notes, and consequently get that throaty, strained voice which is so disagreeable. To avoid this one should try to keep the supply of breath down as far toward the abdomen as possible, thus maintaining the upper passages to the head quite free for the emission of the voice. Remember also to sing within yourself, as it were--to feel the tones all through your being; otherwise your singing will possess no sentiment, emotion or authority. It is the failure to accomplish this which has produced so many soulless artists--singers endowed with magnificent voices, capable of surmounting every technical difficulty, but devoid of that charm of intonation which is so vital to success on the operatic stage. Faults to be Corrected I have previously mentioned mezza voce and will now say a word on this subject, for the artistic use of the "half voice" is a very valuable adjunct in all singing. It may be defined simply as the natural voice produced softly, but with an extra strength of breath. It is this breathy quality, however--which one must be careful never to exaggerate or the tone will not carry--that gives that velvety effect to the tone that is so delightful. Mezza voce is just a concentration of the full voice, and it requires, after all, as much breath support. A soft note which is taken with the "head voice" without being supported by a breath taken from the diaphragm is a helpless sort of thing. It does not carry and is inaudible at any distance, whereas the soft note which does possess the deep breath support is penetrating, concentrated and most expressive. Another important point is that, with a "piano" note properly taken in the register which is proper to it, there is no danger of having to change the position of the throat and consequently the real character of the note when making a crescendo and again diminishing it. It will be the same note continuing to sound. On the other hand, with a soft note taken in a register foreign to it, as soon as its strength is augmented the register must suddenly be changed and the result is like a Tyrolean yodel. So remember in a mezza voce to see that the register is right and to use a double breath strength. I speak of the matter of register here for the benefit of those who must keep this constantly in mind. I myself have been blessed with what is called a naturally placed voice, and never had trouble with the mezza voce. The majority of Italian singers come to it easily. There are a number of wrong sorts of voices which should be mentioned to be shunned--the "white" voice, the "throaty" voice, the "nasal" voice, and the "bleat." The nasal quality is the most difficult to correct. Many teachers, especially the French, make a point of placing the voice in the nasal cavity on the pretext of strengthening it, and this nasal quality, partly on account of the sound of many of the French words, is only too prevalent. The voice, however, can only be strengthened by legitimate means; otherwise it can easily be ruined. One can breathe through the nose, but never attack or sing through it. The "white voice" (voce bianca) is a head voice without deep support and consequently without color; hence its appellation. One can learn to avoid it by practicing with the mouth closed and by taking care to breathe through the nose, which forces the respiration to descend to the abdomen. The "throaty" voice comes from singing with the throat insufficiently opened, so that the breath does not pass easily through the nose and head cavities and, again, from not attacking the tone deeply enough. To cure oneself of this throaty quality attack your notes from the abdomen, the mouth well open, standing in front of a mirror. The force of the respiration will keep the tongue depressed and the throat will remain free. As for the fault of nasality, it is, as I have said, the most difficult to get rid of. Sometimes one never does lose it. The only remedy is what I have previously indicated--to attack from the abdomen, with the throat open, and carry the voice over the soft palate, for if the voice is placed in the nose it indicates that one is singing too far forward, which is against the rules of song. If the student has a tendency to sing in this way it is well to practice in vowel sounds only (ah-eh-ee-la-lay-lee, etc.) in order to be cured of this serious fault. After all, however, those who have practiced the art of right breathing need have none of the defects mentioned above. The "bleat" or goat voice, a particular fault of French singers, proceeds from the habit of forcing the voice, which, when it is of small volume, cannot stand the consequent fatigue of the larynx. Many singers with voices suitable only for light opera are constantly trying to branch out into big dramatic arias. Such performances are assuredly distressing to hear and are certainly disastrous for the voices concerned. It is no wonder that these people are often ill, for one cannot make such efforts without injuring the health. I realize that they often do it to please their directors and to be obliging in an emergency, but when they are down and out others will easily replace them and they are heard from no more. To keep the voice fresh for the longest possible time one should not only never overstep his vocal "means," but should limit his output as he does the expenses of his purse. There is only one way to cure a bleaty voice, and that is to cultivate an absolute rest; then, on taking up singing again, to use the "closed mouth" method until the time the strength of respiration shall be such that one can open his mouth and let the restored voice take its course. A few words on practicing with closed mouth may here be appropriate. This method of study is really all that is necessary to place certain voices, but is bad for others. It all depends on the formation of the mouth and throat. For example, a singer troubled with the fault of closing the throat too much should never work with the mouth closed. When one can do it safely, however, it is a most excellent resource for preparatory exercises in respiration. Since, as I have already explained, breathing through the nose with closed mouth throws back the respiration to the abdomen, it is best to do the exercise seated in a comfortable, natural position. Vocal work with closed mouth is also a powerful auxiliary to vocal agility. Many great artists perform their daily vocal exercises with the mouth shut, and I can personally testify to the excellency of this practice. It most certainly strengthens the breathing powers and at the same time rests the voice. But one should know how to do it properly. I know of many badly fatigued voices that have been restored to their normal condition in this way. Singers, of all musicians, have the reputation of displaying the least regard for time. In operatic work, however, with an orchestra to follow or be followed, it is especially essential to observe a sane respect for the proper tempo. Otherwise one is liable to get into immediate trouble with the conductor. Of course I do not mean that one should sing in a mechanical way and give nothing of one's own personality. This would naturally rob the music of all charm. There are many singers who cannot or will not count the time properly. There are those who sing without method, who do not fit their breathing, which is really the regulator of vocal performance, to the right periods, and who consequently are never in time. They make all kinds of rallentandos where they are not necessary, to gain time to recover the breath that they have not taken when they should. It is not enough to give the notes their full value. The rests, above all, should be carefully observed in order to have sufficient opportunity to get a good breath and prepare for the next phrase. It is this exactitude that gives certainty to one's rendition and authority in singing--something many artists do not possess. A singer may make all the efforts he desires and still keep the time, and he _must_ keep it. Those who roar most loudly rarely sing in time. They give every thought to the volume of tone they are producing and do not bother themselves about anything else. The right accents in music depend very much on the exact time. Tone artists, while still making all their desired "effects" in apparent freedom of style and delivery, nevertheless do not ever lose sight of the time. Those who do are usually apt to be amateurs and are not to be imitated. Good Diction a Requisite Good diction, or the art of pronouncing the words of a song or opera properly and intelligently, is a matter sadly neglected by many singers, and indeed is not considered important by a large proportion of the audiences in this country, who do not understand foreign language, at any rate. And in an opera sung in a language unknown to most of the audience it is apparently unimportant whether the words are understood or not as long as there is a general knowledge of the plot, and the main consideration is, of course, the music. Yet for those who are conversant with the language in which the opera is written, how common an experience it is (in concert, also) to be able, in spite of their linguistic knowledge, to understand little of what is being sung, and what a drawback this really is! How many singers there are who seem to turn all their attention to the production of beautiful sounds and neglect in most cases the words that often are equally beautiful, or should be! One hears a great deal just now about the advisability of giving operas in the native language, as it is done in France and Germany, and the idea would seem to have its advantages, as has already been demonstrated in some excellent performances of German, French and Italian operas in English. But of what avail would such a project be if, after all, one could not understand the words of his own language as they were sung? The language might as well be Sanskrit or Chinese. In France the matter of diction is probably given the greatest attention, and singers at the Opera Comique, for instance, are noted for their pure and distinct enunciation of every syllable. Indeed, it is as much of a sine qua non there as good singing, if not more so, and the numerous subtleties in the French language are difficult enough to justify this special stress laid upon correct pronunciation. It requires a very particular ability in a foreigner to attain the atmosphere of perfect French to any very high degree. Italian is generally considered an easier language to pronounce in song, as indeed it is, all the vowel sounds being full and sonorous and lacking that "covered" or mixed quality so often occurring in the French. Nevertheless, Italian has its difficulties, particularly in the way of distinctly enunciating the double consonants and proper division of the liaisons, or combining of final vowels with initial vowels, and the correct amount of softness to be given to the letter C. All this, of course, is from the standpoint of those to whom these languages are foreign. Certainly no singer can be called a great artist unless his diction is good, for a beautiful voice alone will not make up for other deficiencies. A singer endowed with a small voice or even one of not very pleasing quality can give more pleasure than a singer possessing a big, impressive voice, but no diction. Some people claim that a pronunciation too distinct or too much insisted upon spoils the real voice quality, but this should not be the case if the words are correctly and naturally brought out. Doubtless, this impression has come from the fact that, particularly in France, many singers possessed of small voices must exaggerate their diction to obtain their effects. But if they did not have this perfect diction they often would have little else to recommend them. I would aver that a fine enunciation, far from interfering with it, aids the voice production, makes it softer and more concentrated, but diction should act rather as a frame for the voice and never replace it. Each of the three languages, French, German and Italian, has its peculiar characteristics, which are of aid to the student in the general study of pronunciation, and it is well to have a knowledge of them all outside of the fact that an artist nowadays needs to have this knowledge in order not only to rank with the greatest, but to cope with the demands of an operatic career. The Italian language in its very essence is rich in vowels and vowel combinations, from which comes principally the color in tones, and it has consequently been called the "language of song." Italians thus have naturally what it is so much trouble for singers of other nations to acquire--the numerous variations of vowel sounds. French has the nasal sounds as its dominating characteristic and is very valuable in the cultivation of "nasal resonance." As I said before, it is so easy to exaggerate and the voice is so apt to get too much "in the nose" that one has to be extremely careful in the use of the French "n" and "ng." German is so full of consonants that one needs to have exceptional control of the tongue and lips to give their proper value. English possesses the features of all the other languages--of course, in less marked degree--resembling most, perhaps, the German. The "th" is the most difficult sound to make effective in singing. I have already spoken of the various phases of nervousness which an artist feels before the performance, but I wish to say here a word in regard to the practical significance of such nervousness. Artists who do not experience it are those who lack real genius. There are really two kinds of fear--that arising from a realization of the importance of what is to be done, the other from a lack of confidence in one's power. If a singer has no conscience in his performance he is never nervous, but full of assurance. It is seldom that true artists are much troubled with nervousness after going upon the stage. Generally, as I have before mentioned, they are apt to be ill during the day of the performance, but before the public they forget everything and are dominated only by the real love of their art and sustained by the knowledge of possessing a proper "method." It is certain with a good breath support even nervousness need not prevent one from singing well, although one may be actually suffering from trepidation. Yet we know that sometimes the greatest of artists are prevented thus from doing their best work. The principle, however, remains unshaken that singing in a correct way is the greatest possible "bracer." It is best to remain absolutely quiet and see no one on the day of the performance, so as not to be enervated by the effort of talking much, to say nothing of tiring the vocal chords. One prima donna of my acquaintance occupies herself in trimming hats on the day when she sings, believing that this provides a distraction and rests her nerves. It is just as well not to "pass through" the rôle that is to be sung on the day of the appearing, but in the morning a few technical exercises to keep the voice in tune, as it were, are to be recommended. The great Italian singers of other days followed this rule, and it still holds good. If the singer gives much of himself as well as of his voice to the public he should still hold his breathing supply in, so to speak, as he would guard the capital from which comes his income. Failure should thus be impossible if there is always a reserve to draw on. So the more one sings with good breath support the more beautiful the voice becomes. On the other hand, those who sing haphazard sometimes begin the evening well, but deteriorate more and more as the performance advances and at the end are uttering mere raucous sounds. They are like a man unable to swim who is in a deep river--their voices control them in place of they controlling their voices. They struggle vainly against obstacles, but are carried away by the flood and are finally engulfed in the waters. Many too ambitious students are their own worst enemies in the culture of their voices. Because they have a large vocal power they want to shout all the time in spite of the repeated admonitions of their masters, who beg them to sing piano. But they hear nothing except the noise they make themselves. Such headstrong ones will never make a career, even with the finest voices in the world. Their teachers should give up trying to make them listen to reason and devote their attention to those who merit it and want to study seriously. Singing as an art is usually not considered with enough earnestness. One should go to a singing master as one goes to a specialist for a consultation and follow with the greatest care his directions. If one does not have the same respect and confidence one places in a physician it must be because the singing master does not really merit it, and it would be much better to make a change at once. In general it is better not to stick entirely to one teacher, for it is easy to get into a rut in this way, and someone else may have a quite different and more enlightening way of setting forth his ideas. In taking up operatic work it is understood, of course, that the singer must have mastered most of the technical difficulties, so as not to be troubled with them when they are encountered in some aria. It is a most excellent thing to secure an engagement in one of the small theatres abroad, where one may get a large experience before trying to effect an entrance into the bigger organizations of the great capitals. But be sure that the voice is well placed before trying any of this sort of work, and never attempt to sing a rôle above your powers in the earlier stage of your career, which otherwise may be compromised permanently. One more bit of advice in closing. The best sort of lesson possible is to go often to the opera and note well the methods of the great artists. This personal example is worth more and is more illuminating than many precepts. This is not so much that any form of imitation may be attempted as to teach the would-be artist how to present at his best all those telling qualities with which he may be endowed. It is the best of schools. Pet Superstitions of Great Singers The most visible phase of the opera singer's life when he or she is in view of the public on the stage is naturally the one most intimately connected in the minds of the majority of people with the singer's personality, and yet there are many happenings, amusing or tragic, from the artist's point of view, which, though often seen, are as often not realized in their true significance by the audience in front of the orchestra. One might naturally think that a singer who has been appearing for years on the operatic stage in many lands would have overcome or outgrown that bane of all public performers, stage fright. Yet such is far from the case, for it seems as though the greater the artistic temperament the more truly the artist feels and the more of himself he puts into the music he sings the greater his nervousness beforehand. The latter is of course augmented if the performance is a first night and the opera has as yet been untried before a larger public. This advance state of miserable physical tension is the portion of all great singers alike, though in somewhat varying degrees, and it is interesting to note the forms it assumes with different people. In many it is shown by excessive irritability and the disposal to pick quarrels with anyone who comes in contact with them. This is an unhappy time for the luckless "dressers," wig man and stage hands, or even fellow artists who encounter such singers before their first appearance in the evening. Trouble is the portion of all such. In other artists the state of mind is indicated by a stern set countenance and a ghastly pallor, while still others become slightly hysterical, laugh uproariously at nothing or burst into weeping. I have seen a big six-foot bass singer, very popular at the opera two or three seasons ago, walking to and fro with the tears running down his cheeks for a long time before his entrance, and one of our greatest coloratura prima donnas has come to me before the opera, sung a quavering note in a voice full of emotion and said, with touching accents: "See, that is the best I can do. How can I go on so?" I myself have been affected often by such fright, though not always in the extreme degree above described. This nervousness, however, frequently shows itself in one's performance in the guise of indifferent acting, singing off the key, etc. Artists are generally blamed for such shortcomings, apparent in the early part of the production, when, as a matter of fact, they themselves are hardly conscious of them and overcome them in the course of the evening. Yet the public, even critics, usually forget this fact and condemn an entire performance for faults which are due at the beginning to sheer nervousness. The oft-uttered complaint that operatic singers are the most difficult to get on with of any folk, while justified, perhaps, can certainly be explained by the foregoing observations. We of the opera are often inclined to be superstitious in a way that might annul matter of fact Americans. One woman, a distinguished and most intelligent artist, crosses herself repeatedly before taking her "cue," and a prima donna who is a favorite on two continents and who is always escorted to the theatre by her mother, invariably goes through the very solemn ceremony of kissing her mother good-by and receiving her blessing before going on to sing. The young woman feels that she could not possibly sing a note if the mother's eye were not on her every moment from the wings. Another famous singer wears a small bracelet that was given to her when an infant by Gounod. She has grown somewhat stout of late years, and the hoop of gold has been reënforced so often that there is hardly any of the great composer's original gift left. Still, she feels that it is a charm which has made her success, and whether she sings the part of a lowly peasant or of a princess the bracelet is always visible. And these little customs are not confined to the woman singers either, for the men are equally fond of observing some little tradition to cheer them in their performance. These little traits, trivial perhaps in themselves, are of vital importance in that they create a sense of security in the soul of the artist, who goes on his way, if not rejoicing, at least convinced that the fates are not against him. One of the penalties paid by the singers who are much in the public eye is the constant demand made on them to listen to voices of vocal aspirants--not always very young ones, strange to say. It is sad to contemplate the number of people who think they can sing and are destined by talent and temperament for operatic careers, who have been led by misguided or foolish friends and too often by overambitious and mercenary singing masters into spending time and money on their voices in the fond hope of some day astonishing the world. Alas, they do not realize that the great singers who are heard in the New York opera houses have been picked from the world's supply after a process of most drastic selection, and that it is only the most rarely exceptional voice and talent which after long years of study and preparation become worthy to join the elect. I am asked to hear many who have voices with promise of beauty, but who have obviously not the intelligence necessary to take up a career, for it does require considerable intelligence to succeed in opera, in spite of opinions to the contrary expressed by many. Others, who have keen and alert minds and voices of fine quality, yet lack that certain esprit and broadness of musical outlook required in a great artist. This lack is often so apparent in the person's manner or bearing that I am tempted to tell him it is no use before he utters a note. Yet it would not do to refuse a hearing to all these misfits, for there is always the chance of encountering the unknown genius, however rare a bird he may be. And how often have the world's great voices been discovered by chance, but fortunately by some one empowered to bring out the latent gift! One finds in America many beautiful voices, and when one thinks of the numerous singers successfully engaged in operatic careers both here and abroad, it cannot with justice be said as it used to be several years ago that America does not produce opera singers. Naturally a majority of those to whom I give a hearing here in New York are Americans, and of these are a number of really remarkable voices and a fairly good conception of what is demanded of an opera singer. Sometimes, however, it would be amusing if it were not tragic to see how much off the track people are who have been led to think they have futures. One young man who came recently to sing for me carried a portentous roll of music and spoke in the deepest of bass voices. When asked what his main difficulty was he replied that he "didn't seem to be able to get on the key." And this was apparent when he started in and wandered up and down the tonal till he managed to strike the tonic. Then he asked me whether I would rather hear "Qui sdegno," from Mozart's "Magic Flute," or "Love Me and the World is Mine." Upon the latter being chosen he asked the accompanist to transpose it, and upon this gentleman's suggesting a third lower, he said: "No, put it down an octave." And that's where he sang it, too. I gently but firmly advised the young man to seek other paths than musical ones. However, such extreme examples as that are happily rare. I would say to all young people who are ambitious to enter on a career of opera: Remember, it is a thoroughly hard-worked profession, after all; that even with a voice of requisite size and proper cultivation there is still a repertory of rôles to acquire, long months and years of study for this and requiring a considerable feat of memory to retain them even after they are learned. Then there is the art of acting to be studied, which is, of course, an entire occupation in itself and decidedly necessary in opera, including fencing--how to fall properly, the various gaits and gestures wherewith to portray different emotions, etc. Then, as opera is sung nowadays, the knowledge of the diction of at least three languages--French, German and Italian--if not essential, is at least most helpful. 
14968	----	Gutenberg Online Disributed Proofreading Team THE STANDARD OPERAS Their Plots, Their Music, and Their Composers A Handbook by GEORGE P. UPTON Twelfth Edition Chicago: A. C. McClurg and Company 1897 PREFACE. The object of the compiler of this Handbook is to present to the reader a brief but comprehensive sketch of each of the operas contained in the modern repertory which are likely to be given during regular seasons. To this end he has consulted the best authorities, adding to the material thus collected his own observations, and in each case presented a necessarily brief sketch of the composer, the story of each opera, the general character of the music, its prominent scenes and numbers,--the latter in the text most familiar to opera-goers,--the date of first performances, with a statement of the original cast wherever it has been possible to obtain it, and such historical information concerning the opera and its composition as will be of interest to the reader. The work has been prepared for the general public rather than for musicians; and with this purpose in view, technicalities have been avoided as far as possible, the aim being to give musically uneducated lovers of opera a clear understanding of the works they are likely to hear, and thus heighten their enjoyment. In a word, the operas are described rather than criticised, and the work is presented with as much thoroughness as seemed possible considering the necessarily brief space allotted to each. In the preparation of the Handbook, the compiler acknowledges his indebtedness to Grove's excellent "Dictionary of Music" for dates and other statistical information; and he has also made free use of standard musical works in his library for historical events connected with the performance and composition of the operas. It only remains to submit this work to opera-goers with the hope that it may add to their enjoyment and prove a valuable addition to their libraries.--G.P.U. CHICAGO, August, 1885. CONTENTS. AUBER FRA DIAVOLO MASANIELLO THE CROWN DIAMONDS BALFE THE BOHEMIAN GIRL THE ROSE OF CASTILE BEETHOVEN FIDELIO BELLINI NORMA LA SONNAMBULA I PURITANI BIZET CARMEN BOIELDIEU LA DAME BLANCHE BOITO MEPHISTOPHELES DELIBES LAKME DONIZETTI THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT LA FAVORITA DON PASQUALE LUCIA DI LAMMERMOOR L'ELISIR D'AMORE LUCREZIA BORGIA FLOTOW MARTHA STRADELLA GLUCK ORPHEUS GOETZ THE TAMING OF THE SHREW GOLDMARK THE QUEEN OF SHEBA MERLIN GOUNOD FAUST ROMEO AND JULIET MIREILLE HALEVY THE JEWESS HUMPERDINCK HANSEL AND GRETEL LEONCAVALLO I PAGLIACCI MASCAGNI CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA MEYERBEER THE HUGUENOTS THE STAR OF THE NORTH ROBERT THE DEVIL DINORAH THE PROPHET THE AFRICAN MOZART THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO DON GIOVANNI THE MAGIC FLUTE ROSSINI THE BARBER OF SEVILLE SEMIRAMIDE WILLIAM TELL RUBINSTEIN NERO THOMAS MIGNON VERDI ERNANI RIGOLETTO LA TRAVIATA IL TROVATORE THE MASKED BALL AIDA OTHELLO FALSTAFF WAGNER RIENZI THE FLYING DUTCHMAN TANNHÄUSER LOHENGRIN TRISTAN UND ISOLDE THE MASTERSINGERS THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG DAS RHEINGOLD DIE WALKÜRE SIEGFRIED DIE GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG PARSIFAL WALLACE MARITANA WEBER DER FREISCHÜTZ OBERON EURYANTHE APPENDIX INDEX AUBER. Daniel François Esprit Auber, one of the most prominent representatives of the opera comique, was born at Caen, in Normandy, Jan. 29, 1784. He first attracted attention in the musical world by his songs and ballads, written when a mere boy. Young as he was, they were great favorites in French and English drawing-rooms, and their success diverted him from his commercial intentions to that profession in which he was destined to achieve such popularity. His début was made as an instrumental composer in his twentieth year, but before he had reached his thirtieth he was engrossed with operatic composition. His first two works were unsuccessful; but the third, "La Bergère Châtelaine," proved the stepping-stone to a career of remarkable popularity, during which he produced a large number of dramatic works, which not only secured for him the enthusiastic admiration of the Parisians, with whom he was always a favorite, but also carried his name and fame throughout the world, and obtained for him marks of high distinction from royalty, such as the office of Director of the Conservatoire from Louis Philippe, and that of Imperial Maître de Chapelle from Louis Napoleon. He died May 13, 1871, amid the fearful scenes of the Paris Commune. His best-known operas are: "Masaniello" (1828); "Fra Diavolo" (1830); "The Bronze Horse" (1835); "The Black Domino" (1837); "The Crown Diamonds" (1841); and "Zerline" (1851),--the last-named written for the great contralto, Mme. Alboni. Of these, "Fra Diavolo," "Masaniello," and "The Crown Diamonds" are as fresh as ever in their French and Italian settings, though their finest successes in this country have been made in their English dress. FRA DIAVOLO. "Fra Diavolo," opera comique, in three acts, words by Scribe, was first produced at the Opera Comique, Paris, Jan. 28, 1830; in English, at Drury Lane, London, Nov. 3, 1831; in Italian, at the Lyceum, London, July 9, 1857, for which occasion the spoken dialogue was converted into accompanied recitative. The composer himself also, in fitting it for the Italian stage, made some changes in the concerted music and added several morceaux. The original Italian cast was as follows:-- ZERLINA Mme. BOSIO. LADY ALLCASH Mlle. MARAI. FRA DIAVOLO Sig. GARDINI. LORD ALLCASH Sig. RONCONI. BEPPO Sig. TAGLIAFICO. GIACOMO Sig. ZELGER. The original of the story of Fra Diavolo is to be found in Lesueur's opera, "La Caverne," afterwards arranged as a spectacular piece and produced in Paris in 1808 by Cuvellier and Franconi, and again in Vienna in 1822 as a spectacle-pantomime, under the title of "The Robber of the Abruzzi." In Scribe's adaptation the bandit, Fra Diavolo, encounters an English nobleman and his pretty and susceptible wife, Lord and Lady Allcash, at the inn of Terracina, kept by Matteo, whose daughter Zerlina is loved by Lorenzo, a young soldier, on the eve of starting to capture Fra Diavolo when the action of the opera begins. In the first scene the English couple enter in great alarm, having narrowly escaped the robbery of all their valuables by Fra Diavolo's band. The bandit himself, who has followed them on their journey in the disguise of a marquis, and has been particularly attentive to the lady, enters the inn just as Lord Allcash has been reproving his wife for her familiarity with a stranger. A quarrel ensues in a duet of a very humorous character ("I don't object"). Upon the entrance of Fra Diavolo, a quintet ("Oh, Rapture unbounded!") ensues, which is one of the most effective and admirably harmonized ensembles Auber has ever written. Fra Diavolo learns the trick by which they saved the most of their valuables, and, enraged at the failure of his band, lays his own plan to secure them. In an interview with Zerlina, she, mistaking him for the Marquis, tells him the story of Fra Diavolo in a romanza ("On Yonder Rock reclining"), which is so fresh, vigorous, and full of color, that it has become a favorite the world over. To further his schemes, Fra Diavolo makes love to Lady Allcash and sings an exquisitely graceful barcarole to her ("The Gondolier, fond Passion's Slave"), accompanying himself on the mandolin. Lord Allcash interrupts the song, and the trio, "Bravi, Bravi," occurs, which leads up to the finale of the act. Fra Diavolo eludes the carbineers, who have returned, and they resume their search for him, leaving him unmolested to perfect his plans for the robbery. The second act introduces Zerlina in her chamber about to retire. She first lights Lord and Lady Allcash to their room, a running conversation occurring between them in a trio ("Let us, I pray, good Wife, to rest"), which by many good critics has been considered as the best number in the work. Before Zerlina returns to her chamber, Fra Diavolo and his companions, Beppo and Giacomo, conceal themselves in a closet, and, somewhat in violation of dramatic consistency, Fra Diavolo sings the beautiful serenade, "Young Agnes," which had been agreed upon as a signal to his comrades that the coast was clear. Zerlina enters, and after a pretty cavatina ("'Tis to-morrow") and a prayer, charming for its simplicity ("Oh, Holy Virgin"), retires to rest. The robbers in attempting to cross her room partially arouse her. One of them rushes to the bed to stab her, but falls back awe-stricken as she murmurs her prayer and sinks to rest again. The trio which marks this scene, sung pianissimo, is quaint and simple and yet very dramatic. The noise of the carbineers returning outside interrupts the plan of the robbers. They conceal themselves in the closet again. Zerlina rises and dresses herself. Lord and Lady Allcash rush in _en deshabille_ to find out the cause of the uproar. Lorenzo enters to greet Zerlina, when a sudden noise in the closet disturbs the company. Fra Diavolo, knowing he will be detected, boldly steps out into the room and declares that he is there to keep an appointment with Zerlina. Lorenzo challenges him, and he promises to give him satisfaction in the morning, and coolly effects his escape. One of his comrades, however, is captured, and to secure his own liberty agrees to betray his chief. The third act introduces Fra Diavolo once more among his native mountains, and there is the real breath and vigor of the mountain air in his opening song ("Proudly and wide my Standard flies"), and rollicking freedom in the rondeau which follows it ("Then since Life glides so fast away"). He exults in his liberty, and gleefully looks forward to a meeting with Lord and Lady Allcash, which he anticipates will redound to his personal profit. His exultation is interrupted by the entrance of the villagers arrayed in festival attire in honor of the approaching wedding ceremonies, singing a bright pastoral chorus ("Oh, Holy Virgin! bright and fair"). The finale of the act is occupied with the development of the scheme between Lorenzo, Beppo, and Giacomo, to ensnare Fra Diavolo and compass his death; and with the final tragedy, in which Fra Diavolo meets his doom at the hands of the carbineers, but not before he has declared Zerlina's innocence. This finale is strong and very dramatic, and yet at the same time simple, natural, and unstudied. The opera itself is a universal favorite, not alone for its naturalness and quiet grace, but for its bright and even boisterous humor, which is sustained by the typical English tourist, who was for the first time introduced in opera by Scribe. The text is full of spirit and gayety, and these qualities are admirably reflected in the sparkling music of Auber. Not one of the books which the versatile Scribe has supplied for the opera is more replete with incident or brighter in humor. How well it was adapted for musical treatment is shown by the fact that "Fra Diavolo" made Auber's reputation at the Opera Comique. MASANIELLO. "Masaniello," or "La Muette de Portici," a lyric opera in five acts, words by Scribe and Delavigne, was first produced in Paris, Feb. 29, 1828; in English, at London, May 4, 1829; and in Italian, at London, March 15, 1849. The original cast included Mme. Damoreau-Cinti as Elvira, Mlle. Noblet as Fenella, and M. Massol as Pietro. In the Italian version, Sig. Mario, Mme. Dorus-Gras, and Mlle. Leroux, a famous mime and dancer, took the principal parts; while in its English dress, Braham created one of the greatest successes on record, and established it as the favorite opera of Auber among Englishmen. The scene of the opera is laid near Naples. The first act opens upon the festivities attending the nuptials of Alphonso, son of the Duke of Arcos, and the Princess Elvira. After a chorus of rejoicing, the latter enters and sings a brilliant cavatina ("O, bel Momento") expressive of her happiness. In the fourth scene the festivities are interrupted by the appearance of Fenella, the dumb girl, who implores the princess to save her from Selva, one of the Duke's officers, who is seeking to return her to prison, from which she has escaped, and where she has been confined at the orders of some unknown cavalier who has been persecuting her. The part of Fenella is of course expressed by pantomime throughout. The remainder of the act is intensely dramatic. Elvira promises to protect Fenella, and then, after some spirited choruses by the soldiers, enters the chapel with Alphonso. During the ceremony Fenella discovers that he is her betrayer. She attempts to go in, but is prevented by the soldiers. On the return of the newly wedded pair Fenella meets Elvira and denounces her husband, and the scene ends with a genuine Italian finale of excitement. The second act opens on the sea-shore, and shows the fishermen busy with their nets and boats. Masaniello, brother of Fenella, enters, brooding upon the wrongs of the people, and is implored by the fishermen to cheer them with a song. He replies with the barcarole, "Piu bello sorse il giorno,"--a lovely melody, which has been the delight of all tenors. His friend Pietro enters and they join in a duet ("Sara il morir") of a most vigorous and impassioned character, expressive of Masaniello's grief for his sister and their mutual resolution to strike a blow for freedom. At the conclusion of the duet he beholds Fenella about to throw herself into the sea. He calls to her and she rushes into his arms and describes to him the story of her wrongs. He vows revenge, and in a magnificent, martial finale, which must have been inspired by the revolutionary feeling with which the whole atmosphere was charged at the time Auber wrote (1828), incites the fishermen and people to rise in revolt against their tyrannical oppressors. In the third act, after a passionate aria ("Il pianto rasciuga") by Elvira, we are introduced to the market-place, crowded with market-girls and fishermen disposing of their fruits and fish. After a lively chorus, a fascinating and genuine Neapolitan tarantelle is danced. The merry scene speedily changes to one of turmoil and distress. Selva attempts to arrest Fenella, but the fishermen rescue her and Masaniello gives the signal for the general uprising. Before the combat begins, all kneel and sing the celebrated prayer, "Nume del ciel," taken from one of Auber's early masses, and one of his most inspired efforts. The fourth act opens in Masaniello's cottage. He deplores the coming horrors of the day in a grand aria ("Dio! di me disponesti") which is very dramatic in its quality. Fenella enters, and after describing the tumult in the city sinks exhausted with fatigue. As she falls asleep he sings a slumber song ("Scendi, o sonno dal ciel"), a most exquisite melody, universally known as "L'Air du Sommeil." It is sung by the best artists mezzo voce throughout, and when treated in this manner never fails to impress the hearer with its tenderness and beauty. At its close Pietro enters and once more rouses Masaniello to revenge by informing him that Alphonso has escaped. After they leave the cottage, the latter and Elvira enter and implore protection. Fenella is moved to mercy, and a concerted number follows in which Masaniello promises safety and is denounced by Pietro for his weakness. In the finale, the magistrates and citizens enter, bearing the keys of the town and the royal insignia, and declare Masaniello king in a chorus of a very inspiriting and brilliant character. The last act is very powerful, both dramatically and musically. It opens in the grounds of the Viceroy's palace, and Vesuvius is seen in the distance, its smoke portending an eruption. Pietro and companions enter with wine-cups in their hands, as from a banquet, and the former sings a barcarole ("Ve' come il vento irato"). At its close other fishermen enter and excitedly announce that troops are moving against the people, that Vesuvius is about to burst into flame, and that Masaniello, their leader, has lost his reason. This is confirmed by the appearance of the hero in disordered attire, singing music through which are filtered fragments of the fishermen's songs as they rise in his disturbed brain. This scene, the third in the act, is one not only of great power but of exquisite grace and tenderness, and requires an artist of the highest rank for its proper presentation. Fenella rouses him from his dejection, and he once more turns and plunges into the fight, only to be killed by his own comrades. On learning of her brother's death she unites the hands of Alphonso and Elvira, and then in despair throws herself into the burning lava of Vesuvius. "Masaniello" made Auber's fame at the Grand Opera, as "Fra Diavolo" made it at the Opera Comique. It has no points in common with that or any other of his works. It is serious throughout, and full of power, impetuosity, and broad dramatic treatment. Even Richard Wagner has conceded its vigor, bold effects, and original harmonies. Its melodies are spontaneous, its instrumentation full of color, and its stirring incidents are always vigorously handled. In comparison with his other works it seems like an inspiration. It is full of the revolutionary spirit, and its performance in Brussels in 1830 was the cause of the riots that drove the Dutch out of Belgium. THE CROWN DIAMONDS. "The Crown Diamonds" ("Les Diamans de la Couronne"), opera comique, in three acts, words by Scribe and St. George, one of the most charming of Auber's light operas, was first produced in Paris in 1841, but its reputation has been made on the English stage. It was first performed in London, at the Princess Theatre, May 2, 1844, with Mme. Anna Thillon, a charming singer and most fascinating woman, as Catarina; but its success was made at Drury Lane in 1854 by Louisa Pyne and Harrison, who took the parts of Catarina and Don Henrique. The other rôles, Count de Campo Mayor, Don Sebastian, Rebolledo, and Diana, were filled by Mr. Horncastle, Mr. Reeves, Mr. Borrani, and Miss Pyne, sister of the preceding, and with this cast the opera ran a hundred nights. The story of the opera is laid in Portugal, time, 1777. The opening scene discloses the ruins of a castle in the mountains, near the monastery of St. Huberto, where Don Henrique, nephew of the Count de Campo Mayor, Minister of Police at Coimbra, overtaken by a storm, seeks shelter. At the time of his misfortune he is on his way to take part in the approaching coronation, and also to sign a marriage contract with his cousin Diana, daughter of the Minister of Police. He solaces himself with a song ("Roll on, Roll on"), during which he hears the blows of hammers in a distant cavern, and on looking round discovers Rebolledo, the chief of the coiners, and two of his comrades, with his trunk in their possession, the contents of which they proceed to examine. Don Henrique conceals himself while Rebolledo is singing a rollicking muleteer's song ("O'er Mountain steep, through Valley roaming"). At its conclusion Rebolledo, about to summon the other coiners to their secret work, discovers Don Henrique, and thinking him a spy rushes upon him. He is saved by the sudden entrance of Catarina, the leader of the gang, who tells the story of her life in a concerted number that reminds one very strikingly of the bandit song in "Fra Diavolo." After examining Don Henrique, and, to his surprise, showing an intimate acquaintance with his projects, she returns him his property, and allows him to depart on condition that he shall not speak of what he has seen for a year. He consents; and then follows another of the concerted numbers in which this opera abounds, and in which occurs a charming rondo ("The Young Pedrillo"), accompanied by a weird, clanging chorus. Before he can effect his departure the gang find that they are surrounded by troops led by Don Sebastian, a friend of Don Henrique. The coiners, in company with the latter, however, make their escape in the disguise of monks on their way to the neighboring monastery, singing a lugubrious chorus ("Unto the Hermit of the Chapel"), while Catarina and Rebolledo elude the soldiers by taking a subterranean passage, carrying with them a casket containing some mysterious jewels. The second act opens in the Château de Coimbra, and discovers the Count, Don Henrique, Don Sebastian, and Diana. The first scene reveals to us that Don Henrique is in love with the mysterious Catarina, and that Diana is in love with Don Sebastian. In a sportive mood Diana requests Don Henrique to sing with her, and chooses a nocturne called "The Brigand," which closes in gay bolero time ("In the Deep Ravine of the Forest"). As they are singing it, Don Sebastian announces that a carriage has been overturned and its occupants desire shelter. As the duet proceeds, Catarina and Rebolledo enter, and a very flurried quintet ("Oh, Surprise unexpected!") occurs, leading up to an ensemble full of humor, with a repetition of the brigand song, this time by Catarina and Diana, and closing with a bravura aria sung by Catarina ("Love! at once I break thy Fetters"). Catarina and Rebolledo accept the proffered hospitality, but the latter quietly makes his exit when Diana begins to read an account of a robbery which contains a description of himself and his companion. Catarina remains, however, in spite of Don Henrique's warning that she is in the house of the Minister of Police. In a moment of passion he declares his love for her and begs her to fly with him. She declines his proffer, but gives him a ring as a souvenir. A pretty little duet ("If I could but Courage feel") ensues between Diana and Don Henrique, in which she gently taunts him with his inattention to her and his sudden interest in the handsome stranger. At this juncture the Count enters in wild excitement over the announcement that the crown jewels have been stolen. Don Henrique's ring is recognized as one of them, and in the excitement which ensues, Catarina finds herself in danger of discovery, from which she is rescued by Diana, who promises Don Henrique she will send her away in the Count's carriage if he will agree to refuse to sign the marriage contract. He consents, and she departs upon her errand. At this point in the scene Don Henrique sings the beautiful ballad, "Oh, whisper what thou feelest!" originally written for Mr. Harrison. This song leads up to a stirring finale, in which Don Henrique refuses to sign the contract and Catarina makes her escape. The last act opens in the anteroom of the royal palace at Lisbon, where Diana is waiting for an audience with the Queen. She sings another interpolated air, originally written for Louisa Pyne ("When Doubt the tortured Frame is rending"), and at its close the Count, Don Henrique, and Don Sebastian enter. While they are conversing, Rebolledo appears, announced as the Count Fuentes, and a quintet occurs, very slightly constructed, but full of humor. An usher interrupts it by announcing the Queen will have a private audience with the Count Fuentes. While awaiting her, the latter, in a monologue, lets us into the secret that the real crown jewels have been pledged for the national debt, and that he has been employed to make duplicates of them to be worn on state occasions until the real ones can be redeemed. The Queen enters, and expresses her satisfaction with the work, and promotes him to the position of Minister of Secret Police. On his departure she sings a charming cavatina ("Love, dwell with me"), and at its close Count de Campo Mayor enters with the decision of the Council that she shall wed the Prince of Spain. She returns answer that she shall make her own choice. The Count seeks to argue with her, when she threatens to confiscate his estate for allowing the crown jewels to be stolen, and commands him to arrest his daughter and nephew for harboring the thieves. Diana suddenly enters, and an amusing trio ensues, the Queen standing with her back to Diana lest she may be discovered. The latter fails to recognize her as Catarina, and implores pardon for assisting in her escape. The situation is still further complicated by the appearance of Don Henrique, who has no difficulty in recognizing Catarina. Bewildered at her presence in the Queen's apartments, he declares to Diana that he will seize her and fly to some distant land. His rash resolution, however, is thwarted by his arrest, on the authority of the Queen, for treason. A martial finale introduces us to the Queen in state. Don Henrique rushes forward to implore mercy for Catarina. The Queen reveals herself at last, and announces to her people that she has chosen Don Henrique, who has loved her for herself, for her husband and their king. And thus closes one of the most sparkling, melodious, and humorous of Auber's works. What the concerted numbers lack in solidity of construction is compensated for by their grace and sweetness. BALFE. Michael William Balfe was born at Dublin, Ireland, May 15, 1808. Of all the English opera-composers, his career was the most versatile, as his success, for a time at least, was the most remarkable. At seven years of age he scored a polacca of his own for a band. In his eighth year he appeared as a violinist, and in his tenth was composing ballads. At sixteen he was playing in the Drury Lane orchestra, and about this time began taking lessons in composition. In 1825, aided by the generosity of a patron, he went to Italy, where for three years he studied singing and counterpoint. In his twentieth year he met Rossini, who offered him an engagement as first barytone at the Italian Opera in Paris. He made his début with success in 1828, and at the close of his engagement returned to Italy, where he appeared again on the stage. About this time (1829-1830) he began writing Italian operas, and before he left Italy had produced three which met with considerable success. In 1835 he returned to England; and it was in this year that his first English opera, the "Siege of Rochelle," was produced. It was played continuously at Drury Lane for over three months. In 1836 appeared his "Maid of Artois;" in 1837, "Catharine Grey" and "Joan of Arc;" and in 1838, "Falstaff." During these years he was still singing in concerts and opera, and in 1840 appeared as manager of the Lyceum. His finest works were produced after this date,--"The Bohemian Girl" in 1843; "The Enchantress" in 1844; "The Rose of Castile," "La Zingara," and "Satanella" in 1858, and "The Puritan's Daughter" in 1861. His last opera was "The Knight of the Leopard," known in Italian as "Il Talismano," which has also been produced in English as "The Talisman." He married Mlle. Rosen, a German singer, whom he met in Italy in 1835; and his daughter Victoire, who subsequently married Sir John Crampton, and afterwards the Duc de Frias, also appeared as a singer in 1856. Balfe died Oct. 20, 1870, upon his own estate in Hertfordshire. The analysis of his three operas which are best known--"The Bohemian Girl," "Rose of Castile," and "Puritan's Daughter"--will contain sufficient reference to his ability as a composer. THE BOHEMIAN GIRL. "The Bohemian Girl," grand opera in three acts, words by Bunn, adapted from St. George's ballet of "The Gypsy," which appeared at the Paris Grand Opera in 1839,--itself taken from a romance by Cervantes,--was first produced in London, Nov. 27, 1843, at Drury Lane, with the following cast:-- ARLINE Miss ROMER. THADDEUS Mr. HARRISON. GYPSY QUEEN Miss BETTS. DEVILSHOOF Mr. STRETTON. COUNT ARNHEIM Mr. BORRANI. FLORESTEIN Mr. DURNSET. The fame of "The Bohemian Girl" was not confined to England. It was translated into various European languages, and was one of the few English operas which secured a favorable hearing even in critical Germany. In its Italian form it was produced at Drury Lane as "La Zingara," Feb. 6, 1858, with Mlle. Piccolomini as Arline; and also had the honor of being selected for the state performance connected with the marriage of the Princess Royal. The French version, under the name of "La Bohémienne," for which Balfe added several numbers, besides enlarging it to five acts, was produced at the Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, in December, 1869, and gained for him the Cross of the Legion of Honor. The scene of the opera is laid in Austria, and the first act introduces us to the château and grounds of Count Arnheim, Governor of Presburg, whose retainers are preparing for the chase. After a short chorus the Count enters with his little daughter Arline and his nephew Florestein. The Count sings a short solo ("A Soldier's Life"), and as the choral response by his retainers and hunters dies away and they leave the scene, Thaddeus, a Polish exile and fugitive, rushes in excitedly, seeking to escape the Austrian soldiers. His opening number is a very pathetic song ("'Tis sad to leave your Fatherland"). At the end of the song a troop of gypsies enter, headed by Devilshoof, singing a blithe chorus ("In the Gypsy's Life you may read"). He hears Thaddeus's story and induces him to join them. Before the animated strains fairly cease, Florestein and some of the hunters dash across the grounds in quest of Arline, who has been attacked by a stag. Thaddeus, seizing a rifle, joins them, and rescues the child by killing the animal. The Count overwhelms him with gratitude, and urges him to join in the coming festivities. He consents, and at the banquet produces a commotion by refusing to drink the health of the Emperor. The soldiers are about to rush upon him, when Devilshoof interferes. The gypsy is arrested for his temerity, and taken into the castle. Thaddeus departs and the festivities are resumed, but are speedily interrupted again by the escape of Devilshoof, who takes Arline with him. The finale of the act is very stirring, and contains one number, a prayer ("Thou who in Might supreme"), which is extremely effective. Twelve years elapse between the first and second acts, and during this time Count Arnheim has received no tidings of Arline, and has given her up as lost forever. The act opens in the gypsy camp in the suburbs of Presburg. Arline is seen asleep in the tent of the Queen, with Thaddeus watching her. After a quaint little chorus ("Silence, silence, the Lady Moon") sung by the gypsies, they depart in quest of plunder, headed by Devilshoof, and soon find their victim in the person of the foppish and half-drunken Florestein, who is returning from a revel. He is speedily relieved of his jewelry, among which is a medallion, which is carried off by Devilshoof. As the gypsies disappear, Arline wakes and relates her dream to Thaddeus in a joyous song ("I dreamed I dwelt in Marble Halls"), which has become one of the world's favorites. At the close of the ballad Thaddeus tells her the meaning of the scar upon her arm, and reveals himself as her rescuer, but does not disclose to her the mystery of her birth. The musical dialogue, with its ensemble, "The Secret of her Birth," will never lose its charm. Thaddeus declares his love for her just as the Queen, who is also in love with Thaddeus, enters. Arline also confesses her love for Thaddeus, and, according to the customs of the tribe, the Queen unites them, at the same time vowing vengeance against the pair. The scene now changes to a street in the city. A great fair is in progress, and the gypsies, as usual, resort to it. Arline enters at their head, joyously singing, to the accompaniment of the rattling castanets, "Come with the Gypsy Bride;" her companions, blithely tripping along, responding with the chorus, "In the Gypsy's Life you may read." They disappear down the street and reappear in the public plaza. Arline, the Queen, Devilshoof, and Thaddeus sing an unaccompanied quartet ("From the Valleys and Hills"), a number which for grace and flowing harmony deserves a place in any opera. As they mingle among the people an altercation occurs between Arline and Florestein, who has attempted to insult her. The Queen recognizes Florestein as the owner of the medallion, and for her courage in resenting the insult maliciously presents Arline with it. Shortly afterwards he observes the medallion on Arline's neck, and has her arrested for theft. The next scene opens in the hall of justice. Count Arnheim enters with a sad countenance, and as he observes Arline's portrait, gives vent to his sorrow in that well-known melancholy reverie, "The Heart bowed down," which has become famous the world over. Arline is brought before him for trial. As it progresses he observes the scar upon her arm and asks its cause. She tells the story which Thaddeus had told her, and this solves the mystery. The Count recognizes his daughter, and the act closes with a beautiful ensemble ("Praised be the Will of Heaven"). The last act opens in the salon of Count Arnheim. Arline is restored to her old position, but her love for Thaddeus remains. He finds an opportunity to have a meeting with her, through the cunning of Devilshoof, who accompanies him. He once more tells his love in that tender and impassioned song, "When other Lips and other Hearts," and she promises to be faithful to him. As the sound of approaching steps is heard, Thaddeus and his companion conceal themselves. A large company enter, and Arline is presented to them. During the ceremony a closely veiled woman appears, and when questioned discovers herself as the Gypsy Queen. She reveals the hiding-place of her companions, and Thaddeus is dragged forth and ordered to leave the house. Arline declares her love for him, and her intention to go with him. She implores her father to relent. Thaddeus avows his noble descent, and boasts his ancestry and deeds in battle in that stirring martial song, "When the Fair Land of Poland." The Count finally yields and gives his daughter to Thaddeus. The Queen, filled with rage and despair, induces one of the tribe to fire at him as he is embracing Arline; but by a timely movement of Devilshoof the bullet intended for Thaddeus pierces the breast of the Queen. As the curtain falls, the old song of the gypsies is heard again as they disappear in the distance with Devilshoof at their head. Many of the operas of Balfe, like other ballad operas, have become unfashionable; but it is doubtful whether "The Bohemian Girl" will ever lose its attraction for those who delight in song-melody, charming orchestration, and sparkling, animated choruses. It leaped into popularity at a bound, and its pretty melodies are still as fresh as when they were first sung. THE ROSE OF CASTILE. "The Rose of Castile," comic opera in three acts, words by Harris and Falconer, adapted from Adolphe Adam's "Muletier de Tolède," was first produced at the Lyceum Theatre, London, Oct. 29, 1857, with the following cast:-- ELVIRA Miss LOUISA PYNE. MANUEL W.H. HARRISON. CARMEN Miss SUSAN PYNE. DON PEDRO Mr. WEISS. DON SALLUST Mr. ST. ALBYN. DON FLORIO Mr. HONEY. The scene of the opera is laid in Spain. Elvira, the Rose of Castile, Queen of Leon, has just ascended the throne, and her hand has been demanded by the King of Castile for his brother, Don Sebastian the Infant. Having learned that the latter is about to enter her dominions disguised as a muleteer, the better to satisfy his curiosity about her, she adopts the same expedient, and sets out to intercept him, disguised as a peasant girl, taking with her one of her attendants. The first act opens upon a rural scene in front of a posada, where the peasants are dancing and singing a lively chorus ("List to the gay Castanet"). Elvira and Carmen, her attendant, enter upon the scene, and are asked to join in the dance, but instead, Elvira delights them with a song, a vocal scherzo ("Yes, I'll obey you"). The innkeeper is rude to them, but they are protected from his coarseness by Manuel, the muleteer, who suddenly appears and sings a rollicking song ("I am a simple Muleteer") to the accompaniment of a tambourine and the snappings of his whip. A dialogue duet follows, in which she accepts his protection and escort. She has already recognized the Infant, and he has fulfilled the motive of the story by falling in love with her. At this point the three conspirators, Don Pedro, Don Sallust, and Don Florio, enter, the first of whom has designs on the throne. They indulge in a buffo trio, which develops into a spirited bacchanal ("Wine, Wine, the Magician thou art!"). Observing Elvira's likeness to the Queen, they persuade her to personate her Majesty. She consents with feigned reluctance, and after accepting their escort in place of Manuel's, being sure that he will follow, she sings a quaint rondo ("Oh, were I the Queen of Spain!"), and the act closes with a concerted number accompanying their departure. The second act opens in the throne-room of the palace, and is introduced by a very expressive conspirators' chorus ("The Queen in the Palace"); after which Don Pedro enters and gives expression to the uncertainty of his schemes in a ballad ("Though Fortune darkly o'er me frowns") which reminds one very forcibly of "The Heart bowed down," in "The Bohemian Girl." The Queen, who has eluded the surveillance of the conspirators, makes her appearance, surrounded by her attendants, and sings that exquisite ballad, "The Convent Cell" ("Of Girlhood's happy Days I dream"), one of the most beautiful songs ever written by any composer, and certainly Balfe's most popular inspiration. At the close of the ballad Manuel appears, and is granted an audience, in which he informs her of the meeting with the peasant girl and boy, and declares his belief that they were the Queen and Carmen. She ridicules the statement, and a very funny trio buffo ensues ("I'm not the Queen, ha, ha!"). He then informs her of the conspirators' plot to imprison her, but she thwarts it by inducing a silly and pompous old Duchess to assume the rôle of Queen for the day, and ride to the palace closely veiled in the royal carriage. The plot succeeds, and the Duchess is seized and conveyed to a convent. In the next scene there is another spirited buffo number, in which Don Pedro and Don Florio are mourning over the loss of their peasant girl, when, greatly to their relief, she enters again, singing a very quaint and characteristic scena ("I'm but a simple Peasant Maid"), which rouses the suspicions of the conspirators. They are all the more perplexed when the Queen announces herself, and declares her intention of marrying the muleteer. The last act opens with a song by Carmen ("Though Love's the greatest Plague in Life"), which falls far below the excellence of the other songs in the work. It is followed by a buffo duet between Carmen and Florio, who agree to marry. The Queen and ladies enter, and the former sings a bravura air ("Oh, joyous, happy Day!"), which was intended by the composer to show Miss Pyne's vocal ability. At this point a message is brought her from Don Sebastian, announcing his marriage. Enraged at the discovery that the muleteer is not Don Sebastian, she severely upbraids him, and he replies in another exquisite ballad ("'Twas Rank and Fame that tempted thee"). At its close she once more declares she will be true to the muleteer. Don Pedro is delighted at the apparent success of his scheme, as he believes he can force her to abdicate if she marries a muleteer, and gives vent to his joy in a martial song ("Hark! hark! methinks I hear"). The last scene is in the throne-room, where Manuel announces he is king of Castile, and mounts the throne singing a stirring song closely resembling, in its style, the "Fair Land of Poland," in "The Bohemian Girl." Elvira expresses her delight in a bravura air ("Oh, no! by Fortune blessed"), and the curtain falls. The story of the opera is very complicated, and sometimes tiresome; but the music is well sustained throughout, especially the buffo numbers, while some of the ballads are among the best ever written by an English composer. BEETHOVEN. Ludwig Von Beethoven, the greatest of composers, was born Dec. 17, 1770, at Bonn, Germany, his father being a court singer in the chapel of the Elector of Cologne. He studied in Vienna with Haydn, with whom he did not always agree, however, and afterwards with Albrechtsberger. His first symphony appeared in 1801, his earlier symphonies, in what is called his first period, being written in the Mozart style. His only opera, "Fidelio," for which he wrote four overtures, was first brought out in Vienna in 1805; his oratorio, "Christ on the Mount of Olives," in 1812; and his colossal Ninth Symphony, with its choral setting of Schiller's "Ode to Joy," in 1824. In addition to his symphonies, his opera, oratorios, and masses, and the immortal group of sonatas for the piano, which were almost revelations in music, he developed chamber music to an extent far beyond that reached by his predecessors, Haydn and Mozart. His symphonies exhibit surprising power, and a marvellous comprehension of the deeper feelings in life and the influences of nature, both human and physical. He wrote with the deepest earnestness, alike in the passion and the calm of his music, and he invested it also with a genial humor as well as with the highest expression of pathos. His works are epic in character. He was the great tone-poet of music. His subjects were always lofty and dignified, and to their treatment he brought not only a profound knowledge of musical technicality, but intense sympathy with the innermost feelings of human nature, for he was a humanitarian in the broadest sense. By the common consent of the musical world he stands at the head of all composers, and has always been their guide and inspiration. He died March 26, 1827, in the midst of a raging thunder storm, one of his latest utterances being a recognition of the "divine spark" in Schubert's music. FIDELIO. "Fidelio, oder die eheliche Liebe" ("Fidelio, or Conjugal Love"), grand opera in two acts, words by Sonnleithner, translated freely from Bouilly's "Léonore, ou l'Amour Conjugal," was first produced at the Theatre An der Wien, Vienna, Nov. 20, 1805, the work at that time being in three acts. A translation of the original programme of that performance, with the exception of the usual price of admissions, is appended:-- Imperial and Royal Theatre An der Wien. New Opera. To-day, Wednesday, 20 November, 1805, at the Imperial and Royal Theatre An der Wien, will be given for the first time. FIDELIO; Or, Conjugal Love. Opera in three acts, translated freely from the French text by JOSEPH SONNLEITHNER. The music is by LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN. _Dramatis Personae_. _Don Fernando_, Minister Herr Weinkoff. _Don Pizarro_, Governor of a State Prison Herr Meier. _Florestan_, prisoner Herr Demmer. _Leonora_, his wife, under the name of _Fidelio_ Fräulein Milder. _Rocco_, chief jailer Herr Rothe. _Marcellina_, his daughter Fräulein Müller. _Jaquino_, turnkey Herr Cache. _Captain of the Guard_ Herr Meister. _Prisoners, Guards, People_. The action passes in a State prison in Spain, a few leagues from Seville. The piece can be procured at the box-office for fifteen kreutzers. During this first season the opera was performed three times and then withdrawn. Breuning reduced it to two acts, and two or three of the musical numbers were sacrificed, and in this form it was played twice at the Imperial Private Theatre and again withdrawn. On these occasions it had been given under Beethoven's favorite title, "Leonore." In 1814 Treitschke revised it, and it was produced at the Kärnthnerthor Theatre, Vienna, May 23, of that year, as "Fidelio," which title it has ever since retained. Its first performance in Paris was at the Théâtre Lyrique, May 5, 1860; in London, at the King's Theatre, May 18, 1832; and in English at Covent Garden, June 12, 1835, with Malibran in the title-rôle. Beethoven wrote four overtures for this great work. The first was composed in 1805, the second in 1806, the third in 1807, and the fourth in 1814. It is curious that there has always been a confusion in their numbering, and the error remains to this day. What is called No. 1 is in reality No. 3, and was composed for a performance of the opera at Prague, the previous overture having been too difficult for the strings. The splendid "Leonora," No. 3, is in reality No. 2, and the No. 2 is No. 1. The fourth, or the "Fidelio" overture, contains a new set of themes, but the "Leonora" is the grandest of them all. The entire action of the opera transpires in a Spanish prison, of which Don Pizarro is governor and Rocco the jailer. The porter of the prison is Jacquino, who is in love with Marcellina, daughter of Rocco, and she in turn is in love with Fidelio, Rocco's assistant, who has assumed male disguise the better to assist her in her plans for the rescue of her husband, Florestan, a Spanish nobleman. The latter, who is the victim of Don Pizarro's hatred because he had thwarted some of his evil designs, has been imprisoned by him unknown to the world, and is slowly starving to death. Leonora, his wife, who in some way has discovered that her husband is in the prison, has obtained employment of Rocco, disguised as the young man Fidelio. The opera opens with a charming, playful love-scene between Jacquino and Marcellina, whom the former is teasing to marry him. She puts him off, and as he sorrowfully departs, sings the Hope aria, "Die Hoffnung," a fresh, smoothly flowing melody, in which she pictures the delight of a life with Fidelio. At its close Rocco enters with the despondent Jacquino, shortly followed by Fidelio, who is very much fatigued. The love-episode is brought out in the famous canon quartet, "Mir ist so wunderbar," one of the most beautiful and restful numbers in the opera. Rocco promises Marcellina's hand to Fidelio as the reward of her fidelity, but in the characteristic and sonorous Gold song, "Hat man nicht auch Geld daneben," reminds them that money as well as love is necessary to housekeeping. In the next scene, while Don Pizarro is giving instructions to Rocco, a packet of letters is delivered to him, one of which informs him that Don Fernando is coming the next day to inspect the prison, as he has been informed that it contains several victims of arbitrary power. He at once determines that Florestan shall die, and gives vent to his wrath in a furious dramatic aria ("Ha! welch ein Augenblick!"). He attempts to bribe Rocco to aid him. The jailer at first refuses, but subsequently, after a stormy duet, consents to dig the grave. Fidelio has overheard the scheme, and, as they disappear, rushes forward and sings the great aria, "Abscheulicher!" one of the grandest and most impassioned illustrations of dramatic intensity in the whole realm of music. The recitative expresses intense horror at the intended murder, then subsides into piteous sorrow, and at last breaks out into the glorious adagio, "Komm Hoffnung," in which she sings of the immortal power of love. The last scene of the act introduces the strong chorus of the prisoners as they come out in the yard for air and sunlight, after which Rocco relates to Fidelio his interview with Don Pizarro. The latter orders the jailer to return the prisoners to their dungeons and go on with the digging of the grave, and the act closes. The second act opens in Florestan's dungeon. The prisoner sings an intensely mournful aria ("In des Lebens Frühlingstagen"), which has a rapturous finale ("Und spür' Ich nicht linde"), as he sees his wife in a vision. Rocco and Fidelio enter and begin digging the grave, to the accompaniment of sepulchral music. She discovers that Florestan has sunk back exhausted, and as she restores him recognizes her husband. Don Pizarro enters, and after ordering Fidelio away, who meanwhile conceals herself, attempts to stab Florestan. Fidelio, who has been closely watching him, springs forward with a shriek, and interposes herself between him and her husband. He once more advances to carry out his purpose, when Fidelio draws a pistol and defies him. As she does so, the sound of a trumpet is heard outside announcing the arrival of Don Fernando. Don Pizarro rushes out in despair, and Florestan and Leonora, no longer Fidelio, join in a duet ("O Namenlose Freude") which is the very ecstasy of happiness. In the last scene Don Fernando sets the prisoners free in the name of the king, and among them Florestan. Pizarro is revealed in his true character, and is led away to punishment. The happy pair are reunited, and Marcellina, to Jacquino's delight, consents to marry him. The act closes with a general song of jubilee. As a drama and as an opera "Fidelio" stands almost alone in its perfect purity, in the moral grandeur of its subject, and in the resplendent ideality of its music. BELLINI. Vincenzo Bellini was born Nov. 3, 1802, at Catania, Sicily, and came of musical parentage. By the generosity of a patron he was sent to Naples, and studied at the Conservatory under Zingarelli. His first opera was "Adelson e Salvino," and its remarkable merit secured him a commission from the manager, Barbaja, for an opera for San Carlo. The result was his first important work, "Bianca e Fernando," written in 1826. Its success was moderate; but he was so encouraged that he at once went to Milan and wrote "Il Pirata," the tenor part for Rubini. Its success was extraordinary, and the managers of La Scala commissioned him for another work. In 1828 "La Straniera" appeared, quickly followed by "Zaira" (1829), which failed at Parma, and "I Capuletti ed i Montecchi," a version of "Romeo and Juliet," which made a great success at Venice in 1830. A year later he composed "La Sonnambula," unquestionably his best work, for La Scala, and it speedily made the tour of Europe, and gained for him an extended reputation. A year after its appearance he astonished the musical world with "Norma," written, like "Sonnambula," for Mme. Pasta. These are his greatest works. "Norma" was followed by "Beatrice di Tenda," and this by "I Puritani," his last opera, written in Paris for the four great artists, Grisi, Rubini, Tamburini, and Lablache. Bellini died Sept. 23, 1835, in the twenty-ninth year of his age, preserving his musical enthusiasm to the very last. He was a close follower of Rossini, and studied his music diligently, and though without a very profound knowledge of harmony or orchestration, succeeded in producing at least three works, "Norma," "Sonnambula," and "I Puritani," which were the delight of the opera-goers of his day, and still freshly hold the stage. NORMA. "Norma," a serious opera in two acts, words by Romani, was first produced during the season of Lent, 1832, at Milan, with the principal parts cast as follows:-- NORMA Mme. PASTA. ADALGISA Mme. GRISI. POLLIONE Sig. DONZELLI. It was first heard in London in 1833, and in Paris in 1855, and Planché's English version of it was produced at Drury Lane in 1837. The scene of the opera is laid among the Druids, in Gaul, after its occupation by the Roman legions. In the first scene the Druids enter with Oroveso, their priest, to the impressive strains of a religious march which is almost as familiar as a household word. The priest announces that Norma, the high priestess, will come and cut the sacred branch and give the signal for the expulsion of the Romans. The next scene introduces Pollione, the Roman proconsul, to whom Norma, in defiance of her faith and traditions, has bound herself in secret marriage, and by whom she has had two children. In a charmingly melodious scena ("Meco all' altar di Venere") he reveals his faithlessness and guilty love for Adalgisa, a young virgin of the temple, who has consented to abandon her religion and fly with him to Rome. In the fourth scene Norma enters attended by her priestesses, and denounces the Druids for their warlike disposition, declaring that the time has not yet come for shaking off the yoke of Rome, and that when it does she will give the signal from the altar of the Druids. After cutting the sacred mistletoe, she comes forward and invokes peace from the moon in that exquisite prayer, "Casta Diva," which electrified the world with its beauty and tenderness, and still holds its place in popular favor, not alone by the grace of its embellishments, but by the pathos of its melody. It is followed by another cavatina of almost equal beauty and tenderness ("Ah! bello a me ritorna"). In the next scene Adalgisa, retiring from the sacred rites, sings of her love for Pollione, and as she closes is met by the proconsul, who once more urges her to fly to Rome with him. The duet between them is one of great power and beauty, and contains a strikingly passionate number for the tenor ("Va, crudele"). Oppressed by her conscience, she reveals her fatal promise to Norma, and implores absolution from her vows. Norma yields to her entreaties, but when she inquires the name and country of her lover, and Adalgisa points to Pollione as he enters Norma's sanctuary, all the priestess's love turns to wrath. In this scene the duet, "Perdoni e ti compiango," is one of exceeding loveliness and peculiarly melodious tenderness. The act closes with a terzetto of great power ("O! di qual sei tu"), in which both the priestess and Adalgisa furiously denounce the faithless Pollione. In the midst of their imprecations the sound of the sacred shield is heard calling Norma to the rites. The second act opens in Norma's dwelling, and discovers her children asleep on a couch. Norma enters with the purpose of killing them, but the maternal instinct overcomes her vengeful thought that they are Pollione's children. Adalgisa appears, and Norma announces her intention to place her children in the Virgin's hands, and send her and them to Pollione while she expiates her offence on the funeral pyre. Adalgisa pleads with her not to abandon Pollione, who will return to her repentant; and the most effective number in the opera ensues,--the grand duet containing two of Bellini's most beautiful inspirations, the "Deh! con te li prendi," and the familiar "Mira, O Norma," whose strains have gone round the world and awakened universal delight. Pollione, maddened by his passion for Adalgisa, impiously attempts to tear her from the altar in the temple of Irminsul, whereupon Norma enters the temple and strikes the sacred shield, summoning the Druids. They meet, and she declares the meaning of the signal is war, slaughter, and destruction. She chants a magnificent hymn ("Guerra, guerra"), which is full of the very fury of battle. Pollione, who has been intercepted in the temple, is brought before her. Love is still stronger than resentment with her. In a very dramatic scena ("In mia mano alfin tu sei") she informs him he is in her power, but she will let him escape if he will renounce Adalgisa and leave the country. He declares death would be preferable; whereupon she threatens to denounce Adalgisa. Pity overcomes anger, however. She snatches the sacred wreath from her brow and declares herself the guilty one. Too late Pollione discovers the worth of the woman he has abandoned, and a beautiful duet ("Qual cor tradisti") forms the closing number. She ascends the funeral pyre with Pollione, and in its flames they are purged of earthly crime. It is a memorable fact in the history of this opera, that on its first performance it was coldly received, and the Italian critics declared it had no vitality; though no opera was ever written in which such intense dramatic effect has been produced with simple melodic force, and no Italian opera score to-day is more living or more likely to last than that of Norma. LA SONNAMBULA. "La Sonnambula," an opera in two acts, words by Romani, was first produced in Milan, March 6, 1831, with the following cast:-- AMINA Mme. PASTA. ELVINO Sig. RUBINI. RODOLFO Sig. MARIANO. LISA Mme. TOCCANI. It was brought out in the same year in Paris and London, and two years after in English, with Malibran as Amina. The subject of the story was taken from a vaudeville and ballet by Scribe. The scene is laid in Switzerland. Amina, an orphan, the ward of Teresa, the miller's wife, is about to marry Elvino, a well-to-do landholder of the village. Lisa, mistress of the inn, is also in love with Elvino, and jealous of her rival. Alessio, a peasant lad, is also in love with the landlady. Such is the state of affairs on the day before the wedding. Rodolfo, the young lord of the village, next appears upon the scene. He has arrived incognito for the purpose of looking up his estates, and stops at Lisa's inn, where he meets Amina. He gives her many pretty compliments, much to the dissatisfaction of the half-jealous Elvino, who is inclined to quarrel with the disturber of his peace of mind. Amina, who is subject to fits of somnambulism, has been mistaken for a ghost by the peasants, and they warn Rodolfo that the village is haunted. The information, however, does not disturb him, and he quietly retires to his chamber. The officious Lisa also enters, and a playful scene of flirtation ensues, during which Amina enters the room, walking in her sleep. Lisa seeks shelter in a closet. Rodolfo, to escape from the embarrassment of the situation, leaves the apartment, and Amina reclines upon the bed as if it were her own. The malicious Lisa hurries from the room to inform Elvino of what she has seen, and thoughtlessly leaves her handkerchief. Elvino rushes to the spot with other villagers, and finding Amina, as Lisa had described, declares that she is guilty, and leaves her. Awakened by the noise, the unfortunate girl, realizing the situation, sorrowfully throws herself into Teresa's arms. The villagers implore Rodolfo to acquit Amina of any blame, and he stoutly protests her innocence; but it is of no avail in satisfying Elvino, who straightway offers his hand to Lisa. In the last act Amina is seen stepping from the window of the mill in her sleep. She crosses a frail bridge which yields beneath her weight and threatens to precipitate her upon the wheel below; but she passes it in safety, descends to the ground, and walks into her lover's arms amid the jubilant songs of the villagers. Elvino is convinced of her innocence, and they are wedded at once, while the discovery of Lisa's handkerchief in Rodolfo's room pronounces her the faithless one. Such is the simple little pastoral story to which Bellini has set some of his most beautiful melodies, the most striking of which are the aria, "Sovra il sen," in the third scene of the first act, where Amina declares her happiness to Teresa; the beautiful aria for barytone in the sixth scene, "Vi ravviso," descriptive of Rodolfo's delight in revisiting the scenes of his youth; the playful duet between Amina and Elvino, "Mai piu dubbi!" in which she rebukes him for his jealousy; the humorous and very characteristic chorus of the villagers in the tenth scene, "Osservate, l'uscio è aperto," as they tiptoe into Rodolfo's apartment; the duet, "O mio dolor," in the next scene, in which Amina asserts her innocence; the aria for tenor in the third scene of the second act, "Tutto e sciolto," in which Elvino bemoans his sad lot; and that joyous ecstatic outburst of birdlike melody, "Ah! non giunge," which closes the opera. In fact, "Sonnambula" is so replete with melodies of the purest and tenderest kind, that it is difficult to specify particular ones. It is exquisitely idyllic throughout, and the music is as quiet, peaceful, simple, and tender as the charming pastoral scenes it illustrates. I PURITANI. "I Puritani di Scozia," an opera in two acts, words by Count Pepoli, was first produced at the Théâtre Italien, Paris, Jan. 25, 1835, and in London in the following May, under the title of "I Puritani ed i Cavalieri." The original cast was as follows:-- ELVIRA Mme. GRISI. ARTURO Sig. RUBINI. RICARDO Sig. TAMBURINI. GIORGIO Sig. LABLACHE. This cast was one of unexampled strength, and was long known in Europe as the Puritani quartet. The story of the opera is laid in England, during the war between Charles II. and his Parliament, and the first scene opens in Plymouth, then held by the parliamentary forces. The fortress is commanded by Lord Walton, whose daughter, Elvira, is in love with Lord Arthur Talbot, a young cavalier in the King's service. Her hand had previously been promised to Sir Richard Forth, of the parliamentary army; but to the great delight of the maiden, Sir George Walton, brother of the commander, brings her the news that her father has relented, and that Arthur will be admitted into the fortress that the nuptials may be celebrated. Henrietta, widow of Charles I., is at this time a prisoner in the fortress, under sentence of death passed by Parliament. Arthur discovers her situation, and by concealing her in Elvira's bridal veil seeks to effect her escape. On their way out he encounters his rival; but the latter, discovering that the veiled lady is not Elvira, allows them to pass. The escape is soon discovered, and Elvira, thinking her lover has abandoned her, loses her reason. Arthur is proscribed by the Parliament and sentenced to death; but Sir Richard, moved by the appeals of Sir George Walton, who hopes to restore his niece to reason, promises to use his influence with Parliament to save Arthur's life should he be captured unarmed. Arthur meanwhile manages to have an interview with Elvira; and the latter, though still suffering from her mental malady, listens joyfully to his explanation of his sudden flight. Their interview is disturbed by a party of Puritans who enter and arrest him. He is condemned to die on the spot; but before the sentence can be carried out, a messenger appears with news of the king's defeat and the pardon of Arthur. The joyful tidings restore Elvira to reason, and the lovers are united. The libretto of "I Puritani" is one of the poorest ever furnished to Bellini, but the music is some of his best. It is replete with melodies, which are not only fascinating in their original setting, but have long been favorites on the concert-stage. The opera is usually performed in three acts, but was written in two. The prominent numbers of the first act are the pathetic cavatina for Ricardo, "Ah! per sempre io ti perdei," in which he mourns the loss of Elvira; a lovely romanza for tenor ("A te o cara"); a brilliant polacca ("Son vergin vezzosa") for Elvira, which is one of the delights of all artists; and a concerted finale, brimming over with melody and closing with the stirring anathema chorus, "Non casa, non spiaggia." The first grand number in the second act is Elvira's mad song, "Qui la voce," in which are brought out not only that rare gift for expressing pathos in melody for which Bellini is so famous, but the sweetest of themes and most graceful of embellishments. The remaining numbers are Elvira's appeal to her lover ("Vien, diletto"), the magnificent duet for basses ("Suoni la tromba"), known as the "Liberty Duet," which in sonorousness, majesty, and dramatic intensity hardly has an equal in the whole range of Italian opera; a tender and plaintive romanza for tenor ("A una fonte aflitto e solo"); a passionate duet for Arthur and Elvira ("Star teco ognor"); and an adagio, sung by Arthur in the finale ("Ella è tremante"). BIZET. Georges Bizet was born at Paris, Oct. 25, 1838, and in an artistic atmosphere, as his father, an excellent teacher, was married to a sister of Mme. Delsarte, a talented pianist, and his uncle, a musician, was the founder of the famous Delsarte system. He studied successively with Marmontel and Benoist, and subsequently took lessons in composition from Halevy, whose daughter he afterwards married. His first work was an operetta of not much consequence, "Docteur Miracle," written in 1857, and in the same year he took the Grand Prix de Rome. On his return from Italy he composed "Vasco de Gama" and "Les Pecheurs de Perles," neither of which met with much success. In 1867 "La Jolie Fille de Perth" appeared, and in 1872, "Djamileh." During the intervals of these larger works he wrote the Patrie overture and the interludes to "L'Arlesienne," a very poetical score which Theodore Thomas introduced to this country, and both works were received with enthusiasm. At last he was to appreciate and enjoy a real dramatic success, though it was his last work. "Carmen" appeared in 1875, and achieved a magnificent success at the Opera Comique. It was brought out in March, and in the following June he died of acute heart-disease. He was a very promising composer, and specially excelled in orchestration. During his last few years he was a close student of Wagner, whose influence is apparent in this last work of his life. CARMEN. "Carmen," an opera in four acts, words by Meilhac and Halevy, adapted from Prosper Merimée's romance of "Carmen," was first produced at the Opera Comique, Paris, March 3, 1875, with Mme. Galli-Marie in the title-rôle and Mlle. Chapuy as Michaela. The scene is laid in Seville, time 1820. The first act opens in the public square, filled with a troop of soldiers under command of Don José, and loungers who are waiting the approach of the pretty girls who work in the cigar-factory near by, and prettiest and most heartless of them all, Carmen. Before they appear, Michaela, a village girl, enters the square, bearing a message to Don José from his mother, but not finding him departs. The cigar-girls at last pass by on their way to work, and with them Carmen, who observes Don José sitting in an indifferent manner and throws him the rose she wears in her bosom. As they disappear, Michaela returns and delivers her message. The sight of the gentle girl and the thought of home dispel Don José's sudden passion for Carmen. He is about to throw away her rose, when a sudden disturbance is heard in the factory. It is found that Carmen has quarrelled with one of the girls and wounded her. She is arrested, and to prevent further mischief her arms are pinioned. She so bewitches the lieutenant, however, that he connives at her escape and succeeds in effecting it, while she is led away to prison by the soldiers. In the second act Carmen has returned to her wandering gypsy life, and we find her with her companions in the cabaret of Lillas-Pastia, singing and dancing. Among the new arrivals is Escamillo, the victorious bull-fighter of Grenada, with whom Carmen is at once fascinated. When the inn is closed, Escamillo and the soldiers depart, but Carmen waits with two of the gypsies, who are smugglers, for the arrival of Don José. They persuade her to induce him to join their band, and when the lieutenant, wild with passion for her, enters the apartment, she prevails upon him to remain in spite of the trumpet-call which summons him to duty. An officer appears and orders him out. He refuses to go, and when the officer attempts to use force Carmen summons the gypsies. He is soon overpowered, and Don José escapes to the mountains. The third act opens in the haunt of the smugglers, a wild, rocky, cavernous place. Don José and Carmen, who is growing very indifferent to him, are there. As the contrabandists finish their work and gradually leave the scene, Escamillo, who has been following Carmen, appears. His presence and his declarations as well arouse the jealousy of Don José. They rush at each other for mortal combat, but the smugglers separate them. Escamillo bides his time, invites them to the approaching bullfight at Seville, and departs. While Don José is upbraiding Carmen, the faithful Michaela, who has been guided to the spot, begs him to accompany her, as his mother is dying. Duty prevails, and he follows her as Escamillo's taunting song is heard dying away in the distance. In the last act the drama hurries on to the tragic dénouement. It is a gala-day in Seville, for Escamillo is to fight. Carmen is there in his company, though her gypsy friends have warned her Don José is searching for her. Amid great pomp Escamillo enters the arena, and Carmen is about to follow, when Don José appears and stops her. He appeals to her and tries to awaken the old love. She will not listen, and at last in a fit of wild rage hurls the ring he had given her at his feet. The shouts of the people in the arena announce another victory for Escamillo. She cries out with joy. Don José springs at her like a tiger, and stabs her just as Escamillo emerges from the contest. Carmen is the largest and best-considered of all Bizet's works, and one of the best in the modern French repertory. The overture is short but very brilliant. After some characteristic choruses by the street lads, soldiers, and cigar-girls, Carmen sings the Havanaise ("Amor, misterioso angelo"), a quaint song in waltz time, the melody being that of an old Spanish song by Tradier, called "El Aveglito." A serious duet between Michaela and Don José ("Mia madre io la rivedo") follows, which is very tender in its character. The next striking number is the dance tempo, "Presso il bastion de Seviglia," a seguidilla sung by Carmen while bewitching Don José. In the finale, as she escapes, the Havanaise, which is the Carmen motive, is heard again. The second-act music is peculiarly Spanish in color, particularly that for the ballet. The opening song of the gypsies in the cabaret, to the accompaniment of the castanets ("Vezzi e anella scintillar"), is bewitching in its rhythm, and is followed in the next scene by a stirring and very picturesque aria ("Toreador attento"), in which Escamillo describes the bull-fight. A beautifully written quintet ("Abbiamo in vista"), and a strongly dramatic duet, beginning with another fascinating dance tempo ("Voglio danzar pel tuo piacer"), and including a beautiful pathetic melody for Don José ("Il fior che avevi"), closes the music of the act. The third act contains two very striking numbers, the terzetto of the card-players in the smugglers' haunt ("Mischiam! alziam!"), and Michaela's aria ("Io dico no, non son paurosa"), the most effective and beautiful number in the whole work, and the one which shows most clearly the effect of Wagner's influence upon the composer. In the finale of the act the Toreador's song is again heard as he disappears in the distance after the quarrel with Don José. The last act is a hurly-burly of the bull-fight, the Toreador's taking march, the stormy duet between Don José and Carmen, and the tragic dénouement in which the Carmen motive is repeated. The color of the whole work is Spanish, and the dance tempo is freely used and beautifully worked up with Bizet's ingenious and scholarly instrumentation. Except in the third act, however, the vocal parts are inferior to the orchestral treatment. BOIELDIEU. François Adrien Boieldieu was born Dec. 16, 1775, at Rouen, France. Little is known of his earlier life, except that he studied for a time with Broche, the cathedral organist. His first opera, "La Fille Coupable," appeared in 1793, and was performed at Rouen with some success. In 1795 a second opera, "Rosalie et Myrza," was performed in the same city; after which he went to Paris, where he became acquainted with many prominent musicians, among them Cherubini. His first Paris opera was the "Famille Suisse" (1797), which had a successful run. Several other operas followed, besides some excellent pieces of chamber music which secured him the professorship of the piano in the Conservatory. He also took lessons at this time of Cherubini in counterpoint, and in 1803 brought out a very successful work, "Ma Tante Aurore." We next hear of him in St. Petersburg, as conductor of the Imperial Opera, where he composed many operas and vaudevilles. He spent eight years in Russia, returning to Paris in 1811. The next year one of his best operas, "Jean de Paris," was produced with extraordinary success. Though he subsequently wrote many operas, fourteen years elapsed before his next great work, "La Dame Blanche," appeared. Its success was unprecedented. All Europe was delighted with it, and it is as fresh to-day as when it was first produced. The remainder of Boieldieu's life was sad, owing to operatic failures, pecuniary troubles, and declining health. He died at Jarcy, near Paris, Oct. 8, 1834. LA DAME BLANCE. "La Dame Blanche," opera comique in three acts, words by Scribe, adapted from Walter Scott's novels, "The Monastery" and "Guy Mannering," was first produced at the Opera Comique, Dec. 10, 1825, and was first performed in English under the title of "The White Maid," at Covent Garden, London, Jan. 2, 1827. The scene of the opera is laid in Scotland. The Laird of Avenel, a zealous partisan of the Stuarts, was proscribed after the battle of Culloden, and upon the eve of going into exile intrusts Gaveston, his steward, with the care of the castle, and of a considerable treasure which is concealed in a statue called the White Lady. The traditions affirmed that this lady was the protectress of the Avenels. All the clan were believers in the story, and the villagers declared they had often seen her in the neighborhood. Gaveston, however, does not share their superstition nor believe in the legend, and some time after the departure of the Laird he announces the sale of the castle, hoping to obtain it at a low rate because the villagers will not dare to bid for it through fear of the White Lady. The steward is led to do this because he has heard the Laird is dead, and knows there is no heir to the property. Anna, an orphan girl, who had been befriended by the Laird, determines to frustrate Gaveston's designs, and appears in the village disguised as the White Lady. She also writes to Dickson, a farmer, who is indebted to her, to meet her at midnight in the castle of Avenel. He is too superstitious to go, and George Brown, a young lieutenant who is sharing his hospitality, volunteers in his stead. He encounters the White Lady, and learns from her he will shortly meet a young lady who has saved his life by her careful nursing after a battle,--Anna meanwhile recognizing George as the person she had saved. When the day of sale comes, Dickson is empowered by the farmers to purchase the castle, so that it may not fall into Gaveston's hands. George and Anna are there; and the former, though he has not a shilling, buys it under instructions from Anna. When the time comes for payment, Anna produces the treasure which had been concealed in the statue, and, still in the disguise of the White Lady, discovers to him the secret of his birth during the exile of his parents. Gaveston approaches the spectre and tears off her veil, revealing Anna, his ward. Moved by the zeal and fidelity of his father's protégée, George offers her his hand, which, after some maidenly scruples, she accepts. The opera is full of beautiful songs, many of them Scotch in character. In the first act the opening song of George ("Ah, what Pleasure a Soldier to be!") is very poetical in its sentiment. It also contains the characteristic ballad of the White Lady, with choral responses ("Where yon Trees your Eye discovers"), and an exquisitely graceful trio in the finale ("Heavens! what do I hear?"). The second act opens with a very plaintive romanza ("Poor Margaret, spin away!"), sung by Margaret, Anna's old nurse, at her spinning-wheel, as she thinks of the absent Laird, followed in the fifth scene by a beautiful cavatina for tenor ("Come, O Gentle Lady"). In the seventh scene is a charming duet ("From these Halls"), and the act closes with an ensemble for seven voices and chorus, which has hardly been excelled in ingenuity of treatment. The third act opens with a charmingly sentimental aria for Anna ("With what delight I behold"), followed in the third scene by a stirring chorus of mountaineers, leading up to "the lay ever sung by the Clan of Avenel,"--the familiar old ballad, "Robin Adair," which loses a little of its local color under French treatment, but gains an added grace. It is stated on good authority that two of Boieldieu's pupils, Adolph Adam and Labarre, assisted him in the work, and that the lovely overture was written in one evening,--Boieldieu taking the andante and the two others the remaining movements. Though a little old-fashioned in some of its phrasing, the opera still retains its freshness and beautiful sentiment. Its popularity is best evinced by the fact that up to June, 1875, it had been given 1340 times at the theatre where it was first produced. BOITO. Arrigo Boito was born in 1840, and received his musical education in the Conservatory at Milan, where he studied for nine years. In 1866 he became a musical critic for several Italian papers, and about the same time wrote several poems of more than ordinary merit. Both in literature and music his taste was diversified; and he combined the two talents in a remarkable degree in his opera of "Mephistopheles," the only work by which he is known to the musical world at large. He studied Goethe profoundly; and the notes which he has appended to the score show a most intimate knowledge of the Faust legend. His text is in one sense polyglot, as he has made use of portions of Marlowe's "Doctor Faustus," as well as excerpts from Blaze de Bury, Lenau, Widmann, and others who have treated the legend. He studied Wagner's music also very closely, and to such purpose that after the first performance of this opera at La Scala, in 1868, the critics called him the Italian Wagner, and, in common with the public, condemned both him and his work. After Wagner's "Lohengrin" had been produced in Italy and met with success, Boito saw his opportunity to once more bring out his work. It was performed at Bologna in 1875, and met with an enthusiastic success. Its introduction to this country is largely due to Mme. Christine Nilsson, though Mme. Marie Roze was the first artist to appear in it here. MEPHISTOPHELES. "Mephistopheles," grand opera in a prologue, four acts, and epilogue, words by the composer, was first performed at La Scala, Milan, in 1868. The "Prologue in the Heavens" contains five numbers, a prelude, and chorus of the mystic choir; instrumental scherzo, preluding the appearance of Mephistopheles; dramatic interlude, in which he engages to entrap Faust; a vocal scherzo by the chorus of cherubim; and the Final Psalmody by the penitents on earth and chorus of spirits. The prologue corresponds to Goethe's prologue in the heavens, the heavenly choirs being heard in the background of clouds, accompanied by weird trumpet-peals and flourishes in the orchestra, and closes with a finale of magnificent power. The first act opens in the city of Frankfort, amid the noise of the crowd and the clanging of holiday bells. Groups of students, burghers, huntsmen, and peasants sing snatches of chorus. A cavalcade escorting the Elector passes. Faust and Wagner enter, and retire as the peasants begin to sing and dance a merry waltz rhythm ("Juhé! Juhé!"). As it dies away they reappear, Faust being continually followed by a gray friar,--Mephistopheles in disguise,--whose identity is disclosed by a motive from the prologue. Faust shudders at his presence, but Wagner laughs away his fears, and the scene then suddenly changes to Faust's laboratory, whither he has been followed by the gray friar, who conceals himself in an alcove. Faust sings a beautiful aria ("Dai campi, dai prati"), and then, placing the Bible on a lectern, begins to read. The sight of the book brings Mephistopheles out with a shriek; and, questioned by Faust, he reveals his true self in a massive and sonorous aria ("Son lo spirito"). He throws off his disguise, and appears in the garb of a knight, offering to serve Faust on earth if he will serve the powers of darkness in hell. The compact is made, as in the first act of Gounod's "Faust;" and the curtain falls as Faust is about to be whisked away in Mephistopheles's cloak. The second act opens in the garden, with Faust (under the name of Henry), Marguerite, Mephistopheles, and Martha, Marguerite's mother, strolling in couples. The music, which is of a very sensuous character, is descriptive of the love-making between Faust and Marguerite, and the sarcastic passion of Mephistopheles for Martha. It is mostly in duet form, and closes with a quartet allegretto ("Addio, fuggo"), which is very characteristic. The scene then suddenly changes to the celebration of the Witches' Sabbath on the summits of the Brocken, where, amid wild witch choruses, mighty dissonances, and weird incantation music, Faust is shown a vision of the sorrow of Marguerite. It would be impossible to select special numbers from this closely interwoven music, excepting perhaps the song ("Ecco il mondo") which Mephistopheles sings when the witches, after their incantation, present him with a globe of glass which he likens to the earth. The third act opens in a prison, where Marguerite is awaiting the penalty for murdering her babe. The action is very similar to that of the last act of Gounod's "Faust." Her opening aria ("L' altra notte a fondo al maro") is full of sad longings for the child and insane moanings for mercy. Faust appeals to her to fly with him, and they join in a duet of extraordinary sensuous beauty blended with pathos ("lontano, lontano"). Mephistopheles urges Faust away as the day dawns, and pronounces her doom as she falls and dies, while the angelic chorus resounding in the orchestra announces her salvation. In the fourth act a most abrupt change is made, both in a dramatic and musical sense. The scene changes to the "Night of the Classical Sabbath" on the banks of the Peneus, amid temples, statues, flowers, and all the loveliness of nature in Greece. The music also changes into the pure, sensuous Italian style. Faust, still with Mephistopheles, pays court to Helen of Troy, who is accompanied by Pantalis. The opening duet for the latter ("La luna immobile") is one of exceeding grace and loveliness, and will always be the most popular number in the work. With the exception of a powerfully dramatic scena, in which Helen describes the horrors of the destruction of Troy, the music is devoted to the love-making between Helen and Faust, and bears no relation in form to the rest of the music of the work, being essentially Italian in its smooth, flowing, melodious character. At the close of the classical Sabbath another abrupt change is made, to the death-scene of Faust, contained in an epilogue. It opens in his laboratory, where he is reflecting upon the events of his unsatisfactory life, and contemplating a happier existence in heaven. Mephistopheles is still by his side as the tempter, offers him his cloak, and urges him to fly again. The heavenly trumpets which rang through the prologue are again heard, and the celestial choirs are singing. Enraged, Mephistopheles summons the sirens, who lure Faust with all their charms. Faust seizes the Sacred Volume, and declares that he relies upon its word for salvation. He prays for help against the demon. His prayer is answered; and as he dies a shower of roses falls upon his body. The tempter disappears, and the finale of the prologue, repeated, announces Faust has died in salvation. The opera as a whole is episodical in its dramatic construction, and the music is a mixture of two styles,--the Wagnerian and the conventional Italian; but its orchestration is very bold and independent in character, and the voice-parts are very striking in their adaptation to the dramatic requirements. DELIBES. Leo Delibes, the French composer, was born at St. Germain du Val in 1836, and was graduated at the Paris Conservatory, where he reached high distinction. His first work, written in 1855, was an operetta entitled "Deux Sous de Carbon;" but he did not make his mark until his "Maitre Griffard" was produced at the Theatre Lyrique in 1857. In 1865 he was appointed Chorus-master at the Opera, and there his real career began. His first great triumph was in ballet-music, which has ever since been his specialty. His first ballet, "La Source," was produced at the Opera, Nov. 12, 1865, and delighted all Paris. It was followed by a divertisement for the revival of Adam's "Corsaire" (1867), the ballet "Coppelia" (1870), a three-act opera "Le Roi l'a dit" (1873), and the exquisite ballet in three acts and five tableaux, "Sylvia" (1876), with which Theodore Thomas has made American audiences familiar. His opera "Lakme" was written in 1879. LAKME. The romantic opera, "Lakme," written in 1879, was first performed in this country by the American Opera Company in 1886, Mme. L'Allemand taking the title-rôle. The principal characters are Lakme, daughter of Nilakantha, an Indian priest, Gerald and Frederick, officers of the British Army, Ellen and Rose, daughters of the Viceroy, and Mrs. Benson, governess. The scene is laid in India. Nilakantha cherishes a fond hatred of all foreigners. The two English officers, Gerald and Frederick, accompanied by a bevy of ladies, intrude upon his sacred grounds. They stroll about and gradually retire, but Gerald remains to sketch some jewels, which Lakme has left upon a shrine while she goes flower-gathering with her slave Mallika, evidently also to await developments when she returns. Lakme soon comes sailing in on her boat, and there is a desperate case of love at first sight. Their demonstrations of affection are soon interrupted by the appearance of the priest, whose anger Gerald escapes by fleeing, under cover of a convenient thunder-storm. In the next act Lakme and her father appear in the public market-place, disguised as penitents. He compels his daughter to sing, hoping that her face and voice will induce her lover to disclose himself. The ruse proves successful. Nilakantha waits his opportunity, and stealing upon his enemy stabs him in the back and makes good his escape. In the third act we find Gerald in a delightful jungle, where Lakme has in some manner managed to conceal him, and where she is carefully nursing him with the hope of permanently retaining his love. She saves his life; but just at this juncture, and while she is absent to obtain a draught of the water which, according to the Indian legend, will make earthly love eternal, Gerald hears the music of his regiment, and Frederick appears and urges him back to duty. His allegiance to his queen, and possibly the remembrance of his engagement to a young English girl, prove stronger than his love for Lakme. The latter returns, discovers his faithlessness, gathers some poisonous flowers, whose juices she drinks, and dies in Gerald's arms just as the furious father appears. As one victim is sufficient to appease the anger of Nilakantha's gods, Gerald is allowed to go unharmed. The first act opens with a chorus of Hindoos, oriental in its character, followed by a duet between Lakme and her father; the scene closing with a sacred chant. The Hindoos gone, there is a charming oriental duet ("'Neath yon Dome where Jasmines with the Roses are blooming") between Lakme and her slave, which is one of the gems of the opera. The English then appear and have a long, talky scene, relieved by a pretty song for Frederick ("I would not give a Judgment so absurd"), and another for Gerald ("Cheating Fancy coming to mislead me"). As Lakme enters, Gerald conceals himself. She lays her flowers at the base of the shrine and sings a restless love-song ("Why love I thus to stray?"). Gerald discovers himself, and after a colloquy sings his ardent love-song ("The God of Truth so glowing"), and the act closes with Nilakantha's threats. The second act opens in the market square, lively with the choruses of Hindoos, Chinamen, fruit-venders, and sailors, and later on with the adventures of the English party in the crowd. Nilakantha appears and addresses his daughter in a very pathetic aria ("Lakme, thy soft Looks are over-clouded"). Soon follows Lakme's bell-song ("Where strays the Hindoo Maiden?"), a brilliant and highly embellished aria with tinkling accompaniment, which will always be a favorite. The recognition follows; and the remaining numbers of importance are an impassioned song by Gerald ("Ah! then 't is slumbering Love"), with a mysterious response by Lakme ("In the Forest near at Hand"). A ballet, followed by the stabbing of Gerald, closes the act. In the third act the action hastens to the tragic denouement. It opens with a beautiful crooning song by Lakme ("'Neath the Dome of Moon and Star") as she watches her sleeping lover. The remaining numbers of interest are Gerald's song ("Tho' speechless I, my Heart remembers"), followed by a pretty three-part chorus in the distance and Lakme's dying measures, "To me the fairest Dream thou 'st given," and "Farewell, the Dream is over." Though the opera is monotonous from sameness of color and lack of dramatic interest, there are many numbers which leave a charming impression by their grace, refinement, and genuine poetical effect. DONIZETTI. Gaetano Donizetti was born at Bergamo, Italy, Sept. 25, 1798. He studied music both at Bologna and Naples, and then entered the army rather than subject himself to the caprice of his father, who was determined that he should devote himself to church music. While his regiment was at Naples he wrote his first opera, "Enrico di Borgogna" (1818), which was soon followed by a second, "Il Falegname de Livonia." The success of the latter was so great that it not only freed him from military service but gained him the honor of being crowned. The first opera which spread his reputation through Europe was "Anna Bolena," produced at Milan in 1830, and written for Pasta and Rubini. Two years afterwards, "L' Elisir d' Amore" appeared, which he is said to have written in fifteen days. He wrote with great facility. "Il Furioso," "Parisina," "Torquato Tasso," "Lucrezia Borgia," and "Gemma di Vergi" rapidly followed one another. In 1835 he brought out "Marino Faliero," but its success was small. Ample compensation was made, however, when in the same year "Lucia" appeared and was received with acclamations of delight. He was invited to Paris as the successor of Rossini, and wrote his "Marino Faliero" for the Theatre des Italiens. In 1840 he revisited Paris and produced "Il Poliuto," "La Fille du Regiment," and "La Favorita." Leaving Paris he visited Rome, Milan, and Vienna, bringing out "Linda di Chamouni" in the latter city. Returning to Paris again, he produced "Don Pasquale" at the Théâtre des Italiens and "Don Sebastien" at the Académie, the latter proving a failure. His last opera, "Catarina Comaro," was brought out at Naples in 1844. This work also was a failure. It was evident that his capacity for work was over. He grew sad and melancholy, and during the last three years of his life was attacked by fits of abstraction which gradually intensified and ended in insanity and physical paralysis. He died at Bergamo, April 8, 1848. THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT. "The Daughter of the Regiment" ("La Fille du Regiment") opera comique in two acts, words by Bayard and St. Georges, was first produced at the Opera Comique, Paris, Feb. 11, 1840, with Mme. Anna Thillon in the rôle of Marie. Its first performance in English was at the Surrey Theatre, London, Dec. 21, 1847, under the title of "The Daughter of the Regiment," in which form it is best known in this country. In 1847 it was performed as an Italian opera in London, with added recitatives, and with Jenny Lind in the leading part. The music of the opera is light and sparkling, the principal interest centring in the charming nature of the story and its humorous situations, which afford capital opportunities for comedy acting. The scene is laid in the Tyrol during its occupation by the French. Marie, the heroine, and the vivandière of the Twenty-first regiment of Napoleon's army, was adopted as the Daughter of the Regiment, because she was found on the field, after a battle, by Sergeant Sulpice. On her person was affixed a letter written by her father to the Marchioness of Berkenfeld, which has been carefully preserved by the Sergeant. At the beginning of the opera the little waif has grown into a sprightly young woman, full of mischief and spirit, as is shown by her opening song ("The Camp was my Birthplace"), in which she tells the story of her life, and by the duet with Sulpice, known the world over as "The Rataplan," which is of a very animated, stirring, and martial character, to the accompaniment of rattling drums and sonorous brasses. She is the special admiration of Tony, a Tyrolean peasant, who has saved her from falling over a precipice. The soldiers of the regiment are profuse in their gratitude to her deliverer, and celebrate her rescue with ample potations, during which Marie sings the Song of the Regiment ("All Men confess it"). Poor Tony, however, who was found strolling in the camp, is placed under arrest as a spy, though he succeeds in obtaining an interview with Marie and declares his love for her. The declaration is followed by a charming duet ("No longer can I doubt it"). Tony manages to clear up his record, and the soldiers decide that he may have Marie's hand if he will consent to join them. He blithely accepts the condition and dons the French cockade. Everything seems auspicious, when suddenly the Marchioness of Berkenfeld appears and dashes Tony's hopes to the ground. The Sergeant, as in honor bound, delivers the letter he has been preserving. After reading it she claims Marie as her niece, and demands that the regiment shall give up its daughter, while Tony is incontinently dismissed as an unsuitable person to be connected in any capacity with her noble family. Marie sings a touching adieu to her comrades ("Farewell, a long Farewell"), and the act closes with smothered imprecations on the Marchioness by the soldiers, and protestations of undying love by Tony. The second act opens in the castle of Berkenfeld, where Marie is duly installed, though she does not take very kindly to her change of surroundings. The old Sergeant is with her. Grand company is expected, and the Marchioness desires Marie to rehearse a romance ("The Light of Early Days was breaking"), which she is to sing to them. Before she finishes it she and the Sergeant break out into the rollicking Rataplan and go through with the military evolutions, to the horror of the Marchioness. While regret for the absent Tony keeps her in a sad mood, she is suddenly cheered up by the sound of drums and fifes, announcing the approach of soldiers. They are the gallant Twenty-first, with Tony, now a colonel, at their head. He applies once more for Marie's hand. The soldiers also put in a spirited choral appeal ("We have come, our Child to free"). The Marchioness again refuses. Tony proposes an elopement, to which Marie, in resentment at her aunt's cruelty, consents. To thwart their plans, the Marchioness reveals to Marie that early in life she had been secretly married to an officer of lower family position than her own, and that this officer was Marie's father. Unable to dispute the wishes of her mother, she renounces Tony in an agony of grief. At last Marie's sorrow arouses old associations in the mind of the Marchioness, and she consents to the union of Tony and Marie. While the music of the opera is light, it is none the less very attractive, and the work is nearly always popular when performed by good artists, owing to the comedy strength of the three leading parts, Marie, Tony, and the Sergeant. The rôle of the heroine, small as it is, has always been a favorite one with such great artists as Jenny Lind, Patti, Sontag, and Albani, while in this country Miss Kellogg and Mrs. Richings-Bernard made great successes in the part. The latter singer, indeed, and her father, whose personation of the Sergeant was very remarkable, were among the first to perform the work in the United States. LA FAVORITA. "La Favorita," an opera in four acts, words by Royer and Waëtz, the subject taken from the French drama, "Le Comte de Commingues," was first produced at the Académie, Paris, Dec. 2, 1840, with Mme. Stolz as Leonora, Duprez as Fernando, and Baroelhst as Balthasar. Its success in England, where it was first produced Feb. 16, 1847, was made by Grisi and Mario. The scene of the opera is laid in Spain, and the first act opens in the convent of St. James, of Compostella, where the young novice, Fernando, is about to take monastic vows. Before the rites take place he is seized with a sudden passion for Leonora, a beautiful maiden who has been worshipping in the cloisters. He confesses his love to Balthasar, the superior, who orders him to leave the convent and go out into the world. Leonora, meanwhile, is beloved by Alphonso, king of Castile, who has provided her a secret retreat on the island of St. Leon. Though threatened by the pontiff with excommunication, he has resolved to repudiate his queen, in order that he may carry out his intention of marrying the beautiful Leonora. To her asylum a bevy of maidens conducts Fernando. He declares his passion for her and finds it reciprocated. He urges her to fly with him, but she declares it impossible, and giving him a commission in the army signed by the King, urges him to go to the wars and win honors for her sake. In the second act Balthasar, in the name of the pontiff, visits their retreat and pronounces the papal anathema upon the guilty pair. The same curse is threatened to all the attendants unless Leonora is driven from the King, and the act closes with their vengeful menaces. In the third act Fernando returns victorious from the war with the Moors. Already beginning to fear the result of the papal malediction, and having learned of Leonora's passion for the victor, Alphonso heaps rewards upon him, even to the extent of giving him Leonora's hand. Fernando, who is ignorant of her past relations to the King, eagerly accepts the proffer; but Leonora, in despair, sends her attendant, Inez, to inform him of the real nature of the situation and implore his forgiveness. The King intercepts her, and the marriage takes place at once, Fernando not discovering Leonora's shame until it is revealed by the courtiers, who avoid him. He flies from the world to the convent once more for shelter and consolation, followed by Leonora, who dies in his arms after she has obtained forgiveness. The music of the work is very dramatic in its character, some of the finales being the strongest Donizetti has written. In the first act there is a beautifully melodious aria ("Una Vergine"), in which Fernando describes to Balthasar the vision of Leonora which had appeared to him at his orisons, and a very tender duet ("Deh, vanne! deh, parti") between Fernando and Leonora, in which they sorrowfully part from each other. In the second act the King has a very passionate aria, where he curses his courtiers for leaguing against him at Rome, followed by a very dramatic duet with Leonora ("Ah! l'alto ardor"). The third act contains the beautiful aria, "O mio Fernando!" which is a favorite with all contraltos. It is remarkable for its warmth and richness, as well as its dramatic spirit, and the act closes with a concerted finale of splendid power, in which Fernando breaks his sword, and once more Balthasar anathematizes the King. The fourth act is the most beautiful of all in its music and the most powerful in dramatic effect. The chorus of monks in the first scene ("Scaviam l'asilo") is remarkable for its religious character and solemnity. In the third scene occurs one of the tenderest and loveliest romanzas ever written ("Spirto gentil"), which Donizetti transferred to this work from his opera, "Le Duc d'Albe," which had not been performed, and the libretto of which was originally written by Scribe for Rossini. The closing duet between Fernando and Leonora is full of pathos and beauty, and forms a fitting close to an act which, in one sense at least, is an inspiration, as the whole act was composed in four hours,--a proof of the marvellous ease and facility with which Donizetti wrote. DON PASQUALE. "Don Pasquale," an opera buffa in three acts, was first produced at the Théâtre des Italiens in Paris, Jan. 4, 1843, with the following extraordinary cast: NORINA Mme. GRISI. ERNESTO Sig. MARIO. DR. MALATESTA Sig. TAMBURINI. DON PASQUALE Sig. LABLACHE. The scene of this brilliant and gay little opera is laid in Rome. Don Pasquale is in a rage with Ernesto, his nephew, because he will not marry to suit him. Dr. Malatesta, his friend and physician, who is also very much attached to the nephew, contrives a plot in the latter's interest. He visits the Don, and urges him to marry a lady, pretending that she is his sister, though in reality she is Norina, with whom Ernesto is in love. He then calls upon Norina, and lets her into the secret of the plot, and instructs her how to play her part. She is to consent to the marriage contract, and then so harass the Don that he will not only be glad to get rid of her, but will give his consent to her marriage with Ernesto. The second act opens in Don Pasquale's house, where Ernesto is bewailing his fate. The Don enters, magnificently dressed, and ready for the marriage. Norina appears with Malatesta, and feigns reluctance to enter into the contract; but when the notary arrives she consents to sign. No sooner, however, has she signed it than she drops her assumed modesty. Ernesto, who is present, is bewildered at the condition of affairs, but is kept quiet by a sign from the Doctor. Norina refuses all the Don's amatory demonstrations, and declares Ernesto shall be her escort. She summons the servants, and lays out a scheme of housekeeping so extravagant that the Don is enraged, and declares he will not pay the bills. She insists he shall, for she is now master of the house. In the third act we find Norina entertaining milliners and modistes. Don Pasquale enters, and learning that she is going to the theatre forbids it, which leads to a quarrel, during which Norina boxes his ears. As she leaves the room she drops a letter, the reading of which adds the pangs of jealousy to his other troubles. The Doctor at this juncture happens in and condoles with him. The Don insists that Norina shall quit his house at once. In the next scene he taxes her with having a lover concealed in the house, and orders her to leave. The Doctor counsels him to let his nephew marry Norina; and in the course of explanations the Don discovers that the Doctor's sister and Norina are one and the same person, and that the marriage was a sham. He is only too glad of an escape to quarrel with the Doctor for his plot, and the young couple are speedily united, and have the old man's blessing. The charm of the opera lies in its comic situations, and the gay, bright music with which they are illustrated. It is replete with humor and spirit, and flows along in such a bright stream that it is almost impossible to cull out special numbers, though it contains two duets and a quartet which are of more than ordinary beauty, and the exquisite serenade in the last act, "Com'e gentil," which has been heard on almost every concert-stage of the world, and still holds its place in universal popular esteem. For brilliant gayety it stands in the front rank of all comic operas, though Donizetti was but three weeks in writing it. It is said that when it was in rehearsal its fate was uncertain. The orchestra and singers received it very coldly; but when the rehearsal was over, Donizetti merely shrugged his shoulders and remarked to his friend, M. Dormoy, the publisher: "Let them alone; they know nothing about it. I know what is the matter with 'Don Pasquale.' Come with me." They went to the composer's house. Rummaging among a pile of manuscripts, Donizetti pulled out a song. "This is what 'Don Pasquale' wants," he said. "Take it to Mario and tell him to learn it at once." Mario obeyed, and when the opera was performed sang it to the accompaniment of a tambourine, which Lablache played behind the scenes. The opera was a success at once, and no song has ever been more popular. In strange contrast with the gay humor of "Don Pasquale," it may be stated that in the same year Donizetti wrote the mournful "Don Sebastian," which has been described as "a funeral in five acts." Crowest, in his "Anecdotes," declares that the serenade is suggestive of Highland music, and that many of his other operas are Scottish in color. He accounts for this upon the theory that the composer was of Scotch descent, his grandfather having been a native of Perthshire, by the name of Izett, and that his father, who married an Italian lady, was Donald Izett. The change from Donald Izett to Donizetti was an easy one. The story, however, is of doubtful authenticity. LUCIA DI LAMMERMOOR. "Lucia di Lammermoor," an opera in three acts, words by Cammarano, was first produced at Naples in 1835, with Mme. Persiani and Sig. Duprez, for whom the work was written, in the principal rôles of Lucia and Edgardo. Its first presentation at Paris was Aug. 10, 1839; in London, April 5, 1838; and in English, at the Princess Theatre, London, Jan. 19, 1843. The subject of the opera is taken from Sir Walter Scott's novel, "The Bride of Lammermoor," and the scene is laid in Scotland, time, about 1669. Sir Henry Ashton, of Lammermoor, brother of Lucy, the heroine, has arranged a marriage between her and Lord Arthur Bucklaw, in order to recover the fortune which he has dissipated, and to save himself from political peril he has incurred by his participation in movements against the reigning dynasty. Sir Edgar Ravenswood, with whom he is at enmity, is deeply attached to Lucy, who reciprocates his love, and on the eve of his departure on an embassy to France pledges herself to him. During his absence Edgar's letters are intercepted by her brother, who hints to her of his infidelity, and finally shows her a forged paper which she accepts as the proof that he is untrue. Overcome with grief at her lover's supposed unfaithfulness, and yielding to the pressure of her brother's necessities, she at last consents to her union with Lord Arthur. The marriage contract is signed with great ceremony, and just as she has placed her name to the fatal paper, Edgar suddenly appears. Learning from Lucy what she has done, he tramples the contract under foot, hurls an imprecation upon the house of Lammermoor, and bursts out of the room in a terrible rage. Sir Henry follows him, and a fierce quarrel ensues, which ends in a challenge. Meanwhile, at night, after the newly wedded couple have retired, a noise is heard in their apartment. The attendants rush in and find Lord Arthur dying from wounds inflicted by Lucy, whose grief has made her insane. When she returns to reason, the thought of what she has done and the horror of her situation overcome her, and shortly death puts an end to her wretchedness. Ignorant of her fate, Edgar goes to the churchyard of Ravenswood, which has been selected as the rendezvous for the duel with Sir Henry. While impatiently waiting his appearance, the bell of the castle tolls, and some of the attendants accosting him bring the news of her death. The despairing lover kills himself among the graves of his ancestors, and the sombre story ends. The popular verdict has stamped "Lucia" as Donizetti's masterpiece, and if the consensus of musicians could be obtained, it would unquestionably confirm the verdict. It contains incomparably the grandest of his arias for tenor, the Tomb song in the last act, and one of the finest dramatic concerted numbers, the sextet in the second act, that can be found in any Italian opera. Like the quartet in "Rigoletto," it stands out in such bold relief, and is so thoroughly original and spontaneous, that it may be classed as an inspiration. The music throughout is of the most sombre character. It does not contain a joyous phrase. And yet it can never be charged with monotony. Every aria, though its tone is serious and more often melancholy, has its own characteristics, and the climaxes are worked up with great power. In the first act, for instance, the contrasts are very marked between Henry's aria ("Cruda, funesta smania"), the chorus of hunters ("Come vinti da stanchezza"), Henry's second aria ("La pietade in suo favore"), in which he threatens vengeance upon Edgar, the dramatic and beautifully written arias for Lucy, "Regnava nel silenzio" and "Quando rapita in estasi," and the passionate farewell duet between Lucy and Edgar, which is the very ecstasy of commingled love and sorrow. The second act contains a powerful duet ("Le tradirmi tu potrai") between Lucy and Henry; but the musical interest of the act centres in the great sextet, "Chi mi frena," which ensues when Edgar makes his unexpected appearance upon the scene of the marriage contract. For beauty, power, richness of melody and dramatic expression, few concerted numbers by any composer can rival it. The last act also contains two numbers which are always the delight of great artists,--the mad song of Lucy, "Oh, gioja che si senti," and the magnificent tomb scena, "Tomba degl'avi miei," which affords even the most accomplished tenor ample scope for his highest powers. L'ELISIR D'AMORE. "L'Elisir d'Amore," an opera buffa in two acts, words by Romani, was first produced in Milan, in 1832, and in English, at Drury Lane, in 1839, as "The Love Spell." The heroine of this graceful little opera is Adina, a capricious country girl, who is loved by Nemorino, a young farmer, whose uncle lies at the point of death, and by Belcore, a sergeant, whose troops are billeted upon the neighboring village. While Adina keeps both these suitors in suspense, Dr. Dulcamara, a travelling quack, arrives at the village in great state to vend his nostrums. Nemorino applies to him for a bottle of the Elixir of Love,--with the magical properties of which he has become acquainted in a romance Adina has been reading that very morning. The mountebank, of course, has no such liquid, but he passes off on the simple peasant a bottle of wine, and assures him that if he drinks of it he can command the love of any one on the morrow. To thoroughly test its efficacy, Nemorino drinks the whole of it. When he encounters Adina he is half tipsy, and accosts her in such disrespectful style that she becomes enraged, and determines to give her hand to the sergeant, and promises to marry him in a week. Meanwhile an order comes for the departure of the sergeant's detachment, and he begs her to marry him the same day. She gives her consent, and the second act opens with the assembling of the villagers to witness the signing of the marriage contract. While the sergeant, Adina, and the notary have retired to sign and witness the contract, Nemorino enters in despair, and finding Dulcamara enjoying a repast, he implores him to give him some charm that will make Adina love him at once. Having no money, the quack refuses to assist him, and Nemorino is again plunged into despair. At this juncture the sergeant enters, not in the best of humor, for Adina has declined to sign the contract until evening. Discovering that Nemorino wants money, he urges him to enlist. The bonus of twenty crowns is a temptation. Nemorino enlists, takes the money, hurries to the quack, and obtains a second bottle of the elixir, which is much more powerful than the first. In the next scene the girls of the village have discovered that Nemorino's uncle has died and left him all the property, though Nemorino himself has not heard of it. They crowd about him, trying to attract his attention with their charms and blandishments. He attributes his sudden popularity to the effects of the elixir, and even the quack is somewhat bewildered at the remarkable change. Nemorino now determines to pay Adina off in kind, and at last rouses her jealousy. Meanwhile Dulcamara acquaints her with the effects of the elixir and advises her to try some of it, and during the interview inadvertently informs her of Nemorino's attachment for her. Struck with his devotion, she repays the sergeant herself, announces her change of mind, and bestows her hand upon the faithful Nemorino. Like "Don Pasquale," the opera is exceedingly graceful in its construction, and very bright and gay in its musical effects, particularly in the duets, of which there are two,--one between Dulcamara and Nemorino in the first act ("Obbligato, ah! si obbligato"), and one between Dulcamara and Adina in the second act ("Quanto amore! ed io spietata"), which are charming in their spirit and humor. There is also an admirable buffo song in the first act, beginning with the recitative, "Udite, udite, o rustici," in which the Doctor describes his wares to the rustics, and a beautiful romanza in the second act for tenor ("Una furtiva lagrima"), which is of world-wide popularity, and bears the same relation to the general setting of the work that the Serenade does to "Don Pasquale." LUCREZIA BORGIA. "Lucrezia Borgia," an opera in three acts, words by Romani, was first produced at La Scala, Milan, in 1834. The subject was taken from Victor Hugo's tragedy of the same name, and its text was freely adapted by Romani. When it was produced in Paris, in 1840, Victor Hugo took steps to suppress any further representations. The libretto was then rewritten, under the title of "La Rinegata," the Italian characters were changed to Turks, and in this mutilated form the performances were resumed. It was in this opera that Signor Mario made his English début, in 1839, with great success. Its first presentation in English was at London, Dec. 30, 1843. The history of Lucrezia Borgia, daughter of Rodrigo Borgia, afterwards Pope Alexander VI., and sister of Cæsar Borgia, is too well known to need recapitulation. It is necessary to the comprehension of the story of the opera, however, to state that she had an illegitimate son, named Genarro, who was left when an infant with a fisherman, but who subsequently entered the Venetian army and rose to an eminent rank. The opera opens with a brilliant festival in the gardens of the Barberigo Palace, which is attended by Genarro, Orsini, and others, all of them cordial haters of the detestable Borgias. While they are telling tales of Lucrezia's cruel deeds, Genarro lies down and goes to sleep, and Orsini in a spirited aria ("Nelle fatal di Rimini") relates to his companions the story of Genarro's gallantry at the battle of Rimini. As they leave, Lucrezia approaches, masked, in a gondola, and is received by Gubetta, with whom she has come to Venice on some secret errand. She discovers Genarro asleep, and expresses her delight at his beauty, and at the same time her maternal love, in a brilliant aria ("Com'e bello"). As she kisses his hand he wakes, and in the duet which follows tells her the story of his early life in an exquisite romanza ("Di pescatore ignobile"), which is one of the most familiar numbers in Italian opera. He begs her to reveal her name, but she refuses. As he continues to implore her, his friends return and denounce her to Genarro as the hated Borgia, in a concerted number ("Chi siam noi sol chiarirla") of great dramatic power, which closes the first act. The second act opens in the public square of Ferrara, with the palace of the Borgias on the right. The Duke Alphonso, Lucrezia's husband, who has been observant of Lucrezia's attachment to Genarro, vows vengeance in a passionate aria ("Vieni la mia vendetta"). In the next scene Genarro, who has been taunted by his friends with being a victim of Lucrezia's fascinations, recklessly rushes up to the palace door and strikes off the first letter of her name with his dagger. When Lucrezia discovers the insult, she demands of the Duke that the guilty person shall be arrested and condemned to death. The Duke has already seized Genarro, and agrees to carry out his wife's demands. When the prisoner is brought before them for judgment, she is horror-stricken to find he is her son. She implores his life, but the infuriated Duke retaliates upon her with the declaration that she is his paramour. The duet between them ("O! a te bada"), in which Lucrezia passes from humble entreaties to rage and menace, is a fine instance of Donizetti's dramatic power. The Duke, however, is resolute in his determination, and will only allow her to choose the mode of Genarro's death. She selects the Borgia wine, which is poisoned. Genarro is called in, and after a trio ("Le ti tradisce"), which is one of the strongest numbers in the opera, he is given the fatal draught under the pretence of a farewell greeting from the Duke, who then leaves mother and son together. She gives him an antidote, and he is thus saved from the fate which the Duke had intended for him. The last act opens at a banquet in the palace of the Princess Negroni, which is attended by Genarro and his friends, Lucrezia, meanwhile, supposing that he has gone to Venice. During the repast she has managed to poison their wine. In the midst of the gay revel Orsini sings the popular drinking-song, "Il segreto per esser felici," which is now familiar the world over. The festivities are interrupted, however, by the appearance of Lucrezia, who reveals herself with the taunting declaration: "Yes, I am Borgia. A mournful dance ye gave me in Venice, and I return ye a supper in Ferrara." She then announces that they are poisoned. The music is changed with great skill from the wild revelry of drinking-songs to the sombre strains of approaching death. Five coffins are shown them, when Genarro suddenly reveals himself to Lucrezia and asks for the sixth. The horror-stricken woman again perceives that her son has been poisoned by her own hand. As his companions leave the apartment she implores Genarro to take the antidote once more, and at last reveals herself as his mother. He steadily refuses to save himself, however, since his companions have to die, and expires in her arms just as the Duke and his followers enter. She discloses Genarro's relationship, and then dies with the despairing cry on her lips that Heaven has pronounced its final judgment upon her. Among all of Donizetti's operas, not one, unless it be "Lucia," is more popular than "Lucrezia Borgia," which may be attributed to the fact that while the story itself is one of fascinating dramatic interest, the musical numbers are simple, beautiful, and effective. FLOTOW. Friedrich von Flotow was born April 27, 1812, in the duchy of Mecklenberg-Schwerin, and in 1827 went to Paris, where he studied music under Reicha. His first work was "Stradella," a mere sketch in its original form, which was brought out at the Palais Royal in 1837; but his first public success was made in 1839, with his opera, "Le Naufrage de la Méduse," which had a run, and was afterwards produced in Germany under the title of "Die Matrosen." "L'Esclave de Camoens" appeared in Paris in 1843; "Stradella," rewritten as an opera, in Hamburg (1844); "L'Âme en peine," in Paris (1846); "Martha," in Vienna (1847). The works of his later period, which never equalled his earlier ones in popularity, were "Die Grossfürstin" (1850); "Indra" (1853); "Rubezahl" (1854); "Hilda" (1855); "Der Müller von Meran" (1856); "La Veuve Grapin" (1859); "L'Ombre" (1869); "Naïda" (1873); "Il Flor d'Harlem" (1876); and "Enchanteresse" (1878). Of these later works, "L'Ombre" was the most successful, and was received with favor in France, Italy, Spain, and England, in which latter country it was performed under the title of "The Phantom." In 1856 he received the appointment of Intendant of the theatre of the Grand Duke of Mecklenberg, and he entered upon his duties with high hopes of making the theatre exercise the same influence upon music in Germany as the Weimar stage; but court intrigues and rivalries of artists so disgusted him that he resigned in 1863 and went to Paris, and a few years later to Vienna, where he took up his abode. Outside of a few of his operas his works are little known, though he composed a "Fackeltanz," some incidental music to the "Winter's Tale" of Shakspeare, and several overtures, songs, and chamber-pieces. An interesting episode in his career occurred in 1838, when he brought out an opera in three acts, the "Duc de Guise," at the Théâtre de la Renaissance, the libretto based upon Dumas's "Henri III." The performance was organized by the Princess Czartoryska, for the benefit of the Poles. Mme. de Lagrange made her début in a leading part, and the parts of the choristers were filled by duchesses and princesses of the Faubourg St. Germain, upon whose persons two million dollars worth of diamonds were blazing,--sufficient evidence that the performance was brilliant in at least one sense. He died at Wiesbaden, Jan. 24, 1883. MARTHA. "Martha," an opera in three acts, libretto by St. Georges, translated into German by Friedrich, was first produced at Vienna, Nov. 25, 1847, with Mlle. Anna Zerr in the title-rôle, Herr Ander as Lionel, and Carl Formes as Plunkett. It was first produced in English and Italian at London in 1858, and in French at Paris in 1865. The history of its origin is interesting. M. de St. Georges, at the request of the manager of the Paris Grand Opera, wrote in 1842 the libretto to a ballet entitled "Lady Henrietta, or the Servant of Greenwich," the subject being suggested to him by the adventures of two ladies of his acquaintance who had mingled with servants at a fair. The music was confided to three composers. The first act was given to Herr von Flotow, the second to Herr Burgmuller, and the third to M. Deldeves. The ballet had such a remarkable success, and Flotow was so delighted with the plot, that he entreated St. Georges to rewrite it for an opera. The latter consented, and the result of their collaboration was the appearance of one of the most popular operas which has ever been placed upon the stage. The scene of the opera is laid at Richmond, England, and the time is during the reign of Queen Anne, though the Italian version places it in the fifteenth century, and the French in the nineteenth. Lady Henrietta, an attendant upon the Queen, tired of the amusements of court life, contrives a plan to visit the servants' fair at Richmond disguised as a servant-girl, and accompanied by Nancy, her maid, and Sir Tristan, her somewhat aged cousin, who is also her devoted admirer. In the first three scenes their plans are laid much to the disgust of Sir Tristan, who is to pass as John, while his fair cousin masquerades as Martha. The duet between the ladies ("Of the Knights so brave and charming"), and the trio with Tristan, are in dance time, and full of animation. The fourth scene opens in the market-place at Richmond, where the people are gathering to the fair. Thither also resort Plunkett, a farmer, and Lionel, his brother by adoption, whose parentage is unknown, and who has no souvenir of his father except a ring which has been left for him, with instructions to present it to the Queen if he ever finds himself in trouble. Lionel tells his story in an aria ("Lost, proscribed, an humble Stranger") which is universally popular, and the melody of which has been set to various words. They have come to the fair to procure help for their farm. While the sheriff, according to law, is binding the girls for a year's service, Plunkett and Lionel meet Martha and Nancy, and are so delighted with their appearance that they tender them the customary bonus, or "earnest-money," which secures them. Too late for escape, they find that they are actually engaged, and they are obliged to drive away with the young farmers, leaving Sir Tristan in despair. The second act opens in the farm-house, where the four have arrived. The farmers inquire their names, and seek to find out what they can do, testing them first at the spinning-wheel. The spinning quartet ("When the Foot the Wheel turns lightly") is very gay and full of humor, and is one of the most delightful concerted numbers in the opera. The brothers soon find that their new servants are useless, but they are so pleased with them that they decide to keep them. At last Nancy, in a pet, kicks her wheel over and runs off, followed by Plunkett. Lionel, left alone with Martha, grows very tender to the new servant, and at last finds himself violently in love. He snatches a rose from her bosom, and refuses to return it unless she will consent to sing. She replies with the familiar ballad, "'Tis the last Rose of Summer," which Flotow has interpolated in this scene, and in the performance of which he makes a charming effect by introducing the tenor in the close. Her singing only makes him the more desperately enamoured, and he asks her to be his wife on the spot, only to find himself the victim of Martha's sport, although his devotion and sincerity have made a deep impression upon her. Plunkett and Nancy at last return, and another charming quartet follows ("Midnight sounds"), better known as the "Good Night Quartet." The two brothers retire, but Martha and Nancy, aided by Tristan, who has followed them and discovered their whereabouts, make good their escape. The next scene opens in the woods, where several farmers are drinking and carousing, among them Plunkett, who sings a rollicking drinking-song ("I want to ask you"). Their sport is interrupted by a hunting-party, composed of the Queen and her court ladies. Plunkett and Lionel recognize their fugitive servants among them, though the ladies disclaim all knowledge of them. Plunkett attempts to seize Nancy, but the huntresses attack him and chase him away, leaving Lionel and Lady Henrietta together again. The scene contains two of the most beautiful numbers in the opera,--the tenor solo, "Like a Dream bright and fair" ("M' appari" in the Italian version), and a romance for soprano ("Here in deepest forest Shadows"); and the act closes with a beautiful concerted finale, quintet and chorus, which is worked up with great power. In this finale the despairing Lionel bethinks him of his ring. He gives it to Plunkett, desiring him to present it to the Queen. By means of the jewel it is discovered that he is the only son of the late Earl of Derby, and she orders his estates, of which he has been unjustly deprived, to be restored to him. The last act is not important in a musical sense, for the climax is attained in the previous finale. The dramatic dénouement is soon reached, and the Lady Henrietta, who has for some time been seriously in love with Lionel, is at last united to him; and it is almost needless to add that the fortunes of Plunkett and Nancy are also joined. The charm of "Martha" is its liveliness in action and tunefulness in music. Though not a great opera from a musical point of view, it is one of the most popular in the modern repertory, and though few others have been performed so many times, it still retains that popularity. Its melodies, though sung in every country of the civilized world by amateurs and professional artists, have not yet lost their charms. STRADELLA. "Stradella," a romantic opera in three acts, was first written as a lyric drama and produced at the Palais Royal Theatre, Paris, in 1837, and was subsequently rewritten in its present form under the title of "Alessandro Stradella" and produced at Hamburg, Dec. 30, 1844. The English version, which was somewhat altered by Bunn, was produced in London, June 6, 1846. The story follows the historic narrative of Stradella, the Italian musician, except in the dénouement. Stradella woos and wins Leonora, the fair ward of Bassi, a rich Venetian nobleman, with whom the latter is himself in love. They fly to Rome and are married. Bassi hires two bravoes, Barbarino and Malvolio, to follow them and kill Stradella. They track him to his house, and while the bridal party are absent enter and conceal themselves, Bassi being with them. Upon this occasion, however, they do not wait to accomplish their purpose. Subsequently they gain admission again in the guise of pilgrims, and are hospitably received by Stradella. In the next scene Stradella, Leonora, and the two bravoes are together in the same apartment, singing the praises of their native Italy. During their laudations the chorus of a band of pilgrims on their way to the shrine of the Virgin is heard, and Leonora and Stradella go out to greet them. The bravoes have been so moved by Stradella's singing that they hesitate in their purpose. Bassi enters and upbraids them, and finally, by the proffer of a still larger sum, induces them to consent to carry out his design. They conceal themselves. Stradella returns and rehearses a hymn to the Virgin which he is to sing at the festivities on the morrow. Its exquisite beauty touches them so deeply that they rush out of their hiding-place, and falling at his feet confess the object of their visit and implore his forgiveness. Leonora enters, and is astonished to find her guardian present. Explanations follow, a reconciliation is effected, and the lovers are happy. The dénouement differs from the historical story, which, according to Bonnet, Bourdelot, and others, ends with the death of the lovers at Genoa, at the hands of the hired assassins. The opera is one of the most charming of Flotow's works for its apt union of very melodious music with dramatic interest. Its most beautiful numbers are Stradella's serenade ("Horch, Liebchen, horch!"), the following nocturne ("Durch die Thäler, über Hügel"), the brilliant and animated carnival chorus ("Freudesausen, Jubelbrausen") of the masqueraders who assist in the elopement, in the first act; the aria of Leonora in her bridal chamber ("Seid meiner Wonne"), the rollicking drinking-song of the two bravoes ("'Raus mit dem Nass aus dem Fass") and the bandit ballad ("Tief in den Abruzzen ") sung by Stradella, in the second act; an exquisite terzetto ("Sag doch an, Freund Barbarino") sung by Bassi and the two bravoes when they hesitate to perform their work, and Stradella's lovely hymn to the Virgin ("Jungfrau Maria! Himmlisch verklärte"), in the last act. GLUCK. Christoph Willibald Gluck, one of the most eminent of German operatic composers, was born at Weidenwang in the Upper Palatinate, July 2, 1714. He began his musical studies in a Bohemian Jesuits' School at the age of twelve. In his eighteenth year he went to Prague, where he continued his education with Czernhorsky. Four years later he was fortunate enough to secure Prince Melzi for a patron, who sent him to Milan, where he completed his studies with Sammartini. From 1741 to 1745 he produced numerous operas, which were well received, and in the latter year visited London, where he brought out several works, among them "La Caduta de' Giganti." His English experience was far from satisfactory, and he soon returned to Germany, stopping at Paris on the way, where Rameau's operas had a strong influence upon him. From 1746 to 1762 he wrote a large number of operas, with varying success so far as performance was concerned, but with great and lasting benefit to his style and fame, as was shown when his "Orpheus" was first produced, Oct. 5, 1762. Its success determined him at once to acquaint the musical world with his purpose to reform the opera by making it dramatically musical instead of purely lyric, thus paving the way for the great innovator of Baireuth. "Alceste," produced in 1767, was the first embodiment of these ideas. Strong criticism greeted it, to which he replied with "Iphigénie en Aulide," written in 1772, and performed for the first time in Paris two years later, under the auspices of Marie Antoinette, who had once been his pupil. It was followed by "Orpheus and Eurydice," adapted from his earlier work of the same name, which met with brilliant success. In 1777 he brought out "Armide." It aroused an unprecedented excitement. Piccini was at that time in Paris. He was the representative of the old Italian school. His partisans gathered about him, and a furious war was waged between the Gluckists and Piccinists for three or four years; the combatants displaying a bitterness of criticism and invective even worse than that which Wagner brought down upon his devoted head. When Gluck brought out his great work, "Iphigénie en Tauride," in 1779, however, the Piccinists quitted the field and acknowledged the reformer's superiority. "Echo et Narcisse" was written in the same year, but "Iphigénie en Tauride" was his last great work. He retired shortly afterwards to Vienna, where he died Nov. 15, 1787. ORPHEUS. "Orpheus," the libretto by the Italian poet Calzabigi, was first produced at Vienna, Oct. 5, 1762, and for the first time outlined the new ideas which Gluck had advanced for the reform of the lyric stage. Twelve years later the composer revised the work. Several new numbers were added, its acts were extended to three, and the principal rôle was rewritten for a high tenor in place of the alto, to whom it had been originally assigned. In this form it was brought out at the Paris Académie, Aug. 2, 1774. In 1859 it was revived in Paris, for which occasion Berlioz restored the original alto part for Mme. Viardot-Garcia. With its performances in this country by the American Opera Troupe during the season of 1885-86, under the direction of Mr. Theodore Thomas, our readers are already familiar. The three soloists during that season were Helene Hastreiter, Emma Juch, and Minnie Dilthey. The story, except in its denouement, closely follows the antique legend. After performing the funeral rites of Eurydice, Orpheus resolves to seek for her in the world of Shades, having received permission from Zeus upon condition that he will not look upon her until they have safely returned. Orpheus descends to Hades; and though his way is barred by phantoms, his pleading appeals and the tender tones of his harp induce them to make way for him. He finds Eurydice in the Elysian fields, and taking her by the hand leads her on to the upper world. In a fatal moment he yields to her desire to see him, and she sinks back lifeless. Love, however, comes to the rescue, and full of compassion restores her. Thus the happy lovers are reunited; and the opera closes without the tragic denouement of the old myth. In the American performances the opera was divided into four acts, which is the order we shall follow. The short overture is characterized by a grandeur and solemnity that well befit the pathetic story. The curtain rises upon a grotto containing the tomb of Eurydice, against which Orpheus mournfully leans, while upon its steps youths and maidens are strewing flowers as they chant the sombre song, "Ah! in our still and mournful Meadow." The sad wail of Orpheus upon the single word "Eurydice" is heard through its strains, which continually increase in solemnity. At last, as if too much to bear, Orpheus interrupts their threnody with the words, "The Sounds of your Lament increase my bitter Anguish." The chorus in reply resumes its melancholy tribute to Eurydice and then retires, leaving Orpheus alone, who in a monologue full of pathos and sorrow ("My Eurydice! my Eurydice! lost forever"), sings his grief and implores the gods to restore his loved one. In answer to his prayer, Amor, god of love, appears and announces that the gods have been moved to compassion; and if his song and lyre can appease the phantoms, death shall give back Eurydice upon the conditions already named. The act closes with the joyful song of Orpheus: "Will pitying Heaven with wondrous Favor restore mine own?" The second act opens in the abysses of the underworld. Flames shoot up amid great masses of rock and from yawning caverns, throwing their lurid glare upon the phantoms, who writhing in furious indignation demand in wild and threatening chorus, as the tones of Orpheus's lyre are heard, "Who through this awful Place, thinking alive to pass, rashly dares venture here?" Madly they call upon Cerberus "to kill thy new Prey here." The barking of the triple-headed monster is heard in the tones of the orchestra. They surround Orpheus as he approaches, and with renewed clamor continue this thrilling chorus. In the midst of its cruel intensity is heard the appealing voice of Orpheus ("In Pity be moved by my Grief"). With overwhelming wrath comes the reiterated monosyllable, "No," from the Furies,--one of the most daring and powerful effects ever made in dramatic music,--followed by another appalling chorus, as they announce to him, "These are the Depths of Hell, where the Avengers dwell." At last they are touched by the charm of his music and the sorrow of his story; and as their fury dies away, the song of Orpheus grows more exultant as he contemplates the reunion with Eurydice. The gates of the lower world are opened, and in the third act Orpheus enters Elysium. The scene begins with a tender, lovely song by Eurydice and her companions ("In this tranquil and lovely Abode of the Blest"), the melody taken by the flute with string accompaniment. All is bright and cheerful and in striking contrast with the gloom and terror of the Stygian scene we have just left. After a short recitative ("How mild a Day, without a Noon"), Orpheus seeks her. She is brought to him by a crowd of shadows; and breaking out in joyful song he takes her by the hand and turns his face to the upper world. The fourth act is almost entirely an impassioned duet between Orpheus and Eurydice. He releases her hand for fear that he may turn and look upon her. Eurydice chides him ("Am I changed or grown old that thou wilt not behold me?"). In vain he urges her to follow him. She upbraids him for his coldness, and demands one glance as a test of his love. He still refuses, and then she sorrowfully bids him farewell. At last, overcome with weariness and sorrow, he gazes upon her; and at that instant she falls lifeless. Then Orpheus breaks out in that immortal song, the _Che faro senza Eurydice_ ("I have lost my Eurydice"), the beauty and pathos of which neither time nor change of musical custom can ever mar. He is about to take his life with his sword; but Amor suddenly appears upon the scene, stays his hand, and tells him the gods are moved by his sufferings. He restores Eurydice to life, and the opera closes with a beautiful terzetto in Love's temple. The denouement is followed by ballet music. GOETZ. Hermann Goetz, to whose life attaches a mournful interest, was born at Koenigsberg, Dec. 17, 1840. He had no regular instruction in music until his seventeenth year. At that period he began his studies with Köhler, and then passed successively under the tuition of Stern, Ulrich, and Von Bülow. At the age of twenty-three he obtained a position as organist at Winterthur, and also taught at Zurich. It was during this time that he composed his opera, "The Taming of the Shrew," meanwhile supporting himself as he best could, sometimes struggling with actual poverty. For years he attempted to secure a hearing for his opera; but it was not until 1874 that its great merit was recognized, for in that year it was produced at Mannheim with instant success. Its fame travelled all over Germany. It was performed in Vienna in 1875, and the same year in Leipsic and Berlin, and reached London in 1878. It was not heard in this country until the season of 1885-86, when it was produced by the American Opera Company. The composer did not live long enough, however, to enjoy the fruits of his work, as he died in 1876. He also left behind him an unfinished score of a second opera, "Francesca di Rimini," which was completed by his friend Franke at his request, but proved a failure. His other works include a symphony in F, a suite for orchestra, and many chamber compositions. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. "The Taming of the Shrew," as related in the sketch of the composer's life, was written about the year 1863, and first produced at Mannheim in 1872. Its first performance in this country was in January, 1886, when the cast was as follows:-- KATHARINE PAULINE L'ALLEMAND. BIANCA KATE BENSBERG. PETRUCHIO WILLIAM H. LEE. BAPTISTA W.H. HAMILTON. LUCENTIO W.H. FESSENDEN. HORTENSIO ALONZO STODDARD. A TAILOR JOHN HOWSON. The libretto is freely adapted from Shakspeare's comedy by Joseph Victor Widmann. The plot is very simple. Baptista, a rich Paduan gentleman, has two daughters,--Katharine, the shrew, and Bianca, of sweet and lovable disposition. Both Hortensio and Lucentio are in love with Bianca; but the obdurate father will not listen to either until Katharine shall have been married. In this apparently hopeless situation a gleam of comfort appears, in the suit which the rich gallant Petruchio, of Verona, pays to Katharine, in disgust with the sycophants who have been manifesting such deference to his wealth. The remainder of the story is occupied with the details of the various processes by which he breaks and tames the shrew, and the ingenious ruse by which Lucentio gains the hand of the lovely Bianca. The curtain rises upon a night scene in Padua, with Lucentio before Bianca's house singing a melodious serenade. Its strains are interrupted, however, by a hurly-burly in the house, caused by the shrew's demonstrations. The tumult is transferred to the street, and gives occasion for a very vigorous ensemble. When the crowd disperses, Lucentio resumes his serenade, Bianca appears upon the balcony, and the two join in a very pleasing duet. This number is also interrupted by Hortensio, at the head of a band of street musicians, who has also come to serenade his mistress. The encounter of the two lovers brings on a quarrel, which is averted, however, by the interposition of Baptista. A duet follows between them, at the close of which Lucentio retires. Petruchio now appears upon the scene, and learns from Hortensio of Katharine's vixenish disposition, which determines him to woo her. With a stirring song ("She is a Wife for such a Man created"), the act comes to an end. The second act opens in a chamber in Baptista's house, where Katharine is berating Bianca for accepting serenades from suitors, and abuses her even to blows. The scene closes with a vigorous song for Katharine ("I'll give myself to no one"), which is greeted with cynical applause by Petruchio, Baptista, Lucentio, and Hortensio, who enter, the last two disguised as teachers. In the next scene, Petruchio and Katharine alone, we have the turbulent wooing, which is accompanied throughout by characteristic music. As the others return Petruchio announces his success in the song, "All is well," the theme of which is taken by the quintet, closing the act. The third is the most interesting act of the three. It opens on the day selected for the wedding of Katharine and Petruchio, in Baptista's garden; the first number being a charming quintet for Katharine, Bianca, Lucentio, Hortensio, and Baptista. The guests are present, but Petruchio is not there. An explanation is made, followed by a chorus as the guests leave; and then Bianca is free to take her lessons, in one of which Lucentio makes his avowal of love to her. The arrangement of the two lessons is both unique and skilful. Lucentio turns the familiar opening lines of the Æneid, "Arma virumque cano," etc., into a love-song by declarations interposed between them; while Hortensio explains the mysteries of the scale to her, each line of his love-song beginning with one of its letters. It is soon found, however, that Lucentio is the accepted lover. Baptista now enters and announces Petruchio's return, which leads to a charming quartet. The finale of the opera, which is very spirited, includes the preparations for the marriage-feast, the wedding, and the scene in which Petruchio abruptly forces his bride to leave with him for his country house. GOLDMARK. Karl Goldmark was born at Keszthely, Hungary, May 18, 1832. He first studied with the violinist Jansa at Vienna, and in his fifteenth year entered the Conservatory in that city. Little is known of the events of his early life. Indeed, his success in his profession is generally credited more to his native ability and industry than to the influence of teachers or schools. He began composition at an early period, and produced his works in concerts with much success under the encouragement of Hellmesberger and others, who recognized his ability before he had made any impression out of Vienna. Four of his compositions during the past fifteen years, the "Sakuntala" overture, the operas "The Queen of Sheba" and "Merlin," and "Die Iändliche Hochzeit" (The Country Wedding) symphony have made a permanent reputation for him. The overture and operas have been performed several times in this country. Besides these he has written several pieces of chamber music. THE QUEEN OF SHEBA. "The Queen of Sheba" was first produced in Vienna, March 10, 1875, and was first heard in this country at New York, Dec. 2, 1885, when the cast was as follows:-- KING SOLOMON Herr ROBINSON. HIGH-PRIEST Herr FISCHER. SULAMITH Fraülein LEHMANN. ASSAD Herr STRITT. BAAL HANAN Herr ALEXI. QUEEN OF SHEBA Frau KRAMER-WEIDL. ASTAROTH Fraülein BRANDT. The libretto by Mosenthal is one of rare excellence in its skilful treatment of situations and arrangement of scenes with the view to spectacular and dramatic effect. The Biblical story has but little to do with the action of the opera beyond the mere fact of the famous visit of the Queen of Sheba to Solomon. The stirring episodes during the journey and the visit spring from the librettist's imagination. The story in substance is as follows:-- King Solomon, learning of the Queen's intention to visit him, sends his favorite courtier Assad to escort her. While she waits outside the gates of Jerusalem, Assad announces her arrival to the King and Sulamith, the daughter of the high-priest, to whom the courtier is affianced. Observing his disturbed looks, the King, after dismissing his attendants, inquires the cause. Assad replies that on their journey through the forest he had encountered a nymph bathing whose beauty had so impressed him as to banish even the thoughts of his affianced. The wise Solomon counsels him to marry Sulamith at once. Meanwhile the Queen comes into the King's presence, and as she lifts her veil reveals the unknown fair one. She affects ignorance of Assad's passion; but when she learns that he is to wed Sulamith love for him springs up in her own breast. Upon the day of the wedding ceremony Assad, carried away by his longing for the Queen, declares her to be his divinity, and is condemned to death for profaning the Temple. Both the Queen and Sulamith appeal to the King for mercy. He consents at last to save his life, but banishes him to the desert. The Queen seeks him there, and makes an avowal of her love; but Assad repulses her. As Sulamith comes upon the scene a simoom sweeps across the desert. They perish in each other's arms; while in a mirage the Queen and her attendants are seen journeying to their home. The first act opens in the great hall of Solomon's palace with a brilliant, joyous chorus ("Open the Halls, adorn the Portals") in praise of the King's glory. After the entrance of the high-priest, Sulamith sings a fascinating bridal song ("My own Assad returns"), richly oriental both in music and sentiment, dreamy and luxurious in its tone, and yet full of joyous expectation, with characteristic choral refrain and dainty accompaniment. The fourth and fifth scenes are full of agitation and unrest, and lead up to Assad's explanation of his perturbed condition ("At Lebanon's Foot I met Arabia's Queen"), a monologue aria of rich glowing color and reaching a fine dramatic climax as it progresses from its sensuous opening to the passionate intensity of its finale. It is followed by the entrance of the Queen, accompanied by a brilliant march and a jubilant chorus ("To the Sun of the South our Welcome we bring") and a stirring concerted number, describing the recognition of the Queen by Assad; after which the chorus resumes its jubilant strain, bringing the act to a close. The second act opens in the gardens of the palace and discloses the Queen, who gives expression to her love for Assad and her hatred of Sulamith in an impassioned aria ("Let me from the festal Splendor"). In the second scene Astaroth, her slave, appears and lures Assad by a weird strain, which is one of the most effective passages in the opera ("As the Heron calls in the Reeds"). After a short arioso by Assad ("Magical Sounds, intoxicating Fragrance"), a passionate duet with the Queen follows, interrupted by the call of the Temple-guard to prayer. The scene changes to the interior of the sanctuary with its religious service; and with it the music changes also to solemn Hebrew melodies with the accompaniment of the sacred instruments, leading up to the stirring finale in which Assad declares his passion for the Queen, amid choruses of execration by the people. The third act opens in the banquet-hall upon a scene of festivity introduced by the graceful bee dance of the Almas. It is followed by the powerful appeal of the Queen for Assad's life, rising to an intensely dramatic pitch as she warns the King of the revenge of her armed hosts ("When Sheba's iron Lances splinter and Zion's Throne in Ruins falls"). In sad contrast comes the mournful chant which accompanies Sulamith as she passes to the vestal's home ("The Hour that robbed me of him"), and ends in her despairing cry rising above the chorus of attendants as Solomon also refuses her petition. The last act passes in the desert. Assad beneath a solitary palm-tree laments the destiny which pursues him ("Whither shall I wend my weary Steps?"). In the next scene the Queen appears, and an agitated duet follows, ending with her repulse. Assad in despair calls upon death to relieve him. The sky darkens. Clouds of sand envelop the fugitive. The palm bends before the blast as the simoom sweeps by. The storm at last subsides. The sky grows brighter; and the Queen and her attendants, with their elephants and camels, appear in a mirage journeying eastward as Sulamith and her lover expire in each other's arms. As their duet dies away, the chorus of maidens brings the act to a close with a few strains from the love-song in the first act. MERLIN. The opera of "Merlin" was first performed at Vienna, Nov. 17, 1886, and was heard for the first time in this country at New York, Jan. 3, 1887, under the direction of Mr. Walter Damrosch, with the following cast:-- KING ARTHUR Herr ROBINSON. MODRED Herr KEMLITZ. LANCELOT Herr BURSCH. GAWEIN Herr HEINRICH. GLENDOWER Herr VON MILDE. MERLIN Herr ALVARY. VIVIANE Fraülein LEHMANN. BEDWYR Herr SIEGLITZ. THE FAY MORGANA Fraülein BRANDT. THE DEMON Herr FISCHER. The libretto of the opera is by Siegfried Lipiner. The scene is laid in Wales, and the hero, Merlin, is familiar as one of the knights of King Arthur's round-table. The story is as follows:-- The Devil, ambitious to banish all good from the world, unites himself to a virgin in order that he may beget a child who shall aid him in his fell purpose. The child is Merlin, who partakes of the mother's goodness, and instead of aiding his father, seeks to thwart his design. The Devil thereupon consults the Fay Morgana, who tells him that Merlin will lose his power if he falls in love. In the opening scene King Arthur sends Lancelot to Merlin for aid, who promises him victory and achieves it by the assistance of his familiar, a demon, who is in league with the Devil. Tired of his service to Merlin, the demon contrives to have him meet the beautiful Viviane, with whom he falls in love. The second act transpires in Merlin's enchanted garden, and reveals his growing passion, and at the same time his waning power of magic; for when once more Arthur summons his aid he attempts to tear himself away from her only to realize his weakness. She seeks to detain him by throwing a magic veil over him which has been given her by the demon; in an instant the scene changes, and Merlin appears confined to a rock by fiery chains, while the demon mocks him from a neighboring eminence, and Viviane gives way to anguish. In the last act Viviane is told by the Fay Morgana that Merlin's release can only be secured by woman's self-sacrifice. Once more an appeal for help comes to him from Arthur, and he promises his soul to the demon in exchange for his freedom. His chains fall off. He rushes into the battle and secures the victory, but is fatally wounded. The demon claims him; but Viviane, remembering the words of the Fay Morgana, stabs herself and thus balks him of his expectant prey. Like Wagner's operas, "Merlin" has its motives, the principal ones being that of the demon, or the evil principle, and two love motives. In its general treatment it is also Wagnerish. The first scene opens with the spirited message of Lancelot to Glendower, beseeching Merlin's aid for the hard-pressed Arthur. It is followed by the strains of Merlin's harp in the castle and his assurance of victory, and these in turn by very descriptive incantation music summoning the demon and the supernatural agencies which will compass the defeat of Arthur's enemies. Then comes the interview between the demon and the Fay Morgana, in which he learns the secret of Merlin's weakness. In the next scene Arthur returns from his victory over the Saxons to the tempo of a stirring march, and accompanied by the joyous choruses of women. A vigorous episode, in which Bedwyr, one of Arthur's knights, is charged with treachery, is followed by Merlin's chant of victory with chorus accompaniment. As its strains die away a distant horn announces Viviane, who makes her appearance singing a breezy hunting song with her maidens, leading up to a spirited septet. Then follows the baffled attempt of Viviane to crown Merlin, the scene closing with a repetition of the chant of victory and the choruses of jubilation. The second act opens in the enchanted gardens of Merlin; and the first scene reveals a conspiracy to seize the crown during Arthur's absence and proclaim Modred king, and the farewell of Arthur and his suite to Merlin. The magic-veil scene follows with its fascinating dance tempos, and leads with its graceful measures up to the passionate love-scene between Merlin and Viviane, which is harshly broken in upon by the clash of arms between Modred and his perfidious companions and the faithful friends of Arthur. A dramatic scene of great energy follows, in which Viviane at last throws the magic veil around Merlin with the transforming results already told. The last act opens with Viviane's mournful lament for the wretched fate which she has brought down upon her lover, and the announcement of the means by which he may be released made to her in slumber by the Fay Morgana. Her maidens seek to rouse her with choral appeals, in which are heard phrases of her hunting song. Meanwhile mocking spirits appear about Merlin and taunt him in characteristic music. Then follows the compact with the demon, which releases him. He rushes into the battle accompanied by an exultant song from Viviane; but soon the funeral march, as his followers bear him from the field, tells the mournful story of his fate. A very dramatic ensemble contains the deed of self-sacrifice, by which Viviane ends her life to redeem Merlin from the demon, and with this powerful effect the opera closes. GOUNOD. Charles François Gounod was born, in Paris, June 17, 1818. He studied music in the Conservatory, under the direction of Halevy, Lesueur, and Paer, and in 1839 obtained the first prize, and, under the usual regulations, went to Italy. While at Rome he devoted himself largely to religious music. On his return to Paris he became organist of the Missions Étrangères, and for a time seriously thought of taking orders. In 1851, however, he brought out his first opera, "Sappho," which met with success. At this point his active career began. In 1852 he became conductor of the Orphéon, and wrote the choruses for Ponsard's tragedy of "Ulysse." The year 1854 brought a five-act opera, "La Nonne Sanglante," founded on a legend in Lewis's "Monk." In 1858 he made his first essay in opera comique, and produced "Le Médecin malgré lui," which met with remarkable success. The next year "Faust" was performed, and placed him in the front rank of living composers. "Philémon et Baucis" appeared in 1860, and "La Reine de Saba," which was afterwards performed in English as "Irene," in 1862. In 1863 he brought out the pretty pastoral opera "Mireille." This was succeeded in 1866 by "La Colombe," known in English as "The Pet Dove," and in 1867 by "Roméo et Juliette." In 1877 he produced "Cinq Mars," and in 1878 his last opera, "Polyeucte." He has also written much church music, the more important works being the "Messe Solenelle," a "Stabat Mater," the oratorio "Tobie," a "De Profundis," an "Ave Verum," and many single hymns and songs, among which "Nazareth" is universally popular. His list of compositions for orchestra is also very large, and includes such popular pieces as the "Saltarello," "Funeral March of a Marionette," and the Meditation, based on Bach's First Prelude, which is accompanied by a soprano solo. He was elected a member of the Institut de France in 1866. FAUST. "Faust," a grand opera in five acts, words by Barbier and Carré, founded upon Goethe's tragedy, was first produced at the Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, March 19, 1859, with the following cast of the principal parts:-- MARGUERITE Mme. MIOLAN-CARVALHO. SIEBEL Mlle. FAIVRE. FAUST M. BARBOT. VALENTIN M. REGNAL. MEPHISTOPHELES M. BALANQUÉ. MARTHA Mme. DUCLOS. The opera was first produced in London as "Faust," June 11, 1863; in English, Jan. 23, 1864; and in Germany as "Margarethe." The story of the opera follows Goethe's tragedy very closely, and is confined to the first part. It may be briefly told. Faust, an aged German student, satiated with human knowledge and despairing of his ability to unravel the secrets of nature, summons the evil spirit Mephistopheles to his assistance, and contracts to give him his soul in exchange for a restoration to youth. Mephistopheles effects the transformation, and reveals to him the vision of Marguerite, a beautiful village maiden, with whom Faust at once falls in love. They set out upon their travels and encounter her at the Kermesse. She has been left by her brother Valentin, a soldier, in care of Dame Martha, who proves herself a careless guardian. Their first meeting is a casual one; but subsequently he finds her in her garden, and with the help of the subtle Mephistopheles succeeds in engaging the young girl's affection. Her simple lover, Siebel, is discarded, and his nosegay is thrown away at sight of the jewels with which Faust tempts her. When Valentin returns from the wars he learns of her temptation and subsequent ruin. He challenges the seducer, and in the encounter is slain by the intervention of Mephistopheles. Overcome by the horror of her situation, Marguerite becomes insane, and in her frenzy kills her child. She is thrown into prison, where Faust and Mephistopheles find her. Faust urges her to fly with them, but she refuses, and places her reliance for salvation upon earnest prayer, and sorrow for the wrong she has done. Pleading for forgiveness, she expires; and as Mephistopheles exults at the catastrophe he has wrought, angels appear amid the music of the celestial choirs and bear the sufferer to heaven. The first act is in the nature of a prelude, and opens with a long soliloquy ("Interrogo invano") by Faust, in which he laments the unsatisfactoriness of life. It is interwoven with delightful snatches of chorus heard behind the scenes, a duet with Mephistopheles ("Ma il ciel"), and the delicate music accompanying the vision of Marguerite. The second act is contained in a single setting, the Kermesse, in which the chorus plays an important part. In the first scene the choruses of students, soldiers, old men, girls, and matrons are quaintly contrasted, and are full of animation and characteristic color. In the second, Valentin sings a tender song ("O santa medaglia") to a medallion of his sister which he wears as a charm. It is followed by a grim and weird drinking-song ("Dio dell' or"), sung by Mephistopheles. The latter then strikes fire from the fountain into his cup, and proposes the health of Marguerite. Valentin springs forward to resent the insult, only to find his sword broken in his hands. The students and soldiers recognize the spirit of evil, and overcome him by presenting the hilts of their swords in the form of a cross, the scene being accompanied by one of the most effective choruses in the work ("Tu puvi la spada"). The tempter gone, the scene resumes its gayety, and the act closes with one of the most animated and delightful of waltz tempos ("Come la brezza"). The third act is the Garden scene, full of fascinating detail, and breathes the very spirit of poetry and music combined in a picture of love which has never been excelled in tenderness and beauty on the operatic stage. Its principal numbers are a short and simple but very beautiful ballad for Siebel ("La parlate d'amor"); a passionate aria for tenor ("Salve dimora casta e pura"), in which Faust greets Marguerite's dwelling; a double number, which is superb in its contrasts,--the folk-song, "C'era un re di Thule," a plaintive little ballad sung at the spinning-wheel by Marguerite, and the bravura jewel-song, "Ah! e' strano poter," which is the very essence of delicacy and almost-childish glee; the quartet commencing, "V'appogiato al bracchio mio," which is of striking interest by the independent manner in which the two pairs of voices are treated and combined in the close; and the closing duet ("Sempre amar") between Faust and Marguerite, which is replete with tenderness and passion, and closes in strains of almost ecstatic rapture, the fatal end of which is foreshadowed by the mocking laugh of Mephistopheles breaking in upon its lingering cadences. The fourth act is known as the Cathedral act, and established Gounod's reputation as a writer of serious music. It opens with a scena for Marguerite, who has been taunted by the girls at the fountain ("Nascose eran là le crudeli "), in which she laments her sad fate. The scene abruptly changes to the square in front of the cathedral, where the soldiers, Valentin among them, are returning, to the jubilant though somewhat commonplace strains of the march, "Deponiam il branda." As the soldiers retire and Valentin goes in quest of Marguerite, Faust and Mephistopheles appear before the house, and the latter sings a grotesque and literally infernal serenade ("Tu, che fai l' addormentata"). Valentin appears and a quarrel ensues, leading up to a spirited trio. Valentin is slain, and with his dying breath pronounces a malediction ("Margherita! maledetta") upon his sister. The scene changes to the church, and in wonderful combination we hear the appeals of Marguerite for mercy, the taunting voice of the tempter, and the monkish chanting of the "Dies Irae" mingled with the solemn strains of the organ. The last act is usually presented in a single scene, the Prison, but it contains five changes. After a weird prelude, the Walpurgis revel begins, in which short, strange phrases are heard from unseen singers. The night scene changes to a hall of pagan enchantment, and again to the Brocken, where the apparition of Marguerite is seen. The orgy is resumed, when suddenly by another transformation we are taken to the prison where Marguerite is awaiting death. It is unnecessary to give its details. The scene takes the form of a terzetto, which is worked up with constantly increasing power to a climax of passionate energy, and at last dies away as Marguerite expires. It stands almost alone among effects of this kind in opera. The curtain falls upon a celestial chorus of apotheosis, the vision of the angels, and Mephistopheles cowering in terror before the heavenly messengers. ROMEO AND JULIET. "Roméo et Juliette," a grand opera in five acts, words by Barbier and Carré, the subject taken from Shakspeare's tragedy of the same name, was first produced at the Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, April 27, 1867, with Mme. Miolan-Carvalho in the rôle of Juliet. The story as told by the French dramatists in the main follows Shakspeare's tragedy very closely in its construction as well as in its dialogue. It is only necessary, therefore, to sketch its outlines. The first act opens with the festival at the house of Capulet. Juliet and Romeo meet there and fall in love, notwithstanding her betrothal to Paris. The hot-blooded Tybalt seeks to provoke a quarrel with Romeo, but is restrained by Capulet himself, and the act comes to a close with a resumption of the merry festivities. In the second act we have the balcony scene, quite literally taken from Shakspeare, with an episode, however, in the form of a temporary interruption by Gregory and retainers, whose appearance is rather absurd than otherwise. The third act is constructed in two scenes. The first is in the friar's cell, where the secret marriage of the lovers takes place. In the second, we are introduced to a new character, invented by the librettist,--Stephano, Romeo's page, whose pranks while in search of his master provoke a general quarrel, in which Mercutio is slain by Tybalt, who in turn is killed by Romeo. When Capulet arrives upon the scene he condemns Romeo to banishment, who vows, however, that he will see Juliet again at all hazards. The fourth act is also made up of two scenes. The first is in Juliet's chamber, and is devoted to a duet between the two lovers. Romeo departs at dawn, and Capulet appears with Friar Laurence and announces his determination that the marriage with Paris shall be celebrated at once. Juliet implores the Friar's help, and he gives her the potion. The next scene is devoted to the wedding festivity, in the midst of which Juliet falls insensible from the effects of the sleeping-draught. The last act transpires in the tomb of the Capulets, where Romeo arrives, and believing his mistress dead takes poison. Juliet, reviving from the effects of the potion, and finding him dying, stabs herself with a dagger, and expires in his arms. While many numbers are greatly admired, the opera as a whole has never been successful. Had not "Faust," which it often recalls, preceded it, its fate might have been different. Still, it contains many strong passages and much beautiful writing. The favorite numbers are the waltz arietta, very much in the manner of the well-known "Il Bacio," at the Capulet festival, the Queen Mab song, by Mercutio ("Mab, regina di menzogne"), and the duet between Romeo and Juliet ("Di grazia, t' arresta ancor!"), in the first act; the love music in the balcony scene of the second act, which inevitably recalls the garden music in "Faust;" an impressive solo for Friar Laurence ("Al vostro amor cocente"), followed by a vigorous trio and quartet, the music of which is massive and ecclesiastical in character, and the page's song ("Ah! col nibbio micidale"), in the third act; the duet of parting between Romeo and Juliet, "Tu dei partir ohime!" the quartet, "Non temero mio ben," between Juliet, the nurse, Friar Laurence, and Capulet, and the dramatic solo for the Friar, "Bevi allor questo filtro," as he gives the potion to Juliet, in the fourth act; and the elaborate orchestral prelude to the tomb scene in the last act. MIREILLE. "Mireille," a pastoral opera in three acts, words by M. Carré, the subject taken from "Mireio," a Provençal poem by Mistral, was first produced at the Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, March 19, 1864, with the following cast:-- MIREILLE Mme. MIOLAN-CARVALHO TAVENA | Mme. FAURE-LEFEBVRE. ANDRELUNO | VINCENZINA Mlle. LEROUX. VINCENZO M. ISMIEL. URIAS M. PETIT. RAIMONDO M. MORINI. In December, 1864, the opera was reduced to three acts, in which form it is still given. In this abridged shape, and with the addition of the waltz now placed in the finale, it was brought out in London with Titiens, Giuglini, Santley, and Trebelli in the cast. In English it is always given under the title of "Mirella." The first scene opens in a mulberry grove, where Mireille is rallied by the village girls upon her attachment to Vincenzo, the basket-maker, and is also warned by Tavena, the fortune-teller, against yielding to her love, as she foresees that her father, Raimondo, will never consent to the union. In the next scene she meets Vincenzo, and the warning of Tavena is soon forgotten. The lovers renew their pledges, and agree to meet at the Chapel of the Virgin if their plans are thwarted. The second act introduces us to a merrymaking at Arles, where Mireille is informed by Tavena that Vincenzo has a rival in Urias, a wild herdsman, who has openly declared his love for her, and asked her hand of her father. Mireille repulses him when he brings the father's consent. Ambrogio, Vincenzo's father, accompanied by his daughter, Vincenzina, also waits upon Raimondo and intercedes in his son's behalf, but is sternly refused. Mireille, who has overheard the interview, declares to her father her irrevocable attachment for Vincenzo. Her declaration throws him into such a rage that he is about to strike her, but she disarms his anger by appealing to the memory of her mother. The last act opens on a barren, sunburnt plain. Andreluno appears, singing a pastoral song to the accompaniment of his bagpipe, followed by Mireille, who is toiling across the hot sands to meet her lover at the Chapel of the Virgin. She is met by Tavena, who assures her that Vincenzo will keep his appointment, and then returns to Arles to plead with the father in Mireille's behalf. The poor girl toils on through the heat, and at last arrives nearly prostrated by sunstroke. Vincenzo soon appears, and is shortly followed by Raimondo, who, seeing the sad condition of his daughter, is moved to pity and gives his consent to the union of the lovers. The sudden joyful change of affairs restores her wandering senses and the happy pair are united. The music is in no sense dramatic, but lyric and pastoral throughout, and is specially marked by the beautiful French chansons with which it abounds. The first act opens with a delightful pastoral chorus of the maidens under the mulberry-trees ("Facciam carole, o giovinette"), which is very fresh and graceful. The second begins with an equally delightful chorus and farandole ("La Farandola tutti consola"), followed by the beautiful Provençal folk-song, "Dolce una brezza, intorno olezza," which is full of local color. Tavena sings a quaint fortune-teller's roundelay ("La stagione arriva"), and in the next scene Mireille has a number of rare beauty ("Ah! piu non temo fato "), in which she declares her unalterable attachment to Vincenzo. The finale of this act, with its strong aria ("Qui mi prostro innanzi ate"), is very spirited, and in fact may be considered the only dramatic episode in the whole work. The third act opens with the quaint little song of Andreluno, the shepherd boy ("L'alba tranquilla"), with oboe accompaniment. It also contains a plaintive song for tenor ("Ah! se de preghi miei"), and closes with a waltz song ("O d'amor messagera"), which is fairly gorgeous in bravura effects, and Hanslick says was a concession to Miolan-Carvalho, like the jewel song in "Faust" and the waltz song in "Romeo and Juliet." In the original libretto the song had its place in the first act, and indeed numerous changes have been made in the libretto since the opera first appeared; as in the original, Mireille dies in the arms of her lover, and Urias, Vincenzo's rival, is drowned in the Rhone. When it first appeared, however, great objection was made to several of the situations, and the libretto was declared fantastic and uninteresting; hence the changes. As a lyric drama, delightfully picturing the quaintness and simplicity of provincial life, not alone in the tunefulness of the music, but also in its pastoral naïveté and what may be termed its folk-characteristics, it will hold a high place upon the stage as long as young and fresh voices can be found to sing it. HALEVY. Jacques François Fromenthal Elias Halevy was born at Paris, May 27, 1799, of Israelitish parents, whose name was originally Levy. He entered the Conservatory in 1809, and in 1819 obtained the Grand Prize for his cantata of "Hermione." After his arrival in Italy he wrote several minor pieces, but his music did not attract public attention until his return to Paris, when his three-act opera, "Clari," brought out Dec. 9, 1828, with Malibran in the principal rôle, made a success. "Le Dilettante d'Avignon" (a satire on Italian librettos), "Manon Lescaut" (a ballet in three acts), "La Langue Musicàle," "La Tentation," and "Les Souvenirs" rapidly followed "Clari," with alternating successes and failures. In 1835 his great work, "La Juive," appeared, and in the same year, "L'Éclair," one of his most charming operas, written without chorus for two tenors and two sopranos. It was considered at the time a marvellous feat that he should have produced two such opposite works in the same year, and great hopes were entertained that he would surpass them. These hopes failed, however. He subsequently wrote over twenty operas, among them "Guido et Ginevra" (1838); "Charles VI." (1842); "La Reine de Chypre" (1842); "Les Mousquetaires de la Reine" (1846); "Le Val d'Andorre" (1848); "La Tempête" (1853): "Le Juif Errant" (1855), and others; but "La Juive" and "L'Éclair" remained his masterpieces, and procured him admission into the Institute. He was also a professor in the Conservatory, and among his pupils were Gounod, Massé, Bazin, Duvernoy, Bizet, and others. He enjoyed many honors, and died March 17, 1862. A De Profundis was sung on the occasion of his funeral, written by four of his pupils, MM. Gounod, Massé, Bazin, and Cohen. As a composer he was influenced largely by Meyerbeer, and is remarkable rather for his large dramatic effects than for his melody. THE JEWESS "La Juive," a grand opera in five acts, words by Scribe, originally written for Rossini and rejected in favor of "William Tell," was produced for the first time at the Académie, Paris, Feb. 23, 1835, with the following cast of the principal parts:-- RACHEL Mlle. CORNELIA FALCON. EUDOXIA Mme. DORUS-GRAS. ELEAZAR M. NOURRIT. CARDINAL M. LEVASSEUR. It was first produced in England in French, July 29, 1846, and in Italian under the title of "La Ebrea," July 25, 1850. In this country it is most familiar in the German version. The scene of the opera is laid in Constance, time, 1414. Leopold, a prince of the empire, returning from the wars, is enamoured of Rachel, a beautiful Jewess, daughter of Eleazar the goldsmith. The better to carry out his plans, he calls himself Samuel, and pretends to be a Jewish painter. Circumstances, however, dispel the illusion, and Rachel learns that he is no other than Leopold, husband of the princess Eudoxia. Overcome with indignation at the discovery of his perfidy, she publicly denounces his crime, and the Cardinal excommunicates Leopold, and pronounces his malediction on Rachel and her father. Rachel, Eleazar, and Leopold are thrown into prison to await the execution of the sentence of death. During their imprisonment Eudoxia intercedes with Rachel to save Leopold's life, and at last, moved by the grief of the rightful wife, she publicly recants her statement. Leopold is banished, but Rachel and her father are again condemned to death for conspiring against the life of a Christian. Eleazar determines to be revenged in the moment of death upon the Cardinal, who has sentenced them, and who is at the head of a church which he hates; and just before they are thrown into a caldron of fire, reveals to the spectators that Rachel is not his own, but an adopted daughter, saved from the ruins of the Cardinal's burning palace, and that she is his child. The opera of "The Jewess" is pre-eminently spectacular, and its music is dramatic and declamatory rather than melodious. The prominent numbers of the first act are the solemn declaration of the Cardinal ("Wenn ew'ger Hass"), in which he replies to Eleazar's hatred of the Christian; the romance sung by Leopold ("Fern vom Liebchen weilen"), which is in the nature of a serenade to Rachel; the drinking-song of the people at the fountain, which is flowing wine ("Eilt herbei"); and the splendid chorus and march ("Leht, es nahet sich der Zug") which preludes the imposing pageantry music of the Emperor's arrival, closing with the triumphant Te Deum to organ accompaniment and the greeting to the Emperor, "Hosanna, unser Kaiser hoch." The second act opens with the celebration of the Passover in Eleazar's house, and introduces a very solemn and impressive prayer ("Allmächt'ger blicke gnädig"). In the next scene there is a passionate ensemble and duet for Eudoxia and Leopold ("Ich will ihn seh'n"), which is followed by a second spirited duet between Rachel and Leopold ("Als mein Herz"); an intensely dramatic aria ("Ach! Vater! Halt ein!"), in which she claims her share of Leopold's guilt; and the final grand trio of anathema pronounced by Eleazar. The third act is principally devoted to the festivities of the royal pageants, and closes with the anathema of the Cardinal ("Ihr, die ihr Gottes Zorn"), which is a concerted number of magnificent power and spirited dramatic effect. The fourth act contains a grand duet between Eleazar and the Cardinal ("Hört ich recht?"), and closes with one of the most powerful scenas ever written for tenor ("Das Todesurtheil sprich"), in which Eleazar welcomes death and hurls defiance at the Christians. The last act is occupied with the tragic dénouement, which affords splendid opportunities for action, and is accompanied by very dramatic music to the close, often rising to real sublimity. In the pageantry of the stage, in the expression of high and passionate sentiment, in elaborateness of treatment, and in broad and powerful dramatic effect, "The Jewess" is one of the strongest operas in the modern repertory. HUMPERDINCK. Engelbert Humperdinck, the latest star in the German musical firmament, was born, Sept. 1, 1854, at Siegburg on the Rhine, and received his earliest musical training at the Cologne Conservatory. He made such rapid progress in his studies, showing special proficiency in composition, that he carried off in succession the three prizes of the Mozart, Mendelssohn, and Meyerbeer stipends. These enabled him to continue his lessons at Munich, and afterwards in Italy. While in Naples, in 1880, he attracted the attention of Richard Wagner as a rising genius, and two years later had the honor of an invitation to go to Venice as his guest, upon the occasion of the performance of Wagner's only symphony. In 1885 he went to Barcelona, Spain, where he taught composition, and was the director of a quartette at the Royal Conservatory for two years. In 1887 he returned to Cologne, and since 1890 has been identified with a Conservatory at Frankfort-on-the-Main. In addition to the opera "Hansel and Gretel," which has given him a world-wide fame, he produced, a few years ago, a chorus ballad, "Das Glück von Edenhall," and a cantata, "Die Wallfahrt nach Kevelaar," based upon Heine's poem, and scored for soloists, chorus, and orchestra. He has also written several songs and piano pieces, and, it is now reported, is engaged upon a dramatic composition called "The Royal Children." He is regarded in Germany as the one composer who gives promise of continuing and developing the scheme of the music-drama as it was propounded by Wagner. HANSEL AND GRETEL. "Hansel and Gretel," a fairy opera in three acts, words by Adelheid Wette, was first produced in Germany in 1894. In January, 1895, it was performed in London by the Royal Carl Rosa Opera Company, rendered into English by Constance Bache; and in the fall of the same year it had its first representation in New York, at Daly's Theatre, with the following cast:-- PETER, a broom-maker Mr. JACQUES BARS. GERTRUDE, his wife Miss ALICE GORDON. THE WITCH Miss LOUISE MEISSLINGER. HANSEL Miss MARIE ELBA. GRETEL Miss JEANNE DOUSTE. SANDMAN, the Sleep Fairy Miss CECILE BRANI. DEWMAN, the Dawn Fairy Miss EDITH JOHNSTON. The story is taken from one of Grimm's well-known fairy tales, and the text was written by the composer's sister, Adelheid Wette. It was Frau Wette's intention to arrange the story in dramatic form for the amusement of her children, her brother lending his co-operation by writing a few little melodies, of a simple nature, to accompany the performance. When he had read it, however, the story took his fancy, and its dramatic possibilities so appealed to him that he determined to give it an operatic setting with full orchestral score, and thus placed it in the higher sphere of world performance by an art which not alone reveals the highest type of genial German sentimentality, but, curiously enough, applied to this simple little story of angels, witches, and the two babes in the woods the same musical methods which Wagner has employed in telling the stories of gods and demigods. Perhaps its highest praise was sounded by Siegfried Wagner, son of Richard Wagner, who declared that "Hansel and Gretel" was the most important German opera since "Parsifal," notwithstanding its childishness and simplicity. After a beautifully instrumented prelude, which has already become a favorite concert piece, the curtain rises upon the home of Peter, the broom-maker. The parents are away seeking for food, and Hansel and Gretel have been left in the cottage with instructions to knit and make brooms. There is a charming dialogue between the two children, beginning with a doleful lament over their poverty, and ending with an outburst of childish hilarity in song and dancing,--a veritable romp in music,--which is suddenly interrupted by the return of Gertrude, the mother, empty-handed, who chides them for their behavior, and in her anger upsets a jug of milk which was the only hope of supper in the house. With an energetic outburst of recitative she sends them into the forest, telling them not to return until they have filled their basket with strawberries. After lamenting her loss, and mourning over her many troubles, she falls asleep, but is awakened by the return of Peter, who has been more fortunate, and has brought home some provisions. A rollicking scene ensues, but suddenly he misses the children, and breaks out in a fit of rage when he is informed that they have gone into the forest. To the accompaniment of most gruesome and characteristic music he tells his wife of the witch who haunts the woods, and who, living in a honey-cake house, entices little children to it, bakes them into gingerbread in her oven, and then devours them. The second act, "In the Forest," is preluded by a characteristic instrumental number, "The Witches' Ride." The children are discovered near the Ilsenstein, among the fir-trees, making garlands, listening to the cuckoos, and mocking them in a beautiful duet with echo accompaniment. At last, however, they realize that they are lost; and in the midst of their fear, which is intensified by strange sights and sounds, the Sandman, or sleep fairy, approaches them, strews sand in their eyes, and sings them to sleep with a most delicious lullaby, after they have recited their prayer, "When at night I go to sleep, fourteen Angels watch do keep." As they sleep the mist rolls away, the forest background disappears, and the fourteen angels come down a sort of Jacob's ladder and surround the children, while other angels perform a stately dance, grouping themselves in picturesque tableau as the curtain falls. The third act is entitled "The Witch's House." The children are still sleeping, but the angels have vanished. The Dawn-Fairy steps forward and shakes dewdrops from a bluebell over them, accompanying the action with a delightful song, "I'm up with early Dawning." Gretel is the first to wake, and rouses Hansel by tickling him with a leaf, at the same time singing a veritable tickling melody, and then telling him what she has seen in her dream. In place of the fir-trees they discover the witch's house at the Ilsenstein, with an oven on one side and on the other a cage, both joined to the house by a curious fence of gingerbread figures. The house itself is constructed of sweets and creams. Attracted by its delicious fragrance and toothsomeness, the hungry children break off a piece and are nibbling at it, when the old witch within surprises and captures them. After a series of incantations, and much riding upon her broomstick, which are vividly portrayed in the music, she prepares to cook Gretel in the oven; but while looking into it the children deftly tumble her into the fire. The witch waltz, danced by the children and full of joyous abandon, follows. To a most vivid accompaniment, Hansel rushes into the house and throws fruit, nuts, and sweetmeats into Gretel's apron. Meanwhile the oven falls into bits, and a crowd of children swarms around them, released from their gingerbread disguises, and sing a swelling chorus of gratitude as two of the boys drag the witch from the ruins of the oven in the form of a big gingerbread-cake. The father and mother appear. Their long quest is ended. The family join in singing a pious little hymn, "When past bearing is our grief, God the Lord will send relief;" and the children dance joyously around the reunited group. The story is only a little child's tale, but it is wedded to music of the highest order. The union has been made so deftly, the motives are so charming and take their places so skilfully, and the music is so scholarly and characteristic throughout, that no one has yet considered this union as incongruous. In this respect "Hansel and Gretel" is a distinct creation in the operatic world. LEONCAVALLO. Ruggiero Leoncavallo, a promising representative of the young Italian school, was born in Naples, March 8, 1858. He first studied with Siri, and afterwards learned harmony and the piano from Simonetti. While a student at the Naples Conservatory he was advised by Rossi, one of his teachers, to devote himself to opera. In pursuance of this counsel, he went to Bologna, and there wrote his first opera, "Tommaso Chatterton," which still remains in manuscript and unperformed. Then followed a series of "wander years," during which he visited many European countries, giving lessons in singing and upon the piano, and meeting with varying fortunes. In all these years, however, he cherished the plan of producing a trilogy in the Wagnerian manner with a groundwork from Florentine history. In a letter he says: "I subdivided the historical periods in the following way: first part, 'I Medici,' from the accession of Sextus IV. to the Pazzi conspiracy; second part, 'Savonorola,' from the investiture of Fra Benedetto to the death of Savonorola; third part, 'Cesare Borgia,' from the death of the Duke of Candia to that of Alexander VI." The first part was completed and performed in Milan in November, 1893, and was a failure, notwithstanding its effective instrumentation. It was not so, however, with the little two-act opera "I Pagliacci," which was produced May 21, 1892, at Milan, and met with an instantaneous and enthusiastic success. His next work was a chorus with orchestral accompaniment, the text based upon Balzac's rhapsodical and highly wrought "Seraphita," which was performed at Milan in 1894. It has been recently reported that the Emperor of Germany has given him a commission to produce an opera upon a national subject, "Roland of Berlin." Of his works, "I Pagliacci" is the only one known in the United States. It has met with great favor here, and has become standard in the Italian repertory. I PAGLIACCI. "I Pagliacci," an Italian opera in two acts, words by the composer, Ruggiero Leoncavallo, was first performed at Milan, May 21, 1892, and was introduced in this country in the spring of 1894, Mme. Arnoldson, Mme. Calvé, and Signors Ancona, Gromzeski, Guetary, and De Lucia taking the principal parts. The scene is laid in Calabria during the Feast of the Assumption. The Pagliacci are a troupe of itinerant mountebanks, the characters being Nedda, the Columbine, who is wife of Canio, or Punchinello, master of the troupe; Tonio, the Clown; Beppe, the Harlequin; and Silvio, a villager. The first act opens with the picturesque arrival of the troupe in the village, and the preparations for a performance in the rustic theatre, with which the peasants are overjoyed. The tragic element of the composition is apparent at once, and the action moves swiftly on to the fearful dénouement. Tonio, the clown, is in love with Nedda, and before the performance makes advances to her, which she resents by slashing him across the face with Beppe's riding-whip. He rushes off vowing revenge, and upon his return overhears Nedda declaring her passion for Silvio, a young peasant, and arranging to elope with him. Tonio thereupon seeks Canio, and tells him of his wife's infidelity. Canio hurries to the spot, encounters Nedda; but Silvio has fled, and she refuses to give his name. He attempts to stab her, but is prevented by Beppe, and the act closes with the final preparation for the show, the grief-stricken husband donning the motley in gloomy and foreboding silence. The second act opens with Tonio beating the big drum, and the people crowding to the show, among them Silvio, who manages to make an appointment with Nedda while she is collecting the money. The curtain of the little theatre rises, disclosing a small room barely furnished. The play to be performed is almost an identical picture of the real situation in the unfortunate little troupe. Columbine, who is to poison her husband, Punchinello, is entertaining her lover, Harlequin, while Taddeo, the clown, watches for Punchinello's return. When Canio finally appears the mimic tragedy becomes one in reality. Inflamed with passion, he rushes upon Nedda, and demands the name of her lover. She still refuses to tell. He draws his dagger. Nedda, conscious of her danger, calls upon Silvio in the audience to save her; but it is too late. Her husband kills her, and Silvio, who rushes upon the stage, is killed with the same dagger. With a wild cry full of hate, jealousy, and despair, the unfortunate Canio tells the audience "La commedia è finita" ("The comedy is finished"). The curtain falls upon the tragedy, and the excited audience disperses. The story is peculiarly Italian in its motive, though the composer has been charged with taking it from "La Femme de Tabarin," by the French novelist, Catulle Mendès. Be this as it may, Leoncavallo's version has the merit of brevity, conciseness, ingenuity, and swift action, closing in a dénouement of great tragic power and capable, in the hands of a good actor, of being made very effective. The composer has not alone been charged with borrowing the story, but also with plagiarizing the music. So far as the accusation of plagiarism is concerned, however, it hardly involves anything more serious than those curious resemblances which are so often found in musical compositions. As a whole, the opera is melodious, forceful, full of snap and go, and intensely dramatic, and is without a dull moment from the prologue ("Si può? Signore") sung before the curtain by Tonio to that last despairing outcry of Canio ("La commedia è finita"), upon which the curtain falls. The prominent numbers are the prologue already referred to; Nedda's beautiful cavatina in the second scene ("O, che volo d'angello"); her duet with Silvio in the third scene ("E allor perchè"); the passionate declamation of Canio at the close of the first act ("Recitur! mentre preso dal delirio"); the serenade of Beppe in the second act ("O Colombino, il tenero"); and the graceful dance-music which plays so singular a part in this fierce struggle of the passions, which forms the motive of the closing scenes. MASCAGNI. Pietro Mascagni, who leaped into fame at a single bound, was born at Leghorn, Dec. 7, 1863. His father was a baker, and had planned for his son a career in the legal profession; but, as often happens, fate ordered otherwise. His tastes were distinctly musical, and his determination to study music was encouraged by Signor Bianchi, a singing teacher, who recognized his talent. For a time he took lessons, unknown to his father, of Soffredini, but when it was discovered he was ordered to abandon music and devote himself to the law. At this juncture his uncle Stefano came to his rescue, took him to his house, provided him with a piano, and also with the means to pursue his studies. Recognizing the uselessness of further objections, the father at last withdrew them, and left his son free to follow his own pleasure. He progressed so rapidly under Soffredini that he was soon engaged in composition, his first works being a symphony in C minor and a "Kyrie," which were performed in 1879. In 1881 he composed a cantata, "In Filanda," and a setting of Schiller's hymn, "An die Freude," both of which had successful public performances. The former attracted the attention of a rich nobleman who furnished young Mascagni with the means to attend the Milan Conservatory. After studying there a short time, he suddenly left Milan with an operatic troupe, and visited various Italian cities, a pilgrimage which was of great value to him, as it made him acquainted with the resources of an orchestra and the details of conducting. The troupe, however, met with hard fortunes, and was soon disbanded, throwing Mascagni upon the world. For a few years he made a precarious living in obscure towns, by teaching, and had at last reached desperate extremities when one day he read in a newspaper that Sonzogno, the music publisher, had offered prizes for the three best one act operas, to be performed in Rome. He at once entered into the competition, and produced "Cavalleria Rusticana." It took the first prize. It did more than this for the impecunious composer. When performed, it made a success of enthusiasm. He was called twenty times before the curtain. Honors and decorations were showered upon him. He was everywhere greeted with serenades and ovations. Every opera-house in Europe clamored for the new work. In a day he had risen from utter obscurity and become world-famous. His sudden popularity, however, had a pernicious effect, as it induced him to rush out more operas without giving sufficient time to their preparation. "L'Amico Fritz," based upon the well-known Erckmann-Chatrian story, and "I Rantzau" quickly followed "Cavalleria Rusticana," but did not meet with its success. Last year however he produced two operas at Milan, "Guglielmo Ratcliff" and "Silvano," which proved successful. Whether "Cavalleria Rusticana" is to remain as his only hold upon popular favor, the future alone can tell; but that he has talent of the highest order, and that he has produced an opera whose reception has been almost unparalleled in the world of music cannot be questioned. CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA. "Cavalleria Rusticana," an opera in one act, words by Signori Targioni-Tozzetti and Menasci, music by Pietro Mascagni, was written in 1890, and was first performed at the Costanzi Theatre in Rome, May 20, of that year, with Gemma Bellinconi and Roberto Stagno in the two principal rôles. It had its first American production in Philadelphia, Sept. 9, 1891, with Mme. Kronold as _Santuzza_, Miss Campbell as _Lola_, Guille as _Turridu_, Del Puente as _Alfio_, and Jeannie Teal as _Lucia_. The story upon which the text of "Cavalleria Rusticana" is based is taken from a Sicilian tale by Giovanni Verga. It is peculiarly Italian in its motive, running a swift, sure gamut of love, flirtation, jealousy, and death,--a melodrama of a passionate and tragic sort, amid somewhat squalid environments, that particularly lends itself to music of Mascagni's forceful sort. The overture graphically presents the main themes of the opera, and these themes illustrate a very simple but strong story. Turridu, a young Sicilian peasant, arrived home from army service, finds that his old love, Lola, during his absence has married Alfio, a carter. To console himself he makes love to Santuzza, who returns his passion with ardor. The inconstant Turridu, however, soon tires of her and makes fresh advances to Lola, who, inspired by her jealousy of Santuzza, and her natural coquetry, smiles upon him again. The latter seeks to reclaim him, and, when she is rudely repulsed, tells the story of Lola's perfidy to Alfio, who challenges Turridu and kills him. During the overture Turridu sings a charming Siciliana ("O Lola c'hai di latti"), and the curtain rises, disclosing a Sicilian village with a church decorated for Easter service. As the sacristan opens its doors, the villagers appear and sing a hymn to the Madonna. A hurried duet follows, in which Santuzza reveals to mother Lucia her grief at the perfidy of Turridu. Her discourse is interrupted by the entrance of Alfio, singing a rollicking whip-song ("Il cavallo scalpita") with accompaniment of male chorus. The scene then develops into a trio, closing with a hymn ("Inneggiamo, il Signor"), sung by the people in the square, and led by Santuzza herself, and blending with the "Regina Coeli," performed by the choir inside the church with organ accompaniment, the number finally working up into a tremendous climax in genuine Italian style. In the next scene Santuzza tells her sad story to Lucia, Turridu's mother, in a romanza of great power ("Voi lo sapete"), closing with an outburst of the highest significance as she appeals to Lucia to pray for her. In the next scene Turridu enters. Santuzza upbraids him, and a passionate duet follows in which Santuzza's suspicions are more than confirmed by his avowal of his passion for Lola. The duet is interrupted by a song of the latter, heard in the distance with harp accompaniment ("Fior di giaggiolo"). As she approaches the pair the song grows livelier, and at its close she banters poor Santuzza with biting sarcasms, and assails Turridu with all the arts of coquetry. She passes into the church, confident that the infatuated Turridu will follow her. An impassioned duo of great power follows, in which Santuzza pleads with him to love her, but all in vain. He rushes into the church. She attempts to follow him, but falls upon the steps just as Alfio comes up. To him she relates the story of her troubles, and of Turridu's baseness. Alfio promises to revenge her, and another powerful duet follows. As they leave the stage, there is a sudden and most unexpected change in the character of the music and the motive of the drama. In the place of struggle, contesting passions, and manifestations of rage, hate, and jealousy ensues an intermezzo for orchestra, with an accompaniment of harps and organ, of the utmost simplicity and sweetness, breathing something like a sacred calm, and turning the thoughts away from all this human turmoil into conditions of peace and rest. It has not only become one of the most favorite numbers in the concert repertory, but is ground out from every barrel-organ the world over, and yet it has retained its hold upon popular admiration. At its close the turmoil begins again and the action hastens to the tragic dénouement. The people come out of the church singing a glad chorus which is followed by a drinking song ("Viva il vino"), sung by Turridu, and joined in by Lola and chorus. In the midst of the hilarity Alfio appears. Turridu invites him to join them and drink; but he refuses, and the quarrel begins. Lola and the frightened women withdraw. Turridu bites Alfio's right ear,--a Sicilian form of challenge. The scene closes with the death of the former at Alfio's hands, and Santuzza is avenged; but the fickle Lola has gone her way bent upon other conquests. MEYERBEER. Giacomo Meyerbeer, the eldest son of Herz Beer, was born in Berlin, Sept. 5, 1794. He was named Jacob Meyer Beer, but afterwards called himself Giacomo Meyerbeer. His early studies were pursued with the pianist Lanska, and Bernard Anselm Weber, chief of the Berlin orchestra. At fifteen he became the pupil of Vogler in Darmstadt, with whom he displayed such talent in composition that he was named Composer to the Court by the Grand Duke. At eighteen his first dramatic work, "The Daughter of Jephtha," was performed at Munich. He then began the world for himself, and made his début in Vienna as a pianist with great success. His first opera, "The Two Caliphs," met with complete failure, as it was not written in the Italian form. He at once transformed his style and brought out "Romilda e Costanza," a serio-comic opera, with great success, at Padua. In 1820, "Emma di Resburgo" appeared at Venice, and from this period his star was in the ascendant. "The Gate of Brandeburg," "Margharita d' Anjou," "Esule di Granata," and "Almanzar" followed in quick succession, and were well received, though with nothing like the furor which "Il Crociato in Egitto" created in Venice in 1824. His next great work, "Robert le Diable," was produced in Paris, Nov. 21, 1831, the unparalleled success of which carried its fame to every part of the civilized world. In 1836 "The Huguenots," unquestionably his masterpiece, was brought out, and it still holds its place as one of the grandest dramatic works the world has ever seen. In 1838 Scribe furnished him the libretto of "L'Africaine," but before the music was finished he had changed the text so much that Scribe withdrew it altogether. He was consoled, however, by Meyerbeer's taking from him the libretto of "Le Prophete," this opera being finished in 1843. During the following year he wrote several miscellaneous pieces besides the three-act German opera, "Ein Feldlager in Schlesien," in which Jenny Lind made her Berlin début. In 1846 he composed the overture and incidental music to his brother's drama of "Struensee," and in 1847 he not only prepared the way for Wagner's "Flying Dutchman" in Paris, but personally produced "Rienzi,"--services which Wagner poorly requited. In 1849 "Le Prophete" was given in Paris; in 1854, "L'Etoile du Nord;" and in 1859, "Dinorah;" but none of them reached the fame of "The Huguenots." In 1860 he wrote two cantatas and commenced a musical drama called "Goethe's Jugendzeit," which was never finished. In 1862 and 1863 he worked upon "L'Africaine," and at last brought it forward as far as a rehearsal; but he died April 23, 1863, and it was not performed until two years after his death. THE HUGUENOTS. "Les Huguenots," a grand opera in five acts, words by Scribe and Deschamps, was first produced at the Académie, Paris, Feb. 29, 1836, with the following cast of the principal parts:-- VALENTIN Mlle. FALCON. MARGUERITE DE VALOIS Mme. DORUS-GRAS. URBAIN Mlle. FLECHEUX. COUNT DE ST. BRIS M. LERDA. COUNT DE NEVERS M. DERIVIS. RAOUL DE NANGIS M. NOURRIT. MARCEL M. LEVASSEUR. At its first production in London in Italian, as "Gli Ugonotti," July 20, 1848, the cast was even more remarkable than that above. Meyerbeer specially adapted the opera for the performance, transposed the part of the page, which was written for a soprano, and expressly composed a cavatina to be sung by Mme. Alboni, in the scene of the château and gardens of Chenonceaux, forming the second act of the original work, but now given as the second scene of the first act in the Italian version. The cast was as follows:-- VALENTIN Mme. PAULINE VIARDOT. MARGUERITE DE VALOIS Mme. CASTELLAN. URBAIN Mlle. ALBONI. COUNT DE ST. BRIS Sig. TAMBURINI. COUNT DE NEVERS Sig. TAGLIAFICO. RAOUL DE NANGIS Sig. MARIO. MARCEL Sig. MARINI. The action of the opera passes in 1572, the first and second acts in Touraine, and the remainder in Paris. The first act opens on a scene of revelry in the salon of Count de Nevers, where a number of noblemen, among them Raoul de Nangis, a Protestant, accompanied by his faithful old Huguenot servant, Marcel, are present, telling stories of their exploits in love. Marguerite de Valois, the betrothed of Henry IV., for the sake of reconciling the dispute between the two religious sects, sends her page to De Nevers's salon and invites Raoul to her château. When he arrives, Marguerite informs him of her purpose to give him in marriage to a Catholic lady, daughter of the Count de St. Bris. Raoul at first consents; but when Valentin is introduced to him and he discovers her to be a lady whom he had once rescued from insult and who had visited De Nevers in his salon, he rejects the proposition, believing that her affections have been bestowed upon another, and that his enemies are seeking to entrap him. St. Bris challenges Raoul for the affront, but the Queen disarms the angry combatants. Valentin is now urged to marry Count de Nevers, and begs that she may pass the day in prayer in the chapel. Meanwhile Count de St. Bris, who has been challenged by Raoul, forms a plot for his assassination, which is overheard by Valentin from within the chapel. She communicates the plot to Marcel, who lies in wait with a party of Huguenots in the vicinity of the duel, and comes to Raoul's rescue when danger threatens him. A general combat is about to ensue, but it is suppressed by Marguerite, who suddenly appears upon the scene. Raoul thus discovers that he owes his life to Valentin, and that her visit to De Nevers was to induce him to sever the relations between them, as she was in love with Raoul. The announcement comes too late, for the marriage festivities have already begun. Raoul visits her for the last time. Their interview is disturbed by the approach of De Nevers, St. Bris, and other Catholic noblemen, who meet to arrange the details of the plot conceived by Catherine de Médicis for the slaughter of the Huguenots on St. Bartholomew's Eve. Valentin hurriedly conceals Raoul behind the tapestries, where he overhears their plans and witnesses the conjuration and the blessing of the swords, as well as the refusal of the chivalrous De Nevers to engage in murder. After the conspirators have departed, Raoul and Valentin have a long and affecting interview, in which he hesitates between love and honor, Valentin striving to detain him lest he may be included in the general massacre. Honor at last prevails, and he joins his friends just before the work of slaughter begins. He rushes to the festivities which are about to be given in honor of the marriage of Marguerite with the King of Navarre, and warns the Huguenots of their danger. He then makes his way to a chapel where many of them are gathered for refuge. He finds Marcel, who has been wounded, and who brings him the tidings of the death of De Nevers. The faithful Valentin joins them to share their fate. Amid the horrors of the massacre Marcel blesses and unites them. They enter the church and all perish together. The first act opens with the brilliant chorus of the revellers ("Piacer della mensa"), which is full of courtly grace. Raoul tells the story of the unknown fair one he has encountered, in the romanza, "Piu bianca del velo." When Marcel is called upon, he hurriedly chants the hymn, "O tu che ognor," set to the Martin Luther air, "Ein feste Burg," and heightened by a stirring accompaniment, and then bursts out into a graphic song ("Finita è pe' frati"), emphasized with the piff-paff of bullets and full of martial fervor. In delightful contrast with the fierce Huguenot song comes the lively and graceful romanza of Urbain ("Nobil donna e tanto onesta"), followed by a delightful septet. The scene now changes, and with it the music. We are in the Queen's gardens at Chenonceaux. Every number, the Queen's solo ("A questa voce sola"), the delicate "Bathers' Chorus," as it is called ("Audiam, regina, in questo amene sponde"), the brilliant and graceful allegretto sung by Urbain ("No, no, no, no"), the duet between the Queen and Raoul, based upon one of the most flowing of melodies, and the spirited and effective finale in which the nobles take the oath of allegiance ("Per la fè, per l'onore"),--each and every one of these is colored with consummate skill, while all are invested with chivalrous refinement and stately grace. The second act opens with a beautiful choral embroidery in which different choruses, most striking in contrast, are interwoven with masterly skill. It is a picture, in music, of the old Paris. The citizens rejoice over their day's work done. The Huguenots shout their lusty Rataplan, while the Papist maidens sing their solemn litany ("Ave Maria") on their way to chapel; and as they disappear, the quaint tones of the curfew chant are heard, and night and rest settle down upon the city. It is a striking introduction to what follows,--the exquisite duet between Marcel and Valentin, the great septet of the duel scene, beginning, "De dritti miei ho l'alma accesa," with the tremendous double chorus which follows as the two bands rush upon the scene. As if for relief from the storm of this scene, the act closes with brilliant pageant music as De Nevers approaches to escort Valentin to her bridal. The third act is the climax of the work, and stands almost unrivalled in the field of dramatic music, for the manner in which horror and passion are illustrated. After a dark and despairing aria by Valentin ("Eccomi sola ormai"), and a brief duet with Raoul, the conspirators enter. The great trio, closing with the conjuration, "Quel Dio," the awful and stately chant of the monks in the blessing of the unsheathed daggers ("Sia gloria eterna e onore"), and the thrilling unisons of the chorus ("D'un sacro zel l'ardore"), which fairly glow with energy, fierceness, and religious fury,--these numbers of themselves might have made an act; but Meyerbeer does not pause here. He closes with a duet between Raoul and Valentin which does not suffer in comparison with the tremendous combinations which have preceded it. It is filled with the alternations of despair and love, of grief and ecstasy. In its movement it is the very whirlwind of passion. Higher form dramatic music can hardly reach. In the Italian version the performance usually closes at this point; but there is still another striking and powerful scene, that in which Raoul and Valentin are united by the dying Marcel. Then the three join in a sublime trio, and for the last time chant together the old Lutheran psalm, and await their fate amid the triumphant harpings that sound from the orchestra and the hosanna they sing to its accompaniment. THE STAR OF THE NORTH. "L'Étoile du Nord," an opera in three acts, words by Scribe, was first performed at the Opera Comique, Paris, Feb. 16, 1854, and in Italian as "La Stella del Nord" at Covent Garden, London, July 19, 1855. In English it has been produced under the title of "The Star of the North." The opera contains several numbers from the composer's earlier work, "Feldlager in Schlesien," which was written for the opening of the Berlin opera-house, in memory of Frederick the Great, and was subsequently (Feb. 17, 1847) performed with great success in Vienna, Jenny Lind taking the rôle of Vielka. The "Feldlager," however, has never been given out of Germany. The action of the opera transpires in Wyborg, on the Gulf of Finland, in the first act, at a camp of the Russians in the second, and at the palace of the Czar Peter in the third. In the first, Peter, who is working at Wyborg, disguised as a carpenter, makes the acquaintance of Danilowitz, a pastry-cook, and Catharine, a cantiniere, whose brother George is about to marry Prascovia. Catharine brings about this marriage; and not only that, but saves the little village from an invasion by a strolling horde of Tartars, upon whose superstition she practises successfully, and so conducts herself in general that Peter falls in love with her, and they are betrothed, though she is not aware of the real person who is her suitor. Meanwhile the conscription takes place, and to save her newly wedded brother she volunteers for fifteen days in his place, disguising herself as a soldier. In the next act we find Catharine going her rounds as a sentinel in the Russian camp on the Finnish frontier. Peter and Danilowitz are also there, and are having a roistering time in their tent, drinking and making love to a couple of girls. Hearing Peter's voice she recognizes it, and curiosity leads her to peep into the tent. She is shocked at what she beholds, neglects her duty, and is found by the corporal in this insubordinate condition. He remonstrates with her, and she answers with a slap on his ears, for which she incurs the penalties of disobedience to orders as well as insulting behavior to her superior officer. Peter at last is roused from his drunkenness by the news of an insurrection among his own soldiers and the approach of the enemy. He rushes out and promises to give Peter into their hands if they will obey and follow _him_. At last, struck with his bearing and authority, they demand to know who he is, whereupon he declares himself the Czar. The mutiny is at once quelled. They submit, and offer their lives as warrant for their loyalty. The last act opens in the Czar's palace, where his old companion, Danilowitz, has been installed in high favor. Catharine, however, has disappeared. George and Prascovia arrive from Finland, but they know nothing of her. The faithful Danilowitz finds her, but she has lost her reason. Her friends try to restore it by surrounding her with recollections of home, and Peter at last succeeds by playing upon his flute the airs he used to play to her in Finland. Her senses come back, and thus all ends happily; for Catharine and Peter are at last united amid the acclamations of the people. In the first act the character of Peter is well expressed in the surly, growling bass of his soliloquy ("Vedra, vedra"). It is followed by a characteristic drinking-chorus ("Alla Finlanda, beviam"), a wild, barbaric rhythm in the minor, which passes into a prayer as they invoke the protection of Heaven upon Charles XII. In the eighth scene occur the couplets of Gritzensko as he sings the wild song of the Kalmucks. In charming contrast, in the next scene, Catharine sings the gypsy rondo, which Jenny Lind made so famous ("Wlastla la santa"), which is characterized by graceful coquetry; and this in turn is followed by a striking duet between Catharine and Peter, in which the individual characteristics of the two are brought out in genuine Wagnerian style. In the thirteenth scene occurs the bridal song of Prascovia ("Al suono dell'ora"), with choral accompaniment, of a delicate and coquettish cast, leading up to the finale, beginning with the soldiers' chorus ("Onor che a gloria"), with an accompaniment of drums and fifes, again passing to a pathetic prayer ("Veglia dal ciel su lor") sung by Catharine amid the ringing of bells as the bridal wreath is placed upon Prascovia's head, and closing with a florid barcarole ("Vascel che lasci") as she sails away. The second act opens with ballet music, full of Eastern color, and then ensues one of those choral combinations, like that in the second act of "the Huguenots," in which Meyerbeer so much delighted,--a cavalry chorus ("Bel cavalier del cuor d'acciar"), followed by the Grenadier's song, accompanied by chorus ("Granadier di Russia esperti"), the chorus taking up the "tr-r-r-um" refrain in imitation of the drum. In the eighth scene we have the orgy in the tent in the form of a very spirited dramatic trio, in which Peter sings a blithe drinking-song ("Vedi al par del rubino"); this in turn resolving into a quintet ("Vezzose vivandiere"), and again into a sextet, as Ismailoff enters with a letter for the Czar. The finale is a superb military picture, made up of the imposing oath of death to the tyrant, the stirring Dessauer march, the cavalry fanfare, and the Grenadiers' march, interwoven with the chorus of women as they cheer on the marching soldiers. The third act opens with a romanza ("Dal cor per iscacciare"), very tender and beautiful, in which the rugged Czar shows us the sentimental side of his character. In the third scene occurs a long buffo trio between Peter, Gritzensko, and Danilowitz, which is full of humor. In the finale we have Catharine in the mad scene, singing the scena, "L'aurora alfin succede," with bits of the old music running through the accompaniment; and in the final scene, as her reason returns, breaking out in the florid bravura, "Non s'ode alcun," accompanied by the first and second flutes, which is a triumph of virtuosity for the voice. This number was taken from "The Camp in Silesia," and was given by Jenny Lind with immense success, not only in the latter work, but upon the concert stage. The opera as a whole abounds in humor, its music is fresh and brilliant, and its military character makes it specially attractive. ROBERT THE DEVIL "Robert le Diable," a grand opera in five acts, words by Scribe and Delavigne, was first produced at the Académie, Paris, Nov. 21, 1831, with the following cast:-- ALICE Mlle. DORUS. ISABELLE Mme. CINTI-DAMOREAU. THE ABBESS Sigr. TAGLIONI. ROBERT M. NOURRIT. BERTRAM M. LEVASSEUR. RAIMBAUT M. LAFONT. In the following year two versions in English, both of them imperfect, were brought out by the rival theatres, Covent Garden and Drury Lane. On the 20th of February it appeared at Drury Lane under the title of "The Demon; or, the Mystic Branch," and at Covent Garden the next evening as "The Fiend Father, or Robert Normandy." Drury Lane had twenty-four hours the start of its rival, but in neither case were the representations anything but poor imitations of the original. On the 11th of the following June the French version was produced at the King's Theatre, London, with the same cast as in Paris, except that the part of Alice was taken by Mme. De Meric, and that of the Abbess by the danseuse Mlle. Heberlé. On the 4th of May, 1847, the first Italian version was produced at Her Majesty's Theatre, with Jenny Lind and Staudigl in the cast. Gruneisen, the author of a brief memoir of Meyerbeer, who was present, says: "The night was rendered memorable, not only by the massacre attending the general execution, but also by the début of Mlle. Lind in this country, who appeared as Alice. With the exception of the débutante, such a disgraceful exhibition was never before witnessed on the operatic stage. Mendelssohn was sitting in the stalls, and at the end of the third act, unable to bear any longer the executive infliction, he left the theatre." The libretto of "Robert the Devil" is absurd in its conceptions and sensational in its treatment of the story, notwithstanding that it came from such famous dramatists as Scribe and Delavigne; and it would have been still worse had it not been for Meyerbeer. Scribe, it is said, wished to introduce a bevy of sea-nymphs, carrying golden oars, as the tempters of Robert; but the composer would not have them, and insisted upon the famous scene of the nuns, as it now stands, though these were afterwards made the butt of almost endless ridicule. Mendelssohn himself, who was in Paris at this time, writes: "I cannot imagine how any music could be composed on such a cold, formal extravaganza as this." The story runs as follows: The scene is laid in Sicily, where Robert, Duke of Normandy, who by his daring and gallantries had earned the sobriquet of "the Devil," banished by his own subjects, has arrived to attend a tournament given by the Duke of Messina. In the opening scene, while he is carousing with his knights, the minstrel Raimbaut sings a song descriptive of the misdeeds of Robert. The latter is about to revenge himself on the minstrel, when Alice, his foster-sister and the betrothed of Raimbaut, appears and pleads with him to give up his wicked courses, and resist the spirit of evil which is striving to get the mastery of him. Robert then confides to Alice his hopeless passion for Isabella, daughter of the Duke. While they are conversing, Bertram, "the unknown," enters, and Alice shrinks back affrighted, fancying she sees in him the evil spirit who is luring Robert on to ruin. After she leaves, Bertram entices him to the gaming-table, from which he rises a beggar,--and worse than this, he still further prejudices his cause with Isabella by failing to attend the tournament, thus forfeiting his knightly honor. The second act opens upon an orgy of the evil spirits in the cavern of St. Irene. Bertram is present, and makes a compact with them to loose Robert from his influence if he does not yield to his desires at once. Alice, who has an appointment with the minstrel in the cavern, overhears the compact, and determines to save him. Robert soon appears, mourning over his losses and dishonor; but Bertram promises to restore everything if he will visit the ruined Abbey of St. Rosalie, and carry away a mystic branch which has the power of conferring wealth, happiness, and immortality. He consents; and in the next scene Bertram pronounces the incantation which calls up the buried nuns. Dazed with their ghostly fascinations, Robert seizes the branch and flies. His first use of it is to enter the apartments of Isabella, unseen by her or her attendants, all of whom become immovable in the presence of the mystic talisman. He declares his intention of carrying her away; but moved by her entreaties he breaks the branch, which destroys the charm. In the last act Bertram is at his side again, trying to induce him to sign the fatal compact. The strains of sacred music which he hears, and the recollections of his mother, restrain him. In desperation Bertram announces himself as his fiend-father. He is about to yield, when Alice appears and reads to him his mother's warning against the fiend's temptation. As he still hesitates, the clock strikes, and the spell is over. Bertram disappears, and the scene changes to the cathedral, where Isabella in her wedding robes awaits the saved Robert. From the musical point of view "Robert le Diable" is interesting, as it marks the beginning of a new school of grand opera. With this work, Meyerbeer abandoned the school of Rossini and took an independent course. He cut loose from the conventional classic forms and gave the world dramatic music, melodies of extraordinary dramatic force, brilliant orchestration, stately pageants, and theatrical effects. "Robert le Diable" was the first of the subsequent great works from his pen which still further emphasized his new and independent departure. It is only necessary to call attention to a few prominent numbers, for this opera has not as many instances of these characteristics as those which followed and which are elsewhere described. The first act contains the opening bacchanalian chorus ("Versiamo a tazza plena"), which is very brilliant in character; the minstrel's song in the same scene ("Regnava un tempo in Normandia"), with choral accompaniment; and a very tender aria for Alice ("Vanne, disse, al figlio mio"), in which she delivers his mother's message to Robert. The second act opens with a spirited duet between Bertram and Raimbaut, leading up to a powerful and characteristic chorus of the evil spirits ("Demoni fatali"). An aria for Alice ("Nel lasciar in Normandia"), a duet between Bertram and Alice ("Trionfo bramato"), and an intensely dramatic trio between Bertram, Alice, and Robert ("Lo sguardo immobile"), prepare the way for the great scena of the nuns, known as "La Temptation," in which Meyerbeer illustrates the fantastic and oftentimes ludicrous scene with music which is the very essence of diabolism, and in its way as unique as the incantation music in "Der Freischutz." The third act contains two great arias. The first ("Invano il fato"), sung at the opening of the act by Isabella, and the second the world-famous aria "Roberto, o tu che adoro," better known by the French words ("Robert! toi que j'aime"). The closing act is specially remarkable for the great terzetto in its finale, which is one of the most effective numbers Meyerbeer has written. The judgment of Hanslick, the great Viennese critic, upon this work is interesting in this connection. He compares it with "William Tell" and "Masaniello," and finds that in musical richness and blended effects it is superior to either, but that a single act of either of the works mentioned contains more artistic truth and ideal form than "Robert le Diable,"--a judgment which is largely based upon the libretto itself, which he condemns without stint. DINORAH "Dinorah," an opera in three acts, founded upon a Breton idyl, words by Barbiere and Carré, was first produced at the Opera Comique, Paris, April 4, 1859, under the title of "Le Pardon de Ploermel." It contains but three principal characters, and these were cast as follows: Dinorah, Mme. Cabel; Corentin, M. Sainte-Foy; and Höel, M. Faure. On the 26th of July, 1859, Meyerbeer conducted the work himself at Covent Garden, London, with Mme. Miolan-Carvalho as Dinorah, and it was also produced in the same year in English by the Pyne-Harrison troupe. The first representative of Dinorah in this country was Mlle. Cordier. The scene of the opera is laid in Brittany, and when the first act opens, the following events are supposed to have transpired. On one of the days set apart by the villagers of Ploermel for a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Virgin, Höel, the goatherd, and Dinorah, his affianced, set out to receive a nuptial benediction. The festivity is interrupted by a thunder-storm, during which Les Herbiers, the dwelling-place of Dinorah, is destroyed by lightning. Dinorah is in despair. Höel determines to make good the loss, and upon the advice of Tonick, an old wizard, resolves to go in quest of a treasure which is under the care of the Korigans, a supernatural folk belonging to Brittany. In order to wrest it from them, however, it is necessary for Höel to quit the country and spend a year in solitude in a desolate region. He bravely starts off, and Dinorah, thinking he has abandoned her, loses her wits, and constantly wanders about the woods with her goat, seeking him. Meanwhile the year expires and Höel returns, convinced that he has the secret for securing the treasure. The overture to the work is unique among operatic overtures, as it has a chorus behind the curtain interwoven with it. It is a picture of the opera itself, and contains a will-o'-the-wisp passage, a rustic song with accompaniment of goat-bells, a storm, and in the midst of the storm a chant to the Virgin, sung by the unseen chorus, and then a Pilgrimage march, the whole being in the nature of a retrospect. The curtain rises upon a rustic chorus, after which Dinorah appears, seeking her goat, and sings a slumber-song ("Si, carina, caprettina") which is very graceful, and concludes with phrases in imitation of birds. In the next scene, Corentin, the bagpiper, who has been away three months, and is nearly dead with terror of goblins and fairies, returns to his cottage, and to reassure himself sings a very quaint and original song ("Sto in casa alfine"), to the accompaniment of his pipe. Dinorah suddenly appears and enters the cottage, and much to his alarm keeps him playing and singing, which leads to a very animated vocal contest between her and the bagpiper. It is abruptly terminated, however, by the arrival of Höel. Dinorah makes her escape by a window, and Höel relates to Corentin the story of the Korigans' treasure. As the first person who touches it will die, he determines that Corentin shall be his messenger, and to rouse his courage sends for wine. While Corentin is absent, Höel sings an aria ("Se per prender") which has always been a favorite with barytones. After Corentin returns, the tinkling of the goat's bell is heard. Dinorah appears in the distance, and a charming trio closes the act, to the accompaniment of the whistling wind and booming thunder on the contra basses and drums of the orchestra. The second act opens with a drinking-song by wood-cutters, and as they withdraw, Dinorah enters, seeking Höel. She sings a tender lament, which, as the moonlight falls about her, develops into the famous "Shadow Song," a polka mazurka, which she sings and dances to her shadow. The aria, "Ombra leggier," is fairly lavish in its texture of vocal embroidery, and has always been a favorite number on the concert stage. The next scene changes to the Val Maudit (the Cursed Vale), a rocky, cavernous spot, through which rushes a raging torrent bridged by a fallen tree. Höel and Corentin appear in quest of the treasure, and the latter gives expression to his terror in a very characteristic manner, with the assistance of the orchestra. Dinorah is heard singing the legend of the treasure ("Chi primo al tesor"), from which Corentin learns that whoever touches it first will die. He refuses to go on, and a spirited duet ensues between them, which is interrupted by the entrance of Dinorah and her goat. Höel, fancying it is a spirit sent to keep him back, sings a very beautiful aria ("Le crede il padre"). The act closes with the fall of Dinorah, who attempts to cross the bridge, into the torrent, and her rescue by Höel, to the accompaniment of a storm set to music. The scene, though melodramatic, is very strong in its musical effects. The last act opens with a scene in striking contrast, introduced with a quintet of horns, followed by a hunter's solo, a reaper's solo, a duet for shepherds; and a quartet in the finale. Höel arrives, bearing the rescued Dinorah, and sings to her an exquisite romance ("Sei vendicata assai"). The magic of his singing and her bath in the torrent restore her wandering senses. Höel persuades her that all which has transpired has been a dream. The old song of the Pardon of Ploermel comes to her, and as she tries to recall it the chorus takes it up ("Santa Maria! nostra donna") as it was heard in the overture. A procession is seen in the distance, and amid some exquisite pageant music Höel and Dinorah wend their way to the chapel, where the nuptial rites are supposed to be performed. THE PROPHET. "Le Prophète," an opera in five acts, words by Scribe, was first produced in Paris, April 16, 1849, with Mme. Viardot-Garcia as Fides, and M. Roger as John of Leyden. "The Prophet" was long and carefully elaborated by its composer. Thirteen years intervened between it and its predecessor, "The Huguenots;" but in spite of its elaboration it can only be said to excel the latter in pageantry and spectacular effect, while its musical text is more declamatory than melodious, as compared with "The Huguenots." In this sense it was disappointing when first produced. The period of the opera is 1534. The first act transpires in Dordrecht and Leyden, in Holland, and the other three in Munster, Germany. The text closely follows the historical narrative of the period when Munster was occupied by John of Leyden and his fanatics, who, after he had been crowned by them as Emperor of Germany, was driven out by the bishop of the diocese. The first act opens in the suburbs of Dordrecht, near the Meuse, with the château of Count Oberthal, lord of the domain, in the distance. After a very fresh and vigorous chorus of peasants, Bertha, a vassal of the Count, betrothed to John of Leyden, enters and sings a cavatina ("Il cor nel sento"), in which she gives expression to emotions of delight at her approaching union. As she cannot go to Leyden, where the marriage is to take place, without the Count's consent, Fides, the mother of John, joins her to make the request. In the mean time the three Anabaptists, Zacarie, Gione, and Mathisen, leaders of the revolt in Westphalia, arrive on their mission of raising an insurrection in Holland, and in a sombre trio of a religious but stirring character ("O libertade") incite the peasants to rise against their rulers. They make an assault upon the castle of Count Oberthal, who speedily repels them, and turns the tide of popular feeling against the Anabaptists, by recognizing Gione as a former servant who had been discharged from his service for dishonesty. Fides and Bertha then join in a romanza ("Della mora un giorno"), imploring his permission for the marriage of Bertha and John. The Count, however, struck with her beauty, not only refuses, but claims her for himself, and seizes both her and Fides, and the act closes with a repetition of the warning chant of the Anabaptists. The second act opens in the hostelry of John of Leyden, and is introduced with a waltz and drinking-chorus, in the midst of which the Anabaptists arrive and are struck with his resemblance to a portrait of David in the Munster Cathedral. From a very descriptive and highly wrought scena ("Sotto le vasti arcati") sung by him they also learn that he is given to visions and religious meditations. They assure him that he shall be a ruler; but in a beautiful romanza ("Un impero piu soave") he replies that his love for Bertha is his only sovereignty. Just as they depart, Bertha, who has escaped, rushes in and claims his protection. He conceals her; but has hardly done so when the Count enters with his soldiers, bringing Fides as a prisoner, and threatens to kill her unless Bertha is given up. He hesitates; but at last, to save his mother's life, delivers Bertha to her pursuers. Mother and son are left alone, and she seeks to console him. In this scene occurs one of the most dramatic and intense of Meyerbeer's arias ("O figlio mio, che diro"), known more popularly by its French words, beginning, "Ah! mon fils." It has enjoyed a world-wide popularity, and still holds its place in all its original freshness and vigor. Fides hardly disappears before the ominous chant of the Anabaptists is heard again. He does not need much persuasion now. They make their compact in a quartet of magnificent power, which closes the act; and some of John's garments are left behind stained with blood, that his mother may believe he has been killed. The third act opens in the Anabaptists' camp in a Westphalian forest, a frozen lake near them, and Munster, which they are besieging, in the distance. In the second scene Zacarie sings a stirring pasan of victory ("In coppia son"), followed by the beautiful ballet music of the skaters as they come bringing provisions to the troops. Count Oberthal meanwhile has been taken prisoner and brought into camp. A buffo trio between himself and his captors follows, in which Gione penetrates his disguise and recognizes him. They are about to fall upon him; but John, learning from him that Bertha is still alive and in Munster, saves his life. He immediately resolves to take the place by assault, rouses his followers with religious chants of a martial character, and the act concludes with the march on the city. The fourth act opens in the city itself after its capture. A mendicant appears in the public square begging for bread. It is Fides; and in a plaintively declamatory aria of striking power ("Pieta! pieta!") she implores alms. She meets with Bertha disguised as a pilgrim, and bent upon the destruction of the Prophet, who, she believes, has been the cause of John's death. The next scene opens in the cathedral, where the coronation of the Prophet is to take place; and among all Meyerbeer's pageants none are more imposing than this, with its accompaniment of pealing bells, religious chants, the strains of the organ, and the stately rhythms of the great Coronation March. It is a splendid prelude to the dramatic scene which follows. In the midst of the gorgeous spectacle, the voice of Fides is heard claiming the Prophet as her son. John boldly disavows her, and tells his followers to kill him if she does not confirm the disavowal. The feelings of the mother predominate, and she declares that she is mistaken. The multitude proclaim it a miracle, and Fides is removed as a prisoner. The dramatic situation in this finale is one of great strength, and its musical treatment has hardly been excelled. The last act opens with a trio by the Anabaptist leaders, who, learning that the enemy is approaching in force, determine to save themselves by betraying John. In the third scene Fides in prison, learning that John is coming to see her, invokes the punishment of Heaven upon him in the passionate aria, "Spirto superno." A duet ("Tu che del cielo") of great power follows, in which Fides convinces him of the errors of his course. As they are about to leave, Bertha enters, bent upon the destruction of the palace, and in the trio which ensues learns that John and the Prophet are one. She stabs herself, and dying in the arms of Fides curses him. The last scene opens in a banqueting-hall of the palace, where John is revelling, with the Anabaptists around him. He sings a bacchanalian song of a wild description ("Beviam e intorno"), and, as it closes, the Bishop of Munster, the Elector, Count Oberthal, and the three Anabaptists who have betrayed him, enter the apartment. The revenge which John has planned is now consummated. An explosion is heard. Flames break out on all sides. Fides rushes in and forgives her son, and the Prophet, his mother, and his enemies perish together. Although "The Prophet" did not meet with the popularity of some of his other operas, it contains some of the most vigorous and dramatic music Meyerbeer has written,--notably the arias of Zacarie and Fides, the skating-ballet, the Coronation March, and the drinking-song. As a pageant, "The Prophet" has never been surpassed. THE AFRICAN. "L'Africaine," a grand opera in five acts, words by Scribe, was first produced at the Académie, Paris, April 28, 1865, with the following cast:-- SELIKA Mme. MARIE SAXE. INEZ Mlle. MARIE BATTEO. VASCO DI GAMA M. NAUDIN. NELUSKO M. FAURE. DON PEDRO M. BELVAL. HIGH PRIEST M. OBIN. The libretto of the opera was first given to Meyerbeer by Scribe in 1838; but such were the alterations demanded by the composer, that at last Scribe withdrew it altogether, although the music was already set. In 1852 he furnished a revised libretto, and the music was revised to suit it. The work was not finished until 1860, and owing to the difficulty of filling the cast satisfactorily, was not brought to rehearsal until the fall of 1863. While still correcting and improving it, Meyerbeer died, and it was not produced until two years later. Shortly after the Paris performance it was brought out in London, with Mlle. Lucca in the part of Selika. Mme. Zucchi was one of the earliest representatives of the slave in this country. The scene of the opera is laid in Portugal and Africa, and the first act opens in the council chamber of the king of the former country. Inez, his daughter, is mourning the long absence of her betrothed, Vasco di Gama the explorer. Her father, wishing to marry her to Don Pedro, the President of the Council, tries to persuade her that Vasco has perished by shipwreck; but the refutation of the story comes in the sudden appearance of Vasco himself, who is summoned before the Council and narrates to them his discovery of a strange land, producing two of the natives, Selika and Nelusko, as confirmations of his announcement. Don Pedro incites the inquisitors to deny the truth of the story, at which Vasco breaks out in such a furious rage against them that he is arrested and thrown into a dungeon. The second act opens in the prison, where Selika is watching the slumbering Vasco. As he wakens she declares her love for him, and at the same time saves him from the dagger of the jealous Nelusko. She also indicates to him the course he should have taken to discover the island of which he is in quest. To save her lover, Inez consents to wed Don Pedro; and the latter, to cheat Vasco of his fame, takes command of the expedition under the pilotage of Nelusko, and sets sail for the new land. The Indian, thirsting for vengeance, directs the vessel out of her course towards a reef; but Vasco, who has followed in another vessel, arrives in time to warn Don Pedro of his danger. He disregards the warning, distrusts his motives, and orders him to be shot; but before the sentence can be carried out, the vessel strikes and is boarded by the savages, who slaughter the commander and most of his men. The fourth act opens on the island which Selika pointed out on the map, and of which she is queen. To save him from her subjects, she declares herself his spouse; but as the marriage rite is about to be celebrated, Vasco hears the voice of Inez in the distance, deserts Selika, and flies to her. In the last act, as the vessel sails away bearing Vasco and Inez back to Portugal, Selika throws herself down under the poisonous manchineel-tree and kills herself with its fatal flowers; expiring in the arms of Nelusko, who shares the same fate. The first act opens with a very sweet but sombre ballad sung by Inez ("Del Tago sponde addio"), which recalls the English song, "Isle of Beauty, fare thee well," and is followed by a bold and flowing terzetto. The third scene opens with a noble and stately chorus ("Tu che la terra adora") sung by the basses in unison, opening the Council before which Vasco appears; and the act closes with an anathema hurled at him ("Ribelle, insolente"),--a splendid ensemble, pronounced in its rhythm and majestic in the sweep of its passionate music. The second act opens with the quaint slumber-song ("In grembo a me") which Selika sings to Vasco in prison. It is oriental in color, and is broken here and there by a barcarole which Vasco murmurs in his sleep. In striking contrast with its dreamy, quiet flow, it leads up to a passionate aria ("Tranquillo e già") based upon a strong and fiery motive. In the next scene follows an aria of equal vigor sung by Nelusko ("Figlia dei Re"), in which his devotion to Selika changing to his hatred of Vasco is characterized by a grand crescendo. The act closes with a vigorous sextet, the motive of which is strangely similar to the old song, "The Minstrel Boy." The third act contains a very impressive number, Nelusko's invocation of Adamastor ("Adamastor, re dell' onde profondo"), but is mainly devoted to the ship scene, which, though grotesque from the dramatic point of view, is accompanied by music of a powerful and realistic description, written with all the vividness and force Meyerbeer always displays in his melodramatic ensembles. The fourth act contains the most beautiful music of the opera,--Vasco's opening aria, "O Paradiso," an exquisite melody set to an equally exquisite accompaniment; the ensemble in the fourth scene, in which Selika protects Vasco and Nelusko swears vengeance ("Al mio penar de fine"); the grand duet between Vasco and Selika ("Dove son"), which has often been compared to the duet in the fourth act of "The Huguenots," though it has not the passionate intensity of the scene between Raoul and Valentin; and the graceful choruses of the Indian maidens and Inez's attendants which close the act. The last act contains two scenes,--the first in Selika's gardens, where there is a long and spirited duet between Inez and Selika. The second, known as "La Scene du Mancenillier," has a symphonic prelude in the form of a funeral march, based upon a fascinating melody, which is beyond question the finest of Meyerbeer's orchestral numbers in any of his works. From this point the story hastens to its tragic dénouement; and nearly the entire scene is occupied with Selika's dying song, which opens with a majestic apostrophe to the sea ("Da qui io vedo il mar"), then turns to sadness as she sings to the fatal tree ("O tempio sontuoso"), and at the close develops into a passionate outcry of joy ("O douce extase"). Though the plot of "L'Africaine" is often absurd, many of its incidents preposterous, and some of its characters unattractive, the opera is full of effective situations, and repeatedly illustrates Meyerbeer's powers of realization and his knowledge of effects. MOZART. Johann Chrysostomus Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born at Salzburg, Jan. 27, 1756. With this wonderful child music was a divine gift, for his first work, a minuet and trio for piano, was written in his fifth year. He began to study with his father when but three years of age, and at once gave signs of extraordinary promise. His sister was also very talented; and in 1762 the father determined to travel with his prodigies. They were absent a year, the most of that time being spent at Munich, Vienna, and Presburg, where they created a furor by their performances. A longer journey was then resolved upon. The principal German cities, Brussels, Paris, London, the Hague, Amsterdam, and the larger towns of Switzerland were visited in succession, and everywhere the children were greeted with enthusiasm, particularly when they played before the French and English courts. They returned to Salzburg in 1766, already famous all over Europe; and during the next two years Mozart composed many minor works. In 1768 he was again in Vienna, where he produced his little operetta, "Bastien und Bastienne," and in the same year the Archbishop of Salzburg made him his concertmeister. The next year he went to Italy, where he both studied and composed, and was received with extraordinary honors. In 1771 he brought out his opera, "Mitridate, Rè di Ponto," at Milan, with great success. The next year he produced "Lucio Silla," also in Milan, and during the next four years composed a great number of symphonies and other instrumental works. The mass of music which he composed up to his twenty-first year is simply bewildering. In 1781 he brought out "Idomeneo" at Munich, which left no doubt as to his position as a dramatic composer. In 1782 his "Entfuhrung aus dem Serail" was produced at Vienna by the Emperor's command. His next great opera was "Le Nozze di Figaro," which was performed in 1786, and made all Vienna go wild. "Don Giovanni" followed it the next year, and was received with equal enthusiasm. In 1789 he composed the famous "Requiem;" and the same year the "Zauberflöte," his last great opera, appeared, and made a success even greater than its two great predecessors. Two years later, Dec. 5, 1791, Mozart died in poverty, and amid the saddest of surroundings. One of the world's greatest geniuses was carried to his last resting-place unaccompanied by friends, and was buried in the common pauper's grave. God endowed him with a wonderful genius, which the world of his time could not recognize. THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO. "Le Nozze di Figaro," in the German version, "Die Hochzeit des Figaro," an opera buffa in four acts, the words by Lorenzo da Ponte, after Beaumarchais's comedy, "Le Mariage de Figaro," was first produced at the National Theatre, Vienna, May 1, 1786, with the following cast:-- COUNTESS ALMAVIVA Signora STORACE. SUSANNA Signora LASCHI. CHERUBINO Signora MANDINI. MARCELLINA Signora BUSSANI. BARBARINA Signora GOTTLIEB. COUNT ALMAVIVA Signor MANDINI. FIGARO Signor BENUCCI. BARTOLO Signor OCCHELEY. BASILIO Signor BUSSANI. It was first brought out in Paris in 1793, with Beaumarchais's spoken dialogue, in five acts, as "Le Mariage de Figaro," and in 1858 at the Théâtre Lyrique in the same city, in four acts, as "Les Noces de Figaro," with text by Barbiere and Carré. The late Mme. Parepa-Rosa introduced it in this country in its English form with great success. At the time the libretto was written, Beaumarchais's satirical comedy, "Le Mariage de Figaro," had been performed all over Europe, and had attracted great attention. It had been prohibited in Paris, and had caused great commotion in Vienna. Mozart's notice was thus drawn to it, and he suggested it to Da Ponte for a libretto, and the Emperor Joseph subsequently commissioned the composer to set it to music, though he had already composed a portion of it. The entire opera was written during the month of April, and the wonderful finale to the second act occupied him for two nights and a day. When it came to a performance, its success was remarkable. Kelly, who was present, says, in his Reminiscences: "Never was there a greater triumph than Mozart enjoyed with his 'Figaro.' The house was crowded to overflowing, and almost everything encored, so that the opera lasted nearly double the usual time; and yet at its close the public were unwearied in clapping their hands and shouting for Mozart." Popular as it was, it was soon laid aside in Vienna through the influence of the Italian faction headed by Salieri, one of Mozart's rivals. The story of the opera is laid in Spain. Count Almaviva, who had won his beautiful Countess with the aid of Figaro, the barber of Seville, becomes enamoured of her maid Susanna, and at the same time, by the collusion of the two, in order to punish him, is made jealous by the attentions paid to the Countess by Cherubino, the page. Meanwhile Figaro, to whom Susanna is betrothed, becomes jealous of the Count for his gallantry to her. Out of these cross-relations arise several humorous surprises. Besides these characters there are two others who have been disappointed in love,--Bartolo, who has been rejected by Susanna, and Marcellina, whose affection for Figaro has not been requited. The Count seeks to get rid of Cherubino by ordering him off to the wars, but he is saved by Susanna, who disguises him in female attire. The Countess, Susanna, Figaro, and Cherubino then conspire to punish the Count for his infidelity. The latter suddenly appears at his wife's door, and finding it locked demands an entrance. Cherubino, alarmed, hides himself in a closet and bars the door. The Count is admitted, and finding the Countess in confusion insists upon searching the closet. He goes out to find some means of breaking in the door, and Cherubino improves the opportunity to jump out of the window, while Susanna takes his place and confronts the puzzled Count. Antonio, the gardener, comes in and complains that some one has jumped from the window and broken his flower-pots. Figaro at once asserts that he did it. A ludicrous side plot unfolds at this point. Marcellina appears with a contract of marriage signed by Figaro, bringing Bartolo as a witness. The Count decides that Figaro must fulfil his contract, but the latter escapes by showing that he is the son of Marcellina, and that Bartolo is his father. Meanwhile the main plot is developed in another conspiracy to punish the Count. Susanna contrives a rendezvous with the Count at night in the garden, having previously arranged with the Countess that she should disguise herself as the maid, the latter also assuming the part of the Countess, and arrive in time to surprise the two. The page also puts in an appearance, and gets his ears boxed for his attentions to the disguised Countess. Figaro, who has been informed that Susanna and the Count are to meet in the garden, comes on the scene, and in revenge makes a passionate declaration of love to the supposed Countess, upon which the Count, who is growing more and more bewildered, orders lights and makes his supposed wife unveil. The real wife does the same. Covered with confusion, he implores pardon of the Countess, which is readily given. The two are reconciled, and Figaro and Susanna are united. The whole opera is such a combination of playfulness and grace that it is a somewhat ungracious task to refer to particular numbers. In these regards it is the most Mozartean of all the composer's operas. The first act opens with a sparkling duet between Figaro and Susanna, in which she informs him of the Count's gallantries. As she leaves, Figaro, to the accompaniment of his guitar, sings a rollicking song ("Se vuol ballare, Signor Contino"), in which he intimates that if the Count wishes to dance he will play for him in a style he little expects. In the second scene Bartolo enters, full of his plans for vengeance, which he narrates in a grim and grotesque song ("La Vendetta"). The fourth scene closes with an exquisite aria by Cherubino ("Non so piu cosa son"). After an exceedingly humorous trio ("Cosa sento? tosto andate") for the Count, Basilio and Susanna, and a bright, gleeful chorus ("Giovanni lieti"), Figaro closes the act with the celebrated aria, "Non piu andrai." Of the singing of this great song at the first rehearsal of the opera Kelly says in his Reminiscences: "I remember Mozart well at the first general rehearsal, in a red furred coat and a gallooned hat, standing on the stage and giving the tempi. Benucci sang Figaro's aria, 'Non piu andrai,' with the utmost vivacity and the full strength of his voice. I stood close beside Mozart, who exclaimed, _sotto voce_, 'Brava! brava! Benucci!' and when that fine passage came, 'Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla gloria militar,' which Benucci gave in a stentorian voice, the effect was quite electrical, both on the singers on the stage and the musicians in the orchestra. Quite transported with delight, they all called out, 'Brava! brava, Maestro! viva! viva! viva il grande Mozart!' In the orchestra the applause seemed to have no end, while the violin-players rapped their bows on their desks. The little Maestro expressed his gratitude for the enthusiasm, testified in so unusual a manner, by repeatedly bowing." The second act is the masterpiece of the opera, and contains in itself music enough to have made any composer immortal. It opens with a serious aria by the Countess ("Porgi amor") followed by Cherubino's well-known romanza ("Voi che sapete,") one of the sweetest and most effective songs ever written for contralto, and this in turn by Susanna's coquettish song, "Venite, inginocchiatevi," as she disguises Cherubino. A spirited trio and duet lead up to the great finale, begun by the Count, ("Esci omai, garzon mal nato"). Upon this finale Mozart seems to have lavished the riches of his musical genius with the most elaborate detail and in bewildering profusion. It begins with a duet between the Count and Countess, then with the entrance of Susanna changes to a trio, and as Figaro and Antonio enter, develops into a quintet. In the close, an independent figure is added by the entrance of Marcellina, Barbarina, and Basilio, and as Antonio exits, this trio is set against the quartet with independent themes and tempi. The third act opens with a duet ("Crudel, perche finora") for the Count and Countess, followed by a very dramatic scena for the Count, beginning with the recitative, "Hai già vinta la causa?" which in turn leads up to a lively and spirited sextet ("Riconosci in questo amplesso"). The two numbers which follow the sextet are recognized universally as two of the sweetest and most melodious ever written,--the exquisite aria, "Dove Sono," for the Countess, and the "Zephyr Duet," as it is popularly known ("Canzonetta su l'aria. Che soave zeffiretto"), which stands unsurpassed for elegance, grace, and melodious beauty. The remaining numbers of prominent interest are a long and very versatile buffo aria for tenor ("In quegli anni"), sung by Basilio, Figaro's stirring march number ("Ecco la marcia"), and a lovely song for Susanna ("Deh, vieni, non tardar"). The opera is full of life and human interest. Its wonderful cheerfulness and vital sympathy appeal to every listener, and its bright, free, joyous tone from beginning to end is no less fascinating than the exquisite melodies with which Mozart has so richly adorned it. Like "Don Giovanni" and the "Magic Flute," the best test of the work is, that it is rounding its first century as fresh and bright and popular as ever. DON GIOVANNI. "Don Giovanni," an opera buffa in two acts, words by Da Ponte, was first produced at Prague, Oct. 29, 1787. The full title of the work is "Il dissoluto punito, ossia il Don Giovanni," and the subject was taken from a Spanish tale by Tirso de Molina, called "El combidado de piedra." The original cast of the opera was as follows:-- DONNA ANNA Signora TERESA SAPORITTI. DONNA ELVIRA Signora MICELLI. ZERLINA Signora BONDINI. DON OTTAVIO Signor BAGLIONI. DON GIOVANNI Signor LUIGI BASSI. LEPORELLO Signor FELICE PONZIANI. MASETTO and DON PEDRO Signor LOLLI. The success of the "Marriage of Figaro" prepared the way for "Don Giovanni." Mozart wrote the opera in Prague, and completed it, except the overture, Oct. 28, 1787, about six weeks after he arrived in the city. The first performance took place the next evening. The overture was written during the night, the copyist received the score at seven o'clock in the morning, and it was played at eight in the evening. He had only a week for stage rehearsals, and yet the opera created a furor. As an instance of his extraordinary memory, it is said that the drum and trumpet parts to the finale of the second act were written without the score, from memory. When he brought the parts into the orchestra, he remarked, "Pray, gentlemen, be particularly attentive at this place," pointing to one, "as I believe that there are four bars either too few or too many." His remark was proved true. It is also said that in the original scores the brass instruments frequently have no place, as he wrote the parts continually on separate bits of paper, trusting to his memory for the score. The next year (1788) the opera was brought out in Vienna, and for this production he wrote four new numbers,--a recitative and aria for Donna Elvira ("In quali excessi, o numi"); an aria for Masetto ("Ho capito, Signor, si"); a short aria for Don Ottavio ("Dalla sua pace"); and a duet for Zerlina and Leporello ("Per queste tue manine"). The scene of the opera is laid in Spain. Don Giovanni, a licentious nobleman, becomes enamoured of Donna Anna, the daughter of the Commandant of Seville, who is betrothed to Don Ottavio. He gains admission to her apartments at night, and attempts to carry her away; but her cries bring her father to her rescue. He attacks Don Giovanni, and in the encounter is slain. The libertine, however, in company with his rascally servant, Leporello, makes good his escape. While the precious pair are consulting about some new amour, Donna Elvira, one of his victims, appears and taxes him with his cruelty; but he flies from her, leaving her with Leporello, who horrifies her with an appalling list of his master's conquests in various countries. Don Giovanni next attempts the ruin of Zerlina, a peasant girl, upon the very eve of her marriage with her lover, Masetto. Donna Elvira, however, appears and thwarts his purposes, and also discovers him to Donna Anna as the murderer of her father, whereupon she binds her lover, Don Ottavio, to avenge his death. Don Giovanni does not abandon his purpose, however. He gives a fête, and once more seeks to accomplish Zerlina's ruin, but is again thwarted by her three friends. The second act opens in a public square of Seville at night. Don Giovanni and Leporello appear before the house of Donna Elvira, where Zerlina is concealed. Leporello, disguised in his master's cloak, and assuming his voice, lures Donna Elvira out, and feigning repentance for his conduct induces her to leave with him. Don Giovanni then proceeds to enter the house and seize Zerlina; but before he can accomplish his purpose, Masetto and his friends appear, and supposing it is Leporello before them, demand to know where his master is, as they are bent upon killing him. Don Giovanni easily disposes of Masetto, and then rejoins his servant near the equestrian statue, which has been erected to the memory of the murdered Don Pedro. To their astonishment the statue speaks, and warns the libertine he will die before the morrow. Don Giovanni laughs at the prophecy, and invites the statue to a banquet to be given the next day at his house. While the guests are assembled at the feast, an ominous knock is heard at the door and the statue unceremoniously enters. All except Leporello and Don Giovanni fly from the room in terror. The doomed man orders an extra plate, but the statue extends its hand and invites him to sup with it. He takes the marble hand, and its cold fingers clutch him in a firm grasp. Thrice the statue urges him to repent, and as many times he refuses; whereupon, as it disappears, demons rise, seize Don Giovanni, and carry him to the infernal regions. Musically considered, "Don Giovanni" is regarded as Mozart's greatest opera, though it lacks the bright joyousness of the "Marriage of Figaro," and its human interest. Its melodies are more pronounced, and have entered more freely into general use, however, than those of the former. Repulsive as the story is, some of the melodies which illustrate it have been impressed into the service of the church. The first act is introduced with a humorous aria by Leporello ("Notte e giorno faticar"), in which he complains of his treatment by his master. After the murder of Don Pedro, in the second scene, occurs a trio between Donna Elvira, Don Giovanni, and Leporello, the leading motive of which is a beautiful aria sung by Donna Elvira ("Ah! chi mi dici mai"). The scene closes with the great buffo aria of Leporello ("Madamina il catalogo") popularly known as the "Catalogue Song," which is full of broad humor, though its subject is far from possessing that quality. In the third scene occur the lovely duet for Don Giovanni and Zerlina ("La ci darem, la mano"), two arias of great dramatic intensity for Donna Elvira ("Mi tradi") and Donna Anna ("Or sai chi l'onore"), and Don Giovanni's dashing song, "Finchè dal vino," the music of which is in admirable keeping with the reckless nature of the libertine himself. The last scene is a treasure-house of music, containing the exquisitely coquettish aria, "Batti, batti," which Zerlina sings to the jealous Masetto, and the beautiful trio of Donna Anna, Donna Elvira, and Don Ottavio, known as the Mask Trio, set off against the quaint minuet music of the fête and the hurly-burly which accompanies the discovery of Don Giovanni's black designs. The second act opens with a humorous duet between master and servant ("Eh, via, buffone"), followed by the trio, "Ah! taci, inquisto care," as Elvira appears at her window. After she leaves with Leporello, Don Giovanni sings a serenade ("Deh? vieni all finestra") to Zerlina, which is interrupted by the appearance of Masetto and his friends. Zerlina is summoned to the scene by the cries of Masetto after Don Giovanni has beaten him, and sings to him for his consolation the beautiful aria, "Vedrai carino," which has more than once been set to sacred words, and has become familiar as a church tune, notwithstanding the unsanctity of its original setting. The second scene opens with a strong sextet ("Sola, sola, in bujo loco"), followed by the ludicrously solemn appeal of Leporello, "Ah! pieta, signori miei," and that aria beloved of all tenors, "Il mio tesoro." The finale is occupied with the scenes at the statue and at the banquet, a short scene between Donna Anna and Don Ottavio intervening, in which she sings the aria, "Non mi dir." The statue music throughout is of a sepulchral character, gradually developing into strains almost as cold and ominous as the marble of the Commandant himself, and yet not without an element of the grotesque as it portrays the terror of Leporello. It is said that in revenge at his Italian rivals, Mozart introduced an aria from Martin's "Cosa Rara," arranged for wind instruments, and also a favorite aria of Sarti's, to be played at the banquet when the hungry Leporello beholds his master at the table and watches for some of the choice morsels, and parodied them in an amusing manner. He never could retain an enmity very long, however, and so at the end of the banquet he parodied one of his own arias, the famous "Non piu andrai," by giving it a comical turn to suit Leporello's situation. The criticism of one of the best biographers of Mozart upon this opera is worth repeating in this connection: "Whether we regard the mixture of passions in its concerted music, the profound expression of melancholy, the variety of its situations, the beauty of its accompaniment, or the grandeur of its heightening and protracted scene of terror--the finale of the second act,--'Don Giovanni' stands alone in dramatic eminence." THE MAGIC FLUTE. "Die Zauberflöte," an opera in two acts, words by Emanuel Schickaneder, was first produced at Vienna, Sept. 30, 1791, with the following cast: QUEEN OF NIGHT Mme. HOFER. PAMINA Mlle. GOTTLIEB. PAPAGENA Mme. GORL. TAMINO Herr SCHACK. MONOSTATOS Herr GORL. SARASTRO Herr SCHICKANEDER, Sr. PAPAGENO Herr SCHICKANEDER, Jr. The "Magic Flute" was the last great work of the composer, and followed the "Cosi fan tutte," which was given in January, 1791. In 1780 Mozart had made the acquaintance of Schickaneder at Salzburg. He was a reckless, dissipated theatre manager, and at the time of the composition of the "Magic Flute" was running a small theatre in Vienna. The competition of the larger theatres had nearly beggared him, and in the midst of his perplexities he applied to Mozart to write him an opera, and intimated that he had discovered an admirable subject for a fairy composition. Mozart at first objected; but Schickaneder, like himself, was a Freemason; he had been his companion in dissipation, and exercised a great influence over him. Mozart at last consented. A compact was made, and Schickaneder set to work on the libretto. As he was a popular buffoon, he invented the part of Papageno, the bird-catcher, for himself, and arranged that it should be dressed in a costume of feathers. It is a trivial part, but Schickaneder intended to tickle the fancy of the public, and succeeded. The first act was finished, when it was found that the same subject had been chosen by a rival theatre, the Leopold Stadt, which speedily announced the opera of "Kaspar der Fagottist, oder die Zauber-Zither," by a popular composer, Wenzel Müller. The piece had a successful run, and in order to prevent a duplication, Schickaneder reversed the point of his story, and changed the evil magician, who stole the daughter of the Queen of Night, into a great philosopher and friend of man. It is owing to this change that we have the magnificent character of Sarastro, with its impressive music. The scene of the opera is laid in Egypt. Sarastro, the high-priest of Isis, has induced Pamina to leave her mother, Astrifiamenti, the Queen of Night, who represents the spirit of evil, and come to his temple, where she may be trained in the ways of virtue and wisdom. At the opening of the opera the dark Queen is trying to discover some plan of recovering her daughter and punishing Sarastro. In the first act appears Tamino, an Egyptian prince, who has lost his way, and is attacked by a huge serpent, from which he is rescued by the three attendants of the Queen. The latter accosts him, tells him her daughter's story, and demands that, as the cost of his deliverance, he shall rescue her. He consents. She gives him a magic flute, and with his companion Papageno, a rollicking bird-catcher, who is also presented with a magical chime of bells, they set out for Sarastro's temple. Papageno arrives there first, and in time to rescue Pamina from the persecutions of Monostatos, a slave, who flies when he beholds Papageno in his feather costume, fancying him the Devil. They seek to make their escape, but are intercepted. Tamino also is caught, and all are brought before Sarastro. The prince consents to become a novitiate in the sacred rites, and to go through the various stages of probation and purification, and Pamina again returns to her duties. They remain faithful to their vows, and the last ordeal, that of passing through a burning lake up to the altar of the temple, is triumphantly accomplished. The Queen of Night, however, does not abandon her scheme of revenge. She appears to Pamina in her sleep, gives her a dagger, and swears that unless she murders Sarastro she will cast her off forever. Pamina pays no heed to her oath, but goes on with her sacred duties, trusting to Sarastro's promise that if she endures all the ordeals she will be forever happy. In the closing scene, Monostatos, who has been inflamed against Sarastro by the Queen, seeks to kill him, but is vanquished by the might of the priest's presence alone. The night of the ordeals is over. At a sign from Sarastro, the, full sunlight pours in upon them. The evil spirits all vanish, and Tamino and Pamina are united amid the triumphant choruses of the priests and attendants, as the reward of their fidelity. In the opening scene, after the encounter of Tamino with the serpent, Papageno has a light and catching song ("Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja"), which, like all of Papageno's music, was specially written for Schickaneder, and has been classed under the head of the "Viennese ditties." Melodious as Mozart always is, these songs must be regarded as concessions to the buffoon who sang them. Papageno's song is followed by another in a serious strain ("Dies Bildniss ist bezaubernd schön") sung by Tamino. In the sixth scene occurs the first aria for the Queen of Night ("O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn"), which, like its companion to be mentioned later, is a remarkable exercise in vocal power, range, and gymnastics, written for an exceptional voice. The next scene, known as the Padlock Quintet, is very simple and flowing in style, and will always be popular for its humorous and melodious character. In the eleventh scene occurs the familiar duet between Pamina and Papageno, "Bei Männern, welche Liebe füllen," which has done good service for the church, and will be recognized in the English hymn version, "Serene I laid me down." It leads up to the finale, beginning, "Zum Ziehle führt dich diese Bahn," and containing a graceful melody for Tamino ("O dass ich doch im Stande wäre"), and another of the Viennese tunes, "Könnte jeder brave Mann,"--a duet for Papageno and Pamina, with chorus. The second act opens with a stately march and chorus by the priests, leading up to Sarastro's first great aria ("O Isis und Osiris"), a superb invocation in broad, flowing harmony, and the scene closes with a strong duet by two priests ("Bewahret euch vor Weibertücken.") The third scene is a quintet for Papageno, Tamino, and the Queen's three attendants ("Wie ihr an diesem Shreckensort?"), and is followed by a sentimental aria by Monostatos ("Alles fühlt der Liebe Freuden"). In the next scene occurs the second and greatest aria of the Queen of Night ("Der Hölle Rache kocht"), which was specially written to show off the bravura ability of the creator of the part, and has been the despair of nearly all sopranos since her time. In striking contrast with it comes the majestic aria for Sarastro in the next scene ("In diesen heil'gen Hallen"), familiarly known on the concert-stage by its English title, "In these sacred Halls," the successful performance of which may well be the height of any basso's ambition. In the twelfth scene there is a terzetto by the three boys ("Seid uns zum zweitenmal"), and in the next scene a long and florid aria for Pamina ("Ach! ich fühl's es ist verschwunden"), full of plaintive chords and very sombre in color. The sixteenth scene contains another stately chorus of priests ("O Isis und Osiris"), based upon a broad and massive harmony, which is followed by a terzetto between Sarastro, Pamina, and Tamino ("Soll ich dich, Theurer nicht mehr sehen?"). Once more a concession to the buffoon occurs in a melody "Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen," which would be commonplace but for Mozart's treatment of the simple air. The finale begins with another terzetto for the three boys ("Bald prangt, den Morgen zu verkünden"). It may be termed a finale of surprises, as it contains two numbers which are as far apart in character as the poles,--the first, an old choral melody ("Der, welcher wandelt diese Strasse"), the original being, "Christ, our Lord, to Jordan came," set to an accompaniment, strengthened by the trombones and other wind instruments; and the second, a nonsense duet ("Pa-pa-Papageno") for Papageno and Papagena, which would close the opera in a burst of childish hilarity but for the solemn concluding chorus of the priests ("Heil sei euch Geweithen"). The great charm of the opera is its originality, and the wonderful freshness and fruitfulness of the composer in giving independent and characteristic melodies to every character, as well as the marvellous combination of technicality with absolute melody. Beethoven said of it that this was Mozart's one German opera in right of the style and solidity of its music. Jahn, in his criticism, says: "'The Zauberflöte' has a special and most important position among Mozart's operas. The whole musical conception is pure German, and here for the first time German opera makes free and skilful use of all the elements of finished art." ROSSINI. Gioachini Antonio Rossini was born at Pesaro, Italy, Feb. 29, 1792. His early lessons in music were taken with Tesei, and as a lad he also appeared upon the stage as a singer. In 1807 he was admitted to the class of Padre Mattei at the Bologna Conservatory, where he took a prize for a cantata at the end of his first year. At the beginning of his career in Italy he was commissioned to write an opera for Venice. It was "La Cambiale di Matrimonio," an opera buffa in one act, and was produced in 1810. During the next three years he wrote several works for Venice and Milan, which were successful, but none of them created such a furor as "Tancredi." This was followed by "L' Italiana in Algeri," "Aureliano in Palmira," and "Il Turco in Italia." In 1815 appeared "The Barber of Seville." Strange as it may seem, it was at first condemned, not on its merits, but because the composer had trenched, as it was supposed, upon the ground already occupied by the favorite Paisiello, though he applied to the latter before writing it, and received his assurances that he had no objection to his use of the same subject. "Otello" followed the "Barber" at Naples in 1816, and "Cenerentola" in 1817, and both were extraordinarily successful. The "Gazza Ladra" was produced at Milan in 1817, and was followed by "Armida" at Naples in the same year. His next great work was the oratorio, "Moses in Egypt," which is also given as opera. The "Donna del Lago," based upon Walter Scott's "Lady of the Lake," was produced at Naples in 1819. The same year he opened the Carnival in Milan with "Bianca e Faliero," and before its close he produced "Maometto secondo" at Naples. During the next two or three years his muse was very prolific, and in 1823 appeared another of his great works, "Semiramide," which made a furor at Venice. That year he went to London and gave concerts, in which he sang, and thence to Paris, which now became his home. His greatest work for Paris was "William Tell," which was produced in 1829, and it was also his last, though by an arrangement with the Government of Charles X. it was to be the first of a series of five. The revolution of 1830 destroyed his plans. In 1836 he heard Meyerbeer's "Huguenots," and resolved to write no more. Four years before this he had written the "Stabat Mater," but it was not produced complete until 1842. From this time on he lived at his villa at Passy the life of a voluptuary and died there Nov. 13, 1868. The catalogue of his works is immense, including fifty operas alone, of which in a necessarily brief sketch it has been possible to mention only those best known. THE BARBER OF SEVILLE. "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," an opera buffa in two acts, words by Sterbini, founded on Beaumarchais's comedy, was first produced at the Argentina Theatre, Rome, Feb. 5, 1816, with the following cast:-- ROSINA Mme. GIORGI RIGHETTI. BERTAO Mlle. ROSSI. FIGARO Sig. LUIGI ZAMBONI. COUNT ALMAVIVA Sig. GARCIA. BARTOLO Sig. BOTTICELLI. BASILIO Sig. VITTARELLI. The story of the writing of "The Barber of Seville" is of more than ordinary interest. Rossini had engaged to write two operas for the Roman Carnival of 1816. The first was brought out Dec. 26, 1815, and the same day he bound himself to furnish the second by Jan. 20, 1816, with no knowledge of what the libretto would be. Sterbini furnished him with the story of the "Barber" by piecemeal, and as fast as the verses were given him he wrote the music. The whole work was finished in less than three weeks. Its original title was "Almaviva, ossia l'inutile precauzione," to distinguish it from Paisiello's "Barber of Seville." The original overture was lost in some manner, and that of "Aureliano" substituted. In the scene beneath Rosina's balcony Garcia introduced a Spanish air of his own; but it failed, and before the second performance Rossini wrote the beautiful cavatina, "Ecco ridente il cielo" in its place, the melody borrowed from the opening chorus of his "Aureliano," and that in turn from his "Ciro in Babilonia." The subject of the effective trio, "Zitti, zitti," was taken from Haydn's "Seasons," and the aria sung by the duenna Berta ("Il vechiotto cerca moglie"), from a Russian melody he had heard a lady sing in Rome and introduced for her sake. For the music-lesson scene Rossini wrote a trio which has been lost; and thus an opportunity has been given Rosinas to interpolate what they please. The scene of the opera is laid at Seville, Spain. Count Almaviva has fallen in love with Rosina, the ward of Dr. Bartolo, with whom she resides, and who wishes to marry her himself. After serenading his mistress, who knows him only by the name of Count Lindoro, he prevails upon Figaro, the factotum of the place, to bring about an interview with her. In spite of her guardian's watchfulness, as well as that of Don Basilio, her music-teacher, who is helping Bartolo in his schemes, she informs the Count by letter that she returns his passion. With Figaro's help he succeeds in gaining admission to the house disguised as a drunken dragoon, but this stratagem is foiled by the entrance of the guard, who arrest him. A second time he secures admission, disguised as a music-teacher, and pretending that he has been sent by Don Basilio, who is ill, to take his place. To get into Bartolo's confidence he produces Rosina's letter to himself, and promises to persuade her that the letter has been given him by a mistress of the Count, and thus break off the connection between the two. By this means he secures the desired interview, and an elopement and private marriage are planned. In the midst of the arrangements, however, Don Basilio puts in an appearance, and the disconcerted lover makes good his escape. Meanwhile Bartolo, who has Rosina's letter, succeeds in arousing the jealousy of his ward with it, who thereupon discloses the proposed elopement and promises to marry her guardian. At the time set for the elopement the Count and Figaro appear. A reconciliation is easily effected, a notary is at hand, and they are married just as Bartolo makes his appearance with officers to arrest the Count. Mutual explanations occur, however, and all ends happily. The first act opens after a short chorus, with the serenade, "Ecco ridente in cielo," the most beautiful song in the opera. It begins with a sweet and expressive largo and concludes with a florid allegro, and is followed by a chorus in which the serenaders are dismissed. In the second scene Figaro enters, and after some brief recitatives sings the celebrated buffo aria, "Largo al factotum," in which he gives an account of his numerous avocations. The aria is full of life and gayety, and wonderfully adapted to the style of the mercurial Figaro. A light and lively duet between Figaro and the Count, closing with the sprightly melody, "Ah! che d'amore," leads up to the chamber aria of Rosina, so well known on the concert-stage, "Una voce poco fa," which is not only very expressive and of great compass, but is remarkably rich in ornamentation. A short dialogue in recitative then occurs between Bartolo and Basilio, in which they plot to circumvent Rosina by calumny, which gives occasion for the Calumny aria, as it is generally known ("La calunnia"), a very sonorous bass solo, sung by Basilio. Another dialogue follows between Figaro and Rosina, leading to the florid duet, "E il maestro io faccio." A third dialogue follows between Rosina and Bartolo, ending in a bass aria ("Non piu tacete"), very similar in its general style to the Calumny song, but usually omitted in performances. In the tenth scene the Count arrives disguised as the drunken soldier, and the finale begins. It is composed of three scenes very ingeniously arranged, and full of glittering dialogue and very melodious passages. The second act opens with a soliloquy by Bartolo ("Ma redi il mio destino"), in which he gives vent to his suspicions. It is interrupted at last by a duet with the Count, in which the two characters are strikingly set off by the music. The music-lesson scene follows, in which the artist personating Rosina is given an opportunity for interpolation. In the next scene occurs a dialogue quintet, which is followed by a long aria ("Sempre gridi") by the duenna Bertha, called by the Italians the "Aria de Sorbetto," because the people used to eat ices while it was sung; reminding one of the great aria from "Tancredi," "Di tanti palpiti," which they called the "aria dei rizzi," because Rossini composed it while cooking his rice. In the eighth scene, after a long recitative, an instrumental prelude occurs, representing a stormy night, followed by a recitative in which the Count reveals himself, leading up to a florid trio, and this in turn to the elegant terzetto, "Zitti, zitti." A bravura and finale of light and graceful melody close the opera. SEMIRAMIDE "Semiramide" a lyric tragedy in two acts, words by Gaetano Rossi, the subject taken from Voltaire's "Semiramis," was first produced at the Fenice, Venice, Feb. 3, 1823, with the following cast:-- SEMIRAMIDE Mme. ROSSINI-COLBRAN. ARSACES Mme. MARIANI. IDRENO Mr. SINCLAIR. ASSUR Sig. GALLI. OROE Sig. MARIANI. On the 9th of July it was produced in French at the Académie, Paris, as "Semiramis," with Carlotta Marchisio as Semiramide, Barbara, her sister, as Arsaces, and M. Obin as Assur. At Rossini's request M. Carafa arranged the recitatives and wrote the ballet music. "Semiramide" was the last opera Rossini wrote for Italy; and so far did he depart from the conventional Italian style, that he was charged with imitating the German. It was probably for this reason that the opera when first performed did not meet with a kindly reception from the Venetians. Although he was occupied six months in negotiating for his stipulated price (one thousand dollars), he wrote the opera in three weeks. Of its first performance, a correspondent of the "Harmonicon," who was present, writes: "The first act, which lasted two hours and fifteen minutes, was received very coldly, with the exception of one passage in the overture, which overture, however, was unconscionably long. The second act, which lasted two hours and a half, began to please in an air of Mariani, but the applause was rather directed to this favorite singer. After this a duet between her and Colbran, together with an air of Galli, and particularly a terzetto between him and the two ladies, were well received. Rossini was also called for at the end of the second act. It is all over with Madame, his own wife" (Mme. Colbran), who took the title-rôle. The scene of the opera is laid in Babylon, and the story briefly told is as follows: Ninus, the King of Babylon, has been murdered by his Queen, Semiramis, aided by Assur, a prince enamoured of her and aspiring to the throne. One of the Queen's warriors, Arsaces, supposed to be of Scythian origin, but in reality her own son, returns from a foreign expedition and is loaded with honors for the victory he has won. Semiramis, ignorant of his parentage, has a secret passion for him, he in the mean time being devoted to Azema, one of the princesses royal. As all gather together in the temple to swear allegiance to the Queen, the gates of Ninus's tomb suddenly open, and his ghost appears and announces that Arsaces will be the successor to the crown. At midnight Semiramis, Assur, and Arsaces meet at the tomb, and by mistake Assur stabs her instead of Arsaces, who in turn kills Assur, and, all obstacles being removed, is united to Azema and ascends the throne. An introductory chorus of Babylonians and a terzetto by Idreno, Assur, and Oroe open the opera and lead up to the first appearance of Semiramis, which is followed by a very dramatic quartet ("Di tanti regi"). In the fourth scene Arsaces has a very brilliant aria ("O! come da quel di"), which also did service in one or two of Rossini's other operas, and is followed by a very animated duet ("Bella imago degli dei") between himself and Assur. The eighth scene is introduced by a graceful female chorus which leads to Semiramis's brilliant and well-known aria, "Bel raggio." In the tenth scene occurs an elegant duet ("Serbami agnor si fido"), followed in the next scene by a stately priests' march and chorus ("Ergi omai la fronte altera"), set to ecclesiastical harmony and accompanied by full military band as well as orchestra, this being the first instance where a military band was used in Italian opera. It leads to the finale, where Semiramis on her throne announces to her people her choice for their future king. The oath of allegiance follows in an impressive quartet with chorus ("Giuro al numi"), and a defiant aria by the Queen leads to the sudden appearance of the ghost of Ninus, accompanied by characteristic music repeated in quintet with chorus. As the ghost speaks, the statue scene in Don Giovanni is inevitably recalled, especially in some phrases which are literally copied. The second act opens with a vindictively passionate duet ("Assur, icenni mici") between Assur and Semiramis, closing with a fierce outburst of hatred ("La forza primiera"). The scene is a very long and spirited one, and is followed by a second chorus of priests, leading to a great aria with chorus ("Ah! tu gelar mi fai") for Arsaces. In the fifth scene occurs a long duet between Arsaces and Semiramis, the second part of which ("Giorno d'orrore") is the strongest number in the opera. Though intensely passionate in its tone, the music is smooth and flowing and very florid for both voices. The seventh scene is composed of a scena, aria and chorus, followed by still another chorus in the mausoleum. Semiramis sings a prayer of great pathos and beauty ("Ah mio pregar"). A terzetto ("L'usato ardir"), which like the mausoleum chorus is based upon an aria from Mozart's "Cosi fan tutti," closes the opera. "The Harmonicon," to which reference has already been made, in an analysis of the work, has the following apt criticism: "It has been said, and truly, that 'Semiramide' is composed in the German style, but it is the German style exaggerated. Rossini is become a convert to this school, and his conversion does his judgment credit, though like all proselytes he passes into extremes. Not satisfied with discarding the meagre accompaniments of the Italian composers, he even goes far beyond the tramontane masters in the multitude and use of instruments, and frequently smothers his concerted pieces and choruses by the overwhelming weight of his orchestra." But what would the "Harmonicon" have said, had it had Wagner's instrumentation before it? WILLIAM TELL "William Tell," an opera in three acts, words by Étienne Jouy and Hippolyte Bis, the subject taken from Schiller's drama of the same name, was first produced at the Académie, Paris, Aug. 3, 1829, with the following cast:-- MATHILDE Mme. DAMOREAU-CINTI. JEMMY Mme. DABODIE. HEDWIG Mlle. MORI. ARNOLD M. NOURRIT. WALTER M. LEVASSEUR. TELL M. DABODIE. RUODI M. DUPONT. RODOLPHE M. MASSOL. GESSLER M. PRÉVOST. LEUTOLD M. PRÉVÔT. Rossini wrote for Paris only two new operas, "Le Comte Ory" and "William Tell,"--the latter his masterpiece in the serious style. The libretto was first prepared by M. Jouy, but it was so bad that M. Bis was called in, and to him is due the whole of the second act. Even after the two authors had changed and revised it, Rossini had to alter it in many places. When it was first performed the weakness of the drama was at once recognized, though its music was warmly welcomed, especially by the critical. It was represented fifty-six times in its original form, and was then cut down to three acts, the original third act being omitted and the fourth and fifth condensed into one. For three years after this time the second act was alone performed in Paris; but when M. Duprez made his début in the part of Arnold, a fresh enthusiasm was aroused, and there was a genuine Tell revival. The scene of the opera is laid in Switzerland, period the thirteenth century, and the action closely follows the historical narrative. The disaffection which has arisen among the Swiss, owing to the tyranny of Gessler, suddenly comes to a climax when one of Gessler's followers attempts an outrage upon the only daughter of the herdsman Leutold, and meets his death at the hands of the indignant father. Leutold seeks protection at the hands of Tell, who, in the face of the herdsman's pursuers, succeeds in placing him beyond the reach of danger, and this circumstance arouses the wrath of Gessler. Melchtal, the village patriarch, is accused by him of inciting the people to insubordination, and is put to death. Meanwhile Arnold, his son, is enamoured of Mathilde, Gessler's daughter, and hesitates between love and duty when he is called upon to avenge his father's death. At last duty prevails, and he joins his comrades when the men of the three cantons, who are loyal to Tell, meet and swear death to the tyrant. In the last act occurs the famous archery scene. To discover the leading offenders Gessler erects a pole in the square of Altorf, upon which he places his hat and commands the people to do homage to it. Tell refuses, and as a punishment is ordered to shoot an apple from his son's head. He successfully accomplishes the feat, but as he is about to retire Gessler observes a second arrow concealed in his garments, and inquires the reason for it, when Tell boldly replies it was intended for him in case the first had killed his son. Gessler throws him into prison, whereupon Mathilde abandons her father and determines to help in the rescue of Tell and his son. Her lover, Arnold, meanwhile, raises a band of brave followers and accomplishes the rescue himself. After slaying the tyrant and freeing his country Tell returns to his family, and Arnold and Mathilde are united. The overture to "William Tell," with its Alpine repose, its great storm-picture, the stirring "Ranz des Vaches," and the trumpet-call to freedom, is one of the most perfect and beautiful ever written, and is so familiar that it does not need analysis. The first act opens with a delightfully fresh Alpine chorus ("E il ciel sereno"), which is followed by a pastoral quartet between a fisherman, Tell, Hedwig, and Jemmy. Arnold enters, and a long duet, one of Rossini's finest inspirations, follows between Arnold and Tell. The duet is interrupted by the entrance of several of the peasants escorting two brides and bridegrooms, which is the signal for a most graceful chorus and dance ("Cinto il crine"). Leutold then appears, seeking Tell's protection, and a very dramatic finale begins, closing with the arrest of Melchtal, which leads to an ensemble of great power. The second act opens with a double chorus of huntsmen and shepherds ("Qual silvestre metro intorne"), which is followed by a scena preluding a charming romanza ("Selva opaco") sung by Mathilde. Its mild, quiet beauty is in strange contrast with the remainder of this great act. It is followed by a passionate duet with Arnold, a second and still more passionate duet between Tell and Walter, which leads to the magnificent trio of the oath ("La gloria inflammi"), and this in turn is followed by the splendid scene of the gathering of the cantons. For melodic and harmonic beauty combined, the spirited treatment of masses, and charm and variety of color, this great scene stands almost alone. The last act opens with a duet between Mathilde and Arnold, which is followed in the next scene by a march and chorus as the multitude gathers in the square of Altorf, closing with a lovely Tyrolean chorus sung by the sopranos and accompanied with the dance. The dramatic scene of the archery follows, and then Arnold has a very passionate aria ("O muto asil"). Some very vivid storm-music preluding the last scene, and the final hymn of freedom ("I boschi, i monti") close an opera which is unquestionably Rossini's masterpiece, and in which his musical ability reached its highest expression. "Manly, earnest, and mighty," Hanslick calls it; and the same authority claims that the first and second acts belong to the most beautiful achievements of the modern opera. RUBINSTEIN. Anton Gregor Rubinstein was born Nov. 30, 1829, at Weghwotynez in Russia. His mother gave him lessons at the age of four, with the result that by the time he was six she was unable to teach him anything more. He then studied the piano with Alexander Villoing, a pupil of John Field. In 1840 he entered the Paris Conservatory, where he attracted the attention of Liszt, Chopin, and Thalberg. He remained in that city eighteen months, and then made some professional tours, in which he met with extraordinary success. In 1844 his parents removed to Berlin, and he was placed under Dehn, the famous contrapuntist, to study composition. From 1846 to 1848 he taught music in Pressburg and Vienna, and then went back to Russia. For eight years he studied and wrote in St. Petersburg, and at the end of that time had accumulated a mass of manuscripts destined to make his name famous all over Europe, while his reputation as a skilful pianist was already world-wide. He visited England again in 1857, and the next year returned home and settled in St. Petersburg, about which time he was made Imperial Concert Director, with a life-pension. At this period in his career he devoted himself to the cause of music in Russia. His first great work was the foundation of the Conservatory in the above city in 1862, of which he remained principal until 1867. He also founded the Russian Musical Society in 1861, and in 1869 was decorated by the Czar. In 1870 he directed the Philharmonic and Choral Societies of Vienna, and shortly afterwards made another tour, during which, in 1872, he came to this country with the eminent violinist, Wieniawsky, as will be well remembered. His greatest works are the "Ocean Symphony," "Dramatic Symphony," and a character sketch for grand orchestra called "Ivan the Terrible;" his operas, "Children of the Heath," "Feramors," "Nero," "The Maccabees," "Dimitri Donskoi," and the "Demon;" the oratorios "Paradise Lost," and "Tower of Babel," and a long and splendid catalogue of chamber, salon, and concert music, besides some beautiful songs, which are great favorites in the concert-room. NERO. The opera of "Nero," the libretto by Jules Barbier, was first produced in Hamburg in 1879,--though it was originally intended for the French stage,--and in this country, March 14, 1887, at New York, by the American Opera Company, under the direction of Mr. Theodore Thomas, with the following cast:-- NERO Mr. CANDIDUS. JULIUS VINDEX Mr. LUDWIG. TIGELLINUS Mr. STODDARD. BALBILLUS Mr. WHITNEY. SACCUS Mr. FESSENDEN. SEVIRUS Mr. HAMILTON. TERPANDER Mr. LEE. POPPOEA SABINA Miss BERTHA PIERSON. EPICHARIS Miss CORNELIA VAN ZANTEN. CHRYSA Miss EMMA JUCH. AGRIPPINA Miss AGNES STERLING. LUPUS Miss PAULINE L'ALLEMAND. The first act opens in the house of Epicharis, a courtesan, which is a rendezvous for the dissolute Roman nobles. The guests assembled sing a chorus in praise of the establishment, followed by a scene in which Vindex, the prince of Aquitania, Saccus the poet, Terpander the citharist, and others conspire against Nero. Suddenly Chrysa, daughter of Epicharis, who is ignorant of her mother's real character and dwells apart from her, rushes in and implores the protection of Vindex from a crowd of revellers who have pursued her. A very spirited duet follows in which the prince promises her his assistance. Upon hearing the shouts of her pursuers he conceals her just in time to escape the masked band, headed by Nero himself, which bursts into the apartment. The tyrant demands the girl; and as he throws off his mask the guests stand amazed. Saccus at last breaks the spell by the suggestion that Nero shall marry the girl. When she is led out, and Vindex discovers that Epicharis is her mother, he no longer espouses her cause. Then follows the music of the mock marriage, interspersed with dance strains and sardonic choruses by the courtesans and their associates, at last rising to a wild bacchanalian frenzy, in the midst of which Vindex breaks out in a spirited song, with harp accompaniment, and finally hurls invectives at Nero, as Chrysa, who has drunk a narcotic at her mother's order, falls senseless. The latter declares she has been poisoned, and the act closes with a scene of great power in which Vindex is hurried away as Nero's prisoner. The second act opens in the dwelling of Poppoea, Nero's mistress, whose attendants are trying to console her. She has heard of Nero's new infatuation; but her apprehensions are relieved when Balbillus, the astrologer, enters and not only announces that Chrysa is dead, but tells the equally grateful news that Octavia, Nero's wife, has been condemned to die. Nero himself now appears upon the scene, and a duet follows in which Poppoea reproaches him for his fickleness and he seeks to console her with flattery. At its close the death of Octavia is announced, and Poppoea is appeased by the prospect of sharing the throne. Meanwhile Chrysa has fallen into the custody of Agrippina, Nero's mother, who keeps close charge of her to further her own ambitions. During the interview between the tyrant and his mistress, Epicharis rushes in and implores Nero to give up Chrysa, which leads to a powerful ensemble. Learning that Chrysa is still alive he leaves the apartment to find her. The second scene is brilliantly spectacular. Nero and his mother appear in front of the temple, followed by a long procession to the music of a brilliant march. They enter the temple. After a short episode, in which Poppoea informs Epicharis of the refuge Chrysa has found, the ballet is given in the open square, with its fascinating dances of warriors, bacchantes, jugglers and buffoons, and their mimic combats, the music of which is very familiar from its frequent performance in our concert-rooms. Nero then appears and announces his divinity in a finale, which is rich with scenic, spectacular, and choral effects, accompanied by full military band and orchestra. The third act opens in Chrysa's new asylum of refuge. The persecuted girl sings a beautiful prayer, at the close of which Vindex joins her in a love-duet, which will always remain as one of the most refined and noble products of Rubinstein's skill in harmony. The next number is one of almost equal beauty,--a duet for Chrysa and Epicharis, the motive of which is a cradle song. Its soothing tones are interrupted by the appearance of Nero, followed by Poppoea and Saccus, the last-named announcing to the tyrant that Rome is in flames, which leads up to a vigorous trio. The concluding scene is full of characteristic music. It shows us Nero watching the fire from his tower, while he sings a hymn ("O Ilion") to the accompaniment of his lyre; the death of Chrysa, who proclaims herself a Christian and is killed by the infuriated populace; and the fate of Epicharis, who is crushed beneath a falling house as she mourns for her daughter. The fourth act furnishes a dramatic denouement to the mournful story. The tyrant, wild with rage and frenzy, appears in the tomb of Augustus, where the shades of his murdered victims terrify him. Saccus enters and tells him of the revolt of his army and the danger which threatens him. He rushes out again and kills himself on the highway of the Campagna, just as Vindex at the head of his legions comes up with him. As he expires a cross appears in the sky and a chant is heard, herald of the coming Christianity. THOMAS. Charles Ambroise Thomas was born at Metz, Aug. 5, 1811, and entered the Paris Conservatory in 1828, where he carried off the Grand Prize in 1832, which entitled him to go to Italy. During his Italian residence he wrote a cantata, "Hermann und Ketty," and several instrumental works. His first work at the Opera Comique was the one-act opera, "La double echelle," produced in 1837 with success. He then brought out several ballets at the Académie, but returned to the Opera Comique again, where, between 1840 and 1866, he composed thirteen operas, the most successful of which were "Le Songe d'une nuit d'été" (1850), "Raymond" (1851), "Psyche" (1857), and "Mignon" (1866). During this period he also wrote a large number of cantatas, choruses, part-songs, and instrumental works. His next great work was "Hamlet," first produced March 9, 1868, the success of which gained him the position of Director of the Conservatory in 1871. Since that time he has written only the opera "Françoise de Rimini," performed April 14, 1882. In 1880 he was made a member of the Legion of Honor. In common with Gounod he now shares the honor of being one of the few French writers who hold a high rank among modern composers. MIGNON "Mignon," an opera comique in three acts, words by Barbier and Carré, the subject taken from Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister," was first produced at the Opera Comique, Paris, Nov. 17, 1866, with the following cast:-- MIGNON Mme. GALLI-MARIÉ. WILHELM MEISTER M. ACHARD. LAERTES M. CONDERS. LOTARIO M. BATAILLE. FILINA Mme. CABEL. The scene of the first two acts is laid in Germany, and of the third in Italy. Mignon, the heroine, in her childhood was stolen by gypsies. She is of noble birth. The mother died shortly after her bereavement, and the father, disguised as the harper Lotario, has wandered for years in quest of his daughter. The opera opens in the yard of a German inn, where a troupe of actors, among them Filina and Laertes, are resting, on their way to the castle of a neighboring prince, where they are to give a performance. A strolling gypsy band arrives about the same time, and stops to give an entertainment to the guests. Mignon, who is with the band, is ordered to perform the egg dance, but, worn out with fatigue and abusive treatment, refuses. Giarno, the leader, rushes at her, but the old harper interposes in her behalf. Giarno then turns upon Lotario, when the wandering student, Wilhelm Meister, suddenly appears and rescues both Mignon and the harper. To save her from any further persecution he engages her as his page, and follows on in the suite of Filina, for whom he conceives a violent and sudden passion. Touched by his kind attentions to her, Mignon falls in love with Wilhelm, who, ignorant of his page's affection, becomes more and more a prey to the fascinations of Filina. At last the troupe arrives at the castle, Wilhelm and Mignon with them. Wilhelm enters with the others, leaving Mignon to await him outside. Maddened with jealousy, she attempts to throw herself into a lake near by, but is restrained by the notes of Lotario's harp. She rushes to him for counsel and protection, and in her despair invokes vengeance upon all in the castle. As the entertainment closes, Filina and her troupe emerge, joyful over their great success. She sends Mignon back for some flowers she has left, when suddenly flames appear in the windows. Maddened by his own grief and Mignon's troubles Lotario has fired the castle. Wilhelm rushes into the burning building and brings out the unconscious Mignon in his arms. The last act opens in Lotario's home in Italy, whither Mignon has been taken, followed by Wilhelm, who has discovered her devoted attachment to him, and has freed himself from the fascinations of Filina. Through the medium of a long-concealed casket containing a girdle which Mignon had worn in her childhood, also by a prayer which she repeats, and the picture of her mother, Lotario is at last convinced that she is his daughter, and gives his blessing to her union with Wilhelm. The overture recites the leading motives of the work. The first act opens with a fresh and melodious chorus of the townspeople over their beer in the inn yard ("Su borghesi e magnati"). During their singing a characteristic march is heard, and the gypsy band enters. The scene is a charming one, the little ballet being made still more picturesque by the fresh chorus and a song of Filina's in waltz time. The scene of the encounter with Giarno and Mignon's rescue follows, and leads up to a very spirited quintet, which is followed by a graceful trio between Wilhelm, Filina, and Laertes, the actor. In the next scene Wilhelm questions Mignon as to her history, and at the end of their pathetic duet, when he says, "Were I to break thy chains and set thee free, to what beloved spot wouldst thou take thy way?" she replies in the beautiful romanza, "Non conosci il bel suol," more familiarly known in Goethe's own words, "Kennst du das Land,"--a song full of tender beauty and rare expression, and one of the most delightful inspirations of any composer. It is said that much of its charm comes from the composer's study of Ary Scheffer's picture of Mignon. Be this as it may, he has caught the inner sense of the poem, and expressed it in exquisite tones. It is followed almost immediately by a duet between Mignon and Lotario ("Leggiadre rondinelle") of almost equal beauty, known as the Swallow duet. After a somewhat uninteresting scene between Laertes, Filina, and Frederick, who is also in love with Filina, the finale begins with the departure of the actors to fulfil their engagement, in which Filina, in a graceful aria ("Grazie al gentil signor"), invites Wilhelm to be of the number. The second act opens in Filina's boudoir, where she is at her toilet, arraying herself for her part as Titania in the forthcoming performance of the "Midsummer Night's Dream" at the castle. As Wilhelm and Mignon enter the apartment, a very dramatic conversation ensues between them in the form of a terzetto ("Ohimè quell' acre riso"). Mignon is in despair at the attention Wilhelm pays Filina, and the latter adds to her pangs by singing with him a gay coquettish aria ("Gai complimenti"). As they leave the room Mignon goes to the mirror and begins adorning herself as Filina had done, hoping thereby to attract Wilhelm, singing meanwhile a characteristic song ("Conosco un zingarello") with a peculiar refrain, which the composer himself calls the "Styrienne." It is one of the most popular numbers in the opera, and when first sung in Paris made a furor. At the end of the scene Mignon goes into a cabinet to procure one of Filina's dresses, and the lovelorn Frederick enters and sings his only number in the opera, a bewitching rondo gavotte ("Filina nelle sale"). Wilhelm enters, and a quarrel between the jealous pair is prevented by the sudden appearance of Mignon in Filina's finery. She rushes between them, Frederick makes his exit in a fume, and Wilhelm announces to Mignon his intention to leave her, in the aria, "Addio, Mignon, fa core," one of the most pathetic songs in the modern opera. In the next scene she tears off her finery and rushes out expressing her hatred of Filina. The scene now changes to the park surrounding the castle where the entertainment is going on. Mignon hears the laughter and clapping of hands, and overcome with despair attempts to throw herself into the lake, but is restrained by Lotario, and a beautiful duet ensues between them ("Sofferto hai tu?"). In the next scene Filina, the actors, and their train of followers emerge from the castle, and in the midst of their joy she sings the polacca, "Ah! per stassera," which is a perfect _feu de joie_ of sparkling music, closing with a brilliant cadenza. The finale, which is very dramatic, describes the burning of the castle and the rescue of Mignon. The last act is more dramatic than musical, though it contains a few delightful numbers, among them the chorus barcarole in the first scene, "Orsu, sciogliam le vela," a song by Wilhelm ("Ah! non credea"), and the love duet, "Ah! son felice," between Wilhelm and Mignon, in which is heard again the cadenza of Filina's polacca. "Mignon" has always been a success, and will unquestionably always keep its place on the stage,--longer even than the composer's more ambitious works, "Hamlet" and "Françoise de Rimini," by virtue of its picturesqueness and poetic grace, as well as by the freshness, warmth, and richness of its melodies. In this country opera-goers will long remember "Mignon" by the great successes made by Miss Kellogg as Filina, and by Mme. Lucca and Mme. Nilsson in the title-rôle. VERDI. Giuseppi Verdi was born at Roncale, Italy, Oct. 9, 1813. He displayed his musical talent at a very early age; indeed, in his tenth year he was appointed organist in his native town. He then studied for a time at Busseto, and afterwards, by the help of a patron, M. Barezzi, went to Milan. Curiously enough he was refused a scholarship on the ground that he displayed no aptitude for music. Nothing daunted, he studied privately with the composer Lavigne, and five years afterwards commenced his career as an operatic writer. His first opera, "Oberto," was given at La Scala, Milan, with indifferent success. He was not fairly recognized until his opera "I Lombardi" was performed. In 1844 "Ernani" was received with great enthusiasm. "Attila" (1846) was his next great triumph; and then followed in rapid succession a large number of operas, among them: "I Masnadieri" (1847), written for the English stage, with Jenny Lind, Lablache, and Gardoni in the cast; "Luisa Miller" (1849); "Stifellio" (1851); "Rigoletto" (1851); "Il Trovatore," Rome (1853); "La Traviata," Venice (1853); "I Vespri Siciliani," Paris (1855); "Simon Boccanegra," Venice (1857); "Un Ballo in Maschera," Rome (1858); "La Forza del Destino," St. Petersburg (1862); "Don Carlos," Paris (1867), and "Aida," his last opera, Cairo (1871). Since that time Verdi has produced nothing but a Pater Noster and an Ave Maria (1880), and the "Requiem," composed in memory of the patriot Manzoni, and produced at Milan in 1874, on the occasion of the anniversary of his death. It has been reported that he is at work upon a new opera, "Othello," the words by Arrigo Boito, the composer of "Mephistopheles;" but nothing more than the report has been heard from it during the past three or four years. The great melodist now spends a very quiet life as a country gentleman upon his estates near Busseto. ERNANI. "Ernani," a tragic opera in four acts, words by F.M. Piave, the subject taken from Victor Hugo's tragedy of "Hernani," was first produced at Venice, March 9, 1844. The earlier performances of the opera gave the composer much trouble. Before the first production the police interfered, refusing to allow the representation of a conspiracy on the stage, so that many parts of the libretto, as well as much of the music, had to be changed. The blowing of Don Silva's horn in the last act was also objected to by one Count Mocenigo, upon the singular ground that it was disgraceful. The Count, however, was silenced more easily than the police. The chorus "Si ridesti il Leon di Castiglia" also aroused a political manifestation by the Venetians. The opera was given in Paris, Jan. 6, 1846, and there it encountered the hostility of Victor Hugo, who demanded that the libretto should be changed. To accommodate the irate poet, the words were altered, the characters were changed to Italians, and the new title of "II Proscritto" was given to the work. The action of the opera takes place in Arragon, Spain, and the period is 1519. Elvira, a noble Spanish lady, betrothed to the grandee Don Gomez de Silva, is in love with the bandit Ernani, who forms a plan to carry her off. While receiving the congratulations of her friends upon her approaching marriage with Silva, Don Carlos, the King of Spain, enters her apartment, declares his passion for her, and tries to force her from the castle. She cries for help, and Ernani comes to her rescue and defies the king. The situation is still further complicated by the sudden arrival of Silva, who declares he will avenge the insult. Finding, however, that it is the King whom he has challenged, he sues for pardon. In the second act, as the nuptials are about to be solemnized, Ernani enters, disguised as a pilgrim, and believing Elvira false to him, throws off his disguise and demands to be given up to the King, which Silva refuses, as he cannot betray a guest. Discovering, however, that Elvira and Ernani are attached to each other, he determines on vengeance. The King eventually carries off Elvira as a hostage of the faith of Silva, whereupon the latter challenges Ernani. The bandit refuses to fight with him, informs him that the King is also his rival, and asks to share in his vengeance, promising in turn to give up his life when Silva calls for it, and presenting him with a horn which he is to sound whenever he wishes to have the promise kept. In the third act, the King, aware that the conspirators are to meet in the catacombs of Aquisgrana, conceals himself there, and when the assassins meet to decide who shall kill him, he suddenly appears among them and condemns the nobles to be sent to the block. Ernani, who is a duke, under the ban of the King of Castile, demands the right to join them, but the King magnanimously pardons the conspirators and consents to the union of Ernani and Elvira. Upon the very eve of their happiness, and in the midst of their festivities, the fatal horn is heard, and true to his promise Ernani parts from Elvira and kills himself. The first act opens with a spirited chorus of banditti and mountaineers ("Allegri, beviami") as they are drinking and gambling in their mountain retreat. Ernani appears upon a neighboring height and announces himself in a despondent aria ("Come rugiada al cespite"). A brief snatch of chorus intervenes, when he breaks out in a second and more passionate strain ("Dell' esilio nel dolore"), in which he sings of his love for Elvira. The third scene opens in Elvira's apartments, and is introduced with one of the most beautiful of Verdi's arias, "Ernani, involami," with which all concert-goers have become acquainted by its frequent repetition. A graceful chorus of her ladies bearing gifts leads to a second and more florid number ("Tutto sprezzo che d' Ernani"). Don Carlos enters, and in the seventh scene has an aria ("Bella come un primo amore") in which he declares his passion for Elvira, leading up to a very dramatic duet between them ("Fiero sangue d' Aragona"). This is followed in turn by a trio between the two and Ernani. The finale commences with an impressive and sonorous bass solo ("Infelice! e tuo credevi") by Silva, and closes with a septet and chorus of great power. The second act, like the first, opens with a chorus, this time, however, of mixed voices, the power of which is amplified by a military band on the stage. After three scenes of dramatic dialogue, an impassioned duet ("Ah! morir potessi adesso!") occurs between Ernani and Elvira, followed by a second, of great dramatic intensity, in the seventh scene ("La vendetta piu tremenda"). The finale begins with a spirited appeal by Silva and Ernani for vengeance against the King ("In arcione, cavalieri") which is met by a stirring response from their followers ("Pronti vedi li tuoi cavalieri"), sung by full male chorus and closing the act. The third act is devoted to the conspiracy, and in the second scene Don Carlos has a very impressive and at times thrilling soliloquy ("Gran Dio! costo sui sepolcrali marmi"). The conspiracy then begins with very characteristic accompaniments, closing with the chorus in full harmony ("Si ridesti il Leon di Castiglia"), which at the performance of the work in Venice roused such a fury among the Venetians. The finale commences with the appearance of Don Carlos among the conspirators, and closes with the great sextet and chorus, "O Sommo Carlo." Opening with a barytone solo, it is gradually worked up in a crescendo of great power and thrilling effect. The number is very familiar from its English setting under the title, "Crowned with the Tempest." The fourth act rapidly hurries to the tragic close, and is less interesting from a musical point of view, as the climax was reached in the finale of the third. The principal numbers are the chorus of masks in the first scene ("O come felici"), accompanied by military band, and the great duet between Elvira and Ernani ("Cessaro i suoni"), which passes from rapturous ecstasy to the despair of fate ("Per noi d' amore il talamo") as the horn of Silva is heard, reminding Ernani of his promise. Though one of the earliest of Verdi's works, "Ernani" is one of his strongest in dramatic intensity, in the brilliancy and power of its concerted finales, and in the beauty of its great chorus effects. RIGOLETTO. "Rigoletto," an opera in three acts, words by Piave, the subject taken from Victor Hugo's tragedy, "Le Roi s'amuse," was first produced at Venice, March 11, 1851. The part of Gilda has always been a favorite one with great artists, among whom Nantier-Didiée, Bosio, and Miolan-Carvalho played the rôle with extraordinary success. In the London season of 1860 Mario and Ronconi in the respective parts of the Duke and Rigoletto, it is said, gave dramatic portraitures which were among the most consummate achievements of the lyric stage. The records of its first production, like those of "Ernani," are of unusual interest. Verdi himself suggested Victor Hugo's tragedy to Piave for a libretto, and he soon prepared one, changing the original title, however, to "La Maledizione." Warned by the political events of 1848, the police flatly refused to allow the representation of a king on the stage in such situations as those given to Francis I. in the original tragedy. The composer and the manager of the theatre begged in vain that the libretto should be accepted, but the authorities were obstinate. At last a way was found out of the difficulty by the chief of police himself, who was a great lover of art. He suggested to the librettist that the King should be changed to a duke of Mantua, and the title of the work to "Rigoletto," the name of the buffoon who figures in the place of the original Triboulet. Verdi accepted the alterations, and had an opera ready in forty days which by nearly all critics is considered his musical masterpiece, notwithstanding the revolting character of the story. The scene of the opera is laid in Mantua. Rigoletto, the privileged buffoon of the Duke, who also plays the part of pander in all his licentious schemes, among numerous other misdeeds has assisted his master in the seduction of the wife of Count Ceprano and the daughter of Count Monterone. The latter appears before the Duke and Rigoletto, and demands reparation for the dishonor put upon his house, only to find himself arrested by order of the Duke, and taunted in the most insolent manner by the buffoon, upon whom he invokes the vengeance of Heaven. Even the courtiers themselves are enraged at Rigoletto's taunts, and determine to assist in Monterone's revenge by stealing Gilda, the jester's daughter, whom they suppose to be his mistress. Closely as she had been concealed, she had not escaped the observation of the Duke, who in the guise of a poor student wins her affections and discovers her dwelling-place. Pretending that it is Count Ceprano's wife whom they are about to abduct, they even make Rigoletto assist in the plot and help convey his own daughter to the Duke's apartments. In his blind fury when he discovers the trick that has been played upon him, he hires Sparafucile, a professional assassin, to kill the Duke. The bravo allures the Duke to his house, intending to carry out his agreement; but his sister, Magdalena, is so fascinated with the handsome stranger, that she determines to save him. Sparafucile at first will not listen to her, but finally promises if any one else comes to the house before the time agreed upon for the murder he shall be the victim. Rigoletto meanwhile disguises his daughter in male attire in order that she may escape to Verona; but before she sets out he takes her to the vicinity of Sparafucile's house, that she may witness the perfidy of the Duke. While outside, she overhears the quarrel between Sparafucile and Magdalena, and learns his intention to murder the Duke, who is even then sleeping in the house. With a woman's devotion she springs forward to save the Duke's life, knocks at the door, and demands admittance. Sparafucile opens it, and as she enters stabs her. He then thrusts her body into a sack, and delivers it to her father as the body of the man whom he had agreed to slay. Rigoletto, gloating over his revenge, is about to throw the sack into the river near by, when he suddenly hears the voice of the Duke. He tears open the sack to see whose body it contains, and by the glare of the lightning is horrified to find that it is his own daughter, and realizes that the malediction of Monterone has been accomplished. She expires in his arms, blessing her lover and father, while he sinks to the ground overwhelmed with the fulfilment of the terrible curse. The first act opens in the ball-room of the ducal palace. After a brief dialogue between the Duke and one of his courtiers, the former vaunts his own fickleness in one of the most graceful and charming arias in the whole opera ("Questa o quella"). Some spirited dramatic scenes follow, which introduce the malediction of Monterone and the compact between Rigoletto and Sparafucile, and lead up to a scena of great power ("Io la lingua, egli ha il pugnali"), in which the buffoon vents his furious rage against the courtiers. A tender duet between Rigoletto and Gilda follows, and a second duet in the next scene between Gilda and the Duke ("Addio, speranza ed anima"), which for natural grace, passionate intensity, and fervid expression is one of Verdi's finest numbers. As the Duke leaves, Gilda, following him with her eyes, breaks out in the passionate love-song, "Caro nome," which is not alone remarkable for its delicacy and richness of melody, but also for the brilliancy of its bravura, calling for rare range and flexibility of voice. The act closes with the abduction, and gives an opportunity for a delightful male chorus ("Zitti, zitti") sung pianissimo. The second act also opens in the palace, with an aria by the Duke ("Parmi veder le lagrime"), in which he laments the loss of Gilda. Another fine chorus ("Scorrendo uniti remota via") follows, from which he learns that Gilda is already in the palace. In the fourth scene Rigoletto has another grand scena ("Cortigiani vil razza dannata"), which is intensely dramatic, expressing in its musical alternations the whole gamut of emotions, from the fury of despair to the most exquisite tenderness of appeal as he pleads with the courtiers to tell him where his daughter is. In the next scene he discovers her, and the act closes with a duet between them ("Tutte le feste al tempio"), which, after a strain of most impassioned tenderness, is interrupted by the passage of the guards conveying Monterone to prison, and then closes with a furious outburst of passion from Rigoletto. With the exception of two numbers, the last act depends for its effect upon the dramatic situations and the great power of the terrible denouement; but these two numbers are among the finest Verdi has ever given to the world. The first is the tenor solo sung in Sparafucile's house in the second scene by the Duke,--"La donna e mobile," an aria of extreme elegance and graceful abandon, which is heard again in the last scene, its lightly tripping measures contrasting strangely with the savage glee of Rigoletto, so soon to change to wails of despair as he realizes the full force of the malediction. The second is the great quartet in the third scene between the Duke, Gilda, Magdalena, and Rigoletto ("Bella figlia dell' amore"), which stands out as an inspiration in comparison with the rest of the opera, fine as its music is. The story itself is almost too repulsive for stage representation; but in beauty, freshness, originality, and dramatic expression the music of "Rigoletto" is Verdi's best; and in all this music the quartet is the masterpiece. LA TRAVIATA. "La Traviata," an opera in three acts, words by Piave, is founded upon Dumas's "Dame aux Camelias," familiar to the English stage as "Camille." The original play is supposed to represent phases of modern French life; but the Italian libretto changes the period to the year 1700, in the days of Louis XIV.; and there are also some material changes of characters,--Marguerite Gauthier of the original appearing as Violetta Valery, and Olympia as Flora Belvoix, at whose house the ball scene takes place. The opera was first produced at Venice, March 6, 1853, with the following cast of the principal parts:-- VIOLETTA Mme. DONATELLI. ALFREDO M. GRAZIANI. GERMONT M. VARESI. The opera at its first production was a complete failure, though this was due more to the singers than to the music. It is said that when the doctor announced in the third act that Mme. Donatelli, who impersonated the consumptive heroine, and who was one of the stoutest ladies ever seen on the stage, had but a few days to live, the whole audience broke out into roars of laughter. Time has brought its consolations to the composer, however, for "Traviata" is now one of the most popular operas in the modern repertory. When it was first produced in Paris, Oct. 27, 1864, Christine Nilsson made her début in it. In London, the charming little singer Mme. Piccolomini made her début in the same opera, May 24, 1856. Adelina Patti, since that time, has not only made Violetta the strongest character in her repertory, but is without question the most finished representative of the fragile heroine the stage has seen. The story as told by the librettist simply resolves itself into three principal scenes,--the supper at Violetta's house, where she makes the acquaintance of Alfred, and the rupture between them occasioned by the arrival of Alfred's father; the ball at the house of Flora; and the death scene and reconciliation, linked together by recitative, so that the dramatic unity of the original is lost to a certain extent. The first act opens with a gay party in Violetta's house. Among the crowd about her is Alfred Germont, a young man from Provence, who is passionately in love with her. The sincerity of his passion finally influences her to turn aside from her life of voluptuous pleasure and to cherish a similar sentiment for him. In the next act we find her living in seclusion with her lover in a country-house in the environs of Paris, to support which she has sold her property in the city. When Alfred discovers this he refuses to be the recipient of her bounty, and sets out for Paris to recover the property. During his absence his father, who has discovered his retreat, visits Violetta, and pleads with her to forsake Alfred, not only on his own account, but to save his family from disgrace. Touched by the father's grief, she consents, and secretly returns to Paris, where she once more resumes her old life. At a ball given by Flora Belvoix, one of Violetta's associates, Alfred meets her again, overwhelms her with reproaches, and insults her by flinging her miniature at her feet in presence of the whole company. Stung by her degradation, Violetta goes home to die, and too late Alfred learns the real sacrifice she has made. He hastens to comfort her, but she dies forgiving and blessing him. After a short prelude the first act opens with a vivacious chorus of the guests at Violetta's supper, leading to a drinking-song ("Libiamo, libiamo") in waltz time, sung first by Alfred and then by Violetta, the chorus echoing each couplet with very pretty effect. After a long dialogue between the two, closing with chorus, Violetta has a grand scena which is always a favorite show-piece with concert artists. It begins with an andante movement ("Ah! fors e lui"), expressive of the suddenly awakened love which she feels for Alfred, with a refrain of half a dozen measures in the finale which might be called the Violetta motive, and then suddenly develops into a brisk and sparkling allegro ("Sempre libera") full of the most florid and brilliant ornamentation, in which she again resolves to shut out every feeling of love and plunge into the whirl of dissipation. This number, unlike most of Verdi's finales which are concerted, closes the act. The second act opens in the country-house with an effective tenor aria ("De' miei bollenti") sung by Alfred. In the next scene Germont enters, and after a brief dialogue with Violetta sings a short cantabile ("Pura siccome un angelo"), leading to a duet ("Dite alia giovine") with Violetta which is full of tenderness. In the interview which immediately follows between Germont and Alfred, the father appeals to his son with memories of home in an andante ("Di Provenza il mar") which in form and simplicity and simple pathos of expression might almost be called a ballad. It is always a favorite, and is usually considered the best number in the opera, notwithstanding its simple melody. The next scene changes to the ball-room of Flora, and is introduced with a peculiar chorus effect. A masked chorus of gypsies, accompanying their measures with tambourines, is followed by a second chorus of matadors, also in mask, who accent the time with the pikes they carry, the double number ending with a gay bolero. The act closes with a long duet between Violetta and Alfred, developing in the finale, by the entrance of Germont, to a very strong and dramatic trio. The third act opens in Violetta's chamber with a reminiscence of the introduction. As she contemplates her changed appearance in the mirror, she bids a sad farewell to her dreams of happiness in the aria, "Addio! del passato," in harsh contrast with which is heard a bacchanalian chorus behind the scenes ("Largo al quadrupede"). In the next scene occurs the passionate duet with Alfred, "Parigi, o cara," which is a close copy of the final duet in "Trovatore" between Manrico and Azucena. It is followed by the aria, "Ah! gran Dio," for Violetta, which leads to the concluding quintet and death scene. IL TROVATORE. "II Trovatore," an opera in four acts, words by Cammarano, was first produced in Rome, Jan. 19, 1853. In 1857 it was brought out in Paris as "Le Trouvere," and in London, 1856, in English, as "The Gypsy's Vengeance." It was produced in Rome in the same year with "La Traviata," but unlike the latter, it was greeted at once with an enthusiastic welcome; and it has held the stage ever since as one of the most popular operas in the modern repertory. In this regard, indeed, it shares with "Martha" and "Faust" the highest place in popular admiration. The opera opens with a midnight scene at the palace of Aliaferia, where the old servitor, Ferrando, relates to his associates the story of the fate of Garzia, brother of the Count di Luna, in whose service they are employed. While in their cradles, Garzia was bewitched by an old gypsy, and day by day pined away. The gypsy was burned at the stake for sorcery; and in revenge Azucena, her daughter, stole the sickly child. At the opening of the opera his fate has not been discovered. As the servitor closes his narrative and he and his companions depart, the Count di Luna enters and lingers by the apartment of the Duchess Leonora, with whom he is in love. Hearing his voice, Leonora comes into the garden, supposing it is Manrico the troubadour, whom she had crowned victor at a recent tournament, and of whom she had become violently enamoured. As she greets the Count, Manrico appears upon the scene and charges her with infidelity. Recognizing her error, she flies to Manrico for protection. The Count challenges him to combat, and as they prepare to fight she falls to the ground insensible. In the second act we are introduced to a gypsy camp, where Azucena relates to Manrico, who has been wounded in the duel with the Count, the same story which Ferrando had told his friends, with the addition that when she saw her mother burning she caught up the Count's child, intending to throw it into the flames, but by a mistake sacrificed her own infant. As the story concludes, a messenger arrives, summoning Manrico to the defence of the castle of Castellar, and at the same time informing him that Leonora, supposing him dead, has gone to a convent. He arrives at the convent in time to rescue her before she takes her vows, and bears her to Castellar, which is at once besieged by the Count's forces. The third act opens in the camp of the Count, where Azucena, arrested as a spy, is dragged in. She calls upon Manrico for help. The mention of his rival's name only adds fuel to the Count's wrath, and he orders the gypsy to be burned in sight of the castle. Ferrando has already recognized her as the supposed murderer of the Count's brother, and her filial call to Manrico also reveals to him that she is his mother. He makes a desperate effort to rescue her, but is defeated, taken prisoner, and thrown into a dungeon with Azucena. Leonora vainly appeals to the Count to spare Manrico, and at last offers him her hand if he will save his life. He consents, and Leonora hastens to the prison to convey the tidings, having previously taken poison, preferring to die rather than fulfil her hateful compact. Manrico refuses his liberty, and as Leonora falls in a dying condition the Count enters and orders Manrico to be put to death at once. He is dragged away to execution, but as the Count triumphantly forces Azucena to a window and shows her the tragic scene, she reveals her secret, and informing the horror-stricken Count that he has murdered his own brother, falls lifeless to the ground. The first act opens with a ballad in mazurka time ("Abbietta Zingara"), in which Ferrando relates the story of the gypsy, leading up to a scena for Leonora, which is treated in Verdi's favorite style. It begins with an andante ("Tacea la notte placida"), a brief dialogue with her attendant Inez intervening, and then develops into an allegro ("Di tale amor") which is a brilliant bit of bravura. A brief snatch of fascinating melody behind the scenes ("Deserto sulla terra") introduces Manrico, and the act closes with a trio ("Di geloso amor sprezzato"), which as an expression of combined grief, fear, and hate, is one of the most dramatic and intense of all Verdi's finales. The second act opens with the Anvil chorus in the camp of the gypsies ("La Zingarella"), the measures accented with hammers upon the anvils. This number is so familiar that it does not need further reference. As its strains die away in the distance, Azucena breaks out into an aria of intense energy, with very expressive accompaniment ("Stride le vampa"), in which she tells the fearful story of the burning of her mother. A very dramatic dialogue with Manrico ensues, closing with a spirited aria for tenor ("Mai reggendo") and duet ("Sino all' elsa"). The scene is interrupted by the notes of a horn announcing the arrival of a messenger. The second scene is introduced by a flowing, broad, and beautifully sustained aria for the Count ("Il balen del suo"), and, like Leonora's numbers in the garden scene, again develops from a slow movement to a rapid and spirited march tempo ("Per me ora fatale"), the act closing with a powerful concerted effect of quartet and chorus. The third act is introduced with a very free and animated soldiers' chorus. Azucena is dragged in and sings a plaintive lament for Manrico ("Giorni poveri"). Two duets follow, between Azucena and the Count, and Manrico and Leonora,--the second worked up with beautiful effect by the blending of the organ in the convent chapel. The act closes with the spirited aria, "Di quella pira," for Manrico,--a number which has always been the delight of great dramatic tenors, not alone for its fine melody, but for its opportunity of showing the voice and using the exceptional high C which is introduced in the finale of the aria. The last act is replete with beautiful melodies following each other in quick succession. It opens with a very florid aria for Leonora ("D' amor sull' ali rosee"), leading to the exquisite scene of the Miserere, "Ah che la morte,"--a number which has never yet failed to charm and arouse audiences with the beauty and richness of its musical effect. As the Count enters, Leonora has another powerful aria ("Mira di acerbe"), which in the next scene is followed by the familiar duet between Azucena and Manrico, "Si la stanchezza," upon which Verdi lavished his musical skill with charming effect. The last scene closes with the tragedy. The whole opera is liberally enriched with melodies, and is dramatic throughout; but the last act is the crown of the work, and may successfully challenge comparison, for beauty, variety, and dramatic effect, with any other opera in the purely Italian school. IL BALLO IN MASCHERA. "Il Ballo in Maschera," an opera in three acts, but usually performed in four, words by M. Somma, was first produced in Rome, Feb. 17, 1859. In preparing his work for the stage, Verdi encountered numerous obstacles. The librettist used the same subject which M. Scribe had adopted for Auber's opera, "Gustavus III.," and the opera was at first called by the same name,--"Gustavo III." It was intended for production at the San Carlo, Naples, during the Carnival of 1858; but while the rehearsals were proceeding, Orsini made his memorable attempt to kill Napoleon III., and the authorities at once forbade a performance of the work, as it contained a conspiracy scene. The composer was ordered to set different words to his music, but he peremptorily refused; whereupon the manager brought suit against him, claiming forty thousand dollars damages. The disappointment nearly incited a revolution in Naples. Crowds gathered in the streets shouting, "Viva Verdi," implying at the same time, by the use of the letters in Verdi's name, the sentiment, "Viva Vittorio Emmanuele Re Di Italia." A way out of his difficulties, however, was finally suggested by the impresario at Rome, who arranged with the censorship to have the work brought out at the Teatro Apollo as "Un Ballo in Maschera." The scene was changed to Boston, Massachusetts, and the time laid in the colonial period, notwithstanding the anachronism that masked balls were unknown at that time in New England history. The Swedish king appeared as Ricardo, Count of Warwick and Governor of Boston, and his attendants as Royalists and Puritans, among them two negroes, Sam and Tom, who are very prominent among the conspirators. In this form, the Romans having no objection to the assassination of an English governor, the opera was produced with great success. The first act opens in the house of the Governor, where a large party, among them a group of conspirators, is assembled. During the meeting a petition is presented for the banishment of Ulrico, a negro sorcerer. Urged by curiosity, the Governor, disguised as a sailor and accompanied by some of his friends, pays the old witch a visit. Meanwhile another visit has been planned. Amelia, the wife of the Governor's secretary, meets the witch at night in quest of a remedy for her passion for Richard, who of course has also been fascinated by her. They arrive about the same time, and he overhears the witch telling her to go to a lonely spot, where she will find an herb potent enough to cure her of her evil desires. The Governor follows her, and during their interview the Secretary hurriedly rushes upon the scene to notify him that conspirators are on his track. He throws a veil over Amelia's face and orders Reinhart, the Secretary, to conduct her to a place of safety without seeking to know who she is. He consents, and the Governor conceals himself in the forest. The conspirators meanwhile meet the pair, and in the confusion Amelia drops her veil, thus revealing herself to Reinhart. Furious at the Governor's perfidy, he joins the conspirators. In the denouement the Secretary stabs his master at a masquerade, and the latter while dying attests the purity of Amelia, and magnanimously gives his secretary a commission appointing him to a high position in England. After a brief prelude, the first act opens with a double chorus, in which the attitude of the friends of the Governor and the conspirators against him is strongly contrasted. In the next scene Richard and his page, Oscar, enter; and after a short dialogue Richard sings a very graceful romanza ("La rivedra nell' estasi"), which in the next scene is followed by a spirited aria for Reinhart ("Di speranze e glorie piena"). In the fourth scene Oscar has a very pretty song ("Volta la terrea"), in which he defends Ulrica against the accusations of the judge, leading up to a very effective quintet and chorus which has a flavor of the opera bouffe style. In grim contrast with it comes the witch music in the next scene ("Re del abisso"), set to a weird accompaniment. As the various parties arrive, a somewhat talky trio ensues between Amelia, Ulrica, and Richard, followed in the next scene by a lovely barcarole ("Di' tu se fedele") sung by Richard, leading to a beautifully written concerted finale full of sharp dramatic contrasts. The second act opens upon a moonlight scene on the spot where murderers are punished; and Amelia, searching for the magic herb, sings a long dramatic aria ("Ma dall arido") consisting of abrupt and broken measures, the orchestra filling the gaps with characteristic accompaniment. Richard appears upon the scene, and the passionate love-duet follows, "M'ami, m'ami." The interview is ended by the sudden appearance of Reinhart, who warns the Governor of his danger, the scene taking the form of a spirited trio ("Odi tu come"). A buffo trio closes the act, Sam and Tom supplying the humorous element with their laughing refrain. The last act opens in Reinhart's house with a passionate scene between the Secretary and his wife, containing two strong numbers, a minor andante ("Morro, ma prima in grazia") for Amelia, and an aria for Reinhart ("O dolcezzo perdute"), which for originality and true artistic power is worthy of being classed as an inspiration. The conspiracy music then begins, and leads to the ball scene, which is most brilliantly worked up with orchestra, military band, and stringed quartet behind the scenes supplying the dance-music, and the accompaniment to the tragical conspiracy, in the midst of which, like a bright sunbeam, comes the page's bewitching song, "Saper vorreste." The opera closes with the death of Richard, set to a very dramatic accompaniment. "The Masked Ball" was the last work Verdi wrote for the Italian stage, and though uneven in its general effect, it contains some of his most original and striking numbers,--particularly those allotted to the page and Reinhart. In the intensity of the music and the strength of the situations it is superior even to "Trovatore," as the composer makes his effects more legitimately. AIDA. "Aida," an opera in four acts, was first produced at Cairo, Egypt, Dec. 27, 1871, and was written upon a commission from the Khedive of that country. The subject of the opera was taken from a sketch, originally written in prose, by the director of the Museum at Boulak, which was afterwards rendered into French verse by M. Camille de Locle, and translated thence into Italian for Verdi by Sig. A. Ghizlandoni. It is the last opera Verdi has composed, and is notable for his departure from the conventional Italian forms and the partial surrender he has made to the constantly increasing influence of the so-called music of the future. The subject is entirely Egyptian, and the music is full of Oriental color. The action of the opera passes in Memphis and Thebes, and the period is in the time of the Pharaohs. Aida, the heroine, is a slave, daughter of Amonasro, the King of Ethiopia, and at the opening of the opera is in captivity among the Egyptians. A secret attachment exists between herself and Rhadames, a young Egyptian warrior, who is also loved by Amneris, daughter of the sovereign of Egypt. The latter suspects that she has a rival, but does not discover her until Rhadames returns victorious from an expedition against the rebellious Amonasro, who is brought back a prisoner. The second act opens with a scene between Amneris and Aida, in which the Princess wrests the secret from the slave by pretending that Rhadames has been killed; and the truth is still further revealed when Rhadames pleads with the King to spare the lives of the captives. The latter agrees to release all but Aida and Amonasro, bestows the hand of Amneris upon the unwilling conqueror, and the act closes amid general jubilation. Acting upon Amonasro's admonitions, Aida influences Rhadames to fly from Egypt and espouse the cause of her father. The lovers are overheard by Amneris and Ramfis, the high priest. The Princess, with all the fury of a woman scorned, denounces Rhadames as a traitor. He is tried for treason and condemned to be buried alive in the vaults under the temple of the god Phtah. Pardon is offered him if he will accept the hand of Amneris, but he refuses and descends to the tomb, where he finds Aida awaiting him. The stones are sealed above them and the lovers are united in death, while Amneris, heart-broken over the tragedy her jealousy has caused, kneels in prayer before their sepulchre. After a short prelude, consisting of a beautiful pianissimo movement, mainly for the violins, and very Wagnerish in its general style, the first act opens in a hall of the King's palace at Memphis. A short dialogue between Rhadames and the priest Ramfis leads to a delicious romanza ("Celeste Aida") which is entirely fresh and original, recalling nothing that appears in any of Verdi's previous works. It is followed by a strong declamatory duet between Rhadames and Amneris, which upon the appearance of Aida develops to a trio ("Vieni, o diletta"). In the next scene the King and his retinue of ministers, priests, and warriors enter, and a majestic ensemble occurs, beginning with a martial chorus ("Su! del Nilo") in response to the appeal of the priests. As the war chorus dies away and the retinue disappears, Aida has a scena of great power. It begins with a lament for her country ("Ritorna vincitor"), in passionate declamatory phrases, clearly showing the influence of Wagner; but in its smooth, flowing cantabile in the finale, "Numi pieta," Verdi returns to the Italian style again. The final scene is full of oriental color and barbaric richness of display. The consecrated arms are delivered to Rhadames. The priestesses behind the scene to the accompaniment of harps, and the priests in front with sonorous chant, invoke the aid of the god Phtah, while other priestesses execute the sacred dance. An impressive duet between Ramfis and Rhadames closes the act. In this finale, Verdi has utilized two native Egyptian themes,--the melody sung by the priestesses with the harps, and the dance-melody given out by the flutes. The second act opens with a female chorus by the slave girls, the rhythm of which is in keeping with the oriental scene, followed by an impassioned duet between Amneris and Aida ("Alla pompa che si appresta"), through which are heard the martial strains of the returning conqueror. The second scene opens the way for another ensemble, which with its massive choruses, and its stirring march and ballet, heralding the victory of Rhadames, is one of the most picturesque stage scenes the opera has ever furnished. A solemn, plaintive strain runs through the general jubilation in the appeal of Amonasro ("Questo assisa ch' io vesto") to the King for mercy to the captives. The finale begins with the remonstrances of the priests and people against the appeals of Amonasro and Rhadames, and closes with an intensely dramatic concerted number,--a quintet set off against the successive choruses of the priests, prisoners, and people ("Gloria all' Egitto"). The third act, like the first, after a brief dialogue, opens with a lovely romanza ("O cieli azzuri") sung by Aida, and the remainder of the act is devoted to two duets,--the first between Amonasro and Aida, and the second between Rhadames and Aida. Each is very dramatic in style and passionate in declamation, while they are revelations in the direction of combining the poetic and musical elements, when compared with any of the duets in Verdi's previous operas. In the last act the first scene contains another impressive duet between Rhadames and Amneris ("Chi ti salva, o sciagurato"), ending with the despairing song of Amneris, "Ohime! morir mi sento." In the last scene the stage is divided into two parts. The upper represents the temple of Vulcan, or Phtah, crowded with priests and priestesses, chanting as the stone is closed over the subterranean entrance, while below, in the tomb, Aida and Rhadames sing their dying duet ("O terra, addio"), its strains blending with the jubilation of the priests and the measures of the priestesses' sacred dance. "Aida" is the last and unquestionably the greatest, if not the most popular, of Verdi's works. It marks a long step from the style of his other operas towards the production of dramatic effect by legitimate musical means, and shows the strong influence Wagner has had upon him. Since this work was produced, no other for the stage has come from his pen. Should he break his long silence, some new work may show that he has gone still farther in the new path. If the time for rest has come, however, to the aged composer, "Aida" will remain his masterpiece among musicians and connoisseurs, though "Trovatore" will be best loved by the people. OTHELLO. Othello has formed the subject of the following compositions: "Otello," opera in 3 acts, text by Berio, music by Rossini (1816); "Othelleri," parody by Müller, Vienna (1828); Othello, overture by Krug (1883); "Un Othello," operetta, by Legoux, Paris (1863); and "Othello," opera in 4 acts, text by Boito, music by Verdi (1886). "Othello," the last of the long and brilliant series of Verdi's operas, was completed in 1886, and first produced at the La Scala Theatre, Milan, Feb. 5, 1887, with remarkable success, Signora Pantaleoni, Signors Maurel and Tamagno taking the three leading rôles. The libretto was prepared by the accomplished Italian scholar and musician, Arrigo Boito, and closely follows the story of the Shakspearian tragedy. The curtain rises upon a scene in Cyprus. A storm is raging, and a crowd, among them Iago, Cassio, and Roderigo, watch the angry sea, speculating upon the fate of Othello's vessel, which finally arrives safely in port amid much rejoicing. After returning the welcomes of his friends he enters the castle with Cassio and Montano. The conspiracy at once begins by the disclosure of Iago to Roderigo of the means by which Cassio's ruin may be compassed. Then follows the quarrel, which is interrupted by the appearance of Othello, who deprives Cassio of his office. A love-scene ensues between Desdemona and the Moor; but in the next act the malignity of Iago has already begun to take effect, and the seeds of jealousy are sown in Othello's breast. His suspicions are freshly aroused when Desdemona intercedes in Cassio's behalf, and are changed to conviction by the handkerchief episode and Iago's artful insinuation that Cassio mutters the name of Desdemona in his sleep; at which the enraged Moor clutches him by the throat and hurls him to the ground. In the third act Iago continues his diabolical purpose, at last so inflaming Othello's mind that he denounces Desdemona for her perfidy. The act concludes with the audience to the Venetian embassy, during which he becomes enraged, strikes Desdemona, and falls in convulsions. The last act transpires in her chamber, and follows Shakspeare in all the details of the smothering of Desdemona and the death of Othello. There is no overture proper to the opera. After a few vigorous bars of prelude, the scene opens with a tempestuous and very striking description of a sea-storm by the orchestra, with the choruses of sailors and Cypriots rising above it and expressing alternate hope and terror. After a short recitative the storm dies away, and the choral phrases of rejoicing end in a pianissimo effect. A hurried recitative passage between Iago and Roderigo introduces a drinking scene in which Iago sings a very original and expressive brindisi with rollicking responses by the chorus. The quarrel follows with a vigorous and agitated accompaniment, and the act comes to a close with a beautiful love-duet between Othello and Desdemona. The second act opens with recitative which reveals all of Iago's malignity, and is followed by his monologue, in which he sings a mock Credo which is Satanic in utterance. It is accompanied with tremendous outbursts of trumpets, and leads up to a furious declamatory duet with Othello. The next number brings a grateful change. It is a graceful mandolinata, sung by children's voices and accompanied by mandolins and guitars, followed by a charming chorus of mariners, who bring shells and corals to Desdemona. The intercession episode ensues, leading to a grand dramatic quartet for Desdemona, Emilia, Iago, and Othello. The latter then sings a pathetic but stirring melody with trumpet accompaniment, the farewell to war, and the act closes with a tumultuous duet between himself and Iago. The third act opens with a very expressive duet for Othello and Desdemona, in which the growing wrath of the former and the sweet and touching unconsciousness of the other are happily contrasted. A sad monologue by Othello prepares the way for the coming outbreak. The handkerchief trio follows, in which the malignity of Iago, the indignation of Othello, and the inability of Cassio to understand the fell purpose of Iago are brought out with great force. At its close a fanfare of trumpets announces the Venetian embassy, and the finale begins with much brilliancy. Then follows the scene in which Othello smites down Desdemona. She supplicates for mercy in an aria of tender beauty, which leads up to a strong sextet. All the guests depart but Iago; and as Othello, overcome with his emotions, swoons away, the curtain falls upon Iago's contemptuous utterance, "There lies the lion of Venice." The fourth act is full of musical beauty. After an orchestral introduction in which the horn has a very effective solo, the curtain rises and the action transpires in Desdemona's chamber. The scene opens with a touching recitative between Desdemona and Emilia. While the former prepares herself for slumber she sings the "Willow Song," an unaffected melody as simple and characteristic as a folk-song. Emilia retires, and by a natural transition Desdemona sings an "Ave Maria," which is as simple and beautiful in its way as the "Willow Song." She retires to her couch, and in the silence Othello steals in, dagger in hand, the contra-basses giving out a sombre and deep-toned accompaniment which is startling in its effect. He kisses her, the motive from the love-duet appearing in the orchestra; then, after a hurried dialogue, stifles her. He then kills himself, his last words being a repetition of those in the duet, while the strings tenderly give out the melody again. FALSTAFF. "Falstaff," an opera in three acts, words by Arrigo Boito, was first performed March 12, 1893, at the Teatro alla Scala, Milan, with the following cast of characters:-- Mistress FORD Signora ZILLI NANNETTA Madame STEHLE FENTON M. GARBIN Dr. CAIUS Signor PAROLI PISTOLA Signor ARIMONDI Mistress PAGE Signora GUERRINI Mistress QUICKLY Signora PASQUA FORD Signor PINI-CORSI BARDOLFO Signor PELAGALLI-ROSSETTI FALSTAFF M. MAUREL The libretto, which is mainly based upon "The Merry Wives of Windsor," also makes some contributions upon "Henry IV.," particularly in the introduction of the monologue upon honor, and illustrates Boito's skill in adaptation as well as his remarkable powers in condensation. In the arrangement of the comedy the five acts are reduced to three. The characters Shallow, Slender, William, Page, Sir Hugh Evans, Simple, and Rugby are eliminated, leaving Falstaff, Fenton, Ford, Dr. Caius, Bardolph, Pistol, Mistress Ford, Mistress Page, Anne, Dame Quickly and three minor characters as the _dramatis personæ_, though Anne appears as Nannetta and is the daughter of Ford instead of Page. The first act opens with a scene at the Garter Inn, disclosing an interview between Falstaff and Dr. Caius, who is complaining of the ill treatment he has received from the fat Knight and his followers, but without obtaining any satisfaction. After his departure, Falstaff seeks to induce Bardolph and Pistol to carry his love-letters to Mistresses Ford and Page; but they refuse, upon the ground that their honor would be assailed, which gives occasion for the introduction of the monologue from "Henry IV." The letters are finally intrusted to a page, and the remainder of the act is devoted to the plots of the women to circumvent him, with an incidental revelation of the loves of Fenton and Nannetta, or Anne Page. In the second act, we have Falstaff's visit to Mistress Ford, as planned by the merry wives, the comical episode of his concealment in the buck-basket, and his dumping into the Thames. In the last act, undaunted by his buck-basket experiences, Falstaff accepts a fresh invitation to meet Mistress Ford in Windsor Park. In this episode occurs the fairy masquerade at Herne's Oak, in the midst of which he is set upon and beaten, ending in his complete discomfiture. Then all is explained to him; Nannetta is betrothed to Fenton; and all ends merry as a marriage bell. There is no overture. After four bars of prelude the curtain rises, and the composer introduces Dr. Caius with the single exclamation, "Falstaff," and the latter's reply, "Ho! there," which are emblematic of the declamatory character of the whole opera; for although many delightful bits of melody are scattered through it, the instrumentation really tells the story, as in the Wagner music-drama, though in this latest work of the veteran composer there is less of the Wagnerian idea than in his "Aida." The first scene is mainly humorous dialogue, but there are two notable exceptions,--the genuine lyrical music of Falstaff's song ("'Tis she with eyes like stars"), and the Honor monologue, a superb piece of recitative with a characteristic accompaniment in which the clarinets and bassoons fairly talk, as they give the negative to the Knight's sarcastic questions. The most attractive numbers of the second scene are Mistress Ford's reading of Falstaff's letter, which is exquisitely lyrical, a quartet, a capella, for the four women ("He'll surely come courting"), followed by a contrasting male quartet ("He's a foul, a ribald thief"), the act closing with the two quartets offsetting each other, and enclosing an admirable solo for Fenton. The second act opens with the interview between Dame Quickly and Falstaff, in which the instrumentation runs the whole gamut of ironical humor. Then follows the scene between Ford and Falstaff, in which the very clink of the money, and Falstaff's huge chuckles, are deliberately set forth in the orchestra with a realism which is the very height of the ridiculous, the scene closing with an expressive declamation by Ford ("Do I dream? Or, is it reality?"). The second scene of the act is mainly devoted to the ludicrous incident of the buck-basket, which is accompanied by most remarkable instrumentation; but there are one or more captivating episodes; such as Dame Quickly's description of her visit ("'Twas at the Garter Inn") and Falstaff's charming song ("Once I was Page to the Duke of Norfolk"). The third act opens in the Inn of the Garter, and discloses Falstaff soliloquizing upon his late disagreeable experiences:-- "Ho! landlord! Ungrateful world, wicked world, Guilty world! Landlord! a glass of hot sherry. Go, go thy way, John Falstaff, With thee will cease the type Of honesty, virtue, and might." As the fat Knight soliloquizes and drinks his sack the orchestra takes part in a trill given out by piccolo, and gradually taken by one instrument after the other, until the whole orchestra is in a hearty laugh and shaking with string, brass, and wood wind glee. Then enters Dame Quickly, mischief-maker, and sets the trap at Herne's Oak in Windsor Forest, into which Falstaff readily falls. The closing scene is rich with humor. It opens with a delightful love-song by Fenton ("From those sweet lips a song of love arises"). The conspirators enter one after the other, and at last Falstaff, disguised as the sable hunter. The elves are summoned, and glide about to the delicious fairy music accompanying Nannetta's beautiful song ("While we dance in the moonlight"). From this point the action hastens to the happy dénouement, and the work concludes with a fugue which is imbued with the very spirit of humor and yet is strictly constructed. While the vocal parts are extraordinary in their declamatory significance, the strength of the opera lies in the instrumentation, and its charm in the delicious fun and merriment which pervades it all and is aptly expressed in the closing lines:-- "All in this world is jesting. Man is born to be jolly, E'en from grief some happiness wresting Sure proof against melancholy." WAGNER. Richard Wagner, who has been somewhat ironically called the musician of the future, and whose music has been relegated to posterity by a considerable number of his contemporaries, was born at Leipsic, May 22, 1813. After his preliminary studies in Dresden and Leipsic, he took his first lessons in music from Cantor Weinlig. In 1836 he was appointed musical director in the theatre at Magdeburg, and later occupied the same position at Königsberg. Thence he went to Riga, where he began his opera "Rienzi." He then went to Paris by sea, was nearly shipwrecked on his way thither, and landed without money or friends. After two years of hard struggling he returned to Germany. His shipwreck and forlorn condition inspired the theme of "The Flying Dutchman," and while on his way to Dresden he passed near the castle of Wartburg, in the valley of Thuringia, whose legends inspired his well-known opera of "Tannhäuser." He next removed to Zurich, and about this time appeared "Lohengrin," one of his most favorite operas. "Tristan and Isolde" was produced in 1856, and his comic opera, "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg," three years later. In 1864 he received the patronage of King Louis of Bavaria, which enabled him to complete and perform his great work, "Der Ring der Nibelungen." He laid the foundation of the new theatre at Baireuth in 1872, and in 1875 the work was produced, and created a profound sensation all over the musical world. "Parsifal," his last opera, was first performed in 1882. His works have aroused great opposition, especially among conservative musicians, for the reason that he has set at defiance the conventional operatic forms, and in carrying out his theory of making the musical and dramatic elements of equal importance, and employing the former as the language of the latter in natural ways, has made musical declamation take the place of set melody, and swept away the customary arias, duets, quartets, and concerted numbers of the Italian school, to suit the dramatic exigencies of the situations. Besides his musical compositions, he enjoys almost equal fame as a litterateur, having written not only his own librettos, but four important works,--"Art and the Revolution," "The Art Work of the Future," "Opera and Drama," and "Judaism in Music." His music has made steady progress through the efforts of such advocates as Liszt, Von Bülow, and Richter in Germany, Pasdeloup in France, Hueffer in England, and Theodore Thomas in the United States. In 1870 he married Frau Cosima von Bülow, the daughter of Liszt,--an event which provoked almost as much comment in social circles as his operas have in musical. He died during a visit to Venice, Feb. 13, 1883. RIENZI. "Rienzi der letzte der Tribunen," a tragic opera in five acts, words by the composer, the subject taken from Bulwer's novel, "The Last of the Tribunes," was first produced at Dresden, Oct. 20, 1842, with Herr Tichatscheck, Mme. Schröder-Devrient, and Mlle. Wiest in the principal rôles. It was designed and partly completed during Wagner's stay in Riga as orchestra leader. In his Autobiography the composer says that he first read the story at Dresden in 1837, and was greatly impressed with its adaptability for opera. He began it in the fall of the same year at Riga, and says: "I had composed two numbers of it, when I found, to my annoyance, that I was again fairly on the way to the composition of music à la Adam. I put the work aside in disgust." Later he projected the scheme of a great tragic opera in five acts, and began upon it with fresh enthusiasm in the fall of 1838. By the spring of 1839 the first two acts were completed. At that time his engagement at Riga terminated, and he set out for Paris. He soon found that it would be hopeless for him to bring out the opera in that city, notwithstanding Meyerbeer had promised to assist him. He offered it to the Grand Opera and to the Renaissance, but neither would accept it. Nothing daunted, he resumed work upon it, intending it for Dresden. In October, 1842, it was at last produced in that city, and met with such success that it secured him the position of capellmeister at the Dresden opera-house. The action of the opera passes at Rome, towards the middle of the fourteenth century. The first act opens at night, in a street near the Church of St. John Lateran, and discovers Orsini, a Roman patrician, accompanied by a crowd of nobles, attempting to abduct Irene, the sister of Rienzi, a papal notary. The plot is interrupted by the entrance of Colonna, the patrician leader of another faction, who demands the girl. A quarrel ensues. Adriano, the son of Colonna, who is in love with Irene, suddenly appears and rushes to her defence. Gradually other patricians and plebeians are attracted by the tumult, among the latter, Rienzi. When he becomes aware of the insult offered his sister, he takes counsel with the Cardinal Raimondo, and they agree to rouse the people in resistance to the outrages of the nobles. Adriano is placed in an embarrassing position,--his relationship to the Colonnas urging him to join the nobles, and his love for Irene impelling him with still stronger force to make common cause with the people. He finally decides to follow Rienzi, just as the trumpets are heard calling the people to arms and Rienzi clad in full armor makes his appearance to lead them. The struggle is a short one. The nobles are overcome, and in the second act they appear at the Capitol to acknowledge their submission to Rienzi: but Adriano, who has been among them, warns Rienzi that they have plotted to kill him. Festal dances, processions, and gladiatorial combats follow, in the midst of which Orsini rushes at Rienzi and strikes at him with his dagger. Rienzi is saved by a steel breastplate under his robes. The nobles are at once seized and condemned to death. Adriano pleads with Rienzi to spare his father, and moved by his eloquence he renews the offer of pardon if they will swear submission. They take the oath only to violate it. The people rise and demand their extermination. Rienzi once more draws the sword, and Adriano in vain appeals to him to avert the slaughter. He is again successful, and on his return announces to Adriano that the Colonnas and Orsinis are no more. The latter warns him of coming revenge, and the act closes with the coronation of Rienzi. The fourth act opens at night near the church. The popular tide has now turned against Rienzi, upon the report that he is in league with the German Emperor to restore the pontiff. A festive cortége approaches, escorting him to the church. The nobles bar his way, but disperse at his command; whereupon Adriano rushes at him with drawn dagger, but the blow is averted as he hears the chant of malediction in the church, and sees its dignitaries placing the ban of excommunication against Rienzi upon its doors. He hurries to Irene, warns her that her brother's life is no longer safe, and urges her to fly with him. She repulses him, and seeks her brother, to share his dangers or die with him. She finds him at prayer in the Capitol. He counsels her to accept the offer of Adriano and save herself, but she repeats her determination to die with him. The sounds of the approaching crowd are heard outside. Rienzi makes a last appeal to them from the balcony, but the infuriated people will not listen. They set fire to the Capitol with their torches, and stone Rienzi and Irene through the windows. As the flames spread from room to room and Adriano beholds them enveloping the devoted pair, he throws away his sword, rushes into the burning building, and perishes with them. The overture of "Rienzi" is in the accepted form, for the opera was written before Wagner had made his new departure in music, and takes its principal themes, notably Rienzi's prayer for the people and the finale to the first act, from the body of the work. The general style of the whole work is vigorous and tumultuous. The first act opens with a hurly-burly of tumult between the contending factions and the people. The first scene contains a vigorous aria for the hero ("Wohl an so mög es sein"), which leads up to a fiery terzetto ("Adriano du? Wie ein Colonna!") between Rienzi, Irene, and Adriano, followed by an intensely passionate scene ("Er geht und lässt dich meinem Schutz") between the last two. The finale is a tumultuous mass of sound, through which are heard the tones of trumpets and cries of the people. It opens with a massive double chorus ("Gegrüsst, gegrüsst"), shouted by the people on the one side and the monks in the Lateran on the other, accompanied by an andante movement on the organ. It is interrupted for a brief space by the ringing appeal of Rienzi "Erstehe, hohe Roma, neu," and then closes with an energetic andante, a quartet joining the choruses. This finale is clearly Italian in form, and much to Wagner's subsequent disgust was described by Hanslick as a mixture of Donizetti and Meyerbeer, and a clear presage of the coming Verdi. The second act opens with a stately march, introducing the messengers of peace, who join in a chorus of greeting, followed by a second chorus of senators and the tender of submission made by the nobles. A terzetto between Adriano, Orsini, and Colonna, set off against a chorus of the nobles, leads up to the finale. It opens with a joyful chorus ("Erschallet feier Klänge"), followed by rapid dialogue between Orsini and Colonna on the one hand and Adriano and Rienzi on the other. A long and elaborate ballet intervenes, divided into several numbers,--an Introduction, Pyrrhic Dance, Combat of Roman Gladiators and Cavaliers, and the Dance of the Apotheosis, in which the Goddess of Peace is transformed to the Goddess, protector of Rome. The scene abruptly changes, and the act closes with a great ensemble in which the defiance of the conspirators, the tolling of bells, the chants of the monks, and the ferocious outcries of the people shouting for revenge are mingled in strong contrasts. The third act is full of tumult. After a brief prelude, amid the ringing of bells and cries of alarm, the people gather and denounce the treachery of the nobles, leading up to a spirited call to arms by Rienzi ("Ihr Römer, auf"). The people respond in furious chorus, and as the sound of the bells and battle-cries dies away Adriano enters. His scene opens with a prayer ("Gerechter Gott") for the aversion of carnage, which changes to an agitated allegro ("Wo war ich?") as he hears the great bell of the Capitol tolling the signal for slaughter. The finale begins with a massive march, as the bells and sounds of alarm are heard approaching again, and bands of citizens, priests and monks, the high clergy, senators and nobles, pass and repass in quick succession, at last followed by Rienzi, which is the signal for the great battle-hymn, "Santo spirito cavaliere," which is to be sung with great fire and energy, accompanied by great and small bells ringing behind the scenes, the clash of swords upon shields, and full power of chorus and orchestra. A dialogue follows between Adriano and Rienzi, and then the various bands disappear singing the ritornelle of the hymn. A great duet ("Lebwohl, Irene") ensues between Adriano and Irene, which in its general outlines reminds one of the duet between Raoul and Valentin in "The Huguenots." At its conclusion, after a prayer by the chorus of women, the battle hymn is heard again in the distance, gradually approaching, and the act closes with a jubilee chorus ("Auf! im Triumpf zum Capitol"), welcoming the return of the conquerors. The fourth act is short, its principal numbers being the introduction, terzetto and chorus ("Wer war's der euch hierher beschied?"), and the finale, beginning with a somewhat sombre march of the cortége accompanying Rienzi to the church, leading to the details of the conspiracy scene, and closing with the malediction of the monks, "Vae, vae tibi maledicto." The last act opens with an impressive prayer by Rienzi ("Allmacht'ger Vater"), which leads to a tender duet ("Verlässt die Kirche mich") as Irene enters, closing with a passionate aria by Rienzi ("Ich liebte glühend"). The duet is then resumed, and leads to a second and intensely passionate duet ("Du hier Irene!") between Adriano and Irene. The finale is brief, but full of energy, and is principally choral. The dénouement hurries, and the tragedy is reached amid a tumultuous outburst of voices and instruments. Unlike Wagner's other operas, in "Rienzi" set melody dominates, and the orchestra, as in the Italian school, furnishes the accompaniments. We have the regular overture, aria, duet, trio, and concerted finale; but after "Rienzi" we shall observe a change, at last becoming so radical that the composer himself threw aside his first opera as unworthy of performance. THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. "Der Fliegende Holländer," a romantic opera in three acts, words by the composer, the subject taken from Heinrich Heine's version of the legend, was first produced at Dresden, Jan. 2, 1843, with Mme. Schröder-Devrient and Herr Wechter in the two principal rôles. It was also produced in London in 1870 at Drury Lane as "L'Ollandose dannato," by Signor Arditi, with Mlle. Di Murska, Signors Foli, Perotti, and Rinaldini, and Mr. Santley in the leading parts; in 1876, by Carl Rosa as "The Flying Dutchman," an English version; and again in 1877 as "Il Vascello fantasma." In this country the opera was introduced in its English form by Miss Clara Louise Kellogg. Wagner conceived the idea of writing "The Flying Dutchman" during the storm which overtook him on his voyage from Riga to Paris. He says in his Autobiography: "'The Flying Dutchman,' whose intimate acquaintance I had made at sea, continually enchained my fancy. I had become acquainted, too, with Heinrich Heine's peculiar treatment of the legend in one portion of his 'Salon.' Especially the treatment of the delivery of this Ahasuerus of the ocean (taken by Heine from a Dutch drama of the same title) gave me everything ready to use the legend as the libretto of an opera. I came to an understanding about it with Heine himself, drew up the scheme, and gave it to M. Léon Pillet [manager of the Grand Opera], with the proposition that he should have a French libretto made from it for me." Subsequently M. Pillet purchased the libretto direct from Wagner, who consented to the transaction, as he saw no opportunity of producing the opera in Paris. It was then set by Dietsch as "Le Vaisseau fantôme," and brought out in Paris in 1842. In the mean time, not discouraged by his bad fortune, Wagner set to work, wrote the German verse, and completed the opera in seven weeks for Dresden, where it was finally performed, as already stated. Unlike "Rienzi," it met with failure both in Dresden and Berlin; but its merits were recognized by Spohr, who encouraged him to persevere in the course he had marked out. The plot of the opera is very simple. A Norwegian vessel, commanded by Daland, compelled by stress of weather, enters a port not far from her destination. At the same time a mysterious vessel, with red sails and black hull, commanded by the wandering Flying Dutchman, who is destined to sail the seas without rest until he finds a maiden who will be faithful until death, puts into the same port. The two captains meet, and Daland invites the stranger to his home. The two at last progress so rapidly in mutual favor that a marriage is agreed upon between the stranger and Senta, Daland's daughter. The latter is a dreamy, imaginative girl, who, though she has an accepted lover, Eric, is so fascinated with the legend of the stranger that she becomes convinced she is destined to save him from perdition. When he arrives with her father she recognizes him at once, and vows eternal constancy to him. In the last act, however, Eric appears and reproaches Senta with her faithlessness. The stranger overhears them, and concludes that as she has been recreant to her former lover, so too she will be untrue to him. He decides to leave her; for if he should remain, her penalty would be eternal death. As his mysterious vessel sails away Senta rushes to a cliff, and crying out that her life will be the price of his release, hurls herself into the sea, vowing to be constant to him even in death. The phantom vessel sinks, the sea grows calm, and in the distance the two figures are seen rising in the sunlight never to be parted. The overture characterizes the persons and situations of the drama, and introduces the motives which Wagner ever after used so freely,--among them the curse resting upon the Dutchman, the restless motion of the sea, the message of the Angel of Mercy personified in Senta, the personification of the Dutchman, and the song of Daland's crew. The first act opens with an introduction representing a storm, and a characteristic sailors' chorus, followed by an exquisite love-song for tenor ("Mit Gewitter und Sturm"), and a grand scena of the Dutchman ("Die Frist ist um"), which lead up to a melodious duet between the Dutchman and Daland. The act closes with the sailors' chorus as the two vessels sail away. After a brief instrumental prelude, the second act opens in Daland's home, where the melancholy Senta sits surrounded by her companions, who are spinning. To the whirring accompaniment of the violins they sing a very realistic spinning song ("Summ' und brumm du gutes Mädchen"), interrupted at intervals by the laughter of the girls as they rally Senta upon her melancholy looks. Senta replies with a weird and exquisitely melodious ballad ("Johohae! träfft ihr das Schiff im Meere an"), in which she tells the story of the Flying Dutchman, and anticipates her own destiny. The song is full of intense feelings and is characterized by a motive which frequently recurs in the opera, and is the key to the whole work. A duet follows between Eric and Senta, the melodious character of which shows that Wagner was not yet entirely freed from Italian influences. A short duet ensues between Senta and her father, and then the Dutchman appears. As they stand and gaze at each other for a long time, the orchestra meanwhile supplying the supposed emotions of each, we have a clew to the method Wagner was afterwards to employ so successfully. A duet between Senta and the Dutchman ("Wie aus der Ferne") and a terzetto with Daland close the act. The third act opens with another sailors' chorus ("Steuermann, lass' die Wacht"), and a brisk dialogue between them and the women who are bringing them provisions. The latter also hail the crew of the Dutchman's vessel, but get no reply until the wind suddenly rises, when they man the vessel and sing the refrain with which the Dutchman is continually identified. A double chorus of the two crews follows. Senta then appears accompanied by Eric, who seeks to restrain her from following the stranger in a very dramatic duet ("Was muss ich hören?"). The finale is made up of sailors' and female choruses, and a trio between Senta, Daland, and the Dutchman, which are woven together with consummate skill, and make a very effective termination to the weird story. There are no points in common between "The Flying Dutchman" and "Rienzi," except that in the former Wagner had not yet clearly freed himself from conventional melody. It is interesting as marking his first step towards the music of the future in his use of motives, his wonderful treatment of the orchestra in enforcing the expression of the text, and his combination of the voices and instrumentation in what he so aptly calls "The Music-Drama." TANNHÄUSER "Tannhäuser und der Singerkrieg auf Wartburg" ("Tannhäuser and the singers' contest at the Wartburg"), a romantic opera in three acts, words by the composer, was first produced at the Royal Opera, Dresden, Oct. 20, 1845, with Mme. Schröder-Devrient and Herr Niemann as Elizabeth and Tannhäuser. Its first performance in Paris was on March 13, 1861; but it was a failure after three representations, and was made the butt of Parisian ridicule, even Berlioz joining in the tirade. In England it was brought out in Italian at Covent Garden, May 6, 1876, though its overture was played by the London Philharmonic orchestra in 1855, Wagner himself leading. In the spring of 1842 Wagner returned from Paris to Germany, and on his way to Dresden visited the castle of Wartburg, in the Thuringian Valley, where he first conceived the idea of writing "Tannhäuser." The plot was taken from an old German tradition, which centres about the castle where the landgraves of the thirteenth century instituted peaceful contests between the Minnesingers and knightly poets. Near this castle towers the Venusberg, a dreary elevation, which, according to popular tradition, was inhabited by Holda, the goddess of Spring. Proscribed by Christianity, she took refuge in its caverns, where she was afterwards confounded with the Grecian Venus. Her court was filled with nymphs and sirens, who enticed those whose impure desires led them to its vicinity, and lured them into the caverns, from which they were supposed never to return. The first act opens in this court, and reveals Tannhäuser, the knight and minstrel, under the sway of Venus. In spite of her fascinations he succeeds in tearing himself away, and we next find him at the castle of Wartburg, the home of Hermann the Landgrave, whose daughter Elizabeth is in love with him. At the minstrel contest he enters into the lists with the other Minnesingers, and, impelled by a reckless audacity and the subtle influence of Venus, sings of the attractions of sensual pleasures. Walter, of the Vogelweide, replies with a song to virtue. Tannhäuser breaks out in renewed sensual strains, and a quarrel ensues. The knights rush upon him with their swords, but Elizabeth interposes and saves his life. He expresses his penitence, makes a pilgrimage to Rome and confesses to the Pope, who replies that, having tasted the pleasures of hell, he is forever damned, and, raising his crosier, adds: "Even as this wood cannot blossom again, so there is no pardon for thee." Elizabeth prays for him in her solitude, but her prayers apparently are of no avail. At last he returns dejected and hopeless, and in his wanderings meets Wolfram, another minstrel, also in love with Elizabeth, to whom he tells the sad story of his pilgrimage. He determines to return to the Venusberg. He hears the voices of the sirens luring him back. Wolfram seeks to detain him, but is powerless until he mentions the name of Elizabeth, when the sirens vanish and their spells lose their attraction. A funeral procession approaches in the distance, and on the bier is the form of the saintly Elizabeth. He sinks down upon the coffin and dies. As his spirit passes away his pilgrim's staff miraculously bursts out into leaf and blossom, showing that his sins have been forgiven. The overture to the opera is well known by its frequent performances as a concert number. It begins with the pilgrim's song, which, as it dies away, is succeeded by the seductive spells of the Venusberg and the voices of the sirens calling to Tannhäuser. As the whirring sounds grow fainter and fainter, the pilgrim's song is again heard gradually approaching, and at last closing the overture in a joyous burst of harmony. The first act opens with the scene in the Venusberg, accompanied by the Bacchanale music, which was written in Paris by Wagner after the opera was finished and had been performed. It is now known as "the Parisian Bacchanale." It is followed by a voluptuous scene between Tannhäuser and Venus, a long dialogue, during which the hero, seizing his harp, trolls out a song ("Doch sterblich, ach!"), the theme of which has already been given out by the overture, expressing his weariness of her companionship. The second scene transports us to a valley, above which towers the castle of Wartburg. A young shepherd, perched upon a rock, sings a pastoral invocation to Holda ("Frau Holda kam aus dem Berg hervor"), the strains of his pipe (an oboe obligato) weaving about the stately chorus of the elder pilgrims ("Zu dir wall' ich, mein Herr und Gott") as they come along the mountain paths from the castle. The scene, which is one of great beauty, closes with the lament of Tannhäuser ("Ach! schwer drückt mich der Sünden Last"), intermingled with the receding song of the pilgrims, the ringing of church-bells in the distance, and the merry notes of hunters' horns as the Landgrave and his followers approach. The meeting with Tannhäuser leads to an expressive septet, in which Wolfram has a very impressive solo ("Als du in kühnem Sange"). The second act opens in the singers' hall of the Wartburg. Elizabeth, entering joyfully, greets it in a recitation ("Froh grüss ich dich, geliebter Raum"), if we may so term it, which is characterized by a joyous but dignified dramatic appeal, recalling the scenes of her youth. The interview between Tannhäuser and Elizabeth, which follows, gives rise to a long dialogue, closing with a union of the two voices in the charming duet, "Gepriesen sei die Macht." Then follows the grand march and chorus, "Freudig begrüssen wir die edle Halle," announcing the beginning of the song contest. The stirring rhythm and bold, broad outlines of this march are so well known that it is needless to dwell upon it. The scene of the contest is declamatory throughout, and full of animation and spirit; its most salient points being the hymn of Wolfram ("O Himmel lasst dich jetzt erflehen") in honor of ideal love, and Elizabeth's appeal to the knights to spare Tannhäuser ("Zurück von ihm"), which leads up to a spirited septet and choral ensemble closing the act. In the third act we are once more in the valley of the Wartburg. After a plaintive song by Wolfram ("Wohl wusst ich hier sie im Gebet zu finden"), the chorus of the returning pilgrims is heard in the distance, working up to a magnificent crescendo as they approach and cross the stage. Elizabeth, who has been earnestly watching them to find if Tannhäuser be of their number, disappointed, sinks upon her knees and sings the touching prayer, "Allmächt'ge Jungfrau, hör mein Flehen." As she leaves the scene, Wolfram takes his harp and sings the enchanting fantasy to the evening star, "O, du mein holder Abendstern,"--a love-song to the saintly Elizabeth. Tannhäuser makes his appearance. A long declamatory dialogue ensues between himself and Wolfram, in which he recites the story of his pilgrimage. The scene is one of extraordinary power, and calls for the highest vocal and dramatic qualities in order to make it effective. From this point on, the tragedy hastens. There is the struggle once more with the sirens, and amid Wolfram's touching appeals and Tannhäuser's exclamations is heard the enticement of the Venus music. But at the name "Elizabeth" it dies away. The mists grow denser as the magic crew disappears, and through them is seen a light upon the Wartburg. The tolling of bells and the songs of mourners are heard as the cortége approaches. As Tannhäuser dies, the pilgrims' chorus again rises in ecstasy, closing with a mighty shout of "Hallelujah!" and the curtain falls. LOHENGRIN. "Lohengrin," a romantic opera in three acts, words by the composer, was first produced at Weimar, Aug. 28, 1850, the anniversary of Goethe's birthday, under the direction of Franz Liszt, and with the following cast of the leading parts:-- LOHENGRIN Herr BECK. TELRAMUND Herr MILDE. KING Herr HOFER. ELSA Frau AGATHE. ORTRUD Fraülein FASTLINGER. "Lohengrin" was begun in Paris, and finished in Switzerland during the period in which Wagner was director of the musical society as well as of the orchestra at the city theatre of Zurich, whither he had fled to escape the penalties for taking part in the political agitations and subsequent insurrection of 1849. Though it manifests a still further advancement in the development of his system, it was far from being composed according to the abstract rules he had laid down. He says explicitly on this point, in his "Music of the Future:" "The first three of these poems--'The Flying Dutchman,' 'Tannhäuser,' and 'Lohengrin'--were written by me, their music composed, and all (with the exception of 'Lohengrin') performed upon the stage, before the composition of my theoretical writings." The story of Lohengrin, the son of Parsifal, upon which Wagner has based his drama, is taken from many sources, the old Celtic legend of King Arthur, his knights, and the Holy Grail being mixed with the distinctively German legend of a knight who arrives in his boat drawn by a swan. The version used by Wagner is supposed to be told by Wolfram von Eschenbach, the Minnesinger, at one of the Wartburg contests, and is in substance as follows: Henry I., King of Germany, known as "the Fowler," arrives at Antwerp for the purpose of raising a force to help him expel the Hungarians, who are threatening his dominions. He finds Brabant in a condition of anarchy. Gottfried, the young son of the late Duke, has mysteriously disappeared, and Telramund, the husband of Ortrud, daughter of the Prince of Friesland, claims the dukedom. The claimant openly charges Elsa, sister of Gottfried, with having murdered him to obtain the sovereignty, and she is summoned before the King to submit her cause to the ordeal of battle between Telramund and any knight whom she may name. She describes a champion whom she has seen in a vision, and conjures him to appear in her behalf. After a triple summons by the heralds, he is seen approaching on the Scheldt, in a boat drawn by a swan. Before the combat Lohengrin betroths himself to Elsa, naming only the condition that she shall never question him as to his name or race. She assents, and the combat results in Telramund's defeat and public disgrace. In the second act occur the bridal ceremonies, prior to which, moved by Ortrud's entreaties, Elsa promises to obtain a reprieve for Telramund from the sentence which has been pronounced against him. At the same time Ortrud takes advantage of her success to instil doubts into Elsa's mind as to her future happiness and the faithfulness of Lohengrin. In the next scene, as the bridal cortége is about to enter the minster, Ortrud claims the right of precedence by virtue of her rank, and Telramund publicly accuses Lohengrin of sorcery. The faith of Elsa, however, is not shaken. The two conspirators are ordered to stand aside, the train enters the church, and Elsa and Lohengrin are united. The third act opens in the bridal chamber. The seeds of curiosity and distrust which Ortrud has sown in Elsa's mind have ripened, and in spite of her conviction that it will end her happiness, she questions Lohengrin with increasing vehemence, at last openly demanding to know his secret. At this juncture Telramund breaks into the apartment with four followers, intending to take the life of Lohengrin. A single blow of the knight's sword stretches him lifeless. He then places Elsa in the charge of her ladies and orders them to take her to the presence of the King, whither he also repairs. Compelled by his wife's unfortunate rashness, he discloses himself as the son of Parsifal, Knight of the Holy Grail, and announces that he must now return to its guardianship. His swan once more appears, and as he steps into the boat he bids Elsa an eternal farewell. Before he sails away, however, Ortrud declares to the wondering crowd that the swan is Elsa's brother, who has been bewitched by herself into this form, and would have been released but for Elsa's curiosity. Lohengrin at once disenchants the swan, and Gottfried appears and rushes into his sister's arms. A white dove flies through the air and takes the place of the swan, and Lohengrin sails away as Elsa dies in the embrace of her newly found brother. The Vorspiel, or prelude, to the opera takes for its subject the descent of the Holy Grail, the mysterious symbol of the Christian faith, and the Grail motive is the key to the whole work. The delicious harmonies which accompany its descent increase in warmth and power until the sacred mystery is revealed to human eyes, and then die away to a pianissimo, and gradually disappear as the angels bearing the holy vessel return to their celestial abode. The curtain rises upon a meadow on the banks of the Scheldt, showing King Henry surrounded by his vassals and retainers. After their choral declaration of allegiance, Telramund, in a long declamatory scena of great power ("Zum Sterben kam der Herzog von Brabant"), tells the story of the troubles in Brabant, and impeaches Elsa. At the King's command, Elsa appears, and in a melodious utterance of extreme simplicity and sweetness, which is called the dream motive ("Einsam in trüben Tagen"), relates the vision of the knight who is to come to her assistance. The summons of the heralds preludes the climax of the act. Amid natural outcries of popular wonderment Lohengrin appears, and, as he leaves his boat, bids farewell to his swan in a strain of delicate beauty ("Nun sei gedankt, mein lieber Schwan"). The preparations for the combat are made, but before it begins, the motive of warning is sounded by Lohengrin ("Nie sollst du mich befragen"). The finale of the act takes the form of a powerful ensemble, composed of sextet and chorus, and beginning with the prayer of the King, "Mein Herr und Gott, nun ruf ich Dich." The second act opens upon a night scene near the palace, which is merry with the wedding festivities, while the discomfited Telramund and Ortrud are plotting their conspiracy without in a long duet ("Erhebe dich, Genossin meiner Schmach"), which introduces new motives of hatred and revenge, as opposed to the Grail motive. In the second scene Elsa appears upon the balcony and sings a love-song ("Euch Lüften, die mein Klagen"), whose tenderness and confidence are in marked contrast with the doubts sown in her mind by Ortrud before the scene closes. The third scene is preluded with descriptive sunrise music by the orchestra, followed by the herald's proclamations, interspersed by choral responses, leading up to the bridal-procession music as the train moves on from the palace to the cathedral, accompanied by a stately march and choral strains, and all the artistic surroundings of a beautiful stage pageant. The progress is twice interrupted; first by Ortrud, who asserts her precedence, and second by Telramund, who, in the scena "Den dort im Glanz," accuses Lohengrin of sorcery. When Elsa still expresses her faith, the train moves on, and reaches its destination amid the acclamations of the chorus ("Heil, Elsa von Brabant!"). The third act opens in the bridal chamber with the graceful bridal song by Elsa's ladies, "Treulich gefuhrt, ziehet dahin," whose melodious strains have accompanied many unions, the world over, besides those of Elsa and Lohengrin. The second scene is an exquisite picture of the mutual outpouring of love, at first full of beauty and tenderness, but gradually darkening as Ortrud's insinuations produce their effect in Elsa's mind. Tenderly Lohengrin appeals to her, but in vain; and at last the motive of warning is heard. The fatal questions are asked, the tragedy of Telramund follows, and all is over. The last scene introduces us once more to the meadow on the Scheldt, where Lohengrin appears before the King and his vassals. In their presence he reveals himself as the son of Parsifal, in a scena of consummate power ("In fernem Land, unnahbar euren Schritten"), wherein the Grail motive reaches its fullest development. It is followed by his touching farewell, "O Elsa! nur ein Jahr an deiner Seite," the melody of which can hardly be surpassed in dignity and impressiveness. The dénouement now hastens, and Lohengrin disappears, to the accompaniment of the Grail motive. TRISTAN UND ISOLDE. "Tristan und Isolde," an opera in three acts, words by the composer, was first produced at Munich, June 10, 1865, under the direction of Hans von Bülow, with the following cast of characters:-- TRISTAN Herr LUDWIG SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD. KURWENAL Herr MITTERWURZER. KING MARK Herr ZOTTMAYER. ISOLDE Mme. SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD. BRANGOENA Mlle. DEINET. "Tristan and Isolde" was commenced in 1857 and finished in 1859, during the period in which Wagner was engaged upon his colossal work, "The Ring of the Nibelung." As early as the middle of 1852 he had finished the four dramatic poems which comprise the cyclus of the latter, and during the next three years he finished the music to "Das Rheingold" and "Die Walküre." In one of his letters he says: "In the summer of 1857 I determined to interrupt the execution of my work on the Nibelungen and begin something shorter, which should renew my connection with the stage." The legend of Tristan was selected. It is derived from the old Celtic story of "Tristram and Iseult," the version adopted by Wagner being that of Gottfried of Strasburg, a bard of the thirteenth century, though it must be said he uses it in his own manner, and at times widely departs both from the original and the mediæval poem. In "Tristan and Isolde" Wagner broke completely loose from all the conventional forms of opera. It has nothing in common with the old style of lyric entertainment. As Hueffer says, in his recent Life of Wagner: "Here is heard for the first time the unimpaired language of dramatic passion intensified by an uninterrupted flow of expressive melody. Here also the orchestra obtains that wide range of emotional expression which enables it, like the chorus of the antique tragedy, to discharge the dialogue of an overplus of lyrical elements without weakening the intensity of the situation, which it accompanies like an unceasing passionate undercurrent." In an opera like this, which is intended to commingle dramatic action, intensity of verse, and the power and charm of the music in one homogeneous whole, the reader will at once observe the difficulty of doing much more than the telling of its story, leaving the musical declamation and effects to be inferred from the text. Even Wagner himself in the original title is careful to designate the work "Ein Handlung" (an action). The vorspiel to the drama is based upon a single motive, which is worked up with consummate skill into various melodic forms, and frequently appears throughout the work. It might well be termed the motive of restless, irresistible passion. The drama opens on board a ship in which the Cornish knight, Tristan, is bearing Isolde, the unwilling Irish bride, to King Mark of Cornwall. As the vessel is nearing the land, Isolde sends Brangoena to the Knight, who is also in love with her, but holds himself aloof by reason of a blood-feud, and orders him to appear at her side. His refusal turns Isolde's affection to bitterness, and she resolves that he shall die, and that she will share death with him. She once more calls Tristan, and tells him that the time has come for him to make atonement for slaying her kinsman, Morold. She directs Brangoena to mix a death-potion and invites him to drink with her, but without her knowledge Brangoena has prepared a love-potion, which inflames their passions beyond power of restraint. Oblivious of the landing, the approach of the royal train, and all that is going on about them, they remain folded in mutual embrace. The second act opens in Cornwall, in a garden which leads to Isolde's chamber, she being already wedded to King Mark. With Brangoena she is waiting for Tristan. The King goes out upon a night hunt, and no sooner has he disappeared than Isolde gives the signal for his approach, while Brangoena goes to her station to watch. The second scene is a most elaborate love-duet between the guilty pair, the two voices at first joining ("Bist du mein? Hab'ich dich wieder?"). A passionate dialogue ensues, and then the two voices join again ("O sink' hernieder, Nacht der Liebe"). After a brief dialogue Brangoena's warning voice is heard. Absorbed in each other, they pay no heed, and once more they join in the very ecstasy of passion, so far as it can be given musical form, in the finale of the duet, "O süsse Nacht! Ew'ge Nacht! Hehr erhabne Liebes-Nacht." The treachery of Sir Melot, Tristan's pretended friend, betrays the lovers to the King. Tristan offers no explanations, but touched by the King's bitter reproaches provokes Sir Melot to combat and allows himself to be mortally wounded. The third act opens in Brittany, whither Kurwenal, Tristan's faithful henchman, has taken him. A shepherd lad watches from a neighboring height to announce the appearance of a vessel, for Kurwenal has sent for Isolde to heal his master's wound. At last the stirring strains of the shepherd's pipe signal her coming. In his delirious joy Tristan tears the bandages from his wounds, and has only strength enough left to call Isolde by name and die in her arms. Now a second vessel is seen approaching, bearing King Mark and his men. Thinking that his design is hostile, Kurwenal attempts to defend the castle, but is soon forced to yield, and dies at the feet of his master. The King exclaims against his rashness, for since he had heard Brangoena's story of the love-potion he had come to give his consent to the union of the lovers. Isolde, transfigured with grief, sings her last farewell to her lover ("Mild und leise wie er lächelt"), and expires on his body. The dying song is one of great beauty and pathos, and sadly recalls the passion of the duet in the second act, as Isolde's mournful strains are accompanied in the orchestra by the sweetly melodious motives which had been heard in it, the interweaving of the two also suggesting that in death the lovers have been reunited. THE MASTERSINGERS. "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg," a comic opera in three acts, words by the composer, was first produced at Munich, June 21, 1868, under the direction of Hans von Bülow, with the following cast: HANS SACHS Herr BETZ. WALTER Herr NACHBAUER. BECKMESSER Herr HÖLZEL. DAVID Herr SCHLOSSER. EVA Mlle. MALLINGER. MAGDALENA Mme. DIETZ. The plan of "The Mastersingers" was conceived about the same time as that of "Lohengrin," during the composer's stay at Marienbad, and occupied his attention at intervals for twenty years, as it was not finished until 1867. As is clearly apparent both from its music and text, it was intended as a satire upon the composer's critics, who had charged that he was incapable of writing melody. It is easy to see that these critics are symbolized by the old pedant Beckmesser, and that in Walter we have Wagner himself. When he is first brought in contact with the Mastersingers, and one of their number, Kothner, asks him if he gained his knowledge in any school, he replies, "The wood before the Vogelweid', 'twas there I learnt my singing;" and again he answers:-- "What winter night. What wood so bright, What book and nature brought me, What poet songs of magic might Mysteriously have taught me, On horses' tramp, On field and camp, On knights arrayed For war parade My mind its powers exerted." The story is not only one of love as between Walter and Eva, but of satirical protest as between Walter and Beckmesser, and the two subjects are illustrated not only with delicate fancy but with the liveliest of humor. The work is replete with melody. It has chorales, marches, folk-songs, duets, quintets, ensembles, and choruses, and yet the composer does not lose sight of his theories; for here we observe as characteristic a use of motives and as skilful a combination of them as can be found in any of his works. To thoroughly comprehend the story, it is necessary to understand the conditions one had to fulfil before he could be a mastersinger. First of all he must master the "Tabulatur," which included the rules and prohibitions. Then he must have the requisite acquaintance with the various methods of rhyming verse, and with the manner of fitting appropriate music to it. One who had partially mastered the Tabulatur was termed a "scholar;" the one who had thoroughly learned it, a "schoolman;" the one who could improvise verses, a "poet;" and the one who could set music to his verses, a "mastersinger." In the test there were thirty-three faults to be guarded against; and whenever the marker had chalked up seven against the candidate, he was declared to have oversung himself and lost the coveted honor. The vorspiel is a vivid delineation of mediæval German life, full of festive pomp, stirring action, glowing passion, and exuberant humor. The first act opens in the Church of St. Katherine, at Nuremberg, with the singing of a chorale to organ accompaniment. During the chorale and its interludes a quiet love-scene is being enacted between Eva, daughter of the wealthy goldsmith Veit Pogner, and Walter von Stolzing, a noble young knight. The attraction is mutual. Eva is ready to become his bride, but it is necessary that her husband should be a mastersinger. Rather than give up the hand of the fair Eva, Walter, short as the time is, determines to master the precepts and enter the lists. As Eva and her attendant, Magdalena, leave the church, the apprentices enter to arrange for the trial, among them David, the friskiest of them all, who is in love with Magdalena. He volunteers to give Walter some instructions, but they do not avail him much in the end, for the lesson is sadly disturbed by the gibes of the boys, in a scene full of musical humor. At last Pogner and Beckmesser, the marker, who is also a competitor for Eva's hand, enter from the sacristy. After a long dialogue between them the other masters assemble, Hans Sachs, the cobbler-bard, coming in last. After calling the roll, the ceremonies open with a pompous address by Pogner ("Das schöne Fest, Johannis-Tag"), in which he promises the hand of Eva, "with my gold and goods beside," to the successful singer on the morrow, which is John the Baptist's Day. After a long parley among the gossiping masters, Pogner introduces Walter as a candidate for election. He sings a charming song ("So rief der Lenz in den Wald"), and as he sings, the marker, concealed behind a screen, is heard scoring down the faults. When he displays the slate it is found to be covered with them. The masters declare him outsung and rejected, but Hans Sachs befriends him, and demands he shall have a chance for the prize. The second act discloses Pogner's house and Sachs's shop. The apprentices are busy putting up the shutters, and are singing as they work. Walter meets Eva and plots an elopement with her, but Sachs prevents them from carrying out their rash plan. Meanwhile Beckmesser makes his appearance with his lute for the purpose of serenading Eva and rehearsing the song he is to sing for the prize on the morrow. As he is about to sing, Sachs breaks out into a rollicking folk-song ("Jerum, jerum, halla, halla, he!"), in which he sings of Mother Eve and the troubles she had after she left Paradise, for want of shoes. At last he allows Beckmesser a hearing, provided he will permit him to mark the faults with his hammer upon the shoe he is making. The marker consents, and sings his song, "Den Tag seh' ich erscheinen," accompanied with excruciating roulades of the old-fashioned conventional sort; but Sachs knocks so often that his shoe is finished long before Beckmesser's song. This is his first humiliation. Before the act finishes he is plunged into still further trouble, for David suspects him of designs upon Magdalena, and a general quarrel ensues. The third act opens upon a peaceful Sunday-morning scene in the sleepy old town, and shows us Sachs sitting in his arm-chair at the window reading his Bible, and now and then expressing his hopes for Walter's success, as the great contest is soon to take place. At last he leans back, and after a brief meditation commences a characteristic song ("Wahn! wahn! Ueberall wahn!"). A long dialogue ensues between him and Walter, and then as Eva, David, Magdalena, and Beckmesser successively enter, the scene develops into a magnificent quintet, which is one of the most charming numbers in the opera. The situation then suddenly changes. The stage-setting represents an open meadow on the banks of the Pegnitz. The river is crowded with boats. The plain is covered with tents full of merrymakers. The different guilds are continually arriving. A livelier or more stirring scene can hardly be imagined than Wagner has here pictured, with its accompaniment of choruses by the various handicraftsmen, their pompous marches, and the rural strains of town pipers. At last the contest begins. Beckmesser attempts to get through his song and dismally fails. Walter follows him with the beautiful prize-song, "Morgenlich leuchtend in rosigem Schein." He wins the day and the hand of Eva. Exultant Sachs trolls out a lusty lay ("Verachtet mir der Meister nicht"), and the stirring scene ends with the acclamations of the people ("Heil Sachs! Hans Sachs! Heil Nürnberg's theurem Sachs!"). THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG. "Der Ring des Nibelungen," a trilogy, the subject taken from the Nibelungen Lied and adapted by the composer, was first conceived by Wagner during the composition of "Lohengrin." The four dramatic poems which constitute its cyclus were written as early as 1852, which will correct a very general impression that this colossal work was projected during the closing years of his life. On the contrary, it was the product of his prime. Hueffer, in his biographical sketch of Wagner, says that he hesitated between the historical and mythical principles as the subjects of his work,--Frederick the First representing the former, and Siegfried, the hero of Teutonic mythology, the latter. Siegfried was finally selected. "Wagner began at once sketching the subject, but gradually the immense breadth and grandeur of the old types began to expand under his hands, and the result was a trilogy, or rather tetralogy, of enormous dimensions, perhaps the most colossal attempt upon which the dramatic muse has ventured since the times of Æschylus." The trilogy is really in four parts,--"Das Rheingold" (the Rhinegold); "Die Walküre" (the Valkyrie); "Siegfried"; and "Die Götterdämmerung" (the Twilight of the Gods), "The Rhinegold" being in the nature of an introduction to the trilogy proper, though occupying an evening for its performance. Between the years 1852 and 1856 the composer wrote the music of the "Rhinegold" and the whole of "The Valkyrie;" and then, as he says himself, wishing to keep up his active connection with the stage, he interrupted the progress of the main scheme, and wrote "Tristan and Isolde," which occupied him from 1856 to 1859. During its composition, however, he did not entirely forsake the trilogy. In the autumn of 1856 he began "Siegfried," the composition of which was not finished until 1869, owing to many other objects which engaged his attention during this period, one of which was the composition of "The Mastersingers," which he wrote at intervals between 1861 and 1867. From the latter year until 1876, when the trilogy was produced at Baireuth, he gave himself wholly to the work of completing it and preparing it for the stage. Prior to the production of the completed work, separate parts of it were given, though Wagner strongly opposed it. "The Rhinegold," or introduction, came to a public dress-rehearsal at Munich Aug. 25, 1869, and "The Valkyrie" was performed in a similar manner in the same city, June 24, 1870, with the following cast:-- WOTAN Herr KINDERMANN. SIEGMUND Herr VOGL. HUNDING Herr BAUSERWEIN. BRÜNNHILDE Frl. STEHLE. SIEGLINDE Frau VOGL. FRICKA Frl. KAUFFMANN. The "Siegfried" and "Götterdämmerung," however, were not given until the entire work was performed in 1876. Upon the completion of his colossal task Wagner began to look about him for the locality, theatre, artists, and materials suitable for a successful representation. In the circular which he issued, narrating the circumstances which led up to the building of the Baireuth opera-house, he says: "As early as the spring of 1871 I had, quietly and unnoticed, had my eye upon Baireuth, the place I had chosen for my purpose. The idea of using the Margravian Opera-House was abandoned so soon as I saw its interior construction. But yet the peculiar character of that kindly town and its site so answered my requirements, that during the wintry latter part of the autumn of the same year I repeated my visit,--this time, however, to treat with the city authorities.... An unsurpassably beautiful and eligible plot of ground at no great distance from the town was given me on which to erect the proposed theatre. Having come to an understanding as to its erection with a man of approved inventive genius, and of rare experience in the interior arrangement of theatres, we could then intrust to an architect of equal acquaintance with theatrical building the further planning and the erection of the provisional structure. And despite the great difficulties which attended the arrangements for putting under way so unusual an undertaking, we made such progress that the laying of the corner-stone could be announced to our patrons and friends for May 22, 1872." The ceremony took place as announced, and was made still further memorable by a magnificent performance of Beethoven's Ninth or Choral Symphony, the chorus of which, set to Schiller's "Ode to Joy," was sung by hundreds of lusty German throats. In addition to the other contents of the stone, Wagner deposited the following mystic verse of his own: "I bury here a secret deep, For centuries long to lie concealed; Yet while this stone its trust shall keep, To all the secret stands revealed." He also made an eloquent address, setting forth the details of the plans and the purposes of the new temple of art. The undertaking was now fairly inaugurated. The erratic King of Bavaria had from the first been Wagner's steadfast friend and munificent patron; but not to him alone belongs the credit of the colossal project and its remarkable success. When Wagner first made known his views, other friends, among them Tausig, the eminent pianist, at once devoted themselves to his cause. In connection with a lady of high rank, Baroness von Schleinitz, he proposed to raise the sum of three hundred thousand thalers by the sale of patronage shares at three hundred thalers each, and had already entered upon the work when his death for the time dashed Wagner's hopes. Other friends, however, now came forward. An organization for the promotion of the scheme, called the "Richard Wagner Society," was started at Mannheim. Notwithstanding the ridicule which it excited, another society was formed at Vienna. Like societies began to appear in all the principal cities of Germany, and they found imitators in Milan, Pesth, Brussels, London, and New York. Shares were taken so rapidly that the success of the undertaking was no longer doubtful. Meanwhile the theatre itself was under construction. It combined several peculiarities, one of the most novel of which was the concealment of the orchestra by the sinking of the floor, so that the view of the audience could not be interrupted by the musicians and their movements. Private boxes were done away with, the arrangement of the seats being like that of an ancient amphitheatre, all of them facing the stage. Two prosceniums were constructed which gave an indefinable sense of distance to the stage-picture. To relieve the bare side walls, a row of pillars was planned, gradually widening outward and forming the end of the rows of seats, thus having the effect of a third proscenium. The stage portion of the theatre was twice as high as the rest of the building, for all the scenery was both raised and lowered, the incongruity between the two parts being concealed by a façade in front. "Whoever has rightly understood me," says Wagner, "will readily perceive that architecture itself had to acquire a new significance under the inspiration of the genius of Music, and thus that the myth of Amphion building the walls of Thebes by the notes of his lyre has yet a meaning." The theatre was completed in 1876, and in the month of August (13-16) Wagner saw the dream of his life take the form of reality. He had everything at his command,--a theatre specially constructed for his purpose; a stage which in size, scenery, mechanical arrangements, and general equipment, has not its equal in the world; an array of artists the best that Europe could produce; an orchestra almost literally composed of virtuosi. The audience which gathered at these performances--composed of princes, illustrious men in every department of science and culture, and prominent musicians from all parts of the world--was one of which any composer might have been proud, while the representation itself marked an epoch in musical history, and promulgated a new system of laws destined to affect operatic composition ever after. The casts of the various portions of the trilogy upon this memorable occasion were as follows: DAS RHEINGOLD. (PRELUDE.) WOTAN | (Herr BETZ. DONNER | (Herr GURA. | Gods FROH | (Herr UNGER. LOGE | (Herr VOGL. FASOLT | (Herr EILERS. | Giants FAFNER | (Herr VON REICHENBERG. ALBERICH | (Herr HILL. | Nibelungs MIME | (Herr SCHLOSSER. FRICKA | (Frau VON GRÜN-SADLER. FREIA |Goddesses (Frl. HAUPT. ERDA | (Frau JÄIDA. Woglinde ) ( Frl. Lilly Lehmann. Wellgunde ) Rhine daughters ( Frl. Marie Lehmann. Flosshilde ) ( Frl. Lammert. DIE WALKÜRE. SIEGMUND Herr NIEMANN. HUNDING Herr NIERING. WOTAN Herr BETZ. SIEGLINDE Frl. SCHEFZKY. BRÜNNHILDE Frau FRIEDRICH-MATERNA. FRICKA Frau VON GRÜN-SADLER. SIEGFRIED. SIEGFRIED Herr UNGER. MIME Herr SCHLOSSER. DER WANDERER Herr BETZ. ALBERICH Herr HILL. FAFNER Herr VON REICHENBERG. ERDA Frau JÄIDA. BRÜNNHILDE Frau FRIEDRICH-MATERNA DER GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG. SIEGFRIED Herr UNGER. GUNTHER Herr GURA. HAGEN Herr VON REICHENBERG. ALBERICH Herr HILL. BRÜNNHILDE Frau FRIEDRICH-MATERNA. GUTRUNE Frl. WECKERLIN. WALTRAUTE Frau JÄIDA. The motive of the drama turns upon the possession of a ring of magic qualities, made of gold stolen from the Rhine daughters by Alberich, one of the Nibelungen, who dwelt in Nebelheim, the place of mists. This ring, the symbol of all earthly power, was at the same time to bring a curse upon all who possessed it. Wotan, of the race of the gods, covetous of power and heedless of the curse which follows it, obtained the ring from Alberich by force and cunning, and soon found himself involved in calamity from which there was no apparent escape. He himself could not expiate the wrong he had done, nor could he avert the impending doom, the "twilight" of the gods, which was slowly and surely approaching. Only a free will, independent of the gods, and able to take upon itself the fault, could make reparation for the deed. At last he yields to despair. His will is broken, and instead of fearing the inevitable doom he courts it. In this sore emergency the hero appears. He belongs to an heroic race of men, the Volsungs. The unnatural union of the twins, Siegmund and Sieglinde, born of this race, produces the real hero, Siegfried. The parents pay the penalty of incest with their lives; but Siegfried remains, and Wotan watches his growth and magnificent development with eager interest. Siegfried recovers the ring from the giants, to whom Wotan had given it, by slaying a dragon which guarded the fatal treasure. Brünnhilde, the Valkyr, Wotan's daughter, contrary to his instructions, had protected Siegmund in a quarrel which resulted in his death, and was condemned by the irate god to fall into a deep sleep upon a rock surrounded by flames, where she was to remain until a hero should appear bold enough to break through the wall of fire and awaken her. Siegfried rescues her. She wakens into the full consciousness of passionate love, and yields herself to the hero, who presents her with the ring, but not before it has worked its curse upon him, so that he, faithless even in his faithfulness, wounds her whom he deeply loves, and drives her from him. Meanwhile Gunther, Gutrune, and their half-brother Hagen conspire to obtain the ring from Brünnhilde and to kill Siegfried. Through the agency of a magic draught he is induced to desert her, after once more getting the ring. He then marries Gutrune. The curse soon reaches its consummation. One day, while traversing his favorite forests on a hunting expedition, he is killed by Hagen, with Gunther's connivance. The two murderers then quarrel for the possession of the ring, and Gunther is slain. Hagen attempts to wrest it from the dead hero's finger, but shrinks back terrified as the hand is raised in warning. Brünnhilde now appears, takes the ring, and proclaims herself his true wife. She mounts her steed, and dashes into the funeral pyre of Siegfried after returning the ring to the Rhine-daughters. This supreme act of immolation breaks forever the power of the gods, as is shown by the blazing Walhalla in the sky; but at the same time justice has been satisfied, reparation has been made for the original wrong, and the free will of man becomes established as a human principle. Such are the outlines of this great story, which will be told more in detail when we come to examine the component parts of the trilogy. Dr. Ludwig Nohl, in his admirable sketch of the Nibelungen poem, as Wagner adapted it, gives us a hint of some of its inner meanings in the following extract: "Temporal power is not the highest destiny of a civilizing people. That our ancestors were conscious of this is shown in the fact that the treasure, or gold and its power, was transformed into the Holy Grail. Worldly aims give place to spiritual desires. With this interpretation of the Nibelungen myth, Wagner acknowledged the grand and eternal truth that this life is tragic throughout, and that the will which would mould a world to accord with one's desires can finally lead to no greater satisfaction than to break itself in a noble death.... It is this conquering of the world through the victory of self which Wagner conveys as the highest interpretation of our national myths. As Brünnhilde approaches the funeral pyre to sacrifice her life, the only tie still uniting her with the earth, to Siegfried, the beloved dead, she says:-- "'To the world I will give now my holiest wisdom; Not goods, nor gold, nor godlike pomp, Not house, nor lands, nor lordly state, Not wicked plottings of crafty men, Not base deceits of cunning law,-- But, blest in joy and sorrow, let only love remain.'" We now proceed to the analysis of the four divisions of the work, in which task, for obvious reasons, it will be hardly possible to do more than sketch the progress of the action, with allusions to its most striking musical features. There are no set numbers, as in the Italian opera; and merely to designate the leading motives and trace their relation to each other, to the action of the _dramatis personæ_, and to the progress of the four movements, not alone towards their own climaxes but towards the ultimate dénouement, would necessitate far more space than can be had in a work of this kind. DAS RHEINGOLD. The orchestral prelude to "The Rhinegold" is based upon a single figure, the Rhine motive, which in its changing developments pictures the calm at the bottom of the Rhine and the undulating movement of the water. The curtain rises and discloses the depths of the river, from which rise rugged ridges of rock. Around one of these, upon the summit of which glistens the Rhinegold, Woglinde, a Rhine-daughter, is swimming. Two others, Wellgunde and Flosshilde, join her; and as they play about the gleaming gold, Alberich, a dwarf, suddenly appears from a dark recess and passionately watches them. As they are making sport of him, his eye falls upon the gold and he determines to possess it. They make light of his threat, informing him that whoever shall forge a ring of this gold will have secured universal power, but before he can obtain that power he will have to renounce love. The disclosure of the secret follows a most exultant song of the Undines ("Rheingold! leuchtende Lust! wie lachst du so hell und hehr!"). In the announcement made by them also occurs the motive of the ring. The Rhine-daughters, who have fancied that Alberich will never steal the gold because he is in love with them, are soon undeceived, for he curses love, and snatches the gold and makes off with it, pursued by the disconsolate maidens, whose song changes into a sad minor leading up to the next scene. As they follow him into the dark depths the stream sinks with them and gives place to an open district with a mountain in the background, upon which is the glistening Walhalla, which the giants have just built for the gods. Wotan and Fricka are discovered awakening from sleep and joyfully contemplating it, the latter, however, filled with apprehension lest the giants shall claim Freia, the goddess of love, whom Wotan has promised to them as the reward for their work. Loge, the god of fire, however, has agreed to obtain a ransom for her. He has searched the world over, but has been unable to find anything that can excel in value or attraction the charm of love. As the gods are contemplating their castle Loge appears, and in a scene of great power, accompanied by music which vividly describes the element he dominates ("Immer ist Undank Loge's Lohn"), he narrates the tidings of his failure. The giants, however, have heard the story of the Rhinegold, and as they carry off the weeping Freia agree to release her whenever the gods will give to them the precious and all-powerful metal. As love departs, the heavens become dark and sadness overcomes the gods. They grow suddenly old and decrepit. Fricka totters and Wotan yields to despair. Darkness and decay settle down upon them. The divine wills are broken, and they are about to surrender to what seems approaching dissolution, when Wotan suddenly arouses himself and determines to go in quest of the all-powerful gold. Loge accompanies him, and the two enter the dark kingdom of the gnomes, who are constantly at work forging the metals. By virtue of his gold Alberich has already made himself master of all the gnomes, but Wotan easily overpowers him and carries him off to the mountain. The Nibelung, however, clings to his precious gold, and a struggle ensues for it. In spite of his strength and the power the ring gives to him it is wrenched from him, and the victorious Wotan leaves him free to return to his gloomy kingdom. Infuriated with disappointment over his loss and rage at his defeat, Alberich curses the ring and invokes misfortune upon him who possesses it. "May he who has it not, covet it with rage," cries the dwarf, "and may he who has it, retain it with the anguish of fear;" and with curse upon curse he disappears. Now that he has the ring, Wotan is unwilling to give it up. The other gods implore him to do so, and the giants demand their ransom. He remains inflexible; but at last Erda, the ancient divinity, to whom all things are known, past, present and future, appears to Wotan and warns him to surrender the ring. She declares that all which exists will have an end, and that a night of gloom will come upon the gods. So long as he retains the ring a curse will follow it. Her sinister foreboding so alarms him that at last he abandons the gold. Youth, pride, and strength once more return to the gods. The grand closing scene of the prelude now begins. Wotan attempts to enter Walhalla, but all is veiled in oppressive mist and heavy clouds. The mighty Donner, accompanied by Froh, climbs a high rock in the valley's slope and brandishes his hammer, summoning the clouds about him. From out their darkness its blows are heard descending upon the rock. Lightning leaps from them, and thunder-crashes follow each other with deafening sounds. The rain falls in heavy drops. Then the clouds part, and reveal the two in the midst of their storm-spell. In the distance appears Walhalla bathed in the glow of the setting sun. From their feet stretches a luminous rainbow across the valley to the castle, while out from the disappearing storm comes the sweet rainbow melody. Froh sings, "Though built lightly it looks, fast and fit is the bridge." The gods are filled with delight, but Wotan gloomily contemplates the castle as the curse of the ring recurs to him. At last a new thought comes in his mind. The hero who will make reparation is to come from the new race of mortals of his own begetting. The thought appears in the sword motive, and as its stately melody dies away, Wotan rouses from his contemplation and hails Walhalla with joy as "a shelter from shame and harm." He takes Fricka by the hand, and leading the way, followed by Froh, Freia, Donner, and Loge, the last somewhat reluctantly, the gods pass over the rainbow bridge and enter Walhalla bathed in the light of the setting sun and accompanied by the strains of a majestic march. During their passage the plaintive song of the Rhine-daughters mourning their gold comes up from the depths. Wotan pauses a moment and inquires the meaning of the sounds, and bids Loge send a message to them that the treasure shall "gleam no more for the maids." Then they pass laughingly and mockingly on through the splendor to Walhalla. The sad song still rises from the depths of the Rhine, but it is overpowered by the strains of the march, and pealing music from the castle. The curtain falls upon their laments, and the triumphant entrance of the gods into their new home. DIE WALKÜRE. In "The Valkyrie," properly the first part of the cyclus, the human drama begins. Strong races of men have come into existence, and Wotan's Valkyres watch over them, leading those who fall in battle to Walhalla, where, in the gods' companionship, they are to pass a glorious life. According to the original legend, Wotan blessed an unfruitful marriage of this race by giving the pair an apple of Hulda to eat, and the twins, Siegmund and Sieglinde, were the result of the union. When the first act opens, Siegmund has already taken a wife and Sieglinde has married the savage warrior Hunding, but neither marriage has been fruitful. It is introduced with an orchestral prelude representing a storm. The pouring of the rain is audible among the violins and the rumbling of the thunder in the deep basses. The curtain rises, disclosing the interior of a rude hut, its roof supported by the branches of an ash-tree whose trunk rises through the centre of the apartment. As the tempest rages without, Siegmund rushes in and falls exhausted by the fire. Attracted by the noise, Sieglinde appears, and observing the fallen stranger bends compassionately over him and offers him a horn of mead. As their eyes meet they watch each other with strange interest and growing emotion. While thus mutually fascinated, Hunding enters and turns an inquiring look upon Sieglinde. She explains that he is a guest worn out with fatigue and seeking shelter. Hunding orders a repast and Siegmund tells his story. Vanquished in combat by a neighboring tribe, some of whose adherents he had slain, and stripped of his arms, he fled through the storm for refuge. Hunding promises him hospitality, but challenges him to combat on the morrow, for the victims of Siegmund's wrath were Hunding's friends. As Sieglinde retires at Hunding's bidding, she casts a despairing, passionate look at Siegmund, and tries to direct his attention to a sword sticking in the ash-tree, but in vain. Hunding warns her away with a significant look, and then taking his weapons from the tree leaves Siegmund alone. The latter, sitting by the fire, falls into dejection, but is soon roused by the thought that his sire had promised he should find the sword Nothung in his time of direst need. The dying fire shoots out a sudden flame, and his eye lights upon its handle, illuminated by the blaze. The magnificent sword-melody is sounded, and in a scene of great power he hails it and sings his love for Sieglinde, whom now he can rescue. As the fire and the song die away together, Sieglinde reappears. She has drugged Hunding into a deep sleep, and in an exultant song tells Siegmund the story of the sword. They can be saved if he is strong enough to wrench it from the trunk of the ash. He recognizes his sister and folds her passionately in his arms. The storm has passed, and as the moonlight floods the room he breaks out in one of the loveliest melodies Wagner has ever written, the spring song ("Winterstürme wichen dem Wonnemond"), a song of love leading to the delights of spring; and Sieglinde in passionate response declares, "Thou art the spring for which I longed in winter's frosty embrace." The recognition is mutual, not alone of brother and sister but of lover and mistress,--the union which is destined to beget Siegfried, the hero. Seizing her in his arms, Siegmund disappears with her into the depths of the forest, and the curtain falls. The second act opens in the mountains of the gods, and discloses Wotan with spear in hand in earnest converse with Brünnhilde, his daughter, who is arrayed in the armor of a Valkyr. He tells her of the approaching combat, and bids her award the victory to Siegmund the Volsung, beloved of the gods. As she disappears among the rocks, shouting the weird cry of the Valkyres, the jealous Fricka, protector of marriage vows, comes upon the scene in a chariot drawn by rams. A stormy dialogue occurs between them, Fricka demanding the death of Siegmund as compensation for the wrong done to Hunding. Wotan at last is overcome, and consents that the Valkyres shall conduct him to Walhalla. As he yields, Brünnhilde's jubilant song is heard on the heights, and Wotan summons her and announces his changed decision. Siegmund must perish. As he stalks gloomily away among the rocks, Brünnhilde falls into deep dejection, and turns away moaning: "Alas! my Volsung! Has it come to this,--that faithless the faithful must fail thee?" As she enters a cave for her horse, the fugitives Siegmund and Sieglinde hurriedly approach, pursued by the infuriated Hunding. They stop to rest, and Sieglinde falls exhausted in his arms. The scene is marked by alternations of passionate love and fear, hope on the one side, despair on the other, vividly portrayed in the instrumentation. As the music dies away and Sieglinde rests insensible in his arms, Brünnhilde, with deep melancholy in her visage, shows herself to Siegmund. In reply to his question, "Who art thou?" she answers, "He who beholds me, to death in the battle is doomed. I shall lead thee to Walhalla." Eagerly he asks, "Shall I find in Walhalla my own father Wälse?" and she answers, "The Volsung shall find his father there." With passionate earnestness he asks, "Shall Siegmund there embrace Sieglinde?" The Valkyre replies, "The air of earth she still must breathe. Sieglinde shall not see Siegmund there." Then furiously answers Siegmund, "Then farewell to Walhalla! Where Sieglinde lives, in bliss or blight, there Siegmund will also tarry," and he raises his sword over his unconscious sister. Moved by his great love and sorrow, Brünnhilde for the first time is swayed by human emotions, and exultantly declares, "I will protect thee." Hunding's horn sounds in the distance, and soon is heard his defiant challenge to battle. Siegmund rushes to the top of one of the cloudy summits, and the clash of their arms resounds in the mists. A sudden gleam of light shows Brünnhilde hovering over Siegmund, and protecting him with her shield. As he prepares himself to deal a deadly thrust at Hunding, the angry Wotan appears in a storm-cloud and interposes his spear. Siegmund's sword is shivered to pieces. Hunding pierces his disarmed enemy, and he falls mortally wounded. Brünnhilde lifts the insensible Sieglinde upon her steed and rides away with her. Wotan, leaning upon his spear, gazes sorrowfully at the dying Volsung, and then turning to Hunding, so overcomes him with his contemptuous glance that he falls dead at his feet. "But Brünnhilde, woe to the traitor. Punishment dire is due to her treason. To horse, then. Let vengeance speed swiftly." And mounting his steed he disappears amid thunder and lightning. The last act opens in a rocky glen filled with the Valkyres calling to each other from summit to summit with wild cries as they come riding through the clouds after the combat, bearing the dead bodies of the warriors on their saddles. The scene is preluded with an orchestral number, well known in the concert-room as the "Ride of the Valkyres," which is based upon two motives, the Valkyre's call and the Valkyre melody. In picturesque description of the rush and dash of steeds, amid which are heard the wild cries of the sisters, "The Ride" is one of the most powerful numbers ever written. Brünnhilde arrives among the exultant throng in tears, bearing Sieglinde with her. She gives her the fragments of Siegmund's sword, and appeals to the other Valkyres to save her. She bids Sieglinde live, for "thou art to give birth to a Volsung," and to keep the fragments of the sword. "He that once brandishes the sword, newly welded, let him be named Siegfried, the winner of victory." Wotan's voice is now heard angrily shouting through the storm-clouds, and calling upon Brünnhilde, who vainly seeks to conceal herself among her sisters. He summons her forth from the group, and she comes forward meekly but firmly and awaits her punishment. He taxes her with violating his commands; to which she replies, "I obeyed not thy order, but thy secret wish." The answer does not avail, and he condemns her to sleep by the wayside, the victim of the first who passes. She passionately pleads for protection against dishonor, and the god consents. Placing her upon a rocky couch and kissing her brow, he takes his farewell of her in a scene which for majestic pathos has never been excelled. One forgets Wotan and the Valkyre. It is the last parting of an earthly father and daughter, illustrated with music which is the very apotheosis of grief. He then conjures Loge, the god of fire; and as he strikes his spear upon the rock, flames spring up all about her. Proudly he sings in the midst of the glare:-- "Who fears the spike Of my spear to face, He will not pierce the planted fire,"-- a melody which is to form the motive of the hero Siegfried in the next division of the work--and the curtain falls upon a scene which for power, beauty, and majesty has not its equal on the lyric stage. SIEGFRIED. The second division of the tragedy, "Siegfried," might well be called an idyl, of the forest. Its music is full of joyousness and delight. In place of the struggles of gods and combats of fierce warriors, the wild cries of Valkyres and the blendings of human passions with divine angers, we have the repose and serenity of nature, and in the midst of it all appears the hero Siegfried, true child of the woods, and as full of wild joyousness and exultant strength as one of their fauns or satyrs. It is a wonderful picture of nature, closing with an ecstatic, vision of love. After the death of Siegmund, Sieglinde takes refuge in the depths of the forest, where she gives birth to Siegfried. In her dying moments she intrusts him to Mime, who forged the ring for Alberich when he obtained possession of the Rhinegold. The young hero has developed into a handsome, manly stripling, who dominates the forests and holds its wild animals subject to his will. He calls to the birds and they answer him. He chases the deer with leaps as swift as their own. He seizes the bear and drags him into Mime's hut, much to the Nibelung's alarm. But while pursuing the wild, free life in the forest, he has dreams of greater conquests than those over nature. Heroic deeds shape themselves in his mind, and sometimes they are illuminated with dim and mysterious visions of a deeper passion. In his interviews with Mime he questions him about the world outside of the forest, its people and their actions. He tires of the woods, and longs to get away from them. Mime then shows him the fragments of his father's sword, which had been shattered upon Wotan's spear, the only legacy left her son by Sieglinde, and tells him that he who can weld them together again will have power to conquer all before him. Mime had long tried to forge a sword for Siegfried, but they were all too brittle, nor had he the skill to weld together the fragments of Siegmund's sword, Nothung. The only one who can perform that task is the hero without fear. One day Siegfried returns from a hunting expedition and undertakes it himself. He files the fragments into dust and throws it into the crucible, which he places on the fire of the forge. Then while blowing the bellows he sings a triumphant song ("Nothung! Nothung! neidliches Schwert"), which anticipates the climax towards which all the previous scenes have led. As he sings at his work Mime cogitates how he shall thwart his plans and get possession of the sword. He plots to have him kill Fafner, the giant, who has changed himself into a dragon, for the more effectual custody of the Rhine-treasure and the ring. Then when Siegfried has captured the treasure he will drug him with a poisoned broth, kill him with the sword, and seize the gold. Siegfried pours the melted steel into a mould, thrusts it into the water to cool, and then bursts out into a new song, accompanied by anvil blows, as he forges and tempers it, the motive of which has already been heard in the "Rhinegold" prelude, when Alberich made his threat. While Mime quietly mixes his potion, Siegfried fastens the hilt to his blade and polishes the sword. Then breaking out in a new song, in which are heard the motives of the fire-god and the sword, he swings it through the air, and bringing it down with force splits the anvil in twain. The music accompanying this great scene, imitating the various sounds of the forge, the flutter of the fire, the hissing of the water, the filing of the sword, and the blows upon the anvil, is realism carried to the very extreme of possibilities. The great exploit has been successful, and Siegfried at last has Siegmund's sword. Mime takes him to the cave where Fafner, the giant-dragon, guards the gold. Siegfried slays the monster, and laughs over the ease of the task. His finger is heated with the dragon's blood, and as he puts it to his lips to cool it he tastes the blood, and thus learns the language of the birds. He cares nought for the treasure, and takes only the ring and a magic helmet, which enables the wearer to assume any form. After the contest he throws himself at the foot of a tree in the forest and dreamily listens to the "Waldweben," the rustle and mysterious stirrings of the woods. Amid all these subtle, soothing sounds, pierced now and then with the songs of the birds, and distant cries in far-away sylvan recesses, he realizes that he is alone, while his old companions of the woods are together. He thinks of the mother whom he has never known, and of that mysterious being whom he has never seen, who should make the companionship he observes among the birds. The passion of love begins to assert itself vaguely and strangely, but full soon it will glow out with ardent flame. A bird flying over his head sings to him. He can understand its song and fancies it his mother's voice coming to him in the bird-notes. It tells him now he has the treasure, he should save the most beautiful of women and win her to himself. "She sleeps upon a rock, encircled with flames; but shouldst thou dare to break through them, the warrior-virgin is thine." The bird wings its flight through the forest, and Siegfried, joyously seizing his sword, follows it with swift foot, for he knows it is guiding him to Brünnhilde. The time for great deeds has come. The wild, free life of the forest is over. The third act once more shows us the god Wotan still plunged in gloom. Gazing into a deep abyss, he summons Erda, who knows the destiny of all the world, to question her again as to the twilight of the gods. The mysterious figure appears at his bidding, but has nothing further to communicate. Their doom is certain. The fearless race of men is destined to efface the gods, and Walhalla must disappear. The hero is at hand, and coming rapidly. The despairing Wotan, who appears in this scene as "Der Wanderer" (the wanderer), cries out, "So be it. It is to this end I aspire." He turns gloomily away, and confronts Siegfried bounding from rock to rock like a deer, still following his airy guide. The god angrily tries to bar his way, but in vain. His lance is shattered at a single blow of the sword Nothung, which he himself had once so easily shivered. It is the first catastrophe of the final fate which is approaching. The hero without fear has come, the free will of man has begun to manifest itself. The power of the gods is breaking. Joyously Siegfried rushes on over the rocks. He is soon bathed in the glow of the fire, which casts weird shadows through the wild glen. Now the burning wall of red flames is before him. With a ringing cry of exultation he dashes through them, and before him lies the sleeping maiden in her glistening armor. Mad with her beauty and his own overpowering passion, he springs to her side and wakes her with a kiss. The Volsung and the Valkyr gaze at each other a long time in silence. Brünnhilde strives to comprehend her situation, and to recall the events that led up to her penalty, while love grows within her for the hero who has rescued her, and Siegfried is transfixed by the majesty of the maiden. As she comes to herself and fully realizes who is the hero before her and foresees the approaching doom, she earnestly appeals to him:-- "Leave, ah, leave, Leave me unlost, Force on me not Thy fiery nearness. Shiver me not With thy shattering will, And lay me not waste in thy love." What is preordained cannot be changed. Siegfried replies with growing passion, and Brünnhilde at last yields, and the two join in an outburst of exultant song:-- "Away, Walhalla, In dust crumble Thy myriad towers. Farewell, greatness, And gift of the gods. You, Norns, unravel The rope of runes. Darken upwards, Dusk of the gods. Night of annulment, Draw near with thy cloud. I stand in sight Of Siegfried's star. For me he was, And for me he will ever be." With this great duet, which is one of the most extraordinary numbers in the trilogy for dramatic power and musical expression of human emotion, this division closes. DIE GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG. The last division of the tragedy opens under the shade of a huge ash-tree where the three Fates sit spinning and weaving out human destinies. As they toss their thread from one to the other,--the thread they have been spinning since time began,--they foresee the gloom which is coming. Suddenly it snaps in their fingers, whereupon the dark sisters crowding closely together descend to the depths of the earth to consult with the ancient Erda and seek shelter near her. Meanwhile as day breaks Siegfried and Brünnhilde emerge from the glen where they have been reposing in mutual happiness. Brünnhilde has told her lover the story of the gods and the secrets of the mystic runes, but he is still unsatisfied. His mission is not yet fulfilled. He must away to perform new deeds. Before he leaves her he gives her the ring as his pledge of fidelity, and they part, after exchanging mutual vows of love and constancy. In his search for further exploits, Siegfried arrives at the dwelling of Gunter, a powerful Rhenish chief, head of the Gibichungen, another race of heroes, where also resides Gutrune, his fascinating sister, and the evil Hagen, begotten by Alberich of Crimhilda, Gunter's mother, who was the victim of his gold. Alberich's hatred of the gods and all connected with them is shared by his son, who has been charged by the Nibelung to recover the gold. From this point the tragic denouement rapidly progresses. Siegfried's horn is heard in the distance, and he soon crosses Gunter's threshold, where his ruin is being plotted by the sinister Hagen. He is hospitably received, and at Hagen's bidding Gutrune pours out and offers him a draught so cunningly mixed that it will efface all past remembrances. He is completely infatuated with the girl's beauty, and as the potion takes effect, the love for Brünnhilde disappears. He demands Gutrune in marriage, and Hagen promises her upon condition that he will bring Brünnhilde as a bride for Gunter. Siegfried departs upon the fatal errand, and after taking from her the ring drags her by force to deliver her to Gunter. The Valkyr rises to a sublime height of anger over her betrayal, and dooms Siegfried to death in the approaching hunt, for by death alone she knows that she can regain his love. The last act opens in a rocky glen on the banks of the Rhine, the ripple of whose waters is repeated in the melody of "The Rhinegold." Siegfried is separated from his companion, and while alone, the song of the Rhine-daughters is heard. They rise to the surface of the gleaming water and demand their gold, but Siegfried refuses to restore it. They warn him again to fly from the curse, but he proudly exclaims that his sword is invincible and can crush the Norns. Sadly they float away to the sound of harps shimmering over the water. Gunter's horn is heard among the hills, and Siegfried exultantly answers it. The huntsmen assemble and prepare for a feast. Siegfried relates his adventure with the Rhine-daughters, and when Hagen asks him if it is true that he can understand the language of the birds, he tells the whole story of his life in the "Rheinfahrt," a song built up of all the motives which have been heard in the "Siegfried" division,--the melody of the sword, the stir of the woods, the song of the mysterious bird, Mime's enticement, the love of Brünnhilde, and the flaming fire following each other in rapid and brilliant succession through the measures of the picturesque description. As the song dies away, two ravens, messengers of ill-omen, fly across the stage. The curse motive sounds gloomily through the orchestra. Hagen springs to his feet and suddenly and treacherously plunges his spear into Siegfried's back, then sullenly leaves and disappears among the rocks. The hero falls to the earth and dies, breathing Brünnhilde's name, for in the last supreme moment the spell of Hagen's draught passes away. With his last breath he breaks out in a death-song of surpassing beauty and majesty, in which the motives are those of the Volsung and the Valkyr, as well as of the destiny which is to reunite them in death. Once more he murmurs the name of Brünnhilde, and then his companions tenderly place him upon his shield, and lifting him upon their shoulders carry him to the misty summits and disappear in the cloud, to the mighty and impressive strains of a funeral march, built up on the motives of Siegmund, the love-duet of Siegmund and Sieglinde, the sword and Volsung motives, and Siegfried's great theme. In the interweaving of these motives and their sombre coloring, in massive fortissimo and crescendo effects, in expressive musical delineation, and in majestic solemnity, the Siegfried funeral march must take precedence of all other dirges. In truth it is a colossal and heroic funeral poem fit to celebrate the death of a demigod. In the last scene Siegfried's body is borne back to the hall of the Gibichungs amid loud lamenting. When Gutrune learns what has occurred, she bitterly curses Hagen and throws herself on Siegfried's corpse. Hagen and Gunter quarrel for the possession of the ring, and Gunter is slain; but when Hagen tries to take the ring, the hand of the dead hero is raised in warning. Then Brünnhilde solemnly and proudly advances in the light of the torches and bids the empty clamor cease, for "this is no lamenting worthy of a hero." She orders a funeral pyre to be built, and Siegfried is laid thereon. She contemplates the dead hero with passionate love and sadness, and then solemnly turning to those about her, exclaims: "Those who efface the fault of the gods are predestined to suffering and death. Let one sacrifice end the curse. Let the Ring be purified by fire, the waters dissolve it forever. The end of the gods is at hand. But though I leave the world masterless, I give it this precious treasure. In joy or in suffering, happiness can alone come from love." She seizes a burning brand, and invoking Loge, god of fire, flings it into the pyre. Her horse is brought to her, and she proudly mounts it:-- "Grane, my horse, Hail to thee here! Knowest thou, friend, How far I shall need thee? Heiaho! Grane! Greeting to him. Siegfried! See, Brünnhilde Joyously hails thee, thy bride." She swings herself upon her steed and dashes into the furious flames. At last they die away, and the Rhine rushes forward from its banks and covers the pyre. The exultant Rhine-daughters are swimming in the flood, for Brünnhilde has thrown them the ring. Hagen makes a last desperate effort to clutch it, but Woglinde and Wellgunde wind their arms about him, and as they drag him into the depths Flosshilde holds the ring above the waters, and the exultant song of the Rhine-daughters is heard above the swelling tide, while far in the distance a red flame spreads among the clouds. Walhalla is blazing in the sky. The Dusk of the Gods has come. Reparation has been made. The hero without fear is victorious. Free will, independent of the gods, will rule the world, and the gods themselves are lost in the human creation. Love is given to men, and conquers death. PARSIFAL. "Parsifal," a "Bühnenweihfestspiel" (festival acting-drama), words by Wagner, was concluded in 1879, and first produced at Baireuth, July 22, 1882, only about seven months before the distinguished composer's death, with Mme. Friedrich-Materna as Kundry, Herr Winckelmann as Parsifal, and Herr Scaria as Gurnemanz. The theme of the opera is taken from the cycle of Holy Grail myths to which "Lohengrin" also belongs. The reader will remember that Lohengrin in his final address declares himself son of Parsifal, the King of the Grail; and it is with this Parsifal that Wagner's last work is concerned. Parsifal, like Siegfried, represents free human nature in its spontaneous, impulsive action. He is styled in the text, "Der reine Thor" (the guileless fool), who, in consonance with the old mythological idea, overcomes the evil principle and gains the crown by dint of pure natural impulse. The opera differs widely from "The Nibelung Ring." The composer has used the free instead of the alliterative form of verse, which he then contended was best adapted to musical setting. In "The Ring" the chorus is not introduced at all until the last division is reached, while in "Parsifal" it plays an important part in every act, in the second scene of the first act there being three choirs on the stage at a time. Still there is no trace of the aria, the duet, or the recitative, of the Italian style, though there is plenty of concerted music, which grows out of the dramatic necessities of the situations. When these necessities do not urge themselves, the music flows on in dialogue form, as in "The Ring." The vorspiel is based upon three motives connected with the mystery of the Grail, which forms the key-note of the opera, though in a different aspect from that which the Grail assumes in "Lohengrin," where it can only be visible to the eye of faith, while in "Parsifal" it distinctly performs its wonders. Let it be remembered that the Grail is the chalice from which Christ drank with his disciples at the Last Supper, and in which his blood was received at the cross. The first of these motives is of the same general character as the Grail motive in the "Lohengrin" vorspiel; the second is an impressive phrase for trumpets and trombones, which will be heard again when the Knights of the Grail are summoned to their duties; and the third is a broad, dignified melody in the chorale form. The action of the drama occurs in the north of Spain, and in the vicinity of Monsalvat, the Castle of the Holy Grail, where this chalice was brought by angels when Christianity was in danger. The curtain rises upon a lovely forest glade on the borders of a lake, at daybreak, and discovers the Grail Knight, Gurnemanz, and two young shield-bearers, guardians of the castle, sleeping at the foot of a tree. Trumpet-calls, repeating the motive first heard in the prelude, arouse them from their sleep; and as they offer up their morning prayer the chorale is heard again. As they wend their way to the castle, they meet two knights preceding the litter upon which the wounded Amfortas, King of the Grail, is carried. In the subsequent dialogue Gurnemanz tells the story of the King's mishap. He is suffering from a wound which refuses to close, and which has been inflicted by the sacred spear,--the spear, according to the legend, with which our Saviour's side was pierced. Klingsor, a magician, had aspired to become a knight of the Grail, but his application was refused; for only those of holy lives could watch the sacred vessel and perform its ministrations. In revenge, Klingsor studied the magic arts and created for himself a fairy palace, which he peopled with beautiful women, whose sole duty it was to seduce the Knights of the Grail. One of these women, a mysterious creature of wonderful fascinations, Kundry by name, had beguiled Amfortas, who thus fell into the power of Klingsor. He lost his spear, and received from it a wound which will never heal so long as it remains in the hands of the magician. In a vision he has been told to wait for the one who has been appointed to cure him. A voice from the Grail tells him the following mystery:-- "Durch Mitleid wissend, Der reine Thor, Harre sein' Den ich erkor." ["Let a guileless fool only, knowing by compassion, await him whom I have chosen."] Meanwhile, as the shield-bearers are carrying Amfortas towards the lake, the savage, mysterious Kundry is seen flying over the fields. She overtakes Gurnemanz and gives him a balm, saying that if it will not help the King, nothing in Arabia can, and then, refusing to accept thanks or reveal her identity, sinks to the ground in weariness. The King takes the drug with gratitude; but she scorns thanks, and sneers at those about her with savage irony. Gurnemanz's companions are about to seize her, but the old Knight warns them that she is living incarnate to expiate the sins of a former life, and that in serving the Order of the Grail she is purchasing back her own redemption. As Gurnemanz concludes, cries are heard in the wood, and two knights, approaching, announce that a swan, the bird sacred to the Grail, which was winging its way over the lake, and which the King had hailed as a happy omen, has been shot. Parsifal, the murderer, is dragged in, and when questioned by Gurnemanz, is unaware that he has committed any offence. To every question he only answers he does not know. When asked who is his mother, Kundry answers for him: "His mother brought him an orphan into the world, and kept him like a fool in the forest, a stranger to arms, so that he should escape a premature death; but he fled from her and followed the wild life of nature. Her grief is over, for she is dead." Whereupon Parsifal flies at her and seizes her by the throat; but Gurnemanz holds him back, and Kundry sinks down exhausted. Parsifal answers to the "Thor," but it remains to be seen whether he is the "reine Thor." Gurnemanz conducts him to the temple where the holy rites of the Grail are to be performed, hoping he is the redeemer whom the Grail will disclose when the love-feast of the Saviour is celebrated. The scene changes to the great hall of the castle and the celebration of the feast of the Grail. The scene is introduced with a solemn march by full orchestra, including trombones on the stage, accompanied by the clanging of bells as the knights enter in stately procession. They sing a pious chant in unison, the march theme still sounding. As the younger squires and pages enter, a new melody is taken in three-part harmony, and finally an unseen chorus of boys from the extreme height of the dome sing the chorale from the introduction, without accompaniment, in imitation of angel voices. The shield-bearers bring in Amfortas upon his litter, when suddenly from a vaulted niche is heard the voice of Titurel, Amfortas's aged father, and the founder of Monsalvat, now too feeble to perform the holy offices, bidding the Grail to be uncovered. Amfortas, mourning that he, the unholiest of them, should be called, opens a golden shrine and takes out the crystal vessel. Darkness falls upon the hall, but the Grail is illuminated with constantly increasing brilliancy, while from the dome the children's voices sing, "Take My blood in the name of our love, and take My body in remembrance of me." Parsifal watches the scene with bewildered eyes, but upon saying in reply that he does not understand the holy rite, he is contemptuously ejected from the place. The second act reveals Klingsor's enchanted palace. The magician gazing into a mirror sees Parsifal approaching, and knows he is the redeemer who has been promised. He summons Kundry before him, and commands her to tempt him with her spells. She struggles against the task, for in her soul the powers of good and evil are always contending for the mastery. She longs for eternal sleep, and rest from her evil passions, but Klingsor holds her in his power. Parsifal enters, and the scene changes to a delightful garden filled with girls of ravishing beauty in garments of flowers. They crowd about him, and by their fascinating blandishments seek to gain his love, but in vain. He is still the "guileless fool." Then Kundry appears in all her loveliness, and calls him by name, the name he had heard his mother speak. He sorrowfully sinks at Kundry's feet. The enchantress bends over him, appeals to him through his longing for his mother, and kisses him. Instantly he comprehends all that he has seen, and he cries, "The wound burns in my heart, oh, torment of love!" Then quickly rising he spurns her from him. He has gained the world-knowledge. She flies to him again, and passionately exclaims, "The gift of my love would make thee divine. If this hour has made thee the redeemer, let me suffer forever, but give me thy love." He spurns her again, and cries, "To all eternity thou wouldst be damned with me, if for one hour I should forget my mission," but says he will save her too, and demands to know the way to Amfortas. In rage she declares he shall never find it, and summons the help of Klingsor, who hurls the sacred lance at Parsifal. The weapon remains suspended over his head. He seizes it and makes the sign of the Cross. The gardens and castle disappear. Parsifal and Kundry are alone in a desert. She sinks to the ground with a mournful cry, and turning from her, his last words are, "Thou knowest where only thou canst see me again." In the third act we are again in the land of the Grail. Parsifal has wandered for years trying to find Monsalvat, and at last encounters Gurnemanz, now a very old man, living as a hermit near a forest spring, and the saddened Kundry is serving him. It is the Good Friday morning, and forests and fields are bright with flowers and the verdure of spring. Gurnemanz recognizes him, and in reply to his question what makes the world so beautiful, the aged knight makes answer:-- "The sad repentant tears of sinners Have here with holy rain Besprinkled field and plain, And made them glow with beauty. All earthly creatures in delight At the Redeemer's trace so bright, Uplift their prayers of duty. And now perceive each blade and meadow flower, That mortal foot to-day it need not dread." Kundry washes "the dust of his long wanderings" from his feet, and looks up at him with earnest and beseeching gaze. Gurnemanz recognizes the sacred spear, hails him as the King of the Grail and offers to conduct him to the great hall where the holy rites are once more to be performed. Before they leave, Parsifal's first act as the redeemer is to baptize Kundry with water from the spring. The sound of tolling bells in the distance announces the funeral of Titurel, and the scene changes to the hall where the knights are carrying the litter upon which Amfortas lies, awaiting the funeral procession approaching to the strains of a solemn march. The knights demand he shall again uncover the Grail, but he refuses, and calls upon them to destroy him and then the Grail will shine brightly for them again. Unobserved by them, Parsifal steps forward, touches the king's wound with the spear, and it is immediately healed. Then he proclaims himself King of the Grail, and orders it to be uncovered. As Amfortas and Gurnemanz kneel to do him homage, Kundry dies at his feet in the joy of repentance. Titurel rises from his coffin and bestows a benediction. Parsifal ascends to the altar and raises the Grail in all its resplendent beauty. A white dove flies down from the dome of the hall and hovers over his head, while the knights chant their praise to God, re-echoed by the singers in the dome, whose strains sound like celestial voices:-- "Miracle of supreme blessing, Redemption to the Redeemer." WALLACE. William Vincent Wallace was born at Waterford, Ireland, in 1815. He first studied music with his father, a bandleader, who afterwards sent him to Dublin, where he speedily became an excellent performer on the clarinet, violin, and piano. At the early age of fifteen he was appointed organist at the Cathedral of Thurles, and soon afterwards was engaged as a theatre director and concert conductor. At the age of eighteen he had a fit of sickness, and upon his recovery went to Australia for his health, and thence to Van Diemen's Land and New Zealand. He passed some time in the latter country, and then began a long series of wanderings, in the course of which he visited the East and West Indies, Mexico,--where he conducted Italian opera,--and the United States. He remained in New York a considerable period, and gave concerts which were very remunerative. In 1846 he returned to Europe, and shortly afterwards his pretty little opera, "Maritana," appeared, and made quite a sensation among the admirers of English opera. In 1847 "Matilda of Hungary" was produced, and met with success. Thirteen years of silence elapsed, and at last, in 1860, he produced his legendary opera, "Lurline," at Covent Garden. It gave great satisfaction at the time, but is now rarely performed. Besides his operas he also wrote many waltzes, nocturnes, studies, and other light works for the piano. After the production of "Lurline" he went to Paris for the purpose of bringing out some of his operas, and while in that city also composed the first act of an opera for London, but his health was too delicate to admit of its completion. He died at Château de Bayen, Oct. 12, 1865. MARITANA. "Maritana," a romantic opera in three acts, words by Fitzball, founded upon the well-known play of "Don Caesar de Bazan," was first produced at Drury Lane, London, Nov. 15, 1845. The text closely follows that of the drama. The first act opens in a public square of Madrid, where a band of gypsies are singing to the populace, among them Maritana, a young girl of more than ordinary beauty and vocal accomplishments. Among the spectators is the young King Charles, who after listening to her is smitten with her charms. Don José, his minister, to carry out certain ambitious plans of his own, resolves to encourage the fascinations which have so attracted the King. He extols her beauty and arouses hopes in her breast of future grandeur and prosperity. At this juncture Don Caesar de Bazan, a reckless, rollicking cavalier, comes reeling out of a tavern where he has just parted with the last of his money to gamblers. In spite of his shabby costume and dissipated appearance he bears the marks of high breeding. In better days he had been a friend of Don José. While he is relating the story of his downward career to the minister, Lazarillo, a forlorn young lad who has just attempted to destroy himself, accosts Don Caesar, and tells him a piteous tale of his wrongs. Don Caesar befriends him, and in consequence becomes involved in a duel, which leads to his arrest; for it is Holy Week, and duelling during that time has been forbidden on pain of death. While Don Caesar is on his way to prison, Don José delights Maritana by promising her wealth, a splendid marriage, and an introduction to the court on the morrow. The second act opens in the prison, and discovers Don Caesar asleep, with his faithful little friend watching by him. It is five o'clock when he wakes, and at seven he must die. Only two hours of life remain for him, but the prospect does not disturb him. On the other hand he is gayer than usual, and rallies Lazarillo with playful mirth. In the midst of his gayety the crafty Don José enters and professes strong friendship for him. When Don Caesar declares that he has but one last wish, and that is to die a soldier's death instead of being ignominiously hanged, Don José says it shall be gratified upon condition that he will marry. The prisoner has but an hour and three quarters to live, but he consents. He is provided with wedding apparel, and a banquet is spread in honor of the occasion. During the feast Lazarillo brings in a paper to Don José containing the King's pardon for Don Caesar, but the minister promptly conceals it. Maritana, her features disguised by a veil, is introduced, and as the nuptial rites are performed the soldiers prepare to execute the penalty. At the expiration of the hour Don Caesar is led out to meet his fate, but Lazarillo has managed to abstract the balls from the guns. The soldiers perform their duty, and Don Caesar feigns death; but as soon as the opportunity occurs, he leaves the prison and hurries to a grand ball given by the Marquis and Marchioness de Montefiori at their palace, while the Marquis, who has had his instructions from Don José to recognize Maritana as his long-lost niece, is introducing her as such. Don Caesar enters and demands his bride. The astonished Don José, perceiving that his scheme to introduce Maritana at court is liable to be frustrated, offers the Marquis a rich appointment if he will induce his wife to play the part he shall suggest. The scheme is soon arranged, and the Marchioness, closely veiled, is presented to Don Caesar as the Countess de Bazan. Disgusted at "the precious piece of antiquity," as he terms her, and fancying that he has been duped, he is about to sign a paper relinquishing his bride, when he suddenly hears Maritana's voice. He recognizes it as the same he had heard during the marriage rites. He rushes forward to claim her, but she is quickly carried away, and he is prevented from following. The last act opens in a palace belonging to the King, where Maritana is surrounded with luxury, though she is as yet unaware that she is in the royal apartments. Don José, fancying that Don Caesar will not dare to make his appearance, as he does not know of his pardon, carries out his plot by introducing the King to her as her husband. She at first rejects him, and as he presses his suit Don Caesar breaks into the apartment. The King in a rage demands to know his errand. He replies that he is in quest of the Countess de Bazan, and with equal rage inquires who he (the King) is. The King in confusion answers that he is Don Caesar, whereupon the latter promptly replies, "Then I am the King of Spain." Before further explanation can be made, a messenger arrives from the Queen with the announcement that she awaits the King. After his departure Don Caesar and Maritana mutually recognize each other, and upon her advice he resolves to appeal to the Queen to save her. He waits for her Majesty in the palace garden, and while concealed, overhears Don José informing her that the King will meet his mistress that night. He springs out, and denouncing him as a traitor to his King slays him, and then returning to Maritana's apartment finds the King there again, and tells him what has occurred. He has saved the King's honor: will the King destroy his? The monarch, overcome with Don Caesar's gallantry and loyalty, consigns Maritana to him and appoints him Governor of Granada. The appointment does not suit Don Caesar, for Granada is too near his creditors. The King, laughing, changes it to Valencia, a hundred leagues away, and thither Don Caesar conducts his happy bride. The drama is one which is well adapted to bright, cheerful, melodious music, and the opportunity has been well improved, for "Maritana" is one of the sprightliest and brightest of all the English operas, and contains several ballads which for beauty and expressiveness may well challenge any that Balfe has written. The principal numbers in the first act are Maritana's opening song in the public square ("It was a Knight of princely Mien"); the romanza which she subsequently sings for Don José, "I hear it again, 'tis the Harp in the Air," which is one of the sweetest and most delicate songs in any of the lighter operas; the duet between Maritana and Don José, "Of fairy Wand had I the Power;" Don Caesar's rollicking drinking-song, "All the World over, to love, to drink, to fight, I delight;" and the tripping chorus, "Pretty Gitana, tell us what the Fates decree," leading up to the stirring ensemble in the finale, when Don Caesar is arrested. The first scene of the second act is the richest in popular numbers, containing an aria for alto, Lazarillo's song ("Alas! those Chimes so sweetly pealing"); a charming trio for Don Caesar, Lazarillo, and Don José ("Turn on, old Time, thine Hourglass"); Don Caesar's stirring martial song, "Yes, let me like a Soldier fall;" the serious ballad, "In happy Moments, Day by Day," written by Alfred Bunn, who wrote so many of the Balfe ballads; and the quartet and chorus closing the scene, "Health to the Lady, the lovely Bride!" The second scene opens with a pretty chorus in waltz time ("Ah, what Pleasure! the soft Guitar"), followed by an aria sung by the King ("The Mariner in his Bark"), and introduced by an attractive violin prelude. The finale is a very dramatic ensemble, quintet and chorus ("What Mystery must now control"). The last act falls off in musical interest, though it is very strong dramatically. It contains a few numbers, however, which are very popular; among them one of the most admired of all English songs ("Scenes that are brightest"), which Maritana sings in the King's apartments at the beginning of the act; the humorous duet between the King and Don Caesar when they meet; the love-duet between Don Caesar and Maritana ("This Heart with Bliss o'erflowing"); and Don Caesar's song, "There is a Flower that bloometh," which is in the sentimental ballad style. The freshness, brightness, and gracefulness of the music of this little opera, combined with the unusual interest and delicate humor of the story, have always commended it to popular admiration. WEBER. Carl Maria von Weber was born Dec. 18, 1786, at Eutin, and may almost be said to have been born on the stage, as his father was at the head of a theatrical company, and the young Carl was carried in the train of the wandering troupe all over Germany. His first lessons were given to him by Henschkel, conductor of the orchestra of Duke Friedrich of Meiningen. At the age of fourteen he wrote his first opera, "Das Waldmädchen," which was performed several times during the year 1800. In 1801 appeared his two-act comic opera, "Peter Schmoll and his Neighbors," and during these two years he also frequently played in concerts with great success. He then studied with the Abbé Vogler, and in his eighteenth year was engaged for the conductorship of the Breslau opera. About this time appeared his first important opera, "Rubezahl." At the conclusion of his studies with Vogler he was made director of the Opera at Prague. In 1814 he wrote a cantata, "The Lyre and Sword," for a festive occasion, and it was greeted with the wildest enthusiasm. In 1816 he went to Berlin, where he was received with the highest marks of popular esteem, and thence to Dresden as Hofcapellmeister. This was the most brilliant period in his career. It was during this time that he married Caroline Brandt, the actress and singer, who had had a marked influence upon his musical progress, and to whom he dedicated his exquisite "Invitation to the Dance." The first great work of his life, "Der Freischütz," was written at this period. Three other important operas followed,--"Preciosa," "Euryanthe," the first performance of which took place in Vienna in 1823, and "Oberon," which he finished in London and brought out there. Weber's last days were spent in the latter city; and it was while making preparations to return to Germany, which he longed to see again, that he was stricken down with his final illness. On the 4th of June, 1826, he was visited by Sir George Smart, Moscheles, and other musicians who were eager to show him attention. He declined to have any one watch by his bedside, thanked them for their kindness, bade them good-by, and then turned to his friend Fürstenau and said, "Now let me sleep." These were his last words. The next morning he was found dead in his bed. He has left a rich legacy of works besides his operas,--a large collection of songs, many cantatas (of which "The Jubilee," with its brilliant overture, is the finest), some masses, of which that in E flat is the most beautiful, and several concertos, besides many brilliant rondos, polaccas, and marches for the piano. DER FREISCHÜTZ. "Der Freischütz," a romantic opera in three acts, words by Friedrich Kind, was first produced at Berlin, June 18, 1821. It is one of the most popular operas in the modern repertory. It was first performed in Paris, Dec. 7, 1824, as "Robin des Bois," with a new libretto by Castile Blaze and Sauvage, and many changes in the score, such as divertissements made up of the dance-music in "Preciosa" and "Oberon," and of "The Invitation to the Dance," scored by Berlioz. In 1841 it was again given in Paris, with an accurate translation of the text by Pacini, and recitatives added by Berlioz, as "Le Franc Archer." Its first English performance in London was given July 22, 1824, as "Der Freischütz, or the Seventh Bullet," with several ballads inserted; and its first Italian at Covent Garden, March 16, 1850, with recitatives by Costa, as "Il Franco Arciero." So popular was it in England in 1824 that no less than nine theatres were presenting various versions of it at the same time. The original cast was as follows:-- AGATHA Frau CAROLINE SEIDLER. ANNCHEN Frl. JOHANNA EUNIKE. MAX Herr CARL STÜMER. CASPAR Herr HEINRICH BLUME. OTTAKAR Herr RUBINSTEIN. KUNO Herr WANER. HERMIT Herr GERN. KILIAN Herr WIEDEMANN. The text of the opera is taken from a story in "Popular Tales of the Northern Nations," and is founded upon a traditionary belief that a demon of the forest furnishes a marksman with unerring bullets cast under magical influences. Kuno, the head ranger to the Prince of Bohemia, too old to longer continue in his position, recommends Max, a skilful marksman, who is betrothed to his daughter Agatha, as his successor. The Prince agrees to accept him if he proves himself victor at the forthcoming hunting-match. Caspar, the master-villain of the play, who has sold himself to the demon Zamiel, and who also is in love with Agatha, forms a plot to ruin Max and deliver him over to Zamiel as a substitute for himself, for the limit of his contract with the Evil One is close at hand. With Zamiel's aid he causes Max to miss the mark several times during the rehearsals for the match. The lover is thrown into deep dejection by his ill luck, and while in this melancholy condition is cunningly approached by Caspar, who says to him that if he will but repeat the formula, "In the name of Zamiel," he will be successful. He does so, and brings down an eagle soaring high above him. Elated with his success, Caspar easily persuades him that he can win the match if he will meet him at midnight in the Wolf's Glen, where with Zamiel's aid he can obtain plenty of magic bullets. The second act opens in Kuno's house, and shows us Agatha melancholy with forebodings of coming evil. A hermit whom she has met in the woods has warned her of danger, and given her a wreath of magic roses to ward it off. An ancestral portrait falling from the walls also disturbs her; and at last the appearance of the melancholy Max confirms her belief that trouble is in store for her. Max himself is no less concerned. All sorts of strange sounds have troubled him, and his slumbers have been invaded with apparitions. Nevertheless, he goes to the Wolf's Glen; and though spectres, skeletons, and various grotesque animals terrify him, and his mother's spirit appears and warns him away, he overcomes his fright and appears with Caspar at the place of incantation. Zamiel is summoned, and seven bullets are cast, six of which are to be directed by Max himself in the forthcoming match, while the seventh will be at the disposal of the demon. Little dreaming the fate which hangs upon the seventh, Caspar offers no objections. The third act opens, like the last, in Kuno's house, and discovers Agatha preparing for her nuptials, and telling Annchen a singular dream she has had. She had fancied herself a dove, and that Max fired at her. As the bird fell she came to herself and saw that the dove had changed to a fierce bird of ill omen which lay dying at her feet. The melancholy produced by the dream is still further heightened when it is found that a funeral instead of a bridal wreath has been made for her; but her heart lightens up again as she remembers the magic rose-wreath which the hermit had enjoined her to wear on her wedding day. At last the eventful day of trial comes, and the Prince and all his courtiers assemble to witness the match. Max makes six shots in succession which go home to the mark. At the Prince's command he fires the seventh, Zamiel's bullet, at a dove flying past. As he fires, Agatha appears to him as the dove, and he fancies he has slain her. The wreath protects her, however, and Zamiel directs the bullet to Caspar's heart. The demon claims his victim, and Max his bride, amid general rejoicing. The overture, which is one of the most favorite numbers of its class in the concert-room as well as in the opera-house, is a masterpiece of brilliant and descriptive instrumentation, and furnishes us with a key to the whole story in its announcement of the leading themes. It opens with an adagio horn passage of great beauty, giving us the groundwork of the entire action; and then follow motives from Max's grand scena in the first act, the Incantation music, Agatha's moonlight scene, and other episodes connected with the action of Max and Caspar. Indeed, the frequent and expressive use of the _Leit motif_ all through the work seem to entitle Weber to the credit of its invention. The first act opens with a spirited chorus of villagers, followed by a lively march and a comic song by Kilian, in which he rallies Max upon his bad luck. The next number is a trio and chorus, with solos for the principals, Max, Kuno, and Caspar ("O diese Sonne, furchtbar steigt sie mir empor"). Max laments his fate, but Kuno encourages him, while Caspar insinuates his evil plot. The trio is of a sombre cast at the beginning, but by a sudden change the horns and an expressive combination of the chorus give it a cheerful character. It is once more disturbed, however, by Caspar's ominous phrases, but at last Kuno and his men cheer up the despondent lover with a brisk hunting-chorus, and the villagers dance off to a lively waltz tempo. Max is left alone, and the next number is a grand tenor scene. It opens with a gloomy recitative, which lights up as he thinks of Agatha, and then passes into one of the most tender and delicious of melodies ("Durch die Wälder, durch die Auen"), set to a beautiful accompaniment. Suddenly the harmony is clouded by the apparition of Zamiel, but as he disappears, Max begins another charming melody ("Jetzt ist wohl ihr Fenster offen"), which is even more beautiful than the first. As Zamiel reappears the harmony is again darkened; but when despairing Max utters the cry, "Lives there no God!" the wood-demon disappears, and the great song comes to an end. In this mood Caspar meets him, and seeks to cheer him with an hilarious drinking-song ("Hier im ird'schen Jammerthal"), furious in its energy, and intended to express unhallowed mirth. The act closes with Caspar's bass aria of infernal triumph ("Triumph! die Rache, die Rache gelingt"), accompanied by music which is wonderfully weird and shadowy in its suggestions. The second act opens with a duet ("Schelm! halt fest") in which Agatha's fear and anxiety are charmingly contrasted with the lightsome and cheery nature of Annchen, her attendant, and this in turn is followed by a naive and coquettish arietta ("Kommt ein schlanker Bursch gegangen") sung by the latter. Annchen departs, and Agatha, opening her window and letting the moonlight flood the room, sings the famous scena and prayer, "Leise, leise, fromme Weise," beginning, after a few bars of recitative, with a melody full of prayer and hope and tender longings, shaded with vague presentiment. It is an adagio of exquisite beauty, closing with an ecstatic outburst of rapture ("Alle meine Pulse schlagen") as she beholds her lover coming. The melody has already been heard in the overture, but its full joy and splendid sweep are attained only in this scene. In the next scene we have a trio ("Wie? was? Entsetzen?") between Max, Annchen, and Agatha, in which the musical discrimination of character is carried to a fine point; and the act concludes with the incantation music in the Wolf's Glen, which has never been surpassed in weirdness, mystery, and diablerie, and at times in actual sublimity. Its real power lies in the instrumentation; not alone in its vivid and picturesque presentation of the melodramatic scene with its hideous surroundings, but in its expressiveness and appositeness to the action and sentiment by the skilful use of motives. The last act has an instrumental prelude foreshadowing the Hunters' Chorus. It opens with a graceful but somewhat melancholy aria of a religious character ("Und ob die Wolke sie verhülle"), sung by Agatha, in which she is still wavering between doubt and hope, and succeeded by another of Annchen's arias, beginning with the gloomy romance, "Einst traumte meiner sel'gen Base," and closing with a lively allegro ("Trübe Augen, Liebchen"), which is intended to encourage her sad mistress. Then the bridesmaids sing their lively chorus, "Wir winden dir den Jungfern-Kranz," so well known by its English title, "A rosy Crown we twine for Thee." The pretty little number is followed by the Hunters' Chorus, "Was gleicht wohl auf Erden dem Jägervergnügen," which is a universal favorite. It leads up to a strong dramatic finale, crowded with striking musical ideas, and containing Agatha's beautiful melody in the closing chorus. Few operas have had such world-wide popularity as "Der Freischütz," and yet it is an essentially German product. The composer's son has aptly characterized it, in his Biography of his father: "Weber did not compose 'Der Freischütz;' he allowed it to grow out of the rich soil of his brave German heart, and to expand leaf by leaf, blossom by blossom, fostered by the hand of his talent; and thus no German looks upon the opera as a work of art which appeals to him from without. He feels as if every line of the work came from his own heart, as if he himself had dreamed it so, and it could no more sound otherwise than the rustling of an honest German beech-wood." OBERON. "Oberon, or the Elf King's Oath," a romantic and fairy opera in three acts, words by J.R. Planché, was first produced at Covent Garden, London, April 12, 1826, in English. Its first Italian performance was given in the same city, July 3, 1860, the recitatives being supplied by Benedict, who also added several numbers from "Euryanthe." The original cast was as follows:-- REIZA Miss PATON. FATIMA Mme. VESTRIS. PUCK Miss CAWSE. HUON Mr. BRAHAM. OBERON Mr. BLAND. SHERASMIN Mr. FAWCETT. MERMAID Miss GOWNELL. The librettist, Planché, in a tribute to Weber, gives the origin of the story of "Oberon." It appeared originally in a famous collection of French romances, "La Bibliothèque Bleue," under the title of "Huon of Bordeaux." The German poet Wieland adopted the principal incidents of the story as the basis of his poem, "Oberon," and Sotheby's translation of it was used in the preparation of the text. The original sketch of the action, as furnished by Planché, is as follows:-- Oberon, the Elfin King, having quarrelled with his fairy partner, vows never to be reconciled to her till he shall find two lovers constant through peril and temptation. To seek such a pair his 'tricksy spirit,' Puck, has ranged in vain through the world. Puck, however, hears the sentence passed on Sir Huon of Bordeaux, a young knight, who, having been insulted by the son of Charlemagne, kills him in single combat, and is for this condemned by the monarch to travel to Bagdad to slay him who sits on the Caliph's left hand, and to claim his daughter as his bride. Oberon instantly resolves to make this pair the instruments of his reunion with his queen, and for this purpose he brings up Huon and Sherasmin asleep before him, enamours the knight by showing him Reiza, daughter of the Caliph, in a vision, transports him at his waking to Bagdad, and having given him a magic horn, by the blasts of which he is always to summon the assistance of Oberon, and a cup that fills at pleasure, disappears. Here Sir Huon rescues a man from a lion, who proves afterwards to be Prince Babekan, who is betrothed to Reiza. One of the properties of the cup is to detect misconduct. He offers it to Babekan. On raising it to his lips the wine turns to flame, and thus proves him a villain. He attempts to assassinate Huon, but is put to flight. The knight then learns from an old woman that the princess is to be married next day, but that Reiza has been influenced, like her lover, by a vision, and is resolved to be his alone. She believes that fate will protect her from her nuptials with Babekan, which are to be solemnized on the next day. Huon enters, fights with and vanquishes Babekan, and having spell-bound the rest by a blast of the magic horn, he and Sherasmin carry off Reiza and Fatima. They are soon shipwrecked. Reiza is captured by pirates on a desert island and brought to Tunis, where she is sold to the Emir and exposed to every temptation, but she remains constant. Sir Huon, by the order of Oberon, is also conveyed thither. He undergoes similar trials from Roshana, the jealous wife of the Emir, but proving invulnerable she accuses him to her husband, and he is condemned to be burned on the same pile with Reiza. They are rescued by Sherasmin, who has the magic horn. Oberon appears with his queen, whom he has regained by their constancy, and the opera concludes with Charlemagne's pardon of Huon. The overture, like that of "Der Freischütz," reflects the story, and is universally popular. Its leading themes are the horn solo, which forms the symphony of Sir Huon's vision, a short movement from the fairies' chorus, a martial strain from the last scene in the court of Charlemagne, a passage from Reiza's scene in the second act, and Puck's invocation of the spirits. The first act opens in Oberon's bower with a melodious chorus of fairies and genii ("Light as fairy Feet can fall"), followed by a solo for Oberon ("Fatal Oath"), portraying his melancholy mood, and "The Vision," a quaint, simple melody by Reiza ("Oh! why art thou sleeping?"), which leads up to a splendid ensemble ("Honor and Joy to the True and the Brave"), containing a solo for Oberon, during which the scene suddenly changes from the fairy bower to the city of Bagdad. Huon has a grand scena ("Oh! 't is a Glorious Sight"), a composition in several movements beginning with a dramatic bravura illustrative of the scenes of the battlefield, and closing with a joyous, brisk allegretto ("Joy to the high-born Dames of France"). The finale begins with an aria by Reiza ("Yes, my Lord"), in the Italian style, passing into a duet for Reiza and Fatima, and closing with the chorus ("Now the Evening Watch is set.") The second act opens with a characteristic chorus ("Glory to the Caliph"), the music of which has been claimed by some critics as genuinely Moorish, though it is probable that Weber only imitated that style in conformity to the demands of the situation. A little march and three melodramatic passages lead up to an arietta for Fatima ("A lovely Arab Maid"), beginning with a very pleasing minor and closing in a lively major. This leads directly to the lovely quartet, "Over the Dark Blue Waters,"--one of the most attractive numbers in the opera. It is a concerted piece for two sopranos, tenor, and bass, opening with two responsive solos in duet, first for the bass and tenor, and then for the two sopranos, the voices finally uniting in a joyous and animated movement of great power. The music now passes to the supernatural, and we have Puck's invocation to the spirits, whom he summons to raise a storm and sink the vessel in which the lovers have embarked. Puck's recitative is very powerful, and the chorus of the spirits in response, a very rapid presto movement, is in its way as effective as the incantation music in "Der Freischütz." The storm rises, the orchestra being the medium of the description, which is very graphic and effective. Huon has a short prayer ("Ruler of this Awful Hour"), which is impressively solemn, and then follows Reiza's magnificent apostrophe to the sea ("Ocean, thou mighty Monster that liest curled like a green Serpent round about the World"). The scene is heroic in its construction, and its effective performance calls for the highest artistic power. It represents the gradual calm of the angry waters, the breaking of the sun through the gloom, and the arrival of a boat to the succor of the distressed Reiza. The immense effect of the scene is greatly enhanced by the descriptive instrumentation, especially in the allegro describing the rolling of the billows and the recitative and succeeding andante picturing the outburst of the sun. The mermaid's song ("Oh! 't is pleasant"), with its wavy, flowing melody, forms a fitting pendant to this great picture of elementary strife; and a delicate and graceful chorus closes the act. The third act opens with a lovely song for Fatima ("Oh! Araby, dear Araby"), consisting of two movements,--an andante plaintively recalling past memories, and an allegro of exquisite taste. The song, even detached from the opera, has always been greatly admired in concert-rooms, and, it is said, was a special favorite also with the composer. It is followed by a duet for Sherasmin and Fatima ("On the Banks of sweet Garonne"), which is of a vivacious and comic nature in Sherasmin's part, and then passes into a tender minor as Fatima sings. The next number is a trio for soprano, alto, and tenor ("And must I then dissemble?"), written very much in the style of the trio in "Der Freischütz," and yet purely original in its effect. Reiza follows with a smooth, flowing, and pathetic cavatina ("Mourn thou, poor Heart"), which is succeeded in marked contrast by a joyous rondo ("I revel in Hope") sung by Sir Huon. The next scene is that of Sir Huon's temptation, a voluptuous passage for ballet and chorus, interrupted at intervals by the energetic exclamations of the paladin as he successfully resists the sirens. The gay scene leads up to the finale. Sir Huon and Reiza are bound to the stake, surrounded by slaves singing a weird chorus. A blast from the magic horn sets them dancing, and a quartet for the four principal characters based upon the subject of the slaves' Chorus ensues. Oberon appears and takes his leave after transporting the whole company to the royal halls of Charlemagne. A stirring march opens the scene, a beautiful aria by Huon follows ("Yes! even Love to Fame must yield"), and a chorus by the whole court closes the opera. EURYANTHE. The opera of "Euryanthe" was written for the Kärnthnerthor Theatre, Vienna, where it was first produced Oct. 25, 1823, though not with the success which afterwards greeted it in Berlin, owing to the Rossini craze with which the Austrian capital was afflicted at that time. The libretto is by Helmine von Chezy, an eccentric old woman who proved a sad torment to the composer. The plot, which is a curious mixture of "Cymbeline" and "Lohengrin," was adapted from an old French romance, entitled "L'Histoire de Gerard de Nevers et de la belle et vertueuse Euryanthe, sa mie," and is substantially as follows:-- In the palace of King Louis of France, where a brilliant assemblage is gathered, Count Adolar sings a tribute to the beauty and virtue of Euryanthe, his betrothed. Count Lysiart replies with a sneer, and boasts that he can gain her favor; but Adolar challenges him to bring a proof. The scene then changes to the castle of Nevers, and discloses Euryanthe longing for Adolar. Eglantine, who is also in love with Adolar, and who is conspiring against Euryanthe, soon joins her, and in their interview the latter rashly discloses the secret of a neighboring tomb known only to herself and Adolar. In this tomb rests the body of Emma, Adolar's sister, who had killed herself, and whose ghost had appeared to Euryanthe and her lover with the declaration that she can never be at peace until tears of innocence have been shed upon the ring which was the agency employed in her death. Lysiart arrives from court with a commission to take Euryanthe to the King, while Eglantine is left behind in possession of the secret. In the second act Lysiart deplores his failure to obtain the favor of Euryanthe; but his hopes are renewed when he meets Eglantine emerging from the tomb with the ring, and learns from her that it can be made to convict Euryanthe of indiscretion, or at least of breaking her promise not to reveal the tomb secret. He obtains the ring, confronts Euryanthe with it at the palace, and forces her to admit the broken promise. Adolar, believing that she is guilty, drags her away to a wilderness where it is his intention to kill her; but on the way they are attacked by a serpent. Adolar slays the monster, and then, seized with sudden pity, he abandons his intention of killing her, but leaves her to her fate. She is subsequently found by the King while on a hunting expedition, and to him she relates the story of Eglantine's treachery. The King takes her with him to the palace. Meanwhile Adolar has begun to suspect that Euryanthe has been the victim of her base wiles, and on his way to Nevers to punish Lysiart he encounters the wedding-procession of the guilty pair, and challenges him. The King suddenly arrives upon the scene and announces Euryanthe's death, whereupon Eglantine declares her love for Adolar. The furious Lysiart turns upon her and stabs her. Euryanthe is not dead. She has only fainted, and is soon restored to her lover, while Lysiart is led off to the scaffold. The overture, which is familiar in our concert-rooms, gives a sketch of the principal situations in the opera. The first act opens in the great banquet-hall of the King with a flowing and stately chorus ("Dem Frieden Heil") alternating between female and male voices and finally taken by the full chorus. Then follows Adolar's lovely and tender romanza ("Unter blühenden Mandelbäumen"). The next number, a chorus ("Heil! Euryanthe"), with recitatives for Adolar, Lysiart, and the King leads up to a vigorous trio ("Wohlan! Du kennst"). Euryanthe's idyllic and touching cavatina ("Glöcklein im Thale") is a match in beauty and tenderness for Adolar's romanza. The recitative which follows introduces a sentimental aria for Eglantine ("O mein Leid ist unermessen"), leading to a duet with Euryanthe ("Unter ist mein Stern gegangen"). A scena for Eglantine, characterized by all the hatred and fury of jealousy, introduces the finale, which consists of a vigorous chorus ("Jubeltöne") accompanying Euryanthe's solo ("Fröhliche Klänge"). The second act opens with a powerful recitative and aria for Lysiart ("Wo berg ich mich"), which is full of passion. A duet of a menacing and sombre character between Lysiart and Eglantine ("Komm denn unser Leid zu rächen") stands out in gloomy contrast with Adolar's aria ("Wehen mir Lüfte Ruh'") and the duet with Euryanthe ("Hin nimm die Seele mein"), so full of grace and tenderness. They lead up to the finale, a grand quartet ("Lass mich empor zum Lichte"), with powerful chorus accompaniment. The last act opens with the serpent episode, with characteristic music, and a recitative scene between Euryanthe and Adolar leads up to a pathetic cavatina for Euryanthe ("Hier am Quell wo Weiden stehn"). The ringing notes of the horns behind the scenes announce the approach of the King's party, who sing a fresh and sonorous hunting chorus ("Die Thale dampfen"). The remaining numbers are a duet for Euryanthe and the King with chorus ("Lasst mich hier in Ruh' erblassen"), a lovely and melodious aria with chorus for Euryanthe ("Zu ihm"), a bright wedding-march and scene with chorus, and a duet for Adolar and Lysiart with chorus, leading to the grand quintet and chorus which bring the opera to a close. APPENDIX. A work of this kind, by whomsoever written, must be somewhat arbitrary in its selection of THE STANDARD OPERAS; and the writer has often found it difficult to say where the line should be drawn,--what excluded and what admitted. In addition to the operas treated of, there are others, without a mention of which such a work as this would scarcely be considered complete; and a list of these is herewith submitted, together with the dates of their first performance. Many of these are familiar to the public by their past reputation, while others still hold the stage in Europe. Others have never been given out of the native country of their composers; and still others, like those of Mr. Sullivan, are in reality operettas, and cannot be classed as standard, although their popularity is extraordinary. ADAM - Le Postilion de Longjumeau (1835). AUBER - Le Cheval de Bronze (The Bronze Horse) (1835); L'Ambassadrice (1836); Le Domino Noir (The Black Domino) (1837); Zanetta (1840); Manon Lescaut (1856). BALFE - Enchantress (1845); Satanella (1858); Puritan's Daughter (1861); The Talisman (1863). BENEDICT - The Lily of Killarney (1862). CORDER - Nordisa (1887). DONIZETTI - Polinto (1840); Linda (1842); Maria di Rohan (1843); Don Sebastian (1843); Gemma di Vergi (1845). FLOTOW - L'Ombre (1869). GOETZ - Francesca von Rimini (1874); The Taming of the Shrew (1874). GOLDMARK - The Queen of Sheba (1875); Merlin (1886); Cricket on the Hearth (1896). GOMEZ - Il Guarany (1870). GOUNOD - Polyeucte (1878). HALEVY - L'Éclair (1835). HEROLD - Zampa(1831); Pré aux Clercs(1832). ISOUARD - Joconde (1814). KREUTZER - Das Nachtlager in Granada (1834). LEONCAVALLO - I Medici (1893). MARCHETTI - Ruy Blas (1870). MARSCHNER - Der Vampyr (1828); Hans Heiling (1833). MASCAGNI - L'Amico Fritz (1892); I Rantzau (1892); Silvano(1895); Guglielmo Ratcliff (1895). MASSË - La Reine Topaze (1856); Paul et Virginie (1876). MASSENET - Le Roi de Lahore (1877); Manon Lescaut (1884); Le Cid (1886); Esclarmonde (1889). NICOLAI - Merry Wives of Windsor (1849). PACINI - Saffo (1840). PLANQUETTE - The Bells of Corneville (1877). PONCHIELLI - La Gioconda (1876). RICCI - Crispino (1850). ROSSINI - La Gazza Ladra (1817); Moses in Egypt (1818). RUBINSTEIN - Dimitri Donskoi (1852); The Demon (1875); Feramors (1863). SAINT SAENS - Le Timbre d'Argent (1877); Étienne Marcel (1879); Henry VIII. (1883); Proserpine (1887). STRAUSS - Indigo (1871); Die Fledermaus (The Bat) (1872); Der Lustige Krieg (The Merry War) (1875). SULLIVAN - Trial by Jury (1875); The Sorcerer (1877); Pinafore (1878); Pirates of Penzance (1880); Patience (1881); Iolanthe (1882); The Princess (1883); The Mikado (1885); Ruddygore (1887); The Yeomen of the Guard (1888); King of Barataria (1889); Hesse Halbpfennig (1896). SUPPE - Fatinitza (1876); Boccaccio (1882). THOMAS - Hamlet (1868); Françoise de Rimini (1882). VERDI - The Sicilian Vespers (1855); La Forza del Destino (Force of Destiny) (1862); Don Carlos (1867). WALLACE - Lurline (1860). WEBER - Abu Hassan (1811); Preciosa (1823). INDEX. Adam, 32, 63, 71, 277. African, The, 160, 161, 185. Aida, 239, 262, 272. Albani, 79. Alboni, 161, 162. Alceste, 106. Alvary, 121. Anna Bolena, 75. Appendix, 375. Arditi, 284. Armide, 106. Attila, 238. Auber, 9, 14, 16, 17, 18, 24. 258. Bach, 126. Balfe, 25, 26. Balzac, 149. Barber of Seville, 210, 212. Beaumarchais, 192. Beethoven, 36, 39, 209, 312. Bellini, 43. Benedict, 365. Berlioz, 289, 358. Bizet, 54, 57. 59, 138. Bohemian Girl, 26, 31. Boieldieu, 60. Boito, 65, 239, 266, 267, 270, 271. Bosio, 11, 244. Braham, 15, 365. Brandt, 117, 121. Bulwer, 277. Calvé, 149. Carmen, 55. Cavalleria Rusticana, 155. Cenerentola, 211. Cherubini, 60. Chopin, 225. Costa, 358. Damrosch, 121. Daughter of the Regiment, 76. Delibes, 71. Der Freischütz, 357, 358, 367. Die Götterdämmerung, 309, 311, 315, 335. Die Walküre, 309, 315, 323. Di Murska, 284. Dinorah, 160, 176. Don Carlos, 239. Don Giovanni, 191, 198, 219. Donizetti, 75, 88, 95. Don Pasquale, 76, 83, 91. Don Sebastian, 85. Dumas, 249. Duprez, 80, 86. Ernani, 238, 239. Euryanthe, 357, 365, 371. Falcon, Cornelia, 138, 161. Faure, 176, 185. Faust, 125, 132, 253. Favorita, 76, 80. Fidelio, 37. Flotow, 96. Flying Dutchman, 160, 275, 284, 294. Formes, 98. Fra Diavolo, 10. Francesca di Rimini, 112. Galli-Marie, 55, 232, Garcia, 212, 213. Gazza Ladra, 211. Gluck, 105. Goethe, 65, 127, 160, 232, 294. Goetz, 111. Goldmark, 116. Gounod, 125, 138. Grimm, 144. Grisi, 44, 51, 80, 83. Halevy, 137. Hansel and Gretel, 143. Harrison, 19, 27, 32, 176. Hastreiter, Helene, 107. Haydn, 36, 37. Heine, 143, 284. Hueffer, 276, 300, 309. Hugo, Victor, 92, 239, 240, 244. Huguenots, 160, 161, 180, 211. Humperdinck, 142. Idomeneo, 191. I Medici, 148. I Pagliacci, 149. Iphigénie en Aulide, 106. Iphigénie en Tauride, 106. Jahn, 209. Jewess, 138. Juch, Emma, 107, 227. Kellogg, Clara Louise, 79, 237, 284. Lablanche, 44, 51, 83, 85, 238. La Dame Blanche, 61. Lagrange, 97. Lakme, 72. L'Allemand, 72, 112, 227. L'Amico, Fritz, 155. Last Rose of Summer, 100. L'Éclair, 137, 138. Lehmann, 117, 121. L'Elisir d'Amore, 75, 89. Leoncavallo, 148. Lind, Jenny, 77, 79, 160, 167, 169, 170, 171, 238. Liszt, 225, 276, 277, 294. Lohengrin, 275, 294, 304, 309, 340, 371. Lombardi, 238. Lucca, 186, 237. Lucia, 76, 86, 95. Lucrezia Borgia, 75, 92. Lurline, 350. Luther, Martin, 164, 166. Magic Flute, 191, 204. Malibran, 38, 48. Manon Lescaut, 137. Mario, 15, 80, 83, 85, 92, 162, 244. Maritana, 349, 350. Marriage of Figaro, 191, 192, 198, 201. Martha, 98, 253. Masaniello, 14, 176. Mascagni, 153. Masked Ball, 239, 257. Massé, 138. Materna, 340. Maurel, 267. Meistersinger, 276, 303, 310. Mendelssohn, 142. Mendès, Catulle, 151. Mephistopheles, 66, 239. Mérimée, 55. Merlin, 116, 121. Meyerbeer, 138, 159, 161, 176, 185, 211, 277. Mignon, 231, 232. Miolan-Carvalho, 126, 131, 134, 176, 244. Mireille, 126. Mosenthal, 117. Moses in Egypt, 211. Mozart, 36, 37, 142, 190, 193, 204. Nero, 226. Niemann, 288. Nilsson, 66, 237, 250. Nohl, 318. Norma, 44. Nourrit, 138, 161, 171, 220. Oberon, 357, 358, 365. Orpheus, 106, 107. Otello (Rossini), 211. Othello (Verdi), 239, 266. Pacini, 358. Paisiello, 211. Pantaleoni, 267. Parepa-Rosa, 192. Parsifal, 276, 340. Pasdeloup, 276. Pasta, 44, 48, 75. Patti, 79, 250. Persiani, 86. Piccini, 106. Piccolomini, 27, 250. Preciosa, 357,358. Prophet, The, 160, 180. Puritani, 44, 50. Pyne, 19, 32, 176. Queen of Sheba, 117. Rameau, 105. Reeves, 19. Rheingold, 309, 310, 314, 319. Richings, Caroline, 79. Richter, 276. Rienzi, 160, 275, 277, 285. Rigoletto, 88, 239, 244. Ring des Nibelungen, 276, 300, 309, 341. Robert the Devil, 160, 171. Robin Adair, 63. Romeo and Juliet, 131, 136. Ronconi, 11, 244. Rosa, Carl, 143, 284. Rose of Castile, 32. Rossini, 25, 44. 76, 82, 138, 174, 210, 266, 371. Roze, Marie, 66. Rubini, 44, 48, 51, 75. Rubinstein, 225. Salieri, 193. Sammartini, 105. Santley, 134, 284. Scaria, 340. Schickaneder, 204, 205. Schiller, 36, 220, 312. Schröder-Devrient, 277, 284, 288. Scribe, 10, 14, 19, 48, 61, 82, 138, 160, 161, 166, 171, 172, 180, 185, 258. Semiramide, 211, 216. Shakspeare, 97, 112, 131, 266. Sicilian Vespers, 239. Siegfried, 309, 310, 311, 315, 329, 337, 338, 340. Sonnambula, 43, 48. Sontag, 79. Spohr, 285. Star of the North, 160, 166. Staudigl, 171. Stradella, 102. Stritt, 117. Sullivan, 375. Taglioni, 171. Tamburini, 44, 51, 83, 162. Taming of the Shrew, 111, 112. Tancredi, 210, 216. Tannhäuser, 275, 288, 294. Tausig, 312. Thalberg, 225. Thillon, 19, 76. Thomas, Ambroise, 231. Thomas, Theodore, 54, 71, 107, 229, 276. Tichatscheck, 277. Titiens, 134. Traviata, 239, 249, 253. Trebelli, 134. Tristan and Isolde, 276, 299, 310. Trovatore, 239, 253, 262, 266. Ulrich, 111. Verdi, 238. Viardot-Garcia, 107, 162, 180. Vogler, 159, 356. Von Bülow, 111, 277, 299, 304. Wagner, 18, 58, 65, 70, 122, 142, 143, 144, 160, 220, 266, 272, 275, 288, 312. Wallace, 349. Weber, 356. Wette, Adelheid, 143. William Tell, 138, 176, 211, 220. Winckelmann, 340. Zingarelli, 43. Zucchi, 186. 
21400	----	_TO MY PUPILS_ STYLE IN SINGING BY W.E. HASLAM NEW YORK: G. SCHIRMER 1911 Copyright, 1911 By G. SCHIRMER 22670 PREFATORY NOTE "Of making many books there is no end." Surely, the weary observation of the sage must have an especial application to the literature of Song. One could not number the books--anatomical, physiological, philosophical--on the Voice. A spacious library could easily be furnished with "Methods" of Singing. Works treating of the laws governing the effective interpretation of instrumental music exist. Some of them, by acknowledged and competent authorities, have thrown valuable light on a most important element of musical art. Had I not believed that a similar need existed in connection with singing, this addition to vocal literature would not have been written. In a succeeding volume on "Lyric Declamation: Recitative, Song and Ballad Singing," will be discussed the practical application of these basic principles of Style to the vocal music of the German, French, Italian and other national schools. W.E. HASLAM. 2, rue Maleville, Parc Monceau, Paris, July, 1911. INTRODUCTION In listening to a Patti, a Kubelik, a Paderewski, the reflective hearer is struck by the absolute sureness with which such artists arouse certain sensations in their auditors. Moreover, subsequent hearings will reveal the fact that this sensation is aroused always in the same place, and in the same manner. The beauty of the voice may be temporarily affected in the case of a singer, or an instrument of less æsthetic tone-quality be used by the instrumentalist, but the result is always the same. What is the reason of this? Why do great artists always make the same effect and produce the same impression on their public? Why, for instance, did the late Mme. Tietjens, when singing the following passage in Handel's _Messiah_, always begin with very little voice of a dulled quality, and gradually brighten its character as well as augment its volume until she reached the high _G_-[sharp] which is the culmination, not only of the musical phrase, but also of the tremendous announcement to which it is allied? [Music: For now is Christ risen, for now is Christ risen.] This last tone was delivered with the full force and brilliance of her magnificent voice, and was prolonged until the thrill produced in the listener became almost painful in its intensity. Again I ask, why did this world-famous singer perform this passage _always_ in the same way? Unreflecting people may reply vaguely that it was because the artist "sang with expression." But what constitutes "expression" in singing? No great artist--no matter what the vehicle or medium through which his art finds manifestation--does anything at random. "The wind bloweth where it listeth" only in appearance; in reality, it is governed by immutable law. Similarly, the outward form of an art is only apparently dictated by caprice and freedom from rule. The effective presentation of every art is based on well-defined and accepted principles. And it is with the earnest desire to throw light on this most important phase of vocal art, that I present the principles of "Style in Singing." CONTENTS PAGE PREFATORY NOTE v INTRODUCTION vii CHAPTER I: Elements of Vocal Training 1 Emission of Voice 2 CHAPTER II: The Value of Technique 7 CHAPTER III: Analysis of Style 12 Colour 14 Accent 21 Intensity 27 Phrasing 32 Portamento 37 Variations of Tempo 41 CHAPTER IV: Tradition 44 Pointage 61 CHAPTER V: Répertoire 91 CHAPTER VI: Conclusion 98 STYLE IN SINGING CHAPTER I ELEMENTS OF VOCAL TRAINING If the practical education of the singer be analyzed, it will be found to comprise four fundamental elements: (1) POSE: or Emission of voice; (2) TECHNIQUE: or the discipline of the voice considered as a musical instrument; (3) STYLE: or the application of the laws of artistic taste to the interpretation of vocal music; (4) RÉPERTOIRE: or the choice, in the literature of vocal music, of works most suited to the voice, temperament and individuality of the particular singer. I have classed these four elements in their relative order. They are, however, of equal importance. Until the Pose and Technique of a voice are satisfactory, attempts to acquire Style are premature. On the other hand, without Style, a well-placed voice and an adequate amount of Technique are incomplete; and until the singer's education has been rounded off with a Répertoire adapted to his individual capabilities, he is of little practical use for professional purposes. * * * * * EMISSION OF VOICE Great natural gifts of temperament and originality may, and sometimes do, mask defects of emission, particularly in the case of artists following the operatic career. But the artistic life and success of such a singer is short. Violated Nature rebels, and avenges herself for all infractions of law. A voice that is badly produced or emitted speedily becomes worn, and is easily fatigued. By an additional exertion of physical force, the singer usually attempts to conceal its loss of sonority and carrying-power. The consequences are disastrous for the entire instrument. The medium--to which is assigned the greater portion of every singer's work--becomes "breathy" and hollow, the lower tones guttural, the higher tones shrill, and the voice, throughout its entire compass, harsh and unmanageable. In view of its supreme importance, it is scarcely necessary to dwell upon the self-evident fact that this foundation--Emission, or Placing of the voice--should be well laid under the guidance of a skilled and experienced singing-teacher. Nothing but disappointment can ensue if a task of such consequence be confided, as is too frequently the case, to one of the numerous charlatans who, as Oscar Commettant said, "_are not able to achieve possibilities, so they promise miracles_." The proper Classification, and subsequent Placing, of a voice require the greatest tact and discernment. True, there are voices so well-defined in character as to occasion no possible error in their proper Classification at the beginning of their studies. But this is not the case with a number of others, particularly those known as voices of _mezzo-carattere_ (_demi-caractère_). It requires a physician of great skill and experience to diagnose an obscure malady; but when once a correct diagnosis is made, many doctors of less eminence might successfully treat the malady, seeing that the recognized pharmacopoeia contains no secret remedies. Let the student of singing beware of the numerous impostors who claim to have a "Method," a sort of bed of Procrustes, which the victim, whether long or short, is made to fit. A "method" must be adapted to the subject, not the subject made to fit the method. The object of all teaching is the same, viz., to impart knowledge; but the means of arriving at that end are multiple, and the manner of communicating instruction is very often personal. To imagine that the same mode of procedure, or "method," is applicable to all voices, is as unreasonable as to expect that the same medicament will apply to all maladies. In imparting a correct emission of voice, science has not infrequently to efface the results of a previous defective use, inherent or acquired, of the vocal organ. Hence, although the object to be attained is in every case the same, the _modus operandi_ will vary infinitely. Nor should these most important branches of Classification and Production be entrusted--as is often the case--to assistants, usually accompanists, lacking the necessary training for a work requiring great experience and ripe judgment. To a competent assistant may very properly be confided the preparation of Technique, as applied to a mechanical instrument: All violins, for instance, are practically the same. But voices differ as do faces. The present mania for dragging voices up, and out of their legitimate _tessitura_, has become a very grave evil, the consequences of which, in many instances, have been most disastrous. Tolerable baritones have been transformed into very mediocre tenors, capable mezzo-soprani into very indifferent dramatic soprani, and so on. That this process may have answered in a few isolated cases, where the vocal organs were of such exceptional strength and resistance as to bear the strain, is by no means a guarantee that the same results may be obtained in every instance, and with less favoured subjects. The average compass in male voices is about two octaves minus one or two tones. I mean, of course, tones that are really available when the singer is on the stage and accompanied by an orchestra. Now, a baritone who strives to transform his voice into a tenor, simply loses the two lowest tones of his compass, possibly of good quality and resonance, and gains a minor or major third above the high G (sol) of a very poor, strained character. The compass of the voice remains exactly the same. He has merely exchanged several excellent tones below for some very poor ones above. I repeat, one who aspires to be a lyric artist requires the best possible teacher to guide his first steps; he may consult an inferior or incompetent professor, when so firmly established in the right path that he cannot possibly be led astray. It is a common belief that singing-teachers of reputation do not care to occupy themselves with voice-production, or are unable to teach it. This is a serious error. A competent professor of singing is as capable of imparting the principles of this most important branch, as of directing the more æsthetic studies of Style and Répertoire. All the really great and illustrious singing-masters of the past preferred to "form" the voices of their pupils. To continue and finish a predecessor's work, or to erect a handsome and solid structure on defective foundations, is always a difficult task; sometimes an impossible one. Then, as regards the pupil, particularly one studying with a view to a professional career, a defective preparatory training may eventually mean serious material loss. The money and time spent on his vocal education is, in his case, an investment, not an outlay; the investment will be a poor one, should it be necessary later to devote further time and expend more money to correct natural defects that ought to have been corrected at the beginning of his studies, or to eradicate faults acquired during their progress. Furthermore, the purpose of some part of a singer's preliminary education is to strengthen and fit the voice for the exacting demands of a professional career. As the training of an athlete--rower, runner, boxer, wrestler--not only perfects his technical skill, but also, by a process of gradual development, enables him to endure the exceptional strain he will eventually have to bear in a contest, so some of a singer's early studies prepare his voice for the tax to which hereafter it will be subjected. If those studies have been insufficient, or ill-directed, failure awaits the débutant when he presents himself before the public in a spacious theatre or concert-hall and strives, ineffectually, to dominate the powerful sonorities of the large orchestras which are a necessity for modern scores. A sound and judiciously graduated preparatory training, in fact, is essential if the singer would avoid disappointment or a fiasco. The vocal education of many students, however, is nowadays hurried through with a haste that is equalled only by the celerity with which such aspirants for lyric honours return to obscurity. CHAPTER II THE VALUE OF TECHNIQUE Briefly defined, the singer's Technique may be said to consist principally of the ability to govern the voice in its three phases of Pitch, Colour, and Intensity. That is, he must be able to sing every note throughout the compass of the voice (Pitch) in different qualities or timbres (Colour), and with various degrees of power (Intensity). And although the modern schools of composition for the voice do not encourage the display of florid execution, a singer would be ill-advised indeed to neglect this factor, on the plea that it has no longer any practical application. No greater error is conceivable. Should an instrumental virtuoso fail to acquire mastery of transcendental difficulties, his performance of any piece would not be perfect: the greater includes the less. A singer would be very short-sighted who did not adopt an analogous line of reasoning. Without an appreciable amount of _agilità_, the performance of modern music is laboured and heavy; that of the classics, impossible. In fact, virtuosity, if properly understood, is as indispensable to-day as ever it was. As much vocal virtuosity is required to interpret successfully the music of Falstaff, in Verdi's opera, as is necessary for _Maometto Secondo_ or _Semiramide_ by Rossini. It is simply another form of virtuosity; that is all. The lyric grace or dramatic intensity of many pages of Wagner's music-dramas can be fully revealed only through a voice that has been rendered supple by training, and responsive to the slightest suggestion of an artistic temperament. In short, virtuosity may have changed in form, but it is still one of the cornerstones of the singer's art. An executive artist will spare no pains to acquire perfect technical skill; for the _métier_, or mechanical elements of any art, can be acquired, spontaneous though the results may sometimes appear. Its primary use is, and should be, to serve as a medium of interpretation. True, virtuosity is frequently a vehicle for personal display, as, notably, in the operas of Cimarosa, Bellini, Donizetti, and the earlier works of Rossini and Verdi. At its worst, however, it is a practical demonstration of the fact that the executant, vocal or instrumental, has completely mastered the mechanical elements of his profession; that, to use the _argot_ of the studios, "_il connaît son métier_" (he knows his trade). Imperfect technique, indeed, is to be deprecated, if merely for the reason that it may debar a singer from interpreting accurately the composer's ideas. How seldom, if ever, even in the best lyric theatres, is the following passage heard as the composer himself indicated: [Music: "Plus blanche" Les Huguenots: Act I Meyerbeer Plus pure, plus pure qu'un jour de printemps] or the concluding phrase of "Celeste Aida" (in _Aida_, Act I), as Verdi wrote it and wished it to be sung: [Music: un trono vicino al sol, un trono vicino al sol.] At present the majority of operatic tenors, to whom are assigned the strong tenor (_fort ténor_) rôles, can sing the higher tones of their compass only in _forte_, and with full voice. Thus an additional and very charming effect is lost to them. Yet Adolphe Nourrit, who created the rôle of Raoûl in _Les Huguenots_, sang, it is said, the phrase as written. The late Italo Campanini, Sims Reeves, and the famous Spanish tenor Gayarré, were all able to sing the [Music] _mezza voce_, by a skilled use of the covered tones. I do not ignore the fact that cases occur where artists, owing to some physiological peculiarity or personal idiosyncrasy, are unable to overcome certain special difficulties; where, indeed, the effort would produce but meagre results. But such instances are the exception, not the rule. The lyric artist who is gifted merely with a beautiful voice, over which he has acquired but imperfect control, is at the mercy of every slight indisposition that may temporarily affect the quality and sonority of his instrument. But he who is a "singer" in the real and artistic sense of the word, he who has acquired skill in the use of the voice, is armed at all points against such accidents. By his art, by clever devices of varied tone-colour and degrees of intensity, he can so screen the momentary loss of brilliance, etc., as to conceal that fact from his auditors, who imagine him to be in the possession of his normal physical powers. The technical or mechanical part of any art can be taught and learned, as I have said. It is only a case of well-guided effort. Patience and unceasing perseverance will in this, as in all other matters, achieve the desired result. Nature gives only the ability and aptitude to acquire; it is persistent study which enables their possessor to arrive at perfection. Serious and lasting results are obtained only by constant practice. It is a curious fact that many people more than usually gifted arrive only at mediocrity. Certain things, such as the trill or scales, come naturally easy to them. This being the case, they neglect to perfect their _agilità_, which remains defective. Others, although but moderately endowed, have arrived at eminence by sheer persistence and rightly directed study. It is simply a musical version of the Hare and the Tortoise. * * * * * But we must make a great distinction between the preliminary exercises which put the singer in full possession of the purely mechanical branch of his art (Technique), and the æsthetic studies in Taste and the research for what dramatic authors call "the Science of Effect," or Style. The former must be thoroughly accomplished, otherwise the latter cannot be undertaken satisfactorily. A good and reliable technique is undoubtedly of primary necessity. But it is by no means all. One may have a voice which is well-posed and of good resonance, and also have sufficient flexibility to perform neatly all the rapid passages with which the pages of the classic composers abound. But this is not singing; nor is the possessor of these an artist. He has simply the necessary and preliminary knowledge which should enable him to become one, by further study of the æsthetic side of the art of singing. He has, as it were, collected the materials necessary for the erection of a splendid edifice, and has now to learn the effective means of combining them. So, when the voice is "formed," a frank and easy emission obtained, a sufficiency of Technique acquired, the next step in the singer's education is the practical study of the problem of Style. CHAPTER III ANALYSIS OF STYLE What is Style? In reality the question is two-fold. One may have Style; and one may have _a_ style. The former is general; the latter individual. The former can be taught and learned, for it is based on certain well-defined rules; the latter is personal--in other words, is not universally applicable. Not infrequently it is a particular application of those rules which gives the impress of originality. But correct taste must first be formed by the study of the noblest creations in the particular art that claims attention. In singing, as in the sister arts, the laws which govern Style must be apprehended and understood before Individuality can be given full scope. Otherwise, what to the executant would appear as original might, to correct taste and judgment, appear ridiculous and extravagant. A genius is sometimes eccentric, but eccentricity is not genius. Vocal students should hear as many good singers as possible, but actually imitate none. A skilled teacher will always discern and strive to develop the personality of the pupil, will be on the alert to discover latent features of originality and character. He will respect and encourage individuality, rather than insist upon the servile imitation of some model--even though that model be himself. As the distinguished artist Victor Maurel has justly observed: "Of all the bad forms of teaching singing, that by imitation is the worst" (_Un Problème d'Art_). In singing, as in painting, a copy has never the value of the original. Moreover, slavish imitation in any art has a deleterious influence. But to respect irreproachable examples and fitly observe sound rules, whose very survival often justifies their existence and testifies to their value, is always of benefit to the artist. To imitate is to renounce one's individual expression of an ideal and present that of another. But to observe established and accepted laws, laws founded on Truth and consecrated by Time, is not to imitate, when those laws are applied in an original and individual manner that is in harmony with the personality of the interpreter. "_L'art est un coin de Nature vu à travers un tempérament._" In literature, each writer has his own special style which may easily be recognized; but all follow the same grammatical rules. A correct style in singing consists in the careful observance of the principles of Technique; a perfect Diction; the appropriate Colouring of each sentiment expressed; attention to the musical and poetic Accents; judicious and effective Phrasing (whether musical or verbal), so that the meaning of both composer and poet may be placed in the clearest light. * * * * * Let us analyze Style in its three principal aspects: Colour, Accent, and Phrasing. COLOUR Of all the elements of Style in singing, the most potent and effective--the one, indeed, that is essential for the success of the lyric artist--is the ability to vary the vocal timbre; that is, to sing with Colour. This desideratum of varied tone-colour is sought even by instrumentalists. Nay, the instrument itself is sometimes constructed with this object in view. Witness the invention of the "soft" pedal, which is intended not solely to reduce the intensity of tone in the pianoforte--that may be accomplished by a modification of force in striking the note--but to give the tones a darker, more sombre quality, or colour. To vary the tone-colour, a violinist or 'cellist draws the bow across the strings close to, or distant from, the bridge, in accordance with his desire for a reed-like or flute-like quality of tone. Anyone who has listened to the performance of the slow movement in Paganini's Concerto in _D_, by an Ysaye or a Mischa Elman, will have remarked how the skilful use of varied tone colour and other devices imparts a wonderful charm to music intrinsically of but mediocre value. A singer may have a good quality of voice; but that is normal. If he can vary it only in degrees of loudness (Intensity) and not in differences of timbre (Colour) he cannot be ranked as an artist. No matter how great the natural beauty and sonority of his voice, his performance will always be monotonous, if he has only one tint on his vocal palette. In speech--from which the effect is borrowed--utterances of grave and serious meaning, and those of gayer import, are not made with the same colour of voice. A brighter quality (_voix claire_) is used instinctively for an ejaculation uttered by one to whom pleasant or joyful news has been communicated. On the contrary, should it be the cause of sorrow or grief for the listener, he will use--should he have occasion to reply--a darker quality of voice (_voix sombre_). Such phenomena are physiological. The vocal organs are the most sensitive of any in the human economy: they betray at once the mental condition of the individual. Joy is a great tonic, and acts on the vocal cords and mucous membrane as does an astringent; a brilliant and clear quality of voice is the result. Grief or Fear, on the other hand, being depressing emotions, lower the vitality, and the debilitating influence communicates to the voice a dull and sombre character. On this question of colour in the voice, the masterly writer and critic Legouvé says: "Certain particular gifts are necessary if the speech is to possess colour. The first of these is Metal in the voice. He who has it not will never shine as a colourist. The metal may be gold, silver or brass; each has its individual characteristic. A golden voice is the most brilliant; a silvery voice has the most charm; a brassy voice the most power. But one of the three characteristics is essential. A voice without metallic ring is like teeth without enamel; they may be sound and healthy, but they are not brilliant.... In speech there are several colours--a bright, ringing quality; one soft and veiled. The bright, strident hues of purple and gold in a picture may produce a masterpiece of gorgeous colouring; so, in a different manner, may the harmonious juxtaposition of greys, lilacs and browns on a canvas by Veronese, Rubens, or Delacroix. "Last of all is the velvety voice. This is worthless if not allied with one of the three others. In order that a velvety voice may possess value it must be reinforced (_doublée_) with 'metal.' A velvety voice is merely one of cotton."[1] [Footnote 1: These admirably expressed views illustrate and exemplify the principles I laid down in a _conférence_ (Paris, 1902) on Voice-Production (_Pose de la Voix_), wherein I demonstrated the possibility of acquiring, by the aid of the resonating cavities, a greater sonority, more in conformity with the demands and necessities of present-day music.] It may be of interest to notice that the quality which in France is designated "timbre," is called by the Italians "_metallo di voce_," or, "metal of the voice." Those who heard Madame Sarah Bernhardt fifteen or twenty years ago will readily understand why her countless friends and admirers always spoke of her matchless organ as "_la voix d'or_." The late Sims Reeves, the famous tenor, was a perfect master of all varieties and shades of vocal colour, and displayed his mastery with certainty and unfailing effect in the different fields of Oratorio and Opera. In the recitative "Deeper and deeper still," with its subsequent aria "Waft her, angels, through the skies" [Handel], he ranged through the entire gamut of tone-colour. As Edgardo in Donizetti's _Lucia di Lammermoor_, he launched the "Maladetta" phrase of the curse with a voice that was almost "white" with frenzied rage; while the pathetic sombre quality he employed in the "_Fra poco a me ricovero_" fitly accorded with the despairing mood and gloomy surroundings of the hapless Edgardo. Some singers control but two colours or timbres--the very clear (open) and the very sombre (closed), which they exaggerate. In reality, however, the gradations between them can be made infinite by the artist who is in possession of the secret--especially if he has the ability to combine Colour with Intensity. An illustration of this is found in the example cited in the opening paragraph of the present work:--"For now is Christ risen." Not only did Mme. Tietjens make a gradual _crescendo_ from the first note to the climax, but the tonal colours were also subtly graduated from a comparatively sombre quality to one of the utmost clearness and brilliance. [Music: As sung by Mme. Tietjens For now is Christ risen, for now is Christ risen from the dead.] As contrasting examples in which the two principal colours may be employed effectively, I may cite the Bacchic air, "_Ô vin, dissipe la tristesse_," and the pensive monologue, "_Être, ou ne pas être_," both from the opera _Hamlet_, by Ambroise Thomas. The forced, unnatural quality of the first calls for the use of a clear, open, brilliant timbre. [Music: Ô vin, dissipe la tristesse Qui pèse sur mon coeur! A moi les rêves de l'ivresse, Et le rire moqueur!] But for the second, "To be, or not to be": [Music: Être, ou ne pas être! ô mystère! Mourir! dormir, dormir!] a sombre, closed timbre is necessary. The opening recitative of Vanderdecken in _Der fliegende Holländer_ by Wagner would be absurd, and utterly out of harmony with the character and his surroundings, if sung in the open timbre. Perhaps I ought to explain that "open" (_voix claire_, Fr.), and "closed" (_voix sombre_, Fr.), are technical terms, of which the equivalents are accepted in all countries where the art of singing is cultivated; terms that apply to _quality_ of tone, not to the _physical_ process by which these effects are produced. Such a mistake is not infrequently made by vocal physiologists who are not practical musicians or singing-teachers. Nor must the term "clear timbre" be understood to mean the "white voice" ("_voix blanche_," or "_voce bianca_"); this, like the guttural timbre, being only occasionally employed for the expression of some violent passion, such as hate. Like the admirable paintings of Eugène Carrière, for instance his masterly portrait of Paul Verlaine, a song, sometimes an entire rôle, may be worked out in monochrome; though the gradations of tint are numerous, they are consistently kept within their preconceived colour-scheme. Some few exceptional singers, like Jean-Baptiste Faure or Maurice Renaud, have this gift of many shades of the one colour in their singing of certain rôles. The colour is determined by the psychological character of the personage portrayed; a gay, reckless Don Giovanni calls for a brighter colouring throughout than that necessitated by the music allotted to a gloomy Vanderdecken or an embittered and vengeful Rigoletto. One may, therefore, formulate the following rule: The general character of the composition will decide the tonal colour appropriate for its general interpretation; the colouring necessary for its component phrases will be determined by the particular sentiment embodied in them. Emotions like sorrow, fear, despair, will find fitting expression in the sombre quality of voice, graduated in accordance with the intensity of the emotion. The opposite sentiments of joy, love, courage, hope, are fittingly interpreted by gradations of the clear and brilliant timbre. The dark or sombre voice will be used in varying shades for the recitative from _Samson_ (Handel), "Oh, loss of sight:" [Music: Oh, loss of sight, of thee I most complain!] while the clearest and most brilliant timbre possible to be obtained is plainly indicated for the same composer's "Sound an alarm!" from _Judas Maccabæus_. [Music: Sound an alarm, your silver trumpets sound!] It was a rule formulated by the old Italian school of singing, when _l'arte del bel canto_ in its true sense did really exist, that no phrase--musical or verbal--should be repeated with the same nuances. Very many instances might be given of the happy effect obtained by observing this rule. One will suffice. It is taken from the Lamento of Queen Catherine (of Aragon), who, slighted by Henry VIII. for Anne Boleyn, sighs for her native Spain. [Music: Lamento Henri VIII: Act IV Saint-Saëns Mon Espagne chérie! Mon Espagne chérie!] Sudden contrasts of colour are of great dramatic effect. A good illustration is found in the air "_Divinités du Styx_," from Gluck's _Alceste_. This contrast is still further heightened by a sudden change of both Intensity and Tempo. [Music: Divinités du Styx! Divinités du Styx! Ministres de la mort!] This last phrase, "_Ministres de la mort!_" should be sung in a very sombre voice of almost guttural character. It is, indeed, in the recitatives and declamatory passages of Gluck, Handel, Sacchini, that lyric artists will find unsurpassable material for study. Requiring, as such works do for their perfect interpretation, all the resources of Colour, Accent, and Phrasing, such study is the best possible preparation for the fitting musical presentment of the lyric drama in some of its later phases. Colour, then, is the basic element of Style in singing. It is reinforced by Accent, which, as the name implies, is the accentuation of details that require to be brought into prominence. This subject, therefore, next claims attention. * * * * * ACCENT In singing, two kinds of accent are recognized, the Musical accent, and the Poetic, or Verbal, accent. The first appertains to the domain of sound; the second, to the domain of significance. The first, for æsthetic reasons, throws into relief certain tones of a musical phrase; the second brings into prominence the sentiment underlying the poem or text. Note, also, that in spoken declamation, accent applies to a syllable only; in singing, the verbal accent affects an entire word. In its relation to Style, the Musical accent must be carefully distinguished from the Metrical accent which is determined by Time, or Measure, as well as from the Verbal accent whereby the import of a word is rendered clear to the listener. Here is an example of Musical accent, from Act III of Verdi's _Ballo in Maschera_: [Music: Saper vorreste di che si veste quando l'è cosa ch'ei vuol nascosa.] The accents (marked thus [accent symbol]) give to the musical phrase a piquancy that is admirably in keeping with the gay and careless character of the page, Oscar, who sings it. In fact, as regards Style, Musical accent is particularly valuable in song for the purpose of setting forth the true character of the music. Hence, it may be regarded as a means of characterization. This use of accent for characterization is also quite distinct from its use with "accidentals," or tones foreign to the prevailing tonality. In the former case, sentiment dictates its employment; in the second, the accent guarantees, as it were, the accuracy of the singer's intonation. By the faint stress laid on the foreign tone, the listener is assured that the executant is not deviating from the true pitch. In the following examples, the tones marked [accent symbol] are "accidentals," and for that reason should receive a faint stress. The first example is from _La Forza del Destino_. [Music: Verdi Madre, Madre, pietosa Vergine, perdona al mio peccato, m'aita quell'ingrato] [Music: "Je dis que rien" Carmen: Act III Bizet Vous me protégerez, Seigneur!] These different uses of accent are well illustrated in the following example. [Music: "Come unto Him" Messiah Handel Take His yoke upon you, and learn of Him.] The tone allotted to the second syllable of the word "upon" is accentuated to affirm the accuracy of the singer's intonation; the slight emphasis of the word "Him" brings into relief the meaning of the text. This latter, then, is an illustration of Verbal, or "Poetic" accent which, I repeat, throws into relief, without consideration of its musical value or position, some word of special significance in the verbal phrase. To render the poetic meaning of the text clear to the listener, a correct use of verbal accent is imperative. Its importance and effect, particularly in recitative and declamatory singing, are analogous to the importance and effect of emphasis in spoken language. The example is from _Samson_ (Handel): [Music: O loss of _sight_, of _thee_ I _most_ complain.] Here I may point out that in _cantabile_ phrases the stream of sound, notwithstanding its division into syllables by the organs of articulation--lips, tongue, etc.--should pour forth smoothly and uninterruptedly. The full value of each tone must be allotted to the vowel; the consonants which precede or end the syllables are pronounced quickly and distinctly. In declamatory singing, on the contrary, the consonants should be articulated with greater deliberation and intensity. [Music: Handel (Messiah) I _know_ that my Redeemer liveth.] Here an emphatic accent on the consonant "n" irresistibly suggests the idea of knowledge; that is, of absolute certainty, not of mere belief. Very frequently the metrical accent does not coincide with the syllabic accent: the musical accent will fall on an unaccented syllable, or vice versa. Particularly is this the case when the composer is not perfectly familiar with the rules that govern the prosody of the language to which he is setting music. In the operas of Meyerbeer many passages occur in which it is necessary to readjust the syllables to the notes on account of their misplaced accent. Here is an illustration from Hoël's Grand Air in _Le Pardon de Ploërmel_ (Meyerbeer), Act II. (Note that the tonic accent in French falls _always_ on the last pronounced syllable.) [Music: (as printed) Et ranimez, ra_ni_mez ma foi.] The error is easily remedied: [Music: (should be sung) Et ranimez, rani_mez_ ma foi.] In the contralto aria "He shall feed His flock," in Handel's _Messiah_, the unaccented word "shall" falls on the most strongly accented note of the bar. If performed thus, it would give a most aggressive character to the passage, implying that some one had previously denied the assertion. This would be entirely at variance with the consolatory and peaceful message that is contained in the text and shadowed forth in the music. [Music: (as printed) He shall feed his flock like a shepherd. (should be sung) He shall feed his flock like a shepherd.] Instances of faulty syllabic accent abound in Handel's works, both his English oratorios and his Italian operas. Many examples could be quoted. Here is a phrase from the beautiful air for mezzo-soprano sung by Ruggiero in the opera of _Alcina_. [Music: (as printed) Verdi prati. (should be sung) Verdi prati.] In Mendelssohn's _Elijah_, the following phrase is nearly always sung as written, unless the singer is familiar with the best traditions: [Music: Give me _thy_ son!] It may be that the artists who slavishly follow the published text fear being accused of altering the composer's music, or are ignorant of the fact that there exists a better version, which is this: [Music: Give _me_ thy son!] It will be seen that the music is not changed in the least; the musical and verbal accents have been merely readjusted and made to coincide. In order to avoid the disagreeable effect of singing one half-bar _andante_ to the syllable "_si_" (pronounced like "zee" in English), the following phrase of Marguerite de Valois in _Les Huguenots_ (Meyerbeer), Act II, is changed thus: [Music: (as printed) en aucun temps n'eût choisi mieux. (should be sung) en aucun temps n'eût choisi mieux.] * * * * * INTENSITY In musical terminology every gradation of volume in sound, from the faintest to the loudest, enters into the category of Intensity. One of the accepted rules of the _arte del bel canto_ was, that every sustained tone should be coloured by some graduation of intensity. Thus the ability to augment and diminish the volume of tone was so highly esteemed--indeed, so essential--that singers spent much time in acquiring the _messa di voce_, that is, the steadily graduated emission of tone from the softest degree to the loudest and again to the softest: _p_ [crescendo symbol] _f_ [decrescendo symbol] _p_. This exercise invariably formed a part of each day's study, and was practised on several vowels throughout the scale, except the extreme tones, save in rare instances. It was, in fact, indispensable that the singer should be able to colour every tone in three forms of graduated intensity: Soft to loud _p_ [crescendo symbol] _f_; loud to soft _f_ [decrescendo symbol] _p_; and soft to loud and soft again _p_ [crescendo symbol] _f_ [decrescendo symbol] _p_. This command of intensity, therefore, is invaluable. But it is even more effective when the artist has the power to combine the various gradations of Intensity with different shades of Colour; in other words, when he can sing a tone _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_ in the clear and sombre timbres. The passage, already cited, from Alceste's great air in Gluck's opera _Alceste_, furnishes an admirable illustration of the dramatic emotion created by a sudden contrast of Intensity as well as Colour. In the invocation "Ye ministers that dwell in night!" the clear timbre is used with gradually increasing volume until at the phrase (sung _adagio_) "Ministers of death!" the timbre changes abruptly to a sombre quality with sinister effect, which effect is augmented by being sung _pp_. [Music: Gluck (Alceste: Act I) Divinités du Styx! Divinités du Styx! Ministres de la mort!] A still more striking example of the impressive effect produced by sudden contrasts of intensity is offered in the magnificent air "Total Eclipse," from _Samson_ (Handel). In it, a judicious use of tone-colour, accent, and variations of tempo, all combine to elucidate in the highest possible degree the idea of both composer and poet: [Music: Sun, moon and stars, sun, moon and stars are _dark_ to me.] The words "Sun, moon and stars" should be given strongly accentuated, and the tempo gradually accelerated. The repetition of the phrase should be sung with still greater intensity; then, at the passage "are dark to me," the colour of the voice changes to one of very sombre quality, and the original tempo is resumed. The first consonant in the word "dark" should receive a slight stress. The _crescendo_ has always been a favourite device of composers, particularly of those who write for the lyric theatre. It was an effect held in high esteem by Rossini, who introduced it constantly in his operas--witness his overtures and ensembles. All are familiar with the wonderful _crescendo_ which precedes the appearance of the Knight of the Swan, in _Lohengrin_, where the sonorities are augmented by gradual additions of voices and instruments until the culminating point is reached. An instance more poignant still is found in the great "Liebestod" in _Tristan und Isolde_. Although Hérold, the French composer, observed that in working up to a climax one should begin a long way off, a singer must be careful not to reach his maximum of vocal sonority before the musical climax is attained. The tenor Duprez created a sensation that is historic, in the long _crescendo_ passage in the fourth act of _Guillaume Tell_, by gradually increasing the volume of sound, as the phrase developed in power and grandeur, until the end, which he delivered with all the wealth of his exceptionally resonant voice. Before closing this chapter on Intensity, I should advise singers whose voices possess great natural volume or power not to abuse this valuable quality by employing it too frequently. The ear of a listener tires sooner of extreme sonority than of any other effect. Talma, the great actor, wrought many reforms on the French dramatic stage, not only in costume--prior to his time Greek or Roman dress only was worn in tragedy--but also in the manner of delivering tragic verse. Against the custom, then prevalent, of always hurling forth long tirades at full voice, he inveighed in these terms: "Of all monotonous things, _uproar_ is the most intolerable" (_de toutes les monotonies, celle de la force est la plus insupportable_). An artistic singer will use his most powerful tones, as a painter employs his most vivid colours, sparingly. * * * * * PHRASING Phrasing is simply musical punctuation. In singing, it may be separated, like accent, into two divisions: Musical and Poetic, or Verbal, phrasing. If the following passage were performed by an instrument, it would not require any particular grouping or phrasing: [Music] But when sung, it would fail in effect if not performed with a very slight pause after the word "nobis," thus: [Music: Ave Maria Luzzi Ora pro nobis, Maria.] As another illustration of the excellent effect of correct phrasing may be cited the song _Psyché_, by Paladilhe. Its effect is heightened if the musical phrasing be judiciously combined with a change in Colour and Intensity: [Music: Quand il les flatte, j'en murmure!] (Should be sung): [Music: Quand il les flatte, j'en murmure!] It is the clashing of the Musical and Verbal phrasings that often makes translations of lyric works unsatisfactory. The two phrases are independent, not welded together. So far from being "Music wedded to immortal Verse," these instances resemble those _ménages_ wherein each unit leads a separate existence. When this is the case, the singer must decide as to whether the musical phrase, or the poetic phrase, demands the greater prominence. The following Phrasing and Colouring would be good and effective if the passage were played on an instrument: [Music] But if sung thus, as it sometimes is by careless artists who pay little attention to the verbal significance of what they are singing, it would sound absurd, because the poetic phrasing is entirely ignored. The correct way of performing the passage (from the aria "Voi che sapete," in Act II of Mozart's _Nozze di Figaro_) is the following: [Music: Donne, vedete, s'io l'ho nel cor.] In the next extract (from Act IV in _Un Ballo in Maschera_, by Verdi), it will be noticed how oblivious the composer was of the claims of verbal phrasing. The whole _scena_ is admirably written for the voice, and contains many graceful passages of great melodic charm. But although the music may claim to represent the character of the situation as a whole, it is disfigured by the complete disregard of the sense of certain groups of words: [Music: Come se fosse l'ultima ora del nostro amor, come se fosse l'ultima, l'ultima ora, ora del nostro amor, del nostro amor? Oh, qual presagio m'assale, come se fosse l'ultima ora del nostro amor, se fosse l'ultima del nostro amor] The words "_come se fosse l'ultima ora del nostro amor_," constitute one phrase. It would be extremely difficult, impossible even, for many, to sing the passage in one breath. But the first musical phrase ends after the word "_ultima_;" to separate it from the next word, "_ora_" (second and third bars), thus: "last--hour," is impracticable. It would be out of the question to destroy the musical phrase by breathing after the word "_ora_," in the third bar. If the text is phrased when spoken as it is when sung, the incongruity is at once apparent. The published score gives a pause [fermata symbol] after the word "_ora_:" "_ultima ora_ [fermata symbol] _del nostro amor_." This phrasing is good and effective, especially if the artist changes at once to the sombre quality after the pause, and finishes the phrase _piano_ and _rallentando_. One very often hears it, however, given with a pause for breathing after the high _a_; the unfortunate singer having prolonged the tone until, in order to continue, he is compelled to take in more air. The result is the absurd phrasing given below: [Music: l'ultima ora del nostro amor] In the final cadenza, the composer has cut out the word "ora" altogether. The whole air is of interest to the musical student, as it shows clearly the little value attached by Verdi, at that period of his career, to the exigencies of the verbal or poetic phrase. This neglect of the verbal punctuation is in marked contrast to the care he bestowed on it in his later works, witness _Aida_, _Otello_, and particularly _Falstaff_. Here I may say that it is sometimes necessary to alter the words on account of the impossibility of performing certain passages as written. In the earlier published scores of _Samson et Dalila_ (Saint-Saëns), the following passage in Act II, "Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix," as the composer wrote it, occurs as one phrase: [Music: Ah! réponds à ma tendresse!] This being impracticable of execution in one phrase, and there being no opportunity of retaking breath until the close of the passage, it was altered in the later editions, and now stands thus: [Music: Ah! réponds, réponds à ma tendresse!] This device of repetition, applied either to a word or to part of a phrase, is perfectly justifiable in cases where the artist, for physical reasons, is unable to sing the phrase in one breath. I give an excerpt from Weber's _Der Freischütz_ (Grand Air, Act II): [Music: Oh lovely night!] This may be sung: [Music: Oh lovely, lovely night!] The concluding bars of the waltz-song in Act I of Gounod's _Roméo et Juliette_, are often phrased as indicated in the brackets, in order to give the singer a chance to take breath, which is done after the _c_ natural: [Music: Ah! (comme un trésor.) comme un trésor.] As discrepancies between the musical and verbal phrases, such as those I have instanced, abound in certain of the old operas which still keep the stage and form a part of the permanent répertoire of every lyric theatre, the artists singing them are compelled to choose between sacrificing the words or the music. The former alternative is generally preferable, the musical phrase in many such cases being of the greater relative importance. Another way is, to meet the difficulty boldly by supplying another text which mates itself more happily with the musical phrase. Personally, I adopt the latter alternative without hesitation, when preparing artists to sing these works. * * * * * Some minor effects utilized in Style in singing may be briefly alluded to: _Portamento_; variations of _Tempo_. PORTAMENTO This is effected by the voice gliding from one tone to another, and is equally available on stringed instruments, the violin or 'cello, the mandoline or zither. It is a grace of style much abused by inartistic singers. Being an ornament, good taste dictates that it be used sparingly. A frequent sliding from one tone to another is a grave fault, and most disagreeable to a cultivated ear. To sing _legato_ is one thing; to sing _strisciato_ is another. Hence, its use on two consecutive occasions is rarely admissible. But without a sober and discreet use of the _portamento_, the style of the singer appears stiff, angular--lacking, as it were, in graceful curves. It must always be performed by carrying the tone and syllable to the next tone; never by anticipating the latter: [Music: Mozart (Nozze di Figaro) Do Fa Deh vieni, non tardar,] But it sometimes happens that, while desiring this grace, the composer does not indicate his wish quite correctly. Here is an instance by F. Thomé: [Music: Et nous dansions un boléro.] Were it performed as printed, it would be very bad style, as it violates the rule that the succeeding syllable shall not be anticipated. Undoubtedly, what the author wished is the following: [Music: Et nous dansions] Sometimes the composer himself indicates clearly his intention that this effect should be used, as in the following examples: [Music: Reyer (La Statue) Pour s'évanouir, au réveil.] [Music: Celeste Aida (Aida: Act I) Verdi Del mio pensiero tu sei regina, tu di mia vita sei lo splendor.] [Music: Song "Heure du Soir" for Tenor Léo Delibes Partout s'élève un chant bien doux, un chant bien doux, Sous la brise toute embaumée.] [Music: From "La Bohème," Act I Puccini Mi chiamano Mimi, ma il mio nome è Lucia.] (Notice the phrases marked _a_ and _b_.) The words and indications for the use of the _portamento_ in each of these last four examples are by the respective composers, and as printed in the published editions. A _portamento_ should never be sung so slowly as to convey the idea of a badly executed chromatic scale; and, as a rule, it is best not to use one between any lesser interval than a third, unless for some particular effect, or at the close of a slow movement, as in the aria "He was despisèd," in _The Messiah_: [Music: and acquainted with grief.] It is also effective in connecting syllables in phrases of a smooth, lyric character: [Music: Nozze di Figaro: Act II Mozart (as printed) in braccio al idol mio. (should be sung) in braccio al idol mio.] The _portamento_ being an embellishment that pertains to the _cantabile_, it is very little used in declamatory singing. But frequently in the Recitatives of classic works occur phrases of declamatory recitative, interspersed with passages that are purely lyric in structure. To each of these divisions must be given its appropriate style. For instance, after the opening phrases of Obadiah's exhortation, "Ye people, rend your hearts," in _Elijah_, up to the end of the phrase "Return to God," all is purely lyric declamation. But at the words, "For He is slow to anger, and merciful," this should cease, and the succeeding phrases be given with all the graces that are permissible in _cantabile_ singing; not in the hard, dry manner affected by some of the modern tenors in oratorio. [Music: I therefore say to ye, Forsake your idols, return to God; for He is slow to anger, and merciful.] * * * * * VARIATIONS OF TEMPO These are of value in bringing out the musical and poetic significance of certain compositions; notably the operas of Bellini, Donizetti, and the earlier works of Verdi. But I would caution singers to exercise discretion in this much-abused effect. Variations of Tempo, the _ritardando_, _accelerando_, and _tempo rubato_, are all legitimate aids demanded by Expression. But unless their use is determined by sound judgment and correct musicianly taste, the effect speedily becomes vulgar and monotonous. Knowledge, and a taste formed in good schools, must be the guide of the vocalist in the use of variations of tempo. I have said that the operas of Bellini, Donizetti and Verdi abound in instances requiring the hastening or slackening of the tempo. But the device is also highly esteemed by the ultra-modern Italian school, as may be seen in studying the scores of Puccini, Mascagni and Leoncavallo. Here is an illustration of its effective use in the air "Connais-tu le pays?" from _Mignon_ (Act II), by Ambroise Thomas. Madame Christine Nilsson (Countess Casa Miranda), who "passed" the rôle with the composer, always sang the phrase thus, although these indications do not appear in the published version: [Music: Hélas! que ne puis-je te suivre, vers ce rivage heureux, d'où le sort m'exila!] Again, in the fine song _Der Asra_, by Rubinstein, the musical, as well as the dramatic, effect of the poem is heightened by the use of the _accelerando_, which interprets with musical vividness the impetuous avowal by the slave of his passion for the princess, after his calm answer to her questions as to his name and birthplace. "_Ich heisse Mahomet, ich bin aus Yemen, und mein Stamm sind jene Asra, welche sterben, wenn sie lieben._" (HEINE.) [Music: und mein Stamm sind jene Asra, welche sterben, wenn sie lieben.] CHAPTER IV TRADITION Tradition plays a more important part, perhaps, in the interpretation of the classic composers' writings for the voice than it does in their purely instrumental works. The old masters left few--sometimes not any--indications as to the manner in which their music should be rendered. Thus its proper performance is largely determined by received oral tradition. The printed scores of the classics, except those that have been specially edited, throw little light on their proper interpretation, or even at times on the actual notes to be sung. To perform exactly as written the operas of Gluck, notably _Armide_ and _Orphée_, the operas of Mozart, the Italian operas and English oratorios of Handel, the oratorios of Bach, Haydn, and Mendelssohn, would be to do the greatest injustice to these composers and their works. It is a prevalent idea that all departures from the published text are due either to caprice, or to vanity and a desire for personal display on the part of the soloist. As though singers had a monopoly of these defects! Let us consider some of the principal causes of such changes in the text, and the reasons why these modifications do not always appear in the published versions. In the original editions of many of the earlier operas, as those of Mozart, etc., the unaccompanied recitative (_recitativo secco_) is not barred. As with the plain-chant of the church, only the _pitch_ of the tone is indicated. Its _length_ was left to the discretion of the artist, who was supposed to be familiar with the accepted style of delivery termed "_recitativo parlante_." The example is from the recitative "Dove sono," in Act III of _Le Nozze di Figaro_, by Mozart: [Music: E Susanna non vien! Sono ansiosa di saper] This should be sung as below: [Music: E Susanna non vien! Sono ansiosa di saper] The substitution of another note for the one actually written, both in Recitative and Aria, was also strictly regulated under the system or convention then in vogue, one perfectly understood both by composer and singer. In all the earlier Italian operas, and in the English oratorios of Handel, this system was followed: [Music: Recit. "Behold, a Virgin shall conceive" Messiah Handel (sung) Emmanuel; (printed) and shall call his name Emmanuel;] [Music: Aria. "I know that my Redeemer liveth" Messiah Handel (sung) liveth (printed) I know that my Redeemer liveth] [Music: Recit. "Non più di fiori" La Clemenza di Tito Mozart (sung) Vitellia! costanza (printed) Ecco il punto, o Vitellia! d'esaminar la tua costanza] [Music: "In questa tomba" Beethoven (sung) oscura (printed) In questa tomba oscura] This substitution, therefore, of another note--a tone or semitone higher or lower, according to the phrase--is not only legitimate but essential in all music written in the Italian manner. Another cause of changes being necessary in the vocal part of many of the older classic writers, particularly of oratorio, is the frequently faulty syllabic accentuation. I have already mentioned this defect in the chapter on Accent. Handel, for instance, although living nearly all his life in England, never became quite master of its language; hence the numerous cases of the misplacing of syllables in his oratorios. This defect is also noticeable, but not in the same degree, in his Italian operas. The books of _Elijah_ and _St. Paul_ (Mendelssohn), and _The Creation_ (Haydn), were originally written in German, and therefore suffer somewhat in this respect when the translated English version is given. This fault is also noticeable in the English versions of Bach's _Passion_ (St. Matthew), and Mendelssohn's _Psalm CXIV_. In the first quoted of these two works, in the response for Double Chorus to the question, "Whether of the twain will ye that I release unto you?" the accent falls on the first syllable "_Ba_-rab-bas"; in the second of the two works (_114th Psalm_), the accent is placed on the last syllable, thus: "Hal-le-lu-_jah_." Neither of these accentuations is in accordance with English custom. A singer, therefore, is perfectly justified in rearranging the syllables in order that, as far as possible, the musical and verbal accents shall coincide. But there are rigorists, unaware of the usages and conventions previously spoken of, who are very severe in their judgment when any deviation is made from the printed score with which they follow the performance of classic works. Such severity is unmerited, because unjust. Although such persons sometimes inveigh against any and every change from the strict letter of the printed music--ignorant of the possibility, that only in this way can its spirit be respected--the changes in a multitude of cases are essential because due (1) to reverential deciphering of an obsolete musical notation, (2) to improvements in musical instruments, or (3) to the sanction and authority of the composer himself. Sometimes it is an orchestral conductor who reproaches the solo singers with their want of respect for the composer, because he hears at times interpolations or changes which find no place in his own score. The singers are accused of "altering the composer," of "taking liberties with the text." And yet these very changes may be traditionally correct; they may be in accordance with rules and conditions prevalent at the time the music was written, and employed on account of a desire to interpret the composer's own intentions, and not from mere vanity or caprice. Nor are these necessary changes and departures from the printed scores of the classics confined to the vocal parts of the music composed by the old masters. As a matter of fact, the deviations which, in performance, are sometimes made from the printed edition of a musical composition, arise from a variety of causes. One of these is the discrepancy that exists between various editions of the same work; and sometimes the confusion is complicated by different versions having been prepared by the composer himself. This is notably the case with Gluck's _Orphée_, first written to an Italian libretto by Calzabigi and produced at Vienna. When Marie Antoinette called her former Viennese singing-master, Gluck, to Paris, she gave him an opportunity of displaying his genius by facilitating the production of his _Iphigénie en Aulide_ at the Opéra, in 1774. Its enthusiastic reception recalled to the composer the like success which had attended the production of his _Orfeo_ at Vienna. He immediately set to work to revise it for the Paris Opéra, and fit it to a new French text, the latter supplied him by Moline.[2] [Footnote 2: Sir George Grove, in the "Dictionary of Music and Musicians," P. 611, says that the French text is by _Molière_! This is a self-evident error.] But the title-rôle in the original Italian version was written for, and sung by, Guadagni, an artificial contralto (_contralto musico_). In its newer French dress the part was transposed and rearranged for the tenor Legros; who, judging from the extreme altitude of the _tessitura_ employed, must have possessed either a _haute-contre_, or a very high light-tenor voice, and who may have employed the falsetto. This high _tessitura_, combined with the fact that the pitch has risen considerably since it was composed, renders the French version impracticable for tenors of the present day. Here are the concluding bars of the famous air as written in the original Italian version, and the same phrase as altered by Gluck, when produced in Paris. [Music: "Che farò senz' Euridice?" Dove andrò? Che farò? Dove andrò senza il mio ben? (As originally written by Gluck for the Italian version, Vienna.)] [Music: "J'ai perdu mon Eurydice" Sort cruel, quelle rigueur! Je succombe à ma douleur, à ma douleur, à ma douleur! (As altered by Gluck for Paris; sung by the tenor Legros. From a manuscript copy, Bibliothèque de l'Opéra.)] [Music: "J'ai perdu mon Eurydice" Sort cruel, quelle rigueur! Je succombe à ma douleur, à ma douleur, à ma douleur! (As sung by Mme. Viardot-Garcia, Théâtre-Lyrique, Paris; the part being restored to the original voice and key, but the change at the end, made for Legros, retained.)] The finale to the first act was also changed; a tumultuous "hurry" for strings, evidently designed to accompany the change of scene to Hades, being now replaced by a florid air, probably introduced at the desire of the principal singer as a medium for the display of his vocal virtuosity; a concession often exacted from composers of opera. This interpolated air was for a long time attributed to a composer--Bertoni--who had himself composed an opera on the subject of _Orphée_. Later researches have, however, proved that this air is by Gluck himself, taken from _Aristeo_, one of his earlier works. When the famous revival of _Orphée_ took place at the old Théâtre-Lyrique in Paris, the rôle of Orphée was restored to the type of voice--contralto--for which it was originally composed, and confided to Mme. Pauline Viardot-Garcia. She retained the air introduced for the tenor Legros, but of course transposed, and with a reorchestration by Camille Saint-Saëns; the now famous composer having at that time, by the request of Berlioz, undertaken to continue and complete the revision of Gluck's complete works, known as the Pelletan Edition.[3] [Footnote 3: See very interesting article signed C. Saint-Saëns in the _Écho de Paris_ for July 23, 1911.] Other changes from the first Italian score were also made by Gluck in the later French version. Here is an example; being the recitative immediately preceding the great air of Orpheus in the last act: [Music: (Original Italian version, as written for Vienna.) Misero me! la perdo, e di nuovo, e per sempre! O legge! O morte! O ricordo crudel! Non ho soccorso, non m'avanza consiglio! Io veggo solo (Oh fiera vista!) il luttuoso aspetto dell'orrido mio stato! Saziati, sorte rea! son disperato!] [Music: C'est moi, c'est moi, qui lui ravis le jour. Loi fatale! Cruel remords! Ma peine est sans égale, Dans ce moment funeste, Le désespoir, la mort, C'est tout ce qui me reste! (As written for the Paris version, the rôle of Orphée being then sung by a tenor.)] [Music: C'est moi, c'est moi, qui lui ravis le jour. Loi fatale! Cruel remords! Ma peine est sans égale, Dans ce moment funeste, Le désespoir, la mort, C'est tout ce qui me reste! (As sung by Mme. Viardot-Garcia, the rôle being then restored to the contralto voice as in the Italian version, while the changes made by Gluck for the Paris version were retained. This is now definitively adopted at the Opéra-Comique.)] Again, discrepancies exist between various published copies of the same work, arising from the fact that sometimes the editors of these revisions may have mistaken the intentions of the composer. Or, influenced by pardonable human vanity, they may have felt impelled to collaborate more directly with the composer, by adding something of their own. There is valid reason for the additional accompaniments, with which Mozart has enriched the original scores of Handel's _Messiah_ and _Alexander's Feast_; and we have evidence of the skill, and can divine the reverence, with which these additions were accomplished. But how fatal would have been the results, had the delicate task been attempted by one in whom these qualities were lacking! Also, there is every excuse for the additions made to Gluck's _Armide_ by Meyerbeer for the Opera of Berlin; and we have the direct testimony of Saint-Saëns, who has examined this rescoring, as to the rare ability and artistic discretion with which the work has been done.[4] [Footnote 4: See _Écho de Paris_, _op. cit._] From this evidence it appears that in the score as left by Gluck, the trombones do not appear at all in _Armide_. The drums, and stranger still, the flutes, are heard only at rare intervals; while the whole orchestration--sometimes a pale sketch of the composer's intentions--shows a haste and lack of care in marked contrast with the pains bestowed on the scoring of _Alceste_, _Iphigénie_, and _Orphée_. The revisions and additions spoken of were undertaken by highly competent authorities, actuated only by the wish to restore in its purity the idea of the composer; and who to zeal, added the more valuable quality of discretion. Ancient music, owing to the development of and changes in the instruments for which it was composed, can rarely be given as written by the author. Even if the instruments of modern invention be eliminated, the orchestra of to-day is not the orchestra of Handel. The oboe, for example, has so gained in penetrating power that one instrument to each part now suffices; in Handel's time the feeble tone of the oboe rendered a considerable number necessary. The perfection of certain instruments, too, is the cause of modifications in the music written for them. The limited compass of the pianoforte, for example, was certainly the sole reason why Beethoven failed to continue in octaves the entire ascending scale in one of his sonatas. Had the piano in his day possessed its present compass, he would undoubtedly have written the passage throughout in octaves, _i.e._, as modern pianists play it. If a rigid adherence to the printed letter of ancient music is to be strictly observed, without consideration of the many causes that render this procedure undesirable, let consistency be observed by pushing the argument to its logical conclusion, _viz._, returning to the instruments used, and the composition of the orchestra that obtained, when these works were written. Those who accuse artists of introducing changes, of not performing the music as the composer wrote it, should be quite sure as to what the composer really did write, since many changes are made both before and after the work is printed. They should also be certain that these changes are not such as the composer may have, or would have, sanctioned, seeing that by their use his meaning is more clearly expressed. At the _Concerts Spirituels_, given at the Church of the Sorbonne, Paris, may be heard very excellent performances of Oratorio by ancient and modern composers, from Handel and Bach to Claude Debussy; though I do not know whether or no _l'Enfant prodigue_ (The Prodigal Son), by Debussy, is properly styled an oratorio, seeing that it was recently given in London on the stage as an opera. These performances at the Sorbonne are marked by a reverential attention to detail; the soloists, chorus and orchestra being very competent, and the conductor--M. Paul de Saunières--a musician of ability and experience. In spite of these great advantages, however, the works of several of the old classic composers suffer somewhat, by certain authentic traditions and conventions being either unknown or ignored. To cite only one instance out of many: At the Sorbonne, the opening bars of the second movement of the Recit. in _The Messiah_, "Comfort ye my people," etc., are performed as printed: [Music: The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness] This music is written in the Italian "manner," consequently its performance should be in conformity with the usages and conventions which obtained when the work was composed. One of these, as I have pointed out, was the substitution of one note for another in certain places; another, that in declamatory recitative, or _recitativo parlante_, the chord in the orchestra should come _after_ the voice ("_dopo la parola_"). These words appear in many scores of the Italian operas, even of the present day. But when they do not, the musical director is supposed to be familiar with the custom. The following, therefore, is the authentic mode of performing the passage in question: [Music: The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness] Apart from these defects in the rendering of the ancient classics, it would be unjust not to acknowledge the great artistic merit and value of the performances, given--as Oratorio should be--in the church. To hear _l'Enfance du Christ_ (Berlioz) as performed at the Sorbonne, with its particular facilities for obtaining the _ppp_ effects of the distant or receding angelic chorus, is to be impressed to a degree impossible of attainment in the concert-room. Let those purists who resent any "tampering"--as they term it--with the composers' music listen to the following phrase, sung as it is printed in the ordinary editions: [Music: the first-fruits _of_ them that sleep.] Then let them hear it given according to the authentic and accepted tradition, and say which of the two versions most faithfully interprets the composer's meaning. [Music: the first-fruits of _them_ that sleep.] * * * * * Let us now consider alterations which do not appear in the printed editions, and yet may have been made or sanctioned by the composer. In comparison with painting and sculpture, music and the literature of the theatre are not self-sufficing arts. They require an interpreter. Before a dramatic work can exist completely, scenery, and actors to give it voice and gesture, are necessary; before music can be anything more than hieroglyphics, the signs must be transmuted into sound by singers or instrumentalists. Wagner embodied this truth in his pathetic reference to _Lohengrin_: "When ill, miserable and despairing, I sat brooding over my fate, my eye fell on the score of my _Lohengrin_, which I had totally forgotten. Suddenly I felt something like compassion lest the music might never sound from off the death-pale paper." In other words, _Lohengrin_, though finished in every detail, was merely potential music. To make it anything more, the aid of singers and orchestra are essential. Composers and dramatic authors, in fact, _create_ their art-works; but it is their interpreters--actors, singers, instrumentalists--who _animate_ them, who breathe life into them. One of the inevitable consequences is, that the composer's ideal can never be fully attained. But changes in performance from the printed text of a composition are frequently the work of the composer himself. If really an artist, he is rarely perfectly satisfied with his completed work. The difference between his ideal and his materialization of it, is a source of anguish for him. The journey made by a vision of art from the brain that conceives it to the hand that imprisons it in marble, or depicts it in colour, or pens it in words or music, is a long one. And much grace or power, beauty or grandeur, is inevitably lost on the way. This is the explanation of the disappointment of all true artists with their creations. This is the origin of their endless strivings to perfect their works; the first embodiment is not a perfect interpretation of the artist's inspiration, and further reflection has revealed to him an improvement. The process is endless. _A man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what is Heaven for?_ If one wishes to surprise genius labouring to give birth to perfection, one should consult the later editions of Victor Hugo's works and note the countless emendations he made after their first publication--here a more fitting word substituted, there a line recast, elsewhere an entire verse added, or excised, or remodelled. This work of incessant revision is not restricted to poets. Composers of genius are also inveterate strivers after perfection, are continually occupied in polishing and revising their music. And not all the modifications they make, or sanction, are recorded in the printed versions. For many are the outcome of after-thoughts, of ideas suggested during the process of what I have called transmuting musical hieroglyphics into sound. Such modifications, usually decided upon in the course of a rehearsal--I am now considering particularly operatic works--are frequently jotted down, a mere scanty memorandum, on the singer's part or the conductor's score. But they are the work of the composer, or have received his approval, and, although not noted in the printed editions of his compositions, are transmitted orally from conductor to conductor, singer to singer, master to pupil. And thus a tradition is perpetuated. But the question of changes goes even further. Prior to the advent of Wagner, the singer was allowed great license in operatic works. This license was principally manifested in a two-fold form. The first is called _pointage_ (French), _puntatura_ (Italian), and means the changing of the notes or contour of a musical phrase; the second is termed _changements_ or _variantes_ (Fr.), _abbellimenti_ or _fioriture_ (It.), and refers to the interpolation and addition of ornaments, _i.e._, embellishments and cadenzas. * * * * * POINTAGE This, as I have said, is the technical term given to the modification or rearrangement of the notes of a phrase, so as to bring it within the natural capabilities of the artist singing the rôle. A few illustrations will make the nature of _pointage_ clear. In Rossini's _Guillaume Tell_, although it is written in a different style from his former works, whence less necessity for interpolations and modifications, occurs the following terrible passage for the principal baritone: [Music: Mais je connais le poids des fers, mais je connais le poids des fers.] Every vocalist knows the difficulty experienced in singing very high tones to different syllables, each requiring a different conformation of the buccal cavity. The passage quoted--expressing Tell's bitterness at the recollection of his past sufferings in prison, "Well I know the weight of galling chain"--has to be declaimed with great energy. So far as the relative value of the notes is concerned, it is entirely _ad libitum_, the rhythmical figure in the orchestra having ceased one half-bar before. It is said that Dabadie, a _basso cantante_ rather than baritone, to whom was entrusted the rôle of Tell on the first production of the work at the Opéra, Paris, on August 3, 1829, finding it impossible to sing the phrase as written, had recourse to a professor. He advised the _pointage_ given later. This change became traditional, and has since been followed, except, it is said, in the case of Massol, who succeeded Dabadie. He, being possessed of a very sonorous voice of exceptional compass, was able to give the phrase as written. This change, or _pointage_, must have been heard by Rossini, and so must have been tacitly approved by him. This is the change made by Dabadie: [Music: Mais je connais le poids des fers, mais je connais le poids des fers.] In Italian lyric theatres, _pointage_ becomes necessary in many French operas, owing to the prevalent custom of allotting to contraltos certain rôles written for soprano and known as "dugazon rôles" (from Madame Dugazon, who created the type). The parts of Siebel in _Faust_ (Gounod), Urbain in _Les Huguenots_, Stéphane in _Roméo et Juliette_ (Gounod), are all written for soprano, and when sung in Italian require not only transposition of the principal airs, but the use of _pointage_ in passages where transposition is impossible owing, for instance, to the participation of other characters in the scene. Thus the air sung by the page Urbain (_Les Huguenots_) on his entrance is sung in the French theatres as written by Meyerbeer, _i.e._, in _B_ flat. In theatres where the Italian version is given, this air is transposed a third lower into _G_, necessitating later numerous _pointages_, for the reason already given. I said that many deviations from the printed text are the work of the author, or are authorized by him. A moment's reflection will convince one of the truth of this statement. The singer chosen--usually by the composer himself--to "create" a rôle, _i.e._, to interpret for the first time some part in a new opera, generally studies it with the composer, or under his direct supervision, and thus learns, directly or indirectly, his ideas as to the meaning, style of execution, tempi, etc., of the music. Very often during rehearsals, when the composer begins really to hear his own work, he makes modifications in certain passages, alterations of the words or suppressions of the notes that are either ineffective, or lie awkwardly for the voice. But the opera has already been printed for the convenience of the singers and choristers studying the rôles and choruses; consequently, such modifications, rearrangements, and "cuts" (as excisions are termed), do not find their way into the published scores. Meyerbeer, as I have been informed by competent authorities, was constantly modifying his compositions. With him, the work of revision and emendation was never finished. It is said that this was more especially the case with his last opera, _l'Africaine_, which he was continually altering and revising, never being able to satisfy himself. Two versions of the libretto were prepared for him by Scribe, and two distinct settings of the music are published, although only one is performed.[5] [Footnote 5: Cases are numerous of changes made by composers even after their work has been produced. The Fountain Scene in _Lucia_ was entirely remodelled by Donizetti, some time after its original production at Milan, the first setting being replaced by the "Regnava nel silenzio" now used, written for Persiani when the opera was first given at the San Carlo, Naples.] In Nelusko's first air occurs the following passage, in which a great _crescendo_ is marked, culminating _ff_ on the word _rien_: [Music: non, n'ôtent rien à ta majesté!] Although the opera was produced after the composer's death, Jean-Baptiste Faure, the great baritone chosen to create the rôle of Nelusko, studied it with Meyerbeer, who authorized several verbal and musical changes in it. [Music: non, n'ôtent rien, non, non, non, n'ôtent rien à ta majesté!] Without the first alteration it is impossible to realize the composer's wish for a climax on the word "_rien_"; the second change is due to the fact that the _tessitura_ of the phrase is somewhat high, and Faure, who was a low rather than high baritone, dreaded the high _f_-[sharp]. Indeed, it was for this latter reason that this most accomplished singer never sang in Verdi's operas. According to his own statement, he had to deny himself this pleasure, because most of the baritone parts in the Italian composer's operas are written in a high _tessitura_. When Gounod wrote his _Faust_ for the Théâtre-Lyrique, Paris, spoken dialogue was used in place of the recitatives subsequently added by the composer when the work passed, ten years later, into the répertoire of the Opéra. In its earlier form, therefore, it belonged to the category of _opéra-comique_, in which tenors were then permitted to use the falsetto voice for their very highest tones. This custom, though sanctioned in _opéra-comique_, was not permitted or accepted in _grand opéra_, to which Gounod's work in the revised form now belongs. At the beginning of the sixth bar from the end of the tenor _cavatina_ in the Garden Scene: "_Salut! demeure chaste et pure_," occurs the high sustained _c_. Not all tenors who sing the rôle are possessed of the much-coveted "_do di petto_," so a discreet _pointage_ becomes a necessity, since the tone was originally intended, as I have said, to be sung in falsetto. Those robust tenors who, possessing this tone, launch it out at full voice, unheeding the delicate accompaniment with violin obbligato in the orchestra, and the calm, mystic serenity of the surroundings, are surely more desirous of drawing the attention of the public to themselves, than actuated by an artistic desire to interpret faithfully the scene as intended by composer and librettist. It was owing to the use by light tenors of the so-called falsetto voice, now no longer in favor with the public, that such of the _opéras-comiques_ by Boiëldieu, Halévy, Auber, etc., which still keep the stage, necessitate frequent _pointage_, in order to render their execution compatible with existing requirements. Sometimes a composer utilizes an exceptional voice, as was the case with the rôles written for Martin. This singer must have possessed either a strong tenor voice with exceptional low tones, or a baritone voice with perhaps an unusual command of the falsetto--history furnishes but vague information on this point. In any case, the rôles written for him--called Martin-tenor or Martin-baritone parts--are now assigned to the ordinary baritone. _Pointage_ then becomes inevitable, as in the case of Hérold's _Zampa_, the compass required as printed being from [Music] In the rôles, such as _Mignon_ (Thomas) and _Carmen_ (Bizet), written for Madame Galli-Marié, their respective composers themselves have so arranged the parts that they may be sung by either mezzo-soprano or soprano. The rôle of Mignon has alternatives, in order that it may be sung by three types of female voices. The roulades and cadenzas were subsequently added by the composer for Madame Christine Nilsson. If the rôle is sung by a high soprano, Mignon's first air, "Connais-tu le pays," is transposed a tone higher into _E_ flat. In the famous duet between Raoûl and Valentine in the fourth act of _Les Huguenots_, the composer has given alternative notes for those tenors who do not possess the exceptional altitude required for the higher of the two: [Music: Ah! viens! ah! viens! ah! viens! or viens! ah! viens!] I heard recently, however, a performance of this opera, in which the tenor sang the whole of the music as written, without either transposition or _pointage_. So it was sung, I should imagine, by the famous Adolphe Nourrit, who created the rôle; but the pitch at that time (1836) was lower than it is at present. Thus composers have recognized the necessity at times of _pointage_ in certain rôles written for exceptionally gifted singers, in order to render possible to the many that which was originally written for the few. Changes from the published version have also been made--and proving effective have passed into tradition--by singers who, exercising the liberty then accorded them by composers, have slightly modified certain passages for several reasons: for instance, to augment the effect by making the phrase more characteristic of the vocal instrument, or to express more forcibly the composer's idea. The following illustrations will render my meaning clearer. The changes originated in the causes I have mentioned, and are attributed to Madame Dorus-Gras: [Music: "Robert, toi que j'aime" tu vois mon effroi! tu vois mon effroi! change -froi! Ah! Grâce, grâce pour moi-même, pour toi-même.] The phrase "Grâce, grâce," in which Isabelle implores Robert of Normandy's forgiveness, occurs three times. When it recurs for the last time, a change from the printed text is not only justifiable; it is demanded, in order to give additional intensity and power to the phrase, and to avoid the monotony caused by mere repetition. This modification is all the more defensible, as the composer has substituted the orchestra, with the strings _tremolo_, for the rhythmical harp-figure with which he accompanies the phrase on its first and second presentations. Here is the accepted traditional change: [Music: Grâce, grâce pour moi-même, pour toi-même.] Again, to sing the final cadenza of this air as Meyerbeer briefly indicated it, would be impossible and absurd: [Music: (as printed) ah! grâce pour moi. (as sung) ah! grâce, ah! grâce pour moi.] Other changes have their origin in the fact that sometimes a great climax is rendered impossible of realization because the musical phrase culminates on a vowel-sound difficult of emission on that note, and devoid of sonority; another word has sometimes to be substituted. For this reason, in the first air of Alice in the same opera (_Robert_), "_Va, dit-elle_," a verbal rearrangement is always resorted to: [Music: Sa mère va prier pour lui, sa mère va prier pour lui, sa mère va prier pour lui, va prier] To avoid the disagreeable and ineffective result produced by the high descending passage on the word "lui" (pronounced in English as "lwee"), the last few bars are performed thus: [Music: sa mère va prier, sa mère va prier] When _La Tosca_ (Puccini) was produced in French at the Opéra-Comique, Paris, the unfortunate artist to whom was allotted the tenor rôle was expected by the translator to sing at full voice, and after a crashing chord from the entire orchestra, marked _ffff_ in the score, the following words: [Music: au péril de ma vie] As it was found to be out of the question to produce the effect desired with the words as they stood, the phrase was afterwards changed to: [Music: pour combattre l'infâme] Frequently modifications, most happy in their effect, are due to the inspiration of a particularly gifted artist. Madame Viardot-Garcia, finding the phrase of the cabaletta in the aria "_Se Romeo t'uccise_" (_Romeo e Giulietta_, Bellini) somewhat weak and ineffective, made the skilful _pointage_ here given: [Music: (as printed) Ma su voi ricada il sangue (as sung by Mme. Viardot-Garcia) Ma su voi ricada il sangue] A great artist may feel at times the inadequacy of the phrase as it stands to convey justly the composer's idea. Take, for instance, the well-known change which every soprano who sings the rôle of Leonora introduces in the _Miserere_ scene of _Il Trovatore_. The passage occurs four times in succession, and as printed becomes commonplace and monotonous. [Music: Di te, di te scordarmi! di te, di te scordarmi!] The accepted traditional change certainly conveys the impression of Leonora's gradually increasing anguish and terror; not the idea that it is introduced merely to exploit a high tone: [Music: Di te, di te scordarmi! di te, di te scordarmi!] That this departure from the text must have been sanctioned by Verdi, is, I think, proved by the fact that it has always been sung thus, and the composer himself must often have heard the substitution. He would certainly have forbidden its use, had he not approved of it, for he was particularly averse to having changes made in his music. The following anecdote illustrates this trait in his character. It was related by the late Mme. Marie Saxe, better known under her Italianized name of Marie Sasse. This distinguished soprano singer, a member of the Paris Opéra for a number of years, was engaged to give a certain number of performances at the Opera of Cairo. _Aida_ was one of the operas stipulated for in her contract. She had never sung the rôle, and in studying it found the _tessitura_ of the music, at one or two points, a little too high for her natural means. As she was compelled by her contract to sing the opera, she asked Verdi to make some slight changes to bring the music within her reach. But he refused absolutely to make the least alteration. Madame Saxe was specially selected by Meyerbeer to create the rôle of Sélika in _l'Africaine_. She studied the part for three months with the composer, and sang it when the work was first given at the Paris Opéra. She was also chosen by Richard Wagner for the part of Elisabeth when _Tannhäuser_ was given its stormy performances, with Niemann in the title-rôle, at the same theatre in 1861. Madame Saxe possessed a score of _Tannhäuser_ with the inscription in the composer's handwriting: "_A ma courageuse amie Mademoiselle Marie Saxe._ _L'Auteur_ RICHARD WAGNER." The slight modifications, or _pointages_, asked from Verdi, were not, I was assured by Madame Saxe, of a character to alter either the rôle or the opera, and she remarked (I quote her own words): "Why should Verdi have shown himself more unreasonable or less yielding than Meyerbeer or Wagner?" (_plus intransigeant, plus intraitable que_ Meyerbeer _ou_ Wagner?). * * * * * In tradition, however, there is the true or accepted tradition--so called because believed to have been sanctioned by the composer himself, or approved of by competent authorities and its use warranted by time--and the false. This latter is simply an accumulation of excrescences superimposed on the original by individual whim or personal fancy. These have been invented by singers desirous of bringing into relief certain special and peculiar gifts, or who have mistaken, perhaps forgotten, the original and authentic tradition. Thus their artistic heritage has become so altered and disfigured by successive additions, or "machicotage," as to bear no resemblance to the original, this being buried under a heap of useless complications. But it may be asked, are there no authoritatively correct printed editions of such classics with the accepted traditions and the proper mode of their performance expressed in modern musical notation? Yes: but they are incomplete, being for the most part confined to airs and other excerpts, instead of the complete works themselves. In this connection, I may cite the admirable edition of the "_Gloires d'Italie_" by the late erudite musician and authority, Gevaert, for so many years Director of the Conservatoire at Brussels. These editions are characterized by a scrupulous fidelity to the composers' text as it was understood when written, as well as by great taste and musical sense of what is appropriate and fitting, in such ornaments as the editor has introduced, when these have been left to the discretion of the singer. The solo parts for the principal singers in Mozart's operas of _Don Giovanni_ and _Le Nozze di Figaro_, edited and revised for performance by the well-known singing-master and excellent musician, Signor Randegger, are also admirable. But other editions exist which do not bear the same imprint of authority, or conscientious care in their revision, as do the versions just mentioned. In the edition of the well-known air "_J'ai perdu mon Eurydice_" (_che farò senza Euridice?_) from _Orphée_ (Gluck), revised by Madame Pauline Viardot-Garcia, no mention is made of two traditions which have been used and handed down by a number of the most famous singers of the rôle of Orphée. I give them here: [Music: (as printed) déchire mon coeur. J'ai perdu mon Eurydice (Traditional changes) Ah! déchire mon coeur. J'ai perdu mon Eurydice] The change on the third repetition of the principal theme is quite in accordance with the license then accorded in such airs. In a special version of the opera _Armide_ (Gluck), revised and edited by the late Sir Charles Hallé, the first bars of the great air of Armide in the first scene of the fourth act, "_Ah! si la liberté_" (Ah! if my liberty must from me then be taken), are printed thus: [Music: Ah! si la liberté] The situation is where Armide perceives the knight Renaud in the gardens of her enchanted palace, whither he has come to destroy the sorceress on account of her magic arts. Although the enchantress knows that the mission of the knight is to deprive her of liberty, she herself succumbs to the fatal passion of love. I have briefly described the scene in order that my meaning may be clear. In the second half of the first bar, the _acciaccatura_ was never intended by the composer to be actually sung as printed. It was his only way of indicating the sob or sigh whereby Armide finishes her exclamation, "Ah!" The effect is called "the Dramatic sob," and is known to every opera-singer. Here is the composer's meaning, as far as it is possible to convey it in writing: [Music: Ah! si la liberté] (A _portamento_ must be made from the first note to the next, when the breath must be taken quickly to give the idea of a sob or sigh.) Again, in a recent edition of the same air by the distinguished composer Vincent d'Indy (_Nouvelle Édition Française de Musique Classique_), occurs the following: [Music: tu règnes dans mon coeur!] The effect of the _F_ sharp in the last bar, if sung against the harmony given, in which the preceding chord is resolved, would be intolerable. Surely, the composer intended a pronounced _rallentando_ on the latter half of the bar, and a carrying of the voice by a _portamento_ to the last note. Thus: [Music: tu règnes dans mon coeur!] In the edition of the immortal air in the opera of _Xerxes_, universally known as the "Largo of Handel," also revised and edited by d'Indy, may be noticed the following: [Music: Non v'oltraggino mai la cara pace, ne giunga a profanarvi austro rapace!] Of course, every operatic conductor knows that the chord in the orchestra must be played "after the voice," as the technical phrase has it. But not every pianist or organist is familiar with this usage, and the effect would be very disagreeable if given as written. It should be performed thus: [Music: Non v'oltraggino mai la cara pace, ne giunga a profanarvi austro rapace!] Besides, why claim that a certain edition is "revised and edited," when all the care and musical knowledge seem to have been expended on the harmonies only? Surely, the voice-part in these classics is not without its need of elucidation. An edition of _The Messiah_, revised for performance, can scarcely be called accurate when such defects as the following occur: "And [fermata symbol over "they"] they ---- [breath symbol] were sore afraid." The following is the authentic mode of performing the phrase: "And [fermata symbol over dash] ---- [breath symbol] [slur symbol and "sombre" over the following words] they were sore afraid." In the same edition for the solo singers occurs: ("Behold and see"): [Music: If there be any sorrow like un_to_ His sorrow.] But by a slight syllabic rearrangement, the disagreeable accent on the last syllable of "un-_to_" is avoided, and the accent placed on the word "His," to which it belongs, while the composer's music remains untouched. [Music: like unto _His_ sorrow.] Again, in the same air occurs: [Music: (as printed) like un_to_ His sorrow. (should be sung) like unto _His_ sorrow.] While recognizing the benefits conferred by some of these specially prepared editions, there remains still more to be accomplished in this direction before the work is complete. A flood of light has been thrown on the dark and nebulous places of the instrumental classics by various distinguished and highly competent musicians. It is sincerely to be hoped, in the interests of this branch of the æsthetics of vocal art, that those competent to speak with authority will do so, in order that in this direction also "the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain." I admit that this question of revising the composer's written text is an exceedingly delicate and difficult one. It should be attempted only by those possessed of the requisite authority, those who combine tact and taste with judgment and experience. To these qualities should be added a sincere and reverential desire to place in the highest relief the meaning of both poet and composer. * * * * * I have said that the license formerly accorded by composers to singers--particularly operatic singers--manifested itself in a twofold form. The second of these phases was the introduction in the body of a theme or melody, and also at its close, of embellishments. Sometimes the composer briefly sketched these ornaments; at other times their places only were indicated. The ornaments in the body of an air are known as _abbellimenti_ or _fioriture_; those at its close, as _cadenze_. Here is an example of the former, taken from the duet in _Elisa e Claudio_ by Mercadante: [Music: Se un istante all'offerta d'un soglio vacillasse il mio genio primiero.] The following is the same passage ornamented: [Music: Se un istante all'offerta d'un soglio vacillasse il mio genio primiero] (As sung by Mme. Malibran. Quoted from "_Mécanisme des Traits_," by de La Madelaine, 1868.) The rôle of Rosina in Rossini's _Il Barbiere_ has long been a favourite peg with prime donne on which to hang interpolated ornaments for the display of their vocal agility. Some of these are not always in good taste, being trivial or banal in character, thus concealing the natural charm of the original melody under a species of Henri Herz variations. Others, however, such as those used by the Patti and the Sembrich, for instance, are of great originality and excellent effect. Here are some of the traditional ornaments and cadenzas sung by certain famous singers of the past in Rosina's entrance cavatina: "_Una voce poco fa_." This air was originally written by Rossini in _E_ major, the part of Rosina being intended for a mezzo-soprano, and was thus sung by the late Paulina Viardot-Garcia. This exceptionally gifted artist, possessing a voice of very great compass, was enabled to sing not only the rôles assigned to mezzo-soprano contraltos, such as Orphée, or Fidès (_Le Prophète_), which she created, but also the parts given to dramatic sopranos. Mme. Viardot was thus able, with some slight modifications, to sing Norma, Desdemona (_Otello_: Rossini), Rachel (_La Juive_), etc. The rôle of Rosina has now definitely passed into the possession of florid or _coloratura_ sopranos; much, therefore, of the music is of necessity transposed, the air in question being now sung one half-tone higher, in the key of _F_. Here is a change used by Mme. Cinti-Damoreau, who sang the music in the original key. The composer wrote: [Music: Si Lindoro mio sarà.] Mme. Cinti-Damoreau sang thus: [Music: Si Lindoro mio sarà.] In the same bar Mlle. Henrietta Sontag, who sang the air a semitone higher, introduced the following: [Music: Si Lindoro mio sarà.] Rossini wrote no cadenza to the air: [Music: lo vincerò!] Cadenza of Mlle. Sontag: [Music: Ah! ah! ah! lo vincerò!] I have already spoken of the bad taste exhibited by some mediocre singers in covering a coloratura air with so many roulades, etc., as to render it barely recognizable. It was after hearing one of his own arias overloaded and disfigured in this manner that Rossini, who was noted for his biting wit and stinging sarcasms, is said to have remarked: "What charming music! Whom is it by?" Bellini, Donizetti, and composers of their school, sometimes did little more than hand over to the singer engaged to create their works a rough sketch, as it were, which the artists were supposed to fill in and perfect. Singers were expected to add such _fioriture_, or "flowers," as would best display their salient points of style and individual characteristics. The Cavatina, or slow movement of the aria, was the medium which called for the qualities of expressive singing, while the Cabaletta was a vehicle for the display of virtuosity and technical mastery. In this latter movement, the equivalent of the Rondo in instrumental music, the performer was left perfectly free to use such embellishments as set forth his own gifts to the greatest advantage. Some singers excelled in bold and rapid flights of scales, chromatic and diatonic; others, in the neat and clean-cut execution of involved _traits_ or figures. It must be remembered, that the great singers of the past were perfectly competent to add these ornaments themselves, as they possessed a complete and sound musical education. More: sometimes these singers even collaborated with the composers. Crescentini, the last famous male sopranist, is reputed by history or legend--the two are not infrequently synonymous--to have been himself the composer of the well-known aria "_Ombra adorata_," introduced by him in Zingarelli's opera _Romeo e Giulietta_, as also of the prayer sung by Romeo in the same work. His singing of it is said to have moved his audience to tears, and gained for him the decoration of the Iron Crown, conferred upon him by Napoleon I. The Emperor also induced him, by the offer of a large salary, to settle in Paris as professor of singing. When these great artists--their career as public singers being ended--began in turn to form pupils, they were admirably fitted for the task of imparting instruction, being excellent musicians, and, as I have said, composers of no insignificant merit. They had a sound theoretical knowledge, compared with which that of many of our modern singers seems but a pale and feeble reflection. The collaboration of composer and interpreter is not altogether unknown in the domain of instrumental music. Is it not historical that Mendelssohn profited largely from the wise counsels of the celebrated violinist Ferdinand David in the composition of his concerto for violin and orchestra? This does not mean that David contributed any musical phrases or ideas to the work; but that his practical knowledge of the special characteristics and capabilities of the solo instrument enabled him to suggest how the composer's thoughts might be most fittingly presented. Returning to the question of the introduction of ornaments, etc., into a composer's work, the following extract may be of interest to the musical student. It is from a volume of criticism, now out of print, a copy of which is possessed by the present writer. The article appeared in _La Patrie_ more than forty years ago, and was called forth by the ornaments written by the then well-known singer and teacher of great ability, Stéphan de La Madelaine. These changes were for the great air of Agathe in the second act of _Der Freischütz_, and were the cause of much discussion among the music-critics of the time. "Following the example of celebrated vocal virtuosi whom he had formerly known, and availing himself of the license then permitted, the master (de La Madelaine) has introduced several alterations (_changements_). These, however, in no sense clash with the original character of the air itself. "That the introduction of such ornaments has caused an outcry, is not surprising. We should remember, however, that the _Freischütz_ was written at a period when, in certain places, the composer left the field entirely open to the singer, permitted him to make such changes as he might deem necessary. It must not be thought that in so doing the interpreter corrects the composer: he simply seeks to express, to the utmost of his abilities, the intention of the author. "The operas of Bellini, of Rossini, and, in general, of all the Italian masters, are full of these intentional gaps (_lacunes_) which were filled in by the singers. Nay, in the earliest days of the Neapolitan school, still greater liberty was allowed; the recitatives were all improvised by the executants, and were not even noted down. Each singer made his own, which the _maestro al cembalo_ accompanied with a few simple chords. "In the cavatina in _Norma_, each _cantatrice_ introduces her own changes on the recurrence of the principal theme, and the public applauds. Why then this outcry against the same procedure in _Der Freischütz_? "_That this custom or practice might lead to great abuse and that it is necessary to uproot it gradually, is our opinion._ But this radical reform can be realized only in forthcoming works; those of the ancient school ought to be interpreted by following the conventions which the composer himself has respected. "That the _changements_ written by M. de La Madelaine for the air of the _Freischütz_ are permissible, is proved by the fact that Weber himself has sanctioned and approved them, as, if need be, a great number of contemporaries can attest." (FRANCK-MARIE.) Whoever has had the good fortune to hear Mme. Marcella Sembrich in the rôle of Amina, in Bellini's _La Sonnambula_, will have heard an excellent example of remarkable technical skill or virtuosity, with irreproachable taste regulating its display. The ornaments and changes used by her in the _rondo finale_, "_Ah, non giunge_," are models of their genre. What else could be expected of an artist so gifted as to be able to perform the lesson-scene in Rossini's _Il Barbiere_ (introducing therein the air with variations by Proch) in Italian; and in the course of the same scene sing, in German, "_Ich liebe dich_," by Grieg, and play the Andante and Rondo Russe, for violin, by de Bériot, and a valse by Chopin on the piano? The opera, _La Sonnambula_, requires much rearrangement both of the music and of the verbal text, to which it is badly fitted. The greater part of the music written for Elvino has to be transposed, mostly a third lower, in order to make it practicable under existing conditions. No effect whatever could be made were a cantatrice to follow implicitly the written notes of this opera, such being merely a rough sketch, as it were, of the composer's ideas, which the singer is supposed to complete. Several instances from the andante "_Ah! non credea mirarti_," will suffice to prove this. The following is the printed version. [Music: Ah non credea mirarti, Sì presto estinto, o fiore.] This is but a suggestion of the composer's idea. The artist will therefore not follow too closely the printed version; but following the evident indications for a pathetic and expressive _cantabile_ will perform it thus: [Music: Ah! non credea mirarti, Sì presto estinto, o fiore.] Again a brief outline, as printed: [Music: Passasti al par d'amore, che un giorno, che un giorno sol durò.] which, if sung as follows, fills in the details: [Music: Passasti al par d'amore, che un giorno, che un giorno sol durò.] Also the passage in the same aria, where Amina sobs as she slowly lets fall to the ground the blossoms given her in the first act by Elvino, requires an entire rearrangement of the syllables to bring out the composer's meaning. [Music: Che un giorno sol durò, Passasti al par d'amor, d'amor.] Let any one go over this passage carefully, and he will be convinced that it is, as I have said, merely a sketch of the composer's idea. As it stands in the published version it is impossible of execution, and if it were possible, would be devoid of all effect: the syllables being wrongly placed, no opportunity for breathing is given the singer, and the final cadenza is marred by being allotted to the word "amore." Here is a revision of the latter, the cadenza being one I wrote for a pupil, Mme. Easton-Maclennan, of the Royal Opera, Berlin: [Music: Che un giorno sol durò, Passasti al par d'amor, ah! d'amor.] It will thus be seen, from the numerous foregoing examples, that these ornaments and interpolations are not added from a vulgar idea of correcting or improving the composer's music, but are strictly in accordance with certain conventions thoroughly understood by both composer and singer. To omit them, or follow too closely the printed text, would be to ignore the epoch, school and character of the music; a careful study of which forms one of the cornerstones of Interpretation. A skilled artist will always strive to analyze and interpret the intentions of the author. If one to whom is confided the vocal part of a composer's work were to limit himself to a mathematically correct reproduction of the written notes only, instead of searching below the surface for the author's meaning, his performance would merely resemble the accurate execution of a _solfeggio_ by a conscientious scholar. It would have the same relation to high artistic effort as the photographic reproduction of a landscape bears to the same scene as viewed and transmitted to canvas by a great painter. The sincere artist will carefully consider every detail. He will not be content to study his own part only, but will study the orchestral score which accompanies it. He will, in fact, follow the example set by good string-quartet players, who listen attentively to the other instruments during rehearsals, so that the perfect welding together of the different parts may form a homogeneous whole. Such an artist, in complete possession of the mechanical resources of his art, will utilize them all to embody perfectly that which, with the composer, existed only as a mental concept, inadequately transcribed, owing to the limitations of his media--pen, ink and paper. And it is only when in possession of the authentic traditions of Oratorio and Opera that the singer, such as I have supposed, will be able to vivify these great creations, will be able to invest them with warmth and colour, and thus make clear all their meaning, reveal all their beauty. CHAPTER V RÉPERTOIRE Although répertoire forms no integral part of Style, being rather the medium for its practical application, a few words on this important subject may not be out of place. The répertoire necessary for a singer may be divided into two sections, Opera and Concert. The latter includes Oratorio and Cantata. In spoken Drama, a performer may begin his career by playing the youthful lovers, and end it by impersonating the heavy fathers. He may first sigh as Romeo, and later storm as Capulet. Not so in Opera, or lyric Drama, where the line of work to be followed is determined at the outset by the type of voice possessed by the aspirant, and which line (or _emploi_, as it is termed) he follows of necessity to the end of his professional career. I know there are some few instances of artists who, later, have successfully adopted rôles demanding another range than the one needed for their earlier efforts. But it is an open question whether the performer's instrument really changed. It must either have been wrongly classified at one of the two periods, or the vocal keyboard--so to speak--transposed a little higher or lower. The character of the instrument remains the same; a viola strung as a violin would still retain its viola quality of tone. The case is different where a soprano who may have begun by singing the florid rôles of opera, has so gained in volume of voice and breadth of style as to warrant her devoting these acquisitions to characters requiring more dramatic force than was needed, or could be utilized, in coloratura rôles. Mlle. Emma Calvé, Mesdames Lilli Lehmann and Nordica, are notable examples of this. Each of these distinguished artists began her career by singing what are known as "Princess" rôles, before successfully portraying Carmen or the Brünnhildes. As a rule, it is by singing many different rôles that the lyric artist gains the skill and sureness that may ultimately render him famous in a few. Mlle. Grandjean, now principal first dramatic soprano at the Paris Opéra, began her career there--after a few appearances at the Opéra-Comique--by singing the very small part of the nurse Magdalene in Wagner's _Die Meistersinger_. Perseverance, if allied to ability, can accomplish much. When the type of voice and the natural temperament of the singer do not accord--as sometimes happens--he would be unwise not to adhere to the work for which his vocal means, not his preference, are best adapted. To follow the contrary path, and essay rôles requiring for their fitting expression more dramatic fire and intensity than his vocal instrument can supply, would be to shorten his career, owing to the certain deterioration and possible extinction of the voice. There are sufficient voiceless examples to prove, were proof needed, the truth of this assertion; and their atonic condition is due to the cause mentioned. The first requisite for the aspirant who wishes to follow the operatic career is undoubtedly a voice possessed of the three essential factors of Quality, Power and Compass; what is termed in Italy a "_voce di teatro_," or voice for the theatre. But an opera-singer is actor as well as singer, and in this direction more--much more--is now demanded of him than formerly. But to those possessed of what is known as the Instinct of the Theatre, or Scenic Instinct, the gestures and attitudes of the operatic stage, being largely conventional, are soon acquired. Scenic accomplishments are undoubtedly necessary to the stage-singer, but his mimetic studies should not preclude him from making himself a thorough master of the vocal side of his art. There is a difference between an actor who sings, and a singer who acts. Besides the mimetic faculty, certain physical gifts are also needed by the opera-singer, according to the requirements of the line of rôles to which he is inevitably assigned by the nature and type of his particular voice. It is true that stage artifice has now reached great perfection; but it has its limits, and cannot accomplish miracles. It requires much imagination and great generosity on the part of the public to accept a tenor, whose waist-girth would not unfit him for the part of Sir John Falstaff, as a youthful and romantic Romeo, or a half-starved and emaciated Rodolphe. Illusion is rudely shaken, if not absolutely dispelled, in witnessing a soprano, whose age and _embonpoint_ are fully in evidence, impersonate a girlish Gilda or a consumptive Traviata. Such discrepancies may be overlooked by the public in the case of old established favourites, but it would be unfortunate for the débutant to commence with these drawbacks. And yet there have been a few famous artists whose extraordinary vocal talent atoned for other very pronounced defects. Such an one was the Pisaroni, a celebrated contralto, said to have been so ill-favoured that she always forwarded her likeness to any opera director to whom she was personally unknown, who offered her an engagement. But so exceptional were her voice and talent, that certain of her contemporary artists have declared that by the time Pisaroni had reached the end of her first phrase, the public was already conquered. As personal preference is very often mistaken for aptitude or natural fitness, a lyric artist is not always the best judge as to which of the rôles in his répertoire are really fitted to display his abilities to the best advantage. The singer combines in himself both instrument and performer; therefore he rarely, if ever, hears himself quite as does another person. Until possessed of the ripened judgment gained by experience, he would do well to be guided in this matter by one who, to the knowledge required, adds taste and discernment. That a liking or preference is sometimes mistaken for the aptitude and gifts necessary for the successful carrying out of certain work, is too well known to be even questioned. It is the constantly recurring case of the low comedian who wishes to play Hamlet. A young tenor whose great vocal and physical advantages made him an ideal Duke in _Rigoletto_, a fascinating Almaviva in _Il Barbiere_, found but little enjoyment in life because his director refused to allow him to try Otello and Tannhäuser, for which he was vocally unfitted. Never show the public what you cannot do, is the best advice that can be given in such cases. Even the finest and most experienced singers are occasionally liable to make mistakes in the choice of rôles. Madame Patti once sang Carmen, and Madame Melba essayed Brünnhilde; but I am not aware that either of these famous cantatrices repeated the experiment. * * * * * For those who intend to follow a concert-singer's career, there is a vast literature of vocal music specially written for this purpose, from which to select. There are few modern operatic excerpts which do not suffer somewhat by being transplanted from the stage to the concert-platform. In no case is this more clearly proved than in the selections so frequently given from Wagner's music-dramas. Of course, I am speaking more particularly of those extracts which require the services of a vocalist. Such selections given in the concert-room are in distinct violation of the composer's own wishes, frequently expressed. Besides lacking the necessary adjuncts of gesture, costume and scenery, the musical conditions of the concert-room are very unfavourable to the unfortunate singer. He has to struggle to make himself heard above the sonorities of a powerful orchestra generally numbering over a hundred musicians, and placed directly around and behind him, instead of on a lower level, as in the case of a lyric theatre. Besides which, Wagner's works can now be heard in all large cities under the conditions necessary for their proper presentment, and as intended by their author-composer. Therefore, there is no longer the same reason as may have existed years ago, for the performance of extracts at purely symphonic concerts. In cases where the singer has to select numbers for a symphonic concert and to be accompanied by an orchestra, there is a mine of wealth, not yet exhausted, in the operas of the older classic composers. These, being less heavily orchestrated than the ultra modern works written for the theatre, do not suffer in the same degree from the different disposition of the orchestral instruments. There are also a few vocal numbers with orchestral accompaniments written in the form of a "scena," such as the "Ah, perfido" of Beethoven, and the "Infelice" of Mendelssohn, which might possibly form an agreeable change to the frequenters of symphonic concerts, jaded a little, perhaps, with the oft-repeated "Dich theure Halle" and "Prayer" from _Tannhäuser_. In order to render them more in keeping with the conditions of symphonic concerts, orchestral accompaniments, to many songs by the classic composers, have been made by excellent musicians from the original piano-part. The ethical question involved in the presentation of such works in a form other than that written by the composer, need not be considered here. Each artist must decide the matter for himself. So far as songs with accompaniments for the piano are concerned, there is a mine practically inexhaustible and from which new treasures are constantly brought to light. For Recital purposes, the choice and sequence of a programme is second in importance only to its execution. And although suppleness and adaptability are valuable, even necessary, qualities, in a concert-singer, he will sometimes find that certain songs--admirable in themselves--are unsuited to him, for reasons which it is not always possible to define. In such cases it is not a matter of compass, or _tessitura_, of voice, or even temperament; there is some hidden lack of sympathy between the composer and his interpreter. A song should seem like a well-fitting garment; not only admirably made, but specially designed for the person who wears it. CHAPTER VI CONCLUSION The art of Singing is at present in a period of transition; and all unsettled conditions are unsatisfactory. Former standards are being thrown down; and the new ones are not yet elected, or, if chosen, not yet firmly fixed in the places of the old. All Arts have a period in their history when they seem to reach their culminating point of technical perfection. Perhaps this point is reached when the art is practised for its own sake, without giving much consideration or attributing special importance to what it expresses. Sculpture reached its apogee under the Greeks, who, more than any other race, prized Form--particularly as manifested in its highest expression, the human figure. Painting also was at its climax of technical development during the Renaissance, when life was full of movement, and costume picturesque. But at this period in each of the two arts, skill was regarded as of more importance than the subject. In other words, the perfection of the sculptor's statue or the scene depicted by the painter was of more interest and importance than the object or scene itself. If the work were admirably executed, the story it told had relatively little importance. Singing, which is speech conveyed through music, similarly reached its highest point of technical excellence when the voice of the singer was considered as little more than a mechanical instrument; when beauty of tone-quality and perfect virtuosity were the only ends for which to strive. This period was at its height with Farinelli, Caffarelli, Gizziello, and ended perhaps with Crescentini. That these singers possessed extraordinary technical skill, or execution, is amply attested by the exercises and airs, still extant, written for them by Porpora, Hasse, Veracini, and others. That they also had musical sentiment or expression, is authoritatively proved from the emotion caused in their auditors by their performance of a slow movement or _cantabile_. But it was musical expression only, and as if performed on a solo instrument, as a flute or violin, which does not possess the faculty of uttering words. The operas in which these singers appeared had some plot or story, it is true; but its importance was of the slightest--analogous to, and of the same value as, the subject in painting and sculpture at corresponding periods of their history. But singing, like these two sister-arts, has passed the period when it was, or could be, appreciated purely for the perfection of its technique. It has developed and broadened in other directions, and more now is demanded of the singer than mere mechanical perfection. Composers--notably Gluck--began to perceive the great possibilities to be attained by the development of the Greek lyric ideal; that is, the presentation of the Poetic idea by, and through the medium of, music; instead of being, as formerly, merely its excuse, a framework for the musician upon which to hang melodies. Although Gluck, like all innovators, was considered by his contemporaries as a revolutionary and iconoclast, he only strove to develop and perfect an art that had already existed in a primitive form. This was the art of animating a poetic idea by means of melopoeia; which Wagner later developed still further. * * * * * Gradually, two essentials of good singing--tone-quality and truth of intonation--began to be neglected. But why should either of these two factors be less essential to a singer than to an instrumentalist? Of late it has been tacitly assumed, if not boldly claimed, that sentiment, passion, temperament, atoned for--even if they did not entirely replace--voice and lack of skill in the artist. But what constitutes an artist? Art has been defined by an English lexicographer as "Doing something, the power for which is acquired by experience, study or observation;" and an artist, as "One skilled in the practice of any art." The French writer d'Alembert says, "_L'art s'acquiert par l'étude et l'exercice_" (Art is acquired by study and practice). If these definitions of art be accepted, its external expression or manifestation is essential through some vehicle or medium, otherwise there is neither art nor artist. Concepts or ideals have their genesis in mind, but were they to remain there, the poet, painter, sculptor or musician (composer or interpreter) would have no right to the title of artist, because his concepts remained in thought-form only, and unexpressed. Therefore, as a composer can be accepted as artist only when he has given that to the world which entitles him to the distinction, how can his so-called interpreter be considered an artist when, through insufficiency of technical ability, he is unable to present satisfactorily the author's concept? No matter in what abundant measure such a performer may possess the good qualities of earnestness, conviction and sincerity, he is not an artist. "_Poeta nascitur, non fit_," has long been accepted as a truism; and similarly, it is supposed that the artist also is born, not made. But seeing that the mechanical side of any art is learned by experience, study, or observation--still to quote the definition--without which an adequate manifestation of that art is impossible, then certainly the artist is made. He is born with certain qualities necessary for the artist, it is true; but failing his technical skill, these other gifts can never be fully utilized. It is to be deplored that the studies of many vocal aspirants are not conducted on the same plan that is followed by those who desire to attain perfection on a musical instrument. These acquire a technique, and learn or study many works which may broaden or perfect their style, before commencing to prepare a répertoire. The opposite course is followed by many students of singing, who study rôles, instead of learning first how to sing. The full meaning of the highest examples of the modern lyric drama can be made apparent only by those who have fully mastered the vocal, as well as the mimetic, side of lyric art. Too much importance is, in my opinion, attached to the latter branch, at the cost of the former. I repeat, an opera-singer should be a singer who acts, not an actor who sings. * * * * * On the occasion of the bestowal of awards at the Paris Conservatoire in August, 1905, M. Dujardin-Beaumetz, Under-Secretary for the Fine Arts, in his address to the students made pointed allusion to the difference of results between the instrumental classes and those for singing. Said the orator: "It is claimed that singing is in a state of decadence, and that the cause is largely due to the style of modern music. It is rather owing to the fact that this art is not studied at present with the same methodic diligence that formerly obtained. I would remind the students of singing that they gain nothing by neglecting the earlier studies, and that their professional future would be better assured if it rested on a solid basis of vocal technique. It is, therefore, in their interest that, with a view to assure this important point, certain reforms will be instituted."[6] [Footnote 6: One of these reforms was that the first year's study is to be devoted entirely to tone-formation; no attention being paid to the employment of the tones in melody. Nor are the professors of singing at the Conservatoire now selected--as was formerly the case--exclusively from among ex-opera-singers.] The professors of the classes for singing were also advised to draw more on the great classic writers for the voice, instead of confining themselves principally to the operatic répertoire. Every art reaches its apex of perfection, and then seems to decline; it may even temporarily disappear. But, being immortal, it is never lost. It finds other modes of manifestation, and reappears in other forms. The principles on which it is founded do not change; but constantly changing conditions necessitate a new application of these principles. This necessity was acknowledged for poetry itself by André Chénier: "_Sur des pensées nouveaux, faisons des vers antiques._" (Let us embody modern thoughts in classic verse.) Music follows the great laws of development to which all things are subject. It would be foolish, nay, impossible, to try to resuscitate an old form of art. Foolish, because the art itself would have lost all except its archaic charm or interest; impossible, because conditions have so completely changed that the attempt would be merely the galvanizing of a corpse, not its reanimation. Similarly, the art of singing can be successful only in proportion as it recognizes the existence of other conditions. These it meets by observing the old principles, but changing their mode of application. The education of the singer of to-day requires to be conducted on broader and more comprehensive lines than in the past, on account of the different conditions which have presented themselves. Singing--that is, the alliance and utterance of Music and Poetry--is one of the highest manifestations of the Beautiful, and is man's supreme and greatest creation. Therefore, singing will not seek in future to rival a mechanical instrument. It will, it is evident, give to the poetic idea a prominent, though not a predominant, place. But this poetic idea can be revealed to the listener only by a singer who is master of all the technical phases of his art. These component parts of his vocal education must of necessity comprise--as was laid down in the opening chapter of this work--Pose of Voice, Technique, Style, and Répertoire. It has been demonstrated that the first of these elements is essential, because the other stones of the complete structure cannot be successfully laid on an insecure foundation. The singer must have the second, or he will be unable to materialize his concept, like an unskilled carver who possesses the necessary material and tools, but lacks the technical ability to utilize either. He must possess Colour, whereby his vocal palette is set with the varied tints necessary for the different sentiments to be expressed; Accent, so that character may be given to the music and appropriate emphasis to the text; and Phrasing, in order that he may punctuate the music effectively and the words intelligently. Perfect master of these, he is in possession of all that goes to make up Style. And, if these premises be accepted, it must be evident that he is in possession of the qualities that were necessary to make singers great in the past, and are indispensable to make them great in the future. 
21653	----	Transcriber's Note: A Short Greek phrase has been transliterated and delimited with '{}'. Short musical phrases are marked as {Music}. ============================================================ [Illustration: Emile Jaques-Dalcroze.] THE EURHYTHMICS OF JAQUES-DALCROZE Introduction by Professor M. E. Sadler, LL.D. (Columbia) Vice-Chancellor of the University of Leeds BOSTON SMALL MAYNARD AND COMPANY 1915 Printed in Great Britain {_Pas gar ho bios tou anthropou eurythmias te kai euarmostias deitai._} "Rhythmische Gymnastik" is the name by which the Dalcroze method is known in Germany, but whether or not the German words are adequate, their literal translation into English certainly gives too narrow an idea of the scope of the system to any one unacquainted with it. Rhythmical "gymnastics," in the natural meaning of the word, is a part of the Dalcroze training, and a not unimportant part, but it is only one application of a much wider principle; and accordingly, where the term occurs in the following pages, it must be understood simply as denoting a particular mode of physical drill. But for the principle itself and the total method embodying it, another name is needed, and the term "Eurhythmics" has been here coined for the purpose. The originality of the Dalcroze method, the fact that it is a discovery, gives it a right to a name of its own: it is because it is in a sense also the rediscovery of an old secret that a name has been chosen of such plain reference and derivation. Plato, in the words quoted above, has said that the whole of a man's life stands in need of a right rhythm: and it is natural to see some kinship between this Platonic attitude and the claim of Dalcroze that his discovery is not a mere refinement of dancing, nor an improved method of music-teaching, but a principle that must have effect upon every part of life. JOHN W. HARVEY. CONTENTS NOTE: John W. Harvey 5 THE EDUCATIONAL SIGNIFICANCE OF HELLERAU: Prof. M. E. Sadler 11 RHYTHM AS A FACTOR IN EDUCATION:} Emile Jaques-Dalcroze 15 FROM LECTURES AND ADDRESSES: } Translated by P. & E. Ingham 26 THE METHOD: GROWTH AND PRACTICE: Percy B. Ingham 31 LESSONS AT HELLERAU: Ethel Ingham 48 LIFE AT HELLERAU: Ethel Ingham 55 THE VALUE OF EURHYTHMICS TO ART: M. T. H. Sadler. 60 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Emile Jaques-Dalcroze _Frontispiece_ The College: from the East _Facing page_ 15 The College: Front 26 The College: General View from the South-East 31 Beating 4/4 } Movements for the Semibreve} _Between pages_ 36 _and_ 37 Beating 5/4 in Canon without Expression} Beating 5/4 in Canon with Expression } " " 44 " 45 The Air Bath } The College: Entrance Hall} " " 48 " 49 The College: Classrooms} The College: Interiors } " " 52 " 53 The Hostel: Interiors _Facing page_ 55 The Hostel: General View _page_ 57 Dresden from Hellerau _Facing page_ 59 A Plastic Exercise " " 60 A Plastic Exercise " " 64 THE EDUCATIONAL SIGNIFICANCE OF HELLERAU At Hellerau two things make an ineffaceable impression upon the mind--the exquisite beauty of movement, of gesture and of grouping seen in the exercises; and the nearness of a great force, fundamental to the arts and expressing itself in the rhythm to which they attain. Jaques-Dalcroze has re-opened a door which has long been closed. He has rediscovered one of the secrets of Greek education. A hundred years ago Wilhelm von Humboldt endeavoured to make Greek ideals the paramount influence in the higher schools of Germany. He and a group of friends had long felt indignant at the utilitarianism and shallowness of the work of the schools. In Greek literature, Greek philosophy and Greek art would be found a means of kindling new life in education and of giving it the power of building up strong and independent personalities. When there came to Humboldt the unexpected opportunity of reforming the secondary schools of Prussia, he so remodelled the course of study as to secure for Greek thought and letters a place which, if not central and determinative, would at least bring the élite of the younger generation in some measure under their influence. But his administrative orders failed to impart to the schools the spirit of ancient Greece. To Humboldt and his friends Greek studies had been an inspiration because, apart from their intellectual significance and literary form, those studies had been the channel of an artistic impulse and had been entered into as art. But this artistic power was not felt by the greater number of those who undertook, in obedience to the new regulations, the duty of teaching Greek in the schools. What was left in Greek studies after this failure of artistic insight was often no more than another form of purely intellectual discipline. A new subject had been added to the curriculum, but new life had not been brought into the schools. The very name, Gymnasium, which denoted their Hellenic purpose, seemed ironical. They were not Greek in spirit and they ignored the training of the body. Thus what Wilhelm von Humboldt had chiefly aimed at accomplishing, he failed to do. It was not the power of Greek art that he brought into the schools but, in most cases, merely the philological study of a second dead language. The cause of his failure was that he had not discovered the educational method which could effectually secure his purpose. He had assumed that, in order to introduce the Greek spirit into education, it was sufficient to insist upon the linguistic and literary study of Greek. In time, attempts were made to remedy what was defective in Humboldt's plan by insisting upon physical exercises as an obligatory part of education in the higher schools. But the physical exercises thus introduced, though salutary in themselves, were divorced from the artistic influences of the Greek gymnastic. Humboldt's chief aim had been forgotten. His system of organization had rooted itself, but his educational ideal, to which he attached far greater importance than to administrative regulation, was ignored. In later years, though such Neo-Hellenism as Humboldt's had long gone out of fashion, the weakness of the higher schools on the side of artistic training was recognized. But a corrective for this was sought in instruction about art, not (except so far as a little teaching of drawing went) in the practice of an art. An attempt was made to cultivate aesthetic appreciation by lessons which imparted knowledge but did not attempt to train the power of artistic production--an aim which was regarded as unrealizable, except in vocal music, and of course through literary composition, in a secondary school. Thus Humboldt's original purpose has been almost wholly unachieved. The schools, admirably organized on the intellectual side and, within certain limits, increasingly efficient in their physical training, are, as a rule, lacking in the influence of art, as indeed in most cases are the corresponding schools in other countries. The spring of artistic training has not been touched. The divorce between intellectual discipline and artistic influence (except indeed so far as the latter is operative through the study of literature, through a little drawing, and through vocal music) is complete. This defect is felt even more keenly in Germany than in England, because in the German schools the intellectual pressure is more severe, and the schools do less for the cultivation of those interests which lie outside the limits of regular class-room work. Wilhelm von Humboldt gave little direct attention to the work of the elementary schools. His chief concern was with higher education. But in the elementary schools also, except in so far as they gave much care to vocal music, the course of training failed to make use of the educative power of art. A conviction that there is an error has led in Germany, as in England and America, to an increased attention to drawing and to attempts to interest children in good pictures. But there is still (except in the case of vocal music and a little drawing) an unbridged gap between the intellectual and the artistic work of the schools. Jaques-Dalcroze's experience suggests the possibility of a much closer combination of these two elements, both in elementary and in secondary education. His teaching requires from the pupils a sustained and careful attention, is in short a severe (though not exhausting) intellectual exercise; while at the same time it trains the sense of form and rhythm, the capacity to analyse musical structure, and the power of expressing rhythm through harmonious movement. It is thus a synthesis of educational influence, artistic and intellectual. Its educational value for young children, its applicability to their needs, the pleasure which they take in the exercises, have been conclusively proved. And in the possibility of this widely extended use of the method lies perhaps the chief, though far indeed from the only, educational significance of what is now being done at Hellerau. M. E. SADLER. [Illustration: The College.] RHYTHM AS A FACTOR IN EDUCATION FROM THE FRENCH OF E. JAQUES-DALCROZE[1] [1] First published in _Le Rhythme_ (Bâle) of December, 1909. It is barely a hundred years since music ceased to be an aristocratic art cultivated by a few privileged individuals and became instead a subject of instruction for almost everybody without regard to talent or exceptional ability. Schools of Music, formerly frequented only by born musicians, gifted from birth with unusual powers of perception for sound and rhythm, to-day receive all who are fond of music, however little Nature may have endowed them with the necessary capacity for musical expression and realization. The number of solo players, both pianists and violinists, is constantly increasing, instrumental technique is being developed to an extraordinary degree, but everywhere, too, the question is being asked whether the quality of instrumental players is equal to their quantity, and whether the acquirement of extraordinary technique is likely to help musical progress when this technique is not joined to musical powers, if not of the first rank, at least normal. Of ten certificated pianists of to-day, at the most one, if indeed one, is capable of recognizing one key from another, of improvising four bars with character or so as to give pleasure to the listener, of giving expression to a composition without the help of the more or less numerous annotations with which present day composers have to burden their work, of experiencing any feeling whatever when they listen to, or perform, the composition of another. The solo players of older days were without exception complete musicians, able to improvise and compose, artists driven irresistibly towards art by a noble thirst for aesthetic expression, whereas most young people who devote themselves nowadays to solo playing have the gifts neither of hearing nor of expression, are content to imitate the composer's expression without the power of feeling it, and have no other sensibility than that of the fingers, no other motor faculty than an automatism painfully acquired. Solo playing of the present day has specialized in a finger technique which takes no account of the faculty of mental expression. It is no longer a means, it has become an end. As a rule, writing is only taught to children who have reached a thinking age, and we do not think of initiating them into the art of elocution until they have got something to say, until their powers of comprehension, analysis and feeling begin to show themselves. All modern educationalists are agreed that the first step in a child's education should be to teach him to know himself, to accustom him to life and to awaken in him sensations, feelings and emotions, before giving him the power of describing them. Likewise, in modern methods of teaching to draw, the pupil is taught to see objects before painting them. In music, unfortunately, the same rule does not hold. Young people are taught to play the compositions of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin and Liszt, before their minds and ears can grasp these works, before they have developed the faculty of being moved by them. There are two physical agents by means of which we appreciate music. These two agents are the ear as regards sound, and the whole nervous system as regards rhythm. Experience has shown me that the training of these two agents cannot easily be carried out simultaneously. A child finds it difficult to appreciate at the same time a succession of notes forming a melody and the rhythm which animates them. Before teaching the relation which exists between sound and movement, it is wise to undertake the independent study of each of these two elements. Tone is evidently secondary, since it has not its origin and model in ourselves, whereas movement is instinctive in man and therefore primary. Therefore I begin the study of music by careful and experimental teaching of movement. This is based in earliest childhood on the automatic exercise of marching, for marching is the natural model of time measure. By means of various accentuations with the foot, I teach the different time measures. Pauses (of varying lengths) in the marching teach the children to distinguish durations of sound; movements to time with the arms and the head preserve order in the succession of the time measures and analyse the bars and pauses. All this, no doubt, seems very simple, and so I thought when beginning my experiments. Unfortunately, the latter have shown me that it is not so simple as it seems, but on the contrary very complicated. And this because most children have no instinct for time, for time values, for accentuation, for physical balance; because the motor faculties are not the same in all individuals, and because a number of obstacles impede the exact and rapid physical realization of mental conceptions. One child is always behind the beat when marching, another always ahead; another takes unequal steps, another on the contrary lacks balance. All these faults, if not corrected in the first years, will reappear later in the musical technique of the individual. Unsteady time when singing or playing, confusion in playing, inability to follow when accompanying, accentuating too roughly or with lack of precision, all these faults have their origin in the child's muscular and nervous control, in lack of co-ordination between the mind which conceives, the brain which orders, the nerve which transmits and the muscle which executes. And still more, the power of phrasing and shading music with feeling depends equally upon the training of the nerve-centres, upon the co-ordination of the muscular system, upon rapid communication between brain and limbs--in a word, upon the health of the whole organism; and it is by trying to discover the individual cause of each musical defect, and to find a means of correcting it, that I have gradually built up my method of eurhythmics. This method is entirely based upon experiments many times repeated, and not one of the exercises has been adopted until it has been applied under different forms and under different conditions and its usefulness definitely proved. Many people have a completely false idea of my system, and consider it is a simple variant on the methods of physical training at present in fashion, whose inventors have undoubtedly rendered great service to humanity. I cannot help smiling when I read in certain papers, over names which carry weight, articles in which my method is compared to other gymnastic systems. The fact is, my book is simply a register of the different exercises which I have invented, and says nothing of my ideas in general, for it is written for those who have learnt to interpret my meaning under my personal tuition at Geneva and Hellerau. Quite naturally, half the critics who have done me the honour of discussing the book, have only glanced through it and looked at the photographs. Not one of them has undergone the special training upon which I lay stress and without which I deny absolutely that any one has the right to pass a definite judgment on my meaning; for one does not learn to ride by reading a book on horsemanship, and eurhythmics are above all a matter of personal experience. The object of the method is, in the first instance, to create by the help of rhythm a rapid and regular current of communication between brain and body; and what differentiates my physical exercises from those of present-day methods of muscular development is that each of them is conceived in the form which can most quickly establish in the brain the image of the movement studied. It is a question of eliminating in every muscular movement, by the help of will, the untimely intervention of muscles useless for the movement in question, and thus developing attention, consciousness and will-power. Next must be created an automatic technique for all those muscular movements which do not need the help of the consciousness, so that the latter may be reserved for those forms of expression which are purely intelligent. Thanks to the co-ordination of the nerve-centres, to the formation and development of the greatest possible number of motor habits, my method assures the freest possible play to subconscious expression. The creation in the organism of a rapid and easy means of communication between thought and its means of expression by movements allows the personality free play, giving it character, strength and life to an extraordinary degree. Neurasthenia is often nothing else than intellectual confusion produced by the inability of the nervous system to obtain from the muscular system regular obedience to the order from the brain. Training the nerve centres, establishing order in the organism, is the only remedy for intellectual perversion produced by lack of will power and by the incomplete subjection of body to mind. Unable to obtain physical realization of its ideas, the brain amuses itself in forming images without hope of realizing them, drops the real for the unreal, and substitutes vain and vague speculation for the free and healthy union of mind and body. The first result of a thorough rhythmic training is that the pupil sees clearly in himself what he really is, and obtains from his powers all the advantage possible. This result seems to me one which should attract the attention of all educationalists and assure to education by and for rhythm an important place in general culture. But, as an artist, I wish to add, that the second result of this education ought to be to put the completely developed faculties of the individual at the service of art and to give the latter the most subtle and complete of interpreters--the human body. For the body can become a marvellous instrument of beauty and harmony when it vibrates in tune with artistic imagination and collaborates with creative thought. It is not enough that, thanks to special exercises, students of music should have corrected their faults and be no longer in danger of spoiling their musical interpretations by their lack of physical skill and harmonious movements; it is necessary in addition that the music which lives within them--artists will understand me--should obtain free and complete development, and that the rhythms which inspire their personality should enter into intimate communion with those which animate the works to be interpreted. The education of the nervous system must be of such a nature that the suggested rhythms of a work of art induce in the individual analogous vibrations, produce a powerful reaction in him and change naturally into rhythms of expression. In simpler language, the body must become capable of responding to artistic rhythms and of realizing them quite naturally without fear of exaggeration. This faculty of emotion, indispensable to the artist, was formerly natural to almost all beginners in music, for hardly any but pre-destined artists devoted themselves to the art; but, if this is no longer the case, it is possible at least to awaken dulled faculties, to develop and co-ordinate them, and it is the duty of every musical educationalist to deter from instrumental technique every individual who is still without musical feeling. The experimental study of rhythm should form a part of every well-organized musical education, and this study will be useful not only to musicians, but to music itself. It is quite certain that, if since Beethoven's time harmony has developed, if each generation has created fresh groupings of sounds, it is not the same regarding rhythmic forms, which remain much as they were. I shall be told that the means of expression are of no importance so long as the artist is able to show his meaning, that a sincere emotion can be clearly expressed even with old-fashioned rhythms, and that to try and create new rhythms is mere technical work, and to enforce such upon the composers of to-morrow is simply depriving them of their character. This is all true, and I myself have a horror of seeking new means of expression within the limits of hard and fast rules, for expression ought to be a spontaneous manifestation. But I assert that experiments in rhythm, and the complete study of movements simple and combined, ought to create a fresh mentality, that artists thus trained will find inevitably and spontaneously new rhythmic forms to express their feelings, and that in consequence their characters will be able to develop more completely and with greater strength. It is a fact that very young children taught by my method invent quite naturally physical rhythms such as would have occurred to very few professional musicians, and that my most advanced pupils find monotonous many contemporary works the rhythmic poverty of which shocks neither public nor critics. I will terminate this short sketch of my system by pointing out the intimate relations which exist between movements in time and movements in space, between rhythms in sound and rhythm in the body, between Music and Plastic Expression. Gestures and attitudes of the body complete, animate and enliven any rhythmic music written simply and naturally without special regard to tone, and, just as in painting there exist side by side a school of the nude and a school of landscape, so in music there may be developed, side by side, plastic music and music pure and simple. In the school of landscape painting emotion is created entirely by combinations of moving light and by the rhythms thus caused. In the school of the nude, which pictures the many shades of expression of the human body, the artist tries to show the human soul as expressed by physical forms, enlivened by the emotions of the moment, and at the same time the characteristics suitable to the individual and his race, such as they appear through momentary physical modifications. In the same way, plastic music will picture human feelings expressed by gesture and will model its sound forms on those of rhythms derived directly from expressive movements of the human body. To compose the music which the Greeks appear to have realized, and for which Goethe and Schiller hoped, musicians must have acquired experience of physical movements; this, however, is certainly not the case to-day, for music has become beyond all others an intellectual art. While awaiting this transformation, present generations can apply education by and for rhythm to the interpretation of plastic stage music such as Richard Wagner has imagined. At the present day this music is not interpreted at all, for dramatic singers, stage managers and conductors do not understand the relation existing between gesture and music, and the absolute ignorance regarding plastic expression which characterizes the lyric actors of our day is a real profanation of scenic musical art. Not only are singers allowed to walk and gesticulate on the stage without paying any attention to the time, but also no shade of expression, dynamic or motor, of the orchestra--crescendo, decrescendo, accelerando, rallentando--finds in their gestures adequate realization. By this I mean the kind of wholly instinctive transformation of sound movements into bodily movements such as my method teaches. Authors, poets, musicians and painters cannot demand from the interpreters of their works knowledge of the relations between movements in time and in space, for this knowledge can only be developed by special studies. No doubt a few poets and painters have an inborn knowledge of the rhythms of space; for instance, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, the stage mounter of "Electra" at the Vienna Opera, who constructed a huge staircase, on which, however, the actors, having little acquaintance with the most elementary notions of balance, moved with deplorable heaviness; or again, the aesthetician Adolphe Appia, whose remarkable work _Music and Stage Mounting_ ought to be the guide of all stage managers. But the majority of composers write their plastic music without knowing whether it is capable of being practically realized, without personal experience of the laws of weight, force and bodily movement. My hope is, that sincere artists desirous of perfection and seeking progress will study seriously the grave question which I raise. For my own part, relying on many experiments, and full of confidence in ideas carefully thought out, I have devoted my life to the teaching of rhythm, being fully satisfied that, thanks to it, man will regain his natural powers of expression, and at the same time his full motor faculties, and that art has everything to hope from new generations brought up in the cult of harmony, of physical and mental health, of order, beauty and truth. FROM THE LECTURES OF EMILE JAQUES-DALCROZE (LECTURE AT LEIPZIG, DECEMBER 10, 1911) The objection is often raised that under my system the technique of an instrument is acquired too late. But this objection has no foundation in fact. A child who begins rhythmic gymnastics as I would have it in its fifth or sixth year and a year later ear-training, can certainly have piano lessons when eight years old, and I can state from experience that the finger technique of the child will then develop much more quickly, for the musical faculties in general will have been far better developed, more thoroughly trained and become more part of the child's life owing to the preliminary training. * * * * * Lessons in rhythmic gymnastics help children in their other lessons, for they develop the powers of observation, of analyzing, of understanding and of memory, thus making them more orderly and precise. * * * * * The effect of rhythmic training on the time-table and life of a school is like that of a hot water heating system which spreads an equal warmth through all parts of a building. Teachers of other subjects will find that such training provides them with pupils more responsive, more elastic and of more character than they otherwise would be. Therefore, the study of rhythm, as well as education by means of rhythm, ought to be most closely connected with school life. [Illustration: The College.] * * * * * (ADDRESS TO THE DRESDEN TEACHERS' ASSOCIATION, MAY 28, 1912) From many years' experience of music teaching I have gradually produced a method which gives a child musical experiences instead of musical knowledge. I expect much from education in rhythm in elementary schools, provided it be given regularly, completely and sufficiently. The exercises should be begun at the age of six, with half an hour's lesson three times a week, but these lessons can quite well be taken from playtime. By the age of twelve two lessons a week are sufficient. This training will not only develop the feeling for beauty and form by accustoming the eye to distinguish beautiful movements and lines from those that are ugly, but also render the children susceptible to musical impressions. There are always children who are not able to sing in time, or even to beat time, to walk in time, or to graduate the strength and rapidity of their movements. Such children are unrhythmic, and it will generally be noticed that these children are stiff and awkward, often also over-excitable. This lack of rhythm is almost like a disease. It is caused by the lack of balance between the mental and physical powers, which results from insufficient co-ordination between the mental picture of a movement and its performance by the body, and these nervous troubles are just as much the cause as the result of such lack of harmony. In some cases the brain gives clear and definite impulses, but the limbs, in themselves healthy, can do nothing because the nervous system is in confusion. In other cases the limbs have lost the power to carry out orders sent by the brain, and the undischarged nerve-impulses disturb the whole nervous system. In other cases again, muscles and nerves are healthy, but insufficient training in rhythm impedes the formation of lasting rhythmic images in the brain. To repeat, the causes of this lack of rhythm all lie in the important but insufficiently recognized psycho-physiological sphere of the co-ordination of brain, nerve-paths and muscles. The objection is sometimes made that rhythmic gymnastics cause nerve-strain in children. This is not the case. Several brain specialists have told me that they have effected satisfactory cures with rhythmic gymnastic exercises. Rhythm is infinite, therefore the possibilities for physical representations of rhythm are infinite. * * * * * (ADDRESS TO STUDENTS, _der Rhythmus_, Vol. I, p. 41, _et seq._) I consider it unpardonable that in teaching the piano the whole attention should be given to the imitative faculties, and that the pupil should have no opportunity whatever of expressing his own musical impressions with the technical means which are taught him. Whether the teacher himself be a genius is of little importance, provided he is able to help others to develop their own talents. One can create nothing of lasting value without self-knowledge. The only living art is that which grows out of one's own experiences. It is just the same with teaching; it is quite impossible to develop others until one has proved one's own powers in every direction, until one has learnt to conquer oneself, to make oneself better, to suppress bad tendencies, to strengthen good ones, and, in the place of the primitive being, to make one more complete who, having consciously formed himself, knows his powers. Only in proportion as one develops oneself is one able to help others to develop. I consider that one does not require to be a genius in order to teach others, but that one certainly does require strong conviction, enthusiasm, persistence and joy in life. All these qualities are equally derived from the control and knowledge of self. We must, from youth upwards, learn that we are masters of our fate, that heredity is powerless if we realize that we can conquer it, that our future depends upon the victory which we gain over ourselves. However weak the individual may be, his help is required to prepare a way for a better future. Life and growth are one and the same, and it is our duty by the example of our lives to develop those who come after us. Let us therefore assume the responsibility which Nature puts upon us, and consider it our duty to regenerate ourselves; thus shall we help the growth of a more beautiful humanity. I like joy, for it is life. I preach joy, for it alone gives the power of creating useful and lasting work. Amusement, an excitement which stimulates the nerves instead of uplifting the spirit, is not necessary in the life of the artist. Of course one must often let oneself go, and I should be the last to defend a so-called moral discipline, or a pedantic rule of monastic severity. For a healthy, active person the joy of the daily struggle and of work performed with enthusiasm should be sufficient to beautify life, drive away fatigue and illuminate present and future. This condition of joy is brought about in us by the feeling of freedom and responsibility, by the clear perception of the creative power in us, by the balance of our natural powers, by the harmonious rhythm between intention and deed. It depends upon our creative faculties, both natural and acquired, and becomes greater as these grow. The power of understanding ourselves certainly gives us a sense of freedom, for it opens a rapid correspondence, not only between imagination and power of performance, between apperception and feelings, but also between the various kinds of feelings which dwell in us. [Illustration: The College.] THE JAQUES-DALCROZE METHOD I. GROWTH[1] [1] For much of the material of this chapter the writer is indebted to Herr Karl Storck, of Berlin, to whose book _E. Jaques-Dalcroze, seine Stellung und Aufgabe in unserer Zeit_, Stuttgart, 1912, Greiner & Pfeiffer, the reader is directed. Emile Jaques-Dalcroze was born in Vienna on July 6, 1865, of mixed parentage, his father being a Swiss from St. Croix in the Jura (hence the artist name Dalcroze), his mother of German extraction. At the age of eight his parents brought him to Geneva, where in due course he became a student at the Conservatoire of Music. His musical education was continued in Paris under Léo Delibes and in Vienna under Bruckner and Fuchs. For a short period his studies were interrupted by an engagement as musical director of a small theatre in Algiers--an opportunity which he used for study of the peculiar rhythms of Arab popular music, which he found unusually interesting and stimulating. Returning to Geneva, he earned, by a life of varied activities as teacher, writer and composer, a standing which in 1892 brought him the appointment of Professor of Harmony at the Geneva Conservatoire. The wider experience which the new sphere of work brought was to a certain extent a disappointment, for with it came clear evidence of what had before only been suspected, namely, that the education of future professional musicians was in many ways radically wrong, in that the training of individual faculties was made the chief object, without consideration of whether or no these faculties stood in any close relation to the inner consciousness of the student. In other words, the aim of the training was to form means of expression, without consideration of what was to be expressed, to produce a highly trained instrument, without thought of the art whose servant it was to be, to take as primary object a thing of secondary importance, indeed only of importance at all when consequent on something which the usual training entirely neglected. The students were taught to play instruments, to sing songs, but without any thought of such work becoming a means of self expression and so it was found that pupils, technically far advanced, after many years of study were unable to deal with the simplest problems in rhythm and that their sense for pitch, relative or absolute, was most defective; that, while able to read accurately or to play pieces memorized, they, had not the slightest power of giving musical expression to their simplest thoughts or feelings, in fact were like people who possess the vocabulary of a language and are able to read what others have written, yet are unable to put their own simple thoughts and impressions into words. The analogy here is the simplest use of everyday language; from this to the art of the essayist or poet is far; so in music--one who has mastered notes, chords and rhythms can give musical expression to simple thoughts and feelings, while to become a composer he must traverse a road that only natural talent can render easy. Jaques-Dalcroze took the view that technique should be nothing but a means to art, that the aim of musical education should be, not the production of pianists, violinists, singers, but of musically developed human beings, and that therefore the student should not begin by specializing on any instrument, but by developing his musical faculties, thus producing a basis for specialized study. This training could only be obtained by awakening the sense, natural though often latent, for the ultimate bases of music, namely, _tone_ and _rhythm_. As the sense for tone could only be developed through the ear, he now gave special attention to vocal work, and noticed that when the students themselves beat time to their singing, the work became much more real, that the pupils had a feeling of being physically in unison with the music, indeed the feeling of producing something complete and beautiful. Following up this hint, "Gesture Songs" were written, which, it was found, were performed with surprising ease. Up to this point movement had only been used as an accompaniment to music, not as a means of expressing it; the next step was to give the body a training so refined and so detailed as to make it sensitive to every rhythmic impulse and able to lose itself in any music. This co-ordination of movement and music is the essence of the Jaques-Dalcroze method, and differentiates it from all other methods of similar aim. So far only arm movements had been employed, and those merely the conventional ones of the conductor. The next step was to devise a series of arm movements, providing a means of clearly marking all tempi from two beats in the bar to twelve beats in the bar, including such forms as 5/4 7/4 9/4 11/4, and a system of movements of the body and lower limbs to represent time values from any number of notes to the beat up to whole notes of twelve beats to the note. From the first the work aroused keen interest among the students and their parents, and the master was given enthusiastic help by them in all his experiments; above all he was loyally aided by his assistant, Fräulein Nina Gorter. The Conservatoire authorities, however, were not sympathetic, and it became necessary to form a volunteer-experimental class, which worked outside official hours and buildings. The first public recognition of the method was at the Music Festival in Solothurn in 1905, where a demonstration was given which made a striking impression on those present. The value of the method for the elementary education of musicians was immediately recognized and some slight idea obtained of the part it might play in general elementary education. It has been made clear that the method had its origin in the attempt to give life and reality to musical education, to give a foundational development on which specialized music study could be based, and that it had grown naturally and gradually as the result of observation and experiment. Now it began to be apparent that something still greater than the original aim had been achieved, that the system evolved was one which, properly used, might be of enormous value in the education of children. With characteristic energy Jaques-Dalcroze, inspired by the new idea, took up the study of psychology, in which he was helped by his friend, the psychologist Claparède, who early saw the value which the new ideas might have in educational practice. The change of outlook which now took place in the master's mind can best be made clear by a translation of his own words.[1] [1] Address to students, Dresden, 1911 (_Der Rhythmus_, vol. i, p. 33). "It is true that I first devised my method as a musician for musicians. But the further I carried my experiments, the more I noticed that, while a method intended to develop the sense for rhythm, and indeed based on such development, is of great importance in the education of a musician, its chief value lies in the fact that it trains the powers of apperception and of expression in the individual and renders easier the externalization of natural emotions. Experience teaches me that a man is not ready for the specialized study of an art until his character is formed, and his powers of expression developed." In 1906 was held the first training-course for teachers; how the method has since grown can be realized by noting that a fortnight was then considered a sufficient period of training, whilst now the teachers' course at Hellerau requires from one to three years' steady work. In the years 1907-9 the short teachers' courses were repeated; in the latter year the first diploma was granted, experience having shown the need of this, for already individuals in all parts of the world, after but a few days' training, in some cases after merely being spectators at lessons, were advertising themselves as teachers of the method. In 1910 Jaques-Dalcroze was invited by the brothers Wolf and Harald Dohrn to come to Dresden, where, in the garden suburb of Hellerau, they have built him a College for Rhythmic Training, a true Palace of Rhythm. II. PRACTICE[1] [1] In the preparation of this chapter free use has been made of the writings of M. Jaques-Dalcroze and of Dr. Wolf Dohrn, Director of the College of Music and Rhythm, Hellerau, Dresden. The method naturally falls into three divisions-- (_a_) Rhythmic gymnastics proper. (_b_) Ear training. (_c_) Improvisation (practical harmony). (_a_) Is essentially the Jaques-Dalcroze method--that which is fundamentally new. As it is this part of the method which is likely to prove of great value in all systems of education, not merely as a preparation for the study of music, but as a means to the utmost development of faculty in the individual, it will be dealt with in detail. (_b_) Is of the greatest importance as an adjunct to rhythmic gymnastics, since it is through the ear that rhythm-impressions are most often and most easily obtained. Jaques-Dalcroze naturally uses his own methods of ear-training, which are extremely successful, but he does not lay stress on them; he does, however, emphasize the need of such training, whatever the method, as shall give the pupil an accurate sense of pitch, both absolute and relative, and a feeling for tonality. The more these are possessed the greater the use which can be made of rhythmic gymnastics. [Illustration: Beating 4/4.] [Illustration: Movements for the Semibreve.] (_c_) This is not required in the _pupil_, however valuable it may be as an additional means of self-expression; it is, however, absolutely necessary for the successful _teacher_ of rhythmic gymnastics, who must be able to express, on some instrument--most conveniently the piano--whatever rhythms, simple or compound, he may wish to use in the training of his pupils. This subject, therefore, naturally forms an important part of the normal course at the Hellerau College, since this course is planned to meet the needs of students preparing for the teaching diploma in Eurhythmics. Here, too, Jaques-Dalcroze has his own system, with which he obtains results often remarkable, but, as in the case of the ear-training, this is a detail not peculiar to the method as a whole. To repeat: the essentials are that the teacher have the power of free expression on some musical instrument, the pupil that of hearing correctly. * * * * * The system of exercises known as rhythmic gymnastics is based upon two ideas, (i) _time_ is shown by movements of the arms, (ii) _time-values_, i.e., note-duration, by movements of the feet and body. In the early stages of the training this principle is clearly observed; later it may be varied in many ingenious ways, for instance in what is known as plastic counterpoint, where the actual notes played are represented by movements of the arms, while the counterpoint in crotchets, quavers or semiquavers, is given by the feet. The system of beating time with the arms provides for all tempi from 2/4 to 12/4 and includes 5/4 7/4 9/4. In the series of movements to represent note-values the crotchet is taken as the unit; this is represented by a step; higher values, from the minim to the whole note of twelve beats, are represented by a step with one foot and a movement or movements with the other foot or with the body, but without progression, e.g., a minim by one step and a knee bend, a dotted minim by a step and two movements without progression, a whole note of twelve beats by a step and eleven movements. Thus for each note in the music there is one step, one progression in space, while at the same time the note, if of greater length than a crotchet, is analysed into crotchets. Notes of shorter duration than the crotchet, i.e., quavers, triplets, etc., are expressed also by steps which become quicker in proportion to their frequency. When the movements corresponding to the notes from the crotchet to the whole note of twelve beats have, with all their details, become a habit, the pupil need only make them mentally, contenting himself with one step forward. This step will have the exact length of the whole note, which will be mentally analysed into its various elements. Although these elements are not individually performed by the body, their images and the innervations suggested by those images take the place of the movements. The process is similar to that of the child learning to read; at first it reads aloud, then to itself, still, however, moving its lips, i.e., still making all the innervations necessary for the pronunciation of the words. Only after much practice does the process become sufficiently automatic for these lip and tongue innervations to be dropped. Indeed, many adults show traces of them when they read. To what degree our power to read is based upon such innervations is shown by the fact that old people, as their inhibitory powers become weaker, often revert to making these lip movements. From this we may conclude that such innervations, although they do not find their natural expression, still exist and have effect, i.e., they are necessary. The Jaques-Dalcroze method aims at nothing more or less than the training of rhythmic innervations. The whole training aims at developing the power of rapid physical reaction to mental impressions. These latter are more commonly obtained through the ear, chiefly from the music played; naturally, however, the teacher needs at times to give commands during an exercise. For this purpose he invariably uses the word _hopp_, a word chosen for its clear incisiveness. Before each exercise it is clearly stated what the word is to represent in that particular case, e.g., omit one beat, omit one bar, beat time twice as fast with the arms, etc.; often the word will be used in series in an exercise, each _hopp_ meaning some additional change. As the command generally falls on the second half of the beat preceding the one in which the change is to be made, very rapid mental and physical response is necessary, especially if the music be at all quick. Exercises of this class soon give the power of rapid muscular innervation and inhibition, and are of extraordinary value in education, quite apart from their purely rhythmic side. We will now consider the exercises in some detail, taking, as a matter of convenience, the order and grouping generally adopted at demonstrations of the method. In actual practice such strict grouping is neither possible nor necessary; the actual form which the lessons take will depend upon the genius of teacher and pupils, the possibilities of variety being infinite. [Sidenote: =MOVEMENTS TO INDICATE VARIOUS TEMPI=] Simple music is played to which the pupils march. As they grasp the beat they mark it by an accented step; when this becomes easy, the corresponding arm movements are added, and the strong beat, at this stage always the first, is marked by full contraction of the arm muscles. Practice is given until at _hopp_ the pupil can stop suddenly, discontinue accenting with one or both arms or with one or both feet, substitute an arm-movement for a foot movement, insert an extra accent either with arm or foot, or do any similar thing previously agreed on. By repeated practice of such exercises complete automatic control of the limbs is obtained and the ground prepared for more advanced work. It is at this stage that the simple movements to indicate times and notes are learnt; they may be likened to the alphabet of the method, the elementary exercises as a whole being its accidence, the more advanced stages, including plastic expression, its syntax. [Sidenote: =TRAINING IN METRE=] This group of exercises is a natural extension of those preceding. The pupil learns a series of movements which together form a rhythm, first practising them singly, then in groups, the signal for the change being always the word _hopp_. By means of such exercises the component movements required in the physical expression of a rhythm can be learnt, first individually, then in series, until the complete rhythm can be expressed and the use of _hopp_ be dropped, each change of movement becoming itself the signal for the next. Again, the pupil learns to realize[1] a rhythm played on the piano or indicated by the movements of another person. This is something quite apart from mere imitation; trained by previous exercises, the pupil first forms clear mental images of the movements corresponding to the rhythm in question and then gives physical expression to those images. In other words, he does not reproduce until he has understood; in fact, without understanding, correct reproduction of a lengthy series of such movements is impossible. In the same way, an individual cannot easily remember and repeat a succession of words which he does not understand, but can repeat without difficulty a long series of words of which he understands the sense. Indeed, the importance of many of these exercises becomes clearer when the way in which children are taught to read and write is remembered. [1] _Realize_ is used in rhythmic gymnastics in the sense _express by movements of the body_. Oral and visual images of letters and words are impressed on the child by reading aloud, and in this way the young brain easily masters the difficult work of reading and writing. The Jaques-Dalcroze method proceeds in exactly the same manner as regards the elements of music. When we have once realized this point, we are bound to wonder why music teaching has not always been based on this elementary and unfailing form. What would be said to teachers who tried to teach children to read and write without letting them spell and read aloud? But this is what has often been done in the teaching of music, and if children generally show but little pleasure and interest in their first music lessons, the fault does not lie with them but with our wrong method of making the elements clear to them. As a matter of fact we generally do not make the latter clear to them, and fail in the most important duty of the educator and teacher, namely, that of making the child really experience what he is to learn. [Sidenote: =DEVELOPMENT OF MENTAL RESPONSE=] A rhythm in music consists of a regularly recurring series of accented sounds, unaccented sounds, and rests, expressed in rhythmic gymnastics by movements and inhibitions of movements. Individuals who are rhythmically uncertain generally have a muscular system which is irregularly responsive to mental stimuli; the response may be too rapid or too slow; in either case impulse or inhibition falls at the wrong moment, the change of movement is not made to time, and the physical expression of the rhythm is blurred. Although feeling for rhythm is more or less latent in us all and can be developed, few have it naturally perfect. The method has many exercises which are of use in this connexion. By means of these the pupil is taught how to arrest movement suddenly or slowly, to move alternately forwards or backwards, to spring at a given signal, to lie down or stand up in the exact time of a bar of music--in each case with a minimum of muscular effort and without for a moment losing the feeling for each time-unit of the music. [Sidenote: =MENTAL HEARING. CONCENTRATION=] Physical movements repeatedly performed create corresponding images in the brain; the stronger the feeling for the movement, i.e., the more the pupil concentrates while making that movement, the clearer will be the corresponding mental image, and the more fully will the sense for metre and rhythm be developed. We might say that these movement images store up the innervations which bring about the actual movement. They are for the body and its movements what formulæ are for the mathematician. Developed out of many movements they become a complete symbol for the rhythm expressed by the series of movements in question. Thus the pupil who knows how to march in time to a given rhythm has only to close his eyes and recall a clear image of the corresponding movements to experience the rhythm as clearly as if he were expressing it by marching. He simply continues to perform the movements mentally. If, however, his movements when actually realizing the rhythm are weak or confused, the corresponding mental images will be vague or incorrect, whilst movements which are dynamically clear guarantee the accuracy of the corresponding mental images and nerve-impulses. In practice the exercise consists in first mastering a rhythm played, marching and beating time in the usual manner, then at _hopp_ discontinuing all movement, either for a number of bars previously agreed upon or until the signal to resume is given by a second _hopp_. In this exercise the teacher ceases to play at the first _hopp_. [Sidenote: =ANALYSIS AND DIVISION OF TIME VALUES=] The exercises of this group are designed to teach how to subdivide units of time into parts of varying number. At _hopp_ the crotchet must be divided into quavers, triplets, semiquavers, etc., as may have been previously arranged, or instead of _hopp_ the teacher may call _three_, _four_, etc., to indicate the subdivision which is to be expressed by the corresponding number of steps. Apart from their direct object, the exercises of this group are of value for the training which they give in poise; they might be classed equally well with the group under _Development of Mental Response_. Here, too, belong exercises in the realization of syncopation in which, as the note is represented by the usual step, it comes off the beat, the latter being indicated by a knee-bend which, in quick time, becomes a mere suggestion of movement or is omitted, e.g., {Music} These exercises in syncopation are perhaps some of the most difficult in the method, as they demand an extraordinary control of inhibition. Individuals of musical ability often find them difficult at first, and their easy performance may be taken as evidence of a developed feeling for rhythm. As a rule children find these exercises easier than do adults. [Illustration: Beating 5/4 in canon without expression.] [Illustration: Beating 5/4 in canon with expression.] [Sidenote: =REALIZATION OF TIME AND RHYTHM=] The object here is to express by rhythmic movements and without hesitation rhythms perceived by the ear. The exactness of such expression will be in proportion to the number of movements of which the pupil has acquired automatic control. There is not time to analyse the music heard; the body must _realize_ before the mind has a clear impression of the movement image, just as in reading, words are understood and pronounced without a clear mental image of them being formed. When the realization of a rhythm heard has become relatively easy, the pupil is taught to concentrate, by listening to, and forming a mental image of, a fresh rhythm while still performing the old one. In this manner he obtains facility in rendering automatic, groups of movements rhythmically arranged, and in keeping the mind free to take a fresh impression which in its turn can be rendered automatic. Here again the process is analagous to that of reading, in which, while we are grasping the meaning of a sentence, the eye is already dealing with the next, preparing it in turn for comprehension. [Sidenote: =DEVELOPMENT OF INDEPENDENT CONTROL OF THE LIMBS=] Characteristic exercises of this group are: beating the same time with both arms but in canon, beating two different tempi with the arms while the feet march to one or other or perhaps march to yet a third time, e.g., the arms 3/4 and 4/4, the feet 5/4. There are, also, exercises in the analysis of a given time unit into various fractions simultaneously, e.g., in a 6/8 bar one arm may beat three to the bar, the other arm two, while the feet march six. [Sidenote: =DOUBLE OR TRIPLE DEVELOPMENT OF RHYTHMS=] These exercises are a physical preparation for what is known in music as the development of a theme. While the composers of fugues always use a double or quadruple development, the method introduces an entirely fresh element--the triple development, exercises in which are difficult but extremely valuable. [Sidenote: =PLASTIC COUNTERPOINT AND COMPOUND RHYTHMS=] In plastic counterpoint the arms realize the theme, i.e., make as many movements as there are notes, whilst the feet mark the counterpoint in crotchets, quavers, triplets or semiquavers. A compound rhythm may be realized by the arms taking one rhythm, the feet another; or the rhythms of a three part canon may be expressed by simultaneous singing, beating with the arms and marching. These exercises correspond in the sphere of physical expression to the technical exercises of instrumental work, for they teach the pupil to express simultaneously impressions of the most varying nature. [Sidenote: =GRADATION OF MUSCULAR EFFORT. PATHETIC ACCENT. PLASTIC EXPRESSION=] The exercises already dealt with have all the general purpose of developing feeling for rhythm by giving training in the physical expression of rhythms. Those in this last group aim at facility in making crescendos and decrescendos of innervation, in passing from one shade of expression to another, in co-ordinating movements, not only to the rhythm of the music played, but also to its feeling; they allow free play to individuality, to temperament, and give opportunity for that free self-expression for which the preceding exercises have provided facility. PERCY B. INGHAM. LESSONS AT HELLERAU Monsieur Jaques-Dalcroze's lessons are full of vitality and entertainment, combined with the serious work in hand. No slacking is possible. He will perhaps open a rhythmic gymnastic lesson by playing a vigorous theme of one or two bars in a rhythm such as the following:-- {Music} which, as soon as it is grasped by the pupils, they begin to _realize_,[1] that is, to mark the tempo with the arms, and to move the feet according to the notes. A note which contains more than one beat--for instance, the minim in the first bar--is shown by taking one step forward for the first beat and by a slight bend of the knee for the second beat. The next two crochets are represented by one step for each. A step is also taken for each quaver, but twice as quickly; for the dotted crochet, a step and a slight spring before the last quaver--all this while the arms are beating a steady four. After a short practice of these two bars, the master will glide into yet another rhythm, the pupils still realizing the first one, but at the same time listening and mentally registering the one being played, so as to be ready on the instant at the word of command, which is _hopp_, to change to the new rhythm. We will suppose it to be as follows {Music}. This, it will be noticed, is in 3/4 time. The pupils become accustomed to dropping frequently into various times with the greatest ease. The three bars would then be realized consecutively, and this process will continue until perhaps there are six bars in all. These must all be so clear in the minds of the pupils, that at the word of command, one bar, or two bars, can be omitted on the instant, or be realized twice as quickly, or twice as slowly; or what is still more complicated, the arms can beat the time twice as slowly and the feet mark the notes twice as quickly. It seems incredibly difficult to do at first, but the same training of _thinking to time_ occurs in every lesson, in improvisation and solfège, as well as in the rhythmic gymnastic lessons, and so the invaluable habits of concentrated thinking, of quick and definite action, and of control of mind over body, become established. [1] See note, page 41 [Illustration: The Air Bath.] [Illustration: The College: Entrance Hall.] Each lesson is varied to a remarkable degree; in fact, Monsieur Jaques-Dalcroze seldom repeats himself. Every day he has new ideas, consisting of new movements, or of new uses for old ones, so that there is never a dull moment. It must be understood, however, that the alphabet and grammar of the movements remain the same, it is the combinations of them that are limitless. The music is, of course, always improvised. A word should be said on the subject of feeling two different rhythms at the same time. Every teacher knows the difficulty children have in playing three notes against four on the piano. The Hellerau children can with ease beat four with one arm and three with the other, or beat three with the arms and two or four with the feet, or _vice versa_. And this is not learnt in any mechanical way; the power for _feeling_ two rhythms simultaneously is developed. Advanced pupils can realize three rhythms at the same time. They will perhaps mark one with the arms, another with the feet, and sing yet a third. Another part of the work is to teach the pupils to express the type of music that is being played; this is technically known as "Plastic expression." The alphabet of this consists of twenty gestures with the arms, which can be done in many various combinations and in various positions, and by means of these any kind of emotion can be expressed. Perhaps the music will begin by being solemn and grand, becoming even tragic, and gradually the tones and melody will rise to cheerfulness, the rhythm will become more animated and the tone swell out again until a perfect ecstasy of joy is reached--and all the while the figures of the pupils are harmonising absolutely with the music, trained as they are to listen accurately to every note, every accent, every change of key and, above all, every rhythm. To the watcher such an exercise is effective and striking in the highest degree. Realizing syncopated passages is a fine exercise for developing independence of movement in the arms and feet, as the feet move in between the beats of the arms. Let any one try to realize a simple measure in syncopation. For instance, take a bar of 4/4 time {Music}. The first beat of the arms and the first step will come together, the second beat of the arms will come half-way between the second and third steps, the third beat half-way between the third and fourth steps, and the fourth beat half-way between the fourth and fifth steps, and this should be done with no contraction of muscle or appearance of effort. Other exercises consist of beating various times in canon, that is, one arm beginning one beat later than the other; of beating different times with each arm, perhaps seven with one arm and three with the other; of marching to one rhythm and beating time to another; of simple marching and at the word of command taking one step backward, and then forward again; of marching the counterpoint of a rhythm. For instance, if the rhythm played be {Music} the counterpoint in crochets would be {Music}, or if it is to be in quavers it would be {Music}. The counterpoint can be filled in with triplets, semiquavers, or with notes of any other value. Another good exercise is to take a simple rhythm and at the word of command realize it twice or three times as quickly or as slowly, the arms still beating in the first tempo. A simple example will make this clear. {Music} twice as quickly would become {Music}. The pupils are often asked to listen to what is played and then to realize it. It may be a series of four bars, each one in a different tempo, and all times are employed, including 5/4, 7/4, 9/3 and others which are somewhat exceptional. And so on _ad infinitum_. From these suggestions something of the endless variety of exercises that may be devised can probably now be imagined. As soon as movements become automatic they are used as units for building up more elaborate movements, and no time is wasted in doing merely mechanical exercises. In every detail of the method the brain is called into constant activity, and, lest any one should think that it would be easy for one pupil to copy another in doing the exercises, it should be stated that, if such a thing were attempted, it would end in the pupil becoming hopelessly confused, for if the mind once loses hold of the work in process it is very difficult to pick it up again. The solfège lessons are chiefly for ear-training and practical harmony. In the elementary classes it is shown how scales and chords are formed, and where the tones and semitones occur. The pupils soon become able to tell, when three consecutive notes from any scale are played, what degrees of the scale they are, or may be. Scales are sung always beginning on C for every key and always to a rhythm. Here, again, the pupils have to think to time, for in the second scale, which would be that of F, if the flat scales were being sung, they have to remember that they are starting on the fifth note of the scale, and that the interval between the third and fourth notes of the scale is a semitone; that the third and fourth degrees in the key of F are A and B, and therefore the B has to be flattened in this scale, the other notes remaining the same. The whole cycle of scales is sung in this manner, each one commencing on C, or on C flat when necessary. The pupils are also practised in listening to a scale played and then saying in which key it is, judging it by the fall of the semitones. [Illustration: Class Rooms.] [Illustration: The College: Interiors.] Chords are sung analytically and in chorus, with their resolutions when needed, and this is followed by practice in hearing and naming chords. Sight singing and transposition are by no means neglected, and there is practice in singing intervals, in singing a piece once or twice through and then from memory, or in another key, which is not so easy to do when the fixed _Do_ is used. And always, whatever is being done, the pupils have to be prepared for the word _hopp_, to make any change which has been previously agreed on, e.g., to sing on the instant in a key a semitone lower, or to sing in thought only until the next _hopp_, when they sing aloud again. In these exercises, as in those of the rhythmic gymnastics, there is no end of the variety of combination possible. There is also opportunity for practice in conducting, and very interesting it is, in a children's class, to note with what assurance a small girl of perhaps seven or eight will beat time for the others to sing one of their songs, and also to note the various renderings each conductor will obtain of the same piece. The improvisation on the piano is perhaps the most difficult part of the system to master. It may not be realized by all people that _every one can be taught to play original music_. There are cases in which the pupil is not naturally musical, and has had no previous knowledge of piano playing, but has learnt to improvise sufficiently well to give a good lesson in rhythmic gymnastics, which means no small degree of ability. This training is begun by making use of the simplest, i.e., the common, chords, and when these are known in every key, including those on the dominant, the pupil is expected to improvise a short piece of eight bars, the chief feature to be attended to being the rhythm, which has to be definite and played without hesitation. When perfect familiarity is obtained with the common chord of each key and with that of its dominant, another chord is learnt, that on the sub-dominant. With these three chords alone quite charming little pieces can be played, and gradually in this manner the pupil has at his command passing notes, appoggiaturas, cadences, and an unlimited number of chords and sequences. Then come the rules for modulating from one key to another, and equal facility in all keys is insisted on. Monsieur Jaques-Dalcroze's pupils learn to improvise with definite thought and meaning, nothing unrhythmical is ever allowed, nor any aimless meandering over the keyboard. For these lessons the pupils are divided into small groups of not more than six in each, and twice a week these groups are taken altogether by Monsieur Jaques-Dalcroze. All branches of the work demand perfect concentration of thought and attention, and such invaluable mental training cannot be too highly prized, for it is fundamental to success in work of any kind, whatever it may be. ETHEL INGHAM. [Illustration: The Hostel: Interiors.] LIFE AT HELLERAU Surely never before has the world held better opportunities for studying and loving the beautiful and true. One need be but a few days in Hellerau in order to see some of the many advantages which a stay there has to offer. For young men and women searching for a profession in life; for those fresh from school while waiting to discover their natural bent; for adults who seek a change from their ordinary surroundings and who wish to improve in culture and in health; for musicians and students in art, for teachers of dancing, and for children of all ages, a course of study at the College in Hellerau contains advantages and opportunities which seem to exist in no other educational institution. For the convenience of young girls there is a hall of residence, which will accommodate about forty-six students, the head of which is a cultured English lady of wide experience. There are also many small houses on adjoining land, in which the male students and those who are older can live. These may, and as a rule do, come to the Hostel for meals. The home life in the Hostel is a cheerful one. The bedrooms are bright, containing just the necessary furniture, which of course includes a piano. There is a large and charmingly furnished room opening from the hall, known as the Diele, which serves as a general sitting-room for the students. The dining-room is equally delightful, and can be quickly converted into a ball-room for impromptu dances, or adapted for other entertainments. There is also a library; and throughout the whole house the same good taste is displayed. Leading from the dining-room is a large terrace, with steps down into an attractive garden. The day commences with the sounding of a gong at seven o'clock; the house is immediately alive, and some are off to the College for a Swedish gymnastic lesson before breakfast, others breakfast at half-past seven and have their lesson later. There is always a half hour of ordinary gymnastics to begin with. Then there will be a lesson in Solfège, one in Rhythmic Gymnastics, and one in Improvisation, each lasting for fifty minutes, with an interval of ten minutes between each lesson. Dinner, which is at a quarter-past one, is followed by an hour for rest; and at three the energetic people begin practising. The afternoons are usually free, except twice a week, when there are lessons in "Plastic" and dancing from four till six, before which tea is served, or there may be extra lessons in rhythmic gymnastics for small groups of pupils who need further help, and students may obtain the use of a room for private practice together. In the afternoons, too, there is time and opportunity for any other extra study or lessons which are not included in the ordinary course, such as violin, solo singing, drawing or painting. Most of the students soon acquire wide interests, if they do not have them when they first come. Free afternoons may be spent in visiting the galleries and shops of Dresden. Whenever there is anything especially good in the way of a concert, or an opera or a classical play, there is always a party of enthusiasts going into town for it. The opera in Dresden, as in other parts of Germany, fortunately begins and ends early. Late hours are not encouraged at the Hostel--indeed, everybody is glad to retire early, for the work is absorbing and demands plenty of energy, especially if the full teachers' course be taken, with the hope of a diploma at the end of two years. [Illustration: The Hostel.] Supper is served at a quarter-past seven, and on two evenings a week those who wish to join the orchestral or choral societies have the pleasure of meeting together and practising under the direction of Monsieur Jaques-Dalcroze. An atmosphere of enthusiasm and good-will permeates the social life. No community of the kind could have a more delightful spirit of unity than that which pervades the Jaques-Dalcroze School. All students are keen and anxious to live as full a life as possible, every one will willingly and unselfishly take time and trouble to help others who know less than themselves. The College has a unity born of kindred interests, and every one glows with admiration and esteem for the genius at the head, and for his wonderful method, whilst he himself simply radiates good-will and enthusiasm, and works harder than any one else in the place. He makes a point of knowing each one of his pupils personally, and remarkably quick he is in summing up the various temperaments and characters of those with whom he comes into contact. The moral and mental tone of the College is pure and beautiful, indeed it could not well be otherwise, for the work in itself is an inspiration. A change is often observable in pupils after they have been but a few weeks in residence, a change which tells of more alertness of mind, of more animated purpose, and even of higher ideals and aims in life. [Illustration: Dresden from Hellerau.] There are opportunities for the practice of many languages, for it is a cosmopolitan centre. Nearly all European nationalities are represented, but as yet the number of English people is not large. This, however, will not long remain so, for the Jaques-Dalcroze method needs only to be known in order to be as widely appreciated in Great Britain and the United States as it is on the Continent. The lessons are given in German, though occasionally French is used to make clear anything that is not quite understood in the former tongue. English people who do not know either of these languages need not look upon this as an obstacle, for one quickly arrives at understanding sufficiently well to gain the benefit from the lessons, and there is always some one in the classes who will interpret when necessary. The College itself is a fine example of the value of simplicity and space in architecture. Both without and within, the block of buildings is impressive, this effect being gained by an extreme simplicity of decoration. The most modern methods of heating and ventilating are provided, and there are large sun and air baths. Completed in the spring of this year, and with accommodation for five hundred students, the settlement stands on high ground about four miles from Dresden, in an open, bracing, healthy spot, with charming walks in all directions. The views are extensive; to the south lie the Erzgebirge, to the south-east Saxon Switzerland, and, in a dip of the nearer hills, Dresden. ETHEL INGHAM. THE VALUE OF EURHYTHMICS TO ART One of the most marked tendencies of modern aesthetic theory is to break down the barriers that convention has erected between the various arts. The truth is coming to be realized that the essential factor of poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture and music is really of the same quality, and that one art does not differ from another in anything but the method of its expression and the conditions connected with that method. This common basis to the arts is more easily admitted than defined, but one important element in it--perhaps the only element that can be given a name--is rhythm. Rhythm of bodily movement, the dance, is the earliest form of artistic expression known. It is accompanied in nearly every case with rude music, the object being to emphasize the beat and rhythmic movement with sound. The quickness with which children respond to simple repetition of beat, translating the rhythm of the music into movement, is merely recurrence of historical development. Words with the music soon follow, and from these beginnings--probably war-songs or religious chants--come song-poems and ultimately poetry as we know it to-day. The still more modern development of prose-writing, in the stylistic sense, is merely a step further. The development on the other side follows a somewhat similar line. The rhythm of the dancing figure is reproduced in rude sculpture and bas-relief, and then in painting. [Illustration: A Plastic Exercise.] So we have, as it were, a scale of the arts, with music at its centre and prose-writing and painting at its two extremes. From end to end of the scale runs the unifying desire for rhythm.[1] [1] For valuable help in these ideas I am indebted to Mr. J. W. Harvey. I should like to quote verbatim one or two remarks of his on the subject, taken from a recent letter: "Human motion gives the convergence of time (inner sense) and space (outer sense), the spirit and the body. Time, which we are in our inner selves, is more dissociable from us than space, which only our bodies have; the one (time) can be interpreted emotionally and directly by a time-sense; the other (space) symbolically, by a space-sense, which is sight." To speak of the rhythm of painting may seem fanciful, but I think that is only lack of familiarity. The expression is used here with no intention of metaphor. Great pictures have a very marked and real rhythm, of colour, of line, of feeling. The best prose-writing has equally a distinct rhythm. There was never an age in the history of art when rhythm played a more important part than it does to-day. The teaching of M. Dalcroze at Hellerau is a brilliant expression of the modern desire for rhythm in its most fundamental form--that of bodily movement. Its nature and origin have been described elsewhere; it is for me to try and suggest the possibilities of its influence on every other art, and on the whole of life. Let it be clearly understood from the first that the rhythmic training at Hellerau has an importance far deeper and more extended than is contained in its immediate artistic beauty, its excellence as a purely musical training, or its value to physical development. This is not a denial of its importance in these three respects. The beauty of the classes is amazing; the actor, as well as the designer of stage-effects, will come to thank M. Dalcroze for the greatest contribution to their art that any age can show. He has recreated the human body as a decorative unit. He has shown how men, women and children can group themselves and can be grouped in designs as lovely as any painted design, with the added charm of movement. He has taught individuals their own power of gracious motion and attitude. Musically and physically the results are equally wonderful. But the training is more than a mere musical education; it is also emphatically more than gymnastics. Perhaps in the stress laid on individuality may be seen most easily the possibilities of the system. Personal effort is looked for in every pupil. Just as the learner of music must have the "opportunity of expressing his own musical impressions with the technical means which are taught him,"[1] so the pupil at Hellerau must come to improvise from the rhythmic sense innate in him, rhythms of his own.[2] [1] Cf. supra, p. 28. [2] A good example of the fertility and variety of the individual effort obtained at Hellerau was seen at the Aufführung given on December 11, 1911. Two pupils undertook to realize a Prelude of Chopin, their choice falling by chance on the same Prelude. But hardly a movement of the two interpretations was the same. The first girl lay on the ground the whole time, her head on her arm, expressing in gentle movements of head, hands and feet, her idea of the music. At one point near the end, with the rising passion of the music, she raised herself on to her knees; then sank down again to her full length. The second performer stood upright until the very end. At the most intense moment her arms were stretched above her head; at the close of the music she was bowed to the ground, in an attitude expressive of the utmost grief. In such widely different ways did the same piece of music speak to the individualities of these two girls. To take a joy in the beauty of the body, to train his mind to move graciously and harmoniously both in itself and in relation to those around him, finally, to make his whole life rhythmic--such an ideal is not only possible but almost inevitable to the pupil at Hellerau. The keenness which possesses the whole College, the delight of every one in their work, their comradeship, their lack of self-consciousness, their clean sense of the beauty of natural form, promises a new and more harmonious race, almost a realization of Rousseau's ideal, and with it an era of truly rhythmic artistic production. That the soil is ready for the new seed may be shown by a moment's consideration of what I consider to be a parallel development in painting. There is in Munich a group of artists who call themselves Der Blaue Reiter. They are led by a Russian, Wassily Kandinsky, and a German, Franz Marc, and it is of Kandinsky's art that I propose to speak. Kandinsky is that rare combination, an artist who can express himself in both words and paint. His book--_Über das Geistige in der Kunst_[1]--is an interesting and subtle piece of aesthetic philosophy. His painting is a realization of the attempt to paint music. He has isolated the emotion caused by line and colour from the external association of idea. All form in the ordinary representative sense is eliminated. But form there is in the deeper sense, the shapes and rhythms of the _innerer Notwendigkeit_, and with it, haunting, harmonious colour. To revert to a former metaphor, painting has been brought into the centre of the scale. As Kandinsky says in his book: "Shades of colour, like shades of sound, are of a much subtler nature, cause much subtler vibrations of the spirit than can ever be given by words." It is to achieve this finer utterance, to establish a surer and more expressive connexion between spirit and spirit, that Kandinsky is striving. His pictures are visions, beautiful abstractions of colour and line which he has lived himself, deep down in his inmost soul. He is intensely individual, as are all true mystics; at the same time the spirit of his work is universal. [1] _Über das Geistige in der Kunst._ Piper Verlag, München, 3 Marks. See also vol. i. of _der Blaue Reiter_. Piper Verlag, 10 Marks. In this, then, as in so much else, Kandinsky and Dalcroze are advancing side by side. They are leading the way to the truest art, and ultimately to the truest life of all, which is a synthesis of the collective arts and emotions of all nations, which is, at the same time, based on individuality, because it represents the inner being of each one of its devotees. MICHAEL T. H. SADLER. _Printed by_ BUTLER & TANNER, _Frome and London_. [Illustration: A Plastic Exercise.] 
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30412	----	[Illustration: M. Camille Saint-Saëns] ON THE EXECUTION OF MUSIC, AND PRINCIPALLY OF ANCIENT MUSIC BY M. CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS _Delivered at the_ "_Salon de la Pensée Française_" _Panama-Pacific International Exposition_ _San Francisco, June First_ _Nineteen Hundred_ _& Fifteen_ DONE INTO ENGLISH WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES BY HENRY P. BOWIE SAN FRANCISCO: THE BLAIR-MURDOCK COMPANY 1915 _Copyright, 1915_ _by M. Camille Saint-Saëns_ ON THE EXECUTION OF MUSIC, AND PRINCIPALLY OF ANCIENT MUSIC MUSIC was written in a scrawl impossible to decipher up to the thirteenth century, when Plain Song[1] (_Plain Chant_) made its appearance in square and diamond-shaped notes. The graduals and introits had not yet been reduced to bars, but the songs of the troubadours appear to have been in bars of three beats with the accent on the feeble note of each bar. However, the theory that this bar of three beats or triple time was used exclusively is probably erroneous. St. Isidore, in his treatise on music, speaking of how Plain Song should be interpreted, considers in turn all the voices and recommends those which are high, sweet and clear, for the execution of vocal sounds, introits, graduals, offertories, etc. This is exactly contrary to what we now do, since in place of utilizing these light tenor voices for Plain Song, we have recourse to voices both heavy and low. In the last century when it was desired to restore Plain Song to its primitive purity, one met with insurmountable obstacles due to its prodigious prolixity of long series of notes, repeating indefinitely the same musical forms; but in considering this in the light of explanations given by St. Isidore, and in view of the Oriental origin of the Christian religion, we are led to infer that these long series of notes were chants or vocalizations analogous to the songs of the Muezzins of the Orient. At the beginning of the sixteenth century musical laws began to be elaborated without, however, in this evolution towards modern tonal art, departing entirely from all influence of the antique methods. The school named after Palestrina employed as yet only the triads or perfect chords; this prevented absolutely all expression, although some traces of it appear in the "Stabat Mater" of that composer. This music, ecclesiastical in character, in which it would have been chimerical to try to introduce modern expression, flourished in France, in Flanders, in Spain at the same time as in Italy, and enjoyed the favor of Pope Marcellus, who recognized the merit of Palestrina in breaking loose from the grievous practice of adapting popular songs to church music. In the middle ages, as in antiquity, the laws of harmony were unknown; when it was desired to sing in two parts, they sang at first in intervals of fifths and fourths, where it would have seemed much more natural to sing in thirds and sixths. Such first attempts at music in several parts were made in the thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, when they were hunting for laws, and such music was discordant. It bore the name of Diaphony. The real Polyphony came in the sixteenth century with the school of Palestrina. Later on, little by little, laws were established, not arbitrarily, but laws resulting from a long experience, and during all the sixteenth century admirable music was written, though deprived of melody, properly speaking. Melody was reserved for dance music which, in fact, was perfectly written in four and even in five part scores, as I have been able to convince myself in hunting for dance music of the sixteenth century for my opera "Ascanio." But no indication of movement, nuances or shading, enlightens us as to the manner in which this music should be interpreted. At Paris the first attempts to execute the music of Palestrina were made in the time of Louis Philippe, by the Prince of Moscow. He had founded a choral society of amateurs, all titled, but gifted with good voices and a certain musical talent. This society executed many of the works of Palestrina and particularly the famous "Mass of Pope Marcellus." They adopted at that time the method of singing most of these pieces very softly and with an extreme slowness so that in the long-sustained notes the singers were forced to divide their task by some taking up the sound when the others were out of breath. Consonant chords thus presented evidently produced music which was very agreeable to the ear, but unquestionably the author could not recognize his work in such rendering. Quite different was the method of the singers in the Sistine Chapel when I heard them for the first time in Rome in 1855 when they sung the "Sicut Cervus" of Palestrina. They roared in a head-splitting way without the least regard for the pleasure of the listener, or for the meaning of the words they sang. It is difficult to believe that this music was ever composed to be executed in such a barbarous manner, which, it seems to me, differs completely from our musical conceptions; and it is a great mistake also in modern editions of such music to introduce delicate shadings or nuances and even employ the words "very expressive." Palestrina has had his admirers among French literary writers. We recall the scene created by Octave Feuillet in "M. de Camors." M. de Camors is at his window; a lady is at the piano; a gentleman at the cello, and another lady sings the Mass of Palestrina which I have referred to above. Such a way of playing this music is simply out of the question. Feuillet had obtained his inspiration for this from a fanciful painting which he had seen somewhere. Expression was introduced into music by the chord of the dominant seventh, the invention of which is attributed to Monteverde. However, Palestrina had already employed that chord in his "Adoremus," but probably without understanding its importance or divining its future. Before this invention the interval of three whole tones (Triton) was considered an intolerable dissonance and was called "the devil in music." The dominant seventh has been the open door to all dissonances and to the domain of expression. It was a death blow to that learned music of the sixteenth century; it was the arrival of the reign of melody--of the development of the art of singing. Very often the song or the solo instrument would be accompanied by a simple, ciphered bass, the ciphers indicating the chords which he who accompanied should play as well as he could, either on the harpsichord or the theorbe. The theorbe was an admirable instrument which is now to be found only in museums,--a sort of enormous guitar with a long neck and multiple strings which offered great opportunities to a skilful artist. It is curious to note that in ancient times there was not attributed to the minor and major keys the same character as is assigned them to-day.[2] The joyous canticle of the Catholic church, "O Filii et Filiæ," is in the minor. "The Romanesca," a dance air of the sixteenth century, is equally in the minor, just like all the dance airs of Lully, and of Rameau, and the gavottes of Sebastian Bach. The celebrated "Funeral March" of Haendel, reproduced in many of his works, is in C Major. The delicious love duo of Acis and Galathee, which changes to a trio by the addition of the part of Polyphemus, is in A Minor. When Galathee weeps afterward over the death of Acis, the air is in F Major. It is only recently that we find dance airs in the major mood or key. From the seventeenth century on, music entered into everyday life, never again to be separated from it. Thus music has remained in favor, and we are continually hearing executed the works of Bach, of Haendel, of Hayden, of Mozart and of Beethoven. How are such works executed? Are they executed as they should be? That is another question. One source of error is found in the evolution which musical instruments have undergone. In the time of Bach and Haendel the bow truly merited its Italian name of "arco." It was curved like an arc--the hairs of the bow constituted the chord of the arc, a very great flexibility resulting which allowed the strings of the instrument to be enveloped and to be played simultaneously. The bow seldom quitted the strings, doing so only in rare cases and when especially indicated. On this account it happens that the indication of "legato" is very rare. Even though there was a separate stroke of the bow for each note, the notes were not separated one from the other. Nowadays the form of the bow is completely changed. The execution of the music is based upon the detached bow, and although it is easy to keep the bow upon the strings just as they did at the commencement of the nineteenth century, performers have lost the habit of it. The result is that they give to ancient music a character of perpetually jumping, which completely destroys its nature. The very opposite movement has been produced in instruments of the key or piano type. The precise indications of Mozart show that "non-legato," which doesn't mean at all "staccato," was the ordinary way of playing the instrument, and that the veritable "legato" was played only where the author specially indicated it. The clavecin or harpsichord, which preceded the piano, when complete with two banks of keys, many registers giving the octaves and different tone qualities, oftentimes like the organ with a key for pedals, offered resources which the piano does not possess. A Polish lady, Madame Landowska, has studied thoroughly these resources, and has shown us how pieces written for this instrument thus disclosed elements of variety which are totally missing when the same are played upon the piano; but the clavecin tone lacked fulness, and shadings or nuances were out of the question. Sonority or tone was varied by changing the keys or register just as on the organ. On the other hand, with the piano one can vary the sonority by augmenting or diminishing the force of the attack, hence its original name of "forte piano,"--a name too long, which was shortened at first by suppressing the last syllables; so that one reads, not without astonishment, in the accounts given of young Mozart, of the skill he showed in playing "forte" at a time when he was playing on instruments of a very feeble tone. Nowadays when athletic artists exert all their force upon the modern instruments of terrific sonority, they are said to play the "piano" (_toucher du piano_). We must conclude that the indication "non-legato" finally degenerated into meaning "staccato." In my youth I heard persons advanced in age whose performance on the piano was extremely dry and jumpy. Then a reaction took place. The tyrannical reign of the perpetual "legato" succeeded. It was decided that in piano playing unless indicated to the contrary, and even at times in spite of such indication, everything everywhere should be tied together.[3] This was a great misfortune of which Kalkbrenner gives a manifest proof in the arrangement he has made of Beethoven's symphonies. Besides, this "legato" tyranny continues. Notwithstanding the example of Liszt, the greatest pianist of the nineteenth century, and notwithstanding his numerous pupils, the fatal school of the "legato" has prevailed,--not that it is unfortunate in itself, but because it has perverted the intentions of musical authors. Our French professors have followed the example of Kalkbrenner. The house of Breitkopf, which until lately had the best editions of the German classics, has substituted in their places new editions where professors have eagerly striven to perfect in their own manner the music of the masters. When this great house wished to make a complete edition of the works of Mozart, which are prodigiously numerous, it appealed to all who possessed manuscripts of Mozart, and then having gathered these most precious documents, instead of reproducing them faithfully, that house believed it was doing well to leave to the professors full liberty of treatment and change. Thus that admirable series of concertos for piano has been ornamented by Karl Reinecke with a series of joined notes, tied notes, legato, molto legato, and sempre legato which are the very opposite of what the composer intended. Worse still, in a piece which Mozart had the genial idea of terminating suddenly with a delicately shaded phrase, they have taken out such nuances and terminated the piece with a _forte_ passage of the most commonplace character. One other plague in modern editions is the abuse of the pedal. Mozart never indicated the pedal. As purity of taste is one of his great qualities, it is probable that he made no abuse of the pedal. Beethoven indicated it in a complicated and cumbersome manner. When he wanted the pedal he wrote "senza sordini," which means without dampers, and to take them off he wrote "con sordini," meaning with dampers. The soft pedal is indicated by "una corda." The indication to take it off, an indication which exists even now, was written "tre corde." The indication "ped" for the grand pedal is assuredly more convenient, but that is no reason for making an abuse of it and inflicting it upon the author where his writing indicates the contrary. As it seems to me, it is only from the eighteenth century that authors have indicated the movements of their compositions, but the words which they have employed have changed in sense with time. Formerly the difference between the slowest movement and the most rapid movement was much less than at present. The "largo" was only an "adagio" and the "presto" would be scarcely an "allegro" to-day. The "andante" which now indicates a slow movement, had at that time its original signification, meaning "going." It was an "allegro moderate." Haendel often wrote "andante allegro." Through ignorance of that fact the beautiful air of Gluck, "Divinities of the Styx," is sung too slowly and the air of Thaos in the "Iphigenia in Tauris" equally so. Berlioz recollected having heard at the opera in his youth a much more animated execution of these works. Finally, in ancient times notes were not defined as they are to-day and their value was approximative only. This liberty in the execution of music is particularly perceptible in the works of Rameau. To conform to his intentions in the vocal part such music must not be interpreted literally. One must be governed by the declamation, and not by the written note indicating a long or short duration. The proof of this is to be seen when the violins and the voice are in unison--the way of writing them is different. A great obstacle to executing ancient works from the eighteenth century on is in the interpretation of grace notes, "appoggiaturas" and others. In these cases there is an unfortunate habit in players of conforming to their own taste, which may guide a little, but cannot suffice in every instance. One can be convinced of this in studying The Method of Violin by the father of Mozart. We find there things which one would never dream of. The "appoggiatura"[4] (from _appoggiare_, which in Italian means "to lean upon"), should always be long, the different ways in which it may be written having no influence upon its length. There is an exception to this when its final little note, ascending or descending, and preceding the larger note, is distant from it a disjointed degree. In this case it is not an "appoggiatura," and should be played short. In many cases it prolongs the duration of the note which follows it. It may even alter the value of the notes following. I will cite in connection with the subject of the "appoggiatura" the beautiful duo with chorus of the "Passion According to St. Matthew," and at the same time, I would point out the error committed in making of this passion a most grandios performance with grand choral and instrumental masses. One is deceived by its noble character, by its two choruses, by its two orchestras, and one forgets that it was destined for the little Church of St. Thomas in Leipsig, where Sebastian Bach was organist. While in certain cantatas that composer employed horns, trumpets, trombones and cymbals, for the "Passion According to St. Matthew," he only used in each of the orchestras two flutes, two hautbois, changing from the ordinary hautbois to the hautbois d'amour and the hautbois of the chase,--now the English horn; that is to say, hautbois pitched a third and a fifth lower. These two orchestras and these two choruses then certainly were reduced to a very small number of performers. In all very ancient music, from the time of Lully, one finds constantly a little cross marked over the notes. Often this certainly indicates a trill, but it seems difficult to take it always to mean such. However, perhaps fashion desired that trills should thus be made out of place. I have never been able to find an explanation of this sign, not even in the musical dictionary of J. J. Rousseau. This dictionary none the less contains a great deal of precious information. Does it not inform us, among other things, that the copyists of former times were veritable collaborators? When the author indicated the altos with the basses, the hautbois with the violins, these copyists undertook to make the necessary modifications. Times have unfortunately changed since. In Rameau's music, certain signs are unintelligible. Musical treatises of that time say that it is impossible to describe them, and that to understand them it was necessary to have heard them interpreted by a professor of singing. With clavecinists the multiplicity of grace notes is extreme. As a rule they give the explanation of these at the head of their works, just as Rameau did. I note a curious sign which indicates that the right hand should arrive upon the keys a little after the left. This shows that there was not then that frightful habit of playing one hand after the other as is often done nowadays. This prolixity of grace notes indulged by players upon the clavecin is rather terrifying at first, but one need not be detained by them, for they are not indispensable. The published methods of those times inform us in fact that pupils were first taught to play the pieces without these grace notes, and that they were added by degrees. Besides, Rameau in transcribing for the clavecin fragments of his operas, has indicated those grace notes which the original did not contain. Ornaments are much less numerous in the writings of Sebastian Bach. Numberless confusions have been produced in the interpretation of the mordant,[5] or biting note. It should be executed above or below the principal note depending on whether the notes which precede the mordant are superior or inferior to it. With reference to the difficulties in interpreting the works of Rameau and of Gluck, I would point out the change in the diapason or pitch which at that time was a tone lower than in our days. The organ of St. Merry had a pitch in B flat. In addition to the tempi and the different instruments which make the execution difficult, one must add the recitatives which were very much employed and of which at that time a serious study was made. I recall a beautiful example of recitative in the "Iphigenia in Tauris." We come now to the modern epoch. From the time of Liszt, who not only revolutionized the performance of music on the piano, but also the way of writing it, authors give to performers all necessary indications, and they have only to carefully observe them. There are, however, some interesting remarks applicable to the music of Chopin which recent editions unfortunately are commencing to falsify. Chopin detested the abuse of the pedal. He could not bear that through an ignorant employment of the pedal two different chords should be mixed in tone together. Therefore, he has given indications with the greatest pains. Employing it where he has not indicated it, must be avoided. But great skill is necessary to thus do without the pedal. Therefore, in the new editions of the author, no account of the author's indications whatever is observed. Thus in the "Cradle Song," where the author has indicated that the pedal be put on each measure and taken off in the middle of it, modern editions preserve the pedal throughout the entire measure, thus mixing up hopelessly the tonic with the dominant, which the composer was so careful to avoid. A question of the greatest importance in playing the music of Chopin is that of "tempo rubato." That does not mean, as many think, that the time is to be dislocated. It means permitting great liberty to the singing part or melody of the composition, while the accompaniment keeps rigorous time. Mozart played in this way and he speaks of it in one of his letters and he describes it marvelously, only the term "tempo rubato" had not at that time been invented. This kind of playing, demanding complete independence of the two hands, is not within the ability of everybody. Therefore, to give the illusion of such effect, players dislocate the bass and destroy the rhythm of the bar. When to this disorder is joined the abuse of the pedal, there results that vicious execution which, passing muster, is generally accepted in the salons and often elsewhere. Another plague in the modern execution of music is the abuse of the tremolo by both singers and instrumental performers. With singers, this quivering is often the result of a fatigued voice, in which case it is involuntary and is only to be deplored; but that is not the case with violin and violoncello players. It is a fashion with them born of a desire to make an effect at any cost, and is due to the depraved taste of the public for a passionate execution of music; but art does not live on passion alone. In our time, when art, through an admirable evolution, has conquered all domains, music should express all, from the most perfect calm to the most violent emotions. When one is strongly moved the voice is altered, and in moving situations the singer should make his voice vibrate. Formerly the German female singers sang with all their voice, without any vibration in the sound and without any reference to the situation; one would say they were clarinets. Now, one must vibrate all the time. I heard the Meistersingers' quintette sung in Paris. It was dreadful and the composition incomprehensible. Not all singers, fortunately, have this defect, but it has taken possession of violinists and 'cello players. That was not the way Franchomme, the 'cello player and collaborator of Chopin, played, nor was it the way Sarasate, Sivori or Joachim played. I have written a concerto, the first and last movements of which are very passionate. They are separated by a movement of the greatest calm,--a lake between two mountains. Those great violin players who do me the honor to play this piece, do not understand the contrast and they vibrate on the lake just as they do on the mountains. Sarasate, for whom this concerto was written, was as calm on the lake as he was agitated on the mountains; nor did he fail on this account to produce always a great effect--for there is nothing like giving to music its veritable character. Anciently music was not written as scrupulously as it is to-day, and a certain liberty was permitted to interpretation. This liberty went farther than one would think, resembling much what the great Italian singers furnished examples of in the days of Rubini and Malibran. They did not hesitate to embroider the compositions, and the _reprises_ were widespread. _Reprises_ meant that when the same piece was sung a second time, the executants gave free bridle to their own inspiration. I have heard in my youth the last echoes of this style of performance. Nowadays _reprises_ are suppressed, and that is more prudent. However, it would be betraying the intentions of Mozart to execute literally many passages in concertos written by that author for the piano. At times he would write a veritable scheme only, upon which he would improvise. However, one should not imitate Kalkbrenner, who, in executing at Paris the great concerto in C Major of Mozart, had rewritten all its passages in a different manner from the author. On the other hand, when I played at the Conservatoire in Paris Mozart's magnificent concerto in C Minor, I would have thought I was committing a crime in executing literally the piano part of the Adagio, which would have been absurd if thus presented in the midst of an orchestra of great tonal wealth. There as elsewhere the letter kills; the spirit vivifies. But in a case like that one must know Mozart and assimilate his style, which demands a long study. EXPLANATORY NOTES [1] Plain Song (Fr. _Plain Chant_) was the earliest form of Christian church music. As its name indicates, it was a plain, artless chant without rhythm, accent, modulation or accompaniment, and was first sung in unison. Oriental or Grecian in origin, it had four keys called Authentic Modes, to which were added later four more called Plagal Modes. These modes, called Phrygian, Dorian, Lydian, etc., are merely different presentations in the regular order of the notes of the C Major scale--first, with D as the initial or tonic note, then with E _et seq_. They lack the sentiment of a leading seventh note. In these weird keys Plain Song was conceived for psalms, graduals, introits, and other offices of the primitive church. Such music was generally called Gregorian, because St. Gregory, Pope of Rome in the seventh century, collected and codified it, adding thereto his own contributions. Two centuries previous it was known as Ambrosian music, after St. Ambrose, Bishop of Milan. Originally, a single chorister intoned the Plain Song, to which a full chorus responded. Later this manner was altered to antiphonal singing--two choruses being used, one for the initial and the other for the responsive chant. Such music thus rendered was singularly grave, dignified, and awe-inspiring. During the middle ages Plain Song unfortunately degenerated much from its original sacred character, and, in one disguise or another, popular and even indecorous songs were smuggled into it. In the time of Pope Marcellus, 1576, Palestrina was employed to purge Gregorian music of its scandalous laxities. M. Saint-Saëns, to illustrate the clever way in which popular songs were given an ecclesiastical or Plain Song character, has here added to his luminous lecture the following precious original composition, reproduced in facsimile, in which through ingenious contrapuntal treatment he gives a mock sacred form to an old French ditty, "I Have Some Good Tobacco in My Snuffbox." [Illustration: musical notation] "_It is apparent here that by assigning the melody to the tenor part, it is unrecognizable. Oftentimes licentious songs were taken as the Plain Chant text, and on this account Pope Marcellus commissioned Palestrina to put an end to such practices._" In a note he adds: "It must be remembered that before popular songs were thus treated in counterpoint [which means that while the song is being produced by one voice, the other voice or voices are singing against it notes entirely different from the melody], the text for that kind of treatment was the Plain Song--the singing of which was always assigned to the tenor part. In my youth I have heard graduals treated in this fashion at High Mass in my parish church of St. Sulpice in Paris, which is still renowned for the splendor of its ceremonials." [2] (Illustration: musical notation) There are here illustrations of (a) the difference between the written manner of Gluck, in a passage from his "Alceste"--and the actually correct way of interpreting and playing it; (b) a passage from the scherzo of Mendelssohn's string quartet,--to show how a gay subject can be treated in the minor mood--and M. Saint-Saëns adds: "Mendelssohn's scherzo of his 'Midsummer Night's Dream' is in sol minor but it evokes no idea of sadness, although oftentimes those who play it, deceived by its minor mood, give it a melancholy character, which is very far from what the composer intended." [3] (Illustration: musical notation) Here M. Saint-Saëns has written a passage from a piano concerto of Mozart to illustrate how that composer wished the _non-legato_ to be interpreted--namely, in a flute-like manner,--the piano repeating textually the passages indicated to be played first by the flutes. Again he illustrates the same subject with a passage taken from a piano and violin sonata of Beethoven. The _non-legato_ passages here are not to be played on the violin in a way approaching the _staccato_, although they are written as detached notes; and the piano part follows the rendering of the violin. A final illustration is furnished in the "Turkish March" of Mozart. (Illustration: musical notation) The proper manner of writing the graceful _gruppetto_ is here given--with an illustration following of how it is to be correctly played, and how it is incorrectly executed. [5] Next is illustrated the two ways of playing the _mordant_. [4] Finally, are several examples of the _appoggiature,_--showing both the way they are written, and the way they are to be executed. The last line of the music above is an example of how in Haendel the rhythm as interpreted differs from that in which the passage is written. 
22392	----	[Transcriber's Note: In this e-book, a macron over a character is represented with an equal sign, thus: [=e]. The character ´ is used to denote musical octaves, e.g., a´ denotes A above middle C.] ESSENTIALS IN CONDUCTING BY KARL WILSON GEHRKENS, A.M. PROFESSOR OF SCHOOL MUSIC OBERLIN CONSERVATORY OF MUSIC AUTHOR OF "MUSIC NOTATION AND TERMINOLOGY" $1.75 [Illustration] BOSTON OLIVER DITSON COMPANY NEW YORK CHAS. H. DITSON & CO. CHICAGO LYON & HEALY LONDON WINTHROP ROGERS, Ltd. MADE IN U.S.A. _Copyright MCMXIX_ By OLIVER DITSON COMPANY _International Copyright Secured_ To the Memory of ROBERT C. BEDFORD for many years SECRETARY OF THE BOARD OF TRUSTEES of TUSKEGEE INSTITUTE CONTENTS Page CHAPTER I--Introduction 1 CHAPTER II--Personal Traits Necessary in Conducting 8 CHAPTER III--The Technique of the Baton 20 CHAPTER IV--Interpretation in Conducting--_Introductory_ 36 CHAPTER V--Interpretation in Conducting--_Tempo_ 46 CHAPTER VI--Interpretation in Conducting--_Dynamics_ 57 CHAPTER VII--Interpretation in Conducting--_Timbre, Phrasing, etc._ 64 CHAPTER VIII--The Supervisor of Music as Conductor 76 CHAPTER IX--The Community Chorus Conductor 85 CHAPTER X--The Orchestral Conductor 93 CHAPTER XI--Directing the Church Choir 108 CHAPTER XII--The Boy Choir and its Problems 118 CHAPTER XIII--The Conductor as Voice Trainer 131 CHAPTER XIV--The Art of Program Making 140 CHAPTER XV--Conductor and Accompanist 147 CHAPTER XVI--Efficiency in the Rehearsal 152 APPENDIX A--Reference List 164 APPENDIX B--Score of second movement of Haydn's Symphony, No. 3 166 INDEX 181 PREFACE In putting out this little book, the author is well aware of the fact that many musicians feel that conductors, like poets and teachers, are "born and not made"; but his experience in training supervisors of music has led him to feel that, although only the elementary phases of _conducting_ can be taught, such instruction is nevertheless quite worth while, and is often surprisingly effective in its results. He has also come to believe that even the musical genius may profit by the experience of others and may thus be enabled to do effective work as a conductor more quickly than if he relied wholly upon his native ability. The book is of course planned especially with the amateur in view, and the author, in writing it, has had in mind his own fruitless search for information upon the subject of conducting when he was just beginning his career as a teacher; and he has tried to say to the amateur of today those things that he himself so sorely needed to know at that time, and had to find out by blundering experience. It should perhaps be stated that although the writer has himself had considerable experience in conducting, the material here presented is rather the result of observing and analyzing the work of others than an account of his own methods. In preparation for his task, the author has observed many of the better-known conductors in this country, both in rehearsal and in public performance, during a period of some twelve years, and the book represents an attempt to put into simple language and practical form the ideas gathered from this observation. It is hoped that as a result of reading these pages the amateur may not only have become more fully informed concerning those practical phases of conducting about which he has probably been seeking light, but may be inspired to further reading and additional music study in preparation for the larger aspects of the work. The writer wishes to acknowledge the material assistance rendered him by Professor John Ross Frampton, of the Iowa State Teachers College, and Professor Osbourne McConathy, of Northwestern University, both of whom have read the book in manuscript and have given invaluable suggestions. He wishes also to acknowledge his very large debt to Professor George Dickinson, of Vassar College, who has read the material both in manuscript and in proof, and to whose pointed comments and criticisms many improvements both in material and in arrangement are due. K.W.G. OBERLIN, OHIO _June, 1918_ _Essentials in Conducting_ CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION [Sidenote: DEFINITION] The word "conducting" as used in a musical sense now ordinarily refers to the activities of an orchestra or chorus leader who stands before a group of performers and gives his entire time and effort to directing their playing or singing, to the end that a musically effective ensemble performance may result. This is accomplished by means of certain conventional movements of a slender stick called a _baton_ (usually held in the right hand), as well as through such changes of facial expression, bodily posture, _et cetera_, as will convey to the singers or players the conductor's wishes concerning the rendition of the music. Conducting in this sense involves the responsibility of having the music performed at the correct tempo, with appropriate dynamic effects, with precise attacks and releases, and in a fitting spirit. This in turn implies that many details have been worked out in rehearsal, these including such items as making certain that all performers sing or play the correct tones in the correct rhythm; insisting upon accurate pronunciation and skilful enunciation of the words in vocal music; indicating logical and musical phrasing; correcting mistakes in breathing or bowing; and, in general, stimulating orchestra or chorus to produce a tasteful rendition of the music as well as an absolutely perfect _ensemble_ with all parts in correct proportion and perfect balance. In order to have his directing at the public performance function properly, it thus becomes the conductor's task to plan and to administer the rehearsals in such a way that the performers may become thoroughly familiar with the music, both in technique and in spirit. In other words, the conductor must play the part of musical manager as well as that of artistic inspirer, and if he does not perform his task in such fashion as to be looked up to by the members of his chorus or orchestra as the real leader, and if he himself does not feel confident of being able to do his work better than any one else upon the ground, he cannot possibly be successful in any very high degree. A conductor must first of all be a strong leader, and failing in this, no amount of musical ability or anything else will enable him to conduct well. We shall have more to say upon this point in a later chapter. [Sidenote: SUMMARY OF THE HISTORY OF CONDUCTING] Conducting of one kind or another has undoubtedly been practised for many centuries, but directing by gestures of the hand has not been traced farther back than the fourteenth century, at which time Heinrich von Meissen, a Minnesinger, is represented in an old manuscript directing a group of musicians with stick in hand. In the fifteenth century the leader of the Sistine Choir at Rome directed the singers with a roll of paper (called a "sol-fa"), held in his hand. By the latter part of the seventeenth century it had become customary for the conductor to sit at the harpsichord or organ, filling in the harmonies from a "figured bass," and giving any needed signals with one hand or the head as best he could. Conducting during this period signified merely keeping the performers together; that is, the chief function of the conductor was that of "time beater." With the advent of the conductor in the rôle of interpreter, such directing became obsolete, and from the early nineteenth century, and particularly as the result of the impetus given the art by the conducting of Mendelssohn, Berlioz, Liszt, and Wagner, the conductor has become an exceedingly important functionary, in these modern days even ranking with the _prima donna_ in operatic performances! It is now the conductor's aim not merely to see that a composition is played correctly and with good ensemble; more than that, the leader of today gives his own version or _reading_ of the composition just as the pianist or violinist does. Instead of being a mere "time beater" he has become an interpreter, and (except in the case of the organist-director of a choir) he attempts to do nothing except so to manipulate his musical forces as to secure an effective performance. [Sidenote: THE PSYCHOLOGICAL BASIS OF CONDUCTING] The conductor works largely through the instrumentality of _instinctive imitation_; that is, his methods are founded upon the fact that human beings have an innate tendency to copy the actions of others, often without being conscious that they are doing so. Thus, if one person yawns or coughs, a second person observing him has an instinctive tendency to do likewise. One member of a group is radiant with happiness, and very soon the others catch the infection and are smiling also; a singer at a public performance strains to get a high tone, and instinctively our faces pucker up and our throat muscles become tense, in sympathetic but entirely unconscious imitation. In very much the same way in conducting, the leader sets the tempo,--and is imitated by the musicians under him; he feels a certain emotional thrill in response to the composer's message,--and arouses a similar thrill in the performers; lifts his shoulders as though taking breath,--and causes the singers to phrase properly, often without either the conductor or the singers being aware of how the direction was conveyed. It is at least partly because we instinctively imitate the mental state or the emotional attitude of the pianist or the vocalist that we are capable of being thrilled or calmed by musical performances, and it is largely for this reason that an audience always insists upon _seeing_ the artist as well as hearing him. In the same way the musicians in a chorus or orchestra must see the conductor and catch from him by instinctive imitation his attitude toward the music being performed. This point will be more fully discussed in a later chapter, when we take up interpretation in conducting. [Sidenote: CONDUCTING A COMBINATION OF SCIENCE AND ART] In setting out to become a conductor it will be well for the young musician to recognize at the outset that by far the larger part of the conductor's work rests upon an art basis, and that only a comparatively small portion of it is science; hence he must not expect to find complete information concerning his future work in any treatise upon the subject. It is one thing to state that there are three primary colors, or that orange is the result of mixing red and yellow, but it is a very different matter to give directions for painting an effective landscape, or a true-to-life portrait. One thing involves _science_ only, but the other is concerned primarily with _art_, and it is always dangerous to dogmatize concerning matters artistic. To carry the illustration one step farther, we may say that it is comparatively easy to teach a pupil to strike certain piano keys in such a way as to produce the correct melody, harmony, and rhythm of a certain composition; but who would venture, even in these days of frenzied advertising, to promise that in so many lessons he could teach a pupil to play it as a Hofmann or a Paderewski would? Here again we see clearly the contrast between science and art, matters of science being always susceptible of organization into a body of principles and laws _which will work in every case_, while art is intangible, subtle, and ever-varying. The application of our illustration to conducting should now be clear. We may teach a beginner how to wield a baton according to conventional practice, how to secure firm attacks and prompt releases, and possibly a few other definitely established facts about conducting; but unless our would-be leader has musical feeling within him and musicianship back of him, it will be utterly futile for him to peruse these pages further, or to make any other kind of an attempt to learn to conduct; for, as stated above, only a very small part of conducting can be codified into rules, directions, and formulæ, by far the larger part of our task being based upon each individual's own innate musical feeling, and upon the general musical training that he has undergone. All this may be discouraging, but on the other hand, granting a fair degree of native musical ability, coupled with a large amount of solid music study, any one possessing a sense of leadership can, after a reasonable amount of intelligent practice, learn to handle a chorus or even an orchestra in a fairly satisfactory manner. It is our purpose in general to treat the scientific rather than the artistic side of conducting, and we are taking for granted, therefore, that the reader is endowed with musical feeling at least in a fair degree, and has acquired the rudiments of musical scholarship as the result of an extensive study of piano, organ, singing, ear-training, music history, harmony, _et cetera_, and especially by attentive listening to a very large amount of good music with score in hand. As a result of combining such musical ability with a careful reading of these pages and with a large amount of practice in actually wielding the baton, it is hoped that the beginner will arrive at his goal somewhat earlier than he would if he depended entirely upon what the psychologist calls the "trial-and-error" method of learning. [Sidenote: IMPORTANCE OF MUSICAL SCHOLARSHIP] The musical amateur who is ambitious to conduct should therefore study music in all its phases, and if in doubt as to his talent, he should submit to a vocational test in order to determine whether his native musical endowment is sufficient to make it worth his while to study the art seriously. If the result of the test is encouraging, showing a good ear, a strong rhythmic reaction, and a considerable amount of what might be termed native musical taste, let him practise his piano energetically and intelligently, and especially let him learn to read three and four voices on separate staffs (as in a vocal score) in order to prepare himself for future reading of full scores. Let him study harmony, counterpoint, form, and, if possible, composition and orchestration. Let him work indefatigably at ear-training, and particularly at harmonic ear training, so that notes and tones may become closely associated in his mind, the printed page then giving him auditory rather than merely visual imagery; in other words, let him school himself to make the printed page convey to his mind the actual sounds of the music. Let him study the history of music, not only as a record of the work of individual composers, but as an account of what has transpired in the various periods or epochs of musical art, so that he may become intelligent concerning the ideals, the styles, and the forms of these various periods. And finally, let him hear all the good music he possibly can, listening to it from the threefold standpoint of sense, emotion, and intellect, and noting particularly those matters connected with expression and interpretation in these renditions. In as many cases as possible let him study the scores of the compositions beforehand, comparing then his own ideas of interpretation with those of the performer or conductor, and formulating reasons for any differences of opinion that may become manifest. Let the young musician also form the habit of reading widely, not only along all musical lines (history, biography, theory, esthetics, _et cetera_), but upon a wide variety of topics, such as painting and the other arts, history, literature, sociology, pedagogy, _et cetera_. As the result of such study and such reading, a type of musical scholarship will be attained which will give the conductor an authority in his interpretations and criticisms that cannot possibly be achieved in any other way. Let us hasten to admit at once that the acquiring of this sort of scholarship will take a long time, and that it cannot all be done before beginning to conduct. But in the course of several years of broad and intelligent study a beginning at least can be made, and later on, as the result of continuous growth while at work, a fine, solid, comprehensive scholarship may finally eventuate. CHAPTER II PERSONAL TRAITS NECESSARY IN CONDUCTING [Sidenote: IMPORTANCE OF PERSONALITY] In the introductory chapter it was noted that the conductor must build upon a foundation of musical scholarship if he is to be really successful; that he must possess musical feeling; and that he must go through extensive musical training, if he is to conduct with taste and authority. But in addition to these purely _musical_ requirements, experience and observation have demonstrated that the would-be conductor must be possessed of certain definitely established personal characteristics, and that many a musician who has been amply able to pass muster from a musical standpoint, has failed as a conductor because he lacked these other traits. It is not my purpose to give at this point an exhaustive list of qualities that must form the personal equipment of the conductor. In general it will be sufficient to state that he must possess in a fair degree those personal traits that are advantageous in any profession. But of these desirable qualities three or four seem to be so indispensable that it has been thought best to devote a brief chapter to a discussion of them. These qualities are: 1. A sense of humor. 2. A creative imagination. 3. A sense of leadership combined with organizing ability. [Sidenote: A SENSE OF HUMOR] The first of these traits, a sense of humor, may perhaps upon first thought seem a peculiar quality to include in a category of virtues for the professional man of any type, and especially for the musician. But upon reflection it will be admitted that the ability to see things in a humorous light (which very frequently means merely seeing them in true perspective) has helped many a man to avoid wasting nervous energy upon insignificant occurrences, while the lack of this ability has caused more trouble among all sorts of people (and particularly, it seems to me, among musicians) than any other single thing. [Sidenote: ILLUSTRATIONS OF HUMOR IN THE REHEARSAL] Some player or singer is either over-arduous or a bit sleepy during the first stages of rehearsing a new composition, and makes a wrong entrance, perhaps during a pause just before the climacteric point. The occurrence is really funny and the other performers are inclined to smile or snicker, but our serious conductor quells the outbreak with a scowl. The humorous leader, on the other hand, sees the occurrence as the performers do, joins in the laugh that is raised at the expense of the offender, and the rehearsal goes on with renewed spirit. An instrumental performer makes a bad tone, and the conductor laughs at him, saying it sounds like a wolf howling or an ass braying. If the remark is accompanied by a smile, the performer straightens up and tries to overcome the fault; but if the comment is made with a snarl there is a tightening up of muscles, an increased tension of the nerves, and the performer is more than likely to do worse the next time. There is a difference of opinion between the conductor and some performer about fingering or bowing, phrasing or interpretation, and a quarrel seems imminent; but the conductor refuses to take the matter too seriously, and, having ample authority for his own viewpoint, proceeds as he has begun, later on talking it over with the performer, and perhaps giving him a reason for his opinion. Humor is thus seen to have the same effect upon a body of musicians as oil applied to machinery, and musical machinery seems to need more of this kind of lubrication than almost any other variety. But the conductor must distinguish carefully between sarcastic wit, which laughs _at_, and humor, which laughs _with_. In a book bearing the copyright date of 1849, the writer distinguishes between the two, in the following words:[1] Humor originally meant moisture, a signification it metaphorically retains, for it is the very juice of the mind, enriching and fertilizing where it falls. Wit laughs at; humor laughs with. Wit lashes external appearances, or cunningly exchanges single foibles into character; humor glides into the heart of its object, looks lovingly upon the infirmities it attacks, and represents the whole man. Wit is abrupt, scornful ...; humor is slow and shy, insinuating its fun into your heart. [Footnote 1: Whipple, _Literature and Life_, p. 91.] [Sidenote: THE VALUE OF A CHEERFUL ATTITUDE] The conductor with a sense of humor will ordinarily have the advantage also of being cheerful in his attitude toward the performers, and this is an asset of no mean significance. It is a well-known psychophysical fact that the human body does much better work when the mind is free from care, and that in any profession or vocation, other things being equal, the worker who is cheerful and optimistic will perform his labor much more efficiently at the expense of considerably less mental and bodily energy than he who is ill-humored, worried, fretful, and unable to take a joke. But the _foreman_ who possesses this quality of cheerfulness and humor is doubly fortunate, for he not only secures the beneficial results in his own case, but by his attitude frequently arouses the same desirable state of mind and body in those who are working under him. It is particularly because of this latter fact that the conductor needs to cultivate a cheerful, even a humorous outlook, especially in the rehearsal. As the result of forming this habit, he will be enabled to give directions in such a way that they will be obeyed cheerfully (and consequently more effectively); he will find it possible to rehearse longer with less fatigue both to himself and to his musical forces; and he will be able to digest his food and to sleep soundly after the rehearsal because he is not worrying over trivial annoyances that, after all, should have been dismissed with a laugh as soon as they appeared. There must not of course be so much levity that the effectiveness of the rehearsal will be endangered, but there is not much likelihood that this will happen; whereas there seems to be considerable danger that our rehearsals will become too cold and formal. A writer on the psychology of laughter states that "laughter is man's best friend";[2] and in another place (p. 342) says that the smile always brings to the mind "relaxation from strain." [Footnote 2: Sully, _An Essay on Laughter_.] [Sidenote: THE VALUE OF IMAGINATION IN CONDUCTING] Creative imagination is an inborn quality--"a gift of the gods"--and if the individual does not possess it, very little can be done for him in the artistic realm. Constructive or creative imagination implies the ability to combine known elements in new ways--_to use the mind forwards_, as it were. The possession of this trait makes it possible to picture to oneself how things are going to look or sound or feel before any actual sense experience has taken place; to see into people's minds and often find out in advance how they are going to react to a projected situation; to combine chemical elements in new ways and thus create new substances; to plan details of organization in a manufacturing establishment or in an educational institution, and to be able to forecast how these things are going to work out. It is this quality of creative imagination that enables the inventor to project his mind into the future and see a continent spanned by railways and telephones, and the barrier of an ocean broken down by means of wireless and aeroplane; and in every case the inventor works with old and well-known materials, being merely enabled by the power of his creative faculties (as they are erroneously called) to combine these known materials in new ways. In the case of the musician, such creative imagination has always been recognized as a _sine qua non_ of original composition, but its necessity has not always been so clearly felt in the case of the performer. Upon analyzing the situation it becomes evident, however, that the performer cannot possibly get from the composer his real message unless he can follow him in his imagination, and thus re-create the work. As for adding anything original to what the composer has given, this is plainly out of the question unless the interpreter is endowed somewhat extensively with creative imagination; and the possession of this quality will enable him to introduce such subtle variations from a cut-and-dried, merely _accurate_ rendition as will make his performance seem really spontaneous, and will inevitably arouse a more enthusiastic emotional response in the listeners. Weingartner sums up the value of imagination in the final paragraph of one of the few really valuable books on conducting at our disposal.[3] More and more I have come to think that what decides the worth of conducting is the degree of suggestive power that the conductor can exercise over the performers. At the rehearsals he is mostly nothing more than a workman, who schools the men under him so conscientiously and precisely that each of them knows his place and what he has to do there; he first becomes an artist when the moment comes for the production of the work. Not even the most assiduous rehearsing, so necessary a prerequisite as this is, can so stimulate the capacities of the players as the force of imagination of the conductor. It is not the transference of his personal will, but the mysterious act of creation that called the work itself into being takes place again in him, and transcending the narrow limits of reproduction, he becomes a new-creator, a self-creator. [Footnote 3: Weingartner, _On Conducting_, translated by Ernest Newman, p. 56.] This quality is indispensable to all musicians, be they creators or performers, but is especially desirable in the conductor, for he needs it not only from the standpoint of interpretation, as already noted, but from that of manager or organizer. Upon this latter point we shall have more to say later, but it may be well to state just here that if the conductor could imagine what was going on in the minds of his players or singers, and could see things from their viewpoint; if he could forecast the effect of his explanatory directions or of his disciplinary rulings, nine-tenths of all the quarreling, bickering, and general dissatisfaction that so frequently mar the work of any musical organization could easily be eliminated. We might also add that if the conductor could only foresee the effect upon his audiences of certain works, or of certain interpretations, his plans would probably often be materially altered. [Sidenote: ORGANIZING ABILITY AND A SENSE OF LEADERSHIP] But the conductor must be more than a humorous-minded and imaginative musician. He must also (especially in these modern times) be an organizer, a business man, a leader. The qualities of leadership and organizing ability are so closely connected that we shall for the most part treat them together in our discussion, and they are so important that a fairly extensive analysis will be attempted. In an article on Schumann in _Grove's Dictionary_ Dr. Philip Spitta, the well-known historian and critic, comments upon the conducting of this famous composer as follows:[4] Schumann was sadly wanting in the real talent for conducting. All who ever saw him conduct or played under his direction are agreed on this point. Irrespective of the fact that conducting for any length of time tired him out, he had neither the collectedness and prompt presence of mind, nor the sympathetic faculty, nor the enterprising dash, without each of which conducting in the true sense is impossible. He even found difficulty in starting at a given tempo; nay, he even sometimes shrank from giving any initial beat, so that some energetic pioneer would begin without waiting for the signal, and without incurring Schumann's wrath! Besides this, any thorough practice, bit by bit, with his orchestra, with instructive remarks by the way as to the mode of execution, was impossible to this great artist, who in this respect was a striking contrast to Mendelssohn. He would have a piece played through, and if it did not answer to his wishes, have it repeated. If it went no better the second or perhaps third time, he would be extremely angry at what he considered the clumsiness, or even the ill-will of the players; but detailed remarks he never made. [Footnote 4: _Grove's Dictionary of Music and Musicians_, New Edition, Vol. IV, p. 363.] This estimate of Schumann's work as a conductor demonstrates unmistakably that he failed in this particular field, not because his musical scholarship was not adequate, but because he did not have that peculiar ability which enables one man to dominate others: _viz._, _a sense of leadership_, or _personal magnetism_, as it is often called. Seidl asserts[5] that Berlioz, Massenet, and Saint-Saëns likewise failed as conductors, in spite of recognized musicianship; and it is of course well known that even Beethoven and Brahms could not conduct their own works as well as some of their contemporaries whose names are now almost forgotten. [Footnote 5: Seidl, _The Music of the Modern World_, Vol. I, p. 106.] The feeling that one has the power to cause others to do one's will seems in most cases to be inborn, at least certain children display it at a very early age; and it is usually the boys and girls who decide on the playground what games shall be played next, or what mischief shall now be entered upon, who later on become leaders in their several fields of activity. And yet this sense of leadership, or something closely approximating it, may also be acquired, at least to a certain extent, by almost any one who makes a consistent and intelligent attempt in this direction. It is this latter fact which may encourage those of us who are not naturally as gifted along these lines as we should like to be, and it is because of this possibility of acquiring what in conducting amounts to an indispensable qualification that an attempt is here made to analyze the thing called leadership into its elements. [Sidenote: THE FIRST ELEMENT IN LEADERSHIP] The primary basis upon which a sense of leadership rests is undoubtedly confidence in one's general ability and in one's knowledge of the particular subject being handled. The leader must not only know but must know that he knows. This makes quick judgments possible, and the leader and organizer must always be capable of making such judgments, and of doing it with finality. The baseball player must decide instantly whether to throw the ball to "first," "second," "third," or "home," and he must repeatedly make such decisions correctly before he can become a strong and respected baseball captain. The same thing holds true of the foreman in a factory, and both baseball captain and factory foreman must not only know every detail of the work done under them, but must _know that they know it_, and must feel confident of being able to cause those working under them to carry it on as they conceive it. So the conductor must not only know music, but must have confidence in his ear, in his rhythmic precision, in his taste, in his judgment of tempo, in short, in his musical scholarship; and he must not only feel that he knows exactly what should be done in any given situation, but be confident that he can make his chorus or orchestra do it as he wishes. Think for instance of securing a firm attack on the first tone of such a song as the _Marseillaise_. It is an extremely difficult thing to do, and it would be utterly impossible to direct any one else exactly how to accomplish it; and yet, if the conductor knows exactly how it must sound, if he has an auditory image of it before the actual tones begin, and if he feels that when he begins to beat time the chorus will sing as he has heard them in imagination, then the expected result is almost certain to follow. But if he is uncertain or hesitant upon any of these points, he will as surely fail to get a good attack. Such confidence in one's own ability as we have been describing usually results in the acquiring of what is called an easy manner,--self-possession,--in short, _poise_, and it is the possession of such a bearing that gives us confidence in the scholarship and ability of the leaders in any type of activity. But the influence of this type of manner cannot be permanent unless it rests upon a foundation of really solid knowledge or ability. [Sidenote: THE SECOND ELEMENT IN LEADERSHIP] The second element included in leadership and organizing ability is the power to make oneself understood, that is, clearness of speech and of expression. This involves probably first of all, so far as conducting is concerned, a voice that can be easily heard, even in a fairly large room, and that carries with it the tone of authority. But it includes also a good command of language so that one's ideas may be expressed clearly, and one's commands given definitely. An important point to be noted in this connection is that the conductor must be able to exercise rigid self-control, so as not to become incoherent under stress of anger, emergencies, or other excitement. [Sidenote: THE THIRD ELEMENT IN LEADERSHIP] The final element involved in leadership is a tremendous love of and respect for the thing that is being done. Napoleon became a great general because of his confidence in his own ability, and because of his very great enthusiasm for his work. Lincoln became one of the greatest statesmen of all times largely because of his earnestness, his extraordinary love and respect for the common people, and his unfaltering confidence in the justice of the cause for which the North was contending. Pestalozzi could never have become one of the world's most influential teachers if he had not felt that the thing he was trying to do was a big thing, a vital thing in the life of his country, and if he had not had a real love in his heart for his work among the ragged and untrained urchins whom he gathered about him. And for the same reason it is clear that no one can become a strong and forceful conductor who does not have an overwhelming love of music in his heart. We may go farther and say that no conductor can give a really spirited reading of a musical composition if he does not feel genuinely enthusiastic over the work being performed, and that one reason for the sluggish response that musicians often make to the conductor's baton is the mediocrity of the music which they are being asked to perform. The conductor is not in sympathy with it (sometimes without realizing this himself), and there is consequently no virility in the playing or singing. The remedy for this state of affairs consists, first, in allowing only those who have some taste in the selection of music to conduct; and second, in inspiring all conductors to take much more time and much greater pains in deciding upon the works to be rehearsed. In directing a choir one may examine a dozen cantatas, or twenty-five anthems, before one is found that is really distinctive. If one stops at the second or third, and thinks that although not very good yet it is possibly good enough, very probably the choir will be found to be sluggish and unresponsive, filled with what Coward calls "inertia."[6] But if one goes on looking over more and more selections until something really distinctive is discovered, it is more than probable that the chorus will respond with energy and enthusiasm. [Footnote 6: Coward, _Choral Technique and Interpretation_, p. 73.] We have heard many arguments in favor of teaching children only the best music, and here is yet another, perhaps more potent than all the rest. They must be taught only good music because you as a musician will find it impossible to become enthusiastic over mediocre or poor works; and if you do not yourself glow over the music that you are directing, you will hardly succeed in arousing the children's interest, for enthusiasm spreads by contagion, and there can be no spreading by contact unless we have a point from which to start. A sense of leadership consists, then, of a combination of self-confidence and poise, clearness of speech and expression, and enthusiasm for one's work; and if with these three there is mingled the ability to think clearly and definitely, we have a combination that is bound to produce distinctive results, no matter what the field of activity may be. Let us repeat that the encouraging thing about the whole matter is the fact that most of the things involved in leadership can be _acquired_, at least to a certain degree, if persistent efforts are made for a long enough time. Before going on with the topic to be treated in the next chapter, let us summarize the materials out of which our conductor is to be fashioned. They are: 1. Innate musical ability. 2. A long period of broad and intelligent music study. 3. An attractive and engaging personality. 4. A sense of humor. 5. A creative imagination. 6. Conscious leadership and organizing ability. Some of these qualities are admittedly almost diametrically opposed to one another, and it is probably because so few individuals combine such apparently opposite traits that such a small number of musicians succeed as conductors, and so few organizers and business men succeed as musicians. But in spite of this difficulty, we must insist again that any really tangible and permanent success in conducting involves a combination of these attributes, and that the conductor of the future, even more than of the past, must possess not only those qualities of the artist needed by the solo performer, but must in addition be a good business manager, an organizer, a tactician, a diplomat, a task-master--in plain English, a good _boss_. It is primarily because of the lack of these last-mentioned qualities that most musicians fail as conductors. A writer in the _Canadian Journal of Music_, signing himself Varasdin, sums it up well in the following words: He who wishes to "carry away" his body of players as well as his audience, the former to a unanimously acted improvisation, the latter to a unanimously felt emotion, needs above all "commanding personal magnetism," and everything else must be subordinate to that. He must be "very much alive"--(highly accumulated vital energy, always ready to discharge, is the secret of all personal magnetism)--and the alertness, the presence of mind, the acute and immediate perception of everything going on during rehearsal or performance, the dominancy and impressiveness of his minutest gesture, the absolute self-possession and repose even in working up the most exciting climaxes and in effecting the most sudden contrasts--all these are simply self-evident corollaries from our first and foremost requirement. CHAPTER III THE TECHNIQUE OF THE BATON [Sidenote: THE BATON ITSELF] Before giving actual directions for the manipulation of the conductor's baton, it may be well to state that the stick itself should be light in weight, light in color, and from sixteen to twenty inches long. It must be thin and flexible, and should taper gradually from the end held in the hand to the point. Batons of this kind can be manufactured easily at any ordinary planing mill where there is a lathe. The kinds sold at stores are usually altogether too thick and too heavy. If at any time some adulating chorus or choir should present the conductor with an ebony baton with silver mountings, he must not feel that courtesy demands that it should be used in conducting. The proper thing to do with such an instrument is to tie a ribbon around one end and hang it on the wall as a decoration. [Sidenote: THE CONDUCTOR'S MUSIC STAND] A word about the music desk may also be in order at this time. It should be made of wood or heavy metal so that in conducting one need not constantly feel that it is likely to be knocked over. The ordinary folding music stand made of light metal is altogether unsuitable for a conductor's use. A good substantial stand with a metal base and standard and wood top can be purchased for from three to five dollars from any dealer in musical instruments. If no money is available and the stand is constructed at home, it may be well to note that the base should be heavy, the upright about three and a half feet high, and the top or desk about fourteen by twenty inches. This top should tilt only slightly, so that the conductor may glance from it to his performers without too much change of focus. Our reason for mentioning apparently trivial matters of this kind is to guard against any possible distraction of the conductor's mind by unimportant things. If these details are well provided for in advance, he will be able while conducting to give his entire attention to the real work in hand. [Sidenote: HOLDING AND WIELDING THE BATON] The baton is ordinarily held between the thumb and first, second and third fingers, but the conductor's grasp upon it varies with the emotional quality of the music. Thus in a dainty _pianissimo_ passage, it is often held very lightly between the thumb and the first two fingers, while in a _fortissimo_ one it is grasped tightly in the closed fist, the tension of the muscles being symbolic of the excitement expressed in the music at that point. All muscles must be relaxed unless a contraction occurs because of the conductor's response to emotional tension in the music. The wrist should be loose and flexible, and the entire beat so full of grace that the attention of the audience is never for an instant distracted from listening to the music by the conspicuous awkwardness of the conductor's hand movements. This grace in baton-manipulation need not interfere in any way with the definiteness or precision of the beat. In fact an easy, graceful beat usually results in a firmer rhythmic response than a jerky, awkward one. For the first beat of the measure the entire arm (upper as well as lower) moves vigorously downward, but for the remaining beats the movement is mostly confined to the elbow and wrist. In the case of a divided beat (see pages 23 and 24) the movement comes almost entirely from the wrist. [Sidenote: POSITION OF THE BATON] The hand manipulating the baton must always be held sufficiently high so as to be easily seen by all performers, the elbow being kept well away from the body, almost level with the shoulder. The elevation of the baton, of course, depends upon the size of the group being conducted, upon the manner in which the performers are arranged, and upon whether they are sitting or standing. The conductor will accordingly vary its position according to the exigencies of the occasion, always remembering that a beat that cannot be easily seen will not be readily followed. [Sidenote: PRINCIPLES AND METHODS OF TIME BEATING] If one observes the work of a number of conductors, it soon becomes evident that, although at first they appear to have absolutely different methods, there are nevertheless certain fundamental underlying principles in accordance with which each beats time, and it is these general principles that we are to deal with in the remainder of this chapter. It should be noted that _principles_ rather than _methods_ are to be discussed, since principles are universal, while methods are individual and usually only local in their application. [Sidenote: DIAGRAMS OF BATON MOVEMENTS] The general direction of the baton movements now in universal use is shown in the following figures. [Illustration] In actual practice however, the baton moves from point to point in a very much more complex fashion, and in order to aid the learner still further in his analysis of time beating an elaborated version of the foregoing figures is supplied. It is of course understood that such diagrams are of value only in giving a general idea of these more complex movements and that they are not to be followed minutely. [Illustration: TWO-BEAT MEASURE] [Illustration: THREE-BEAT MEASURE] [Illustration: FOUR-BEAT MEASURE] [Illustration: SIX-BEAT MEASURE] [Illustration: VERY SLOW TWO-BEAT MEASURE] [Illustration: VERY SLOW THREE-BEAT MEASURE] [Illustration: SLOW FOUR-BEAT MEASURE] [Illustration: SLOW NINE-BEAT MEASURE] [Illustration: SLOW TWELVE-BEAT MEASURE] An examination of these figures will show that all baton movements are based upon four general principles: 1. The strongest pulse of a measure (the first one) is always marked by a down-beat. This principle is merely a specific application of the general fact that a downward stroke is stronger than an upward one (_cf._ driving a nail). 2. The last pulse of a measure is always marked by an up-beat, since it is generally the weakest part of the measure. 3. In three- and four-beat measures, the beats are so planned that there is never any danger of the hands colliding in conducting vigorous movements that call for the use of the free hand as well as the one holding the baton. 4. In compound measures the secondary accent is marked by a beat almost as strong as that given the primary accent. [Sidenote: NUMBER OF BEATS DETERMINED BY TEMPO] The fact that a composition is in 4-4 measure does not necessarily mean that every measure is to be directed by being given four actual beats, and one of the things that the conductor must learn is when to give more beats and when fewer. If the tempo is very rapid, the 4-4 measure will probably be given only two beats, but in an _adagio_ movement, as, _e.g._, the first part of the _Messiah_ overture, it may be necessary to beat eight for each measure in order to insure rhythmic continuity. There are many examples of triple measure in which the movement is so rapid as to make it impracticable to beat three in a measure, and the conductor is therefore content merely to give a down-beat at the beginning of each measure; waltzes are commonly conducted by giving a down-beat for the first measure, an up-beat for the second, _et cetera_; a six-part measure in rapid tempo receives but two beats; while 9-8 and 12-8 are ordinarily given but three and four beats respectively. It is not only annoying but absolutely fatiguing to see a conductor go through all manner of contortions in trying to give a separate beat to each pulse of the measure in rapid tempos; and the effect upon the performers is even worse than upon the audience, for a stronger rhythmic reaction will always be stimulated if the rhythm is felt in larger units rather than in smaller ones. But on the other hand, the tempo is sometimes so very slow that no sense of continuity can be aroused by giving only one beat for each pulse; hence, as already noted, it is often best to give _double_ the number of beats indicated by the measure sign. In general, these two ideas may be summarized in the following rule: _As the tempo becomes more rapid, decrease the number of beats; but as it becomes slower, increase the number, at the same time elaborating the beat so as to express more tangibly the idea of a steady forward movement._ By carefully studying the second series of figures given on pages 23 and 24 and by making certain that the principle of "continuous movement" explained on page 28 is observed, the student will be able to learn the more highly elaborated beats employed in slower tempos without very much difficulty. These diagrams, like the first set, are, of course, intended to be suggestive only. [Sidenote: SHALL WE BEAT THE RHYTHM OR THE PULSE?] In this same connection, the amateur may perhaps raise the question as to whether it is wise to beat the rhythm or the pulse in such a measure as [music notation]. In other words, is it well to give a down-beat on 1, two small beats toward the left for 2, while 3 and 4 are treated in the ordinary way? This question may be answered by referring to the rule given on page 25, but perhaps it will be safer to make the application more specific by advising the young conductor to adhere fairly closely to beating the pulse unless a much slower tempo makes extra beats necessary. The additional movements may be of some service in certain cases, but in general they tend to confuse rather than to clarify, this being especially true in the case of syncopated rhythms. The only exceptions to this principle are: 1. When a phrase begins with a tone that is on a fractional part of the beat; _e.g._, if the preceding phrase ends with an eighth, thus: [music notation]; for in this case the phrasing cannot be indicated clearly without dividing the beat. 2. When there is a _ritardando_ and it becomes necessary to give a larger number of beats in order to show just how much slower the tempo is to be. The second point is of course covered by the general rule already referred to. The conductor must train himself to change instantly from two beats in the measure to four or six; from one to three, _et cetera_, so that he may be able at any time to suit the number of beats to the character of the music at that particular point. This is particularly necessary in places where a _ritardando_ makes it desirable from the standpoint of the performers to have a larger number of beats. [Sidenote: THE DOTTED-QUARTER AS A BEAT NOTE] Although covered in general by the preceding discussion, it may perhaps be well to state specifically that the compound measures 6-8, 9-8, and 12-8 are ordinarily taken as duple, triple, and quadruple measures, respectively. In other words, the dotted-quarter-note ([dotted quarter-note symbol]) is thought of as the beat note, some modern editors going so far as to write [2 over dotted quarter symbol] in place of 6-8 as the measure sign; [3 over dotted quarter symbol] in place of 9-8; and [4 over dotted quarter symbol] in place of 12-8. In conducting these various types of measure, the general principle given on page 25 again applies, and if the tempo is very slow, the conductor beats 6, 9, or 12, to the measure, but if it is rapid, the flow of the rhythm is much better indicated by 2, 3, and 4 beats respectively. [Sidenote: FIVE- AND SEVEN-BEAT MEASURES] Although only occasionally encountered by the amateur, five- and seven-beat measures are now made use of frequently enough by composers to make some explanation of their treatment appropriate. A five-beat measure (quintuple) is a compound measure comprising a two-beat and a three-beat one. Sometimes the two-beat group is first, and sometimes the three-beat one. If the former, then the conductor's beat will be down-up, down-right-up. But if it is the other way about, then the beat will naturally be down-right-up, down-up. "But how am I to know which comes first?" asks the tyro. And our answer is, "Study the music, and if you cannot find out in this way, you ought not to be conducting the composition." Just as quintuple measure is a compound measure comprising two pulse-groups, one of three and the other of two beats, so seven-beat measure (septuple) consists of a four-beat group plus a three-beat one. If the four-beat measure is first, the conductor's beat will be down-left-right-up, down-right-up; _i.e._, the regular movements for quadruple measure followed by those for triple; but if the combination is three plus four, it will be the other way about. Sometimes the composer helps the conductor by placing a dotted bar between the two parts of the septuple measure, thus: [music notation] [Sidenote: AN IMPORTANT PRINCIPLE OF TIME BEATING] The most fundamental principle of time beating, and the one concerning which the young conductor is apt to be most ignorant, is the following: _The baton must not usually come to a standstill at the points marking the beats, neither must it move in a straight line from one point to another, except in the case of the down beat; for it is the free and varying movement of the baton between any two beats that gives the singers or players their cue as to where the second of the two is to come._ We may go further and say that the preliminary movement made before the baton arrives at what might be termed the "bottom" of the beat is actually more important than the "bottom" of the beat itself. When the baton is brought down for the first beat of the measure, the muscles contract until the imaginary point which the baton is to strike has been reached, relaxing while the hand moves on to the next point (_i.e._, the second beat) gradually contracting again as this point is reached, and relaxing immediately afterward as the hand moves on to the third beat. In the diagrams of baton movements given on preceding pages, the accumulating force of muscular contraction is shown by the gradually increasing thickness of the line, proceeding from the initial part of the stroke to its culmination; while the light curved line immediately following this culmination indicates the so-called "back-stroke," the muscular relaxation. It is easy to see that this muscular contraction is what gives the beat its definiteness, its "bottom," while the relaxation is what gives the effect of continuity or flow. It will be noticed that when the baton is brought down on an accented beat, the beginning of the back-stroke is felt by the conductor as a sort of "rebound" of the baton from the bottom of the beat, and this sensation of rebounding helps greatly in giving "point" to these accented beats. In order to understand fully the principle that we have just been discussing, it must be recalled that rhythm is not a succession of jerks, but is basically a steady flow, a regular succession of similar impulses, the word _rhythm_ itself coming from a Greek stem meaning "flow." Like all other good things, this theory of continuous movement may be carried to excess, and one occasionally sees conducting that has so much "back-stroke" that there is no definiteness of beat whatsoever; in other words there is no "bottom" to the beat, and consequently no precision in the conducting. But on the other hand, there is to be observed also a great deal of conducting in which the beats seem to be thought of as imaginary points, the conductor apparently feeling that it is his business to get from one to another of these points in as straight a line as possible, and with no relaxation of muscle whatever. Such conductors often imagine that they are being very definite and very precise indeed in their directing, and have sometimes been heard to remark that the singers or players whom they were leading seemed exceedingly stupid about following the beat, especially in the attacks. The real reason for sluggish rhythmic response and poor attacks is, however, more often to be laid at the door of a poorly executed beat by the conductor than to the stupidity of the chorus or orchestra.[7] [Footnote 7: It is but a step from the conclusions arrived at above to a corollary relating to conducting from the organ bench. How does it happen that most choirs directed by an organist-conductor do not attack promptly, do not follow tempo changes readily, and do not in general present examples of good ensemble performance? Is it not because the organist is using his hands and feet for other purposes, and cannot therefore indicate to his singers the "continuous flow of rhythm" above referred to? When a conductor directing with a baton wishes to indicate a _ritardando_, he does so not merely by making the beats follow one another at longer intervals, but even more by making a more elaborate and more extensive movement between the beat culminations; and the musicians have no difficulty in following the baton, because it is kept continuously in motion, the points where the muscular contractions come being easily felt by the performers, because they can thus follow the rhythm in their own muscles by instinctive imitation. But when the organist-conductor wishes a _ritardando_, he merely plays more slowly, and the singers must get their idea of the slower tempo entirely through the ear. Since rhythm is a matter of muscle rather than of ear, it will be readily understood that conducting and organ-playing will never go hand in hand to any very great extent. There is, of course, another reason for the failure of many organists who try to play and conduct simultaneously, _viz._, that they are not able to do two things successfully at the same time, so that the chorus is often left to work out its own salvation as best it may; while, if the conducting is done by using the left hand, the organ end of the combination is not usually managed with any degree of distinction. Because of this and certain other well-known reasons, the writer believes that choral music in general, and church music in particular, would be greatly benefited by a widespread return to the mixed chorus, led by a conductor with baton in hand, and accompanied by an organist.] [Sidenote: HOW TO SECURE A FIRM ATTACK] Coordinate with the discussion of continuous movement and back-stroke, the following principle should be noted: _A preliminary movement sufficiently ample to be easily followed by the eye must be made before actually giving the beat upon which the singers or players are to begin the tone, if the attack is to be delivered with precision and confidence._ Thus in the case of a composition beginning upon the first beat of a measure, the conductor holds the baton poised in full view of all performers, then, before actually bringing it down for the attack, he raises it slightly, this upward movement often corresponding to the back-stroke between an imaginary preceding beat and the actual beat with which the composition begins. When a composition begins upon the weak beat (_e.g._, the fourth beat of a four-pulse measure), the preceding strong beat itself, together with the back-stroke accompanying it, is often given as the preparation for the actual initial beat. In case this is done the conductor must guard against making this preliminary strong beat so prominent as to cause the performers to mistake it for the actual signal to begin. If the first phrase begins with an eighth-note ([music notation]), give a short beat for 4 and an extra up-beat for the first note of the phrase. If it begins with a sixteenth-note, do the same thing, but make the extra up-beat with which the first tone is to be coincident shorter and quicker. If a good attack cannot be secured in any other way, beat an entire preliminary measure until the attack goes well, then adopt some such plan as has just been suggested. [Sidenote: THE RELEASE] The preliminary up-beat which has just been discussed is equally valuable as a preparation for the "release" or "cut-off." The movement for the release is usually a down stroke to right or left, or even upward. It is customary not to beat out the final measure of a composition or a complete final section of a composition, but to bring the baton down a few inches for the first beat of the measure, and then to hold it poised in this position, either counting the beats mentally, or trusting to feeling to determine the time for stopping. A slight upward movement is then made just before the tone is to be released, and it is the warning conveyed by this preliminary movement that enables the performers to release the tone at the precise instant when the baton is brought down for the cut-off. It should be noted that the release must come at the _end_ of the duration value of the final note. In 4-4 a final [dotted half-note symbol] would therefore be held up to the _beginning_ of the fourth beat, _i.e._, until one is on the point of counting _four_; a final [whole note symbol], until the beginning of the first beat of the following measure. It is because of carelessness or ignorance on this point that composers now sometimes resort to such devices as [music notation] to show that the final tone has four full beats. In such a case, the ending [music notation] means exactly the same thing as [music notation], the tone being released precisely on _one_ of the following measure, in either case. [Sidenote: THE HOLD] In the case of a hold (_fermata_), the movement for the cut-off depends upon the nature of what follows. If the tone to be prolonged forms the end of a phrase or section, the baton is brought down vigorously as at the end of a composition; but if the hold occurs at the end of a phrase in such a way as not to form a decided closing point, or if it occurs in the midst of the phrase itself, the cut-off is not nearly so pronounced, and the conductor must exercise care to move his baton in such a direction as to insure its being ready to give a clear signal for the attack of the tone following the hold. Thus, with a hold on the third beat, [music notation] the cut-off would probably be toward the right and upward, this movement then serving also as a preliminary for the fourth beat to follow. [Sidenote: THE ATTACK IN READING NEW MUSIC] For working in rehearsal it is convenient to use some such exclamation as "Ready--Sing," or "Ready--Play," in order that amateur musicians may be enabled to attack the first chord promptly, even in reading new music. In this case the word "Ready" comes just before the preliminary movement; the word "Sing" or "Play" being coincident with the actual preliminary movement. In preparing for a public performance, however, the conductor should be careful not to use these words so much in rehearsing that his musicians will have difficulty in making their attacks without hearing them. [Sidenote: LENGTH OF THE STROKE] The length and general character of the baton movement depend upon the emotional quality of the music being conducted. A bright, snappy _Scherzo_ in rapid tempo will demand a short, vigorous beat, with almost no elaboration of back-stroke; while for a slow and stately _Choral_, a long, flowing beat with a highly-elaborated back-stroke will be appropriate. The first beat of the phrase in any kind of music is usually longer and more prominent, in order that the various divisions of the design may be clearly marked. It is in the length of the stroke that the greatest diversity in time beating will occur in the case of various individual conductors, and it is neither possible nor advisable to give specific directions to the amateur. Suffice it to say, that if he understands clearly the foregoing principles of handling the baton, and if his musical feeling is genuine, there will be little difficulty at this point. [Sidenote: NON-MEASURED MUSIC] The directions for beating time thus far given have, of course, referred exclusively to what is termed "measured music," _i.e._, music in which the rhythm consists of groups of regularly spaced beats, the size and general characteristics of the group depending upon the number and position of the accents in each measure. There exists, however, a certain amount of non-measured vocal music, and a word concerning the most common varieties (recitative and Anglican chant) will perhaps be in order before closing our discussion of beating time. [Sidenote: RECITATIVE] In conducting the accompaniment of a vocal solo of the recitative style, and particularly that variety referred to as _recitativo secco_, the most important baton movement is a down-beat after each bar. The conductor usually follows the soloist through the group of words found between two bars with the conventional baton movements, but this does not imply regularly spaced pulses as in the case of measured music, and the beats do not correspond in any way to those of the ordinary measure of rhythmic music. They merely enable the accompanying players to tell at approximately what point in the measure the singer is at any given time, the up-beat at the end of the group giving warning of the near approach of the next group. [Sidenote: THE ANGLICAN CHANT] In the case of the Anglican chant, it should be noted that there are two parts to each verse: one, a reciting portion in which there is no measured rhythm; the other, a rhythmic portion in which the pulses occur as in measured music. In the reciting portion of the chant, the rhythm is that of ordinary prose speech, punctuation marks being observed as in conventional language reading. This makes it far more difficult to keep the singers together, and in order to secure uniformity, some conductors give a slight movement of the baton for each syllable; others depend upon a down-beat at the beginning of each measure together with the lip movements made by the conductor himself and followed minutely by the chorus. The beginning of the second part of the chant is indicated by printing its first syllable in italics, by placing an accent mark over it, or by some other similar device. This syllable is then regarded as the first accented tone of the metrical division of the chant, and, beginning with it, the conductor beats time as in ordinary measured music. If no other syllable follows the accented one before a bar occurs, it is understood that the accented syllable is to be held for two beats, _i.e._, a measure's duration. Final _ed_ is always pronounced as a separate syllable. The most important thing for an amateur to learn about conducting the Anglican chant is that before he can successfully direct others in singing this type of choral music, he must himself practically memorize each chant. The amateur should perhaps also be warned not to have the words of the first part of the chant recited too rapidly. All too frequently there is so much hurrying that only a few of the most prominent words are distinguishable, most of the connecting words being entirely lost. A more deliberate style of chanting than that in ordinary use would be much more in keeping with the idea of dignified worship. Before asking the choir to sing a new chant, it is often well to have the members _recite_ it, thus emphasizing the fact that the meaning of the text must be brought out in the singing. In inaugurating chanting in churches where this form of music has not previously formed a part of the service, it will be well to have both choir and congregation sing the melody in unison for a considerable period before attempting to chant in parts. [Sidenote: THE NECESSITY OF PRACTICE IN HANDLING THE BATON] Now that we have laid down the principles upon the basis of which our prospective conductor is to beat time, let us warn him once more that here, as in other things, it is intelligent practice that makes perfect, and that if he is to learn to handle the baton successfully, and particularly if he is to learn to do it so well that he need never give the slightest thought to his baton while actually conducting, hours of practice in beating time will be necessary. This practising should sometimes take place before a mirror, or better still, in the presence of some critical friend, so that a graceful rather than a grotesque style of handling the baton may result; it should also be done with the metronome clicking or with some one playing the piano much of the time, in order that the habit of maintaining an absolutely steady, even tempo may evolve. The phonograph may also be utilized for this purpose, and may well become an indispensable factor in training conductors in the future, it being possible in this way to study the elements of interpretation as well as to practise beating time. [Sidenote: BATON TECHNIQUE NOT SUFFICIENT FOR SUCCESS IN CONDUCTING] It must not be imagined that if one is fortunate enough to acquire the style of handling the baton which we have been advocating one will at once achieve success as a conductor. The factors of musical scholarship, personal magnetism, _et cetera_, mentioned in preceding pages, must still constitute the real foundation of conducting. But granting the presence of these other factors of endowment and preparation, one may often achieve a higher degree of success if one has developed also a well-defined and easily-followed beat. It is for this reason that the technique of time beating is worthy of some degree of serious investigation and of a reasonable amount of time spent in practice upon it. CHAPTER IV INTERPRETATION IN CONDUCTING INTRODUCTORY [Sidenote: THE CONDUCTOR AS INTERPRETER] Interpretation from the standpoint of the conductor differs from interpretation in singing and playing in that the conductor must necessarily convey ideas or emotions to his audience through an intermediary, _viz._, the orchestra or chorus. He furthermore labors under the disadvantage of having to stand with his back (certainly the least expressive part of man's physique) to the audience. The pianist, singer, and violinist, on the other hand, face their audiences; and because they themselves actually do the performing, are able to work much more directly upon the minds and emotions of their hearers. For this reason, interpretation must be studied by the conductor from a twofold basis: 1. From the standpoint of the expressive rendition of music in general. 2. From the standpoint of securing the expressive rendition of music from a group of players or singers. We shall devote this and the three following chapters to a discussion of these two phases of interpretation. [Sidenote: INTERPRETATION AND EXPRESSION] The word _interpret_, as ordinarily used means "to explain,"--"to elucidate,"--"to make clear the meaning of," and this same definition of the word applies to music as well, the conductor or performer "making clear" to the audience the message given him by the composer. It should be noted at once, however, that interpretation in music is merely the process or means for securing the larger thing called _expression_, and in discussing this larger thing, the activity of two persons is always assumed; one is the composer, the other the performer. Which of these two is the more important personage has been for many decades a much mooted question among concert-goers. Considered from an intellectual standpoint, there is no doubt whatever concerning the supremacy of the composer; but when viewed in the light of actual box office experience, on an evening when Caruso or some other popular idol has been slated to appear, and cannot do so because of indisposition, it would seem as if the performer were still as far above the composer as he was in the days of eighteenth-century opera in Italy. It is the composer's function to write music of such a character that when well performed it will occasion an emotional reaction on the part of performer and listener. Granting this type of music, it is the function of the performer or conductor to so interpret the music that an appropriate emotional reaction will actually ensue. A recent writer calls the performer a _messenger_ from the composer to the audience, and states[8] that-- As a messenger is accountable to both sender and recipient of his message, so is the interpretative artist in a position of twofold trust and, therefore, of _twofold responsibility_. The sender of his message--creative genius--is behind him; before him sits an expectant and confiding audience, the sovereign addressee. The interpretative artist has, therefore, first to enter into the _spirit_ of his message; to penetrate its ultimate meaning; to read in, as well as between, the lines. And then he has to train and develop his faculties of delivery, of vital production, to such a degree as to enable him to fix his message decisively, and with no danger of being misunderstood, in the mind of his auditor. [Footnote 8: Constantin von Sternberg, _Ethics and Esthetics of Piano Playing_, p. 10.] This conception of the conductor's task demands from him two things: 1. A careful, painstaking study of the work to be performed, so as to become thoroughly familiar with its content and to discover its true emotional significance. 2. Such display of emotion in his conducting as will arouse a sympathetic response, first on the part of orchestra and chorus, and then in turn in the audience. [Sidenote: EMOTION IN INTERPRETATION] Real interpretation, then, requires, on the part of the conductor, just as in the case of the actor, a display of emotion. Coldness and self-restraint will not suffice, for these represent merely the intellectual aspect of the art, and music is primarily a language of the emotions. This difference constitutes the dividing line between performances that merely arouse our judicial comment "That was exceedingly well done"; and those on the other hand that thrill us, carry us off our feet, sweep us altogether out of our environment so that for the moment we forget where we are, lose sight temporarily of our petty cares and grievances, and are permitted to live for a little while in an altogether different world--the world not of things and ambitions and cares, but of ecstasy. Such performances and such an attitude on the part of the listener are all too rare in these days of smug intellectualism and hypersophistication, and we venture to assert that this is at least partly due to the fact that many present-day conductors are intellectual rather than emotional in their attitude. It is this faculty of displaying emotion, of entirely submerging himself in the work being performed, that gives the veteran choral conductor Tomlins his phenomenal hold on chorus and audience. In a performance of choral works recently directed by this conductor, the listener was made to feel at one moment the joy of springtime, with roses blooming and lovers wooing, as a light, tuneful chorus in waltz movement was being performed; then in a trice, one was whisked over to the heart of Russia, and made to see, as though they were actually present, a gang of boatmen as they toiled along the bank of the Volga with the tow-rope over their shoulders, tugging away at a barge which moved slowly up from the distance, past a clump of trees, and then gradually disappeared around a bend in the river; and in yet another moment, one was thrilled through and through with religious fervor in response to the grandeur and majestic stateliness of the Mendelssohn Motet, _Judge Me, oh God_. It was interpretation of this type too that gave the actor-singer Wüllner such a tremendous hold upon his audiences a few years ago, this artist achieving a veritable triumph by the tremendous sincerity and vividness of his dramatic impersonations in singing German _Lieder_, in spite of the fact that he possessed a voice of only average quality. It was an emotional response of this character that the Greek philosophers must have been thinking of when they characterized drama as a "purge for the soul"; and surely it must still be good for human beings to forget themselves occasionally and to become merged in this fashion in the wave of emotion felt by performer and fellow-listener in response to the message of the composer. It is emotion of this type also that the great composers have sought to arouse through their noblest compositions. Handel is said to have replied, when congratulated upon the excellence of the entertainment afforded by the _Messiah_, "I am sorry if I have only entertained them; I hoped to do them good." An English writer, in quoting this incident, adds:[9] What Handel tried to do ... by wedding fine music to an inspiring text, Beethoven succeeded in doing through instruments alone ... for never have instruments--no matter how pleasing they were in the past--been capable of stirring the inmost feelings as they have done since the beginning of the nineteenth century. [Footnote 9: C.F.A. Williams, _The Rhythm of Modern Music_, p. 13.] There is danger, of course, here as everywhere, that one may go too far; and it is entirely conceivable that both soloist and conductor might go to such extremes in their display of emotion that the music would be entirely distorted, losing what is after all its main _raison d'être_, _viz._, the element of beauty. But there seems at present to be no especial danger that such an event will occur; the tendency seems rather to be toward overemphasizing intellectualism in music, and toward turning our art into a science.[10] The thing that we should like to convince the prospective conductor of is that real interpretation--_i.e._, genuinely expressive musical performance--demands an actual display of emotion on the part of the conductor if the ideal sort of reaction is to be aroused in the audience. [Footnote 10: This danger is especially insidious just now in our college and high school courses in the _appreciation of music_. Instructors in such courses are often so zealous in causing pupils to understand the _machinery_ involved in the construction and rendition of music that they sometimes forget to emphasize sufficiently the product resulting from all this machinery, _viz._, _beauty_. The idea of these courses is most excellent, and in time those in charge of them will doubtless realize that the hearing of actual music in the classroom is more valuable to students than learning a mass of facts about it; and that if a choice were necessary between a course in which there was opportunity for hearing a great deal of music without any comment, and one on the other hand in which there was a great deal of comment without any music, the former would be infinitely preferable. But such a choice is not necessary; and the ideal course in the Appreciation of Music is one in which the student has opportunity for hearing a great deal of music with appropriate comments by the instructor.] In order to interpret a musical work, then, the conductor himself must first study it so as to discover what the composer intended to express. Having become thoroughly permeated with the composer's message, he may then by instinctive imitation arouse in his chorus or orchestra so strong a reflection of this mood that they will perform the work in the correct spirit, the audience in turn catching its essential significance, and each listener in his own way responding to the composer's message. [Sidenote: DEFINITION OF INTERPRETATION] Musical interpretation consists thus in impressing upon the listener the essential character of the music by emphasizing the important elements and subordinating the unimportant ones; by indicating in a clear-cut and unmistakable way the phrasing, and through skilful phrasing making evident the design of the composition as a whole; and in general by so manipulating one's musical forces that the hearer will not only continue to be interested in the performance, but will feel or understand the basic significance of the work being performed; will catch and remember the important things in it, will not have his attention distracted by comparatively unimportant details, and will thus have delivered to him the real spirit of the composer's message. This implies skilful accentuation of melody, subordination of accompaniment, increasing the tempo or force in some portions, decreasing them in others, _et cetera_. Clear enunciation and forceful declamation in choral music are also included, and in it all, the performer or conductor must so subordinate his own personality that the attention of the listeners will be centered upon the composition and not upon the eccentricities of dress or manner of the artist. [Sidenote: THE BOUNDARIES OF MUSIC] It is inevitable that there should be considerable difference of opinion among composers, critics, listeners, and performers, as to just what music may or may not legitimately be expected to express. Some modern composers are apparently convinced that it ought to be possible through music to suggest pictures, tell stories, or depict moral and intellectual struggles on the part of the individual. Others contend that music exists solely because of its own inherent beauty, that it can arouse _general_ emotional states only, and that if it is good music, it needs no further meaning than this. Even "pure music," the champions of this latter idea urge, may express an infinite variety of emotional tones, from joy, encouragement, excitement, tenderness, expectancy, invigoration, and tranquillity, to dread, oppression of spirit, hesitation, harshness, and despondency. A modern writer on esthetics treats this matter at length, and finally concludes:[11] Is the symbolization pervasive enough to account for the steady continuing charm of lengthy compositions?... The symbolizations ... mostly resemble patches; they form no system, no plot or plan accompanying a work from beginning to end; they only guarantee a fitful enjoyment--a fragment here, a gleam there, but no growing organic exaltation like that actually afforded by musical compositions. [Footnote 11: Gehring, _The Basis of Musical Pleasure_, p. 89.] At another point in the same work, this writer again discusses this same matter (page 120): Music is presentative in character, not representative. Measure, to be sure, may correspond to the beating of the pulse, and the final cadence may picture the satisfaction of desires; the coda may simulate a mental summary; but the composition in its totality, with its particular melodies, harmonies, and rhythms, and with the specific union of all these elements characteristic of this composition, does not represent any definite psychical or material fact. The majority of us would doubtless take a middle-ground position, admitting the beauty and power of music, _per se_, but acknowledging also the fact that abstract beauty together with a certain amount of suggested imagery, in combination, will usually make a stronger appeal to the majority of people than either element by itself. Many of us are entirely willing to grant, therefore, that a more complex and more vividly colored emotional state will probably result if the auditor is furnished with the title or program of the work being performed; _but we contend nevertheless that this music, regardless of its connection with imagery, must at the same time be sound music, and that no matter how vividly descriptive our tonal art may become, if it cannot stand the test of many hearings as music, entirely apart from the imagery aroused, it is not worthy to endure_. It is not the _meaning_ of the music which makes us want to hear it repeated, but its inherent _beauty_; it is not usually our intellectual impression, but our emotional thrill which we recall in thinking back over a past musical experience. Those of us who take the middle ground that we have just been presenting contend also that descriptive music can only legitimately arouse its appropriate imagery when the essential idea has been supplied beforehand in the form of a title or program, and that even then _the effect upon various individuals is, and may well be, quite different_, since each one has the music thrown, as it were, upon the screen of his own personal experience. [Sidenote: EXPRESSION CONCERNS BOTH COMPOSER AND PERFORMER] It will be noted that in this discussion we are constantly using the word _expression_ from the twofold standpoint of composer and performer, each having an indispensable part in it, and neither being able to get along without the other. But in our treatment of conducting, we shall need to come back again and again to the idea of expression from the standpoint of interpretation, and in directing a piece of music we shall now take it for granted that the composer has said something which is worthy of being heard, and that as the intermediary between composer and audience, we are attempting to interpret to the latter what the former has expressed in his composition. It should be noted in this connection that wrong interpretation is possible in music, even as in literature. One may so read a poem that the hearer, without being in any way to blame, will entirely miss the point. So also may one conduct a musical work, whether it be a child's song or a symphonic poem, in such a fashion that neither performers nor audience gain a proper conception of what it means. [Sidenote: INTERPRETATION IN VOCAL MUSIC] In the case of vocal music, the key to the emotional content of the work may almost always be found by carefully studying the words. In preparing to conduct choral singing, master the text, therefore; read it aloud as though declaiming to an audience; and when you come to the performance, see that your vocalists sing the music in such a way that the audience will be able to catch without too great effort both the meaning of the individual words and the spirit of the text as a whole. The great Italian tenor Caruso expressed himself forcibly upon this point during an interview for the _Christian Science Monitor_, in 1913. In reply to the question "Where do you locate the source of expression in singing?" he said: I find it in the words always. For unless I give my hearers what is in the text, what can I give them? If I just produce tone, my singing has no meaning. "Thereupon" (continues the interviewer), "vocalizing a series of scale passages such as are used in studio practice, Caruso commented": Now, when I do that, I don't say anything. I may make musical sounds, but I express nothing. I may even execute the notes with a good staccato or legato (again illustrating with his voice) and still, having no words to go by, I make no effect on my listeners. Look at the question in another way. Suppose I were to sing a line of text with a meaning in my voice that contradicted the idea of the words. Would not that be nonsense? It would be as much as though I were to say to you "This wood is hard," and were to say it with a soft voice. People have observed that I sing as though I were talking. Well, that is just what I mean to do. "Singing, then" (the interviewer goes on), "as Caruso began to define it, is a sort of exalted speech, its purpose being to illuminate the imagery and sentiment of language. The mere music of singing he seemed for the moment to put in a subordinate place. "By way of further emphasizing his point, he referred to a theme in Donizetti's _L'Elisir d'Amore_, which is used in two opposing situations--by the soprano in a mood of joy, and by the tenor in a mood of sorrow. He sang the measures of the soprano as though laughing. Then he sang those of the tenor as though weeping." "But those two passages of melody cannot be identical," objected the interviewer. "Oh, yes, they are," the tenor declared; and he quickly proved it by singing them over again with a less marked indication of the moods. "Here you plainly see where expression must start. It has to be from the words, of course. The performer puts in the feeling of gladness or sadness without regard to the notes, paying attention only to the text." Expression in choral music is dependent upon the text to just as great an extent as in the case of solo singing; and choral conductors may well ponder upon the above words of one of the world's greatest singers, and apply the lesson to their own problems. The average audience is probably more interested in the _words_ of vocal music than in anything else; and since both vocal and choral performances are usually given before "average audiences" it behooves the conductor to look into the minds of those before whom he is directing, and to adapt the performance to the attitude of the listeners. CHAPTER V INTERPRETATION IN CONDUCTING (_Continued_) TEMPO [Sidenote: EXPRESSION IN INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC] In the last chapter we discussed expression and interpretation from a general standpoint, closing with certain comments upon the interpretation of vocal music. But it must be admitted at once that expression in instrumental music is a vastly more intricate matter than in the case of vocal music; and in order to get at the subject in any tangible way, it will be necessary for us, first, to analyze music into its expressional elements; second, to decide which of these elements belong exclusively to the composer and which are shared by the interpreter; and third, to examine each of these latter elements in turn from the standpoint of the conductor as interpreter. [Sidenote: THE ELEMENTS OF EXPRESSION] There are eight elements upon which expression in instrumental music rests. These are: 1. Rhythm 2. Melody 3. Harmony 4. Pitch registers 5. Timbre 6. Phrasing 7. Tempo 8. Dynamics Of these, the composer is able to indicate _exactly_ the first four, to convey his meaning fairly well in the fifth and sixth, but to give only a relative idea of the seventh and eighth. The interpreter is thus concerned with the first four only as it becomes necessary for him to find out from the notation what the composer intended to express. On the other hand, he is considerably concerned with the fifth and sixth factors (_timbre_ and _phrasing_) and has the main responsibility in the last two (_tempo_ and _dynamics_). This being the case, we shall treat _tempo_ and _dynamics_ first of all, as being the two primary factors of expression with which the conductor is concerned. [Sidenote: IMPORTANCE OF TEMPO] Wagner, in his famous essay on conducting, takes the rather radical ground that everything else is dependent upon the proper selection and management of tempo. He says:[12] The whole duty of the conductor is comprised in his ability always to indicate the right tempo. His choice of tempi will show whether he understands the piece or not.... The true tempo induces correct force and expression. [Footnote 12: Wagner, _On Conducting_, translated by Dannreuther, p. 20.] In another place in the same work he treats the matter further, as follows: (p. 34) Obviously the proper pace of a piece of music is determined by the particular character of the rendering it requires. The question therefore comes to this: Does the sustained, the cantilena, predominate, or the rhythmical movement? The conductor should lead accordingly. It is doubtful whether many modern conductors would entirely agree with Wagner's statement that correct tempo always "induces correct force and expression." Nevertheless tempo is so important that probably no one will quarrel with us if we at least give it first place in the order in which the elements of expression are discussed. In modern music the composer indicates the tempos of the various movements much more definitely than was true in earlier days, so it would seem as if not nearly so much responsibility rested upon the conductor; and yet there is still a wide difference of opinion among musicians about the matter, and in many cases the conductor substitutes his own judgment for that of the composer, assuming that the latter either made a mistake in indicating the tempo, or else that he had not tried the composition at the tempo preferred by the conductor, and therefore did not realize how much more effective it would be that way. [Sidenote: FINDING THE CORRECT TEMPO] In the main, there are five methods upon which the conductor depends for determining the correct tempo of a composition. These are: 1. The metronome indication, found at the beginning of most modern scores. 2. The tempo or mood expressions (_andante_, _allegro_, _adagio_, _et cetera_), which have been in universal use for two centuries or more, and which are found in practically all music, even when a metronome indication is also given. 3. The swing and, in vocal music, the general spirit of the text. 4. Tradition. 5. Individual judgment of tempo as depending upon and resulting from the "quality" of the music. Of these, the fifth, _viz._, individual judgment is most important, and is the court of final resort in the case of the mature musician; but the amateur who has had but little experience and who is therefore without any well developed musical taste must depend largely upon his metronome, upon his knowledge of Italian tempo terms, and upon tradition. A brief discussion of these matters will accordingly be in order at this time. [Sidenote: THE METRONOME AS A TEMPO INDICATOR] The metronome[13] is a sort of clock with inverted pendulum, the ticks or clicks or which can be regulated as to rate of speed by means of a sliding weight. When this weight is set at the point marked 64, for example, the metronome gives sixty-four clicks per minute; when set at 84, or 112, corresponding numbers of clicks per minute result; so that in this way the composer is able to indicate precisely the rate of speed of his composition by indicating the number of beats per minute. The indication [quarter-note symbol] = 84 means that the sliding weight is to be set at the point marked 84, the metronome then clicking eighty-four times per minute, each of these clicks indicating a quarter-note. But if the marking is [half-note symbol] = 64, this means that sixty-four half-notes are to be performed in a minute,--a tempo equal to one hundred and twenty-eight quarter-notes in the same composition. In compound measures such as 6-8, 9-8, _et cetera_, the tempo indication shows the number of eighth-notes per minute if the composition is in slow tempo; but in moderate and rapid tempos the direction is usually given by taking the dotted-quarter-note as the beat unit, thus: [dotted quarter-note symbol] = 84. It is of course obvious that in this case the composer is thinking of each measure as having only two or three beats instead of six or nine. [Footnote 13: The metronome is supposed to have been invented, or at least perfected, by a Bavarian named Maelzel, about 1815, and for many years the Maelzel metronome was the only one in existence. Hence the letters M.M., still found in many scores, in connection with tempo indications.] [Sidenote: THE ITALIAN TEMPO TERMS] Many instrumental compositions (particularly the older ones) are not provided by the composer with definite tempo directions; and in this case the Italian tempo terms usually give at least a clue to what the composer has in mind. These terms do not of course give us the precise tempo, but by indicating the _mood_ of a composition they at least help one to determine the rate of speed (_adagio_--at ease; _allegro_--cheerful; _largo_--large, broad; _andante_--going; _et cetera_). A comprehensive knowledge of these terms from the twofold standpoint of definition and derivation is indispensable to the conductor. The most common of them are therefore defined at this point. They are given in groups in order that the student may note how much the various terms overlap in meaning. THE VERY SLOWEST TEMPO _larghissimo_ (superlative of _largo_) _adagissimo_ (superlative of _adagio_) _lentissimo_ (superlative of _lento_) A VERY SLOW TEMPO _largo_ (from Latin _largus_, meaning broad, large) _adagio_ (at ease) _lento_ (slow) A SLOW TEMPO _larghetto_ (diminutive of _largo_) _adagietto_ (diminutive of _adagio_) A MODERATELY SLOW TEMPO _andante_ (going or walking) _andantino_ (diminutive of _andante_ and therefore meaning literally "going less," but because of a misconception of meaning now often understood as meaning slightly faster than _andante_) A MODERATE TEMPO _moderato_ A MODERATELY RAPID TEMPO _allegro_ (cheerful) _allegretto_ (diminutive of _allegro_; a little slower than _allegro_) A VERY RAPID TEMPO _con moto_ (with motion) _vivo_ (lively) _vivace_ (vivacious) _presto_ (quick) _presto assai_ (very quick) THE MOST RAPID TEMPO POSSIBLE _prestissimo_ (superlative of _presto_) _vivacissimo_ (superlative of _vivace_) _allegrissimo_ (superlative of _allegro_) _prestissimo possibile_ (hypersuperlative of _presto_) The expressions given above are frequently used in combination with one another, and with certain auxiliary terms, but to attempt to define these combinations in this book would be altogether impracticable. The conductor should however understand the significance of the following qualifying expressions: _non tanto_ (not too much) _non troppo_ (not too much) _ma non tanto_ (but not too much) _ma non troppo_ (but not too much) These expressions are used by the composer as a warning to the performer not to overdo any indicated effect. Thus, _largo, ma non troppo_ means that the composition is to be taken slowly, but not too slowly. _Presto (ma) non troppo_, on the other hand, indicates a rapid tempo, but not too rapid. For a fuller discussion of these matters, see the author's text book on terminology.[14] [Footnote 14: Gehrkens, _Music Notation and Terminology_. The A.S. Barnes Co., New York.] The third means of finding tempo has already been discussed, (see p. 45) and the fifth needs no further explanation; but a word should perhaps be said to the amateur about the matter of tradition. The young conductor must not fail to take into consideration the fact that there has grown up, in connection with many of the classics, a well defined idea of the tempos most appropriate to their rendition, and that any pronounced departure from this traditional tempo is apt to result in unfavorable criticism. Tradition is of course apt to make us hide-bound in all sorts of ways, and yet in many respects it is a very good thing, and before our conductor attempts to direct standard works it will be well for him to hear them rendered by some of the better organizations, so that he may ascertain what the traditional tempo is. In this way he may at least avoid the accusation of ignorance which might otherwise be made. This latter point will remind the reader of the advice already so frequently given--_viz._, "study music and listen to music a long time before you attempt very much conducting." [Sidenote: VARIATION IN TEMPO] Our treatment of tempo thus far has taken cognizance of only the generalized tempo of the movement, and we have not discussed at all the much more difficult matter of _variation_ in tempo. The more evident changes of this sort are indicated by the composer through such expressions as _ritardando_, _accelerando_, _et cetera_; and it may be well to give at this point a list of the commoner of these terms together with their meanings. Obviously, such indications are of two general types dealing respectively with increasing and decreasing speed, and we shall accordingly give the definitions in two classes: TERMS INDICATING A MORE RAPID TEMPO 1. A gradual acceleration _accelerando_ _affrettando_ _stringendo_ _poco a poco animato_ 2. A definitely faster tempo at once _più allegro_ _più presto_ _più animato_ _più mosso_ _più tosto_ _più stretto_ _un poco animato_ TERMS INDICATING A SLOWER TEMPO 1. A gradual retard _ritardando_ _rallentando_ _slentando_ 2. A definitely slower tempo at once _più lento_ _meno mosso_ _ritenuto_ 3. A slower tempo combined with an increase in power _largando_ } _allargando_ } (literally, "becoming broad") 4. A slower tempo combined with a decrease in power _morendo_ } _perdendo_ } _perdendosi_ } (Usually translated, "gradually dying away") _calando_ } _smorzando_ } (After any of the terms in the above list, a return to the normal tempo is indicated by such expressions as _a tempo_, _tempo primo_, _et cetera_.) [Sidenote: TEMPO _NUANCES_] But in addition to the variations in tempo more or less definitely indicated by the composer there are (particularly in modern music) innumerable tempo fluctuations of a much subtler nature; and since these are now recognized as a part of really artistic choral and orchestral interpretation, (as they have long formed an indispensable element in expressive piano performance) a brief discussion of their nature will be included before closing this chapter. In some cases a variable tempo is asked for by the composer by means of one of the following expressions: _tempo rubato_ (literally, "robbed time") _ad libitum_ (at pleasure) _a piacere_ (at pleasure) _a capriccio_ (at the caprice) _agitato_ (agitated) (The term _tempo giusto_--in exact tempo--is the opposite of the above expressions, and is used to indicate that the music is to be performed in steady tempo.) In the majority of cases, however, the composer gives no indication whatsoever, and the whole responsibility therefore rests upon the performer or conductor. It is because of this latter fact that the amateur must study these matters indefatigably. The advent of a more elastic rhythm and tempo has undoubtedly made all musical performance infinitely more pleasurable to the listener than it formerly was; but unfortunately (especially since the advent of Chopin's music) there has been a great deal of misunderstanding as to the use and meaning of this valuable new expressional element. _Tempo rubato_ may be compared to speaking certain words more slowly or more rapidly in order that the essential meaning of the entire sentence may be more strongly impressed upon the listener. It must not however break up the continuity of the tempo; as one writer has said "we must bend the tempo, but not break it." Another well-known author, in treating the same point, states that[15] Freedom in tempo does not mean unsteadiness.... We must have in music the sense of equilibrium, of stability. A careless, spasmodic hurrying and retarding leads only to flabbiness and inconsequence. [Footnote 15: Dickinson, _The Education of a Music Lover_, p. 21.] The most common kind of _rubato_ is probably that in which the first part of the phrase (up to the climax) is accelerated, the climacteric tone lingered upon slightly, then the remainder of the phrase rendered _a tempo_ or possibly slightly _ritardando_. But there are many phrases that demand a totally different sort of treatment; _e.g._, a _ritardando_ in the first part instead of an _accelerando_. Which is the appropriate way of delivering any particular phrase must be determined in every case by musical feeling. The thing that the beginner is apt to forget at the period when his musical feeling though sincere is yet characterized by lack of refinement, is that these _nuances_ must always be subtle, and that the listener ought not to have fluctuations in tempo thrust in his face at every turn. Indeed we may say that he should hardly know that they are present, unless he is making a definite attempt to analyze the performance. The familiar story of Chopin's breathing toward a candle flame and making it flicker slightly, with the remark, "That is my rubato," then blowing it violently out and saying "This is yours," is quite to the point in this connection. It is of course understood that _rubato_ is to be employed almost exclusively in moderate or slow tempos, having little or no place in rapid, strongly rhythmic music. It should also be remarked that the more severe the form of the music,--the more architectonic it is--the less variation in tempo should there be in its rendition, for in this type of music the expression is primarily intellectual. Such instrumental works (of which certain compositions of Bach and Mozart are typical) must not be played sentimentally, as a modern English writer has remarked, and yet they must be played with sentiment. The remarks of this same author may well be quoted in closing this discussion:[16] Rubato is necessary in emotional music and is an excellent means of picturing longing, persuading, dreaming, _et cetera_. That is why its use is so characteristic in performing the works of the romantic school and why it must be used with such caution in the classics. The classic must be clear as daylight--the structure must be evident even on the surface; but the romantic composition needs often to be played in a veiled manner in order to produce atmosphere. In such a case the rhythm is veiled as it were, draped in gauze, but the rhythmic design is there under the veil just the same. To express calmness, decision, _et cetera_, avoid rubato. [Footnote 16: Matthay, _Musical Interpretation_, p. 88.] It must now be evident to the reader that this whole matter of musical _nuance_ is too subtle to be treated adequately in a book of this character, and it becomes necessary for us once more to advise the amateur to study music, both vocal and instrumental, in order that his latent musical feeling may be developed into a ripe and adequate musical taste. [Sidenote: TEMPO RECORDED IN MUSCLES] In concluding the chapter let us emphasize the fact that the establishing of a tempo is a matter of muscle even more than of mind, and that before beginning to beat time the conductor should have the tempo recorded in his muscular memory. Before rising to conduct a composition then let him feel its tempo in the muscles of the arm and hand wielding the baton; for if not thus felt, the work will rarely be begun with a clearly defined rate of speed. This consideration receives added weight when it is recalled that if the conductor does not set the tempo, the chorus accompanist or first violinist will, and they, not having studied the music from this standpoint, will rarely succeed in hitting upon the correct rate of movement. CHAPTER VI INTERPRETATION IN CONDUCTING (_Continued_) DYNAMICS [Sidenote: IMPORTANCE OF DYNAMICS] Another important factor in the expressive rendition of music is _dynamics_, _i.e._, the relative loudness and softness of tone. The composer is supposed to have a fairly large share in this phase of expression, and in modern music always indicates in the score at least the most important dynamic changes that he has in mind. But our observation of musical performances tends to make us feel that in this aspect, even more than in tempo changes, it is the conductor or performer who must bear the greater responsibility, and that the _amount_ of dynamic contrast to be employed certainly depends entirely upon the taste of the conductor or performer. It is safe to say that the dynamic factor is easier to control than is the tempo, and yet in spite of this fact, there is no question but that the rendition of most choral and orchestral music could be made much more interesting if it could be given with a greater variety of dynamic shading. Nor is there, in our opinion, any question but that the changes from _forte_ to _piano_ and _vice versa_, the gradually worked up _crescendos_, the vigorous accents on certain important tones or chords, together with those subtler shadings often referred to as _dynamic nuances_, may become just as important and powerful a means of conveying emotional effects as tempo. Joy and triumph and exuberance are of course expressed by _forte_ and _fortissimo_ effects (the crowd at a football game does not _whisper_ its approval when its own team has made a touch-down), but the image of a mother singing a lullaby would demand altogether different dynamic treatment. The _crescendo_ is one of the most powerful means of expression that the composer has at his disposal--especially in writing for the modern orchestra, but there seems to be a good deal of misunderstanding on the part of amateur conductors and performers about the real meaning of the term. _Crescendo_ does not mean _forte_; indeed Weingartner (_op. cit._, p. 6) quotes von Bülow as remarking that _crescendo signifies piano_,--meaning of course that a _crescendo_ usually implies a soft beginning. It should perhaps be noted at this point that there are two varieties of _crescendo_; one being produced by performing succeeding tones each more loudly than the one immediately preceding it; the other by prolonging the same tone and increasing its power gradually as it continues to sound. The first type is much commoner than the second, and is indeed the one kind of _crescendo_ that is possible in piano playing; but the second variety can be secured in the case of an organ with swell box, the human voice, and in both string and wind orchestral instruments. Since some of the most beautiful musical effects may be produced by the use of this second type of crescendo, it should be employed very much more than it is in choral and orchestral music. The English conductor Coward takes the ground that the swell (a combination of _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_) is the most powerful choral effect in existence.[17] [Footnote 17: Coward, _Choral Technique and Interpretation_, p. 112.] When the composer wishes to build up a really tremendous climax and sweep all before him by the intensity of the emotional excitement generated, he frequently indicates an increase in the amount of tone, coupled with a very gradual acceleration in tempo, all proceeding by slow degrees, and perhaps accompanied by a rise from a low pitch register to higher ones. If on the other hand, he wants to let down in emotional intensity, he does the opposite of all these things. The combination of _crescendo_ and _ritardando_ is also tremendously effective. In order to bring together in fairly comprehensive array the terms that are ordinarily used by the composer to indicate various expressional effects, a table of the most frequently encountered dynamic expressions is here included. _Pianississimo_ (_ppp_) } _pianissimo possibile_ } (as softly as possible) _pianissimo_ (_pp_) (superlative of _piano_--very softly) _piano_ (_p_) (softly) _più piano_ (more softly) _il più piano_ (most softly) _piano assai_ (very softly) _mezzo-piano_ (_mp_) (moderately softly) _forte_ (_f_) (loudly) _fortissimo_ (_ff_) (superlative of _forte_--very loudly) _fortississimo_ (_fff_) (as loudly as possible) _più forte_ (more loudly) _il più forte_ (most loudly) _il più forte possibile_ (as loudly as possible) _mezzo forte_ (_mf_) (moderately loudly) _forte-piano_ (_fp_) (loudly followed immediately by softly) _forzando_ (_z_) } (These words and signs indicate that _sforzando_ (_sf_ or _sfz_) } a single tone or chord is to be _forzato_ (_fz_) } accented, the amount of stress _sforzato_ (_sf_ or _sfz_) } depending upon the character of the [accent hairpin symbol] or } passage and of the composition) [accent symbol] } _rinforzando_ (_rinf_) } (reinforced; a definite increase in power _rinforzato_ (_rfz_) } extending through a phrase or passage) _crescendo_ (_cresc._ or [crescendo symbol]) (gradually becoming louder) _decrescendo_ (_decresc._ or } [decrescendo symbol]) } (gradually becoming softer) _diminuendo_ (_dim._ or } [diminuendo symbol]) } _crescendo poco a poco_ (becoming louder little by little) _crescendo subito_ (becoming louder immediately) _crescendo molto_ (becoming much louder) _crescendo al fortissimo_ (becoming gradually louder until the _fortissimo_ point has been reached) _crescendo poi diminuendo_ } (gradually louder then _crescendo e diminuendo_ } gradually softer) _crescendo ed animando_ (gradually louder and faster) _diminuendo al pianissimo_ (becoming gradually softer until the _pianissimo_ point is reached) _morendo_ } _perdendosi_ } (gradually dying away, _i.e._, becoming slower _smorzando_ } and softer by very small degrees) _calando_ } _con amore_ (with tenderness) _con bravura_ (with boldness) _con energia_ (with energy) _con espressione_ } _espressivo_ } (with expression) _con brio_ (with brilliancy) _con fuoco_ (with fire) _con passione_ (with passion) _con grazia_ (with grace) _con tenerezza_ (with tenderness) _dolce_ (gently) (literally, sweetly) _giocoso_ (humorously) (_cf._ jocose) _giojoso_ (joyfully) (_cf._ joyous) _con maestà_ } _maestoso_ } (majestically) _pastorale_ (in pastoral, _i.e._, in simple and unaffected style) _pomposo_ (pompously) _scherzando_ } _scherzo_ } (jokingly) _sotto voce_ (with subdued voice) We shall close our discussion of the subject of dynamics with a brief presentation of a few practical matters with which every amateur conductor should be familiar. The _pianissimo_ of choruses and orchestras is seldom soft enough. The extreme limit of soft tone is very effective in both choral and orchestral music, and most conductors seem to have no adequate notion of _how soft_ the tone may be made in such passages. This is especially true of chorus music in the church service; and even the gospel singer Sankey is said to have found that the softest rather than the loudest singing was spiritually the most impressive.[18] [Footnote 18: On the other hand, the criticism has been made in recent years that certain orchestral conductors have not sufficiently taken into consideration the size and acoustics of the auditoriums in which they were conducting, and have made their _pianissimos_ so soft that nothing at all could be heard in the back of the room. In order to satisfy himself that the tone is as soft as possible, and yet that it is audible, it will be well for the conductor to station some one of good judgment in the back of the auditorium during the concert, this person later reporting to the conductor in some detail the effect of the performance.] _Pianissimo_ singing or playing does not imply a slower tempo, and in working with very soft passages the conductor must be constantly on guard lest the performers begin to "drag." If the same virile and spirited response is insisted upon in such places as is demanded in ordinary passages, the effect will be greatly improved, and the singing moreover will not be nearly so likely to fall from the pitch. The most important voice from the standpoint of melody must in some way be made to stand out above the other parts. This may be done in two ways: 1. By making the melody louder than the other parts. 2. By subduing the other parts sufficiently to make the melody prominent by contrast. The second method is frequently the better of the two, and should more frequently be made use of in ensemble music than is now the case in amateur performance. The conductor of the Russian Symphony Orchestra, Modeste Altschuler, remarks on this point: A melody runs through every piece, like a road through a country hillside. The art of conducting is to clear the way for this melody, to see that no other instruments interfere with those which are at the moment enunciating the theme. It is something like steering an automobile. When the violins, for instance, have the tune, I see to it that nobody hurries it or drags it or covers it up. In polyphonic music containing imitative passages, the part having the subject must be louder than the rest, especially at its first entrance. This is of course merely a corollary of the general proposition explained under number three, above. In vocal music the accent and crescendo marks provided by the composer are often intended merely to indicate the proper pronunciation of some part of the text. Often, too, they assist in the declamation of the text by indicating the climax of the phrase, _i.e._, the point of greatest emphasis. The dynamic directions provided by the composer are intended to indicate only the broader and more obvious effects, and it will be necessary for the performer to introduce many changes not indicated in the score. Professor Edward Dickinson, in referring to this matter in connection with piano playing, remarks:[19] After all, it is only the broader, more general scheme of light and shade that is furnished by the composer; the finer gradations, those subtle and immeasurable modifications of dynamic value which make a composition a palpitating, coruscating thing of beauty, are wholly under the player's will. [Footnote 19: Dickinson, _The Education of a Music Lover_, p. 123.] In concluding our discussion of dynamics, let us emphasize again the fact that all expression signs are relative, never absolute, and that _piano_, _crescendo_, _sforzando_, _et cetera_, are not intended to convey to the performer any definite degree of power. It is because of misunderstanding with regard to this point that dynamic effects are so frequently overdone by amateurs, both conductors and performers seeming to imagine that every time the word _crescendo_ occurs the performers are to bow or blow or sing at the very top of their power; and that _sforzando_ means a violent accent approaching the effect of a blast of dynamite, whether occurring in the midst of a vigorous, spirited movement, or in a tender lullaby. Berlioz, in the treatise on conducting appended to his monumental work on Orchestration, says:[20] A conductor often demands from his players an exaggeration of the dynamic nuances, either in this way to give proof of his ardor, or because he lacks fineness of musical perception. Simple shadings then become thick blurs, accents become passionate shrieks. The effects intended by the poor composer are quite distorted and coarsened, and the attempts of the conductor to be artistic, however honest they may be, remind us of the tenderness of the ass in the fable, who knocked his master down in trying to caress him. [Footnote 20: Berlioz, _A Treatise on Modern Instrumentation and Orchestration_, p. 255.] CHAPTER VII INTERPRETATION IN CONDUCTING (_Concluded_) TIMBRE, PHRASING, _ET CETERA_ [Sidenote: IMPORTANCE OF TIMBRE IN INTERPRETATION] Having devoted considerable space to discussing the two expressional elements for which the composer is mainly responsible, let us now present briefly certain matters connected with the other six elements in our list (see p. 46). The two described as being partly controlled by composer and partly by the interpreter are timbre and phrasing, and we shall accordingly treat these first. Timbre or tone-quality is less important than either tempo or dynamics, and is obviously less under the control of the conductor. The vocalist may be induced to sing more loudly or the violinist to play more rapidly, but it is often impossible to get either to so modify his actual tone quality as to make his rendition more expressive. And yet, in spite of this difficulty, there are many passages in both choral and orchestral music in which the essential significance depends absolutely upon beauty or ugliness or plaintiveness or boldness of tone; and especially in choral music is it possible for the conductor to induce his chorus to bring out many more such effects than is usually done. A positively ugly and raspy vocal tone may convey a certain dramatic effect that no mere variation in dynamics is able to bring about, an example of this being found in the _Chorus of People_ who sing at various points in the cantata by Dubois called _The Seven Last Words of Christ_. Another very short passage of the same sort is found in Stainer's _Crucifixion_ in the scene at the cross. Mr. Coward has written more in detail upon this point than anyone else, and we may well quote his discussion of the topic "characterization."[21] [Footnote 21: Coward, _Choral Technique and Interpretation_, p. 73.] One of the distinguishing features of modern choral technique is what I term "characterization," or realism of the sentiment expressed in the music. Formerly this kind of singing was tabooed to such an extent that when in rehearsals and at concerts I induced the Sheffield Musical Union to sing with graphic power musicians of the old school voted me a mad enthusiast, extravagant, theatrical, ultra, and many other things of the same sort. These people wondered why I wanted variety of tone color--who had ever heard of such a demand from a choir?--and many of my friends even thought I was demanding too much when, in rehearsing Berlioz's _Faust_, I asked for something harder in tone than the usual fluty, mellifluous sound in order to depict the hearty laugh of the peasants in the first chorus. They were almost scandalized when I asked for a somewhat raucous, devil-may-care carousal, tone in the "Auerbach's Wine-cellar" scene, and when a fiendish, snarling utterance was called for in the "Pandemonium" scene they thought I was mad. However, the performance settled all these objections. It was seen by contrast how ridiculous it was for a choir to laugh like Lord Dundreary with a sort of throaty gurgle; how inane it was to depict wine-cellar revelry with voices suggesting the sentimental drawing-room tenor, and how insipid it was to portray fiendish glee within hell's portals with the staid decorum of a body of local preachers of irreproachable character. Of course the battle in the rehearsal room had to be fought sternly inch by inch, but frequent trials, approval of the progress shown, and brilliant success at the concert won the day. It was so convincing that many said they could taste wine and smell brimstone.... Contrasts of tone-color, contrasts of differently placed choirs, contrasts of sentiment--love, hate, hope, despair, joy, sorrow, brightness, gloom, pity, scorn, prayer, praise, exaltation, depression, laughter, and tears--in fact all the emotions and passions are now expected to be delineated by the voice alone. It may be said, in passing, that in fulfilling these expectations choral singing has entered on a new lease of life. Instead of the cry being raised that the choral societies are doomed, we shall find that by absorbing the elixir of _characterization_ they have renewed their youth; and when the shallow pleasures of the picture theater and the empty elements of the variety show have been discovered to be unsatisfying to the normal aspirations of intellectual, moral beings, the social, healthful, stimulating, intellectual, moral, and spiritual uplift of the choral society will be appreciated more than ever.... Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains, Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains. Before stating how to produce the laugh, the sob, the sigh, the snarl, the moan, bell effects, ejaculations and "trick-singing," all of which come under the head of _characterization_, I would say that if an ultra thing is undertaken it must be done boldly. The spirit of the old rhyme above quoted must be acted upon, or fear will paralyze the efforts put forth, and failure will be the result. In choral singing, as in other things, the masculinity of the doing, the boldness, the daring, the very audacity with which an extreme effect is produced, carries success with it. Therefore do not attempt a daring thing feebly or by halves. [Sidenote: TIMBRE IN INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC] In instrumental music, timbre is also a highly potent influence in arousing emotional states, and we are all familiar with the fact that an oboe passage is often associated with the simplicity of outdoor rural life; that a melody for English horn has somehow become connected with mournful thoughts; the sound of trumpets, with martial ideas; and the grunting of the lower register of the bassoon, with comic effects. It is well known, also, that the skilful violinist can cause his instrument to sound an infinite variety of shades of color. But these means of expression are almost wholly under the control of the individual players and of the composer (as orchestrator), and cannot therefore be profitably discussed in a work on conducting. [Sidenote: PHRASING] The phrase in music is very similar to the phrase in language. In both cases, it is a thought (usually incomplete and forming a part of some larger idea) which must be slightly separated from the preceding and following phrases, that it may be correctly understood; yet must be so rendered in relation to the neighboring material as to seem an integral part of the whole. In addition, it is of course necessary to emphasize the important words in a language phrase and the most significant tones in a musical one, as well as to subordinate the comparatively unimportant parts, in such a way that the real significance of the whole may be clear. Phrasing is thus readily seen to be an extremely important factor in the expressive reading of language, since one could scarcely interpret intelligibly if he did not first of all read as a group the words that belong together as a thought; and one could certainly not convey the correct idea of the group to a listener if the most important words in it were not stressed so as to stand out more vividly than the others. Although not so readily understood because of the absence of symbolism, phrasing is quite as important an element in the expressive rendition of music as it is in the case of language. In order to interpret properly the conductor must first of all determine what tones belong together in a group; must make the individuality of these groups evident by slightly separating them, but usually not to the degree of disturbing the basic rhythmic flow; and must so manage the _dynamics_ and _tempo_ of each phrase as to make its content clear to the listener. Many phrases are so constructed that their proper delivery involves a gradual _crescendo_ up to the climax (usually the highest tone) and a corresponding _diminuendo_ from this point to the end of the phrase. [Sidenote: PHRASING IN VOCAL MUSIC] In vocal music, the matter of phrasing is comparatively simple because here the composer has, in general, adapted the melody to the phrasing of the text; and since in language we have definite ideas and concrete imagery to assist us, all that we usually need to do in studying the phrasing of vocal music is to follow carefully the phrasing of the text. But even then a warning ought perhaps to be given the young conductor regarding carelessness or ignorance on the part of singers about some of the most fundamental principles of phrasing. The most common mistakes made are: 1. Taking breath unnecessarily in the middle of a phrase. 2. Breathing between the syllables of a word. 3. Dividing a long phrase improperly. 4. Running over breathing places where a pause is really necessary in order to bring out the meaning of the text. 5. Pronouncing the unaccented syllable of a word at the end of a phrase with too much stress. 6. Failing to stress the climax sufficiently. Mistakes of this kind are made because the singer all too frequently fails to recognize the fact that the interpretation of vocal music must be based upon the meaning of the text rather than upon purely musical considerations (_cf._ quotation from Caruso on page 44). A comma or rest ordinarily indicates the end of a phrase in vocal music. If, however, the phrase as marked is too long to be taken in one breath, the conductor should study it carefully for some point in it where another breath may be taken without too greatly marring the continuity of the text. Sometimes in a large chorus various sections of a division may take breath at different points, thus preserving the integrity of the phrase in certain cases where this is particularly desirable. It should be noted that when a breath is taken in the middle of a phrase or between the phrases where no rest occurs, the time for breathing must always be taken from the last note of the _preceding_ phrase, in order that the continuity of the rhythm may not be sacrificed. The importance of studying phrasing from the standpoint of the effective rendition of sacred music will be realized more vividly if one takes the trouble to inquire of some of the members of the congregation how well they understood the words of the anthem or solo. The replies that will ordinarily be given to such a question will probably astonish the director of the church choir; and although he will sometimes be inclined to put the blame on the ears and minds of the congregation, there is no doubt that in very many cases the difficulty may be traced to poor enunciation and faulty phrasing on the part of the singers. The following examples are reported to be authentic instances of phrasing by church choirs: Jesus lives no longer now, Can thy terrors, Death, appall us? The poet had quite a different thought in mind when he penned these words, with the correct punctuation marks: Jesus lives! no longer now Can thy terrors, Death, appall us! The wild winds hushed the angry deep, Sank like a little child to sleep. What this verse means is, of course, easily seen by inserting the correct punctuation marks: The wild winds hushed; the angry deep Sank like a little child to sleep. [Sidenote: PHRASING IN INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC] In instrumental music we have no definite ideas and no concrete imagery to guide us; and the conductor, in company with all other students of instrumental music, will find it necessary to study his score most carefully if he is to unravel the threads that are woven together in such complex fashion in orchestral music. As implied above, phrasing in instrumental music means: 1. The grouping together of tones that belong to the same musical thought, this implying a slight break in continuity between phrases, as in language. 2. Making evident the musical significance of the group by accenting or prolonging its most important tones. These are only general principles, however, and the details of phrasing in instrumental music cannot be treated adequately in writing because of their too great complexity. It is only through practice, reinforced by the intelligent criticism of a real musician, that skill and taste in the art of phrasing can be acquired. A few concrete suggestions are offered, and these may be of some slight help to the amateur, but they are not to be thought of as "a complete guide." 1. The first tone of the phrase is often stressed slightly in order to mark the beginning of the new idea. 2. The final tone (particularly of the short phrase) is commonly shortened in order to make clear the separation between phrases. 3. The climacteric tone of the phrase is often prolonged slightly as well as accented, in order to make its relationship to the other tones stand out clearly. [Sidenote: RHYTHM] Closely connected with phrasing is rhythm, and although the rhythmic factor should perhaps theoretically belong wholly to the composer, since he is able to express his rhythmic ideas in definite notation, yet in actual practice this does not prove to be the case because the amateur player or singer so often finds that "time is hard"; and there are consequently many occasions when the rhythm indicated by the composer is wholly distorted, either because the performers are weak in their rhythmic feeling or because the conductor is careless and does not see to it that the rhythmic response of his chorus or orchestra is accurate and incisive and yet elastic. Rhythm is the oldest of the musical elements and there is no question but that the rhythmic appeal is still the strongest of all for the majority of people. Rhythm is the spark of life in music, therefore, woe to the composer who attempts to substitute ethereal harmonies for virile rhythms as a general principle of musical construction. Mere tones, even though beautiful both in themselves and through effective combination, are meaningless, and it is only through rhythm that they become vitalized. In order to have interesting performances of choral and orchestral music the conductor must see to it that the performers play or sing all rhythmic figures correctly, that long tones are sustained for their correct duration, and that in general the musical performance be permeated by that steady throb of regular pulsation which is the foundation of all rhythmic coherence. Modern musical rhythm is so complex in its frequent employment of syncopations, "cross accents," _et cetera_, that the prospective conductor must study indefatigably if he is to unravel its apparently inextricably snarled-up threads. We assume, however, that detailed study of rhythm has constituted a part of the student's work in piano, singing, _et cetera_, and shall therefore not attempt to treat the matter further. Let us advise the would-be conductor, however, to continue his study of rhythm and phrasing unceasingly and never to allow himself to be deluded into believing that an accurate knowledge of these things is less necessary now than formerly. It has seemed to us that some public performers of the present day were cloaking their inability to play or sing with rhythmic accuracy under a pretense of being highly artistic and flexible in their rhythmic feeling. Needless to say, the existence of such a state of affairs is to be greatly deplored and the student is admonished to make sure that he is able to perform every detail of his music with metronomic accuracy before he attempts _rubato_ effects. [Sidenote: MELODY, HARMONY, AND PITCH REGISTERS] The second, third, and fourth of the elements of expression as cited in our list on page 46 belong almost wholly to the composer since he is able to indicate them precisely, and the conductor's chief concern in dealing with melody, harmony, and pitch registers will be to make certain that the composer's wishes are carried out to the letter. For this reason no attempt will be made to discuss these matters further, the topic belonging to composition rather than to conducting. [Sidenote: PHYSICAL MEANS USED BY THE CONDUCTOR FOR INDICATING EXPRESSIONAL EFFECTS] Now that we have reviewed the elements of expression somewhat fully, what of the conductor? Shall we give him a set of specific directions for making his chorus or orchestra sing or play more loudly or more rapidly or more dramatically? Our reply is--no, not any more than we should attempt to show the student of acting or oratory exactly what gestures he is to make use of in playing upon the emotions of his audience. As implied at the outset, the thing that is necessary in both cases is that the interpreter have: 1. General scholarship. 2. An intimate acquaintance with the content and spirit of the particular work to be interpreted. Granting the presence of these two things, the actual gestures will usually take care of themselves. The conductor Altschuler remarks on this point: There is no artificial code of signals needed between the conductor and his men; what the conductor needs is a clear conception of the composition. We are fully in accord with this sentiment; but for the benefit of the tyro it may be well to note again that, in general, a quickening of tempo is indicated by a shorter, more vigorous stroke of the baton, whereas a slowing down in rate of speed, especially when accompanied by a letting down of emotional intensity, involves a longer, more flowing movement, with more back stroke. Louder tone is often indicated by the clenched fist, the _fortissimo_ effect at the climacteric point often involving a strong muscular contraction in the entire body; while softer tone is frequently called for by holding the left hand out with palm down, by loosening the grip upon the baton, and by a generally relaxed condition of the entire body. Dynamic changes are also indicated to a certain extent by the amplitude of the beat and by the position of the hands. In calling for a _pianissimo_ effect, the conductor usually gives short beats with the hands close together (if the left hand is also used), but in demanding _fortissimo_ the beat is usually of much greater amplitude, and the hands, therefore, widely separated. For the swell ([crescendo-decrescendo symbol]) the hands are usually close together at the beginning, are then gradually separated as far as possible, coming together again at the end of the _decrescendo_. Changes in quality are perhaps most frequently suggested by variation in the facial expression, poise of body, _et cetera_, while phrasing is often indicated by a movement of the left hand (thus signaling some part to begin or stop) or by a lifting of the arms and shoulders at the breathing point, thus simulating the action of the lungs in taking breath, and causing the singers or players actually to take a breath by instinctive imitation. The manner in which the baton is grasped and manipulated is of course another way of indicating these various expressional effects, this being especially noticeable in the case of phrasing, which is perhaps most often indicated by simply raising the baton higher at the end of a phrase, thus preparing it for a longer sweep at the beginning of the following phrase. But all of these things are done in different ways by various conductors, and no set rules can therefore be formulated. The most important point to be noted by the beginner in conducting is that one must not direct with merely the hand and arm, but must use the entire body from head to toe in communicating to his chorus or orchestra his own emotion. Facial expression, the manner of grasping the baton, the set of the shoulders, the elevation of the chest, the position of the feet, the poise of the head--all these must he indicative of the emotional tone of the music being rendered. But be sure you feel a genuine emotion which leads you to do these various things, and do not play to the audience by going through all kinds of contortions that are not prompted at all by the meaning of the music, but are called into existence entirely by the conductor's desire to have the audience think that he is a great interpreter. If the conductor does his work at any point in such a fashion that the audience watches him and is filled with marvel and admiration because of the interesting movements that he is making, instead of listening to the chorus or orchestra and being thrilled by the beautiful music that is being heard, then that conductor is retarding rather than advancing the progress of art appreciation; in short he is failing in his mission. One of the sincerest compliments that the writer has ever received came when he asked his wife whether he had conducted well at a certain public performance, and she replied that she guessed it was all right, but that she had been so absorbed in listening to the music that she had not thought of him at all! The development of modern orchestral and operatic music has brought about a tremendous change in the prominence of the conductor, and there is no doubt but that his part in musical performance is now more important than that of any other type of interpreter, being probably second in importance only to that of the composer. From having been originally a mere time-beater, he has now come to be the interpreter _par excellence_; and as Weingartner remarks (_op. cit._, p. 9) in referring to Wagner's conducting: He is often able to transform as if by magic a more or less indefinite sound picture into a beautifully shaped, heart-moving vision, making people ask themselves in astonishment how it is that this work which they had long thought they knew should have all at once become quite another thing. And the unprejudiced mind joyfully confesses, "Thus, thus, must it be." It will soon be discovered by the amateur that in every case where an effect such as that described by Weingartner has been brought about, it is because the conductor has studied the music and has then made gestures which were prompted by his sympathetic response to the thought of the composer. In other words, the conducting was effective because the feeling which prompted the gestures came from within, as is always the case when an orator or an actor moves us deeply. This is what is meant by interpretation in conducting; and we can scarcely do better, in concluding our discussion of the whole matter, than to quote once more from a writer to whom we have already referred.[22] [Footnote 22: C.F.A. Williams, _The Rhythm of Modern Music_, p. 18.] The great interpreters of instrumental music are those who can most nearly enter into the composer's ideals, or can even improve upon them, and who are able to give a delicacy or force of accentuation or phrasing which it is outside of the possibility of notation to express.... The days of cold, classical performance of great works are practically over. The executant or conductor now seeks to stir the deeper emotions of his audience, and to do so he must pay homage to the artist who conceived the work, by interpreting it with enthusiasm and warmth. CHAPTER VIII THE SUPERVISOR OF MUSIC AS CONDUCTOR [Sidenote: THE FIELD OF SCHOOL MUSIC] The phenomenal progress which has been made during recent years in the music departments of both the grades and the high schools of our great public educational systems, together with the fact that a large number of young men and women of real musical ability are entering the field of public school music as a life work, make it seem worth while to include a chapter upon the work of the music supervisor as conductor. The writer has long contended that the public school systems of this country offered the most significant opportunity for influencing the musical taste of a nation that has ever existed. If this be true, then it is highly important that the teachers of music in these school systems shall be men and women who are, in the first place, thoroughly trained musicians; in the second place, broadly educated along general lines; and in the third place, imbued with a knowledge concerning, and a spirit of enthusiasm for, what free education along cultural lines is able to accomplish in the lives of the common people. In connection with this latter kind of knowledge, the supervisor of music will, of course, need also to become somewhat intimately acquainted with certain basic principles and practical methods of both general pedagogy and music education. We are not writing a treatise on music in the public schools, and shall therefore not attempt to acquaint the reader, in the space of one chapter, with even the fundamental principles of school music teaching. We shall merely call attention to certain phases of the supervisor's work that seem to come within the scope of a book on conducting. [Sidenote: DIFFICULTIES INVOLVED IN TEACHING LARGE GROUPS] The first point that we should like to have noted in this connection is that teaching a group of from forty to one hundred children all at the same time is a vastly different matter from giving individual instruction to a number of pupils separately. The teacher of a class needs to be much more energetic, much more magnetic, much more capable of keeping things moving and of keeping everyone interested in the work and therefore out of mischief; he needs, in short, to possess in high degree those qualities involved in leadership and organization that were cited in an earlier chapter as necessary for the conductor in general. In teaching individual pupils one need not usually think of the problem of _discipline_ at all; but, in giving instruction to a class of from thirty to forty children in the public schools, one inevitably finds in the same group those with musical ability and those without it; those who are interested in the music lesson and those who are indifferent or even openly scornful; those who are full of energy and enthusiasm and those who are lazy and indifferent and will do only what they are made to do; those who have had lessons on piano or violin and have acquired considerable proficiency in performance, and those who have just come in from an outlying rural school where no music has ever been taught, and are therefore not able to read music, have no musical perception or taste whatsoever, and are frequently not even able to "carry a tune." In dealing with such heterogeneous classes, problems of discipline as well as problems of pedagogy are bound to arise, and it requires rare tact and skill in working out details of procedure, as well as a broad vision of the ultimate end to be accomplished, to bring order out of such musical chaos. And yet precisely this result is being secured by hundreds of music teachers and supervisors all over the country; and the musical effects of a fifteen-minute daily practice period are already surprisingly evident, and will undoubtedly become more and more manifest as the years go by. The outlook for the future is wholly inspiring indeed; and no musician need fear that in taking up public school music he is entering upon a field of work which is too small for one of his caliber. The only question to be asked in such a case is whether the teacher in question is big enough and is sufficiently trained along musical, general, and pedagogical lines to handle this important task in such fashion as to insure a result commensurate with the opportunity. [Sidenote: THE ADVANTAGES OF AN ATTRACTIVE PERSONALITY] Charm of personality has a great deal to do with the success of many directors of children's singing. School superintendents are well aware of this fact, and of two equally capable candidates for a school position (especially one involving work with small children) the supervisor who is attractive in appearance and neat in attire, is almost sure to be chosen. We mention this fact not in order to discourage those not possessing an average amount of personal charm, but to encourage them to take physical exercise, and by other means to increase the attractiveness of their physical appearance; to enhance their charm further by tasteful dress; and most important of all, to cultivate a sprightly and cheerful attitude (but not a patronizing and gushing manner) toward children as well as adults. Attractiveness of personality may be increased further by the cultivation of refined language and a well-modulated voice in speaking, as well as by schooling oneself in the habitual use of the utmost courtesy in dealing with all people. [Sidenote: DIRECTING YOUNG CHILDREN] In the lower grades, it is best not to conduct formally with baton in hand, but rather to stand (or sit) before the class, and by facial expression, significant gesture, bodily pose, _et cetera_, arouse an appropriate response to the "expression" of the song. Every song tells a story of some sort and even little children can be caused to sing with surprisingly good "expression" if the teacher makes a consistent effort to arouse the correct mental and emotional attitude toward each individual song every time it is sung. [Sidenote: DIRECTING OLDER CHILDREN] In teaching a class of older children, it is well for the supervisor to stand at the front of the room with baton in hand, giving the conventional signals for attack and release and beating time in the usual way during at least a part of each song in order that the children may become accustomed to following a conductor's beat. It is not necessary to beat time constantly, and the teacher, after giving the signal for the attack and setting the tempo, may lower the baton, until a _fermata_, or a _ritardando_, or the final tone of the song makes its use necessary again. A word of warning should perhaps be inserted at this point against tapping with the baton, counting aloud, beating time with the foot, _et cetera_, on the teacher's part. These various activities may occasionally be necessary, in order to prevent dragging, to change the tempo, to get a clear and incisive rhythmic response in a certain passage, _et cetera_; but their habitual employment is not only exceedingly inartistic, but is positively injurious to the rhythmic sense of the children, because it takes away from them the opportunity (or rather necessity) of each one making his own individual muscular response to the rhythm of the music. The more responsibility the teacher takes, the less the pupils will assume, and in this way they are deprived of the practice which they need in working out the rhythm for themselves, the result often being that a group of children get to the point where they cannot "keep time" at all unless some one counts aloud or pounds the desk with a ruler as an accompaniment to their singing. [Sidenote: THE SELECTION OF MUSIC FOR GRADE CHILDREN] A very large element in the success of all public performances is the selection of just the right type of music. In the case of small children, unison songs with attractive music and childlike texts should be chosen. When the children are somewhat older (from eight or nine to twelve) longer and more elaborate unison songs provided with musicianly accompaniments may be selected, while rounds and unaccompanied part songs are effective by way of contrast. In the case of upper-grade children, part songs (sometimes even with a bass part, if there are enough changed voices to carry it successfully) are best. But it should be noted that the voices in these upper grades are not usually so clear and brilliant as they have been in the two or three preceding years, the beauty and brilliancy of the child's voice culminating at about the Sixth Grade. [Sidenote: THE HIGH SCHOOL CHORUS IN PUBLIC] In planning public performances for a high school chorus, many difficult questions arise. Shall the program consist of miscellaneous selections or of a connected work? If the latter, shall it be of the operatic type, involving action, scenery, and costumes, or shall it be of the cantata or oratorio type? And if the latter, shall heavy works like the _Messiah_ and _Elijah_ be given, or shall our efforts be confined to presenting the shorter and simpler modern works which are musically interesting and in the rendition of which the immature voices of adolescent boys and girls are not so likely to be strained? A discussion of these matters properly belongs in a treatise on public school music, and we can only state our belief here that, in general, the _musical_ development of the children will be more directly fostered by practice upon choral rather than upon operatic works; and that extreme care must be exercised by the high school chorus director in handling immature voices lest they be strained in the enthusiasm of singing music written for mature adult voices. Whether this implies the entire elimination of the _Messiah_ and other similar works, is left to the discretion of each individual supervisor, it being our task merely to point out the responsibility of the high school chorus director for recognizing the difference between mature voices and immature ones. [Sidenote: THE PUBLIC PERFORMANCE] In giving public performances with a large group of small children, the director will need to learn that it is necessary to teach in advance the precise shading to be employed at the performance. In working with an adult chorus, the conductor expects every singer to watch him closely throughout the selection, and many slight changes of tempo and dynamics are made at the performance that have perhaps never been thought of during the rehearsal. But children are usually not able to keep their minds on the task in hand to this extent, and if there is to be a _ritardando_ or a _crescendo_ at a certain point, the only safe thing is to teach this change in tempo or dynamics when first taking up the song, so that the expressional element may become a habit in the same way as the tones and rhythms. This is particularly necessary in teaching the same songs to several different groups separately in preparation for a public performance in which various groups that have not practised together are to sing the same numbers. [Sidenote: ATTITUDE OF THE CONDUCTOR AT THE PERFORMANCE] The conductor must always appear cheerful and confident when conducting children (or for that matter, adults) in public, for if he seems anxious and distressed, or worse yet, if he informs the singers that he is afraid that they will not do well, his uneasiness is almost sure to be communicated to the performers and there will probably be a panic and perhaps even a breakdown. If the conductor seriously feels that the compositions to be performed have not been rehearsed sufficiently, it will be far better for him either to insist upon extra rehearsals (even at considerable inconvenience), or else upon a postponement of the performance. A good rule to follow in preparing for a public performance of any kind is this: _Go through the work over and over until it is done correctly; then go through it enough times more to fix this correct way in mind and muscle as a habit._ Too many performances are given upon an inadequate rehearsal basis, and it has happened again and again that performers have been so busy watching the notes that they have had no time to watch the conductor, and the rendition of really beautiful music has been made in a tame, groping, and consequently uninteresting manner. Our American impatience with slow processes of any sort is as often to blame here as the negligence of the conductor, the latter often arranging to have a performance at an earlier date than he really wishes to because he knows that his chorus will become impatient with the large number of repetitions that a really artistic performance requires. [Sidenote: THE HIGH SCHOOL CHORUS] In directing a large high school chorus (sometimes numbering from five hundred to fifteen hundred singers), the conductor will find it necessary to study his score in advance even more than usual, for here he is dealing with large numbers of bright and lively American boys and girls, many of whom are not particularly interested in the chorus practice and all of whom love to indulge in mischievous pranks of various sorts. The conductor who is likely to be most successful in handling such a chorus is he who, other things being equal, has prepared his work most thoroughly and is able to conduct without looking at his music at all, and who can, therefore, keep things moving throughout the rehearsal period. We might add that if he does not keep things moving _musically_, the students in his chorus will keep them moving along other and probably less desirable lines! [Sidenote: SEATING THE HIGH SCHOOL CHORUS] Many other topics might be discussed in this chapter but the subject is too complex for adequate treatment except in a work dealing with this one subject alone. Let us, therefore, close the chapter by giving a plan for seating the high school chorus that has been found effective in various schools where it has been used. [Illustration: SEATING PLAN FOR A HIGH SCHOOL CHORUS -------------------------------------- Mezzo-soprano | Mezzo-soprano girls | girls singing soprano | singing alto ------------------+------------------- Girl | | Baritones | Girl Sopranos | Tenors | and | Altos ---------+ | Basses +------- Boy | | | Boy Sopranos | | | Altos ---------+--------+-----------+------- +--------+ +-----+ |Director| |Piano| +--------+ +-----+] The advantages of the plan given above are: 1. That it places the boys in front where their less developed voices and often smaller numbers will insure better balance,[23] and where also the teacher can more easily see what is going on in their midst. 2. It places all the boys in the same part of the room and thus removes the chief objection that boys with unchanged voices make to singing soprano and alto. There will probably not be a great number of these unchanged voices in any ordinary high school chorus, but there are almost certain to be a few, and these few should not be attempting to sing tenor or bass when their voice-range is still that of soprano or alto. 3. By placing the _mezzo_ voices (of which variety there are usually more than of any other) between the sopranos and altos, they can be used on either the soprano or alto part, as may be necessitated by the range and dynamic demands of the composition in hand. In seating these _mezzo-soprano_ girls the teacher may furthermore allow those who, although having _mezzo_ voices, prefer to sing the alto part, to sit on the side next to the alto section and the others on the side next to the soprano section. If there are any boys with unchanged voices who are _mezzo_ in range, they may be seated directly back of the bass section, thus keeping them in the boys' division and yet giving them an opportunity of singing with those who have the same range as themselves. [Footnote 23: The essentials of this same plan of seating are recommended to adult choruses for a like reason; _viz._, in order to enable a smaller number of men's voices to balance a larger number of sopranos and altos by placing the men in the most prominent position, instead of seating them back of the women, as is so frequently done.] As will be noted in the plan, the conductor stands directly in front of the basses, the piano being placed on either side as may be most convenient, the pianist, of course, facing the conductor. In directing a large chorus, it is a great advantage to have two pianos, one on either side. CHAPTER IX THE COMMUNITY CHORUS CONDUCTOR [Sidenote: THE SIGNIFICANCE OF COMMUNITY MUSIC] The recent rise of community music has evoked no little controversy as to whether art can be made "free as air" and its satisfactions thrown open to all, poor as well as rich; or whether it is by its very nature exclusive and aristocratic and therefore necessarily to be confined largely to the few. We are inclined to the former belief, and would therefore express the opinion that in our efforts to bring beauty into the lives of all the people, we are engaged in one of the most significant musico-sociological enterprises ever inaugurated. For this reason we shall discuss at this point ways and means of securing satisfactory results in one of the most interesting phases of community music, _viz._, the community chorus. The development of the community chorus (and indeed to a certain extent, the whole movement to bring music and the other arts into the lives of the proletariat) is due to a combination of artistic and sociological impulses; and it undoubtedly owes its origin and success as much to the interest in the living and social problems of the middle and lower classes, which the recently developed science of sociology has aroused, as it does to purely musical impulses. Because of the fact that community music is a sociological phenomenon as well as an artistic one, the director of a community chorus must possess a combination of artistic and personal traits not necessarily present in the case of other musicians. In particular, he must be a good mixer as well as a good musician; and if one or the other of these qualities has to be sacrificed in some degree in favor of the other, we should be inclined to insist first of all upon the right sort of personal traits in the leader of community music. In order to be really successful in working among the common people, the leader must be one of them in all sincerity of spirit, and must be genuinely in sympathy with their point of view. This fact is especially pertinent in those types of work in which one deals with large masses of men and women. The director of community singing must therefore, first of all, be a good mob leader. But if, having met the people upon their own level, he can now call upon his artistic instincts and his musical training, and by means of a purely esthetic appeal raise his crowd a degree or two higher in their appreciation of music as a fine art, eventually perhaps finding it possible to interest them in a higher type of music than is represented by the songs sung in this friendly and informal way, then he has indeed performed his task with distinction, and may well be elated over the results of his labors. [Sidenote: THE SOCIAL EFFECT OF COMMUNITY SINGING] One of the fundamental reasons for encouraging the use of carols at community Christmas tree celebrations, as well as other similar forms of group singing, is its beneficial effect upon the attitude of the people toward one another and toward their social group or their country. Through singing together in this informal way, each individual in the crowd is apt to be drawn closer to the others, to feel more interested in his neighbors; and in the case of "sings," where the dominating note is patriotism, to become imbued with a deeper spirit of loyalty to country. In very many cases, individuals who formerly would have nothing to do with one another have been drawn together and have become really friendly, as the result of sitting together at a community "sing." Referring to the effect of the first "Song and Light Festival" in New York City, a well-known artist remarked:[24] The movement illustrates plainly to me the coming forth of a new consciousness. Outside the park, strikes, sedition, anarchy, hatred, malice, envy; within, beauty, peace, the sense of brotherhood and harmony.... Community singing is teaching men to find themselves, and to do it in unity and brotherly love. [Footnote 24: Kitty Cheatham, _Musical America_, October 7, 1916.] This same sort of an effect has been noted by us and by innumerable others in many other places, and various testimonies to the beneficial social effect of community singing, neighborhood bands, school orchestras, children's concerts, and similar types of musical activity have come from all parts of the country since the inception of the movement. The impulse to bring music into the lives of all the people is not a fad, but is the result of the working out of a deep-seated and tremendously significant innate tendency--the instinct for self-expression; the same instinct which in another form is making us all feel that democracy is the only sure road to ultimate satisfaction and happiness. It behooves the musician, therefore, to study the underlying bases of the community music movement, and to use this new tool that has been thus providentially thrown into his hands for the advancement of art appreciation, rather than to stand aloof and scoff at certain imperfections and crudities which inevitably are only too evident in the present phase of the movement. [Sidenote: QUALITIES OF THE COMMUNITY SONG LEADER] If the social benefit referred to above,--_viz._, the growth of group feeling and of neighborly interest in one's fellows, is to result from our community singing, we must first of all have leaders who are able to make people feel cheerful and at ease. The community song leader must be able to raise a hearty laugh occasionally, and he must by the magnetism of his personality be able to make men and women who have not raised their voices in song for years past forget their shyness, forget to be afraid of the sound of their own voices, forget to wonder whether anyone is listening, and join heartily in the singing. There is no one way of securing this result; in fact, the same leader often finds it necessary to use different tactics in dealing with different crowds, or for that matter, different methods with the same crowd at different times. The crux of the matter is that the leader must in some way succeed in breaking up the formality, the stiffness of the occasion; must get the crowd to loosen up in their attitude toward him, toward one another, and toward singing. This can often be accomplished by making a pointed remark or two about the song, and thus, by concentrating the attention upon the meaning of the words, make the singers forget themselves. Sometimes having various sections of the crowd sing different stanzas, or different parts of a stanza antiphonally will bring the desired result. By way of variety, also, the women may be asked to sing the verse while the entire chorus joins in the refrain; or the men and women may alternate in singing stanzas; or those in the back of the balcony may repeat the refrain as an echo; or the leader and the crowd may sing antiphonally. In these various ways, considerable rivalry may be aroused in the various sections of a large chorus, and the stiffness and unfriendliness will usually be found to disappear like magic. But if the director is cold and formal in his attitude, and if one song after another is sung in the conventional way with no comment, no anecdote, and no division into sections, the people will be more than likely to go away criticizing the leader or the accompanist or the songs or each other, and the next time the crowd will probably be smaller and the project will eventually die out. The chronic fault-finder will then say, "I told you it was only a fad and that it would not last"; but he is wrong, and the failure must be attributed to poor management rather than to any inherent weakness in the idea itself. [Sidenote: VARIETY OF SONG MATERIAL MADE POSSIBLE BY COMMUNITY SINGING] The majority of people have no opportunity of singing except when they go to church; but many do not go to church often, and even those who go do not always sing, and only have the opportunity of singing one type of music when they do take part. Moreover, for various reasons, the singing of church congregations is not as hearty as it used to be a generation or two ago. The opportunity to spend an hour in singing patriotic hymns, sentimental songs, and occasionally a really fine composition, such as the _Pilgrims' Chorus_ from _Tannhäuser_, is therefore eagerly welcomed by a great many men and women--those belonging to the upper classes as well as the proletariat. When once the barrier of formality has been broken down, such gatherings, especially when directed by a leader who is a good musician as well as a good mixer, may well become the means of interesting many thousands of men and women in the more artistic phases of music; may indeed eventually transform many a community, not only from a crowd of individuals into a homogeneous social group, but may actually change the city or village from a spot where ugliness has reigned supreme to one where the dominating note is beauty--beauty of service as well as beauty of street and garden and public building; and where drama and music, pictures and literature, are the most cherished possessions of the people. In a place which has been so transformed, the "eight hours of leisure" that have so troubled our sociologists will present no problem whatever; for the community chorus, the neighborhood orchestra, the music and dramatic clubs, and the splendid libraries and art galleries will assume most of the burden of providing a worthy use of leisure. [Sidenote: THE NECESSITY OF ADVERTISING] Community "sings" (like everything else that is to achieve success in this age) must be advertised, and to the leader usually falls the lot of acting as advertising manager. It will be well to begin the campaign a month or more before the first "sing" is to be held, sending short articles to the local papers, in which is described the success of similar enterprises in other places. Then a week or so before the "sing," carefully worded announcements should be read in churches, Sunday schools, lodge meetings, and high-school assemblies. In connection with this general publicity, the leader will do well also to talk personally with a large number of men and women in various walks of life, asking these people not only to agree to be present themselves, but urging them to talk about the project to other friends and acquaintances, inviting them to come also. On the day of the first "sing" it may be well to circulate attractively printed handbills as a final reminder, these of course giving in unmistakable language the time and place of the meeting and perhaps stating in bold type that admission is entirely free and that no funds are to be solicited. These various advertising activities will naturally necessitate the expenditure of a small amount of money; but it is usually possible to secure donations or at least reductions of price in the case of printing, hall rental, _et cetera_, and the small amount of actual cash that is needed can usually be raised among a group of interested people without any difficulty. It is our belief that the whole project is more likely to succeed if the leader himself is serving without remuneration, for he will then be easily able to refute any charge that he is urging the project out of selfish or mercenary considerations. [Sidenote: PROVIDING THE WORDS OF SONGS] The leader of community singing must not make the mistake of supposing that "everybody knows _America_, _Swanee River_, and _Old Black Joe_," and that no words need therefore to be provided. As a matter of fact, not more than one person in twenty-five can repeat correctly even one of these songs that "everybody knows," and we may as well recognize this fact at the outset and thus prevent a probable fiasco. There are three ways of placing the songs before our crowd of people: 1. Having the words of all songs to be sung printed on sheets of paper and passing one of these out to each person in the audience. 2. Furnishing a book of songs at a cost of five or ten cents and asking each person in the audience to purchase this book before the "sing" begins, bringing it back each succeeding time. 3. Flashing the words (sometimes the music also) on a screen in front of the assembly. The disadvantage of the last named method is the fact that the auditorium has to be darkened in order that the words may stand out clearly; but in out-of-door singing the plan has very great advantages, being for this purpose perhaps the best of the three. After the chorus has gotten well on its feet, it will probably be best to purchase copies of some larger and more elaborate book, the copies being either owned by individual members or else purchased out of treasury funds, and therefore belonging to the organization. At the first "sing" it will be a distinct advantage if no financial outlay whatever is required of the individuals composing the chorus. [Sidenote: THE ADVANTAGES OF PLANNING IN ADVANCE] In conclusion, let us urge the leader of community singing to decide beforehand just what songs are to be used, and to study the words of these songs carefully so as to be able to imbue the chorus with the correct spirit of each one, having at his tongue's end the story of the song and other pointed remarks about it that will enliven the occasion and keep things from stagnating. He will, of course, frequently find it necessary to modify his plan as the "sing" progresses, for one of the most necessary qualifications in the leader is flexibility and quick wit. But if he has a definite program in mind and knows his material so well that he does not need to look at his book, he will be much more likely to succeed in holding the interest of his chorus throughout the "sing." Let him be sure that a skilful accompanist is at hand to play the piano, perhaps even going to the trouble of meeting the accompanist beforehand and going through all material to be used so as to insure a mutual understanding upon such matters as tempo, _et cetera_. In out-of-door group singing a brass quartet (consisting of two cornets and two trombones, or two cornets, a trombone, and a baritone) is more effective than a piano, but if this is to be done be sure to find players who can transpose, or else write out the parts in the proper transposed keys. When such an accompaniment is to be used, the leader should have at least one rehearsal with the quartet in order that there may be no hitches. [Sidenote: THE MEETING PLACE] If possible, let the "sing" be held, in some hall not connected with any particular group of people, so that all may feel equally at home (there are decided objections to using either a church or a lodge room); and, in giving the invitation for the first meeting, make sure that no group of people shall have any ground whatsoever for feeling slighted, even in the smallest degree. Granting the various factors that we have been recommending, and, most important of all, having provided the right type of leader to take charge of the "sings," the enterprise cannot but have significant results along both musical and sociological lines. CHAPTER X THE ORCHESTRAL CONDUCTOR [Sidenote: DIFFICULTIES INVOLVED IN CONDUCTING A LARGE ORCHESTRA] Conducting an orchestra from full score is a vastly more complicated matter than directing a chorus singing four-part music, and the training necessary in order to prepare one for this task is long and complicated. In addition to the points already rehearsed as necessary for the conductor in general, the leader of an orchestra must in the first place know at least superficially the method of playing the chief orchestral instruments, the advantages and disadvantages involved in using their various registers, the difficulties of certain kinds of execution, and other similar matters which are often referred to by the term _instrumentation_. In the second place, he must understand the combinations of these various instruments that are most effective, and also what registers in certain instruments blend well with others; in other words, he must be familiar with the science of _orchestration_. In the third place, he must understand the complicated subject of _transposing instruments_, and must be able to detect a player's mistakes by reading the transposed part as readily as any other. And finally, he must be able to perform that most difficult task of all, _viz._, to read an orchestral score with at least a fair degree of ease, knowing at all times what each performer is supposed to be playing and whether he is doing the right thing or not. This implies being able to look at the score as a whole and get a fairly definite impression of the total effect; but it also involves the ability to take the score to the piano and assemble the various parts (including the transposed ones) so that all important tones, harmonic and melodic, are brought out. A glance at even a very simple orchestral score such as that found in Appendix B will probably at once convince the reader of the complexity of the task, and will perhaps make him hesitate to "rush in where angels fear to tread" until he has spent a number of years in preparation for the work. [Sidenote: DIRECTING A SMALL ORCHESTRA] The above description has reference, of course, to conducting an orchestra of approximately symphonic dimensions, and does not refer to the comparatively easy task of directing a group consisting of piano, violins, cornet, trombone, and perhaps one or two other instruments that happen to be available.[25] In organizing an "orchestra" of this type, the two most necessary factors are a fairly proficient reader at the piano (which, of course, not only supplies the complete harmony, but also covers a multitude of sins both of omission and of commission), and at least one skilful violinist, who must also be a good reader. Given these two indispensable elements, other parts may be added as players become available; and although the larger the number of wind instruments admitted, the greater the likelihood of out-of-tune playing, yet so great is the fascination of tonal variety that our inclination is always to secure as many kinds of instruments as possible. [Footnote 25: Let us not be misunderstood at this point. We are not sneering at the heterogeneous collections of instruments that are gathered together under the name of _orchestra_ in many of the public schools throughout the country. On the contrary, we regard this rapidly increasing interest in ensemble playing as one of the most significant tendencies that has ever appeared in our American musical life, and as a result of it we expect to see the establishment of many an additional orchestra of symphonic rank, as well as the filling in of existing organizations with American-born and American-trained players. There is no reason why wind players should not be trained in this country as well as in Europe, if we will only make a consistent attempt to interest our children in the study of these instruments while they are young, and provide sufficient opportunity for ensemble practice in connection with our music departments in the public schools.] The chief value to be derived from ensemble practice of this type is not, of course, in any public performances that may be given, but is to be found in the effect upon the performers themselves, and the principal reason for encouraging the organization of all sorts of instrumental groups is in order to offer an opportunity for ensemble playing to as many amateur performers as possible. For this reason, unavoidable false intonation must not be too seriously regarded. An orchestra such as we have been describing is frequently directed by one of the performers; but it is our belief that if the group consists of ten or more players it will be far better to have the conductor stand before the players and direct them with a baton. The type of music that is available for amateur ensemble practice is unfortunately not often accompanied by a full score for the conductor's use, and he must usually content himself with studying the various parts as well as he may before the rehearsal, and then direct from a first violin part (in which the beginnings of all important parts played by other instruments are "cued in"). Directing from an incomplete score is, of course, extremely unsatisfactory from the musician's standpoint, but the necessity of doing it has this advantage, _viz._, that many persons who have charge of small "orchestras" of this type would be utterly unable to follow a full score, and might therefore be discouraged from organizing the group at all. [Sidenote: SEATING THE ORCHESTRA] Symphony orchestras are always seated in approximately the same way, and if our small ensemble group consists of twenty players or more, it will be well for the conductor to arrange them in somewhat the same manner as a larger orchestra. In order to make this clear, the ordinary arrangement of the various parts of a symphony orchestra is here supplied. The position of the wood winds and of the lower strings as well as of the percussion instruments and harp varies somewhat, this depending upon the composition being performed, the idiosyncrasies of the conductor, the size and shape of the platform, _et cetera_. [Illustration: SEATING PLAN OF A SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA] In dealing with a smaller group (not of symphonic dimensions), it will be well to have the piano in the middle, the lower strings at the left, the winds at the right, and the violins in their usual position. The diagram will make this clear. It is to be noted that this seating plan is only suggestive, and that some other arrangement may frequently prove more satisfactory. [Illustration: SEATING PLAN SUGGESTED FOR A SMALL ORCHESTRA] [Sidenote: PROPORTION OF INSTRUMENTS] In a symphony orchestra of about one hundred players, the proportion of instruments is approximately as follows: 1. STRINGS: 18 first violins 16 second violins 14 violas 12 violoncellos 10 double basses 2. WOOD WIND: 3 flutes } 1 piccolo } (Usually only three players) 3 oboes } 1 English horn } (Usually only three players) 3 clarinets } 1 bass clarinet } (Usually only three players) 3 bassoons } 1 double bassoon } (Usually only three players) 3. BRASS WIND: 4 horns (Sometimes 6 or 8) 2 or 3 trumpets (Sometimes 2 cornets also) 3 trombones 1 bass tuba 4. PERCUSSION: 1 bass drum } 1 snare drum } (One player) 3 kettledrums (Of different sizes--one player) 1 triangle } 1 glockenspiel } (One player) 1 pair cymbals } _et cetera_ 1 harp (Sometimes 2) It will be noted that out of about one hundred players almost three-quarters are performers upon stringed instruments, and it is this very large proportion of strings that gives the orchestral tone its characteristic smoothness, its infinite possibilities of dynamic shading, its almost unbelievable agility, and, of course, its inimitable sonority. The wind instruments are useful chiefly in supplying variety of color, and also in giving the conductor the possibility of occasionally obtaining enormous power by means of which to thrill the hearer at climacteric points. Our reason for supplying the above information is mainly in order to direct attention to the small proportion of wind (and especially of brass) instruments, and to warn the amateur conductor not to admit too large a number of cornets and trombones to his organization, lest the resulting effect be that of a band rather than that of an orchestra. If there are available a great many wind instruments and only a few strings, it will probably be better to admit only a few of the best wind instrument players to the orchestra (about two cornets and one trombone) and to organize a band in order to give the rest of the players an opportunity for practice.[26] It will probably be necessary for the conductor to warn his wind players to aim at a more mellow tone than they use when playing in a band, in order that the brass tone may blend with the string tone. In the case of the reed instruments, this will sometimes mean a thinner reed in orchestra work than is used in bands. [Footnote 26: In making plans for the organization of a group of wind instrument players into a band, it should be noted by the conductor that here the entire harmony must be supplied by the individual instruments (no piano being used) thus making it necessary to have alto, tenor, and baritone saxhorns in addition to cornets, clarinets, flutes, and trombones. The tuba is also almost indispensable, while the inclusion of two or three saxophones will greatly increase the mellowness of the effect as well as providing an additional color to make the tonal textures more interesting.] [Sidenote: TRANSPOSING INSTRUMENTS] In dealing with any ensemble group that includes wind instruments, the conductor must master the intricacies involved in the subject of _transposing instruments_, and although this book is not the place to get such technical knowledge as was referred to in the introductory paragraph of this chapter, yet perhaps a brief explanation of the most important points will not be wholly out of place, since we are writing more especially from the standpoint of the amateur. By a transposing instrument we mean one in the case of which the performer either plays from a part that is written in a different key from that of the composition, or that sounds pitches an octave higher or lower than the notes indicate. Thus, _e.g._, in a composition written in the key of E-flat, and actually played in that key by the strings, piano, _et cetera_, the clarinet part would probably be written in the key of F, _i.e._, it would be transposed a whole step upward; but, of course, the actual tones would be in the key of E-flat. The player, in this case, would perform upon a B-flat clarinet--_i.e._, a clarinet sounding pitches a whole step lower than indicated by the notes. (It is called a B-flat clarinet because its fundamental gives us the pitch B-flat--this pitch being a whole-step lower than C; and it is because the pitch sounded is a whole step _lower_ that the music has to be transposed a whole step _higher_ in order to bring it into the correct key when played.) In the case of the clarinet in A, the pitches produced by the instrument are actually a minor third lower than the notes indicate (A is a minor third lower than C, just as B-flat is a whole-step lower). In writing music for clarinet in A, therefore, the music will need to be transposed upward a minor third in order that when played it may be in the right key; just as in the case of the clarinet in B-flat, it has to be transposed upward a whole-step. "Clarinet or cornet in B-flat" means, therefore, an instrument that sounds pitches a whole-step lower than written; "clarinet or cornet in A" means one that sounds pitches a minor third lower than written; "horn in F" means an instrument sounding pitches a perfect fifth lower than written (because F is a perfect fifth below C); while the "clarinet in E-flat" sounds pitches a minor third higher than written. Whether the pitches sounded are higher or lower than the notes indicate will have to be learned by experience or study. If the passage marked Fig. 1 were to be orchestrated so as to give the highest voice to the clarinet and the lowest to the horn, the clarinet and horn parts would appear as shown in Fig. 2. [Music: Fig. 1] [Music: Fig. 2 Clarinet in B-[flat] Horns in F] In order to make this information more specific, we add a table showing the keys of the original and transposed parts. The practical band man expresses the substance of this table tersely by saying, "subtract 3 sharps or 2 flats." ORIGINAL KEY TRANSPOSED KEY KIND OF INSTRUMENT C D B-flat G B-flat A D F A A C A E G A B D A F-sharp A A C-sharp E A F G B-flat B-flat C B-flat E-flat F B-flat A-flat B-flat B-flat D-flat E-flat B-flat G-flat A-flat or A B-flat or A C-flat D-flat B-flat [Sidenote: REASONS FOR TRANSPOSING INSTRUMENTS] The principal reasons for the use of transposing instruments are: first, because certain sizes of instruments produce a better quality of tone than others (_e.g._, the B-flat clarinet sounds better than the C clarinet); and second, because it is easier to play in keys having a smaller number of sharps and flats, and by transposing the parts to other keys, we can usually get rid of several sharps or flats. In the case of performers on the clarinet, each player is necessarily provided with two instruments (an A and a B-flat--the C clarinet being almost obsolete, and the E-flat being used only in military bands); but in playing upon the brass wind instruments the same instrument may be tuned in various keys, either by means of a tuning slide or by inserting separate _shanks_ or _crooks_, these latter being merely additional lengths of tubing by the insertion of which the total length of the tube constituting the instrument may be increased, thus throwing its fundamental pitch into a lower key. In order to gain facility in dealing with transposed parts, the amateur is advised to try his hand at arranging simple music (hymn tunes, folk songs, easy piano pieces, _et cetera_) for his group of players, transposing the parts for clarinets, cornets, _et cetera_, into the appropriate keys. In this way he will also get an insight into the mysteries of instrumental combination that cannot be secured in any other way. [Sidenote: PITCH STANDARDS] The first difficulty that the conductor of an amateur ensemble group usually encounters is that the instruments owned by his players are tuned according to various pitch standards; and he is very likely to find at his first rehearsal that his first-clarinet player has an instrument tuned in "high pitch," _i.e._, what is commonly known as concert pitch (about one half step above standard), while his second-clarinet player has an instrument in "low pitch," _i.e._, international, a´ having 435 vibrations per second. (There is also a third pitch which is used by many of the standard symphony orchestras--this pitch being based upon a vibration rate of 440 for a´). If the conductor attempts to have his orchestra perform under these conditions, disaster will surely overtake him, and he will not only find his ears suffering tortures, but will be more than likely to hear uncomplimentary remarks from the neighbors, and will be fortunate indeed not to be ordered on to the next block or the next town by the police force! The difficulty arises, of course, because the oboe, English horn, clarinet, and other wood-wind instruments are built in a certain fixed pitch, and since the length of the tube cannot be altered, they must either play in the pitch intended or else not at all. In the case of the clarinet and flute, the pitch can be altered a very little by pulling out one of the joints slightly (the tube is made in several sections) thus making the total length slightly greater and the pitch correspondingly lower; but when this is done the higher tones are very apt to be out of tune, and in general, if the player has an instrument tuned in high pitch, he cannot play with an ensemble group having low-pitched instruments, especially when the piano supplies the fundamental harmony. In the case of the brass instruments, a tuning slide is usually provided, and the same instrument can therefore be utilized in either low or high pitch combinations.[27] [Footnote 27: "High pitch" is employed mostly in bands; the reason for its use being that the wind instruments are much more brilliant when tuned to the higher pitch. It is encouraging to be able to state, however, that more and more instruments are being built in "philharmonic pitch" (a´ 440), and the conductor who is organizing a band or orchestra is advised to see to it that all players who are purchasing new instruments insist upon having them built in this pitch.] [Sidenote: TUNING] The conductor of an amateur ensemble group will find it very greatly to his advantage to be able to tune the various instruments, or at least to help the players to do it accurately. This involves not merely a mechanical knowledge of what to do to the instrument to change its pitch, but, what is much more important, a very high degree of pitch discrimination on the conductor's part. It is at this latter point that assistance is most often necessary, and the conductor who can tell his cornet player when he is just a shade high or low, and can determine precisely when the violinist has his strings tuned to an absolutely perfect fifth, will have far less trouble with out-of-tune playing than otherwise; for a great deal of sharping and flatting (particularly in the case of wind instruments) is the result of inaccurate tuning. [Sidenote: BOWING] Since an orchestra contains such a large proportion of stringed instruments it will be very greatly to the interest of the conductor to take up the study of some instrument belonging to the violin family, and to learn to play it at least a little. If this is altogether impracticable at the beginning, the next best thing for him to do is to study bowing, learning not only the bowing signs and their meaning, but familiarizing himself thoroughly with the principles underlying the art. For this purpose some good work on bowing should be studied, but meanwhile a few words on the subject at this point will give the absolute beginner at least a small amount of indispensable information. The signs commonly employed in music for violin, viola, violoncello, and double-bass, to indicate various manners of bowing, are as follows: [down-bow symbol] Down-bow: _i.e._, from nut to point. [up-bow symbol] Up-bow: _i.e._, from point to nut. [slur symbol] Slurred: _i.e._, all notes under the sign played in one bow. [slur over staccato symbol] Staccato: _i.e._, all notes in one bow, but the tones separated. The ordinary staccato mark ([dot staccato symbol] or [wedge staccato symbol]) means a long quick stroke, either up or down as the case may be. The absence of slurs indicates a separate stroke of the bow for each tone. Sometimes the player is directed to use the lower half, the upper half, or the middle of the bow, such directions being given by printing the words "lower half," _et cetera_, above the passage, or by giving the initials of these words (sometimes in German). When no bowing is indicated, a phrase beginning with a weak beat commonly has an up-bow for the first tone, while one beginning on a strong beat has a down-bow; but this principle has many exceptions. It is perhaps needless to state that correct phrasing in the case of the stringed instruments depends upon the employment of suitable bowing; and since the first violin part is most prominent and most important in orchestral music, it becomes the business of the conductor to observe most carefully the bowing of his concert-master and to confer with him about possible changes in bowing wherever necessary. It will save a great deal of confusion if players understand that the bowing is to be exactly as indicated in the score unless a change is definitely made. The first player in each group in point of position on the platform is called the "principal," and is supposed to be the most skilful performer in that section; and he is responsible, in conference with the conductor when necessary, for selecting the best bowing, _et cetera_, all others in the group watching him, and all phrasing as he does. In actual practice, this means that the players at the second desk bow like those at the first, those at the third desk follow those at the second, _et cetera_. Absolute uniformity is thus secured in each section. It should perhaps be remarked at this point that when different groups are playing the same phrase, _e.g._, violoncellos and basses, or second violins and violas, the bowing must be uniform in the two sections, if absolute uniformity of phrasing is to result. In addition to the bowing signs explained on page 103, the conductor should also be familiar with certain other directions commonly found in music for stringed instruments. Some of the most important of these, together with their explanations, are therefore added. _Pizzicato_ (_pizz._) (pluck the string instead of bowing) _Col arco_ (or _arco_) (play with the bow again) _Con sordino_, or } _Avec sourdine_ } (affix the mute to the bridge) _Senza sordino_, or } _Sans sourdine_ } (remove the mute) _Divisi_ (_div._) (divide, _i.e._, let some of the players take one of the two tones indicated and the remainder of them the other one. This direction is of course used only in case two or more notes appear on the staff for simultaneous performance. It is customary to divide such passages by having the players seated on the side next the audience take the higher tone, while the others take the lower. If the section is to be divided into more than two parts, the conductor must designate who is to play the various tones.) [Sidenote: SCORE READING] Reading an orchestral score is a matter for the professional rather than for the amateur; and yet the great increase during recent years in the number of amateur orchestras probably means that more and more of these groups will continue their practice until they are able to play a more difficult class of music--this involving the necessity on the part of their conductors of learning to read an orchestral score. For this reason a few suggestions upon _score reading_ are added as a final paragraph in this chapter, and an example of a score is supplied at the end of the book--Appendix B (p. 166.) The main difficulties involved in reading a full score are: first, training the eye to read from a number of staffs simultaneously and assembling the tones (in the mind or at the keyboard) into chords; and second, transposing into the actual key of the composition those parts which have been written in other keys and including these as a part of the harmonic structure. This latter difficulty may be at least partially overcome by practice in arranging material for orchestra as recommended on page 101; but for the first part of the task, extensive practice in reading voices on several staffs is necessary. The student who is ambitious to become an orchestral conductor is therefore advised, in the first place, not to neglect his Bach during the period when he is studying the piano, but to work assiduously at the two- and three-part inventions and at the fugues. He may then purchase miniature scores of some of the string quartets by Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, training himself to read all four parts simultaneously, sometimes merely trying to hear mentally the successive harmonies as he looks at the score, but most often playing the parts on the piano. After mastering four voices in this way, he is ready to begin on one of the slow movements of a Haydn symphony. In examining an orchestral score, it will be noted at once that the string parts are always together at the bottom of the page, while the wood-wind material is at the top. Since the strings furnish the most important parts of the harmonic structure for so much of the time, our amateur will at first play only the string parts, with the possible addition of the flute, oboe, and certain other non-transposed voices a little later on. But as he gains facility he will gradually be able to take in all the parts and to include at least a sort of summary of them all in his playing. The student is advised to purchase a number of the Haydn and Mozart symphonies either in the form of pocket editions or in the regular conductor's score, and to practise on these until he feels quite sure of himself. By this time he will be ready to try his hand at a modern score, which will be found not only to contain parts for more instruments, but many more divided parts for the strings. Meanwhile, he is, of course, taking every possible opportunity of attending concerts given by symphony orchestras, and is begging, borrowing, or buying the scores of as many of the compositions as possible, studying them in advance, and taking keen delight in following them at the performance; perhaps even imagining himself to be the conductor, and having visions of changes in interpretation that he would like to make if he were directing. As the result of several years of this sort of study, even an amateur may get to the point where he is able to conduct an orchestra from a full score with some degree of skill, and hence with some little satisfaction both to himself and to the performers. [Illustration: TABLE SHOWING RANGES OF ORCHESTRAL INSTRUMENTS _Note:_ The arrangement of instruments here indicated is essentially that found in a modern orchestral score. The ranges given represent practical orchestral usage. Additional tones possible for highly skilled performers or on instruments with certain special keys (like the low _b_ of the flute) are shown in brackets.] CHAPTER XI DIRECTING THE CHURCH CHOIR [Sidenote: THE PROBLEM] In taking up the special problems of conducting involved in directing a church choir, we shall first of all need to consider the dual nature of church music--its religio-artistic aspect, and in studying the matter from this standpoint we shall soon discover that most of the difficulties that have encompassed church music in the past can be traced directly or indirectly to a conflict or a lack of balance between these two factors. The churchman has not been sufficiently interested in the _art_ side of church music, while the music director, organist, and singers have all too frequently been not only entirely out of sympathy with the religious work of the church, but have usually been wholly ignorant concerning the purpose and possibilities of music in the church service. The result in most churches at the present time is either that the music is vapid or even offensive from the art standpoint; or else that it emphasizes the purely artistic side so strongly that it entirely fails to perform its function as an integral part of a service whose _raison d'être_ is, of course, to inculcate religious feeling. "The church wishes for worship in music, but not for the worship of music," is said to have been the statement of Father Haberl at the Saint Cecilia Conference in Mainz (1884).[28] And it is indeed a far cry from this demand to the very evident deification of music that exists in many of our modern city churches, with their expensive soloists and their utter failure to cause music to minister as "the handmaid of religion." The problem is not a new one, and in a book written about a century ago the author says:[29] The guiding rule which ought always to be present to the mind of a clergyman should also be held in mind by all good musicians who would help the church's object, and not employ the sacred building merely as a place where all kind of sounds that tickle the ear can be heard. All kinds of music are suitable for sacred use that do not raise secular associations. A _Largo_, an _Adagio_, a _Grave_, an _Andante_, an _Allegro_, a fugal or a non-fugal composition can all be performed in the Church but should one and all be of a staid and dignified character throughout, elevated and sober, and of such a nature that any preacher of note could say: "This splendid music is a fitting introduction to my discourse"; or "After such singing my lips had better be closed, and the spirit left to its own silent worship." [Footnote 28: Quoted by Curwen on the title page of _Studies in Worship Music_ (second series).] [Footnote 29: Thibaut, _Purity in Music_, translated by Broadhouse, p. 24.] A distinguished modern writer voices the same thought in the following words:[30] The singing of the choir must be contrived and felt as part of the office of prayer. The spirit and direction of the whole service for the day must be unified; the music must be a vital and organic element in this unit. [Footnote 30: Dickinson, _Music in the History of the Western Church_, p. 401.] But in most churches music does not function in this ideal way and in many cases (especially in non-liturgical churches) there is no unity whatever in the service, and the music is evidently both performed and listened to from a purely art standpoint; or else it is so crude and inartistic as to be actually painful to the worshiper with refined sensibilities. [Sidenote: THE REMEDY] What is to be the remedy for this state of affairs? Or is there no remedy, and must we go on, either enduring tortures artistically, or suffering spiritually? We are not omniscient, but we venture to assert that conditions might be caused to improve by the adoption of several changes of procedure that are herewith recommended. 1. Educate the minister musically during his general and professional training, causing him not only to acquire a certain amount of technical musical ability, but attempting also to cultivate in him that intangible something which we call musical taste. A few seminaries--notably the Hartford Theological Seminary and the Boston University Department of Religious Education--are doing pioneer work along this line, but they are the exception rather than the rule, and the thing must be done by all if the desired result is to obtain in the future. 2. Encourage the organization of chorus choirs composed largely of those who belong to or attend the church and are therefore vitally interested in its work. 3. Select more churchly music, _i.e._, a type of music which when appropriately rendered will tend to bring about a mood of worship. This will often mean a simpler style of music; it may mean more _a cappella_ singing; and it undoubtedly implies music that is fundamentally _sincere_. That many of our modern sacred solos and anthems fail in this latter respect must be evident to any one who has given the matter any thought whatever. 4. Let the church make an attempt to secure as its musical director one who possesses a type of seriousness and high-mindedness that will make him sympathetic with what the church is trying to do, thus enabling him to minister to the people through music even as the priest or preacher does through words of consolation or inspiration. We admit that this sort of a man (who is at the same time unimpeachable in his musical authority) is often hard to find; but that the two elements are incompatible, and that such a type of choir director cannot be trained, we absolutely refuse to believe. If the church sufficiently recognizes the failure of music as now frequently administered, and makes a strong enough demand for leaders of a different type, they are bound to be forthcoming. [Sidenote: CORRELATING THE MUSIC WITH THE REST OF THE SERVICE] Having trained our minister from a musical standpoint, organized a chorus choir, selected appropriate music, and secured the right type of choir leader, let us now make a strenuous attempt to correlate the musical with the non-musical parts of the service; and if we succeed in our effort at this point also, our task will be at least in sight of completion. This desirable correlation will only result if both minister and musician are willing to work together amicably, each recognizing the rights of the other, and both willing to give in upon occasion in order to make the service as a whole work out more smoothly. Many humorous stories are told, the point of which is based upon the absolute incongruity of the various parts of the church service. The writer remembers most vividly an incident that occurred during the first year of the Great War, in the church in which he was at that time the choirmaster. The choir had just finished singing an anthem written by an English composer as a prayer for peace,[31] the concluding strains being sung to the words "Give peace, O God, give peace again! Amen." As the choir sat down, after an effective rendition of the anthem, there was a hush in the congregation, showing that the message of the music had gone home to the hearers. But a moment later the spell was rudely broken, as the minister rose, and in a stentorian voice proclaimed the text of the day--"For I come not to bring peace into the world, but a sword." [Footnote 31: John E. West, _O God of Love, O King of Peace_.] The responsibility in this case rested as much upon the shoulders of the choir director as upon those of the preacher, for he should at least have taken the trouble to acquaint his coworker with the nature of the anthem, so that some reference might have been made to the subject in either the prayer or scripture reading or in some of the hymns, if not in the sermon itself. It is perhaps not always feasible to have sermon and anthem agree absolutely in subject, but it is entirely possible to avoid such occurrences as that cited above, if even a small amount of thought is given to the matter of correlation each week. Surely the choir leader could at least provide the minister with the titles of the anthems and solos to be rendered. [Sidenote: DIFFICULTIES INVOLVED IN THE CHORUS CHOIR] In advocating a return to the volunteer chorus choir instead of the salaried solo quartet, we are well aware of the disadvantages that are likely to accompany any attempt along this line. We know that the chorus choir composed of volunteers is often poorly balanced, usually contains for the most part indifferent voices and often unskilful readers, and frequently consists largely of giddy young girls, whose main object in singing in the choir is obviously not based upon their interest in the spiritual advancement of the community! But we believe that under the right type of leadership most of these bad conditions will in time disappear, and that, through the chorus choir, music may well become a vitalizing force in the life of many a church in which a revitalizing process is badly needed. In order to make ourselves perfectly clear, let us summarize at this point the qualifications especially needed by the conductor of a volunteer church chorus. 1. He must be a reasonably good musician, possessing not only familiarity with music in general, but in particular an intimate knowledge of vocal music, and knowing at least the fundamentals of voice training. 2. He must understand the purpose of church music, and must be in sympathy with the religious work of the church. 3. He must be young in spirit, and thus be able to take a sympathetic attitude toward the members of his choir as human beings, and particularly as human beings who are still young, inexperienced, and frequently thoughtless. This implies, of course, a certain amount of personal magnetism and this is as necessary in the volunteer choir for holding the membership together and securing regular attendance as it is for inspiring them musically. [Sidenote: THE DANGER OF INDIVIDUALISM] One of the chief difficulties encountered in more or less all choral organizations, and especially in the volunteer church choir, is the tendency on the part of many members to do all they possibly can in the way of dress, actions, loud singing, and lack of voice blending, to call attention to themselves as individuals. This not only results in frequent offense to the eye of the worshiper because of clashing color combinations (the remedy for which is, of course, some uniform method of dressing or perhaps a vestment), but what is even more serious, it often causes a lack of voice blending that seriously interferes with both the religious and the artistic effect of the music. For this latter state of affairs there is no remedy except to learn to listen to individual voices, and when some voice does not blend with the rest, to let the person who owns it know that he must either sing very softly or else stop entirely. This can often be accomplished by a look in the direction of the singer who is causing the trouble; but if this does not suffice, then a private admonition may be necessary--and here we have a situation in which the diplomacy and the good humor of the conductor must be exercised to the utmost, especially if the offending voice belongs to a prominent member of, and perhaps a liberal contributor to, the church. In such a case, one may sometimes, without unduly compromising one's reputation for veracity, inform the offending member that his method of singing is very bad indeed for his voice, and if persisted in will surely ruin that organ! Needless to say, the conductor must exercise the utmost tactfulness in dealing with such matters as these, but it is our belief that if he insists strongly enough in the rehearsal upon a unified body of tone from each part, and backs this up by private conversations with individual members, with perhaps a free lesson or two in correct voice placement, or even the elimination of one or two utterly hopeless voices, a fine quality of voice blending will eventually result. It might be remarked at this point that such desirable homogeneity of tone will only eventuate if each individual member of the choir becomes willing to submerge his own voice in the total effect of his part; and that learning to give way in this fashion for the sake of the larger good of the entire group is one of the most valuable social lessons to be learned by the young men and women of today. It is the business of the choir leader to drive home this lesson whenever necessary. It is also his task to see to it that no member of his choir by his actions causes any interference with the worship of the congregation. In plain speech, it is his duty to see to it that choir members conduct themselves in a manner appropriate to their position, and that they do not by whispering, laughing, note writing, and other similar frivolities, hinder in any way the development of a spirit of reverent devotion on the part of the congregation. [Sidenote: SOLO SINGING IN THE CHURCH SERVICE] Another type of undesirable individualism is to be found in the case of the church solo singer. We have no quarrel with the sacred solo when sung in such a way as to move the hearts of the congregation to a more sincere attitude of devotion; and we are entirely willing to grant that the sacred solo has the inherent possibility of becoming as pregnant with religious fervor as the sermon itself, and may indeed, because of its esthetic and emotional appeal, convey a message of comfort or of inspiration to many a heart that might remain untouched by the appeal of a merely intellectual sermon. But it has been our observation that the usual church solo very seldom functions in this way; that the singer usually considers it only as an opportunity to show how well he can perform; that he seldom thinks very much about the words; that the selections are usually not chosen because they are appropriate to the remainder of the service but because they are "effective" or perhaps because they are well adapted to the voice or the style of the singer; and that our congregations have grown so accustomed to this sort of thing that the performance of a sacred solo is now usually listened to, commented upon, and criticized in exactly the same way in the church service as would be the case at a concert performance. Instead of thinking, "I am delivering a _message_," the singer is only too palpably saying to us, "I am singing a _solo_, don't you think I am doing it well?" The remedy for this condition of affairs is the same as that which we have been recommending for church music in general, and before church solo singing can be commended in very glowing terms as a method of assisting the congregation to become more thoughtful, more fervent in their devotional attitude, we must have: 1. More appropriate selections. 2. A more sincerely reverent and a more thoroughly non-egoistic attitude on the part of the soloists. Because these things are so difficult of attainment under present conditions our feeling is that, all in all, chorus music is probably considerably more effective as a vehicle for making a religio-esthetic appeal, than solo singing. [Sidenote: PROGRESS IN PUBLIC SCHOOL MUSIC AS RELATED TO CHURCH CHOIRS] The public schools are doing very much more in the way of teaching music than formerly, and in many places consistent work is being carried on as the result of which the children now in school are learning to read music notation somewhat fluently, to use their voices correctly, and are cultivating as well a certain amount of taste in music. Because of this musical activity in the public schools, our task of organizing and directing volunteer church choirs should be very much simplified in the near future. Community singing will help at this point also, and the very much larger number of boys and girls who are receiving training as the result of the development of high school music, ought to make it considerably easier to secure the right type of choir director in the future than has been the case in the past. As a result of the present widespread interest in music and music study, it should be possible also to get very much better congregational singing, and withal to interest the congregation (and the preacher!) in a better type of music. All in all, the outlook is extremely promising and we venture to predict a great improvement in all that pertains to church music during the next quarter century. [Sidenote: IMPORTANCE OF CONGREGATIONAL SINGING] Let us close this discussion by urging the choir director to remember that the most important music, at least in the Protestant church, is the congregational singing; and to consider the fact that if music is to help people worship without becoming a substitute for worship, it will be necessary for him not only to inspire his choir with high ideals of church music, but also to devise means of inducing the congregation to take part in the singing to a much greater extent than is now the case in most churches. It is usually true that the finer the choir, and the more elaborate the accompaniment, the less hearty is the congregational singing. If there is to be steady growth in the efficiency of chorus choirs, therefore, it will not be surprising if congregational singing sometimes falls off in volume and enthusiasm. The reasons for such a decline are: First, because the people take no responsibility for the singing, knowing that it will go well whether they join in or not; second, because the choir often sings so well that the people would rather listen than take part; third, because the director frequently stands with his back to the congregation and apparently does not expect much singing from them; and fourth, because the choir leader often insists upon a highly musical interpretation of the hymns, this involving the carrying over of phrases, _et cetera_. These latter things may well be done after a long period of training, but in the early stages the way to arouse interest in congregational singing is not to insist too strongly upon the purely artistic aspects, but to remember that most of the congregation are musically untrained and not only do not see the point to all these refinements, but will frequently become discouraged and stop singing entirely if too many of them are insisted upon. It will be well also to apply to this type of group singing the principles already discussed in connection with community "sings," having the congregation sing alone part of the time, having a stanza sung as a solo occasionally, making use of antiphonal effects, and in other ways introducing variety and placing more responsibility upon the congregation; and, most important of all, calling attention more frequently to the words of the hymns, either the preacher or the choir leader sometimes giving the stories of their origin, and in other ways attempting to interest the congregation in the meaning of the hymn as a poem. Perhaps a more careful selection of the hymns would help also, especially if a consistent attempt were to be made to give the congregation an opportunity of practising the more musical tunes, so that they would come to feel familiar with them and at ease in singing them. If the choir director will take the trouble to go through the hymn book and select forty or fifty really fine hymns and tunes that are not being used, suggesting to the minister that these be sung sometimes in connection with the more familiar ones, he will very often find the minister more than willing to meet him half way in the matter. In these various ways the choir leader and the minister may by consistent cooperation inspire the congregation to the point where the vocal response is as hearty and as _heartfelt_ as it used to be in the olden days. CHAPTER XII THE BOY CHOIR AND ITS PROBLEMS [Sidenote: THE PROBLEMS] The two special problems connected with directing a boy choir are: 1. Becoming intimately acquainted with the compass, registers, possibilities, and limitations of the boy's voice. 2. Finding out how to manage the boys themselves so as to keep them good-natured, well-behaved, interested, and hard at work. To these two might be added a third--namely, the problem of becoming familiar with the liturgy of the particular church in which the choir sings, since male choirs are to be found most often in liturgical churches. But since this will vary widely in the case of different sects, we shall not concern ourselves with it, but will be content with giving a brief discussion of each of the other points. [Sidenote: PECULIARITIES OF THE CHILD VOICE] The child voice is not merely a miniature adult voice, but is an instrument of quite different character. In the first place, it is not nearly so individualistic in timbre as the adult voice, and because of the far greater homogeneity of voice quality that obtains in children's singing, it is much easier to secure blending of tone, the effect being that of one voice rather than of a number of voices in combination. This is a disadvantage from the standpoint of variety of color in producing certain emotional effects, but it is in some ways an advantage in the church service, especially in churches where the ideal is to make the entire procedure as impersonal and formal as possible. In the second place, the child voice is good only in the upper register--the chest tones being throaty, unpleasant, and frequently off pitch. In the third place, the child voice is immature, and his vocal organs are much more likely to be injured by overstraining. When directed by a competent voice trainer, however, the effect of a large group of children singing together is most striking, and their pure, fresh, flutelike tones, combined with the appearance of purity and innocence which they present to the eye, bring many a thrill to the heart and not infrequently a tear to the eye of the worshiper. [Sidenote: THE BOY VOICE IN THE CHURCH CHOIR] In many European churches, and in a considerable number in the United States, it is customary to have boys with unchanged voices sing the soprano part, men with trained falsetto voices (called male altos) taking the alto,[32] while the tenor and bass parts are, of course, sung by men as always. Since the child voice is only useful when the tones are produced with relaxed muscles, and since the resonance cavities have not developed sufficiently to give the voice a great deal of power, it is possible for a few men on each of the lower parts to sing with from twenty to thirty boys on the soprano part. Six basses, four tenors, and four altos will easily balance twenty-five boy sopranos, if all voices are of average power. [Footnote 32: In many male choirs the alto part is sung by boys; but this does not result in a fine blending of parts, because of the fact, as already noted in the above paragraph, that the boy's voice is good only in its upper register. It may be of interest to the reader to know that in places where there are no adult male altos, these voices may be trained with comparative ease. All that is needed is a baritone or bass who has no particular ambitions in the direction of solo singing (the extensive use of the falsetto voice is detrimental to the lower tones); who is a good reader; and who is willing to vocalize in his falsetto voice a half hour a day for a few months. The chief obstacle that is likely to be encountered in training male altos is the fact that the men are apt to regard falsetto singing as effeminate.] [Sidenote: THE NECESSITY OF BEING A VOICE TRAINER] There is one difference between the mixed choir of adult voices and the boy choir that should be noted at the outset by the amateur. It is that, in the former, the choir leader is working with mature men and women, most of whom have probably learned to use their voices as well as they ever will; but in directing a boy choir, the sopranos must be taught not only the actual music to be sung at the church service, but, what is much more difficult, they must be trained in the essentials of correct breathing, tone placement, _et cetera_, from the ground up. Hence the absolute necessity of the choirmaster being a voice specialist. He need not have a fine solo voice, but he must know the essentials of good singing, and must be able to demonstrate with his own voice what he means by purity of vowel, clearness of enunciation, _et cetera_. These things are probably always best taught by imitation, even in the case of adults; but when dealing with a crowd of lively American boys, imitation is practically the only method that _can_ be used successfully. We shall not attempt to give information regarding this highly important matter in the present volume, because it is far too complex and difficult to be taken up in anything short of a treatise and because, moreover, the art of singing cannot be taught in a book. The student who is ambitious to become the director of a boy choir is advised, first, to study singing for a period of years, and second, to read several good books upon the training of children's voices. There are a number of books of this character, some of the best ones being included in the reference list in Appendix A (p. 164). [Sidenote: THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE VOICES OF BOYS AND GIRLS] The child's larynx grows steadily up to the age of about six, but at this time growth ceases, and until puberty the vocal cords, larynx, and throat muscles develop in strength and flexibility, without increasing appreciably in size. This means that from six until the beginning of adolescence the voice maintains approximately the same range, and that this is the time to train it as a _child voice_. The question now arises, why not use the girl's voice in choirs as well as the boy's?--and the answer is threefold. In the first place, certain churches have always clung to the idea of the _male_ choir, women being refused any participation in what originally was strictly a priestly office; in the second place, the girl arrives at the age of puberty somewhat earlier than the boy, and since her voice begins to change proportionately sooner, it is not serviceable for so long a period, and is therefore scarcely worth training as a child voice because of the short time during which it can be used in this capacity; and in the third place, the boy's voice is noticeably more brilliant between the ages of seven or eight and thirteen or fourteen, and is therefore actually more useful from the standpoint of both power and timbre. If it were not for such considerations as these, the choir of girls would doubtless be more common than the choir of boys, for girls are much more likely to be tractable at this age, and are in many ways far easier to deal with than boys. At the age of six, the voices of boys and girls are essentially alike in timbre; but as the boy indulges in more vigorous play and work, and his muscles grow firmer and his whole body sturdier, the voice-producing mechanism too takes on these characteristics, and a group of thirty boys ten or twelve years old will actually produce tones that are considerably more brilliant than those made by a group of thirty girls of similar age. [Sidenote: THE COMPASS OF THE CHILD VOICE] To the novice in the handling children's voices, the statement that the typical voice of boys and girls about ten years of age easily reaches a´´ and frequently b´´ or c´´´ [music notation] will at first seem unbelievable. This is nevertheless the case, and the first thing to be learned by the trainer of a boy choir is therefore to keep the boys singing high, beginning with the higher tones [music notation] and vocalizing downward, instead of _vice versa_. The main reason for the necessity of this downward vocalization is what is known as the _movable break_. In an adult voice, the change from a low register to a higher one always takes place at approximately the same place in the scale; but the child's voice is immature, his vocal organs have not formed definitely established habits, and the chest register is often pushed upward to c´´, d´´, or even e´´ [music notation]. This is practically always done in singing an ascending scale loudly, and the result is not only distressing to the listener, but ruinous to the voice. In former days this type of singing was common in our public schools, the result being that most boys honestly thought it impossible to sing higher than c´´ or d´´ [music notation] this being the limit beyond which it was difficult to push the chest voice. The head voice was thus not used at all, and the singing of public school children in the past has in most cases been anything but satisfactory from the standpoint of tonal beauty. But most supervisors of music have now become somewhat familiar with the child voice, and are insisting upon high-pitched songs, soft singing, and downward vocalization, these being the three indispensable factors in the proper training of children's voices. The result is that in many places school children are at the present time singing very well indeed, and the present growing tendency to encourage public performance by large groups of them makes available a new color to the composer of choral and orchestral music, and promises many a thrill to the concert-goer of the future. It is the head register, or _thin_ voice, that produces the pure, flutelike tones which are the essential charm of a boy choir, and if chest tones are to be employed at all, they must be made as nearly as possible as are the head tones, thus causing the voice to produce an approximately uniform timbre in the entire scale. This may be accomplished with a fair degree of ease by a strict adherence to the three principles of procedure mentioned in the above paragraph. In fact these three things are almost the beginning, middle, and end of child-voice training, and since they thus form the _sine qua non_ of effective boy-choir singing, we shall emphasize them through reiteration. 1. The singing must be soft until the child has learned to produce tone correctly _as a habit_. 2. Downward vocalization should be employed in the early stages, so as to insure the use of the head voice. 3. The music should be high in range, in order that the child may be given as favorable an opportunity as possible of producing his best tones. When these principles are introduced in either a boy choir or a public school system, the effect will at first be disappointing, for the tone produced by the boy's head voice is so small and seems so insignificant as compared with the chest voice which he has probably been using, that he is apt to resent the instruction, and perhaps to feel that, you are trying to make a baby, or worse yet, a girl, out of him! But he must be encouraged to persist, and after a few weeks or months of practice, the improvement in his singing will be so patent that there will probably be no further trouble. [Sidenote: THE LIFE OF THE BOY VOICE] Boys are admitted to male choirs at from seven or eight to ten or twelve years of age, but are often required to undergo a course of training lasting a year or more before being permitted to sing with the choir in public. For this reason, if for no other, the director of a boy choir must be a thoroughly qualified voice trainer. He, of course, takes no voice that is not reasonably good to start with, but after admitting a boy with a naturally good vocal organ it is his task so to train that voice as to enable it to withstand several hours of singing each day without injury and to produce tones of maximal beauty as a matter of habit. But if the choir leader is not a thoroughly qualified vocal instructor, or if he has erroneous ideals of what boy-voice tone should be, the result is frequently that the voice is overstrained and perhaps ruined; or else the singing is of an insipid, lifeless, "hooty" character, making one feel that an adult mixed choir is infinitely preferable to a boy choir.[33] [Footnote 33: Even when an ideal type of tone is secured, there is considerable difference of opinion as to whether the boy soprano is, all in all, as effective as the adult female voice. Many consider that the child is incapable of expressing a sufficient variety of emotions because of his lack of experience with life, and that the boy-soprano voice is therefore unsuited to the task assigned it, especially when the modern conception of religion is taken into consideration. But to settle this controversy is no part of our task, hence we shall not even express an opinion upon the matter.] Adolescence begins at the age of thirteen or fourteen in boys, and with the growth of the rest of the body at this time, the vocal organs also resume their increase in size, the result being not only longer vocal cords and a correspondingly lower range of voice, but an absolute breaking down of the habits of singing that have been established, and frequently a temporary but almost total loss of control of the vocal organs. These changes sometimes take place as early as the thirteenth year, but on the other hand are frequently not noticeable until the boy is fifteen or sixteen, and there are on record instances of boys singing soprano in choirs until seventeen or even eighteen. The loss of control that accompanies the change of voice (with which we are all familiar because of having heard the queer alternations of squeaking and grumbling in which the adolescent boy so frequently indulges), is due to the fact that the larynx, vocal cords, _et cetera_, increase in size more rapidly than the muscles develop strength to manipulate them, and this rapid increase in the size of the parts (in boys a practical doubling in the length of the vocal cords) makes it incumbent upon the choir trainer to use extreme caution in handling the voices at this time, just as the employer of adolescent boys must use great care in setting them at any sort of a task involving heavy lifting or other kinds of strain. In the public schools, where no child is asked to sing more than ten or twelve minutes a day, no harm is likely to result; but in a choir which rehearses from one to two hours each day and frequently sings at a public service besides, it seems to be the consensus of opinion that the boy is taking a grave risk in continuing to sing while his voice is changing.[34] He is usually able to sing the high tones for a considerable period after the low ones begin to develop; but to continue singing the high tones is always attended with considerable danger, and many a voice has undoubtedly been ruined for after use by singing at this time. The reason for encouraging the boy to keep on singing is, of course, that the choirmaster, having trained a voice for a number of years, dislikes losing it when it is at the very acme of brilliancy. For this feeling he can hardly be blamed, for the most important condition of successful work by a male choir is probably permanency of membership; and the leader must exercise every wile to keep the boys in, once they have become useful members of the organization. But in justice to the boy's future, he ought probably in most cases to be dismissed from the choir when his voice begins to change. [Footnote 34: Browne and Behnke, in _The Child's Voice_, p. 75, state in reply to a questionnaire sent out to a large number of choir trainers, singers, _et cetera_, that seventy-nine persons out of one hundred fifty-two stated positively that singing through the period of puberty "causes certain injury, deterioration, or ruin to the after voice." In the same book are found also (pp. 85 to 90) a series of extremely interesting comments on the choirmaster's temptation to use a voice after it begins to change.] Let us now summarize the advice given up to this point before going on to the consideration of our second problem: 1. Have the boys sing in high range most of the time. The actual compass of the average choir boy's voice is probably g--c´´´ but his best tones will be between e´ and g´´ [music notation]. An occasional a´´ or b´´ or a d´ or c´ will do no harm, but the voice must not remain outside of the range e´--g´´ for long at a time. 2. Insist upon soft singing until correct habits are established. There is a vast difference of opinion as to what soft singing means, and we have no means of making the point clear except to say that at the outset of his career the boy can scarcely sing too softly. Later on, after correct habits are formed, the singing may, of course, be louder, but it should at no time be so loud as to sound strained. 3. Train the voice downward for some time before attempting upward vocalization. 4. Dismiss the boy from the choir when his voice begins to change, even if you need him and if he needs the money which he receives for singing. [Sidenote: THE BOY HIMSELF] The second special problem mentioned at the beginning of this chapter is the management of the boys owning the voices which we have just been discussing; and this part of the choirmaster's task is considerably more complex, less amenable to codification, and requires infinitely more art for its successful prosecution. One may predict with reasonable certainty what a typical boy-voice will do as the result of certain treatment; but the wisest person can not foresee what the result will be when the boy himself is subjected to any specified kind of handling. As a matter of fact, there is no such thing as a _typical_ boy, and even if there were, our knowledge of boy nature in general has been, at least up to comparatively recent times, so slight that it has been impossible to give directions as to his management. [Sidenote: HOW TO HANDLE BOYS] In general, that choir director will succeed best in keeping his boys in the choir and in getting them to do good work, who, other things being equal, keeps on the best terms with them personally. Our advice is, therefore, that the prospective director of a choir of boys find out just as much as possible about the likes and dislikes, the predilections and the prejudices of pre-adolescent boys, and especially that he investigate ways and means of getting on good terms with them. He will find that most boys are intensely active at this stage, for their bodies are not growing very much, and there is therefore a large amount of superfluous energy. This activity on their part is perfectly natural and indeed wholly commendable; and yet it will be very likely to get the boy into trouble unless some one is at hand to guide his energy into useful channels. This does not necessarily mean making him do things that he does not like to do; on the contrary, it frequently involves helping him to do better, something that he already has a taste for doing. Space does not permit details; but if the reader will investigate the Boy Scout movement, the supervised playground idea, and the development of school athletics, as well as the introduction of manual training of various sorts, trips to museums of natural history, zoölogical and botanical gardens, _et cetera_, school "hikes" and other excursions, and similar activities that now constitute a part of the regular school work in many of our modern educational institutions, he will find innumerable applications of the idea that we are presenting; and he will perhaps be surprised to discover that the boy of today _likes_ to go to school; that he applies at home many of the things that he learns there, and that he frequently regards some teacher as his best friend instead of as an arch enemy, as formerly. These desirable changes have not taken place in all schools by any means, but the results of their introduction have been so significant that a constantly increasing number of schools are adopting them; and public school education is to mean infinitely more in the future than it has in the past because we are seeing the necessity of looking at things through the eyes of the pupil, and especially from the standpoint of his life outside of and after leaving the school. Let the choir trainer learn a lesson from the public school teacher, and let him not consider the boy to be vicious just because he is lively, and let him not try to repress the activity but rather let him train it into useful channels. Above all, let him not fail to take into consideration the boy's viewpoint, always treating his singers in such a way that they will feel that he is "playing fair." It has been found that if boys are given a large share in their own government, they are not only far easier to manage at the time, but grow enormously in maturity of social ideals, and are apt to become much more useful citizens because of such growth. Placing responsibility upon the boys involves trusting them, of course, but it has been found that when the matter has been presented fairly and supervised skilfully, they have always risen to the responsibility placed upon their shoulders. We therefore recommend that self-government be inaugurated in the boy choir, that the boys be allowed to elect officers out of their own ranks, and that the rules and regulations be worked out largely by the members themselves with a minimum of assistance from the choirmaster. Let us not make the serious mistake of supposing that in order to get on the good side of boys we must make their work easy. Football is not easy, but it is extremely popular! It is the motive rather than the intrinsic difficulty of the task that makes the difference. The thing needed by the choir director is a combination of firmness (but not crossness) with the play spirit. Let him give definite directions, and let these directions be given with such decision that there will never be any doubt as to whether they are to be obeyed; but let him always treat the boys courteously and pleasantly, and let him always convey the idea that he is not only _fair_ in his attitude toward them, but that he is attempting to be _friendly_ as well. Work the boys hard for a half hour or so, therefore, and then stop for five minutes and join them in a game of leapfrog, if that is the order of the day. If they invite you to go with them on a hike or picnic, refuse at your peril; and if you happen to be out on the ball ground when one side is short a player, do not be afraid of losing your dignity, but jump at the chance of taking a hand in the game. Some one has said that "familiarity breeds contempt, only if one of the persons be contemptible," and this dictum might well be applied to the management of the boy choir. On the other hand, it is absolutely necessary to maintain discipline in the choir rehearsal, and it is also necessary to arouse in the boys a mental altitude that will cause them to do efficient work and to conduct themselves in a quiet and reverent manner during the church service; hence the necessity for rules and regulations and for punishments of various kinds. But the two things that we have been outlining are entirely compatible, and the choir director who plays with the boys and is hailed by them as a good fellow will on the whole have far less trouble than he who holds himself aloof and tries to reign as a despot over his little kingdom. [Sidenote: REMUNERATION _ET CETERA_] In conclusion, a word should perhaps be added about various plans of remunerating the boys for their singing. In some large churches and cathedrals a choir-school is maintained and the boys receive food, clothing, shelter, and education in return for their services; but this entails a very heavy expense, and in most smaller churches the boys are paid a certain amount for each rehearsal and service, or possibly a lump sum per week. The amount received by each boy depends upon his voice, his experience, his attitude toward the work, _et cetera_, in other words, upon his usefulness as a member of the choir. Attempts have often been made to organize a boy choir on the volunteer basis, but this plan has not usually proved to be successful, and is not advocated. When the boys live in their own homes and there are Sunday services only, the usual plan is to have them meet for about two rehearsals each week by themselves, with a third rehearsal for the full choir. Often the men have a separate practice also, especially if they are not good readers. If the organization is to be permanent, it will be necessary to be constantly on the lookout for new voices, these being trained partly by themselves and partly by singing with the others at the rehearsals through the period of weeks or months before they are permitted to take part in the public services. In this way the changing voices that drop out are constantly being replaced by newly trained younger boys, and the number in the chorus is kept fairly constant. CHAPTER XIII THE CONDUCTOR AS VOICE TRAINER [Sidenote: THE CONDUCTOR'S NEED OF VOCAL TRAINING] Correct voice placement, the full use of the resonance cavities, good habits of breathing, and other details connected with what is commonly termed _voice culture_, cannot be taught by correspondence; neither can the conductor be made an efficient voice trainer by reading books. But so many choral conductors are failing to secure adequate results from their choruses because of their ignorance of even the fundamentals of singing, that it has been thought best to include a brief presentation of a few of the most important matters with which the conductor ought to be acquainted. In discussing these things it will only be possible for us to present to the student of conducting the problems involved, leaving their actual working out to each individual. The chief difficulty in connection with the whole matter arises from the fact that the conductor needs in his work certain qualities of musicianship that are more apt to result from instrumental than from vocal training, the education of the instrumentalist usually emphasizing harmony, ear-training, form, and in general, the intellectual aspect of music; while that of the vocalist too often entirely leaves out this invaluable type of training, dealing only with voice culture and in general the interpretative side of music study. The vocalist who attempts to conduct is therefore frequently criticized for his lack of what is called "solid musical training"; but the instrumentalist-conductor as often fails to get adequate results in working with singers because of his utter ignorance of vocal procedure; and this latter type of failure is probably as productive of poor choral singing as the former. This chapter is, of course, written especially for the instrumentalist, and our advice to him is not merely to read books about singing, but to study singing itself, whether he is interested in cultivating his own voice for solo purposes or not. It might be remarked in this connection that aside from the considerations that we have been naming, the conductor who can sing a phrase to his orchestra or chorus and thus show by imitation exactly what shading, _et cetera_, he wishes, has an enormous advantage over him who can only convey his ideas by means of words. [Sidenote: PROPER BREATHING] Probably the first thing about singing to be learned by the student of conducting is that good voice production depends upon using the full capacity of the lungs instead of merely the upper portion. Hence the necessity of holding the body easily erect as a matter of habit, with chest up, and with the diaphragm alternately pushing the viscera away in order to enable the lungs to expand downward, and then allowing the parts to come back into place again, as the air is in turn expelled from the lungs. By practising deep breathing in this way the actual capacity of the lungs may be considerably increased, and breathing exercises have therefore always formed part of the routine imposed upon the vocal student. A deep breath involves, then, a pushing down of the diaphragm and a pushing out of the lower ribs, and not merely an expansion of the upper part of the chest. The singer must form the habit of breathing in this way at all times. To test breathing, the singer may place the hands about the waist on the sides of the thorax (fingers toward the front, thumbs toward the back) and see whether there is good side expansion of the ribs in inhaling, and whether in taking breath the abdomen swells out, receding as the air is expelled. We have always felt that a few minutes spent at each chorus rehearsal in deep breathing and in vocalizing would more than justify the time taken from practising music; but such exercises should not be undertaken unless the conductor understands singing and knows exactly what their purpose is. It is important that the conductor should understand the difference between the use of the singer's _full breath_ which we have been describing, and his _half breath_. The full breath is taken at punctuation marks of greater value, at long rests, before long sustained tones, and, in solo singing, before long trills or cadenzas. The half breath is usually taken at the lesser punctuation marks and at short rests, when it is necessary to replenish the supply of air in as short a time as possible, in order not to interrupt the _legato_ any more than is absolutely necessary. [Sidenote: BREATH CONTROL] The next point to be noted is that, having provided as large a supply of air as possible every particle of it must now be made use of in producing tone; in the first place, in order that no breath may be wasted, and in the second place, in order that the purity of the tone may not be marred by non-vocalized escaping breath. This implies absolute breath control, and the skilful singer is able to render incredibly long phrases in one breath, not so much because his lungs have more capacity, but because every atom of breath actually functions in producing vocal tone. And because of the fact that no breath escapes without setting the cords in vibration, the tone is clear, and not "breathy." The secret of expressive singing in sustained melody is absolutely steady tone combined with a perfect _legato_, and neither of these desirable things can be achieved without perfect breath control, this matter applying to choral singing as forcefully as it does to solo work. [Sidenote: RESONANCE] The next point to be noted is that the carrying power and quality of a voice depend far more upon the use made of the resonance cavities than upon the violence with which the vocal cords vibrate. Every musical instrument involves, in its production of tone, a combination of three elements: 1. The vibrating body. 2. The force which sets the body in vibration. 3. The reinforcing medium (the sound board of a piano, the body of a violin, _et cetera_.) In the case of the human voice, the vocal cords (or, as they might more properly be termed, the vocal _bands_) constitute the vibrating body; the air expelled from the lungs is the force which sets the cords in vibration; and the cavities of the mouth, nose, and to a lesser extent, of the remainder of the head and even of the chest, are the reinforcing medium--the resonator. A small voice cannot of course be made into a large one; but by improving its placement, and particularly by reinforcing it with as much resonance power as possible, it may be caused to fill even a large auditorium. This involves such details as keeping the tongue down, allowing part of the air to pass through the nose, focusing the tone against the roof of the mouth just back of the teeth, opening the mouth exactly the right distance, forming the lips in just the right way, _et cetera_. The result is that instead of sounding as though it came from the throat, the tone apparently comes from the upper part of the mouth just back of the teeth; and instead of seeming to be forced out, it appears to flow or float out without the slightest effort on the part of the singer. A forced or squeezed-out tone is always bad--bad for the voice and bad for the ear of the listener! [Sidenote: THE VOWEL IN SINGING] Another point to be noted by the conductor is that one sings upon vowels and not upon consonants; that most of the consonants are in fact merely devices for interrupting the vowel sounds in various ways; and that good tone depends largely upon the ability of the singer to select the best of several different sounds of the vowel and to hold this sound without any change in quality during the entire time that the tone is prolonged. It is comparatively easy to make a good tone with some vowels, but extremely difficult with others, and it is the singer's task so to modify the vowel that is unfavorable as to make it easier to produce good tone in using it. But while thus modifying the actual vowel sound, the integrity of the vowel must at least be sufficiently preserved to enable the listener to understand what vowel is being sung. All this is particularly difficult in singing loudly, and it is largely for this reason that the vocal student is required by his teacher to practise softly so much of the time. Some vowels have two parts (_e.g._, i = ä + [=e]), and here it is the singer's task to sustain the part upon which the better tone can be made, sounding the other part only long enough to produce a correct total effect. [Sidenote: CONSONANTS] As noted above, the consonants are in general merely devices for cutting off the flow of vowel sound in various ways, and one of the most difficult problems confronting the singer in his public performances is to articulate the consonants so skilfully that the words shall be easy to follow by the audience, and at the same time to keep the vowel sounds so pure and their flow so uninterrupted that the singing may be perfect in its tone quality and in its _legato_. It is because this matter presents great difficulty that the words of the singer with a good _legato_ can so seldom be understood, while the declamatory vocalist who presents his words faultlessly is apt to sing with no _legato_ at all. The problem is not insoluble, but its solution can only be accomplished through years of study under expert guidance. Vocal teachers in general will probably disagree with us; but it is our opinion that in choral performance at least, the _tone_ rather than the _words_ should be sacrificed if one or the other has to give way, and the choral conductor is therefore advised to study the use of the consonants most carefully, and to find out how to make use of every means of securing well enunciated words from his body of singers. [Sidenote: RELAXATION] The next point to be noted is the importance of what vocal teachers refer to as the "movable lower jaw," this, of course, implying absolute (but controlled) relaxation of all muscles used in singing. Without relaxation of this sort, the tone is very likely to be badly placed, the sound seeming to come from the throat, and the whole effect being that of tone squeezed out or forced out instead of tone flowing or floating out, as described in a previous paragraph. This difficulty is, of course, most obvious in singing the higher tones; and one remedy within the reach of the choral conductor is to test all voices carefully and not to allow anyone to sing a part that is obviously too high. But in addition to this general treatment of the matter, it will often be possible for the director to urge upon his chorus the necessity of relaxation in producing tone, thus reminding those who tighten up unconsciously that they are not singing properly, and conveying to those who are ignorant of the matter at least a hint regarding a better use of their voices. [Sidenote: VOCAL REGISTERS] A vocal register has been defined as "a series of tones produced by the same mechanism." This means that in beginning with the lowest tone of the voice and ascending the scale, one comes to a point where before going on to the next scale-tone, a readjustment of the vocal organs is necessary, this change in the action of the larynx and vocal cords being _felt_ by the singer and _heard_ by the listener. The point at which the readjustment takes place, _i.e._, the place where the voice goes from one register into another, is called the _break_; and one of the things the voice trainer tries to do for each pupil is to teach him to pass so skilfully from one register to another that these breaks will not be noticeable to the hearer--the voice eventually sounding an even scale from its lowest to its highest tone. There is considerable difference of opinion as to the number of registers existing in any one voice, but perhaps the majority of writers incline to the view that there are three; the chest or lower, the thin or middle, and the small or head. It should be noted, however, that the readjustment in the action of the vocal cords referred to above probably takes place only when passing from the lowest register to the next higher one, and that such changes in action as occur at other points are more or less indefinite and possibly even somewhat imaginary. Authorities differ as to just what the change in mechanism is in passing from the chest register to the middle one; but the most plausible explanation seems to be that in the lowest register, the change in pitch from a lower tone to the next higher one is accomplished at least partly by _stretching_ the vocal bands more tightly, and that when the limit of this stretching process has been reached, the cords relax slightly, and from this point on each higher tone is made by _shortening_ the vibrating portion of the cords; in other words, by decreasing the length of the glottis (the aperture between the vocal cords). This point may become clearer if we compare the process with tuning a violin string. The string may be a third or a fourth below its normal pitch when the violinist begins to tune his instrument, but by turning the peg and thus stretching the string tighter and tighter, the tone is raised by small degrees until the string gives forth the pitch that it is supposed to sound. But this same string may now be made to play higher and higher pitches by pressing it against the fingerboard, thus shortening the vibrating portion more and more. The tuning process may be said to compare roughly with the mechanism of the chest register of the human voice; while the shortening of the string by pressing it against the fingerboard is somewhat analogous to what takes place in the higher registers of the voice. We have now enumerated what seem to us to be the most essential matters connected with vocal procedure; and if to such information as is contained in the foregoing paragraphs the conductor adds the knowledge that the _messa di voce_ (a beautiful vocal effect produced by swelling a tone from soft to loud and then back again) is to be produced by increase and decrease of breath pressure and not by a greater or lesser amount of straining of the throat muscles; that _portamento_ (gliding by infinitely small degrees in pitch from one tone to another), although a valuable and entirely legitimate expressional effect when used occasionally in a passage where its employment is appropriate, may be over-used to such an extent as to result in a slovenly, vulgar, and altogether objectionable style of singing; and that whereas the _vibrato_ may imbue with virility and warmth an otherwise cold, dead tone and if skilfully and judiciously used may add greatly to the color and vitality of the singing, the _tremolo_ is on the other hand a destroyer of pitch accuracy, a despoiler of vocal idealism, and an abhorrence to the listener; if our conductor knows these and other similar facts about singing, then he will not run quite so great a risk of making himself ridiculous in the eyes of the singers whom he is conducting as has sometimes been the case when instrumentalists have assumed control of vocal forces. But let us emphasize again the fact that these things cannot be learned from a book, but must be acquired through self-activity, _i.e._, by actual experience in singing; hence the importance of vocal study on the part of the prospective choral conductor. In conclusion, let us enumerate the main points involved in what is called good singing--these points applying to choral music as directly as to solo performance. 1. The intonation must be perfect; _i.e._, the tones produced must be neither sharp nor flat, but exactly true to pitch. 2. The tone must be attacked and released exactly at the right pitch; _i.e._, the voice must not begin on some indefinite lower tone and slide up, or on a higher tone and slide down, but must begin on precisely the right pitch. 3. The tone must be absolutely steady, and there must be no wavering, no _tremolo_, no uncertainty. This means absolute breath control. 4. The tones must follow one another without break, unless the character of the music demands detached effects; in other words, there must be a perfect _legato_. The tones must also follow each other cleanly, unless the character of the music makes the use of _portamento_ desirable. 5. The singer must feel the mood of each song, and must sing as he feels, if he is to perform with real expression. This is a much more vital matter in song interpretation than the mere mechanical observation of _tempo_ and _dynamic_ indications. 6. The text must be enunciated with sufficient clarity to enable the audience to catch at least the most important ideas presented. This involves not only the _complete_ pronunciation of each syllable instead of the slovenly half-pronunciation so commonly heard; but implies as well that the sounds be formed well forward in the mouth instead of back in the throat. If the singing of a soloist or a chorus can meet the test of these requirements, the singing may be called good. CHAPTER XIV THE ART OF PROGRAM MAKING [Sidenote: THE PROBLEM STATED] In constructing a concert program for either a solo or an ensemble performance, and in the case of both vocal and instrumental music, at least five important points must be taken into consideration: 1. Variety. 2. Unity. 3. Effective arrangement. 4. Appropriate length. 5. Adaptability to audience. [Sidenote: VARIETY] We have given variety first place advisedly; for it is by changing the style and particularly through varying the emotional quality of the selections that the conductor or performer will find it most easy to hold the attention and interest of the audience. In these days the matter of keeping an audience interested presents far greater difficulty than formerly, for our audiences are now much more accustomed to hearing good music than they used to be, and a performance that is moderately good and that would probably have held the attention from beginning to end in the olden days will now often be received with yawning, coughing, whispering, early leaving, and a spirit of uneasiness permeating the entire audience, especially during the latter part of the program. The change of etiquette brought about by the phenomenal popularization of the moving picture theater has doubtless had something to do with this change in the attitude of our audiences; the spread of musical knowledge and the far greater intelligence concerning musical performance manifested by the average audience of today as compared with that of fifty years ago is also partly responsible; but the brunt of the charge must be borne by our habitual attitude of nervous hurry, our impatience with slow processes of any kind, and the demand for constant change of sensation that is coming to characterize Americans of all ages and classes. It is doubtless unfortunate that conditions are as they are; but since the attitude of our audiences has admittedly undergone a decided change, it behooves the program maker to face conditions as they actually exist, rather than to pretend that they are as he should like them to be. Since our audiences are harder to hold now than formerly, and since our first-class performers (except possibly in the case of orchestral music) are probably not greatly above the level of the first-class performers of a generation ago (although larger in number), it will be necessary to keep the listener interested by employing methods of program making, which, although they have always been not only entirely legitimate but highly desirable, are now absolutely necessary. As stated above, the obvious way to help our audience to listen to an entire concert is to provide variety of material--a heavy number followed by a light one; a slow, flowing _adagio_ by a bright snappy _scherzo_; a tragic and emotionally taxing song like the _Erl-King_ by a sunny and optimistic lyric; a song or a group of songs in major possibly relieved by one in minor; a coloratura aria by a song in cantabile style; a group of songs in French by a group in English; a composition in severe classic style by one of romantic tendency, _et cetera_. These contrasting elements are not, of course, to be introduced exactly as they are here listed, and this series of possible contrasts is cited rather to give the amateur maker of programs an idea of what is meant by contrast rather than to lay down rules to be followed in the actual construction of programs. [Sidenote: UNITY] But while contrast is necessary to keep the audience from becoming bored or weary, there must not be so much variety that a lack of unity is felt in the program as a whole. It must be constructed like a symphony--out of material that has variety and yet that all belongs together. In other words, the program, like a musical composition, must achieve _unity in variety_; and this is the second main problem confronting the conductor or performer who is planning a concert. It is impossible to give specific directions as to how unity is to be secured, for this is a matter to be determined almost wholly upon the basis of taste, and taste is not subjectable to codification. The most that we can do for the amateur at this point, as at so many others, is to set before him the main problem involved, and in constructing a program, this is undoubtedly to provide variety of material and yet to select numbers that go well together and seem to cohere as a unified group. [Sidenote: LENGTH] Our third question in making a program of musical works is, how long shall it be? The answer is, "It depends upon the quality of the audience." An audience composed largely of trained concert-goers, many of whom are themselves musicians, can listen to a program composed of interesting works and presented by a first-rate artist even though it extends through a period of two and a half hours, although on general principles a two-hour program is probably long enough. But one made up mostly of people who have had very little musical training, who read little except the daily newspaper and the lightest sort of fiction, and whose chief amusement is probably attendance upon the picture show,--such an audience must not be expected to listen to a program that is either too heavy or too long; and our judgment is that for such a group a program an hour and a half long is probably more suitable than one of two or two and a half hours. Our feeling is, furthermore, that the "tired business man" would not object so strenuously to attending the serious musical performances to which his wife urges him to go if some of these matters were considered more carefully by the artist in planning the program! But here again, of course, we have a matter which depends altogether upon the kind of music presented, whether the entire program is given by one artist or whether there are several performers, whether the whole program is of one kind of music or whether there is variety of voice and instrument, whether the performers are amateurs or professionals, and upon whether the performer is an artist of the first rank and is able by his perfection of technique, his beauty of tone, and his emotional verve, to hold his audience spellbound for an indefinite length of time, or whether he belongs to the second or third rank of performers and is able to arouse only an average amount of interest. Our purpose in including a discussion of the matter is principally in order that we may have an opportunity of warning the amateur conductor not to cause an audience which would probably give favorable consideration to a short program, to become weary and critical by compelling them to sit through too long a performance. This is particularly true in the case of amateur performance; and since this book is written chiefly for the amateur director, it may not be out of order to advise him at this point to plan programs not more than an hour or an hour and a quarter long, at first. It is far better to have the audience leaving the auditorium wishing the program had been longer than to have them grumbling because it is too long. [Sidenote: ADAPTABILITY TO AUDIENCES] Our fourth problem has already been presented in discussing the other three, for it is because of the necessity of adapting the performance to the audience that we have insisted upon variety, unity, and reasonable length. Many a concert has turned out to be an utter fiasco because of failure on the part of the program maker to consider the type of people who were to listen to it; and although on such occasions it is customary for the performer to ascribe his failure to the stupidity of the audience, it must nevertheless be acknowledged that the fault is more commonly to be laid at the door of the one who planned the event. A program composed of two symphonies and an overture or two, or of two or three Beethoven sonatas, is not a suitable meal for the conglomerate crowd comprising the "average audience"; indeed it is doubtful whether in general it is the best kind of diet for any group of listeners. Here again we cannot give specific directions, since conditions vary greatly, and we must content ourselves once more with having opened up the problem for thought and discussion. [Sidenote: EFFECTIVE ARRANGEMENT] Having selected musical material that is varied in content and yet appropriate for performance upon the same program; having taken into consideration what kind of music is adapted to our audience and how much of it they will probably be able to listen to without becoming weary; our final problem will now be so to arrange the numbers that each one will be presented at the point in the program where it will be likely to be most favorably received, and will make the most lasting impression upon the auditors. In general, of course, the heavier part of the program should usually come in the first half and the lighter part in the second, for the simple reason that it is at the beginning that our minds and bodies are fresh and unwearied, and since we are able to give closer attention at that time we should accordingly be supplied with the more strenuous music when we are best able to digest it. But although this is doubtless true in most cases, we have often noticed that audiences are restless during the first part of the concert, and frequently do not get "warmed up" to the point of giving close attention to the performance until ten or fifteen minutes after the program begins, and sometimes not until the second half has been reached. For this reason, and also to cover the distraction arising from the entrance of the ubiquitous late-comer, it seems best to us that some shorter and lighter work be placed at the very beginning of the program--possibly an overture, in the case of a symphony concert. The phenomenon here alluded to has an exact parallel in the church service. When we enter the church, we are thinking about all sorts of things connected with our daily life, and it takes us some little time to forget these extraneous matters and adjust ourselves to the spirit of a church service, and particularly to get into the appropriate mood for listening to a sermon. The organ prelude and other preliminary parts of the service have as their partial function, at least, the transference of our thoughts and attitudes from their former chaotic and egoistic state to one more appropriate to the demands of the more serious part of the service to follow. Somewhat the same sort of thing is found in the case of the majority of people who go to a concert hall for an evening's performance, and although the end to be attained is of course altogether different, yet the method should probably be somewhat the same. Our feeling is therefore that there ought usually to be some comparatively light number at the beginning of the concert program in order that we may be assisted in getting into the listening mood before the heavier works are presented. On the other hand, an artist often plunges into a difficult composition at the very beginning of the concert, and by his marvelous technique or his tremendous emotional vitality sweeps his audience immediately into an attitude of rapt attention; all of which proves again that art is intangible, subtle, and ever-varying--as we stated at the beginning. [Sidenote: THE IMPORTANCE OF SMALL DETAILS] In concluding our very brief statement of program-making, it may be well to mention the fact that small details often have a good deal to do with the failure of audiences to follow the program with as keen attention as might be desired. These details are often overlooked or disdained merely because they seem too trifling to make it worth the artist's while to notice them; but by seeing to it that the concert hall is well warmed (or well cooled), that it is well lighted and well ventilated; that the doors are closed when the first number begins, and that no one is allowed to enter during the performance of any number; that there are no long waits either at the beginning or between numbers; that unnecessary street and other outside noises are stopped or shut out so far as practicable; and that the printed program (if it has more than one sheet) is so arranged that the pages do not have to be turned while compositions are being performed--by providing in advance for someone who will see to all these little matters, the artist may often be rewarded by a fine type of concentrated attention which would not be possible if the minds of the individuals comprising the audience were being distracted by these other things. The printer too bears no small responsibility in this matter of having an audience follow a program with undiminished attention from beginning to end, and there is no doubt that the tastefully printed page (and particularly if there are explanatory remarks concerning the composer, style, meaning of the composition, _et cetera_) will usually be followed with much keener attention than one the parts of which have merely been thrown together. The reason for this we shall leave for some one else to discuss--possibly some writer of the future upon "the psychology of the printed page." CHAPTER XV CONDUCTOR AND ACCOMPANIST [Sidenote: NECESSITY OF CORDIAL RELATION] In chorus directing, it is of the utmost importance that conductor and accompanist not only understand one another thoroughly, but that the relationship between them be so sympathetic, so cordial, that there may never be even a hint of non-unity in the ensemble. The unskilful or unsympathetic accompanist may utterly ruin the effect of the most capable conducting; and the worst of it is that if the accompanist is lacking in cordiality toward the conductor, he can work his mischief so subtly as to make it appear to all concerned as if the conductor himself were to blame for the ununified attacks and ragged rhythms.[35] [Footnote 35: On the other hand, the conductor sometimes shifts the responsibility for mishaps to the accompanist when the latter is in no wise to blame, as, _e.g._, when the organ ciphers or a page does not turn properly.] [Sidenote: CHOOSING THE ACCOMPANIST] In order to obviate the disadvantages that are likely to arise from having a poor accompanist, the conductor must exercise the greatest care in choosing his coworker. Unless he knows of some one concerning whose ability there is no question, the best plan is probably to have several candidates compete for the position; and in this case, the points to be especially watched for are as follows: 1. Adequate technique. 2. Good reading ability. 3. Sympathetic response to vocal _nuance_. 4. Willingness to cooperate and to accept suggestions. Of these four, the last two are by no means the least important; and sometimes it is better to choose the person who has less skill in reading or technique but who has sufficient innate musical feeling to enable him not only to follow a soloist's voice or a conductor's beat intelligently, but even to anticipate the dynamic and tempo changes made by singer or conductor. The minds of conductor and accompanist must work as one. In stopping his chorus for a correction, it should be possible for the conductor to assume that the accompanist has followed him so carefully and is in such close musical rapport with him that, before the conductor speaks, the accompanist has already found the badly executed passage, and the instant the conductor cites page and score, is ready to play the phrase or interval that was wrongly rendered. The same sort of thing ought of course to take place whenever there is a change of tempo, and it is to be noted that in all these cases the accompanist must make a _musical_ response to the conductor's interpretation, and not merely an _obedient_ one. [Sidenote: COURTEOUS TREATMENT NECESSARY] Having chosen the best available person to do the accompanying, the next thing in order will be to treat the accompanist in such a way that he will always do his best and be a real help in causing the chorus to produce effective results. Next to the conductor, the accompanist is undoubtedly the most important factor in producing fine choral singing; hence our reference to the accompanist as the conductor's _coworker_. The first thing to note in connection with getting the best possible help from the accompanist is that he shall always be treated in a pleasant, courteous way, and the conductor must learn at the very outset not to expect impossible things from him; not to blame him for things that may go wrong when some one else is really responsible; and in general, to do his utmost to bring about and to maintain friendly, pleasant relations. This will mean a smile of approval when the accompanist has done particularly well; it may involve publicly sharing honors with him after a well rendered performance; and it certainly implies a receptive attitude on the conductor's part if the accompanist is sufficiently interested to make occasional suggestions about the rendition of the music. If you as conductor find it necessary to make criticisms or suggestions to the accompanist, do this privately, not in the presence of the chorus. Much of the sting of a criticism frequently results from the fact that others have heard it, and very often if the matter is brought up with the utmost frankness in a private interview, no bad blood will result, but if a quarter as much be said in the presence of others, a rankling wound may remain which will make it extremely difficult for the conductor and accompanist to do good musical work together thenceforth. [Sidenote: NECESSITY OF PROVIDING THE MUSIC IN ADVANCE] One of the best ways to save time at the rehearsal is to provide the accompanist with the music in advance. Even a skilful reader will do more intelligent work the first time a composition is taken up if he has had an opportunity to go through it beforehand. This may involve considerable trouble on the conductor's part, but his effort will be well rewarded in the much more effective support that the accompanist will be able to furnish if he has had an opportunity to look over the music. When the accompanist is not a good reader, it is, of course, absolutely imperative that he not only be given an opportunity to study the score in advance, but that he be _required_ to do so. If in such a case the conductor does not see to it that a copy of the music is placed in the accompanist's hands several days before each rehearsal, he will simply be digging his own grave, figuratively speaking, and will have no one but himself to blame for the poor results that are bound to follow. [Sidenote: ORGAN ACCOMPANYING] If the accompaniments are played on the organ, the conductor will need to take into consideration the fact that preparing and manipulating stops, pistons, and combination pedals takes time, and he will therefore not expect the organist to be ready to begin to play the instant he takes his place on the bench; neither will he be unreasonable enough to assume that the organist ought to be ready to pass from one number to another (_e.g._, from a solo accompaniment to a chorus) without being given a reasonable amount of time for arranging the organ. The fact that in such a case the accompanist has been working continuously, whereas the director has had an opportunity of resting during the solo number, ought also to be taken into consideration; and it may not be unreasonable for the organist to wish for a moment's pause in order that he may adjust his mental attitude from that demanded by the preceding number to that which is appropriate to the number to follow. All this is especially to be noted in performances of sacred music, in which no time is taken between the numbers for applause. In any case, the least the conductor can do is to watch for the organist to look up after he has prepared the organ, and then to signal him pleasantly with a nod and a smile that he is ready to go on with the next number. This will not only insure complete preparedness of the organ, but will help "oil the machinery" and keep relations pleasant. The conductor of a church choir should remember that the organist has probably studied and is familiar with the dynamic resources of his instrument to a much greater extent than the conductor; and that many times the organist is not depending upon his _ear_ in deciding the amount of organ needed, so much as upon his _knowledge_ of what the total effect will be in the auditorium. It is frequently impossible to tell from the choir loft how loud or how soft the sound of the organ is in the body of the house. The conductor, not knowing the dynamic values of the various stop combinations as well as the organist, must not presume to criticize the latter for playing too loudly or too softly unless he has gone down into the auditorium to judge the effect there. Even this is not an absolute guide, for the balance is very likely to be different when the auditorium is full of people from what it was when empty. Moreover, the amount of choral tone frequently increases greatly under the stimulus of public performance. All in all, therefore, a good organist should be permitted to use his own judgment in this matter. In any case, do not resort to conspicuous gestures to let him know that there is too much or too little organ. He has probably discovered it as soon as you have, and will add or subtract as soon as it can be done without making an inartistic break in the dynamic continuity of the accompaniment. If a signal becomes absolutely necessary, make it as inconspicuously as possible. [Sidenote: ACCOMPANIST MUST SEE DIRECTOR] We have previously stressed the fact that the conductor must stand so that his beat may be easily seen by all performers; and this matter is of the utmost importance in connection with the accompanist. He must be able to see you _easily_ if he is to follow your beat accurately; further, he should be able to see your face as well as your baton, if a really sympathetic musical relationship is to exist. This may appear to be a small point, but its non-observance is responsible for many poor attacks and for much "dragging" and "running away" on the part of accompanists. The sum and substance of the whole matter may be epitomized in the advice, "Be courteous, considerate, and sensible in dealing with your accompanist and verily thou shalt receive thy reward!" CHAPTER XVI EFFICIENCY IN THE REHEARSAL [Sidenote: ORGANIZING ABILITY NEEDED TO AVOID WASTING TIME] Having now reviewed the various essentials in conducting from the standpoint of public performance, we wish emphatically to state our conviction that in many cases both choruses and orchestras have been short-lived, being abandoned after a season or two of more or less unsatisfactory work, directly as a result of the inefficient methods used by the conductor in the rehearsal. In an earlier chapter (p. 18) we noted that the successful conductor of the present day must possess a personality combining traits almost opposite in their nature; _viz._, _artistry_ and _organizing ability_. We were referring at that time to business sense in general as needed by the conductor in selecting works to be performed, deciding upon the place, duration, and number of rehearsal periods, engaging artists to assist in the public performances, and in general, seeing to it that the business details of the organization are attended to in an efficient manner. But such organizing ability is needed most of all in planning and conducting the rehearsal, and there is no doubt that mediocre results at the public performance and not infrequently the actual breaking up of amateur organizations may be traced more often to the inability of the conductor to make the best use of his time in the always inadequate rehearsal hour than to any other source. It is for this reason that we have thought best to devote an entire chapter to a discussion of what might be termed "The Technique of the Rehearsal." [Sidenote: EFFICIENCY NOT A DESTROYER OF IDEALISM] The word _efficiency_ has been used so frequently in recent years that it has come to be in almost as bad odor as the word _artistic_, as employed by the would-be critic of esthetic effects. This antipathy to the word is perhaps most pronounced on the part of the artist, and there has been a well-defined feeling on the part of a good many of us that efficiency and advancement in art appreciation do not perhaps go hand-in-hand as much as might be desired. Granting the validity of this criticism of efficiency as a national ideal, it must nevertheless be evident that the artist has in the past been far too little concerned with life's business affairs, and that both he and his family on the one hand, and those having business relations with him on the other would be far better off if the artist would cultivate a more businesslike attitude in his relationships with the rest of the world. However this may be in general, it is certain that the conductor of the present must take more definitely into consideration what is going on outside the world of art; must recognize the fact that this is now a busy world and that there are a great many interesting things to do and a great many more distractions and amusements than there were a half-century ago; and that if the members of a chorus or orchestra (particularly in the case of an amateur society) are to continue to attend rehearsals regularly and to keep up their enthusiasm for the work of the organization, the conductor must see to it that something tangible is accomplished not only during each season, but in each and every practice hour, and that regular attendance at the rehearsals does not cause the members to feel that they are wasting time and energy. This is, after all, the essence of scientific management--to accomplish some desired result without any waste moves and without squandering valuable material; and surely no artistic loss will be involved if efficiency of this type is applied to conducting a musical rehearsal. On the contrary, the application of such methods will enable the conductor to secure a much higher degree of artistry in the public performance because, by avoiding any waste of time in rehearsing, he will be able to put the musicians through the music more often, and thus not only arouse greater confidence on their part, but be enabled to emphasize more strongly the interpretative, the artistic aspect of the music. Most of the rehearsal hour is often spent in drilling upon mere _correctness_ of tone and rhythm, especially in the case of amateur organizations. In order to make these matters as concrete and practical as possible, we shall give in the remainder of this chapter a series of somewhat unrelated suggestions about conducting an ensemble rehearsal, trusting that the reader will forgive the didactic (and possibly pedantic) language in which they are couched. [Sidenote: PLANNING THE REHEARSAL] Do not make the mistake of attempting to study your score at the same time that your singers or players are learning it. Study your music exhaustively beforehand so that at the rehearsal you may know definitely just what you are going to do with each selection and may be able to give pointed directions as to its rendition. This will enable you to look at your performers most of the time, and the freedom from the score thus allowed will make your conducting very much more effective and will enable you to stir your singers out of their state of inertia very much more quickly. Weingartner, in writing upon this point (with especial reference to the public performance) says:[36] "He should know it [the score] so thoroughly that during the performance the score is merely a support for his memory, not a fetter on his thought." The same writer in another place quotes von Bülow as dividing conductors into "those who have their heads in the score, and those who have the score in their heads"! [Footnote 36: Weingartner, _On Conducting_, p. 43.] Study the individual voice parts, so as to find out so far as possible beforehand where the difficult spots are and mark these with blue pencil, so that when you want to drill on these places, you may be able to put your finger on them quickly. It is very easy to lose the attention of your performers by delay in finding the place which you want them to practise. It is a good plan, also, to mark with blue pencil some of the more important _dynamic_ and _tempo_ changes so that these may be obvious to the eye when you are standing several feet from the desk. Decide beforehand upon some plan of studying each composition, and if a number of works are to be taken up at any given rehearsal, think over in advance the order in which they are to be studied. In brief, make a plan for each rehearsal, writing it out if necessary, and thus avoid wasting time in deciding what is to be done. In case you are a choir director, learn also to plan your services weeks or even months in advance,[37] and then keep working toward the complete carrying out of your plan by familiarizing your musicians with the material as far in advance of the public performance as possible. In this way the music is _absorbed_, as it were, and the singers and players are much more apt to feel at ease in performing it than when it has been taken up at only one or two rehearsals. [Footnote 37: The complete list of works to be given by leading symphony orchestras during the entire season is usually decided upon during the preceding summer, and somewhat the same procedure might profitably be followed with a church choir or an amateur orchestra.] [Sidenote: DISCIPLINE IN THE REHEARSAL] It is impossible to conduct well unless you have the absolute attention of every singer or player. Hence the discipline at all rehearsals must be rather strict and the performers must be trained to keep their eyes on you practically all the time. (In the case of choral music, it would be well to have a great deal more of it entirely committed to memory so that at the performance the singers might be enabled to give the conductor their absolute attention.) You have a perfect right to demand that all shall work industriously during every working minute of the rehearsal hour and that there shall be no whispering or fooling whatsoever, either while you are giving directions, or while you are conducting. If you are unfortunate enough to have in your organization certain individuals who do not attend to the work in hand even after a private admonition, it will be far better to drop them from the organization, for they are bound to do more harm than good if they are retained. On the other hand, you will recognize the temptation to whisper which the performer feels while you are giving a long-winded explanation of some pet theory of yours, and you will accordingly cut down the amount of talking you do to the minimum. A good rule to follow is this: "_Talk little at the rehearsal, but when you do talk, be sure that every one listens._" Keep your performers so busy that they will have no time to think about anything but the work in hand. Plan plenty of work so as to be able to keep things moving through the entire hour. Better a rehearsal conducted in this way and only one hour long, than a slow-moving, boresome affair, two hours in length. If the tax of such concentrated attention is too severe to be kept up constantly for an entire hour, plan to have a five-minute intermission when everyone may talk and laugh and thus relax. The author has found that with a body of amateur singers, a ninety-minute rehearsal, with a five- to seven-minute intermission in the middle, works very well indeed. [Sidenote: BEGINNING THE REHEARSAL] Do not shout at your chorus or orchestra if the members are noisy. Wait until the noise subsides entirely before you begin to speak, and address them in a quiet, dignified, authoritative way when you do begin. Unless you have some pointed remark to make about the rendition of the music, it is far better to give merely the place of beginning without making any remarks at all. Securing quiet by a prolonged rapping with the baton is a sign of weak discipline. Do not rap at all until the music is distributed, the accompanist in his place and ready to begin, your score open, and until you know exactly what you are going to do first. Then let just a slight tap or two suffice to notify everyone that the rehearsal is to begin at once. [Sidenote: LEARNING DIFFICULT PASSAGES] In drilling on a difficult passage, it is usually better to stop at the actual spot where the mistake occurs than to go on to the end and then turn back. Find the exact spot that is causing trouble and "reduce the area of correction to its narrowest limits," as one writer[38] states it. It is to be noted that merely one repetition of such a passage is usually of little avail. _It must be gone over enough times to fix the correct method of rendition in mind and muscle as a habit._ If a section sings a certain passage incorrectly twice and then correctly only once, the chances are that the fourth time will be like the first two rather than like the third. The purpose of drilling on such a passage is to eradicate the wrong impression entirely and substitute for it an entirely new habit at that point. After learning a difficult tonal or rhythmic phrase in this way, be sure to fit it into its environment before assuming that it has been finally mastered. The difficulty in such passages often consists not in performing the intervals or rhythms in isolation, but in doing them while the other parts are going on. [Footnote 38: Richardson, _The Choir-trainer's Art_, p. 156.] [Sidenote: LOCATE DIFFICULT SPOTS QUICKLY] In directing attention to some particular place in the score about which you wish to speak, give the details of your direction always in the same order, _viz._: (1) page, (2) score (or _brace_ if you prefer), (3) measure, (4) beat. Thus _e.g._, "Page 47, second score, fourth measure, beginning with the second beat." Give the direction slowly and very distinctly, and then do not repeat it; _i.e._, get your musicians into the habit of listening to you the first time you say a thing instead of the second or third. Carrying out this plan may result in confusing unpreparedness on the part of your singers or players for a time or two, but if the plan is adhered to consistently they will very soon learn to listen to your first announcement--and you will save a large amount of both time and energy. [Sidenote: REHEARSAL LETTERS AND NUMBERS] Ensemble music is frequently supplied with _rehearsal letters_ or _numbers_, these enabling the performers to locate a passage very quickly. When not printed in the score, it will often be a saving of time for the conductor to insert such letters or numbers in his own copy of the music in advance of the first rehearsal, asking the members to insert the marks in their music as he dictates their location by page and score, or by counting measures in the case of orchestra music. These letters or numbers are best inserted with soft red or blue pencil. [Sidenote: THE "WHOLE METHOD" OF LEARNING] When a new composition is to be taken up, go through it as a whole a few times, so as to give everyone a general idea of its content and of the connection and relation of its parts. After this, begin to work at the difficult spots that you have found, then when it begins to go fairly well, work definitely for expressive rendition. You will of course not expect ordinary performers to go through the composition the first time in a very artistic fashion. If they keep going and do not make too many mistakes, they will have done all that non-professionals should be expected to do. Psychologists have found as the result of careful investigation that the "whole method" of study is much to be preferred to what might be termed the "part method," because of the fact that a much clearer and closer association between parts is thus formed, and there is no doubt but that this point applies very forcibly to the study of music. In an interview published in the _New York World_ in June, 1916, Harold Bauer writes as follows about this matter as related to piano music: Now, in taking up a new work for the piano, the child could and should play right through every page from beginning to end for the purpose of obtaining a definite first impression of the whole. A mess would probably be made of it technically, but no matter. He would gradually discover just where the places were that required technical smoothing, and then by playing them over slowly these spots would be technically strengthened. By the time the composition was thoroughly learned the technique would be thoroughly acquired, too. Obtaining first a perfect mental picture of the whole, and afterward working out the details, is better than learning a work by starting with the details before gaining a broad impression of the composition as a whole. This method of studying musical compositions is especially important from the standpoint of _expression_. In many an instance, the source of wrong interpretation (or of no interpretation at all) may be traced directly to a method of studying the composition which has not impressed the singers or players with its essential meaning and spirit, and with the significance of the various details in relation to the plan of the work as a whole. This is particularly true of choral compositions, and in taking up such works, it may often be well for the conductor to read aloud the entire text of the chorus that is being studied in order that the attention of the singers may be focused for a few moments upon the imagery conveyed by the words. Such attention is frequently impossible while singing, because the minds of the singers are intent upon the beauty or difficulty of the purely musical aspects of the composition, and thus the so-called "expression" becomes merely a blind and uninspired obedience to certain marks like _piano_, _forte_, and _ritardando_--the real spirit of interpretation being entirely absent. [Sidenote: DISTRIBUTING AND CARING FOR THE MUSIC] Have the distribution and care of music so systematized that there will be neither confusion nor waste of time in this part of the rehearsal. In a professional organization there will of course be a salaried librarian to see to such work, but it is entirely possible to secure somewhat the same kind of results in an amateur body by having two or three members elected or appointed for the task, these persons serving either entirely without salary or being paid a purely nominal sum. These librarians will then be expected to take the responsibility of marking new music, of distributing and collecting it at such times as may be agreed upon by librarian and conductor, and of caring for it at concerts or at any other time when it is to be used. It will be the duty also of the head librarian to keep a record of all music loaned or rented, and to see that it is returned in good condition. It would be well too if he kept a card index, showing just what music is owned by the organization, the number of copies of each selection, the price, the publisher, the date when purchased, _et cetera_. Ask the librarians to come five or ten minutes before the beginning of the rehearsal, and make it your business to provide one of them with a slip having upon it the names or numbers of all the selections to be used at that particular rehearsal. Keeping the music in covers or in separate compartments of a cabinet, one of which will hold all of the copies of a single selection, and having these arranged alphabetically or numerically, will considerably facilitate matters for both you and the librarians. Do not think it beneath your dignity to investigate the number of copies of any composition that you are planning to use, and when there are not enough to supply each singer in the chorus and each desk in the orchestra with a copy, to see to it that more music is ordered. It is impossible to rehearse efficiently if the singers in a chorus have to use a part of their energy in trying to read music from a book or sheet held by some one else, or if the players in an orchestra are straining their eyes because three or four instead of two are reading from a single desk. It will be convenient for the conductor to possess a file containing a copy of each number in the library at his home or studio, each copy being marked "conductor's copy." In this way, the director will always be assured of having the same music, and will feel that it is worth while to mark it in such a way as to make it more useful in both rehearsal and performance. [Sidenote: COUNTING ALOUD, TAPPING, AND SINGING WITH THE CHORUS] Do not make the mistake of counting or tapping on the desk constantly during the rehearsal. You may think you are strengthening the rhythm, but as a matter of fact, you are actually weakening it, for in this way you take away from the performers the necessity of individual muscular response to the pulse, and at the performance (when you cannot, of course, count or tap) the rhythm is very likely to be flabby and uncertain. Singing with the chorus is another mistake against which the amateur should be warned. The director not only cannot detect errors and make intelligent criticisms if he sings with the chorus, but will make the members dependent upon his voice instead of compelling them to form the habit of watching him. The only exception to this principle is in teaching new music to a choir composed of very poor readers, in which case it is sometimes much easier to teach a difficult phrase by imitation. Even here, however, it is almost as well to have the organ give the correct tones. In leading community singing, the conductor will of course sing with the crowd, for here he is striving for quite a different sort of effect. [Sidenote: VENTILATION] See to it that the practice room is well ventilated, especially for a chorus rehearsal. Plenty of fresh air will not only enable your chorus to sing with better intonation, but will allow them to sing for a longer period without fatigue. (We are tempted to add a corollary to this proposition: namely, that sleepy congregations are not always due to poor preaching, as is generally supposed, but are as frequently the result of a combination of fairly good preaching and a badly ventilated auditorium!) [Sidenote: _A CAPPELLA_ REHEARSING] In directing a chorus rehearsal, have your singers study without accompaniment much of the time. The organ "covers a multitude of sins" and practising without it will not only enable you to discover weaknesses of all sorts but will help the singers themselves enormously by making them more independent, improving the intonation, and compelling them to make cleaner and more definite attacks and releases. [Sidenote: THE VALUE OF A SENSE OF HUMOR] Finally, in concluding both this chapter and the book as a whole, let us commend once more to the conductor that he cultivate "the saving grace of humor." This quality has already been commented on somewhat at length in an earlier chapter (see p. 8), but it is in the rehearsal period that it is most needed, and the conductor who is fortunate enough to be able to laugh a little when annoyances interrupt or disrupt his plans instead of snarling, will not only hold the members of the organization together for a longer time, because of their cordial personal attitude toward him, but will find himself much less fatigued at the end of the rehearsal; for nothing drains one's vitality so rapidly as scolding. A bit of humorous repartee, then, especially in response to the complaints of some lazy or grouchy performer; the ability to meet accidental mishaps without anger; even a humorous anecdote to relieve the strain of a taxing rehearsal--all these are to be highly recommended as means of oiling the machinery of the rehearsal and making it run smoothly. But of course, even humor can be overdone. So we shall close by quoting the Greek motto, "Nothing too much," which will be found to apply equally well to many other activities recommended in the foregoing pages. APPENDIX A REFERENCE LIST I. GENERAL: Berlioz, _The Orchestral Conductor_. A short treatise full of practical suggestions. It is found in the back of the author's well-known volume on _Orchestration_. Weingartner, _On Conducting_. A small volume of about seventy-five pages, but containing excellent material for both amateur and professional. Schroeder, _Handbook of Conducting_. A practical little book from the standpoint of both orchestral and operatic directing. Wagner, _On Conducting_. A short treatise that every professional conductor will wish to read, but not of much value to the amateur. Mees, _Choirs and Choral Music_. A well-written account of the history of choral music from the time of the Hebrews and Greeks down to the present, containing also an excellent chapter on the Chorus Conductor. Grove, _Dictionary of Music and Musicians_ (article, Conducting). Henderson, _What Is Good Music?_ (chapters XIII and XVII). Krehbiel, _How to Listen to Music_ (chapter VIII). II. INTERPRETATION: Coward, _Choral Technique and Interpretation_. One of the few really significant books on conducting. The author gives in a clear and practical way the principles on which his own successful work as a choral conductor was based. Matthay, _Musical Interpretation_. A book for the musician in general, rather than for the conductor specifically; an excellent treatise and one that all musicians should read. III. THE ORCHESTRA: Lavignac, _Music and Musicians_ (chapter II). Mason, _The Orchestral Instruments and What They Do_. Corder, _The Orchestra and How to Write for It_. Prout, _The Orchestra_ (two volumes). Kling, _Modern Orchestration and Instrumentation_. Henderson, _The Orchestra and Orchestral Music_; contains two chapters (XII and XIII) on the Orchestral Conductor that will be of great interest to the amateur. Mason (Editor), _The Art of Music_ (Vol. VIII). Stoeving, _The Art of Violin Bowing_. Forsyth, _Orchestration_. A particularly good book both for professional and amateur, as it gives many illustrations and treats the various instruments from an historical as well as a practical standpoint. Widor, _The Modern Orchestra_. IV. THE CHURCH CHOIR: Curwen, _Studies in Worship Music_ (two volumes). Dickinson, _Music in the History of the Western Church_. Helmore, _Primer of Plainsong_. Pratt, _Musical Ministries in the Church_. V. THE BOY CHOIR: Bates, _Voice Culture for Children_. Brown and Behnke, _The Child Voice_. Howard, _The Child Voice in Singing_. Johnson, _The Training of Boys' Voices_. Richardson, _The Choir Trainer's Art_. Stubbs, _Practical Hints on Boy Choir Training_. VI. VOICE TRAINING: Ffrangçon-Davies, _The Singing of the Future_. Fillebrown, _Resonance in Singing and Speaking_. Greene, _Interpretation in Song_. Henderson, _The Art of the Singer_. Russell, _English Diction for Singers and Speakers_. Withrow, _Some Staccato Notes for Singers_. VII. MISCELLANEOUS: Hamilton, _Outlines of Music History_. Hamilton, _Sound and Its Relation to Music_. APPENDIX B HAYDN--SYMPHONY No. 3 "Surprise" Symphony Score of Second Movement [Transcriber's Note: The modern designation for the "Surprise" Symphony is No. 94.] [Music] INDEX A A cappella singing, 162. Accompanist--Relation to conductor, 147. Choosing of, 147. Treatment of, 148. Accompanying, organ, 150. Adolescent boy, 124, 125. Alto, male, 119. Altschuler, quoted, 61. Anglican chant--Baton movements for, 33. Attack--How to secure it, 30. In reading new music, 32. B Back stroke, 28. Baton--Description of, 20. How used, 21. Position of, 22. Baton movements--Diagrams of, 22. Principles of, 22. Length of stroke, 32. Bauer, quoted, 159. Berlioz, quoted, 62. Boundaries of music, 41. Bowing--Directions for, 103. Signs, 103, 104. Boy--Problem of, 126-129. Boy choir--Problem of, 118. Government of, 126-129. Remuneration of members, 129. Boy voice--In church choir, 118-125. Life of, 123. During adolescence, 124. Break--Adult voice, 137. Child voice, 122. Breathing, 132. Breath Control, 133. C Canadian Journal of Music, quoted, 19. Caruso, quoted, 44. Chant, Anglican--Baton movements for, 33. Cheatham, quoted, 87. Cheerful attitude--Value of, 10. Child Voice--Peculiarities of, 118. Difference between boy and girl, 120. Compass of, 121. Children, directing, 79. Choir, boy--Problems of, 118. Boy voice, 118, 119, 120-125. Qualifications of leader, 119. Remuneration of boys, 129. Government of boys, 126-129. Choir, church--Problems of directing, 108. Remedies, 109. Difficulties involved in, 111. Qualifications of leader, 112. Danger of individualism, 112. Solo singing in, 114. Chorus, high school--Music for, 80. Direction of, 82. Seating of, 83 Church music--Remedies needed, 108. Solo singing, 114. Importance of congregation singing, 116. Clarinet, 99. Clearness of speech--As element in leadership, 16. Community music--Significance of, 85. Social effects of, 86. Qualifications of song leader, 87. Song material, 89. Advertising, 90. Provision of words, 91. Compass of child voice, 121. Compass of orchestral instruments, 107. Compound measures, 23, 24, 26, 27. Conducting--Definition, 1. History of, 2. Psychological basis of, 3. Orchestral, 93. Church choir, 108. Boy choir, 118. Conductor--Qualities of, 8, 110. Present status of, 2, 3. As organizer, 13. As interpreter, 36. Orchestral, 93. Relation to accompanist, 147-151. Congregational singing, 116. Consonants in singing, 135. Counting aloud, 161. Coward, quoted, 65. Creative imagination, 11. Crescendo, 58. D Diagrams of baton movements, 22, 23, 24. Dickinson, quoted, 62, 109. Discipline in rehearsals, 155. Dynamics, 57-63. Terms defined, 59, 60. E Efficiency in the rehearsal, 152. Efficiency vs. Idealism, 153. Emotion--In interpretation, 38. Enthusiasm as an element in leadership, 16, 17. Expression--Meaning of, 36, 43. In instrumental music, 46. Elements of, 46. How produced, 72, 75. F Fermata, 31. Five-beat measure, 27. G Gehring, quoted, 42. Girl voice, 120, 121. H Harmony, 71. Haydn score, 166. Head voice, 122, 123. High school chorus--Direction of, 82. Seating of, 83. Music for, 80. History of conducting, 2. Hold, 31. Humor--Sense of, 8. Illustrations of, 9. Value in rehearsals, 162. Hymns--Selection of, 117. I Idealism vs. Efficiency, 153. Imagination--Value of, 11. Individualism--Danger of in church choir, 112. Instinctive imitation, 3. Instrumental music--Expression in, 46. Timbre in, 66. Phrasing in, 69. Instruments--Proportion of, 97. Transposing, 98-100. Pitch standards, 101. Tuning of, 102. Bowing, 103. Range of, 107. Interpretation and expression--Definition, 36. Interpretation, 36-75. Emotion in, 38. Definition, 40. In vocal music, 43. Importance of timbre in, 66. L Leadership--Sense of, 13. Elements of, 15, 16, 17. Summary, 18. Legato, 135. Length of program, 142. Life of boy voice, 123. M Male alto, 119. Melody accentuation, 61. Memory, muscular in tempo, 55. Messa di voce, 138. Metronome, 48. Movable break, 122. Music--Non-measured, 33. Boundaries of, 41. Vocal, 43. Instrumental--Expression in, 46. School--Field of, 75. Church, 108-117. Music--Distribution and care of, 160. Music--Selection of, 80. For children, 80. High school chorus, 81. Church, 108-117. Music stand, 20. Musical scholarship, 6. N Non-measured music, 32. Nuances, tempo, 53. O Orchestra--Directing of, 93-95. Seating of, 96. Orchestral instruments--Proportion of, 97. Transposing, 98. Pitch standards, 101. Tuning, 102. Ranges of, 107. Organ accompaniments, 150. Organizing ability, 13. P Personality of conductor, 8. Personality of supervisor, 78. Phrasing--Explanation of, 66. In vocal music, 67. Mistakes in, 68. In instrumental music, 69. Pianissimo, 60, 61. Pitch--Registers, 71. Standards, 101. Planning the rehearsal, 154. Poise--as element in leadership, 16. Portamento, 138. Principle of time beating, 28. Program-making, 140. Length of, 142. Arrangement of numbers, 144. Importance of details, 146. Program music, 42. Psychological basis of conducting, 3. Public performance--Attitude of conductor at, 82. Public school music, 76. Relation to church choirs, 115. Q Qualities of conductor, 8. R Ranges of orchestral instruments, 107. Recitative, 33. Registers--Child voice, 122, 123. In adult voice, 136. Rehearsal--How to save time in, 152-163. Planning of, 154. Discipline in, 155. Rehearsal letters or numbers, 158. Relation between conductor and accompanist, 147-151. Relaxation in singing, 136. Release--How to secure, 30. Resonance, 134. Rhythm, 70. Rubato, 53. S Scholarship, musical--Importance of, 6. School music--Field of, 76. Supervisor's personality, 78. Direction of children, 79. Selection of music, 80. Public performance, 81. Schumann as a conductor, 13. Score--Reading, 93, 105. Seating--Orchestra, 96. High School chorus, 83. Self-confidence--Element in leadership, 15. Seven-beat measure, 27. Singing--Solo, 114. Congregational, 116. Use of vowel and consonants 134, 135. Legato, 135. Relaxation in, 136. Summary of good, 139. A cappella, 162. Solo singing, 114. Spitta, quoted, 13. Standards of pitch, 101. Sternberg, C. von, quoted, 37. Stroke, length of, 32. Supervisor of music, 76. T Table--Of orchestral instruments, 107. Transposing instruments, 100. Technique of the rehearsal, 152. Tempo, 46-56. Importance of, 47. Finding correct, 48. Rubato, 54, 55. Establishing of, 55. Tempo terms defined, 49-53. Timbre, 64. In instrumental music, 66. In vocal music, 64, 65, 66. Time beating--Principles and methods of, 22-29. Back stroke, 28, 29. Tone--How produced, 134. Tone quality, 64-66. Transposing instruments, 98, 99, 100. Tremolo in singing, 138. Tuning orchestral instruments, 102. U Unity in program making, 142. V Varasdin, quoted, 19. Variety in program, 140. Ventilation of practice rooms, 162. Vibrato, 138. Vocal cords, Action of, 137. Vocal music--Interpretation, 43. Timbre, 64. Phrasing, 67. Vocal register, 136. Voice, the boy's--In church choir, 118-125. Life of, 123. During adolescence, 124, 125. Voice, the child's--Peculiarities of, 118. Compass of, 121. Difference between voice of boy and girl, 120. Head voice, 122, 123. Voice training--In conducting, 119, 131. Breathing, 132. Breath control, 133. Resonance, 134. Legato, 135. Tone production, 137. Vowel in singing, 134. W Wagner, quoted, 47. Weingartner, quoted, 12. Whipple, quoted, 10. Whole method, 158. Williams, C.F.A., quoted, 75. 
21957	----	THE PSYCHOLOGY OF SINGING A Rational Method of Voice Culture based on a Scientific Analysis of all Systems, Ancient and Modern by DAVID C. TAYLOR New York 1922 All rights reserved Copyright, 1908, by the MacMillan Company. New York--Boston--Chicago--Atlanta--San Francisco MacMillan & Co., Limited London--Bombay--Calcutta--Melbourne The Macmillan Co. of Canada, Ltd. Toronto Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1908. Norwood Press: Berwick & Smith Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. To My Mother WHOSE DEVOTION TO TRUTH AND EARNEST LABOR HAS PROMPTED ALL MY EFFORTS THIS WORK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED PREFACE A peculiar gap exists between the accepted theoretical basis of instruction in singing and the actual methods of vocal teachers. Judging by the number of scientific treatises on the voice, the academic observer would be led to believe that a coherent Science of Voice Culture has been evolved. Modern methods of instruction in singing are presumed to embody a system of exact and infallible rules for the management of the voice. Teachers of singing in all the musical centers of Europe and America claim to follow a definite plan in the training of voices, based on established scientific principles. But a practical acquaintance with the modern art of Voice Culture reveals the fact that the laws of tone-production deduced from the scientific investigation of the voice do not furnish a satisfactory basis for a method of training voices. Throughout the entire vocal profession, among singers, teachers, and students alike, there is a general feeling of the insufficiency of present knowledge of the voice. The problem of the correct management of the vocal organs has not been finally and definitely solved. Voice Culture has not been reduced to an exact science. Vocal teachers are not in possession of an infallible method of training voices. Students of singing find great difficulty in learning how to use their voices. Voice Culture is generally recognized as entitled to a position among the exact sciences; but something remains to be done before it can assume that position. There must be some definite reason for the failure of theoretical investigation to produce a satisfactory Science of Voice Culture. This cannot be due to any present lack of understanding of the vocal mechanism on the part of scientific students of the subject. The anatomy and physiology of the vocal organs have been exhaustively studied by a vast number of highly trained experts. So far as the muscular operations of tone-production are concerned, and the laws of acoustics bearing on the vocal action, no new discovery can well be expected. But in this very fact, the exhaustive attention paid to the mechanical operations of the voice, is seen the incompleteness of Vocal Science. Attention has been turned exclusively to the mechanical features of tone-production, and in consequence many important facts bearing on the voice have been overlooked. In spite of the general acceptance of the doctrines of Vocal Science, tone-production has not really been studied from the purely scientific standpoint. The use of the word "science" presupposes the careful observation and study of all facts and phenomena bearing in any way on the subject investigated. Viewed in this light, the scientific study of the voice is at once seen to be incomplete. True, the use of the voice is a muscular operation, and a knowledge of the muscular structure of the vocal organs is necessary to an understanding of the voice. But this knowledge alone is not sufficient. Like every other voluntary muscular operation, tone-production is subject to the psychological laws of control and guidance. Psychology is therefore of equal importance with anatomy and acoustics as an element of Vocal Science. There is also another line along which all previous investigation of the voice is singularly incomplete. An immense fund of information about the vocal action is obtained by attentive listening to voices, and in no other way. Yet this important element in Vocal Science is almost completely neglected. In order to arrive at an assured basis for the art of Voice Culture, it is necessary in the first place to apply the strictest rules of scientific investigation to the study of the voice. A definite plan must be adopted, to include every available source information. First, the insight into the operations of the voice, obtained by listening to voices, must be reviewed and analyzed. Second, the sciences of anatomy, mechanics, acoustics, and psychology must each contribute its share to the general fund of information. Third, from all the facts thus brought together the general laws of vocal control and management must be deduced. Before undertaking this exhaustive analysis of the vocal action it is advisable to review in detail every method of instruction in singing now in vogue. This may seem a very difficult task. To the casual observer conditions in the vocal world appear truly chaotic. Almost every prominent teacher believes himself to possess a method peculiarly his own; it would not be easy to find two masters who agree on every point, practical as well as theoretical. But this confusion of methods is only on the surface. All teachers draw the materials of their methods from the same sources. An outline of the history of Voice Culture, including the rise of the old Italian school and the development of Vocal Science, will render the present situation in the vocal profession sufficiently clear. Part I of this work contains a review of modern methods. In Part II a critical analysis is offered of certain theories of the vocal action which receive much attention in practical instruction. Several of the accepted doctrines of Vocal Science, notably those of breath-control, chest and nasal resonance, and forward placing of the tone, are found on examination to contain serious fallacies. More important even than the specific errors involved in these doctrines, the basic principle of modern Voice Culture is also found to be false. All methods are based on the theory that the voice requires to be directly and consciously managed in the performance of its muscular operations. When tested by the psychological laws of muscular guidance, this theory of mechanical tone-production is found to be a complete error. Part III contains a summary of all present knowledge of the voice. First, the insight into the singer's vocal operations is considered, which the hearer obtains by attentive listening to the tones produced. This empirical knowledge, as it is generally called, indicates a state of unnecessary throat tension as the cause, or at any rate the accompaniment, of every faulty tone. Further, an outline is given of all scientific knowledge of the voice. The anatomy of the vocal organs, and the acoustic and mechanical principles of the vocal action, are briefly described. Finally, the psychological laws of tone-production are considered. It is seen that under normal conditions the voice instinctively obeys the commands of the ear. In Part IV the information about the vocal action obtained from the two sources is combined,--the scientific knowledge of mechanical processes, and the empirical knowledge derived from attentive listening to voices. Throat stiffness is then seen to be the one influence which can interfere with the instinctively correct action of the voice. The most important cause of throat stiffness is found in the attempt consciously to manage the mechanical operations of the voice. In place of the erroneous principles of mechanical instruction, imitation is seen to be the rational foundation of a method of Voice Culture. The mystery surrounding the old Italian method is dispelled so soon as the possibility is recognized of teaching singing by imitation. Practical rules are outlined for imparting and acquiring the correct use of the voice, through the guidance of the sense of hearing. The singer's education is considered in its broadest sense, and training in tone-production is assigned to its proper place in the complex scheme of Voice Culture. During the past twenty years the author has found opportunity to hear most of the famous singers who have visited America, as well as a host of artists of somewhat lesser fame. In his early student days the conviction grew that the voice cannot reach its fullest development when mechanically used. Siegfried does not forge his sword, and at the same time think of his diaphragm or soft palate. Lucia cannot attend to the movements of her arytenoid cartilages while pouring out the trills and runs of her Mad Scene. A study of the theoretical works on Vocal Science, dealing always with mechanical action and never with tone, served only to strengthen this conviction. Finally the laws of physiological psychology were found to confirm this early belief. Every obtainable work on Voice Culture has been included in the author's reading. No desire must be understood to make a display of the results of this study. One citation from a recognized authority, or in some cases two or three, is held sufficient to verify each statement regarding the accepted doctrines of Vocal Science. As for the practical features of modern methods, the facts alleged cannot in every case be substantiated by references to published works. It is, however, believed that the reader's acquaintance with the subject will bear out the author's statements. This work is of necessity academic in conception and in substance. Its only purpose is to demonstrate the falsity of the idea of mechanical vocal management, and to prove the scientific soundness of instruction by imitation. There is no possibility of a practical manual of instruction in singing being accepted, based on the training of the ear and the musical education of the singer, until the vocal world has been convinced of the error of the mechanical idea. When that has been accomplished this work will have served its purpose. All of the controversial materials, together with much of the theoretical subject matter, will then be superfluous. A concise practical treatise can then be offered, containing all that the vocal teacher and the student of singing need to know about the training and management of the voice. It is in great measure due to the coöperation of my dear friend, Charles Leonard-Stuart, that my theory of voice production is brought into literary form, and presented in this book. To his thorough musicianship, his skill and experience as a writer of English, and especially to his mastery of the bookman's art, I am deeply indebted. True as I know Leonard-Stuart's love to be for the art of pure singing, I yet prefer to ascribe his unselfish interest in this work to his friendship for the author. CONTENTS PART I MODERN METHODS OF INSTRUCTION IN SINGING CHAPTER I Tone-Production and Voice Culture CHAPTER II Breathing and Breath-Control CHAPTER III Registers and Laryngeal Action CHAPTER IV Resonance CHAPTER V Empirical Materials of Modern Methods CHAPTER VI A General View of Modern Voice Culture PART II A CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF MODERN METHODS CHAPTER I Mechanical Vocal Management as the Basis of Voice Culture CHAPTER II The Fallacy of the Doctrine of Breath-Control CHAPTER III The Fallacies of Forward Emission, Chest Resonance, and Nasal Resonance CHAPTER IV The Futility of the Materials of Modern Methods CHAPTER V The Error of the Theory of Mechanical Vocal Management PART III THE BASIS OF A REAL SCIENCE OF VOICE CHAPTER I The Means of Empirical Observation of the Voice CHAPTER II Sympathetic Sensations of Vocal Tone CHAPTER III Empirical Knowledge of the Voice CHAPTER IV The Empirical Precepts of the Old Italian School CHAPTER V Empirical Knowledge in Modern Voice Culture CHAPTER VI Scientific Knowledge of the Voice PART IV VOCAL SCIENCE AND PRACTICAL VOICE CULTURE CHAPTER I The Correct Vocal Action CHAPTER II The Causes of Throat Stiffness and of Incorrect Vocal Action CHAPTER III Throat Stiffness and Incorrect Singing CHAPTER IV The True Meaning of Vocal Training CHAPTER V Imitation the Rational Basis of Voice Culture CHAPTER VI The Old Italian Method CHAPTER VII The Disappearance of the Old Italian Method and the Development of Mechanical Instruction CHAPTER VIII The Materials of Rational Instruction in Singing CHAPTER IX Outlines of a Practical Method of Voice Culture Bibliography CHAPTER I TONE-PRODUCTION AND VOICE CULTURE In no other form of expression do art and nature seem so closely identified as in the art of singing. A perfect voice speaks so directly to the soul of the hearer that all appearance of artfully prepared effect is absent. Every tone sung by a consummate vocal artist seems to be poured forth freely and spontaneously. There is no evidence of calculation, of carefully directed effort, of attention to the workings of the voice, in the tones of a perfect singer. Yet if the accepted idea of Voice Culture is correct, this semblance of spontaneity in the use of the voice can result only from careful and incessant attention to mechanical rules. That the voice must be managed or handled in some way neither spontaneous nor instinctive, is the settled conviction of almost every authority on the subject. All authorities believe also that this manner of handling the voice must be acquired by every student of singing, in the course of carefully directed study. This training in the use of the voice is the most important feature of education in singing. Voice Culture embraces a peculiar and distinct problem, that of the correct management of the vocal organs. Vocal training has indeed come to be considered synonymous with training in the correct use of the voice. Every method of instruction in singing must contain as its most important element some means for dealing with the problem of tone-production. No complete and satisfactory solution of this problem has ever been found. Of this fact every one acquainted with the practical side of Voice Culture must be well aware. As the present work is designed solely to suggest a new manner of dealing with this question, it is advisable to define precisely what is meant by the problem of tone-production. In theory the question may be stated very simply. It is generally believed throughout the vocal profession that the voice has one correct mode of action, different from a wide variety of incorrect actions of which it is capable;--that this mode of action, though ordained by Nature, is not in the usual sense natural or instinctive;--that the correct vocal action must be acquired, through a definite understanding and conscious management of the muscular movements involved. The theoretical problem therefore is: What is the correct vocal action, and how can it be acquired? On the practical side, the nature of the problem is by no means so simple. In actual instruction in singing, the subject of vocal management cannot readily be dissociated from the wide range of other topics comprised in the singer's education. In much that pertains to the art of music, the singer's training must include the same subjects that form the training of every musician. In addition to this general musical training, about the same for all students of music, each student must acquire technical command of the chosen instrument. This is necessarily acquired by practice on the instrument, whether it be piano, violin, oboe, or whatever else. In the same way, vocal technique is acquired by practice in actual singing. Practice makes perfect, with the voice as with everything else. But the voice is not invariably subject to the law that practice makes perfect. In this important respect the singer's education presents a problem not encountered by the student of any instrument. Given the necessary talents, industry, and opportunities for study, the student of the violin may count with certainty on acquiring the mastery of this instrument. But for the vocal student this is not necessarily true. There are many cases in which practice in singing does not bring about technical perfection. The mere singing of technical exercises is not enough; it is of vital importance that the exercises be sung in some particular manner. There is one certain way in which the voice must be handled during the practice of singing. If the vocal organs are exercised in this particular manner, the voice will improve steadily as the result of practice. This progress will continue until perfect technical command of the voice is acquired. But if the vocal student fails to hit upon this particular way of handling the voice in practice the voice will improve little, or not at all. In such a case perfect vocal technique will never be acquired, no matter how many years the practice may continue. What is this peculiar way in which the voice must be handled during the practice of singing? This is the practical problem of tone-production, as it confronts the student of singing. It is important that the exact bearing of the problem be clearly understood. It is purely a feature of education in singing, and concerns only teachers and students of the art. Properly speaking, the finished singer should leave the teacher and start on the artistic career, equipped with a voice under perfect control. There should be no problem of tone-production for the trained singer, no thought or worry about the vocal action. True, many authorities on the voice maintain that the artist must, in all singing, consciously and intelligently guide the operations of the vocal organs. But even if this be the case the fact remains that this ability to manage the voice must be acquired during student days. In seeking a solution of the problem, that period in the prospective singer's training must be considered during which the proper use of the voice is learned. It may be taken for granted that teachers of singing have always been aware of the existence of the problem of tone-production, and have always instructed their pupils in the correct management of the voice. Yet it is only within the past hundred and fifty years that vocal management has been the subject of special study. A brief review of the history of Voice Culture will serve to bring this fact out clearly. To begin with, the present art of singing is of comparatively recent origin. It is indeed probable that man had been using the voice in something akin to song for thousands of years before the dawn of history. Song of some kind has always played an important part in human life, savage as well as civilized. To express our emotions and feelings by means of the voice is one of our most deep-seated instincts. For this use of the voice to take on the character of melody, as distinguished from ordinary speech, is also purely instinctive. Singing was one of the most zealously cultivated arts in early Egypt, in ancient Israel, and in classic Greece and Rome. Throughout all the centuries of European history singing has always had its recognized place, both in the services of the various churches and in the daily life of the people. But solo singing, as we know it to-day, is a comparatively modern art. Not until the closing decades of the sixteenth century did the art of solo singing receive much attention, and it is to that period we must look for the beginnings of Voice Culture. It is true that the voice was cultivated, both for speech and song, among the Greeks and Romans. Gordon Holmes, in his _Treatise on Vocal Physiology and Hygiene_ (London, 1879), gives an interesting account of these ancient systems of Voice Culture. But practically nothing has come down to us about the means then used for training the voice. Even if any defined methods were developed, it is absolutely certain that these had no influence on the modern art of Voice Culture. With the birth of Italian opera, in 1600, a new art of singing also came into existence. The two arts, opera and singing, developed side by side, each dependent on the other. And most important to the present inquiry, the art or science of training voices also came into being. In _Le Revoluzioni del Teatro Musicale Italiano_ (Venice, 1785), Arteaga says of the development of opera: "But nothing contributed so much to clarify Italian music at that time as the excellence and the abundance of the singers." A race of singing masters seems almost to have sprung up in Italy. These illustrious masters taught the singers to produce effects with their voices such as had never been heard of before. From 1600 to 1750 the progress of the art of singing was uninterrupted. Each great teacher carried the art a little further, discovering new beauties and powers in the voice, and finding means to impart his new knowledge to his pupils. This race of teachers is known to-day as the Old Italian School, and their system of instruction is called the Old Italian Method. Just what this method consisted of is a much-discussed question. Whatever its system of instruction, the old Italian school seems to have suffered a gradual decline. In 1800 it was distinctly on the wane; it was entirely superseded, during the years from 1840 to 1865, by the modern scientific methods. Considered as a practical system of Voice Culture, the old Italian method is a highly mysterious subject. Little is now known about the means used for training students of singing in the correct use of the voice. This much is fairly certain: the old masters paid little or no attention to what are now considered scientific principles. They taught in what modern vocal theorists consider a rather haphazard fashion. The term "empirical" is often applied to their method, and to the knowledge of the voice on which it was based.[1] But as to what the old masters actually knew about the voice, and just how they taught their pupils to sing, on these points the modern world is in almost complete ignorance. Many attempts have been made in recent years to reconstruct the old Italian method in the light of modern scientific knowledge of the voice. But no such analysis of the empirical system has ever been convincing. [Note 1: "The old Italian method of instruction, to which vocal music owed its high condition, was purely empirical." (Emma Seiler, _The Voice in Singing_. Phila., 1886.)] How the practical method of the old masters came to be forgotten is perhaps the most mysterious feature of this puzzling system. There has been a lineal succession of teachers of singing, from the earlier decades of the eighteenth century down to the present. Even to-day it is almost unheard of that any one should presume to call himself a teacher of singing without having studied with at least one recognized master. Each master of the old school imparted his knowledge and his practical method to his pupils. Those of his pupils who in their turn became teachers passed the method on to their students, and so on, in many unbroken successions. Yet, for some mysterious reason, the substance of the old method was lost in transmission. What little is now known about the old method is derived from two sources, the written record and tradition. To write books in explanation of their system of instruction does not seem to have occurred to the earliest exponents of the art of Voice Culture. The first published work on the subject was that of Pietro Francesco Tosi, _Osservazione sopra il Canto figurato_, brought out in Bologna in 1723. This was translated into English by M. Galliard, and published in London in 1742; a German translation by J. F. Agricola was issued in 1757. The present work will call for several citations from Tosi, all taken from the English edition. Only one other prominent teacher of the old school, G. B. Mancini, has left an apparently complete record of his method. His _Riflessioni pratiche sul Canto figurato_ was published in Milan in 1776. Mancini's book has never been translated into English. Reference will therefore be made to the third Italian edition, brought out in Milan, 1777. Tosi and Mancini undoubtedly intended to give complete accounts of the methods of instruction in singing in vogue in their day. But modern vocal theorists generally believe that the most important materials of instruction were for some reason not mentioned. Three registers are mentioned by Tosi, while Mancini speaks of only two. Both touch on the necessity of equalizing the registers, but give no specific directions for this purpose. About all these early writers have left us, in the opinion of most modern students of their works, is the outline of an elaborate system of vocal ornaments and embellishments. On the side of tradition a slightly more coherent set of rules has come down to us from the old masters. These are generally known as the "traditional precepts." Just when the precepts were first formulated it is impossible to say. Tosi and Mancini do not mention them. Perhaps they were held by the old masters as a sort of esoteric mystery; this idea is occasionally put forward. At any rate, by the time the traditional precepts were given to the world in published works on the voice, their valuable meaning had been completely lost. Gathered from all available sources, the traditional precepts are as follows: "Sing on the breath." "Open the throat." "Sing the tone forward," or "at the lips." "Support the tone." To the layman these precepts are so vague as to be almost unintelligible. But modern vocal teachers are convinced that the precepts sum up the most important means used by the old masters for imparting the correct vocal action. An interpretation of the precepts in terms intelligible to the modern student would therefore be extremely valuable. Many scientific investigators of the voice have sought earnestly to discover the sense in which the precepts were applied by the old masters. These explanations of the traditional precepts occupy a very important position in most modern methods of instruction. There can be no question that the old masters were highly successful teachers of singing. Even leaving out of consideration the vocal achievements of the castrati, the singers of Tosi's day must have been able to perform music of the florid style in a masterly fashion. This is plainly seen from a study of the scores of the operas popular at that time. Empirical methods of instruction seem to have sufficed for the earlier masters. Not until the old method had been in existence for nearly one hundred and fifty years does an attempt seem to have been made to study the voice scientifically. In 1741 a famous French physician, Ferrein, published a treatise on the vocal organs. This was the first scientific work to influence the practices of vocal teachers. For many years after the publication of Ferrein's treatise, the scientific study of the voice attracted very little attention from the singing masters. Fully sixty years elapsed before any serious attempt was made to base a method of instruction on scientific principles. Even then the idea of scientific instruction in singing gained ground very slowly. Practical teachers at first paid but little attention to the subject. Interest in the mechanics of voice production was confined almost entirely to the scientists. In the early decades of the nineteenth century the mechanical features of voice production seem to have appealed to a constantly wider circle of scientists. Lickovius (1814), Malgaine (1831), Bennati (1830), Bell (1832), Savart (1825), brought out works on the subject. It remained, however, for a vocal teacher, Garcia, to conceive the idea of basing practical instruction on scientific knowledge. Manuel Garcia (1805-1906) may justly be regarded as the founder of Vocal Science. His father, Manuel del Popolo Viscenti, was famous as singer, impresario, and teacher. From him Garcia inherited the old method, it is safe to assume, in its entirety. But for Garcia's remarkable mind the empirical methods of the old school were unsatisfactory. He desired definite knowledge of the voice. A clear idea seems to have been in his mind that, with full understanding of the vocal mechanism and of its correct mode of action, voices would be more readily and surely trained. How strongly this idea had possession of Garcia is shown by the fact that he began the study of the vocal action in 1832, and that he invented the laryngoscope only in 1855. It must not be understood that Garcia was the first teacher to attempt to formulate a systematic scheme of instruction in singing. In the works of Mannstein (1834) and of Marx (1823) an ambitious forward movement on the part of many prominent teachers is strongly indicated. But Garcia was the first teacher to apply scientific principles in dealing with the specific problem of tone-production. He conceived the idea that a scientific knowledge of the workings of the vocal organs might be made the basis of a practical system or method of instruction in singing. This idea of Garcia has been the basic principle of all practical methods, ever since the publication of the results of his first laryngoscopic investigations in 1855. Before attempting to suggest a new means of dealing with the problem of vocal management, it is well to ascertain how this problem is treated in modern methods of instruction. It would not be easy to overstate the importance assigned to the matter of tone-production in all modern systems of Voice Culture. The scientific study of the voice has dealt exclusively with this subject. A new science has resulted, commonly called "Vocal Science." This science is generally accepted as the foundation of all instruction in singing. All modern methods are to some extent based on Vocal Science. To arrive at an understanding of modern methods, the two directions in which vocal theorists have approached the scientific study of the voice must be borne in mind: First, by an investigation of the anatomy of the vocal organs, and of the laws of acoustics and mechanics in accordance with which they operate. Second, by an analysis of the traditional precepts of the old Italian school in the light of this scientific knowledge. As the present work demands a review of modern methods from the practical side only, it is not necessary to include a description of the vocal organs. It will be sufficient to describe briefly the manner in which scientific investigators of the voice treat the subject of the vocal organs. The vocal mechanism consists of three portions,--the breathing apparatus, the larynx with its appendages, and the resonance cavities. Vocal scientists apply their efforts to finding out the correct mode of action of each portion of the mechanism, and to formulating rules and exercises by which these correct actions can be acquired and combined for the production of perfect tones. The analysis of the traditional precepts also conforms to this general plan; each precept is referred to that portion of the vocal apparatus to which it seems best to apply. The outline of the principles of modern methods contained in the following chapters follows this general scheme. It must be understood at the start that on most of the doctrines included in Vocal Science there is no unanimity of opinion among either theorists or teachers. Far from this being the case, practically all the principles of Vocal Science are the subjects of controversy. CHAPTER II BREATHING AND BREATH-CONTROL It is generally considered that, as the breath is the foundation of singing, the manner of breathing is of vital importance to the singer. This subject has therefore received a vast amount of attention from vocal scientists, and the muscular actions of breathing have been exhaustively studied. Several sets of rules for inspiration and expiration are put forth by different authorities. But there is no occasion for going into a detailed discussion of the different modes of breathing advocated by the various schools, or of the theoretical arguments which each advances. It is sufficient to say that the modes of breathing most in vogue are five in number,--deep abdominal, lateral or costal, fixed high chest, clavicular, and diaphragmatic-abdominal. However, on experimenting with these five systems of breathing, it is found that the number may be reduced to two; of these the others are but slight modifications. In one system of inspiration the abdomen is protruded, while the upper chest is held firm, the greatest expansion being at the base of the lungs. In the other mode of taking breath the abdomen is slightly drawn in, while the chest is expanded in every direction, upward, laterally, forward, and backward. In this system the upper chest is held in a fixed and high position. Necessarily the manner of filling the lungs involves the manner in which they are emptied. Opinions are practically unanimous as to the proper position of the singer before taking breath, that is, at the end of an expiration. The singer must stand erect, the weight of the body evenly supported on the balls of both feet, with the whole body in a condition of lithe suppleness. In both systems of breathing the manner of expiration is simply a return to this position. A wide variety of breathing exercises are in use, but these do not require detailed description. Any one of the prescribed systems of breathing can easily be adopted, and the student of singing seldom encounters any difficulty on this point. Still most teachers attach great importance to the acquirement of the correct manner of breathing. Toneless mechanical exercises are generally given, by which the student is expected to master the muscular movements before applying in singing the system advocated by the teacher. These exercises are usually combined with those for breath-control, and they are described under that head. _Breath-Control_ Very early in the development of Vocal Science the management of the breath began to receive attention. Mannstein,[2] writing in 1834, says: "The air in expiration must stream from the chest slowly and without shock. The air must flow from the chest with the tone." In a footnote he adds: "In order to acquire this economy of the breath, students were required to practise daily, without singing, to take and to hold back the breath as long as possible." Mannstein does not mention the muscular action involved in this exercise. [Note 2: _Die grosse italienische Gesangschule._ Dresden, 1834.] This subject is also touched upon by Garcia. In the first edition of his _École de Garcia_, 1847, Chap. IV, p. 14, he says: "The mechanism of expiration consists of a gentle pressure on the lungs charged with air, operated by the thorax and the diaphragm. The shock of the chest, the sudden falling of the ribs, and the quick relaxing of the diaphragm cause the air to escape instantly.... If, while the lungs are filled with air, the ribs are allowed to fall, and the diaphragm to rise, the lungs instantly give up the inspired air, like a pressed sponge. It is necessary therefore to allow the ribs to fall and the diaphragm to relax only so much as is required to sustain the tones." It may be questioned whether Garcia had in mind the doctrine of breath-control as this is understood to-day. Very little attention was paid, at any rate, in the vocal instruction of that day, to the mechanical actions of breath-control; the great majority of teachers probably had never heard of this principle. As a definite principle of Vocal Science, breath-control was first formulated by Dr. Mandl, in his _Die Gesundheitslehre der Stimme_, Brunswick, 1876. From that time on, this doctrine has been very generally recognized as the fundamental principle of correct singing. Practically every scientific writer on the voice since then states breath-control as one of the basic principles of Vocal Science. The most influential published work in popularizing the doctrine of breath-control was probably the book written jointly by Lennox Browne and Emil Behnke, _Voice, Song, and Speech_, London, 1883. This doctrine is of so much importance in Vocal Science and in modern methods of instruction as to require a detailed explanation. The theory of breath-control may be stated as follows:[3] "In ordinary breathing the air is expelled from the lungs quietly, but rapidly; at no point of the breathing apparatus does the expired breath meet with resistance. In singing, on the contrary, the expiratory pressure is much more powerful, yet the expiration must be much slower. Furthermore, all the expired breath must be converted into tone, and the singer must have perfect control over the strength and the speed of the expiration. This requires that the air be held back at some point. The action of holding back the breath must not be performed by the muscles which close the glottis, for all the muscles of the larynx are very small and weak in comparison with the powerful muscles of expiration. The glottis-closing muscles are too weak to oppose their action to the force of a powerful expiration. If the vocal cords are called upon to withstand a strong breath pressure, they are seriously strained, and their proper action is rendered impossible. In the same way, if the throat be narrowed at any point above the larynx, so as to present a passage small enough to hold back a powerful expiration, the entire vocal mechanism is strained and forced out of its proper adjustment. The singer must have perfect control of the breath, and at the same time relieve the larynx and throat of all pressure and strain. To obtain this control the singer must govern the expiration by means of the muscles of inspiration. When the lungs are filled the inspiratory muscles are not to be relaxed as in ordinary breathing, but are to be held on tension throughout the action of expiration. Whatever pressure is exerted by the expiratory muscles must be almost counterbalanced by the opposed action of the muscles of inspiration. The more powerful the blast, the greater must be the exertion by which it is controlled. In this way the singer may have perfect control both of the speed and of the strength of the expiration." [Note 3: This statement of the doctrine of breath-control must not be construed as an endorsement of the theory of the vocal action embodied in this doctrine. On the contrary, both the theory of "opposed action" breath-control and the "breath-band" theory are held to be utterly erroneous. For a further discussion of this subject see Chapter II of Part II.] The exercises for acquiring command of this "opposed action breath-control" are easily understood; indeed, they will readily suggest themselves to one who has grasped their purpose. Most important of these exercises is a quick inspiration, followed by a slow and controlled expiration. Exercises for breathing and breath-control are usually combined; the student is instructed to take breath in the manner advocated by the teacher, and then to control the expiration. Teachers usually require their pupils to obtain command of this action as a toneless exercise before permitting them to apply it to the production of tone. Methods vary greatly as to the length of time devoted to toneless drills in breathing and breath-control. Many teachers demand that students practise these exercises daily throughout the entire course of study, and even recommend that this practice be continued throughout the singer's active life. Simple as these exercises are in theory, they demand very arduous practice. Control of the breath by "opposed action" is hard and tiring muscular work, as the reader may easily convince himself by practising the above described exercise for a few minutes. No special rules are needed for applying this mode of breathing to the production of tone. Theoretical writers generally do not claim that the control of the breath brings about the correct laryngeal action, but merely that it permits this action by noninterference. Several authorities however, notably Shakespeare, maintain that in effect this system of breath-control embodies the old precept, "Sing on the breath." (Wm. Shakespeare, _The Art of Singing_, London, 1898, p. 24.) Other theorists hold that the empirical precept, "Support the tone," refers to this manner of controlled expiration. (G. B. Lamperti, _The Technics of Bel Canto_, Trans. by Dr. Th. Baker, N. Y., 1905, p. 9.) _The "Breath-band" System_ While most authorities on the voice advocate the system of breath-control by "opposed muscular action," there are a number of masters who teach an entirely different system. This is usually known as the "Breath-band," or "Ventricular" breath-control. Charles Lunn, in _The Philosophy of the Voice_, 1878, was the first to propound the theory that the breath may be controlled by the false vocal cords. There is reason to believe that this idea was also worked out independently by Orlando Steed ("On Beauty of Touch and Tone," _Proceedings of the Musical Assn._, 1879-80, p. 47). As a number of prominent teachers base their entire methods on this theory, it is worthy of careful attention. The "breath-band" theory may be stated as follows: "When the lungs are filled by a deep inspiration and the breath is held, the glottis is of necessity closed so tightly that no air can escape. In this condition the expiratory muscles may be very violently contracted, and still no air will escape; indeed, the greater the strength exerted the tighter is the closure of the glottis. Obviously, this closure of the glottis cannot be effected by the contraction of the glottis-closing muscles, strictly speaking, for these muscles are too small and weak to withstand the powerful air pressure exerted against the vocal cords.[4] The point of resistance is located just above the vocal cords. The sudden air pressure exerted on the interior walls of the larynx by the expiratory contraction causes the ventricles of the larynx to expand by inflation. This inflation of the ventricles brings their upper margins, formed by the false vocal cords, into contact. Thus the opening from the larynx into the pharynx is closed. This closure is not effected by any muscular contraction, therefore it is not dependent on the strength of the muscular fibers of the false vocal cords. It is an automatic valvular action, directly under voluntary control so far as the contraction of the expiratory muscles is concerned, but independent of volition as regards the action of the false vocal cords. On account of their important function in this operation the false vocal cords are called the 'breath-bands.' Closure of the glottis by the inflation of the ventricles imposes no strain on the vocal cords. [Note 4: One of the strongest arguments of the "breath-band" advocates is based on this action,--the resistance of the closed glottis to a powerful expiratory pressure. The theory of breath-control by "opposed muscular action" takes no cognizance of this operation. It will however be shown in Chapter II of Part II that the "breath-band" theorists are mistaken in asserting that the action of holding the breath is not performed by the glottis-closing muscles.] "Control of the breath in singing is effected by this automatic valvular action. To produce a tone according to this system, the lungs must be filled and the breath held in the manner just described, while the vocal cords are brought to the proper degree of tension; then the tone is started by allowing the 'breath-bands' to separate very slightly, so that a thin stream of air is forced through the opening between their margins. The tone is ushered in by a slight explosive sound, which is nothing but the well-known stroke of the glottis. So long as the expiratory pressure is steadily maintained, this tone may be held, and yet no strain is imposed on the vocal cords. Perfect control of the breath is thus attained. For a powerful tone, the breath blast is greater, therefore the ventricles are more widely inflated, and the opening between the 'breath-bands' becomes narrower. The action is always automatic; once the tone is correctly started, the singer need pay no further attention to the operation of the 'breath-bands.' All that is necessary is to maintain a steady breath pressure." In the methods of all the "breath-band" advocates, the first and most important step toward perfect tone-production is held to be the acquirement of this automatic breath-control. As in the "opposed muscular" system, the initial exercises are toneless drills in breathing. The basic exercise, of which all the others are variations, is as follows: "Fill the lungs, then hold the breath an instant, and forcibly contract all the chest muscles. Then force the air out slowly and powerfully through the glottis." Practice of this exercise is always accompanied by a hissing sound, caused by the escape of the air through the narrow slit between (presumably) the "breath-bands." Tone-production by the same muscular action is very simple, and requires no further explanation. In its practical aspect this system of breath-control is the direct opposite of the "opposed muscular" system. In one the breath is expelled powerfully, the object being to bring a strong expiratory pressure to bear on the larynx. In the other system, the air is held back, in order that the larynx be exposed to as slight a pressure as possible. The "breath-band" advocates hold that the glottic stroke is the key to correct laryngeal action. As a rule they instruct their pupils to attack every tone, throughout all their practising, with the stroke of the glottis. In the course of time the automatic valvular action is supposed to become so well established that the singer can dispense with the glottic stroke in public performance. Needless to say, these teachers usually recognize that this explosive sound is very harsh and unmusical, and utterly out of place in artistic singing. An important claim of the "breath-band" teachers is that their doctrine contains the explanation of the traditional precept, "Support the tone." Their idea is that the throat, being "firmly set," furnishes a secure base for the tone to rest on. This explanation is of course utterly unscientific, and it cannot be said to throw any light on the meaning of the precept. "Singing on the breath" is also referred to this system of breath-control, but with no more coherence than the "Support of the tone." No necessary connection obtains between systems of breath-control and those of breathing strictly speaking, that is, of inspiration. As has been said, the great majority of vocal theorists adhere to the "opposed muscular action" breath-control. In this number are included advocates of every known system of breathing. Bitter controversies have been carried on between champions of different modes of breathing, who yet agree that the breath must be controlled by "opposed action." This is also true, although not to the same extent, among the "breath-band" teachers. And to render the confusion on the subject of breathing and breath-control complete, instances might be cited of controversies between teachers who agree as to the correct mode of inspiration, and yet disagree on the manner of controlling the expiration. Both systems of breath-control cannot be right; if one is correct, the other must necessarily be absolutely wrong. Instead of attempting to decide between them, it will be seen that both are false, and that the theory on which they rest is erroneous. This discussion is reserved for a later chapter. CHAPTER III REGISTERS AND LARYNGEAL ACTION Probably no other topic of Vocal Science has been studied so earnestly as the registers of the voice. Yet on no other topic is there such wide diversity of opinion among theorists and investigators. Very little is definitely known regarding the manner in which the subject of registers was treated by the old Italian masters. Suffice it to say here that the old masters did not refer the registers to changes in the laryngeal action. They were treated simply as different qualities of tone, each quality best adapted to be sung only in a portion of the voice's compass. In the early decades of the nineteenth century the registers of the voice received much attention from vocal theorists, especially in Paris. Garcia's first published work, _Mémoire sur la Voix humaine_, was presented to the Academy of Sciences in 1840. This Mémoire gives the results of observations which Garcia made on his own pupils; it deals mainly with the position of the larynx during the singing of tones in the various registers. Garcia describes how the larynx is raised and lowered in the throat, according to the register in which the tones are produced. He also notes the position of the tongue and the soft palate. Widespread interest was awakened by the account of Garcia's laryngoscopic investigations of the registers, published in 1855. The attention of the great majority of vocalists was at once drawn to the subject, and the actions of the vocal cords in the different registers were studied by many prominent physicians and voice specialists. Exhaustive treatises on the registers have since been published by Mme. Seiler, Behnke, Curwen, Mills, Battaille, Curtis, Holmes, and by a large number of other investigators. All the results of the laryngoscopic investigation of the vocal action have been disappointing in the extreme. In the first place, no two observers have obtained exactly the same results. Writing in 1886, Sir Morell Mackenzie says: "Direct observation with the laryngoscope is, of course, the best method at our disposal, but that even its testimony is far from unexceptionable is obvious from the marvelous differences as to matters of _fact_ that exist among observers. It is hardly too much to say that no two of them quite agree as to what is seen." (_The Hygiene of the Vocal Organs_, London, 1886.) Wesley Mills, in his latest work, endeavors to show a substantial agreement among the best equipped observers of the registers, but his attempt can hardly be called convincing. (_Voice Production in Singing and Speaking_, Philadelphia, 1906.) Opinions on the subject of registers, held by the leading voice specialists to-day, are fully as divergent as in 1886. Widely different statements are made by prominent authorities as to the number of registers, the vocal cord action by which each register is produced, and the number of notes which each one should properly include. Another deficiency of the doctrine of registers is even more serious in its bearing on practical instruction. Not only have all investigators failed to define exactly what the correct laryngeal action is. Even if this were determined it would still be necessary to find means for imparting command of this correct action to the student of singing. Knowing how the vocal cords should act does not help the singer in the least to govern their action. What the vocal student wishes to know is how to cause the vocal cords to assume the correct position for each register. On this, the most important topic of mechanical Voice Culture, Vocal Science has shed no light whatever. A student may hear descriptions of the laryngeal action, and study the highly interesting laryngoscopic photographs of the vocal cords, until thoroughly familiar with the theoretical side of the subject. Even then, the student is no better able to control the vocal cord action than when profoundly ignorant of the whole matter. This deficiency of Vocal Science is frankly recognized by one of the latest authoritative writers on the subject, Dr. Wesley Mills. On page 173 of his work just quoted, he advises students to _hear the great singers_, to note carefully the _quality of tone_ which characterizes each register, and to _imitate these qualities_ with their own voices. This advice may almost be described as revolutionary. Vocal theorists have always assumed that the correct action cannot be acquired by imitation. In this advice to rely on the imitative faculty for acquiring control of the laryngeal action, Dr. Mills abandons the basic principle of modern methods. Without exception, all instruction in singing is to-day based on the idea of mechanical tone-production. An entirely new theory of Voice Culture is involved in this advice of Dr. Mills. Turning to practical methods of instruction, it is found that the subject of registers is very seldom treated in the manner suggested by the theoretical works on the voice. This would be, to make the "placing" of the voice in the different registers the exclusive subject of instruction for a certain number of lessons;--to train each register of the voice separately;--when the correct vocal cord action had been established in each register, to unite the different registers, and to correct any "breaks" which might have developed. Comparatively few teachers attempt to follow this course. The great majority treat the registers in a much less systematic fashion. A single half-hour lesson usually includes explanations and exercises on several topics of mechanical tone-production, as well as hints on agility, style, execution, etc. As merely one of this variety of subjects, the registers usually receive rather desultory attention. Some teachers profess to ignore the subject of registers entirely. They maintain that, when properly trained from the beginning, the compass of the voice is one homogeneous whole; "breaks" and changes of quality are in their opinion merely the results of bad instruction. But the general belief of vocal authorities is overwhelmingly against these teachers. The condition which they describe is without doubt the ideal of vocal management; but the vast majority of teachers believe that this condition cannot be attained without some attention being paid to the individual registers. Most teachers recognize either two registers,--chest and head; or three,--chest, middle, and head. Comparatively few extremists recognize more than three. Several sets of names for the registers have been proposed by vocal theorists,--thick and thin, long reed and short reed, high and low, etc. But these names have not been adopted by teachers to any extent. One important phase of the registers has not received much attention from the laryngoscopic investigators. This is, that most of the notes of the voice's compass can be produced at will in more than one register. Vocal teachers as a rule recognize this fact. Julius Stockhausen for instance, in his _Gesangsmethode_ (Leipzig, 1884), says: "The registers cross each other. The two principal registers of the voice have many tones in common. The perfect blending of the registers on a single tone leads to the _crescendo_, called in Italian the _messa di voce_." Teachers generally do not set hard and fast limits to the extent of each register; they direct that in singing up the scale the student pass gradually from chest to middle, middle to head voice, etc. In most practical methods the chest register occupies about the same position; this is also true of the head register. Even those teachers who profess to ignore registers recognize these two distinct qualities of tone; they instruct their pupils to sing low notes in one quality, and high notes in the other. This is in fact the general practice. In this connection the topics of registers and resonance are often combined. The terms "head voice," "head register," and "nasal resonance," are used interchangeably by the great majority of teachers. This is also true of the expressions "chest voice," "chest resonance," and "chest register." In practical instruction, the extending of the compass of the voice is usually treated, rather loosely perhaps in most cases, as a feature of the registers. Methods vary greatly in points of detail, but in most of them instruction on this topic is given along the same general lines. Usually the three classes of voices receive different treatment, one form of instruction being used for sopranos and tenors, another for mezzo-sopranos and baritones, and a third for altos and bassos. In teaching students with high voices, teachers usually "place"[5] the medium notes first, roughly speaking, from G to d (for male voices one octave lower). Then the lower notes are developed, mostly by descending scale passages, the lowest note practised being usually C. The high notes are sometimes "placed" by ascending scale passages and arpeggios, but more often by the octave jump and descending scale. There is room for considerable variation in this class of exercises, but they all conform to the same general principle. [Note 5: The expression "placing the voice" is more fully treated in Chap. VI. It is assumed, however, that the reader is familiar with the ordinary usage of this expression.] For mezzos and baritones about the same system is followed, the exercises being sung a major third or so lower. In the case of contraltos and bassos, the voice is usually trained from the middle in both directions. Most teachers favor the "chest voice" for singers of these types throughout the entire compass. A discussion of the use of special vowels and consonants in this class of exercises is contained in Chapter V. It must not be understood that this topic of instruction is assigned by many teachers to any particular period of the student's progress. Moreover, practice in the registers seldom forms the exclusive material of lessons and home study for any definite time. The wide range of topics considered in the average singing lesson has already been mentioned. Very little connection can be traced between the scientific doctrine of registers, and the treatment which this subject receives in modern methods. This is only to be expected, in view of the fact that laryngoscopic investigation has not resulted in practical rules for managing the vocal cords. The registers of the voice are handled by modern teachers in a purely empirical fashion. _Movements of the Larynx, Tongue, and Soft Palate_ It was remarked, in speaking of the registers, that no mechanical means has ever been found for directly controlling the operations of the vocal cords. To this statement one apparent exception is seen in the method originated by John Howard. This earnest student of the voice sought to carry out, to its logical conclusion, the accepted idea of mechanical vocal control. In this respect he stands practically alone. His is the only method which even pretends to reduce the entire operation of correct tone-production to a set of defined muscular contractions. Howard's theories, with the details of a practical method based thereon, are fully described in his most important published work, _The Physiology of Artistic Singing_, New York, 1886. A complete exposition of Howard's theories is not called for here. For the present purpose the following short summary will suffice: "The difference between correct tone-production and any incorrect vocal action is solely a matter of laryngeal adjustment and vocal cord action. Whether the tone produced be right or wrong, the influence of the resonance cavities is about the same. It is therefore idle to pay any attention to the subject of air resonance. Only one form of resonance is of any value in tone-production (considered as distinct from vowel formation). This is the sounding-board resonance of the bones of the head and chest. To secure this, the most important reinforcement of the tone, the larynx must be firmly held in a fixed position against the backbone, at the fifth cervical vertebra. All theories as to the registers of the voice, derived from laryngoscopic observation, are completely erroneous. "In the production of tone, the muscular tissue of the vocal cords is thrown into vibration by the air blast, and not merely the membranous covering of the inner edges of the cords. For a soft tone, only a portion of the fleshy mass of the vocal cords vibrates; if this tone is gradually swelled to _fortissimo_, a constantly increasing portion of the muscular tissue is called into play. For the loudest tone, the entire mass of the vocal cords is bought into vibration. Thus the increased volume of the tone results not alone from the increase in the power of the breath blast. Each addition to the power of the expiration demands also a change in the adjustment of the vocal cords. "The contractions of the muscles inside the larynx, including the vocal cords, cannot be brought under direct voluntary control. But these contractions can be regulated by the actions of other sets of muscles, viz., those by which the larynx is connected with the skeletal framework of the head, neck, and chest. These latter muscles can all be controlled by direct volition. Each of these sets of muscles has its function in tone-production. One set pulls the larynx backward, into the position already described, against the backbone. Two other opposed sets hold the larynx firmly in this position, one set pulling upward, the other downward. Finally, and most important in their influence on the actions of the vocal cords, a fourth set of muscles comes into play. These tilt the thyroid cartilage forward or backward, and thus bring about a greater or less tension of the vocal cords, independent of the contractions of the muscles of the vocal cords themselves. In this way is regulated the amount of the fleshy mass of the vocal cords exposed to the expiratory blast. Correct tone-production results when exactly the necessary degree of strength is exerted by each one of these four sets of muscles." For each of these groups of muscles Howard devised a system of exercises and drills by which the singer is supposed to bring all the movements involved under direct voluntary control. The parts thus exercised are the tongue, the soft palate, the jaw, the fauces, and also the muscles by which the larynx is raised and lowered in the throat, and those by which the chest is raised. In teaching a pupil Howard took up each part in turn. A sufficient number of lessons was devoted to each set of muscles for the pupil (presumably) to acquire the necessary control of each group. Howard also paid much attention to the breath; he worked out the system of high-chest breathing in a really masterly fashion. But his manner of dealing with this subject did not differ from that of a great number of other teachers. Howard retired from active teaching about 1895. His theories of the vocal action have never been generally accepted by vocal theorists, and the number of teachers who now profess to follow his method is very small. There are, however, many other masters whose methods, in their main features, are patterned after Howard's. These latter teachers may therefore be justly said to follow the Howard system, even though they give him no credit for their doctrines of vocal control. Howard usually insisted that his pupils should understand the theoretical basis of his method, and the exact purpose of each exercise and muscular contraction. But as a rule his successors do not make this demand on their pupils. They are content to have the students practise the prescribed exercises; this the students do, with very little thought about the theory lying behind the method. For the pupil this system, as at present generally taught, consists solely of a series of muscular drills for the tongue, larynx, palate, etc. In this review of modern methods, the Howard system is important, mainly because it represents the consistent application of the idea of mechanical tone-production. As was observed, Howard's theories had very little influence on the general trend of Vocal Science. The external features of the Howard system are indeed shared to some extent by the methods of many other teachers. Muscular drills of about the same type are very widely used. Some teachers go so far in this respect that their methods might almost be confounded with the Howard system. But the resemblance is purely external. Even in 1880, at the time when Howard had fairly perfected his method, there was nothing novel about exercises of this type. The first attempts at a practical study of vocal mechanics consisted of observations of those parts of the vocal organs whose movements can be readily seen and felt. These are the lips, tongue, palate, and larynx. Garcia's _Mémoire_, already cited, is mainly a record of observations of this kind. Nearly every vocal theorist since that time has also paid some attention to this phase of the vocal action. In practical methods of instruction, elaborate systems of rules have long been in use for governing the positions of the tongue, lips, palate, etc. Unlike the Howard theory, no definite scientific basis is usually given for specific directions of this kind. Each investigator has simply noted how certain great singers held their tongues or soft palates, whether the larynx was held high or low in the throat, etc., and considered that these must be the correct positions. It would be hard to find a greater diversity of opinion on any topic connected with the voice than is encountered here. To enumerate all the rules which are given for governing the actions of each part would be useless. A few of the contradictory opinions regarding the correct position of the larynx will suffice to show how great is the confusion on this topic: "The larynx should be held low in the throat for all tones." "It should be held in a fixed position high in the throat." "It should be high for low tones, and should descend as the pitch rises." "It should be in a low position for the lowest note of each register, and should rise as the pitch rises; when the highest note of the register is reached, it should at once descend for the lowest note of the next register." Prominent teachers and writers could be cited as authority for each of these rules, and indeed for several others. A similar diversity of opinion is found regarding the rules given for the position of the tongue and the soft palate. Practices vary greatly as to the amount of time and attention devoted to muscular drills of the parts under consideration, and also as to the importance attached to the positions of these parts. Some teachers make this a prominent feature of their methods. The majority, however, treat the subject much more lightly. They now and then devote a part of the lesson time to the muscular drills and exercises; for the rest, an occasional hint or correction regarding the positions of the parts is deemed sufficient. All the movements of the tongue, lips, and jaw are directly under voluntary control. Exercises for these parts are therefore given only for acquiring suppleness and agility. The muscular movements of the larynx and soft palate are readily brought under control. Each can simply be raised and lowered. A few minutes' daily practice, extended over three or four weeks, is generally sufficient for the student to acquire satisfactory command of these actions. But to hold the tongue, palate, and larynx in any prescribed position, while singing a tone, is an extremely troublesome matter. Those teachers who adhere to precise systems for the positions of these parts, frequently impose much arduous practice on their pupils. As to the merits of any special system of the kind, this question is reserved for future discussion. _Attack_ It would be hard to determine when the term "attack" was first used to describe the starting of a vocal tone. Nor is it easy to define the precise position assigned to the subject of attack by vocal theorists. No satisfactory statement of the theory of attack can be cited from any published treatise on Vocal Science. It is commonly asserted, rather loosely indeed, that the tone must be "started right." As Clara Kathleen Rogers expresses it, "Attack the tone badly, and nothing can improve it afterwards." (_The Philosophy of Singing_, New York, 1893.) This statement is in the practical sense utterly unfounded. A tone may be "attacked" with a nasal or throaty quality, and then be improved, by simply eliminating the objectionable quality. Of this fact the reader may readily convince himself. In short, all the accepted theories of attack rest on an unscientific basis. Vocal theorists generally treat the subject of attack as connected in some way with registers and laryngeal action. But as no rule has ever been formulated for the mechanical management of the laryngeal action, it necessarily follows that no intelligible directions are ever given to the student for preparing to start the laryngeal action correctly. Three possible ways of attacking a tone are generally recognized. These are described by Albert B. Bach, in _The Principles of Singing_, second edition, London, 1897. They are, first, the stroke of the glottis. (This is advocated by Garcia in most of his published works, although the testimony of many of his pupils, notably Mme. Marchesi, is that Garcia used the glottic stroke very little in actual instruction.) Second, the aspirate (_h_ as in _have_), which is generally condemned. Third, the approximation of the vocal cords at the precise instant the breath blast strikes them. This latter mode of attack is advocated by Browne and Behnke, who call it the "slide of the glottis." It must be observed that neither the stroke nor the slide of the glottis can be shown to have any influence in causing the laryngeal muscles to adopt any particular mode of adjustment. Turning to practical methods of instruction, little connection can be traced between the theories of attack and the occasional directions usually given for starting the tone. The subject of attack is seldom assigned to any particular period in the course of study. Many teachers ignore the matter altogether. Others devote a few minutes now and then to drilling a pupil in the stroke of the glottis, without attaching much importance to the subject. (The position assigned to this mode of attack by the "breath-band" theorists has already been mentioned.) On the whole, the matter of attack is usually treated rather loosely. The pupil is occasionally interrupted in singing a phrase, and told to "attack the tone better." Needless to say, this form of instruction is in no sense scientific. CHAPTER IV RESONANCE In order to understand fully the position in Vocal Science assigned to the doctrine of resonance, it is necessary to trace the origin and the development of this doctrine. The old Italian masters naturally knew nothing whatever of resonance, nor of any other topic of acoustics. Yet the accepted theories of resonance in its relation to the voice are directly based on a set of empirical observations made by the old masters. The facts which they noted are now a matter of common knowledge. In singing low notes a sensation of trembling or vibration is felt in the upper chest; high notes are accompanied by a similar sensation in the head. How these sensations of vibration came to be made the basis of the theories of vocal resonance, and of registers as well, is an interesting bit of vocal history. Although almost entirely ignorant of vocal mechanics in the scientific sense, the old masters were eager students of the voice. They carefully noted the characteristic sound of each tone of the voice, and worked out what they believed to be a comprehensive theory of tone-production. One of their observations was that in every voice the low notes have a somewhat different quality from the high notes. To distinguish these two qualities of tone the old masters adopted the word used for a similar purpose by the organ builders,--_register_. Further, they noted the sensation of vibration in the chest caused by singing low notes, and concluded that these notes are actually produced in the chest. To the lower notes of the voice they therefore gave the name "chest register." As Tosi explains it, "_Voce di Petto_ is a full voice, which comes from the breast by strength." For a precisely similar reason, viz., the sensation of vibration in the head felt in singing the higher notes, this portion of the voice was called by the old masters the "head register." When the study of vocal mechanics along scientific lines was undertaken, in the early decades of the nineteenth century, attention was at first paid almost exclusively to the subject of registers. The questions then most discussed were the number of registers, the number of notes which each should include, and the precise point of production of each register in the chest, throat, and head. Garcia's _Mémoire_, dealing with the registers, was noticed in the preceding chapter. He showed that different adjustments of the tongue, palate, and larynx are concerned in the production of the various registers. This _Mémoire_ opened up a new line of observation, in which Garcia continued to take the lead. But the extending of the scope of inquiry concerning the registers did not result in any unanimity of opinion on the part of the vocal investigators of that time. For a few years following the invention of the laryngoscope (1855), vocal theorists ceased their disputes about the registers, and awaited the definite results of this new mode of observation. When this potent little instrument was put within the reach of every investigator, it was believed that the mystery surrounding the registers was about to be dispelled. One important consequence of the invention of the laryngoscope was the turning of attention away from the sensations of vibration in the chest and head. Each register was ascribed to a distinct mode of operation of the vocal cords, and for several years the terms "chest voice" and "head voice" were held to be scientifically unsound. But with the publication of Helmholtz's _Die Lehre von den Tonempfindungen_ in 1863, the sensations of vibration again received attention. These sensations were then made the basis of a theory of vocal resonance, which has since been adopted by the great majority of vocal scientists. Until the publication of Helmholtz's work vocal theorists had known practically nothing of acoustics. The fact that the tones produced by the vocal cords are increased in power and modified in quality by the resonance of the air in the mouth-pharynx cavity came as a distinct revelation to the theoretical students of the voice. Helmholtz confined his experiments and demonstrations to the mouth-pharynx cavity, and investigated in particular the influence of this cavity in producing the various vowel and consonant sounds. But vocal theorists at once extended the idea of air resonance, and connected it with the well-known sensations of vibration in the chest and head. It was assumed that these sensations are caused by vibrations of the air in the chest and nasal cavities. This assumption has been accepted without question by the great majority of vocal scientists. Both the chest voice and the head voice are now believed to owe their distinctive qualities to the reinforcing vibrations of the air in the chest and nasal cavities respectively. The mere fact that these vibrations can be felt is held sufficient proof of the statement. "In every true chest tone the resonance can be distinctly felt as a vibration (fremitus pectoralis) by the hand laid flat on the chest." (_Die Kunst der idealen Tonbildung_, Dr. W. Reinecke, Leipzig, 1906.) It must be observed that this is by no means a satisfactory scientific proof of the doctrine of chest resonance. This feature of the subject is reserved for discussion later. The doctrine of resonance is now generally accepted as one of the basic principles of Vocal Science. It is stated, in substance, by almost every authority on the voice that "The tone produced by the vibration of the vocal cords, even when the laryngeal action is correct in every way, is weak, of poor quality, and without character. This tone must be strengthened and made of musical quality by utilizing the influence of resonance." The subject of resonance is always treated in theoretical works on the voice under the three heads of chest, mouth-pharynx, and nasal resonance. To these a fourth is sometimes added,--the sounding-board resonance of the bones of the chest and head. _Mouth-Pharynx Resonance_ Considered strictly in its bearing on tone-production, the resonance of the mouth-pharynx cavity does not receive much attention from theoretical observers of the voice. The form assumed by this cavity is of necessity determined by the vowel to be sung. Aside from its function in the pronunciation of words, the influence of mouth-pharynx resonance on the tones of the voice is seldom discussed by vocal scientists. As a rule, vocal teachers pay little attention to this form of resonance. The subject of enunciation is generally treated as distinct from tone-production strictly speaking. While the correct emission of the tone, in its passage from the vocal cords to the lips, is considered a very important topic, this feature of tone-production has no reference to resonance. One exception must be made to the statement that no attention is paid to mouth-pharynx resonance. This is found in an interpretation of the empirical precept, "Sing with open throat." Several vocal theorists take this precept literally, and hold that it describes a function of mouth-pharynx resonance. According to their idea the cavity must be expanded to the largest size possible, on the theory that a large resonance cavity secures a proportionately greater reinforcement of the tone. "The greater the size of the pharynx, whether through practice or natural gifts, the stronger in proportion is the tone." (_Die Kunst der idealen Tonbildung_, Dr. W. Reinecke, Leipzig, 1906.) This theory is of course rather loose and unscientific. Still this idea,--a literal interpretation of the "open throat" precept,--receives much attention in practical instruction. Only one muscular action has ever been defined by which the throat might be "opened." That is, the lowering of the larynx and the raising of the soft palate. Many teachers therefore direct that the throat be "opened" gradually in this way for the swelling of the tone. It is assumed that the power of the voice is developed by singing with the larynx low in the throat. This manner of instruction is, however, very loosely given. The supposedly scientific interpretation of the "open throat" precept shades off into a purely empirical application. _Chest Resonance_ In no other topic of Vocal Science is the gap between theory and practice more striking than in the doctrine of chest resonance. Vocal teachers are in fair accord in believing the resonance of the air in the chest to be the most important influence in imparting power and "color" to the voice, and particularly to the lower notes of its compass. Students of singing are in almost all cases urged to acquire a proper command of chest resonance. But when it comes to telling the student how to learn to govern the chest resonance, the teacher has practically nothing to offer. No direct means has ever been found for causing the air in the thorax to vibrate; this cannot be effected, so far as has yet been determined, by any voluntary muscular action on the part of the singer. This being the case, intelligible instruction in the use and management of chest resonance is hardly to be expected. Teachers of singing are obliged to fall back on purely empirical instruction on this topic. This usually takes the form of a description of the sensations experienced by the singer when producing tones in the chest voice. How this description of the singer's sensations is applied, is discussed in the following chapter. _Nasal Resonance_ The lack of connection between the theories of vocal scientists and the practical methods of singing teachers is well illustrated in the subject of nasal resonance. A striking feature of all the discussions concerning the use or avoidance of nasal resonance is the fact that vocal theorists base their opinions entirely on empirical observations. The use of nasal resonance is condemned by almost every prominent authority on Vocal Science. Yet the only reason ever advanced for condemning nasal resonance is the fact that a tone of objectionable nasal quality seems to "come through the nose." This fact cannot, of course, be questioned. It is mentioned by Tosi, who speaks of the "defect of singing through the nose," and is observed by everybody possessed of an ear keen enough to detect the nasal quality of sound. It is generally stated by vocal theorists that the nasal quality is imparted to the tone by the influence of the resonance of the air in the nasal cavities. In order to prove this assertion Browne and Behnke offer the following experiment, (quoted in substance): "Hold a hand-mirror flat, face up, just below the nostrils. Then sing a nasal tone; you will note that the mirror is clouded, showing that part of the breath has passed through the nasal cavities. Now sing another tone, free from the fault of nasal quality; this time the mirror is not clouded, which proves that no air has passed through the cavities in question." (_Voice, Song and Speech._) This experiment is simplified by other authorities, who direct that the nostrils be pinched by the fingers, and then allowed to open by the removal of the pressure of the fingers. A steady tone is meanwhile to be sung. It will be noted, according to these theorists, that with the nostrils open the tone is nasal, and with the nostrils closed the tone is not nasal. This proves to their satisfaction that a tone passing in whole or in part through the nasal cavities must be nasal in quality. It must be noted here that these experiments are not in any sense convincing. A tone of objectionable nasal quality can be sung equally well with the nostrils either closed or open, and so can a tone free from the nasal quality. In theory, the mechanical prevention of nasal resonance is very simple. It is necessary only to raise the soft palate in singing, and thus to cut off the expired breath from passing into the nasal cavities. Most vocal scientists advise that the singer hold the soft palate raised for every tone. Practical teachers of singing pay little attention to the theoretical discussions concerning nasal resonance. The overwhelming majority of teachers are firm believers in nasal resonance, and make it an important feature of their methods. They believe that this resonance is the most important factor in giving to the tone its "point," brilliance, and carrying power. So far as instruction in the use of nasal resonance is concerned, teachers owe but little to the mechanical doctrines of Vocal Science. No voluntary muscular operation has ever been found, by which the air in the nasal cavities can be directly thrown into vibration, and so made to reinforce the tones of the voice. Instruction in the management of nasal resonance is therefore similar to that in chest resonance. The teacher describes the sensations experienced by a singer who produces the exact quality of tone desired. Use is also made of special vowels and consonants, for (supposedly) acquiring command of nasal resonance. A description of this form of instruction is given in the following chapter. _Sounding-Board Resonance_ The acoustic principle of sounding-board resonance, in its application to the voice, is discussed by several vocal scientists. It is usually treated under two heads: first, the entire body is looked upon as a sounding board, capable of reinforcing the tones of the voice under certain conditions. Second, the bones of the chest and of the head are thought to be thrown into vibration, in sympathy with the vibrations of the air in the chest and nasal cavities respectively. The importance attached by Howard to the sounding-board resonance of the entire body has already been noticed. Aside from the teachers of the Howard system, very few masters pay any attention to this feature of vocal reinforcement. Those who do so have no difficulty in dealing with the subject. When the singer stands in the position generally considered correct for singing, the body is said to be in the position most favorable for securing the benefits of this form of resonance. For this no special rules or exercises are needed. Very little attention is paid, in practical instruction, to the vibrations of the bones of the resonance cavities. Each cavity is treated as a whole; the fact is only occasionally mentioned that the bones inclosing the cavities may vibrate, as well as the inclosed air. CHAPTER V EMPIRICAL MATERIALS OF MODERN METHODS A series of topics included in modern methods is now to be considered, different in scope from the strictly mechanical features of tone-production so far described. It must be apparent to the reader that the present understanding of the muscular processes of singing is not sufficient to furnish a complete method of instruction. This fact is thoroughly appreciated by the teachers of singing. Almost without exception they seek to supplement the mechanical doctrines by instruction of an entirely different character. The subjects included in this form of instruction are of several classes. They comprise the manner of emission of the tone, the traditional precepts of the old Italian school, the singer's sensations, and the use of certain vowels and consonants for special purposes. _Emission and Forward Placing_ Of all the traditional precepts, the one most frequently cited in theoretical treatises on the voice is, "Place the tone forward." For this precept it is generally believed that a satisfactory explanation has been found in the accepted doctrine of tone emission. The characteristic effect of perfect singing known as the "forward tone" is thoroughly well known to every lover of singing. In some peculiar way the tone, when perfectly produced, seems to issue directly from the singer's mouth. When we listen to a poorly trained and faulty singer the tones seem to be caught somewhere in the singer's throat. We feel instinctively that if the singer could only lift the voice off the throat, and bring it forward in the mouth, the tones would be greatly improved in character. It is commonly believed that the old masters knew some way in which this can be done. Just what means they used for this purpose is not known. But the accepted scientific interpretation of the "forward tone" precept is held by vocal theorists to render the subject perfectly clear. Sir Morell Mackenzie states the correct emission of the tone as one of the three cardinal principles of the vocal action. "The regulation of the force of the blast which strikes against the vocal cords, the placing of these in the most favourable position for the effect which it is desired to produce, and the direction of the vibrating column of air which issues from the larynx are the three elements of artistic production." (_The Hygiene of the Vocal Organs_, London, 1886.) His analysis of the mechanical and acoustic processes involved in emission may be cited as typical of the views of the great majority of vocal scientists. "It (the column of sound) must be projected against the roof of the cavity behind the upper front teeth, from which it rebounds sharply and clearly to the outside." Mme. Seiler expresses the idea somewhat differently, but the meaning is about the same. "A correct disposition of the tones of the voice consists in causing the air, brought into vibration by the vocal ligaments, to rebound from immediately above the front teeth, where it must be concentrated as much as possible, rebounding thence to form in the mouth continuous vibrations." (_The Voice in Singing_, Phila., 1886.) To the vocal theorists this is no doubt thoroughly convincing and satisfactory. But as a topic of practical instruction in singing this theory of tone emission is utterly valueless. How can the "column of vocalized breath" be voluntarily directed in its passage through the pharynx and mouth? No muscular process has ever been located, by which the singer can influence the course of the expired breath, and direct it to any specific point in the mouth. Even if the expired breath does, in perfect singing, take the course described, knowledge of this fact cannot enable the singer to bring this about. The accepted doctrine of tone emission is of no benefit whatever to the teacher of singing. He knows what the "forward tone" is, that is, what it sounds like, just as well no doubt as did the old Italian master. But if the latter knew how to enable his pupils to obtain the "forward" character of tone, the modern teacher is to that extent not so well off. In view of the prevailing ignorance of any means for securing the (supposedly) correct emission of tone, intelligible instruction on this topic is hardly to be expected. But the great majority of teachers lay great stress on the need of acquiring the correct emission. The best they can do is to explain the scientific doctrine to their pupils; the students are generally left to find for themselves some way of applying the explanation. In many cases the master tries to assist the student by describing the singer's sensations, experienced when producing a "forward" tone. Certain vowels and consonants are usually held to be especially favored by a "forward position," and exercises on these are very widely used for securing a "forward" tone. These exercises are described in a later paragraph. It will be noticed however that this use of vowels is not an application of the theory of "forward emission." The vowel sounds are believed to owe their "forward position" to resonance, while "emission" is purely a matter of direction or focusing of the breath-blast. The whole subject of emission and forward placing is in a very unsatisfactory condition. _The Traditional Precepts in Modern Instruction_ So much importance is attached by modern teachers to the traditional precepts of the old school that this subject calls for somewhat lengthy treatment. Before discussing the manner in which the precepts are applied in practical instruction, it will be well to review first the interpretations of the precepts offered by different vocal scientists. It must be remarked, in the first place, that no single one of the precepts has ever been satisfactorily explained; that is, no direct means of performing the actions indicated by the precepts has ever been found. If ever the precepts had a definite meaning, considered as specific directions for performing certain actions in a special way, that meaning has been lost. Mechanical analysis has not reduced the precepts to a form in which they are of direct value to the modern teacher. That the "forward tone" is interpreted as a reference to the emission of the voice was noted earlier in this chapter. The explanation of the "open throat" precept as a function of mouth-pharynx resonance has also been mentioned. "Singing on the breath" is a very perplexing subject for vocal theorists. Many authorities assert that this precept describes an effect obtained by the "opposed muscular action" breath-control. (See citation from Shakespeare in Chapter II.) But this explanation is hardly satisfactory; if the precept had meant no more than breath-control, it would have been forgotten long ago. The "support of the tone" is mentioned by a large number of theoretical writers on the voice. These writers generally state, in substance, that "the tone must be supported by the breathing muscles of the chest, and not by the throat muscles." (See _The Technics of Bel Canto_, by G. B. Lamperti, New York, 1905.) But this explanation is hardly to be considered as a scientific doctrine. Every one knows that a tone has no weight, so in the physical sense it can need no support. In short, scientific analysis has thrown no more light on this than any other of the old precepts. Notwithstanding the modern teacher's complete ignorance of the mechanical operations which they seem to indicate, the old precepts form a very important feature of instruction in singing. The great majority of teachers cite these precepts constantly, and frequently direct their pupils to "open the throat," to "bring the tone forward," etc. Is it to be believed that an intelligent master would use these directions in any occult or cabalistic sense? Such a statement is occasionally made by a consistent upholder of the mechanical system of Voice Culture. Paulo Guetta, for example, in a recent exhaustive work on the subject, ridicules the use of the old precepts. Says this ardent advocate of mechanical instruction in singing: "Nowadays alchemy and necromancy awaken nothing but curiosity. How then can one who thinks and reasons admit that an art can be cultivated and sustained by theories extravagant, fantastic, enigmatic, explained and condensed in abstruse phrases and sentences, which not only have no meaning whatever, but even lead one to doubt whether the teacher himself knows what result it is desired to obtain? Do you wish a little example? Behold! "'Press the whole voice against the mask.' 'Place the voice in the head.' 'The voice is directed to the nasal cavities.' 'Place the voice forward.' "Others, with the most austere gravity, will tell you that your voice is too far back, or that you send the voice to the lower teeth, and promise in a few days to place the voice forward, at the upper teeth, or wherever else it should be." (_Il Canto nel suo Mecanismo_, Milan, 1902.) This statement is by no means justified. The precepts have a real and definite meaning for the vocal teacher. Any one familiar with the highest type of artistic singing must have observed that the singer's "throat seems to be open"; the tones impress the hearer as being in some way "forward in the singer's mouth," and not at the vocal cords; the voice "seems to be supported" somewhere; the tones float out freely on the breath. A harsh and badly produced voice seems to be held in the singer's throat by main force. The critical hearer feels instinctively that such a singer's voice would be greatly improved if the tones could only be supported in a forward position in the mouth, and kept from slipping back into the throat. It seems that this would relieve the throat of the strain of holding the tone; the throat would then be open, and the voice would float out freely on the breath. In short, the traditional precepts describe accurately the most striking points of difference between perfect singing and bad singing, so far as the effect on the listener is concerned. Modern teachers are thoroughly familiar with the highest standards of the vocal art; they fully appreciate how well the precepts describe the perfection of singing. Through long continued listening to voices, the precepts come to have a very real meaning. It is inevitable therefore that the teacher should try to impart to the pupil this intimate feeling for the voice. True, this acquaintance with the voice is purely empirical; as has just been remarked, no mechanical analysis of this empirical knowledge has ever been successfully made. The modern teacher's apprehension of the meaning of the precepts is only very vaguely connected with a supposed insight into the mechanical processes of tone-production. Yet there is nothing vague about the impression made on the teacher in listening to his pupils. On the contrary, every faulty tone impresses the teacher very keenly and definitely as being too far back, or as caught in the throat, or as falling back for lack of support, etc. How could it be expected then, that the teacher should refrain from telling the pupil to correct the faulty production, in the manner so clearly and directly indicated by the tones? But this direct application of the precepts is of absolutely no value in instruction, because of the teacher's ignorance of the mechanical processes supposedly involved. There is after all some justification for Guetta's criticism of empirical instruction. It is all very well for the teacher to feel that the pupil's voice is gripped in the throat, and to bid him "open your throat." The pupil may strive ever so earnestly to open his throat, but he does not know how, and the teacher is utterly unable to tell him. All instruction based on the empirical precepts is thus seen to be extremely unsatisfactory. While the precepts convey a very valuable meaning to the teacher, no way has ever been found for translating this meaning into rules for the mechanical management of the vocal organs. Recourse is had, to some extent, to a description of the singer's sensations; exercises on special vowels and consonants are also much used, for imparting the ideas embodied in the precepts. Both of these topics are now to be considered. _The Singer's Sensations_ The correct use of the voice awakens in the singer a variety of sensations generally held to be different from those accompanying any incorrect vocal action. One important fact must first be noted regarding the manner in which the singer's sensations are described by various authorities. The use of the voice awakens a wide variety of local sensations, which bear no necessary relation to each other. A singer may, at will, pay entire attention to any one, or to any particular set, of these sensations, and for the time being completely ignore all the others. Physiologically considered, the singer's sensations are of two classes,--first, muscular sensations strictly speaking; and second, a sense of tingling or vibration, definitely located usually about the breast bone, and in the front and upper part of the head. _Muscular Sensations of Singing_ It is very difficult to analyze and describe exactly the muscular sensations which accompany any complex action. Swimming, diving, dancing, skating,--each awakens a set of extremely vivid muscular feelings; yet to describe these sensations so graphically that they could be felt in imagination by one who had never experienced them actually,--that would be almost impossible. This peculiar aspect of muscular sensations is particularly true as regards the action of singing. While every vocal teacher knows exactly how it feels to sing properly, all descriptions of the singer's muscular sensations are extremely vague. But the vividness of these sensations keeps them constantly before the teacher's mind, and some application of them, in the present state of Voice Culture, is almost inevitable. The basic sensation of correct singing, as generally described, is a feeling of perfect poise and harmony of the whole body; this is accompanied by a sense of freedom about the throat and jaw, and firm grasp and control of the expiratory muscles. Attempts are frequently made to amplify this description, but the results are always very vague. A feeling of "absence of local effort" at the throat is much spoken of, or "perfect relaxation of the vocal muscles." A few specially localized muscular sensations are also much discussed. Descriptions of this class however are often so loosely given as to render a definite statement almost impossible. Most frequently mentioned are the feeling of "backward pressure in the throat," and of "drinking in the tone," instead of sending it out. Then again, the "tone must be felt at the upper front teeth." A feeling as of an "expanded and flexible vocal tube, extending from the base of the lungs to the lips," is also much talked of. "Feel that you grow bigger as the tone swells" is about as intelligible as the feeling of "floating jaw." On the whole, the subject of the singer's muscular sensations is usually rather mystifying to the student. _Sensations of Tingling or Vibration_ Descriptions of sensations of this class are much more coherent than those just considered. A definite location is given to the feelings, in the chest and in the head. A feeling of trembling in the upper chest is usually held to indicate that the chest cavity is working properly as a resonator. This sensation is therefore the chief reliance of most teachers in "placing" the lower tones, especially for low voices. Sensations in the nasal cavities and head are utilized for acquiring control of nasal resonance, for placing the upper notes of the voice, and for "bringing the voice forward." Exercises for control of both cavities, on special vowels and consonants, combine the two topics, "vowel position" and sensation. _Singing in the Mask_ In recent years a method of instruction has been developed in France, which is commonly called by its advocates "singing in the mask." The basic idea of this method is that the singer must imagine his face to be covered by a mask, and must "sing into this mask." This idea may seem rather vague at first; but a few trials will show how easy it is for the singer to persuade himself that he projects his voice into his face. This method goes to the extreme in utilizing the sensations of vibration in the nose and forehead. These sensations are analyzed, localized, and described, down to the most minute detail. While other topics of instruction are included,--breathing, registers, position of tongue, larynx, palate, etc., everything else is subordinated to nasal resonance. "Singing in the mask" is of course a purely empirical method, and little has been attempted in the way of justifying it on scientific principles. * * * All instruction based on the singer's sensations is purely empirical, in the meaning ordinarily attached to this word in treatises on Vocal Science. Theoretical works on the voice seldom touch on the subject of sensations, nor do the vocal teachers generally make this subject prominent when speaking of their methods.[6] [Note 6: An exception to this statement is seen in the recently published book of Mme. Lilli Lehmann, _Meine Gesangskunst_, Berlin, 1902. This famous artist and teacher devotes by far the greater part of her book to a minute analysis and description of the singer's sensations.] Sensations occupy a rather peculiar position in modern methods. They are a distinctly subsidiary element of instruction and are seldom raised to the dignity accorded to the mechanical doctrines of vocal management. The use of the singer's sensations, as applied in practical instruction, is almost exclusively interpretive. In the mechanical sense the traditional precepts have no meaning whatever; this is also true of several of the accepted doctrines of Vocal Science. For example, the precept "Support the tone," is absolutely meaningless as a principle of mechanical vocal action. But, when interpreted as referring to a set of sensations experienced by the singer, this precept takes on a very definite meaning. Nobody knows what the support of the tone is, but every vocal teacher knows how it feels. In the same way, no means is known for directly throwing the air in the nasal cavities into vibration. But the sensation in the front of the head, which indicates, presumably, the proper action of nasal resonance, is familiar to all teachers. Most of the positive materials of modern methods are thus interpreted in terms of sensations. True, the accepted theory of Vocal Science does not directly countenance this interpretation. The basic principle of modern Voice Culture is the idea of mechanical vocal management. All instruction is supposed to aim at direct, conscious, and voluntary control of the muscular operations of singing. Teachers always impart to their pupils this idea of the mechanical control of the voice. The vocal action is always considered from the mechanical side. Even those expressions whose mechanical meaning is vague or unscientific are yet used as referring definitely to muscular actions. The conscious thought of the teacher is always turned to the mechanical idea supposedly conveyed by scientific doctrine and empirical precept. The translation of this idea into a description of sensations is almost always the result of a sub-conscious mental process. It therefore follows that in practical instruction the appeal to sensations is more often indirect than direct. For example, when a student's tones are caught in the throat, the master says explicitly,--"Free the tone by opening your throat." The master explains the (supposed) wrong vocal action, and describes how the tone should be produced. Incidentally, the master may also tell how and where the tone should be felt. There is also a great deal of instruction based frankly and directly on the singer's sensations. Instruction of this type usually takes the form of special exercises on certain vowels and consonants, which are believed to be peculiarly suited for imparting command of particular features of the correct vocal action. The topics generally covered are chest resonance, nasal resonance, open throat, and forward placing of the tone. This form of instruction is held to be referable in some way to scientific principles. The laws of vowel and consonant formation formulated by Helmholtz are often cited in proof of the efficacy of exercises of this type. There is also much discussion of the "location" of the tone. But there is little justification for the statement that instruction based on the singer's sensations is scientific in character. A misconception of acoustic principles is evidenced by most of the statements made concerning the use of special vowels and consonants in securing the correct vocal action. The exercises which aim to utilize the singer's sensations in producing particular vowels and consonants are now to be described. _Exercises on Special Vowels and Consonants_ Of the rules concerning the use of special vowels, probably the most important is that _a_ (as in _far_) is the most favorable vowel for the general purposes of voice training. Teachers generally have their pupils sing most of their exercises on this vowel. Much attention is paid to the exact pronunciation of the vowel, and fine distinctions are drawn between its various sounds in Italian, French, German, and English. The preference for the Italian pronunciation is very general. It is claimed for this sound that it helps materially in acquiring command of the "open throat." Indeed, a peculiar virtue in this regard is ascribed to the Italian vowels generally. No convincing reason has ever been given for this belief. But the usual custom is to "place the voice" on the Italian _a_, and then to take up, one at a time, the other Italian vowels. The labial consonants, _p_, _b_, _t_, _d_, are believed to have a peculiar influence in securing the "forward position" of the tone. Much the same influence is also ascribed to the vowel _oo_, although many authorities consider _i_ (Italian) the "most forward" vowel. Exercises combining these consonants and vowels are very widely used, on single tones, and on groups of three, four, or five notes. The syllables _boo_, _poo_, _too_, _doo_ are practised, or if the teacher hold to the other "forward" vowel, _bee_, _pee_, _tee_, _dee_; the student is instructed to hold the vowel in the "forward position" secured by the initial consonant. Later on, the "forward" vowel is gradually widened into the other vowels; exercises are sung on _boo-ah_, _doo-ah_, etc. This form of instruction is capable of great elaboration. Many teachers use a wide variety of combinations of these vowels and consonants; but as the basic idea is always the same, this class of exercises calls for no further description. The singer's sensations, notably those of "open throat," "expanded vocal tube," "forward tone," and vibration in the chest, are generally brought to the pupil's attention in this form of exercise. Another set of sounds are held to be specially adapted for securing the use of nasal resonance. These are the letters _m_, _n_, and _ng_, when used for starting a tone, and also the vowel _i_ (Italian). The exercises used are similar in character to those just described. In singing these exercises, the student is supposed to "start the tone high up in the head on the initial _m_ or _n_, and to hold it there, while gradually and smoothly opening the mouth for the vowel," etc. The sensations specially noticed in this type of exercise are the feelings of vibration in the nose and forehead. The "forward tone," as well as the nasal resonance, is supposed to be favored by the practice of these exercises. _Enunciation_ Vocal teachers always recognize the importance of a clear delivery of the text in singing. Correct enunciation is therefore considered in all methods. A few teachers believe that a clear pronunciation helps greatly to establish the correct vocal action. Some even go so far as to say that a clear delivery of the words will of itself insure a correct tone-production. But this theory calls for only passing comment. One has but to turn to the vaudeville stage to see its falsity. For singers of that class, the words are of the utmost importance, while the tone-production is usually of the very worst. A few teachers base their methods on the theory that correct tone-production results necessarily from the singing of "pure vowels." This is no doubt interesting, but still far from convincing. The problem of tone-production is not solved quite so simply. As a rule, vocal teachers consider the subject of pronunciation as quite distinct from tone-production. Methods differ with regard to the use of exercises in articulation, and to the stage of progress at which these exercises are taken up. Some teachers insist on their pupils practising singing for months on the vowels, before permitting them to sing even the simplest songs with words. Others have the pupils sing words from the beginning of instruction. As a rule, teachers begin to give songs, and vocalises with words, very early in the course. _Throat Stiffness and Relaxing Exercises_ Teachers of singing generally recognize that any stiffening of the throat interferes with the correct action of the voice. Yet for some strange reason vocal students are very much inclined to form habits of throat stiffness. This constantly happens, in spite of the fact that teachers continually warn their pupils against the tendency to stiffen. On this account, exercises for relaxing the throat are an important feature of modern instruction in singing. Naturally, relaxing exercises are not thought to have any direct bearing in bringing about the correct vocal action. They are purely preparatory; their purpose is only to bring the vocal organs into the right condition for constructive training. For this reason, the means used for relaxing the throat are seldom mentioned among the materials of instruction. But almost every vocal teacher is obliged to make frequent use of throat relaxing exercises. Indeed, throat stiffness is one of the most serious difficulties of modern Voice Culture. A student frequently seems to be making good progress, and then without much warning falls into a condition of throat stiffness so serious as to undo for a time the good work of several months' study. In such a case there is nothing for the teacher to do but to drop the progressive work, and devote a few lessons to relaxing exercises. Little difficulty is usually found in relaxing the throat, when once the necessity becomes strikingly apparent. That is, provided progressive study is dropped for a time, and attention paid solely to relaxing exercises. But such cases are comparatively rare. A much more constant source of trouble is found in the prevailing tendency of vocal students to stiffen their throats, just enough to interfere with the (supposed) application of the teacher's method. The exercises used for relaxing the throat are fairly simple, both in character and scope. They consist mainly of toneless yawning, of single tones "yawned out" on a free exhalation, and of descending scale passages of the same type. Although seldom recognized as a coördinate topic of instruction, exercises of this character are usually interspersed among the other materials of vocal methods. CHAPTER VI A GENERAL VIEW OF MODERN VOICE CULTURE All the materials of modern methods have now been described. The subject next to be considered is the manner in which these materials are utilized in practical instruction. In other words, what is a method of Voice Culture? In the present state of Vocal Science, the subject of tone-production overshadows everything else in difficulty. When once the correct vocal action has been acquired, the student's progress is assured. Every other feature of the singer's education is simply a matter of time and application. But, under present conditions, the acquirement of the correct vocal action is extremely uncertain. On account of its fundamental importance, and more especially of its difficulty, the subject of tone-production is the most prominent topic of instruction in singing. The term "method" is therefore applied solely to the means used for imparting the correct vocal action. This use of the word is in accordance with the accepted theory of Voice Culture. The general belief is that tone-production is entirely distinct from vocal technique. Technical studies cannot profitably be undertaken, according to the prevailing idea, until the correct management of the vocal organs has been established. This idea is supposed to be followed out in modern instruction. It is generally assumed that the voice is brought under control through a definite series of exercises; these exercises are supposed to follow, one after the other, according to a well-defined system. The term "method" implies this systematic arrangement of exercises. It indicates that vocal training is a matter of precise knowledge and orderly progression. This represents the accepted ideal of Voice Culture, rather than the actual condition. The idea that the vocal management should be imparted specially, as something preliminary to the technical training of the voice, is not carried out in practice. Teachers generally are striving to bring their systems into conformity with this ideal standard. They use the expression, "placing the voice," to describe the preliminary training in tone-production. But no successful system of this type has ever been evolved. The correct management of the voice never is imparted in the manner indicated by this ideal of instruction. Tone-production continues, throughout the entire course of study, to be the most important topic of instruction. In order to understand the nature of a method of Voice Culture, it is necessary first to consider the relation which exists, in modern instruction, between training in tone-production, and the development of vocal technique. According to the accepted theory, the voice must be "placed" before the real study of singing is undertaken. After the voice has been properly "placed," it is supposed to be in condition to be developed by practice in singing technical exercises. But in actual practice this distinction between "voice-placing" exercises and technical studies is seldom drawn. The voice is trained, almost from the beginning of the course of study, by practice in actual singing. The earliest exercises used for "placing the voice" are in every respect technical studies,--single tones and syllables, scale passages, arpeggios, etc. It is impossible to produce even a single tone without embodying some feature of technique. Practice therefore serves a double purpose; it brings the voice gradually to the condition of perfect action, and at the same time it develops the technique. The student advances gradually toward the correct manner of tone-production, and this progress is evidenced solely by the improved technical use of the voice. Considerable technical facility is attained before the tone-production becomes absolutely perfect. A vocal student's practice in singing is not confined to technical exercises, strictly speaking. Vocalises, songs, and arias are taken up, usually very early in the course of study. Moreover, attention is nearly always paid to musical expression and to artistic rendition, as well as to the vocal action and the technical use of the voice. This is true, whether the student sings an exercise, a vocalise, a song, or an aria. For daily home practice, the student sings, usually, first some exercises, then a few vocalises, and finally several songs and arias. Every teacher has at command a wide range of compositions of all these kinds, carefully graded as to technical and musical difficulty. As the pupil advances, more and more difficult works are undertaken. For each stage of advancement the teacher chooses the compositions best adapted to carry the student's progress still further. There is no point in this development at which instruction in tone-production ceases, and the technical training of the voice is begun. On the contrary, the means used for imparting the correct vocal action are interspersed with the other materials of instruction, both technical and artistic, throughout the entire course of study. Moreover, the training in tone-production is carried on during the singing of the compositions just described, as well as by practice on "voice-placing" exercises strictly speaking. A method of instruction in singing therefore consists primarily of a set of mechanical rules and directions for managing the voice, and secondarily of a series of exercises, both toneless and vocal, so designed that the student may directly apply in practising them the rules and directions for vocal management. It must not be understood however that the mechanical rules are applied only to the exercises specially designed for this purpose. These rules and directions are also intended to be applied to everything the student sings,--exercises, technical studies, and musical compositions. It will be recalled that the review of the topics of modern vocal instruction covered three distinct types of materials. First, the purely mechanical doctrines, commonly regarded as the only strictly scientific principles of Voice Culture. These are, the rules for the management of the breath, of the registers, of laryngeal action, and of the resonance cavities, and also the directions for attacking the tone, and for forward emission. The second class of materials is held by strict adherents of the scientific idea to be purely empirical; this class includes the traditional precepts of the old Italian school, and also all the topics of instruction based on the singer's sensations. A third class of materials is found in the attempts to interpret the empirical doctrines in the light of the scientific analysis of the vocal action. To enumerate and classify all the methods of instruction in vogue would be almost an impossibility. Absolutely no uniformity can be found on any topic. Even among the accepted doctrines of Vocal Science there are many controverted points. Five distinct schools of breathing are represented, two of breath-control. Of well worked-out systems of registers, at least twenty could be enumerated. Fully this number of theories are offered regarding the correct positions of the larynx, soft palate, and tongue. Two opposed theories are held as to nasal resonance. Further, the empirical doctrines are always stated so loosely that no real unanimity of view can be found on any one of them. Every vocal teacher selects the materials of instruction from these controverted doctrines, but neither rule nor reason determines what materials shall be embodied in any one method. There is no coherence whatever in the matter. Further, there is no agreement as to which topics of instruction are most important. One teacher may emphasize breath-control and support of tone as the foundations of the correct vocal action, another may give this position to nasal resonance and forward placing. Yet both these teachers may include in their methods about the same topics. The methods seem entirely different, only because each makes some one or two doctrines the most important. In short, it might almost be said that there are as many methods as teachers. Three fairly distinct types of method may be defined, depending on the class of materials adopted. At one extreme are found those teachers who attempt to follow strictly the scientific principles. These teachers generally profess to employ only the purely mechanical doctrines of Vocal Science, and to ignore all empirical interpretations of these doctrines. They generally devote a portion of every lesson to toneless muscular drills, and insist that their pupils practise every exercise in singing, with special attention to the throat action. These teachers attempt to follow a definite plan and order in the giving of exercises and rules. This systematic arrangement of instruction is, however, seldom followed out consistently with any one student. An important reason for this is considered in Chapter I of Part II. A very different type of method is taught by many teachers who pay special attention to the empirical topics of instruction. Of course no teacher professes to teach empirically; on the contrary, every method is called scientific, no matter what materials it embodies. Indeed, a very little attention paid to breathing, attack, registers, and nasal resonance, is enough to relieve any teacher of the reproach of empiricism. The teachers now being considered touch to some extent on these topics; but most of their instruction is based on the traditional precepts, the singer's sensations, and the special vowel and consonant drills. In the first few lessons of the course they usually give some special breathing exercises, but almost always ignore breath-control. Not much is done for vocal control in the strictly muscular sense. Special "voice-placing" exercises are not used to any such extent as in the strictly scientific methods just described, the voice-placing work being usually done on vocalises, songs, and arias. No system whatever is followed, or even attempted, in the sequence of topics touched upon. The directions, "Breathe deeper on that phrase," "Bring that tone more forward," "Open your throat for that _ah_," "Feel that tone higher up in the head," may follow one after the other within five minutes of instruction. Teachers of this type are frequently charged, by the strict advocates of mechanical instruction, with a practice commonly known as "wearing the voice into place." This expression is used to indicate the total abandonment of system in imparting the correct vocal action. It means that the teacher simply has the pupil sing at random, trusting to chance, or to some vague intuitive process, to bring about the correct use of the voice. To the vocal scientist, "wearing the voice into place" represents the depth of empiricism. The great majority of teachers occupy a middle ground between the two types just described. Teachers of this class touch, more or less, on every topic of instruction, mechanical, empirical, and interpretive. Their application of most of the topics of instruction is not quite so mechanical as in the first type of method considered. The student's attention is always directed to the vocal organs, but the idea of direct muscular control is not so consistently put forward. As a rule, the attempt is made in the first stages of instruction to follow a systematic plan. Breathing, and perhaps breath-control, are first taught as muscular drills, and then applied on single tones. Attack is generally taken up next, then simple exercises in the medium register. Following this, the chest and head registers are placed, and the attention is turned to emission and resonance. But in most cases, when the pupil has covered three or four terms of twenty lessons each, all system is abandoned. The method from that time on is about of the type described as empirical. It must be remembered that this classification of methods is at best very crude. It would not be easy to pick out any one teacher who adheres consistently to any of the three forms of instruction described. All that can be said is that a teacher usually tends somewhat more to one type than to another. Further, the degree of prominence given to the idea of direct mechanical control of the voice does not classify a method quite satisfactorily. Without exception every teacher adheres to the prevailing idea, that the voice must be controlled and guided in some direct way,--that the singer "must do something" to cause the vocal organs to operate properly. All the materials of instruction, mechanical and empirical, are utilized for the sole purpose of enabling the student to learn how to "do this something." Several names are used by teachers to describe their methods. One professes to teach a "natural method," another the "pure Italian school of Bel Canto," a third the "old Italian method as illustrated by Vocal Science," a fourth the "strict scientific system of Voice Culture." No attention need be paid to these expressions, as they are seldom accurate descriptions. Vocal lessons are usually of thirty minutes' duration. Each student generally takes two such lessons every week, although in some cases three, four, or even more are taken. A description of a few typical lessons will show how the materials of instruction are practically utilized. Example 1: The student takes a few preliminary toneless breaths. Then follow, in the order given, a few short tones for practice on attack, some sustained tones on the vowel _ah_, exercises on three, four, and five notes, ascending and descending, a single tone followed by the octave jump up and descending scale, this last rising by semitones through several keys. In these exercises the student's attention is directed at random to the correct use of the registers, to nasal resonance, forward emission, etc. This consumes ten or twelve minutes of the lesson time. More elaborate exercises on scale passages are then sung, lasting another five minutes. These are followed by a vocalise or two, and a couple of songs or arias, which fill out the thirty minutes. Example 2: A few breathing exercises are practised, followed by single tones and short scale passages, the whole lasting about five minutes. Then the student is drilled for some ten minutes on "placing the head tones," in the manner described in the section on special vowel and consonant drills. These exercises are varied by swelling the high tone, by changing the vowels, and by elaborating the descending scale passages. The remaining fifteen minutes are devoted to vocalises and songs. Example 3: This is an advanced pupil, whose voice is supposed to be fairly well "placed." Technical exercises of some difficulty are sung, covering a range of an octave and a half, or a little more. The teacher interrupts occasionally to say "Sing those lower notes more in the chest voice," "Place the upper notes higher in the head," "Don't let your vocal cords open on that ah," "Sing that again and make the tones cleaner," etc. One or two arias are then sung, interspersed with instructions of the same sort, and also with suggestions regarding style, delivery, and expression. For daily practice between lessons, the student sings usually the same exercises and studies included in the previous lesson, and also commits to memory compositions assigned for future study. Examples of this kind might be multiplied indefinitely, but the main points have been fairly well brought out. Most important to be noticed is the fact that the voice is trained by practice in actual singing. In the whole scheme of modern Voice Culture, toneless muscular drills consume only an insignificant proportion of the time devoted to lessons. Further, the number of exercises and musical compositions embraced in a single half-hour lesson is very small. On the other hand, no limit can be set to the number of topics of vocal control touched on in any one lesson. These latter are used, throughout the whole range of instruction, without any systematic sequence. Whatever fault of production the pupil's tones indicate, the teacher calls attention to the fault, and gives the supposedly appropriate rule for its correction. Part II A CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF MODERN METHODS CHAPTER I MECHANICAL VOCAL MANAGEMENT AS THE BASIS OF VOICE CULTURE Notwithstanding the wide diversity of opinion on most topics connected with vocal training, there is one point on which all authorities agree. This is, that the voice must be consciously controlled. In all the conflict of methods, this basic mechanical idea has never been attacked. On the contrary, it is everywhere accepted without question as the foundation of all instruction in singing. The idea of mechanical vocal control is also the starting-point of all analysis of the vocal action. Every investigator of the voice approaches the subject in the belief that an exact determination of the muscular operations of correct singing would lead to an absolutely infallible method of training voices. The problem of tone-production is identical, in the common belief, with the problem of the vocal action. Three sciences, anatomy, mechanics, and acoustics, are believed to hold somewhere among them the secret of the voice. All investigation has therefore been carried on along the lines of these three sciences. It is on this account that modern methods are called scientific, and not because they are in conformity with general scientific principles. Before taking up the question whether the idea of mechanical vocal control is well grounded in fact and reason, let us consider further the influence of this idea on modern methods of instruction. All instruction in singing is intended to teach the student to "do something," in order that the vocal organs may be directly caused to act properly. No matter how vague and indefinite the directions given, their aim is always to inform the student what to do, how to guide the vocal action. Even when used in a purely empirical way the directions for open throat, etc., are always given in this spirit. That these directions are utterly meaningless in the mechanical sense does not alter the fact; nobody has ever found any other connection in which they would take on a definite meaning. In this regard the empirical directions are no more unsatisfactory than the mechanical doctrines of the accepted Vocal Science. It was pointed out that no means has ever been discovered for applying several of these doctrines in practical instruction. The rules contained in the theoretical works on Voice Culture for managing the registers and vocal-cord action, for forward emission of tone, and for control of the resonance cavities, are of no value whatever to the student of singing. It will be asked, how does the conscientious teacher get over this difficulty? How are the deficiencies of the scientific doctrines supplied in instruction? In many cases the deficiency is absolutely ignored. The student is simply told to "make the vocal cords act properly," to "direct the tone against the roof of the mouth," to "bring in the nasal resonance," etc., and no further help is given. That this works severe hardship on the earnest student need hardly be mentioned. Other teachers, as has been explained, rely on a description of the singer's sensations, and on the use of several vowel and consonant combinations, for imparting control of resonance and forward emission. These means are purely empirical makeshifts, and as a rule they are not sanctioned by the consistent advocates of scientific instruction. But for acquiring control of the correct vocal-cord action, absolutely no means has ever been found, scientific or empirical. On this, the surpassingly important feature of the vocal action, Vocal Science has thrown no light whatever. It was also remarked that the strictly scientific idea of Voice Culture is very seldom carried out, to its logical conclusion, in actual instruction. One important reason for this is that a student seldom remains long enough with a teacher to cover the entire ground of mechanical instruction. Students move about from teacher to teacher. In the class of any one master the proportion of pupils who have never had any previous instruction does not average one in ten. To carry the idea of averages further, the length of time a student takes lessons of one instructor may be set down as seldom more than two years. How long it would take to apply the complete system of mechanical vocal training has never been precisely stated. Cases are on record of pupils being kept on mechanical drills and elementary exercises for four years, without being allowed to attempt a simple song. But these instances are extremely rare. It seldom happens that a teacher can hold a pupil long enough to carry out the complete course of mechanical study. There are however many teachers who try conscientiously to have their pupils pay attention to all the mechanical features of the vocal action. What it would mean to sing in this way can only be imagined. Before starting a tone, the singer would prepare by taking a breath in some prescribed way, and retaining this breath an instant by holding the chest walls out. Meanwhile the lips, tongue, soft palate, and larynx would each be placed in the correct position. The jaw would be held relaxed, and the throat loose and open. The expected tone would be felt, in imagination, high up in the head, to assure the proper influence of nasal resonance. The vocal cords would be held in readiness to respond instantly to the mental command, so as to assure the exact state of tension necessary. Preparation would be made to direct the "column of vocalized breath," through the pharynx and mouth, to the proper point on the hard palate. Then, at the same precise instant, the breath would be started, and the vocal cords would be brought together, but without touching. So the tone would be begun. And all this would have to be done, with due attention to each operation, in the fraction of a second preceding the starting of the tone! The downright absurdity of this idea of singing must be apparent to any one who has ever listened to a great singer. Under the influence of the idea of mechanical vocal management there is little room for choice between voice culture along empirical lines, and the accepted type of scientific instruction. Modern empirical voice training has little practical value. Describing to the student the sensations which ought to be felt, does not help in the least. Even if the sensations felt by the singer, in producing tone correctly, are entirely different from those accompanying any incorrect use of the voice, nothing can be learned thereby. The sensations of correct singing cannot be felt until the voice is correctly used. An effect cannot produce its cause. Correct tone-production must be there to cause the sensations, or the sensations are not awakened at all. Nothing else can bring about the sensations of correct singing, but correct singing itself. Further, these sensations cannot be known until they are actually experienced. No description is adequate to enable the student to feel them in imagination. And, finally, even if the sensations could be described with all vividness, imagining them would not influence the vocal organs in any way. This is true, whether the description is given empirically, or whether it is cited to explain a mechanical feature of the vocal action. Instruction based on the singer's sensations is absolutely valueless. It would seem that modern methods contain very little of real worth. The investigation of the mechanical operations of the voice can hardly be said to have brought forth anything of definite value to the vocal teacher. But this is not the worst that can be said about the mechanical doctrines of tone-production. When critically examined, and submitted to a rigid scientific analysis, several of these doctrines are found to be erroneous in conception. These are the theories of breath-control, chest resonance, nasal resonance, and emission of tone. It will be observed that these doctrines comprise more than half of the materials of the accepted Vocal Science. Yet notwithstanding the fact that they are accepted without question by the great majority of vocal theorists as important elements of instruction in singing, each of these doctrines involves a distinct misconception of scientific principles. An examination of these doctrines is therefore the next subject to be undertaken. CHAPTER II THE FALLACY OF THE DOCTRINE OF BREATH-CONTROL When Dr. Mandl advanced the statement that the laryngeal muscles are too weak to withstand the pressure of a powerful expiratory blast, the theory of the vocal action therein embodied met with immediate acceptance. This idea is so plausible that it appeals to the thoughtful investigator as self-evident, and seems to call for no proof. The doctrine of breath-control was at once adopted, by the most influential vocal scientists, as the basic principle of tone-production. Curiously, neither Dr. Mandl, nor any other advocate of breath-control, seems to have read an article by Sir Charles Bell dealing with this same action, the closing of the glottis against a powerful exhalation. This paper, "On the Organs of the Human Voice," was read before a meeting of the London Philosophical Society on February 2, 1832. Dr. Bell dispels all the mystery concerning the closure of the glottis, and the holding of the breath against a powerful contraction of the expiratory muscles. He points out that this action occurs in accordance with the law of the distribution of pressure in a fluid body, commonly known as Pascal's law of fluid pressures. Pascal's law is stated as follows:--"Pressure exerted anywhere upon a mass of fluid is transmitted undiminished in all directions, and acts with equal force on all equal surfaces, and in a direction at right angles to those surfaces." (Atkinson's _Ganot's Physics_, 4th ed., New York, 1869.) The hydraulic press furnishes the familiar illustration of this law. Two vertical cylinders, one many times larger than the other, are connected by a pipe. The cylinders are fitted with pistons. Both the cylinders, and the pipe connecting them, are filled with water, oil, air, or any other fluid; the fluid can pass freely from one cylinder to the other, through the connecting pipe. Suppose a horizontal section of the smaller cylinder to measure one square inch, that of the larger to be one hundred square inches. A weight of one pound on the smaller piston will balance a weight of one hundred pounds on the larger. If a downward pressure of one pound be exerted on the smaller piston, the larger piston will exert an upward pressure of one hundred pounds. Conversely, a downward pressure of one hundred pounds, exerted on the larger piston, will effect an upward pressure of only one pound on the smaller piston. A type of the hydraulic press is presented by the chest cavity and the larynx, considered as one apparatus. This fact is illustrated in the following quotation: "If a bladder full of water be connected with a narrow upright glass tube, heavy weights placed on the bladder will be able to uphold only a very small quantity of liquid in the tube, this arrangement being in fact a hydraulic press worked backwards. If the tube be shortened down so as to form simply the neck of the bladder, the total expulsive pressure exerted by the bladder upon the contents of the neck may seem to be very small when compared with the total pressure exerted over the walls of the bladder upon the whole contents." (_A Text Book of the Principles of Physics_, Alfred Daniell, London, 1884.) That the glottis-closing muscles are too weak to withstand a powerful expiratory pressure is therefore an entirely erroneous statement. Owing to the small area of the under surfaces of the vocal cords, the air pressure against them is very small, in comparison with the total pressure exerted on the contents of the thorax by the expiratory contraction. The glottis-closing muscles are fully capable of withstanding this comparatively slight pressure. The doctrine of breath-control is therefore scientifically untenable. This doctrine has no place in Vocal Science. As the basic doctrine of breath-control is unsound, the singer does not need any direct means for controlling the breath. The attempt to check the flow of the breath in any mechanical way is entirely uncalled for. This being the case, it is hardly to be expected that the systems devised to meet this fancied need would stand the test of scientific examination. Each of these systems of breath-control, opposed muscular action and ventricular, is in fact found on analysis to embody a misconception of scientific principles. _Opposed-Action Breath-Control_ A curious misapprehension of mechanical processes is contained in the doctrine of breath-control by opposed muscular action. This can best be pointed out by a consideration of the forces brought to bear on a single rib in the acts of inspiration and expiration. One set of muscles contract to raise this rib in inspiration, an opposed set, by their contraction, lower the rib for the act of expiration. In the opposed-action system of breath-control, the action of the rib-raising muscles is continued throughout the expiration, as a check upon the pull in the opposite direction of the rib-lowering muscles. Theoretically, the downward pull is "controlled" by the upward pull. To express this idea in figures, let the expiratory or downward pull on the rib be said to involve the expenditure of five units of strength. According to the theory of opposed-action breath-control, this downward pull would have to be opposed by a slightly less upward pull, say four units of strength. Thus graphically presented, the fallacy of the "opposed-muscular" theory is clearly exposed. The rib is lowered with a degree of strength equal to the excess of the downward over the upward pull. If the downward pull equals five units of strength, and the upward pull four units, the rib is lowered with a pull equivalent to one unit of strength. Exactly the same effect would be obtained if the downward and upward pulls were equal respectively to twenty and nineteen units, or to two and one units. Further, the result would be the same if the downward pull involved the exertion of one unit of strength, and there was no upward pull whatever. In every case, the actual result is equivalent to the excess of the downward over the upward pull. In the case of the expiratory pressure of five units of strength being "controlled" by an inspiratory contraction of four units, nine units of strength are exerted, and the same result could be obtained by the exertion of one unit. There is a clear waste of eight units of strength. The power of the expiratory blast is just what it would be if one unit of strength were exerted in an "uncontrolled" expiration. The singer exerts just nine times as much strength as is necessary to effect the same result. This is why the practice of breath-control exercises is so extremely fatiguing. So far as the effect of the expiratory blast on the vocal cords is concerned, "controlling" the breath has no influence whatever. The vocal cords respond to the effective air pressure; they are not affected in any way by the opposed contractions of the breath muscles. "Opposed-muscular" breath-control is a sheer waste of time and effort. Probably no particular harm has ever resulted to any singer's throat from the practice of breath-control exercises. But the attempt to hold back the breath has a very bad effect on the singer's delivery. The "breath-control" type of singer is never found in the ranks of the great artists. There is something utterly unnatural about this holding back of the breath, repugnant to every singer endowed with the right idea of forceful and dramatic delivery. The vast majority of the successful pupils of "breath-control" teachers abandon, very early in their careers, the tiresome attempt to hold back the breath. These singers yield, probably unconsciously, to the instinctive impulse to sing freely and without constraint. But in the ranks of the minor concert and church singers are many who try conscientiously to obey the instructions of the "breath-control" teachers. Singers of this type can always be recognized by a curious impression of hesitancy, or even timidity, conveyed by their tones. They seem afraid to deliver their phrases with vigor and energy; they do not "let their voices out." Frequently their voices are of excellent quality, and their singing is polished and refined. But these singers never give to the listener that sense of satisfaction which is felt on hearing a fine voice freely and generously delivered. As for the particular fallacy contained in the theory of ventricular breath-control, that must be reserved for a later chapter. Suffice it to say here that this theory disregards the two basic mechanical principles of tone-production,--Pascal's law, and the law of the conservation of energy. The application of this latter physical law to the operations of the vocal organs is considered in Chapter VI of Part III. CHAPTER III THE FALLACIES OF FORWARD EMISSION, CHEST RESONANCE, AND NASAL RESONANCE Sir Morell Mackenzie's analysis of the acoustic principle supposedly involved in "forward emission" has already been quoted. That this analysis involves a complete misunderstanding of the laws of acoustics need hardly be said. When stated in precise terms, the fallacy of the "forward emission" theory is evident: "On issuing from the vocal cords the tone is directed in a curved path, around the back of the tongue. There the tone is straightened out, and made to impinge on the roof of the mouth at a precisely defined point. From this point the tone is reflected, not directly back, as it should be, since the angles of incidence and reflection must be equal. Instead of this, the tone is reflected forward, out of the mouth, necessarily again taking a curved path, to avoid striking the front teeth." Naturally, no muscular action has ever been defined for causing the tone to perform this remarkable feat. The "forward emission" theory assumes the existence of a current of air, issuing from the vocal cords as a tone. In other words, the tone is supposed to consist of a stream of air, which can be voluntarily directed in the mouth, and aimed at some precise point on the roof of the mouth. This is an utter mistake. There is no "column of vibrating air," or "stream of vocalized breath," in the mouth during tone-production. In the acoustic sense, the air in the mouth-pharynx is still air, not air in a current. The only motion which takes place in the air in this cavity is the oscillatory swing of the air particles. To imagine the directing of air vibrations in the mouth, as we direct a stream of water out of a hose, is absurd. What then is the "forward tone"? There must be some reason for this well-known effect of a perfectly produced voice,--the impression made on the hearer that the tones are formed in the front of the mouth. There ought also to be some way for the singer to learn to produce tones of this character. A consideration of this feature of the vocal action is reserved for Chapter IV of part III. _Chest Resonance_ Who was originally responsible for the doctrine of chest resonance, it would be impossible now to determine. Were it not for the fact of this doctrine having received the support of eminent scientists (Holmes, Mackenzie, Curtis, and many others), it might be looked upon as a mere figure of speech. That the tones of the voice are reinforced by the resonance of the air in the chest cavity, is an utter absurdity. In the acoustic sense, the thorax is not a cavity at all. The thorax is filled with the spongy tissue of the lungs, not to mention the heart. It is no better adapted for air resonance than an ordinary spherical resonator would be, if filled with wet sponges. _Nasal Resonance_ Enough was said of the theories of nasal resonance in Chapter IV of Part I to show the unscientific character of all these theories. It remains only to point out the misconception of acoustic principles, contained in all the discussions of the subject. This is very much the same as in the theory of "forward emission," viz., that the tones of the voice consist physically of a "stream of vocalized breath." The mistaken idea is, that nasal resonance results from part or all of the expired breath passing through the nose. What is nasal resonance? How is it caused? What is its effect on the tones of the voice? These questions have never been answered. It can however be proved that a satisfactory science of Voice Culture is not in any way dependent on obtaining an answer to these questions. This much is definitely known: 1. If the resonance of the air in the nasal cavities exerts any influence on the tones of the voice, this influence cannot be increased, diminished, or prevented by any direct action on the part of the singer. Shutting off the entrance of the breath, by raising the soft palate, is possible as a muscular exercise. But it is impossible to perform this action, and to sing artistically, at the same time. To produce any kind of tone, while holding the soft palate raised, is extremely difficult. In a later chapter it will be seen that this action has no place whatever in the correct use of the voice. 2. As the nasal cavities are fixed in size and shape, the singer cannot control or vary any influence which they may exert as a resonator. 3. Independent of any thought or knowledge of how the nasal quality of tone is caused, the singer has perfect voluntary control over this quality by the simple, direct influence of the will. A singer may produce nasal tones, or tones free from this faulty sound, at will, with no thought of the mechanical processes involved. All that is required is that the singer have an ear keen enough to recognize the nasal quality in his own voice, as well as in the voice of any other singer. CHAPTER IV THE FUTILITY OF THE MATERIALS OF MODERN METHODS Of the strictly scientific or mechanical materials of modern methods, four have been seen to be utterly erroneous. The remaining topics of instruction, mechanical and empirical, may with equal justice be submitted to a similar examination. Several of these topics have already been critically examined. The rules for registers and laryngeal management were seen to be of no value to the student of singing. So also was it observed that all instruction which attempts to utilize the singer's sensations is futile. All that is left of the materials of modern methods, in which any valuable idea might be contained, are the rules for breathing. Without undertaking to decide whether one system of breathing can be right, to the exclusion of all other systems, one general remark can be applied to the whole subject. It has never been scientifically proved that the correct use of the voice depends in any way on the mastery of an acquired system of breathing. True, this is the basic assumption of all the discussions of the singer's breathing. As Frangçon-Davies justly remarks,--"All combatants are agreed on one point, viz., that the singer's breath is an acquired one of some kind." (_The Singing of the Future_, David Frangçon-Davies, M.A., London, 1906.) This is purely an assumption on the part of the vocal theorists. No one has ever so much as attempted to offer scientific proof of the statement. Further, it is frequently stated that the old Italian masters paid much attention to the subject of breathing; the assumption is also made that these masters approached the subject in the modern spirit. Neither this statement, nor the assumption based on it, is susceptible of proof. Tosi and Mancini do not even mention the subject of breathing. Breathing has been made the subject of exhaustive mechanical and muscular analysis, for one reason, and for only one reason. This is, because the action of breathing is the only mechanical feature of singing which can be exhaustively studied. The laryngeal action is hidden; the influence of the resonance cavities cannot well be determined. But the whole muscular operation of breathing can be readily seen and studied; any investigator can personally experiment with every conceivable system. Furthermore, the adoption of any system of breathing has no influence whatever on the operations of the voice. A student of singing may learn to take breath in any way favored by the instructor; the manner of tone-production is not in the least affected. Even if the correct use of the voice has to be acquired, the mode of breathing does not contribute in any way to this result. All that need be said in criticism of the various doctrines of breathing is, that the importance of this subject has been greatly overestimated. Breath and life are practically synonymous. Nothing but the prevalence of the mechanical idea has caused so much attention to be paid to the singer's breathing. A tuba player will march for several hours in a street parade, carrying his heavy instrument, and playing it fully half the time; yet the vocal theorist does not consider him an object of sympathy. No doubt the acquirement of healthy habits of breathing is of great benefit to the general health. But this does not prove that correct singing demands some kind of breathing inherently different from ordinary life. To inspire quickly and exhale the breath slowly is not an acquired ability; it is the action of ordinary speech. Singing demands that the lungs be filled more quickly than in ordinary speech, and perhaps a fuller inspiration is also required. This is readily mastered with very little practice. It does not call for the acquirement of any new muscular movements, nor the formation of any new habits. What is left of all the materials of modern vocal instruction? To sum them up in the order in which they were considered in Part I: Breathing does not need to be mastered in any such way as is stated in the theoretical works on the voice. Breath-control is a complete fallacy. The doctrines of registers and laryngeal action are utterly valueless. Chest resonance, nasal resonance, and forward emission, are scientifically erroneous. The traditional precepts are of no value, because nobody knows how to follow or apply them. Empirical teaching based on the singer's sensations is of no avail. In other words, modern methods contain not one single topic of any value whatever in the training of the voice. It will be objected that this statement is utterly absurd, because many of the world's greatest singers have been trained according to these methods. No doubt this is in one sense true; modern methods can point to many brilliant successes. But this does not prove anything in favor of the materials of modern methods. Singers are trained to-day exactly as they were trained two hundred years ago, through a reliance on the imitative faculty. The only difference is this: In the old days, the student was directly and expressly told to listen and to imitate, while to-day the reliance on the imitative faculty is purely instinctive. A fuller consideration of the important function of imitation as an unrecognized element of modern Voice Culture is contained in Chapter V of Part IV. CHAPTER V THE ERROR OF THE THEORY OF MECHANICAL VOCAL MANAGEMENT A fundamental difference was pointed out, at the close of the preceding chapter, between the old Italian method and modern systems of vocal instruction. This is worthy of repetition. The old Italian method was founded on the faculty of imitation. Modern methods have as their basis the idea of conscious, direct, mechanical control of the vocal organs. All the materials of instruction based on this idea of mechanical control were seen to be absolutely valueless. It is now in order to examine still further the structure of modern Voice Culture, and to test this basic idea of mechanical control. As a muscular operation, the actions of singing must be subject to the same physiological and psychological laws which govern all other voluntary muscular actions. What are these laws? How do we guide and control our muscular movements? At first sight, this seems a simple question. We know what we want to do, and we do it. But the important point is, how are we able to do the things we want to do? You wish to raise your hand, for example, therefore you raise it. How does your hand know that you wish to raise it? Does the hand raise itself? Not at all; it is raised by the contraction of certain muscles in the arm, shoulder, and back. That is, when you wish to raise your hand, certain muscles contract themselves. But these muscles are not part of the hand. What leads these muscles in the shoulder and back to contract, when you will to raise your hand? Normally you are not even aware of their contraction. Yet in some way these muscles know that they are called on to contract, in response to the wish to raise the hand. This takes place, even though you know nothing whatever of the muscles in question. The process is by no means so simple, when looked at in this light. A complicated psychological process is involved in the simplest voluntary movements. This is seen in the following analysis: "To move any part of the body voluntarily requires the following particulars: (1) The possession of an educated reflex-motor mechanism, under the control of the higher cerebral centers which are most immediately connected with the phenomena of consciousness; (2) certain _motifs_ in the form of conscious feelings that have a tone of pleasure or pain, and so impel the mind to secure such bodily conditions as will continue or increase the one, and discontinue or diminish the other; (3) ideas of motions and positions of the bodily members, which previous experience has taught us answer more or less perfectly to the _motifs_ of conscious feeling; (4) a conscious fiat of will, settling the question, as it were, which of these ideas shall be realized in the motions achieved and positions attained by these members; (5) a central nervous mechanism, which serves as the organ of relation between this act of will and the discharge of the requisite motor impulses along their nerve-tracts to the groups of muscles peripherally situated." (_Elements of Physiological Psychology_, Geo. T. Ladd, New York, 1889.) Let us again consider the action of raising the hand, and see how the psychological analysis applies in this movement. We note in the first place that we are concerned only with the third, fourth, and fifth particulars of Prof. Ladd's analysis. These are: The idea of the movement. The fiat of will which directs that this movement be performed. The discharge of the requisite motor impulses, along the nerve-tracts, to the muscles whose contraction constitutes the movement. It will be simpler, and will answer the purpose equally well, to combine the third and fourth elements, and to consider as one element the idea of the movement and the fiat of will to execute the movement. _The Idea of a Movement_ The mental picture of a purposed movement is simple and direct. No reference is involved to the muscles concerned in the performance of the movement. When you will to raise your hand, the action is pictured to your mind as the raising of the hand, and nothing more. Certain muscles are to be contracted. But the mental picture of the movement does not indicate what these muscles are, in what order they are to be brought into play, nor the relative degrees of strength to be exerted by each muscular fiber. You do not consciously direct the muscles in their contractions. _The Discharge to the Muscles of the Nerve Impulse_ How then are the muscles informed that their contraction is called for? They have no independent volition; each muscular fiber obeys the impulse transmitted to it by the nerve, from the nerve center governing its action. These nerve centers are in their turn controlled by the central nervous mechanism. And in complex voluntary movements the central nervous mechanism is under the control of the higher cerebral centers. The wish to raise the hand appears to the mind as an idea of the hand being raised. This idea is translated by the central nervous mechanism into a set of motor nerve impulses. Does consciousness or volition come into play here? Not at all. On this point Prof. Ladd remarks: "As to the definite nature of the physical basis which underlies the connection of ideas of motion and the starting outward of the right motor impulses, our ignorance is almost complete." Is it necessary for the performance of a complex muscular action that the individual know what muscles are involved and how and when to contract them? No; this knowledge is not only unnecessary, it is even impossible. Prof. Ladd says of this: "It would be a great mistake to regard the mind as having before it the cerebral machinery, all nicely laid out, together with the acquired art of selecting and touching the right nervous elements in order to produce the desired motion, as a skilful player of the piano handles his keyboard." How then are the muscles informed of the service required of them? Or more precisely, how does the central nervous mechanism know what distribution of nerve impulses to make among the different nerve centers governing the muscles? As Prof. Ladd says, our ignorance on this point is almost complete. There resides in the central nervous mechanism governing the muscles something which for lack of a better name may be called an instinct. When a purposeful movement of any part of the body is willed, the mental picture of the movement is translated by the central nervous mechanism into a succession of nerve impulses; these impulses are transmitted through the lower centers to the muscles. The instinct informing the central nervous mechanism how to apportion the discharges of nerve impulse among the various muscular centers is to a high degree mysterious. The present purpose will not be served by carrying the analysis of this instinct further.[7] [Note 7: The evolutionary development of this instinct is not altogether mysterious. Science can fairly well trace the successive steps in the development of the central nervous mechanism, from the amoeba to the highest type of vertebrate. "Nerve channels" are worn by the repeated transmission of impulses over the same tracts. Coördinations become in successive generations more complex and more perfect. As consciousness develops further, in each succeeding type, actions originally reflex tend to take on a more consciously purposeful character. But all we are concerned with now is the problem of tone-production. Our purpose is best served by accepting the faculty of muscular adaptation as an instinct, pure and simple.] There is therefore no direct conscious guidance of the muscles, in any movement, simple or complex. So far as the command of voluntary muscular actions is concerned, the first simple statement of the process sums up all that for practical purposes need be determined;--we know what we want to do, and we do it. The mind forms the idea of an action and the muscles instinctively respond. But the fact remains that the muscles need to be guided in some way. We do not perform instinctively many complex actions,--writing, dancing, rowing, swimming, etc. All these actions, and indeed most of the activities of daily life, must be consciously learned by practice and repeated effort. How are these efforts guided? To arrive at an answer to this question let us consider how a schoolboy practises his writing lesson. The boy begins by having before him a copy of the letters he is to write. Under the guidance of the eye the hand traces these letters. At each instant the eye points out to the hand the direction in which to move. As the hand occasionally wanders from the prescribed direction the eye immediately notes the deviation and bids the hand to correct it. The hand responds to the demands of the eye, immediately, without thought on the boy's part of nerve impulse or of muscular contraction. By repeated efforts the boy improves upon his first clumsy attempts; with each repetition he approaches nearer to the model. In the course of this progress the muscular sense gradually comes to the assistance of the eye as a sort of supplementary guidance. But at no time is the eye relieved of the responsibility of guiding the hand in writing. To sum this up, the movements of the hand in writing are guided, so far as the consciousness is aware, directly by the sense of sight. We have here the law of voluntary muscular guidance. In all voluntary movements the muscles are guided in their contractions, through some instinctive process, by the sense or senses which observe the movements themselves, and more especially, the results of the movements. In most actions the two senses concerned are sight and muscular sense. The more an action becomes habitual the more it tends to be performed under the guidance of muscular sense, and to be free from the necessity of the guidance of the eye. But muscular sense does not usually rise so high into consciousness as sight, in the guidance of muscular activities. Many oft-repeated movements, especially those of walking, become thoroughly habitual and even automatic; that is, the muscular contractions are performed as purely reflex actions, without conscious guidance of any kind. But even in walking, the necessity may at any instant arise for conscious guidance. In such a case the sense of sight immediately comes into service; from reflex the movements become voluntary, and consciously guided. In the case of most complex actions the sense of sight furnishes the most important guidance. If the muscular operations of singing are subject to the general laws of psychological control, the guidance of the vocal organs must be furnished by the sense which observes the results of the movements involved. This is the sense of hearing. Just as in writing the hand is guided by the eye, so in singing the voice is guided by the ear. There can be no other means of guiding the voice. Muscular sense may under certain conditions supplement the sense of hearing, but under no circumstances can muscular sense assume full command. The net result of the application of psychological principles to the problem of tone-production is simply this, that the voice is guided directly by the ear. It is thus seen that the idea of mechanical vocal management is utterly erroneous. On pushing the analysis still further the fallacy of this idea is found to be even more glaring. Is a knowledge of anatomy of any assistance in the acquirement of skill in performing complex muscular actions? Not in the least. An understanding of muscular processes does not contribute in any way to skilful execution. The anatomist does not play billiards or row a boat one whit the better for all his knowledge of the muscular structure of the body. Even if the precise workings of the vocal mechanism could be determined, the science of Voice Culture would not benefit thereby. Knowing how the muscles should act does not help us to make them act properly. It is utterly idle to tell the vocal student that as the pitch of the voice rises the arytenoid cartilages rotate, bringing their forward surfaces together, and so shortening the effective length of the vocal cords. Whatever the vocal cords are required to do is performed through an instinctive obedience to the demands of the mental ear. And finally, a precise analysis of muscular contractions is impossible, even in the case of comparatively simple actions. When, for example, the hand describes a circle in the air, a number of muscles are involved. True, it is known what these muscles are, and what effect the combined contractions of any group would have on the position of the hand. The direction of the hand's motion at any instant is determined by the resultant of all the forces exerted on this member. But as this direction constantly changes, so must the relative degrees of strength exerted by the muscles also constantly change. At no two successive instants are the muscular adjustments the same. This simple action, performed without thought or knowledge of the muscular processes, presents features too complex to be analyzed on the basis of mechanical law and anatomic structure. A complete analysis of the muscular operations of tone-production is absolutely impossible. The adjustments of the laryngeal muscles involve probably the most minute variations in degree of contraction performed in the whole voluntary muscular system. What we do know of the mechanical operations of the voice is exceedingly interesting, and a further knowledge of the subject is greatly to be desired. But we can never hope to clear up all the mystery of the vocal action. This statement must not be construed to mean that the study of the vocal mechanism has been devoid of valuable results. On the contrary, the present understanding of the mechanical operations of the voice will be found of very great value in erecting a true science of Voice Culture. The only weakness of the present results of vocal investigation is due to the fact that this investigation has always been carried on under the influence of the idea of mechanical vocal management. This influence has led all theoretical students of the subject to attempt to apply their knowledge in formulating rules for direct mechanical guidance of the voice. That these rules are valueless is due solely to the fundamental error involved in the mechanical idea. Voice Culture must be turned from the idea of mechanical vocal management. The old Italian masters were right in that they relied, even though empirically, on the imitative faculty. Modern teachers may do better, for in the light of present knowledge reliance on the faculty of vocal imitation can be shown to be in strict accord with sound scientific principles. Part III THE BASIS OF A REAL SCIENCE OF VOICE CHAPTER I THE MEANS OF EMPIRICAL OBSERVATION OF THE VOICE To all knowledge obtained through the observation of facts and phenomena, the term empirical is properly applied. Empirical knowledge must be the basis of every science. To be available in forming a science, empirical knowledge of a subject must be so carefully gathered that all probability of error is eliminated; the observations must be so exhaustive as to embrace every possible source of information. From the knowledge thus obtained a set of verified general rules must be worked out with which all the observed facts and phenomena are shown to be in accord. Then a science has been erected. There is no possibility of conflict between empirical and scientific knowledge. The discovery of a single fact, at variance with the supposed general laws bearing on any subject, is sufficient to overthrow the entire structure which had been accepted as a science. In the accepted Vocal Science the terms empirical and scientific are used in a sense entirely different from that which properly attaches to these words. Present knowledge of the operations of the voice is called scientific, solely because it is derived from the sciences of anatomy, acoustics, and mechanics. The term "empirical knowledge of the voice" is used as a name for knowledge of the subject drawn from any source other than these sciences. Yet so far as the modern vocal world seems to be aware, it possesses no knowledge of the voice other than that commonly called scientific. It is supposed that the old Italian masters had some "empirical understanding of the voice." But, if this was the case, their empirical knowledge has apparently been utterly lost. Thus far in the present work, the usage of the terms empirical and scientific, accepted by vocal theorists generally, has been adopted. A distinction has been drawn between knowledge of the voice obtained through the study of the vocal mechanism and that obtained through observation of any other kind. The purpose will best be served by continuing this same usage. It must be apparent to the reader, from the analysis of modern methods, that no real Science of Voice has thus far been erected. This is due to the fact that the general principles of scientific investigation have not been applied to the study of the voice. Under the influence of the idea of mechanical vocal management the attention of all investigators has been turned exclusively to the mechanical features of tone-production. Meanwhile the empirical knowledge of the old masters seems to have been forgotten. As a matter of fact, as will now be seen, this empirical knowledge has never been lost. Every modern teacher of singing shares the empirical knowledge which formed the sole material of the old method. But this knowledge is not applied effectually in modern instruction for two reasons. First, modern teachers do not realize the importance of this knowledge; indeed, they are practically unaware of this valuable possession. Although in fact the basis of nearly all modern instruction in singing, empirical knowledge is always unconsciously used. Second, empirical knowledge is always applied in the prevailing mechanical spirit. The attempt is always made to translate the sub-conscious empirical understanding of the voice into rules for direct mechanical management. Under the influence of the mechanical idea the modern teacher's most valuable possession, empirical knowledge of the voice, becomes utterly unserviceable. Thus far, the whole result of this work has been destructive. The accepted Vocal Science has been shown to be erroneous in its conception and unsound in its conclusions. The work cannot halt here. Vocal Science must be reconstructed. This can be done only by following the general plan of all scientific investigation, beginning with the observation of all ascertainable facts bearing on the voice. How can any facts be observed about the voice other than by the study of the vocal mechanism? An answer to this question is at once suggested so soon as scientific principles are applied to the subject. Strictly speaking, the voice is a set of sounds, produced by the action of the vocal organs. The scientific method of inquiry is therefore to begin by observing these sounds. Sounds as such can be observed only by the sense of hearing. It follows then that the attentive listening to voices is the first step to be taken. Can any empirical knowledge of the voice be obtained by the mere listening to voices? If so, we ought now to be in possession of any facts which might be thus observed. Is it possible that information of this character is already a common possession of the vocal world, and yet that this information has never been applied in the investigation of the voice? This is exactly the case. Many facts regarding the voice have been observed so continually that they are a matter of common knowledge, and yet these facts have never been recorded in a scientific manner. Consider, for example, this remark about a famous singer, made by one of the foremost musical critics of the United States: "Mme. T---- 's lower medium notes were all sung with a pinched glottis." How did this critic know that the singer had pinched her glottis? He had no opportunity of examining her throat with the laryngoscope, nor of observing her throat action in any other way. In fact, the critic was seated probably seventy-five feet from the artist at the time the tones in question were sung. The critic had only one means of knowing anything about the singer's throat action, and that was contained in the sound of the tones. There must therefore have been something in the sound of the tones which conveyed this information to the critical listener. For many years this gentleman had been in the habit of listening closely to singers, and he had found some way of estimating the singer's throat action by the character of the tones produced. This same means of judging the manner of production from the sound of the tones seems to have been utilized nearly two hundred years ago. Speaking of the most frequent faults of tone-production, Tosi remarks: "The voice of the scholar should always come forth neat and clear, without passing through the nose or being choked in the throat." Mancini also speaks of the faults of nasal and throaty voice: "Un cantare di gola e di naso." A throaty tone, therefore, impressed these writers as being in some way formed or caught in the singer's throat. It may be set down as certain that no pupil ever explained to either of these masters how the objectionable sounds were produced. How then did Tosi and Mancini know the manner in which a throaty tone is produced? We need not go back to the early writers to find out what is meant by a throaty tone. Fully as many throaty singers are heard nowadays as the old masters ever listened to. What do we mean when we say that a singer's voice is throaty? The answer to this question seems at first sight simple enough: The tones impress us as being formed in the singer's throat. But what conveys this impression? Something in the sound of the tone, of course. Yet even that is not enough. How can a tone, merely a sound to which we listen, tell us anything about the condition of the singer's throat during the production of the tone? Here again the answer seems simple: The listener knows that, in order to produce a tone of like character, he would have to contract his own throat in some way. Here we have a highly significant fact about the voice. On hearing a throaty tone, the listener can tell how this tone is produced; he feels that he would have to contract his own throat in order to produce a similar tone. Let us carry this discussion a little further. How does the listener know this? Certainly not by actually singing a throaty tone. When seated in a concert hall, for example, and listening to a throaty singer, the hearer cannot rise from his seat, sing a few throaty tones himself, and then note how his throat feels. The critic just mentioned did not sing some notes with "pinched glottis" in order to learn how Mme. T---- sang her low tones. Evidently it is not necessary actually to imitate the singer; the hearer gets the same result by imitating the sounds mentally. In other words, when we hear throaty tones we mentally imitate these tones; thus we know that we should have to contract our own throats in order to produce similar tones. But even here we cannot stop. To imitate the singer actually is one thing; mental imitation is something entirely different. In the first case, actual imitation, our muscular sense would inform us of the state of throat tightening. But in the case of mental imitation there is no actual tightening of the throat, nothing, at any rate, comparable to what takes place in actual imitation. There is then a dual function of the imagination; first, the mental imitation of the sound; second, the imaginary tightening of the throat. The analysis of the mental process must therefore be modified, and stated as follows: When we listen to a throaty tone we mentally imitate the tone; an imaginative function of the muscular sense informs us what condition the singer's throat assumes for the production of the tone. A similar operation takes place in listening to nasal voices. An impression is conveyed by a nasal tone, through which the hearer is informed of a condition of tightness or contraction somewhere in the singer's nose. The terms applied to the two most marked forms of faulty tone-production, nasal and throaty, are derived from impressions conveyed by the sounds of the tones. These names, nasal and throaty, refer to a feeling of tightness or contraction experienced in imagination by the hearer; in one case this feeling is located in the nose, in the other, in the throat. But the terms nasal and throaty are general descriptions of faulty tones. Each one covers a wide range of tone qualities. There is an almost infinite variety of throaty tones, and of nasal sounds as well. The knowledge of the voice obtained by listening to vocal tones is of equally wide extent. Every throaty tone, whatever its precise character, informs the hearer of the exact condition of the singer's throat in producing the tone. In short, every vocal tone is thus analyzed by the critical listener, and referred in imagination to his own throat. An insight into the singer's vocal action is imparted to the hearer through an imaginative process which always, of necessity, accompanies the attentive listening to vocal tones. Every vocal tone awakens in the hearer a set of imagined muscular sensations. These sensations furnish the means for an exhaustive analysis of the operations of the voice. The production of tone therefore awakens two sets of muscular sensations, one actually felt by the singer, the other felt in imagination by the listener. The former are commonly known as the "singer's sensations"; but, as will be explained later, this expression is often very loosely applied. It is advisable on this account to give a new name to the singer's sensations, and also to give a name to the muscular sensations awakened in the hearer. Let us therefore call the sensations experienced by the singer in the production of tone the "direct sensations of tone." To the imaginary sensations of the hearer let us give the name, the "sympathetic sensations of tone." These two terms will be used throughout the remainder of this work in the meanings here given to them. Direct sensations of tone are the sensations actually felt by the singer as a result of the exercise of the vocal organs. Sympathetic sensations of tone are the muscular sensations experienced in imagination by the hearer as a result of the listening to the tones of voices other than his own. CHAPTER II SYMPATHETIC SENSATIONS OF VOCAL TONE A peculiar relation of sympathy exists between the human voice and the human ear. So intimate is this relation that the two might almost be considered as forming one complete organ. One aspect of this relation has already been noted, the guidance of the vocal organs by the sense of hearing. There is now to be considered another feature of this relation between voice and ear,--the assistance rendered by the vocal organs to the sense of hearing. That a sub-conscious adjustment of the vocal organs may supplement the sense of hearing in the estimation of pitch is mentioned by Prof. Ladd. Speaking of the ability, by no means uncommon, to tell the pitch of any musical note heard, Prof. Ladd says: "Such judgment, however, may be, and ordinarily is, much assisted by auxiliary discriminations of other sensations which blend with those of the musical tone. Among such secondary helps the most important are the muscular sensations which accompany the innervation of the larynx and other organs used in producing musical tones. For we ordinarily innervate these organs (at least in an inchoate and partial way)--that is, we sound the note to ourselves--when trying carefully to judge of its pitch." (_Elements of Physiological Psychology._) Much more important in the study of the problem of tone-production are the adjustments of the hearer's vocal organs which were named the sympathetic sensations of tone. This peculiar auxiliary to the sense of hearing calls for the closest attention. Sympathetic sensations of tone are awakened in the hearer through the mere listening to the sounds of the human voice. Vocal tones impress the listener's ear in a manner entirely different from any other sounds. Not only are the tones of the voice heard, just as other sounds are heard; in addition to this, every vocal tone heard is mentally imitated, and this mental reproduction of the tone is referred in imagination to the hearer's own vocal organs. Besides hearing the vocal tone as a sound pure and simple, the listener is also informed of the manner of throat action by which the tone is produced. This mental imitation and judgment of vocal tones is not a voluntary operation. On the contrary it cannot even be inhibited. It is impossible for us to listen to the voices of those about us, even in ordinary conversation, without being to some extent aware of the various modes of tone-production. This idea of the mental imitation of voices may impress us at first as highly mysterious. Sympathetic sensations of tone have been felt and noted, probably ever since the human voice and the human ear were developed. Yet the process is purely sub-conscious. It is performed involuntarily, without thought on the part of the hearer, even without any consciousness of the process. The hearer simply knows how the voices to which he listens are produced. A throaty voice simply sounds throaty; the hearer feels this, and pays no attention to the source of the information. We take it as a matter of course that a nasal voice seems to come through the speaker's nose. Why a certain quality of sound gives this impression we never stop to inquire. The impressions of throat action conveyed by other people's voices seem so simple and direct that nobody appears to have thought to analyze the psychological process involved. This psychological process is found on analysis to be highly complex. In addition to the actual physical exercise of the sense of hearing, three distinct operations are performed in imagination. These are the mental imitation of the tone, the imagined adjustments of the vocal organs, and the imaginative exercise of the muscular sense. Although simultaneously performed, each of these four operations may be considered separately. _Hearing_ As the judgment of vocal tones by sympathetic sensations is purely a function of the sense of hearing, the keenness of these sensations varies in each individual in proportion to the keenness of the ear. It would be a great mistake to assert that we all feel these sympathetic sensations with equal vividness. On the contrary, many people are so inattentive to the qualities of sounds that they hardly know the meaning of the term "nasal tone." One trait in particular distinguishes the musician and the music lover; this is, the possession of a keen sense of hearing. The ear is trained by exercise in its own function,--hearing. The more attentively we listen to music the higher do we develop our ability to discriminate between musical sounds. Moreover, natural endowments vary in different individuals, with regard to the ear, as with all other human faculties. To appreciate fully the wonderful insight into vocal operations conveyed by the sympathetic sensations of tone, a naturally keen musical ear is required; further, this natural gift of a good ear must be developed by attentive listening to music, vocal and instrumental, carried on through several years. _Mental Imitation of Vocal Tones_ That every sense has its counterpart in the imagination need hardly be said. We know what it means to feel warm or cold, hungry or thirsty; we know the taste of an apple, the scent of a rose. We can at will create pictures before the mind's eye. In the same way we can hear in imagination any sound we choose to produce mentally. An inseparable function of the sense of hearing is the impulse to imitate mentally the tones of speakers and singers. The imitation of sounds is an instinctive operation. "Talking proper does not set in till the instinct to _imitate sounds_ ripens in the nervous system." (_The Principles of Psychology_, Wm. James, N. Y., 1890.) Little can be said about the impulse to imitate voices mentally, further than that it is an exercise of this same instinct. _Imagined Adjustments of the Vocal Organs_ It has already been seen that the vocal organs have the ability to adjust themselves, through instinctive guidance, for the production of any tone demanded by the ear. This same ability is invoked in the mental imitation of tones. In one case the muscular contractions are actually performed; in the other the muscular adjustments are wholly or in part imaginary. It is highly probable that actual contractions of the laryngeal muscles take place, under certain conditions, as an accompaniment to the listening to voices. This is evident in the case of extremely aggravated throaty and forced voices. In listening to the harsh, raucous cries of many street vendors, when calling out their wares, the hearer frequently feels a sense of actual pain in his own throat. Involuntary and unconscious contractions of the laryngeal muscles, somewhat similar to those under consideration, are well known to experimental psychologists. Prof. Ladd's statement that these contractions assist the ear in the judgment of absolute pitch has already been cited. Another example of unconscious laryngeal movements has been investigated by Hansen and Lehmann ("Ueber unwillkuerliches Fluestern," _Philos. Studien_, 1895, Vol. XI, p. 47), and by H. S. Curtis ("Automatic Movements of the Larynx," _Amer. Jour. Psych._, 1900, Vol. XI, p. 237). The laboratory experiments of these investigators show that when words, or ideas definitely expressed in words, are strongly thought but not uttered, the vocal organs unconsciously adjust themselves to the positions necessary for uttering the words. Curtis says of these unconscious laryngeal contractions: "Such movements are very common with normal people, and are comparatively easy of demonstration." The apparatus used by Hansen and Lehmann in their experiments consists of two large concave reflectors. These are placed at a convenient distance, one facing the other, so that two experimenters may be seated, the first having his mouth at the focal point of one reflector, the second with his ear at the focal point of the other. As the first experimenter repeats mentally any words or phrases, these are found to be unconsciously whispered. These sounds of whispering, inaudible under ordinary conditions, are so magnified by the two reflectors as to be distinctly heard by the second experimenter. Curtis proved that actual movements of the larynx unconsciously accompany intense thought. His demonstrations were conducted along lines familiar to all students of experimental psychology. Similar experiments would probably show that unconscious movements of the larynx also occur during the listening to vocal tones. A peculiarity of the laryngeal adjustments accompanying the listening to voices is seen in the fact that the possession of a fine or well-trained voice is not required in this process. It does not matter whether the physical organs are capable of producing fine musical tones. The nervous equipment alone is involved; this is frequently highly developed, even though the physical voice is very poor. A keen and highly-trained ear is the only requisite. Players in the opera orchestras often develop this faculty to a high degree, even though they may never attempt to sing a note. _Muscular Sense_ An exhaustive analysis of the various classes of sensations, commonly grouped under the general heading of muscular sense, would involve a mass of technicalities not necessary to the present purpose. It is sufficient to bear in mind the limitations of this sense, and to notice what it tells us, and what it does not tell. Through the exercise of the muscular sense we are informed of the movements, positions, and conditions of the different parts of the body. Of specific muscular contractions very little information is conveyed. Thus, when the arm is bent at the elbow the muscular sensations of the movement are clear and definite; but, under normal conditions, these sensations do not inform us that the movement results from the contraction of the biceps muscle. Knowledge of the muscular structure of the body is not involved in muscular sense. The muscular sensations of bending the arm are felt in precisely the same way by the professor of anatomy and the ignorant child. Further, no amount of attention paid to muscular sensations will inform us exactly what muscles are contracted in any complex action. A single stroke in the game of tennis, returning a swift service for example, may involve some contraction of every muscle of the entire body. A skilful player may observe with the utmost care the muscular sensations accompanying this stroke; he would never be able to learn from these sensations whether the number of muscles in his forearm is ten or one hundred. For the same reason the sympathetic sensations of tone tell us nothing whatever of the muscular structure of the vocal organs. When listening to a throaty voice, we feel that the singer's throat is tightened, stiffened, or contracted. But no matter how keen and vivid this sensation may be, it leaves us in complete ignorance of the names and locations of the muscles wrongly contracted. This is true, however thoroughly we may know the anatomy of the vocal organs. Much of the prevailing confusion about the voice is due to a misunderstanding of this point. When, for example, the musical critic asserted that Mme. T---- sang certain tones with "pinched glottis," he fell into this error. His sympathetic sensations informed him of some unnecessary tightening of the singer's throat. From these sensations he seems to have inferred that the glottis-closing muscles were too strongly contracted. This assumption was not warranted by any information conveyed in the sympathetic sensations. It is not necessary now to determine to what extent the muscular sensations accompanying the listening to voices are purely imaginative, and to what extent they result from actual, though unconscious, contractions of the listener's throat muscles. The psychological process is the same in either case. Sympathetic sensations of tone always accompany the listening to voices. While the psychological process is complex, this process is performed unconsciously and involuntarily. Even though the attention may be definitely turned to the sympathetic sensations themselves, the mental imitation and the laryngeal adjustments seldom rise into consciousness. As a rule, the entire operation is purely sub-conscious. The listener simply knows how the voices to which he listens are produced. This knowledge has always been accepted as intuitive; but this is merely another way of saying that the process of its acquirement is sub-conscious. _Direct Sensations of Tone_ In addition to the source of misunderstanding of the vocal action just mentioned,--the attempt to define the precise muscular contractions indicated in the sympathetic sensations, another common misinterpretation of these sensations must be noted. As a consequence of the sub-conscious character of the sympathetic sensations, the two classes of muscular sensation of vocal tone, direct and sympathetic, are frequently confounded and classed together as the "singer's sensations." A third source of confusion is seen in the attempt to apply the sympathetic sensations, by formulating rules for the guidance of the student, in performing specific actions for the management of the vocal organs. All three of these topics will be considered in a later chapter. Before approaching this subject let us see just what information may be derived from the observation of the direct sensations of tone. The direct sensations of tone are never so vivid, so precise, nor so reliable as the sympathetic sensations. In other words, the hearer is better able to judge of the singer's throat action than the singer himself. This may seem a paradoxical statement, but a brief consideration will show it to be fully justified. In the case of teacher and pupil, it will hardly be questioned that the master hears the pupil's voice to better advantage than the pupil. This is also true when a trained singer's tones are observed by a competent hearer. The singer's direct sensations are highly complex. They include the muscular sensations accompanying the exertion of the breathing muscles, and these are usually so intense as to overshadow the sensations due to the laryngeal adjustments. On the other hand, the hearer is free to pay close attention to the sensations of throat action, and therefore feels these much more keenly than does the singer. On this account the direct sensations of tone are of vastly less value in the study of the vocal action than are the sympathetic sensations. CHAPTER III EMPIRICAL KNOWLEDGE OF THE VOICE Through attention paid to the sympathetic sensations of tone, the listener may carry on mentally a running commentary on the throat actions of all those whose voices are heard. Continuing to use the word empirical in the sense thus far adopted, it may be said that the summary of the impressions conveyed in the sympathetic sensations of tone constitutes empirical knowledge of the voice. In other words, empirical knowledge of the voice is an understanding of the operations of the vocal mechanism, obtained through the attentive listening to voices. Let us consider first the running commentary on the throat action, mentally carried on by the listener. This mental commentary is an inseparable accompaniment of the listening to the voices of others, whether in speech or song. As we are concerned now only with the problem of tone-production in artistic singing, our consideration will be limited to the critical hearer's observation of the tones of singers. Let us imagine two friends to be seated side by side in the concert hall, listening to the performance of a violin sonata by an artist of about mediocre ability. Suppose one of the friends to be a highly trained musical critic, the other to be almost unacquainted with music of this class. Let us now inquire how the tones of the violin will impress these two hearers; and further, let the inquiry be limited strictly to the matter of tone, leaving out of consideration all questions of composition and rendition. As a matter of course, the tones of the violin will impress these two listeners in widely different ways. The untrained observer will greatly enjoy the beautiful tones,--supposing of course that he be gifted with a natural fondness for music. But so far as musical value is concerned, all the tones will sound to him practically alike. For the trained hearer, on the other hand, every note drawn by the performer from his instrument will have a distinct value. Some of the tones will be true in pitch and perfect in quality. Some will vary slightly from the correct pitch; others will perhaps be in perfect tune, and yet be marred in quality by faults of scratching, thinness, roughness, etc. When the two come to compare notes at the end of the performance the trained critic will be utterly unable to convey to his friend his impressions of the player's technique. Vividly clear as it is to the critic, his understanding of tonal values is lodged solely in his cultivated ear. This understanding cannot be imparted in words; it must be acquired by experience in actual listening to music. Let us now imagine this same critic to be listening to a singer, not an artist of the first rank, but one whose voice is marred by some slight faults of production. In this case the critic will note exactly the same sort of differences in tonal value as in the case of the violinist. Some of the singer's notes will be perfect musical tones, others will be marred by faults of intonation or of quality. But a great difference will be noted between faulty tones played on the violin, and faulty tones sung by the human voice. In addition to their blemishes as musical tones, the faulty notes of the voice also convey to the critical listener an idea of the state of the singer's throat in producing them. Every blemish on the beauty of a vocal tone, every fine shade of quality which detracts from its perfection, indicates to the critical hearer some faulty action of the singer's vocal organs. The more faulty the musical character of the singer's tones the more pronounced is this impression of faulty production. On the other hand, just so nearly as the singer's tones approach perfection as musical sounds, so do they also impress the ear of the critical listener as indicating the approach to the perfect vocal action. The critic could not impart to his untrained friend the impressions made by the violinist's tones. Somewhat the same is true of the impressions made by the tones of the voice on the critical ear. In voices of extremely nasal or throaty sound these blemishes can, of course, be detected by the ordinary hearer. But the fine shades of difference in vocal tone quality, heard by the trained critic, cannot be noted by the inexperienced listener. This fine ability to discriminate between musical sounds comes only through experience in listening to music, better still, when this has been combined with the actual study of music. But the ability to judge the vocal actions of singers, through the sympathetic sensations of tone, does not depend on any actual exercise of the listener's own voice. For the developing of this ability the exercise of the ear suffices. The mere exercise of the ear, in listening to singers, entails also the training of what may be called the "mental voice." Attentive listening to voices, involving as a natural consequence the sub-conscious impressions of sympathetic sensations, results in the development of a faculty to which this name, the mental voice, very aptly applies. A music-lover whose experience of hearing singing and instrumental music has been wide enough to develop the mental voice in a fair degree, possesses in this faculty a valuable means for judging singers. The mental voice carries on a running commentary on the manner of production of all the voices to which this music-lover listens. At every instant he is informed of the exact condition of the singer's throat. For him there is an almost infinite variety of throaty tones, each one indicating some degree and form of throat tension or stiffening. A perfect vocal tone, on the other hand, is _felt_ to be perfectly produced, as well as _heard_ to be musically perfect. Equipped with a highly trained sense of hearing, and the resulting faculty of mental voice, the lover of singing has an unfailing insight into the operations of the vocal mechanism. This understanding of the workings of the vocal organs is the empirical knowledge of the voice. This empirical knowledge of the voice can be possessed only by one who is equipped with a highly cultivated ear. The keener the ear the more precise and definite is this understanding of the voice. Season after season, as the music-lover continues to attend concerts, operas, and recitals, his feeling for the voice becomes gradually more keen and discerning. Further, empirical knowledge of the voice can be acquired in no other way than by actual experience in listening to voices. No matter how keen and definite are the impressions of throat action felt by the experienced hearer, these impressions cannot be described to the uninitiated. In fact, these impressions are to a great extent of a character not capable of being recorded in precise terms. The general nature of a throaty tone, for example, is thoroughly understood. But of the thousands of varieties of the throaty tone no adequate description can be given. Each observer must learn for himself to hear these fine shades of difference in tone quality. Every experienced music lover has his own mental standard of tonal perfection. The trained ear knows how a perfect musical tone should sound, independent of the precise quality of the tone. The tone quality is determined, of course, by the instrument on which it is sounded. But along with the individual characteristics of the sound, the tones drawn from every instrument, to be available in the artistic performance of music, must conform to the correct standard. Knowing the general musical character of the tones of all instruments, the cultured hearer can at once detect any variation from this character. Further, he knows how the tones of a badly-played instrument would sound if the instrument were correctly handled. An unskilled trumpeter in an orchestra, for example, may draw from his instrument tones that are too brassy, blatant, or harsh. An observant hearer knows exactly what these tones would be if the instrument were skilfully played. In just the same way the mental voice has its own standard of vocal perfection. Every voice which falls below this standard is felt by the critical hearer to be imperfectly used. When listening to a nasal singer we know that the voice would be greatly improved in quality if the nasal sound of the tones were eliminated. We feel that the correction of the faults of production indicated by a throaty voice would add greatly to the beauty of the voice. More than this, we can also form some idea how an imperfectly produced voice would sound if all the faults of vocal action were to be corrected. A perfectly produced voice affects the ear in a peculiar and distinct way. Not only is such a voice free from faults; it has also, on the positive side, a peculiar character which renders it entirely different from any wrongly used voice. The cultured hearer is impressed with a sense of incompleteness and insufficiency in listening to a voice which does not "come out" in a thoroughly satisfactory manner. This is true, even though the voice is not marred by any distinct fault. A voice absolutely perfect in its production awakens a peculiar set of sympathetic sensations. In addition to its musical beauty such a voice satisfies an instinctive demand for the perfect vocal action. An indescribable sensation of physical satisfaction is experienced in listening to a perfectly managed voice. On further consideration of this feeling of physical satisfaction awakened by a perfectly produced voice, it seems a mistake to call it indescribable. A beautiful description of this set of sympathetic sensations has been handed down to us by the masters of the old Italian school. This description is embodied in two of the traditional precepts, those dealing with the open throat and the support of the tone. Mention of the traditional precepts leads at once to the consideration of another aspect of the empirical knowledge of the voice. Vocalists have been attentively listening to voices since the beginning of the modern art of singing. Although many of the impressions made by the voice on the ear cannot be expressed in words, one set of impressions has been clearly recorded. A marked difference was evidently noticed by the old Italian masters between the feelings awakened in the hearer by a voice properly managed and those awakened by an incorrectly produced voice. These impressions were embodied in a set of precepts for the guidance of the singer, which are none other than the much-discussed traditional precepts. In other words, the traditional precepts embody the results of the old masters' empirical study of the voice. Considered in this light, the old precepts lose at once all air of mystery and become perfectly intelligible and coherent. To a consideration of this record of the empirical knowledge of the voice the following chapter is devoted. CHAPTER IV THE TRADITIONAL PRECEPTS OF THE OLD ITALIAN SCHOOL There should be nothing mysterious, nothing hard to understand, about the empirical precepts. It was pointed out in Chapter V of Part I that these precepts contain a perfect description of correctly produced vocal tone, so far as the impression on the listener is concerned. This means nothing else than that the old precepts summarize the results of empirical observation of correct singing. There is nothing new in this statement; considered as empirical knowledge, the modern vocal teacher understands the meaning of the old masters' precepts perfectly well. The misunderstanding of the subject begins with the attempt to apply the precepts as specific rules for the direct mechanical management of the voice. In this connection they were seen to be valueless. Let us now see if the old precepts are found to contain any meaning of value to the vocal teacher when considered as purely empirical formulæ. Each one of the precepts may be said to describe some special characteristic of the perfect vocal tone, considered solely as a sound. These characteristics may each be considered separately, that is, the hearer may voluntarily pay close attention to any special aspect of the vocal tone. The best plan for arriving at the exact meaning of the precepts is therefore to consider each one in turn. _The Forward Tone_ Every lover of singing is familiar with this characteristic of the perfectly produced voice; the sound seems to come directly from the singer's mouth, and gives no indication of being formed at the back of the throat. This characteristic of the perfect tone is simply heard. It is not distinguished by any sympathetic sensations, but is purely a matter of sound. On the other hand, a wrongly produced voice seems to be formed or held in the back of the singer's throat. The tones of such a voice do not come out satisfactorily; they seem to be lodged in the throat instead of at the front of the mouth. In the badly used voice the impression of throat is conveyed by the sympathetic sensations awakened in the hearer. A striking difference between correct and incorrect singing is thus noted. A wrongly produced voice is felt by the hearer to be held in the singer's throat. When properly used the voice gives no impression of throat; it seems to have no relation to the throat, but to be formed in the front of the mouth. So much has been written about "forward emission" that the forward characteristic of vocal tones seems to be enshrouded in mystery. As a matter of fact, the forward tone is easily explained. The perfectly produced voice issues directly from the mouth for the same reason that the tones of the trombone issue from the bell of the instrument. It is all a matter of resonance. This is well illustrated by a simple experiment with a tuning fork and a spherical resonator reinforcing the tone of the fork. When the fork is struck, the ear hears the sound issuing from the resonator, not that coming direct from the fork. This is brought out distinctly by placing the fork at a little distance from the resonator. The listener can then definitely locate the source of the sound which impresses the ear. Under these circumstances the sound coming from the resonator is found to be many times more powerful than that coming direct from the tuning fork. If left to its own judgment the ear takes the resonator to be the original source of the sound. In the voice the exciting cause of the air vibrations is located at the back of the resonator,--the mouth-pharynx cavity. The sound waves in this case can issue only from the front of the resonator,--the singer's mouth. No matter how the voice is produced, correctly or badly, this acoustic principle must apply. Why then does not the incorrectly used voice impress the hearer as issuing directly from the mouth, the same as the correctly produced tone? This is purely a matter of sympathetic sensations of throat tightness, awakened by the faulty tone. Every wrongly used voice arouses in the listener sympathetic sensations of throat contraction. This impression of throat, noted by the hearer, consists of muscular, not of strictly auditory sensations. As a statement of scientific fact, the forward-tone precept is erroneous. It does not describe scientifically the difference between correct and incorrect tone-production. Correctly sung tones are not produced at the lips. Every vocal tone, good or bad, is produced by the motion of the vocal cords and reinforced by the resonance of the mouth-pharynx cavity. Only when considered as an empirical description is the forward-tone precept of value. In this sense the precept describes accurately the difference in the impressions made on the hearer by correct and incorrect singing. A badly produced tone seems to be caught in the singer's throat; the correctly used voice is free from this fault, and is therefore heard to issue directly from the singer's mouth. This marked difference between correct and incorrect tone throws a valuable light on the meaning of the correct vocal action. Every badly used voice gives the impression of wrong or unnecessary tightness, stiffening, and contraction of the throat. When perfectly used, the voice does not convey any such impression of throat stiffness. _The Open Throat_ Just as with the forward tone, the meaning of the open throat is best brought out by contrasting the impressions made on the hearer by a perfect and a badly used voice. A badly produced tone seems to be caught, or as Tosi expressed it, "choaked in the throat." The singer's throat seems to be tightened and narrowed so that the sound has not sufficient passageway to come out properly. On the other hand, the perfectly used voice comes out freely, without interference or hindrance at any point in the singer's throat. There seems to be plenty of room for the tone to come forth; in other words, the singer's throat seems to be open. All these impressions are purely a matter of sympathetic sensations. In listening to a faulty singer the hearer feels a sensation of tightness and contraction of the throat. A well used voice awakens exactly the opposite sensation, that of looseness and freedom of the throat. Here again is seen the difference between correct and incorrect singing, empirically considered. Judging from the impressions made by rightly and wrongly used voices, any incorrect vocal action involves a condition of tightness and contraction of the throat. Perfect singing gives the impression that the throat is loose and supple, and free from all unnecessary tension. _The Support of the Tone_ Following the plan of contrasting correct and incorrect singing, the meaning of this precept is readily found. The perfect voice is felt by the hearer to be firmly and confidently held by the singer in a secure grasp of the throat muscles. Such a voice awakens the sympathetic sensations of perfectly balanced muscular effect, similar to the muscular sensations of the hand and forearm when an object is firmly grasped in the hand. A badly used voice seems to be convulsively gripped in the singer's throat. The tones seem to fall back into the throat for want of some secure base on which to rest. This impression is conveyed by a peculiar set of sympathetic sensations of highly unpleasant muscular tension far back in the throat. This precept, "Support the tone," points to the difference already noted between the right and the wrong vocal action. Badly produced tones indicate a state of excessive tension of the throat muscles. Correct singing gives the impression that the throat muscles exert exactly the requisite degree of strength, and no more. Taken together, the open-throat and the forward-tone precepts embody an admirable description of the sympathetic sensations awakened by perfect singing. The singer's entire vocal mechanism is felt to be in a condition of lithe and supple freedom. There is no straining, no constraint, no forcing, no unnecessary tension. Each muscle of the vocal mechanism, and indeed of the entire body, exerts just the necessary degree of strength. Similar muscular sensations always accompany the expert performance of any action requiring a high degree of dexterity. Whatever be the form of exertion, skilful physical activity awakens muscular sensations of perfectly balanced and harmonized contractions. This feeling of muscular poise and adjustment is pleasurable in a high degree. A keen enjoyment is experienced in the skilful performance of many complex muscular activities. Much of the pleasure of skating, dancing, rowing, tennis, etc., is dependent on this feeling of muscular poise and harmonious contraction. Healthy exercise is always normally enjoyable; but skilful performance greatly enhances the pleasure. A beginner learning to skate, for example, exerts himself fully as much as the accomplished skater. Yet the beginner does not by any means derive the same degree of pleasure from his exertions. Precisely this feeling of balanced and harmonious muscular exertion is experienced by the perfect singer. More than this, the hearer also, through sympathetic sensations, shares the same pleasurable feeling. This is the sensation described as the feeling of soaring, of poise, and of floating, in many descriptions of the "singer's sensations." _Singing on the Breath_ When the voice is perfectly used the tones seem to detach themselves from the singer, and to float off on the breath. Nothing in the sound of the tones, nor in the sympathetic sensations awakened, gives any indication that the breath is checked or impeded in its flow. The current of tone seems to be poured out on the breath just as freely as a quiet expiration in ordinary breathing. This is a purely empirical description of perfect singing. As we know very well, the vocal action is quite different from this description. But the important point is that the phrase "singing on the breath" does very accurately describe the impression made on the hearer by perfect singing. Singing on the breath represents the highest possible degree of purely vocal perfection. One may attend operas and concerts for a whole season and listen to a score of famous singers, and count oneself fortunate to have heard even one artist who attains this standard of tonal excellence. Singing on the breath is an effect of wondrous tonal beauty; it is simply this, pure beauty, pristine and naïve. With the slightest degree of throat stiffness or muscular tension, singing on the breath is utterly impossible. So soon as the tones indicate the merest trace of throat contraction, the free outflow of the stream of sound is felt to be checked. Coloratura singing, to be absolutely perfect, demands this degree of tonal excellence. Singing on the breath and coloratura are indeed very closely allied. The modern school of musical criticism does not hold coloratura singing in very high esteem. We demand nowadays expression, passion, and emotion; we want vocal music to portray definite sentiments, to express concrete feelings. Florid singing is not adapted to this form of expressiveness. It is only sensuously beautiful; it speaks to the ear, but does not appeal to the intellect. Yet it may well be asked whether the highest type of coloratura singing, pure tonal beauty, does not appeal to a deeper, more elemental set of emotions than are reached by dramatically expressive singing. This question would call for a profound psychological discussion, hardly in place in a work devoted to the technical problem of tone-production. But this much is certain: Coloratura singing still has a strong hold on the affections of the music loving public. Even to-day audiences are moved by the vocal feats of some famous queen of song fully as profoundly as by the performance of a modern dramatic or realistic opera. To describe a sound is an extremely difficult task. The tone of the muted horn, for example, is perfectly familiar to the average musician. Yet who would undertake to describe in words the tone of the muted horn? A description of the sounds produced by a perfectly managed voice is almost as difficult to frame in words. Still the old Italian masters succeeded in finding words to describe perfect singing. These few simple phrases--open the throat, support the tone, sing the tones forward, sing on the breath--embody a most beautiful and complete description of vocal perfection. The empirical study of the voice can hardly be expected to go further than this. From the old masters we have received a complete record of all that need be known empirically about the voice. CHAPTER V EMPIRICAL KNOWLEDGE IN MODERN VOICE CULTURE It was pointed out in Chapter I of Part III that there is no possibility of conflict between empirical and scientific knowledge. Modern Voice Culture seems to present a direct contradiction of this statement. The vocal teacher's empirical understanding of the voice conflicts at every step with his supposedly scientific knowledge. No doubt the reader is already aware of the real meaning of this apparent contradiction. It only bears out the philosophic rule; an accepted science must be abandoned so soon as its deductions are found to be not in accord with observed facts. Modern methods of instruction in singing can be understood only by following out this idea of conflict between known facts and accepted, though erroneous, scientific doctrines. As we have seen, the only universally accepted theory of supposedly scientific Voice Culture is the idea of direct mechanical guidance of the voice. Every vocal teacher attempts to make his empirical knowledge conform to this mechanical idea. As the empirical knowledge is correct, and the mechanical idea a complete mistake, conflict between the two is inevitable. Every modern teacher of singing possesses in full measure the empirical understanding of the voice. To this statement hardly an exception need be made. Probably the most startling fact concerning the wide diffusion of this knowledge is that the nature of this knowledge is so thoroughly ignored. Because the psychological process is purely sub-conscious, empirical knowledge is always indirectly and generally unconsciously applied. In the teacher's mind the most prominent idea is that of mechanical vocal guidance. His attention is always directly turned to this idea. Empirical knowledge, consisting merely of a succession of auditory and muscular sensations, lurks in the background of consciousness. To the intelligent vocal teacher there is something peculiarly fascinating about the study of tone-production. In listening to any faulty singer we feel with the utmost precision what is wrong with the voice. Each imperfect tone informs us clearly and definitely just where the wrong muscular contraction is located. It seems so easy to tell the singer what to do in order to bring the tone out perfectly. Under the influence of the mechanical idea we try to express this feeling in the terms of muscular action. This attempt is never successful; the singer cannot be brought to understand our meaning. Yet it is so clear in our own minds that our inability to express it is extremely tantalizing. We go on, constantly hoping to find a way to define the mechanical processes so clearly indicated to the ear. We always feel that we are just on the verge of the great discovery. The solution of the problem of tone-production is almost within our grasp, yet it always eludes us. It was stated in Chapter V of Part I that empirical knowledge of the voice, based on the singer's sensations, is used to supplement and interpret the doctrines of mechanical vocal guidance. This is in the main true, so far as the vocal teacher is aware. But here again the result of the sub-conscious character of empirical knowledge of the voice is seen. As a matter of fact the real situation is the direct reverse of that described in the chapter mentioned. The mechanical doctrines are used in the attempt to interpret the empirical knowledge. This fact is well brought out in the following passage from Kofler: "The teacher must imitate the wrong muscle-action and tone of his pupil as an illustration of the negative side." (_The Art of Breathing_, N. Y., 1889.) Kofler does not touch on the question, how the teacher is able to locate the wrong muscle-action of the pupil. He takes this ability for granted; it is so purely an intuitive process that he does not stop to inquire into the source of this information of the pupil's vocal action. Through his sense of hearing he sub-consciously locates the faults in the pupil's tone-production. His only conscious application of this knowledge is the attempt to explain to the pupil the wrong muscle-action. This he naturally tries to do in the terms of mechanical action and muscular operation. Thus the mechanical doctrine is used in the attempt to explain the empirical knowledge. Yet the teacher is conscious only of citing the mechanical rule, and believes this to cover the entire instruction. In the preceding chapter it was seen that the perfectly produced vocal tone may be considered in a variety of aspects. Each one of these aspects is characterized by a fairly distinct set of sympathetic sensations. Of faulty modes of throat action, as revealed by sympathetic sensations, there is an almost infinite variety. Of this wide variety of forms of throat tension the most prominent are those indicated by sets of sympathetic sensations, the direct opposites of those characterizing the perfect vocal action. Thus the open throat is indicated by one set of sympathetic sensations, the lack of this characteristic of tone by an opposite set, etc. Whatever distinct fault of production the pupil's tone indicates, the master immediately notes the character of the faulty throat action. The master feels, simply and directly, what is wrong with the student's tone-production. Whence this knowledge comes he does not stop to inquire. Suppose the pupil to sing an exercise, and to produce tones which stick in the throat, instead of coming out freely. The master simply hears that the pupil's voice is caught in the throat; he does not observe that he is informed of this condition by muscular as well as auditory sensations. This ignoring of the psychological nature of the impressions of tone is not necessarily detrimental to successful instruction. On the contrary, the master's empirical insight into the vocal operations of the pupil would probably not be advanced by an understanding of the psychological process. It is sufficient for the teacher's purpose to hear that the pupil's voice is caught in the throat. What robs this hearing, or feeling, of all value is this: the master attempts to interpret the sensation as an indication of the need of some specific muscular action, to be directly performed by the pupil. To this end he cites the mechanical rule, assumed to be indicated by the pupil's faulty vocal action. This may be, for example, the opening of the throat to give room for the tone to expand. It seems so perfectly simple to the teacher;--the pupil narrows his throat, and so holds in the tone; let him expand his throat and the tone will come out freely. This conclusion seems so clearly indicated by the sound of the tones that the master almost inevitably gives the precise instruction: "Open your throat and let your voice come out." This sums up, to the master's satisfaction, everything the pupil need do to correct this particular fault of tone-production. Other sets of sympathetic sensations, awakened by badly produced tones, are interpreted in the same manner. A tone heard to be held in the back of the throat is believed to indicate the need of bringing the voice forward in the mouth. Other forms of throaty production are taken to show a lack of support, a wrong management of the breath, a need of breath-control, a misuse of nasal resonance, or an improper action of the vocal cords. In all these attempts to interpret sympathetic sensations by means of mechanical doctrines the teacher naturally relies on those doctrines in which he believes most firmly. Sympathetic sensations are indeed sometimes cited in proof of certain theories of breath-control, and also of nasal resonance. Both these topics are worthy of separate attention. _Sympathetic Sensations and Nasal Resonance_ One of the most widely accepted theories of the vocal action is that the higher notes of the voice are influenced by reinforcing vibrations located in the nose and forehead. Whether this idea was derived more from direct than from sympathetic sensations need not be determined now. It is at any rate certain that a perfectly sung tone gives to the hearer the impression of nasal influence of some kind. The exact nature of this influence has never been determined. It may be air resonance, or sounding-board resonance, or both combined. Satisfactory proof on this point is lacking. In the belief of the practical teacher, however, this impression of nasal influence is the strongest argument in favor of nasal resonance. Turning now to the question of nasal quality, strictly speaking, tones of this objectionable character always awaken the sympathetic sensations of contraction somewhere in the nose. Why such a contraction should cause this unpleasant sound of the voice is a profound mystery. Perhaps wrong tension of the soft palate exerts an influence on the actions of the vocal cords; or it may be that the form of the nasal cavities is altered by the muscular contraction. This aspect of the vocal action has never been scientifically investigated. The sympathetic sensation of nasal contraction or pinching is at any rate very pronounced. Curiously, this sympathetic sensation is cited as an argument in favor of their respective theories, by both the advocates and the opponents of nasal resonance. _Sympathetic Sensations and Breath-Control_ Certain forms of exaggerated throat stiffness are frequently held to indicate the need of breath-control. The faulty vocal action in question is analyzed by the breath-control advocates substantially as follows: "Owing to the outflow of the breath not being checked at the proper point, the entire vocal mechanism is thrown out of adjustment. The singer exerts most of his efforts in the endeavor to prevent the escape of the breath; to this end he contracts his throat and stiffens his tongue and jaw. His tones are forced, harsh, and breathy; they lack musical quality. His voice runs away with him and he cannot control or manage it. In the attempt to obtain some hold on his voice he 'reaches' for his tones with his throat muscles. The more he tries to regain control of the runaway breath the worse does his state become." This extreme condition of throat stiffness is unfortunately by no means rare. So far as concerns the sympathetic sensations awakened by this kind of singing the condition is graphically described by the breath-control advocates. But the conclusion is entirely unjustified that this condition indicates the lack of breath-control. Only the preconceived notion of breath-control leads to this inference. The sympathetic sensations indicate a state of extreme muscular tension of the throat; this is about the only possible analysis of the condition. * * * Empirical impressions of vocal tones determine the character of most present-day instruction in singing. This means no more than to say that throughout all vocal training the teacher listens to the pupil's voice. The impressions of tone received by the teacher's ear cannot fail to inform the teacher of the condition of the pupil's throat in producing the voice. For the teacher to seek to apply this information in imparting the correct vocal action to the pupil is inevitable. Almost every teacher begins a course of instruction by having the pupil run through the prescribed series of mechanical exercises and rules. Breathing is always taken up first. Breath-control, laryngeal action, registers, and resonance follow usually in this order. The time devoted to this course of training may vary from a few weeks to several months. This mechanical instruction is almost always interspersed with songs and arias. The usual procedure is to devote about half of each lesson to mechanical doctrines and the remainder to real singing. Blind faith in the efficacy of this mechanical training is the teacher's only motive in giving it. Very little attention is paid to the sound of the pupil's voice during the study of mechanical rules and doctrines. It is simply taken for granted that the voice must be put through this course. Once the mechanical course has been covered, the pupil's voice is supposed, in a vague way, to be "placed." From that time on, whether it be at the end of two months of study or of two years, the instruction is based solely on empirical impressions of tone. Little remains to be said of the nature of this empirical instruction. It always retains the mechanical aspect. Whatever fault of production is noted, the teacher seeks to correct the fault by applying some mechanical rule. The futility of this form of instruction has already been pointed out. Only two ways of applying empirical knowledge of the voice are known to the modern vocal teacher. These are, first, to tell the pupil to "open the throat," or to "support the tone," or to perform whatever other mechanical operation seems to be indicated as necessary by the sound of the tone; second, to bid the student to "feel that the tone is supported," to "feel that the throat is open," etc. Under these circumstances the little advantage derived from empirical knowledge in modern Voice Culture is readily understood. CHAPTER VI SCIENTIFIC KNOWLEDGE OF THE VOICE So far as any definite record can be made, the knowledge of the voice obtained by attentive listening to voices has now been set down. The next step in the scientific study of tone-production is the consideration of all knowledge of the voice obtained from sources other than empirical. In other words, the knowledge of the voice usually classed as scientific is now to be examined. Three sciences are generally held to contribute all that can possibly be known about the vocal action. These are anatomy, acoustics, and mechanics. Of these anatomy has received by far the most attention from vocal scientists. The laws of acoustics, bearing on the voice, have also been carefully considered. Beyond the theory of breath-control, little attempt has been made to apply the principles of mechanics in Vocal Science. Psychology, the science most intimately concerned with the management of the voice, has received almost no attention in this connection. A complete record of the teachings of the established sciences with regard to the voice demands the separate consideration of the four sciences mentioned. Each will therefore be treated in turn. In the case of each of these sciences it is seen that the most essential facts of the vocal action have been definitely established. Many questions still remain to be satisfactorily answered which are of great interest to the theoretical student of the voice. Yet in spite of the lack of exact knowledge on these points, enough is now known to furnish the basis for a practical science of Voice Culture. _The Anatomy of the Vocal Mechanism_ This subject has been so exhaustively studied that nothing new can well be discovered regarding the muscular structure of the vocal organs. In all probability the reader is sufficiently acquainted with the anatomy of the larynx and its connections. Only a very brief outline of the subject is therefore demanded. The muscles concerned with breathing call for no special notice in this connection. The special organ of voice is the larynx. This consists of four cartilages, with their connecting ligaments,--the thyroid, the cricoid, and the two arytenoids, and of nine so-called intrinsic muscles,--two crico-thyroid, right and left, two thyro-arytenoid, two posterior crico-arytenoid, two lateral crico-arytenoid, and one arytenoideus. The inner edges of the thyro-arytenoid muscles form the vocal cords. The hyoid bone, serving as a medium of attachment for the tongue, may also be considered a portion of the larynx. By means of the extrinsic muscles the larynx is connected with the bones of the chest, neck, and head. While the muscular structure of the vocal organs is thoroughly known, the actions of the laryngeal muscles in tone-production have never been absolutely determined. This much is definitely established: Vocal tone is produced when the vocal cords are brought together and held on tension, and the air in the lungs is expired with sufficient force to set the vocal cords in motion. The tension of the vocal cords can be increased by the contraction of their muscular tissues, the two thyro-arytenoid muscles; further, increased tension of the cords can also result from the tilting of the thyroid cartilage on the cricoid, by the contraction of the crico-thyroid muscles. It is also definitely proved that the pitch of the vocal tone varies with the state of tension of the vocal cords; increasing the degree of tension raises the pitch, decreasing the tension lowers it. As to the relative importance of the different groups of muscles in varying the tension of the vocal cords, nothing has been definitely proved. In addition to the variations in pitch resulting from variations in the tension of the vocal cords, there is also much ground for believing that the pitch may be raised by shortening the effective length of the vocal cords. This is apparently accomplished by the rotation of the arytenoid cartilages; but the specific muscular contractions concerned in the rotation of the arytenoids have not been located. It is generally asserted by vocal theorists that the quality of the vocal tone, on any one note, is determined mainly by the influence of the resonance cavities. Dr. Mills says on this point: "When it is borne in mind that the vocal bands have little or nothing to do with the quality of the tone, the importance of those parts of the vocal apparatus which determine quality... becomes apparent." (_Voice Production in Singing and Speaking_, 1906.) This theory that the quality of the tone is determined solely by the resonance cavities is directly contradicted by Prof. Scripture. He proves that changes in tone quality result from changes in vocal cord adjustment. This subject is more fully treated in the following section. Even before this matter had been definitely settled by Prof. Scripture, there was a strong presumption in favor of the vocal cord adjustment theory. Howard advanced this idea in 1883. Several empirical observations support this theory. Most important of these is the fact that a single tone, swelled from _piano_ to _forte_, goes through a wide variety of changes in quality. Stockhausen's mention of this fact has already been noted. This fact tends to cast some doubt on the value of laryngoscopic observation as a means of determining the laryngeal action. Under the conditions necessary for examination with the laryngoscope it is impossible for the singer to produce any but soft tones in the head quality of voice. Most of these tones, if swelled to _forte_, would change from the head to the chest quality. It is probable that this change in quality is effected by a corresponding change in the vocal cord adjustment, as the conditions of the resonance cavities remain the same. But this cannot be determined by laryngoscopic observation. So far as the actions of the laryngeal muscles are concerned, no difference can be defined between the correct vocal action and any improper mode of operation. Sir Morell Mackenzie examined a large number of people with the aid of the laryngoscope; of these, some were trained singers, others, while possessed of good natural voices, had had no vocal training whatever. Many variations were noted in the notes on which changes of register occurred. But it could not be determined by this mode of examination whether the subject was a trained singer or not. If there is one specifically correct mode of operation for the vocal cords, this correct action has never been determined from the anatomy of the organs. No doubt there is some difference between the muscular actions of correct tone-production and those of any incorrect operation of the voice. But the nature of this difference in muscular action has never been discovered by means of dissections of the larynx, nor by laryngoscopic observation. _The Acoustic Principles of Tone-Production_ An outline of the existing state of knowledge regarding the acoustic principles of tone-production must be drawn mainly from one source. This is the latest authoritative work on the subject, _The Study of Speech Curves_, by E. W. Scripture (Washington, 1906). In this work Prof. Scripture overthrows several of the conclusions of Helmholtz which had hitherto furnished the basis of all the accepted theories of vocal acoustics. Considering the eminently scientific character of all Prof. Scripture's research work, his thorough acquaintance with every detail of the subject, and the exhaustive attention devoted to this series of experiments, we are fully justified in accepting his present statements as conclusively proved. A first impression received from a careful reading of _The Study of Speech Curves_ is that the subject is vastly more intricate than had formerly been believed. Helmholtz's theory of vocal acoustics was fairly simple: The vocal cords vibrate after the manner of membranous reeds; a tone thus produced consists of a fundamental and a series of overtones; vowel and tone quality are determined by the influence of the resonance cavities, which reinforce certain of the overtones with special prominence. This theory is discarded by Prof. Scripture. "The overtone theory of the vowels cannot be correct." In place of this simple theory, Prof. Scripture reaches conclusions too complicated to be given in detail here. A brief outline of the subject must suffice for the needs of the present work. Prof. Scripture found that the nature of the walls of a resonating cavity is of more importance than either its size, shape, or opening. A flesh-lined cavity is capable of reinforcing tones covering a range of several notes. Further, the vowel sound, and presumably also the tone quality, are determined more by the action of the vocal cords than by the adjustment of the resonance cavities. "The glottal lips vibrate differently for the different vowels." This adjustment of the glottal lips "presumably occurs by nervously aroused contractions of the fibers of the muscles in the glottal lips." Continuing, Prof. Scripture says: "Physiologically stated, the action for a vowel is as follows: Each glottal lip consists mainly of a mass of muscles supported at the ends and along the lateral side. It bears no resemblance to a membrane or a string. The two lips come together at their front ends, but diverge to the rear. The rear ends are attached to the arytenoid cartilages. When the ends are brought together by rotation of these arytenoid cartilages, the medial surfaces touch. At the same time they are stretched by the action of the crico-thyroid muscles, which pull apart the points of support at the ends. "In this way the two masses of muscle close the air passage. To produce a vowel such a relation of air pressure and glottal tension is arranged that the air from the trachea bursts the muscles apart for a moment, after which they close again; the release of the puff of air reduces the pressure in the trachea and they remain closed until the pressure is again sufficient to burst them apart. With appropriate adjustments of the laryngeal muscles and air pressure this is kept up indefinitely, and a series of puffs from the larynx is produced. The glottal lips open partly by yielding sidewise,--that is, they are compressed,--and partly by being shoved upward and outward. The form of the puff, sharp or smooth, is determined by the way in which the glottal lips yield; the mode of yielding depends on the way in which the separate fibers of the muscles are contracted. "These puffs act on the vocal cavity, that is, on a complicated system of cavities (trachea, larynx, pharynx, mouth, nose) with variable shapes, sizes, and openings. The effect of the puffs on each element of the vocal cavity is double: first, to arouse in it a vibration with a period depending on the cavity; second, to force on it a vibration of the same period as that of the set of puffs. The prevalence of one of the factors over the other depends on the form of the puff, the walls of the cavities, etc." Prof. Scripture does not undertake to point out a difference between the correct vocal action in tone-production, and any incorrect action. This difference in action does not seem capable of definition by any analysis of the acoustic principles involved. _Mechanical Principles of the Vocal Action_ In Part II, Chapter II, it was seen that the outflow of the breath in tone-production is checked by the vocal cords, in accordance with Pascal's law of fluid pressures. Another law of mechanics bearing on this operation is now to be considered, viz., the law of the transformation and conservation of energy. The application of the law of the transformation and conservation of energy to the operations of the voice is nicely illustrated by the well-known candle-flame test of (supposedly) breath-control. To perform this test the singer is instructed to practise the exercises for breath-control while holding a lighted candle with the flame an inch or two in front of the lips. According to the idea of the breath-control advocates, the expired breath should escape so slowly, and with so little force, that no current of air can be detected at the lips, the expiration therefore does not cause the candle flame to flicker. Describing the toneless breathing exercises to be practised with the candle flame, Browne and Behnke say, "Let it be observed that the above exercise is quite distinct from the well-known practice of _singing_ before a lighted candle, which is, comparatively speaking, an easy matter." (_Voice, Song, and Speech_.) A very striking fact is stated correctly by Browne and Behnke,--there is no current of air created at the lips during tone-production. Of the truth of this statement the reader may readily convince himself by trying this same experiment with a candle flame, or even with a lighted match. Hold a lighted match just in front of the lips and sing a powerful tone. The quality of the tone is of no consequence so long as it be powerful. Just sing, shout, yell, the louder the better. You will find that the flame is less affected under these circumstances than by the quiet expiration of ordinary breathing. Considerable practice and close attention are required in order to hold back the breath in toneless breathing exercises. Whereas in producing any kind of powerful tone the breath normally creates no current of air at the lips. There is no reason for considering this experiment a test of correct tone-production. It is impossible to produce a powerful tone of any kind, good, bad, or indifferent, and at the same time to create an appreciable current of air at the lips. Needless to say, the breath-control theorists have entirely failed to grasp the significance of the candle-flame experiment. Yet we have here a demonstration of the mechanical law of tone-production. Considered as a mechanical process, tone-production occurs when the energy exerted by the expiratory muscles, in their contraction, is converted into energy of motion of the vocal cords.[8] In other words, tone-production is an example of the transformation of energy. The law of the transformation and conservation of energy must therefore apply to this operation. This law is stated as follows: "Energy may be transformed from any of its forms to any other form. When energy is thus transformed the quantity of energy in the resulting form or forms is equal to the quantity of energy in the original form." [Note 8: This exposition of the mechanical principle of tone-production is intended to be graphic, rather than strictly technical. For the sake of simplicity, that portion of the expiratory energy expended in friction against the throat walls, tongue, cheeks, etc., is disregarded, as well as that expended in propelling the air out of the mouth, in displacing the same quantity of external air, etc.] The mechanical operation of tone-production comprises the following transformations of energy: First, the energy exerted in the contraction of the expiratory muscles is converted into energy of condensation or elasticity of the air in the lungs and trachea. Second, this energy of condensation of the air is converted into energy of motion of the vocal cords. In other words, the expiratory energy is transformed into energy of motion. One objection, at first sight very serious, may be offered against this statement: the amount of strength exerted in the contractions of the breath muscles seems many times greater than is accounted for in the motion of the vocal cords. The movements of the vocal cords are so slight as to be observable only with the aid of a specially devised apparatus, the stroboscope. Can all the expiratory force expended in tone-production show such a small result? This apparent objection is found to be groundless in view of the application in this operation of Pascal's law. As this topic was fully treated in Chapter II of Part II, no further explanation is required here. The erroneous idea of vocal mechanics involved in the doctrine of breath-control is now fully exposed. Tone can be produced only when the expired air exerts a pressure on the vocal cords. There is no necessity for any conscious or voluntary check on the expiration. The energy of the expiration is expended in setting the vocal cords in motion. No energy of condensation is left in the expired air the instant it has passed the vocal cords. Beyond that point there is no expiratory pressure. In one sense it is true that the expiration is "controlled" in tone-production. But this control is strictly an automatic action. The vocal cords are adjusted, by the appropriate muscular contractions, to move in response to the air pressure exerted against them. This action involves, as a necessary consequence, the holding back by the vocal cords of the out-rushing air. So long as the vocal cords remain in the position for producing tone, they also control the expiration. In this sense breath-control is an inseparable feature of tone-production. All that need be known of the mechanics of the voice is therefore perfectly plain. The vocal cords are set in motion by the pressure against them of the expired breath. This operation is in accordance with Pascal's law and the law of the conservation of energy. But this analysis throws no light on the nature of the correct vocal action. It is impossible for the voice to produce a sound in any way other than that just described. In speaking or in singing, in laughing or in crying, in every sound produced by the action of the vocal cords, the mechanical principle is always the same. Nor is the bearing of this law limited to the human voice. Every singing bird, every animal whose vocal mechanism consists of lungs and larynx, illustrates the same mechanical principle of vocal action. Only passing mention is required of the fallacy of the breath-band theory. The idea of any necessity of relieving the vocal cords of the expiratory pressure is purely fanciful. How any one with even a slight understanding of mechanics could imagine the checking of the breath by the inflation of the ventricles of Morgagni, is hard to conceive. _The Psychology of Tone-Production_ This subject was treated, in some detail, in Chapter V of Part II. In that chapter however we were concerned more with a destructive criticism of the idea of mechanical tone-production than with the positive features of vocal psychology. At the risk of some repetition it is therefore advisable here to sum up the laws of psychology bearing on the vocal action. Considered as a psychological process, tone-production in singing involves three distinct operations. First, the mental ear conceives a tone of definite pitch, quality, vowel sound, and power. Second, the vocal organs prepare to adjust themselves, by the appropriate muscular contractions, for the production of the tone mentally conceived. Third, the fiat of will is issued, causing the muscular contractions to be performed. These three operations are executed as one conscious, voluntary act. Let us inquire to what extent consciousness is concerned with each operation. As conscious volitional impulses, the mental conception of the tone, and the fiat of will to produce the tone, are well enough understood. These two operations call for no extended consideration. We are at present concerned only with the psychological laws bearing on the muscular adjustments of the vocal organs. Muscular contractions result from the transmission to the muscular fibers of motor nerve impulses. These nerve impulses originate in the motor nerve centers. They can never, under any circumstances, rise into consciousness. Contractions of the voluntary muscles occur either as reflex or as voluntary actions. In both cases the motor nerve impulses originate in the same nerve centers. In the case of reflex actions these lower muscular centers alone are involved; in voluntary actions the originating of the motor impulses is "controlled" by consciousness. In deciding that an action shall be performed, and in what way it is to be performed, consciousness directs that each motor center involved shall send out the appropriate discharges of nerve impulse. Complex muscular activities require the sending out of nerve impulses from various motor centers. Such activities are usually not performed instantaneously, but require a longer or shorter time. Thus we may consider it as one action for the writer to rise from his chair, to lower the window and adjust the shade, and then to return to his seat. In this case a large number of motor centers are successively involved; at the proper instant each center discharges its impulse. To this end the motor centers must be instructed when to come into activity. This distribution of nerve impulse is effected by the power of coördination. In voluntary actions coördination is accompanied by conscious control.[9] But coördination is not a function of the higher cerebral centers, that is, of consciousness. How the connection is made between the higher cerebral centers and the lower motor centers is a complete mystery. All that can be said is that the ideas of movements are transmitted to the motor centers, and that these send out the appropriate motor impulses. [Note 9: In this connection it is advisable to point out a difference between the meanings attached to the word "control" in psychology and in Vocal Science. The psychologist classes habitual movements as either automatic or controlled. Automatic movements are purely reflex; the individual does not consciously decide whether they shall be performed or not. Psychologically considered, the _control_ of a movement is simply the conscious volitional decision whether the movement shall be performed. To adopt the language of Psychology, we should speak of _voice management_, and of _breath regulation_, instead of vocal control, breath control, etc. In the following chapters the accepted psychological usage of the word "control" will so far as possible be adopted.] Turning now to the muscular adjustments of the vocal organs, these adjustments are seen to be independent of conscious guidance. When a tone is mentally conceived the vocal organs adjust themselves, in response to some mysterious guidance, for the production of the tone. The vocal cords assume the appropriate degree of tension according to the pitch of the tone to be sung. Both the quality of the tone and the vowel are determined by the combined adjustments of the laryngeal muscles and of the muscles which fix the shape and size of the resonance cavities. The power of the tone is regulated by the force of the breath blast; for each degree of power some special adjustment of the vocal cords is required. All these adjustments are executed as one concrete and individual act in response to the volitional impulse contained in the mental conception of the tone. The tone is conceived as a concrete whole. It is not normally broken up mentally into its four aspects of pitch, quality, vowel, and power. True, each one of these four characteristics of the tone may be separately considered by the singer. So also, to a certain extent, may the adjustments of the vocal organs be performed with special reference to one or the other characteristic of the tone. But in every case the muscular contractions are performed without direct conscious guidance. Whatever be the character of the tone mentally demanded, the vocal organs instantly adjust themselves to produce the tone. What is meant by saying that the muscular contractions are performed without conscious guidance? Does this mean that the singer is unconscious of the muscular contractions? Not at all. Muscular sense informs the singer, more or less distinctly, of the state of contraction or relaxation of the various muscles of the vocal organs. The singer always knows fairly well the condition of the various parts of the vocal mechanism. What is meant is this: The singer does not consciously direct the vocal organs to assume certain positions and conditions, and does not instruct the various muscles to contract in certain ways. The singer does not need to know, and in fact cannot know, what muscular contractions are required to produce any desired tone. Some connection exists between the organs of hearing and the vocal mechanism. That this connection has a physical basis in the nervous structure is fairly well established. "The centers for sight and for arm movements, for instance, or those of hearing and of vocal movements, have connecting pathways between them." (_Feeling and Will_, Jas. M. Baldwin, 1894.) The psychological law of tone-production is that the vocal organs adjust themselves, without conscious guidance, to produce the tones mentally conceived. In actual singing the practical application of this law is that the voice is guided by the ear. This guidance of the voice by the ear is incessant. It must not be understood that the mental ear simply conceives a single tone, and that the vocal machinery then operates without further guidance. All the characteristics of the vocal tones,--pitch, quality, and power,--are constantly changing. These changes require corresponding changes in the muscular adjustments. The muscular contractions in turn are guided by the demands of the mental ear. As a psychological process, singing may therefore be analyzed as follows: The singer mentally sings the composition. In response to the ever varying demands of the ear the vocal organs adjust themselves to produce actually the sounds thus mentally conceived. The singer listens to these sounds and at every instant compares them to the mental conception. If the tones actually produced fail to correspond exactly to those mentally conceived, the singer instantly notes this variation and bids the vocal organs to correct it. The ear has therefore a dual function in singing. First, the mental ear directs the voice in its operations. Second, the physical ear acts as a check or corrective on the voice. To sum up the psychology of tone-production, the singer guides or manages the voice by attentively listening to the tones of the voice. This is the only possible means of vocal guidance. The voice and the ear together form one complete organ. But we are still apparently as far as ever from the specific meaning of the correct vocal action. That the voice instinctively obeys the commands of the ear may be true theoretically. In actual practice we know that this does not by any means always occur. Singers are often unable to get the desired results from their voices, even when they believe themselves to rely on the sense of hearing. There must therefore be some influence which under certain conditions interferes with the operations of the vocal organs. The problem of tone-production is thus seen to be one of psychology. It narrows down to this: What can interfere with the normal action of the voice and prevent the vocal organs from instinctively responding to the demands of the ear? A satisfactory answer to this problem will be found only by a consideration of all available knowledge of the voice, both empirical and scientific. This forms the material of the final division of the present work. Part IV VOCAL SCIENCE AND PRACTICAL VOICE CULTURE CHAPTER I THE CORRECT VOCAL ACTION Two distinct lines of approach were laid down for studying the operations of the voice. First, the manner of investigation usually accepted as scientific. This is, to study the vocal mechanism; to determine, as far as possible, the laws of its operation, in accordance with the principles of anatomy, acoustics, mechanics, and psychology. Second, the manner of investigation generally called empirical. This begins with the observing of the tones of the voice, considered simply as sounds. From the tones we work back to the vocal organs and apply to them the information obtained by attentive listening. Both of these means of investigation have been utilized; we are now in possession of the most salient facts obtainable regarding the vocal action. Separately considered, neither the scientific nor the empirical study of the voice is alone sufficient to inform us of the exact nature of the correct vocal action. The next step is therefore to combine the information obtained from the two sources, scientific analysis and empirical observation. Let us begin by summing up all the facts so far ascertained. Tone-production in singing is a conscious and voluntary muscular operation. The vocal organs consist of a number of sets of voluntary muscles, of the bones and cartilages to which these muscles are attached, and of the nerves and nerve centers governing their actions. The precise nature of the muscular contractions of tone-production, whether correct or incorrect, is not known. These contractions occur in accordance with established laws of acoustics and mechanics. Under normal conditions the vocal organs instinctively respond to the demands of the singer, through the guidance of the sense of hearing. The ability of the vocal organs to adjust themselves properly may be upset by some influence apparently outside the singer's voluntary control. Study of the vocal mechanism does not inform us of the meaning of the correct vocal action, nor of the difference between this action and any other mode of operation of the voice. Empirically considered, there is a striking difference between the correct vocal action and any other manner of tone-production. A perfect vocal tone awakens in the hearer a distinct set of auditory and muscular sensations. Attentively observed, the muscular sensations of the hearer indicate that the perfect vocal tone is produced by the balanced and harmonious action of all the muscles of the singer's vocal mechanism. In listening to perfect singing the hearer feels that every muscle of the singer's vocal organs is contracted with exactly the appropriate degree of strength. Any vocal tone of unsatisfactory sound awakens in the hearer a set of muscular sensations, the direct opposite of those indicating the correct vocal action. An incorrectly produced tone imparts to the hearer a sensation of stiffness and undue muscular tension, located more or less definitely in the throat. This sensation indicates that the singer's throat is stiffened by excessive muscular contraction. Further, this feeling of throat stiffness indicates to the hearer that the singer's vocal action would become correct if the undue muscular tension were relaxed. Combining now the results of empirical and scientific investigation of the voice, throat stiffness is seen to be the interfering influence which disturbs the instinctive connection between voice and ear. Let us now consider the meaning of throat stiffness as a feature of incorrect tone-production. First, what is muscular stiffness? All the voluntary muscles of the body are arranged in opposed pairs, sets, or groups. A typical pair of opposed muscles are the biceps and triceps of the upper arm. Contraction of the biceps flexes the forearm at the elbow; the contrary movement, extending the forearm, results from the contraction of the triceps. This principle of opposition applies to the entire muscular system. One set of muscles raises the ribs in inspiration, another set lowers them in expiration; one group flexes the fingers and clenches the fist, an opposed set extends the fingers and opens the hand. Muscular opposition does not imply that the entire structure is made up of parallel pairs of muscles, like the biceps and triceps, located on opposite sides of the same bone. It means only that the opposed sets pull in contrary directions. Each opposed set consists of muscles of about equal strength. Under normal conditions of relaxation the entire muscular system exerts a slight degree of contraction. To this normal state of oppositional contraction the name "muscular tonicity" is given. The present purpose does not call for a discussion of the subject of muscular tonicity. This form of contraction has no direct bearing on the performance of voluntary movements. What effect has the voluntary contraction of all the muscles of any member, each opposed set exerting the same degree of strength? No motion of the member results, but the member is brought on tension and stiffened. This is well illustrated in the case of the arm. Extend the arm and clench the fist; then contract all the muscles of the arm, about as the athlete does to display his muscular development. You will notice that the arm becomes stiff and tense. This state of tension is commonly called "muscular stiffness," but the term is open to objection. It is really the joints which are stiffened, not the muscles. We are, however, so accustomed to speak of muscular stiffness, and particularly of throat stiffness, that little is to be gained by substituting a more accurate expression. A condition of muscular stiffness results from the contraction of all the muscles of a member, whether this contraction be voluntary or involuntary. This condition does not prevent the normal movements of the member; it only renders the movements more difficult and fatiguing and less effective. It is readily seen why this is the case. More than the necessary strength is exerted by the muscles. Suppose the biceps and triceps, for example, each to be contracted with five units of strength; then let some work be performed by the flexing of the forearm, requiring the exertion of two units of strength. In this case the biceps must exert two units of strength more than the triceps, that is, seven units. In all, the two muscles together exert twelve units of strength to accomplish the effective result of two units. Six times the needed strength is exerted. Activity of this kind is naturally fatiguing. Muscular stiffness increases the difficulty of complex movements. Not only is unnecessary strength exerted; the stiffness of the joints also interferes with the freedom and facility of motion. But this unfavorable condition does not upset the power of coördination. The instinctive connection between the nerve centers of consciousness and the motor centers is not broken. Although hampered in their efforts, the muscles are still able to execute the demands of consciousness. As an illustration of this analysis of muscular stiffness let us consider the actions of writing, when performed under the conditions just described. It is possible to write with the hand and arm in a state of muscular stiffness. But one does not write so easily, so rapidly, nor so well with the arm stiff as with the arm normally relaxed. Closer attention must be paid to the forming of the letters, and more effort must be put forth to write with the muscles stiffened; yet the result is not equal to that obtained with less care and labor under normal muscular conditions. All that has been said of muscular stiffness applies with especial force to the vocal organs. Like the rest of the muscular system, the muscles of the vocal organs are arranged in opposed pairs and sets. The contraction of all the muscles of the throat, each opposed set or pair exerting about the same degree of strength, causes a condition of throat stiffness. Singing is possible in this condition. But the singer's command of the voice is not so complete and satisfactory as under normal conditions. Throat stiffness does not altogether deprive the vocal organs of their faculty of instinctive adjustment in obedience to the demands of the ear. To a fair extent the voice is under the command of the singer. The vocal cords adjust themselves readily enough for the desired pitch; tones of the various degrees of loudness and softness can be sung in a fairly satisfactory manner. But the muscles are somewhat hampered in their contractions, and the response to the demands of the ear is not quite perfect. This lack of perfect command is evidenced specially in the quality of the tones. Some form of throaty quality always mars the voice when the throat is in a stiffened condition. In this regard the voice refuses to fulfill the demands of the ear. Even though the singer hears, and indeed feels, the effects of the muscular tension, and strives to remedy the fault of production, the voice still refuses to respond. This incomplete command of the voice is frequently observed, even among singers of very high standing. At first sight the condition here described seems to disprove the statement that the voice normally obeys the ear. But there is no real contradiction of the psychological law of vocal command in the case of a stiff-throated singer. For one thing, whatever degree of command the singer possesses is obtained in accordance with the law of guidance by the ear. Moreover, the failure to secure perfect response is due solely to the interference with the normal workings of the voice, occasioned by the state of throat stiffness. Far from this form of muscular contraction being a contradiction of psychological principles, it will be found on examination to be in perfect accord with well-established laws of physiological psychology. It is hardly to be supposed that the singer consciously and voluntarily contracts the muscles of the entire vocal mechanism and so deliberately brings about the stiffening of the throat. True, this can readily be done. We can at will sing throaty and nasal tones. But this form of voluntary throat tension is not, properly speaking, an incorrect vocal action. So long as the vocal organs respond to the demands of the ear, the vocal action is correct. Only when the voice refuses to obey can the action be described as incorrect. A satisfactory definition of the various modes of vocal action can now be given. The correct vocal action is the natural operation of the vocal organs; the voice normally obeys the commands of the ear. An incorrect vocal action occurs when the throat is stiffened by the involuntary contraction of the muscles of the vocal mechanism. This definition of the vocal action does not solve the problem of tone-production. It is still to be determined how the involuntary contraction of the throat muscles is caused. CHAPTER II THE CAUSES OF THROAT STIFFNESS AND OF INCORRECT VOCAL ACTION Involuntary contractions of the voluntary muscles can occur only as reflex actions. If the muscles of the vocal organs are subject to involuntary contractions, the causes of these contractions must be sought through an investigation of the subject of reflex actions. Reflex actions are of several kinds; of these the simplest type, and the one most easily studied, is the muscular contraction due to the excitation of the sensory nerve endings located in the skin. Thus when the sole of the foot of a sleeping person is tickled, the leg is at first drawn up and then violently kicked out. An exhaustive discussion of the physiological and psychological features of reflex action is not called for here; a sufficient understanding of the subject may safely be assumed to be possessed by the reader. Involuntary muscular contractions often occur as reflex actions without any direct or tactual irritation of the sensory nerve endings. Several examples of this form of reflex action are now to be considered. These actions will be seen to be matters of such common experience as to call for no special proof. They are the following: (_a_) Reflex actions performed under the influence of sensory impressions other than those of touch or muscular sense. (_b_) Involuntary muscular contractions due to nervousness. (_c_) Contractions of the muscles of certain members, caused by the turning of the attention specially to the members. (_d_) Involuntary contractions of muscles, accompanying the exertion of other associated and antagonist muscles, and due to the radiation of nerve impulse. (_a_) _Reflex Actions due to Sensory Impressions other than those of Touch or Muscular Sense_ A wide range of movements is included under this heading. Of these it is necessary to mention only a few, such as the sudden start on the hearing of an unexpected noise, the instinctive movement of dodging to escape an approaching missile, and the raising of the arm to ward off an expected blow. Actions of a somewhat similar character normally occur in which it is not easy to point to the excitation of any sense or senses. These include the instinctive cowering attitude of fear, the play of facial expression caused by sentiment and emotion, etc. (_b_) _Involuntary Actions due to Nervousness_ A condition of marked nervousness generally causes the involuntary contraction of muscles. Who does not recall his earliest attempts at "speaking a piece" in school? The trembling of the lips, the twitching of the arms and hands, and the vain attempts to govern the bodily movements, are an experience painful even in the recollection. Movements and contractions due to nervousness are entirely purposeless; they even defy the most earnest efforts at inhibition. A marked feature of this type of involuntary action is the contraction of antagonist groups of muscles, productive of muscular stiffness of the members. An extreme example of this form of nervousness is offered by the unfortunate sufferer from stage fright. In this condition the entire body often stiffens, and purposeful movement of any kind becomes for a time impossible. (_c_) _Contractions caused by Special Attention to Certain Members_ Suppose a small boy of sensitive nature to enter a room suddenly, and to be at once chided for his awkwardness. His body will probably stiffen, and his awkwardness become more pronounced. Now call his attention to his hands and tell him he is holding them badly. His arms and hands will immediately become painfully stiff. Speak of his feet and his legs come on tension. Whatever member his attention is turned to, the muscles of that part contract involuntarily. Photographers sometimes have to contend with this form of involuntary action on the part of their sitters. When the hands are to be posed the arms stiffen; so also do the legs, the shoulders, and the neck, each when its turn comes to receive attention. Under normal conditions this form of awkwardness is easily overcome. Sitting for a photograph soon becomes a simple matter. The boy outgrows the awkward stage and gradually acquires a natural and easy bearing. Muscular stiffening due to attention to special members is usually the result of an uncomfortable feeling of being out of one's element, and ill at ease in one's surroundings. So soon as this feeling wears off the tendency to this form of stiffness disappears. (_d_) _Contractions of Muscles due to the Radiation of Nerve Impulse_ A voluntary exertion of some of the muscles of a member sometimes causes the involuntary contraction of all the other muscles of the part. As will readily be seen, the exercise then takes place under conditions of muscular stiffness. This is commonly a feature of the unskilful and unaccustomed performance of muscular activities. A few examples will serve to illustrate this type of involuntary contraction better than a lengthy discussion of the physio-psychological principles involved. When a novice takes his first lesson in riding a bicycle he clutches the handle bars in a vise-like grip. His knees are so stiff as to bend only with a great exertion of strength. To steer the wheel the learner must put forth his most powerful muscular efforts. A half-hour lesson in bicycle riding often tires the beginner more than an afternoon's ride does the experienced cyclist. This condition of muscular stiffness is due to the contraction of antagonist groups of muscles, involving practically the entire body. In one sense the excessive muscular contractions are involuntary; yet it would not be easy to define where the voluntary element of the contractions leaves off. A similar excessive expenditure of strength may be seen in the attempt of an illiterate laborer to sign his name. He grips the pen as though it were a crowbar, and puts forth enough strength to handle a twenty-pound weight. Learning to dance, or to skate, or to row a boat, is usually accompanied in the beginning by this form of muscular stiffness. As skill is acquired by practice in the performance of complex activities, the undue muscular tension of the initial stage is gradually relaxed. There is another way in which the radiation of nerve impulse may be caused, entirely distinct from the lack of use or skill. Muscular stiffness may be induced in the case of activities so thoroughly habitual as to be normally performed automatically. The cause of muscular stiffness now to be considered is the attempt to perform complex activities mechanically, that is, by consciously directing the individual component movements and muscular contractions involved in the actions. Involuntary contractions of associated and antagonist muscles take place under these conditions, in addition to the voluntary exercise of the muscles normally exerted in the movements. This fact may be illustrated by attempting to write a few lines, and forming every stroke of each letter by a distinct exercise of the will. If you keep up this attempt for ten minutes you will find that you press upon the paper with many times your accustomed weight. The hand stiffens in consequence of the close attention paid to its movements. This stiffness will extend to the arm, and even to the shoulder, if the exercise be continued long enough and with sufficient intensity of attention to the hand. Another good illustration of this form of muscular stiffening may be found by walking upstairs, and paying the same kind of attention to the muscular actions. Try to ascend a single flight of stairs, performing each elementary movement by a distinct volitional impulse. Pause on the first step to secure perfect balance on one foot; raise the other foot, bending the leg at the knee, then place this foot carefully on the next higher step. Now gradually shift the weight of the body from the lower to the higher foot; as the body inclines forward, exert the muscles of the back and sides to preserve your balance; then contract the leg muscles so as to raise the body to the higher step, with the weight supported on that foot. Repeat this operation for each step. To mount one flight of stairs in this way will tire you more than ascending a half dozen flights in the ordinary automatic way. All four of the types of involuntary muscular contraction just described may be combined in a single instance. An inexperienced violin soloist, such as a student playing at a conservatory recital, often exemplifies this. Nervousness and awkwardness cause him to tremble; the scratchy sound of his tones makes him twitch and start; meanwhile, the close attention paid to his fingering and bowing stiffens his arms and completes his difficulty. The vocal organs are peculiarly subject to the forms of involuntary muscular contraction under consideration. Each of the causes of muscular tension may exert its special influence on the voice. Let us go over the ground once more, this time with special reference to the actions of the throat muscles. _(a) Reflex Actions of the Muscles of the Vocal Organs, Independent of Direct Sensory Excitation_ Involuntary actions of the vocal organs normally occur in response to stimuli furnished by the emotions and feelings. Every one is familiar with the shout of triumph, the sigh of relief, and the ejaculation of surprise. Some emotions cause a convulsive stiffening of the muscles of the vocal organs so complete as to render tone-production for a time absolutely impossible. "Speechless with terror," "breathless with apprehension," are expressions which accurately describe psychological processes. A crowd of people watching a difficult rescue of a drowning man is silent so long as the uncertainty lasts. A shout instantly goes up when the rescue is seen to be safely effected. Both the silence of the nervous strain and the shout of relief are normal involuntary responses to the emotional states. _(b) The Influence of Nervousness on the Vocal Action_ Nervous conditions exert a striking influence on the operations of the voice. Even when our self-control under trying conditions is complete in all other respects we are often unable to prevent our voices betraying our nervous state. Stage fright, an extreme form of nervousness, sometimes deprives the sufferer entirely of the power of speech. This temporary loss of vocal command is not due to an inability to innervate the muscles of the vocal organs; on the contrary, it is caused by extreme muscular stiffness due to the violent, though involuntary, contraction of all the muscles of the vocal organs. Under normal conditions, entirely aside from nervousness, the voice instinctively reflects every phase of sentiment and emotion. Love and hate, sorrow and joy, anger, fear, and rage, each is clearly expressed by the quality of the tones, independent of the meaning of the spoken words. All these fine shades of tone quality result from muscular adjustments of the vocal mechanism. In some mysterious manner the outflow of motor impulses to the throat muscles is governed by the nervous and emotional states. This form of muscular contraction is in one sense not involuntary. As the voice is voluntarily used, all the muscular contractions involved are voluntary. Yet the minute contractions producing tone qualities expressive of emotion are distinctly involuntary. More than this, these contractions cannot usually be inhibited. An angry man cannot make his voice sound other than angry. Our voices often betray our feelings in spite of the most earnest efforts at concealment. While the voice always normally and involuntarily adopts the tone quality indicative of the emotional state, this action of the vocal organs may be voluntarily and purposely performed. A perfect command of these fine shades of tone quality renders the voice a very potent instrument of expression. For the purposes of dramatic singing this form of vocal expression might be of great value. It is to be regretted that dramatic singers of this day pay so little attention to purely tonal expressiveness. This is probably due in great measure to the prevalence of throat stiffness, which robs the voice of much of its expressive power. _(c) Contractions of the Throat Muscles, caused by Attention to the Throat_ When a physician attempts to examine a child's throat, the tendency of the throat muscles to this form of involuntary contractions is apt to be evidenced. The jaw stiffens and the tongue rises; for a time the rebellious little throat refuses to remain quiet and relaxed. People usually have some such difficulty the first time they submit to examination with the laryngoscope. This is very apt to occur, even in the case of experienced singers. Needless to say, this form of muscular contraction is entirely involuntary; it even defies the most earnest attempts at prevention. Comparatively little experience is required for normal people to overcome this tendency. The throat usually becomes tractable after one or two trials with the laryngoscope. Vocalists are well aware of the proneness of one part of the vocal mechanism, the tongue, to stiffen in consequence of direct attention being paid to this member. In this connection Frangçon-Davies remarks: "When the writer in early student days concentrated his attention upon his tongue he found that this member became very stiff and unruly indeed." (_The Singing of the Future_, London, 1906.) Leo Kofler speaks of the same tendency: "Tell a pupil to let his tongue lie flat in his mouth; he draws it back till it dams up his throat." (_Werner's Magazine_, Oct., 1899.) _(d) Throat Stiffness due to the Radiation of Nerve Impulse_ Two types of muscular tension due to the radiation of motor impulses were noted; first, the stiffness incident to the early stages of practice in complex activities; second, the stiffness caused by the attempt to perform complex activities in a mechanical manner by paying attention to the individual component movements and contractions. To both these types of muscular stiffness the voice is especially subject. It is not easy to find a perfect illustration of throat stiffness incident to the early stages of instruction in singing. For this the chief reason is that the later form of stiffness, due to the attempt directly to manage the vocal organs, is much more pronounced than the temporary early tension. As good an example as possible would be the following: Let some one possessed of a fine natural untrained voice sing a steady tone and then attempt to trill on the same note. The attempted trill will invariably indicate a much higher degree of stiffness than the single tone. Several investigators of the voice have noticed the tendency of the throat to stiffen when the singer tries to manage the voice by paying direct attention to the mechanical action. Clara Kathleen Rogers points this out clearly in the following passage: "There exists a possible and a dangerous obstacle to the performance of the natural mission of the voice. That obstacle is what? It is a superfluous and misdirected mental activity which is fruitful of a corresponding obstruction on the part of the body. In the body this obstruction takes the form of superfluous or unnatural tension." (_The Philosophy of Singing_, N. Y., 1893.) Prof. Scripture describes in scientific language the results of any attempt directly to manage the vocal organs. Speaking of the use of the voice under unfavorable conditions, he says: "The attempt is instinctively made by the speaker or singer to correct such a fault by voluntary innervation of the muscles; this cannot succeed perfectly because an increase of innervation brings about contractions of associated and antagonist muscles with the result of changed conditions and changed sounds. Such extra muscular effort is, moreover, very fatiguing." (_The Elements of Experimental Phonetics_, 1902.) For the purposes of scientific voice culture this is one of the most important facts which have been determined. The attempt to manage the voice, by paying attention to the mechanical operations of the vocal organs, causes an involuntary contraction of all the throat muscles, and so interferes with the normal instinctive vocal action. Even the mere thinking of the throat in singing, and especially in practising, is enough to induce throat stiffness. CHAPTER III THROAT STIFFNESS AND INCORRECT SINGING It is a lamentable fact that most of the singing heard nowadays gives evidence of throat stiffness. Perfect singing becomes more rare with each succeeding year. The younger generation of artists in particular evince a marked tendency to this fault of production. Considered as a cause of faulty tone-production in singing, throat stiffness is due to only one influence, viz., the attempt to manage the voice by thinking of the vocal organs and their mechanical operations. Muscular tension due to nervousness, or to the unskilful nature of first attempts at singing, cannot be looked upon as causing a wrong vocal action. In the case of nervousness the lack of vocal command faithfully reflects the psychological condition of the singer; the imperfect response of the voice is normal to this condition. The stiffness due to first attempts is also perfectly normal. Moreover, both these forms of throat stiffness are temporary; they disappear when the cause, nervousness or lack of skill, is removed. Throat stiffness does not necessarily destroy the musical character of the voice. Very many degrees and varieties of excessive throat tension are possible. The undue muscular exertion may be so slight in degree that the throat stiffness can be detected in the sound of the tones only by a highly sensitive and observant hearer. Or on the other hand, the muscles of the entire throat may be so powerfully contracted that the singer has only a very imperfect command of the voice. Between the two extremes, perfect tone-production and exaggerated stiffness, every conceivable shade of difference in degree of undue tension might be illustrated in the case of some prominent singer. Faulty tone-production manifests itself in two ways; first, in its effects on the tones of the voice; second, in its effects on the singer's throat. Let us consider each of these topics separately. _The Effect of Throat Stiffness on the Sound of the Voice_ In whatever degree throat stiffness is present, to just that extent the voice sacrifices something of its capabilities as a musical instrument. The voice can realize its full natural resources of beauty, range, power, and flexibility only when the throat is absolutely free from undue tension. As regards the quality of the tones, every phase of undue throat tension has its effect on the sound of the voice. These effects are always bad; the same voice is less beautiful when used in a stiffened condition than when perfectly produced. Throaty and nasal tones are always more or less harsh and offensive to the sensitive hearer. Further, the more pronounced the state of throat stiffness the more marked does the throaty or nasal quality become. Under conditions of throat tension the range of the voice is almost always curtailed. The highest and lowest notes possible to any voice can be reached only when the throat is entirely free from stiffness. So also with regard to the varying degrees of power, undue tension prevents the singer from obtaining the extreme effects. A throaty singer's soft tones generally lack the carrying quality. Louder tones can be produced with a normally relaxed than with a stiffened throat. Real flexibility of voice is impossible to a stiff-throated singer. Extreme rapidity and accuracy of muscular adjustments, the physical basis of coloratura singing, cannot be attained when the muscles are hampered by undue tension. A distinct fault of production, the tremolo, is directly due to throat stiffness. A simple experiment illustrates the nature of the muscular action from which the tremolo results. "Set" the muscles of the arm by contracting the biceps and triceps with the utmost possible strength. With the arm in this stiffened condition flex and extend the forearm slowly several times. You will notice a pronounced trembling of the arm. Why a condition of muscular stiffness should cause the affected member to tremble is not well understood. But the fact admits of no question. It is highly probable that the tremolo is caused by a trembling of the vocal organs, due to muscular stiffness. The tones of a voice afflicted with tremolo always give evidence of extreme throat tension. Another bad result of throat stiffness in tone-production is seen in the matter of intonation. Tones produced with a stiff throat are seldom in perfect tune. This subject will be more fully treated in a later chapter. _Effects of Muscular Stiffness on the Throat_ Many of the muscles of the vocal organs, particularly the laryngeal muscles, are extremely small and delicate. Under normal conditions these muscles are fully capable of exerting the relatively small amount of strength required of them without strain or injury. But when the voice is used in a stiffened condition the delicate muscles of the larynx are obliged to contract with much more than their normal strength. To borrow an expression of the engineers, the throat muscles are then forced to carry an excessive load. A balanced contraction of antagonist groups of muscles is the muscular basis of throat stiffness. When the voice is used in this condition each muscle of the vocal organs must put forth the amount of effort necessary to produce the desired effect under normal conditions, in addition to an effort equal to the counterbalancing pull of its antagonist muscle. An increase in the degree of throat stiffness demands a corresponding increase in the effort exerted by every muscle of the throat. Over-exertion of muscles always results in strain and injury. The extent of the injury to the muscular tissues varies with the degree of excessive exertion and with the duration of the injurious exercise. An advanced stage of muscular strain is distinctly a pathological condition. Tone-production in a state of throat stiffness is of necessity injurious to the muscles of the vocal organs. The delicate laryngeal muscles are specially subject to the injurious effects of strain. These effects vary in extent and character, according to the degree of throat stiffness, to the extent and duration of the faulty use of the voice, and to the individual characteristics of the singer. A very slight degree of undue tension may not sensibly injure the voice. Even a fairly marked condition of tension, such as is evidenced by the uniformly throaty quality of many baritones and mezzo-sopranos, may be persisted in for years without perceptibly straining the throat or destroying the musical value of the voice. But a misuse of the voice is bound, in the course of time, to show its injurious results on the throat. How many promising young singers are forced to abandon their careers in early life, at the time when their artistic and dramatic powers are just ripening to fruition! A misused voice "wears out" years before its time. Most of the throat troubles of singers are directly caused by throat stiffness and muscular strain. Dr. Mills, among others, touches on this fact. "All the author's experience as a laryngologist tended to convince him that most of those evils from which speakers and singers suffer, whatever the part of the vocal mechanism affected, arise from faulty methods of voice production, or excess in the use of methods in themselves correct." (_Voice Production in Singing and Speaking_, Phila., 1906.) For the purposes of artistic singing, a voice loses all its value when the injurious effects of throat stiffness become very pronounced. On this account singers are obliged to give up appearing in public before the condition reaches the extreme. It follows therefore that only in the case of public speakers do we see the extreme results of persistence in the wrong use of the voice. "Clergyman's sore throat" is the name usually applied to this condition. The sustained use of the voice, under conditions of extreme strain, is exceedingly painful both to the speaker and to the hearer. Singers are usually unconscious of throat stiffness unless the condition be very pronounced. Neither the sense of hearing nor the muscular sense informs the singer of the state of tension. Accustomed to the sound of his own voice, the singer may be unaware of a throaty or nasal quality which he would instantly detect in another voice. This is also true of the muscular sensations of tone-production; habit makes the singer inattentive to the sensations caused by throat tension. Throat stiffness always tends to become greater in degree; it is a self-aggravating condition. Even though very slight in its beginnings, the state of stiffness obliges the singer to put forth more than the normal effort in order to secure the desired effects. This increase of innervation is not confined to the muscles which need to be more strongly contracted. As Prof. Scripture points out, it also extends to the associated and antagonist muscles, that is, to all the muscles of the throat. Thus the stiffness is increased in degree. Still greater exertion is then required, resulting in still greater stiffness. This may go on for years, the voice gradually becoming less responsive to the demands of the singer. Individual personal characteristics are an important factor in determining a singer's experience with throat stiffness. Some singers are so fortunately constituted as to be almost entirely free from the tendency to stiffen the throat. Others detect the tendency in its beginning and find no difficulty in correcting it. Still others habituate themselves to some manner of tone-production, and neither increase nor diminish the degree of stiffness. Even under modern methods of instruction, many artists are correctly trained from the start and so never stiffen their throats in any way. Several traits of character are concerned in determining the individual tendency to throat stiffness. Nervous temperament, keenness of ear, artistic and musical endowment, each has its influence in this connection. The great prevalence of throat stiffness among present-day singers is due primarily to the idea of mechanical vocal management as the basis of instruction in singing. Not only are modern methods intrinsically worthless, in that a correct use of the voice cannot be attained by the application of mechanical rules. Worse than this, the means used for training the voice are such as to defeat their own purpose. At every instant of instruction the student's attention is expressly turned to the vocal organs and to the mechanical operations of the voice. The only possible result of this kind of vocal instruction is to stiffen the throat and so to render the correct vocal action an impossibility. A peculiar contradiction is presented by the modern vocal teacher; his artistic conception of singing is utterly at variance with his ideas of mechanical tone-production. It may safely be said that the vast majority of vocal teachers are thoroughly conversant with the highest standards of artistic singing. They know what effects their pupils ought to obtain. But the means they use for enabling the pupils to get these effects have exactly the contrary result. When the student tries to open the throat this obstinate organ only closes the tighter. Attempting to correct a tremolo by "holding the throat steady" causes the throat to tremble all the more. Modern voice culture, in its practical aspect, is a struggle with throat stiffness. Everything the student does, for the purpose of acquiring direct command of the voice, has some influence in causing the throat to stiffen. Telling the student to hold the throat relaxed seldom effects a cure; this direction includes a primary cause of tension,--the turning of attention to the throat. All the teacher can do to counteract the stiffening influence is to give relaxing exercises. These are in most cases efficacious so long as constructive instruction is abandoned, and the relaxing of the throat is made the sole purpose of study. But soon after positive instruction is resumed the tendency to stiffen reappears. As lesson follows after lesson, the stiffness becomes gradually, imperceptibly more pronounced. At length the time again comes for relaxing exercises. A single repetition of this process, relaxing the throat and then stiffening it again, may extend over several months of study. During this time the student naturally learns a great deal about music and the artistic side of singing, and also improves the keenness of the sense of hearing. This artistic development is necessarily reflected in the voice so soon as the throat is again relaxed. It usually happens that students change teachers about the time the voice has become unmanageably stiff. In this condition the student, of course, sings rather badly. A marked improvement in the singing generally results from the change of teachers. This is easy to understand because the new teacher devotes his first efforts to relaxing the stiffened throat. Later on this improvement is very likely to be lost, for the second teacher has nothing more of a positive nature to offer than the first. Vocal teachers in general seem to be aware of the fact that mechanical instruction causes the student's throat to stiffen. A much-debated question is whether "local effort" is needed to bring about the correct vocal action. The term local effort is used to describe the direct innervation of the throat muscles. A logical application of the mechanical idea absolutely demands the use of local effort. This is the main argument of the local-effort teachers. Those teachers who discountenance local effort have only their own experience to guide them. They simply know that local effort results in throat stiffness. Yet these teachers have nothing to offer in place of the mechanical management of the vocal organs. Even though aware of the evil results of local effort, they yet know of no other means of imparting the correct vocal action. The weakness of the position of these teachers is well summed up by a writer in _Werner's Magazine_ for June, 1899: "To teach without local effort or local thought is to teach in the dark. Every exponent of the non-local-effort theory contradicts his theory every time he tells of it." To that extent this writer states the case correctly. Every modern vocal teacher believes that the voice must be consciously guided in its muscular operations. Until this erroneous belief is abandoned it is idle for a teacher to decry the use of local effort. CHAPTER IV THE TRUE MEANING OF VOCAL TRAINING In all scientific treatises on the voice it is assumed that the voice has some specifically correct mode of operation. Training the voice is supposed to involve the leading of the vocal organs to abandon their natural and instinctive manner of operating, and to adopt some other form of activity. Further, the assumption is made that the student of singing must cause the vocal organs to adopt a supposedly correct manner of operating by paying direct attention to the mechanical movements of tone-production. Both these assumptions are utterly mistaken. On scientific analysis no difference is seen between the right and the wrong vocal action, such as is assumed in the accepted Vocal Science. Psychological principles do not countenance the idea of mechanical vocal management. Yet the fact remains, as a matter of empirical observation, that there is a marked difference between the natural voice and the correctly trained voice. What change takes place in the voice as a result of correct training? Singing is a natural function of the vocal organs. Learning to sing artistically does not involve a departure from natural and instinctive processes. The training of the voice consists of the acquirement of skill in the use of the vocal organs, and of nothing more. Under normal conditions the vocal organs instinctively adjust themselves, by performing the necessary muscular contractions, to fulfill the demands of the ear. In order that a perfect musical tone be produced it is necessary in the first place that the ear be keen and well trained; only such an ear can know the exact sound of a perfect tone, and so demand it of the voice. Second, the vocal organs must make repeated efforts to produce the perfect tone, each response approaching nearer to the mentally-conceived tone. Two elements are therefore involved in the training of the voice; first, the cultivation of the sense of hearing; second, the acquirement of skill in the use of the voice by the actual practice of singing. Practical vocal teachers generally recognize the importance of both these elements of Voice Culture. Only in one way do they fall short of fully realizing the value of ear training and of practice guided by the ear;--they do not see that these two topics sum up the whole material of vocal training. Unfortunately, the search after some imaginary means of direct vocal management destroys, in all modern methods, most of the value of the real elements of voice culture. A few citations from standard writers on the voice will show the estimation in which ear-training is held. To begin with, the old Italian masters were fully alive to the necessity of cultivating the sense of hearing, as witness Tosi: "One who has not a good ear should not undertake either to instruct or to sing." This writer also says in the chapter headed "Observations for a student": "Let him hear as much as he can the most celebrated singers, and likewise the most excellent instrumental performers; because from the attention in hearing them one reaps more advantage than from any instruction whatsoever." Another early writer on the voice, the celebrated Adolph Bernhard Marx, speaks of the advantage derived from the attentive listening to voices: "An important influence is exerted by the frequent attentive hearing of good voices. Through this an idea of good tone is strengthened, which gains an influence on the use and also on the training of the organs, not perhaps immediate, but clearly seen in its results." (_Die Kunst des Gesanges_, Berlin, 1826.) Among modern writers only a few need be mentioned. D. Frangçon-Davies remarks: "The training of the ear is one half of the training of the voice." (_The Singing of the Future._) Clara Kathleen Rogers is even more emphatic in her statement: "Not to exercise our sense of hearing is to rob it gradually of the habit of acting at all; whereas, if we keep it in exercise, it will daily grow readier, finer, more acute, more analytical, and the ear will serve as an ever more effective medium of reaction on the will." The following remark of the same writer points unmistakably to an understanding of the evil results of the attempt to sing mechanically: "If the singer's attention is directed to any part of the vocal instrument, or even to its motor, the breath, his sense of sound, and his perception of either the beautiful or the bad elements in sound, will grow fainter and fainter." (_The Physiology of Singing._) As for the purpose of cultivating the sense of hearing, this is also pointed out by several prominent vocal theorists. One of the latest exponents of the traditional method of instruction was Stéphen de la Madelaine, who remarks: "The first need of the voice is to be guided in its exercise by an ear capable of appreciating naturally its least deviation." (_Théorie complète du Chant_, Paris, 1852.) One of the most recent authoritative writers on voice culture, Dr. Mills, speaks at length of the necessity of guiding the voice by the sense of hearing. "We cannot too much insist on both speaker and singer attending to forming a connection between his ear and his mouth cavity. He is to hear that he may produce good tones, and the tones cannot be correctly formed if they be not well observed. To listen to one's self carefully and constantly is a most valuable but little practised art. The student should listen as an inexorable critic, accepting only the best from himself." Dr. Mills touches on the psychological features of the connection between voice and ear. "There can be no doubt that the nervous impulses that pass from the ear to the brain are of all sensory messages the most important guides for the outgoing ones that determine the necessary movements." Summing up the matter of ear-training and vocal guidance Dr. Mills says: "The author would impress on all students of music, and of the voice as used in both singing and speaking, the paramount importance of learning early to listen most attentively to others when executing music; and above all to listen with the greatest care to themselves, and never to accept any musical tone that does not fully satisfy the ear." (_Voice Production in Singing and Speaking_, 1906.) One more citation from Mrs. Rogers must suffice. "And now, in conclusion, let me once more remind the singer that in practising these and all other vocal exercises the ear is the only safe guide." Given a fine natural voice and a trained musical ear, skill is acquired in the use of the voice by the repetition of effort. The only necessity is for the singer to have a clear mental conception of the effects to be obtained, and to listen attentively to the voice. With each repetition of an exercise, whether on sustained tones, scale passages, crescendo and diminuendo, or whatever else, the voice responds more smoothly and accurately to the mental demand. Each time the student practises the exercise he listens to the tones and notes how they differ from the desired effect; he strives the next time to correct this departure. Psychological principles verify the proverb that practice makes perfect. This is true of all complex activities. Through repeated performance the muscles, or rather the motor-nerve centers, become habituated to complex activities. Coördinations gradually become perfect and automatic because the nerve impulses naturally tend to take the well-worn paths. To this rule the voice is no exception. Practice makes perfect, with the voice, as with every other muscular activity. In practical Voice Culture the ear and the voice are normally trained together. The proper function of the teacher is to guide the student in developing along the two lines. Listening to his own voice is a valuable means for the student to develop his sense of hearing. It is for the master to point out the salient qualities and faults in the pupil's tones in order that the pupil may know what to listen for. As the ear gradually becomes keener and better acquainted with the characteristics of perfect singing, it also becomes more exacting in its demands on the voice. In its turn the voice steadily improves in its responsiveness to the ear. Skill in using the voice involves something more than has thus far been considered under the head of tone-production. Skill in singing is synonymous with finished vocal technique, and the basis of technique is the correctly produced single tone. It is seen that a single tone can be sung correctly when, first, the singer knows the sound of the perfect musical tone, and second, the vocal organs are not hampered by muscular stiffness. When these conditions are fulfilled nothing but practice is needed for the acquirement of technical skill. Coloratura singing presents the highest development of vocal technique. Dazzling as the effects of coloratura are, they are obtained by the combination of a few simple elements. Perfect command of the single tone throughout the entire compass of the voice, with accurately graded crescendo and diminuendo, the clear, rapid, and accurate transition from one note to another in the varying degrees of staccato and legato,--these elements include the whole physical material of vocal technique. Training the voice is one concrete process. Its component features may be considered separately; the cultivation of the sense of hearing, the acquirement of command of the single tone, and the development of technical skill,--each may be considered apart from its companion processes. But in actual practice the three elements of Voice Culture cannot be dissociated. The student of singing progresses simultaneously along all three lines. Intelligently directed practice in singing results in this simultaneous progress. As the voice depends for guidance on the ear, so the ear benefits by the improvement of the voice. Each advance made by the voice toward the perfect production of tone is marked by a greater facility in the technical use of the voice. Correct tone-production cannot be directly acquired by the singing of single tones. This practice would tend to stiffen the throat. Technique and tone-production must be developed together. There is a difference between the natural and the properly trained voice. As to the nature of this difference the facts of empirical observation are borne out by the results of scientific analysis. The natural voice is crude because it is unskilfully used. A lack of facility is revealed in the untrained singer's handling of the voice. Intonations are imperfect; transitions from note to note are rough; the whole effect indicates that the voice is not completely under the command of the singer. Further, the sound of the individual tones betrays faults of production. The tones are more or less throaty or nasal, or indicative of some degree of muscular tension. A perfectly used voice, on the other hand, convinces the hearer that the singer has full command of all the resources of the vocal organs. Each tone is a perfect musical sound, free from fault or blemish. The voice moves from one note to another with ease and with purity of intonation. All the gradations of loud and soft, all the lights and shades of sentiment or passion, seem to respond directly to the singer's instinctive desire for musical expression. On the physical side the singer's voice is felt by the hearer to be in a condition of balanced and harmonious muscular activity. When the possessor of a good natural voice goes through a proper course of vocal training, the faults of production native to the untrained voice are gradually corrected. Wrong muscular tension is imperceptibly relaxed. Little by little the student acquires facility in handling the voice. Coincident with this progress is the advance toward the correct vocal action. The transition from the natural to the perfect use of the voice is gradual and imperceptible. There is no stage of progress at which the operations of the voice radically change in character. At no time does the student change the manner of managing the voice. Effects difficult at first gradually become easier, simply as the result of practice. This is the only change that the voice undergoes in training. One influence, and only one, can interfere with this normal development of the voice. This is the involuntary and unconscious stiffening of the throat. In the normal practice of singing nothing is involved which could cause the throat to stiffen. True, the first stages of study are usually marked by a slight degree of stiffness, due solely to the lack of practice and experience. This initial stiffness does not tend to become habitual; it disappears before the student becomes aware of it, and leaves no permanent trace on the voice. That is, provided mechanical instruction does not intervene, to introduce the tendency directly to stiffen the throat. As the initial stiffness disappears, and the vocal action gradually becomes smooth and automatic, the voice begins to take on the characteristics of perfect tone-production. The voice rounds out, the tones become free and true, and in perfect tune. No excessive throat tension being present, the voice conforms to the correct empirical standard of tone-production. It gives evidence to the ear of correct support and of open throat. The tones issue freely from the mouth and convey no impression of throat or nose. As a matter of experience it is known that vocal students generally make satisfactory progress in the first few months of study. This is perfectly natural. It requires several months for the normally constituted student to grasp the idea of mechanical vocal management. Gifted with a fine voice, the natural impulse of any one is to sing. By singing naturally the voice is bound to improve. Just so soon as the student begins to understand the meaning of attempted mechanical guidance of the voice, the evil effects of throat stiffness begin to be manifest. The more earnest and intelligent students are often the worst sufferers from throat stiffness. They more readily grasp the mechanical doctrines of modern methods and apply the mechanical idea more thoroughly. There is in reality no problem of tone-production such as the accepted theory of Voice Culture propounds. The voice does not require to be taught how to act. Tone-production was never thought to involve any mechanical problem until the attention of vocalists was turned to the mechanical operations of the voice. This dates, roughly speaking, from about 1800. Since that time the whole tendency of Voice Culture has been mechanical. Nowadays the entire musical world is acquainted with the idea that the voice must be directly guided; hardly any one has ever heard this belief contradicted. To say that the voice needs no guidance other than the ear would seem utterly preposterous to the average lover of singing. It is even highly probable that this statement would not be understood. Yet there is strong evidence that the old Italian masters would have had equal difficulty in grasping the idea of mechanical vocal management. How long it will take for the vocal profession to be persuaded of the error of the mechanical idea only the future can determine. Probably the most important fact about vocal training is the following: The voice is benefited by producing beautiful tones, and is injured by producing harsh sounds. A tone of perfect beauty can be sung only when the vocal organs are free from unnecessary tension. The nearer the tones approach to the perfection of beauty, the closer does the voice come to the correct action. Healthy exercise of the voice, with the throat free from strain, strengthens and develops the throat muscles. Harsh and unmusical sounds, produced by the voice, indicate that the throat is in a condition of injurious tension. Singing under these circumstances strains and weakens the muscles of the throat and injures the voice. The harsher the tones the worse they are for the voice. Beauty of tone is the only criterion of the correct vocal action. By listening to himself the singer may know whether his tone-production is correct. If the tones are beautiful the tone-production cannot be wrong. The ear must always decide. A normally constituted ear instinctively delights in hearing beautiful sounds. While attentive listening renders the ear more keen and discriminating, no vocal student of average gifts need be told the meaning of tonal beauty. Instinct prompts the possessor of a fine natural voice and a musical ear to sing, and to sing beautiful tones. No normally constituted student can take pleasure in the practice of mechanical exercises. This form of study is repugnant to the musical sensibility. Vocal students want to sing; they feel instinctively that the practice of mechanical exercises is not singing. A prominent exponent of mechanical instruction complains: "I tell them to take breathing exercises three times a day--but they all want to go right to singing songs." (_Werner's Magazine_, April, 1899.) These students are perfectly right. They know instinctively that the voice can be trained only by singing. There is no connection between artistic singing and the practice of toneless breathing exercises. "Five finger drills" and studies in broken scales of the types generally used are also utterly unmusical. Mechanical drills, whether toneless or vocal, have little effect other than to induce throat stiffness. CHAPTER V IMITATION THE RATIONAL BASIS OF VOICE CULTURE It is generally assumed by vocal theorists that the voice cannot be trained by imitation. Browne and Behnke state this belief definitely: "Singing cannot be learned exclusively by imitation." (_Voice, Song, and Speech._) Having ascertained the futility of the attempt to teach singing mechanically, it is now in order to determine the truth or falsity of the statement that the exercise of the imitative faculty alone does not suffice for the training of the voice. In the first place, no one has ever thought of questioning the existence of an instinct of vocal imitation. On the contrary, this instinct is everywhere recognized. In childhood we learn to speak our mother tongue by imitating the speech of those about us. "Talking proper does not set in till the instinct to _imitate sounds_ ripens in the nervous system." (_The Principles of Psychology_, Wm. James, New York, 1890.) Vocal imitation would be impossible without the ability of the voice to produce sounds in obedience to the commands of the ear. This ability the voice normally possesses; spoken language could not otherwise exist. The voice can imitate a wide range of sounds. If the perfect vocal tone can be shown to be included in this range of sounds, then the voice can be trained by imitation. Exceptional powers of vocal imitation are sometimes developed. Vaudeville performers are by no means rare who can imitate the tones of the oboe, the clarinet, the muted trumpet, and several other instruments. Imitation of the notes and songs of birds is also a familiar type of performance. This peculiar gift of imitation results in each case from some special structure of the vocal organs. One performer can imitate the reed instruments, another the lighter brasses, and so on. Just what peculiar formation of the vocal organs is required for this type of imitative ability need not be inquired here. All that need be noted is, that the vocal organs must be so constructed as to be able to produce the particular quality of sound. Given this natural ability on the part of the vocal organs, the power to produce the tone quality is developed by repeated attempts at imitation. The possessor of the natural gift perfects this gift by practice. For practice in the imitation of sounds to be effective it is necessary that the ear be well acquainted with the tone quality to be reproduced. In addition, the practice must be guided by the performer listening closely to the sounds produced by the vocal organs, and constantly comparing these sounds to the tones of the instrument chosen for imitation. This vocal imitation of instruments is not a normal ability; the tones of the oboe and trumpet do not lie within the range of qualities native to the normal voice. But the quality of the perfect vocal tone is unquestionably within the range of every voice so constituted as to be capable of artistic singing. A fine natural voice normally produces beautiful tones. It is only with this type of voice that Voice Culture is concerned. Such a voice must be capable of producing the perfect vocal tone. Can it learn to produce this quality of tone by imitation? It cannot be questioned that the faulty tones of one voice can readily be imitated by another voice. Any one endowed with normal powers of speech can imitate a markedly nasal speaking voice. This is equally true of a nasal tone in singing, and of a strongly throaty tone as well. The more marked the fault of production the more readily it is heard and the more easily it can be imitated. Let us imagine the case of a vocal teacher who undertakes to teach a gifted pupil by having the pupil imitate tones of faulty production, and gradually correcting the faults in the tones sung as a model for the pupil. The master is of course understood to have perfect command of his own voice. Suppose this master to begin the course of instruction by singing for the pupil tones of exaggerated throaty quality, and bidding the pupil to imitate these tones. Naturally, the pupil would have no difficulty in doing so. At the next lesson the master would very slightly improve the quality of the tones sung as a model for the pupil's imitation. The student would listen to these tones and model his daily practice accordingly. Just so soon as the student had succeeded in correctly reproducing this slightly less throaty tone the master would again set a slightly improved model. With each successive step the master might eliminate, one by one, the faults of his own tone-production. Following the same course, the pupil would also gradually approach a correct model of tone. Finally, all the faults of tone-production having been corrected, both of master and pupil, the latter would be called upon to imitate perfect vocal tones. It would necessarily follow either that the student would successfully imitate the master's perfect tones or that at some point in this progress the student's imitative faculty would be found lacking. Could any point be located at which the student would be unable to imitate the teacher's voice? This could certainly not be in the early stages of the course. Any one can imitate a very bad throaty or nasal tone. This being done, the imitation of a slightly less faulty tone would also present no difficulty. A second improvement in the master's model tone would again be readily imitated, and so on, with each succeeding correction of the faults of production. When the last trace of faulty production in the student's voice had been eliminated, he would be singing perfect tones. It is utterly impossible to define a point in this progress at which the pupil would be unable to imitate the teacher's voice. If a bad fault of production can be imitated, so can a comparatively slight fault. Further, if the pupil can correct his pronounced faulty production by imitating a tone not quite so faulty, so can he improve upon this tone by imitating a still better model of production. This process of gradual improvement by imitation must be capable of continuation until the last fault is eliminated. No limit can be set to the ability of the voice to improve its manner of tone-production by imitation. It must therefore be concluded that the perfect vocal action can be acquired by imitation. In practical Voice Culture, learning to sing by imitation means simply the cultivation of the sense of hearing and the guidance of the voice by the ear. In other words, those vocal theorists who insist upon ear training commit themselves to the theory of imitative Voice Culture. What necessity is there of mechanical management of the vocal organs if the voice is to be guided by the ear? Even if mechanical management of the voice were possible it would be entirely superfluous. The voice needs no other guidance than the singer's sense of hearing. Here another striking question is encountered: Why should the vocal organs be thought to be unable to adjust themselves for the tone quality demanded by the ear any more than for the pitch? No vocal theorist has ever thought to formulate rules for securing the tension of the vocal cords necessary for the desired pitch. This is always left to instinctive processes. No one would ever undertake to question the voice's ability to sing by imitation a note of any particular pitch. What valid reason can be given for denying the corresponding ability regarding tone quality? Only one answer can be made to this question. The whole matter of mechanical vocal management rests on pure assumption. No scientific proof has ever been sought for the belief that the voice requires mechanical management. This necessity is always assumed, but the assumption is utterly illogical. The vocal organs adjust themselves for the imitation of tone quality by exactly the same psychological processes as for the imitation of pitch. Neither pitch nor tone quality can be regulated in any other way than by the guidance of the ear. Imitation furnishes the only means of acquiring the correct vocal action. Several authorities on the voice admit the value of imitation, even though they also make much of the mechanical doctrines of modern methods. Sieber gives imitation as the best means of curing faults of production. "The best means to free the student of the three forms of faulty tone just described is possessed by that teacher who is able to imitate these faults with his own voice." (_Vollständiges Lehrbuch der Gesangskunst_, Ferd. Sieber, 1858.) Dr. Mills goes further and advocates the imitating of finished singers for the purpose of acquiring the correct vocal action. "The author would recommend all students who have begun a serious practical study of the registers to hear, if possible, some singer of eminence who observes register formation strictly." (_Voice Production in Singing and Speaking_, Phila., 1906.) Kofler even declares that imitation is an indispensable element of instruction. "It is just as difficult or impossible to learn to sing good tones without hearing the teacher's pure model tone as it is difficult or impossible to learn to speak without hearing." (_The Art of Breathing_, Leo Kofler, 1889.) If the correct vocal action is to be acquired by imitation, of what use are the mechanical doctrines of vocal management? Kofler seeks to combine these two forms of instruction. "Physiological theories must go hand in hand with the musical ear or the law of imitation." Scientifically considered, this attempted combination of mechanical vocal training and instruction by imitation is an utter absurdity. There is no possibility of connection between vocal imitation and mechanical vocal management. Reliance on the imitative faculty involves the utter rejection of the mechanical idea. Compromise, or combination of the two, is a logical absurdity. Imitation and attempted mechanical management of the voice are absolutely incompatible. Any attempt consciously to direct the muscular workings of the vocal organs is an interference with the normal action of the voice. So soon as conscious mechanical management of the voice is attempted throat stiffness results, and the voice is hampered in the exercise of its instinctive faculty of imitation. It is impossible to acquire the correct vocal action by the application of mechanical rules, because a consistent following of mechanical doctrines utterly prevents the vocal organs from operating normally, even though the student try at the same time to guide the voice by the sense of hearing. A close scrutiny of the practices of modern vocal teachers reveals convincing evidence that all their successes are due to a reliance, conscious or unconscious, on the imitative faculty. Teachers are as a rule not aware of the appeal to the instinct of imitation; neither indeed do the students usually pay much attention to this feature of their lessons. Much of modern vocal instruction is dual in character. When, for example, the teacher wishes to correct a marked fault in the pupil's tone-production, he adopts this dual mode of imparting his ideas. First, he explains to the pupil the (supposed) mechanical operation; second, he imitates the pupil's faulty production and then sings a correct tone to show how it should be produced. For the teacher to sing the correct tone takes but a few seconds and requires almost no thought. The mechanical explanation, on the other hand, calls for much more of time, and of voluntary attention, from both master and student. It thus follows that they both look upon the mechanical rule as the important matter, and consider the teacher's perfect tone as merely an illustration of the rule. In most cases the student strives to apply the mechanical rule, particularly in home practice between lessons. Under these circumstances the voice does not respond satisfactorily. But it often happens that the student pays little attention to the mechanical rule, and simply imitates the teacher's voice. There being then nothing to interfere, the student's voice naturally responds. The master ascribes this satisfactory result to the application of the mechanical doctrine, while in fact the result is due to the student's complete ignoring of the doctrine. Vocal imitation is often completely unconscious. Individuals vary greatly, as regards the tendency to unconscious imitation. Of two English lads coming to America at the age of fifteen, one may be found ten years later to have entirely lost the English accent, the other may retain it all his life. This difference in individual traits has much to do with determining to what extent the vocal student may unconsciously imitate correct models of singing. Other characteristics are also influential in this regard. Some students so dislike to sing mechanically that they neglect, in their home study, to practise their exercises in the prescribed way. This is often due to an instinctive abhorrence of harsh sounds. Other students are so gifted with the true feeling for vocal melody that mechanical instruction makes no impression on them. As a general rule, the reliance on the imitative faculty in modern vocal instruction is entirely unconscious on the part of both master and pupil. Adherence to the mechanical idea excludes from the student's mind all thought of any means of vocal guidance other than mechanical. This is true, even in the most common form of instruction, imitation and mechanical doctrine combined. As regards the master, his only conscious exercise of the imitative faculty is the reproduction of the pupil's faulty tones. He seldom thinks of telling the pupil to imitate his own correctly produced tones. Imitation supplies the only practical means for training voices. All the elements of Voice Culture are combined in one simple process, when the master sings correctly, and the student imitates the master. This exercise of the imitative faculty may be made to suffice for both the training of the ear and the cultivation of the voice. On practical, as well as on scientific grounds, imitation is the only rational basis of a method of Voice Culture. CHAPTER VI THE OLD ITALIAN METHOD To the believer in the necessity of direct mechanical management of the voice, the old Italian method is a complete mystery. Modern vocal theorists are at a loss to account for the success of the old masters in training voices. Many authorities go so far as to assert that these masters possessed some insight into the operations of the vocal organs, along the lines of accepted Vocal Science. In their introductory chapter, "A Plea for Vocal Physiology," Browne and Behnke attempt to prove that the old masters studied the anatomy of the vocal organs. But even if this could be proved, that would not solve the mystery of the old method. Modern teachers are certainly as well acquainted with the mechanical features of tone-production as the old masters were. Yet, judged by their results, modern methods are distinctly inferior to the old Italian method. There is absolutely no ground for the belief that the old masters owed their success to a knowledge of vocal physiology. This idea of ascribing scientific knowledge to the early teachers results only from erroneous belief that no other means of training the voice is possible. It may be set down as absolutely certain that the old method was not based on the principles of the accepted Vocal Science. Yet the old masters undoubtedly possessed some means of training voices. They must have known something about the voice. Their knowledge, whatever it was, is commonly believed to have been lost. Many modern teachers claim to have inherited the old method. Still these teachers have nothing to offer beyond the well-known doctrines of breathing, breath-control, forward tone, etc. How these doctrines might have been applied in practical instruction nobody is able to tell. Little attention need be paid to the claim of any modern teacher to possess the old Italian method of training voices. So early as 1847 Garcia remarked the dearth of information of a literary character bearing on the old method. "Unfortunately this epoch has left us only vague and incomplete documents bearing on its traditions. Of the methods then followed we have only an approximate and confused idea." (_École de Garcia_, Mayence, 1847.) Although familiar with the works of Tosi and Mancini, Garcia was unable to find in their writings any hint of the means used for imparting the correct vocal action. This same remark is made by many other investigators. Yet a reconstruction of the old method is not necessarily a matter of conjecture. Once the possibility of training the voice by imitation is established, the old Italian method is easily understood. Speaking of the glorious past of the art of Voice Culture, Dr. Mills says: "We have advanced, musically, in many respects since the days of the old Italian masters, but just as we must turn to the Greeks to learn what constitutes the highest and best in sculpture, so must we sit at the feet of these old masters. Consciously or unconsciously they taught on sound physiological principles." (_Voice Production in Singing and Speaking._) Dr. Mills' statement might be more complete if it were made to read, "consciously or unconsciously they taught on sound physiological and psychological principles." Vocal instruction on sound principles is simply the training of the voice by imitation. With the scientific basis of their method--the laws of physiological psychology--the old masters were utterly unacquainted. Vocal imitation is purely instinctive. Probably the old masters could not even have formulated a concise statement of their reasons for relying on the imitative faculty. Garcia's complaint of the dearth of literary information regarding the old method is by no means justified. Naturally there is no record of any means for imparting a direct mechanical management of the voice. Nothing of the kind was thought of. But as a description of a course in voice training by imitation, the works of Tosi and Mancini leave little to be desired. Both Tosi and Mancini devote by far the greater portion of their books to describing the ornaments and embellishments of vocal music. They take up the singer's education from the beginning and seem to assume, as a matter of course, that the training in the art of music is coincident, if not indeed identical, with the cultivation of the voice. But they do not by any means neglect the subject of tone-production. Most modern readers of these early writers overlook the simple directions given for securing a proper use of the voice. This is, of course, due to the current belief that directions for vocal management must of necessity deal with mechanical and muscular operations. Finding nothing of this kind in Tosi and Mancini, the modern investigator concludes that these writers for some reason failed to record the means used for imparting the correct vocal action. All that can be found by such an investigator in the works of Tosi and Mancini is an outline of an elaborate system of coloratura singing. Much more is seen when the meaning of imitative Voice Culture is understood. Let us consider first the "Observations" of Tosi. This writer devotes his first few pages to some remarks on the art of singing, and to a general consideration of the practices of Voice Culture. Almost at the outset we meet this striking statement: "It would be needless to say that verbal instruction would be of no use to singers any farther than to prevent 'em falling into errors, and that it is practice alone can set them right." That is certainly a sound principle. Consider also this passage. "The faults in singing insinuate themselves so easily into the minds of young beginners, and there are such difficulties in correcting them, when grown into an habit, that it were to be wished the ablest singers would undertake the task of teaching, they best knowing how to conduct the scholar from the first elements to perfection. But there being none (if I mistake not) but who abhor the thoughts of it, we must reserve them for those delicacies of the art, which enchant the soul. Therefore the first rudiments necessarily fall to a master of a lower rank, till the scholar can sing his part at sight; whom one would at least wish to be an honest man, diligent and experienced, without the defects of singing through the nose, or in the throat, and that he have a command of voice, some glimpse of a good taste, able to make himself understood with ease, a perfect intonation, and a patience to endure the fatigue of a most tiresome employment." This brings out three striking facts. First, that the student learned to use his voice by imitating the voice of the master. Second, that the initial work of "voice placing" was merely an incident in the training in sight singing and the rudiments of music. Third, that "voice placing" was considered of too little importance to claim the attention of masters of the first rank. This feature of instruction, so important now as to overshadow all else, was at that time left to masters of a lower rank. This passage is followed by a short discourse on the rudiments of _Sol Fa_, a subject of only academic interest to the modern student. We are so thoroughly accustomed nowadays to the diatonic scale that it is almost impossible for us to understand the old system of _Muance_ or _Solmisation_. Suffice it to say that only four keys were known, and that each note was called by its full Sol-Fa name. Thus D was called _D-la-sol-re_, C was _C-sol-fa-ut_, etc. In studying sight singing, the student pronounced the full name of each note in every exercise. Instruction in singing began with this study of sight reading. In the course of this practice the student somehow learned to produce his voice correctly. Tosi does not leave us in doubt what was to be done in order to lead the pupil to adopt a correct manner of tone-production. "Let the master do his utmost to make the scholar hit and sound the notes perfectly in tune in _Sol-Fa-ing_.... Let the master attend with great care to the voice of the scholar, which should always come forth neat and clear, without passing through the nose or being choaked in the throat." To sing in tune and to produce tones of good quality,--this summed up for Tosi the whole matter of tone-production. Many teachers in the old days composed _Sol-Fa_ exercises and vocalises for their own use. Tosi did not think this indispensable. But he points out the need of the teacher having an extensive repertoire of graded exercises and vocalises. To his mind these should always be melodious and singable. "If the master does not understand composition let him provide himself with good examples of _Sol-Fa-ing_ in divers stiles, which insensibly lead from the most easy to the most difficult, according as he finds the scholar improves; with this caution, that however difficult, they may be always natural and agreeable, to induce the scholar to study with pleasure." How many months of study were supposed to be required for this preliminary course we have no means of judging from Tosi's work. At any rate the combining of the registers was accomplished during this time. Tosi's description of the registers is very concise. "_Voce di Petto_ is a full voice which comes from the breast by strength, and is the most sonorous and expressive. _Voce di Testa_ comes more from the throat than from the breast, and is capable of more volubility. _Falsetto_ is a feigned voice which is formed entirely in the throat, has more volubility than any, but of no substance." He speaks of the necessity of uniting the registers, but gives no directions how this is to be accomplished. Evidently this seemed to him to present no difficulty whatever. In this early period of instruction the pupil was exercised in both _portamento_ and _messa di voce_. "Let him learn the manner to glide with the vowels, and to drag the voice gently from the high to the lower note.... In the same lessons let him teach the art to put forth the voice, which consists in letting it swell by degrees from the softest _Piano_ to the loudest _Forte_, and from thence with the same art return from the _Forte_ to the _Piano_. A beautiful _Messa di Voce_ can never fail of having an excellent effect." Only the first chapter of Tosi's book is devoted to this initial study. That the student was expected to make steady progress as a result of this study is evident from the closing sentence of this chapter. "The scholar having now made some remarkable progress, the instructor may acquaint him with the first embellishments of the art, which are the _Appoggiaturas_, and apply them to the vowels." The remainder of the work is devoted almost entirely to the embellishments of singing. Here and there an interesting passage is found. "After the scholar has made himself perfect in the Shake and the Divisions, the master should let him read and pronounce the words." (Shake was the old name for trill, and division for run.) Again, "I return to the master only to put him in mind that his duty is to teach musick; and if the scholar, before he gets out of his hands, does not sing readily and at sight, the innocent is injured without remedy from the guilty." This injunction might well be taken to heart by the modern teacher. Good sight readers are rare nowadays, outside of chorus choirs. Mancini begins his outline of the course of instruction in singing with this striking sentence: "Nothing is more insufferable and more inexcusable in a musician than wrong intonation; singing in the throat or in the nose will certainly be tolerated rather than singing out of tune." This is followed by the advice to the teacher to ascertain beyond a doubt that a prospective pupil is endowed with a true musical ear. This being done the pupil is to begin his studies by _sol-fa_-ing the scales. "Having determined the disposition and capacity of the student with respect to intonation, and finding him able and disposed to succeed, let him fortify himself in correct intonation by _sol-fa_-ing the scale, ascending and descending. This must be executed with scrupulous attention in order that the notes may be perfectly intoned." In this practice the quality of the tone is of the highest importance. "The utmost care is necessary with the student to render him able to manage this portion of his voice with the proper sweetness and proportion." Mancini takes it for granted that the student will progress steadily on account of this practice. "When the teacher observes that the pupil is sufficiently free in delivering the voice, in intonation, and in naming the notes, let him waste no time, but have the pupil vocalize without delay." Regarding the registers, Mancini disagrees with Tosi and names only two. "Voices ordinarily divide themselves into two registers which are called, one of the chest, the other of the head, or falsetto." His method was to exercise the voice at first in the chest register, and then gradually to extend the compass of the voice upward. "Every student can for himself with perfect ease recognize the difference between these two separate registers. It will suffice therefore to commence by singing the scale, for example, if a soprano, from G to d;[10] let him take care that these five notes are sonorous, and say them with force and clearness, and without effort." For uniting the registers, "the most certain means is to hold back the tones of the chest and to sing the transition notes in the head register, increasing the power little by little." [Note 10: Mancini of course uses the _Sol-Fa_ names of these notes.] Mancini devotes a few pages to a description of the vocal organs. This fact is cited by several modern theorists in support of their statement that the old masters based their methods on mechanical principles. In the following chapter this topic of Mancini's treatise will be considered. Probably the best summary of the old Italian method offered by any modern teacher is contained in a little booklet by J. Frank Botume, entitled _Modern Singing Methods_. (Boston, 1885. The citations are from the fourth edition, 1896.) Speaking of the meaning of the word method, as applied to a system of rules for acquiring the correct vocal action, this writer says: "If a teacher says, 'that tone is harsh, sing more sweetly,' he has given no method to his pupil. He has asked the scholar to change his tone, but has not shown him how to do it. If, on the other hand, he directs the pupil to keep back the pressure of the breath, or to change the location of the tone; if he instructs him in regard to the correct use of his vocal cords, or speaks of the position of his tongue, of his diaphragm, of his mouth, etc., he gives him method. The Italian teachers of the early period of this art had so little method that it can hardly be said to have existed with them. In fact, the word method, as now used, is of comparatively modern origin. The founders of the art of singing aimed at results directly; the manner of using the vocal apparatus for the purpose of reaching these results troubled them comparatively little. The old Italian teacher took the voice as he found it. He began with the simplest and easiest work, and trusted to patient and long-continued exercise to develop the vocal apparatus. In all this there is no method as we understand the term. The result is aimed at directly. The manner of getting it is not shown. There is no conscious control of the vocal apparatus for the purpose of effecting a certain result." This sums up beautifully the external aspects of the old Italian method, and of modern methods as well. It points out clearly the difference between the old and the modern system. But it is a mistake to say that the old masters followed no systematized plan of instruction. Tosi's advice, already quoted ("Let the master provide himself with examples of Sol-fa, leading insensibly from the easy to the difficult," etc.), shows a thorough grasp of the meaning of methodical instruction. Once the real nature of vocal training is understood, both Tosi and Mancini are seen to describe a well worked out system of Voice Culture. The only important difference between the old and the new system is this: one relied on instinctive and imitative processes for imparting the correct vocal action, the other seeks to accomplish the same result through the mechanical management of the vocal organs. In this regard the advantage is all on the side of the old Italian method. One question regarding the old method remains to be answered. This has to do with the use of the empirical precepts in practical instruction. So far as the written record goes we have no means of answering this question. Neither Tosi nor Mancini mentions the old precepts in any way. The answer can therefore be only conjectural. We may at once dismiss the idea that the old masters used the precepts in the currently accepted manner as rules for the mechanical management of the voice. This application of the empirical precepts followed upon the acceptance of the idea of mechanical voice culture. A fine description of perfect singing, considered empirically, was found to be embodied in the traditional precepts. Such a description of correctly produced tone might be of great value in the training of the ear. The sense of hearing is developed by listening; and attentive listening is rendered doubly effective in the singer's education by the attention being consciously directed to particular characteristics of the sounds observed. A highly important aspect of ear training in Voice Culture is the acquainting the student with the highest standards of singing. The student derives a double advantage from listening to artistic singing when he knows what to listen for. Telling the student that in perfect singing the throat seems to be open makes him keenly attentive in observing this characteristic sound of the correctly produced tone. This seems to be the most effective manner of utilizing the empirical precepts. A student may be helped in imitating correct models of singing by knowing what characteristics of the tones it is most important to reproduce. In pointing out to the student his own faults of production, the judicious use of the precepts might also be of considerable value. Probably the old masters treated the precepts about in this fashion. CHAPTER VII THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE OLD ITALIAN METHOD AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF MECHANICAL INSTRUCTION One of the most mysterious facts in the history of Voice Culture is the utter disappearance of the old Italian method. This has occurred in spite of the earnest efforts of vocal teachers to preserve the old traditions. If the conclusions drawn in the preceding chapter are justified, the old method consisted of a system of teaching singing by imitation. Assuming this to be true, there should now be no difficulty in accounting for the disappearance of the imitative method by tracing the development of the mechanical idea. Imitative Voice Culture was purely empirical in the ordinary meaning of this word. The old masters did not knowingly base their instruction on any set of principles. They simply taught as their instincts prompted them. There can now be no doubt that the old masters were fully justified in their empiricism. They taught singing as Nature intends it to be taught. But the old masters were not aware of the scientific soundness of their position. So soon as the correctness of empirical teaching was questioned they abandoned it without an attempt at defense. As a system of Voice Culture, the old method occupied a weak strategic position. With absolute right on its side, it still had no power of resistance against hostile influences. This does not imply that the old masters were ignorant men. On the contrary, the intellectual standard of the vocal profession seems to have been fully as high two hundred years ago as to-day. Even famous composers and musical theorists did not disdain to teach singing. But this very fact, the generally high culture of the old masters, was an important factor in the weakness of the old method against attack. The most intelligent masters were the ones most likely to abandon the empirical system in favor of supposedly scientific and precise methods of instruction. The hostile influence to which the old Italian method succumbed was the idea of mechanical vocal management. This idea entered almost imperceptibly into the minds of vocal teachers in the guise of a scientific theory of Voice Culture. A short historical sketch will bring this fact out clearly. This necessitates a repetition of some of the material of Chapter I of Part I; the entire subject will however appear in a new light now that the true nature of the mechanical idea is understood. From the founding of the art of Voice Culture, about 1600, up to 1741, no vocalist seems to have paid any attention to the anatomy or muscular movements of the vocal organs. In 1741 a French physician, Ferrein, presented to the Academy of Sciences a treatise on the anatomy of the vocal organs, entitled "De la Formation de la Voix de l'Homme." This treatise was published in the same year, and it seems to have attracted at once the attention of the most enlightened masters of singing. That Ferrein was the first to call the attention of vocalists to the mechanical features of tone-production is strongly indicated in the German translation of Tosi's "Observations." In the original Italian edition, 1723, and the English translation, 1742, there is absolutely no mention of the anatomy or physiology of the vocal organs. But in preparing the German edition, published in 1757, the translator, J. F. Agricola, inserted a description of the vocal organs which he credited directly to Ferrein. Mancini followed Agricola's example, and included in this "Riflessioni" (1776) a brief description of the vocal organs. But Mancini made no attempt to apply this description in formulating a system of instruction. He recommends the parents of a prospective singer to ascertain, by a physician's examination, that the child's vocal organs are normal and in good health. He also gives one mechanical rule, so obvious as to seem rather quaint. "Every singer must place his mouth in a natural smiling position, that is, with the upper teeth perpendicularly and moderately removed from the lower." Beyond this Mancini says not a word of mechanical vocal management. There is no mention of breathing, or tone reflection, or laryngeal action. Although Mancini borrowed his description of the vocal organs from Ferrein, his notion of the mechanics of tone-production was very crude. "The air of the lungs operates on the larynx in singing exactly as it operates on the head of the flute." Voice Culture has passed through three successive periods. From 1600 to 1741 instruction in singing was purely empirical. Ferrein's treatise may be said to mark the beginning of a transition period during which empirical instruction was gradually displaced by so-called scientific methods. This transition period lasted, roughly speaking, till the invention of the laryngoscope in 1855. Since that time vocal instruction has been carried on almost exclusively along mechanical lines. No vocal teacher had ever heard of a problem of tone-production previous to 1741, and indeed for many years thereafter. The earlier masters were not aware of any possibility of difficulty in causing the voice to operate properly. Their success justified their ignoring of any mechanical basis of instruction; but even of this justification the later masters of the old school were only dimly conscious. They builded better than they knew. When any teacher of the transition period was called upon to explain his manner of imparting the correct vocal action he was at once put on the defensive. No champion of the imitative faculty could be found. This lack of understanding of the basis of the empirical method, on the part of its most intelligent and successful exponents, was the first cause of the weakness of this method against attack. Another source of weakness in the hold of empirical systems on the vocal profession was seen in the generally high intellectual standard of the more prominent teachers. These masters gladly accepted the new knowledge of the basis of their art, offered them in the description of the vocal organs. Thoroughly conversant with every detail of the empirical knowledge of the voice, the masters of the transition period were well prepared to understand something of the mechanical features of tone-production. By their auditory and muscular sensations of vocal tone they were able, to their own satisfaction at least, to verify the statements of the anatomists. It is not easy for us to put ourselves mentally in the position of a vocalist, thoroughly familiar with the empirical knowledge of the voice, and yet ignorant of the first principles of vocal mechanics. In all probability the early masters were not even aware that tone is produced by the action of the breath on the larynx. They did not know that different qualities and pitches result from special adjustments and contractions of the throat muscles. Yet they were keenly aware of all the muscular sensations resulting from these contractions. We can well imagine how interesting these vocalists of the early transition period must have found the description of the cartilages and muscles of the throat. It seems to us but a short step from the study of vocal mechanics to the application of the results of this study in the formulating of a practical system of vocal instruction. Yet it required more than sixty years for the vocal profession to travel so far. Even then the true bearing of this development of Voice Culture was but dimly realized. In 1800 the mechanical management of the voice was not even thought of. This is conclusively proved by a most important work, the _Méthode de Chant du Conservatoire de Musique_, published in Paris in 1803. There can be no question that this Méthode represents the most enlightened and advanced thought of the vocal profession of that day. Not only does it contain everything then known about the training of the voice; it was drawn up with the same exhaustive care and analytical attention to detail that were devoted to the formulation of the metric system. To mechanical rules less than one page is devoted. Respiration is the only subject to receive more than a few lines. A system of breathing with flat abdomen and high chest is outlined, and the student is instructed to practise breathing exercises daily. Five lines are contained in the chapter headed "De l'emission du son," and these five lines are simply a warning against throaty and nasal _quality_. The pupil is told to stand erect, and to open the mouth properly. But a foot-note is given to the rule for the position of the mouth which shows how thoroughly the mechanical rule was subordinated to considerations of tone quality. "As there is no rule without exceptions, we think it useful to observe at what opening of the mouth the pupil produces the most agreeable, sonorous, and pure quality of tone in order to have him always open the mouth in that manner." In the main the Méthode outlines a purely empirical system of instruction, based on the guidance of the voice by the ear. There can be no question that the idea of mechanical management of the voice was introduced later than 1803. Citations might be made to show the gradual advance of the mechanical idea from two interesting works, _Die Kunst des Gesanges_, by Adolph B. Marx, Berlin, 1826, and _Die grosse italienische Gesangschule_, by H. F. Mannstein, Dresden, 1834. But this is not necessary. It is enough to say that Scientific Voice Culture was not generally thought to be identical with mechanical vocal management until later than 1855. Manuel Garcia was the first vocal teacher to undertake to found a practical method of instruction on the mechanical principles of the vocal action. When only twenty-seven years old, in 1832, Garcia determined to reform the practices of Voice Culture by furnishing an improved method of instruction. (_Grove's Dictionary._) His first definite pronouncement of this purpose is contained in the preface to his _École de Garcia_, 1847. "As all the effects of song are, in the last analysis, the product of the vocal organs, I have submitted the study to physiological considerations." This statement of Garcia's idea of scientific instruction strikes us as a commonplace. But that serves only to prove how thoroughly the world has since been converted to the idea of mechanical Voice Culture. At that time it was generally believed to be a distinct advance. Garcia expected to bring about a great improvement in the art of Voice Culture. His idea was that the voice can be trained in less time and with greater certainty by mechanical than by imitative methods. As for the inherent falsity of this idea, that has been sufficiently exposed. So soon as the theory of mechanical vocal management began to find acceptance, the old method yielded the ground to the new idea. That this occurred so easily was due to a number of causes. Of these several have already been noted,--the readiness of the most prominent teachers to broaden their field of knowledge, in particular. Other causes contributing to the acceptance of the mechanical idea were the elusive character of empirical knowledge of the voice, and the unconscious aspect of the instinct of vocal imitation. No master of the later transition period deliberately discarded his empirical knowledge. This could have been possible only by the master losing his sense of hearing. Neither did the master cease to rely on the imitative faculty. Although unconsciously exercised, that was a habit too firmly fixed to be even intentionally abandoned. Public opinion also had much to do with the spread of the mechanical idea. Teachers found that they could get pupils easier by claiming to understand the mechanical workings of the voice. In order to obtain recognition, teachers were obliged to study vocal mechanics and to adapt their methods to the growing demand for scientific instruction. No master of this period seems to have intentionally abandoned the traditional method. Their first purpose in adopting the new scientific idea was to elucidate and fortify the old method. Every successful master undoubtedly taught many pupils who in their turn became teachers. There must have been, in each succession of master and pupil, one teacher who failed to transmit the old method in its entirety. Both master and pupil must have been unconscious of this. No master can be believed to have deliberately withheld any of his knowledge from his pupils. Neither can any student have been aware that he failed to receive his master's complete method. Let us consider a typical instance of master and pupil in the later transition period. Instruction in this case was probably of a dual character. Both teacher and pupil devoted most of their attention to the mechanical features of tone-production. Yet the master continued to listen closely to the student's voice, just as he had done before adopting the (supposedly) scientific idea of instruction. Unconsciously he led the pupil to listen and imitate. When the student found it difficult to apply the mechanical instruction the master would say, "Listen to me and do as I do." Naturally this would bring the desired result. Yet both master and pupil would attribute the result to the application of the mechanical rule. The student's voice would be successfully trained, but he would carry away an erroneous idea of the means by which this was accomplished. Becoming a teacher in his turn, the vocalist taught in this fashion would entirely overlook the unobtrusive element of imitation and would devote himself to mechanical instruction. He would, for example, construe the precept, "Sing with open throat," as a rule to be directly applied; that he had acquired the open throat by imitating his master's tones this teacher would be utterly unaware. More than one generation of master and pupil was probably concerned, in each succession, in the gradual loss of the substance of the old method. The possibility of learning to sing by imitation was only gradually lost to sight. This is well expressed by Paolo Guetta. "The aphorism 'listen and imitate,' which was the device of the ancient school, coming down by way of tradition, underwent the fate of all sane precepts passed along from generation to generation. Through elimination and individual adaptation, through assuming the personal imprint, it degenerated into a purely empirical formula." (_Il Canto nel suo Mecanismo_, Milan, 1902.) Guetta is himself evidently at a loss to grasp the significance of the empirical formula, "Listen and imitate." He seems however to be aware of an antagonism between imitation and mechanical vocal management. The reason of this antagonism has already been noticed, but it will bear repetition. For a teacher to tell a pupil to "hold your throat open and imitate my tone," is to demand the impossible. A conscious effort directly to hold the throat open only causes the throat to stiffen. In this condition the normal action of the voice is upset and the pupil cannot imitate the teacher's voice. This was the condition confronting the teacher of the second generation in the "maestral succession" just considered. He found his pupils unable to get with their voices the results which had come easily to him. Attributing his satisfactory progress as a student to the mastery of the supposed mechanical principles of tone-production, this teacher ascribed his pupil's difficulties to their failure to grasp the same mechanical ideas. As a natural consequence he labored even more energetically along mechanical lines. Curiously, no teacher seems to have questioned the soundness of the mechanical idea. Failure on the part of the pupil to obtain the correct use of the voice served only to make the master more insistent on mechanical exercises. In direct proportion to the prominence given to the idea of mechanical management of the voice, the difficulties of teachers and students became ever more pronounced. The trouble caused by throat stiffness led the teachers to seek new means for imparting the correct vocal action, always along mechanical lines. In this way the progress of the mechanical idea was accelerated, and the problem of tone-production received ever more attention. Faith in the imitative faculty was gradually undermined by the progress of the mechanical idea. With each succeeding generation of master and pupil, the mechanical idea became more firmly established. Something akin to a vicious circle was involved in this progress. As attention was paid in practical instruction to the mechanical operations of the voice, so the voice's instinctive power of imitation was curtailed by throat stiffness. This served to make more pressing the apparent need of means for the mechanical management of the voice. Thus the mechanical idea found ever new arguments in its favor, based always on the difficulties itself had caused. It is impossible to assign a precise date to the disappearance of the old Italian method. The last exponent of the old traditions was Francesco Lamperti, who retired from active teaching in 1876. Yet even Lamperti finally yielded, in theory at least, to the mechanical idea. In the closing years of his active life as a teacher (1875 and 1876), Lamperti wrote a book descriptive of his method, _A Treatise on the Art of Singing_ (translated into English by J. C. Griffith and published by Ed. Schuberth & Co., New York). When this work was about ready for the press, Lamperti read Dr. Mandl's _Gesundheitslehre der Stimme_, containing the first definite statement of the opposed-muscular-action theory of breath-control. At the last moment Lamperti inserted a note in his book to signify his acceptance of this theory. Vocal mechanics was at first studied by teachers of singing as a matter of purely academic interest. No insufficiency of imitative teaching had ever been felt. Teachers of the transition period, even so late probably as 1830, had in most cases no reason to be dissatisfied with their methods of instruction. Garcia himself started out modestly enough to place the traditional method, received from his father, on a definite basis. His first idea, announced in the preface to the first edition of his _École de Garcia_, was to "reproduce my father's method, attempting only to give it a more theoretical form, and to connect results with causes." Interest in the mechanics of the voice continued to be almost entirely academic until the invention of the laryngoscope in 1855. Then the popular note was struck. The marvelous industrial and scientific progress of the preceding fifty years had prepared the world to demand advancement in methods of teaching singing, as in everything else. When the secrets of the vocal action were laid bare, a new and better method of teaching singing was at once expected. Within very few years scientific knowledge of the voice was demanded of every vocal teacher. Nothing could well be more natural than a belief in the efficacy of scientific knowledge of the vocal organs as the basis of instruction in singing. Surely no earnest investigator of the voice can be criticized for adopting this belief. No one ever thought of questioning the soundness of the new scientific idea. The belief was everywhere accepted, as a matter of course, that methods of instruction in singing were about to be vastly improved. Vocal theorists spoke confidently of discovering means for training the voice in a few months of study. The singer's education under the old system had demanded from four to seven years; science was expected to revolutionize this, and to accomplish in months what had formerly required years. Even then tone-production was not seen to be a distinct problem. The old imitative method was still successfully followed. No one thought of discarding the traditional method, but only of improving it by reducing it to scientific principles. But that could not last. Soon after the attempt began to be made to manage the voice mechanically, tone-production was found to contain a real problem. This was of course due to the introduction of throat stiffness. From that time on (about 1860 to 1865), the problem of tone-production has become steadily more difficult of solution in each individual case. This problem has been, since 1865, the one absorbing topic of Voice Culture. Probably the most unfortunate single fact in the history of Voice Culture is that scientific study of the voice was from the beginning confined solely to the mechanical features of tone-production. Had scientific investigators turned their attention also to the analysis of the auditory impressions of vocal tones, and to the psychological aspect of tone-production, scientific instruction in singing would probably not have been identified with mechanical management of the voice. All the subsequent difficulties of the vocal profession would almost certainly have been avoided. Every attempt at a solution of the problem of tone-production has been made along strictly mechanical lines. Attention has been devoted solely to the anatomy and physiology of the vocal organs, and to the acoustic principles of the vocal action. Since 1865 hardly a year has passed without some important contribution to the sum of knowledge of the vocal mechanism. For many years this development of Vocal Science was eagerly followed by the vocal teachers. Any seemingly authoritative announcement of a new theory of the voice was sure to bring its reward in an immediate influx of earnest students. Prominent teachers made it their practice to spend their vacations in studying with the famous specialists and investigators. Each new theory of the vocal action was at once put into practice, or at any rate this attempt was made. Yet each new attempt brought only a fresh disappointment. The mystery of the voice was only deepened with each successive failure at solution. A review in detail of the development of Vocal Science would be of only academic interest. Very little of practical moment would probably be added to the outline of modern methods contained in Part I. Teachers of singing at present evince an attitude of skepticism toward new theories of the vocal action. Voice Culture has settled along well-established lines. In the past fifteen years little change can be noted in the practices of vocal teachers. The mechanical idea is so firmly established that no question is ever raised as to its scientific soundness. Under the limitations imposed by this erroneous idea, teachers do their best to train the voices entrusted to their care. Vocal Science is of vastly less importance in modern Voice Culture than the world in general supposes. Only an imaginary relation has ever existed between the scientific knowledge of the voice and practical methods of instruction. To cause the summits of the arytenoid cartilages, for example, to incline toward each other is entirely beyond the direct power of the singer. How many similar impossibilities have been seriously advocated can be known only to the academic student of Vocal Science. Vocal teachers in general have ceased to attempt any such application of the doctrines of Vocal Science. Even if these doctrines could be shown to be scientifically sound it would still be impossible to devise means for applying them to the management of the voice. Accepted Vocal Science has contributed only one element of the practical scheme of modern voice culture; this is the erroneous notion that the vocal organs require to be managed mechanically. CHAPTER VIII THE MATERIALS OF RATIONAL INSTRUCTION IN SINGING Practical methods of instruction in singing may be judged by their results fully as well as by a scientific analysis of their basic principles. If the progress of the art of singing in the past fifty years has been commensurate with the amount of study devoted to the operations of the vocal mechanism, then the value of present methods is established. Otherwise the need is proved for some reform in the present system of training voices. Judged by this standard modern methods are not found to be satisfactory. There has been no progress in the art of singing; exactly the contrary is the case. A prominent vocalist goes so far as to say that "vocal insufficiency and decay are prevalent." (_The Singing of the Future_, D. Frangçon-Davies, M.A., 1906.) It is perhaps an exaggeration of the condition to call it "insufficiency and decay." Yet a gradual decline in the art of singing must be apparent to any lover of the art who has listened to most of the famous singers of the past twenty or twenty-five years. Operatic performance has been improved in every other respect, but pure singing, the perfection of the vocal art, has become almost a rarity. This is true not only of coloratura singing; it applies with almost equal force to the use of the singing voice for the purpose of dramatic and emotional expression. Musical critics are beginning to comment on the decline of singing. They seek naturally for the causes of this decline. Many influences are cited by different writers, each of which has undoubtedly contributed something toward lowering the present standard of singing. Most influential among these contributing causes, in the general opinion, is the dramatic style of singing demanded in Wagner's later operas. Yet several writers point out that the rôles of Tristan, Brunnhilde, etc., are vastly more effective when well sung than when merely shouted or declaimed. A change in the public taste is also spoken of. Audiences are said to be indifferent to the older operas, written to suit the style of florid singing. But even this statement does not pass unchallenged. A prominent critic asserts that "the world is still hungry" for florid singing. "It is altogether likely," continues this writer, "that composers would begin to write florid works again if they were assured of competent interpretation, for there is always a public eager for music of this sort." This critic asserts that the decline of coloratura singing is due to the indifference of the artists themselves to this style of singing. Still another commentator ascribes the decline of pure singing in recent years to the rise of a new school of dramatic interpretation among the younger operatic artists. "Nowadays it is not the singing that counts. It is the interpretation; and the chances are there will be more and more interpretation and less and less singing every year." Even this view has its limitations. Faithful dramatic interpretation, and attention to all the details of make-up and "business," are not in any way antagonistic to pure singing. One of the most potent means of emotional expression is vocal tone color. But the skilful use of expressive tone quality is possible only to a singer possessed of a perfect command of all the resources of the voice. Many vocal shortcomings are forgiven in the singer of convincing interpretive power. This is probably an important factor in influencing the younger generation of artists to devote so much attention to interpretation. More important than any of the reasons just given to account for the present state of the art of singing, is the decline in the art of training voices. The prospects of an improvement in the art of Voice Culture, imagined by the early investigators of the vocal mechanism, have not been realized. Voice Culture has not progressed in the past sixty years. Exactly the contrary has taken place. Before the introduction of mechanical methods every earnest vocal student was sure of learning to use his voice properly, and of developing the full measure of his natural endowments. Mechanical instruction has upset all this. Nowadays the successful vocal student is the exception. Even those students who succeed in acquiring sufficient command of their voices to win public acceptance are unable to master the finest points of vocal technique. Perfect singing is becoming rare, mainly because the technical mastery of the voice cannot be acquired under modern methods of instruction. These methods have been found unsatisfactory in every way. A change must be made in the practices of Voice Culture; its present state cannot be regarded as permanent. Modern methods are not truly scientific. There is at present no justification for the belief that the art of Voice Culture is founded an assured scientific principles. This does not by any means invalidate the idea that Voice Culture is properly a subject for scientific regulation. Modern methods are unsatisfactory only because they do not conform to the fundamental laws of science. In order to erect a satisfactory art of Voice Culture it is necessary only that the art be brought into conformity with scientific principles. No sweeping reform of modern methods is called for. A thorough application of scientific principles in the training of voices demands only one thing,--the abandonment of the idea of mechanical vocal management. This is not a backward step; on the contrary, it means a distinct advance. Once freed from the burden of the mechanical idea, the art of Voice Culture will be in position to advance, even beyond the ideals of the old masters. Nothing could well be simpler than the dropping of the mechanical idea. It was pointed out in the review of modern methods that most of the time spent in giving and taking lessons is devoted to actual singing by the student. This is exactly what rational instruction means. Were it not for the evil influence of the mechanical idea, the results of present instruction would in most cases be satisfactory. It is only in consequence of the attention paid to the mechanical workings of the vocal organs that throat stiffness is interposed between the ear and the voice. Let the mechanical idea be dropped, and instruction may be carried on exactly as at present. There will be only one marked difference,--throat stiffness will cease to be a source of difficulty. It is for the individual teacher to change his own practices. This could be done so easily that students would hardly note a change in the form of instruction. Simply call the pupil's attention always to the quality of the tones, and never to the throat. Cease to talk of breathing and of laryngeal action, and these subjects will never suggest themselves to the student's mind. Continue to have the student sing vocalises, scales, songs, and arias, just as at present. Teach the student to listen closely to his own voice, and familiarize him with correct models of singing. This covers the whole ground of rational Voice Culture. It is a great mistake to suppose that a vocal student comes to the teacher with a definite idea of the need of direct vocal management. Several months of study are required before the student begins to grasp the teacher's idea of mechanical management of the voice. Even then the student rarely comes to a clear understanding of the mechanical idea. In the great majority of cases the student never gets beyond the vague notion that he must "do something" to bring the tones. Yet this vague idea is enough to keep his attention constantly directed to his vocal organs, and so to hamper their normal activity. So soon as a teacher drops the mechanical idea, his pupils will not think of their throats, nor demand mechanical instruction. There will be no need of his cautioning his pupils not to pay attention to the muscular workings of the vocal organs. No vocal student ever would do this were the practice not demanded in modern methods. At first thought it may seem that for a teacher to drop all mechanical instruction would leave a great gap in his method. How is the correct vocal action to be imparted to the pupil if not by direct instruction to this end? This question has already been answered in preceding chapters, but the answer may well be repeated. The correct vocal action is naturally and instinctively adopted by the voice without any attention being paid to the operations of the vocal mechanism. It is necessary only that the student sing his daily exercises and listen to his voice. The voice's own instinct will lead it gradually to the perfect action. Nothing need be substituted for mechanical instruction. Present methods of Voice Culture will be in every way complete, they will leave nothing to be desired, when the mechanical idea is abandoned. This change in the character of vocal instruction will not be in any sense a return to empiricism. It will be a distinct advance in the application of scientific principles. When fully understood, a practical science of Voice Culture is seen to embrace only three topics,--the musical education of the student, the training of the ear, and the acquirement of skill in the use of the voice. The avoidance of throat stiffness is not properly a separate topic of Vocal Science, as in rational instruction nothing should ever be done to cause the throat to stiffen. Let us consider in detail these three topics of practical Vocal Science. _The Musical Education of a Singer_ Every singer should be a well-educated and accomplished musician. This does not mean that the singer must be a capable performer on the piano or violin; yet some facility in playing the piano is of enormous benefit to the singer. A general understanding of the art of music is not necessarily dependent on the ability to play any instrument. The rudiments of music may quite well be mastered through the study of sight singing. This was the course adopted by the old masters, and it will serve equally well in our day. One of the evil results of the introduction of the mechanical idea in Voice Culture is that almost the entire lesson time is devoted to the matter of tone-production. To the rudiments of music no attention whatever is usually paid. Many vocal students realize the need of a general musical training, and seek it through studying the piano and through choir and chorus singing. But the vocal teacher seldom finds time to teach his pupils to read music at sight. This is a serious mistake. The artistic use of the voice is dependent on the possession of a trained ear and a cultured musical taste. Ear training and musical culture are greatly facilitated by a knowledge of the technical basis of the art of music. This latter is best acquired, by the vocal student at any rate, through the study of sight reading. Sight singing and the rudiments of music are taught to better advantage in class work than in private individual instruction. The class system also secures a great saving of time to the teacher. Every teacher should form a little class in sight reading and choral singing, made up of all his pupils. An hour or an hour and a half each week, devoted by the entire class to the study of sight singing and simple part songs and choruses, would give an ample training to all the pupils in this important branch of the art of music. Many vocal teachers advise their pupils not to sing in choirs and choruses. There may be some ground for the belief that students are apt to fall into bad vocal habits while singing in the chorus. But this risk is entirely avoided by the teacher having his pupils sing in his own chorus, under his own direction. Another important feature of the musical education is the hearing of good music artistically performed. Vocal students should be urged to attend the opera and the orchestral concerts. They should become familiar with the different forms of composition by actually hearing the masterpieces of music. Chamber music concerts, song recitals, and oratoric performances,--all are of great advantage to the earnest student. When students attend the opera, or hear the great singers in concerts and recitals, they should listen to the singers' tones, and not wonder how the tones are produced. _Ear Training_ No special exercises can be given for the training of the ear. The sense of hearing is developed only by attentive listening. Every vocal student should be urged, and frequently reminded, to form the habit of listening attentively to the tones of all voices and instruments. A highly trained sense of hearing is one of the musician's most valuable gifts. A naturally keen musical ear is of course presupposed in the case of any one desiring to study music. This natural gift must be developed by exercise in the ear's proper function,--listening to sounds. Experience in listening to voices is made doubly effective in the training of the ear when the student's attention is called to the salient characteristics of the tones heard. In this regard the two points most important for the student to notice are the intonation and the tone quality. Absolute correctness of intonation, whether in the voice or in an instrument, can be appreciated only by the possessor of a highly cultivated sense of hearing. Many tones are accepted as being in tune which are heard by a very keen ear to be slightly off the pitch, or untrue to the pitch. This matter of a tone being untrue to the pitch is of great importance to the student of music. Many instruments, when unskilfully played, give out tones of this character. The tones are impure; instead of containing only one pitch, each note shades off into pitches a trifle higher, or lower, or both. This faulty type of tone is illustrated by a piano slightly out of tune. On a single note of this piano one string may have remained in perfect tune, the second may have flatted by the merest fraction of a semitone, and the third by a slightly greater interval. When this note is played it is in one sense not out of tune. Yet its pitch is untrue, and it shades off into a slightly flat note. In the case of many instruments, notably the flute, the clarinet, and the French horn, unskilled performers often play notes of this character. But in these instruments the composite character of the note is vastly more complex than in the piano. A very keen ear is required to appreciate fully the nature of this untrueness to the pitch. But this is exactly the kind of ear the singer must possess, and it can be acquired only by the experience of attentive listening. The voice is especially liable to produce tones untrue to the pitch. Stiff-throated singers almost invariably exhibit this faulty tendency. An excessive tension of the throat hampers the vocal cords in their adjustments, and the result is an impure tone. This is more often the cause of an artist singing out of tune than a deficiency of the sense of hearing. Many singers "sharp" or "flat" habitually, and are unable to overcome the habit, even though well aware of it. Only a voice entirely free from stiffness can produce tones of absolute correctness and perfect intonation. Du Maurier hit upon a very apt description of pure intonation when he said that Trilby always sang "right into the middle of the note." As an impurity of intonation is almost always an indication of throat tension, vocal teachers should be keenly sensitive to this type of faulty tone. Tone quality is a subject of surpassing interest to the musician. Whatever may be thought the true purpose of music, there can be no question as to one demand made on each individual instrument,--it must produce tones of sensuous beauty. A composer may delight in dissonances; but no instrument of the orchestra may produce harsh or discordant tones. Of beauty of tone the ear is the sole judge; naturally so, for the only appeal of the individual tone is to the ear. Melody, rhythm, and harmony may appeal to the intellect, but the quality of each component tone is judged only by the ear. Each instrument has its own characteristic tone quality. The student of singing should become familiar with the sounds of the different orchestral instruments. Attention to this is extremely valuable in the training of the ear. Beauty of tone was seen to be the truest and best indication of the correct vocal action. The voice has its own tonal beauty, entirely different in character from any artificial instrument. Students of singing should listen for every fine shade of tone quality in the voices of other singers. They should learn to detect the slightest blemish on the quality of every tone, the slightest deviation from the correct pitch. As the voice is guided by the ear, the first requirement of a singer is a keen sense of hearing. For a keen ear to be of benefit, the student must learn to listen to his own voice. This is not altogether an easy matter. For one to learn to hear oneself justly and correctly requires considerable practice. The singer is placed at a natural disadvantage in listening to himself. This is due to two causes. In the first place, the direct muscular sensations of singing are so complex, and so distributed about the throat and face, that the singer's attention is apt to be divided between these and his auditory sensations. Second, the sound waves are conducted to the ear internally, by the vibration of the bones of the head, as well as externally, by the air waves. The internally conveyed vibrations are a rumbling rather than a true sound; the only true tone is the external sound, heard by the singer in the same way as by a listener. Yet the attention is more apt to be taken up with the internal rumbling than with the external tone. Every vocal student must be taught to listen to himself, to disregard the muscular sensations and the internal rumbling, and to pay attention only to the real tones of his voice. Throat stiffness greatly increases the difficulty of listening to oneself. Both the muscular sensations and the internal rumbling are heightened by the increased muscular tension. A stiff-throated singer confounds the muscular with the auditory sensations; the feeling of muscular effort also makes him believe his tones to be much more powerful than they really are. _The Acquirement of Skill_ Skill in the use of the voice is acquired solely by practice in singing. Only one rule is required for the conduct of vocal practice, that is, that the voice thrives on beautiful sounds. Musical taste must always guide the vocal student in practising. The voice cannot well do more than is demanded by the ear. If a student is unable to distinguish a correct intonation, his voice will not intone correctly. A student must hear and recognize his own faults or there is no possibility of his correcting them. He must be familiar with the characteristics of a perfect musical tone in order to demand this tone of his voice. In the student's progress the ear always keeps slightly in advance of the voice. Both develop together, but the ear takes the lead. The voice needs practice to enable it to meet the demands of the ear. As this practice goes on day by day the ear in the meantime becomes keener and still more exacting in its demands on the voice. To train a voice is in reality a very simple matter. Nothing is required of the student but straightforward singing. Provided the student's daily practice of singing be guided by a naturally keen ear and a sound musical taste, the voice will steadily progress. Little need be said here about the technical demands made on the voice in modern music. The standards of vocal technique are well known to all vocal teachers, and indeed to musicians generally. Further, the scope of this work is limited to the basic principle of vocal technique,--correct tone-production. For starting the voice properly on the road to the perfect action, intelligently guided practice alone is needed. This practice must be carried on under the direction of a competent teacher. But the teacher cannot pay attention solely to the technical training of the student's voice. As has been seen, the training of the voice is impossible without the cultivation of the sense of hearing; and this is dependent in great measure on the general musical education of the student. The teacher must therefore direct the student's musical education as the basic principle of Voice Culture. _The Avoidance of Throat Stiffness_ A great advance will be brought about in the profession of Voice Culture when vocal teachers become thoroughly familiar with the subject of throat stiffness. This is the only troublesome feature of the training of voices. Teachers must be always on the alert to note every indication of throat stiffness. The correction of faults of production has always been recognized as one of the most important elements of vocal training. Faults of production are of two kinds, natural and acquired. Natural faults are exhibited in some degree by every vocal student. These are due solely to the lack of facility in the use of the voice and to the beginner's want of experience in hearing his own voice. Acquired faults develop only as the result of unnatural throat tension. The most common cause of acquired faults of tone-production was seen in the attempt consciously to direct the mechanical operations of the voice. Equipped with a thorough understanding of the subject of throat stiffness, the teacher is in no danger of permitting his pupils to contract faulty habits of tone-production. Here the great value of the empirical knowledge of the voice is seen. The slightest trace of incipient throat stiffness must be immediately detected by the teacher in the sound of the pupil's tones. To correct the faulty tendency in the beginning is comparatively simple. By listening closely to every tone sung by his pupils in the course of instruction, noting both the musical character of the tones and the sympathetic sensations of throat action, the master will never be in doubt whether a tendency to throat stiffness is shown. In locating the natural faults of production the teacher will also find his empirical knowledge of the voice a most valuable possession. CHAPTER IX OUTLINES OF A PRACTICAL METHOD OF VOICE CULTURE According to the accepted idea of Voice Culture, the word "method" is taken to mean only the plan supposedly followed for imparting a correct manner of tone-production. Owing to the prevalence of the mechanical idea, the acquirement of the correct vocal action has become so difficult as to demand almost the exclusive attention of both teachers and students. Very little time is left for other subjects of vastly more importance. Aside from the matter of tone-production, teachers do not seem to realize the importance, or even the possibility, of systematizing a course of instruction in singing. Scientific Voice Culture is inconceivable without a systematic plan of procedure. But this is not dependent on a set of rules for imparting the correct vocal action. Eliminating the idea of mechanical vocal management does not imply the abandonment of methodical instruction in singing. On the contrary, Voice Culture cannot be made truly systematic so long as it is based on an erroneous and unscientific theory of vocal management. A vocal teacher cannot perfect a system of instruction until he has done with the mechanical idea. Then he will find himself to be in possession of all the materials of a sound practical method. Most important of the materials of a practical method is a comprehensive repertoire of vocal music. Every teacher should have at his command a wide range of compositions in every form available for the voice. This should include simple exercises, vocalises with and without words, songs of every description, arias of the lyric, dramatic, and coloratura type, and recitatives, as well as concerted numbers of every description. All these compositions should be graded, according to the difficulties they present, both technical in the vocal sense, and musical. For every stage of a pupil's progress the teacher should know exactly what composition to assign for study. Every composition used in instruction, be it simple exercise or elaborate aria, should be first of all melodious. For the normally gifted student the sense of melody and the love of singing are almost synonymous. Next to the physical endowments of voice and ear the sense of melody is the vocal student's most important gift. This feeling for melody should be appealed to at every instant. Students should not be permitted to sing anything in a mechanical fashion. Broken scales, "five finger exercises," and mechanical drills of every kind, are altogether objectionable. They blunt the sense of melody, and at the same time they tend to induce throat stiffness. Beauty of tone and of melody should always be the guiding principle in the practice of singing. All the elements of instruction,--musical education, ear training, and the acquirement of facility in the use of the voice,--can be combined in the singing of melodious compositions. While the teacher should know the precise object of each study, this is not necessary for the student. Have the pupil simply sing his daily studies, with good tone and true musical feeling, and all the rest will take care of itself. Every vocal teacher will formulate his method of instruction according to his own taste and judgment. There will always be room for the exercise of originality, and for the working out of individual ideas. His own experience, and his judgment in each individual case, must guide the teacher in answering many important questions. Whether to train a voice up or down, whether to pay special attention to enunciation, when to introduce the trill, what form of studies to use for technique and ornament,--these are all matters for the teacher to decide in his own way. Above all else the teacher should seek to make the study of singing interesting to his pupils. This cannot be done by making the idea of method and of mechanical drudgery prominent. Singing is an art; both teacher and student must love their art or they cannot succeed. Everything the student is called on to do should be a distinct pleasure. To master the piano or the violin many hours of tedious practice are required. Students of singing are indeed fortunate to be spared the necessity of this tiresome work. In place of two or three hours' daily practice of scales and exercises, the vocal student need do nothing but sing good music. Much is required of a competent vocal teacher. First of all, he must be a cultured musician and a capable judge both of composition and of performance. Further, while not necessarily a great singer, he must have a thorough command of all the resources of his own voice. His understanding of the voice should embrace a fair knowledge of vocal physiology and of vocal psychology. His ear should be so highly trained, and his experience in hearing singers so wide, that he possess in full the empirical knowledge of the voice. The vocal teacher must be familiar with the highest standards of singing. He should hear the great artists of his day and also be well versed in the traditions of his art. A highly important gift of the vocal teacher is tact. He must know how to deal with his pupils, how to smooth over the rough places of temperament. He should be able to foster a spirit of comradeship among his pupils, to secure the stimulating effect of rivalry, while avoiding the evils of jealousy. Tact is an important element also in individual instruction. Some students will demand to know the reason of everything, others will be content to do as they are told without question. One student may be led to stiffen his throat by instruction which would have no such effect on another. In every case the teacher must study the individual temperaments of his pupils and adapt his method to the character of each student. Practical instruction, in its outward aspect, should be very simple. At one lesson the teacher assigns certain studies and has the pupil sing them. Now and then the teacher sings a few measures in order to give the student the correct idea of the effects to be obtained. If any pronounced fault is shown in the student's tones, the master calls attention to the fault, perhaps imitating it, to make it more apparent to the student. In his home practice the student sings the assigned studies, trying always to get his tones pure and true. At the next lesson the same studies are again sung, and new compositions given for further study. A great advantage might be gained by combining three, four, or five students in a class and giving lessons of an hour's time, or even an hour and a half. The students might sing in turn, all the others listening to the one who is singing. This form of instruction would be of great service in ear training, and in acquainting the students with the various qualities of vocal tone, both correct and faulty. Much time would thus be saved in giving explanations and in pointing out the characteristics of tone to be sought or avoided. On the side of musical education, instruction in small classes would also be found very effective. A thorough understanding of Vocal Science, including both the mechanical features of tone-production and the psychological aspects of singing, is almost indispensable to the vocal teacher. But the student of singing will in most cases derive no benefit from this scientific knowledge. Those students who plan to become teachers must of course study Vocal Science. Yet even these students will do well to defer this study until they have acquired a thorough mastery of their voices. * * * Musical progress would seem to have taken a peculiar direction when a voice need be raised in defense of the old art of pure singing. Several famous writers on musical subjects would have us believe that the love of vocal melody is outgrown by one who reaches the heights of musical development. This may be true; but if so, the world has not yet progressed so far. Music without melody may some day be written. But Mozart knew naught of it, nor Beethoven, nor Wagner. Melody is still beautiful, and never more lovely than when artistically sung by a beautiful voice. We have not reached a point where we can afford to toss lightly aside the old art of Bel Canto. For its future development, if not indeed for its continued existence, the art of singing depends on an improvement in the art of training voices. For this to be accomplished, mechanical methods must be abandoned. If this work succeeds in bringing home to the vocal profession the error of mechanical instruction in singing, it will have served its purpose. BIBLIOGRAPHY Pietro Francesco Tosi: _Observations on the Florid Song_. Bologna, 1723. Giovanni Battista Mancini: _Riflessioni pratiche sul Canto figurato_. Milan, 1776. Georg Joseph Vogler: _Stimmbildungskunst_. Mannheim, 1776. _Méthode de Chant du Conservatoire de Musique_. Paris, 1803. Stefana Arteaga: _Le Revoluzioni del Teatro musicale italiano_. Venice, 1785. Adolph Bernhard Marx: _Die Kunst des Gesanges_. Berlin, 1826. Heinrich F. Mannstein: _Die grosse italienische Gesangschule_. Dresden, 1834. Manuel Garcia: _École de Garcia_. The Ninth Edition (Paris, 1893) gives date of first edition, 1856. Grove's Dict. gives 1847. _Proceedings of the Royal Soc._, London, Vol. 2, May, 1855. _Hints on Singing_. (Trans. by Beata Garcia). New York, 1894. Ferdinand Sieber: _Vollstaendiges Lehrbuch der Gesangskunst_. Magdeburg, 1858. _The Art of Singing_. (Trans. by Dr. F. Seeger). New York, 1872. Stéphen de la Madelaine: _Théorie complète du Chant_. Paris, 1852. Lennox Browne and Emil Behnke: _Voice, Song, and Speech_. London, 1883. John Howard: _The Physiology of Artistic Singing_. New York, 1886. Gordon Holmes: _A Treatise on Vocal Physiology and Hygiene_. London, 1879. Emma Seiler: _The Voice in Singing_. Philadelphia, 1886. J. Frank Botume: _Modern Singing Methods_. Boston, 1885. Francesco Lamperti: _A Treatise on the Art of Singing_. (Trans. by J. C. Griffith). New York. Original about 1876. Wesley Mills, M. D.: _Voice Production in Singing and Speaking_. Philadelphia, 1906. Dr. W. Reinecke: _Die Kunst der idealen Tonbildung_. Leipzig, 1906. William Shakespeare: _The Art of Singing_. London, 1898. G. B. Lamperti: _The Technics of Bel Canto_. New York, 1905. Paolo Guetta: _Il Canto nel suo Mecanismo_. Milan, 1902. Lilli Lehmann: _Meine Gesangskunst_. Berlin, 1902. David Frangçon-Davies: _The Singing of the Future_. London, 1906. Leo Kofler: _The Old Italian Method_. Albany, 1880. _The Art of Breathing_. New York, 1889. Clara Kathleen Rogers: _The Philosophy of Singing_. New York, 1893. Albert B. Bach: _The Principles of Singing_. London (2d ed.), 1897. Julius Stockhausen's _Gesangsmethode_. Leipzig, 1884. Sir Morell Mackenzie: _The Hygiene of the Vocal Organs_. London, 1886. Charles Lunn: _The Philosophy of the Voice_. London, 1878. Antoine Ferrein: _De la Formation de la Voix de l'Homme_. Paris, 1741. Sir Charles Bell: _On the Organs of the Human Voice_. London, 1832. Carl Ludwig Merkel: _Der Kehlkopf_. Leipzig, 1873. Dr. L. Mandl: _Die Gesundheitslehre der Stimme_. Braunschweig, 1876. George F. Ladd: _Outlines of Physiological Psychology_. New York, 1892. James M. Baldwin: _Feeling and Will_. New York, 1894. H. S. Curtis: "Automatic Movements of the Larynx," _Amer. Jour. Psych._, Vol. 11, p. 237. 1900. H. L. F. Helmholtz: _Die Lehre von den Tonempfindungen_. Braunschweig, 1862. E. W. Scripture: _The New Psychology_, London, 1897. _The Elements of Experimental Phonetics_. New York, 1902. _The Study of Speech Curves_. Washington, 1906. William James: _The Principles of Psychology_. New York, 1890. Hansen and Lehmann: "Ueber unwillkuerliches Fluestern," _Philo. Stud._, Vol. 11, p. 471. 1895. C. Lloyd Morgan: _An Introduction to Comparative Psychology_. 1894. Wilhelm Wundt: _Grundzuege der physiologischen Psychologie_. Leipzig, 1874. Grove's _Dictionary of Music and Musicians_. Fétis: _Biographie universelle des Musiciens_. Musikalisches Conversations-Lexikon. Quellen Lexikon der Musiker. (Robt. Eitner, Leipzig, 1902.) INDEX Acoustics of voice, 188, 216. Anatomy of vocal organs, 211. Attack, 51, 53. Breathing, 20, 130. Breath, singing on the, 14, 27, 32, 72, 194. Candle-flame test, 221. Coloratura, 195, 282. Decline of singing, 341. Ear training, 276, 281, 319, 351. Emission, 68, 125, 188. Empirical knowledge, 151, 176, 181, 359. basis of, 155. in modern instruction, 75, 199, 207. in traditional precepts, 184. Enunciation, 88. Exercises for breath-control, 26, 31. for breathing, 22. for muscular movements, 46, 50. for relaxing muscles, 90, 272. on vowels and consonants, 85. Forward tone, 14, 68, 71, 125, 187. Garcia, 16, 22, 34, 35, 56, 328. Glottic stroke, 30, 52. History of voice culture, 8, 322. Howard, John, 43. Imitation, 134, 166, 291, 298, 307, 309, 324, 332. Intonation, 265, 311, 314, 352. Laryngeal action, 34, 36, 44. Laryngoscope, 16, 35, 56, 214, 215, 258, 336. Lessons, 103, 366. Local effort, 273. Mancini, 12, 156, 307, 314, 323. Mask, singing in the, 74, 81. Mechanical vocal management, 83, 102, 109, 113, 135, 271, 287, 297, 299, 321, 329, 333, 346. Mechanics of voice, 118, 220, 325, 335. Mental voice, 180, 183. Messa di voce, 40, 312. Method, 92, 96, 99. Old Italian, 10, 304, 316, 320. Méthode de Chant, 326. Muscular sense, 143, 170. stiffness, 240, 251. strain, 267. Nasal tone, 62, 129, 205. Nervousness, 249, 256. Old Italian masters, 9, 11, 14, 54, 306, 320. method, 10, 304, 316, 320. Open throat, 14, 60, 86, 191. Placing the voice, 38, 41, 93, 310. Practice, 5, 105, 281, 366. Precepts, 13, 72, 76, 184, 186, 317. Problem of voice, 4, 7, 287, 324, 337, 338. Psychology of muscular guidance, 136, 227. of sympathetic sensations, 165. of vocal management, 144, 229, 297. Pure vowel theory, 88. Quality of tone, 40, 62, 156, 179, 182, 314, 346. Radiation of nerve impulse, 251, 259. Reflex actions, 247, 255. Registers, 34, 38, 55, 312, 315. Relaxing exercises, 90, 272. Resonance, 54, 58. chest, 61, 127. mouth-pharynx, 59. nasal, 62, 87, 127, 204. sounding-board, 44, 65. Sensations of singing, 160. direct, 161, 173. in modern instruction, 78, 84, 114. muscular, 78. sympathetic, 161, 162, 176. of vibration, 54, 55, 58, 80. Sight reading, 309, 310, 313. Singing in the mask, 74, 81. on the breath, 14, 27, 32, 72, 194. Sol-fa, 310, 314. Stiffness, muscular, 240, 251. throat, 89, 243, 260, 262, 285, 356, 358. Support of tone, 14, 27, 32, 73, 192. Sympathetic sensations, 161, 162, 165, 176. Technique, 6, 94, 282. Throat stiffness, 89, 243, 260, 262, 285, 356, 358. Tone-production, 4. problem of 7, 287, 324, 337, 338. Tosi, 12, 55, 63, 156, 307, 308, 322. Traditional precepts, 13, 14, 76, 186, 317. empirical basis, 184. in modern instruction, 72, 77. Tremolo, 265, 272. Vocal action, 5, 17, 92, 112, 246. Vocal Science, 17, 19, 37, 98, 152, 339, 361, 367. Wearing voice into place, 101. 
26477	----	[The spelling of the original has been retained.] OBSERVATIONS ON THE Florid Song; OR, SENTIMENTS ON THE _Ancient_ and _Modern_ SINGERS, Written in _Italian_ By PIER. FRANCESCO TOSI, Of the _Phil-Harmonic_ Academy at _Bologna_. Translated into _English_ By Mr. _GALLIARD_. Useful for all PERFORMERS, _Instrumental_ as well as _Vocal_. To which are added EXPLANATORY ANNOTATIONS, and Examples in MUSICK. _Ornari Res ipsa negat, contenta doceri._ _LONDON_: Printed for J. WILCOX, at _Virgil's_ Head, in the _Strand_. 1743. _Note_, By the _Ancient_, our Author means those who liv'd about thirty or forty Years ago; and by the _Modern_ the late and present Singers. N.B. _The Original was printed at_ Bologna, _in the Year_ 1723. _Reprinted from the Second Edition by_ WILLIAM REEVES Bookseller Ltd., 1a Norbury Crescent, London, S.W. 16 1967 Made in England [Illustration] TO ALL Lovers of MUSICK. LADIES and GENTLEMEN, Persons of Eminence, Rank, Quality, and a distinguishing Taste in any particular Art or Science, are always in View of Authors who want a Patron for that Art or Science, which they endeavour to recommend and promote. No wonder therefore, I should have fix'd my Mind on You, to patronize the following Treatise. If there are Charms in Musick in general, all the reasonable World agrees, that the _Vocal_ has the Pre-eminence, both from _Nature_ and _Art_ above the Instrumental: From _Nature_ because without doubt it was the first; from _Art_, because thereby the Voice may be brought to express Sounds with greater Nicety and Exactness than Instruments. The Charms of the human Voice, even in Speaking, are very powerful. It is well known, that in _Oratory_ a just _Modulation_ of it is of the highest Consequence. The Care Antiquity took to bring it to Perfection, is a sufficient Demonstration of the Opinion they had of its Power; and every body, who has a discerning Faculty, may have experienced that sometimes a Discourse, by the Power of the _Orator's_ Voice, has made an Impression, which was lost in the Reading. But, above all, the soft and pleasing Voice of the _fair Sex_ has irresistible Charms and adds considerably to their Beauty. If the Voice then has such singular Prerogatives, one must naturally wish its Perfection in musical Performances, and be inclined to forward any thing that may be conducive to that end. This is the reason why I have been more easily prevail'd upon to engage in this Work, in order to make a famous _Italian Master_, who treats so well on this Subject, familiar to _England_; and why I presume to offer it to your Protection. The Part, I bear in it, is not enough to claim any Merit; but my endeavouring to offer to your Perusal what may be entertaining, and of Service, intitles me humbly to recommend myself to your Favour: Who am, LADIES _and_ GENTLEMEN, _Your most devoted, And most obedient Humble Servant_, J. E. GALLIARD. [Illustration] A Prefatory Discourse GIVING _Some Account of the_ AUTHOR. _Pier._ _Francesco Tosi_, the Author of the following Treatise, was an _Italian_, and a Singer of great Esteem and Reputation. He spent the most part of his Life in travelling, and by that Means heard the most eminent Singers in _Europe_, from whence, by the Help of his nice Taste, he made the following Observations. Among his many Excursions, his Curiosity was raised to visit _England_, where he resided for some time in the Reigns of King _James_ the Second, King _William_, King _George_ the First, and the Beginning of his present Majesty's: He dy'd soon after, having lived to above Fourscore. He had a great deal of Wit and Vivacity, which he retained to his latter Days. His manner of Singing was full of Expression and Passion; chiefly in the Stile of Chamber-Musick. The best Performers in his Time thought themselves happy when they could have an Opportunity to hear him. After he had lost his Voice, he apply'd himself more particularly to Composition; of which he has given Proof in his _Cantata's_, which are of an exquisite Taste, especially in the _Recitatives_, where he excels in the _Pathetick_ and _Expression_ beyond any other. He was a zealous Well-wisher to all who distinguished themselves in Musick; but rigorous to those who abused and degraded the Profession. He was very much esteemed by Persons of Rank among whom the late Earl of _Peterborough_ was one, having often met him in his Travels beyond Sea; and he was well received by his Lordship when in _England_, to Whom he dedicated this Treatise. This alone would be a sufficient Indication of his Merit, his being taken Notice of by a Person of that Quality, and distinguishing Taste. The Emperor _Joseph_ gave him an honourable Employment _Arch-Duchess_ a Church-Retirement in some part of _Italy_, and the late _Flanders_, where he died. As for his _Observations_ and _Sentiments_ on Singing, they must speak for themselves; and the Translation of them, it is hoped, will be acceptable to Lovers of Musick, because this particular Branch has never been treated of in so distinct and ample a Manner by any other Author. Besides, it has been thought by Persons of Judgment, that it would be of Service to make the Sentiments of our Author more universally known, when a false Taste in Musick is so prevailing; and, that these Censures, as they are passed by an _Italian_ upon his own Countrymen, cannot but be looked upon as impartial. It is incontestable, that the Neglect of true Study, the sacrificing the Beauty of the Voice to a Number of ill-regulated Volubilities, the neglecting the Pronunciation and Expression of the Words, besides many other Things taken Notice of in this Treatise, are all _bad_. The Studious will find, that our Author's Remarks will be of Advantage, not only to Vocal Performers, but likewise to the Instrumental, where Taste and a Manner are required; and shew, that a little less _Fiddling_ with the _Voice_, and a little more _Singing_ with the _Instrument_, would be of great Service to Both. Whosoever reads this Treatise with Application, cannot fail of Improvement by it. It is hoped, that the Translation will be indulged, if, notwithstanding all possible Care, it should be defective in the Purity of the _English_ Language! it being almost impossible (considering the Stile of our Author, which is a little more figurative than the present Taste of the _English_ allows in their Writings,) not to retain something of the Idiom of the Original; but where the Sense of the Matter is made plain, the Stile may not be thought so material, in Writings of this Kind. THE AUTHOR'S Dedication TO HIS Excellency the Earl of PETERBOROUGH, General of the Marines of _Great-Britain_. MY LORD, I Should be afraid of leaving the World under the Imputation of Ingratitude, should I any longer defer publishing the very many Favours, which _Your Lordship_ so generously has bestow'd on me in _Italy_, in _Germany_, in _Flanders_, in _England_; and principally at your delightful Seat at _Parson's-Green_, where _Your Lordship_ having been pleased to do me the Honour of imparting to me your Thoughts with Freedom, I have often had the Opportunity of admiring your extensive Knowledge, which almost made me overlook the Beauty and Elegance of the Place. The famous _Tulip-Tree_, in your Garden there is not so surprising a Rarity, as the uncommon Penetration of your Judgment, which has sometimes (I may say) foretold Events, which have afterwards come to pass. But what Return can I make for so great Obligations, when the mentioning of them is doing myself an Honour, and the very Acknowledgment has the Appearance of _Vanity_? It is better therefore to treasure them up in my Heart, and remain respectfully silent; only making an humble Request to _Your Lordship_ that you will condescend favourably to accept this mean Offering of my OBSERVATIONS; which I am induc'd to make, from the common Duty which lies upon every Professor to preserve Musick in its Perfection; and upon Me in particular, for having been the first, or among the first, of those who discovered the noble Genius of your potent and generous Nation for it. However, I should not have presum'd to dedicate them to a Hero adorn'd with such glorious Actions, if _Singing_ was not a Delight of the Soul, or if any one had a Soul more sensible of its Charms. On which account, I think, I have a just Pretence to declare myself, with profound Obsequiousness, YOUR LORDSHIP'S _Most humble_, _Most devoted and_ _Most oblig'd Servant_, Pier. Francesco Tosi. THE CONTENTS. The Introduction. CHAP. I. Observations for one who teaches a _Soprano_. CHAP II. Of the _Appoggiatura_. CHAP. III. Of the _Shake_. CHAP. IV. On _Divisions_. CHAP. V. Of _Recitative_. CHAP. VI. Observations for a _Student_. CHAP. VII. Of _Airs_. CHAP. VIII. Of _Cadences_. CHAP. IX. Observations for a _Singer_. CHAP. X. Of _Passages_ or _Graces_. Footnotes. THE INTRODUCTION. The Opinions of the ancient Historians, on the Origin of Musick, are various. _Pliny_ believes that _Amphion_ was the Inventor of it; the _Grecians_ maintain, that it was _Dionysius_; _Polybius_ ascribes it to the _Arcadians_; _Suidas_ and _Boetius_ give the Glory entirely to _Pythagoras_; asserting, that from the Sound of three Hammers of different Weights at a Smith's Forge, he found out the Diatonick; after which _Timotheus_, the _Milesian_, added the Chromatick, and _Olympicus_, or _Olympus_, the Enharmonick Scale. However, we read in holy Writ, that _Jubal_, of the Race of _Cain, fuit Pater Canentium Citharâ & Organo_, the Father of all such as handle the Harp and Organ; Instruments, in all Probability consisting of several harmonious Sounds; from whence one may infer, Musick to have had its Birth very soon after the World. § 2. To secure her from erring, she called to her Assistance many Precepts of the Mathematicks; and from the Demonstrations of her Beauties, by Means of Lines, Numbers, and Proportions, she was adopted her Child, and became a Science. § 3. It may reasonably be supposed that, during the Course of several thousand Years, Musick has always been the Delight of Mankind; since the excessive Pleasure, the _Lacedemonians_ received from it, induced that Republick to exile the abovementioned _Milesian_, that the _Spartans_, freed from their Effeminacy, might return again to their old Oeconomy. § 4. But, I believe, she never appeared with so much Majesty as in the last Centuries, in the great Genius of _Palestrina_, whom she left as an immortal Example to Posterity. And, in Truth, Musick, with the Sweetness of _his_ Harmony, arrived at so high a Pitch (begging Pardon of the eminent Masters of our Days), that if she was ranked only in the Number of Liberal Arts, she might with Justice contest the Pre-eminence[1]. § 5. A strong Argument offers itself to me, from that wonderful Impression, that in so distinguished a Manner is made upon our Souls by Musick, beyond all other Arts; which leads us to believe that it is part of that Blessedness which is enjoyed in Paradise. § 6. Having premised these Advantages, the Merit of the Singer should likewise be distinguished, by reason of the particular Difficulties that attend him: Let a Singer have a Fund of Knowledge sufficient to perform readily any of the most difficult Compositions; let him have, besides, an excellent Voice, and know how to use it artfully; he will not, for all that, deserve a Character of Distinction, if he is wanting in a prompt Variation; a Difficulty which other Arts are not liable to. § 7. Finally, I say, that Poets[2], Painters, Sculptors, and even Composers of Musick, before they expose their Works to the Publick, have all the Time requisite to mend and polish them; but the Singer that commits an Error has no Remedy; for the Fault is committed, and past Correction. § 8. We may then guess at but cannot describe, how great the Application must be of one who is obliged not to err, in unpremeditated Productions; and to manage a Voice, always in Motion, conformable to the Rules of an Art that is so difficult. I confess ingeniously, that every time I reflect on the Insufficiency of many Masters, and the infinite Abuses they introduce, which render the Application and Study of their Scholars ineffectual, I cannot but wonder, that among so many Professors of the first Rank, who have written so amply on Musick in almost all its Branches, there has never been one, at least that I have heard of, who has undertaken to explain in the Art of Singing, any thing more than the first Elements, known to all, concealing the most necessary Rules for Singing well. It is no Excuse to say, that the Composers intent on Composition, the Performers on Instruments intent on their Performance, should not meddle with what concerns the Singer; for I know some very capable to undeceive those who may think so. The incomparable _Zarlino_, in the third part of his Harmonick Institution, chap. 46, just began to inveigh against those, who in his time sung with some Defects, but he stopped; and I am apt to believe had he gone farther, his Documents, though grown musty in two Centuries, might be of Service to the refined Taste of this our present time. But a more just Reproof is due to the Negligence of many celebrated Singers, who, having a superior Knowledge, can the less justify their Silence, even under the Title of Modesty, which ceases to be a Virtue, when it deprives the Publick of an Advantage. Moved therefore, not by a vain Ambition, but by the Hopes of being of Service to several Professors, I have determined, not without Reluctance, to be the first to expose to the Eye of the World these my few Observations; my only End being (if I succeed) to give farther Insight to the Master, the Scholar, and the Singer. § 9. I will in the first Place, endeavour to shew the Duty of a Master, how to instruct a Beginner well; secondly, what is required of the Scholar; and, lastly, with more mature Reflections, to point out the way to a moderate Singer, by which he may arrive at greater Perfection. Perhaps my Enterprize may be term'd rash, but if the Effects should not answer my Intentions, I shall at least incite some other to treat of it in a more ample and correct Manner. § 10. If any should say, I might be dispensed with for not publishing Things already known to every Professor, he might perhaps deceive himself; for among these Observations there are many, which as I have never heard them made by anybody else, I shall look upon as my own; and such probably they are, from their not being generally known. Let them therefore take their Chance, for the Approbation of those that have Judgment and Taste. § 11. It would be needless to say, that verbal Instructions can be of no Use to Singers, any farther than to prevent 'em from falling into Errors, and that it is Practice only can set them right. However, from the Success of these, I shall be encouraged to go on to make new Discoveries for the Advantage of the Profession, or (asham'd, but not surpriz'd) I will bear it patiently, if Masters with their Names to their Criticism should kindly publish my Ignorance, that I may be undeceiv'd, and thank them. § 12. But though it is my Design to Demonstrate a great Number of Abuses and Defects of the Moderns to be met with in the Republick of Musick, in order that they may be corrected (if they can); I would not have those, who for want of Genius, or through Negligence in their Study, could not, or would not improve themselves, imagine that out of Malice I have painted all their Imperfections to the Life; for I solemnly protest, that though from my too great Zeal I attack their Errors without Ceremony, I have a Respect for their Persons; having learned from a _Spanish_ Proverb, that Calumny recoils back on the Author. But Christianity says something more. I speak in general; but if sometimes I am more particular, let it be known, that I copy from no other Original than myself, where there has been, and still is Matter enough to criticize, without looking for it elsewhere. CHAP. I. OBSERVATIONS _for one who teaches a_ Soprano.[3] The Faults in Singing insinuate themselves so easily into the Minds of young Beginners, and there are such Difficulties in correcting them, when grown into an Habit that it were to be wish'd, the ablest Singers would undertake the Task of Teaching, they best knowing how to conduct the Scholar from the first Elements to Perfection. But there being none, (if I mistake not) but who abhor the Thoughts of it, we must reserve them for those Delicacies of the Art, which enchant the Soul. § 2. Therefore the first Rudiments necessarily fall to a Master of a lower Rank, till the Scholar can sing his part at Sight; whom one would at least wish to be an honest Man, diligent and experienced, without the Defects of singing through the Nose, or in the Throat, and that he have a Command of Voice, some Glimpse of a good Taste, able to make himself understood with Ease, a perfect Intonation, and a Patience to endure the severe Fatigue of a most tiresome Employment. § 3. Let a Master thus qualified before he begins his Instructions, read the four Verses of _Virgil_, _Sic vos non vobis_, &c.[5] for they seem to be made[4] on Purpose for him, and after having considered them well, let him consult his Resolution; because (to speak plainly) it is mortifying to help another to Affluence, and be in want of it himself. If the Singer should make his Fortune, it is but just the Master, to whom it has been owing, should be also a Sharer in it. § 4. But above all, let him hear with a disinterested Ear, whether the Person desirous to learn hath a Voice, and a Disposition; that he may not be obliged to give a strict Account to God, of the Parent's Money ill spent, and the Injury done to the Child, by the irreparable Loss of Time, which might have been more profitably employed in some other Profession. I do not speak at random. The ancient Masters made a Distinction between the Rich, that learn'd Musick as an Accomplishment, and the Poor, who studied it for a Livelihood. The first they instructed out of Interest, and the latter out of Charity, if they discovered a singular Talent. Very few modern Masters refuse Scholars; and, provided they are paid, little do they care if their greediness ruins the Profession. § 5. Gentlemen Masters! _Italy_ hears no more such exquisite Voices as in Times past, particularly among the Women, and to the Shame of the Guilty I'll tell the Reason: The Ignorance of the Parents does not let them perceive the Badness of the Voice of their Children, as their Necessity makes them believe, that to sing and grow rich is one and the same Thing, and to learn Musick, it is enough to have a pretty Face: "_Can you make anything of her?_" § 6. You may, perhaps, teach them with their Voice----Modesty will not permit me to explain myself farther. § 7. The Master must want Humanity, if he advises a Scholar to do any thing to the Prejudice of the Soul. § 8. From the first Lesson to the last, let the Master remember, that he is answerable for any Omission in his Instructions, and for the Errors he did not correct. § 9. Let him be moderately severe, making himself fear'd, but not hated. I know, it is not easy to find the Mean between Severity and Mildness, but I know also, that both Extremes are bad: Too great Severity creates Stubbornness, and too great Mildness Contempt. § 10. I shall not speak of the Knowledge of the Notes, of their Value, of Time, of Pauses, of the Accidents, nor of other such trivial Beginnings, because they are generally known. § 11. Besides the _C_ Cliff, let the Scholar be instructed in all the other Cliffs, and in all their Situations, that he may not be liable to what often happens to some Singers, who, in Compositions _Alla Capella_,[6] know not how to distinguish the _Mi_ from the _Fa_, without the Help of the Organ, for want of the Knowledge of the _G_ Cliff; from whence such Discordancies arise in divine Service, that it is a Shame for those who grow old in their Ignorance. I must be so sincere to declare, that whoever does not give such essential Instructions, transgresses out of Omission, or out of Ignorance.[7] § 12. Next let him learn to read those in _B Molle_, especially in those[8] Compositions that have four Flats at the Cliff, and which on the sixth of the Bass require for the most part an accidental Flat, that the Scholar may find in them the _Mi_, which is not so easy to one who has studied but little, and thinks that all the Notes with a Flat are called _Fa_: for if that were true, it would be superfluous that the Notes should be six, when five of them have the same Denomination. The _French_ use seven, and, by that additional Name, save their scholars the Trouble of learning the Mutations ascending or descending; but we _Italians_ have but _Ut_, _Re_, _Mi_, _Fa_, _Sol_, _La_; Notes which equally suffice throughout all the Keys, to one who knows how to read them.[9] § 13. Let the Master do his utmost, to make the Scholar hit and sound the Notes perfectly in Tune in _Sol-Fa_-ing. One, who has not a good Ear, should not undertake either to instruct, or to sing; it being intolerable to hear a Voice perpetually rise and fall discordantly. Let the Instructor reflect on it; for one that sings out of Tune loses all his other Perfections. I can truly say, that, except in some few Professors, that modern Intonation is very bad. § 14. In the _Sol-Fa_-ing, let him endeavour to gain by Degrees the high Notes, that by the Help of this Exercise he may acquire as much Compass of the Voice as possible. Let him take care, however, that the higher the Notes, the more it is necessary to touch them with Softness, to avoid Screaming. § 15. He ought to make him hit the Semitones according to the true Rules. Every one knows not that there is a Semitone Major and Minor,[10] because the Difference cannot be known by an Organ or Harpsichord, if the Keys of the Instrument are not split. A Tone, that gradually passes to another, is divided into nine almost imperceptible Intervals, which are called Comma's, five of which constitute the Semitone Major, and four the Minor. Some are of Opinion, that there are no more than seven, and that the greatest Number of the one half constitutes the first, and the less the second; but this does not satisfy my weak Understanding, for the Ear would find no Difficulty to distinguish the seventh part of a Tone; whereas it meets with a very great one to distinguish the ninth. If one were continually to sing only to those abovemention'd Instruments, this Knowledge might be unnecessary; but since the time that Composers introduced the Custom of crowding the Opera's with a vast Number of Songs accompanied with Bow Instruments, it becomes so necessary, that if a _Soprano_ was to sing _D_ sharp, like _E_ flat, a nice Ear will find he is out of Tune, because this last rises. Whoever is not satisfied in this, let him read those Authors who treat of it, and let him consult the best Performers on the Violin. In the middle parts, however, it is not so easy to distinguish the Difference; tho' I am of Opinion, that every thing that is divisible, is to be distinguished. Of these two Semitones, I'll speak more amply in the Chapter of the _Appoggiatura_, that the one may not be confounded with the other. § 16. Let him teach the Scholar to hit the Intonation of any Interval in the Scale perfectly and readily, and keep him strictly to this important Lesson, if he is desirous he should sing with Readiness in a short time. § 17. If the Master does not understand Composition, let him provide himself with good Examples of _Sol-Fa_-ing in divers Stiles, which insensibly lead from the most easy to the more difficult, according as he finds the Scholar improves; with this Caution, that however difficult, they may be always natural and agreeable, to induce the Scholar to study with Pleasure. § 18. Let the Master attend with great Care to the Voice of the Scholar, which, whether it be _di Petto_, or _di Testa_, should always come forth neat and clear, without passing thro' the Nose, or being choaked in the Throat; which are two the most horrible Defects in a Singer, and past all Remedy if once grown into a Habit[11]. § 19. The little Experience of some that teach to _Sol-fa_, obliges the Scholar to hold out the _Semibreves_ with Force on the highest Notes; the Consequence of which is, that the Glands of the Throat become daily more and more inflamed, and if the Scholar loses not his Health, he loses the treble Voice. § 20. Many Masters put their Scholars to sing the _Contr'Alto_, not knowing how to help them to the _Falsetto_, or to avoid the Trouble of finding it. § 21. A diligent Master, knowing that a _Soprano_, without the _Falsetto_, is constrained to sing within the narrow Compass of a few Notes, ought not only to endeavour to help him to it, but also to leave no Means untried, so to unite the feigned and the natural Voice, that they may not be distinguished; for if they do not perfectly unite, the Voice will be of divers[12] Registers, and must consequently lose its Beauty. The Extent of the full natural Voice terminates generally upon the fourth Space, which is _C_; or on the fifth Line, which is _D_; and there the feigned Voice becomes of Use, as well in going up to the high Notes, as returning to the natural Voice; the Difficulty consists in uniting them. Let the Master therefore consider of what Moment the Correction of this Defect is, which ruins the Scholar if he overlooks it. Among the Women, one hears sometimes a _Soprano_ entirely _di Petto_, but among the Male Sex it would be a great Rarity, should they preserve it after having past the age of Puberty. Whoever would be curious to discover the feigned Voice of one who has the Art to disguise it, let him take Notice, that the Artist sounds the Vowel _i_, or _e_, with more Strength and less Fatigue than the Vowel _a_, on the high Notes. § 22. The _Voce di Testa_ has a great Volubility, more of the high than the lower Notes, and has a quick Shake, but subject to be lost for want of Strength. § 23. Let the Scholar be obliged to pronounce the Vowels distinctly, that they may be heard for such as they are. Some Singers think to pronounce the first, and you hear the second; if the Fault is not the Master's, it is of those Singers, who are scarce got out of their first Lessons; they study to sing with Affectation, as if ashamed to open their Mouths; others, on the contrary, stretching theirs too much, confound these two Vowels with the fourth, making it impossible to comprehend whether they have said _Balla_ or _Bella_, _Sesso_ or _Sasso_, _Mare_ or _More_. § 24. He should always make the Scholar sing standing, that the Voice may have all its Organization free. § 25. Let him take care, whilst he sings, that he get a graceful Posture, and make an agreeable Appearance. § 26. Let him rigorously correct all Grimaces and Tricks of the Head, of the Body, and particularly of the Mouth; which ought to be composed in a Manner (if the Sense of the Words permit it) rather inclined to a Smile, than too much Gravity. § 27. Let him always use the Scholar to the Pitch of _Lombardy_, and not that of _Rome_;[13] not only to make him acquire and preserve the high Notes, but also that he may not find it troublesome when he meets with Instruments that are tun'd high; the Pain of reaching them not only affecting the Hearer, but the Singer. Let the Master be mindful of this; for as Age advances, so the Voice declines; and, in Progress of Time, he will either sing a _Contr'Alto_, or pretending still, out of a foolish Vanity, to the Name of a _Soprano_, he will be obliged to make Application to every Composer, that the Notes may not exceed the fourth Space (_viz._, _C_) nor the Voice hold out on them. If all those, who teach the first Rudiments, knew how to make use of this Rule, and to unite the feigned to the natural Voice, there would not be now so great a scarcity of _Soprano's_. § 28. Let him learn to hold out the Notes without a Shrillness like a Trumpet, or trembling; and if at the Beginning he made him hold out every Note the length of two Bars, the Improvement would be the greater; otherwise from the natural Inclination that the Beginners have to keep the Voice in Motion, and the Trouble in holding it out, he will get a habit, and not be able to fix it, and will become subject to a Flutt'ring in the Manner of all those that sing in a very bad Taste. § 29. In the same Lessons, let him teach the Art to put forth the Voice, which consists in letting it swell by Degrees from the softest _Piano_ to the loudest _Forte_, and from thence with the same Art return from the _Forte_ to the _Piano_. A beautiful _Messa di Voce_,[14] from a Singer that uses it sparingly, and only on the open Vowels, can never fail of having an exquisite Effect. Very few of the present Singers find it to their Taste, either from the Instability of their Voice, or in order to avoid all Manner of Resemblance of the _odious Ancients_. It is, however, a manifest Injury they do to the Nightingale, who was the Origin of it, and the only thing which the Voice can well imitate. But perhaps they have found some other of the feathered Kind worthy their Imitation, that sings quite after the New Mode. § 30. Let the Master never be tired in making the Scholar _Sol-Fa_, as long as he finds it necessary; for if he should let him sing upon the Vowels too soon, he knows not how to instruct. § 31. Next, let him study on the three open Vowels, particularly on the first, but not always upon the same, as is practised now-a-days; in order, that from this frequent Exercise he may not confound one with the other, and that from hence he may the easier come to the use of the Words. § 32. The Scholar having now made some remarkable Progress, the Instructor may acquaint him with the first Embellishments of the Art, which are the _Appoggiatura's_[15] (to be spoke of next) and apply them to the Vowels. § 33. Let him learn the Manner to glide with the Vowels, and to drag the Voice gently from the high to the lower Notes, which, thro' Qualifications necessary for singing well, cannot possibly be learn'd from _Sol-fa_-ing only, and are overlooked by the Unskilful. § 34. But if he should let him sing the Words, and apply the _Appoggiatura_ to the Vowels before he is perfect in _Sol-fa_-ing, he ruins the Scholar. CHAP. II.[16] _Of the_ Appoggiatura.[17] Among all the Embellishments in the Art of Singing, there is none so easy for the Master to teach, or less difficult for the Scholar to learn, than the _Appoggiatura_. This, besides its Beauty, has obtained the sole Privilege of being heard often without tiring, provided it does not go beyond the Limits prescrib'd by Professors of good Taste. § 2. From the Time that the _Appoggiatura_ has been invented to adorn the Art of Singing, the true Reason,[18] why it cannot be used in all Places, remains yet a Secret. After having searched for it among Singers of the first Rank in vain, I considered that Musick, as a Science, ought to have its Rules, and that all Manner of Ways should be tried to discover them. I do not flatter myself that I am arrived at it; but the Judicious will see, at least that I am come near it. However, treating of a Matter wholly produced from my Observations, I should hope for more Indulgence in this Chapter than in any other. § 3. From Practice, I perceive, that from _C_ to _C_ by _B Quadro_,[19] a Voice can ascend and descend gradually with the _Appoggiatura_, passing without any the least Obstacle thro' all the five _Tones_, and the two _Semitones_, that make an _Octave_. § 4. That from every accidental _Diezis_, or Sharp, that may be found in the Scale, one can gradually rise a _Semitone_ to the nearest Note with an _Appoggiatura_, and return in the same Manner.[20] § 5. That from every Note that has a _B Quadro_, or Natural, one can ascend by _Semitones_ to every one that has a _B Molle_, or Flat, with an _Appoggiatura_.[21] § 6. But, contrarywise, my Ear tells me, that from _F_, _G_, _A_, _C_, and _D_, one cannot rise gradually with an _Appoggiatura_ by _Semitones_,[22] when any of these five _Tones_ have a Sharp annex'd to them. § 7. That one cannot pass with an _Appoggiatura_ gradually from a third _Minor_ to the Bass, to a third _Major_, nor from the third _Major_ to the third _Minor_.[23] § 8. That two consequent _Appoggiatura's_ cannot pass gradually by _Semitones_ from one _Tone_ to another.[24] § 9. That one cannot rise by _Semitone_, with an _Appoggiatura_, from any Note with a Flat.[25] § 10. And, finally, where the _Appoggiatura_ cannot ascend, it cannot descend. § 11. Practice giving us no Insight into the Reason of all these Rules, let us see if it can be found out by those who ought to account for it. § 12. Theory teaches us, that the abovementioned _Octave_ consisting of twelve unequal _Semitones_, it is necessary to distinguish the _Major_ from the _Minor_, and it sends the Student to consult the _Tetrachords_. The most conspicuous Authors, that treat of them, are not all of the same Opinion: For we find some who maintain, that from _C_ to _D_, as well as from _F_ to _G_, the _Semitones_ are equal; and mean while we are left in Suspense.[26] § 13. The Ear, however, which is the supreme Umpire in this Art, does in the _Appoggiatura_ so nicely discern the Quality of the _Semitones_, that it sufficiently distinguishes the _Semitone Major_. Therefore going so agreeably from _Mi_ to _Fa_ (that is) from _B Quadro_ to _C_, or from _E_ to _F_, one ought to conclude That to be a _Semitone Major_, as it undeniably is. But whence does it proceed, that from this very _Fa_, (that is from _F_ or _C_) I cannot rise to the next Sharp, which is also a _Semitone_? It is _Minor_, says the Ear. Therefore I take it for granted, that the Reason why the _Appoggiatura_ has not a full Liberty, is, that it cannot pass gradually to a _Semitone Minor_; submitting myself, however, to better Judgment.[27] § 14. The _Appoggiatura_ may likewise pass from one distant Note to another, provided the Skip or Interval be not deceitful; for, in that Case, whoever does not hit it sure, will show they know not how to sing.[28] § 15. Since, as I have said, it is not possible for a Singer to rise gradually with an _Appoggiatura_ to a _Semitone Minor_, Nature will teach him to rise a Tone, that from thence he may descend with an _Appoggiatura to that Semitone_; _or if he has a Mind to_ come to it without the _Appoggiatura_, to raise the Voice with a _Messa di Voce_, the Voice always rising till he reaches it.[29] § 16. If the Scholar be well instructed in this, the _Appoggiatura's_ will become so familiar to him by continual Practice, that by the Time he is come out of his first Lessons, he will laugh at those Composers that mark them, with a Design either to be thought Modern, or to shew that they understand the Art of Singing better than the Singers. If they have this Superiority over them, why do they not write down even the Graces, which are more difficult, and more essential than the _Appoggiatura's_? But if they mark them that they may acquire the glorious Name of a _Virtuoso alla Moda_, or a Composer in the new Stile, they ought at least to know, that the Addition of one Note costs little Trouble, and less Study. Poor _Italy_! pray tell me; do not the Singers now-a-days know where the _Appoggiatura's_ are to be made, unless they are pointed at with a Finger? In my Time their own Knowledge shewed it them. Eternal Shame to him who first introduced these foreign Puerilities into our Nation, renowned for teaching others the greater part of the polite Arts; particularly, that of Singing! Oh, how great a Weakness in those that follow the Example! Oh, injurious Insult to your Modern Singers, who submit to Instructions fit for Children! Let us imitate the Foreigners in those Things only, wherein they excel.[30] CHAP. III. _Of the Shake._ We meet with two most powerful Obstacles informing the _Shake_. The first embarrasses the Master; for, to this Hour there is no infallible Rule found to teach it: And the second affects the Scholar, because Nature imparts the _Shake_ but to few. The Impatience of the Master joins with the Despair of the Learner, so that they decline farther Trouble about it. But in this the Master is blameable, in not doing his Duty, by leaving the Scholar in Ignorance. One must strive against Difficulties with Patience to overcome them. § 2. Whether the _Shake_ be necessary in Singing, ask the Professors of the first Rank, who know better than any others how often they have been indebted to it; for, upon any Absence of Mind, they would have betrayed to the Publick the Sterility of their Art, without the prompt Assistance of the _Shake_. § 3. Whoever has a fine _Shake_, tho' wanting in every other Grace, always enjoys the Advantage of conducting himself without giving Distaste to the End or Cadence, where for the most part it is very essential; and who wants it, or has it imperfectly, will never be a great Singer, let his Knowledge be ever so great. § 4. The _Shake_ then, being of such Consequence, let the Master, by the Means of verbal Instructions, and Examples vocal and instrumental, strive that the Scholar may attain one that is equal, distinctly mark'd, easy, and moderately quick, which are its most beautiful Qualifications. § 5. In case the Master should not know how many sorts of _Shakes_ there are, I shall acquaint him, that the Ingenuity of the Professors hath found so many Ways, distinguishing them with different Names, that one may say there are eight Species of them.[31] § 6. The first is the _Shake Major_, from the violent Motion of two neighbouring Sounds at the Distance of a _Tone_, one of which may be called Principal, because it keeps with greater Force the Place of the Note which requires it; the other, notwithstanding it possesses in its Motion the superior Sound appears no other than an Auxiliary. From this _Shake_ all the others are derived.[32] § 7. The second is the _Shake Minor_, consisting of a Sound, and its neighbouring _Semitone Major_; and where the one or the other of these, two _Shakes_ are proper, the Compositions will easily shew. From the inferior or lower Cadences, the first, or full _Tone Shake_ is for ever excluded.[33] If the Difference of these two _Shakes_ is not easily discovered in the Singer, whenever it is with a _Semitone_, one may attribute the Cause to the want of Force of the Auxiliary to make itself heard distinctly; besides, this _Shake_ being more difficult to be beat than the other, every body does not know how to make it, as it should be, and Negligence becomes a Habit. If this _Shake_ is not distinguished in Instruments, the Fault is in the Ear.[34] § 8. The third is the _Mezzo-trillo_, or the short _Shake_, which is likewise known from its Name. One, who is Master of the first and second, with the Art of beating it a little closer, will easily learn it; ending it as soon as heard, and adding a little Brilliant. For this Reason, this _Shake_ pleases more in brisk and lively Airs than in the _Pathetick_.[35] § 9. The fourth is the rising _Shake_, which is done by making the Voice ascend imperceptibly, shaking from Comma to Comma without discovering the Rise.[36] § 10. The fifth is the descending _Shake_, which is done by making the Voice decline insensibly from Comma to Comma, shaking in such Manner that the Descent be not distinguished. These two _Shakes_, ever since true[37] Taste has prevailed, are no more in Vogue, and ought rather to be forgot than learn'd. A nice Ear equally abhorrs the ancient dry Stuff, and the modern Abuses. § 11. The sixth is the slow _Shake_, whose Quality is also denoted by its Name. He, who does not study this, in my Opinion ought not therefore to lose the Name of a good Singer; for it being only an affected Waving, that at last unites with the first and second _Shake_, it cannot, I think, please more than once.[38] § 12. The seventh is the redoubled _Shake_, which is learned by mixing a few Notes between the _Major_ or _Minor Shake_, which Interposition suffices to make several _Shakes_ of one. This is beautiful, when those few Notes, so intermixed, are sung with Force. If then it be gently formed on the high Notes of an excellent Voice,[39] perfect in this rare Quality, and not made use of too often, it cannot displease even Envy itself. § 13. The eighth is the _Trillo-Mordente_, or the _Shake_ with a _Beat_, which is a pleasing Grace in Singing, and is taught rather by Nature than by Art. This is produced with more Velocity than the others, and is no sooner born but dies. That Singer has a great Advantage, who from time to time mixes it in Passages or Divisions (of which I shall take Notice in the proper Chapter). He, who understands his Profession, rarely fails of using it after the _Appoggiatura_; and he, who despises it, is guilty of more than Ignorance.[40] § 14. Of all these _Shakes_, the two first are most necessary, and require most the Application of the Master. I know too well that it is customary to sing without _Shakes_; but the Example, of those who study but superficially, ought not to be imitated. § 15. The _Shake_, to be beautiful, requires to be prepared, though, on some Occasions, Time or Taste will not permit it. But on final Cadences, it is always necessary, now on the Tone, now on the _Semitone_ above its Note, according to the Nature of the Composition. § 16. The Defects of the _Shake_ are many. The long holding-out _Shake_ triumph'd formerly, and very improperly, as now the Divisions do; but when the Art grew refined, it was left to the Trumpets, or to those Singers that waited for the Eruption of an _E Viva_! or _Bravo_! from the Populace. That _Shake_ which is too often heard, be it ever so fine, cannot please. That which is beat with an uneven Motion disgusts; that like the Quivering of a Goat makes one laugh; and that in the Throat is the worst: That which is produced by a Tone and its third, is disagreeable; the Slow is tiresome; and that which is out of Tune is hideous. § 17. The Necessity of the _Shake_ obliges the Master to keep the Scholar applied to it upon all the Vowels, and on all the Notes he possesses; not only on Minims or long Notes, but likewise on Crotchets, where in Process of Time he may learn the _Close Shake_, the _Beat_, and the Forming them with Quickness in the Midst of the Volubility of Graces and Divisions. § 18. After the free Use of the _Shake_, let the Master observe if the Scholar has the same Facility in disusing it; for he would not be the first that could not leave it off at Pleasure. § 19. But the teaching where the _Shake_ is convenient, besides those on[41] Cadences, and where they are improper and forbid, is a Lesson reserv'd for those who have Practice, Taste, and Knowledge. CHAP. IV. _On_ Divisions. Tho' _Divisions_ have not Power sufficient to touch the Soul, but the most they can do is to raise our Admiration of the Singer for the happy Flexibility of his Voice; it is, however, of very great Moment, that the Master instruct the Scholar in them, that he may be Master of them with an easy Velocity and true Intonation; for when they are well executed in their proper Place, they deserve Applause, and make a Singer more universal; that is to say, capable to sing in any Stile. § 2. By accustoming the Voice of a Learner to be lazy and dragging, he is rendered incapable of any considerable Progress in his Profession. Whosoever has not the Agility of Voice, in Compositions of a quick or lively Movement, becomes odiously tiresome; and at last retards the Time so much, that every thing he sings appears to be out of Tune. § 3. _Division_, according to the general Opinion, is of two Kinds, the Mark'd, and the Gliding; which last, from its Slowness and Dragging, ought rather to be called a Passage or Grace, than a _Division_. § 4. In regard to the first, the Master ought to teach the Scholar that light Motion of the Voice, in which the Notes that constitute the Division be all articulate in equal Proportion, and moderately distinct, that they be not too much join'd, nor too much mark'd.[42] § 5. The second is perform'd in such a Manner that the first Note is a Guide to all that follow, closely united, gradual, and with such Evenness of Motion, that in Singing it imitates a certain Gliding, by the Masters called a _Slur_; the Effect of which is truly agreeable when used sparingly.[43] § 6. The _mark'd Divisions_, being more frequently used than the others, require more Practice. § 7. The Use of the _Slur_ is pretty much limited in Singing, and is confined within such few Notes ascending or descending, that it cannot go beyond a fourth without displeasing. It seems to me to be more grateful to the Ear descending, than in the contrary Motion. § 8. The _Dragg_ consists in a Succession of divers Notes, artfully mixed with the _Forte_ and _Piano_. The Beauty of which I shall speak of in another Place. § 9. If the Master hastens insensibly the Time when the Scholar sings the _Divisions_, he will find that there is not a more effectual way to unbind the Voice, and bring it to a Volubility; being however cautious, that this imperceptible Alteration do not grow by Degrees into a vicious Habit. § 10. Let him teach to hit the _Divisions_ with the same Agility in ascending gradually, as in descending; for though this seems to be an Instruction fit only for a Beginner, yet we do not find every Singer able to perform it. § 11. After the gradual _Divisions_, let him learn to hit, with the greatest Readiness, all those that are of difficult Intervals, that, being in Tune and Time, they may with Justice deserve our Attention. The Study of this Lesson demands more Time and Application than any other, not so much for the great Difficulty in attaining it, as the important Consequences that attend it; and, in Fact, a Singer loses all Fear when the most difficult _Divisions_ are become familiar to him. § 12. Let him not be unmindful to teach the Manner of mixing the _Piano_ with the _Forte_ in the _Divisions_; the _Glidings_ or _Slurs_ with the _Mark'd_, and to intermix the _Close Shake_; especially on the pointed Notes, provided they be not too near one another; making by this Means every Embellishment of the Art appear. § 13. Of all the Instructions relating to _Divisions_, the most considerable seems to be That, which teaches to unite the _Beats_ and _short Shake_ with them; and that the Master point out to him, how to execute them with Exactness of Time, and the Places where they have the best Effect: But this being not so proper for one who teaches only the first Rules, and still less for him that begins to learn them, it would be better to have postponed this (as perhaps I should have done) did I not know, that there are Scholars of so quick Parts, that in a few Years become most excellent Singers, and that there is no want of Masters qualified to instruct Disciples of the most promising Genius; besides, it appeared to me an Impropriety in this Chapter on _Divisions_ (in which the _Beats_ and _Close Shake_ appear with greater Lustre than any other Grace) not to make Mention of them. § 14. Let the Scholar not be suffered to sing _Divisions_ with Unevenness of Time or Motion; and let him be corrected if he marks them with the Tongue, or with the Chin, or any other Grimace of the Head or Body. § 15. Every Master knows, that on the third and fifth Vowel, the _Divisions_ are the worst; but every one does not know, that in the best Schools the second and fourth were not permitted, when these two Vowels are pronounced close or united. § 16. There are many Defects in the _Divisions_, which it is necessary to know, in order to avoid them; for, besides that of the Nose or the Throat, and the others already mentioned, those are likewise displeasing which are neither mark'd nor gliding; for in that Case they cannot be said to sing, but howl and roar. There are some still more ridiculous, who mark them above Measure, and with Force of Voice, thinking (for Example) to make a _Division_ upon _A_, it appears as if they said _Ha_, _Ha_, _Ha_, or _Gha_, _Gha_, _Gha_; and the same upon the other Vowels. The worst Fault of all is singing them out of Tune. § 17. The Master should know, that though a good Voice put forth with Ease grows better, yet by too swift a Motion in _Divisions_ it becomes an indifferent one, and sometimes by the Negligence of the Master, to the Prejudice of the Scholar, it is changed into a very bad one. § 18. _Divisions_ and _Shakes_ in a _Siciliana_ are Faults, and _Glidings_ and _Draggs_ are Beauties. § 19. The sole and entire Beauty of the _Division_ consists in its being perfectly in Tune, mark'd, equal, distinct, and quick. § 20. _Divisions_ have the like Fate with the _Shakes_; both equally delight in their Place; but if not properly introduced, the too frequent Repetition of them becomes tedious if not odious. § 21. After the Scholar has made himself perfect in the _Shake_ and the _Divisions_, the Master should let him read and pronounce the Words, free from those gross and ridiculous Errors of Orthography, by which many deprive one Word of its double Consonant, and add one to another, in which it is single.[44] § 22. After having corrected the Pronunciation, let him take Care that the Words be uttered in such a Manner, without any Affectation that they be distinctly understood, and no one Syllable be lost; for if they are not distinguished, the Singer deprives the Hearer of the greatest Part of that Delight which vocal Musick conveys by Means of the Words. For, if the Words are not heard so as to be understood, there will be no great Difference between a human Voice and a Hautboy. This Defect, tho' one of the greatest, is now-a-days more than common, to the greatest Disgrace of the Professors and the Profession; and yet they ought to know, that the Words only give the Preference to a Singer above an instrumental Performer, admitting them to be of equal Judgment and Knowledge. Let the modern Master learn to make use of this Advice, for never was it more necessary than at present. § 23. Let him exercise the Scholar to be very ready in joining the Syllables to the Notes, that he may never be at a Loss in doing it. § 24. Let him forbid the Scholar to take Breath in the Middle of a Word, because the dividing it in two is an Error against Nature; which must not be followed, if we would avoid being laugh'd at. In interrupted Movements, or in long _Divisions_, it is not so rigorously required, when the one or the other cannot be sung in one Breath. Anciently such Cautions were not necessary, but for the Learners of the first Rudiments; now the Abuse, having taken its Rise in the modern Schools, gathers Strength, and is grown familiar with those who pretend to Eminence. The Master may correct this Fault, in teaching the Scholar to manage his Respiration, that he may always be provided with more Breath than is needful; and may avoid undertaking what, for want of it, he cannot go through with. § 25. Let him shew, in all sorts of Compositions, the proper Place where to take Breath, and without Fatigue; because there are Singers who give Pain to the Hearer, as if they had an Asthma taking Breath every Moment with Difficulty, as if they were breathing their last. § 26. Let the Master create some Emulation in a Scholar that is negligent, inciting him to study the Lesson of his Companion, which sometimes goes beyond Genius; because, if instead of one Lesson he hears two, and the Competition does not discountenance him, he may perhaps come to learn his Companion's Lesson first, and then his own. § 27. Let him never suffer the Scholar to hold the Musick-Paper, in Singing, before his Face, both that the Sound of the Voice may not be obstructed, and to prevent him from being bashful. § 28. Let him accustom the Scholar to sing often in presence of Persons of Distinction, whether from Birth, Quality, or Eminence in the Profession, that by gradually losing his Fear, he may acquire an Assurance, but not a Boldness. Assurance leads to a Fortune, and in a Singer becomes a Merit. On the contrary, the Fearful is most unhappy; labouring under the Difficulty of fetching Breath, the Voice is always trembling, and obliged to lose Time at every Note for fear of being choaked; He gives us Pain, in not being able to shew his Ability in publick; disgusts the Hearer, and ruins the Compositions in such a Manner, that they are not known to be what they are. A timorous Singer is unhappy, like a Prodigal, who is miserably poor. § 29. Let not the Master neglect to shew him, how great their Error is who make _Shakes_ or _Divisions_, or take Breath on the _syncopated_ or _binding_ Notes; and how much better Effect the holding out the Voice has. The Compositions, instead of losing, acquire thereby greater Beauty.[45] § 30. Let the Master instruct him in the _Forte_ and _Piano_, but so as to use him more to the first than the second, it being easier to make one sing soft than loud. Experience shews that the _Piano_ is not to be trusted to, since it is prejudicial though pleasing; and if any one has a Mind to lose his Voice, let him try it. On this Subject some are of Opinion, that there is an artificial _Piano_, that can make itself be heard as much as the _Forte_; but that is only Opinion, which is the Mother of all Errors. It is not Art which is the Cause that the _Piano_ of a good Singer is heard, but the profound Silence and Attention of the Audience. For a Proof of this, let any indifferent Singer be silent on the Stage for a Quarter of a Minute when he should sing, the Audience, curious to know the Reason of this unexpected Pause, are hush'd in such a Manner, that if in that Instant he utter one Word with a soft Voice, it would be heard even by those at the greatest Distance. § 31. Let the Master remember, that whosoever does not sing to the utmost Rigour of Time, deserves not the Esteem of the Judicious; therefore let him take Care, there be no Alteration or Diminution in it, if he pretends to teach well, and to make an excellent Scholar. § 32. Though in certain Schools, Books of Church-Musick and of _Madrigals_ lie buried in Dust, a good Master would wipe it off; for they are the most effectual Means to make a Scholar ready and sure. If Singing was not for the most part performed by Memory, as is customary in these Days, I doubt whether certain Professors could deserve the Name of Singers of the first Rank.[46] § 33. Let him encourage the Scholar if he improves; let him mortify him, without Beating, for Indolence; let him be more rigorous for Negligences; nor let the Scholar ever end a Lesson without having profited something. § 34. An Hour of Application in a Day is not sufficient, even for one of the quickest Apprehension; the Master therefore should consider how much more Time is necessary for one that has not the same Quickness, and how much he is obliged to consult the Capacity of his Scholar. From a mercenary Teacher this necessary Regard is not to be hoped for; expected by other Scholars, tired with the Fatigue, and solicited by his Necessities, he thinks the Month long; looks on his Watch, and goes away. If he be but poorly paid for his Teaching,--a God-b'wy to him. CHAP. V. _Of_ Recitative. _Recitative_ is of three Kinds, and ought to be taught in three different Manners. § 2. The first, being used in Churches, should be sung as becomes the Sanctity of the Place, which does not admit those wanton Graces of a lighter Stile; but requires some _Messa di Voce_, many _Appoggiatura's_, and a noble Majesty throughout. But the Art of expressing it, is not to be learned, but from the affecting Manner of those who devoutly dedicate their Voices to the Service of God. § 3. The second is Theatrical, which being always accompanied with Action by the Singer, the Master is obliged to teach the Scholar a certain natural Imitation, which cannot be beautiful, if not expressed with that Decorum with which Princes speak, or those who know how to speak to Princes. § 4. The last, according to the Opinion of the most Judicious, touches the Heart more than the others, and is called _Recitativo di Camera_. This requires a more peculiar Skill, by reason of the Words, which being, for the most part, adapted to move the most violent Passions of the Soul, oblige the Master to give the Scholar such a lively Impression of them, that he may seem to be affected with them himself. The Scholar having finished his Studies, it will be but too[47] easily discovered if he stands in Need of this Lesson. The vast Delight, which the Judicious feel, is owing to this particular Excellence, which, without the Help of the usual Ornaments, produces all this Pleasure from itself; and, let Truth prevail, where Passion speaks, all _Shakes_, all _Divisions_ and _Graces_ ought to be silent, leaving it to the sole Force of a beautiful Expression to persuade. § 5. The Church _Recitative_ yields more Liberty to the Singer than the other two, particularly in the final Cadence; provided he makes the Advantage of it that a Singer should do, and not as a Player on the Violin. § 6. The Theatrical leaves it not in our Election to make Use of this Art, lest we offend in the Narrative, which ought to be natural, unless in a _Soliloquy_, where it may be in the Stile of Chamber-Musick. § 7. The third abstains from great part of the Solemnity of the first, and contents itself with more of the second. § 8. The Defects and unsufferable Abuses which are heard in _Recitatives_, and not known to those who commit them, are innumerable. I will take Notice of several Theatrical ones, that the Master may correct them. § 9. There are some who sing _Recitative_ on the Stage like That of the Church or Chamber; some in a perpetual Chanting, which is insufferable; some over-do it and make it a Barking; some whisper it, and some sing it confusedly; some force out the last Syllable, and some sink it; some sing it blust'ring, and some as if they were thinking of something else; some in a languishing Manner; others in a Hurry; some sing it through the Teeth, and others with Affectation; some do not pronounce the Words, and others do not express them; some sing as if laughing, and some crying; some speak it, and some hiss it; some hallow, bellow, and sing it out of Tune; and, together with their Offences against Nature, are guilty of the greatest Fault, in thinking themselves above Correction. § 10. The _modern_ Masters run over with Negligence their Instructions in all Sorts of _Recitatives_, because in these Days the Study of Expression is looked upon as unnecessary, or despised as _ancient_: And yet they must needs see every Day, that besides the indispensable Necessity of knowing how to sing them, These even teach how to act. If they will not believe it, let them observe, without flattering themselves, if among their Pupils they can show an Actor of equal Merit with _Cortona_ in the Tender;[48] of Baron _Balarini_ in the Imperious; or other famous Actors that at present appear, tho' I name them not; having determined in these Observations, not to mention any that are living, in whatsoever Degree of Perfection they be, though I esteem them as they deserve. § 11. A Master, that disregards _Recitative_, probably does not understand the Words, and then, how can he ever instruct a Scholar in Expression, which is the Soul of vocal Performance, and without which it is impossible to sing well? Poor _Gentlemen Masters_ who direct and instruct Beginners, without reflecting on the utter Destruction you bring on the Science, in undermining the principal Foundations of it! If you know not that the _Recitatives_, especially in the vulgar or known Language, require those Instructions relative to the Force of the Words, I would advise you to renounce the Name, and Office of _Masters_, to those who can maintain them; your Scholars will otherwise be made a Sacrifice to Ignorance, and not knowing how to distinguish the Lively from the Pathetick, or the Vehement from the Tender, it will be no wonder if you see them stupid on the Stage, and senseless in a Chamber. To speak my Mind freely, yours and their Faults are unpardonable; it is insufferable to be any longer tormented in the Theatres with _Recitatives_, sung in the Stile of a Choir of _Capuchin_ Friars. § 12. The reason, however, of not giving more expression to the _Recitative_, in the manner of those called _Antients_, does not always proceed from the Incapacity of the Master, or the Negligence of the Singer, but from the little Knowledge of the _modern_ Composers (we must except some of Merit) who set it in so unnatural a Taste, that it is not to be taught, acted or sung. In Justification of the Master and the Singer let Reason decide. To blame the Composer, the same Reason forbids me entering into a Matter too high for my low Understanding, and wisely bids me consider the little Insight I can boast of, barely sufficient for a Singer, or to write plain Counterpoint. But when I consider I have undertaken in these Observations, to procure diverse Advantages to vocal Performers, should I not speak of a Composition, a Subject so necessary, I should be guilty of a double Fault. My Doubts in this Perplexity are resolved by the Reflection, that _Recitatives_ have no Relation to Counterpoint. If That be so, what Professor knows not, that many theatrical _Recitatives_ would be excellent if they were not confused one with another; if they could be learned by Heart; if they were not deficient in respect of adapting the Musick to the Words; if they did not frighten those who sing them, and hear them, with unnatural Skips; if they did not offend the Ear and Rules with the worst Modulations; if they did not disgust a good Taste with a perpetual Sameness; if, with their cruel Turns and Changes of Keys, they did not pierce one to the Heart; and, finally, if the Periods were not crippled by them who know neither Point nor Comma? I am astonished that such as these do not, for their Improvement, endeavour to imitate the _Recitatives_ of those Authors, who represent in them a lively image of Nature, by Sounds which of themselves express the Sense, as much as the very Words. But to what Purpose do I show this Concern about it? Can I expect that these Reasons, with all their Evidences, will be found good, when, even in regard to Musick, Reason itself is no more in the _Mode_? Custom has great Power. She arbitrarily releases her Followers from the Observance of the true Rules, and obliges them to no other Study than that of the _Ritornello's_, and will not let them uselessly employ their precious Time in the Application to _Recitative_, which, according to her Precepts, are the work of the Pen, not of the Mind. If it be Negligence or Ignorance, I know not; but I know very well, that the Singers do not find their Account in it. § 13. Much more might still be[49] said on the Compositions of _Recitative_ in general, by reason of that tedious chanting that offends the Ear, with a thousand broken Cadences in every Opera, which Custom has established, though they are without Taste or Art. To reform them all, would be worse than the Disease; the introducing every time a final Cadence would be wrong: But if in these two Extremes a Remedy were necessary I should think, that among an hundred broken Cadences, ten of them, briefly terminated on Points that conclude a Period, would not be ill employed. The Learned, however, do not declare themselves upon it, and from their Silence I must hold myself condemned. § 14. I return to the Master, only to put him in Mind, that his Duty is to teach Musick; and if the Scholar, before he gets out of his Hands, does not sing readily and at Sight, the Innocent is injured without Remedy from the Guilty. § 15. If after these Instructions, the Master does really find himself capable of communicating to his Scholar Things of greater Moment, and what may concern his farther Progress, he ought immediately to initiate him in the Study of Church-Airs, in which he must lay aside all the theatrical effeminate Manner, and sing in a manly Stile; for which Purpose he will provide him with different natural and easy _Motets_[50] grand and genteel, mix'd with the Lively and the Pathetick, adapted to the Ability he has discovered in him, and by frequent Lessons make him become perfect in them with Readiness and Spirit. At the same time he must be careful that the Words be well pronounced, and perfectly understood; that the _Recitatives_ be expressed with Strength, and supported without Affectation; that in the Airs he be not wanting in Time, and in introducing some Graces of good Taste; and, above all, that the final Cadences of the _Motets_ be performed with Divisions distinct, swift, and in Tune. After this he will teach him that Manner, the Taste of _Cantata's_ requires, in order, by this Exercise, to discover the Difference between one Stile and another. If, after this, the Master is satisfied with his Scholar's Improvement, yet let him not think to make him sing in Publick, before he has the Opinion of such Persons, who know more of singing than of flattering; because, they not only will chuse such Compositions proper to do him Honour and Credit, but also will correct in him those Defects and Errors, which out of Oversight or Ignorance the Master had not perceived or corrected. § 16. If Masters did consider, that from our first appearing in the Face of the World, depends our acquiring Fame and Courage, they would not so blindly expose their Pupils to the Danger of falling at the first Step. § 17. But if the Master's Knowledge extends no farther than the foregoing Rules, then ought he in conscience to desist, and to recommend the Scholar to better Instructions. However, before the Scholar arrives at this, it will not be quite unnecessary to discourse with him in the following Chapters, and if his Age permits him not to understand me, those, who have the Care of him, may. CHAP. VI. _Observations for a Student._ Before entering on the extensive and difficult Study of the _Florid_, or _figured Song_, it is necessary to consult the Scholar's Genius; for if Inclination opposes, it is impossible to force it, and when That incites, the Scholar proceeds with Ease and Pleasure. § 2. Supposing, then, that the Scholar is earnestly desirous of becoming a Master in so agreable a Profession, and being fully instructed in these tiresome Rudiments, besides many others that may have slipt my weak Memory; after a strict Care of his Morals, he should give the rest of his Attention to the Study of singing in Perfection, that by this Means he may be so happy as to join the most noble Qualities of the Soul to the Excellencies of his Art. § 3. He that studies Singing must consider that Praise or Disgrace depends very much on his Voice which if he has a Mind to preserve he must abstain from all Manner of Disorders, and all violent Diversions. § 4. Let him be able to read perfectly, that he may not be put to Shame for so scandalous an Ignorance. Oh, how many are there, who had need to learn the Alphabet! § 5. In case the Master knows not how to correct the Faults in Pronunciation, let the Scholar endeavour to learn the best by some other Means; because the not being born[51] in _Tuscany_, will not excuse the Singer's Imperfection. § 6. Let him likewise very carefully endeavour to correct all other Faults that the Negligence of his Master may have passed over. § 7. With the Study of Musick, let him learn also at least the Grammar, to understand the Words he is to sing in Churches, and to give the proper Force to the Expression in both Languages. I believe I may be so bold to say, that divers Professors do not even understand their own Tongue, much less the _Latin_.[52] § 8. Let him continually, by himself, use his Voice to a Velocity of Motion, if he thinks to have a Command over it, and that he may not go by the Name of a pathetick Singer. § 9. Let him not omit frequently to put forth, and to stop, the Voice, that it may always be at his Command. § 10. Let him repeat his Lesson at Home, till he knows it perfectly; and with a local Memory let him retain it, to save his Master the Trouble of Teaching, and himself of studying it over again. § 11. Singing requires so strict an Application, that one must study with the Mind, when one cannot with the Voice. § 12. The unwearied Study of Youth is sure to overcome all Obstacles that oppose, though Defects were suck'd in with our Mother's Milk. This Opinion of mine is subject to strong Objections; however, Experience will defend it, provided he corrects himself in time. But if he delays it, the older he grows the more his Faults will increase. § 13. Let him hear as much as he can the most celebrated Singers, and likewise the most excellent instrumental Performers; because, from the Attention in hearing them, one reaps more Advantage than from any Instruction whatsoever. § 14. Let him endeavour to copy from Both, that he may insensibly, by the Study of others, get a good Taste. This advice, though extremely useful to a Student, is notwithstanding infinitely prejudicial to a Singer, as I shall shew in its proper Place[53]. § 15. Let him often sing the most agreable Compositions of the best Authors, and accustom the Ear to that which pleases. I'd have a Student know, that by the abovementioned Imitations, and by the Idea of good Compositions, the Taste in Time becomes Art, and Art Nature. § 16. Let him learn to accompany himself, if he is ambitious of singing well. The Harpsichord is a great Incitement to Study, and by it we continually improve in our Knowledge. The evident Advantage arising to the Singer from that lovely Instrument, makes it superfluous to say more on that Head. Moreover, it often happens to one who cannot play, that without the Help of another he cannot be heard, and is thereby to his Shame obliged to deny the Commands of those whom it would be to his Advantage to obey. § 17. Till a Singer pleases himself, it is certain he cannot please others. Therefore consider, if some Professors of no small Skill have not this Pleasure for want of sufficient Application, what must the Scholar do? Study,--and study again, and not be satisfied. § 18. I am almost of Opinion, that all Study and Endeavours to sing are infallibly vain, if not accompanied with some little Knowledge of Counterpoint. One, who knows how to compose, can account for what he does, and he, who has not the same Light, works in the Dark, not knowing how to sing without committing Errors. The most famous _Ancients_ know the intrinsick Value of this Precept from the Effects. And a good Scholar ought to imitate them, without considering whether this Lesson be according to the _Mode_ or not For though, in these Days, one now and then hears admirable Performances, proceeding from a natural Taste, yet they are all done by Chance; but where that Taste is wanting, if they are not execrable, at least they will be very bad: For Fortune not being always at their Command, they cannot be sure to agree, neither with Time nor Harmony. This Knowledge, although requisite, I would not however advise a Scholar to give himself up to an intense Application, it being certain, I should teach him the readiest way to lose his Voice, but I exhort him only to learn the principal Rules, that he may not be quite in the Dark.[54] § 19. To study much, and preserve a Voice in its full Beauty, are two Things almost incompatible; there is between them such a sort of Amity, as cannot last without being prejudicial to the one or the other. However, if one reflects, that Perfection in a Voice is a Gift of Nature, and in Art a painful Acquisition, it will indeed be allowed, that this latter excels in Merit, and more deserves our Praise. § 20. Whoever studies, let him look for what is most excellent, and let him look for it wherever it is, without troubling himself whether it be in the Stile of fifteen or twenty Years ago, or in that of these Days; for all Ages have their good and bad Productions. It is enough to find out the best, and profit by them. § 21. To my irreparable Misfortune, I am old; but were I young, I would imitate as much as possibly I could the _Cantabile_ of those who are branded with the opprobrious Name of _Ancients_; and the _Allegro_ of those who enjoy the delightful Appellation of _Moderns_. Though my Wish is vain as to myself, it will be of Use to a prudent Scholar, who is desirous to be expert in both Manners, which is the only way to arrive at Perfection; but if one was to chuse, I should freely, without Fear of being tax'd with Partiality, advise him to attach himself to the Taste of the first.[55] § 22. Each Manner of Singing hath a different Degree of Eminence; the Nervous and Strong is distinguished from the Puerile and Weak, as is the Noble from the Vulgar. § 23. A Student must not hope for Applause, if he has not an utter Abhorrence of Ignorance. § 24. Whoever does not aspire to the first Rank, begins already to give up the second, and by little and little will rest contented with the lowest. § 25. If, out of a particular Indulgence to the sex, so many female Singers have the Graces set down in Writing, one that studies to become a good Singer should not follow the Example; whoever accustoms himself to have Things put in his Mouth, will have no Invention, and becomes a Slave to his Memory. § 26. If the Scholar should have any Defects, of the Nose, the Throat, or of the Ear, let him never sing but when the Master is by, or somebody that understands the Profession, in order to correct him, otherwise he will get an ill Habit, past all Remedy. § 27. When he studies his Lesson at Home, let him sometimes sing before a Looking-glass, not to be enamoured with his own Person, but to avoid those convulsive Motions of the Body, or of the Face (for so I call the Grimaces of an affected Singer) which, when once they have took Footing, never leave him. § 28. The best Time for Study is with the rising of the Sun; but those, who are obliged to study, must employ all their Time which can be spared from their other necessary Affairs. § 29. After a long Exercise, and the Attainment of a true Intonation, of a _Messa di Voce_, of _Shakes_, of _Divisions_, and _Recitative_ well expressed, if the Scholar perceives that his Master cannot teach him all the Perfection of Execution required in the more refined Art of singing the Airs, or if he cannot always be by his Side, then will he begin to be sensible of the Need he has of that Study, in which the best Singer in the World is still a Learner, and must be his own Master. Supposing this Reflection just, I advise him for his first Insight, to read the following Chapter, in order thereby to reap greater Advantage from those that can sing the _Airs_, and teach to sing them. CHAP. VII. _Of_ Airs. If whoever introduced the Custom of repeating the first Part of the _Air_ (which is called _Da Capo_) did it out of a Motive to show the Capacity of the Singer, in varying the Repetition, the Invention cannot be blam'd by Lovers of Musick; though in respect of the Words it is sometimes an Impropriety.[56] § 2. By the _Ancients_ beforementioned, _Airs_ were sung in three different Manners; for the Theatre, the Stile was lively and various; for the Chamber, delicate and finish'd; and for the Church, moving and grave. This Difference, to very many _Moderns_, is quite unknown. § 3. A Singer is under the greatest Obligation to the Study of the _Airs_; for by them he gains or loses his Reputation. To the acquiring this valuable, Art, a few verbal Lessons cannot suffice; nor would it be of any great Profit to the Scholar, to have a great Number of _Airs_, in which a Thousand of the most exquisite Passages of different Sorts were written down: For they would not serve for all Purposes, and there would always be wanting that Spirit which accompanies extempore Performances, and is preferable to all servile Imitations. All (I think) that can be said, is to recommend to him an attentive Observation of the Art, with which the best Singers regulate themselves to the Bass, whereby he will become acquainted with their Perfections, and improve by them. In order to make his Observations with the greater Exactness, let him follow the Example of a Friend of mine, who never went to an Opera without a Copy of all the Songs, and, observing the finest Graces, confin'd to the most exact Time of the Movement of the Bass, he made thereby a great Progress.[57] § 4. Among the Things worthy of Consideration, the first to be taken Notice of, is the Manner in which all _Airs_ divided into three Parts are to be sung. In the first they require nothing but the simplest Ornaments, of a good Taste and few, that the Composition may remain simple, plain, and pure; in the second they expect, that to this Purity some artful Graces[58] be added, by which the Judicious may hear, that the Ability of the Singer is greater; and, in, repeating the _Air_, he that does not vary it for the better, is no great Master. § 5. Let a Student therefore accustom himself to repeat them always differently, for, if I mistake not, one that abounds in Invention, though a moderate Singer, deserves much more Esteem, than a better who is barren of it; for this last pleases the Connoisseurs but for once, whereas the other, if he does not surprise by the Rareness of his Productions, will at least gratify your Attention with Variety.[59] § 6. The most celebrated among the _Ancients_ piqued themselves in varying every Night their Songs in the Opera's, not only the _Pathetick_, but also the _Allegro_. The Student, who is not well grounded, cannot undertake this important Task. § 7. Without varying the _Airs_, the Knowledge of the Singers could never be discovered; but from the Nature and Quality of the Variations, it will be easily discerned in two of the greatest Singers which is the best. § 8. Returning from this Digression to the abovementioned, repeating the first Part of the _Air_ with Variation, the Scholar will therein find out the Rules for Gracing, and introducing Beauties of his own Invention: These will teach him, that Time, Taste, and Skill, are sometimes of but small Advantage to one who is not ready at _extempore_ Embellishments; but they should not allow, that a Superfluity of them should prejudice the Composition, and confound the Ear.[60] § 9. Let a Scholar provide himself with a Variety of Graces and Embellishments, and then let him make use of them with Judgment; for if he observes, he will find that the most celebrated Singers never make a Parade of their Talent in a few Songs; well knowing, that if Singers expose to the Publick all they have in their Shops, they are near becoming Bankrupts. § 10. In the Study of _Airs_, as I have before said, one cannot take Pains enough; for, though certain Things of small Effect may be omitted, yet how can the Art be called perfect if the Finishing is wanted. § 11. In _Airs_ accompanied only a Bass, the Application of him who studies Graces is only subject to Time, and to the Bass; but in those, that are accompanied with more Instruments, the Singer must be also attentive to their Movement, in order to avoid the Errors committed by those who are ignorant of the Contrivance of such Accompaniments. § 12. To prevent several false Steps in singing the _Airs_, I would strongly inculcate to a Student, first, never to give over practising in private, till he is secure of committing no Error in Publick; and next, that at the first Rehearsal the _Airs_ be sung without any other Ornaments than those which are very natural; but with a strict Attention, to examine at the same time in his Mind, where the artificial ones may be brought in with Propriety in the second; and so from one Rehearsal to another, always varying for the better, he will by Degrees become a great Singer. § 13. The most necessary Study for singing _Airs_ in Perfection, and what is more difficult than any other, is to seek for what is easy and natural, as well as of beautiful Inventions. One who has the good Fortune to unite such two rare Talents, with an agreeable _putting forth_ of the Voice, is a very happy Singer. § 14. Let him, who studies under the Disadvantage of an ungrateful Genius, remember for his Comfort, that singing in Tune, Expression, _Messa di Voce_, the _Appoggiatura's_, _Shakes_, _Divisions_, and accompanying himself, are the principal Qualifications; and no such insuperable Difficulties, but what may be overcome. I know, they are not sufficient to enable one to sing in Perfection; and that it would be Weakness to content one's self with only singing tolerably well; but Embellishments must be called in to their aid, which seldom refuse the Call, and sometimes come unsought. Study will do the business. § 15. Let him avoid all those Abuses which have overspread and established themselves in the _Airs_, if he will preserve Musick in its Chastity. § 16. Not only a Scholar, but every Singer ought to forbear _Caricatura's_, or mimicking others, from the very bad Consequences that attend them. To make others laugh, hardly gains any one Esteem, but certainly gives Offence; for no-body likes to appear ridiculous or ignorant. This Mimicking arises for the most part from a concealed Ambition to shew their own Merit, at another's Expence; not without a Mixture of Envy and Spight. Examples shew us but too plainly the great Injury they are apt to do, and that it well deserves Reproof; for Mimickry has ruin'd more than one Singer. § 17. I cannot sufficiently recommend to a Student the exact keeping of Time; and if I repeat the same in more than one place, there is more than one Occasion that moves me to it; because, even among the Professors of the first Rank there are few, but what are almost insensibly deceived into an Irregularity, or hastening of Time, and often of both; which though in the Beginning is hardly perceptible, yet in the Progress of the _Air_ becomes more and more so, and at the last the Variation, and the Error is discovered. § 18. If I do not advise a Student to imitate several of the _Moderns_ in their Manner of singing _Airs_, it is from their Neglect of keeping Time, which ought to be inviolable, and not sacrificed to their beloved Passages and Divisions. § 19. The Presumption of some Singers is not to be borne with, who expect that an whole _Orchestre_ should stop in the midst of a well-regulated Movement, to wait for their ill-grounded Caprices, learned by Heart, carried from one Theatre to another, and perhaps stolen from some applauded female Singer, who had better Luck than Skill, and whose Errors were excused in regard to her Sex.----Softly, softly with your Criticism, says one; this, if you do not know it, is called Singing after the _Mode_----Singing after the _Mode_?----I say, you are mistaken. The stopping in the _Airs_ at every second and fourth, and on all the sevenths and sixths of the Bass, was a bad Practice of the ancient Masters, disapproved fifty Years ago by _Rivani_, called _Ciecolino_,[61] who with invincible Reasons shewed the proper Places for Embellishments, without begging Pauses. This Percept was approved by several eminent Persons, among whom was Signer _Pistochi_,[62] the most famous of our, and all preceding Times, who has made himself immortal, by shewing the way of introducing Graces without transgressing against Time. This Example alone, which is worth a Thousand (O my rever'd _Moderns_!) should be sufficient to undeceive you. But if this does not satisfy you, I will add, that _Sifacio_[63] with his mellifluous Voice embrac'd this Rule; that _Buzzolini_[64] of incomparable Judgment highly esteemed it: After them _Luigino_[65] with his soft and amorous Stile followed their Steps; likewise _Signora Boschi_[66] who, to the Glory of her Sex, has made it appear, that Women, who study, may instruct even Men of some Note. That _Signora Lotti_,[67] strictly keeping to the same Rules, with a penetrating Sweetness of Voice, gained the Hearts of all her Hearers. If Persons of this Rank, and others at present celebrated all over _Europe_, whom I forbear to name; if all these have not Authority enough to convince you, that you have no Right to alter the Time by making Pauses, consider at least, that by this Error in respect of Time, you often fall into a greater, which is, that the Voice remains unaccompanied, and deprived of Harmony; and thereby becomes flat and tiresome to the best Judges. You will perhaps say in Excuse, that few Auditors have this Discernment, and that there are Numbers of the others, who blindly applaud every thing that has an Appearance of Novelty. But whose fault is this? An Audience that applauds what is blameable, cannot justify your Faults by their Ignorance; it is your Part to set them right, and, laying aside your ill-grounded Practice, you should own, that the Liberties you take are against Reason, and an insult upon all those instrumental Performers that are waiting for you, who are upon a Level with you, and ought to be subservient only to the Time. In short, I would have you reflect, that the abovementioned Precept will always be of Advantage to you; for though under the neglecting of it, you have a Chance to gain Applause of the Ignorant only; by observing it, you will justly merit that of the Judicious, and the Applause will become universal. § 20. Besides the Errors in keeping Time, there are other Reasons, why a Student should not imitate the _modern_ Gentlemen in singing _Airs_, since it plainly appears that all their Application now is to divide and subdivide in such a Manner, that it is impossible to understand either Words, Thoughts, or Modulation, or to distinguish one _Air_ from another, they singing them all so much alike, that, in hearing of one, you hear a Thousand.----And must the _Mode_ triumph? It was thought, not many Years since, that in an Opera, one rumbling _Air_, full of Divisions was sufficient for the most gurgling Singer to spend his Fire[68]; but the Singers of the present Time are not of that Mind, but rather, as if they were not satisfied with transforming them all with a horrible Metamorphosis into so many Divisions, they, like Racers, run full Speed, with redoubled Violence to their final Cadences, to make Reparation for the Time they think they have lost during the Course of the _Air_. In the following Chapter, on the tormented and tortured Cadences, we shall shortly see the good Taste of the _Mode_; in the mean while I return to the Abuses and Defects in _Airs_. § 21. I cannot positively tell, who that _Modern_ Composer, or that ungrateful Singer was, that had the Heart to banish the delightful, soothing, _Pathetick_ from _Airs_, as if no longer worthy of their Commands, after having done them so long and pleasing Service. Whoever he was, it is certain, he has deprived the Profession of its most valuable Excellence. Ask all the Musicians in general, what their Thoughts are of the _Pathetick_, they all agree in the same Opinion, (a thing that seldom happens) and answer, that the _Pathetick_ is what is most delicious to the Ear, what most sweetly affects the Soul, and is the strongest Basis of Harmony. And must we be deprived of these Charms, without knowing the Reason why? Oh! I understand you: I ought not to ask the Masters, but the Audience, those capricious Protectors of the _Mode_, that cannot endure this; and herein lies my Mistake. Alas! the _Mode_ and the Multitude flow like Torrents, which, when at their Height, having spent their Violence, quickly disappear. The Mischief is in the Spring itself; the Fault is in the Singers. They praise the _Pathetick_, yet sing the _Allegro_. He must want common Sense that does not see through them. They know the first to be the most Excellent, but they lay it aside, knowing it to be the most difficult. § 22. In former times divers _Airs_ were heard in the Theatre in this delightful Manner, preceded and accompanied with harmonious and well-modulated Instruments, that ravished the Senses of those who comprehended the Contrivance and the Melody; and if sung by one of those five or six eminent Persons abovementioned, it was then impossible for a human Soul, not to melt into Tenderness and Tears from the violent Motion of the Affections. Oh! powerful Proof to confound the idoliz'd _Mode_! Are there in these Times any, who are moved with Tenderness, or Sorrow?----No, (say all the Auditors) no; for, the continual singing of the _Moderns_ in the _Allegro_ Stile, though when in Perfection That deserves Admiration, yet touches very slightly one that hath a delicate Ear. The Taste of the _Ancients_ was a Mixture of the _Lively_ and the _Cantabile_ the Variety of which could not fail giving Delight; but the _Moderns_ are so pre-possessed with Taste in _Mode_, that, rather than comply with the former, they are contented to lose the greatest Part of its Beauty. The Study of the _Pathetick_ was the Darling of the former; and Application to the most difficult Divisions is the only Drift of the latter. _Those_ perform'd with more Judgment; and _These_ execute with greater Boldness. But since I have presum'd to compare the most celebrated Singers in both Stiles, pardon me if I conclude with saying, that the _Moderns_ are arrived at the highest Degree of Perfection in singing to the _Ear_; and that the _Ancients_ are inimitable in singing to the _Heart_. § 23. However, it ought not to be denied, but that the best Singers of these times have in some Particulars refined the preceding Taste, with some Productions worthy to be imitated; and as an evident Mark of Esteem, we must publicly own, that if they were but a little more Friends to the _Pathetick_ and the _Expressive_, and a little less to the _Divisions_, they might boast of having brought the Art to the highest Degree of Perfection. § 24. It may also possibly be, that the extravagant Ideas in the present Compositions, have deprived the abovementioned Singers of the Opportunity of shewing their Ability in the _Cantabile_; in as much as the _Airs_ at present in vogue go Whip and Spur with such violent Motions, as take away their Breath, far from giving them an Opportunity of shewing the Exquisiteness of their Taste. But, good God! since there are so many _modern_ Composers, among whom are some of Genius equal, and perhaps greater than the best _Ancients_, for what Reason or Motive do they always exclude from their Compositions, the so-much-longed-for _Adagio_? Can its gentle Nature ever be guilty of a Crime? If it cannot gallop with the _Airs_ that are always running Post, why not reserve it for those that require Repose, or at least for a compassionate one, which is to assist an unfortunate Hero, when he is to shed Tears, or die on the Stage?----No, Sir, No; the grand _Mode_ demands that he be quick, and ready to burst himself in his Lamentations, and weep with Liveliness. But what can one say? The Resentment of the _modern_ Taste is not appeased with the Sacrifice of the _Pathetick_ and the _Adagio_ only, two inseparable Friends, but goes so far, as to prescribe those _Airs_, as Confederates, that have not the _Sharp_ third. Can any thing be more absurd? _Gentlemen Composers_, (I do not speak to the eminent, but with all due Respect) Musick in my Time has chang'd its Stile three times: The first which pleased on the Stage, and in the Chamber, was that of _Pier. Simone_[69], and of _Stradella_[70]; the second is of the best that now living[71]; and I leave others to judge whether they are _Modern_. But of your Stile, which is not quite established yet in _Italy_, and which has yet gained no Credit at all beyond the _Alps_, those that come after us will soon give their Opinion; for _Modes_ last not long. But if the Profession is to continue, and end with the World, either you yourselves will see your Mistake, or your Successors will reform it. Wou'd you know how? By banishing the Abuses, and recalling the first, second, and third _Mood_[72], to relieve the fifth, sixth, and eighth, which are quite jaded. They will revive the fourth and seventh now dead to you, and buried in Churches, for the final Closes. To oblige the Taste of the Singers and the Hearers, the _Allegro_ will now and then be mixed with the _Pathetick_. The _Airs_ will not always be drowned with the Indiscretion of the Instruments, that hide the artful Delicacy of the _Piano_, and the soft Voices, nay, even all Voices which will not bawl: They will no longer bear being teased with _Unisons_[73], the Invention of Ignorance, to hide from the Vulgar the Insufficiency and Inability of many Men and Women Singers: They will recover the instrumental Harmony now lost: They will compose more for the Voice than the Instruments: The part for the Voice will no more have the Mortification to resign its Place to the Violins: The _Soprano's_ and _Contr'Alto's_ will no more sing the _Airs_ in the Manner of the Bass, in Spight of a thousand _Octaves_: And, finally, their _Airs_ will be more affecting, and less alike; more studied, and less painful to the Singer; and so much the more grand, as they are remote from the Vulgar. But, methinks, I hear it said, that the theatrical Licence is great, and that the _Mode_ pleases, and that I grow too bold. And may I not reply, that the Abuse is greater, that the Invention is pernicious, and that my Opinion is not singular. Am I the only Professor who knows that the best Compositions are the Cause of singing well, and the worst very prejudicial? Have we not more than once heard that the Quality of the Compositions has been capable, with a few Songs, of establishing the Reputation of a middling Singer, and destroying That of one who had acquired one by Merit? That Musick, which is composed by one of Judgment and Taste, instructs the Scholar, perfects the Skilful, and delights the Hearer. But since we have opened the Ball, let us dance. § 25. He that first introduced Musick on the Stage, probably thought to lead her to a Triumph, and raise her to a Throne. But who would ever have imagined, that in the short Course of a few Years, she should be reduced to the fatal Circumstance of seeing her own Tragedy? Ye pompous Fabricks of the Theatres! We should look upon you with Horror, being raised from the Ruins of Harmony: You are the Origin of the Abuses, and of the Errors: From You is derived the _modern_ Stile and the Multitude of Ballad-makers: You are the only Occasion of the Scarcity of judicious and well-grounded Professors, who justly deserve the Title of Chapel-Master[74]; since the poor Counterpoint[75] has been condemned, in this corrupted Age, to beg for a Piece of Bread in Churches, whilst the Ignorance of many exults on the Stage, the most part of the Composers have been prompted from Avarice, or Indigence, to abandon in such Manner the true Study, that one may foresee (if not succoured by those few, that still gloriously sustain its dearest Precepts) Musick, after having lost the Name of Science, and a Companion of Philosophy, will run the Risque of being reputed unworthy to enter into the sacred Temples, from the Scandal given there, by their Jiggs, Minuets, and Furlana's[76]; and, in fact, where the Taste is so deprav'd, what would make the Difference between the Church-Musick, and the Theatrical, if Money was received at the Church Doors? § 26. I know that the World honours with just Applause some, tho' few Masters, intelligent in both Stiles, to whom I direct the Students in order to their singing well; and if I confine the Masters to so small a Number, I do beg Pardon of those who should be comprehended therein; hoping easily to obtain it, because an involuntary Error does not offend, and an eminent Person knows no other Envy but virtuous Emulation. As for the Ignorant, who for the most part are not used to indulge any, but rather despise and hate every thing they do not comprehend, they will be the Persons from whom I am to expect no Quarter. § 27. To my Misfortune, I asked one of this sort, from whom he had learned the _Counterpoint_? he answered immediately from the Instrument, (_i.e._, the Harpsichord)--Very well. I asked farther, in what _Tone_ have you composed the Introduction of your Opera?----What _Tone_! what _Tone_! (breaking in upon me abruptly) with what musty Questions are you going to disturb my Brains? One may easily perceive from what School you come. The _Moderns_, if you do not know it, acknowledge no other _Tone_ but one[77]; they laugh, with Reason, at the silly Opinion of those who imagine there are two, as well as at those who maintain, that their being divided into _Authentick_ and _Plagal_, they become Eight, (and more if there were need) and prudently leave it to everybody's Pleasure to compose as they like best. The World in your Time was asleep, and let it not displease you, if our merry and brisk Manner has awakened it with a Gayety so pleasing to the Heart, that it incites one to dance. I would have you likewise be lively before you die, and, abandoning your uncouth Ideas, make it appear, that old Age can be pleased with the Productions of Youth; otherwise you will find, that you will be condemned by your own Words, that Ignorance hates all that is excellent. The polite Arts have advanced continually in Refinement, and if the rest were to give me the Lie, Musick would defend me Sword in Hand; for she cannot arrive at a higher Pitch. Awake therefore, and, if you are not quite out of your Senses, hearken to me; and you will acknowledge that I speak candidly to you; and for a Proof be it known to you---- § 28. That our delicious Stile has been invented to hide with the fine Name of _Modern_ the too difficult Rules of the _Counterpoint_, cannot be denied. § 29. That there is an inviolable Rule amongst us, to banish for ever the _Pathetick_, is very true; because we will have no Melancholy. § 30. But, that we should be told by the old _Bashaws_, that we strive who can produce most extravagant Absurdities never heard before, and that we brag to be the Inventors of them ourselves, are the malign Reflections of those who see us exalted. Let Envy burst. You see, that the general Esteem which we have acquired, gives it for us; and if a Musician is not of our Tribe, he will find no Patron or Admirer. But since we are now speaking in Confidence and with Sincerity, who can sing or compose well, without our Approbation? Let them have ever so much Merit (you know it) we do not want Means to ruin him; even a few Syllables will suffice: It is only saying, He is an _Ancient_. § 31. Tell me, I beseech you, who, without us, could have brought Musick to the Height of Happiness, with no greater Difficulty than taking from the _Airs_ that tiresome Emulation of the first and second Violin, and of the Tenor? Is there any that ever durst usurp the Glory of it? We, we are those, who by our Ingenuity have raised her to this Degree of Sublimity, in taking also from her that noisy murmuring of the fundamental Basses, in such Manner,----(mark me well, and learn) that if in an _Orchestre_ there were an hundred Violins, we are capable of composing in such a Manner, that all and every one shall play the very _Air_ which the Voice sings. What say you to that? Can you have the Face to find Fault with us? § 32. Our most lovely Method, that obliges none of us to the painful Study of the Rules; which does not disquiet the Mind with the Anxiety of Speculation, nor delude us with the Study of reducing them into Practice; that does not prejudice the Health; that enchants the Ear _à la Mode_; that finds those who love it, who prize it, and who pay for it the Weight in Gold; and dare you to criticise upon it? § 33. What shall we say of the obscure and tedious Compositions of those whom you celebrate as the Top of the Universe, tho' your Opinion goes for nothing? Don't you perceive that those old-fashioned Crabbednesses are disgustful? We should be great Fools to grow pale, and become paralytick in studying and finding out in the Scores, the Harmony, the _Fugues_, their _Reverses_, the _Double Counterpoint_, the Multiplication of Subjects, to contract them closer, to make _Canons_, and such other dry Stuff, that are no more in _Mode_, and (what is worse) are of little Esteem, and less Profit. What say you now to this, _Master Critick_? Have you comprehended me?----Yes, Sir. Well, what Answer do you make me?----None. § 34. Really, I am astonished, O beloved Singers, at the profound Lethargy in which you remain, and which is so much to your Disadvantage. 'Tis You that ought to awaken, for now is the Time, and tell the Composers of this Stamp, that your Desire is to Sing, and not to Dance. CHAP. VIII. _Of_ Cadences.[78] The _Cadences_, that terminate the _Airs_, are of two Sorts. The Composers call the one _Superior_, and the other _Inferior_. To make myself better understood by a Scholar, I mean, if a _Cadence_ were in _C_ natural, the Notes of the first would be _La, Sol, Fa;_ and those of the second _Fa, Mi, Fa_. In _Airs_ for a single Voice, or in _Recitatives_, a Singer may chuse which of these _Closes_ or _Cadences_ pleases him best; but if in Concert with other Voices, or accompanied with Instruments, he must not change the Superior for the Inferior, nor this with the other.[79] § 2. It would be superfluous to speak of the broken _Cadences_, they being become familiar even to those who are not Professors of Musick, and which serve at most but in _Recitatives_.[80] § 3. As for those _Cadences_ that fall a fifth, they were never composed in the old Stile for a _Soprano_, in an _Air_ for a single Voice, or with Instruments, unless the Imitation of some Words had obliged the Composer thereto. Yet these, having no other Merit, but of being the easiest of all, as well for the Composer as for the Singer, are at present the most prevailing.[81] § 4. In the Chapter on _Airs_, I have exhorted the Student to avoid that Torrent of _Passages_ and _Divisions_, so much in the _Mode_, and did engage myself also, to give my weak Sentiments on the _Cadences_ that are now current; and I am now ready: But, however, with the usual Protestation of submitting them, with all my other Opinions, to the Tribunal of the Judicious, and those of Taste, from whence there is no Appeal; that they, as sovereign Judges of the Profession, may condemn the Abuses of the _modern Cadences_, or the Errors of my Opinion. § 5. Every _Air_ has (at least) three _Cadences_, that are all three final. Generally speaking, the Study of the Singers of the present Times consists in terminating the _Cadence_ of the first Part with an overflowing of _Passages_ and _Divisions_ at Pleasure, and the _Orchestre_ waits; in that of the second[82] the Dose is encreased, and the _Orchestre_ grows tired; but on the last _Cadence_, the Throat is set a going, like a Weather-cock in a Whirlwind, and the _Orchestre_ yawns. But why must the World be thus continually deafened with so many _Divisions_? I must (with your leave, _Gentlemen Moderns_) say in Favour of the Profession, that good Taste does not consist in a continual Velocity of the Voice, which goes thus rambling on, without a Guide, and without Foundation; but rather, in the _Cantabile_, in the putting forth the Voice agreeably, in _Appoggiatura's_, in Art, and in the true Notion of Graces, going from one Note to another with singular and unexpected Surprizes, and stealing the Time exactly on the true _Motion_ of the Bass. These are the principal and indispensible Qualities which are most essential to the singing well, and which no musical Ear can find in your capricious _Cadences_. I must still add, that very _anciently_ the Stile of the Singers was insupportable, (as I have been informed by the Master who taught me to _Sol-fa_) by reason of the Number of _Passages_ and _Divisions_ in their _Cadences_, that never were at an end, as they are now; and that they were always the same, just as they are now. They became at last so odious, that, as a Nusance to the Sense of Hearing, they were banished without so much as attempting their Correction. Thus will it also happen to These, at the first Example given by a Singer whose Credit is established, and who will not be seduced by a vain popular Applause. This Reformation the succeeding Professors of Eminence prescribed to themselves as a Law, which perhaps would not have been abolished, were they in a Condition to be heard; but the Opulency of some, Loss of the Voice, Age and Death of others, has deprived the Living from hearing what was truly worthy our Admiration in Singing. Now the Singers laugh at the Reformers, and their Reformation of the _Passages_ in the _Cadences_; and on the contrary, having recalled them from their Banishment, and brought them on the Stage, with some little _Caricatura_ to boot, they impose them on the Ignorant for rare Inventions, and gain themselves immense Sums; it giving them no Concern that they have been abhorr'd and detested for fifty or sixty Years, or for an hundred Ages. But who can blame them? However, if Reason should make this Demand of them, with what unjust Pretence can you usurp the Name of _Moderns_, if you sing in a most _Ancient_ Stile? Perhaps, you think that these overflowings of your Throat are what procure you Riches and Praises? Undeceive yourselves, and thank the great Number of Theatres, the Scarcity of excellent Performers, and the Stupidity of your Auditors. What could they answer? I know not. But let us call them to a stricter Account. § 6. _Gentlemen Moderns_, can you possibly deny, but that you laugh among yourselves, when you have Recourse to your long-strung _Passages_ in the _Cadences_, to go a begging for Applause from the blind Ignorant? You call this Trick by the Name of an _Alms_, begging for Charity as it were for those _E Viva's_, which, you very well know, you do not deserve from Justice. And in return you laugh at your Admirers, tho' they have not Hands, Feet, nor Voice enough to applaud you. Is this Justice? Is this Gratitude?----Oh! if they ever should find you out! My beloved Singers, tho' the Abuses of your _Cadences_ are of use to you, they are much more prejudicial to the Profession, and are the greatest Faults you can commit; because at the same time you know yourselves to be in the Wrong. For your own Sakes undeceive the World, and employ the rare Talent you are endowed with on Things that are worthy of you. In the mean while I will return with more Courage to my Opinions. § 7. I should be very desirous to[83] know, on what Foundation certain _Moderns_ of Reputation, and great Name, do on the superior _Cadences_ always make the _Shake_ on the third in _Alt_ to the final Note; since the _Shake_ (which ought to be resolved) cannot be so in this Case, by reason of that very third, which being the sixth of the Bass hinders it, and the _Cadence_ remains without a Resolution. If they should go so far as to imagine, that the best Rules depended on the _Mode_, I should notwithstanding think, they might sometimes appeal to the Ear, to know if That was satisfied with a _Shake_ beaten with the seventh and the sixth on a Bass which makes the _Cadence_; and I am sure it would answer. No. From the Rules of the _Ancients_ we learn, that the _Shake_ is to be prepared on the sixth of the Bass, that after it the fifth may be heard, for that is its proper Place. § 8. Some others of the same Rank make their _Cadences_ in the Manner of the Basses, which is, in falling a fifth, with a Passage of Swift Notes descending gradually, supposing that by this Means they cover the _Octaves_, which, tho' disguised, will still appear. § 9. I hold it also for certain, that no Professor of the first Rank, in any _Cadence_ whatsoever, can be allowed to make _Shakes_, or _Divisions_, on the last Syllables but one of these Words,--_Confonderò_--_Amerò_, &c. for they are Ornaments that do not suit on those Syllables which are short, but do well on the Antecedent.[84] § 10. Very many of the second Class end the inferior _Cadences_ in the _French_ Manner without a _Shake_[85], either for want of Ability to make one, or from its being easy to copy them, or from their Desire of finding out something that may in Appearance support the name of _Modern_. But in Fact they are mistaken; for the _French_ do not leave out the _Shake_ on the inferior _Cadences_, except in the _Pathetick Airs_; and our _Italians_, who are used to over-do the _Mode_, exclude it every where, tho' in the _Allegro_ the _Shake_ is absolutely necessary. I know, that a good Singer may with Reason abstain from the _Shake_ in the _Cantabile_; however, it should be rarely; for if one of those _Cadences_ be tolerable without that pleasing Grace, it is absolutely impossible not to be tired at length, with a Number one after another that die suddenly. § 11. I find that all the _Moderns_ (let them be Friends or Foes to the _Shake_) in the inferior _Cadences_ beforementioned go with an _Appoggiatura_ to the final Note, on the penultimate Syllable of a Word; and this likewise is a Defect, it appearing to me, that on such Occasions the _Appoggiatura_ is not pleasing but on the last Syllable, after the Manner of the _Ancients_, or of those who know how to sing.[86] §12. If, in the inferior _Cadences_, the best Singers of these Days think they are not in the wrong in making you hear the final Note before the Bass[87], they deceive themselves grossly; for it is a very great Error, hurts the Ear, and is against the Rules; and becomes doubly so, going (as they do) to the same Note with an _Appoggiatura_, the which either ascending or descending, if not after the Bass[88], is always very bad. § 13. And is it not worst of all, to torment the Hearers with a thousand _Cadences_ all in the same Manner? From whence proceeds this Sterility, since every Professor knows, that the surest way of gaining Esteem in Singing is a Variety in the Repetition? § 14. If among all the _Cadences_ in the _Airs_, the last allows a moderate Liberty to the Singer, to distinguish the end of them, the Abuse of it is insufferable. But it grows abomable, when the Singer persists with his tiresome Warbling, nauseating the Judicious, who suffer the more, because they know that the Composers leave generally in every _final Cadence_ some Note, sufficient to make a discreet Embellishment; without seeking for it out of Time, without Taste, without Art, and without Judgment.[89] § 15. I am still more surprised when I reflect, that the _modern_ Stile, after having exposed all the _Cadences_ of the theatrical _Airs_ to the Martyrdom of a perpetual Motion, will likewise have the Cruelty to condemn to the same Punishment not Those in the _Cantata's_ only, but also the _Cadences_ of their _Recitatives_. Do these Singers pretend, by their not distinguishing the Chamber-Musick from the immoderate _Gargling_ of the Stage, to expect the vulgar _E Viva's_ in the Cabinet of Princes? § 16. Let a sensible Student avoid this Example, and with this Example the Abuses, the Defects, and every other Thing that is mean and common, as well in the _Cadences_ as elsewhere. § 17. If, the inventing particular _Cadences_ without injuring the Time, has been one of the worthy Employments of the _Ancients_ (so call'd) let a Student revive the Use of it; endeavouring to imitate them in their Skill of somewhat anticipating the Time; and remember, that Those, who understand the Art of Gracing, do not wait to admire the Beauty of it in a Silence of the Bass. § 18. Many and many other Errors are heard in the _Cadences_ that were _Antique_, and which are now become _Modern_; they were ridiculous then, and are so now; therefore considering, that to change the Stile is not always to improve it, I may fairly conclude, that what is bad is to be corrected by Study, and not by the _Mode_. § 19. Now let us for a while leave at Rest the Opinions of the aforesaid Ancients, and the supposed _Moderns_, to take notice what Improvement the Scholar has made, since he is desirous of being heard. Well then, let him attend, before we part with him, to Instructions of more Weight, that he may at least deserve the Name of a good Singer, though he may not arrive at that of an eminent one. CHAP. IX. _Observations for a Singer._[90] Behold the Singer now appearing in Publick, from the Effects of his Application to the Study of the foregoing Lessons. But to what Purpose does he appear? Whoever, in the great Theatre of the World, does not distinguish himself, makes but a very insignificant Figure. § 2. From the cold Indifference perceived in many Singers, one would believe that the Science of Musick implored their Favour, to be received by them as their most humble Servant. § 3. If too many did not persuade themselves that they had studied sufficiently, there would not be such a Scarcity of the Best, nor such a Swarm of the Worst. These, because they can sing by Heart three or four _Kyrie's_[91], think they are arrived at the _Non plus ultra_; but if you give them a _Cantata_ to sing, that is even easy, and fairly written, they, instead of complying as they ought, will tell you with an impudent Face, that Persons of their Degree are not obliged to sing in the vulgar Tongue at Sight. And who can forbear laughing? For a Musician knowing that the Words, let them be either _Latin_ or _Italian_, do not change the Form of the Notes, must immediately conclude, that this pert Answer of the great Man proceeds from his not being able to sing at Sight, or from his not knowing how to read; and he judges right. § 4. There are an infinite Number[92] of others, who wish and sigh for the Moment that eases them from the painful Fatigue of their first Studies, hoping to have a Chance to make one in the Crowd of the second Rate; and stumbling by good Luck on something that gives them Bread, they immediately make a Legg to Musick and its Study, not caring whether the World knows they are, or are not among the Living. These do not consider that _Mediocrity_ in a Singer means _Ignorance_. § 5. There are also several who study nothing but the Defects, and are endow'd with a marvelous Aptness to learn them all, having so happy a Memory as never to forget them. Their Genius is so inclined to the Bad, that if by Gift of Nature they had the best of Voices, they would be discontented if they could not find some Means to make it the worst. § 6. One of a better Spirit will endeavour to keep better Company. He will be sensible of the Necessity of farther Discoveries, of farther Instructions, and even of another Master, of whom, besides the Art of Singing, he would be glad to learn how to behave himself with good Breeding. This, added to the Merit acquired by his Singing, may give him Hopes of the Favour of Princes, and of an universal Esteem. § 7. If he aims at the Character of a young Man of Wit and Judgment, let him not be vulgar or too bold. § 8. Let him shun low and disreputable Company, but, above all, such as abandon themselves to scandalous Liberties. § 9. That Professor ought not to be frequented, though excellent in this Art, whose behaviour is vulgar and discreditable, and who cares not, provided he makes his Fortune, whether it be at the Expence of his Reputation. § 10. The best School is the Nobility, from whom every thing that is genteel is to be learned; but when a Musician finds that his Company is not proper, let him retire without repining, and his Modesty will be to his Commendation. § 11. If he should not meet with a Gratification from the Great, let him never complain; for it is better to get but little, than to lose a great deal, and that is not seldom the Case. The best he can do, is to be assiduous in serving them, that at least he may hope for the Pleasure of seeing them for once grateful, or be convinced for ever of their being ungrateful. § 12. My long and repeated Travels have given me an Opportunity of being acquainted with most of the Courts of _Europe_, and Examples, more than my Words, should persuade every able Singer to see them also; but without yielding up his Liberty to their Allurements: For Chains, though of Gold, are still Chains; and they are not all of that precious Metal: Besides, the several Inconveniencies of Disgrace, Mortifications, Uncertainty; and, above all, the Hindrance of Study. § 13.[93] The golden Age of Musick would be already at an End, if the Swans did not make their Nests on some Theatres in _Italy_, or on the royal Banks of the _Thames_. O dear _London_!----On the other Streams, they sing no more as they used to do their sweet Notes at their expiring; but rather sadly lament the Expiration of those august and adorable Princes, by whom they were tenderly belov'd and esteemed. This is the usual Vicissitude of Things in this World; and we daily see, that whatever is sublunary must of Necessity decline. Let us leave the Tears to the Heart, and return to the Singer. § 14. A discreet Person will never use such affected Expressions as, _I cannot sing To-day;--I've got a deadly Cold;_ and, in making his Excuse, falls a Coughing. I can truly say, that I have never in my Life heard a Singer own the Truth, and say, _I'm very well to-day_: They reserve the unseasonable Confession to the next Day, when they make no Difficulty to say, _In all my Days my Voice was never in better Order than it was Yesterday_. I own, on certain Conjunctures, the Pretext is not only suitable, but even necessary; for, to speak the Truth, the indiscreet Parsimony of some, who would hear Musick for Thanks only, goes so far, that they think a Master is immediately obliged to obey them _gratis_, and that the Refusal is an Offence that deserves Resentment and Revenge. But if it is a Law human and divine, that every Body should live by their honest Labour, what barbarous Custom obliges a Musician to serve without a Recompence? A cursed Over-bearing; O sordid Avarice! § 15. A Singer, that knows the World, distinguishes between the different Manners of Commanding; he knows how to refuse without disobliging, and how to obey with a good Grace; not being ignorant, that one, who has his Interest most at Heart, sometimes finds his Account in serving without a Gratification. § 16. One who sings with a Desire of gaining Honour and Credit, cannot sing ill, and in time will sing better; and one, who thinks on nothing but Gain, is in the ready way to remain ignorant. § 17. Who would ever think (if Experience did not shew it) that a Virtue of the highest Estimation should prejudice a Singer? And yet, whilst Presumption and Arrogance triumph (I'm shock'd to think on't) amiable Humility, the more the Singer has of it, the more it depresses him. § 18. At first Sight, Arrogance has the Appearance of Ability; but, upon a nearer View, I can discover Ignorance in Masquerade. § 19. This Arrogance serves them sometimes, as a politick Artifice to hide their own Failings: For Example, certain Singers would not be unconcern'd, under the Shame of not being able to sing a few Barrs at Sight, if with Shrugs, scornful Glances, and malicious shaking of their Heads, they did not give the Auditors to understand that those gross Errors are owing to him that accompanies, or to the _Orchestre_. § 20. To humble such Arrogance, may it never meet with that Incense which it expects. § 21. Who could sing better than the Arogant, if they were not ashamed to study? § 22. It is a Folly in a Singer to grow vain at the first Applauses, without reflecting whether they are given by Chance, or out of Flattery; and if he thinks he deserves them, there is an End of him. § 23. He should regulate his Voice according to the Place where he sings; for it would be the greatest Absurdity, not to make a Difference between a small Cabinet and a vast Theatre.[94] § 24. He is still more to be blam'd, who, when singing in two, three, or four Parts, does so raise his Voice as to drown his Companions; for if it is not Ignorance, it is something worse. § 25. All Compositions for more than one Voice ought to be sung strictly as they are written; nor do they require any other Art but a noble Simplicity. I remember to have heard once a famous _Duetto_ torn into Atoms by two renown'd Singers, in Emulation; the one proposing, and the other by Turns answering, that at last it[95] ended in a Contest, who could produce the most Extravagancies. § 26. The Correction of Friends, that have Knowledge, instructs very much; but still greater Advantage may be gain'd from the ill-natur'd Criticks; for, the more intent they are to discover Defects, the greater Benefit may be receiv'd from them without any Obligation. § 27. It is certain, that the Errors corrected by our Enemies are better cur'd, than those corrected by ourselves; for we are apt to indulge our Faults, nor can we so easily perceive them. § 28. He that sings with Applause in one Place only, let him not have too good an Opinion of himself; let him often change Climates, and then he will judge better of his Talent. § 29. To please universally, Reason will tell you, that you must always sing well; but if Reason does not inform you, Interest will persuade you to conform to the Taste of that Nation (provided it be not too deprav'd) which pays you. § 30. If he that sings well provokes Envy, by singing better he will get the Victory over it. § 31. I do not know if a perfect Singer can at the same time be a perfect Actor; for the Mind being at once divided by two different Operations, he will probably incline more to one than the other; It being, however, much more difficult to sing well than to act well, the Merit of the first is beyond the second. What a Felicity would it be, to possess both in a perfect Degree![96] § 32. Having said, a Singer should not copy, I repeat it now with this Reason; that to copy is the part of a Scholar, that of a Master is to invent. § 33. Let it be remembered by the Singer, that copying comes from Laziness, and that none copy ill but out of Ignorance. § 34. Where Knowledge with Study makes one a good Singer, Ignorance with one single Copy makes a thousand bad ones; however, among these there are none that will acknowledge her for a Teacher. § 35. If many of the female Singers (for whom I have due Respect) would be pleased to consider, that by copying a good one, they are become very bad ones, they would not appear so ridiculous on the Stage for their Affectation in presuming to sing the _Airs_ of the Person they copy, with the same Graces. In this great Error, (if it does not proceed from their Masters) they seem to be governed by Instinct, like the inferior Creatures, rather than by Reason; for That would shew them, that we may arrive at Applause by different ways, and past Examples, as well as one at this present make us sensible, that two Women would not be equally eminent if the one copy'd the other.[97] § 36. If the Complaisance, which is due to the fair Sex, does not excuse the Abuse of copying when it proves prejudicial to the Profession, what ought one then to say of those Men, who, instead of inventing, not only copy others of their own Sex, but also Women. Foolish and shameful!----Supposing an Impossibility, _viz._ that a Singer has arrived at copying in such a Manner as not to be distinguished from the Original, should he attribute to himself a Merit which does not belong to him, and dress himself out in the Habits of another without being afraid of being stripp'd of them? § 37. He, that rightly knows how to copy in Musick, takes nothing but the Design; because that Ornament, which we admire when _natural_, immediately loses its Beauty when _artificial_. §38. The most admired Graces of a Professor ought only to be imitated, and not copied; on Condition also, that it does not bear not even so much as a Shadow of Resemblance of the Original; otherwise, instead of a beautiful Imitation, it will become a despicable Copy. § 39. I cannot decide, which of the two deserves most to be despised, one who cannot imitate a good Singer without _Caricatura's_, or He that cannot imitate any well but bad ones. § 40. If many Singers knew, that a bad Imitation is a contagious Evil, to which one who studies is not liable, the World would not be reduc'd to the Misfortune of seeing in a _Carnaval_ but one Theatre provided with eminent Performers, without Hopes of[98] an approaching Remedy. Let them take it for their Pains. Let the World learn to applaud Merit; and (not to use a more harsh Expression) be less complaisant to Faults. § 41. Whoever does not know how to steal the Time in Singing, knows not how to Compose, nor to Accompany himself, and is destitute of the best Taste and greatest Knowledge.[99] § 42. The stealing of Time, in the _Pathetick_, is an honourable Theft in one that sings better than others, provided he makes a Restitution with Ingenuity. § 43. An Exercise, no less necessary than this, is That of agreeably _putting forth_ of the Voice, without which all Application is vain. Whosoever pretends to obtain it, must hearken more to the Dictates of the Heart, than to those of Art. § 44. Oh! how great a Master is the Heart! Confess it, my beloved Singers, and gratefully own, that you would not have arrived at the highest Rank of the Profession if you had not been its Scholars; own, that in a few Lessons from it, you learned the most beautiful Expressions, the most refin'd Taste, the most noble Action, and the most exquisite Graces: Own, (though it be hardly credible) that the Heart corrects the Defects of Nature, since it softens a Voice that's harsh, betters an indifferent one, and perfects a good one: Own, when the Heart sings you cannot dissemble, nor has Truth a greater Power of persuading: And, lastly, do you convince the World, (what is not in my Power to do) that from the Heart alone you have learn'd that _Je ne sçai quoy_, that pleasing Charm, that so subtily passes from Vein to Vein, and makes its way to the very Soul. § 45. Though the way to the Heart is long and rugged, and known but to few, a studious Application will, notwithstanding, master all Obstacles. § 46. The best Singer in the World continues to study, and persists in it as much to maintain his Reputation, as he did to acquire it. § 47. To arrive at that glorious End, every body knows that there is no other Means than Study; but That does not suffice; it is also necessary to know in what Manner, and with whose Assistance, we must pursue our Studies. § 48.[100] There are now-a-days as many Masters as there are Professors of Musick in any Kind; every one of them teaches, I don't mean the first Rudiments only, (That would be an Affront to them;) I am now speaking of those who take upon them the part of a Legislator in the most finished part in Singing; and should we then wonder that the good Taste is near lost, and that the Profession is going to Ruin? So mischievous a Pretension prevails not only among those, who can barely be said to sing, but among the meanest instrumental Performers; who, though they never sung, nor know how to sing, pretend not only to teach, but to perfect, and find some that are weak enough to be imposed on. But, what is more, the instrumental Performers of some Ability imagine that the beautiful Graces and Flourishes, with their nimble Fingers, will have the same Effect when executed with the Voice; but it will not do[101]. I should be the first to condemn the magisterial Liberty I take, were it meant to give Offence to such Singers and instrumental Performers of Worth, who know how to sing, perform, and instruct; but my Correction aims no farther than to the Petulancy of those that have no Capacity, with these few Words, _Age quod agis_; which (for those who do not understand _Latin_) is as much as to say,-----Do You mind your _Sol-fa_; and You, your Instrument. § 49. If sometimes it does happen, that an indifferent Master should make an excellent Disciple, it is then incontestable, that the Gift of Nature in the Student is superior to the Sufficiency of the Instructor: and it is not to be wonder'd at, for, if from time to time, even great Masters were not outdone, most of the finest Arts would have sunk before now. § 50. It may seem to many, that every perfect Singer must also be a perfect Instructor, but it is not so; for his Qualifications (though ever so great) are insufficient, if he cannot communicate his Sentiments with Ease, and in a Method adapted to the Ability of the Scholar; if he has not some Notion of Composition, and a manner of instructing, which may seem rather an Entertainment than a Lesson; with the happy Talent to shew the Ability of the Singer to Advantage, and conceal his Imperfections; which are the principal and most necessary Instructions. § 51. A Master, that is possessed of the abovementioned Qualifications, is capable of Teaching; with them he will raise a Desire to study; will correct Errors with a Reason; and by Examples incite a Taste to imitate him. § 52. He knows, that a Deficiency of Ornaments displeases as much as the too great Abundance of them; that a Singer makes one languid and dull with too little, and cloys one with too much; but, of the two, he will dislike the former most, though it gives less Offence, the latter being easier to be amended. § 53. He will have no Manner of Esteem for those who have no other Graces than gradual _Divisions_[102]; and will tell you, Embellishments of this Sort are only fit for Beginners. § 54. He will have as little Esteem for those who think to make their Auditors faint away, with their Transition from the sharp Third to the Flat. § 55. He'll tell you, that a Singer is lazy, who on the Stage, from Night to Night, teaches the Audience all his Songs; who, by hearing them always without the least Variation, have no Difficulty to learn them by Heart. § 56. He will be affrighted at the Rashness of one that launches out, with little Practice, and less Study; lest venturing too far, he should be in great Danger of losing himself. § 57. He will not praise one that presumes to sing two Parts in three of an Opera, promising himself never to be tiresome, as if that divine Privilege of always pleasing were allowed him here below. Such a one does not know the first Principle of musical Politicks; but Time will teach it him. He, that sings little and well, sings very well. § 58. He will laugh at those who imagine to satisfy the Publick with the Magnificence of their Habits, without reflecting, that Merit and Ignorance are equally aggrandized by Pomp. The Singers, that have nothing but the outward Appearance, pay that Debt to the Eyes, which they owe to the Ears. § 59. He will nauseate the new-invented Stile of those who provoke the innocent Notes with coarse Startings of the Voice. A disagreeable Defect; however, being brought from[103] beyond the _Alps_, it passes for a _modern_ Rarity. § 60. He will be astonished at this bewitched Age, in which so many are paid so well for singing ill. The _Moderns_ would not be pleas'd to be put in Mind, that, twenty Years ago, indifferent Singers had but mean Parts allotted them, even in the second-rate Theatres; whereas at present, those, who are taught like Parrots, heap up Treasures beyond what the Singers of the first Degree then did.[104] § 61. He will condemn the Ignorance of the Men most, they being more obliged to study than the Women. § 62. He will not bear with one who imitates the Women, even in sacrificing the Time, in order to acquire the Title of _Modern_. § 63. He will marvel at that[105] Singer, who, having a good Knowledge of Time, yet does not make use of it, for want of having apply'd himself to the Study of Composition, or to accompany himself. His Mistake makes him think that, to be eminent, it suffices to sing at Sight; and does not perceive that the greatest Difficulty, and the whole Beauty of the Profession consists in what he is ignorant of; he wants that Art which teaches to anticipate the Time, knowing where to lose it again; and, which is still more charming, to know how to lose it, in order to recover it again; which are the Advantages of such as understand Composition, and have the best Taste. § 64. He will be displeased at the Presumption of a Singer who gets the Words of the most wanton _Airs_ of the Theatre rendered into _Latin_, that he may sing them with Applause in the[106] Church; as if there were no Manner of Difference between the Stile of the one and the other; and, as if the Scraps of the Stage were fit to offer to the Deity. § 65. What will he not say of him who has found out the prodigious Art of Singing like a _Cricket_? Who could have ever imagin'd, before the Introduction of the _Mode_, that ten or a dozen Quavers in a Row could be trundled along one after the other, with a Sort of _Tremor_, of the Voice, which for some time past has gone under the name of _Mordente Fresco_?[107] § 66. He will have a still greater Detestation for the Invention of Laughing in Singing, or that screaming like a Hen when she is laying her Egg. Will there not be some other little Animal worth their Imitation, in order to make the Profession more and more ridiculous? § 67. He will disapprove the malicious Custom of a Singer in Repute, who talks and laughs on the Stage with his Companions, to induce the Publick to believe that such a Singer, who appears the first time on the Stage, does not deserve his Attention; when in reality he is afraid of, or envies, his gaining Applause. § 68. He cannot endure the Vanity of that Singer, who, full of himself from the little he has learned, is so taken with his own Performance, that he seems falling into an Extasy; pretending to impose Silence and create Wonder, as if his first Note said to the Audience, _Hear and Die_: But they, unwilling to die, chuse not to hear him, talk loud, and perhaps not much to his Advantage. At his second Air the Noise encreases, and still encreasing, he looks upon it as a manifest Injury done him; and, instead of correcting his conceited Pride by Study, he curses the deprav'd Taste of that Nation that does not esteem him, menacing never to return again; and thus the vain Wretch comforts himself. § 69. He will laugh at one who will not act unless he has the Choice of the Drama, and a Composer to his liking; with this additional Condition, not to sing in Company with such a Man, or without such a Woman. § 70. With the like Derision, he will observe some others, who with an Humility worse than Pride, go from one Box to another, gathering Praises from the most illustrious Persons, under a Pretence of a most profound Obsequiousness, and become in every Representation more and more familiar. Humility and Modesty are most beautiful Virtues; but if they are not accompanied with a little Decorum, they have some Resemblance to Hypocrisy. § 71. He will have no great Opinion of one, who is not satisfied with his Part, and never learns it; of one, who never sings in an Opera without thrusting in one _Air_ which he always carries in his Pocket; of one, who bribes the Composer to give him an _Air_ that was intended for another; of one, who takes Pains about Trifles, and neglects Things of Importance; of one, who, by procuring undeserved Recommendations, makes himself and his Patron ridiculous; of one, who does not sustain his Voice, out of Aversion to the _Pathetick_; of one, who gallops to follow the _Mode_; and of all the bad Singers, who, not knowing what's good, court the _Mode_ to learn its Defects. § 72. To sum up all, he will call none a Singer of Merit, but him who is correct; and who executes with a Variety of Graces of his own, which his Skill inspires him with unpremeditately; knowing, that a Professor of Eminence cannot, if he would, continually repeat an _Air_ with the self-same _Passages_ and _Graces_. He who sings premeditately, shews he has learn'd his Lesson at Home. § 73. After having corrected several other Abuses and Defects, to the Advantage of the Singer, he will return with stronger Reasons to persuade him to have Recourse to the fundamental Rules, which will teach him to proceed on the Bass from one Interval to another, with sure Steps, and without Danger of erring. If then the Singer should say, Sir, you trouble yourself in vain; for the bare Knowledge of the Errors is not sufficient; I have need of other Help than Words, and I know not where to find it, since it seems that there is at present such a Scarcity of good Examples in _Italy_: Then, shrugging his Shoulders, he will answer him, rather with Sighs than Words; that he must endeavour to learn of the best Singers that there are; particularly by observing two of the fair Sex,[108] of a Merit superior to all Praise; who with equal Force, in a different Stile, help to keep up the tottering Profession from immediately falling into Ruin. The one is inimitable for a privileg'd Gift of Singing, and for enchanting the World with a prodigious Felicity in executing, and with a singular Brilliant (I know not whether from Nature or Art) which pleases to Excess. The delightful, soothing _Cantabile_ of the other, joined with the Sweetness of a fine Voice, a perfect Intonation, Strictness of Time, and the rarest Productions of a Genius, are Qualifications as particular and uncommon, as they are difficult to be imitated. The _Pathetick_ of the one, and the _Allegro_ of the other, are the Qualities the most to be admired respectively in each of them. What a beautiful Mixture would it be, if the Excellence of these two angelick Creatures could be united in one single Person! But let us not lose Sight of the Master. § 74. He will also convince the Scholar, that the Artifice of a Professor is never more pleasing, than when he deceives the Audience with agreeable Surprizes; for which reason he will advise him to have Recourse to a seeming Plainness, as if he aim'd at nothing else. § 75. But when the Audience is in no farther Expectation, and (as I may say) grows indolent, he will direct him to rouse them that Instant with a _Grace_. § 76. When they are again awake, he will direct him to return to his feigned Simplicity, though it will no more be in his power to delude those that hear him, for with an impatient Curiosity they already expect a second, and so on. § 77. He will give him ample Instructions concerning _Graces_ of all sorts, and furnish him with Rules and profitable Documents. § 78. Here should I inveigh (though I could not enough) against the Treachery of my Memory, that has not preserved, as it ought, all those peculiar Excellencies which a great Man did once communicate to me, concerning _Passages_ and _Graces_; and to my great Sorrow, and perhaps to the Loss of others, it will not serve me to publish any more than these few poor Remains, the Impressions of which are still left, and which I am now going to mention. CHAP. X. _Of_ Passages _or_ Graces. _Passages_ or _Graces_ being the principal Ornaments in Singing, and the most favourite Delight of the Judicious, it is proper that the Singer be very attentive to learn this Art. § 2. Therefore, let him know, that there are five principal Qualifications, which being united, will bring him to admirable Perfection, _viz._ _Judgment_, _Invention_, _Time_, _Art_, and _Taste_. § 3. There are likewise five subaltern Embellishments _viz._ the _Appoggiatura_, the _Shake_, the _putting forth of the Voice_, the _Gliding_, and _Dragging_. _The principal Qualifications teach,_ § 4. That the _Passages_ and _Graces_ cannot be form'd but from a profound _Judgment_. § 5. That they are produced by a singular and beautiful _Invention_, remote from all that is vulgar and common. § 6. That, being govern'd by the rigorous, but necessary, Precepts of _Time_, they never transgress its regulated Measure, without losing their own Merit. § 7. That, being guided by the most refined _Art_ on the Bass, they may There (and no where else) find their Center; there to sport with Delight, and unexpectedly to charm. § 8. That, it is owing to an exquisite _Taste_, that they are executed with that sweet _putting forth_ of the Voice, which is so enchanting. _From the accessory Qualities is learned,_ § 9. That the _Graces_ or _Passages_ be easy in appearance, thereby to give universal Delight. § 10. That in effect They be difficult that thereby the Art of the Inventor be the more admired. § 11. That They be performed with an equal regard to the Expression of the Words, and the Beauty of the Art. § 12. That They be _gliding_ or _dragging_ in the _Pathetick_, for They have a better Effect than those that are mark'd. § 13. That They do not appear studied, in order to be the more regarded. § 14. That They be softened with the _Piano_ in the _Pathetick_, which will make them more affecting. § 15. That in the _Allegro_ They be sometimes accompanied with the _Forte_ and the _Piano_, so as to make a sort of _Chiaro Scuro_. § 16. That They be confin'd to a _Group_ of a few Notes, which are more pleasing than those which are too numerous. § 17. That in a slow _Time_, there may be a greater Number of them (if the Bass allows it) with an Obligation upon the Singer to keep to the Point propos'd, that his Capacity be made more conspicuous. § 18. That They be properly introduc'd, for in a wrong Place They disgust. § 19. That They come not too close together, in order to keep them distinct. § 20. That They should proceed rather from the Heart than from the Voice, in order to make their way to the Heart more easily. § 21. That They be not made on the second or fourth Vowel, when closely pronounc'd, and much less on the third and fifth. § 22. That They be not copied, if you would not have them appear defective. § 23. That They be stol'n on the _Time_, to captivate the Soul. § 24. That They never be repeated in the same place, particularly in _Pathetick Airs_, for there they are the most taken Notice of by the Judicious. § 25. And, above all, let them be improv'd; by no means let them lose in the Repetition. § 26. Many Professors are of Opinion, that in _Graces_ there is no room for the marked _Divisions_, unless mix'd with some of the aforesaid Embellishments or some other agreable Accidents. § 27. But it is now time that we speak of the _Dragging_, that, if the _Pathetick_ should once return again into the World, a Singer might be able to understand it. The Explanation would be easier understood by Notes of Musick than by Words, if the Printer was not under great Difficulty to print a few Notes; notwithstanding which, I'll endeavour, the best I can, to make myself understood. § 28. When on an even and regular Movement of a Bass, which proceeds slowly, a Singer begins with a high Note, dragging it gently down to a low one, with the _Forte_ and _Piano_, almost gradually, with Inequality of Motion, that is to say, stopping a little more on some Notes in the Middle, than on those that begin or end the _Strascino_ or _Dragg_.[109] Every good musician takes it for granted, that in the Art of Singing there is no Invention superior, or Execution more apt to touch the Heart than this, provided however it be done with Judgment, and with putting forth of the Voice in a just _Time_ on the Bass. Whosoever has most Notes at Command, has the greater Advantage; because this pleasing Ornament is so much the more to be admired, by how much the greater the Fall is. Perform'd by an excellent _Soprano_, that makes use of it but seldom, it becomes a Prodigy; but as much as it pleases descending, no less would it displease ascending. § 29. Mind this, O my beloved Singers! For it is to You only, who are inclined to study, that I have addressed myself. This was the Doctrine of the School of those Professors, whom, by way of Reproach, some mistaken Persons call _Ancients_. Observe carefully its Rules, examine strictly its Precepts, and, if not blinded by Prejudice, you will see that this School ought to sing in Tune, to put forth the Voice, to make the Words understood, to express, to use proper Gesture, to perform in _Time_, to vary on its Movement, to compose, and to study the _Pathetick_, in which alone Taste and Judgment triumph. Confront this School with yours, and if its Precepts should not be sufficient to instruct you, learn what's wanting from the _Modern_. § 30. But if these my Exhortations, proceeding from my Zeal, have no Weight with you, as the Advice of Inferiors is seldom regarded, allow at least, that whoever has the Faculty of Thinking, may once in sixty Years think right. And if you think, that I have been too partial to the Times past, then would I persuade you, (if you have not a shaking Hand) to weigh in a just Ballance your most renowned Singers; who you take to be _Moderns_ (but are not so, except in their _Cadences_;) and having undeceived yourselves, you will perceive in them, that instead of Affectations, Abuses, and Errors, They sing according to those powerful Lessons that give Delight to the Soul, and whose Perfections have made Impressions on me, and which I shall always remember with the greatest Pleasure. Do but consult them, as I have done, and they will truly and freely tell you, That They sell their Jewels where they are understood; That the Singers of Eminence are not of the _Mode_, and that at present there are many bad Singers. § 31. True it is, that there are some, tho' few, very good Singers, who, when the Vehemence of their youthful fire is abated, will by their Examples do Justice to their delightful Profession, in keeping up the Splendor of it, and will leave to Posterity a lasting and glorious Fame of their Performances. I point them out to you, that, if you find yourselves in an Error, you may not want the Means to correct it, nor an Oracle to apply to whenever you have occasion. From whence I have good Grounds to hope, that the true Taste in Singing will last to the End of the World. § 32. Whoever comprehends what has been demonstrated to him, in these and many other Observations, will need no farther Incitement to study. Stirred up by his own Desire, he will fly to his beloved Instrument, from which, by continued Application, he will find he has no Reason to sit down satisfied with what he has learn'd before. He will make new Discoveries, inventing new Graces, from whence after comparing them well together, he will chuse the best, and will make use of them as long as he thinks them so; but, going on in refining, he will find others more deserving his Esteem. To conclude, from these he will proceed on to an almost infinite Number of _Graces_, by the means whereof his Mind will be so opened, that the most hidden Treasures of the Art, and most remote from his Imagination, will voluntarily present themselves; so that, unless Pride blinds him, or Study becomes tiresome to him, or his Memory fails him, he will increase his Store of Embellishments in a Stile which will be entirely his own: The principal Aim of one that strives to gain the highest Applause. § 33. Finally, O ye young Singers, hearken to me for your Profit and Advantage. The Abuses, the Defects, and the Errors divulged by me in these Observations, (which in Justice ought not to be charg'd on the _Modern_ Stile) were once almost all Faults I myself was guilty of; and in the Flower of my Youth, when I thought myself to be a great Man, it was not easy for me to discover them. But, in a more mature Age, the slow Undeceit comes too late. I know I have sung ill, and would I have not writ worse! but since I have suffered by my Ignorance, let it at least serve for a Warning to amend those who wish to sing well. He that studies, let him imitate the ingenious Bee, that sucks its Honey from the most grateful Flowers. From those called _Ancients_, and those supposed _Moderns_, (as I have said) much may be learn'd; it is enough to find out the Flower, and know how to distill, and draw the Essence from it. § 34. The most cordial, and not less profitable Advice, I can give you, is the following: § 35. Remember what has been wisely observed, that Mediocrity of Merit can but for a short time eclipse the true Sublime, which, how old soever it grows, can never die. § 36. Abhor the Example of those who hate Correction; for like Lightning to those who walk in the Dark, tho' it frightens them, it gives them Light. § 37. Learn from the Errors of others: O great Lesson! it costs little, and instructs much. Of every one something is to be learned, and the most Ignorant is sometimes the greatest Master. _FINIS_. PLATES Pl. I Chap. 1.st [Illustration: § 11 Page 17 Nº. 1] [Illustration: Page 17 Nº. 2] [Illustration: § 12 Page 18 Nº. 3 Exachords Transposed a Fifth lower] [Illustration: § 29 Page 28 Nº. 4 Messa di Voce] Pl. II Chap. 2d. [Illustration: § 2 Page 32 Nº. 1 Semitones Major Semitones Minor] [Illustration: § 3 Page 32 & 33 Nº. 2] [Illustration: § 4 Page 34 Nº. 3] [Illustration: § 5 Page 34 Nº. 4] [Illustration: § 6 Page 34 Nº. 5] [Illustration: § 7 Page 35 Nº. 6] Pl. III [Illustration: § 8 Page 35 Nº. 7.] [Illustration: § 9 Page 35 Nº. 8.] [Illustration: § 14 Page 37 Nº. 9.] [Illustration: Page 37 Nº. 10.] [Illustration: Page 37 Nº. 11.] [Illustration: Page 37 Nº. 12.] [Illustration: Page 37 Nº. 13.] [Illustration: §15 Page 38 Nº. 14.] [Illustration: Page 38 Nº. 15. per Messe di Voce] Pl. IV Chap. 3d. [Illustration: § 6 Page 43 Nº. 1.] [Illustration: § 7 Page 43 Nº. 2.] [Illustration: Flat Key] [Illustration: sharp key Page 43 Nº. 3.] [Illustration: § 8 Page 45 Nº. 4.] [Illustration: § 9 Page 45 Nº. 5.] [Illustration: § 10 Page 45 Nº. 6.] [Illustration: § 11 Page 46 Nº. 7.] [Illustration: § 12 Page 46 Nº. 8.] [Illustration: § 13 Page 47 Nº. 9.] Chap 4th [Illustration: § 29 Page 62 Nº. 10. Bad] Chap. 5th [Illustration: § 13 Page 74 Nº. 1. affann:, Nº. 2. affan-ni] Chap 8th [Illustration: § 1 Page 126 Nº. 3. Superior Cadence La Sol Fa Inferior Cadence Fa me Fa] [Illustration: § 3 Page 127 Nº. 4. Nº. 5. nel fondo] [Illustration: § 7 Page 132 Nº. 6., not Resolved Nº. 7 Resolved] [Illustration: § 9 Page 134 Nº. 8 Confond[ve]-ro am[ve]-rò] FOOTNOTES: [1] When Arts and Sciences were retrieving from the Barbarism in which they were buried, Musick chiefly took its Rise in _Flanders_, and the Composers of Musick of that Nation were dispersed all over _Europe_, to the Improvement of others. In _Italy_ there arose from that School, among several others, _P. Alis. Palestrina_, a Genius so extraordinary, that he is looked upon as the _Raphael_ among the Musicians. He lived in Pope _Leo_ the Tenth's Time; and no Musick, that we know of, is performed at the Pope's Chapel, to this Day, but of his Composition, except the famous _Miserere_ of _Allegri_, who liv'd a little time after _Palestrina_. [2] Our Author seems to be a little too partial in Favour of the Singer, all momentary Productions being the same; though it must be allowed, that by reason of the Expression of the Words, any Error in Singing will be more capital, than if the same were committed on an Instrument. [3] The Author directs this for the Instruction of a _Soprano_, or a treble Voice, because Youth possesses that Voice mostly, and that is the Age when they should begin to study Musick. It may not be amiss to mention, that the _Soprano_ is most apt to perform the Things required by your Author, and that every different Scale of Voice has something peculiarly relative to its Kind as its own Property; for a _Soprano_ has generally most Volubility, and becomes it best; and also equally the Pathetick. The _Contr'Alto_ more of the Pathetick than the Volubility; the _Tenor_ less of the Pathetick, but more of the Volubility than the _Contr'Alto_, though not so much as the _Soprano_. The _Bass_, in general more pompous than any, but should not be so boisterous as now too often practised. [4] By this section, and mostly throughout the Work, one sees, the Author calculated this Treatise chiefly for the Advantage of Professors of Musick; but, notwithstanding, it appears in several Places, that his Intention is, that all Lovers of Musick should also be the better for it. [5] _The Explanation of_ Sic vos non vobis, _&c._, _for the Satisfaction of those who do not perfectly remember it_. _Virgil_ having composed a Distich, containing the Praise of _Augustus_, and a Compliment on his good Fortune, fix'd it on the Palace Gate, without any Name subscrib'd. _Augustus_, making strict Enquiry after the Author, and _Virgil's_ Modesty not suffering him to own the Verses, one _Bathillus_, a Poet of a mean Reputation, owned himself the Author, and received Honour and Reward from the Emperor. _Virgil_, somewhat scandalized at this Accident, fixed an Hemistich in these Words (_Sic vos non vobis_) four times repeated under the other, where he had placed the former Verses. The Emperor was as diligent to have these Hemistichs filled up, but no-body appearing to do it, at length _Virgil_ supplied them thus: _Hos ego Versiculos feci, tulit alter Honores; Sic vos non vobis nidificatis aves. Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis oves. Sic vos non vobis mellificatis apes. Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra boves._ i.e. These Verses I made, but another has taken the Applause of them. _So ye Birds build not your Nests For yourselves. So ye Sheep bear not your Wool For yourselves. So ye Bees make not your Honey For yourselves. So ye Oxen submit to the Plow Not for yourselves_. Upon this Discovery, _Bathillus_ became the Ridicule of _Rome_, and _Virgil_ acquired a double Reputation. The Distich, which _Bathillus_ claim'd for his, was this: _Nocte plut totâ, redeunt spectacula manè, Divisum Imperium cum Jove Cæsar habet._ i.e. It rain'd all Night; in the Morning the publick Shews return: _Jove_ and _Cæsar_ divide the Rule of the World. The Compliment is, that _Cæsar_ designing to exhibit Sports to the People, though the preceding Night was rainy and unpromising, yet such Weather returned with the Morning, as did not disappoint the Solemnity. [6] _Alla Capella_, Church-Musick where the Flats and Sharps are not mark'd. [7] Seven Cliffs necessary to be known. Pl. I. Numb. 1. By the Help of these Cliffs any Line or Space may be what Note you please. Pl. I. Numb. 2. [8] It is necessary to understand the _Sol-Fa_-ing, and its Rules, which shew where the two Semitones lie in each Octave, Pl. I. Numb. 3. Where Flats or Sharps are marked at the Cliff, the Rule is, if one Flat, That is _Fa_; if more Flats, the last. If one Sharp, That is _Mi_; if more Sharps, the last. [9] His meaning is, that the _French_ are not in the right. [10] See § 2, and the following, in Chap. III. where the Difficulty of the _Semitone Major_ and _Minor_ are cleared. [11] _Voce di Petto_ is a full Voice, which comes from the Breast by Strength, and is the most sonorous and expressive. _Voce di Testa_ comes more from the Throat, than from the Breast, and is capable of more Volubility. _Falsetto_ is a feigned Voice, which is entirely formed in the Throat, has more Volubility than any, but of no Substance. [12] _Register_; a Term taken from the different Stops of an Organ. [13] The Pitch of _Lombardy_ or _Venice_, is something more than half a Tone higher than at _Rome_. [14] A _Messa di Voce_ is the holding out and swelling a Note. Vide Pl. I. Numb. 4. This being a Term of Art, it is necessary to use it, as well as _Piano_ for soft, and _Forte_ for loud. _N.B._ Our Author recommends here to use any Grace sparingly, which he does in several other Places, and with Reason; for the finest Grace too often repeated grows tiresome. [15] See for _Appoggiatura_ in the next Chapter. [16] This Chapter contains some Enquiries into Matters of Curiosity, and demands a little Attention. The Reader therefore is desired to postpone it to the last. [17] _Appoggiatura_ is a Word to which the _English_ Language has not an Equivalent; it is a Note added by the Singer, for the arriving more gracefully to the following Note, either in rising or falling, as is shewn by the Examples in Notes of Musick, Pl. II. Numb. 2. The _French_ express it by two different Terms, _Port de Voix_ and _Appuyer_; as the _English_ do by a _Prepare_ and a _Lead_. The Word _Appoggiatura_ is derived from _Appoggiare_ to lean on. In this Sense, you lean on the first to arrive at the Note intended, rising or falling; and you dwell longer on the Preparation, than the Note for which the Preparation is made, and according to the Value of the Note. The same in a Preparation to a Shake, or a Beat from the Note below. No _Appoggiatura_ can be made at the Beginning of a Piece; there must be a Note preceding, from whence it leads. [18] Here begins the Examination of the _Semitones Major and Minor_, which he promised in § 15. Ch. 1. It may be of Satisfaction to the Studious, to set this Matter at once in a true Light; by which our Author's Doubts will be cleared, and his Reasoning the easier understood. A _Semitone Major_ changes Name, Line, and Space: _A Semitone_ Minor changes neither. Pl. II. Numb. 1. To a _Semitone Major_ one can go with a Rise or _a_ Fall distinctly; to a _Semitone Minor_ one cannot _N.B._ From a _Tone Minor_ the _Appoggiatura_ is better and easier than from a _Tone Major_. [19] These are all _Tones Major_ and _Minor_, and _Semitones Major_. Pl. II. Numb. 2. [20] Because they are _Semitones Major_. Pl. II. Numb. 3. [21] Because they are _Semitones Major_. Pl. II. Numb. 4. [22] Because they are all _Semitones Minor_, which may be known by the abovementioned Rule, of their not changing Name, Line, nor Space. Pl. II. Numb. 5. and which makes it manifest, that a _Semitone Minor_ cannot bear an _Appoggiatura_. [23] For the same Reason, these being _Semitones Minor_. Pl. II. Numb. 6. [24] Because one is a _Semitone Major_, and the other a _Semitone Minor_. Pl. III. Numb. 7. [25] Because they are _Semitones Minor_. Pl. III, Numb. 8. [26] The _Tone_, or _Mood_, you are in, will determine which is a _Tone Major_ or _Minor_; for if you change the _Mood_ or _Tone_, that which was the _Tone Major_ may become the _Tone Minor_, and so _Vice Versâ_: Therefore these two Examples from _C_ to _D_, and from _F_ to _G_, do not hold true. [27] His Perplexity comes from a wrong Notion, in not distinguishing those two _Semitones_. [28] All Intervals, rising with an _Appoggiatura_, arise to the Note with a sort of _Beat_, more or less: and the same, descending, arrive to the Note with a sort of _Shake_, more or less. Pl. III. Numb. 9, 10. One cannot agreeably ascend or descend the Interval of a third _Major_ or _Minor_, Pl. III. Numb 11. But gradually very well. Pl. III. Numb. 12. Examples of false or deceitful Intervals. Pl. III. Numb. 13. [29] So in all Cases where the Interval is deceitful. Pl. III. Numb. 14. With a _Messa di Voce_. Pl. III. Numb. 15. See for _Messa di Voce_, Chap. I. § 29, and its Note. [30] In all the modern _Italian_ Compositions the _Appoggiatura's_ are mark'd, supposing the Singers to be ignorant where to place them. The _French_ use them for their Lessons on the _Harpsichord_, &c., but seldom for the Voice. [31] See for the several Examples of the _Shakes_, Pl. IV. [32] The first _Shake_ of a _Tone_, Pl. IV. Numb. 1. [33] See for the Meaning of superior and inferior _Cadences_, Chap. VIII. § 1. Pl. V. Numb. 3. _N.B._ Prom the inferior or lower Cadences, the first, or full, _Tone Shake_, is not always excluded; for in a sharp Key it is always a _Tone_, and in a flat Key a _Semitone_, Pl. IV. Numb. 3. [34] The second _Shake_ of a _Semitone Major_, Pl. IV. Numb. 2. [35] The third the short _Shake_. Pl. IV. Numb. 4. [36] The fourth the rising _Shake_. Pl. IV. Numb. 5. [37] The fifth the descending _Shake_. Pl. IV. Numb. 6. [38] The sixth the slow _Shake_. Pl. IV. Numb. 7. [39] The seventh the redoubled _Shake_. Pl. IV. Numb. 8. [40] The eighth the _Trillo-Mordente_, or _Shake_ with a _Beat_. Pl. IV. Numb. 9. [41] _Shakes_ are generally proper from preceding Notes descending, but not ascending, except on particular Occasions. Never too many, or too near one another; but very bad to begin with them, which is too frequently done. The using so often _Beats_, _Shakes_, and _Prepares_, is owing to Lessons on the Lute, Harpsichord, and other Instruments, whose Sounds discontinue, and therefore have Need of this Help. [42] The _mark'd Divisions_ should be something like the _Staccato_ on the Violin, but not too much; against which a Caution will presently be given. [43] The _Gliding Notes_ are like several Notes in one Stroke of the Bow on the Violin. [44] The pronouncing _Eror_ instead of _Error_; or _Dally_ instead of _Daly_. The not distinguishing; the double Consonants from the single, is an Error but too common at present. [45] See for the _syncopated_, _Ligatura_, or _binding_ Notes, Pl. IV. Numb. 10. [46] _Madrigals_ are Pieces in several Parts; the last in Practice were about threescore Years ago; then the Opera's began to be in Vogue, and good Musick and the Knowledge of it began to decline. [47] _Musica di Camera._ Chamber, or private, Musick; where the Multitude is not courted for Applause, but only the true Judges; and consists chiefly in _Cantata's_, _Duetto's_, &c. In the Recitative of _Cantata's_, our Author excelled in a singular Manner for the pathetick Expression of the Words. [48] _Cortona_ liv'd above forty Years ago. _Balarini_, in Service at the Court of _Vienna_, much in Favour with the Emperor _Joseph_, who made him a Baron. [49] See Broken Cadences, Pl. V. Numb. 1. ----Final Cadences, Pl. V. Numb. 2. [50] _Motets_, or Anthems. [51] The Proverb is, _Lingua_ Toscana _in bocca_ Romana.--This regards the different Dialects, in _Italy_; as _Neapolitan_, _Venetian_, _&c._ the same, in Comparison, _London_ to _York_, or _Somersetshire_. [52] The Church-Musick in _Italy_ is all in _Latin_, except _Oratorio's_, which are Entertainments in their Churches. It is therefore necessary to have some Notion of the _Latin_ Tongue. [53] The first Caution against imitating injudiciously the Instrumental with the Voice. [54] The _Italians_ have a Saying, _Voce di Compositore_, to denote a bad or an indifferent Voice. [55] _Cantabile_, the Tender, Passionate, Pathetick; more Singing than _Allegro_, which is Lively, Brisk, Gay, and more in the executive Way. [56] Suppose the first Part expressed Anger, and the second relented, and was to express Pity or Compassion, he must be angry again in the _Da Capo_. This often happens, and is very ridiculous if not done to a real Purpose, and that the Subject and Poetry require it. [57] It is supposed, the Scholar is arrived to the Capacity of knowing Harmony and Counterpoint. [58] The general dividing of _Airs_ described, to which the Author often refers. [59] With due Deference to our Author, it may be feared, that the Affectation of Singing with Variety has conduced very much to the introducing a bad Taste. [60] Continuation of the general dividing _Airs_ in § 4. The End of this Section is a seasonable Corrective of the Rule prescribed in the foregoing fifth Section. [61] _Rivani_, called _Ciecolino_, must have written some Treatise on Time, which is not come to us, therefore no further Account can be given of him. [62] _Pistochi_ was very famous above fifty Years ago, and refined the Manner of singing in _Italy_, which was then a little crude. His Merit in this is acknowledged by all his Countrymen, contradicted by none. Briefly, what is recounted of him, is, that when he first appeared to the World, and a Youth, he had a very fine treble Voice, admired and encouraged universally, but by a dissolute Life lost it, and his Fortune. Being reduced to the utmost Misery, he entered into the Service of a Composer, as a Copyist, where he made use of the Opportunity of learning the Rules of Composition, and became a good Proficient. After some Years, he recovered a little Glimpse of Voice, which by Time and Practice turned into a fine _Contr'Alto_. Having Experience on his Side, he took Care of it, and as Encouragement came again, he took the Opportunity of travelling all _Europe_ over, where hearing the different Manners and Tastes, he appropriated them to himself, and formed that agreeable Mixture, which he produced in _Italy_, where he was imitated and admired. He at last past many Years, when in an affluent Fortune, at the Court of _Anspach_, where he had a Stipend, and lived an agreeable easy Life; and at last retired to a Convent in _Italy_. It has been remark'd, that though several of his Disciples shewed the Improvement they had from him, yet others made an ill use of it, having not a little contributed to the Introduction of the _modern_ Taste. [63] _Sifacio_, famous beyond any, for the most singular Beauty of his Voice. His Manner of Singing was remarkably plain, consisting particularly in the _Messa di Voce_, the putting forth his Voice, and the Expression. There is an _Italian_ Saying, that an hundred Perfections are required in an excellent Singer, and he that hath a fine Voice has ninety-nine of them. It is also certain, that as much as is allotted to Volubility and Tricks, so much is the Beauty of the Voice sacrificed; for the one cannot be done without Prejudice to the other. _Sifacio_ got that Name from his acting the Part of _Syphax_ the first time he appeared on the Stage. He was in _England_ when famous, and belonged to King _James_ the Second's Chapel. After which he returned to _Italy_, continuing to be very much admired, but at last was waylaid, and murthered for his Indiscretion. [64] _Buzzolini_, the Name known, but no Particulars of him. [65] _Litigino_, in the Service of the Emperor _Joseph_, and a Scholar of _Pistochi_. [66] _Signora Boschi_ was over in _England_ in Queen _Anne's_ Time; she sung one Season in the Opera's, returned to _Venice_, and left her Husband behind for several Years; he sung the Bass. She was a Mistress of Musick, but her Voice was on the Decay when she came here. [67] _Santini_, afterwards _Signora Lotti_. She was famous above forty Years ago, and appeared at several Courts in _Germany_, where she was sent for; then retired to _Venice_, where she married _Signor Lotti_, Chapel-Master of St. _Mark_. All these Singers, though they had a Talent particular to themselves, they could, however, sing in several sorts of Stile; on the contrary, one finds few, but what attempt nothing that is out of their Way. A modern Singer of the good Stile, being asked, whether such and such Compositions would not please at present in _Italy_? No doubt, said he, they would, but where are the Singers that can sing them? [68] Those tremendous _Airs_ are called in _Italian_, _un Aria di Bravura_; which cannot perhaps be better translated into _English_, than a _Hectoring_ Song. [69] _Pierre Simone Agostini_ lived about threescore Years ago. Several _Cantata's_ of his Composition are extant, some of them very difficult, not from the Number of _Divisions_ in the vocal Part, but from the Expression, and the surprising Incidents, and also the Execution of the Basses. He seems to be the first that put Basses with so much Vivacity; for _Charissimi_ before him composed with more Simplicity, tho' he is reckoned to be one of the first, who enlivened his Musick in the Movements of his Basses. Of _Pierre-Simone_ nothing more is known but that he loved his Bottle, and when he had run up a Bill in some favourite Place, he composed a _Cantata_, and sent it to a certain Cardinal, who never failed sending him a fixed Sum, with which he paid off his Score. [70] _Alessandro Stradella_ lived about _Pier. Simone's_ Time, or very little after. He was a most excellent Composer, superior in all Respects to the foregoing, and endowed with distinguishing personal Qualifications. It is reported, that his favourite Instrument was the Harp, with which he sometimes accompanied his Voice, which was agreeable. To hear such a Composer play on the Harp, must have been what we can have no Notion of, by what we now hear. He ended his Life fatally, for he was murthered. The Fact is thus related. Being at _Genoa_, a Place where the Ladies are allowed to live with more Freedom than in any other Part of _Italy_, _Stradella_ had the honour of being admitted into a noble Family, the Lady whereof was a great Lover of Musick. Her Brother, a wrong-headed Man, takes Umbrage at _Stradella's_ frequent Visits there, and forbids him going upon his Peril, which Order _Stradella_ obeys. The Lady's Husband not having seen _Stradella_ at his House for some Days, reproaches him with it. _Stradella_, for his Excuse, tells him his Brother-in-Law's Order, which the Nobleman is angry with, and charges him to continue his Visits as formerly; he had been there scarce three or four Times, but one Evening going Home, attended by a Servant and a Lanthorn, four Ruffians rushed out, the Lady's Brother one among them, and with _Stiletts_ or Daggers stabb'd him, and left him dead upon the Place. The people of _Genoa_ all in a Rage fought for the Murtherer, who was forced to fly, his Quality not being able to protect him. In another Account of him, this Particularity is mentioned; that the Murderers pursued him to _Rome_, and on Enquiry learned, that an _Oratorio_ of his Composition was to be performed that Evening; they went with an Intent to execute their Design, but were so moved with his Composition, that they rather chose to tell him his Danger, advised him to depart, and be upon his Guard. But, being pursued by others, he lost his Life. His Fate has been lamented by every Body, especially by those who knew his Merit, and none have thought him deserving so sad a Catastrophe. [71] When _Tosi_ writ this, the Composers in Vogue were _Scarlatti_, _Bononcini_, _Gasparini_, _Mancini_, &c. The last and modern Stile has pretty well spread itself all over _Italy_, and begins to have a great Tendency to the same beyond the _Alps_, as he calls it. [72] The _Moods_, here spoken of, our Author has not well explained. The Foundation he goes upon are the eight Church _Moods_. But his Meaning and Complaint is, that commonly the Compositions are in _C_, or in _A_, with their Transpositions, and that the others are not used or known. But to particularise here what the _Moods_ are, and how to be used, is impossible, for that Branch only would require a large Treatise by itself. [73] The _Airs_, sung in Unison with the Instruments, were invented in the _Venetian_ Opera's, to please the _Barcaroles_, who are their Watermen: and very often their Applause supports an Opera. The _Roman_ School always distinguished itself, and required Compositions of Study and Care. How it is now at _Rome_ is doubtful; but we do not hear that there are any _Corelli's_. [74] _Maestro di Capella_, Master of the Chapel, the highest Title belonging to a Master of Musick. Even now the Singers in _Italy_ give the Composers of Opera's the Title of _Signior Maestro_ as a Mark of their Submission. [75] _Contrapunto_, Counterpoint, or Note against Note, the first Rudiments of Composition. [76] _Furlana_. A sort of Country Dance, or _Cheshire_-Round. It is reported, that the Church-Musick in _Italy_, far from keeping that Majesty it ought, is vastly abused the other way; and some Singers have had the Impudence to have other Words put to favourite Opera _Airs_ and sung them in Churches. This Abuse is not new, for St. _Augustine_ complains of it; and _Palestrina_ prevented in his Time Musick from being banished the Churches. [77] _Tono_, or _Mood_, and sometimes means the Key. Our Author in this Section is fond of a Pun, which cannot well be translated. _Tono_ is sometimes writ _Tuono_ and _Tuono_ signifies Thunder; therefore the Ignorant answers, he knows no other _Tuono_ but that which is preceded by Lightning. [78] _Cadences_; or, principal Closes in _Airs_. [79] For superior and inferior _Cadences_, see Pl. V. Numb. 3. [80] Broken _Cadences_, see Example, Chap. V. § 13, and its Note. [81] _Cadences_ that fall a Fifth, with and without Words, Pl. V, Numb. 4 and 5. [82] By the _Final Cadences_ here mentioned, the first is at the End of the first Part of the _Air_; the Second at the End of the second Part: and the Third at the end of the first Part when repeated again, or at the _Da Capo_, as it is always expressed in _Italian_. [83] For the resolved and unresolved _Cadences_, see Pl. V. Numb. 6 and 7. [84] See for the Examples, Pl. V. Numb. 8. [85] See Example, Pl. VI. Numb. 1. [86] See Example, Pl. VI. Numb. 2. _N.B._ An _Appoggiatura_ cannot be made on an unaccented Syllable. [87] See for Examples, Pl. VI. Numb. 3. [88] See for Examples, Pl. VI. Numb. 4. [89] Some, after a tender and passionate _Air_, make a lively merry _Cadence_; and, after a brisk _Air_, end it with one that is doleful. [90] Though this Chapter regards Singers who make it their Profession, and particularly those who sing on the Stage, yet there are many excellent Precepts interspersed, that are of Use to Lovers of Musick. [91] _Kyrie_, the first Word of the Mass-Musick in the Cathedral Stile, is not so difficult to them as the _Cantata's_; and the _Latin_ in the Service, being familiar to them, saves them the Trouble of attending to the Words. [92] _Thomas Morley_ (who lived above an hundred Years ago) in the third Part of his Treatise, pag. 179, speaking of _Motetts_ or Anthems, complains thus:--'But I see not what Passions or Motions it can stir up, being as most Men doe commonlie Sing,--leaving out the Ditty--as it were a Musick made onely for Instruments, which will indeed shew the Nature of the Musick, but never carry the Spirit and (as it were) that lively Soule which the Ditty giveth; but of this enough. And to return to the expressing of the Ditty, the Matter is now come to that State, that though a Song be never so wel made, and never so aptly applyed to the Words, yet shall you hardly find Singers to expresse it as it ought to be; for most of our Church-men, (so they crie louder in the Quire then their Fellowes) care for no more; whereas, by the contrarie, they ought to study how to vowel and sing clean expressing their Words with Devotion and Passion, whereby to draw the Hearer as it were in Chaines of Gold by the Eares to the Consideration of holy Things. But this, for the most part, you shall find amongst them, that let them continue never so long in the Church, yea though it were twentie Years, they will never study to sing better than they did the first Day of their Preferment to that Place; so that it seems, that having obtained the Living which they sought for, they have little or no Care at all, either of their own Credit, or well discharging of that Dutie whereby they have their Maintenance.' [93] In _Italy_, the Courts of _Palma_, _Modena_, _Turin_, &c. and in _Germany_, the Courts of _Vienna_, _Bavaria_, _Hanover_, _Brandenbourg_, _Palatine_, _Saxony_, &c. [94] There have been such, who valued themselves for shaking a Room, breaking the Windows, and stunning the Auditors with their Voice. [95] The renowned Abbot _Steffani_, so famous for his _Duetto's_, would never suffer such luxuriant Singers to perform any of them, unless they kept themselves within Bounds. [96] _Nicolini_, who came the first time into _England_ about the Year 1708, had both Qualities, more than any that have come since. He acted to Perfection, and did not sing much inferior. His Variations in the _Airs_ were excellent; but in his _Cadences_ he had a little of the antiquated Tricks. _Valentini_, (who was here at the same Time) a Scholar of _Pistochi_, though not so powerful in Voice or Action as _Nicolini_, was more chaste in his Singing. [97] The two Women, he points at, are _Cuzzoni_ and _Faustina_. [98] The _Carnaval_ is a Festival in _Italy_, particularly celebrated at _Venice_ from _Christmas_ to _Lent_, when all Sorts of Diversions are permitted; and at that Time there are sometimes three different Theatres for Opera's only. [99] Our Author has often mentioned Time; the Regard to it, the Strictness of it, and how much it is neglected and unobserv'd. In this Place speaking of stealing the Time, it regards particularly the Vocal, or the Performance on a single Instrument in the _Pathetick_ and _Tender_; when the Bass goes an exactly regular Pace, the other Part retards or anticipates in a singular Manner, for the Sake of Expression, but after That returns to its Exactness, to be guided by the Bass. Experience and Taste must teach it. A mechanical Method of going on with the Bass will easily distinguish the Merit of the other Manner. [100] A farther Animadversion against imitating Instruments with the Voice. [101] Many Graces may be very good and proper for a Violin, that would be very improper for a Hautboy; and so with every Species of Instruments that have something peculiar. It is a very great Error (too much in Practice) for the Voice, (which should serve as a Standard to be imitated by Instruments,) to copy all the Tricks practised on the several Instruments, to its greatest Detriment. [102] _Passo_ and _Passagio_. The Difference is, that a _Passo_ is a sudden Grace or Flight, not uniform. See Pl. VI. Numb. 5. A _Passagio_ is a Division, a Continuation, or a Succession of Notes, ascending or descending with Uniformity. See Pl. VI. Numb. 6. [103] This alludes to the _French_ Manner of Singing, from whence that Defect is copy'd. [104] The Time he alludes to, is at present between thirty and forty Years ago. [105] Compare this Section with Section 41 in this Chapter and the Note. [106] This is a Fault more than once heard of, in _Oratario's_ or _Motetts_. [107] See Example, Pl. VI. Numb. 7. [108] _Faustina_ and _Cuzzoni_, they both having within these few Years been in _England_, there needs no other Remark to be made on them, but to inform Futurity, that the _English_ Audience distinguish'd them Both and at the same time, according to their Merit, and as our Author has describ'd them. It may be worth remarking, that _Castilione_, who lived above two hundred Years ago, in his _Cortegiano_, describes _Bidon_, and _Marchetto Cara_, two famous Singers in his Time, with the same distinguishing Qualifications. [109] See Examples, Pl. VI. Numb. 8 and 9. 
30854	----	Transcriber's Note Music notation in this ebook is rendered using scientific pitch notation, in which, for example, middle C is rendered as C4, C below middle C is rendered as C3, and C above middle C is rendered as C5, etc. For more information on this notation method, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scientific_pitch_notation THE VOICE Its Production, Care and Preservation _By_ FRANK E. MILLER, M. D. _With a Note by_ GUSTAV KOBBÉ _SIXTH EDITION_ NEW YORK: G. SCHIRMER BOSTON: BOSTON MUSIC CO. COPYRIGHT, 1910 BY G. SCHIRMER NOTE Dr. Frank E. Miller, the author of this book, is one of the leading New York specialists on throat, nose and ear. He numbers many singers among his patients and is physician to the Manhattan Opera House, Mr. Oscar Hammerstein's company. To expert knowledge of the physiology of the vocal organs he adds practical experience as a vocalist. Before and during his student years he was a singer and held, among other positions, that of tenor in one of the large New York churches. This experience has been of great value to him in his practice among singers. He understands them temperamentally as well as physically. Moreover, it has led him, in writing this book, to consider questions of temperament as well as principles of physiology. Great as is the importance that he attaches to a correct physiological method of voice-production, he makes full allowance for what may be called the psychological factors involved therein--mentality, artistic temperament, correct concept on the part of the singer of the pitch and quality of the tone to be produced, etc. Above all, Dr. Miller, while convinced that the tones of the vocal scale require, for their correct emission, subtly corresponding changes of adjustment in the vocal organs, utterly rejects anything like a deliberate or conscious attempt on the singer's part to bring about these adjustments. He holds that they should occur automatically (or subconsciously) as the result, in very rare instances, of supreme natural gifts, in others as a spontaneous sequence to properly developed artistry. In fact, while based on accurate scientific knowledge, Dr. Miller's book also is the outcome of long observation and experience, so that it might well be entitled "The Common Sense of Singing." GUSTAV KOBBÉ. CONTENTS PAGE NOTE v CHAPTER I. A RATIONAL VOCAL METHOD 1 CHAPTER II. THE CHOICE OF A TEACHER 15 CHAPTER III. ON BREATHING: INSPIRATION 27 CHAPTER IV. ON BREATHING: EXPIRATION 49 CHAPTER V. THE PHYSIOLOGY AND PSYCHOLOGY OF VOICE-PRODUCTION 67 CHAPTER VI. PITCH AND SYMPATHETIC VIBRATION 89 CHAPTER VII. REGISTERS OF THE VOICE 103 CHAPTER VIII. SUBDIVISIONS OF THE VOICE 117 CHAPTER IX. THE STROKE OF THE GLOTTIS 132 CHAPTER X. HYGIENE OF THE VOICE 147 CHAPTER XI. MORE VOCAL HYGIENE 169 CHAPTER XII. NODES AND THEIR CURE 182 [Illustration: FIG. 1. THE THROAT AND ADJOINING STRUCTURES 1, Larynx. 2, Epiglottis. 3, Lower Pharynx. 4, Lips. 5, Teeth. 6, Tongue. 7, Mouth (Oral Cavity). 8, Uvula and Soft Palate. 9, Hard Palate. 10, Upper Pharynx. 11, Nasal Cavities. 12, Nose. A, Arytenoid Cartilage. C, Cricoid Cartilage. T, Thyroid Cartilage. W, Windpipe. X, Adam's Apple.] CHAPTER I A RATIONAL VOCAL METHOD Song, so far as voice-production is concerned, is the result of physiological action, and as voice-production is the basis of all song, it follows that a singing method, to be correct, must be based on the correct physiological use of the vocal organs. The physiology of voice-production lies, therefore, at the very foundation of artistic singing. The proper physiological basis for a singing method having been laid, something else, something highly important, remains to be superimposed. Voice is physical. But everything that colors voice, charging it with emotion, giving it its peculiar quality and making it different from other voices, is largely, although not wholly, the result of a psychical control--a control not exercised mysteriously from without, like Svengali's over Trilby, but by the singer himself from within. Every singer is his own mesmerist, or he has mistaken his vocation. For while voice is a physical manifestation, its "atmosphere," its emotional thrill and charm, is a psychical one--the result of the individual's thought and feeling, acting unconsciously or, better still, subconsciously, on that physical thing, the voice. Between the two, however, between mind and body, there lies, like a borderland of fancy, yet most real, the nervous system, crossed and recrossed by the most delicate, the most sensitive filaments ever spun, filaments that touch, caress, or permeate each and every muscle concerned in voice-production, calling them into play with the rapidity of mental telegraphy. Over this network of nerves the mind, or--if you prefer to call it so--the artistic sense, sends its messages, and it is the nerves and muscles working in harmony that results in a correct production of the voice. So important, indeed, is the coöperation of the nervous system, that it is a question whether the whole psychology of song may not be referred to it--whether the degree of emotional thrill, in different voices, may not be the result of greater or less sensitiveness in the nervous system of different singers. This might explain why some very beautiful voices lack emotional quality. In such singers the physical action of the vocal organs and of all the resonance cavities of the head may be perfect, but the nerves are not sufficiently sensitive to the emotion which the song is intended to express, and so fail to carry it to the voice. Immense progress has been made in anatomical research, and in no other branch more than in the study of the throat and of the larynx, which is the voice-box of the human body. There also has been a great advance in the study of metaphysics. It would seem high time, therefore, that both the results of modern anatomical study and the deductions of advanced psychological research, should be recognized in the use of that subtle and beautiful thing, the human voice, which in its ultimate quality is a combination of physiological and psychological phenomena--the physical, voice-producing organs acting within and for themselves, but also being acted upon by a series of suggestive impulses from the mind and soul, countless in number and variety. Indeed, one might say that while in singing the vocal organs are the first essential, they must, in order to achieve their full effect, be in tune with the infinite. Artistic singing involves complete physiological control of the voice-producing function, combined with complete command of the metaphysical resources of art. Thus only can voice be produced with that apparent spontaneity which we call artistic, and at the same time be charged with the emotional quality which gives it individual significance. These two factors of voice-production, the physical and the psychical, should be recognized both by the teacher and by the student in striving to develop the voice, and by the physician who seeks to restore an impaired voice to its pristine quality. The substitution by teachers of various methods, originated by themselves, for the natural physiological method to which the vocal organs become self-adjusted and for the correct processes of auto-suggestion originating within the well-taught singer himself, is the cause of most ruined voices. The physician who realizes this will, in treating an impaired voice, know how to maintain the proper balance between the two factors--between medicine and surgery on the one hand and considerations of temperament and mentality on the other. There have been written books on voice-method of which "be natural" is the slogan; books on the physiology of voice-production, in which, as far as the singer is concerned, too much importance is attached to the results of laryngoscopic examination; and books on the psychology of voice-production in which the other factors are wholly neglected. None of these three varieties of book, however, covers the ground, but each only a part of it. The three--nature, physiology and psychology--must be combined in any book that professes to offer a synthetic method of voice-production. It is possible that knowledge of the structure of the vocal organs is of more importance to the physician and to the teacher than to the singer himself, and that too constant thought of them might distract the latter's attention from the product to the machine, from the quality of voice to be produced to the vocal apparatus producing it. Nevertheless, some knowledge of the organs which he brings into play in singing cannot fail to be helpful to the vocalist himself, and surely their importance to the teacher of singing and to the physician who has an impaired voice to restore cannot be overestimated. Correct teaching, in fact, directs the mind to the end, and by taking into account the physical parts concerned in singing, imparts to them the habit of unconsciously obeying natural laws. Singing may not be a question of how a distorted throat looks in an oblique mirror, yet the knowledge that, because a note is faultily produced, the throat must be distorted, and how, will be of great service to the teacher who wishes to correct the fault, and indispensable to the physician who wishes to eradicate the results of a bad method. The very first principle of a vocal method should be, to establish so correct a use of the vocal organs that nature in this respect becomes second nature. For correct action of the voice-organs can develop into a habit so perfectly acquired that the singer acts upon it automatically; and the most disastrous result of poor teaching is that a bad habit also becomes second nature and is almost impossible to eradicate. There seems to be no question but that the old Italian masters of singing, whether knowingly or unknowingly, taught according to correct physiological principles, and that, because of a neglect of these principles since then, while there has been a general advance in everything else, the art of voice-production actually has retrograded. For not only did the old Italian masters understand the voice in its physical aspects; they also insisted, because they understood it so well, on a course of voice-training which lasted long enough to give the pupil complete ease and entire control of technic. The story of the famous master, Porpora, and his equally famous pupil, Caffarelli, is worth recalling. On a single sheet of music paper Porpora wrote all the feats of which the voice is capable, and from that one sheet Caffarelli studied with him five, some say six years. Then the great master dismissed him with these words: "Go, my son, I have nothing more to teach you; you are the greatest singer in Italy and in the world." In our own hurried days the teacher is only too apt, after a few months, or even after only a few weeks, to say: "Go, my dear. You know _enough_. You are pretty to look at, and you'll make a hit!" For, curiously enough, while the student of the pianoforte or the violin still will devote years to acquiring perfection upon it, a person who thinks himself gifted with a voice expects to become a singer with a year or two of instruction, possibly even after studying only a few months. Yet the apparatus concerned in voice-production is a most delicate one, and, being easily ruined when incorrectly used, haste in learning how to use it not only is absurd but criminal--voice-murder, in fact. It has been said that one error of the old Italian method was that it concerned itself only with beautiful tone-production, whereas real singing is the vitalization of words by emotion. But the vitalization of words by emotion may well follow upon beautiful tone-production and, though in the case of the old Italians this undoubtedly was aided by the smoothly flowing quality of the Italian language, a singer, properly taught, should be able to sing beautifully in any tongue. Besides haste, one great danger to-day to the art of singing, and especially to the art of beautiful tone-production, which lies at the root of all beautiful singing, is the modern worship of individualism, of the ability of a person simply to do things differently from some one else, instead of more artistically, so that we are beginning to attach more importance to whims and personality than to observance of the canons of true art. It is only when the individual has supreme intelligence, that any such disregard of what constitutes true art should be tolerated. Henry Irving, for example, was extraordinarily effective in certain rôles, while in others his acting was atrocious. But even in these latter there was intellect behind what he did, and the spectator became so interested in observing his manner of striving for an effect, that he forgave him for falling short of what he strove for. But this is a very exceptional and a very dangerous kind of precedent. Art ever is more honored in the observance than in the breach. Yet its breach often is honored by modern audiences, and especially operatic audiences, because they tend to rate temperament too high and art too low, and to tolerate singers whose voice-production is atrocious, simply because their temperament or personality interests them. Take a case in point: The Croatian prima donna, Milka Ternina, whose art ranges from Tosca to Isolde, sings (in "Tosca") the invocation to the Virgin which precedes the killing of Scarpia, with a wealth of voice combined with a power of dramatic expression that simply is overwhelming; and she acts the scene of the killing with sufficient realism to raise her entire performance to the highest level of vocal dramatic art. An Italian prima donna who has been heard in the same rôle at the same opera house sings the invocation wretchedly, but acts the following scene, the killing of Scarpia, with startling realism. She wins applause for her performance, as much applause as the other, which shows that an operatic audience will not only tolerate, but even applaud a singer who substitutes physical attractions, temperament and a peculiar wriggle of the spinal column for beautiful voice and correct method. We all possess voice-mechanism, and possibly there is no other physical apparatus that is misused so much. Americans misuse it even in speech; yet what a valuable possession is an agreeable and pleasant speaking-voice. This abuse of the vocal organs by the great majority of Americans makes the establishment of a correct method of voice-production in this country all the more desirable. Yet, what do we find here? Almost any charlatan can set up as a singing-teacher, and this despite the fact that the voice-mechanism is a most delicate and subtle structure, and that a slight physical disturbance or wrong use of it seriously affects the quality of the voice produced. Had I not been a singer before I became a physician, I might not realize the part that nature, properly guided, plays in the use of the voice. Had I remained a singer and not become a physician, I might not realize how important an aid in properly guiding nature in the use of the voice is a scientific knowledge of the action of the voice-producing organs. Had I not been a singer and were not now a physician, I might not realize the influence upon the artist's physical well-being, and especially upon that delicate apparatus, the voice-mechanism, of temperament, mental condition and other purely metaphysical factors. This book, then, while it believes in consulting nature, does not believe in that "natural" method which simply tells you to stand up and sing; nor does it believe in that physiological method which instructs you to plant yourself in front of a mirror and examine your throat with a laryngoscope; nor in advising you to follow minutely the publications of the Society for Psychological Research. It believes in a synthetic coördination of the three. In my practice I have become convinced that every impairment of the voice is due to outraged nature, resulting in a physiological condition of the vocal organs that should not exist, and, in turn, inducing a psychological condition, such as worry and despondency, which also should not exist. By discovering with the aid of the laryngoscope the physiological defect and removing it, body, and, with it, mind and voice are restored to their proper condition. But if the singer goes back to a teacher whose method is wrong, the same impairment, or even worse, will result. Jean de Reszke is a perfect example of how a singer can develop his voice when he turns from a wrong method to a right one. This celebrated tenor actually thought he was a baritone, and so did his teacher. He was trained as a baritone, made his début in a baritone rôle and sang as a baritone for several years. But he experienced great fatigue in singing, much greater fatigue than seemed proper or necessary. This led him eventually to have his voice tested by another teacher, who discovered that he was a tenor. Singing with the wrong voice, which also means with a wrong method, had exhausted him. As a tenor his beautiful voice-production, based on a correct physiological method, made him equally at home and equally at ease in rôles making the most opposite demands upon his powers. He sang equally well in Gounod and Wagner; and in Wagner, whether he was singing the young Siegfried, Siegfried of "Götterdämmerung," or Tristan. The proper coördination of all the parts of the physical vocal apparatus with the powers of mind and emotion, is what in the end constitutes the perfect singer, and that proper coördination has, as its first basis, a due regard for the physiology of voice-production as well, of course, as for the general rules of health. In Gilbert and Sullivan's "Mikado," Nanki Poo, hearing a tomtit by the river reiterating a colorless "tit willow," asks the bird if its foolish song is due to a feeble mind or a careless diet. "Is it weakness of intellect, Birdie," I cried, "Or a rather tough worm In your little inside?" But all that the dear little birdie replied, Was, "Willow, Tit Willow, Tit Willow." Colloquially expressed, what Mr. Nanki Poo asked the bird was as follows: "Being gifted by nature with a perfect larynx, which should enable you to sing beautifully, do you confine yourself to singing a colorless 'Tit Willow' because you don't know any better, or because you are attempting to sing on top of an improperly selected meal?" In other words, he put violation of the laws of hygiene by a singer on a par with idiocy. Thus, even from comic opera, in the performance of which most of the rules of vocal art are violated, one yet may gather certain truths--by listening to the words--provided the singers know enough to enunciate them distinctly. The physiology of voice-production not only offers a rational method, it also enables the student to guide his own development, to advance his physical welfare, and, because he knows the why and wherefore of things vocal, to perceive what is best in the performance of others and to profit by it. Moreover, correct method of voice-production is in itself a health developer, and a singer who is taught by it often is able to overcome the disadvantages of a poor physique; while a singer, originally of strong physique, may find himself physically weakened by the use of a faulty method. As between a person who employs a beautiful voice artistically and a person who sings less beautifully, relying chiefly on interesting personality and temperament, instead of on correct method, the former singer usually long outlasts the latter. In other words, genuine vocal art is the crowning glory of a naturally beautiful voice. CHAPTER II THE CHOICE OF A TEACHER Further observations of a general character may be allowed to precede a more detailed consideration of method. Some people wonder why a person who is gifted with voice simply can't get up and sing without any instruction. The reason is that voice is an instrument; a natural, human instrument, it is true, yet one in the use of which the fortunate possessor requires practice and training. The purpose of a singing-method is to produce a perfect coördination of all parts of the human voice-producing mechanism, an apparatus which is by no means simple but, in fact, rather intricate and complicated. It will be found, for example, that such a natural function of life as breathing has to be especially adapted to the requirements of the singing voice; that breathing such as suffices for the average person will not suffice for correct voice-production. Again, in every voice certain notes are better than others, and a correct method of voice-production, while it may not be able to make every note in the range of voice of equal quality, brings the whole voice up to a more even standard of excellence. It leaves the best notes as good as ever and brings the notes which naturally are not so satisfactory, nearer the standard of the best. The great singers, in addition to natural aptitude, remain students throughout their careers. There are certain fundamental principles in a correct method of voice-production, for it is based upon study and knowledge of the organs concerned therein. But if the method were a hard-and-fast one, it would not be correct. For there are so many individual differences, physical and temperamental, between pupils, that there must be elasticity and adaptability in a method that claims to produce the best results. Knowledge and experience should be combined in a teacher. Garcia wrote a voice-manual; and Tosi published a method as far back as 1723. But a teacher who has bought a translation of the "Traité complet de l'Art de Chant" by no means is a second Garcia, nor has a teacher who chances to have read Tosi's book a right to set himself up as an instructor of singing after the old Italian method. The old Italians, like Tosi and Porpora, were men of great practical experience in teaching, and they understood how to adapt method to individual needs. Consciously or unconsciously, their method was physiological--the fundamental principles of the physiology of voice-production were there; but these great teachers knew that individual differences had to be allowed for and that a singing-method is not a shoemaker's last. Sometimes, indeed, it is the pupil who makes the master. One of those born singers, man or woman, whom Nature has endowed with superlative gifts and whom some unknown yet meritorious teacher, perhaps in America, has started aright, goes abroad and, after a while, comes forth, not made, but fortunately not marred, from a foreign vocal studio and enters upon a great career--and the foreign teacher's fame becomes international. The real foundation for that career may have been laid in an American city. But ambitious young Americans, instead of seeking out that teacher, will flock to the foreign one. In such matters we are the most gullible people on the face of the earth. An Italian, now dead, but in his day the most high-priced singing-teacher in London, used to devote the greater part of his lesson periods to telling his pupils how fond certain members of the English Royal family were of him and to pointing out the souvenirs of their favor which he had displayed in his studio. Yet, doubtless, his pupils thought that, all the while they were listening to his chatter, they were taking lessons in voice-production! Americans dearly love a foreign name, and especially an Italian one, when it comes to selecting a singing-teacher. But all is not gold that glitters, and the fact that a teacher writes "Signor" before his name does not necessarily signify that he is Italian, but often only that he would like people to believe he is, because there is a foolish belief that every Italian teaches the old Italian method. The famous Mme. Marchesi, in spite of her name, is not Italian. She acquired it by marriage to Salvatore Marchesi, an Italian baritone. Before that she was Fräulein Mathilde Graumann, a concert singer of Frankfort-on-the-Main; and sometimes I wonder whether, if she had remained Fräulein Mathilde Graumann, she ever would have become the famous teacher she is. But Marchesi she is, and famous; and I do not doubt justly so. Yet even the pupils of so famous a teacher differ regarding the value of her method. Thus Melba never fails to sing her praises. On the other hand, Emma Eames, knowing that she was speaking for publication and that a stenographer was taking down her words, said: "Mme. Marchesi is a thoroughly good musician. Any one who goes to her with an established voice can learn a great deal from her in the interpretation of many rôles. She is an admirable teacher of expression and of the general conception of a character. As a drillmaster she is altogether admirable. She teaches you the value of utilizing your time, and she makes you take a serious view of your work, which is important, for hardly an American girl who goes to her has an idea of studying seriously. She also is capital at languages. But when it comes to voice-development, I consider that she fails. My voice naturally was broad and heavy. After the end of the first two years' study with her I could not sing A without difficulty. She did not seem to know how to make my voice light. It was getting heavier and less flexible all the time." Some years ago Mme. Marchesi's daughter, Mme. Blanche Marchesi, appeared on the concert stage in New York. As the daughter and pupil from childhood of her famous mother, she was supposed to be an ideal exponent of the Marchesi method. Professional singers and instructors flocked to her first concert. It was to be an experience, an object-lesson. Well--it was. They saw a fine-looking woman with a mediocre voice and a worse method, a method so hopelessly bad that even her undoubted musicianship could not atone for it. All this goes to prove that a method, to be elastic and adaptable, should be based on a knowledge of the physiology of the voice-producing organs, for such a method naturally adapts itself to physical differences in different individuals. Without doubt Mme. Marchesi's method was admirably adapted to Melba, but not to Eames or to her own daughter. Bear these circumstances in mind in selecting a teacher. The great singers are not always safe guides in the choice of a teacher, because their own superlative gifts and willingness to slave for the object of their ambition may have been as important factors in their success as the instruction they received. Probably a singer of only fair natural gifts who yet has made a success--which shows that he must have been well taught--can give better advice as to the choice of an instructor than the great artist who owes so much to himself. Moreover, great artists who have studied with the same teacher will, like Melba and Eames, differ in their estimate of that teacher. There is, however, one great singer, Lillian Nordica, who knows to whom to give credit for that skill in voice-production which enables her to sing Valentine, Aida and Isolde with equal success. The foundation for her career was laid in this country. Afterward she studied with Mme. Maretzek and in Milan with San Giovanni, but only interpretation. Her voice-production she acquired not from Madame this or Signor that, but from plain John O'Neill, of Boston, "a scholarly man who had made a profound study of the physiology of the voice," and she took good care not to allow any other teacher, however "famous," to undo the work of the man who had taught her voice-production based on correct knowledge of the physiology of the voice-producing organs. This matter of choosing a teacher is, of course, of the greatest importance, but it barely can be touched on in this book. The selection should be made most cautiously, but, once made, the pupil's parents should not go to the teacher a few weeks later and ask, "Why don't you give Clara some 'pieces'?" They should recall the story of Porpora and Caffarelli which I related in the previous chapter. "Pieces" are not in order until the voice is prepared for them, and the teacher is the best judge of that. A voice trained on "pieces" soon goes to pieces. Another mistaken idea is that "any teacher is good enough for a beginner," whereas the beginning is the very time that the foundation of right method or wrong method is laid. Classifying the voice is, of itself, of great importance. Remember that Jean de Reszke's first teacher thought he was a baritone and that he sang as a baritone in opera for five years before a more competent teacher discovered that he was really a tenor. Some voices are so near the dividing line that it requires wide experience and a fine ear for quality on the part of a teacher to determine in what direction they should be developed to greatest advantage. A fine ear may determine that the seeming mezzo is a true soprano, that the notes of the pupil who comes as a baritone have the tenor quality and that his scale safely can be added to, while the would-be tenor has the baritone timbre which will prevent his notes from ever ringing out with the true tenor quality. Yes, this initial task of voice classification is far too important to be entrusted to "any teacher." There are piano-thumping teachers of voice, who not having voices themselves are obliged to give their pupils the pitch of each note by pounding it out on the pianoforte. Voice quality has nothing in common with pianoforte quality of tone, yet constant thumping of the pianoforte by a singing-teacher in order to give the pupil the pitch, is apt to mix pianoforte color into a pupil's voice and mar its translucent vocal quality. A teacher need not be a fine singer--few vocal teachers are--but, at least, he should be able to give pitch vocally and to suggest with sufficient definition the quality of tone the pupil is to produce. At what age should singing-lessons begin? Some say the earlier the better. Others hold that, under no circumstances, should a boy or girl be taught to sing before the age of puberty, before the voice has mutated. Those who believe that singing can be taught in childhood and safely continued even during the critical period of mutation, point out that the muscles of the voice-producing organs are most flexible and adapt themselves most easily to the task in hand during childhood and that the process of training them had best begin then, and that, with proper care, the lessons can be continued during the period of mutation. My own opinion is that this period is so critical and proper care is so apt _not_ to be taken, that the safest rule is not to begin singing-lessons until the adult voice undisputably has arrived. So many voices have been ruined by lack of care during mutation that it is better no risk should be taken. But why not, it may be asked, have the child taught and, when the period of mutation arrives, have the lessons suspended? There would be no harm in this, excepting that here again is run the risk that proper care will not be taken to stop soon enough and that the career of a possibly fine singer may be ruined. It has happened again and again that voices have been lost irretrievably or impaired permanently by careless use of them during the change from youth to manhood. Therefore, and also because the muscles remain limber and flexible in young people for some years after they have arrived at puberty, I advise that singing-lessons should not begin until the period of mutation is well over. Sir Morell Mackenzie, after stating that the doctrine long has been held universally that not only should systematic training be interrupted, but singing altogether forbidden during that critical period, nevertheless maintained that "_if due care is exercised_ there is no reason why the voice should not be used in singing during the transition period: but the training must be carried out _within certain limits and under strict supervision by a competent person_." But there is so much risk that due care will not be exercised, that those "certain limits" will be overstepped, that the "strict supervision" will be relaxed or not exercised by a "competent person," that I strongly advise not to begin lessons until the period of change is over. In this view I am supported by Garcia, who took sharp issue with Mackenzie. "My father," wrote Garcia, "went through the transition time without ceasing to sing, and without having done himself the least harm. But both my sisters, Mesdames Malibran and Viardot, were obliged to wait a year. I continued to sing, and my voice was ruined!" Continuing, Garcia says that the old rule which has preserved so many voices--that singing should cease altogether during mutation--should not be thrust aside on account of some rare exceptions, and young singers be handed over to the "doubtful caprice of ignorant or careless teachers." A person might with "due care" and "strict supervision" live in a plague-stricken city without contracting the disease, but one would not recommend his going there for his health. Why deliberately expose the voice to danger of loss or permanent impairment by advising that it can be used with safety during the period of transition? Far better to be on the safe side, wait until manhood or womanhood is definitely established, and then begin lessons as soon as possible. CHAPTER III ON BREATHING: INSPIRATION We speak of the breath of life; and breath is the life of song. Beautiful singing is predicated upon correct methods of breathing, without which, though there be a perfect larynx and perfectly formed resonance chambers above, the result will be unsatisfactory. Breathing, in fact, is the foundation of the art of singing. Breathing consists of taking air into the lungs and expelling it again, or as the physiologist would say, respiration consists of inspiration and expiration. Although they are essentially different actions, the laws governing each frequently have been confused by teachers of voice-culture. There are books in which the singer is told to breathe naturally, and this direction is harped on and extolled for its simplicity. Surely no rule could be more simple; and, so far as simplicity goes, it is admirable. So far also as it casts doubt upon various breathing-methods which teachers of singing put forth as their own individual and pet devices, without which, they claim, aspirants for the concert and operatic stage would be hopelessly lost, this direction serves a useful purpose. The trouble with it is, however, that it is too simple. It does not go far enough. It leaves too much to the individual. For obviously there will be, if not as many, certainly nearly as many opinions among as many different people as to what constitutes natural breathing; and a person may have become so habituated to a faulty method of breathing that he believes it natural, although it is not. Correct breathing, although a function of the body, also is an art. The method of a singer to be correct should be based on artistic, not merely on natural, breathing. For while all artistic breathing is natural, it does not follow that all natural breathing is artistic. Therefore, the first direction to a singer should be, breathe artistically, with some definition of what constitutes artistic breathing. Could the singer be relied on to breathe as naturally and unconsciously as in normal slumber, when the body is in a state of calm, nearly everything that has been written on the art of singing could be dispensed with. That, practically, is what the direction to breathe naturally amounts to. For such breathing is both natural and artistic. Unfortunately, however, a singer is not a somnambulist, and when he faces his teacher, or a large audience, he not only is not in that deliciously unconscious state induced by normal slumber, but he is very much awake, with the added tension caused by nervousness and excitement. He is conscious, self-conscious in the artistic sense, unless he has been trained to appear otherwise. For, in the final analysis, that lack of self-consciousness, that ease and spontaneity which we associate with the highest art, is, save in the case of a few superlatively gifted individuals, the result of method and training. Therefore, the direction to breathe naturally is begging the question. It states a result, without explaining how it is to be acquired. Once acquired, method is merged into habit and habit into seeming instinct--that is to say, it becomes method, responding so spontaneously to the slightest suggestion of the will, that only the perfected result of it is apparent to the listener. Under such favorable conditions created by a correct method of instruction, the nervousness inseparable from a début, and in many singers never wholly overcome even after frequent public appearances, is disguised by an assumption of calm, into which the poise and aspect of a trained singer naturally fall. All this is much facilitated by the fundamental acquisition of correct breathing. This correct breathing, which is the artistic respiration of the accomplished singer, is based upon physiological laws which can be described, prescribed and practised. When Salvatore Marchesi, the husband of Mathilde Marchesi, and himself a famous singer, said that prepared or instructed mechanical effort to get more breath results in less, he said what is true only if the instruction is wrong. His dictum, if accepted unreservedly, would leave the door open to all kinds of "natural," haphazard and go-as-you-please methods of breathing, the "simplicity" of which consists in simply being incorrect. The physiology of breathing is an exact science, and the singer who is taught its laws and obeys them, will acquire in due time the habit of artistic respiration. It is that breathing that is as natural and unconscious as in normal slumber, so _natural_ in fact that it has to be acquired through correct instruction, because most men and women are unnatural or have taken on habits that are unnatural. Taking in the breath, the function of inspiration, results in a readjustment of certain organs which become disadjusted by the act of expiration or outbreathing. In general it may be said that the singer should breathe with the least possible disadjustment, so that only the least possible readjustment will be needed and the effort of breathing be minimized. Nature herself is economical, and the singer should economize the resources of breath. To breathe easily and without a waste of energy is essential to the best art, and gives a feeling to the listener that the singer, whose work he has enjoyed, has even more in reserve than he has given out. That sense of reserve force is one of the greatest triumphs of art. It is largely the result of effortless breathing, in which it is not necessary or even desirable that the singer always should strive to fill the lungs to the utmost, since that induces an obvious effort which diminishes the listener's enjoyment. Moreover, effort goes against the economy of nature. By keeping this in mind and by the use of correct methods, the singer will be able, in time, to gauge the amount of breath he requires for the tone he is about to produce or the phrase he is about to deliver, and the natural demand of the lungs will become his guide. It is essential to correct breathing that the organs of the tract through which the breath passes in and out should at least be known. They include the mouth, nose, larynx, trachea (or windpipe), the bronchial tubes and the lungs. A narrow slit in the larynx, called the glottis, and where the vocal cords are located, leads into the windpipe, a pliable tube composed of a series of rings of gristly or cartilaginous substance. The bronchial tubes are tree-like branches of the windpipe, and extend to the lungs, which are extremely elastic and, upon being filled with air, become inflated and expand somewhat like a balloon. It is necessary that in taking in breath and expelling it, this natural apparatus should be under the singer's control and that no undue force should be exerted upon the whole or upon any part of it, since this would result in its physical impairment and a corresponding impairment in production and quality of voice. It cannot be emphasized too often that the scientific method of voice-production based on the study of the physiology of the vocal tract is not a fad; as is proved by the fact that every violation of physical law affecting the vocal tract results in injury to it and in the same proportion affects the efficiency of the voice. Before considering various methods of breathing it should be said that, irrespective of these, air should, whenever it is possible to do so, be taken into the lungs through the nostrils and not through the mouth. True, there are times in singing when breath has to be taken so rapidly that mouth-breathing is a necessity, as otherwise the inspiration would not be rapid enough. But to inspire through the nostrils, whenever feasible, is a law not alone for the singer, but a fundamental law of health. In the passage from the mouth to the lungs there is no provision for sifting the air, for freeing it from foreign matter, or for warming it if it is too cold; whereas the nostrils appear to have been designed for this very purpose. Their narrow and winding channels are covered with bristly hairs which filter or sift and arrest the dust and other impurities in the air; and in the channels of the nostrils and back of them the air is warmed or sufficiently tempered before it reaches the lungs. Moreover it can be felt that the lungs fill more readily when air is taken in through the nostrils than when inspiration takes place through the mouth. That breath should be taken in through the nostrils is, like all rules in the correct physiology of voice-production, deduced from incontrovertible physical facts. It is, moreover, preventive of many affections of the lungs, bronchial tubes and throat. Three methods of breathing usually are recognized in books on singing--but there should be only one. For only one method is correct and that really is a combination of the three. These three are called, respectively, clavicular, abdominal or diaphragmatic, and costal; clavicular, because it employs a forced movement of the clavicle or collar-bone accompanied by a perceptible raising of the shoulder-blades; abdominal or diaphragmatic, because breathing by this method involves an effort of the diaphragm and of the abdominal muscles; and costal, which consists of an elastic expansion and gentle contraction of the ribs, the term "costal" signifying "pertaining to the ribs." Let me say right here, subject to further explanation, that neither of these methods by itself is complete for voice-production and that the correct method of breathing consists of a combination of the three, with the costal, or rib-expansion method, predominating. For of the three methods mentioned the expansion of the ribs creates the largest chest-cavity, within which the lungs will have room to become inflated, so that more air can be drawn into them by this method than by either of the others. But a still larger cavity can be created and a still greater intake of air into the lungs be provided for, if, simultaneously as the ribs are expanded, the diaphragm, the large muscle separating the cavity of the chest from that of the abdomen, is allowed to descend and the clavicle is slightly raised, the final act in this correct method of breathing being a slight drawing in of the lower wall of the abdomen. Ignoring the slight raising of the clavicle, this method may be called the mixed costal and diaphragmatic, for it consists mainly in expanding the ribs and in allowing the dome-shaped top of the diaphragm to descend toward the abdomen. It calls into play all the muscles that control respiration and their coöperative nerves, provides the largest possible space for the expansion of the lungs, and is complete in its results, whereas each of the three methods of which it is a combination is only partial and therefore incomplete in result. In the method of breathing called clavicular, the hoisting of the shoulder-blades is an upward perpendicular effort which is both ugly to look at and disagreeable in its results. For in art no effort, as such, should be perceptible. Moreover, as in all errors of method in voice-teaching, there is a precise physiological reason why clavicular breathing is incorrect. Correct breathing results, with each intake of breath, in as great an enlargement of the chest-cavity as is necessary to make room for the expansion of the lungs when inflated. But as clavicular breathing acts only on the upper ribs, it causes only the upper part of the chest to expand, and so actually circumscribes the space within which and the extent to which the lungs can be inflated. It is an effort to expand the chest that is only partially successful, therefore only partially effective. In fact, clavicular, or high breathing, requires a great effort to supply only a small amount of air; and this not only necessitates a frequent repetition of an unsightly effort, but, in consequence, weakens the singer's control over his voice-mechanism, makes inspiration through the nostrils awkward and, when the air has to be renewed quickly, even impossible, obliging the singer to breathe in violently, pantingly, and with other disagreeable and distressing symptoms of effort, through the mouth. The correct method of breathing involves only what may be called the breathing-muscles, but it utilizes all of these, thus insuring complete and effectual action; whereas clavicular breathing secures only a partial coöperation of these muscles, and in the effort involved in raising the clavicle and shoulder-blades actually is obliged to call on muscles that simply are employed to lift the weight of the body, have nothing whatever to do with breathing and, from their position, are a hindrance rather than an aid to chest-expansion. A better name for the method of breathing that is called "abdominal" would be abominable. It is predicated upon an exaggerated idea of the force of the action required of the diaphragm, or midriff, the large dome-shaped muscle which separates the thoracic from the abdominal cavity, in other words, the cavity of the chest from the cavity of the stomach. It is true that some animals can get all the breath they require to maintain life by the action of the diaphragm alone, yet it is a mistake to predicate breathing, and especially inspiration, upon a more or less violent action of the diaphragm and the abdominal muscles. Both diaphragm and the abdominal muscles are, indeed, used in breathing, but not to the forcible extent that would justify applying the term "diaphragmatic" or "abdominal" to the correct method of respiration. The abdominal style of breathing was advocated by the physiologist Mandl, and it is said that soon afterward in the schools of singing which followed his theory most unusual devices were practised for the purpose of keeping the ribs in a fixed position and compelling the pupil to breathe by the action of the diaphragm and abdominal muscles only. Thus, the pupil was compelled to sing while lying down on a mattress, sometimes with weights placed on his chest. In fact, masters are said even to have made a practice of seating themselves upon the chests of their pupils. Gallows, with thongs and rings for binding the upper half of the body and keeping it rigid, corsets and a pillory, which enclosed the frame and held the ribs in a fixed position, were some of the apparatus used in teaching the art of singing based upon abdominal breathing. I have characterized clavicular breathing as an upward perpendicular force, ugly and only partially effective. Abdominal or diaphragmatic breathing is a downward perpendicular force just as ugly and as ineffective, besides being positively harmful, the pressure of the diaphragm, if violently exerted, often being injurious to the organs of the body contained in the abdominal cavity and especially to the female organs of sex. Yet unfortunately and only too often, this style of breathing is taught to women, because women, owing to corsets and tight lacing, incline to breathe too much with the upper chest (to employ clavicular or high breathing), which, however, does not justify teachers in going to the other extreme and, in order to overcome one faulty method, instructing their pupils in another that is faultier still and even physically harmful. A more nearly correct method of breathing is the costal--that is by expansion and contraction of the ribs. It enlarges the chest cavity more than does either the clavicular or the diaphragmatic method; but does not enlarge it to its full capacity. Each method by itself alone, therefore, falls short of the complete result desired. With none of them are the lungs wholly filled with air, but only partly--the upper part and a portion of the central lungs in clavicular breathing, the lower part and a portion of the central lungs in diaphragmatic breathing, and the central and upper parts in costal breathing. The correct method combines the three--adds to the inflation of the central and upper parts of the lungs accomplished by costal breathing, the inflation of the lower part accomplished in diaphragmatic breathing and of the extreme upper part accomplished in clavicular breathing. In other words, the correct method inflates the whole of the lungs and creates a cavity large enough to accommodate them. It is mixed costal and diaphragmatic accompanied by a slight raising of the clavicle. As the air is taken into the lungs and the framework of the ribs expands, the dome of the diaphragm, naturally, and as if voluntarily, descends and, at first, the walls of the abdomen extend or are pushed outward. The clavicle is slightly, one might say passively, raised and, finally, the lower part of the anterior abdominal wall is slightly drawn in, thus forming a support or foundation for the lungs and at the same time putting the abdominal muscles in position for participation in the work of expelling breath. This is the most natural and, from the standpoint of physiology, the most effective method of inspiration. For it creates the largest possible cavity in which the lungs can expand. The description of it may sound complicated, but the act of inspiration itself is not. If attention is concentrated upon expanding the entire framework of the ribs the rest seems to follow in natural sequence. As the framework of the chest expands, the movement of the ribs is outward and at the same time sidewise and upwards. This expansion of the chest naturally enlarges the cavity behind it, and the lungs themselves find more space in which to expand. This triple movement of the ribs, especially in the combined outward and upward direction, the latter at right angles to the spine, causes a great enlargement of the chest-cavity and gives the lungs a great amount of space in which to expand. Combined with the sinking of the diaphragm, which still further adds to the space, and a slight raising of the clavicle which assists the expansion of the upper portion of the lungs, it constitutes the correct method of breathing. It is mixed costal and diaphragmatic--effected by the ribs, with the _assistance_ of the diaphragm and the abdominal muscles, but very different from the method of breathing predicated upon so violent an effort of diaphragm and abdomen that it is called "diaphragmatic" or "abdominal" breathing, and very different also from pure "costal" breathing. Patrons of opera and concert will have noticed that many great singers, when emitting the voice, incline the body slightly forward toward the audience, as if feeling more assured that their voices would carry to the listeners, or as if striving to get upon a more intimate footing with them. This forward poise of the body, however, is a natural and physiological aid to a correct method of singing. I have stated that the upward and outward movement of the ribs greatly enlarges the chest-cavity, and with this slight forward poise of the body it is not necessary for the ribs to move all the way upward to the natural horizontal position in order to stand at right angles to the spine. In other words, the forward poise of the body eliminates a portion of the movement involved in inspiration, the spine now taking part and doing its share. This can readily be tested by holding the back straight or rigidly upright and taking a full breath by lifting the chest. The physical effort will be found much greater than when the body is slightly poised forward, and if the singer will gradually assume that poise and again fill his lungs with air, he will find that to do so requires less time and less strain. The forward poise of the body also favors many of the muscles employed in inspiration, because many of these extend upward and forward so that the forward inclination aids them in assisting the horizontal lifting of the ribs and the resultant enlargement of the chest-cavity. This assistance is greatly needed, for the singer sometimes is required within the brief space of a quarter of a second to expand the framework of the ribs sufficiently to take into the lungs from 100 to 150 cubic inches more of air than they previously held. This forward poise of the body is another illustration of the sound logic that lies in the application of physical laws to voice-production. For the forward poise which singers find so advantageous and which aids in the horizontal lifting of the ribs, also induces that gentle sinking in of the lower abdominal wall which is the final detail in the correct method of drawing in the breath and on which the old Italian masters of bel canto insisted as an important factor in their methods. In considering the diaphragm and its part in costal or rib-breathing, care should be taken to make clear why it is that, while this muscle is a valuable aid to inspiration, its value would be impaired were it whipped into action like a conscript instead of being drafted, so to speak, as a volunteer. In breathing a singer is required to take in, on an average, from 100 to 150 cubic inches of air, and one of the purposes of artistic breathing is to provide room in the chest-cavity for the expansion of the lungs due to this intake. The natural, voluntary, and, I am tempted to say, _logical_ descent of the dome of the diaphragm in artistic breathing allows for 25 cubic inches of the number required, and by no effort can it be forced down further to allow for more; or, to put the matter more correctly, the gain will be too insignificant to make the effort worth while. The gain of 25 cubic inches, although, of course, highly important, seems slight when the size and shape of the diaphragm are considered. It would appear as if the descent of the dome would allow for a much greater displacement. But the discrepancy is accounted for by the fact that about two inches above its lower border the diaphragm is attached to the ribs so that only a partial displacement is possible, which shows the futility of the more or less violent effort involved in pure diaphragmatic or abdominal breathing. Moreover, the hollow vein (vena cava) which leads the blood back to the heart, passes through the diaphragm, or, to be more exact, through its central tendon, and any violent action of the diaphragm in taking in breath tends to stretch this vein and, after a while, to create dizziness. I should be sorry if what I have said regarding the diaphragm were to be construed as belittling its importance as an aid to artistic breathing. My comments are directed against the exaggerated importance attached to it by advocates of wholly diaphragmatic or abdominal breathing, when it is capable of physiological demonstration that violent effort will accomplish no more with the diaphragm than that accommodating muscle accomplishes of its own accord when the singer, in taking in breath, correctly applies the principles of mixed costal and diaphragmatic respiration. In women only one-fifth and in men only one-sixth of the cavity needed for the inflation of the lungs can be made by sinking the diaphragm, the remaining four-fifths and five-sixths being created by the expansion of the ribs. Therefore, the diaphragm would be obliged to move five or six times as far downward as the ribs move upward, in order to make room for the same amount of air. In other words, the ribs need only make about one-fifth or one-sixth as much effort as the diaphragm, and effort--conscious, noticeable effort--is one of the first things to be avoided in any art and especially in the art of singing. "If a full, pan-costal inspiration be taken after a complete expiration," writes Dr. Harry Campbell in his "Respiratory Exercises in the Treatment of Disease," "no more air, or at all events only a small quantity, can be inhaled by means of the diaphragm." This, however, should be construed as meaning that, after the diaphragm has performed its correct function in inspiration, any further violent effort on its part is practically futile. For the term "full, pan-costal inspiration," substitute "mixed costal and diaphragmatic," which will imply that the diaphragm has done its duty by the singer--and it is that apparently effortless performance of its duty that gives it its real importance. The diaphragm really is a most courteous and accommodating muscle when its assistance is politely invited, but most obstreperous when one tries to force it into action. In proper breathing the feeling is as if the intake commenced with the upper ribs and terminated over the abdomen. We even feel, in taking in a deep breath, as if all our power were directed toward the four or five upper ribs and as if we were giving the greatest expansion to the very apex of the lungs; but the simple fact is that the six upper ribs encompass more space than the six lower ones, consequently in proper breathing the most movement is experienced where the cavity formed admits of the greatest expansion of the lungs. To say that no other style of breathing excepting that which has been described as correct, the mixed costal and diaphragmatic, ever should be employed, would be a mistake, but any other should be employed, when at all, only for rare and specific effects. For example, a tenor in reaching for a high note may find that the violent raising of the collarbone and shoulder-blades, which is involved in clavicular breathing, assists him at the critical moment, and he may, rightfully, perhaps, employ that method in that one great effort of an evening--remembering, however, that Rubini actually broke his collarbone in delivering a very high note. Tenors sometimes reach for their high notes with their arms and legs, and if the high note comes out all right, we forget the effort in the thrill over the result, provided effort does not degenerate into contortion. Similarly in an unusually powerful, explosive _fortissimo_, a momentary use of pure abdominal breathing may be excusable. But these are exceptions that prove the rule, and very rare exceptions they should remain. In breathing, the correct method of inspiration is to provide the room required for the inflation of the lungs by enlarging the chest-cavity to its greatest possible extent, which is accomplished by expanding the whole framework of the ribs and allowing the diaphragm to descend, the clavicle rising passively while the wall of the abdomen at first extends and then, as to its lower anterior portion, slightly sinks in. Sir Morell Mackenzie recognized that artistic inspiration is a combination of methods. "When costal or diaphragmatic breathing is spoken of," he writes in "Hygiene of the Vocal Organs," "it must always be remembered that in the normal human body both methods are always used together, the one assisting and completing the other. The terms are in reality relative, and are, or should be, applied only as one or the other type predominates in an individual at a given time." The only trouble about applying these terms singly to genuinely artistic breathing is that, in the nomenclature of respiration, they signify methods that are only partial, whereas correct inspiration is mixed costal and diaphragmatic, with a touch of the clavicular added. Such, then, is that "natural" method which also is artistic. It is based on sound physiological laws; and because these laws are, in turn, founded on fact, it is as efficient in practice as it is correct in theory. CHAPTER IV ON BREATHING: EXPIRATION Air having been taken into the lungs, the act of exhaling it--the act of expiration--is, for ordinary purposes, a very simple matter. The elasticity of the parts of the body, the expansion of which made room for the inflation of the lungs, as these became filled with the air that was being drawn into them, permits the disadjustment to be readjusted almost automatically. Elasticity implies that a body which has been expanded returns spontaneously to its normal size and position. Thus with expiration the lungs return to their position of rest and the diaphragm and the walls of the abdomen follow them. This voluntary readjustment suffices for ordinary expiration. But the expiration of a singer should not be ordinary. It should be artistic. To begin with, while, whenever possible, air should be taken into the lungs through the nostrils, in singing it should always be expelled through the mouth. If part of the air-column is allowed to go out through the nose, there is danger of a nasal quality of tone-production. In ordinary breathing the emission of air immediately follows the intake; expiration begins the moment inspiration ceases, and the respiration is completed. The elasticity of the lungs causes the diaphragm to rise and the walls of the chest to return to their natural position. Thus, in ordinary breathing, relaxation immediately follows the expansion, and almost as soon as the air is inhaled, it is expelled again. But as breath is the foundation of song, it is something not to be wasted, but to be husbanded to the utmost. For of what value to the singer is a correct method of taking in breath if all or part of the air passes out before the tone is produced? It is an income dissipated, a fortune squandered. The first step toward that breath-economy so essential in singing is to retain the breath a little while, to pause between inspiration and expiration. "Pause and reflect," one might say. For that pause, physiologically so helpful, as will be shown, appears psychologically to warn the singer against wasting breath and so to manage it that breath and tone issue forth simultaneously, the tone borne along on a full current of air that carries it to the remotest part of hall or theatre. The pause before exhaling will be found by the singer a great aid in enabling him to maintain control of the outgoing column of air and to utilize it as he sees fit without wasting any portion of it. Wilful waste makes woeful want in singing as in life. How long should the breath be retained before emission? There can be no hard and fast rule. It is a matter of circumstance entirely, and it certainly is detrimental to postpone the next inspiration to the last moment before the next note has to be intoned or the next phrase started. Every opportune rest should be utilized for inspiration, and, if possible, the breath should be inhaled a second or two before the note or phrase to be sung, and the breath retained until the crucial moment. Then breath and song together should float out in a steady stream. The result will be pure, full, resonant tone. A _pianissimo_ upon a full breath is like the _pianissimo_ of a hundred violins, which is a hundred times finer than that of a single instrument, and so rich in quality that it carries much further. It is the stage-whisper of music. This pause and the steadiness produced by it probably constitute what the old Italian masters of singing had in mind when they laid down for their pupils the rule "filar il tuono" or "spin the tone," in other words, the practice of emitting the breath just sufficiently to produce a whisper and then convert it into a delicate and exquisite tone--a mere filament of music. Even in rapid passages which succeed each other at very brief intervals and such as frequently occur in the Italian arias, it is possible to replenish the breath in such a way that some pause, however brief, can be made between inspiration and expiration. Watch Melba singing the Mad Scene from _Lucia_, Tetrazzini, the Shadow Song from _Dinorah_, or Sembrich, the music of the Queen of the Night in the _Magic Flute_, and you will observe that they replenish the original intake of breath with half-breaths, a practice which enables them at every opportunity to make the required pause before breath-emission. Moreover, it always allows of a reserve quantity of air being retained in the lungs. That sense of unwasted resource, the feeling so important to convey to the audience that, much as the singer has accomplished, the limit of his capacity has by no means been reached, and that, like a great commander, he has his forces well in hand, is holding back his reserves and does not expect to launch them into action at all, can be created only by perfect control of the air-column; and that control of breath is gained best by a pause, if only for a fraction of a second, between inspiration and expiration. Moreover, holding the breath for a little while before expiration is conducive to good health, a condition, needless to say, which creates confidence and buoyancy in the singer and adds greatly to the efficiency of his voice and the effectiveness of his performance. Proper breathing is a cleaning process for the interior of the body. It cleanses the residual air, the air that remains in the lungs after each respiration; and it does much more. Air enters the lungs as oxygen; it comes out as carbonic acid, an impure gas created by the impurities of the body. The process of breathing dispatches the blood on a cleansing process through the whole body, and, while traveling through this, it collects all the poisonous gases and carries them back to the lungs to be emitted with expiration. By holding the breath we prolong this process, make it more thorough, and correspondingly free the body of more impurities. From the classic ages down physicians have advocated retaining the breath for a little while after inspiration as an aid to general health, and the taking and holding of a full breath has been compared with opening doors and windows of a house for ventilation. Sir Morell Mackenzie emphasizes this purifying function of respiration in his book on the "Hygiene of the Vocal Organs." It consists, as he says, essentially in an exchange of gases between the blood and the air, wherein the former yields up some of the waste matters of the system in the form of carbonic acid, receiving in return a fresh supply of oxygen. It is evident from this how important it is to have a sufficient supply of pure air, air which contains its due proportion of oxygen to renovate the blood. A room in which a number of people are sitting soon becomes close if the windows and doors are kept shut. This indicates that the oxygen in the air is exhausted, its place being taken by carbonic acid exhaled from the lungs of the assembly, so that the purification of the blood must necessarily become more and more imperfect. "Besides their principal function of purifying the blood," writes Sir Morell Mackenzie, "the lungs are the bellows of the vocal instrument. They propel a current of air up the windpipe to the narrow chink of the larynx, which throws the membranous edges or lips (vocal cords) of that organ into vibration, and thereby produces sound. Through this small chink, the air escaping from the lungs is forced out gradually in a thin stream, which is compressed, so to speak, between the edges of the cords that form the opening, technically called the glottis, through which it passes. The arrangement is typical of the economical workmanship of nature. The widest possible entrance is prepared for the air which is taken into the lungs, as the freest ventilation of their whole mucous surface is necessary. When the air has been fully utilized for that purpose it is, if need be, put to a new use on its way out for the production of voice, and in that case it is carefully husbanded and allowed to escape in severely regulated measure, every particle of it being made to render its exact equivalent in force to work the vocal mill-wheel." Thus again is illustrated the close analogy between vocal art and physical law, and further evidence given of the value of a physiological method of voice-production as opposed to those methods that are purely empirical. In fact when it is considered that speech is Nature's method of communication and that song is speech vitalized by musical tone, it would seem as if song were Nature's art and, therefore, more than any other based on Nature's laws. No effort is involved in holding the breath. The pause before emission is accomplished without any internal muscular struggle, and without any constriction of the larynx. Some writers lay down the rule that after inhaling, the singer should retain the breath by closing the vocal cords. The only objection to laying down this rule is that it is apt to make the pupil perform consciously an act that is so nearly voluntary as to be unconscious. It inclines the pupil to make an effort when effort is unnecessary. Retain the breath and you can feel the vocal cords close in consequence, and as if of their own accord, and open again with the act of emission. It is all voluntary, or nearly so. In fact, artistic breathing becomes after a while a fixed habit and is performed unconsciously. In the early days of practice the pupil may be apt consciously to perform each of the successive acts comprised in artistic breathing. Gradually, however, messages begin to travel so swiftly over the nerves which connect the will, mind, or artistic sense with the breathing-muscles that these seem to have become sensitive by anticipation to what is required of them and voluntarily to bring themselves into play. The most subtle filament ever spun still is less fine than the line which divides the physiology of voice-production from the psychology of song and, by crossing which, song, the art of Nature, becomes second nature. The singer having after inspiration retained the air in his lungs for a brief space of time, also must maintain control of the stream of air when he begins to emit it. It should rise from the lungs through the bronchial tubes, the windpipe and the larynx into the mouth and flow out from between the lips like a river between smooth and even banks and bearing voice upon its current--a stream of melody. The more slowly, within reason, the singer allows his breath to flow out, the better; and this is as true of rapid phrases as of broad _cantabile_. Breath should be emitted as slowly in a long, rapid phrase as in a slow phrase of the same length. It is only when rapid phrases succeed each other so quickly that there is no time between them for a deliberate, full inspiration, that half-breaths have to be taken to replenish the air-supply. But a singer who thinks that rapid singing also involves rapid breathing should rid himself of that mistaken notion as quickly as possible. A choirmaster once told me that he had trained his boys so perfectly in breath-control that they could sustain a note for thirty seconds on one breath. For them to sing on one breath a rapid phrase lasting just as long, would be equally feasible. It is the slow emission of breath that gives to long, rapid phrases a smooth and limpid quality; and it is the taking of breath at inopportune moments, as badly taught singers are obliged to do, that makes such phrases choppy and ineffectual. This fault is never observable in artists trained in the real traditional Italian school of singing--not necessarily by Italians, but in the traditional school of the old Italian masters. The choppy method of singing is noticeable, not in all, but in many German singers. It is due to incomplete breath-control, for which in turn carelessness in matters of hygiene largely is responsible. The average German is of a naturally strong physique, and for this very reason he is less apt to take care of himself. The singer, in order to keep the keen, artistic edge on his voice, has to sacrifice many things that contribute to the comfort of the average man; and this is especially true of diet. A strict régime is a necessity. You will find that every great singer has to deny himself many things. But the German is apt to sneer at such precaution and to glory in what he calls "living naturally," which means that he thinks it is all right to eat and drink what he wants to and as much as he wants to. In point of fact, however, the great singer does not "live" at all. He _exists_ for his voice, sacrificing everything to it. His diet, his hours, are carefully regulated. He is always in training. The German is apt to neglect such matters. The inevitable result is shortness of breath and lack of control of breath-emission. Voice is breath; lack of breath is lack of voice. I once attended a German performance of _Die Walküre_ with an Italian master of _bel canto_. "You call that a love-scene!" he exclaimed during the latter part of the first act, between Siegmund and Sieglinde. "They are barking at each other like two dogs!" And so they were. The natural process of expiration is one of complete relaxation. Just as the intake of air into the lungs inflates and expands them, so, when the intake ceases, the elasticity of the lungs exerts a natural pressure on the air they have taken in and causes its almost effortless exit. This exit, however, is so gentle as to be useless for the production of voice. For this reason the singer must control the breath and retard its exit, and the slower his expiration, the more control he will gain over the tone or phrase. Those familiar with the performances of some of the great opera singers who have been heard here will have observed that, when singing, they do not allow the chest to collapse, but hold it as full and as firm as if the lungs still were inflated. This physical index to a correct method of expiration is more easily noticed in men than in women. The De Reszkes, Caruso, Plançon--these have been some of the most notable exponents of correct voice-production who have appeared on the American operatic stage. Let the reader, when next he hears Caruso or Plançon, note that they never strain after an effect, never labor, never grow red in the face, never employ excessive gesture to help force out a note. With them respiration consists of inspiration and expiration--never of perspiration. There is little danger that Caruso ever will break his collar bone in producing high C, and his delivery of the romance, "Una furtiva lagrima," in _L'Elisir d'Amore_, is a most exquisite example of breath-control and of voice-management in _cantabile_; while Plançon's singing from a chest absolutely immobile, even in long and difficult phrases, is so effortless that his performances are a delight to every lover of the art of song, his voice flowing out in a broad, smooth stream of music. Physically, the reason why an expanded chest retards the emptying of the lungs is apparent. The pressure of a relaxing chest would accelerate their return to a condition of repose and the breath would be expended too soon, with the result that some or much of it would be wasted. Moreover, an expanded chest is a splendid resonance-chamber, affords a firm support to the windpipe and adds to the sure and vibrant quality of the tone produced. The wobble, which at times causes disappointment with voices that had seemed unusually fine, is the result of lack of attention to this detail of vocal method. The windpipe, requiring the support of a firm chest-wall, becomes unsteady, the singer loses his control of the air-column, and the vibrations of the vocal ligaments are uncertain, instead of tense and sure. To maintain the expanded chest during expiration, which also means during singing, is not difficult. There is nothing forced about it. For if there is the correct pause after inspiration, if the breath is held for a brief space of time, the pressure naturally exerted outward upon the upper chest is readily felt. Accompanying it is a gradual drawing in of the lower abdominal wall, not forceful enough to be called stringent but simply following the return of the diaphragm to its natural position as the lungs return to theirs. Therefore, when it is stated that if a _crescendo_ is to be produced on a single tone or phrase, this is accomplished by increasing the outward pressure on the chest and the inward and upward pressure of the abdominal muscles; there is no thought of prescribing a sudden and undue strain, but simply of employing more potently and more effectively certain forces of pressure which Nature herself already has brought into play. What is perhaps the most important distinction of this method of breath-control and voice-management is the fact that it relieves the throat of all pressure, the correct tension and vibration of the vocal cords being brought about by the reflex action of muscles and nerves. This lack of strain on the throat does away with all danger of a throaty quality of voice-production, which not only is highly inartistic but also leads to various throat troubles. Breath-control implies that no breath is wasted, that every particle of breath, as it comes out, is converted into voice. Dissipation of breath results in uncertainty of voice-production, a branch of the subject which will be taken up in the chapter on "attack." An excellent test for economy of breath is to hold a lighted candle before the mouth while singing. If the flame flickers, breath is being wasted, is coming out as empty air instead of as voice. There is the same difference between voice produced on breath that is under the singer's control and that produced on breath which is not properly steadied, as there is between a line drawn straight and sure by a firm hand and a wavering line drawn by a hand that is nervous and trembling. In fact, in singing the waver of the voice that results from poor control of breath is a tremble, a _tremolo_, and is one of the worst faults in a singer. It also should be pointed out that the singer is not to continue an expiration beyond the point when it ceases to be easy for him to do so. As soon as the air-column becomes thin the singer's control over it becomes insecure, and, from that point on, the air that remains should be regarded simply as a reserve supply and aid to the next inspiration. To sum up: Breathing consists of two separate actions, inspiration and expiration, the intake of air and its emission. Of the three kinds of inspiration mentioned in most books on singing and termed clavicular, abdominal or diaphragmatic, and costal, neither completely fills the bill. The correct method of inspiration is a combination of all three. It is costal--that is indicated by an expansion of the whole framework of the ribs--assisted by an almost automatic sinking of the diaphragm and a very slight, almost passive, rising of the clavicle, the final detail being a slight sinking in of the lower front wall of the abdomen. In this method, although it is a combination of the three--the clavicular, the diaphragmatic and the costal--the clavicle plays so small a part, that the method may be termed mixed costal and diaphragmatic. The breath having been taken in, it should be held for a brief space of time. In expiration, allow the breath to escape very slowly. Maintain the chest firm and expanded, and add, as occasion requires, to the natural inward and upward pressure of the abdominal muscles. Avoid all throat effect. After expiration the chest and abdominal pressure is relaxed and the next inspiration prepared for. Take in breath through the nostrils, emit it through the mouth. This latter instruction may seem superfluous, but it is not. In the so-called "backward production" of voice, considerable air escapes through the nasal passages and the tone-quality is nasal and disagreeable. It is of the highest importance to acquire a correct method of breathing, and to acquire it so thoroughly that it becomes second nature. In the beginning it may be necessary to bear each successive step in mind and make sure that it is not omitted. But very soon artistic breathing to sustain song becomes as much a habit as is breathing to sustain life. We breathe, or we cannot live; we breathe artistically, or we cannot sing. But to breathe artistically really is no great problem. It is a simple matter, yet fraught with great and invaluable results to the singer; and it is a simple matter because it becomes so easily a matter of habit. The nerves of the breathing-muscles send and receive messages to and from the nerve-centre, but after incredibly little practice this interchange of messages over the nervous system becomes so swift that it may be said to take place by anticipation, and the person who benefits by it is unaware that it takes place at all. Correct breathing has then become a habit. This habit, this smooth working, automatic coöperation of nerves with breathing-muscles, may be thrown out of gear by something unusual, such as the excitement attending a début. The singer faces an audience or a strange audience for the first time, and the first unfavorable and disconcertive effect travels over the nerves to the respiratory organs. Regular breathing is at such times one of the best ways to allay the undue excitement caused by the unusual surroundings. Before beginning to sing the artist should, and on such occasions with conscious artistry, immediately reëstablish control of respiration by taking a few deep breaths. I have said before that the borderline between the physiology of voice-production and the psychology of song is a narrow one--whereof the above cure for stage-fright is but another case in point. CHAPTER V THE PHYSIOLOGY AND PSYCHOLOGY OF VOICE-PRODUCTION Above this chapter I might well have placed the following lines which George Eliot wrote above Chapter XXXI. of "Middlemarch." How will you know the pitch of that great bell, Too large for you to stir? Let but a flute Play 'neath the fine-mixed metal! Listen close Till the right note flows forth, a silvery rill: Then shall the huge bell tremble--then the mass With myriad waves concurrent shall respond In low, soft unison. The lines telling of the great bell stirred by the note of a flute played at the proper pitch suggest the moving power that lies in sympathetic vibration. The first time a military body crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the spectators were surprised to hear the order given for the soldiers to march out of step. They had expected to be thrilled by the sight of a thousand men crossing the great structure in measured tread, with band playing and colors flying. They did not know that the structure, being a suspension bridge, might have been weakened and possibly destroyed by the force of rhythmic oscillation. Yet the accumulated force in the tramp of a thousand men is no greater than that which lies in the sympathetic vibrations of a musical note. Every metal structure has its note, and it is an old engineering saw that a huge structure like the Brooklyn Bridge eventually could be destroyed by the cumulative force of sympathetic vibration evoked by a musical instrument constantly reiterating the note of the bridge. Sound has three dimensions: pitch, loudness and timbre. _Pitch_ depends upon the _frequency_ of vibrations. The more rapid the vibrations, the higher the pitch. _Loudness_ is determined by the _amplitude_ of the vibrations. As their length or "excursion" increases, so does the sound gain in loudness. Conversely, the diminution in the size of vibrations causes corresponding decrease of loudness. Differences in the _shapes_ of vibrations cause differences in quality or _timbre_. After voice has originated within the restricted limits of the larynx, its power, its carrying quality is much augmented by the sympathetic vibrations within the resonance cavities above the larynx. These include the pharynx, nasal passages, mouth, bone cavities of the face--in fact pretty much every hollow space in the head, every space that will resound in response to vibration and assist in multiplying it. Moreover, the cavities of resonance by their differences in shape in different individuals determine the timbre or quality of individual voices. The chest, although situated below the larynx, is a resonance cavity of voice. In fact, in a certain register its vibration is felt so distinctly that we speak of these notes as being sung in the "chest register," which, so far as it implies that the tones are produced in the chest, is a misnomer. The same is true of "head register," in which vibration is felt in the head where, however, it is needless to say, the "head tones" do not originate. Expiration--breath-emission--is the motor function of the vocal organs; and there are two other physical functions of the organs--vibratory and resonant. Added to these is the sensory function, to which I attach great importance; and I call it a psychological function because it acts through the nerves upon the physical organs of voice. Without it the three physical functions--motor, vibratory and resonant combined--would remain ineffectual. They could generate voice, but it would be voice lacking those higher qualities that are summed up in the word "artistic." It would be a physical, not an art product, a product generated by the body without the coöperation of the mind or soul. When it is considered that the larynx, in which the vocal cords are situated, is permeated by a network of muscles through which it is capable of some 16,000 adjustments and readjustments of shape, all of them pertinent to voice-production, and that the same thing also is true of the pliable portions of the resonance cavities; that these muscles act in response to an even finer network of nervous filament; and that the constant shaping and reshaping of various parts of the vocal tract during voice-emission is directed by messages from the mind, soul, or art-sense of the singer, messages which travel via nerve to muscle--the only route by which they can travel--it becomes possible to appreciate the importance of the sensory or psychological function which, I hold, should be added to the purely physical ones of motor, vibration and resonance. For by it these functions are enlisted in the service of art and made immediately and exquisitely responsive to the emotional exaltation of music and song. Nor are these vague terms. Psychology of song and psychological action in general may seem indefinite and unintelligible. They become, however, absolutely definite and intelligible when the part played by the nerves as intermediaries between mind and muscular action of a subtle and highly refined order is appreciated. The mind presses the button, the nerves carry the messages, and muscle acts instantaneously and responsively. The student need not despair because so many separate acts seem necessary to the production of even a single tone. It is true that air has to be taken into the lungs and emitted from them; that it must be controlled by the singer as it passes up the windpipe; that the vocal cords and other parts of the larynx must be given their specific adjustment for each note; and the cavities of resonance shaped in sympathetic coördination with those numerous adjustments, while the lips also have their function to perform. But it is equally true that correct instruction supplemented by assiduous practice merges all these separate acts into one. The singer thinks the note, forms what may be called a sounding vision of it in his mind, and straightway the vocal tract adapts and coördinates all its parts to the artistic emission of that note. It is auto-suggestion become habit through practice. Because the larynx is so important a factor in generating voice, writers on voice-production have described it with much minuteness, and because of these minute descriptions readers may have obtained an exaggerated idea of the size of this organ. But one of the marvels of voice-production is the smallness of the organ in which voice is generated, the size of the average larynx being about two inches in height by an inch and a half in width. Yet so numerous are the adjustments in shape of which this small organ is capable that the phenomenal soprano, Mara, could make 100 changes in pitch between any two notes in her voice, and as this had a compass of twenty-one notes, it follows that she could produce no less than 21,000 changes in pitch within a range of twenty-one notes. While in Mara's day this no doubt was attributed to a natural gift of voice, modern study of voice-physiology and of the metaphysics of voice-production readily accounts for it. It needs an ear naturally or by training so delicately attuned to pitch that not only all the fundamental notes of a voice, but all the numerous overtones at infinitesimal intervals are heard in what may be called the singer's mental ear; that the nerves convey each of these sounding mental conceptions to the intricate system of muscles in the larynx and resonant cavities and that the right muscles immediately adjust the larynx and cavities of resonance to the shape they have to assume to sound the corresponding note. Every vocal tone is, in fact, a mental concept reproduced as voice by the physical organs of voice-production, so that every vocal tone is, in its origin, a mental phenomenon. That is why an inaccurate ear for pitch results in a vocalist singing off pitch. His mental conception of the note is wrong, the message conveyed from the mind over the nerves to the muscles of the vocal organs is wrong, consequently they shape themselves for a note that is wrong, and, when the note issues from between the singer's lips, it is wrong--wrong from start to finish, from mind to lips. Thus again is illustrated the intimate connection between psychology and physiology in voice-production, and the necessity of having every function concerned therein so thoroughly trained that every act from mental concept to sounding voice is correctly performed through a habit so thoroughly acquired that it has become second nature. In common parlance one might say to the student of song, "Get the correct voice-habit and keep it up," for that really is what it amounts to, only it is necessary that great stress should be laid on the word "correct." It now becomes necessary to describe the larynx, and this I will endeavor to accomplish without puzzling the reader with too many technical terms. The study of the larynx was made possible by the invention of the laryngoscope in 1855 by Manuel Garcia, a celebrated singing-master. It is a simple apparatus--which, however, does not detract from but rather adds to its value as an invention--and has been a boon to the physician in locating and curing affections of the throat. Its essentials are a small mirror fixed at an obtuse angle to a slender handle. Introduced into the mouth it can be placed in such position that the larynx is reflected in the mirror and thus can be observed by the operator. Those who have had their throats examined with the laryngoscope will recall that the operator wears a reflector over his right eye. Through a central perforation in the reflector he views the image, which is seen the more clearly for the light thrown upon the laryngoscopal mirror by the reflector. It would be possible after comparatively little practice with the apparatus for a singer to examine his own larynx. But it would be most inadvisable for him to do so. Either he soon would become "hipped" on the subject of innumerable imaginary throat troubles, or his voice-production would become mechanical, which is very different from the spontaneous adjustment of the vocal tract described above. [Illustration: FIG. 2. THE GLOTTIS AND VOCAL CORDS VIEWED FROM BELOW N. B.--Vocal cords approximated] [Illustration: FIG. 3. THE GLOTTIS AND VOCAL CORDS VIEWED FROM ABOVE 1, Glottis. 2, True Cords. 3, False Cords. 4, Epiglottis. 5, Base of Tongue. N. B.--Glottis open for inspiration] [Illustration: FIG. 4. THE GLOTTIS AND VOCAL CORDS VIEWED FROM ABOVE 1, Glottis. 2, True Cords. 3, False Cords. 4, Epiglottis. 5, Base of Tongue. N. B.--Vocal cords approximated] [Illustration: FIG. 5. VERTICAL TRANSVERSE SECTION OF THE LARYNX 1, The Glottis (_i. e._, the opening between the opposed edges of the Vocal Cords). 2, True Vocal Cords. 3, False Vocal Cords. 4, Epiglottis. (N. B.--In singing, the "true cords" are closely approximated.) V, Ventricles. T, Thyroid Cartilage. C, Cricoid Cartilage. W, Windpipe or Trachea. (N. B.--In STRAINING, the "false cords" are closely approximated.)] The laryngoscope should not, in fact, leave the hands of the physician. Invaluable for the detection of diseases of the throat which impair the voice and which have to be cured either by treatment or operation before the voice can be restored to its original potency or charm, its value in studying the physiology of voice-production and the functions of the vocal organs is doubtful. In fact, it is its use by amateur laryngoscopists that has resulted in the promulgation of all kinds of absurd theories of voice-study and in those innumerable pet methods of vocal instruction, each one of which may safely be guaranteed to destroy expeditiously whatever of voice originally existed. Fascinating as it may seem to the singer to examine his own larynx while he is producing a vocal tone--"during phonation," the physiologist would say--the value of the deductions formed from such observation may be doubted, if for no other reason than that the introduction of the mirror into the back of the mouth makes the whole act of phonation strained and the effects observed unnatural. In fact, as Mackenzie already has pointed out, although the laryngoscope is invaluable in the recognition and treatment of diseases which before only could be guessed at, "with the exception of certain points relating to the 'falsetto' register, it can scarcely be said to have thrown any new light on the mechanism of the voice." In other words, the instrument belongs in the hands of the physician, not in those of the singer. The larynx, as I already have stated, is a small organ, on an average two inches long and one and a half inch wide. The reader can form a good idea of its location by the Adam's apple, which is its most forward projection at the top. From the singer's point of view the larynx exists for the sake of the vocal cords--in order that they may be acted upon by certain muscles and thus relaxed or tightened, lengthened or shortened, or by a combination of these states properly adjusted to the note that is to be produced. The vocal cords lie parallel to each other. The space between them (the opening through which the air from the windpipe passes up into the larynx) is called the glottis. With every loosening, tightening, lengthening or shortening of the vocal cords or other effect of muscular action upon them, the space between them--the glottis--alters in size and shape. These subtle changes in the size and shape of the glottis are, as I shall expect to show, of great importance in voice-production. They form the first step in the actual creation of voice. The numerous and subtle adjustments and readjustments in shape of which the larynx is capable could not be effected if its shell consisted of so hard and unyielding a substance as bone. Consequently, it has to consist of a substance which, while sufficiently solid to form a background for the attachment of its numerous muscles, yet is sufficiently pliable to yield with a certain degree of elasticity to the action of these. Nature therefore has built up the larynx with cartilage, or gristle, providing a framework made up of a series of cartilages, sufficiently joined to form a firm shell surrounding the muscular tissue, yet, being hinged as well as joined, capable of independent as well as of combined movement, and, withal, possessing the requisite degree of pliability to respond in whole or part to the extremely varied and often delicate action of the laryngeal muscles--muscles which indeed are required to be as practised and as sensitive to suggestion as if they were nerves. The principal cartilage of the larynx is the thyroid or shield cartilage, named from the Greek _thureos_ (shield). It really consists of two shields joined along the edges in front (its most forward upper projection being the Adam's apple) and opening out at the back. The thyroid is the uppermost cartilage of the larynx and the Adam's apple is the uppermost portion of the front of the larynx. But as the shields open out back of the Adam's apple, they slope upward and at the extreme back each shield has a marked upward prolongation like a horn. By these horns, enforced by membrane, the thyroid cartilage and through it the whole larynx is attached to and is suspended from the hyoid bone, or tongue-bone. This gives mobility to the larynx and freedom of movement to the neck; and the larynx, while mobile as a whole, furthermore is capable of an infinite number of muscular adjustments and readjustments within itself. At the back the lower edges of the thyroid rest upon the cricoid cartilage, which derives its name from the Greek _krikos_, a signet-ring. This is next in size to the thyroid. The broader portion, the part which corresponds to the seal in a signet-ring, is at the back. Attached at the back, the two cartilages do not, however, meet in front. Place a finger on the Adam's apple, slide it down a little way, and the slight depression there met with locates the front opening, covered with yielding membrane, between the thyroid and cricoid cartilages. On the broader part of the cricoid--that is, on the part in the back of the larynx--and rising inside the thyroid are two smaller cartilages, the arytenoid or ladle cartilages, named from the Greek _arutaina_, a ladle. Though smaller than either thyroid or cricoid, they are highly important, because they form points of attachment for the vocal cords. These (the vocal cords) are attached in front to the inner part of the angle formed by the two wings of the thyroid just back of the Adam's apple, and behind to a forward projecting spur at the base of each of the arytenoid cartilages, which for this reason often are spoken of as the "vocal process." The vocal cords, as has been stated, lie parallel to each other, and the space between them is known as the glottis or chink of the glottis. Above the glottis and on opposite sides are two pockets or ventricles, and above these are the so-called false cords or ventricular bands. The pockets are, in fact, bordered below by the vocal cords and above by the false cords. The false cords or ventricular bands (a name given to them by Mackenzie) are the lower edges of membranous folds that form the upper entrance to the larynx. Here are two pairs of small cartilages, the cartilages of Santorini and the cartilages of Wrisberg. Usually they are dismissed as of little or no importance. Yet they have, in connection with muscles located in that part of the larynx, their rôles to play in those numerous adjustments and readjustments which, as I shall show a little later on, are of the greatest importance in voice-generation. For I consider, as I also will show, that the numerous, indeed innumerable, and extremely subtle and exquisite changes of shape of which the larynx is capable within itself, have much to do with the actual creation of the tone which eventually issues from the lips; although I believe this statement to be contrary to all accepted authority. For the present, however, I must content myself with this mere statement. The larynx is protected above by a lid, a flexible, leaf-shaped cartilage, the epiglottis. The gullet, or food-passage to the stomach, is situated behind the larynx and windpipe, and the function of the epiglottis is to close the larynx and to act as a bridge over which food passes from the mouth into the gullet. But for the epiglottis, food might get into the larynx and thence into the windpipe every time we swallowed, with what distressing and even disastrous effect any one who has ever "swallowed the wrong way" well knows. When open, on the other hand, the epiglottis forms a beautifully smooth cartilaginous curve, over which the sounding air, the tone, as it issues from the larynx, is guided to the resonance cavities above the larynx, which are the cavities of the mouth and of the nose. While parts of these cavities are solid, like the roof of the mouth, other parts, like the soft palate, are pliable; while the tongue is so astoundingly mobile that it constantly can alter the resonance cavity of the mouth as to dimension and shape. The larynx is swathed and lined with membrane and muscle. These membranes and muscles are named after the cartilages to which they are attached, between which they lie, or which they operate. There is no reason why they should be enumerated now. The function of the muscles of the larynx is stated by all authorities with which I am familiar to be twofold--to open and close the glottis (the space between the vocal cords), and to regulate the tension of the vocal cords, because the vibrations of these are considered the determining factor of vocal pitch. Sir Morell Mackenzie, however, in describing the muscles of the larynx in a passage couched in untechnical language, unconsciously gives a hint of another purpose for which the complexity of muscles in the larynx may exist. After speaking of the "innumerable little fingers of the muscles which move the vocal cords," he continues: "These fingers (which prosaic anatomists call _fibres_), besides being almost countless in number, are arranged in so intricate a manner that every one who dissects them finds out something new, which, it is needless to say, is forthwith given to the world as an important discovery. It is probable that no amount of macerating or teasing ever will bring us to 'finality' in this matter; nor do I think it would profit us much as regards our knowledge of the physiology of the voice if the last fibrilla of tiny muscle were run to earth. The mind can form no clearer notions of the infinitely little than of the infinitely great, and the microscopic movements of these tiny strips of contractile tissue would be no more _real_ to us than the figures which express the rapidity of light and the vast stretches of astronomical time and distance. Moreover, no two persons have their laryngeal muscles arranged in precisely the same manner--a circumstance which of itself goes a considerable way toward explaining the almost infinite variety of human voices. The wonderful diversity of expression in faces which structurally, as we may say, are almost identical, is due to minute differences in the arrangement of the little muscles which move the skin. The same thing holds good of the larynx." These are significant words. The distinguished physician who wrote them might just as well have said that the generally prevailing theory that in voice-production the muscles of the larynx exist solely to open and close the glottis and to regulate the tension and hence the vibration of the vocal cords, is incorrect. For they also exist in order to shape and reshape the entire larynx within itself according to the note to be produced, and the opening or closing of the glottis with the degree of tension of the vocal cords resulting therefrom is but one detail in the coördination of adjustments and readjustments which prepare the vocal tract to produce the tone the singer hears in his mind. Nearly every authority on the physiology of voice-production believes that the vocal tone is produced solely by the vibration of the vocal cords, and that the entire vocal tract situated above the vocal cords is concerned merely with augmenting the tone and determining its timbre or quality. Let us examine this theory and ascertain how tenable it is. To begin with, the term "cord" as applied to the vocal cords is misleading. It suggests a resemblance between the vocal cords and the strings of a violin, which are capable of great tension, or at least a resemblance between the vocal cords and the vibrating reed of a reed-instrument. In point of fact, the vocal cords are neither strings nor reeds, and are not even freely suspended from end to end or from one end like reeds, but are attached along their entire lower portion to the inner wall of the larynx. Therefore they are not cords, nor strings, nor reeds in any sense whatsoever. They are shelves composed of flesh and muscle, their substance resembles neither the catgut of which the strings of stringed instruments are made nor the cane, wood or metal of which the reeds of reed-instruments are formed; and the entire length of each cord is a trifle more than half an inch in men and a little less than half an inch in women. Almost every writer on voice appears to consider the term "cord" as applied to them a misnomer. They have been spoken of as membranous lips. "The vocal 'cord' is not a _string_, but the free edge of a projecting fold of membrane," says Mackenzie. Yet it is not only claimed but announced over and over again as a physiological fact that the human voice, sometimes sweet and mellow, sometimes tense and vibrant and with its great range, is produced solely by the vibration of two projecting folds of membrane, free only at their edges and at their longest only a little over half an inch in length. At least one writer on voice-production, Prof. Wesley Mills, appears to have doubted the correctness of the old and oft-repeated theory. "Allusion must be made," he writes in "Voice-Production in Singing and Speaking," "to the danger of those engaged in mathematical and physical investigation applying their conclusions in too rigid a manner to the animal body. It was held until recently that the pitch of a vocal tone was determined solely by the number of vibrations of the vocal bands, as if they acted like the strings of a violin or the reed of a clarinet, while the resonance chambers were thought to simply take up these vibrations and determine nothing but the quality of tone.... It seems probable that the vocal bands so beat the air within the resonance chambers as to determine the rate of vibration of the air of these cavities, and so the pitch of the tone produced." This at least shows dissatisfaction with the old theory and attaches some share of their due importance to the resonance cavities, but it still is far from describing the correct phenomenon of voice-production. Show a lateral section of a larynx to a trumpet or horn player and he will at once recognize its similarity to the cupped mouthpiece and tube of trumpet or horn, the cup in the larynx being formed by the ventricles or pockets above the vocal cords. Extend the picture so that it includes not only the larynx but the resonance cavities of the head as well, and the cornet, trumpet or horn player will recognize the similarity to the tube of his instrument as it turns upon itself. The manner in which the lips shape themselves as the player blows into the instrument, the form and size of the cup, the gyration and friction of the air within it and within the bent portion of the tube, determine the pitch and the quality of the tone that issues from the bell of the instrument. The shape assumed by the lips, which are capable of many exquisite variations in shape, conditions the form of the air-column as it enters the cup of the trumpet or horn. This I believe to be one important function performed for the larynx by the vocal cords, which Mackenzie, with an aptness he could not have appreciated, called the lips of the glottis. They are, in fact, the lips of the essential organ of voice, the larynx. If they are looked at from below they will be seen to be bevelled, and their resemblance to lips even more striking. While, however, the importance of the vocal cords in tone-production has been overestimated, I should be going to the opposite extreme if I limited their importance to their function as the lips of the glottis. Not only are they lips, but vibrating lips, their vibrations, however, requiring enforcement through the sympathetic vibrations which they generate within the cup of the larynx and in the cavities above. As lips, the vocal cords shape the air-column as it enters the larynx, to the required note; as vibrating lips--set into vibration by the very air-column to which they have given shape--they start the vibrations essential to pitch and pass them along into the cup of the larynx, which also has shaped itself to the note and where gyration and friction begin to reinforce the vibrations started by the cords. What is true of the cup also is true of the resonance-cavities. In other words, the entire vocal tract, from cords to lips, shapes and reshapes itself with reference to the tone that is to be produced, and what thus goes on above the vibrating cords coöperates to produce the effect formerly attributed to the cords alone. The fact that the cup of the larynx subtly changes its shape for each tone produced, makes the hitherto obscure subject of registers of the voice, which many writers have written _around_ but none _about_, perfectly clear. The cup assumes what may be called a generic shape for each register, and then goes through subtle adjustments of shape for the different notes within each register. But this is a subject to be taken up in detail later. The reader now will understand why at different points in this chapter I have emphasized the fact that the larynx as a whole and throughout all its parts is capable of numerous adjustments in shape, and that the same is true of the resonance-cavities. The vocal tract of an accomplished singer is capable of as many adjustments as a sensitive face is of changes in expression. This phenomenon is the vocal tract making ready to generate, vitalize and emit the tone suggested by the mind--mind pressing the button, the physical organs of voice-production doing the rest. CHAPTER VI PITCH AND SYMPATHETIC VIBRATION It is sympathetic vibration, manifesting itself in some instances in the chest and in the head cavities, and in other instances almost entirely within the latter, that gives to voices their peculiar timbre or tone-quality--their physiognomy. It is by timbre that we distinguish voices as we distinguish features. With instruments, differences in quality of tone--differences in timbre--are due to differences of shape; and in case of instruments of the same kind, for example, violins, to slight differences in form or to the grain, age and quality of the wood. In the same manner, there are minute differences in the structure of the vocal tract of different people; and it is especially the structural differences between the resonant cavities of individual singers that determine differences of timbre or quality. It is easy to distinguish between tones even of the same pitch that come from a harp, a violin, a trumpet, a flute or from the human voice. Between two violins of exactly the same make, played on by the same person, there would be greater difficulty in discovering differences in the quality of tone, although, even if made after the same pattern and about the same date, there probably would be minute structural differences that would differentiate their timbre to a musical ear; while if, of two violins, one of the instruments were new, and the other old, a musical ear probably would immediately detect differences in their tone-quality. It is easier to distinguish between voices even of the same range, than between instruments of the same kind, because there is strong individuality in voices. This is due to the fact that structural differences between the vocal tracts of individuals are far more numerous and far more minute than possibly can be introduced into instruments. Moreover, the vocal tract, being part of the human body, is subtly responsive to innumerable impulses and adjusts and readjusts itself in innumerable ways. Instruments are made of material, chiefly wood and metal, and, unlike the vocal tract, cannot change structurally. The cornet, for example, is made of brass. The lips of the player protruding into the cup can effect certain changes in shape, and changes also can be made in the tube between the mouthpiece and the bell of the instrument by pistons or valves. But these changes are absurdly small in number compared with the structural changes of which the vocal tract is capable, and commonplace in character compared with the refined and subtle minuteness of the latter. For this reason, while there is a distinct timbre for each kind of instrument, there are innumerable timbres of the human voice--as many as there are voices, and all due to the pliability of the vocal tract. It is the manner in which the numerous individual conformations of the vocal tract affect the overtones in the voice that makes voices different from each other; for the overtones are the chief agency in determining the timbre, quality, or physiognomy of any tone. Every tone consists of a fundamental or ground tone with its overtones. The fundamental tone determines the pitch; the overtones determine the quality, tone-color, timbre, or physiognomy of the tone. The overtones, or harmonics, as they also are called, vibrate in certain simple harmonic relations with the fundamental--from twice to five times as often per second, sounding the octave above, the fifth of that octave, the second octave, the major third of that octave, etc. So important is it to the individual musical quality of tone, to secure the coöperation of overtones, that in certain large open organ pipes, which are deficient in these, extra pipes of higher pitch and corresponding with the overtones of the fundamental note, are added and joined to the register. Overtones without the fundamental can be obtained on stringed instruments by stopping one of the strings and then touching it lightly at other points. The soft, sweet, ethereal character of the harmonics produced in this manner on a violin conveys some idea of the manner in which the many overtones of a note give it its distinctive quality. In a way the overtones may be said to echo the fundamental, but the ear receives fundamental and overtones blended as one tone of a certain timbre. What that timbre is, is determined by the shape of the resonating cavity or cavities, the shape of which in turn is determined by the shape of the instrument, and in different voices by infinitesimal differences in the shape of various parts of the vocal tract. All instruments of a kind are made more or less on the same pattern and vary but little in shape. For this reason we have the distinct violin, horn, clarinet or pianoforte timbre, and so on down the list, but I repeat here that there are not such minute and individual differences between instruments of the same kind as there are between voices of the same range, because there are no such minute and individual structural differences in instruments as in the vocal organs of individuals--differences that each individual can multiply _ad infinitum_ by the subtle and delicate play of muscles acting in response to mental suggestion, art sense, inspiration, temperament, psychic impulse, or by whatever cognate term one may choose to call it. There is little or nothing of psychology in Mackenzie's book, and yet, like other writers on voice-production, he appears now and then to be groping for it. Thus, when he speaks of the fundamental tone being reinforced by its overtones--by a number of secondary sounds higher in pitch and fainter in intensity--he adds very beautifully that every resonance-cavity has what may be called its elective affinity, or one particular note, to the vibrations of which it responds sympathetically like a lover's heart answering that of his beloved. "As the crude tone issues from the larynx, the mouth, tongue and soft palate, moulding themselves by the most delicately adaptive movements into every conceivable variety of shape, clothe the raw bones of sound with body and living richness of tone. Each of the various resonance-chambers reëchoes its corresponding tone, so that a single well-delivered note is, in reality, a full choir of harmonious sounds." Voice being, like instrumental tone, a commixture of fundamental and overtones, and the manner in which the composite conformation of collective waves strikes the ear being largely determined by the cavities of resonance, the control of these is of great importance to the singer. This control should, by thorough training, be brought to such a degree of efficiency that it becomes subconscious and automatic, so that the resonance-cavities shape themselves instantly to the note that is being produced within the larynx and, vibrating in sympathy with it, sound the overtones. The reciprocal principle of elective affinity between fundamental and overtone, between the shape assumed by the larynx for pitch and the shape assumed by the resonance-cavities for quality, is illustrated by the exciting influence of a sounding instrument upon a silent one tuned to the same pitch which, although not touched by human hand, sounds in sympathy with the one that is being played on. Even a jar standing upon a mantel-shelf, a globe on a lamp, a glass on a table, or some other object in the room, may vibrate and rattle when a certain note is struck on the pianoforte. This is the result of sympathetic vibration. Thus, although vocal tone originates within the larynx, it sets the resonance-cavities into sympathetic vibration, and these produce the harmonics that give the fundamental tone its timbre; the resonance-cavities being to the vocal cords or lips what the body or resonance-box of the violin and the sounding-board of the pianoforte are to their strings, the tube of a cornet or horn to the lips, the body of the clarinet to its reed--the resonating factor which determines the overtones and through these the timbre. Excepting the chest and trachea the resonance-cavities of the voice are located above the larynx. To the chest as a resonator the low tones of the voice owe much of their great volume. Indeed, the chest is such a superb and powerful resonating box that, if it resonated also for the high tones, these, with their inherent capacity for penetration, probably would become disagreeably acute. Therefore, nature, wise in this as in many other things, has decreased chest vibration as the voice ascends the scale. Above the larynx is the pharynx, a space extending to the base of the skull and opening into the mouth, and higher up connecting with the base of the nose by means of two passages, the posterior nares, or back nasal passages. The walls of the pharynx are permeated by a network of muscles, so that this important space or resonance-cavity immediately above the larynx is susceptible of numerous adjustments and readjustments in size and shape; and as it lies with its back wall against the spinal column, it also is susceptible and immediately responsive to suggestion from the mind. Another important resonance-cavity, indeed, the most important, is the mouth, roofed by the hard palate which separates the mouth from the nasal chamber, to which latter it also forms the floor. In the mouth is the tongue, extremely mobile, and thus capable of materially changing the size and shape of the mouth-cavity. Hanging from the rear of the hard palate, like a veil over the root of the tongue, is the soft palate; attached to which is the uvula. This hangs vertically down from the soft palate and, if the rear end of the tongue is allowed to bulge upward slightly, can be made to form with it a kind of valve, by which voice is conveyed directly into the mouth-cavity without any of it escaping up the posterior nasal passage; while the soft palate by itself alone can be drawn up so as to touch the back wall of the pharynx, completely closing the passage to the nose, so that a continuous curved resonance-cavity is afforded from larynx to lips. The soft palate is continued on either side by two folds known as the fauces; and each of the fauces has two ridges, the pillars of the fauces, between which are the tonsils. The pillars of the fauces enclose muscular fibres which act respectively on the tongue, the sides of the pharynx, and the upper part of the larynx, and thus aid in the necessary movements of the vocal tract. The nasal passage, divided into two ducts by a vertical partition, the _vomer septum_, was referred to in the chapter on inspiration. The so-called sinuses are hollow spaces in small bones on either side and above the nasal passage and communicating directly or indirectly with it. A question regarding the nasal cavity, including the sinuses, suggests itself. Of what use is the nasal passage as a cavity of resonance if, in order to prevent a nasal quality of tone, the passage during voice-emission is shut off by the action of the soft palate, or by the combined action of the soft palate, uvula and tongue? The answer is, first, that it is not always to be closed off, because there are times when a slightly nasal timbre in voice is desirable; secondly, that even when the nasal cavity is shut off, the hard palate being not only the roof of the mouth but also the floor of the nose, its vibrations are communicated to the nasal cavity, but not directly enough to give a disagreeable nasal quality to the voice. From this survey it will be seen that the cavities of resonance along the vocal tract may be divided into such parts as are solid, pliable and movable. The solid parts are sharply resonant; they are, _par excellence_, the resonators in voice-production; while a pliable part, like the pharynx, although resonant in a less degree, is valuable in adjusting structural shape to every condition that arises; and the most movable parts of all, the tongue and the lips, probably wholly devoid of resonance, have their great rôles to play in effecting what may be called wholesale changes in the size and shape of the mouth-cavity, which could not be brought about by any other agencies less mobile. The roof of the mouth, the teeth, the hard gums, the cones of the nasal passage, and the sinuses are the solid portions of the cavities of resonance. When Svengali gazed into Trilby's mouth and exclaimed, "Himmel, what a roof!" he spoke from the depths of vocal knowledge. For a highly arched mouth roof, especially if the tone enters the mouth cavity from a wide, well-rounded pharynx, is of great value to the singer. So is a fine, shapely, regular set of teeth, especially as regards the upper front teeth, behind which the vibrations appear to centre in so called "forward production." Cautiously brought into play, the posterior nasal passage assists, with its resonance, the head tones of the female voice and the upper range of male voices; but care must be taken not to carry the tone up into the nose and thus give it a nasal quality. Some writers class the walls of the pharynx with the solid parts of the vocal tract. But the walls of the pharynx are pliable, as already has been pointed out, together with the admirable results to be derived from their flexibility when under the singer's control. The movable parts of or pertaining to the resonance-cavities are the soft palate with the uvula, the fauces, the cheeks, the lips, the lower jaw and, most mobile of all, the tongue. The uvula often is too long, either by nature or through a disease called prolongation of the uvula. It can be treated by astringents or the elongation can be cut off, which usually is the most prompt and efficacious way. The operator, however, in case the patient is a singer, must calculate to a nicety just how much to remove, otherwise the voice will suffer. There are isolated cases of deformed soft palate with uvula so enormous that it cannot be raised. In such cases, one of which is instanced by Kofler, a surgical operation being out of the question, the patient simply has to give up singing. Enlarged tonsils, whether from inflammation or other causes, also have to be operated on, as their enlargement obviously hinders free voice-emission. Even at its best the mouth-passage here is narrowest--and called the "isthmus"--and nothing must be allowed to make it narrower than it is by nature. The lips never should lie flat against the teeth, since this would muffle resonance. On the other hand, the teeth should not be bared, as this results in a foolish grin. The cheeks naturally conform to the action of the lips. The lower jaw should be relaxed, which gives the so-called "floating chin." When the lower jaw, and with it the chin, is raised, the throat is tightened, and voice-action becomes constricted. The "floating chin" does not, of course, mean that the chin is to be thrust downward into the chest. In singing, as in everything else, there is a golden rule to be observed. It is obvious that the tongue also is a highly responsible member of the vocal tract. Raise it too high, and you bring it so close to the hard palate that the mouth becomes too small for free, resonant voice-emission. The tone becomes wheezy. Let the tongue lie too flat, and the mouth-cavity becomes too large and cavernous for tense, vibrant voice-emission. The tone becomes too open. Let the base of the tongue move back too far, and it will tend to close the pharynx and to check free egress from the pharynx into the mouth, making the tone muffled. Raise the back of the tongue until it touches the soft palate, and the two combined close the mouth-cavity from behind, with the result that voice is carried up the nasal passage and is charged with a disagreeable nasal quality. For every tone produced there is a special adjustment throughout the entire vocal tract. These adjustments should, by practice, become automatic, simple acts of swift and unconscious obedience to the will. Then the question of "forward," "backward," or "middle" production, according to the part of the roof of the mouth where the tone-vibrations appear to centre, will become a matter wholly of the quality of voice which it is desired to produce for any given emotional state. Forward production--vibration appearing to centre a little back of the upper front teeth--is, as a general thing, the best. Yet a voice brilliant to the point of hardness can be mellowed by middle or backward production. These are matters of judgment. But when I am told, as I was by a young girl, that she was being taught to centre the tone-vibrations "back of her eyes," all I can do is to throw up my hands and exclaim, "O voice-production, what crimes are committed in thy name!" Yes--there should be a Rescue League, or a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Singers. CHAPTER VII REGISTERS OF THE VOICE The subject of vocal registers is a difficult one--difficult to understand and, when understood, difficult to make intelligible to others. In fact, it is so difficult that some people get rid of it by calmly asserting that there are no registers. This is unfortunate, because the blending of the registers, the smoothing out of the voice where one register passes over into another, the elimination of the "break" between them, is one of the greatest problems which the teacher of voice-production is obliged to solve. Like so many other branches in the art of voice-production, the subject is complicated by initial misunderstandings. Numerous people suppose, for example, that the vocal registers are synonymous with the different kinds of voices, and speak of the alto, soprano, bass or tenor register as if register stood for quality, which it does not. Another complication results from the fact that certain phenomenal voices, chiefly tenor, literally rise superior to the law of vocal registers. Thus, a phenomenal tenor like Duprez sang with ease the whole tenor range, including the high C, in the powerful, vibrant "chest" register, whereas the average tenor, while producing a great portion of his voice in the chest register, is obliged at a certain point in the ascending scale to pass into the "middle" and beyond that into the "head" register. The breaks that occur in average voices at certain points of the scale have established the divisions of the voice into registers. These breaks can be accounted for on scientific grounds; and if the physiology of voice-production had done no more than explain the why and wherefore of vocal registers, it would have justified itself through this alone. Suppose there were a man able to produce the entire male vocal compass, from deepest bass to highest tenor. While for every note throughout the entire compass there would be subtle changes in the adjustment of the vocal tract, the following also would be true:--That, beginning with the lowest note and throughout the first octave of his voice, the changes in the adjustment of the vocal tract would not alter the general character of the adjustment for that octave; that, on entering the second octave, there would be a tendency toward change in the general adjustment of the vocal tract; while, for the production of the remaining notes above, an almost startling change in the adjustment of the vocal tract would take place. The same would be true if a woman, capable of producing the entire female vocal compass, were to begin with the lowest contralto and sing up to the highest soprano tone. It is the general character of the adjustment of the vocal tract for a certain range of notes in the vocal scale that determines each register, the two principal changes in adjustment causing two breaks in the smooth progression of the voice. Allowing for the fact that the male voice is an octave below the female voice, but in all other respects corresponds with it in range, the adjustment of the vocal tract throughout each register is the same for both men and women singers. There is, I fear, a prevalent notion on the part of the musical public that each voice has its own separate registers; that, for example, the registers of the soprano voice are at different points of the scale from those of the alto, and those of the tenor at different points from both of these. But this is not the case. Always allowing for the octave difference between the male and female voice, the registers for all voices are at fixed points of the scale and are, or should be, sung by all voices with the same adjustment of the vocal tract. A few examples will make this clear. The lowest register for female voice is: [Music: F3-F4] that for male voice: [Music: F2-F3] i.e., an octave lower. These are the first eight notes of the alto of the female voice and of the bass of the male voice. Alto and bass sing these notes with precisely the same adjustment of the vocal tract. The vocal cords in this register vibrate along their entire length, the space between them, also the "cup" and the general adjustment of the vocal tract, are open. A good soprano can come down into this register as far as [Music: C4] and a good tenor as far as [Music: C3], and when these voices come down into this register they too sing with the same adjustment of the vocal tract as is used for the same tones by alto and bass. This, therefore, constitutes the lowest register for all voices--not because it consists of certain notes, but because these notes require the same general adjustment of the vocal tract for their production by all voices. When it comes to the next or middle register:--[Music: F4-F5] for female voices (and an octave below for male voices), soprano and tenor sing through this entire register with ease, using a slightly different adjustment of the vocal tract from that which they employed when they went down into the lowest register. The ordinary alto stops at C in this register, as does also the bass at an octave lower. When they enter it their vocal tract adjusts itself to it and corresponds with the adjustment employed in it by soprano and tenor. In this register the vocal cords still vibrate along their entire length, but as the voice progresses upward, they show a tendency to shorten the glottic chink, and the cup, as well as the adjustment of the entire vocal tract, tends to become less open. It is the register of transition, placed between the lowest and highest, as if to bridge over the interval. The highest register: [Music: F5-C6] (an octave lower for male voice) calls for an extraordinary change in the adjustment of the vocal tract. The vocal cords are pressed tightly together at the rear and sometimes both at the rear and front. These portions thus cease to vibrate. Only the small free parts vibrate and these only at the edges. As the voice progresses up the scale the stop action ceases, the elliptical opening and the cup become smaller, and the entire vocal tract is, comparatively speaking, contracted. This register practically belongs only to sopranos and tenors. For example, although some baritones are capable of adjusting their vocal tracts to this register, their voices lose the baritone timbre, take on a feminine quality, and become male altos. In other words, there are three registers, and they correspond for all voices, but certain voices sing more in one register than in the others. Thus, the lowest register is the special province of the alto and the bass; soprano and tenor can come down only a few notes into it. The middle and the highest registers are the special province of soprano and tenor. The ordinary alto and bass can come up only part way into the middle register and cannot follow soprano and tenor at all into the highest. The division of the registers which I have made is subject to many practical exceptions, which so far I have avoided mentioning, because I wanted to fix in the reader's mind the fact that the registers are the same for all voices and are determined by the special adjustment of the vocal apparatus required for their production, and not by voice-quality. Now and then in a generation there may appear upon the scene a singer, usually tenor, who for his high notes is not obliged to adopt the somewhat artificial adjustment required by the highest register, but can sing all his tones in the easier adjustments of the lowest or middle register. But he is a phenomenon, the exception that proves the rule. Another practical exception to my rigid division of the registers is furnished by the overlapping of registers, the capacity of a singer to produce the lower notes of one register with the vocal adjustment employed for the higher notes of the register below, and vice versa; so that where the registers meet there are possibly some half a dozen optional notes. Most basses and baritones, for example, sing only in one register, that is, they carry the vocal adjustment for the lowest register into the notes they are able to sing in the register above. These exceptions will be considered later. At present, in order to treat this difficult subject in something that at least approaches an elementary manner, it is necessary to make the division of the vocal scale into registers a somewhat rigid one. It is, then, the three different adjustments of the vocal tract which determine the three divisions of the vocal scale and likewise the positions or registers for each division. The basis, therefore, for the division of voice-production into registers is not haphazard, but rests on the science of physiology. That there are not separate registers for men and women is due to the fact that men's voices run parallel to those of women at an interval of an octave below, and that, note for note, the adjustment of the male vocal tract is the same as that of the female vocal tract an octave above. For this reason basses and baritones, although singing an octave below contraltos and altos, sing in the same registers; for this reason also, tenors, although singing an octave below sopranos, employ the same registers. I am, of course, speaking of average voices, not of phenomenal ones. Mackenzie has defined a register as a series of tones of like quality producible by a particular adjustment of the vocal cords. Mills defines register as a series of tones of a characteristic clang, timbre, color or quality due to the employment of a special mechanism of the larynx in a particular manner. Both definitions practically mean the same thing. What I object to in them is their use of the word "quality," and Mackenzie's limitation of the adjustment to the vocal cords and Mills' to the larynx. The adjustment takes place throughout the entire vocal tract. Indeed, one of the claims I make for this book is, that it does not limit the voice-producing factor to the vibrations of the vocal cords, but while recognizing the importance of these, also considers the importance of the rest of the vocal tract in relation to them. Other writers hold that voice is produced solely by the vibrations of the vocal cords, and that the rest of the vocal tract is concerned merely with determining the timbre of the voice. But I do not limit the function of the vocal tract below and above the cords simply to voice quality. To produce a given tone requires not only vibration of the cords but an adjustment along the entire tract and especially a change in the size and shape of the cup space. If one wished to be exasperatingly accurate one might say that each adjustment constituted a register, and that in every voice there were as many registers as there are tones. But surveying the progress of the voice up the vocal scale, and as a whole, it is found that up to a certain point the general character of adjustment within the vocal tract is the same, that beyond that point there is a change to another adjustment of a general character, and further beyond still another--in other words, that there are three registers. Some writers recognize only two physical changes in the mechanism of the vocal tract and consequently only two registers instead of three. They dispense entirely with the middle register because the general change there in the adjustment within the vocal tract is not, in their opinion, sufficient to determine a new register. In point of fact, however, while the lower vocal range calls the vocal cords into vibration along their entire length, and while for the highest range only a portion of the edges of the vocal cords vibrate, the adjustment for the medium tones shows a gradual change from the first condition to the third. It is a bridge by which the voice crosses in safety from the lowest to the highest register--a register of transition, but a register withal. Moreover, as the voice progresses upward through the scale, three distinct physical sensations are experienced by the singer according as to whether he is singing low, middle or high. There is one physical sensation for the lower, another for the middle and a third for the higher notes. This would indicate that there is, after all, more of a change in the adjustment of the vocal tract for the middle notes than is apparent superficially, and confirms the position of those who hold that there are three vocal registers instead of two. In voice-production of the lower notes there is a physical sensation of vibration in the upper chest; on the medium notes, in the pharynx; on the higher notes, in the head. These physical sensations have determined the names of chest register for the lower and head register for the higher range of tones. Strictly speaking, the middle range should be denominated pharyngeal or throat register, but usually it is called the medium or middle register. In the chest register the vibrations of the vocal cords are slow and heavy; the vocal tract being in its relaxed, open adjustment, the larynx sinks slightly and, the vibrations taking place in their nearest proximity to the chest, they are communicated to it. In the middle register the adjustment of the vocal tract is more closed than in the chest register, the larynx rises a little, the shape of the vocal tract is determined largely by the relative positions assumed by the epiglottis and the soft palate, and the vibrations no longer can communicate themselves to the chest, but are felt in the pharynx. In the head register the vocal cords come together at one end, sometimes at both ends, and only the upturned edges of the resulting small aperture vibrate, throwing the sensation of vibration up into the head. In every way Nature seems to indicate that there are three vocal registers. The most extreme limits of human voice so far known were found in the voices of Ludwig Fischer, a bass singer, and of Lucrezia Agujari (La Bastardella), a florid soprano. Fischer created the rôle of Osmin in Mozart's "_Entführing aus dem Serail_." His voice went down to contra F [Music: F1] an entire octave lower than the ordinary bass singer. La Bastardella sang as high as [Music: C7] or an octave higher than what usually is spoken of as soprano "high C." These, however, were marvellous voices, so extraordinary that they form part of the history of singing. Indeed, Baker, in his "Biographical Dictionary of Musicians," credits Fischer with D--a^1 [Music: D2-A4]. A reasonable statement of the vocal compass would be 2-1/2 octaves, or [Music: F3 to C6] for female voice and the same, an octave lower, for male voice. Allowing for unusual voices, the statement would be as follows: [Music: Treble staff: Low or Chest Register. D3-F4 Middle Register. G4-F5 High or Head Register. G5-F6 Bass staff: Low or Chest Register. C2-F3 Middle Register. G3-F4 High or Head Register. G4-C5] This musical example shows that save for the lowest note of the bass voice and the three highest of the soprano, the male and female compass parallel each other at an interval of an octave apart, and that the division of the registers is the same for both. Still utilizing the same musical example, but noting now the two chief divisions of male and female voices (bass and tenor in the male and alto and soprano in the female), the example would be divided as follows: [Music: Alto. Low or Chest Register. D3-F4 Middle Register. G4-F5 Soprano. Low or Chest Register. C4-F4 Middle Register. G4-F5 High or Head Register. G5-F6 Bass. Low or Chest Register. C2-F3 Middle Register. G3-E4 Tenor. Low or Chest Register. B[flat]2-F3 Middle Register. G3-F4 High or Head Register. G4-C5] It must be borne in mind that registers overlap, that they extend up and down one into another, and that at points where this occurs it is optional with the singer in which of the two overlapping registers he will produce his tones. There are many singers who can sing at will the lower half of the middle register either in chest or middle, and the upper half of the middle either in middle or head. It is to be noted, however, that it is easier to bring down a tone from a higher into a lower register than to force up a register, the latter proceeding often being ruinous to the voice. Duprez, a phenomenal tenor, could, as I have stated, sing the whole tenor range in the chest register. He could emit the _ut de poitrine_, which means that he could sing even tenor high C in the chest register. The result was that half the tenors of Europe ruined their voices trying to imitate him. For they ignored the natural three-register divisions of the voice, and thought they could accomplish with their average voices what is reserved only for phenomenal ones. There are three registers; and the interrelations between these and the different voices within the male and female range must now be considered. CHAPTER VIII SUBDIVISIONS OF THE VOICE It should be remembered that in the old days, from which traditions of phenomenally high voices have come down to us, musical pitch was lower than it is now. In those days a tenor, for example, could carry up his voice in the adjustment for the middle or in phenomenal cases even for the chest register, instead of changing to the head register, more easily than can be done now. In fact, nowadays, when a composer calls for a very high note, it usually is transposed, so that actually the supposedly high C of _Di quella pira_ nearly always is a B flat. Probably there has been no general deterioration in voices, popular opinion to the contrary notwithstanding. Phenomenal voices always have been rare, and doubtless are no rarer now than at any other period. At any time any opera house would have been proud of two such tenors as Caruso and Bonci, or of two such sopranos as Melba and Tetrazzini, while there is no period in which a Sembrich would not have been a _rara avis_. The artist who, seemingly taught by nature, spontaneously employs the correct registers and sings the most difficult music with ease and accuracy, always has been an unusually gifted person--a vocal phenomenon, in fact. The preceding chapter gave only the main divisions for male and female voices--alto and soprano for female and baritone and tenor for male. There are subdivisions of these. Contralto is a subdivision of alto, mezzo-soprano of soprano; and soprano itself may be dramatic or florid. Baritone is a division of bass; and tenor is either dramatic or lyric. Even when one of these subdivisions of voice is able to enter the range of another, it cannot do the same things with the same ease as the one which naturally belongs there. An alto of extraordinary range, like Schumann-Heink, may be able to achieve high soprano in the head register. It is a valuable accomplishment, insuring ease in singing of rôles that lie in the balance between high alto and mezzo-soprano, but it does not make the singer a soprano. A dramatic soprano may be able to sing florid rôles, but never with the success of the soprano whose natural gifts are of the florid order. A Wagner singer rarely succeeds in the traditional Italian rôles, nor a singer of these in Wagner rôles. Lilli Lehmann always insisted that Norma was one of her great rôles, and craved the opportunity to sing it here. At last the opportunity came, but it is not on record that the public clamored for its repetition or ranked her _Casta diva_ with her singing of Isolde's Liebestod. Melba, one of the most exquisite of florid sopranos, once attempted Brünnhilde in _Siegfried_. One performance, and her good judgment came to her rescue. It is to Sembrich's credit that she always has remained within her genre and for this reason never, so far as I know, has made a failure. The sign-post that stands at the entrance to the path leading to vocal success might read as follows: "Find out what your voice is, and remain strictly within it." The voice which, because of its great range, best illustrates the three-register division of the vocal scale, is the soprano. The average soprano ranges from [Music: C4-A5]; but combining the three types of soprano voices, the soprano compass is as given in the previous chapter, the extremes being, of course, exceptional. Among types of sopranos, the dramatic averages the greatest compass. The voice is heavier than florid soprano and incapable of being handled with the same agility. But it contains more low notes and almost as many high ones, unless in the latter respect one compares it with florid soprano voices of the phenomenal order. Otherwise, so far as the high notes are concerned, the difference lies in quality rather than in compass. The Inflammatus in Rossini's _Stabat Mater_, which is written for dramatic soprano, contains the high C, and no one who has heard Nordica sing it need be told of the noble effect a great dramatic soprano can produce with it. It is possible to sing the three highest notes of the chest register of dramatic soprano with the adjustment for the middle register; and the higher notes of the middle register with the adjustment for the head register. This option is not merely a convenience. Its artistic value is great. In loud phrases those optional notes which naturally lie in the chest register are delivered most effectively in that register; but in _piano_ phrases they are more effective when sung with the adjustment of the middle register. The same thing applies to those optional tones which naturally lie in the middle register. In loud phrases they are sung best in their natural register--the middle; in _piano_ phrases, in the head register. These are two capital illustrations of the value of the overlapping of registers and the necessity of training a voice to be equally at home in both registers on all notes that are optional. Theoretically, the florid soprano produces the three lowest notes of its range in the chest register; the notes from [Music: F4-F5] in the middle; and the notes above these in the head register. In practice, however, the small larynx and the limited cup space found in florid sopranos make it difficult if not impossible for them to adjust their vocal tracts to the chest register. The problem is met by bringing the head register as far down as possible into the middle; and by singing what theoretically should be chest tones in the middle register. It hardly need be pointed out that the lower notes of florid sopranos are weak. This accounts for it. Florid soprano, the voice of the head register, is a voice of extraordinary agility--the voice of vocal pyrotechnics. To achieve it Nature appears to have found it necessary to sacrifice the heavier middle and chest registers which make for dramatic expression; with dramatic sopranos, on the other hand, to sacrifice the muscular flexibility which makes for agility. Mezzo-soprano is a voice that lies within the compass of dramatic soprano, usually extending neither quite so low nor quite so high, but governed by the same laws. For altos the ordinary compass is [Music: G3-C5]. A low alto or contralto is supposed to go down to the E below; while altos of unusual range go high as [Music: F5]. I even have seen the alto compass in notation run up to "high" C; but to control this high range an alto would have to be another Schumann-Heink who has cultivated upper notes in the head register. The tone-quality of some alto voices approaches so nearly that of the male voice, especially in the lowest tones of the chest register, that these altos are known as female baritones. In fact there is no voice in which register affects tone-quality as plainly as in alto. For in alto voices the chest register is apt to give tones that are heavy without corresponding vibrance and sonority, while tones produced in the adjustment of the head register are apt to be too thin. The middle register, however, produces in the alto voice a tone that is rich without being too heavy, so that it avoids undue heaviness on the one hand and on the other a thinness that is in no way comparable with the light tones of soprano, but simply a thin and unsatisfactory alto. Alto tone in the middle register therefore gives the standard tone-quality for alto voice; and when singing in chest or head register, an alto should endeavor to relieve the chest notes of their heaviness and the head notes of their thinness by giving them as much as she can the quality of tones in the middle register. This can be accomplished by bringing head tones down to middle and by carrying the middle register adjustment down into the chest register. But all this is as much a matter of correct ear and trained will power to make the voice reproduce the mental audition as it is of physical adjustment. The great prizes of the operatic stage and concert hall go to the higher voices--to sopranos, for example, instead of to altos. Yet the proper training of an alto voice is a most difficult matter because, while the chest register is the natural singing register of alto, it produces too "big" a tone--a tone so big as to be heavy and unwieldy. The middle register in alto really is an assumed position, yet it is the register in which the standard alto tone is produced. Teachers who either are ignorant of these facts or disregard them are apt to carry up the cumbersome chest register until it meets the thin head register, producing a voice whose low notes are too heavy and tend toward the uncanny and by no means agreeable female baritone quality, while the higher notes are thin and undecided in character. The male voice-range is the same as the female, save that it lies an octave lower; its mechanism is the same; and its registers are the result of identical physical functions. Thus, allowing for the octave difference, the tenor voice and the laws that govern it correspond for all practical purposes with soprano. Tenors are lyric and dramatic, a distinction that explains itself. The lyric tenor is light and flexible. The dramatic tenor is a ringing, vibrant voice, especially on the high notes. Probably it is the splendor of these high notes that is responsible for the theory that they are produced by carrying the chest register upward. In point of fact, a genuine chest register rarely is employed by tenors. Their easiest, their natural singing range, is in the middle register, and the tones which in the notation of the tenor compass are assigned to the chest register, really are sung in what is more like a downward extension of the middle register. Just as the larynx of the soprano is not as large as that of the alto or contralto and is not capable of the open adjustment required by the chest register, so the larynx of the tenor is smaller than that of bass or baritone and, like the soprano, less capable of the open adjustment for chest register. The result is the same--a perceptible weakness on the lower notes, the great qualities of the voice lying in the middle and head registers, especially in the latter. The lyric tenor is a lighter voice than the dramatic for the same reason that florid soprano is lighter than dramatic soprano. The cup space within the larynx is, comparatively speaking, small. Thus, while the head tones of the dramatic tenor are powerful and vibrant, the lyric tenor's head tones are lighter and more graceful, but are lacking in brilliant, resonant dramatic quality. A tenor like Jean de Reszke, who sang baritone for several years, must have a larynx somewhat larger than that of a genuine dramatic tenor, and his production of robust tenor notes in the head register must have required a most artistic series of adjustments of his voice tract throughout this entire register. But while it cannot be denied that Jean de Reszke was an artist in the truest sense of the term, it also cannot be denied that his high voice just lacked the true vibrant tenor quality and had a suspicion of baritone in it. Some tenors who cannot sing unusually high in head register are able to acquire what is known as falsetto, and even tenors who are not obliged to resort to falsetto sometimes employ it for special effects. Falsetto is produced by carrying the adjustment for head register to its extreme limit. Practically it is the artificial reproduction within the throat of an adult of the small larynx before the period of mutation. In singing falsetto the false vocal cords drop down to within a quarter of an inch of the true cords and even closer, reducing the cup space in the larynx to its dimensions before mutation. To secure a good quality of tone in falsetto the singer must have complete control of the cup space--be able to diminish it not only by allowing the false cords to drop down almost upon the vocal cords, but also by contracting it laterally. If he can do this, he can produce some genuinely artistic effects in falsetto. When a tenor cannot control the muscles that contract the cup space, his falsetto will be of a poor quality--a mere "dodge" to add some higher notes to those of his legitimate vocal range. There are singers whose control over the registers is so expert that, when they are called upon to follow a loud, singing, vibrant head tone with a _pp_ effect on the same note, they can accomplish this by imperceptibly changing to falsetto. They can glide from head into falsetto and back again without a break and add the charm of varied tone-color to natural beauty of voice. This is especially true of dramatic tenors. If they can vary the naturally full and sonorous quality of their head tone with an artistic falsetto, they are able to secure many beautiful effects by an interchange of registers. Whenever the high tones of a lyric tenor sound thin, it is because high head tones do not lie naturally within the singer's range and he is obliged to substitute falsetto for them. "Baritone tenors" usually cannot achieve their higher notes in head register and are obliged to adopt falsetto, but as their voices are naturally fuller than those of the lyric tenor their falsetto is more agreeable. Falsetto is a remnant of the voice before mutation, the male singer who can produce falsetto having such control over the larynx that he can contract the cup space until it reverts to its original boy size. This accounts for the peculiar quality of the male falsetto--its alloy of the feminine. Boys sing soprano or alto; and a man's voice must be naturally high and possess such a genuine tenor quality that nothing can rob it of its true timbre, to be effective in falsetto. This is why the average "baritone tenors"--singers who begin as baritones but whose voices lend themselves to being trained up--rarely are able to penetrate an ensemble with a clear, ringing high note of genuine tenor quality. A good tenor falsetto is in fact a reversion to boy-soprano with, however, the quality of adult high voice predominating to such a degree that it has the tenor timbre; and in proportion as the high notes of the male voice result from artificial training instead of from natural capacity, the boy-soprano timbre will creep in and weaken the tenor quality in falsetto. Some basses and low baritones can be trained to reach the high notes of the male vocal compass in falsetto, but as natural facility to produce these notes is lacking in such voices and their production is due wholly to artifice, the reversion to the boy quality of voice is so complete and it predominates to such a degree that these voices are known as male altos. Falsetto usually is associated with tenors, but falsetto also can be employed by women, the results, as with men, depending on whether the voice is naturally a high one or not. I repeat that with voices which naturally are high, falsetto is not a "dodge," but a legitimate artistic effect. Furthermore, singers who in addition to control of the regular registers have control of falsetto, frequently find physical relief in passing from head to falsetto and back again. Basses are of three different kinds. Basso profundo is the lowest bass; basso cantante is a flexible bass usually unable to sing quite as low as basso profundo; baritone is the highest bass--a voice midway between bass and tenor and partaking somewhat of the quality of both. The bass compass parallels that for contralto and alto at an interval of an octave and, in their use of the registers, basses and contraltos and baritones and altos have much in common. As with contralto, the natural singing register of basses is the chest register. The middle register is awkward to establish in bass voices, as the size of the larynx gives a large open cup space which is unsuited to the chest register. Therefore, with basses, when the capacity of the chest register is exhausted, it is best for the production of the notes above to make a complete change of adjustment to head register. Thus in bass the middle register practically is eliminated. The high bass or baritone compass is from [Music: G2-F4]. It was seen that the question of registers with altos and contraltos was a complicated one, and similar complications exist with baritones. Some baritones can employ the middle register with ease, so that like certain contraltos they can sing in three registers--a rather weak chest register, middle and head (or falsetto) registers. The training of baritones is difficult, and should be determined by the tendency of the individual baritone voice--whether it inclines toward bass or toward tenor. For example, Jean de Reszke was at the beginning of his career the victim of faulty voice diagnosis. He was pronounced a baritone and trained for baritone rôles, with the result that he suffered from an exaggerated condition of fatigue after every appearance. Later the probable tenor quality of his voice was discovered, and when it had been developed along physiological lines best suited to its real quality, undue fatigue after using it ceased. The division of the vocal scale into registers is not an artifice. It is Nature's method of assisting vocalization, her way of relieving the strain of the voice. A certain portion of the vocal scale lies naturally in the chest register. But if this open adjustment is carried up too far, the tones are strained and eventually ruined. On the other hand if, at the proper point, the singer passes into the middle register, the strain is relieved; and the relief experienced is even greater when passing from middle into head, entirely releasing one set of muscles and calling an entirely new set into play. The so-called "breaks" in the voice occur at points where one register passes into another; and it should be the aim of proper instruction in voice-culture to eliminate the breaks. They are due to the change in adjustment which each register calls for. The best method of "blending the registers"--of smoothing out the breaks--is to bring a higher register several tones down into the one below and thus bridge over the passage from one adjustment to another. To do this consciously would defeat its aim. It must be done in spontaneous response to the mental conception of the tone or phrase to be emitted. It must become second nature with the singer, a physiological adjustment in answer to a psychical concept--a detail, in fact one of the most important details, in that true physiology of voice-production which also takes psychical conditions into consideration. CHAPTER IX THE STROKE OF THE GLOTTIS The _coup de glotte_, translated as "stroke of the glottis," refers to the manner in which a note should be attacked. This matter of attack already has been covered by inference many times in the course of this book. For, as the effectiveness of vocal attack depends upon the way in which the air-column strikes the vocal cords, it follows that the advice constantly given and in accordance with which the entire vocal tract of the singer should adjust itself as if by second nature to the tone that is to be produced, each time places the cords in the correct position to receive the stroke of the outgoing air. It does away with all danger of the "audible stroke" which occurs most frequently on the very open vowel-sounds, when the air reaches the glottis too late and is obliged to force its way through, the result being a disagreeable click; and it also obviates the defect from the opposite cause, when the air passes through the glottis too soon and results in an aspirated sound, an H before vowels, the voice, for example, emitting "Hi" for "I". Mackenzie remarks on these points that the great object to be aimed at is that no air should be wasted or expended improvidently; that just the amount required for the particular effect in view must be used. Too strong a current tends to raise the pitch, a result which can be prevented only by extra tension of the vocal cords, which, of course, entails unnecessary strain. Again, the air may be sent up with such velocity that some of it leaks through before the glottis has time to intercept it; or with such violence as to force the lips of the chink a little too far apart. In either case so much motive power is thrown away and to that extent the brilliancy and fullness of the tone are lost. The _coup de glotte_, or exact correspondence between the arrival of the air at the larynx and the adjustment of the cords to receive it, is a point that cannot be too strongly insisted on. "The regulation of the force of the blast which strikes against the vocal cords," says Mackenzie, "the placing of these in the most favorable position for the effect which it is desired to produce, and the direction of the vibrating column of air, are the three elements of artistic production. These elements must be thoroughly coördinated--that is to say, made virtually one act, which the pupil must strive by constant practice to make as far as possible automatic." Extend this admirably expressed paragraph to the entire vocal tract instead of limiting it simply to the vocal cords as Mackenzie does, and it covers the problem of attack. It is not only the vocal cords that should set for the tone at the moment the air-column strikes them, the entire vocal tract takes part in the adjustment that prepares for the attack. It is indeed, as Mills says, a case of complex and beautiful adaptation. Therefore, the term _coup de glotte_ imperfectly expresses what the modern physiologist of voice means by attack. For _coup de glotte_ conveys the idea of shock, hence creates an erroneous impression upon the mind of the singer. It is spontaneous adjustment, and neither shock nor even attack, that creates artistic tone. "Voice and Song," by Joseph Smith, expresses very well the combined psychical and physical conditions that should prevail at this important moment. To be certain of a good attack, the student should first think the pitch, then, with all the parts concerned properly adjusted, start breath and tone simultaneously, striking the tone clearly and smartly right in the middle of its pitch. The book also describes the three faulty ways of attack: (1) the vocal cords approximate for the production of the tone after the breath has started, resulting in a disagreeable breathy attack; (2) the glottis closes so firmly that the attack is accomplished by an extraordinary explosive effect or click; (3) the vocal cords seek to adjust themselves to the pitch after the tone has started, and produce a horrible scoop in the attack. One of the worst faults in singing, the tremolo, is due to that unsteadiness of attack which results when the relationship between the breath and the laryngeal mechanism is not maintained--when the vocal tract has not been adjusted in time to the note the singer is aiming to produce. Another writer who has a correct conception of what occurs at the important moment of attack is Louis Arthur Russell, who says that the musical quality of a tone is due, 1st, to its correct starting at the vocal cords; 2d, its proper placement or focus in the mouth after passing through the upper throat, etc.; 3d, its proper reinforcement through resonance and shape of the mouth cavities; and 4th, its support by the breath. While this seems to describe four successive adjustments, they are so nearly simultaneous as to be one. This is clearly recognized by Mr. Russell, who says further, that what he has described implies that the body has been put into condition and that everything is in order, alert, responsive and ready for the call of the will; that the whole body is in singing condition; that everything is in tune, and that the one tone wanted is all that can ensue. The last is especially well put. Everything has been made ready--psychically and physically--for the production of artistic voice, and nothing but artistic voice can result--no click, no aspiration, no tremolo, no wobble. The vocal tone in its passage strikes against the walls of the vocal tract. That part of the tract upon which it last impinges before issuing from between the lips determines the placement of a tone. The singers should think of the tone as focussed upon the front of the hard palate--behind the upper front teeth at about the point where the roof of the mouth begins to curve down toward them. If the tone is placed further forward than this, its quality will be metallic; if too far back, throaty. To impinge the tone near the nasal passage gives it a nasal quality, a fault most common with the French, acquired probably through the necessity of singing certain French words--_bien_, for example--through the nose. When, however, the French speak of singing _dans le masque_, they should not be understood as implying that tone should be nasal in quality, but that it should be projected both through mouth and nose and not unduly through either. As a rule, nasal placement should be avoided by all but the most experienced singers, and even by them employed only sparingly and only for passing effects in tone-color. The individual formation of the lips would seem to have much to do with their position in singing. Some singers advocate a lip formation that gives an opening like an O; others lay the O on its side [Illustration: O turned sideways] like an ellipse. The former represents the lip position of Nordica, the latter of Sembrich--so that, as I have said, it is largely a matter to be determined by the individual. But the singer who uses the elliptical position must guard against exaggerating it, as it then results in the "white voice," another frequent fault of French singers. After all, the final test of tone-production, tone-placing and position of the lips is the quality of the tone produced; and this is determined at first by the sensitive ear of the skilful teacher, and eventually by the trained mental audition of the pupil. The old Italian singing-teachers have been greatly praised because they are said to have reasoned from tone to method and not from method to tone. Those who praise them thus, usually intend their praise to be, incidently, a condemnation of anything like a scientific method of voice-production. In point of fact, however, the modern physiologist of voice-production is not an advocate of too fixed and rigid a method. He, too, proceeds from tone to method, and he goes even further for his tone than did the old Italian masters. For whereas they began with the tone as it issued from the singer's lips, the modern physiologist of voice-production begins with the singer's mental audition--with the tone as the singer conceives it and to which his vocal tract should automatically set or adjust itself even before the breath of phonation leaves the lungs. With the beginner, the attack should first be performed on the easy singing notes of his voice; and although this book does not aim to be a singing-method, but rather a physiological basis for one, it may be said here that _a_, pronounced as in "_ah_" and preceded by _l_--that is to say, _lä_--makes an admirable vowel-sound and syllable on which to begin training the voice. The vowel-sound alone is too open. An absolutely pure tone can be produced upon it, but it will lack color. It will be a pure tone, but otherwise uninteresting. With the consonant added, it obtains color and gains interest. Voice is indebted in an amazing degree to the consonants. Sing the phrase "I love you," and put the emphasis on "you," which, for practical purposes, is a pure vowel-sound. The emotional vocal effect will not be nearly so great as when the emphasis is put on "love" in which the vowel _o_ is colored by the consonant _l_. This can be explained physiologically. All vowels primarily are made in the larynx by the vocal cords. The _coup de glotte_ really is the process of vowel-making without the aid of consonants. This process of vowel-making is so smooth and open that a succession of legato vowel-sounds can be produced with only one stroke of the glottis, the vowel sounds flowing into each other, or each, seemingly, issuing from the other. Consonants are formed within the upper cavity of resonance, the mouth, some by the tongue alone, some by the combined action of tongue and lips. Voice-color being largely determined by the resonance-cavities, the articulation of consonants in the resonance-cavity of the mouth covers the open process of vowel-formation and gives color to the resultant word and tone. Thus, when "love" is sung, although _l_ is not a strong consonant but one of a small group called subvocals, it is sufficient to cover and color the open _o_ production. The easy singing range of each individual voice usually is about identical with the pitch of its possessor's speaking voice. Training should begin with the highest tone of the easy singing range. The reason for this is that the higher tone requires a certain muscular tension which places the singer, so to speak, on the _qui vive_ to the importance of the task before him; whereas the greater relaxation on the lower notes might cause him to regard the problem as too easy. At the same time the higher note, still lying within the easy singing range, does not call for a strain but simply acts as a spur. Kofler gives six examples of easy singing ranges for as many voice-divisions, and adds to each the qualification "more or less," thus allowing for differences in individual voices. His easy singing ranges are as follows: [Music: Soprano: G4-E5 More or less Mezzo-Soprano: E4-D5 " " " Alto: D4-C5 " " " Tenor: E3-E4 " " " Baritone: C3-C4 " " " Bass: A2-A3 " " "] Reference having been made to vowels and consonants, it seems proper to add at this point something about diction in singing. The interpretation of a song is tone-production applied to the emotional significance of words. There seems little reason to doubt that the old Italian masters sacrificed many things, clarity of diction included, to beauty of tone. This they placed above everything. True, beauty of tone is the first essential of artistic singing, but it is not the only essential. If song is speech vitalized by music, then speech, the words to which music is set, has some claim to consideration. In fact, the singer's diction should convey the import of the spoken word with the added emotional eloquence of music. Indeed, even some of the earliest Italians recognized this. Caccini, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, broke away from the contrapuntal music of the church because it made the words unintelligible. Tosi, who published a vocal method in 1723, a little less than a century and a quarter after Caccini's declaration, still insisted on the importance of clear diction. "Singers should not forget the fact," he wrote, "that it is the words which elevate them above instrumentalists." But with the introduction into Italian music of florid ornamentation, which of itself made the words more or less unintelligible, they lost their due importance, until, as many an old opera-goer still can testify, a tenor like Brignoli could, without protest, habitually allow himself the liberty of substituting "la" for the words on all high notes and phrases, simply because he found it easier to sing them on that syllable. At song recitals, the words of the songs often are printed on the programmes. Printed translations of words sung in foreign languages serve an obviously useful purpose. But when an English-speaking singer prints the words of English songs on his programme, it virtually is a confession that he does not expect his hearers to understand what he is singing to them in their own language--so rooted in singers has become the evil of indistinct pronunciation. Their songs are songs without words. However, there has been an improvement in this respect. The old-time opera libretto was so stupid that Voltaire was justified in saying, "What is too stupid to be spoken is sung." But with Wagner the importance of making the words clear to the hearer was recognized, and since his works have established themselves in the repertory of the operatic stage, and modern opera composers, following in his footsteps, have striven to write music that would express the dramatic significance of the words to which it is composed, the art of libretto construction has greatly improved, and composers demand that the singer shall convey to his audience some idea of what is being sung. Similar progress has been made in song-composing and song-interpretation. Just as the Italians formerly strove mainly for beautiful tone-production without much thought of the underlying word or phrase, so song-composers strove for beautiful melody--for music that was satisfying in itself, whether it suited the verbal phrase or not. Now, as in opera so in song, the relationship between words and music is recognized and the importance of combined verbal and musical phraseology is insisted upon. Formerly, interpretation was a matter of emotion only. Now, the intellectual process, the intelligence that discriminates, the thought that justifies the singer's emotional expression as that fitted to the words, are weighed in the balance. Consequently the word must be clearly pronounced by the singer. Vowel enunciation and consonant articulation--pronunciation being a combination of these two processes--must be distinct, or rather should be distinct, since there still is much fault to be found with singers in this respect. Much has been said, especially by American singers, about English being a poor language for song. I think this is a survival of the time when song instruction in this country largely was in the hands of foreigners, mainly Italians. Naturally they preferred their own language, and naturally they failed to appreciate the genius of English. It is true, as Kofler says, that the Italian language presents few difficulties to the singer. In it, pure vowels predominate and consonants are in the minority, and even then many of these consonants are vocal, while the hard aspirates of other languages, especially German and English, are unknown to Italian lips. But that which is easier, by no means is always the most artistic. Ease rarely leads to depth. And this ease of pronunciation may account for a lack of dramatic grandeur and vigor in Italian and for the Italian's method of tonal emphasis and vehemence of gesture. "The German or the English artist has no need for such extravagances, because the immense richness of these languages--the great variety of vowels and the vigorous aspirated elements--gives to his utterance a dramatic freshness and force which are life and nature itself. "The English language is probably the one that has been described by foreigners as the most unfit for singing. Greater calumny has never been uttered. I contend for just the opposite: That English is the very best language for an artistic singer to use, for it contains the greatest variety of vocal and aspirate elements, which afford an artistic singer the strongest, most natural and expressive means of dramatic reality. The English language has all the pure vowels and vocal consonants of the Italian; and, besides, it is full of rich elements, mixed vowels, diphthongs and an army of vigorous aspirates. I admit that it is not as easy for singing as Italian is; but just here its true merit and advantage arise. The difficulties thus forced upon the singer compel him to study deeply and perseveringly; but the treasures thus unearthed and placed within his reach will amply repay for hard work. My advice to American students is: Study your own language thoroughly, and practise its difficult articulation with the utmost fidelity. If once you find the application of its forces to dramatic expression, you will like it for singing as well as I do. But never forget that the appreciation of a science comes only from a thorough mastery of it." The truth of the matter is, that each language has its own peculiar genius for song, and that a vocal composer unconsciously is under the influence of his native language. Italian music is as smooth as the Italian tongue; French music has the elegance of the French language; German the ruggedness of the German; and the music of English composers also partakes of the characteristics of the language. The highly trained modern singer should be a linguist as well as a vocalist. As for the amalgamation of the spoken word with the sung tone--that again is a matter of unconscious adjustment of the vocal tract; and, not to word and tone separately, but a single adjustment to what I may call "the word-tone." CHAPTER X HYGIENE OF THE VOICE I should say that no one should be more scrupulous in his habits than the singer. It is more difficult to keep the keen edge of the voice in good repair than that of the sharpest razor, and nothing should be done to dull it. No one more than the singer requires to observe the moral and physical laws. The singer should always be in training, always in the pink of condition. By nature, women should be more subject to impairment of voice than men. But they are not. They are brought up to take better care of themselves and, to put it bluntly, to behave themselves better. As a result, in spite of recurring disorders, they stand up and do the work demanded of them when men do not or cannot. Every pupil should be instructed to fall naturally into an attitude of attention when coming into the presence of the teacher--as much so as in the presence of a distinguished host or hostess. _Morale, esprit de corps_, cannot be instilled too soon. They may well be considered psychical elements in general vocal hygiene. Personal cleanliness is, of course, one of the first requisites to health. But, while bathing should be regular, it should not be extreme. A cold bath stimulates at first, but is followed by a bad reaction in a few hours. A hot bath, followed by exposure to the open air or a draught, is apt to develop a cold by night. I recommend for singers a lukewarm bath. When singers have had their hair cut, they should watch themselves carefully for the next twenty-four hours. If possible, they should have it cut shortly before going to bed and should protect the head with a light hood. Some singers catch cold every time they have their hair cut, and bald-headed singers always are catching cold. And while on this subject, it cannot be stated emphatically enough that any hair tonic that stimulates the scalp too much is bad. The glands in the scalp absorb the lead, cantharides, cayenne pepper, or whatever the specific poison in the tonic may be; this is carried to the respiratory tract, and creates the symptoms of a cold. Singers are not apt to take much exercise. For this reason they should be careful in their diet. They should avoid beef, lamb and mutton. The white meat of fowl is the best meat diet for the vocalist. Milk, eggs, toasted bread, string beans, spinach, lettuce, rice and barley are excellent. Potatoes should be mashed, with milk and butter. Fruit is better taken stewed and with little sugar. Ice cream clears the voice for about twenty minutes, but the reaction is bad. Regarding tea and coffee, inasmuch as a singer is not a cat on a back fence, but a human being, there is no reason why he should not be permitted to follow the social law in respect to these, provided he is not a sufferer from indigestion. In fact, there are times when a cup of coffee taken at the right moment will carry a singer, tired from travel or other cause, over a crisis. There can be no harm in a cup of coffee (Java and Mocha mixed), a cup of Phillip's Digestible cocoa, or a cup of tea (Oolong or Tetley's Ceylon) for the singer who is in good condition. I always have held that a singer could drink a small quantity of alcohol--claret, for example--if he takes with it enough lithia or other alkaline water to counteract the acid in the wine. Smoking, however, is very injurious. A famous tenor of to-day whispered during a performance in the Metropolitan Opera House to the prima donna in the cast, "I smoked too many cigarettes yesterday; I feel it in my voice." Myron W. Whitney always left off smoking for two weeks before the Worcester Festival. For travel the singer should be prepared for atmospheric changes as no one else in the world. He should be especially cautious at night. A singer who filled an engagement in Savannah started from there for the North at night. He had been in perfect voice. As the night was warm he left one of the windows of his berth open. At Washington he woke up with cold. It was snowing, and snow had come in through the open window on to his berth. His nose was "stuffed." He had no voice when he reached New York. This was due to the sudden intensification of all the things that belong to a cold. If he had worn a dressing-gown with a hood--not necessarily a heavy one--that would have saved him. A garment of that kind should be worn by singers at night when traveling. They can regulate the bed-covering accordingly, so as not to be too warm. Clothing should give correct aeration for the season. Silk underclothing I regard as dangerous, because silk is a non-conductor. Good Lisle thread or flannel giving proper aeration is excellent. No one should be more careful about their clothing than New Yorkers, because of the sudden changes in temperature there. Stiff, high collars are injurious, because they are irritants to blood-vessels and nerves and are non-conductors. Collars should be worn from a quarter to half an inch away from the skin, for the less the Adam's apple--the highest forward point of the larynx--is irritated, the better. There are certain periods of the year and even one special day when singers should especially look out for their voices. From January 15th-20th is the period of January thaw and of colds from melting snow. From March 19th-25th the earth is beginning to ferment and this is a period for spring fever and intestinal troubles, which indirectly affect the voice. May 9th usually is cold and rainy. The latter part of May and nearly all June, rose cold or June cold is prevalent. About August 1st come the dog days and hay fever. In fact, from August 1st until the autumnal equinox is an anxious time for the singer. From November 11th-25th there is apt to be alternate cold and warm weather conducive to asthma. With the singer, more even than with any one else, the ounce of prevention is the pound of cure. The first sneeze should send the singer to his physician; and he also should realize--as only too few people do--that after a cold nature requires from a week to nine days to repair the damaged processes, and that he should not work too soon. Rest is a great cure. One of the most distinguished French laryngologists, Dr. G. Poyet, was interviewed for the European edition of the N. Y. _Herald_ on the subject of hygiene for the singer. Although what Dr. Poyet says on some points is a repetition of matters already gone over here, while other points will be more thoroughly gone into than was possible for him in the space at his command, a summary of what this clever man had to say on a subject of such importance to the singer will serve capitally the purpose of this chapter. Dr. Poyet began by saying that, since the voice has intimate relationship with the entire organism, it follows that a well-understood hygiene should concern the totality of the functions. First of all, it is indispensable to avoid any cause of disturbance of the circulation, and particularly of the pulmonary functions. "The singer, as much as possible, should inhabit sufficiently large apartments. He should avoid rooms warmed by apparatus which may produce carbonic acid or which remove from the air the watery vapor it contains normally. Every day on rising he should practise exercises in deep breathing and, if possible, some of the gymnastic exercises which it is possible to practise in a room. Walking is undoubtedly the best exercise, and every singer who is careful of the soundness of his lungs--which is equivalent to the soundness of his voice--should walk for an hour every morning before his repast." (This advice of Dr. Poyet can hardly be taken literally, and should be determined largely by the physique of the individual.) In order to avoid colds, bronchitis, sore throat, catarrhal laryngitis, the singer should regulate in a fitting manner the thickness of his clothing in accordance with the prevailing temperature. If by misfortune he catches cold, a little laryngitis, a coryza, all of which cause hoarseness, he should immediately abstain from singing. Neglect of this rule may bring about the persistence of vocal accidents often very long in curing. It is because professional singers cannot interrupt their work in such cases that they more often than any others suffer from laryngitis and above all in the so dangerous form of chronic inflammation of the vocal cords, which determines the deplorable "singers' nodules." The cutaneous secretions should be watched in persons who have need of a clear voice. Almost all catarrhal affections of the respiratory organs are due to chills. Advice is therefore given to every person who has practised violent singing-exercises, which cause perspiration, immediately to change his clothing after having been rubbed down with a horsehair glove or with flannel sprinkled with alcohol. Like the respiration, the alimentation ought to be watched by the singer. As much as possible during the process of digestion no violent or prolonged singing-exercise should be undertaken. Digestive troubles are often the cause of deterioration of the voice, either because the swelling and distension of the stomach by gas trammels the play of the diaphragm, and consequently that of the lungs, or because intestinal troubles bring on constipation or diarrhoea. Very nutritive and very digestible food should be chosen for a singer, and a mixed alimentation should be employed. Among drinks preference should be given to wine and beer. Alcoholic liquors, Dr. Poyet thinks, should be absolutely forbidden. However, he advises a singer in the course of a fatiguing performance sometimes to moisten the throat with, and even to take a few mouthfuls of, cold water, to which has been added a little old cognac or "vin de coca"; but never, on any account, to take an iced drink just after singing. Everybody who sings ought first to observe in the strictest manner the rules of general hygiene. Thanks to this hygiene it is possible completely to develop all the faculties of the larynx and to regulate the voice in such manner as to assure its regular operation. General hygiene, moreover, will permit the singer to preserve himself from the external influences which may bring about aphony or dysphony, that is, loss of voice or difficulty of voice. A person who sings should always assume a natural attitude, since this aids the play of the respiratory organs. This play should be mixed, that is to say, costal and diaphragmatic. The respiration should be well regulated. The singer ought never to take too sudden inspirations, for he would thus run the risk of rapidly irritating the vocal cords. When it is a question of vocal exercises, one always should proceed from the simple to the complex, taking care not to prolong the exercises at the beginning. That is, the first singing-exercises should not be too prolonged. Moreover, in these first exercises the singer should never attempt to attain the extreme notes of his vocal range. The exercises should lie in the middle register. Keen impressions, whether of joy or pain, are, in Dr. Poyet's opinion, bad for the voice. Great fear may cause a passing but instantaneous loss of voice. "Vox faucibus hæsit." The emotion of singing in public, as everyone knows, prevents many artists from showing their full capacity. Only custom, and sometimes reasoning, can free them from "stage-fright." People who sing, and who desire to preserve the integrity of their voice, should abstain from smoking. Because some singers--Faure, in particular--have had a brilliant career despite the inveterate use of tobacco, there is no reason that this example should be followed. Tobacco irritates the pharynx, reddens the vocal cords, and may cause heart troubles harmful to singing. Pungent scents should be proscribed for singers. The odors of some flowers are for certain artists the cause of persistent hoarseness. Mme. Carvalho could not endure the scent of violets, which instantly caused her to lose her voice. Scents often determine a rapid congestion of the mucous membrane of the nose to such an extent that in certain persons they cause veritable attacks of asthma. Dr. Poyet also puts singers on their guard against scented toilet powder. "I knew," he says, "a great singer who was obliged to renounce the use of the toilet powder called 'à la Maréchale.'" In ending the interview, he calls attention to the fact that the larynx, while very delicate, is an extremely resistant organ, since it can face fatigues that no other human organ could support; but because it shows signs of fatigue only by hoarseness, is no reason to call on it for too prolonged efforts. "To work two hours a day, either in study or in singing, seems to me a maximum that should not be overstepped by a person careful of his vocal health." Another distinguished foreign specialist is Dr. N. J. Poock van Baggen, of The Hague, Holland, who has contributed to the _Medical Record_ a series of articles on throat diseases caused by misuse of the voice, and their cure.[A] [Footnote A: These articles have been reprinted in four slim but interesting pamphlets published by William Wood & Co., New York.] Clergyman's sore throat, as Dr. Van Baggen says, is a disease known to every throat specialist. "It is produced by misuse of the voice, and the same disease, often in more aggravated form, is produced in the singer and by the same cause. The patient, after singing, will experience a dry and hot feeling in the pharynx and larynx, irritation, and a frequent cough. Examination of the patient discloses catarrh of the pharynx and of the larynx; congested and swollen mucous membrane; pillars of the fauces swollen and unduly developed; all these symptoms accompanied by paresis of the vocal cords, which are red or yellow and do not approximate well. To this paresis of the cords is united a paresis of certain muscles of the larynx; to which is added, in serious cases, a swelling of the aryepiglottic ligament." That this disorder is not organic, but functional--not caused by enlarged tonsils, adenoids, nasal polypus or malformation of the tongue, but by misuse of the voice--can be proved by the beneficial effect produced upon the organs by complete rest from singing; the symptoms sometimes disappearing entirely, only to reappear, however, when singing is resumed--further proof that misuse of the voice is at the root of the evil. "Dividing the muscles into those used in breathing, in articulation of consonants and in vowel enunciation, the physician will find that in his patient there is no proper coördination between these three groups of muscles--that through faulty respiration and articulation the respiratory and articular muscles fail to support sufficiently the vocal muscles, with the result that the vibration of the vocal cords is weakened. One fault begets another. The faulty use of the respiratory muscles directs the vibrating air-column to the soft palate, where the tone is so smothered that the singer has to over-exert himself to be heard, instead of directing it against the hard palate, where it would gain vibrance and carrying quality." The faulty use of the muscles of articulation is disclosed when the back of the tongue rises like a flabby partition between the opening of the mouth and the pharynx, the consonants being formed thereby far back in the mouth, instead of forward with the tip or middle of the tongue leaning against the hard palate. The articulation is, in consequence, thick and dull. The vocal muscles are contracted to an unnatural degree, and every vocal tone is accompanied by an audible shock or spasm of the glottis. All this adds to the exertion required of the singer to make himself heard, an exertion and strain which eventually result in the symptoms that have been described, and which most singers believe due to colds and other troubles, whereas they are the result of the singer's own misuse of his voice. I have said that correct breathing is one of the fundamentals of correct voice-production. No wonder, therefore, that incorrect breathing is one of the most potent factors in the misuse of the voice that sends the singer as a patient to the physician. I have stated that there are three kinds of breathing--clavicular, costal and diaphragmatic; and these have been described. It has also been pointed out that the teacher who instructs in one kind of breathing to the exclusion of the other two makes a serious mistake. For in correct breathing, all three are coördinated. Usually it is spoken of as mixed costal and diaphragmatic. In truth, however, it is mixed costal, diaphragmatic and clavicular; but, aside from the awkwardness of combining all three terms in characterizing correct breathing, the clavicles play a less important part in it than the diaphragm and the ribs. In their relative importance to correct breathing the diaphragm comes first, the ribs next and then the clavicles. I feel certain that Dr. Poyet means the coördination of the three when he speaks of mixed costal and diaphragmatic breathing, and that Dr. Van Baggen also means this when he speaks of diaphragmatic breathing. In fact, his description of diaphragmatic breathing involves the ribs; and if he omits mention of the clavicles, this may be explained by the slight part they play in correct breathing, merely topping off, as it were, the action of diaphragm and ribs. Dr. Van Baggen, in the breathing-exercises which he describes as beneficial for restoring a voice impaired by misuse, lays emphasis on the control of expiration and on the brief retention of the breath before exhaling it. In his first exercise the abdomen is pushed forward and contracted, the idea of breathing being excluded in order to concentrate attention upon making the movements correctly. The second exercise consists of these same movements, but now combined with inspiration and expiration through the nostrils. When first started, the exercises are limited to a few minutes four or five times a day. When this method of breathing has become natural to the patient, there is added the brief retention of the breath and expiration under control--that is, gradual expiration. This constitutes the third exercise. In this it is recommended to inhale slowly through the mouth, which should be in position to pronounce _f_, that is, not too open. Hold the breath while mentally counting three. Exhale, pronouncing a prolonged _s_ and finishing on _t_. The pronunciation of _f_ during inhalation and of _s_ and _t_ during exhalation is advised in order to provide evidence that inhalation and exhalation are carried out evenly and without shaking or breaks. Built upon this is the exercise for teaching the vocalist to inhale quickly, hold his breath a brief space, and exhale as slowly as possible, as must be done in singing. The inspiration now is through the nostrils; the pause is not quite so long, but the expiration on _s_ and _t_ is longer--say as mentally counting 40 would compare with counting 10. Whoever has read carefully the chapters on breathing in this book will have discovered by this time that the breathing-exercises just described lead up to the principles of artistic breathing set forth in those chapters; and that whoever has read them and will carry them out never will require breathing-exercises to correct misuse of the voice from that source, because his breathing will be absolutely correct. The same is true of the exercises given by Dr. Van Baggen to make the breathing-muscles coöperate with the articulation and vocal muscles. Nevertheless, since there are people who do not read carefully, or who go along in the same old faulty way until brought up suddenly by the dire effects of misusing the voice, I may add that Dr. Van Baggen's exercises for articulation will be found in detail in the pamphlets mentioned. When a singer who is suffering from misuse of the voice comes to a specialist for treatment, the specialist must for the moment become a singing-teacher and instruct the singer in the artistic coördination of breathing, articulation and vocal muscles. The patient, having gained proper breath-control and having had impressed upon him the importance of forward placement and of the normal position of the tongue to correct articulation of consonants, is ready for correction of the faulty action of the vocal cords. This faulty action is due chiefly to faulty attack--a faulty _coup de glotte_--manifest mainly on initial vowels in an audible stroke, shock or check and in the emission of unvocalized breath. This latter is the so-called _spiritus asper_, because the emission of unvocalized breath which precedes phonation gives an aspirated or _h_ sound, so that, instead of _ah_, we hear _haa_. The _spiritus asper_ is caused by a too slow contraction of the vocal cords and their too gradual approach for phonation. In the audible shock of the glottis (sometimes called the "check glottid") the vocal cords are pressed together and the retained breath causes a shock or explosion. Dr. Van Baggen says that the vowel which is thus formed might be called an articulated vowel, which accurately describes the effect, the vowel being enunciated with the circumstance of the articulated consonant instead of with the ease of the phonated vowel. With a normal attack--the _spiritus lenis_ in contradistinction to the _spiritus asper_--the glottis is in position for phonation at the moment breath passes through it. No unvocalized breath precedes it and no explosion follows it. The vowel-attack is clear, precise and distinct. Not only is the voice-emission pure, but there is no needless fatigue of voice, because all superfluous movement of the glottis is avoided. The "check glottid" or glottic shock, on the other hand, involves an undue effort of the vocal muscles, and the compression of the vocal cords causes irritation. The audible shock of the glottis cannot be avoided when it is necessary to accentuate a word beginning with an initial vowel. Constantly used, however, it is part of the misuse of the voice. Dr. Van Baggen recommends, as a method of correcting the too frequent use of the audible shock, that when a word beginning with an initial vowel appears in the middle of a phrase, this word should be united to the preceding one, somewhat after the manner (but more lightly) of the French verbal "liaison," in which the final consonant of a word becomes the initial consonant of the following word beginning with a vowel. For example in "vous avez," the _s_ of "vous" is drawn over to and pronounced with the _a_ of "avez," the effect being "vou-z-avez." If the phrase that is to be sung commences with a word beginning with an initial vowel, care must be taken to employ the normal _coup de glotte_, or _spiritus lenis_. Although I have devoted two chapters to the registers of the voice, I shall also quote Dr. Van Baggen on the faulty use of these and the physical ills that result therefrom, since there are but few singers who do not know the difficulties which the registers of the voice offer; and many who spoil their voices forever by the misuse of those registers. Generally, the misuse consists in the exaggeration of a lower register at the expense of the higher; that is, in order to produce "big tone," forcing a register _up_ instead of bringing the higher one _down_. Especially with dramatic singers, this fault is frequent. There is no voice, however strong it may be, which can endure this overstraining of the registers, and sooner or later the singer must experience the disastrous results of his or her fault--hoarseness, fatigue, roughness, and impureness in singing, and last, but not least, premature wearing out of the vocal organs. The exaggeration of the registers is generally united with faulty breathing, which first of all must be corrected. Only after good results have been obtained with regard to breath practice, can exercises for the correction of the use of the registers be made with success. When the fault consists in the exaggeration of the low register, the singing in this register must be avoided for some time; when both the low and middle registers have been used beyond their limit, exercises can at first be sung only in the high register. The pupil, while practising (in the first case in the middle and high register, in the second only in the high register), must limit himself to a few tones, singing always downwards and very softly. The tones will be weak, husky, and often impure in the beginning; by and by, however, they will improve. When those few tones are pure and clear, the pupil may extend the exercises downwards, always singing _pianissimo_ and avoiding the lower register. The high and middle registers, or only the high register, must be extended downwards as far as possible. Only after all the tones, sung as indicated, are clear and pure and have gained sufficiently in strength, may the low or the low and middle registers be used again, but even then not more than is strictly necessary. The extending downwards of a higher register is also an excellent help in smoothing out the break in the voice at the passage from one register to the other. This extending downwards of the higher registers always can be done without any danger to the voice. The "timbre" of the voice will even gain considerably in brilliancy and fullness by exercising in this way. Closely united to the stretching and relaxing of the vocal ligaments is the moving up and down of the larynx. Many believe that the larynx must be kept as motionless as possible and in a low position. The large number of voices which have been spoilt by this unnatural fixed position of the voice-box are a manifest proof of the evil of this way of operating, against which every singer must be warned. The larynx must be completely free in its movement, its positions varying according to each tone and to the pronunciation of each vowel. We can easily follow the movement of the larynx by laying the finger on the prominence in the throat formed by the junction of the two wings of the thyroid cartilage, commonly called "Adam's apple." When pronouncing successively "oo, ow, oh, ah, eh, ay, ee," we shall notice that the voice-box rises and inclines slightly backwards; and, while at "oo" its position is lowest, it is highest at "ee." Also when singing upwards we feel the larynx going up, while the inclination backwards can be observed even better than when pronouncing the vowels. Especially when singing a high tone after a low one we can feel how considerably the position of the larynx changes, and it is clear that every obstruction in its movement hinders normal voice-production. When examining the patient the physician should observe the action of the larynx and feel if there are no spasmodic movements and if the flexibility is satisfactory. The action of the larynx can be exercised and improved by singing seconds, thirds, etc. The keynote always may be sung on _oo_; the second, third, etc., on _ee_. CHAPTER XI MORE VOCAL HYGIENE Vocal hygiene is a specific system based upon well-regulated principles for a specific purpose and applying to a specific class in the family of nations. But there is the difference that, whereas the laws governing the general health of the community have legislative sanction and are strenuously enforced by official authority, the laws of vocal hygiene bear no seal of state or municipal power, save in the broadly general sense indicated, but rely for enforcement upon the individual who is most nearly involved, and who must pay swift penalty for any infringement, however slight and however innocently committed. While this is a truism, yet it cannot be too strongly emphasized nor too often reiterated; for with all their notable precautions, singers are often taken unawares and fall when most they desire to stand. Why? They are simply paying the penalty of a broken law, and it does not help them with a disappointed club committee, or in framing a telegram of regret, accompanied by a physician's certificate, to say that they have erred through ignorance. The aphorism that ignorance of the law is no excuse is just as valid in the court of the hygienic judge as in any common law court between the oceans. It is the prevalent practice to use the physician as the court of last resort. But it would be vastly better and far more sensible if the singer could be made to act with swift authority as an agent of prevention over the weaknesses of his or her own nature. The subject, thereby, would be vastly simplified. It would not be so profitable to the specialist; but I can vouch for it that he would not only forgive, but praise the discretion of his patient, and lend all possible aid to educate him along a new scientific path--that of prevention. Not a new path, either, for in its last analysis what is hygiene but the science of prevention? Preservation of health means the prevention of disease. This answers the cry of every artist's heart, especially that of the vocal artist, teacher and student: How can I prevent disease and weakness of the vocal machinery? Briefly and plainly: How can I keep well? In this important matter of vocal hygiene a prominent part is played by the mucous membrane. What is the mucous membrane? It is the membrane which in this special sense covers or lines the respiratory tract from the very outlet of the nose to the terminal bronchi; in fact, to the very air-cells of the lungs themselves. Its function is that of supplying the involved passages with moisture, and it secretes a glairy or watery substance called mucus. Now, mark this well. The entire area of the respiratory tract, from the nose to the bifurcation of the bronchi, it is said on good authority equals one square foot of exposed surface, and the amount of secretion per day equals about sixteen fluid ounces, or a pint, which must be secreted by a person in the normal condition of health. It also has the power of absorption of certain diverse substances, such as alkaloids, fluids of all kinds, hence the danger of alcoholic indulgence to the singer. Alcohol coagulates. It causes the epithelium to contract and to become so disintegrated as to be utterly incapable of performing its functions until such time as the underlying tissue shall have created new cells to take the place of those which have been destroyed. To illustrate briefly the varied functions of this membrane: Whereas alcoholic stimulant destroys it, another powerful drug, cocaine, is absorbed, often to such an extent that the patient is prostrated by the poison introduced into the system by this means, and yet without impairing the membrane to any extent except through persistent indulgence. The mucous membrane is the telltale of conditions. If a man's tongue is coated with detritus--which, anglicized, is nothing more than the products of decomposition, a coating formed by over-stimulation of the glands lying at the base of the tongue--and this has been previously superinduced by a disordered stomach, we know that the cause is indigestion. If the follicles in the back part of the pharynx or throat appear distended, and even the tonsils themselves are affected--and these again are part and parcel of this same mucous membrane--we can say this is due to one of several causes: either to a reflex condition from the stomach, due to over-eating or over-indulgence of some other equally deleterious sort, or to inactivity of the bowels, or to suppressed perspiration, or to improper or undue use of the vocal organs. Again, let us glance for a moment at what a good many people deem a superfluous appendage, the uvula. A patient comes into my office with a badly swollen uvula. The upper tones of the voice are gone. He has no complicating quinsy, and in that case I can say without hesitation that he has outrageously misused his voice. I ask him where he was the previous afternoon, and find he was jubilantly "rooting" for the New York Giants in an exciting baseball contest. Now, it in nowise lessens the force of my illustration that this patient was not a singer and did not acquire, if you please, his swollen uvula in orthodox fashion. It is only a short time ago that a man came to me with a pronounced case of oedematous uvula, or swollen soft palate. He announced to me that he was no longer a tenor singer, although he had sung tenor for three years; that lately he had been persuaded that his voice was baritone; and, indeed, he had been singing, up to the time of coming to me, a baritone part in opera. It was this which brought him under my hand as a patient. He had changed his teacher, who had insisted that he was a tenor, within two months, and since that time had been under the instruction of the master who had declared that he was a baritone. I had known him for some time, and the only perceptible change to me in the voice was a decided tendency to cover and sombre the upper tones. Upon examination, the only thing abnormal was the condition of the soft palate and the surrounding tissue extending down both pharyngeal pillars. The soft palate was swollen to nearly three times its original size and hung down upon the tongue. The symptoms he complained of were inability to sing above F, and all high tones were husky. The production of the upper tones was accompanied with considerable pain. An emollient gargle was given and, soon after, astringent applications; but in vain. It was necessary three weeks afterward to amputate the uvula. Within three weeks more the operation was demonstrated a success in that the upper tones were fully restored; but I leave the question with the teachers whether this operation would have been necessary had not this young tenor been drawn aside on the purely theoretical issue as to whether he was not a baritone instead. In the case of one of New York's most experienced singers, it required two years of persistent effort on the part of both patient and physician to overcome the habits of a lifetime. The case is of general importance for the reason that the habits he had formed are more or less common to all of us, though perhaps not to such an aggravated degree. He was an inveterate smoker and a confirmed coffee drinker. These habits reflected themselves upon the poor, defenceless mucous membrane, whose function was perverted as shown in the constantly congested appearance of the respiratory tract. I have seen this artist with congested vocal cords rehearse an oratorio in the afternoon at a public rehearsal and sing the same work in the evening at the regular concert performance, when, to use his own words, "I feel as if every note will be my last. I have no grip on my voice." It was a clear case of indomitable will and sheer physical strength carrying the singer over obstacles that even to my mind seemed well-nigh insurmountable. A cure was effected in this obstinate case simply by insisting upon observance of hygienic law. There is no better instance of efficacy of vocal hygiene than in the case of this man. The gradual reassertion of nature, as indicated by the clearing up of the inflamed mucous membrane of the nose, the thickened condition of the pharynx and the chronically congested cords, was an all-sufficient reward for anxious thought spent upon an important subject. You may ask what was the remedy in this case. It was simply advice given and heeded, together with needed incidental treatment. I cut off his coffee and cigars, not immediately but gradually. He had sufficient force of character to aid me by heeding the counsel. The result was a diminution of secretion of the mucous membrane and a return to normal conditions. Right here there is another phase of the situation to which I desire to call particular attention, not alone because of its vital importance to the singer, but also because of the danger to the unschooled student of neglect of what we ordinarily term a cold in the head in its first stages. By the first stage of the cold I mean that condition which obtains before the stage of secretion is arrived at, where the mucous membrane is being congested, where it is almost impossible to distinguish what is the highest point of normal stimulation under which the membrane may be expected to do its best work. This point may be aptly illustrated by comparison with a singer under perfectly normal conditions. Then, as is well known, it is the mental impulse that stimulates nerve, muscle and membrane to do their best work. But in the other condition this result is attained without the mental impulse, as we have the mucous membrane and the blood-vessels carried to a temporary climax of effectiveness due to the systemic disturbance. By this I wish to make clear my point, that artists have often noticed an unusual brilliancy of voice under circumstances which were all the more mysterious because of the sudden collapse of the vocal organ under stress of use, and the alarming suddenness of the catastrophe which overtakes them and leaves them totally incapacitated. Then they say, "I have a cold;" whereas it requires from twenty-four to thirty-six hours for the fulfilment of these conditions. They should have reached this sensible conclusion just two days before. I take issue with those physicians who urge that certain exercises should be given to the artist when the vocal cords are in a state of congestion, for the reason that it requires a period of from ten to fourteen days for the complete relief of this inflammation. During that period, the blood-vessels are fully employed absorbing the products of the inflammation, and any attempt to interfere with this necessary process of nature can end only in disaster or in a prolongation of the difficulty. This is the law of pathology, unalterable and not to be evaded. Physicians at times resort to soothing and astringent applications in an emergency, to carry the artist through a performance; but the lack of edge to the voice for weeks following is an all-sufficient indication of the revenge nature takes for this trespass upon her domain. The cause of the sudden disaster to the voice which I have described is not far to seek. The cold has caused over-stimulation of the mucous membrane of the larynx, and a consequent loss of voice. This cold begins in the head, and on the third day, perhaps before, it has attacked the larynx. Why? Because the mucous membrane has become so swollen that the nasal passages are obstructed and the mucous membrane of the larynx has to perform a double function, that of heating the air as it is brought to the lungs in the process of respiration, as well as carrying out its own obligation to the scheme of nature. By a strange coincidence, this membrane of the larynx is supplied with sensation by the same nerve that conveys motion to one of its tensor muscles. This is the superior laryngeal nerve. By the thickening of the mucous membrane, all the intrinsic muscles of the larynx are interfered with, and, consequently, total extinction of the voice follows swiftly upon excessive inflammation. There you have it in a nutshell. The mucous membrane of the larynx and the bronchial tubes, to enlarge upon its duty for a moment, is endowed with very fine, hair-like processes called cilia, whose action is to waft secretions from the interior of the lungs outward. Hence the danger of promiscuous spraying with all sorts of everyday nostrums, or of anything which may interfere with the activity of these minute bodies or the media in which they operate. This intimate relation of nerve and muscle and mucous membrane is best illustrated by the sneeze. The explanation of this is an over-stimulation of a part of the mucous membrane of the nose called the Schneiderian membrane. If we analyze the sneeze, we find that it simply consists of a spasm of the pharynx, larynx and diaphragm through the reflex action of this membrane. The over-stimulation of the membrane, in the case of the singer especially, may generally be set down to an incipient cold; but any inflammation of this part of the mucous membrane of the nose alone may give rise in reflex action to vocal disability. There are some peculiarly interesting isolated instances of disturbance of the vocal mechanism, which are unique in that, while apparently harmless and uninteresting from the standpoint of even the specialist, they have, on occasions, developed most alarming influence over the voice. They have no precedent; experience alone can determine their influence for evil. They are not a matter of record, they are simply études, interesting studies in the bypaths of vocal hygiene, and must be dealt with as they appear. An exceptional example was one wherein the voice of the singer was perfectly even except as to the G sharp in the medium, which was entirely wanting--as though it had never existed. The singer in question came to me after an Easter rehearsal. I tried her voice with the E-scale before using the laryngeal mirror, and to my utter surprise found the medium G sharp missing, while all the rest of her scale was perfect even to the G sharp above. This experiment was tried repeatedly with the vowels _a_, _e_, _i_, _o_, and _u_, and with consonants prefixed, but invariably with the same result. Upon examination, no deviation from the normal anatomy was found, save in the left anterior nostril. Here a sharp spur of bone projected from the septum into the turbinated tissue. This condition had remained in this singer for four years, according to my previous observation, without causing her any inconvenience. A similar condition was seen by me in the case of Mr. Santley, the famous English baritone, when I made an examination, and he declared that he was not aware of its producing even discomfort--such a capital illustration of the necessity for non-interference until the laws of reflexes are disturbed, that I cannot refrain from alluding to it. In my patient, however, in addition to her nasal trouble, I found an enlarged follicle about the size of a pea back of the posterior pillar of the pharynx, at the junction of posterior pillar and pharynx. This follicle was removed by a simple process, when, as if by magic, the G sharp responded and has since remained unimpaired. My explanation of this case is simply one of reflex action; that is, by a singular complication this follicle fell in the track of the glosso-pharyngeal, the pharyngeal-plexus, the external-laryngeal and the recurrent laryngeal nerves, which, as it were, sounded the alarm for retreat of the phonating muscles whose harmonious action was necessary to produce the medium G sharp. There are numerous instances of affections of the vocal cords that might be cited, all superinduced by straining the voice from various causes, but especially by using the voice under improper physical conditions or of singing in rooms filled with foul atmosphere. CHAPTER XII NODES AND THEIR CURE I use the scale of E as a means of revealing to the ear points wherein the voice shows signs of failure. I use this scale because within it lie all the principal resonances involved in voice-production. By this I mean that somewhere between the interval G# to C# an oral resonance is developed in the majority of voices. This seems to be coincident with the action of the lips, the tongue and the soft palate, and the other muscles that go to increase or to decrease the size of the oral cavity. From C# to E above middle C the principal changes occur which contribute to the development of the nasal resonance. Some rare voices, however, continue their oral resonance as high as F# before changing. It has occurred to me so often in the course of my practice that a peculiarly apt reason exists for making E the foundation-note of the test-scale employed in the operating room, that I lay particular stress upon it. It has seemed the most easeful note for the patient to sound, whatever his vocal condition, and I have been tempted to call it the "nature tone," because it may be said to sing itself. At least, it can be sounded with naturally open throat and without calling into perceptible use the multiplied enginery of muscular forces which are required for the formation of the higher tones of the scale. Consider for a moment this enginery of muscular forces at the command of the singer, and which his intelligent and ripe knowledge must guide. The muscles used in voice-production may be divided as to action and location into ten groups. In these ten groups there are one hundred and seventeen individual muscles. Three of these act alone. One hundred and fourteen act in pairs, making fifty-seven pairs. Again, these muscles are controlled by nerves, some of which act alone and others in combination. In one instance, a single nerve presides over two large groups of muscles. Then, in still another instance, two separate nerves are required to control the action of one small group--the palate group. The distribution is as follows: Single muscles, 3; muscles in pairs, 114; groups of muscles, 10; nerves acting alone, 17; nerves acting with others (eight groups), 88. By taking these figures and increasing them in arithmetical progression, it is possible to calculate what a multiplicity of nerve and muscle effort is involved in a sneeze. Everything that appertains to the vocal mechanism is spasmodically involved at once, and the enormous sum total of muscle and nerve movement, individualized, is 465,120. This shows how absurd is the theory of conscious control of the machinery of voice-production. As I have frequently pointed out, the adjustments of the vocal tract to the tone to be produced are responses to the will, physical reflexes of the tones which the singer hears mentally; so that voice is mental audition converted by responsive physical adjustment into audible tone. Teachers and singers are aware that wrong methods of tone-production result in nodes on the vocal cords. The node, therefore, is one of the most familiar forms of vocal catastrophe. In its simplest form the node is a superficial swelling on the edge of a vocal cord, sometimes appearing on one and then on the other and ofttimes on both, dependent entirely upon causation. For instance, the cause might be simply a severe spell of coughing, and this, of course, might befall a person who was not a singer at all. It has been known to occur to animals. The node is, in fact, an oedema or dropsy, a swelling from effusion of watery fluid in the cellular tissue beneath the skin or mucous membrane. This oedema appears on the edge of the vocal cord, as a slight tumor or swelling filled with water. If aggravated by continued use of the voice, it may develop and become exceedingly dangerous, by extending inward to the real tissue of the cord itself. The membrane is thickened by the watery secretion, and much the same thing happens as in the case of a pinching bruise or a blistering burn. Nature's cure for this state of things is by absorption of the fluid contents and a consequent diminution in the size of the node until finally a normal condition of the cord is restored and the voice returns in all its fullness. In the formation of the node it is worth remarking that the coughing node may appear at any point on the cords. It shows first at one point and then at another. The node caused by vocal weakness or abuse of the natural powers, however, displays an exasperating, and sometimes puzzling, affinity for particular portions of the vocal cords. It is generally found protruding from the anterior and middle third on one or the other side of the glottic opening, or on both, in chronic cases. The other nodes may be found at any place on the cord. In fact, it frequently happens that the coughing node, and what for convenience may be styled the "vocal node," are simultaneously present, each to be distinguished by its well-defined location, although produced by totally different causes. There are cogent reasons for the affinity of the vocal node for certain fixed positions on the cords. They can be explained by the trick of the vibrating string and bit of paper. If the paper is laid upon the string at a certain point, it will be flirted away; while at another chosen point it will slip unagitated to the floor. Inasmuch as the vocal cords are subject to the same laws of vibration, the lesson drawn from the string and the bit of paper applies to them, the node taking the place of the paper. Note, however, the difference. The string is single, and there is no attrition. If there were two strings, the bit of paper might be caught and twisted in the miniature whirlwind of opposing vibrations. But the vocal cords are wedded in phonation, and by their attrition the node is formed. Very often strands of tough mucus appear spanning the chink or slit between the cords when they are drawn up in tone-production. The presence of these bands of mucus is an assured precursor of the node. Often they indicate the existence of a node which is hardly perceptible through the laryngeal mirror. The mucus is nature's effort to relieve the attrition, and so to ease the inflammation at the point of difficulty. The obstinacy with which the nodes caused by vocal disaster thus form in the anterior and middle third of the cords may be explained as owing to the presence in the vocal cords of a point which may be called the centre of resistance for the intrinsic muscles, and indicates that they are caused, in the majority of cases, by undue and improper muscular effort in tone-production. Consequently, the necessity for the most painstaking care on the singer's part to avoid singing under unfavorable conditions. A trifling over-exertion at an afternoon rehearsal in a cold hall, too much talking on the train, a bad night's rest in a sleeper berth, all may conspire to weaken the voice for the time and lay it open to attack. Under such circumstances, particularly, it is necessary for the vocalist to exercise large discretion and to aim for a conservative middle course, and especially so in a preliminary rehearsal. Another cause of the node is a lack of cordal coördination. Were the human form perfect, both cords would be equally strong. As a matter of fact, in my own experience, I have found that the major portion of nodal formations appear on the left cord, indicating that it is the weaker. The fact that one cord is slightly lax while the other vibrates at full tension along its face causes trouble. Another source of difficulty is subglottic, owing to inflammation of the mucous membrane in the trachea, which extends upward and involves the cords. The inflammation, passing upward, may easily affect the voice. Such inflammation is discovered by a tickling sensation in the trachea, causing a dry, harsh cough about the third day after a cold has found lodgment "in the head," as the phrase goes. The node has been the cause of vocal catastrophe from opera houses to concert halls, yet a reasonable amount of precaution will minimize the chances of attack. Singing in a room where there is smoking is a prolific source of node formation. Breathing dust-laden air, continued effort to carry on conversation on the cars or amid street noises, are fruitful causes of vocal disorder. The mucous membrane of the vocal cords obeys natural laws in restoration. A node may disappear in three days, if not teased with effort. More often, however, it requires from seven to ten days for it to disappear without treatment. If the singer foolishly persists in using the voice, the node will extend into the cord tissues, and result in a most unfortunate condition. The cord loses its elasticity. It refuses to respond. It will neither act nor will it consent to be acted upon. It is in a state of collapse, and the voice for singing purposes has gone, never to return. Let me illustrate what rest will do for a node. A singer came to me with a node of three months' standing, on the left cord. She had been singing with her teacher in the regular course of her lessons at an unfortunate time, when, too, she was vocally weak. In singing up the scale, and at the C (as nearly as she could remember), she became hoarse, and, as she described it to me, "the voice had a hole in it." Throughout the remainder of the lesson, unless she exercised great care, she would always break at the point named. Her nose seemed stuffy, and she compared her nose and throat to a cornet lined with velvet. After the break, and for the remainder of the lesson, her voice was husky. Her teacher advised her to seek expert advice. Previously, the voice had been clear, though she was a novice in singing. After remaining away from her lessons for two weeks or more and finding that recovery was not rapid, she came to me. The node could be plainly seen on the left cord. Before examining her, I tried the voice with the E scale, wrote down the diagnosis and handed it to her to read. My written conclusions were verified with the laryngeal mirror. I found no trouble except with the left vocal cord, the node being in the anterior middle third. On the summit of the node the mucous membrane appeared very red, budded, and almost warty. I cocainized the cord, and immediately applied pure alum in solution to the node itself, but to no purpose. This treatment was continued for two weeks, without any perceptible change for the better. Then I ordered the patient to remain quietly in a closed room; she was to see no one, she was not to talk at all, she was not to laugh. As harassing as was the experience, she faithfully observed the directions, and on the fourth day every vestige of redness had disappeared. Only a slight elevation remained on the cord where the node had been. The treatment was continued three days longer. At the expiration of that period no trace of the node could be seen. Now no one would suspect that a node had once affected her voice. Experiences like this indicate why I counsel against use of the voice under diseased conditions. As a general proposition, all throat spraying is dangerous. A New York singer, suffering while on a concert-tour from a case of sub-acute laryngitis, sought advice from a physician who honestly tried to aid him, but shot wide of the mark through injudicious use of a spray, in which he used menthol and eucalyptus, a combination much affected by a certain well-meaning class, and which for a time gives to the throat a delightful sense of coolness. The singer became afflicted with a violent, explosive cough, which caused the formation of a node. He gave up singing, losing nearly $1,000 in engagements. He went to his own room and to bed. He remained in his room for three weeks. The temperature was carefully watched. He did not expose himself in the slightest degree, nor did he use his voice. The result was a perfect cure. Another case is that of a church singer whose throat during a religious festival service became filled with the smoke of incense. The irritation caused a troublesome cough, and she lost her voice entirely above the top F#. It required fourteen days to effect a cure. She stopped singing for six days and then sang in church, with the result that the difficulty returned, augmented. She sensibly rested the succeeding week and perfected a cure. Rest did far more than any amount of medicine, however it might have been administered. Paralysis of the vocal cords constitutes a second form of vocal catastrophe. It should need no definition. In reality, however, the paralysis does not lie in the cords themselves, but in the leading muscles that control in phonation. There are many forms of this particular example of vocal catastrophe, though I am now dealing only with those which are liable to attack a singer, and which are most frequent in my own experience. With the singer one form is common, viz.: paralysis of the left adductor muscles, or those which inspire the arytenoid cartilage in drawing the left vocal cord forward to meet its fellow for the production of tone. No one can ever forget the sight presented by the left cord in its helpless condition: the arytenoid, tipped with its cartilage of Santorini, extending far over the median line of the glottis and drawing after it the right vocal cord in a vain endeavor to put it in position where it can aid its injured mate. The paralysis may, of course, occur on both sides, and then it is that, on the side which is most exercised, there is felt a sense of distress, of pain and sudden fatigue. This condition generally arises from prolonged singing, and many of the cases I have seen have been the result of overwork during Easter and Christmas; and all of the cases which have come under my observation were associated with rheumatic constitutions. Fortunately for these singers, when the conditions were made known to them, they were in a position, or at least were perfectly willing, to rest, because of the fear that a knowledge of their condition instilled. Indeed, the situation is always one to cause serious alarm. The beautiful symmetry of the arytenoids is impaired and the agility of the voice is destroyed. If the singer persists in his vocation, total disability results. As a rule, complete rest is enforced by reason of inability to sing at all. If the voice is continued in use, the affection becomes permanent and there is one more case of irremediable vocal collapse. The remedy is rest, and that, too, before the disease has passed recoverable ground. If the singer experiences pain on either side of the thyroid cartilage, or on either side of the Adam's apple, then let him by all means have a care, for those are the symptoms of this peculiarly menacing form of paralysis. In the voice a palpable hoarseness is manifest. The voice becomes "fuzzy" throughout its entire compass. A pronounced disability to make a _crescendo_ arises, and when the effort is made (for in the described circumstances use of the voice is attended with undue effort), the tone becomes coarse and uncontrollable. The range of the voice is lessened and the singer finds difficulty in reaching the upper tones. In the general debilitation the singer tries, or rather is compelled through weakness, to poise the voice from the cords themselves and not from the diaphragm. Of the other forms of vocal-cord paralysis there is one of great interest, known as hysterical paralysis. It is usually only temporary, and is sometimes produced in singers whose nervous condition grows upon itself until the system passes into the trying disturbance diagnosed by the rudely critical public as "stage-fright." Artists of marked pretension have been compelled to abandon a public career because of this affliction. There are other examples of it even more difficult to understand. I have in mind a case of a singing-teacher in a conventual school, who was under a peculiar strain of preparation for the commencement exercises of the school and of her own class and their appearance in public. She brought her class up to the appearing-point. Then her nervous system gave way, and when she came to me she was absolutely voiceless. Sometimes in coughing her vocal cords could be seen to move. With rest she recovered, but she has a recurrent tendency to the same trouble every year. The case would seem to illustrate the uselessness of all effort on the part of the person so affected permanently to overcome it. The remedy is at hand, however, in numerous cases, in resort to a careful and uninterrupted upbuilding of the nervous system. I will mention some other cases of vocal disorder and cure. An operatic tenor came to me with a tendency to break in scale-sounding, and with a nasal or catarrhal color to all his tones above E. I found attached above and back of the soft palate a mass as large as a hickory nut and completely blocking up the dome of the pharynx. A little cocaine was applied, and with a single sweep of the curette he was minus an adenoid on the third tonsil, a tonsil of Luscha. Within ten days his voice was completely restored. Sometimes the physician is obliged to seek far for the cause of catastrophe to the voice. A fine and thoroughly well-trained tenor singer came to me with a singular tremor in his voice. The entire scale was tremulous. I found nothing the matter with any part of his vocal tract save that, on closely studying the condition of his mouth, there was a rapid muscular contraction of the soft palate and surrounding tissues. This led me to examine him from head to foot for possible nervous disorder, of which, however, I found no trace. Then, satisfied that there must be a more remote physical cause, I pushed the examination further and discovered traces of kidney affection. He was successfully treated for this and, with its cure, his voice also was restored. This case shows the close relationship between parts of the physical constitution and the voice, and illustrates the importance to the singer of a generally healthy physical condition. Another case illustrates a further and somewhat peculiar phase of the subject. From the posterior nasal passage of a singer I removed nine large adenoid tumors. He was a tenor, and within a few days his upper tones were perceptibly freer and fuller. He had recently changed his instructor; and subsequently I found that he was attributing to this teacher the marked improvement in his voice. The physician was receiving no credit as a voice-builder whatsoever from either of them--which shows that in addition to a keen knife, the specialist should also possess a keen sense of humor. Transcriber's Note Some spelling variation exists in this ebook (e.g., collar-bone and collarbone, chest-cavity and chest cavity, mucus and mucous). These variations have been retained to match the original text. Minor corrections to punctuation have been made without note. The following additional typographical corrections have been made: Table of Contents: Changed 170 to 169 to accurately reflect page number in text Page 75: Changed larynogoscopists to laryngoscopists (by amateur laryngoscopists) 
22793	----	THE Standard Oratorios THEIR STORIES, THEIR MUSIC, AND THEIR COMPOSERS _A Handbook_ BY GEORGE P. UPTON CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY 1893 Copyright By A. C. McClurg and Co. A.D. 1886. PREFACE. The "Standard Oratorios" is intended as a companion to the "Standard Operas;" and with this purpose in view the compiler has followed as closely as possible the same method in the arrangement and presentation of his scheme. The main object has been to present to the reader a comprehensive sketch of the oratorios which may be called "standard," outlining the sacred stories which they tell, and briefly indicating and sketching their principal numbers, accompanied in each case with a short biography of the composer and such historical matter connected with the various works as is of special interest. The compiler has also included in his scheme a sketch of the origin and development of the Oratorio as illustrated in its three principal evolutionary stages, together with descriptions of several works which are not oratorios in the strict sense, but at the same time are sacred compositions written upon a large scale and usually performed by oratorio societies, such as Bach's "Passion Music" and "Magnificat," Berlioz's, Mozart's, and Verdi's Requiems, Mendelssohn's "Hymn of Praise," Handel's "Dettingen Te Deum," Schumann's "Paradise and the Peri," and Rubinstein's "Tower of Babel." As in the case of the "Standard Operas," the work has been prepared for the general public rather than for musicians, and as far as practicable, technical terms have been avoided. Description, not criticism, has been the purpose of the volume, and the various works are described as fully as the necessarily brief space allotted to each would allow. The utmost pains have been taken to secure historical and chronological accuracy, inasmuch as these details are nearly always matters of controversy. The favor which has been so generously accorded to the "Standard Operas" leads the compiler to believe that the "Standard Oratorios" will also be welcomed by those who enjoy the sacred music of the great masters, and that it will prove a valuable addition to other works of musical reference. G. P. U. Chicago, September, 1886. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE 3 THE ORATORIO 9 BACH 31 Christmas Oratorio 33 The Saint Matthew Passion 39 The Magnificat in D 48 BEETHOVEN 51 The Mount of Olives 53 BENNETT 60 The Woman of Samaria 62 BERLIOZ 68 The Requiem 70 BRAHMS 78 The German Requiem 80 COSTA 82 Eli 84 DVORÁK 90 The Stabat Mater 92 GOUNOD 96 The Redemption 98 Mors et Vita 106 HANDEL 114 Israel in Egypt 117 Saul 125 Samson 132 The Messiah 140 Judas Maccabæus 149 The Dettingen Te Deum 155 HAYDN 159 The Creation 162 The Seasons 170 LISZT 177 Legend of the Holy Elizabeth 180 Christus 186 MACFARREN 191 St. John the Baptist 193 MACKENZIE 198 The Rose of Sharon 199 MENDELSSOHN 206 St. Paul 208 Hymn of Praise 213 Elijah 218 Christus 229 MOZART 234 Requiem 236 PAINE 245 St. Peter 246 ROSSINI 251 Stabat Mater 253 RUBINSTEIN 258 Tower of Babel 260 Paradise Lost 264 SAINT-SAËNS 267 Christmas Oratorio 269 SCHUMANN 271 Paradise and the Peri 273 SPOHR 280 Last Judgment 283 SULLIVAN 290 The Prodigal Son 292 The Light of the World 294 VERDI 301 Manzoni Requiem 303 SACRED MUSIC IN AMERICA 309 APPENDIX 329 THE STANDARD ORATORIOS. THE ORATORIO. The oratorio in its modern form is a musical setting of a sacred story or text in a style more or less dramatic. Its various parts are assigned to the four solo voices and to single or double chorus, with accompaniment of full orchestra, sometimes amplified by the organ. Like the opera, it has its recitative, linking together and leading up to the various numbers. The origin of the word is to be found in the "oratory," or place of prayer, where these compositions were first performed. Crescimbeni, one of the earliest musical writers, says: "The oratorio had its origin from San Filippo Neri,[1] who, in his chapel, after sermons and other devotions, in order to allure young people to pious offices, and to detain them from earthly pleasures, had hymns, psalms, and such like prayers sung by one or more voices." In tracing its evolutionary stages, its root will be found in the moralities, mysteries, and miracle-plays of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, which were instituted for the purpose of impressing Biblical events in symbolical form upon the early converts to the Christian Church. These representations were entirely dramatic in character, and their subjects, though always sacred, were often grotesquely treated, and sometimes verged on buffoonery. Among the actors, God, Christ, Satan, Mary, and the angels nearly always appeared; later, the various virtues and vices were personified. The representations were usually given in the streets or in fields, and sometimes on the water. The highest dignitaries of the Church did not disdain to act in these plays, nor did their promoters hesitate at times to reduce the exhibition to the level of a Punch-and-Judy show by the introduction of puppets cleverly manipulated. The earliest of these miracle-plays in England were performed by the various London Companies. The Tanners, for instance, produced the Fall of Lucifer. The Drapers played the Creation, in which Adam and Eve appeared in their original costume,--apparently without giving offence. The Water-Drawers naturally chose the Deluge. In the scene describing the embarkation of Noah's family, the patriarch has a great deal of trouble with his wife, who is determined not to go aboard. She declares that if her worldly friends are left behind, she will stay and drown with them, and he can "Rowe forth away when thou liste, And get thee another wif." Noah expostulates with her in vain, grows furiously indignant, and bids her "Come in, wif, in twenty devill ways, Or alles stand thee without." Her friends the gossips entreat her to remain with them, and have a carousal over a "pottel full of malmsey;" but at last Shem makes a virtue of necessity and forces her into the ark, as the following scene shows:-- "In faith, moder, in ye shall, Whither you will or noughte." NOE. "Well me wif into this boate." [_She gives him a box on the ear._] "Haue you that for thee note." NOE. "A le Mary this whote, A childre methinks my boate remeues, Our tarrying here heughly me grieues." [_She is forced into the ark._] The earliest of these representations, so far as has been discovered, dates back to the twelfth century, and is known as the Feast of Asses. In these exhibitions, Balaam, superbly habited and wearing an enormous pair of spurs, rode a wooden ass, in which the speaker was concealed. The ass and the devil were favorite characters. The former sometimes appeared in monkish garb and brayed responses to the intonations of the priests, while the latter, arrayed in fantastic costumes, seems to have been the prototype of clown in the pantomime. As late as 1783 the buffoonery of this kind of exhibition continued. An English traveller, describing a mystery called the "Creation" which he saw at Bamberg in that year, says:-- "Young priests had the wings of geese tied on their shoulders to personate angels. Adam appeared on the scene in a big curled wig and brocaded morning-gown. Among the animals that passed before him to receive their names were a well-shod horse, pigs with rings in their noses, and a mastiff with a brass collar. A cow's rib-bone had been provided for the formation of Eve; but the mastiff spied it out, grabbed it, and carried it off. The angels tried to whistle him back; but not succeeding, they chased him, gave him a kicking, and recovered the bone, which they placed under a trap-door by the side of the sleeping Adam, whence there soon emerged a lanky priest in a loose robe, to personate Eve." The buffoonery and profanity of the early exhibitions, however, gradually wore away when the Church assumed the monopoly of them and forbade secular performances. Among the earlier works Burney cites the following:-- "The 'Conversion of St. Paul,' performed at Rome, 1440, as described by Sulpicius, has been erroneously called the first opera, or musical drama. 'Abram et Isaac suo Figliuolo,' a sacred drama (_azione sacra_), 'showing how Abraham was commanded by God to sacrifice his son Isaac on the mountain,' was performed in the Church of St. Mary Magdalen in Florence, 1449. Another on the same subject, called 'Abraham and Sarah,' 'containing the good life of their son Isaac, and the bad conduct of Ishmael, the son of his handmaid, and how they were turned out of the house,' was printed in 1556; 'Abel e Caino,' and 'Samson,' 1554; 'The Prodigal Son,' 1565; and 'La Commedia Spirituale dell' Anima' ('The Spiritual Comedy of the Soul'), printed at Siena, without date, in which there are near thirty personifications, besides Saint Paul, Saint John Chrysostom, two little boys who repeat a kind of prelude, and the announcing angel, who always speaks the prologue in these old mysteries. He is called _l'angelo che nunzia_, and his figure is almost always given in a wooden cut on the title-page of printed copies. Here, among the interlocutors, we have God the Father, Michael the archangel, a chorus of angels, the Human Soul with her guardian angel, memory, intellect, free-will, faith, hope, charity, reason, prudence, temperance, fortitude, justice, mercy, poverty, patience, and humility; with hatred, infidelity, despair, sensuality, a chorus of demons, and the devil. None of these mysteries are totally without music, as there are choruses and _laudi_, or hymns, that are sung in them all, and sometimes there was playing on instruments between the acts. In a play written by Damiano and printed at Siena, 1519, according to Crescimbeni, at the beginning of every act there was an octave stanza, which was sung to the sound of the lyra viol by a personage called Orpheus, who was solely retained for that purpose; at other times a madrigal was sung between the acts, after the manner of a chorus." It was not until the time when San Filippo Neri began his dramatization and performance of Biblical stories, such as "The Good Samaritan," "The Prodigal Son," and "Tobias and the Angels," accompanied with music written by his friend Giovanni Animuccia, that the term "Oratorio" came to be accepted as the distinctive title of these sacred musical dramas. His productions were very crudely and hastily arranged, his only purpose having been to render his service attractive. After his death, however, in 1595, his work was continued by Emilio del Cavaliere, a Roman composer, who produced the first real oratorio which had as yet appeared. It was entitled "La Rappresentazione dell' Anima e del Corpo" ("The Soul and the Body"), and was first performed in February, 1600, in the oratory of the Church of Santa Maria della Vallicella at Rome. Burney assigns to it the credit of being "the first sacred drama or oratorio in which recitative was used." The characters were Time, Human Life, the World, Pleasure, the Intellect, the Soul, the Body, and two youths who were to recite the prologue. The orchestra was composed of a double lyre, a harpsichord, a large or double guitar, and two flutes. The composer has left some curious instructions for the performance of his work; among them the following:-- "Pleasure, an imaginary character, with two companions, are to have instruments in their hands, on which they are to play while they sing and perform the ritornels. "Il Corpo, the Body, when these words are uttered, 'Sí che hormai alma mia,' etc., may throw away some of his ornaments, as his gold collar, feather from his hat, etc. "The World, and Human Life in particular, are to be gayly and richly dressed; and when they are divested of their trappings, to appear very poor and wretched, and at length dead carcases." The ballet played a prominent part in all the early oratorios, and the composer has also left detailed instructions for its guidance. During the ritornels the four principal dancers accompanied them in "a ballet enlivened with capers," and at the close of the performance stanzas were sung, alternating with dances to be executed "sedately and reverentially." Emilio del Cavaliere was followed by a long line of Italian oratorio composers who contributed to amplify and enrich this form of composition. Among the earliest of these writers were Carissimi, Stradella, Scarlatti, Mazzocchi, Federici, Pistocchi, Caldara, and Colonna. Carissimi perfected the recitative and invested the music with more importance, giving it something like equal rank with the dramatic character of the composition. It was during his time that the personage known as "Historicus" was introduced, who continued the action with explanatory passages between the numbers,--a modern illustration of which may be found in the "Narrator," as used by Gounod in his "Redemption." Carissimi employed this expedient, and made it very effective. It is also claimed that he was the first to introduce the cantata as a form of church music, and the accompaniment of violins in motet performances. His most famous oratorios are "Jephte," "Abraham et Isaac," "Le Jugement Dernier," and "Judicium Salomonis." Of the first named, Hawkins says: "It consists of recitative, airs, and chorus; and for sweetness of melody, artful modulation, and original harmony, is justly esteemed one of the finest efforts of musical skill and genius that the world knows of." Stradella, whose romantic history is familiar to every one, is chiefly remembered by his attachment for Hortensia, the vengeance of the Venetian lover which followed them so long, and the song which saved the composer's life from the assassins. This song was from his own oratorio, "St. John the Baptist," first performed in the Church of St. John Lateran at Rome. Burney, who examined the score, says: "The recitative is in general excellent, and there is scarce a movement among the airs in which genius, skill, and study do not appear." He also observes that this oratorio is the first work in which the proper sharps and flats are generally placed at the clef. Scarlatti, born in 1659, was a composer of great originality, as well as versatility. He has left, in addition to his numerous operas and cantatas, several oratorios, the most famous of which are "I Dolori di Maria sempre Vergine," "Il Sagrifizio d' Abramo," "Il Martirio di Santa Teodosia," and "La Concezzione della beata Vergine." He gave to the oratorio more breadth, boldness, and dignity of style, improved the form of the aria, made the accompanied recitative more dramatic, and developed the treatment of several instruments, among them the trumpet, whose real beauty and effect he was the first to bring out. Mazzocchi is chiefly known by his oratorio, "Querimonia," produced in Rome in 1631, which is said to have drawn tears from all who heard it. Federici wrote two oratorios, "Santa Cristina," and "Santa Caterina de Sienna," in both of which "interstitial" accompaniment is used for the first time; that is, the violins, instead of accompanying the voice, repeat portions of the melody in short symphonies. Pistocchi was one of the most prominent stage-singers of his time, and established a school of singing at Bologna. His most famous oratorio is entitled "Maria Vergine addolerata," and is without overture or chorus. Burney notes that in the close of this work degrees of diminution of sound, such as "piano," "più piano," and "pianissimo," are used for the first time. Caldara wrote a large number of oratorios, mostly adapted to the poetry of Zeno and Metastasio, which are said to have been delightful productions. Colonna, who was a contemporary of Stradella, but not so famous, has left one oratorio, "St. Basil," which is highly praised. Bononcini also, who afterwards became a rival of Handel in England, wrote several oratorios before he went to that country, the best of which is entitled "San Girolamo della Carità." The conclusion of this period brings us to the second stage in the evolution of the oratorio; namely, the passion-music, which may be regarded as the connecting link between the earlier form as developed by the Italian composers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and the oratorio as it appeared after it had felt the mighty influence of Handel. The passion-music was the direct outgrowth of the passion-play. It portrayed the passion of Christ. Its earliest forms are found in the "Passio secundum Matthæum" by Stephani, a Nuremberg composer who flourished in the sixteenth century; in a hymn-book published in 1573 by Keuchental; and in Selenica's hymn-book, which appeared in 1587. Heinrich Schütz, however, was the first to establish the passion-music in genuine oratorio form. He was born in 1585, and died in 1672. The pupil of an Italian master, the famous Gabrielli of Venice, he retained the Italian forms, but added to them his native German force and solidity. His most prominent work, "Die Auferstehung Christi," first performed at Dresden in 1623, where he was chapel-master to the Elector George I., is regarded as the foundation of the German oratorio. The passion-music was usually assigned to three priests, one of whom recited or intoned the part of Jesus, the second that of the evangelist, and the third the other parts, while the chorus served for the "turbæ," or people. In Schütz's music, however, the narrative is given to a chorus of evangelists, the accompaniment being performed by four viole di gamba and organ. There is also a wide departure from all his predecessors in the entire absence of dramatic action. His first work was followed by another, entitled "Die sieben Worte Christi" ("The Seven Words of Christ"),--a subject which Haydn subsequently treated with powerful effect,--and four different compositions on the passion of our Lord. In these works are to be found the real germs of the modern oratorio; they were preparing the way for Handel and Bach. Johann Sebastiani succeeded Schütz, and in 1672 published a passion-music, in which the narrative appears in recitative form and solidly harmonized chorales are used,--with this peculiarity, that only the treble was sung, the other voices being taken by the strings. In 1673 still another passion, written by Theile, was produced at Lübeck. From this time until 1704 there appears to be a gap in the sequence of works of this kind. In the latter year, however, two more were produced, which made a sensation all over Germany, "The Bleeding and Dying Jesus," by Reinhard Keiser, and the "Passion nach Cap. 19 S. Johannis" by Handel. In the former, cantatas were substituted for the narrative and chorales, one of the numbers being in the nature of a love-song,--an innovation upon the established forms which brought down upon the composer the indignation of the critics both in the pulpit and out of it. The passion-music of Handel was but a weak prelude to the colossal works which were to follow from his pen. Between 1705 and 1718 several other passions appeared, written by Keiser, Handel, Telemann, and Mattheson, preparing the way for the two composers who above all others were destined to develop the chorale and make it not only the foundation, but the all-pervading idea of their passions; they were Carl Heinrich Graun and Johann Sebastian Bach. The former's greatest work, "Der Tod Jesu," was produced in Berlin in 1755, and was a revelation in the matter of chorale treatment. Nothing which had preceded it could equal it in musical skill or artistic handling. But there was one coming greater than Graun, the father of modern music, Johann Sebastian Bach. "If all the music written since Bach's time should be lost," says Gounod, "it could be reconstructed on the foundations which he laid." Besides his "Christmas Oratorio," Bach wrote five passion oratorios, two of which, the "St. John" and "St. Matthew," have been published and are still performed. Of these two, the "St. Matthew" was conceived on the grander scale. In this sublime masterpiece, the early oratorio reached its highest form in Germany. It contains a narration delivered by an evangelist, solo parts for the principal characters, arias, choruses, double choruses, and chorales, the congregation joining in the latter, in which the composer not only reveals an astonishing dramatic power in the expression of sentiment and the adaptation of his music to the feeling and situation of the characters, but also a depth and accuracy of musical skill and invention which have been the despair of composers from that time to this. With Bach, the passion-music accomplished its purpose, and we now enter upon the third and last stage of the evolution of oratorio. It is a new form, and the change leads us to a new country. We have examined the sacred dramas, with their musical setting, in Italy, and the passion-music in Germany; and now comes the oratorio in England,--the oratorio as we know it and hear it to-day. Handel was its great originator. He began his English career as an operatic writer; but he soon tired of setting music to the trivial subjects so common in opera, which, as he himself declared, were not suited to a composer advancing in years. There were other inducements, however, which led him to turn to the oratorio, and among them one of the most powerful unquestionably was his disgust with the cabals which were organized against him by Italian rivals. "Esther" was his first English oratorio, and it made a great success. It was followed by "Deborah" and "Athalia." His vigorous dramatic power and close musical scholarship were never more apparent than in these works. They aroused such an enthusiasm that from this time forth (1737) he devoted himself exclusively to this species of composition. He wrote in all seventeen English oratorios. In 1739 he produced "Saul," one of the most dramatic of his sacred works, and the colossal "Israel in Egypt." In 1741 he began "The Messiah," the most sublime of all his oratorios and one of the profoundest works of human genius in music. It still holds its place upon the stage as one of the grandest expressions of human aspiration and divine truth, and no Christmas is complete without its performance. Other works followed it, among them "Samson," "Joseph," "Belshazzar," "Judas Maccabæus," "Joshua," and "Theodora," which Handel considered his best work; but none of them equalled "The Messiah," in which his genius reached its climax. Of those last named, only "Samson" and "Judas Maccabæus" still hold their place in the modern repertory, though the other oratorios mentioned contain many of his most effective numbers. While Handel was writing in England, the oratorio languished in Germany. Hasse, Porpora, and Fux produced several oratorios, but they have not left an impression upon the world. Handel died in 1759. It was not until 1798 that a successor appeared worthy to wear his mantle. That successor was Joseph Haydn, whose greatest work, "The Creation," rivals "The Messiah" in its popularity. He was in his seventieth year when he produced it, as well as his delightful work, "The Seasons;" but "Papa" Haydn, as his countrymen love to call him, preserved the freshness of youth to the very last. The melodies of his old age are as delicious as those of his youth. Both these oratorios are exquisite pictures of nature, as well as of human and divine love. They were inspired by Handel's oratorios (which he heard for the first time when he visited London in 1791), and when first performed aroused as great enthusiasm, though they are not cast in the same heroic mould as are "The Messiah" and "Israel in Egypt." They are characterized rather by grace, sweetness, and elegance of form, and by pure, healthy music. Haydn was a master of instrumentation, as he had shown years before in the string quartet, of which he was the creator, and in his almost innumerable symphonies,--he being the originator of the modern symphony. He had had the advantage of a magnificent orchestra while in service at Prince Esterhazy's, and the results are seen in the orchestral resources which he employs in his oratorios. During this period several Italian oratorios by Salieri, Zingarelli, and Cimarosa appeared, as well as oratorios in the same style by the German composers Himmel and Winter. In 1803 Beethoven wrote his only oratorio, "Christ on the Mount of Olives." This production has not attained to the popularity of his instrumental works or of his single opera, "Fidelio," in part because it is not in pure oratorio form, and in part because of its wretched libretto. Schubert, contemporary with Beethoven, also undertook an oratorio on the subject of "Lazarus;" but it was never completed, and the fragment even was not heard until 1863. The first really successful oratorio of the present century was "Das jüngste Gericht" ("The Last Judgment"), by Spohr, which was produced under his own supervision at Erfurt in 1812. This oratorio, however, the work of his earlier years, was but the prelude to his masterpiece, "Die letzten Dinge" ("The Last Things"), which is now commonly known as "The Last Judgment," and was first performed at Cassel in 1826. Nine years later he brought out "Des Heiland's letzte Stunden" ("The Saviour's Last Hours," now known as "Calvary"), and still later, "The Fall of Babylon," which he produced for the first time in England in 1843; but neither of these are constructed upon the grand proportions which characterize "Die letzten Dinge," or so well illustrate the profound musical knowledge of the great violinist. Contemporary with Spohr was Schneider, an unusually prolific writer, who produced no less than sixteen oratorios in a period of twenty-eight years, in addition to a large number of operas. Though his oratorios were very popular at the time, but one of them has survived, the "Weltgericht," written in 1819. Among other contemporaries were Lindpaintner, whose "Abraham" was very successful,--though this composer is now remembered only by his orchestral pieces,--and Klein, who brought out two oratorios, "Jephthah" (1828) and "David" (1830), which were greatly admired, though they are now almost unknown. Spohr had easily held his place in the first rank of the oratorio composers of his time, but was eclipsed when Mendelssohn appeared, as were all his contemporaries. This gifted composer had studied Handel and Bach very closely. In 1829 he brought out the latter's "St. Matthew" passion-music after it had lain concealed for an entire century. He aroused enthusiasm for the two old masters both in Germany and England. His "St. Paul," first produced at Düsseldorf in 1836, was greeted with acclamations of enthusiasm, and still holds its place in the popular regard. Ten years later his greatest work, "Elijah," was performed in England. Though widely different in form and treatment from "The Messiah," it shares equally with that work in the enjoyment of popular favor. Its numbers are almost as familiar as household words, through constant repetition not only upon the oratorio stage, but in the concert-room and choir-loft. In the presentation of the personalities concerned in the progress of the work, in descriptive power, in the portrayal of emotion and passion, and in genuine lyrical force, "Elijah" has many of the attributes of opera, and some critics have not hesitated to call it a sacred opera. Indeed, there can be no question that with costume, scenery, and the aids of general stage-setting, its effect would be greatly enhanced. Mendelssohn began still a third oratorio, "Christus," but did not live to complete it. His "Lobgesang" ("Hymn of Praise"), a symphony-cantata, is usually given as an oratorio, though it is not in the genuine oratorio form. Contemporary with him and since his death numerous oratorios have been written, more or less inspired by his work; but "Elijah" and "St. Paul" still remain unsurpassed. Robert Schumann gave the world a delightful oratorio with a secular subject, "Paradise and the Peri." Numerous English composers have produced meritorious works, among them Sterndale Bennett, whose "Woman of Samaria" is thoroughly devotional. In Germany, Hiller, Rheinthaler, and others have made successful essays in this form of musical art. In France, Massenet and Saint-Saëns have written short one-part oratorios, and Gounod has constructed two, "The Redemption" and "Mors et Vita," upon the old classical form, so far as division is concerned, and is now at work upon a third, of which Joan of Arc is the theme. In "The Tower of Babel" and "Paradise Lost," Rubinstein has given us works which are certainly larger in design than the cantata, and are entitled to be called oratorios. In our own country, Professor Paine, of Harvard University, has written one oratorio, "St. Peter," which commands attention for its scholarly work and musical treatment. Mendelssohn and Spohr, however, represent the nineteenth century of oratorio as Haydn, Handel, and Bach did the eighteenth. Who will take the next step forward in the twentieth, and give to this noblest form of musical art still higher expression? Before closing this sketch, it will not be out of place to refer briefly to the Requiem, Te Deum, Stabat Mater, and Magnificat, since illustrations of these musical forms appear in the body of the work. "Requiem" is the name given to the "Missa pro Defunctis" ("Mass for the Dead"), and comes from the first word of the Introit, "Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine." Its musical divisions are as follows: (1) Introit; (2) the Kyrie; (3) the Gradual and Tract,--"Requiem æternam" and "Absolve Domine;" (4) the Sequence or Prose,--"Dies Iræ;" (5) Offertorium; (6) Sanctus; (7) Benedictus; (8) Agnus Dei; (9) Communio,--"Lux æterna." The most famous requiems are Palestrina's, written for five voices, but left incomplete (1595); Vittoria's, for six voices, written for the funeral of the Empress Marie, widow of Maximilian II. (1605); Colonna's, for eight voices (1684); Mozart's great masterpiece (1791); Cherubini's in C minor, written for the anniversary of the death of Louis XVI., 1793, and a second for three male voices (1836); Berlioz's "Messe des Morts;" Verdi's "Manzoni Requiem," and Brahms' "German Requiem." Though an integral part of the Roman service, appointed for a special day in commemoration of the dead, the Requiem is also employed for the anniversaries of distinguished persons who have passed away, as well as for funeral occasions. The Stabat Mater, or Lamentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the well-known Latin hymn on the Crucifixion, is one of the most familiar numbers in the Roman Missal. It is appointed to be sung at High Mass on the Friday in Passion Week, and also on the third Sunday in September. On Thursday in Holy Week it is also sung in the Sistine Chapel as an Offertorium. The poem was written by the monk Jacobus de Benedictis in the thirteenth century, and is regarded as one of the finest of mediæval sacred lyrics. Grove says of it: "Several readings are extant; the one most frequently set to music being that which immediately preceded its last revision in the Roman Office-Books. There are also at least four distinct versions of its plain-chant melody, apart from minor differences attributable to local usage." It has always been a favorite hymn with the composers. The most famous settings are those of Josquin des Prés; two by Palestrina,--the first, which is the most effective, for a double choir of eight voices, and the second for a triple choir of twelve voices; that by Pergolesi for soprano and contralto; Haydn's, which is in his peculiarly melodious style; Steffani's for six voices; those by Clari, Astorga, Winter, Racimondi, Vito, Lanza, Inzenga, and Neukomm; Rossini's, which is the best known of all; and Dvorák's, written in 1881, which is one of the Bohemian composer's finest efforts. Few hymns have been so variously treated, and, it may be added, few in the Roman service are more popular. The "Te Deum Laudamus" is another familiar hymn. Its origin is doubtful, though it is usually credited to Saint Ambrose. L'Estrange, in his "Alliance of Divine Offices," says: "The Te Deum was made by a bishop of Triers, named Nicetius, or Nicettus, about the year 500, which was almost a century after the death both of Saint Ambrose and Saint Augustine." Bingham, in his "Antiquities of the Church," says: "The Benedictines, who published the works of Saint Ambrose, judge him not to have been the author of it; and Dr. Cave, though at one time he was of a different judgment, and Bishop Stillingfleet, concur in the opinion that the Te Deum was not the composition of Saint Ambrose, or of him and Saint Augustine jointly." Hawkins also says: "The zeal of Saint Ambrose to promote psalm-singing is in nothing more conspicuous than in his endeavors to reduce it into form and method; as a proof whereof, it is said that he, jointly with Saint Augustine, upon occasion of the conversion and baptism of the latter, composed the hymn Te Deum Laudamus, which even now makes a part of the liturgy of our Church, and caused it to be sung in his church at Milan. But this has been discovered to be a mistake. This, however, is certain,--that he instituted that method of singing known by the name of the Cantus Ambrosianus, or Ambrosian Chant, a name, for aught that now appears, not applicable to any determined series of notes, but invented to express in general a method of singing agreeable to some rule given or taught by him." In spite of controversy, however, the Te Deum is still and will always be known as the "Ambrosian Hymn." The original melody is very ancient, but not so old as the hymn itself. It is thoroughly familiar in the Roman Church, though the number of settings for Church use is almost endless. The early composers harmonized it in various forms. It has also borne a conspicuous part on festival occasions. The most celebrated Te Deums of this character, arranged for solos, chorus, organ, and orchestra, are those of Sarti, to commemorate Prince Potemkin's victory at Otchakous; of Graun, to celebrate the battle of Prague; of Berlioz, for two choirs; of Purcell, for St. Cecilia's Day; of Dr. Blow and Dr. Croft, with accompaniments of two violins, two trumpets, and bass; and the magnificent Utrecht and Dettingen Te Deums of Handel. Among those by contemporary writers are Macfarren's, written in 1884, and Sullivan's, commemorating the recovery of the Prince of Wales. The Magnificat, or Song of the Virgin, is part of the vesper service of the Church, and has been treated by all the old Church composers of prominence both in plain chant and in polyphonic form. In the English cathedral service it is often richly harmonized, and Bach, Mozart, Handel, Mendelssohn and others have set it in oratorio style with complete orchestral accompaniment. [1] Born at Florence in the year 1515, and famous as the founder of the Congregation of the Fathers of the Oratory. BACH. Johann Sebastian Bach, the most eminent of the world's organ-players and contrapuntists, was born at Eisenach, March 21, 1685, and was the most illustrious member of a long line of musicians, the Bach family having been famous almost from time immemorial for its skill in music. He first studied the piano with his brother, Johann Christoph, and the organ with Reinecke in Hamburg, and Buxtehude in Lübeck. In 1703 he was court musician in Weimar, and afterwards was engaged as organist in Arnstadt and Mühlhausen. In 1708 he was court organist, and in 1714 concert-master in Weimar. In 1718 he was chapel-master to the Prince von Köthen, and in 1723 was appointed music-director and cantor at the St. Thomas School in Leipsic,--a position which he held during the remainder of his life. He has left for the admiration of posterity an almost endless list of vocal and instrumental works, including chorales, motets, magnificats, masses, fugues, and fantasies, especially for organ and piano, the "Christmas Oratorio," and several settings of the passion, of which the most famous are the "St. John" and "St. Matthew," the latter of which Mendelssohn introduced to the world in 1829, after it had slumbered an entire century. His most famous instrumental work is the "Well-tempered Clavichord,"--a collection of forty-eight fugues and preludes, which was written for his second wife, Anna Magdalena Bach, to whom also he dedicated a large number of piano pieces and songs. His first wife was his cousin, Maria Barbara Bach, the youngest daughter of Johann Michael Bach, a composer of no common ability. By these two wives he had twenty-one children, of whom the most celebrated were Carl Phillipp Emanuel, born in 1714, known as the "Berlin Bach;" Johann Christoph Friedrich, born in 1732, the "Bücheburger Bach;" and Johann Christian, born in 1735, who became famous as the "London Bach." Large as the family was, it is now extinct. Bach was industrious, simple, honest, and God-fearing, like all his family. He was an incessant and laborious writer from necessity, as his compensation was hardly sufficient to maintain his large family, and nearly all his music was prepared for the service of the church by contract. The prominent characteristics of his work are profound knowledge, the clearest statements of form, strength of logical sequences, imposing breadth, and deep religious sentiment. He was a favorite of Frederick the Great, who upon one occasion made all his courtiers stand on one side and do homage to the illustrious composer. "There is but one Bach," said the monarch. With all Bach's amiable qualities, it is said that he had a hasty temper. While playing one day, Görner, the organist at St. Thomas, struck a false chord; whereupon Bach flew at him in a passion, tore off his wig and threw it at him, exclaiming: "You ought to have been a cobbler, instead of an organist!" Notwithstanding this infirmity of temper, he was a deeply religious man, and inscribed upon every one of his principal compositions "S. D. G.," "to the glory of God alone." He died July 28, 1750, and was buried at Leipsic; but no cross or stone marks the spot where he lies. His last composition was the beautiful chorale, "Wenn wir in höchsten Nöthen sein," freely translated, "When my last hour is close at hand," as it was written in his last illness. The only record of his death is contained in the official register: "A man, aged 67, M. Johann Sebastian Bach, musical director and singing-master at the St. Thomas School, was carried to his grave in the hearse, July 30, 1750." The Christmas Oratorio. The "Christmas Oratorio" was written by Bach in 1734, the subject being taken from texts in Luke and Matthew pertaining to the nativity. It is not, as its name would suggest, a work to be performed at a single hearing, but a composition divided into six parts of divine service, arranged for the three days of Christmas, New Year's Day, New Year's Sunday, and the Epiphany, each part being a complete cantata for each day, and all linked together by chorales which give it a unity of subject and design. Like Wagner's "Ring der Nibelungen," it was given in instalments, each part separate and complete in itself, and yet combining to illustrate a given subject in its entirety. It is not an oratorio in the modern sense; but the justification of its appellation as such is to be found in Bach's own title, "Oratorium Tempore Navitatis Christi." As the entire six parts are very rarely given, a general review of their character will better suit the reader's purpose than a detailed review of each. When it has been performed in this country, only the first two parts have been given; while in England, though it has been presented entire, the performance is usually confined to the first three, which contain a complete story. The entire vocal score embraces no less than sixty-four numbers,--which in itself constitutes a sufficient reason for abridgment. In the first three parts the connecting narratives, recited by the evangelist, are assigned to tenor and bass, and declare the events associated with the birth of our Lord,--the journey to Bethlehem, the birth in the manger, the joy of Mary, and the thanksgiving over the advent of the Lord,--the choral parts being sung by the shepherds. The fourth part, that for New Year's Day, relates the naming of Jesus, and follows his career in a grand expression of faith and hope. The fifth part illustrates the visit of the three kings, the anxiety of Herod when he hears of the advent of the Lord, and the assurances given him to allay his fears. In the sixth section the visitors depart to frustrate Herod's designs, and choruses of rejoicing over the final triumph of the Lord close the work. In his voluminous life of Bach, Spitta makes an exhaustive analysis of the various parts, an abridgment of which will be of interest in this connection. The only variation from the particular character of each section is to be found in the introduction of the first chorale in Part I. at the close of Part VI., in the form of a brilliant choral fantasia. "In the first three the Christmas feeling prevails most vividly; this is effected in great measure by the chorales which are interspersed in far greater numbers than in the last three, and which are almost all familiar Christmas hymns. Most of them are simply set in four parts, with highly ingenious applications of the church modes." The first and second parts close with chorales, but in the third the opening chorus is repeated at the close. "Part IV. has least of the character of church festival music. The Biblical matter consists of a single verse from the Gospel of Saint Luke, ii. 21, which relates the circumcision and naming of Jesus. Not much material could be worked out of this, and Bach has almost entirely set aside all adjuncts from the liturgy. No Christmas hymn, indeed no true chorale, is introduced in it.... This section, therefore, bears more strongly the stamp merely of a religious composition; it is full of grace and sweetness, and can only have derived its full significance for congregational use from its position in context with the rest of the work." Parts V. and VI., devoted to the history of the three kings, are in no respect inferior to the first three. "The lyrical choruses are full of artistic beauty and swing. The cantata character is more conspicuous here than in the first three sections, and the specially Christmas feeling resides more in the general tone of the music than in the chorales." Bitter, in his life of Bach, gives the following interesting sketch of the origin of some of the numbers contained in the work:-- "In some parts of this music Bach borrowed from former compositions of his own, especially from a 'Drama per Musica,' dedicated to the Queen of Poland, and a drama entitled 'The Choice of Hercules,' composed in 1733 for a Saxon prince. The old hymn-tune, 'O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden,' composed A.D. 1600 (by Hans Geo. Hassler to a secular tune), and used by Bach five times to different words in the 'Matthäus-Passion,' is again used in this oratorio to the words of Paul Gerhard's Advent hymn, 'Wie soll ich dich empfangen,' and to the hymn of triumph, 'Nun seid ihr wohl gerochen,' at the end of the last part. As this tune was familiar to the hearers in connection with a hymn for Passion Week, its adaptation to Advent and Christmas hymns seems intended to express a presentiment at the time of Christ's birth of his future sufferings. The same tune is now used in the German Church to a number of different hymns, especially to 'Herzlich thut mich verlangen' and 'Befiehl du deine Wege,' and is in some tune-books called by one or other of these names. 'Befiehl du deine Wege' is one of the hymns to which Bach has set it in the 'Matthäus-Passion.' In the first part of the oratorio we find two verses of Luther's Christmas hymn, 'Gelobet seist du Jesu Christ;' first, the verse beginning 'Er ist auf Erden kommen arm,' to the tune Luther composed for it, and the verse 'Ach, mein herzliebes Jesulein,' to the tune (also of Luther's composition), 'Von Himmel hoch da komm ich her.' This last-mentioned tune is also used twice in the second part, to the words 'Schaut hin, dort liegt im finstern Stalle,' and 'Wir singen dir in deinem Heer,' arranged differently each time. The chorales, 'Jesus, richte mein Beginnen,' in the fourth part, and 'Dein Glanz all Finsterniss verzehrt,' in the fifth part, are probably Bach's own compositions." The first two parts of the work are the only ones which need special notice for the purposes of the oratorio-goer. The first part opens with a brilliant prelude, introduced by the drum, which Bach, like Beethoven, sometimes treated as a solo instrument. It preludes the narrative bidding Zion prepare to meet her Lord,--a simple, touching melody, followed by the chorale, "How shall I fitly meet Thee and give Thee welcome due," set to the old passion-hymn, "O Haupt, voll Blut und Wunden,"--a solemn and even mournful melody, which at first appears incongruous in the midst of so much jubilation. It is the same melody which Bach frequently uses in different harmonic forms in his "St. Matthew Passion." It is introduced here in the midst of the Christmas festivity for a special purpose. Bitter gives it the following significance:-- "We see the Angel of Death unveil his pale face, bend over the cradle of the Lord, and foretell his sorrows. The Child hears the song which one day, sung to other words, will be his death-song." The composer's evident intention was to impress the hearer with the fact that the object of the divine advent on earth was the passion of our Lord. At the close of the work the same chorale appears, but it has another meaning. It is there an exultant expression of Christ's victory over sin and death. As the chorale dies away, the narrative is resumed, leading up to another chorale, "For us to earth he cometh poor," combined with an orchestral symphony and bass recitative. The next number is a bass aria with trumpet accompaniment, "Lord Almighty, King all glorious," and is followed by a chorale set to the words of Martin Luther's Christmas hymn, which also occurs in other parts of the work, differently harmonized to suit the nature of the situation, with which the first part closes. The second part opens with one of the most delightful instances of Bach's orchestration, a pastoral symphony, with which the Thomas orchestra have made audiences familiar in this country. Like the symphony of the same style in Handel's "Messiah," it is simple, graceful, and idyllic in character, and pictures the shepherds watching their flocks by night on the plains of Bethlehem. At its conclusion the evangelist resumes his narrative, followed by the chorale: "Break forth, O beauteous, heavenly Light," preluding the announcement of the angel, "Behold, I bring you Good Tidings." It is followed by the bass recitative, "What God to Abraham revealed, He to the Shepherds doth accord to see fulfilled," and a brilliant aria for tenor, "Haste, ye Shepherds, haste to meet Him." The evangelist gives them the sign, followed by the chorale which closed the first part, in another form, "Within yon Gloomy Manger lies." The bass recitative, "O haste ye then," preludes the exquisite cradle-song for alto, "Sleep, my Beloved, and take Thy Repose,"--a number which can hardly be excelled in the sweetness and purity of its melody or in the exquisiteness of its instrumentation. This lovely song brings us to the close, which is an exultant shout from the multitude of the heavenly host, singing, "Glory to God in the highest." The Saint Matthew Passion. The passion-music of Bach's time, as we have already seen, was the complement of the mysteries of Mediæval days. It portrays the sufferings of Christ, and was performed at church festivals, the congregation taking part in the singing of the chorales, which were mostly familiar religious folk-songs. It was a revival of the sacred drama in musical form, and the immediate precursor of the modern oratorio. Bach wrote five passions,--the "St. John," probably written in 1723, and first performed in the following year; another, which has been lost, in 1725; the "St. Matthew," in 1729; the "St. Mark," in 1731; and the "St. Luke," in 1734. Of these only two are now known,--the "St. John" and "St. Matthew;" of which the latter is incomparably the greatest. Macfarren, in his sketch of the "Matthew Passion," says that the idea of this form of composition was first suggested to Bach by Solomon Deyling, who filled an important church position in Leipsic when the composer went there to assume his duties as cantor of the St. Thomas School, his purpose being to introduce into the Reformed Church a service which should be a counter attraction to the Mass as performed in the Roman Church. It was produced for the first time at the afternoon service on Good Friday, 1729, but was not heard again until the young Mendelssohn revived it in Berlin, March 12, 1829. It was frequently repeated in Germany and aroused extraordinary enthusiasm, and still keeps its place in the festival oratorio repertory, the necessary additional accompaniments having been furnished by Robert Franz. The passion is written in two parts, between which the sermon intervened in old times. It includes portions of chapters xxvi. and xxvii. of the Gospel according to Saint Matthew, the remainder of the text being composed of hymns furnished to Bach by Christian Friedrich Henrici, who wrote under the pseudonym of "Picander," and, it is said, was assisted in the compilation by the composer himself. The _dramatis personæ_ are Jesus, Judas, Peter, Pilate, the Apostles, and the People, or _Turbæ_, and the narrative is interpreted by reflections addressed to Jesus, forming two choruses, "The Daughter of Zion" and "The Faithful," as Picander calls them. They are sometimes given by the chorus, and sometimes by single voices. The chorales are selected from those which were in common use in the Lutheran Church, and were familiar therefore to the congregations which sang the melody, the harmony being sustained by the chorus and instruments. The Gospel text is in recitative form throughout, the part of the evangelist, or narrator, being assigned to a tenor voice, while those of the persons incidentally introduced are given to other singers. In the dialogue, wherever the words of Jesus occur, the accompaniment is furnished by a string quartette, which serves to distinguish them from the others, and invests them with a peculiar gentleness and grace. The incidental choruses, sung by the People and the Apostles, are short and vivacious in character, many of them being in madrigal form. The chorales, fifteen in number, as has already been said, were taken from the Lutheran service. One of them, which Bach also liberally used in his "Christmas Oratorio," beginning, "Acknowledge me, my Keeper," appears five times in the progress of the work, forming the keynote of the church sentiment, and differently harmonized on each occasion. Another, "O Blessed Jesus," is twice used,--once where the Saviour announces that he will be crucified after the Feast of the Passover, when the whole congregation sings it, and again in the scene at Gethsemane, sung by select choirs. The whole work is written for double chorus, the two choruses singing the harmony of the chorales, accompanied by the instruments, while the congregation sing the tune in unison. They display to the utmost the breadth, richness, ingenuity, and power of Bach in this form of writing. The reflective portions of the work, the text written by Picander, are composed of arias introduced by recitative, with the first part repeated in the close; of arias accompanied by chorus; and of single choruses constructed in the most massive manner. Speaking of the melodies in these portions of the work, Spitta says,-- "The grades of feeling traversed by Bach in the solo songs of the 'St. Matthew Passion' are all the more impressive because every sentiment of joy in its various shades is wholly excluded; they are all based on the emotion of sorrow. The most fervent sympathy with the sufferings of the Son of Man, rising to the utmost anguish, childlike trustfulness, manly earnestness, and tenderly longing devotion to the Redeemer; repentance for the personal sins that his suffering must atone for, and passionate entreaties for mercy; an absorbed contemplation of the example offered by the sufferings of Jesus, and solemn vows pronounced over his dead body never to forsake or forget him,--these are the themes Bach had to treat. And he has solved the difficult problem as if it were child's play, with that inexhaustible wealth of resource which was most at his command precisely when he had to depict the sadder emotions. In no other of his works (unless it be in the 'Christmas Oratorio') do we find such a store of lovely and various solo airs, nor did Bach even ever write melodies more expressive and persuasive than those of the arias in the 'St. Matthew Passion.'" As we have said, the music is arranged for double chorus, and each chorus has its own orchestra and its own organ accompaniment. The double orchestra is composed of oboes, flutes, and stringed instruments. Drums and brass instruments are not used, the sentiment of the work, in Bach's estimation, not being fitted for them, sweetness and expressiveness of tone rather than power being required. As Spitta says, sorrow is the characteristic of the work. It has no choruses of rejoicing, no pæans of praise, not even a hallelujah at its close. The first part opens with a reflection sung by double chorus, "Come, ye Daughters, weep for Anguish," the first exhorting believers to weep over the sinful world, the second responding with brief interrogations, and at last taking part in the sorrowful strains of the first. Interwoven with these is an independent instrumental melody, the whole crowned with a magnificent chorale sung by the sopranos, "O Lamb of God all blameless!" followed by still another, "Say, sweetest Jesus," which reappears in other parts of the work variously harmonized. The double chorus and chorales form the introduction, and are followed by recitative and a chorale, "Thou dear Redeemer," and a pathetic aria for contralto, "Grief and Pain," relating the incident of the woman anointing the feet of Jesus. The next number is an aria for soprano, "Only bleed, Thou dearest Heart," which follows the acceptance by Judas of the thirty pieces of silver, and which serves to intensify the grief in the aria preceding it. The scene of the Last Supper ensues, and to this number Bach has given a character of sweetness and gentleness, though its coloring is sad. As the disciples ask, "Lord, is it I?" another chorale is sung, "'Tis I! my Sins betray me." Recitative of very impressive character, conveying the divine injunctions, leads up to a graceful and tender aria for soprano, "Never will my Heart refuse Thee," one of the simplest and clearest, and yet one of the richest and most expressive, melodies ever conceived. After further recitative and the chorale, "I will stay here beside Thee," we are introduced to the scene in the Garden of Gethsemane, which is characterized by a number of extraordinary beauty and strength in its construction. It is introduced by a short instrumental prelude, Zion, represented by the tenor voice, and the Believers by the chorus, coming in after a few bars and alternating with extraordinary vocal effect. It calls for the highest dramatic power, and in its musical development is a web of wonderful harmonies such as we may look for only in the works of the mighty master of counterpoint. It fitly prepares the way for the two great movements which close the first part, an aria for soprano and alto, "Alas! my Jesus now is taken," and a double chorus, "Ye Lightnings, ye Thunders!" The two solo voices join in a lament of a most touching nature, accompanied by the chorus exclaiming in short, hurried phrases, "Let Him go! Hold! Bind Him not!" until at last the double chorus bursts in like a tempest, accompanied with the full power of the instruments, expressing the world's indignation at the deed which is to be committed, in the words:-- "Ye lightnings, ye thunders, in clouds are ye vanished! Burst open, O fierce flaming caverns of hell! Ingulf them, destroy them in wrathfullest mood! Oh, blast the betrayer, the murderous brood!" and the first part concludes with a chorale, "O Man, bewail thy great Sin!" The second part, originally sung after the sermon, opens with an aria for contralto, full of the deepest feeling, "Alas! now is my Jesus gone," and one of the most beautiful numbers in the oratorio, wherein Zion, or the Church, mourns her great loss. The trial scene before Caiaphas and the threefold denial of Peter follow, leading up to the beautiful aria for alto, with violin obligato, "Oh, pardon me, my God!" Macfarren, in his admirable analysis, says of this aria,-- "The deep, deep grief of a tormented conscience finds here an utterance which fulfils the purport and far transcends the expression of the words. One might suppose the power of the artist to have been concentrated upon this one incident, so infinite is its beauty,--one might suppose Bach to have regarded the situation it illustrates as more significant than others of man's relation to Deity in his sense of sin and need for mercy, and as requiring, therefore, peculiar prominence in the total impression the oratorio should convey. If this was his aim, it is all accomplished. The penitential feeling embodied in the song is that which will longest linger in a remembrance of the work. The soft tone of the contralto voice, and the keenness of that of the violin, are accessories to the effect which the master well knew how to handle; but these judicious means are little to be considered in comparison with the musical idea of which they are the adjuncts." The work now rapidly progresses to its beautiful finale. The soprano recitative in response to Pilate's question, "He hath done only good to all," the aria for soprano, "From love unbounded," the powerful contralto recitative, "Look down, O God," the chorale, "O Head all bruised and wounded!" the contralto aria with chorus, "Look where Jesus beckoning stands," and the peaceful, soothing recitative for bass, "At Eventide, cool Hour of Rest," are the principal numbers that occur as we approach the last sad but beautiful double chorus of the Apostles, "Around Thy Tomb here sit we weeping,"--a close as peaceful as the setting of the sun; for the tomb is but the couch on which Jesus is reposing, and the music dies away in a slumber-song of most exalted beauty. This brief sketch could not better close than with the beautiful description which Mr. Dwight gives of this scene in the notes which he prepared when the work was performed at the Triennial Festival of the Handel and Haydn Society of Boston:-- "How full of grief, of tender, spiritual love, of faith and peace, of the heart's heaven smiling through tears, is this tone-elegy! So should the passion-music close, and not with fugue of praise and triumph like an oratorio. How sweetly, evenly, the harmony flows on,--a broad, rich, deep, pellucid river, swollen as by countless rills from all the loving, bleeding, and believing hearts in a redeemed humanity! How full of a sweet, secret comfort, even triumph, is this heavenly farewell: It is 'the peace which passeth understanding.' 'Rest Thee softly' is the burden of the song. One chorus sings it, and the other echoes 'Softly rest;' then both together swell the strain. Many times as this recurs, not only in the voices, but in the introduction and frequent interludes of the exceedingly full orchestra, which sounds as human as if it too had breath and conscious feeling, you still crave more of it; for it is as if your soul were bathed in new life inexhaustible. No chorus ever sung is surer to enlist the singers' hearts." The Magnificat in D. The Magnificat in D--known as the "Great Magnificat," to distinguish it from the smaller--is considered one of the grandest illustrations of Bach's genius. It was composed for Christmas Day, 1723. Spitta says:-- "The performance of the cantata 'Christen, ätzet diesen Tag,' with its attendant 'Sanctus,' took place during the morning service, and was sung by the first choir in the Nikolaikirche. In the evening the cantata was repeated by the same choir in the Thomaskirche; and after the sermon the Hymn of the Virgin was sung, set in its Latin form, and in an elaborate style. For this purpose Bach wrote his great 'Magnificat.'" For the occasion of this festival he expanded the Biblical text into four vocal numbers; but in describing the work it is only necessary to give it as it is now generally sung. The work is written for a five-part chorus, with organ and orchestral accompaniment. After a concerted introduction, foreshadowing the general character of the music, it opens with the chorus, "Magnificat anima mea," in fugal form, worked up with that wonderful power of construction for which Bach is so renowned among all composers. It is followed by an aria for second soprano ("Et exultavit spiritus meus: in Deo salutari meo"), which is in the same key and has the same general feeling as the opening chorus, that of Christmas rejoicing. It in turn is followed by an aria for first soprano ("Quia respexit humilitatem ancillæ suæ"), of which Spitta says: "Scarcely ever has the idea of virgin purity, simplicity, and humble happiness found more perfect expression than in this German picture of the Madonna, translated as it were into musical language." It leads directly to the chorus which takes up the unfinished words of the soprano ("Omnes generationes"), each part overlaying the other as it enters, and closing in canon form in grave and colossal harmony. Its next number is an aria for bass ("Quia fecit mihi magna"), of a simple and joyous character. It is followed by a melodious duet for alto and tenor ("Et misericordia"), with violin and flute accompaniment, setting forth the mercy of God, in contrast with which the powerful and energetic chorus ("Fecit potentiam") which succeeds it, is very striking in its effect. Two beautiful arias for tenor ("Deposuit potentes de sede") and alto ("Esurientes implevit bonis") follow, the latter being exquisitely tender in its expression, and lead to the terzetto ("Suscepit Israel puerum suum: recordatus misericordiæ suæ"), arranged in chorale form, and very plaintive and even melancholy in style. Its mourning is soon lost, however, in the stupendous five-part fugue ("Sicut locutus est") which follows it and which leads to the triumphant "Gloria," closing the work,--a chorus of extraordinary majesty and power. Spitta, in his exhaustive analysis of Bach's music, says of this "Magnificat":-- "It is emphatically distinct from the rest of Bach's grand church compositions by the compactness and concentrated power of the separate numbers,--particularly of the choruses,--by the lavish use of the means at command, and by its vividly emotional and yet not too agitating variety. It stands at the entrance of a new path and a fresh period of his productivity, at once full of significance in itself and of promise for the future development of the perennial genius which could always re-create itself from its own elements." BEETHOVEN. A general sketch of the life and musical accomplishments of Beethoven has already appeared in the companion to this work, "The Standard Operas." In this connection, however, it seems eminently fitting that some attention should be paid to the religious sentiments of the great composer and the sacred works which he produced. He was a formal member of the Roman Church, but at the same time an ardent admirer of some of the Protestant doctrines. His religious observances, however, were peculiarly his own. His creed had little in common with any of the ordinary forms of Christianity. A writer in "Macmillan's Magazine" some years ago very clearly defined his religious position in the statement that his faith rested on a pantheistic abstraction which he called "Love." He interpreted everything by the light of this sentiment, which took the form of an endless longing, sometimes deeply sad, at others rising to the highest exaltation. An illustration of this in its widest sense may be found in the choral part of the Ninth Symphony. He at times attempted to give verbal expression to this ecstatic faith which filled him, and at such times he reminds us of the Mystics. The following passages, which he took from the inscription on the temple of the Egyptian goddess Neith at Sais, and called his creed, explain this: "I am that which is. I am all that is, that was, and that shall be. No mortal man hath lifted my veil. He is alone by Himself, and to Him alone do all things owe their being." With all this mysticism his theology was practical, as is shown by his criticism of the words which Moscheles appended to his arrangement of "Fidelio." The latter wrote at the close of his work: "_Fine_, with God's help." Beethoven added: "O man! help thyself." That he was deeply religious by nature, however, is constantly shown in his letters. Wandering alone at evening among the mountains, he sketched a hymn to the words, "God alone is our Lord." In the extraordinary letter which he wrote to his brothers, Carl and Johann, he says: "God looks into my heart. He searches it, and knows that love for man and feelings of benevolence have their abode there." In a letter to Bettina von Arnim, he writes: "If I am spared for some years to come, I will thank the Omniscient, the Omnipotent, for the boon, as I do for all other weal and woe." In Spohr's album his inscription is a musical setting of the words, "Short is the pain, eternal is the joy." In a letter to the Archduke Rudolph, written in 1817, he gives no uncertain expression to his divine trust. He says: "My confidence is placed in Providence, who will vouchsafe to hear my prayer, and one day set me free from all my troubles; for I have served him faithfully from my childhood, and done good whenever it was in my power. So my trust is in him alone, and I feel that the Almighty will not allow me to be utterly crushed by all my manifold trials." Even in a business letter he says: "I assure you on my honor--which, next to God, is what I prize most--that I authorized no one to accept commissions from me." His letters indeed abound in references to his constant reliance upon a higher Power. The oratorio, "Christ on the Mount of Olives," six sacred songs set to poems of Gellert, the Mass in C written for Prince Esterhazy, and the Grand Mass in D written for the Archduke Rudolph, one of the grandest and most impressive works in the entire realm of sacred music, attest the depth and fervency of his religious nature. The Mount of Olives. Beethoven wrote but one oratorio, "Christus am Oelberg" ("Christ on the Mount of Olives"). That he had others in contemplation, however, at different periods of his life is shown by his letters. In 1809 he wrote to Freiherr von Hammer-Purgstall, a famous Oriental scholar, appointing an interview for the discussion of the latter's poem on the subject of the deluge, with reference to its fitness for treatment as an oratorio. Again, in 1824, he writes to Vincenz Hauschka, of Vienna, that he has decided to write an oratorio on the text furnished by Bernard, the subject being "The Victory of the Cross." This work, however, owing to his extreme physical sufferings at that period, was never begun, and the world thereby has suffered a great musical loss; for, judging from his great Mass in D, no one can doubt how majestic and impressive the "Victory of the Cross" would have been, as compared with the "Mount of Olives," written in his earlier period, and before any of his masterpieces had appeared. The "Mount of Olives" was begun in 1800, and finished during the following year. Beethoven never remained in Vienna during the summer. The discomforts of the city and his intense love for Nature urged him out into the pleasantly wooded suburbs of the city, where he could live and work in seclusion. Upon this occasion he selected the little village of Hetzendorf, adjoining the gardens of the imperial palace of Schönbrunn, where the Elector, his old patron, was living in retirement. Trees were his delight. In a letter to Madame von Drossdick, he says: "Woods, trees, and rocks give the response which man requires. Every tree seems to say, 'Holy, Holy!'" In the midst of these delightful surroundings he found his favorite tree, at whose base he composed the larger part of the oratorio, as well as his opera "Fidelio." Schindler says: "A circumstance connected with both these great works, and of which Beethoven many years afterwards still retained a lively recollection, was, that he composed them in the thickest part of the wood in the park of Schönbrunn, seated between the two stems of an oak, which shot out from the main trunk at the height of about two feet from the ground. This remarkable tree, in that part of the park to the left of the Gloriett, I found with Beethoven in 1823, and the sight of it called forth interesting reminiscences of the former period." The words of the oratorio were by Huber, the author of Winter's "Unterbrochene Opferfest," and were written, with Beethoven's assistance, in fourteen days. That more time and attention were not given to the text was probably regretted by both poet and composer many times afterwards. The first performance of the work in its entirety took place at Vienna, April 5, 1803, at the Theater an der Wien, upon which occasion the programme also included the Symphony in D (second) and the Piano Concerto in C minor, the latter executed by himself. The oratorio was received with enthusiasm, and was repeated three times during that year. The libretto of the work is unquestionably defective in the most salient qualities which should characterize the text of an oratorio, even to the degree of extravagance and sensationalism. It fails to reflect the sorrowful character of the scene it depicts, and the dramatic requirements which it imposes are often strained, and sometimes border on the grotesque. The theatrical style of the narrative was deplored by Beethoven himself at a subsequent period. Marx, one of the keenest of critics, says of the work:-- "The poet had no other aim but that of making verses for a composer; the latter, no other motive than the ordinary creative impulse prompting him to try his powers in a different and important sphere. The result on both sides could not therefore be other than phrases, although the better of the two proceeded from the composer, and that composer was Beethoven. To conceal or palliate this would be derogatory to the reverence which we all owe to Beethoven; he stands too high to be in need of extenuation." This is Marx's judgment; and yet it must be said that the world for the most part has found more in the "Mount of Olives" than he has. The oratorio is written for three solo voices (Jesus, Peter, and a Seraph), chorus, and orchestra. The narrative opens with the agony in the garden, followed by the chant of a Seraph reciting the divine goodness and foretelling the salvation of the righteous. In the next scene Jesus learns his fate from the Seraph, yields himself to approaching death, and welcomes it. The Soldiers enter in pursuit, and a tumult ensues as the Apostles find themselves surrounded. Peter draws his sword and gives vent to his indignation; but is rebuked both by Jesus and the Seraph, and together they conjure him to be silent and endure whatever may happen. The Soldiers, discovering Jesus, rush upon him and bind him. The Disciples express their apprehension that they too will suffer; but Jesus uncomplainingly surrenders himself, and a chorus of rejoicing completes the work. From this brief sketch the artificial and distorted manner of treating the solemn subject will be evident. The score opens with an adagio introduction for instruments which is of a very dramatic character, and, unlike nearly all of the sacred music of that time, is noticeable for the absence of the fugue. Barbedette, the great French critic, pronounces it the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of introductions, and a masterpiece in the serious style. The first number is a recitative and aria for tenor, sung by Jesus ("All my Soul within me shudders"), which, notwithstanding the anomaly of such a scene in such surroundings, is simple and touching in expression. The Seraph follows with a scene and aria ("Praise the Redeemer's Goodness"), concluding with a brilliant and jubilant obligato with chorus ("O triumph, all ye Ransomed"). The next number is an elaborate duet between Jesus and the Seraph ("On me then fall Thy heavy Judgment"), which is still more anomalous than the scene and aria with which Jesus opens the work. In a short recitative passage, Jesus welcomes death; and then ensues one of the most powerful numbers in the work, the chorus of Soldiers in march time ("We surely here shall find Him"), interspersed with the cries of the People demanding his death, and the lamentations of the Apostles. At the conclusion of the tumult a dialogue ensues between Jesus and Peter ("Not unchastised shall this audacious Band"), which leads up to the crowning anomaly of the work, a trio between Jesus, Peter, and the Seraph, with chorus ("O, Sons of Men, with Gladness"). The closing number, a chorus of angels ("Hallelujah, God's Almighty Son"), is introduced with a short but massive symphony leading to a jubilant burst of Hallelujah, which finally resolves itself into a glorious fugue, accompanied with all that wealth of instrumentation of which Beethoven was the consummate master. In all sacred music it is difficult to find a choral number which can surpass it in majesty or power. The English versions of the "Mount of Olives" differ materially from the German in the text. Numerous efforts have been made to avoid the incongruity of the original narrative, but with poor success. It was first produced in England in 1814 by Sir George Smart during the Lenten oratorios at Drury Lane, the English version of which was made by Arnold, at that time manager of the King's Theatre. Still later it was produced again, and the adapter compromised by using the third person, as "'Jehovah, Thou, O Father,' saith the Lord our Saviour." Two other versions were made by Thomas Oliphant and Mr. Bartholomew, but these were not successful. At last the aversion to the personal part of Jesus led to an entirely new text, called "Engedi," the words of which were written by Dr. Henry Hudson, of Dublin, and founded upon the persecution of David by Saul in the wilderness, as described in parts of chapters xxiii., xxiv., and xxvi. of the first book of Samuel. The characters introduced are David, Abishai, and the Prophetess, the latter corresponding to the Seraph in the original. The compiler himself in his preface says:-- "So far as was possible, the author has availed himself of Scripture language, and David's words have been taken (almost wholly) from the Psalms generally attributed to him, though of course not in regular order, as it has invariably throughout been the writer's first object to select words adapting themselves to the original music in its continually varying expression, which could not have been done had he taken any one psalm as his text. How far the author has succeeded, he must leave to others to determine." The substituted story has not proved successful, principally because the music, which was written for an entirely different one, is not adapted to it. The latest version is that of the Rev. J. Troutbeck, prepared for the Leeds festivals, in which the Saviour is again introduced. BENNETT. William Sterndale Bennett, one of the most gifted and individual of English composers, was born at Sheffield, April 13, 1816. His musical genius displayed itself early, and in his tenth year he was placed in the Royal Academy of Music, of which in his later years he became principal. He received his early instruction in composition from Lucas and Dr. Crotch, and studied the piano with Cipriani Potter, who had been a pupil of Mozart. The first composition which gained him distinction was the Concerto in D minor, written in 1832, which was followed by the Capriccio in D minor. During the next three years he produced the overture to "Parisina," the F minor Concerto, and the "Naïades" overture, the success of which was so great that a prominent musical house in London offered to send him to Leipsic for a year. He went there, and soon won his way to the friendship of Schumann and Mendelssohn. With the latter he was on very intimate terms, which has led to the erroneous statement that he was his pupil. In 1840 he made a second visit to Leipsic, where he composed his Caprice in E, and "The Wood Nymphs" overture. In 1842 he returned to England, and for several years was busily engaged with chamber concerts. In 1849 he founded the Bach Society, arranged the "Matthew Passion" music of that composer, as well as the "Christmas Oratorio," and brought out the former work in 1854. The previous year he was offered the distinguished honor of the conductorship of the Gewandhaus concerts at Leipsic, but did not accept. In 1856 he was appointed conductor of the Philharmonic Society, and filled the position for ten years, resigning it to take the head of the Royal Academy of Music. In the same year he was elected musical professor at Cambridge, where he received the degree of Doctor of Music and other honors. In 1858 his beautiful cantata, "The May Queen," was produced at the Leeds Festival, and in 1862 the "Paradise and the Peri" overture, written for the Philharmonic Society. In 1867 his oratorio, or, as he modestly terms it, "sacred cantata," "The Woman of Samaria," was produced with great success at the Birmingham Festival. In 1870 he was honored with a degree by the University of Oxford, and a year later received the empty distinction of knighthood. His last public appearance was at a festival in Brighton in 1874, where he conducted his "Woman of Samaria." He died Feb. 1, 1875, and was buried in Westminster Abbey with distinguished honors. His musical ability was as widely recognized in Germany as in England,--indeed his profound musical scholarship and mastery of problems in composition were more appreciated there. Mr. Statham, in an admirable sketch, pronounces him a born pianist, and says that his wonderful knowledge of the capabilities of the piano, and his love for it, developed into favoritism in some of his concerted music. A friend of the composer, recalling some reminiscences of him in "Fraser," says that his music is full of beauty and expression, displays a remarkable fancy, a keen love of Nature, and at times true religious devotion, but that it does not contain a single note of passion. His only sacred music is the short oratorio, "The Woman of Samaria," and four anthems: "Now, my God, let, I beseech Thee," "Remember now thy Creator," "O that I knew," and "The Fool hath said in his Heart." It has been well said of him: "In his whole career he never condescended to write a single note for popular effect, nor can a bar of his music be quoted which in style and aim does not belong to what is highest in musical art." The Woman of Samaria. "The Woman of Samaria," a short, one-part oratorio, styled by its composer a "sacred cantata," was first produced at the Birmingham Festival, Aug. 27, 1867; though one of his biographers affirms that as early as 1843 he was shown a chorus for six voices, treated antiphonally, which Bennett himself informed him was to be introduced in an oratorio he was then contemplating, and that this chorus, if not identical with "Therefore they shall come," in "The Woman of Samaria," is at least the foundation of it. The work is written for four solo voices, chorus, and orchestra. The soprano takes the part of the Woman of Samaria, the other parts being impersonal. The music for the contralto is mainly declamatory. Tha tenor has a single aria, while the bass, with one exception, has the part of Narrator, the words of our Saviour being attributed to him and invariably introduced in the third personal form,--which is a striking proof of the devotional spirit of the composer, as in all other instances, after the announcement by the Narrator, the Woman sings her own words. The chorus, as in the passion-music of Bach, has the reflective numbers and moralizes on the various situations as they occur, except in one number, "Now we believe," where it declaims the words as a part of the narrative itself. The text for chorus is selected from appropriate parts of the Scriptures which are in keeping with the events forming the groundwork of its reflections. The story is taken from the fourth chapter of the Gospel according to Saint John, and follows literally the narrative of the journey of the Saviour into Samaria,--his rest at Jacob's well, his meeting with the woman who came thither to draw water, and the conversation which followed; the only interruptions being the reflections, not only by the chorus, but also by the contralto and tenor, these episodes being taken mostly from the Prophecies and Psalms. The oratorio opens with a brief instrumental introduction and chorale ("Ye Christian People, now rejoice") for sopranos alone, the melody of which first appeared in the "Geistliche Lieder," issued at Wittenberg in 1535. The words are a translation of the old hymn, "Nun freut euch, lieben Christen G'mein," to which the tune was formerly sung in Germany. The treatment of this chorale, by combining it with the instrumental movement in opposing rhythms, shows the powerful influence which the composer's close study of Bach had upon him. Its effect in introducing the scenes which follow reminds one of the grace before the feast. It dies away in slow and gentle numbers, and then follows the opening recitative of the oratorio proper ("Then cometh Jesus to a City of Samaria"), sung by the contralto, and leading up to an arioso chorus ("Blessed be the Lord God of Israel"), the words taken from the Gospel of Saint Luke. The next number is a very graceful and artistic combination, opening with recitative for contralto, bass, and soprano, leading to an adagio solo for bass ("If thou knewest the Gift of God"), and ending with a closely harmonious chorus in the same rhythm ("For with Thee is the Well of Life"), the words from the Psalms. The dialogue between Jesus and the Woman is then resumed, leading to a solo by the latter ("Art Thou greater than our Father Jacob?"). The question is sung and repeated in declamatory tones constantly increasing in power and expressive of defiance. Bennett was a bitter opponent of Wagner; but in the unvocal and declamatory character of this solo, and in the dramatic force he has given to it, to the sacrifice of melody, he certainly ventured some distance in the Wagnerian direction. The next number, the reply of Jesus ("Whosoever drinketh"), sung, as usual, by the bass voice, is in striking contrast with the question. Instead of full orchestra, it has the accompaniment of the strings and first and second horns only, reminding one of Bach's method of accompanying the part assigned to Jesus in his St. Matthew Passion. This number is followed by a spirited fortissimo chorus ("Therefore with Joy shall ye draw Water"), sung to the full strength of voice and orchestra. After the dialogue in which Jesus acquaints the Woman with the incidents of her past life, the contralto voice has an exquisite solo ("O Lord, Thou hast searched me out"), full of tenderness and expression, in which the opening phrase is repeated in the finale and gains intensity by a change of harmony. The dialogue, in which the divine character of Jesus becomes apparent to the Woman, is resumed, and leads to a beautifully constructed chorus in six parts ("Therefore they shall come and sing"), followed by an impressive and deeply devotional quartet for the principals, unaccompanied ("God is a Spirit"),--to which an additional interest is lent from the fact that it was sung in Westminster Abbey upon the occasion of the composer's funeral. A few bars of recitative lead to a chorus in close, solid harmony ("Who is the Image of the Invisible God"), with organ accompaniment only, which in turn, after a few more bars of recitative for contralto and soprano, is followed by the chorus ("Come, O Israel"), sung pianissimo and accompanied by entire orchestra. The next number, as the oratorio is now performed, is one which has been introduced. It is a soprano aria, "I will love Thee, O Lord," which was found among the composer's manuscripts after his death. The preface to the revised edition of the oratorio has the following reference to this number:-- "In justification of so bold a step as the introduction of a new number, it is interesting to point out that the composer felt the Woman of Samaria ought to sing a song of conversion in the portion of the cantata in which the new air is placed. It is clear from the original preface[2] that he thought of her as an impulsive woman who would naturally be carried from worldliness into the opposite extreme of religious devotion." The introduction of the air also gives more importance to the soprano part and relieves the succession of choral movements in the close of the work. The remaining numbers are the beautiful chorale, "Abide with me, fast falls the Eventide;" the chorus, "Now we believe," one of the most finished in the whole work; a short tenor solo ("His Salvation is nigh them that fear Him"),--the only one in the oratorio for that voice; the chorus, "I will call upon the Lord;" and the final imposing fugue, "Blessed be the Lord God of Israel." The last number is a fitting close to a work which is not only highly descriptive of its subject throughout, but also full of feeling and devotional reverence. [2] "With regard to the Woman of Samaria herself, it will be plainly seen that the composer has treated her as a secular and worldly character, though not without indications here and there of that strong intuitive religious feeling which has never been denied to her. This feeling is especially shown when she says: 'I know that Messias cometh; when He is come He will tell us all things.' Also, towards the end of the narrative, where she passionately exclaims to the Samaritans: 'Come, see a man who told me all the things that ever I did: is not this the Christ?'"--_Original Preface_. BERLIOZ. Hector Berlioz, one of the most renowned of modern French composers, and an acute critic and skilful conductor as well, was born, Dec. 11, 1803, at La Côte St. André, in France. His father was a physician, and intended him for the same profession. He reluctantly went to Paris and began the study of medicine; but music became his engrossing passion, and medicine was abandoned. He entered the Conservatory as a pupil of Lesueur, and soon showed himself superior to all his masters, except Cherubini,--which aroused a strong opposition to him and his compositions. It was only after repeated trials that he took the first prize, with his cantata, "Sardanapale," which entitled him to go to Italy for three years. On his return to Paris he encountered renewed antipathy. His music was not well received, and he was obliged to support himself by conducting at concerts and writing articles for the press. As a final resort he organized a concert tour through Germany and Russia, the details of which are contained in his extremely interesting Autobiography. At these concerts his own music was the staple of the programmes, and it met with great success, though not always played by the best of orchestras, and not always well by the best, as his own testimony shows; for his compositions are very exacting, and call for every resource known to the modern orchestra. The Germans were quick in appreciating his music, but it was not until after his death that his ability was conceded in France. In 1839 he was appointed librarian of the Conservatory, and in 1856 was made a member of the French Academy. These were the only honors he received, though he long sought to obtain a professorship in the Conservatory. A romantic but sad incident in his life was his violent passion for Miss Smithson, an Irish actress, whom he saw upon the Paris stage in the _rôle_ of Ophelia, at a time when Victor Hugo had revived an admiration for Shakspeare among the French. He married her, but did not live with her long, owing to her bad temper and ungovernable jealousy; though after the separation he honorably contributed to her support out of the pittance he was earning. Among his great works are the opera, "Benvenuto Cellini;" the symphony with chorus, "Romeo and Juliet;" "Beatrice and Benedict;" "Les Troyens," the text from Virgil's "Æneid;" the symphony, "Harold in Italy;" the symphony, "Funèbre et Triomphale;" the "Damnation of Faust;" a double chorused "Te Deum;" the "Symphony Fantastique;" the "Requiem;" and the sacred trilogy, "L'Enfance du Christ." Berlioz stands among all other composers as the foremost representative of "programme music," and has left explicit and very detailed explanations of the meaning of his works, so that the hearer may listen intelligently by seeing the external objects his music is intended to picture. In the knowledge of individual instruments and the grouping of them for effect, in warmth of imagination and brilliancy of color, and in his daring combinations and fantastic moods, which are sometimes carried to the very verge of eccentricity, he is a colossus among modern musicians. He died in Paris, March 8, 1869. The Requiem. Ferdinand Hiller writes in his "Künstlerleben:" "Hector Berlioz does not belong to our musical solar system; he does not belong to the planets, neither to the large nor to the small. He was a comet, shining far, somewhat eerie to look at, soon again disappearing; but his appearance will remain unforgotten." The Requiem ("Messe des Morts") exemplifies Hiller's words. It is colossal, phenomenal, and altogether unique. It is not sacred, for it never came from the heart. It is not solemn, though it is a drama of death. It is a combination of the picturesque, fantastic, and sublime, in a tone-poem dedicated to the dead. In 1836 Berlioz was requested by M. de Gasparin, Minister of the Interior, to write a requiem commemorating the victims of the July Revolution; but the work was not given to the public until 1837, when it was sung at the Invalides in memory of General Damremont and the soldiers killed at the siege of Constantina. It was subsequently asserted by Berlioz that Cherubini had conspired with others in the Conservatory to prevent its performance and to secure that of his own, by virtue of the precedence which his position gave him. The charge, however, must have been a mere fancy on his part, as he had already written a letter to Cherubini, saying:-- "I am deeply touched by the noble abnegation which leads you to refuse your admirable Requiem for the ceremony of the Invalides. Be convinced of my heartiest gratitude." The work embraced ten numbers: I. Requiem and Kyrie ("Requiem æternam dona eis"); II., III., IV., V., and VI., including different motives taken from the hymn, "Dies Iræ;" VII. "Offertorium;" VIII. "Hostias et Preces;" IX. "Sanctus;" X. "Agnus Dei." It will be observed that the composer has not followed the formal sequences of the Mass, and that he has not only omitted some of the parts, but has also frequently taken license with those which he uses. This may be accounted for in two ways. First, he was not of a religious nature. Hiller, in the work already quoted, says of him: "Of his Catholic education every trace had disappeared. Doubts of all sorts had possession of him, and the contempt of what he called 'prejudice' bordered on the monstrous. Berlioz believed neither in a God nor in Bach." Second, it is evident from the construction of the work throughout that it was his purpose simply to give free rein to his fancy and to express, even at the risk of being theatrical, the emotions of sublimity, terror, and awe called up by the associations of the subject. This he could not have done with a free hand had he been bound down to the set forms of the Mass. After a brief but majestic instrumental introduction, the voices enter upon the "Requiem,"--a beautiful and solemn strain. The movement is built upon three melodies set to the words, "Requiem æternam," "Tu decet Hymnus," and the "Kyrie," the accompaniment of which is very descriptive and characteristic. The "Kyrie" is specially impressive, the chant of the sopranos being answered by the tenors and basses in unison, and the whole closing with a dirge-like movement by the orchestra. The "Dies Iræ" is the most spirited as well as impressive number of the work. It is intensely dramatic in its effects, indeed it might be called theatrical. Berlioz seems to have fairly exhausted the resources of instruments to produce the feeling of awful sublimity and overwhelming power, even to the verge of the most daring eccentricity and, as one prominent critic expressed it, "terrible cataclysms." The first part of the "Dies Iræ" will always be remarkable for the orchestral arrangement. After the climax of the motive, "Quantus tremor est futurus," there is a pause which is significant by its very silence; it is the hush before the storm. Suddenly from either angle of the stage or hall, in addition to the principal orchestra in front, four smaller bands of trombones, trumpets, and tubas crash in with overwhelming power in the announcement of the terrors of the day of judgment. The effect is like that of peal upon peal of thunder. At its culmination the bass voices enter in unison upon the words, "Tuba mirum," in the midst of another orchestral storm, which is still further heightened by an unusual number of kettledrums. From the beginning to the close, this part of the "Dies Iræ" is simply cyclopean; words cannot describe its overwhelming power. It is a relief when the storm has passed over, and we come to the next verse ("Quid sum miser"), for the basses and tenors, though mostly for the first tenors. It is a breathing spell of quiet delight. It is given in the softest of tone, and is marked in the score to be sung with "an expression of humility and awe." It leads to the andante number ("Rex tremendæ majestatis"), which is sung fortissimo throughout, and accompanied with another tremendous outburst of harmonious thunder in crashing chords, which continues up to the last eight bars, when the voices drop suddenly from the furious fortissimo to an almost inaudible pianissimo on the words "Salve me." The next verse ("Quærens me") is an unaccompanied six-part chorus in imitative style, of very close harmony. The "Dies Iræ" ends with the "Lachrymosa," the longest and most interesting number in the work. It is thoroughly melodic, and is peculiarly strengthened by a pathetic and sentimental accompaniment, which, taken in connection with the choral part against which it is set, presents an almost inexhaustible variety of rhythms and an originality of technical effects which are astonishing. Its general character is broad and solemn, and it closes with a return to the "Dies Iræ," with full chorus and all the orchestras. This finishes the "Dies Iræ" section of the work. The next number is the "Offertorium," in which the voices are limited to a simple phrase of two notes, A alternating with B flat, which is never varied throughout the somewhat long movement. It never becomes monotonous, however, so rich and varied is the instrumentation. The "Hostias et Preces,"--sustained by the tenors and basses, a very solemn and majestic movement,--displays another of Berlioz's eccentricities, the accompaniment at the close of the first phrase being furnished by three flutes and eight tenor trombones, which one enemy of the composer says represents the distance from the sublime to the ridiculous. The "Sanctus," a tenor solo with responses by the sopranos and altos, is full of poetical, almost sensuous beauty, and is the most popular number in the work. It closes with a fugue on the words "Hosanna in Excelsis." The final number is the "Agnus Dei," a chorus for male voices, in which the composer once more employs the peculiar combination of flutes and tenor trombones. In this number he also returns to the music of the opening number, "Requiem æternam," and closes it with an "Amen" softly dying away. Thus ends the Requiem,--a work which will always be the subject of critical dispute, owing to its numerous innovations on existing musical forms and the daring manner in which the composer has treated it. The following sketch of the first performance of the Requiem, taken from Berlioz's Autobiography, will be found interesting in this connection. It is necessary to preface it with the statement that the director of the Beaux-Arts had insisted that Habeneck should conduct the work. As Berlioz had quarrelled with the old conductor, and had not been on speaking terms with him for three years, he at first refused; but subsequently consented, on condition that he should conduct at one full rehearsal. Berlioz says:-- "The day of the performance arrived in the Church of the Invalides, before all the princes, peers, and deputies, the French press, the correspondents of foreign papers, and an immense crowd. It was absolutely essential for me to have a great success; a moderate one would have been fatal, and a failure would have annihilated me altogether. "Now, listen attentively. "The various groups of instruments in the orchestra were tolerably widely separated, especially the four brass bands introduced in the 'Tuba mirum,' each of which occupied a corner of the entire orchestra. There is no pause between the 'Dies Iræ' and 'Tuba mirum,' but the pace of the latter movement is reduced to half what it was before. At this point the whole of the brass enters, first altogether, and then in passages, answering and interrupting, each a third higher than the last. It is obvious that it is of the greatest importance that the four beats of the new tempo should be distinctly marked, or else the terrible explosion which I had so carefully prepared, with combinations and proportions never attempted before or since, and which, rightly performed, gives such a picture of the Last Judgment as I believe is destined to live, would be a mere enormous and hideous confusion. "With my habitual mistrust, I had stationed myself behind Habeneck, and, turning my back on him, overlooked the group of kettledrums, which he could not see, when the moment approached for them to take part in the general _mêlée_. There are perhaps one thousand bars in my Requiem. Precisely in that of which I have just been speaking, when the movement is retarded and the wind instruments burst in with their terrible flourish of trumpets; in fact, just in _the_ one bar where the conductor's motion is absolutely indispensable,--Habeneck _puts down his baton, quietly takes out his snuffbox_, and proceeds to take a pinch of snuff. I always had my eye in his direction, and instantly turned rapidly on one heel, and, springing before him, I stretched out my arm and marked the four great beats of the new movement. The orchestras followed me each in order. I conducted the piece to the end, and the effect which I had longed for was produced. When, at the last words of the chorus, Habeneck saw that the 'Tuba Mirum' was saved, he said: 'What a cold perspiration I have been in! Without you we should have been lost.' 'Yes, I know,' I answered, looking fixedly at him. I did not add another word.... Had he done it on purpose?... Could it be possible that this man had dared to join my enemy, the director, and Cherubini's friends, in plotting and attempting such rascality? I don't wish to believe it ... but I cannot doubt it. God forgive me if I am doing the man injustice! "The success of the 'Requiem' was complete, in spite of all the conspiracies--cowardly, atrocious, officious, and official--which would fain have hindered it." BRAHMS. Johannes Brahms, one of the most eminent of living German composers, was born at Hamburg, May 7, 1833. His father was a double-bass player in the orchestra in that city, and devoted his son at a very early age to his own profession. His first piano teacher was Cossell; but to Eduard Marxsen, the Royal Music Director, he owes his real success as a composer. Brahms remained in Hamburg until 1853, when he went upon a concert-tour with Reményí, the eccentric and somewhat sensational Hungarian, who has been a familiar figure upon the American concert-stage. He remained with him, however, but a very short time, for in October of that year they parted company. Brahms had attracted the notice of Liszt and Joachim; and it may have been through their advice that the musical partnership was dissolved. In any event, soon after leaving Reményí he went to Düsseldorf and visited Schumann. It was the latter who announced him to the world in such strong words as these:-- "In following with the greatest interest the paths of these elect [Joachim, Naumann, Norman, Bargiel, Kirchner, Schäffer, Dietrich, and Wilsing], I thought that after such forerunners there would, and must at last, all on a sudden appear one whose mission it would be to utter the highest expression of his time in an ideal manner,--one who would attain mastery, not by degrees, but, like Minerva, would at once spring completely armed from the head of Cronion.... May the highest genius give him strength for that of which there is hope, as in him dwells also another genius, that of modesty! We bid him welcome as a strong champion." The next year (1854) appeared his first works,--three sonatas, a trio, scherzo for piano, and three books of songs. After a visit to Liszt at Weimar, he settled down as chorus-conductor and music-teacher at the court of Lippe-Detmold, where he remained a few years. During this period he devoted himself assiduously to composition. After leaving Detmold, he successively resided in Hamburg, Zürich, and Baden-Baden, though most of his time has been spent in Vienna, where he has directed the Singakademie and the concerts of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. Schumann's prophecy has been made good; Brahms is to-day one of the most eminent of living musicians. Among his most famous compositions are a Funeral Hymn for chorus and wind-band; the "German Requiem;" "Triumphlied," for double-chorus and orchestra; "Schicksallied," for chorus and orchestra; five symphonies; variations on a theme of Haydn, for orchestra; the Tragic and Academic overtures; and several trios, quartets, quintets, sextets, concertos, and sonatas. The German Requiem. The "German Requiem," so called, is not a requiem in its sentiment, nor in any sense a religious service. The poem is full of consolation for the mourner, of assurances of joy hereafter, of warnings against the pomps and vanities of the world, and closes with the victory of the saints over death and the grave. It might with more propriety be called "a sacred cantata." The work has seven numbers,--two baritone solos and chorus, soprano solo and chorus, and four separate choruses. It was first performed at Bremen on Good Friday, 1868, and in 1873 was first heard in England. It was also given at the Cincinnati festival of 1884, under Mr. Thomas's direction. The opening chorus ("Blessed are they that go mourning") is beautifully written, and is particularly noticeable for the richness of its accompaniment. In the Funeral March, which follows, a very graphic resemblance to the measured tread of the cortège is accomplished by the use of triple time. In this, as well as in numerous other instances, the composer cuts loose from ordinary methods, and in pure classical form and by the use of legitimate musical processes achieves what others seek to effect by sensuous or purely imitative music. The third number ("Lord, make me to know the Measure of my Days on Earth") opens with a baritone solo, followed by two choral fugues, which are solidly constructed, though they are extremely difficult to sing, and call for a chorus of unusual discipline and intelligence. The fourth, for chorus ("How lovely is Thy Dwelling-place, O Lord of Hosts"), is in striking contrast with its predecessor, being a slow movement, and very melodious in style. The fifth ("Ye now are sorrowful, grieve not"), for soprano solo and chorus, shows the composer's unusual power as a song-writer, as well as his melodious attractiveness when melody answers his purpose. In the next number, set for chorus with baritone solo responses ("Here on Earth we have no continuing Place, we seek now a heavenly one"), the character of the music changes again, and the resurrection of the dead is pictured in fugal passages of tremendous power and difficulty. After the storm comes the calm again in the finale ("Blessed are the Faithful who in the Lord are sleeping"), which contains a reminiscence of the opening number, and closes the work in a gentle, but deeply serious strain. It was the "German Requiem" which first made Brahms famous; it confirmed all that Schumann had said of him. Its great difficulties require an extraordinary chorus and orchestra; but when these can be had, the power and beauty of the work will always be conceded. COSTA. Michael Costa, the eminent conductor and composer, was born at Naples, Feb. 4, 1810. Having displayed musical aptitude at a very early age, he was placed in the Royal Academy of Music. Before his twenty-first year he had composed several works, among them a mass for four voices, a "Dixit Dominus," three symphonies, an oratorio, "La Passione," the ballet music to "Kenilworth," and the operas, "Il Delitto punito," "Il Sospetto funesto," "Il carcere d' Ildegonda," and "Malvina,"--the last for the San Carlo at Naples. In 1829 he was sent to England by his master Zingarelli to conduct one of the latter's compositions at Birmingham; and that country thereafter became his home. The next year he was engaged at the King's Theatre, now known as Her Majesty's, as piano-master, and two years later became the musical director. He was the first to bring the band to its proper place, though he had to make a hard fight against the ballet, which at that time threatened to absorb both singers and orchestra, and to sweep the musical drama from the stage. He succeeded, however, and did much also to improve the composition of the orchestra. While holding this position he wrote the ballets, "Une heure à Naples" and "Sir Huon" for Taglioni, and "Alma" for Cerito, the beautiful quartet, "Ecco quel fiero istante," and the operas "Malek Adhel" for Paris in 1837, and "Don Carlos" for London in 1844. He remained at Her Majesty's Theatre for fifteen years, during which time he did a great work for singers and band, and reduced the ballet to its proper rank. In 1846 he left his position and went to the new Italian opera at Covent Garden, where he remained for a quarter of a century, absolute in his musical supremacy and free to deal with all works as he pleased, among them those of Meyerbeer, at that time the most prominent composer in the operatic world; for Wagner as yet was scarcely known. It is to Costa that Meyerbeer owes his English reputation. In the same year (1846) he took the direction of the Philharmonic orchestra, and two years later that of the Sacred Harmonic Society, which he held until his death, and as conductor of which he also directed the Handel festivals. In 1849 he was engaged for the Birmingham festivals, and also conducted them until his death. In 1854 he resigned his position with the Philharmonic, and his successor, for a brief time only, was Richard Wagner. His oratorio, "Eli," was composed for the Birmingham Festival of 1855, and his second oratorio, "Naaman," for the same festival in 1864. In 1869 he was knighted, and shortly afterwards, when his "Eli" was produced at Stuttgart, it won for him the royal order of Frederick from the King of Würtemberg. He also had decorations from the sovereigns of Germany, Turkey, Italy, and the Netherlands, in recognition of his musical accomplishments. In 1871 he returned again to Her Majesty's Opera in the capacity of "director of the music, composer, and conductor;" but a few years ago he again dissolved his connection with it, and devoted himself entirely to the private management and public direction of the Sacred Harmonic Society, with which he was identified for over thirty years. He died in April, 1884. Eli. The oratorio of "Eli," the text taken from the first book of Samuel, and adapted by William Bartholomew, was first performed at the Birmingham Festival, Aug. 29, 1855, under Costa's own direction, with Mesdames Viardot and Novello and Messrs. Sims Reeves and Carl Formes in the principal parts. The characters are Eli, Elkanah, Hannah, Samuel, the Man of God, Saph the Philistine warrior, Hophni and Phinehas the sons of Eli, and the Priests and Philistines as chorus. The story is not very consistent in its outlines, and is fragmentary withal, the narrative of the child Samuel being the central theme, around which are grouped the tribulations of Elkanah and Hannah, the service of Eli the priest, the revels of his profligate sons, and the martial deeds of the Philistines. The overture opens with a pianissimo prelude for organ in chorale form, followed by an orchestral fugue well worked up, but very quiet in character. Indeed, the whole overture is mostly pianissimo. In striking contrast follows the opening recitative for bass ("Blow ye the Trumpet"), which is the signal for those instruments, and introduces the first chorus ("Let us go to pray before the Lord"), beginning with a soft staccato which gradually works up to a jubilant climax on the words "Make a joyful Noise." A tenor solo for Elkanah is interwoven with the chorus, which closes with broad, flowing harmony. The next number, a bass air with chorus ("Let the People praise Thee"), is somewhat peculiar in its construction. It begins with the air, which is slow and tender, and at the close the chorus takes it in canon form. Then Eli intones benedictions in chorale style, and the chorus responds with "Amens" in full harmony at the end of each, making a very impressive effect. It is followed by a very elaborate chorus ("Blessed be the Lord"), closing with a fugue on the word "Amen," which is very clear and well worked up. The next number is the sorrowful prayer of the barren and grieving Hannah ("Turn Thee unto me"), which is very expressive in its mournful supplication, and splendidly contrasted with her joyous song after the birth of Samuel, of which mention will be made in its proper connection. Eli rebukes her, and a dialogue ensues, interrupted by the tender chorus, "The Lord is good." The dialogue form is again renewed, this time by Elkanah and Hannah, leading to a beautiful duet between them ("Wherefore is thy Soul cast down?"). The character of the music now changes as we enter upon a long drinking-chorus, with solos by the two revellers, Hophni and Phinehas ("For everything there is a Season"). The change from the seriousness of the preceding numbers is very abrupt, and the music of the chorus is decidedly of the conventional Italian drinking-song character. Eli appears and rebukes them, and after a cantabile aria ("Thou shouldst mark Iniquities"), a short chorus of Levites, for tenors and basses, ensues, introducing a simple, but well-sustained chorale for full chorus ("How mighty is Thy Name"). At this point the "Man of God" appears, rebuking the Levites for their polluted offerings. His denunciations are declaimed in strong, spirited phrases, accompanied by the chorus of the people ("They have profaned it"), beginning in unison. The scene now changes to the camp of the Philistines, where Saph, their man of war, shouts out his angry and boisterous defiance in his solo ("Philistines, hark, the Trumpet sounding"). It is followed by a choral response from the Philistines ("Speed us on to fight"), which is in the same robust and stirring style, though the general effect is theatrical and somewhat commonplace. Combined with it is a choral response by the priests of Dagon, of an Oriental character. After this clash of sound follows an air of a sombre style by Eli ("Hear my Prayer, O Lord"), the introduction and accompaniment of which are very striking. The "Man of God" once more appears, announcing the approaching death of Eli's sons to a weird, sepulchral accompaniment of the reeds and trombones, and leading up to a very effective duet between them ("Lord, cause Thy Face to shine upon Thy Servant"). Another chorale ensues ("O make a joyful Noise"), and after a brief recitative Hannah has a most exultant song, overflowing with love and gratitude at the birth of Samuel ("I will extol Thee, O Lord"). The first part closes with a brief recitative between Hannah and Eli, preluding a fugued chorus ("Hosanna in the highest"), built up on two motives and one of the most elaborate numbers in the oratorio. The second part opens with a chaste and lovely melody, the morning prayer of the child Samuel ("Lord, from my Bed again I rise"), followed with some pretty recitative between the child and his parents, and an unaccompanied quartet, set to the same choral theme that was heard in the organ prelude to the overture. The next number is the long and showy instrumental march of the Israelites, followed by two very striking choruses,--the first ("Hold not Thy Peace and be not still, O God") of which appeals for divine help against the enemy, and the second, an allegro ("O God, make them like a Wheel"), leads into a fugue ("So persecute them"), which is very energetic in character, and closes with the martial hymn, "God and King of Jacob's Nation," sung to the melody of the preceding march. The oratorio abounds in contrasts, and here occurs another, the evening prayer of Samuel ("This Night I lift my Heart to Thee"),--a pure, quiet melody, gradually dying away as he drops asleep, and followed by an angel chorus for female voices with harp accompaniment ("No Evil shall befall thee"), the effect of which is very beautiful, especially in the decrescendo at the close. A messenger suddenly arrives, announcing the defeat of Israel by the Philistines, upon which the chorus bursts out with one of the most telling numbers, both in the voice parts and the descriptiveness of the accompaniment ("Woe unto us, we are spoiled!"). Some very dramatic recitative between Samuel and Eli follows, after which the Levites join in the chorus, "Bless ye the Lord," opening with the tenors and closing in four parts, with the call of Eli intervening ("Watchmen, what of the Night?"). A long recitative by Samuel ("The Lord said"), foreshadowing the disasters to the house of Eli; an air by Eli ("Although my House be not with God"); a funeral chorus by the Israelites ("Lament with a doleful Lamentation"); further phrases of recitative announcing more defeats of Israel, the capture of the ark, the death of Eli and his sons, and an appeal by Samuel to blow the trumpet, calling a solemn assembly to implore the pity of the Lord,--prepare the way for the final chorus ("Blessed be the Lord"), closing with a fugue on the word "Hallelujah." The oratorio was first given in this country by the Boston Handel and Haydn Society, Feb. 15, 1857, under the direction of Carl Zerrahn, with Mr. Thomas Ball as Eli and also as Saph, Mr. Wilde as the Man of God, Mr. C. R. Adams as Elkanah, Mrs. Long as Hannah, and Miss Hawley in the contralto part of Samuel. Writing of that performance, Mr. Dwight, the careful and discriminating critic, summed up the work as follows: "As a whole, 'Eli' is a noble and impressive oratorio. The composition is learned and musician-like, and generally appropriate, tasteful, dignified, often beautiful, and occasionally grand. It is by no means a work of genius, but it is a work of high musical culture, and indicates a mind imbued with the best traditions and familiar with the best masters of the art, and a masterly command of all the modern musical resources, except the 'faculty divine,'"--which, we may be permitted to say, is not included in "modern musical resources." The characterization of the oratorio, however, is thoroughly pertinent and complete. It is somewhat remarkable that a work so excellent and having so many elements of popularity should not be given more frequently in this country. ANTON DVORÁK. Anton Dvorák, the Bohemian composer who has risen so suddenly into prominence, was born at Mülhausen, near Prague, Sept. 8, 1841. His father combined the businesses of tavern-keeper and butcher, and young Dvorák assisted him in waiting upon customers, as well as in the slaughtering business. As the laws of Bohemia stipulate that music shall be a part of common-school education, Dvorák learned the rudiments in the village school, and also received violin instruction. At the age of thirteen he went to work for an uncle who resided in a village where the schoolmaster was a proficient musician. The latter, recognizing his ability, gave him lessons on the organ, and allowed him to copy music. Piano-lessons followed, and he had soon grounded himself quite thoroughly in counterpoint. At the age of sixteen he was admitted to the organ-school at Prague, of which Joseph Pitsch was the principal. Pitsch died shortly after, and was succeeded by Kreyci, who made Dvorák acquainted with the music of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn. The first orchestral work which he heard was Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony," during its rehearsal under Spohr's direction. In 1860, being then in his nineteenth year, he obtained an engagement, with the meagre salary of $125 a year, as violinist in a band that played at cafés and dances. Two years later he secured a position in the Bohemian Opera-House at Prague, then under the direction of Mayer, where he remained until 1871, in which year he left the theatre and devoted himself to teaching, with the prospect of earning $250 a year. These were hard days for the young musician; but while he was thus struggling for a bare subsistence he continued writing compositions, though he had no prospect of selling them or of having them played. One writer remarks on this point: "It is far from difficult to compare him in this respect with that marvellous embodiment of patience and enthusiasm, Franz Schubert; only, more fortunate than the Viennese master, the Bohemian has lived to receive his reward. Between these two men another point of resemblance appears. Neither can be charged with pushing or intriguing himself into prominence. Schubert had plenty of artistic ambition, but of personal ambition none; while the quality he so entirely lacked cannot be accredited to Dvorák, who spent the best part of his life in the enjoyment of merely local fame." About this time he wrote his "Patriotic Hymn" and the opera "König und Köhler." The latter was rejected after an orchestral trial; but he continued his work, undaunted by failure. Shortly after this he received the appointment of organist at the Adelbert Church, Prague, and fortune began to smile upon him. His symphony in F was laid before the Minister of Instruction in Vienna, and upon the recommendation of Herbeck secured him a grant of $200. When Brahms replaced Herbeck on the committee which reported upon artists' stipends, he fully recognized Dvorák's ability, and not only encouraged him, but also brought him before the world by securing him a publisher and commending him to Joachim, who still further advanced his interests by securing performances of his works in Germany and England. Since that time he has risen rapidly, and is now recognized as one of the most promising of living composers. Among his works which have been produced during the past few years are the "Stabat Mater," the cantata "The Spectre Bride," three operas in the Czechist dialect, three orchestral symphonies, several Slavonic rhapsodies, overtures, violin and piano concertos, an exceedingly beautiful sextet, and numerous songs. The Stabat Mater. Dvorák's "Stabat Mater" was written in 1875. It was sent to the Austrian Minister of Instruction, but was not deemed worthy of the grant of $200 which the composer had expected. Its merit was subsequently recognized by Brahms and Joachim, and the latter secured a hearing of it in London in 1883. It immediately made its composer famous. The Philharmonic Society invited him to London, and the work was given with great success at the Albert Hall, and later at the Worcester and Hereford festivals. It was in England indeed that his celebrity was established, and for that country all his new works are now written. The "Stabat Mater" is written for soli, chorus, and orchestra, and comprises ten numbers. The first is the quartet and chorus, "Stabat Mater dolorosa," and carries the old Latin hymn as far as the "Quis est homo." After an orchestral introduction which gives out the principal motives on which the number is based, the vocal quartet begins. The materials of which it is composed are very simple, but they are worked up with great technical skill. The general effect is tragic rather than pathetic, as if the composer were contemplating not so much the grief of the Virgin Mother at the foot of the Cross as the awful nature of the tragedy itself and its far-reaching consequences. The second number is the quartet "Quis est homo." After a short introduction, the theme is taken by the alto, followed by the tenor and bass, and lastly by the soprano, the general structure growing more elaborate at each entrance. After the second subject is introduced a splendid climax is reached, and in the coda the voices whisper the words "vidit suum" to an accompaniment of wind instruments in sustained and impressive chords. The third number, "Eia Mater," is built up on an exceedingly brief motive, which is augmented with surprising power in choral form. It is a work of scholarly skill, and yet is full of charm and grace, and will always commend itself even to the untutored hearer by its tenderness and pathetic beauty. The fourth number, "Fac ut ardeat cor meum," for bass solo and chorus, like the third is most skilfully constructed out of small materials, and has a fine contrast between the solo and the chorus, which at its entrance is assigned to the female voices only, with organ accompaniment. The fifth number is the chorus "Tui nati vulnerati," which is remarkable for the smooth and flowing manner in which its two subjects are treated. The sixth number, "Fac me vere tecum flere," for tenor solo and chorus, is very elaborate in its construction. A stately theme is given out by the tenor, repeated in three-part harmony by male voices, the accompaniment being independent in form; the subject then returns, first for solo, and then for male voices, in varying harmonies. After a brief vocal episode the subject reappears in still different form, and, followed by the episode worked up at length in a coda, brings the number to its close. The seventh number, "Virgo, virgonum præclara," for full chorus, is marked by great simplicity and tenderness, and will always be one of the most popular sections of the work. The eighth number, "Fac ut portem," is a duet for soprano and tenor, responsive in character, and constructed on very simple phrases presented in varying forms both by the voices and orchestra. The ninth number, "Inflammatus et accensus," is one of the most masterly in the whole work. It is an alto solo composed of two subjects, the first very majestic, and the second pathetic in character, forming a contrast of great power and beauty. The tenth and closing number, "Quando corpus morietur," for quartet and chorus, is constructed substantially upon the same themes which appeared in the "Stabat Mater," and closes with an "Amen" of a massive character, exhibiting astonishing contrapuntal skill. One of the best English critics says of the whole work:-- "The 'Stabat Mater' approaches as near to greatness as possible, if it be not actually destined to rank among world-renowned masterpieces. It is fresh and new, while in harmony with the established canons of art; and though apparently labored and over-developed in places, speaks with the force and directness of genius." GOUNOD. Charles François Gounod was born in Paris, June 17, 1818. His fame has been made world-wide by the extraordinary success of his opera "Faust," and yet more than almost any other operatic composer of modern times he has devoted himself to sacred music. His earlier studies were pursued in Paris at the Conservatory, under the tuition of Paër and Lesueur, and in 1839 the receipt of the Grand Prix gave him the coveted opportunity to go to Italy. In the atmosphere of Rome religious influences made a strong impression upon him. He devoted himself assiduously to the study of Palestrina, and among his first important compositions were a mass performed at the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi in 1841, and a second, written without accompaniment, which was given in Vienna two years later. On his return to Paris, religious ideas still retained their sway over him, and he became organist and conductor at the Missions étrangères. He even contemplated taking orders, and attended a theological course for two years. In 1846 he became a pupil at the Séminaire; but at last he gave up his priestly intentions and devoted himself wholly to musical composition, though he has been, if not a devotee, a religious enthusiast all his life, and that too in the midst of a peculiarly worldly career. It was about this period that he wrote his "Messe Solenelle" in G,--the first of his compositions that was ever produced in England. It was cordially received, and he was universally recognized as a promising musician. For many years succeeding this event he devoted himself mainly to secular music, and opera after opera rapidly came from his pen,--"Sappho" (1851); "Nonne Sanglante" (1854); "Le Médecin malgré lui" (1858); "Faust," his greatest work, and one of the most successful of modern operas (1859); "Philémon et Baucis" (1860); "Reine de Saba" (1862); "Mireille" (1864); "La Colombe" (1866); "Roméo et Juliette" (1867); "Cinq Mars" (1877), and "Polyeucte" (1878). Notwithstanding the attention he gave to opera and to much other secular music, he found ample time for the composition of sacred works. In 1852, while in Paris, he became conductor of the Orphéon, and for the pupils of that institution he composed two masses. He has also written a great number of pieces for choir use which are very popular, and deservedly so, particularly the beautiful song "Nazareth." Among his larger works are a "Stabat Mater," with orchestral accompaniment; the oratorio "Tobie;" a "De Profundis" and an "Ave Verum;" and the two oratorios, "The Redemption," performed at Birmingham in 1882, and "Mors et Vita," brought out at the same place in 1885. The composer is now engaged upon the scheme of a new oratorio, the career of Joan of Arc being its subject. It may be said in closing this sketch, which has been mainly confined to a consideration of his sacred compositions, as his operatic career has been fully treated in "Standard Operas," that in 1873 he wrote the incidental music to Jules Barbier's tragedy, "Jeanne d'Arc," which may have inspired his determination to write an oratorio on the same subject. The Redemption. "The Redemption, a Sacred Trilogy," is the title which Gounod gave to this work, and on its opening page he wrote: "The work of my life." In a note appended to his description of its contents he says:-- "It was during the autumn of the year 1867 that I first thought of composing a musical work on the Redemption. I wrote the words at Rome, where I passed two months of the winter 1867-68 with my friend Hébert, the celebrated painter, at that time director of the Academy of France. Of the music I then composed only two fragments: first, 'The March to Calvary' in its entirety; second, the opening of the first division of the third part, 'The Pentecost.' Twelve years afterwards I finished the work, which had so long been interrupted, with a view to its being performed at the festival at Birmingham in 1882." It was brought out, as he contemplated, in August of that year, and the production was a memorable one. It was first heard in this country in the winter of 1883-84 under Mr. Theodore Thomas's direction, and was one of the prominent works in his series of festivals in the latter year. Gounod himself has prefaced the music with an admirably concise description of the text and its various subjects. Of its general contents he says: "This work is a lyrical setting forth of the three great facts on which depends the existence of the Christian Church. These facts are,--first, the passion and the death of the Saviour; second, his glorious life on earth from his resurrection to his ascension; third, the spread of Christianity in the world through the mission of the Apostles. These three parts of the present trilogy are preceded by a prologue on the creation, the fall of our first parents, and the promise of a redeemer." The divisions of the work are as follows:-- Prologue.--The Creation. Part I.--Calvary. Part II.--From the Resurrection to the Ascension. Part III.--The Pentecost. The prologue comprises the Mosaic account of the creation and fall of man, involving the necessity of divine mediation, the promise of redemption, and the annunciation of the mystery of the incarnation of the Holy Virgin. After a brief instrumental introduction, descriptive of chaos, the tenor Narrator announces the completion of creation in recitative, followed by a similar declamation from the bass Narrator announcing the fall of man, the tenor Narrator answering with the announcement of the Redeemer's advent ("But of the Spotless Lamb"), in which we have for the first time a genuine Wagnerian _leit motif_, which runs through the music of the oratorio whenever allusion is made to the divine atonement. This typical melody is heard nine times,--three times in the prologue, twice in the scene of the crucifixion, once in our Saviour's promise to the thieves on the cross, once in his appearance to the holy women, and twice in the ascension. It is first given out as a violin solo, and at the close of the tenor recitative is repeated by all the strings, leading to the mystic chorale, "The Earth is my Possession," to be sung by a celestial choir of twenty-eight voices. At its close the typical melody is introduced in responsive form between flute and clarinet. To the first, the angelic message of the annunciation, Gounod has affixed the title, "Ave, gratia plena;" and to the second, the reply of Mary, "Fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum." The first part includes the march to Calvary, which is divided into six separate numbers, yet so connected as to make a single musical series,--the crucifixion, Mary at the foot of the cross, the dying thieves, the death of Jesus, and the confession of his divinity by the centurion. It opens with the story of the condemnation of the Man of Sorrows by Pilate, told by the bass Narrator, the words of Jesus himself, however, being used invariably in the first person, and sung by the baritone voice, as when he says, "If my Deeds have been evil," immediately following the bass recitative. After another monologue by the Narrator, ensues the march to the cross,--an instrumental number which is brilliant in its color effects and somewhat barbaric in tone. Without any break, the sopranos enter with the words, "Forth the Royal Banners go," set to a melody from the Roman Catholic liturgy; after which the march is resumed. The bass Narrator tells the story of the women who followed lamenting, interrupted by a semi-chorus of sopranos singing the lament, and by the words of Jesus, "Ye Daughters of Israel, weep not for me." Again the march is heard, and the sopranos resume ("Forth the Royal Banners go"). The tenor Narrator recites the preparation for the crucifixion, accompanied by very descriptive music, and followed by a stormy chorus of the People ("Ha! thou that didst declare"), and the mocking cries of the priests ("Can he now save himself?"), sung by a male chorus. In a pathetic monologue Jesus appeals for their pardon, which leads to an elaborate concerted number for chorus or quartet, called "The Reproaches." A conversation ensues between Jesus and Mary, followed by the quartet, "Beside the Cross remaining," in canon form, preluding the chorale, "While my Watch I am keeping," at first sung by Mary, and then taken up by the full chorus, accompanied by organ, trombones, and trumpets. The next scene is that between Jesus and the two Thieves, which also leads to a chorale ("Lord Jesus, thou to all bringest Light and Salvation"). This number contains the last touch of brightness in the first part. Immediately the bass Narrator announces the approach of the awful tragedy. The gathering darkness is pictured by a vivid passage for strings and clarinet, succeeded by the agonizing cries of the Saviour. The bass Narrator declares the consummation of the tragedy, and then with the tenor Narrator describes the throes of Nature ("And then the Air was filled with a Murmur unwonted"), the rending of the veil of the Temple, the breaking of the rocks, the earthquake, and the visions of the saintly apparitions. The last number is the conviction of the centurion, followed by a short chorale ("For us the Christ is made a Victim availing"). The second part includes the announcement of the doctrine of the resurrection by the mystic chorus, the appearance of the Angel to the Holy Women at the sepulchre, that of Jesus to them while on the way to Galilee, the consternation of the Sanhedrim when it is learned that the tomb is empty, the meeting of the Holy Women and the Apostles, the appearance of Jesus to the latter, and his final ascension. It opens with a chorus for the mystic choir ("Saviour of Men"), followed by a short pastorale with muted strings and leading to a trio for the three Women ("How shall we by ourselves have Strength to roll away the Stone?"). Their apprehensions are removed by the tenor Narrator and the message of the Angel interwoven with the harp and conveyed in the beautiful aria, "Why seek ye the Living among the Dead?" Jesus at last reveals himself to the Women with the words, "All hail! Blessed are ye Women," accompanied by the typical melody, of which mention has already been made. The three Women disappear on the way to convey his message to the Disciples, and the scene changes to the Sanhedrim, where, in a tumultuous and agitated chorus for male voices ("Christ is risen again"), the story of the empty tomb is told by the Watchers. The bass Narrator relates the amazement of the priests and elders, and their plot to bribe the guard, leading to the chorus for male voices ("Say ye that in the Night his Disciples have come and stolen him away"), at the close of which ensues a full, massive chorus ("Now, behold ye the Guard, this, your Sleep-vanquished Guard"), closing with the denunciation in unison ("For Ages on your Heads shall Contempt be outpoured"). The tenor and bass Narrators in duet tell of the sorrow of the Disciples, which prepares the way for a lovely trio for first and second soprano and alto ("The Lord he has risen again"). The next number is one of the most effective in the whole work,--a soprano obligato solo, accompanied by the full strength of chorus and orchestra, to the words: "From thy love as a Father, O Lord, teach us to gather That life will conquer death. They who seek things eternal Shall rise to light supernal On wings of lovely faith." In the close the effect is sublime, the climax reaching to C in alt with the full power of the accompanying forces. Then follows a dialogue between the Saviour and his Apostles, in which he gives them their mission to the world. The finale then begins with a massive chorus ("Unfold, ye Portals everlasting"). The celestial chorus above, accompanied by harps and trumpets, inquire, "But who is he, the King of Glory?" The answer comes in a stately unison by the terrestrial chorus, "He who Death overcame." Again the question is asked, and again it is answered; whereupon the two choirs are massed in the jubilant chorus, "Unfold! for lo the King comes nigh!" the full orchestra and organ sounding the Redemption melody, and the whole closing with a fanfare of trumpets. The third part includes the prophecy of the millennium, the descent of the Holy Ghost to the Apostles, the Pentecostal manifestations, and the Hymn of the Apostles. The latter is so important that the composer's own analysis is appended:-- "This division of the third part of the work, the last and one of the most highly developed of the trilogy, comprises seven numbers, and gives a summary of the Christian faith. "1. The Apostles first proclaim the three great doctrines of the Incarnation of the Word, his eternal generation, and his continual presence with his Church. This first number is written in a style which is intended to recall the form and rhythm of the chants called 'Proses' in the Catholic liturgy. "2. Quartet and Chorus. 'By faith salvation comes, and by peace consolation.' "3. Chorus. His power manifested by miracles. "4. Quartet. 'O come to me, all ye that are sad and that weep.' "5. Semi-Chorus. The Beatitudes. "6. Repetition of the theme of No. 1, with the whole choir, the orchestra, and the great organ. "7. Final Coda. Glorification of the Most Holy Trinity throughout all ages." This part of the oratorio, after a short instrumental prelude, opens with a brief chorus ("Lovely appear over the Mountains"), followed by a soprano solo, the only distinct number of that kind in the work, set to the words, "Over the barren Wastes shall Flowers have possession," at its close the chorus resuming in unison, "Lovely appear over the Mountains." The next number is "The Apostles in Prayer," an instrumental sketch, followed by the Narrators relating the descent of the Holy Spirit. Without break, the Apostles' Hymn begins, tenors and basses in unison ("The Word is Flesh become") leading into the quartet of solo voices ("By Faith Salvation comes, and by Peace, Consolation"). The chorus responds antiphonally, and again the solo voices are heard in a lovely quartet ("He has said to all the Unhappy"), followed by a small choir of thirty voices ("Blessed are the poor in Spirit"), at the end of which all the voices are massed on the Apostles' Hymn, which closes in fugal form on the words, "He like the Holy Ghost is one with the Father, an everlasting Trinity," the whole ending in massive chords. Mors et Vita. The oratorio "Mors et Vita" ("Death and Life") is the continuation of "The Redemption," and, like that work also, is a trilogy. It was first performed at the Birmingham Festival, Aug. 26, 1885, under the direction of Herr Hans Richter, the principal parts being sung by Mesdames Albani and Patey and Messrs. Santley and Lloyd. Its companion oratorio, "The Redemption," was dedicated to Queen Victoria, and itself to His Holiness Pope Leo XIII. In his preface to the work, Gounod says:-- "It will perhaps be asked why, in the title, I have placed death before life, although in the order of temporal things life precedes death. Death is only the end of that existence which dies each day; it is only the end of a continual 'dying.' But it is the first moment, and, as it were, the birth of that which dies no more. I cannot here enter into a detailed analysis of the different musical forms which express the meaning and idea of this work. I do not wish to expose myself to the reproach either of pretension or subtlety. I shall therefore confine myself to pointing out the essential features of the ideas I have wished to express,--that is to say, the tears which death causes us to shed here below; the hope of a better life; the solemn dread of unerring justice; the tender and filial trust in eternal love." The composer further calls attention in his preface to the use of representative themes, an illustration of which was also noted in "The Redemption." The first one, consisting of four notes, presenting a sequence of three major seconds, is intended to express "the terror inspired by the sense of the inflexibility of justice and, in consequence, by that of the anguish of punishment. Its sternness gives expression both to the sentences of divine justice and the sufferings of the condemned, and is found in combination throughout the whole work, with melodic forms which express sentiments altogether different, as in the 'Sanctus' and the 'Pie Jesu' in the 'Requiem,' which forms the first part." It is first heard in the opening chorus, and for the last time in the quartet of the third part. The second melodic form, expressive of sorrow and tears, by the change of a single note and the use of the major key is made to express consolation and joy. "The third," says Gounod, "by means of threefold superposition, results in the interval of an augmented fifth, and announces the awakening of the dead at the terrifying call of the angelic trumpets, of which Saint Paul speaks in one of his epistles to the Corinthians." The oratorio is divided into a prologue and three parts, the Latin text being used throughout. The first part is entitled "Mors," and opens with the prologue, which is brief, followed by the "Requiem," interspersed with texts of a reflective character commenting upon the sentiment. The second part is entitled "Judicium" ("Judgment"), and includes (1) The Sleep of the Dead; (2) The Trumpets at the Last Judgment; (3) The Resurrection of the Dead; (4) The Judge; (5) The Judgment of the Elect; (6) The Judgment of the Rejected. The third part is entitled "Vita," and includes the vision of Saint John, the text being taken from the Apocalypse; the work closing with an "Hosanna in Excelsis," exulting in the glorious vision of the heavenly Jerusalem. The prologue, which is sustained by the chorus and baritone solo, declares the terrors of death and the judgment. The chorus intones the words, "It is a Fearful Thing to fall into the Hands of the Living God," and in this phrase is heard the chief motive, heavily accented by the percussion instruments,--the motive which typifies death both of the body and of the unredeemed soul. Immediately after follows the baritone voice, that of Jesus, in the familiar words, "I am the Resurrection and the Life." The chorus repeats the declaration, and the Requiem Mass then begins, divided into various sections, of which the "Dies Iræ" is the most important; this in turn subdivided in the conventional form. After an adagio prelude and the intonation of the "Requiem æternam," an interpolated text occurs ("From the Morning Watch till the Evening"), set as a double chorus without accompaniment, in the genuine Church style of the old masters. It leads directly to the "Dies Iræ," in which the death motive already referred to frequently occurs. It is laid out in duets, quartets, and arias, with and without chorus, very much in the same tempo and of the same character of melody. The verse, "Ah! what shall we then be pleading?" for quartet and chorus, is remarkable for its attractive melody. It is followed by a soprano solo and chorus ("Happy are we, with such a Saviour") of a reflective character, which gives out still another very tuneful melody. The hymn is then resumed with the verse, "Faint and worn, thou yet hast sought us," for duet and chorus, which is of the same general character. The next verse, "Lord, for Anguish hear us moaning," for quartet and chorus, is very effective and elaborate in its construction, particularly as compared with that immediately following ("With the Faithful deign to place us"), a tenor solo of a quaint and pastoral character. The next number for chorus ("While the wicked are confounded") affords still another striking contrast, being in the grandiose style and very dramatic, closing with phrases for the solo voices expressive of submission and contrition. Up to this point the "Dies Iræ" has been monotonous in its sameness of general style; but the next verse ("Day of Weeping, Day of Mourning") is a beautiful and thoroughly original number of very striking effect. It leads directly to the offertory ("O Lord Jesus Christ, King of Glory"), which is composed of a chorus for eight parts, a soprano solo ("But, Lord, do thou bring them evermore"), a chorus ("Which once to Abraham"), and a second chorus ("Sacrifice of Prayer and Praise"). The soprano solo is a delightful melody, sung to a delicate accompaniment of the strings, with occasional chords on the harp, and based upon the beautiful second typical motive, which the composer styles "The Motive of Happiness." The chorus, "Which once to Abraham," is set in fugue form, which is the conventional style among composers with this number; but, as in "The Redemption," whenever Gounod employs the fugue form, he drops it as soon as the four voices have fairly launched themselves. The next number is the "Sanctus,"--a beautiful tenor aria with chorus, full of that sweetness which is so characteristic of Gounod. It is followed by the quartet, "Mighty Saviour, Jesus blest," which is deeply religious in character; the lovely soprano solo and chorus, "Agnus Dei;" and the chorus, "Lord, forever let Light Eternal." The first part is rounded off with an epilogue, an interlude for full orchestra and organ, based upon the first and second typical melodies, forming a consistent and stately finale to this part of the work. The second part is peculiar for the prominence which the composer assigns to the orchestra. It opens with a well-sustained, gentle adagio movement, entitled "The Sleep of the Dead," which at times is somewhat harshly interrupted by the third typical melody, announcing the awakening of the dead at the terrifying call of the angelic trumpets. This is specially noticeable in that part of the prelude called "The Trumpet of the Last Judgment," in which the trombones, trumpets, and tubas are employed with extraordinary effect. Still a third phrase of the prelude occurs,--"The Resurrection of the Dead,"--which is smooth and flowing in its style, and peculiarly rich in harmony. A brief recitative by baritone ("But when the Son of Man") intervenes, immediately followed by another instrumental number, entitled "Judex" ("The Judge"),--one of the most effective pieces of orchestration in the oratorio, based upon the motive which indicates the tempering of justice with mercy, given out by the strings in unison. It preludes a short chorus ("Sitting upon the Throne"), the previous melody still continuing in the orchestra. The "Judgment of the Elect" follows, pronounced by the baritone voice in recitative, and leading directly to the soprano solo, "The Righteous shall enter into Glory eternal,"--the most exquisite solo number in the work,--followed by an effective chorale ("In Remembrance everlasting"). Then follows "The Judgment of the Rejected," consisting of baritone solos and chorus, closing the second part. The third part celebrates the delights of the celestial city as pictured in the apocalyptic vision of Saint John, and is in marked contrast to the gloom and sombreness of the Requiem music, as well as the terrors of the Judgment. It is bright, jubilant, and exultant throughout. The title of the prelude is "New Heaven, New Earth." The baritone intones the recitative ("And I saw the New Heaven"), which is followed by another delightful sketch for the orchestra ("Celestial Jerusalem"),--a most vivid and graphic picture of the subject it describes. The remaining prominent numbers are the "Sanctus" chorus, the celestial chorus ("I am Alpha and Omega"), and the final chorus ("Hosanna in Excelsis"), which closes this remarkable work. The weakest part of the oratorio is the "Requiem," which suffers from the monotony of its divisions, especially when compared with the treatment of requiems by the great composers who have made them a special study. As compared with the "Redemption," however, it is more interesting, because it is more melodious and less cumbered with recitative. It is also peculiarly noticeable for the free manner in which the composer uses the orchestra, and the skill with which the typical melodies are employed, as compared with which the solitary "Redemption" motive seems weak and thin. Both works are full of genuine religious sentiment, and taken together cover almost the entire scope of human aspiration so far as it relates to the other world. No composer has conceived a broader scheme for oratorio. Though Gounod does not always reach the sublime and majestic heights of the old masters in sacred music, yet the feeling manifested in these works is never anything but religious; the hearer is always surrounded by an atmosphere of devotion. HANDEL. George Frederick Handel was born at Halle, in Lower Saxony, Feb. 23, 1685, and, like many another composer, revealed his musical promise at a very early age, only to encounter parental opposition. His father intended him to be a lawyer; but Nature had her way, and in spite of domestic antagonism triumphed. The Duke of Saxe-Weissenfels recognized his ability and overcame the father's determination. Handel began his studies with Zachau, organist of the Halle cathedral. After the death of his father, in 1697, he went to Hamburg, and for a time played in the orchestra of the German opera. It was during his residence in that city that he wrote his first opera, "Almira" (1705). In the following year he went to Italy, where he remained several months under the patronage of the Grand Duke of Florence. During the next two years he visited Venice, Rome, and Naples, and wrote several operas and minor oratorios. In 1709 he returned to Germany, and the Elector of Hanover, subsequently George I. of England, offered him the position of Capellmeister, which he accepted upon the condition that he might visit England, having received many invitations from that country. The next year he arrived in London and brought out his opera of "Rinaldo," which proved a great success. At the end of six months he was obliged to return to his position in Hanover; but his English success made him impatient of the dulness of the court. In 1712 he was in London again, little dreaming that the Elector would soon follow him as king. Incensed with him for leaving Hanover, the King at first refused to receive him; but some music which Handel composed for an aquatic fête in his honor brought about the royal reconciliation. In 1718 he accepted the position of chapel-master to the Duke of Chandos, for whom he wrote the famous Chandos Te Deum and Anthems, the serenata "Acis and Galatea," and "Esther," his first English oratorio. In 1720 he was engaged as director of Italian opera by the society of noblemen known as the Royal Academy of Music, and from that time until 1740 his career was entirely of an operatic character. Opera after opera came from his pen. Some were successful, others failed. At first composer, then director, he finally became _impresario_, only to find himself confronted with bitter rivalry, especially at the hands of Buononcini and Porpora. Cabals were instituted against him. Unable to contend with them alone, he formed a partnership with Heidegger, proprietor of the King's Theatre, in 1729. It was broken in 1734, and he took the management of Covent Garden. The Italian conspiracies against him broke out afresh. He failed in his undertaking, and became a bankrupt. In eight years he had lost $51,000 in Italian opera. Slanders of all sorts were circulated against him, and his works were no longer well received. In the midst of his adversity sickness overtook him, ending with a partial stroke of paralysis. When sufficiently recovered, he went to the Continent, where he remained for a few months. On his return to London he brought out some new works, but they were not favorably received. A few friends who had remained faithful to him persuaded him to give a benefit concert, which was a great success. It inspired him with fresh courage; but he did not again return to the operatic world. Thenceforward he devoted himself to oratorio, in which he made his name famous for all time. He himself said: "Sacred music is best suited to a man descending in the vale of years." "Saul" and the colossal "Israel in Egypt," written in 1740, head the list of his wonderful oratorios. In 1741 he was invited to visit Ireland. He went there in November, and many of his works were produced during the winter and received with great enthusiasm. In April, 1742, his immortal "Messiah" was brought out at Dublin. It was followed by "Samson," "Joseph," "Semele," "Belshazzar," and "Hercules," which were also successful; but even in the midst of his oratorio work his rivals did not cease their conspiracies against him, and in 1744 he was once more a bankrupt. For over a year his pen was idle. In 1746 the "Occasional Oratorio" and "Judas Maccabæus" appeared, and these were speedily followed by "Joshua," "Solomon," "Susanna," "Theodora," and "Jephtha." It was during the composition of the last-named work that he was attacked with the illness which finally proved fatal. He died April 14, 1759, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. During the last few days of his life he was heard to express the wish that he "might breathe his last on Good Friday, in hopes of meeting his good God, his sweet Lord and Saviour, on the day of his resurrection." The wish was granted him; for it was on Good Friday that he passed away, leaving behind him a name and fame that will be cherished so long as music retains its power over the human heart. Israel in Egypt. "Israel in Egypt," the fifth of the nineteen oratorios which Handel composed in England, was written in 1738. The Exodus, which is now the second part, was written between the 1st and the 11th of October, and was superscribed, "Moses' Song, Exodus, Chap. xv., begun Oct. 1, 1738;" and at the close was written, "Fine, Oct. 11, 1738." It is evident from this that the work was at first written as a cantata, but that Handel on reflection decided that the plagues of Egypt would not only be a good subject, but would also prove a logical historical introduction to the second part. Four days later he began the first part, and finished it on the 1st of November,--the composition of the whole of this colossal work thus occupying but twenty-seven days. It was first performed as "Israel in Egypt," April 4, 1739, at the King's Theatre, of which Handel was then manager. It was given the second time April 11, "with alterations and additions," the alterations having been made in order to admit of the introduction of songs. The third performance took place April 17, upon which occasion the "Funeral Anthem," which he had written for Queen Caroline, was used as a first part and entitled, "Lamentations of the Israelites for the Death of Joseph." During the lifetime of Handel the oratorio was only performed nine times, for in spite of its excellence, it was a failure. For many years after his death it was produced in mutilated form; but in 1849 the Sacred Harmonic Society of London gave it as it was originally written and as we know it now, without the Funeral Anthem or any of the songs which had been introduced. The text of the oratorio is supposed to have been written by Handel himself, though the words are taken literally from the Bible. Schoelcher says: "The manuscript does not contain any of the names of the personages. Nevertheless, the handbook, which includes the extracts from Solomon for the first parts, has in this part the names of personages (High Priest, Joseph, Israelite woman, Israelite man), as if the composer wished to throw it into a dramatic form. The words in their Biblical simplicity form a poem eminently dramatic." The first part opens with the wail of the Israelites over the burdens imposed upon them by their Egyptian taskmasters, and then in rapid succession follow the plagues,--the water of the Nile turned to blood, the reptiles swarming even into the king's chambers, the pestilence scourging man and beast, the insect-cloud heralding the locusts, the pelting hail and the fire running along the ground, the thick darkness, and the smiting of the first-born. Then come the passage of the Red Sea and the escape from bondage, closing the first part. The second part opens with the triumphant song of Moses and the Children of Israel rejoicing over the destruction of Pharaoh's host, and closes with the exultant strain of Miriam the prophetess, "Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously; the Horse and his Rider hath He thrown into the Sea." "Israel in Egypt" is essentially a choral oratorio. It comprises no less than twenty-eight massive double choruses, linked together by a few bars of recitative, with five arias and three duets interspersed among them. Unlike Handel's other oratorios, there is no overture or even prelude to the work. Six bars of recitative for tenor ("Now there arose a new King over Egypt which knew not Joseph") suffice to introduce it, and lead directly to the first double chorus ("And the Children of Israel sighed"), the theme of which is first given out by the altos of one choir with impressive pathos. The chorus works up to a climax of great force on the phrase, "And their Cry came up unto God," the two choruses developing with consummate power the two principal subjects,--first, the cry for relief, and second, the burden of oppression; and closing with the phrase above mentioned, upon which they unite in simple but majestic harmony. Then follow eight more bars of recitative for tenor, and the long series of descriptive choruses begins, in which Handel employs the imitative power of music in the boldest manner. The first is the plague of the water turned to blood, "They loathed to drink of the River,"--a single chorus in fugue form, based upon a theme which is closely suggestive of the sickening sensations of the Egyptians, and increases in loathsomeness to the close, as the theme is variously treated. The next number is an aria for mezzo soprano voice ("Their Land brought forth Frogs"), the air itself serious and dignified, but the accompaniment imitative throughout of the hopping of these lively animals. It is followed by the plague of insects, whose afflictions are described by the double chorus. The tenors and basses in powerful unison declare, "He spake the Word," and the reply comes at once from the sopranos and altos, "And there came all Manner of Flies," set to a shrill, buzzing, whirring accompaniment, which increases in volume and energy as the locusts appear, but bound together solidly with the phrase of the tenors and basses frequently repeated, and presenting a sonorous background to this fancy of the composer in insect imitation. From this remarkable chorus we pass to another still more remarkable, the familiar Hailstone Chorus ("He gave them Hailstones for Rain"), which, like the former, is closely imitative. Before the two choirs begin, the orchestra prepares the way for the on-coming storm. Drop by drop, spattering, dashing, and at last crashing, comes the storm, the gathering gloom rent with the lightning, the "fire that ran along upon the ground," and the music fairly quivering and crackling with the wrath of the elements. But the storm passes, the gloom deepens, and we are lost in that vague, uncertain combination of tones where voices and instruments seem to be groping about, comprised in the marvellously expressive chorus, "He sent a Thick Darkness over all the Land." From the oppression of this choral gloom we emerge, only to encounter a chorus of savage, unrelenting retribution ("He smote all the First-born of Egypt"). Chorley admirably describes the motive of this great fugue:-- "It is fiercely Jewish. There is a touch of Judith, of Jael, of Deborah in it,--no quarter, no delay, no mercy for the enemies of the Most High; 'He smote.' And when for variety's sake the scimitar-phrase is transferred from orchestra to voices, it is admirable to see how the same character of the falchion--of hip-and-thigh warfare, of victory predominant--is sustained in the music till the last bar. If we have from Handel a scorn-chorus in the 'Messiah,' and here a disgust-chorus, referred to a little while since,[3] this is the execution, or revenge chorus,--the chorus of the unflinching, inflexible, commissioned Angels of the Sword." After their savage mission is accomplished, we come to a chorus in pastoral style ("But as for His People, He led them forth like Sheep"), slow, tender, serene, and lovely in its movement, and grateful to the ear both in its quiet opening and animated, happy close, after the terrors which have preceded it. The following chorus ("Egypt was glad"), usually omitted in performance, is a fugue, both strange and intricate, which it is claimed Handel appropriated from an Italian canzonet by Kerl. The next two numbers are really one. The two choruses intone the words, "He rebuked the Red Sea," in a majestic manner, accompanied by a few massive chords, and then pass to the glorious march of the Israelites, "He led them through the Deep,"--a very elaborate and complicated number, but strong, forcible, and harmonious throughout, and held together by the stately opening theme with which the basses ascend. It is succeeded by another graphic chorus ("But the Waters overwhelmed their Enemies"), in which the roll and dash of the billows closing over Pharaoh's hosts are closely imitated by the instruments, and through which in the close is heard the victorious shout of the Israelites, "There was not one of them left." Two more short choruses,--the first, "And Israel saw that Great Work," which by many critics is not believed to be a pure Handel number, and its continuation, "And believed the Lord," written in church style, close this extraordinary chain of choral pictures. The second part, "The Song of Moses,"--which, it will be remembered, was written first,--opens with a brief but forcible orchestral prelude, leading directly to the declaration by the chorus, "Moses and the Children of Israel sang this Song," which, taken together with the instrumental prelude, serves as a stately introduction to the stupendous fugued chorus which follows ("I will sing unto the Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously; the Horse and his Rider hath He thrown into the Sea"). It is followed by a duet for two sopranos ("The Lord is my Strength and my Song") in the minor key,--an intricate but melodious number, usually omitted. Once more the chorus resumes with a brief announcement, "He is my God," followed by a fugued movement in the old church style ("And I will exalt Him"). Next follows the great duet for two basses, "The Lord is a Man of War,"--a piece of superb declamatory effect, full of vigor and stately assertion. The triumphant announcement in its closing measures, "His chosen Captains also are drowned in the Red Sea," is answered by a brief chorus, "The Depths have covered them," which is followed by four choruses of triumph,--"Thy Right Hand, O Lord," an elaborate and brilliant number; "And in the Greatness of Thine Excellency," a brief but powerful bit; "Thou sendest forth Thy Wrath;" and the single chorus, "And with the Blast of Thy Nostrils," in the last two of which Handel again returns to the imitative style with wonderful effect, especially in the declaration of the basses, "The Floods stood upright as an Heap, and the Depths were congealed." The only tenor aria in the oratorio follows these choruses, a bravura song, "The Enemy said, I will pursue," and this is followed by the only soprano aria, "Thou didst blow with the Wind." Two short double choruses ("Who is like unto Thee, O Lord," and "The Earth swallowed them") lead to the duet for contralto and tenor, "Thou in Thy Mercy," which is in the minor, and very pathetic in character. It is followed by the massive and extremely difficult chorus, "The People shall hear and be afraid." Once more, after this majestic display, comes the solo voice, this time the contralto, in a simple, lovely song, "Thou shalt bring them in." A short double chorus ("The Lord shall reign for ever and ever"), a few bars of recitative referring to the escape of Israel, the choral outburst once more repeated, and then the solo voice declaring, "Miriam the prophetess took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances; and Miriam answered them," lead to the final song of triumph,--that grand, jubilant, overpowering expression of victory which, beginning with the exultant strain of Miriam, "Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously," is amplified by voice upon voice in the great eight-part choir, and by instrument upon instrument, until it becomes a tempest of harmony, interwoven with the triumph of Miriam's cry and the exultation of the great host over the enemy's discomfiture, and closing with the combined power of voices and instruments in harmonious accord as they once more repeat Miriam's words, "The Horse and his Rider hath He thrown into the Sea." [3] The second chorus, "The Plague of the Water turned to Blood," and the loathing of the Egyptians. Saul. The oratorio of "Saul" was written by Handel in 1738. He began it, says Schoelcher, on the 3d of July, and finished it on the 27th of September; thus occupying eighty-six days. This, however, is evidently an error, as Rockstro says: "The score, written in a thick quarto volume, on paper quite different from that used for the operas, is dated at the beginning of the first chorus, July 23, 1738." The next date is August 28, at the end of the second part, and the last, at the end of the work, September 27,--which would give two months and four days as the time in which it was written. But even this period, short as it is, seems brief when compared with that devoted to the composition of "Israel in Egypt," which Handel began four days after "Saul" was completed, and finished in twenty-seven days. It has already been said, in the analysis of the last named-work, that in January, 1739, Handel took the King's Theatre in the Haymarket, his purpose being to give oratorios twice a week. "Saul" was the first of the series; and in this connection the following advertisement, which Schoelcher reprints from the London "Daily Post" of Jan. 3, 1739, will be of interest:-- "We hear that on Tuesday se'en night the King's Theatre will be opened with a new oratorio composed by Mr. Handel, called 'Saul.' The pit and boxes will be put together, the tickets delivered on Monday the 15th and Tuesday 16th (the day of performance), at half a guinea each. Gallery 5_s._ The gallery will be opened at 4; the pit and boxes at 5. To begin at 6." The first performance took place as announced, and the second on the 23d, "with several new concertos on the organ,"--which instrument also plays a conspicuous part in the oratorio itself, not only in amplifying the accompaniment, but also in solo work. In 1740 it was performed by the Academy of Ancient Music in London, and in 1742 in Dublin. Selections were also given from it in the great Handel Commemoration at Westminster Abbey in 1784, and in 1840 it was revived by the Sacred Harmonic Society of London, since which time it has occupied an important place in the oratorio repertory. The story closely follows the Biblical narrative of the relations between David and Saul. The words have been attributed both to Jennens and Marell; but the balance of evidence favors the former,--a poet who lived at Gopsall. The overture, marked "Symfonie" in the original manuscript, is the longest of all the Handel introductions. It is in four movements, the first an allegro, the second a largo (in which the organ is used as a solo instrument), the third an allegro, and the fourth a minuetto. It is an exceedingly graceful and delicate prelude, and makes a fitting introduction to the dramatic story which follows. The characters introduced are Saul, king of Israel; Jonathan, his son; Abner, captain of the host; David; the apparition of Samuel; Doeg, a messenger; an Amalekite; Abiathar, Merab, and Michal, daughters of Saul; the Witch of Endor; and the Israelites. The very dramatic character of the narrative admirably adapts it to its division into acts and scenes. The first act is triumphant in its tone and expressive of the exultation of the Israelites at their victory over the Philistines. The second gives a story of the passions,--Saul's jealousy of David, the love of Michal, and the ardent friendship between David and Jonathan. The last act is sombre in its character, opening with the weird incantations of the Witch, and closing with David's grief over Saul and Jonathan. The first scene opens in the Israelitish camp by the valley of Elah, where the people join in an Epinicion, or Song of Triumph, over Goliah and the Philistines. It is made up of a chorus ("How excellent Thy Name, O Lord"), which is a stirring tribute of praise; an aria ("An Infant raised by Thy Command"), describing the meeting of David and Goliah; a trio, in which the Giant is pictured as the "monster atheist," striding along to the vigorous and expressive music; and three closing choruses ("The Youth inspired by Thee," "How excellent Thy Name," and a jubilant "Hallelujah"), ending in plain but massive harmony. The second scene is in Saul's tent. Two bars of recitative prelude an aria by Michal, Saul's daughter, who reveals her love for David ("O godlike Youth!"). Abner presents David to Saul, and a dialogue ensues between them, in which the conqueror announces his origin and Saul pleads with him to remain, offering the hand of his daughter Merab as an inducement. David (whose part is sung by a contralto) replies in a beautiful aria, in which he attributes his success to the help of the Lord alone. In the next four numbers the friendship of Jonathan and David is cemented, which is followed by a three-verse hymn ("While yet thy Tide of Blood runs high"), of a very stately character, sung by the High Priest. In a few bars of recitative Saul betroths his daughter Merab to David; but the girl replies in a very powerful aria ("My Soul rejects the Thought with Scorn"), in which she declares her intention of frustrating the scheme to unite a plebeian with the royal line. It is followed by a plaintive but vigorous aria ("See with what a scornful Air"), sung by Michal, who again gives expression to her love for David. The next scene is entitled "Before an Israelitish City," and is prefaced with a short symphony of a jubilant character. A brief recitative introduces the maidens of the land singing and dancing in praise of the victor, leading up to one of Handel's finest choruses, "Welcome, welcome, Mighty King,"--a fresh, vigorous semi-chorus accompanied by the carillons, in which Saul's jealousy is aroused by the superiority of prowess attributed to David. It is followed by a furious aria, "With Rage I shall burst, his Praises to hear." Jonathan laments the imprudence of the women in making comparisons, and Michal suggests to David that it is an old malady which may be assuaged by music, and in the aria, "Fell Rage and black Despair passest," expresses her belief that the monarch can be cured by David's "persuasive lyre." The next scene is in the King's house. David sings an aria ("O Lord, whose Mercies numberless"), followed by a harp solo; but it is in vain. Jonathan is in despair, and Saul, in an aria ("A Serpent in my Bosom warmed"), gives vent to his fury and hurls his javelin at David. The latter escapes; and in furious recitative Saul charges his son to destroy him. The next number is an aria for Merab ("Capricious Man, in Humor lost"), lamenting Saul's temper; and Jonathan follows with a very dramatic recitative and aria, in which he refuses to obey his father's behest. The High Priest appeals to Heaven ("O Lord, whose Providence") to protect David, and the first part closes with a powerful chorus, "Preserve him for the Glory of Thy Name." The second act is laid in the palace, and opens with a powerfully descriptive chorus ("Envy, Eldest-born of Hell!"). In a noble song ("But sooner Jordan's Stream, I swear") Jonathan assures David he will never injure him. In a colloquy between them, David is informed that Saul has bestowed the hand of the haughty Merab on Adriel, and Jonathan pleads the cause of the lovely Michal. Saul approaches, and David retires. Saul inquires of Jonathan whether he has obeyed his commands, and in a simple, sweet, and flowing melody ("Sin not, O King, against the Youth") he seems to overcome the wrath of the monarch, who dissembles and welcomes David, bidding him to repel the insults of the Philistines, and offering him his daughter Michal as a proof of his sincerity. In the second scene Michal declares her love for David, and they join in a rapturous duet ("O fairest of ten thousand fair"), which is followed by a chorus in simple harmony ("Is there a Man who all his Ways"). A long symphony follows, preparing the way for the attempt on David's life. After an agitated duet with Michal ("At Persecution I can laugh"), David makes his escape just as Doeg, the messenger, enters with instructions to bring David to the King's chamber. He is shown the image in David's bed, which he says will only enrage the King still more. Michal sings an exultant aria, "No, let the Guilty tremble," and even Merab, won over by David's qualities, pleads for him in a beautiful aria, "Author of peace." Another symphony intervenes, preluding the celebration of the feast of the new moon in the palace, to which David has been invited. Jonathan again interposes with an effort to save David's life, whereupon Saul, in a fresh outburst of indignation, hurls his javelin at his son, and the chorus bursts out in horror, "Oh, fatal Consequence of Rage." The third act opens with the intensely dramatic scene with the Witch of Endor, the interview being preluded by the powerful recitative, "Wretch that I am!" The second scene is laid in the Witch's abode, where the incantation is practised that brings up the Apparition of Samuel. The whole scene is very dramatic, and the instrumentation powerful, although the effect, vigorous as it is, is made simply by oboes, bassoons, and strings, instead of by the brass instruments which other composers employ so vigorously in similar scenes. This scene closes with an elegy foreboding the coming tragedy. The third scene opens with the interview between David and the Amalekite who brings the tidings of the death of Saul and Jonathan. It is followed by that magnificent dirge, the "Dead March," whose simple yet solemn and majestic strains are familiar to every one. The trumpets and trombones with their sonorous pomp and the wailing oboes and clarinets make an instrumental pageant which is the very apotheosis of grief. The effect of the march is all the more remarkable when it is considered that, in contradistinction to all other dirges, it is written in the major key. The chorus, "Mourn, Israel, mourn thy Beauty lost," and the three arias of lament sung by David, which follow, are all characterized by feelings of the deepest gloom. A short chorus ("Eagles were not so swift as they") follows, and then David gives voice to his lament over Jonathan in an aria of exquisite tenderness ("In sweetest Harmony they lived"), at the close of which he joins with the chorus in an obligato of sorrowful grandeur ("O fatal Day, how low the Mighty lie!"). In an exultant strain Abner bids the "Men of Judah weep no more," and the animated martial chorus, "Gird on thy Sword, thou Man of Might," closes this great dramatic oratorio. Samson. The oratorio of "Samson" was written in 1741, and begun immediately after the completion of "The Messiah," which was finished September 14 of that year. The last chorus was dated October 29; but in the following year Handel added to it "Let the bright Seraphim" and the chorus, "Let their celestial Concerts." The text was compiled by Newburgh Hamilton from Milton's "Samson Agonistes," "Hymn on the Nativity," and "Lines on a Solemn Musick." The oratorio was first sung at Covent Garden, Feb. 18, 1743, the principal parts being assigned as follows: Samson, Mr. Beard;[4] Manoah, Mr. Savage; Micah, Mrs. Cibber; Delilah, Mrs. Clive. The aria, "Let the bright Seraphim," was sung by Signora Avolio, for whom it was written, and the trumpet obligato was played by Valentine Snow, a virtuoso of that period. The performance of "Samson" was thus announced in the London "Daily Advertiser" of Feb. 17, 1743:-- "By subscription. At the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden, to-morrow, the 18th inst., will be performed a new oratorio, called _Sampson_. Tickets will be delivered to subscribers (on paying their subscription money) at Mr. Handel's house in Brooke Street, Hanover Square. Attendance will be given from nine o'clock in the morning till three in the afternoon. Pit and boxes to be put together, and no person to be admitted without tickets, which will be delivered that day at the office in Covent Garden Theatre at half a guinea each; first gallery 5_s._; upper gallery, 3_s._ 6_d._" The representation was greeted with extraordinary enthusiasm, and "Samson" soon became so popular that many had to be turned away; notwithstanding which, the ill-natured Horace Walpole could write, in a letter dated Feb. 24, 1743:-- "Handel has set up an oratorio against the opera, and succeeds. He has hired all the goddesses from the farces, and the singers of roast beef from between the acts at both theatres, with a man with one note in his voice, and a girl without ever an one; and so they sing and make brave hallelujahs, and the good company encore the recitative if it happens to have any cadence like what they call a tune." The text, as we have said, was adapted from Milton by Hamilton, who says in his preface to the handbook, or libretto:-- "That poem indeed was never divided by Milton into acts or scenes, nor designed for the stage, but given only as the plan of a tragedy with choruses, after the manner of the ancients. But as Mr. Handel had so happily introduced here oratorios, a musical drama, whose subject must be scriptural, and in which the solemnity of church music is agreeably united with the most pleasing airs of the stage, it would have been an irretrievable loss to have neglected the opportunity of that great master's doing justice to this work; he having already added new life and spirit to some of the finest things in the English language, particularly that inimitable ode[5] of Dryden's which no age nor nation ever excelled." The characters introduced are Samson; Micah, his friend; Manoah, his father; Delilah, his wife; Harapha, a giant of Gath; Israelitish woman; priests of Dagon; virgins attendant upon Delilah; Israelites, friends of Samson; Israelitish virgins; and Philistines. After a brilliant overture, closing, like that to "Saul," with a minuet movement, the scene opens before the prison in Gaza, with Samson blind and in chains. His opening recitative, setting forth his release from toil on account of the feast to Dagon, introduces a brilliant and effective chorus by the priests with trumpets ("Awake the Trumpet's lofty Sound"), after which a Philistine woman in a bright, playful melody invites the men of Gaza to bring "The merry Pipe and pleasing String;" whereupon the trumpet chorus is repeated. After the tenor aria ("Loud is the Thunder's awful Voice"), the chorus recurs again, showing Handel's evident partiality for it. The Philistine Woman has another solo ("Then free from Sorrow"), whereupon in a pathetic song ("Torments, alas!") Samson bewails his piteous condition. His friend Micah appears, and in the aria, "O Mirror of our fickle State," condoles with him. In answer to his question, "Which shall we first bewail, thy Bondage, or lost Sight?" Samson replies in a short, but exquisitely tender aria, "Total Eclipse: no Sun, no Moon, all dark amidst the Blaze of Noon,"--a song which brought tears to the eyes of the blind Handel himself when he listened to it long afterwards. The next chorus ("O first-created Beam") is of more than ordinary interest, as it treats the same subject which Haydn afterwards used in "The Creation." It begins in a soft and quiet manner, in ordinary time, develops into a strong allegro on the words, "Let there be Light," and closes with a spirited fugue on the words, "To Thy dark Servant Life by Light afford." A dialogue follows between Manoah and Micah, leading up to an intricate bravura aria for bass ("Thy glorious Deeds inspired my Tongue"), closing with an exquisite slow movement in broad contrast to its first part. Though comforted by his friends, Samson breaks out in furious denunciation of his enemies in the powerfully dramatic aria, "Why does the God of Israel sleep?" It is followed up in the same spirit by the chorus, "Then shall they know,"--a fugue on two vigorous subjects, the first given out by the altos, and the second by the tenors. Samson's wrath subsides in the recitative, "My genial Spirits droop," and the first act closes with the beautifully constructed chorus, "Then round about the starry Throne," in which his friends console him with the joys he will find in another life. The second act, after a brief recitative, opens with an aria by Manoah ("Just are the Ways of God to Man"), in which he conjures Samson to repose his trust in God. It is followed by the beautiful prayer of Micah ("Return, return, O God of Hosts"), emphasized by the chorus to which it leads ("To Dust his Glory they would tread"), with which the prayer is interwoven in obligato form. From this point, as Delilah appears, the music is full of bright color, and loses it sombre tone. In a short recitative, she excuses her misdeed, and then breaks out in an aria of sensuous sweetness, "With plaintive Notes and am'rous Moan, thus coos the Turtle left alone." Its bewitching grace, however, makes little impression upon Samson, who replies with the aria, "Your Charms to Ruin led the Way." In another enticing melody, "My Faith and Truth, O Samson, prove," she seeks to induce his return to her house, and a chorus of Virgins add their entreaties. A last effort is made in the tasteful and elegant aria, "To fleeting Pleasures make your Court;" but when that also fails, Delilah reveals her true self. Samson rebukes her "warbling charms," her "trains and wiles," and counts "this prison-house the house of liberty to thine;" whereupon a highly characteristic duet ensues ("Traitor to Love"). An aria for Micah follows ("It is nor Virtue, Valor, Wit"), leading up to a powerful dissertation on masculine supremacy in a fugued chorus which is treated in a spirited manner, and in which we may well fancy that the woman-hating composer gave free rein to his spite:-- "To man God's universal law Gave power to keep his wife in awe. Thus shall his life be ne'er dismayed, By female usurpation swayed." The giant Harapha now appears, and mocks Samson with the taunt that had he met him before he was blind, he would have left him dead on the field of death, "where thou wrought'st wonders with an ass' jaw." His first number ("Honor and Arms scorn such a Foe") is one of the most spirited and dashing bass solos ever written. Samson replies with the majestic aria, "My Strength is from the living God." The two solos reach their climax in the energetic duet between the giants, "Go, baffled Coward, go." Micah then suggests to Harapha that he shall call upon Dagon to dissolve "those magic spells that gave our hero strength," as a test of his power. The recitative is followed by an impressive six-part chorus ("Hear, Jacob's God") in the true church style. Its smooth, quiet flow of harmony is refreshing as compared with the tumult of the giants' music which precedes, and the sensuousness of the chorus ("To Song and Dance we give the Day") which follows it. The act closes with the massive double chorus ("Fixed in His everlasting Seat") in which the Israelites and Philistines celebrate the attributes of their respective deities and invoke their protection, and in which also the composer brings out with overwhelming effect the majesty and grandeur of God as compared with the nothingness of Dagon. The third act opens with a dialogue in which Harapha brings the message to Samson that he must repair to the feast of Dagon to delight the Philistines with some of his feats of strength. Upon Samson's refusal, Harapha sings the threatening aria, "Presuming Slave!" The Israelites invoke the protection of God in the spirited chorus, "With Thunder armed," closing with a prayer which changes to wild and supplicating entreaty. Samson at last yields in a tender, pathetic aria ("Thus when the Sun"), which seems to anticipate his fate. In a song of solemn parting ("The Holy One of Israel be thy Guide"), accompanied by the chorus ("To Fame immortal go"), his friends bid him farewell. The festivities begin, and in an exultant chorus ("Great Dagon has subdued our Foe") the Philistines are heard exulting over Samson's discomfiture. Micah and Manoah, hearing the sounds, are filled with anxiety, and the latter expresses his solicitude in the tender aria, "How willing my paternal Love." But the scene suddenly changes. In a short, crashing presto the coming destruction is anticipated. The trembling Israelites express their alarm in the chorus, "Hear us, our God," and appeal to Heaven for protection. A Messenger rushes upon the scene and announces that Samson is dead and has involved the destruction of his enemies in the general calamity. Micah gives expression to his grief in the touching aria, "Ye Sons of Israel, now lament," followed by the Israelites in a sorrowful wail, "Weep, Israel, weep." A funeral march, in the major key, intervenes, full of tender expression of sorrow,--for which, after the first two representations Handel substituted the Dead March from "Saul;" and both marches are now printed in the scores for general use. As at first written, the oratorio closed with the effective chorus and solo, "Bring the Laurels;" but, as has been already said, a year afterwards Handel made a different ending. Manoah calls upon the people to cease their lamentation, and the funeral pageant is followed by the magnificent trumpet aria, "Let the bright Seraphim,"--a song worthy only of the greatest artists, both with voice and instrument,--and the equally magnificent chorus, "Let their celestial Concerts," which closes the great oratorio with triumphant exultation. [4] "John Beard, a quondam chorister of the Chapel Royal, under Bernard Gates, and afterwards the greatest English tenor singer of his day, achieved one of his brightest triumphs in the part of Samson. His history was romantic. In 1732 he married the Lady Henrietta, daughter of James, Earl of Waldegrave, and widow of Lord Edward Herbert, second son of the Marquis of Powis. In 1759 he took as his second wife Charlotte, daughter of John Rich, the harlequin."--_Rockstro._ [5] Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music. The Messiah. The "Messiah" represents the ripened product of Handel's genius, and reflects the noblest aspirations and most exalted devotion of mankind. Among all his oratorios it retains its original freshness, vigor, and beauty in the highest degree, in that it appeals to the loftiest sentiment and to universal religious devotion, and is based upon the most harmonious, symmetrical, and enduring forms of the art. It was begun on the 22d day of August, 1741. The first part was concluded August 28, the second, September 6, the third, September 12, and the instrumentation, September 14. It is an illustration of Handel's almost superhuman capacity for work, that at the age of fifty-six he should have written his masterpiece in twenty-three days. The text was taken from the literal words of Scripture, and the libretto arranged by Charles Jennens, who, singularly enough, was not satisfied with the music which has satisfied the world. In a letter written at that time, he says:-- "I shall show you a collection I gave Handel, called 'Messiah,' which I value highly. He has made a fine entertainment of it, though not near so good as he might and ought to have done. I have with great difficulty made him correct some of the grossest faults in the composition; but he retained his overture obstinately, in which there are some passages far unworthy of Handel, but much more unworthy of the 'Messiah.'" For two or three years prior to the appearance of the "Messiah," Handel had been harassed by cabals set on foot by rival opera-managers in London, who, by importing Italian singers, drew off the patronage of the nobility, and ultimately succeeded in reducing him to the condition of an insolvent debtor. While in this wretched plight an invitation came to him from the Duke of Devonshire, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, to visit Dublin. He eagerly accepted it, and in the correspondence which passed between them promised to contribute a portion of whatever might accrue from his music to charitable institutions, and also agreed to give an oratorio "for the benefit and enlargement of poor distressed prisoners for debt in the several marshalseas of the city of Dublin." He left London early in November, arriving in that city, after many delays, on the 18th. On the 23d of December he began a series of six musical entertainments, which was completed February 10. His success was so great that he was induced to begin a second series February 17, a fortnight before the close of which appeared the following advertisement:-- "For the Relief of the Prisoners in the several Gaols, and for the Support of Mercer's Hospital, in Stephen's Street, and of the Charitable Infirmary on the Inn's Quay, on Monday, the 12th of April, will be performed at the Musick Hall in Fishamble-street, _Mr. Handel's_ new Grand _Oratorio, called the Messiah_, in which the Gentlemen of the Choirs of both Cathedrals will assist, with some Concertos on the Organ by Mr. Handel." The first rehearsal took place on the 8th of April, in the presence of "a most Grand, Polite, and Crowded Audience," as we are informed by "Faulkner's Journal." The same paper, referring to the first public performance, which took place on Tuesday, April 13, 1742, says:-- "At the desire of several persons of distinction, the above performance is put off to Tuesday next. The doors will be opened at eleven, and the performance begins at twelve. Many ladies and gentlemen who are well-wishers to this noble and grand charity, for which this oratorio was composed, request it as a favor that the ladies who honor this performance with their presence would be pleased to come without hoops, as it would greatly increase the charity by making room for more company." Gentlemen were also requested to come without their swords. "In this way," it is said, "the stewards" were able to seat seven hundred persons in the room instead of six hundred. The principal parts in the performance were assigned to Signora Avolio, Mrs. Cibber, and Messrs. Church and Ralph Roseingrane; and Mrs. Cibber's delivery of the aria "He was despised" is said to have been so touching that Dr. Delany, the companion of Swift, exclaimed, as she closed: "Woman, for this be all thy sins forgiven." The "Messiah" was performed thirty-four times during the composer's life, but never upon a scale commensurate with its merits until the Handel Commemoration at Westminster Abbey in 1784, when the largest choir and band that had ever assembled before, with the renowned Madame Mara at the head of the soloists, first gave the "Messiah" to the world in accordance with the grand ideal of the composer. The orchestra was composed as follows: First violins, 40; second violins, 47; tenors, 26; first oboes, 13; second oboes, 13; flutes, 6; violoncellos, 21; double-basses, 15; bassoons, 26; double-bassoon, 1; trumpets, 12; trombones, 6; horns, 12; kettledrums, 3; double-kettledrum, 1: total, 242. The choir was made up as follows: Sopranos, 60, of whom 45 were choir-boys; counter-tenors (altos), 40; tenors, 83; basses, 84: making the entire number of singers 267. Of the performance of the band upon this occasion, Burney quaintly says:-- "Dante in his _Paradiso_ imagines nine circles, or choirs, of cherubs, seraphs, patriarchs, prophets, martyrs, saints, angels, and archangels, who with hand and voice are eternally praising and glorifying the Supreme Being, whom he places in the centre, taking the idea from _Te Deum laudamus_, where it is said: 'To Thee Cherubim and Seraphim continually do cry,' etc. Now, as the orchestra in Westminster Abbey seemed to ascend into the clouds and unite with the saints and martyrs represented on the painted glass in the west window, which had all the appearance of a continuation of the Orchestra, I could hardly refrain, during the performance of the Allelujah, to imagine that this Orchestra, so admirably constructed, filled, and employed, was a point or segment of one of these celestial circles. And perhaps no band of mortal musicians ever exhibited a more respectable appearance to the eye, or afforded a more ecstatic and affecting sound to the ear, than this." He is equally enthusiastic over the chorus; and of Madame Mara's singing of the aria, "I know that my Redeemer liveth," he says:-- "Her power over the sensibility of the audience seemed equal to that of Mrs. Siddons. There was no eye within my view which did not 'silently a gentle tear let fall,' nor, though long hackneyed in music, did I find myself made of stronger earth than others." The oratorio is divided into three parts. The first illustrates the longing of the world for the Messiah, prophesies his coming, and announces his birth; the second part is devoted to the sufferings, death, and exaltation of Christ, and develops the spread and ultimate triumph of the Gospel; while the third is occupied with the declaration of the highest truths of doctrine,--faith in the existence of God, the surety of immortal life, the resurrection, and the attainment of an eternity of happiness. The first part opens with an overture, or rather orchestral prelude, of majestic chords, leading to a short fugue, developed with severe simplicity and preparing the way for the accompanied recitative, "Comfort ye My People," and the aria for tenor, "Every Valley shall be exalted," which in turn leads to the full, strong chorus, "And the Glory of the Lord shall be revealed,"--the three numbers in reality forming one. The prophecy is announced, only to be followed by the human apprehension in the great aria for bass ("But who may abide the Day of His coming"), written in the Sicilian pastoral style,--a form of which, Burney affirms, Handel was very fond. The aria leads to the exquisitely constructed number, "And He shall purify," a fugued chorus closing in simple harmony. Once more the prophet announces, "Behold, a Virgin shall conceive," followed by the alto solo, "O Thou that tellest," which preludes a chorus in the same tempo. The next aria ("The People that walked in Darkness"), with its curious but characteristic modulations, leads to one of the most graphic fugued choruses in the whole work ("For unto us a Child is born"), elegantly interwoven with the violin parts, and emphasized with sublime announcements of the names of the Messiah in full harmony and with the strongest choral power. The grand burst of sound dies away, there is a significant pause, and then follows a short but exquisite Pastoral Symphony for the strings, which with the four succeeding bits of recitative tells the message of the Angels to the Shepherds on the plains of Bethlehem. Suddenly follows the chorus of the heavenly hosts ("Glory to God"), which is remarkably expressive, and affords sharp contrasts in the successive clear responses to the fugue. The difficult but very brilliant aria for soprano, "Rejoice greatly," the lovely aria, "He shall feed His Flock," originally written entire for soprano, in which Handel returns again to the pastoral style, and a short chorus ("His Yoke is easy"), close the first part. The second part is the most impressive portion of the work. It begins with a majestic and solemn chorus ("Behold the Lamb of God"), which is followed by the aria for alto, "He was despised,"--one of the most pathetic and deeply expressive songs ever written, in which the very key-note of sorrow is struck. Two choruses--"Surely He hath borne our Griefs," rather intricate in harmony, and "With His Stripes we are healed," a fugued chorus written _a capella_ upon an admirable subject--lead to the spirited and thoroughly interesting chorus, "All we like Sheep have gone astray," closing with an adagio of great beauty ("And the Lord hath laid on Him the Iniquity of us all"). This is followed by several short numbers,--a choral fugue ("He trusted in God"), the accompanied recitative ("Thy Rebuke hath broken His Heart"), a short but very pathetic aria for tenor ("Behold and see if there be any Sorrow"), and an aria for soprano ("But Thou didst not leave His Soul in Hell"),--all of which are remarkable instances of the musical expression of sorrow and pity. These numbers lead to a triumphal shout in the chorus and semi-choruses, "Lift up your Heads, O ye Gates," which reach a climax of magnificent power and strongly contrasted effects. After the chorus, "Let all the Angels of God worship Him," a fugue constructed upon two subjects, the aria, "Thou art gone up on high," and the chorus, "The Lord gave the Word," we reach another pastoral aria of great beauty, "How beautiful are the Feet." This is followed by a powerfully descriptive chorus ("Their Sound is gone out into all Lands"), a massive aria for bass ("Why do the Nations"), the chorus, "Let us break their Bonds asunder," and the aria, "Thou shalt break them," leading directly to the great Hallelujah Chorus, which is the triumph of the work and its real climax. It opens with exultant shouts of "Hallelujah." Then ensue three simple phrases, the middle one in plain counterpoint, which form the groundwork for the "Hallelujah." These phrases, seemingly growing out of each other, and reiterated with constantly increasing power, interweaving with and sustaining the "Hallelujah" with wonderful harmonic effects, make up a chorus that has never been excelled, not only in musical skill, but also in grandeur and sublimity. After listening to its performance, one can understand Handel's words: "I did think I did see all heaven before me, and the great God himself." This number closes the second part. It is worthy of note in this connection that when the oratorio was first performed at Covent Garden, London, in 1743, the whole audience, with the King at its head, arose during the singing of the "Hallelujah" and remained standing until it was finished,--a custom which is still observed, not only in England, but also in this country. If the oratorio had closed at this point it would not have disturbed the unities; but Handel carried it into a third part with undiminished interest, opening it with that sublime confession of faith, "I know that my Redeemer liveth,"--an aria which will never be lost. It is followed by two quartets in plain counterpoint with choral responses, "Since by Man came Death," and "For as in Adam all die," in which the effects of contrast are very forcibly brought out. The last important aria in the work ("The Trumpet shall sound"), for bass with trumpet obligato, will always be admired for its beauty and stirring effect. The oratorio closes with three choruses, all in the same key and of the same general sentiment,--"Worthy is the Lamb," a piece of smooth, flowing harmony; "Blessing and Honor," a fugue led off by the tenors and bassos in unison, and repeated by the sopranos and altos on the octave, closing with full harmony on the words "for ever and ever" several times reiterated; and the final, "Amen" chorus, which is treated in the severest style, and in which the composer evidently gave free rein to his genius, not being hampered with the trammels of words. Other oratorios may be compared one with another; the "Messiah" stands alone, a majestic monument to the memory of the composer, an imperishable record of the noblest sentiments of human nature and the highest aspirations of man. Judas Maccabæus. The oratorio of "Judas Maccabæus" was written in thirty-two days, between July 9 and Aug. 11, 1746, upon the commission of Frederic, Prince of Wales, to celebrate the return of the Duke of Cumberland from Scotland after the decisive victory of Culloden, April 16, 1746. The words were written by the Rev. Thomas Morell, D.D., a learned Greek scholar of that time, the plot being taken from the narrative of the exploits of the Jewish deliverer contained in the first book of Maccabees and in the twelfth book of Josephus' "Antiquities of the Jews." In his dedication, Dr. Morell says:-- "To His Royal Highness Prince William, Duke of Cumberland, this faint portraiture of a truly wise, valiant, and virtuous commander as the possessor of the like noble qualities is, with the most profound respect and veneration, inscribed by His Royal Highness' most obedient and most devoted servant the author." To what extremes of adulation even a doctor of divinity may go, is well shown in Schoelcher's pithy comment: "This is addressed to a man who pitilessly murdered as many prisoners after the battle as his courage had slain enemies during the combat." It is but just to the composer, however, to say that the great success of this oratorio had little to do with the political causes which led to its composition. It was first performed at Covent Garden, April 1, 1747, and was repeated six times that year. Handel himself conducted it thirty-eight times with ever growing popularity, to which the Jews contributed greatly, as it glorified an episode in their national history. The characters represented are Judas Maccabæus; Simon, his brother; an Israelitish Messenger; and Israelitish Men and Women. The story may be gathered from the following summary of the plot as prepared for the Birmingham Festival of 1861:-- Part I.--Lamentations for the death of Mattathias (the father of Judas Maccabæus and Simon), by whom the Jewish people had been roused to resist the cruelties and oppressions of Antiochus Epiphanes, the Syrian king, in his attempt to suppress their religion and liberties.--The divine favor invoked.--Judas recognized as leader.--Appeal to the patriotism of the people, and their response.--The value of liberty.--Preparations for war.--Pious trust in God, and heroic resolve to conquer or die. Part II.--Celebration of the victories gained over the armies of Apollonius, the governor of Samaria and Seron, the Deputy Governor of Coelesyria, and the valor of Judas.--Renewal of war by a division of the Syrian array from Egypt, under Gorgias, and the despondency it occasions among the Israelites.--Judas again arouses the failing courage of the people, and they set out to meet the enemy.--Those who remain behind utter their detestation of the heathen idolatries, by which the sanctuary at Jerusalem had been desecrated, and their determination only to worship the God of Israel. Part III.--Feast of the dedication at Jerusalem, after Judas and his followers had recovered and restored the sanctuary, and re-established the liberties of his country.--Return of Judas from his final victory over Nicanor and his confederates.--Celebration of peace, and national thanksgiving. The first scene introduces the Israelitish Men and Women lamenting the death of the father of Judas in the sorrowful chorus, "Mourn, ye afflicted Children," which, after a duet for soprano and tenor, is followed by still another chorus in a similar strain ("For Zion Lamentation make"), but much more impressive, and rising to a more powerful climax. After a brief and simple soprano solo ("Pious Orgies"), the chorus sings the prayer, "O Father, whose Almighty Power," closing with a characteristic fugue on the words, "And grant a Leader." After a short recitative, Simon (bass) breaks out in the heroic and sonorous aria, "Arm, arm, ye brave," which has always retained its popularity, notwithstanding its antique bravura. It is followed by the chorus in the brief, but stirring number, "We come in bright array." Five arias, a duet, and two choruses, nearly all of which are now omitted in performances, being of the same general character, and mainly apostrophes to liberty, lead to the great chorus closing the first part, "Hear us, O Lord." It is intricate in its construction, but when properly sung resolves itself into one of the most vigorous and impressive choruses Handel has written. The second part opens with the Israelites celebrating the return of Judas from the victories over Apollonius and Seron. An instrumental prelude, picturing the scenes of battle, leads directly to the great chorus, the best in the work, "Fallen is the Foe." The triumphant declaration is made over and over with constantly increasing energy, finally leading to a brilliant fugue on the words, "Where warlike Judas wields his righteous Sword;" but interwoven with it are still heard those notes of victory, "Fallen is the Foe," and the response, "So fall Thy Foes." The Israelitish Man sings a vigorous tribute to Judas ("So rapid thy Course is"). The triumphant strain, "Zion now her Head shall raise," is taken by two voices, closing with the soprano alone; but before her part ends, the whole chorus takes it and joins in the pæan, "Tune your Harps," and the double number ends in broad, flowing harmony. In a florid number ("From mighty Kings he took the Spoil") the Israelitish Woman once more sings Judas's praise. The two voices unite in a welcome ("Hail Judæa, happy Land"), and finally the whole chorus join in a simple but jubilant acclaim to the same words. The rejoicings soon change to expressions of alarm and apprehension as a Messenger enters and announces that Gorgias has been sent by Antiochus to attack the Israelites, and is already near at hand. They join in a chorus expressive of deep despondency ("Oh, wretched Israel"); but Simon, in a spirited aria ("The Lord worketh Wonders"), bids them put their trust in Heaven, and Judas rouses their courage with the martial trumpet song, "Sound an Alarm," which, though very brief, is full of vigor and fire. After the departure of Judas to meet the foe, Simon, the Israelitish Man, and the Israelitish Woman follow each other in denunciation of the idolatries which have been practised by the heathen among them, and close with the splendid chorus, "We never will bow down to the rude Stock or sculptured Stone," in which vigorous repetitions of the opening phrase lead to a chorale in broad, impressive harmony, with which is interwoven equally vigorous repetitions of the phrase, "We worship God alone." The third part opens with the impressive prayer, "Father of Heaven, from Thy eternal Throne," sung by the Priest. As the fire ascends from the altar, the sanctuary having been purified of its heathen defilement, the Israelites look upon it as an omen of victory and take courage. A Messenger enters with tidings of Judas's triumph over all their enemies. The Israelitish Maidens and Youths go out to meet him, singing the exultant march chorus, "See the Conquering Hero comes," which is familiar to every one by its common use on all occasions, from Handel's time to this, where tribute has been paid to martial success and heroes have been welcomed. It is the universal accompaniment of victory, as the Dead March in "Saul" is of the pageantry of death. It is very simple in its construction, like many others of Handel's most effective numbers. It is first sung as a three-part chorus, then as a duet or chorus of Virgins, again by the full power of all the voices, and gradually dies away in the form of an instrumental march. The chorus did not originally belong to "Judas Maccabæus," but to "Joshua," in which oratorio it is addressed to Othniel when he returns from the capture of Debir. Handel frequently made transfers of that kind, and this was a permanent one; for the celebrated chorus is now unalterably identified with the work in which he placed it, and in which also the setting is still more imposing. A very elaborate chorus ("Sing unto God"), a florid aria with trumpet solo for Judas ("With Honor let Desert be crowned"), the chorus, "To our Great God," a pastoral duet with exquisite accompaniment ("O Lovely Peace"), and a Hallelujah in the composer's customary exultant style, close this very brilliant and dramatic oratorio. The Dettingen Te Deum. On the 27th of June, 1743, the British army and its allies, under the command of King George II. and Lord Stair, won a victory at Dettingen, in Bavaria, over the French army, commanded by the Maréchal de Noailles and the Duc de Grammont. It was a victory plucked from an expected defeat, and aroused great enthusiasm in England. On the King's return, a day of public thanksgiving was appointed, and Handel, who was at that time "Composer of Musick to the Chapel Royal," was commissioned to write a Te Deum and an anthem for the occasion. The original score, a large folio volume in the Royal Collection, is headed "Angefangen Juli 17, 1743." There is no date at the end; but as the beginning of the Dettingen Anthem is dated July 30, it is probable that the Te Deum was finished between the 17th and 30th. Both works were publicly rehearsed at the Chapel Royal, Whitehall, on the 18th and 25th of the ensuing November, and formed part of the thanksgiving services on the 27th at the Chapel Royal of St. James, in the presence of the King and royal family. The Dettingen Te Deum has been universally considered as one of the masterpieces among Handel's later works. Never was a victory more enthusiastically commemorated in music. It is not a Te Deum in the strict sense, but a grand martial panegyric, and, as Rockstro says:-- "It needs no great stretch of the imagination to picture every drum and trumpet in the realm taking part in the gorgeous fanfare of its opening chorus, while the whole army, with the King at its head, joins the assembled nation in a shout of praise for the escape which was so unexpectedly changed into a memorable victory." Schoelcher, in his reference to this work, notes that Handel set the hymn of St. Ambrose to music five different times in thirty years, and always with new beauty and fresh color, though it is somewhat remarkable that he gave each time a plaintive character to the verse, "To Thee all angels cry aloud,"--a fact also observed by Burney, who says:-- "There is some reason to suspect that Handel, in setting his grand Te Deum for the peace of Utrecht, as well as in this, confined the meaning of the word 'cry' to a sorrowful sense, as both the movements to the words 'To Thee all angels cry aloud' are not only in a minor key, but slow and plaintive." Burney further says, speaking of its performance at the great Handel Commemoration in Westminster Abbey in 1784:-- "As it was composed for a military triumph, the fourteen trumpets, two pairs of common kettledrums, two pairs of double drums from the Tower, and a pair of double-bass drums made expressly for this occasion, were introduced with great propriety; indeed, these last drums, except the destruction, had all the effect of the most powerful artillery." The Te Deum contains eighteen short solos and choruses, mostly of a brilliant, martial character, the solos being divided between the alto, baritone, and bass. After a brief instrumental prelude, the work opens with the triumphant, jubilant chorus with trumpets and drums, "We praise Thee, O God," written for five parts, the sopranos being divided into firsts and seconds, containing also a short alto solo leading to a closing fugue. The second number ("All the Earth doth worship Thee") is also an alto solo with five-part chorus of the same general character. It is followed by a semi-chorus in three parts ("To Thee all Angels cry aloud"), plaintive in style, as has already been observed, and leading to the full chorus ("To Thee Cherubim and Seraphim"), which is majestic in its movement and rich in harmony. The fifth number is a quartet and chorus ("The glorious Company of the Apostles praise Thee"), dominated by the bass, with responses from the other parts, and followed by a short full chorus ("Thine adorable, true, and only Son"). The seventh number is a stirring bass solo with trumpets ("Thou art the King of Glory"), leading without break into a stately choral enunciation of the same words. The eighth is a slow and plaintive bass solo, usually sung by a tenor ("When Thou tookest upon Thee to deliver Man"), followed by a grave and impressive chorus ("When Thou hadst overcome the Sharpness of Death"). The next number is a trio for alto, tenor, and bass ("Thou sittest at the Right Hand of God"), closing with a beautiful adagio effect. A fanfare of trumpets introduces the next four numbers, all choruses, set to four verses of the hymn:-- "We therefore pray Thee, help Thy servants: Whom Thou hast redeemed with Thy precious blood. "Make them to be numbered with Thy Saints: in glory everlasting. "O Lord, save Thy people: and bless Thine heritage. "Govern them: and lift them up forever. "Day by day: we magnify Thee: "And we worship Thy Name! ever, world without end." In this group of choruses the art of fugue and counterpoint is splendidly illustrated, but never to the sacrifice of brilliant effect, which is also heightened by the trumpets in the accompaniments. An impressive bass solo ("Vouchsafe, O Lord") intervenes, and then the trumpets sound the stately symphony to the final chorus, "O Lord, in Thee have I trusted." It begins with a long alto solo with delicate oboe accompaniment that makes the effect very impressive when voices and instruments take up the phrase in a magnificent outburst of power and rich harmony, and carry it to the close. HAYDN. Joseph Haydn, the creator of the symphony and the stringed quartet, was born at Rohrau, a little Austrian village on the river Leitha, March 31, 1732. His father was a wheelwright and his mother a cook, in service with Count Harrach. Both the parents were fond of music, and both sang, the father accompanying himself upon the harp, which he played by ear. The child displayed a voice so beautiful that in his sixth year he was allowed to study music, and was also given a place in the village church-choir. Reutter, the capellmeister of St. Stephen's, Vienna, having heard him, was so impressed with the beauty of his voice that he offered him a position as chorister. Haydn eagerly accepted it, as it gave him opportunities for study. While in the service of St. Stephen's he had lessons on the violin and piano, as well as in composition. When his voice broke, and his singing was of no further value, he was thrown upon the tender mercies of the world. Fortune favored him, however. He obtained a few pupils, and gave himself up to composition. He made the acquaintance of Metastasio, Porpora, and Gluck. His trios began to attract attention, and he soon found himself rising into prominence. In 1759, through the influence of a wealthy friend and amateur, he was appointed to the post of musical director and composer in the service of Count Morzin, and about this time wrote his first symphony. When the Count dismissed his band, Prince Paul Anton Esterhazy received him as his second capellmeister, under Werner. When the latter died, in 1766, Haydn took his place as sole director. His patron, meanwhile, had died, and was succeeded by his brother Nicolaus, between whom and Haydn there was the utmost good feeling. Up to this time Haydn had written thirty symphonies, a large number of trios, quartets, and several vocal pieces. His connection with the Prince lasted until 1790, and was only terminated by the latter's death. But during this period of twenty-eight years his musical activity was unceasing; and as he had an orchestra of his own, and his patron was ardently devoted to music, the incentive to composition was never lacking. Anton succeeded Nicolaus, and was generous enough to increase Haydn's pension; but he dismissed the entire chapel, and the composer took up his abode in Vienna. He was hardly established before he received a flattering proposition from Salomon, the manager, to go to England. He had already had many pressing invitations from others, but could not accept them, owing to his engagement at Esterhazy. Now that he was free, he decided to make the journey. On New Year's Day, 1791, he arrived in London. Success greeted him at once. He became universally popular. Musicians and musical societies paid him devoted attention. He gave a series of symphony concerts which aroused the greatest enthusiasm. He was treated with distinguished courtesy by the royal family. Oxford gave him the honorary degree of Doctor of Music. The nobility entertained him sumptuously. After a year of continuous fêtes, he returned to Germany, where he remained two years, during a portion of which time Beethoven was his pupil. In 1794 he made his second journey to England, where his former successes were repeated, and fresh honors were showered upon him. In 1804 he was notified by Prince Esterhazy that he was about to reorganize his chapel, and wished him for its conductor again. Haydn accordingly returned to his old position, where he remained during the rest of his life. He was already an old man, but it was during this period that his most remarkable works were produced, among them the Austrian National Hymn ("Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser"), the "Seven Words," the "Creation," the "Seasons," and many of his best trios and quartets. He died May 31, 1809, a few days after the occupation of Vienna by the French, and among the mourners at his funeral were many French officers. Funeral services were held in all the principal European cities. Honored and respected all over Europe, he was most deeply loved by his own countrymen, who still affectionately speak of him as "Papa" Haydn. The Creation. Haydn was sixty-five years of age when he undertook the great work of his life. It was begun in 1796, and finished in 1798. When urged to bring it to a conclusion more rapidly, he replied, "I spend much time over it, because I intend it to last a long time." Shortly before his final departure from London, Salomon, his manager, brought him a poem for music which had been compiled by Lydley from Milton's "Paradise Lost," for use by Handel, though the latter had not availed himself of it. Haydn took it with him to Vienna, and submitted it to the Baron van Swieten, the Emperor's librarian, who was not only a very learned scholar, but also something of a musician and composer. The Baron suggested that he should make an oratorio of it, and to encourage him, not only translated the text into German, but added a number of arias, duets, and choruses, particularly those of the descriptive kind. Several of the nobility also guaranteed the expenses of preparation and performance. His friend Griesinger writes:-- "Haydn wrote 'The Creation' in his sixty-fifth year with all the spirit that usually dwells in the breast of youth. I had the good fortune to be a witness of the deep emotions and joyous enthusiasm which several performances of it under Haydn's own direction aroused in all listeners. Haydn also confessed to me that it was not possible for him to describe the emotions with which he was filled as the performance met his entire expectation, and his audience listened to every note. 'One moment I was as cold as ice, and the next I seemed on fire, and more than once I feared I should have a stroke.'" On another occasion Haydn remarked: "Never was I so pious as when composing 'The Creation.' I knelt down every day and prayed God to strengthen me for the work." That he sought this inspiration in his old age more than once, we may infer from another remark to Griesinger: "When composition does not get on well, I go to my chamber, and with rosary in hand say a few _aves_, and then the ideas return." It was first performed in private at the Schwartzenberg Palace, April 29, 1798; and Bombet, the celebrated French critic, who was present, says in one of his letters: "Who can describe the applause, the delight, the enthusiasm of this society? I was present, and I can assure you I never witnessed such a scene. The flower of the literary and musical society of Vienna were assembled in the room, which was well adapted to the purpose, and Haydn himself directed the orchestra. The most profound silence, the most scrupulous attention, a sentiment, I might almost say, of religious respect, were the dispositions which prevailed when the first stroke of the bow was given. The general expectation was not disappointed. A long train of beauties, to that moment unknown, unfolded themselves before us; our minds, overcome with pleasure and admiration, experienced during two successive hours what they had rarely felt,--a happy existence, produced by desires, ever lively, ever renewed, and never disappointed." The first public performance was given at the National Theatre, March 19, 1799, Haydn's name-day, and the next by the Tonkünstler Societät. On the 9th of March he conducted it at the palace of Ofen before the Archduke Palatine Joseph of Hungary. Its success was immediate, and rivalled that of "The Messiah." It was performed all over Europe, and societies were organized for the express purpose of producing it. In London rival performances of it were given at Covent Garden and the King's Theatre during the year 1800. The oratorio opens with an overture representing chaos. Its effect is at first dull and indefinite, its utterances inarticulate, and its notes destitute of perceptible melody. It is Nature in her chaotic state, struggling into definite form. Gradually instrument after instrument makes an effort to extricate itself, and as the clarinets and flutes struggle out of the confusion, the feeling of order begins to make itself apparent. The resolutions indicate harmony. At last the wonderful discordances settle, leaving a misty effect that vividly illustrates "the Spirit of God moving upon the face of the waters." Then, at the fiat of the Creator, "Let there be Light," the whole orchestra and chorus burst forth in the sonorous response, "And there was Light." A brief passage by Uriel (tenor) describes the division of light from darkness, and the end of chaos, introducing a fugued chorus, in which the rage of Satan and his hellish spirits, as they are precipitated into the abyss, is described with tremendous discords and strange modulations; but before it closes, the music relates the beauties of the newly created earth springing up "at God's command." Raphael describes the making of the firmament, the raging of the storms, the flashing lightning and rolling thunders, the showers of rain and hail, and the gently falling snow, to an accompaniment which is closely imitative in character. The work of the second day forms the theme of "The Marvellous Work," for soprano obligato with chorus,--a number characterized by great joyousness and spirit. This leads to the number, "Rolling in foaming Billows," in which the music is employed to represent the effect of water, from the roaring billows of the "boisterous seas," and the rivers flowing in "serpent error," to "the limpid brook," whose murmuring ripple is set to one of the sweetest and most delicious of melodies. This leads the way to the well-known aria, "With Verdure clad," of which Haydn himself was very fond, and which he recast three times before he was satisfied with it. It is followed by a fugued chorus ("Awake the Harp"), in which the Angels praise the Creator. We next pass to the creation of the planets. The instrumental prelude is a wonderful bit of constantly developing color, which increases "in splendor bright," until the sun appears. It is followed by the rising of the moon, to an accompaniment as tender as its own radiance; and as the stars appear, "the Sons of God" announce the fourth day, and the first part closes with the great chorus, "The Heavens are telling," in which the entire force of band and singers is employed in full, broad harmony and sonorous chords, leading to a cadence of magnificent power. The second part opens with the aria, "On mighty Pens," describing in a majestic manner the flight of the eagle, and then blithely passes to the gayety of the lark, the tenderness of the cooing doves, and the plaintiveness of the nightingale, in which the singing of the birds is imitated as closely as the resources of music will allow. A beautiful terzetto describes with inimitable grace the gently sloping hills covered with their verdure, the leaping of the fountain into the light, and the flights of birds, and a bass solo in sonorous manner takes up the swimming fish, closing with "the upheaval of Leviathan from the deep," who disports himself among the double-basses. This leads to a powerful chorus, "The Lord is great." The next number describes the creation of various animals; and perhaps nothing that art contains can vie with it in varied and vivid description. It begins with the lion, whose deep roar is heard among the wind-instruments. The alertness of the "flexible tiger" is shown in rapid flights by the strings. A presto ingeniously represents the quick movements of the stag. The horse is accompanied by music which prances and neighs. A quiet pastoral movement, in strong contrast with the preceding abrupt transitions, pictures the cattle seeking their food "on fields and meadows green." A flutter of sounds describes the swarms of insects in the air, and from this we pass to a long, undulating thread of harmony, representing "the sinuous trace" of the worm. This masterpiece of imitative music is contained in a single recitative. A powerful and dignified aria, sung by Raphael ("Now Heaven in fullest Glory shone"), introduces the creation of man, which is completed in an exquisitely beautiful aria ("In Native Worth ") by Uriel, the second part of which is full of tender beauty in its description of the creation of Eve, and closes with a picture of the happiness of the newly created pair. A brief recitative ("And God saw everything that He had made") leads to the chorus, "Achieved is the glorious Work,"--a fugue of great power, superbly accompanied. It is interrupted by a trio ("On Thee each living Soul awaits"), but soon returns with still greater power and grandeur, closing with a Gloria and Hallelujah of magnificent proportions. The third part opens with a symphonic introduction descriptive of the first morning of creation, in which the flutes and horns, combined with the strings, are used with exquisite effect. In a brief recitative ("In rosy Mantle appears") Uriel pictures the joy of Adam and Eve, and bids them sing the praise of God with the angelic choir, which forms the theme of the succeeding duet and chorus ("By Thee with Bliss"); to which the answering choir replies with a gentle and distant effect, as if from the celestial heights, "Forever blessed be His Power." Again Adam and Eve in successive solos, finally uniting, join with the choir in extolling the goodness of God; and as they close, all take up the beautiful and majestic pæan, "Hail, bounteous Lord! Almighty, hail!" As the angelic shout dies away, a tender, loving dialogue ensues between Adam and Eve, leading to the beautiful duet, "Graceful Consort," which is not only the most delightful number in the work, but in freshness, sweetness, and tenderness stands almost unsurpassed among compositions of its kind. After a short bit of recitative by Uriel ("O happy Pair"), the chorus enters upon the closing number ("Sing the Lord, ye Voices all"), beginning slowly and majestically, then developing into a masterly fugue ("Jehovah's Praise forever shall endure"), and closing with a Laudamus of matchless beauty, in which the principal voices in solo parts are set off against the choral and orchestral masses with powerful effect. Haydn's last appearance in public was at a performance of the "Creation," which took place in 1808, when it was given in Italian under the direction of Salieri. Dies says of this remarkable scene:-- "On alighting from the Prince's carriage, he was received by distinguished personages of the nobility and by his scholar, Beethoven. The crowd was so great that the military had to keep order. He was carried, sitting in his arm-chair, into the hall, and was greeted upon his entrance with a flourish of trumpets and joyous shouts of 'Long live Haydn!' He occupied a seat next his Princess, the Prince being at court that day; and on the other side sat his favorite scholar, Fräulein Kurzbeck. The highest people of rank in Vienna selected seats in his vicinity. The French ambassador noticed that he wore the medal of the Paris Concert des Amateurs. 'Not only this, but all the medals which have been awarded in France, you ought to have received,' said he. Haydn thought he felt a little draught; the Princess threw her shawl about him, many ladies following her example, and in a few moments he was completely wrapped in shawls. Poems by Collin and Carpani, the adapter of the text, were presented to him. He could no longer conceal his feelings. His overburdened heart sought and found relief in tears. When the passage, 'And there was Light,' came, and the audience broke out into tumultuous applause, he made a motion of his hands towards heaven, and said, 'It came from thence.' He remained in such an agitated condition that he was obliged to take his leave at the close of the first part. As he went out, the audience thronged about him to take leave of him, and Beethoven kissed his hand and forehead devoutly. His departure completely overcame him. He could not address the audience, and could only give expression to his heartfelt gratitude with broken, feeble utterances and blessings. Upon every countenance there was deep pity, and tearful eyes followed him as he was taken to his carriage." He lived but a short time longer, but long enough to witness the success of his scholar, Beethoven, in the same year. The Seasons. "The Seasons," written two years after "The Creation," was Haydn's last oratorio. The music was composed between April, 1798, and April, 1801. It is not an oratorio in the strict sense of the term, as it partakes of the form and qualities, not only of the oratorio, but also of the opera and cantata. The words were compiled by Baron van Swieten from Thomson's well-known poem of "The Seasons," but it was a long time before he could persuade Haydn to undertake the task of composing an oratorio on the subject. His old age and infirmities made him averse to the work. He was greatly annoyed by the text, and still more so by its compiler, who insisted upon changes in the music which Haydn testily declined to make. He was frequently irritated over the many imitative passages, and it was to relieve his own feelings and vary the monotony of the sentiment that he introduced the rollicking bacchanal chorus in the third part. He expressed his feelings to a friend in the remark: "My head was so full of the nonsensical stuff that it all went topsy-turvy, and I therefore called the closing fugue the 'drunken fugue.'" Notwithstanding his many objections, when once he started, he worked hard,--so hard, indeed, that this continuous labor induced brain-fever and intense suffering, and he never entirely rallied from its effects. A weakness followed, which constantly increased. To one friend he remarked: "The 'Seasons' have brought this trouble upon me. I ought not to have written it. I have overdone;" and to another: "I have done; my head is no longer what it was. Formerly ideas came to me unsought: I am now obliged to seek for them; and for this I feel I am not formed." It is a sad picture, that of the old composer sitting down to work in his seventieth year, distrustful of his own powers, with an uncongenial text before him; but no indications of age or weakness are to be found in this music, which from its first note to the last is fresh, original, bright, and graceful,--a treasure-house of ideas to which subsequent composers have gone time after time when they would write of Nature or attempt to picture her moods. The "Seasons" was first performed at the Schwartzenberg Palace, Vienna, April 24, 1801, and was repeated on the 27th and on the 1st of May. On the 29th of May Haydn himself conducted it in public at the Redoutensaal, for his own benefit. Though some of the critics disparaged it, and Beethoven was not overpleased with it, it met with a great popular success, and Haydn himself was delighted with the work that had cost him so much trouble. Bombet, the French critic, who was present at the first performance, says of it:-- "The best critique that has been given of the work is that which Haydn himself addressed to me when I went to give him an account of the performance of it in the Palace Schwartzenberg. The applause had been universal, and I hastened out to congratulate the author. Scarcely had I opened my lips when the honest composer stopped me: 'I am happy to find that my music pleases the public; but I can receive no compliment on this work from you. I am convinced that you feel yourself that it is not the "Creation;" and the reason is this: in the "Creation" the actors are angels; here they are peasants.'" The work is divided into four parts,--Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter,--and the characters introduced are Simon, a farmer; Jane, his daughter; Lucas, a young countryman and shepherd; and a chorus of Country People and Hunters. A vivacious overture, expressing the passage from winter to spring, and recitatives by Simon, Lucas, and Jane, who in turn express their delight at the close of the one season and the approach of the other, lead to the opening chorus ("Come, gentle Spring, ethereal Mildness, come"),--a fresh and animated number, which is familiar to every one. Simon trolls out a pastoral aria ("With Joy the impatient Husbandman"), full of the very spirit of quiet, peace, and happiness,--a quaint melody which will inevitably recall to opera-goers the "Zitti, Zitti" from Rossini's "Barber of Seville," the essential difference between the two pieces being that in the latter the time is greatly accelerated. This aria is followed by a trio and chorus ("Be propitious, bounteous Heaven"), a free fugue, in which all beseech a blessing upon the sowing of the seed. The next number is a duet for Jane and Lucas, with chorus ("Spring her lovely Charms unfolding"), which is fairly permeated with the delicate suggestions of opening buds and the delights of the balmy air and young verdure of spring. As its strains die away, all join in the cheerful fugued chorus, "God of Light," which closes the first part. After a brief adagio prelude, the second part, "Summer," opens with a charming aria by Simon ("From out the Fold the Shepherd drives"), which gives us a delightful picture of the shepherd driving his flock along the verdant hillside, then leaning upon his staff to watch the rising sun. As it appears, it is welcomed by trio and chorus with the exultant shout, "Hail, O glorious Sun!" As noon approaches, the music fairly becomes radiant. A series of recitatives and arias follow, bringing out in a vivid and picturesque manner the oppressive, exhaustive heat and the longing for rest and shade, leading at last to an ominous silence as the clouds begin to gather and the sky darkens. A short recitative prepares the way. A crash of thunder is heard upon the drums: it is the prelude to the storm-chorus ("Hark! the deep tremendous Voice"), which has been the model for nearly all the storm-descriptions written since Haydn's time. It is worked up to a tremendous climax of tumult and terror, of pouring rain, flashing lightning, and pealing thunder. At last the tempest dies away, and in the trio and chorus, "Now cease the Conflicts," night comes on, with its song of the quail,--which Beethoven subsequently utilized in his Pastoral Symphony,--the chirp of the crickets, the croaking of the frogs, the distant chime of the evening bells, and the invocation to sleep. Of the frog episode, Nohl says:-- "He particularly disliked the croaking of the frogs, and realized how much it lowered his art. Swieten showed him an old piece of Grétry's in which the croak was imitated with striking effect. Haydn contended that it would be better if the entire croak were omitted, though he yielded to Swieten's importunities. He declared afterwards, however, that the frog passage was not his own. 'It was urged upon me,' he said, 'to write this French croak. In the orchestral setting it is very brief, and it cannot be done on the piano. I trust the critics will not treat me with severity for it. I am an old man, and liable to make mistakes.'" After a quaintly melodious prelude the third part opens with a terzetto and chorus ("Thus Nature ever kind rewards"), an invocation to virtue and industry, and a quaintly sentimental duet ("Ye gay and painted Fair"). The next number, an aria by Simon ("Behold along the dewy Grass"),--which gives us a picture of the hunter and his dog pursuing a bird,--prepares the way for the great hunting chorus ("Hark! the Mountains resound"), one of the most graphic and stirring choruses of this description ever written. The whole scene,--the vales and forests resounding with the music of the horns, the finding of the quarry, the flying stag outstripping the wind, the pack at fault, but starting in again as they find the scent, the tally-ho of the hunters, the noble animal at bay, his death, and the shouts of the crowd,--are all pictured with a freshness and genuine out-door feeling which seem almost incredible considering Haydn's age. This remarkable number is separated from its natural companion, the bacchanalian chorus, by a recitative extolling the wealth of the vintage. This chorus ("Joyful the Liquor flows") is in two parts,--first a hymn in praise of wine, sung by the tippling revellers, and second, a dance tempo, full of life and beauty, with imitations of the bagpipe and rustic fiddles, the melody being a favorite Austrian dance-air. With this rollicking combination, for the two movements are interwoven, the third part closes. A slow orchestral prelude, "expressing the thick fogs at the approach of winter," introduces the closing part. In recitative Simon describes the on-coming of the dreary season, and Jane reiterates the sentiment in the cavatina, "Light and Life dejected languish." In Lucas's recitative we see the snow covering the fields, and in his following aria, "The Traveller stands perplexed," a graphic tone-picture of the wanderer lost in the snow is presented. At last he espies the friendly light in the cottage. "Melodious voices greet his ears," and as he enters he beholds the friendly circle, the old father telling over his stories of the past, the mother plying the distaff, the girls spinning, and the young people making the night merry with jest and sport. At last they join in a characteristic imitative chorus ("Let the Wheel move gayly"). After the spinning they gather about the fire, and Jane sings a charming love-story ("A wealthy Lord who long had loved"), accompanied by chorus. Simon improves the occasion to moralize on the sentiment of the seasons in the aria, "In this, O vain, misguided Man," impressing upon us the lesson that "Nought but Truth remains;" and with a general appeal to Heaven for guidance through life, this quaint and peaceful pastoral poem in music draws to its close. It was the last important work of the aged Haydn, but it has all the charm and freshness of youth. LISZT. Franz Liszt, the most eminent pianist of his time, who also obtained world-wide celebrity as a composer and orchestral conductor, was born at Raiding, Hungary, Oct. 22, 1811. His father was an accomplished amateur, and played the piano and violoncello with more than ordinary skill. He was In his ninth year Liszt played for the first noblemen encouraged him to continue his studies, and guaranteed him sufficient to defray the expenses of six years' tuition. He went to Vienna at once and studied the piano with Czerny, besides taking lessons in composition from Salieri and Randhartinger. It was while in that city that his first composition, a variation on a waltz of Diabelli, appeared. In 1823 he went to Paris, hoping to secure admission to the Conservatory; but Cherubini refused it on account of his foreign origin, though Cherubini himself was a foreigner. Nothing daunted, young Liszt continued his studies with Reicha and Paer, and two years afterwards brought out a one-act opera entitled "Don Sancho," which met with a very cordial reception. The slight he had received from Cherubini aroused popular sympathy for him. His wonderful playing attracted universal attention and gained him admission into the most brilliant Parisian salons. He soon became known as the "wonder-child," and was a favorite with every one, especially with the ladies. For two or three years he made artistic tours through France, Switzerland, and England, accompanied by his father, and everywhere met with the most brilliant success. In 1827 the father died, leaving him alone in the world; but good fortune was on his side. During his stay in Paris he had made the friendship of Victor Hugo, George Sand, Lamartine, and other great lights in literature and music, and their influence prepared the way for his permanent success. Notwithstanding that he was in many senses a Bohemian and a man of the world, he had a strong religious tendency. For a time he became deeply interested in the doctrines of Saint-Simon; but his adherence to that system did not last long. He speedily returned to the Roman Church, and some years afterwards went to Rome, at the suggestion of the Pontiff took orders, and set himself about the work of reforming the church music,--a task, however, which he soon abandoned; too many obstacles stood in his way. He expected to become Capellmeister at the Sistine Chapel; but, as he himself said: "I was thwarted by the lack of culture among the cardinals; and besides, most of the princes of the Church were Italian." The Abbé was soon in Germany again, where he resided until the close of his life. From 1839 to 1847 he travelled from one city to another, arousing the most extraordinary enthusiasm; his progress was one continued ovation. In 1849 he went to Weimar and accepted the post of conductor at the Court Theatre. He made Weimar the musical centre of Europe. It was there that his greatest compositions were written, that the school of the music of the future was founded, and that Wagner's operas first gained an unprejudiced hearing; and it is from Weimar that his distinguished pupils, like Von Bülow, Tausig, Bendel, Bronsart, Klindworth, Winterberger, Reubke, and many others date their success. In 1859 he resigned his position, and after that time resided at Rome, Pesth, and Weimar, working for the best interests of his beloved art, and encouraging young musicians to reach the highest standards. Few men of this century have had such a powerful influence upon music, or have done so much to elevate and purify it. His most important works were the "Divina Commedia" and "Faust" symphonies, the twelve symphonic poems, the six Hungarian rhapsodies, the "Graner Mass," the "Hungarian Coronation Mass," and the oratorios "Christus" and "The Legend of the Holy Elizabeth." Besides these he wrote a large number of orchestral pieces, songs, and cantatas, and a rich and varied collection of pianoforte solos, transcriptions, and arrangements. He died July 31, 1886. The Legend of the Holy Elizabeth. The oratorio, "Legend of the Holy Elizabeth," was written in 1864, and first produced Aug. 15, 1865, upon the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Conservatory of Pesth-Ofen. The text is by Otto Roquette, and was inspired by Moritz von Schwind's frescos at the Wartburg representing scenes in the life of the saint. A brief allusion to her history will still further elucidate the story which Liszt has treated so powerfully. She was the daughter of King Andreas II. of Hungary, and was born in 1207. At the age of four she was betrothed to Ludwig, son of the Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia, whom she married in 1220. After his death, in 1227, she was driven from the Wartburg and forced to give up the regency by her cruel and ambitious mother-in-law. After long wanderings and many privations she retired to Bamberg, where her uncle, the bishop, dwelt; but shortly afterwards her rights were restored to her. She renounced them in favor of her son, Hermann II., and died in 1231. Four years later she was canonized at Marpurg by order of Pope Gregory IX. Her life was devoted to the relief of the poor and suffering. The characters introduced in the oratorio are Saint Elizabeth, Landgrave Ludwig, Landgrave Hermann, Landgravine Sophie, a Hungarian Magnate, the Seneschal, and the Emperor Frederick II. The last three _rôles_ are usually assigned to Ludwig, thus reducing the number of solo-singers to four. The work is laid out in two parts, each having three scenes corresponding in subjects with Von Schwind's six frescos. The first describes the arrival of Elizabeth at the Wartburg, and the welcome she receives. In the second she is married, and her husband, Ludwig, has succeeded to the throne. His devotion to knight-errantry leads him from home. During his absence a famine breaks out, and Elizabeth in her devotion to the sufferers impoverishes herself and incurs the wrath of her mother-in-law, the Landgravine Sophie. While carrying a basket of bread and wine one day to the victims of the scourge, she is met by her husband, who has unexpectedly returned. Amazed at the absence of her attendants, he questions her, and she excuses herself with the plea that she has been gathering flowers. Doubting the truth of her statement, he snatches the basket from her. She confesses her falsehood; but upon examining the basket it is found to be full of roses. The Lord has performed a miracle. Overcome with remorse for doubting her, Ludwig begs her forgiveness, and the two join in prayer that the Lord may continue His goodness to them. The third scene opens at Schmalkald, on the borders of Thuringia, where Ludwig has assembled his knights and nobles who are to accompany him to the Holy Land. They declare their allegiance to Ludwig as their leader, and he calls upon them also to swear fealty to his wife. After a sad farewell Ludwig rides away at the head of his Crusaders. The fourth scene opens with the news of Ludwig's death. The Landgravine claims the castle as her inheritance, compels Elizabeth to abandon the regency, and drives her out in the midst of a furious storm. In the fifth scene we find her at a hospital which she has founded, and notwithstanding her own troubles and sufferings still ministering to others in like affliction. This scene closes with her death, and in the last we have the ceremonies of her canonization at Marpurg. The first scene opens with a long orchestral introduction, working up to a powerful climax, and based mainly upon a theme from the old church service, which is Elizabeth's motive, and is frequently heard throughout the work. An animated prelude which follows it introduces the opening chorus ("Welcome the Bride"). A brief solo by Landgrave Hermann ("Welcome, my little Daughter") and another of a national character by the Hungarian Magnate attending the bride intervene, and again the chorus break out in noisy welcome. After a dignified solo by Hermann and a brief dialogue between Ludwig and Elizabeth, a light, graceful allegretto ensues, leading up to a children's chorus ("Merriest Games with thee would we play"), which is delightfully fresh and joyous in its character. At its close the chorus of welcome resumes, and the scene ends with a ritornelle of a plaintive kind, foreboding the sorrow which is fast approaching. The second scene, after a short prelude, opens with Ludwig's hunting-song ("From the Mists of the Valleys"), which is written in the conventional style of songs of this class, although it has two distinct movements in strong contrast. As he meets Elizabeth, a dialogue ensues, including the scene of the rose miracle, leading up to a brief chorus ("The Lord has done a Wonder"), and followed by an impressive duet in church style ("Him we worship and praise this Day"). The scene closes with an ensemble, a duet with full choral harmony, worked up with constantly increasing power and set to an accompaniment full of rich color and brilliant effect. The third scene opens with the song of the Crusaders, an impetuous and brilliant chorus ("In Palestine, the Holy Land"), the accompaniment to which is an independent march movement. The stately rhythm is followed by a solo by the Landgrave, bidding farewell to Elizabeth and appealing to his subjects to be loyal to her. The chorus replies in a short number, based upon the Hungarian melody which has already been heard. Elizabeth follows with a tender but passionate appeal to her husband ("Oh, tarry! oh, shorten not the Hour"), leading to a solo ("With Grief my Spirit wrestles"), which is full of the pain of parting. A long dialogue follows between them, interrupted here and there by the strains of the Crusaders, in which finally the whole chorus join with great power in a martial but sorrowful style. As it comes to a close, the orchestra breaks out into the Crusaders' march,--a brilliant picture of the knightly pageant, the time gradually accelerating as well as the force, until it reaches a tremendous climax. The trio of the march is based upon a religious melody which was sung in the time of the Crusaders; but the remainder follows the Gregorian intonation. The chorus once more resumes its shout of jubilee, and the brilliant scene comes to an end. So vividly colored is this music that one can well fancy the sorrowful Elizabeth as she stands gazing at the band of knights, with Ludwig at their head, slowly riding away, pennons fluttering in the breeze, and lances and mail glittering in the sunlight. In the fourth scene a slow and mournful movement, followed by an allegro ominous and agitated in style, introduces the Landgravine Sophie, the evil genius of the Wartburg. The tidings of the death of Ludwig have come, and with fierce declamation she orders Elizabeth away from the castle. The latter replies in an aria ("O Day of Mourning, Day of Sorrow") marked by sorrowful lamentation. Sophie again hurls her imprecations, and a very dramatic dialogue ensues, which takes the trio form as the reluctant Seneschal consents to enforce the cruel order. Once more Elizabeth tenderly appeals to her in the aria, "Thou too art a Mother." Sophie impatiently and fiercely exclaims, "No longer tarry!" The scene comes to an end with Elizabeth's lament as she goes out into the storm, which is vividly described in an orchestral movement, interspersed with vocal solos. These have little bearing upon the subject-matter, however, which is mainly described by the band with overwhelming power. The fifth scene opens with a long declamatory solo by Elizabeth,--full of tenderness and pathos, in which she recalls the dream of childhood,--closing with an orchestral movement of the same general character. It is followed by the full chorus ("Here 'neath the Roof of Want"), which after a few bars is taken by the sopranos and altos separately, closing with chorus again and soprano solo ("Elizabeth, thou holy one"). The death-scene follows ("This is no earthly Night"). Her last words, "Unto mine End Thy Love has led me," are set to music full of pathos, and as she expires, the instrumentation dies away in peaceful, tranquil strains. A semi-chorus, which can also be sung by three solo voices ("The Pain is over"), closes the sad scene, the ritornelle at the end being made still more effective by the harps, which give it a celestial character. The last scene opens with an interlude which gathers up all the motives of the oratorio,--the Pilgrim's Song, the Crusaders' March, the Church Song, and the Hungarian Air, and weaves them into a rich and varied texture for full orchestra, bells, and drums, forming the funeral song of the sainted Elizabeth,--the same effect, and produced in the same manner, which Wagner subsequently used with such magnificent power in the dirge of Siegfried. It is followed by a solo from the Emperor, "I see assembled round the Throne,"--a slow and dignified air, leading to the great ensemble closing the work, and descriptive of the canonization of Elizabeth. It begins as an antiphonal chorus ("Mid Tears and Solemn Mourning"), the female chorus answering the male and closing in unison. Once more the Crusaders' March is heard in the orchestra as the knights sing, "O Thou whose Life-blood streamed." The church choir sings the chorale, "Decorata novo flore," the Hungarian and German bishops intone their benedictions, and then all join in the powerful and broadly harmonious hymn, "Tu pro nobis Mater pia," closing with a sonorous and majestic "Amen." Christus. "Christus, oratorio, with texts from the Holy Scriptures and the Catholic Liturgy," as Liszt entitles his work, was finished in 1866. At the outset the composer selected the "Hymn of Praise" and "Pater Noster" from Rüchert's "Evangelical Harmony;" and upon these and one or two other detached numbers for a background, he built up a series of religious events connected with the offices of the Church according to the Vulgate and its Liturgy. These events are laid out in three divisions,--"The Christmas Oratorio," "After Epiphany," and "The Passion and Resurrection;" the separate parts of which are as follows: (1) The Introduction. (2) Pastoral and Vision of the Angels. (3) Stabat Mater speciosa. (4) Song of the Shepherds in the Manger. (5) The Anointing of the three Kings. (6) Hymn of Praise. (7) Pater Noster. (8) The Establishment or Foundation of the Christian Church. (9) The Storm on the Lake. (10) The Entry into Jerusalem. (11) Tristis est anima mea. (12) Stabat Mater dolorosa. (13) Easter Hymn. (14) Resurrection of Christ. The motive of the work is announced in Saint Paul's words to the Ephesians: "But speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even Christ." The long instrumental introduction is constructed upon a theme representative of a text from Isaiah, "Resound, ye Heavens above," many times repeated, and leading to a pastoral which prepares the way for the angelic announcement to the shepherds. This announcement is made in the simple collect music by a soprano solo, and replied to by a female chorus, first accompanied by string quartet, and then by full orchestra, and leading to the full chorus, "Gloria in excelsis," a series of mighty shouts, closing with a stately Hallelujah and a return of the orchestra to the pastoral movement. The next division is the old Latin hymn, "Stabat Mater speciosa," the Virgin at the cradle of our Lord,--a six-part chorus in church style, accompanied by the organ, with solo variations interspersed through it, and characterized by a lofty feeling of devotion, especially in the "Inflammatus" and the majestic final "Amen." The remaining numbers of the first part are entirely instrumental, including the "Shepherd's Song at the Manger," a pastoral full of beautiful effects, and "the Three Holy Kings," a march which is majestic in its style and broad in its rhythm, and full of characteristic color. The two numbers close the part in a brilliant and jubilant manner. The second part opens with the "Seligkeiten" ("Hymn of Praise"), a grand declamatory solo for baritone, accompanied by a six-part chorus, which, like the next number, was written by Liszt in his younger days and utilized in its present setting. The hymn is accompanied by organ throughout, and is followed by the "Pater Noster," also with organ,--a fervent, almost passionate, offering of prayer by the precentors and congregation, closing with a mighty "Amen." In the next number--the founding of the Church ("Tu es Petrus"), beginning with male chorus--the orchestra resumes its work. The voices move on in stately manner until the words, "Simon, son of Jona, lovest thou me?" are reached, when the full chorus comes in with imposing effect. Of this number, Nohl says in his fine analysis of "Christus:"-- "The perishable, sinful world in all its aspects is here contrasted with an undoubting faith in an everlastingly constant higher ideal, to give it this name. That it is the spirit of the subject, not its mere perishable husk, is shown by the nature of the melody, which rises to the most powerful expression of the final victory of this spirit of love. Now again the full orchestra joins the double chorus; for the world, the whole world, is meant." The next scene, entitled "The Wonder," is purely instrumental, and is a marvellous picture of the storm upon the lake, which Nohl also characterizes with reference to its inner meanings:-- "The ninth scene is a marvel. 'The storms rage in contention,'--not the storms of the sea, but the storm of desires to which the weak of faith are exposed. It is not the outward marvel or superstition that is to be strengthened, but the faith of human nature in itself and its higher power and destiny. Hence the actual inner tranquillity when, after the raging orchestral tumult, 'a great stillness' succeeds Christ's words, which is ingeniously introduced with the motive of the 'Seligkeit,' because such inner purity alone bestows upon mankind effective power over the savage forces of the world." "The Entrance into Jerusalem," a graphic instrumental prelude, introduces a "Hosanna" for full chorus, followed by a "Benedictus" for mezzo-soprano with chorus,--a splendidly constructed number, which closes the second part in a style full of beauty and majesty. The third part opens with the sorrowful scene, "Tristis est anima mea," Christ's sad words in the walk to Gethsemane,--an unutterably pathetic solo, with an accompaniment which is a marvel of expressive instrumentation. The next number is the old Middle-Age hymn, "Stabat Mater dolorosa," in which Liszt has combined voices and instruments in a manner, particularly in the "Inflammatus," almost overpowering. Solos, duets, quartets, choruses, orchestra, and organ are all handled with consummate skill. It has been aptly characterized as having the dimensions of the "Last Judgment" in the Sistine Chapel. After the great hymn is ended, another begins. It is the old Easter song, "O Filii et Filiæ," written to be sung by boys with harmonium,--a joyous, sunny chorus, dispersing the gloom of the "Stabat Mater." The last scene, "The Resurrection," is a powerful and massive chorus, full of mighty accords, typical of the final triumph of Christianity, and closing with a majestic "Amen" built up on the opening motive of the original introduction. "It is," says Nohl, "a cycle of scenes such as only the victorious mastery of the subject by inward perception can give, and such as only the artist can draw who dominates all the conditions apart like a king, and has reconciled his soul with the absolute truth and power of the Eternal." MACFARREN. George Alexander Macfarren, one of the most prominent of modern English composers, was born in London, March 2, 1813. He began the study of music in 1827 under the tuition of Charles Lucas. Two year's later he entered the Royal Academy of Music, and in 1834 became one of its professors. The latter year dates the beginning of his career as a composer, his first work having been a symphony in F minor. During the next thirty years his important works were as follows: overture "Chevy Chase" (1836); "Devil's Opera," produced at the Lyceum (1838); "Emblematical Tribute on the Queen's Marriage" and an arrangement of Purcell's "Dido and Æneas" (1840); editions of "Belshazzar," "Judas Maccabæus," and "Jephthah," for the Handel Society (1843); opera "Don Quixote" (1846); opera "Charles II." (1849); serenata "The Sleeper Awakened," and the cantata "Lenora" (1851); the cantata "May Day," for the Bradford Festival (1856); the cantata "Christmas" (1859); the opera "Robin Hood" (1860); the masque "Freya's Gift" and opera "Jessy Lea" (1863); and the operas "She Stoops to Conquer," "The Soldier's Legacy," and "Helvellyn" (1864). About the last year his sight, which had been impaired for many years, failed. His blindness did not however diminish his activity. He still served as professor in the Royal Academy, and dictated compositions,--indeed some of his best works were composed during this time of affliction. In 1873 appeared his oratorio, "St. John the Baptist," which met with an enthusiastic reception at the Bristol Festival of that year. In 1875 he was elected professor of music at Cambridge, to fill the vacancy occasioned by the death of Sterndale Bennett, and in the same year was also appointed principal of the Royal Academy of Music. In 1876 his oratorio "The Resurrection" was performed at the Birmingham Festival, and in 1877 the oratorio "Joseph" at Leeds, besides the cantata "The Lady of the Lake" at Glasgow. Grove catalogues his other compositions as follows: a cathedral service, anthems, chants, psalm-tunes, and introits for the Holy Days and Seasons of the English Church (1866); "Songs in a Cornfield" (1868); "Shakspeare Songs for Four Voices" (1860-64); songs from Lane's "Arabian Nights," and Kingsley's and Tennyson's poems; overtures to "The Merchant of Venice," "Romeo and Juliet," "Hamlet," and "Don Carlos;" symphonies, string quartets, and a quintet; a concerto for violin and orchestra; and sonatas for pianoforte alone, and in combination with other instruments. As lecturer, writer, and critic, Sir George Macfarren also holds a high place, among his important works being "Rudiments of Harmony" (1860), and six Lectures on Harmony (1867); also Analyses of Oratorios for the Sacred Harmonic Society (1853-57), and of orchestral works for the Philharmonic Society (1869-71), besides numerous articles in the musical dictionaries. St. John the Baptist. The oratorio "St. John the Baptist" was first produced at the Bristol Musical Festival in 1873. The libretto was written by Dr. E. G. Monk, and is divided into two parts,--the first styled "The Desert," and the second "Machærus," to correspond with the localities where the action is supposed to take place. The incidents described are John's preaching to the people, the baptism of Christ, and the events which begin with Herod's feast and close with the execution of the Prophet. One of the best of the English critics, speaking of the libretto, says:-- "John is thus shown in his threefold capacity, as the herald of the Kingdom of Heaven, as the uncompromising champion of righteousness, and as the witness of truth even unto death. Nothing could be more simple or more definite than this, and the discreetness it evinces is shown also by the manner in which the characters are treated. John, of course, is the central figure. He stands out clothed with all the noble attributes accredited to him in the Bible,--'stern and inflexible in his teaching, yet bowing before him whose message he had to promulgate.' A halo of grandeur surrounds the ascetic of the desert as he hurls anathemas upon the corruptors of Israel; or as, in the true spirit of the ancient prophets of his race, he rebukes Herod under the roof of that monarch's palace. No greater hero could a musician wish for as a source of inspiration, or as a means of exciting interest. Next to John stands the weak and voluptuous King,--a contrast as marked in character as in outward circumstance. The impulsive temperament of Herod is well brought out. One instant he resents John's boldness, and significantly exclaims, 'If I command to kill, they kill;' the next he trembles before his rebuker, and promises to amend his life. The rashness of the fatal vow to Salome, and the bitter but unavailing repentance to which it led, are also put well forward, while in matters of detail extreme care is taken to make the contrast of Prophet and King as great as circumstances permit. The part of Salome, who is the only other dramatic person, contains no more amplification of the Bible narrative than was exacted by the necessities of musical treatment. In structure, the libretto is partly dramatic, partly narrational, the dramatic form being employed in all the chief scenes; and as little use is made of 'Greek chorus,' the story marches without the halting rendered necessary by efforts to 'improve' its incidents as they arise." The overture, which is very dramatic in character, is followed by a powerful fugued chorus ("Behold! I will send My Messenger"), a part of which is set to organ accompaniment. The Narrator (contralto) recites the coming of the Prophet, in the orchestral prelude to which is a phrase borrowed from an old church melody which Mendelssohn also used in his Reformation Symphony, and which serves throughout the work as the motive for the Prophet, in the genuine Wagner style. Saint John is introduced in a rugged and massive baritone solo ("Repent ye, the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand"), accompanied by very descriptive instrumentation. A dramatic scene ensues, composed of inquiries as to the Prophet's mission by the People, a short chorus by the latter ("What shall we do then?") which is very melodic in style, and the resumption of the dialogue form, set to a very skilful accompaniment. This scene is followed by a characteristic aria for the Prophet, "I indeed baptize you with Water." The story is once more taken up by the Narrator, who describes the baptism of Christ. The words, "This is My Beloved Son," are given to a female choir, with exquisite accompaniment by the violins and harps. A song for the Narrator ("In the Beginning was the Word") follows, and leads to the chorus, which closes the first part, the words taken from the first verse of Psalm civ., and the melody borrowed from the familiar old tune "Hanover," which the composer has worked up with great skill and effect. The second part opens in Herod's palace with the rebuke of the Monarch by the Prophet. In this scene, as well as in others, the composer draws a strong contrast in the music assigned to the two, the one being strong and stern, the other sensuous, in style. In the duet, where Herod confesses the error of his ways, the voices unite in a genuine religious strain. The Narrator is once more introduced, and describes the feast given by the Monarch to the Galilee estates, followed by a jubilant chorus of Nobles ("O King, live forever!"), set to a brilliant accompaniment, calling for the most ample orchestral resources. The next number is a chorus for male voices ("Lo! the Daughter of Herodias cometh in, she danceth!"), set to a dance rhythm with tambourines, the themes being bits of Oriental melodies skilfully treated. We then have the banquet-scene, the admiration of the Nobles for Salome's beauty, Herod's oath, and Salome's joy expressed in a showy song ("I rejoice in my youth"). Then follows the dramatic scene of Salome's request,--a concerted number of great force in its treatment. Herod sings a mournful aria ("Alas! my Daughter, thou hast brought us very low"). The Narrator explains how the King was compelled to keep his word, and is followed by the Nobles in a stirring chorus ("Lo! the Wrath of the King is as a Messenger of Death"). The scene now changes to the dungeon, where the Prophet sings his farewell song ("A Man can receive nothing"), accompanied by orchestra and organ. The final tragedy is told by the Narrator, and the work closes with two reflective numbers,--the beautiful unaccompanied quartet, "Blessed are they which are persecuted," and the chorus, "What went ye out into the Wilderness for to see?" The above-mentioned critic, who was present at its first performance, says of the work:-- "It is a strange thing that John the Baptist has not often attracted the notice of musical composers in search of a subject. No more remarkable personage, with one great exception, figures in Bible history than he whom the Master described as 'more than a prophet.' His striking appearance, stern asceticism, wrathful denunciation of 'wickedness in high places,' and tragic fate,--not to speak of his relation to One whose shoes he professed himself unworthy to loose,--throw his form into bold relief, and mark him as of heroic proportions. Yet, save that he holds a subordinate place in a very limited number of works, among which is Sir Julius Benedict's 'St. Peter,' the great forerunner has been passed over till now. At length, however, in that 'fulness of time' which ever brings forth the best results, the Man and his Life have found a musical illustrator. There is now an oratorio of 'John the Baptist,'--a work worthy its theme, and to which the stamp of enthusiastic approval has been affixed by the unanimous verdict of an audience competent to judge." MACKENZIE. Alexander C. Mackenzie, one of the very few successful Scotch composers, was born at Edinburgh in 1847. His father was a musician; and recognizing his son's talent, sent him to Germany at the age of ten. He began his studies with Ulrich Eduard Stein at Schwartzburg-Sonderhausen, and four years later entered the ducal orchestra as violinist. He remained there until 1862, when he went to England to study the violin with M. Sainton. In the same year he was elected king's scholar of the Royal Academy of Music. Three years later he returned to Edinburgh and established himself as a piano-teacher. The main work of his life, however, has been composition, and to this he has devoted himself with assiduity and remarkable success. Grove catalogues among his works: "Cervantes, an overture for orchestra;" a scherzo for ditto; overture to a comedy; a string quintet and many other pieces in MS.; pianoforte quartet in B, op. 11; Trois Morceaux pour Piano, op. 15; two songs, op. 12; besides songs, part-songs, anthems, and pieces for the piano. This catalogue, however, does not include his two most important works,--a Scotch Rhapsody, introduced into this country by the Theodore Thomas orchestra, a composition of great merit, and the oratorio, "The Rose of Sharon," which has been received with extraordinary favor wherever it has been performed. The Rose of Sharon. "The Rose of Sharon," a dramatic oratorio founded on the Song of Solomon, the words selected from the Scriptures and arranged by Joseph Bennett, was first brought out at the Norwich Festival, England, Oct. 16, 1884, under the direction of the composer, and was subsequently performed in London by the Sacred Harmonic Society. Its first performance in Scotland took place at Glasgow, Dec. 8, 1885, under the auspices of the Glasgow Choral Union, Madame Albani, Miss Hilda Wilson, Mr. Edward Lloyd, and Mr. Watkins Mills being the principal vocalists. One notice of this performance says: "The enthusiastic reception of the work on this occasion was beyond all description; the composer was recalled after each part with cheers that must have made his heart leap with delight." At the first performance at Norwich he was showered with flowers by the chorus, while the whole audience rose and greeted him with prolonged cheering. In speaking of the text, its compiler says:-- "In adopting for the purposes of this oratorio a reading of the 'Song of Songs' upon which Ewald and Renan substantially agree, the compiler of the libretto favored no controversial opinion. He simply saw in the ingenious commentaries of the learned Hebraists suggestions for a story of unconquerable love, capable of expression in the language of the Bible. "For the arrangement of incident the compiler is alone responsible. In some respects it departs widely from the original poem,--which opens, for example, in Jerusalem,--and gives only in narrative the events that occupy part one of the oratorio. "In taking a story from a canonical book of Holy Scripture, the compiler could not ignore its spiritual significance. He has, therefore, introduced a prologue suggesting the parabolic character of the drama, and an epilogue which points its moral." The characters are the Rose of Sharon, designated throughout the work as the Sulamite (soprano); a Woman (contralto); the Beloved (tenor); and Solomon (baritone); the chorus representing Officers of the Court, Princes, Nobles, Villagers, Elders, and Soldiers. The story, briefly told, is one of the power of love. The Beloved and Solomon are both in love with the Sulamite, and the king tears her from the former to be the favorite among the women of the harem. Amid all the splendors of the palace and the luxuries heaped upon her by her passionate admirer she remains true to the Beloved, is ultimately restored to him, and returns to the vineyards of Sulam. The work is divided as follows: Prologue; Part I. Separation; II. Temptation; III. Victory; IV. Reunion; V. Epilogue. The motto of the oratorio is "Love is strong as death, and unconquerable as the grave." This motto has its musical theme as well as each of the three principal characters, and they are invariably used with great skill and effect. The Woman acts the part of Narrator, and after a brief orchestral prelude she is heard declaring the meaning and spiritual significance of the story in the prologue: "We will open our mouth in a parable; We will utter dark sayings of old, Which we have heard and known, Which our fathers have told us; We will not hide them from our children, That the generation to come may know them, Who shall declare them to their children. This is a great mystery; but we speak concerning Christ and his Church." The oratorio opens in the vineyard of Sulam as the Vine-dressers come forth to their labor. The orchestral part begins with the melody of the Vineyard Song ("We will take the Foxes"), and serves to introduce their chorus, a joyous pastoral ("Come, let us go forth into the Field"). As they disappear, the voice of the Beloved is heard singing a tender and passionate appeal beneath the Sulamite's lattice ("Rise up, rise up, my Love") as he urges her to join him, "For lo! the winter is past; the rain is over and gone." Her reply follows from within her chamber, full of love and adoration, and closing with the Vineyard Song ("We will take the Foxes, the little Foxes that ravage the Vines"). She descends from her chamber and joins the Beloved, and their voices unite in a delightful duet ("Come, Beloved, into the Garden of Nuts"). Once more the chorus of the Vine-dressers is heard, and at its close, after an intermezzo descriptive of the joys of a spring morning, the scene changes to Lebanon. A short alto solo announces the coming of Solomon, and the pastoral music is followed by a brilliant and stately processional march, accompanied by chorus ("God save the King!"). Solomon beholds the Sulamite, and pours forth his admiration in a rapturous song ("Thou art lovely, O my Friend, as Thirza"). The Princes and Nobles also testify to their admiration of her beauty. A very dramatic scene ensues, in which the Beloved and the Sulamite seek to escape "out of the caves of the lion and from the haunt of the leopard." She is brought back by an elder, and again Solomon pleads his cause in a passionate declamation ("Unto my charger in Pharaoh's stud I would compare thee, O my friend"). She replies, "My Beloved is to me a nosegay of myrrh," and clings to her lover, who once more seeks to escape with her; whereupon she is seized and placed in one of the king's chariots, and the cavalcade moves off to the brilliant strains of the cortège music, accompanied by the chorus. The second part, "Temptation," introduces us to Solomon's palace, where the Sulamite is alone, pining for her lover. The scene opens with the psalm, "The Lord is my Shepherd," set to a simple, charming melody, full of the spirit of devotion, but entirely disconnected with the general texture of the work. As the touching strain comes to an end, the Women of the court enter, insidiously plead the cause of Solomon, tempt her with his luxuries, and seek to shame her love for the Beloved. "Kings' daughters shall be among thine honorable women; thy clothing shall be of wrought gold; thou shalt be brought unto the king in raiment of needlework, with gladness and rejoicing shalt thou be brought and enter into the king's palace," sings one of the Women; but the Sulamite remains loyal, and only answers: "My Beloved pastures his flocks among the lilies. My Beloved is mine, and I am his." The temptation is interrupted by the procession of the ark passing in the street below to the glad acclaim of the people ("Make a joyful Noise unto the Lord, all ye Lands"), and a brilliant march. Successively the Maidens of Jerusalem with timbrels, the Elders, the Shepherds and Vine-dressers, the Soldiers, the Priests bearing the sacred vessels pass by, singing tributes of praise to the Lord; and as the Levites appear bearing the ark, and Solomon comes in sight with all his retinue, the entire chorus triumphantly repeat "God save the King!" The brilliant procession passes from view. The Women once more appeal to the Sulamite; but she still loyally declares: "My Beloved pastures his flocks among the lilies; lo! Solomon in all his glory is not arrayed like one of these." The third part, "Victory," opens with an orchestral prelude picturing the sleep of the Sulamite, with her women watching about her. The voice of the Beloved is heard without the chamber, "Open to me, my Sister, my Bride." It reaches her in a dream, and in fancy she replies to him, clothes herself, and searches for him in the streets; but when she accosts the watchmen, they are so rude that her fright awakes her. She is still a prisoner in the palace, and the Women about her announce the coming of Solomon. He pleads his cause in a passionate song ("Ere the Day cool and the Shadows flee away"); and she replies with another protestation of her constancy in the solo, "Lo! a Vineyard hath Solomon at Baal-hamon." The situation, which is very dramatic in its treatment, is heightened by a duet and by the mocking chorus of Women; but above them all still sings the brave Sulamite, "My Beloved is mine, and I am his." The fourth part brings us back again to the vineyards of Sulam. It opens with a melancholy chorus of the Vine-dressers ("O Lord, be gracious unto us"), lamenting her absence. It is followed by a bass solo ("Thus saith the Lord") and a chorale in full broad harmony. At last the victorious Sulamite is seen coming up from the valley leaning on the arm of the Beloved. All join in a powerful and exultant chorus of gratitude and joy ("Sing, O Heavens, and be joyful, O Earth"). A rapturous duet ensues between the Sulamite and the Beloved, and then all join in the spirited finale:-- "For the flame of Love is as fire, Even the fire of God. Many waters cannot quench it, Neither can floods drown it. Yea, Love is strong as death, And unconquerable as the grave." MENDELSSOHN. Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, the son of a Berlin banker, was born at Hamburg, Feb. 3, 1809, and, unlike almost all other composers, was reared in the lap of luxury. Every advantage which wealth could procure he enjoyed, with the result that he became highly educated in the other arts as well as in music. His teachers in music were Zelter and Ludwig Berger, and he made such progress that in his ninth year he appeared in public as a pianist in Berlin, and afterwards in Paris. The first of his compositions to attract general notice were the overture to Shakspeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream" and the little opera "The Marriage of Camacho," which were brought out in Berlin in 1827. After several concert tours, in which he met with great success, he resided for some time in Düsseldorf. In 1835 he went to Leipsic as director of the famous Gewandhaus concerts,--which are still given in that city. Two years later he married Cécile Jeanrenaud, the beautiful daughter of a minister of the Reformed Church in Frankfort, and shortly afterwards went to Berlin as general director of church music. In 1843 he returned to his former post in Leipsic, and also took a position in the newly established Conservatory, where he spent the remainder of his days in company with his family, to whom he was closely attached. He has left a large and rich collection of musical works, which are favorites the world over. His three great oratorios are the "Hymn of Praise," catalogued as a symphony-cantata, "St. Paul," and "Elijah." The last is specially interesting, as it marked a new departure from the conventional forms of oratorio, and gave the widest scope to the dramatic elements,--to such a degree, in fact, that it might with propriety be styled a sacred opera. Besides these oratorios, his exquisite music to the "Midsummer Night's Dream," which is familiar the world over, and his stately dramatic music to "Antigone," he has left five symphonies, of which the "Scotch," the "Italian," and the "Reformation" are best known; four exquisite overtures, "Ruy Blas," "Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage," "Hebrides," and "Melusina;" the very dramatic cantata, "The Walpurgis Night;" a long list of beautiful songs for one or more voices; the incidental music to Racine's "Athalia;" a very large collection of sacred music, such as psalms, hymns, anthems, and cantatas; several beautiful trios and other specimens of chamber-music; and the lovely "Songs without Words," which are to be found upon almost every piano, the beauty and freshness of which time has not impaired. Mendelssohn never wrote a grand opera, owing to his fastidiousness as to a libretto; though he finally obtained one from Geibel, on the subject of the "Loreley," which suited him. He had begun to write it, and had finished the finale to the first act, when death interrupted his work, Nov. 4, 1847. Mendelssohn was a man of remarkable beauty, and his character corresponded to his charm of person. He had a liberal education, was a man of broad culture, a clever artist, and a very skilful writer, as is shown by his volumes of letters from Italy and Switzerland. Possessed of these graces of mind and person, and having all the advantages that wealth could bestow, he lacked those incentives which in other composers have brought out the deepest, highest, and most majestic forms of musical expression. His music is a reflex of his life; grace, elegance, culture, and finish are its characteristics. St. Paul. "St. Paul," the first of Mendelssohn's oratorios, was begun in Düsseldorf and finished in Leipsic in the winter of 1835, the composer being then in his twenty-sixth year. He first applied to Marx to write the text; but the invitation was declined, on the ground that the chorales were unsuited to the period of the narrative. Mendelssohn then consulted with his friends Fürst and Schubring, and the libretto as it now stands represents their joint compilation. Its three principal themes are the martyrdom of Saint Stephen, the conversion of Saint Paul, and the apostle's subsequent career. One of the clearest statements of the general character of the work is that given by Lampadius; he says:-- "The main thought which runs through the whole work is too high and broad to be linked by the tie of a personal interest to any single man. It is the glorification of Christianity, with its humility, its joy in living and dying for the Lord, in contrast with the blind self-righteousness of Judaism and the mere sensuous morality of the heathen schools. It is the contrast, or rather the struggle, of the last two with the former, and the victory of the light and love of the Gospel,--the light eternal, the love divine. This thought is made incarnate in the persons of Stephen, Paul, and Barnabas, and it is concentrated at that point which is really the central point of interest to the oratorio,--the conversion of Saint Paul." The work was written upon a commission given by the Cecilien Verein of Frankfort in 1831; but it was not produced until May 22, 1836, on the occasion of the Lower Rhine Festival at Düsseldorf. The principal parts were sung by Madame Fischer-Achten, Mademoiselle Grabau, Herren Schmetzer and Wersing, the latter artist taking the part of Paul. The second performance was given at Liverpool, Oct. 3, 1836; and between the two performances Mendelssohn revised the work and cut out fourteen numbers. After a long and expressive overture for orchestra and organ, the first part opens with a strong and exultant chorus ("Lord! Thou alone art God"). It is massively constructed, and in its middle part runs into a restless, agitated theme ("The Heathen furiously rage"). It closes, however, in the same energetic and jubilant manner which characterizes its opening, and leads directly to a chorale ("To God on High"), set to a famous old German hymn-book tune, "Allein Gott in der Höh' sei Ehr," which is serenely beautiful in its clearly flowing harmony. The martyrdom of Stephen follows. The basses in vigorous recitative accuse him of blasphemy, and the people break out in an angry chorus ("Now this Man ceaseth not to utter blasphemous Words"). At its close Stephen sings a brief but beautiful solo ("Men, Brethren, and Fathers!"); and as the calm protest dies away, again the full chorus gives vent to a tumultuous shout of indignation ("Take him away"). A note of warning is heard in the fervent soprano solo, "Jerusalem, thou that killest the Prophets;" but it is of no avail. Again the chorus hurls its imprecations more furiously than before ("Stone him to death"). The tragedy occurs. A few bars of recitative for tenor, full of pathos, tell the sad story, and then follows another beautiful chorale of submission ("To Thee, O Lord, I yield my Spirit"). Saul's participation in the tragedy is barely touched upon. The lament for Stephen is followed by the chorus, "Happy and blest are they," which is beautifully melodious in character. Saul now appears, "breathing out threatenings and slaughter" against the apostles. His first aria ("Consume them all") is a bass solo which is fiery in its energy. It is followed by the lovely arioso for alto, "But the Lord is mindful of His own,"--fitting companion to the equally beautiful "O rest in the Lord" from "Elijah," and much resembling it in general style. Then occurs the conversion. The voice from heaven ("Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou Me?") is represented, as was often done in the passion-music, by the soprano choir, which gives it peculiar significance and makes it stand out in striking contrast with the rest of the work. A forcible orchestral interlude, worked up in a strong crescendo, leads to the vigorous chorus, "Rise up! arise!" in which the powerful orchestral climax adds great strength to the vocal part. It is a vigorously constructed chorus, and is followed by a chorale ("Sleepers, wake! a Voice is calling"), which still further heightens the effect by its trumpet notes between the lines. At the close of the imposing harmony the music grows deeper and more serious in character as Saul breathes out his prayer, "O God, have Mercy upon me;" and again, after the message of forgiveness and mercy delivered by Ananias, more joyful and exultant in the bass solo with chorus ("I praise Thee, O Lord, my God"), Saul receives his sight, and straightway begins his ministrations. A grand reflective chorus ("O great is the Depth of the Riches of Wisdom"), strong and jubilant in character, and rising to a powerful climax, closes the first part. The second part opens with the five-part chorus, "The Nations are now the Lord's,"--a clear fugue, very stately and dignified in its style, leading, after a tenor and bass duet ("Now all are Ambassadors in the Name of Christ"), to the beautifully melodious chorus, "How lovely are the Messengers that preach us the Gospel of Peace," and the equally beautiful soprano arioso, "I will sing of Thy great Mercies." After the chorus, "Thus saith the Lord," and a second tumultuous chorus expressive of rage and scorn ("Is this He who in Jerusalem"), another chorale occurs ("O Thou, the true and only Light"), in which the Church prays for direction. The tenor recitative announcing the departure of Paul and Barnabas to the Gentiles, followed by the tenor and bass duet, "For so hath the Lord Himself commanded," bring us to the scene of the sacrifice at Lystra, in which the two choruses, "The Gods themselves as Mortals," and "O be gracious, ye Immortals," are full of genuine Greek sensuousness and in striking contrast with the seriousness and majestic character of the harmony in the Christian chorus ("But our God abideth in Heaven") which follows. Once more the Jews interfere, in the raging, wrathful chorus, "This is Jehovah's Temple." In a pathetic tenor aria ("Be thou faithful unto Death") Paul takes a sorrowful leave of his brethren, and in response comes an equally tender chorus, "Far be it from thy Path." Two stately choruses ("See what Love hath the Father," and "Now only unto Him") close the work. Hymn of Praise. The "Lobgesang" ("Hymn of Praise") was written at Leipsic in 1840, the occasion which gave birth to it being the fourth centennial celebration of the art of printing. The musical features of the festival were intrusted to Mendelssohn, the ceremonies occupying two days, June 24 and 25 of the above year. On the evening of the 23d there was a performance of Lortzing's opera, "Hans Sachs," written for the occasion. On the morning of the 24th there was a service in the church, followed by the unveiling of the statue of Guttenberg in the public square, and an open-air performance of the composer's "Festgesang" for two choirs, with trombone accompaniment, David conducting one choir, and Mendelssohn the other. In the afternoon of the 25th the "Hymn of Praise" was given for the first time in St. Thomas's Church, preceded by Weber's "Jubilee Overture" and Handel's "Dettingen Te Deum." Lampadius, who was present at the performance, says:-- "The work called out the greatest enthusiasm, which could hardly be repressed within bounds even by the fact that the audience were seated within the walls of a church. After the first duet a subdued whisper of applause ran through the edifice and betrayed the suppressed delight of the listeners. On one of the evenings following, a torchlight procession was made in honor of the great composer. Mendelssohn, who then lived in Lurgenstein's Garden, appeared at the window, his face lighted up with joy. 'Gentlemen,' he said in his neat, quiet way, with a sensible trembling of the voice, 'you know that it is not my manner to make many words; but I heartily thank you.' A loud 'Hoch!' three times shouted, was our reply." Its next performance was at Birmingham, Sept. 23, 1840, Mendelssohn himself conducting. After this performance it was considerably changed, and the whole scene of the watchman was added. The idea occurred to him after a sleepless night, during which, as he informed a friend, the words, "Will the night soon pass?" incessantly came into his mind. The title given to the "Hymn of Praise," "a symphony-cantata," was first suggested by his friend Carl Klingemann, of London, as will be seen by the following interesting extract from a letter written by Mendelssohn to him, Nov. 18, 1840:-- "My 'Hymn of Praise' is to be performed the end of this month for the benefit of old invalided musicians. I am determined, however, that it shall not be produced in the imperfect form in which, owing to my illness, it was given in Birmingham; so that makes me work hard. Four new pieces are to be added, and I have also much improved the three sets of symphonies, which are now in the hands of the copyist. As an introduction to the chorus, 'The Night is passed,' I have found far finer words in the Bible, and admirably adapted to the music. By the by, you have much to answer for in the admirable title you hit on so cleverly; for not only have I sent forth the piece into the world as a symphony-cantata, but I have serious thoughts of resuming the first 'Walpurgis Night' (which has been so long lying by me) under the same cognomen, and finishing and getting rid of it at last. It is singular enough that at the very first suggestion of this idea I should have written to Berlin that I was resolved to compose a symphony with a chorus. Subsequently I had not courage to begin, because the three movements were too long for an introduction; and yet I never could divest myself of the impression that something was wanting in the shape of an introduction. Now the symphony is to be inserted according to my original intention, and the piece brought out at once." The text to the "Hymn of Praise" is not in narrative form, nor has it any particular dramatic significance. It is what its name indicates,--a tribute of praise. Lampadius says the composer undertook to show "the triumph at the creation of light over darkness. With his pious and believing heart he could easily enter into that theme, and show with matchless power and skill the closing-in of those ancient foes, and the victory of light when darkness cowered and ignobly shrank away." The expression of delight over this victory is very well brought out, not only in the music, but also in the arrangement of the Scriptural texts, which begin with exhortations of praise, and appeals to those who have been in distress and affliction to trust the Lord. The tenor, who may be regarded as the Narrator, calls upon the Watchman, "What of the night?" The response comes that the night has passed. In exultation over the victory, once more the text ascribes praise to the Lord. "All that has life and breath" sings to His name. The symphony is in three parts, beginning with a maestoso movement, in which the trombones at once give out the choral motive, "All that has life and breath sing to the Lord,"--a favorite theme of Mendelssohn. This movement, which is strong and energetic in character, is followed by an allegretto based upon a beautiful melody, and to this in turn succeeds an adagio religioso rich in harmony. The symphony clearly reflects the spirit of the cantata, which follows. The opening chorus ("All that has Life and Breath") is based upon the choral motive, and enunciates the real hymn of praise. It moves along in a stately manner, and finally leads without break into a semi-chorus, "Praise thou the Lord, O my Spirit," a soprano solo with accompaniment of female voices. The tenor in a long dramatic recitative ("Sing ye Praise, all ye redeemed of the Lord") urges the faithful to join in praise and extol His goodness, and the chorus responds, first, the tenors, and then all the parts, in a beautiful number, "All ye that cried unto the Lord." The next number is an exquisite duet for soprano and alto with chorus ("I waited for the Lord"). It is thoroughly devotional in style, and in its general color and effect reminds one of the arias, "O Rest in the Lord" from "Elijah," and "The Lord is mindful of His own" from "St. Paul." This duet is followed by a sorrowful, almost wailing tenor solo, "The Sorrows of Death had closed all around me," ending with the piercing, anxious cry in recitative, "Watchman! will the Night soon pass?" set to a restless, agitated accompaniment and thrice repeated. Like a flash from a cloud comes the quick response of the chorus, "The Night is departing," which forms the climax of the work. The chorus is beautifully constructed, and very impressive in its effect. At first the full chorus proclaims the night's departure; it then takes the fugal form on the words, "Therefore let us cast off the works of darkness," which is most effectively worked out. In the finale the male voices are massed on the declaration, "The Night is departing," and the female voices on the response, "The Day is approaching;" and after alternating repetitions all close in broad, flowing harmony. This chorus leads directly to the chorale, "Let all Men praise the Lord," sung first without accompaniment, and then in unison with orchestra. Another beautiful duet, "My Song shall alway be Thy Mercy," this time for soprano and tenor, follows, and prepares the way for the final fugued chorus, "Ye Nations, offer to the Lord," a massive number, stately in its proportions and impressive in its effect, and closing with a fortissimo delivery of the splendid choral motive, "All that has Life and Breath." Notwithstanding that the choral part is brief as compared with the "St. Paul" and "Elijah," there are many critics who are inclined to pronounce the "Hymn of Praise" Mendelssohn's greatest work. In its combination of the symphony and the voice parts, the one growing out of the other and both so intimately connected, it stands almost alone. Some critics have condemned Mendelssohn for imitating Beethoven's Choral Symphony, though in that colossal work the chorus is not only subordinate to the symphony, but is even trifling in length as compared with it, and very inferior in style. While in Mendelssohn's work the symphony is subordinated to the choral part, and serves only as an introduction to it, they are yet conventionally connected; but in Beethoven's work the chorus was the product of necessity, as the idea could not have been developed without it. The instruments had gone as far as possible; the voices _must_ speak. Elijah. "Elijah," the most admired of all Mendelssohn's compositions, was finished in 1846. The plan of the work was first considered in 1837, and was discussed with his friend Klingemann in London. During the next year he had frequent consultations with another friend, Schubring, as to the preparation of the book, and many of the passages were selected and scenes sketched out; but it was not until 1840 that he really began to put it into shape. We learn by a letter that in 1842 he was still at work upon the book itself. Two years later he received an invitation to conduct the Birmingham Festival of 1846; and it was evidently at that time he decided to prepare the work for that occasion. We learn by another letter that on the 23d of May, 1846, the entire first part and six or eight numbers of the second part were sent to London to a Mr. Bartholomew, who was engaged translating the text into English. That Mendelssohn himself was pleased with his work is evident from his own words, written to a friend after he had finished the first part: "I am jumping about my room for joy. If it only turns out half as good as I fancy, how pleased I shall be!" By the latter part of July the entire oratorio was in the hands of Mr. Bartholomew, and on August 18 Mendelssohn himself arrived in London and immediately began the rehearsals. The work was first performed on the 26th at Birmingham, coming between Haydn's "Creation" on the 25th, and Handel's "Messiah" on the 27th, the latter oratorio being followed by Beethoven's Mass in D. A correspondent who was present writes:-- "How shall I describe what to-day has been in the Music Hall? After such an intense enjoyment it is a hard task to express one's feelings in cold words. It was a great day for the festival, a great day for the performers, a great day for Mendelssohn, a great day for art. Four da-capos in the first part, four in the second, making eight encores, and at the close the calling out of the composer,--are significant facts when one considers that it was the rigid injunction of the Committee that the public should not testify its approval by applause. But the enthusiasm would be checked by no rules; when the heart is full, regulations must stand aside. It was a noble scene, the hall filled with men, the galleries gay with ladies, like so many tulip-beds, added to the princely music and their thundering bravas." Mendelssohn himself on the day after the performance writes to his brother in Berlin:-- "No work of mine ever went so admirably the first time of execution, or was received with such enthusiasm by both the musicians and the audience, as this oratorio. It was quite evident at the first rehearsal in London that they liked it, and liked to sing and play it; but I own I was far from anticipating that it would acquire such fresh vigor and impetus at the performance. Had you only been there! During the whole two hours and a half that it lasted, the large hall, with its two thousand people, and the large orchestra were all so fully intent on the one object in question that not the slightest sound was to be heard among the whole audience, so that I could sway at pleasure the enormous orchestra and choir, and also the organ accompaniments. How often I thought of you during the time! more especially, however, when 'the sound of abundance of rain' came, and when they sang and played the final chorus with _furore_, and when, after the close of the first part, we were obliged to repeat the whole movement. Not less than four choruses and four airs were encored, and not one single mistake occurred in the first part; there were some afterwards in the second part, but even these were but trifling. A young English tenor[6] sang the last air with such wonderful sweetness that I was obliged to collect all my energies, not to be affected, and to continue beating time steadily." Notwithstanding his delight with the performance, he was not satisfied with the oratorio as a whole. He made numerous changes and re-wrote portions of the work,--indeed there was scarcely a movement that was not retouched. It is interesting to note in this connection that the beautiful trio, "Lift thine Eyes," was originally a duet, and very different in character. The first performance of the work in London took place April 16, 1847, when it was given by the Sacred Harmonic Society. Her Majesty and Prince Albert were in attendance; and after the performance the Prince sent to Mendelssohn the score which he had used in following the music, with the following tribute written in it:-- To the noble artist who, surrounded by the Baal-worship of corrupted art, has been able by his genius and science to preserve faithfully, like another Elijah, the worship of true art, and once more to accustom our ear, lost in the whirl of an empty play of sounds, to the pure notes of expressive composition and legitimate harmony; to the great master who makes us conscious of the unity of his conception through the whole maze of his creation, from the soft whispering to the mighty raging of the elements. Written in token of grateful remembrance by Albert. Buckingham Palace, April 24, 1847. The text was mainly compiled from the First Book of Kings, and was translated, as has been said, by Mr. Bartholomew. Hiller says that the idea of the oratorio was first suggested by the verse in the nineteenth chapter, "Behold, the Lord passed by," and that Mendelssohn, while reading it, remarked to him, "Would not that be splendid for an oratorio?" The prominent scenes treated are the drought prophecy, the raising of the widow's son, the rival sacrifices, the appearance of the rain in answer to Elijah's appeal, Jezebel's persecution of Elijah, the sojourn in the desert, his return, his disappearance in the fiery chariot, and the finale, which reflects upon the meaning of the sacred narrative. The scenes themselves indicate the dramatic character of the oratorio. In this respect, indeed, Mendelssohn may almost be said to have created a new school of oratorio construction. "Elijah" could be placed upon the stage with scenery, costume, and properties as a sacred opera, and make a powerful impression,--almost as much so, indeed, as Rossini's "Moses." Mendelssohn's own testimony on this point is interesting. In a letter written Nov. 2, 1838, to Pastor Julius Schubring, who was assisting him in the preparation of the book, he says:-- "I figured to myself Elijah as a grand, mighty prophet, such as we might again require in our own day,--energetic and zealous, but also stern, wrathful, and gloomy; a striking contrast to the court myrmidons and popular rabble,--in fact, in opposition to the whole world, and yet borne on angel's wings.... I am anxious to do justice to the dramatic element, and, as you say, no epic narrative must be introduced.... I would fain see the dramatic element more prominent, as well as more exuberant and defined,--appeal and rejoinder, question and answer, sudden interruptions, etc." Again, on the 6th of December, he writes:-- "In such a character as that of Elijah, like every one in the Old Testament (except, perhaps, Moses), it appears to me that the dramatic should predominate, the personages should be introduced as acting and speaking with fervor,--not, however, for Heaven's sake, to become mere musical pictures, but inhabitants of a positive, practical world such as we see in every chapter of the Old Testament; and the contemplative and pathetic element, which you desire, must be entirely conveyed to our apprehension by the words and the mood of the acting personages." The introduction to the oratorio is prefaced by a brief but very impressive recitative,--Elijah's prophecy of the drought; leading directly to the overture, a sombre, despairing prelude, picturing the distress which is to follow as the curse settles down upon the streams and valleys. At last the suffering is voiced in the opening chorus ("Help, Lord"), which, after three passionate appeals, moves along in plaintive beauty, developing phrase after phrase of touching appeal, and leading to a second chorus, with duet for two sopranos ("Lord, bow Thine Ear to our Prayer"), the choral part of which is an old Jewish chant, sung alternately by the male and female voices in unison. It is followed by Obadiah's lovely tenor aria, "If with all your Hearts," full of tenderness and consolation. Again the People break out into a chorus of lamentation ("Yet doth the Lord see it not"), which at the close develops into a chorale of graceful and serene beauty ("For He the Lord our God"). Then follows the voice of an Angel summoning Elijah to the brook of Cherith, leading to the beautiful double quartet, "For He shall give His Angels Charge over thee," the melody of which is simple, but full of animation, and worked up with a skilful effect. Again the Angel summons Elijah to go to the Widow's house at Zarephath. The dramatic scene of the raising of her son ensues, comprising a passionate song by the mother ("What have I to do with thee?") and the noble declaration of the prophet, "Give me thy Son," and closing with the reflective chorus, "Blessed are the Men who fear Him." In the next scene we have the appearance of Elijah before Ahab, and the challenge of the Priests of Baal to the sacrifice on Mount Carmel, set forth in vigorous recitative, accompanied by short choral outbursts. At the words of Elijah, "Invoke your forest gods and mountain deities," the Priests of Baal break out into the stirring double-chorus, "Baal, we cry to thee," which is fairly sensual and heathenish in its rugged, abrupt melodies, as compared with the Christian music. At its close Elijah bids them "call him louder, for he is a god; he talketh, or he is pursuing." Again they break out into a chorus of barbaric energy ("Hear our Cry, O Baal"), in the intervals of which Elijah taunts them again and again with the appeal, "Call him louder." The Priests renew their shouts, each time with increasing force, "pausing in vain for the reply, and closing with a rapid, almost angry expostulation ("Hear and answer"). Then follows the calm, dignified prayer of the prophet ("Lord God of Abraham"), succeeded by a simple, but beautiful chorale ("Cast thy Burden upon the Lord"). It is the moment of quiet before the storm which is to come. He calls for the fire to descend upon the altar, and a chorus of passionate energy replies, "The Fire descends from Heaven," accompanied by imitative music, and closing with a brief movement in broad harmony. In fierce recitative Elijah dooms the Priests of Baal to destruction, and after a short choral reply sings the bass aria, "Is not His Word like a Fire?"--a song of extraordinary difficulty, and requiring a voice of exceptional accuracy and power for its proper performance. A lovely arioso for alto ("Woe unto them") follows Elijah's vigorous declamation. These two arias are connecting links between the fire chorus and the rain scene which ensues. Obadiah summons Elijah to help the People, and Elijah replies in an exquisite little andante passage, repeated by the chorus ("Open the Heavens and send us Relief"). Then follows a dialogue-passage between the prophet, the People, and the Youth, whom he bids "look toward the sea,"--the most striking features of which are the responses of the Youth and the orchestral climax as the heavens grow black and "the storm rushes louder and louder." As the deluge of rain descends, the thankful People break out into a passionate shout of delight ("Thanks be to God"), heard above the tempest in the orchestra. At first it is a brief expression of gratitude. The voices come to a pause, and Elijah repeats the tribute of praise. Then all join in a surging tumult of harmony, as fresh and delightful as was the pouring rain to the thirsty land, voices and instruments vying with each other in joyful acclamations, until the end is reached and the first part closes. The second part opens with a brilliant soprano solo ("Hear ye, Israel"), beginning with a note of warning, and then with trumpet obligato developing into another melody of an impetuous and animated description ("I, I am He that comforteth"). The solo leads to the magnificent chorus, "Be not afraid," in which, after a short pause, the entire force of voices, orchestra, and organ join in the sublime strain, sweeping on in broad, full harmony. There is a pause of the voices for two bars, then they move on in a strong fugue ("Though Thousands languish and fall"). At its close they are all merged again in the grand announcement, "Be not afraid," delivered with impetuosity, and ending with the same subject in powerful chorale form. The scene which follows is intensely dramatic. The prophet rebukes Ahab and condemns the Baal worship. Jezebel fiercely accuses Elijah of conspiring against Israel, and the People in sharp, impetuous phrases declare, "He shall perish," leading to the chorus, "Woe to him!" After a few bars for the instruments, Obadiah, in an exquisite recitative, counsels him to fly to the wilderness. In the next scene we behold Elijah alone, and in a feeble but infinitely tender plaint he resigns himself. It is hard to conceive anything grander and yet more pathetic than this aria, "It is enough," in which the prophet prays for death. A few bars of tenor recitative tell us that, wearied out, he has fallen asleep ("See, now he sleepeth beneath a juniper-tree in the wilderness, and there the angels of the Lord encamp round about all them that fear Him"). It introduces the trio of the Angels, "Lift thine Eyes to the Mountains," sung without accompaniment,--one of the purest, loveliest, and most delightful of all vocal trios. An exquisite chorus ("He watching over Israel") follows, in which the second theme, introduced by the tenors ("Shouldst thou, walking in Grief"), is full of tender beauty; the trio and chorus are the perfection of dream-music. At its close the Angel awakes Elijah, and once more we hear his pathetic complaint, "O Lord, I have labored in vain; oh, that I now might die!" In response comes an aria of celestial beauty, sung by the Angel ("Oh, rest in the Lord"), breathing the very spirit of heavenly peace and consolation,--an aria of almost matchless purity, beauty, and grace. Firmly and with a certain sort of majestic severity follows the chorus, "He that shall endure to the end." The next scene is one of the most impressive and dramatic in the oratorio. Elijah no longer prays for death; he longs for the divine presence. He hears the voice of the Angel: "Arise now, get thee without, stand on the mount before the Lord; for there His glory will appear and shine on thee. Thy face must be veiled, for He draweth near." With great and sudden strength the chorus announces: "Behold! God the Lord passed by." With equal suddenness it drops to a pianissimo, gradually worked up in a crescendo movement, and we hear the winds "rending the mountains around;" but once more in pianissimo it tells us "the Lord was not in the tempest." The earthquake and the fire pass by, each treated in a similar manner; but the Lord was not in those elements. Then, in gentle tones of ineffable sweetness, it declares, "After the fire there came a still, small voice, ... and in that still, small voice onward came the Lord;" and onward sings the chorus in low, sweet, ravishing tones to the end: "The Seraphim above Him cried one to the other, Holy, holy, holy, is God the Lord!"--a double chorus of majestic proportions. Once more Elijah goes on his way, no longer dejected, but clothed with "the strength of the Lord." His aria, "For the Mountains shall depart," prepares us for the final climax. In strong accents the chorus announce, "Then did Elijah the prophet break forth like a fire;" his words were like "burning torches;" he overthrew kings; he stood on Sinai and heard the vengeance of the future on Horeb. Then comes a significant pause. The basses begin, "And when the Lord would take him away;" another brief pause, and the full chorus pictures in vivid color the coming of the fiery chariot and the whirlwind by which he was caught up into heaven. The picturesqueness and dramatic intensity of this splendid chorus can hardly be described in words. One more tenor aria ("Then, then shall the Righteous shine") and a brief soprano solo introduce the chorus, "Behold My servant." A beautiful quartet ("Oh! come, every one that thirsteth") follows, and the massive fugue, "And then shall your Light break forth as the Light of the Morning," closes this great masterpiece. [6] Mr. Lockey was the tenor on this occasion; the part of Elijah was sung by Standigl. Christus. "Christus," which Mendelssohn intended as the third in the series with "Elijah" and "St. Paul," was left unfinished. The words were written by the Chevalier Bunsen and given to the composer in 1844, before he began "Elijah." With his customary fastidiousness, he altered and rearranged the text, and it was not until 1847, after "Elijah" was finished, that he touched the music. At this time he was in delicate health, and had not recovered from the shock of his sister's death. He sought consolation for his troubles and relief for his ailments among the mountains of Switzerland. Part of his time was devoted to mountain-rambling, and the remainder to work upon "Christus" and the opera "Loreley," neither of which he lived to finish. It is interesting to note in this connection that before Mendelssohn settled upon "Christus," the subject of Saint Peter occupied his attention, although he still had the former in view for later consideration. In a letter to his friend Schubring, written at Bingen-on-the-Rhine, July 14, 1837, he says:-- "I wish to ask your advice in a matter which is of importance to me, and I feel it will therefore not be indifferent to you either, having received so many proofs to the contrary from you. It concerns the selection of a subject of an oratorio which I intend to begin next winter. I am most anxious to have your counsels, as the best suggestions and contributions for the text of my 'St. Paul' came from you. Many very apparent reasons are in favor of choosing St. Peter as the subject,--I mean its being intended for the Düsseldorf Musical Festival at Whitsuntide, and the prominent position the feast of Whit Sunday would occupy in this subject. In addition to these grounds, I may add my wish (in connection with a greater plan for a later oratorio) to bring the two chief apostles and pillars of the Christian Church side by side in oratorios,--in short, that I should have a 'St. Peter' as well as a 'St. Paul.'" Another extract from the same letter will show the keenness with which he analyzed his themes. He writes:-- "I need not tell you that there are sufficient internal grounds to make me prize the subject; and far above all else stands the outpouring of the Holy Ghost, which must form the central point or chief object. The question, therefore, is whether the place that Peter assumes in the Bible, divested of the dignity which he enjoys in the Catholic or Protestant Churches as a martyr, or the first Pope, etc.,--whether what is said of him in the Bible is alone and in itself sufficiently important to form the basis of a symbolical oratorio. For, according to my feeling, the subject must not be treated historically, however indispensable this was in the case of 'St. Paul.' In historic handling, Christ must appear in the earlier part of St. Peter's career; and where he appears, St. Peter could not lay claim to the chief interest. I think, therefore, it must be symbolical; though all the historical points might probably be introduced,--the betrayal and repentance, the keys of Heaven given him by Christ, his preaching at Pentecost,--not in an historical, but prophetic light, if I may so express myself, in close connection." The project was never carried out; but the deep earnestness with which Mendelssohn considered it shows how thoughtfully he must have devoted himself to the scheme which took its place. Neither his letters nor his biographers throw much light upon the history of "Christus." Lampadius says: "The oratorio was laid out upon a grand scale. It was to be in three parts,--the career on earth, the descent into hell, the ascent to heaven." This plan must have been subsequently changed, for the fragments of the oratorio are included in two parts, though they entirely pertain to the earthly career. There are in all eight complete numbers,--three from the first part, and five from the second. The first part opens with a soprano recitative ("When Jesus our Lord was born in Bethlehem"), leading to a strong trio for tenor and two basses ("Say, where is he born?"), the question of the Wise Men from the East. The chorus replies, "Then shall a Star from Jacob come forth," closing with the old German chorale, "Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern" ("How brightly shines the Morning Star!"), in plain, flowing harmony. The fragments of the second part are in the form of the passion-music, and include five tenor recitatives, narrating the dialogue between Pilate, the Elders and the People, and his final order, "Take ye him and crucify him, for I cannot find a fault in him," and several short, angry choruses of the Jews, accusing Jesus and calling for his death, leading to a beautiful chorus for mixed voices ("Daughters of Zion, weep"), and closing with an effective chorale for male voices in the genuine Bach style:-- "He leaves his heavenly portals, Endures the grief of mortals, To raise our fallen race. O love beyond expressing! He gains for us a blessing, He saves us by redeeming grace. "When thou, O sun, art shrouded, By night or tempest clouded, Thy rays no longer dart; Though earth be dark and dreary, If, Jesus, thou art near me, 'Tis cloudless day within my heart." MOZART. Johann Chrysostomus Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, one of the most remarkable musical geniuses the world has produced, and the only one of his contemporaries whose operas still hold the stage with unimpaired freshness, was born at Salzburg, Jan. 27, 1756. He was the son of Leopold Mozart, the Salzburgian Vice-Capellmeister, who gave him and his sister Nannerl their earliest instructions in music, and with such good results that the children travelled and gave concerts with great success. Before he was seven years of age, he had composed several pieces for piano and violin, his earliest having been written at the age of five! At twelve he became court capellmeister in Salzburg. After his musical travels he went to Vienna, and there began his real period of classic activity, which commenced with "Idomeneus," reached its culmination in "Don Giovanni," and closed with the "Requiem,"--the "swan-song" of his wonderful life. In his brief life Mozart composed more than fifty great works, besides hundreds of minor ones in every possible form of musical writing. His greatest compositions may be classed in the following order: "Idomeneus" (1780); "Entführung aus dem Serail" (1781); "Figaro's Hochzeit" ("The Marriage of Figaro"), (1785); "Don Giovanni" (1787); "Cosi fan tutti," "Zauberflöte" ("The Magic Flute"), and "Titus" (1790); and the "Requiem" (1791, the year of his death). The catalogue of Mozart's works is an immense one, for his period of productivity was unusually long. From the age of five to his death, there was not a year that was not crowded with his music. Besides his numerous operas, of which only the more famous are given above, he wrote a large number of symphonies (of which the "Jupiter" is now the best known), sonatas, concertos for all kinds of instruments, even to musical-glasses, trios, quartets, quintets, and sextets for all possible combinations of instruments, marches, fugues, masses, hymns, arias of extraordinary brilliancy,--many of them written for his sister-in-law, Aloysia Weber, to whom at one time he was engaged,--liturgies, cantatas, songs, and ballads, and indeed every form of music that is now known. His style was studied by Beethoven, and so closely imitated that the music of his first period, if published without autograph, would readily be attributed to Mozart. His style was so spontaneous and so characteristic that it has been well said there is but one Mozart. The distinguishing trait of his music is its rich melodic beauty and its almost ravishing sweetness. His melody pours along in a bright, unbroken stream that sometimes even overflows its banks, so abundant is it. It is peculiarly the music of youth and spring-time, exquisite in form, graceful in technique, and delightful in expression. It was the source where all his immediate successors went for their inspiration, though it lacked the maturity, majesty, and emotional depths which were reached by such a Titan as Beethoven. Old as it is, and antiquated in form, especially as compared with the work of the new schools, its perennial freshness, grace, and beauty have made it immortal. The Requiem. Mozart's "Requiem" was written in Vienna in 1791 and was left in an unfinished state by the composer, who made suggestions and gave instructions as to its completion even upon his death-bed; it was literally his swan-song. No work by any composer has given rise to more romantic stories or more bitter discussion. It was long the popular belief that the "Requiem" was commissioned by a dark, mysterious stranger, whose appearance impressed Mozart with the conviction that he was a messenger of death; more than this, that he himself had been poisoned, and that he was writing his own death-song, upon the order of some supernatural power. There was some foundation for the belief, as the commission was given in a very mysterious manner, and Mozart's health at that time was so delicate that he had had several premonitions of death. In his gloomy spirits he even said to his wife that he was writing his own requiem. The actual circumstances attending the commission, though they do not bear out the romantic versions of the story-tellers, are yet of extraordinary interest. The author of the commission was one Count von Walsegg, living in the village of Stuppach, whose wife had died early in 1791. He was an amateur musician of vast ambitions and small accomplishments, and had conceived the idea of purchasing a requiem anonymously from Mozart and passing it off as his own work. In pursuance of his scheme he despatched his steward, named Leutgeb, a tall, solemn, mysterious looking person, with an anonymous letter to Mozart, who at that time was in absolute poverty, asking for the music and requesting him to name his own price,--stipulating, however, that he should make no effort to discover the identity of his patron. The unsuspicious Mozart accepted the proposition, after consulting with his wife. He was about to begin work upon it at once, when he received a commission to write the opera of "Clemenza de Tito," in honor of the Emperor Leopold's coronation. This occupied him several weeks, and when it was completed he decided upon a visit to Baden. At the moment he was about to get into the carriage, the mysterious stranger again appeared and inquired about the progress of the "Requiem." Mozart excused himself, and replied that as soon as he returned he would begin the work; and the stranger went away satisfied. Mozart came back to Vienna in September; and after the completion of the "Magic Flute," and its first performance, Nov. 30, 1791, he devoted himself assiduously to the "Requiem," though it served only to increase his gloom. One day he remarked to his wife: "I well know that I am writing this requiem for myself. My own feelings tell me that I shall not last long. No doubt some one has given me poison; I cannot get rid of the thought." It is now known that this suspicion was only the result of his morbid thoughts; but when it was publicly uttered, most unjust accusations were made against his rival, Salieri, embittering the old composer's life until its close. As the work progressed, his gloom increased. "The day before his death," Nohl says, "he desired the score to be brought to him in bed, and he sang his part, taking the alto voice. Benedict Shack took the soprano, his brother-in-law, Hofer, the tenor, and Gerl the bass. They had got through the various parts to the first bars of the 'Lacrymosa,' when Mozart suddenly burst into tears and laid aside the score." His sister-in-law has left an account of his last moments. She writes: "As I approached his bed, he called to me: 'It is well you are here; you must stay to-night and see me die.' I tried as far as I was able to banish this impression; but he replied: 'The taste of death is already on my tongue, I taste death; and who will be near to support my Constance if you go away?' Süssmayer [his favorite pupil] was standing by the bedside, and on the counterpane lay the 'Requiem,' concerning which Mozart was still speaking and giving directions. He now called his wife and made her promise to keep his death secret for a time from every one but Albrechtsberger, that he might thus have an advantage over other candidates for the vacant office of capellmeister to St. Stephen's. His desire in this respect was gratified, for Albrechtsberger received the appointment. As he looked over the pages of the 'Requiem' for the last time, he said, with tears in his eyes: 'Did I not tell you I was writing this for myself?'" Mozart's widow, after his death, fearing that she might have to refund the money advanced for the work, induced Süssmayer, who was thoroughly familiar with Mozart's ideas, to complete it. He did so, and the copy was delivered to Count von Walsegg, who did not hesitate to publish it as his own. Süssmayer, however, had kept a copy, and after completion published it; and in a letter to the publishers set up a claim to the instrumentation of the "Requiem," "Kyrie," "Dies Iræ," and "Domine," and to the whole of the "Sanctus," "Benedictus," and "Agnus Dei." The publication of Süssmayer's letter provoked a controversy which has raged from that day to this. The ablest critics and musicians in Europe have taken part in it. Nearly all of them have defended Mozart's authorship; but after half a century's discussion it still remains in doubt how far Süssmayer participated in the completion of the work as it now stands. The bulk of the evidence, however, favors the theory that Süssmayer only played the part of a skilful copyist, in writing out the figurings which Mozart had indicated, carrying out ideas which had been suggested to him, and writing parts from the sketches which the composer had made. One of the most pertinent suggestions made in the course of this controversy is that of Rockstro, who says:-- "Some passages, though they may perhaps strengthen Süssmayer's claim to have filled in certain parts of the instrumentation, stand on a very different ground to those which concern the composition of whole movements. The 'Lacrymosa' is quite certainly one of the most beautiful movements in the whole 'Requiem'--and Mozart is credited with having only finished the first eight bars of it! Yet it is impossible to study this movement carefully without arriving at Professor Macfarren's conclusion that 'the whole was the work of one mind, which mind was Mozart's.' Süssmayer may have written it out, perhaps; but it must have been from the recollection of what Mozart had played or sung to him, for we know that this very movement occupied the dying composer's attention almost to the last moment of his life. In like manner Mozart may have left no _Urschriften_ (sketches) of the 'Sanctus,' 'Benedictus,' and 'Agnus Dei,'--though the fact that they have never been discovered does not prove that they never existed,--and yet he may have played and sung these movements often enough to have given Süssmayer a very clear idea of what he intended to write. We must either believe that he did this, or that Süssmayer was as great a genius as he; for not one of Mozart's acknowledged masses will bear comparison with the 'Requiem,' either as a work of art or the expression of a devout religious feeling. In this respect it stands almost alone among instrumental masses, which nearly always sacrifice religious feeling to technical display." After an introduction, which gives out the subject of the opening movement,--a slow, mournful, solemn theme,--the first number begins with the impressive strain, "Requiem æternam dona eis," which gradually brightens in the phrase, "Et Lux perpetua," and reaches a splendid burst of exultation in the "Te decet hymnus," of which Oublichieff, the Russian critic, says: "One seems to hear the voice of an archangel, and Saint Cecilia herself with her organ sounding a fugued accompaniment which the most laborious efforts of mortals never could have power to reach." After a repetition of the "Requiem æternam," the number closes with the "Kyrie eleison," a slow and complicated fugue, which is sublime in its effect, though very sombre in color, as befits the subject. The next number is the "Dies Iræ," written for chorus in simple counterpoint, and very dramatic in its character, the orchestral part being constantly vigorous, impetuous, and agitated, and reaching intense energy on the verse, "Quantus tremor est futurus," the whole presenting a vivid picture in tones of the terrors of the last judgment. In the "Tuba mirum" the spirit of the music changes from the church form to the secular. It is written for solo voices, ending in a quartet. The bass begins with the "Tuba mirum," set to a portentous trombone accompaniment; then follow the tenor ("Mors stupebit"), the alto ("Judex ergo"), and the soprano ("Quid sum miser"). This number is particularly remarkable for the manner in which the music is shaded down from the almost supernatural character of the opening bass solo to the beauty and sweetness of the soprano solo. From this extraordinary group we pass to the sublime chorus, "Rex tremendæ majestatis," once more in the church style, which closes with the prayer, "Salva me," in canonical form. With rare skill is this last appeal of humanity woven out of the thunder-crashes of sound in the judgment-music. The "Dies Iræ" is followed by the "Recordare," written, like the "Tuba mirum," as a quartet for solo voices. The vocal parts are in canon form and are combined with marvellous skill, relieved here and there with solos in purely melodic style, as in the "Quærens me," while the orchestral part is an independent fugue, with several subjects worked up with every form of instrumental embellishment, the fugue itself sometimes relieved by plain accompaniment. The whole is an astonishing piece of contrapuntal skill, apparently inexhaustible in its scientific combinations, and yet never for an instant losing its deep religious significance. Once more the orchestral part is full of agitation and even savage energy in the "Confutatis maledictis," as it accompanies a powerful double chorus, closing at last in a majestic prayer ("Oro supplex et acclinis"), in which all the voices join in magnificent harmony. The "Lacrymosa" is the most elegant and poetically conceived movement in the "Requiem." It begins in a delicate, graceful, and even sensuous manner, which gradually broadens and strengthens, and at last develops into a crescendo of immense power, reaching its climax on the words "Judicandus homo reus." Then it changes to a plaintive prayer ("Huic ergo parce Deus"), and closes in a cloud of gloom in the "Dona eis requiem." The next number ("Domine Jesu Christe") is in pure church form, beginning with a motet by chorus in solid harmony, which runs into a fugue on the words "Ne absorbeat eas Tartarus," followed by a quartet of voices regularly fugued, leading to another great fugue on the passage, "Quam olim Abrahæ," which closes the number in a burst of sacred inspiration. The "Domine" is followed by the "Hostias," a lovely choral melody which leads to the "Sanctus," a sublime piece of harmony closing with a fugued "Hosanna." The "Benedictus," which follows it, is a solo quartet plaintive and solemn in character, but full of sweet and rich melodies magnificently accompanied. The "Agnus Dei" closes the work, a composition of profound beauty, with an accompaniment of mournful majesty, developing into a solemn, almost funereal strain on the words "Dona eis requiem," and closing with the fugue of the opening "Kyrie" on the words "Lux æterna." "Written under the inspiration of death" might well be inscribed on this great monument of musical skill, this matchless requiem of awful majesty and divine beauty. In its own unity, its perfection of form and design, its astonishing skill, from the opening fugue of the "Kyrie" to its repetition in the finale, may be found the proof that Mozart and no other wrote the entire score, and that every thought and idea in it are the inspired work of the dying master. PAINE. John K. Paine, one of the very few really eminent American composers, was born at Portland, Me., Jan. 9, 1839. He studied the piano, organ, and composition with Kotzschmar in that city, and made his first public appearance as an organist, June 25, 1857. During the following year he went to Germany and studied the organ, composition, and instrumentation with Haupt and other masters in Berlin. He returned to this country in 1861 and gave several concerts, in which he played many of the organ works of the best writers for the first time in the United States. Shortly after his return he was appointed instructor of music in Harvard University, and in 1876 was honored with the elevation to a professorship and given a regular chair. He is best known as a composer, and several of his works have been paid the rare compliment of performance in Germany, among them his Mass in D and all his symphonies. The former was given at the Berlin Singakademie in 1867, under his own direction. Among his principal compositions are the oratorio "St. Peter;" the Mass in D; the Centennial Hymn, set to Whittier's poem and sung at the opening of the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition; the overture to "As You Like It;" "The Tempest," in the style of a symphonic poem; the symphony in C minor and "Spring" symphony; besides numerous sonatas, fantasies, preludes, songs, and arrangements for organ and piano. His larger orchestral works have been made familiar to American audiences by Mr. Theodore Thomas's band, and have invariably met with success. His style of composition is large, broad, and dignified, based upon the best classic models, and evinces a high degree of musical scholarship. St. Peter. "St. Peter," Mr. Paine's only oratorio,--and from the highest standpoint it may be said the only oratorio yet produced in this country,--was written in 1872-73, and first performed at Portland, Me., in June of the latter year, under the composer's own direction. The solos were sung by Mrs. Wetherbee, Miss Adelaide Phillipps, Mr. George L. Osgood, and Mr. Rudolphsen. It was again produced with great success at the third Triennial Festival of the Boston Handel and Haydn Society, May 9, 1874, with Mrs. J. Houston West, Mr. Nelson Varley, Miss Phillipps, and Mr. Rudolphsen in the principal parts. The establishment of Christianity, illustrated by the four principal scenes in the life of St. Peter, forms the subject of the oratorio. It is divided into two parts, and these are subdivided as follows: Part I. The Divine Call; The Denial and Repentance. Part II. The Ascension; Pentecost. The overture, a short adagio movement expressive of the unsettled spiritual condition of the world prior to the advent of Christianity, leads directly to the opening chorus, "The Time is fulfilled," which develops not only this subject, but also a second, "Repent, and believe the glad Tidings of God," in a masterly manner. The chorus, written in a very noble style, is followed by the tenor recitative, which describes the divine call of our Lord to Simon and Andrew as "He walked by the Sea of Galilee." It prepares the way for a soprano aria ("The Spirit of the Lord is upon me") which announces the glad tidings they are commissioned to deliver. Twelve male voices, representing the Disciples, accept the call in the chorus, "We go before the Face of the Lord," which is beautifully accompanied by and interwoven with the full chorus, closing with the smoothly flowing chorale, "How lovely shines the Morning Star." Then ensues the first dramatic scene. To the question of the Saviour, "Who do men say that I am," the twelve male voices first reply, followed by Peter in a few bars of very effective recitative, "Thou art the Christ." A tenor arioso, declaring the foundation of the Church "upon this rock," is followed by a noble and exquisitely chaste bass aria for Peter ("My Heart is glad and my Spirit rejoiceth"), the scene ending with the powerful chorus, "The Church is built upon the Foundation of the Apostles and Prophets." The next scene, "The Denial and Repentance," opens with the warning to Peter that he will deny his Lord, and his remonstrance, "Though I should die with thee," which is repeated by the Apostles. These brief passages are followed by a very pathetic aria for tenor ("Let not your Heart be troubled") and a beautifully worked-up quartet and chorus ("Sanctify us through Thy Truth"). A contralto solo announces the coming of "Judas with a great multitude," leading Jesus away to the High Priest, and is followed by the very expressive chorus, "We hid our Faces from him." The scene of the denial is very dramatic, the alternating accusations of the servants and the denials of Peter being treated with great skill; it closes with a very effective contralto recitative, illustrating the sad words: "And while he yet spake, the cock crew. And the Lord turned, and looked on Peter; and he remembered the word of the Lord, and he went out and wept bitterly." An orchestral interlude follows, in the nature of a lament, a minor adagio full of deep feeling. It is followed by an aria for Peter ("O God, my God, forsake me not"), which is cast in the same strain of lamentation as the orchestral number which precedes and really introduces it. At its close a chorus of Angels, sopranos, and altos, with harp accompaniment ("Remember, remember from whence thou art fallen"), is heard warning Peter, augmented on the introduction of the second subject ("And he that overcometh shall receive a Crown of Life") by the full chorus. This chorus is followed by a beautiful aria for alto ("The Lord is faithful and righteous to forgive our Sins"); and then a massive chorus, which is fairly majestic ("Awake, thou that sleepest"), closes the first part. The second part opens with a chorus ("The Son of Man was delivered into the Hands of sinful Men"), which tells the story of the crucifixion, not only with great power, but also with intense pathos, ending with the chorale, "Jesus my Redeemer lives," which invests the sad narrative with tender and consolatory feeling. The ascension scene is accompanied by graceful and expressive recitatives for tenor and bass, followed by a tenor arioso ("Go ye and teach") and a short soprano recitative ("And he lifted up his Hands"), leading to the full melodious chorus, "If ye then be risen." The next number is an impressive soprano solo ("O Man of God"), in which Peter is admonished "to put on the whole armor of God and fight the good fight." A beautifully written quartet ("Feed the Flock of God") closes the scene of the ascension. The last scene opens with a tenor solo describing the miracle of Pentecost, set to an extremely vigorous and descriptive accompaniment. It is followed by the chorus, "The Voice of the Lord," which is one of the most effective in the whole work, though not constructed in the massive style of those which close the two parts. A contralto recitative links this chorus to its successor, "Behold! are not all these who speak Galileans?" After a brief soprano recitative, Peter has another vigorous solo ("Ye Men of Judæa"), which is as dramatic in its style and almost as descriptive in its accompaniment as the opening tenor solo of this scene. A reflective aria for alto ("As for Man") follows it, and bass and tenor recitatives lead up to the eagerly questioning chorus of the people, "Men and Brethren." The answer comes from Peter and the Apostles, "For the Promise is to you." An intricate chorus ("This is the Witness of God"), closing with a chorale ("Praise to the Father"), leads to the finale, which comprises the chorus, "Beloved, let us love one another," written for bass solo, tenors, and basses (the Disciples), and full chorus; an effective duet for soprano and tenor ("Sing unto God"); and the final majestic chorus ("Great and marvellous are thy Works"). ROSSINI. Gioachino Antonio Rossini, the father of the modern Italian school of opera, was born Feb. 29, 1792, at Pesaro, in the Romagna. His father was an accomplished musician, and his mother a professional singer, so that he was brought up in a musical atmosphere. Even as a boy he sang with his mother in the theatre. He first studied with Mattei, and later with Martini. His first opera, "Demetrio e Polibio," was brought out at Rome in 1812, and before he had concluded his life-work, more than forty of his operas had been given in almost every part of Europe,--a crowning result of labor and contemporaneous fame not often enjoyed by composers. His "Tancredi," which was produced for the first time at Venice in 1813, was the opera which made him famous, and its remarkable success spread his reputation far and wide. In 1815 appeared "L' Italiana in Algeri" and "Aureliano in Palmira;" in 1816, "Elisabetta," "Otello," and his splendid work "The Barber of Seville," which, though his masterpiece, is said to have been written in fourteen days; in 1817, "La Cenerentola," "La Gazza Ladra," and "Armida;" and in 1819, "Ricciardo e Zoraïde," "La Donna del Lago," and many others. From 1815 to 1822 Rossini was under the "management" of the _impresario_ Barbaja in Naples, who had much difficulty in keeping him to the work of composition, his facility in writing often leading him to defer work until it was the very eve of performance. In 1823, under the auspices of Barbaja, and with the assistance of the prima donna, Colbran, whom Rossini married about this time, his opera "Zelmira" and others of his works were given with such brilliant success as to raise his aspirations for a wider and more promising field of labor. In the year 1823 he went to Paris and London, finally settling in the former city, where he not only began a new grand opera, but also gave himself to the study and development of orchestral music and the encouragement of artists. His home was the Mecca of singers, and, like Liszt's at Weimar, the centre of art influences. The new work was "William Tell," which was first brought out in Paris in 1829. It was his last important effort. It met with only temporary success, though it enjoys to-day a reputation almost equal to that of the "Barber." His most celebrated work in sacred music is the "Stabat Mater," which, though written in operatic style and very brilliant in coloring, has retained its place in popular favor, and is to-day as eagerly sought for by artists and the public as it was in his own day. Among his other sacred works is "Moses in Egypt,"--originally written as an oratorio for the San Carlo in Naples, and brought out there in 1818, though subsequently recast and provided with a revised libretto for the Paris Grand Opera in 1827. The "Prayer" from this work has a world-wide popularity. During the latter years of his life Rossini gave up composition entirely,--in part because of the eventual failure of his "William Tell,"--and enjoyed the fruits of his labors at his beautiful villa in Passy. He died Nov. 14, 1868. His sacred works, besides those already mentioned, are a few Italian oratorios, now unknown, three choruses, "Faith, Hope, and Charity," the "Petite Messe Solenelle," a "Tantum Ergo," a "Quoniam," and an "O Salutaris." Stabat Mater. The great Stabat Maters in the musical world are those of Palestrina, Pergolesi, Haydn, Steffani, Clari, Astorga, Winter, Neukomm, Rossini, and the one recently written by the Bohemian composer, Dvorák. Of all these no one has been so popular as that of Rossini, nor made the world so familiar with the text of the Virgin's Lamentation. After the failure of "William Tell," Rossini abandoned opera-writing, though he had a contract with the Grand Opera at Paris for four more works, and contemplated taking up the subject of Faust. "William Tell" was his last work for the stage; but before his absolute retirement he was to produce a work destined to add to his fame. In 1832 his friend Aguado induced him to compose a "Stabat Mater" for the Spanish minister, Don Valera, which was not intended to be made public. Before its completion he fell ill, and Tadolini wrote the last four numbers. The work was dedicated to Valera, with the understanding that it should always be retained by him. Nine years afterwards Valera died, and Rossini learned that his heirs had sold the work to a Paris publisher for two thousand francs. He at once claimed the copyright and brought an action, in which he was successful. He then composed four new numbers in place of those written by Tadolini, and sold the work complete to the publisher, Troupenas, for six thousand francs. The latter sold the right of performance for a limited time to the Escudiers for eight thousand francs, and they in turn sold it to the Théâtre Italien for twenty thousand. Its first complete performance was at the Salle Ventadour, Jan. 7, 1842, Grisi, Albertazzi, Mario, and Tamburini taking the principal parts. A brief but brilliant orchestral prelude leads to the opening chorus, "Stabat Mater dolorosa," arranged for solos and chorus, and very dramatic in style, especially in its broad, melodious contrasts. It is followed by the tenor solo, "Cujus Animam," which is familiar to every concert-goer,--a clear-cut melody free of embellishment, but very brilliant and even jubilant in character, considering the nature of the text. The next number ("Quis est Homo"), for two sopranos, is equally familiar. It is based upon a lovely melody, first given out by the first soprano, and then by the second, after which the two voices carry the theme through measure after measure of mere vocal embroidery, closing with an extremely brilliant cadenza in genuine operatic style. The fourth number is the bass aria "Pro peccatis," the two themes in which are very earnest and even serious in character, and come nearer to the church style than any other parts of the work. It is followed by a beautifully constructed number ("Eia Mater"), a bass recitative with chorus, which is very strong in its effect. The sixth number is a lovely quartet ("Sancta Mater"), full of variety in its treatment, and closing with full, broad harmony. After a short solo for soprano ("Fac ut Portem"), the climax is reached in the "Inflammatus,"--a brilliant soprano obligato with powerful choral accompaniment. The solo number requires a voice of exceptional range, power, and flexibility; with this condition satisfied, the effect is intensely dramatic, and particularly fascinating by the manner in which the solo is set off against the choral background. A beautiful unaccompanied quartet in broad, plain harmony, "Quando Corpus," leads to the showy fugued "Amen" which closes the work. Unquestionably the "Stabat Mater" is one of the most popular of all the minor sacred compositions; and the secret lies on the surface: it is to be found in the delightful and fascinating melodies, which are strewn so thickly through it, as well as in the graceful bravura, which was so characteristic of Rossini, and which when delivered by accomplished artists is very captivating to a popular audience. As to its sacred form, it is as far from the accepted style of church music as Berlioz's or Verdi's requiems. Indeed, Rossini himself remarked to Hiller that he wrote it in the "mezzo serio" style. In connection with this matter one or two criticisms will be of interest. Rossini's biographer, Sutherland Edwards, says: "The 'Stabat Mater' was composed, as Raphael's Virgins were painted, for the Roman Catholic Church, which at once accepted it, without ever suspecting that Rossini's music was not religious." The remark, however, would be more pertinent were it not for the fact that the Church itself has not always been a good critic of its own music, or a good judge of what its music should be, as Liszt discovered when he went to Rome full of his purposes of reform in the musical service. Heine, in a letter to the "Allgemeine Zeitung" in 1842, replying to certain German criticisms, went so far as to say,-- "The true character of Christian art does not reside in thinness and paleness of the body, but in a certain effervescence of the soul, which neither the musician nor the painter can appropriate to himself either by baptism or study; and in this respect I find in the 'Stabat' of Rossini a more truly Christian character than in the 'Paulus' ['St. Paul'] of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy,--an oratorio which the adversaries of Rossini point to as a model of Christian style." It will hardly be claimed, however, even by Heine's friends, that this sweeping statement is either just to Mendelssohn or true of Rossini. Perhaps they will also concede that Heine was not a very good judge of Christianity in any of its aspects, musical or otherwise. The veteran Moscheles in one of his letters criticizes the work very pertinently. He says,-- "It is, as you may imagine, a model of 'singableness' (if I may say so); but it is not sufficiently church music to my taste. His solitary fugue is clumsy. The criticisms on the work are very various. Some agree with me; but the majority delight in the captivating Italian phrases, which I admire too, but which I cannot think are in the right place." He might have added, "Because they are the phrases of 'Semiramide,' 'Tancredi,' and the 'Barber.'" There is scarcely a number of the "Stabat Mater" which might not be detached from it and reset in one of Rossini's operas without doing violence to whatever of the real religious style it may be supposed, or was intended, to have. The "Stabat Mater" music would be captivatingly beautiful in any setting. RUBINSTEIN. Anton Gregor Rubinstein was born, Nov. 30, 1829, at the village of Wechwotynetz, in Russia. His parents, who were in moderate circumstances, moved to Moscow during his infancy, and in that city he received his first musical instruction. His mother gave him lessons at the age of four, with the result that by the time he was six she was unable to teach him anything more. He then studied the piano with Alexander Villoing, a pupil of John Field. His first composition appeared in his twelfth year, and soon his songs and two and four hand piano-pieces began to attract the attention of musicians. In 1840 Villoing took him to Paris and placed him in the Conservatory, where he attracted the attention of Liszt, Chopin, and Thalberg. He remained in that city eighteen months, devoting himself to unremitting study, and then made some professional tours, in which he met with extraordinary success, particularly in England. From that country he went to Holland and Sweden, everywhere meeting with an enthusiastic reception. In 1844 his parents removed to Berlin, and he was placed under Dehn, the famous contrapuntist, to study composition, his brother Nicholas being a companion in his work. The father dying in 1846, the mother and Nicholas returned to Russia, leaving Anton alone. During the next two years he taught music in Pressburg and Vienna, and in the latter part of 1848 went back to Russia. About this time he received an honorary musical appointment from the Grand-Duchess Hélène. For eight years he studied and wrote in St. Petersburg, and at the end of that time had accumulated a mass of manuscripts destined to make his name famous all over Europe, while his reputation as a skilful pianist was already world-wide. He visited England again in 1857, and the next year returned home and settled in St. Petersburg, about which time he was made Imperial Concert Director, with a life-pension. At this period in his career he devoted himself to the cause of music in Russia. His first great work was the foundation of the Conservatory in the above city in 1862, of which he remained principal until 1867. He also founded the Russian Musical Society in 1861, and in 1869 was decorated by the Czar. In 1870 he directed the Philharmonic and Choral Societies of Vienna, and shortly afterwards made another tour, during which, in 1872, he came to this country with the eminent violinist Wieniawsky, as will be well remembered. His visit here was marked by a succession of ovations. No other pianist ever achieved such a wonderful success, not only among musicians, but among the people of all classes. Musicians were astounded at his remarkable knowledge, while musical and unmusical people alike were carried off their feet by the whirlwind-style of his playing. It was full of grace, nobility, breadth, and dignity; but it combined with these qualities a fire, an intensity, and a passion which sometimes invested the piano with orchestral effects, and again transformed it into an instrument that wept, laughed, sang, and danced. His power was irresistible and electric. As a composer he ranks very high. His greatest works are the Ocean Symphony, Dramatic Symphony, and a character sketch for grand orchestra called "Ivan the Terrible;" his operas, "Children of the Heath," "Feramors," "Nero," "The Maccabees," "Dimitri Donskoi," and the "Demon;" the oratorios "Paradise Lost" and "Tower of Babel;" and a long and splendid catalogue of chamber, salon, and concert music, besides some beautiful songs which are great favorites in the concert-room. The Tower of Babel. "The Tower of Babel," a sacred opera, as Rubinstein entitles it, was written in 1870, the text, which is somewhat of a travesty on sacred history, by Julius Rodenberg. An English critic very pertinently says: "One item alone in all the multitude of details crowded by Herr Rodenberg into his canvas has any foundation in fact. He adopts the theory that there really was a tower of Babel, and all the rest he founds on conjecture." In point of fact, the anachronisms are numerous enough to make the text almost a burlesque. Nimrod, the mighty hunter, is made the chief builder of the tower, which is supposed to be in process of erection as an insult to the Deity. Abraham appears upon the scene (many years before he was born), and rebukes Nimrod for his presumption; whereupon the hunter-king orders "the shepherd," as he is called, to be thrown into a fiery furnace, after the manner of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. The angels watch over the patriarch, and he comes out of the fire unharmed. Some of the people standing by ascribe the miracle to Baal, some to Dagon, some to Ashtaroth, and a few to Jehovah, and at last get into a quarrel with each other. Nimrod interposes his authority, and orders them to their work on the tower again. Soon the heavens cloud over, and a storm is seen approaching. Abraham prophesies destruction, and Nimrod orders him to be seized and hurled from the summit of the tower; but before his commands can be executed, a thunderbolt strikes it and crumbles it into a heap of shapeless stones. While Abraham exults over the destruction, the dispersion of the three races, the Shemites, Hamites, and Japthides, occurs. Nimrod laments over the result of his folly, and at last acknowledges the authority of the Divine Power, and thus the story ends. The _dramatis personæ_ are Nimrod (bass), Abraham (tenor), Master Workman (baritone), four Angels (boys' voices), the choruses by Nimrod's followers, the People, Angels, and Demons. The overture is a confused, formless number, indicating the darkness. In the beginning there is no clear musical idea; but at last the subject assumes definite form as the dawn breaks and the Master Workman announces the sunrise and calls the People to their work, in the recitative, "Awake! ye Workers, awake!" The summons is followed by the chorus, "To work," in which the vocal part is noisy, broken, and somewhat discordant, representing the hurry and bustle of a crowd of working-men,--with which, however, the orchestra and organ build up a powerful theme. The song of the Master Workman is also interwoven, and the chorus is finally developed with great vigor and splendid dramatic effect. Nimrod now appears, and in a triumphant outburst ("Stately rises our Work on high") contemplates the monument to his greatness now approaching completion. Abraham rebukes him ("How, Mortal, canst thou reach His Presence?"). The scene at this point is full of dramatic vigor. Nimrod hurls imprecations at Abraham, followed by strongly contrasting choruses of the angry People and protecting Angels, which lead up to the mixed chorus of the People, indicating the confusion of tongues as they severally ascribe the escape of Abraham from the furnace-fire to Baal, Dagon, Ashtaroth, and Jehovah, and closing with tumultuous dissension, which is quelled by Nimrod. The effect of the Angels' voices in the hurlyburly is exceedingly beautiful, and the accompaniments, particularly those of the fire-scene, are very vivid. Nimrod's order to resume work on the tower is followed by the angelic strain, "Come on! let us down to Earth now hasten." Once more the Builders break out in their barbaric chorus, "To work," followed by the portentous outburst of the People, "How the Face of Heaven is o'ershadowed!" In a vigorous solo Abraham replies, "No! 'tis not Vapor nor Storm-clouds that gather." There is a final controversy between Abraham and Nimrod, and as the latter orders the patriarch to be thrown from the tower, the storm breaks, and amid the shrieks of the chorus ("Horror! horror") and the tremendous clangor of organ and orchestra on the theme already developed in the opening, the tower is destroyed. The tumultuous scene is followed by Nimrod's lament ("The Tower whose lofty Height was like my State"), a bass aria of great power, and reaching a splendid climax. Abraham, in an exultant strain ("The Lord is strong in Might"), proclaims God's purpose to scatter the people. The most picturesque scene in the work now occurs,--the dispersal of the Shemites, Hamites, and Japthides, typified by orchestral marches and choruses of a barbaric cast. The stage directions at this point indicate that the three choruses "must be sung behind the scenes, while dissolving views present to the audience the emigration of the three great human races,"--an effect which is also made in the last act of Goldmark's "Queen of Sheba." The first chorus, that of the Shemites, which is sung in unison, is taken from some of the ancient music in the ritual of the Jewish Synagogue, that used on the eve of the Day of Atonement. The other two choruses are also Oriental in color and rhythm, and give a very striking effect to this part of the work. The chorus of Angels ("Thus by Almighty Power of God") proclaims the completion of the work, and two long solos by Abraham and Nimrod lead up to the final choruses of the Angels, People, and Demons, worked up in very powerful style, and in the finale uniting the themes which originally introduced the chorus of the People and the Angels, and the subject of the darkness in the overture. The tableau is thus described in the stage directions: "The stage is divided into three horizontal compartments. In the middle is the earth; in the upper is the throne of the Almighty, surrounded by all the heavenly powers; in the lower, hell, Satan seated on his throne, surrounded by all the infernal deities." Paradise Lost. The oratorio "Paradise Lost" was first produced in Vienna in 1859 by the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, a choral organization conducted by Rubinstein during his stay in that city. Like "The Tower of Babel," it is entitled by the composer "a sacred opera," though it is in genuine oratorio form, and usually classed as such. The text is a very free transcription from Milton. The work is divided into three parts; but as the second is usually the only part given by oratorio societies, our sketch will be principally confined to that. The first part mainly concerns the defeat of Satan's forces by the legions of Heaven, and is remarkable for its vigorous instrumental treatment. The second part is devoted to the creation, and is composed principally of choruses introduced by a few bars of recitative, invariably for the tenor, who acts the part of narrator. The first seven of these describe the creation of the earth. After a characteristic introduction, the tenor declares "Chaos, be ended!" whereupon the Angels sing a glowing tribute to light ("Upspringing, the darkened Air broke forth into radiant Brightness"). Again the tenor and chorus in a brief number describe the firmament. The third chorus ("Fierce raged the Billows") pictures the division of land and water with great vigor, accompanied by imitative instrumentation which indicates Rubinstein's skill as a water-painter quite as clearly as his great Ocean Symphony. In the fourth and fifth choruses the music vividly tells the story of the creation of the trees and plants and the appearance of the stars in the firmament. The sixth ("Gently beaming, softly streaming"), in which the Angels rejoice in the soft radiance of the moon, is short, but exceedingly tender and beautiful. In the seventh ("All around rose the Sound of the Strife of Life"), we have a description of the awakening of life characterized by extraordinary descriptive power. This group of choruses, each one thoroughly fresh, original, and picturesque in its description, brings us up to the creation of man, which is the finest portion of the whole work. It begins with a long tenor recitative, "In all her Majesty shines on high the Heaven," reaching a fine crescendo at the close ("And lo! it was Man"). The Angels reply with their heavenly greeting, "Hail to Thee, O Man." A short dialogue follows between Adam and the Narrator, and the Angels renew their greeting, this time to Eve. This leads up to a lovely duet between Adam and Eve ("Teach us then to come before Thee"), which is very gracefully constructed, and tenderly melodious in character. The final number is a chorus of the Angels ("Clear resounded the Trumpets of Heaven"), beginning in broad, flowing, jubilant harmony, then developing into a fugue on the words "Praise the Almighty One," built up on a subject full of exultation and grandeur, and closing with a Hallelujah delivered with mighty outbursts of power. The third part is devoted to the fall of Adam and Eve and their banishment from Eden, closing with the announcement of the ultimate salvation of mankind. Both the Almighty and Satan appear in this part, the former's music being sung by the tenor voice; though, curiously enough, the latter's music is much the more attractive. SAINT-SAËNS. Charles Camille Saint-Saëns, famous as composer, pianist, and critic, was born in Paris, Oct. 9, 1835. He began his musical studies at a very early age. In his seventh year he took piano lessons of Stamaty and studied harmony, and in his twelfth was a student at the Conservatory, where he took two organ prizes; though he failed on two occasions in his competition for the Prix de Rome. His first symphony appeared in 1851, and was performed with success. In 1853 he was appointed organist of the Church of St. Merri, and five years later secured a like position at the Madeleine, which he filled with high honor for nineteen years, finally resigning in favor of Theodore Dubois. In 1867 he was awarded a prize for his cantata "Les Noces de Prométhée" by the Paris International Exhibition, and the next year he was received with distinguished honor at the Artists' Meeting in Weimar, both as pianist and composer. His operatic career began about this time. "La Princesse jeune" appeared in 1872, and "Le Timbre d'Argent" in 1877; but neither was successful. His next work was the sacred drama "Samson et Dalila," produced at Weimar in the latter part of 1877; followed by "Étienne Marcel" at Lyons in 1879. In addition to his operas he has written several cantatas, among them "The Deluge" and "La Lyre et la Harpe," composed for the Birmingham Festival of 1879; three symphonies; four symphonic poems, "La Rouet d'Omphale," "Phaéthon," "Danse Macabre," and "La Jeunesse d'Hercule;" a large number of concerted pieces with orchestra, songs and romances, as well as chamber-music and compositions for piano and organ. His sacred music includes the following works: mass for four voices, Requiem Mass, "Oratorio de Noël," "Tantum Ergo," the Nineteenth Psalm for solos, chorus, and orchestra, and many minor pieces for choir use. He has been a prolific writer, but his fame thus far rests upon his instrumental music. He has travelled much as a virtuoso in Russia, Spain, Germany, and England, conducting his own compositions, and also giving piano and organ recitals, in which he has met with great success. He also ranks high as a musical critic, and many of his contributions to the Parisian press have been collected, with a view to publication in a separate volume. Of late he has obtained considerable notoriety by his controversial articles on the Wagner question,--in which, however, national prejudice sometimes has been more apparent than cosmopolitan judgment. As a composer, he is unquestionably more learned than are any of his native contemporaries, and he has made a closer study of Bach than even Gounod has. His descriptive powers are very strong, as is evidenced by the symphonic poems which Mr. Thomas has introduced into this country. They even go to the verge of the sensational; but, on the other hand, the study of his "Oratorio de Noël" and of his transcriptions from Bach will show that he is a master of counterpoint and thematic treatment. Christmas Oratorio. "Noël," Saint-Saëns' Christmas oratorio, in dimensions hardly exceeds the limits of a cantata, but musically is constructed in oratorio style. Its subject is the nativity, combined with ascriptions of praise and a final exultant hallelujah. The work is short, but very effective, and is written for five solo voices and chorus, with accompaniment of strings and organ, and the harp in one number. It opens with a pastoral symphony of a very melodious character. The first number is the recitative, "And there were Shepherds," including the angelic message and the appearance of the heavenly hosts, the subject being divided among the tenor, alto, soprano, and baritone, and leading up to the first chorus ("Glory now unto God in the highest"), which is quite short, but beautifully written. The next number is an aria for mezzo-soprano ("Firm in Faith"), which is very simple, but graceful in its melody. The fourth number is a tenor solo and chorus ("God of all"), written in the church style, followed by a soprano and baritone duet ("Blessed, ever blessed"), which is very elaborate in its construction, and highly colored. The next number is the chorus, "Wherefore are the Nations raging," which is intensely dramatic in its effect, especially for the manner in which the voice-parts are set off against the agitated accompaniment. The contrasts also are very striking, particularly that between the tumultuous opening of the chorus and its tranquil close in full harmony on the words, "As it was in the Beginning." The next number is a lovely trio for tenor, soprano, and baritone ("Thou art from first to last"), with harp accompaniment throughout, which gives to it an extremely graceful and elegant effect. It is followed by a quartet ("Alleluia"), in which the theme is introduced by the alto. The Alleluia is then taken up by all four parts (soprano, mezzo-soprano, alto, and baritone), in full, rich harmony, the alto closing the number alone in a very effective adagio passage. The next number is a quintet and chorus, the prelude to which is a repetition of parts of the opening pastoral. It is also utilized in the voice parts. The number is very elaborate in its construction and development, and is followed by a short final chorus ("Raise now your Song on high") in simple church style. Short as the work is, it is very beautiful, and full not only of genuine service music, but also of graceful conceits and delicate fancies, both in the voice parts and the accompaniments. SCHUMANN. Robert Schumann, one of the greatest of musicians, and one who, had his life been spared, would probably have stood at the head of all composers since Beethoven and Schubert, was the son of a bookseller, and was born at Zwickau, in Saxony, June 8, 1810. In his earliest youth he was recognized as a child of genius. His first teacher in music was Baccalaureus Kuntzsch, who gave him piano instructions. It was while taking these lessons that he attended a concert given by Moscheles. The playing of the great teacher aroused his musical ambition, and first inspired him to become a musician. His father recognized his talent very early, but his mother was opposed to his ambition. In deference to her wishes, he began the study of law,--with the full determination, however, to make music his vocation; and in this he ultimately succeeded, through the influence of Wieck, whose daughter, Clara, he subsequently married, and who is still a skilful pianist and famous teacher. He studied the piano with Wieck until his right hand was injured. In 1830, in which year his artistic career really opened, he began the theoretical study of music in its groundwork, first with Director Kupsch in Leipsic, and later with Heinrich Dorn, and at the same time entered upon the work of composition. His opus No. 1 was the so-called "Abegg Variations," dedicated to a young lady, Meta Abegg, whom he had met at a ball in Mannheim. In the same year, 1830, he composed a toccata. In 1831 his famous "Papillons" and other piano works appeared. Schumann was not only a musician, but an able critic and graceful writer; and in 1834, with Schunke, Knorr, and Wieck, he founded the "Neue Zeitschrift für Musik," which had an important influence upon musical progress in Germany, and in which the great promise of such musicians as Chopin and Brahms was first recognized. He married Clara Wieck in 1840, after much opposition from her father; and in this year appeared some of his best songs, including the three famous cycluses, "Liederkreis," "Woman's Life and Love," and "Poet's Love," which now have a world-wide fame. In the following year larger works came from his pen, among them his B major symphony, overture, scherzo, and finale in E major, and the symphony in D minor. During this period in his career he also made many artistic journeys with his wife, which largely increased the reputation of each. In 1843 he completed his great "romantic oratorio," "Paradise and the Peri," set to Moore's text, and many favorite songs and piano compositions, among them the "Phantasiestücke" and "Kinderscenen," and his elegant piano quintet in E flat. In 1844, in company with his wife, he visited St. Petersburg and Moscow, and their reception was a royal one. The same year he abandoned his "Zeitschrift," in which "Florestan," "Master Raro," "Eusebius," and the other pseudonyms had become familiar all over Germany, and took the post of director in Düsseldorf, in the place of Ferdinand Hiller. During the last few years of his life he was the victim of profound melancholy, owing to an affection of the brain, and he even attempted suicide by throwing himself into the Rhine. He was then removed to an asylum at Endenich, where he died July 20, 1856. The two men who exercised most influence upon Schumann were Jean Paul and Franz Schubert. He was deeply pervaded with the romance of the one and the emotional feeling of the other. His work is characterized by genial humor, a rich and warm imagination, wonderfully beautiful instrumentation, especially in his accompaniments, the loftiest form of expression, and a rigid adherence to the canons of art. Paradise and the Peri. Schumann's secular oratorio, "Paradise and the Peri," was written in 1843, and first performed at the Gewandhaus, Leipsic, December 4th of that year, under the composer's own direction. Its first performance in England was given June 23, 1856, with Madame Jenny Lind-Goldschmidt in the part of the Peri, Sterndale Bennett conducting. The text is taken from the second poem in Moore's "Lalla Rookh," and was suggested to Schumann by his friend Emil Flechsig, who had translated the poem. This was in 1841; but he did not set it to music until two years later. The text required many changes, and these he made himself. The principal additions are a chorus for "The Spirits of the Nile," the chorus of Houris, the Peri's solo, "Banished," the quartet, "Peri, 'tis true," the solo, "Sunken was the Golden Orb," and the final chorus. It has also been suggested that he availed himself of still another translation, that of Ollker's, as many of the changes agree with his text. It is difficult to define the exact form of the work, though it is nearly always classed as a secular oratorio, principally because of the introduction of the narrator, after the style of the passion-music. In other respects it resembles the cantata. Reissmann, in his Life of Schumann, says on this point,-- "It seems right that he should have retained the most primitive form of the oratorio, that of the passion-music. The poem has no genuinely dramatic course; there was not the smallest intrinsic or extrinsic reason to dramatize it more fully. Even with treatment such as that of the 'Walpurgisnacht,' it must have lost much of its picturesque development The only proper way to treat the subject, therefore, was to retain the original epic form, and to introduce a narrator in the style of antique oratorio, who should relate the facts in a few simple words up to the point where they seem to demand a more dramatic setting." Von Wasielewski also discusses the same point: "The narrator is evidently copied from the evangelist in Bach's passion-music; but by no means with a like necessity. Unquestionably the latter shared the conviction of his day, that not only the substance, but the words, of the biblical dogma were sacred. Schumann's case was not at all similar. He had before him, in the poem to be set to music, a work of art which, although once remodelled, would still permit every formal change required by æsthetic considerations. How easy, for example, it would have been to abolish the narrator, as destructive of unity!" Had the narrative passages been omitted, it would unquestionably have enhanced the interest and perhaps relieved the monotony and wearisomeness of some parts of the work. Unlike the usual manner in which the narrator's part is treated,--as a mere recitative link between numbers,--Schumann invests it with the same importance as the acts and events themselves, and treats it melodically, so that the relief which comes from contrast is lacking. The oratorio is written in three parts, for solo voices, chorus, and orchestra, the principals being the Peri (soprano); the Angel (alto); the King of Gazna (bass); a Youth (tenor); the Horseman (baritone); and the Maiden (soprano). The choruses are sung by Indians, Angels, Houris, and Genii of the Nile, and the part of Narrator is divided among the various voices. The story follows that of the original poem. The Peri, expelled from Paradise, stands at its gate weeping to think "her recreant race Should e'er have lost that sacred place." The angel who keeps the gate of light promises she shall be re-admitted if she brings "the gift that is most dear to Heaven." The Peri goes in quest of the gift, first to India, where she procures the last drop of blood shed by the hero who resisted the tyrant Mahmoud, and takes it with her to the gate; but the crystal bar moves not. She continues her quest, and from the pestilential plains of Egypt she takes back the last sigh of the maiden who sacrificed herself to her love for the youth who stole out to die alone. But still the crystal bar moves not. At last, in the vale of Baalbec, she finds the gift,--the tear of a repentant sinner,--which secures her admission. After a brief orchestral introduction, the Narrator (alto) tells the story of the disconsolate Peri at the gate, and introduces her in the first solo ("How blest seem to me, vanished Child of Air"), a tender, beautiful melody, characterized by romantic sentiment. The Narrator (tenor) introduces the Angel, who delivers her message to the Peri ("One Hope is thine"), to which the latter replies in a sensuous melody, full of Oriental color ("I know the Wealth hidden in every Urn"). The tenor Narrator introduces at this point a quartet ("O beauteous Land"), in which the two trebles, tenor, and bass alternate, followed by the full, powerful chorus, "But crimson now her Rivers ran." A weird march, fairly barbaric in its effect, indicates the approach of the tyrant of Gazna, and introduces the stirring chorus of the Indians and Conquerors ("Hail to Mahmoud"). The tenor Narrator describes the youthful warrior standing alone beside his native river and defying the tyrant. Once more the chorus shouts its greeting to Mahmoud, and then ensues a dialogue in recitative between the two, leading up to the youth's death and a double chorus of lamentation ("Woe, for false flew the Shaft"). The tenor Narrator describes the flight of the Peri to catch the last drop of blood shed for liberty; and then all the voices join with the soprano solo in a broad, strong, exultant finale ("For Blood must holy be"), which is one of the most effective numbers in the work. The second part opens in the most charming manner. The tenor Narrator pictures the return of the Peri with her gift, leading up to the Angel's solo ("Sweet is our welcome"), which preludes a brief choral passage for sixteen female voices. After the Narrator's declaration of her disappointment, the scene changes to Egypt, and in a dainty, delicate three-part chorus the Spirits of the Nile are invoked not to disturb the Peri. Her lament is heard ("O Eden, how longeth for thee my Heart!"), and the Spirits now weave a gentle, sympathetic strain with her song. A long tenor narration follows ("Now wanders forth the Peri sighing"), describing the pestilence brooding over the Egyptian plains, the music to which is very characteristic. The scene of the maiden dying with her lover is full of pathos, and contains two exquisite numbers,--the narrative solo for mezzo-soprano ("Poor Youth, thus deserted"), and the dying love-song of the Maiden ("O let me only breathe the Air, Love"). The scene closes with a sweet and gentle lament for the pair ("Sleep on"), sung by the Peri, followed by the chorus, which joins in the pathetic farewell. The third part opens with a lovely chorus of Houris ("Wreathe ye the Steps to Great Allah's Throne"), interspersed with solos and Oriental in its coloring. The tenor narration ("Now Morn is blushing in the Sky"), which is very melodious in character, introduces the Angel, who in an alto solo ("Not yet") once more dooms the Peri to wander. Her reply ("Rejected and sent from Eden's Door") is full of despair. The narration is now taken by the baritone in a flowing, breezy strain ("And now o'er Syria's rosy Plain"), which is followed by a charming quartet of Peris ("Say, is it so?"). Once more the baritone intervenes, followed by the Peri; and then the tenor Narrator takes up the theme in a stirring description of the boy nestling amid the roses, and the "passion-stained" horseman at the fountain. The alto proclaims the vesper call to prayer, and the tenor reflects upon the memories of the wretched man as he sees the child kneeling. The solo baritone announces his repentance, followed by a quartet and chorus in very broad, full harmony ("O blessed Tears of true Repentance!"). The next number is a double one, composed of soprano and tenor solos with chorus ("There falls a Drop on the Land of Egypt"). In an exultant, triumphant strain ("Joy, joy forever, my Work is done!"), the Peri sings her happiness, and the chorus brings the work to a close with the heavenly greeting, "Oh, welcome 'mid the Blessed!" The third part is unquestionably long and wearisome, and taxes not only the voices of the singers, but also the patience of the hearers. The first and second, however, contain some beautiful gems, and the orchestral work is very rich in its coloring. Taken all in all, however, it is a severe treatment of a fanciful subject. SPOHR. Louis Spohr, one of the world's greatest violinists, and a composer of world-wide fame, was born at Brunswick, April 25, 1784. Like all great musical geniuses, his ability was displayed very early. He began to play the violin in his fifth year, and to compose for that instrument before he was in his teens. After studying the rudiments with several teachers, the Duke of Brunswick induced Franz Eck, a recognized master of the violin, to give him instruction. Spohr remained with him two years, and accompanied him on his travels to Russia, studying, composing, and learning much by his observation of Eck's playing. In 1805 he was appointed leader of the band of the Duke of Gotha, and began writing orchestral works, his compositions before that time having been mainly for the violin. His first opera, "Die Prüfung," also appeared about this time. In 1807 he made a very successful tour through Germany, and another in 1809, arousing great enthusiasm by his admirable playing. In that year also occurred the first musical festival in Germany, which was conducted by Spohr at Frankenhausen, in Thuringia. In 1811 another was held, for which he wrote his first symphony. In 1812 his first oratorio, "Das jüngste Gericht," appeared; but after two performances of it he was greatly dissatisfied, and laid it aside. In the fall of that year he made his first public appearance in Vienna, and achieved such success that he was offered and accepted the leadership of the band at the Theater-an-der-Wien. He remained there only three years, however, and then resumed his professional tours in Switzerland and Italy. In 1818 he was appointed conductor of the opera at Frankfort, where he remained for two years, during which time he brought out his operas "Faust" and "Zemire and Azor." In 1820 he went to England for the first time, and played many of his compositions in the Philharmonic concerts. His English visit was a very successful one, and on his journey back to Germany he stopped in Paris, where also he met with an enthusiastic welcome. He finally settled down at Dresden, where Weber was then busy with the preparations for the performance of his "Freischütz." During his stay there, Weber had been offered the post of Hofkapellmeister to the Elector of Cassel; but not being in a position to accept it, he recommended Spohr, and the latter obtained the appointment Jan. 1, 1822, where he remained the rest of his days, as it was a life-office. During this year he finished his opera "Jessonda," one of the most successful of all his vocal works. Four years later he conducted the Rhenish Festival at Düsseldorf and brought out his second oratorio, "Die letzten Dinge" ("The Last Things"). In 1831 he completed his "Violin School," which has ever since been a standard work. His most important symphony, "Die Weihe der Töne" ("The Consecration of Sound"), was produced at Cassel in 1832, and his third oratorio, "Des Heiland's letzte Stunden" ("Calvary"), at the same place in 1835. Four years later he went to England again, and produced his "Calvary" at the Norwich Festival with immense success, which led to his reception of a commission to produce "The Fall of Babylon" for the Festival of 1842. His last opera, "The Crusaders," was written in 1844, but did not meet with a permanent success. From this time until 1857 he was engaged in making tours and producing the works of other composers, among them those of Wagner, whose "Tannhäuser" he brought out in 1853, in spite of the Elector's opposition. In 1857 he was pensioned, and two years later died. He was born a musician and died one, and in his long and honorable life he was always true to his art and did much to ennoble and dignify it, notwithstanding the curious combinations in his musical texture. He never could understand or appreciate Beethoven. He proclaimed himself a disciple of Mozart, though he had little in common with him, and he declared Wagner the greatest of all living composers, on the strength of his "Flying Dutchman" alone. As a performer, he was one of the best of any period. The Last Judgment. Spohr wrote two oratorios upon the same subject,--"Das jüngste Gericht" ("The Last Judgment") and "Die letzten Dinge" ("The Last Things"); but the latter is now universally entitled "The Last Judgment," and the former was shelved by the composer himself shortly after its performance. His autobiography gives us some interesting details of each. After a concert-tour to Hamburg, Spohr returned to Gotha, and found there a letter from Bischoff, the Precentor of Frankenhausen, informing him that he had been commanded by the Governor of Erfurt to arrange a musical festival there in celebration of the birthday of Napoleon, August 15. He invited Spohr to assume its direction and to write an oratorio for the occasion. Previous to this a poet in Erfurt had offered him the text called "The Last Judgment," and Spohr determined to avail himself of it. He writes,-- "I sent for the libretto and set to work at once. But I soon felt that for the oratorio style I was yet too deficient in counterpoint and in fugueing. I therefore suspended my work in order to make the preliminary studies requisite for the subject. From one of my pupils I borrowed Marpurg's 'Art of Fugue-writing,' and was soon deeply and continuously engaged in the study of that work. After I had written half a dozen fugues according to its instruction, the last of which seemed to me very successful, I resumed the composition of my oratorio, and completed it without allowing anything else to intervene. According to a memorandum I made, it was begun in January, 1812, and finished in June." In this connection Spohr tells the following humorous story:-- "One of the solo-singers alone, who sang the part of Satan, did not give me satisfaction. The part, which was written with a powerful instrumentation, I gave, by the advice of Bischoff, to a village schoolmaster in the neighborhood of Gotha who was celebrated throughout the whole district for his colossal bass voice. In power of voice he had indeed quite sufficient to outroar a whole orchestra; but in science and in music he could by no means execute the part in a satisfactory manner. I taught and practised him in the part myself, and took great pains to assist him a little. But without much success; for when the day of public trial came, he had totally forgotten every instruction and admonition, and gave such loose to his barbarian voice that he first of all frightened the auditory, and then set it in roars of laughter." It is clear from Spohr's remarks that he was satisfied with the choruses and fugues, but not with the solo parts of Jesus and Mary, which were in the florid cantata style of that day. He subsequently determined to re-write them; but "when about to begin," he says, "it seemed to me as though I could no longer enter into the spirit of the subject, and so it remained undone. To publish the work as it was, I could not make up my mind. Thus in later years it has lain by without any use being made of it." Thirteen years afterwards he wrote "Die letzten Dinge," now so well known as "The Last Judgment." He says in one of his letters,-- "In the same year [1825] Councillor Rochlitz, the editor of the 'Leipsic Musical Journal,' offered me the text of an oratorio, 'Die letzten Dinge,' to compose for, which I received with great pleasure, as my previous attempt in that style of art, 'Das jüngste Gericht,' by no means pleased me any longer, and therefore I had not once been disposed to perform a single number of it at the meeting of our Society.... The whole work was finished by Good Friday [1826], and then first performed complete in the Lutheran Church. It was in the evening, and the church was lighted up. My son-in-law, Wolff, who had been long in Rome, proposed to illuminate the church as at Rome on Good Friday, with lights disposed overhead in the form of a cross, and carried out his idea. A cross fourteen feet long, covered with silver-foil and hung with six hundred glass lamps, was suspended overhead in the middle of the church, and diffused so bright a light that one could everywhere clearly read the text-books. The musicians and singers, nearly two hundred in number, were placed in the gallery of the church, arranged in rows one above the other, and for the most part unseen by the auditory, which, amounting to nearly two thousand persons, observed a solemn stillness. My two daughters, Messrs. Wild, Albert, and Föppel, together with an amateur, sang the soli, and the performance was faultless. The effect was, I must myself say, extraordinary." The title of the work is clearly a misnomer, as well as a mistranslation, for it contains nothing of the terrors of the Last Judgment, but, on the other hand, is graceful and elegant in style. The affixing of this title to it is said to have been the work of Professor Taylor, who arranged it for the Norwich festival of 1830, and supposed he was preparing the earlier oratorio, "Das jüngste Gericht." The title has now become so indissolubly connected with it that no effort has been made to change it. In the first part the text is confined to ascriptions of praise. The solo, "Blessing, honor, glory, and power be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb forever," conveys the meaning of the whole first part; while the second part is confined to those portions of the Apocalypse which describe the terrible signs of the last day, concluding with visions of the new heaven and a hallelujah. And yet Malibran, in her biography of Spohr, calls the oratorio a musical copy of Michael Angelo's "Last Judgment,"--showing that more than one person has confounded the two oratorios. The work opens with a very long overture of a grave and majestic character, in limits far beyond those usually found in oratorio. It is followed by the striking chorus, "Praise His awful Name," which is beautifully written, and contains impressive soprano and bass solos. Some brief tenor and bass recitatives lead to the second number, a short chorus ("Holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts"), in which the voices have no accompaniment except the horns. Three phrases of recitative for soprano and tenor lead to the next chorus ("All Glory to the Lamb that died"), a grand number, which is familiar to nearly every lover of oratorio music. The next number is one of the most striking in the work. A short tenor recitative introduces the tenor solo and chorus, "Blessing, honor, glory, and power," beginning with a tranquil and smoothly flowing solo, the chorus opening in the same manner, then developing into an admirably written fugue, and closing in the same serene style as it opened. A very dramatic and picturesque scene follows, comprising the tenor recitative ("And lo! a mighty Host"), with a very striking accompaniment descriptive of "the mighty host of all nations and people that stood before the throne and the Lamb," and the exquisite quartet and chorus ("Lord God of Heaven and Earth") which close the first part. The second part opens with an orchestral symphony which heralds the signs and portents of the Day of Judgment in graphic style. It is followed by a long bass recitative with intensely dramatic accompaniment:-- "The day of wrath is near. The Almighty shall reveal His power. The reaper's song is silent in the field, And the shepherd's voice on the mountain. The valleys then shall shake with fear, With dread the hills shall tremble. It comes, the day of terror comes! The awful morning dawns! Thy mighty arm, O God, is uplifted. Thou shalt shake the earth and heavens. They shall shrivel as a scroll When Thou in wrath appearest." The text indicates the dramatic nature of the subject, and it is treated with a force and vigor that are in striking contrast with the tenderness and serenity, at times rising to exultation, that characterize the remainder of the work. This recitative leads to the very pathetic duet for soprano and tenor, "Forsake me not in this dread hour," which is a gem of beautiful melody, followed by the response of the chorus in unison, "If with your whole Hearts." After a short tenor recitative, another strong chorus ensues ("Destroyed is Babylon"), with an agitated and powerful accompaniment, which continues for some time after the voices cease, once interrupted by the tenor proclaiming "It is ended," and then coming to a close in a gentle pianissimo effect. A tender, melodious quartet and chorus ("Blest are the Departed") follows. The soprano voice announces the new heaven and earth. A short tenor recitative ("Behold! He soon shall come") and the quartet response ("Then come, Lord Jesus") prepare the way for the final massive chorus ("Great and wonderful are all Thy Works"), which begins with a few bars of full harmony, then develops into a vigorous fugue, which, after choral announcements of hallelujah, is followed by another fugue ("Thine is the Kingdom"), closing with a tumultuous ascription of praise, and Amen. The solo parts in the oratorio are always short and of a reflective character. It is peculiarly a choral work, of which, with one or two exceptions, the predominant traits are sweetness, tenderness, and grace. In these exceptions, like the great chorus, "Destroyed is Babylon," with its wonderful accompaniments, it reaches a high strain of sublimity. SULLIVAN. The great popularity which Arthur Seymour Sullivan has enjoyed for a few years past, growing out of his extraordinarily successful series of comic operettas, beginning with "The Sorcerer" (1877), which first caught the public fancy, and ending with "The Mikado" (1885), has almost overshadowed the permanent foundations upon which his reputation must rest; namely, his serious and sacred music. He was born in London, May 13, 1842. His father, a band-master and clarinet-player of distinction, intrusted his musical education at first to the Rev. Thomas Hilmore, master of the children of the Chapel Royal. He entered the Chapel in 1854 and remained there three years, and also studied in the Royal Academy of Music under Goss and Sterndale Bennett during this period, leaving the latter institution in 1858, in which year he went to Leipsic. He remained in the Conservatory there until 1861, when he returned to London and introduced himself to its musical public with his music to Shakspeare's "Tempest," which made a great success. The enthusiasm with which this was received and the favors he gained at the hands of Chorley, at that time musical critic of the "Athenæum," gave him a secure footing. The cantata "Kenilworth," written for the Birmingham Festival, the music to the ballet "L'Île enchantée," and an opera, "The Sapphire Necklace," were produced in 1864. In 1866 appeared his first symphony, which has been played not only in England, but also in Germany, and an overture, "In Memoriam,"--a tribute to his father, who died that year. The next year his overture "Marmion" was first performed. In 1869 he wrote his first oratorio, "The Prodigal Son," in 1873 "The Light of the World," and in 1880 "The Martyr of Antioch;" the first for the Worcester, the second for the Birmingham, and the third for the Leeds festivals. The beautiful "Overture di Ballo," so frequently played in this country by the Thomas orchestra, was written for Birmingham in 1870, and the next year appeared his brilliant cantata "On Shore and Sea." On the 11th of May, 1867, was first heard in public his little comic operetta "Cox and Box." It was the first in that series of extraordinary successes, really dating from "The Sorcerer," which are almost without parallel in the operatic world, and which have made his name and that of his collaborator, Gilbert, household words. He has done much for sacred as well as for secular music. In addition to his oratorios he has written numerous anthems, forty-seven hymn-tunes, two Te Deums, several carols, part-songs, and choruses, and in 1872 edited the collection of "Church Hymns with Tunes" for the Christian Knowledge Society. He received the honorary degree of Doctor of Music from Cambridge in 1876, and from Oxford in 1879, and in 1883 was knighted by the Queen. The Prodigal Son. "The Prodigal Son," the first of Sullivan's oratorios, was written for the Worcester Festival in England, and performed for the first time Sept. 8, 1869. It is a short work, comprising but eighteen numbers, and very melodious in character. In his preface to the work the composer says,-- "It is a remarkable fact that the parable of the Prodigal Son should never before have been chosen as the text of a sacred musical composition. The story is so natural and pathetic, and forms so complete a whole; its lesson is so thoroughly Christian; the characters, though few, are so perfectly contrasted; and the opportunity for the employment of local color is so obvious,--that it is indeed astonishing to find the subject so long overlooked. "The only drawback is the shortness of the narrative, and the consequent necessity for filling it out with material drawn from elsewhere. In the present case this has been done as sparingly as possible, and entirely from the Scriptures. In so doing, the Prodigal himself has been conceived, not as of a naturally brutish and depraved disposition,--a view taken by many commentators, with apparently little knowledge of human nature, and no recollection of their own youthful impulses,--but rather as a buoyant, restless youth, tired of the monotony of home, and anxious to see what lay beyond the narrow confines of his father's farm, going forth in the confidence of his own simplicity and ardor, and led gradually away into follies and sins which at the outset would have been as distasteful as they were strange to him. The episode with which the parable concludes has no dramatic connection with the former and principal portion, and has therefore not been treated." In reality there are but six of the eighteen numbers concerned with the narration of the parable. The remainder moralize upon the story and illustrate its teaching. After a short, simple orchestral prelude, an opening chorus, beginning with soprano solo ("There is Joy in the Presence of the Angels of God"), and containing also alto and bass solos, gives the key to the whole work in reflective style, as it proclaims the rejoicing in heaven over the "one sinner that repenteth." At its conclusion the parable begins with tenor recitative and solo, "A certain man had two sons," in which the Prodigal asks for his portion of goods. In a bass aria preceded by recitative, the father gives him good advice, "Honor the Lord," and presumably his portion also, as the soprano recites in the next number that "he took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance in riotous living." Thereupon follows a very melodious and vivacious chorus ("Let us eat and drink; to-morrow we die"), in which the tenor has an important part. The response to the bacchanal comes in the next number, a brief chorus beginning with the alto recitative, "Woe unto them." One of the gems of the work, a pretty alto song, "Love not the World," intervenes at this point. At its conclusion the narrative is resumed. After an effective prelude by orchestra, the soprano recitative relates the famine and the experiences of the Prodigal among the swine, leading up to a pretty aria ("O that thou hadst hearkened"). The tenor follows with an expressive aria ("How many hired Servants of my Father's"). The narrative again halts to give place to a very taking chorus ("The Sacrifices of God"), after which we have the return and reconciliation ("And he arose and came to his Father"),--a very dramatic duet for tenor and bass, followed by the vigorous and exultant bass aria ("For this my Son was dead") of the father. The parable ends here; but the music goes on moralizing upon and illustrating the theme in four effective numbers,--the chorus, "O that Men would praise the Lord," which is the longest and best constructed in the work; the recitative and aria for tenor, "Come, ye Children;" the unaccompanied quartet, "The Lord is nigh;" and the final chorus, "Thou, O Lord, art our Father," closing with a Hallelujah in full, broad harmony. The Light of the World. Sir Arthur Sullivan's second oratorio, "The Light of the World," is laid out upon a much larger scale in every way than "The Prodigal Son." It was written for the Birmingham Festival of 1873, was given for the first time on the 27th of August. The purpose of the work, as the composer explains in his preface, is to set forth the human aspects of the life of our Lord upon earth, by the use of some of the actual incidents in his career which bear witness to his attributes as preacher, healer, and prophet. "To give it dramatic force," he says,-- "The work has been laid out in scenes dealing respectively, in the first part with the nativity, preaching, healing, and prophesying of our Lord, ending with the triumphal entry into Jerusalem; and in the second part, with the utterances which, containing the avowal of himself as the Son of Man, excited to the utmost the wrath of his enemies, and led the rulers to conspire for his betrayal and death; the solemn recital by the chorus of his sufferings, and the belief in his final reward; the grief of Mary Magdalene at the sepulchre; and the consolation and triumph of the Disciples at the resurrection of their Lord and Master." The first part has four scenes, "Bethlehem," "Nazareth," "Lazarus" (which might more appropriately have been entitled "Bethany"), and "The Way to Jerusalem." The scenes of the second part are laid entirely in Jerusalem. "Bethlehem" includes the message of the angels to the shepherds, their visit to Mary, the nativity, the warning by the angel to Mary and Joseph of Herod's design, the lament and consolation of Rachel in Rama, and the promise of God's blessing upon the child. In "Nazareth" we have a scene representing Christ in the synagogue reading from Isaiah and declaring himself the object of the prophecy, his expulsion by the incredulous crowd of listeners, and his exhortations to his disciples, when left alone with them, to bear their persecutions with meekness. "Lazarus" describes the journey to Bethany and our Lord's assurances to the bereaved sisters that their brother shall rise again. "The Way to Jerusalem" scene is indicated by its title,--the entry of the Lord into the city amid the hosannas and exultant acclamations of the people. In the second part, we have the discourse concerning the sheep and the goats, the interview between the ruler and the people, and the former's anger with Nicodemus, the sufferings and death of Christ, and the resurrection and joy of the disciples as they glorify God and sing the praises of their risen Master. The work opens with a prologue chorus ("There shall come forth a Rod out of the Stem of Jesse"), at the close of which the "Bethlehem" scene begins. It is preluded with a quiet but effective pastoral movement for the orchestra, a tenor recitative ("There were Shepherds abiding in the Field"), and a contralto solo announcing the heavenly message to the Shepherds, which lead up to a spirited "Gloria" by the sopranos and altos, followed by a chorus of the Shepherds ("Let us now go even unto Bethlehem") for male voices. A Shepherd, in brief recitative passages, declares to Mary, "Blessed art thou among Women," followed by the soprano solo, "My Soul doth magnify the Lord." After the Virgin's expression of thanks, the Shepherds join in the chorus, "The whole Earth is at rest," which is peculiarly striking in its contrasts. A short recitative by the Angel, warning Mary to flee into Egypt, is followed by a very sombre chorus ("In Rama was there a Voice"). At its close, the tenor is heard in a tender aria ("Refrain thy Voice from weeping"), leading to a chorus full of spirited harmony, and rising to a very effective climax ("I will pour My Spirit"), which closes the scene. The "Nazareth" scene opens with a baritone solo ("The Spirit of the Lord is upon me"), in which Jesus declares himself in the synagogue as the object of the prophecy from Isaiah which he has been reading. The Jews answer in a very dramatic chorus ("Whence hath this Man his Wisdom?"). Again Jesus interposes with the declaration, "A prophet is not without honor save in his own country;" whereupon the people break out in a still more dramatic chorus ("Is not this Jesus?"), set to a very effective accompaniment. For the third time Jesus declares himself, followed by the stirring, furious chorus, "Why hear ye him?" A tender and at times fervid solo ("Lord, who hath believed our Report?") leads to a very effective quintet ("Doubtless Thou art our Father"). After another brief baritone solo ("Blessed are they"), we come to the chorus, "He maketh the Sun to rise," which is one of the most beautifully written in the work, and closes the scene. The third scene, "Lazarus," begins with the description of the mournful journey to Bethany, the arrival among the kindred and friends, who are trying to comfort the bereaved sisters, and closes at the still unopened grave. It includes a duet between tenor and baritone, the former a Disciple, the latter Jesus, whose music is invariably sung by the baritone voice; a solo for alto ("Weep ye not for the Dead"), with a sombre orchestral prelude, and accompanied by a chorus in its close; a dialogue between Martha and Jesus ("Lord, if thou hadst been here"); a short but very beautiful chorus ("Behold how he loved him!"); the baritone solo, "Said I not unto thee;" and a final chorus of great power ("The Grave cannot praise thee"). The last scene of the first part, "The Way to Jerusalem," is very brilliant throughout, and is in cheerful contrast with the general sombreness of the preceding numbers. It opens with a brief dialogue between Jesus and a Disciple ("Master, get thee out, and depart hence"), which leads to a charming three-part chorus for children's voices ("Hosanna to the Son of David"), with a prominent harp part in the accompaniment, and worked up to a fine climax. A brilliant soprano solo ("Tell ye the Daughter of Zion") intervenes, followed by a short dialogue between Jesus and a Pharisee, which leads to the vigorous chorus of the Disciples, "Blessed be the Kingdom." After another baritone solo ("If thou hadst known, O Jerusalem") the children's hosanna is repeated,--this time with the power of the full chorus; and the first part comes to a close. The first part opens with a prelude of a few bars; but the second begins with a long overture, very effectively written, and intended, as the composer himself says, to indicate the angry feelings and dissensions caused by the Lord's presence in Jerusalem. At its close the baritone, in one of the most forcible solos assigned to this part ("When the Son of Man shall come in his Glory"), discourses the parable of the sheep and goats. The wondering chorus of the People, "Is not this he whom they seek to kill?" follows, and then ensues a somewhat tedious scene. A Ruler argues with the People, contemptuously asking if Christ shall come out of Galilee. The People remain unconvinced, however. Nicodemus then strives to reason with the Ruler, with the natural effect of making him very angry. All this leads up to an effective female chorus ("The Hour is come"). In a very tender and pathetic solo ("Daughters of Jerusalem") Jesus sings his farewell. The incidents of the crucifixion are avoided, as the work is intended only to illustrate the human career of Jesus. The rest of the story is told in narrative form; an unaccompanied quartet ("Yea, though I walk") and a powerful, but gloomy chorus, describing Christ's sufferings ("Men and Brethren"), bring us to the sepulchre. The scene opens with the plaint of Mary Magdalene, "Where have they laid him?" and the response of the Angel, who tells her Christ has risen, which is followed by a six-part unaccompanied chorus ("The Lord is risen"). A short tenor solo ("If ye be risen with Christ") leads directly to the final chorus ("Him hath God exalted"), which is worked up in fugal form with much spirit. VERDI. Giuseppe Verdi, the greatest of living Italian opera composers, was born at Roncale, Oct. 9, 1813. Like many another musician, he sprang from humble and rude beginnings, his parents having kept a small inn and notion store in the little Italian village. His musical talent displayed itself very early. In his tenth year he was appointed organist in the place of Baistrocchi, the master with whom he had been studying at Busseto. Through the generosity of his patron, M. Barezzi, he was sent to Milan, where he was refused admission to the Conservatory, on the ground that he showed "no special aptitude for music!" Nothing daunted, the young composer, acting on the suggestions of the conductor of La Scala, studied composition and orchestration with M. Lavigne, himself a composer of no mean ability. In 1833 Verdi returned to Busseto, and five years later went back to Milan, where he began his wonderfully successful career as an operatic composer. His first opera, "Oberto Conte di S. Bonifacio," appeared in 1839, and was followed by a series of operatic works that have achieved world-wide success and placed their composer at the head of all contemporary Italian writers. The most important of them are: "Nabucco" (1842); "I Lombardi" (1843); "Ernani" (1844); "Attila" (1846); "Macbeth" (1847); "I Masnadieri" (1847); "Luisa Miller" (1849); "Rigoletto" (1851); "Il Trovatore" (1853); "La Traviata" (1853); "The Sicilian Vespers" (1855); "The Masked Ball" (1857); "The Force of Destiny" (1862); "Don Carlos" (1867); "Aïda" (1871). In the last-named opera, Verdi departs from the purely Italian school of operatic writing and shows the unmistakable signs of Wagner's influence upon him. Now, in his seventy-third year, comes the intelligence that he has completed still another opera, on the subject of "Othello," which will soon be placed in rehearsal in Paris. In the interval between "Aïda" and "Othello" he wrote the "Manzoni Requiem," a "Pater Noster" for five voices, and an "Ave Maria" for soprano solo. He has also written several marches, short symphonies, concertos for piano, minor church compositions, a stringed quartet, a "Stabat Mater," the choruses to Manzoni's tragedies, and numerous songs and romances for the drawing-room. With his wife, Madame Strepponi, he has spent a very quiet life in his villa at S. Agato, looking after his farming operations, to which of late years he has given more attention than to music. In a letter addressed to the Italian critic, Filippi, he writes: "I know very well that you are also a most distinguished musician and devoted to your art: ... but Piave and Mariani must have told you that at S. Agato we neither make nor talk about music, and you will run the risk of finding a piano not only out of tune, but very likely without strings." He has been overwhelmed with decorations and honors, but has studiously avoided public life and the turmoil of the world. In 1866 he was elected a member of the Italian Parliament from Busseto, but sent in his resignation shortly afterwards; and in 1875 was appointed senator by the King, but never took his seat. His fame is indissolubly connected with his music, and in the pursuit of that art he has become one of the most admired composers of his time. The Manzoni Requiem. The history of "The Manzoni Requiem" is of more than ordinary interest. Shortly after Rossini's death, in 1868, Verdi conceived the idea of a requiem in his memory, to be written by many hands, which should be performed in the cathedral of Bologna on each centenary of the composer's death, but upon no other occasion and at no other place. The project met with favor. The work was laid out in thirteen numbers and assigned to thirteen Italian composers, Verdi taking the "Libera me," which was to be the last number in the work. Each of the composers finished his task; but when the parts were joined in a complete requiem they were found to be so dissimilar in treatment, and the whole work so incoherent and lacking in symmetry and unity, that the scheme went no further. M. Mazzucato, of Milan, who had examined the work, was so impressed with the "Libera me" that he wrote to Verdi urging him to compose the entire requiem. About this time (1873) Alessandro Manzoni, the founder of the romantic school in Italian literature, died, and was universally mourned by his countrymen. The requiem which had been intended for Rossini was now written by Verdi for his friend, the great Italian patriot and poet, the immortal author of "I promessi Sposi," and the "Libera me" was transferred to it. It was performed for the first time at Milan, May 22, 1874, the anniversary of Manzoni's death, with Teresa Stolz soprano, Maria Waldmann alto, Giuseppe Capponi tenor, and Ormondo Maini bass, a chorus of a hundred and twenty voices, and an orchestra of a hundred and ten. It was next given in Paris, in the following month, under the composer's direction and since that time has been frequently given in Europe and in the United States. The mass is divided into seven parts, with solos, choruses, and full orchestra, as follows: No. 1. "Requiem" and "Kyrie" (quartet and chorus). 2. "Dies Iræ;" thus divided: "Dies Iræ" (chorus); "Tuba Mirum" (chorus); "Liber scriptus" (chorus and fugue); "Quid sum miser" (trio for soprano, alto, and tenor); "Rex tremendæ" (quartet and chorus); "Recordare" (duo for soprano and alto, and chorus); "Ingemisco" (solo for tenor); "Confutatis" (solo for bass); "Lacrymosa" (quartet and chorus). 3. "Domine Jesu," offertory, by quartet. 4. "Sanctus" (fugue with double chorus). 5. "Agnus Dei" (duet for soprano and alto, and chorus). 6. "Lux æterna" (trio for alto, tenor, and bass). 7. "Libera me" (solo for soprano, chorus, and final fugue). The "Requiem" opens, after a few measures of prelude, with the chorus chanting the appeal for rest sotto voce, the effect being carried as pianissimo as possible until the basses, by an abrupt change of key, give out the theme of a fugue ("Te decet hymnus"), written in pure religious style. The introductory "Requiem" is repeated, and leads to the "Kyrie," the theme of which is stated by the tenor, and in turn taken up by the other soloists, the chorus shortly joining, a double sextet interwoven with it, and the whole closing pianissimo, as the "Requiem" opened. The second part, the "Dies Iræ," is in strong contrast with the first, and is more broadly and dramatically worked up, and with freer accompaniment. The opening chorus is one of startling power. The tenors and basses open the number, immediately followed by the four parts announcing the Day of Wrath in high, sustained notes, while the second sopranos, altos, and tenors accompany them with immense sweeps of sound that rise and fall like the waves. There are nine numbers in this part which have been already specified, the most effective of them being the adagio trio ("Quid sum miser") for soprano, alto, and tenor, upon which Verdi has lavished his melodious inspiration. The trio is continually interwoven with the chorus shouting fortissimo the "Rex tremendæ majestatis," until it takes another form in the prayer, "Recordare," a duet for soprano and alto in Verdi's best operatic vein. A very effective tenor solo, "Ingemisco," followed by a very solemn and majestic bass solo, "Confutatis," lead to the stirring measures of the Day of Wrath again, and close this part in an ensemble of immense power, both vocal and dramatic. The offertory ("Domine Jesu") is a quartet with three motives,--the first andante, the second allegro, and the third adagio in Gregorian form, the three themes being admirably worked up and accompanied. The "Sanctus" (the fourth part of the mass) is a very impressive allegro double chorus, followed by the "Agnus Dei," a duet for soprano and alto which is full of melodious inspiration, illustrated with charming instrumental color; it is the gem of the mass, and one of the happiest numbers Verdi has ever scored. The sixth part is the "Lux æterna," a trio for alto, tenor, and bass which is very dramatic in setting; and this leads to the "Libera," the final division and the climax of the work. It is in its general effect a soprano obligato with chorus. After a monotone recitative and solo, the "Dies Iræ" is repeated, likewise the "Requiem æternam" (which forms the introduction of the mass), and closes with a fugue of majestic proportions that finally ends in the same pianissimo effect as characterizes the opening of the work. Thus much of the work in detail. It remains to look at this mass as a whole. The first thought that will strike the listener is its utter dissimilarity to any other of Verdi's works, except "Aïda." Like that opera, it is in his latest style,--an attempt to show the world that he can write something besides melodies. Hence we find more decided contrapuntal effects, the canon and fugue forms, and even the plain, serious style of the early devotional music of the Church in the days of Gregory and Palestrina. The second thought is that this mass, although it has had Papal approval, is not so much a mass as it is a dramatic threnody in memory of a loved friend. As compared with the masses of Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn, and the other early mass-writers, it has not their conventional form, their regular sequence of setting, their coherence of spirit and sentiment. There are wide divergences in it from the old beaten track. But it may be said, on the other hand, that while the traditions are violated, Verdi does not so far lose sight of the devotional character of his work as to descend to the light, tripping, and sometimes fantastic measures of Rossini in the "Stabat Mater." Von Bülow very nearly hit the truth in saying that "The Manzoni Requiem" is an opera in ecclesiastical costume. The dramatic element is its strong feature, and the inexhaustible resources of the composer's invention strike the hearer as one of the chief characteristics. The first six parts seem to have included nearly all that can be done, and you wonder if the last part, the "Libera me," will not fall tamely; when to your surprise it proves to be the grand culmination of the work, and presents, with its solo and chorus and imposing fugue, an ensemble of effect, a richness of instrumentation, a severe and almost classical form of composition, and a dramatic intensity and passion that sweep the whole range of power, from a fortissimo tutte forza, down to the faintest whisper of a pianissimo. It bursts upon you like the thunder, and dies away in the still small voice that whispers the requiem of everlasting rest. SACRED MUSIC IN AMERICA. The following sketch of the rise and progress of sacred music in America may prove of interest to the reader as a supplement to the history of the Oratorio and of the numerous illustrations of that class of compositions contained in the body of the book. Ritter, Gould, Hood, and other church-music historians have been freely consulted to make the sketch as complete as possible. The psalmody of the Protestant church was first arranged and brought into use in the course of the sixteenth century, through the efforts of the reformers in Germany and particularly of Martin Luther, who was extremely fond of music, and wrote a quaint discourse on the art. In 1524 he published a collection of hymns which also comprised a few versified psalms. These were set to music in four parts, as he says "for no other reason than because of my desire that the young, who ought to be educated in music as well as in other good arts, might have something to take the place of worldly and amorous songs, and so learn something useful and practise something virtuous, as becometh the young. I would be glad to see all arts, and especially music, employed in the service of Him who created them." Zwingle, Cranmer, Calvin, and Knox were also zealous advocates of psalm-singing; and during the same century Tye, Tallis, Bird, and Gibbons did a great work for ecclesiastical music in England. At the time of the Reformation in England the Puritans proved themselves zealous musical reformers. They reduced singing to the severest simplicity. They had no sympathy with elaborate arrangements. Organs, choir-books, and choir-singers were objects of their special antipathy. One of these iconoclasts says: "This singing and saying of mass, matins, or even-song is but roryng, howling, whisteling, mummying, conjuring and jogelyng and the playing of orgayns a foolish vanitie." Latimer in 1537 notified the convent at Worcester: "Whenever there shall be any preaching in your monastery all manner of singing and other ceremonies shall be utterly laid aside." In 1562 it was proposed that the psalms should be sung by the whole congregation, and that organs should be no longer used. In the Confession of the Puritans (1571) they say: "Concerning the singing of the psalms, we allow of the people's joining with one voice in a plain tune, but not in tossing the psalms from one side to the other, with intermingling of organs." An appeal was made to Parliament against the singing of the noble cathedral music by "chanting choristers disguised, as are all the rest, in white surplices, some in corner caps and silly copes, imitating the fashion and manner of Antichrist the Pope, that man of sin and child of perdition, with his other rabble of miscreants and shavelings." Sternhold, who was groom of the robes to Henry VIII. and afterwards groom of the bed-chamber to Edward VI., was one of the most zealous of these reformers. In connection with Hopkins, a clergyman and schoolmaster, he versified a large number of the psalms and published them. They were printed at first without music, but in 1562 they appeared with the notes of the plain melody under the following title: "The whole Book of Psalms, collected into English metre by T. Sternhold and J. Hopkins and others, conferred with the Ebrue, with apt notes to sing them withal. Imprinted by John Day." In this work there was but one part, the air, and each note was accompanied by its name; but a few years later the psalms appeared set to music in four parts. They were the work of William Damon, and his book bore the title: "The Psalms of David to English Metre, with notes of Four Parts set unto them, by Wm. Damon, to the Use of the Godly Christians, for recreating themselves, instead of fond and unseemly ballads. 1579." In 1599 there appeared a very ambitious work in folio form, so arranged that four persons might sing from it, and bearing the title: "The Psalms of David in Metre, the Plain song being the common Tune, to be sung and played upon the Lute, Orpharion, Citterne, or Bass-viol, severally or together; the singing Part to be either Tenor or Treble to the instrument, according to the Nature of the Voice, or for Four Voices; with Ten Short Tunes in the end, to which, for the most part, all Psalms may be usually sung; for the Use of such as are of mean Skill, and whose Leisure least serveth to practice. By Richard Allison, Gent., Practitioner in the Art of Music." Notwithstanding its formidable title, the work was not highly esteemed at the time. In 1621, Thomas Ravenscroft, Bachelor of Music, published an excellent collection of psalm tunes, many of which are still in use. In his preface he says, by way of advice: "1. That psalms of tribulation be sung with a low voice and long measure; 2. That psalms of thanksgiving be sung with a voice indifferent, neither too loud nor too soft, and neither too swift nor too slow; 3. That psalms of rejoicing be sung with a loud voice and a swift and jocund measure." His preface closes with the pious wish that all his patrons after death may join in the "Quire of Angels in the Heavens." The date of the Ravenscroft collection brings us to the time of the Pilgrims. When they loaded the "Mayflower" with their homely household furniture, spinning-wheels, and arms of defence, and set out upon their long and uncertain voyage to find a friendly shore where they might worship God in their own fashion, the psalm-book was not forgotten. They brought with them a version made by Henry Ainsworth of Amsterdam, in which the notes set above the words were of lozenge shape. For twenty years it was in exclusive use, though the Salem Church did not abandon it until 1667, and the Plymouth Church retained the old favorite until 1692. The Sternhold and Hopkins collection had also found its way over, but it was used only at Ipswich and in its vicinity. In 1640 appeared the Bay Psalm Book, issued from the Cambridge press. It was prepared by an association of New England divines, most prominent among whom were Thomas Welde, Richard Mather of Dorchester, and John Eliot of Roxbury, the famous Indian missionary. Being new, it was at once regarded as an innovation. The churches were soon in a wrangle, not only over the contents of the new collection, but as to the methods of singing. Some were opposed to singing altogether, while others insisted that only Christian voices should be heard. At no time were the colonists very learned in music. In the edition of the Bay Psalm Book printed in 1698, the following concise directions appear:-- "_First_, observe how many note-compass the tune is next the place of your first note, and how many notes above and below that, so as you may begin the tune of your first note, as the rest may be sung in the compass of your and the people's voices, without Squeaking above or Grumbling below. For the better understanding of which take note of the following directions: "Of the eight short Tunes used to four lines only, whose measure is to eight syllables on the first line, and six on the next; and may be sung to any Psalms of that measure. Oxford Tune. } Litchfield Tune. } To Psalms Consolatory. Low Dutch Tune. } York Tune. } Winsor Tune. } To Psalms of Prayer, Confessions, and Funerals. Cambridge Short Tune to peculiar Psalms, as 21, 24, 33, 70, 86, first metre, 114, 132. "Those six short tunes, in tuning the first notes, will bear a cheerful high pitch; in regard to their whole compass from the lowest note, the highest is not above five or six notes. St. David's Tune. } Martyrs Tune. } To Psalms of Praise and Thanksgiving. "These two tunes are eight notes compass above the first note, and therefore begin the first note low. "Of five long tunes following: "Hackney Tune--119 Psalm Tune, second metre. These two tunes begin your first note low, for the compass is nine notes, and eight above the first note of the tune. "100 Psalm Tune. This one tune begin your note indifferent high, in regard you are to fall your note lower than your first pitch note. "113 Psalm Tune, and 148 Psalm Tune.--These two tunes begin your first note low, in regard the Tune ascends eight notes above it." The turmoil in the churches was settled for a time by Rev. John Cotton, who issued a tract entitled "Singing of Psalms a Gospel ordinance, or a Treatise wherein are handled these four Particulars: I. Touching the duty itself. II. Touching the matter to be sung. III. Touching the singers. IV. Touching the manner of singing." In this tract the author says:-- "For the first Question we lay downe this conclusion for a Doctrine of Truth: That singing of Psalms with a lively voyce, is an holy duty of God's worship now in the day of the New Testament. When we say, singing with lively voyce, we suppose none will so farre misconstrue us as to thinke we exclude singing with the heart; for God is a Spirit, and to worship him with the voyce without the spirit, were but lip-labour; which (being rested in) is but lost labour, or at most profitted but little. Concerning the second Question we hold and believe that not only the Psalms of David, but any other spirituall song recorded in the Scripture, may lawfully be sung in Christian Churches. 2d. We grant also that any private Christian who hath a gifte to frame a spirituall song, may both frame it and sing it privately for his own private comfort, and remembrance of some special benefit or deliverance. Nor do we forbid the private use of any instrument of Music therewithall, so that attention to the instrument does not divert the heart from attention of the matter of song. "Whether women may sing as well as men: For in this point there be some that deale with us as Pharaoh delt with the Israelites, who, though he was at first utterly unwilling that any should go to sacrifice to the Lord in the Wilderness, yet being at length convinced that they must goe, then he was content that the men should goe, but not the women. So here, some that were altogether against singing of Psalms at all with lively voyce, yet being convinced that it is a morall worship of God warranted in Scripture, then if there must be a Singing, one alone must sing, not all (or if all) the men only, and not the women. And their reason is: Because it is not permitted to a women to speake in the Church, how then shall they sing? Much less is it permitted to them to prophecy in the Church. And singing the Psalms is a kind of Prophecying." Peace, however, was of short duration. Fresh quarrels arose. The early colonists were good fighters. They quarrelled over the question whether one should sing or the whole congregation; whether women as well as men should sing; whether pagans should be allowed to lift up their voices; and whether the scanty stock of tunes should be enlarged. Learning a tune by note, without having previously heard it, was almost a mortal offence, and at last something like a compromise was effected in some of the churches, where alternate singing by rote and rule satisfied both parties. The ministers added to the general confusion with a flood of circulars on the subject. Several of them issued a tract entitled "Cases of Conscience about singing Psalms," in which they ask:-- "Whether you do believe that singing Psalms, Hymns, and Spirituall Songs is an external part of Divine Worship, to be observed in and by the assembly of God's people on the Lord's Days, as well as on other occasional meetings of the Saints for the worshipping of God. "Whether you do believe that singing in the worship of God ought to be done skilfully? "Whether you do believe that skilfulness in singing may ordinarily be gained in the use of outward means by the blessing of God. "Is it possible for Fathers of forty years old and upward to learn to sing by rule; and ought they to attempt at this age to learn? "Do you believe that it is Lawful and Laudable for us to change the customary way of singing the psalms? "Whether they who purposely sing a tune different from that which is appointed by the pastor or elder to be sung are not guilty of acting disorderly, and of taking God's name in vain also, by disturbing the order of the sanctuary." Rev. Thomas Symmes, of Bradford, Mass., also issued a tract in which he contended for rule-singing. On this point he says:-- "The total neglect of singing psalms by many serious Christians for want of skill in singing psalm-tunes. There are many who never employ their tongues in singing God's praises, because they have no skill. It is with great difficulty that this part of worship is performed, and with great indecency in some congregations for want of skill; it is to be feared singing must be wholly omitted in some places for want of skill if this art is not revived. I was present in a congregation where singing was for a whole Sabbath omitted for want of a man able to lead the assembly in singing. "The declining from and getting beside the rule was gradual and insensible. Singing-schools and singing-books being laid aside, there was no way to learn, but only by hearing of tunes sung or by taking the run of the tunes, as it is phrased. The rules of singing not being taught or learnt, every one sang as best pleased himself; and every leading-singer would take the liberty to raise any note of the tune, or lower it, as best pleased his ear, and add such notes and flourishes as were grateful to him; and this was done so gradually as that but few if any took notice of it. One Clerk or Chorister would alter the tunes a little in his day, the next a little in his, and so one after another, till in fifty or sixty years it caused a considerable alteration." John Eliot, who was having famous success with the Indians, particularly in teaching them psalm-singing,--for Dr. Mather says "their singing was most ravishing,"--made a long contribution to the general discussion, which contains the following "Lamentation:"-- "That musick, which in itself is concord, harmony, melody, sweetness, charming even to irrational creatures, cheers the spirits of men, and tends to raise them in devotion, and in the praises of God, and was instituted by God as a means of divine worship, which is a terrour to evil spirits, the delight of the holy Angels, and will be everlasting imployment of those Seraphim and the glorified Saints, should be an occasion of strife, debate, discord, contention, quarelling, and all manner of disorder. That men, the only creatures in the lower creation that are accomplished with reason and apt organs to praise God with, should improve them so to dishonour him; and that instead of an angelick temper in man, which they are capable of, and is required of them, and especially in this matter, there should be rather a cynick disposition and an improvement of such noble Organ to bark, snarl at, and bite one another; that instead of one heart and one voice in the praises of our Glorious Creator and most bountiful Benefactor, there should be only jangle, discord, and sluring and reviling one another, etc., this is, and shall be, for a lamentation." The essay closes with the following exhortation: "Whatever our thoughts are as to the mode or vocal part, whether the _old_ or the _new way_ (as it is called) be most pleasing to us, it would be our wisdom and a manifestation of our Christianity to deny ourselves and our own obstinate wills, which are apparently the chief cause of our contention in these things, and condescend (at least) so far one to the other as to keep time, _i.e._ to begin and end the lines all together, which if we did, there would not in most of the tunes commonly sung be so wide a difference as is by some imagined, many of the lines being near alike; if we all sincerely endeavour to exercise grace in Singing, and to perform the vocal part in the best manner we could, our service would be accepted of God. And I doubt not but regular singing would have a better relish with the most of our people and be comply'd with, and so our differences would end in a good and lasting union, and our jars and discords in a sweet and delightful concord and harmony. So let it be: Amen." At last harmony was restored, and a serious effort was made to introduce better singing, in which the college at Cambridge took a leading part. In 1712, Rev. John Tufts, of Newbury, issued a book of twenty-eight tunes, so arranged by appending letters to the notes, as F for Fa, S for Sol, etc., "that the learner may attain the skill of singing them with the greatest ease and speed imaginable." These tunes were reprinted in three parts from Playford's "Book of Psalms." In 1721, Rev. Thomas Walter, of Roxbury, Mass., issued a new book, also compiled from Playford, which was highly commended by the clergy. The English singing-books by Tansur and Williams were reprinted by Thomas Bailey, at Newburyport, Mass., and had a large circulation. In 1761, James Lyon, of Philadelphia, published a very ambitious work, called "Urania, or a choice collection of Psalm Tunes, Anthems, and Hymns," which was compiled from the English books. The edition, however, was a small one, and was issued in such an expensive manner that it ruined the unfortunate author. In 1764 appeared another collection, made by Josiah Flagg, who was a composer himself as well as band-master. Its title reads: "A Collection of the best Psalm Tunes in two, three, and four parts, from the most approved authors, fitted to all measures and approved by the best masters in Boston, New England; the greater part of them never before printed in America. Engraved by Paul Revere, printed and sold by him and Jos. Flagg." About the same time Daniel Bailey, of Newburyport, Mass., published "A new and complete Introduction to the Grounds and Rules of Music, in two Books;" and in 1769, "the American Harmony," reprinted from English collections. Up to this period, or, more strictly, to the year 1770, no American composers had contributed to New England psalmody. Though numerous singing-books had appeared, they were compiled from the English collections and reprinted. The first composer of church music in America was William Billings, born at Boston, Oct. 7, 1747. He was the son of poor parents, and followed tanning for an occupation. Gould, in his "History of Church Music," says of him:-- "Billings was somewhat deformed in person, blind in one eye, one leg shorter than the other, one arm somewhat withered, with a mind as eccentric as his person was deformed. To say nothing of the deformity of his habits, suffice it, he had a propensity for taking snuff that may seem almost incredible, when in these days those who use it are not very much inclined to expose the article. He used to carry it in his coat-pocket, which was made of leather; and every few minutes, instead of taking it in the usual manner, with thumb and finger, would take out a handful and snuff it from between his thumb and clenched hand. We might infer from this circumstance that his voice could not have been very pleasant and delicate." This uncouth and eccentric tanner was the father of American church music, and of American choirs, concerts, and singing-schools as well. He wrote his first tunes on the boards of the tannery as he tended the bark-mill. He was a zealous patriot; and as Governor Samuel Adams was not only a still more zealous patriot, but devotedly attached to music, the two became warm friends and at one time sang together in a choir, evidently much to the distress of Adams, as his companion had a stentorian voice. His association with Adams led him to the composition of songs of a patriotic and religious character, one of which, set to the tune known as "Chester," played an important part in rousing the martial spirit of the colonists. It runs as follows:-- "Let tyrants shake their iron rod, And slavery clank her galling chains; We'll fear them not, we'll trust in God; New England's God forever reigns. "The foe comes on with haughty stride, Our troops advance with martial noise; Their veterans flee before our arms, And generals yield to beardless boys." That the tanner had a sly humor of his own is demonstrated by the following instructions appended to one of his anthems which was performed in a concert:-- "We've met for a concert of modern invention; To tickle the ear is our present intention; The audience seated, expect to be treated With a piece of the best. "And since we all agree To set the key on E, The author's darling key He prefers to the rest, The bass take the lead, And firmly proceed; Let the tenor succeed," etc. In 1770 his first compositions appeared in a work of one hundred and eight pages entitled "The New England Psalm Singer; or American Chorister. Containing a number of Psalm Tunes, Anthems, and Canons. In four and five parts. (Never before published.) Composed by William Billings, a native of Boston, in New England. Matt. xii. 16, 'Out of the mouth of Babes and Sucklings hast thou perfected Praise;' James v. 13, 'Is any merry, let him sing Psalms.' 'O, praise the Lord with one consent, And in this grand design Let Britain and the Colonies Unanimously join.' Boston: New England. Printed by Edes and Gill." In the preface to this work he quaintly says:-- "_To all Musical Practitioners._ "Perhaps it may be expected by some, that I could say something concerning rules for composition; to these I answer that _Nature is the best Dictator_, for all the hard dry studied rules that ever were prescribed will not enable any person to form an Air any more than the four and twenty letters, and strict Grammatical rules will qualify a scholar for composing a piece of Poetry, or properly adjusting a Tragedy without a Genius. It must be Nature; Nature must lay the Foundation, Nature must give the Thought. But perhaps some may think I mean and intend to throw Art entirely out of Question. I answer by no Means, for the more Art is displayed, the more Art is decorated. And in some sorts of composition there is dry Study requir'd, and Art very requisite. For instance, in a Fuge. But even there Art is subservient to Genius, for Fancy goes first, and strikes out the Work roughly, and Art comes after and polishes it over. But to return to my Text: I have read several Authors' Rules on Composition, and find the strictest of them make some Exceptions, as thus, they say that two 8vos or two 5ths may not be taken together rising or falling, unless one be Major and the other Minor; but rather than spoil the Air, they will allow that Breach to be made, and this Allowance gives great Latitude to young Composers, for they may always make that Plea, and say, if I am not allowed to transgress the Rules of composition I shall certainly spoil the Air, and cross the Strain that Fancy dictated. And indeed this is without dispute, a very just Plea, for I am sure I have often and sensibly felt the disagreeable and slavish Effect of such Restraint as is here pointed out, and so I believe every Composer of Poetry as well as Musick, for I presume there are strict Rules for Poetry, as for Musick. But as I have often heard of a Poetical License I don't see why with the same propriety there may not be a musical License, for Poetry and Musick are in close Connection, and nearly allied besides they are often assistants to each other, and like a true friend often hide each other's feelings. For I have known a Piece of Poetry that hath neither Rhime nor Reason in it, pass for tolerable good sense because it happened to be set to an excellent Piece of Musick, and to get Respect rather for its good Fortune in falling into such respectable company than for any Merit in itself: so likewise I have known and heard a very indifferent Tune often sung and much caress'd, only because it was set to a fine Piece of Poetry, without this recommendation, perhaps it would not be sung twice over by one Person, and would be deemed to be dearly bought only at the expense of Breath requisite to perform it. "For my own part, as I don't think myself confined to any Rules for Composition laid down by any that went before me, neither should I think (were I to pretend to lay down rules) that any who comes after me were any ways obligated to adhere to them any further than they should think proper; so in fact I think it is best for every composer to be his own learner. Therefore upon this consideration, for me to dictate, or pretend to prescribe Rules of this Nature for others, would not only be very unnecessary but also a very great piece of Vanity." His second work was the "Singing Master's Assistant," an abridgment and revision of his first. His humor again crops out in the following extract from its preface:-- "Kind reader, no doubt you remember that about ten years ago I published a book entitled 'The New England Psalm-Singer;' and truly a most masterly performance I then thought it to be. How lavish was I of encomium on this my infant production! 'Welcome, thrice Welcome, thou legitimate Offspring of my brain, go forth my little book, go forth and immortalize the name of your Author: may your sale be rapid and may you speedily run through ten thousand Editions,' said I, 'Thou art my Reuben, my first born; the beginning of my Strength, the Excellency of my Dignity, and the Excellency of my power.' But to my great mortification I soon discovered it was Reuben in the sequel, and Reuben all over; I have discovered that many pieces were never worth my printing or your inspection. "It is the duty of Christians to praise God publicly by singing of psalms together in the congregation, and also privately in the family. In singing of psalms the voice is to be audible and gravely ordered; but the chief care must be to sing with understanding and with grace in the heart, making melody unto the Lord. That the whole congregation may join therein, every one that can read is to have a psalm-book, and all others not disabled by age or otherwise are to be exhorted to learn to read. But for the present, where many in the congregation cannot read, it is convenient that the minister or some fit person to be appinted by him and the other ruling officers, do read the psalms line by line, before the singing thereof." Billings's other publications were "Music in Miniature," "Psalm Singers' Amusement," "Suffolk Harmony," and "Continental Harmony." Though the crudest of musical works, for he was entirely unacquainted with harmony and musical rules, they had an immense influence. He was the pioneer, and the path he cleared was soon crowded with his successors. The most prominent of these were Andrew Law, born at Cheshire, Conn., in 1748, who published many books and taught in most of the New England States; Jacob Kimball, born at Topsfield, Mass., in 1761, who published the "Rural Harmony;" Oliver Holden, of Charlestown, Mass., who published the "American Harmony," "Union Harmony," and "Worcester Collection," and wrote the favorite tune "Coronation;" Samuel Holyoke, born at Boxford, Mass., in 1771, author of the "Harmonia Americana" and "Columbian Repository;" Daniel Reed, born at Rehoboth, Mass., in 1757, who published the "American Singing-Book" and "Columbian Harmony;" Jacob French, born at Stoughton, Mass., in 1754, who issued a work entitled "Harmony of Harmony;" Timothy Swan, born at Suffield, Conn., in 1757, who published "Federal Harmony" and "New England Harmony," and wrote the familiar tunes "Poland" and "China;" John Hubbard, who wrote many anthems and treatises on music; Dutton, of Hartford, Conn., who issued the "Hartford Collection," and wrote the tune of "Woodstock;" Oliver Shaw, born at Middleborough, Mass., in 1799, who was totally blind, but became a very successful teacher and composer. Gould says that his compositions were "truly original," and one of them, "There's Nothing True but Heaven," was repeated night after night by the Boston Handel and Haydn Society. The era of psalm composers was followed by that of the singing-school teachers, who exerted a mighty influence upon sacred music and musical taste. At the same time numerous societies were organized, among them the Handel and Haydn Society of Boston, which was born April 20, 1815, and still exists,--a vigorous growth from the little gathering which gave its first concert on Christmas, Dec. 25, 1815, singing the first part of "The Creation" and selections from Handel's works, and was pronounced by an enthusiastic critic of that time "the wonder of the nation." The great singing-teachers were Thomas Hastings of Washington, Conn., Lowell Mason of Mansfield, Mass., Nathaniel D. Gould of Chelmsford, Mass. Still later came George F. Root, Woodbury, Dyer, Bradbury, Ives, Johnson, and others, whose labors, both as composers and teachers, are familiar to all lovers of sacred music even at this day. The old-fashioned singing-school, however, has disappeared. The musical convention still survives in rural places. The great festivals, oratorio societies, the modern concert stage, even the opera, have all had their effect upon sacred music. The paid choir of professional musicians marks a long departure from the robust Puritan psalm-singers; its music is equally remote from the jingling tunes of Billings which "tickled the ears" of the colonists. APPENDIX. The following chronological list is intended to present to the reader a statement of the more important sacred music which has been written during the last two centuries, with its composers and dates, for the purposes of reference. Allegri Miserere (1630). Arne Abel (1755); Judith (1764). Bach St. John Passion (1720); Magnificat in D (1723); St. Matthew Passion (1729); Christmas Oratorio (1734). Barnby Rebekah (1870). Beethoven Mount of Olives (1799-1801); Mass in C (1807); Mass in D (1822). Benedict St. Cecilia (1866); St. Peter (1870). Bennett Woman of Samaria (1867). Berlioz Grande Messe des Morts (1837); L'Enfance du Christ (1854). Brahms German Requiem (1868). Costa Eli (1855); Naaman (1864). Cusins Gideon (1871). Crotch Palestine (1812); Captivity of Judah (1834). David Moses on Sinai (1846). Dvorák Stabat Mater (1875). Goldschmidt Ruth (1867). Gounod Messe Solenelle (1850); Tobie (1870); Redemption (1883); Mors et Vita (1885). Graun The Death of Jesus (1755); Prague Te Deum (1756). Handel First Passion Oratorio (1704); La Resurrezione (1708); Il trionfo del Tempo (1708); Utrecht Te Deum (1713); Second Passion Oratorio (1716); Esther (1720); Deborah (1733); Athalia (1733); Saul (1738); Israel in Egypt (1738); Messiah (1741); Samson (1742); Joseph (1743); Dettingen Te Deum (1743); Belshazzar (1744); Occasional Oratorio (1745); Judas Maccabæus (1746); Alexander Balus (1747); Joshua (1747); Solomon (1748); Susanna (1748); Theodora (1749); Jephtha (1751). Haydn Stabat Mater (1771); Return of Tobias (1774); Mariazeller Mass (1782); Imperial Mass (1797); The Creation (1796-98); Te Deum (1800); The Seasons (1800); The Seven Words (1801). Hiller The Destruction of Jerusalem (1839). Horsley Gideon (1860). Kiel Requiem (1862); Christus (1866). Klein Job (1820); Jephthah (1828); David (1830). Lassus Penitential Psalms (1565); Vigiliæ Mortuorum (1565). Leslie Immanuel (1853); Judith (1858). Liszt Graner Mass (1854); Hungarian Coronation Mass (1856); Legend of Saint Elizabeth (1864); Christus (1866). Macfarren John the Baptist (1873); The Resurrection (1876); Joseph (1877). Mackenzie Rose of Sharon (1884). Marx Moses (1850). Massenet Mary Magdalen (1873); Eve (1875); The Virgin (1879). Mendelssohn Psalm cxv (1830); Psalm xcv (1835); St. Paul (1836); Hymn of Praise (1840); Elijah (1838-46); Christus (1844-47); Lauda Sion (1846). Meyerbeer God and Nature (1811). Mozart Coronation Mass (1779); Mass in C (1780); Mass in G (1785); Mass in B (1791); Ave Verum (1791); Requiem (1791). Neukomm Mount Sinai (1830); David (1834). Ouseley St. Polycarp (1854); Hagar (1873). Paine St. Peter (1873). Palestrina Papæ Marcelli Mass (1563); Stabat Mater (1589); Requiem (1591). Pergolesi Stabat Mater (1736). Pierson Jerusalem (1852). Randegger Psalm cl (1872). Reinthaler Jephta (1856). Rossini Moses in Egypt (1818); Stabat Mater (1832-41); Messe Solenelle (1864). Rubinstein Tower of Babel (1870); Paradise Lost (1876). Schneider (Fr.) The Judgement of the World (1819); Paradise Lost (1824); Pharaoh (1828); Christ the Child (1829); Gideon (1829); Gethsemane and Golgotha (1838). Schubert Lazarus (1820). Schumann Paradise and the Peri (1843); Advent Hymn (1848); Mass and Requiem (1852). Schutz Passions' Music (1665). Spohr The Last Judgment (1812); The Last Things (1826); Calvary (1833); Fall of Babylon (1840). Stanford The Three Holy Children (1885). Sullivan The Prodigal Son (1869); Light of the World (1873); Martyr of Antioch (1880). Verdi Manzoni Requiem (1874); Pater Noster and Ave Maria (1880). Vogler Magnificat and Stabat Mater (1777). Wagner Das Liebesmahl der Apostel (1843). Winter Pilgrimage to Calvary (1792); Stabat Mater (1805). INDEX. Ainsworth, Henry, 313. Albrechtsberger, 239. Allison, Richard, 312. Appendix, 329. Astorga, 253. Athalia, 21. Bach, 19-21, 24, 26, 30, 61, 65, 269, 275; life of, 31. Bailey, Daniel, 320. Bailey, Thomas, 320. Bay Psalm Book, 313, 314. Beethoven, 23, 91, 161, 174, 218, 219, 235, 236, 282, 307; life of, 51. Belshazzar, 22. Benedict, 205. Bennett, Sterndale, 26, 200, 274, 290; life of, 60. Berlioz, 27, 30, 259; life of, 68. Billings, William, 321-326. Blow, Dr., 30. Bononcini, 17, 115. Bradbury, 328. Brahms, 27, 92, 272; life of, 78. Caldara, 17. Carissimi, 15. Cherubini, 27, 68, 71, 178. Chopin, 258, 272. Christmas Oratorio (Bach), 20, 33. Christmas Oratorio (Saint-Saëns), 269. Christus (Liszt), 186. Christus (Mendelssohn), 25, 229. Cimarosa, 23. Colonna, 17, 27. Costa, 82. Cotton, John, 314. Creation, 136, 162. Croft, Dr., 30. Damon, William, 311. Das jüngste Gericht, 23, 283, 286. Deborah, 21. Der Tod Jesu, 20. Des Heilands letzte Stunden, 24. Dettingen Te Deum, 155. Die Auferstehung Christi, 19. Die Sieben Wörte Christi, 19. Dutton, 327. Dvorák, 253; life of, 90. Dyer, 328. Eli, 84. Elijah, 25, 218. Eliot, John, 313, 318. Emilio del Cavaliere, 14, 15. Engedi, 58. Esther, 21. Fall of Babylon, 24. Federici, 17. Flagg, Josiah, 320. French, Jacob, 327. Fux, 22. Gabrielli, 18. German Requiem, 27, 80. Gluck, 160. Gould, Nathaniel D., 328. Gounod, 15, 20, 26; life of, 96. Graun, 20, 30. Grétry, 174. Habeneck, 75, 76, 77. Handel, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 24, 26, 30; life of, 114. Handel and Haydn Society, 327. Hasse, 22. Hastings, Thomas, 328. Haydn, 19, 22, 23, 26, 28, 80, 136, 253, 307; life of, 159. Heine, 256, 257. Hiller, 26, 70, 222, 256, 273. Himmel, 23. Holden, Oliver, 326. Holyoke, Samuel, 326. Hubbard, John, 327. Hymn of Praise, 25, 213. Israel in Egypt, 21, 23, 117. Italian oratorio composers, 15 Ives, 328. Joachim, 78, 92. Johnson, 328. Joseph, 22. Joshua, 22, 154. Judas Maccabæus, 22, 149. Keiser, Reinhard, 19, 20. Kimball, Jacob, 326. La Rappresentazione dell' Anima e del Corpo, 14. Last Judgment, 23, 283. Latimer, 310. Law, Andrew, 326. Legend of the Holy Elizabeth, 180. Light of the World, 294. Liszt, 78, 256, 258; life of, 177. Lyon, James, 320. Macfarren, George A., 30; life of, 199. Mackenzie, 191. Magnificat (Bach), 48. Magnificats, 26, 30. Martin Luther, 309. Mason, Lowell, 328. Massenet, 26. Mattheson, 20. Mazzocchi, 17. Mendelssohn, 24, 25, 26, 30, 60, 256, 257; life of, 206. Messe des Morts, 27, 71. Messiah, 21, 23, 25, 39, 140. Meyerbeer, 83. Mors et Vita, 26, 106. Moscheles, 257, 271. Mount of Olives, 23, 53. Mozart, 30, 60, 282, 307; life of, 234. Mysteries and miracle-plays, 10, 11, 12. Neukomm, 253. Oratorio, its origin, 9; in England, 21; in Germany, 22; oratorios of the present century, 23-26. Paine, 26, 245. Palestrina, 27, 28, 96, 253, 307. Paradise and the Peri, 25, 273. Paradise Lost, 26, 264. Passion Music, 18, 19, 20. Pistocchi, 17. Playford's Psalms, 320. Porpora, 22, 115, 160. Prodigal Son, 292. Protestant Psalmody, 309. Psalmody in England, 310. Puritan reforms, 310. Ravenscroft Collection, 312. Redemption, 26, 98. Reed, Daniel, 327. Reményí, 78. Requiem (Manzoni), 27, 303. Requiem (Mozart), 236. Requiems, 26, 27. Rheinthaler, 26. Richter, Jean Paul, 273. Root, George F., 328. Rose of Sharon, 192. Rossini, 222, 303, 307; life of, 251. Rubinstein, 26; life of, 258. Sacred dramas, 13, 14. Sacred Music in America, 309. Saint-Saëns, 26, 267. Salieri, 23, 168, 177. Samson, 22, 131. Sarti, 30. Saul, 21, 125. Scarlatti, 16. Schneider, 24. Schubert, 23, 91, 273. Schumann, 25, 60, 78, 79, 81; life of, 271. Schütz, 18. Seasons, 22, 170. Sebastiani, 19. Shaw, Oliver, 327. Spohr, 23, 26, 52, 91; life of, 280. St. John Passion, 20. St. John the Baptist, 201. St. Matthew Passion, 20, 24, 39. St. Paul, 25, 208. St. Peter, 26, 246. Stabat Mater (Dvorák), 28, 92. Stabat Mater (Rossini), 28, 253. Stabat Maters, 27. Stephani, 18. Sternhold and Hopkins, 311, 313. Stradella, 16, 17. Sullivan, 30, 290. Swan, Timothy, 327. Symmes, Thomas, 317. Tansur and Williams, 320. Te Deums, 28, 29. Telemann, 20. Thalberg, 258. The Bleeding and Dying Jesus, 19. Theile, 19. Theodora, 22. Thomas, Theodore, 80, 99, 192, 246, 269, 291. Tower of Babel, 26, 260. Tufts, John, 319. Verdi, 256; life of, 301. Victor Hugo, 69, 178. Vittoria, 27. Von Bülow, 179, 307. Wagner, 65, 83, 179, 186, 268, 282. Walter, Thomas, 320. Weber, 281. Weniawski, 259. Winter, 23. Woman of Samaria, 26, 62. Woodbury, 328. Zingarelli, 23. UPTON'S MUSICAL HANDBOOKS. UNIFORM IN STYLE. I. The Standard Operas. Their Plots, their Music, and their Composers. A Handbook. 12mo, yellow edges, $1.50; extra gilt, gilt edges, $2.00. II. The Standard Oratorios. Their Stories, their Music, and their Composers. A Handbook. 12mo, yellow edges, $1.50; extra gilt, gilt edges, $2.00. III. The Standard Cantatas. Their Stories, their Music, and their Composers. A Handbook. 12mo, yellow edges, $1.50; extra gilt, gilt edges, $2.00. IV. The Standard Symphonies. Their History, their Music, and their Composers. A Handbook. 12mo, yellow edges, $1.50; extra gilt, gilt edges, $2.00. THE STANDARD OPERAS. Their Plots, their Music, and their Composers. By George P. Upton, author of "Woman in Music," etc., etc. 12mo, flexible cloth, yellow edges $1.50 The same, extra gilt, gilt edges $2.00 "Mr. Upton has performed a service that can hardly be too highly appreciated, in collecting the plots, music, and the composers of the standard operas, to the number of sixty-four, and bringing them together in one perfectly arranged volume.... His work is one simply invaluable to the general reading public. Technicalities are avoided, the aim being to give to musically uneducated lovers of the opera a clear understanding of the works they hear. It is description, not criticism, and calculated to greatly increase the intelligent enjoyment of music."--_Boston Traveller._ "Among the multitude of handbooks which are published every year, and are described by easy-going writers of book-notices as supplying a long-felt want, we know of none which so completely carries out the intention of the writer as 'The Standard Operas,' by Mr. George P. Upton, whose object is to present to his readers a comprehensive sketch of each of the operas contained in the modern repertory.... There are thousands of music-loving people who will be glad to have the kind of knowledge which Mr. Upton has collected for their benefit, and has cast in a clear and compact form."--_R. H. Stoddard, in "Evening Mail and Express" (New York)._ "The summaries of the plots are so clear, logical, and well written, that one can read them with real pleasure, which cannot be said of the ordinary operatic synopses. But the most important circumstance is that Mr. Upton's book is fully abreast of the times."--_The Nation (New York)._ _Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by_ A.C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers, Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago. THE STANDARD CANTATAS. Their Stories, their Music, and their Composers. A Handbook. By George P. Upton. 12mo, 367 pages, yellow edges, price, $1.50; extra gilt, gilt edges, $2.00. In half calf, gilt top $3.25 In half morocco, gilt edges 3.75 In tree calf, gilt edges 5.50 The "Standard Cantatas" forms the third volume in the uniform series which already includes the now well known "Standard Operas" and the "Standard Oratorios." This latest work deals with a class of musical compositions, midway between the opera and the oratorio, which is growing rapidly in favor both with composers and audiences. As in the two former works, the subject is treated, so far as possible, in an untechnical manner, so that it may satisfy the needs of musically uneducated music lovers, and add to their enjoyment by a plain statement of the story of the cantata and a popular analysis of its music, with brief pertinent selections from its poetical text. The book includes a comprehensive essay on the origin of the cantata, and its development from rude beginnings; biographical sketches of the composers; carefully prepared descriptions of the plots and the music; and an appendix containing the names and dates of composition of all the best known cantatas from the earliest times. This series of works on popular music has steadily grown in favor since the appearance of the first volume on the Operas. 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Perfect and inviting in all that a book ought outwardly to be, its contents are such as to instruct the mind at the same time that they answer the taste, and the reader who goes carefully through its two hundred pages ought not only to love books in general better than he ever did before, but to love them more wisely, more intelligently, more discriminatingly, and with more profit to his own soul.--_Literary World, Boston._ _Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by_ A.C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers, Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago. WE TWO ALONE IN EUROPE. By Mary L. Ninde. Illustrated from Original Designs. 12mo, 348 pages, price, $1.50. The foreign travels which gave rise to this volume were of a novel and perhaps unprecedented kind. Two young American girls started for "the grand tour" with the father of one of them, and he being compelled to return home from London they were courageous enough to continue their journeyings alone. 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The volume is handsomely bound and copiously illustrated with views drawn, if we mistake not, by the author's own fair hands, so well do they accord with the vivacious spirit of her narrative.--_Times, Troy, New York._ In these days when letters and books about travels in Europe have become generally monotonous, to say the least, it is absolutely refreshing to get hold of a bright, original book like "We Two alone in Europe."... The book is especially interesting for its fresh, bright observations on manners, customs, and objects of interest as viewed through these young girls' eyes, and the charming spice of adventure running through it.--_Home Journal, Boston._ _Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by_ A.C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers, Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago. THE HUMBLER POETS. A Collection of Newspaper and Periodical Verse. 1870 to 1885. By Slason Thompson. Crown 8vo, 459 pages, cloth, gilt top. Price, $2.00. In half calf or half morocco, $4.00. The publishers have done well in issuing this volume in a style of literary and artistic excellence, such as is given to the works of the poets of name and fame, because the contents richly entitle it to such distinction.--_Home Journal, Boston._ The high poetic character of these poems, as a whole, is surprising. As a unit, the collection makes an impression which even a genius of the highest order would not be adequate to produce.... Measured by poetic richness, variety, and merit of the selections contained, the collection is a rarely good one flavored with the freshness and aroma of the present time.--_Independent, New York._ Mr. Thompson winnowed out the chaff from the heap, and has given us the golden grain in this volume. Many old newspaper favorites will be recognized in this collection,--many of those song-waifs which have been drifting up and down the newspaper world for years, and which nobody owns but everybody loves. 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The author has travelled through the country of whose former glories his book is a recital, and his studies and discoveries leaven the book throughout. The volume is absorbingly interesting, and is as attractive in style as it is in material.--_Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston._ Nowhere has this subject been more fully and intelligently treated than in this volume, now placed within reach of American readers. The mythology of the Aztecs receives special attention, and all that is known of their lives, their hopes, their fears, and aspirations finds record here.--_The Tribune, Chicago._ The man who can rise from the study of Lucien Biart's invaluable work, "The Aztecs," without feelings of amazement and admiration for the history and the government, and for the arts cultivated by these Romans of the New World is not to be envied.--_The Advance, Chicago._ The twilight origin of the present race is graphically presented: those strange people whose traces have almost vanished from off the face of the earth again live before us. Their taxes and tributes, their marriage ceremonies, their burial customs, laws, medicines, food, poetry, and dances are described.... The book is a very interesting one, and is brought out with copious illustrations.--_The Traveller, Boston._ M. Biart is the most competent authority living on the subject of the Aztecs. He spent many years in Mexico, studied his subject carefully through all means of information, and wrote his book from the view-point of a scientist. His style is very attractive, and it has been very successfully translated. The general reader, as well as all scholars, will be much taken with the work.--_Chronicle Telegraph, Pittsburg._ _Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by_ A.C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers, Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago. Transcriber's Notes to the Electronic Edition In the name "Dvorak", the caron over the "R" and the diacrit over the "V" have been omitted. On the other hand, an accent has been consistently applied to the "a". The publisher's catalog and ads were moved to the back of the book, and assigned arbitrary page numbers. In the original, they were not numbered. The (few) footnotes were moved to chapter ends; in the original they were in page footers. 
30889	----	THE MECHANISM OF THE HUMAN VOICE. (CURWEN'S EDITION, 5263.) BY EMIL BEHNKE, _Late Lecturer on Vocal Physiology at the Tonic Sol-fa College, Teacher of Voice Production._ EDITED, WITH A NEW CHAPTER ON "VOICE FAILURE," BY MRS. EMIL BEHNKE. FIFTEENTH EDITION. LONDON: J. CURWEN & SONS LTD., 24 BERNERS STREET, W. Price 1s. 6d.; CLOTH 2s. 6d. PREFACE TO THE NINTH EDITION. PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. CONTENTS. PLATES. INDEX. FOOTNOTES. TO MY DEAR WIFE THIS ESSAY IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED PREFACE TO THE NINTH EDITION. A ninth edition of this book having been called for, I take the opportunity to return my sincere thanks for the many kind expressions concerning its usefulness which have reached me since the lamented death of its author, my dear husband. In carrying on his work, both my daughter and myself have felt the benefit of the clear and concise instructions the book contains. We have also proved with our pupils the absolute truth and value of the BEHNKE SYSTEM OF VOICE TRAINING, by means of which we have obtained results most gratifying to ourselves, and surprising to the pupils, whether speakers or singers. I hope that the new chapter on "Voice Failure," which I have added by Mr. Curwen's desire, may be of some use in preventing breakdown of voice, from which so many students suffer. K. BEHNKE. 18, EARL'S COURT SQUARE, S.W. PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. A THIRD edition of this little book has now become necessary, and I must again express my gratitude for the continued commendations bestowed upon my work both in the press and in private letters. In response to many solicitations, I have added to this edition a few hints on teaching, deduced from physiological facts, which may prove useful by stimulating the advance of thought in a new direction. These hints are extracts from a series of articles on "Science and Singing" which I had the pleasure of writing in the _Edinburgh St. Cecilia Magazine_; and I am indebted to the Editor, Mr. A. C. Miller, for kindly permitting me to reproduce them here. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. The favourable reception and rapid sale of a large first edition has stimulated me to revise this little book, and without alteration of my original scheme of practical utility, to somewhat enlarge on one or two points which appeared to demand further elucidation. In this, as in the former edition, I have received great assistance from my friend Mr. Lennox Browne, the eminent throat surgeon, who, by ever patiently discussing with me debatable points, and by giving me access to cases, interesting from a physiological point of view, both at the Central Throat and Ear Hospital, Gray's Inn Road, and in his extensive private practice, has afforded me opportunities of increasing my knowledge and experience which would not have arisen otherwise. I feel it a pleasure as well as a duty publicly to acknowledge my indebtedness to him, which I have, many times before, expressed in private. My best thanks are also due to Mr. J. Spencer Curwen, for the help he has rendered me in many ways. And finally, it would indeed be ungrateful on my part, if I did not place on record the obligation under which I consider myself to my reviewers for the uniformly favourable notice they have so kindly taken of my first effort, and for several useful hints of which I have duly taken advantage. One objection has been made which strikes at the very root of the plan upon which I have proceeded in my little volume, and to which, therefore, I beg leave to say a few words in reply. A learned writer in the _Athenæum_ finds fault with me for making use of popular instead of scientific terms, which, he says, may be the cause to the reader of great confusion if he refers to other works, and he adds that "Back Ring-Pyramid Muscle" is almost as hard a mouthful as "Crico-Arytenoideus posticus." I have asked several non-scientific friends of good general education to read this sentence to me, and they succeeded very well with "Back Ring-Pyramid Muscle," while they utterly collapsed when coming to "Crico-Arytenoideus posticus." This is, however, in my humble opinion, of minor importance. The great point is, that my terms--which by the way are not inventions, but simply translations--convey a meaning to the general reader, and the originals do not. This is a fact which I dared not ignore, because my essay is intended for the people and not for men of science. As I have taken care also, for the sake of those who might wish to consult other and more learned books than mine, to give the terms generally used by physiologists by the side of my translations, I do not think there is anything that could ever confuse my readers. I conscientiously believe that these are good and weighty reasons for the plan I adopted in the first edition, and trust my reviewers, as well as my readers, will accept them as a sufficient justification of the same practice in the present volume. E. B. _February, 1881._ PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. The number of books bearing more or less directly on the Theory of Voice Production which have been published during the last few years is very large, and shows clearly the extraordinary interest taken in this subject, not only by professional singers and speakers, but also by the general public. If I am now about to add another contribution to this already extensive literature, it is simply because amongst all the many excellent works on the Human Voice there is not one which brings before the reader the whole subject from beginning to end. The student who really wishes to get a clear understanding of the matter is obliged to wade through a variety of scientific books, and to pick up here and there, by means of very hard reading, such little scraps of information as, with much labour and waste of time, he can extract from books which were, in most instances, never written for the purpose for which he consults them. * * * * * To supply this generally-admitted want I have written these pages, in which I have endeavoured, to the best of my ability, to place before the reader in a simple and comprehensive form the Physiology of the Human Voice. I have, as far as possible, discarded all scientific terms, and it has been my aim to treat my subject in so simple and direct a manner as really to enlighten my readers instead of bewildering them. A treatise like this can, under no circumstances, be light reading; and I ask those who are truly anxious for information to give me patient study, accompanied by careful reference to the diagrams. For students who enter upon a perusal of these pages in such a spirit, this essay is specially intended; and if I have succeeded in making plain to such as these a really complicated subject, then my highest ambition will be satisfied. E. B. _April, 1880._ CONTENTS. PAGES Introduction 1-7 The vocal organ as a musical instrument 8-61 Differences of the voice-box, or larynx, in children, women, and men 62-68 Movements of the voice-box, or larynx, which can be seen or felt 69-72 The laryngoscope, and how to use it 73-79 The teachings of the laryngoscope 80-105 Appendix--Hints on teaching 106-125 Appendix To The Ninth Edition--Voice Failure 126 Appendix To The Tenth Edition--Does Diaphragmatic Breathing Apply Equally To Women As To Men? 141 Index 143 Index To "Voice Failure 146 Footnotes. PLATES. PAGES I. General view of vocal organ _facing title_ II. The Lungs 10 III. The Chest 11 IV. Chest capacity--Methods of breathing 16 V. Side view of the Larynx 32 VI. Front view of the Larynx 33 VII. Larynx, Side view showing interior 37 VIII. Larynx, Side view, muscles, &c. 42 IX. Larynx, Side view, interior of left half 43 X. The Glottis in three states 46 XI. Larynx, Section viewed from above 48 XII. Larynx, Section viewed from behind 51 Sketch of Laryngoscope designed by Dr. Foulis 78 XIII. Laryngoscopic Image--Breathing 84 XIV. " " Upper thick register 84 XV. " " Upper thin register 85 XVI. " " Small register 85 Diagram of compass of the registers 93 INTRODUCTION. We are living in an age which is singularly poor in fine voices, both male and female, and with regard to the tenors of the present time there is this additional misfortune, that, as a rule, their voices do not last, but are often worn out in a very few years; in many instances while their owners are still under training, and before they have had an opportunity of making their appearance in public. If we remember that there was a time when most beautiful and highly cultivated voices were so plentiful that even in comparatively small towns there were to be found Opera Companies consisting of excellent singers, we may well ask ourselves how this remarkable change for the worse has come about. People have attempted to account for it in various ways. Up to the middle of the last century women were forbidden by Ecclesiastical Law to take part in Church music. The voices of boys being available only for a very short time, means were taken to prevent their voices from breaking, and thus a class of male soprani and contralti was created, who made their first appearance in Rome in the beginning of the 17th century, and to these singers the education of the female voices was soon almost exclusively entrusted. In the middle of the last century, however, when women were permitted to participate in Church music, there was no longer any occasion to procure artificial female voices, and these singers gradually died out, though there were still some of them living and teaching in the beginning of the present century. According to Rossini, who certainly was eminently qualified to give an opinion on the subject, the decline of vocal art in these latter years is mainly due to the disappearance of this class of singers, and if it be true that henceforth the training of female voices was undertaken by tenors, who, being of course unable to give a true pattern to their pupils, treated the female organ according to their own very different registers, then it can easily be understood that many voices must have been ruined by the process, and the scarcity of distinguished female singers would thus be satisfactorily accounted for. But I fail to see in what way the disappearance of male soprani and contralti could possibly have affected tenors and basses. Again, it is asserted that the way in which modern composers write vocal music is the cause of the evil. Certain it is that in the compositions of the old Italian masters the voice is studied, and nothing introduced which is hurtful or disadvantageous. Awkward intervals are avoided, no fatigue is caused, and everything is eminently _singable_; but the music is not always expressive of the sense of the words, which were clearly considered to be of minor importance. With our modern (and especially with the German) composers, it is just the opposite, their chief aim being thoroughly to enter, not only into the spirit of their text, but even into the slightest shade, the minutest detail of it, so as to make the music, as it were, a translation of their words into a higher kind of language. What, on the other hand, is possible or impossible for the voice is, since the time of Beethoven, but rarely considered; many composers, even the most distinguished ones, having evidently little knowledge of the most beautiful of instruments, for which they are nevertheless continually writing. When one of the greatest living masters introduced the harp into his works, he wrote for it just as though it were a piano--_i.e._, as though it were to be played upon with the thumb and four fingers. But it so happens that on that instrument the fourth finger is never used. Consequently, when it came to the point harpists could not play that gentleman's compositions: they had first to re-write them. Here the composer, of course, was found out immediately, and he or any other man would have the same fate if he attempted to write for an instrument the properties of which he did not fully understand. But with the human voice the case is different. Every musician believes himself to be competent to write for it, though he may possibly be wholly unacquainted with its many peculiarities. It is to be feared, therefore, that modern composers must be held largely responsible for the sad state of affairs concerning vocal art at the present time, and well might they learn a lesson from Mozart, who, in spite of his genius, first carefully studied the human voice, and then wrote for it. Another explanation of the decline of singing is this, that the gradual and very considerable rise of pitch during the last 150 years is at the bottom of all the mischief, as the vocal organ is unable to bear the strain to which it is subjected. With regard to tenors, however, the great evil is, that with very few exceptions, such as the celebrated Frenchman, Roger, they disregard, or at any rate did disregard for a considerable period, the falsetto register, singing everything, however high, in chest voice. I am afraid it cannot be said even that they have been beguiled into this serious mistake by the imperceptible rise of pitch just mentioned, but the truth is that they have committed this fatal blunder knowingly and wilfully, because they saw that it would pay. In support of this statement I will quote a few lines from the publication called "The Opera and the Art of Singing," by Glogg-ner-Castelli: "In the field of singing a new man arose, who, in spite of great personal attributes, worked destructively for the future, and whose influence upon the later manner of singing is seldom truly recognized. I mean the singer Duprez. Hissed off at first in Paris, he turned to Italy, where he stayed several years, and then returned to the French capital. When he came to use his magnificent vocal resources, as he did in the Fourth Act of _Tell_, where he brought out the high C in the chest voice with all the might of his colossal organ, it was all over with the fame of all his predecessors. Nourrit, till then the favourite of the Parisians, a distinguished tenor singer, recognized the rival's power. His day was over, and in despair over his lost and irrecoverable glory, he flung himself from an upper window upon the pavement, and so made an end of his life. Duprez may justly be considered one of the greatest dramatic singers of our time, and the main features of his method soon spread themselves all over Europe. After hearing of Duprez, and how the chest register could be cultivated even into the highest regions of the voice, the public were no longer contented with the use of the falsetto. Soon it became impossible to be engaged as an "heroic tenor" without at least possessing the high B[b] in the chest tone. The singers found it a more thankful task to humour the taste of the public than to pay extra regard to the intentions of the composer; for often Meyerbeer himself indicates, by a _pp_, his design that the falsetto and not the chest tone should be employed. That every tenor singer, whether such high pressure suited his natural compass or not, strove to screw his voice up and 'make effect' was very natural; for art goes after bread, and a high C with the chest voice often realizes an income of thousands to its fortunate possessor. Roger has made a laudable exception; his beautiful use of the falsetto certainly produces a more agreeable effect than the forced chest tones so unnatural to the organ of many a singer. How widespread is this mistaken notion, that the use of the falsetto is entirely contrary to art, we hear frequently enough in the expressions of individuals when some unlucky tenor happens to get caught on one of these tabooed falsetto tones. Thus the school founded by Duprez, important in itself, has called into life a manner of singing, the ruinous consequences of which we can see daily." But whatever may be the true reason or reasons, the fact that we have very few singers of eminence as compared with former ages, and that vocal art in general has gone down, is undisputed, and men have set themselves to remedy the evil by trying to ascertain the actual process by which the voice is produced, thinking that if they could but find this out there would be a true scientific basis upon which to found a way of teaching singing--or as I should rather say, of training voices--which would be sure and unerring. * * * * * The experiments of the great physiologist Johannes Müller are well known, and they have been followed up by others. But they were made upon dissected larynges, and as various teachers of singing started the most conflicting theories as to how the process shown by Müller was carried on in the living subject, and treated the voices of their pupils accordingly, these investigations have perhaps on the whole done more harm than good. Science was made responsible for the blunders of those who attempted to be guided by it. And thus it has happened that when at a later period further trials were made, but this time upon the living subject, and in the act of singing, they were received with indifference and distrust. Only very lately teachers of vocal music have begun to find out that here are facts put before them which cannot be gainsaid, and that if these investigations do nothing else, they at any rate make them acquainted with the exact nature of the vocal organ, and what it will bear and what it will not bear. THE VOCAL ORGAN AS A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. "Physiologists," says Dr. Witkowski,[A] "are quite at issue when they endeavour to determine what kind of instrument the vocal organ resembles; indeed, Galien compares it to a flute, Magendie to a hautboy, Despiney to a trombone, Diday to a hunting-horn, Savart to a bird-catcher's call, Biot to an organ-pipe, Malgaigne to the little instrument used by the exhibitors of Punch, and Ferrein to a spinet or harpsichord. The last-named compared the lips of the glottis to the strings of a violin; hence was given the name _Vocal Cords_, which they have since retained. The current of air was the bow, the exertion of the chest and lungs the hand which carried the bow, the thyroid cartilages the _points d'appui_, the arytenoids the pegs, and lastly, the muscles inserted in them the power which tensed or relaxed the cords." It must be admitted that the human voice bears more resemblance to a reed instrument than to any other; but when the comparison is pushed to its legitimate consequences it is found to break down. We cannot resist the conclusion that the vocal organ is infinitely superior to any instrument made by human hands. Its mechanism is so wonderful as to excite the profoundest admiration, and the more we continue to study it the more we marvel at the wisdom of the Divine Maker who planned it. I shall, therefore, speak of it simply as a wind instrument composed of-- 1.--THE BELLOWS. Represented by the LUNGS. Pl. I (Frontispiece), L. 2.--THE WINDPIPE. Pl. I, w. 3.--THE VOICEBOX OR LARYNX. Pl. I, v. 4.--THE RESONATOR. Represented by (_a_) THE UPPER PART OF THE THROAT, or PHARYNX, pl. I, P; (_b_) THE MOUTH, pl. I, M; (_c_) THE NOSE, pl. I, N. [Illustration: PLATE II. THE LUNGS R. RIGHT LUNG. L. LEFT LUNG. W. WINDPIPE (TRACHEA). V. VOICEBOX (LARNYX). The top part of the left Lung is represented as partly cut away in order to show the ramifications of the Bronchial Tubes.] [Illustration: PLATE III. THE CHEST. B B. BREAST BONE. C C. COLLAR BONES. 1 TO 11. RIBS. (The twelfth not visible.) M (curved dotted line). MIDRIFF (DIAPHRAGM). L L. LUNGS. H. HEART. W. WINDPIPE (TRACHEA). ] The Lungs are enclosed in the chest, which they fit exactly, and of which they occupy by far the largest portion, leaving but a small space for the heart. They consist of two halves (pl. II, R, L), each roughly resembling the upper part of a sugar-loaf somewhat flattened and hollowed out at the bottom. The left shows two and the right three distinct flaps or lobes. They are only connected by means of the windpipe (pl. II, W) and its branches. =The Chest= (pl. III) is an air-tight chamber, which is narrower above than below. It is formed by the spine at the back, twelve ribs (pl. III, 1 to 11, the twelfth not visible on the drawing), with their inner and outer muscles on either side, the breast-bone (pl. III, B B) in front, the root of the neck at the top, and the midriff or diaphragm (pl. I, M) at the bottom. =The Midriff= (pl. III, M) is a muscular and movable partition by which the lungs are separated from the abdomen. It is arched upwards like an inverted basin, but when its muscular fibres contract it flattens and descends, thus increasing the capacity of the chest at the expense of that of the abdomen. =The Function of the Lungs= is, as everybody knows, respiration, which may be considered from a mechanical or a chemical point of view. In this little work we are only concerned with the mechanical part of the subject. If we examine the lungs of a calf, which are very similar to those of a human being, we find that they are soft and elastic to the touch, giving out when pressed a peculiar whizzing sound. We may increase their volume by blowing into them through the windpipe, so as to make them double their original size, and then tie up the windpipe. On re-opening the windpipe the air escapes, and the lungs are gradually reduced to their former bulk. Now, by drawing a deep breath we produce the same result in ourselves as by blowing into the lungs of the calf; by holding the breath we produce the same result as by tying up the windpipe--that is to say, we keep the lungs in a state of expansion; and by releasing the breath we are, as it were, untying the windpipe, leaving the lungs to dwindle down gradually to their former size. There is one very material point, however, in which the analogy ceases. It is this: we keep the air in the inflated calf's lungs by tying up the windpipe, and the corresponding act in ourselves would be to hold our breath by muscular contraction of the outlet in the throat. This is precisely what we do in straining, and in lifting heavy weights, &c.; but it should _never_ be done in breathing for vocal purposes. Here it must, on the contrary, be our endeavour to train, to the highest possible degree, the powerful muscles of the chest and of the abdomen, instead of throwing the labour intended for them upon the comparatively weak and delicate muscles governing the outlet of the windpipe. To make the way in which respiration is carried on clearer still, I quote the following interesting and lucid account from Huxley's "Elementary Physiology," fourth edition, p. 104. He compares the breathing apparatus to "a sort of bellows without a valve," in which the chest and the lungs represent the body of the bellows, while the windpipe is the pipe; "and the effect of the respiratory movement is just the same as that of the approximation and separation of the handles of the bellows, which drive out and draw in the air through the pipe. There is, however, one difference between the bellows and the respiratory apparatus, of great importance in the theory of respiration, though frequently overlooked, and that is, that the sides of the bellows can be brought close together so as to force out all, or nearly all, the air which they contain, while the walls of the chest, when approximated as much as possible, still enclose a very considerable cavity; so that even after the most violent expiratory effort, a very large quantity of air is left in the lungs." =Respiration=, consequently, consists of two acts--namely, inspiration and expiration. Inspiration may be produced in three different ways--(1) By pushing the chest forward and flattening the midriff, so as to compel the lungs to _descend_ and to increase in volume in order to fill the empty space created by this movement; (2) by extending the ribs _sideways_; and (3) by _drawing up_ the upper parts of the chest--namely, the collar bones (pl. III, C C) and the shoulder blades. In scientific works the first is called diaphragmatic or abdominal,[B] the second lateral or costal, and the third clavicular or scapular breathing. As, however, these terms convey no meaning to the general reader, I prefer to speak of--(1) Midriff Breathing; (2) Rib Breathing; (3) Collar-bone Breathing. In taking a full, deep inspiration, midriff breathing and rib breathing take place almost together and assist each other--that is to say, the midriff contracts and flattens, and immediately afterwards the ribs extend sideways; with this difference, however, that in men the action of the midriff takes a larger share in the work than the ribs, while in woman, on the contrary, the movement of the ribs is greater than that of the midriff. By way of illustrating this curious difference of breathing in men and women, the following anecdote, which has the recommendation of being strictly true, may perhaps amuse the reader. Some time ago a troupe of "Female Minstrels," calling themselves, I believe, "The American Amazons," made a tour through this country. Their faces were blackened in the orthodox fashion, and they were in male attire, wearing tight-fitting garments of a peculiar kind. Two friends, both medical men, went to hear them (or perhaps to see them, I am not sure which), when Mr. A remarked that two of the performers were men. Mr. B did not see it, even when the individuals were pointed out to him, and asked his friend for the reasons for his opinion. "Why," said Mr. A, "I see it by their abdominal breathing!" And sure enough Mr. B now saw it too, and there was no mistake about it; for in the two suspected individuals the abdomen was evidently moving in respiration, while in all the others no movement was perceptible excepting that of their chests. [Illustration: PLATE IV. DIAGRAMS ILLUSTRATING THE VARYING CAPACITY OF THE CHEST, ACCORDING TO THE METHOD IN WHICH THE LUNG IS INFLATED. From Mr. Lennox Browne's "Medical Hints on the Production and Management of the Singing Voice," by permission of Messrs Chappell and Co. The front outline A of the shaded figure represents the chest after full expiration; the black continuous line A gives the increase in size of the chest, and the descent of the diaphragm, indicated by the curved transverse lines, in full abdominal respiration. The dotted line C shows the retraction of the diaphragm and of the abdominal muscles in forced clavicular inspiration. The varying thickness of the line B indicates the fact of healthy breathing in a man being more abdominal than in woman. The outlines of forced inspiration in both sexes are remarkably similar. ] The combined forms of midriff and rib breathing are the right method of inspiration, while collar-bone breathing is absolutely wrong, and should never be made use of. The reasons of this are not far to seek. The lower part of each lung is large and broad, while the upper part is cone-shaped, and very much smaller. It is self-evident, therefore, that by downward and sideways expansion (enlarging the _lower_ part of the lungs) you will inhale a much greater quantity of air than by drawing up the collar-bones. This consideration alone should suffice to prove the utter falseness of collar-bone breathing. Collar-bone breathing has also the additional disadvantage of causing much fatigue, because all the parts surrounding the upper region of the lungs are hard and unyielding, so that a great amount of resistance has to be overcome (the "_lutte vocale_" of French authors), while the very opposite is the case with the lower part of the lungs. Mr. Lennox Browne, who was, I believe, the first to direct the attention of English readers to this matter, says,[C] "Clavicular [collar-bone] breathing is a method of respiration totally vicious, and to be avoided. By it the whole lower part of the chest is flattened and drawn in, instead of being distended; consequently the lower or larger part of the lungs is not inflated. It is a method never exercised by nature in a state of health, but only when, from disease, either the abdominal or chest muscles cannot act; and it is the method least efficacious in filling, as it is the one calculated to most fatigue the chest; for it compresses the vessels and nerves of the throat, and this leads to engorgement and spasmodic action of the muscles." We may well pause here and give another moment to the consideration of this most important subject. The lungs, as we have seen, are the bellows of our vocal organ; they supply the air which is the motive power on which the voice depends. Without air no tone can be produced. Nay, more, life itself must cease without it. Breathing goes on regularly while the voice is silent; but in speaking and singing both inspiration and expiration have to be regulated according to the nature of the phrases to be spoken or sung. If the speaker does not know how to take breath and how to control the expiration, his delivery will of necessity be jerky and uncertain. But in the singer it is even more important that he should be able to fill his lungs well, and, having done this, to have absolute command over his expiration; because while the speaker can arrange his sentences, his speed, and his breathing-places very much at his own pleasure, the singer is bound by the music before him. It must, therefore, be his aim to cultivate a proper method of breathing with the object of first getting, with the least possible fatigue, the largest possible amount of air in the most scrupulously careful manner, so as to prevent even the smallest fraction of it from being wasted. Yet how seldom is breathing systematically practised as an indispensable preliminary to the production of tone! I have no hesitation in saying that the subject is, in many instances, dismissed with a few general observations. Pupils, of course, take breath somehow, and teachers are glad to leave this uninteresting part of the business, and to proceed to the cultivation of the voice. It may be as well to add that what has been said so far about right and wrong methods of breathing is not by any means mere theory, but that any one can convince himself of the truth of the rules laid down by making a few experiments with the spirometer, an instrument for measuring the breathing power of the chest by indicating on a dial the exact number of cubic inches of air expelled from the lungs. This breathing power will be found to vary according to the way in which the inspiration has been accomplished. In my own case, for instance, the spirometer should register, according to the table of comparative height and breathing power compiled by John Hutchinson, 230 cubic inches. Having suffered from severe attacks of bleeding from the lungs, my maximum with midriff and rib breathing is only 220, but with collar-bone breathing I barely reach 180! During the Summer Session of the Tonic Sol-fa College I carefully tested the breathing capacity of ten students, and found that there was an average excess of midriff and rib breathing over collar-bone breathing to the extent of 25 cubic inches: the least amount of their increased power was 12 cubic inches, and the greatest was 45! I imagine that these figures are more eloquent than any words, and I think it superfluous to make any further comment on them. I am strongly of opinion that breathing exercises, especially in the case of intending public singers, should always be carried on with a spirometer,[D] because that instrument enables us with the greatest accuracy to check results which otherwise can only be guessed at. If this suggestion were acted upon we should certainly no longer be distressed by that intolerable and never-ceasing tremolo which now so frequently mars many, in other respects, fine voices. It is a curious, and at first sight unaccountable, circumstance that this great fault is specially noticeable amongst French singers. But at the Conservatoire de Musique in Paris students are deliberately taught the wrong method of inspiration; for, as we gather from the "Méthode de Chant du Conservatoire de Musique," they are told to "flatten [or draw in] the abdomen" and to "bulge out the chest." Thus the mystery is at once cleared up, because the tremolo arises almost invariably from a weakness of the muscles of the midriff or diaphragm, to which attention has already been called in these pages. Owing to the abdomen being drawn in, the midriff never properly contracts; the muscles are not sufficiently exercised, and consequently have not power enough to resist the pressure that is brought to bear upon them in singing. They tremble, and this trembling being communicated to the lungs, which are resting upon them, the stream of air they give forth, loses its evenness and continuity, with the result I have just stated. It will be seen from the above explanation that this tremolo, one of the greatest vices besetting modern singing, and which has hitherto been held by many to be incurable, may be got rid of completely, though perhaps not very quickly, by the simple remedy of lung gymnastics on the right principle. The tremolo may certainly also arise from weakness of some muscles in the voicebox or larynx, by which the tension of the vocal ligaments is diminished and increased in rapid alternation. But this is a case for a medical man, which does not fall within my province to discuss, though I am justified in saying, on the authority of Mr. Lennox Browne,[E] that even in many of these cases the effect is clearly attributable to faulty breathing, since there is seldom any local disease of the larynx; while exercise on a right method of breathing will cure the spasmodic action of the laryngeal muscles with but little or no medical treatment. * * * * * I need scarcely add that there is yet another kind of tremolo, which, being absolutely under the control of the performer, is one of the chief ornaments of song, and to which the observations just made in no way apply. * * * * * In addition to the involuntary tremolo there are a number of other afflictions, "Clergymen's sore throat" amongst them, which are admitted by eminent medical authorities to be due to collar-bone breathing, and which may be entirely cured by proper lung gymnastics, or, in other words, by breathing exercises on the right principle; that is to say, by calling into play the muscles of the abdomen and of the lower part of the chest. This is a subject which is little understood by singers and public speakers, many of whom would be amazed at the sometimes most wonderful results produced by such simple means. I will therefore quote a case in point which came under my notice quite recently, and which will give the reader an idea of the importance of proper breathing: Mr. X, a tall thin young man, engaged in evangelistic work, suffered from a "weakness of voice," which he found a great hindrance to his success. He therefore consulted Mr. Lennox Browne, who at once told him that he had no disease of any kind, and sent him to me for a course of breathing exercises. I found that Mr. X chiefly spoke in a child's voice, over which, moreover, he had very little control; and when I requested him to take a deep inspiration, he drew in his abdomen, bulged out his chest, and raised his collar-bones. The spirometer only registered 200 cubic inches instead of 260, which, according to Hutchinson's table, was his mean. My course was, therefore, plain. I made him stand in an easy natural position, neither allowing him to bulge out his chest, nor to draw in the abdomen, and then instructed him how to acquire some control over his midriff and the lower muscles of the chest. It may be observed here, in passing, that we can, in a state of health, contract and relax these muscles at will, just as easily as we can bend a finger, and that this power, when lost through disuse, can be regained with little difficulty. In Mr. X's case this process was particularly speedy, with the result of increasing his breathing power in two lessons by 60 cubic inches. In one additional week I could dismiss him with a full sonorous man's voice, in place of the uncertain child's squeak with which he came to me. It is no exaggeration to say that this young man left me with a _new_ voice, and if people had heard him when he first came to me, behind a screen, and again after the last lesson, they would certainly not have believed that they were listening to the same person. What Mr. X and his friends think of his case may be seen from the following letter which he wrote me on July 6th, 1880:--"Now that a week has passed since the last lesson I had from you, I write to bear testimony to the wonderful benefit to my voice obtained through the very short course I took. My friends are quite astonished at the marked difference, and I beg you will accept my most sincere thanks," &c. Many similar cases might be mentioned, but the one just quoted is sufficient, and I will sum the matter up with a few remarks which Mr. Lennox Browne made as chairman at my lecture at the Aldersgate Street Literary Institution, on October 9th, 1880. He then said that, in his medical experience, he found that persons who suffered from their voices generally owed their ailments to bad habits of using the voice, and not to any defect in the larynx or resonance chamber. In several cases lately he had sent such patients to Herr Behnke, who had given them lessons in correct breathing, and who had thereby, and without any medicine, galvanism, or other aid, restored their voices in a remarkably short time. From what has been said above about midriff and rib breathing _versus_ collar-bone breathing, the folly of tight-lacing, or, indeed, of in any way interfering with the freedom of the waist, will be at once apparent. We pride ourselves upon our civilization; we make a boast of living in the age of science; physiology is now taught, or at least talked of, in almost every school; the laws of health are proclaimed in lectures and lessons innumerable all over the country, and we laugh at barbarous customs of other nations, such, for instance, as that of Chinese women preventing the growth of their feet by forcing them into boots of only half their proper size. And yet our ladies wear instruments of torture called corsets, altering the shape of their bodies, and positively driving the lower ribs _into the lungs_! Now which folly is the greater--that of doubling up the toes, or of crippling the body in its most vital parts? Let ladies answer the question, and let them further most solemnly consider that the girls of to-day are the mothers of to-morrow, and that upon the measure of their own health and strength depends the well-being of coming generations. It is only fair to add, that if the practice of interfering with the freedom of the waist is reprehensible in the case of ladies, it is, in one sense, still more so in the case of the male sex, because, as has been shown before, men depend more for their breathing upon the action of the abdominal muscle than women. They should, therefore, neither wear tight-fitting vests, nor suspend their pantaloons by means of waistbands, belts, or buckles. Loose garments and braces are the proper thing, though the latter are commonly, but erroneously, considered to be injurious. _Abdominal_ belts may be worn with advantage by persons of either sex requiring their support; but these are very different from stays or waist-bands. I find that an enterprising firm is advertising corsets for gentlemen (!), and a woodcut may be seen in some papers representing a young Adonis laced up in regular ladies' fashion, so that, if it were not for his luxurious moustache, one would certainly take the drawing to be meant for a woman. It is almost impossible to imagine that a man could ever make such a fool of himself; on the other hand, it is clear that these advertisements would not continue to appear if they did not bring customers. But these poor creatures do not deserve to be called men, and I am sincerely sorry for them. With regard to the question whether inspiration should take place through the mouth or through the nostrils, I must enter my most decided protest against making it a practice to inhale through the mouth. There are, of course, occasions when this is unavoidable, as, for instance, where the singer has rapidly to take what is called a "half breath." But complete inflation, or, "full breath," is not the work of a moment; it takes time, and must be done gradually, steadily, and without the slightest interruption. This should _always_ be done through the nostrils. The mouth was never intended for breathing, while the nose is specially and admirably adapted for this purpose. Not only can the lungs be well and quickly filled through this channel, but it is so cunningly devised that it acts at the same time as a "respirator," both purifying and warming the air before it touches the more delicate parts of the vocal organ. On the other hand, when inhaled through the mouth, the air carries with it, sometimes right into the voicebox, dust and other impurities, and its temperature is not materially altered. The consequence is that the throat and voicebox, when heated by singing or talking, or by hot rooms, are often exposed to cold, raw, and foggy winter air, and serious derangements of the respiratory organs are the natural consequence. If, moreover, this pernicious habit of breathing be once contracted, we shall soon also sleep with open mouths, thus parching our throats, and sowing the seeds of many a serious disorder. On this point I quote a few lines from Dr. Louis Elsberg,[F] professor of laryngology in the University of New York: "The natural mode of quiet breathing is through the nose; mouth-breathing is an acquirement. A new-born infant would choke to death if you closed its nose; it does not immediately know how to get air into the lungs through the mouth until after, by depressing the tongue, you have once made a passage for it." George Catlin, the celebrated traveller among American Indians, became so thoroughly convinced that the difference between the healthy condition and physical perfection of these people in their primitive state, especially their sound teeth and good lungs, and the deplorable mortality, the numerous diseases and deformities in _civilized_ communities, is mainly due to the habit, common among the latter, of breathing through the mouth, especially during sleep, that he wrote a book entitled "Malrespiration and its Effects upon the Enjoyment and Life of Man." In this book he says, "If I were to endeavour to bequeath to posterity the most important motto which human language can convey, it should be in three words, 'Shut your mouth.' In the social transactions of life this might have its beneficial results as the most friendly cautionary advice, or be received as the grossest of insults; but where I would print and engrave it, in every nursery and on every bedpost in the universe, its meaning could not be mistaken, and obeyed, its importance would soon be realized." He also says, "It is one of the misfortunes of civilization that it has too many amusing and exciting things for the mouth to say, and too many delicious things for it to taste, to allow of its being closed during the day. The mouth therefore has too little reserve for the protection of its natural purity of expression, and too much exposure for the protection of its garniture; but, _do keep your mouth shut_ when you _read_, when you _write_, when you _listen_, when you _are in pain_, when you are _walking_, when you are _running_, when you are _riding_, and _by all means when you are angry_! There is _no person_ but who will find and acknowledge _improvement_ in _health_ and _enjoyment_ from even a temporary attention to this advice." Again he says, "There is a proverb, as old and unchangeable as their hills, amongst North American Indians, 'My son, if thou wouldst be wise, open first thy eyes; thy ears next, and last of all thy mouth, that thy words may be words of wisdom, and give no advantage to thine adversary.' This might be adopted with good effect in _civilized_ life; he who would _strictly adhere_ to it would be sure to reap its benefits in his _waking_ hours, and would _soon find_ the habit running into his hours of _rest_, into which he would _calmly_ enter; dismissing the nervous anxieties of the day, as he firmly closed his teeth and his lips, only to be opened _after_ his eyes and his ears in the morning, the rest of _such_ sleep would bear him daily and hourly proof of its value." Catlin regards the habit of sleeping with the mouth open the most pernicious of _all bad habits_. The horrors of nightmare and snoring are, according to him, but the _least_ of its evil effects. He thinks "for the greater portion of the thousands and tens of thousands of persons suffering with weakness of lungs, with bronchitis, asthma, indigestion, and other affections of the digestive and respiratory organs," the correction of this habit is a _panacea_ for their ills! He insists that "_mothers_ should be looked to as the first and principal _correctors_ of this most destructive of human habits; ... and the united and simultaneous efforts of the civilized world should be exerted in the overthrow of a monster so destructive to the good looks and life of man. Every physician should advise his patients, and every boarding-school in existence and every hospital should have its surgeon or matron, and every regiment its officer, to make their nightly and hourly 'rounds,' to force a _stop_ to so unnatural, disgusting, and dangerous a habit! Under the working of such a system, mothers guarding and helping the helpless, schoolmasters their scholars, hospital surgeons their patients, generals their soldiers, and the rest of the world protecting themselves, a few years would show the glorious results in the bills of mortality, and the next generation would be a _regeneration_ of the human race." =The Windpipe= (pl. I, W).--Having examined the bellows of our vocal organ, we next notice the windpipe, by means of which the air is carried into and out of the lungs. It is an elastic tube kept open by 18 or 20 rings which do not quite meet at the back. It enters the lungs by means of two smaller tubes, which in their turn branch out very much like the roots of a tree, until their ramifications end in the microscopic cells of the lungs. The windpipe is capable of being slightly elongated or shortened, and narrowed or widened, and its interior is covered with a mucous membrane, which, as its name implies, is continually kept in a moist state. =The Voicebox, or Larynx= (pl. V) may be described as resembling a funnel, the upper part of which has been bent into a triangular shape. Its front corner (pl. V, 1) may be both seen and felt in the throat, and the general position of the voicebox is thereby at once indicated. The framework of the voicebox consists of five parts. 1st. The Ring cartilage (pl. V, 2) is so named on account of its general resemblance to a signet ring. It is narrow in front, and has the part corresponding to the seal behind; the upper border (pl. V, 8, 4) rises very considerably towards the back, where it is about an inch high. 2nd. Riding upon this, as it were, with its hollow part towards the back, is the Shield cartilage (pl. V, 5), which consists of two plates united in front at an angle which forms the prominence referred to just now as that corner of the triangular funnel (pl. V, 1) which may be both seen and felt in the throat, and which is commonly called the Adam's Apple. It protects the interior and more delicate parts of the voice apparatus, from which circumstance it derives its name of shield cartilage. The plates of the shield have each at the back two horns, the upper and the lower. With the upper horns (pl. VI, 1, 2) the shield cartilage is attached by means of bands (pl. VI, 6, 7) to the corresponding projections (pl. VI, 4, 5) of the tongue-bone (pl. VI, 3), which has the shape of a horseshoe. With the lower horns (pl. V, 8), of which on our diagram we can only see one, it moves upon the ring cartilage as upon a hinge (pl. V, 9). [Illustration: PLATE V. SIDE VIEW OF THE VOICEBOX, OR LARYNX. 1. FRONT CORNER OF THE VOICEBOX (LARYNX). 2. RING (CRICOID) CARTILAGE. 3, 4. UPPER BORDER OF THE RING. 5. SHIELD (THYROID) CARTILAGE. 6, 7. UPPER HORNS OF THE SHIELD. 8. RIGHT LOWER HORN OF THE SHIELD. 9. POINT WHERE THE SHIELD MOVES UPON THE RING. 10. RING-SHIELD (CRICO-THYROID) APERTURE COVERED BY MEMBRANE. 11. LID (EPIGLOTTIS). 12. WINDPIPE (TRACHEA). ] [Illustration: PLATE VI. FRONT VIEW OF THE VOICEBOX, OR LARYNX. 1, 2. UPPER HORNS OF THE SHIELD. 3. TONGUE (HYOID) BONE. 4, 5. HORNS OF THE TONGUE-BONE. 6, 7. BANDS UNITING THE SHIELD WITH THE TONGUE-BONE. 8, 9. LID. 10, 11. PLATES OF THE SHIELD. 12. RING. 13. ELASTIC BAND UNITING THE SHIELD WITH THE RING. 14. WINDPIPE. ] This is a very particular point, and I beg the reader particularly to notice that if the shield cartilage (pl. V, 5) were gradually drawn downwards and forwards, the space which we now see between the shield and the ring (pl. V, 10) would get smaller and smaller, until at last it quite disappeared; and the distance between the front of the shield (pl. V, 1) and the highest part of the back of the ring (pl. V, 4) would be increased. I may observe here that authorities differ as to whether the shield moves upon the ring, or the ring upon the shield, and that some maintain the one is drawn down while the other is tipped upward. It is sufficient for our purpose, however, that a movement as upon a hinge takes place, whereby, as explained just now, the distance between the front of the shield and the highest part of the back of the ring is increased. 3rd. =The Lid= (pl. V, 11) is an elastic cartilage which serves to close the voicebox in the act of swallowing, in order to protect it against any intruding foreign substances. The food we take has to pass over it, and it sometimes happens, when the lid has not been pulled down tight enough, that a particle of food enters the voicebox, in which case we say it has "gone the wrong way," and there is then no peace until the intruder has been got rid of, generally by a violent fit of coughing. The lid, it is true, is not the only means of protection which the voicebox possesses. Professor C. J. Eberth, for instance, mentions (Archiv für pathol: Anatomie, vol. lxiii., p. 135, Berlin, 1868) the case of a woman who, upon dissection, was found to be entirely without the free upper part of the lid, which could alone cover the voicebox. She had never experienced any difficulty in swallowing, and it is therefore clear that with her the closing of some of the parts immediately below was sufficient to prevent the food from getting into the voicebox. But "the exception proves the rule," and in spite of this and other similar cases, the fact remains that the lid is obviously the first and most natural protector of the voicebox. 4th and 5th. We have thus far become acquainted with three cartilages out of the five. Let us now remove one plate of the shield, as though cutting it off with a knife (pl. VII, 1 and 2), in order that we may look inside and see the remaining two cartilages which have hitherto been hidden by it. These are-- =The Pyramids= (pl. VII, 1 and 2), so called because of their shape. Their bases are triangular and hollowed out; their sides taper upwards and terminate in points which are bent slightly backwards, and they have each two projections, one pointing forwards (pl. VII, 3) and the other outwards and backwards (pl. VII, 4). It will be convenient to have a special name for the projections pointing outwards and backwards, which we will therefore call the Levers. The Pyramids are attached with their hollow bases to the borders of the ring (pl. VII, 5), and they are capable of executing rotary movements with surprising freedom and rapidity. Their inner sides may be made to run parallel or to diverge. In addition to this they can be drawn towards each other, or away from each other, so that their summits may either be widely separated or brought close together. =The Vocal Ligaments= are two ledges of elastic tissue covered with a very delicate membrane. Each one of them is connected along its whole length, on one side, with the shield cartilage. The vocal ligaments are attached by their hinder ends to those little projections of the pyramids which point forwards (pl. VII, 3, 3), and by their front ends to the centre of the shield (pl. VII, 6), where the two plates meet under a more or less acute angle. [Illustration: PLATE VII. SIDE VIEW OF THE VOICEBOX, OR LARYNX, SHOWING THE INTERIOR OF IT, THE RIGHT PLATE BEING REMOVED. 1, 2. PYRAMIDS (ARYTENOID CARTILAGES). 3, 3. FRONT PROJECTIONS OF THE PYRAMIDS. 4. LEVER OF THE RIGHT PYRAMID. 5. UPPER BORDER OF THE RING. 6, 3, 3. VOCAL LIGAMENTS. 7. LID. 8. SHIELD. 9. LEFT UPPER HORN OF THE SHIELD. 10. RING. 11. WINDPIPE. ] These vocal ligaments are generally called the vocal cords, but this term is misleading, as it implies strings like those, for instance, of the violin, which are attached only at either end and are free at every other point. This, however, as we have just seen, is not the case, the "Cords" being free only along their inner edges. The name "Vocal Bands," which German physiologists have substituted for "Vocal Cords," does not mend the matter, as it is open to exactly the same objections. The term "Vocal Lips," also used by some writers, is, in my judgment, the most unfortunate of all, because it conveys a totally wrong idea of these parts, as will be seen from a description in another chapter of their movements in the act of singing. I have, therefore, sought for a word which, as a proper description of the thing it is to designate, shall always call a correct image to the reader's mind, and as I cannot find a better one than "Ligament," I have adopted it. I shall consequently in these pages always speak of the tone-producing element as the "Vocal Ligaments." The vocal ligaments, having met, are struck by the air blown against them from below, and being elastic they yield, allowing themselves to be forced upwards. A little air is thereby set free, and the pressure from below diminished, in consequence of which the vocal ligaments resume their former position, and even move a little more downwards. The renewed pressure of the air once more overcomes the resistance of the vocal ligaments, which again recede as soon as another escape of air has taken place, and this process is repeated in rapid and regular succession. In this manner, and in this manner alone, is vocal tone produced, whether it be called chest, falsetto, head, or by any other name. There are still some writers who teach a different doctrine. For instance, Miss Sabilla Novello, in her "Voice and Vocal Art," embodied in the "Collegiate Vocal Tutor," published by Novello, Ewer, and Co., says on p. 9, that "The head voice results from the upper [_i.e._, the false] vocal cords" (these we shall see presently), and on page 13, that the falsetto tones "are created principally by the action of the trachea [windpipe] and not by that of the vocal ligaments." Another writer, Mr. Rumney Illingworth, in a paper "On the Larynx and its Physiology," read before the Royal Medical Society of Edinburgh, on March 3rd, 1879, and communicated to "The Students' Journal and Hospital Gazette" (Vol. IV., No. 91, p. 151), says that "The falsetto voice is produced by the laryngeal sacculi [the pockets of the voicebox, which will be described further on] acting in the same way as a hazel-nut can be made to act as a whistle, when the kernel has been extracted through a small hole in the shell; or as part of the cavity of the mouth acts in whistling." I shall refer to these theories again as the opportunity for their proper discussion arises; for the present I will quote a few authorities on the subject. Dr. CARPENTER, in his "Human Physiology," eighth edition, page 914, says, "The true theory of the voice may now be considered as well established in regard to this essential particular that the sound is the result of the vibrations of the vocal cords," &c. Professor MARSHALL, in his "Outlines of Physiology," page 255, says: "Experiments on living animals show that the vocal cords are alone the essential organs for the production of voice, for so long as these remain untouched, although all the other parts in the interior of the larynx be destroyed, the animal is able to emit vocal sounds.... The existence of an opening in the larynx of a living animal, or of man, _above_ the glottis [glottis means the vibrating element of the voicebox] in no way prevents the formation of vocal sound; such an opening if situated in the trachea [windpipe] causes total loss of voice, but by simply closing it, vocal sounds can again be produced. Such openings, in man, are met with, either as the results of accidents, of suicidal attempts, or of operations performed on the larynx or trachea for the relief of disease." Dr. TOBOLD, Professor in the University of Berlin, in his "Laryngoscopie and Kehlkopf Krankheiten" (Laryngoscopy and Diseases of the Larynx), p. 131, says, "Soft palate, lid, pockets, and pocket-bands are not directly active in the production of either chest or falsetto tones; they only modify the tone produced in the glottis." Dr. LUSCHKA, Professor in the University of Tubingen, in his great work "Der Kehlkopf des Menschen" (The Human Larynx), says in the introduction: "Only the vocal cords, with the slit they form, have specifically functional signification, in a narrower sense, of a voice apparatus, as the parts of the larynx which lie under and over them have no material and deciding influence on the production of sound." I will bring my quotations to a close with the following, which seeks to prove the contrary. Dr. C. B. GARRETT ("The Human Voice," J. and J. Churchill, London, 1875, p. 17) says, "It is recorded that the larynx of a blackbird was removed by severing the windpipe just below it; that the poor 'thing continued to _sing_, though in a feebler tone.' This proves that notes can be formed _behind the instrument_ and before the air reaches it." This argument, however, is of no value, because it so happens that birds have two larynges, one at the bottom and the other at the top of the windpipe. Dr. Garrett seems not to have been aware of this fact. The vocal ligaments in the adult male are, in a state of rest, about three-quarters of an inch long, and in the female about half an inch. I pointed out before that the vocal ligaments are attached in front to the shield (pl. VII, 6) and behind to the pyramids (pl. VII, 3, 3). Let it now be borne in mind--1st, That the pyramids, in their turn, are fastened to the upper border of the ring cartilage; and 2nd, That by drawing the shield downwards and forwards upon the ring, the distance between the upper border of the ring (pl. VII, 5) and the front of the shield (pl. VII, 6) is increased, and it will be easily seen that this movement must of necessity have the effect of stretching the vocal ligaments. This drawing of the shield downwards and forwards upon the ring is brought about by a pair of muscles ascending on either side, in the shape of a fan, from the ring to the shield cartilage (pl. VIII, 1, 2). These muscles we name the "Ring-Shield Muscles." In opposition to them there is another pair inside the shield, running parallel with the vocal ligaments (pl. IX, 1, 2, 3). They are attached (like the vocal ligaments) in front to the shield cartilage and behind to the pyramids. These muscles we will call the "Shield-Pyramid Muscles." They counteract the ring-shield muscles, and having overcome their resistance, pull the shield cartilage up again, thereby, of course, relaxing the vocal ligaments. The ring-shield muscles, therefore, _stretch_ the vocal ligaments and the shield-pyramid muscles _relax_ them. The shield-pyramid muscles have an additional function--that of pressing together the vocal ligaments, under certain circumstances, thereby narrowing the opening between them. They have therefore been, in these later days, called the Sphincter[G] muscle of the glottis. They have also been called the Vocal Muscles, since they play so important a part in the formation of all vocal tone that a paralysis of them causes total loss of voice. [Illustration: PLATE VIII. SIDE VIEW OF THE VOICEBOX, OR LARYNX. 1, 2. RING-SHIELD MUSCLE (CRICO-THYROIDEUS). 3. LID. 4. SHIELD. 5, 6. UPPER HORNS OF THE SHIELD. 7. RING. 8. WINDPIPE. ] [Illustration: PLATE IX. SIDE VIEW OF THE VOICEBOX, OR LARYNX, SHOWING THE INTERIOR OF THE LEFT HALF. 1, 2, 3. SHIELD-PYRAMID MUSCLE (THYRO-ARYTENOIDEUS). 4, 5. RING-PYRAMID MUSCLE (CRICO-ARYTENOIDEUS). 6. SHIELD. 7. LEFT UPPER HORN. 8. PYRAMID. 9. RING. 10. WINDPIPE. ] It may be observed here that it is impossible to imitate, in the dead subject, the contraction of the vocal muscles. All conclusions, therefore, drawn from experiments upon exsected larynges, with regard to tone-production in living man are necessarily quite untrustworthy, and cannot for one moment be admitted as evidence against observations made upon singers with the laryngoscope. These two pairs of muscles, then, namely the ring-shield muscles (pl. VIII, 1, 2) and the shield-pyramid muscles (pl. IX, 1, 2, 3) by stretching, slackening, and compressing the vocal ligaments, mainly govern the pitch of the tones produced by their vibrations. The ring-shield muscles receive some assistance in stretching the vocal ligaments from another quarter, of which we shall speak later on. We have now had a look at the vocal ligaments, and we have seen by what means they are put on the stretch. As, however, in a state of repose these ligaments diverge behind, they must be brought parallel to each other before they are ready for the production of sound. Let us, therefore, in order to explain how this is done, imagine that we have cut off that part of the pyramids which is standing out above the vocal ligaments (pl. VII), and let us now have a look at these parts from above. You see the ligaments (pl. XA, 1, 2), a section of the pyramids (pl. XA, 3, 4), and uniting these an elastic band (pl. XA, 5). The space between these parts is commonly called the Glottis, but as this appellation belongs more properly to the vocal ligaments, it is manifestly wrong to give the same name to the _space_ which they inclose. This space should be distinguished as the "_Chink_ of the Glottis" or the "Vocal Chink." I have been blamed for making this distinction in the face of almost universal usage. But I can point to the great anatomist Professor Luschka as having set the example, and while it is true that in most physiological works "Glottis" is used for the _slit_ between the vocal ligaments, yet the appellations "Rima glottidis" and "Aperture of the glottis" are also employed for the same thing. Medical men, moreover, speak of "Spasm of the glottis," and singing masters of the "Shock of the glottis," which terms are clearly quite meaningless when applied to a space. Dr. Garrett says, on page 12 of the book quoted before, that "The upper portion of the larynx above the false vocal cords is termed the glottis." He might as well say, "The upper portion of the face above the nose is termed the mouth." I really should not notice so astounding a statement were it not made by one signing himself an M.D., and published by so eminent a firm of Medical publishers as Messrs. J. and A. Churchill. [Illustration: PLATE X. A. GLOTTIS IN REPOSE. B. GLOTTIS IN RESPIRATION. C. GLOTTIS IN THE PRODUCTION OF SOUND. A. 1, 2. VOCAL LIGAMENTS. 3, 4. SECTION OF THE PYRAMIDS. 5. ELASTIC BAND. 6, 7. LEVERS OF THE PYRAMIDS. ] On plate XI you see all parts in a state of rest. To the levers of the pyramids (pl. XI, 1, 2) a pair of muscles is attached, the bases of which are fixed upon the back of the ring cartilage below (pl. XI, 3, 6, 3). The action of these "Back Ring-Pyramid Muscles" (pl. XI, 4, 1 and 5, 2) is to contract as soon as we take breath, thereby drawing together the pyramids _behind_ and separating them _in front_, at the same time stretching the elastic band behind (pl. X, A, 5). By this movement the chink of the glottis is thrown _wide open_ into the shape depicted on pl. X, B. During expiration these relax, the elastic band contracts, and the vocal chink resumes the shape as on pl. XI. These movements go on from the beginning of our lives to the end, whether we are asleep or awake, with more or less vigour, according as we take a slight or a deep inspiration. The back ring-pyramid muscles (pl. XI, 4, 1 and 5, 2), have consequently the all-important function of keeping open the gate through which the air we breathe enters the lungs. They have, therefore, been poetically called the "Guardians of the Portal of Life." By their action of pulling the pyramids backwards, they also assist the ring-shield muscles (pl. VIII, 1, 2) in stretching the vocal ligaments. * * * * * In opposition to these "Opening Muscles" there is another pair rising from the side borders of the ring (pl. XI, 3, 3) which are fastened to the front part of the levers of the pyramids (pl. XI, 1, 2), serving to draw together their front projections to which the vocal ligaments are attached, and which are thereby brought parallel with each other. [Illustration: PLATE XI. VIEW OF A SECTION OF THE VOICEBOX, OR LARYNX, FROM ABOVE. 1, 2. SECTION OF THE PYRAMIDS WITH VOCAL LIGAMENTS AND ELASTIC BAND. 3, 6, 3. RING. 7. PYRAMID MUSCLE (ARYTENOIDEUS TRANSVERSUS). 8, 9, 10. SHIELD. 11. BANDS BY MEANS OF WHICH THE PYRAMIDS ARE ATTACHED TO THE RING. 4 & 5. BACK RING-PYRAMID MUSCLES (POSTERIOR CRICO-ARYTENOIDEI). 1, 3 & 2, 3. SIDE RING-PYRAMID MUSCLES (LATERAL CRICO-ARYTENOIDEI). NOTE.--The shield-pyramid muscles (Thyro-Arytenoidei) which run parallel with the vocal ligaments are, for the sake of clearness, omitted from this diagram.] These "Side Ring-Pyramid Muscles" (pl. XI, 3, 1 and 3, 2; see also pl. IX, 5, 4) are assisted by a single muscle uniting the pyramids behind the elastic band which we have already noticed. This muscle we will call the "Pyramid Muscle" (pl. XI, 7). By the united action of the muscles which have just been described the vocal chink is thrown in the shape shown on pl. X, C, and the vocal ligaments are now in a proper position for the production of tone. * * * * * Before proceeding any farther it will be well if we once more glance at the muscles with which we have become acquainted, so that we may be quite sure about their functions. MUSCLES: I. GOVERNING THE SHAPE OF THE VOCAL CHINK. The Back Ring-Pyramid} OPENING Muscles } THE VOCAL CHINK. THESE ARE OPPOSED BY-- The Side Ring-Pyramid } Muscles, and the Pyramid} CLOSING Muscles, assisted by the} THE VOCAL CHINK. Shield-Pyramid Muscles } II. GOVERNING THE PITCH OF THE TONES. The Ring-Shield Muscles, } STRETCHING assisted by the Back Ring-Pyramid } Muscles } THE VOCAL LIGAMENTS. THESE ARE OPPOSED BY-- The Shield-Pyramid } SLACKENING Muscles } THE VOCAL LIGAMENTS. =The Pocket Ligaments= (called "False Vocal Cords," pl. XII, 1 and 2) are a pair of horizontal projections running above and parallel with the vocal ligaments (pl. XII, 3 and 4). The pocket ligaments are, like the vocal ligaments, attached in front to the shield and behind to the pyramids. They may be described as two ledge-shaped pads mainly formed of glands. They are very sensitive and movable, and ready on the smallest incitement to meet with great rapidity in order to protect the vocal ligaments from any harm. They must, therefore, be chiefly regarded as safeguards of the vocal apparatus, though it is probable that by breaking the stream of air passing through the chink of the glottis, they also exercise considerable influence upon the _quality_ of the tone emitted. It may be affirmed, however, without the slightest hesitation, that they have absolutely nothing to do with the _production_ of tone. We shall see these glandular ledges again during our observations upon the living subject, and I shall therefore say no more about them at present. [Illustration: PLATE XII. VIEW OF THE VOICEBOX, OR LARYNX, WHICH HAS BEEN CUT OPEN FROM BEHIND. 1, 2. POCKET LIGAMENTS (FALSE VOCAL CORDS). 3, 4. VOCAL LIGAMENTS (VOCAL CORDS). 5, 6. SHIELD (THYROID) CARTILAGE. 7, 8. CARTILAGES OF SANTORINI. 9. LID (EPIGLOTTIS). 14, 10 & 15, 11. FOLDS OF MUCOUS MEMBRANE (ARYTENO-EPIGLOTTIC FOLDS). 12, 13. WEDGES (CUNEIFORM CARTILAGES). 14, 15. CARTILAGES OF WRISBERG. 16, 17. PYRAMID MUSCLE (ARYTENOIDEUS TRANSVERSUS). 18, 19. RING (CRICOID) CARTILAGE. 20, 21. TONGUE (HYOID) BONE. ] The space between the pocket ligaments and the vocal ligaments (pl. XII, 1, 2, 3, 4) is the entrance to two pouches or pockets which extend outwards and upwards. The dimensions of these pockets vary very much in different individuals. As a rule their height does not exceed two-fifths of an inch, so that their terminations do not reach the upper borders of the shield cartilage (pl. XII, 5 and 6). But there are instances in which the pockets are nearly three-quarters of an inch high, and where such is the case they, as a necessary consequence, reach beyond the shield. Sometimes they are so high as nearly to touch the root of the tongue. Their outer walls are chiefly formed of loose fatty cellular tissue, and the pockets are almost entirely surrounded by a large number of small glands. Now these are the "Laryngeal sacculi" which, according to Mr. Illingworth, produce the falsetto voice by "acting in the same way as a hazel-nut can be made to act as a whistle, when the kernel has been extracted through a small hole in the shell," &c. I think, however, that the reader will, from the description given above, agree with me that the acoustic properties of the pockets of the voicebox cannot be very great, and that, at all events, there is a vast difference between their construction and that of a hazel-nut, either with or without the kernel. Then there is this additional difficulty, that even if one could whistle upon the pockets in the manner suggested, there are two of them, covered, let it be remembered, with a multitude of glands, continually producing moisture, and liable to enlarge or to diminish. How, I should like to know, could two such cavities be so tuned as under any circumstances to produce exactly the same tones? Would not rather frightful discords be the inevitable result? And again, what provision is there in the pockets for the gradations of pitch? But quite apart from these considerations, this and other similar theories are completely disproved by the fact that every tone which the human voice is capable of producing can be produced by _inspiration as well as by expiration_. The tones sung by inspiration are, as might be expected, wholly devoid of beauty, because the vocal apparatus is, as it were, put upside down, and the position of bellows and resonator reversed. But that does not alter the question. The fact remains, and clearly proves that the pockets have no more to do with the falsetto than with the chest voice, because in inspiration the air strikes the vocal ligaments _after it has passed_ the pockets, and yet the result is, beauty of tone apart, exactly the same. The function of the pockets, in my opinion, is this: They are the means of isolating the vocal ligaments, thus enabling them to vibrate freely and without hindrance. They also allow the sound-waves to expand sideways, thereby materially adding to their resonance. Lastly, they with their many little glands produce and supply the vocal ligaments with that moisture without which, according to the investigations of J. Müller,[H] the production of tone cannot be carried on. Above the pocket ligaments there is a kind of tube which is formed by the upper part of the pyramids (surmounted by two little bodies called the cartilages of Santorini, pl. XII, 7, 8) behind; the lid or epiglottis (pl. XII, 9) in front, and sideways by two folds of mucous membrane running up from the pyramids to the lid (pl. XII, 14, 10 and 15, 11). These folds are in many cases supported by two small cartilages, which we will call the Wedges (pl. XII, 12, 13). These, according to Madame Emma Seiler, are the chief factors in the formation of the highest register of the female voice. In some physiological works they are treated as of very little consequence, and in others they are not mentioned at all. These wedges are two thin strips of cartilage running in front of the pyramids (pl. XII, 12 and 13) where they are embedded in a number of glands. Their upper ends terminate in the cartilages of Wrisberg (pl. XII, 14, 15), and their lower ends gradually dwindle away in the direction of the vocal ligaments. Madame Seiler says that they "reach to the middle of the vocal chords, by which they are enveloped."[I] She comments in the same book on the fact that German anatomists have been reluctant to admit the existence of these cartilages; and she adds on page 61, "It was, therefore, a great satisfaction to me to find them described under the name of the cuneiform cartilages in Wilson's 'Human Anatomy.'" It must be confessed, however, that Wilson's description of them is totally different from Madame Seiler's. He says, "The cuneiform cartilages are two small cylinders of yellow fibro-cartilage, about seven lines in length and enlarged at each extremity. _By the lower end or base_ the cartilage is attached _to the middle of the external surface_ of the arytenoid (the pyramid), and by its upper extremity forms a prominence in the border of the aryteno-epiglottidean fold of membrane"[J] (_i.e._, the fold running up to the lid). According to Seiler, therefore, the wedges reach from the pyramids to the middle of the vocal ligaments, but according to Wilson their bases are attached to the middle of the outer surface of the pyramids, so that they cannot even touch the vocal ligaments. As Madame Seiler assigns very important functions to these wedges in the formation of the highest register of the female voice, and as she quotes Wilson in a manner that must lead the reader to suppose he gave a similar description to hers of these cartilages, I have thought it right to give Wilson's statement in full. But there is a description of these cartilages by Dr. Witkowski which corresponds very closely with Madame Seiler's. Speaking of some of the glands of the voicebox, he says in the work mentioned before, on p. 12--"They are arranged in the form of an L, whose vertical branch goes along the arytenoid cartilages (the pyramids), _the horizontal branch following the direction of the vocal cords_. _There is often found situated in the midst of this group of glands the cuneiform cartilage of Wrisberg_, sometimes reduced to a mere cartilaginous granule." Dr. Elsberg also describes them on p. 37 of the treatise before mentioned as "elongated nodules" in the hinder portion of the vocal ligaments, and says they are found "more often in the female than in the male sex." He calls them the "posterior vocal nodules," and gives on p. 36 a diagram which shows them most clearly and unmistakably. This point would therefore seem to be settled. =The Resonator.=--We now come to the last part of our instrument, namely, the resonator, which is formed of (1) the pockets of the larynx; (2) the tube above the pocket ligaments; (3) the upper part of the throat; (4) the mouth; and (5) the nose. Before giving a description of the resonator, it will be necessary to make a few introductory remarks on certain laws of the philosophy of sound, which have been so clearly demonstrated that they admit of no contradiction. =Tone=, as we have seen, is the result of rapid periodic vibrations. The =Loudness= of tone depends upon the _amplitude_ of the vibrations. This is easily shown by drawing a bow over the string of a violin: while the vibrations of the string are largest, the tone produced is loudest, and as the vibrations get smaller, so the tone becomes fainter. The =Pitch= of tone depends upon the _number_ of vibrations in a given period of time. The greater the number of vibrations the higher the pitch, and _vice versâ_. The =Quality= of tone depends on the _form_ of the vibrations, "which also determines the occurrence of upper partial tones."[K] Now, to make the sound of any tone-producing element more intense, and to give it some special quality, is the work of the resonator. If we simply fix a fiddle string at either end, and, after giving it a certain amount of tension, draw a bow across it, we shall certainly produce a tone, but a very poor and faint one. Put the same string with the same amount of tension upon a cheap violin, and the tone will be intensified, and its quality changed, though that quality may be of a very unpleasant kind. Repeat the experiment upon an Amati or a Straduarius, and not only will the tone be more powerful still, but it will also have a full, round, and beautiful quality. Something, it is true, depends upon the string and upon the bowing, but we are here supposing the same string and the same player, our object being to show how the _resonator_, which, in this case, is the body of the violin, intensifies the tone of the string, and affects its quality. Illustrations exemplifying the same thing might be multiplied to any extent, but the one I have just given will suffice. As with the string, so with the vocal ligaments. Cut a larynx out of a dead body, put it in proper position on the top of a bellows, and force the air through it, and you will produce tone, but faint and poor tone. Now add a resonator to the larynx, and the tone of the vocal ligaments will be intensified, and its quality altered according to the kind of resonator you make use of. It is clear, therefore, that the human voice does not only depend upon the vibrations of the vocal ligaments, and the corresponding vibrations of the air passing between them, but also upon the resonator as defined on p. 9. According to the natural formation of our resonator, and according to the infinite variety of shapes which every one has it in his power to give to it, our voices will be, always supposing the conditions of the vocal ligaments to be the same, either full, round, sonorous, and _beautiful_, or they will be poor, cutting, muffled, guttural, nasal, and _ugly_. As we have, or may easily acquire, absolute command over the resonator, or, at least, over the greatest part of it, it is a comfort to know that so very much depends upon it, and I trust my readers will now, with some amount of pleasure, look with me at this part of the vocal apparatus. The 1st and 2nd divisions of the resonator--namely, the pockets of the larynx and the tube above the pocket ligaments--have been fully described on pp. 52, 53, and no more need be said on the subject here. The upper part of the throat, called in scientific works the "Pharynx" (pl. I, P), is a cavity, the largest part of which may be seen through the arch at the back of the open mouth. Its hinder wall is formed by the spinal column, and it extends upwards as far as the Eustachian tubes (pl. I, E) which communicate with the middle part of the ear. Here it joins-- The =Cavities of the Nose= (pl. I, N), which have for their base the hard and soft palate (pl. I, H and S), and which are divided by a bone partition. The only part of the =Mouth= which requires a particular description is the soft palate. This is a movable partition by means of which either the mouth or the nose can be completely separated from the throat. If the nose is to be shut off from the throat the soft palate is _raised_, and pressed against the back of the pharynx. If the mouth is to be shut off the soft palate is _lowered_, and rests closely upon the back of the tongue. This partition plays a most important part in vocalization. In the formation of all pure vowel sounds it is _raised_, thereby closing the nasal cavities, and it has been found that the closure is loosest for "ah" (as in "father") and tightest for "e" (as in "bee"), the intermediate vowels being "a" (as in "name"), "oh" and "oo" (as in "food"). This has been clearly shown by Czermak in the following manner. Lying down on his back, he had the nasal cavities filled with tepid water. He then uttered the various vowel sounds, and ascertained from the quantity of water required to force open the closure formed by the soft palate the degree of tightness for each vowel. He afterwards constructed a very ingenious little apparatus, by means of which, in one of his lectures, he demonstrated this fact to his audience. It will be easily understood from the above explanation that, if the closure of the nasal cavities is sufficiently imperfect to allow any considerable amount of air to pass through the nose, the result will be a nasal tone. I am aware that the very opposite is taught by some. There are those who maintain that nasal tone arises from the air _not_ being able to get through the nose. I am even informed that in some parts of England where nasal tone seems to be a general affliction, it is the practice of teachers of singing to cause their pupils to bathe their noses in hot water in order to relax the muscles which are supposed by their contraction to produce nasal tone. I would, however, in support of my statement, draw attention to the following indisputable facts:--(1) It is quite possible to completely close the nostrils, and yet to produce pure vocal tone. (2) Persons who are either partly or entirely without the soft palate can _under no circumstances_ utter a single sound without the most pronounced nasal quality. It seems to me that these facts sufficiently speak for themselves; but if any of my readers are not convinced by them, let them try this experiment: Take a thin mirror and hold it flat against the upper lip, with the glass upwards. Now sing a pure vocal tone, and the mirror will remain perfectly bright. Sing, on the contrary, with nasal quality, and the mirror will at once be completely dimmed. This shows conclusively that nasal sound is produced by singing _through_ the nose, and this cannot be done without lowering the soft palate. Teachers of singing know well enough that guttural tone is caused by the obstinate arching up of the tongue, and if they understand their business they eventually succeed in teaching a pupil labouring under this disadvantage to get perfect control over his tongue. But nobody thinks of the soft palate, though that can be brought under subjection just as well as the tongue. Let singing masters see to it, and young ladies will no longer be laughed at for having to put their noses into hot water before charming their friends with a song. It now only remains to be added that the interior of the windpipe and of the voicebox, as well as that of the throat, the mouth, and the nose, is lined with a thin mucous membrane of a pinkish colour. This concludes my description of the Vocal Organ as a musical instrument. DIFFERENCES OF THE VOICEBOX, OR LARYNX, IN CHILDREN, WOMEN, AND MEN. The voicebox of a newly-born baby is about one-third the size of that of a grown woman. It is therefore rather large in proportion to other parts of the body, with the exception of the head, which comparatively is larger still. The horizontal outline of the shield cartilage is a very gentle curve, and the upper horns are short, in consequence of which the voicebox is close to the tongue. The wedges, according to Merkel, are strongly developed; the vocal ligaments are short and thick, and the pockets deep. Up to the third year the voicebox grows very considerably, but no particular alterations take place from that time to the period of puberty, which generally occurs at the age of 14 or 15, rather earlier in girls than in boys. This period of change lasts from six to twelve months, or sometimes even two or three years. During this time the vocal organs undergo a marked change. In boys, the angle at which the two plates of the shield meet becomes more and more acute, and the length of the vocal ligaments increases only in the proportion of five to ten. In girls, on the other hand, the horizontal outline of the shield does not lose its evenness, and the length of the vocal ligaments increases only in the proportion of five to seven. The cartilages would seem, especially in boys, to grow more rapidly than the muscles, so that the slowly-growing muscles do not, at first, control the newly-developed cartilages. This accounts for the unmanageable state of the voice at this period. The changes which take place in the female voicebox are very imperceptible, so that they do not materially affect the character of the voice. In the male voicebox, on the contrary, the alterations are very marked, and the result is that the high voice of the boy is changed into the tenor or the bass of the man. While, therefore, before the period of puberty the voicebox is materially the same in both sexes, there are, afterwards, considerable differences noticeable, not only with regard to size, but also with regard to shape. This seems, indeed, sufficiently obvious, and any one can see it by simply comparing the outside of the throat of a man with that of a woman. Nevertheless we are told by Mr. Lunn[L] that "Anatomy teaches us that there is no difference between the male and female larynx save in size;" and by Dr. Garrett (on page 13 of the book quoted before) that "The male larynx does not differ anatomically in the least from that of the female, except in size." My readers may judge for themselves whether these statements are borne out by facts or not. It must further be observed that the whole upper part of the shield in the female voicebox is less developed than in the male. The upper horns are short, so that the voicebox is more closely attached to the tongue-bone, and its position in the throat is altogether higher in woman than in man. To show more clearly still the difference in the proportions of the male and the female voicebox, I give below some average measurements (taken from Luschka's great work on the Larynx) which I have, for the convenience of English readers, reduced, as nearly as possible, from centimetres and millimetres to inches. MALE. FEMALE. Height of the voicebox in } 2-4/5in. 1-9/10in. front, with the lid raised } (7 cent.) (4.8 cent.) Greatest width between the } 1-3/5in. 1-2/5in. plates of the shield cartilage} (4 cent.) (3.5 cent.) Depth between the lower } border of the shield cartilage, } 1-1/5in. 1 in. and the opposite point } (3 cent.) (2.4 cent.) of the ring cartilage. } Length of the vocal chink ... 1 in. 3/5 in. (25 mm.) (15 mm.) According to this eminent anatomist, therefore, the differences between male and female larynges are as follows: In height, 9/10; in width, 1/5; in depth, 1/5; in the length of the vocal chink, 2/5 of an inch. As it is plain that if there were "no difference between the male and the female larynx save in size," all their proportions would be alike, I think I may safely assume that I have proved my point, which is a rather important one, as the reader will see when the registers in the male and female voice come up for discussion. We will now consider the question how the various classes of voice--_i.e._, Sopranos, Contraltos, Tenors, and Basses--are to be accounted for by corresponding differences in the voicebox. We know that tone is produced by the vibrations of the vocal ligaments. It is clear, therefore, that a voice will be high or low according to the number of vibrations which the ligaments are capable of producing, or in other words, according to their dimensions and their tension. This difference is easily seen by comparing the voicebox of a soprano with that of a bass, because there the proportions are so manifestly smaller in the one than in the other. There are similar distinctions between soprano and contralto on the one hand, and between tenor and bass on the other, but they are not so striking. Neither can they, for various reasons, be demonstrated with the laryngoscope; but they exist nevertheless. It is true that the vocal ligaments of a soprano are sometimes longer than those of a contralto, just as the ligaments of a tenor are occasionally longer than those of a bass. But I maintain that the longer ligaments of sopranos and tenors are correspondingly thinner, and that their tension is greater, owing to the ring-shield or stretching muscles being more powerful than their opponents--the shield-pyramid muscles. Where this is the case the ligaments are more slanting than they would be otherwise, and the consequence of this is that less power of blast is required to make them speak. With this mechanism the higher registers are very readily united with the lower ones, and the voices so produced are of a light and flexible kind. Where, on the contrary, the vocal ligaments of contraltos and basses are comparatively short, they are also thick in proportion, and the shield-pyramid muscles are more powerful than the opposing ring-shield muscles, so that there is less tension. I shall be asked how I can prove this tension theory, and my reply is this: The diameter of the vocal ligaments depends in a large measure on the magnitude of the shield-pyramid muscles. If, therefore, the ligaments are exceptionally thick, the muscles just named must of necessity be very powerful, and can easily resist the pulling of the ring-shield muscles. If, on the contrary, the ligaments are exceptionally thin, it is equally certain that the shield-pyramid muscles are weak in proportion, and then the stretching muscles can easily overcome their resistance. * * * * * I may add that I came to the above conclusions about the various classes of voices years ago, when commencing the study of this subject. Not only have I never since seen any reason to alter my views--although I have not failed to notice and carefully examine the theories of others denying my doctrine--but I am more than ever convinced that my explanations are correct. I have now the gratification of seeing my theory confirmed by so great an authority as Dr. Merkel, of Leipzig, who most elaborately explains the subject in his latest work on the larynx, to which I have already alluded in these pages. * * * * * Besides the factors enumerated above, there are, no doubt, others which are also of consequence in determining the particular kind of voice to be produced by this vocal apparatus or by that; as, for instance, the windpipe, or the resonator, or both. The capacity of the chest--nay, the structure of the whole body, may have a more or less direct influence upon it. But there are absolutely no statistics to proceed upon, and in the absence of these it is vain to indulge in any speculations on the subject. MOVEMENTS OF THE VOICEBOX, OR LARYNX, WHICH CAN BE SEEN OR FELT. The voicebox in a man is situated almost exactly in the middle of the throat; in woman its position is, for reasons partly explained on page 64, considerably higher. It moves downwards in inspiration, and upwards in expiration; and the more vigorously we breathe, the more marked are these movements. In the act of swallowing the voicebox rises quickly, and in yawning it goes down so completely that the whole windpipe may vanish into the chest, and even the part of the ring cartilage may disappear. When singing in what is called chest-voice the voicebox rises gradually with each higher tone. Changing the mode of tone production, and singing--say an octave higher--in falsetto, the voicebox makes quite a leap upwards, and then again rises gradually with each higher tone, just as in chest-voice, but in a lesser degree. The voicebox, however, does not stand so high for the lowest falsetto as for the highest chest tones. It is possible, of course, to limit these movements to a minimum, but a teacher who insists upon his pupils keeping their voice-boxes perfectly still commits a serious mistake, because it is always injurious to do violence to nature. It is one thing to keep the voicebox steady, thereby facilitating the working of some of those muscles which act immediately upon the vocal ligaments; it is quite another thing, as will be seen below, to attempt to prevent movements which have to serve a great purpose. In _whispering_, the voicebox occupies a different position in the throat for each vowel. I invite the reader to try the following curious experiment. Let him take the larynx gently between the thumb and the first finger, and then _whisper_ OO (as in "food,") OH, AH, A (as in "name,") and E (as in "bee"). He will find that the voicebox rises with every succeeding vowel until at last it has completely slipped away from between the finger and thumb. Each one of these _whispered_ vowels has, as first ascertained by Helmholtz, its exact pitch, whether uttered by a little child or by an old man, and the effect of the rising of the voicebox is to shorten the resonator, whereby the raising of the pitch is produced. I stated on page 41 that the vocal ligaments were capable of being stretched by the ring-shield muscles, and that the pitch of the tones produced by their vibrations depended mainly on their tension. As we are now taking note of such movements of the voicebox as may be either seen or felt in the throat, we will take the opportunity of trying whether my statement can be verified. Let the reader, therefore, do as follows:--(1) Place the finger on the shield cartilage, and press it vigorously backward. (2) Sing loudly any high tone that is well within your compass. Hold this tone steadily, and _be quite sure you do not alter its pitch_. (3) Now suddenly remove your finger, continuing to sing as before. What is the result? Your tone is raised by a third, or even more, according to the amount of pressure you exercised on the shield. And how did this result come about? In this way: By pressing the shield backwards you elongated the ring-shield muscles, thereby counteracting their stretching influence, and at the same time slackening the vocal ligaments. The tone you sang while doing this was, we will say C'. By releasing the shield you enabled the ring-shield muscles to contract again, thereby putting the vocal ligaments on the stretch as they were at first. That changed your C' to E', or higher still. Have I proved my assertion? Now one more test, if you please. I pointed out to you on page 34 an opening between the shield and the ring. You will see it on plate V, No. 10. Please sing a low tone; place your finger gently on the shield, and move it downwards. You will soon discover a little hollow which corresponds with the opening I just mentioned, and into which you can easily put part of the tip of your finger. Now sing up the scale, and take care to keep the tip of your finger in the hollow. Remember that in singing up the scale your voicebox will rise, which movement you must follow, or you will lose the place. If you do this carefully, you will find that the hollow gets smaller and smaller by degrees until at last it closes entirely, and you can no longer find a trace of it. Now sing down again, keeping your finger on the same spot. You will soon notice the hollow again, and it will continue to get larger and larger until you arrive at the bottom of your scale. This, of course, is but another way of showing the mechanism by which the pitch of your tones is raised or lowered, and we have proved the same thing by our preceding experiment. But I asked you to try this chiefly because it will enable you to put a check upon my statements with regard to the registers of the voice, a subject which I propose to discuss in another chapter. THE LARYNGOSCOPE, AND HOW TO USE IT. The Laryngoscope in its simplest form is a thin circular mirror, about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, set in a metal frame, and fastened at an angle of 120° to a piece of wire from three to four inches long, which is put into a small wooden handle not much thicker than a pencil, and about the same length as the wire. By help of the laryngoscope we can either see our own larynx or that of another person. The easiest experiment is upon the larynx of some one else. In this case, the person to be operated upon sits facing the sun, the head slightly bent backwards, and the mouth wide open. If he has not sufficient control over his tongue to prevent it from arching up, he must gently hold its protruding tip with a pocket handkerchief between his thumb and forefinger. The mirror is now slightly warmed to prevent its becoming dimmed by the moisture of the breath, and then, holding it like a pen, the operator introduces it into the throat so that it touches the uvula. This must be done lightly yet firmly, care being taken not to bring the mirror into contact with the base of the tongue. The rays of the sun falling upon the mirror are reflected downwards into the voicebox, the image of which is clearly visible in the mirror. In making observations upon oneself, a second mirror in the shape of an ordinary hand looking-glass is necessary to reproduce the image in the small mirror. This is the way in which the renowned professor of singing, Senor Manuel Garcia, made those famous "Observations on the Human Voice," communicated to the Royal Society by Dr. Sharpey, on May the 24th, 1855. Similar attempts had been made before; for instance, in 1827 by Babington, in 1838 by Baumès, in 1840 by Liston, and in 1844 by Warden and Avery. But they had all ended in failure, an occasional glimpse of some parts of the voicebox being the only result obtained. Garcia, however, brilliantly succeeded where all his predecessors had failed, and was the first not only to see the vocal ligaments, but to see them in the act of singing, and to see them so clearly as to be able to give an account of their minutest movements. The instrument has since been greatly improved, and the process of investigation has become a science. Medical men all over the world have laid hold of it, and suffering humanity is daily benefited by it. But Garcia is the man who produced the first results, and to him, therefore, is due the credit of being practically the inventor of the laryngoscope. It is almost incredible, but it is true, that this splendid invention was received coldly and with distrust in this country, and had it not been for Dr. Johann N. Czermak, Professor of Physiology at the University of Pesth, the matter would, in all probability, have been forgotten. But this gentleman recognized the value of Garcia's invention, and he at once went enthusiastically to work, and pushed on vigorously in the way which Garcia had opened for him. He constructed an apparatus which enabled him, by making use of artificial light, to work without interruption and without waiting for the sun to shine. He then made his first attempts on himself in order to become acquainted with the conditions which have to be fulfilled by the observer as well as by the person to be operated upon. In this way he soon became a master of the new process, which he immediately brought under the notice of the profession by giving lectures and demonstrations in the chief towns of Europe. More than twenty years have passed since then, and the laryngoscope has, during that time, been made excellent use of, not only for the alleviation of suffering, and the cure of disease, but also for its original purpose--_i.e._, the exploration of the mechanism of the human voice. My own connection with the matter has arisen through my desire to sift contradictory statements made by various observers. Having read many English, German, and French books on the subject, I was in position to pick up a hint here, and to get some good advice there, and the consequence was that I was able to pursue a course which made me familiar with the use of the laryngoscope in a very short time. As my experience may be useful to others, I will briefly relate how I proceeded. I made my first attempts upon a skull, to which I attached a plaster-of-Paris model of the voicebox, the whole being fastened to an iron stand. The instrument I used was a concave reflector on a spectacle frame. The reflector had a hole in the centre, and was capable of being moved in various directions. The next thing was the little mirror described on page 73, and lastly, a gas lamp on the principle of the well-known "Queen's" reading lamps, which can be raised or lowered at pleasure. I placed the skull to the left of the lamp, and looking with my right eye through the hole in the centre of the reflector, practised throwing the light swiftly and with certainty into the upper part of the throat. I then introduced the little spy mirror, and tried to see and to recognize the various parts of the voicebox, which, let it be remembered, present a somewhat different appearance in the looking-glass from what they do if seen without it. Then I got a friend to mark my artificial voicebox, unknown to me, in various ways, and endeavoured quickly to discover what he had done. In this way I soon acquired a considerable amount of skill in handling the instrument, and also became thoroughly familiar with the image of the voicebox in the mirror.[M] Having thus to a large extent mastered the mechanical part of my work, I proceeded to make observations upon myself. I placed to the left of the lamp an ordinary bedroom looking-glass, in which now appeared my own face instead of the skull which hitherto occupied this place. I opened my mouth, and by the help of the reflector directed the light into the image of it in the looking-glass. I then continued in every way as I had done with the skull, with this difference, however, that I had first, as pointed out before, to warm the little spy mirror in order to prevent its becoming dimmed in the throat. An instrument has since been designed by the late Dr. G. D. Foulis, of Glasgow, which for simplicity, general excellence, and cheapness, far surpasses the above contrivance, and which I strongly recommend to intending students of laryngoscopy. It consists of a plain stand on which is placed a glass globe filled with water, the whole being surmounted by a small square mirror. The rays from a lamp or candle, placed behind the globe, are concentrated into the open mouth of the observer, who is seated in front of it, enabling him, by the use of an ordinary throat mirror, to inspect the movements of his own vocal ligaments. [Illustration] This apparatus, as shown in the annexed drawing, including a throat mirror, and safely packed for transmission, may be had from Messrs. W. B. Hilliard & Sons, 65, Renfield Street, Glasgow, for the very small sum of 7s. 6d. Let not the reader who tries laryngoscopic investigations be discouraged if, at first, violent retching is the result. It does not so much arise from sensitiveness of the parts touched, as from awkwardness in introducing the mirror. If he perseveres he will soon be rewarded by a view of the pearly white vocal ligaments, and a little repeated practice upon himself will enable him also to operate upon others without causing them discomfort. I close this chapter by again reminding amateur laryngoscopists that in the vast majority of cases where the touch of the mirror causes retching and gagging, it is due less to the sensitiveness of the person operated upon than to the want of skill on the part of the operator. He should in that case renew his experiments upon himself, and continue them until he has fully mastered the use of the instrument, as it is not fair to make others suffer for his own clumsiness. THE TEACHINGS OF THE LARYNGOSCOPE. On introducing the mirror into the throat we first see the back part of the tongue, which has a very uneven surface, and which is, as a rule, covered with greyish phlegm. We next notice a hollow space between the tongue and the lid, which is divided by an elastic band forming a little bridge between the two. Next comes the upper free part of the lid, the shape of which greatly varies in different individuals. It hangs over the voicebox, which it almost completely hides from view; but during the production of a high tone on the vowel A, as in "sad," it takes an almost perpendicular position. When the lid is so raised (pl. XIV, L) we can see right down to the bottom of it, where we observe that it bulges out a little. Extending from either side of the lid to the pyramids are two folds of mucous membrane, in the hinder part of either of which are to be observed two little elevations representing the cartilages of Santorini (pl. XIV, S S), and the upper points of the wedges, called the cartilages of Wrisberg (pl. XIV, W W). Looking down the kind of tube which is formed by the parts just enumerated, we next notice two horizontal projections running from front to back, which are the pocket ligaments (pl. XIV, P P). Everything we have seen so far is of a pinkish colour. Below the pocket ligaments, right at the bottom of the tube described above, we see the main object of our investigation, namely, the vocal ligaments (pl. XIV, V V). These, being almost of a pearly white, form a strong contrast to all their surroundings, and it is quite impossible to mistake them. * * * * * In quiet breathing the vocal chink is of a triangular shape, of which, however, we can only see the hinder part, the front part being hidden by the lid (pl. XIII). In exaggerated efforts at breathing this space gets considerably larger, so that, with a well-directed light, we can see into the windpipe, of which the rings are plainly noticeable. It is even possible to see the lowest part of the windpipe, where it is divided into the two branches entering the lungs. * * * * * For the purpose of studying the movements of the vocal ligaments in the act of singing, the vowel A, as in "sad" will be found the most favourable, because the formation of the mouth, and the position of the tongue which it necessitates, enable us to get a complete view of the interior of the voicebox, which during the emission of other vowel sounds is more or less hidden. Mr. Lunn objects that all investigations with the laryngoscope are valueless on account of the supposed necessity of holding the tip of the protruding tongue. He says, in a letter to the "Orchestra" (January, 1880): "One of our most promising singers told me he could not rightly produce his voice when under laryngoscopic investigation. It is a moral impossibility for all!" (A physical impossibility would be more to the purpose.) "Let the reader pull his tongue out with a napkin as far as he can, and sing, and he will get some notion of the tone producible." There is no foundation for this objection, because if a singer has his tongue under proper control there is not the slightest occasion to put it out and to hold it. As to pulling it out as far as one can, that should not be done under any circumstances, and no man having the slightest knowledge of laryngoscopy would suggest such a ridiculous proceeding. In my own case the vocal ligaments can be seen from one end to the other while I keep my tongue in its natural position, and I am willing to demonstrate this fact to any one who has any doubt in the matter. As soon as we produce a tone, the pyramids, and with them the vocal ligaments, meet, so as to touch each other more or less closely, while there still remains a large space between the pocket ligaments above. Every time we take breath, the pyramids with the vocal ligaments recede, to meet again as before, every time we strike a new tone. The vocal ligaments, thrown into vibrations by the stream of air passing between them, cut, as it were, this stream of air into regular waves, and thus (as more fully explained on p. 38) tone is produced. We notice here that this tone-production may be originated in three different ways:--(1) The vocal ligaments may meet _after_ the air has commenced to pass between them. Of this an aspirate is the result. (2) The vocal ligaments may meet _before_ the air has commenced to pass between them. This causes a check or a click at the beginning of the tone. (3) The vocal ligaments may meet just at the very moment when the air passes between them. In this case the tone is properly struck. There is nothing to make it indefinite as in case No. 1, and nothing to impede it as in case No. 2. Production as in case No. 3 causes the tone to travel much farther than production as in cases Nos. I and 2, and it is this way of striking a tone which is known under the name of "Coup de Glotte" or "Shock of the Glottis." "But it is not a shock of the glottis at all," says Mr. Lunn, on page 68 of the book quoted before. "It is an audible result arising from the false cords [pocket ligaments] releasing condensed air imprisoned below them, which air in its release explodes." I beg leave to observe that condensed imprisoned air thus released could produce a puff, but not a musical tone. The matter is, moreover, capable of being demonstrated to the eye. The process takes place as described above, and I am ready at any moment to show that the pocket ligaments _never_ meet in singing. There can, therefore, be no possibility of condensed air being imprisoned below them, and we need not enter into any further argument on the subject. [Illustration: PLATE XIII. LARYNGOSCOPIC IMAGE. BREATHING. T. TONGUE. L. LID. V. V. VOCAL LIGAMENTS. W. W. CARTILAGES OF WRISBERG. S. S. CARTILAGES OF SANTORINI. ] [Illustration: PLATE XIV. LARYNGOSCOPIC IMAGE. UPPER THICK. T. T. TONGUE. L. LID. P. P. POCKET LIGAMENTS. V. V. VOCAL LIGAMENTS. W. W. CARTILAGES OF WRISBERG. S. S. CARTILAGES OF SANTORINI. ] [Illustration: PLATE XV. LARYNGOSCOPIC IMAGE. UPPER THIN. T. T. TONGUE. L. LID. P. P. POCKET LIGAMENTS. V. V. VOCAL LIGAMENTS. W. W. CARTILAGES OF WRISBERG. S. S. CARTILAGES OF SANTORINI. ] [Illustration: PLATE XVI. LARYNGOSCOPIC IMAGE. SMALL. T. T. TONGUE. L. LID. P. P. POCKET LIGAMENTS. V. V. VOCAL LIGAMENTS. W. W. CARTILAGES OF WRISBERG. S. S. CARTILAGES OF SANTORINI. ] We now proceed to study the Registers of the human voice. A very Babel of confusion exists on this important subject, and we are not only perplexed by a multiplicity of terms, but also by the various and often contradictory meanings attached to them. Thus people talk of chest, medium, mixed, throat, falsetto, and head registers, and these terms being utterly unscientific--_i.e._, being based upon sensations and fancies instead of physiological facts--no one can give a clear and satisfactory definition of any one of them. To bring order into such chaos is an almost hopeless undertaking, and the first step in this direction is obviously to ask ourselves, What is the meaning of the word "Register?" My reply is this: _A register consists of a series of tones which are produced by the same mechanism_. Then comes the question, Can any such registers be demonstrated in the vocal apparatus; and if so, what are the mechanisms by which they are produced? The answer supplied by the laryngoscope is, Yes. There are, broadly speaking, three registers in the human voice, and the mechanisms are plainly visible, as follows:--(1) During the lowest series of tones the vocal ligaments vibrate in their entire thickness (pl. XIV). (2) During the next series of tones the vocal ligaments vibrate only with their thin inner edges (pl. XV). (3) During the highest series of tones a portion of the vocal chink is firmly closed, and only a small part of the vocal ligaments vibrates (pl. XVI). In accordance with these physiological facts, Mr. Curwen, in his admirable book "The Teacher's Manual," calls the registers _the Thick_, _the Thin_, and _the Small_. These names have a scientific basis, and their meaning cannot be misunderstood. They are already familiar to thousands who study music by Mr. Curwen's method, and I have myself made use of them in my lectures at University College and at other places. I shall, therefore, also adopt them in this little work, and hope they will soon find general acceptance among teachers and learners, as thereby a great many misunderstandings will be avoided. * * * * * Our next business will be to ascertain how these registers are divided among various voices, and the result as revealed by the laryngoscope is rather startling. It consists in this, that the break between the Thick and Thin occurs _in both sexes_ at about [Illustration: musical notation] In order to realize the full meaning of this, the reader must bear in mind that music for tenors is generally written an octave higher than it is sung, so that the tones we are now speaking about would, as a rule, in a tenor part be expressed by [Illustration: musical notation]. My assertion, therefore, amounts to this, that everything below [Illustration: musical notation] whether sung by soprano, contralto, tenor, or bass, is produced by one mechanism--that is to say, by the vocal ligaments vibrating in their entire thickness; and that the series of tones above [Illustration: musical notation] whether sung by bass, tenor, contralto, or soprano, is again produced by one mechanism (although a different one from the last), that is to say, by the vocal ligaments vibrating only with their thin inner edges. Then there remains the small register, which belongs almost exclusively to sopranos, and which represents the series of tones above [Illustration: musical notation]. I thus maintain, not only that the great break between the thick and the thin occurs (individual differences apart) at the same place in both sexes, but that (leaving for the moment sub-divisions out of consideration) the male voice has but two registers--_i.e._, the Thick and the Thin, while the female voice has three registers--_i.e._, the Thick, the Thin, and the Small. From this it follows that the female voice is _not_, as supposed by some, simply a reproduction of the male an octave higher. I have spoken of the above results of the investigations with the laryngoscope as startling, because the female voicebox is generally imagined to be exactly like the male, save in size, and the inference that the female voice must be exactly like the male, save in pitch, is, therefore, a very natural one. Neither am I surprised that those who hold an opposite view to mine are never tired of advancing this argument. Mr. Lunn says, in the book quoted before, on page 24, "Consequently it may safely be asserted that the vocal cords are subject to the same laws as all sounding bodies, and as the sole difference between the male and the female larynx is one of size alone, the voice from the latter _is_ a reproduction of the former on a higher scale." I have, however, shown by the measurements of Luschka, on p. 64, that the proportions of the female voicebox are materially different from those of the male, and I have also pointed out differences in shape noticeable to any observer. Now, although I do not pretend that I have by these facts and figures sufficiently accounted for the difference in the registers of the male and the female voice; yet these facts and figures are nevertheless greatly in my favour, and they are certainly a sufficient answer to the above argument of those who differ from me. My case is further strengthened by the testimony of that eminent physiologist, Dr. Merkel, who says,[N] "In the male organ there are only two materially different registers to be noticed, the chest and the falsetto, ... on the other hand, in the female organ there are clearly to be distinguished three registers--a low, a medium, and a high." (From Dr. Merkel's definitions on pp. 148, 149, and 152, it will be seen that low, medium, and high, are but other names here employed for Thick, Thin, and Small.) Dr. Merkel, speaking of the chest (thick) register, goes on to observe, on p. 148, "It ceases, very curiously, in both sexes on one of the first four tones of the one-lined octave (der ein-gestrichenen Octave) [Illustration: musical notation] so that it is about one octave longer [deeper] in man than in woman." Let it be observed above all things that I am not propounding a theory, but explaining a fact; a fact, moreover, which I have before now demonstrated to men holding opposite opinions, thereby convincing them, and which I am willing at any moment to demonstrate again. A very striking proof that the distribution of the registers is in accordance with my explanations may be further found in the circumstance that it is often impossible to distinguish a male voice from a female when (other things such as power and quality being equal) both sing in the same registers. The similarity is, of course, greatest between tenor and contralto, and in case of a trial they must confine themselves to the compass easily belonging to both; neither should the singers be seen by the listeners. I have frequently by these experiments convinced sceptics; and it has happened more than once when the female voice was slightly more robust than the male, that, to the great amusement of those present, the judges emphatically and without the slightest hesitation pronounced the lady to be the tenor and the gentleman the contralto. * * * * * We have so far only spoken of three registers, the Thick, below [Illustration: musical notation]; the Thin, between [Illustration: Music and]; and the Small, above [Illustration: musical notation]. The distinguishing features of these are so very clear as to make any mistake impossible. But now we come to sub-divisions, and with regard to these the matter is not so simple. Singers know very well that other breaks occur in the human voice besides those hitherto mentioned, and the question arises how they are to be accounted for by corresponding changes in the vocal organ. The evidence furnished on this point by the laryngoscope is, in my opinion, not sufficient, because the alterations in the vocal ligaments are so exceedingly minute as to be capable of being differently interpreted by different observers. I have consequently come to the conclusion that they cannot be accepted as indicating changes of mechanism unless corroborated and amplified by other signs. In order to place the whole subject before the reader in a comprehensive form, I cannot do better than quote the elaborate description which Madame Emma Seiler gives of the registers in "The Human Voice in Singing" (Philadelphia, 1875). Madame Seiler, to whom Mr. Lunn is pleased to refer, on p. 65 of his treatise, as an "ignorant person," assisted Professor Helmholtz, of Heidelberg, in his essay upon the Formation of the Vowel-tones and the Registers of the Female Voice. He says he thus had "an opportunity of knowing the delicacy of her musical ear, and her ability to master the more difficult and abstract parts of the theory of music." The Professor further speaks of her as "a very careful, skilled, and learned teacher." Professor Du Bois-Reymond, of Berlin, also describes her as "a lady of truly remarkable attainments." With such recommendations I make no apology for quoting at length from Madame Seiler's writings; and it will be readily understood that whenever I differ from her, I do so with some diffidence, and only after careful conviction of the accuracy of my own independent observations. [Illustration] I shall substitute the terms hitherto used in these pages for others employed by Madame Seiler, and I have added a diagram of the registers, which may assist the reader in forming a clear idea of the subject. THE THICK REGISTER. "When the vowel A, as in 'man,' was sung, I could, after long-continued practice, plainly see how the pyramids quickly rose with their summits in their mucous membranous case and approached to mutual contact. In like manner the vocal ligaments approached each other so closely that scarcely any space between them was observable. The pocket ligaments formed the ellipse described by Garcia in the upper part of the glottis." The word "glottis" really signifies the vibrating element in the voicebox. I suppose, therefore, that by "the upper part of the glottis" Madame Seiler here means the "part above the glottis." "When, in using the laryngoscope upon myself, I slowly sang the ascending scale, this movement of the vocal ligaments and pyramids was repeated at every tone. They separated and appeared to retreat, in order to close again anew, and to rise somewhat more than before. This movement of the pyramids may best be compared to that of a pair of scissors. With every higher tone the vocal ligaments seemed more stretched, and the vocal chink somewhat shorter. At the same time, when I sang the scale upward, beginning with the lowest tones, the vocal ligaments seemed to be moved in their whole length and breadth by large, loose vibrations, which extended even to all the rest of the interior of the voicebox. * * * * * "The place at which the pyramids, almost closed together, cease their action and leave the formation of the sound to the vocal ligaments alone, I found in the thick register of the female voice at C, C[#] [Illustration: musical notation], more rarely at B [Illustration: musical notation]. In the thick register of the male voice this change occurs at A, B[b] [Illustration: musical notation]. With some effort the above-mentioned action of the pyramids may be continued several tones higher. But such tones, especially in the female voice, have that rough and common timbre which we are too often compelled to hear in our female singers. The glottis also, in this case, as well as the parts of the voicebox near the glottis, betrays the effort very plainly; as the tones ascend, the glottis and the surrounding parts grow more and more red. _As at this place in the thick register there occurs a visible and sensible straining of the organs, so also is it in all the remaining transitions, as soon as the attempt is made to extend the action by which the lower tones are formed beyond the given limits of the same._ These transitions, which cannot be extended without effort, coincide perfectly with the places where J. Müller had to _stretch_ the ligaments of his exsected voicebox so powerfully in order to reach the succeeding half-tone. Garcia likewise finds tones thus formed disagreeable and imperfect in sound. "Usually, therefore, at the note C[#] [Illustration: musical notation] in the female voice, and A, B[b] [Illustration: musical notation] in the male voice, the vocal ligaments alone act in forming the sound, and are throughout the register moved by large, loose, full vibrations. But the instant the vocal ligaments are deprived of the assistance of the pyramids they relax, and appear longer than at the last tone produced by that aid. But with every higher tone they appear again to be stretched shorter and more powerfully up to F, F[#] [Illustration: musical notation] the natural transition from the thick to the thin register, as well in the _male_ as in the _female_. The voicebox is perceptibly lower in all the tones of the thick register than in quiet breathing." I confess my inability to understand how the vocal ligaments can get _longer_ by relaxing and _shorter_ by stretching. But apart from this I assert that there is no relaxing of the vocal ligaments at the break between the Lower Thick and the Upper Thick at all. This is clearly proved by the ring-shield aperture, which would open immediately if such were the case. I also doubt whether the action or inaction of the pyramids determines the break between the Lower Thick and the Upper Thick, as they are cartilages--_i.e._, pieces of gristle--and cannot, therefore, by any vibrations of their own assist in the production of tone. The tension of the vocal ligaments increases as we sing up the scale until the ring-shield aperture has quite disappeared. But while it remains so closed, and without the vocal ligaments being any further stretched, we can yet sing higher still. The gradations of tone are now no longer formed by the action of the ring-shield muscles (see p. 34), but by the shield-pyramid muscles which press the vocal ligaments more and more closely together, until at last scarcely any trace of a slit remains between them. Another result of this action of the shield-pyramid muscles must also be to narrow the space _below_ the vocal chink, which, as we know from the experiments of J. Müller, has the effect of raising the pitch of tones. I think it very likely, therefore, that the change from the lower to the upper thick is really brought about by the shield-pyramid muscles coming into play after the ring-shield muscles have done their share. THE THIN REGISTER. "All the tones of the thin register are produced by vibrations only of the fine, inner, slender edges of the vocal ligaments. In this action the vocal ligaments are not so near together, but allow of a fine linear space between them, and the pocket ligaments are pressed further back than in the production of the tones of the thick register. The rest of the action of the glottis is, however, entirely the same. With the beginning of the thin register at F[#] [Illustration: musical notation] the whole vocal chink appears again longer, and the vocal ligaments are much looser than in the highest tones of the thick register. The united action, already described, of the pyramids and the vocal ligaments in forming the deeper tones of the thin register, extends to C, C[#] [Illustration: musical notation] in the female voice, and in the male voice to E[b], E [Illustration: musical notation] commonly written thus, E[b], E [Illustration: musical notation] but which only rarely occurs in composition, and then is sung by tenors as I have given it; that is, one octave lower. "With the C[#] [Illustration: musical notation] in the female voice, and the E[b], E [Illustration: musical notation] in the male voice, the pyramids cease again to act, and, as before, in the Upper Thick, leave the formation of the sounds to the vocal ligaments alone, which at this change appear again longer and looser, but with every higher tone tighten up to F, F[#] [Illustration: musical notation] in the female voice, and in the male voice to G [Illustration: musical notation] or as it is commonly written, [Illustration: musical notation]. In the thin register the voicebox preserves its natural position as in quiet breathing." I must say here that I have never had any very clear conception of Madame Seiler's meaning when she speaks of the action or inaction of the pyramids in the formation of the registers. In the lower thick register there is, as a rule, a small triangular space between them which gets gradually smaller as the tones ascend, until it is quite closed in the upper thick. Dr. Merkel, also, has made the same observation. So far, therefore, we are agreed. But even of this I can find no trace in the thin register, where I have always noticed that the pyramids are quite close together. On this point, my assertion is borne out by Dr. Merkel, who insists upon the same thing. I also demur to Madame Seiler's statement that in this register again the vocal ligaments relax at the beginning of the upper division, and I invite the reader to test the matter by reference to the ring-shield aperture. The evidence furnished by this experiment is conclusive, because the vocal ligaments cannot possibly relax without a corresponding enlargement of the ring-shield aperture. A very striking illustration of this occurs during the transition from the Upper Thick to the Lower Thin. During the highest tones of the Upper Thick, when the tension of the vocal ligaments is greatest, the ring-shield aperture, as we have seen before, completely closes, while immediately opening very widely during the lowest tones of the Lower Thin, when the vocal ligaments are quite relaxed. Nothing of the kind takes place during the change either from the Lower Thin to the Upper Thin, or from the Lower Thick to the Upper Thick. It appears to me that Madame Seiler has rather exaggerated the importance of these minor breaks, while she does not make enough of the great break between the Upper Thick and the Lower Thin. If there is straining anywhere, it is during the attempt to carry the mechanism of the Upper Thick beyond its natural limit. In this case the tension of the vocal ligaments, as indeed of all surrounding parts, becomes so tremendous that at last the whole thing looks as though it were literally going to fly to pieces in every direction. Now change into the Lower Thin, and the relief is wonderful. Let tenors make a note of this. If they _will_ violate Nature, they must pay the penalty! As regards the transition from the Lower Thin to the Upper Thin, I would suggest the following explanation:--The vocal chink is at first, as Madame Seiler says, linear, and the gradations of tone are caused by simple tension of the vocal ligaments, which is proved by the diminution of the ring-shield aperture. While this goes on we are in the Lower Thin. Now the laryngoscope reveals another method of still further raising the pitch, which consists in a gradual shortening of the vocal chink. This is caused by the shield-pyramid muscles pressing together the ends of the vocal ligaments, thereby giving the vocal chink a slightly elliptic shape. When this mechanism comes into play we are in the Upper Thin. THE SMALL REGISTER. "When in the observation of the thin register I had sung upwards to its highest tones, and then sang still higher, I became aware, with the F[#] [Illustration: musical notation] of a change in the motions of the organ of singing, and the tones thus produced had a different _timbre_ from those of the Thin. It required long and patient practice before I finally succeeded in drawing forward the lid so that I could see the glottis in its whole length. Not until then was I able to observe the following: With the F[#] [Illustration: musical notation] the vocal ligaments suddenly closed firmly together to their middle, with their fine edges one over the other. This closing appeared as a fine red line extending, from the pyramids at the back, forward to the middle of the vocal ligaments, and leaving free only a third part of the whole glottis, immediately under the lid, to the front wall of the voicebox. * * * * * "The foremost part of the glottis formed an oval orifice, which, with every higher tone, seemed to contract more and more, and so became smaller and rounder. The fine edges of the vocal ligaments which formed this orifice were alone vibrating, and the vibrations seemed at first looser, but, with every higher tone, the ligaments were more stretched." * * * * * I have repeatedly had the opportunity of observing the mechanism of the small register, and I only differ from Madame Seiler in this, that I did not notice that "with every higher tone the ligaments were more stretched." It appeared to me, on the contrary, as though the raising of the pitch was produced by a contraction of the vocal ligaments. In all other respects I entirely agree with the above description. According to Madame Seiler the small register is formed by the action of the wedges, as described on p. 54. We have thus become acquainted with the mechanism of the registers of the human voice. We have also seen that it is possible to carry these up beyond their natural limits, though the process is accompanied by visible signs of straining. The practice of teachers, therefore, whose aim it is to "extend" voices upwards, and who are very proud, especially in tenors, of their "made tones," is strongly to be condemned, and is sure to have disastrous results. It is, on the other hand, equally possible to carry the registers down several tones below the places called the breaks, so that at the limits of each register there are a number of tones which may be produced by two different mechanisms. The carrying down of a register causes no fatigue, and though its volume is weak as compared with the corresponding lower register, it is surprising how soon it can, by judicious practice, be made to acquire fulness and power. In order to prevent misunderstandings, it may be well to add that the breaks as indicated in the preceding pages are intended only to show the average compass in the great majority of voices. As, for instance, there are basses who have an exceptional extension of the Lower Thick downwards, so there are, undoubtedly, tenors who have an exceptional extension of the Upper Thick upwards. It must, therefore, be the voice trainer's business very carefully to ascertain the exact limits of the registers in every single case. In choral singing, however, where individual attention is impossible, the breaks as given above may be implicitly relied upon. Not only should the registers never be carried above these points, but if the teacher is wise he will insist upon his pupils forming the habit of changing the mechanism a tone or two below. NEVER "EXTEND" LOWER REGISTERS UPWARDS, BUT STRENGTHEN THE UPPER REGISTERS, AND CARRY THEM DOWNWARDS, THUS EQUALIZING THE VOICES FROM TOP TO BOTTOM, AND ENABLING YOUR PUPILS TO SING WITHOUT STRAINING. That is the great lesson taught by the investigations described in these pages. I have seen a singer pull himself together, and with a tremendous effort shout a high A in the thick register. His neck swelled out, his face became blood-red, and altogether the "performance" was of an acrobatic rather than of an artistic nature. The general public, of course, loudly applauded, but people of taste and refinement shuddered. Such exhibitions are, unfortunately, not rare. If this little book should contribute, however remotely, to discourage them, it will not have been written in vain. APPENDIX TO THE THIRD EDITION It has been suggested to me that the usefulness of my little book would be enlarged if I were to add an appendix containing some application to practical work of the physiological laws already explained. This I have endeavoured to do in the following chapter, and I trust the simplicity of the directions will enable the reader to carry out my instructions, to vary them, and to enlarge upon them according to circumstances. HINTS ON TEACHING. One of the most important lessons taught us by the study of Vocal Physiology is the correct method of breathing and of obtaining control over the respiratory muscles. I will now give a few exercises for this purpose. Divest yourself of any article of clothing which at all interferes with the freedom of the waist. Lie down flat on your back. Place one hand lightly on the abdomen and the other upon the lower ribs. Inhale, through the nostrils, slowly, deeply, and evenly, without interruption or jerking. If this is done properly the abdomen will, gradually and without any trembling movement, increase in size, and the lower ribs will expand sideways, while the upper part of the chest and the collar-bones remain undisturbed. Now hold the breath, _not_ by shutting the glottis, but by keeping the midriff down and the chest walls extended, and count four mentally, at the rate of sixty per minute. Then let the breath go _suddenly_. The result of this will be a flying up of the midriff, and a falling down of the ribs; in other words, there will be a collapse of the lower part of the body. This collapse may not at first be very distinct, as the extension has probably been insufficient; but both will become more and more perfect as the result of continued practice. Let it be clearly understood: The _in_spiration is to be slow and deep, the _ex_piration sudden and complete. In _in_spiration the abdomen and the lower part of the chest expand, and in _ex_piration they collapse. The time of holding the breath is not, at the outset, to exceed four seconds, and the student must never, on any account, fatigue himself with these exercises; they may, however, be frequently repeated at intervals. It will be found by occasional trials upon the spirometer that the breathing capacity increases with these exercises. The process of abdominal respiration becomes easy and no longer requires constant watchfulness, and the student will soon be able to carry it on, not only lying down, but while he is standing or walking, though not at once with the same ease. He must now, for a time, be careful to see that he has the same physical sensations in breathing which he noticed while making his first experiment when lying down; and he must exercise special care when running, going upstairs, &c., and, of course, in speaking or singing. The criterion of correct inspiration is, as I have said before, an increase of size of the abdomen and of the lower part of the chest. Whoever draws in the abdomen and raises the upper part of the chest in the act of filling his lungs does wrong. Meanwhile, in continuing the breathing exercises, the time of holding the breath may be increased at the rate of two seconds per week; so that the student who, during the first fortnight, limited himself to four seconds will, at the end of six weeks, hold his breath during twelve seconds. I have, in some instances, with students of mine, gone as far as twenty seconds; but I desire very earnestly to warn my readers to be cautious and not to go to extremes. Nothing will be gained, but infinite harm may ensue by over-doing these lung gymnastics, and persons at all inclined to bleeding from the lungs should not undertake the exercises at all, except with the sanction of their medical adviser, who will limit the practice according to circumstances. The second breathing exercise is the exact opposite of the first, and consists in taking a rapid _in_spiration and making the _ex_piration slow, even, uninterrupted and without jerking or trembling. My musical readers will at once see the importance of this exercise for the purpose of singing sustained tones and florid passages; but it would be quite useless to attempt it before No. 1 has been sufficiently practised. The third and last breathing exercise consists in taking the _in_spiration as in No. 1, and the _ex_piration as in No. 2. After the two preceding ones have been fully mastered this last is easy enough; and the student who has persevered so far will now have overcome one of the greatest difficulties of a vocalist, namely, the proper management of the breath, an accomplishment which seems to become more and more rare in our go-ahead times of electricity. I feel that my description of these breathing exercises is far from complete, and what is worse, that it may lead to misunderstandings, the results of which will hereafter be laid to my charge. But writing, however lucid and careful, can never take the place of _vivâ voce_ instruction; and I wish it to be distinctly understood that the explanations here given are not by any means intended to supersede the aid of a competent and painstaking teacher. I will take leave of this part of my subject by warning my readers against the mistake, which may be caused by a superficial perusal of these pages, that it is the chief aim of the above breathing exercises to enable the singer or speaker to cram as much air as possible into the lungs. I have pointed out some of the evils which are likely to arise from exaggerated breathing efforts; yet I wish to say again, most emphatically, that it is quite possible to _overcrowd_ the lungs with air. This is a matter of every-day occurrence, which is not, however, on that account any the less reprehensible; for, as I have already mentioned, it is sure to lead, sooner or later, to forcing and inequality of voice, and to congestion of the vessels and tissues of the throat and of the lungs. Now we come to the question of the production and cultivation of the voice, including the nature and the proper treatment of the registers. In this connection I shall endeavour to explain a series of exercises based upon physiological facts, which will enable the reader to strike out a safe and direct path, avoiding much useless drudgery, and leading to eminently satisfactory results. As it is not my object to supply a singing manual, but simply to point out the way of treating the voice upon scientific principles, I shall not attempt to deal separately with the different classes of voices, or to go into minute details; but it will rather be my aim to lay down general principles, leaving my readers to carry them into practice, and to elaborate them according to individual circumstances. It must also be borne in mind that the exercises I am going to recommend will here be taken as they suggest themselves, while passing in review the various parts which unitedly form the mechanism of the human voice. Therefore, in the actual process of training a voice, they will have to be taken in a different order from that in which they are discussed here, in accordance with the general plan of this book. The movements of the pyramids with the vocal ligaments attached to them are governed by two sets of muscles pulling them either together or away from each other. These have been fully described under the names of the "Closing Muscles" and the "Opening Muscles;" and the reader will at once see the importance of devising a set of exercises which shall call these opening and closing muscles into play, thereby making them powerful, and bringing them under the control of the will. This is, fortunately, a very simple matter; for all we have to do is to sing a series of short tones, each tone to be followed by a short inspiration. We have learnt that every time we strike a tone the vocal ligaments are made to approximate; by so doing we therefore exercise the closing muscles. Every time we take an inspiration the vocal ligaments are separated; by so doing therefore we exercise the opening muscles. It is plain from these explanations that, by practising in the manner just indicated, we shall gain the same results in five minutes which it would take us half an hour to obtain by singing sustained tones after the usual method of teaching. Let me now give as clear a description of the exercise as possible. Find the pitch of your speaking voice, which we will say is _F_. Then sing the following:-- [Illustration: musical notation _o_ _o_ _o_ _o_ _ah_ _ah_ _ah_ _ah_ _ai_ _ai_ _ai_ _ai_ Strike the tone firmly and clearly, avoiding alike the _check_ of the glottis and the _glide_ of the glottis. This is often a matter of great difficulty, requiring much patience and perseverance on the part of the teacher as well as on that of the student. The _glide_ of the glottis is particularly hard to eradicate, and in many instances the case seems to be hopeless. Do not, however, despair, but try this: Pronounce vigorously the word "Up." Then _whisper_, but still very vigorously and distinctly, three times the vowel _u_, as you just had it in the word "up." Immediately afterwards _sing_ "Ah." Thus-- UP! _u_, _u_, _u_, Ah. (_spoken_) (_whispered_) (_sung_) I recommend this device from extended personal experience, and hope my fellow-teachers may find it as useful as I have found it myself. Another point of importance in practising the exercise for strengthening the opening and the closing muscles is the breathing after every tone; and this must be done gently and without effort, the only perception which the singer should have of it being a slight movement of the midriff. When you can sing the exercise in this manner on _F_, your supposed speaking tone, then go up the scale, semitone by semitone, to _B_ or _C_ above, and down again, semitone by semitone, to _B_ or _C_ below. Of the quality of tone I will say nothing here, because that part of the subject will be discussed later on in connection with the tongue and the soft palate. The next thing in connection with the physiology of the vocal organ from which we can deduct a practical lesson is the action of the muscles governing the pitch of the voice. This process is a very complex one, and can be made clear only by _vivâ voce_ explanations, with the help of good models and moving diagrams, by demonstrations with the laryngoscope, and by carefully watching external signs. There is no doubt, however, that a set of muscles, described as the "Stretching and Slackening Muscles," play the most important part in this matter, and I advise the reader to study carefully the chapter on "The Movements of the Voicebox," and try the experiments mentioned in it. It will thus be seen that the flexibility of the voice depends in a great measure upon the control we have over the muscles governing the pitch; that is to say, upon the readiness and exactness with which we are able to allow them to contract or to relax. Performers upon various instruments, as for instance the piano and the violin, know that certain exercises are indispensable to brilliant execution, because they strengthen the muscles of the wrist and of the fingers, and make them obedient to the will. It has even been found that simple finger gymnastics, exercising separately different sets of muscles, and making them independent of each other, are of the greatest value, and save long hours of tedious and wearisome practising. In a similar manner we may spare ourselves much trouble and gain our end most readily by vocal gymnastics, calculated to bring into play the stretching and slackening muscles of the larynx. There is no difficulty about it. Sing F, the same tone from which we started when exercising the opening and the closing muscles, and add to it G. The alteration of the pitch is brought about by a contraction of the stretching muscles overcoming the resistance of the opposing slackening muscles, thereby _tensing_ the vocal ligaments. If you again sing F, the case is reversed, and the new alteration in pitch is brought about by a contraction of the slackening muscles overcoming the resistance of the opposing stretching muscles, thereby _relaxing_ the vocal ligaments. [Illustration: musical notation _o_ _o_ _ah_ _ah_ _ai_ _ai_ The above is an example. Take great care to render it perfectly. Sing every tone clearly and distinctly, but without jerking, at the same time _uniting_ all the tones, but without drawling. Do not try how quickly you can sing, but rather how distinctly. Commence slowly, and be in no hurry to increase the speed. Raise and lower the exercise semitone by semitone within the medium part of your voice. A variety of exercises founded upon the same principles may be introduced, and will serve to increase the flexibility of the voice in a very short time. Now we come to the "Registers" of the voice. I have defined a register as "a series of tones produced by the same mechanism." The five registers of which the human voice, taken as a whole, consists, are carefully described, and the means by which they are formed minutely explained in a former part of this book. These registers, nevertheless, continue to be a stumbling-stone to many, and the fact of the existence in the throat of different actions for the production of different series of tones has led some teachers into the deplorable mistake of developing and exaggerating them, instead of, on the contrary, smoothing them over and equalizing them. The result is that we often hear singers who seem to have two or three different _voices_. They are growling in the one, moaning in the second, and shrieking in the third; while it should have been their aim so to blend and to unite the registers as to make it difficult even for a practised ear to distinguish the one from the other. Such singing is outrageous, and I protest against the opinion expressed in some quarters that it is the natural outcome of the teachings of the laryngoscope. In developing and strengthening the registers I base my first exercises upon the fact that the "Vowel Scale" goes from low to high in this order; _oo_, _oh_, _ah_, _ai_, _ee_, so that consequently the highest tones will be produced most readily when singing the vowels in the order just given. [Illustration: musical notation _o_ _ah_ _ai_ _ee_ _ai_ _ah_ _o_ _oo_ _o_ _ah_ _ai_ _ah_ _o_ _oo_ Sing this exercise quite softly, strike each tone clearly and distinctly, and take a _slight_ inspiration after every tone. Be careful to take a full inflation only at the beginning, and afterwards to inhale _less_ air than has been consumed in every preceding tone, or you will after a while overcrowd the lungs, and experience a sensation of being choked. This is a thing to be avoided in any case; but under present circumstances it should be remembered that the short inspirations are not taken for the purpose of re-filling the lungs, but simply to compel the "opening and closing muscles" to do their work. By so doing we give them six times more exercise than by breathing only once at the beginning; and, what is more important still with regard to our immediate object, we greatly facilitate the task of the vocal ligaments to arrange themselves in different ways according to the registers they are to produce. It is self-evident that the danger of carrying the mechanism of a register beyond its proper limit is greater if the vocal ligaments are kept together, than it would be if they were made to separate, thereby being enabled to close again under different conditions. It will be seen, therefore, that the slight inspirations after every tone are an essential part of the exercise, and must on no account be omitted. The exercise is to be taken at a convenient pitch, and then to be raised semitone by semitone in accordance with the requirements of individual voices. It may, after some time, be taken right through upon the vowel _ah_, and finally _legato_, gradually increasing the speed, to the Italian word _scala_, singing the syllable _la_ to the last note. The change from one register to another should always be made a couple of tones below the extreme limit, so that there will be at the juncture of every two registers a few "optional" tones which it is possible to take with both mechanisms. The singer will be wise, however, to avail himself of the power of producing an optional tone with the mechanism of the lower register only on rare occasions. To force the register beyond its natural limit is, of course, infinitely worse, and should never be tolerated. The practice carries its own punishment, as it invariably ruins the voice; and tones so produced always betray the effort (frequently in a most painful degree), and are consequently never beautiful. It is to be observed that the exercise given above may be varied to any extent, so long as it is based upon the principle which has been explained. The beneficial results in the development of the voice will speedily be noticed, and then sustained tones may be sung through the whole compass after the orthodox fashion. This brings me to the consideration of the "mixed voice," which is essential in bridging over the break between the "upper thick" and the "lower thin" of the tenor, and which is also frequently made use of by baritones and basses in the production of their highest tones. The "voce mista" is "mixed" in this sense, that it combines the _vibrating mechanism_ of the "lower thin" with the _position of the larynx_ of the "lower thick;" that is to say, while the vibrations are confined to the thin inner edges of the vocal ligaments, the larynx itself takes a lower position in the throat than for the "lower thin," and the result is a remarkable increase of volume without any corresponding additional effort in the production of tone. A few trials before a looking-glass will at once prove the correctness of this explanation, and, what is of more practical consequence, will enable the student with a little practice to overcome the serious difficulty of singing high tones without straining, yet with a fulness capable of being increased or diminished at pleasure. The last thing we have to consider is the "resonator" of the human voice, namely, the upper part of the throat, the mouth, and the nose. Whether we sing _ah_, _ai_, _ee_, _o_, or _oo_, the original tone produced by the vibrations of the vocal ligaments is in either case absolutely the same, and it takes the form of one vowel or another, solely according to the shape which the "resonator" assumes, and which may be described as a mould into which the tone is cast. The quality of the voice also--its throatiness, its nasal twang, its shrillness, harshness, and ugliness, or its purity, roundness, fulness, and beauty--depend mainly upon the nature of the resonator, and upon the way in which we work it. It is, therefore, a matter of the highest importance to be fully acquainted with this part of the vocal apparatus, and I hope my readers will follow me in a brief consideration of it with the more pleasure, as we are now speaking of parts which are directly under the control of our will, and upon the proper management of which so much depends. There is a most able, most painstaking, and most instructive work upon this subject, "Pronunciation for Singers," by Alexander Ellis, Esq., F.R.S., &c., published by J. Curwen and Sons, to which I would call the attention of all who desire to make the best use of their voices. To be really understood this book requires that the student should conscientiously carry out all the experiments Mr. Ellis suggests. But any one doing so will, I venture to assert, rise from the study of this subject with a deeper conviction of the immense importance of the "resonator," and with a clearer perception of the best way of managing it than he ever had before. I obtain better and quicker results with my pupils since I have learnt the lessons Mr. Ellis teaches, and I have no doubt my fellow teachers will derive similar benefit from their study. One of the few points upon which "doctors" do not differ is that the tone, in order to be pure, resonant, and far-reaching, must be allowed to come well to the front of the mouth. It should, as the phrase goes, be directed against the hard palate just above the front teeth. But this is an unfortunate way of putting it, as the tone fills the whole cavity of the mouth, and cannot be "directed" like a jet of water upon any given point. Nevertheless the idea sought to be conveyed by the injunction is good, for it is certainly essential to good quality that the tone should be brought well forward in the mouth. This is frequently prevented by several circumstances which we will now consider:-- The "soft palate" may be in the way. This is the movable partition shaped like an arch with the little pendant called the "uvula" hanging down in the centre. It acts like a curtain. If we lower it, it hangs upon the back of the tongue, shutting off the mouth from the throat, thereby compelling the tone to pass through the nostrils, and thus giving it a nasal quality. This nasal quality increases the more the passages through which the tone has to travel are impeded; but the first and indispensable condition for its existence is the lowering of the soft palate. Raise this, and you may completely shut the nostrils and yet produce a pure vocal tone. The reason is that, with the soft palate _up_, the nose is shut off from the throat, thereby compelling the tone to pass through the mouth. But more, the soft palate is never still for a moment while we are singing or speaking, as it assumes a different degree of tension for every vowel and also for every pitch of the voice. We see, therefore, that this curtain has great influence upon the management of the voice, and we should do all we can to get it under our control. In order to accomplish this, arrange a mirror so that you get the light reflected upon the back of your throat without bending the head, stretching the neck, or otherwise assuming an awkward position. I recommend reflected instead of direct light, because with the latter it is almost impossible to get a perfect sight of the soft palate without making any contortions, and these, however slight, are fatal to success. The management of the light will, no doubt, offer a little difficulty to those not practised in these matters, but once made it is easily rearranged, and the gain is great. The mirror mentioned above is to throw the light into your mouth; you will require another one in which to see the image. Now try the following: Open your mouth and breath through the nostrils; the soft palate will immediately drop upon the tongue. Sing while it is in this position, and you will produce nasal tone. Now breathe through the mouth, and the soft palate will rise. Raise it higher still, by attempting to yawn, till the uvula almost disappears. Sing again with the soft palate in this position, and if nothing else interferes you will produce pure vocal tone. If you sing up and down the scale you will perceive that the soft palate to some extent rises and falls with the pitch of your tones. You will also notice that the tension of it increases as you approach the the limit of one register, and that it diminishes as soon as you change into the next register above. All these things, and a great many besides, you will notice if you observe carefully, and by a little steady practice you will acquire easy control over the movements of your soft palate, the beneficial results of which will soon be manifested in the improved quality and the better management of your voice. This leads me to remark that the soft palate should, as a matter of course, be in a perfectly healthy condition, or it cannot perform the infinite variety of movements required from it. In many cases however, it is in a very different state, the arch being congested, the uvula elongated, and the tonsils greatly enlarged. People with a soft palate like this are handicapped. They might as well try to run a race with a heavy weight on their shoulders as to sing or speak with such impediments in their throats. They should at once put themselves in the hands of a properly qualified medical practitioner, who may probably recommend clipping of the uvula or excision of the tonsils. Either operation is a slight one, and in suitable cases nothing but good can follow from it. Another obstacle to the forward production of tone is often caused by that great movable plug called the tongue. We have it on the highest authority that the tongue is an "unruly member." It is sometimes difficult to keep it under proper control, and with some people it is continually running away altogether. As under ordinary circumstances, so in singing. Instead of peacefully assuming the position necessary for the production of the various vowels, the tongue rises in rebellion; it arches up, stiffens and defies all attempts to keep it in order. The tone is consequently more or less impeded and shut in, with the result of making it guttural or throaty. Here again singing before the mirror as described above will enable the student to master his tongue and to improve his voice to a wonderful extent. All voice trainers, as I have said before, agree that tone should be allowed to come well forward, and the best plan to bring about this desirable end is to sing _oo_, then to allow _oo_ to dwindle into _o_, and finally to allow _o_ to dwindle into _ah_. In some cases these _oo-o-ah_ exercises are insufficient because the throatiness of tone is partly brought about by a stiffening of the throat in general. The _oo-o-ah_ must then be preceded by staccato exercises upon the syllable _Koo_, which have the effect not only of throwing the tone forward, but also of making the throat supple. Make the experiment before a mirror and you will see the reason. I should have pointed out in the course of this chapter that one of the great secrets in the production of fine resonant and far-reaching tone consists in using as little air as possible; and I conclude by advising all those who want to be heard to open their mouths, a thing which, curiously enough, many people in these islands seem to be determined not to do. _APPENDIX TO THE NINTH EDITION_ VOICE FAILURE. A NEW CHAPTER, WRITTEN FOR THE NINTH EDITION, BY MRS. EMIL BEHNKE. The large and ever increasing number of professional voice users of all classes and of all grades who break down in voice is matter for serious and earnest consideration. Innumerable students of singing of both sexes, in England and abroad, suffer shipwreck of their hopes and ambitions in the loss of their voices during the process of training, long before the period arrives for professional and public voice use. In some of these cases general delicacy of constitution has been the principal factor in the failure; in others weakness of throat or lungs may have been a cause. But after making ample allowance for such physical contributories, we are still face to face with the fact that voice failure, accompanied by throat ailments, more or less serious, occurs with startling frequency, and no other reason is assigned for it than the irresponsible, indefinite one that the voice broke down under training. Of the infinitesimal number of successful students--that is to say, of those who, having completed their studies, come before the public as professional singers--so few escape the common lot that it would almost appear as if a fatality attended the following of the vocal art; yet from a health point of view, singing is an admirable exercise, and abundant medical testimony has been adduced in proof of this statement. There are, of course, other causes of non-success in vocal students besides break-down of voice. A fine voice and good musical knowledge are but parts of the equipment of the singer; if he have not the soul of an artist he will never rise above mediocrity. With musical and artistic failures this chapter has nothing to do, but only with preventible causes of break-down, such as have come under my personal observation from close association with the work of my late husband, and also in my own and my daughter's work since his lamented decease. In the establishment of a rule or law founded upon general truths, a number of examples bearing upon the subject under consideration are relied on as conclusive evidence, and by their use we are enabled to analyse reasons and deduce conclusions. From the examination of a large number of cases of vocal failure in singers and in speakers who have placed themselves under my tuition for recovery of voice, I have found that among the most frequent and most injurious mistakes are:-- 1st. Wrong methods of breathing and of breath management. 2nd. Loud singing and shouting. 3rd. Neglecting to cultivate the resonators. 4th. Forcing: (_a_) the registers; (_b_) the top notes. INCORRECT BREATHING. As regards methods of breathing, the descriptions and instructions given in this volume require no addition, and if carefully followed will prove of inestimable advantage both hygienically and vocally. It is, however, a fact that, not only in England, but also on the Continent, pupils are taught to breathe clavicularly, in opposition to Nature's method, which is diaphragmatic--_i.e._, the combined forms of rib and diaphragm breathing. The following is a striking example of the evil of clavicular breathing. During last summer an American lady, who had been studying singing in Milan for three years, came to me in great distress. She had expected to appear in Grand Opera in London, but, alas! her voice broke down, and serious throat troubles manifested themselves. She had lost all the upper notes of her voice from C in alt. down to D in the stave, and what was left of it was thin, reedy, and tremulous, like that of an old woman instead of a girl of 24. Her master had insisted on clavicular breathing, the result being that when her lung capacity was tested it registered only 80 cubic inches instead of 240. In addition to faulty breathing, she had been allowed to force up the registers of the voice to such an extent as to bring on serious congestion, with varicose veins in the vocal ligaments and in the pharynx. After several lessons the breathing capacity increased to 200 cubic inches, the voice regained some of the upper notes, and lost the "cracked," tremulous sound. In time, with great care, the majority of the notes will come back, but probably C in alt. will never be reached again, and the general deterioration of voice may never be fully overcome. Numerous similar instances, in men's voices as well as in women's, could be adduced, but the foregoing suffices; the results of incorrect breathing and of forcing being much the same in all cases, differing principally in degree. In the "Treatise on the Art of Singing" by the late Signor Lamperti, occurs the following passage, which fully bears out the necessity for diligent acquirement of correct methods of breathing:--"Masters of the present day, instead of obliging pupils to make a severe study of the art of respiration, as a rule, omit it altogether, and take them through the greater part of a modern opera at every lesson, to the certain ruin of their voices, and often at the expense of their bodily health. How many young singers come to Milan or to Paris with beautiful voices, musical talent, and every other natural gift, who, after putting themselves under the guidance of a master for two years, study modern operas; how many of these unfortunately find at the time of their _début_ that their voices, instead of being fresh and improved by education, are already worn and tremulous, and that, through the ignorance of their master, they have no longer any hope of success in their artistic career, which was finished before it was begun." A sad but an "ower true" description, applicable to other centres of voice-training besides Milan and Paris. It is scarcely possible to over-estimate the importance of correct methods of breathing and of breath management to all voice users, whether they are singers or speakers. As breath is the motive power of all voice it needs but little consideration to arrive at the conclusion that the best method of supply and control of this motor power is of vital necessity to those who depend upon their voices for success in their vocation, whether it be that of singer, clergyman, lecturer, or actor. Some of the worst descriptions of stammering owe their origin to improper breath management, and numbers of such cases which have been under my care have been perfectly cured by specially designed breathing exercises, adapted to the requirements of each individual case, combined with training of the various muscles employed in articulation. As no two persons stammer alike there can be no universal panacea for the cure of this terrible affliction; it is, therefore, necessary to study the peculiar idiosyncrasies of each case before formulating a plan of treatment; and this makes it impossible to write rules for self-cure suited to every case. LOUD SINGING. The practice of always singing loudly is greatly to be deprecated, leading as it does to undue strain, to coarseness of the voice, and to utter inability to modulate it into softness and purity of tone. Anyone can shout and bawl, but not every one can sing softly--therefore always practise softly until the voice be well formed, when it will be easy to increase the volume of sound. Constant shouting causes the muscles of the larynx to lose their contractile power, and a condition is brought about which is analogous to writer's cramp. Sometimes no voice can be produced, while at others it is given forth in a series of uncontrollable jerks. Singers deficient in resonance, and who have not acquired the best use and control of the various parts of the resonator, resort to the objectionable practice of forcing their voices, relying upon power of blast and vigour of shout instead of cultivating resonance. A loud, big voice, produced with effort, is a manifestation of a certain amount of physical power; but such voice-production is not singing, it is mere shouting. Tones so produced will ultimately show their bad origin by the effect left behind on the misused muscles. CULTIVATION OF THE RESONATORS. The resonators of the human voice, about which years ago Emil Behnke lectured and wrote, are only just beginning to receive the attention which their important functions deserve. Over some of the resonating cavities we can obtain no voluntary control; but over the whole of the mouth, of the buccal cavity, and over part of the pharyngeal we may, by education, gain as much influence as over the fingers of the hand, and the results obtained by such training are frequently astonishing. A student at one of our colleges came to me recently whose first question was "Can you teach me how not to sing with a 'squeezed' throat?" "Nothing easier," was my reply. On his singing a few notes to me, the tone of the voice revealed that owing to want of knowledge of the action of the resonators, he was closing his throat in such a manner that the voice sounded as if he were singing through the teeth of a comb. Without looking in his mouth, I drew on a piece of paper the position in which were his soft palate, the pillars of the fauces, the uvula, and the tongue, telling him that was the picture he would see on looking at his throat while singing. This proved on examination to be the case; and great was his wonderment to find that, after a little practice he could voluntarily remedy this squeezed position until it gradually disappeared altogether, and with it the unpleasant quality of voice which had caused him so much trouble. The inherent quality of tone is reinforced by the co-vibrations of the air in the resonance cavities, the greater fulness of the sound being caused by the increased quantity of air which is set into vibration. The slightest alteration in the shape of these cavities affects the quality of vocal tone by altering the direction and size of the air columns. There is for every tone an air column of a certain size which most powerfully reinforces that tone; and every resonance cavity answers to some particular note better than to others. Timbre in the voice depends largely upon the echoing and re-echoing of these resonance chambers; and it needs but little reflection to see that the shape given to the mouth in pronouncing speech sounds--more especially vowel sounds, with all their various shades--interferes more or less with the purity and quality of tone. Hence the necessity in singing for modifying vowel pronunciation to suit the various tones and pitches of the voice. Every shade of vowel has a certain pitch of its own which is best produced by certain positions of the mouth, tongue, and soft palate. It is, therefore, necessary, carefully to shape the mouth so that, on notes of different pitches, the configuration of the mould may be that which gives the best quality of the particular vowel tone. There must be an unimpeded passage for the voice from the larnyx to the lips, and this cannot be obtained if the same vowel shades are maintained in song as in speech. The vowels which require the greatest alteration in position of the mouth are A, E, and U; E being quite the most difficult, because, contrary to the opinion of some teachers who consider it the best for forward production of tone, it keeps the sound farther back in the throat than any other vowel, shutting it up and making the sound thin and poor. Diligent practice before a mirror is necessary in order to acquire the best position of the buccal resonance chamber; its attainment will well repay the trouble taken, for not only will the voice gain in timbre, in resonance, and in ease, but pronunciation will become pure and clear. The vowel "ah" is frequently chosen as the best one for vocalising, because in its pronunciation it is easy to put the mouth in a good position; and voices are trained on it exclusively, with the result that no other vowel, or vowel shade, is perfectly produced. Actual false intonation often arises from want of practice in adjusting the cavity of the mouth to that shape required for producing the best tone and resonance on the different notes; the absence of co-ordination between the fundamental tone and the overtones preventing perfect tune. The absolute truth of the foregoing remarks may easily be proved by singing the vowels at either extreme of the "vowel scale of nature," viz., "oo and ee," over the whole compass of the voice, having regard to the beauty of tone. Although the singer may be quite unaware of the science underlying the fact, it will be found that the quality of the voice at the bottom of its range as these vowels are sung is very different from that at the top of the range, the alterations taking place in almost imperceptible gradations. By reference to the foregoing pages of this book it will be seen that the late Emil Behnke attached great importance to vowel training, and exemplifications of his methods are to be found in "Voice Training Exercises" and "Voice Training Studies" written in conjunction with C. W. Pearce, Mus.Doc. The subject is also fully explained in "Voice, Song, and Speech," by Lennox Browne, F.R.C.S., and Emil Behnke; and the whole matter is most ably discussed in "Pronunciation for Singers," by the late Dr. A. J. Ellis, F.R.S., published by Messrs Curwen & Sons. In thus strongly advocating education of the resonator in the production of vowel sounds in singing, let me not be supposed to ignore the necessity for also cultivating pronunciation of consonants, which have been termed the checks and stops of sound. Clearness of enunciation and purity of pronunciation, which are great aids to the voice, and possess a charm all their own, depend upon both vowels and consonants being accurately rendered. The English are the worst enunciators of all European peoples, and their custom is to lay the blame on the language, than which none other is deemed by them so unvocal. There is, however, a vast amount of sonority and musical charm in our grand and noble language, second only to the Italian, when properly spoken. The cultivation of pure, accurate, and refined pronunciation in speech will greatly facilitate good enunciation in singing, and should he sedulously acquired; for there are numbers of vocalists who leave us in doubt as to whether the words they sing are English, French, Italian, or German; while the number of those who mispronounce words in a deplorable manner is legion. FORCING THE REGISTERS. The next factor which has much to do with voice failure is forcing the registers beyond their proper point of change. The erroneous belief appears to exist that, by carrying up the registers a few notes beyond their natural limits, the tones thus produced are fuller and richer. But if in training a voice this practice be followed the result will be serious injury to the vocal organ. This is not a theoretical statement; we can easily see with the laryngoscope the great amount of congestion of the vocal ligaments immediately caused by thus forcing up a register; and not only are these affected by the strain put upon them, but the whole interior of the throat becomes blood-red, and looks irritated and inflamed. As soon as the change to the right register is made the vocal apparatus returns to its normal state. Now we all know the effects of undue strain on muscles in other parts of the body, and have felt the pain and weakness arising therefrom; but far worse results follow the damage to the throat caused by the strain of forcing up the registers, by both speakers and singers. The quality of the voice becomes impaired, and actual loss of notes follows. In some extreme cases which I have had under my care, there has been entire absence of voice both in speaking and in singing, and much suffering has been experienced from granular inflammation of the throat brought on by this faulty voice use. Another method of forcing the voice is the almost universal endeavour to acquire "top notes" which do not belong to the singer's compass. Because of the high notes in some voices exceptionally endowed by nature, it seems as though all singers, no matter what their natural range, have made it the one object of their training to strive after a vocal attainment whose rarity appears to be almost its only justification to be considered as an artistic merit. Why should these ever vanishing "top notes" be so much craved and striven for? Can it be said that, as regards each individual voice, these notes are higher in a scale of excellence than the rest? What merit does their acquisition promise as a set-off to the deterioration of the voice and its inevitable ultimate failure? A high note, _per se_, is not necessarily "a thing of beauty" to the listener, while the result of its attainment is often the converse of a "joy for ever" to the singer; for in those cases of forcing up the voice above its natural compass, violence is done to the throat, which in time results in some of the many ailments peculiar to singers who use faulty methods. The middle range of the voice becomes proportionately weaker and thinner as the cult of the extra "top notes" becomes greater, until the anomalous position is reached of a voice with two ends and no middle; while these superadded, artificial, high notes are wanting in timbre, in purity, in strength, and in ease. It is easily demonstrable by the laryngoscope that the forced and strained action of the vocal ligaments, and of other laryngeal and throatal muscular action, exercises an injurious influence upon the voice. The endeavour to sing notes beyond the extreme of the compass, or notes which do not naturally lie within any one register--particularly the chest register--causes great fatigue of the tensor muscles of the vocal ligaments, and serious congestion, extending to the windpipe and pharynx has, in many cases, followed this practice. More time and energy are devoted to the acquirement of what the late Emil Behnke called "mere acrobatic skill" than is given to the purely artistic side of voice use, and it follows that we get "the survival _not_ of the fittest" but rather of those with exceptionally strong physical organisations, instead of refined artists. The deterioration throughout the whole compass of the voice is often painfully noticeable during an entire song, but the forcible shouting of a full, high-pitched note at its close seems to be intended to compensate for all the misery previously endured by the sensitive listener. Now the maintenance of a healthy condition of the vocal muscles depends to a great degree upon the right use of those muscles in the formation of tone. There should never be any feeling of fatigue, strain, pricking, tightness, aching, or of pain in the throat, nor yet of huskiness after vocal practice. The method of voice use which produces such results, or any one of them, is wrong. Nature is pointing out as forcibly as possible the injury which is being done. Her warning should be heeded before conditions, getting worse, lead up to the sad ailments from which so many suffer, and which are disastrous to both voice and health. The foregoing facts and illustrations force upon us the conclusion that the large majority of throat affections from which both speakers and singers suffer might be entirely prevented by correct methods of voice use. As prevention is proverbially better than cure, it must be infinitely more advantageous to acquire correct methods than to unlearn bad ones which exercise a deleterious influence, always recognisable even when entire voice failure has not followed their practice. _APPENDIX TO THE TENTH EDITION_ DOES DIAPHRAGMATIC BREATHING APPLY EQUALLY TO WOMEN AS TO MEN? In a kind notice of the first edition of this brochure, which appeared in _The Medical Press_, the editor raises the above question. He says: "The evils attending faulty methods of voice-production are pointed out both from an anatomical and from an artistic point of view, diaphragmatic breathing being especially insisted on in opposition to mere clavicular breathing. This is undoubtedly correct; but we think the advice here embodied would have been even more valuable had the authoress mentioned if from her experience she thought it applied in an equal extent to both sexes, as it is well known that nature, or we may perhaps more correctly say, the art of dress, causes women to breathe in a far more 'clavicular manner' than men." This is a valuable criticism, and as the point indicated is likely to be of interest to many persons, I append my reply, which appeared in the next number of _The Medical Press_:-- "To the Editor of the _Medical Press and Circular_. "SIR,--I intended the advice on breathing to apply to both sexes, diaphragmatic breathing with perfect control being the foundation of all good voice-production, whether in speaking or in singing, in men and women alike, while clavicular breathing is a potent factor in voice-failure accompanied by throat ailments. From the examination of a large number of cases, I find it exceptional for a woman, when dressed, to breathe diaphragmatically, but when the garments are unfastened, and a few simple directions followed, Nature's mode of breathing commences to re-assert itself, feebly at first, but vigorously after a little practice. Very many men also breathe clavicularly, to the great detriment of their voices, whether in speaking or in singing. I have noticed, however that whereas the majority of women _always_ breathe clavicularly, comparatively few men adopt this pernicious habit unless when using the voice, which is, of course, the worst time for them to employ it. As a rule, men re-acquire the natural manner of breathing more easily and quickly than women; this may be partly accounted for by their greater freedom from constricting garments. After a few weeks' training of the respiratory muscles, the lung capacity frequently exceeds, in women especially, the average given in Hutchinson's tables. "Thanking you in anticipation for your courtesy in publishing this letter,--I am, sir, yours &c., "K. BEHNKE "18, Earl's Court Square, S.W." INDEX. Artificial female voice, Roman teachers, 2 Back ring pyramid muscles, 46, 48 Bands uniting shield and tongue-bone, 34 Belts _v._ braces for men, 25 Breast bone, 11 Breathing, Collar-bone, 17 ----, Curing defective, 23 ---- during sleep, 28 ---- exercises, 106 ----, midriff and rib combined, 17 ----, Mouth _v._ nostril, 26 ---- neglected by teachers, 19 ----, View of larynx, 84 Breath, Singers' half-, 26 Browne, Lennox, on breathing, 18, 22 Carpenter, Dr., How tone is produced, 39 Cartilages of Santorini, 51, 54, 80 ---- of Wrisberg, 51, 54, 81 Catlin on American Indian breathing, 28 Chest described, 12 ---- voice used for pay, 4 Chink, Vocal, 45, 81 Clergymen's sore throat, 22 Collar-bones, 11 Composers disregarding voices, 3 ----' ignorance of harp, 3 ----, Modern, wed music and words, 3 ---- to blame for vocal decline, 4 Cords, Vocal, a misleading term, 38 ----, ----, False, 60 ----, ----, origin of term, 8 Corsets for gentlemen, 26 Curwen's names for registers, 87 Czermak's test in vowel formation, 59 ---- use of the laryngoscope, 75 Duprez' Chest C, 5 Eberth's case, voice-box without lid, 35 Elsberg on nose-breathing, 28 ---- on wedges (posterior nodules), 55 Eustachian tubes, 58 Exercises, Ah, legato, scala, 117 ----, Breathing, 106 ----, Controlling tongue, 124 ----, glottis, check and glide, 112 ---- for tone quality, 119, 121 ---- in changing registers, 118 ----, Mixed-voice, 119 ---- on koo, 124 ---- on vowels, 116 ----, Opening mouth, 125 ----, Resonator, 119 ----, Soft palate, 121 ---- to govern pitch, 115 ----, Voice production, 110 Experiment, calf's lungs, 12 ----, Czermak on vowels, 59 ----, defects in breathing, 23 ----, feeling ring-shield aperture, 72, 100 ---- in telling male and female registers, 90 Experiments, Marshall on animals, 39 ----, Müller on dissected larynges, 7, 96 ----, pressing shield to test pitch, 71 ----, Spirometer, 20 ----, Violin tone, 57 ----, whisper and feel voice-box, 70 ---- with laryngoscope, 76, 92 ---- with mirror, for nasal tone, 60 Falsetto register neglected, 4, 6 Female and male minstrels, 15 ---- voice spoilt by tenor pattern, 2 Foulis' laryngoscope, 78 French singers subject to tremolo, 20 Garcia and the laryngoscope, 74 ---- on forced registers, 96 Garrett, error in describing glottis, 45 ---- on a blackbird's larynx, 40 ---- on differences in larynges, 64 Glogg-ner-Castelli on chest voice, 5 Glottis, Chink of the, 45, 81 ----, Defects to avoid, 112 ---- in producing sound, 46 ---- in repose, 46 ---- in respiration, 46 ----, Shock of the, 83 ----, sphincter muscle, 44 Heart, 11 Helmholtz on whispered vowels, 70 Horns, Upper and lower, 34, 37, 42 Human voice, four parts, 9 ---- voice, incomparable, 9 Huxley's description of respiration, 14 Illingworth, Rumney, on falsetto, 39, 52 Inspiration and expiration, 14 ---- of men and women, 15 ----, Three ways of, 14 ---- through the mouth, 26 Isenschmid's throat apparatus, 77 Italian composers studying voices, 3 Lacing, Tight, 25 Laryngo-Phantom, Isenschmid's, 77 Laryngoscope described, 73 ----, Errors in using, 79 ----, How to use, 73 ----, What is seen, 80 Laryngoscopic images, 84, 85 Larynx generally described, 31 ---- (see Voice-box) Levers of the Pyramids, 36 Lid and its function, 32, 35, 80 Ligaments, Pocket, 50, 81 ----, ----, not tone producers, 52 ----, ----, their functions, 53, 83 ----, Vocal, described, 36, 81, 94 ----, ----, how produce tone, 32, 81 ----, ----, how stretched, 47 ----, ----, in S.C.T.B. voices, 66 ----, ----, size, movement, 41 ----, ----, Three actions of, 83 ----, ----, View of, 37 Lung gymnastics, 21 Lungs described, 9 ----, Experiment with calf's, 12 ----, their function, 12 Lunn on "Coup de glotte", 83 ---- on differences in larynges, 64, 89 ---- on laryngoscopic views, 82 Luschka, and term "vocal chink", 45 ----, how tone is produced, 40 Luschka's measurements of larynges, 64 Male contralti, 2 ---- soprani, 1 Malrespiration, 28 Marshall, experiments on animals, 39 Merkel on male and female larynges, 90 ---- on pyramids and registers, 99 ---- on tension of ligaments, 67 Merkel's terms for registers, 90 Meyerbeer and the falsetto, 5 Midriff, 11 ---- described, 12 Mixed voice, defined, 119 Mouth, its part in singing, 59 ----, when to keep it shut, 29 Mozart studied voice before composing, 4 Mucous membrane, 61, 80 Müller's experiments on larynges 7, 96 Muscles, back ring pyramid, 46, 48 ---- governing pitch, 113 ----, How to strengthen, 113 ----, ligament tension theory, 67 ----, Pyramid, 49 Muscles, Ring-shield, 41 ----, ----, how change registers, 97 ----, Shield-pyramid, 41 ----, Shield-pyramid, how change registers, 97 ----, Side ring-pyramid, 48 ----, Summary of uses of, 49 Nasal tone, various theories, 60 Nose cavities, 59 Nostrils best adapted for breathing, 27 Nourrit and Duprez, 5 Novello, Sabilla, how tone is produced, 39 Palate, Soft, exercising, 121 ----, ----, its movements, 59 Paris Conservatoire method of inspiration, 20 Pharynx, 58 Pitch, Mechanism affecting, 72 ----, Rise of, strains voice, 4 Pronunciation for Singers, Ellis's, 120 Pyramids, how act in registers, 99 ----, Levers of the, 36, 46 ----, side view, 37 ----, their shape and motion, 36, 82, 94 Register, Mechanism of thick, 94 ----, Thick, described, 94 ----, Thin, ", 98 Registers, Compass of the, 93 ----, Teachers' Manual on, 87 ----, definition, 86 ----, described by Mme. Seiler, 94 ----, distinguishing sex, 90 ----, Evil of straining, 101 ----, How ligaments act in, 86 ----, how small is formed, 101 ----, how upper thick formed, 95, 97 ----, Images of, 84, 85 ----, Laryngoscope and sub-division of, 91 ----, "Mixed voice", 118 ----, optional tones, 118 ----, places of break, 87, 96 ----, Straining of, 95 ----, Three female voice, 88 ----, to equalise, not expose, 116 ----, Two male voice, 138 ----, Upper and lower thick, 96 ----, ---- ---- ---- thin, 100 ----, what laryngoscope teaches, 104 Resonator changes by vowel, 70 ----, effect of formation, 58 ----, its parts, 9, 56 Respiration described, 13 Ribs, 11 Ring cartilage, 31, 32 Ring-shield muscles, 41, 70 Roger, the French tenor's style, 4, 6 Rossini on decline of vocal art, 2 Seiler, description of the registers, 92 ----, Madame, on "wedges", 54 ---- on action of vocal ligaments, 100 Shield and ring, Motion of, 34, 71 Shield cartilage, 34 Shield plates, 33, 71 Shield-pyramid muscles, 41 Singable music, 3 Singing _v._ speaking, 18 Snoring and keeping mouth open, 30 Sphincter muscle of the glottis, 44 Spirometer tests recommended, 19 Teaching, Hints on, 106 Tenors as teachers of female voice, 2 ----, Short vocal life of, 1 ---- sing octave lower than written, 87 Tobold, how tone is produced, 40 Tone, how produced, 56 ----, loudness, 56 ----, pitch, 56 ----, quality, 56 ----, Three ways of producing, 83 Tongue-bone, 34 ----, Exercises to control, 124 Tonic Sol-fa College, Experiments, 20 Tremolo, Controlled artistic, 22 ----, Involuntary, 21 ---- mars fine voices, 20 ----, Origin of, 21 Violin, Experiments for tone on a, 57 Vocal gymnastics, 114 Voce mista, 118 Voice-box, Attempts to see the, 74 ---- compared with instruments, 8 ----, differences in size, 62 ----, dissecting, 7, 44, 57 ----, its parts specified, 31 ---- measurements, 64 ---- movements, teaching of, 70, 72 ----, visible movements, 69 Voice-breaking, Cause of, 63 Voice, Cause of high or low, 65 ---- cultivation exercises, 110 ----, female, Wrong use of, 95 Voice, period of change in youth, 63 ----, quality of, exercises, 119 ----, poverty of the age, 1 ---- sufferers, Cure of, 24 Vowel scale, Order of the, 116 ----, Use of palate in forming, 59 Wedges, Action in small register, 103 ----, or cuneiform cartilages, 51, 54, 81 Whispering, Voice-box movements in, 70 When to keep the mouth shut, 29 Wilson, Erasmus, on cuneiform cartilages, 54 Windpipe described, 31, 81 Witkowski on "the wedges", 55 ---- on views of specialists, 8 Women in church music, 2 Words ignored by composers, 3 INDEX TO "VOICE FAILURE." Breathing, Evils of clavicular, 128 Breathing, Lamperti on, 129 Breathing, Wrong, 127, 128 Forcing, 128 Forcing, Acquiring top notes, 137 Intonation affected by resonance, 134 Laryngoscope, Its lessons, 137, 138 Lung capacity, 128 Pronunciation, 136 Registers, Forcing, 128, 136 Resonators, Neglect, 128, 132 Shouting, 128 Singing, Loud, 128,, 131 Stammering, 130 Symptoms of faulty voice use, 139 Throat, Inflammation of, 137 Timbre, 133 Tone, Squeezing, 132 Vowels, Shaping mouth for, 134 Vowels, Scale of nature, 135 Opinions of the Press and the Medical and the Musical Professions on the Author's Book, Lectures, and Teaching. SIGNOR GARCIA writes to the Author:-- DEAR SIR,--Very many thanks for the copy forwarded to me of your most interesting work. It will prove of an inestimable advantage to students, being, in my humble estimation, one of the clearest and most practical treatises on the subject which contemporary literature has produced. Accept also my sincere thanks for the description contained in your work of the origin of the laryngoscope, and believe me, dear sir, yours most sincerely, M. GARCIA. THE ATHENÆUM. Interesting, compared with those previously published, as being written by a musician and not by a medical man. Hence we are not surprised to find purely musical questions discussed here with great ability. NATURE. The object of this little book is to give singers a plain and comprehensible view of the musical instrument on which they perform. The author seems to have succeeded in this attempt remarkably well. He has evidently had much practical work himself, and has especially set himself the task of examining the action of the vocal organs during singing by means of the laryngoscope; and his record of his own experience in acquiring the use of that beautiful instrument is not only interesting, but of much practical value. The last section of the book is devoted to the teachings of the laryngoscope as to the action of the vocal ligaments in producing voice, with especial reference to the so-called registers. "A register consists of a series of tones which are produced by the same mechanism," is his definition (p. 86), which is new and complete, and he proceeds to explain the different mechanism of each kind of register as actually observed on singers. There are some good remarks on breathing (pp. 17-22). All information is given throughout in clear, intelligible language, and illustrated by fourteen woodcuts.... The book may be safely recommended to all singers, and others who are desirous of knowing how vocal tones are produced. SATURDAY REVIEW. On the important question of the different registers of the voice and their proper use, Mr. Behnke practically breaks new ground. He has carefully gone over the whole subject of the production of the voice as far as the larynx is concerned, and worked it out anew by a long and careful series of experiments and observations with the laryngoscope.... Mr. Behnke's book is clearly written, and the plates well drawn and printed; while the anatomical details are made clear to the general reader by the use of English names for the different parts.... It is a very valuable book, and ought to be read and thought over by all who have the training of young singers, and indeed by all musicians. MEDICAL PRESS AND CIRCULAR. In clear and untechnical language the author gives an accurate account of the construction and mode of action of the human larynx, its differences in men, women, and children, and the teachings of the laryngoscope, notably with respect to the "registers" of the voice.... M. Behnke is evidently an accurate observer and a logical reasoner, and a study of his work side by side with Witkowski's "Movable Atlas of the Throat and Tongue" must be advantageous to any one desiring to make the best use of his voice. THE SPECIALIST. This useful little book is the outcome of the author's large experience and careful research. It is written concisely, in clear and untechnical language, and frequent references are made to such authorities as Huxley, Lennox Browne, Eberth, Carpenter, Marshall, Luschka, &c. That Herr Behnke thoroughly understands his subject no one who reads his book can doubt, and if those who wish to know the right way to sing and avoid the wrong way will carefully study this little manual they will not go far wrong. For all who are dependent on the right use of their voices for their daily bread, Herr Behnke's book will be most opportune. MUSICAL STANDARD. An excellent specimen of a familiar way of putting unfamiliar truths. MUSIC TRADES REVIEW. There are excellent reasons why singers should possess an intimate knowledge of the structure and functions of the various organs concerned in the production of the voice, and this knowledge they are likely to gain more easily and effectually from the present treatise than from any other with which we are acquainted. Mr. Emil Behnke writes in a singularly clear and lucid manner, and if his book be not exactly light, it is very interesting reading. Much of the information conveyed is invaluable. We cannot too strongly recommend the present volume to the perusal of vocal students. MUSICAL EDUCATION. After carefully reading the book we are at no loss to understand how it is that there is such a demand for it amongst the members of the musical public. The style is admirably simple and lucid, and every statement made is in accordance with the latest views on the subject held by physiologists and anatomists of acknowledged eminence. KEY BOARD. The most reasonable, practical, and common-sense work to be found anywhere. THE VOICE. This book is clear and plain, and gives just the information that every singer and speaker should have. It is the ablest and most practical treatise on the voice we have seen. THE INQUIRER. Men have set themselves to try and ascertain the actual process by which vocal sounds are produced, and thus to form a scientific basis on which to found a way of training voices. Herr Behnke, in a singularly clear and lucid manner, brings the whole subject before the reader, and, to make it readily understood by non-scientific people, gives a translation of the Greek terms used by physiologists side by side with the originals. We cannot too strongly insist upon the necessity of forming a scientific basis for teaching singing, and, indeed, for training the voice for public speaking, &c. We congratulate Herr Behnke upon the patience and perseverance with which he has pursued his investigations with the laryngoscope. MUSIC. Mr. Emil Behnke has already made himself known to the leading members of the musical and medical professions by his learned lectures on "The Theory of Voice Production," and has gained the esteem of those interested in the subject by the masterly manner in which he deals with the matter, as well as his unaffected and, as far as possible, untechnical treatment of it. Mr. Behnke has done much to popularize the study of the human voice, and his book (which abounds in admirable plates) deserves to be widely known. EDUCATIONAL TIMES. It is but rarely that science figures as the handmaid of art, yet this book is a signal instance of it, for it is one of the first attempts, if not the very first, at an investigation, on strictly scientific principles, of the normal and the abnormal development of the voice, both in speaking and singing. Herr Behnke, who is both a musician and a physiologist, has brought to bear upon this subject his knowledge as a musician, and the results of several years of patient and careful scientific experiments. We cannot too highly commend this little work to the attention of all those interested in so important a subject. BIRMINGHAM DAILY GAZETTE. Since Herr Behnke's removal from Birmingham to London he has become an accepted authority on the subject of voice production, and we are glad to see the results of his studies presented in the useful way in which they are in this little volume. Earnest and conscientious students of the vocal art need not be reminded that the production of fine tone is not the all-in-all of the excellences of singing, but they will certainly know better how to employ their gifts after mastering the secrets Herr Behnke reveals. Opinions of Mrs. Emil Behnke's Pupils. VOICE TRAINING. FROM AN OLD PUPIL. GRESHAM HOTEL, DUBLIN. DEAR MRS. BEHNKE,--It is indeed regrettable that Mr. Behnke was not spared to reap to a greater extent the reward of his wonderful work. You, I know, must have acquired an adequate knowledge of his magnificent system of teaching to enable you to continue on the same course, and so perpetuate his memory. This is a source of comfort to your many friends. FROM A LADY LECTURER. EDGBASTON, _May 11th, 1893_. MY DEAR MRS. BEHNKE,--I feel I must write to tell you how much better I am, and how greatly indebted I am to your treatment.... I can take two or three meetings a week with ease, thanks to your training, and the deeper and fuller tone of my voice has been remarked upon by many. LARNE, IRELAND. I have no hesitation in saying that, under God, you were the means of curing my voice. FROM A CLERGYMAN WHO HAD BROKEN DOWN IN VOICE. LONDON, _July, 1893_. My voice gives me no trouble now; it is indeed very much fuller and more resonant. I can fill my church without the least effort. FROM A CLERGYMAN WHO HAD SUFFERED FROM "CLERGYMAN'S SORE THROAT." BRIGHTON, _26th June, 1893_. DEAR MRS. BEHNKE,--I take this opportunity of thanking you very much for what you have done for my voice. I shall try to keep up your exercises, and hope to receive more lessons later on in the year. FROM A CLERGYMAN WHO STAMMERED, AND WHOSE VOICE WAS WEAK. "THE PARSONAGE," _Feb. 7th, 1893_. DEAR MRS. BEHNKE,--I told the Rev. Mr. S. of the great benefit I had derived from your instruction. He proposes to bring the subject of your work, and the importance of it to young clergymen, before the Bishop, with a view to something being done for ordination candidates. FROM A TEACHER OF SINGING. SCARBOROUGH, _Jan. 6th, 1894_. DEAR MRS. BEHNKE,--For some years I have been teaching successfully on the lines laid down in your late husband's publications and his own "Voice Training Exercises;" and have put into the hands of some of my pupils your "Voice Training Primer." One of them has just passed Trinity College Senior Singing Examination with honours (84 marks out of 100). My own experience is that no exercises I have ever used have so helped to produce "forward" and to cure "throaty" tone, and I have long felt I owed to Mr. Behnke a debt of gratitude for his works. May I be permitted to acknowledge it to you? STAMMERING. THE TIMES. Pre-eminent success in the education and treatment of stammering and other speech defects. THE BRITISH MEDICAL JOURNAL. DR. F. L. NICHOLLS writes:--"This infirmity is so great a drawback to almost every walk in life, and for public speaking so complete a hindrance, that a cure is of the utmost importance. It may therefore be of interest, and possibly of some use to members of the medical profession having a case of this nature in their practice, and desiring assistance for its cure, if I mention that I have recently had the most satisfactory experience of the cure of such a case. The father, a minister, was very anxious for his son to follow in his own footsteps, while the lad stuttered so badly it was not to be thought of, unless a cure could be effected; and for this purpose he was sent to Mrs. Behnke, of Earl's Court Square, London. Mrs. Behnke was chosen from high recommendations, and very thoroughly has she proved worthy of them. The lad has just returned home, and speaks without the slightest impediment. I should state that previously to going under Mrs. Behnke's hands we had tried various rules and recommendations without the least success." "Stammering: its Nature and Treatment." Price 1_s_, of Mrs. Emil Behnke. Causes of Voice Failure. _By Mrs. EMIL BEHNKE._ =Third Edition, Revised and Enlarged.= =OPINIONS OF THE PRESS=. THE WEEKLY ECHO. A very useful pamphlet by a very able teacher. It is published at sixpence, but contains many guinea fees' worth of knowledge, and hints where to procure more. THE SHREWSBURY CHRONICLE. Ought to be perused by all who seek distinction as vocalists. BRISTOL TIMES. A valuable little brochure. It is one of the most concise and practical treatises on the subject we have seen, and if only the hints contained therein were more generally observed, we should have not only less voice failure, but more good singers with strong, resonant, and lasting vocal organs. The little book should be in the hands of all singers, students especially. HEARTH AND HOME. Mrs. Behnke's pamphlet should be eagerly read. I advise all those who are interested in the preservation of their voices to invest sixpence in the purchase of this admirable booklet, as they cannot fail to gain much assistance from the excellent matter therein contained. HALIFAX GUARDIAN. The pamphlet is terse and valuable in the information it affords. THE MEDICAL PRESS. "Causes of Voice Failure," by Mrs. Emil Behnke, has the merit of being practical and of containing truths which must appeal forcibly not only to singers, but also to listeners. WARRINGTON GUARDIAN. "Causes of Voice Failure." This important subject is well treated by Mrs. Emil Behnke. THE QUEEN. Well worth reading for the valuable hints which it contains. THE PRACTICAL TEACHER. The husband of Mrs. Behnke was the greatest authority in his day upon voice-training, and, in recommending his wife's book we need only say that her knowledge of this subject is only second to what his was. MUSICAL OPINION. This is a small, cheap, and useful pamphlet by Mrs. Emil Behnke. The quiet, clear, convincing manner in which she writes deserves full recognition. SUSSEX DAILY NEWS. "Causes of Voice Failure," by Mrs. Behnke, is a useful little tract which may be confidently recommended to the notice of singers, professional and amateur, for the sound advice and cautions against common faults of training contained in it. BRISTOL OBSERVER. Mrs. Emil Behnke has written a little work on "Causes of Voice Failure" which deserves to be widely circulated among students of singing. It should be carefully read. CAMBRIAN. Excellent advice is given which must be of great value to those who contemplate adopting the vocal profession either from a pecuniary or from an artistic standpoint. THE SCHOOLMASTER. Mrs. Behnke goes to the root of the matter, and her proposals are urged clearly. Incidentally she touches on stammering, and we recommend those interested in the subject to give her ideas, at any rate, consideration. THE PROFESSIONAL WORLD. We would recommend it to all interested in the question of voice production and voice preservation. LITERARY WORLD. The writer of this essay is a well-known expert in her subject. TUNBRIDGE WELLS ADVERTISER. In a concise form Mrs. Behnke gives some valuable hints that singers would do well to note and pay attention to. WEST SUSSEX GAZETTE. Mrs. Behnke was well advised to consent to the publication of this valuable chapter added to the ninth edition of her husband's well-known work, "Mechanism of the Human Voice," and we are glad to note it has already run to a second edition. THE BEHNKE VOICE-TRAINING METHOD. =Voice-Training Exercises= =ALSO= =Voice-Training Studies= =BY= =EMIL BEHNKE and Dr. C. W. PEARCE.= _In separate books for Soprano, Mezzo-Soprano, Contralto, Tenor, Baritone, and Bass._ Price: Paper Covers, 1s. 6d. net cash; Bound in Cloth, 3s. net cash. =Voice-Training Primer= =By MRS. EMIL BEHNKE=. 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London: Baillière, Tindall, and Cox. [B] It having been proved to Mr. Behnke that the use of the term "_abdominal_" instead of "_diaphragmatic_" breathing led to misconception and misrepresentation of his views on this important subject, he discarded the words "abdominal breathing" and used only the term "diaphragmatic breathing" in his teaching and writing. Will readers kindly bear this in mind?--K. B. [C] "Medical Hints on the Production and Management of the Singing Voice," Fifth Edition, p. 15. London: Chappell and Co. [D] Only for the purpose of ascertaining the capacity of the lungs _before_ commencing the exercises, and the gain acquired after some weeks of regular work. [E] "The Throat and its Diseases," pp. 289, 290. London: Baillière, Tindall, and Cox. [F] "The Throat and its Functions." New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. [G] _Sphincter_ is an anatomical term applied to circular muscles which constrict or close certain natural orifices. [H] "Ueber die Compensation der physischen Kräfte am menschlichen Stimmorgan," p. 8. Berlin, 1839. [I] "Voice in Singing," p. 189. Philadelphia, 1875. [J] "Anatomist's Vade Mecum." By Erasmus Wilson, F.R.S. London. Eighth edition, p. 596. [K] Helmholtz, "Sensations of Tone:" translated by Alexander J. Ellis, F.R.S., &c., p. 37. [L] "Philosophy of Voice," 2nd edition, p. 19. Baillière, Tindall, and Cox. [M] A "Laryngo-Phantom" has recently been brought out by Dr. Isenschmid of Munich, which greatly facilitates this preliminary practice. It consists of an imitation of the throat, the larynx, and the mouth, and "is intended to familiarize students with as many of the details connected with the use of the laryngoscope as it is possible to learn before the application of the instrument to the living subject." A number of little paintings representing different laryngoscopic appearances may be slipped into this Phantom, unknown to the student, who has to discover what has been done by the usual process. This apparatus can therefore be strongly recommended as affording excellent and constant practice. It may be had of Messrs. Krohne & Sesemann, 8, Duke Street, Manchester Square, W., price £2 2s. [N] "Der Kehlkopf," p. 153. Leipzig, 1873. J. J. Weber. 
32023	----	THE BOY'S VOICE. [Illustration: _CHORISTER BOYS_. _Photographed by Mr George Hadley, Lincoln_.] THE BOY'S VOICE A BOOK OF PRACTICAL INFORMATION ON THE TRAINING OF BOYS' VOICES FOR CHURCH CHOIRS, &c. BY J. SPENCER CURWEN _Fellow of the Royal Academy of Music; President of the Tonic Sol-fa College._ [Illustration: Decoration] London: J CURWEN & SONS, 8 & 9 WARWICK LANE, E.C. NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER AND SONS. _Price Two Shillings and Sixpence._ =1891= LONDON: J. CURWEN AND SONS, MUSIC-PRINTERS, PLAISTOW, E. PREFACE. The value of this little book, as the reader will soon discover, depends less upon my own work than upon the large number of choirmasters whose experience I have been fortunate enough, directly or indirectly, to lay under contribution. The conditions of the choir-trainer's work vary, in an endless way, according to his surroundings and opportunities. And it is just when work becomes difficult that contrivances and hints are most fruitfully evolved. Hence I have given in great detail the experiences of many correspondents, and some of the most useful suggestions for ordinary church choir work will be found to proceed from writers holding no great appointment, but seeking quietly and unostentatiously to produce good results from poor material. In view of a second edition, I shall be pleased to receive letters from readers who have further experiences to offer. J. S. C. _June_, 1891. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGES The Healthfulness of Singing 1-5 CHAPTER II. Management of the Breath 6-7 CHAPTER III. The Art of Managing Choir Boys 8-11 CHAPTER IV. Voice Training 12-22 CHAPTER V. Information on Voice-Training, collected by the Salisbury Diocesan Choral Association 23-26 CHAPTER VI. Pronunciation in Singing 27-28 CHAPTER VII. Singing by Ear and by Note 29-30 CHAPTER VIII. Flattening, and Singing out of Tune 31-39 CHAPTER IX. On the Training of Boys' Voices 40-48 CHAPTER X. The Special Difficulties of Agricultural Districts 49-58 CHAPTER XI. Notes on the Practice of various Choirmasters in Cathedrals, &c. 59-68 CHAPTER XII. Notes on the Practice of various Choirmasters in Parish Churches 69-74 CHAPTER XIII. Alto Boys 75-89 CHAPTER XIV. Schools for Choristers 90-98 CHAPTER XV. Concert Songs for Boys 99-103 [Illustration: THE BOY'S VOICE.] CHAPTER I. THE HEALTHFULNESS OF SINGING. The boy's voice, though an immature organ of delicate structure, is capable of much work, providing only that its mechanism be rightly used and not forced. Some people are unnecessarily nervous about boys; as a rule, under competent guidance, they will get nothing but good from vocal work. A cathedral organist wrote to me the other day:-- "Our best solo boy, who has a splendid voice and who sings beautifully, has been unwell, and the Dean and Chapter doctor (who has an idea that every choir-boy should be as robust as a plough-boy) has just stated that the boy is too feeble to remain in the choir. Notwithstanding my remonstrances, the Dean and Chapter decided yesterday to uphold the doctor. I tried his voice last week, and he sang with full, rich tone up to the C above the stave, and that after he had been skating from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. I should have thought that a boy who could skate all day could not be in such a 'feeble' state as represented by the medical man. Three months ago a boy with a beautiful voice was sent away for the same reason. So you see what uphill work it is for me." It is to be hoped that fastidiousness of this sort is not common. The _abuse_ of the voice may lead, of course, to serious results. In the _New York Medical Record_ of March 21, 1885, p. 317, there is a case recorded of the bursting of a blood vessel through too energetic singing, but this is altogether abnormal, and beyond the scope of our enquiry. The voice, properly used, will last as long as any other organ, and it benefits by exercise. Mr. D. W. Rootham of Bristol, who now at middle age has a strong constitution and a fine baritone voice, tells me that as a boy at Cambridge he sang for seven years at five services every Sunday. The thing seems incredible, and it is an extreme case, though it shows what work the voice, properly managed, will do. Singing, it should be remembered, promotes health. It does so indirectly by causing cheerfulness, a genial flow of spirits, and the soothing of the nerves. It does so directly by increasing the action of the lungs. So far as these organs are concerned, singing is a more energetic form of speech. As we sing we breathe deeply, bring more air into contact with the lungs, and thus vitalise and purify the blood, giving stimulus to the faculties of digestion and nutrition. A physiologist, in fact, can trace the effects of singing from the lungs into the blood, from the blood into the processes of nutrition, back again into the blood, into the nerves, and finally into the brain, which of all organs is most dependent upon healthful and well-oxygenated blood. Dr. Martin (organist of St. Paul's Cathedral) has had many years' experience in training choir-boys, and he tells me that he has never known a boy to injure his voice, or lose it through singing. It is a question of method; if the voice be used properly it will stand any amount of work. He has seen boys disposed to consumption improve in health after joining the choir. The medical man who declared that if there were more singing there would be less coughing, expressed in a graphic way the healthful influence of vocal practice. Parents and guardians need never hesitate to allow their sons and charges to become choir-boys under proper choirmasters. They may be sure that nothing but good can come of the exercise. Two cautions only are needed. The first is, not to sing during a cold. When a slight inflammation has attacked the larynx--that is, when a cold has been taken--the vocal cords are thickened, and the act of vocalisation causes them to rub together, which increases the inflammation. If the cold is a bad one--that is, if the inflammation is great--the singer will be compelled to rest, because the congestive swelling of the vocal cords will be so great that they will be unable to vibrate sufficiently to produce tone. But whether slight or great, the cold demands rest. Otherwise permanent injury may be done to the voice. The second caution relates to the preservation, not of the boy's voice, but of the man's. There is no doubt that it is undesirable for a boy to continue to sing after his voice has shown signs of "breaking." What are the first signs of this change? Choirmasters notice that the middle register becomes weak, without any diminution in the power and quality of the upper notes, but that at the same time the thick register grows stronger, and the boy can strike middle C with firmness. "The striking of middle C," says Mr. G. Bernard Gilbert, "is usually sufficient to decide the point." The tradition of teachers is in favour of rest at this time, and a well-founded public impression counts for a good deal. The fact is that during the time of change not only do the vocal cords lengthen, but they are congested. An inflammatory action, like that which takes place during a cold, is set up. Hence rest is desirable. Nature herself also counsels rest because she reduces the musical value of the voice at this time to a low ebb. It becomes husky and of uncertain intonation. No doubt cases can be quoted of boys who have sung on uninterruptedly and developed into good tenors or basses, but there are cases equally strong in which the man's voice has completely failed after such a course. Sir Morell Mackenzie is the only medical writer who has advocated singing during change of voice, but not even his authority can upset the weight of evidence on the other side. Nevertheless, on the principle of "hear both sides" I quote the following from a letter by Mr. E. H. Saxton, choirmaster of St. James's church, at Buxton:-- "Upon the question of resting completely from singing during the period of change of voice, I hold that one must be guided by the circumstances of each individual case. I carefully watch each boy when I am expecting the change to commence, and it usually shows itself by the upper thin register giving way. If I cannot immediately spare the boy from the treble part (and good leading boys are not plentiful), I caution him to leave high notes alone, never to force them, and as soon as possible I relegate him to the alto part, where he often remains useful to me for a year or eighteen months. All the time he is singing the alto part I keep watch over him, and forbid his singing as soon as there are indications that the effort is in the slightest degree painful. Generally I find this prohibition to be only necessary for notes above [Illustration: middle f] Should a vacancy occur in the senior choir (if the boy shows signs of his voice developing to either tenor or bass) I get him passed from the junior to the senior choir, warning him, however, to be very careful of his high notes, and never to force them. My general experience leads me to the conclusion that it is a most arbitrary and unnecessary rule to lay down that every boy should rest at this time. In some cases it is necessary, no doubt, but my opinion is, after twenty years' practical experience, that in a large number of cases it is cruel, and about as much use with regard to the after-development of the voice as it would be to prohibit speaking. Speaking practically--not scientifically--I hold that the vocal organ is beneficially exercised when singing is allowed in moderation, and within the restricted limits which every choirmaster ought to know how to apply. I have experienced boys who have never rested developing good voices, as well as those who have rested. But I have no experience of boys who have never rested developing bad voices, though I have of those who did rest. I have three boys in one family in my mind now, one of whom had a good alto, the other two good soprano voices. The alto and one soprano never rested, and developed respectively a good tenor and bass. The other rested (through removal to another town), and developed a very indifferent bass." In spite of this weighty and well-argued statement, my own opinion is that the preponderance of evidence is in favour of rest. It is certainly a new physiological doctrine for a short period of rest to injure or prevent the development of any organ. In short, I cannot see how there can be any disadvantage in a few months' rest, while from the other point of view there can be no musical advantage in the use of an unmusical instrument. As soon as the man's voice shows signs of settlement its practice should gently begin. [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER II. MANAGEMENT OF THE BREATH. Breathing in singing is a matter of the utmost importance. The breath is the motive power, the primary force, to which the larynx and the resonance chamber are but secondary. In speech we can manage with short breathing and half-filled lungs, but in sustaining the sounds of song, we need to breathe deeply, and to breathe in a right way. Manifestly the act of breathing consists of two parts--(1) the drawing in, and (2) the letting out of the breath. When we speak of modes of breathing, however, we refer to the drawing in of the breath. There are three ways of doing this. First, by lowering the diaphragm, and thus compelling the lungs to enlarge and fill the vacant space created. Second, by extending the ribs sideways, causing the lungs to expand laterally. Third, by drawing up the collar-bone and shoulder blades, causing the upper part of the lungs to expand. The third method is bad; the ideal breathing is a combination of the first and second. Upon this athletes as well as singers are agreed. This is the breathing which we practise unconsciously in sleep, or in taking a long sniff at a flower. The musical results of bad breathing are flattening and a hurrying of the time; hence the importance of the matter. Practice may well begin with a few minutes devoted to breathing exercises. Let the boys inhale a long breath through the nose; hold it for a time, and then slowly exhale. Again let them slowly inhale, hold, and exhale quickly, allowing the sides of the chest to collapse. Again, let them, while holding the breath, press it from the lower to the middle, and to the upper part of the chest, and _vice versa_. During this exercise the body should be in the position of "stand at ease." The spirometer, a useful but rather expensive little instrument, measures accurately lung capacity. These breathing exercises may be followed by practice in holding a single tone for a period just short of exhaustion. [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER III. THE ART OF MANAGING CHOIR BOYS. To some choirmasters the management of their boys is a perfectly easy matter; to others it is a constant source of trouble. Everything depends upon knack. Max O'Rell has some wise maxims on the subject which it may be well to quote. "Face the boys," he says, "or you will be nowhere. Always be lively. Never show your temper: to let the boys see that they can ruffle you is to give them a victory. Allow no chatting. Never over-praise clever boys; never snub dull ones. Never expect any thanks. If a boy laughs at a mistake made by another boy, ask him for the answer immediately, and he will be dumb. If you do not love boys, never become a choir [school] master." Discipline is preserved by giving the boys seats in the same relative position at rehearsal and in church. There should be a double row of desks in the practice room, provided with a shelf for books, just as in the stalls. If the boys have to hold the books and music in their hands they stoop, and the singing suffers. Each boy should have a copy of the music, and it should bear his number, so that he is personally responsible for its good keeping. Punctuality at rehearsal is important. Let the choirmaster call for order at the exact time, and let the roll be gone over at once. To be unpunctual, or not to register early attendance, is to encourage laxity. There is no doubt that the long services in many churches are trying to the choir boys. In some churches the morning service lasts two hours and a quarter. It is very hard even for an adult to keep his thoughts from wandering, and his eyes from glancing over the congregation during all this time. How much more hard is it, then, for a boy who is by nature a fidget, and if healthy, brimming over with activity? Nevertheless boys can be trained, if not to control their thoughts, at least to an outward reverence and quietude in harmony with the service. Reproof, if it is needed, is best administered in private. Boys should be paid, if only a small sum; this gives the choirmaster a hold upon them, and enables him to impose fines, if necessary. Payment can be increased for those who take Tonic Sol-fa or other sight-singing certificates, which of course increase their value as choristers. Let it be noted that the voices will carry further if the boys hold up their heads. This caution is especially needed when they are singing in the kneeling posture. All that can be done to interest the boys in their work by encouraging the social feeling, will be to the advantage of the choir. Their hearts are easily won. An excursion, an evening party once a year are great attractions. Mr. H. B. Roney, of Chicago, advocates a choir guild, and in the choir-room he would have a library, games, puzzles, footballs, bats and balls, Indian clubs, and dumb-bells. He would open and warm the choir-room an hour before each service and rehearsal. To some extent he would let the youngsters govern themselves, and says that the gravity with which they will appoint a judge, a jury, sheriff, prisoner, and witnesses to try a case of infraction of the choir rules, would bring a smile to the face of a graven image. Prizes at Christmas are part of his scheme; these should be awarded for such points as punctuality, progress in music, reverential demeanour, and general excellence. According to Mr. Sergison, organist of St. Peter's, Eaton Square, London, the choirmaster will have power if he make himself beloved. He should enter into the boys' way of looking at things, and remember that they have deep feelings. The boys should be arranged in classes, each higher class having higher pay, with sundry little privileges. Mr. Sergison says that by putting the boys upon their honour, and treating them well, he has always maintained strict discipline, and has never yet had to resort to corporal punishment. The Rev. E. Husband, of Folkestone, who is an enthusiastic choir-trainer, is strongly of opinion that for vocal purposes working-class boys are better than the sons of gentlemen. He finds that boys of a lower class have richer and fuller voices than those above them in the social scale. I was myself present, not long since, at a concert at Eton College, and although I was greatly struck with the purity of the tone, its volume was thin and somewhat shallow. One reason why working-class boys excel, probably, is that plain food and outdoor life keep the body in the best condition, so that the children of the poor, so long as they are well-nourished, are healthier than the children of the rich. But the working-class boys have also this advantage, that they begin life at four years of age in an Infant School, where they sing every day, and receive systematic Tonic Sol-fa teaching which is continued when they pass into the boys' department. Boys who are trained under governesses and at private preparatory schools often learn no singing at all. It is to be hoped that the diffusion of musical knowledge will make these class-comparisons, from a musical point of view, unnecessary. The choir-boys of Christ Church, Oxford, are all the sons of professional men, but then the choice is a wide one, as they come from all parts of the country. The precentor of a cathedral writes to me on an important branch of our subject. I sincerely hope that his picture is not one that is generally true:-- "My own experience would suggest that in connection with the training of cathedral choristers the attention of cathedral organists might be very advantageously drawn to the very great importance of efficiency in the art of teaching--of imparting knowledge. The instruction given may be as good as could well be desired, but the manner of imparting it just as bad--such as would be condemned in any well-conducted Public Elementary School. Uncontrolled temper, the cane, boxing of the ears, are matters which go far to prove a teacher very seriously incompetent as a teacher. A cathedral organist is specially exposed to the temptation to hastiness and harshness, owing to the power he possesses. A parent values the position of a chorister for his son, and the organist is tempted soon to take advantage of the parent's unwillingness to withdraw his son. In a parish choir, either voluntary or paid at a very low rate, the exhibition of bad temper or discourtesy in manner is quickly followed, in all probability, by the loss of the offended chorister. Offensive manners on the part of the trainer quickly endanger the existence of the choir. Not so in cathedrals, and the cathedral organist knows this. 'I cannot think why that boy does not sing in tune; I have boxed his ears;' said a cathedral organist once to me quite seriously. This proves, I think, how blind even a highly-trained musician may be to the need for any art in the mode of imparting instruction. I fear there is a vulgar notion (only half defined, most probably) that irascibility in the musical trainer is a mark of genius. I write from experience, having been upwards of a quarter of a century in cathedrals, and a considerable portion of that time precentor." In conclusion, the custom of throwing a halo of sentiment round choir-boys, and petting them, is much to be deprecated. It has become the custom to write tales and songs about them, in which they are made out to be little angels in disguise. All this is very foolish and harmful. Choir-boys, as a rule, are no better and no worse than other boys. They respond well to wise treatment, but need to be governed by common sense, and to be taught their places. I am myself somewhat to blame for illustrating this book with two pictures of choir boys. It is really inconsistent. CHAPTER IV. VOICE TRAINING. { C2 { B1 Small { A1 { G1 {F1 Upper Thin. {E1 { {D1 {C1 Lower Thin. {B {A {G { {F Upper Thick. {E {D { C Lower Thick. { B_1 { A_1 { G_1 Before commencing to train a voice the choirmaster must make sure that it is a voice worth training. He must take the boy alone, test his voice by singing scales, and try especially his notes in the treble compass, say, [Illustration: musical notation] He must test his ear by playing phrases, and asking the boy to sing them. He must enquire into his theoretical knowledge, if any, and ask if he has had a Tonic Sol-fa or any other systematic training. The ear of the choirmaster must decide upon the voice. It is said by some that boys' voices partake of one or other of two qualities, the flute quality or the oboe quality. They differ, no doubt, in _timbre_, but these two divisions are not clearly marked. The diagram at the side gives the compass of the registers in boy trebles and altos. The names are those invented by the late John Curwen, and have the advantage of describing the physiological action that goes on. Thus in the Thick Register, the vocal cords vibrate in their whole thickness; in the Thin Register their thin edges alone vibrate; and in the Small Register a small aperture only is made, through which the sound comes. The registers are practically the same as those of women's voices. They may be shown on the staff, thus:-- [Illustration: Lower Thick. Upper Thick. Lower Thin. Upper Thin. Small. Chest. Middle. Falsetto.] I give below the staff another set of names which are sometimes used, but different voice-trainers attach to these different meanings. It is undesirable to tell the boys anything about the registers. The spirit of voice-training at the present time is too analytical. The theory of the registers is for the teacher, not for the pupil. Some voice-trainers seem to think that it is their business to discover the registers, but as far as tone goes it is their business to conceal them. Trainers work better through possessing physiological knowledge, but the end is a smooth and homogeneous voice, blended and well-built. Roughly speaking, the boys to be rejected are those who through carelessness, excitement, or confirmed habit, force up the thick register while singing. And those to be accepted are the boys who have sufficient reserve and care to turn into the fluty tone at the proper place, whether the music be loud or soft, and whatever be the shape of the melodic passage. The right use of the voice is most likely to come from boys who, whatever their social status, are well brought up, and have been taught to avoid screaming, coarse laughing and bawling, and if possible to speak in a clear way. Voice studies are of two kinds. First come those which promote the building and setting of the voice. These are generally sung slowly. When the voice is becoming settled exercises for agility may be introduced. Of agility exercises most voice-training books contain plenty. There is a good selection in Mr. Sinclair Dunn's "The Solo Singer's Vade Mecum" (J. Curwen & Sons, price 1s.) and Sir John Stainer has written a set, printed on a card, which is published by Mowbray, Oxford and London, price 6d. When the system of probationers is at work the voice-building exercises will not be much needed. The little boys will insensibly fall into right habits. They will learn to produce tone as they learnt to speak--by ear. But when a new choir has to be formed, the building exercises are necessary. And the first object of these is to make the boy feel the thin register and strengthen it by use. For this purpose such phrases as these, which leap into the thin register, and quit it by step are the best:-- [Illustration: KEY =E=[b]. d1 t l s d1 t l s m1 r1 d1 t d1] [Illustration: KEY =G=. s f m r f m r d l s f s m] These exercises should be sung to several vowels, but especially to the sound "koo," which will at first immensely amuse the boys, but will afterwards be found to throw the tone forward towards the teeth in a way that no other sound does. Pure vowel tone goes with pure and resonant voice. The broad and pure vowels of the Yorkshire dialect have, more than anything else, produced the Yorkshire voices. Hence the choirmaster must make a determined effort to cure provincialisms in so far as they prevent the issue of pure vowel sounds from the mouth. The vowels should be sung in their vocal order as recommended by Mr. Behnke, oo (as in _you_), o (as in _owe_), ah (as in _Shah_), a (as _pay_), and ee (as in _see_). These may be taken to slow scales, thus:-- [Illustration: oo-o-ah-a-ee oo-o-ah-a-ee, &c.] Let the choirmaster watch carefully for impure sounds, and call upon each boy to sing two measures by himself from time to time. In singing the boy should stand upright and free. He must not lean or bend his body. The mouth must be fairly opened, but not too wide. As the voice ascends the mouth opens wider. The lips must lie lightly on the teeth, and the tongue should lie at rest, just touching the front teeth. If, for the sake of change during a long rehearsal, the boys sit, let it be remembered that there are many ways of sitting, and that the upright posture hinders the breath less than lolling and a crooked posture. Rigidity is the enemy of all good singing. Let the whole body and vocal apparatus be relaxed, and pure tone will result. "If I hear a boy forcing up his voice," said Herr Eglinger, of Basel, to me, "I ask the rest of the class to point him out, and they do it at once." This at once cures the transgressor and sharpens the consciences of the other boys. As to the vowel on which singers should be trained, there are differences of opinion. Maurice Strakosch, the trainer of Patti, Nilsson, &c., used "ha," which causes a slight breath to precede the articulation. This, he said, gives the voice a natural start. It is something like the "koo" of Mrs. Seiler. Learners he required to lower their heads while singing, and to show the upper teeth, so as to keep the lips out of the way of the tone. Mr. Barnicott, a successful choirmaster at Taunton, uses "ka." But as in the actual singing of the English language all the vowels are encountered in turn, it would seem reasonable that they should all be included in the practice. Mr. Walter Brooks, quoted elsewhere, lays stress upon long-sustained notes in the scale of E flat, and up to G. These expand the lower part of the lungs, and produce steady, firm tone. They should be sung both loud and soft, the boys one by one and together. An admirable plan is to keep boys on the alert listening for faults, asking those not singing, "Whose fault is that?" Jealousy and conceit, says Mr. Brooks, are avoided by giving a solo to three or four boys to sing in unison. Three or four will blend better than two, and after proper rehearsal the tone is so like one voice that people say, "What a beautiful voice that boy has!" As to balance of parts, the following table is given by Mr. H. B. Roney of Chicago:-- Sopranos 12 17 25 37 50 Altos 4 5 7 11 14 Tenors 4 5 8 11 14 Basses 5 8 10 16 22 -- -- -- -- -- 25 35 50 75 100 Mr. Stocks Hammond says that during voice exercise the boys should stand perfectly erect, with mouth well open, the shoulders being thrown back. After exercise in slowly inhaling and exhaling the breath, comes the uniting of the registers. This is accomplished by singing up and down the scales of C, D, and E to the syllable "ah." Each tone is taken with decision, and is followed by a slight pause. The same scales are afterwards sung to "oh" and "oo." This exercise should not last longer that ten or fifteen minutes. Staccato scales to "ah!" "oh!" and chromatic passages are introduced later. Mr. G. Bernard Gilbert, F.C.O., of West Ham Parish Church, is an exceptionally skilled trainer of boys' voices. He meets his boys half-an-hour before each of the Sunday Services and "tunes them up," an admirable plan, which cannot be too widely imitated. The first thing he does in training boys is to teach them to attack and leave sounds with precision, neatness, and proper register or quality of voice. He gives chief attention to the sounds between [Illustration: here the author expresses a range from the F above middle-C (or F4) to the C above middle-C (C5) by inserting a staff] and first practises them. If beauty of tone is to be obtained, it is of the utmost importance that these sounds should be given in the thin register. Mr. Gilbert has cultivated this register in his own voice, and is able to give the boys a pattern in the right octave, which he thinks of great use. The change from upper thick to lower thin takes place between E and F. The boys should intone in the thin register. Flattening while intoning is almost entirely due to boys using the thick register. Mr. Gilbert uses the vowels as arranged by Mr. Behnke, oo-o-ah-ai-ee, practised first with a slight breath between each, afterwards all in one breath, _piano_ and _staccato_. Consonants preceding these vowels are of little value, as they only disguise a wrong action of the glottis, without removing the fault. He uses also sustained sounds, and short major or minor arpeggi, and last of all scale passages. If due attention be given to the intonation of the arpeggio, the scale should not be, as it too often is, all out of tune. The arpeggio is its skeleton or framework. Mr. Gilbert alternates this work with the singing of intervals and the practice of time rhythms. He attaches great value to the vowel "e" in practising sustained notes, scales or arpeggi, though other vowels must receive due attention. "E" has the advantage of bringing the vocal cords very close to together, thereby effecting a greater economy of the breath than is possible with the other vowels. He has constantly succeeded in making boys produce a pure and beautiful tone to this vowel, especially in that part of the voice called the upper thin, when he could not do so with the others. Of course "e" can be sung badly, and boys will sometimes make a nasal squeak of it, but the correct placing of the tone is quickly learnt if the teeth are kept nicely apart. Mr. Gilbert teaches the boys when very young the mechanism which governs their voices above [Illustration: high f] This is the "small" register. He is careful also about pronunciation, recommends that boys should be paid, and that bad behaviour, laziness, or irregularity, if they occur, should be punished by fines. One of the most marked excellences of Mr. Gilbert's choir is its chanting, and the elocutional phrasing of the words of the hymns. The rigidity of the time is often broken with impressive effect in order, by an elocutional pause, to throw into relief a prominent word or idea. * * * * * Mr. T. H. Collinson, Mus.B., organist of St. Mary's Cathedral, Edinburgh, has given me some interesting particulars of the training which his excellent boys undergo. The process of selection is as follows:--(1) Advertisement. (2) Trial of voice, and entry of particulars of school, school standard, father's occupation, &c. (3) Choice of most promising voices. (4) Inspection of homes, as to overcrowding, &c. (5) Appointment of probationers. (6) Full appointment, with religious service of admission by the Dean. The parents engage in writing to retain the child in the choir school until his voice changes, or to the average age of fourteen. The boys are taken at all ages from 9 to 12-1/2. "Cultivation of tone, blending of registers, and accuracy of pitch are specially studied, the principal means being as follows:--(1) Mouth-opening (silently). (2) Breathing exercise. (3) Sustained notes _piano_, each to full length of breath. (4) _Piano_ scales. (5) Simple flexibility exercises, _e.g._, Sir J. Stainer's card of exercises, published by Mowbray. (6) _Crescendo_ and _Diminuendo_. (7) Behnke's resonance vowels, oo-o-ah. (8) Behnke's glottis-stroke exercises, oo-o-ah-ai-ee. (9) No accompaniment, except a single note on the pianoforte every three or four bars to test pitch. Where badly flat, a scolding, and going back to try over again. (10) At early morning practice no _forte_ singing is allowed, as a rule. "By the above means, especially sustained notes and _piano_ scales, flatness is easily avoided, and the registers blend perfectly. A curious local peculiarity has to be specially treated in the junior boys. The Scottish 'u' as in 'gude' (good), 'puir' (poor), 'nü' (new), is identical with the French 'u' in 'tu' or 'Hugo,' and the little fellows sing an amusing exercise like the following:-- You should do two, on every note of the scale, with special care to protrude the lips to a round whistling shape for the 'oo.' Very oddly they sing a good 'oo' in the falsetto register, and a certain solo boy used to sing Handel's 'How beautiful are the feet' in its first two phrases in alternate Scotch and English, the vinegary 'ü' in the first (low) phrase, and a fine round 'oo' in the higher phrase, where 'beautiful' begins on E flat. "Raw candidates and ill-taught children generally come minus any register at all above [Illustration: high d] and grin with surprise on being taught to produce sweet upper notes by open-mouth _piano_ 'ah.' "Colds and petty hoarseness, interfering with the upper notes, are terribly common in this climate in the class of boys obtained for the choir. A successful soloist at Friday rehearsal may be found incompetent by Sunday, so that all solo work is carefully understudied. A few minutes each day suffice for the purely technical voice exercises. The services are many in number; three on Sunday, two on week-days, and occasional extra services at special seasons. The number of boys is kept up to say 30, and they are worked in divisions to minimise their duties. The boys are educated free, and seniors receive payment. 'I think that boys' voices are much like unto boys' legs--they need daily exercise if they are to be worth anything.'" * * * * * Mr. R. H. Saxton, of Buxton, writes:--"My choir boys are almost exclusively drawn from the working class, and the majority of them use the thick register for the speaking voice. I take them at nine years of age, sometimes younger if they can read fairly well, and my first effort is to suppress the thick register altogether in singing. If they were encouraged to use it they would most certainly abuse it by carrying it far beyond its proper range. Soft singing is the only effective plan I know of for removing the tendency to use the thick register. This I insist on in modulator voluntaries and time exercises. The time exercises are always laa'd on or above [Illustration: middle A]. In modulator work I at first avoid beginning in the lower keys where the thick register would naturally be used. By thus constantly cultivating the thin register, never allowing faulty intonation to pass unnoticed, and always checking the natural tendency of boys to sing coarsely; together with a free use of ear exercises, in which they are taught to recognise tones by their mental effect, I succeed at last in getting fairly good tone. It is, however, a work of time and difficulty, on account of the daily surroundings of the boys, and the habitually coarse way in which they are allowed to sing in school. To avoid flattening, I believe the course I have indicated to be the best remedy, as eye, ear, and voice are cultivated simultaneously. "In training the thin register special care must be taken that the Upper Thin is brought out at [Illustration: high d] and it is often better that the C also should be taken in the Upper Thin. A strained Lower Thin on C sharp or D will be sure to induce flattening, while if the Upper Thin is properly used there is no difficulty whatever in using the high D and E within reasonable limits as the reciting note in chanting. When the music moves about stepwise in close proximity above and below the breaks, we have another cause of flattening. As most of our country choirs consist at the best of but partly-trained voices, composers and choirmasters should bear this in mind. It must not be supposed that boys are the sole cause of flattening. Far from it, they are too often the victims of an untuneful tenor or bass. "From the first moment a boy comes under my care he is encouraged to take the Tonic Sol-fa certificates, and few leave the choir without having passed the Intermediate. I am of course now speaking of those boys who remain with us till they are no longer of use as boys." * * * * * I append an extract from a letter by Mr. J. C. E. Taylor, master of the Boys' National School at Penzance, and choirmaster of St. Mary's Church, which is interesting as showing the extent to which singing by ear can be carried:-- "The children here, as in most Cornish towns, are fond of music, and have a quick ear. I pick my boys from a school of nearly 400. I choose them by the way they _read_ in school. They are generally of Standard V., and between ten and eleven years of age. If younger the Psalms puzzle them. I try a new boy's voice at the choir practice. If he has a sweet tone, and can reach F sharp, however faintly, I accept him, and keep him on probation at the practices. About half-a-dozen are so kept, and the best lad fills any vacancy occurring in the choir. I have no trouble as regards discipline, as a fine, or the knowledge that their places can be instantly filled by the probationers, keeps the choristers well in their places. At the choir practices I begin with running up and down the scales with their voices together, beginning soft, and allowing the voices to increase as the scales ascend, and diminish on descending, but holding on to the top-most notes whilst I play a chord or two on it. Then with a nod of my head they descend. At times one note is given them on which to _cres._ and _dim._, for breathing exercise. Not one lad knows his notes except as to their rise and fall and values. They depend on their ear entirely, even in the most difficult fugues." At this church anthems and settings of the Canticles are sung every Sunday evening. The men are voluntary; the head boys get from 30s. to 40s. a year, the solo boys receiving 3d. or 6d. as an encouragement after rendering a solo or verse part. * * * * * In spite of all that can be written on the subject of voice-training, the art is one most difficult to communicate. Some teachers succeed; others fail. A remarkable instance of this came under my notice lately. The headmaster of a school asked me to pay his boys a visit in order, if possible, to discover the reason of the great falling-off in their singing. His previous singing-teacher had brought the boys to a high pitch of excellence. When he left, the singing was placed under the charge of an undermaster, who had for a year or more heard all the singing lessons given by his predecessor, who used the same voice exercises with the same boys in the same room. Surely, one would have thought the results must be the same. But the singing had deteriorated; flattening, and a lifeless manner had overcome the boys. The causes, so far as I could discover, were first that the new teacher wanted the magnetic, enthusiastic way of the old, and second, that he had not so quick an ear for change of register, and allowed the lower mechanism of the voice to be forced up higher than its proper limits. * * * * * This chapter focuses a large amount of valuable experience, but amid the many hints which are given, two ways of securing right tone stand out with marked prominence. They are, soft singing, and the downward practice of scales. [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER V. INFORMATION ON VOICE-TRAINING, COLLECTED BY THE SALISBURY DIOCESAN CHORAL ASSOCIATION. I am indebted to the Rev. W. Miles Barnes, rector of Monkton, Dorchester, for the following information, recently obtained by him on the subject of voice-training. It appears that for the information of choir instructors (some 200 in number) in union with the Salisbury Diocesan Choral Association, the advice of precentors and organists of cathedrals was lately sought as to the best way of correcting a very common fault in the singing of country choirs. The following questions were proposed: "(I.) It is a common practice in country choirs for boys and tenors to force the lower register to sing notes which should be taken in the higher or head register. The notes thus forced are harsh and unmusical in tone, and generally flat in pitch. How would you correct this fault in boys?" "(II.) What method is employed in ---- Cathedral for developing and strengthening the higher (head) register in boys' voices?" The following are extracts from the replies:-- Rev. F. J. HELMORE, Precentor of Canterbury. I should recommend the practice of the first five notes of the scales of A, B[b], B, and C, _piano_, taken rather slowly, and then of intervals from G to D, G to E[b], G to E, A to E, &c. &c. After that I would try them with the complete scales of E, F, F[#], and G, fast and _forte_, thus:-- [Illustration: musical notation] If no improvement is perceptible, begin again. Practice is the main thing, after a boy has got to understand his faults. Rev. W. MANN, M.A., Precentor of Bristol. (1.) I think it almost impossible to remedy the evil you complain of after the boys have been accustomed to sing upper notes from the chest for some time--say one or two years. Our practice here is to secure boys between the ages of 9 and 11, before they have been singing elsewhere, or certainly before they have acquired any faulty tricks of forcing the voice. (2.) In training boys' voices never allow them to shout. If they commence singing when young they may be taught by scale practice (always singing quietly) to bridge over the break which exists between the chest and head voice. This is an art, and requires experience. (3.) Speaking generally, I should say that judicious scale practice is the remedy likely to be of most service in the case specified, teaching boys, by singing quietly, to glide the chest voice into the upper register. I recommend the syllable "la" as generally best for the purpose all through the scale. Boys should keep their tongues down, open mouths well, sing not through teeth, &c. &c. I find that boys acquire the cathedral style of singing (with the well-known flute or bell-like tone) chiefly by example. In singing with boys who have already acquired it the younger ones catch the style, just as birds are taught to sing by trained songsters. The untrained rustic can never naturally produce this tone, but much may be done by (1) careful scale practice; (2) strict enforcement of a quiet easy style, and rigid prohibition of shouting, or forcing the voice; (3) the occasional example of trained singers. Rev. C. HYLTON STEWART, Precentor of Chester. The great thing is not to train boys _up_ through break in the voice, but _down_ through it, and so to coach them that the break becomes imperceptible. The top notes ought to be practised very softly until a good round note is procured. This, however, can seldom be done out of a cathedral, as it requires constant attention. Rev. W. E. DICKSON, Precentor of Ely. In this Cathedral, and I suppose in every other, the boys have at least one hour of daily practice under the most favourable circumstances of quiet music-room and good pianoforte, and an able teacher. The two orderly services follow with the regularity of a clock, and in these the voices of the boys are balanced and supported by those of adult singers--presumably, good vocalists. I think you will agree that no practical rules, available by instructors of village choirs, can be founded upon arrangements so far beyond their reach. To describe any "Method" of developing voices under such circumstances would be quite delusive. A life-long experience in the training of parish choirs would lead me to say that the best approach to true voice production is made when a lady takes charge of the choir, and has the boys to practise at her own house. To say that all instructors should use unwearied diligence and unfailing patience and kindness in the attempt to get soft singing, is only to repeat a very trite remark. In schools, the mistake is often made of singing almost all the exercises in the key of C, and commencing all scales with the syllable "Do." In trying candidates for admission to the choir, we constantly find that they have been accustomed to a scale of 13 notes only (one octave) up and down. The scales should begin on all or any of the notes--D[#], B[Symbol: natural], G[b], &c., and the peculiarities of the intervals should be familiarly explained. A pamphlet might be written. But there is no "Royal road." J. M. W. YOUNG, Esq., Organist of Lincoln. The precentor has forwarded your note to me. In answer to your question asking how to prevent the trebles in country choirs from forcing the upper notes, I would suggest that when practising the choir, care should be taken that the trebles are never allowed to sing even the _middle_ notes _loud_, only _mf_, and they should be frequently practised to sing _piano_. If this be attended to, it will, in a great measure, prevent the forcing of the voice on the higher notes, which should never be practised otherwise than softly. Country choirs nearly always sing twice as loud as they ought to do, consequently the tone becomes harsh and grating, and they invariably sing the upper notes out of tune. I never allow the Cathedral choristers to practise in a loud tone of voice, yet their voices are rich and mellow, and there is never any want of power when it is required. Any tendency to force the voice is checked at once. It will be found very useful to practise the trebles with the diatonic scale at a moderately quick pace, taking care to sing it _smoothly_ and _piano throughout_, first to "OO," next to "Oh," and finally to "Ah." [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER VI. PRONUNCIATION IN SINGING. It is impossible to emphasise too strongly the importance of clear pronunciation in singing. The English, as a rule, pronounce indistinctly. "We carry on our talk," says Mr. H. Deacon, "in mere _smudges_ of sound," a graphic and true way of putting things. The Scotch, Welsh, and Americans pronounce better than we do. Indistinctness and bad dialect arise, roughly speaking, from two sources--impure vowels and omitted consonants. The impure vowels are generally due to local habits of speech, such as the London dialect, which makes a colourless mixture of all the vowels. In some parts of Scotland also the vowels are very impure. The voice-training exercises given elsewhere are several of them directed towards the production of good vowel tone, but the danger is lest the power gained in these should not be applied to the actual words encountered in psalm, canticle, anthem, or hymn. A sentence containing all the vowels may be chanted repeatedly on a monotone, but after all the best exercise consists in constant watchfulness against mispronunciation in the ordinary weekly practice. Man, according to Mr. R. G. White, may be defined as a consonant-using animal. He alone of all animals uses consonants. The cries of animals and of infants are inarticulate. So is the speech of a drunken man, who descends, vocally as well as in other ways, to the level of the beasts. This idea has been expressed in another way, by saying that vowels express the emotional side of speech, and consonants its intellectual side. All these distinctions point to the great importance of a clear enunciation of initial and final consonants, and a clear separation of words. A well-known bishop said to a candidate for ordination, "Before uttering a second word be sure that you have yourself heard the first." It is of no use to give a list of common errors, because each part of the country has its own bad points of dialect. The choirmaster should take his standard of English from the best preacher and reader he has the chance to hear, and endeavour to conform his boys to it. But localisms are not the only faults. Boys are very apt to clip their words in chanting, to omit the smaller parts of speech altogether, and to invent new and meaningless sounds of their own. The most familiar parts of the service need frequent and watchful rehearsal to prevent this tendency. Chanting, as a rule, is much too fast, and the eagerness of the boys must be restrained in this direction. In those rare cases where pronunciation and elocutional phrasing reach a high pitch of excellence, the music of the service makes a double appeal to the heart. It bears not only the charm of sweet sounds, but the eloquence of noble words. [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER VII. SINGING BY EAR AND BY NOTE. Many choirmasters maintain that, considering the short musical life of the choir-boy, it is not worth while to teach him to sing by note. The quickness of boys' ears for music, they say, is astonishing, while their memories are equally good. Between the two faculties--ear and memory--we are told that all things necessary are supplied. The boys, it is said, don't like theory, and it saves time and patience not to have to teach it to them. I am altogether at issue with this view. I believe theory can be made interesting to boys, especially if the Tonic Sol-fa system is used, and that if they are taught sight-singing the choirmaster saves himself a vast amount of trouble. The after musical doings of the boys should also be considered, and whether they become tenors and basses, or take to an instrument, the power to read music will be a happiness through their whole lives. The leading anthems, services, and psalters are now published in the Tonic Sol-fa notation, so that boys who have learnt to sing from the letters at school may quickly be put to sing their parts in the church choir. The late Alfred Stone, of Bristol, who used the Tonic Sol-fa notation for his choir boys, found it a great time-saver. So quickly was the service music got through at the weekly practice that there was nearly an hour to spare for singing glees and getting up cantatas. Mr. Stone arranged his boys in two grades. The upper grade all held a Tonic Sol-fa certificate, and they received higher pay than the lower grade. The result of this arrangement was that the lower boys got the upper ones to teach them Tonic Sol-fa in their playtime, and thus saved the choirmaster a great deal of trouble. A serious disadvantage of the ordinary way of learning to sing from the staff notation is that practice usually begins in, and is for several months confined to key C. For boys' voices this is the most trying of all the keys--the one most likely to lead to bad habits in the use of the registers. The keys for boys to begin in are G and F, where you can get a cadence upon the tonic in the thin register. A German choirmaster, whose choir is greatly celebrated, has sent me a little book of exercises which he uses, and I find that, as in most English publications of a similar kind, there are pages of exercises in key C, before any other key is attempted. In Tonic Sol-fa all keys are equally available from the first. I have had a wide experience of boys taught on all systems, both in this country and abroad. I have been present, by the courtesy of choirmasters, at rehearsals in all parts of the country. And I have noticed that boys taught by ear, or taught the staff notation by the fixed _do_, make mistakes which boys trained by Tonic Sol-fa and singing from it, or applying their knowledge of it to the staff notation, could not make. The class of mistake I refer to is that which confuses the place of the semitones in the scale. A sight-singing manual which I picked up the other day says that the whole matter of singing at sight lies in knowing where the semitones come. And from one point of view this is true, but to the Tonic Sol-faist the semitones always come in the same places, _i.e_., between _me_ and _fah_, and between _te_ and _doh_. He has only one scale to learn, and as to modulation, that is accomplished for him by his notation, while the time marks, separating and defining the beats or pulses of the music, make rhythm vividly clear. If choirmasters wish to save themselves trouble, and get confident attack and good intonation from their boys, they should teach them the Tonic Sol-fa notation, and let them sing from it always. The staff notation they can easily learn later on. CHAPTER VIII. FLATTENING, AND SINGING OUT OF TUNE. The trainer of adult voices has constantly before him the problem of making his pupils sing in tune. With boys this matter is less of a trouble, for this reason. Many adults have fine voices which, if their intonation can be improved, will do great things. Others have incurably bad voices, but possessing the ambition and the means for studying singing, they come under the hands of the professor. In the case of boys, however, there is a preliminary process of selection by which the teacher rejects at the outset any defective ears and voices. The trainer of boys chooses his pupils; adult students of singing, as a rule, choose their teacher. Even, however, when a good set of boys has been chosen and trained, every choirmaster is troubled from time to time by the evils which I have named at the head of this paper. What are their causes? Probably no cause is so fruitful as a misuse of the registers of the voice, a straining upwards of the lower register beyond its proper limits. This may be placed in the front as a perpetual cause of bad intonation and loss of pitch. This straining is usually accompanied with loud singing, but boys who have formed this bad habit will not at once sustain the pitch if told to sing softly. Their voices, under these circumstances, will at first prove weak and husky, and will flatten as much with soft singing as they did with loud. A slow process of voice training can alone set them right. But as boys' voices last so short a time this treatment is not worth the trouble. Boys who have fallen into thoroughly bad habits should therefore be dismissed, and a fresh selection made. Some choirmasters imagine that practice with the organ or the pianoforte will cure flattening and uncertainty. This, however, is not the case. Probably the effort to keep up the pitch which singers make when unaccompanied keeps their minds and throats tense and active, while the consciousness that the instrument is supporting them makes them careless. An instrument reveals loss of pitch, but does not cure it. No good choirmaster rehearses with the organ. A pianoforte, lightly touched, is commonly used, but the teacher should frequently leave his seat, and accustom the choir to go on alone. It is a mistake to suppose that boys flatten because the music is too high. This is very rarely the case. They are more likely to flatten because it is too low. Boys attack high notes with greater ease than women. Nervousness will cause a singer who has sung in perfect tune at home to sing sharp or flat at a concert. But nervousness does not greatly trouble boys. Carelessness will sometimes cause these troubles. The way to cure this is to increase the interest of the rehearsal, to make the boys feel bright, happy, and comfortable. To mark the breathing places is a good way of preventing flattening, which is often caused by exhausted lungs. Singing is a mental as well as a physical act, and unless the boy has a clear conception in his mind of the sound of the note he wants, the intonation will be uncertain. Here comes in the Tonic Sol-fa system with its "Mental Effects," which give a recognisable character to each note of the scale, and guide the voice and ear. Bad voice production, throaty and rigid, must always go with flattening and wavering pitch. The act of singing should be without effort; the muscles of head, neck, and throat should be relaxed. A boy inclined to these faults should be told to smile while singing. The tone will then become natural. But in spite of all these hints, flattening occurs from time to time in the best trained choirs, and seems to defy the skill of the choirmaster. All agree that a half empty church, a cold church, an ill-ventilated church promotes flattening, and it may be added that certain chants and tunes so hover about the region of the break that they invite false intonation. Mr. H. A. Donald, headmaster of the Upton Cross Board School, tells me that he has not much flattening, but that when it comes it seems to be beyond control. The discipline of his school is excellent, but on a given day there will come, as it were, a mood over the boys which makes it impossible for them, try as they will, to avoid sinking. Sometimes, but not always, this will happen in warm weather. He has more than once abandoned the singing lesson, and taken up some other study because of it. One day recently the boys were most attentive, and their vexation and disappointment with the flattening was evident. Another day it does not trouble them in the least. This is a school where voice-training is exceptionally well looked after. Several correspondents have favoured me with experience on this point, and I now proceed to quote their letters. Mr. W. W. Pearson, of Elmham, writes:-- "Ordinary flat singing is the result of want of practice and experience. Chronic flat singing is incurable, as it is due to a defective ear. A new lot of choir boys will be liable to sing flat, and to lower their pitch at any time for the first year or so; but after they have been in training for a considerable time, I never find that there is any inclination to sing flat. The notes most liable to be sung flat are the third and sixth of the scale, or any high note that requires courage and increased effort. One of these, having been sung flat, is taken by the singers as a new departure, and being used as a standard, the pitch is lowered, and all succeeding notes are flat. "When I first formed my present choir I was very much plagued with flat singing, but I am seldom troubled in that way now, and I think the reason is that a large proportion of the members have been under training for a long time. "I used to find flattening prevail more in muggy, damp, or cold weather, and in heated rooms. I never allowed the choir to go on in this way, but stopped them at once, making them begin again after singing the scale of the key a few times. This, of course, refers to practice. In church I used to play the organ louder when I heard the pitch going down; or I would put on a powerful solo stop for the melody, and slightly prolong the final note of a cadence, in order that when the choir ceased singing they might hear the difference. When flattening occurred in the concert room I used to stop the accompaniment, which is, I think, about all that can be done under those circumstances. When the choir have been hopelessly bad in a hot practice room I have cured them by bringing them out into a cold room adjoining." Mr. C. Hibberd, of Bemerton, Salisbury, writes:-- "To prevent flattening I give great attention to the posture, seeing that the boys do not stand carelessly. A careless posture, I think, betokens a careless mind. I am careful not to overtire the children. They sit immediately one piece is finished, and stand immediately I sound the first chord of the next piece. I always start the practice with a few simple voice exercises. When training the choir of a place far away in the country, I spent more time than usual in giving ear exercises (dictation), as well as voice-training exercises. I pay great attention to 'mental effect,' and endeavour to let each boy or girl have a Tonic Sol-fa copy of the music. The syllables recall the mental effect to the mind. There should be no uncertainty as to either time or tune, and both words and notes should be attacked or struck with confidence. I always practise scales downwards, and have as little to do with the harmonium as possible at practice. Boy altos I rarely come across. I tried them once, but found they aided in flattening. We have two men altos here, who sing in a falsetto voice. The boys here have a name for singing well in tune, and they are very willing to do anything to keep up their character." Mr. Walter Brooks, in a paper in the _Monthly Musical Record_, expresses the opinion that the 3rd and 7th of the major scale are often sung flat. To cure this, each boy must tune up separately, then all should be tried together. Minor passages are often sung flat. Loss of pitch during service may, he says, be remedied, not by loud organ stops, but by playing the boys' part an octave higher. Sharp singing, which often arises from naturally defective or badly-trained ears, is cured best by checking those who can only sing loudly, and by insisting on _piano_ singing. To put on more organ power makes the loud sharp singing worse. Herr Eglinger, of Basel, whose qualifications I have referred to elsewhere, considers that flattening is generally due to fatigue. The membranes which produce the voice are not yet strong, and they relax, producing flattening. He works on the principle that children are quickly tired, and quickly rested, and gives the singing in small doses. Unfortunately, in church work the length of the dose is not a matter of choice. He notices, what others have noticed, that when the voices are divided into three parts, it is the middle part that flattens most; this is because it plays about the break. To choirmasters whose boys flatten, Herr Eglinger says:-- "Give rest; require a proper use of the registers; get sharp and exact pronunciation, especially of the consonants; and keep up with a strong hand the attention and interest of the choir." I close this chapter by printing a short paper on the subject kindly written for me by Mr. W. H. Richardson, formerly trainer of the celebrated Swanley Orphans' Choir, which gave concerts in all parts of the country. Mr. Richardson, while he was at Swanley, obtained results of the most remarkable excellence. At Swanley there was no selection of voices: all were made to sing, and all were individually trained, as well as collectively. "My conviction," says Mr. Richardson, "is that there are no more defective voices than there are eyes and ears." The Rev. W. J. Weekes, late Precentor of Rochester Cathedral, said of the Swanley boys:-- "The smaller boys were first tested--some thirty or forty little fellows, some of them new arrivals. Here the tone, though of course not strong, was pure and sweet, such as would have done credit to cathedral boys after a couple of years' training, and they 'jumped' their intervals most clearly, lighting as full and fairly on the correct note as a bird does on a bough. Thence we moved into the larger schoolroom, where were assembled some hundred older boys, and such a body of sound, so full and pure, so free from throatiness, and so true in intonation as these hundred throats emitted, I certainly never heard from boys' voices before." In 1885 I took the late Signor Roberti, teacher of singing in the Normal College at Turin, and an Italian composer of eminence, to hear the Swanley boys, and he afterwards wrote to Mr. Richardson:-- "I do not exaggerate in any way by saying that I found there a true perfection in tune and in rhythm, but above all, in what concerns the pure and correct emission of voices, the careful and judicious training of which confers much honour upon you, and I would be happy to see it even partly imitated by the teachers of the so-called Land of Song." These facts are enough to prove the weight that attaches to Mr. Richardson's utterances:-- "My experience has been that flattening will give the teacher very little trouble after the pupils have been drilled with voice-training exercises, but until the voices are built and strengthened, he will have unpleasant surprises of all kinds. If he would have a reliable choir he must begin, continue, and end with regular voice training based on an undeniably good system. From the very outset the pupil should be taught to fear flat singing as a demon. With my boys I was for ever laying down the self-evident truth, 'People can endure your singing if it be tuneful, even though all other points of excellence are low, but no one can put up with your singing out of tune, except as martyrs.' The cause of flattening is always lack of culture. In the choirs I have trained it has ceased to trouble me after a few months. The habit of letting the pitch drop fosters itself in a remarkable manner, until at last the ear of the performer is perfectly satisfied with the production of a monstrosity. In proof of this I would mention a case which has come painfully under my own notice. A number of boys known to me have been in the daily habit of singing the tune:-- [Illustration: key E[b].:d | m:f:r | d:-:m | s:-:l | s:-:s | d1:-:t | l:-s | &c.] and as they have only had a 'go as you please system' to hold them in, they now commence flattening at once with a _crescendo_ which culminates in the second line, and creates the effect:-- [Illustration::d | m:f:r |d:-:m |s:-:l | s:-:s | 1d1:-:t |l:-:s|| &c.] The original quite gone, they quite satisfied! The cause of continued flat singing is allowing the _bad habit_. I am not, of course, dealing with exceptional cases of natural inaptitude. These are rare, and I say this after having had some years of experience in testing individual voices. I could now with very little difficulty name the few pupils I had at Swanley who were naturally unable to sing tunefully, and I doubt not that nearly all my old scholars could do the same. They were in reality exceptions, numbering, during the whole of the time I was with them, not more than half-a-dozen. "There is one stage in the voice training where the teacher finds his pupils (boys I am speaking of, my experience with adults not having been so extensive) habitually _sharpen_. In my own neighbourhood a teacher who has commenced to properly train his boys to sing, in a conversation he had with me told me of this, to him, unexpected difficulty. To get good intonation in part-singing, I found the singing of chords a great help. The class should be divided rapidly, and one note of the chord assigned to each section. Then it should be sung softly. This should be repeated with other chords, and followed by easy phrases. Voices do not at once blend, and until they do the singing should be never loud. I look upon the earlier work as tentative--a feeling for the beauty of perfection of pitch, tunefulness, and intonation. A practice to be condemned is that of learning the parts of a tune separately, and then bringing them together. There are, of course, places where it is absolutely necessary to give special attention to exceptional passages, but it is a mistake to teach each part as though it were an independent tune--to give the direction, which I have often heard, 'Now sing your part, and never mind what the others are doing,' or 'Don't you listen to any other part.' This system is answerable for the most offending cases of want of tunefulness, in which one part will sing on with the greatest of satisfaction in a key a semitone from that in which the part above or below is moving. The ear should be prepared by a symphony, or by thinking of the key before a piece is commenced. My own practice has been to wait after giving the key-note for the pupils to do this. I have recently come across a method of allowing the pupils to find the tonic of a song about to be sung, which in nine cases out of ten will make the opening as 'restless' as the sea waves. The teacher strikes the C fork, and the tonic being F, all the pupils sing C', B, A, G, F--doh. The C', B, A, G, F is, I think, as likely to unsettle the ear as anything that could be imagined. The teacher should give the key-note. He may teach his pupils to use the fork if he will, but _not_ in a way so exquisitely calculated to unsettle the ear when it should be strongly decided. "With regard to Registers, I do not know whether the nomenclature I employed with my Swanley choir will be commended by you, but as it was successful I will describe it. The registers we called, perhaps inelegantly, 'Top,' 'Middle,' and 'Bottom,' these terms being handier than Upper Thin, Lower Thin, and Upper Thick. The earliest exercises were in the Top Register--that is, the Upper Thin. Boys untrained are, taken in bulk, unconscious of the Thin Register. Having got them to sing, say C to koo, I have followed it by singing to the same syllable the tune:-- [Illustration: KEY A[b] | m:m |f:f |s:--|m:--|| &c.] ('Now the day is over,'--_A. & M._), and the delight has been intense when the pupils have thus discovered how clearly and sweetly they could sing. When this is done great possibilities seem to open, and the pupil is on the road to perfection. B[b] and E[b] I found most convenient for change. The Small Register must have been used, as my lads sang up to C2 with the greatest ease and finish, though one of our foremost teachers, in a conference I had with him on the subject, said he would stake his reputation that the small register was not employed by them. It received no name in our practices after that authoritative statement, and ever afterwards I was in dread of being called over the coals for allowing the Top register to get too high. "Boy altos can be made to sing without flattening, though they invariably give more trouble than trebles on account of their willingness to let the lower register overlap the one above--to force upward. They should practise with the trebles such exercises as:-- [Illustration: KEY E[b] s f m r d] so as to strengthen this part of the voice, which may be termed their flattening field." CHAPTER IX. ON THE TRAINING OF BOYS' VOICES. By W. H. RICHARDSON, Formerly Conductor of the Swanley Orphanage Choir.[A] [A] Mr. Richardson has responded to my request for hints with such fulness and weight that I devote a separate chapter to his essay. In writing, he has specially had in view the difficulties of choir trainers in rural districts. All that a writer on the training of voices can do is to lay down general lines, and give comprehensive suggestions. The teacher, to make any use of them must be indeed a _teacher_, not a mere mechanically automatic individual of only sufficient calibre to take the directions of a writer, and give them again. He should be both enthusiastic in his work, and willing to spend his strength in patience if he would have a choir of boys to sing _reliably_ well. It is of the greatest importance that work should be set out on right lines, and that a thoughtfully prepared scheme should be arranged before commencing. I would here give my experience of two choirs I had at different times in agricultural districts, and in one of them I was well satisfied with the progress we made, while in the other my work was completely thrown away. The reason for the failure in the second instance (which I foresaw from the outset) will be gathered from the following account of our plan of campaign. The choir was a village one which met for rehearsal once a week. The organist attended and presided at a harmonium, and, _nolens volens_, I had at the beginning of each practice to take the choir through the whole of the next Sunday's services. The boys' voices were, at the beginning of my connection, uncivilised, and at the end of it--fortunately the question of ways and means not allowing the interval to extend beyond a few months--were as barbarous as at the commencement. There was absolutely no chance of making a name through these youngsters; and as to voice culture! How could it be possible to attempt it after labouring through such a programme as Canticles, Hymns, Psalms, Kyrie, and Amens? I determined never to take office again unless I could have my own way in fixing the time-table of work. My success in the other case was owing greatly to the fact that I had one night a week entirely devoted to musical training and voice culture. This did not preclude us from relieving the drudgery of work by the singing of songs and hymns, _but_ it allowed me the use of an unfettered judgment in the _choice_ of what should be attempted. A teacher is heavily handicapped if after getting his boys for the first time to sing in the upper thin register, he is to follow his delicate work by singing half-a-dozen verses to a tune which will in the very first verse undo all that he has done, simply because its melodic progression encourages forcing. Experienced teachers will appreciate what I say on this point. Take such a tune as:-- [Illustration: &c. KEY E[b]. {|m:f |s:l |t:d1 |s:f || &c.] --a tune which inevitably causes a wrong use of the registers by inexperienced boys. The tunes selected should further the work of the exercises, not undo it, and with diligence the teacher can find suitable tunes and chants for this purpose. My advice to all teachers is that before commencing work they should insist upon conditions that do not preclude success, and that they should not spend their labour in wearying drudgery with the full consciousness that to attain it is impossible. One suggestion I would make is that the choirmaster, if he be not, as is often the case in villages, also schoolmaster, would do well to enlist the services of the school teachers in the village. It is not often practicable to have more than one--or two at the most--meetings of a choir during the week, and the length of the lesson must be, in consequence, at least an hour. For voice training in the earlier stages six lessons a week of fifteen minutes each are preferable to one of an hour and a half, and therefore I would urge the _necessity_ of getting hold of the sympathies of the school teacher, and putting him on right lines to work out the choirmaster's ideas, if the offices be not united. Voice work should be begun in the infant school. At Swanley it was my practice to give, I believe, daily lessons in the Infant Department, and the remarks made by visitors will bear out what I am about to say as to the possibility of getting young children to sing, and sing like little angels. I was always as pleased to exhibit my infants' vocal powers as to show those of my more advanced boys, and success was, comparatively speaking, more easily gained with them than with older boys, for inasmuch as the difficulty of registers and breaks does not exist as such with these tiny ones, and unless our plans be artificial or formed of caprice, this is what should be expected. In the infant school the teacher can take hold of the good that is innate, and mould it; in the higher school he has to spend hours and hours eradicating the bad habits which shouting and untamed license have allowed to grow. By all means begin with the infants, and let their songs and nursery rhymes be written so as to "give them a chance." But I am asked to say something that may be helpful to the choirmaster having to train the vocal organs of boys who are beyond infantile methods. I will therefore suppose myself for the first time before an ordinary country group of lads with all the vocal faults that now appear indigenous to the locality. I should first get them to find the Upper Thin Register, and my plan is to confine the work to this region [Illustration: musical notation] and get the boys to sing "koo" to D, E, or F, making my own "Exercises," which are suggested by present circumstances:-- [Illustration: Koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo KEY D[b]. d1 m1 m1 d1 m1 r1 d1 d1 r1 m1 Koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo KEY D. d1 r1 d1 l t d1 d1 t r1 d1 Koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo KEY E[b]. d1 r1 t d1 r1 d1 l s d1 Koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo koo KEY B[b]. s f m r d s m s s s] As at this stage the boys know nothing of the diatonic scale, I let them imitate. The exercises _may_ be played on a pianoforte, if the teacher cannot sing them, though in the latter case it is preferable that he should adopt the plan of selecting his best pupils for the models. I once had to commence with some uncultured boys, and knowing the difficulty of getting them to make a start, took with me a few of my own trained lads, who sang the exercises first, after which I added one or two of the beginners to them, and sympathetically they soon sang in the proper register with the others. By continuing the process of addition gradually I soon got the whole class to sing as I wished. At this first lesson the proper production of "oo" (vowel) should be obtained. I deal with the vowels as they arise, never observing a lack of clearness and purity without endeavouring to correct it. The foregoing exercises can next be used for teaching the intervals of the diatonic scale, for instance:-- [Illustration: KEY F. {|d1:--| s:--|| s:--| d1:--||] calling the notes by their names, doh soh. Here, again, the proper vowel production must be sought for, and obtained. The difficulties will be varied in this respect with the locality. Often I have met with doh-_oo_. This, as well as ray-_ee_, and other faults that need not be specified, can be corrected at once. The beautiful intonation we had at Swanley I attribute in a large measure to the care bestowed on the production of vowel sounds. There must be no division of opinion among the singers as to how any particular vowel sound should be emitted. If there be not unity in this respect the intonation suffers. The earlier exercises should be sung in unison, a correct division into 1st, 2nd, and 3rd trebles being impossible until the boys have acquired sufficient confidence to show _what_ they are naturally. I have for a long time used with advantage the single chant form for exercises, making them myself. [Illustration: KEY F. {|d1:-|l:t |d1:-||d1:-|t:1 |s:t |d1:-||] In order to avoid waste of time in learning exercises they should be _short_, so that they can be caught up at once. To get boys to sing in the register below (the Lower Thin) is the next step, the exercises now being confined between [Illustration: musical notation] and formed in the same way as those in the higher region. The difficulty is greater in getting rough boys to use this part of the vocal score correctly. The best way I have found to get them to discover it, is to sing [Illustration: KEY F. s f m r d]--beginning at C1, to koo. The notes are at first weak, and there is a tendency to "squork," if I may so term it. These exercises must be sung softly at first, and at this stage the schoolmaster can render valuable help if he will get his boys to read from their lesson books in this register instead of in the one below it. I have to acknowledge a debt of gratitude to one of our best and most painstaking teachers for giving me this hint. The reading will at first be weak, and in a monotone, and there being no flexibility, the boys will have difficulty in forming the usual cadence at the end of sentences, but practice will soon strengthen the weakness, and make this register as strong as the one below it. Between the one above and the one below, this "middle" one is apt to be overlooked altogether, and I have heard some fairly pleasing singing where it has not been recognised at all. The third register (Upper Thick) should now receive attention, and in order to find it the pupils should cultivate it upwards with such exercises as-- [Illustration: &c. KEY A[b]. d_1 r_1 d_1 d_1 r_1 m_1 &c. Koo koo koo koo koo koo] Within the limits of a short paper, it is impossible to give more fully all the needful directions for training the voices to cover up breaks, and to change from one register to another. Suitable tunes should now be selected, so that the aim of the exercises may be extended. Remember that it is easiest to _leap_ from one register to a higher, a stepwise ascent being an insidious snare. Koo and afterwards laa such tunes as:-- [Illustration: KEY C. {| s:m |d1:s |m1:-.r1|d1:s |l:l |s:d1 |s:f |m:-|| KEY E[b]. {|m:r |f:m |r:-|m:-||l:s |t:d1 |s:-|f:-|| {|m:r |f:m |r:-|l:-||d1:s |m:r |d:-|-:-||] Many ready-made exercises are to be found in any chant book, which can be used to strengthen the voice and build it. For voice exercise I like a high reciting note at the beginning, D1, C1, E[b]1, as by this we ensure getting the right register for the high notes, which will be a matter of doubt for some time if the question of suitability of melody be left out of calculation. I strongly recommend the use of the time names. For some years I was prejudiced against them, but after trying them, believe them to be of the greatest value. The teacher should give manual signs for his short exercises. Time is wasted unnecessarily if the teacher has to turn and write on the board. The objection to working through a book, only using prescribed exercises, is chiefly this--no book writer can provide for all the permutations and combinations that may arise during the actual work of teaching; it is impossible for him to anticipate them. This does not in the least detract from the value of the book, which must be the best _general_ guide for by far the larger part of our teachers. I have referred to the teaching of vowel sounds, and would say a word about consonants. My practice has been to guard against giving undue prominence to any individual letter, and to encourage always a _simple unaffected utterance_ in singing. Rolling "r's" is very well, but to precede the vowel with a sound not unlike the noise caused by springing a police rattle is neither artistic nor pleasing. My custom was to first let the pupils sing a vowel, say _aa_, and require it to be held on as long as my hand was still. A sharp movement of the hand directed when the consonant should appear, as _aa--t_, &c., the appearance and disappearance being as close together as possible. It is a difficulty with beginners to sing such words as "night," "bright," &c., holding on the middle part, or vowel. I demonstrated that the singer has nothing left to sing after having too soon disposed of the vowel. I also gave exercises in prefixing a consonant to a vowel. Other points of detail will arise, such as in the word "sing." The habit here is to make the "ng" sound throughout the greater part of the durance of the singing of the word. By analysing, and showing by copying the bad model, the teacher will convince the pupil that "ng" held on is unpleasant. In singing laa, laa, laa, &c., at first pupils lower and raise the jaw. This should be at once stopped. But it is impossible to anticipate every difficulty that will arise under this head. I have said enough to indicate generally my method. I do not propose to enter into the question of breathing. One thing I would say--do not try pupils by requiring them to sing long notes at first, but do get them at the beginning to "phrase" to your pattern. This will from the first get the will to control the breath taking. By all means introduce certificates. By the examination of individuals, the teacher will get truer knowledge of his learners' powers, and will be enabled to give advice of greater value because of its assured need. Let the examination be in public--before the other pupils--and so help to beget confidence in the pupil, without which success will be limited. The teacher should never do anything to destroy the confidence of his pupils, though I am bound to admit that I have not always been free from irritability and impatience in my dealings with pupils. The work is trying, the nerves of a teacher of singing are throughout highly strung, and very little cause is necessary to upset his equilibrium. He should therefore be ever on his guard to check any tendency to show impatience. Never get a pupil to sing alone for the sake of showing his defects to others. No one can _sing_ who does not possess a sense of his power to do so. There should be encouraged an _abandon_ sort of manner. A gentleman once said to me, "I see how you make your boys sing; you tell them they can do it, and that makes them do it." The rigid watching of the beat of the conductor should not be too closely insisted on. No machine-like singing should satisfy, even though it be _correct_. The correctness of a great painter's production is not everything, and neither is it with the singer. There should an atmosphere of the liberty of freedom. At Swanley my work was lessened by the interest that all my colleagues took in it. A moral force was constantly brought to bear on the boys, which made them work with a will and a determination to excel. Their success was the same in other departments of work, though not so prominently placed. The music teacher who has in himself the power to draw out the latent feeling of his pupils is the one who will best succeed. I would draw my remarks to a close with this advice:--Make your choir as large as possible. Take all who will come into it, and do not go through the form of "trying" voices that have never tried themselves, and of which you can form no opinion. For adults this is a necessity, but for children it is better to get one or two per cent. of naturally defective learners, rather than to turn away all but those showing undoubtedly exceptional ability. CHAPTER X. THE SPECIAL DIFFICULTIES OF AGRICULTURAL DISTRICTS. My object is to help those whose difficulties are greatest; who, so far from being able to pick out boys of musical talent and fine voice, are obliged to accept the material that offers, often of the poorest musical description. The country boy is a more healthy animal than his brother of the town, and there is no fault to be found with the natural volume of his voice provided he can be taught to place his registers rightly, to avoid straining the thick or chest register, to pronounce and phrase properly. This is, however, what the Americans call "a large order." I have been fortunate in collecting information from several choirmasters in agricultural districts, who have conquered the difficulties of this task. First, I quote Mr. W. Critchley, choirmaster and schoolmaster at Hurst, near Reading:-- "The rural choir-boy differs somewhat from his brethren of the town in the following particulars. As a rule, he is duller, and slower in his perception; he is attentive and docile, but sluggish; he retains what he is taught, and therefore, as far as mere knowledge and memory are concerned, it 'pays' to take him in hand. His voice is strong, but rough, and this undisciplined strength is the cause of most of the trouble he gives. Moreover, he is exposed to the weather very largely, and this causes him to be more influenced by atmospheric changes than the town boy, and prevents, in a great measure, any great delicacy of finish from being obtained. So it will be seen that the country choir-boy requires special treatment in order to produce good results. Sometimes, when a village lies compactly together, a large amount of work can be got through similar to that which we find in towns, but generally the rural district is wide and scattered, and only a limited number of practices can be secured. Under these circumstances, I have found the best course to pursue to be somewhat as follows:--First and foremost, let the Tonic Sol-fa system be taught, it lightens the work of the choirmaster in a wonderful degree, and the boys bring an intelligence to their work which is unattainable by any other means. If the system has not been taught in the day school of the parish, it should be introduced at once; if that is not practicable, the choir-boys should be taught at a second practice-night. This second practice is required in any case, if anything better than mere 'scratch' singing be aimed at. _All_ practices should be begun by voice exercises. On the extra night a greater amount of time should be taken up with them, for to a country choir-boy, who perhaps in the day is shouting to scare birds, they are vital. The lower register of a country boy is, as a rule, coarse, so it is important to get him to use his higher register as soon as possible. Show him first of all that he has, as it were, _two voices_, and point out that he is required, as Mr. Evans observes, to use that voice which is most like a girl's. He will be apt for some time to use this voice in the upper notes of the music only, and there will be a disagreeable transition to the lower register when the music comes down on G, or thereabouts. To conquer this, I use exercises which train the upper register _downwards_, such as:-- [Illustration: KEYS A to F. d m s m d r [(.d] [(.t]_1 [(.l]_1] the object being to strengthen the upper register, and, except where the music touches D or C, [Illustration: musical notation] to practically 'shelve' the lower thick register in the case of treble voices. In training upwards I insist on easy singing, no straining. I don't mean apathetic singing, for this is especially to be fought against in the case of country boys, as there is naturally a want of 'go' about them. I mean soft singing, but energetic. I tell the boys to sing like birds, and they generally understand from this that they are to use the upper register. I do not find much difficulty with them in the way of flattening. Except in the case of the younger boys, I often hear them a little sharp. The Tonic Sol-fa method trains their _ears_, and I get them to listen, and blend their voices; above all, to get rid of apathy. And if there should be a tendency with the younger boys to sing flat, I generally find that the application of the old rules as to position, loud singing, forcing the voice, faulty breathing, and inattention will remedy the fault. If it occurs in church, a judicious use of a four-foot stop on the organ often keeps up the pitch. I find, if the melody of a chant or tune has a great many of the 'thirds' of the chords in it (I mean as distinct from the fifth, root, &c.) it is often difficult, especially on a foggy morning, to keep it in tune, _e.g_.:-- [Illustration: KEY G. {| [(.m] |m:r |m:--|| [(.m] |r:d |r:r |m:--|| or, KEY G. {| [(.m] |f:m |re:--|| [(.m] |r:d |t_1:r |d:--|| or, KEY F. {| [(.m] |f:l |s:--|| [(.s] |d1:m |r:f |m:--||] This is the case in a marked degree when the reciting tone comes about the natural 'break' of the voice. The remedy for this I find to be transition into another key, one which I judge to be more congenial to the state of the boys' voices. Here is where the usefulness of the Tonic Sol-fa system to an organist comes in. A lot of practice in mental effects has a surprising result in ear training. Sometimes, however, we get a clergyman who intones badly, and then it is quite a struggle to keep in tune. "There are a number of other little points which tell against correct singing in a country choir; the generally thick enunciation, the provincialism, the difficulty in getting open mouths. I do a lot of reading by pattern, and pay attention to initial and final consonants. Country boys neglect these more than town boys. I practise without organ as much as I can. If an instrument is used, the piano is decidedly the best. I find Gregorian singing has a strong tendency to injure purity of tone and delicacy of expression. I do as little of it as possible. "On the second choir practice night I spoke of, it is certainly good to take up glee practice, or a simple cantata. It sustains the interest, and makes the choir a bond of union in a country village." * * * * * Not long ago I found myself by chance worshipping in a remote village in East Somerset, Churchill by name. There was, in the parish church, a choir of six boys and four probationers, who sang so slowly and sweetly, not with the luscious fulness of some boys I have heard, but with such uncommonly good style for agricultural boys, that I was much interested. These small villages have, from the present point of view, one advantage. The day schools are "mixed" (containing boys and girls), and the teacher is a lady. Both these influences tend to the softening of the boy's voice. Miss Demack, the school-and choir-mistress at Churchill, has kindly written a few notes on the subject of her work, in which she says:-- "I certainly think that the girls' voices soften the boys'. I admit probationers at the early age of six if I find they have any voice, as I think the earlier the better. When I took my boys in hand, I found scale exercises very useful. I did not teach them any tunes until I had somewhat altered their rough voices. Another help was this: I had a girl with a particularly good voice, and made the boys imitate her as much as possible. This I found answered remarkably well. The boys seemed to adopt quite a different tone." Miss Demack teaches singing in the school and choir by ear only, and knows nothing of the Tonic Sol-fa system. * * * * * I next give a short paper kindly sent me by Mr. George Parbery, choirmaster of the parish church, and master of the National School at Fordingbridge, Hants:-- "Dear Sir,--As choirmaster of the parish church here, and as one who takes great interest in the subject of singing in schools, I am happy to respond to your request, as we are essentially a rural district. "I have occupied my position now nearly ten years, and am just beginning to find the benefit of the Tonic Sol-fa movement amongst my adult members of the choir, having now nine adults who have passed through the school with a good practical knowledge of the Sol-fa notation. "When I commenced work here (coming from north of England) I was struck with the very disagreeable tone of the boys' and girls' voices. To say they sang flat does not convey how flat they sang, nor does it convey any idea of the tone, but the same may be heard any night at the Salvation Army meetings here. The vicar of the parish told me also upon my arrival here, that at a church in Bournemouth a former vicar used to import all his boy voices outside of Hampshire. So that you will gather that I had not a light task before me to produce a tone satisfactory to myself or the inspector. But I may safely say I have for some years satisfied myself, and last year our assistant-inspector spoke of the very beautiful quality of the boys' voices. I can assure you that it is only rarely that I find occasion to complain of the tone. The moment I hear the objectionable tone produced, I immediately stop the singing, even if in the middle of prayers. Mine is a boys' school, but I teach the girls singing with the boys. Now as to how I produced the change:-- "1. I introduced the Tonic Sol-fa notation. "2. I used to practise very frequently for a few minutes upon the modulator, making abundant use of the upper-- [Illustration: KEY C. d1 r1 m1 f1] "3. I prohibited all shouting on high notes. "4. Particularly was I severe upon loud singing in lower notes, say, [Illustration: KEY F. r d t_1 l_1 s_1] "5. I established a degree of sound, and have it still, what is known amongst my scholars as 'singing in a whisper'--_i.e._, to produce singing as softly as possible. This idea I picked up in Cheshire from a good Tonic Sol-faist. "6. I have one or two favourite hymns, which I always pitch higher than written, and thus compel the boys to use the upper registers. The boys know I like these hymns, and I never fail to appreciate them to the boys at the end of singing. I also have a favourite marching tune--I don't know the name, but I believe it is often set to the hymn, 'When mothers of Salem.' This tune is very lofty, and I believe the boys really enjoy its loftiness, _but there must be no shouting_. When the boys displease me, I tell them they drop their jaw too much, and they instantly know what I mean. "7. I have very little alto singing in school, for the reason that it has a tendency to encourage loudness. In my choir I arrange for three or four of the oldest boys to sing alto. "In conclusion, I may say I am thoroughly proud of my boys' singing from standard I. up to the top of the school, and I believe my success has been chiefly from abundant use of the modulator for scale practice, and never allowing loud singing. Proud as I am of my boys, the girls certainly excel them, and ten years ago their tone was worse, if possible, than the boys. I have no instrument in school, but _occasionally_ use a violin." * * * * * A correspondent from another agricultural county--I will not give his name--favours me with some rules which he has used more or less for thirty years. In one school taught by the writer, the inspector said he could not distinguish the boys from the girls' voices--truly a high compliment. My correspondent names a new hindrance to church music in rural places, namely, the clergyman's daughter!-- "Practise the scales up and down to the words 'la' and 'ha,' the latter for the purpose of separating the teeth. Commence at the key of C to C1, then from D to D1, and so on upwards as high as the voices of the boys can reach, never resting satisfied until they cover two octaves firmly. In teaching new music, and, generally speaking, in accompanying the boys, play the note they are singing and its octave above--on the stopped diapason and flute if an organ, or the corresponding stops on a harmonium. Let there be no other accompaniment, and on every occasion the octave above the note sung. This is very particular. Check one voice singing above another. Have no leaders. Stop or subdue all harsh voices, and make them listen to, and try to copy the pure notes of the flute; let the boys sing well within their strength. If you lack power, increase the number of choristers, and subdue the voices. I always choose smooth flowing chants, with the reciting note ranging from F to C. I do not care to go higher than G above the line in anthems or services, but have trained them to start on B[b], 'The Sisters of the Sea,' by Jackson. "I never trouble about altos, they are too difficult to get, and indifferent and troublesome when obtained, but in verse parts of services or anthems, one of the best boys will supply the deficiency, and even take up the lead in a chorus. "Choirs experience a difficulty which is not included in your list of points. I have received £60 per annum as an organist, £50 and a house. On another occasion I was offered the choir-mastership of a church choral society of 60 members. At this time I was trainer and conductor of a choral society of 100 voices with string and wind accompaniment, the subject being _The Messiah_. Yet I was not considered competent at the church at which I played to put a tune to a hymn, but had to submit to the parson's daughter, who was qualified through taking three months' lessons from a German. On one occasion this lady went ten times through a hymn to please her father in trying to fit a four-lined tune of the wrong metre to a six-lined hymn! I offered to go through an eleventh time, but he never interfered again. I could give you many instances where these ladies themselves are the great drawback of good church singing, but on the other hand, I could mention cases where they never come near a practice, or interfere from one year's end to the other." * * * * * Knowing, as I do, the devoted way in which clergymen's daughters in many rural places train the choir, I hesitate to endorse this charge. The work needs to be done with tact and consideration. In the vast majority of cases these ladies are a great help. I do not approve the plan of playing the melody in octaves while it is being learnt, which my correspondent advocates. I give his letter as a record of earnest work. * * * * * Mr. W. W. Pearson, of Elmham, Dereham, Norfolk, writes to me as follows:-- "I have had, as you say, a great deal of experience in teaching singing, especially in rural districts; but the neighbourhood I have lived in for the last twenty years (Norfolk), is a very barren field for musical culture--the worst in my experience. The voices of those who _do_ sing in this county are, on an average, a minor third lower than those of Yorkshire, North Wales, the west of England, and other places where I have had experience. They are also, for the most part, _flabby_, wanting in resonance and quality. Tenors are very scarce, and even the few who can sing in the tenor register, have not got the true tenor quality. This may be the effect of the low elevation above the sea-level, and the damp humid atmosphere; or it may be partly due to _race_. "The plan I adopt for getting boys to use their upper registers is a very old-fashioned one; but it is very effective. It is to make them sing the major diatonic scale, ascending and descending; beginning at a low pitch, and gradually raising it by a semitone at a time." * * * * * Mr. C. Hibberd, of Bemerton, near Salisbury, whom I quote also in the chapter on "Flattening," dwells on the difficulties of the rural choirmaster. He says:-- "I have rarely come across the soft fluty tone in the country. I once met with a boy with it in the choir at Parkstone, near Bournemouth, and another here at Bemerton, but in both cases the boys were above the average of country boys, and the village was close to a larger town. In both cases, also, the boys had good and careful practice over and above the ordinary choir practices. At places farther in the country it seems an impossibility to get the tone. With only a few boys to pick from, it is a difficulty to find boys enough to fill up ordinary vacancies. With a great deal of trouble and practice one can get a great part of the roughness toned down, and, as a rule, that is all." * * * * * Several of my correspondents, it will be noticed, speak with great confidence of the use of the Tonic Sol-fa system in rural places. This system, useful everywhere, certainly attains its greatest usefulness in places where the task of the choirmaster reaches its highest degree of difficulty. To those whose only acquaintance with Tonic Sol-fa is a casual glance at a printed page of the new notation, it naturally seems strange that the use of a musical shorthand can affect the whole training of the boy. But behind the letters and punctuation marks, which go to make up the Tonic Sol-fa notation, there lies the Tonic Sol-fa method--a fixed and many-sided educational system, founded on the truest principles of education, carrying on simultaneously the training of the ear for tune and time, making progress sure because gradually developing the intelligence along with the voice. With Tonic Sol-fa, also, is associated a definite system of voice-training. Tonic Sol-fa teachers are all more or less of educationists, and have caught by observation or study the teacher's art. This is the cause of their success. [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XI. NOTES ON THE PRACTICE OF VARIOUS CHOIRMASTERS IN CATHEDRALS, &c. I SUMMARISE here information obtained, chiefly by observation and conversation, from various trainers of boys' voices at cathedrals and collegiate churches. CHAPEL ROYAL, ST. JAMES'S. Some years ago I attended a practice of the boys, under the late Rev. Thomas Helmore. It began with slow scales sung to a light pianoforte accompaniment. These were followed by rapid runs, the key gradually rising until the highest note touched was C above the treble staff. The vocable used was "ah." After this came time exercises, solfeggios, the pointing out of notes by the boys on and between the fingers of their left hands, which represented the staff. Mr. Helmore declared that new boys while singing nearly always (1) frown, or (2) hold their heads on one side. He was strict about avoiding these faults. In going over the psalms for the day, the boys sang mostly one by one, verse after verse. This was a searching test for the boy who sang, while all the others were actively criticising. The boys practised secular music by way of change. Four of them were monitors, four fags, and two probationers. The tone was refined and pure, Mr. Helmore himself being a good singer. ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL. Here, owing to the size of the building, a tremendous volume of shrill tone has to be cultivated, which in the practice room is sometimes overwhelming. The practice I heard began with slow scales sung to "ah" (pianoforte accompaniment) ranging over two octaves, C to C2; each key between C to C1 was taken, and the scale sung ascending and descending. This was loud singing, but not shouting. Then came agility exercises in the form of chords, rapid scales, &c., sung still to "ah." This daily "tuning-up" lasted ten minutes. Then (incidentally affording rest to the boys) came a short lesson on theory. Boys were called up in turn to write notes, signs, &c., on the blackboard. Practice now began. The boys sing a new piece to words at once, never sol-faing. They seldom try a piece more than three times before it is heard at the cathedral. They sit during rehearsal, standing at the Gloria Patri. The boys have a daily practice of an hour-and-a-half. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. The refined style of the boys trained by Dr. Bridge is well known. The abbey is small enough to allow the graces of singing to be cultivated. In the music room there are two rows of desks facing the same way, so that Dr. Bridge, sitting at his cottage piano, can cast a side glance full upon the boys. Two practices are held daily; one from nine till ten a.m. is spent in getting up the service music. The afternoon practice, at the close of evensong, is chiefly devoted to theory. A card hanging up on the wall shows exactly how the time of the afternoon practice is apportioned between the study of intervals, and scales, chanting, responses, manuscript exercises, the singing of Concone's solfeggios, and the practice of secular music. The excellent phrasing and pure tone are partly due to the practice of secular music, which gives elasticity and gentleness to the boys' voices. No formal system of voice-training is in use. The boys enter at from 9 to 10-1/2, not older. A new boy is placed in the middle of the row of choristers, so as to excite his imitative faculty to the utmost. Twenty boys is the full number, but only twelve of these are full choristers, the others being nominally on probation, a plan which serves to keep up the discipline. LINCOLN'S INN CHAPEL. There are twelve boys here. They come, with a fair knowledge of music, at about nine years of age, and receive from Dr. Steggall, or his assistants, three lessons of about two hours each every week. On Sunday, at the close of the morning service, there is a rehearsal with the men of the music for the afternoon, and for the morning of the following Sunday. The boys' practices are held in the choir-room, where Dr. Steggall, seated at a venerable Broadwood grand, coaches his little men, with care and neatness. On Saturdays, when half their lesson is done, the boys walk across to the chapel, and go through the Sunday's music with the organ. A pupil mounts to the instrument, while Dr. Steggall, book in hand, paces the aisle, or retires towards the communion table, constantly interrupting the singing to correct faults, or improve delivery. Meanwhile, the organ is played quite softly, that the voices may stand out clearly. Constant care is taken to prevent clipping of words in the most familiar parts of the service. THE TEMPLE CHURCH. Dr. E. J. Hopkins, himself an ex-choir-boy of the Chapel Royal, realises here his ideal of "quality, not quantity." He lays stress on the fact that he takes his boys at eight years of age. For a year or more, however, they are probationers. They do not wear surplices, although they sit close to the choir. They undergo daily drill in musical theory and voice-training, but in church they have no responsibility, and do little more than listen. When, however, the voice of one of the elder boys breaks, a probationer takes his place, and is much better for the training. The practices occupy an hour-and-a-half every afternoon. They are held in the little choir vestry, near the organ, where there is a cottage pianoforte, flanked by a couple of long music desks, at which the boys stand as they sing. They are taught in groups, according to the stage they have reached, and spend the lesson time in practising scales, voice exercises, pieces of music, and studying notation. The voices are practised up to A. On Saturdays there is a rehearsal in the church, with the organ and the men of the choir. LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. The choir here, directed by the venerable organist, Mr. J. W. M. Young, is noted for its chanting, which all choirmasters ought to hear. Mr. Young has made a special study of the Psalms, and changes speed and force frequently with the change of attitude in the psalmist. The recitation is delivered at the pace of ordinary speech, with elocutionary pauses as needed; it is sung neither faster nor slower than the cadence. Hence the whole effect is reverent and impressive. Mr. Young's published Psalter and Chants (Novello) should be studied, but the great excellence of his work can only be appreciated by a visit to Lincoln. All compilers of Psalters make rules, but Mr. Young carries them out. Mr. Young, who was a choir-boy at Durham more than fifty years ago, under Henshaw, tells me that it was no uncommon thing in his day for the boys to have three practices--8.30 to 10, 11 to 12, and 6 to 8. This in addition to the two daily services. The elder boys had to attend all; the younger were excused the evening practice. As far as I know, we have no such severe training now. Mr. Young likes to get his boys at eight; for two years, although they wear surplices, they do not sing. The sixteen boys receive free education, and board, pocket-money, and a present of £10 when their voices break. The younger boys are called "choristers," and wear surplices. The four senior boys are called "Burgersh-chanters," and wear black cassocks of a peculiar shape. In the town they are familiarly known as "black boys." The choristers attend a day-school with other boys who speak the Lincolnshire dialect; in this they suffer, for, as Mr. Young says, purity of vowels and beauty of tone go together. One of his maxims is, "use the lips as little as possible in singing; do all you can with the tongue. If you use the lips, then use them rapidly." The boys practise an hour-and-a-half each day. Mr. Young puts a high finish on all his work. Mozart's "Ave Verum" was sung on the day of my visit with infinite refinement. At one point the boys took a portamento--a grace which very few choirmasters would attempt with boys. [Illustration: A "BLACK BOY" AT LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. _Photographed by Mr. George Hadley, Lincoln._] CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD. The boys rehearse in a small but lofty room. There is a double row of desks and seats down each side, facing each other. Dr. C. H. Lloyd sits at a small pianoforte, placed across one end of the seats, thus commanding all the boys with his eye. The "tuning-up" exercises lasted ten minutes, and began with this exercise to "ah":-- [Illustration: KEY C. {|d1:t.l|s.f:m.r|d:r.m|f.s:l.t|d1:-|-:-||] This exercise, begun in C, was carried up gradually to B[b] above. It was sung first with a _dim._ going down, and a _cres._ going up, and then the opposite. Then came an ascending, followed by a descending scale, similarly varied in key and expression. The next exercise was-- [Illustration: KEY C. {|d.m:r.m |d.m:r.m |d.m:r.m |d:--||] which was transposed gradually upwards, being sung to "ah." Next a triplet exercise-- [Illustration: KEY F. d t_1 d r d r to d1 r1 d1 t d1 t] At the higher part the second trebles sang a third below. Then followed the chromatic scale, up and down. Dr. Lloyd is not troubled much with flattening; when it occurs the men are more likely to cause it than the boys. They habitually sing the Litany, which lasts fifteen minutes, unaccompanied, and if they flatten at all, it is not more than a semitone. There is an unaccompanied service once a week. I noticed that breathing-places were marked in the anthems, and notes likely to give trouble were marked with a circle. Dr. Lloyd was by no means tied to the pianoforte during rehearsal, and frequently left his seat, and paced up and down, beating time while the singing went on. Theoretical questions on the pieces in hand were addressed to individual boys. These boys are the sons of professional men, and come from all parts of the country. There are now three undergraduates at Christ Church, who have been choir-boys. In the choir, on the day of my visit, was a boy of seventeen, who had sung for nine years; his voice had not yet begun to go. The curious custom is observed here of dividing the Psalms (between Decani and Cantoris) at the colon, instead of at the verse. It requires great readiness, and for those Psalms which are written in parallelisms, it is most effective. CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL. The boys here are divided into ten choristers and fourteen probationers. The choristers are on the foundation, and receive a stipend; the probationers get their schooling only. The choristers wear trencher caps and gowns; the probationers flannel caps, bearing the arms of the cathedral. The boys are nearly all from the city; there is no boarding-school. The lower floor of the choir-school is used for the ordinary instruction, which is conducted by Mr. Plant, an alto in the cathedral choir, and the upper floor is used as a music-room. Here the boys receive four or five lessons a week from Dr. Longhurst, and the probationers have also a lesson by themselves. All the choristers learn the violin; this has been the practice for many years. When, at festivals, there is a band in the cathedral, the strings are made up largely from old choristers, most of whom go into business in the city. A system of rotation is adopted; thus, although there are twenty-four boys, not more than fourteen sing at any one service, the rest are at work at their ordinary lessons. A considerable drainage of boys takes place to the King's School, the leading grammar school in Canterbury. The choristers often leave to enter this school when their voices are in their prime. Dr. Longhurst takes the boys very young; as soon after seven as possible. In choosing a boy, he requires both voice and ear to be good. Sometimes a boy excels in the one direction and not in the other; he can sing sweetly, but cannot imitate notes struck at random on the pianoforte, or else he has a poor voice and a good ear. But both endowments are necessary for a chorister. Dr. Longhurst, who was himself a boy at Canterbury, had a compass at that time of two-and-a-half octaves. As his voice changed he passed from first to second treble, then sang alto for seven years, and at last settled to tenor. He does not regard boy altos as desirable in cathedrals, but in parish churches, where no adult male altos are to be had, they are, no doubt, in place. Dr. Longhurst tells me that as a result of forty-eight years' experience, he can tell by the look of a boy whether he will make a chorister. There is something about the brows and eyes, and general contour of the face which guides him. He is never mistaken. Some time since a clergyman with whom Dr. Longhurst happened to be staying, ridiculed the idea that the musical capability of boys can be judged by their looks. He took Dr. Longhurst into the village school, and invited him to pick out the boys of the choir as they sat among others at their lessons. This Dr. Longhurst did quite correctly. He has no knowledge of phrenology, and the faculty has come to him simply as the result of long experience. On the day of my visit I heard the boys practise in their lofty music-room. Dr. Longhurst sat at the grand pianoforte, and the boys were grouped in fours or fives round four music-stands, on which the large folio voice parts, in type or MS., were placed. These desks stood on either side of the piano, so that the boys looked towards Dr. Longhurst. Not many voice exercises are used, nor is there any talk about the registers. Pure tone is required, and the boys have not "to reason why." Six or seven of the youngest boys took no part in the practice of the service music. When the elder boys had done, the younger came forward and sang some solfeggio exercises. As a help in keeping time the boys clapped their hands sometimes at the first of the bar, and beat the pulses of the music. In the single voice parts, with long rests, this is a help. The boys do not sing any secular music. At one time they did, but now, with the schooling, the ordinary practices, and the violin lessons, there is no time. Flattening does not often occur. As a rule, when they intone on G, the G remains to the end. The practice of singing the service unaccompanied on Fridays all the year round, and on Wednesdays in addition during Lent, must have a bracing effect on the choir. I was myself present on a Wednesday in Lent, and could detect no falling in pitch. The boys at Canterbury do not appear to receive much formal voice-training, and I attribute the excellent quality of their singing to two facts. First, Dr. Longhurst has evidently a knack of discerning a promising voice; and second, having established a tradition of good singing, the boys, entering at an early age, insensibly fall into it. DR. BUCK'S BOYS AT NORWICH. I have gathered from Mr. A. R. Gaul, Mus.B., of Birmingham, some particulars of the work of Dr. Buck, organist of Norwich Cathedral, who was known forty or fifty years ago all over the country as a trainer of boys' voices. Mr. Gaul was a boy at Norwich under Dr. Buck, and underwent the Spartan training which produced such notable results. "No chest voice above F or G" was his rule, and the flute-like voice, which goes by so many names, and is yet so unmistakable when heard, was developed in all the choristers. Dr. Buck had an endless number of contrivances for teaching his boys right ways. Each of them carried about him a pocket looking-glass, and at practice was taught to hold it in his hand, and watch his mouth as he sang. One finger on top of the other was the gauge for opening the mouth transversely, while nuts were held in the cheeks to secure its proper longitudinal opening. To look at the boys during this exercise, one might think they had the face-ache! However, no joking over these matters was allowed; there was a penny fine for forgetting the looking-glass once, and a twopenny fine for forgetting it a second time. To prevent the use of too much breath in singing, Dr. Buck would take a piece of tissue paper, the size of a postage stamp, hang it by a fine thread in front of the mouth, and make the boys sing to it without blowing it away. Tongue-drill consisted in regular motions of the unruly member, until the boys were able to make it lie flat down at the bottom of the mouth, and raise it to the upper teeth as required. It was a daily plan to practise certain passages with the lips entirely closed, this was done to prevent the objectionable quality of voice resulting from any stoppage of the nasal organs. There was no sol-faing; various words were used at scale-practice, chosen to develop the vowels, while a code of troublesome words and endings of words was drawn up, and repeated daily by the boys in the speaking-voice, so as to secure clear enunciation. I have more than once seen and heard it stated that Dr. Buck used to make his boys sing through the nose, with closed mouth, in order to get the higher register, but Mr. Gaul does not remember this. Dr. Haydn Keeton informs me that they had boy-altos at Norwich in Dr. Buck's time, so that he must have had more boys than usual to train. SALISBURY. A conversation with Mr. C. L. South, the organist and choirmaster, shows him to be a careful and able worker. The boys, who are boarded in the choir school, come from various parts. They are received at from 8 to 11 years; not over 11 unless the boy is very good and forward in music. The boys are chosen for their voices, but given two boys of equal voices, the one who knows most music would be selected. The music practice is an hour a day for five days of the week, under Mr. South himself. "I recognise," he says, "two registers in boys' voices, chest and head, and with careful practice you can get the voices so even that you can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins. The great thing, I believe, is to make the boys sing softly, and to get their register even throughout." Mr. South adds that the imitative power of boys is so strong that the younger ones fall into the habits of the elder ones, and thus make formal teaching about the registers less necessary. For vocal practice he uses Stainer's and Concone's Exercises, also solos like "Jesus, Saviour, I am Thine," and "Let the Saviour's outstretched arm" (both from Bach's _Passion_), as well as Handel's "Rejoice greatly," besides florid choruses from the _Messiah_. These are more interesting than formal studies, and they bring out the same points of breathing, phrasing, pronunciation, and expression. He sometimes introduces a song of this kind into the service as an anthem. On one occasion, when thirteen boys had sung one of the Bach songs in unison, a member of the congregation asked the name of the soloist. The voices were so perfectly blended that they sounded like one. The full number of boys is eighteen, of whom two at least sing solos. Mr. South does not use nor like boy altos. The service music is selected on eclectic principles, and covers the ground from Gibbons to Villiers Stanford. The boys sometimes give concerts, performing such cantatas as Smart's _King Rene's Daughter_, and Mendelssohn's "Two-part Songs." [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XII. NOTES ON THE PRACTICE OF VARIOUS CHOIRMASTERS IN PARISH CHURCHES. In the course of journeys and interviews extending over many years I have gathered much experience from choirmasters, and have watched and noted their plans. Here follow some of the results of this work. The churches described are some of them small, and but little known. This fact, however, does not affect the value of the experience. The highest degree of credit is due to the choirmaster who obtains good results from poor materials, and this book is especially intended to help those who have to make the best of ordinary opportunities. LEEDS PARISH CHURCH. This church has long been noted for its music, which is sung in cathedral style. There are about thirty boys, whose voices, even up to A, are round and clear, and throughout are big, true, and rich. Notable features of the style of the choir under Dr. Creser, are the long _dim_. cadences in responses, and the independence which enables the singers to go on without the organ, if the expression suggests it. At the rehearsal in the parochial room Dr. Creser sits at the grand piano with the boys in their cantoris and decani places on each side of him just as in church. The boys rehearse five days a week after evensong, and the juniors have an additional practice. After Saturday evensong there is a full practice with the men. All the boys are trebles. Yorkshire is about the only district in England which produces adult male altos. The boys are chiefly promoted from district churches. They live at their homes, and receive a free education--the seniors in the Leeds middle-class school, and the juniors in the parish church school. There is also a small salary paid quarterly, and when a boy leaves he receives from £15 to £25 if an ordinary chorister, and £50 if a good solo boy. Fines are imposed by the precentor for misbehaviour or mischievous tricks in church or precincts, but not for mistakes in singing. Dr. Creser teaches sight-singing on the lines of Curwen's "How to Read Music." The boys use the old notation, but have learnt it through Tonic Sol-fa, using the course entitled "Crotchets and Quavers." Occasionally the whole rehearsal consists of sol-faing. In every difficulty as to key relationship the Sol-fa makes matters clear. Dr. Creser was first led to use Tonic Sol-fa by noticing how easy it made the minor mode. The junior boys are always taught by Dr. Creser. Until the voices settle he would on no account delegate them to an assistant. The two chief rules of voice-training are to forbid forcing the chest register above [Illustration: a music staff with a treble clef and a whole note "E" on the first line.] and to begin scales at the top. Flattening takes place occasionally, but it is nearly always the fault of the congregation, who drag the pitch down. The arrangement of the music-library here is a model of order. ST. PETER'S, EATON SQUARE, LONDON. Here, under the direction of Mr. de Manby Sergison, a very fine Anglican service is maintained. There are twenty boys, and a few probationers. The boys have an hour's practice every day, and sing the Psalms and a hymn at the daily choral service. Formerly a choir boarding-school was kept up, but this was abolished, being found to be too expensive. Now the boys are selected from schools in and near the parish, and Mr. Sergison finds the ordinary London boy equal to all the demands of the church. When the choir-school was given up he was able within a month to prepare an entirely new set of boys, so proficient that the congregation scarcely noticed a difference. The vocal practice of the boys includes "Concone's Exercises," and their phrasing in the service music is very good. The full choir sings on Sundays and Saints' Days, and their rehearsal takes place once a week in the church, Mr. Sergison being at the organ. In the chapter on the management of choir-boys I have quoted some wise remarks by Mr. Sergison, which explain his success as a choirmaster. ST. MARK'S COLLEGE, CHELSEA. This is a Training College for schoolmasters, which has long been noted for its musical services. Mr. Owen Breden, the present organist and choirmaster, is the successor of Dr. Hullah, Mr. May, and the Rev. F. Helmore. The choir-boys, who number 26, only sing on Sundays. They are drawn from the practicing school, which contains 800 boys. They enter the choir at nine years of age, and there are always six or eight probationers, who attend the practices and are ready to fill vacancies. Thus a good style of singing is maintained. People say to Mr. Breden, "There is no telling one voice from another, your boys are so much alike." At the bi-weekly practice with Mr. Breden the boys have voice-training. They sing to _la_ and sol-fa syllables scales gradually rising. They are not trained above G, but if a boy has a good G he can always go higher. The boys can all read from the Sol-fa modulator, and Mr. Breden gives them ear-tests. The alto part is taken entirely by boys at St. Mark's. The choir-boys, past and present, perform an operetta in costume every Christmas. Anthems like Macfarren's "The Lord is my Shepherd," Bennett's "God is a Spirit," Goss's "O Saviour of the world," &c., are sung unaccompanied. In fact, whenever the organ part merely duplicates the voices, they take the opportunity at St. Mark's to enjoy the pure chording of human voices. ST. MARY'S CHURCH, BERLIN. My friend, Herr Th. Krause, the organist and choirmaster of this church, allowed me to attend a rehearsal of the eighty boys and twenty men who form his fine choir. The large number of boys is explained by the fact that nearly half of them are altos. The motet of the Lutheran church is invariably unaccompanied. It closely resembles in form our anthem, but the German Protestants look upon the _a capella_ style, which continues the tradition of the Sistine Chapel at Rome, as the purest and highest in church music. On no account would they use the organ to accompany a motet. This gives rise to elaborate compositions, often like Mendelssohn's "Judge me, O God," in eight parts. By treating the boys and men as separate choirs, each in four parts, and getting responses between them, a variety of tone colour, which is almost orchestral, is obtained; and when both choirs unite in solid eight-part harmony, the result is imposing. As the Germans are usually not sight-singers, the labour involved in learning these motets is immense. The higher register of the boys is well trained. They sing up to B flat without effort, and with purest tone. The same may be said of the Dom Choir, for which Mendelssohn wrote his motets. At my last visit to Leipzig, I carried an introduction to Dr. Rust, trainer of the Thomas Church choir, but I was there just after Whitsuntide, when the yearly shifting of classes had just taken place, and Dr. Rust, who wished me to hear his boys at their best, asked me not to come to a rehearsal. Speaking generally, the voices of German boys are thinner than those of English boys, more like fifes than flutes. ST. CLEMENT DANES, STRAND. The choirmaster here, Mr. F. J. Knapp, is also master of the parish day school. Here he insists on quiet singing, and stops coarseness directly. The boys are taught on the Tonic Sol-fa system, which, says Mr. Knapp, has alone enabled him to produce his results. Some time ago at St. Stephens, Walworth, he was called upon to produce a choir in a week, and he did this, by nightly rehearsals, to the satisfaction of everyone. Complete oratorios, with band, were frequently given by this choir of sol-faists. At St. Clement Danes he had to produce a choir in five days, and here again he succeeded by the use of Tonic Sol-fa. "Our choir-boys," he says, "can now sing at sight almost anything I put before them. We never have more than two or three practices (one only, full) for the most difficult anthems we do. There is an anthem every Sunday, a choral communion once a month, offertory sentences on alternate Sundays, cantatas and oratorios at Festivals." Mr. Knapp adopts the useful plan of "tuning-up" his boys before the morning service. Flattening, when it occurs, is due, he considers, to damp weather, a cold church, &c. But he is rarely troubled with it. The boys' voice exercises are taken at the harmonium, first slow notes to "koo-ah," or to "oo-ay-ah-ee," or to a sentence containing consonants. This exercise is done both ascending and descending, but especially descending. He also uses the chromatic scale from B flat up to F:--[Illustration: A music staff with a treble clef on the left. Two quarter notes: B flat below the staff and F on the top line.] He tells the boys nothing about the registers, but watches constantly against shouting. SALZUNGEN CHOIR. This (Protestant) choir of men and boys is well-known in Germany, and not only sings at Salzungen, but occasionally makes tours, and gives concerts. Herr Mühlfeld, the trainer, tells me that he takes the boys from 11 years of age upwards, and that before entering the choir they have a fair knowledge of notes, and can sing at sight. The voices are examined on entry, low ones being put to sing alto, and high ones being put to sing soprano. The boys have two lessons of an hour each per week, in which they practise exercises, _choräle_, school songs, and church music. Flattening, according to Herr Mühlfeld, is due to (1) bad ear, (2) imperfect training, (3) fatigue of the voice. The boys are taught to listen to each note that they sing, and to make it blend with the instrument or the leading voice. In order to do this they must sing softly, and thus hear their neighbours' voices. The 3rd, 6th, 7th, and 8th tones of the scale are, says Herr Mühlfeld, often sung flat, and exercises should be specially given to secure the intonation of these sounds. The boys must also learn the intervals, and whenever they appear to be tired a pause must be made. UPTON CROSS BOARD SCHOOL. This is not a church, but a boys' school, from which a good many choristers are drawn, and where excellent results have been obtained. The boys have often won prizes in choral competitions. Mr. H. A. Donald, the headmaster, tells me that he examines the voices of the boys one by one in his own room, once a year. Those who can take G and A [Illustration: musical notation] sweetly and easily are put down as first trebles. Those who can go below C [Illustration: musical notation] are altos. The rest are second trebles. He finds that after a year a boy's voice will often have changed--a treble become an alto, or vice versa. In modulator practice, and as far as possible in pieces of music, he keeps the trebles above [Illustration: musical notation]. Below this they get coarse. He never gives on the modulator an ascending passage which begins below this G. One may leap up, and come down by step, but not ascend by step. He uses Mr. Proudman's "Voice-training Exercises" (J. Curwen & Sons) for first trebles, and his contralto exercises for contraltos. Coarseness he checks at once, and he silences boys whose voices are breaking. [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XIII. ALTO BOYS. How is the alto part, in a church choir consisting of males, to be sung? In our cathedrals this part has been given, ever since the Restoration, to adult men, generally with bass voices singing in their "thin" register. For this voice our composers of the English cathedral school wrote, carrying the part much lower than they would have done if they had been writing for women or boy-singers. For this voice, also, Handel wrote, and the listener at the Handel Festival cannot but feel the strength and resonance which the large number of men altos give to the harmony when the range of the part is low. The voice of the man alto, however, was never common, and is becoming less common than it was. It occupies a curious position, never having been recognised as a solo voice. I have heard of an exceptionally good man alto at Birmingham who was accustomed to sing songs at concerts, but this is an isolated case. The voice seems to have been generally confined to choral music. This voice is entirely an English institution, unknown on the continent. Historians say that after the Restoration, when it was very difficult to obtain choir-boys, adult men learned to sing alto, and even low treble parts, in falsetto, in order to make harmony possible. Let us concede at once that for music of the old cathedral school this voice is in place. The churches are, however, getting more and more eclectic, and are singing music from oratorios, cantatas, and masses that was composed for women altos, and is far too high in compass for men. We may admit that because the alto part lies so much upon the break into the thick or chest register of boys, it is very difficult to get them to sing it well. The dilemma is that in parish churches, especially in country places, the adult male alto is not to be had, and the choice is between boy altos, and no altos at all. There is no doubt, moreover, that the trouble of voice-management in boy altos can be conquered by watchfulness and care. At the present time there are, as the information I have collected shows, a number of very good cathedral and church choirs in which the alto part is being sustained by boys. * * * * * The following is from Mr. James Taylor, organist and choirmaster of New College, Oxford:-- "New College, Oxford, _Dec._ 13, 1890. "Dear Sir,--In reply to your letter, I can confidently recommend boy altos in parish or other choirs, provided they are carefully trained. We have introduced them into this choir for more than two years, and the experiment has fully come up to my expectations. We still retain two men altos in our choir, which now consists of the following:--Fourteen trebles, four boy altos, two men altos, four tenors, and four basses. I find boy altos very effective in _modern_ church music, such as Mendelssohn's anthems, &c., where the alto part is written much higher than is the case in the old cathedral music. "Yours very truly, "JAMES TAYLOR." Dr. Garrett, organist of St. John's College, Cambridge, writes:-- "5, Park Side, Cambridge, _Dec._ 12, 1890. "Dear Mr. Curwen,--I have had boy altos only in my choir for some years. I introduced them of necessity in the first instance. The stipend of a lay clerk was too small to attract any other than a local candidate, and no suitable man was to be found. If I could have really first-class adult altos in my choir I should not think of using boys' voices. At the same time there are some advantages on the side of boys' voices. "I. Unless the adult alto voice is really pure and good, and its possessor a skilled singer, it is too often unbearable. "II. Under the most favourable conditions it is very rare, according to my experience, to find an alto voice retaining its best qualities after middle age. "III. The alto voice is undoubtedly becoming rare. "On the other side you have to consider:-- "I. The limitation of choice in music, as there is a good deal of 'cathedral music' in which the alto part is beyond the range of any boy's voice. "II. A certain lack of _brightness_ in the upper part of such trios as those in 'By the waters of Babylon' (Boyce) 'The wilderness' (Goss), and many like movements. "As regards the break question, the advantage, in my experience, is wholly on the boys' side. A well-trained boy will sing such a solo as 'O thou that tellest,' or such a passage as the following without letting his break be felt at all: [Illustration: For Thou hast been my hope, hast been my hope.] This passage,[B] which is from the anthem, 'Hear my crying,' by Weldon, I have heard sung by an adult alto, who broke badly between E flat and F. The effect was funny beyond description. In fact, if a boys' break is about C or D (3rd space or 4th line), and he [Illustration: musical notation] is never allowed to practise above that, there will be no question of break arising. My alto boys can get a good round G, and five out of the six can go up without break to C. [Illustration: musical notation] The advantage of this in chanting the Psalms is obvious. What can an adult alto be expected to do in a case where the reciting note is close to his break? These are considerations which may fairly be taken into account even when the decision is to be made between _possible_ courses; when there _is_ a choice. In many cases there is none. It must be (as you say) boy alto, or no alto. I am quite sure that careful training is all that is needed to make boy altos most efficient members of a choir. Or rather, I ought to say that careful selection and training are both needed. To take a young boy as an alto because he happens to have three or four raucous notes from, say, B flat to E flat [Illustration: musical notation] while he has a bad break between E flat [Illustration: musical notation] and F is, of course, to court failure. I prefer taking a boy whose break lies higher, and training his voice downwards. If, as a probationer, he can get a fairly good round B natural [Illustration: musical notation] or B flat; lower notes can certainly be produced as he grows older.] "Yours very truly, "GEORGE GARRETT." [B] I have transposed the passage from the alto clef.--J. S. C. * * * * * A remark may be interposed here that from a physiological point of view we must expect voices of different pitch in boys, just as in girls, women, and men. Boys differ in height, size, and in the pitch of the speaking voice, which is a sure guide to the pitch of the singing voice. There is thus no physiological ground for supposing all boys to be trebles. * * * * * The following letter is from the Rev. W. E. Dickson, Precentor of Ely:-- "The College, Ely, _October 30th_, 1890. "_Dear Sir_,--I have much pleasure in replying to your note. If I resolved to do so in a few words I should be obliged to say that seldom indeed do I hear boy altos sing with sweet voices and true intonation, either in my own country, or in those foreign countries in which I am in the habit of taking my holidays. "But I should like to be allowed to explain that, in my opinion, the coarseness (at any rate) of boy-altos in English choirs is due to mismanagement by the choirmaster. His usual plan is to turn over to the alto part boys who are losing their upper notes by the natural failure of their soprano voices. This saves trouble, for such boys probably read music well enough, and they are simply told to 'sing alto,' and are left to do so without further training, until they can croak out no more ugly noises. Surely this is quite a mistake. Am I not right in maintaining that a perfect choir should consist of FIRST TREBLES TENORS SECOND TREBLES BASSES well balanced as to numbers, and all singing with pure natural quality? If I am, then it follows that the second trebles should be precisely equal to the firsts in number and strength, and should include boys of various ages, as carefully selected and as assiduously trained as the others. I cannot but think--and, indeed, I perfectly well know--that where this has been done by a skilful teacher, whose heart is in his work, boy altos have been made to sing with sweetness and accuracy. "You will probably agree with me--though this is quite by the way--that secular music should be largely used by such a teacher. The part-songs of Mendelssohn, for instance, should be trolled out by the two sets of boys, who may even interchange their parts at practice with the best results. But of course this is said only in reference to choirs of a high class. "I do not deny that even the best teaching and the best management will not secure quite the same _timbre_ which you get in choirs with falsetti in the alto part. A certain silvery sweetness is obtained from these voices to which our English ears have become accustomed, and which we should miss if boys, however well-trained, took their places. In the Preces, Versicles, Litany, &c., of the English Choral Service, we should be conscious of a loss. In cathedrals, too, the complete shelving of some or even many compositions, favourites by long association, if not by intrinsic merit, would be inevitable. But I am unable to doubt for a moment that when the change had been made, and time had been given for the new order of things, under a thoroughly competent musician, we should not regret it. "At Ely we have ten men in daily attendance; fourteen on Sundays. We keep twenty boys in training. If this vocal body were thus distributed:-- 10 FIRST TREBLES 5 TENORS (6 on Sunday) 10 SECOND TREBLES 5 BASSES (8 on Sunday) we should certainly be stronger and healthier in tone and quality than we are now, with a disproportionate number of trebles, thus:-- 20 TREBLES 3 [4] TENORS 3 [4] ALTOS 4 [6] BASSES As to rustic choirs in village churches, I fear the case is hopeless, and I myself should be glad to see editions of well-known hymn-tunes and chants in three parts only--treble, tenor, and bass. Handel wrote some truly grand choruses in three parts in his 'Chandos Anthems.' But his tenor part is not for every-day voices! "Believe me, truly yours, "W. E. DICKSON." * * * * * The following, from Dr. Haydn Keeton, organist of Peterborough Cathedral, is against boy altos:-- "Thorpe Road, Peterborough, _December 12th, 1890_. "Dear Sir,--I have had about eighteen years' experience with alto boys, and although I have had some exceedingly good ones, one or two as good as it is possible, I think, to have, yet I must say that, in my opinion, it is a bad system to substitute boys for men, especially in cathedral music. The reason why the change was made here was that about the year 1872 three of our men altos were failing, and I happened to have three boys with good low voices, who took alto well. In consenting to this change I had no idea of its being a permanent one, but owing to the agricultural depression our Chapter have been quite prevented doing what they would like to do with the choir. The general effect of the change has been this--that I have been always weak in trebles. We are limited to Peterborough for our choristers, and, as a rule, there is not one boy in a hundred who knows even his notes when he enters the choir. It takes from eighteen months to two years for a boy to learn his work, and it is not until a boy is at least twelve that one can turn him into an alto. The result is that four of my senior boys have to be turned into altos, and I am left with a preponderance of young, inexperienced boys as trebles. At the present time I have twelve trebles, eight of whom are quite young. "In addition, see what extra work is involved in teaching the boys to sing alto. Some boys do not take to alto very easily, and the extra work given to the altos means that quantity taken from the trebles. I am unable, in consequence, to give the necessary time to the elementary work that one ought to give. We can only get one hour's practice in the day, owing to the boys going to school. "Then, again, as to tone. The tone of a choir with men altos, if they are at all fairly good, is so much superior to one with boy altos. In cathedral music so many anthems and services have trios for A.T.B. There is not one boy in a thousand who can sing the trio in 'O where shall wisdom' (Boyce) with a tenor and bass effectively. And how many there are similar to that! "I do not see how boys could work at all in ordinary parish choirs, for here there are not the opportunities of teaching boys to read well at sight. It is only by daily practice that one can make anything of boys. "Yours faithfully, "H. KEETON." Dr. Frank Bates, organist of Norwich Cathedral, has favoured me with a copy of a paper on the boy's voice, in which he says:-- "The compass of a boy's voice when properly developed is from [Illustration: C to A B[b] or C] The chest or lower register extends from [Illustration: C to C or D] The head or upper register extends from [Illustration: C or D to B[b] or C] No fixed compass can possibly be given to the different registers, as the older a boy becomes the lower the change occurs; the head register often being used as low down as A." [Illustration: musical notation] In a letter to me Dr. Bates says:-- "I quite think that, for ordinary parish church services, the effect of boy altos, if properly taught, is all that one can desire." In reply to my remark that the break comes in so awkwardly for boy altos, Dr. Bates says:-- "I fail to understand the reason you quote for the non-usage of boy altos. There is no change whatever in a boy's voice, _in its normal state_, until [Illustration: musical notation] is reached. If the change is made lower down all the brilliancy is taken out of a boy's voice. As a boy gets older he uses the upper register much lower down. I have known boys at the age of eighteen with lovely top notes but very poor chest register. In such cases, when a boy's top register commences at [Illustration: G] I can quite understand the difficulty." There is evidently some conflict of nomenclature here, as the limits of the registers as given by Dr. Bates differ considerably from those which are usual. I am glad to learn that Dr. Bates is writing a book on "The Voices of Boys," which will no doubt clear up the subject. In the paper before me he recommends practice of the scales to such syllables as La, Fa, Ta, Pa, in order to bring the tone well to the front of the mouth, and reinforce it by means of the soft upper palate. He recommends the teacher to train the boys to use the upper register by making them sing over and over again, _very softly_, the following notes:-- [Illustration: Chest Head Ah....] Here again the transition seems to me to be taken much too high. Mr. Frank Sharp, of Dundee, trainer of the celebrated children's choir, which has sung the treble and alto parts, both solos and choruses, of _Messiah, St. Paul_, and many cantatas, writes to me:-- "In part-singing where there are boy trebles, the adult male alto voice has its charms. The contrast in quality between the open tone of the boys' voices and the condensed, sometimes squeaky sweetness of the man alto does not affect the blending, and helps the distinctness of parts. Considering the growing scarcity of this latter voice, why not use boy altos? They can be made as effective as ordinary women altos, but they are as short-lived and need more attention than the boy trebles. Their chief drawback is a tendency to produce tone without the least attention to quality or effect save that of noise. Nevertheless, there is nothing to hinder boy altos doing all that is necessary, or, indeed, all that can be done by the adult male alto. I have trained boys to sing alto in _Messiah_, _St. Paul_, and equally trying music, during the past twenty years, and anyone else who keeps the girl's alto voice before him as a model can do the same. The boy alto voice may be said to have a husk and a kernel: the one strident, harsh, and overpowering; the other sweet, and, with use, rich and round. The average healthy boy, with his exuberant love of noise, will naturally give the husk, but the skilful voice-trainer will only accept the kernel, evolved from right register, good _timbre_, and proper production. Seeing and hearing a process in voice-training is, however, more satisfactory than much writing and the reading thereof." * * * * * Mr. W. W. Pearson, master of a village school in Norfolk, who is well-known by his excellent part-songs, writes to me:-- "I succeed very well in getting boys to sing alto because I always use a large number of exercises in two parts, making each division of the class in turn take the lower part. I do not choose boys for altos on account of age. That, in my opinion, has nothing to do with it. I choose them by quality of voice. There is no break in the voice of the natural alto between]--[Illustration: G and C] I find altos out generally when they are novices, by hearing them trying to sing with the others, and dropping down an octave in high passages." * * * * * The following interesting notes are by Mr. W. Critchley, organist, choirmaster, and schoolmaster in the village of Hurst, near Reading:-- "I do not choose the elder boys as altos, as I find that treble boys, as a rule, are at their very best just before the change of voice. And moreover, when that change begins, the voice is so uncertain in its intonation that if the boy were put to sing alto he would be certain to drag the others down. At present I have one or two boys with round, mellow voices, who are very effective. Unfortunately, most of the alto parts in hymn-tunes and chants hover about the place where the break in the voice occurs, and it requires a lot of practice to conquer the difficulty. As a rule, I get the alto boys to sing in the lower register. It is very seldom they get a note which they cannot take in this register, so I train it up a little, thus-- [Illustration: KEYS B to F[#]. d_1 t_2 l_2 t_2 d_1 r_1 m_1] I do not see any other way of getting over the uncertainty in the boy alto voice. It is merely a matter of time and trouble." * * * * * Mr. J. C. E. Taylor, choirmaster of St. Mary's, Penzance, and head-master of the National School, says:-- "I have had one or two pure alto voices, and these are the best, but very rare. Good voices of trebles unable to take [Illustration: musical notation] (D) have often become fair alto voices, and my present solo alto boy is one of these. The trios in the anthems are taken by boy alto, tenor, and bass. These alto boys are practised from lower G to C--[Illustration: musical notation] up and down, minding their _p's_ and _f's_. My trebles, as a rule, last until fifteen years of age, and altos until sixteen, and even seventeen." * * * * * Mr. A. Isaac, choirmaster of a church in Liverpool, says:-- "For the last twenty years I have been continuously engaged with male voice choirs in connection with churches too poor to pay for adult help, and, as you may readily guess, I have never yet had the good fortune to secure, for any length, the services of gentlemen who could sing falsetto effectively. I have had, therefore, to rely solely upon my boys for the alto part. At the present time my choir, which is allowed to be up to the mark amongst local Liverpool churches, is made up of 22 boys (18 treble and 4 alto) paid, and 14 adults (5 tenors and 9 basses) voluntary. There is, I find, no royal road to the alto part. My course is as follows. I obtain my boys as soon as they are eleven, by which age they have been made fairly familiar at my school with the old notation on the movable _do_ plan. Theoretical instruction is continued side by side with special voice-training exercises. Occasionally I meet with a boy who has a true mezzo-soprano voice, and he is a treasure, but in the main my selections are boys with treble voices. As soon as a treble shows signs of voice breaking, I let him down into the alto part. The transition is not very difficult, for by this time the boy has become a fairly good Sol-faist and reader. I have but to adapt the voice-training exercises to him in company with his fellows, and I have no reason to regret the issue. I take my boys always together, with two-part exercises." Mr. Stocks Hammond, organist and choirmaster of St. Barnabas, Bradford, in a published paper on "Boys' Voices," says:-- "During many years of choir training, I have experienced very great difficulty in supplying the alto parts with _good_ men's falsetto voices (especially in voluntary choirs), and I have therefore been compelled to have that part sung by boys, and experience leads me to prefer the boys' voices to men's, unless, indeed, they are real alto voices, which are seldom to be met with. I have never yet had any great difficulty in finding boys' voices capable of sustaining that part, and can always fill up any gaps that occur by the following means. Whenever I find a treble begins to experience a difficulty in singing the upper notes, and that in order to sing them he must strain his voice, immediately he is put to sing alto, which he is in most cases able to do for one or two years, and during that time he is thus retained as a useful member of the choir; for otherwise he would very soon have been lost to it entirely, for nothing hastens so much the breaking of the voice as the habit of unduly straining it." Mr. T. H. Collinson, Mus.B., organist of St. Mary's Cathedral, Edinburgh, writes to me:-- "Boy altos are a fraud and a deception, as a rule, though occasionally one meets with a natural contralto at an early age. Even then he can generally be worked up to treble by gentle treatment, developing the middle and falsetto registers." * * * * * In order to get to the bottom of this subject, I invited correspondence in the _Musical Standard_ (until recently the organ of the College of Organists), and several interesting letters were the result. Mr. R. T. Gibbons, F.C.O., organist of the Grocers' Company's Schools, where excellent performances of operettas are given, wrote:-- "As soon as a boy's voice reaches only E[b] he is drafted into the altos, and that preserves his voice much longer." To this statement Mr. Fred. Cambridge, organist of Croydon Parish Church, took exception. He said:-- "I do not wish to appear to dogmatise, but I should say 'as soon as a boy's voice reaches only E[b],' it is quite time he left off singing altogether, _i.e._, if his voice has previously been a treble. I know it is the custom in some choirs to make a boy sing alto as soon as his voice begins to break. In my opinion, such a course is utterly wrong. It is not only injurious to the boy's voice, but very unpleasant for those who have to listen to it. "In a school of 500 boys, there ought to be no difficulty in finding sufficient natural altos, without having to rely on broken-voiced trebles. "In my own choir I frequently admit altos at 10 or 11 years of age, with the result that I get five or six years' work out of them, and the latter part of their time they are available for alto solos. "I think (and I speak from upwards of 30 years' experience) that if Mr. Gibbons will try this plan, he will find it much more satisfactory than drafting his trebles into the altos as soon as their voices begin to break. "I do not enter into the question of men _versus_ boy altos, because it is my experience that in a voluntary choir, especially in the country, a really _good_ adult alto is such a _rara avis_, that one is obliged to rely on boys, and if they are carefully chosen and trained, they are, I think, quite satisfactory. The only place when one misses the man alto voice is in anthems with a verse for A.T.B., such as 'Rejoice in the Lord' (Purcell), 'The Wilderness' (Goss), &c." Mr. C. E. Juleff, organist of Bodmin Parish Church, wrote:-- "Allow me to say that I have found men altos infinitely preferable to those of boys. In short, one good man alto I have experienced to be equal to half-a-dozen boy altos as regards tone; and in respect to phrasing and reading I have found men altos decidedly superior. The two gentlemen altos who were in my choir at SS. Michael and All Angels, Exeter, were acknowledged by London organists to be 'second to none' in the provinces." * * * * * On the other hand, Mr. Thomas Ely, F.C.O., of St. John's College, Leatherhead, gave a warm testimony to boy altos:-- "I may say that in my choir at this College I have four or five very good boy altos. One is exceptionally good, possessing a natural alto voice of remarkable richness and beauty. In our services and anthems he takes the solo alto parts, and in my opinion he is far superior to a man alto, except in such anthems as Wesley's 'Ascribe unto the Lord' (expressly written for choirs possessing men altos), in which he cannot take some of the lower notes. The compass of his voice is from F to E[b]." * * * * * In these letters and experiences there are evidently two underlying ideas. First, that the boy alto has a naturally low voice; second, that the boy alto is a broken-down soprano. For both these notions there is some physical foundation, because there is no doubt that the lower notes of boys of 12 to 14 are rounder and fuller than those of boys of 9 to 12. Herr Eglinger, of Basel, to whose mastery of the subject in theory and practice I can testify, from personal intercourse, distinctly recognises this. He says:-- "It is only when boys and girls approach the period of change, say a year or two before the voice begins to break, that a clear chest-voice, corresponding to that of women, is perceptible. In boys at this stage, the head-voice rapidly declines in volume and height; and what there is of middle register is not much, nor of great service much longer. On the other hand, the chest-tones acquire a resonance, and in boys a certain gruffness, which, mixed with other voices, imparts a peculiar charm to the chorus." Thus although here and there a boy may be found with a naturally low voice from the first, the majority of altos will be obtained from older boys, who are approaching the period of change. It is, however, of much importance to watch these boys, and stop their singing when their voice really gives way, because it then becomes uncertain in its intonation, and is apt to spoil the tuning of the choir. * * * * * The idea that boys must not use the thick or chest register is also a mistake. It is the straining of this register, which produces a hard, rattling sound, that is objectionable. Boy altos have as much right to use the chest register, in its proper place and with proper reserve of power, as women altos. [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XIV. SCHOOLS FOR CHORISTERS. Music is now recognised as one of the professions, taking its place by the side of Law, Medicine, and Divinity. Parents who have boys to start in life look for avenues of entrance to these various occupations. And there can be no doubt that to be a chorister-boy is one of the very best ways of serving an apprenticeship to music. Hear what the late Sir George Macfarren says on the subject:-- "A cathedral choir is the best cradle for a musician our country affords. I say this from the conviction, many times confirmed, that, as an average, by very far the best practical musicians, those I mean whose musical readiness gives them the air of having music as an instinct or of second nature, those who are ever prompt with their talent to produce or to perform without preparation at the requirement of the moment; those whose ears are quick, whose wits are sharp, and whose utmost ability is ever at their fingers' ends--are they who have passed their art infancy in one of our ecclesiastical arenas for constant practice. The very early habit of hearing and performing music stimulates the musical sense, and gives musical tendency to all the youthfully supple faculties which bear upon the use of this sense. The habit in almost first childhood of associating sight with sound, written characters with uttered notes, the office of the eye with that of the ear or of the voice, which is the ear's agent, does more in favourable cases to develop some of the best essentials in an artist, than can be accomplished by the unremitting study of after life. I say this feelingly: I had not the advantage to which I refer, but I observe its influence upon the majority of others whose talent claims my best respect." These words put the case with emphasis and truth. A list of former choir boys in the musical profession, if it could be compiled, would afford further evidence in this matter. Among composers the list would include Arthur Sullivan, Alfred Cellier, John Stainer, and Alfred Gaul; among singers, Edward Lloyd and Joseph Maas, while the ranks of the teaching profession are largely recruited from this source. "Literature," says Mr. Herkomer, "does not help art much. Art is learnt by doing." You cannot become a musician by reading the matter up, or listening to lectures. Musicianship is imparted more after the style of a moral than of an intellectual power--like good breeding rather than like arithmetic. A striking proof of the fact that the chorister boy gravitates easily into the musical profession, and makes his mark there, is afforded by the history of Rochester Cathedral boys. These include the late Mr. Joseph Maas, the tenor singer, and the following organists of cathedrals, all of whom are living:--Dr. Armes (Durham), Dr. Crow (Ripon), Dr. Bridge (Westminster), Dr. J. C. Bridge (Chester), and Mr. Wood (Exeter). These facts make parents anxious for information as to how to get their sons into church and cathedral choirs. Enquiries of this kind are constantly reaching me. I have therefore thought it well to add to the completeness of this work by collecting information from all available sources, and I have to express my thanks to the Rev. Precentors who have so readily responded to my circular of appeal. The result is in some respects disappointing. Choir _boarding_ schools are not numerous, and are not increasing in number. The agricultural depression has reduced the revenues of cathedrals and colleges, and they are likely in the future to seek out cheaper rather than more expensive modes of working. A few town churches which place music in the front, have started boarding schools, but, as a rule, the choristers live in their homes. I have no desire for these boarding schools in the abstract. I question if the boys get more musical education by living together than they do by coming for it day by day. But the boarding school affords the only opportunity for parents who do not live in a cathedral town to get their boys educated as choristers. The day schools suit the townspeople well enough, and here and there a boy from a distance may board with relatives or friends and get into the choir, but this is exceptional. I now give the results of my enquiries. CHOIR BOARDING SCHOOLS. WORCESTER CATHEDRAL CHOIR SCHOOL.--A preparatory school for the sons of professional men. Boys admitted as probationers nine to eleven, on passing examination. The ten choristers and eight probationers are lodged, boarded, and taught together at the Choir School. Charge £26 per annum for probationers, and £16 for choristers, plus 7s. 6d. a quarter for washing. Pianoforte lessons 15s. per quarter. Boys can compete, when their voices break, for a scholarship at the Cathedral Grammar School. Several have done this with success. Apply Rev. H. H. Woodward, M.A., Mus.B. WESTMINSTER ABBEY CHOIR HOUSE.--Candidates must produce certificate of baptism and be at least eight years of age. Expected to possess good voice, moderate knowledge of rudiments, to be able to read and write fairly, and to pass medical examination. All boys taught vocal music, and facilities given for learning instruments. Master of choir house responsible for their general education, which includes English subjects, French, German, and drawing. Parents must supply clothing, and usual appointments, school books, pocket money, travelling expenses, and medical attendance. All other fees paid by the Chapter. EXETER CATHEDRAL CHOIR SCHOOL.--Fourteen choristers are boarded and educated for £10 a year, and provided with a suit of clothes each year. There are always two probationers in the school from eight to ten years of age paying £35 exclusive of usual extras. Vacancies in choristers usually filled by probationers, but no pledge given. Possible grants to deserving choristers when they leave; school fees sometimes paid for six months or so after the voice has failed. Head master and experienced matron. ALL SAINTS, MARGARET STREET, LONDON, W.--Twelve choir boys and two accepted boys waiting for vacancies live in west wing of vicarage under care of one of the clergy, who gives them lessons each morning, a certificated master taking them in the evenings. Afternoon, cricket and football in Regent's Park. Whole holiday Saturdays, and those who live near enough can go home. Vacations--a week in January and at Easter, and 34 days in August and September. Each boy separate cubicle in dormitory. Boys have meals in dining hall with clergy (but at separate table). Each boy pays £12 in first year, £8 in second year, and nothing afterwards. Gratuity of £10 when voice breaks. Probationers pay £5 per quarter, and do everything except sing in church. No boy received unless parents wish him to be brought up in Church of England. Correct ear and brilliant voice count more at examination than knowledge of music. Apply Vicar. CHAPEL ROYAL, ST. JAMES'S PALACE.--The ten choristers reside with Master, who is a priest of the Chapel Royal. Free board and education and greater part of clothing. Grant of from £30 to £40 on leaving choir if conduct good. Latin, French, Mathematics, and usual English subjects. OXFORD, MAGDALENE COLLEGE SCHOOL.--Sixteen choristers, board and education free. Admitted by open competition. The school is not confined to choristers; it contains at present 70 boys, many of whom pass on to the University. OXFORD, NEW COLLEGE.--Eight senior and eight junior choristers take part in the services. These all receive free education at the College School, but provide their own books. They are prepared for Oxford Local Examinations, the College paying fees. Twelve choristers are boarded in the School House with the master. These are arranged in two divisions according to musical ability. The first division boarded free, the second division pays about 6s. a week for the 40 weeks of the school year. Some fees paid to senior boys and boys of special value as soloists. Choristers whose parents reside in Oxford receive from 10s. to £5 a year according to merit and seniority. Gratuity or apprentice fee not exceeding £40 occasionally given. FROME, SOMERSET.--St. John Baptist College. Founded by late Rev. W. J. E. Bennett 36 years ago. Number of boys usually 15; maintained, clothed, and educated on payment of 7s. a week under twelve, and 8s. above. No regular holidays. Boys not allowed to leave till they have made their first communion. LINCOLN MINSTER.--Boys boarded and educated at Northgate Schools at expense of Chapter. English subjects, French, Latin, German, Drawing, Shorthand, Chemistry. All school books found. Parents pay travelling, clothing, and washing only. Small allowance of pocket-money. Four weeks' holiday in the year. EASTBOURNE, ST. SAVIOUR'S CHURCH CHOIR SCHOOL.--Established 1878. Boys admitted as boarders or day pupils from eight years of age, choristers (boarders) pay 32 guineas a year, day choristers 14 guineas. Instrumental music, German, and Drawing are extras. Other subjects as for Cambridge local exams. Ten weeks' holiday in the year. Scholarships of from £5 to £15 a year are awarded to efficient choristers. RIPON CATHEDRAL CHOIR SCHOOL.--Day boys under 14, £6 per annum; over 14, £8. Boarders under 12, £40 per annum; over 12, £45. Laundress, £2. Usual subjects, including modern languages and science. Instrumental music extra. Four choral scholarships at £30, eight at £25, and six for probationers at £20. Pupils prepared for University Local Examinations, Preliminary Law, and Medical, &c. Playground, workshop, cricket field, library, school magazine. ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL CHOIR SCHOOL.--Board and education free: parents provide clothes, travelling, and pocket money. Good voices and musical talent necessary. Easy preliminary examination in Scripture, three R's, and Latin. Candidates must be between 8 and 10. Two or three examinations are held each year according as there are vacancies. Course of study as usual for public schools. Piano and violin extra. Holidays at Christmas, Easter, and Summer. Weekly half-holiday. Private field in suburbs for games. Rev. W. Russell, Succentor, is head master. SALISBURY CATHEDRAL.--Boarding school for choristers in the Close. Eighteen boys. Parents pay £15 a year. School has also some pupils who are not choristers. Usual subjects of secondary school. One ex-chorister is now a scholar of Trinity College, Cambridge. The master is a Minor Canon. Boys admitted by competition; those from neighbourhood of Salisbury preferred. Endowment of nearly £1,000 a year for the choir. ALL SAINTS, CLIFTON.--Choir school for the choristers of All Saints Church, who can be prepared for public schools or commercial life. There are twenty choir scholarships, ranging in value from £10 to £25 a year. A boy holding a junior scholarship may at any time be elected to one of higher value. School fees for choristers 7 to 10 guineas a term. Choristers may remain at the school after voice breaks at discretion of head-master. Holidays at Summer, Christmas, and Easter. The school is open to boys generally, whether choristers or not. THE VICAR'S CHOIR SCHOOL, HULL.--Intended for the choristers of Holy Trinity Church. School fee, £10 10s. per annum. Boarders £40 per annum. Ten scholarships of the value of £10 10s., ten value £8 8s., and twenty value £5 5s. Amount of scholarship deducted from boarding fee in case of those who are admitted into choir. Thirteen weeks' holiday during the year. OXFORD, CHRIST CHURCH CATHEDRAL SCHOOL.--Boys are all sons of clergymen or other professional men. Eight choristers educated, boarded, and lodged free of expense. Eight probationers, who, if approved, become choristers as vacancies occur. Probationary period usually from 2 to 2-1/2 years. Probationers pay £25 a year. A few extras, and fee of £3 3s. on election of probationer to choristership. Every boy is, if possible, passed through the Oxford Local Examinations. Month's holiday in summer, and short leave of absence either at Christmas or Easter, if particularly desired. Election by competition after trial of voice and ear. WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL.--Sixteen choristers sing in the services. These receive education free, a clothing gratuity of £5 a year, and a leaving gratuity of from £5 to £20, according to merit and length of service. There are four boarding scholarships, which leave the parents only £5 a year to pay. Six of the choristers are foundation boys. Of these, the two seniors receive £4 a year, and the two juniors £2 a year, but boarding scholarships and foundation money are not given to the same boys. There are also four to eight probationers who supply vacancies, if on second trial their voices are approved. These receive free education. There are sixty boys in the school. TENBURY, ST. MICHAEL'S COLLEGE.--Founded by the late Rev. Sir Frederick Gore-Ouseley in 1856. There are eight choristers, boarded and educated free. Also eight probationers, from whom the choristers are selected, who pay 40 guineas a year. Commoners, _i.e._, boys who do not hold scholarships, and are not probationers, pay 60 guineas a year; two or more brothers 55 guineas a year. Preference is given in all elections to the sons of clergymen. Thirteen weeks' holiday in the year. Sound classical and mathematical education, to fit for scholarships and the higher forms at public schools. Healthy situation, in country. EDUCATION ONLY. BRISTOL CATHEDRAL.--Boys attend Cathedral Grammar School, where there are 100 boys. GLOUCESTER CATHEDRAL.--Boys educated and paid up to £10 per annum. ST. ASAPH.--Boys educated at Grammar School. WELLS.--Boys educated at Cathedral Grammar School. YORK.--Boys sent to Archbishop Holgate's School. TRURO.--Probationers, after serving at least three months, may be admitted choristers, and receive small quarterly payment. From these are elected the "choir scholars," of whom there are now ten. These receive free education and a quarterly gratuity. One boy, with remarkable contralto voice, comes from a distance, and is boarded and educated at expense of Dean and Chapter. Enlarged number of boarders contemplated. ST. PETER'S, EATON SQUARE, LONDON, W.--Special day school with master. Boys have midday dinner, with tea on practice and late service nights. Boarding school formerly existed, but is given up. DURHAM CATHEDRAL.--No boarding school. ELY CATHEDRAL.--No boarding school. BANGOR.--Choristers brought up in National or Grammar School. TEMPLE CHURCH, LONDON.--Boys attend Stationers' School. PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL.--Boys educated at King's School. CHICHESTER CATHEDRAL.--Boys taught at Prebendal School. INVERNESS CATHEDRAL.--No boarding school. ARMAGH CATHEDRAL.--A day school for the choir boys. HAMPTON COURT, CHAPEL ROYAL.--No boarding school. NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE CATHEDRAL.--No boarding school. MANCHESTER CATHEDRAL.--A special day school for the choir boys, taught by a lay clerk. Eighteen to twenty boys receive education free, and four foundation boys receive £20 per annum. The Precentor likes to have the boys at nine. LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL.--Day school taught by a deputy lay clerk, the succentor taking Latin, English, and Divinity. DUBLIN, ST. PATRICK'S CATHEDRAL.--No boarding school. PERTH CATHEDRAL.--No school. LINCOLN'S INN.--Choristers educated, but not boarded. NORWICH CATHEDRAL.--No boarding school. CARLISLE CATHEDRAL.--No boarding school. ROCHESTER CATHEDRAL.--Boys live at home, and attend Cathedral School, which is not especially for choristers. LIVERPOOL CATHEDRAL.--No boarding school. SOUTHWELL MINSTER.--No boarding school. ST. ALBAN'S CATHEDRAL.--No boarding school. From these particulars it will be gathered that the prevailing custom is for chorister boys to live at home and give their voices in return for free education. The various boarding schools described differ much in the terms they offer, and it may be said generally that only an exceptionally good voice and a personal introduction are likely to succeed in those cases where free board and education are given. The number of candidates is so large that selection is difficult. [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XV. CONCERT SONGS FOR BOYS. In this list I have included songs with innocent, hopeful, joyous words such as boys may honestly sing. Words dwelling with sadness on the past, or speaking of life as bitter, I have excluded. Convivial and amatory sentiments have also been ruled out. As to the music, I have excluded songs with difficulties of vocalisation. The keys chosen are those best suited to treble boys, bringing the melody as nearly as possible between F and F{1}, with an occasional G{1}. The list is by no means exhaustive, and must be regarded merely as a dip in the ocean of ballads. I shall be much obliged to correspondents who will suggest suitable additions. Composer. Title and Key. Publisher. Abt, Franz ... O little thrush (C) ... R. Cocks Adams, Stephen ... Song of the sailor boy (E flat) R. Cocks Adams, Stephen ... The cry of the little ones (E flat).... Boosey Addison, R. B. ... Violets (F) ... Stanley Lucas Allen, G. B. ... The little drummer (F) ... Ashdown Almond, E. ... Buttercups and daisies (D) ... Ashdown Anderton, T. ... The bells of Shandon (D) ... Chappell André, F. A. ... A British cheer for England's Queen (F) ... Chappell Bailey, W. J. ... Make-believes (E flat) ... Ashdown Barker, Geo. ... A health to the outward-bound (B flat) ... Chappell Barnby, Joseph ... An evening melody (F) ... Morley Barnby, Joseph ... That haven fair (E flat) ... Morley Barnett, J. F. ... The Minstrel (G) ... Stanley Lucas Barri, Odoardo ... In the cloisters (B flat) ... Morley Barri, Odoardo ... The beauteous song (F) ... Cramer Barri, Odoardo ... The child and the flowers (E flat) ... Ashdown Behrend, A. H. ... Gentleman Jack (C) ... Patey & Willis Behrend, A. H. ... The angel's promise (F) ... Boosey Behrend, A. H. ... The Gift (F) ... Boosey Behrend, A. H. ... Two children (A) ... Patey & Willis Bennett, Sterndale ... Dawn, gentle flower ... Novello Bevan, Fred ... Gladsome tidings (E flat) ... Patey & Willis Bevan, Fred ... I'll be a soldier, mother (A) ... Patey & Willis Bevan, Fred ... The Admiral's broom (F minor) ... Enoch Bishop, R ... Chime again, beautiful bells (B flat) ... R. Cocks Botterhill, Jessie ... Pack clouds away (C) ... Stanley Lucas Botterhill, Jessie ... The Lark (F) ... Stanley Lucas Buck, Dudley ... When the heart is young ... Boosey Cherry, J. W. ... Gentle Spring (G) ... Ashdown Cherubini ... Ave Maria ... Chesham, E. M. ... Fire (G) ... Cramer Cobb, G. F. ... Mary, Queen of Scots ... London Music Pub. Co. Cobb, G. F. ... Versailles ... London Music Pub. Co. Cobb, G. F. ... Kenilworth ... Metzler Costa, Michael ... Morning Prayer [_Eli_](alto) ... J. Williams Cowen, F. H. ... Children's dreams (E minor) ... R. Cocks Cowen, F. H. ... The Children's Home (D) ... Morley Cowen, F. H. ... Tears (alto) ... Cowen, F. H. ... The watchman and the child (F) ... Morley Coward, J. M. ... The butterfly and the humble bee ... Metzler & Co. Davis, Miss ... What is that, mother? (A flat) ... Ashdown Dick, Cotsford ... The Angel's Gift (F) ... Morley Diehl, Louis ... Dear England (C) ... R. Cocks Elmore, Frank ... Child and the sunbeams (C) ... Stanley Lucas Farebrother, B. ... Reine d'amour ... Flood, Edwin ... The gipsy's life (C) ... R. Cocks Foster, M. B. The mother's grave (E minor) [alto] Stanley Lucas Frost, C. J. ... Youthful Songs ... Novello Gabriel, V. Children's voices [alto] ... Gatty, A. S. ... Three little pigs (A flat) ... R. Cocks Gibsone, Ignace ... The man-o'-war's man (D) ... Patey & Willis Gilletto, Paul ... Lead, kindly light (A minor) ... Phillips & Page Glover, Stephen ... The flower gatherers (E) ... R. Cocks Gounod, C. ... For ever with the Lord (D) ... Phillips & Page Gounod, C. ... Glory to Thee, my God (D) ... Phillips & Page Gounod, C. ... The King of Love (E flat) [alto] ... Phillips & Page Grazia, E. N. ... Laugh while you may (D) ... Ashdown Greenhill, J. ... The Canadian herd-boy (F) [alto] ... Stanley Lucas Gyde, Margaret ... The song of the robin (D) ... Ashdown Hatton, J. L. ... The cause of England's greatness (F) ... R. Cocks Hatton, J. L. ... Song should breathe of scents and flowers ... Ashdown Hatton, J. L. ... Blossoms ... Ashdown Hawthorne, Alice ... Hearth and home (G) ... R. Cocks Hecht, E. ... The innocent child (C) ... Stanley Lucas Hobson, M. ... The peaceful Sabbath bell (F) ... Chappell Horner, B. W. ... In the cloisters (E flat) ... Stanley Lucas Jackson, J. ... Cathedral Memories (E flat) ... Morley Kjerulf, Halfdan ... Asleep (E) ... Stanley Lucas Lemoine, E. ... The ship-boy's prayer (C min.) [alto] ... Stanley Lucas Liebe, Louis ... The stripling's armour (C minor) ... Stanley Lucas Löhr, F. N. ... Suffer the little children (F) ... Cramer Maccabe, F. ... Buttercups and daisies (D) ... Chappell Mackenzie, H. ... The lion flag of England (G) ... Patey & Willis Marzials, Theo ... The fairy Jane (B flat) ... Enoch Mendelssohn ... The Savoyard's Return ... Novello Moffat, Douglas ... The child's prayer (F) ... Stanley Lucas Moir, F. L. ... Children asleep (F) ... Boosey Moir, F. L. ... He will forgive (C) ... R. Cocks Molloy, J. L. ... Home, dearie, home (F) ... Boosey Molloy, J. L. ... The little match girl (G minor) ... Chappell Molloy, J. L. ... The sailor's dance ... Boosey Molloy, J. L. ... Dresden China ... Boosey Morgan, Franz ... A fairer garden (C) ... Cramer Offenbach ... Spring, spring _(Babil and Bijou)_ ... Parker, Henry ... Jerusalem (G) ... Cramer Pattison, T. Mee ... Blossoms, fair blossoms ... Curwen Piccolomini, M. ... Dolorosa ... Orsborn Piccolomini, M. ... Eternal rest ... Orsborn Piccolomini, M. ... In Manus Tuas (F) ... Morley Piccolomini, M. ... Ora pro nobis ... Orsborn Piccolomini, M. ... Salva nos, domine ... Orsborn Piccolomini, M. ... Sancta Maria ... Orsborn Piccolomini, M. ... The soldier of the cross ... Orsborn Piccolomini, M. ... The two choirs ... Orsborn Pinsuti, Ciro ... Heaven's chorister (C) ... R. Cocks Pinsuti, Ciro ... The old cathedral (D) ... Morley Pinsuti, Ciro ... The touch of a vanished hand (G) ... Cramer Pinsuti, Ciro ... Welcome, pretty primrose ... Ricordi Randegger, A. ... Save me, O God (B flat) ... Stanley Lucas Randegger, A. ... Joyous Life ... Rawlings, A. J. ... The distant city [alto] ... Marshall Robinson, J. ... A Hush Song (F) ... J. Williams Rodney, Paul ... Alone on the raft (G) ... Enoch Rodney, Paul ... Calvary (D) ... Enoch Rodney, Paul ... The bells of St Mary's (D) ... Enoch Rodney, Paul ... Via Dolorosa (G) ... Enoch Rodwell, G. H. ... Your boy in blue (F) ... R. Cocks Roeckel, J. L. ... Captain Dando (E flat) ... Enoch Roeckel, J. L. ... Crowning the seasons (D) ... R. Cocks Roeckel, J. L. ... Hark! the dogs do bark! (A) ... Cramer Richards, Brinley ... Let the hills resound (E flat) ... R. Cocks Richards, Brinley ... Mother, thou art far away (F) ... R. Cocks Smallwood, W. ... A song for the land I love (C) ... Chappell Smart, Henry ... Victoria (B flat) ... R. Cocks Smart, Henry ... By the blue sea [alto] ... Metzler Smart, Henry ... Dropping down the troubled river ... Novello Smart, Henry ... The birds were telling one another (F) ... Ashdown Somervell, Arthur ... Four songs of Innocence ... Stanley Lucas Songs for Boys (20 songs, price 6d.) ... ... Boosey Songs for Young Girls (18 songs, 1s.) ... ... Boosey Stericker, A. C. ... The Ivy Green (B flat) [alto] ... Stanley Lucas Street, A. ... The birdie's ball (D) ... R. Cocks Streleski, Anton ... Violets (G) ... R. Cocks Sullivan, A. S. ... The chorister (alto) ... Metzler Sullivan, A. S. ... What does little birdie say ... Ashdown Sullivan, A. S. ... The Sailor's Grave (E flat) ... Ashdown Tours, Berthold ... Jesu, lover of my soul (D) ... R. Cocks Tours, Berthold ... The dog and the shadow (G) ... R. Cocks Tours, Berthold ... The new kingdom (D) ... Morley Trotére, H. ... Three men in a boat (C) ... R. Cocks Wallace, W. V. ... Scenes that are brightest (F) ... Hutchings Walsh, Marian ... The sailor boy (C) ... Stanley Lucas Watson, M. ... An Englishman's house is his castle (C) ... R. Cocks Watson, M. ... Little birdie mine (D) ... Ashdown Watson, M. ... Little Lady Bountiful (F) ... Ashdown Watson, M. ... Loved and saved (B flat) ... Enoch Watson, M. ... Our dear old home (D) ... Patey & Willis Watson, M. ... The Powder-monkey (G) ... Patey & Willis Watson, M. ... There's a Friend for little children (A) ... Patey & Willis Watson, M. ... Trafalgar (E flat) ... Patey & Willis Watson, M. ... Two bells (G) ... Patey & Willis West, J. E. ... The roseate hues (alto) ... Ashdown West, W. ... I am a honey-bee (G) ... Ashdown Wrightson, W. T. ... Be happy, and never despair (G) ... R. Cocks Wrightson, W. T. ... Cottage and throne (E flat) ... R. Cocks Old Song ... Sir Guy of Warwick (F) ... Chappell " ... The Minstrel Boy ... Boosey " ... Charlie is my darling ... Boosey " ... Love was once a little boy ... Boosey .... ... The Skipper and his Boy (F) ... Hutchings INDEX. PAGE Abuse of the voice, 1 Agricultural districts, 49 Alto boys, 75 Altos, Adult male, 75 Balance of parts, 16 Barnes, Rev. W. M., 23 Barnicott, Mr., 15 Bates, Dr. Frank, 81 Behnke, Mr., 14, 17 Berlin, St. Mary's, 71 Boarding Schools, Choir, 92 Breaking of the boy's voice, 3 Breath, Management of the, 6, 67 Breden, Mr. Owen, 71 Bridge, Dr., 60 Brooks, Mr. Walter, 15, 34 Cambridge, Mr. F., 87 Canterbury Cathedral, 64 Cathedral choirmasters, 59 Change to man's voice, 3 Chanting, 62 Chapel Royal, St. James's, 59 Chest voice, 24 Choir Guild, 9 Choosing boys, 21 Choristers, Schools for, 90 Churchill, 52 Clement Danes, St., Strand, 72 Clergyman's daughter, The, 55 Cold, Singing during a, 2 Collar-bone breathing, 6 Collinson, Mr. T. H., 17, 86 Concert songs for boys, 99 Consonants, 27 Country boys, 49 Creser, Dr., 69 Critchley, Mr. W., 49, 84 Curwen, John, Register names, 12 Day Schools, Choir, 96 Deacon, Mr. H., 27 Demack, Miss, 52 Diaphragm breathing, 6 Dickson, Rev. W. E., 25, 78 Discipline, Preserving, 8 Donald, Mr. H. A., 33, 74 Dunn, Sinclair, Voice exs., 13 Edinburgh, St. Mary's, 17, 86 Eglinger, Herr, 15, 35, 88 Ely, Mr. Thomas, 88 Ely, The choir at, 78 "E," The vowel, 17 Evans, Mr., 50 Feeble voice, A, 1 Fines, 17 Flattening, 31, 32 Garrett, Dr., 76 Gaul, Mr. A. R., 66 Gibbons, Mr. R. T., 86 Gilbert, Mr. Bernard, 3, 16 Girls, Imitating, 50, 53 Hammond, Mr. Stocks, 16, 86 Health and singing, 2 Helmore, Rev. F. J., 23 Helmore, Rev. Thomas., 59 Hibberd, Mr. C., 34, 57 Hopkins, Dr. E. J., 61 Husband, Rev. E., 10 Indistinctness, 27 Infant School, The, 42 Intoning, 17, 52 Isaac, Mr. A., 85 Juleff, Mr. C. E., 87 Keeton, Dr. Haydn, 67, 80 Knapp, Mr. F. J., 72 Lady teachers, 52 Leeds Parish Church, 69 Lincoln Cathedral, 62 Lincoln's Inn Chapel, 61 Lloyd, Dr. C. H., 63 Longhurst, Dr., 65 Long services, 8 Macfarren, Sir George, 90 Mackenzie, Sir Morell, 3 Managing choir boys, 8 Mann, Rev. W., 24 Mark's, St., Chelsea, 71 Martin, Dr. G. C., 2 Mental effects, 32, 34 Mixed schools, 32 Mühlfeld, Herr, 73 Norfolk voices, 56 Norwich, Dr. Buck at, 66 O'Rell, Max, 8 Oxford, Christ Church, 63 Parbery, Mr. George, 53 Parish church choirmasters, 69 Paul's, St., Cathedral, 59 Pearson, Mr. W. W., 33, 56, 84 Peter's, St., Eaton Square, 9, 70 Pianoforte for rehearsal, 32 Prizes for choir boys, 9 Pronunciation in singing, 27, 46 Puberty, Age of, 3 Registers, The, 12 Rib breathing, 6 Richardson, Mr. W. H., 35, 40 Roberti, Signor, 36 Roney, Mr. H. B., 9, 16 Rural districts, 49 Salisbury Cathedral, 67 Salisbury Diocese, 23 Salzungen Choir, 73 Saxton, Mr. R. H., 3, 19 Schools for choristers, 90 School teacher, The, 41 Sentiment about choir boys, 11 Sergison, Mr. de Manbey, 9, 70 Sharpening, 35 Sharp, Mr. Frank, 83 Sight-singing, 30 Singing by ear, 29 Singing by note, 29 Singing out of tune, 31 Songs for boys, 99 South, Mr. C. L., 67 Stainer, Sir John, 13 Steggall, Dr., 61 Stewart, Rev. C. H., 25 Stone, Alfred, 29 Strakosch, M., 15 Swanley boys, 35, 40 Taylor, Mr. James, 76 Taylor, Mr. J. C. E., 20, 85 Temper, Uncontrolled, 10 Temple Church, 61 Thick register, 12, 89 Thin register, 12 Tonic Sol-fa certificates, 9, 20, 29, 47 Tonic Sol-fa system, 30, 50, 51, 53, 57, 70, 73 Training of boys' voices, 40 Tuning boys up, 16, 73 Upton Cross School, 74 Voice training, 12 Weekes, Rev. W. J., 35 Westminster Abbey, 60 Working class boys, 10 Yorkshire voices, 14 Young, Mr. J. W. M., 26, 62 
28026	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 28026-h.htm or 28026-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/8/0/2/28026/28026-h/28026-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/8/0/2/28026/28026-h.zip) +------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in | | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of | | this document. | | | | Quotation marks have been left in this text as they were | | in the original. Some are unmatched. | +------------------------------------------------------------+ GREAT PIANISTS ON PIANO PLAYING Study Talks with Foremost Virtuosos by JAMES FRANCIS COOKE A Series of Personal Educational Conferences with Renowned Masters of the Keyboard, Presenting the Most Modern Ideas upon the Subjects of Technic, Interpretation, Style and Expression [Illustration] Theo. Presser Co. Philadelphia, Pa. Copyright, 1913, by Theo. Presser Co. International Copyright Secured CONTENTS PAGE 1. THE ARTIST'S LIFE 5 2. ARE PIANISTS BORN OR MADE? 24 3. THE STORY OF A WONDER-CHILD _Pepito Arriola_ 41 4. THE PIANIST OF TO-MORROW _Wilhelm Bachaus_ 52 5. ARTISTIC ASPECTS OF PIANO STUDY _Harold Bauer_ 64 6. APPEARING IN PUBLIC _Fannie Bloomfield-Zeisler_ 80 7. IMPORTANT DETAILS IN PIANO STUDY _Ferruccio Busoni_ 97 8. DISTINCTIVE PIANO PLAYING _Teresa Carreño_ 109 9. ESSENTIALS OF TOUCH _Ossip Gabrilowitsch_ 122 10. THE REAL SIGNIFICANCE OF TECHNIC _Leopold Godowsky_ 133 11. ANALYZING MASTERPIECES _Katharine Goodson_ 144 12. PROGRESS IN PIANO STUDY _Josef Hofmann_ 158 13. PIANO STUDY IN RUSSIA _Josef Lhévinne_ 170 14. SEEKING ORIGINALITY _Vladimir de Pachmann_ 182 15. MODERN PIANISTIC PROBLEMS _Max Pauer_ 197 16. ESSENTIALS OF ARTISTIC PLAYING _S. V. Rachmaninoff_ 208 17. SYSTEMATIC MUSICAL TRAINING _A. Reisenauer_ 222 18. THE TRAINING OF THE VIRTUOSO _E. Sauer_ 236 19. ECONOMY IN MUSIC STUDY _X. Scharwenka_ 252 20. LEARNING A NEW PIECE _E. Schelling_ 267 21. WHAT INTERPRETATION REALLY IS _S. Stojowski_ 279 I THE ARTIST'S LIFE THE VIRTUOSO'S CAREER AS IT REALLY IS The father of a young woman who was preparing to become a virtuoso once applied to a famous musical educator for advice regarding the future career of his daughter. "I want her to become one of the greatest pianists America has ever produced," he said. "She has talent, good health, unlimited ambition, a good general education, and she is industrious." The educator thought for awhile, and then said, "It is very likely that your daughter will be successful in her chosen field, but the amount of grinding study she will be obliged to undergo to meet the towering standards of modern pianism is awful to contemplate. In the end she will have the flattery of the multitude, and, let us hope, some of their dollars as well. In return, she may have to sacrifice many of the comforts and pleasures which women covet. The more successful she is, the more of a nomad she must become. She will know but few days for years when she will not be compelled to practice for hours. She becomes a kind of chattel of the musical public. She will be harassed by ignorant critics and perhaps annoyed by unreliable managers. In return she has money and fame, but, in fact, far less of the great joy and purpose of life than if she followed the customary domestic career with some splendid man as her husband. When I was younger I used to preach quite an opposite sermon, but the more I see of the hardships of the artist's life the less I think of the dollars and the fame it brings. It is hard enough for a man, but it is twice as hard for a woman." GOLDEN BAIT Some cynic has contended that the much-despised "Almighty Dollar" has been the greatest incentive to the struggling virtuoso in European music centers. Although this may be true in a number of cases, it is certainly unjust in others. Many of the virtuosos find travel in America so distasteful that notwithstanding the huge golden bait, the managers have the greatest difficulty in inducing the pianists to come back. Indeed, there are many artists of great renown whom the managers would be glad to coax to our country but who have withheld tempting offers for years. One of these is Moritz Moszkowski, probably the most popular of modern pianoforte composers of high-class music. Grieg, when he finally consented to make the voyage to America, placed his price at two thousand five hundred dollars for every concert--a sum which any manager would regard prohibitive, except in the case of one world-famous pianist. Grieg's intent was obvious. The inconveniences of travel in America have been ridiculously exaggerated in Europe, and many virtuosos dread the thought of an American trip, with the great ocean yawning between the two continents, and red-skinned savages just beyond New York or certainly not far from Chicago. De Pachmann detests the ocean, and when he comes over in his favorite month of June he does not dare return until the following June. Others who have never visited America must get their idea of American travel from some such account as that of Charles Dickens in his unforgivable _American Notes_ (1842), in which he said, in describing one of our railroads: "There is a great deal of jolting, a great deal of noise, a great deal of wall, not much window, a locomotive engine, a shriek and a bell. The cars are like shabby omnibuses holding thirty, forty, fifty people. In the centre of the carriage there is usually a stove, fed with charcoal or anthracite coal, which is for the most part red hot. It is insufferably close, and you see the hot air fluttering between yourself and any other object you may happen to look at." There could have been but little improvement in our railroads in 1872 when Rubinstein came to America, for although he accepted $40,000 for 215 concerts during his first trip, he refused an offer of $125,000 for only 50 concerts when a manager tried to persuade him to return. American railroads now present the acme of comfort, convenience, and even luxury in travel, yet the European artist has difficulty in adjusting himself to journeys of thousands of miles crowded in a short winter season when he has been accustomed to little trips of a few hundred kilometers. He comes to dread the trains as we might a prison van. Paderewski resorts to a private car, but even this luxurious mode of travel may be very monotonous and exhausting. The great distances must certainly account for some of the evidences of strain which deform the faces and exhaust the minds of so many virtuosos. The traveling salesman seems to thrive upon miles of railroad travel as do the crews of the trains, but the virtuoso, dragged from concert to concert by his showman, grows tired--oh, so tired, pale, wan, listless and indifferent! At the beginning of the season he is quite another person. The magnetism that has done so much to win him fame shines in his eyes and seems to emanate from his finger-tips, but the difference in his physical being at the end of the season is sickening. Like a bedraggled, worn-out circus coming in from the wear and tear of a hard season, he crawls wearily back to New York with a cinematographic recollection of countless telegraph poles flying past the windows, audience after audience, sleeping cars, budding geniuses, the inevitable receptions with their equally inevitable chicken salad or lukewarm oysters, and the "sweet young things," who, like Heine's mythical tribe of _Asra_, must love or perish. Some virtuosos have the physical strength to endure all this, even enjoy it, but many have confessed to me that their American tours have been literal nightmares. One of the greatest pianists was obliged to stay in New York for a while before attempting the voyage homeward. At the time he was so weak from the rigors of the tour that he could scarcely write his name. His haggard face suggested the tortures of a Torquamada rather than Buffalo, Kansas City, Denver and Pittsburgh. His voice was tired and faltering, and his chief interest was that of the invalid--getting home as soon as possible. To have talked with him upon music at that time would have been an injustice. Accordingly, I led him away from the subject and dwelt upon the woes of his native Poland, and, much to his surprise, left him without the educational material of which I had been in quest. He asked the reason, and I told him that a musical conference at that time could serve no purpose. As men and women, aside from the attainments which have made them illustrious, virtuosos are for the most part very much like ordinary mortals who have to content themselves at the foot of Parnassus. It has been my privilege to know thirty or more of the most eminent artists, and some have become good personal friends. It is interesting to observe how several very different types of individuals may succeed in winning public favor as virtuosos. Indeed, except for the long-haired caricature which the public accepts as the conventional virtuoso there is no "virtuoso type." Here is a business man, here an artist, here an engineer, here a jurist, here an actor, here a poet and here a freak, all of them distinguished performers. Perhaps the enthusiastic music-lover will resent the idea of a freak becoming famous as a pianist, but I have known no less than three men who could not possibly be otherwise described, but who have nevertheless made both fame and fortune as virtuosos. FREAK PIANISTS The anthropologist who chooses to conduct special investigations of freaks can find no more entertaining field than that of the remarkable freaks of the brain, shown in the cases of some astonishing performers whose intelligence and mental capacity in other ways has been negligible. The classic case of Blind Tom, for instance, was that of a freak not so very far removed in kind from the Siamese Twins, or General Tom Thumb. Born a slave in Georgia, and wholly without what teachers would term a musical education, Blind Tom amazed many of the most conservative musicians of his time. It was possible for him to repeat difficult compositions after hearing them played only once. I conversed with him a number of years ago in New York, only to find that intellectually and physically he was allied to the _cretin_. Blind Tom's peculiar ability has led many hasty commentators to conclude that music is a wholly separate mental faculty to be found particularly in a more or less shiftless and irresponsible class of gifted but intellectually limited human beings. The few cases of men and women whose musical talent seems to eclipse their minds so that they remain in utter darkness to everything else in life, should not be taken as a basis for judging other artists of real genius and undisputed mental breadth. I have in mind, however, the case of one pianist who is very widely known and highly lauded, but who is very slightly removed from the class of Blind Tom. A trained alienist, one acquainted with the difference between the eccentricities which frequently accompany greatness and the unconscious physical and psychical evidences of idiocy which so clearly agree with the antics of the chimpanzee or the droll Capuchin monkeys, might find in the performer to whom I refer a subject for some very interesting, not to say startling reflections. Few have ever been successful in inducing this pianist to talk upon any other subject than music for more than a few minutes at a time. Another pianist, who was distinguished as a Liszt pupil, and who toured America repeatedly, seemed to have a hatred for the piano that amounted to an obsession. "Look," he exclaimed, "I am its slave. It has sent me round and round the world, night after night, year after year. It has cursed me like a wandering Jew. No rest, no home, no liberty. Do you wonder that I drink to forget it?" A PATHETIC EXAMPLE And drink he did in Bacchanalian measure! One time he gave an unconscious exhibition of his technical ability that, while regrettable, would have been of immense interest to psychologists who are seeking to prove that music depends upon a separate operation of a special "faculty." During his American tours I called frequently upon this virtuoso for the purpose of investigating his method of playing. He was rarely free from the influence of alcohol for more than a few hours at a time. One morning it was necessary for me to see him professionally, and when I found him at his hotel he was in a truly disgraceful condition. I remember that he was unable to stand, from the fact that he fell upon me while I was sitting in a Morris chair. He was barely able to talk, and just prior to my leaving he insisted upon scrawling upon his visiting card, "Zur freundlichen Errinerung, auf einen sehr späten Abend." (Friendly remembrances of a very late evening.) Since it was still very early in the morning, it may be realized that he had lost all idea of his whereabouts. Nevertheless, he sat at the piano keyboard and played tremendously difficult compositions by Liszt and Brahms--compositions which compelled his hands to leap from one part of the keyboard to the other as in the case of the Liszt _Campanella_. He never missed a note until he lost his balance upon the piano stool and fell to the floor. Disgusting and pathetic as the exhibition was, I could not help feeling that I was witnessing a marvelous instance of automatism, that wonderful power of the mind working through the body to reproduce, apparently without effort or thought, operations which have been repeated so many times that they have become "second nature." More than this, it indicated clearly that while the better part of the man's body was "dead to the world," the faculty he had cultivated to the highest extent still remained alive. Some years later this man succumbed to alcoholism. THE PIANIST OF TO-DAY Contrasted with a type of this kind may be mentioned such men as Sauer, Rachmaninov, d'Albert, Paderewski, Godowsky, Bachaus, Rosenthal, Pauer, Joseffy, Stojowski, Scharwenka, Gabrilowitsch, Hofmann, Bauer, Lhévinne, to say nothing of the ladies, Bloomfield-Zeisler, Carreño, Goodson, _et al._, many of whom are intellectual giants. Most all are exceedingly regular in their habits, and at least two are strong temperance advocates. Intellectually, pianists of this class represent a very remarkable kind of mentality. One is impressed with the surprising quickness with which their brains operate even in ordinary conversation. Speaking in alien languages, they find comparatively little difficulty in expressing themselves with rapidity and fluency. Very few great singers ever acquire a similar ease. These pianists are wonderfully well read, many being acquainted with the literature of three or more tongues in the original. Indeed, it is not unusual to find them skipping through several languages during ordinary conversation without realizing that they are performing linguistic feats that would put the average college graduate to shame. They are familiar with art, science, politics, manufactures, even in their most recent developments. "What is your favorite type of aëroplane?" asked one some years ago in the kindergarten days of cloud navigation. I told him that I had made no choice, since I had never seen a flying machine, despite the fact that I was a native of the country that gave it birth. He then vouchsafed his opinions and entered into a physical and mechanical discussion of the matter, indicating that he had spent hours in getting the whole subject straightened out in his mind. This same man, a German, knew whole cantos of the _Inferno_ by heart, and could repeat long scenes from _King Lear_ with a very creditable English accent. The average American "tired business man" who is inclined to look upon the touring virtuoso as "only a pianist" would be immensely surprised if he were called upon to compare his store of "universal" information with that of the performer. He would soon see that his long close confinement behind the bars of the dollar sign had made him the intellectual inferior of the musician he almost ignores. But it is hardly fair to compare these famous interpreters with the average "tired business man." They are the Cecil Rhodes, the Thomas Edisons, the Maurice Maeterlincks of their fields. It is easy enough to find musicians of smaller life opportunities basking in their ignorance and conceit. While the virtuoso may be described as intellectual in the broader sense of the term, he usually has a great fear of becoming academic. He aspires to be artistic rather than scholarly. He strives to elevate rather than to teach--in the strictly pedagogical sense. Some of the greatest performers have been notoriously weak as teachers. They do not seek the walls of the college, neither do they long for the cheap _Bohemianism_ that so many of the French feuilletonists delight in describing. (Why should the immorality of the artist's life be laid at the doors of fair Bohemia?) The artist's life is wrapped up in making his readings of master works more significant, more eloquent, more beautiful. He is interested in everything that contributes to his artistry, whether it be literature, science, history, art or the technic of his own interpretative development. He penetrates the various mystic problems which surround piano playing by the infallible process of persistent study and reflection. The psychical phase of his work interests him immensely, particularly the phenomena of personal attraction--often called magnetism. THE MAGIC OF MAGNETISM Magnetism is surely one of the most enviable possessions of the successful pianist. Just what magnetism is and how it comes to be, few psychologists attempt to relate. We all have our theories, just why one pianist who often blunders as readily as a Rubinstein, or who displays his many shortcomings at every concert can invariably draw larger audiences and arouse more applause than his confrère with weaker vital forces, although he be admittedly a better technician, a more highly educated gentleman and perhaps a more sensitive musician. Charles Frohman, keenest of theatrical producers, attributed the actor's success to "vitality," and in doing this he merely chose one of the weaker synonyms of magnetism. Vitality in this sense does not imply great bodily strength. It is rather soul-strength, mind-strength, life-strength. Professor John D. Quackenbos, A.M., M.D., formerly of Columbia University, essays the following definition of magnetism in his excellent _Hypnotic Therapeutics_: "Magnetism is nothing more than earnestness and sincerity, coupled with insight, sympathy, patience and tact. These essentials cannot be bought and cannot be taught. They are 'born by nature,' they are dyed with 'the red ripe of the heart.'" But Dr. Quackenbos is a physician and a philosopher. Had he been a lexicographer he would have found the term magnetism far more inclusive. He would at least have admitted the phenomenon which we have witnessed so often when one possessed with volcanic vitality overwhelms a great audience. The old idea that magnetism is a kind of invisible form of intellectual or psychic electricity has gone down the grotesque phrenological vagaries of Gall as well as some of the pseudoscientific theories of that very unusual man, Mesmer. We all possess what is known as magnetism. Some have it in an unusual degree, as did Edwin Booth, Franz Liszt, Phillips Brooks and Bismarck. It was surely neither the art nor the ability of Daniel Webster that made his audiences accept some of his fatuous platitudes as great utterances, nor was it the histrionic talent alone of Richard Mansfield that enabled him to wring success from such an obvious theatrical contraption as _Prince Karl_. Both Webster, with his fathomless eyes and his ponderous voice, and Mansfield, with his compelling personality, were exceptional examples of magnetism. A NOTABLE EXAMPLE Among virtuosos Paderewski is peculiarly forceful in the personal spell he casts over his audience. Someone has said that it cost one hundred thousand dollars to exploit his hair before he made his first American tour. But it was by no means curiosity to see his hair which kept on filling auditorium after auditorium. I attended his first concert in New York, and was amazed to see a comparatively small gathering of musical zealots. His command of the audience was at once imperial. The critics, some of whom would have found Paderewski's hirsute crown a delightful rack upon which to hang their ridicule, went into ecstasies instead. His art and his striking personality, entirely apart from his appearance, soon made him the greatest concert attraction in the musical world. Anyone who has conversed with him for more than a few moments realizes what the meaning of the word magnetism is. His entire bearing--his lofty attitude of mind, his personal dignity all contribute to the inexplicable attraction that the arch hypnotist Mesmer first described as animal magnetism. That magnetism of the pianist must be considered wholly apart from personal beauty and great physical strength is obvious to anyone who has given the subject a moment's thought. Many of the artists already mentioned (in this book) who possess magnetism similar to that of Paderewski could surely never make claim for personal beauty. Neither is magnetism akin to that attraction we all experience when we see a powerful, well-groomed horse, a sleek hound, a handsome tiger--that is, it is not mere admiration for a beautiful animal. Whether it has any similarity to the mysterious charm which makes the doomed bird lose control of its wings upon the approach of a snake is difficult to estimate. Certainly, in the paraphernalia of the modern recital with its lowered lights and its solitary figure playing away at a polished instrument one may find something of the physical apparatus employed by the professional hypnotist to insure concentration--but even this can not account for the pianist's real attractiveness. If Mr. Frohman's "vitality" means the "vital spark," the "life element," it comes very close to a true definition of magnetism, for success without this precious Promethean force is inconceivable. It may be only a smouldering ember in the soul of a dying Chopin, but if it is there it is irresistible until it becomes extinct. Facial beauty and physical prowess all made way for the kind of magnetism that Socrates, George Sand, Julius Cæsar, Henry VIII, Paganini, Emerson, Dean Swift or Richard Wagner possessed. More wonderful still is the fact that magnetism is by no means confined to those who have finely trained intellects or who have achieved great reputations. Some vaudeville buffoon or some gypsy fiddler may have more attractive power than the virtuoso who had spent years in developing his mind and his technic. The average virtuoso thinks far more of his "geist," his "talent" (or as Emerson would have it, "the shadow of the soul--the otherwise") than he does of his technic, or his cadenzas. By what mystic means magnetism may be developed, the writer does not pretend to know. Possibly by placing one's deeper self (shall we say "subconscious self") in closer communion with the great throbbing problems of the invisible though perpetually evident forces of nature which surround us we may become more alive, more sensitively vivified. What would it mean to the young virtuoso if he could go to some occult master, some seer of a higher thought, and acquire that lode-stone* which has drawn fame and fortune to the blessed few? Hundreds have spent fortunes upon charlatans in the attempt. All artists know the part that the audience itself plays in falling under the magnetic spell of the performer. Its connection with the phenomena of autosuggestion is very clear. Dr. Wundt, the famous German psychologist, showed a class of students how superstitions unconsciously acquired in early life affect sensible adults who have long since passed the stage at which they might put any credence in omens. At a concert given by a famous player, the audience has been well schooled in anticipation. The artist always appears under a halo his reputation has made for him. This very reputation makes his conquest far easier than that of the novice who has to prove his ability before he can win the sympathy of the audience. He is far more likely to find the audience _en rapport_ than indifferent. Sometime, at the play in a theater, watch how the audience will unconsciously mirror the facial expressions of the forceful actor. In some similar manner, the virtuoso on the concert platform sensitizes the minds and emotions of the sympathetic audience. If the effect is deep and lasting, the artist is said to possess that Kohinoor of virtuosodom--magnetism. Some widely read critics have made the very natural error of confounding magnetism with personality. These words have quite different connotations--personality comprehending the more subtle force of magnetism. An artist's individual worth is very closely allied with his personality--that is, his whole extrinsic attitude toward the thought and action of the world about him. How important personality is may be judged by the widely advertised efforts of the manufacturers of piano-playing machines to convince the public that their products, often astonishingly fine, do actually reproduce the individual effects which come from the playing of the living artist. Piano-playing machines have their place, and it is an important one. However, wonderful as they may be, they can never be anything but machines. They bring unquestioned joy to thousands, and they act as missionaries for both music and the music-teacher by taking the art into countless homes where it might otherwise never have penetrated, thus creating the foundation for a strong desire for a thorough study of music. The piano-playing machine may easily boast of a mechanism as wonderful as that of a Liszt, a d'Albert or a Bachaus, but it can no more claim personality than the typewriter upon which this article is being written can claim to reproduce the individuality which characterizes the handwriting of myriads of different persons. Personality, then, is the virtuoso's one great unassailable stronghold. It is personality that makes us want to hear a half dozen different renderings of a single Beethoven sonata by a half dozen different pianists. Each has the charm and flavor of the interpreter. But personality in its relation to art has been so exquisitely defined by the inimitable British essayist, A. C. Benson, that we can do no better than to quote his words: "I have lately come to perceive that the one thing which gives value to any piece of art, whether it be book, or picture, or music, is that subtle and evasive thing which is called personality. No amount of labor, of zest, even of accomplishment, can make up for the absence of this quality. It must be an almost instinctive thing, I believe. Of course, the mere presence of personality in a work of art is not sufficient, because the personality revealed may be lacking in charm; and charm, again, is an instinctive thing. No artist can set out to capture charm; he will toil all the night and take nothing; but what every artist can and must aim at is to have a perfectly sincere point of view. He must take his chance as to whether his point of view is an attractive one; but sincerity is the one indispensable thing. It is useless to take opinions on trust, to retail them, to adopt them; they must be formed, created, felt. The work of a sincere artist is almost certain to have some value; the work of an insincere artist is of its very nature worthless." Mr. Benson's "charm" is what the virtuoso feels as magnetism. It puts something into the artist's playing that he cannot define. For a moment the vital spark flares into a bewildering flame, and all his world is peopled with moths hovering around the "divine fire." THE GREATEST THING OF ALL If we have dwelt too long upon magnetism, those who know its importance in the artist's life will readily perceive the reason. But do not let us be led away into thinking that magnetism can take the place of hard work. Even the tiny prodigy has a career of work behind him, and the master pianist has often climbed to his position over _Matterhorns_ and _Mt. Blancs_ of industry. Days of practice, months of study, years of struggle are part of the biography of almost every one who has attained real greatness. What a pity to destroy time-old illusions! Some prefer to think of their artist heroes dreaming their lives away in the hectic cafés of Pesth or buried in the melancholy, absinthe and paresis of some morbid cabaret of Paris. As a matter of fact, the best known pianists live a totally different life--a life of grind, grind, grind--incessant study, endless practice and ceaseless search for means to raise their artistic standing. In some quiet country villa, miles away from the center of unlicensed Bacchanalian revels, the virtuoso may be found working hard upon next season's repertoire. After all, the greatest thing in the artist's life is W-O-R-K. II ARE PIANISTS BORN OR MADE? Some years ago the Director of the Leipsic Conservatorium gave the writer a complete record of the number of graduates of the conservatory from the founding to the late nineties. Of the thousands of students who had passed through the institution only a few had gained wide prominence. Hardly one student in one hundred had won his way into the most voluminous of the musical biographical dictionaries. The proportion of distinguished graduates to those who fail to gain renown is very high at Leipsic compared with many other institutions. What becomes of the thousands of students all working frantically with the hope of becoming famous pianists? Surely, so much earnest effort can not be wasted even though all can not win the race? Those who often convince themselves that they have failed go on to perform a more useful service to society than the laurel-crowned virtuoso. Unheralded and unapplauded, they become the teachers, the true missionaries of _Frau Musik_ to the people. What is it then, which promotes a few "fortunate" ones from the armies of students all over America and Europe and makes of them great virtuosos? What must one do to become a virtuoso? How long must one study before one may make a _début_? What does a great virtuoso receive for his performances? How long does the virtuoso practice each day? What exercises does he use? All these and many more similar questions crop up regularly in the offices of music critics and in the studios of teachers. Unfortunately, a definite answer can be given to none, although a great deal may be learned by reviewing some of the experiences of one who became great. Some virtuosos actually seem to be born with the heavenly gift. Many indeed are sons and daughters of parents who see their own demolished dreams realized in the triumphs of their children. When little Nathan creeps to the piano and quite without the help of his elders picks out the song he has heard his mother sing,--all the neighbors in Odessa know it the next day. "A wonder child perhaps!" Oh happy augury of fame and fortune! Little Nathan shall have the best of instruction. His mother will teach him at first, of course. She will shape his little fingers to the keyboard. She will sing sweet folk melodies in his ear,--songs of labor, struggle, exile. She will count laboriously day after day until he "plays in time." All the while the little mother sees far beyond the Ghetto,--out into the great world,--grand auditoriums, breathless crowds, countless lights, nobles granting trinkets, bravos from a thousand throats, Nathan surrounded by endless wreaths of laurel,--Oh, it is all too much,--"Nathan! Nathan! you are playing far too fast. One, two, three, four,--one, two, three, four,--there, that is the tempo Clementi would have had it. Fine! Some day, Nathan, you will be a great pianist and--" etc., etc. Nathan next goes to the great teacher. He is already eight years old and fairly leaping out of his mother's arms. Two years with the teacher and Nathan is probably ready for a _début_ as a wonder child. The critics are kind. If his parents are very poor Nathan may go from town to town for awhile being exhibited like a trained poodle or a tiny acrobat. The further he gets from home the more severe his critics become, and Nathan and his mother hurry back to the old teachers, who tell them that Nathan must still practice long and hard as well as do something to build up his general education. The world in these days looks askance at the musician who aside from his keyboard accomplishments is a numskull. More sacrifice for Nathan's mother and father,--but what are poverty and deprivation with such a goal in sight? Nathan studies for some years in the schools and in the high schools as well as at the conservatory. In the music school he will doubtless spend six years in all,--two years in the post-graduate or master classes, following the regular four-year course. When sufficiently capable he will take a few pupils at a kopeck or so per lesson to help out with the family expenses. Nathan graduates from the conservatory with high honors. Will the public now receive him as a great pianist? A concert is planned and Nathan plays. Day and night for years his whole family have been looking forward to that concert. Let us concede that the concert is a triumph. Does he find fame and fortune waiting for him next morning? No indeed,--there are a thousand Nathans all equally accomplished. Again he must work and again he must concertize. Perhaps after years of strife a manager may approach him some day with a contract. Lucky Nathan,--have you not a thousand brothers who may never see a contract? Then,--"Can it be possible Nathan,--is it really America,--America the virtuoso's Golconda!" Nathan makes a glorious _tournée_. Perhaps the little mother goes with him. More likely she stays at home in Odessa waiting with glistening eyes for each incoming mail. Pupils come to Nathan and he charges for each lesson a sum equaling his father's former weekly wage. Away with the Ghetto! Away with poverty! Away with oblivion! Nathan is a real virtuoso,--a veritable _Meister_! THE AMERICAN VIRTUOSO OF TO-DAY How does the American aspirant compete with Nathan? Are there not as fine teachers here in America as in Europe? Is it really necessary to go to Europe to "finish" one's musical education? Can one not become a virtuoso in America?--more questions with which editors and teachers are constantly plied. Can one who for years has waged a battle for the American teacher and American musical education answer this question without bias? Can we who trace the roots of our lineage back to barren Plymouth or stolid New Netherland judge the question fairly and honestly? One case suffices to show the road which the American virtuoso is likely to travel. She is still a young woman, in her twenties. Among her teachers was one who ranks among the very best in America. Her general education was excellent,--in fact far superior to that of the average young lady of good family in continental Europe. While in her early teens she became the leading feature at conservatory concerts. Her teacher won many a profitable pupil through her brilliant playing. She studies, as do so many American pupils, without making a regular business of it. Compared with the six year all day, week in and week out course which Nathan pursued in Odessa our little compatriot was at a decided disadvantage. But who ever heard of a music student making a regular business of learning the profession as would a doctor or a lawyer? Have not students contented themselves with two lessons a week since time immemorial? Need we go further to discover one of the flaws in our own educational system,--a flaw that is not due to the teacher or to the methods of instruction, but rather to our time-old custom. Two lessons a week are adequate for the student who does not aspire to become a professional, but altogether insufficient for the student who must accomplish a vast amount of work in a comparatively small number of years. She requires constant advice, regular daily instruction and careful attention under experienced instructors. Teachers are not to be blamed if she does not receive this kind of attention, as there are abundant opportunities now in America to receive systematic training under teachers as thorough, as able and as inspiring as may be found in Europe. The excuse that the expense is greater in America falls when we learn the very high prices charged by leading teachers in Germany, Austria and France. To go back to our particular case, the young lady is informed at the end of a course of two or three lessons a week during two or three years, that she is a full-fledged virtuoso and may now enter the concert field to compete with Carreño, Bloomfield-Zeisler or Goodson. Her playing is obviously superior to that of her contemporary students. Someone insists upon a short course of study abroad,--not because it is necessary, but because it might add to her reputation and make her first flights in the American concert field more spectacular. Accordingly she goes to Europe, only to find that she is literally surrounded by budding virtuosos,--an army of Nathans, any one of whom might easily eclipse her. Against her personal charm, her new-world vigor, her Yankee smartness, Nathan places his years of systematic training, his soul saturated in the music and art of past centuries of European endeavor and perhaps his youth of poverty which makes success imperative. The young lady's European teacher frankly tells her that while her playing is delightful for the salon or parlor she will never do for the great concert hall. She must learn to play with more power, more virility, more character. Accordingly he sets her at work along special muscle-building, tone-cultivating, speed-making lines of technic in order to make up for the lack of the training which the young lady might easily have had at home had her parents been schooled to systematic daily study as a necessity. Her first technical exercises with the new teacher are so simple that the young woman is on the verge of despair until she realizes that her playing is really taking on a new and more mature character. She has been lifting fifty pound weights occasionally. Her teacher is training her to lift one hundred pound weights every day. She has been sketching in pastels,--her teacher is now teaching her how to make Velasquez-like strokes in oils. Her gain is not a mere matter of loudness. She could play quite as loud before she went to Europe. There is something mature in this new style of playing, something that resembles the playing of the other virtuosos she has heard. Who is the great European master who is working such great wonders for her? None other than a celebrated teacher who taught for years in America,--a master no better than dozens of others in America right now. Can the teachers in America be blamed if the parents and the pupils fail to make as serious and continued an effort here? Atmosphere,--bosh! Work, long, hard and unrelenting,--that is the salvation of the student who would become a virtuoso. With our increasing wealth and advancing culture American parents are beginning to discover that given the same work and the same amount of instruction musical education in America differs very slightly from musical education abroad. But we are deserting our young virtuoso most ungallantly. In Berlin she hears so many concerts and recitals, so many different styles of playing, that she begins to think for herself and her sense of artistic discrimination--interpretation, if you will--becomes more and more acute. Provided with funds for attending concerts, she does regularly, whereas in America she neglected opportunities equally good. She never realized before that there could be so much to a Brahms _Intermezzo_ or a Chopin _Ballade_. At the end of her first year her American common-sense tells her that a plunge into the concert field is still dangerous. Accordingly she remains two, or possibly three, more years and at the end if she has worked hard she is convinced that with proper management she may stand some chance of winning that fickle treasure, public favor. "But," persists the reader, "it would have been possible for her to have accomplished the same work at home in America." Most certainly, if she had had any one of the hundred or more virtuoso teachers now resident in the United States all of whom are capable of bringing a highly talented pupil to virtuoso heights,--and if in their teaching they had exerted sufficient will-power to demand from the pupil and the pupil's parents the same conditions which would govern the work of the same pupil studying in Europe. Through long tradition and by means of endless experiences the conditions have been established in Europe. The student who aspires to become a professional is given a distinctively professional course. In America the need for such a training is but scantily appreciated. Only a very few of us are able to appraise the real importance of music in the advancement of human civilization, nor is this unusual, since most of us have but to go back but a very few generations to encounter our blessed Puritan and Quaker ancestors to whom all music, barring the lugubrious Psalm singing, was the inspiration of the devil. The teachers, as has been said before, are fully ready and more than anxious to give the kind of training required. Very frequently parents are themselves to blame for the slender _dilettante_ style of playing which their well-instructed children present. They measure the needs of the concert hall by the dimensions of the parlor. The teacher of the would-be professional pupil aspires to produce a quantity of tone that will fill an auditorium seating at least one thousand people. The pupil at home is enjoined not to "bang" or "pound." The result is a feeble, characterless tone which rarely fills an auditorium as it should. The actor can not forever rehearse in whispers if he is to fill a huge theater, and the concert pianist must have a strong, sure, resilient touch in order to bring about climaxes and make the range of his dynamic power all-comprehensive. Indeed, the separation from home ties, or shall we call them home interferences, is often more responsible for the results achieved abroad than superior instruction. Unfortunately, the number of virtuosos who have been taught exclusively in America is really very small. It is not a question of ability upon the part of the teacher or talent upon the part of the pupil. It is entirely a matter of the attitudes of the teacher, the pupil and the pupil's home advisers. Success demands strong-willed discipline and the most lofty standards imaginable. Teachers who have taught for years in America have returned to Europe, doubled and quadrupled their fees, and, under old-world surroundings and with more rigid standards of artistic work, have produced results they declare would have been impossible in America. The author contends that these results would have been readily forthcoming if we in America assumed the same earnest, persistent attitude toward the work itself. If these words do no more than reach the eyes of some of those who are advising students wrongly in this matter they will not have been written in vain. The European concert triumphs of Mrs. H. H. A. Beach, whose training was received wholly in the United States, is an indication of what may be achieved in America if the right course is pursued. Conditions are changing rapidly in our country, particularly in the wonderful West and Middle-West. It seems likely that many pianists without foreign instruction of any kind will have as great success in our concert field as have many of our best opera singers who have never had a lesson "on the other side." Our little pianist has again been playing truant from our manuscript. Let us see what happens to her when she finished her work with the famous teacher abroad. Surely the making of a virtuoso is an expensive matter. Let us take the estimate of the young pianist's father, who practically mortgaged his financial existence to give his daughter the right musical training. Lessons with first teacher at $1.00 a lesson. Eighty lessons a year for four years $240.00 Lessons with second American teacher for two years at $2.00 a lesson 320.00 Lessons with third American teacher at $4.00 a lesson for one year and six months 480.00 Music, books, etc. 160.00 Piano 750.00 Maintenance for eight years at $200.00 a year (minimum estimate) 1600.00 Four years in Europe, travel, board, instruction, advertising, etc. 6000.00 ________ TOTAL $9550.00 But the expense has only begun, if you please. The harvest is still a long way off. According to the fine traditions established by the late P. T. Barnum, there must be a European furore to precede the American advent of the musical star. The journalistic astronomers must point their telescopes long and steadily at the European firmament and proclaim their discovery in the columns of their papers. Again, furores are expensive. One must hire an auditorium, hire an orchestra, and, according to some very frank and disgusted young virtuosos who have failed to succeed, hire a critic or so like the amusing Trotter in _Fanny's First Play_. What with three and four concerts a night why should not the critics have a _pourboire_ for extra critical attention? Fortunately the best papers hold their criticisms above price. Bought criticisms are very rare, and if the young pianist or any representative approaches certain critics with any such suggestion, she may count upon faring very badly in cold type on the following day. If Miss Virtuoso makes a success, her press notices are sent to her American concert managers, who purchase space in some American musical newspapers and reprint these notices. Publicity of this kind is legitimate, as the American public knows that in most cases these press notices are reprinted solely as advertising. It is simply the commercial process of "acquainting the trade" and if done right may prove one of the most fortunate investments for the young artist. Do not imagine, however, that the pianist's American manager speculates in the problematical success of the coming virtuoso. On the contrary, his fee for putting the artist on his "list" and promoting her interests may range from five hundred dollars to two thousand dollars in advance. After that the manager usually requires a commission on all engagements "booked." Graft? Spoils? Plunder? Not a bit of it. If the manager is a good one--that is, if he is an upright business man well schooled in his work--the investment should prove a good one. Exploiting a new artist is a matter demanding brains, energy, ingenuity and experience. A manufacturing firm attempting to put some new product upon an already crowded market would spend not $2000.00 a year in advertising, but $100,000.00. The manager must maintain an organization, he must travel, he must advertise and he too must live. If he succeeds in marketing the services of the young virtuoso at one or two hundred dollars a concert, the returns soon begin to overtake the incessant expenses. However, only the most persistent and talented artists survive to reap these rewards. The late Henry Wolfsohn, one of the greatest managers America has ever produced, told the writer frequently that the task of introducing a new artist was one of the most thankless and uncertain undertakings imaginable. Does the work, the time, the expense frighten you, little miss at the keyboard? Do you fear the grind, the grueling disappoints, the unceasing sacrifices? Then abandon your great career and join the army of useful music workers who are teaching the young people of the land to love music as it should be loved,--not in hysterical outbursts in the concert hall but in the home circle. If you have the unextinguishable fire within your soul, if you have the talent from on high, if you have health, energy, system, vitality, nothing can stop you from becoming great. Advice, interferences, obstacles will be nothing to you. You will work day and night to reach your goal. What better guide could you possibly have than the words of the great pianists themselves? While the ensuing pages were compiled with the view of helping the amateur performer quite as much as the student who would become a professional pianist, you will nevertheless find in the expressions of the really great virtuosos a wealth of information and practical advice. Most of the following chapters are the results of many different conferences with the greatest living pianists. All have had the revision of the artists in person before publication was undertaken. In order to indicate how carefully and willingly this was done by the pianists it is interesting to note the case of the great Russian composer-virtuoso Rachmaninoff. The original conference was conducted in German and in French. The material was arranged in manuscript form in English. M. Rachmaninoff then requested a second conference. In the mean time he had had the better part of the manuscript translated into his native Russian. However, in order to insure accuracy in the use of words, the writer translated the entire matter back into German in the pianist's presence. M. Rachmaninoff did not speak English and the writer did not speak Russian. The chapter relating to Harold Bauer is the result of a conference conducted in English. Mr. Bauer's use of his native tongue is as fluent and eloquent as a poet or an orator. In order that his ideas might have the best possible expression the entire chapter was written several times in manuscript and carefully rearranged and rephrased by Mr. Bauer in person. Some of the conferences lasted well on through the night. The writer's twenty years' experience in teaching was constantly needed to grasp different shadings of meaning that some pianists found difficult to phrase. Many indeed have felt their weakness in the art of verbal expression and have rejoiced to have their ideas clothed with fitting words. Complete frankness and sincerity were encouraged in every case. The results of the conference with Wilhelm Bachaus, conceded by many other pianists to be the foremost "technicalist" of the day, are, it will be observed, altogether different in the statement of teaching principles from those of Harold Bauer. Each is a sincere expression of individual opinion and the thoughtful student by weighing the ideas of both may reach conclusions immensely to his personal advantage. No wider range of views upon the subject of pianoforte playing could possibly come between the covers of a book. The student, the teacher, and the music lover who acquaints himself with the opinions of the different masters of the keyboard can not fail to have a very clear insight into the best contemporary ideas upon technic, interpretation, style and expression. The author--or shall he call himself a collector?--believes that the use of the questions following each chapter will be found practical and useful in the work of both clubs and classes. Practice, however, is still more important than precept. The student might easily learn this book "by heart" and yet be unable to play a perfect scale. Let him remember the words of Locke: "Men of much reading are greatly learned: but may be little knowing." After all, the virtuoso is great because he really knows and W-O-R-K-S. PEPITO ARRIOLA BIOGRAPHICAL Pepito Arriola was born on the 14th of December, 1897. A careful investigation of his ancestry reveals that no less than twelve of his forefathers and relations have been pronouncedly musical. His father was a physician, but his mother was a musician. His early musical training was given to him exclusively by his mother. The following was prepared when he was twelve years old and at that time he was apparently a perfectly healthy child, with the normal activity of a boy of his age and with a little more general education in addition to his music than the average child at fifteen or sixteen possesses. He spoke French, German (fluently) and Spanish, but little English. Despite the fact that he had received numerous honors from European monarchs and famous musicians, he was exceptionally modest. In his playing he seemed never to miss a note in even very complicated compositions and his musical maturity and point of view were truly astonishing. The following is particularly valuable from an educational standpoint, because of the absolute unaffectedness of the child's narrative of his own training. (The following conference was conducted in German and French.) [Illustration: PEPITO ARRIOLA] III THE STORY OF A WONDER CHILD PEPITO ARRIOLA MY EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS So much that was of interest to me was continually occurring while I was a child that it all seems like a kind of haze to me. I cannot remember when I first commenced to play, for my mother tells me that I wanted to reach out for the keyboard before I was out of her arms. I have also learned that when I was about two and one-half years of age, I could quite readily play after my mother anything that the size of my hand would permit me to play. I loved music so dearly, and it was such fun to run over the keyboard and make the pretty sounds, that the piano was really my first and best toy. I loved to hear my mother play, and continually begged her to play for me so that I could play the same pieces after her. I knew nothing of musical notation and played entirely by ear, which seemed to me the most natural way to play. At that time, word was sent to the King of Spain that I showed talent, and he became interested in me, and I played before him. MY FRIENDSHIP WITH ARTHUR NIKISCH A short time afterward, Herr Arthur Nikisch, conductor of the _Gewandhaus_ Orchestra at Leipsic, and at one time conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in America, came to Madrid to conduct the Philharmonic Orchestra for a special concert. Some one told him about my playing and I was permitted to play for him. He became so interested that he insisted upon my being taken to Leipsic for further study. I was then four years of age, and although musical advantages in Spain are continually increasing, my mother thought it best at the time that she should follow the great musician's advice and that I should be taken to the German city. I want to say that in my earliest work, my mother made no effort to push me or urge me to go ahead. I loved to play for the sake of playing, and needed no coaxing to spend time at the keyboard. In my very early years I was permitted to play in public very little, although there were constant demands made to engage me. I was looked upon as a kind of curiosity and my mother wanted me to study in the regular way with good masters, and also to acquire more strength before I played in public very much. I did, however, play at the great Albert Hall, in London. The big building holds 8000 people, but that was so long ago that I have almost forgotten all about it, except that they all seemed pleased to see a little boy of four playing in so very big a place. I also played for royal personages, including the Kaiser of Germany, who was very good to me and gave me a beautiful pin. I like the Kaiser very much. He seems like a fine man. MY FIRST REGULAR INSTRUCTION My first teacher, aside from my mother, was a Herr Dreckendorf, of Leipsic. He was very kind to me and took the greatest pains, but the idea of learning the notes was very distasteful to me. I was terribly bored with the technical exercises he gave me, but have since learned that one can save much time by practicing scales and exercises. Although I do not like them, I practice them every day now, for a little while, so as to get my fingers in good working order. In about six weeks I knew all that was expected of me in the way of scales in octaves, sixths, thirds, double thirds, etc., and my teacher commenced to turn his attention to studies and pieces. For the first time I found musical notation interesting, for then I realized that it was not necessary for me to wait until some one else played a piece before I could begin to explore its beauties. Ah! it was wonderful, those first days with the pieces. I was in a new country and could hardly wait to master one at a time, so eager was I to reach the next one and see just what it was like. Herr Dreckendorf gave me some studies by Dussek, Cramer, the _Inventions_ of Bach, etc., but before long the fascination of playing beautiful pieces was so great that he found it hard to keep me away from them. EARLY REPERTORY So hungry was I to find new musical works that when I was eight and a half years old I could play from memory such pieces as the B flat minor Scherzo, the A flat major Polonaise, and most of the Valses and Études of Chopin. I also played the Sixth Rhapsody of Liszt and the C minor Concerto of Beethoven. In the mean time we moved to Berlin and this has been our home ever since, so you see I have seen far more of Germany than of my native country, Spain. In fact, it seems more natural for me to speak German than Spanish. At the age of seven it was my good fortune to come under the instruction of Alberto Jonas, the Spanish virtuoso, who for many years was at the head of a large music school in America. I can never be grateful enough to him, for he has taught me without remuneration and not even a father could be kinder to me. When I left Berlin for my present tour, tears came to our eyes, because I knew I was leaving my best friend. Most of my present repertory has been acquired under Jonas and he has been so, so exacting. He also saw to it that my training was broad, and not confined to those composers whose works appealed most to me. The result is that I now appreciate the works of all the composers for the piano. Beethoven I found very absorbing. I learned the _Appassionata Sonata_ in one week's time, and longed for more. My teacher, however, insisted upon my going slowly, and mastering all the little details. I have also developed a great fondness for Bach, because I like to find how he winds his melodies in and out, and makes such beautiful things of them. I play a great deal of Bach, including the G minor organ Fugue, which Liszt played the devil with in arranging it for the piano. Goodness knows, it was difficult enough for the organ in its original form! I don't see why Liszt wanted to make it more difficult. Liszt is, of course, considered a great master for the piano, and I play his works with great delight, especially the _Campanella_ with its beautiful bell effect, but I cannot look upon Liszt as a pianistic composer in the same way that one thinks of Chopin as a pianistic composer. The piano was Chopin's natural tongue. Liszt's tongue, like that of Beethoven, was the orchestra. He knew no difficulties, according to the manner in which he wrote his own works. Consequently one must think of the orchestra in playing Liszt's works, while the works of Chopin suggest only the piano. MY DAILY PRACTICE During most of my life my practice has never exceeded two hours a day. In this country, while on tour, I never practice more than one and one-half hours. This is not necessary, because of the concerts themselves, which keep up my technical work. I never worry about my fingers. If I can think the pieces right, my fingers will always play the notes. My mother insists upon my being out in the open air all the time I am not studying and practicing, and I am out the better part of the day. At my practice periods, I devote at least fifteen or twenty minutes to technical exercises, and strive to play all the scales, in the different forms, in all the keys, once each day. I then play some of my concert numbers, continually trying to note if there is any place that requires attention. If there is, I at once spend a little time trying to improve the passage. It is very largely a matter of thinking the musical thought right, and then saying it in the right way. If you think it right, and your aim at the keyboard is good, you are not likely to hit the wrong notes, even in skips such as one finds in the Rubinstein Valse in E flat. I do not ever remember of hitting the upper note wrong. It all seems so easy to me that I am sure that if other children in America would look upon other examples in the same way, they could not find their work so very difficult. I love to practice Chopin. One cannot be so intimate with Bach; he is a little cold and unfriendly until one knows him very well. GENERAL EDUCATION I have said that we play as we think. The mind must be continually improved or the fingers will grow dull. In order to see the beauties in music we must see the beauties in other studies. I have a private teacher who comes to me in Berlin and teaches me different studies. I have studied some Latin, French, and the regular school studies. Electricity interests me more than I can tell you and I like to learn about it, but my greatest interest is in the study of astronomy. Surely nothing could be finer than to look at the stars. I have friends among the astronomers of Berlin who let me look through their telescopes and tell me all about the different constellations and the worlds that look like moons when you see them enlarged. It is all so wonderful that it makes one never cease thinking. I also like to go to factories and learn how different things are made. I think that there are so many things that one can learn outside of a school-room. For instance, I went to a wire factory recently, and I am sure that I found out a great many things I might never have found out in books. One also learns by traveling, and when I am on my tours I feel that I learn more of the different people and the way they live than I ever could from geographies. Don't you think I am a lucky boy? One must study geography, however, to learn about maps and the way in which countries are formed. I have toured in Germany, Russia, and England, and now in America. America interests me wonderfully. Everything seems so much alive and I like the climate very much. THEORETICAL STUDIES Musical theory bores me now, almost as much as my first technical studies did. Richard Strauss, the great German composer, has very kindly offered to teach me. I like him very much and he is so kind, but his thundering musical effects sometimes seems very noisy to me. I know many of the rules of harmony, but they are very uncomfortable and disagreeable to me. I would far rather write my music as it comes to me. Herr Nikisch says that when I do it that way, I make very few blunders, but I know I can never be a composer until I have mastered all the branches of musical theory. I am now writing a symphony. I played some parts for Herr Nikisch and he has agreed to produce it. Of course, the orchestral parts will have to be written for me, but I know what instruments I want to express certain ideas. Putting down the notes upon paper is so tiresome. Why can't one think the musical thoughts and have them preserved without the tedious work of writing them out! Sometimes before I can get them on paper they are gone--no one knows where, and the worst of all is that they never come back. It is far greater fun to play the piano, or play football, or go rowing. READING AND STUDY I love to read, and my favorite of all books is _The Three Musketeers_. I have also read something of Shakespeare, Goethe, Schiller, and many other writers. I like parts of the great Spanish novel _Don Quixote_, but I find it hard to read as a whole. I think that music students ought to read a great deal. It makes them think, and it gives them poetical thoughts. Music is, after all, only another kind of poetry, and if we get poetical ideas from books we become more poetical, and our music becomes more beautiful. The student who thinks only of hammering down keys at the piano cannot play in a manner in which people will take pleasure. Piano playing is so much more than merely pressing down keys. One has to tell people things that cannot be told in words--that is what music is. AT THE CONCERT I do not know what it is to be nervous at concerts. I have played so much and I am always so sure of what I am going to play that nervousness is out of the question. Of course, I am anxious about the way in which audiences will receive my playing. I want to please them so much and don't want them to applaud me because I am a boy, but would rather have them come as real music-lovers to enjoy the music itself. If I cannot bring pleasure to them in that way I do not deserve to be before the public. My concerts are usually about one hour in length, although I sometimes play encores for some time after the concert. I make it a practice not to eat for a few hours before the concert, as doctors have told my mother that my mind will be in better shape. I want to thank the many friends I have made among the students who have come to my concerts, and I hope that I may have told them some things which will help them in their work. QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES I PEPITO ARRIOLA 1. Should the talented child be urged or pushed ahead? 2. In what period of time should a very talented child master the elementary outlines of technic? 3. Can Liszt be regarded as a pianistic composer in the same sense as that in which Chopin is considered pianistic? 4. How should a very talented child's practice time be divided? 5. What part does right thinking play in execution? 6. How should the child's general education be conducted? 7. Should the education be confined to the classroom? 8. Should the musical child be encouraged to read fiction? 9. Does music resemble poetry? 10. Should one be careful about the body before concerts? [Illustration: WILHELM BACHAUS] WILHELM BACHAUS BIOGRAPHICAL Wilhelm Bachaus was born at Leipsic, March 24, 1884, two years before the death of Franz Liszt. Nine years younger than Josef Hofmann and a trifle more than one-half the age of Paderewski he represents a different decade from that of other pianists included in this work. Bachaus studied for nine years with Alois Reckendorf, a Moravian teacher who was connected with the Leipsic Conservatory for more than thirty years. Reckendorf had been a student of science and philosophy at the Vienna and the Heidelberg Universities and was an earnest musician and teacher with theories of his own. He took an especial interest in Bachaus and was his only teacher with the exception of one year spent with d'Albert and "three lessons with Siloti." Although Bachaus commenced playing when he was eight years old he feels that his professional _début_ was made in London in June, 1901, when he played the tremendously difficult Brahms-Paganini Variations. In 1905, when Bachaus was only twenty-one, he won the famous Rubinstein Prize at Paris. This consists of 5000 francs offered every five years to young men between the ages of twenty and twenty-six. (The following conference was conducted in English and German.) IV THE PIANIST OF TO-MORROW WILHELM BACHAUS TO-DAY, YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW "It is somewhat surprising how very little difference exists between the material used in piano teaching to-day and that employed forty or fifty years ago. Of course, there has been a remarkable amount of new technical material, exercises, studies, etc., devised, written and published, and some of this presents the advantage of being an improvement upon the old--an improvement which may be termed an advance--but, taken all in all, the advance has been very slight when compared with the astonishing advances made in other sciences and other phases of human progress in this time. "It would seem that the science of music (for the processes of studying the art are undoubtedly scientific) left little territory for new explorers and inventors. Despite the great number of études that have been written, imagine for one moment what a desert the technic of music would be without Czerny, Clementi, Tausig, Pischna--to say nothing of the great works of Scarlatti and Bach, which have an effect upon the technic, but are really great works of musical art. THE WONDERFUL EFFICACY OF SCALES "Personally, I practice scales in preference to all other forms of technical exercises when I am preparing for a concert. Add to this arpeggios and Bach, and you have the basis upon which my technical work stands. Pianists who have been curious about my technical accomplishments have apparently been amazed when I have told them that scales are my great technical mainstay--that is, scales plus hard work. They evidently have thought that I had some kind of alchemic secret, like the philosopher's stone which was designed to turn the baser metals into gold. I possess no secrets which any earnest student may not acquire if he will work in the laboratory of music long enough. There are certain artistic points which only come with long-continued experiment. "As the chemist finds the desired result by interminable heart-breaking eliminations, so the artist must weigh and test his means until he finds the one most likely to produce the most beautiful or the most appropriate result. But this seeking for the right effect has little to do with the kind of technic which necessitates one to keep every muscle employed in piano-playing properly exercised, and I may reiterate with all possible emphasis that the source of my technical equipment is scales, scales, scales. I find their continued daily practice not only beneficial, but necessary. I still find it desirable to practice scales for half an hour a day. BACH MUSICALLY OMNIPOTENT "It seems almost foolish to repeat what has been said so many times about the wonderful old cantor of Leipsic, Johann Sebastian Bach. However, there may still be some who have not yet become acquainted with the indisputable fact that the practice of Bach is the shortest, quickest road to technical finish. Busoni has enlarged upon Bach, impossible as that may seem; but as a modern bridge is sometimes built upon wonderful old foundations, Busoni has taken the idea of Bach and, with his penetrative and interpretative ability, has been able to make the meaning more clear and more effective. Any young pianist who aspires to have his hands in condition to respond to the subtle suggestions of his brain may acquire a marvelous foundation by the use of scales, Bach and arpeggios. THE OLD THAT IS EVER NEW "I have seen many ways and means tried out. Some seem like an attempt to save time at the expense of thoroughness. Furthermore, the means which have produced the great pianists of the past are likely to differ but little from those which will produce the pianists of the future. "The ultra-modern teacher who is inclined to think scales old-fashioned should go to hear de Pachmann, who practices scales every day. De Pachmann, who has been a virtuoso for a great many years, still finds daily practice necessary, and, in addition to scales, he plays a great deal of Bach. To-day his technic is more powerful and more comprehensive than ever, and he attributes it in a large measure to the simplest of means. DIFFICULTIES IN NEW PIANOFORTE COMPOSITIONS "I have often been asked if the future of pianoforte composition seemed destined to alter the technic of the instrument, as did the compositions of Liszt, for instance. This is a difficult question, but it would seem that the borderland of pianistic difficulty had been reached in the compositions and transcriptions of Busoni and Godowsky. The new French school of Debussy, Ravel and others is different in type, but does not make any more severe technical demands. "However, it is hard for one to imagine anything more complicated or more difficult than the Godowsky arrangements of the Chopin studies. I fail to see how pianoforte technic can go much beyond these, unless one gets more fingers or more hands. Godowsky's treatment of these studies is marvelous not only from a technical standpoint, but from a musical standpoint as well. He has added a new flavor to the individual masterpieces of Chopin. He has made them wonderfully clever and really very interesting studies in harmony and counterpoint, so that one forgets their technical intricacies in the beauty of the compositions. One cannot say that their original beauty has been enhanced, but he has made them wonderfully fascinating compositions despite their aggravating complications for the student. MERE DIFFICULTY NO LONGER ASTOUNDS "The day when the show of startling technical skill was sufficient to make a reputation for a pianist is, fortunately, past. The mechanical playing devices have possibly been responsible for this. The public refuses to admire anything that can be done by a machine, and longs for something finer, more subtle, more closely allied to the soul of the artist. This does not mean, however, that the necessity for a comprehensive technic is depreciated. Quite the contrary is true. The need for an all-comprehensive technic is greater than ever before. But the public demand for the purely musical, the purely artistic, is being continually manifested. "Modern composers are writing with this in view rather than huge technical combinations. The giant of to-day, to my mind, is indisputably Rachmaninoff. He is writing the greatest original music for piano of any living composer. All of his compositions are pianistic and he does not condescend to pander to a trifling public taste. He is a man with a great mind, and, in addition to this, he has a delightful sense of proportion and a feeling for the beautiful, all of which makes him a composer of the master mould. His compositions will endure as long as music. MODERN COMPOSITIONS "For others of the type of Scriabine I care less, although I am sensible to the beauty of many of their compositions. They have not, however, the splendid mould of Rachmaninoff, nor have they his vigorous originality. Doubtless some of these men will produce great original compositions in the future. Compositions that are simply not bad are hardly worth the paper they are written upon, for they will not last as long. The composition that will last is a great, new, original thought, inspired, noble and elemental, but worked out with the distinctive craftsmanship of the great master. "I am very partial to Debussy. He has an extraordinary atmosphere, and, after one has formed a taste for him, his compositions are alluring, particularly his _Homage à Rameau_, _Jardins sous la pluie_ and _D'un cahier d'esquisses_, which I have been playing upon my American tour. THE MOST DIFFICULT COMPOSITIONS "I have continually been asked, 'What is the most difficult composition?' The question always amuses me, but I suppose it is very human and in line with the desire to measure the highest building, the tallest mountain, the longest river or the oldest castle. Why is such a premium put upon mere difficulty? Strange to say, no one ever seems to think it necessary to inquire, 'What is the most beautiful piece?' "Difficulty in music should by no means be estimated by technical complications. To play a Mozart concerto well is a colossally difficult undertaking. The pianist who has worked for hours to get such a composition as near as possible to his conception of perfection is never given the credit for his work, except by a few connoisseurs, many of whom have been through a similarly exacting experience. Months may be spent upon comparatively simple compositions, such as the Haydn Sonatas or the Mozart Sonatas, and the musical public is blind to the additional finish or polish so evident to the virtuoso. PRAISE THAT IRRITATES "The opposite of this is also true. A little show of bravura, possibly in a passage which has not cost the pianist more than ten minutes of frivolous practice, will turn many of the unthinking auditors into a roaring mob. This is, of course, very distressing to the sincere artist who strives to establish himself by his real worth. "Of course, there are some compositions which present difficulties which few work hard enough to surmount. Among these might be mentioned the Godowsky-Chopin _études_ (particularly the _étude_ in A flat, Opus 25, No. 1, which is always especially exasperating for the student sufficiently advanced to approach it); the _Don Juan Fantasie_ of Liszt; the Brahms-Paganini _variations_ and the Beethoven, Opus 106, which, when properly played, demands enormous technical skill. One certainly saves a lot of bother when one discards it from one's repertoire. If these four pieces are not the most difficult pieces, they are certainly among the most difficult. WHY NOT SEEK THE BEAUTIFUL? "But why seek difficulty when there is so much that is quite as beautiful and yet not difficult? Why try to make a bouquet of oak trees when the ground is covered with exquisite flowers? The piano is a solo instrument and has its limitations. Some piano music is said to sound orchestral. As a matter of fact, a great deal of it would sound better with the orchestra. "Real piano music is rare. The piano appears to be too small for some of our modern Titans among the composers. When they write for the piano they seem to be exhibiting a concealed longing for the one hundred or more men of the modern orchestra. One of the reasons why the works of Debussy appeal to me is that he manages to put so much color into his piano pieces without suggesting the orchestra. Much of his music is wonderful in this respect, and, moreover, the musicians of the future will appreciate this fact more and more. EXERCISES THAT GIVE IMMEDIATE HELP "No one exercise can be depended upon to meet all the varied conditions which arise in the practice of the day, but I have frequently employed a simple exercise which seems to 'coax' the hand into muscular activity in a very short time. It is so simple that I am diffident about suggesting it. However, elemental processes lead to large structures sometimes. The Egyptian pyramids were built ages before the age of steam and electricity, and scientists are still wondering how those massive stones were ever put in place. "The exercise I use most, apart from scales, is really based upon a principle which is constantly employed in all scale playing and in all piano playing, that of putting the thumb over and under the fingers. Did you ever stop to think how continually this is employed? One hardly goes one step beyond the elemental grades before one encounters it. It demands a muscular action entirely different from that of pressing down the keys either with the finger, forearm or arm motion. "Starting with the above-named principle and devising new exercises to meet the very human need for variety, I play something like this: [Illustration] "The next form would employ another fingering-- [Illustration] "The next form might be-- [Illustration] "These I transpose through several keys, for instance-- [Illustration] "Note that I am not giving an arbitrary exercise, but simply suggesting the plan upon which the student may work. There is a great deal of fun in devising new exercises. It assists in helping the student to concentrate. Of course, these exercises are only attempted after all the standard exercises found in books have been exhausted. AVOID TOO COMPLICATED EXERCISES "I often think that teachers make a great mistake by giving too complicated exercises. A complicated exercise leads away from clear thinking and concentration. The simple exercise will never seem dull or dry if the pupil's ambition is right. After all, it is not so much what is done as how it is done. Give less thought to the material and more to the correction of the means with which one plays. There should be unceasing variety in studies. A change at every practice period is advisable, as it gives the pupil new material for thought. There are hundreds of different exercises in the different books, and the student has no reason for suffering for want of variety." QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES II WILHELM BACHAUS 1. Does the technical material of to-day differ greatly from that of forty or fifty years ago? 2. State something of the efficacy of scales. 3. State three sources of technical material sure to interest the student. 4. Do celebrated virtuosos use scales regularly? 5. State what else besides technical skill is required in these days to gain recognition as a virtuoso pianist. 6. Why does Rachmaninoff excel as a composer for pianoforte? 7. State what may be considered the most difficult of piano compositions. 8. Wherein does the appeal of Debussy lie? 9. Give some simple exercises suitable for daily practice. 10. Why are too complicated exercises undesirable? [Illustration: HAROLD BAUER] HAROLD BAUER BIOGRAPHICAL Harold Bauer was born in London, England, April 28, 1875. His father was an accomplished amateur violinist. Through him, the future virtuoso was enabled to gain an excellent idea of the beautiful literature of chamber music. When a boy Mr. Bauer studied privately with the celebrated violin teacher, Politzer. At the age of ten he became so proficient that he made his _début_ as a violinist in London. Thereafter in his tours of England he met with great success everywhere. In the artistic circles of London Mr. Bauer met a musician named Graham Moore, who gave him some idea upon the details of the technic of pianoforte playing, which Mr. Bauer had studied or rather "picked up" by himself, without any thought of ever abandoning his career as a violinist. Mr. Moore had expected to rehearse some orchestral accompaniments on a second piano with Paderewski, who was then preparing some concertos for public performance. Mr. Moore was taken ill and sent his talented musical friend, Mr. Bauer, in his place. Paderewski immediately took an interest in his talented accompanist and advised him to go to Paris to continue his studies with Gorski. After many privations in Paris Mr. Bauer, unable to secure engagements as a violinist, went on a tour of Russia as an accompanist of a singer. In some of the smaller towns Bauer played an occasional piano solo. Returning to Paris, he found that he was still unable to secure engagements as a violinist. His pianistic opportunity came when a celebrated virtuoso who was to play at a concert was taken ill and Bauer was asked to substitute. He gradually gave more attention to the piano and rose to a very high position in the tone world. V ARTISTIC ASPECTS OF PIANO STUDY HAROLD BAUER THE IMMEDIATE RELATION OF TECHNIC TO MUSIC "While it gives me great pleasure to talk to the great number of students studying the piano, I can assure you that it is with no little diffidence that I venture to approach these very subjects about which they are probably most anxious to learn. In the first place, words tell very little, and in the second place, my whole career has been so different from the orthodox methods that I have been constantly compelled to contrive means of my own to meet the myriads of artistic contingencies as they have arisen in my work. It is largely for this reason that I felt compelled recently to refuse a very flattering offer to write a book on piano playing. My whole life experience makes me incapable of perceiving what the normal methods of pianistic study should be. As a result of this I am obliged with my own pupils to invent continually new means and new plans for work with each student. "Without the conventional technical basis to work upon, this has necessarily resulted in several aspects of pianoforte study which are naturally somewhat different from the commonly accepted ideas of the technicians. In the first place, the only technical study of any kind I have ever done has been that technic which has had an immediate relation to the musical message of the piece I have been studying. In other words, I have never studied technic independently of music. I do not condemn the ordinary technical methods for those who desire to use them and see good in them. I fear, however, that I am unable to discuss them adequately, as they are outside of my personal experience. THE AIM OF TECHNIC "When, as a result of circumstances entirely beyond my control, I abandoned the study of the violin in order to become a pianist, I was forced to realize, in view of my very imperfect technical equipment, that in order to take advantage of the opportunities that offered for public performance it would be necessary for me to find some means of making my playing acceptable without spending months and probably years in acquiring mechanical proficiency. The only way of overcoming the difficulty seemed to be to devote myself entirely to the musical essentials of the composition I was interpreting in the hope that the purely technical deficiencies which I had neither time nor knowledge to enable me to correct would pass comparatively unnoticed, provided I was able to give sufficient interest and compel sufficient attention to the emotional values of the work. This kind of study, forced upon me in the first instance through reasons of expediency, became a habit, and gradually grew into a conviction that it was a mistake to practice technic at all unless such practice should conduce to some definite, specific and immediate musical result. "I do not wish to be misunderstood in making this statement, containing, as it does, an expression of opinion that was formed in early years of study, but which, nevertheless, I have never since felt any reason to change. It is not my intention to imply that technical study is unnecessary, or that purely muscular training is to be neglected. I mean simply to say that in every detail of technical work the germ of musical expression must be discovered and cultivated, and that in muscular training for force and independence the simplest possible forms of physical exercises are all that is necessary. "The singer and the violinist are always studying _music_, even when they practice a succession of single notes. Not so with the pianist, however, for an isolated note on the piano, whether played by the most accomplished artist or the man in the street, means nothing, absolutely nothing. SEEKING INDIVIDUAL EXPRESSION "At the time of which I speak, my greatest difficulty was naturally to give a constant and definite direction to my work and in my efforts to obtain a suitable muscular training which should enable me to produce expressive sounds, while I neglected no opportunity of closely observing the work of pianoforte teachers and students around me. I found that most of the technical work which was being done with infinite pains and a vast expenditure of time was not only non-productive of expressive sounds, but actually harmful and misleading as regards the development of the musical sense. I could see no object in practicing evenness in scales, considering that a perfectly even scale is essentially devoid of emotional (musical) significance. I could see no reason for limiting tone production to a certain kind of sound that was called 'a good tone,' since the expression of feeling necessarily demands in many cases the use of relatively harsh sounds. Moreover, I could see no reason for trying to overcome what are generally called natural defects, such as the comparative weakness of the fourth finger for example, as it seemed to me rather a good thing than otherwise that each finger should naturally and normally possess a characteristic motion of its own. "It is _differences_ that count in art, not similarities. Every individual expression is a form of art; why not, then, make an artist of each finger by cultivating its special aptitudes instead of adapting a system of training deliberately calculated to destroy these individual characteristics in bringing _all_ the fingers to a common level of lifeless machines? "These and similar reflections, I discovered, were carrying me continually farther away from the ideals of most of the pianists, students and teachers with whom I was in contact, and it was not long before I definitely abandoned all hope of obtaining, by any of the means I found in use, the results for which I was striving. Consequently, from that time to the present my work has necessarily been more or less independent and empirical in its nature, and, while I trust I am neither prejudiced nor intolerant in my attitude towards pianoforte education in its general aspect, I cannot help feeling that a great deal of natural taste is stifled and a great deal of mediocrity created by the persistent and unintelligent study of such things as an 'even scale' or a 'good tone.' "Lastly, it is quite incomprehensible to me why any one method of technic should be superior to any other, considering that as far as I was able to judge, no teacher or pupil ever claimed more for any technical system than that it gave more technical ability than some other technical system. I have never been able to convince myself, as a matter of fact, that one system does give more ability than another; but even if there were one infinitely superior to all the rest, it would still fail to satisfy me unless its whole aim and object were to facilitate musical expression. "Naturally, studying in this way required my powers of concentration to be trained to the very highest point. This matter of concentration is far more important than most teachers imagine, and the perusal of some standard work on psychology will reveal things which should help the student greatly. Many pupils make the mistake of thinking that only a certain kind of music demands concentration, whereas it is quite as necessary to concentrate the mind upon the playing of a simple scale as for the study of a Beethoven sonata. THE RESISTANCE OF THE MEDIUM "In every form of art the medium that is employed offers a certain resistance to perfect freedom of expression, and the nature of this resistance must be fully understood before it can be overcome. The poet, the painter, the sculptor and the musician each has his own problem to solve, and the pianist in particular is frequently brought to the verge of despair through the fact that the instrument, in requiring the expenditure of physical and nervous energy, absorbs, so to speak, a large proportion of the intensity which the music demands. "With many students the piano is only a barrier--a wall between them and music. Their thoughts never seem to penetrate farther than the keys. They plod along for years apparently striving to make piano-playing machines of themselves, and in the end result in becoming something rather inferior. "Conditions are doubtless better now than in former years. Teachers give studies with some musical value, and the months, even years, of keyboard grind without the least suggestion of anything musical or gratifying to the natural sense of the beautiful are very probably a thing of the past. But here again I fear the teachers in many cases make a perverted use of studies and pieces for technical purposes. If we practice a piece of real music with no other idea than that of developing some technical point it often ceases to become a piece of music and results in being a kind of technical machinery. Once a piece is mechanical it is difficult to make it otherwise. All the cogs, wheels, bolts and screws which an overzealous ambition to become perfect technically has built up are made so evident that only the most patient and enduring kind of an audience can tolerate them. THE PERVERSION OF STUDIES "People talk about 'using the music of Bach' to accomplish some technical purpose in a perfectly heart-breaking manner. They never seem to think of interpreting Bach, but, rather, make of him a kind of technical elevator by means of which they hope to reach some marvelous musical heights. We even hear of the studies of Chopin being perverted in a similarly vicious manner, but Bach, the master of masters, is the greatest sufferer. "It has become a truism to say that technic is only a means to an end, but I very much doubt if this assertion should be accepted without question, suggesting as it does the advisability of studying something that is not music and which is believed at some future time to be capable of being marvelously transformed into an artistic expression. Properly understood, _technic is art_, and must be studied as such. There should be no technic in music which is not music _in itself_. THE UNIT OF MUSICAL EXPRESSION "The piano is, of all instruments, the least expressive naturally, and it is of the greatest importance that the student should realize the nature of its resistance. The action of a piano is purely a piece of machinery where the individual note has no meaning. When the key is once struck and the note sounded there is a completed action and the note cannot then be modified nor changed in the least. The only thing over which the pianist has any control is the length of the tone, and this again may not last any longer than the natural vibrations of the strings, although it may be shortened by relinquishing the keys. It makes no difference whether the individual note is struck by a child or by Paderewski--it has in itself no expressive value. In the case of the violin, the voice and all other instruments except the organ, the individual note may be modified after it is emitted or struck, and in this modification is contained the possibility of a whole world of emotional expression. "Our sole means of expression, then, in piano playing lies in the relation of one note to the other notes in a series or in a chord. Herein lies the difficulty, the resistance to perfect freedom of which I have spoken before, the principal subject for intelligence and careful study, and yet so few students appear to understand it. Their great effort seems to be to make all the noise in a given series as much alike as coins from a mint. They come to the piano as their only instrument, and never seek to take a lesson from the voice or from the other instruments which have expressive resources infinitely superior to those possessed by the piano. The principal charm of the piano lies in the command which the player has over many voices singing together. But until the pianist has a regard for the individual voice in its relation to the ensemble he has no means with which to make his work really beautiful. "There is a great need for more breadth in music study. This, as I know, has been said very often, but it does not hurt to say it again. The more a man knows, the more he has experienced, the wider his mental vision in all branches of human information, the more he will have to say. We need men in music with big minds, wide grasp and definite aims. Musicians are far too prone to become overspecialized. They seem to have an unquenchable thirst to master the jargon and the infinite variety of methods which are thrust upon us in these days rather than a genuine desire to develop their musical aims. Music is acquiring a technology as confusing and as extensive as bacteriology. There seems to be no end to the new kinds of methods in the minds of furtive and fertile inventors. Each new method in turn seems to breed another, and so on _ad nauseam_. "Among other things I would suggest the advisability for pianists to cultivate some knowledge of the construction of their instrument. Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless a fact that the average pianist knows practically nothing of a piano, being in many cases entirely unaware of such simple things as how the tone is produced. The function of the pedals is as unknown to them as geology is to the coal heaver. This ignorance leads frequently to the employment of motions and methods that can only be characterized as ridiculous in the extreme. MUSIC FIRST, THE INSTRUMENT AFTERWARDS "From the manner in which many ambitious and earnest students play, it would seem that they had their minds fixed upon something which could not be conveyed to the world in any other form than that of the sounds which come from the piano. Of course, the piano has an idiom peculiarly its own, and some composers have employed this idiom with such natural freedom that their music suffers when transposed for any other instrument. The music of Chopin is peculiarly pianistic, but it is, first of all, music, and any one of the wonderful melodies which came from the fertile brain of the Polish-French genius could be played upon one of many different instruments besides the piano. The duty of the interpreter should surely be to think of the composition as such, and to interpret it primarily as music, irrespective of the instrument. Some students sit down before the keyboard to 'play' the piano precisely as though they were going to play a game of cards. They have learned certain rules governing the game, and they do not dare disobey these rules. They think of rules rather than of the ultimate result--the music itself. The idiom of the Italian language is appropriate here. The Italians do not say 'I play the piano,' but rather 'I sound the piano.' (_Suono il pianoforte._) If we had a little more 'sounding' of the piano, that is, producing real musical effects, and a little less playing on ivory keys, the playing of our students would be more interesting. VARIETY THE SPICE OF ART "It can hardly be questioned that the genesis of all musical art is to be found in song, the most natural, the most fluent and the most beautiful form of musical expression. How much every instrumentalist can learn from the art of singing! "It is a physical impossibility for the voice to produce two notes in succession exactly alike. They may sound very similar, but there is a difference quite perceptible to the highly trained ear. When a singer starts a phrase a certain amount of motive power is required to set the vocal apparatus in vibration. After the first note has been attacked with the full force of the breath, there is naturally not so much weight or pressure left for the following notes. It is, however, possible for the second note to be as loud, or even louder, than the first note. But in order to obtain the additional force on the second note, it is necessary to compensate for the lack of force due to the loss of the original weight or pressure by increasing what might be called the nervous energy; that is to say, by expelling the breath with proportionately greater speed. MUSCULAR AND NERVOUS ENERGY "The manifestation of nervous energy in this manner is quite different from the manifestation of muscular energy, although both are, of course, intimately connected. Muscular energy begins at its maximum and gradually diminishes to the point of exhaustion, whereas nervous energy rises in an inconceivably short space of time to its climax, and then drops immediately to nothing. Nervous energy may be said to be represented by an increased rapidity of emission. It is what the athlete would call a 'spurt.' "What I have said about the voice applies equally to all other instruments, the piano and the organ alone excepted. It is obvious that the playing of the wind instruments must be subjected to the limitations of the breath, and in the case of the violin and the other stringed instruments, where the bow supplies the motive power, it is impossible for two notes played in succession to sound absolutely alike. If the first note of a phrase is attacked with the weight of the whole bow behind it, the second note will follow with just so much less weight, and if the violinist desires to intensify any of the succeeding tones, he must do so by the employment of the nervous energy I have mentioned, when a difference in the quality of tone is bound to result. The pianist should closely observe and endeavor to imitate these characteristics, which so vividly convey the idea of organic life in all its infinite variety, and which are inherent in every medium for artistic expression. PHRASING AND BREATHING "It would take a book, and by no means a small one, to go into this matter of phrasing which I am now discussing. Even in such a book there would doubtless be many points which would be open to assaults for sticklers in psychological technology. I am not issuing a propaganda or writing a thesis for the purpose of having something to defend, but merely giving a few offhand facts that have benefited me in my work. However, it is my conviction that it is the duty of the pianist to try to understand the analogy to the physical limitations which surround the more natural mediums of musical expression--the voice and the violin--and to apply the result of his observations to his piano playing. THE NATURAL EFFECT OF EMOTIONS "There is another relation between phrasing and breathing which the student may investigate to advantage. The emotions have a direct and immediate effect upon the breath, and as the brain informs the nervous system of new emotional impressions the visible evidences may be first observed in the breathing. It is quite unnecessary to go into the physiology or psychology of this, but a little reflection will immediately indicate what I mean. "It is impossible to witness a disastrous accident without showing mental agitation and excitement in hurried breathing. Joy, anger, fear, love, tranquillity and grief--all are characterized by different modes of breathing, and a trained actor must study this with great closeness. "The artist at the piano may be said to breathe his phrases. A phrase that is purely contemplative in character is breathed in a tranquil fashion without any suggestion of nervous agitation. If we go through the scale of expression, starting with contemplative tranquillity, to the climax of dramatic intensity, the breath will be emitted progressively quicker and quicker. Every musical phrase has some kind of expressive message to deliver. If a perfectly tranquil phrase is given out in a succession of short breaths, indicating, as they would, agitation, it would be a contradiction, just as it would be perfectly inhuman to suppose that in expressing dramatic intensity it would be possible to breathe slowly. "In conclusion, I would urge students to cultivate a very definite mental attitude as to what they really desire to accomplish. Do you wish to make music? If so, _think_ music, and nothing but music, all the time, down to the smallest detail even in technic. Is your ambition to play scales, octaves, double notes and trills? Then by all means concentrate your mind on them to the exclusion of everything else, but do not be surprised if, when, later on, you want to communicate a semblance of life to your mechanical motions, you succeed in obtaining no more than the jerky movements of a clock-work puppet." QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES III HAROLD BAUER 1. What is the nature of the technical study done by Harold Bauer? 2. Should immediate musical results be sought in technical study? 3. Upon what principle is expression in art based? 4. Is the utmost concentration necessary in all piano playing? 5. How may the piano become a barrier between the student and musical expression? 6. In what spirit should all studies be played? 7. Is the piano an expressive instrument? 8. Should pianists acquire a knowledge of the main feature in the construction of their instrument? 9. How may variety in piano playing be achieved? 10. How is phrasing related to breathing? [Illustration: F. BLOOMFIELD-ZEISLER] FANNY BLOOMFIELD-ZEISLER BIOGRAPHICAL Mrs. Fanny Bloomfield-Zeisler was born at Beilitz, Austrian Silesia, July 16, 1866. Two years later her parents took her to Chicago. Her first teachers in Chicago were Bernhard Ziehn and Carl Wolfsohn. At the age of ten she made a profound impression at a public concert in Chicago. Two years later she had the good fortune to meet Mme. Essipoff, who advised her to go to Vienna to study with Theodore Leschetizky. Accordingly she was taken to the Austrian capital and remained under the instruction of the noted pedagogue for five years. Starting with the year 1883, she commenced a series of annual recitals and concerts in different American cities which made her very famous. In 1893 she toured Europe, attracting even more attention than in the homeland. Since then she made several tours of Europe and America, arousing great enthusiasm wherever she appeared. Her emotional force, her personal magnetism and her keen processes of analysis compelled critics everywhere to rank her with the foremost pianists of the day. VI APPEARING IN PUBLIC FANNY BLOOMFIELD-ZEISLER "The secret of success in the career of a virtuoso is not easily defined. Many elements have to be considered. Given great talent, success is not by any means assured. Many seemingly extraneous qualities must be cultivated; many mistakes must be avoided. "Let me start out with a caution. No greater mistake could possibly be made than to assume that frequent public appearances or extended concert touring in early youth is essential to a great career as a virtuoso. On the contrary, I would say that such a course is positively harmful. The 'experience' of frequent playing in public is essential if one would get rid of stage fright or undue nervousness and would gain that repose and self-confidence without which success is impossible. But such experience should be had only after the attainment of physical and mental maturity. A young boy or girl, though ever so much of a prodigy, if taken on an extensive concert tour, not only becomes unduly self-conscious, conceited, vain and easily satisfied with his or her work, but--and this is the all-important point--runs the risk of undermining his or her health. The precious days of youth should be devoted primarily to the storing up of health, without which lasting success is impossible. Nothing is more harmful to sound physical development and mental growth than the strain of extensive tours. It is true that one great virtuoso now before the public played frequently before large audiences as an infant prodigy. But, happily, wise and efficient influences served to check this mad career. The young artist was placed in the hands of a great teacher and given a chance to reach full physical maturity and artistic stature before resuming public appearances. Had it been otherwise, it is a matter of common belief that this great talent would have fizzled out. "By this I do not mean that the pupil should be prevented from playing at recitals in the home city. Playing of this kind gives the pupil confidence and smooths the way for his work as a mature artist. These performances should be rare, except in the case of performances given in the home of the pupil or at the teacher's home. What I object to is the exploitation on a large scale of the infant prodigy. THOROUGH PREPARATION NECESSARY "One of the real secrets of success in public appearance is thorough preparation. In fact there is no talisman, no secret that one can pass over to another and say, 'Here is my secret, go thou and do likewise.' What a valuable secret it would be--the mysterious secret processes of the Krupp Gun Works in Germany would be trifling in comparison. Genuine worth is, after all, the great essential, and thorough preparation leads to genuine worth. For instance, I have long felt that the mental technic that the study of Bach's inventions and fugues afford could not be supplied by any other means. The peculiar polyphonic character of these works trains the mind to recognize the separate themes so ingeniously and beautifully interwoven and at the same time the fingers receive a kind of discipline which hardly any other study can secure. "The layman can hardly conceive how difficult it is to play at the same time two themes different in character and running in opposite directions. The student fully realizes this difficulty when he finds that it takes years to master it. These separate themes must be individualized; they must be conceived as separate, but their bearing upon the work as a whole must never be overlooked. "The purity of style to be found in Bach, in connection with his marvelous contrapuntal designs, should be expounded to the student at as early an age as his intellectual development will permit. It may take some time to create a taste for Bach, but the teacher will be rewarded with results so substantial and permanent that all the trouble and time will seem well worth while. "There is also a refining influence about which I would like to speak. The practice of Bach seems to fairly grind off the rough edges, and instead of a raw, bungling technic the student acquires a kind of finish from the study of the old master of Eisenach that nothing else can give him. "I do not mean to be understood that the study of Bach, even if it be ever so thorough, suffices in itself to give one a perfect technic. Vastly more is necessary. The student who would fit himself for a concert career must have the advice of a great teacher and must work incessantly and conscientiously under his guidance. I emphasize the study of Bach merely because I find it is not pursued as much as it deserves. That technical finish is of the very essence of success in public appearance, goes without saying. It is not only indispensable for a creditable performance, but the consciousness of possessing it contributes to that confidence of the player without which he cannot hope to make an impression upon his audience. LESCHETIZKY AND 'METHOD' "Speaking about teachers reminds me to put forth this caution: Do not pin your faith to a method. There is good and, alas! some bad in most methods. We hear a great deal these days about the Leschetizky method. During the five years I was with Leschetizky, he made it very plain that he had no fixed method in the ordinary sense of the word. Like every good teacher, he studied the individuality of each pupil and taught him according to that individuality. It might almost be said that he had a different method for each pupil, and I have often said that Leschetizky's method is to have no fixed method. Of course, there are certain preparatory exercises which with slight variations he wants all his pupils to go through. But it is not so much the exercises in themselves as the patience and painful persistence in executing them to which they owe their virtue. Of course, Leschetizky has his preference for certain works for their great educational value. He has his convictions as to the true interpretation to be given to the various compositions, but those do not form what may properly be called a method. Personally, I am rather skeptical when anybody announces that he teaches any particular method. Leschetizky, without any particular method, is a great force by virtue of his tremendously interesting personality and his great qualities as an artist. He is himself a never-ending source of inspiration. At eighty he was still a youth, full of vitality and enthusiasm. Some student, diffident but worthy, was always encouraged; another was incited by sarcasm; still another was scolded outright. Practical illustration on the piano, showing 'how not to do it,' telling of pertinent stories to elucidate a point, are among the means which he constantly employed to bring out the best that was in his pupils. A good teacher cannot insure success and Leschetizky has naturally had many pupils who will never become great virtuosos. It was never in the pupils and, no matter how great the teacher, he cannot create talent that does not exist. "The many books published upon the Leschetizky system by his assistants have merit, but they by no means constitute a Leschetizky system. They simply give some very rational preparatory exercise that the assistants give in preparing pupils for the master. Leschetizky himself laughs when one speaks of his 'method' or 'system.' "Success in public appearance will never come through any system or method except that which works toward the end of making a mature and genuine artist. WELL-SELECTED PROGRAMS "Skill in the arrangement of an artist's programs has much to do with his success. This matter has two distinct aspects. Firstly, the program must _look_ attractive, and secondly, it must _sound_ well in the rendition. When I say the program must look attractive, I mean that it must contain works which interest concert-goers. It should be neither entirely conventional, nor should it contain novelties exclusively. The classics should be represented, because the large army of students expect to be especially benefited by hearing these performed by a great artist. Novelties must be placed on the program to make it attractive to the maturer habitués of the concert room. "But more important, to my mind, is the other aspect of program making which I have mentioned. There must be contrasts in the character and tonal nature of the compositions played. They must be so grouped that the interest of the hearers will be not only sustained to the end, but will gradually increase. It goes without saying that each composition should have merit and worth as musical literature. But beyond that, there should be variety in the character of the different compositions: the classic, the romantic, and the modern compositions should all be given representation. To play several slow movements or several vivacious movements in succession would tend to tire the listener. Anti-climaxes should be avoided. "It may truly be said that program making is in itself a high art. It is difficult to give advice on this subject by any general statement. Generalizations are too often misleading. I would advise the young artist to study carefully the programs of the most successful artists and to attempt to discover the principle underlying their arrangement. "One thing which should never be forgotten is that the object of a concert is not merely to show off the skill of the performer, but to instruct, entertain and elevate the audience. The bulk of the program should be composed of standard works, but novelties of genuine worth should be given a place on the program. PERSONALITY "The player's personality is of inestimable importance in winning the approval of the public. I do not refer particularly to personal beauty, although it cannot be doubted that a pleasing appearance is helpful in conquering an audience. What I mean is sincerity, individuality, temperament. What we vaguely describe as magnetism is often possessed by players who can lay no particular claim to personal beauty. Some players seem fairly to hypnotize their audiences--yes, hypnotize them. This is not done by practicing any species of black art, or by consciously following any psychological formula, but by the sheer intensity of feeling of the artist at the moment of performance. "The great performer in such moments of passion forgets himself entirely. He is in a sort of artistic trance. Technical mastery of the composition being presupposed, the artist need not and does not give thought to the matter of playing the notes correctly, but, re-creating in himself what he feels to have been the mood of the composer, re-creates the composition itself. It is this kind of playing which establishes an invisible cord, connecting the player's and the hearers' hearts, and, swayed himself by the feelings of the moment, he sways his audience. He makes the music he draws from the instrument supreme in every soul in the audience; his feeling and passion are contagious and carry the audience away. These are the moments, not only of the greatest triumph, but of the greatest exultation for the artist. He who cannot thus sway audiences will never rise above mediocrity. DO NOT ATTEMPT THE IMPOSSIBLE "To those who are still in the preparatory stage of development I am glad to give one word of advice. _Do not play pieces that are away beyond your grasp._ This is the greatest fault in our American musical educational systems of to-day. Pupils are permitted to play works that are technically impossible for them to hope to execute without years of preparation. What a huge blunder this is! "The pupil comes to the teacher, let us say, with the _Second Hungarian Rhapsody_ of Liszt. It takes some fortitude for the conscientious teacher to tell the pupil that she should work with the _C Major Sonata_ of Haydn instead. The pupil, with a kind of confidence that is, to say the least, dangerous, imagines that the teacher is trying to keep her back, and often goes to another teacher who will gratify her whim. "American girls think that they can do everything. Nothing is beyond them. This is a country of great accomplishment, and they do not realize that in music 'Art is long.' The virtuoso comes to a great metropolis and plays a Moszkowski concerto of great difficulty. The next day the music stores exhaust their stocks of this work, and a dozen misses, who might with difficulty play a Mendelssohn _Song With Words_, are buried in the avalanche of technical impossibilities that the alluring concerto provides. FOREIGN DÉBUTS "Unfortunately, a foreign _début_ seems to be necessary for the artist who would court the favor of the American public. Foreign pianists get engagements long before their managers in America ever hear them. In the present state of affairs, if an American pianist were to have the ability of three Liszts and three Rubinsteins in one person, he could only hope for meager reward if he did not have a great European reputation behind him. "The condition is absurd and regrettable, but nevertheless true. We have many splendid teachers in America--as fine as there are in the world. "We have in our larger cities musical audiences whose judgment is as discriminating as that of the best European audiences. Many an artist with a great European reputation has come to this country, and, failing 'to make good' in the judgment of our critics and audiences, went back with his reputation seriously impaired. Nevertheless, as I have stated, the American artist without a European reputation, has no drawing power and therefore does not interest the managers and the piano manufacturers, who nowadays have largely supplanted the managers. This being so, I can only advise the American artist to do as others had to do. Go to Europe; give a few concerts in Berlin, London, Vienna or Paris. Let the concert director who arranges your concerts paper the house, but be sure you get a few critics in the audience. Have your criticisms translated, and get them republished in American papers. Then, if you have real merit, you may get a chance. "The interest in music in the United States at the present time is phenomenal. European peoples have no conception of it. Nowhere in the world can such interest be found. Audiences in different parts of the country do not differ very greatly from the standpoint of intelligent appreciation. When we consider the great uncultured masses of peasants in Europe and the conditions of our own farmers, especially in the West, there is no basis of comparison. America is already a musical country, a very musical country. It is only in its failure to properly support native musicians that we are subject to criticism. PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS "To the young man or woman who would learn 'The Secret of Public Appearance' I would say: "1. Look deeply into your natural qualifications. Use every morsel of judgment you possess to endeavor to determine whether you are talented or simply 'clever' at music. Court the advice of unbiased professional musicians and meditate upon the difficulties leading to a successful career, and do not decide to add one more musician to the world until you are confident of your suitability for the work. Remember that this moment of decision is a very important time and that you may be upon the threshold of a dangerous mistake. Remember that there are thousands of successful and happy teachers for one successful virtuoso. "2. After you have determined to undertake the career of the concert performer let nothing stand in the way of study, except the consideration of your health. Success with a broken-down body and a shattered mind is a worthless conquest. Remember that if you wish a permanent position you must be thoroughly trained in all branches of your art. "3. Avoid charlatanism and the kind of advertisement that will bring you notoriety at the sacrifice of your self-respect and the respect of your best friends. Remember that real worth is, after all, the thing that brings enduring fame. "4. Study the public. Seek to find out what pleases it, but never lower the standards of your art. Read the best literature. Study pictures. Travel. Broaden your mind. Acquire general culture. "5. Be careful of your stage deportment. Endeavor to do nothing at the keyboard that will emphasize any personal eccentricity. Always be sincere and true to your own nature, but within these limits try to make a pleasing impression. "6. Always be your own severest critic. Be not easily satisfied with yourself. Hitch your wagon to a star. Let your standard of perfection be the very highest. Always strive to reach that standard. Never play in public a piece that you have not thoroughly mastered. There is nothing more valuable than public confidence. Once secured, it is the greatest asset an artist can possess. "I have repeatedly been asked to give ten rules for practice. "It is not possible to formulate ten all-comprehensive rules that could be applied in every case, but the following suggestions will be found valuable to many students: "1. Concentrate during every second of your practice. To concentrate means to bring all your thinking powers to bear upon one central point with the greatest possible intensity. Without such concentration nothing can be accomplished during the practice period. One hour of concentrated thinking is worth weeks of thoughtless practice. It is safe to say that years are being wasted by students in this country who fail to get the most out of their practice because they do not know how to concentrate. A famous thinker has said: 'The evidence of superior genius is the power of intellectual concentration.' "2. Divide your practice time into periods of not more than two hours. You will find it impossible to concentrate properly if you attempt to practice more than two hours at a time. Do not have an arbitrary program of practice work, for this course is liable to make your work monotonous. For one who practices four hours (and that is enough for almost any student), one hour for purely technical work, one hour for Bach, and two hours for pieces is to be recommended. "3. In commencing your practice, play over your piece once or twice before beginning to memorize. Then, after working through the entire composition, pick out the more difficult passages for special attention and reiteration. "4. Always practice slowly at first. This is simply another way of telling the pupil to concentrate. Even after you have played your piece at the required speed and with reasonable confidence that it is correct, never fail to go back now and then and play it at the speed at which you learned it. This is a practice which many virtuosos follow. Pieces that they have played time and time again before enthusiastic audiences are re-studied by playing them very slowly. This is the only real way to undo mistakes that are bound to creep into one's performance when pieces are constantly played in a rapid tempo. "5. Do not attempt to practice your whole piece at first. Take a small section or even a phrase. If you take a longer section than say sixteen bars, you will find it difficult to avoid mistakes. Of course, when the piece is mastered you should have all these sections so unified that you can play the entire composition smoothly and without a break. "6. First memorize _mentally_ the section you have selected for study, and then practice it. If you do not know it well enough to practice it from memory, you have not grasped its musical content, but are playing mechanically. "7. Occasionally memorize backwards, that is, take the last few measures and learn them thoroughly, then take the preceding measures and continue in this way until the whole is mastered. Even after you have played the piece many times, this process often compels a concentration that is beneficial. "8. When studying, remember that practice is simply a means of cultivating habits. If you play correctly from the start you will form good habits; if you play carelessly and faultily your playing will grow continually worse. Consequently, play so slowly and correctly from the start that you may insure the right fingering, phrasing, tone, touch (staccato, legato, portamento, etc.), pedaling and dynamic effects. If you postpone the attainment of any of these qualities to a later date they are much more difficult to acquire. "9. Always listen while you are playing. Music is intended to be heard. If you do not listen to your own playing it is very probable that other people will not care to listen to it either. "10. Never attempt to play anything in public that you have just finished studying. When you are through working upon a piece, put it away to be musically digested, then after some time repeat the same process, and again the third time, when your piece will, have become a part of yourself." QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES IV FANNY BLOOMFIELD-ZEISLER 1. How should the public appearances of talented children be controlled? 2. What is the best material for the development of a mental technic? 3. Should one pin one's faith to any one method? 4. What combines to make a program attractive? 5. What should be artist's main object in giving a concert? 6. What part does personality play in the performer's success? 7. What is one of the greatest faults in musical educational work in America? 8. How should practice time be divided? 9. May one memorize "backwards"? 10. Why should one listen while playing? FERRUCCIO BENVENUTO BUSONI Biographical Ferruccio Benvenuto Busoni was born at Empoli, near Florence, Italy, April 1, 1866. His father was a clarinetist and his mother whose maiden name was Weiss, indicating her German ancestry was an excellent pianist. His first teachers were his parents. So pronounced was his talent that he made his début at the age of eight in Vienna, Austria. He then studied in the Austrian city of Graz with W. A. Remy, whose right name was Dr. Wilhelm Mayer. This able teacher aside from being a learned jurist was also devoted to music and had among his other pupils no less a person than Felix Weingartner. In 1881 Busoni toured Italy and was made a member of the Reale Accademia Filharmonica at Bologna. In 1886 he went to reside at Leipsic. Two years later he became teacher of pianoforte at the Helsingfors Conservatory in the Finnish capital. In 1890 he captured the famous Rubinstein prizes for both pianoforte and composition. In the same year he became Professor of pianoforte playing at the Moscow Imperial Conservatory. The next year he accepted a similar position in the New England Conservatory at Boston,--returning to Europe for another tour in 1893. After many successful tours he accepted the position of director of the Meisterschule at the Imperial Conservatory in Vienna. His compositions include over one hundred published opus numbers, the most pretentious probably being his _Choral Concerto_. His editions of Bach are masterpieces of technical and artistic erudition. (The following Conference was conducted in English.) [Illustration: FERRUCCIO B. BUSONI] VII IMPORTANT DETAILS IN PIANO STUDY FERRUCCIO BENVENUTO BUSONI THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE DETAIL "Some years ago I met a very famous artist whose celebrity rested upon the wonderful colored glass windows that he had produced. He was considered by most of his contemporaries the greatest of all makers of high-art windows. His fame had extended throughout the artistic circles of all Europe. A little remark he made to me illustrates the importance of detail better than anything of which I can think at present. "He said, 'If a truly great work of art in the form of a stained glass window should be accidentally shattered to little bits, one should be able to estimate the greatness of the whole window by examining one of the fragments even though all the other pieces were missing.' "In fine piano playing all of the details are important. I do not mean to say that if one were in another room that one could invariably tell the ability of an artist by hearing him strike one note, but if the note is heard in relation to the other notes in a composition, its proportionate value should be so delicately and artistically estimated by the highly trained performer, that it forms part of the artistic whole. "For instance, it is quite easy to conceive of compositions demanding a very smooth running performance in which one jarring or harsh note indicating faulty artistic calculation upon the part of the player would ruin the entire interpretation. As examples of this one might cite the Bach _Choral Vorspiel_, _Nun Freut euch_, of which I have made an arrangement, and such a composition as the Chopin Prelude Opus 28, No. 3, with its running accompaniment in the left hand. "It is often perfection in little things which distinguishes the performance of the great pianist from that of the novice. The novice usually manages to get the so-called main points, but he does not work for the little niceties of interpretation which are almost invariably the defining characteristic of the interpretations of the real artist--that is, the performer who has formed the habit of stopping at nothing short of his highest ideal of perfection. LEARNING TO LISTEN "There is a detail which few students observe which is of such vast importance that one is tempted to say that the main part of successful musical progress depends upon it. This is the detail of learning to listen. Every sound that is produced during the practice period should be heard. That is, it should be heard with ears open to give that sound the intelligent analysis which it deserves. "Anyone who has observed closely and taught extensively must have noticed that hours and hours are wasted by students strumming away on keyboards and giving no more attention to the sounds they produce than would the inmates of a deaf and dumb asylum. These students all expect to become fine performers even though they may not aim to become virtuosos. To them the piano keyboard is a kind of gymnasium attached to a musical instrument. They may of course acquire strong fingers, but they will have to learn to listen before they can hope to become even passable performers. "At my own recitals no one in the audience listens more attentively than I do. I strive to hear every note and while I am playing my attention is so concentrated upon the one purpose of delivering the work in the most artistic manner dictated by the composer's demands and my conception of the piece, that I am little conscious of anything else. I have also learned that I must continually have my mind alert to opportunities for improvement. I am always in quest of new beauties and even while playing in public it is possible to conceive of new details that come like revelations. "The artist who has reached the period when he fails to be on the outlook for details of this kind and is convinced that in no possible way could his performances be improved, has reached a very dangerous stage of artistic stagnation which will result in the ruin of his career. There is always room for improvement, that is the development of new details, and it is this which gives zest and intellectual interest to the work of the artist. Without it his public efforts would become very tame and unattractive. SELF DEVELOPMENT "In my own development as an artist it has been made evident to me, time and time again, that success comes from the careful observance of details. All students should strive to estimate their own artistic ability very accurately. A wrong estimate always leads to a dangerous condition. If I had failed to attend to certain details many years ago, I would have stopped very far short of anything like success. "I remember that when I concluded my term as professor of piano at the New England Conservatory of Music I was very conscious of certain deficiencies in my style. Notwithstanding the fact that I had been accepted as a virtuoso in Europe and in America and had toured with great orchestras such as the Boston Symphony Orchestra, I knew better than anyone else that there were certain details in my playing that I could not afford to neglect. "For instance, I knew that my method of playing the trill could be greatly improved and I also knew that I lacked force and endurance in certain passages. Fortunately, although a comparatively young man, I was not deceived by the flattery of well-meaning, but incapable critics, who were quite willing to convince me that my playing was as perfect as it was possible to make it. Every seeker of artistic truth is more widely awake to his own deficiencies than any of his critics could possibly be. "In order to rectify the details I have mentioned as well as some I have not mentioned, I have come to the conclusion that I must devise an entirely new technical system. Technical systems are best when they are individual. Speaking theoretically, every individual needs a different technical system. Every hand, every arm, every set of ten fingers, every body and, what is of greatest importance, every intellect is different from every other. I consequently endeavored to get down to the basic laws underlying the subject of technic and make a system of my own. "After much study, I discovered what I believed to be the technical cause of my defects and then I returned to Europe and for two years I devoted myself almost exclusively to technical study along the individual lines I had devised. To my great delight details that had always defied me, the rebellious trills, the faltering bravura passages, the uneven runs, all came into beautiful submission and with them came a new delight in playing. FINDING INDIVIDUAL FAULTS "I trust that my experience will set some ambitious piano students to thinking and that they may be benefited by it. There is always a way of correcting deficiencies if the way can only be found. The first thing, however, is to recognize the detail itself and then to realize that instead of being a detail it is a matter of vast importance until it has been conquered and brought into submission. In playing, always note where your difficulties seem to lie. Then, when advisable, isolate those difficulties and practice them separately. This is the manner in which all good technical exercises are devised. "Your own difficulty is the difficulty which you should practice most. Why waste time in practicing passages which you can play perfectly well? One player may have difficulty in playing trills, while to another player of equal general musical ability trills may be perfectly easy. In playing arpeggios, however, the difficulties which prove obstacles to the players may be entirely reversed. The one who could play the trill perfectly might not be able, under any circumstance, to play an arpeggio with the requisite smoothness and true legato demanded, while the student who found the trill impossible possesses the ability to run arpeggios and cadenzas with the fluency of a forest rivulet. "All technical exercises must be given to the pupil with great discretion and judgment just as poisonous medicines must be administered to the patient with great care. The indiscriminate giving of technical exercises may impede progress rather than advance the pupil. Simply because an exercise happens to come in a certain position in a book of technical exercises is no reason why the particular pupil being taught needs that exercise at that particular time. Some exercises which are not feasible and others which are inexpedient at a certain time, may prove invaluable later in the pupil's progress. "Take the famous Tausig exercises, for instance. Tausig was a master of technic who had few, if any, equals in his time. His exercises are for the most part very ingenious and useful to advanced players, but when some of them are transposed into other keys as their composer demands they become practically impossible to play with the proper touch, etc. Furthermore, one would be very unlikely to find a passage demanding such a technical feat in the compositions of any of the great masters of the piano. Consequently, such exercises are of no practical value and would only be demanded by a teacher with more respect for tradition than common sense. DETAILS OF PHRASING AND ACCENTUATION "Some students look upon phrasing as a detail that can be postponed until other supposedly more important things are accomplished. The very musical meaning of any composition depends upon the correct understanding and delivery of the phrases which make that composition. To neglect the phrases would be about as sensible as it would be for the great actor to neglect the proper thought division in the interpretation of his lines. The greatest masterpiece of dramatic literature whether it be _Romeo and Juliet_, _Antigone_, _La Malade Imaginaire_ or _The Doll's House_ becomes nonsense if the thought divisions indicated by the verbal phrases are not carefully determined and expressed. "Great actors spend hours and hours seeking for the best method of expressing the author's meaning. No pianist of ability would think of giving less careful attention to phrasing. How stupid it would be for the actor to add a word that concluded one sentence to the beginning of the next sentence. How erroneous then is it for the pupil to add the last note of one phrase to the beginning of the next phrase. Phrasing is anything but a detail. "Fine phrasing depends first upon a knowledge of music which enables one to define the limitations of the phrase and then upon a knowledge of pianoforte playing which enables one to execute it properly. Phrasing is closely allied to the subject of accentuation and both subjects are intimately connected with that of fingering. Without the proper fingers it is often impossible to execute certain phrases correctly. Generally, the accents are considered of importance because they are supposed to fall in certain set parts of given measures, thus indicating the meter. "In instructing very young pupils it may be necessary to lead them to believe that the time must be marked in a definite manner by such accents, but as the pupil advances he must understand that the measure divisions are inserted principally for the purpose of enabling him to read easily. He should learn to look upon each piece of music as a beautiful tapestry in which the main consideration is the principal design of the work as a whole and not the invisible marking threads which the manufacturer is obliged to put in the loom in order to have a structure upon which the tapestry may be woven. BACH, BACH, BACH "In the study of the subject of accentuation and phrasing it would not be possible for anyone to recommend anything more instructive than the works of Johann Sebastian Bach. The immortal Thüringian composer was the master-weaver of all. His tapestries have never been equalled in refinement, color, breadth and general beauty. Why is Bach so valuable for the student? This is an easy question to answer. It is because his works are so constructed that they compel one to study these details. Even if the student has only mastered the intricacies of the _Two Voice Inventions_, it is safe to say that he has become a better player. More than this, Bach forces the student to think. "If the student has never thought before during his practice periods, he will soon find that it is quite impossible for him to encompass the difficulties of Bach without the closest mental application. In fact, he may also discover that it is possible for him to work out some of his musical problems while away from the keyboard. Many of the most perplexing musical questions and difficulties that have ever confronted me have been solved mentally while I have been walking upon the street or lying in bed at night. "Sometimes the solution of difficult details comes in the twinkling of an eye. I remember that when I was a very young man I was engaged to play a concerto with a large symphony orchestra. One part of the concerto had always troubled me, and I was somewhat apprehensive about it. During one of the pauses, while the orchestra was playing, the correct interpretation came to me like a flash. I waited until the orchestra was playing very loud and made an opportunity to run over the difficult passage. Of course, my playing could not be heard under the _tutti_ of the orchestra, and when the time came for the proper delivery of the passage it was vastly better than it would have been otherwise. "I never neglect an opportunity to improve, no matter how perfect a previous interpretation may have seemed to me. In fact, I often go directly home from the concert and practice for hours upon the very pieces that I have been playing, because during the concert certain new ideas have come to me. These ideas are very precious, and to neglect them or to consider them details to be postponed for future development would be ridiculous in the extreme." QUESTIONS ON STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANO PLAYING SERIES V FERRUCCIO BENVENUTO BUSONI 1. What is it which distinguishes the performance of the great pianist from that of the novice? 2. Upon what detail of interpretation does musical performance most depend? 3. Should the student continually estimate his own ability? 4. Which difficulty should you practice most? 5. What was the principle which made the Tausig exercises valuable? 6. Upon what does fine phrasing depend? 7. Why is it that the compositions of Johann Sebastian Bach are so useful in piano study? 8. How may complex musical problems be solved mentally? 9. Is it advisable to isolate difficulties and practice them separately? 10. How should one seize opportunities to improve? TERESA CARREÑO BIOGRAPHICAL Teresa Carreño was born at Caracas, Venezuela, December 22, 1853. She descended from one of the foremost families of Spanish America, which boasted of Simon Bolivar "the Washington of South America" as one of its members. Artists have been known among her ancestors as far back as the fourteenth century when the famous painter Carreño lived in Spain. Mme. Carreño's first teacher was her father. Later she studied with a German teacher in her native country. At seven she played the _Rondo Capriccio_ of Mendelssohn with great _éclat_. A revolution obliged the Carreño family to move to New York. The death of a friend to whom funds had been entrusted placed the party of eighteen refugees in dire straits and a concert was arranged at which the tiny Teresa came to the front and secured sufficient means for their existence. Gottschalk, then in the height of his fame in New York, became the child's next teacher. She remained with him for two years. Then she went to Paris and became a pupil of Georges Mathias, the famous disciple of Chopin. Her success as a virtuoso pianist in Europe excited the attention of Rubinstein who devoted a great deal of time to giving her invaluable advice and instruction in interpretation. Indeed Rubinstein was so proud of her that he repeatedly introduced her as his daughter in art and would jokingly say "Are not our hands exactly alike?" Mme. Carreño's brilliance, force, breadth of thought and almost sensuous love for the beautiful made her numerous tours through all of the music-loving countries remarkably successful. [Illustration: TERESA CARREÑO] VIII DISTINCTIVE PIANO PLAYING TERESA CARREÑO EARLY EVIDENCES OF INDIVIDUALITY It is difficult for me to discuss the subject of individuality without recollecting one of the most impressive and significant events of my entire career. When I was taken to Europe as a child, for further study, it was my good fortune to meet and play for the immortal Franz Liszt. He seemed deeply interested in my playing, and with the kindliness for which he was always noted he gave me his blessing, a kind of artistic sacrament that has had a tremendous influence upon all my work as an artist. He laid his hand upon my head and among other things said: "Little girl, with time you will be one of us. Don't imitate anyone. Keep yourself true to yourself. Cultivate your individuality and do not follow blindly in the paths of others." In this one thought Liszt embodied a kind of a pedagogical sermon which should be preached every day in all the schools, conservatories and music studios of the world. Nothing is so pitiful as the evidences of a strong individuality crushed out by an artificial educational system which makes the system itself of paramount importance and the individual of microbic significance. The signs of individuality may be observed in little folks at a very early age. With some children they are not very pronounced, and the child seems like hundreds of others without any particular inclination, artistic or otherwise. It is then that the teacher's powers of divination should be brought into play. Before any real progress can be made the nature of the child must be studied carefully. In the case of other children, the individuality is very marked at an early age. As a rule, the child with the marked individuality is the one from whom the most may be expected later in life. Sometimes this very individuality is mistaken for precocity. This is particularly the case with musicians. In a few instances the individuality of the master has been developed late in life, as was the case of Richard Wagner, whose early individual tendencies were toward the drama rather than music. NEW PROBLEMS AT EVERY STEP The teacher in accepting a new pupil should realize that there at once arises new problems at every step. The pupil's hand, mind, body and soul may be in reality different from those of every other pupil the teacher has taught. The individual peculiarities of the hand should be carefully considered. If the hand has long, tapering fingers, with the fingers widely separated, it will need quite different treatment from that of the pupil with a short, compact, muscular hand. If the pupil's mind indicates mental lethargy or a lack of the proper early educational training, this must be carefully considered by the teacher. If the pupil's body is frail and the health uncertain, surely the teacher will not think of prescribing the same work she would prescribe for a robust, energetic pupil who appears never to have had a sick day. One pupil might be able to practice comfortably for four and five hours a day, while another would find her energy and interest exhausted in two hours. In fact, I would consider the study of individuality the principal care or study of the teacher. The individuality of different virtuoso performers is very marked. Although the virtuoso aspires to encompass all styles--that is, to be what you would call an "all-around" player--it is, nevertheless, the individuality of the player that adds the additional charm to the piano-recital. You hear a great masterpiece executed by one virtuoso, and when you hear the same composition played by another you will detect a difference, not of technical ability or of artistic comprehension, but rather of individuality. Rembrandt, Rubens and Vandyke might have all painted from the same model, but the finished portrait would have been different, and that difference would have been a reflection of the individuality of the artist. THE TEACHER'S RESPONSIBILITY Again let me emphasize the necessity for the correct "diagnosis" of the pupil's individuality upon the part of the teacher. Unless the right work is prescribed by the teacher, the pupil will rarely ever survive artistically. It is much the same as with the doctor. If the doctor gives the wrong medicine and the patient dies, surely the doctor is to blame. It makes no difference whether the doctor had good intentions or not. The patient is dead and that is the end of all. I have little patience with these people who have such wonderful intentions, but who have neither the ability, courage nor willingness to carry out these intentions. Many teachers would like to accomplish a very great deal for their pupils, but alas! they are either not able or they neglect those very things which make the teacher's work a mission. One of the teacher's greatest responsibilities lies in determining at first upon a rational educational course by divining the pupil's individuality. Remember that pupils are not all like sheep to be shorn in the same identical fashion with the same identical shears. EDWARD MACDOWELL'S INDIVIDUALITY One of the most remarkable cases of a pronounced musical individuality was that of the late Edward MacDowell, who came to me for instruction for a considerable time. He was then quite youthful, and his motives from the very first were of the highest and noblest. His ideals were so lofty that he required little stimulation or urging of any kind. Here it was necessary to study the pupil's nature very carefully, and provide work that would develop his keenly artistic individuality. I remember that he was extremely fond of Grieg, and the marked and original character of the Norwegian tone-poet made a deep impression upon him. He was poetical, and loved to study and read poetry. To have repressed MacDowell in a harsh or didactic manner would have been to have demolished those very characteristics which, in later years, developed in such astonishing fashion that his compositions have a distinctiveness and a style all their own. It gives me great pleasure to place his compositions upon my programs abroad, and I find that they are keenly appreciated by music lovers in the old world. If MacDowell had not had a strong individuality, and if he had not permitted this individuality to be developed along normal lines, his compositions would not be the treasures to our art that they are. DEVELOPING INDIVIDUALITY THROUGH POETRY If the teacher discovers a pupil with apparent musical talent, but whose nature has not been developed to appreciate the beautiful and romantic in this wonderful world of ours, he will find it quite impossible to alter the pupil's individuality in this respect by work at the keyboard alone. The mundane, prosaic individual who believes that the sole aim of musical study is the acquisition of technic, or the magic of digital speed, must be brought to realize that this is a fault of individuality which will mar his entire career unless it is intelligently corrected. Years and years spent in practice will not make either a musician or a virtuoso out of one who can conceive of nothing more than how many times he can play a series of notes within the beats of the metronome, beating 208 times a minute. Speed does not constitute virtuosity, nor does the ability to unravel the somewhat intricate keyboard puzzles of Bach and Brahms make in itself fine piano playing. The mind of the artist must be cultured; in fact, quite as cultured as that of the composer who conceived the music. Culture comes from the observation of many things: Nature, architecture, science, machinery, sculpture, history, men and women, and poetry. I advise aspiring music students to read a great deal of poetry. I find great inspiration in Shakespeare, inspiration which I know is communicated to my interpretations of musical masterpieces at my concerts. Who can remain unmoved by the mystery and psychology of _Hamlet_, the keen suffering and misery of _King Lear_, the bitter hate and revenge of _Othello_, the sweet devotion of _Romeo and Juliet_, the majesty of _Richard III_, and the fairy beauty of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_? In this wonderful kaleidoscope of all the human passions one can find a world of inspiration. I am also intensely fond of Goethe, Heine, and Alfred de Musset. It gives me pleasure to compare them to the great masters of music. Shakespeare I compare to Brahms, Goethe to Bach and Beethoven, and Heine and Musset to Chopin and Liszt. CULTIVATING VIVACITY AND BRILLIANCY Vivacity and brilliancy in playing are largely matters of temperament and a fluent technic. I owe a great deal in this respect to Gottschalk. When he came back to America fresh from the hands of the inimitable Chopin, he took the most minute pains to cultivate this characteristic in my playing. Chopin's own playing was marked by delicacy and an intensity that was apart from the bravura playing of most of the artists of his time. Gottschalk was a keen observer, and he did everything possible to impart this style to me. I have used the studies of Czerny, Liszt, Henselt and Clementi to develop brilliancy with pupils. It should be remembered that the root of all brilliant playing lies in one thing--accuracy. Without accuracy any attempt at brilliancy must result in "mussiness." It is impossible to explain these things by means of books and theories. Remember what Goethe says: "Alle Theorie is grau, mein Freund" (all theory is foggy or hard to comprehend). One can say fifty times as much in twenty minutes as one can put in a book. Books are necessary, but by no means depend entirely upon books for technical instruction. Individuals who are careless possess a trait that will seriously mar their individuality as musicians and artists. Carelessness is so often taken for "abandon" in playing. "Abandon" is something quite different and pertains to that unconsciousness of technical effort which only comes to the artist after years of practice. To play with "abandon" and miss a few notes in this run, play a few false notes in the next, strike the wrong bass note here and there, mumble trills and overlook the correct phrasing entirely, with the idea that you are doing the same thing you have seen some great virtuoso do, is simply the superlative degree of carelessness. To one whose individuality is marred by carelessness let me recommend very slow playing, with the most minute attention to detail. Technically speaking, Czerny and Bach are of great value in correcting carelessness. In Czerny the musical structure of the compositions is so clearly and openly outlined that any error is easily detected, while in Bach the structure is so close and compact that it is difficult to make an error without interrupting the movement of some other voice that will reveal the error. The main consideration, however, is personal carefulness, and it makes little difference what the study is, so long as the student himself takes great pains to see that he is right, and exactly right, before he attempts to go ahead. Most musicians, however, would say that Bach was the one great stone upon which our higher technical structure must firmly stand. Some individuals are so superficial and so "frothy" that it is difficult to conceive of their doing anything serious or really worth while. It is very hard for the teacher to work with such a pupil, because they have not realized themselves as yet. They have not looked into their lives and discerned those things which make life of most importance. Life is not all play, nor is it all sorrow. But sorrow often does much to develop the musician's character, to make him look into himself and discover his more serious purposes. This might also be accomplished by some such means of self-introspection as "Christian Science." Although I am not a "Christian Scientist," I am a great believer in its wonderful principles. The greatest care must be taken in developing the individualities of the superficial pupils. To give them Bach or Brahms at the outstart would be to irritate them. They must be led to a fondness for music of a deeper or more worthy character by gradual steps in that direction. In my own case I was fortunate in having the advice of mature and famous musicians, and as a child was given music of a serious order only. I have always been grateful for this experience. At one of my first New York concerts I had the honor of having Theodore Thomas as first violinist, and I well remember his natural bent for music of a serious order, which was in a decided contrast to the popular musical taste of the times. THE IMPORTANCE OF STUDYING MUSICAL HISTORY Every composer has a pronounced individuality. To the experienced musician this individuality becomes so marked that he can often detect the composer's style in a composition which he has never heard. The artist studies the individuality of the composer through the study of his biography, through the study of musical history in general and through the analysis of individual compositions. Every music student should be familiar with the intensely necessary and extremely valuable subject of musical history. How else can he become familiar with the personal individualities of the great composers? The more I know of Chopin, Beethoven, Scarlatti or Mendelssohn as men, and the more I know of the times in which they lived, the closer I feel to the manner in which they would have wished their compositions interpreted. Consider how markedly different are the individualities of Wagner and Haydn, and how different the interpretations of the works of these masters should be. Strauss and Debussy are also very different in their methods of composition. Strauss seems to me a tremendous genius who is inventing a new musical language as he goes. Debussy does not appeal to me in the same manner. He always seems to be groping for musical ideas, while with Strauss the greatness of his ideas is always evident and all-compelling. In closing, let me say that _Time_, _Experience_ and _Work_ are the moulders of all individuality. Few of us close our days with the same individualities which become evident in our youth. We are either growing better or worse all the time. We rarely stand still. To the musician work is the great sculptor of individuality. As you work and as you think, so will you be. No deed, no thought, no hope is too insignificant to fail to influence your nature. As through work we become better men and women, so through work do we become better musicians. Carlyle has beautifully expressed this thought in "Past and Present" thus: "The latest Gospel in this world is, 'Know thy work and do it.' Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness. He has a WORK, a life purpose; he has found it and will follow it." QUESTIONS ON STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANO PLAYING SERIES VI TERESA CARREÑO 1. Why should imitation be avoided? 2. Should individuality in playing be developed at an early age? 3. Should individual physical peculiarities be taken into consideration? 4. In what way was Edward MacDowell's individuality marked? 5. How may individuality be developed through poetry? 6. What studies are particularly useful in the cultivation of brilliant playing? 7. What is the best remedy for careless playing? 8. How must superficial pupils be treated? 9. Why is the study of musical history so important? 10. What may be called the sculptor of individuality in music? [Illustration: O. GABRILOWITSCH] OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH BIOGRAPHICAL Ossip Gabrilowitsch was born in St. Petersburg, February 8, 1878. His father was a well-known jurist of the Russian capital. His brothers were musical and his first teacher was one of his brothers. Later, he was taken to Anton Rubinstein who earnestly advocated a career as a virtuoso. Accordingly he entered the classes of Victor Tolstoff at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, then under the supervision of Rubinstein himself. His frequent personal conferences with the latter were of immense value to him. Thereafter he went to Vienna and studied with Leschetizky for two years. He has made many tours of Europe and America as a piano virtuoso and has also appeared as an orchestral conductor with pronounced success. He was a great friend of the late Mark Twain (Samuel L. Clemens) and married one of his daughters. (The following conference was conducted in English.) IX ESSENTIALS OF TOUCH OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH "Modern pianoforte teachers in many instances seem to make deliberate attempts to complicate the very simple matter of touch. In the final analyses the whole study of touch may be resolved into two means of administering force to the keyboard, _i. e._, weight and muscular activity. The amount of pressure brought to bear upon the keys depends upon the amount of arm weight and upon the quickness with which the muscles of the hand, forearm, full-arm and back permit the key to be struck. Upon these two means of administering force must depend whatever differentiation in dynamic power and tonal quality the player desires to produce. The various gradations of tone which the virtuoso's hand and arm are trained to execute are so minute that it is impossible for me to conceive of a scientific instrument or scale to measure them. Physiologists have attempted to construct instruments to do this, but little of value has come from such experiments. A RIGID ARM UNDESIRABLE "Only a comparatively few years ago thousands of teachers were insisting upon having their pupils keep the arms in a still, even rigid, condition during practice. This naturally resulted in the stiffest imaginable kind of a touch, and likewise in a mechanical style of playing that made what has come to be known in later days as 'tone color' impossible. "At this day the finger touch as it was formerly known has almost gone out of existence. By finger touch I refer to the old custom of holding the hand and forearm almost rigid and depending upon the muscular strength of the fingers for all tonal effects. In fact, I so rarely employ the finger touch, except in combination with the arm touch, that it is almost an insignificant factor as far as my own playing is concerned. By this the reader must not think that the training of the fingers, and particularly the finger tips, is to be neglected. But this training, to my mind, is not so much a matter of acquiring digital strength to produce force as to accustom the fingers to strike the notes with the greatest possible accuracy and speed. This belongs rather to the realm of technic than to that of touch, and behind all technic is the intellect of the player. Technic is a matter of training the finger tips to attack and leave the keys under the absolute discipline of the brain. Touch has a much broader and wider significance. It is touch that reveals the soul of the player. TOUCH A DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTIC "Touch is the distinguishing characteristic which makes one player's music sound different from that of another, for it is touch that dominates the player's means of producing dynamic shading or tone quality. I know that many authorities contend that the quality of tone depends upon the instrument rather than upon the performer. Nevertheless, I am reasonably confident that if I were to hear a number of pianists play in succession upon the same instrument behind a screen and one of these performers were to be my friend, Harold Bauer, I could at once identify his playing by his peculiarly individual touch. In fact, the trained ear can identify different individual characteristics with almost the same accuracy that we identify different voices. One could never forget Leschetizky's touch, or that of many another contemporary pianist. "No matter how wonderful the pianist's technic--that is, how rapidly and accurately he can play passages of extraordinary difficulty, it is quite worthless unless he possesses that control over his touch which enables him to interpret the composer's work with the right artistic shading. A fine technic without the requisite touch to liberate the performer's artistic intelligence and 'soul' is like a gorgeous chandelier without the lights. Until the lights are ignited all its beauty is obscured in darkness. With an excellent technic and a fine touch, together with a broad musical and general education and artistic temperament, the young player may be said to be equipped to enter the virtuoso field. COMBINING DIFFERENT TOUCHES "As I have intimated, if the fingers are used exclusively a terribly dry tone must result. The full-arm touch, in which I experience a complete relaxation of the arm from the shoulder to the finger tips, is the condition I employ at most times. But the touches I use are combinations of the different finger, hand and arm touches. These lead to myriads of results, and only the experienced performer can judge where they should be applied to produce desired effects. "You will observe by placing your hand upon my shoulder that even with the movement of the single finger a muscular activity may be detected at the shoulder. This shows how completely relaxed I keep my entire arm during performance. It is only in this way that I can produce the right kind of singing tone in cantabile passages. Sometimes I use one touch in one voice and an entirely different touch in another voice. The combinations are kaleidoscopic in their multiplicity. MECHANICAL METHODS DANGEROUS "I have never been in favor of the many automatic and mechanical methods of producing touch. They are all dangerous to my mind. There is only one real way of teaching, and that is through the sense of hearing of the pupil. The teacher should go to the piano and produce the desired tonal effect, and the pupil should listen and watch the teacher. Then the pupil should be instructed to secure a similar result, and the teacher should persevere until the audible effect is nearly the same. If the pupil, working empirically, does not discover the means leading to this effect, the teacher should call the pupil's attention to some of the physical conditions leading to the result. If the teacher is unable to play well enough to illustrate this, and to secure the right kind of touch from his pupils, he has no business to be a teacher of advanced students. All the theory in the world will never lead to the proper results. "Rubinstein paid little or no attention to the theory of touch, and, in fact, he frequently stated that he cared little about such things, but who could hear Rubinstein's touch without being benefited? I believe that in teaching touch the teacher should first give his model of the touch required and then proceed from this positive ideal, by means of the so-called Socratic method of inducing the pupil to produce a similar result through repeated questions. In this way the pupil will not be obliged to resign his individuality, as would be the case if he followed strict technical injunctions and rules. STUDENTS SHOULD HEAR VIRTUOSOS "For the same reason it is advisable for the pupil to hear many fine pianists. He should never miss an opportunity to attend the concerts of great virtuosos. I can frankly say that I have learned as much from hearing the concerts of great performers as I have from any other source of educational inspiration. The pupil should listen intelligently and earnestly. When he hears what appeals to him as a particularly fine tonal effect, he should endeavor to note the means the pianist employs to produce this effect. "He must, however, learn to discriminate between affection or needless movement and the legitimate means to an end. Consequent upon a relaxed full arm is the occasional dropping of the wrist below the level of the keyboard. A few great players practice this at a public recital, and lo! and behold! a veritable cult of 'wrist-droppers' arises and we see students raising and lowering the wrist with exaggerated mechanical stiffness and entirely ignoring the important end in which this wrist dropping was only an incident. METHODS, AND STILL MORE METHODS "I am continually amused at the thousand and one different ways of striking the keys that teachers devise and then attach with the label 'method.' These varied contortions are, after all, largely a matter of vision, and have little effect upon the real musical results that the composition demands. Touch, as I have previously said, all comes down to the question of the degree of weight applied to the keyboard and the degree of quickness with which it is applied. In rapid octave and staccato passages the hand touch is largely used. This is the touch most dependent upon local muscular activity. Aside from this the combination of muscular and weight touch almost invariably obtain. DON'T NEGLECT EAR TRAINING "I desire to reiterate that if the ideal touch is presented to the pupil's mind, through the medium of the ear, he will be much more successful in attaining the artistic ends required. The pupil must realize clearly _what is good_ and _what is bad_, and his _aural sense_ must be continually educated in this respect. He should practice slowly and carefully at the keyboard until he is convinced that his arm is at all times relaxed. He cannot make his sense of touch too sensitive. He should even be able to sense the weight or upward pressure which brings the pianoforte key back into position after it has been depressed. The arm should feel as if it were floating, and should never be tense. "When I am playing I do not think of the arm motion. I am, of course, absorbed in the composition being performed. A relaxed arm has become second nature to me. It comes by itself. Players are rarely able to tell just how they produce their results. There are too many contributing factors. Even with the best-known performers the effects differ at different performances. It is impossible for the performer to give a program repeatedly in identically the same manner. If he did succeed in doing this, his playing would soon become stereotyped. "The teacher should, from the very beginning, seek to avoid stiffness and bad hand positions, such as crooked fingers or broken-in knuckles. If these details are neglected the pupil is liable to go through his entire musical career greatly hampered. I would earnestly advise all teachers to discourage the efforts of pupils to attain virtuoso heights unless they are convinced beyond the possibility of a doubt that the pupil has marvelous talent. The really great performers seem to be endowed with a 'God-given' insight in the matter of both technic and touch. They are unquestionably born for it. They possess the right mental and physical capacity for success. No amount of training would make a Normandy dray horse that could compete with a Kentucky thoroughbred on the race course. It is a pitiful sight to watch students who could not possibly become virtuosos slave year after year before an ivory and ebony tread-mill, when, if they realized their lack of personal qualifications, they could engage in teaching or in some other professional or mercantile line and take a delight in their music as an avocation that they would never find in professional playing. ARTISTIC INTERPRETATION PARAMOUNT "To some, the matter of touch is of little significance. They are apparently born with an appreciation of tonal values that others might work years to attain in vain. Those who imagine that touch is entirely a matter of finger tips are greatly mistaken. The ear is quite as important as the organs employed in administering the touch to the keyboard. The pianist should in reality not think of the muscles and nerves in his arm, nor of the ivory and ebony keys, nor of the hammers and strings in the interior of the instrument. He should think first and always of the kind of tone he is eliciting from the instrument, and determine whether it is the most appropriate tonal quality for the proper interpretation of the piece he is playing. He must, of course, spend years of hard thought and study in cultivating this ability to judge and produce the right touch, but the performer who is more concerned about the technical claims of a composition than its musical interpretation can only hope to give an uninteresting, uninspired, stilted performance that should rightly drive all intelligent hearers from his audience hall." QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES VII OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH 1. What are the two means of administering touch? 2. State the effect of a rigid arm upon piano playing. 3. Can a pianist's playing be distinguished by touch? 4. How do the muscles of the shoulder come into action in piano playing? 5. How should the sense of hearing be employed in piano playing? 6. How did Rubinstein regard the theory of touch? 7. When is the hand touch generally employed? 8. How should the arm feel during the act of touch? 9. Does the virtuoso hamper himself with details of technic during a performance? 10. What should be the pianist's first thought during the moment of performance? LEOPOLD GODOWSKY BIOGRAPHICAL Leopold Godowsky was born at Wilna, Russia (Russian Poland), February 13, 1870. His father was a physician. When Godowsky was nine years old he made his first public appearance as a pianist and met with instantaneous success--success so great that a tour of Germany and Poland was arranged for the child. When thirteen he entered the Royal High School for Music in Berlin as the _protégé_ of a rich banker of Königsberg. There he studied under Bargeil and Rudorff. In 1884 he toured America together with Ovide Musin, the violin virtuoso. Two years later he became the pupil of Saint-Saëns in Paris. In 1887 and 1888 he toured France and visited London, where he received a command to appear at the British Court. In 1890 he returned to America and made this country his home for ten years, appearing frequently in concert and engaging in several tours. In 1894-1895 he became head of the piano department of the South Broad Street Conservatory, Philadelphia. He then became director of the Piano Department of the Chicago Conservatory and held this position for five years. In 1900 Godowsky appeared in Berlin and was immediately recognized as one of the great piano masters of his time. In 1909 he became director of the Master School of Piano Playing connected with the Imperial Conservatory of Vienna (a post previously held by Emil Sauer and F. B. Busoni). His success as a teacher has been exceptional. His compositions, particularly his fifty studies upon Chopin Etudes, have won the admiration of the entire musical world. [Illustration: LEOPOLD GODOWSKY] X THE REAL SIGNIFICANCE OF TECHNIC LEOPOLD GODOWSKY IDEAS UPON TECHNIC OFTEN ERRONEOUS "It is quite impossible in a short talk to earnest music students to do more than discuss a few of the more important points in the subject proposed. It may safely be said at the start, however, that the popular conception of technic is quite an erroneous one and one that deserves correction. It is highly necessary that the student should have a correct attitude of mind regarding this matter. First of all, I distinguish between what might be called mere mechanics and technic. "The art of piano playing as a whole seems to divide itself into three quite distinct channels when it is considered from the educational standpoint. The first channel is that of mechanics. This would naturally include all that pertains to that branch of piano study which has to do with the exercises that develop the hand from the machine standpoint--that is, make it capable of playing with the greatest possible rapidity, the greatest possible power, when power is needed and also provide it with the ability to play those passages which, because of fingering or unusual arrangement of the piano keys, are particularly difficult to perform. THE BRAIN SIDE OF PIANO STUDY "In the second channel we would find the study of the technic of the art of playing the instrument. Technic differs from the mechanics of piano playing in that it has properly to do with the intellectual phase of the subject rather than the physical. It is the brain side of the study not the digital or the manual. To the average student who is short-sighted enough to spend hours hammering away at the keyboard developing the mechanical side of his work, a real conscious knowledge of the great saving he could effect through technic, would be a godsend. Technic properly has to do with Rhythm, Tempo, Accent, Phrasing, Dynamics, Agogics, Touch, etc. "The excellence of one's technic depends upon the accuracy of one's understanding of these subjects and his skill in applying them to his interpretations at the keyboard. Mechanical skill, minus real technical grasp, places the player upon a lower footing than the piano-playing machines which really do play all the notes, with all the speed and all the power the operator demands. Some of these instruments, indeed, are so constructed that many of the important considerations that we have placed in the realm of technic are reproduced in a surprising manner. THE EMOTIONS IN PIANO PLAYING "However, not until man invents a living soul, can piano playing by machine include the third and vastly important channel through which we communicate the works of the masters to those who would hear them. That channel is the emotional or artistic phase of piano playing. It is the channel which the student must expect to develop largely through his own inborn artistic sense and his cultivated powers of observation of the playing of master pianists. It is the sacred fire communicated from one art generation to the next and modified by the individual emotions of the performer himself. "Even though the performer may possess the most highly perfected mechanism, technical mastery which enables him to play great masterpieces effectively, if he does not possess the emotional insight, his performances will lack a peculiar subtlety and artistic power that will deprive him of becoming a truly great pianist. INSPIRING THE STUDENT "Exercises for the mechanical side of pianoforte playing abound. Czerny alone wrote over one thousand opus numbers. There have also been valuable attempts to provide books to assist the student in his technical work, but it should always be remembered that this depends first of all upon understanding and then upon the ability to translate that understanding to the instrument. "There can never be any exercises in the emotional side of the student's work other than the entire literature of the instrument. One may as well try to capture the perfume of the flower as define the requirements of the emotional in pianoforte playing. A great deal may be done to inspire the student and suggest ideas which may bring him to the proper artistic appreciation of a passage, but it is this very indefinability which makes the emotional phase one of the most important of all. Attendance at the recitals of artistic pianists is of great help in this connection. "The student, however, may learn a vast amount about real piano technic and apply his knowledge to his playing through the medium of the proper studies. For instance, in the subject of touch alone, there is a vast store of valuable information which can be gained from a review of the progressive steps through which this significant phase of the subject has passed during the last century. The art of piano playing, considered apart from that of the similar instruments which preceded the piano, is very little over one hundred years old. CHANGES IN THE MECHANISM OF THE INSTRUMENT "During this time many significant changes have been made in the mechanism of the instrument and in the methods of manufacture. These changes in the nature of the instrument have in themselves doubtless had much to do with changes in methods of touch as have the natural evolutions coming through countless experiments made by teachers and performers. Thus we may speak of the subject of touch as being divided into three epochs, the first being that of Czerny (characterized by a stroke touch), the second being that of the famous Stuttgart Conservatory (characterized by a pressure touch), and the third or new epoch which is characterized by weight playing. All my own playing is based upon the last named method, and I had the honor of being one of the first to make application of it when I commenced teaching some twenty years ago. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF WEIGHT PLAYING "In this method of playing, the fingers are virtually 'glued to the keys' in that they leave them the least possible distance in order to accomplish their essential aims. This results in no waste motion of any kind, no loss of power and consequently the greatest possible conservation of energy. In this manner of playing the arm is so relaxed that it would fall to the side if the keyboard were removed from beneath it. Since the hand and the arm are relaxed the back (top) of the hand is almost on a level with the forearm. "The high angular stroke which characterized the playing of the Czerny epoch and which could hardly fail to cause tired muscles and unbearably stiff playing, is seen very little in these days. By means of it the student was taught to deliver a blow to the keyboard--a blow which permitted very little modification to the requirements of modern technic. "In my experience as a pianist and as a teacher, I have observed that the weight touch allows the greatest possible opportunity for the proper application of those all-important divisions of technic without which piano playing is not only inartistic, but devoid of all interest. Weight playing permits nothing to interfere with discriminative phrasing, complicated rhythmical problems, the infinitely subtle variation of time for expressive purposes now classed under the head of agogics, all shades of dynamic gradation; in fact everything that falls in the domain of the artist pianist. MOULDING THE FINGERS TO THE KEYS "In weight playing the fingers seem to mould the piano keys under them, the hand and arm are relaxed, but never heavy. The maximum of relaxation results in the minimum of fatigue. In legato playing, for instance, the fingers rest upon the fleshy part behind the tip rather than immediately upon the tip as they would in passage work when the player desired to have the effect of a string of pearls. The sensation in legato playing is that of pulling back rather than striking the keys. In passages where force is required the sensation is that of pushing. "Much might be said of the sensibility of the finger tips as they come in contact with the ivory and ebony keys. Most every artist has a strong consciousness that there is a very manifest relation between his emotional and mental conditions and his tactile sense, that is his highly developed sense of feeling at the finger tips on the keyboard. However, the phenomena may be explained from the psychological standpoint, it is nevertheless true that the feeling of longing, yearning, hope or soulful anticipation, for instance, induces a totally different kind of touch from that of anger, resentment or hate. "The artist who is incapable of communicating his emotions to the keyboard or who must depend upon artifice to stimulate emotions rarely electrifies his audiences. Every concert is a test of the artist's sincerity, not merely an exhibition of his prowess, or his acrobatic accomplishments on the keyboard. He must have some vital message to convey to his audience or else his entire performance will prove meaningless, soulless, worthless. "That which is of great importance to him is to have the least possible barrier between his artistic conception of the work he would interpret and the sounds that are conveyed to the ears of his audience. If we obliterate the emotional side and depend upon artifice or what might be called in vulgar parlance "tricks of the trade," pianism will inevitably descend to a vastly lower level. By cultivating a sensibility in touch and employing the technical means which will bring the interpreter's message to the world with the least possible obstruction, we reach the highest in the art. Those who would strain at gnats might contend that with the machinery of the instrument itself, intervening between the touch at the keyboard and the sounding wires, would make the influence of the emotions though the tactile sense (sense of touch) is wholly negligible. To this I can only reply that the experience of the artist and the teacher is always more reliable, more susceptible to finer appreciations of artistic values than that of the pure theorist, who views his problems through material rather than spiritual eyes. Every observing pianist is familiar with the remarkable influence upon the nerves of the voice-making apparatus that any emotion makes. Is it not reasonable to suppose that the finger tips possess a similar sensibility and that the interpretations of any highly trained artist are duly affected through them? INDIVIDUALITY, CHARACTER AND TEMPERAMENT "Indeed, Individuality, Character and Temperament are becoming more and more significant in the highly organized art of pianoforte playing. Remove these and the playing of the artist again becomes little better than that of a piano-playing machine. No machine can ever achieve the distinguishing charm that this trinity brings to pianoforte playing. Whether the performer is a 'genius' who has carefully developed the performance of a masterpiece until it evidences that distinguishing mark of the authoritative interpretation, or whether he is a 'talent' who improvises as the mood of the moment inspires him and never plays the same composition twice in anything like a similar manner, he need not fear the rivalry of any machine so long as he preserves his individuality, character and temperament. GENIUS AND WORK "The fault with many students, however, is the very erroneous idea that genius or talent will take the place of study and work. They minimize the necessity for a careful painstaking consideration of the infinite details of technic. To them, the significance of the developments of Bach, Rameau, and Scarlatti in fingering means nothing. They are content with the superficial. They are incapable of comparing the value of the advances made by Von Bülow, Tausig and other innovators whose lives were given to a large extent to the higher development of the technic of the instrument. They struggle laboriously at the keyboard, imagining that they are dealing with the problem of technic, when in reality they are doing little more than performing a drill in a kind of musical gymnasium--a necessary drill to be sure, but at the same time quite worthless unless directed by a brain trained in the principles of the technic of the art. QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES VIII LEOPOLD GODOWSKY 1. How may the mechanics of playing be distinguished from the larger subject of technic? 2. With what has technic to do? 3. What channel in the study of pianoforte must the pupil develop most thoroughly? 4. Name three epochs into which the subject of touch may be divided. 5. How does weight playing differ from the high angular playing of the Czerny epoch? 6. How should the fingers rest in legato playing? 7. What may be said of the sensitiveness of the finger tips? 8. By what device may pianism descend to a lower level? 9. What qualities must the student preserve above all things? 10. Will genius or talent take the place of study and work? [Illustration: KATHARINE GOODSON] KATHARINE GOODSON BIOGRAPHICAL Miss Katharine Goodson was born at Watford, Herts, England. She commenced the study of music at so very youthful an age that she made several appearances in the English Provinces before she was twelve years of age. Her talent aroused such interest that she was sent to the Royal Academy of Music in London. There she was placed under the artistic guidance of one of the foremost English teachers of pianoforte, Oscar Beringer, with whom she remained for six years. This was followed by four years under Leschetizky in Vienna. Leschetizky saw splendid opportunities in such talented and regularly trained material and is said to have given particularly careful attention to Miss Goodson. It is not surprising that upon her return to London Miss Goodson made a profound impression upon the musical public and laid the foundation for a splendid reputation. She toured in England, Germany, Austria and America with great success. In the Grove Dictionary, her playing is described in the following manner: "It is marked by an amount of verve and animation that are most rare with the younger English pianists. She has a great command of tone gradation, admirable technical finish, genuine musical taste and considerable individuality of style." In 1903 Miss Goodson married Mr. Arthur Hinton, one of the most brilliant of modern English composers. XI ANALYZING MASTERPIECES KATHARINE GOODSON THE NATURAL TENDENCY TO ANALYZE "Judging from the mischievous investigations of things in general, which seem so natural for the small boy to make, it would appear that our tendency to analyze things is innate. We also have innumerable opportunities to observe how children, to say nothing of primitive people, struggle to construct--to put this and that together for the purpose of making something new--in other words, to employ the opposite process to analysis, known as synthesis. Moreover, it does not demand much philosophy to perceive that all scientific and artistic progress is based upon these very processes of analysis and synthesis. We pull things apart to find out how they are made and what they are made of. We put them together again to indicate the mastery of our knowledge. "The measure of musicianship is the ability to do. All the analyzing in the world will not benefit the pupil unless he can give some visible indications of his proficiency. Indeed, important as the process is, it is possible to carry it to extremes and neglect the building process which leads to real accomplishment. THE FIRST STEP IN ANALYZING A NEW PIECE "A great many of the pupils who have come to me indicate a lamentable neglect in an understanding of the very first things which should have been analyzed by the preparatory teachers. It is an expensive process to study with a public artist unless the preparation has been thoroughly made. Reputation naturally places a higher monetary value upon the services of the virtuoso, and for the student to expect instruction in elementary points in analysis is obviously an extravagance. The virtuoso's time during the lesson period should be spent in the finer study of interpretation--not in those subjects which the elementary teacher should have completed. Often the teacher of an advanced pupil is deceived at the start and assumes that the pupil has a knowledge, which future investigations reveal that he does not possess. "For instance, the pupil should be able to determine the general structure of a piece he is undertaking and should be so familiar with the structure that it becomes a form of second nature to him. If the piece is a sonata he should be able to identify the main theme and the secondary theme whenever they appear or whenever any part of them appears. Inability to do this indicates the most superficial kind of study. "The student should know enough of the subject of form in general to recognize the periods into which the piece is divided. Without this knowledge how could he possibly expect to study with understanding? Even though he has passed the stage when it is necessary for him to mark off the periods, he should not study a new piece without observing the outlines--the architectural plans the composer laid down in constructing the piece. It is one thing for a Sir Christopher Wren to make the plans of a great cathedral like St. Paul's and quite another thing for him to get master builders to carry out those plans. By studying the composer's architectural plan carefully the student will find that he is saving an immense amount of time. For example, let us consider the Chopin _F Minor Fantasie_. In this composition the main theme comes three times, each time in a different key. Once learned in one key, it should be very familiar in the next key. "The student should also know something of the history of the dance, and he should be familiar with the characteristics of the different national dances. Each national dance form has something more than a rhythm--it has an atmosphere. The word atmosphere may be a little loose in its application here, but there seems to be no other word to describe what I mean. The flavor of the Spanish bolero is very different from the Hungarian czardas, and who could confound the intoxicating swirl of the Italian tarantella with the stately air of cluny lace and silver rapiers which seems to surround the minuet? The minuet, by the way, is frequently played too fast. The minuet from Beethoven's Eighth Symphony is a notable example. Many conductors have made the error of rushing through it. Dr. Hans Richter conducts it with the proper tempo. This subject in itself takes a tremendous amount of consideration and the student should never postpone this first step in the analysis of the works he is to perform. THE POETIC IDEA OF THE PIECE "Despite the popular impression that music is imitative in the sense of being able to reproduce different pictures and different emotions, it is really very far from it. The subject of program music and illustrative music is one of the widest in the art, and at the same time one of the least definite. Except in cases like the Beethoven _Pastoral Symphony_, where the composer has made obvious attempts to suggest rural scenes, composers do not as a rule try to make either aquarelles or cycloramas with their music. They write music for what it is worth as music, not as scenery. Very often the public or some wily publisher applies the title, as in the case of the _Moonlight Sonata_ or some of the Mendelssohn _Songs Without Words_. Of course there are some notable exceptions, and many teachers may be right in trying to stimulate the sluggish imaginations of some pupils with fanciful stories. However, when there is a certain design in a piece which lends itself to the suggestion of a certain idea, as does, for instance, the Liszt-Wagner _Spinning Song_ from the _Flying Dutchman_, it is interesting to work with a specific picture in view--but never forgetting the real beauty of the piece purely as a beautiful piece of music. "Some pieces with special titles are notoriously misnamed and carry no possible means of definitely intimating what the composer intended. Even some forms are misleading in their names. The _Scherzos_ of Chopin are often very remote from the playful significance of the word--a significance which is beautifully preserved in the _Scherzos_ of Mendelssohn. STUDYING THE RHYTHM "A third point in analyzing a new piece might be analyzing the rhythm. It is one thing to understand or to comprehend a rhythm and another to preserve it in actual playing. Rhythm depends upon the arrangement of notes and accents in one or two measures which give a characteristic swing to the entire composition. Rhythm is an altar upon which many idols are smashed. Sometimes one is inclined to regard rhythm as a kind of sacred gift. Whatever it may be, it is certainly most difficult to acquire or better to absorb. A good rhythm indicates a finely balanced musician--one who knows how and one who has perfect self-control. All the book study in the world will not develop it. It is a knack which seems to come intuitively or 'all at once' when it does come. My meaning is clear to anyone who has struggled with the problem of playing two notes against three, for at times it seems impossible, but in the twinkling of an eye the conflicting rhythms apparently jump into place, and thereafter the pupil has little difficulty with them. "Rhythmic swing is different from rhythm, but is allied to it as it is allied to tempo. To get the swing--the impelling force--the student must have played many pieces which have a tendency to develop this swing. The big waltzes of Moszkowski are fine for this. If one of Leschetizky's pupils had difficulty with rhythm he almost invariably advised them to go to hear the concerts of that king of rhythm and dance, Eduard Strauss. Dances are invaluable in developing this sense of rhythm--swift-moving dances like the bolero and the tarantella are especially helpful. Certain pieces demand a particularly strict observance of the rhythm, as does the Opus 42 of Chopin, in which the left hand must adhere very strictly to the Valse rhythm. THE ANALYSIS OF PHRASES "The ability to see the phrases by which a composition is built, clearly and readily, simplifies the study of interpretation of a new piece wonderfully. This, of course, is difficult at first, but with the proper training the pupil should be able to see the phrases at a glance, just as a botanist in examining a new flower would divide it in his mind's eye into its different parts. He would never mistake the calyx for a petal, and he would be able to determine at once the peculiarities of each part. In addition to the melodic phrases the pupil should be able to see the metrical divisions which underlie the form of the piece. He should be able to tell whether the composition is one of eight-measure sections or four-measure sections, or whether the sections are irregular. "What a splendid thing it would be if little children at their first lessons were taught the desirability of observing melodic phrases. Teachers lay great stress upon hand formation, with the object of getting the pupil to keep the hand in a perfect condition--a condition that is the result of a carefully developed habit. Why not develop the habit of noting the phrases in the same way? Why not a little mind formation? It is a great deal nearer the real musical aim than the mere digital work. The most perfectly formed hand in the world would be worthless for the musician unless the mind that operates the hand has had a real musical training." STUDYING THE HARMONY "Every piano student ought to have a knowledge of harmony. But this knowledge should be a practical one. What do I mean by a practical knowledge of harmony? Simply this--a knowledge of harmony which recognizes the ear as well as the eye. There are students of harmony who can work out some harmonic problem with the skill of an expert mathematician and yet they never for one single moment think of the music their notes might make. This is due to the great neglect of the study of ear-training in early musical education. "To be able to recognize a chord when you see it on paper is not nearly such an acquisition as the ability to recognize the same chord when it is played. The student who can tell a diminished seventh, or an augmented sixth at a glance, but who could not identify the same chords when he saw them through his ears instead of his eyes is severely handicapped. But how many musicians can do this? Ear-training should be one of the first of all studies. It may be acquired more easily in childhood if the student is not naturally gifted with it, and it is the only basis of a thorough knowledge of harmony. The piano teacher cannot possibly find time to give sufficient instruction in the subject of harmony at the piano lesson. It demands a separate period, and in most cases it is necessary and advisable to have a separate teacher; that is, one who has made a specialty of harmony. "The piano itself is of course a great help to the student in the study of harmony, providing the student listens all the time he is playing. Few adult piano students study string instruments, such as the violin or 'cello--instruments which cultivate the perception of hearing far more than can the piano. For this reason all children should have the advantage of a course in ear-training. This should not be training for pitch alone, but for quality of tone as well. It may be supplemented with exercises in musical dictation until the pupil is able to write down short phrases with ease after he has heard them once. A pupil who has had such a training would make ideal material for the advanced teacher, and because of the greatly developed powers of the pupil would be able to memorize quicker and make much better progress. In fact, ear-training and harmony lead to great economy of time. For instance, let us suppose that the pupil has a chord like the following in a sonata: [Illustration] If the same chord appeared again in the piece it would probably be found in the key of the dominant, thus: [Illustration] It seems very obvious that if the pupil could perceive the harmonic relationship between these two chords he would be spared the trouble of identifying an entirely different chord when he finds the repetition of it merely in another key. This is only one of scores of instances where a knowledge of the harmonic structure proves to be of constant importance to the student. A CAREFUL ANALYSIS OF TOUCH EFFECTS "Here again we find an interminable subject. Although there are only a few principal divisions into which the subject of touch might be divided, the number of different subdivisions of these best known methods of striking the keys to produce artistic effects is very considerable. The artist working day in and day out at the keyboard will discover some subtle touch effects which he will always associate with a certain passage. He may have no logical reason for doing this other than that it appeals to his artistic sense. He is in all probability following no law but that of his own musical taste and sense of hearing. It is this more than anything else which gives individuality to the playing of the different virtuosos and makes their efforts so different from the playing of machines. Time and time again mechanical efforts have been made to preserve all these infinite subtilities and some truly wonderful machines have been invented, but not until the sculptor's marble can be made to glow with the vitality of real flesh can this be accomplished. Wonderful as the mechanical inventions are there is always something lacking. "Here, again, ear-training will benefit the pupil who is studying with a virtuoso teacher. It is impossible to show exactly how certain touches produce certain effects. The ear, however, hears these effects, and if the pupil has the right kind of persistence he will work and work until he is able to reproduce the same effect that he has heard. Then it will be found that the touch he employs will be very similar to that used by the virtuoso he has heard. It may take weeks to show a certain pupil a kind of touch. The pupil with the trained ear and the willingness to work might be able to pick up the same touch and produce the same effect after a few days. A highly developed sense of hearing is of immense value to the student who attends concerts for the purpose of promoting his musical knowledge. THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF THE TEACHER "The more one contemplates this subject the more one realizes the responsibilities of the teacher in the first years of music study. Of all the pupils who commence in the art there are but few who make it a part of their lives; many of those who do continue find themselves handicapped when they reach the more advanced stages of the journey, owing to inefficient early training. At the period when their time is the most valuable to them they have to take up studies which should have been mastered eight or ten years before. The elementary teachers all over the world have a big responsibility. If they belittle their work with children and pine for the kind of teaching which the virtuosos attempt to do, let them realize that they are in a sense the foundation of the structure, and although perhaps not as conspicuous as the spire which towers up into the skies, they are certainly of equal importance." QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES IX KATHARINE GOODSON 1. Is analysis natural to children? 2. When should the first steps in analysis be made? 3. Why is a knowledge of the different dance forms desirable? 4. What may be said of the poetic idea of the piece? 5. What indicates a finely balanced musician? 6. Should phrase analysis be taught at an early age? 7. Is the ability to identify a chord by hearing more important than the ability to identify it by sight? 8. Does a trained ear help in the acquisition of touch? 9. What may the pupil learn from concerts? 10. When is the teacher's responsibility greatest? JOSEF HOFMANN BIOGRAPHICAL Josef Hofmann was born at Cracow, Russia, January 20, 1877. His father was an exceptionally successful teacher and was for a time Professor of Harmony and Composition at the Warsaw Conservatory. The elder Hofmann's talents were by no means limited to teaching, however, since he conducted the Opera at Warsaw for many performances. He undertook the training of his son with great care and since the child showed remarkable promise the musicians of Russia took an extraordinary interest in him. He appeared in public at the age of six and before he was ten years of age he was the most celebrated child prodigy of his time. He traveled thousands of miles, including tours of America, playing complicated classical compositions in a manner which surprised musicians everywhere. Fortunately for his health and education his tours were terminated in time for him to study for the advanced work of the more mature artist. Accordingly he was placed with the great Anton Rubinstein with whom he remained for two years. At seventeen he resumed his concert work again appearing in Dresden in 1894. By thoroughly dignified methods, scholarly analysis, and his natural poetical sense Hofmann introduced new ideas in virtuosoship which made him immensely popular at once. [Illustration: JOSEF HOFMANN] XII PROGRESS IN PIANO STUDY JOSEF HOFMANN The question of progress in pianoforte playing is one that admits of the widest possible discussion. One is frequently asked whether the manner of playing the pianoforte has undergone any change since the time of Hummel, and, if it has advanced, of what nature are the advances, and to what particular condition are the advances due. Johann Nepomuk Hummel, it will be remembered, was contemporary with Beethoven, and was, in fact, a kind of bridge between the old and the new. He made his début at a concert given by Mozart at Dresden. For a time he was a kind of assistant _kapellmeister_ to Haydn, and indeed many at that time thought his works were quite on a par with those of the great master, Beethoven. Hummel was a really great virtuoso, and was noted for his remarkable improvisations. His style of playing was taken as a model in his time, and consequently we may safely start with this epoch by way of example. WHAT DETERMINES CHANGES IN PLAYING It is sometimes said that the changes in the construction of the piano have caused a different treatment of it, but this reasoning is superficial, inasmuch as the structural changes of the instrument itself are called forth by the ever-increasing demands of the _composer_ made upon the instrument. So long as the tone quality, action and nature of the instrument sufficed for compositions of the type of those of Domenico Scarlatti, or François Couperin, or Rameau, there was little need for change, but as the more modern composers longed for new and more comprehensive effects, the piano-makers kept up with their desires and aims. Thus it is that after all is said and done, the composer, and the composer only, is responsible for the changes. The literature of the piano determines them. It is the same in the advancement of piano technic and interpretation. The composers conceive new and often radically different musical ideas. These in turn demand a new manner of interpretation. This kind of evolution has been going on continually since the invention of the instrument and is going on to-day, only it is more difficult for us to see it in the present than it is to review it in the past. The general mental tendencies of the times, the artistic and cultural influences of the world taken as a whole, have also had a conspicuous though somewhat less pronounced share in these matters since they inevitably exert an influence upon the interpreter. Speaking from a strictly pianistic point of view, it is the player's individuality, influenced by the factors just stated, which is the determining element in producing new pianistic tendencies. It is thus very evident that progress in piano playing since the epoch of Hummel has been enormous. THE NEW TECHNIC AND THE OLD You ask me what are the essential differences between the modern technic and the technic of the older periods? It is very difficult to discuss this question off-hand and it is one which might better be discussed in an article of a different character. One difficulty lies in the regrettable tendency of modern technic toward being a purpose in itself. Judging from the manner in which some ambitious young players work, their sole aim is to become human piano-playing machines quite without any real musical consciousness. Before radically condemning this tendency, however, it should be remembered that it has brought us many undeniable advantages. It cannot be doubted that we owe to the ingenious investigators of technical subjects greater possibilities in effective polyphonic playing, economy of power and arm motion, larger participation of the mind in the acquisition of technic, and numerous other praiseworthy factors in good piano playing. In the olden days, while technical exercises were by no means absent, they were not nearly so numerous, and more time was given to the real musical elements in the study of the musical compositions themselves. If the excellent technical ideas to be found in some of the systems of to-day are employed solely to secure real musical and artistic effects--that is, effects based upon known æsthetic principles--the new technic will prove valuable, and we should be very grateful for it. However, as soon as it becomes an objective point in itself and succeeds in eclipsing the higher purposes of musical interpretation, just so soon should it be abolished. If the black charcoal sketch which the artist puts upon canvas to use as an outline shows through the colors of the finished painting, no masterpiece will result. Really artistic piano playing is an impossibility until the outlines of technic have been erased to make way for true interpretation from the highest sense of the word. There is much more in this than most young artists think, and the remedy may be applied at once by students and teachers in their daily work. TECHNIC SINCE LISZT Again you ask whether technic has made any significant advance since the time of Franz Liszt. Here again you confront me with a subject difficult to discuss within the confines of a conference. There is so much to be said upon it. A mere change in itself does not imply either progress or retrogression. It is for this reason we cannot speak of progress since the time of Liszt. To play as Liszt did--that is, exactly as he did, as a mirror reflects an object--would not be possible to anyone unless he were endowed with an individuality and personality exactly like that of Liszt. Since no two people are exactly alike, it is futile to compare the playing of any modern pianist with that of Franz Liszt. To discuss accurately the playing of Liszt from the purely technical standpoint is also impossible because so much of his technic was self-made, and also a mere manual expression of his unique personality and that which his own mind had created. He may perhaps never be equalled in certain respects, but on the other hand there are unquestionably pianists to-day who would have astonished the great master with their technics--I speak technically, purely technically. DEFINITE METHODS ARE LITTLE MORE THAN STENCILS I have always been opposed to definite "methods"--so-called--when they are given in an arbitrary fashion and without the care of the intelligent teacher to adapt special need to special pupils. Methods of this kind can only be regarded as a kind of musical stencil, or like the dies that are used in factories to produce large numbers of precisely similar objects. Since art and its merits are so strangely dependent upon individuality (and this includes anatomical individuality as well as psychological individuality), an inflexible method must necessarily have a deadening effect upon its victims. The question of whether special technical studies of an arbitrary nature, such as scale studies, should be extensively used is one which has been widely debated, and I fear will be debated for years to come. Let us understand first, there is a wide difference between studying and practicing. They resemble each other only in so far as they both require energy and time. Many sincere and ambitious students make the great mistake of confounding these two very essential factors of pianistic success. Study and practice really are quite widely removed from each other, and at the same time they are virtually inseparable. The real difference lies in the amount and quality of the two elements. Practice means a large number of repetitions, with a fair amount of attention to mere correctness of notes, fingering, etc. Under ordinary circumstances and conditions it usually means a great sacrifice of time and a comparatively small investment of mentality. Study, on the contrary, implies first of all mental activity of the highest and most concentrated type. It _presupposes_ absolute accuracy in notes, time, fingerings, etc., and implies the closest possible attention to those things which are generally, though erroneously, regarded as lying outside of technic, such as tonal beauty, dynamic shading, rhythmical matters, and the like. Some have the happy gift of combining practice with study, but this is rare. Hence, in the question of scale exercises, etc., if the word "study" is meant in the true sense, I can only say that the study of scales is more than necessary--it is indispensable. The pedagogical experts of the world are practically unanimous upon this subject. The injunction, "study," applies not only to scales, but to all forms of technical discipline, which only too often are "practiced" without being studied. I will not deny that mere practicing, as I have defined it, may bring some little benefit, but this benefit is gained at an enormous expenditure of time and physical and mental exertion. Oh! the endless leagues that ambitious fingers have traveled over ivory keys! Only too often they race like automobiles on a race-course--in a circle--and after having gone innumerable miles, and spent a tremendous amount of energy, they arrive at the same point from which they started, exhausted and worn, with very little to show for their work, and no nearer their real goal than when they started. The proportion in which mental and physical activity is compounded, determines, to my mind, the distinction between practicing and real study. One might also say that the proportion in which real study enters into the daily work of the student determines the success of the student. THE STUDY OF DETAILS IMPERATIVE Study demands that the student shall delve into the minute details of his art, and master them before he attempts to advance. Only the most superficial students fail to do this in these days. All of the better trained teachers insist upon it, and it is hard for the pupil to skim through on the thinnest possible theoretical ice, as they did in past years. The separate study of embellishments, for instance, is decidedly necessary, especially in connection with the embellishments introduced by the writers of the early eighteenth century. In the study of embellishments it is vitally important for the student to remember one or two very important points in connection with his investigation. One point is the understanding of the nature of the instrument for which the composer wrote when he had the embellishment in mind. The instruments of the early eighteenth century were characterized by a tone so thin and of such short duration that the composers and players (and it should be remembered that in those days practically all of the great composers played, and most of the great performers were composers) had to resort to all kind of subterfuges and tricks to produce the deception of a prolonged tone. For instance, they had a method of moving the finger to and fro (sideways) upon a key after it was struck. Thus they produced a sort of vibrato, not unlike that of which we have received an overdose in recent years from violinists and 'cellists. This vibrato (German, _Bebung_) was marked like our modern "shake," thus, [Illustration] but if we interpret it as a "shake" we commit a grave error. We ought never to regard it as a "shake," unless it is obviously an integer of the melody. The other point to be considered in the study of embellishments is taste, or rather, let me say, "fashion," for the fashion of those times which over-indulged in ornamentation and over-loaded everything with it, from architecture to dress, was by no means an insignificant factor in music. The point is important because it involves the element of "concessions" which the composers, voluntarily or from habit, made to the public of their day. I seriously question the necessity of retaining these often superabundant embellishments in their entirety, for I contend that we study antique works on account of their musical substance and not for the sake of gewgaws and frills which were either induced by the imperfections of the instrument or by the vitiated taste of times to which the composer had to yield willy-nilly. It is, of course, a very difficult and responsible task to determine what to retain and what to discard. This, to a large extent, must depend upon what part the ornament plays in the melody of the composition, whether it is really an integral part or an artificial excrescence. By all means never discard any embellishment which may serve to emphasize the melodic curve, or any one which may add to its declamatory character. A well-educated taste assisted by experience will be a fairly reliable guide in this matter. However, it is hardly advisable for amateurs with limited training to attempt any home editing of this kind. Those embellishments which we do regain should in all cases be executed as the composer of the piece would desire to hear them executed if he could become acquainted with the instruments of to-day. This, of course, places the study of ornamentation with the many auxiliary musical branches which demand special and separate attention. Johann Sebastian Bach's son, Phillip Emanuel Bach, realized this, and gave years to the proper exposition of embellishments. However, the student should realize that the study of embellishments is only a part of the great whole and he should not be misled into accepting every little shake or other little frippery, and then magnifying it into a matter of more vital importance than the piece itself. WELL-MEANING ADVISERS The student should form the habit of determining things for himself. He will soon find that he will be surrounded with many well-meaning advisers who, if they have their own way, may serve to confuse him. Some virtuosos regard their well-meaning admirers and entertainers as the worst penalties of the virtuoso life. Whether they are or are not must, of course, depend upon the artist's character. If he accepts their compliments and courtesies as an expression of the measure of pleasure _they derived_ from his playing, he has tacitly allowed for that share in their pleasure which is due to their power of appreciation, and he can therefore only rejoice in having provided something worthy of it. The manner of their expression, the observations they make, the very wording of their compliments will reveal, quickly enough, whether he has a case of real appreciation before him, or a mere morbid mania to hobnob with celebrities, or at least with people who by nature of their professional work are often compelled against their own desires to hold a more or less exposed position in the public eye. If he deals with the latter and still allows their compliments to go further than the physical ear, he must be a man of a character so weak as to make it doubtful that he will ever produce anything worthy of sincere and earnest appreciation. More young students are misled by blatant flattery than anything else. They become convinced that their efforts are comparable with those of the greatest artist, and the desire for improvement diminishes in direct ratio to the rate in which their opinion of their own efforts increases. The student should continually examine his own work with the same acuteness that he would be expected to show were he teaching another. QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES X JOSEF HOFMANN 1. Has piano playing progressed since the time of Hummel? 2. How have the changes in the structure of the instrument affected pianistic progress? 3. Why should students avoid becoming "piano-playing machines"? 4. What must be the sole aim in employing a technical exercise? 5. Will the technic of Liszt ever be excelled? 6. Why are stencil-like methods bad? 7. Is scale study indispensable? 8. Must the student know the characteristics of the instrument for which the composer wrote? 9. What part did fashion play in the introduction of embellishments? 10. Why should the student determine problems for himself? [Illustration: JOSEF LHÉVINNE] JOSEF LHÉVINNE BIOGRAPHICAL Josef Lhévinne is one of the last noted Russian pianists to attain celebrity in America. At his first appearance in New York he amazed the critics and music lovers by the virility of his style, the comprehensiveness of his technic and by his finely trained artistic judgment. Lhévinne was born at Moscow, in 1874. His father was a professional musician, playing "all instruments except the piano." It is not surprising that his four sons became professional musicians. Three are pianists and one is a flutist. When Josef was four his father discovered that he had absolute pitch, and encouraged by this sign of musical capacity placed the child under the instruction of some students from the conservatory. At six Lhévinne became the pupil of a Scandinavian teacher named Grisander. When eight he appeared at a concert and aroused much enthusiasm by his playing. At twelve he became the pupil of the famous Russian teacher, Wassili Safonoff, at the conservatory at Moscow, remaining under his instruction for six years. At the same time his teachers in theory and composition were Taneieff and Arensky. In 1891 Rubinstein selected him from all the students at the conservatory to play at a concert given under the famous master's direction. After that Lhévinne had frequent conferences with the great pianist, and attributes much of his success to his advice. In 1895 he won the famous Rubinstein Prize in Berlin. From 1902 to 1906 he was Professor of Piano at the conservatory at Moscow. One year spent in military service in Russia proved a compulsory setback in his work, and was a serious delay in his musical progress. Lhévinne came to America in 1907 and has been here five times since then. His wife is also an exceptionally fine concert pianist. XIII PIANO STUDY IN RUSSIA JOSEF LHÉVINNE RUSSIA'S MANY KEYBOARD MASTERS "Russia is old, Russia is vast, Russia is mighty. Eight and one-half million square miles of empire not made up of colonies here and there all over the world, but one enormous territory comprising nearly one hundred and fifty million people, of almost as many races as one finds in the United States, that is Russia. Although the main occupation of the people is the most peaceful of all labor--agriculture--Russia has had to deal with over a dozen wars and insurrections during a little more than a century. In the same time the United States has had but five. War is not a thing to boast about, but the condition reflects the unrest that has existed in the vast country of the Czar, and it is not at all unlikely that this very unrest is responsible for the mental activity which has characterized the work of so many artists of Russian birth. Although Russia is one of the most venerable of the European nations, and although she has absorbed other territory possessed by races even more venerable than herself, her advance in art, letters and music is comparatively recent. When Scarlatti, Handel, and Bach were at their height, Russia, outside of court circles, was still in a state of serfdom. Tolstoi was born as late as 1828, Turgenieff in 1818 and Pushkin, the half-negro poet-humorist, was born in 1799. Contemporary with these writers was Mikhail Ivanovitch Glinka--the first of the great modern composers of Russia. Still later we come to Wassili Vereschagin, the best known of the Russian painters, who was not born until 1842. It may thus be seen that artistic development in the modern sense of the term has occurred during the lifetime of the American republic. Reaching back into the centuries, Russia is one of the most ancient of nations, but considered from the art standpoint it is one of the newest. The folk songs that sprang from the hearts of the people in sadness and in joy indicated the unconcealable talent of the Russian people. They were longing to sing, and music became almost as much a part of their lives as food. It is no wonder then that we find among the names of the Russian pianists such celebrities as Anton Rubinstein, Nicholas Rubinstein, Essipoff, Siloti, Rachmaninoff, Gabrilowitsch, Scriabin, de Pachmann, Safonoff, Sapellnikoff and many others. It seems as though the Russian must be endowed by nature with those characteristics which enable him to penetrate the artistic maze that surrounds the wonders of music. He comes to music with a new talent, a new gift and finds first of all a great joy in his work. Much the same might be said of the Russian violinists and the Russian singers, many of whom have met with tremendous success. WITH THE MUSICAL CHILD IN RUSSIA The Russian parent usually has such a keen love for music that the child is watched from the very first for some indication that it may have musical talent. The parent knows how much music brings into the life of the child and he never looks upon the art as an accomplishment for exhibition purposes, but rather as a source of great joy. Music is fostered in the home as a part of the daily existence. Indeed, business is kept far from the Russian fireside and the atmosphere of most homes of intelligent people is that of culture rather than commerce. If the child is really musical the whole household is seized with the ambition to produce an artist. In my own case, I was taught the rudiments of music at so early an age that I have no recollection of ever having learned how to begin. It came to me just as talking does with the average child. At five I could sing some of the Schumann songs and some of those of Beethoven. THE KIND OF MUSIC THE RUSSIAN CHILD HEARS The Russian child is spared all contact with really bad music. That is, he hears for the most part either the songs of the people or little selections from classical or romantic composers that are selected especially with the view of cultivating his talent. He has practically no opportunity to come in contact with any music that might be described as banal. America is a very young country and with the tension that one sees in American life on all sides there comes a tendency to accept music that may be most charitably described as "cheap." Very often the same themes found in this music, skilfully treated, would make worthy musical compositions. "Rag-time," and by this I refer to the peculiar rhythm and not to the bad music that Americans have come to class under this head, has a peculiar fascination for me. There is nothing objectionable about the unique rhythm, any more than there is anything iniquitous about the gypsy melodies that have made such excellent material for Brahms, Liszt and Sarasate. The fault lies in the clumsy presentation of the matter and its associations with vulgar words. The rhythm is often fascinating and exhilarating. Perhaps some day some American composer will glorify it in the Scherzo of a Symphony. In Russia, teachers lay great stress upon careful grading. Many teachers of note have prepared carefully graded lists of pieces, suitable to each stage of advancement. I understand that this same purpose is accomplished in America by the publication of volumes of the music itself in different grades, although I have never seen any of these collections. The Russian teacher of children takes great care that the advancement of the pupil is not too rapid. The pupil is expected to be able to perform all the pieces in one grade acceptably before going to the next grade. I have had numerous American pupils and most of them seem to have the fault of wanting to advance to a higher step long before they are really able. This is very wrong, and the pupil who insists upon such a course will surely realize some day that instead of advancing rapidly he is really throwing many annoying obstacles directly in his own path. INSTRUCTION BOOKS Many juvenile instruction books are used in Russia just as in America. Some teachers, however, find that with pupils starting at an advanced age it is better to teach the rudiments without a book. This matter of method is of far greater importance than the average teacher will admit. The teacher often makes the mistake of living up in the clouds with Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, and Brahms, never realizing that the pupil is very much upon the earth, and that no matter how grandly the teacher may play, the pupil must have practical assistance within his grasp. The main duty in all elementary work is to make the piano study interesting, and the teacher must choose the course likely to arouse the most interest in the particular pupil. OPPORTUNITIES FOR VIRTUOSO-STUDENTS IN RUSSIA It may surprise the American student to hear that there are really more opportunities for him to secure public appearances right here in his own country than in Russia. In fact, it is really very hard to get a start in Russia unless one is able to attract the attention of the public very forcibly. In America the standard may not be so high as that demanded in the musical circles of Russia, but the student has many chances to play that would never come to him in the old world. There, the only chance for the young virtuoso is at the conservatory concerts. There are many music schools in Russia that must content themselves with private recitals, but the larger conservatories have public concerts of much importance, concerts that demand the attendance of renowned artists and compel the serious interest of the press. However, these concerts are few and far between, and only one student out of many hundreds has a chance to appear at them. One singular custom obtains in Russia in reference to concerts. The pianist coming from some other European country is paid more than the local pianist. For instance, although I am Russian by birth, I reside in Germany and receive a higher rate when I play in Russia than does the resident artist. In fact, this rate is often double. The young virtuoso in the early stages of his career receives about one hundred roubles an appearance in Russia, while the mature artist receives from 800 to 1000. The rouble, while having an exchange value of only fifty cents in United States currency, has a purchasing value of about one dollar in Russia. WHY RUSSIAN PIANISTS ARE FAMED FOR TECHNIC The Russian pianist is always famed for his technical ability. Even the mediocre artists possess that. The great artists realize that the mechanical side of piano playing is but the basis, but they would no sooner think of trying to do without that basis than they would of dispensing with the beautiful artistic temples which they build upon the substantial foundation which technic gives to them. The Russian pianists have earned fame for their technical grasp because they give adequate study to the matter. Everything is done in the most solid, substantial manner possible. They build not upon sands, but upon rock. For instance, in the conservatory examinations the student is examined first upon technic. If he fails to pass the technical examination he is not even asked to perform his pieces. Lack of proficiency in technic is taken as an indication of a lack of the right preparation and study, just as the lack of the ability to speak simple phrases correctly would be taken as a lack of preparation in the case of the actor. "Particular attention is given to the mechanical side of technic, the exercises, scales and arpeggios. American readers should understand that the full course at the leading Russian conservatories is one of about eight or nine years. During the first five years, the pupil is supposed to be building the base upon which must rest the more advanced work of the artist. The last three or four years at the conservatory are given over to the study of master works. Only pupils who manifest great talent are permitted to remain during the last year. During the first five years the backbone of the daily work in all Russian schools is scales and arpeggios. All technic reverts to these simple materials and the student is made to understand this from his very entrance to the conservatory. As the time goes on the scales and arpeggios become more difficult, more varied, more rapid, but they are never omitted from the daily work. The pupil who attempted complicated pieces without this preliminary technical drill would be laughed at in Russia. I have been amazed to find pupils coming from America who have been able to play a few pieces fairly well, but who wonder why they find it difficult to extend their musical sphere when the whole trouble lies in an almost total absence of regular daily technical work systematically pursued through several years. "Of course, there must be other technical material in addition to scales, but the highest technic, broadly speaking, may be traced back to scales and arpeggios. The practice of scales and arpeggios need never be mechanical or uninteresting. This depends upon the attitude of mind in which the teacher places the pupil. In fact, the teacher is largely responsible if the pupil finds scale practice dry or tiresome. It is because the pupil has not been given enough to think about in scale playing, not enough to look out for in nuance, evenness, touch, rhythm, etc., etc. MODERN RUSSIAN INFLUENCE IN MUSICAL ART "Most musicians of to-day appreciate the fact that in many ways the most modern effects sought by the composers who seek to produce extremely new effects have frequently been anticipated in Russia. However, one signal difference exists between the Russians with ultra-modern ideas and the composers of other nations. The Russian's advanced ideas are almost always the result of a development as were those of Wagner, Verdi, Grieg, Haydn and Beethoven. That is, constant study and investigations have led them to see things in a newer and more radical way. In the case of such composers as Debussy, Strauss, Ravel, Reger and others of the type of musical Philistine it will be observed that to all intents and purposes, they started out as innovators. Schönberg is the most recent example. How long will it take the world to comprehend his message if he really has one? Certainly, at the present time, even the admirers of the bizarre in music must pause before they confess that they understand the queer utterings of this newest claimant for the palm of musical eccentricity. With Debussy, Strauss and others it is different, for the skilled musician at once recognizes an astonishing facility to produce effects altogether new and often wonderfully fascinating. With Reger one seems to be impressed with tremendous effort and little result. Strauss, however, is really a very great master; so great that it is difficult to get the proper perspective upon his work at this time. It is safe to say that all the modern composers of the world have been influenced in one way or another by the great Russian masters of to-day and yesterday. Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui, Glazounov, Rachmaninov, Moussorgsky, Arensky, Scriabine and others, have all had a powerful bearing upon the musical thought of the times. Their virility and character have been due to the newness of the field in which they worked. The influence of the compositions of Rubinstein and Glinka can hardly be regarded as Russian since they were so saturated with European models that they might be ranked with Gluck, Mendelssohn, Liszt and Meyerbeer far better than with their fellow-countrymen who have expressed the idiom of Russia with greater veracity." QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES XI JOSEF LHÉVINNE 1. Is music a part of the daily life of the child in the Russian home? 2. In what does the Russian teacher of children take great care? 3. Why are Russian pianists famed for their technical ability? 4. How are examinations conducted in Russia? 5. What would be thought of the Russian pupil who attempted pieces without the proper preliminary scale work? 6. Need the practice of scales be mechanical and uninteresting? 7. Why do some pupils find technical studies tiresome? 8. How does Russian musical progress in composition differ from that of other musical nations? 9. Has Russian music influenced the progress of other musical nations? 10. How may the compositions of Rubinstein and Glinka be regarded? [Illustration: V. DE PACHMANN] VLADIMIR DE PACHMANN BIOGRAPHICAL Vladimir de Pachmann was born at Odessa, Russia, July 27, 1848. His first teacher was his father, who was a musical enthusiast and a fine performer upon the violin. The elder de Pachmann was a Professor of Law at the University of Vienna and at first did not desire to have his son become anything more than a cultured amateur. In his youth de Pachmann was largely self taught and aside from hearing great virtuosos at concerts and modeling his playing to some extent after theirs he had no teachers until 1866 when he went to the Vienna Conservatory to study with the then celebrated teacher, Joseph Dachs. Dachs was a concert pianist of the old school. Academic perfection was his goal and he could not understand such a pupil as de Pachmann who was able to get results by what seemed un-academic means. After one year with Dachs de Pachmann toured Russia with great success and since then has made repeated tours of the entire musical world. He never gave any serious attention to musical composition. As an interpreter of the works of Chopin no one in recent times has ever excelled de Pachmann, but he also gave numerous recitals showing a great breadth of style in the performances of works of the other great masters particularly Brahms and Liszt. (The following conference was conducted in English, German, French and Italian.) XIV SEEKING ORIGINALITY VLADIMIR DE PACHMANN THE MEANING OF ORIGINALITY "Originality in pianoforte playing, what does it really mean? Nothing more than the interpretation of one's real self instead of the artificial self which traditions, mistaken advisors and our own natural sense of mimicry impose upon us. Seek for originality and it is gone like a gossamer shining in the morning grass. Originality is in one's self. It is the true voice of the heart. I would enjoin students to listen to their own inner voices. I do not desire to deprecate teachers, but I think that many teachers are in error when they fail to encourage their pupils to form their own opinions. "I have always sought the individual in myself. When I have found him I play at my best. I try to do everything in my own individual way. I work for months to invent, contrive or design new fingerings--not so much for simplicity, but to enable me to manipulate the keys so that I may express the musical thought as it seems to me it ought to be expressed. See my hand, my fingers--the flesh as soft as that of a child, yet covering muscles of steel. They are thus because I have worked from childhood to make them thus. "The trouble with most pupils in studying a piece is that when they seek individuality and originality, they go about it in the wrong way, and the result is a studied, stiff, hard performance. Let them listen to the voice, I say; to the inner voice, the voice which is speaking every moment of the day, but to which so many shut the ears of their soul. "Franz Liszt--ah, you see I bow when I mention the name--you never heard Franz Liszt? Ah, it was the great Liszt who listened--listened to his inner voice. They said he was inspired. He was simply listening to himself. MACHINE TEACHING "_Nun, passen Sie mal auf!_ I abominate machine teaching. A certain amount of it may be necessary, but I hate it. It seems so brutal--so inartistic. Instead of leading the pupil to seek results for himself, they lay down laws and see that these laws are obeyed, like _gendarmes_. It is possible, of course, by means of systematic training, to educate a boy so that he could play a concerto which he could not possibly comprehend intelligently until he became at least twenty years older; but please tell, what is the use of such a training? Is it artistic? Is it musical? Would it not be better to train him to play a piece which he could comprehend and which he could express in his own way? "Of course I am not speaking now of the boy Mozarts, the boy Liszts or other freaks of nature, but of the children who by machine-made methods are made to do things which nature never intended that they should do. This forcing method to which some conservatories seem addicted reminds one of those men who in bygone ages made a specialty of disfiguring the forms and faces of children, to make dwarfs, jesters and freaks out of them. Bah! ORIGINALITY THE ROAD TO PERMANENT FAME "Originality in interpretation is of course no more important than originality in creation. See how the composers who have been the most original have been the ones who have laid the surest foundation for permanent fame. Here again true originality has been merely the highest form of self-expression. _Non ê vero?_ When the composer has sought originality and contrived to get it by purposely taking out-of-the-way methods, what has he produced? Nothing but a horrible sham--a structure of cards which is destroyed by the next wind of fashion. "Other composers write for all time. They are original because they listen to the little inner voice, the true source of originality. It is the same in architecture. Styles in architecture are evolved, not created, and whenever the architect has striven for bizarre effects he builds for one decade only. The architects who build for all time are different and yet how unlike, how individual, how original is the work of one great architect from that of another. THE MOST ORIGINAL COMPOSERS "The most original of all composers, at least as they appear to me, is Johann Sebastian Bach. Perhaps this is because he is the most sincere. Next I should class Beethoven, that great mountain peak to whose heights so few ever soar. Then would come in order Liszt, Brahms, Schumann, Chopin, Weber, and Mendelssohn. Schumann more original than Chopin? Yes, at least so it seems to me. That is, there is something more distinctive, something more indicative of a great individuality speaking a new language. "Compare these men with composers of the order of Abt, Steibelt, Thalberg, and Donizetti, and you will see at once what I mean about originality being the basis of permanent art. For over twenty years my great fondness for mineralogy and for gems led me to neglect in a measure the development of the higher works of these composers, but I have realized my error and have been working enormously for years to attain the technic which their works demand. Some years ago I felt that technical development must cease at a certain age. This is all idiocy. I feel that I have now many times the technic I have ever had before and I have acquired it all in recent years. SELF-HELP THE SECRET OF MANY SUCCESSES "No one could possibly believe more in self-help than I. The student who goes to a teacher and imagines that the teacher will cast some magic spell about him which will make him a musician without working, has an unpleasant surprise in store for him. When I was eighteen I went to Dachs at the Vienna Conservatory. He bade me play something. I played the _Rigoletto_ paraphrase of Liszt. Dachs commented favorably upon my touch but assured me that I was very much upon the wrong track and that I should study the _Woltemperirtes Klavier_ of Bach. He assured me that no musical education could be considered complete without an intimate acquaintance with the Bach fugues, which of course was most excellent advice. "Consequently I secured a copy of the fugues and commenced work upon them. Dachs had told me to prepare the first prelude and fugue for the following lesson. But Dachs was not acquainted with my methods of study. He did not know that I had mastered the art of concentration so that I could obliterate every suggestion of any other thought from my mind except that upon which I was working. He had no estimate of my youthful zeal and intensity. He did not know that I could not be satisfied unless I spent the entire day working with all my artistic might and main. "Soon I saw the wonderful design of the great master of Eisenach. The architecture of the fugues became plainer and plainer. Each subject became a friend and each answer likewise. It was a great joy to observe with what marvelous craftsmanship he had built up the wonderful structures. I could not stop when I had memorized the first fugue, so I went to the next and the next and the next. A SURPRISED TEACHER "At the following lesson I went with my book under my arm. I requested him to name a fugue. He did, and I placed the closed book on the rack before me. After I had finished playing he was dumfounded. He said, 'You come to me to take lessons. You already know the great fugues and I have taught you nothing.' Thinking that I would find Chopin more difficult to memorize, he suggested that I learn two of the etudes. I came at the following lesson with the entire twenty-four memorized. Who could withstand the alluring charm of the Chopin etudes? Who could resist the temptation to learn them all when they are once commenced? "An actor learns page after page in a few days, and why should the musician go stumbling along for months in his endeavor to learn something which he could master in a few hours with the proper interest and the burning concentration without which all music study is a farce? "It was thus during my entire course with Dachs. He would suggest the work and I would go off by myself and learn it. I had practically no method. Each page demanded a different method. Each page presented entirely new and different technical ideas." DEEP THOUGHT NECESSARY "As a rule piano students do not think deeply enough. They skim over the really difficult things and no amount of persuasion will make them believe some very simple things difficult. Take the scale of C Major, for instance. This scale is by far the most difficult of all. To play it with true legato, at any desired degree of force or speed, in any desired rhythm and with any desired touch, is one of the most difficult achievements in all music. Yet the young pupil will literally turn up his nose at the scale of C Major and at the same time claim that he is perfectly competent to play a Beethoven Sonata. "The scale of C should be learned step by step until the practice habits are so formed that they will reign supreme while playing all the other scales. This is the way to secure results--go deep into things. Pearls lie at the bottom of the sea. Most pupils seem to expect them floating upon the surface of the water. They never float, and the one who would have his scales shine with the beauty of splendid gems must first dive deep for the gems. "But what is the use of saying all this? To tell it to young pupils seems to be a waste of words. They will go on making their mistakes and ignoring the advice of their teachers and mentors until the great teacher of all--experience--forces them to dive for the hidden riches. TAKE TIME TO DO THINGS WELL "Every pianist advances at a rate commensurate with his personal ability. Some pianists are slow in development. Others with wonderful natural gifts go ahead very quickly. The student will see some pianist make wonderful progress and will sometimes imitate him without giving the time or effort to study that the other pianist has given. The artist will spend months upon a Chopin valse. The student feels injured if he cannot play it in a day. "Look, I will play the wonderful Nocturne of Chopin in G, Opus No. 2. The legato thirds seem simple? Ah, if I could only tell you of the years that are behind those thirds. The human mind is peculiar in its methods of mastering the movements of the fingers, and to get a great masterpiece so that you can have supreme control over it at all times and under all conditions demands a far greater effort than the ordinary non-professional music lover can imagine. MASTERING ARTISTIC DETAILS "Each note in a composition should be polished until it is as perfect as a jewel--as perfect as an Indian diamond--those wonderful scintillating, ever-changing orbs of light. In a really great masterpiece each note has its place just as the stars, the jewels of heaven, have their places in their constellations. When a star moves it moves in an orbit that was created by nature. "Great musical masterpieces owe their existence to mental forces quite as miraculous as those which put the heavens into being. The notes in compositions of this kind are not there by any rule of man. They come through the ever mystifying source which we call inspiration. Each note must bear a distinct relation to the whole. "An artist in jewels in making a wonderful work of art does not toss his jewels together in any haphazard way. He often has to wait for months to get the right ruby, or the right pearl, or the right diamond to fit in the right place. Those who do not know might think one gem just like another, but the artist knows. He has been looking at gems, examining them under the microscope. There is a meaning in every facet, in every shade of color. He sees blemishes which the ordinary eye would never detect. "Finally he secures his jewels and arranges them in some artistic form, which results in a masterpiece. The public does not know the reason why, but it will instantly realize that the work of the artist is in some mysterious way superior to the work of the bungler. Thus it is that the mind of the composer works spontaneously in selecting the musical jewels for the diadem which is to crown him with fame. During the process of inspiration he does not realize that he is selecting his jewels with lightning rapidity, but with a highly cultivated artistic judgment. When the musical jewels are collected and assembled he regards the work as a whole as the work of another. He does not realize that he has been going through the process of collecting them. Schubert failed to recollect some of his own compositions only a few days after he had written them. SOMETHING NO ONE CAN TEACH "Now the difficulty with students is that they do not take time to polish the jewels which the composers have selected with such keen æsthetic discernment. They think it enough if they merely succeed in playing the note. How horrible! A machine can play the notes, but there is only one machine with a soul and that is the artist. To think that an artist should play only the notes and forget the glories of the inspiration which came in the composer's mind during the moment of creation. "Let me play the D flat Chopin Nocturne for you. Please notice how the notes all bear a relation to each other, how everything is in right proportion. Do you think that came in a day? Ah, my friend, the polishing of those jewels took far longer than the polishing of the Kohinoor. Yet I have heard young girls attempt to play this piece for me--expecting approbation, of course, and I am certain that they could not have practiced upon it more than a year or so. They evidently think that musical masterpieces can be brought into being like the cobwebs which rise during the night to be torn down by the weight of the dew of the following morning. _Imbecillità!_ THE BEST TEACHER "They play just as their teachers have told them to play, which is of course good as far as it goes. But they stop at that, and no worthy teacher expects his pupil to stop with his instruction. The best teacher is the one who incites his pupil to penetrate deeper and learn new beauties by himself. A teacher in the highest sense of the word is not a mint, coining pupils as it were and putting the same stamp of worth upon each pupil. "The great teacher is an artist who works in men and women. Every pupil is different, and he must be very quick to recognize these differences. He should first of all teach the pupil that there are hundreds of things which no teacher can ever hope to teach. He must make his pupil keenly alert to this. There are hundreds of things about my own playing which are virtually impossible to teach. I would not know how to convey them to others so that they might be intelligently learned. Such things I have found out for myself by long and laborious experimentation. The control of my fifth finger in certain fingerings presented endless problems which could only be worked out at the keyboard. Such things give an individuality to the pianist's art, something which cannot be copied. "Have you ever been in a foreign art gallery and watched the copyists trying to reproduce the works of the masters? Have you ever noticed that though they get the form, the design, and even the colors and also that with all these resemblances there is something which distinguishes the work of the master from the work of the copyist, something so wonderful that even a child can see it? You wonder at this? _Pourquoi?_ No one can learn by copying the secret the master has learned in creating. THE BASIS OF GREATNESS "Here we have a figure which brings out very clearly the real meaning of originality in piano playing and at the same time indicates how every pupil with or without a teacher should work for himself. Why was the great Liszt greater than any pianist of his time? Simply because he found out certain pianistic secrets which Czerny or any of Liszt's teachers and contemporaries had failed to discover. "Why has Godowsky--_Ach! Godowsky, der ist wirklich ein grosser Talent_--how has he attained his wonderful rank? Because he has worked out certain contrapuntal and technical problems which place him in a class all by himself. I consider him the greatest master of the mysteries of counterpoint since the heyday of classical polyphony. Why does Busoni produce inimitable results at the keyboard? Simply because he was not satisfied to remain content with the knowledge he had obtained from others. "This then is my life secret--work, unending work. I have no other secrets. I have developed myself along the lines revealed to me by my inner voice. I have studied myself as well as my art. I have learned to study mankind through the sciences and through the great literary treasures, you see; I speak many languages fluently, I have stepped apace with the crowd, I have drunk the bitter and the sweet from the chalices of life, but remember, I have never stopped, and to-day I am just as keenly interested in my progress as I was many years ago as a youth. The new repertoire of the works of Liszt and Brahms and other composers demanded a different technic, a bigger technic. What exquisite joy it was to work for it. Yes, _mio amico_, work is the greatest intoxication, the greatest blessing, the greatest solace we can know. Therefore work, work, work. But of all things, my good musical friends in America, remember the old German proverb: "'_Das mag die beste Musik sein Wenn Herz und Mund stimmt überein._'" ("Music is best when the heart and lips (mouth) speak together.") QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES XII VLADIMIR DE PACHMANN 1. What does originality in pianoforte playing really mean? 2. State something of the evils of the forcing methods of training applied to young children. 3. Have the compositions of the most original composers been the most enduring? 4. Name seven of the most original composers for the pianoforte. 5. Must the pupil continually help himself? 6. What is considered the most difficult scale to learn? 7. Is a great virtuoso obliged to practice years in order to secure results? 8. How may piano study be compared with the polishing of beautiful jewels? 9. Tell what characteristics a great teacher must have. 10. What lies at the foundation of pianistic greatness? MAX PAUER BIOGRAPHICAL Prof. Max Pauer was born in London, England, October 31, 1866, and is the son of the eminent musical educator, Ernst Pauer, who settled in England in 1851, and aside from filling many of the foremost positions in British musical life, also produced a great number of instructive works, which have been of immeasurable value in disseminating musical education in England. His work on _Musical Forms_ is known to most all music students. Prof. Max Pauer studied with his father at the same time his parent was instructing another famous British-born pianist, Eugen d'Albert. At the age of fifteen he went to Karlsruhe, where he came under the instruction of V. Lachner. In 1885 he returned to London and continued to advance through self-study. In 1887 he received the appointment at the head of the piano department in the Cologne Conservatory. This position he retained for ten years, until his appointment at Stuttgart, first as head teacher in the piano department and later as director of the School. During this period the organization of the famous old conservatory has changed totally. The building occupied was very old and unfit for modern needs. The new conservatory building is a splendid structure located in one of the most attractive parts of the city. The old methods, old equipment, old ideas have been abandoned, and a wholly different atmosphere is said to pervade the institution, while all that was best in the old _régime_ has been retained. Prof. Pauer made his _début_ as a virtuoso pianist in London. Since then he has toured all Europe except the Latin countries. He has published several compositions for the piano. His present tour of America is his first in the New World. [Illustration: MAX PAUER] XV MODERN PIANISTIC PROBLEMS MAX PAUER ACQUIRING THE REQUISITE TECHNIC "The preservation of one's individuality in playing is perhaps one of the most difficult, and at the same time one of the most essential tasks in the study of the pianoforte. The kind of technical study that passes the student through a certain process, apparently destined to make him as much like his predecessors as possible, is hardly the kind of technic needed to make a great artist. Technical ability, after all is said and done, depends upon nothing more than physiologically correct motion applied to the artistic needs of the masterpiece to be performed. It implies a clear understanding of the essentials in bringing out the composer's idea. The pupil must not be confused with inaccurate thinking. For instance, we commonly hear of the 'wrist touch.' More pupils have been hindered through this clumsy terminology than I should care to estimate. There cannot be a wrist touch since the wrist is nothing more than a wonderful natural hinge of bone and muscle. With the pupil's mind centered upon his wrist he is more than likely to stiffen it and form habits which can only be removed with much difficulty by the teacher. This is only an instance of one of the loose expressions with which the terminology of technic is encumbered. When the pupil comes to recognize the wrist as a _condition_ rather than a thing he will find that the matter of the tight, cramped wrist will cease to have its terrors. In fact, as far as touch itself is concerned, the motion of the arm as a whole is vastly more important than that of the wrist. The wrist is merely part of the apparatus which communicates the weight of the arm to the keyboard. INNOVATORS SHOULD BE PIANISTS "In my opinion the technical needs of the piano are likely to be far better understood by the virtuoso pianist than by one who has never been through the experiences which lead to the concert platform. Please do not infer that I would say that all teachers should be virtuoso pianists. I am referring particularly to the makers of methods. I am continually confronted in my teaching with all manner of absurd ideas in piano technic. For instance, one pupil will come and exhibit an exercise which requires her to press hard upon the keyboard after the note is struck. Just why there should be this additional waste of nerve force when it can have no possible effect upon the depressed key I have never been able to find out. There is enough nervous energy expended in pianoforte study as it is without exacting any more from the pupil. Pupils are frequently carried away with some technical trick of this kind like a child with a new toy. They do these things without ever consulting their own judgment." The whole idea of technic then is to achieve a position _through_ conscious effort, where one may _dispense with_ conscious effort. Not until this can be accomplished can we hope for real self-expression in playing. Nothing is so odious as the obtrusion of technic in any work of art. Technic is the trellis concealed beneath the foliage and the blossoms of the bower. When the artist is really great all idea of technic is forgotten. He must be absorbed by the sheer beauty of his musical message, his expression of his musical self. In listening to Rubinstein or to Liszt one forgot all idea of technic, and it must be so with all great artists in every branch of art in every age. What we claim when we attend a recital is the individual artist, unrestrained by mechanical bonds. Very few of the great masters of pianoforte playing have delved very deeply into the technical pedagogical side of their art, as for instance have Tausig, Ehrlich or Joseffy, all of whom have produced remarkable works on technic. Liszt's contribution to the technic of the instrument was made through his pieces, not through exercises; his contributions to the Lebert and Stark Stuttgart Conservatory method consist of two well-known concert studies. Personally, I am opposed to set methods, that is, those that pretend to teach the pupil factory-wise. Of what value is the teacher if he is not to apply his knowledge with the discretion that comes with experience? Deppe's influence to this day is far more theoretical than practical. This does not imply that Deppe did not evolve some very useful ideas in pianoforte work. All of present technic is a common heritage from many investigators and innovators. Pianoforte teaching, as a matter of fact, is one of the most difficult of all tasks. It is easy to teach it along conventional "cut and dried" method lines, but the teachers of real importance are those who have the ability, the gift, the inclination and the experience to make a brand new method for every pupil. In order to develop the means to communicate one's message through one's art with the greatest effectiveness, there must be a mastery of the delicate balance between natural tendencies and discipline. If the student is subjected to too much discipline, stiff, angular results may be expected. If the student is permitted to play with the flabby looseness which some confuse with natural relaxation, characterless playing must invariably result. The great desideratum is the fine equilibrium between nature and discipline. This may seem an unnecessary observation to some, but many students never seem to be able to strike the happy medium between marching over the keys like a regiment of wooden soldiers, or crawling over them like a lot of spineless caterpillars. AVOID MACHINE-LIKE PLAYING There is a certain "something" which defines the individuality of the player, and it seems well nigh impossible to say just what this something is. Let us by all means preserve it. Imagine the future of music if every piece were to be played in the selfsame way by every player like a series of ordinary piano playing machines. The remarkable apparatus for recording the playing of virtuosos, and then reproducing it through a mechanical contrivance, is somewhat of a revelation to the pianist who tries it for the first time. In the records of the playing of artists whose interpretations are perfectly familiar to me, there still remain unquestioned marks of individuality. Sometimes these marks are small shortcomings, but which, nevertheless, are so slight that they do no more than give character. Look at a painting by Van Dyke, and then at one upon a similar subject by Rembrandt, and you will realize how these little characteristics influence the whole outward aspect of an art work. Both Van Dyke and Rembrandt were Dutchmen, and, in a sense, contemporaries. They used pigments and brushes, canvas and oil, yet the masterpieces of each are readily distinguishable by any one slightly familiar with their styles. It is precisely the same with pianists. All of us have arms, fingers, muscles and nerves, but what we have to say upon the keyboard should be an expression of our own minds, not a replica of some stereotyped model. When I listened to the first record of my own playing, I heard things which seemed unbelievable to me. Was I, after years of public playing, actually making mistakes that I would be the first to condemn in any one of my own pupils? I could hardly believe my ears, and yet the unrelenting machine showed that in some places I had failed to play both hands exactly together, and had been guilty of other errors no less heinous, because they were trifling. I also learned in listening to my own playing, as reproduced, that I had unconsciously brought out certain nuances, emphasized different voices and employed special accents without the consciousness of having done so. Altogether it made a most interesting study for me, and it became very clear that the personality of the artist must permeate everything that he does. When his technic is sufficiently great it permits him to speak with fluency and self-expression, enhancing the value of his work a thousandfold. BROAD UNDERSTANDING NECESSARY "It would be a great mistake for the student to imagine that by merely acquiring finger dexterity and a familiarity with a certain number of pieces he may consider himself proficient. There is vastly more to piano-playing than that. He must add to his digital ability and his repertoire and comprehensive grasp of the principles of music itself. The pupil should strive to accomplish as much as possible through mental work. The old idea of attempting to play every single study written by Czerny, or Cramer or the other prolific writers of studies is a huge mistake. A judicious selection from the works of these pedagogical writers is desirable but certainly not all of them. They are at best only the material with which one must work for a certain aim, and that aim should be high artistic results. It should be realized by all students and teachers that this same study material, excellent in itself, may actually produce bad results if not properly practiced. I have repeatedly watched students practicing industriously, but becoming worse and worse and actually cultivating faults rather than approaching perfection. The student must always remember that his fingers are only the outward organs of his inner consciousness, and while his work may be mechanical in part he should never think mechanically. The smallest technical exercise must have its own direction, its own aim. Nothing should be done without some definite purpose in view. The student should have pointed out to him just what the road he must travel is, and where it leads to. The ideal teacher is the one who gives the pupil something to take home and work out at home, not the one who works out the student's lesson for him in the class room. The teacher's greatest mission is to raise the consciousness of the pupil until he can appreciate his own powers for developing an idea. FREEDOM FROM CONVENTION "Oh the horror of the conventional, the absolutely right, the human machine who cannot make an error! The balance between the frigidly correct and the abominably loose is a most difficult one to maintain. It is, of course, desirable that the young student pass through a certain period of strict discipline, but if this discipline succeeds in making an automaton, of what earthly use is it? Is it really necessary to instruct our little folks to think that everything must be done in a "cut and dried" manner? Take the simple matter of time, for instance. Listen to the playing of most young pupils and you will hear nothing but a kind of "railroad train" rhythm. Every measure bumps along precisely like the last one. The pupil has been taught to observe the bar signs like stone walls partitioning the whole piece off into sections. The result as a whole is too awful to describe. As a matter of fact, the bar signs, necessary as they are as guide-posts when we are learning the elements of notation, are often the means of leading the poorly trained pupil to a wholly erroneous interpretation. For instance, in a passage like the following from Beethoven's F minor Sonata, Opus 2, No. 1 (dedicated to Joseph Haydn), Beethoven's idea must have been the following: [Illustration] before it was divided into measures by bar lines as now found printed: [Illustration] The trouble with the pupil in playing the above is that he seems inclined to observe the bar lines very carefully and lose all idea of the phrase as a whole. Music should be studied by phrases, not by measures. In studying a poem you strive first of all to get the poet's meaning as expressed in his phrases and in his sentences; you do not try to mumble a few words in an arbitrary manner. The pupil who never gets over the habit of playing in measures, who never sees the composer's message as a whole rather than in little segments can never play artistically. Many students fail to realize that in some pieces it is actually misleading to count the beats in the measure. The rhythm of the piece as a whole is often marked by a series of measures, and one must count the measures as units rather than the notes in the measures. For instance, the following section from a Chopin Valse, Opus 64, No. 1 (sometimes called the _Minute Valse_), may best be counted by counting the measures thus: [Illustration] Every pupil knows that the first beat in each ordinary measure of four-quarter time carries a strong accent, the third beat the next strongest, and the second and fourth beats still weaker accents. In a series of measures which may be counted in fours, it will be found that the same arrangement often prevails. The pupil will continually meet opportunities to study his work along broader lines, and the wonderful part of it all is that music contains so much that is interesting and surprising, that there need be no end to his investigations. Every page from a master work that has been studied for years is likely to contain some unsolved problem if the student can only see it right and hunt for it. QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES XIII MAX PAUER 1. Define technical ability. 2. Describe some useless technical tricks. 3. Do great pianists devote much time to writing upon piano technic? 4. State the evils of too much discipline. 5. How may machine-like playing be avoided? 6. State how faults are most frequently developed. 7. Why must one seek to avoid conventions? 8. Should music be studied by phrases or measures? 9. Play the Chopin Valse Opus 64, No. 1, indicating how it may best be counted. 10. Where must the student find his problems? [Illustration: S. V. RACHMANINOFF] S. V. RACHMANINOFF BIOGRAPHICAL Sergei Vassilievitch Rachmaninoff was born at Novgorod, Russia, April 1st, 1873. At the Moscow Conservatory he was placed under the instruction of Siloti who had been one of the favorite Russian pupils of Franz Liszt. This master imparted a very facile technic to Rachmaninoff and made him so thoroughly acquainted with the best literature of the instrument that his compositions became recognized at once as those of a thorough master of the keyboard. His teacher in composition was Arensky, who in addition to his skill in the technic of the art had a fund of melody which is a delight to all those who know his works. In 1891 Rachmaninoff won the great gold medal at the Moscow Conservatory and his work as a composer commenced to attract favorable attention throughout all Europe. In addition to this his ability as a pianist attracted wide notice and his tours have been very successful. His compositions have been cast in many different forms from opera to songs and piano pieces. His most popular work is _the Prelude in C Sharp Minor_ which is in the repertoire of all advanced students. His appointment as Supervisor General of the Imperial conservatories of Russia was one of the highest distinctions that could be conferred in the land of the Czar. The correct pronunciation of the name as given by the composer is Rokh-mahn-ee-noff. (The following conference was conducted in German.) XVI ESSENTIALS OF ARTISTIC PLAYING S. V. RACHMANINOFF FORMING THE PROPER CONCEPTION OF A PIECE It is a seemingly impossible task to define the number of attributes of really excellent pianoforte playing. By selecting ten important characteristics, however, and considering them carefully, one at a time, the student may learn much that will give him food for thought. After all, one can never tell in print what can be communicated by the living teacher. In undertaking the study of a new composition it is highly important to gain a conception of the work as a whole. One must comprehend the main design of the composer. Naturally, there are technical difficulties which must be worked out, measure by measure, but unless the student can form some idea of the work in its larger proportions his finished performance may resemble a kind of musical patchwork. Behind every composition is the architectural plan of the composer. The student should endeavor, first of all, to discover this plan, and then he should build in the manner in which the composer would have had him build. You ask me, "How can the student form the proper conception of the work as a whole?" Doubtless the best way is to hear it performed by some pianist whose authority as an interpreter cannot be questioned. However, many students are so situated that this course is impossible. It is also often quite impossible for the teacher, who is busy teaching from morning to night, to give a rendering of the work that would be absolutely perfect in all of its details. However, one can gain something from the teacher who can, by his genius, give the pupil an idea of the artistic demands of the piece. If the student has the advantage of hearing neither the virtuoso nor the teacher he need not despair, if he has talent. Talent! Ah, that is the great thing in all musical work. If he has talent he will see with the eyes of _talent_--that wonderful force which penetrates all artistic mysteries and reveals the truths as nothing else possibly can. Then he grasps, as if by intuition, the composer's intentions in writing the work, and, like the true interpreter, communicates these thoughts to his audience in their proper form. TECHNICAL PROFICIENCY It goes without saying, that technical proficiency should be one of the first acquisitions of the student who would become a fine pianist. It is impossible to conceive of fine playing that is not marked by clean, fluent, distinct, elastic technic. The technical ability of the performer should be of such a nature that it can be applied immediately to all the artistic demands of the composition to be interpreted. Of course, there may be individual passages which require some special technical study, but, generally speaking, technic is worthless unless the hands and the mind of the player are so trained that they can encompass the principal difficulties found in modern compositions. In the music schools of Russia great stress is laid upon technic. Possibly this may be one of the reasons why some of the Russian pianists have been so favorably received in recent years. The work in the leading Russian conservatories is almost entirely under supervision of the Imperial Musical Society. The system is elastic in that, although all students are obliged to go through the same course, special attention is given to individual cases. Technic, however, is at first made a matter of paramount importance. All students must become technically proficient. None are excused. It may be interesting to hear something of the general plan followed in the Imperial music schools of Russia. The course is nine years in duration. During the first five years the student gets most of his technical instruction from a book of studies by Hanon, which is used very extensively in the conservatories. In fact, this is practically the only book of strictly technical studies employed. All of the studies are in the key of "C." They include scales, arpeggios, and other forms of exercises in special technical designs. At the end of the fifth year an examination takes place. This examination is twofold. The pupil is examined first for proficiency in technic, and later for proficiency in artistic playing--pieces, studies, etc. However, if the pupil fails to pass the technical examination he is not permitted to go ahead. He knows the exercises in the book of studies by Hanon so well that he knows each study by number, and the examiner may ask him, for instance, to play study 17, or 28, or 32, etc. The student at once sits at the keyboard and plays. Although the original studies are all in the key of "C," he may be requested to play them in any other key. He has studied them so thoroughly that he should be able to play them in any key desired. A metronomic test is also applied. The student knows that he will be expected to play the studies at certain rates of speed. The examiner states the speed and the metronome is started. The pupil is required, for instance, to play the E flat major scale with the metronome at 120, eight notes to the beat. If he is successful in doing this, he is marked accordingly, and other tests are given. Personally, I believe this matter of insisting upon a thorough technical knowledge is a very vital one. The mere ability to play a few pieces does not constitute musical proficiency. It is like those music boxes which possess only a few tunes. The student's technical grasp should be all-embracing. Later the student is given advanced technical exercises, like those of Tausig. Czerny is also very deservedly popular. Less is heard of the studies of Henselt, however, notwithstanding his long service in Russia. Henselt's studies are so beautiful that they should rather be classed with pieces like the studies of Chopin. PROPER PHRASING An artistic interpretation is not possible if the student does not know the laws underlying the very important subject of phrasing. Unfortunately many editions of good music are found wanting in proper phrase markings. Some of the phrase signs are erroneously applied. Consequently the only safe way is for the student to make a special study of this important branch of musical art. In the olden days phrase signs were little used. Bach used them very sparingly. It was not necessary to mark them in those times, for every musician who counted himself a musician could determine the phrases as he played. But a knowledge of the means of defining phrases in a composition is by no means all-sufficient. Skill in executing the phrases is quite as important. The real musical feeling must exist in the mind of the composer or all the knowledge of correct phrasing he may possess will be worthless. REGULATING THE TEMPO If a fine musical feeling, or sensitiveness, must control the execution of the phrases, the regulation of the tempo demands a kind of musical ability no less exacting. Although in most cases the tempo of a given composition is now indicated by means of the metronomic markings, the judgment of the player must also be brought frequently into requisition. He cannot follow the tempo marks blindly, although it is usually unsafe for him to stray very far from these all-important musical sign-posts. The metronome itself must not be used "with closed eyes," as we should say it in Russia. The player must use discretion. I do not approve of continual practice with the metronome. The metronome is designed to set the time, and if not abused is a very faithful servant. However, it should only be used for this purpose. The most mechanical playing imaginable can proceed from those who make themselves slaves to this little musical clock, which was never intended to stand like a ruler over every minute of the student's practice time. CHARACTER IN PLAYING Too few students realize that there is continual and marvelous opportunity for contrast in playing. Every piece is a piece unto itself. It should, therefore, have its own peculiar interpretation. There are performers whose playing seems all alike. It is like the meals served in some hotels. Everything brought to the table has the same taste. Of course, a successful performer must have a strong individuality, and all of his interpretations must bear the mark of this individuality, but at the same time he should seek variety constantly. A Chopin ballade must have quite a different interpretation from a Scarlatti Capriccio. There is really very little in common between a Beethoven Sonata and a Liszt Rhapsody. Consequently, the student must seek to give each piece a different character. Each piece must stand apart as possessing an individual conception, and if the player fails to convey this impression to his audience, he is little better than some mechanical instrument. Josef Hofmann has the ability of investing each composition with an individual and characteristic charm that has always been very delightful to me. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE PEDAL The pedal has been called the soul of the piano. I never realized what this meant until I heard Anton Rubinstein, whose playing seemed so marvelous to me that it beggars description. His mastery of the pedal was nothing short of phenomenal. In the last movement of the B flat minor sonata of Chopin he produced pedal effects that can never be described, but for any one who remembers them they will always be treasured as one of the greatest of musical joys. The pedal is the study of a lifetime. It is the most difficult branch of higher pianoforte study. Of course, one may make rules for its use, and the student should carefully study all these rules, but, at the same time, these rules may often be skilfully broken in order to produce some very charming effects. The rules represent a few known principles that are within the grasp of our musical intelligence. They may be compared with the planet upon which we live, and about which we know so much. Beyond the rules, however, is the great universe--the celestial system which only the telescopic artistic sight of the great musician can penetrate. This, Rubinstein, and some others, have done, bringing to our mundane vision undreamt-of beauties which they alone could perceive. THE DANGER OF CONVENTION While we must respect the traditions of the past, which for the most part are very intangible to us because they are only to be found in books, we must, nevertheless, not be bound down by convention. Iconoclasm is the law of artistic progress. All great composers and performers have built upon the ruins of conventions that they themselves have destroyed. It is infinitely better to create than to imitate. Before we can create, however, it is well to make ourselves familiar with the best that has preceded us. This applies not only to composition, but to pianoforte playing as well. The master pianists, Rubinstein and Liszt, were both marvelously broad in the scope of their knowledge. They knew the literature of the pianoforte in all its possible branches. They made themselves familiar with every possible phase of musical advancement. This is the reason for their gigantic prominence. Their greatness was not the hollow shell of acquired technic. THEY KNEW. Oh, for more students in these days with the genuine thirst for real musical knowledge, and not merely with the desire to make a superficial exhibition at the keyboard! REAL MUSICAL UNDERSTANDING I am told that some teachers lay a great deal of stress upon the necessity for the pupil learning the source of the composer's inspiration. This is interesting, of course, and may help to stimulate a dull imagination. However, I am convinced that it would be far better for the student to depend more upon his real musical understanding. It is a mistake to suppose that the knowledge of the fact that Schubert was inspired by a certain poem, or that Chopin was inspired by a certain legend, could ever make up for a lack of the real essentials leading to good pianoforte playing. The student must see, first of all, the main points of musical relationship in a composition. He must understand what it is that gives the work unity, cohesion, force, or grace, and must know how to bring out these elements. There is a tendency with some teachers to magnify the importance of auxiliary studies and minimize the importance of essentials. This course is wrong, and must lead to erroneous results. PLAYING TO EDUCATE THE PUBLIC The virtuoso must have some far greater motive than that of playing for gain. He has a mission, and that mission is to educate the public. It is quite as necessary for the sincere student in the home to carry on this educational work. For this reason it is to his advantage to direct his efforts toward pieces which he feels will be of musical educational advantage to his friends. In this he must use judgment and not overstep their intelligence too far. With the virtuoso it is somewhat different. He expects, and even demands, from his audience a certain grade of musical taste, a certain degree of musical education. Otherwise he would work in vain. If the public would enjoy the greatest in music they must hear good music until these beauties become evident. It would be useless for the virtuoso to attempt a concert tour in the heart of Africa. The virtuoso is expected to give his best, and he should not be criticized by audiences that have not the mental capacity to appreciate his work. The virtuosos look to the students of the world to do their share in the education of the great musical public. Do not waste your time with music that is trite or ignoble. Life is too short to spend it wandering in the barren Saharas of musical trash. THE VITAL SPARK In all good pianoforte playing there is a vital spark that seems to make each interpretation of a masterpiece--a living thing. It exists only for the moment, and cannot be explained. For instance, two pianists of equal technical ability may play the same composition. With one the playing is dull, lifeless and sapless, with the other there is something that is indescribably wonderful. His playing seems fairly to quiver with life. It commands interest and inspires the audience. What is this vital spark that brings life to mere notes? In one way it may be called the intense artistic interest of the player. It is that astonishing thing known as inspiration. When the composition was originally written the composer was unquestionably inspired; when the performer finds the same joy that the composer found at the moment the composition came into existence, then something new and different enters his playing. It seems to be stimulated and invigorated in a manner altogether marvelous. The audience realizes this instantly, and will even sometimes forgive technical imperfections if the performance is inspired. Rubinstein was technically marvelous, and yet he admitted making mistakes. Nevertheless, for every possible mistake he may have made, he gave, in return, ideas and musical tone pictures that would have made up for a million mistakes. When Rubinstein was overexact his playing lost something of its wonderful charm. I remember that upon one occasion he was playing Balakireff's _Islamei_ at a concert. Something distracted his attention and he apparently forgot the composition entirely; but he kept on improvising in the style of the piece, and after about four minutes the remainder of the composition came back to him and he played it to the end correctly. This annoyed him greatly and he played the next number upon the program with the greatest exactness, but, strange to say, it lost the wonderful charm of the interpretation of the piece in which his memory had failed him. Rubinstein was really incomparable, even more so perhaps because he was full of human impulse and his playing very far removed from mechanical perfection. While, of course, the student must play the notes, and all of the notes, in the manner and in the time in which the composer intended that they should be played, his efforts should by no means stop with notes. Every individual note in a composition is important, but there is something quite as important as the notes, and that is the soul. After all, the vital spark is the soul. The soul is the source of that higher expression in music which cannot be represented in dynamic marks. The soul feels the need for the _crescendos_ and _diminuendos_ intuitively. The mere matter of the duration of a pause upon a note depends upon its significance, and the soul of the artist dictates to him just how long such a pause should be held. If the student resorts to mechanical rules and depends upon them absolutely, his playing will be soulless. Fine playing requires much deep thought away from the keyboard. The student should not feel that when the notes have been played his task is done. It is, in fact, only begun. He must make the piece a part of himself. Every note must awaken in him a kind of musical consciousness of his real artistic mission. QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES XIV S. V. RACHMANINOFF 1. Should the student gain an idea of the work as a whole before attempting detailed study? 2. How is the matter of digital technic regarded in Russia? 3. What part should the study of phrasing play in modern music education? 4. State how contrast in playing may be accomplished. 5. What may be considered the most difficult branch of pianoforte study? 6. What is the law of artistic progress? 7. How must real musical understanding be achieved? 8. What is the vital spark in piano playing? 9. Can one be overexact in playing? 10. What is the effect of too many mechanical rules? [Illustration: A. REISENAUER] ALFRED REISENAUER BIOGRAPHICAL Alfred Reisenauer was born at Königsberg, Germany, Nov. 1st, 1863. He was a pupil of his mother, Louis Köhler, and Franz Liszt. His début as a pianist was made in Rome, in 1881, at the palace of Cardinal Hohenlohe. After a concert tour in Germany and a visit to England he studied Law for one year at the Leipsic University. Not finding this altogether to his liking he resumed his concert work and commenced a long series of tours which included all the nooks and corners of the world where one might find a musical public. He was an accomplished linguist, speaking many languages very fluently. His work as a composer was not significant but in certain branches of pianoforte playing he rose to exceptional heights. He died October 31st, 1907. XVII SYSTEMATIC MUSICAL TRAINING ALFRED REISENAUER "I can never thank my mother enough for the splendid start she gave me in my early musical life. She was a wonderful woman and a veritable genius as a teacher. See, I have here to-day on my piano a copy of the Schumann Sonata in F sharp minor which she herself used and which she played with a feeling I have never heard equaled. There is one thing in particular for which I am everlastingly grateful to her. Before I was taught anything of notes or of the piano keyboard, she took me aside one day and explained in the simple and beautiful tongue which only a mother employs in talking to her child, the wonderful natural relationships of tones used in making music. Whether this was an inspiration, an intuition, or a carefully thought out plan for my benefit, I cannot tell, but my mother put into practice what I have since come to consider the most important and yet the most neglected step in the education of the child. The fault lies in the fact that most teachers at the start do not teach music, rather musical notation and the peculiarities of the instrument. Nothing could possibly be more stultifying to the musical instinct of the child. For instance, the plan generally pursued is to let the child grope over the white keys of the piano keyboard and play exercises in the scale of C, until he begins to feel that the whole musical world lies in the scale of C, with the scales of F and G as the frontiers. The keys of F sharp, B, D flat and others are looked upon as tremendously difficult and the child mind reasons with its own peculiar logic that these keys being so much less used, must, of course be less important. The black keys upon the keyboard are a '_terra incognita_.' Consequently at the very start the child has a radically incorrect view of what music really is. "Before notation existed,--before keyboards were invented,--people sang. Before a child knows anything of notation or a keyboard, it sings. It is following its natural, musical instinct. Notation and keyboards are simply symbols of music--cages in which the beautiful bird is caught. They are not music any more than the alphabet is literature. Unfortunately, our system of musical symbols and the keyboard itself are very complex. For the young child it is as difficult as are Calculus and Algebra for his older brother. As a matter of fact, the keys of F sharp, B, and D flat major, etc., are only difficult because fate has made them so. It would have served the musical purpose just as well if the pitch of the instruments employed had been adjusted so that what is now F sharp, would be the key of C major. That, however, would not have simplified matters and we have to receive our long established musical notation until we can exchange it for a better one. "At a very early age, I was taken to Franz Liszt by my mother. Liszt immediately perceived my natural talent and strongly advised my mother to continue my musical work. At the same time he said 'As a child I was exposed to criticism as a Wunderkind (prodigy), through the ignorance of my parents, long before I was properly prepared to meet the inevitable consequences of public appearance. This did incalculable damage to me. Let your child be spared such a fate. My own experience was disastrous. Do not let your son appear in public until he is a mature artist.' "My first teacher, Louis Köhler, was an artist and a great artist, but he was an artist-teacher rather than an artist-pianist. Compared with many of his contemporaries his playing suffered immensely, but he made an art of teaching as few other men have done. He did not play for his pupils to any extent, nor did he ask them to imitate him in any way. His playing was usually confined to general illustrations and suggestions. By these means the individuality of his pupils was preserved and permitted to develop, so that while the pupil always had an excellent idea of the authoritative traditions governing the interpretation of a certain piece, there was nothing that suggested the stilted or wooden performance of the brainless mimic. He taught his pupils to think. He was an indefatigable student and thinker himself. He had what many teachers would have considered peculiar ideas upon technic. KÖHLER'S TECHNICAL SCHEME "While he invented many little means whereby technical difficulties could be more readily overcome than by the existing plan he could not be called in any way radical. He believed in carrying the technical side of a pupil's education up to a certain point along more or less conventional lines. When the pupil reached that point he found that he was upon a veritable height of mechanical supremacy. Thereafter Köhler depended upon the technical difficulties presented in the literature of the instrument to continue the technical efficiency acquired. In other words, the acquisition of a technic was solely to enable the pupil to explore the world of music equipped in such a way that he was not to be overcome by anything. The everlasting continuance of technical exercises was looked upon by Köhler as a ridiculous waste of time and a great injury. "I also hold this opinion. Let us suppose that I were to sit at the piano for six or seven hours and do nothing but play conventional finger exercises. What happens to my soul, psychologically considered, during those hours spent upon exercises which no man or woman could possibly find anything other than an irritation? Do not the same exercises occur in thousands of pieces but in such connection that the mind is interested? Is it necessary for the advanced pianist to punish himself with a kind of mental and physical penance more trying, perhaps, than the devices of the medieval ascetics or the oriental priests of to-day? No, technic is the Juggernaut which has ground to pieces more musicians than one can imagine. It produces a stiff, wooden touch and has a tendency to induce the pianist to believe that the art of pianoforte playing depends upon the continuance of technical exercises whereas the acquisition of technical ability should be regarded as the beginning and not the end. When pupils leave your schools you say that they are having a 'Commencement.' The acquisition of a technic is only the commencement, unfortunately too many consider it the end. This may perhaps be the reason why our conservatories turn out so many bright and proficient young people who in a few years are buried in oblivion. WITH LISZT "When I had reached a certain grade of advancement it was my great fortune to become associated with the immortal Franz Liszt. I consider Liszt the greatest man I have ever met. By this I mean that I have never met, in any other walk of life, a man with the mental grasp, splendid disposition and glorious genius. This may seem a somewhat extravagant statement. I have met many, many great men, rulers, jurists, authors, scientists, teachers, merchants and warriors, but never have I met a man in any position whom I have not thought would have proved the inferior of Franz Liszt, had Liszt chosen to follow the career of the man in question. Liszt's personality can only be expressed by one word, 'colossal.' He had the most generous nature of any man I have ever met. He had aspirations to become a great composer, greater than his own measure of his work as a composer had revealed to him. The dire position of Wagner presented itself. He abandoned his own ambitions--ambitions higher than those he ever held toward piano virtuosity--abandoned them completely to champion the difficult cause of the great Wagner. What Liszt suffered to make this sacrifice, the world does not know. But no finer example of moral heroism can be imagined. His conversations with me upon the subject were so intimate that I do not care to reveal one word. LISZT'S PEDAGOGICAL METHODS His generosity and personal force in his work with the young artists he assisted are hard to describe. You ask me whether he had a certain method. I reply, he abhorred methods in the modern sense of the term. His work was eclectic in the highest sense. In one way he could not be considered a teacher at all. He charged no fees and had irregular and somewhat unsystematic classes. In another sense he was the greatest of teachers. Sit at the piano and I will indicate the general plan pursued by Liszt at a lesson. Reisenauer is a remarkable and witty mimic of people he desires to describe. The present writer sat at the piano and played at some length through several short compositions, eventually coming to the inevitable "Chopin Valse, Op. 69, No. 1, in A flat major." In the meanwhile, Reisenauer had gone to another room and, after listening patiently, returned, imitating the walk, facial expression and the peculiar guttural snort characteristic of Liszt in his later years. Then followed a long "kindly sermon" upon the emotional possibilities of the composition. This was interrupted with snorts and went with kaleidoscopic rapidity from French to German and back again many, many times. Imitating Liszt he said, "First of all we must arrive at the very essence of the thing; the germ that Chopin chose to have grow and blossom in his soul. It is, roughly considered, this: [Illustration] Chopin's next thought was, no doubt: [Illustration] But with his unerring good taste and sense of symmetry he writes it so: [Illustration] Now consider the thing in studying it and while playing it from the composer's attitude. By this I mean that during the mental process of conception, before the actual transference of the thought to paper, the thought itself is in a nebulous condition. The composer sees it in a thousand lights before he actually determines upon the exact form he desires to perpetuate. For instance, this theme might have gone through Chopin's mind much after this fashion: [Illustration] "The main idea being to reach the embryo of Chopin's thought and by artistic insight divine the connotation of that thought, as nearly as possible in the light of the treatment Chopin has given it. "It is not so much the performer's duty to play mere notes and dynamic marks, as it is for him to make an artistic estimate of the composer's intention and to feel that during the period of reproduction he simulates the natural psychological conditions which affected the composer during the actual process of composition. In this way the composition becomes a living entity--a tangible resurrection of the soul of the great Chopin. Without such penetrative genius a pianist is no more than a mere machine and with it he may develop into an artist of the highest type." A UNIQUE ATTITUDE Reisenauer's attitude toward the piano is unique and interesting. Musicians are generally understood to have an affectionate regard for their instruments, almost paternal. Not so with Reisenauer. He even goes so far as to make this statement: "I have aways been drawn to the piano by a peculiar charm I have never been able to explain to myself. I feel that I must play, play, play, play, play. It has become a second nature to me. I have played so much and so long that the piano has become a part of me. Yet I am never free from the feeling that it is a constant battle with the instrument, and even with my technical resources I am not able to express all the beauties I hear in the music. While music is my very life, I nevertheless hate the piano. I play because I can't help playing and because there is no other instrument which can come as near imitating the melodies and the harmonies of the music I feel. People say wherever I go, 'Ah, he is a master.' What absurdity! I the master? Why, there is the master (pointing to the piano), I am only the slave." THE FUTURE OF PIANOFORTE MUSIC An interesting question that frequently arises in musical circles relates to the future possibilities of the art of composition in its connection with the pianoforte. Not a few have some considerable apprehension regarding the possible dearth of new melodic material and the technical and artistic treatment of such material. "I do not think that there need be any fear of a lack of original melodic material or original methods of treating such material. The possibilities of the art of musical composition have by no means been exhausted. While I feel that in a certain sense, very difficult to illustrate with words, one great 'school' of composition for the pianoforte ended with Liszt and the other in Brahms, nevertheless I can but prophesy the arising of many new and wonderful schools in the future. I base my prophecy upon the premises of frequent similar conditions during the history of musical art. "Nevertheless, it is yet my ambition to give a lengthy series of recitals, with programs arranged to give a chronological aspect of all the great masterpieces in music. I hope to be enabled to do this before I retire. It is part of a plan to circle the world in a manner that has not yet been done." When asked whether these programs were to resemble Rubinstein's famous historical recitals in London, years ago, he replied: "They will be more extensive than the Rubinstein recitals. The times make such a series possible now, which Rubinstein would have hesitated to give." As to American composers, Reisenauer is so thoroughly and enthusiastically won over by MacDowell that he has not given the other composers sufficient attention to warrant a critical opinion. I found upon questioning that he had made a genuinely sincere effort to find new material in America, but he said that outside of MacDowell, he found nothing but indifferently good salon-music. With the works of several American composers he was, however, unfamiliar. He has done little or nothing himself as a composer and declared that it was not his forte. AMERICAN MUSICAL TASTE "I find that American musical taste is in many ways astonishing. Many musicians who came to America prior to the time of Thomas and Damrosch returned to Europe with what were, no doubt, true stories of the musical conditions in America at that time. These stories were given wide circulation in Europe, and it is difficult for Europeans to understand the cultured condition of the American people at the present time. America can never thank Dr. Leopold Damrosch and Theodore Thomas enough for their unceasing labors. Thanks to the impetus that they gave the movement, it is now possible to play programs in almost any American city that are in no sense different from those one is expected to give in great European capitals. The status of musical education in the leading American cities is surprisingly high. Of course the commercial element necessarily affects it to a certain extent; but in many cases this is not as injurious as might be imagined. The future of music in America seems very roseate to me and I can look back to my American concert tours with great pleasure. CONCERT CONDITIONS IN AMERICA "One of the great difficulties, however, in concert touring in America is the matter of enormous distances. I often think that American audiences rarely hear great pianists at their best. Considering the large amounts of money involved in a successful American tour and the business enterprise which must be extremely forceful to make such a tour possible, it is not to be wondered that enormous journeys must be made in ridiculously short time. No one can imagine what this means to even a man of my build." (Reisenauer is a wonderfully strong and powerful man.) "I have been obliged to play in one Western city one night and in an Eastern city the following night. Hundreds of miles lay between them. In the latter city I was obliged to go directly from the railroad depot to the stage of the concert hall, hungry, tired, travel worn and without practice opportunities. How can a man be at his best under such conditions?--yet certain conditions make these things unavoidable in America, and the pianist must suffer occasional criticism for not playing uniformly well. In Europe such conditions do not exist owing to the closely populated districts. I am glad to have the opportunity to make this statement, as no doubt a very great many Americans fail to realize under what distressing conditions an artist is often obliged to play in America." QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES XV ALFRED REISENAUER 1. What should be the first step in the musical education of the child? 2. Why was Köhler so successful as a teacher? 3. Did Liszt follow a method in teaching or was his work eclectic? 4. Give Liszt's conception of how Chopin developed one of his Valses. 5. Have the possibilities of the art of musical composition been exhausted? 6. Are other great schools of pianoforte playing likely to arise? 7. What was Reisenauer's opinion of the works of MacDowell? 8. What may be said of musical taste in America when Reisenauer was touring this country. 9. What may be said of the status of American musical education? 10. What great difficulties do the virtuosos visiting America encounter? [Illustration: EMIL SAUER] EMIL SAUER BIOGRAPHICAL Emil Sauer was born in Hamburg, Germany, October 8, 1862. His first teacher was his mother, who was a fine musician, and who took exceptional pains with her talented son. From 1879 to 1881 he studied with Nicholas Rubinstein, brother of the famous Anton Rubinstein. Nicholas Rubinstein was declared by many to be a far abler teacher than his brother, who eclipsed him upon the concert platform. From 1884 to 1885 Sauer studied with Franz Liszt. In his autobiographical work, "My Life," Sauer relates that Liszt at that time had reached an age when much of his reputed brilliance had disappeared, and the playing of the great Master of Weimar did not startle Sauer as it did some others. However, Liszt took a great personal interest in Sauer and prophesied a great future for him. In 1882 Sauer made his first tour as a virtuoso, and met with such favor that numerous tours of the music-loving countries ensued. The critics praised his playing particularly for his great clarity, sanity, symmetrical appreciation of form, and unaffected fervor. For a time Sauer was at the head of the Meisterschule of Piano-playing, connected with the Imperial Conservatory in Vienna. (The following conference was conducted in German and English.) XVIII THE TRAINING OF THE VIRTUOSO EMIL SAUER One of the most inestimable advantages I have ever had was my good fortune in having a musical mother. It is to her that I owe my whole career as an artist. If it had not been for her loving care and her patient persistence I might have been engaged in some entirely different pursuit. As a child I was very indifferent to music. I abhorred practice, and, in fact, showed no signs of pronounced talent until my twelfth year. But she kept faithfully pegging away at me and insisted that because my grandfather had been a noted artist and because she was devoted to music it must be in my blood. My mother was a pupil of Deppe, of whom Miss Amy Fay has written in her book "Music Study in Germany." Deppe was a remarkable pedagogue and had excellent ideas upon the foundation of a rational system of touch. He sought the most natural position of the hand and always aimed to work along the line of least resistance. My mother instilled Deppe's ideas into me together with a very comprehensive training in the standard etudes and classics within my youthful technical grasp. For those years I could not have had a better teacher. Lucky is the child, who like Gounod, Reisenauer and others, has had the invaluable instruction that a patient, self-sacrificing mother can give. The mother is the most unselfish of all teachers, and is painstaking to a fault. SLOW SYSTEMATIC PRACTICE She insisted upon slow systematic regular practice. She knew the importance of regularity, and one of the first things I ever learned was that if I missed one or two days' practice, I could not hope to make it up by practicing overtime on the following days. Practice days missed or skipped are gone forever. One must make a fresh start and the loss is sometimes not recovered for several days. I was also made to realize the necessity of freshness at the practice period. The pupil who wants to make his practice lead to results must feel well while practicing. Practicing while tired, either mentally or physically, is wasted practice. Pupils must learn to concentrate, and if they have not the ability to do this naturally they should have a master who will teach them how. It is not easy to fix the mind upon one thing and at the same time drive every other thought away. With some young pupils this takes much practice. Some never acquire it--it is not in them. Concentration is the vertebræ of musical success. The student who cannot concentrate had better abandon musical study. In fact, the young person who cannot concentrate is not likely to be a conspicuous success in any line of activity. The study of music cultivates the pupil's powers of concentration perhaps more than any other study. The notes to be played must be recognized instantaneously and correctly performed. In music the mind has no time to wander. This is one of the reasons why music is so valuable even for those who do not ever contemplate a professional career. One hour of concentrated practice with the mind fresh and the body rested is better than four hours of dissipated practice with the mind stale and the body tired. With a fatigued intellect the fingers simply dawdle over the keys and nothing is accomplished. I find in my own daily practice that it is best for me to practice two hours in the morning and then two hours later in the day. When I am finished with two hours of hard study I am exhausted from close concentration. I have also noted that any time over this period is wasted. I am too fatigued for the practice to be of any benefit to me. THE NECESSITY FOR A GOOD GENERAL EDUCATION Parents make a great mistake in not insuring the general education of the child who is destined to become a concert performer. I can imagine nothing more stultifying or more likely to result in artistic disaster than the course that some parents take in neglecting the child's school work with an idea that if he is to become a professional musician he need only devote himself to music. This one-sided cultivation should be reserved for idiots who can do nothing else. The child-wonder is often the victim of some mental disturbance. I remember once seeing a remarkable child mathematician in Hungary. He was only twelve years of age and yet the most complicated mathematical problems were solved in a few seconds without recourse to paper. The child had water on the brain and lived but a few years. His usefulness to the world of mathematics was limited solely to show purposes. It is precisely the same with the so-called musical precocities. They are rarely successful in after life, and unless trained by some very wise and careful teacher, they soon become objects for pity. The child who is designed to become a concert pianist should have the broadest possible culture. He must live in the world of art and letters and become a naturalized citizen. The wider the range of his information, experience and sympathies, the larger will be the audience he will reach when he comes to talk to them from the concert platform. It is the same as with a public speaker. No one wants to hear a speaker who has led a narrow, crabbed intellectual existence, but the man who has seen and known the world, who has become acquainted with the great masterpieces of art and the wonderful achievements of science, has little difficulty in securing an audience providing he has mastered the means of expressing his ideas. CLEAN PLAYING VS. SLOVENLY PLAYING In the matter of technical preparation there is, perhaps, too little attention being given to-day to the necessity for clean playing. Of course, each individual requires a different treatment. The pupil who has a tendency to play with stiffness and rigidity may be given studies which will develop a more fluent style. For these pupils' studies, like those of Heller, are desirable in the cases of students with only moderate technical ability, while the splendid "etudes" of Chopin are excellent remedies for advanced pupils with tendencies toward hard, rigid playing. The difficulty one ordinarily meets, however, is ragged, slovenly playing rather than stiff, rigid playing. To remedy this slovenliness, there is nothing like the well-known works of Czerny, Cramer or Clementi. I have frequently told pupils in my "Meisterschule" in Vienna, before I abandoned teaching for my work as a concert pianist, that they must learn to draw before they learn to paint. They will persist in trying to apply colors before they learn the art of making correct designs. This leads to dismal failure in almost every case. Technic first--then interpretation. The great concert-going public has no use for a player with a dirty, slovenly technic no matter how much he strives to make morbidly sentimental interpretations that are expected to reach the lovers of sensation. For such players a conscientious and exacting study of Czerny, Cramer, Clementi and others of similar design is good musical soap and water. It washes them into respectability and technical decency. The pianist with a bungling, slovenly technic, who at the same time attempts to perform the great masterpieces, reminds me of those persons who attempt to disguise the necessity for soap and water with nauseating perfume. HEALTH A VITAL FACTOR Few people realize what a vital factor health is to the concert pianist. The student should never fail to think of this. Many young Americans who go abroad to study break down upon the very vehicle upon which they must depend in their ride to success through the indiscretions of overwork or wrong living. The concert pianist really lives a life of privation. I always make it a point to restrict myself to certain hygienic rules on the day before a concert. I have a certain diet and a certain amount of exercise and sleep, without which I cannot play successfully. In America one is overcome with the kindness of well-meaning people who insist upon late suppers, receptions, etc. It is hard to refuse kindness of this description, but I have always felt that my debt to my audiences was a matter of prime importance, and while on tour I refrain from social pleasures of all kinds. My mind and my body must be right or failure will surely result. I have often had people say to me after the performance of some particularly brilliant number "Ah! You must have taken a bottle of champagne to give a performance like that." Nothing could be further from the truth. A half a bottle of beer would ruin a recital for me. The habit of taking alcoholic drinks with the idea that they lead to a more fiery performance is a dangerous custom that has been the ruin of more than one pianist. The performer who would be at his best must live a very careful, almost abstemious life. Any unnatural excess is sure to mar his playing and lead to his downfall with the public. I have seen this done over and over again, and have watched alcohol tear down in a few years what had taken decades of hard practice and earnest study to build up. JUDICIOUS USE OF TECHNICAL EXERCISES The field of music is so enormous that I have often thought that the teacher should be very careful not to overdo the matter of giving technical exercises. Technical exercises are, at best, short cuts. They are necessary for the student. He should have a variety of them, and not be kept incessantly pounding away at one or two exercises. As Nicholas Rubinstein once said to me, "Scales should never be dry. If you are not interested in them work with them until you become interested in them." They should be played with accents and in different rhythms. If they are given in the shapeless manner in which some teachers obliged their unfortunate pupils to practice them they are worthless. I do not believe in working out technical exercises at a table or with a dumb piano. The brain must always work with the fingers, and without the sound of the piano the imagination must be enormously stretched to get anything more than the most senseless, toneless, soulless touch. Technic with many is unmistakably a gift. I say this after having given the matter much careful thought. It is like the gift of speech. Some people are fluent talkers, precisely as some people can do more in two hours' technical work at the keyboard than others could accomplish with four. Of course, much can be accomplished with persistent practice, and a latent gift may be awakened, but it is certainly not given to all to become able technicalists. Again some become very proficient from the technical standpoint, but are barren, soulless, uninspired and vapid when it comes to the artistic and musicianly interpretation of a piece. There comes a time to every advanced pianist when such exercises as the scales, arpeggios, the studies of Czerny and Cramer are unnecessary. I have not practiced them for some years, but pray do not think that I attempt to go without exercises. These exercises I make by selecting difficult parts of famous pieces and practicing them over and over. I find the concertos of Hummel particularly valuable in this connection, and there are parts of some of the Beethoven concertos that make splendid musical exercises that I can practice without the fatal diminution of interest which makes a technical exercise valueless. STUDY ABROAD In the matter of foreign study I think that I may speak without bias, as I am engaged in teaching and am not likely to resume for some years. I am _absolutely convinced_ that there are many teachers in America who are as good as the best in Europe. Nevertheless, I would advise the young American to secure the best instruction possible in his native land, and then to go abroad for a further course. It will serve to broaden him in many ways. I believe in patriotism, and I admire the man who sticks to his fatherland. But, in art there is no such thing as patriotism. As the conservatory of Paris provides, through the "Prix de Rome," for a three years' residence in Italy and other countries for the most promising pupil, so the young American music students should avail themselves of the advantages of Old World civilization, art, and music. There is much to be learned from the hustle and vigorous wholesome growth of your own country that would be of decided advantage to the German students who could afford a term of residence here. It is narrowing to think that one should avoid the Old World art centers from the standpoint of American patriotism. VERSATILITY Few people recognize the multifarious requirements of the concert pianist. He must adjust himself to all sorts of halls, pianos and living conditions. The difference between one piano and another is often very remarkable. It sometimes obliges the artist to readjust his technical methods very materially. Again, the difference in halls is noteworthy. In a great hall, like the Albert Hall of London, one can only strive for very broad effects. It is not possible for one to attempt the delicate shadings which the smaller halls demand. Much is lost in the great hall, and it is often unjust to determine the pianist's ability by his exclusively bravura performances in very large auditoriums. CULTIVATING FINGER STRENGTH The concert pianist must have great endurance. His fingers must be as strong as steel, and yet they must be as elastic and as supple as willow wands. I have always had great faith in the "Kleine Pischna" and the "Pischna Exercises" in cultivating strength. These exercises are now world famous, and it would be hard for me to imagine anything better for this particular purpose. They are somewhat voluminous, but necessarily so. One conspicuous difficulty with which teachers have to contend is that pupils attempt pieces requiring great digital strength without ever having gone through such a course as I advocate above. The result is that they have all sorts of troubles with their hands through strain. Some of these troubles are irremediable, others are curable, but cause annoying delays. I have never had anything of this sort and attribute my immunity from weeping sinews, etc., to correct hand positions, a loose wrist and slow systematic work in my youth. VELOCITY Velocity depends more upon natural elasticity than strength. Some people seem to be born with the ability to play rapidly. It is always a matter of the fingers, but is more a matter of the brain. Some people have the ability to think very rapidly, and when these people have good supple hands they seem to be able to play rapidly with comparatively little study. When you fail to get velocity at first, do not hesitate to lay the piece aside for several weeks, months or years. Then you will doubtless find that the matter of velocity will not trouble you. Too much study upon a piece that fails for the time being to respond to earnest effort is often a bad thing. Be a little patient. It will all come out right in the end. If you fuss and fume for immediate results you may be sadly disappointed. TALENT Talent is great and immutable. Take the case of Liszt, for instance. I recently heard from a reliable source the following interesting story: One day Liszt was called away from his class at Wiemar by an invitation to visit the Grand Duke. Von Bülow, then a mature artist, was present, and he was asked by Liszt to teach the class for the day. Liszt left the room, and a young student was asked to play one of Liszt's own compositions. Von Bülow did not like the youth's interpretation, as he had been accustomed to play the same work on tour in a very different manner. Consequently he abused the student roundly, and then sat at the keyboard and was playing to his great satisfaction when the tottering old master broke in the room and with equal severity reprimanded Von Bülow, and sat down at the keyboard and gave an interpretation that was infinitely superior to that of Von Bülow. It was simply a case of superiority of talent that enabled the aged and somewhat infirm Liszt to excel his younger contemporary. BE NATURAL In closing, let me enjoin all young American music students to strive for naturalness. Avoid ostentatious movements in your playing. Let your playing be as quiet as possible. The wrist should be loose. The hands, to my mind, should be neither high nor low, but should be in line with the forearm. One should continually strive for quietness. Nothing should be forced. Ease in playing is always admirable, and comes in time to all talented students who seek it. The Deppe method of hand position, while pedantic and unnecessarily long, is interesting and instructive. Personally, I advocate the use of the Etudes of Chopin, Moscheles and the _Etudes Transcendante_ to all advanced pupils. I have used them with pupils with invariable success. I have also a series of thirteen Etudes of my own that I have made for the express purpose of affording pupils material for work which is not adequately covered in the usual course. Young Americans have a great future before them. The pupils I have had have invariably been ones who progress with astonishing rapidity. They show keenness and good taste, and are willing to work faithfully and conscientiously, and that, after all, is the true road to success. TALENT COUNTS If you think that talent does not count you are very greatly mistaken. We not infrequently see men who have been engaged in one occupation with only very moderate success suddenly leap into fame in an entirely different line. Men who have struggled to be great artists or illustrators like du Maurier astonish the world with a previously concealed literary ability. It is foolish not to recognize the part that talent must play in the careers of artists. Sometimes hard work and patient persistence will stimulate the mind and soul, and reveal talents that were never supposed to exist, but if the talent does not exist it is as hopeless to hunt for it as it is to seek for diamonds in a bowl of porridge. Talented people seem to be born with the knack or ability to do certain things twice as well and twice as quickly as other people can do the same things. I well remember that when all Europe was wild over the "Diabolo" craze my little girl commenced to play with the sticks and the little spool. It looked interesting and I thought that I would try it a few times and then show her how to do it. The more I tried the more exasperated I became. I simply could not make it go, and before I knew it I had wasted a whole morning upon it. My little daughter took it up and in a few minutes' practice she was able to do it as well as an expert. It is precisely the same at the keyboard. What takes some pupils hours to accomplish others can do in a few seconds with apparently less effort. The age of the pupil seems to have little to do with musical comprehension. What does count is talent, that peculiar qualification which seems to lead the student to see through complex problems as if he had been solving them through different generations for centuries. QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES XVI EMIL SAUER 1. Can missed practice periods ever be made up? 2. Does piano study cultivate concentration? 3. What is a good arrangement of practice hours? 4. What are some remedies for slovenly playing? 5. How is one's playing affected by health? 6. Are stimulants good or bad? 7. Is listening important in pianoforte playing? 8. How may finger strength be cultivated? 9. Upon what does velocity depend? 10. What part does talent play in the artist's success? [Illustration: X. SCHARWENKA] XAVER SCHARWENKA BIOGRAPHICAL Franz Xaver Scharwenka was born at Samter, Posen (Polish Prussia), January 6, 1850. He was a pupil of Kullak and Würst at Kullak's Academy in Berlin, from which he graduated in 1868. Shortly thereafter he was appointed a teacher in the same institution. The next year he made his début as a virtuoso at the _Singakademie_. For many years thereafter he gave regular concerts in Berlin in connection with Sauret and Grünfeld. In 1874 he gave up his position in the famous Berlin music school and commenced the career of the touring virtuoso. In 1880 he founded the Scharwenka Conservatory in Berlin together with his brother Philipp Scharwenka, an able composer. In 1891 Scharwenka came to New York to establish a conservatory there. This, however, was closed in 1898 when Scharwenka returned to Berlin as Director of the Klindworth-Scharwenka conservatory. He has been the recipient of numerous honors from the governments of Austria and Germany. He received the title of "Professor" from the King of Prussia (Emperor Wilhelm II) and that of Court Pianist from the emperor of Austria. His many concert tours in America and in Europe have established his fame as a pianist of great intellectual strength as well as strong poetical force. His compositions, including his four Concertos, have been widely played, and his opera, _Mataswintha_, has received important productions. One of his earlier works, the _Polish Dance_, has been enormously popular for a quarter of a century. (The following conference was conducted in German and English.) XIX ECONOMY IN MUSIC STUDY XAVER SCHARWENKA It is somewhat of a question whether any time spent in music study is actually wasted, since all intellectual activity is necessarily accompanied by an intellectual advance. However, it soon becomes apparent to the young teacher that results can be achieved with a great economy of time if the right methods are used. By the use of the words "right methods" I do not mean to infer that only one right method exists. The right method for one pupil might be quite different from that which would bring about the best results with another pupil. In these days far more elasticity of methods exists than was generally sanctioned in the past, and the greatness of the teacher consists very largely of his ability to invent, adapt, and adjust his pedagogical means to the special requirements of his pupil. Thus it happens that the teacher, by selecting only those exercises, etudes and teaching pieces demanded by the obvious needs of the pupil, and by eliminating unnecessary material, a much more rapid rate of advancement may be obtained. One pupil, for instance, might lack those qualities of velocity and dexterity which many of the etudes of Czerny develop in such an admirable manner, while another pupil might be deficient in the singing tone, which is almost invariably improved by the study of certain Chopin etudes. TIME LOST IN EARLY STUDY Although my educational work for many years has been almost exclusively limited to pupils preparing for careers as teachers and as concert pianists, I nevertheless have naturally taken a great interest in those broad and significant problems which underlie the elementary training of the young music student. I have written quite extensively upon the subject, and my ideas have been quite definitely expressed in my book, _Methodik des Klavierspiels: Systematische Darstellung der technischen und æsthetischen Erfordernisse für einen rationellen Lehrgang_. I have also come in close contact with this branch of musical work in the Klindworth-Scharwenka Conservatory in Berlin. My observations have led to the firm conviction that much of the time lost in music study could be saved if the elementary training of the pupil were made more comprehensive and more secure. It is by no means an economy of time to hurry over the foundation work of the pupil. It is also by no means an economy of money to place the beginner in the hands of a second-rate teacher. There is just as much need for the specialist to train the pupil at the start as there is for the head of the "meisterschule" to guide the budding virtuoso. How can we expect the pupil to make rapid progress if the start is not right? One might as well expect a broken-down automobile to win a race. The equipment at the beginning must be of the kind which will carry the pupil through his entire career with success. If any omissions occur, they must be made up later on, and the difficulty in repairing this neglect is twice as great as it would have been had the student received the proper instruction at the start. EAR-TRAINING The training of the ear is of great importance, and if teachers would only make sure that their pupils studied music with their sense of hearing as well as with their fingers, much time would be saved in later work. Young pupils should be taught to listen by permitting them to hear good music, which is at the same time sufficiently simple to insure comprehension. Early musical education is altogether too one-sided. The child is taken to the piano and a peculiar set of hieroglyphics known as notation is displayed to him. He is given a few weeks to comprehend that these signs refer to certain keys on the keyboard. He commences to push down these keys faithfully and patiently and his musical education is thus launched in what many consider the approved manner. Nothing is said about the meaning of the piece, its rhythm, its harmonies, its æsthetic beauties. Nothing is told of the composer, or of the period in which the piece was written. It would be just about as sensible to teach a pupil to repeat the sounds of the Chinese language by reading the Chinese word-signs, but without comprehending the meaning of the sounds and signs. Is it any wonder that beginners lose interest in their work, and refuse to practise except when compelled to do so? I am most emphatically in favor of a more rational, a more broad, and a more thorough training of the beginner. Time taken from that ordinarily given to the senseless, brainless working up and down of the fingers at the keyboard, and devoted to those studies such as harmony, musical history, form, and in fact, any study which will tend to widen the pupil's knowledge and increase his interest, will save much time in later work. WASTE IN TECHNICAL STUDY Geometrically speaking, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Teachers should make every possible effort to find the straight line of technic which will carry the pupil from his first steps to technical proficiency without wandering about through endless lanes and avenues which lead to no particular end. I suppose that all American teachers hear the same complaint that is heard by all European teachers when any attempt is made to insist upon thorough practice and adequate study from the _dilettante_. As soon as the teacher demands certain indispensable technical studies, certain necessary investigations of the harmonic, æsthetic or historical problems, which contribute so much to the excellence of pianistic interpretations, he hears the following complaint: "I don't want to be a composer" or "I don't want to be a virtuoso--I only want to play just a little for my own amusement." The teacher knows and appreciates the pupil's attitude exactly, and while he realizes that his reasoning is altogether fatuous, it seems well-nigh impossible to explain to the amateur that unless he does his work right he will get very little real pleasure or amusement out of it. The whole sum and substance of the matter is that a certain amount of technical, theoretical and historical knowledge must be acquired to make the musician, before we can make a player. There is the distinction. Teachers should never fail to remember that their first consideration should be to make a musician. All unmusical playing is insufferable. No amount of technical study will make a musician, and all technical study which simply aims to make the fingers go faster, or play complicated rhythms, is wasted unless there is the foundation and culture of the real musician behind it. To the sincere student every piece presents technical problems peculiar to itself. The main objection to all technical study is that unless the pupil is vitally interested the work becomes monotonous. The student should constantly strive to avoid monotony in practicing exercises. As soon as the exercises become dull and uninteresting their value immediately depreciates. The only way to avoid this is to seek variety. As I have said in my _Methodik des Klavierspiels_: "The musical and tonal monotony of technical exercises may be lessened in a measure by progressive modulations, by various rhythmical alterations, and further through frequent changes in contrary motion." Great stress should be laid upon practice in contrary motion. The reason for this is obvious to all students of harmony. When playing in contrary motion all unevenness, all breaks in precision and all unbalanced conditions of touch become much more evident to the ear than if the same exercises were played in parallel motion. Another important reason for the helpfulness of playing in contrary motion is not to be undervalued. It is that a kind of physical 'sympathy' is developed between the fingers and the nerves which operate them in the corresponding hands. For instance, it is much easier to play with the fifth finger of one hand and the fifth finger of the other hand than it is to play with the third finger of one hand and the fifth finger of another." WASTE IN UNIMPORTANT SUBJECTS There is a general impression among teachers to-day that much time might be saved by a more careful selection of studies, and by a better adaptation of the studies to particular pupils. For instance, Carl Czerny wrote over one thousand opus numbers. He wrote some of the most valuable studies ever written, but no one would think of demanding a pupil to play all of the Czerny studies, any more than the student should be compelled to play everything that Loeschhorn, Cramer and Clementi ever wrote. Studies must be selected with great care and adapted to particular cases, and if the young teacher feels himself incapable of doing this, he should either use selections or collections of studies edited by able authorities or he should place himself under the advice of some mature and experienced teacher until the right experience has been obtained. It would not be a bad plan to demand that all young teachers be apprenticed to an older teacher until the right amount of experience has been obtained. The completion of a course in music does not imply that the student is able to teach. Teaching and the matter of musical proficiency are two very different things. Many conservatories now conduct classes for teachers, which are excellent in their way. In the olden days a mechanic had to work side by side with his master before he was considered proficient to do his work by himself. How much more important is it that our educators should be competently trained. They do not have to deal with machinery, but they do have to deal with the most wonderful of all machines--the human brain. Some studies in use by teachers are undeserving of their popularity, according to my way of thinking. Some studies are altogether trivial and quite dispensable. I have never held any particular fondness for Heller for instance. His studies are tuneful, but they seem to me, in many cases, weak imitations of the style of some masters such as Schumann, Mendelssohn, etc., who may be studied with more profit. I believe that the studies of Loeschhorn possess great pedagogical value. Loeschhorn was a born teacher: he knew how to collect and present technical difficulties in a manner designed to be of real assistance to the student. The studies of Kullak are also extremely fine. This is a subject which is far more significant than it may at first appear. Whatever the student may choose to study after he leaves the teacher, his work while under the teacher's direction should be focused upon just those pieces which will be of most value to him. The teacher should see that the course he prescribes is unified. There should be no waste material. Some teachers are inclined to teach pieces of a worthless order to gain the fickle interest of some pupils. They feel that it is better to teach an operatic arrangement, no matter how superficial, and retain the interest of the pupil, than to insist upon what they know is really best for the pupil, and run the risk of having the pupil go to another teacher less conscientious about making compromises of this sort. When the teacher has come to a position where he is obliged to permit the pupil to select his own pieces or dictate the kind of pieces he is to be taught in order to retain his interest, the teacher will find that he has very little influence over the pupil. Pupils who insist upon mapping out their own careers are always stumbling-blocks. It is far better to make it very clear to the pupil in the first place that interference of this kind is never desirable, and that unless the pupil has implicit confidence in the teacher's judgment it is better to discontinue. BRAIN TECHNIC VERSUS FINGER TECHNIC Few pupils realize that hours and hours are wasted at the piano keyboard doing those things which we are already able to do, and in the quest of something which we already possess. When we come to think of it, every one is born with a kind of finger dexterity. Any one can move the fingers up and down with great rapidity; no study of the pianoforte keyboard is necessary to do this. The savage in the African wilds is gifted with that kind of dexterity, although he may never have seen a pianoforte. Then why spend hours in practicing at the keyboard with the view of doing something we can already do? It may come as a surprise to many when I make the statement that they already possess a kind of dexterity and velocity which they may not suspect. One does not have to work for years to make the fingers go up and down quickly. It is also a fact that a few lessons under a really good teacher and a few tickets for high-class piano recitals will often give the feeling and "knack" of producing a good touch, for which many strive in vain for years at the keyboard. No, the technic which takes time is the technic of the brain, which directs the fingers to the right place at the right time. This may be made the greatest source of musical economy. If you want to save time in your music study see that you comprehend your musical problems thoroughly. You must see it right in your mind, you must hear it right, you must feel it right. Before you place your fingers on the keyboard you should have formed your ideal mental conception of the proper rhythm, the proper tonal quality, the æsthetic values and the harmonic content. These things can only be perfectly comprehended after study. They do not come from strumming at the keyboard. This, after all, is the greatest possible means for saving time in music study. A great deal might be said upon the subject of the teacher's part in saving time. The good teacher is a keen critic. His experience and his innate ability enable him to diagnose faults just as a trained medical specialist can determine the cause of a disease with accuracy and rapidity. Much depends upon the diagnosis. It is no saving to go to a doctor who diagnoses your case as one of rheumatism and treats you for rheumatic pains, whereas you are really suffering from neurasthenia. In a similar manner, an unskilled and incompetent teacher may waste much treasured time in treating you for technical and musical deficiencies entirely different from those which you really suffer. Great care should be taken in selecting a teacher for with the wrong teacher not only time is wasted, but talent, energy, and sometimes that jewel in the crown of success--"ambition." A CASE IN POINT An illustration of one means of wasting time is well indicated in the case of some pedagogs who hold to old ideas in piano-playing simply because they are old. I believe in conservatism, but at the same time I am opposed to conservatism which excludes all progressiveness. The world is continually advancing, and we are continually finding out new things as well as determining which of the older methods will prove the best in the long run. All musical Europe has been upset during the last quarter of the century over the vital subject of whether the pressure touch is better than the angular blow touch. There was a time in the past when an apparent effort was made to make everything pertaining to pianoforte technic as stiff and inelastic as possible. The fingers were trained to hop up and down like little hammers--the arm was held stiff and hard at the side. In fact, it was not uncommon for some teachers to put a book under the armpit and insist upon their pupils holding it there by pressing against the body during the practice period. H. Ehrlich, who in his day was a widely recognized authority, wrote a pamphlet to accompany his edition of the Tausig technical studies in which this system is very clearly outlined. He asserts that Tausig insisted upon it. To-day we witness a great revolution. The arms are held freely and rigidity of all kind is avoided. It was found that the entire system of touch was under a more delicate and sensitive control when the pressure touch was employed than when the mechanical "hitting" touch was used. It was also found that much of the time spent in developing the hitting touch along mechanical lines was wasted, since superior results could be achieved in a shorter time by means of pressing and "kneading" the keys, rather than delivering blows to them. The pressure touch seems to me very much freer and I am emphatically in favor of it. The older method produced cramped unmusical playing and the pupil was so restricted that he reminded one for all the world of the new-fangled skirts ("hobble-skirts") which seem to give our ladies of fashion so much difficulty just now. The American pupils who have come to Germany to study with me have been for the most part exceedingly well trained. In America there are innumerable excellent teachers. The American pupil is almost always very industrious. His chief point of vantage is his ability to concentrate. He does not dissipate his time or thought. In some instances he can only remain in Europe for two years--sometimes less. He quite naturally feels that a great deal must be done in those two years, and consequently he works at white heat. This is not a disadvantage, for his mental powers are intensified and he is faithful to his labor. The young women of America are for the most part very self-reliant. This is also very much to their advantage. As a rule, they know how to take care of themselves, and yet they have the courage to venture and ask questions when questions should be asked. My residence in America has brought me many good friends, and it is a pleasure to note the great advance made in every way since my last visit here. I am particularly anxious to have some of my later compositions become better known in America, as I have great faith in the musical future of the country. I wish that they might become familiar with such works as my _Fourth Concerto_. I should deeply regret to think that Americans would judge my work as a composer by my "Polish Dance" and some other lighter compositions which are obviously inferior to my other works. QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES XVII XAVER SCHARWENKA 1. Is any time spent in music study really wasted? 2. How may the pupil's elementary work be made more secure? 3. State the importance of ear-training. 4. What additional musical studies should be included in the work of the pupil? 5. What should be the teacher's first consideration? 6. Why must monotony be avoided in technical study? 7. State the value of practice in contrary motion. 8. May time be wasted with unprofitable studies? 9. What is the difference between brain technic and finger technic? 10. State how a revolution in methods of touch has come about. ERNEST SCHELLING BIOGRAPHICAL Ernest Schelling was born at Belvidere, New Jersey, 1875. His first musical training was received from his father. At the age of four and one-half years he made his début at the Philadelphia Academy of Music. At the age of seven he entered the Paris Conservatoire, with the famous Chopin pupil, Georges Mathias, as his teacher. He remained with Mathias for two years. However, he commenced giving concerts which took him to France, England, and Austria when he was only eight years old. At ten he was taken to Stuttgart and placed under the educational guidance of Pruckner and the American teacher, Percy Götschius, who attained wide fame abroad. Shortly thereafter he was placed for a short time under the instruction of Leschetizky, but this was interrupted by tours through Russia and other countries. At twelve he was taken to Basle, Switzerland, and Hans Huber undertook to continue his already much varied training. Here his general education received the attention which had been much neglected. At fifteen he went to study with Barth in Berlin, but the strain of his previous work was so great that at seventeen he was attacked with neuritis and abandoned the career of a virtuoso. An accidental meeting with Paderewski led to an arrangement whereby Paderewski became his teacher for three years during which time Paderewski had no other pupils. Since then Schelling has made numerous tours at home and abroad. [Illustration: ERNEST SCHELLING] XX LEARNING A NEW PIECE ERNEST SCHELLING PRELIMINARY STUDY In studying a new musical composition experience has revealed to me that the student can save much time and get a better general idea of the composition by reading it over several times before going to the instrument. While this is difficult for very young pupils to do before they have become accustomed to mentally interpreting the notes into sounds without the assistance of the instrument, it is, nevertheless, of advantage from the very start. It saves the pupil from much unprofitable blundering. To take a piece right to the keyboard without any preliminary consideration may perhaps be good practice for those who would cultivate ready sight reading, but it should be remembered that even the most apt sight readers will usually take the precaution of looking a new piece through at least once to place themselves on guard for the more difficult or more complicated passages. By forming the habit of reading away from the piano the pupil soon becomes able to hear the music without making the sounds at the keyboard and this leads to a mental conception of the piece as a whole, which invariably produces surprisingly good results. THE TECHNICAL DEMANDS OF THE PIECE "The next consideration should be the execution of the right notes. A careless prima-vista reading often leads the pupil to play notes quite different from those actually in the piece. It is astonishing how often some pupils are deceived in this matter. Until you have insured absolute accuracy in the matter of the notes you are not in condition to regard the other details. The failure to repeat an accidental chromatic alteration in the same bar, the neglect of a tie, or an enharmonic interval with a tie are all common faults which mark careless performances. After the piece has been read as a whole and you have determined upon the notes so that there is no opportunity for inaccuracy from that source you will find that the best way to proceed is to take a very small passage and study that passage first. For the inexperienced student I should suggest two measures or a phrase of similar length. Do not leave these two measures until you are convinced that you have mastered them. This will take a great amount of concentration. Many pupils fail because they underestimate the amount of concentration required. They expect results to come without effort and are invariably disappointed. After the first two measures have been mastered take the next two measures and learn these thoroughly. Then go back and learn measures two and three so that there may be no possibility of a break or interruption between them. Next proceed in the same way with the following four measures and do not stop until you have completed the piece. This kind of study may take more time than the methods to which you have become accustomed, but it is by all means the most thorough and the most satisfactory. I found it indispensable in the preparation of pieces for public performances. It demands the closest kind of study, and this leads to artistic results and a higher perception of the musical values of the composition being studied. Take for instance the C Major Fantasie of Schumann, one of the most beautiful and yet one of the most difficult of all compositions to interpret properly. At first the whole work seems disunited, and if studied carelessly the necessary unity which should mark this work can never be secured. But, if studied with minute regard for details after the manner in which I have suggested the whole composition becomes wonderfully compact and every part is linked to the other parts so that a beautiful unity must result. FORMAL DIVISIONS "Many works have formal divisions, such as those of the sonata, the suite, etc. Even the Liszt 'Rhapsodies' have movements of marked differences in tempo and style. Here the secret is to study each division in its relation to the whole. There must be an internal harmony between all the parts. Otherwise the interpretation will mar the great masterpiece. The difficulty is to find the bearing of one movement upon another. Even the themes of subjects of the conventional sonata have a definite interrelation. How to interpret these themes and yet at the same time produce contrast and unity is difficult. It is this difference of interpretation that adds charm to the piano recitals of different virtuosos. There is no one right way and no one best way, but rather an indefinite margin for personal opinion and the exhibition of artistic taste. If there was one best way, there are now machines which could record that way and there the whole matter would end. But we want to hear all the ways and consequently we go to the recitals of different pianists. How can I express more emphatically the necessity for the pianist being a man of culture, artistic sensibilities and of creative tendencies? The student must be taught to think about his interpretations and if this point is missed and he is permitted to give conventional, uninspired performances he need never hope to play artistically. THE TOUCH REQUIRED "In studying a new piece, as soon as the style of the piece has been determined and the accuracy of the notes secured, the pupil should consider the all-important matter to touch. He should have been previously instructed in the principles of the different kinds of touch used in pianoforte playing. I am a firm believer in associating the appropriate kind of touch with the passage studied from the very beginning. If the passage calls for a staccato touch do not waste your time as many do by practicing it legato. Again, in a cantabile passage do not make the mistake of using a touch that would produce the wrong quality of tone. The wrists at all times should be in the most supple possible condition. There should never be any constraint at that point. When I resumed my musical studies with Paderewski after a lapse of several years he laid greatest emphasis upon this point. I feel that the most valuable years for the development of touch and tone are those which bind the natural facility of the child hand with the acquired agility of the adult. To my great misfortune I was not able to practice between the ages of twelve and eighteen. This was due to excessive study and extensive concert tours as a prodigy. These wrecked my health and it was only by the hardest kind of practice in after life that I was able to regain the natural facility that had marked my playing in childhood. In fact I owe everything to the kind persistence and wonderful inspiration of M. Paderewski. THE RIGHT TEMPO "The right tempo is a very important matter for the student. First of all, he must be absolutely positive that his time is correct. There is nothing so barbarous in all piano-playing as a bad conception of time. Even the inexperienced and unmusical listener detects bad time. The student should consider this matter one of greatest importance and demand perfect time from himself. With some students this can only be cultivated after much painful effort. The metronome is of assistance, as is counting, but these are not enough. The pupil must create a sense of time, he must have a sort of internal metronome which he must feel throbbing within all the time. "Always begin your practice slowly and gradually advance the tempo. The worst possible thing is to start practicing too fast. It invariably leads to bad results and to lengthy delays. The right tempo will come with time and you must have patience until you can develop it. In the matter of 'tempo rubato' passages, which always invite disaster upon the part of the student, the general idea is that the right hand must be out of time with the left. This is not always the case, as they sometimes play in unison. The word simply implies 'robbing the time,' but it is robbed after the same manner in which one 'robs Peter to pay Paul,' that is, a ritard in one part of the measure must be compensated for by an acceleration in another part of the measure. If the right hand is to play at variance with the left hand the latter remains as a kind of anchor upon which the tempo of the entire measure must depend. Chopin called the left hand the _chef d'orchestre_ and a very good appellation this is. Take, for instance, his _B flat minor Prelude_. In the latter part of this wonderful composition the regular rhythmic repetition in octaves in the bass makes a rhythmic foundation which the most erratic and nervous right hand cannot shake. RHYTHMIC PECULIARITIES "Rhythm is the basis of everything. Even the silent mountain boulders are but the monuments of some terrible rhythmic convulsion of the earth in past ages. There is a rhythm in the humming bird and there is a rhythm in the movements of a giant locomotive. We are all rhythmic in our speech, our walk, and in our life more or less. How important then is the study of the rhythmic peculiarities of the new piece. Every contributing accent which gives motion and characteristic swing to the piece must be carefully studied. It is rhythm which sways the audience. Some performers are so gifted with the ability to invest their interpretations with a rhythmic charm that they seem to fairly invigorate their audiences with the spirit of motion. I cannot conceive of a really great artist without this sense of rhythm. THE COMPOSER'S INSPIRATION "Personally I believe in 'pure music,' that is music in the field of pianoforte composition that is sufficient unto itself and which does not require any of the other arts to enhance its beauty. However, in the cases of some of our modern composers who have professedly drawn their musical inspiration from tales, great pictures or from nature, I can see the desirability of investigating these sources in order to come closer to the composer's idea. Some of the works of Debussy demand this. Let me play you his '_Night in Granada_,' for instance. The work is most subtle and requires an appreciation of Oriental life, and is indeed a kind of tonal dream picture of the old fortified palace of Moorish Spain. I feel that in cases of this kind it helps the performer to have in mind the composer's conception and in playing this piece in public I always follow this plan. STUDYING THE PHRASING "Each phrase in a piece requires separate study. I believe that the student should leave nothing undone to learn how to phrase or rather to analyze a piece so that all its constituent phrases become clear to him. Each phrase must be studied with the same deference to detail that the singer would give to an individual phrase. This is by no means an easy matter. More important still is the interrelation of phrases. Every note in a work of musical art bears a certain relation to every other note. So it is with the phrases. Each phrase must be played with reference to the work as a whole or more particularly to the movement of which it is a part. MARKING THE FINGERING "It seems hardly necessary to say anything about the fingering when so much attention is being given to the matter by the best teachers of the country, but certainly one of the most essential considerations in the study of a new piece is the study of the fingering. A detailed study of this should be made and it should be clearly understood that the fingering should be adapted to fit the hand of the player. It is by no means necessary to accept the fingering given in the book as 'gospel.' The wise student will try many fingerings before deciding upon the one that suits him best. Students who go to these pains are the ones who invariably succeed. Those who take anything that is presented to them without considering its advisability rarely attain lofty musical heights. "When a fingering has once been determined upon it should never be changed. To change a fingering frequently means to waste many hours of practice. This may be considered a mechanical method but it is the method invariably employed by successful artists. Why? Simply because one fingering closely adhered to establishes finger habits which give freedom and certainty and permits the player to give more consideration to the other details of artistic interpretation. "I ofttimes find it expedient to adapt a more difficult fingering of some given passage for the reason that the difficult fingering frequently leads to a better interpretation of the composer's meaning. I know of innumerable passages in the piano classics which illustrate this point. Moreover a fingering that seems difficult at first is often more simple than the conventional or arbitrary fingering employed by the student, after the student has given sufficient time to the new fingering. The required accent often obliges the performer to employ a different fingering. The stronger fingers are naturally better adapted to the stronger accents. Otherwise it is best to use a similar fingering for similar passages. MEMORIZING "I should like to add a few words with regard to committing pieces to memory. There are three ways. 1, By sight; that is, seeing the notes in your mind's eye; 2, memorizing by 'ear,' the way which comes to one most naturally; 3, memorizing by the fingers, that is training the fingers to do their duty no matter what happens. Before performing in public the student should have memorized the composition in all of these ways. Only thus can he be absolutely sure of himself. If one way fails him the other method comes to his rescue. "After careful attention has been given to the various points of which I have spoken and the details of the composition satisfactorily worked out the student should practice with a view to learning the piece as a whole. Nothing is so distressing to the musician as a piece which does not seem to have coherence and unity. It should be regarded aurally as the artist regards his work visually. The painter stands off at some distance to look at his work in order to see whether all parts of his painting harmonize. The pianist must do much the same thing. He must listen to his work time and time again and if it does not seem to 'hang together' he must unify all the parts until he can give a real interpretation instead of a collection of disjointed sections. This demands grasp, insight and talent, three qualifications without which the pianist cannot hope for large success." QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES XVIII ERNEST SCHELLING 1. What should be the preliminary study of a new composition? 2. How should the mechanical difficulties of the piece be studied? 3. How may one find the bearing of one movement upon another? 4. State the importance of deciding upon the appropriate touch. 5. How may the right tempo be established? 6. What did Chopin call the left hand? 7. What is it in playing that sways the audience? 8. How should the fingering of a new piece be studied? 9. Why is a more difficult fingering sometimes preferable? 10. Give a practical plan for memorizing. SIGISMUND STOJOWSKI BIOGRAPHICAL Sigismund Stojowski was born at Strelce, Poland, May 2, 1870. He studied piano with L. Zelenski at Cracow and with Diémer at the Paris Conservatoire. At the same institution he studied composition with Léo Delibes. His talent both as a composer and as a pianist was considered extraordinary at that time and he was successful in carrying off two first prizes, one for piano and one for composition (1889). At that time Stojowski's great fellow countryman, Paderewski, assumed the educational supervision of his career and became his teacher in person. Stojowski's orchestral compositions attracted wide attention in Paris and he met with pronounced success as a virtuoso. Mr. Stojowski came to America in 1906 and he entered immediately into the musical life of the country, taking foremost rank as a composer, pianist and teacher. Aside from his musical talent he is a remarkable linguist and speaks many languages fluently. His articles written in English, for instance, are unusually graphic and expressive. Once when complimented upon his linguistic ability he remarked "We Poles are given the credit of being natural linguists because we take the trouble to learn many languages thoroughly in our youth." In 1913 Mr. Stojowski made a highly successful tour abroad, his compositions meeting with wide favor. [Illustration: S. STOJOWSKI] XXI WHAT INTERPRETATION REALLY IS SIGISMUND STOJOWSKI THE COMPOSER'S LIMITATIONS IN HIS MEANS OF EXPRESSION It is difficult for some people who are not versed in the intricate mysteries of the art of music to realize how limited are the means afforded the composer for communicating to the interpreter some slight indication of the ideal he had in mind when writing the composition. It may be said that, while every great composer feels almost God-like at the moment of creation, the merest fraction of the myriad beauties he has in mind ever reach human ears. The very signs with which the composer is provided to help him put his thoughts down on paper are in themselves inadequate to serve as a means of recording more than a shadow of his masterpiece as it was originally conceived. Of course, we are speaking now in a large sense--we are imagining that the composer is a Beethoven with an immortal message to convey to posterity. Of all composers, Beethoven was perhaps the one to employ the most perfect means of expression. His works represent a completeness, a poise and a masterly finish which will serve as a model for all time to come. It must also be noted that few composers have employed more accurate marks of expression--such as time marks, dynamic marks, etc. In all these things Beethoven was obliged to adhere to the conventions adopted by others for this purpose of attempting to make the composer's meaning clearer to other minds. These conventions, like all conventions, are partly insufficient to convey the full idea of the composer, and partly arbitrary, in that they do not give the interpreter adequate latitude to introduce his own ideas in expression. The student should seek to break the veil of conventions provided by notation and seek a clearer insight into the composer's individuality as expressed in his compositions. From this point of view the so-called subjective interpretation seems the only legitimate one. In fact, the ones who pretend to be objective in the sense of being literal and playing strictly according to the marks of expression and admitting little elasticity in the interpretation of these are also, as Rubinstein pointed out, subjective at heart. This may be more concisely expressed thus: Since all things of permanent value in music have proceeded from a fervid artistic imagination, they should be interpreted with the continual employment of the performer's imagination. On the other hand, the subjective method, right as it is in principle, can become, of course, according to the Italian saying, _Traduttore, traditore_--that is, an absolute treachery to the composer's ideal, if the performer's understanding and execution of the composition is not based upon long and careful investigation of all the fundamental laws and associated branches of musical study, which are designed to give him a basis for forming his own opinions upon the best method of interpreting the composition. Inadequate training in this respect is the Chinese Wall which surrounds the composer's hidden meaning. This wall must be torn down, brick by brick, stone by stone, in a manner which we would call "analytical practice." It is the only way in which the student may gain entrance to the sacred city of the elect, to whom the ideal of the composer has been revealed. THE INTERPRETER MUST COÖPERATE WITH THE COMPOSER In a certain sense the interpreter is a coöperator with the composer, or, more definitely expressed, he is the "continuer" along the line of the musical thought and its adequate expression. Music, of all arts, is the unfinished art. When a great painting is completed, time, and time only, will make the changes in its surface. When the great masterpieces left the brushes of Raphael, Rubens, Holbein, Correggio or Van Dyck they were finished works of art. When Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, and Brahms put their thoughts down upon paper they left a record in ink and paper which must be born again every time it is brought to the minds of men. This rebirth is the very essence of all that is best in interpretative skill. New life goes into the composition at the very moment it passes through the soul of the master performer. It is here that he should realize the great truth that in music, more than in any other art, "the letter kills and the spirit vivifies." The interpreter must master the "letter" and seek to give "rebirth" to the spirit. If he can do this he will attain the greatest in interpretative ability. From the literal or objective standpoint, then, an insight is gained into the nature of the composer's masterpiece,--by close and careful study of the work itself, by gaining a knowledge of the musical laws underlying the structure and composition of a work of its kind as well as the necessary keyboard technic to give expression to the work,--but the veil is torn from the composer's hidden meaning, only becoming intimate with his creative personality as a master, by studying his life environments, by investigating the historical background of the period in which he worked, by learning of his joys and his sufferings, by cultivating a deep and heartfelt sympathy for his ideals and by the scrupulous and constant revision of one's own ideals and conceptions of the standards by which his masterpieces should be judged. STUDYING THE HISTORICAL BACKGROUND To exemplify what I mean, I could, for instance, refer to Paderewski's interpretations of Liszt and Chopin. During the time I was associated with the master pianist as a pupil I had abundant opportunities to make notes upon the very individual, as well as the highly artistically differentiated expressions of his musical judgment. It was interesting to observe that he played the Rhapsodies with various extensions and modifications, the result of which is the glorification of Liszt's own spirit. On the contrary, in order to preserve Chopin's spirit, the master would always repudiate any changes, like those of Tausig, for instance, by which some virtuosos pretend to "emphasize" or "modernize" Chopin's personal and perfect pianism. Differences in treatment are the outcome of deep insight as well as the study of the time and conditions under which the work was produced. The study of musical history reveals many very significant things which have a direct bearing not only upon the interpretation of the performer, but upon the degree of appreciation with which the listener is able to enjoy a musical work. It was for this reason that I prefaced the first two recitals of my course of historical recitals given at Mendelssohn Hall, New York, during the past season, with a lecture upon the historical conditions which surrounded the masters at the time the compositions were composed. THE INADEQUACY OF MUSICAL SIGNS I have already referred to the inadequacy of musical signs. Even the mechanical guide, the metronome, is not always to be depended upon to give the exact tempo the composer had in mind. Let me cite a little instance from the biography of Ries, the friend of Beethoven. Ries was preparing to conduct a performance of the Beethoven Ninth Symphony. He requested Beethoven to make notes upon paper regarding the metronomic marks of speed at which the composition should be played. The metronome at that time was a comparatively new instrument. Maelzel, its inventor (or, rather, its improver, since the principle of the metronome was of Dutch origin), was a friend of Beethoven. At times they were on the best of terms, and at other times they were literally "at swords' points." Nevertheless, Maelzel, who had a strong personality, succeeded in inducing Beethoven to put metronomic markings upon several of his compositions. Naturally, the metronome was immediately accorded an important place in the musical world even at that day. Ries was consequently very anxious to give the Choral Symphony according to Beethoven's own ideas. Beethoven had complied with the publisher's desire and sent a slip of paper with the tempi marked metronomically. This slip was lost. Ries wrote to Beethoven for a duplicate. Beethoven sent another. Later the lost slip was found, and, upon comparing it with the second slip, it was found that Beethoven had made an entirely different estimate of the tempi at which he desired the Symphony to be played. Even with the most elaborate and complete marks of expression, such as those, for instance, employed by Beethoven and by Wagner, the composer is confronted with his great poverty of resources to present his views to the mind of the interpreter. Extensive as some of the modern dictionaries of musical terminology seem to be, they are wholly inadequate from the standpoint of a complete vocabulary to give full expression to the artist's imagination. It also gives full scope to an infinite variety of error in the matter of the shades or degrees of dynamic force at which the conventional marks may be rendered. One might venture to remark that composers are the most keen, most conscious judges of their own works, or, rather, of the garments which fit them best. There is in all composition a divine part and also a conscious part. The divine part is the inspiration. The conscious part has to do with dressing the inspiration in its most appropriate harmonic, polyphonic, and rhythmic garments. These garments are the raiment in which the inspiration will be viewed by future generations. It is often by these garments that they will be judged. If the garments are awkward, inappropriate and ill-fitting, a beautiful interpretation of the composer's ideal will be impossible. Nevertheless, it is the performer's duty in each case to try to see through even unbecoming garments and divine the composer's thought, according to the interpreter's best understanding. LEARNING THE MUSICAL LANGUAGE Where interpretation is concerned, one is too often inclined to forget that while there is a higher part, the secrets of which are accessible only to the elect, there is also an elementary part which involves the knowledge of musical grammar, and beyond that the correct feeling of musical declamation--since music, after all, is a language which is at all times perfectly teachable, and which should be most carefully and systematically taught. I consider the book of Mathis Lussy, _Rhythm and Musical Expression_, of great value to the student in search of truths pertaining to intelligent interpretation. Lussy was a Swiss who was born in the early part of the last century. He went to Paris to study medicine, but, having had a musical training in the country of his birth, he became a good pianoforte teacher and an excellent writer upon musical subjects. While teaching in a young ladies' school, he was confronted with the great paucity of real knowledge of the rudiments of expression, and he accordingly prepared a book upon the subject which has since been translated into several languages. This book is most helpful, and I advocate its use frequently. It should be in the hands of every conscientious piano student. MISTAKES PECULIAR TO THE PIANOFORTE PLAYER The nature of the keyboard of the piano, and the ease with which certain things are accomplished, make it possible for the performer to make certain errors which the construction of other instruments would prevent. The pianist is, for instance, entirely unlike the violinist, who has to locate his keyboard every time he takes up his instrument, and, moreover, locate it by a highly trained sense of position. In a certain way I sometimes feel somewhat ashamed for the pianist profession when I hear players, even those with manifest technical proficiency, commit flagrant mistakes against elementary rules of accentuation and phrasing, such as, for instance, an average violinist acquainted with good bowing is accordingly prevented from making upon his instrument. The means of discovering the composer's hidden meaning are, in fact, so numerous that the conscientious interpreter must keep upon continuous voyages of exploration. There are many easily recognizable paths leading to the promised land--one is the path of harmony, without an understanding of which the would-be performer can never reach his goal; another is musical history; others are the studies of phrasing, rhythm, accentuation, pedaling, etc., etc., _ad infinitum_. To fail to traverse any one of these roads will result in endless exasperation. Find your guide, press on without thinking of failure, and the way to success may be found before you know it. QUESTIONS IN STYLE, INTERPRETATION, EXPRESSION AND TECHNIC OF PIANOFORTE PLAYING SERIES XIX SIGISMUND STOJOWSKI 1. What composer preserved the most perfect balance between artistic conception and expression? 2. How may the student break the veil of conventions? 3. What fundamental laws should underlie interpretation? 4. How may master works be born again? 5. Is one ever warranted in altering a masterpiece? 6. Tell of Beethoven's attitude toward the metronome. 7. How may errors arise in the use of the terms of expression? 8. How may one be helped in learning the musical language? 9. State some mistakes peculiar to the pianoforte. 10. What voyages of exploration must the student make? +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's note: | | | | Page 8: Torquamada _sic_ | | Page 153: subtilities _sic_ | | Page 159: regretable amended to regrettable | | Page 187: dumfounded _sic_ | | Page 251: "polish Prussia" amended to "Polish Prussia" | | Page 257: Klaverspiels amended to Klavierspiels | | Page 262: pedagogs _sic_ | | | | Hyphenation has generally been standardized. However, when | | a word appears hyphenated and unhyphenated an equal number | | of times, both versions have been retained | | (offhand/off-hand). | | | | "Etude/Étude" and "etude/étude" are used interchangeably. | | This has been retained. | | | | Discrepancies between the Table of Contents and individual | | chapter headings have been retained. Page references have | | been corrected. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ 
31828	----	Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected. Hyphenation and accentuation have been made consistent. All other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's spelling has been retained. [=x] denotes macron above the letter x. Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). VOCAL EXPRESSION A Class-Book of Voice Training and Interpretation by KATHERINE JEWELL EVERTS Author of "The Speaking Voice" Harper & Brothers New York and London MCMXI * * * * * BOOKS BY KATHERINE JEWEL EVERTS VOCAL EXPRESSION net $1.00 THE SPEAKING VOICE. Post 8vo net 1.00 HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY HARPER & BROTHERS PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA PUBLISHED NOVEMBER, 1911 * * * * * PLAN OF THE BOOK TO THE PUPIL INTRODUCTION PART I STUDIES IN VOCAL INTERPRETATION PRELIMINARY STUDY:--To Establish a Conscious Purpose. DISCUSSION:--The Relation of the Speaker to His Audience. MATERIAL:--Direct Appeal in Prose and Verse, with Suggestive Analysis. SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION. FIRST STUDY:--To Establish Vitality in Thinking. DISCUSSION:--Action of the Mind in Reading Aloud. MATERIAL:--The Essay and Didactic Poetry, with Suggestive Analysis. SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION. SECOND STUDY:--To Establish Intelligence in Feeling. DISCUSSION:--Emotional Response and Abandon. MATERIAL:--Lyric Poetry, with Suggestive Analysis. SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION. THIRD STUDY:--To Develop the Whimsical Sense. DISCUSSION:--Humor and Fancy. MATERIAL:--Fairy Story, Fable, and Nonsense Rhyme, with Suggestive Analysis. SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION. FOURTH STUDY:--To Develop Imaginative Vigor. DISCUSSION:--The Picture, the Atmosphere, the Action. MATERIAL:--Short Story and Epic Poetry, with Suggestive Analysis. SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION. FIFTH STUDY:--To Develop Dramatic Instinct. DISCUSSION:--Impersonation and Characterization. MATERIAL:--Monologue and Play, with Suggestive Analysis. SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION. PART II STUDIES IN VOCAL EXPRESSION INTRODUCTORY DISCUSSION:--The Vocal Vocabulary. STUDY IN PAUSE AND CHANGE OF PITCH. STUDY IN INFLECTION. STUDY IN TONE COLOR. PART III STUDIES IN VOCAL TECHNIQUE INTRODUCTORY DISCUSSION:--Tuning the Instrument. HOW TO SUPPORT THE TONE. Directions and Exercises. HOW TO FREE THE TONE. Directions and Exercises. HOW TO RE-ENFORCE THE TONE. Directions and Exercises. TO THE PUPIL Let me trace the evolution which has led to the plan of this text-book. A class in elocution of which you are a member is given a paragraph from _Modern Eloquence_, a bit from an oration or address of Beecher or Phillips or Beveridge, to study. The passage appeals to you. You are roused by it to an eager, new appreciation of courage, conservatism or of the character of some national hero. You "look" your interest. You are asked to go to the platform. You are glad. You want to repeat the inspired word of the prophet. You begin confidently to voice the words of the great orator--the words which you had lifted alive from the page--but in your voice they sound now formal, cold, lifeless. You hesitate, your emotion is killed, your thought inhibited, your eagerness gone, your impulse dead--but you have made a discovery. You have become conscious of a great need, and your teacher, if she be wise, has discovered the nature of that need. You consult together and find three things have failed you, and, through you, the orator you wished to interpret. These things are your mind, your vocabulary, and your voice. You find that your need is threefold--it is the need to feel intelligently and to think vitally _on your feet_; the need to acquire a vocal vocabulary; the need to train your instruments of expression--voice and body. To help you and your teacher to meet this threefold need is the wish of this book; and the book's plan is the result of the author's experience with her own pupils in watching the evolution of their skill in vocal expression, the development, along natural lines, of their ability to speak effectively. VOCAL EXPRESSION INTRODUCTION The strongest impulse of the human heart is for self-expression. The simplest form of expression is speech. Speech is the instinctive use of a natural instrument, the voice. The failure to deal justly with this simple and natural means of expression is one of the serious failures of our educational system. Whether the student is to wait on another's table or be host at his own; whether he is to sell "goods" from one side of a counter or buy them from the other; whether he is to enter one of the three great professions of law, medicine, or theology; "go on the stage" or platform; become Minister to France or President of the United States, it remains precisely true that to speak effectively will be essential to his success, and should be as essential to his own happiness as it will be to that of all involved in his pursuit of success. Yet, if we give heed at all to the question of voice and speech, it is our last, not our first, consideration. We still look upon the mind as a storehouse instead of a clearing-house. We continue to concern ourselves with its ability to take in, not its capacity to give out. Voice and speech are still left to shift for themselves during the period of school life when they should be guarded and guided as a most essential equipment for life after school days are over. To convert the resultant hard, high-pitched, nasal tone which betrays the American voice into the adequate agent of a temperament which distinguishes the American personality, and to help English speech in this country to become an efficient medium of lucid intercourse, such is the object of this book. In an address upon the "Question of Our Speech" delivered before a graduating class at Bryn Mawr, several years ago, Mr. Henry James said: "No civilized body of men and women has ever left so vital an interest to run wild, to shift, as we say, all for itself, to stumble and flounder, through mere adventure and accident, in the common dust of life, to pick up a living, in fine, by the wayside and the ditch. "The French, the Germans, the Italians, the English, perhaps, in particular, and many other people, Occidental and Oriental, I surmise, not excluding the Turks and the Chinese, have for the symbol of education, of civility, a tone-standard; we alone flourish in undisturbed and in something like sublime unconsciousness of any such possibility." So searching an arraignment by so eminent a scholar before an audience of so high a degree of intelligence and culture seems to have been necessary to command an adequate appreciation of the condition of "Our Speech" and to incite an adequate effort toward reform. Since the arraignment was made and afterward published, classes have been organized, books written, and lectures delivered in increasing abundance, forming a veritable speech crusade--and the books and the classes and the lectures have availed much, but the real and only "reliable remedy" lies with the teacher in the public and private schools and colleges of the United States. And it is to the teacher of English and Elocution that this _Class Book on Vocal Expression_ is offered. _Learning to Talk_ might have been a truer, as it had been a simpler, title, yet the more comprehensive phrase has justifiable significance, and we have chosen it in the same spirit which discards for the text-book in Rhetoric or English Composition the inviting title _Learning to Write_. There is a close analogy between the evolution of vocal and the evolution of verbal expression. The method of instruction in the study of the less heeded subject of the "Spoken Word" throws an interesting light on the teaching of the more regarded question of the "Written Word." An experience as teacher of expression and English in a normal school in Minnesota has influenced the author of these pages to so large an extent in the formulation of her own method of study, and so in the plan of this volume, that it seems advisable to record it. To the work of reading or expression to which she was originally called two classes in composition were added. The former teacher of composition had bequeathed to the work as a text-book a rhetoric which consisted of involved theory plus one hundred and twenty-five separate and distinct rules for the use of words, and the teacher of expression found, to her amazed dismay, that the students had been required to learn these rules, not only "by heart," but by number, referring to them as rule six or thirty-six or one hundred and twenty-five, according to the demanded application. A week, possibly a fortnight, passed in silent struggle, then the distracted teacher of expression went to the president of the school with these questions: "Of what avail are one hundred and twenty-five rules for the use of words when these children have less than that number of words to use, and no desire to acquire more? Could you make teachers of these normal students by giving a hundred and more laws for the governing of pupils and the imparting of the material of knowledge, if you furnished neither pupils nor material upon which to test the laws?" "Certainly not!" was the restful reply of one of the wisest of the educators I have known. "May I lay aside the text-book and read with these students in English for a little?" "You may teach them to write English in any way you can!" The next day the class in composition was discovered eagerly reading Tennyson's _Holy Grail_, stopping to note this felicitous phrase, that happy choice of words, the pertinent personnel of a sentence or paragraph. The first examination of the term consisted in a series of single questions, written on separate slips of paper and laid face down on the teacher's desk. Each student took one of these slips which read, "Tell in your own words the story of _The Coming of Arthur_, the _Holy Grail_, _Lancelot and Elaine_ or _Guinevere_," as the chance of the chooser might allot a given idyl. The experiment was a success. The president was satisfied with the papers in English composition. Each student had had "something to say" and had said it. Each student had words at his command little dreamed of in his vocabulary before the meeting with the Knights of the Round Table. The first step toward a mastery of Verbal Expression had been successfully taken! The consciousness of need--the need of a vocabulary--had been awakened. The desire to supply that need--to acquire a vocabulary--had been aroused. A way to acquire a vocabulary had been made manifest. Out of such consciousness alone is born the willingness to work upon which progress in the mastery of any art depends. To the teacher of expression it seemed no more advisable now than it had seemed before, to ask the students to learn either "by heart" or by number the one hundred and twenty-five rules of technique. But the great laws governing the use of a vocabulary she now found her students eager to study, to understand, and to apply. She found her class willing to enter upon the drudgery which a mastery of technique in any art demands. So in the teaching of Vocal Expression, he who _begins_ with rules for the use of this change of pitch or that inflection, this pause or that color of tone, before he has aroused in the pupil the desire to express a vivid thought, and so made him conscious of the need to command subtle changes of pitch, swift contrasts in tone and turns of inflection, will find himself responsible for mechanical results sadly divorced from true and natural speech. But let the teacher of expression begin, not with rules of technique, but with the material for inspiration and interpretation; let him rouse in the pupil the impulse to express and then furnish the material and means for study which shall enrich the vocabulary of expression and he will find the instruments of the art--voice and speech--growing into the free and efficient agents of personality they are intended by nature to be. * * * * * In March, 1906, the editor of _Harper's Bazar_ began a crusade in the interest of the American voice and speech. Through the issues of more than a year the magazine published arraignment, admonition, and advice on this subject. It was the privilege of the author of this volume to contribute the last four articles in that series. In response to a definite demand from the readers of the Bazar these articles were later embodied in a little book called _The Speaking Voice_. In a preface to this book the author confesses her "deliberate effort to simplify and condense the principles fundamental to all recognized systems of vocal instruction," making them available for those too occupied to enter upon the more exhaustive study set forth in more elaborate treatises. The book was not intended for hours of class-room work in schools or colleges, but for the spare moments of a business or social life, and its reception in that world was gratifying. But, to the author's delight, the interest aroused created a demand in the schools and colleges for a real text-book, a book which could be put into the hands of students in the departments of English and expression in public and private institutions and colleges, and especially in normal schools. It is in response to that appeal that this class-book in _Vocal Expression_ is issued; and it is to the teachers whose impelling interest and enthusiasm in the subject justify the publication of this volume that the author desires first to express her grateful appreciation. To Miss Frances Nash, of the Lincoln High School in Cleveland, for her invaluable advice in determining the exact nature of the need which the book must meet, and for her assistance in choosing the material for interpretation, my gratitude and appreciation are especially due. To others whose influence through books or personal instruction has made this task possible, acknowledgment made in _The Speaking Voice_ is reiterated. PART I STUDIES IN VOCAL INTERPRETATION PRELIMINARY STUDY TO ESTABLISH A CONSCIOUS PURPOSE "The orator must have something in his very soul he feels to be worth saying. He must have in his nature that kindly sympathy that connects him with his fellow-men and which so makes him a part of the audience that his smile is their smile, his tear is their tear, the throb of his heart the throb of the hearts of the whole assembly."--HENRY WARD BEECHER. We have said that whatever part in the world's life we choose or are chosen to take, it remains precisely true that to speak effectively is essential to fulfilling, in the highest sense, that function. Whether the occupation upon which we enter be distinguished by the title of cash-girl or counsellor at law; dish-washer or débutante; stable-boy or statesman; artist in the least or the highest of art's capacities, crises will arise in that calling which demand a command of effective speech. The situation may call for a slow, quietly searching interrogation or a swift, ringing command. The need may be for a use of that expressive vocal form which requires, to be efficient, the rugged or the gracious elements of your vocabulary; the vital or the velvet tone; the straight inflection or the circumflex; the salient or the slight change of pitch; the long or the short pause. Whatever form the demand takes, the need remains for command of the efficient elements of tone and speech if we are to become masters of the situation and to attain success in our calling. How to acquire this mastery is our problem. How to take the first step toward acquiring that command is the subject of this first study. Is there a student reader of these pages who has not already faced a situation requiring for its mastery such command? Listen to Mr. James again: "All life, therefore, comes back to the question of our speech, the medium through which we communicate with each other; for all life comes back to the question of our relations with each other. These relations are possible, are registered, are verily constituted by our speech, and are successful in proportion as our speech is worthy of its human and social function; is developed, delicate, flexible, rich--an adequate accomplished fact. The more we live by it, the more it promotes and enhances life. Its quality, its authenticity, its security, are hence supremely important for the general multifold opportunity, for the dignity and integrity, of our existence." Is there one among you whose relations with others would not have been rendered simpler, truer, clearer at some critical moment had your "speech been more worthy of its great human and social function?" Then, do you hesitate to enter upon a study which shall make for clarified relations and a new "dignity and integrity of existence?" Anticipating your reply, I invite you to take a first step in Vocal Expression. How shall we approach the subject? How did you begin to master any one of the activities in which you are more or less proficient? How did you learn to swim, or skate, or play the violin? Not by standing on the shore and gazing at the water or ice! Not by looking at violins in shop windows! No! You began by leaping into the water, putting on your skates and going out on the ice; taking the violin into your hands and drawing the bow across the strings. But you say: "We have taken the step which corresponds to these in speech! We can talk!" Exactly! But what command of the art of skating or swimming or playing the violin would the artist in any of these activities have achieved had he been content to stop with the act of jumping into the water, going out on the ice, or drawing the bow across the violin? The question's answer calls up an illuminating analogy. Are not most of us in regard to our mastery of speech in the condition of the skater, the swimmer, the fiddler in the first stage of those expressive acts? Are we not floundering in the water, fallen on the ice, or alienating the ears of our friends? "We are so! We confess it!"--every time we speak. And so to-day we shall offer no argument against entering upon an _introductory_ study--we shall take our first step in the Art of Vocal Expression. But we shall take it in a new spirit--the spirit of an artist bent upon the mastery of his art. If we flounder or fall, we shall not be more content in our ignominy than is the choking swimmer or the prostrate skater. If we produce painful instead of pleasing sounds with our instrument, we shall not persist in a merciless process of tone production; but we shall proceed to study diligently the laws governing the control of the instrument until we have mastered its technique and made it an agent of harmonious intercourse. We shall take the first steps with a conscious purpose, the purpose to make our speech worthy of its great social and human function. Then in this spirit I invite you "to plunge." I furnish as the material for your experiment these sentences: DISCUSSION OF DIRECT APPEAL Do you ask me, then, what is this Puritan principle? The Puritan principle in its essence is simply individual freedom!--CURTIS. Mind your own business with your absolute will and soul, but see that it is a good business first.--RUSKIN. Back to the bridge and show your teeth again, Back to the bridge and show to God your eyes!--MACKAYE. What news, and quickly!--MACKAYE. Do not pray for tasks equal to your powers. Pray for powers equal to your tasks.--PHILLIPS BROOKS. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home. Is this a holiday?--SHAKESPEARE. And so, gentlemen, at this hour we are not Republicans, we are not Democrats, we are Americans!--CURTIS. I shall not discuss the interpretation of these sentences with you. I shall not interpret them for you. Such discussion and interpretation is your part in this study. But you are not to discuss them with a pencil on paper; you are to interpret them with your voice to another mind. Let us stop here and consider together for a few moments this act which we call Vocal Interpretation (which might be more simply designated as Reading Aloud), and with which these first studies are concerned. What does it mean to vocally interpret a piece of literature--a poem, a play, a bit of prose; a paragraph, a sentence, or even a single word? It means that you, the interpreter, must transfer the thought contained in that word, phrase, sentence, or paragraph from the printed page to the mind of an auditor. It means that you must take the thought out of the safety vault and put it into circulation. That is your problem, and it presents three factors. You cannot slight any one of these factors and expect to successfully solve your problem. These factors are: your author's thought, your own voice, and your auditor's mind. We shall concern ourselves in this first study with the last of these three factors--the mind of the auditor, or, to put it more definitely, your attitude toward the mind of your auditor. We shall make this our first concern, not because it is more essential to successful delivery than the other two elements of the problem, but because failure at this point is a fundamental failure. Such failure involves the whole structure in ruin. Let me make this point explicit. Failure of the speaker to direct the thought toward a receiving mind--the mind of an auditor--results in blurred thought, robs the voice of all aim, and reduces the interpretation to a meaningless recital of words. Consider the first factor in the problem of interpretation--the thought of the author. Take these first two sentences: Do you ask me, then, what is this Puritan principle? The Puritan principle in its essence is simply individual freedom! A wholly satisfying interpretation of these lines involves a knowledge of the speech from which they are taken, and a knowledge of the circumstances under which it was delivered. Complete possession of the thought, which alone insures perfect expression, requires a grasp of the situation out of which it was born and an appreciation of the mind which conceived it. But with no context and no knowledge of these conditions, and so only an approximate appreciation of the thought in all its fulness, the interpreter, under the stimulus of an intent to convince another of the truth contained in the detached sentence, may deliver the lines convincingly! And to carry conviction is the first and fundamental requisite of all good delivery. So it is with the second factor in your problem. Your voice may fail at a dozen different points, but _directed_ thought can employ so skilfully even an inefficient instrument that the resultant expression, while never satisfying, may still carry conviction. But let the one who speaks these lines feel no responsibility toward another, let him fail to direct the idea toward another mind, and the most complete possession of the author's thought, plus the most perfect control of the voice, will fail to make the interpretation convincing. You must establish a relation with your auditor! You must have an aim. You must "have something to say," but you must also have some one "to say it at." You cannot hope to become an expert marksman by "shooting into the air." Then once more I bid you approach the subject of Vocal Interpretation in a new spirit. Let your study of the thought in these sentences hold in its initial impulse this idea: "I have something I _must tell you_!" Try prefacing your interpretation with some such phrase as this: "Listen to me!" or, "I want to tell you something." I would suggest as a preliminary exercise that you should try "shooting at a mark" these single words: "No!" "Yes!" "Come!" "Go!" "Aim!" "Fire!" "Help!" "What ho!" Listen to me! "You will find the gayest castles in the air far better for comfort and for use than the dungeons that are daily dug and caverned out by grumbling, discontented people."--EMERSON. Let me tell you something! "Might is right, say many, and so it is. Might is the right to bear the burdens of the weak, to cheer the faint, to uplift the fallen, to pour from one's own full store to the need of the famishing."--NAPIER. It is the angel-aim and standard in an act that consecrates it. He who aims for perfection in a trifle is trying to do that trifle holily. The trier wears the halo, and, therefore, the halo grows as quickly round the brows of peasant as of king.--GANNETT. Think twice before you speak, my son; and it will do no harm if you keep on thinking while you speak.--ANONYMOUS. Sweet friends Man's love ascends, To finer and diviner ends Than man's mere thought e'er comprehends. --LANIER. SUGGESTIVE ANALYSIS HAMLET'S SPEECH TO THE PLAYERS _Hamlet:_ Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness.... Be not too tame, neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature, for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. --SHAKESPEARE. Let us consider together the problem of vocally interpreting this speech of Hamlet's, keeping the mind of the auditor constantly before us, the special factor in our problem which is the concern of this study. What is the first point to be determined? The situation, is it not? Remember, in our previous discussion I have made it clear that it is not essential _to our present purpose_ that we should know, in determining our situation, the exact conditions under which this speech was delivered. Neither is it essential _to our present purpose_ that we should make an exhaustive study of the play of "Hamlet" or of the character of the Prince of Denmark. Lest you mistake me I must reiterate the fact that an interpretation of these lines, looked upon as Hamlet's speech, would require just such exhaustive study of context and character--study which would lead to that complete possession which alone insures perfect expression; but it is legitimate at this point in our study of vocal expression to use this text quite apart from its context as a perfect example of direct appeal. It is legitimate to _imagine_ a situation of our own in which this thought could be pertinently expressed. We must then first determine what you, the speaker, are to represent, and the nature of the audience you are to address. One word in the text more than any other, perhaps, determines these points--the word "players." With this word as a key to a probable situation, let us imagine that you, the one who must "speak this speech," are a stage-director of your own play, and that we, the class to whom you must speak, are a company of players (actors, as we now call them) which is about to present your play. The fact that this is exactly the situation in Shakespeare's play from which this speech is taken is interesting, but does not affect our attitude toward the text. But that we should assume the state of mind which animated the author of the _Mouse-trap, is_ vital to our problem. Hamlet was intent upon getting an effect incalculably potent from the delivery of the "speech" he "had pronounced." You must imagine that you have written not merely a play, but a play which you intend shall have a powerful influence upon the lives of the people who are to hear it. Once more, then, let us determine the exact situation. You, the author of a moving play--you, its stage-director--have called us, your actors, together for rehearsal. You know just how you wish the lines of your play delivered. It is absolutely vital to the success of your venture that we, the actors, should grasp your ideal of delivery and act upon it. You must convince us that this is the only way in which you will permit the text to be handled. You are the orator as Mr. Beecher has drawn him for us. You will realize, in thinking your way through this appeal, that, while the stage-director is addressing the whole company of players, he has singled out from the others one who is to deliver a particular speech from his play. It is well to follow this idea of the situation. Include us all, then, as a class in your chosen cast, but single out one of us, and speak directly at the mind of that one. Look him straight in the eye. Direct your thought in the main to his mind, even while your thought reaches out and draws us all into the circle of its enthusiasm. Now, with this attitude and intent toward an audience, try to vocally interpret, to _think aloud_ this thought. What is the trouble? "Speak the speech" you say, "is a difficult combination of words to utter"? "'Trippingly' trips up your tongue"? "You don't understand the reference to a 'town-crier'"? Ah, what discoveries we are making! "You feel that you should be able to illustrate your own ideal of delivery by delivering these directions after the very manner you ask your players to observe"? That might legitimately be expected of you, I think. "But this you cannot do!" What a shocking confession! Yes, but how good to have this new knowledge of your own ability, or, in this case, disability. How appalling to find that you cannot easily utter the simple combination of words, "Speak the speech, I pray you," without stumbling; that any word, a plain, simple English word, trips your tongue. How appalling, but how encouraging it is! For the discovery of this fact, the consciousness of these limitations, "constitutes half the battle" before us. It is a battle. But you shall be equipped to meet it. Turn to the chapters on "Freeing the Tone." Find the exercises for training the tongue. Faithful practice of these exercises (even _without_ direction, but, if you are a member of the class in expression for which this book was made, _under_ direction) will very shortly conquer the unruly tongue for use in uttering any difficult combination of words. And your teacher will patiently "pick you up" (_in this first study_) every time you trip over a word or phrase, and she will patiently refer you to the corner of history which will explain any unfamiliar portions of your text if _you_ will persistently try to do _your_ part at this point. That part is, to think the thought before you directly at another's mind. That is all we ask at this point. Make this direct appeal for simplicity in delivery straight to the mind of him whom you have chosen to receive, and act upon it. Talk to me if I am your chosen player! Convince me! Make me realize what you expect of me! Make me want to meet your expectation! Make me afraid to fail you! With these suggestions and this direct appeal to you, I leave you with your teacher and with the following material chosen for your preliminary study in _Vocal Interpretation_. SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION There was once a noble ship full of eager passengers, straining at full speed from England to America. Two-thirds of a prosperous voyage thus far were over, and in our mess we were beginning to talk of home. Suddenly a dense fog came, shrouding the horizon, but, as this was a common occurrence in the latitude we were sailing, it was hardly mentioned in our talk. A happier company never sailed upon an autumn sea. When a quick cry from the lookout, a rush of officers and men, and we were grinding on a ledge of rocks off Cape Race. I heard the cry, "Every one on deck!" and knew what that meant--the masts were in danger of falling. A hundred pallid faces were huddled together near the stern of the ship where we were told to go and wait. Suddenly we heard a voice up in the fog in the direction of the wheel-house ringing like a clarion above the roar of the waves. As the orders came distinctly and deliberately through the captain's trumpet to "Shift the cargo," to "Back her," to "Keep her steady," we felt, somehow, that the commander up there in the thick mist knew what he was about. When, after weary days of anxious suspense, the vessel leaking badly, we arrived safely in Halifax, old Mr. Cunard, agent of the line, on hearing from the mail officer that the steamer had struck on the rocks and been saved by the captain's presence of mind and courage, replied, simply: "Just what I might have expected. Captain Harrison is always master of the situation." No man ever became master of the situation by accident or indolence. "He happened to succeed" is a foolish, unmeaning phrase. No man happens to succeed. "What do you mix your paints with?" asked a visitor of Opie, the painter. "With brains, sir," was the artist's reply. * * * There are men who fail of mastery in the world from too low an estimate of human nature. "Despise nothing, my son," was the advice a mother gave to her boy when he went forth into the untried world to seek his fortune, and that boy grew up into Sir Walter Scott. * * * In case of great emergency it took a certain general in our army several days to get his personal baggage ready. Sheridan rode into Winchester without even a change of stockings in his saddle-bags. * * * All great leaders have been inspired with a great belief. In nine cases out of ten, failure is borne of unbelief.--_Masters of the Situation_, JAMES T. FIELDS. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger: Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage: * * * Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height! On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. * * * I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge Cry--God for Harry! England! and St. George!--_Henry V._, SHAKESPEARE Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, on this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate--we cannot consecrate--we cannot hallow--this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it, far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.--_Address at Gettysburg_, ABRAHAM LINCOLN. From an address delivered in the Auditorium, at Chicago, on the afternoon of February 22, 1902, on the occasion of the celebration of Washington's Birthday. The meaning of Washington in American history is discipline. The message of Washington's life to the American people is discipline. The need of American character is discipline. Washington did not give patriotism to the American colonies. The people had that as abundantly as he. He did not give them courage. That quality was and is in the American blood. He did not even give them resource. There were intellects more productive than his. But Washington gave balance and direction to elemental forces. He was the genius of order. He was poise personified. He was the spirit of discipline. He was the first Great Conservative. It was this quality in him that made all other elements of the Revolution effective. It was this that organized our nebulous independence into a nation of liberty. The parts of a machine are useless until assembled and fitted each to its appropriate place. Washington was the master mechanic of our nation; so it is that we are a people. But we are not yet a perfect people. We are still in the making. It is a glorious circumstance. Youth is the noblest of God's gifts. The youth of a nation is like the youth of a man. The American people are young? Yes! Vital? Yes! Powerful? Yes! Disciplined? Not entirely. Moderate? Not yet, but growing in that grace. And therefore on this, his day, I bear you the message of Washington--he, whose sanity, orderliness, and calm have reached through the century, steadying us, overcoming in us the untamed passions of riotous youth.--_Conservatism; the Spirit of National Self-Restraint_, ALBERT BEVERIDGE. We have noted in our introduction the close analogy which exists between the evolution of vocal expression and the evolution of verbal expression. Let us not fail to follow this analogy through the various studies which make up this one study of interpretation. We have begun our work in vocal expression with the subject of direct appeal. What corresponds to this step in the evolution of verbal expression? Mr. J. H. Gardiner, in his illuminating text for the student of English composition, called _The Forms of Prose Literature_,[1] discusses these forms first under the two great heads of the "Literature of Thought" and the "Literature of Feeling," and then under the four sub-titles which all instruction in rhetoric recognizes as the accepted divisions of literature: Exposition, Argument, Description, and Narrative. We do not find the _exact_ parallel for our study in direct appeal under these subheads. Do we? No. In order "to take the plunge" in the study of English composition which shall correspond to our preliminary effort in interpretation, we must set aside for the moment the question of _exposition_, to be entered upon as a "first study" in verbal expression corresponding to the question of _vitality in thinking_, which is our first study in vocal expression, and look for a parallel "preliminary study" in composition. [1] _The Forms of Prose Literature_, courtesy of Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons. In his comparative study of exposition and argumentation Mr. Gardiner says: "An exceedingly good explanation may leave its reader quite unmoved: a good argument never does. Even if it does not convert him, it should at least make him uncomfortable. Now, when we say that argument must move its reader, we begin to pass from the realm of pure thought, in which exposition takes rise, to that of feeling, for feeling is a necessary preliminary to action. How large a part feelings play in argument you can see if you have ever heard the speech of a demagogue to an excited crowd. It is simply a crass appeal to their lower passions, aided by all the devices of oratory, often, perhaps, also by a moving presence. A better example is Henry Ward Beecher's Liverpool speech, in which he won a hearing from a hostile mob by an appeal to their sense of fair play. Such cases show how far argument may get from the simple appeal to the understanding, how little it may be confined to the element of thought. The prime quality, therefore, of argument is _persuasiveness_." Not argument, then, but the element in argument, called persuasion, furnishes the study in composition which corresponds to direct appeal in interpretation. And just as truly as your intent to convince another mind of the truth of your author's thought will often take care of all other elements in the problem of its vocal expression and result in _convincing interpretation_, so the intent to persuade another mind of the truth of your own thought will often take care of all other elements in the problem of verbal expression and result in _moving composition_. Following Mr. Gardiner a little further in his discussion of persuasion, we find our study in interpretation in direct accord with his advice in the study of composition, for he says: "This element of persuasion belongs to that aspect of literature which has to do with the feelings; and, as depending on the personal equation of the writer, it is much less easy than the intellectual element to catch and generalize from, and almost impossible to teach. All that I can do is to examine it in good examples, and then make very tentatively a few suggestions based on these examples. For it cannot too often be written down in such a treatise as this that the teacher of writing can no more make a great writer than the teacher of painting can turn out a new Rembrandt or a Millet; in either case the most that the teacher can do is to furnish honest and illuminating criticism, and to save his pupil unnecessary and tedious steps by showing him the methods and devices which have been worked out by the masters of the craft." In treating the question of pure style, as another division of the power of persuasion, Mr. Gardiner says: "It is almost impossible to give practical help toward acquiring this gift of an expressive style; the ear for the rhythm and assonance of style is like an ear for music, though more common, perhaps. It is good practice to read aloud the writing of men who are famous for the quality, and, when you read to yourself, always to have in mind the sound of what you read. The more you can give yourself of this exercise, the more when you write, yourself, will you hear the way your own style sounds." With our idea for a combined study of the two great forms of expression reinforced by such authority, let us, in taking our next step in this preliminary study in vocal expression, make it also a preliminary study in verbal expression by using as our next selection for interpretation, not a fragment of an address or a part of an oration, but a complete example of persuasive discourse. Such an example we find in this sermon of Mr. Gannett's "Blessed be Drudgery." And, as we try our growing powers of lucid interpretation upon this subject-matter, let us stop to note its verbal construction and its obedience to the laws of persuasive discourse. The interpretation must be made in the class-room, because interpretation needs an immediate audience; the analysis of the literary form may be made in your study: the two processes should be carried on as far as possible together. BLESSED BE DRUDGERY[2] [2] This sermon is published with the kind permission of the author and the publisher. I Of every two men probably one man thinks he is a drudge, and every second woman is _sure_ she is. Either we are not doing the thing we would like to do in life; or, in what we do and like, we find so much to dislike that the rut tires even when the road runs on the whole, a pleasant way. I am going to speak of the _Culture that comes through this very drudgery_. "Culture through my drudgery!" some one is now thinking: "This treadmill that has worn me out, this grind I hate, this plod that, as long ago as I remember it, seemed tiresome--to this have I owed 'culture'? Keeping house or keeping accounts, tending babies, teaching primary school, weighing sugar and salt at a counter, those blue overalls in the machine shop--have these anything to do with 'culture'? Culture takes leisure, elegance, wide margins of time, a pocket-book; drudgery means limitations, coarseness, crowded hours, chronic worry, old clothes, black hands, headaches. Culture implies college: life allows a daily paper, a monthly magazine, the circulating library, and two gift-books at Christmas. Our real and our ideal are not twins--never were! I want the books,--but the clothes-basket wants me. The two children are good,--and so would be two hours a day without the children. I crave an outdoor life,--and walk down-town of mornings to perch on a high stool till supper-time. I love Nature,--and figures are my fate. My taste is books,--and I farm it. My taste is art,--and I correct exercises. My taste is science,--and I measure tape. I am young and like stir,--the business jogs on like a stage-coach. Or I am _not_ young, I am getting gray over my ears, and like to sit down and be still,--but the drive of the business keeps both tired arms stretched out full length. I hate this overbidding and this underselling, this spry, unceasing competition, and would willingly give up a quarter of my profits to have two hours of my daylight to myself,--at least I would if, working just as I do, I did not barely get the children bread and clothes. I did not choose my calling, but was dropped into it--by my innocent conceit, or by duty to the family, or by a parent's foolish pride, or by our hasty marriage; or a mere accident wedged me into it. Would I could have my life over again! Then, whatever I _should_ be, at least I would _not_ be what I am to-day!" Have I spoken truly for any one here? I know I have. Goes not the grumble thus within the silent breast of many a person, whose pluck never lets it escape to words like these, save now and then on a tired evening to husband or to wife? There is often truth and justice in the grumble. Truth and justice both. Still, when the question rises through the grumble, Can it be that drudgery, not to be escaped, gives "culture"? the true answer is--Yes, and culture of the prime elements of life; of the very fundamentals of all fine manhood and fine womanhood. Our _prime_ elements are due to our drudgery--I mean that literally; the _fundamentals_ that underlie all fineness and without which no other culture worth the winning is even possible. These, for instance--and what names are more familiar? Power of attention; power of industry; promptitude in beginning work; method and accuracy and despatch in doing work; perseverance; courage before difficulties; cheer under straining burdens; self-control and self-denial and temperance. These are the prime qualities; these the fundamentals. We have heard these names before! When we were small mother had a way of harping on them, and father joined in emphatically, and the minister used to refer to them in church. And this was what our first employer meant--only his way of putting the matter was, "Look sharp, my boy!"--"Be on time, John!"--"Stick to it!" Yes, that is just what they all meant: these _are_ the very qualities which the mothers tried to tuck into us when they tucked us into bed, the very qualities which the ministers pack into their platitudes, and which the nations pack into their proverbs. And that goes to _show_ that they are the fundamentals. Reading, writing, and arithmetic are very handy, but these fundamentals of a man are handier to have; worth more; worth more than Latin and Greek and French and German and music and art-history and painting and wax flowers and travels in Europe added together. These last are the decorations of a man or woman: even reading and writing are but conveniences: those other things are the _indispensables_. They make one's sit-fast strength and one's active momentum, whatsoever and wheresoever the lot in life be--be it wealth or poverty, city or country, library or workshop. Those qualities make the solid substance of one's self. And the question I would ask of myself and you is, How do we get them? How do they become ours? High-school and college can give much, but these are never on their programmes. All the book processes that we go to the schools for, and commonly call "our education," give no more than _opportunity_ to win these indispensables of education. How, then, do we get them? We get them somewhat as the fields and valleys get their grace. Whence is it that the lines of river and meadow and hill and lake and shore conspire to-day to make the landscape beautiful? Only by long chiselings and steady pressures. Only by ages of glacier crush and grind, by scour of floods, by centuries of storm and sun. These rounded the hills, and scooped the valley-curves, and mellowed the soil for meadow-grace. There was little grace in the operation, had we been there to watch. It was "drudgery" all over the land. Mother Nature was down on her knees doing her early scrubbing work! That was yesterday: to-day, result of scrubbing-work, we have the laughing landscape. Now what is true of the earth is true of each man and woman on the earth. Father and mother and the ancestors before them have done much to bequeath those elemental qualities to us; but that which scrubs them into us, the clinch which makes them actually ours, and keeps them ours, and adds to them as the years go by--that depends on our own plod, our plod in the rut, our drill of habit; in one word, depends upon our "drudgery." It is because we have to go, and _go_, morning after morning, through rain, through shine, through toothache, headache, heartache, to the appointed spot, and do the appointed work; because, and only because, we have to stick to that work through the eight or ten hours, long after rest would be so sweet; because the school-boy's lesson must be learned at nine o'clock and learned without a slip; because the accounts on the ledger must square to a cent; because the goods must tally exactly with the invoice; because good temper must be kept with children, customers, neighbors, not seven, but seventy times seven times; because the besetting sin must be watched to-day, to-morrow, and the next day; in short, without much matter _what_ our work be, whether this or that, it is because, and only because, of the rut, plod, grind, humdrum _in_ the work, that we at last get those self-foundations laid of which I spoke,--attention, promptness, accuracy, firmness, patience, self-denial, and the rest. When I think over that list and seriously ask myself three questions, I have to answer each with _No_:--Are there any qualities in the list which I can afford to spare, to go without, as mere show-qualities? Not one. Can I get these self-foundations laid, save by the weight, year in, year out, of the steady pressures? No, there is no other way. Is there a single one in the list which I cannot get in some degree by undergoing the steady drills and pressures? No, not one. Then beyond all books, beyond all class-work at the school, beyond all special opportunities of what I call my "education," it is this drill and pressure of my daily task that is my great school-master. _My daily task_, whatever it be--_that is what mainly educates me_. All other culture is mere luxury compared with what that gives. That gives the indispensables. Yet fool that I am, this pressure of my daily task is the very thing that I so growl at as my "drudgery"! We can add right here this fact, and practically it is a very important fact to girls and boys as ambitious as they ought to be,---the higher our ideals, the _more_ we need those foundation habits strong. The street-cleaner can better afford to drink and laze than he who would make good shoes; and to make good shoes takes less force of character and brain than to make cures in the sick-room, or laws in the legislature, or children in the nursery. The man who makes the head of a pin or the split of a pen all day long, and the man who must put fresh thought into his work at every stroke,--which of the two more needs the self-control, the method, the accuracy, the power of attention and concentration? Do you sigh for books and leisure and wealth? It takes more "concentration" to use books--head tools--well than to use hand tools. It takes more "self-control" to use leisure well than workdays. Compare the Sundays and Mondays of your city; which day, all things considered, stands for the city's higher life,--the day on which so many men are lolling, or the day on which all toil? It takes more knowledge, more integrity, more justice, to handle riches well than to bear the healthy pinch of the just-enough. Do you think that the great and famous escape drudgery? The native power and temperament, the outfit and capital at birth, counts for much, but it convicts us common minds of huge mistake to hear the uniform testimony of the more successful geniuses about their genius. "Genius is patience," said who? Sir Isaac Newton. "The Prime Minister's secret is patience," said who? Mr. Pitt, the great Prime Minister of England. Who, think you, wrote, "My imagination would never have served me as it has, but for the habit of commonplace, humble, patient, daily, toiling, drudging attention"? It was Charles Dickens. Who said "The secret of a Wall Street million is common honesty"? Vanderbilt; and he added as the recipe for a million (I know somebody would like to learn it), "Never use what is not your own, never buy what you cannot pay for, never sell what you haven't got." How simple great men's rules are! How easy it is to be a great man! Order, diligence, patience, honesty,--just what you and I must use in order to put our dollar in the savings-bank, to do our school-boy sum, to keep the farm thrifty, and the house clean, and the babies neat. Order, diligence, patience, honesty! There is wide difference between men, but truly it lies less in some special gift or opportunity granted to one and withheld from another, than in the differing degree in which these common elements of human power are owned and used. Not how much talent have I, but how much will to use the talent that I have, is the main question. Not how much do I know, but how much do I do with what I know? To do their great work the great ones need more of the very same habits which the little ones need to do their smaller work. Goethe, Spencer, Agassiz, Jesus, share, not achievements, but conditions of achievement, with you and me. And those conditions for them, as for us, are largely the plod, the drill, the long disciplines of toil. If we ask such men their secret, they will uniformly tell us so. Since we lay the firm substrata of ourselves in this way, then, and only in this way; and since the higher we aim, the more, and not the less, we need these firm substrata,--since this is so, I think we ought to make up our minds and our mouths to sing a hallelujah unto Drudgery: _Blessed be Drudgery_,--the one thing that we cannot spare! II But there is something else to be said. Among the people who are drudges there are some who have given up their dreams of what, when younger, they used to talk or think about as their "ideals"; and have grown at last, if not content, resigned to do the actual work before them. Yes, here it is,--before us, and behind us, and on all sides of us; we cannot change it; we have accepted it. Still, we have not given up one dream,--the dream of _success_ in this work to which we are _so_ clamped. If we cannot win the well-beloved one, then success with the ill-beloved,--this at least is left to hope for. Success may make _it_ well-beloved, too,--who knows? Well, the secret of this success still lies in the same old word, "drudgery." For drudgery is the doing of one thing, one thing, one thing, long after it ceases to be amusing; and it is this "one thing I do" that gathers me together from my chaos, that concentrates me from possibilities to powers, and turns powers into achievements. "One thing I do," said Paul, and, apart from what his one thing was, in that phrase he gave the watchword of salvation. That whole long string of habits--attention, method, patience, self-control, and the others--can be rolled up and balled, as it were, in the word "concentration." We will halt a moment at the word: "I give you the end of a golden string: Only wind it into a ball,-- It will lead you in at Heaven's gate, Built in Jerusalem's wall." Men may be divided into two classes,--those who have a "one thing," and those who have no "one thing," to do; those with aim, and those without aim, in their lives: and practically it turns out that almost all of the success, and, therefore, the greater part of the happiness, go to the first class. The aim in life is what the backbone is in the body: without it we are invertebrate, belong to some lower order of being not yet man. No wonder that the great question, therefore, with a young man is, What am I to be? and that the future looks rather gloomy until the life-path opens. The lot of many a girl, especially of many a girl with a rich father, is a tragedy of aimlessness. Social standards, and her lack of true ideals and of real education, have condemned her to be frittered: from twelve years old she is a cripple to be pitied, and by thirty she comes to know it. With the brothers the blame is more their own. The boys we used to play our school games with have found their places; they are winning homes and influence and money, their natures are growing strong and shapely, and their days are filling with the happy sense of accomplishment,--while _we_ do not yet know what we are. We have no meaning on the earth. Lose us, and the earth has lost nothing; no niche is empty, no force has ceased to play, for we have got no aim, and therefore we are still--nobody. _Get your meaning_ first of all! Ask the question until it is answered past question, What am I? What do I stand for? What name do I bear in the register of forces? In our national cemeteries there are rows on rows of unknown bodies of our soldiers,--men who did a work and put a meaning to their lives; for the mother and the townsmen say, "He died in the war." But the men and women whose lives are aimless reverse their fates. Our _bodies_ are known, and answer in this world to such or such a name,--but as to our inner _selves_, with real and awful meaning our walking bodies might be labeled, "An unknown man sleeps here!" Now, since it is concentration that prevents this tragedy of failure, and since this concentration always involves drudgery, long, hard, abundant, we have to own again, I think, that that is even more than what I called it first,--our chief school-master; besides that, drudgery is the gray Angel of Success. The main secret of any success we may hope to rejoice in is in that angel's keeping. Look at the leaders in the profession, the "solid" men in business, the master-workmen who begin as poor boys and end by building a town in which to house their factory hands; they are drudges of the single aim. The man of science, and to-day more than ever, if he would add to the world's knowledge, or even get a reputation, must be, in some one branch at least, a plodding specialist. The great inventors, Palissy at his pots, Goodyear at his rubber, Elias Howe at his sewing-machine, tell the secret,--"One thing I do." The reformer's secret is the same. A one-eyed, grim-jawed folk the reformers are apt to be: one-eyed, grim-jawed, seeing but the one thing, never letting go, they have to be, to start a torpid nation. All these men as doers of the single thing drudge their way to their success. Even so must we, would we win ours. The foot-loose man is _not_ the enviable man. A wise man will be his own necessity and bind himself to a task, if by early wealth or foolish parents or other lowering circumstances he has lost the help of an outward necessity. Again, then, I say, Let us sing a hallelujah and make a fresh beatitude: _Blessed be Drudgery!_ It is the one thing we cannot spare. III This is a hard gospel, is it not? But now there is a pleasanter word to briefly say. To lay the firm foundations in ourselves, or even to win success in life, we _must_ be drudges. But we _can_ be _artists_, also, in our daily task. And at that word things brighten. "Artists," I say,--not artisans. "The difference?" This: the artist is he who strives to perfect his work,--the artisan strives to get through it. The artist would fain finish, too; but with him it is to "finish the work God has given me to do!" It is not how great a thing we do, but how well we do the thing we have to, that puts us in the noble brotherhood of artists. My Real is not my Ideal,--is that my complaint? One thing, at least, is in my power: if I cannot realize my Ideal, I can at least _idealize my Real_. How? By trying to be perfect in it. If I am but a rain-drop in a shower, I will be, at least, a perfect drop; if but a leaf in a whole June, I will be, at least, a perfect leaf. This poor "one thing I do,"--instead of repining at its lowness or its hardness, I will make it glorious by my supreme loyalty to its demand. An artist himself shall speak. It was Michael Angelo who said: "Nothing makes the soul so pure, so religious, as the endeavor to create something perfect; for God is perfection, and whoever strives for it strives for something that is godlike. True painting is only an image of God's perfection,--a shadow of the pencil with which he paints, a melody, a striving after harmony." The great masters in music, the great masters in all that we call artistry, would echo Michael Angelo in this; he speaks the artist essence out. But what holds good upon their grand scale and with those whose names are known, holds equally good of all pursuits and all lives. That true painting is an image of God's perfection must be true, if he says so; but no more true of painting than of shoemaking, of Michael Angelo than of John Pounds, the cobbler. I asked a cobbler once how long it took to become a good shoemaker; he answered, promptly, "Six years,--and then you must travel!" That cobbler had the artist soul. I told a friend the story, and he asked his cobbler the same question: How long does it take to become a good shoemaker? "All your life, sir." That was still better,--a Michael Angelo of shoes! Mr. Maydole, the hammer-maker, of central New York, was an artist: "Yes," said he to Mr. Parton, "I have made hammers here for twenty-eight years." "Well, then, you ought to be able to make a pretty good hammer by this time." "No, sir," was the answer, "I _never_ made a pretty good hammer. I make the best hammer made in the United States." Daniel Morell, once president of the Cambria Railworks in Pittsburgh, which employed seven thousand men, was an artist, and trained artists. "What is the secret of such a development of business as this?" asked the visitor. "We have no secret," was the answer; "we always try to beat our last batch of rails. That's all the secret we have, and we don't care who knows it." The Paris bookbinder was an artist, who, when the rare volume of Corneille, discovered in a book-stall, was brought to him, and he was asked how long it would take him to bind it, answered, "Oh, sir, you must give me a year, at least; _this_ needs all my care." Our Ben Franklin showed the artist when he began his own epitaph, "Benjamin Franklin, printer." And Professor Agassiz, when he told the interviewer that he had "no time to make money"; and when he began his will, "I, Louis Agassiz, teacher." In one of Murillo's pictures in the Louvre he shows us the interior of a convent kitchen; but doing the work there are, not mortals in old dresses, but beautiful white-winged angels. One serenely puts the kettle on the fire to boil, and one is lifting up a pail of water with heavenly grace, and one is at the kitchen dresser reaching up for plates; and I believe there is a little cherub running about and getting in the way, trying to help. What the old monkish legend that it represented is, I hardly know. But, as the painter puts it to you on his canvas, all are so busy, and working with such a will, and so refining the work as they do it, that somehow you forget that pans are pans and pots pots, and only think of the angels, and how very natural and beautiful kitchen-work is,--just what the angels would do, of course. It is the angel-aim and standard in an act that consecrates it. He who aims for perfectness in a trifle is trying to do that trifle holily. The _trier_ wears the halo, and therefore, the halo grows as quickly round the brows of peasant as of king. This aspiration to do perfectly,--is it not religion practicalized? If we use the name of God, is this not God's presence becoming actor in us? No need, then, of being "great" to share that aspiration and that presence. The smallest roadside pool has its water from heaven, and its gleam from the sun, and can hold the stars in its bosom, as well as the great ocean. Even so the humblest man or woman can live splendidly! That is the royal truth that we need to believe,--you and I who have no "mission," and no great sphere to move in. The universe is not quite complete without _my_ work well done. Have you ever read George Eliot's poem called "Stradivarius"? Stradivarius was the famous old violin-maker, whose violins, nearly two centuries old, are almost worth their weight in gold to-day. Says Stradivarius in the poem: "If my hand slacked, I should rob God,--since He is the fullest good,-- Leaving a blank instead of violins. _He_ could not make Antonio Stradivari's violins Without Antonio." That is just as true of us as of our greatest brothers. What, stand with slackened hands and fallen heart before the littleness of your service! Too little, is it, to be perfect in it? Would you, then, if you were Master, risk a greater treasure in the hands of such a man? Oh, there is no man, no woman, so small that they cannot make their life great by high endeavor; no sick crippled child on its bed that cannot fill a niche of service _that_ way in the world. This is the beginning of all gospels,--that the kingdom of heaven is at hand just where _we_ are. It is just as near us as our work is, for the gate of heaven for each soul lies in the endeavor to do that work perfectly. But to bend this talk back to the word with which we started: will this striving for perfection in the little thing give "culture"? Have you ever watched such striving in operation? Have you never met humble men and women who read little, who knew little, yet who had a certain fascination as of fineness lurking about them? Know them, and you are likely to find them persons who have put so much thought and honesty and conscientious trying into their common work--it may be sweeping rooms, or planing boards, or painting walls--have put their ideals so long, so constantly, so lovingly into that common work of theirs, that finally these qualities have come to permeate not their work only, but so much of their being that they are fine-fibred within, even if on the outside the rough bark clings. Without being schooled, they are apt to instinctively detect a sham,--one test of culture. Without haunting the drawing-rooms, they are likely to have manners of quaint grace and graciousness,--another test of culture. Without the singing-lessons, their tones are apt to be gentle,--another test of culture. Without knowing anything about Art, so called, they know and love the best in _one_ thing,--are artists in their own little specialty of work. They make good company, these men and women,--why? Because, not having been able to realize their Ideal, they have idealized their Real, and thus in the depths of their nature have won true "culture." You know all beatitudes are based on something hard to do or to be. "Blessed are the meek": is it easy to be meek? "Blessed are the pure in heart": is that so very easy? "Blessed are they who mourn." "Blessed are they who hunger and thirst--who _starve_--after righteousness." So this new beatitude by its hardness only falls into line with all the rest. A third time and heartily I say it,--"Blessed be Drudgery!" For thrice it blesses us: it gives us the fundamental qualities of manhood and womanhood; it gives us success in the thing we have to do; and it makes us, if we choose, artists,--artists within, whatever our outward work may be. _Blessed be Drudgery_,--the secret of all culture! And now, as a final step in this preliminary study, a step which shall again give practice in both forms of expression, you are to choose from your vital interests one concerning which you hold intense convictions. First you are to set forth these convictions in the strongest piece of persuasive prose you can command: this is work for your study. Second, you are to summon all your vocal resources, and, with the one idea of persuading us of the truth of your convictions, make to us for them a direct appeal: this work is for the class-room. So shall we have combined the preliminary study in vocal expression of _direct appeal_ with the preliminary study in verbal expression of _persuasion_. FIRST STUDY TO ESTABLISH VITALITY IN THINKING Among the axioms of our subject-matter already formulated stands this one: reading aloud is thinking aloud. If reading aloud is thinking aloud the quality of the reading will depend, of course, upon the quality of the thinking. But while clear thinking does not assure lucid reading (since there are other elements in the problem), the converse is true, that good reading implies clear thinking. For it is impossible to read convincingly unless one is thinking vitally, which brings us to the object of this study: _To Establish Vitality in Thinking._ Do you know what it means to think vitally in reading? It means a concentration of your mind upon the thought before you until you, yourself, seem to be thinking that thought for the first time,--until you seem to be bringing forth a thought of your own conception instead of rethinking the conception of another's mind. Is this a familiar experience? It must become one if you are to become a true interpreter. For the true interpreter is first of all the keen thinker. We do not say of the great actor, after a performance of Hamlet, "He played Hamlet wonderfully!" We say, rather, "He was Hamlet." The great actor creates the part he plays each time he plays it. He creates the part by living the part. Even in the same way the great interpreter creates the thought he voices through a concentration of mind which appropriates the thought and makes it his own to voice. We have said that the greatest need of the human heart is for self-expression. To satisfy the heart that act of expression must be a creative act. True interpretation is creative expression. The fundamental step toward creative expression is complete possession of the thought to be expressed. Complete possession depends upon your power to concentrate your mind upon a thought until it is your own. The first step in interpretation is to establish vitality in thinking. The new arithmetic trains the mind to see the relation behind the mathematical statement of the relation. The child who "says his tables" to-day is not repeating by rote words and figures, he is realizing vital relations, he is developing a sense of proportion, he is learning to think vitally. The old method in arithmetic left the statement "two times one is two" a cold mathematical fact; the new method makes it a key to living relations. One in the "tables" of the child in mathematics to-day stands for a definite object, and the statement "two times one is two" is an interesting and significant fact. The statement through imaginative thinking, which is vital thinking, may be invested with personal significance and become a personally interesting fact. Try it! Say your "tables of one" up to ten times one is ten, _thinking vitally_, which means getting behind the statement of the relation to the relation itself, behind the sign to the thing signified. Let your "one" stand each time for something you desire--as a small boy might desire pieces of candy, or a miser "pieces of eight"; now think vitally in this way and say, "Ten times one is ten!" What has happened to the mathematical fact? It has become a living expression! This might be called _interpreting_ our mathematics. Why not? That is the surest way to master them! It is the surest way to mastery of any subject, of any art, of Life itself. It is the only real way. But we have leaped from the part to the whole, from the study of a detail to an application of the law governing the whole subject. Back we must go to our special point. If we can turn the statement of a cold mathematical fact into the expression of a living vital relation by thinking vitally, so investing the fact with personal significance and making it our own, what can we not do with the more easily appropriated thought which poets and philosophers and play-writers have given us, and with which rests our especial concern as interpreters? Let us see what we can do! But first there is one other point to be considered in this question of _vital thinking_. We have spoken of one aspect of the process of the mind in thinking,--the _concentration_ upon an idea until it is one's own. But there is the passing of the mind from idea to idea to be noted. This phase the psychologists name "transition." This alternate concentration and transition constitutes the "pulsing of the mind" in reading, which Doctor Curry discusses so vitally in his _Lessons in Vocal Expression_. Now transition is an inevitable result of concentration and follows it as naturally as expiration follows inspiration. This being true, we need only note, in our study of the process of the mind in reading aloud, the question of transition, letting it follow naturally the fundamental act of concentration which is our chief concern. If the intense concentration is accomplished the clean transition will follow. In choosing material which shall require for adequate interpretation this intense concentration of the mind, we find our source, of course, to be the literature of thought rather than the literature of feeling. The literary form which seems to furnish the best examples for our purpose at this point is the essay where the appeal is, primarily, at least, an intellectual appeal. For my own suggestive analysis and for our preliminary study in vital thinking I have chosen paragraphs from Emerson's essays because Emerson's almost every paragraph is an essay in miniature. The story is told of the gentle seer that once in the midst of a lecture he dropped all the pages of his manuscript over the front of the pulpit. The incident disturbed his auditors greatly until they saw Mr. Emerson gather up the leaves and without any effort at rearrangement in the old order begin to read as though nothing had happened. Every sentence was almost equally pertinent to the main theme, and suffered not from a new juxtaposition. So in printing extracts from this source we feel no sense of incompleteness. SUGGESTIVE ANALYSIS Let us read this passage from Emerson's _Experience_: To finish the moment, to find the journey's end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom. It is not the part of men, but of fanatics--or of mathematicians, if you will--to say that, the shortness of life considered, it is not worth caring whether for so short a duration we were sprawling in want or sitting high. Since our office is with moments, let us husband them. Five minutes of to-day are worth as much to me as five minutes in the next millennium. Let us be poised, and wise, and our own, to-day. I settle myself ever the firmer in the creed that we should not postpone and refer and wish, but do broad justice where we are, by whomsoever we deal with, accepting our actual companions and circumstances, however humble or odious, as the mystic officials to whom the universe has delegated its whole pleasure for us. If you do not think your way through this paragraph clearly, concisely, logically, intensely, when you read it aloud your voice will betray you. In what way? Your tone will lack resonance, your speech will lack precision, your pitch will be monotonous, your touch will be uncertain, your inflections will be indefinite. Your reading will be unconvincing, because it will fail in lucidity and variety. In approaching this passage let us study first the question of proper emphasis. What is emphasis? The dictionaries tell us that, in delivery, it is a special stress of the voice on a given word. But we must use it in a broader sense than this. To emphasize a word is not merely to put a special stress of the voice upon that word. Such an attack might only make the word conspicuous and so defeat the aim of true emphasis. True emphasis is the art of voicing the words in a phrase so that they shall assume a right relation to one another and, so related, best suggest the thought of which they are the symbols. I do not emphasize one word in a phrase and not the others. I simply vary my stress upon each word, in order to gain the proper perspective for the whole sentence. Just so, in a picture, I make one object stand out, and others fall into the background, by drawing or painting them in proper relation to one another. I may use any or all of the "elements of vocal expression" to give that proper relation of values to the words in a single phrase. I may pause, change my pitch, vary my inflection, and alter my tone-color, in order to give a single word its full value. Let us try experiments in emphasis with some isolated sentences before analyzing the longer passage. Here is one of Robert Louis Stevenson's beautifully wrought periods: "Every man has a sane spot somewhere." Let us vary, vocally, the relative values of the words in this sentence, and study the effect upon the character of the thought. Let us look upon the statement as a theme for discussion. With a pause before the second word, "man," a lift of the voice on that word, a whimsical turn of the tone, and a significant inflection, we may convert an innocent statement of fact into an incendiary question for debate on the comparative sanity of the sexes. A plea for endless faith and charity becomes a back-handed criticism of women. Now let us read the sentence, giving it its true meaning. "Every man has a sane spot somewhere." Let your voice make of the statement a plea, by dwelling a bit on the first word and again on the last word. Hyphenate the first two words (they really stand for one idea). Compound also the words "sane" and "spot." Lift them as a single word above the rest of the sentence. Now put "somewhere" a little higher still above the level of the rest of the sentence. So, only, have we the true import of this group of words: some where. sane-spot Every- man has a Analyze the rest of these sentences from Stevenson in the same way, and experiment with them vocally. That is never a bad wind that blows where we want to go. For truth that is suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the enemy. Some strand of our own misdoing is involved in every quarrel. Drama is the poetry of conduct, romance the poetry of circumstance. You cannot run away from a weakness; you must sometime fight it out or perish; and if that be so, why not now, and where you stand? An aim in life is the only fortune worth the finding; and it is not to be found in foreign lands, but in the heart itself. The world was not made for us; it was made for ten hundred millions of me, all different from each other and from us; there's no royal road, we just have to sclamber and tumble. Now, once more, and this time with detailed analysis, let us study the passage from _Experience_. Let us first consider for a moment some of the words which make this passage powerful: _finish_, _journey's-end_, _good hours_, _wisdom_, _fanatics_, _mathematicians_, _sprawling-in-want_, _sitting-high_, _firmer_, _poised_, _postpone_, _justice_, _humble_, _odious_, _mystic_, _pleasure_. When spoken with a keen sense of its inherent meaning, with full appreciation of its form, and with delight in molding it, how efficient each one of these words becomes! When shall we, as a people, learn reverence for the words which make up our language--reverence that shall make us ashamed to mangle words, offering as our excuse that we are "Westerners" or "Southerners" or from New York or New England or Indiana. The clear-cut thought calls for the clean-cut speech. Let us say these words over and over until they assume full value. And now we pass from words to groups of words. The mind and the tone must move progressively through the first three phrases which make up this first sentence: "To finish the moment, to find the journey's end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom." The phrases must be held together by an almost imperceptible suspension and upward reach of the voice at the end of each group of words, and yet each phrase must be allowed to be momentarily complete. Read the sentence, making each phrase a conclusion, and then again letting each phrase look forward to the next. Each phrase is really a substantive, looking forward to its predicate through a second substantive which is a little more vital than the first, and again through a third substantive which is a little more vital than either of the other two. Bring this out in reading the sentence. The next sentence depends for its significance upon your contrasting inflections of the three words "men," "fanatics," and "mathematicians"; and again upon your sympathetic inflection of "sprawling-in-want" and "sitting-high." "It is not the part of men, but of fanatics--or of mathematicians, if you will--to say that, the shortness of life considered, it is not worth caring whether for so short a duration we were sprawling in want or sitting high." In your utterance of these words can you make "men" MEN, and "fanatics" _fanatics_, and consign "mathematicians" to the cold corner of human affairs designed for them? Can you so inflect "sprawling in want" and "sitting high" as to suggest a swamp and a mountain-top, or a frog and an angel? Let your voice leap from the swamp to the mountain-top. Let it climb. Now comes the swift, concise, admonitory sentence: "Since our office is with moments, let us husband them." Pause before you speak the word "husband," and _husband_ it. "Five minutes of to-day are worth as much to me as five minutes in the next millennium." Make "five minutes of to-day" one word, and accent the last syllable, thus: five-minutes-of-_to-day_. Let the tone retard and take its time on the last seven words. Now poise your tone for the next sentence. "Let us be poised, and wise, and our own, to-day." The paragraph closes with a more complex statement of the theme. Let your voice search out the meaning. Let it settle down into the conclusion, and utter it convincingly. Give a definite touch to the words which I shall put in italics. "I settle myself ever _firmer_ in the _creed_ that we should not _postpone_ and _refer_ and _wish_, but do _broad-justice_ where we _are_, by _whomsoever_ we deal with, accepting our _actual_ companions and circumstances, however _humble_ or _odious_, as the _mystic officials_ to whom the _universe_ has dedicated its _whole pleasure_ for _us_." Analyze vocally the following paragraph: There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried.... What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.--_Self-Reliance._ SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION By choosing as further material for vocal interpretation selections which shall also be good examples for examination as to their literary construction, we shall serve the double purpose of adapting our studies in vocal interpretation to the uses of English composition. The following selections are to be: first, read aloud (in class); second, examined as to their literary construction (in class); third, analyzed and reported upon as specimens of exposition and argumentation (in the study). Exposition is an explanation, a setting forth, or an expounding. It is an attempt to render something plain, an effort to convey to the reader a train of thought which represents the conclusions of the writer upon a subject. The writer, it is at once evident, must be acquainted with the subject with which he deals. He is presuming to teach, and must be in a position which justifies him in so doing. He is prepared to write an exposition only when he is able, in regard to the topic in hand, to take frankly and unreservedly the attitude of a teacher. A teacher must have many good gifts and graces; and whoever else may fail to be well acquainted with a given lesson, he must have mastered it thoroughly. To teach he must first know. Whoever has taught understands how completely different is the attitude of the teacher from that of the pupil. While the pupil is hardly expected to be able to do more than reasonably well to understand the subject in hand, the teacher must be able to explain, to justify, to make clear relations, and to impart the whole matter. The pupil is excused with a sort of hearsay knowledge, but the teacher must have a vital experience of what he teaches. Especially must he be able to comprehend and to represent a subject as a whole. He is responsible for the student's being able in turn to co-ordinate facts and theories so as to produce unity; and it is therefore essential that he himself have power to hold and to make clear a continuous train of thought. The teacher, moreover, must have over his mind discipline so firm that he is not dependent upon moods. He must cover the wide difference between the train of thought which springs spontaneously in the mind and that which is laboriously worked out as a logical sequence of ideas relating to a subject forced upon the attention. The pupil may, to a certain extent, indulge the vagaries of his inclination, but the teacher must respond to the need of the moment. He must have trained his mind to give an intelligent judgment upon any matter presented to it. He is not equipped for instructing--nor is any individual ready for life--until he can command the resources of his inner self to the utmost. The trained person is one who can take a subject which may not at the outset especially appeal to him, which is full of complications, which is not in itself, perhaps, attractive, and can insist with himself that his mind shall master it thoroughly. He is able so to expend his whole mental strength, if need be, upon any necessary topic that the subject shall be examined, acquired, assimilated, and then shall be so organized, so illumined, and so presented that others shall be instructed. The mind of the teacher, in a word, is so disciplined that it will work when it is ordered. The ideal state of mind for him who wishes to communicate knowledge is that of being absolute master of all its resources. Many who possess no inconsiderable powers of thought are practically unable to command the best powers of their intelligence. They depend upon the whim of the moment, upon some outward pressure or inward impulse, to arouse their intellect. They fail to reflect that while any ordinary intellect naturally forms some opinion upon any subject which interests it, only the trained mind is able to judge clearly and lucidly of an indifferent or uninteresting matter. In this mastery of thought lies the difference between the sterile and the productive mind. Only one brain in a thousand has not the disposition to shirk work if it is allowed, and every student has moments when his intelligence seems almost to act like a spoiled child that hates to get up when called on a cold morning. To establish the power of the will over the intellect is the object of education, and the ability to exercise this power is what is meant by the proper use of the word "cultivation." The mental process of the cultivated thinker when considering any subject is likely to be: first, to become sure of his terms; then, clearly to set before his mind the facts and conditions; and, lastly, to make the possible and resulting deductions and conclusions. This gives a hint, and indeed practically affords a rule for the writer of exposition. An exposition, broadly speaking, may be said to consist of three steps which nearly correspond to the three steps of mental activity just set down: the Definition, the Statement, and the Inference. Definition is making clear to self or to the reader what is under discussion. Statement is the setting forth of whatever is to be said of the facts, conditions, relations, and so on, which it is the object of the exposition to make clear. Inference is the conclusion or conclusions drawn. These three parts will seldom be found as formal divisions in any ordinary exposition, but in some sort they are always present; and the writer must at least have them clear in his mind if he hopes to render his work well ordered, comprehensive, and symmetrical. Together they are woven as the strands which give a firmness of texture to the whole. To illustrate the bearing of this analysis on the composition of an exposition, we may imagine that a student has been required to write a theme on "The Influence of College Life." He has first to concern himself with definition. He must decide what he means by college life as a molding influence; whether its intellectual, its social, its moral aspects, or all these. He must consider, too, whether he is to deal with the effect upon specific characters or upon types; whether upon boys during the time they are in college or as a training for after life; whether at a special institution or as the result of any college. If he limits himself to one phase of influence, he must in the same way decide fully in what sense he intends to treat that phase. If he is to consider the social effect of college life, for instance, he has to define for himself the sense in which he will use the word "social." Is it to mean simply formal society, adaptation to the more conventional and exclusive forms of human intercourse, or to imply all that renders a man more self-poised, more flexible, and more adaptable in any relations with his fellows? If, on the other hand, it is the intellectual influence of college life which is to be studied, the first step is to decide what is to be considered for this purpose the range of the term "intellectual"; whether it is to be taken to mean the mere acquirement of information; whether it has relation to acquirement or to modification of mental conditions; whether it means change in the mind in the way of development or of modification; whether it shall be applied to an alteration in the student's attitude toward knowledge or toward life in general. All this is in the line of definition, and it is naturally connected with the statement of whatever facts bear upon the topic under discussion. Statement has largely to do with fact. Theory belongs rather to whatever inference is part of an exposition. In the statement will come the observations of the writer; whatever he knows of general conditions at college, or such individual examples as bear upon the question in hand. From these he will inevitably draw some conclusions, and the value of the exposition will depend upon the reasonableness and convincingness of these inferences, as these will, in turn, depend upon the clearness of the writer's original knowledge in regard to his intentions and the logic of his statements. Composition, it should be remembered, is the art of communicating to others what is in the mind of the writer. To write without having the subject abundantly in mind is to invite the reader to a Barmecide feast of empty dishes. The necessity of insisting upon such particulars as those just given of the process of making an exposition arises from the stubborn idea of the untrained student that writing is something done with paper and ink. It is, on the contrary, something which is done with brains; it is less putting things on paper than it is thinking things out in the mind. Before leaving the illustration of a theme on the influence of college life we may glance a moment more at the difficulty, even with so simple a subject, of attaining perfect clarity of thinking. One of the first things which must be determined is the essential difference of life in a college from ordinary existence. If the subject be given out to a class of students half the themes handed in will begin with a remark upon the great change which comes to a boy who finds himself for the first time freed from the restraints of home. The moment this idea is presented to the mind it is to be looked at, not as something with which to fill so much paper, but as a stepping-stone toward ideas beyond. It is necessary, for instance, to determine the distinctions between freedom at college and freedom elsewhere; to decide wherein lie the differences in the conditions which surround a boy in a university and one who escapes from the restrictions of home by going away to live in a city or in a country village, on shipboard or in the army. To be of value, every thought in an exposition must have been tested by a comparison with allied ideas as wide and as exhaustive as the thinker is equal to making. To learn to think is, after all, the prime essential in exposition-writing, and the beginning of thought is the realization of what is already known. The student who patiently examines his views on the subject of which he is to write, who determines to discover exactly how much he knows and what is the relative importance of each of his opinions, is likely soon to come to find that he is considering the theme chosen not only deeply, but with tangible results. The value of any exposition, to sum the matter up in a word, rests primarily and chiefly on the thoroughness of the thought which produces it.--ARLO BATES.[3] [3] This selection from Prof. Arlo Bates's _Talks on Writing English_ is printed by permission of the author and his publishers, Houghton Mifflin Company. The _Idylls of the King_ has been called a quasi-epic. Departing from the conventional epic form by its lack of a closely continuous narrative, it has yet that lofty manner and underlying unity of design which leads us to class it with the epics, at least, in the essentials. It consists of a series of chivalric legends, taken chiefly from the _Morte d'Arthur_ of Sir Thomas Malory, grouped so as to exhibit the establishment, the greatness, and the downfall of an ideal kingdom of righteousness among men. "The Coming of Arthur," the ideal ruler, shows us the setting up of this kingdom. Before this was disorder, great tracts of wilderness, Wherein the beast was ever more and more, But man was less and less. Arthur slays the beast and fells the forest, and the old order changes to give place to new. Then the song of Arthur's knights rises, a majestic chorus of triumph: Clang battle-axe and clash brand. Let the king reign. In "Gareth and Lynette" the newly established kingdom is seen doing its work among men. Arthur, enthroned in his great hall, dispenses impartial justice. The knights Ride abroad redressing human wrongs. The allegory shows us, in Gareth's contests with the knights "that have no law nor King," the contest of the soul with the temptations that at different periods of life successively attack it: The war of Time against the soul of man. Then follow the "Idylls," which trace the entrance and growth of an element of sin and discord, which, spreading, pulls down into ruin that "fellowship of noble knights," "which are an image of the mighty world." The purity of the ideal kingdom is fouled, almost at its source, by the guilty love of Lancelot and the Queen. Among some the contagion spreads; while others, in an extremity of protest, start in quest of the Holy Grail, leaving the duty at hand for mystical visions. Man cannot bring down heaven to earth; he cannot sanctify the mass of men by his own rapturous anticipations; he cannot safely neglect the preliminary stages of progress appointed for the race; he "may not wander from the allotted field before his work be done." So by impurity and by impatience the rift in the kingdom widens, and in "The Last Tournament," in the stillness before the impending doom, we hear the shrill voice of Dagonet railing at the King, who thinks himself as God, that he can make Honey from hornet-combs And men from beasts. In "Guinevere," unequaled elsewhere in the "Idylls" in pure poetry, the blow falls; at length, in the concluding poem, Arthur passes to the isle of Avilion, and once more The old order changeth, yielding place to new. Tennyson himself tells us that in this, his longest poem, he has meant to shadow "sense at war with soul," the struggle in the individual and in the race, between that body which links us with the brute and the soul which makes us part of a spiritual order. But the mastery of the higher over the lower is only obtained through many seeming failures. Wounded and defeated, the King exclaims: For I, being simple, thought to work His will, And have but stricken with the sword in vain; And all whereon I lean'd, in wife and friend, Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm _Reels back into the beast_, and is no more. But he also half perceives the truth which it is the poet's purpose to suggest to us. It is short-sighted to expect the immediate sanctification of the race; if we are disheartened, striving to "work His will," it is because "we see not the close." It is impossible that Arthur's work should end in failure--departing, he declares, "I pass, but shall not die," and when his grievous wound is healed, he will return. The _Idylls of the King_ is thus the epic of evolution in application to the progress of human society. In it the teachings of "In Memoriam" assume a narrative form. Move upward, working out the beast, may be taken as a brief statement of its theme: and we read in it the belief in the tendency upward and an assurance of ultimate triumph: Oh, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet, That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void When God hath made the pile complete. --PANCOAST.[4] [4] Reprinted by permission from Pancoast's _Introduction to English Literature_. Copyright, 1907, by Henry Holt and Company. As an interlude study which shall look back to the step we have just taken, and forward to the one we are about to take, let us test our growth in _vitality in thinking_ and our need of _intelligence in feeling_, by voicing the following selections from didactic poetry. This form affords the best exercise in both activities because it makes a double appeal, and so a double demand upon the interpreter--an appeal through form to emotion, through aim to intelligence, and through message and atmosphere to both. I have chosen examples of this form in which the beauty and fascination of meter, rhythm, and rhyme, and the didactic nature of the thought do not seem to overbalance each other. If either should predominate you must, by your interpretation, strike the balance. In reading Robert Browning's _Rabbi Ben Ezra_ (from which I shall quote but a few verses) you must carry to your auditor the full import of the philosophy, but in doing so you must not lose the beauty of the verse in which the poet has set it. RABBI BEN EZRA Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith, "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. * * * * * Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive and hold cheap the strain, Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! For thence--a paradox Which comforts while it mocks-- Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. * * * * * Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall my soul believe? Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account: All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount: Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. * * * * * --BROWNING. FORBEARANCE Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? And loved so well a high behavior, In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, Nobility more nobly to repay? O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! EACH AND ALL Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Of thee from the hill-top looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even; He sings the song, but it cheers not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky;-- He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;-- The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth":-- As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird;-- Beauty through my senses stole; I yielded myself to the perfect whole. --EMERSON. As a final step in this study which has for its aim an increase in your power to _think vitally_ you are to choose from the "great heap of your knowledge" a subject about which you have sufficient understanding and enthusiasm to justify your discussion of it, and with this as a topic you are "to unmuzzle your wisdom" in the form of _exposition_ or _argumentation_. SECOND STUDY TO ESTABLISH INTELLIGENCE IN FEELING Art is in bondage in this country: its internal polity to the temperamental ideal; its external polity to the commercial ideal. Business and social life are in the same bondage. In music, in drama, in letters, in society, and in trade we permit personality to exploit itself for commercial purposes. The result is either chaotic or calculated expression on every side. When temperament seeks restraint in technique, and policy, whether business or social, seeks freedom in service, then shall we have that balanced expression in art, in society, and in trade which should proceed from the American personality and distinguish American life. It may seem a far cry from a comment upon American life to the subject of this second study--_intelligence in feeling_. Carry the idea of balanced expression from the introduction to the body of this exposition and the transition is not difficult to make. "Wonderful technique, but no heart in her singing!" "Tremendous temperament, but no technique!" "She moves me profoundly, but oh, what a method!" "Her instrument is flawless, but she leaves me absolutely unmoved." Have you ever heard such comment, or made such comment, or been the subject of like comment? Diagnosis of the case, whether it be yours or another's, should be the same--lack of poise in expression, producing the undesirable effect upon the auditor of no emotion at all, or of unintelligent emotion. To determine just what we mean by intelligent emotion is our first problem for this study. An experience I had in visiting a class in interpretation in a well-known school of oratory some years ago will illustrate the point. The selection for interpretation was the prelude to the first part of _The Vision of Sir Launfal_. "And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; ..." The work was well under way when I entered the class-room. My entrance did not disturb the expression on the face of the student who was "up before" the class. A Malvolio smile was never more deliciously indelible. I thought at first my request to see some work in interpretation had been mistaken and I had been ushered into a class in facial gymnastics. Then I concluded that Mr. Lowell's poem was being employed as text for an exercise in smiling. Finally the awful truth came upon me that this teacher of interpretation was seriously attempting to secure from her pupils an expression which should suggest the spirit of the June day by asking them to assume the outward sign of joy known as smiling. The result was a ghastly series of facial contortions, which left at least one auditor's day as bleak as the bleakest December. No intelligent feeling can be induced in interpreter or auditor by assuming the outward sign of an inward emotion. Some of you are recalling Mr. James's _talk to students_, on the reflex theory of emotion, and are being confused at this point. Let us stop and straighten out the confusion. Mr. James says: "Action seems to follow feeling, but really action and feeling go together; and by regulating the action, which is under the more direct control of the will, we can indirectly regulate the feeling, which is not. "Thus the sovereign voluntary path to cheerfulness, if our spontaneous cheerfulness be lost, is to sit up cheerfully, to look round cheerfully, and to act and speak as if cheerfulness were already there. If such conduct does not make you soon feel cheerful, nothing else on that occasion can. So to feel brave, act as if we _were_ brave, use all our will to that end, and a courage-fit will very likely replace the fit of fear." The application of this principle to the reading of these lines would seem to justify the method the teacher was pursuing. A smile is acceptedly the indication of happy emotion, the outward symbol of inward rejoicing or joy. The June day is full of joyful emotion,--the joy of awakening life. Applying Mr. James's theory, a legitimate way to induce the inward emotion would seem to be to assume the outward sign. But wait a moment. Let us look to our premises. Mr. Lanier, who sings of Nature with joyful understanding, cries in _Sunrise_: "Tell me, sweet burly-bark'd, man-bodied Tree That mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost know From what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow? They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps. Reason's not one that weeps. What logic of greeting lies Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes?" Here is a great master of verbal expression whose inward joy finds its outward symbol not in a smile but in a tear. So you and I may respond to Mr. Lowell's "high tide of the year" with smiles or with tears, with bowed head and closed eyes, or with eyes wide and head raised to meet the returning flood of life. The effect upon me of the beauty of this day as Mr. Lowell has painted it, my personal emotional response is interesting psychology, but is not my concern as an interpreter. My own emotion and its personal response belong to my preparatory interpretative efforts in the study; but when the interpretation is ready for the audience-room, the emotion must be assimilated into the interpretative act and appear only as part of the illumination of the bit of life I am presenting. The object of all great art, whether creative or interpretative, is not to exploit the personality of the artist, but to disclose at some point the personality of the very God himself, which is life. The revelation not of personal emotion but of universal life is the legitimate aim of all artistic effort. Emotional response will accompany every vital mental conception. Abandonment to that response is a legitimate and necessary part of full comprehension. But such abandonment, as I have said, belongs to our preparation for expression. Such abandonment must not be taken out of the study on to the stage. No temperamental expression along any line is fit for the public until it is controlled by technique, the technique which has been worked out by the masters of every art, not excluding the art of living. It is not the effect of June upon you I want from your interpretation, it is the spirit of June itself. You must let me have my own emotion. Your emotional response was the result of your mental concept; mine, to be intelligent, must find the same impulse. If you impose your own emotion upon me mine will be merely an unintelligent reflection of yours. Taking as our ideal of the interpreter, the absolutely pure medium, bars out every manifestation which calls attention to the interpreter, and so interferes with the direct message. "The natural form of expression which literature takes when it passes beyond the normal powers of prose, is lyric poetry. When your feelings rise beyond a certain degree of stress you need the stronger beat and vibration of verse; to express the highest joy or the deepest grief poetry is your natural instrument." Again corroborated in our choice of direction in study by Mr. Gardiner, let us turn for "material" in the establishment of _intelligence in emotion_, to the most intensive type of the literature of feeling,--lyric poetry. "Every now and then a man will come who will reduce to words--as Mr. Ruskin has done--some impression of vivid pleasure which has never been reduced to words before. It is only the great master who makes these advances; by studying his works you may perhaps come somewhere near the mark that he has set." This further word from the same paragraph should influence us to pause with Mr. Ruskin's poetry in prose form for a brief study on our way to the lyrics of Wordsworth and Shelley and Keats, a song from Shakespeare, and some few from the rare, more modern lyricists. I shall trust you to this by-path under the guidance of _The Forms of Prose Literature_, where you will find passages from such masters of prose as Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Stevenson--passages of surpassing lyric beauty which shall furnish models for your correlated study in Description. SUGGESTIVE ANALYSIS I have chosen for suggestive analysis of the lyric, Shelley's ode _To a Skylark_. I shall analyze in detail only the first five stanzas: Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. How shall we create an atmosphere for the reading of these verses! How can we catch the spirit of the creator of them! Shall we ever feel ready to voice that first line? Do you know Jules Breton's picture _The Lark_? Do you love it? Go, then, and stand before it, actually or in imagination. Let something of the spirit which informs that lovely child, lifting her eyes, her head in an attitude of listening rapture, steal over you. I know her power. I have tested it. In reading the "Skylark" with a class of boys and girls from twelve to fourteen years old, I tried the experiment. I happened to have with me a beautiful copy of Breton's picture. I took it to the class-room. I wrote on the blackboard verses of the poem and hung the picture over them. The _picture_ taught them to read the poem. The eyes of the girl became their teacher. I tried the experiment, with a private pupil in my studio, with a somewhat different result. I had told her to bring a copy of Shelley's poems to her next lesson. "Do you know the ode _To a Skylark_?" I asked. "Yes," she said. A copy of Breton's picture hung on the wall. "Before you open your book look at the picture," I said. She obeyed. Her expression, always radiant, deepened its radiance. "Do you know what the girl is doing?" I asked. "Oh yes, she is listening to the skylark." "How do you know?" "I have heard the skylark sing." "I never have," I said. "Read the poem to me." Now when _I_ read the "Skylark," I see the girl in Jules Breton's picture, but I hear the voice of my English pupil. But if our apperceptive background fails to furnish a memory of the identical sight and sound for our inspiring, it at least holds bird notes and bird flights of great beauty, and we must call upon these for the impulse to voice Shelley's apostrophe: Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. An early autumn number of the _Atlantic Monthly_ for 1907 published a poem by Mr. Ridgley Torrence, entitled _The Lesser Children_, or _A Threnody at the Hunting Season_. The poem is worthy, in sentiment and structure, to be set beside Shelley's ode. Let us compare with the picture which the eighteenth-century poet has given us this one from our modern song-writer: Who has not seen in the high gulf of light What, lower, was a bird, but now Is moored and altered quite Into an island of unshaded joy? To whom the mate below upon the bough Shouts once and brings him from his high employ. Yet speeding he forgot not of the cloud Where he from glory sprang and burned aloud, But took a little of the day, A little of the colored sky, And of the joy that would not stay He wove a song that cannot die. Now let us study closely the first verse of the older poem. Spirit and voice must soar in the first line, "Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!" The two words "hail" and "blithe" are swift-winged words. Let them fly. Give them their wings. Let them do all they are intended to do. The rhythm of the whole poem is aspiring. Reverence the rhythm, but keep the thought floating clear above it in the second line, "Bird thou never wert." With the next two lines the tone must gather head to be poured forth in the last line, "In profuse strains of unpremeditated art." Let us make another comparative study. Set on the other side of this picture Lowell's description of the "little bird" in his prologue to Sir Launfal's vision: The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives. The second verse of the "Skylark" demands a still higher flight of imagination and tone. Let us try it. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. Again all the words rise and float. Sing them over: _higher_, _higher_, _springest_, _fire_, _wingest_, _singing_, _soar_, _soaring_, _singest_. The reader must feel himself poised for flight in every word of the first three verses. Why does the poet say cloud of fire? What is the color of the skylark? And now the tone, which has been of a radiant hue through these three verses, must soften a little in the first three lines of the next verse-- The pale purple even Melts around thy flight;-- glow gold again in the last three lines-- Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, and yet I hear thy shrill delight-- and become the white of an incandescent light in the next verse-- Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. Do you not see that the secret of its beauty lies, for vocal interpretation, in the color of tone and in the inflection of the words? Say "unseen," dwelling on the second syllable; "shrill delight," directing _shrill_ over the head of _delight_; "keen," making it cleave the air like an arrow; "silver sphere," suggesting a moonlit path across water; "intense" and "narrows," letting the tone recede into the "white dawn"; "see," with a vanishing stress; and "feel," with a deepening note carried to the end. So we might go on through the twenty-one stanzas which make up the poem. Please analyze undirected the next two verses. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. In reading the first lines of the next four verses we must avoid monotony. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glowworm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Vary, if only for variety, the pitch on which you begin each of these first lines. Let the first three words of the eighth verse, "like a poet," ascend in pitch. Keep the voice level in the first line of the ninth verse, "like a high-born maiden." Let the pitch fall in the first words of the tenth stanza, "like a glowworm golden." And again keep the tone level on the first line of the next stanza, "like a rose embower'd." I leave to you the analysis of the rest of the poem: Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt Match'd with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What field, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear, keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now! --SHELLEY. SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION The following selections from lyric poetry are designed to give the voice exercise in the expression of varied emotions. I THE DAFFODILS I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-- A Poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company! I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought; For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. --WORDSWORTH. II BY THE SEA It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder--everlastingly. Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. --WORDSWORTH. III TO THE CUCKOO O blithe new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice: O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listen'd to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love, Still long'd for, never seen! And I can listen to thee yet, Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blesséd Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place, That is fit home for Thee! --WORDSWORTH. IV ODE TO THE WEST WIND O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear! Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height-- The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear! Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear! If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem'd a vision,--I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud. Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? --SHELLEY. V TO THE NIGHT Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of night! Out of the misty eastern cave Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear Which make thee terrible and dear,-- Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray Star-inwrought; Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Kiss her until she be wearied out: Then wander o'er sea and city and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand-- Come, long-sought! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee: When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?--And I replied No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon-- Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night-- Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! --SHELLEY. VI ODE TO A GRECIAN URN Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempé or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unweariéd, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. --KEATS. VII It was a lover and his lass With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino! That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing hey ding a ding: Sweet lovers love the Spring. Between the acres of the rye These pretty country folks would lie: This carol they began that hour, How that life was but a flower: And therefore take the present time With a hey and a ho and a hey nonino! For love is crownéd with the prime In spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing hey ding a ding: Sweet lovers love the Spring. --SHAKESPEARE. VIII Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow! --HEYWOOD. IX THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair linéd slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love. --MARLOWE. X HUNTING SONG Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day; All the jolly chase is here With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily mingle they, "Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green; Now we come to chant our lay "Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size; We can show the marks he made When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; You shall see him brought to bay; "Waken, lords and ladies gay." Louder, louder chant the lay Waken, lords and ladies gay! Tell them youth and mirth and glee Run a course as well as we; Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk; Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay! --SCOTT. XI Besides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the _Gentiana Major_ grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue." HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshiped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing--there As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! Awake, my Soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale! O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink; Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks, Forever shattered and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came), Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain-- Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the Sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-- God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the element! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-- Thou too again--stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud, To rise before me--Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. --COLERIDGE. XII JAUN'S SONG FROM THE SPANISH GYPSY Memory, Tell to me What is fair Past compare In the land of Tubal? Is it Spring's Lovely things, Blossoms white, Rosy dight? Then it is Pepita. Summer's crest Red-gold tressed, Corn-flowers peeping under? Idle noons, Lingering moons, Sudden cloud, Lightning's shroud, Sudden rain, Quick again Smiles where late was thunder? Are all these Made to please? So too is Pepita. Autumn's prime, Apple-time, Smooth cheek round, Heart all sound?-- Is it this You would kiss? Then it is Pepita. You can bring No sweet thing, But my mind Still shall find It is my Pepita. Memory Says to me It is she-- She is fair Past compare In the land of Tubal. XIII PABLO'S SONG FROM THE SPANISH GYPSY Spring comes hither, Buds the rose; Roses wither, Sweet spring goes. Ojala, would she carry me! Summer soars-- Wide-winged day, White light pours, Flies away. Ojala, would he carry me! Soft winds blow, Westward born, Onward go Toward the morn. Ojala, would they carry me! Sweet birds sing O'er the graves, Then take wing O'er the waves. Ojala, would they carry me! --GEORGE ELIOT. XIV MEMORY[5] [5] This and the following poem appear by special permission of Houghton Mifflin Company, the publishers of Mr. Aldrich's poems. My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour-- 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May-- The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose-tree. XV ENAMOURED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHYME Enamoured architect of airy rhyme, Build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says: Good souls, but innocent of dreamer's ways, Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time; Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days; But most beware of those who come to praise. O Wondersmith, O Worker in sublime And Heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all; Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given: Then, if at last the airy structure fall, Dissolve, and vanish--take thyself no shame. They fail, and they alone, who have not striven. --THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. XVI LOVE IN THE WINDS[6] [6] From _Along the Trail_, by Richard Hovey. Copyright, 1898, by Small, Maynard & Co., Duffield & Co., successors. When I am standing on a mountain crest, Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray, My love of you leaps foaming in my breast, Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their foray; My heart bounds with the horses of the sea, And plunges in the wild ride of the night Flaunts in the teeth of tempest the large glee That rides out Fate and welcomes gods to fight. Ho, love, I laugh aloud for love of you, Glad that our love is fellow to rough weather,-- No fretful orchid hot-housed from the dew, But hale and hardy as the highland heather, Rejoicing in the wind that stings and thrills, Comrades of ocean, playmate of the hills. --RICHARD HOVEY. XVII CANDLEMAS[7] [7] By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. O hearken, all ye little weeds That lie beneath the snow, (So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) The sun hath risen for royal deeds, A valiant wind the vanguard leads; Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds Before ye rise and blow. O furry living things, adream On Winter's drowsy breast, (How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!) Arise and follow where a gleam Of wizard gold unbinds the stream, And all the woodland windings seem With sweet expectance blest. My birds, come back! the hollow sky Is weary for your note. (Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!) Ere May's soft minions hereward fly, Shame on ye, laggards, to deny The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye, The tawny, shining coat! --ALICE BROWN. Mr. Gilbert Chesterton tells us that the real Robert Browning of literary history arrived with the _Dramatic Lyrics_. "In Dramatic Lyrics," says Mr. Chesterton, "Browning discovered the one thing that he could really do better than any one else--the dramatic lyric. The form is absolutely original; he had discovered a new field of poetry, and in the center of that field he had found himself." The form is new, but it obeys the fundamental law of lyric poetry, and so in our study belongs to this chapter. The new element which the word "dramatic" suggests makes a new and a somewhat broader demand upon the interpreter; therefore I have chosen this group of _Dramatic Lyrics_ from Browning as the material for your final study of this form: MY STAR All that I know Of a certain star Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue; Till my friends have said They would fain see, too, My star that dartles the red and the blue! Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. CAVALIER TUNES MARCHING ALONG Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing. And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, Marched them along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. God for King Charles! Pym and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you're-- _(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song._ Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! England, good cheer! Rupert is near! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, _(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?_ Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! Hold by the right, you double your might; So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight. _(Chorus) March we along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!_ GARDEN FANCIES THE FLOWER'S NAME Here's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since. Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved forever! Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not: Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle-- Is not the dear mark still to be seen? Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow her, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall! --Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces-- Roses, you are not so fair after all! --BROWNING. That "the poet is born, not made," is more and more an undisputed fact in every literary age. But many a birthright of poetic power has been saved from sale for a mess of pottage by a wisely ordered meeting of the young bard, while his gift was still latent, with the masters of lyric expression. Such an introduction is the object of this study, so far as it can embrace in its aim the ends of both forms of expression,--interpretation and composition. There is no thought of inducing even an aspirant to the _poetical purple_, much less a Shelley or a Keats or an Alice Brown, through this brief dwelling with their immortal songs; but if this intensive interpretative study of the highest lyric expression does not result in a new sense of word values, a new sensitiveness to the music of the English language, out of which the songs of America must be made, then the study will have failed in its purpose toward you. If from this suggestive analysis of Shelley's "Skylark" you receive no impulse to use words with a new delight in the fitting of sound to sense, a new reverence for their harmonious arrangement to suggest and sustain an atmosphere; if, in short, your vocabulary is not enriched and your choice of words clarified through this study, then your new acquaintance with lyric expression will have been in vain. And, finally, if some one of you at least is not impelled by these excursions into the world of song to use his enriched vocabulary in an attempt to create a bit of lyric description in prose or verse, then the author of this study, and the teacher under whose direction it is made, must admit a failure to reach with the pupil the ultimate aim of such interpretative effort. Let us make the test. As a final problem of this study I shall ask you to let your emotion find expression--lyric expression--in a bit of prose description. Don't be afraid! Use your vocabulary! Take as a subject: the bit of earth and sky you have secretly worshiped; the bird song or flight which has charmed your day; the memory of some illumined moment; the effect of any one of these lyrics upon you. Don't be afraid! And remember it is to be literature of _feeling_ rather than thought; _description_, not exposition. THIRD STUDY TO DEVELOP THE WHIMSICAL SENSE Addressing the _Gentle Reader_ in deliciously whimsical vein on the _Mission of Humor_, Mr. Samuel Arthur Crothers declares: "Were I appointed by the school board to consider the applicants for teachers' certificates, after they had passed the examinations in the arts and sciences, I should subject them to a more rigid test. I should hand each candidate Lamb's essays on 'The Old and New Schoolmaster' and on 'Imperfect Sympathies.' I should make him read them to himself, while I sat by and watched. If his countenance never relaxed, as if he were inwardly saying, 'That's so,' I should withhold the certificate. I should not consider him a fit person to have charge of innocent youth." We can readily see from this extract that we need not go back to the early part of the last century to find material for our test of this sovereign quality, a sense of humor. Mr. Crothers himself, the Charles Lamb of our American Letters to-day, shall furnish our subject-matter. Bring your _Gentle Reader_, or _The Pardoner's Wallet_, or the essays collected with the _Christmas Sermon_, to class to-morrow. If these volumes are not in your personal library, your library is sadly lacking. Read "The Honorable Points of Ignorance," "How to Know the Fallacies," or "Conscience Concerning Witchcraft." If any one of these fails to disclose in you the mental alertness and power of discrimination which their author considers to be requisite characteristics of a true sense of humor, then _you_ are sadly lacking in that coveted quality of mind and heart, and it behooves us to make an attempt to supply these deficiencies. Can a sense of humor be cultivated, and if it can be cultivated, is it safe to do so? some one asks--some one who has suffered at the hands of a clever jester perhaps. By way of arriving at an answer, let us examine a little further the category of qualities which Mr. Crothers considers requisite to true humor. We have already noted mental alertness and power of discrimination. There can be no question as to the desirability or feasibility of developing these characteristics, since such development belongs to the fundamental effort of education. But these are but two characteristics of the quality we are considering, and not the distinguishing ones. "Humor," continues the category, "is the frank enjoyment of the imperfect." Now we scent a danger! For if, as Mr. Crothers admits, "artistic sensibility finds satisfaction only in the perfect," and since, as we all admit, artistic sensibility is an end in education devoutly to be desired, then is not a cultivation of the "frank enjoyment of the imperfect," oh dear and gentle humorist, a dangerous indulgence? The conclusive answer comes: "One may have learned to enjoy the sublime, the beautiful, the useful, the orderly, but he has missed something if he has not also learned to enjoy the incongruous, the illusive, and the unexpected." It is a conclusive reply, because we know that it is just as essential to achievement in the finest of the Fine Arts,--the art of living, as in every other form of Art, to recognize that the inrush of discord is for the final issue of harmony; that only through our ability to recognize illusion shall we come to know reality; that only through sensitiveness to the incongruous shall we develop a true sense of the fitness of things; that only frank enjoyment can disarm imperfection and find satisfaction in the perfect. So let us not hesitate to do all we can to cultivate a quality which Thackeray defines as a mixture of love and wit; to which Erasmus ascribes such desirable characteristics as good temper and insight into human nature; and for one grade of which, in addition to all its other qualities, Mr. Crothers claims "that it can proceed only from a mind free from any taint of morbidness." If then we conclude that it is not only safe, but possible and desirable, to cultivate a sense of humor, how shall we set about it? To answer you, as to one way at least, and that a way of interpretation, Mr. Crothers "is left alive," not only to furnish new material for the exercise of the sense, but to point a gently reminding finger toward the immortal sources of good humor,--"Chaucer and Cervantes and Montaigne; Shakespeare and Bacon and Fielding and Addison; Goldsmith, Charles Lamb, and Walter Scott, and in our own country, Irving and Dr. Holmes and James Russell Lowell." Whatever period of time your schedule grants to this phase of the work should be dedicated to a closer acquaintance with the flavor and atmosphere of these great-hearted humorists in their most genial moments. Let us also heed Mr. Crothers' warning against the humor of the Dean Swifts which "would be so irresistible were it not bad humor." Let us avoid more intimate acquaintance with the broad variety furnished by the Mark Twains and Mr. Dooleys, which may be legitimately classed as "good humor," but which is so obvious as to be little conducive to that mental alertness and power of discrimination which we aim to acquire through this study. Instead, let us seek the gracious company of William Dean Howells in the whimsical mood he so often induces. Accepting, then, as a distinguishing characteristic of the humor we desire to cultivate, ability to enjoy the incongruous, the illusive, and the unexpected, let us look to a master maker of these conditions for class-room guidance in this effort. I suppose Mr. Lewis Carroll has done more to develop this distinguishing characteristic than any other contributor to our Letters. So we shall go on an excursion with his _Alice_ into the _Wonderland_ he made for her. If her frank enjoyment and free acceptance of the incongruous and the unexpected does not prove infectious, we must be forever written down among those who could not understand _Peter Pan_. We shall read and enjoy a chapter or two of _Alice_ together in class, but for suggestive analysis along interpretative lines Heaven forbid that I should lay violent hands on her text. No one can teach you to interpret your _Alice_ save Alice herself. You may walk with her, talk with her, dwindle and grow with her, join her adventures in any way she will permit, but you may not analyze nor dissect her. You may learn to interpret her only by living with her and loving her. Now _Æsop_ is another matter. However long you may live with him, however much you may love his fables, there is a trick of interpretation to be learned in voicing his philosophy which will develop the whimsical side of your sense of humor and counteract the insistent moral tone attached to every fable. SUGGESTIVE ANALYSIS The danger in handling a fable does not lie, as the interpreter seems so often to think, in adopting too serious a tone. All the literature of pure fancy, from the humorous essays of Bacon through the _Arabian Nights_ to the nonsensical rhymes of Lear, must be treated with great gravity of tone and temper by the interpreter. It is not levity, but only whimsicality of temperament, I demand from one who would read from this particular lore to me. I want my whimsical friend to interpret my Chaucer and Crothers, _Peter Pan_ and the _Pied Piper_, Hans Christian Andersen, Carroll, and Lear, and all the rest of the genial host who minister to my most precious sense of nonsense. And, perhaps, most of all, it is he (the whimsical friend) who must read fables to me, for a fable, the dictionary tells us, is "a story in which, by the imagined dealings of men with animals or mere things, or by the supposed doings of these alone, useful lessons are taught." Now a moral "rubbed in" is like an overdose of certain kinds of medicine, where a little cures, too much kills. It is the presence of the _lesson_ which the whimsical tone alone can offset. The whimsical tone never falls into the monotone. Whimsicality always seeks variety of emphasis and movement. Let us apply this to the reading of the fable called THE CROW AND THE PITCHER A crow, half dead with thirst, came upon a pitcher which had once been full of water; but when the crow put his beak into the mouth of the pitcher he found that only very little water was left in it, and that he could not reach far enough down to get at it. He tried, and he tried, but at last had to give up in despair. Then a thought came to him, and he took a pebble and dropped it into the pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped it into the pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into the pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into the pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into the pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into the pitcher. At last, at last, he saw the water mount up near him; and after casting in a few more pebbles he was able to quench his thirst and save his life. Little by little does the trick. How shall we avoid the monotony of the lines beginning "Then he took another pebble and dropped it into the pitcher"? Note that this line is followed by one in which but two words are changed, and then by a line with but one change, and then by three lines with no change at all. Our only hope lies in a variation of emphasis and movement--a whimsical variation. Try it! Give "another" the particular stress in reading the first of these lines. Pause at the close of the line as if to study the effect of the pebble. In the next line "that," of course, takes the emphasis. Pause before the word and give it a salient stress. The movement of the voice through these two lines has been deliberate. On the next line hasten it a little, and make the pause at the close of the line shorter. With the fourth line let the tone settle down to work. Give each of the first five words equal stress. With the fifth and last line let us feel that you may "go on forever," and surprise us with a very short pause and a joyful stress upon "at last, at last," and don't fail to let the enthusiasm of your tone give us the full sense of the relief which comes with the mounting of the water, and the delight in the conclusion--"he was able to quench his thirst and save his life." And now, most whimsically, let us voice the moral, "Little by little does the trick." SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION THE LION AND THE MOUSE Once when a lion was asleep a little mouse began running up and down upon him; this soon wakened the lion, who placed his huge paw upon him, and opened his big jaws to swallow him. "Pardon, O King," cried the little mouse; "forgive me this time. I shall never forget it; who knows but what I may be able to do you a turn some of these days?" The lion was so tickled at the idea of the mouse being able to help him, that he lifted up his paw and let him go. Some time after the lion was caught in a trap, and the hunters, who desired to carry him alive to the king, tied him to a tree while they went in search of a wagon to carry him on. Just then the little mouse happened to pass by, and seeing the sad plight in which the lion was, went up to him and soon gnawed away the ropes that bound the king of the beasts. "Was I not right?" said the little mouse. Little friends may prove great friends. THE WIND AND THE SUN The wind and the sun were disputing which was the stronger. Suddenly they saw a traveler coming down the road, and the sun said: "I see a way to decide our dispute. Whichever of us can cause that traveler to take off his cloak shall be regarded as the stronger. You begin." So the sun retired behind a cloud, and the wind began to blow as hard as he could upon the traveler. But the harder he blew the more closely did the traveler wrap his cloak round him, till at last the wind had to give up in despair. Then the sun came out and shone in all his glory upon the traveler, who soon found it too hot to walk with his cloak on. Kindness effects more than severity. And, now, here is Alice herself to play with a little. Go fearlessly into her _Wonderland_ and let her teach you "how to meet the illusive, the incongruous, and the unexpected." Let her minister to your ability to enjoy the imperfect. Let her develop your _sense of humor_. If she cannot do so no one can. DOWN THE RABBIT-HOLE[8] [8] These following selections are taken from Harper & Brothers' edition of _Alice in Wonderland_ and _Alice Through the Looking-Glass_. Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do; once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book," thought Alice, "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid) whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!" (when she thought it over afterward, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and, burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down--so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very steep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and bookshelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labeled "ORANGE MARMALADE," but to her great disappointment it was empty. She did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. "Well!" thought Alice to herself. "After such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down-stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!" (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall _never_ come to an end? "I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?" she said, aloud. "I must be getting somewhere near the center of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--" (for, you see, Alice had learned several things of this sort in her lessons in the school-room, and though this was not a _very_ good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) "--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?" (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice, grand words to say.) Presently she began again. "I wonder if I shall fall right _through_ the earth? How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--" (she was rather glad there _was_ no one listening this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) "--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. 'Please, ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?'" (and she tried to courtesy as she spoke--fancy _courtesying_ as you're falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) "And what an ignorant little girl she'll think me! No, it'll never do to ask; perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere." Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. "Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!" (Dinah was the cat.) "I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah, my dear, I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?" And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, "Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?" and sometimes, "Do bats eat cats?" for, you see, as she couldn't answer either question, it didn't much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, "Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?" when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of dry leaves, and the fall was over. Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on her feet in a moment. She looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost; away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, "Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting!" She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen; she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again. Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice's first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, the second time round she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high. She tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted! Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole. She knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the doorway! "And even if my head would go through," thought poor Alice, "it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin." For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible. There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or, at any rate, a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes. This time she found a little bottle on it ("which certainly was not here before," said Alice), and round its neck a paper label, with the words "DRINK ME" beautifully printed on it in large letters. It was all very well to say "Drink me," but the wise little Alice was not going to do _that_ in a hurry. "No, I'll look first," she said, "and see whether it's marked '_poison_' or not"; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burned, and eaten up by wild beasts, and many other unpleasant things, all because they _would_ not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that, if you cut your finger _very_ deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked "_poison_," it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was _not_ marked "poison," so Alice ventured to taste it, and, finding it very nice (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavor of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast), she very soon finished it off. * * * * * "What a curious feeling!" said Alice. "I must be shutting up like a telescope." And so it was, indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this, "for it might end, you know," said Alice, "in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?" And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after it is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided to go into the garden at once, but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it she found she could not possibly reach it. She could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the table-legs, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. "Come, there's no use in crying like that!" said Alice to herself, rather sharply. "I advise you to leave off this minute!" She generally gave herself very good advice (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears in her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. "But it's no use now," thought poor Alice, "to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make _one_ respectable person!" Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table. She opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words "EAT ME" were beautifully marked in currants. "Well, I'll eat it," said Alice, "and if it makes me larger I can reach the key, and if it makes me smaller I can creep under the door; so, either way, I'll get into the garden, and I don't care which happens!" She ate a little bit and said anxiously to herself, "Which way? Which way?" holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size. To be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way. So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake. * * * * * THE POOL OF TEARS "Curiouser and curiouser!" cried Alice (she was so much surprised that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English); "now I'm opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Good-by, feet!" (for when she looked down at her feet they seemed to be almost out of sight, they were getting so far off). "Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I'm sure _I_ sha'n't be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you: you must manage the best way you can--but I must be kind to them," thought Alice, "or perhaps they won't walk the way I want to go! Let me see; I'll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas." And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. "They must go by the carrier," she thought; "and how funny it'll seem, sending presents to one's own feet! And how odd the directions will look!-- _Alice's Right Foot, Esq. Hearthrug, near the Fender_ (_with Alice's love_). Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking!" Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall--in fact she was now more than nine feet high--and she at once took up the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door. Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the garden with one eye, but to get through was more hopeless than ever. She sat down and began to cry again. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Alice--"a great girl like you" (she might well say this), "to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!" But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall. After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other. He came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, "Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!" Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, "If you please, sir--" The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and scurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go. Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: "Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, _that's_ the great puzzle!" And she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them. "I'm sure I'm not Ada," she said, "for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm sure I can't be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, _she's_ she and _I'm_ I, and--oh dear, how puzzling it all is! I'll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is--oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that rate! However, the Multiplication Table doesn't signify: let's try Geography. London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and Rome--no, _that's_ all wrong, I'm certain! I must have been changed for Mabel! I'll try and say '_How doth the little--_'" and she crossed her hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do: How doth the little crocodile Improve his shining tail, And pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale! How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spread his claws, And welcomes little fishes in With gently smiling jaws! "I'm sure those are not the right words," said poor Alice, and her eyes filled with tears again as she went on: "I must be Mabel, after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I've made up my mind about it; if I'm Mabel, I'll stay down here! It'll be no use their putting their heads down and saying, 'Come up again, dear!' I shall only look up and say, 'Who am I, then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I'll come up; if not, I'll stay down here till I'm somebody else.' But, oh dear!" cried Alice, with a sudden burst of tears, "I do wish they _would_ put their heads down! I am so _very_ tired of being all alone here!" As she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to see that she had put on one of the Rabbit's little white kid gloves while she was talking. "How _can_ I have done that?" she thought. "I must be growing small again." She got up and went to the table to measure herself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could guess, she was now about two feet high, and was going on shrinking rapidly. She soon found out that the cause of this was the fan she was holding, and she dropped it hastily, just in time to avoid shrinking away altogether. "That _was_ a narrow escape!" said Alice, a good deal frightened at the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence; "and now for the garden!" and she ran with all speed back to the little door; but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was lying on the glass table as before, "and things are worse than ever," thought the poor child, "for I never was so small as this before--never! And I declare it's too bad, that it is!" As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was that she had somehow fallen into the sea, "and in that case I can go back by railway," she said to herself. (Alice had been to the seaside once in her life, and had come to the general conclusion that wherever you go to on the English coast you find a number of bathing-machines in the sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row of lodging-houses, and behind them a railway station.) However, she soon made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high. "I wish I hadn't cried so much!" said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. "I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That _will_ be a queer thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer to-day." Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was. At first she thought it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had slipped in like herself. "Would it be of any use, now," thought Alice, "to speak to this mouse? Everything is so out-of-the-way down here that I should think very likely it can talk; at any rate, there's no harm in trying." So she began: "O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired of swimming about here, O Mouse!" (Alice thought this must be the right way of speaking to a mouse. She had never done such a thing before, but she remembered having seen in her brother's Latin Grammar, "A mouse--of a mouse--to a mouse--a mouse--O mouse!") The Mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said nothing. "Perhaps it doesn't understand English," thought Alice; "I dare say it's a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror." (For with all her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) So she began again: "Ou est ma chatte?" which was the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice, hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feelings. "I quite forgot you didn't like cats." "Not like cats!" cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. "Would _you_ like cats if you were me?" "Well, perhaps not," said Alice, in a soothing tone. "Don't be angry about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you'd take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear, quiet thing," Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the pool, "and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and washing her face--and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse--and she's such a capital one for catching mice--oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she felt certain it must be really offended. "We won't talk about her any more, if you'd rather not." "We, indeed!" cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his tail. "As if _I_ would talk on such a subject! Our family always _hated_ cats--nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!" "I won't, indeed!" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. "Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?" The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: "There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long, curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats, or dogs either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her. Its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low, trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might; He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!" The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky; No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand-- "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!" "If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. "O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach; We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each." The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said; The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat; Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low-- And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. "The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings." "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need; Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed." "But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view? "It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but, "Cut us another slice. I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!" "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick. After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but, "The butter's spread too thick!" "I weep for you," the Walrus said; "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. "O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one. We must not deny to humor and fancy the opportunity for creative effort offered to other faculties in our previous studies. What form shall the effort take: fable, fairy tale, a whimsical play of fancy in essay, or merely a nonsense rhyme? I think we must bar the _limerick_ from our serious creative efforts in the study. You may engage as a class in an extemporaneous contest in the making of this infectious form of verse if you like. Meanwhile, there is still another class-room test of humor which should be made,--the test of the clever anecdote. There is nothing which so effectually discloses the quality of your sense of humor as your attitude toward so-called funny stories. Judgment in such a case will rest upon three points: What you think is "funny" enough to tell; when you judge it "apropos" to tell; and the manner of the telling. Three warnings are in order at this point. If you find that you must preface your anecdote with the question too often heard, "Do you think you can stand this story?--it really _is_ clever," in the name of clean humor, don't tell it! If you find you must introduce your anecdote with the remark, "Apropos of nothing," or "This is not apropos, but"--in the name of "sulphitic" humor, don't tell it; finally, if you don't know _how_ to tell it, in the name of any and all humor, _don't tell it_. With these cautions in mind, I shall ask you to bring to class to-morrow your best three "funny stories." Conflicting choice is not likely to have appropriated all three of your favorite anecdotes. Should you find that it has done so, never mind. Your taste, though it coincides with another's, can be quite as well questioned or commended; and the manner of your telling will be subjected to trial by comparison, which, if not always comfortable, is always helpful (_when met in the right spirit_). Remember, the serious creative work you are to produce is to take the form of a fable, fairy story, or humorous essay. FOURTH STUDY TO DEVELOP IMAGINATIVE VIGOR In one of the great manufacturing towns of the Northwest there are some twenty-five thousand girls employed in factories. The city permits conditions of work hostile to the physical life of these girls. Civic reform is trying to control these conditions. In time it doubtless will succeed in doing so; meanwhile it makes efforts in other directions. It establishes working girls' clubs. A class in literature in one of these clubs enlisted the services of a comprehending young teacher, who kept the girls interested for more than two years. A little girl from a bag factory entered this class. She came to every meeting of the first year. She did not join in the discussions nor ask questions nor evince unusual intelligence or enjoyment, but she _came_ every night. The class began its second year. The little girl from the bag factory was the first to enroll. The teacher could not cover the surprise in her question, "Are you coming into the class again?" The girl's breathless "Oh yes" sent her to investigate the case. She went to the factory. She found the child standing at a bench folding bags. Eight hours a day she folded bags. A swing back on her right foot with the stuff of which the bag was made grasped in her hands--a swing forward, and her hands brought the edges of the stuff together evenly. Over and over a thousand times the single motion repeated made up the girl's day. "It used to make me tired," she said, simply. "But it doesn't any more?" "No, because now I forget what I am doing sometimes. I have my book, you see. They let me fasten it here." There it was--a paper copy of Shelley's poems. The print was good; the teacher had seen to that. She had observed that factory girls' eyes are not always very strong. The book was fastened to the front of the desk. The child could catch a line from time to time without interrupting her bag-folding. "But I know most of the poems we have studied in class by heart." So she had to recall but a line, and then off she would go through the windows of the stifling factory into the open fields on the wings of her _imagination_. She was a swift, sure, little workman; her eye watched the stuff before her and measured it truly; her hands obeyed her eye, did her work efficiently, and "kept her job." But the eye of her imagination had been opened in the literature class and kept her soul alive in spite "of her job." This is a true story. It has significance for you and me. If through the use of her imagination a little factory girl can escape from the monotony of bag-folding, and find freedom and joy in the lyric world Shelley has created, what limit need be set to our emancipation through the development of this faculty? But emancipation is but one result of such development. Listen to David as he stands with his harp before the King in Browning's story of _Saul_. Already his song has released the monarch from the depths of his great despair, but now comes the boy's cry: What spell or what charm (For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge To sustain him where song had restored him?... Then fancies grew rife Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep Fed in silence--above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep; And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky: And I laughed--"Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks, Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know! Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now those old trains Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the string Of my harp made response to my spirit.... So the imagination of the young shepherd boy had not only disregarded the limits of his actual environment and escaped in fancy to the great world beyond, but so vividly had he realized that world _through his imagination_ that his sympathies had been made broad to comprehend a monarch's need and his song potent to meet it. Experience alone gives comprehension. We are prone to think that experience is limited by our actual horizon. We need to know that experience has no limit save that which is set by the limit of our imaginative insight. No door of life is closed to the imaginative mind and heart. The world is its playground to wander in at will. Experience, and thorough experience, comprehension of life is at the command of _imagination_. Life can be intelligently apprehended on the material plane through trained senses. Life can be vividly realized on the spirit's plane only through a trained imagination. It is only vivid realization of life at every point which makes it worth living. You may see the lark long after he is lost to my duller eye in our common sky, you may hear the song when my less keen ear no longer catches a faintest thread of melody; but unless the eye and ear of your imagination match mine you shall not _vividly realize_ flight or song, and so I shall follow both long after they are lost to you. Your skylark will pass with the moment of his rapturous song-flight, while mine shall remain forever a spirit of joy to be recalled at will for my spirit's refreshing. Looking then upon imagination as a key to that comprehension of life which clarifies and constitutes its worth, let us eagerly enter upon the cultivation of such power. We have left this question of imaginative development as a definite exercise to a fifth place in our interpretative study, not because it is less vital to effective expression than the first four subjects we have considered, but because _balanced expression_ is our aim, and imagination once given free play may easily impair that harmonious development of all our faculties which makes for balance in expression. Of course there is no phase of the study of interpretation which, when rightly conducted, does not indirectly or directly involve the training of the imagination. On the other hand, training of the imagination wisely conducted may comprehend and carry on development along all other lines of evolution in expression. A sensitive imagination trained and controlled to its highest power of apprehension must make for sympathy and intelligence in thought and feeling, keep humor sane, and give direction to purpose. But imaginative vigor set free to the uses of thought and emotion _already_ disciplined, to _conscious_ purpose and to _good_ humor, becomes a safe master of expressive living. The material through which we are to exercise the imagination and develop imaginative vigor is the narrative form of discourse. Narration is successful when it records or has the effect of recording actual experience. A story (according to the authority we so often invoke,--Mr. Gardiner), "whether it be as simple as those of the Book of Genesis or as complex as Mr. James or Mr. Meredith, must carry the effect of the concreteness, and, as it were, the solidity of life." The plot, the characters, the setting of a story _which is to live_, must have the vividness of real experience. This does not mean that the creator of the story must have actually experienced the plot, the people, and the pictures which together make up his tale--they may be the product of actual experience or of imagination--but it does mean that while he is putting these elements together and creating his narrative he must realize _as though it were actual experience_ the incident of his plot with the characters and in the atmosphere of his creation. Such realization can only come through vivid imagination. Exactly the same demand is made upon the imagination of the interpreter. When you retell the tale of a master creator of stories your interpretation will be convincing, exactly as was his creation,--through the lucid play of a vivid imagination. You must make me feel that I am in the presence of incidents, characters, pictures which you yourself have experienced. Nay, more, you must make me feel that I myself am actually meeting these people, seeing these pictures, taking part in these incidents, as you relive for me _in imagination_ at the moment of your interpretation the tale you are retelling to me. SUGGESTIVE ANALYSIS We shall use for suggestive analysis in this study not a complete specimen of narration, but several examples illustrating two of the three elements necessary to the personnel of a good story. These three recognized elements are the setting or situation which the pictures compose, the atmosphere which the characters create, and the plot or the action in which the characters engage. We shall leave the question of the plot to class work upon the selections from epic poetry to be considered later in this study. Suppose we test our imaginations in the analysis of a situation or setting before we attempt a character study. Remember the situation is to be realized through imagination as though it were actual experience. It is to be _recreated_. Give your imagination full play in this opening chapter of George Eliot's _Mill on the Floss_. Let us read the first sentence: A wide plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on between its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace. Can you see and feel the elements of this picture! You have never experienced a tide river? Never mind! There is enough in the picture which _is_ familiar to your actual senses through experience to brace your imagination for a grasp of the unfamiliar elements. The wide plain, the river hurrying between green banks--no apperceptive background fails thus far in the picture. What do we mean by apperceptive background? Let us investigate for a moment the psychology involved in the art of "making pictures." Let us get back of this word-picture. Rather let us stay this side of it. Look at the page before you not with the inner eye of your imagination, but with the outer eye--the eye which is merely the organ of the sense of sight. Use your eye as a physical sense only. What does your eye carry to your mind when you look at this page? "Black letters grouped into words on a white surface." Did you get all these qualities at once? Yes, because you have seen other printed pages. Can you wipe out of your mind your knowledge of paper, print, and words? Can you imagine looking on such a page as this for the first time--_perceiving_ it for the first time? If you can do this you will arrive at an understanding of apperceptive background through its elimination. You will realize, that all that is in the back of your mind, stored there by its previous acquaintance with other printed pages, makes up the apperceptive background by which you get a conception of this page. That conception comes first through your physical sense of sight. You may perceive also through touch, through feeling, for instance, the quality of paper. But all that you perceive in this initial process,--the stimulus which comes through the physical senses, yields little to the complete conception as compared with the yield of your so-called _mental senses_. It is when you have fully apperceived the object that your conception is complete. It is when you have brought to bear upon this page (still looked upon, remember, merely as a printed page regardless of the matter behind the print) all your previous knowledge,--it is when you have observed that the paper is of good quality, that the page is closely set, that the print is excellent, that the margin is wide,--it is when you have compared it in memory with other pages in other books,--it is when you have not only perceived but _ap_perceived it that you have really gained a conception of it. Of course, if you are a type-setter, or a proof-reader, or a printer, or an editor, or one connected with book-making in any least or last capacity, you will see a printed page quite lost to me, because your apperceptive background will outmatch mine as to paper, print, margin, and type. Good! I yield to you from type-setter to editor! But I challenge you to another contest over the same page. Match with me now conceptions gained from another view of this same printed matter. Forget now type, paper, margins, and words--yes, forget the words as printed words--look back of them with me. What do you see now on the page? Still words? Look behind them at the pictures! Now, what do you see? "A wide plain, a river, green banks, the sea!" Yes, but I see more than that! And you do, too? "The river flows between green banks?" You have missed a point. How does she flow? Ah, yes, "She hurries on." Where? "To the sea!" Yes! And what meets her? "The tide!" Yes, the loving tide meets her! But how? "Rushing, he checks her passage in an impetuous embrace!" "You _see_ all this!" you say. Yes, but do you hear it, smell it, taste it, feel it? Are you, too, caught up in that impetuous embrace? No? Ah, then your imagination is only half awake. No, it is not a question of background or actual experience now. There are enough familiar elements, as I have said before, to rouse your senses to _vividly realize_ the picture as a whole if you will not shut the door to such realization--that door is your imagination. Open it! Open it! Now I shall close the book and ask the class to do likewise, while you read once more _to us_ these first sentences, paint for us this picture. Yes, now you are using your imagination to stimulate my senses and awake my imagination, but you must take heed. You must let me enjoy this picture as a whole. You must let me see, feel, taste, smell, all "in the same breath." Remember it is a picture. Don't disregard its perspective. Let all the elements rest in proper relation one to another and to the whole--as George Eliot placed them when she made the setting. The atmosphere is on the whole full of peace. The river "hurries," _but_ the "plain is wide"; the tide "rushes," but it is a "_loving_ tide," even though its embrace be "impetuous." Try it once more! Is there not the joy of creation in such interpretation? Let us read on! You read to us still. On this mighty tide the black ships--laden with the fresh-scented fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with dark glitter of coal--are borne along to the town of St. Ogg's, which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its wharves between the low wooded hill and the river-brink, tingeing the water with a soft purple hue under the transient glance of this February sun. Far away on each hand stretch the rich pastures and the patches of dark earth, made ready for the seed of broad-leaved, green crops, or touched already with the tint of the tender-bladed autumn-sown corn. There is a remnant still of the last year's golden clusters of beehive ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees: the distant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their red-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. Just by the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a lively current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is, with its dark, changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I wander along the bank and listen to its low, placid voice, as to the voice of one who is dear and loving. I remember these large, dipping willows. I remember the stone bridge. And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February it is pleasant to look at--perhaps the chill, damp season adds a charm to the trimly kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast. The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water here among the withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world above. The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. They are like a grand curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. And now there is the thunder of the huge covered wagon coming home with sacks of grain. That honest wagoner is thinking of his dinner, getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour; but he will not touch it till he has fed his horses--the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in that awful manner, as if they needed that hint! See how they stretch their shoulders up the slope toward the bridge, with all the more energy because they are so near home! Look at their grand shaggy feet, that seem to grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their neck, bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches! I should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly earned feed of corn, and see them, with their moist necks freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and the arch of the covered wagon disappears at the turning behind the trees. Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch the unresting wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. That little girl is watching it too: she has been standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since I paused on the bridge. And that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous, because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement. It is time the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a very bright fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepening gray of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge. Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many years ago. Before I dozed off, I was going to tell you what Mr. and Mrs. Tulliver were talking about as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlor on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of. If, in your interpretation of this passage, a sensitive imagination free, but controlled by vital thought and intelligent feeling, has found in trained instruments a lucid channel for expression, then, at the close of your reading, _we_, your auditors, shall find our arms really benumbed from pressing our elbows on the arms of our chairs as we dream with you that we are standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill--the Mill on the Floss, which we find on awakening is but the title and setting of a great author's great story. We turn now to the second element of Narration--the _characters_. The setting we have just analyzed has introduced us to the main characters of a great story. Our interest is already awake to the little girl who has been watching with us the unresting wheel of the mill. Why not take Maggie Tulliver for our character study? To follow Maggie but a little way is to find Tom. This is well for us, because we need to study both types. Let us read from the chapter called "Tom Comes Home" in the life of the boy and girl. TOM COMES HOME Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough for the sound of the gig-wheels to be expected; for if Mrs. Tulliver had a strong feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the sound came--that quick light bowling of the gig-wheels--and in spite of the wind, which was blowing the clouds about, and was not likely to respect Mrs. Tulliver's curls and cap-strings, she came outside the door, and even held her hand on Maggie's offending head, forgetting all the griefs of the morning. "There he is, my sweet lad! But Lord ha' mercy! he's got never a collar on; it's been lost on the road, I'll be bound, and spoiled the set." Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped first on one leg and then on the other; while Tom descended from the gig, and said, with masculine reticence as to the tender emotions, "Hallo! Yap--what! are you there?" Nevertheless, he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though Maggie hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his blue-gray eyes wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the river, where he promised himself that he would begin to fish the first thing to-morrow morning. He was one of those lads that grow everywhere in England and at twelve or thirteen years of age look as much alike as goslings--a lad with light-brown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips, indeterminate nose and eyebrows--a physiognomy in which it seems impossible to discern anything but the generic character of boyhood; as different as possible from poor Maggie's phiz, which Nature seemed to have molded and colored with the most decided intention. But that same Nature has the deep cunning which hides itself under the appearance of openness, so that simple people think they can see through her quite well, and all the while she is secretly preparing a refutation of their confident prophecies. Under these average boyish physiognomies that she seems to turn off by the gross, she conceals some of her most rigid, inflexible purposes, some of her most unmodifiable characters; and the dark-eyed, demonstrative, rebellious girl may after all turn out to be a passive being compared with this pink-and-white bit of masculinity with the indeterminate features. "Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner as soon as his mother was gone out to examine his box, and the warm parlor had taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, "you don't know what I've got in _my_ pockets," nodding his head up and down as a means of rousing her sense of mystery. "No," said Maggie. "How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marls (marbles) or cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, because Tom always said it was "no good" playing with _her_ at those games--she played so badly. "Marls! no; I've swopped all my marls with the little fellows, and cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. But see here!" He drew something half out of his right-hand pocket. "What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see nothing but a bit of yellow." "Why, it's ... a ... new ... guess, Maggie." "Oh, I _can't_ guess, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently. "Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, thrusting his hand back into his pocket and looking determined. "No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that was held stiffly in the pocket. "I'm not cross, Tom; it was only because I can't bear guessing. _Please_ be good to me." Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's a new fish-line--two new uns--one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. I wouldn't go halves in the toffee and ginger-bread on purpose to save the money; Gibson and Spouncer fought with me because I wouldn't. And here's hooks--see here! I say, _won't_ we go and fish to-morrow down by Round Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put the worms on, and everything--won't it be fun?" Maggie's answer was to throw her arms around Tom's neck and hug him, and hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he slowly unwound some line, saying, after a pause: "Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? You know, I needn't have bought it if I hadn't liked." "Yes, very, very good. I _do_ love you, Tom." Tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at the hooks one by one, before he spoke again. "And the fellows fought me because I wouldn't give in about the toffee." "Oh, dear! I wish they wouldn't fight at your school, Tom. Didn't it hurt you?" "Hurt me? no," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he added: "I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know--that's what he got by wanting to leather _me_; I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me." "Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you're like Samson. If there came a lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him--wouldn't you, Tom?" "How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no lions only in the shows." "No; but if we were in the lion countries--I mean, in Africa, where it's very hot--the lions eat people there. I can show it to you in the book where I read it." "Well, I should get a gun and shoot him." "But if you hadn't got a gun--we might have gone out, you know, not thinking, just as we go fishing; and then a great lion might run toward us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. What should you do, Tom?" Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying: "But the lion _isn't_ coming. What's the use of talking?" "But I like to fancy how it would be," said Maggie, following him. "Just think what you would do, Tom?" "Oh, don't bother, Maggie! you're such a silly--I shall go and see my rabbits." Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sad truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling silence as he went out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften at once his sorrow and anger; for Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of all things--it was quite a different anger from her own. "Tom," she said, timidly, when they were out-of-doors, "how much money did you give for your rabbits?" "Two half-crowns and a sixpence," said Tom, promptly. "I think I've got a great deal more than that in my steel purse up-stairs. I'll ask mother to give it you." "What for?" said Tom. "I don't want _your_ money, you silly thing. I've got a great deal more money than you, because I'm a boy. I always have half-sovereigns and sovereigns for my Christmas boxes, because I shall be a man, and you only have five-shilling pieces, because you're only a girl." "Well, but, Tom--if mother would let me give you two half-crowns and a sixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket to spend, you know, and buy some more rabbits with it?" "More rabbits? I don't want any more." "Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead." Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round toward Maggie. "You forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry forgot?" he said, his color heightening for a moment, but soon subsiding. "I'll pitch into Harry--I'll have him turned away. And I don't love you, Maggie. You sha'n't go fishing with me to-morrow. I told you to go and see the rabbits every day." He walked on again. "Yes. But I forgot--and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. I'm so very sorry," said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast. "You're a naughty girl," said Tom, severely, "and I'm sorry I bought you the fish-line. I don't love you." "Oh, Tom, it's very cruel," sobbed Maggie. "I'd forgive you if _you_ forgot anything--I wouldn't mind what you did--I'd forgive you and love you." "Yes, you're a silly; but I never _do_ forget things--_I_ don't." "Oh, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break," said Maggie, shaking with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and laying her wet cheek on his shoulder. Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone: "Now, Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I a good brother to you?" "Ye-ye-es," sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling convulsively. "Didn't I think about your fish-line all this quarter, and mean to buy it, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't go halves in the toffee, and Spouncer fought me because I wouldn't?" "Ye-ye-es ... and I ... lo-lo-love you so, Tom." "But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my fish-line down when I set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through my kite, all for nothing." "But I didn't mean," said Maggie; "I couldn't help it." "Yes, you could," said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing. And you're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go fishing with me to-morrow." With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie toward the mill, meaning to greet Luke there, and complain to him of Harry. Maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minute or two; then she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic, where she sat on the floor, and laid her head against the worm-eaten shelf, with a crushing sense of misery. Tom was come home, and she had thought how happy she should be--and now he was cruel to her. What use was anything, if Tom didn't love her? Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn't she wanted to give him the money, and said how very sorry she was? She knew she was naughty to her mother, but she had never been naughty to Tom--had never _meant_ to be naughty to him. "Oh, he is cruel!" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure in the hollow resonance that came through the long empty space of the attic. She never thought of beating or grinding her Fetish; she was too miserable to be angry. These bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless. This text furnishes an easier exercise in interpretation, does it not? It does not require a great stretch of imagination to slip back five, ten, a dozen years to play with these children. But I cannot let you _play_ with them. We want to meet and know them. The task for your imagination is not so simple as you think. It is called upon to engage in character interpretation. You cannot be allowed to merely watch Maggie and Tom play, or even to play with them. You must use your imagination to get inside the minds, hearts, souls of this boy and girl and reveal them to us. You must relive this scene for us, becoming first Maggie and then Tom. This exercise of your imagination belongs in its final and complete stage to the next and last of our studies, and to work on the drama; so we shall not demand too much of you along this line here, and I shall confine my suggestive analysis of the text to the following questions: Define the relation existing between this brother and sister indicated by this scene. Is this scene typical of their relation? Is it a relation likely to obtain throughout their lives? Why? Define the dispositions of these two children by applying to each three adjectives. Will Maggie or Tom make the sacrifices inevitable to such a relation? Characterize as to inflection and tone-color Maggie's voice and Tom's. (If your use of this book has been intelligently directed you have already made a study of these two elements of a vocal vocabulary--_inflection_ and _tone-color_.) Answer these questions and re-read the scene. SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATION The following selections were chosen for this study with a double concern in the choice,--concern for the development of imaginative vigor in vocal interpretation; concern for the development of a sense of plot in narrative composition. The demand upon the interpreter of any of these poems, for sensitive progressive play of imagination, in carrying an auditor through a series of events up to a critical issue, cannot fail to develop, with imaginative vigor, a new sensitiveness of creative instinct to the third element in narrative,--action. Your imagination given free play can no more carry the "good news" from Ghent to Aix on this wild ride, and in the feat fail to outgrow all its former dimensions, than could the heart of Roland's master remain untouched in actually performing the feat itself. HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX[9] [9] The "Good News" is that of the "Pacification de Gant," concluded in 1576. It was a treaty of union between Holland, Zealand, and the southern Netherlands, against Spain, under tyrannical Philip II. The treaty was greeted rapturously by the frontier cities, because it was expected to free the Netherlands from Spanish power. "There is," writes Mr. Browning, "no sort of historical foundation about 'Good News from Ghent.' I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse 'York,' then in my stable at home. It was written in pencil on the fly-leaf of Bartoli's _Simboli_, I remember." While there is, then, no historical foundation for the "gallop," the verisimilitude of the situation is perfect. Aix might easily have resolved to set herself on fire at a given hour, rather than submit herself and her citizens piecemeal to the torch of the persecutor. The "horse without peer" might possibly have galloped the ninety-odd miles between Ghent and Aix, but the feat would be a marvelous one. This poem and "Hervé Riel," with the accompanying notes, are reprinted from _Select Poems of Robert Browning_, edited by William Rolfe, A.M., and Héloise E. Hersey, and published by Harper & Brothers. I I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. II Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. III 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" IV At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past; And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray; V And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. VI By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. VII So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight! VIII How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. IX Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. X And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. --BROWNING. LOCHINVAR Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'Mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all; Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,-- "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up; He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup; She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!" One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, where the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan:-- Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,-- But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? --WALTER SCOTT. KING VOLMER AND ELSIE _After the Danish of Christian Winter_ Where, over heathen doom-rings and gray stones of the Horg, In its little Christian city stands the church of Vordingborg, In merry mood King Volmer sat, forgetful of his power, As idle as the Goose of Gold that brooded on his tower. Out spake the king to Henrik, his young and faithful squire: "Dar'st trust thy little Elsie, the maid of thy desire?" "Of all the men in Denmark she loveth only me: As true to me is Elsie as thy Lily is to thee." Loud laughed the king: "To-morrow shall bring another day, When I myself will test her; she will not say me nay." Thereat the lords and gallants, that round about him stood, Wagged all their heads in concert and smiled as courtiers should. The gray lark sings o'er Vordingborg, and on the ancient town From the tall tower of Valdemar the Golden Goose looks down: The yellow grain is waving in the pleasant wind of morn, The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare of hunter's horn. In the garden of her father little Elsie sits and spins, And, singing with the early birds, her daily task begins. Gay tulips bloom and sweet mint curls around her garden-bower, But she is sweeter than the mint and fairer than the flower. About her form her kirtle blue clings lovingly, and, white As snow, her loose sleeves only leave her small, round wrists in sight; Below the modest petticoat can only half conceal The motion of the lightest foot that ever turned a wheel. The cat sits purring at her side, bees hum in sunshine warm; But, look! she starts, she lifts her face, she shades it with her arm. And, hark! a train of horsemen, with sound of dog and horn, Come leaping o'er the ditches, come trampling down the corn! Merrily rang the bridle-reins, and scarf and plume streamed gay, As fast beside her father's gate the riders held their way; And one was brave in scarlet cloak, with golden spur on heel, And, as he checked his foaming steed, the maiden checked her wheel. "All hail among thy roses, the fairest rose to me! For weary months in secret my heart has longed for thee!" What noble knight was this? What words for modest maiden's ear? She dropped a lowly courtesy of bashfulness and fear. She lifted up her spinning-wheel; she fain would seek the door, Trembling in every limb, her cheek with blushes crimsoned o'er. "Nay, fear me not," the rider said, "I offer heart and hand, Bear witness these good Danish knights who round about me stand. I grant you time to think of this, to answer as you may, For to-morrow, little Elsie, shall bring another day." He spake the old phrase slyly as, glancing round his train, He saw his merry followers seek to hide their smiles in vain. "The snow of pearls I'll scatter in your curls of golden hair, I'll line with furs the velvet of the kirtle that you wear; All precious gems shall twine your neck; and in a chariot gay You shall ride, my little Elsie, behind four steeds of gray. And harps shall sound, and flutes shall play, and brazen lamps shall glow; On marble floors your feet shall weave the dances to and fro; At frosty eventide for us the blazing hearth shall shine, While, at our ease, we play at draughts, and drink the blood-red wine." Then Elsie raised her head and met her wooer face to face; A roguish smile shone in her eye and on her lip found place. Back from her low white forehead the curls of gold she threw, And lifted up her eyes to his, steady and clear and blue. "I am a lowly peasant, and you a gallant knight; I will not trust a love that soon may cool and turn to slight. If you would wed me henceforth be a peasant, not a lord; I bid you hang upon the wall your tried and trusty sword." "To please you, Elsie, I will lay keen Dynadel away, And in its place will swing the scythe and mow your father's hay." "Nay, but your gallant scarlet cloak my eyes can never bear; A Vadmal coat, so plain and gray, is all that you must wear." "Well, Vadmal will I wear for you," the rider gaily spoke, "And on the Lord's high altar I'll lay my scarlet cloak." "But mark," she said, "no stately horse my peasant love must ride, A yoke of steers before the plow is all that he must guide." The knight looked down upon his steed: "Well, let him wander free,-- No other man must ride the horse that has been backed by me. Henceforth I'll tread the furrow and to my oxen talk, If only little Elsie beside my plow will walk." "You must take from out your cellar cask of wine and flask and can; The homely mead I brew you may serve a peasant-man." "Most willingly, fair Elsie, I'll drink that mead of thine, And leave my minstrel's thirsty throat to drain my generous wine." "Now break your shield asunder, and shatter sign and boss, Unmeet for peasant-wedded arms, your knightly knee across. And pull me down your castle from top to basement wall, And let your plow trace furrows in the ruins of your hall!" Then smiled he with a lofty pride: right well at last he knew The maiden of the spinning-wheel was to her troth-plight true. "Ah, roguish little Elsie! you act your part full well: You know that I must bear my shield and in my castle dwell! The lions ramping on that shield between the hearts aflame Keep watch o'er Denmark's honor, and guard her ancient name. For know that I am Volmer; I dwell in yonder towers, Who plows them plows up Denmark, this goodly home of ours! I tempt no more, fair Elsie! your heart I know is true; Would God that all our maidens were good and pure as you! Well have you pleased your monarch, and he shall well repay: God's peace! Farewell! To-morrow will bring another day!" He lifted up his bridle hand, he spurred his good steed then, And like a whirl-blast swept away with all his gallant men. The steel hoofs beat the rocky path; again on winds of morn The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare of hunter's horn. "Thou true and ever faithful!" the listening Henrik cried: And, leaping o'er the green hedge, he stood by Elsie's side. None saw the fond embracing, save, shining from afar, The Golden Goose that watched them from the tower of Valdemar. O darling girls of Denmark! of all the flowers that throng Her vales of spring the fairest, I sing for you my song. No praise as yours so bravely rewards the singer's skill; Thank God! of maids like Elsie the land has plenty still! --WHITTIER. HERVÉ RIEL[10] [10] "This spirited poem was sent to the _Cornhill_, because Browning was asked for a subscription to the fund for sending food to Paris after the siege by the Germans in 1870-71. Though he condemned Louis Napoleon's war, he wished to help the French in their distress, and he sent to the fund the 100 pounds that Mr. George Smith gave him for 'Hervé Riel.' The subject of the poem and its generous treatment surely manifolded the good-will of the gift. An English poet restored to France its 'Forgotten Worthy.' An Englishman sang the praises of a French sailor's balking the English fleet. One of the nation whose boast it is that her heroes need no other motive for their noble deeds than 'England expects every man to do his duty' showed that in France, too--whose citizens were accused of seeking glory and vainglory as their dearest gain--was a man who could act out Nelson's words with no thought of Nelson's end--a 'peerage or Westminster Abbey'--but just do his duty because it lay before him, and put aside with a smile the reward offered him for doing it; a real man, an honor to the nation and the navy of which he was part." "The facts of the story had been forgotten and were denied at St. Malo, but the reports to the French Admiralty at the time were looked up and the facts established. Browning's only alteration is that Hervé Riel's holiday to see his wife, 'La Belle Aurore,' was to last, not a day only, but his lifetime." "Hervé Riel" was written at Le Croisic, the home of the hero. It is a small fishing village near the mouth of the Loire. I On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French--woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. II 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville: Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signaled to the place, 'Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!' III Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; 'Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?' laughed they: 'Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay! IV Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: 'Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!' (Ended Damfreville his speech). Not a minute more to wait! 'Let the captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. V Give the word!' But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these-- A captain? A lieutenant? A mate--first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. VI And, 'What mockery or malice have we here?' cries Hervé Riel: 'Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève, where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life--here's my head!' cries Hervé Riel. VII Not a minute more to wait. 'Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!' cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral in brief. Still the north wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored, to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas 'Anchor!'--sure as fate Up the English come, too late! VIII So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm, 'Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!' How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, 'This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King, Thank the man that did the thing!' What a shout, and all one word, 'Hervé Riel!' As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. IX Then said Damfreville, 'My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips; You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. Faith our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville.' X Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 'Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ashore-- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go, and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!' That he asked and that he got--nothing more. XI Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Bell Aurore! Your imagination can no more follow the flight of the _Formidable_, steered by Hervé Riel, with the French fleet close following her guidance and "the English at her heels" past the rocks and shoals of Grève to safe harbor at Solidor, and remain creatively unsensitive to the pulse of progressive action, than could the actual rescue of his country's squadron leave unmoved toward the "man who did the deed" the heart of her Captain Damfreville. And when your imagination has not only carried you through such adventure, but stimulated _my_ imagination to like activity, there is no limit to be set to the development which may result for us both. Suggestive analysis can be of little help at this point, the work must be done in the class-room under direction. To such stimulating exercise in the vocal interpretation of these poems of action, I leave you and your imagination. I shall hope to find difficulty in recognizing either of you at our next meeting. Like Mr. Rhoades's[11] pupil when he emerged from the Ninth book of _Paradise Lost_, you ought to have "outgrown all your present intellectual clothes" in the study of these stories in verse. [11] Read _The Training of the Imagination_, by James Rhoades; John Lane Publishing Company. As further material for this study there is no better choice to be made than Tennyson's great quasi-epic, _The Idylls of the King_, from which but for lack of space we should have printed selections. The following suggestions for work in composition at this point are based on the _Idylls_. Describe in your own words Camelot. Write an imaginary scene between Gareth and his mother. Tell the story of Elaine. Make the Holy Grail into the form of a miracle play. FIFTH STUDY TO DEVELOP DRAMATIC INSTINCT Our final study in interpretation has for its concern the development of dramatic instinct. The work just finished should have left no doubt in your mind as to the nature or value of this final step in the training, since it has anticipated both. Development of imaginative vigor should arouse a latent dramatic instinct and release histrionic power. The choice of place in these studies for this phase of the training was made to insure cumulative evolution resulting in balanced expression. As imagination needs to safeguard her freedom with sympathetic thought and intelligent emotion, so dramatic instinct needs the guidance of a vigorous but trained imagination. Dramatic instinct so directed should achieve skill in interpreting drama and lead to distinction in the art of acting. The immediate evolution should be a clarified vision of life. Your final attainment from this theory should be distinction in the art of living. With dramatic instinct capable of such achievement, let us proceed to exercise it in the material chosen for this study,--dramatic literature. The natural transition from story to play, from narrative to drama, is by way of the monologue. Some discussion with suggestive analysis of this form is necessary in order to impress upon you the difference between suggestive impersonation and actual impersonation or characterization, leading to a clear understanding of the difference between reading a play and acting in one; but the final evolution of interpretative power must come through acted drama,--through taking part in a play. The dictionary in defining the monologue authorizes three forms: (1) when the actor tells a continuous story in which he is the chief character, referring to the others as absent; (2) when he assumes the voice or manner of several characters successively; (3) more recently, when he implies that the others are present, leading the audience to imagine what they say by his replies. Browning created this more recent form, which is the most vital of the three. I have chosen for your study of the monologue examples from Browning alone. To interpret effectively any one of the Browning monologues will call into play every element of power in voice and expression which you have gained in your study of previous forms. You must think vividly, feel intelligently, realize and suggest an atmosphere, sustain a situation, and keep the beauty of the poetic form. And you must do all this _in the person of another_. The new demand which the monologue makes is impersonation. Let us see just what we mean by impersonation. It is the art of identifying one's self with the character to be portrayed. It is the art of losing one's self in the character and the situation the dramatist has created. This means that the spirit of the character must take possession of the impersonator, and inform his every thought and feeling, and so his every motion and tone. Remember, it is the _spirit_ of the character that must determine the nature of the tone and gesture. The great danger in entering upon the study of impersonation lies in emphasizing the outward manifestation instead of the inward spirit of the character to be portrayed. If you really sense the soul, mind, heart quality of the character you are to present, and have made your voice and body free agents for the manifestation of those qualities, your impersonation will be convincing. If the spirit of the _Patriot_ or _Andrea del Sarto_ or _Fra Lippo Lippi_ or _Pompilia_ or _Caponsacchi_ or _Guido_ obsesses you, the outward manifestation will take care of itself--always provided your instruments are responsive. Don't begin with the outward manifestation. Don't say I think this man would frown a great deal, or fold his arms over his breast, or use an eyeglass, or strut, or stoop, or do any one of a hundred things which, if repeated a half-dozen times during an impersonation, may become a mannerism and get between the audience and the spirit of the character. When you are studying a character for the purpose of impersonation determine first to what type it belongs. Then study that type, wherever you are. Daily life becomes your teacher and studio. When you enter upon this art there are no longer dull moments in railroad stations or trains, in shops or in the social whirl. Everywhere and always you are the student seeking to know and understand types of people better, that you may use your knowledge in presenting to an audience an individual. When you have caught the spirit of the individual you must realize the situation out of which this particular individual speaks. Let us make a special study of the _Tale_ (Browning's epilogue to _The Two Poets of Croisic_). It is perhaps the most exquisite of the poet's creations in this field. The situation reveals a young girl recalling to her poet lover an old Greek tale he had once told her. There is a suggestion from some critics that Browning has drawn his wife in this portrait, and through it pays his tribute to her. This immediately affords us a clue to the type of character to which the speaker belongs. We cannot hope (nor do we wish) to impersonate Mrs. Browning, but a knowledge of Mrs. Browning and her relation to her poet lover, gained through a study of her _Letters and Sonnets_, will lead us more quickly to a comprehension of the speaker and situation in the _Tale_. Obsessed by the spirit of the character and fully realizing the situation, our next step is, _in imagination_, to set the stage. This is an important point in presenting a monologue. The impersonator must have a clear idea of his position on his imaginary stage relative to his imaginary interlocutor. But he must remember that _imaginary_ stage-setting admits of only delicately suggestive use. This is true of the handling of a monologue at every point. It must be suggestive. The actor carries to completion the action which the monologuist suggests. The art of interpreting a monologue depends upon the discrimination of the impersonator in drawing his line between suggestion and actualization in gesture. The business of the monologuist is to make an appeal to the imagination of the audience so vivid that the imagination of the audience can actualize the suggestion. And the illusion is complete. What are the relative positions of the girl and her lover in the _Tale_? There is nothing in the lines to make our choice arbitrary. It is only important that we determine a relation and keep it consistently throughout the reading. Here is a possible "setting." They are in the poet's study; he is working at his desk; she is sitting in a great chair before the fire, a book in her hand, which she does not read; she is gazing into the flames. She begins dreamily, more to herself than to him--"What a pretty tale you told me." At what point does her tone lose its reflective quality and become more personal? Where does she turn to him? How do we know that he leaves his chair and comes over to sit on the arm of her chair? What calls him to her? What two qualities of feeling run through her mood and determine the color of her tone and the character of her movements. If your study of Mrs. Browning has been intelligent, this interplay of the whimsical and serious in her nature cannot have escaped you, and it will illumine now your impersonation of this girl. It is the secret of the peculiar charm of this creation. The story she tells is an old and well-known one. It is the manner of the telling through which we come in touch with an exquisite woman's soul that holds us spellbound. Unless the interpreter catches this secret and reveals it to his audience, he will miss the distinctive feature of the monologue and reduce it to a narrative poem. A TALE I What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. II Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where such like used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. III Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind. IV There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears! V None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile 'In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!' VI When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterward eleven, Thank you! Well, sir--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed One of those same seven strings snapped. VII All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What 'cicada'? Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. VIII So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat? IX Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hands intending, Promptly, perfectly,--indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet. X Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent 'Take the prize--a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!' XI Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done? That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul-development. XII No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir, I hope you understand!) --Said 'Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me!' XIII So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. XIV That's the tale: its application? Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Thro' his poetry that's--oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize! XV If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue's built, Tell the gazer ''Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? XVI For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played-- With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,--one string that made "Love" sound soft was snapt in twain, Never to be heard again,-- XVII Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered "Love, Love, Love," whene'er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat somber drone.' XVIII But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a--poet? All I care for Is--to tell him that a girl's 'Love' comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!) INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP I You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. II Just as perhaps he mused 'My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,'-- Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. III Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. IV 'Well,' cried he, 'Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!' The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. V The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; 'You're wounded!' 'Nay,' the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: 'I'm killed, Sire!' And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. MY LAST DUCHESS FERRARA That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said 'Frà Pandolf' by design; for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, t'was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say 'Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much,' or 'Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat': such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, 'Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark'--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! --BROWNING. Our last form for interpretative vocal study is the play. We shall discover that the presentation of the play makes the same demands upon the interpreter as the monologue with the new element of _transition_. We are still studying the monologue, because we are to read, not act, the play. It is still suggestive, not actualized impersonation. But instead of one character to suggestively set forth we have two, three, a dozen to present. The transition from character to character becomes our one new problem. As we have said before, in making the transition from character to character, voice, mind, and body must be so volatile that the action of the play shall not be interrupted. I know of no better way to enter upon the study of a play for reading (or acting) than to treat each character as the speaker in a monologue of the Browning type. The danger in transition from character to character centers in the instant's pause when one speaker yields to another. The unskilful reader loses both characters at this point and becomes conscious of himself; the action of the play stops; and the illusion of scene and situation is lost. The great reader of the play (in that _instant's pause_), as he utters the last word of one character, becomes the interlocutor listening to the words which he as the other character has just uttered. In that instant he must show the effect of the speech he has just uttered upon the character he has just become. Which is the greater art: to read a play, or to act in it? Use for your study of the play the Shakespearian drama. Begin with scenes from _As You Like It_ and _The Merchant of Venice_; but begin with actualized impersonation of the characters. No discussion more! No analysis more! The play--the "play's the thing" through which to complete this evolution in Vocal Expression. _A FINAL WORD ON INTERPRETATION_ Looking back over these studies in interpretation, let us review in true scholastic fashion the main points thus far discovered. We say looking back, but as far as the arrangement of our text goes this review involves looking forward too. The division of the book into three parts is purely a matter of a necessary separation in discussing the three activities involved in vocal expression. If your use of this book has been intelligent, each study in interpretation has revealed your need to strengthen your vocal vocabulary or to perfect your vocal technique, and you have turned at once for the required help to the studies in Part II and the exercises in Part III. Omitting a review of the _preliminary plunge_, which was intended to "show up" all your peculiar powers and all your especial needs at once, and so furnish a basis for the main work, let us see what happened in the five following studies. It will simplify our statement in each case to base the analysis of our discoveries on the form of literature employed in each study. You found then (or ought to have found) in Study One: that the essay and didactic poem make a fundamental appeal to the mind; that the demand upon the interpreter of this form is for clear, concise thinking; that your need is for a command of unerring emphasis and purposeful inflection. You turned to the studies in _pause_, _change of pitch_, and _inflection_ to meet that need. Returning to the main study, you tested your vocal skill on the essay to find the essay so read might persuade an auditor to some readjustment of his ideas, values, discriminations, or strengthen him in convictions already held. Study Two revealed that in lyric poetry the primary appeal is to emotion; that its vocal demand upon the interpreter is for a mastery of _tone-color_, a sense of rhythm, and the power to suggest a background of musical sound. Having supplied as far as possible any lack in your vocabulary or technique by supplementary work in Parts II and III, returning you found that a lyric rightly read could release in the auditor pity, forgiveness, forbearance, endurance, understanding, love. The Third Study should have convinced you that a sense of _good_ humor is a safe and desirable thing to cultivate; that the whimsical tone in interpretation will leaven almost any lump of sheer learning and counteract a serious overdose of sentiment; that fable, fairy tale, and nonsense rhyme depend too for successful interpretation upon this element of whimsicality in the reader; that the secret of the whimsical element in vocal expression lies in a use of _pause_ and _inflection_. Study Four should have discovered to you that the three elements of the short story can only be realized through imagination; that imaginative vigor dealing with action requires sustained vitality of tone. Such discovery should have resulted in many hours of work on the exercises for _support_ and _freedom_ of _tone_. When you reached the Fifth and last Study, the work in monologue and drama should have easily awakened your dramatic instinct and quickly released your histrionic power. You should have learned through monologue and drama to understand various types of persons; to see more clearly the relations of men and events; to more intelligently comprehend life itself. Finally, we have discovered that to become a true interpreter of literature means to become a lucid channel for the message of an author to the mind of an auditor,--nay, that it means more than that. In final evolution the interpreter of literature becomes a revealer of life. The final effect of literature worth interpreting is to enlarge the world's knowledge of life's beauty, truth, or power. Your final concern as an interpreter is to let life find through you uninterrupted revelation on one of these planes; to become a pure medium between the beauty, truth, and power of life and the seeking soul. The author need not be considered in this final analysis, because you, the interpreter, first became identified with the author, and then both of you are lost in the vision, save only as either personality may enlarge or clarify the revelation. A personal experience may help you to realize this ideal of the interpreter's art. With a sense of protest, I had presented a play I loved to an audience with which I felt little sympathy. By chance there was in that audience one of our best teachers and critics. After my recital I sought his criticism. Beginning, as the true critic always should, with a noting of some point of power, he said, "I congratulate you upon your _illumined moments_, but--they are too infrequent. You must multiply them." "What do you mean by my illumined moments?" I asked. "The moments when you do not get between your audience and the thought you are uttering--the moments when you become a revealer of life to them. Your attitude toward your audience is not sustained in the simplicity and clearness of some of its moments. You suddenly ring down the curtain in the middle of the scene. That spoils the scene, you know. You seem to feel a revolt against the giving of your confidence to the audience, and thereupon you immediately shut them away. You become conscious of yourself, and we, the audience, lose the vision and become conscious of you and the way you are reading or reciting or acting." Then he added, "Adelaide Neilson, at first, had illumined moments in her playing of Juliet, but finally her impersonation became one piece of illumination." That delightful teacher, reader, and critic, the late Mr. Howard Ticknor, suggested the same ideal in comparing a Juliet of to-day with Miss Neilson's Juliet. "When Miss ---- is on the balcony," he said, "you hear all around you: 'How lovely she looks!' 'Isn't that robe dear?' 'How beautiful her voice is!' When Miss Neilson lived that little minute, a breathless people prayed with Juliet, 'I would not for the world they found thee here,' and sighed with Romeo--'O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, being in night, all this is but a dream.'" Miss Neilson _was_ Juliet. They, the audience, lived with these lovers one hour of lyric rapture, and could never again be quite so commonplace in their attitude toward the "deathless passion." They may not now remember Adelaide Neilson, but they remember that story, and forever carry a new vision of life and love, because the actress lost herself in the life of the play. She did not exploit her personality and let it stand between the audience and the drama. When some one says to you--the reader or actress, "I shall never forget the way you raised your eyebrow at that point," don't stop to reply, but fly to your study and read the lines "at that point" over and over, with level brows, until you understand the meaning, and can express the thought so effectively by a lift of your voice that you no longer need the help of your eyebrow. Every gesture, every tone, must call attention, not to itself, but to the hidden meaning of the author. It must illumine the text of the character portrayed. That is it: if we would be artists (and there is not one among us who would not be an artist) we must cease to put our little selves in front of our messages. In the home, in the office, in the houses of our friends, in the school-room, on the platform, on the stage, let us be _simple_, _natural_, _sincere_. Let us lay aside our mannerisms. Let us seek to know and reveal life. Then shall we be remembered--not, for a queer way of combing our hair, or lifting our eyes, or using our hands, or shrugging our shoulders, but for some revelation of truth or of beauty which we have brought to a community. PART II STUDIES IN VOCAL EXPRESSION STUDIES IN VOCAL EXPRESSION THE VOCAL VOCABULARY There is a theory that it is dangerous to go beyond the mere freeing of the instrument in either vocal or physical training. In accordance with this theory I was advised by a well-known actress to confine my study for the stage, so far as the vocal and pantomimic preparation was concerned, to singing, dancing, and fencing. "Get your voice and body under control," she said. "Make them free, but don't connect shades of thought and emotion with definite tones of the voice or movements of the body; don't meddle with Delsarte or elocution." This advice seemed good at the time. It still seems to me that it ought to be the right method. But I have grown to distrust it. One of the chief sources of my distrust has been the effect of the theory upon the art of the actress who gave the advice. She is perhaps the most graceful woman on the stage to-day, and her voice is pure music. But her gestures and tones fail in lucidity; they fail to illumine the text of the part she essays to interpret. One grows suddenly impatient of the meaningless grace of her movements, the meaningless music of her voice. One longs for a swift--if studied--stride across the stage in anger instead of the unstudied grace of her glide in swirling-robed protest. One longs to hear a staccato declaration of intention instead of the cadenced music of a voice guiltless of intention. No! After the body has been made a free and responsive agent, a mastery of certain fundamental laws, a mastery of certain principles of gesture in accordance with the dictates of thought and emotion, is necessary to its further perfecting as a vivid, powerful, and true agent of personality. The action must be suited to the word, the word to the action, through a study of the laws governing expression in action. So with the voice: to become not only a free instrument, but a beautiful and powerful means of expression and communication it must learn to recognize and obey certain fundamental laws governing its modulations. A master of verbal expression is distinguished by his vast vocabulary of words, and his skill and discrimination in its use. A master of vocal expression must acquire what we may call a _vocal vocabulary_, consisting of changes of pitch, varieties of inflection and variations in tone color, and must know how to use these elements with skill and discrimination. Our need for such a vocabulary was discovered to us at every step of the work in interpretation. The suggestions and exercises of the following studies aim to supplement the work in interpretation by meeting that need. Before making a detailed study of each element of this vocal vocabulary let us make a quick study with the four elements in mind. Remember, in the last preliminary exercise, as in the final complete interpretative endeavor, the material we employ is to be chosen from real literature. It is to be worth interpreting whether it be a single line or phrase or a complete poetical drama. We have agreed to consider literature as real literature, and so worth our interpretative efforts, when it possesses one or combines all of the three qualities,--_beauty_, _truth_, and _power_. This passage from Emerson's _Friendship_ surely meets that requirement. It is truth beautifully and powerfully expressed. It will serve. Our friendships hurry to short and poor conclusions because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams instead of the tough fiber of the human heart. Having read this passage cursorily (as is the custom in reading to one's self to-day), will you now study it for a moment very closely. Now, once more, please, read it silently, noting the action of your mind as you read. ("Watch its pulsations," Dr. Curry would say.) And now, aloud, although without an auditor, read it, this time noting the effect of the action of the mind upon your voice. Did its pitch change? Where and why? How did you inflect the words "wine and dreams"? How did the inflection of these words differ from that of the last six words, "tough fiber of the human heart," with which they are contrasted in thought? Did your tone change color at any point? Why? Where? But now, once more, let us approach the passage, this time with a different intention. Let us study it with the idea of interpreting it for another mind. Now the method of attack is very different. Not that it ought to be different. But it is. Intense concentration ought to characterize all our reading, whether its object be to acquire knowledge or pleasure for one's self, or to impart either to another. But the day of reading which "_maketh a full man_" seems to be long past, so far as the general public is concerned. The necessity of skimming the pages of a dozen fourth-rate books of the hour in order to be at least a lucid interlocutor, and so a desired dinner guest, is making our reading a swift gathering of colorless impressions which may remain a week or only a day, and which leave no lasting effect of beauty or truth upon the mind and heart of the reader. Should it not be rather an intense application of the mind to the thought of a master mind, until that thought, in all its power and beauty, has broadened the boundaries of the reader's mind and enlarged the meaning of all his thoughts? I wonder if a much smaller proportion of time spent in such reading might not result in a less _bromidic_ social atmosphere, even though its tendency were a bit serious. I think it might be both safe and interesting to try such an experiment. But now we must return to Emerson on _Friendship_. In studying a passage for the purpose of vocal interpretation you have learned that the concentration of attention upon the thought must be intense, you must make the thought absolutely your own before you can present it to your auditor, it must possess you before you can express it; that the thought must seem in the moment of its expression to be a creation of your own brain, it must belong to you as only the thing you have created can, and until you have so recreated the thought it is not yours to give. Having recalled these precepts, read the passage silently again. Pour upon it the light of your experience, your philosophy, your ideals, your perception of truth. Comment upon it silently as you read. Now read it aloud and let your voice do this commenting. But wait a moment. Let me quote for you the paragraph following this statement. The laws of friendship are austere and eternal, of one web with the laws of nature and morals. But we have aimed at a swift and petty benefit to suck a sudden sweetness. We snatch at the slowest fruit in the whole garden of God, which many summers and many winters must ripen. This is Emerson's paraphrase of his original statement. How much of it did your mental commentary include? How did your silent paraphrase resemble this? Read the original passage again to yourself in the light of this paraphrase. I shall ask you now to repeat the first sentence from memory, for you will find, after this concentrated contemplation of a thought, that its form is fixed fast in your mind. That is a delightful accompaniment of this kind of reading. The form of the thought, if it be apposite (which it must be to be literature, and we are considering only literature), the form of a thought so approached stays with us in all its beauty. Let us then repeat the original statement, having read the passage in which Emerson has elaborated it. Now, what you must demand of your voice is this: that it shall so handle the single introductory sentence as to suggest the rest of the paragraph. In other words, your voice must do the paraphrasing, by means of its changes in pitch, its inflections, and its variations in tone-color; by means, in short, of its _vocal vocabulary_. I STUDY IN PAUSE AND CHANGE OF PITCH It is asserted that, "the last word has not been said on any subject." Mr. Hamilton Mabie seemed to me to achieve a _last word_ on the subject of _pause_ when he casually remarked: "Emerson was a master of pause; he would pause, and into the pool of expectancy created by that pause drop just the right word." There seems little to be added to complete the exposition of that single sentence. It surely leaves no doubt in our minds as to the effect to be desired from the use of this element of our vocabulary. How to use it to gain that effect is our problem. First of all, we must cease to be afraid to pause. We hurry on over splendid opportunities to elucidate our text through a just use of this form of emphasis, beset by two fears: fear that we shall seem to have forgotten the text; fear that we shall actually forget it if we stop to think. Think of being afraid to stop to think lest we should stop thinking! That is precisely what the fear indicates. It arises, of course, from a confusion as to the real nature of pause. We confuse pause with its ghost, hesitation. Dr. Curry makes the difference clear for us in his definition of hesitation as an "empty pause." "Empty of what?" you ask. Empty of thought! Of course, an empty pause is a ghastly as well as a ghostly thing to experience. If you have ever faced an audience in one of those "awful" moments when your voice has ceased because your thought has stopped, and when you are painfully aware of a pool of embarrassed sympathy into which you know there is no word to drop, then you have learned the meaning of an _empty pause_. On the other hand, if you shall ever face an audience in one of those _fateful_ moments when your voice pauses because your thought is so vital, that you realize both your audience and you must be given time to fully grasp it, and when you are serenely conscious of that "pool of expectancy" into which you know you have just the right word to drop, then you will learn the meaning of a _true pause_. Some one has called inflection a running commentary of the emotions upon the thought. Emphasis might well be defined in the same way. The definition would need to be a bit more inclusive, since emphasis includes inflection. Emphasis then may be defined as a running commentary of the thought and emotion of the reader upon the thought of the text he interprets. The words reveal the thought; your valuation of that thought, as you interpret it, is revealed through your vocal vocabulary in voicing it. We, your auditors, can only gather from your emphasis your valuation of the truth or importance of what you are uttering. You may use one or all of the elements of your vocal vocabulary to bring out the thought of a single phrase. The elements of the vocal vocabulary are all forms of emphasis. Since pause is a cessation of speech it can hardly be called an element of a vocal vocabulary; but it may rightly be called the basis of our vocabulary because it determines our use of the other elements. It behooves us then to make a study of pause before testing our vocabulary as to its other elements. Here are two texts to be valued by our use of the pause. EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF A BOARDING-SCHOOL GIRL At midnight, the magic hour as every girl knows for affairs of a purely private and personal nature, when far away at the end of a corridor you can almost hear Miss ----'s peaceful snore, when as the poet aptly put it in this morning's English stunt, "darkness clears our vision which by day is sun-blind"--(I thought Jane and I would die laughing and give it all away when we came to that line in Mr. Lanier's stupid poem),--well, as I say, exactly at that hour my heart began to beat so hard I thought it would wake Madge without the "punch" I had promised to give her when it was time to begin preparations for our grand spread. From Sidney Lanier's _Crystal_. At midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time. When far within the spirit's hearing rolls The great soft rumble of the course of things-- A bulk of silence in a mask of sound,-- When darkness clears our vision that by day Is sun-blind, and the soul's a ravening owl For truth and flitteth here and there about Low-lying woody tracts of time and oft Is minded for to sit upon a bough, Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree And muse in that gaunt place,--'twas then my heart, Deep in the meditative dark, cried out: ... The same hour, _midnight_, is designated by both girl and poet; the same two words, "at midnight," open the confession and the poem. A pause must follow these words in the reading of either text, and another pause must be made after the qualifying phrase which immediately follows the opening words of either text. But what a difference in the comparative length of the pauses demanded by the two readings! A very different atmosphere attends an hour when it is the time chosen for a school-girl's escapade or set apart for a _poet's meditation_. And the voice by its use of _pause_ can preserve or destroy either atmosphere. Try it. Make your pauses in reading the school-girl's text of equal length with the pauses the reading of Lanier's poem demands. You will find the result is that _overemphasis_ which has brought such discredit upon the name of "elocution." I once heard a much-advertised reader strain all the elements of her vocal vocabulary in announcing a simple change in her programme. I have heard more than one reader give the stage directions, indicate the scene setting, and introduce the characters in exactly the same voice and with the same use of emphasis which were afterward employed in the most dramatic passages. Of course all the ammunition had been used up before the real battle began, and no one was in the least affected by the firing during the rest of the engagement. We have said that the use of pause determines the use of all other elements of the vocabulary. This is particularly true of the _change of pitch_ which immediately follows pause. We pause before a new idea to get possession of it; in that pause we measure the idea, and the pitch of the voice changes to accord with that measure. Every change of thought causes a change of pitch, but the degree and direction of change in pitch of the voice depends upon the degree and direction of change in thought values. In the pause the mind takes time to value the new thought, and tells the voice what change it must make. Robert Browning affords the best material for a study in change of pitch, because of his sudden and long parentheses, which can be handled lucidly by a voice only after it has mastered this element of the vocal vocabulary. _Abt Vogler_ offers the voice an excellent opportunity for exercise in change of pitch. I print the first stanza and first line of the second stanza of this poem for your use. Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, Man, brute, reptile, fly--alien of end and of aim, Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed, Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved! Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine-- Remember, you are to confine your consideration to the one point, _change of pitch_, not the change of pitch within a word, which is inflection and belongs to another chapter, but to the broad changes of pitch from word to word, phrase to phrase, sentence to sentence, following the intricate changes of the thought. I leave you to blaze a trail through this forest of ideas. You must find the main road, and then trace the by-paths which lead away from that main road, and in this case, fortunately, come back to it again--which does not always happen in Mr. Browning's "woody tracts of thought." To employ a better figure for vocal purposes, you must cut off the stream, the voice, and trace the bed of this river of thought, following the main channel, and then its branches. You will find the main channel cut by the first and last lines: Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, * * * * * Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine-- All between, beginning with the second line, "Bidding my organ obey," and including the last words of the eighth line, "the princess he loved," is a branch channel, leading away from and coming back to the main river's bed. But this branch channel is interrupted in turn by its own branch leading away from it and returning with it to join the main bed with the last line we quote. This second branch begins in the middle of the third line with the words, "As when Solomon willed," wanders in this course for five lines, and, rejoining the first offshoot, returns to the main channel with the last line. Now turn on the stream, the _Voice_, and watch it flow into the course as traced. Analyze the reading as to the use of pause and change of pitch. II STUDY IN INFLECTION To me, the most notable among the many notable elements in Madame Alla Nazimova's acting is her illumination of the text of her impersonations through _inflection_. To an ear unaccustomed to the "broken music" of her speech, a word may now and then be lost because of her still faulty English, but of her attitude toward the thought she is uttering, or the person she is addressing, or the situation she is meeting, there can never be a moment's doubt--so illuminating is the inflectional play of her voice. The tone she uses is not to me pleasing in quality. It does not fall in liquid alluring cadences upon the ear as does Miss Marlowe's, for instance. It is always keyed high, whether the child-wife Nora, or Hedda, omnivorous of experience, is speaking. But this high-pitched tone is endlessly volatile. It is restless. It never lets your attention wander. It is never monotonous. It is a master of _inflection_. Madame Nazimova's emotion is always primarily intellectual. It always proceeds from a mind keenly alive to the instant's incident. This intensely intellectual temperament reveals itself through her voice in a rare degree of inflectional agility. Recall the revelation of Nora's soul in her cry: "It is not possible! It is not possible!" Madame Nazimova's conception of the mistress of _The Doll's House_ is concentrated in these four words--in her inflection of the last word, I may almost say. When I close my eyes and think of Madame Nazimova's voice I see a grove of soft maples in early October with the sun playing upon them, while Miss Marlowe's tone carries me at once into the pine woods, where a white birch now and then shimmers its yellow leaves. Again, the voice of the Russian actress suggests a handful of diamonds, and the American instrument a set of turquoise in the matrix. The difference in these two agents of two compelling personalities is, of course, the result of a difference in the two temperaments; but undoubtedly it also arises from a difference in methods of training. Whatever the temperament, light and shade can be developed in the voice through practice of inflection; and whatever the temperament, a pure tone can be secured through a mastery of support of breath and freedom of vocal conditions. The voices of these two actresses vividly illustrate these two points. We shall study how to secure Miss Marlowe's tone. We are now to work for Madame Nazimova's light and shade, so far as a mastery of inflection will secure it. How shall we proceed? "All my life," writes Ellen Terry, in her entrancing memoirs, "the thing which has struck me as wanting on the stage is variety. Some people are tone-deaf, and they find it physically impossible to observe the law of contrasts. But even a physical deficiency can be overcome by that faculty of taking infinite pains." That is the secret of successful acquisition in any direction, is it not--the _faculty of taking infinite pains_? With Ellen Terry it resulted in a voice which in its prime estate suggested, it is said, all the riotous colors of all the autumns, or Henry Ward Beecher's most varied collection of precious stones. We can secure an approximate result by employing the same method. Let us proceed with infinite pains to practise, practise, practise inflection. Let us first examine this _change of pitch within a word_ which we call inflection. How does the pitch change, and why, and what does the change indicate? We have discovered that a change of thought results in a broad change of pitch from word to word, phrase to phrase, sentence to sentence, and we shall discover that a change in emotion results in a change in the color of the tone we are using; but this element of our vocal vocabulary, inflection, is subtler than either of the other two. While change of pitch is an intellectual modulation, and variation in tone-color is an emotional modulation, _inflection_, in a degree, combines both. It is a change in both color and key within the word. It is primarily of intellectual significance, but it also reveals certain temperamental characteristics which cannot be disassociated with emotion. For instance, the staccato utterance of Mrs. Fiske is technically the result of her use of straight, swift-falling inflections, but it is temperamentally the result of thinking and feeling in terms of Becky Sharp. Let us see how inflections vary. They rise and fall swiftly or slowly. They move in a straight line from point to point, or make a curve. (The latter we call circumflex inflection.) They make various angles with the original level of pitch, rising or falling abruptly or gradually. These are some of the variations, each indicating an attitude of the mind and heart of the speaker toward the thought, or toward the one spoken to, or toward the circumstances out of which the speech arises. All must be mastered for use at will if light and shade are to be developed in the voice. Now let us take a phrase or sentence, and voice it under a certain condition, noting the inflection of the word or words which hold the thought of the phrase or sentence in solution. Then let us change the condition and again voice the thought, noting the change in inflection. Let me propound a profound question,--"Do you like growing old?" The answers will all be "yes" or "no." But what of the inflection of those monosyllabic words? _Sweet Sixteen_ will employ a straight, swift-falling inflection on the affirmative (unless some untoward influence, such as "_Love_ the _Destroyer_," has embittered her life, when she may give us one of _May Iverson's_ adorable replies, masked in indifference and circumlocution). _Twenty_ will employ the straight-falling inflection without the swiftness of Sweet Sixteen's slide. With _twenty-five_ we detect a faint sign of a curve in the more gradual fall. _Twenty-eight_ to _thirty-five_ employs various degrees of circumflex, according to the desire--or possibility--of concealing the real facts. _Forty_ to _forty-five_, if in defiant mood, employs the abrupt-falling inflection, or, if quite honest, changes to the negative with as swift and straight a fall. This lasts through sixty-five, and at _seventy_ we hear a new and gentle circumflex of the "no," until the pride of extreme old age sets in at _eighty-five_ with the swift fall of sixteen's affirmative. Were it not expedient to maintain friendly relations with one's printer, I should venture to diagram these changes of tone within a word. As it is, I shall content myself with advising you to do so. It is my privilege to have had acquaintance with a woman who was a personal friend of Emerson. Among the incidents of his delightful talk with her, retold to me, I recall one which bears upon our present problem. They were discussing mutual "Friends on the Shelf." "Have you ever read _Titan_?" asked the gentle seer. "Yes," replied the lady. "Read it again!" said he. Query to the class: How did the lady inflect the word _Yes_ to call forth the injunction, _Read it again_? What did her inflection reveal? However inclined we may be to quarrel with Bernhardt's conception of the Duke of Reichstadt, we can never forget her disclosure of the Eaglet's frail soul through _inflection_ as she crushes letter after letter in her hand and tosses them aside, uttering the simple words, _Je déchire_, and the final revelation in the quick, thrilling curve of her wonderful voice on the same words as the little cousin leaves the room at the close of this episode of the letters. No better material can be chosen for a study of inflection than the paragraph from Emerson's _Friendship_, quoted in a preceding chapter. Let us repeat the first sentence again. "Our friendships hurry to short and poor conclusions because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams instead of the tough fiber of the human heart." Study, in voicing this, how to illumine the thought by your contrastive inflection of the words "wine and dreams" and "tough fiber of the human heart." A lingering circumflex cadence in uttering the first two words will suggest the unstable nature of a friendship woven out of so frail a fabric as wine and dreams, while a swift, strong, straight-falling inflection on each of the last six words indicates the vigorous growth of a love rooted in the tough fiber of the human heart. In _Monna Vanna_ Maurice Maeterlinck gives the actress a superb opportunity to show her mastery of inflection. Let us turn to the scene in Prinzivalle's tent:[12] [12] From _Monna Vanna_. By Maurice Maeterlinck. Published by Harper & Brothers. PRINZIVALLE. Are you in pain? VANNA. No! PRINZIVALLE. Will you let me have it [her wound] dressed? VANNA. No! (Pause.) PRINZIVALLE. You are decided? VANNA. Yes. PRINZIVALLE. Need I recall the terms of the--? VANNA. It is useless--I know them. PRINZIVALLE. Your lord consents. VANNA. Yes. PRINZIVALLE. It is my mind to leave you free.... There is yet time should you desire to renounce.... VANNA. No! And so the seeming inquisition proceeds. To each relentlessly searching interrogation from Gianello comes Vanna's unfaltering reply, in a single, swift monosyllable, "Yes" or "No." The same word, but, oh, the revelation which may lie in the inflection of that word! Let us try it. Let us read the scene aloud, first giving as nearly as possible the same inflection to each of Vanna's answers, then let us voice it again, putting into the curve of the tone within the narrow space of the two or three lettered monosyllables all the concentrated mental passion of Vanna's soul in its attitude toward the terrible situation and toward the man whom she believes to be her enemy. This is a most difficult exercise, but if "a man's reach should exceed his grasp," it will not retard our progress toward the goal of a vocal vocabulary to attempt it now. Apart from all aim in its pursuit, there is no more fascinating study than this study of inflection. In this day of artistic photography there is an endless interest for the artist of the camera in playing with a subject's expression by varying the light and shade thrown upon the face. So for the student of vocal expression there is endless interest in this play with the thought behind a group of words by varying the inflection of those words. Lady Macbeth's, "We fail!" or Macbeth's, "If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly," occurs to us, of course, as rich material for this exercise. In her analysis of the character of Lady Macbeth Mrs. Jameson gives us an interesting study in inflection, based on Mrs. Siddons's interpretation of the words "We fail." A foot-note reads: "In her impersonation of the part of Lady Macbeth Mrs. Siddons adopted successively three different intonations in giving the words 'we fail.' At first a quick, contemptuous interrogation--'we fail?' Afterward with the note of admiration--'we fail!' and an accent of indignant astonishment laying the principal emphasis on the word we--'_we_ fail!' Lastly, she fixed on what I am convinced is the true reading--'_we fail_'--with the simple period, modulating the voice to a deep, low, resolute tone which settled the issue at once, as though she had said: 'If we fail, why then we fail, and all is over.'" Think how vitally the total impersonation is affected by your choice of inflections at this point. Compare the effects of the three, Mrs. Siddons tested. Are there other possible intonations of the words? What are they? Do you realize the vital effect upon the voice of such vocal analysis and experimentation? Devote ten minutes of the time you take for reading each day to this phase of vocal interpretation, and at the end of a week note its effect upon your silent reading and upon your voice. Remember, with inflection, as with every other phase of the training, the greatest immediate benefit will come from holding the question of its peculiar significance constantly in mind. Study the temperament of the people about you by noting this element in their speech. Study the attitude of every interlocutor you face, by studying the inflection of his replies to the questions of life and death you propound. But, above all, study your own use of this element. Do not let your own attitude go undetected. It may help you to alter an unfortunate attitude to realize its effect upon your own voice. III STUDY IN TONE-COLOR And now we must turn to our last point of discussion, tone-color. What is the nature of this element of our vocabulary--this _Klangfarbe_, this _Timbre_? Upon what does it depend? You will say, "It is a property of the voice depending upon the form of the vibrations which produce the tone." True! And physiologically the form of the vibrations depends upon the condition of the entire vocal apparatus. _Tone-color_, then, is a modulation of resonance. But what concerns us is the fact that it is an _emotional_ modulation of resonance. What concerns us is the fact that, as a change of thought instantly registers itself in a change of pitch, so a change of emotion instantly produces a change in the color of the tone--if the voice is a free instrument. And so, as before, I want you not to think of the physiological aspect, but to yield to the emotion, noting the character of the resultant tone, regardless of what has happened in the larynx to produce that result. As Browning affords us the best material for our study in change of pitch, so the poems of Sidney Lanier offer to the voice the richest field for exercise in tone-color. Musician and poet in one, Lanier's peculiar charm lies in his unerring choice of words, which suggest in their sound, when rightly voiced, the atmosphere of the scene he is painting. Lanier uses words as Corot uses colors. This gives the voice its opportunity to bring out by subtle variations in _timbre_ the variations in light and shade of an atmosphere. To read aloud, sympathetically, once a day, Lanier's _The Symphony_ is the best possible way to develop simultaneously all the elements of a vocal vocabulary. We shall use this poem to-day as a text for our study in tone-color. Let us omit the message of the violins and heavier strings, and take the passage beginning with the interlude upon which the flute-voice breaks: But presently A velvet flute-note fell down pleasantly Upon the bosom of that harmony, And sailed and sailed incessantly, As if a petal from a wild rose blown Had fluttered down upon that pool of tone And boatwise dropped o' the convex side And floated down the glassy tide And clarified and glorified The solemn spaces where the shadows bide. From the warm concave of that fluted note Somewhat, half song, half odor, forth did float, As if a rose might somehow be a throat; ... What an ideal for tone-color! Dare we think to make it ours? We must. We must adopt it with confidence of attainment. Let me quote a little further: When Nature from her far-off glen Flutes her soft messages to men, The flute can say them o'er again; Yea, Nature, singing sweet and lone, Breathes through life's strident polyphone The flute-voice in the world of tone. Read this passage aloud as a mere statement of fact, employing a matter-of-fact tone. Gray in color, is it not? Now let your voice take the color Lanier has blended for you. Let your tone, like a thing "half song, half odor," float forth on these words and linger as only a perfume can about the thought. Now let the tone change in color to clarify and glorify the following message from the flute:[13] [13] The extracts on pp. 279-287 are from Mr. Sidney Lanier's volume of "Poems," published by Charles Scribner's Sons. Sweet friends, Man's love ascends To finer and diviner ends Than man's mere thought e'er comprehends. I cannot, for lack of space, reprint the whole flute message, but you will get the poem, if you have it not, and voice every word of it, I am sure. Here are some of the most telling lines for our present purpose: I speak for each no-tongued tree That, spring by spring, doth nobler be, And dumbly and most wistfully His mighty prayerful arms outspreads Above men's oft-unheeding heads, And his big blessing downward sheds. I speak for all-shaped blooms and leaves, Lichens on stones and moss on eaves, Grasses and grains in ranks and sheaves; Broad-fronded ferns and keen-leaved canes, And briery mazes bounding lanes, And marsh-plants, thirsty-cupped for rains, And milky stems and sugary veins; For every long-armed woman-vine That round a piteous tree doth twine; For passionate odors, and divine Pistils, and petals crystalline; * * * * * All tree-sounds, rustlings of pine-cones, Wind-sighings, doves' melodious moans, And night's unearthly undertones; All placid lakes and waveless deeps, All cool reposing mountain-steeps, Vale-calms and tranquil lotos-sleeps;-- Yea, all fair forms, and sounds, and lights, And warmths, and mysteries, and mights, Of Nature's utmost depths and heights, --These doth my timid tongue present, Their mouthpiece and leal instrument And servant, all love-eloquent. You see, to voice this message a mood born of all the "warmths and mysteries and mights of Nature's utmost depths and heights" must take possession of you, and you must yield your instrument to the expression of that mood. Then watch, watch, watch the color of the tone change as the voice, starting with the clear flute-note, follows sympathetically the varying phases of Nature's face which the poet has so sympathetically painted. And now, after a "thrilling calm," the flute yields its place to a sister instrument, and the tone must change its _timbre_ to the reed note of the clarionet. In the "melting" message of that instrument we find two passages which afford the voice chance for a most vivid contrast in color. Beginning with the line, "Now comes a suitor with sharp, prying eye," read the two descriptions which follow, lending your voice to the atmosphere of each: _ ... Here, you Lady, if you'll sell I'll buy: Come, heart for heart--a trade? What! weeping? why?_ Shame on such wooer's dapper mercery! I would my lover kneeling at my feet In humble manliness should cry, _O sweet! I know not if thy heart my heart will greet: I ask not if thy love my love can meet: Whate'er thy worshipful soft tongue shall say, I'll kiss thine answer, be it yea or nay: I do but know I love thee, and I pray To be thy knight until my dying day._ The first two lines, which set forth a suit in terms of trade, demand a hard, calculating tone, suggestive of large silver dollars. Call this color dull steel gray. This tone flashes out for a moment in the white indignation of the third line, softens and warms with the next two lines, then grows and glows until it reaches a crimson radiance in the last two lines. Try it! And now, with "heartsome voice of mellow scorn," let us sound the message of the "bold straightforward horn." "Now comfort thee," said he, "Fair Lady. For God shall right thy grievous wrong, And man shall sing thee a true-love song, Voiced in act his whole life long, Yea, all thy sweet life long, Fair Lady. Where's he that craftily hath said. The day of chivalry is dead? I'll prove that lie upon his head, Or I will die instead, Fair Lady. * * * * * Now by each knight that e'er hath prayed To fight like a man and love like a maid, Since Pembroke's life as Pembroke's blade, I' the scabbard, death was laid, I dare avouch my faith is bright That God doth right and God hath might. Nor time hath changed His hair to white, Nor His dear love to spite, Fair Lady. I doubt no doubts: I strive, and shrive my clay, And fight my fight in the patient modern way For true love and for thee--ah me! and pray To be thy knight until my dying day, Fair Lady." Made end that knightly horn, and spurred away, Into the thick of the melodious fray. Remember your _key_ is set for you,--the color of the tone is plainly chosen for you by Mr. Lanier. Not red nor yellow, but a blending of the two. _Orange_, is it not? Will not an orange tone give us the feel of heartsome confidence behind and through the mellow scorn of the knight's message? Try it! Let the two primary colors, red and yellow, enter in varying degrees according to, or following, the emotional variation in the thought, as the knight or the lover dominates in the message. In the first seven lines the tone glows with the love radiance and the orange deepens toward red. With the next five lines the lover yields to the knight, and the tone flashes forth a golden, keen-edged sword. With the thirteenth line the tone begins in the orange on "Now by each knight that e'er hath prayed," flashes into yellow in "to fight like a man," softens and deepens toward red in "and love like a maid," and returns to the orange to finish the horn _motif_. Next in this poem which affords such a wonderful study for tone-color we have the hautboy's message. The color is mixed and laid on the palette ready for use as before, with the introductory lines: And then the hautboy played and smiled, And sang like any large-eyed Child, Cool-hearted and all undefiled. Don't let the words _large-eyed Child_ mislead you. Don't, I beseech you, make the mistake of adopting the "Little Orphan Annie" tone with which the "elocutionist" too often insults the pure treble of a child's "undefiled" instrument. That is the keynote to us for our choice of color--"cool-hearted and all undefiled." Almost a white tone, is it not? With a little of the blue of the June sky? Try it. Let the blue be visibly present in the first three lines: "Huge Trade!" he said, "Would thou wouldst lift me on thy head And run where'er my finger led!" turning to pure white in the next three lines: Once said a Man--and wise was He-- Never shalt thou the heavens see Save as a little child thou be. The last voice comes from the "ancient wise bassoons." Again there is danger. Do not, oh! do not fall afoul of the conventional old man's quavering tone. There is nothing conventional about these "weird, gray-beard old harpers sitting on the high sea-dunes," chanting runes. The last words of these introductory lines safeguard us--"chanted runes." There is only one color of tone in which to _chant runes_. Gray, is it not? Yes, but a silver gray, not the steel gray of the clarionet when she became for the moment a commercial lover. Then in the silver-gray tone of the philosopher, voice this last _motif_: Bright-waved gain, gray-waved loss, The sea of all doth lash and toss, One wave forward and one across: But now 'twas trough, now 'tis crest, And worst doth foam and flash to best, And curst to blest. The importance of a right use of tone-color in vocal interpretation was impressed upon a Browning class last winter. We were reading the _Dramatic Lyrics_. The poem for the hour was _Meeting at Night_. The tone with which the first student attacked this exquisite love-lyric was so businesslike, so matter of fact, so utterly out of key, that we who listened saw not the lover hastening to his beloved, but a real-estate agent "out to buy" a farm. The "gray sea, the long black land, the yellow half-moon large and low, the startled little waves that creep in fiery ringlets from their sleep, the pushing prow of the boat quenched in the slushy sand, the warm, sea-scented beach, and the three fields" all assumed a merely commercial value. They were interesting exactly as would be a catalogue of properties in a deed of real estate. If you are not a very _intense_ member of a Browning society you will, I think, enjoy the test of tone-color involved in reading this poem from the contrasted standpoints of the business man and the lover. Of course, in the first instance you must stop where I, in desperation, stopped the student on the words, "a farm appears." For I defy any one to read the last two lines in a gray, matter-of-fact tone. As was the case in our consideration of inflection, so in this study of tone-color there is an embarrassment of rich material for the exercise of this element. Lanier's _Sunrise_ and _Corn_; Browning's prologue to _The Two Poets of Croisic_, with a vivid contrast of color in each verse; Swinburne's almost every line; Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Wordsworth, Keats, Tennyson--but why enumerate? All the colorists among the poets will reward your search of a text for the development of _timbre_. For a final brief study of the three elements we aim to acquire, with especial emphasis in thought upon the last one, let us take this prologue to _The Two Poets of Croisic_, with its color-contrast in each verse: Such a starved bank of moss Till that May morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born! Sky--what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star! World--how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face The vocal treatment of the first two verses will be very much alike. The voice starts in minor key, a gray monotone, in harmony with the absence of color in the bare bank of dull moss. The inflection of the word "starved" must emphasize the grayness. It must be a dull push of the tone on the first syllable, with little, if any, lift above the level of the low pitch on which the whole line is spoken. With a swift, salient, rising inflection on the opening word of the second line, an inflection which creates expectancy of change, the voice lifts the thought out of the minor into the major key. I must call your attention to the vital significance of the use of pause at this point by simply asking you to indulge in it. Stop after uttering the word _till_ and study the effect of the pause. It is the pause quite as much as the inflection, you see, which induces the expectant attitude you desire to create in the mind of your auditor. With the next three words, "that May morn," the tone takes on a bit of the warmth of early summer. A lingering cadence on the word "May" will help the suggestion. With the third line the voice begins to shine. I know no other way to express it. The inflections are swift and straight, but not staccato, because they must suggest a growth, not a burst of color. The tone on which the words are borne must be continuous. It must not be broken off definitely with each word, as is to prove most effective, we shall find, in handling the third line of the second verse. The fourth line brings the full, glowing, radiant tone on the first word, "violets." This tone must be held in full volume on the last two words. The law for beautiful speech must be observed here. (But where should it not be observed?) Let us recall the law, "_Beautiful speech depends upon openness of vowels and definiteness of consonants._" The vowels give volume to a word, the consonants form. Slur your consonants and squeeze your vowels in the three words of this line, "Violets were born," and what becomes of this miracle of spring? The voicing of the second verse is very like that of the first. The opening line demands the same gray monotone. But the three words, "sky," "scowl," and "cloud," if clear-cut in utterance, as they should be, will break the level of the line more than the single word "starved" in the first line of the first verse can do, or was meant to do. There is the same swift lift of the voice in the opening word of the second line, the same change to the major key, the same growing glow in the tone on the third line, and the same radiant outburst of color sustained through the last line. The only difference lies in the suffusion of radiance in the tone to suggest the coming of color to the bank, in the first verse, and the outburst of radiance to suggest the sudden splitting of the clouds and the star's swift birth, in the second verse. With the emotional change of thought in the last verse, from a travail and birth in nature to a human soul's struggle and rebirth, the deepening color which creeps into the tone indicates the entrance of personal passion. The key does not change. The inflections are still and straight. The tone simply deepens and glows in the last two lines, as a prayerful ecstasy possesses the one who reads. PART III STUDIES IN VOCAL TECHNIQUE STUDIES IN VOCAL TECHNIQUE THE UNINTERRUPTED TONE When a rich, dramatic temperament seeks for its instrument of expression the control of faultless technique the result ought to be art of the highest order. Such is the art of Gracia Ricardo. She has translated her English name into musical Italian, but does her country the honor to announce her beautiful voice as an American soprano. Every tone of Gracia Ricardo's singing voice is as absolutely free from effort as the repeated note of the hermit thrush's song, and her tone as pure tone has the effect of that liquid call. But could you freight the thrush note with knowledge of human passion,--with throb of joy or pulse of pain, you would get from it the effect of Gracia Ricardo's singing of a Heine-Schubert song, a Schumann, Brahms, or Franz _lied_, or one of our English ballads. It must always be a song, for Gracia Ricardo does not exploit her voice in astonishing vocal feats. She simply _sings her song_. It was her wish to interpret the _lieder_ of all countries that sent her in search of a method which would free her voice to that high use. She found that method, not in her own country, alas, but in Germany, where for twelve years she has used it in the guidance of her own voice and that of many others. She finds the American pupil "difficult," because "You are so impatient of a long, quiet preparation. You wish to try your skill at every step of the way--and not in the privacy of your study, but in a public's hearing." Poor American public! How it has suffered from this _impatience_. It is true, is it not, we are not willing to take time to establish a right condition for tone before using the tone in what should be final efforts of the perfected instrument. _Blessed be drudgery_ has not become a beatitude in the gospel of the American artist. When it is so recognized by the student of vocal expression perhaps we can reclaim this great singer and teacher, Madame Ricardo. This book would further that end. It has been my good fortune while making this book for you to do some brief but intensive studying under Madame Ricardo. It is by her gracious consent that I shall leave with you as an incentive toward the ideal for which we are striving the two _watchwords_ of her teaching which were most potently suggestive to me. The exercises which constitute her method require personal supervision, but the active principle of those exercises for both tone production and breath control is clearly indicated by the two phrases "the uninterrupted tone" and "the constant mouth-breath." These two ideas fully sensed by a voice will work swift wonders in its use. Like Mr. Mabie's pool of expectancy, these watchwords of the Ricardo method suggest their own application; but let us consider them somewhat more closely. Think then with me of an _uninterrupted tone_--a tone which is not interfered with at any point in its production. Think of a breath that flows freely on and on, constantly reinforced, but never interrupted--a breath that is allowed to enter the vocal box, pass between the vocal chords, where it is converted into tone; yield itself to the organs of speech and controlled by the speech process, issue from the mouth in beautiful speech forms, in the words which constitute a language! Tracing the process of tone production in this way, we find that three distinct steps are involved. Even as I write the words distinct and steps I realize their inharmony with the idea of flowing tone. Rather then let us say three phases in the evolution of speech: _breath_, _tone_, _speech_. In using the word speech to designate the final phase in this evolution I am thinking of it in its broadest sense--really in a sense identical with language. With this final phase beyond its mere initiation this book cannot deeply concern itself. For work along this line I must refer you to Prof. T. R. Lounsbury's _Standard of Pronunciation in English_; to the article on _The Acquiring of Clear Speech_ by John D. Barry, published in _Harper's Bazaar_ for August, September, and October, 1907; to _The Technique of Speech_, by Dora Duty Jones. Not technique of speech, but _technique_ of _tone_ is our study. Not how to make beautiful speech forms, but how to make beautiful speech-tones; not how to distinguish one speech from another in a language, or the speech forms of one language from those of another, but how to distinguish interrupted speech-tone from _uninterrupted_ speech-tone--such is our problem. But tone is breath before it becomes speech, so our first concern is with the initial stage. The process of breath control in the Ricardo method of tone production (as in my own) is analogous to the process of pumping water. Let your chest with its lungs represent the reservoir, your diaphragm, the great muscle at the base of the lungs, becomes the piston and your mouth the mouth of the pump. If the mouth of the pump runs dry the pump itself runs down and has to be primed. Priming a pump is precisely analogous to "catching your breath" in speech. The active principle of breath control in the Ricardo method is the idea of a _constant mouth-breath_. A sense of uninterrupted breath is as essential to a knowledge of correct tone as a sense of uninterrupted tone is to a knowledge of correct speech and song. In breathing to speak or sing there must be such perfect diaphragmatic control that the mouth shall never be out of breath. You must learn in speaking and reading to take easily and quietly breath enough and _often enough_ to supply the tone which is to be made into a single word, a phrase, a sentence, or a series of sentences, and leave the mouth-breath unexhausted, even unaffected. You must never catch your breath; the breath must pass continuously, the _mouth-breath_ remaining a _constant_ quantity. It was gratifying in my work with this master of tone production to find that my own method in the training of the speaking voice was in accord at almost every point with her method in the training of the singing voice. In reprinting for you the exposition of my own method, as set down in _The Speaking Voice_, I have found it necessary to make but few changes. I have altered entirely the method of handling the tongue. I have added a word as to the part the lips play in the production of speech. In the few exercises it is safe to offer under the reinforcing of tone I have used the _[=e]_ instead of the _ä_, convinced that it is the more effective vowel sound through which to work for uninterrupted tone. It was also a pleasure to find my own instrument, through its training for speech, adequately prepared for the work in song. The studies which constitute _Part Three_ of this book, if faithfully attended, will fit your voices for higher work in either art. LEARNING TO SUPPORT THE TONE Before attempting the exercises involved in the first step, let us examine a tone in the making, or, rather, let us feel how it is made--for the process of tone production, so far as it concerns us, is not of physiological, but rather psychological, significance. The huge tomes on the physiology of the voice which are of vital interest to the student of anatomy are not only of no use, but are apt to be a positive hindrance to the student of vocal training. A vivid picture of the larynx or vocal cords, a cross-section of the trachea, or a highly illuminated image of any of the cavities concerned in the production of that most wonderful thing in the world, a pure tone of the human voice, is a source of delight to the physiologist, but will only interfere with that _feel_ for the free, full volume of sound which the student of voice as an instrument of thought and emotion is to make, as a first step in vocal training. Then, not as anatomists or physiologists, but as makers of music, let us look at, let us feel for, a tone. I am "stung by the splendor of a sudden thought"; I desire to share it with you; the desire causes me to take a deep breath, a column of air rises, is converted into tone, passes into the mouth, and is moulded into the words which symbolize my thought. Let us, without further analysis, try this. Close your eyes, think of some line of prose or poetry which has moved you profoundly; let it take possession of you until you are seized by the desire to voice it. Still with closed eyes, feel yourself take the breath which is to be made into tone, and then into the words which stand for the thought. Hold that sensation, and study it with me for a moment. "But," you say, "the desire to voice the thought does not seize me." Very well, let me ask you a question. "Do you believe in examinations?" Now your thought was converted so swiftly into speech that you had no time to study the conversion. Once more, whether your answer be Yes or No, close your eyes and feel for the tone you are to use in making the single word. Now, a little more in detail, let us see what happens. A thought full of emotion meets the question, the desire to answer is born; the need of breath to meet the desire contracts the diaphragm (the pump); the chest (the reservoir) fills; a column of air, pumped and controlled by the diaphragm, and reinforced in the chest, rises, strikes the vocal cords (the "strings" of the instrument), the strings vibrate, converting the air into sound, into tone; the tone, reinforced in all the chambers of the head, passes into the mouth, and is there moulded by the juxtaposition of the organs of speech (lips, teeth, tongue) into the word, the single, monosyllabic word, Yes or No, which frames the thought. Now, once more, with closed eyes, sense the process and hold the sensation, but do not speak the word. Now, still once more, and this time, speak. Alas! did we say we were "makers of music"? Is this harmony,--this harsh, hard, breathy, strident note? What is the trouble? First of all, fundamental to all, and beyond a doubt the secret of the dissonance, you did not breathe before you spoke or as you spoke. I mean, really breathe. And that is the first point to be attacked. Breathe, breathe, breathe! you must learn how to breathe; you must get your pump, your diaphragm, into working order, you must master it, you must control it, you must not fetter it, you must give it a free chance to do its work. If you are a man, you have probably at least been fair in not tying down your pump; you have not incased yourself in steel bands and drawn them so tight that your diaphragm could not descend and perform its office. Yes, and if you are the athletic girl of to-day, you have probably learned the delight and benefit of free muscular action. But you may still be suffering from the effect of your mother's crime in this direction. It may have sent you into the world with weakened muscles in control of the great pumping-station upon which must depend the beauty of your voice. But whatever the condition or the cause, it must, if wrong, be made right. We must learn to breathe properly, freely, naturally. (Do not confuse _naturally_ and "habitually." In this connection these terms are opposites rather than synonyms.) To breathe naturally we must do away with all constriction. We must choose between the alleged beauty of a disproportionately small waist and the charm of a beautiful and alluring voice. We cannot have both. Then, off with tight corsets! Thank Heaven! they are the exception and not the rule to-day. Please note that I distinctly do not say, "Off with corsets," but only "Off with _ill-fitting_ corsets," for which tight is but another name. I believe, to digress a moment, with our present method of dress, a properly fitted corset is an absolute necessity, except in the rare instances where a perfectly proportioned and slender figure is also under the control of firm, well-trained muscles. In a first flush of rapture over the vision of the gentle ladies of Mr. Howell's Altruria, seen _Through the Eye of the Needle_, we feel that we can take a step toward that paradise by discarding the strait-laced tailored torture the present-day costume prescribes, for the corsetless grace of the Altrurian garment; but our enthusiasm is short-lived, as we realize that we are in modern America and must make as inconspicuously gracious an appearance as possible without violating the conventions. So, as I say, do not discard the corset, which is, for the majority of women, the saving grace of the present fashion in dress; only see that your corset brings out what is best in the figure God gave you, instead of disfiguring it, as undue constriction of any part of your body will inevitably do. Incidentally, by this precaution, save your voice as well. But until we can be refitted, or readjust the corsets we already wear, and the gowns made over them, we must avoid the discouraging effect of trying to work against the odds of a costume which interferes with our breathing, by making a practice of taking the breathing exercises involved in the first step, at night and in the morning. Five minutes of deep, free breathing from the diaphragm, lying flat on your back in bed at night and before you rise in the morning, will accomplish the desired result. The point in lying flat on your back is that in that position alone you can be sure you are breathing naturally, which is diaphragmatically. Indeed, you cannot, without great effort, and sometimes not even then, breathe any other way than naturally. I cannot tell you why. I can only say, try it and see. Our first exercise, then, is to lie flat on the back at night and in the morning, when you are perfectly free, and, with closed eyes, take deep, long breaths, letting them go slowly, and studying the accompanying sensation until it is fixed fast and you feel you cannot lose it, but can reproduce, under any condition, the action which resulted in that sensation. The incidental effect of this exercise is to make one very sleepy. Indeed, nothing will so quickly and effectually put to flight that foe of the society woman and business man of to-day, insomnia, as the practice of deep, regular natural breathing. Add counting each respiration, and it is an almost unfailing remedy. The only trouble for our purpose is that it is sometimes so swiftly soporific that we are asleep before the sensation is fixed fast and noted in consciousness: which is one object of the exercise. However, should we find the prescribed five minutes at night interfered with by coming drowsiness, we may yield in sleepy content, "sustained and soothed" by the thought that we shall be in splendid shape for the morning practice, with which nothing must interfere, "not headache, or sciatica, or leprosy, or thunder-stroke." We are ready now for the third exercise. When, for five minutes in the morning, lying flat on your back, with closed eyes, you have taken deep, long breaths, letting them go slowly, yielding your whole body to the act of respiration, noting the effect and fixing fast the sensation, as a next step you are to stand up and repeat the operation. Still holding the sensation (not by tightening your muscles, or clenching your fists, or setting your teeth, but simply by thinking the sensation, letting it possess you), in this attitude of mind breathe naturally, standing instead of lying down. That is all. Don't be discouraged if the test prove unsatisfactory at first. Try an intermediate step. Sit on the side of your bed, or in a straight-back chair, and, closing your eyes and relaxing all your muscles except those governing the diaphragm, breathe. Now stand, well poised. By well poised, of course, you know I mean with the weight perfectly balanced about the center of gravity, which, in turn, means that a perpendicular dropped from the highest point of the lifted chest without encountering any part of your body, and especially not your abdomen (which should be held always back, so that it is flat, if not actually concave) will fall unobstructed to the floor, striking a point just between the balls of your feet. Standing thus, well poised, place the right hand on your body, just below your ribs at the base of the lungs, and your left hand on your back, just opposite your right hand; then breathe, and feel the diaphragm, as it descends, cause the torso, in turn, to expand from front to back, pressing against either hand. Let the breath go slowly, controlling its emission by controlling the diaphragm. So the three exercises stand progressively thus: _First._--Breathe naturally, which is diaphragmatically, five minutes at night. (At first you can be sure of doing this only by lying flat on your back.) _Second._--Breathe naturally, which is diaphragmatically, for five minutes in the morning, and note the sensation. _Third._--Stand and test your newly acquired power by trying to breathe diaphragmatically while on your feet. These three exercises constitute the first step in the first stage of vocal training, and that step is called _Learning to Support the Tone_. I know a little girl who, in the beginning of her career, alarmed her parents by refusing to utter a syllable or the semblance of a syllable until she was three years old, when she evidently considered herself ready for her maiden effort at speech. Prepared she proved, for, sitting at the window in her high-chair one day, watching people pass, she remarked quietly and with perfect precision, "There goes Mrs. Tibbets." I find myself secretly wishing it were possible for you to refrain from speech, not for three years, but for three weeks, while you quietly prepare for speech by practising these three breathing exercises. It is quite the customary thing (or ought to be) for the teacher of voice as an instrument of song to require of the student a period of silence--that is, a period in which only exercises are allowed, and songs, even the simplest, are forbidden. However, our only way to secure this condition would be to go into retreat; but, after all, one of the most encouraging things about this work is the remarkable effect upon the speaking voice of simply holding the thought of the right condition for tone, _thinking_ the three exercises I have given you. It is not so remarkable, perhaps, in the light of the experiment recently made (I am told) in one of our great colleges, when three men daily performed a certain exercise, and three other men simply thought it intensely, and the resultant effect upon the muscles used in the act was marvelously similar. I am half afraid to have recalled this, lest you take advantage of the suggestion and relax your effort, or, out of curiosity, make the experiment. Please don't. I offer it only as an incentive to you, to _think_ at least of the desired condition, if you cannot every day indulge in an active effort to attain it. Please test at once the immediate effect of this third exercise. Take the attitude I have defined, and try once more any full-voweled syllable. I think you will find the tone already improved. LEARNING TO FREE THE TONE We have worked, so far, for support of tone. We must now free the supported tone, by freeing the channel for the emission of the breath as it is converted into tone and moulded into speech. We shall find that in learning to support the tone we have gone far toward securing that freedom; but the habit of years is not easily overcome, and every time you have spoken without proper support of breath you have _forced_ the tone _from_ the _throat_, by tightening the muscles and closing the channel, thus making conditions which must now be reformed by steady, patient effort. Yet it is not effort I want from you now; it is _lack_ of effort. It is _passivity_; it is _surrender_. I want you to relax all the muscles which govern the organs concerned in converting the breath into tone and moulding the tone into speech, all the muscles controlling the throat and mouth, including the lips and jaw. I want utter passivity of the parts from the point where the column of breath strikes the vocal cords to where, as tone, it is moulded into the word "No." Surrender to the desire to utter that word. Concentrate your thought on two things: the taking of the breath and the word it is to become. Now, lying down, or sitting easily, lazily, in a comfortable chair, or standing leaning against the wall, with closed eyes, surrender to the thought "No," and, taking a breath, speak. Still hard and unmusical you find? Yes, but I am sure not so hopelessly hard as before. What shall we do to relax the tense muscles, to release the throat and free the channel? At the risk of being written down a propagandist, in the ranks of the extreme dress-reformers, I shall say, first of all, take off those high, tight collars. Again, as with the corset, it is a case of a misfit rather than too tight a fit. If your collar is cut to fit, it need not be too high nor too tight for comfort, and it will still be becoming. You want it to cling to the neck and keep the line. Cut it to fit, and it will keep the line; then put in pieces of whalebone, if necessary, or resort to some of the many other devices now in vogue for keeping the soft collar erect, but don't choke yourself, either by fastening it too tight or cutting it too high. But how simple it would be if we could relax the tension by doffing our ill-fitting corsets and collars. Alas! the trouble is deeper seated than that. It is an indisputable and most unfortunate fact that nervous tension registers itself more easily in the muscles about the mouth and throat than anywhere else. So, if we live as do even the children of to-day, under excitement, and so in a state of nervous tension, the habit of speaking with the channel only half open is quickly formed, and the voice becomes shrill and harsh. You have noticed that the more emphatic one grows in argument the higher and harder the voice becomes, and, incidentally, the less convincing the argument. This is true of all excitement; the nervous tension accompanying it constricts the throat, and the result is a closed channel. To learn instinctively to refer this tension for registration not to the throat, but to the diaphragm, is a part of vocal training. This can be easily accomplished with children, and the habit established of taking a deep breath under the influence of any emotion. This breath will cause the throat to open instead of shut, and the tone to grow full, deep, and round, instead of high and harsh. The full, deep, round tone will carry twice as far as the high, harsh, breathy one. The one deep breath resulting in the full, deep tone may--nay, will--often serve the same purpose as Tattycoram's "Count five-and-twenty," and save the angry retort. It is useless to regret, on either ethical or aesthetic grounds, that we were not taught in childhood to take the deep breath and make the deep tone. But let us look to it that the voices and dispositions of our children are not allowed to suffer. Meanwhile, in correcting the fault in the use of our own instruments, we shall go far toward establishing the proper condition with the next generation, since the child is so mimetic that, to hear sweet, quiet, low tones about him will have more effect than much technical training in keeping his voice free and musical. In the same way, the child who hears good English spoken at home seems less dependent upon text-books in grammar and rhetoric to perfect his verbal expression than the child who is not so fortunate in this respect. To insure the registration of nervous tension in the muscles controlling the diaphragm and not the throat--that is, to form the habit of breathing deeply when speaking under the influence of emotion, is our problem. The present fault in registration will be found to be different with each one of us, or, at least, will cause us "to flock together" according to the place of registration. Each must locate for himself his own difficulty, or go to a vocal specialist and have it located. The tension may be altogether in the muscles governing the throat, or it may be in those about the mouth. There is the resultant, _breathy_ tone, the _hard_ tone, the _nasal_ tone, the _guttural_ tone, the tone that issues from a set jaw or an unruly tongue. All mean tension of muscles somewhere, and must be met by relaxation of these muscles and the freeing of the channel. How to relax the throat shall be our initial point of attack. A suggestion made by my first teacher proved most helpful to me, a suggestion so simple that I did not for the moment take it seriously. "Think," she said, "how your throat feels just before you yawn." "Yes," I replied, irrelevantly, "and just after you have eaten a peppermint--that cool, delicious, open sensation." This impressed her as significant, but not so effective as her suggestion to me, which I felt to be true when I began to think of it seriously, and so, of course, to yawn furiously. Try it. Think of the yawn. Close your eyes and feel how the deep breath with which the yawn begins (the need of which, indeed, caused it) opens the throat, relaxing all the muscles. Now, instead of yawning, speak. The result will be a good tone, simply because the condition for tone was right. The moment the yawn actually arrives, the condition is lost, the throat closes; but in that moment before the break into the yawn, the muscles about the throat relax and the channel opens, as the muscles controlling the diaphragm tighten and the deep breath is taken. These, then, are the first exercises in the second step in vocal training. This step is called _Freeing the Tone_. _First._--Yawn, noting the sensation. _Second._--Just before the throat breaks into the yawn, stop, and, instead of carrying out the yawn, speak. Repeat this fifty times a day, or ten times, as often as you will. Only, keep at it. Take always a single full-voweled monosyllable; _one_, or _four_, or _no_, or _love_, or _loop_, or _dove_, etc. We cannot, in a printed consideration, touch more in detail upon individual cases, but must confine ourselves to these simple exercises, which will, in general, be swiftly and effectively remedial. But we must not stop with the throat, which is but part of the channel involved in the emission of breath as speech. There is the tense jaw to be reckoned with--the jaw set by nervous tension, the jaw which refuses to yield itself to the moulding of the tone into the beautiful open vowel and the clean-cut consonant which make our words so interesting to utter. It is the set jaw which, forcing the tone to squeeze itself out, causes it to sound thin and hard. Again, it is surrender and not effort I want. Just as I should try to secure the relaxation of your arm or hand by asking you to surrender it to me, drop it a dead weight at your side for me to lift as I choose, so now I ask you to surrender your lower jaw to yourself. Let it go. Drop your head forward, resting your chin on your chest. Then raise your head, but not your chin. Let your mouth fall open. Assume for the moment that mark of the feeble-minded, the idiotic, the dropped-open mouth, just long enough to note the sensation. Place your fingers on either side of your head where the jaws conjoin, and open your mouth quickly and with intention. Note the action under your finger-tips. Now let the mouth fall open, by simply surrendering the lower jaw, and note this time the lack of action under your fingers, at the juncture of the jaws. It is this passive surrender which we must learn to make, if we find, on investigation, that we are speaking through a half-open mouth held fast by a set jaw. The set jaw resists and distorts the mould, and the beauty of the form of the word which flows from the mould is lost; the relaxed jaw yields to the moulding of the perfectly modeled word. In practising this relaxation there is very little danger of going too far, since the set jaw is the indication of a tense habit of thought, of a high-strung temperament, and this habit of thought will never become, through the practise of an outward mechanical exercise, the slack habit of thought which is evidenced by the loose dropping of words from a too relaxed jaw--a habit which must be met by quite the opposite method of treatment. There are many exercises involved in vocal training which must be directed very carefully for a time before the student can be trusted to practise them alone; so I am confining myself in this, as in every step we take together, to the simple, fundamental, and at the same time perfectly safe ones. To review those for relaxation of the lower jaw: _First._--Drop the head until the chin rests upon the breast. Raise the head, but not the lower jaw. _Second._--With eyes devoid of intelligence and the mouth dropped open, shake the head until you feel the weight of the lower jaw--until the lower jaw seems to hang loosely from the upper jaw and to be shaken by it, as your hand, when you shake it from the wrist, seems to be commanded by the arm, and to have no volition of its own. _Third._--Test your ability to surrender the jaw by placing your fingers on either side your head in front of the ears at the conjunction of the jaws, and first open your mouth with intention, noting the action; then think the word No, and surrender the jaw to the forming of the word, noting the action or absence of action again. So much for the set jaw. Ten or fifteen minutes a day--yes, even five minutes a day of actual practice with the constant thought of surrender, will reward you. Try it. And still the channel is not open. There remains that most unruly member, the tongue. Dora Duty Jones refers all faults of technique in speech to failure in the management of the tongue. Miss Jones bases her entire system upon the three words, "On the tongue," in Hamlet's injunction to the players: speak the speech ... trippingly _on the tongue_. That this organ plays a vital part in the presentation of speech is not to be questioned; that it is the chief actor may be disputed. But whether the tongue is to play a main or a minor part the training to which Miss Jones would subject it is most interesting, and _The Technique of Speech_[14] should belong to the library of every student of expression. The only danger of this training lies in that of making the tongue a self-conscious actor. What we require of the tongue is that it shall act as a free agent in modeling the perfect word. Many of the exercises given by Miss Jones can be safely attempted only after the preparatory freeing of the organ has been accomplished, but all of them will eventually repay investigation. [14] _The Technique of Speech_, by Dora Duty Jones, published by Harper & Brothers. Meanwhile the following drill for freeing the tongue ought to develop the agility we desire: _First._--Combine _l_ (which may be called the tongue's pet consonant) with _ä_ and repeat the syllable _la_ with constantly increasing speed to form the following groups: _lä'_ ... _lä lä lä'_ ... _lä lä lä'_ ... _lä'_ ... _lä'_. _Second._--Change the accent over the vowel and repeat the exercise until all the sounds of _a_ are exhausted in combination with the _l_. _Third._--Change the vowel and repeat the exercise until all the vowels have been used in combination with _l_. _Fourth._--Change the consonant to _d_, then to _t_, then _n_, and repeat the exercise. _Fifth._--Follow these exercises on groups of syllables with work on groups of words of one syllable beginning with _l_, such as: _late_, _lade_, _lane_, _lame_; _last_, _lack_, _lank_, _lapse_, _laugh_; _lean_, _least_, _leak_, _leap_, _lead_, etc. Remember, we are considering primarily speech-_tone_ and not speech form, and that our aim in the exercise of the tongue is to keep it from interrupting the tone. And now a word must be said as to the part the lips take in speech. It must be only a word, because here more than at any other point the work needs the careful supervision of a trained ear and trained eyes. Madame Ricardo yields to the lips control of the tongue, as she gives to the diaphragm control of the breath. I think she would make _easily on the lips_ rather than "trippingly on the tongue" the controlling principle in tone and speech. I shall give you but one exercise: Combine the speech process _m_ with the vowel _[=e]_ and let the tone explode easily on the lips in the repeated syllable, _m[=e]_, _m[=e]_, _m[=e]_. LEARNING TO REINFORCE THE TONE And now we turn from the second step in the training to the third and last step--the _reinforcing_ of the supported and freed tone. It is again a freeing process. This time we are to free the cavities now closed against the tone; we are to use the walls of these cavities as sounding-boards for tone, as they were designed to be, so reinforcing the tone and letting it issue a resonant, bell-like note with the carrying power resonance alone can give, instead of the thin, dull, colorless sound which conveys no life to the word into which it is moulded by the organs of speech. How shall we free these cavities? I find myself now impatient of the medium of communication we are using. I want to make the tone for you. I want, for instance, to shut off the nasal cavity and let you hear the resultant nasal note, thin, high, unresonant, which hardly reaches the first member of my audience; then I want you to hear the tone flood into the nasal cavity, and, reinforced there by the vibration from the walls of the cavity, grow a resonant, ringing, bell-like note, which will carry to the farthest corner of the room without the least increase in loudness. But we must be content with the conditions imposed by print. First, you must realize that so-called "talking through the nose" is not talking _through_ the nose at all, but rather failure to do so--that is, instead of letting the tone flood into the nasal cavity, to be reinforced there by striking against the walls of the cavity, which act as sounding-boards for the tone confined within that cavity, we shut off the cavity, and refuse the tone its natural reinforcement. It takes on, as a result, a thin, unresonant quality which we call nasal, although it is thin and unpleasing because it lacks _true nasal resonance_. The only remedy lies in ceasing to shut off the cavity. Think the sound [=oo]. Let the tone on which it is to be borne grow slowly in thought, filling, filling, and, as it grows, flooding the whole face. Let it press against your lips (in thought only as yet), feel your nostrils expand, your face grow alive between the eyes and the upper lip, that area so often inanimate, lifeless, even in a mobile, animated countenance. Now let the sound come, but let it follow the thought, flood the face, let the nostrils expand, feel the nasal cavity fill with sound; let it go on up into the head and strike the forehead and the eye-sockets and the walls of all the cavities so unused to the impact of sound, which should never have been shut out. Now begin, with lips closed, a humming note, _m-m-m_. Let it come flooding into the face, until it presses against the lips, demanding the open mouth. Now let it open the mouth into the _e_. Repeat this over and over--_m-[=e]_, _m-[=e]_, _m-[=e]_. Don't let the tone drop back as the mouth opens. Keep it forward behind the upper lip, which it has made full, and which, playing against, it tickles until we _must_ let the tone escape. Just as much of the day as possible, think the tone in a flood into the face, and as often as possible hum and let it escape, noting its increasing resonance. It will increase in resonance, I promise you. It will lose its thin, high-pitched nasal quality, and grow mellow and rich and ringing. And so, with chest lifted, diaphragm at work, throat open, tongue free, jaws relaxed, and all the cavities concerned in vocalization open to the tone, as you breathe and yawn and hum, let it issue a full, round, resonant, singing note to add itself to the music of the world. A LAST WORD TO THE PUPIL Mr. William James tells us that we learn to swim in winter and to skate in summer. The principle underlying this statement is of immense comfort in approaching a class in vocal expression. The hope of satisfying results is fostered by the knowledge that a mere statement of the fundamental facts of right tone production will do much toward inducing a right condition for tone. But I know, too, that immediate results depend upon immediate and faithful putting into practice of the principles set forth. A little practice every day will work swift wonders with the voice. And so, in leaving with you Madame Ricardo's watchwords, I also commend you to Ellen Terry's "infinite pains." When it means, as it does in pursuing this ideal, that we must be _on guard_ every waking instant--_for a time_; when it means a watch set (for a time) upon every organ involved in expression--lips, teeth, tongue, jaw, mouth, throat, chest, diaphragm, and all the muscles governing these organs; when it means a watch set (for a time) upon one's every thought and emotion lest it make false demands upon the sensitive instruments of their expression--then it becomes a daring device, indeed, to wear upon one's crest. Let us not hesitate to carve it there, when we realize that to follow it means culture, true culture, the culture which can only come through control and command of one's self. TO THE TEACHER When I consider how much depends in the training of a voice upon listening to the made tone, how little depends upon knowing how it was made, I realize that it is _your ear_, not my book, which must become the real guide in this _Study of Vocal Expression_. 
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37662	----	[Illustration: image of the book's cover] SEED THOUGHTS FOR SINGERS. BY FRANK HERBERT TUBBS, _Musical Director, New York Vocal Institute_. [Illustration: colophon] NEW YORK, FRANK H. TUBBS, 121 WEST 42D STREET. 1897. _Copyright, 1897, Frank H. Tubbs._ PREFACE. There are times when one feels that he must turn from himself and receive suggestion, if not direct instruction, from some one else. Originating thought is more difficult than is the taking of other thought. By delving below the thought received we learn to originate. It is not necessarily an admission of weakness, that we turn to another, for busy life uses up our mental energy and throws us into mental inactivity. It is at such times that we turn to books and teachers. Thought is a substance which, as such, is only in our day being fully investigated. It is the expression of an idea and is the direct cause of all action. The slightest movement is made possible only through thought on perceived or unconscious mental activity. The more thoroughly directed actions are the expression of considered thought. Habit and movement by intuition are expressions of undirected thought. Changing from the latter condition to that of planned or considered action makes all action stronger and more definite. The thinking man becomes the leader of men. "Seed-thoughts" are such as produce other thoughts. Hardly have we reached the realm of ideas. It is a step--not long, yet well-defined--from thought to idea. This little volume does not propose to take that step. It is content to stop, in all modesty, at that place. Its suggestions are sent out to busy teachers and students to lodge in mind as plantings in good mental soil. That they will take root, spring up and bear fruit, is fondly hoped. What the harvest of thought in others may be is idle to speculate upon, but the hope exists that there may be two or three times the amount used in planting when all shall have been gathered in. In this hope the "Seed-thought" is sent on its mission. 121 West 42d Street, New York. INDEX. CHAPTER I.--Success. 11 CHAPTER II.--Desultory Voice Practice. 27 CHAPTER III.--Alere Flamman. 43 Every one Can Sing, 43; Sustain Perfectly, 44; Care of Body, 45; Friends Can Help, 48; Renew Thought, 49; Speaking and Singing, 50; Associates, 51; Purity of Method, 52; Mental Recovery, 53; Profession or Trade, 53; Heart and Intellect, 54; Time Ends Not, 55; Power of Thought, 56; Nature Seldom Jumps, 58; Be Perfect, 59. CHAPTER IV.--Perfect Voice Method. 63 CHAPTER V.--A Paper of Seeds. 79 Analyze Songs, 79; Fault Finding, 80; Recover from Mistakes, 80; Songs for Beginners, 81; Criticism, 82; Wait for Results, 83; All Things are Good, 84; Little Things Affect, 85; Musical Library, 86; Change of Opinions, 87; Reputation Comes Slowly, 88; Study Poetry, 89; Mannerisms Show Character, 90; Provide for the Young, 91; There are no Mistakes, 93; Regularity, 94; Assert Individuality, 96; Educing, 97. CHAPTER VI.--Cuneus Cuneum Trudit. 101 Vocal Tone, 101; True Art is Delicate, 104; Words and Tone Should Agree, 105; Preparation for Teaching, 108; Experience, 111; Before an Audience, 112; Come Up Higher, 113; Crude Voices Express no Emotion, 114. CHAPTER VII.--Ambition. 119 CHAPTER VIII.--Music and Longevity. 137 CHAPTER IX.--Activity. 147 CHAPTER I. SUCCESS. _"I am what I am because I was industrious; whoever is equally sedulous will be equally successful."_ =Bach.= _"To steer steadily towards an ideal standard is the only means of advancing in life, as in music."_ =Hiller.= SEED-THOUGHTS FOR SINGERS. I. SUCCESS. A few decades ago a clumsy, lank, raw-boned boy roamed over the hills of the State of Ohio. He was not marked with the talent of many, nor was he noted for anything in particular except, perhaps, an aptness in "doing sums." Bare-footed, and with scanty clothing, he appeared at a school in a village near his home and begged admission. At first he was refused. Persistence overcame the opposition and he entered, becoming in a short time by his application, the leading spirit in the school. The course of study there being completed, he went to an office across in Delaware as a clerk. That year, the Representative to Congress from Delaware, when about to appoint a youth to enter the Naval Academy at Annapolis, announced a competitive examination. The country lad competed and secured the prize. Friends whom he had made raised funds for the necessary uniforms. At the end of his course a good appointment in the navy followed. Visits to various countries gave him command of three languages. A change to shore duty permitted him to study law. At a recent courtmartial trial at Brooklyn he served as advocate for the Government so acceptably that he has been offered and has accepted, membership in one of the largest law firms in New York. The change from the rough lad to the cultured advocate indicates success. On a bench in an old-fashioned shoe shop sat a young man working at his trade. A singing teacher, passing along, noticed the rich voice of the young man, singing as he worked. The teacher inquired where he sang in church and if he sang in public. Learning that the young man sang no-where, had had no instruction or education, and lacked even the clothes necessary to a respectable appearance, he interested himself in the youth and lived to see him become the leading oratorio basso of America. Success! You will say these two had great natural gifts, all their faculties, and had friends. Another case: A boy at six, was left as a result of scarlet fever, stone blind. Nor has he since seen a ray of light. A necessary faculty to success gone, is it? To-day that young man is one of the best musicians and singers; getting $1,500 for his choir singing. Success. There is within each and every one _that ability_ and _prime element_, which, properly commanded and developed, COMPELS success. But few understand themselves or realize the power within them. Without comprehension of what is within, no start toward success can be made. A reason for absence of comprehension lies in the fact that but one side of self is ever seen, and that side is the grosser one. The body--a head, a trunk, arms and legs. These we see with our physical eyes and call the object, man. We incline to think if these parts are comely, well shapen, strong, beautiful, the possessor may march on to success. "Trust not to appearance." Were the body the root of all things, or of especial worth, the race would be to the swift, the fight to the strong. But that seen, felt, heard, is not the real self. Within the body, as a dweller and a motive power, is the ego, the real self. It is that and that only which can be developed and which possesses those attributes, compelling, bye and bye, success. It is that which must, to some degree, be understood. _Be the body what it may_, the real self has the power of expression and improvement. That real self will be spoken of as the ego, and its power considered. There enters into existence at birth or early in life an indefinable something. We term it soul, spirit, mind. When we meet or associate with a person, in a short time we recognise that mind. At first we may notice the body or even the dress and be influenced by it. In time we see back of that outward covering and see the mind behind it. After, we forget the body in the acquaintance with the mind. A homely person becomes illumined with new life. A beauty loses attraction. We have learned to know the ego in our acquaintance. That ego we come to know as all there is of the acquaintance. A dozen bodies in the dissecting room of the medical college are almost exactly alike. More alike than are the suits of clothes cast off last year by a dozen men. The ego from a dozen men will have small point of resemblance. The ego has so many characteristic elements that it makes possibility of development, throughout the years allotted to man while passing over the earth's crust, _into_ ANYTHING. The body is the home of the ego and the tool for its development and action. Train the body to ability to respond to the demands of the ego, and keep it healthful, and no more can be done with it. For now nothing more need be said of the body. In speaking of the cause of non-success, limited success or disaster, reference to it will be made. Attributes of mind lead always in the direction of progress. Ego, mind, real self, is God within us. "He breathed in his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living soul." That "breath of life" is God. That cannot tend downward. The attributes of God are the attributes of the ego. Love, thought, sympathy, ambition, helpfulness, desire for refinement, culture, expansion--these are such attributes. Is any mind lacking these? If we say yes, look within ourselves and see if they are lacking in us. Accord the same faculties or attributes of mind to each of our fellow men. These attributes cultivated will cause growth of the ego as surely as it is that God liveth and we are in Him. But this growth makes the ego greater and by its reaching out after the things of the world and taking them to itself, produces that which we term success. Understand, then, the ego. Grow it. Reach and possess. These attributes are the forces within each and these forces are the elements of success. But, asks one, what is the bearing of this on our study and on our singing. It has been plain to me as a teacher, and it grows stronger every year, that all success in singing arises from a comprehension of the ego within us, and the cultivation of these attributes bearing directly upon singing and music. Three only of those attributes may be considered now. First,--ambition. What would you become? Yes, a musician and singer. Consult one who knows your body better than you and enough of your mind to judge well, and if he says you may become one, plan your life work to making your ambition gratified. Aim high. But few persons lack the capacity of singing well. The goal of most is that, to sing well. At home only, it may be. For friends, and for self-pleasure. Others would become professional artists. Aim at the highest and best. No ambition is too high and, provided we will cultivate the ego, no ambition will remain ungratified. Do not be modest in expectancy. Nothing is too good or too high, too great or too noble for the God within us. Therefore plan large things. _Second_--thought. Having planned a broad campaign and having resolved on faithfulness, bend the thought toward the result. Now, thought is not the subtle nonentity we let ourselves consider it. The text of a book recently examined is, "Thoughts are things." Thought is an emanation of the ego; a messenger of the mind. We shoot thoughts out by the thousands and millions. Generally we fly them at random. If they strike a mark we gain a result. Stop shooting them at random, aim correctly, hit the mark each time and each thought brings a result. Pure thought, the thought from the ambitious ego, is upward, and when centered, concentrated on the plan which ambition has prompted, it carries that plan onward--upward--to the end, _success_. Concentration of thought, say you? Do we not have it? Let me ask you to fix the thought on one object five seconds. Tear this paper slowly from end to end and think of nothing else while doing it. Probably the thought during the five seconds will embrace a dozen things besides the act of tearing. Of what paper is made, how far apart the lines are, be the texture fine, how much does it cost, some other paper bought last week, where you bought it, the salesman who served you, what a frightful rainy day that was, how you caught cold and what a scolding you got at home for being out--a long way from the act of tearing. The first thought is lost. Concentrate. Acquire the habit of concentration. In nothing more than in thinking should we say, "Do one thing at a time." Concentration of thought makes steady growth of the plan of ambition's suggestion and moves it on to success. _Third_--expression. Every growth produces another. Emerson says in substance that the end of every act is but the beginning of another. It used to be said that if a man made $5,000 he was sure to become rich--meaning that the money invested and reinvested, and added to by constant earning, would surely bring wealth. Every growth of attribute of mind, be it of those mentioned or of others, develops possibilities of further growth. Love, a powerful attribute of the ego, first circles in the home, then expands into the circle of friends, then reaches the business, society, the world. One begins by caring for the want of a hurt bird or other pet. He ends by raising and healing mankind. One quietly slips a few pennies into the hand of an unfortunate. He ends by being a philanthropist. One speaks a kind word. He ends by raising the fallen. These, you see, touch upon sympathy, helpfulness. Each attribute expands. Have you followed? Isn't this true? How, then, about desire for refinement? If the others expand, will not that? A noble thought, an association with the pure in art, and beauty in poem, story, song, sky, flower, but leads us to another even more beautiful. Each touch of beauty, of docility, of refinement, expands that line of our ego, and we feel ourselves raised, drawing nearer and nearer that great Mind, and keeping us more and more in that grace which passeth all understanding. The end _must_ be success in our plan. Mental growth means more power to grasp and wrest from circumstances and the world itself, successful prosecution of the plan which ambition framed. Successful prosecution means ultimate success. In mind I hear some one say, this is good theory and a beautiful picture. What of it is practical enough for my mind. Let us turn for a few minutes to a darker side and then again to the brighter, and see if a practical word does not exist for each. What prevents success, and is there false success? A few minutes ago I spoke of the bodies which the ego inhabits. Those bodies possess attributes and faculties. St. Paul said once that he would be out of the body and be in the spirit; meaning, as I believe, that he would rather live in the ego, and not be hindered by the body. The body must be fed and clothed. It has appetites. Appetite grows, requiring more delicacies, higher spiced and richer food, and perhaps more food. Clothing takes much attention, and develops pride and vanity. Has not each said many a time, "If I but had time to attend to study and did not have to attend to my clothes, my food, and take the time to earn money for them, I could do so much"? True, but the body is here and if these things are not done, the ego would have no home in which to stay. The care of the body is necessary. Cannot, however, even these necessary demands be somewhat reduced for the sake of attending to the ego within, more fully? If not, cannot the appetite and the pride, which, after all, give no satisfaction when all is done, be so held in check by care and reasonableness that the demands of body will not grow upon us? After all, those necessary demands of body, grown abnormal, or into the unnecessary, are not so bad as other attributes of body. Laziness! Light gossip! Fretting! Uncleanness! Disease! These things _can't_ be part of the ego, for the real man is the "breath of life"--God. They must be of body. They are the things which play havoc with our time, our energy, our thought. It is a commonly accepted belief that man must be now and then on the sick bed. That commonly-accepted belief is slowly but surely disappearing before the fact that the body only becomes diseased as it is neglected, overfed or attacked by bacillæ. If a plant dies we look for the worm at its root, or the insect on the leaf. If it has had good soil, earth and sun, we expect it to flourish. The body is the same material--dust. Attend it, not abuse it, and except from contagion it will serve us without disease. Solomon said, "Know thyself." Maybe he meant know to care for the body. When this is done the ego is allowed its chance to go to success. Without it, the body, full of appetite, pride, hatred, laziness, envy, fretfulness and disease, weighs with compelling force, the ego down to earth. Instead of success follows failure. Emancipate the ego from the body before even planning. This body and this alone can cause failure. A success arising from a pretty face, a good figure, graceful dancing, agile singing and trifling speech is false success and is worse than failure. How about circumstances and their influences? Surroundings. They surely effect us. Yes, but just so surely as the ego throws off the lower self, within the body, and resolves to rise, just so quick will the circumstances and surroundings begin to change. Just so fast as the ego develops its attributes just so fast will appropriate circumstances and surroundings for its further growth open. Like begets like. Water seeks its level. Seek low things on bodily planes and low friends will surround you. Like is with like. Raise yourself a peg and you will find those with whom you can follow. Your old associates will not go with you, and some will call you mean and cry, "Come back," and try to pull you back. Bid them adieu and go higher. _New_ surroundings are there and will make a place for you in them. The past becomes a stepping stone and if you have cleared the ego of your own body, you will rise again. Like draws like. The new friends, the new town, the new music, the new activity will lend you their aid to go higher. Clear yourself at each step of the weight brought on by body and circumstances will seem different. "God helps him who helps himself." Those who would pull back are by our very inertia cast off. We rise to success. The thousand things which might be well said in connection with the subject must be left. Recapitulation and application to the individual singing student show these: 1st. Plan, and concentrate thought on its execution. 2d. Cultivate the real self and not permit the shell or body to dominate. 3d. By that command of the self, win friends and compel success. That which conduces most toward success is even disposition and geniality. These grow into kindly independence which develops for us experience. How long, ask you, will it take to become an artist? No one knows. Two minds differ--in fact, no two are alike. A few months suffice to make the crudest student an adept singer; or rather, is time enough to make him sing as well as his mind wishes. From that time on the voice grows better only as the mind grows and comprehends how to further use the voice. So, then, as soon as one can sing so as to acceptably please friends, it is a duty which the pupil owes himself to sing for those whom he pleases. The effort gives him experience and prepares him to meet the next circle. As the ability grows, seek to sing before greater artists, and with the best singers. The time will come--it may be one year, two years, three years, or even more--when it is best to go before the best artists of the world and secure their commendation and their co-operation (silently it may be) to further for you the prosecution and completion of your pre-arranged plan regarding your music. What matters it how long this takes. Life is, if you are using it aright, a perfection of a plan of existence which will end only when we pass over the River. A portion, more or less long, used in making a musician and an artist, is but a part of the whole, and a development of the talent lent us by the good Father, and which we, by our effort, eventually return to Him, added to, and made beautiful because of the Heavenborn Art--music--which we have absorbed to ourselves. Nor is this all, for in the development of our own talent we have carried the whole world unconsciously upward nearest the pure, the beautiful and the true. CHAPTER II. DESULTORY VOICE PRACTICE. "_Nothing should be done without a purpose._" =Aurelius.= "_Music is never stationary; successive forms and styles are only like so many resting-places--like tents pitched and taken down again on the road to the Ideal._" =Liszt.= II. DESULTORY VOICE PRACTICE. European schools and teachers stand aghast at what American pupils demand and at their expectations. Accustomed to the years of attention to detail and to seeing their own students willing to wait long years before good results are achieved, they naturally think the American students wild. These Americans want to do in one year what Europeans are willing to use three or four years for. Those teachers say it cannot be done and set down American students as conceited fools. While at first glance the teachers appear right, may they not be wrong? America to-day has more inventions in use, more quick ways of working in all lines of life, and can show quicker results in all lines of activity than any other nation. Methods and ways have been devised and adapted to American speed in all branches. May such not apply to study? So this item is prepared in the interest of American students, living under American conditions. It is useless to say, "we live too fast." Take facts as they are and adjust our custom to the day, place and situation. Until within comparatively few years the plan for cultivation of the voice and preparation for song singing was to sing a few sustained tones for warming up the voice, as the saying was, and then to sing vocalizes. In the earlier stages of practice solfeggii and vocalizes of easy range and light character were employed. As these were acquired, similar ones of greater difficulty were used and as the singer gained confidence in himself and ability to sing better, the exercises were still increased in difficulty. The time employed in study extended over several years and with the result that those who had patience and perseverance became able to sing. Not one, however, in a thousand, who studied ever arrived at a point which allowed him comfort in his singing or pleasure to his hearers. That is, to the idea of a practical mind, desultory voice study. It may be adapted to the contented plodding of an old world civilization, but is not in keeping with the age of electricity or of gigantic schemes. It must be kept in mind by every one that "old things have passed away and all things have become new." The very association about us makes mind keen to rapidity of action, speaking from incisive thought. A plodder stands back while the brilliant man moves to the front. By the plodder is meant he who is _willing_ to go slowly. By the brilliant man, he, though he may not have more native talent than the other, has by calling to his aid those commanding elements of success, moved surely and therefore swiftly, through the perplexities of every existence, to the front. Every thing which cuts off wastefulness of time becomes a weapon with which to fight perplexities. In such an active life, he who would cultivate the voice and become a musician must map out for himself a course of study which will give him the best results in the quickest possible time. It is patent to every one who intelligently teaches that the road followed during the last few generations lacks these short roads to success. One asks, and with justice, if we have now found the royal road to learning which it has ever been said does not exist. If that means the road by which, at one bound, we reach perfection, the answer must be that no royal road has been found. There have been planned, however, ways of procedure which must shorten the trip. I know not when man first practised dentistry but this I do know, that the doctor of dental science who works on lines of even one generation back is valueless. To-day the terrors of the dentist's chair are reduced to a minimum, if not entirely removed. Photography, a science of our day, has swiftly grown to an art. I recall a photographer who in 1870 was noted for perfect work. He was so satisfied with himself and his work that he neglected to use the new ways which were being discovered. In 1880 his work was considered so bad as to be condemned by all and his studio was forsaken. Printing by the sun had not been discarded but how to use the science had been carefully advanced--wasteful and slow method discarded, and surer and better results obtained. Is a musician less keen of perception and adjustment to circumstances than the dentist and photographer? Pride rebels against an affirmative answer. Then the natural deduction is that he has learned to apply new ways and methods, by and through which he can produce surer and more beautiful results than could his predecessor in his profession. As a first step toward progress he recognised the faults of the old way and sought a change from them. The chief of the faults lay in seeking to cultivate a sound. He said in substance, then, that "since cultivating a sound is wrong I consider that no such thing as sound exists. It cannot be perceived by any of the senses. It cannot be seen, tasted, smelt, felt, or even heard." (Parenthetically, it may be said if one takes exception to the latter statement, that proof is given of the truth if one sings into a phonograph. The singer cannot recognise what the instrument sounds back as _his_ voice. Others may recognise it but he cannot. The hearing of my voice by another, no matter how much _he_ may tell me about it, does not show me how it sounds, and I must conclude that I cannot hear it.) Since none of the five senses can bear upon sound, for cultivating it, sound, or tone if you wish to call it so, is worthless. This then which the old teachers watched for years, was intangible, and to watch it to-day and to try to form singers by manipulating so subtle a thing, produces wastefulness, and desultory practice. Go to the foundation. What produces voice? Vibration of air reservoirs. What governs the air and gives the vibration? Muscle. What are muscles, where are they, how can they be managed? They are contained within the portion of the body between the waist and the eyes, and form, while used in voice production, about all of that portion of the body, and they can be managed by the understanding and command of the mind. The general understanding of vocal anatomy, and the positive control of that anatomy that it may do just what the will demands is the foundation of voice practice. Such positiveness makes possible the rapidity of vocal development akin to the surety of the dentist's art and the certainty of the photographer. The prime fault of old methods is, at one stroke, cut away. A new growth on the foundation appears. Many musical journals discuss methods, Italian, French, German. Even wonder if we will ever have an American method. Such discussion is waste. There is _one_ method. _All_ schools build on it. He who understands it best and is surest in teaching it, gives best result and is the best teacher. He, the best teacher, is such only when he applies his mind to each and every act of his pupil and banishes for the time being every other thought from mind. In a proper lesson every minute is used thoroughly. No sixty seconds can be thrown away. The mind of the teacher alert to the necessity of his charge makes every minute tell. With this as a preamble, turn to the pupil who is by himself to avoid desultory practice. You have a voice. Every one has. Yours, you know, is a very good one. You want (not, would like) in the quickest time to make it do just what you conceive a fine singer should do. Then, know what is to be done, understand how to do it, and do it. The boys say "One to make ready, two to prepare, and three--." But you stand around making ready, preparing so long. Why? Do you know what is to be done? Ask the teacher, and don't let him evade positive instruction. Garcia, when asked the cause of Jenny Lind's great success, replied "She never tried to do anything 'til she knew how. More than once she has come to my house of an evening and said 'I did not fully understand what you told me to-day. Will you explain it again?' After that she never needed to be told again." At a lesson understand what is taught. Don't pretend you do when you do not. After going home from each lesson, write in a book kept for that purpose what has been said at the lesson. Read that book often. This will fix in mind, as well as preserve for reference, the instruction, and make sure the understanding of it. Then it is for you to do it. Once the pianist played scales by the hour to limber the hand; now he thinks only of the muscle which causes each finger to strike, and makes that muscle work at once. What formerly took months to do he now does in days. Desultory practice is avoided. A teacher in a certain city complained that another teacher got pupils by advertising quick method. Cut off desultory practice, apply mind where brute force has formerly held sway, and quick method is the result. One reference to complaint brings others to mind. The most precious commodity known is time. Twenty-four hours only in a day. How little and how valuable. Yet if all is conserved, how much and how great. Masonic instruction divides the day into three portions; one for our usual avocations, one for good of self and family, and one for refreshment and sleep. So much for instruction. Can some wasteful acts of life be reduced or eliminated, that we may economize time, and what is better, form habit of utilizing all of the precious commodity? What a lesson one can draw on these elevated trains. Each morn, a man (one man, or how many think you?) enters and finds a seat. Immediately he is into his newspaper. A half hour later he gets out, having arrived at his station. What has happened? He has read the newspaper. No, he _hasn't_ read the newspaper. Ask him what he has learned. He can't tell you. One item, two, three, perhaps--and these of little value. That is not reading. It is cursory glancing, desultory and wasteful. Stop it. Thirty precious minutes gone. A glance at a paper (provided one knows the general make-up of the paper he reads) tells him all in it of value. Six minutes is enough, except when something of unusual moment is to be read, and that doesn't happen once a month. The other twenty-four minutes should go into some other purpose. A book, magazine, play, or even silent thought will give value for the twenty-four. At night, on the way home, the man skims through an evening paper. Almost one hour of the twenty-four thrown away. Compute the amount of educational advancement possible to this city were the hundreds of thousands of hours thrown away daily to be used in progressive study or thought. You and I help to waste, do we? The command of the mind is the underlying need of the student. It has come into thought that should one apply himself every minute to some work that he would fatigue and wear out. He could not stand it. Wrong. The mind cannot wear out, even if it can fatigue. Rest is the opposite of unrest, and unrest is equivalent to fatigue. The superficial reading or skimming, shifting of thought through the thousand objects which come before the mind gives the unrest and through it, the fatigue. Stop the unrest, and let rest abound. Rest comes through definite change of work. The man who leaves his office, rushes to mountain and farm, sees new scenes, faces, customs, eats new food, rides, fishes, swims, climbs and dances, is the one who comes back rested. There has been no unrest, but radical change. The first assistant engineer of the New York aqueduct was to me at one time an object of astonishment. It was said of him, "When he works, he works; when he plays, he plays; whatever he does it is for the time all in the world to him." At that time he held an important engineering position, was an officer in a military organization, secretary of a yacht club, active in church society, leader in literary circles in classic Boston and never was rushed. The change of work was the secret of it all. Rest came by turning out of mind what did not pertain to the act then in hand. Every act was new. Of a certain minister it is said "He can do more in ten minutes than most men do in a day." His church has fifteen hundred members and his Sunday school a larger number. Calls, sermons, the sick, weddings, funerals, the poor (for he had four charity societies), his family, young people's societies,--yet he has time for all and he sees callers, more in one week than you and I do in a year. How does he do it? What you and I waste time upon, he does not. No gossip, worry, standing before a mirror, dozing over dinner, or unrest for him. Vary the monotony a little and find rest. Don't fear doing too much. Wear out, if need be, but don't rust. It is the busy man who has lots of time. Do you want advice, a helping hand? Avoid the lazy man, for he has no time for you. The busy man has. Why is it that the busy teacher draws the most pupils? Were he to half teach ten pupils they would leave him and no more would come. Because he can attend to forty, and that by making to each a profitable half-hour, forty more come. The half supplied teacher is less able to teach his small flock than the pushed teacher. He _must_ turn quickly from act to act and thus keep rested, by change of scene, pupil, music and vivacity. "Can you jump immediately from a lesson to the desk and write one of your magazine articles?" asks one. Nothing easier. Fix the mind on what is to be done that minute, and do it. It makes a heaven of earth. Instruction which is not practical is little worth. You are interested in improving yourselves vocally. To you let me plan a first step toward preventing desultory voice practice. Under four headings. Practical ones. _First._--Establish customs. The best one I know is to plan in advance to accomplish certain things. Make up the mind what you would like to do. Each night make out a little card of what is to be done next day. Probably not half the things planned will be executed, at first. What of it. Some have been done; but better, that unconscious growth which carries custom into habit will be developed and the system which will grow out of the custom of preparing the cards and attempting to work out that which was planned, will cut off more wasteful minutes than you admit are in your day. After a time it will come that all the items you write on the card at evening will not be too much to do on the following day. Compare the card of the thirtieth day with that of the first and you will find you wrote quite as many (if not more) things to do and now you can do them all, and feel no hurry and far less fatigue. Will you try that? _Second._--Give certain times each day to certain things. You can't? You can. I'll give proof you can. Having planned what is to be done the next day and allowed that custom to become habit, will develop such regularity that each hour will have its regular work and nothing will crowd it out. The system produces it. Turn a kaleidoscope. Each jarring makes new adjustment of figure. Your duty is a kaleidoscope. The proof is that every one who _tries_ such adjustment, succeeds. The school boy knows the time of bell ringing, the hour for arithmetic, geography, etc. The train man knows the minute to be at each station. The clerk or workman is ready to stop work at a certain time. Certain theatres announce what scenes will be on at every minute of the evening. You think and would say, "But these admit of no interruption, and I may have interruptions." To which I say "These _permit_ no interruption, and if you were as systematic, you would permit none." A friend calls at the door to see you. You waste five minutes (only five?) talking to him. Think it over. Was that necessary? Couldn't it have been said in two--one, or less? Next time, kindly, but firmly excuse yourself. If the friend thinks you snubbing, you can afford that, for the friend is a wasteful one and better be dropped than allowed to spoil you. The fault when we waste time is in us, not in the friend. A lady called recently. "Your time is valuable. I'll say in one word what I want." 'Twas said, and she went. Kind lady! To whom? Me? Not at all. She is one of the busiest women in the city and couldn't afford to give much of her time to the errand, but neatly complimented, in order to cover what some might call selfishness. Be wise. That kindly habit comes from preventing waste. _Third._--Banish every low or lowering thought. For now, for no reason except to save time, and help form habit which prevents waste. Every thought has its sure influence. Every thought of envy, hatred, jealousy, of crimes, accidents, misfortunes, sorrows, our own or those of others, is an evil. It takes time out of life and saps life-activity. Supplant it with pure and good thought. Health, brightness, pleasure, art and beauty are subjects which lift. Upward, upward, toward heaven! That must be the student's mental attitude. Enough would drag down. Cast the down view away. Look up and go up. You do not study for the purpose of going downward. Upward again to the top--and _you_ must do it by having your thought good and pure. _Fourth._--Interest friends in your practice. Only one word about that. No one can long go in any mental work alone. Progress _is_ mental work. Rising draws others to and with us. See a little whirlwind take up the dust. It gathers more and more until a column twenty or thirty feet high is before us. Tell father, mother, friends, those you can trust, what you hope to do and what your efforts to accomplish that, are. Seeing you in earnest they will help--with misgivings at first, may be, but they will join the column and make one with you sure. Summary, briefly. By systematic utility, every minute contributes to progress, forming habits which prevent wasteful thought and fatigue. The customs of former years need not be followed because direct result will come from direct application of thought to study. Old world ways and past generation ideas do not belong to-day in either teacher or pupil, and, therefore, are to drop out. The wastefulness of uncertainty and evil in mind may be overcome by directness of effort until good habit crowds out the evil. The first and all important step is the plan of action. Acknowledge no limitation to growth. Love soundness, careful thought, steadfast purpose. CHAPTER III. ALERE FLAMMAN. "_His tongue was framed to music, And his hand was armed to skill; His face was the mould of beauty, And his heart the throne of will._" =Emerson.= "_Slow, indeed, at times, is the will of the gods, but in the end not weak._" =Euripedes.= III. ALERE FLAMMAM. Everyone Can Sing. The culture of the voice has come to be looked upon as a great and serious undertaking, and of such magnitude that but few have time for it, and those only should attempt it who have exceptionally fine voices. This is a mistake. Nearly everyone can sing, and if all would attempt to improve the voices they have by observing a few common-sense rules, it would soon be apparent that there are many more good singers among the masses than it is supposed exist, and these singers will learn how much can be done to add to their own comfort, by a little outlay of thought. Culture of the voice has been made a mystery by charlatan teachers and for a purpose. Think out how the conversational voice works and then consider what difference there should be between that and the singing voice. Nature planned the speaking voice and in doing it, gave us the line of development to follow in bringing into use the singing voice. The change from speaking to singing voice is where the quack enters with his mystery. There is no mystery. Use the voice as in speaking but pitch it at higher and lower points than are used in speaking. This is the foundation of the singing voice. Only one caution is needed. Never strain the throat. If, after a little practice, fatigue is felt or the tone is husky, stop practice. Do not try to do it all at once. A little each day added, will, in a few months, do all that is wanted. Do not expect, however, that any amount of study by one's self will make an artist. One can sing, by self-study, so as to get much pleasure, and so as to give pleasure to friends; but something more serious and extended is needed to make the artist. Sustain Perfectly. Sustaining perfectly the reservoir of air is the greatest _desideratum_ in using the voice. Acquiring ability to do so is a puzzle often to students. The reason is in the fact that no muscles which are directly under the control of the will can be caused to act upon the air column. The chief organ of respiration is the diaphragm, and as years of teaching bring experience which is definite in results, we find that the diaphragm is the only muscle which holds the air column in check. That muscle situated within the body cannot be held by any visible power. The _thought_ of holding it still will make us hold our breath. Trying to assist such holding by muscles of the chest, abdomen or throat, only defeats our purpose and makes the diaphragm give way. That large muscle will do the whole work if we will let it. The thought, as said above, is what will make it remain quiet. That thought may take various forms. What assists one does not appeal to another. But here is an assisting thought which does much good to the majority of students. Of course when the breath is taken the diaphragm is down and the waist is spread. Then the chest, bronchial tubes, windpipe and mouth are full of air. Now allow that air to be as still as the air of the room. Practise sustaining tone with any vowel, preceding each effort by taking position suggested above, and with the thought of keeping the air in the body just the same as, and a part of, the outer air. Then allow tone to float in the air, permitting no force whatever. Care of the Body. Singers seem to think but little of the tools with which they carry on their life work. That is the rule. Now and then a singer takes the opposite course and becomes unreasonably careful of his tools. In that case he is worse off than the careless. The "happy medium" is in all things the desirable state. Our tools as singers are enclosed within the body and are the body. To have the body ready to respond to the musical demands it must be well and strong. To keep it well should be our first care. Happily we are so made that by following a few simple rules of living the body goes on through a long term of years without getting seriously out of order. Some persons can boast that they are never ill while many report but one sickness during a decade. The needed attention to the bodily wants, has, in these cases, been properly given. If all were as careful to do the same and not overdo the matter, perfect health would be the rule and not the exception. The body needs nourishing food, clothing to preserve nearly uniform temperature, sufficient sleep, generous exercise, and thorough cleansing. Nothing more. Neglect of these, or as is more often the case, overdoing some of the first, is cause of disorder and disease. A singer cannot afford to have the tools of his employment other than in first-rate condition. If he does he enters his work, unnecessarily handicapped. General advice regarding the eating and drinking is often given. Making it more specific, we would say, eat only such food as is easily digested and insist that it shall be thoroughly cooked. Supply the body with enough such for its maintenance only. The singer, again, cannot afford to eat what is not needed, be that of kind or amount. Most persons in running a furnace will feed fuel twice a day, at night and morning. In specially cold weather giving the fire a little extra fuel at noon. This is a good rule for feeding the body. Avoid over-feeding. The object of eating is to nourish the body and not to gratify appetite. It makes little difference whether the palate is pleased or not. The body could be nourished on food which does not taste so good as some other. Eating, to most people, is more palate gratification than anything else. In doing so, the body is overfed and clogged. Singers cannot afford that. Sleep. To recover the waste of body at each days' work, quiet restful sleep is needed. Eight hours, or better nine, out of each twenty-four. In a cool room where possible and with plenty of fresh air. People who eat rationally need not fear taking cold by sleeping in a room with a draught of air through it. Fresh air, fresh, good food and cleanliness are necessary to the best results in singing study. No rule can be given about bathing. Some students can stand a thorough bath every day. Others, only once in ten days. A sponge bath, if no other, should be had daily, that the pores of the body may be kept open and clear. Clothing should be sufficient to keep the temperature of the body even. No need of wrapping the throat even when going into the open air, if the temperature of the body generally is even. We do pamper our bodies and think we are uncomfortable. In one sweeping sentence, be vigorous and good-natured and the body will the better serve us. A long walk each day in the fresh air adds to that vigor, and also to our good-nature. Friends Can Help. Advice of friends is a source of value or injury to the singing student. Advice has its influence. Every word spoken about one's voice and singing helps or injures. If placed in a circle which condemns every effort we make we are held back by that very influence from doing our best. Every judicious word of praise helps us upward. A pupil who is struggling by himself, without a word of cheer in his own home circle has a hard fight of it. For that reason it is very necessary that pupils whose desires are similar, and whose aims are toward the highest, should be gathered together. They help by their words, and often by their looks, the anxious student. "Forsake not the assembling of yourselves together," applies. After a pupil's recital, a judicious teacher will tell his pupils the kind things which the others have said. If unkind things should be said (but a teacher who is himself kind will not hear unkind things) he will keep those to himself, guiding himself, however, by those comments in the future treatment of that criticized pupil. In this connection, a word to the members of the family of the student. A mother, who steps into the practice-room occasionally when she hears good singing and says, "That was good. I see you are improving," aids the student as much as a half-dozen lessons will aid. A brother who banters his sister about her singing when he really enjoys it, knows not, oftentimes, that his banter hurts and harms. To be sure, the partiality of the home circle may foster false hopes, but since nearly every one can learn to sing well if rightly trained, that will do less harm than cold indifference and cruel banter. Renew Thought. The teacher who does not live in high thought, and who does not attempt to attain a high ideal, does poorer work than he thinks he does. It is an easy matter to settle into a rut and to follow certain lines. These wear themselves out. New ways of imparting time-honored teaching, although they may not change the principles of teaching, must be constantly sought. They will only come to mind by keeping the thought in the highest realm of intellectual possibility to that teacher. One who contemplates with restful care, in that higher realm, the beautiful in music, the way of influencing mind, and the most direct way of causing students to attain that which they need, will ever renew his method of teaching. Such renewal will contain something better than he had before. Unless constant renewal, or at least frequent renewal, takes place, the rut will be entered upon. The longer one follows it, the deeper he becomes settled in it, and the harder is it to get out from it. Speaking and Singing. The basis of good singing is good speaking. The speaking voice in common use during conversation covers a range of five or six notes. Frequently lower and higher notes are called into use, but the high and low notes of the singing voice are seldom used in conversation. The organs which produce voice, from their constant use respond involuntarily to the will. They also do correct work. It is seldom that a person, unless he has deformity, has trouble to pronounce any word or syllable, while talking. Would this were true of singers. The student would greatly lessen the amount of his labor and also reduce the cost of his musical education if he were able to speak the words as correctly and as easily while singing as while speaking. It is toward this imitation of the speaking voice that one must constantly strive if he would make rapid progress in voice development. When he has reached the point where he can sing every vowel and consonant perfectly, and with as little effort as when speaking, on every tone of his singing voice, and then have that voice loud enough to be well heard in any hall, the voice is completely and well cultivated. Associates. Singers cannot afford to miss the chance to be among great men. As a class, musicians are narrow and that arises from the necessity of giving so much time to technical study. When the chance to meet and associate with men of broad minds comes, take advantage of it. Even if the contact be not close some of the light shining from the great mind will illumine us, and will make us brighter. The great mind is drawing from inspired source, maybe, and the light which comes from that mind drives out darkness from whatever it covers. Light and darkness cannot remain together. Let the mind be thrown open to receptivity when one is in the presence of the acknowledged leader and good clear light, it may be from heaven, will flood the mind and illumine it. Purity of Method. Purity of vocal method must not be departed from by teachers. The introduction of new ideas is at best a hazardous undertaking. In the routine of teaching week after week and month after month the teacher finds himself casting about for a new idea. He finds something which pleases him and tries it on his pupils. Most teachers can look back at experiments which have failed. Better decide on a few basic principles and cling to them. The desire to try something new is very liable to be the result of fatigue from overwork. Better take a holiday; go away from the classroom and rest. Come back to first principles again and go to work. The result at the end of the year will be better. Every teacher as he grows older resolves his ways of cultivating the voice into something very simple but which, as it condenses, becomes more powerful. There is only one right way and deep thinkers settle on that alike in time. Mental Recovery. A teacher cannot do better for himself and his work than to occasionally close the office door and sit quietly by himself for a half-hour. At such time crowd out the thought of all work, all planning, all worries, and all demands. Bring the mind as nearly as can be into inactivity. One will find in the hour when work is resumed that more of value will flood into the mind, he knows not from whence, than he can catch and apply in a great many hours. How many of us have times of refreshing. It is work, work, hour after hour and the wonder is that we do so much and yet do so little. Leave out some of the work and call activity of mind to our aid and we will do more work with much less effort. Profession or Trade. An item recently seen reads, "we would rather be a music teacher in an obscure town than be a prosperous tradesman in a large city." That has the sound of enthusiasm, and is the feeling of one who has the good of his fellowmen at heart. Every man who enters a profession gives up his life to do good. But few men in any professional life ever make more than a good living. Some can, indeed, save enough to make occasional investments, and these (if judgment has been good) secure a moderate fortune. But no man ever became wealthy from his profession alone. A professional man, however, gratifies his better nature and satisfies cultivated tastes. A man in trade becomes so engrossed in business that his better nature (his refined taste) is dwarfed. That comfort of mind which the professional man has is more to him than the bags of gold of the merchant would be. Probably the writer who made the remark quoted, had in mind the opportunity which the music teacher has to do good. It is a grand field of work, and one who has been engaged in it for several years wants no other. To lead the public by teaching and by public performance into the knowledge of the highest art, is a privilege which should be prized. The music teacher, (even if not so placed by common opinion) stands with the minister and the physician in the good which he does the community. Heart and Intellect. Let not the heart be the ruling power all the time. If it is, art sinks into sentimentality. Allow the head to rule alternately with the heart. Intellect must be applied if any satisfying musical result is to be obtained. Emotion is good, but it needs curbing, shaping and restraining. Emotion, long sustained and unbridled, becomes nauseating. Emotion in itself is beautiful, but like fire and water, if it once becomes the master, wastes and destroys. Emotion, aroused by imagination and directed by intelligence, serves to give taste to all musical rendition. One without heart is non-satisfying as a singer. Be he ever so intellectual, his singing is cold. Intellect alone, unaided by heart, is like polished steel--cold, brilliant and dazzling. Intellect and heart combined are like the same surface engraved and enamelled in artistic design--chaste, delicate and finished. Time Ends Not. We may say with Emerson that "Time has his own work to do and we have ours," and with Wood, "Labor is normal; idleness, abnormal," but in music there must be times of cessation from labor. Call it change of work, if you choose rather than admit that labor has ceased, but experience shows that no musician can safely follow his calling year in and year out, with no regular period of rest, and save his mind and body. Sooner or later comes a collapse. The human machine breaks down. Then we shall think of Emerson and Wood as unsafe leaders. Time has his work, but he works in such deliberation and in such ever-changing form that were he one who could feel fatigue, he need not feel it. Time is from eternity to eternity. Time does not occupy a human machine. The music teacher does. Many a teacher has toiled beyond his strength this year. Many will next year. Who will take thought for himself and break loose, if but for a few weeks, and postpone the time of breaking down? One might say, that with Time, the human soul is from eternity to eternity and there is no breakdown. True, but the residence of that soul while it is in this period of existence, demands much of its attention. That cannot properly be given when the exacting duties of the class-room drag on week after week, till they number fifty-two, and then begin at once another weary round. Admit that there are limitations, and, in cordial co-operation with existing laws, select and use the days of idleness, even if one has said that idleness is abnormal. Power of Thought. The power of thought to exert influence is only in our day being understood. How to utilize it is not yet in such degree of comprehension that it can be told so that all are able to use the force which they contain. Thought is a tangible essence passing from the human mind and lodging upon the object toward which it is sent. Definite thought is more powerful than is illy defined thought. Speech enables us to crystalize thought and to empower it with added force. The time given to framing sentences enables us to put thought into definite form. A step beyond speech is obtained in singing. When learning our songs we revolve the thought to be expressed in mind. The measure of the music gives time to concentrate the thought contained into its most powerful form. The rhythm and vibration which accompany music and singing, enhance the power of thought. Whenever we sing in the true spirit of the sentiment uttered we send out shafts, so to speak, of pure thought. Not one of those is lost. It lodges somewhere, and as all good can never do harm, our good thought, sent in song, must do good to those who come within our influence to receive our good shafts. A singer who uses music for vain display loses the opportunity for good. There is no good thought in such singing. If there is any thought at all it is of the lower order. It lodges also, but it appeals to that which is vain and low in our hearers. What wonder is it, then, that ofttimes our hearers make unkind remarks about us and our singing! It is our fault that we have stirred up in them the spirit of vanity and criticism. Our thought has often challenged such spirit in them. Let our thought be changed, and only the good which is contained in poetic art sent out to them and their attitude toward us will change. There is no unpleasant thing which comes to us but that we stimulated it and created it. We can make our musical surroundings by sending out powerful shafts of pure thought. Nature Seldom Jumps. Nature seldom moves by jumps, and a student who reaches the best use of his voice learns that he must do that through natural laws. In other words, that he must acquire all things through naturalness. What wrongs have been done to students under the shield of so-called naturalness! Many teachers who claim that they are cultivating the voice by natural laws, know nothing of what it means to be natural. Naturalness means the expression of our own nature. If a teacher uses the natural method he but points out to his pupils their true natures and holds them to that correct use of such that they return to their normal condition. The necessities of our modern living have made most of us feel that we must put a side of ourselves outward which shows off well. In singing we develop abnormally something which we fancy will please our hearers and bring us applause. We try to hide our defects and admit that we do. Aside from the question of honesty, is it policy to do so. Most firmly, should be the answer, No! It destroys the naturalness of the singer and substitutes artifice. Any spurious issue will be detected sooner or later. Besides, is it not much more comfortable to have the real than the counterfeit? Be natural, then. Many students are impulsive. It was to these that the remark that "Nature seldom jumps," was made. In natural action everything is deliberate and restful; controlled and sure. Nature makes but few angles, but moves in graceful curves. Good quality of tone on one note and poor quality on the next, is not natural. Nature does not jump from one voice into another. Nature demands symmetric cultivation of the whole voice, and not the display of a favored part. Be Perfect. Do not be content to merely make progress. (If one feels that he is at a standstill, or worse, going backward, he should stop all study till he can go forward). Merely making progress means that to reach great result, a long time must elapse. To make a great artist requires years of musical and intellectual training; to be able to sing as perfectly as the body is capable of acting, requires but a few weeks, or at most, a few months. Why will students take lessons year after year and not sing any better than they did soon after they began? It is not necessary if the student is willing to go rapidly. "Be ye perfect," applies to singing as well as to anything else in life. If the injunction to be perfect has any meaning at all, and no one has any right to doubt but that it meant, when it was spoken, just what the words contain, that applies very thoroughly to singing. The very essence of life itself is more fully operative in singing than it is in anything else. If so, to be perfect in singing is to be perfect also in the essence of life. The injunction was not to become perfect by a long course of training. The present tense was used and it meant just what was said. "Be ye perfect," _now_. By proper mental conception of the true principle which underlies voice culture and by demonstration with concentrated thought, the possibility of any individual body can be at once brought out. On this account, the long years of wasteful practice which people use in cultivating the voice is not only unnecessary, but foolish and wicked. CHAPTER IV. PERFECT VOICE METHOD. "_Observe how all passionate language does of itself become musical,--with a finer music than the mere accent; the speech of man even in jealous anger becomes a chant--a song. All deep things are song._" =Carlisle=. IV. PERFECT VOICE METHOD. A teacher of voice and singing who does not believe his way is the best in the world is in one of two positions:--either he is a scamp, passing off spurious goods for real worth, or he is doing the best he can in his knowledge and present situation, waiting for the time when he can obtain instruction in a better method. If a teacher believes he has the best way of teaching he has a perfect right to so express himself, and to use that method in his teaching. He may be wrong in his opinion but that does not effect his right to work on the lines of his opinion. Some day something may show him he is mistaken and such a man will be very liable to correct his error and, taking the newly found way, progress in that. A teacher who knows he is far from right and still works on, is not worthy of consideration as a teacher. One who uses the profession of voice teaching merely for livelihood and who cares not whether he does good or harm is little better than criminal. Such there be and such there will be until a time arrives in which teachers will be granted authority to teach from some recognized institution, without whose permission to teach, it would violate a law of the land to advertise as a teacher. Just such control as is kept over medical practice will some day be had, but not in our generation. Hundreds of teachers of the voice in all parts of our land are teaching up to their light, hoping the time may come, and to most it does come sometime, when they may get away from the office and study still farther into voice and music, thus making better their ability. That class has already done much for singing and music. It might be said that all that has been done has come from that class, for no teacher feels that nothing remains for him to learn. Singing, too, is a subtle thing. A teacher feels every little while as if his good way were slipping from him, and if he cannot get out of his work and brush up with a master, he will lose all the ability he has. The best teachers do leave their work, go to some other teacher, may be not better than they are, and have their work inspected and made better. A salesman from a furniture house once put the matter tersely:--"When I go out from the house on a long trip, I start with a plan of what I will say and how I will make my sales. In a little while I get rusty, and saying the same things over and over again makes me hate them. Then my business falls off. I go into the warerooms again for a time, hear the firm talk up goods in a new way, meet other salesmen and hear how they talk, and off I go again on my trip fresh and bright." No work gets into a groove more easily than teaching. When working in a rut the teacher produces small results. The successful teacher tries every expedient in his power to get all the result he can. Sometimes, it may be remarked incidentally, he is called by a pupil lacking in appreciation and discernment, an experimenter, because he changes his plan of working. But he can endure that provided he gets definite results from his teaching. The best way for the teacher who must plod on by himself through long years is that he should once in every few months sit quietly alone and think over what his voice method is, how he is applying it, and what the result is. Below is the thought of such an hour condensed into comparatively few words. The heading of this article indicates that this is the opinion of the writer at the present time. The thinking which may come in the next ten years may show he could have thought better now, but this is to him now, a perfect voice method. The voice is produced by the body; it was originally planned for speech and not for singing; attributes of the voice are range, power, quality, and flexibility; into the voice can be injected, language; the action of all physical portions are under the command of the mind. There are four portions of the body which are brought actively into use for the production and management of the voice, and these permit voice culture to be divided into four departments. These must first be brought into correct action. Natural action is correct action. What the world has considered as correct action may be wrong, for on most matters the opinion of the world is incorrect. A few clear-headed men have again and again appeared in various affairs and shown the world the mistake into which it had fallen. May be this is true of voice culture. It is safe to follow nature. The first department of voice culture is, as most persons admit, the respiratory department. Breathing. That goes on from the time we are born till we die. Generally as children we breathe well and correctly. When manhood arrives most of us have interfered with nature's way of breathing and have interposed something quite different from that we used earlier. This has come largely from faulty civilized eating, so that the organs of digestion are constantly troubling us. The stomach, liver, etc., exert decided influence on the diaphragm which is the chief organ of respiration. We, also, have grown nervous as years have come, because of the demands of active life upon us. That nervousness keeps all the muscles of the body in a state of unnatural strain, and this strain has even caused us to breathe differently from what nature planned. The very first step toward good voice method is to bring the breathing apparatus back to working order. As said above, the chief organ of respiration is the diaphragm, and that is a large muscle which cuts across the body at the edge of the ribs. Its centre, right in the middle of the body is constantly moving downward and upward. When it goes down the breath enters the body; when it comes up the breath comes out. Stop that muscle and breath is held. Stripped of all confusion that is all the description needed of inhalation, exhalation and breathing-holding. If some who read this would not say that this is too simple, and that they knew more than this article says, the subject would be dropped there. At most, all that can directly be added is to prolong the lowering and raising the diaphragm so that it is done by long strokes. Some one says we have been taught about spreading the sides, expanding the abdomen, filling the back, keeping the chest still, and a dozen more things. Examine the above, and if opposing effort to the free movement of the diaphragm in its upward and downward journey is avoided it will be found that all which is of good in inspiration and expiration is contained in the above. A most useful exercise for the development of strength in this organ of respiration is to slowly perform the act of panting in the same way that a dog pants. But about holding the breath. That is the most important thing about breathing. It says above that if the movement of the diaphragm is stopped, the breath will be held. Sure enough. Then why can't we all hold the breath? We can. Holding the breath in that way a little while every day and caring to keep it so whenever using the voice will so complete the strength of the diaphragm that it will stay still a very long time, much longer than it takes to sing any phrase in music which is written. The majority of pupils--yes, all of us, teachers and pupils, when they seek to let the diaphragm stay still try to assist it to do so. We try to hold the breath by the muscles of the chest, by those of abdomen, or by shutting off the throat. Now these do not assist the diaphragm to stay still, and on the other hand, they prevent the diaphragm from staying still. They make it move. Some one says, or thinks if he doesn't say it, that unless the diaphragm moves when we begin to sing that no tone can be made. That is one of the mistakes of the world. Some teachers have even said that we must press the air upward as we sing, so that the vocal bands may make it into tone. That is absurd. Keep back all pressure from the vocal bands. If the slightest air pressure is put upon them they are over-worked. Hold still the diaphragm and the air is held loosely suspended throughout the chest, the bronchial tubes, the windpipe and the mouth. Then in this air the vocal bands work. They will help themselves to just the right amount of breath, to make into tone without any assistance from you. You can't make nature work. You can permit her to work in her own way. When we speak of the vocal bands we are talking of something which pertains to the second department of voice culture--the throat. There can be, and need be, very little said to the pupil about the throat in its action during singing. Teachers do say many things. One thinks the larynx--the protuberance known as the Adam's apple--ought to be pressed down, and kept so. Another thinks it ought to be forced upward. Still another says it should be allowed to be low at one time and high at another. There is just one way of settling the matter. How is the action when we act naturally? Nature built the throat for conversational voice. If we are to use it for singing we can't do better than to follow the suggestions of nature as to the way the throat moves while speaking. Then on those ways let the throat act while singing. Sound several notes with the same vowel in the conversational voice and see what the larynx does. Some one suggests that this ceases to be conversation and becomes singing. But it doesn't. Conversation runs easily through an octave of tones. Generally we use three or four tones. When we are very quiet or are sad the voice lowers a few notes. If we are very merry or are angry the voice ascends. We talk at the "top of the voice," literally. If we do so in speaking, surely we may lop off the many vowels and the consonants and speak, conversationally--on several tones. It will be found that the larynx moves freely. That being the case, he is a very foolish man who could make the larynx go down and stay there. Again, with the tip of the finger on the larynx say the different vowels. It will be seen that the larynx changes position at each change of vowel. Let it so change when we sing. The great opponent of such action is the stiffening of the cords of the neck--the muscles on the sides of the neck. In connection with the work to be looked after in the third department, yet to come, the way of removing that stiffness will have mention. Within the larynx there are many delicate muscles which are performing their various functions. What they do, and how they do them has been the subject of study through several generations and the question is not solved. An eminent physician has for several years been photographing throats while producing tone. About four hundred different throats have been photographed. In an article published by him in January of this year, he says: "I have not yet permitted myself to formulate a theory of the action of the larynx during singing, for even now, after a large number of studies have been made, the camera is constantly revealing new surprises in the action of the vocal bands in every part of the scale." With that true, the only way open for us is to seek ease and comfort of action and never force any part of the throat to overwork. The third department in voice culture relates to the pharynx, or back of the throat. It seems as if any thinking student would realize that in order to acquire a rich tone, resonant with pure sound, the pharynx must be allowed plenty of room, yet many shut it off making a very small chamber. Well, it is the teacher's work to find some way to open a roomy space. One of the best ways is to draw a picture of a cross-section of the mouth from the lips to the back wall of the throat, showing a large arch at the top of the section. Convey to the pupil's mind the idea of room and he will be most liable to produce the room. Sometimes, although it is of doubtful propriety to make any local application for special purpose, the use of the word oh, as an exercise, will permit the pupil to enlarge the pharyngeal chamber sufficiently for any need. This will come up later in connection with another thought. A very important branch of voice culture, the quality of tone, has to do with the pharynx. Not much can be said of it now but just a little in connection with a perfect voice method. When singing, we should express something. The emotion in mind must have its appropriate setting. That setting comes chiefly from the quality, and the quality arises from the shape of the pharyngeal cavity. As in all nature's plan we must not try to _make_ the pharynx do anything. We may _permit_ it, and if we do, nature will have her way and will do just right. The emotion of the mind expresses itself upon the face. A face plastic and delicate, changes expression a hundred times a minute, maybe. Just so, if we permit it, the emotion of mind expresses itself on the pharynx. We cannot see the expression of the throat as we can that of the face, but we can hear it. That the pharynx may be able to receive the expression of the mind it must be plastic and delicate. If so, just the right form will be assumed for the idea we would express, and the proper quality would be given the tone. We--many of us--don't permit this. We try to shape the pharynx. Stop trying and let the muscles of the back of the throat come to a state of rest. Then willing them to remain so, sing. Sing anything. Don't change the feeling, and good quality will fill the tone wherever the voice moves--whether it be high or low, loud or soft. So by this restful way of singing the stiffness of the cords of the neck will be removed and the larynx will move easily and flexibly. In fact, all rapid singing grows out of the restful singing. The use of all embellishments, too, comes through this restful singing. It is to be kept in mind that so long as we employ artificial methods of holding the air column, and so long as we force tones through rigid vocal bands, just so long will we be prevented from obtaining restful action of the pharynx. Each part must act correctly and no part must interfere with another. The articulatory department is all which remains to be described. Singing employs words, and words are made up of letters. Letters are made up of consonant and vowel sounds. Consonant and vowel sounds, save one alone, are made by changing the tongue or lips, or moving the jaw. There are but few changes which may be made--less than a dozen. Six of those pertain to the tongue, one to the jaw and three to combination of tongue and lips. What these are need not be detailed now. Sufficient to say that any action made during conversation may be made while singing and must be made in the same way as in conversation. Two ideas advanced by some teachers which are very wrong should be noted. One is that the singer should practice with a spoon in the mouth to hold the tongue in place. As if nature didn't know what the tongue ought to do! The other is that the mouth should be widely opened, "to let out the tone," as old singing school teachers used to say. The tone doesn't come out of the mouth any more than out of the cheeks, chest or head. Allow the tone to be made properly, then given quality and resonance by a well arched pharynx and it will come out, no matter where or how. Someone asks if there is any real objection to widely opened mouth. Certainly, there is. Were it merely that the facial expression were destroyed, that would be enough, but that is not the worst of it. Opening widely the mouth destroys the shape of the pharynx and all richness is lost. Notice a bell. So long as it remains bell-shaped, it has resonant ring. Bend its shape so it resembles a pan and the ring is gone. One thought more in connection with articulation. It used to be said that all attention should be given to vowels. Not so, in the light of to-day. Attend to the consonants and the vowels will take care of themselves. Correct speech in song, only, will make good singing. While watching the resonance of the tone as made in the pharynx note the delays made by thoroughly (not violently) sounding the consonants. Those delays, prolonged greatly, permit expansion of the pharynx, and perform the work mentioned before which was given the vocal sound, _oh_, to do. To sum perfect voice method up into a sentence it is that by which we command with no apparent effort the column of air, keeping it away from the vocal bands, and, therefore, permitting the quality of tone in the pharynx to be pure; that by which the larynx acts freely, with no strain upon it; that by which thought may instinctively make its impression on the pharynx to give quality to the tone; and that by which we can make consonants and vowels in that pure tone, so that words conveying the thought of the mind may go out to our hearers. CHAPTER V. A PAPER OF SEEDS. "_He who is a true master, let him undertake what he will, is sure to accomplish something_." =Schumann=. "_To engender and diffuse faith, and to promote our spiritual well-being, are among the noblest aims of music_." =Bach=. V. A PAPER OF SEEDS. ANALYZE SONGS. Every song or other vocal composition should be analyzed as the first step in its study. The first theme noted, and the second also, if such there be; the connecting bars; the points which are descriptive or which contain contrasts; the phrases which may present difficulties of vocalization; the climax; and, as well, what relation the prelude and other parts of the accompaniment bear to the song. It is probable that before the pupil is capable of doing this by himself, the teacher must do it for him, not on one song merely, but on a dozen or twenty. A wise teacher will gather his pupils to hear him analyze music now and then. It saves time at individual lessons, for the analysis will be understood by a group as easily as by an individual. It matters not so much that the pupils are not to sing those particular songs, for at the gathering, the way to do the thing will be learned. Then as other songs are taught at private lessons, the pupils will be prepared to receive quickly, the instruction. FAULT FINDING. Pupils may be sure that teachers do not find fault with them merely for the purpose of finding fault. If the teacher is worthy [of] that respect which leads pupils to study with him, he doesn't find fault except when it is necessary, and then he does it with dignity. If the teacher is constantly fault-finding, and does it in an irritable manner, you would better leave him at once. Now and then we learn of a teacher who gets his pupils so nervous that they burst out crying. It is not well to remain long with such a teacher. The pupil goes to him with fear which spoils the first of the lesson, and surely after the cry, the lesson is spoiled, for no good vocal tone can then be made. At a lesson all should be restful and dignified. RECOVER FROM MISTAKES. Next to him who makes no mistakes, is he who recovers from and disguises the errors. At best a performance full of errors of pitch, word, tone and quality is but a patched garment. Apply the mind to eradicating every error. Perhaps the most common thing for students to do is to try over again, while at practice, the music in which the error has been made, but doing it without thought. It is far better to think what the error is, what caused it, how it should be removed, and then begin the practice which will remove it. Oh, if the hours of wasteful practice could only be gathered up into useful hours, how much better off the whole would be! The least wasteful thing is to stop practice and _think_. SONGS FOR BEGINNERS. When selecting songs for study for beginners, only those which have smooth and well defined melodies should be selected. Modern composers seek by the strangest harmonies, following each other without coming to points of definite rest, to do things different from what has been in use so long that it is looked upon as common. The pupils in their early study cannot understand such music, and while bewildered by it, they misapply what they know to be correct use of the voice. The first selections should be simple, melodious, and of easy range. The songs of Mozart and Mendelssohn are much better for early use than are those which are being published now. As the pupil advances in the knowledge of songs add in any quantity the latest and most weird music, providing it has merit. CRITICISM. The phraseology of newspaper criticism often disturbs musicians, especially those who are very sensitive, and sometimes arouses their ire so that they make reply. In doing so they make a mistake. They place a weapon for further attack in the hands of the critic and add to the force of his remarks by showing that they have hit the mark. One does not prize a shot which goes wide of the point at which it was aimed but is quite proud if, by chance, he hits the bull's-eye. The sensitive man in his reply shows how fortunate the critic is in his shooting. It is not easy to bear the remarks of a harsh critic and it is much harder to draw from them any good lesson. (Whether one may draw a lesson from criticism is not open for remark at this writing.) Yet, when one gives serious thought to the criticism which seems so cruel he will learn that no one has been hurt by it except the critic himself. He has lowered his thought from a high plain and has made his nature, thereby, coarse and uncomfortable. That cannot come to anyone, even for a few minutes without making him less manly. Out of the fullness of his heart at that moment the critic has written and sent out into the world that which lowers. What he sows, that shall he also reap, and in due time his unkindness will come home to him. If he can bear his own act the musician can endure it for the brief time that the "smart" is there. None should ever forget that a man can injure himself but no one else on earth can injure him. WAIT FOR RESULTS. Some of us are slow to learn the lesson, waiting for results. We feel that at one bound we must and will achieve the great success which is our ideal. Youth is enthusiastic and believes in itself. Nothing daunts it, save the realization of limited success and that realization comes not quickly. There are circumstances which cannot be forced; there are laws which prevent our reaching too far or going too quickly. Under them we chafe but in time we come to know that those laws place boundaries of limitation about us. We then begin to inspect the laws just as one bound with cords might be supposed to study his binding after having tried in vain to tear himself free. Then is when he discovers that by knowing natural law he can shape his course so that he is not antagonized but aided by his environments and curbings. He then discovers that he can even use the laws which seemed to restrain as his power. But it takes long to learn that lesson. Stripes, which cut and burn, must have been received before one can know that he must not fret and be impatient for quick results. "Patience overcometh all things." "Seek and ye shall find." Remember that the early fruit decays quickest. The rosy apple, when all of its fellows are green, has the worm at the core. If you are worthy of results they will come to you, but not in your way or time perhaps. You can afford to wait. ALL THINGS ARE GOOD. Certain quotations and sayings, through familiarity, lose their point to us. We not only are not impressed by them but forget that they are truths. Do you recall "All things work together for good?" Does that mean anything? Does it mean what it says? Does it mean nothing? It means nothing or else exactly what it says, and you may be sure that the latter is the true meaning. What are "all things?" The few which seem bright, maybe; and those which to most of us seem evil, do not belong to "all things." But may we not be at fault in our idea? We are, _we are_. Whatever appears to happen to us (although nothing ever happens in the common meaning of that word) belongs to "all things" and at some time we will be able to look back and say from the heart that all was well with us. LITTLE THINGS EFFECT. Every shade of tone has a meaning which is either artistic or inartistic and one who has developed his appreciation of artistic rendition can so use his tone that just the right effect will be produced with his tone. A noted cartoonist recently showed by two little dots the ability which he possessed to change the character of his picture. He had drawn a sketch of a sweet young girl; rosy cheeks and cherry lips; big sleeves and a Gainsborough hat; the most demure and modest little girl ever imagined. Then to carry out a joke he changed the position of the eyes, just rubbing on two dots. The character of the whole picture now changed. The demure little girl became the sauciest Miss that could be imagined and one could almost imagine a shrug to the shoulders. Are singers less able to portray in art than is the cartoonist? If we know the resources at our command and how to use them we can give expression just as well as any other artist can. We do not always know how small a thing can change all expression. The bright face, the warmer tone, the more elastic delivery of voice, quicker attack, all have their value in expressing something. Not enough attention is paid to personal appearance before an audience. There are a few things which can be prepared before our appearance which can make the whole performance more artistic. The way of walking across the stage, taking position before the audience, manner of holding the music, of turning its leaves, way of looking up while singing, way of leaving the stage; all these have to do with artistic rendition. They should be taught to pupils by the teacher and should become part of the pupils' instruction. We give all attention to tone and that is only part of the instruction which the student needs. The other matters must not be left to chance. The little things point out the difference between the singer and the artist. MUSICAL LIBRARY. A musical library should be a possession of every singer. There are less than two hundred books on music printed in English, on subjects directly connected with music and singing. These contain all which has been printed which has any great value. Many are books for reference and a few contain direct practical instruction. Each teacher and all earnest students should see how many of these they now possess and plan to develop the library. All the books need not be purchased at once, nor is it wise to obtain books and put them away on the shelves just for mere ownership. Get one book at a time, one a month perhaps, and read it carefully enough to allow you to know what is in it. Then put it away for reference. It takes but a few minutes to refresh the mind on what is read. A dozen books a year added in this way will, in a dozen years, give a valuable library. What is more valuable to the owner is that he has lodged in his own mind for every day use more than a hundred good ideas. Books taken from the public library and returned to it do not have the lasting value that one's own books have. The sense of ownership is worth something. CHANGE OPINIONS. In these days of invention, discovery and progress, no one need be ashamed of changing his opinions. In vocal music the ideas most commonly held twenty years ago are being exchanged for something new. The man who has made a change is often sneered at as "having a method." He may have that, but he may only have advanced to new ground which is to be occupied by common opinion a dozen years from now. The man who changed early was in advance of his fellows and would attract attention. Who thought, outside of a very small circle, only forty years ago, that the music of Wagner would become the most popular of any age? It is to-day the music of the present and we are already looking for a "music of the future." The present time is, in the manner of dealing with the singing and speaking voice, a transition age. Ideas which are being taken up now were scouted as nonsense twenty years ago. They will be commonly accepted ten years from now. It is better to join the army of progress, and change early, even if it does raise a laugh. REPUTATION COMES SLOWLY. Reputation which will last comes only by slow degrees. Man may spring into notoriety at a bound because of some fortuitous circumstance and he may hold the prominence which he gains by his strength of manhood, but the cases of this kind are rare. It is by "pegging away" at something which one knows to be good until by the merit of the "something" and the worth of the labor put into it, attracts the attention of a few judges of its worth, that a reputation is begun. It is begun then, only. Some more of the same work must follow but those who have seen the worth now assist in thought as well as in word and the circle which appreciates the worth grows. When good reputation has begun nothing can stop its growth except some unwise or unmanly act of the person himself. For this reason no man need strive after reputation. Do well what is good and the result will take care of itself. The reputation will not come because of striving. It will come to any man who is doing good work and living a right life. It takes time to make the lasting reputation and that impatience which so often influences Americans, prevents the growth of many a reputation. STUDY POETRY. Every singer should be an earnest student of poetry. There are minds to which poetry does not appeal as does the practical prose. But in all minds there is enough of latent love of poetry which can be developed until poetry appeals with even stronger force than does prose. Can your heart glow with the beautiful sunset? Do you joy over the song of the bird? Has the spring blossom a message of delicacy to you? Then have you that love of nature which can give you understanding of the poet. A faculty of mind exercised grows with its use. A singer _must_ have imagination. Without it, the best vocalization lacks the spark of true life. Without it, coldness displaces warmth, and darkness, light. The very essence of poetry is imagination. One word in poetry often suggests that which practical prose uses ten words to express. The study of poetry, that is, making poetry a study so that one knows what is in it, helps make good singers. He who has not yet thus used poetry may well plan something new for his winter evenings. MANNERISMS SHOW CHARACTER. Mannerisms give knowledge to the observing person of our character and intellectuality, and, on that account, are to be studied and used to our advantage. Such as would prepossess our hearers in our favor should be retained and such as would be unpleasant to the majority of people should be trained out of our unconscious use. But few think long enough about a singer to be able to tell their reason for liking or disliking him. The voice and art may be good and yet the audience may not like him. On the other hand, the voice may be meagre and the music faulty, yet there will be personal charm which is captivating. The manners which express the better side of our individuality will be those retained. Certain it is, that manners are the expression of individuality and there are no two persons whose action is just the same, any more than that there are two faces or two voices alike. It is doubtful whether one can judge the good and bad in mannerisms in himself. We are so liable to accept our intention for actual performance that we deceive ourselves. Then, too, mannerisms which would be permitted in one place are not admissible in another. The ways of a German dialect comedian would not serve the Shakesperian comedian nor would the physical accompaniment of the songs of the London Music Hall be proper for the _lieder_ of Schubert. The teacher enters at this place and by judicious physical drill, based upon the knowledge of what is wanted in true art, shows the singer what to cure and eradicate and what to make more prominent, wisely retaining those mannerisms which show the higher, nobler and more pleasing part of the singer's individuality. PROVIDE FOR THE YOUNG. Parents see the necessity of providing the means for their children to learn to take care of themselves. A fortune left to a son frequently, if not generally, proves a curse. A "good match" may turn out badly for a daughter. A few hundred, or even one or two thousand, dollars invested in musical education is sure to permit the son or daughter to earn a comfortable living. It will be more than a generation before the field for musical activity is supplied. More than that, in music, every further elevation of the public increases their desire for better and more expensive things in music. There is no prospect that the musical field will be over supplied with artists and teachers. Happily, the profession is open to women as well as to men. Our daughters can, then, receive preparation for independence in it. The necessity for marriage for mere living has gone by. Daughters are as independent of marriage as are sons. The time was when boys were held in greater esteem and value than were girls because they could take business positions and acquire wealth. The new openings for women have changed this. Woman is making a place for herself, not through the ballot and because of political influence, but because she is taking position in the business and professional world. Everyone, man or woman, should be prepared to take some position which permits a living income to be made. Parents are using music as the means of independence to their children. It is better to spend the hundreds of dollars in education in music than to invest that sum in any way to provide a fortune for the children. The life-income from the investment is better for the children. THERE ARE NO MISTAKES. How often does every one of us make the "mistake of a lifetime?" Probably everyone has made that remark many times regarding himself. The circumstances of life have seemed to point out a certain path. We have followed it. Later we felt it to be wrong. It was a mistake. Did it do us any good? No. Did we learn any lesson? No. Will we not make another "mistake of a lifetime" to-morrow, if we have the chance? Yes. Such is human nature. So we go on. But there is another side to the shield. There are no "mistakes of a lifetime," if we sum up the whole life. None of us can do that yet, but we can put a number of years together and see a result in them. How about that mistake over which you have been mourning? Was it a mistake? Is it not possible that if you had what you think would have been yours had you taken a different course, you would be worse off than you are now? A young man who is making his mark recently said, "I am glad my father lost his property. Had I been supplied with a lot of money while at college, I would have been a profligate." When the father lost his money he probably thought he had made the "mistake of a lifetime." Which would any father prefer, poverty or a wrecked family? Many pupils rue a supposed mistake in the selection of a teacher. There is no mistake. Every teacher who can attract pupils can teach something and every pupil can learn something of him. The mistake, if one was made, was by the pupil, in not learning what that teacher could teach, and when he had gotten that, in remaining longer with him. Don't talk about the mistakes but so shape circumstances that all events may be used for good. There is something which can be utilized in everything which happens to us. The bee finds honey in every flower--more in some than in others, to be sure, but none are without sweetness. REGULARITY. "It is the regularity of the laws of nature which leads us to put confidence in them and enables us to use them." Thus writes Dr. McCosh and he was a keen observer of men and things. His remark suggests that teachers can and will be trusted and used who, by their regularity, awaken confidence. He who attracts and enthuses can for a time command attention. His work will only be lasting and his hold upon the musical public be good when there is something of permanent value behind the enthusiasm. Slowly but surely we are reaching the knowledge that in music there is all of life, and that only as we make music part of ourselves is our life rounded. We have reached the place when we can feel that he who has no love of music suffers an infirmity akin to the loss of sight or hearing. We have also reached the belief that everyone must cultivate the musical faculty. We are passing through this life to one beyond and he who raises himself nearest the perfect man, best uses the span from birth to death. In and through music, especially on its side of education, more can be done than can be in any other way. General culture, college education, mental development are, in their proper place, to be used but neither will do so much for man as will music. In thus developing that faculty we acquire something also, which, as executant musicians, gives us delightful influence over our fellows. Such is the possibility of a teacher to so make mankind better that he becomes a noble instrument of service in God's hand. But he who knows his position best and by regularity of mind, body and estate, by system, certainty and reliability, obtains the confidence of the musical public, can best be used as an instrument in that service. ASSERT INDIVIDUALITY. Personal freedom of action must for a time be surrendered by pupil to teacher but it should be for limited time only. The impress of the teacher's mind can be made upon the pupil in two seasons of study if it can be at all. Perhaps most pupils receive all that the teacher can give them in six months. As soon as they have that should they leave that teacher? Not at all. They should then begin the use of their own individuality--letting it, little by little, assert itself. The practical application of individuality should be as carefully attended to as is any part of the pupil's education. Perhaps it should have more attention. More than one, more than a thousand, every year wrecks her good and great future by what we term wilfulness or waywardness. The name is misapplied. The individuality is then asserting itself and it is then that the pupil needs the skillful and firm hand of the master. The keen clear judgment which comes from experience is worth to the pupil more than the cost of many lessons. The life is planned then. It is a time of bending the twig; the tree grows that way. The wrecking which is so often seen arises because the pupil changes to a teacher who does not understand the case. The new teacher must study it all over. Before that can be done the pupil is spoiled and disappears, disappointed and disgusted. Receive the personality of the teacher, pupils, but then allow him to lead you onward as you bring out your own individuality. EDUCING. Educing is bringing out or causing to appear. Teachers impart and call that educating. The reverse of the common way is best. Instead of imparting all the time to the pupil seek to draw out from the pupil that which is in him. Cause it to appear. In this way will one's teaching faculty be improved and he will become the better teacher. Often the education must be against counter influences and, it seems frequently, as if it were against the wish of the student himself. Yet the skillful teacher can overcome the prejudice of the pupil and the adverse influences, and reach his results. A help in thus using one's skill lies in the fact that what is to be drawn out lies divided into two distinct classes. One is that which pertains to execution and the other to knowledge. They are widely separated. The first is to be trained so that it cares for itself without the thought of the student or singer and the other so that it is always ready to respond to the quickest thought. There is in the two classes variety enough to keep the most active teacher on the alert and to make for him the highest kind of ministration to mankind which is open to anyone. Later may come the comfort of joining the two classes, synthetically, thereby making the rounded and completed artist. It occurs to one's thought at once that he who would draw out what there is in another, must know something of the machinery which he would cause to act and also of the mind which is in command of that machinery. This is the basis of the teacher's education, without which he cannot be a good teacher. As a young teacher he has the right to teach those who know less than he does. He imparts then. As an educator he must be more than what he was at first. He must keep his own education above that of his fellows and he must become able to educe. CHAPTER VI. CUNEUS CUNEUM TRUDIT. "_Art! who can say that he fathoms it! Who is there capable of discussing the nature of this great goddess?_" =Beethoven=. "_Whatever the relations of music, it will never cease to be the noblest and purest of arts_." =Wagner=. VI. "CUNEUS CUNEUM TRUDIT." VOCAL TONE. All vocal tone used in singing when produced at the vocal bands is small and probably always about alike. The tone which we hear is "colored", "re-inforced" etc., on the way from the vocal bands to the outer air. In order that the tone shall carry well and be heard in purity throughout a hall, the initial tone must be added to. This is done by its reverberation in cavities where there is confined air. By confined, is meant, air which is not being greatly disturbed. There are four such cavities, or chambers, in connection with the production of voice. The chest, the ventricles, the inner mouth and the nose. To have the tone resonant the air in these chambers must be held in confinement. The way they can be utilized is best illustrated by the drum. A blow on the drum-head sets the air in the drum into vibration and that air re-inforces the tone caused by the original blow. Tone made by the vocal bands is re-inforced by vibration in the chambers of the body, and the connection of these chambers with the outer air sets into vibration the air of the room. Something might be said about the thickness of clothing to be worn over the chest while singing. It is certain that thick woolens worn during singing, absorb much of the vibration of the tone and lessen the amount of voice. Tone comes from the whole body and chiefly from the chambers in which air is confined. Our singing tone does not come out of the mouth alone. It comes from shoulders, back and chest without going near the mouth. The stillness with which the air is held in the chambers of vibration has much influence upon the volume of tone, and upon the quality. Just now we will consider the chamber within the mouth. The space between the back of the throat (as seen in a mirror) and the teeth is this chamber. The air in this must be held as still as it can be. The practical way of doing it, and the way of telling pupils how to use themselves so that they can do it, tax the ingenuity of the teacher. A picture, or an image, is the best way perhaps. The air in the mouth should be like the water of a still lake. Into it, at one end, a gentle stream may flow. It does not disturb the lake. It causes a ripple where it enters. It may raise the elevation of the water in the lake, and the superfluous water may flow off at the other end of the lake. Now, suppose a mountain stream comes rushing into the lake. It stirs everything up, and rushes out at the outlet in the same rough way. In the still chamber of air in the mouth there must be no "mountain streams." The quiet lake must be imitated. A little air, which has been vibrated at the vocal bands may enter it, and not disturb it. That initial tone, always a quiet one, will be re-inforced by vibration in the mouth and will issue forth large and round. The amplitude of vibration will determine its volume. The shape and size of the cavity of reverberation can constantly and instantly change and by such change the tone can be regulated. The chamber of still air cannot be utilized unless the organs of respiration are working correctly and strongly. A forceful blast of air sent through the mouth will dissipate all vibrating waves. It is useless to try to the initial tone until after the diaphragm is in good working order. When that is all right then employ the re-inforcing chamber in the way given above and resonance of tone will be obtained. It is by so using the respiratory column and re-inforcing the tone made by the vocal bands that a person can be made a good vocalist in a few weeks. It is not necessary to take years to cultivate the voice. (It _is_ to make a good singer.) From five to eight weeks, if the student does right, will perfectly cultivate a voice. TRUE ART IS DELICATE. All true art is delicate. Music is the most delicate of all arts. Music is expressed through thought and emotion. In this, music has much the advantage over sister arts. The sculptor can chisel his thoughts into marble, and there they can imperishably remain. To what small extent can he express human emotion! The painter also places his thought on canvas. As his art is more easily within his grasp, to change at will, he is enabled more fully to express emotion than is the sculptor. His finished work remains. While at work upon it he may change here and there to suit himself. That line and that shade of color, if not satisfactory, can be changed. Not so in music. At one stroke--in one tone even--the musician must express his emotion--and that expression, once uttered, is all that he can use of his art. It is a delicate thing and requires sure thought, complete mastery of emotion, and perfect ability in execution. Each and every stroke must be perfect. Voice culture is the preparation of the body and its expression--voice--for use in this delicate art. Voice culture is that through which we approach art. It cannot be roughly handled. If art is to be delicately used, it must be delicately approached. He whose vocal practice is forceful and rough will never know the delicacy of true art. He may become a vocalist after whom the ignorant public will clamor, but he can never be an artist. Seek the delicacy of true art, or decide to be forever a rough mechanic. One may hew wood or quarry rocks, or he may be a worker among jewels and precious stones. It is a time to say "Decide this day which you will serve." The two masters do not belong to the same firm and both cannot be served at the same time. WORDS AND TONE SHOULD AGREE. While singing, words and tone should agree. What does that mean, asks one. It can be well stated when we consider how they do not agree. If one sings "Sing ye aloud, with gladness," with a sombre tone the words and tone belie each other. This result invariably follows the attempt to cultivate the voice on vowels only, or on one single vowel. He who watches tone while cultivating his voice reaches this result. We express our thought while singing in words. Words are made by the organs of speech, the chief of which are the tongue and lips. The tone receives its expression from the pharyngeal cavity. If tone and words agree, the tongue, lips and pharynx will work harmoniously in accord. It is when one or the other does not work correctly that one belies the other. Training of the organs of speech has been written upon so extensively that for now more need not be said. Suffice it to say, that the organs of speech can be trained upon a few enunciatory syllables in a short time, so that every word can be distinctly understood. There is no excuse whatever for our singers remaining so indistinct in their singing. The way of getting the tone to agree with the words, is what may be considered now. As said above, tone is regulated, so far as quality goes, in the pharynx. That organ can be put into working order and kept so through the expression of the face. The same thought is expressed on the throat which is expressed on the face. The same set of nerves operates the two organs. To show what is meant, recall that if you hear someone utter a cry, you know from its sound whether it is a cry of fright, of happiness, of fear, of greeting, of anger, or whatever it may be. The position and shape of the pharynx has made the cry what it is. One standing near the person would see on his face the look which corresponds with the cry uttered. In this case the word and the tone correspond. It is not easy to reach the pharynx for voice culture, except through the face. It can be reached in that way. The tone for general use in voice culture should be the bright one. Then the expression during vocal practice should be a bright one. All vocal exercises should be, on this account, practised with the face pleasant and expressing happiness. This fact led many teachers, years ago, to have their pupils smile while singing. It led to most ludicrous results. The teachers said, "Draw back the corners of the mouth, as if smiling." Very well. That may be good, but it has no particular beneficial influence on the pharynx, or upon the tone produced. The mouth is not the seat of expression in the face. Not that there is no expression to the mouth, but its changes are limited. The eyes are much more thoroughly the seat of expression, and through them the pharynx can be reached. Let the eyes smile. Let the whole face take position as if one saw something irresistibly funny, at which he must laugh. Practice with the eyes in this way will brighten the whole voice. It will relieve strain upon all the facial muscles and will render the organs of speech more pliable, too. Having obtained such control of the eyes that one expression can be placed in them, the student can attempt other desirable expressions. He will find that whatever is used in and about the eyes will affect the kind and quality of tone. He may arouse his interest in some particular thought and hold that in mind as he sings; the voice will then have warmth of tone and will readily receive meanings. He may express varying degrees of surprise in the face and he will find varying degrees, to correspond, of fulness and roundness go into the voice. The use of expression in the face as a means of giving character and quality to tone opens a field of experiment and experience which will lead any teacher to practical and beneficial result. It is not a new idea. Salvini, the great actor, has given some very useful thought on that subject. Little of such instruction, important as it is, has gone into print. Yet it is so important. PREPARATION FOR TEACHING. There are many who become teachers of singing without knowing what they are doing. No one who wishes to enter the profession should be kept out of it. There is room in it for many times the number engaged. It is to be earnestly recommended, however, that he who intends to become a teacher should decide beforehand what kind of work he intends to do, and after he has begun, he should bend his energy to make that branch successful. There are, at least, three distinct specialties of the singing teacher. First, rudimental music; second, voice culture; third, artistic singing. He who thinks he can excel in all has very great confidence in his own ability. Perhaps most of those who become teachers have no adequate knowledge of what the profession is, but enter into it for the purpose of making a living. After becoming a teacher he discovers that something is wrong, and the last person whom he thinks wrong is himself. Probably he has never decided on a specialty and properly prepared himself for that. Thus we see men who know something about music, teaching singing. They know nothing of practical voice culture, but attempt to teach singing. They ruin voices and wreck their own happiness. The first duty of a singing teacher is to study enough of anatomy and physiology to enable him to know exactly what parts of the body enter into voice culture, where they are and how they work. The dentist makes his specialty, filling teeth. But he would not be given his diploma if he did not know anatomy. His course in the medical college is the same as that of the physician. It differs in degree, but not in kind. Such should be the education, to a certain extent, of the vocal teacher. This education cannot be had from any books now published. Plain anatomy can be given in books, but the student should also see the parts described in the subject. He should then examine, so far as may be, the action of these parts in the living body. He must then make his own deductions. It may seem strange that that is necessary, but such is the subtlety of voice culture, that hardly two theorists agree in their deductions. Until some recognized body of men decides on definite things in voice culture, reducing one's theoretical study to practical uses must stand. As important as such study, too, is the preparation of the artist mind. One can teach voice culture mechanically and obtain good result, but be very deficient in the art of music. It is often said that "Artists are born, not made." That is a mistake. No man was ever an artist by birth. Some men may be more appreciative of beauty than others but all men have enough within them to serve as the basis of artistic education. That education should be carried to a considerable distance before teaching is commenced. Almost as soon as the voice is capable of making any tone, music must be put into study. Appreciation of music itself as an art, must be a part of the good teacher's preparation. Knowledge of greater and better music comes from that appreciation with the years of experience in teaching. If the artist mind has not begun to assert itself before business is attempted, business will be likely to absorb the teacher, and he stands the chance of never being an artist. One who combines scientific knowledge of voice culture and an understanding of the art of music is well equipped for entering the profession of teaching vocal music. Only such should enter it. With that as foundation, the experience of each year will make him a better teacher. Without that as foundation he will probably remain, vocally and musically, about where he was when he began. Financial success may come, but musical success never can. EXPERIENCE. A very good reason, but one which individuals can attend to, why we have so few artists among singers, is that so few take time to gain experience. There must be many appearances before audiences before the _amateurishness_ is worn off. Singers often think, when they hear a noted singer, that they could do just as well as that and perhaps better, and yet they cannot get professional engagements. It may all be true, that they can do just as well as the artist, but in appearance and self-command they may be deficient. Experience cannot come in a day or a season. If it could what a crowd of singers would become noted. It takes much time--years of time. One cannot safely feel that he has had experience enough to place himself among the professional singers until he has appeared at least fifty times. How many of our readers have done that? Many visit the large cities and seek engagements who have great talent and have the probability of complete success in them, but who have had so little proper experience that their first appearance in the large city, would be a failure. Managers of experience perceive this state of affairs and refuse to give engagements on that account. Gain that appearance necessary to the artist by singing before public audiences everywhere, at church festivals, benefit concerts, parlor receptions, college recitals, anywhere where an audience can be entertained. Study your influence over your audience and learn how to so express your art in your voice and singing that your audiences are your subjects. Concert after concert must pass before you know your own power in song. Year after year will go bye, before it is safe to approach the critical audiences of large cities. BEFORE AN AUDIENCE. When singing before an audience in a hall, do not look on the music. A glance at it may be made from time to time but keep the eyes off. A singer appears very ridiculous if he looks on the page. A song is a story told by the singer in the singing voice. It is not a lesson read from a book. The story cannot be well told if the singer has only half learned it. If he is confined to his notes he attracts attention to himself and that spoils art and the artist. It is best to learn by rote the music to be sung, and when it can be done, to leave the music in some place out of the hands. If it must be carried, have it as much out of the way as possible. A singer of much fame, spoiled his evening's work recently by fixing his eyes on his music all the time while singing. This may have been an exceptional evening, but if he does that all the time, he is no artist, in spite of his repute, and ought not to receive engagements even if he has a fine bass voice. COME UP HIGHER. The man makes the musician as does the musician make the man. The rules of life which make men better make the musician better. There is a constant call in life to "Come up higher!" He who has lost the sound of that call is at a standstill, or rather, since there can be no stopping, he is sinking from the place once gained. Get within the sound of that call and heed it. There are no heights so great, but that they form the base to heights beyond. Music is so rich and full that no man can understand it all and no man has reached the highest place in it. The call ever sounds "Come up higher!" Music fills all which contains life, and uses all materials for its transmittance. The air, a subtle ether, is filled with a still finer ether, on which sound travels. That ether is filled with vibration. It is ever present. The connection with it can be made at any moment and the musical thought can be sent off into unlimited space, to influence all within that space. To be able to use this at its best the thought which is musical must be raised to divine thought. The possibilities in that are boundless. Musicians cannot stop. The year may roll around and one may feel himself doing a great and good work, doing a work which seems to be well rounded; a work which leaves the musician, as the end of a season rolls around, exhausted from labor, and ready to say that the end of his work is reached, that he has gone to his greatest height. Not so, however. Next year is a height to be ascended, and that of the present moment is but the base of that greater height. Music calls "Come up higher." CRUDE VOICES EXPRESS NO EMOTION. An untrained voice can never have correct emotion expressed in it. The voice responds as truly to the thought which passes in the mind as does the leaf bend before the breeze. The singing voice is an extension of the speaking voice, and since nature planned only for speaking purposes, in order to have the organs which produce voice in proper condition for singing, there must be that degree of physical drill which makes the vocal apparatus able to convey in proper pitch and quality, the thought of the mind. The untrained voice will not do this. The throat becomes rigid, the pharynx strained and in-elastic. Emotion cannot be expressed when the vocal apparatus is thus held. One may have a beautiful natural voice and he may arouse the enthusiasm of certain of his hearers, but he cannot, without careful training do a tithe of what he is able to do. That is sufficient reason for teachers to urge all who sing at all to place themselves under the best of tuition. All who talk pleasantly have the power to sing. The exceptions to the rule are so few that they amount to but a very small percentage. But all who do sing, if they would rightly use their gift should train themselves to do whatever they do, well. CHAPTER VII. AMBITION. "Character is the internal life of a piece, engendered by the composer; sentiment is the external expression, given to the work by the interpreter. Character is an intrinsic positive part of a composition; sentiment an extrinsic, personal matter only." =Christiani.= VII. AMBITION. The very first question to ask of an applicant for vocal lessons is "what is your ambition?" By that, I mean, the teacher should know at the very start what purpose the pupil has in study, or if he has any purpose. The intention of the pupil should make a difference in the consideration given to the pupil in the matter of voice trial. If an applicant says he wishes to sing in Opera and the teacher sees that he lacks all capacity for such high position, he should frankly say so; if the applicant says that he wishes to learn to sing well that he may have pleasure in his own singing and give pleasure to his friends, that should be taken into account. Such person, provided he has any voice and musical instinct, can reach the height of his ambition and his study should be encouraged. The first visit of an applicant to a teacher is a most important event in the life of the pupil. The importance of it is not appreciated. To very many persons it marks a change--a veritable conversion--in their lives. A mistake made by the teacher with regard to the future of the pupil is a serious matter. That visit gives the teacher his chance to plan his treatment and is akin to the diagnosis of the physician. The pupil places himself in the hands of the teacher as thoroughly as does the patient give himself over to the physician. The case assumes importance from this fact. Responsibility by the teacher is assumed. The musical future of the pupil is in his hands. It may be for the good of the pupil that he found his particular teacher and it may not be. "What is your ambition regarding your music?" is the safeguard of the teacher. Knowing that, he can have a basis for examination and a ground for promises to the student. In the large cities, teachers are troubled with that which would be very amusing were it not for the sad part of it. Students of music come from the smaller cities and from the country and begin a series of visits to the different studios for the purpose of selecting a teacher. Everyone seems to recommend a new teacher and the student calls upon all. The result is surely disastrous to the pupil. He or she is left in doubt as to whom to go for study. The different promises made, the compliments paid, the hopes of ambition raised, are all enough to unbalance the judgment of older heads than those who usually seek the music studio. When a teacher is finally selected, it takes a long time to settle down into confidence in him so that the best result can be obtained. I said it would be amusing to the teacher were it not sad. I have known persons to boast that they had had "as good as a lesson" from the different teachers visited. I even know men who are teaching voice culture and singing in this city who claim to teach certain methods, and all they know of those methods is what they picked up in the interviews which they pretended were to see about arranging for study. As if any man of experience would give (or could give) his instruction in a talk of ten or fifteen minutes! The men who have ways of teaching which are so good that they bring valuable renown are too shrewd to be caught in any such way as that. What shall be done about such persons? Nothing. Let them alone. They die out after a time. Were there any way to prevent other people from following their example it would be a most excellent thing. But as society is made up, as long as the flash of a piece of glass passes for the sparkle of a diamond just so long will the cheater spring up, flourish and disappear. A question more to the point is "How can the racing from studio to studio be stopped?" I frankly say that I do not know. Generally I avoid bringing up a subject which has not in my own mind reached solution. I can suggest remedies if not cures. By writing about it some little help may be given the student. The remedy--nearly all city teachers have some special branch, a branch in which they obtain satisfactory results. One succeeds in Italian Opera, another in Voice Culture; one in Rudimental Study, another in Oratorio; one has many pupils in church choirs, another forms delightful classes of society pupils. "What is your ambition?" Find that teacher whose general reputation is in that which you want to do and be, and commence study with him. A very few lessons with that teacher--say ten lessons--will tell the student whether he is the right teacher or not. Probably the teacher will prove satisfactory. If not, by that time--acquaintance with the teachers of the city will permit more certain selection, the second time. "But," say you, "those ten lessons have cost something." True, but they have not cost half as much as it costs to settle an unbalanced mind. To return to the first question, what is your ambition? Has it ever occurred to you to wonder what becomes of all the music students--how many are there? Who can tell? One teacher boasts of having given four hundred vocal lessons last month; another caps that by claiming five hundred. Allow for all exaggeration, and say that these teachers (and thirty or forty others had as many students at work) had all they could do. They had from thirty to fifty pupils under study. What is to become of them, and how many ever amount to anything? The teacher has responsibility. He who receives every person who applies, especially if he tells him what a good voice he has and how well he can sing after a term or two, borders very nearly upon the scoundrel, or else the fool. If he thinks he can make a singer out of every person who comes to him he is the fool; if he flatters a person whom he knows can never become a singer, he is a scoundrel. He who is wise will find out the desire of the applicant and tell him frankly whether or not he can reach the desired goal. If he thinks it cannot be done there is no objection to his pointing out some other channel of musical usefulness and advising him to enter that. If the applicant has no aptitude for the desired study the only honest course is to tell him not to waste time and money on his voice. Any conscientious teacher feels a shudder sometimes over the responsibility of his position when the thought comes up "what becomes of all the music students?" We can ask "what becomes of the pins?" and have the question answered. The material of which they are made can be supplied anew. "So," say you, "will new pupils come." But those who are now studying must be made something of. The day they begin study a new world opens to them. Is it for good or ill? That remains for the teacher to solve. Every true teacher improves every pupil who studies with him. Some of them will become good singers and fine musicians. These are the ones most talked about and the teacher finds pleasure in the added reputation which they bring, but the others have the right to demand that they shall be raised to a higher plain of life because of their music lessons. What becomes of all the ambitious youths and maidens who study singing? Only one or two now and then amount to very much in professional life. Thousands attempt to be "Patties," but who has reached her height? Some one is at fault that this is so. Whatever belongs to the singing teacher, let him assume, but let him keep in mind that there is something to guard in the future. Over in Milan, ten years or more ago, while a student there, I met a great many Americans who like myself were there for study. I was told that at least two thousand American young ladies were there. Probably more than half of them expected to become successful singers in grand opera. How many successful singers in grand opera have appeared during the last ten years? A very few surely. What has become of the "ninety and nine?" Of that, say nothing. I saw the wretched lives they were leading at Milan--most of them--and advised, nay, begged, that they would go home to America and do anything for a living if they must work, rather than to stay there. Taking in washing would be much more ennobling than what some of them were doing. Whose fault was it that so many were there, and that so many are there all the time? Teachers of singing here at home must sooner or later realize that they did it. How, when, or for what purpose? Well, much might be said which will not be. Had an honest expression of the belief regarding the possibility of gratifying the original ambition been given, very much of the wrong done could have been avoided. One of the reasons why many people try to learn to sing is because some one has urged them to do so. The person who arouses the interest in another does a necessary act, and yet there should be a good degree of caution used in the matter. This article will be read by thousands who are now students, and as the aim of the magazine is to educate, let us see what word can be formed in the idea of this paragraph, which will make students better able to use judgment in inducing others to study. Do not cease in the efforts to bring others into musical work, but let your effort be tempered with discretion. When you hear a person sing who evidently enjoys it, whose face beams with pleasure, and whose voice pleases her hearers; when, in a word, you hear one who has a voice, and has intelligence enough to understand himself and his music, then learn if he has given serious study to music. If not, urge him to see a master at once. Do not, however, when you hear a person labor through a song, with act painful to himself and everybody else, urge him to go a teacher, "and learn how." Well, reader, "What is _your_ ambition?" Have you any? If not, get one pretty soon. I would say that before another sun sets, you should have a settled purpose in your vocal study and follow that purpose to a definite end. That matter settled you will do more than ever before. It is a matter which _you_ must settle. Others may suggest and advise, but you must decide it, yourself. I would not continue study without a fixed purpose. A poor purpose is better than none. Shall I tell you of some of the ambitions which students have, and say a word about them? Perhaps you will get a useful idea from that. The best use of lessons in music is that you may know music and how to use it for pleasure wherever you may be placed. This means that the study should be for education itself and not for the financial return which the study may bring. Study for the culture of a beautiful art--for the improvement of the mind, for the refinement which comes with associating with that which is pure. When one tells a teacher that this is his ambition, he will in many cases find that the teacher wishes him to work for something besides. A church choir is something of that sort. There is no reason why one should not have other ambitions, but the highest ambition which one can have is to make himself a musician of the highest and best kind. The whole journey toward becoming such is pleasant. Whoever goes but one mile along the road has his reward, and each additional mile brings its additional reward. Anyone can have this ambition in his study, and he who is most faithful and has the most intelligence will make the most progress and do the best in a given time. People who have little or none of that which is called musical genius can so develop that talent which they possess that they will be accounted musical. Those who have more can do almost anything. The class of persons who study with this ambition is larger, proportionately, in small cities than it is in the large ones. It is a fact that people are, in many small cities, better educated in music in which they can participate individually, than are the people of large cities. The students enter for long periods of study and follow those studies which do them the most good. With them the ambition to be musical and to have a good musical education is upper-most in mind. It is the best ambition to have. Even if no other use is made of the study, that education well repays one for all the time and money devoted to it. The choicest moments of life are while directly participating in music, or while engaged in that of which music is the accompaniment. Our association with friends in their homes and in our own is sweetened by music; our tired brains are rested at the concert, the opera, and the theatre; our seasons of deepest devotion and greatest spiritual delight, when we are at the house of worship are made more holy because the sacred words are beautified by music. Every act which can be looked back upon even to the child days, when the little songs of the school children were ours, has its embellishment of music. Whatever we do to increase our appreciation of music, to make us better able to make music, and to add to the charm of life of our own circle, is profitable. The good of it comes to us every day, and in addition it prepares us the better for that higher life to which we are all hastening, because it makes more beautiful the soul. The ambition to study for music itself is, then, the best ambition to have. The majority of those who present themselves to the city teacher wish to sing in church choirs. The reason is plain. There is some chance for financial return. There is also on the part of many a certain sense of duty to the church which they wish to fulfil by participating in its services. There are many things to be said on this whole subject and when such things are spoken it should be with no uncertain tone. The ambition to become a church singer should be held within certain bounds. The path to become such and the gratification which comes from the work accomplished are not such as most persons think they are. Of course the study to become able to sing in a church choir is altogether delightful. To prepare the voice so that it can be used as a means of interpreting the best church music is the best part of voice culture. Tones of good power, pure quality, evenness, and fair range, are absolutely necessary. No greater pleasure comes into voice culture than the training to be able to do just such work. Then the music of the church is satisfying. There is more to it than the light music of the parlor or light opera, more that appeals to deep feeling, more with which we can arouse our hearers. With regard to the wish to serve the church by our vocal powers, it may be said that while that is laudable, it is one that disappears very soon after one has the chance to put it into practical use. The wish is a bit of sentiment, and there is nothing like the practical to dispel sentiment. This brings us to a consideration of the choir and whether the ambition to become a choir singer is worth anything or not. In small places the choir singer is at once a person of some note. That note which the position gives has a value. The country choir becomes a sociable club (although composed of only four persons) and the friendship which each has for the other is a thing to be prized. Country choirs generally practise enough to have the voices blend and to have the singing good. There is some pleasure in singing in such a choir. But does it pay, financially? In some places it does, and he who is in a paying position in a country choir has the best place of any one in choir work. How many, though, of those who go to the teacher with the ambition to study for the choir would feel contented to take such a place as that? No, they want a place in the city choir, and at large salary. Have they ability enough to fill such position, and could they hold the position if they obtained it? The competition for choir positions in a city like New York is very great indeed. Let it be known that a vacancy is to occur in any church choir and hundreds if not thousands of applications are made. Only one person can have the place. The work of selecting one person out of the many applicants begins. It is at this point that the student feels the sentiment regarding singing in church begin to disappear. She feels that she is not being given a fair chance. She supposes that that which would give her the position is good voice, good singing and a good character. As sad as it may seem, she is decidedly wrong. That which is wanted in most city churches is "style" in body and dress, a comely face and vivacious manner. If the applicant lacks these she may as well not try, no matter what her musical acquirements may be. In fact, there are many singers in church choirs of New York and Brooklyn who haven't the least claim to be singers at all. Then regarding pay for choir singers in these cities. There is very little money in it. Salaries have been reduced and there are always those content to take the places at the lower figure. The majority of singers in these cities get less than $300 a year. Deduct from that the cost of car-fares, extra clothing, and the little incidentals which count up, and not one half of that amount remains as income. That does not pay to work for. The time and labor used in earning it could be better used in something else. A better money return could be had from that time in a dozen different things by any person who has ability enough to become a singer in a city church on salary. Nor is the possibility of obtaining a greater salary in later years to be taken into account. If an increased salary does come increased expenses come with it. Even if, after years of waiting, the student makes herself a fine singer and is competent to take a high place, she finds herself set one side for a fresh face and a new voice. That is a picture which is not pleasant; but which is true to life. One may ask if there is no work in choir or church for which one can prepare himself and which will be pleasant and desirable. Yes, in two directions;--first, when one is so trained that she is very desirable as a solo singer--one who can sing sacred songs well--she can find a position in which she has this and no other work to do. She then avoids competition, because her fame attracts the church to her. She has no long and trying rehearsals and she can be an artist as well as a church singer. But how many years of study this takes! Is your ambition equal to it? The second line of pleasureable work is, that of the choir-leader. Unhappily for singers, in most of the city churches the organist is made choir-leader; even in the vested choirs of the Episcopal church. This is not well for the choir or the church, but we must take things as we find them. When one is competent to superintend the music of the church and can find a choir to take charge of he is a happy singer. These two positions--of professional choir soloist and of choir-director--are the only satisfactory ones in the large cities. In connection with this it may be said that if one wishes to take a prominent position as concert singer it is almost necessary that he should hold a church choir position. At least he needs that until his fame as a concert singer is great. Managers of concerts in various sections of the country ask the very first thing, "Where does he sing?" If he is connected with a city choir he is placed. The choir gives him position. Concert singing is the field most widely opened and most easily filled of any to which a singer can aspire. Every year the concert field broadens. The so-called "grand" concerts of the last generation have disappeared, and that is better for the singer. Concert singing is more thoroughly a business and it is one worthy the ambition of any vocal student. Not that it is always pleasant business--what is, for that matter?--but it is something which can be entered upon on business lines, and one can make a place for himself in it. His first work is, of course, vocal and musical preparation. He should begin as soon as he can sing well enough to appear before an audience at all, to sing whenever and wherever he can get the chance. This is for practice and not for pay. No one ought to expect pay before he has sung at fifty or sixty entertainments without pay. He must have that amount of practice on his audiences. If he has improved his opportunities his name will be known by the time that period of experience is over and he can then begin to demand a small fee. The smaller the better for him. He can then begin to send his name abroad as an applicant for more remuneration. Step by step he can improve in ability and increase his income. It is a work to which all can be directed. It takes years to make any goodly success at it. Three years are needed to make a good beginning, but when one looks back over a life, three years of preparation do not seem long. With regard to singing in opera and theatre a word can be given at another time. An outline of what might be said is this:--grand opera is very limited, and only few can become opera singers in grand opera; light opera presents a good field for the gratification of ambition, under certain conditions; the theatre presents a good field for vocalists to those who feel inclined to enter theatrical life. CHAPTER VIII. MUSIC AND LONGEVITY. "_Were it not for music, we might, in these days, say the beautiful is dead._" =D'Israeli.= "_I verily think, and I am not ashamed to say that, next to Divinity, no art is comparable to music._" =Luther.= VIII. MUSIC AND LONGEVITY. Perhaps no one chooses to question the statement that length of human life is greater in our generation than it was in the last, and much greater than it was one or two centuries ago, in the face of statistics which the medical profession puts forth. Question of such statement implies a hidden motive in the medical profession. Possibly that profession might have a motive in leading people to believe that life lasts longer. If there is such motive it is for the good of men. It also recognises the influence of mind over matter as a preserving force. Doctors are anxious more than can be imagined to do all they can for the benefit of mankind. No class of men (or of women, since we have women in the profession) strives harder to do good. Their very code of ethics is based on self-sacrifice. The inventions, the discoveries, the devices which that profession now uses are such as bewilder and astonish one who only now and then has a chance to see their work. But a generation ago, and the sick man was loaded with charge after charge of drugs. It was only the generation before, that the sick man was bled in great quantities for every ailment. That was a change from generation to generation. But a little while ago a new school of medicine sprung up in which drugs were almost wholly discarded. Attenuation to the thousandth or even the five-thousandth part, was used, and when drugs are so attenuated, there is not much left to them. Such success has attended the homeopathist that he must be recognised. Who shall say but that another step may be taken or has been taken, in dropping the use of drugs and medicines entirely? All these schools and schemes have borne their part in prolonging human life, or more properly speaking, prolonging life in the human body. It is but recently that the influence of music in the cure of disease has been given professional thought. Its influence has been known for a long time but has not been properly placed and appreciated. This discussion may be the one thing to bring it before the world. Metaphysics--That is a word which we hear from mouth to mouth, nowadays. What does it mean? Briefly "the scientific knowledge of mental phenomena." We have almost come to think that it is something mythical, or even relating to the supernatural. But it is "_scientific knowledge_." Even our magazines which talk upon "Psychical Research" drift off into spiritualism and hallucinations. The writers do not keep to the text. Metaphysics is a science--and that science which deals with the most real and tangible. It deals with phenomena. It deals with mind itself. Now, mind is tangible and real. It is that part of us which came from the Creator--was from the beginning--has no end--and is in these bodies of ours for a time only. Which from this definition, is more tangible? Mind or body? There is no longevity to mind. From eternity it came--to eternity it goes. No measure can be applied to it. Body, that which we see and handle and in which we believe mind to reside, is quite another thing. It begins--it lasts for a time, ever struggling against forces which tend to destroy it--and drops at last into Mother Earth or the elements. That which we try to prolong is the existence in living condition, of the body. The keeper of that body is the mind, and whatever is done successfully to that body is done through the mind. Medical treatment is well enough in its place, and I am not to quarrel with the man who wants to use that, but mental treatment, (and I do not choose to be classed with the various isms now before the public which have grasped one corner of the subject and are tugging away at that) is the one thing by which and through which the body is to be affected. By that is human life to be prolonged. Music affects the mind. If it affects the body it does it through the mind. We say, when the dance begins that we can't keep still. What is the "we?" Our bodies. Not at all. Our mental perception is alert, and it recognises the vivacity of the dance and responds to it. In a moment the body answers the mind and whirls out over the floor in rhythm and in sympathy with the musical action. Again music seeks the minor thought and we are subdued into seriousness, or maybe, worship of the beautiful, the good, and God. Was it the body, fighting against disease and death which thus responded? Not at all. The mind, in which there ever rests the appreciation of all that there is in God, (and that includes beauty, bounty and truth) felt itself influenced by the music. That influence was extended to the body. You cannot enter good without getting good, mental and physical. There is nothing which has the tendency to reduce the average of human life as much as debauchery. That causes early decay. That wears out the body. That nourishes the seeds of disease. But, say you, if mind is the controlling force over the body, metaphysics over physics, why cannot one engage in any wildness which he chooses to fancy, and enjoy life. A gay life and a merry one. Are we to come down into soberness and somberness to preserve these bodies of ours? Can't we look back into the days of a jolly good dinner with a draught, deep from the pewter pot, of nut-brown ale, can't we joke with every pretty face we see, whether under a bonnet or not, can't we even become Falstaffs, if we feel like it, and yet keep ourselves alive to the full of days, if mind can control body? Yes, yes! But can mind stand such things--can mind keep itself in touch with the source of what is Good, in such conditions? If it can, enjoy all debauchery. If not, for the preservation of self, keep out of it. Now there are various kinds of debauchery, and not the least of these is music itself, wrongly used. And herein lies the point which I would make. Herein lies the point of the practical, or you may say if you choose, the didactical, side of the question; the point where our music touches our longevity. Music of the intellectual kind is the only music which can have ennobling influence upon the human mind and keep it in equipoise. The dance, the sentimental, the pleasing, has its place I admit. But to the musician that which lacks the scientific, lacks everything. How many of us care to attend a concert, an opera of the light vein, or that of a brass band, as perhaps we once did? That pretty, catchy song, let it be sung ever so well, has lost an awakening influence upon us. Even a Patti is gone by to us. We call a pianist old-fashioned. Is he really so? Are not we becoming new-fashioned? Are not we becoming so keenly alive to the intellectual that, unless we watch phrases and periods, theses and antitheses, sequences and cadences, melody against melody, we have no satisfaction in music. Then we run from music to music trying to hear some new thing, until we become almost unbalanced in mind. We become hyper-critical, sensitive to faults, irritable over remissnesses, until those conditions become a part of our disposition, and the musician becomes the crank. That is musical debauchery and I contend that that will shorten the life of any man. Which leads me to ask the question, can there not be such a thing as an overdose of music, just as there is an overdose of drug? And does it not behoove us, now that we have started a medico-musical-mental treatment of this poor body of ours, to beware lest we shorten its existence rather than prolong it. But _Art_--that which calls for the highest in man--must surely be a benefit to man. Mrs. Rogers says "Those who approach art because art first reached out its arms to them, and who approach it on their knees, with faith, with hope, with love, with religion, thinking not of self, nor of aught that shall result to them from their devotion to it, but that only through art, they may utter truth, and so fulfill art's real purpose, and with it the highest purpose of their own life--those shall indeed know the blessedness of power, of growth, of inspiration, of love." Such art as that carries the mind down to the centre of all things from which all good springs. That centre is Life. That life has for its great attribute the re-cuperation--the re-creation of all which it touches. The dwelling of that life--the body--is, by art such as that which that noble writer just quoted describes, made young every day and its days are prolonged on the face of the earth. This may be ideal to-day, but so many times has it been true, that "the ideal of to-day is the real of to-morrow," that even this may be the tangible medicine of the next generation. CHAPTER IX. ACTIVITY. "_Life is a series of surprises. We do not guess to-day the work, the pleasure, the power of to-morrow, when we are building up our being._" =Emerson.= "_Chase back the shadows, grey and old,_ _Of the dead ages, from his way,_ _And let his hopeful eyes behold_ _The dawn of Thy millenial day._ " =Whittier= IX. ACTIVITY. Fortunately, no two persons are exactly alike. If they were, the result would be the same and the everyday acts leading to a result would be the same. Nature, acquiescing in the Divine plan, has a different line of action and result for every individual which she creates. We find unlimited variety in man. The seat of activity is the mind and the first portion of the body to be acted upon by the mind is the brain. One man possesses more convolutions of brain than does another, and the fibre which extends from the gray matter to manipulate the many organs of the body which we constantly use is finer in one organism than in another. We recognize differences in classes of people and call one class nervous, and another, phlegmatic. So strongly are we influenced by public opinion that we honestly believe that a "slow" man cannot reach so great result in a lifetime as can a "quick" man. General opinion is usually wrong and it most certainly is in this case. Nature has a work for each kind and each individual to do, the summing up of which, is the result of that life, and if the gifts of each individual have been properly used the result is success in life. It may be believed that the usefulness of each individual, if the life of each is perfectly carried out, will be equal to that of all others. The _apparent_ success may not be _real_ success. The active brain directs a responsive body. The more active the brain, the more active can the body be made. To make the body useful at all, the motion of its members must be well understood and perfectly commanded. Herein lies the secret of success or failure. All want--not wish--success. (A wish may be a whim.) The saying "One thing at a time, etc.," has become obnoxious to us years ago, but in the idea contained in that lies the path to greatest activity. The active mind spreads itself. It schemes. All the plans which it suggests seem possible. Why not carry them all out? Merely because life is not long enough, nor mental and physical endurance strong enough, to do even the preliminary work of one tenth of the schemes which can come to an active mind in one day. Cut them all off. It might be well to say "First come, first served," and take the first which comes and carry that to success, concentrating all thought and force upon its accomplishment. It may be a Higher Power which put the thought of that plan _first_ into mind. Yet more narrowly would we draw the line which surrounds our activity. One must make the most of his force and strength. In the case of every man, woman and child living there is enormous waste of power. Much more is wasted than is used. We have in years past stood beside Niagara and thought if that power, apparently going to waste, could be used for moving machinery it could run the mills of the world, forgetting, or not knowing, that, in getting to the Falls, we wasted enough mental and physical force to run our human machinery for a week. The thought flew, changing probably twice a second, to how many different things in the hour before. Computation is easy. In the sixteen working hours of a day, perhaps, we think of 2000 things. Isn't that wasteful? Before the true plan of nature is carried out some (if not three-quarters) of this waste must be prevented. What has the body done in the hour before reaching Niagara? The hands have wandered aimlessly, the feet have tapped the floor, the watch has been looked at a dozen times, the hat taken off and put on again, the card-case opened, half-looked at, and shut, and each act, with twenty more, has been repeated again and again. It was waste activity. It must be overcome. Nature never intended you and me to be wasteful. These actions of mind, brain and body, are useful in their places, but we misuse them, using up strength and power. Night comes and we are tired out, or think we are, which amounts to the same thing. Who said "One thing at a time" was obnoxious to him? To gain our greatest power we must bring ourselves down to "one thing at a time." Put your mind on that one thing. Are you sharpening a pencil just now? Don't read a book at the same time. Are you placing your hat on your head? Don't brush dust off the coat. Are these things trivial? Nothing is trivial in nature's plan. Do not, in impatience, without trial, cast aside these suggestions. Even give one hour each day for one week as a trial to doing what you do, perfectly, and think of it as a trial. The increased result in mental and physical activity will demonstrate the wisdom of the advice. Strength is essential to successful labor. Wildly beating the air in undirected effort is the element of greatest weakness. We smile at the antics of two chickens in their fight in the farmyard. In a few minutes they wear themselves out and go off to rest. Are not we much like them? Do we not use up our strength in useless effort? Then, how often we rush off to the gymnasium or to the drug-store in the vain hope of regaining our strength. New strength is not to be found in either place. It is within ourselves all the time. Stop the expenditure and permit re-cuperation through concentration. Don't go lie down. Don't take a nap. Stop right where you are and bring the thought down to one thing, _strength_. For the moment allow the body to remain still. Think strength, desire strength, command strength! It is yours. It belongs to you. It is all around you. It will take possession of you if you permit it. What say you? That it will not come at your bidding? Are you sure? Have you cleared the mind of the cobwebs--the two different things per second which can come into it? Have you? Until you have, don't give up the test. Concentrate the thought upon strength, if that is what you want, and it will come. Impatience is waste. You cannot afford it. It is too expensive. We are all children. We see a toy and we must have it instantly, even if it is, as it often is, a sharp tool, which cuts our hands. If that which we wish belongs to us, or is to be given to us, it will come in its time. We wish to do something _now_. We haven't the means, or we don't see our way clearly to do it. We bemoan our hard luck, and can't see why we can't have it. Just so does the child about the toy. Wait patiently, and if, in nature's plan, the thing is to come to us, it will come, and we can't prevent it. It will seem as if it came itself. Impatience merely wears us out and uses up strength which nature wishes us to use in some other way. Obey nature and carry out her purposes. Activity which is useful, comes through directed effort. There may be _seeming_ activity which is worse than sluggishness, and which is certainly not desirable. Directed effort comes best through calm mind and responsive body. Silence and quietness, self-imposed, prepare the way to directed effort. Cease everything, even thinking, so far as it can be stopped, and remain passive thirty seconds. Then another thirty seconds. Who cannot take one minute out of each hour in the day for preparing the mind and body for greater strength and activity? When night has come and we lay the body down to rest there are a few minutes when it can have the best preparation for the activity of the next day. The few minutes before sleep carries us into unconsciousness are dear and sweet minutes, if rightly used. Then can the thought, which has been sent to thousands of things during the day, be brought back to its proper place. It should be centred upon one thing. The estimate is that the mind cannot be kept on one thing more than six seconds; but it can be returned to that one thing for several periods of six seconds each. We do not have the chance to return it many times, for sleep seizes us. Let the thought selected be a pleasant one; of some happy spot or view; a sunset or refreshing shower. It is better to select something from nature rather than man, for such thought is likely to be unalloyed. The last thing at night, if pleasant, tends to give us the calmest rest and best prepares us for the next day. The well and strong body can be active and the temperament of the individual makes comparatively little difference. In this we may all take courage. Every thoughtful person has had an occasional sad thought over his apparent impotence. No one need use less than his normal strength and activity. * * * * * Corrections made by the etext transcriber: There has, however, ways of procedure been planned which must shorten the trip.=>There have been planned, however, ways of procedure which must shorten the trip. Fortunately, no two persons are exactly alike. If there were=>Fortunately, no two persons are exactly alike. If they were 
34610	----	HOW TO APPRECIATE MUSIC by GUSTAV KOBBÉ Author of "Wagner's Music-Dramas Analyzed," etc. New York Moffat, Yard & Company 1912 Copyright, 1906, by Moffat, Yard & Company New York Published, October, 1906 Reprinted, February, 1908 Reprinted, September, 1908 Reprinted, May, 1912 The Premier Press New York * * * * * To the Memory of My Brother PHILIP FERDINAND KOBBÉ * * * * * CONTENTS _HOW TO APPRECIATE A PIANOFORTE RECITAL_ CHAPTER PAGE I The Pianoforte 29 II Bach's Service to Music 48 III From Fugue to Sonata 78 IV Dawn of the Romantic Period 100 V Chopin, the Poet of the Pianoforte 116 VI Schumann, the "Intimate" 134 VII Liszt, the Giant among Virtuosos 142 VIII With Paderewski--A Modern Pianist on Tour 155 _HOW TO APPRECIATE AN ORCHESTRAL CONCERT_ IX Development of the Orchestra 167 X Instruments of the Orchestra 179 XI Concerning Symphonies 197 XII Richard Strauss and His Music 207 XIII A Note on Chamber Music 224 _HOW TO APPRECIATE VOCAL MUSIC_ XIV Songs and Song Composers 231 XV Oratorio 248 XVI Opera and Music-Drama 260 TABLE OF CONTENTS _HOW TO APPRECIATE A PIANOFORTE RECITAL_ CHAPTER PAGE I.--THE PIANOFORTE Why the king of musical instruments--Music under one's fingers--Can render anything in music--Liszt played the whole orchestra on the pianoforte--Fingers of a great virtuoso the ambassadors of his soul--Melody and accompaniment on one instrument--No intermediaries to mar effect--Paderewski's playing of "Hark, Hark, the Lark"--Music's debt to the pianoforte--Developed sonata form and gave it to orchestra--Richard Strauss on Beethoven's pianistic orchestration--A boon to many famous composers, even to Wagner--Its lowly origin--Nine centuries to develop pianoforte from monochord--The monochord described--Joined to a keyboard--Poet's amusing advice to his musical daughter--Clavichord developed from monochord--Its lack of power--Bebung, or balancement--The harpsichord--Originated in the cembalo of the Hungarian gypsy orchestra--Spinet and virginal--Pianoforte invented by Cristofori, 1711--Exploited by Silbermann--Strings of twenty tons' tension--Dampers and pedals--Paderewski's use of both pedals--Mechanical pianofortes--Senseless decoration 29 II.--BACH'S SERVICE TO MUSIC Pianoforte so universal in character can give, through it, a general survey of the art of music--Bach illustrates an epoch--A Bach fugue more elaborate than a music-drama or tone poem--Bach more modern than Haydn or Mozart--His influence on modern music--Wagner unites the harmony of Beethoven with the polyphony of Bach--Melody, harmony and counterpoint defined and differentiated--Illustrated from the "Moonlight Sonata"--What a fugue is--The fugue and the virtuoso--Not "grateful" music for public performance--Daniel Gregory Mason's tribute and reservation--What counterpoint lacks--Fails to give the player as much scope as modern music--Barrier to individuality of expression--The virtuoso's mission--Creative as well as interpretive--Mr. Hanchett's dictum--Music both a science and an art--Science versus feeling--Person may be very musical without being musical at all--The great composer bends science to art--That "ear for music"--Bach and the Weather Bureau--The Bacon, not the Shakespeare, of music--What Wagner learned from Bach--Illustration from "Die Walküre"--W. J. Henderson's anecdote--Wagner's counterpoint emotional--Bach's the language of an epoch; Wagner's the language of liberated music--Bach in the recital hall--Rubinstein and Bach's "Triple Concerto"--"The Well-Tempered Clavichord"--Meaning of "well-tempered"--A king's tribute to Bach--Two hundred and forty-one years of Bachs 48 III.--FROM FUGUE TO SONATA Break in Bach's influence--Mr. Parry on this hiatus in the evolution of music--Three periods of musical development--Rise of the harmonic, or "melodic," school--Began with Domenico Scarlatti--The founder of modern pianoforte technique--Beginnings of the sonata form--Philipp Emanuel Bach and the sonata--Rise of the amateur--"The Contented Ear and Quickened Soul," and other quaint titles--Changes in musical taste--Pianoforte has outgrown the music of Haydn and Mozart--Bach, Beethoven and Wagner the three great epoch-making figures in music--Beethoven and the epoch of the sonata--His slow development--Union of mind and heart in his work--His sonatas, however, no longer all-dominant in pianoforte music--Von Bülow and D'Albert as Beethoven players--Incident at a Von Bülow Beethoven recital--Changes of taste in thirty years--The Beethoven sonatas too orchestric--The passing of the sonata 78 IV.--DAWN OF THE ROMANTIC PERIOD What a sonata is--How Beethoven enlarged the form--Illustrated in his Opus 2, No. 3, and in the "Moonlight Sonata"--The three Beethoven periods--In his last sonatas seems chafing under restraint of form--The sonata form reached its climax with Beethoven--Hampers modern composers--Lawrence Gilman on MacDowell's "Keltic Sonata"--The first romantic composers--Weber--Schubert's inexhaustible genius--Mendelssohn smooth, polished and harmless 100 V.--CHOPIN, THE POET OF THE PIANOFORTE An incomparable composer--Liszt's definition of tempo rubato--The Wagner of the pianoforte--Clear melody and weird, entrancing harmonies--Racial traits--Friends in Paris--Liszt the first to recognize him--The Études--Vigor, passion, impetus--Von Bülow on the great C minor Étude--The Préludes--Schumann's opinion of them--Rubinstein's playing of the Seventh Prélude--The Nocturnes--Chopin and Poe--The Waltzes--Liszt on the Mazurkas--The Polonaises--Chopin's battle hymns--Other works--"A noble from head to foot"--Huneker on Chopin 115 VI.--SCHUMANN, THE "INTIMATE" A composer with an academic education--Pupil in pianoforte of Frederick Wieck--Strains a finger and abandons career as a virtuoso--Marries Clara Wieck--Afflicted with insanity--Attempts suicide--Dies in asylum--His music introspective and brooding--Poet, bourgeois and philosopher--Contributions to program music--"Carnaval" and "Kreisleriana"--Latter title explained--Really Schumanniana--Thoughts of his Clara--"Fantasie Pieces"--His compositions at first neglected 134 VII.--LISZT, THE GIANT AMONG VIRTUOSOS A youthful phenomenon--Refused at the Paris Conservatory--"Le petit Litz"--Inspired by Paganini--Episode with Countess D'Agoult--Court conductor at Weimar--Makes Weimar the musical Mecca of Germany--Produces "Lohengrin"--His "six Lives"--His pianoforte compositions--The "Don Juan Fantasie"--"Hexameron"--"Années de Pèlerinage"--Progressive edition of the Études--Giant strides in virtuosity--History of the famous "Rhapsodies Hongroises"--Characterisation of his pianoforte music--A great composer, not a charlatan--Liszt as a virtuoso--His tribute to the pianoforte--A long and influential career--Played for Beethoven and died at "Parsifal" 142 VIII.--WITH PADEREWSKI--A MODERN PIANIST ON TOUR The most successful virtuoso ever heard here--$171,981.89 for one season--His opinion of the pianoforte--Perfect save for greater sustaining power of tone--Has four pianofortes on his tours--Duties of the "piano doctor"--How the instruments are cared for--Thawing out a pianoforte--Paderewski's humor 155 _HOW TO APPRECIATE AN ORCHESTRAL CONCERT_ IX.--DEVELOPMENT OF THE ORCHESTRA Modern music at first vocal, and without instrumental accompaniment--Awkward instrumentation of the contrapuntists--Primitive orchestration in Italy--The orchestra of Monteverde--Haydn the father of modern orchestral music--The Mozart symphonies--Beethoven establishes the modern orchestra--But few instruments added since--Greater richness due to subtler technique--Beethoven's development of the orchestra traced in his symphonies--Greater technical demands on the players--Beethoven and Wagner--"Meistersinger" score has only three more instruments than the Fifth Symphony--Berlioz an orchestral juggler--Architectural music--Wagner, greatest of orchestral composers--Employs large orchestra not for noise, but for variety of expression--Richard Strauss's tribute to Wagner--Wonderfully reserved in the use of his forces--Wagner's scores the only advance worth mentioning since Berlioz 167 X.--INSTRUMENTS OF THE ORCHESTRA The orchestra an aggregation of instruments that should play as one--Wagner's employment of orchestral groups illustrated by the Love motive in "Die Walküre" and the Walhalla motive--Division of the orchestra--The violin--Its varied capacity--The musical stage whisper of a hundred violins--The violins in the "Lohengrin" prelude--Modern orchestral virtuosity--The sordine and its use--A pizzicato movement by Tschaikowski--The viola, violoncello and double bass--Dividing the string band--Examples from the scores of Wagner--Anecdote regarding the harp in "Rheingold"--The woodwind--The flute--The oboe in Schubert's C major symphony--The English horn in "Tristan"--Beethoven's use of the bassoon in the Fifth and Ninth symphonies--The clarinets in "Tannhäuser," "Lohengrin," and "Götterdämmerung"--Brass instruments and various illustrations of their employment--The trumpet in "Fidelio" and "Carmen"--The trombone group in "The Ring of the Nibelung"--The trombones in "The Magic Flute," in Schubert's C major symphony, and in the introduction to the third act of "Lohengrin"--The tubas in the Funeral March in "Götterdämmerung"--Richard Strauss's apotheosis of the horn, and its importance in the Wagner scores--Tympani and cymbals--Mozart's G minor symphony on twenty-two clarinets--Richard Strauss, on the future development of the orchestra 179 XI.--CONCERNING SYMPHONIES The classical period of music dominated by the symphony--Its esthetic purpose defined--A symphonic witticism--Some comment on form in music--Divisions of the symphony established by Haydn--Artless grace and beauty of Mozart's symphonies--Beethoven to the fore--Climaxes and rests--The Ninth Symphony--Schubert's genius--Mendelssohn and Schumann--Liszt's symphonies and symphonic poems--Other symphonists--Wagner not supposed to have been a purely orchestral composer, yet the greatest of all 197 XII.--RICHARD STRAUSS AND HIS MUSIC One of the most original and individual of composers--A student, not a copyist, of Wagner--Independent intellectual basis for his art--Originator of the tone poem--Unhampered by even the word "symphonic"--Means much to the musically elect--Not a juggler with the orchestra--A modern of moderns--Technical difficulties, but not impossibilities in his works--"Thus Spake Zarathustra" and other scores--Life and truth, not mere beauty, the burden of modern music--Huneker's "Piper of Dreams"--"Zarathustra" and "A Hero's Life" described--An intellectual force in music--"A Hero's Life" Strauss's "Meistersinger"--Tribute to Wagner in "Feuersnot"--Performances of Richard Strauss's scores in America--His symphony in F minor (1883) had its first performance anywhere, under Theodore Thomas--Straussiana--Boyhood anecdotes--Scribbled scores on schoolbook covers--Still at school when first symphony was played in public--Studied with Von Bülow--Married his Freihild--Ideals of the highest 207 XIII.--A NOTE ON CHAMBER MUSIC 224 _HOW TO APPRECIATE VOCAL MUSIC_ XIV.--SONGS AND SONG COMPOSERS Strophic and "composed through"--Schubert the first song composer to require consideration; also the greatest--Early struggles--Too poor to buy music paper--Becomes a school-teacher--Impatient under drudgery--Publishers hold aloof--Fortune for a song, but not for him--History of "The Erlking"--How it was composed--Written down as fast as pen could travel--Tried over the same evening--The famous dissonances--As sung by Lilli Lehmann--Schubert only eighteen years old when he composed "The Erlking"--His marvelous fecundity--Died at thirty-one, yet wrote six hundred songs and many other works--Schumann's individuality--Distinguished from Schubert--Not the same proportion of great songs--The best composed during his wooing of Clara--Phases of Franz's genius--Traces of his knowledge and admiration of Bach--Choice of keys--Objected to transpositions--Pitiable physical disabilities--Brahms a profound thinker in music--Jensen, Rubinstein, Grieg, Chopin, Wagner--Liszt one of the greatest of song composers--Richard Strauss, Hugo Wolf and others 231 XV.--ORATORIO An incongruous art form--Originated in Italy with San Filippo Neri--Scenery, action and even ballet in the early oratorio--The influence of German composers--Bach's "Passion" music--Dramatic expression in Händel--Rockstro's characterisation of--First performance of "The Messiah"--Haydn's "Creation" and "Seasons"--Mendelssohn's "Elijah" next to "The Messiah" in popularity--Dramatic episodes in the work--Gounod, Elgar and others 248 XVI.--OPERA AND MUSIC-DRAMA Origin of opera--Peri and the Florentines--Monteverde--Cavalli introduces vocal melody to relieve the monotony of recitative--Aria developed by Alessandro Scarlatti--Characteristics of Italian opera from Scarlatti to Verdi--Gluck's reforms--German and French opera--"Les Huguenots," "Faust," and "Carmen"--Comparative popularity of certain operas here--Far-reaching effects of Wagner's theories--Their influence on the later Verdi and contemporary Italian composers--Wagner's music-dramas--A music-drama not an opera--Form wholly original with Wagner--Gave impetus to folk-lore movement--Krehbiel's "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama"--Wagner and anti-Wagner--Finck's "Wagner and His Works"--Wagner a melodist--Examples--Unity a distinguishing trait of the music-drama--Wagner's method illustrated by musical examples--The Curse Motive--The Siegfried, Nibelung, and Tarnhelm motives--Leading motives not mere labels--Their plasticity musically illustrated--The Siegfried horn call developed into the motive of Siegfried, the hero, and into the climax of the "Götterdämmerung" Funeral March--An illustration from "Tristan"--Wagner as a composer of absolute music--His scores the greatest achievement musical history, up to the present time, has to show 260 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGES Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" 52, 53 "Two-Part Invention," by Bach 54 Love Motive from "Die Walküre" 181 Opening of the "Lohengrin" Prelude 183 Walhalla Motive 192 Curse Motive 269 Siegfried Motive 270 Nibelung Smithy Motive 270 Tarnhelm Motive 271 Siegfried Horn Call 272 Develops into Motive of Siegfried, the Hero 272 And into Climax of the "Götterdämmerung" Funeral March 272 Examples from "Tristan und Isolde" 273, 274 INTRODUCTION "Are you musical?" "No; I neither play nor sing." Your answer shows a complete misunderstanding of the case. Because you neither play nor sing, it by no means follows that you are unmusical. If you love music and appreciate it, you may be more musical than many pianists or singers; and certainly you may become so. This book is planned for the lover of music, for those who throng the concert and recital halls and the opera--those who have not followed music as a profession, and yet love it as an art; who may not play or sing, and yet are musical. Among these is an ever-growing number that "wants to know," that no longer is satisfied simply with allowing music to play upon the senses and the emotions, but wants to understand why it does so. To satisfy this natural desire which, with many, amounts to a craving or even a passion, and to do so in wholly untechnical language and in a manner that shall be intelligible to the average reader, is the purpose of this book. In carrying it out I have not neglected the personal side of music, but have endeavored to keep clearly before the eyes of the reader, and in their proper sequence, the great names in musical history. I am somewhat of a radical in my musical opinions, one of those persons of advanced views who does not lift his eyes reverentially heavenward every time the words "symphony" and "sonata" are mentioned. In fact, I am most in sympathy with the liberating tendencies of modern music, which lays more stress upon the expression of life and truth than upon the exact form in which these are sought to be expressed. Nevertheless, I am quite aware that only through the gradual development and expansion of forms that now may be growing obsolete has music achieved its emancipation from the tyranny of form. Therefore, while I would rather listen to a Wagner music-drama than to a Mozart opera, or might go to more trouble to hear a Richard Strauss tone poem than a Beethoven symphony, I am not such an unconscionable heretic as to be unaware of the great, the very great part played by the Mozart opera and the Beethoven symphony in the evolution of music, or their importance in the orderly and systematic study of the art. Indeed, I was brought up on "Don Giovanni," the Fifth Symphony and the Sonatas before I brought myself up on Chopin, Liszt (for whom I have far greater admiration than most critics), and Wagner. Therefore, an ample portion of this book will be found devoted to the classical epoch and its great masters, especially its greatest master, Beethoven, and to the forms in which they worked. Nor do I think that these pages will be found written unsympathetically. But something is due the great body of music-lovers who, being told that they _must_ admire this, that and the other classical composer, _because he is classical_, find themselves at a loss and think themselves to blame because modern music makes a more vivid and deeper impression upon them. If they only knew it--they are in the right! But they have needed some one to tell them so. "Advanced," this book is. But plenty will be found in it regarding the sonata and the symphony, and, through the latter, the development of the orchestra; and orchestral instruments, their tone quality, scope and purpose are described and explained. More, perhaps, than in any work with the same purpose, the great part played by the pianoforte in the evolution of music is here recognized, and I have availed myself of the opportunity to tell much of the story of that evolution in connection with this, the most popular of musical instruments, and its great masters. Why the greater freedom of technique and expression made possible by the modern instrument has caused the classical sonata to be superseded by the more romantic works of Chopin and others whose compositions are typically pianistic, and how these works differ in form and substance from those of the classicists, are among the many points made clear in these chapters. The same care has been bestowed upon that portion of the book relating to vocal music--to songs, opera, music-drama and oratorio. In fact, the aim has been to equip the lover of music--that is, of good music of all kinds--with the knowledge which will enable him to enjoy far more than before either an orchestral concert, a piano or song recital, an opera or a music-drama--anything, in fact, in music from Bach to Richard Strauss; to place everything before him from the standpoint of a writer who is himself a lover of music and who, although thoroughly in sympathy with the more advanced schools of the art, also appreciates the great masters of the past and is behind none in acknowledging what they contributed to make music what it is. "Are you musical?" "No; I neither play nor sing." But, if you can read and listen, there is no reason why you should not be more musical--a more genuine lover of music--than many of those whose musicianship lies merely in their fingers or vocal cords. Try! GUSTAV KOBBÉ. HOW TO APPRECIATE A PIANOFORTE RECITAL I THE PIANOFORTE There must be practically on the part of every one who attends a pianoforte recital some degree of curiosity regarding the instrument itself. Therefore, it seems to me pertinent to institute at the very outset an inquiry into what the pianoforte is and how it became what it is--the most practical, most expressive and most universal of musical instruments, the instrument of the concert hall and of the intimate home circle. Knowledge of such things surely will enhance the enjoyment of a pianoforte recital--should be, in fact, a prerequisite to it. The pianoforte is the most used and, for that very reason, perhaps, the most abused of musical instruments. Even its real name generally is denied it. Most people call it a piano, although _piano_ is a musical term denoting a degree of sound, soft, gentle, low--the opposite of _forte_, which means strong and loud. The combination of the two terms in one word, pianoforte, signifies that the instrument is capable of being played both softly and loudly--both _piano_ and _forte_. It was this capacity that distinguished it from its immediate precursors, the old-time harpsichords and clavichords. One of the first requirements in learning how to understand music is to learn to call things musical by their right names. To speak of a pianoforte as a piano is one of our unjustifiable modern shortcuts of speech, a characteristic specimen of linguistic laziness and evidence of utter ignorance concerning the origin and character of the instrument. If I were asked to express in a single phrase the importance of this instrument in the musical life of to-day I would say that the pianoforte is the orchestra of the home. Indeed, the title of the familiar song "What Is Home Without a Mother?" might, without any undue stretch of imagination, be changed to "What Is Home Without a Pianoforte?"--although, if you are working hard at your music and practicing scales and finger exercises several hours a day, it might be wiser not to ask your neighbor's opinion on this point. The King of Instruments. "In households where there is no pianoforte we seem to breathe a foreign atmosphere," says Oscar Bie, in his history of the instrument and its players; and he adds with perfect truth that it has become an essential part of our life, giving its form to our whole musical culture and stamping its characteristics upon our whole conception of music. Surely out of every ten musical persons, layman or professional, at least nine almost invariably have received their first introduction to music through the pianoforte and have derived the greater part of their musical knowledge from it. Even composers like Wagner and Meyerbeer, whose work is wholly associated with opera, had their first lessons in music on the pianoforte, and Meyerbeer achieved brilliant triumphs as a concert pianist before he turned his attention to the operatic stage. Of all musical instruments the pianoforte is the most intimate and at the same time the most public--"the favorite of the lonely mourner and of the solitary soul whose joy seeks expression" and the tie that unites the circle of family and friends. Yet it also thrills the great audience of the concert hall and rouses it to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. It is the king of instruments, and the reason for its supremacy is not far to seek. Weitzmann, the author of the first comprehensive account of the pianoforte and its literature, speaks of its ability "to lend living expression to all phases of emotion for which language lacks words"; its full, resonant tone; its volume vying with that of the orchestra; its command of every shade of sound from the gentlest _pianissimo_ to the most powerful _forte_; and its mechanism, which permits of the most rapid runs and passages, and at the same time of sustained singing notes and phrases. Music Under One's Fingers. But this is not all. There is an overture by Weber entitled "The Ruler of the Spirits." Well, he who commands the row of white and black keys is ruler of the spirits of music. He has music, all that music can give, within the grasp of his two hands, under his ten fingers. The pianoforte can render anything in music. Besides music of its own, it can reproduce the orchestra or the voice with even greater fidelity than the finest engraving renders a painting; for only to the eyes of one familiar with the painting does the engraving suggest the color scheme of the original, whereas, through certain nuances of technique that are more easily felt than described, the pianoforte virtuoso who is playing an arrangement of an orchestra composition can make his audience hear certain instruments of the orchestra--even such characteristic effects as the far-carrying pizzicato, or the rumbling of the double basses or their low growl; the hollow, reverberating percussions of the tympani; sustained notes on the horns; the majestic accents of trombones; the sharp shrill of piccolos; while some of the most effective pianoforte pieces are arrangements of songs. Moreover, there are pianoforte compositions like the Hungarian rhapsodies of Liszt which, while conceived and carried out in the true spirit of the instrument ("pianistic," as they say), yet suggest the tone colors of the orchestra without permitting these to obtrude themselves too much. This is one of the many services of Liszt, the giant of virtuosos and a giant among composers, to his art. It has been said that Liszt played the whole orchestra on the pianoforte. He did even more. He developed the technique of the instrument to such a point that the suggestion of many of the clang tints of the orchestra has become part of its heritage. This dual capacity of the pianoforte, the fact that it has a tone quality wholly peculiar to itself, so that when, for example, we are playing Chopin we never think of the orchestra, while at the same time it can take up into itself and reproduce, or at least suggest, the tone colors of other instruments, is one of its most remarkable characteristics. Quite as remarkable and as interesting and important is the circumstance that these tone tints are wholly dependent upon the player. There is nothing peculiar to the make of the strings, the sounding-board, the hammers, that tends to produce these effects. They are due wholly to the player's subtle manipulation of the keys, so that we get the added thrill of the virtuoso's personal magnetism. The pianoforte owes much of its popularity, much of its supremacy, to the fact that a player's interpretation of a composition cannot be marred by any one but himself. It rests in his hands alone, whereas the conductor of an orchestra is dependent upon a hundred players, some of whom may have no more soul than so many wooden Indians. Even supposing a conductor to be gifted with a highly poetic and musically sensitive nature, it is impossible that so many men of varying degrees of temperament as go to make up an orchestra, and none of them probably a virtuoso of the highest rank, will be as sympathetically responsive to his baton as a pianoforte is to the fingers of a musical poet like Paderewski; for the fingers of a great virtuoso are the ambassadors of his soul. Melody and Accompaniment on One Instrument. This personal, one-man control of the instrument has been of inestimable value to the pianoforte in establishing itself in its present unassailable position. Moreover, in controlling it the pianist commands all the resources of music. With his two thumbs alone he can accomplish what no player upon any other instrument in common use is capable of doing with all ten fingers. He can sound together the lowest and the highest notes in music, for all the notes of music as we know it simply await the pressure of the fingers upon the keys of the pianoforte. It is the one instrument capable of power as well as of sweetness and grace which places the whole range of harmony and counterpoint at the disposal of one player. A vocalist can sing an air, but can you imagine a vocalist singing through an entire programme without accompaniment? After half a dozen unaccompanied songs the singing even of the greatest prima donna would become monotonous for lack of harmony. The violin and violoncello, next to the pianoforte the most frequently heard instruments in the concert hall, labor under the same disadvantage as the singer. They are dependent upon the accompaniment of others. The pianist, on the other hand, has the inestimable advantage of being able to play melody and accompaniment on one instrument at the same time--all in one. While singing with some of his fingers the tender melodic phrase of a Chopin nocturne, he completes with the others the exquisite weave of harmony, and reveals the musical fabric to us in all its beauty. Moreover, it is the pianist himself who does this, not some one else at his signal, which the intermediary possibly may not wholly understand. When Paderewski is at the pianoforte we hear Paderewski--not some one else of a less sensitive temperament whom he is directing with a baton. A poet is at the instrument and we hear the poet. A poet may be at the conductor's desk--but in the orchestra that is required for the interpretation of his musical conceptions poets usually are conspicuous by their absence. Even great singers suffer because their accompaniments are apt not to be as sensitive of temperament as they are; and it is a fact that the grace and beauty of Schubert's "Hark, Hark, the Lark" never have been so fully revealed to me by a singer as by Paderewski's playing of Liszt's arrangement of the song, because the pianist is able to shade the accompaniment to the most delicate nuances of the melody. How delightful, too, it is to go through the pianoforte score of a Wagner music-drama and, as you play the wonderful music--all placed within the grasp of your ten fingers--watch the scenic pictures and the action pass in imagination before your eyes in your own music room without the defects inseparable from every public performance, because the success of a performance depends upon the co-operation of so many who do not co-operate. Yes, the pianoforte is the king of instruments because it is the most independent of instruments and because it makes him who plays upon it independent. Music's Debt to the Pianoforte. It would be difficult to overestimate the debt that music owes to the pianoforte. Including for the present under this one name the various keyboard instruments from which it was developed, the sonata form had its first tentative beginnings upon it and was wrought out to perfection through it by a process of gradual evolution extending from Domenico Scarlatti through Bach's son, Philipp Emanuel Bach, to Beethoven. As a symphony simply is a sonata for orchestra, it follows that through the sonata and thus through the pianoforte the form in which the classical composers cast their greatest works was established. Richard Strauss, in his revision of Berlioz's book on orchestration, even goes so far as to assert that Beethoven, and after him Schumann and Brahms, treated the orchestra pianistically; but the discussion of this point is better deferred until we take up the orchestra and orchestral music. Here, however, it may be observed that in addition to its constant use as an instrument for the concert hall and the home, and for the delight of great audiences and the joy of the amateur player and his familiar circle, many of the great composers, even when writing orchestral works, have used the pianoforte for their first sketches, testing their harmonies on it, and often, no doubt, while groping over the keys in search of the psychical note, hit upon accidental improvements and new harmonies. Even Wagner, who understood the orchestra as none other ever has, employed the pianoforte in sketching out his ideas. "I went to my Erard and wrote out the passage as rapidly as if I had it by heart," he writes from Venice to Mathilde Wesendonck, in relating to her the genesis of the great love duet in "Tristan und Isolde," and I could quote other passages from my "Wagner and his Isolde," which is based on the romantic passages in the lives of the composer and the woman who inspired his great music-drama, to show the frequency with which he made similar use of the universal musical instrument. The pianoforte has in many other ways been a boon to some of the most famous composers. Many of them were pianists, and by public performances of their own works materially accelerated the appreciation of their music. Mozart was a youthful prodigy, and later a virtuoso of the highest rank. Beethoven, before he was overtaken by deafness, introduced his own pianoforte compositions to the public and was the musical lion of the Viennese drawing-rooms. Mendelssohn was a pianist of the same smooth, affable, gentlemanly type as his music. Chopin was not a miscellaneous concert player--his nature was too shrinking; but at the Salon Pleyel in Paris he gave recitals to the musical élite, who in turn conveyed his ideas to the greater public. Schumann began his musical career as a virtuoso, but strained the fourth finger of his right hand in using a mechanical apparatus which he had devised for facilitating the practice of finger exercises. His wife, Clara Wieck, however, who was the most famous woman pianist of her time, substituted her fingers for his. Liszt literally hewed out the way for his works on the keyboard. Brahms was a pianist of solid, scholarly attainments. In fact, dig where you will in musical soil, you strike the roots of the pianoforte. Its Lowly Origin. It must not be supposed, however, that the instrument as we know it attained to its present supremacy except through a long process of evolution. One of the immediate precursors of the modern pianoforte was the harpsichord, a name suggesting that the instrument was a harp with a keyboard attachment, and such, in a general way, the pianoforte is. But the harp is a very fully developed affair compared with the mean little apparatus in which lay and was discovered many centuries ago the first germ of the king among instruments. This was the monochord, and it has required about nine centuries for the evolution of an instrument consisting of a single string set in vibration by means of a keyboard attachment into the modern pianoforte. But do not be alarmed. I am not about to give a nine hundred years' history of the pianoforte. Such detailed consideration would belong to a technical work on the manufacture of the instrument and would be out of place here. Something of its history should, however, be known to every one who wants to understand music, but I shall endeavor to be as brief and at the same time as clear as possible. The monochord originally was used much as we use a tuning fork, to determine true musical pitch. If you take a short piece of string, tie one end of it fast, draw it taut and pluck it, its vibrations will sound a note. If you grasp the string and draw it taut from nearer to the point where it is tied, you shorten what is called the "node," increase the number of vibrations and produce a higher note. The monochord in its simplest form consisted of a string drawn taut over an oblong box and tuned to a given pitch by means of a peg. Under the string and in contact with it was a bridge or fret that could be moved by hand along a graduated scale marked on the bottom of the box. By moving the bridge the node of the string could be shortened and the notes marked at corresponding points on the graduated scale produced. After a while, and in order to facilitate the study of the harmonious relationship between different notes, three strings were added, each with its bridge and graduated scale. It was more or less of a nuisance, however, to continually shift four bridges to as many different points under the four strings. As an improvement upon this awkward arrangement some clever person conceived about the beginning of the tenth century, the idea of borrowing the keyboard from the organ and attaching it to the monochord. To the rear end of each key was attached an upright piece called a tangent. When the finger pressed upon a key the tangent struck one of the strings, set it in vibration, and at the same time, by contact, created a node which lasted as long as the key was kept down and the tangent remained pressed against the string. To increase the utility of the instrument by adding more strings and more keys was the next obvious step, and gradually the monochord ceased to be a mere technical apparatus for the determining of pitch and became an instrument on which professionals and amateurs could play with pleasure to themselves and others. A Poet's Advice to His Musical Daughter. There has been preserved to us from about the year 1529 a reply made by the poet Pietro Bembo to his daughter Elena, who had written to him from the convent where she was being educated asking if she could have lessons upon the monochord, which seems to have been as popular in its day as its fully developed successor, the modern pianoforte, is now. "Touching thy request for permission to play upon the monochord," begins Bembo's quaint answer, "I reply that because of thy tender years thou canst not know that playing is an art for vain and frivolous women, whereas I would that thou shouldst be the most chaste and modest maiden alive. Besides, if thou wert to play badly it would cause thee little pleasure and no little shame. Yet in order to play well thou must needs give up from ten to twelve years to the exercise, without so much as thinking of aught else. How far this would benefit thee thou canst see for thyself without my telling thee. But thy schoolmates, if they desire thee to learn to play for their pleasure, tell them thou dost not care to have them laugh at thy mortification. Therefore, content thyself with the pursuit of the sciences and the practice of needlework." These words of the poet Bembo to his daughter Elena--are they so wholly lacking in application to our own day? And I wonder--did or did not Elena learn to play the monochord? If not, it was because she lived a few centuries too soon. She would have had her own way to-day! The Clavichord. Monochord means "one string," and the application of the term to the instrument after other strings had been added was a misnomer. The monochord on which Elena, to the evident distress of her distinguished parent, desired to play, really was a clavichord, which was derived directly from the primitive monochord. If you will raise the lid of your pianoforte you will find that the strings become shorter from the bass up, the lowest note being sounded by the longest, the highest note by the shortest string; for the longer the string the slower the vibrations and the deeper the sounds produced, and _vice versa_. This principle is so obvious that it seems as if it must have been applied to the clavichord almost immediately and a separate string provided for each key. But for many years the strings of the clavichord continued all of equal length, and three or four neighboring keys struck the same string, so that the contact of the upright tangent with the string not only set the latter in vibration but also served to form the node which produced the desired note. Not until after the clavichord had been in use several centuries, were its strings made of varying length and a separate string assigned to each key. These new clavichords were called _bundfrei_ (fret-free or tangent-free) because the node of each string was determined by that string's length and not by the contact of the tangent. The clavichord retained the box shape of its prototype, the monochord. Originally it was portable and was set upon a table; later, however, was made, so to speak, to stand upon its own legs. In appearance it resembled our square pianofortes. It gave forth a sweet, gentle and decidedly pretty musical sound. It had a further admirable quality in its capacity for sustaining a tone, since by keeping the tangent pressed against the string the player was able to sustain the tone so long as the string continued to vibrate. Moreover, by holding down the key and at the same time making a gentle rocking motion with the finger he was able to produce a tremolo effect which German musicians called _Bebung_ (trembling), and the French _balancement_. A defect of the clavichord was, however, its lack of power. This defect led to experiments which resulted in the construction of a keyboard instrument the strings of which, in response to the action of the keys, were set in vibration by jacks tipped with crow-quills or hard leather. The sound was much stronger than that of the clavichord. But the jacks twanged the strings with uniform power, "permitting a sharp outline, but no shading of the tones." The Harpsichord. If you chance to be listening to a Hungarian band at a restaurant you may notice that one of the players has lying on a table before him an instrument with many strings strung very much like those of the pianoforte. It is played with two little mallets in the player's hands, and produces the weird arpeggios and improvised runs characteristic of Hungarian gypsy music. It is a very old instrument called the cembalo. About the fifteenth century, it seems, some one devised a keyboard attachment with quills for this instrument, tipped the jacks with crow-quills, and called the result a clavicembalo (a cembalo with keys). This was the origin of the harpsichord, the name by which the clavicembalo soon became more generally known. Harpsichords were shaped somewhat like our grand pianofortes, but were much smaller. A spinet was a small harpsichord, and the virginal a still smaller one. Sometimes, indeed, virginals were made no larger than workboxes, the instrument being taken out of the box and placed on a table before the player. For the purposes of this book this very general survey of the precursors of the pianoforte seems sufficient. The clavichord and the instruments of the harpsichord (harpsichord, spinet, and virginal) class flourished alongside of each other, but the best musicians gave the preference to the clavichord because of its sweet tone and the delicately tremulous effect that could be produced upon it by the _balancement_. Experiments in pianoforte making were in progress already in Bach's day, but he clung to the clavichord, as did his son, Philipp Emanuel Bach. Mozart was the first of the great masters to realize the value of the pianoforte and to aid materially in making it popular by using it for his public performances. And yet even then the clavichord, "that lonely, melancholy, unspeakably sweet instrument," was not abandoned without lingering regret by the older musicians, and it still was to be found in occasional use as late as the beginning of the last century. How thoroughly modern the pianoforte is will be appreciated when it is said that a celebrated firm of English makers founded in 1730 did not begin to manufacture pianofortes until 1780 and continued the production of clavichords until 1793. Piano and Forte. Neither on the clavichord nor on the harpsichord could the player vary the strength of the tone which he produced, by the degree of force with which he struck the keys. Swells and pedals worked by the knees and the feet were devised to overcome this difficulty, but "touch" as we understand it to-day was impossible with the instruments in which the degree of sound to be produced was not under the control of the player's fingers. The clavichord was _piano_, the harpsichord was _forte_. Not until the invention of the hammer action, the substitution of hammers for tangents and quill-jacks, was an instrument possible in which whether the tone should be _piano_ or _forte_ depended upon the degree of strength with which the player struck the keys. This instrument was the first pianoforte. It was invented and so named in 1711 by Bartolomeo Cristofori, of Florence, and, although nearly two centuries have elapsed since then, the action used by many pianoforte manufacturers of to-day is in its essentials the same as that devised by this clever Italian. The invention frequently is ascribed to Gottfried Silbermann, a German (1683-1753). But the real situation is that Cristofori was the inventor, while Silbermann was the first successful manufacturer of the new instruments, from a business point of view. Time and improvements were required before they made their way, and how slow many professional musicians were in giving up the beloved clavichord for the pianoforte already has been pointed out. But the latter was bound to triumph in the end. I shall not attempt to give a technical description of the mechanism of the pianoforte. But I should like to answer a few questions which may have suggested themselves to players who may not have cared to take their instruments apart and examine them, or have not been present when their tuners have taken off the lid and exposed the strings and mechanism to view. The strings of the pianoforte are of steel wire, and their tension varies from twelve tons to nearly twenty. Those of the deepest bass are covered with copper wire. Eight or ten tones of the bass are produced by the vibration of these copper-wound strings. Above these, for about an octave and a half, the strings are in pairs, so that, the hammer striking them, there are two unison strings to a tone, simultaneously, and producing approximately twice as powerful a tone as if only one string had been set in vibration. The five remaining octaves have three strings to a tone. All Depends on the Player. When the fingers strike the keys the hammers strike the strings, the force of the stroke depending upon the force exerted by the player, this being the distinguishing merit of the pianoforte as compared with its precursors. Under the strings are a row of dampers, and as soon as a finger releases a key the corresponding damper springs into place against the vibrating strings, stops the vibrations, and the tone ceases. Thus the tone can be dampened immediately by raising the finger or prolonged by keeping the finger pressed down on the key. This is the device which enables the pianist to play _staccato_ or _legato_. The damper pedal, or loud pedal, checks the action of all the dampers and prolongs the tones even after the fingers have released the keys. The soft pedal brings the hammers nearer the strings, shortens the stroke and produces a softer tone. The simultaneous use of both pedals is a modern virtuoso effect and a very charming one, for the damper pedal prolongs the gentle tones produced by the use of the soft pedal. I believe Paderewski was the first of the great pianists who have visited this country, to employ this effect systematically, and that he was among the first composers to formally indicate the simultaneous employment of both pedals in passages in his compositions. There is a third pedal called the sustaining pedal, but I do not think it has proved as valuable an invention as was anticipated. Within recent years there have been introduced mechanical pianofortes, which I may designate as pianolas, after the most popular instrument of their class. In my opinion, these instruments are destined to play an important part in the diffusion of musical knowledge, and it is senseless to underestimate this. There are thousands of people who have neither the time nor the dexterity to master the technique of the pianoforte, who nevertheless are people of genuine musical feeling, and who are enabled through the pianola to cultivate their taste for music. The device renders the music accurately; whether expressively or not depends, as with the pianoforte itself, upon the taste of the person who manipulates it. Decorations That Do Not Beautify. The pianoforte often is spoken of as an instrument of ugly appearance. This it emphatically is not. If the straight side of the grand is placed against the wall the side toward the room presents a graceful, sweeping curve, while the upright effectively breaks the straight line of the wall against which it stands. If the pianoforte is ugly, it is due to the so-called "ornaments" that are placed upon it--the knicknacks, framed pictures and other senseless things. To my mind, there is but one thing which it is permissible to place upon a pianoforte, a slender vase with a single flower, preferably a rose--the living symbol of the soul that waits to be awakened within the instrument. Sheet music or bound books of music on top of a pianoforte are an abomination. If scattered about they look disorderly; if neatly arranged in portfolios, even worse, for they create the precise, orderly appearance of paths and mounds in a cemetery. Often, indeed, the pianoforte is a graveyard of musical hopes. Because of that, however, it need not be made to look like one. Equally objectionable is the elaborately decorated or "period" pianoforte designed for rooms decorated in the style of some historical art period. A pianoforte has no business in a "period" room. If the person is rich enough to afford "period" rooms, he also can afford a music room, and the simpler this is, within the bounds of good taste, and the less there is in it besides the instrument itself, the better. The more proficient the pianist the less he cares for decoration and the more satisfied he is with the pianoforte turned out in the ordinary course of business by the high-class manufacturer. No--decorated pianofortes are for those who are too rich to be musical. II BACH'S SERVICE TO MUSIC So important has been the rôle played by the pianoforte in the evolution of music that it is possible in these chapters on a pianoforte recital to give a general survey of the art, and thus prepare the reader to enjoy not only what he will hear at such a recital, but enable him to approach it with a more comprehensive knowledge than that would imply. This is one reason why I elected to lead with the chapters on the pianoforte instead of with those on the orchestra, as usually is done, because the orchestra is something "big." In point of fact, however, the pianoforte, so far as its influence is concerned, is quite as "big," if not, indeed, bigger than the orchestra; for often, in the evolution of music (as I pointed out in the previous chapter), this instrument, which is so sufficient in itself, has led the orchestra. In reviewing a pianoforte recital it therefore is quite possible to review many phases of musical history. Take as an example a composition by Bach, one of the preludes and fugues from "The Well-Tempered Clavichord," with which a pianoforte recital is quite apt to open. The selection illustrates a whole epoch in music which Bach rounded off and brought alike to its climax and its close. You will be apt to find this fugue rather complicated and, I fear, somewhat unintelligible, and this makes it necessary for me to point out at once that in some respects music has had a curious development. A Wagner music-drama, a Richard Strauss tone poem, seem elaborate and complicated affairs compared with a Beethoven sonata or symphony. Yet even the most advanced work of a Wagner or Strauss is neither as complicated nor as elaborate as a fugue by that past master of his art, Johann Sebastian Bach, who, although he was born in 1685 and did not live beyond the middle of the following century, was so far ahead of his age that not even to this day has he fully come into his own. The result is that the early classicists, Haydn and Mozart, who belong in point of time to a later epoch, may more readily be reckoned as "old-fashioned" than Father Bach. When at a recital you listen to a fugue by Bach and find it hard and labored--many people regard it simply as a difficult species of finger exercises--you think that is because it is so very ancient, something in the same class with Greek or Sanscrit. In point of fact it is because in some respects it is so very modern. Were it not for the importance of preserving an orderly historical sequence in a book of this kind, and that Bach usually is found at the beginning of a recital program, it would be almost more practical, and certainly far easier, for the author to leave Bach until later. When you write of Mozart, or of Beethoven and the moderns, you can depend upon more or less familiarity with their works on the part of your readers, whereas, comparatively few laymen know much about Bach. They associate the name with all that is formal and labored. Yet among my acquaintances is a young woman who was brought up in a very musical family, and who, having as a child heard her mother play the preludes and fugues of the "Well-Tempered Clavichord," finds Bach as simple as the alphabet. But hers is a most exceptional case. The appreciation of Bach, as a rule, comes only with advanced age. My music teacher used to say to me: "You rave over Schubert and Wagner now, but when you get to be as old as I am you will go back to Father Bach." While I cannot say that his prophecy has come true, while I still am ultra-modern in my musical predilections, my musical gods being Schubert, Chopin, Schumann, Liszt, Brahms, Richard Strauss and, above all, Wagner, I should consider myself unfit to write this book if I failed to realize the debt modern music owes to Bach, and that the more modern the music the greater the debt. Bach in Modern Music. One of the most remarkable phenomena in the history of the art--and a generalization like this is as much in place in discussing pianoforte music as elsewhere, because the instrument has had so much to do with the evolution of music--is the gap between Bach and modern music. While the following must not be taken too literally, it is true in general that Bach had little or no influence on the age that immediately came after him, the classical age of music, that age which we sum up in the names of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, the age of the sonata and the symphony. The three masters mentioned probably would have developed and composed much as they did had Bach never lived. But when a more modern composer, a romanticist like Wagner, wanted to enrich the means of musical expression handed down to him from the classical period, he reached back to Bach and combined Bach's teeming counterpoint with the harmonic system which had been inherited from Beethoven. To understand just what this means, to appreciate the influence Bach has had upon modern music and why he had little or none on the classical composers, it is necessary for the reader to have at least a reasonably clear conception of what that counterpoint is and wherein it differs from harmony; for with Bach counterpoint reached its climax, and all the possibilities of the style having been exhausted by him, music of necessity took a turn in another direction under the classicists and developed harmonically instead of contrapuntally; so that it can be said that modern music derives its counterpoint from Bach, its harmony from Beethoven, and its combination of the two systems from Wagner. There is another reason why the meaning of counterpoint should be explained and the difference between counterpoint and harmony be made clear to the reader now. Nearly all the early music, the music that preceded Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, and that sometimes is to be found on recital programs, is contrapuntal--written in counterpoint. As I have said before, it would be much easier to start with the sonata form, with harmony instead of counterpoint, for of the two harmony is the simpler. But we must "face the music"--the music of the old contrapuntal composers--and the best way to do this is to explain what harmony and counterpoint are and wherein they differ. Harmony and Counterpoint. A melody or theme is a rational progression of single tones. Here is the melody or theme with which Beethoven begins the familiar "Moonlight Sonata": [Music illustration] It is a melody, but it does not constitute harmony, for harmony is the rational combination of several tones, as distinguished from the rational progression of single tones which constitute melody. But when Beethoven adds an accompaniment to his theme and it becomes: [Music illustration] the passage also becomes harmony, since it is an example of the rational combination of several tones. As has often been pointed out in books on music, and probably often will have to be pointed out again, because as a mistake it is to be classed with the hardy perennials, melody is not harmony, but only a part of it. When, however, a composer conceives a theme or melody he usually does so with the purpose of combining it with an accompaniment that shall support it and throw it into bold and striking relief. Composers of the contrapuntal school, on the other hand, conceived a theme, not for the purpose of supporting it with an accompaniment, but in order to combine it with another or with several other equally important themes. That, in a general way, is the difference between harmony and counterpoint. In harmony, then, or, more strictly speaking, in music composed according to the harmonic system, of which the "Moonlight Sonata" is a good example, the theme, the melody, stands out from the accompaniment, which is subordinate. Counterpoint, on the other hand, rests on the combination of several themes, each of equal importance. This is the reason why, when there is a fugue or other complicated contrapuntal work on the program of a pianoforte recital, the average listener is apt to find it dry and uninteresting. His ear readily can distinguish the themes of a sonata, which usually are heard one at a time and stand out clearly from the accompaniment, but it has not been trained to unravel the themes of the fugue as they travel along together. Counterpoint, the term being derived from the Latin _contra punctum_, which means point against point or note against note, when complicated, as in a fugue, is about the most elaborate kind of music there is, and a person who is unable to grasp a fugue may console himself with the thought that, excepting for the elect, it is a pretty stiff dose to swallow at the very beginning of a recital. There are, however, simpler pieces of counterpoint than a fugue. Sometimes, as in the charming little "Gavotte" by Padre Martini, which now and then figures among the lighter numbers on the programs of historical recitals, the contrapuntist combines a theme with itself, or, rather, "imitates" it, which is a simple form of the canon. Another form of canon is the round of which "Three Blind Mice" is a familiar example. How many people, when singing this, have realized that they were being initiated into that mysterious thing known as counterpoint? A comparatively simple form of counterpoint is well illustrated by a dapper little piece in Bach's "Two-Part Inventions," in which the spirited theme given out by the right hand answers itself a bar later in the left, an "imitation" which crops out again and again in the piece and gives it somewhat the character of a canon. [Music illustration] For any one who wishes to become acquainted with Bach there is nothing better than these "Two-Part Inventions," especially the fascinating little piece from which I have just quoted, compact, buoyant and gay, even "pert," as I once heard a young girl characterize it; a perfect example of old Father Bach in moments of relaxation when he has laid aside his periwig and is amusing himself at his clavichord. What a Fugue Is. Bach's fugues, and especially his "Well-Tempered Clavichord," forty-eight preludes and fugues in all the keys, form the climax of contrapuntal music. Goethe once said that "the history of the world is a mighty fugue in which the voice of nation after nation becomes audible." This is a freely poetic definition of that highly complicated musical form, the fugue. Let me attempt to illustrate it in a different way. Imagine that a composer who is an adept in counterpoint places four pianists at different pianofortes, and that he gives a different theme to each of them, or a theme to one and modified versions of it to the others. He starts the first pianist, after a few bars nods to the second to join in with his theme, and so on successively with the other two. It might be supposed that when the second player joins in, the two themes sounding together would make discord, which would be aggravated by the addition of the third and fourth. But, instead, they have been so conceived by the contrapuntist that they sound well together as they chase and answer each other, or run counter to and parallel and enter into many different combinations, sometimes flowing along smoothly, at other times surging and striving, yet always, in the case of a truly great fugue, borne along by a momentum as inexorable as the march of Fate. Of course, it must not be supposed, because I have called four pianists into action in order to emphasize how distinct are these themes, which yet, when united, are found to blend together, that several players are required for the performance of a complicated piece of counterpoint like a fugue. What is demanded of the player is entire independence of the fingers, so that he can clearly differentiate between the themes and enable the hearer to distinguish them apart, even in their most complicated combinations. An edition of Bach's "Well-Tempered Clavichord" by Bernardus Boekelman prints the themes in different colors, so that they are easy to trace through all their interweaving, and is interesting to study from. The Fugue and the Virtuoso. In his book, "Beethoven and His Forerunners," Daniel Gregory Mason devotes a paragraph toward dispelling the mystery regarding the fugue that prevails with the public, and points out that "the actual formal rules, despite the awe they have immemorially aroused in the popular mind, are few and simple. After the first announcement of the subject by a single voice, it is answered by a second voice, at an interval of a fifth above; then again stated by a third voice, and answered by a fourth. This process goes on until each voice has had a chance to enunciate the motif, after which the conversation goes on more freely; the subject is announced in divers keys, by divers voices; episodes, in a congruous style, vary the monotony; at last the subject is emphatically asserted by the various voices in quick succession (_stretto_), and with some little display or grandiloquence the piece comes to an end." Further along in the same book Mr. Mason has a page of apostrophe to the Bach fugues. When he characterizes them as "the first great independent monuments of pure music," and refers to their "consummate beauty of structure," he pays them an eminently just tribute. But when he speaks of the "profundity, poignancy and variety of feeling they express," I am inclined to quote his own qualifying sentence from the next page of his book: "It is true, nevertheless, not only that the fugue form makes the severest demands on the attention and intelligence of the listener, but also that, because of the ecclesiastical origin and polyphonic style, it is incapable of the kind of highly personal, secular expression that it was in the spirit of the seventeenth century to demand." The same is even more true of the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The progress of music toward individual freedom of expression on the part of the composer, and equally so on the part of the interpreter, has been steady, and when, through the very perfection which Bach imparted to counterpoint, it ceased to attract composers as a means of expression because he had accomplished so much there was nothing more left for them to do along the same lines, the progress I have indicated received a great lift and stimulus. What Counterpoint Lacks. The lack of highly personal expression in contrapuntal compositions explains why most concert-goers find them less attractive than modern music. The "D Minor Toccata and Fugue" or the "Chromatic Fantasie and Fugue" by Bach, even in the arrangements of Tausig and Liszt, on the program of a pianoforte recital, are tolerated because of the modern pieces that come later. Nine out of ten persons in the house would rather omit them. Why deny so obvious a fact, especially when it is easy enough to explain? To follow a contrapuntal composition intelligently requires a highly trained ear. Moreover, in such a work as a Bach fugue the individuality of the player is of less importance than in modern music. Yet a virtuoso's individuality is the very thing that distinguishes him from other virtuosos and attracts the public to his concerts, while those of other players may be poorly attended. I firmly believe in personality of the virtuoso or singer or orchestral conductor, for in it lies the secret of individual interpretation, the reason why the performance of one person is fascinating or thrilling and that of another not. Modern music affords the player full scope to interpret it according to his own mood and fancy, to color it with his own personality, whereas contrapuntal music exists largely for itself alone. It is music for music's sake, not for the sake of interpreting some mood, some feeling, or of painting in tone colors something quite outside of music. The player of counterpoint is restricted in his power of expression by the very formulas of the science or art of the contrapuntist. We may marvel that Bach was able to move so freely within its restricted forms. But I think it true that it is far more interesting for a person even of only moderate proficiency as a player to work out, however awkwardly, a Bach fugue for himself on the pianoforte than to hear it played by some one else, however great; for, cheap and easy as it is to protest in high-sounding phrases about the duty of the interpreter to subordinate himself to the composer, and against what I am about to say, I nevertheless make bold to affirm that it is the province of the virtuoso to express himself, his own personality, his moods, his temperament, his subjective or even his subconscious self, through music; and in music that is purely contrapuntal there is a barrier to this individual power of expression. The Mission of the Player. We often hear it said of the greatest contemporary pianist that he is a great Chopin player, but not a great Bach player. He could not be, and at the same time be the greatest living virtuoso. It is the worshiper of tradition, the reserved, continent, scholarly player, the player who converts a Chopin nocturne into an icicle and a Schubert impromptu into a snowball, who revels in counterpoint--the player who always is slavishly subordinating himself to what he is pleased to call the "composer's intentions" and forgets that the truly great virtuoso creates when he interprets. Some times the virtuoso may go too far and depart too much from the character of the piece he is playing, subjecting it more than is permissible to his temporary mood; but it is better for art to err on the side of originality, provided it is not bizarre or freakish, than on the side of subserviency to tradition. While I have no desire, in writing as above, to exalt unduly the virtuoso, the interpreter of music, at the expense of the composer, I must insist that the great player also is creative, in the sense that every time he plays a work he creates it over again from his own point of view, and thus has at least a share in its parentage. Indeed, it seems more difficult to attain exalted rank as a virtuoso than to gain immortality as a composer. The world has produced two epoch-making virtuosos--Paganini on the violin, Liszt on the piano. Within about the same period covered by the careers of these two there have been half a dozen or even more composers, each of whom marks an epoch in some phase of the art. "The interpretive artist," says Henry G. Hanchett in his "Art of the Musician," "deserves a place no whit beneath that of the composer. No two composers have influenced musical progress in America more strongly than have Anton Rubinstein by his _playing_, and Theodore Thomas, who was not a composer." Music as a Science. But, to return to Bach and the other contrapuntists, music owes them an immense debt on the technical side. And right here, so universal are the deductions that can be drawn from the program of a pianoforte recital, it should be pointed out that music differs from other arts in having for its basis a profound and complicated science, a science that concerns itself with the relations of the notes of the musical scale to each other. Upon this science are based alike the "coon song" and the Wagner music-drama. What is true of "Tristan" is true also of "Bedelia." Each makes its draft upon the science of music; the music-drama, of course, in a far greater degree than the song. This science has its textbooks with their theorems and problems, like any other science, and theoretical musicians have produced learned and useful works on the subject which the great mass of laymen, many virtuosos, and indeed the average professional musician, may never have heard of, let alone have read. For a person not intuitively predisposed toward the subject would find the science of music as difficult to master as integral calculus; nor, in order to appreciate music, or even to interpret it, is it necessary to be versed in this science. A virtuoso can play a chord of the ninth, the listener can be thrilled by the virtuoso's playing of the chord of the ninth, without either of them knowing that there is such a thing as the chord of the ninth. Science versus Feeling. In fact, the person who is so well versed in the science of music that he can mentally analyze a composition while listening to it is apt to be so absorbed in the mere process of technical analysis that he misses its esthetic, its emotional significance. Thus a person may be very musical without being musical at all. He may have profound knowledge of music as a science and remain untouched by music as an art, just as a physicist may be an authority on the laws of light and color, yet stand unmoved before a great painting. With some people music is all science, with others all art, and I think the latter have the better of it. A musical genius is equipped both ways. The great composer employs the science of music as an aid in giving expression to his creative impulse. He makes science of service to the cause of art. Otherwise, while he might produce something that was absolutely correct, it would make no artistic appeal whatsoever. Thousands of symphonies have been composed, performed and forgotten. They were "well made," constructed with scientific accuracy from beginning to end, but had no value as art; and music is a profound science applied to the production of a great art. The composer, then, masters the science of music and bends it to his genius. If he is a great genius, he soon will discover that certain rules which his predecessors regarded as hard and fast, as inviolable, can be violated with impunity. He will discover new tone combinations, and thus enrich the science and make it serve the purposes of the art with greater efficiency than before he came upon the scene. And always the composers who have grown gray under the old system, the system upon which the new genius is grafting his new ideas, and the theorists and critics, who are slaves of tradition, will throw up their hands in horror and cry out that he is despoiling the art and robbing it of all that is sacred and beautiful, whereas he is adding to its scope and potency. Did not even so broad-minded a composer as Schumann say, "The trouble with Wagner is that he is not a musician"? So far was Wagner ahead of his time! While the great composer nearly always begins where his predecessors left off, he is sure to outstrip them later on. Even so rugged a genius as Beethoven is somewhat under Mozart's influence in his first works, and Wagner's "Rienzi" is distinctly Meyerbeerian. But genius soon learns to soar with its own wings and to look down with indifference upon the little men who are discharging their shafts of envy, malice and ignorance. That "Ear for Music." And while I am on the subject of the scientific musician _versus_ the music lover, the pedant _versus_ the innovator, I might as well refer to those people who have in a remarkable degree what is popularly known as "an ear for music," and who are able to remember and to play "by ear" anything they hear played or sung, even if it is for the first time. This ear for music, again, is something quite different from scientific knowledge of music or from the emotional sensitiveness which makes the music-lover. It is a purely physical endowment, and may--in fact, usually does--exist without a corresponding degree of real feeling for music. It is, of course, a highly valuable adjunct to a genuine musical genius like a Mozart or a Schubert and to a genuine virtuoso. It is related of Von Bülow that his ear for music and his memory were so prodigious that once, while traveling in the cars, he read over the printed pages of a new composition, and on arriving at his destination, played it, from memory, at his concert. William Mason, who studied with Liszt, witnessed his master perform a similar feat. The average untrained person with a musical ear, however, instead of being a genius, is apt to become a nuisance, playing all kinds of cheap music in and out of season--a sort of peripatetic pianola, without the advantage of being under control. Such persons, moreover, usually are born without a soft pedal. Bach and the Weather Bureau. This digression, which I have made in order to discuss the difference between music as a science and music as an art, a distinction which, I have pointed out, often is so marked that a person may be thoroughly equipped on the scientific side of music without being sensitive to its beauty as an art, seemed to me necessary at this stage. I am reminded by it of the distinction which Edmund Clarence Stedman, in his "Nature and Elements of Poetry," so wittily draws between the indications of a storm as described by a poet and by the official prognostications of the Weather Bureau. Mr. Stedman quotes two stanzas: "When descends on the Atlantic the gigantic Storm-wind of the Equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges the toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks." And this stanza by a later balladist: "The East Wind gathered, all unknown, A thick sea-cloud his course before; He left by night the frozen zone, And smote the cliffs of Labrador; He lashed the coasts on either hand, And betwixt the Cape and Newfoundland, Into the bay his armies pour." All this impersonation and fancy is translated by the Weather Bureau into something like the following: "An area of extreme low pressure is rapidly moving up the Atlantic Coast, with wind and rain. Storm-center now off Charleston, S. C. Wind N. E.; velocity, 54. Barometer, 29.6. The disturbance will reach New York on Wednesday, and proceed eastward to the Banks and Bay of St. Lawrence. Danger signals ordered for all North Atlantic ports." Far be it from me to imply that contrapuntal music in general or Bach in particular represents the Weather Bureau. None the less is it true that Bach appeals more strongly to the scientific musician than to the music-lover who seeks in music a secondary meaning--love, passion, grief; the mood awakened by the contemplation of a forest landscape with its murmuring foliage, a boundless prairie, or the unquiet sea. The technical indebtedness of modern music to Bach is so immense, and the artistic probity of the man himself was so wonderful, for he worked calmly on, in spite of what was worse than opposition--neglect--that I think the tendency on the part of Bach enthusiasts, while not overrating the importance of the influence he has had during the past fifty years or more, is to underrate others as compared with him. When critics declare that one virtuoso or another is not a great Bach player, are they not ignoring what is a simple fact--that no player can make the same appeal through Bach that it is possible for him to make through modern music, and that, as a rule, when a virtuoso, however good a musician he may be, places Bach on his program, he does so not from predilection, but as a tribute to one of the greatest names in musical history? It seems to me that the extreme Bach enthusiasts can be divided into two classes--musicians who are able to appreciate what he did for music on its technical side, and people who want to create the impression that they know more than they really do. The Bacon, Not the Shakespeare, of Music. Bach's greatest importance to music lies in his having treated it in the abstract and for itself alone, so that when he penned a work he did this not to bring home to the listener the significance of a certain mood or situation, but from pure delight in following out a musical problem to its most extreme development. Algebra makes mighty interesting study, but furnishes rather a poor subject for dramatic reading. This simile must, of course, be taken with a grain of salt, and merely as illustrating in a general way my contention that Bach's great service to music was technical and intellectual. He was the Bacon, not the Shakespeare, of music, and the contrapuntal structure that he reared is to the art what the Baconian theorem is to logic. We can imagine the roamer in the field of higher mathematics suddenly becoming excited as he sees the end of the path leading to the solution of some complicated problem in full view. Thus there may be moments when even the cube root becomes emotional, the logarithmic theory a dissipation, and differential calculus an orgy. So, too, Bach put an enthusiasm into his work that often threatens to sweep the student off his intellectuals and make him regard a fugue as a scientifically constructed fairyland. Moreover, there are Bach pieces in which the counterpoint supports the purest kind of melody, like the air for the G string which Thomas arranged for his orchestra with all the strings, save the double basses, in unison, and played with an effect that never failed to secure a repeat and sometimes a double encore. What Wagner Learned from Bach. If we bear in mind that counterpoint is the artistic combination of several themes, each of equal or nearly equal importance, and that Bach was the greatest master of the contrapuntal school and forms its climax, we can, with a little thought, appreciate what his service has been to modern music. When Wagner devised his system of leading motives it was not for the purpose of employing them singly, like labels tacked onto each character, thing or symbol in the drama, but of combining them, welding them together, when occasion arose, in order to give musical significance and expression to each and every dramatic situation as the story unfolded itself. A shining example of this is found in that wonderful last scene of "Die Walküre," the so-called Magic Fire Scene. _Wotan_ has said farewell to _Brünnhilde_; has thrown her into a profound slumber upon the rock; has surrounded her with a circle of magic flame which none but a hero may penetrate to awaken and win her. How is this scene treated in the score? In the higher register of the orchestra crackles and sparkles the Magic Fire Motive, the Slumber Motive gently rising and falling with the flames; while the superb Siegfried Motive (signifying that the yet unborn _Siegfried_ is the hero destined to break through the fiery circle) resounds in the brass, and there also is a suggestion of the tender strains with which _Wotan_ bade _Brünnhilde_ farewell. The welding together of these four motives into one glorious whole of the highest dramatic significance is Wagnerian counterpoint--science employed in the service of art and with thrilling effect. Another passage from Wagner, the closing episode in the "Meistersinger" Vorspiel, often is quoted to show Wagner's skill in the use of counterpoint, although he employs it so spontaneously that few people stop to consider how scientific his musical structure is. W. J. Henderson, in his capital book, "The Orchestra and Orchestral Music," relates that on one occasion a professional musician was engaged in a discussion of Wagner in the corridor of the Metropolitan Opera House, while inside the orchestra was playing this "Meistersinger" Vorspiel. "It is a pity," said this wise man, in a condescending manner, "but Wagner knows absolutely nothing about counterpoint." At that very instant the orchestra was singing five different melodies at once; and, as Anton Seidl was the conductor, they were all audible. Wagner scores, in fact, teem with counterpoint, but counterpoint that palpitates, that thrills with emotion. Note that Mr. Henderson speaks of melodies. Wagner's leading motives are melodies, sometimes very brief, but always expressive, and not, like the themes of the old contrapuntists, conceived mainly for the sake of being combined scientifically with other themes equally adaptable to that purpose. Counterpoint may be, and usually is, something very dry and formal. But from the crucible of the master magician, Richard Wagner, it flows a glowing, throbbing, pulsating stream of most precious metal. The Language of an Epoch. In the difference between the counterpoint of Bach and the counterpoint of Wagner lies the difference between two epochs separated by a long period of time. With Bach counterpoint was everything; with Wagner merely an incident. It will help us to a better understanding of music if we bear in mind that the two great composers of each epoch spoke in the music of that epoch. Thus Bach spoke in the language of counterpoint. His themes, however greatly they may vary among themselves, all bear the stamp of motives devised for the purpose of entering into formal combinations and of being developed according to the stringent rules of counterpoint. Beethoven's are more individual, more expressive of moods and emotions. Yet about them, too, there is something formal. They, too, are devised to be treated according to certain rules--to be molded into sonatas. But with Wagner we feel that music has thrown off the shackles of arbitrary form, of dry rule and rote. His motives suggest absolute freedom of expression and development, through previously undreamed-of wealth of harmony and contrapuntal combinations which are mere incidents, not the chief purpose of their being. Each represents some person, impulse or symbol in a drama; represents them with such eloquence and power that, once we know for what they stand, we need but hear them again or recall them to memory to have the corresponding episode in the music-drama in which they occur brought vividly before our eyes. Bach's language was the language of the fugue; Beethoven's the language of the sonata. Fugue and sonata are musical forms. Wagner spoke the language of no form. His language is that of the free, plastic, unfettered leading motive--the language of liberated music, of which he himself was the liberator! Whether Wagner would have devised his system of leading motives without the wonderful structure of counterpoint left by Bach; whether Bach's counterpoint, his combination of themes, suggested the system of leading motives to the greatest master of them all, we probably never shall know. The system, in its completeness, doubtless is Wagner's own; but when he came to put it into practical effect he found the rich heritage left by Bach ready to hand. One of Wagner's instructors in musical theory, and the one from whose teaching he himself declares he learned most, was Theodor Weinlig, one of Bach's successors as Cantor of the Thomasschule at Leipsic. Wagner quotes him as having said: "You may never find it necessary to compose a fugue, but the ability to do it often may stand you in good stead." And the Cantor set him exercises in all varieties of counterpoint. There thus is presented the phenomenon of a composer who for nearly a century after his death had little or no influence on the course of music, suddenly becoming a potent force in its most modern development. Bach in the Recital Hall. Bach is so supreme in his own line that contrapuntal music, so far as the pianoforte is concerned, may be dismissed with him. Händel, too, it is true, was a master of the contrapuntal school, but he belongs to the chapter on oratorio. Bach's pianoforte works in smaller form are the "Two-Part Inventions" already mentioned; the "Three-Part Inventions," which go a step farther in contrapuntal treatment, and the "Partitas," the six "French Suites" and the six "English Suites." These partitas and suites are the most graceful and charming efflorescence of the contrapuntal school, and much could be accomplished toward making Bach a popular composer if they figured more frequently on recital programs. They are made up of the dance forms of the day--allemandes, courants, bourrées, sarabandes, minuets, gavottes, gigues, with airs thrown in for good measure; the partitas and English suites furnished with more elaborate introductions, while the French suites begin with allemandes. Cheerful and even frisky as some of the dance pieces in these compositions are, it must not be supposed that they were intended to be danced to when contrapuntally treated--no more than Chopin intended that people should glide through a ballroom to the music of his waltzes. Besides "sonatas" for pianoforte with one or more other instruments, among them the six "Sonatas for Pianoforte and Violin" (the term sonata as employed here must not be confused with the classical sonata form as developed by Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven), Bach composed concertos for from one to four pianofortes. Of these latter the one best known in this country is the so-called "Triple Concerto," for three pianofortes with accompaniment of string quartet, which can at will be increased to a string orchestra. In 1873, during Rubinstein's tour, I heard it played in New York, under Theodore Thomas's direction, by Rubinstein, William Mason and Sebastian Bach Mills, and three years later by Mme. Annette Essipoff, Mr. Mason and Mr. Boscovitz. Mason, when he was studying under Liszt in Weimar in 1854, had performed it with two fellow-pupils, and Liszt had been very particular in regard to the manner in which they played the many embellishments (_agréments_) which were used in Bach's time. Later, Mason found that whenever three pianists came together for the purpose of playing this concerto they were certain to disagree regarding "the agreements," and usually wasted much time in discussing them, especially the mordent. Rubinstein and the "Triple Concerto." Accordingly, when Mason played the "Triple Concerto" with Rubinstein and Mills, he came to the rehearsal armed with a book by Friedrich Wilhelm Marburg, published in Berlin in 1765, and giving written examples of all the _agréments_. "I told Rubinstein about my ancient authority," says Mr. Mason in his entertaining "Memories of a Musical Life," "adding that we should be spared the tediousness of a discussion as to the manner of playing. "'Let me see the old book,' said Rubinstein. Running over the leaves he came to the illustrations of the mordent. The moment his eyes fell upon them he exclaimed: 'All wrong; here is the way I play it!'" And that ended the usefulness of "the old book" for that particular occasion, the other two pianists adopting, without comment, Rubinstein's method, which Mr. Mason intimates was incorrect. When, at the rehearsal with Essipoff, the mordent came up for discussion she exclaimed: "'I cannot play these things; show me how they are done.' After repeated trials, however," records Mr. Mason, "she failed to get the knack of playing them, as indeed so many pianists do; so at the rehearsal she omitted them and left their performance to Boscovitz and me." "The Well-Tempered Clavichord." Bach's monumental work for pianoforte, however, is "The Well-Tempered Clavichord," consisting of forty-eight preludes and fugues in all keys. I find much prevalent ignorance among amateurs regarding the meaning of "well-tempered" as used in this title. I have heard people explain it by saying that when a pianist had mastered the book he was "tempered" like steel and ready for any difficulties that other music might present! I even have heard a rotund and affable person say that "The Well-Tempered Clavichord" was so entitled because when you listened to its preludes and fugues it smoothed out your temper and made you feel good-natured! In point of fact, the word is difficult to explain in untechnical language. It relates, however, to Bach's method of tuning his clavichord--another boon which he conferred upon music. In general, the system may be explained by the statement that certain tone intervals, which theoretically are pure, practically result in harmonic discrepancies, which Bach's "tempered" system corrected. In other words, slight and practically imperceptible inaccuracies are introduced in the tuning in order to counterbalance the greater faults which result when tuning is absolutely correct from a theoretical point of view; just as, in navigating the high northern waters, you are obliged to make allowance for variations of the compass. The system was not actually the invention of Bach, but he did so much to promote its adoption that it is associated with his name. Before it was adopted it was impossible to employ all the major and minor keys on clavichords and harpsichords, and on the pianofortes, just beginning to come into use. It became possible under the tempered system of tuning, and was illustrated by Bach in "The Well-Tempered Clavichord," each major and minor key being represented by a prelude and fugue. Besides the system of tuning in "equal temperament," Bach modernized the technique of fingering by introducing the freer and more frequent employment of the hitherto neglected thumb and little finger. The services of this great man to music, therefore, were threefold. He left us his teeming counterpoint, upon which modern music draws so freely; he promoted the system of tuning in equal temperament; and he laid the foundation of modern pianoforte technique, and so of modern virtuosity. A King's Tribute to Bach. Besides being a great composer, Bach's traits as a man were most admirable. He was uncompromising in his convictions, sturdy, honest and upright. His fixedness of purpose is shown by an anecdote of his boyhood. In his tenth year he lost his parents and went to live with an elder brother, who was so jealous of his superior talents that he refused him the loan of a manuscript volume of music by composers of the day. Obtaining possession of it without his brother's knowledge, Bach secretly copied it at night by moonlight, the task covering something like six months. His reward was to have it taken away by his brother, who accidentally discovered him playing from it. Fortunately, this brother died soon afterward, and Bach recovered his treasure. While it is true that Bach remained unappreciated by the great mass of his contemporaries, there were exceptions, a notable one being the music-loving king, Frederick the Great of Prussia, whose service the composer's second son, Philipp Emanuel Bach, entered in 1746. At the king's earnest urging, Philipp Emanuel induced his father to visit Potsdam the following year. The king, who had arranged a concert at the palace, was about to begin playing on the flute, when an officer entered and handed him a list of the strangers who had arrived at Potsdam. Glancing over it, Frederick discovered Bach's name. "Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "old Bach is here!" And nothing would do save that the master must be brought immediately into the royal presence, before he even had time to doff his traveling clothes. The king had purchased several of the pianofortes recently constructed by Gottfried Silbermann and had them distributed throughout the palace. Bach and the assemblage went from room to room, the composer playing and improvising on the different instruments. Finally he asked the king to set him a fugue theme, and on this he extemporized in such masterly fashion that all who heard him, the king included, broke out into rounds of applause. On his return to Leipsic, Bach dedicated to Frederick the Great a work which he entitled "The Musical Sacrifice" (or offering), which he based upon the fugue theme the king had given him. No other instance of musical heredity is comparable with that afforded by the Bach family. Dr. Theodore Baker, in his "Biographical Dictionary of Musicians," gives a list of no less than twenty Bachs, all of the same line, whom he deems worthy of mention, and who covered a period ranging from 1604 to 1845, when the great Bach's grandson and last male descendant, Wilhelm Friedrich Ernst Bach, died in Berlin. Thus for two hundred and forty-one years the Bach family was professionally active in music. III FROM FUGUE TO SONATA If a pianoforte recital which begins with a Bach fugue continues with a Beethoven sonata, it does not require a very discriminating ear to note the difference between the two. The Beethoven sonata is in a style so entirely distinct from that of the fugue, and sounds so wholly unlike it, that it seems as if Bach had exerted no influence whatsoever upon the greatest master of the period that followed his death. Although Haydn and Mozart were nearer Bach in point of time than Beethoven was, a sonata by either of them, if it chanced to be on the program, would show the same difference in style, the same radical departure from the works of the master of counterpoint, as the Beethoven sonata. The question naturally suggests itself, did Bach's influence cease with his death? And the fact that this question calls for an answer and that this answer leads to a general consideration of the interim between Bach and Beethoven, again shows how broad in its scope as an instrument is the pianoforte and how comprehensive in its application to music as a whole is the music of that instrument. Two works on a recital program furnish a legitimate basis for a discussion of two important periods in the development of music! Who would have thought there was so much to a pianoforte recital? "It would have been an eminently pardonable mistake for any intelligent musician to have fallen into, in the third quarter of the eighteenth century, if he had concluded that Johann Sebastian Bach's career was a failure, and that his influence upon the progress of his art amounted to the minimum conceivable. Indeed, the whole course of musical history in every branch went straight out of the sphere of his activity for a long while; his work ceased to have any significance to the generation which succeeded him, and his eloquence fell upon deaf ears. A few of his pupils went on writing music of the same type as his in a half-hearted way, and his own most distinguished son, Philipp Emanuel, adopted at least the artistic manner of working up his details and making the internal organization of his works alive with figure and rhythm. But even he, the sincerest composer of the following generation, was infected by the complacent, polite superficiality of his time; and he was forced, in accepting the harmonic principle of working in its Italian phase, to take with it some of the empty formulas and conventional tricks of speech which had become part of its being, and which sometimes seem to belie the genuineness of his utterances and put him somewhat out of touch with his whole-hearted father." This passage from one of the most admirably thought-out books on music I know, Sir Hubert Parry's "Evolution of the Art of Music," is no exaggeration. For many years after Bach's death, for nearly a century in fact, his influence was but little felt. And yet so aptly does the development of art adjust itself to human needs and aspirations, the very neglect into which Bach fell turned music into certain channels from which it derived the greater freedom of expression essential to its progress and gave it the tinge of romanticism which is the essence of modern music. The greatness of Johann Sebastian Bach, on the technical side at least, now is so universally acknowledged, and professional musicians understand so well what their art owes to him, we are apt to think of him as the only musician of his day, whereas his significance was but little appreciated by his contemporaries. There were, in fact, other composers actively working on other lines and turning music in the direction it was destined to follow immediately after Bach's death--and for its own ultimate good, be it observed. The simple fact is, that pure counterpoint culminated in Bach. What he accomplished was so stupendous that his successors could not keep up with him. They became exhausted before they even were prepared to begin where he left off. And yet the reaction from Bach was, as I have indicated, absolutely necessary to the further progress of music. The scheme of musical development which the reader should bear in mind if he desires to understand music, and to arrive at that understanding with some kind of system in his progress, was briefly as follows: Three Periods of Musical Development. First we have counterpoint, the welding together of several themes each of equal importance. This style of composition culminated in Bach. Its most elaborate form of expression was the fugue; but it also employed the canon and impressed into its service certain minor forms like the allemande, courant, chaçonne, gavotte, saraband, gigue, and minuet. Next, after Bach music began to develop according to the harmonic system, or, if I may be permitted for the sake of clarity to use an expression which technically is incorrect, according to the melodic system. That is, instead of combining several themes, composers took one theme or melody and supported it with an accompaniment so that the melody stood out in clear relief. This first decided melodic development covers the classical period, the period after Bach to Beethoven, and its highest form of expression was the sonata, which in the orchestra became the symphony. The romantic period comes after Beethoven. This, to characterize it by the readiest means, by something external, something the eye can see, is the "single piece" period, the period in which the impromptu of Schubert, the song without words of Mendelssohn, the nocturne of Chopin, the novelette of Schumann, takes the place of the sonata, which consists of a group of pieces or movements. Composers begin to find a too exacting insistence upon correctness of form irritating. Expression becomes of more importance than form, which is promptly violated if it interferes with the composer's trend of thought or feeling. Pieces are written in certain moods, and their melody is developed so as to follow and give full expression to the mood in which it is conceived. New harmonies are fearlessly invoked for the same purpose. Everything centres in the idea that music exists not as an accessory to form, but for the free expression of emotion. In his useful and handy "Dictionary of Musical Terms," Theodore Baker defines a nocturne as a title for a piano piece "of a dreamily romantic or sentimental character, but lacking a distinctive form." When we see the title "Sonata" over a composition we think of form. When we see the title "Nocturne" we think of mood, not manner. The title arouses within us, by anticipation, the very feeling, the very mood, the very emotional condition which the composer is seeking to express. The form in which he seeks to express it is wholly a secondary matter. A composition is a sonata because it follows a certain formal development. It is a nocturne because it is "dreamily romantic or sentimental." In no better way, perhaps, could the difference between the classical period of music and the romantic period which set in after Beethoven be explained. The romanticist is no more hampered by form than the writer of poetry or fiction is by facts. Form dominates feeling in classical music, feeling dominates form in romantic music. We still are and, happily, ever shall remain in the romantic period. The greatest of all romanticists and, up to the present time, the greatest of all composers is Richard Wagner, whose genius will be appreciated more and more as years go by until, as may be the case, a still greater one will arise; although as dramatic literature culminated in Shakespeare, so music may have found its greatest master for all time in Wagner. Wagner, of course, was not a composer for the pianoforte, but when he reached back and to the fuller harmony inherited from Beethoven added the counterpoint of Bach, thus combining the two great systems of composition, he indicated the only method of progress possible for music of all kinds. Rise of the Melodic School. It must not be supposed that the melodic school which came in after Bach and which, so far as the classical form of the sonata is concerned, culminated in Beethoven, was the mushroom growth of a night. So much has been said of Bach that a person unfamiliar with the history of music might draw the erroneous conclusion that Bach was the only composer worth mentioning before the classical period and Germany the only country in which music had flourished. On the contrary, Bach was the climax of a school to which several countries had each contributed its share, partly vocal, partly instrumental. Palestrina's name naturally comes to mind as representative of the early period of Italian church music; there also was the "Belgian Orpheus," Orlandus Lassus (or Lasso), the greatest composer of the Flemish school; and England had its Gibbons and other madrigal composers. Their music was vocal and requires to be considered more thoroughly under the head of vocal music, but it also was contrapuntal and played its part in the general development of the art before Bach came upon the scene. Of course, there also was instrumental music in counterpoint before Bach's day. There is "Queen Elizabeth's Virginal Book," a manuscript collection of music made either during her reign or shortly afterward and containing pieces for the virginal by Tallis, Bird, Giles, Dr. John Bull and others, including also the madrigalist, Gibbons. The Englishman, Henry Purcell (1658-1695); the Frenchman, François Couperin (1668-1733), who wrote a harpsichord method; the Germans, Hans Leo von Hasler (1564-1612) and Froberger; and the Italian, Frescobaldi--these were some among many composers of counterpoint more or less noted in their day. Bach, however, brought the art of counterpoint to perfection, so that, so far as it is concerned, he neither required nor even so much as left room for a successor. It may not be pertinent to the argument, yet it may well be questioned whether, had the classical trio, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, endeavored to carry on the contrapuntal school, they would not, in spite of their genius, have relegated music to a more primitive state than it occupied when Bach died. It seems a fortunate circumstance to me that Bach's son appears to have realized his inferiority to his father and that, in consequence, he turned from counterpoint to the development of harmony--the working out of a clearly defined theme or melody supported by accompaniment. Counterpoint is said to be polyphonic, a term composed of two Greek words signifying many-voiced, the combination in music of several parts or themes. Opposed to it is homophonic, or single-voiced, music, in which one melody or part is supported by an accompaniment. Italy, with its genius for the sensuous and emotional in music, already had developed a school of melodic music, and to this Philipp Emanuel Bach turned for a model. In Italy the pianoforte, through its employment for the freer harmonic support of dramatic solo singing in opera, an art form that is indigenous to Italy, gradually had emancipated itself there from counterpoint and acquired a style of its own. Girolamo Frescobaldi (1583-1644), a famous Italian pianoforte and organ virtuoso, whose first organ recital in St. Peter's, Rome, is said to have attracted an audience of thirty thousand, and whose mantle fell upon his two most renowned pupils, the German, Johann Jacob Froberger, and the Italian, Bernardo Pasquini, not only experimented with our modern keys, seeking to replace with them the old ecclesiastical modes in which Palestrina wrote, but also simplified the method of notation. For even what seems to us so simple a matter as the five-line staff is the result of slow evolution. Scarlatti's Importance as Composer and Virtuoso. The Italian genius who gave the greatest impulse to the progress of pianoforte music and who, for his day, immensely improved the technique of pianoforte playing, was Domenico Scarlatti (1683-1757), the famous son of a famous father, Alessandro Scarlatti, the leading dramatic composer of his time. Domenico Scarlatti interests us especially because he is the only one of the early Italians whose work retains an appreciable foothold on modern recital programs. Von Bülow edited selections from his works, and I recall from personal experience, because I was at the concert, the delight with which some of these were received the first time Von Bülow played them on his initial visit to this country during the season of 1875-76. Amateurs on the outlook for something new (even though it was very old) took up Scarlatti, and this early Italian's suddenly acquired popularity was comparable with the "run" on the Rachmaninoff "Prelude" when it was played here by Siloti many years later. Scarlatti has been called the founder of modern pianoforte technique. Although he composed for the harpsichord, he understood the instrument so thoroughly and what he wrote for it accords so well with its genius, that by unconscious anticipation it also was adapted to the genius of the modern pianoforte. It still is pianistic; more pianistic and more suitable to the modern repertoire than a good deal of music by greater men who lived considerably later. I should say, for example, that Scarlatti's name is found more frequently on pianoforte recital programs than Mozart's, although Mozart was incomparably the greater genius. But there is about Scarlatti's music such a quaint and primitive charm that one always listens to it with the zest of a discoverer, whereas Mozart's pianoforte music, although more modern, just misses being modern enough. This clever Italian gives us the early beginnings of the sonata form. He merely lisps in sonata accents, it is true, but his lisp is as fascinating as the ingenuous prattle of an attractive child. His best, known work, "The Cat's Fugue," the subject of which is said to have been suggested to him by a cat gliding over the keyboard, is indeed contrapuntal. But even this is a movement in a sonata, and the characteristic of his works as a whole is the fact that in most of them he developed and worked out a melody or theme, and that he established the fundamental outlines of the sonata form. Comparatively few laymen have more than a vague idea of what is meant by sonata form. To them a sonata simply is a composition consisting of several movements, usually four, three of them of considerable length, with a shorter one (a minuet or scherzo) between the first and second or the second and fourth. A sonata, however, must have one of its movements (and generally it will be found to be the first) written in a certain form. Regarding the Scarlatti sonatas, suffice it to say here that with him the form still is in its primitive simplicity. For example, the true sonata movement as we now understand it employs two themes, the second contrasting with the first. As a rule, Scarlatti is content with one theme. It is the peculiar merit of Philipp Emanuel Bach that he introduced a second theme into his sonatas, or suggested it by striking modulations when he employed only one theme, and thus paved the way for its further elaboration by Joseph Haydn. Mozart elaborated the form still further, and then came Beethoven, with whom the classical period reached its climax and whose sonatas for all practical purposes have completely superseded those of his forerunners. Rise of the Amateur. Characteristic of the period of transition from Bach to Beethoven, from the fugue to the sonata, was the development of popular interest in music. Scarlatti begins a brief introduction to a collection of thirty of his pianoforte pieces which were published in 1746, by addressing the "amateur or professor, whoever you be." Significant in this is the inclusion of, in fact the seeming preference given to the amateur. Music of the counterpoint variety had been music for the church, the court and the professional. Now, with the development of the freer harmonic or melodic system, it was growing more in touch with the people. During Philipp Emanuel Bach's life the increase of popular interest in music was remarkable. The titles that began to appear on compositions show that composers were reaching out for a larger public. Bie quotes some of them: "Cecilia Playing on the Pianoforte and Satisfying the Hearing"; "The Busy Muse Clio"; "Pianoforte Practice for the Delight of Mind and Ear, in Six Easy _Galanterie Parties_ Adapted to Modern Taste, Composed Chiefly for Young Ladies"; "The Contented Ear and the Quickened Soul"; while Philipp Emanuel Bach inscribes some of his pieces as "easy" or "for ladies." Evidently the "young person" figured as extensively in the calculations of musical composers then as she does now in those of the publishers of fiction. Musical periodicals sprang up like mushrooms--"Musical Miscellany," "Floral Garnerings for Pianoforte Amateurs," "New Music Journal for Encouragement and Entertainment in Solitude at the Pianoforte for the Skilled and Unskilled," such were some of the titles. These periodicals often went the way of most periodical flesh and in the customary brief period, but they show a quickened public interest in music--the "contented ear and the quickened soul," so to speak. Changes in Musical Taste. If I dismiss Philipp Emanuel Bach rather curtly and, in this portion of the book at least, do the same with Haydn and Mozart, this is not because I fail to appreciate their importance in musical history, but because they have failed to retain their hold on the modern pianoforte repertoire. The simple fact is that the pianoforte as an instrument has outgrown their music. We can get more out of it than they gave it. If we bear in mind that the pianoforte, as well as music itself, has developed, it will aid us in understanding why so much music, once considered far in advance of its time and even revolutionary, has so soon become antiquated. Why ignore facts? Some examples of primitive music still survive because they charm us with their quaintness. But the classical period is retiring more and more into the shadow of history. Whatever importance Haydn and Mozart may possess for the student, their pianoforte music, so far as practical program-making is concerned, is to-day a negligible quantity. I remember the time when, as a pupil, I pored with breathless interest over the pages of Mozart's "Sonata in A Minor" and his "Fantasy and Sonata in C Minor." But to-day, when I read in a book published about twenty-five years ago that Mozart indulged in harmonies, chord progressions and modulations, "sometimes considered of doubtful propriety even now" and "quite as harshly censured as are to-day the similar licenses of free-thinking composers"--I wonder where they are. For his own day, nevertheless, Mozart was an innovator, as every genius is; for it is through those daring deviations of genius from established rule and tradition, which contemporaries regard as unjustifiable license, that art progresses. This should be borne in mind by those who were intolerant toward the opponents of Wagner, yet now are guilty of a similar solecism in proclaiming Richard Strauss a charlatan. Assuming that the modern pianoforte pupil is but indifferently nourished on the Mozart pabulum, let me add that this composer also was a virtuoso, and by his choice of the pianoforte over the clavichord did much toward making the modern instrument more popular. He also developed the sonata form so that Beethoven found it ready moulded for his genius. In fact the sonata form as we know it is so much a Mozart creation that Mr. Hanchett, in his "Art of the Musician," suggests calling the sonata movement proper a mozarta--a suggestion which I presume will never be adopted. Beethoven and the Epoch of the Sonata. In the history of music there are three figures that easily tower above the rest. Each represents an era. They are Bach, who stands for counterpoint, the epoch of the fugue; Beethoven, who represents the epoch of the sonata; Wagner, who represents the epoch of the music-drama. The first two summed up in themselves certain art forms which others had originated. Bach's root goes back to Palestrina, Beethoven's to Scarlatti. Wagner presents the phenomenon of being both the germ and the full fruition of the art form for which he stands. It is conceivable that the work of these men will at some time fall into desuetude, for in art all things are possible, and the classical period seems to be losing its grip on music more and more every day and we ourselves may live to see the sonata movement become obsolete. It certainly is having less and less vogue, and a composer who now writes a sonata with undeviating allegiance to its classical outlines, deliberately invites neglect, because the listener no longer cares to have his faculties of appreciation restricted by too rigid insistence upon form, preferring that genius should have the utmost latitude and be absolutely untrammeled in giving expression to what it has to say. Nevertheless, music always will bear the impress of these three master minds, just as our language, although we do not speak in blank verse, always will bear the impress of Shakespeare. "I don't think much of that play," exclaimed the countryman, after hearing "Hamlet" for the first time. "It's all made up of quotations!" Equally familiar, not to say colloquial, are certain musical phrases, certain modulations, which have come down to us from the masters. Although Beethoven no longer is the all-dominant figure in the musical world that he was fifty years ago, and it requires a performance of the "Ninth Symphony" given under specially significant circumstances (such as the conducting of a Felix Weingartner) to attract as many to a concert hall as would be drawn by an ordinary Wagner program, I trust I shall know how to appreciate his importance to the development of musical art and approach him with the reverence that is his due. Like all great men who sum up an epoch, he found certain things ready to hand. The Frenchman, Jean Philippe Rameau (1683-1764), "the creator of the modern system of harmony," had published his "Nouveau Système de Musique Théorique"; the sonata movement from its tentative beginnings under Scarlatti had been developed through Philipp Emanuel Bach, Haydn and Mozart into a definite art form awaiting the final test of a great genius--which Beethoven proved to be. Beethoven's Slow Development. I already have pointed out that while pianoforte and orchestra have developed side by side, the general belief that the pianoforte merely has been the handmaiden of the orchestra is a mistaken one. On the contrary, until the end of the classical period, at least, the pianoforte was the pioneer. It has blazed the way for the orchestra and led it, instead of bringing up the rear. Thus the sonata form was developed by the pianoforte and then was handed over by that instrument to the orchestra under the name of symphony, which, the reader should bear in mind, simply is a sonata written for orchestra instead of for the pianoforte. Even Beethoven, before he composed his first symphony, which is his Opus 21, tested his mastery of the form and his ideas regarding certain further developments in it, by first composing thirteen pianoforte sonatas, including the familiar "Pathétique," which used to be to concert programs what Liszt's "Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2" is now--the _cheval de battaille_, on which pianists pranced up and down before the ranks of their astonished audiences and unfortunate amateurs sought to retain their equilibrium. This experimentation, this comparatively slow development, was characteristic of Beethoven; is, in fact, characteristic of every genius who works from the soul outward. "Like most artists whose spur is more in themselves than in natural artistic facilities, he was very slow to come to any artistic achievement," writes Sir Hubert Parry. "It is almost a law of things that men whose artistic personality is very strong, and who touch the world by the greatness and the power of their expression, come to maturity comparatively late, and sometimes grow greater all through their lives--so it was with Bach, Gluck, Beethoven and Wagner--while men whose aims are more purely artistic and whose main spur is facility of diction, come to the point of production early and do not grow much afterward. Such composers as Mozart and Mendelssohn succeeded in expressing themselves brilliantly at a very early age; but their technical facility was out of proportion to their individuality and their force of human nature, and therefore there is no such surprising difference between the work of their later years and the work of their childhood as there is in the case of Beethoven and Wagner." In writing sonatas Haydn and Mozart had been satisfied with grace of outward form and a smooth and pretty flow of melody within that form. Beethoven was a man of intellectual force as well as of musical genius. He applied his intellect to enlarging the sonata form, his musical genius to supplying it with contents worthy of the greater opportunities he himself had created for it. There is a wonderful union of mind and heart in Beethoven's work. The sonata form, as perfected by him, is a monument to his genius. It remains to this day the flower of the classical period. The Passing of the Sonata. Nevertheless, the Beethoven sonatas no longer retain the place of pre-eminence once accorded them on pianoforte recital programs. When Von Bülow was in this country during the season of 1875-76 he frequently gave concerts at which he played only Beethoven sonatas. I doubt if any of the great pianists of to-day could now awaken as much public interest by such programs as Von Bülow did. I remember the concert at which, among others of the Beethoven sonatas, this virtuoso played Opus 106 ("Grosse Sonata für das Hammerklavier"). After he had played through part of the first movement he became restless, and from time to time peered over the keyboard and into the instrument as if something were wrong with it. Finally he broke off in the middle of the movement, rose from his seat and walked off the stage. When he reappeared, he had with him an attendant from the firm of manufacturers whose pianofortes he used, and together they fussed over the instrument for a while, before the attendant made his exit and the irate little pianist began the sonata all over again. We considered the mishap that gave us opportunity to hear him play so much of the work twice, a piece of great good luck for us. Would we so consider it now? Von Bülow has passed into musical history as a great Beethoven player, and such he undoubtedly was. I doubt, however, if he was a greater Beethoven player than several living pianists. Some seasons ago Eugène d'Albert played a Beethoven program. His performance did not evoke the enthusiasm he anticipated. In fact there were intimations in the comments on his performance that he was not as great a Beethoven player as he thought he was. Personally, and having a very clear recollection of Von Bülow's Beethoven recitals, because I attended every one he gave in New York, and in my mind's eye can see him sitting at the pianoforte, bending away over, with his ear almost to the keyboard, I think d'Albert played his Beethoven program quite as well. What had happened, however, was this: A little matter of thirty years had passed and with it the classical period and its efflorescence, the sonata form, had faded by just so much, and by just so much no longer was considered by the public the crucial test of a pianist's musicianship. Incidentally it is worth noting that the public usually is far ahead of the profession and of the majority of critics in appreciating new tendencies in music and in realizing what is passing away; and the same thing probably prevails in other arts. Orchestral Instead of Pianistic. I am aware that Beethoven was a pianist of the first rank and that within the limitations of the sonata form he developed the capacity of the pianoforte. I also have read Richard Strauss's opinion, in his edition of Berlioz's work on instrumentation, that Beethoven treated the orchestra pianistically. Nevertheless, from the modern viewpoint the essential fault of the sonata, Beethoven's sonatas included, seems to me to be that it is too orchestral and not sufficiently _claviermässig_ (pianistic) in character; not sufficiently adapted to the genius of the pianoforte as we know it to-day. It is possible that for the times in which they were composed, the sonatas of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven were most pianistic. But as music has become more and more an intimate phase of life, and as our most intimate instrument, the instrument of the household, is the pianoforte, we understand its capacity for the intimate expression of moods and fancies, the lights and shadows of life, as it never was understood before. The modern lover of music, if I may judge his standpoint from my own, feels that while the sonatas of the masters I have named were written for the pianoforte, they were thought out for orchestra, and that even a Beethoven sonata is an engraving for pianoforte of a symphony for orchestra. He composed nine symphonies and thirty-two sonatas. If he had written his nine symphonies for pianoforte, we would have had nine more sonatas. If he had composed his sonatas for orchestra, we would have had thirty-two more symphonies. This orchestral (as opposed to pianistic) character of the Beethoven sonatas accounts for passages in them so awkwardly written for the instrument that they are difficult to master, and yet, when mastered, are not effective in proportion to their difficulty. Between enlarging the capacity of an instrument through the problems you give the player to solve and writing passages that are awkwardly conceived for it, and hence ineffectual after they have been mastered, there is a great difference. Chopin, Liszt and others pile Pelion on Ossa in their technical requirements of the pianist; but when he has surmounted them, he has climbed a mountain, and from its peak may watch the world at his feet. I think the orchestral character of much that Beethoven wrote for the pianoforte partly accounts for the fact that his sonatas no longer attract the great virtuosos as they formerly did and that the public no longer regards them as the final test of a pianist's rank. I speak so unreservedly because I have lived through the change of taste myself. By way of personal explanation I may be permitted to say, that while I am not a professional musician, music was so much a part of my life that I studied the pianoforte almost as assiduously as if I had intended becoming a public player, and that I was proficient enough to meet once a week with the first violinist and the first violoncellist of the New York Philharmonic Society for the practice of chamber music. If there is any one who should worship at the shrine of the sonata form, and especially at that of the Beethoven sonatas, it should be myself, for I was brought up on the form and those sonatas were my daily bread. When I went to the Von Bülow Beethoven recitals it was with book in hand, to follow what he played note for note for purposes of study and assimilation. Those were years when, in the hours during which one seeks communion with one's other self, the Beethoven sonatas were the medium of communication. But now--give me the men who emancipated themselves from a form that fettered the individuality of the pianoforte, Chopin, Liszt, Schumann, and the pianoforte scores of the Wagner music-dramas, which actually sound more pianistic than the sonatas of the classical period and in which it is a delight to plunge oneself and be borne along on a flood of free, exultant melody. Nevertheless, the sonata has had a great part to play in the history and development of music and has played it nobly, and we must no more forget this than we should allow present-day hero worship to supplant the memory of the heroes who went before. The sonata is the firm and solid bridge over which music passed from the contrapuntal period to the romantic, and doubtless there still are some who prefer to linger on the bridge rather than cross it to the promised land to which it leads. Always there are conservatives who stand still and look back; and that these still should let their eyes rest longingly on the great master of the classical epoch, Beethoven, is, to say the least, comprehensible. One would have to be unresponsive indeed not to be thrilled by the story of his life--his force of character, his rugged personality, his determination in spite of one of the greatest misfortunes that could befall a musician, deafness; and the intellectual power which he displayed in bending a seemingly rigid art form to his will and making it the receptacle of his inspiration. Well may these considerations be borne in mind whenever a Beethoven sonata is on a pianoforte recital program. If it does not move us as profoundly as music more modern does, that is not because its composer was less deeply concerned with the problems of life than those who have come after him. For his time he was wonderfully "subjective," drawing his inspiration from the heart, yet always preserving a sane mental poise. If to-day the sonatas of this great genius and splendid man seem to us less dramatic and emotional than they once did to audiences, it is because of the progress of music toward greater plasticity of expression and our conviction that such should be its mission. IV DAWN OF THE ROMANTIC PERIOD All art begins with a groping after form, then attains form, and then emancipates itself from too great insistence upon rigidity of form without, however, reverting to its early formless condition. It was absolutely necessary to the establishment of music as an art that at some period or periods in its development it should "pull itself together" and focus itself in certain forms, and adhere to them somewhat rigidly and somewhat tenaciously until they had been perfected. Without saying so in as many words, I have sought, in speaking of the sonata, to let the modern lover of music know that if he does not like sonatas he need not be ashamed of that fact. A few minutes ago and before writing this sentence, I left my desk and going to the pianoforte, played through Beethoven's "Sonata Pathétique." It used to be a thrilling experience to play it or to hear it played. To-day the Grave which introduces the first movement still seemed portentous, the individual themes throughout the work had lost none of their beauty. And yet the effect produced in earlier years by this sonata as a whole was lacking. I shall not say that it sounded pedantic, for I dislike to apply that word to anything that sprang from the heart and brain of a genius like Beethoven's, but there was a feeling of restraint about it--the restraint of set form, the restraint of pathos patterned to measure, which is incompatible with our modern notions of absolute freedom of expression in music. Moreover, there is ample evidence that Beethoven himself chafed under the restraint of the sonata form and constantly strove to make it more elastic and more yielding to his inspiration. What a Sonata Is. The sonata form (that is to say, the movement from which the sonata derives its name) consists of three main divisions and can easily be studied by securing the Bülow and Lebert edition of the Beethoven sonatas in Schirmer's library, in which the various divisions and subdivisions are indicated as they occur in the music. The first division (sometimes with a slow introduction like the Grave of the "Sonata Pathétique") may be called the exposition. It consists of the main theme in the key of the piece, a connecting episode, a second theme in a related key and contrasting with the first, and a concluding passage. As a rule the exposition is repeated--an extremely artificial proceeding, since there is no esthetic or psychological reason for it. After the exposition comes the second division, the development or "working out," a treatment of both themes with much figuration and imitation, generally called the "free fantasia" and consisting "chiefly of a free development of motives taken from the first part" (Baker). This leads into the third division, which is a restatement of the first, excepting that the second theme, instead of being in a related key, is, like the main theme, in the tonic. How Beethoven Enlarged the Form. This is the form of the sonata movement which was handed down to Beethoven by Haydn and Mozart. It very soon became apparent that the greatest genius of the classical period found it too limited for his inspiration. In his third sonata (Opus 2, No. 3) he makes several innovations that, for their day, are most daring. Following the first episode after the main theme, he introduces a second episode with which he leads into the second theme. Then using a variant of the first episode as a connection he leads over to a third, a closing theme. In fact, the material of the second episode is so thematic that I see no reason why he should not be said to use four themes in the exposition instead of the customary two. In the free fantasia he insistently reiterates the main theme, practically ignoring the others, thus familiarizing the listener with it and making it as welcome as an old friend when the third division ushers it in again. Instead of closing the movement at the end of the usual third division, as his predecessors, Haydn and Mozart, did, Beethoven introduces what is one of the most important innovations grafted by him upon the sonata form--a coda with a cadenza. I can imagine that this movement made his contemporaries look dubious and shake their heads. It must have seemed to them originality strained to the point of eccentricity and more bizarre than effective. As we look back upon it, after this long lapse of time, it must be reckoned a most brilliant achievement in the direction of freer form, and from this point of view--please bear in mind the reservation--its creator not only never surpassed it, but frequently fell behind it. One of the movements of this sonata is a scherzo. Beethoven is the creator of this style of movement. It is much less formal than the minuet which Haydn introduced into the sonata. This especial scherzo has a trio which in the broad sweep of its arpeggios is as modern sounding as anything Beethoven wrote for the pianoforte. His "Moonlight Sonata." There are other sonatas by Beethoven that indicate efforts on his part to be less trammeled by considerations of form. Regard as an example the "Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia," Opus 27, No. 2, generally, and by no means inaptly, called the "Moonlight Sonata." This begins with the broad and beautiful slow movement, with its sustained melody, a poem of profound pathos in musical accents. It is followed by an Allegretto, "_une fleur entre deux abîmes_" (a flower 'twixt two abysses) Liszt called it; and then comes the concluding movement, a Presto agitato, which is one of Beethoven's most impassioned creations. There are only three movements, and the usual sequence is inverted, for the last of the three is the Sonata movement. At the end of the Adagio sostenuto and at the end of the Allegretto as well, is the direction "_attacca subito il sequente_," indicating that the following movement is to be attacked at once and denoting an inner relationship, a psychological connection between the three movements. Throughout the work the themes are of extraordinary beauty and expressiveness even for a Beethoven and the whole is a genuine drama of human life and experience. This impression is produced not only by the very evident psychological connection between the movements, but by the manner in which the composer holds on to his themes, developing them through bar after bar as if he himself appreciated their beauty and were reluctant to let go of them and introduce new material. The entire first movement, practically a song without words of the most exquisite poignancy, is built on a single motive with a brief episode which is more like an improvisation than a set part of a movement; while the last movement consists of four eloquent themes with only the merest suggestion of connecting episodes. The working out in the last movement is almost wholly a persistent iteration of the second theme. This persistent dwelling upon theme and the psychological relation between the different movements make this "Moonlight Sonata" to me the most modern sounding of Beethoven's pianoforte works, although when mere structural greatness is considered, most critics will incline to rank it lower than the "Sonata Appassionata" and the four last sonatas, Op. 106 and 109-11. Undoubtedly, however, it is the most "temperamental" of his sonatas--and herein again the most modern. My one quarrel with Von Bülow is that he made it so popular by his frequent playing of it and his exceptionally poetic interpretation of it, that the great virtuosos shun it, very much as they shun the sixth Chopin waltz (Mme. Dudevant's dog chasing its own tail), because it is played by every pianoforte pupil of every girls' boarding school everywhere. Striving for Freedom. In addition to what I have said of this sonata, it was an immense gain for greater freedom of form, and it is to be regretted that it is a more or less isolated instance and that Beethoven did not adopt it as a standard in shaping his remaining sonatas. Its most valuable attribute from the modern point of view is a characteristic to which I already have called attention several times--the fact that its several movements stand in psychological relation to one another; that there is such real soul or temperamental connection between them, that it would be doing actual violence to the work as a whole if any one movement were to be played without the others or if their sequence were to be inverted. But, you may ask, is there not in all sonatas this psychological inter-relationship of the several movements? Have we not been told again and again that there is? Undoubtedly you, and others who have been misinformed by enthusiasts who are unable to hear music in anything that has been composed since Beethoven, have been told so. But the sonata, with a few exceptions like the "Moonlight," simply is a group usually of four movements, three long-ones with a shorter one between, and, save for their being in related keys, there is no temperamental relationship between the movements whatsoever, and to talk of there being such a thing is nonsense. I believe the time will come when virtuosos will not hesitate to lift single movements out of the Beethoven sonatas and place them on their programs and that there will be a sigh of relief from the public because it can hear a movement that still sounds fresh and modern without being obliged to listen to two or three others that do not. Heresy? Maybe. Galileo was accounted a heretic--yet the world moves and the musical world with it. The Beethoven Periods. Beethoven was an intellectual as well as a musical giant. He thought before he wrought. The division of his activity into three periods, in each of which he is supposed to have progressed further along the road of originality and greatness, is generally accepted. Nevertheless, it is an arbitrary one, especially as regards the pianoforte sonatas, since it has been seen that the first movement of one of his earliest works, the third sonata (Opus 2, No. 3), is one of his most original contributions to music, and one of the most strikingly developed movements in sonata form that he has given us. The period division which assigns this sonata as well as the "Sonata Pathétique" to the first period is absurd. The fact is, that the works of the so-called first and second periods overlap; but there is a decided change in his style when we come to his third period which, in the pianoforte sonatas, begins with Opus 109. (The beginning of this period usually is assigned to the sonata Opus 101, which seems to me too early.) Because here a restless spirit seems to be brooding over his work, it is thought by some that his mind and heart were warped by his misfortunes--his deafness, the ingratitude of a worthless nephew to whom he had been as a father, and other family and material troubles. To me, however, Beethoven seems in these sonatas to be chafing more and more under the restraint of form and to be struggling to free himself from it, bending all his intellect to the task. Frankly, I do not think that in these last sonatas he achieved his purpose. He had outgrown the form he himself had perfected, and the thoughts which toward the last he endeavored to mould in it called for absolutely free and untrammeled development. He had become too great for it and, as a result, it cramped and hampered him in his latest utterances. It is my firm belief that had Beethoven come upon the scene fifty years later, he would not have composed a single sonata, but have revived the suite in modern style, as Schumann practically did in his "Carnaval," "Kreisleriana," and "Faschingschwank aus Wien," or have created for the pianoforte something corresponding to the freely developed tone poems of Richard Strauss. Because, however, Beethoven wrote thirty-two pianoforte sonatas and because he was for many years the all-dominating figure in the musical world, every great composer who came after him and composed for the pianoforte experimented with the sonata form, and always, be it noted, with less success and less importance to the real progress of music toward freedom of expression than when he followed his own inner impulse and wrote the mood pieces, the "music of intention," the subjective expressions of indicated thoughts and feelings, that were more consonant with the tendencies of the romantic period which followed Beethoven and for which he may be said to have paved the way. For just as Bach brought the contrapuntal form to such perfection that those who came after him could not even begin where he left off, let alone surpass him, so Beethoven brought the sonata form to such perfection that no further advance in it was possible. No wonder therefore that the pianoforte sonatas of the romanticists are comparatively few in number and the least satisfactory of their works. These composers seem to have written sonatas simply to show that they could write them and under a mistaken idea that length is a measure of greatness and that shorter pieces are minor achievements, whereas as much genius can be displayed in a nocturne as in a sonata. Sonatas Now Old-fashioned. Lawrence Gilman, one of our younger American critics, in his "Phases of Modern Music," a collection of essays, brief but containing a wealth of suggestion and breathing throughout the spirit of modernity, sums up the matter in speaking of Edward MacDowell's "Keltic Sonata": "I cannot help wishing that he might contrive some expedient for doing away, so far as he himself is concerned, with the sonata form which he occasionally uses, rather inconsistently, as a vehicle for the expression of that vision and emotion that are in him; for, generally speaking, and in spite of the triumphant success of the 'Keltic,' Mr. MacDowell is less fortunate in his sonatas than in those freer and more elastically wrought tone poems in which he voices a mood or an experience with epigrammatic concision and directness. The 'Keltic' succeeds in spite of its form, ... though even here, and notwithstanding the freedom of manipulation, one feels that he would have worked to still finer ends in a more flexible and fluent form. He is never so compelling, so persuasively eloquent, as in those impressionistically conceived pieces in which he moulds his inspiration upon the events of an interior emotional program, rather than upon a musical formula necessarily arbitrary and anomalous." This applies to pianoforte music in general since Beethoven. Such I believe to be the consensus of opinion among the younger generation of critics, to whom, after all, the future belongs, as well as the opinion of those older critics who refuse to allow themselves to be pitchforked by their years into the ranks of the old fogies and who still hold themselves ever receptive to every new manifestation in music that is based on a union of mind and heart. Unless otherwise specifically mentioned I have, in speaking of the sonata form, referred to it in connection with the pianoforte. But it also is the form employed for the symphony (which simply is a sonata for orchestra); for pianoforte trios, quartets and quintets; for string quartets and other branches of chamber music (which are sonatas written for the combination of instruments mentioned and such others as are employed in chamber music), and for concertos (which are sonatas for the combination of a solo instrument like the pianoforte, violin or violoncello, with orchestra). In these branches the sonata form has held its own more successfully than on the pianoforte, and for several extraneous reasons. In the symphony it is due largely to the greater variety that can be achieved through orchestral coloring; in chamber music largely to the somewhat super-refined and timorous taste of its devotees which would regard any startling innovation as highly indecorous; and in the concerto to the fact that a soloist who appears at an orchestral concert is supposed to play a concerto simply because the orchestra is there to play it with him, although he, as well as the audience, probably would find a group of solos far more effective. In fact I think that much of the applause which usually follows a great pianist's playing of a concerto is due not so much to the audience's enthusiasm over it as to the hope that he may be induced to come out and play something alone. So far as the symphony is concerned, it is liberating itself more and more from the sonata form and taking the direction indicated by Liszt in his symphonic poems and by Richard Strauss in his tone poems, the freest form of orchestral composition yet conceived. The First Romantic Composers. In music, as in other arts, periods overlap. We have seen that during Bach's life Scarlatti in Italy was laying the foundations of the harmonic system and shaping the outlines of the sonata form which was to develop through Philipp Emanuel Bach, Haydn and Mozart and find its greatest master in Beethoven. Likewise, even while Beethoven was creating those works which are the glory of the classical period, two of his contemporaries, Carl Maria von Weber, who died one year before him, and Franz Schubert, who survived him by only a year, were writing music which was destined to turn the art into new channels. Weber (1786-1826) is indeed regarded as the founder of the romantic school through his opera "Der Freischütz." It seems to me, however, that Schubert (1797-1828) contributed quite as much to the new movement through his songs, while the contributions of both to the pianoforte are important. Weber was a finished pianist, had an enormous reach (he could stretch a twelfth), and besides utilizing the facility thus afforded him to add to the brilliancy of pianoforte technique (as in his well-known "Concert Piece for Piano and Orchestra"), he deliberately, in some of his compositions, ignored the sonata form and wrote a "Momento Capriccioso," a "Polonaise," a "Rondo Brilliant," a "Polacca Brilliant" and the fascinating "Invitation to the Dance." The last, even in its original form and without the elaborations in Tausig's version of it, and the "Concert Piece" still are brilliant and effective numbers in the modern pianoforte repertoire. Considering the age in which they were composed, their freedom from pedantry is little short of marvelous. Schubert's Pianoforte Music. Schubert was not a virtuoso and passed his life almost in obscurity, but we now recognize that, although he lived but thirty-one years, few composers wrought more lastingly than he. Of course, the proper place for an estimate of his genius is in the chapter on song, but as a pianoforte composer he is, even to this day, making his influence more and more felt. Living in Vienna, Beethoven's city, and a fervent admirer of that genius, it was natural that he should have composed sonatas, and there is a whole volume of them among his pianoforte works. Nevertheless, so original was his genius and so fertile, that, in addition to his numerous other works, he composed eight impromptus, among them the highly poetic one in G flat major (Opus 42, No. 2), usually called "The Elegy"; another in B flat major (Opus 142, No. 3), which is a theme with variations, some of them brilliant, others profoundly expressive; and the beautifully melodious one in A flat major; six dainty "Moments Musicals"; the exquisite little waltz melodies from which Liszt fashioned the "Soirées de Vienne"; the "Fantasia in G," from which the popular minuet is taken; and the broadly dramatic "Fantasia" on a theme from his song, "The Wanderer," for which Liszt wrote an orchestral obbligato, thus converting it into a highly effective and thoroughly modern fantasy for pianoforte and orchestra. These detached compositions are as eloquent in their appeal to-day as if they had been written during the last ten years instead of during the first quarter of the last century. They are melodious with the sustained melody that delights the modern ear. There is not, as in the sonata form or, for that matter, in all the classical music that Schubert heard around him, the brief giving out of a theme, then an episode, then another brief theme and so on, all couched in the formulas in which the classicists delighted, but instead of these postulates of formality, melody fully developed and wrought out by one who reveled in it and was willing that his hearers should revel in it as well. To distinguish between the classicists and this early romantic composer, whose work survives in all its freshness and beauty to this day, it may be said that their music was thematic--based on the kind of themes that lent themselves to formal working out as prescribed by the sonata formula; whereas these detached pieces of Schubert are based on melodies--long-drawn-out melodies, if you wish, and be grateful that they are--that conjure up mood pictures and through their exquisite harmonization exhale the very fragrance of romanticism. Naturally, the sonatas from his pen are more set. Nevertheless, so long as it seems that we must have sonatas on our recital programs, the neglect of those by Schubert is shameful. I am willing to stake his sonata No. 5, in A minor, against any sonata ever written, and from several of the sonatas single movements can be detached which I should think any pianist would be glad to add to his repertoire. Among these is the lithesome scherzo from the sonata No. 10, in B flat major, and the beautiful slow movement (Andante sostenuto) from the same work. Schubert also wrote many valuable pianoforte duets, among them several sets of marches and polonaises and an elaborate and stirring "Divertissement à l'Hongroise," which last seems to foreshadow the "Hungarian Rhapsodies" of Liszt. In these and the detached pianoforte solo pieces a special value lies in that they do not appear to have been composed as a protest against the sonata form, but spontaneously and without a thought on Schubert's part that he was doing anything in any way remarkable. They are expressions of musical feeling in the manner that appealed to him as most natural. The "Moments Musicals" especially are little mood pieces and impressionistic sketches with here and there a bit of realism. Who, for example, is apt to forget Essipoff's playing of the third "Moment" in Hungarian style, with a long crescendo and diminuendo (the same effect used by Rubinstein, when he played his arrangement of the "Turkish March" from Beethoven's "Ruins of Athens"), so that it seemed as if a band of gypsies approached from afar, danced by, and vanished in the distance? Thoroughly modern is Schubert, a most modern of the moderns, whether we listen to his original pianoforte compositions, or to the Schubert-Liszt waltzes, or "Hark, Hark, the Lark," "To Be Sung on the Water" (barcarolle) and other songs of his which have been arranged for the pianoforte by Liszt. Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words." Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, the musical idol of his day and now correspondingly neglected, contributed to the romantic movement his "Songs Without Words," short pieces for the pianoforte and aptly named because their sustained melody clearly defined against a purposely subordinated accompaniment gives them the character of songs, in the popular meaning of the word. Mendelssohn was a fluent, gentlemanly composer, whose music was readily understood and therefore attained immediate popularity. But the very qualities that made it popular--its smoothness and polish and its rather commonplace harmlessness--have caused it to lose caste. The "Songs Without Words," however, still occupy a place in the music master's curriculum, forming a graceful and easily crossed bridge from classical to romantic music. I can remember still, when, as a lad, I received from my music teacher my first Mendelssohn "Song Without Words," the G minor barcarolle, how it seemed to open up a new world of music to me. Many of these compositions, which are unique in their way, still will be found to possess much merit. That they are polished little pieces and poetic in feeling almost goes without saying. The "Spring Song" may be one of the most hackneyed of pianoforte pieces and the same may be true of the "Spinning Song," but it is equally true that the former is as graceful and charming as the latter is brilliant and showy. A tender and expressive little lyric is the one in F major (No. 22), which Joseffy frequently used as an encore and played with exquisite effect. A group of Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words" is never out of place on a pianist's program. At least half a dozen of them, I think, are apt to survive the vicissitudes of many years to come. Mendelssohn wrote three sonatas, a "Sonata Ecossaies" (Scotch), several capriccios and other pieces for the pianoforte, besides two pianoforte concertos, of which the one in G minor is the stock selection of conservatory pupils at their graduation exercises and later at their début. With it they shoot the musical chutes. V CHOPIN, THE POET OF THE PIANOFORTE I must ask the reader still to imagine that he is at a pianoforte recital, although I frankly admit that I have been guilty of many digressions, so that it must appear to him as if he had been whisked from Mendelssohn Hall up to Carnegie Hall, then down to the Metropolitan Opera House and back to Mendelssohn Hall again. This, however, as I have sought to make clear before, is due to the universality of the pianoforte as an instrument and to the comprehensiveness of pianoforte music, which in itself illustrates in great part the development of the art. At this point, then, of our imaginary pianoforte recital there is likely to be a group of compositions by Chopin; and the larger the group, or the more groups by this composer on the program, the better satisfied the audience is apt to be. Baker calls Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849) the "incomparable composer for the pianoforte." But he was more. He was an incomparable composer from every point of view, great, unique, a tone poet, as well as the first composer who searched the very soul of the instrument for which he specialized. Extraordinary as is his significance for that instrument, his influence extends through it into other realms of music, and his art is making itself felt to this day in orchestra, opera and music-drama as well as in pianoforte music. For he was an innovator in form, an intrepid adventurer in harmony and a sublime singer of melody. Tempo Rubato. Before the pianist whose recital we are supposed to be attending will have played many bars of the first piece in the Chopin group, the individuality of this composer will become apparent. Melody will pervade the recital hall like the fragrance of flowers. At the same time there will be an iridescence not noticeable in any of the music that preceded Chopin, and produced as if by cascades of jewels--those remarkable ornamental notes which yet are not ornamental, but, in spite of all their light and shade, and their play of changeable colors, part of the great undercurrent of melody itself. Here we have then, nearly at the very outset of the first Chopin piece, the famous _tempo rubato_, so-called, which has been explained in various ways, but which with Chopin really means that while the rhythm goes calmly on with one hand, the other weaves a veil of iridescent notes around the melodic idea. Liszt expressed it exactly when he said: "You see that tree? Its leaves move to and fro in the wind and follow the gentle motion of the air; but its trunk stands there immovable in its form." Or the _tempo rubato_ is like a shower of petals from a tree in full bloom; the firm outline of the tree, its foliage are there, while we see the delicately tinted blossoms falling from the branches and filling the air with color and fragrance; or like the myriad shafts from the facets of a jewel, piercing in all directions while the jewel itself remains immovable, the centre of its own rays; or like the crisp ripple on a river, while the stream itself flows on in majesty; or, in one or two passages when Chopin becomes a cynic, like the twaddle of critics while the person they criticise calmly goes about his mission. The Soul of the Pianoforte. What you will notice about these compositions of Chopin--and I say "these compositions" deliberately, although I have not named any (for it makes no difference what pieces of his are on the program, the effect will be the same)--is the fact that in none of them is there the slightest suggestion of anything but pianoforte music. Chopin's great achievement so far as the pianoforte is concerned is the fact that he liberated it completely from orchestral and choral influences, and made it an instrument sufficient unto itself, brought it into its own in all its beauty of tone and expression and enlarged its capacity; sought out its soul and reproduced it in tone, as no other composer had done before him or has done since. The recognition of the true piano tone seems to have been instinctive with him. It appears in his earliest works. Nothing he ever wrote suggests orchestra or voice. For the beautiful singing quality he brings out in much of his music is a singing quality which belongs to the noble instrument to which he devoted himself. Not once while listening to a Chopin composition do you think to yourself, as you do so often with classical works, like the Beethoven sonatas, "How well this would sound on the orchestra!" Yet Chopin is as sonorous, as passionate, as pleading, as melancholy and as rich in effect, although he is played only on the black and white keys of the pianoforte, as if he were given forth by a hundred instrumentalists, so thoroughly did he understand the instrument for which he wrote. He was the Wagner of the pianoforte. A Clear Melodic Line. What you will notice, too, about his music is the general distinctness of his melody. There may be times, as in some of his arabesque compositions, like the "F Minor Étude," when the effect is slightly blurred. But this is done purposely, and as a rule there will be found a clear melodic line running through everything he wrote. Combined with this melody are weird, exquisite, entrancing harmonies, and those showers of _tempo rubato_ notes which glitter like a veil of mist in the sunlight and yet, although a veil, allow you to see what is beneath it, like a delicate fabric which seems rather to emphasize and reveal the very things it is intended to conceal. Chopin was a Pole. He had the melancholy of his race, but also its _verve_. Profoundly affected by his country's sorrow, he also had its haughty spirit. In Paris, where he spent the most significant years of his life, he was surrounded by the aristocracy of his own country who were in exile, and by the aristocracy of the arts. Liszt speaks of an evening at his salon where he met, besides some of the Polish aristocrats, people like Heinrich Heine, Meyerbeer, Delacroix, Nourrit, the tenor, and Bellini. Chopin admired Bellini's music, its clear and beautiful melodiousness, and I myself think that Chopin's melody often has Italian characteristics, although it is combined with harmony that is German in its seriousness, but wholly Chopinesque in all its essentials. In those numerous groups of ornamental, or rather semi-ornamental, notes, so many of them chromatic, and all of them usually designated by the technical term "passing notes," signifying that they are merely incidental to the melody and to the harmonic structure, there are nevertheless many that have far greater importance than if they were merely "passing." It is in bringing out this significance by slight accelerations and retards, by allowing a few of them to flash out here while the others remain slightly veiled, that the inspired Chopin player shows his true conception of what the composer meant by _tempo rubato_. It was Liszt, afterward the first to recognize Wagner, who was the first to recognize Chopin. It was Liszt also who introduced him to George Sand (Mme. Dudevant), the great passion of his life. Chopin was the friend of many women. They adored his poetic nature, and there is much in his music that is effeminate, delicate and sensitive; but altogether too much has been made of this side of his art, and of certain morbid pieces like some of the Nocturnes. The affair with George Sand was not only a passion, but was a tragedy, and like all such tragedies it left on his music the imprint of something deeper and greater than mere delicacy and morbidity. Then, too, we have to count with his patriotism and his sympathy with his struggling country, and there is much more of the virile and heroic in his music than either the average virtuoso or the average listener allows for. The Études. These contrasts in his music can readily be recognized when a great pianist makes up the Chopin group on his program from the Études, which are among the greatest compositions of all times, whether we consider them as pianoforte music or as music in general. They touch the soul in many places, and in many and varied ways, and they reflect the alternate delicacy and daintiness of his genius as well as its vigor and nobility. Suppose, for the sake of a brilliant beginning, the virtuoso chooses to start off with the fifth, the so-called "Étude on Black Keys," and flashes it in our eyes, making the pianoforte play the part of a mirror held in the sunlight. This gives us one side of Chopin's music, its brilliancy; and it is noticeable that while the tempo of the piece is given as _vivace_, the style in which it is to be played is indicated by the direction _brillante_. If the pianist continues with the third Étude, we shall hear one of the most tender and beautiful melodies that Chopin ever composed. Let him follow this with number thirteen, the one in A flat major, and we are reminded of what Schumann said, in his review of this book of Études, in which he speaks of the A flat major as "an æolian harp, possessed of all the musical scales, the hand of the artist causing them all to intermingle in many varieties of fantastic embellishment, yet in such a way as to leave everywhere audible a deep fundamental tone and a soft continuously singing upper voice." Schumann heard Chopin himself play this Étude, and he says that whoever will play it in the way described will get the correct idea of Chopin's performance. "But it would be an error to think that Chopin permitted every one of the small notes to be distinctly heard. It was rather an undulation of the A flat major chord here and there thrown aloft anew by the pedal. Throughout all the harmonies one always heard in great tones a wondrous melody, while once only in the middle of the piece, besides that chief song, a tenor voice became prominent in the midst of the chords. After the Étude, a feeling came over one as of having seen in a dream a beatific picture which, when half awake, one would gladly recall." Vigor, Passion, and Impetus. If now the pianist wishes to show by contrast Chopin in his full vigor, passionate and impetuous, let him take the great C Minor Étude, the twelfth, _Allegro con fuoco_. "Great in outline, pride, force and velocity, it never relaxes its grim grip from the first shrill dissonance to the overwhelming chordal close," says Huneker, adding that "this end rings out like the crack of creation." It is supposed to be an expression of the alternating wrath and despair with which Chopin received the tidings of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians in September, 1831, for it was shortly after this that the Étude was composed. No wonder, to quote again from Huneker, that "all sweeps along in tornadic passion." A pianist hardly can go amiss in making his selection from the twenty-seven Études, for the contrasts which he can effect are obvious, and there is among these compositions not one which has not its special merits. There is the tenth, of which Von Bülow said whoever could play it in a really finished manner might congratulate himself on having climbed to the highest point of the pianist's Parnassus, and that the whole repertory of music for the pianoforte does not contain a study of perpetual motion so full of genius and fancy as this especial one is universally acknowledged to be, excepting, possibly, Liszt's "Feux Follets." Then there is number nineteen in C sharp minor, like a nocturne with the melody in the left hand, with the right hand answering as a flute would a 'cello. For contrast take number twenty-one, the so-called "Butterfly Étude"--a wretched misnomer, because a pianist gifted with true musical clairvoyance can work up such a gust of passion in this Étude that any butterfly would be swept away as if by a hurricane. Nor, in order to accomplish this, is it necessary to make such a bravura piece of the Étude as so many pianists ignorantly do. We have, too, the "Winter Wind Étude," in A minor, Opus 25, number eleven--the twenty-third in the collection as usually published--planned on a grand scale and carried out in a manner equal to the plan. Von Bülow calls attention to the fact that, with all its sonorousness, "the greatest fullness of sound imaginable," it nowhere trespasses upon the domain of the orchestra, but remains pianoforte music in the strictest sense of the word. "To Chopin," says Von Bülow, in referring to this Étude, "is due the honor and credit of having set fast the boundary between piano and orchestral music which, through other composers of the romantic school, especially Robert Schumann, has been defaced and blotted out, to the prejudice and damage of both species." While agreeing with Von Bülow that Chopin was the great liberator of the pianoforte, I cannot agree with the exception he takes to the music of Robert Schumann. If he had referred back to the unpianistic classical sonata form, he would have been more accurate. The Préludes. I have gone into some detail regarding these Études because I regard them, as a whole, among the greatest of Chopin's works. But I once heard Rubinstein play the entire set of twenty-four Préludes, and I sometimes wonder, as one often does with the compositions of a great genius, whether these Préludes, in spite of their comparative brevity, should not be ranked as high as anything Chopin ever wrote. According to tradition, they were composed during the winter of 1838, which Chopin spent with George Sand at Majorca in the Balearic Islands. But there is authority for saying that they received only the finishing touches there, and are in fact the gleanings of his portfolios. It seems as if in these twenty-four pieces every phase of human emotion were brought out. If my memory is correct, Rubinstein played them as a solo group at a Philharmonic concert, or he may have given them about the same time at one of his recitals. It was in 1872; and while after this long lapse of time it is impossible to remember every detail of his performance, I shall never forget the exquisite tenderness with which he played the very brief Prélude in A major, the seventh. He simply caressed the keyboard, touched it as if his fingers were tipped with velvet; and though into the other compositions of the series he put, according as their character varied, an immense amount of passion, or more subdued emotion, I can still hear this seventh Prélude sounding in my memory, note for note and bar for bar, as he rendered it--a prolonged, tremulous whisper. Schumann regarded the Préludes as most remarkable, saying that "in every piece we find in his own hand 'Frédéric Chopin wrote it.' One recognizes him in his pauses, in his quick-coming breath. He is the boldest, the proudest poet-soul of his time." Each number in the series is complete in itself, a mood picture; but the series as a whole, in its collection of moods, its panorama of emotions, represents the entire range of Chopin's art. The fourth in E minor, covering only a page, is one of the most pathetic plaints ever penned. The fifteenth in D flat major, with its continual reiteration of the dominant, like the incessant drip of rain on a roof, is a nocturne--Chopin in one of his morbid moments; while the eighteenth in F minor is as bold a piece of dramatic recitative as though it had been lifted bodily out of a music-drama. And so we might run the whole range of the collection, finding each admirable in itself, yet different from all the others. What a group for a recital these twenty-four Préludes make! Nocturnes. If Chopin had not written the Nocturnes I doubt if those who play and those who comment on him would err so often in attributing such an excess of morbidness to him as they do, or lay the charge of effeminacy against him. Morbid these Nocturnes undoubtedly are in many parts, and yet they often rise to the dignity of elegy, and sometimes even of tragedy. Exquisitely melodious they are, too, and full of the haunting mystery of night. The one in C sharp minor, Opus 27, No. 1, is perhaps the most dramatic of the series, and Henry T. Finck, in his Chopin essay, is entirely within bounds when he says that it embodies a greater variety of emotion and more genuine dramatic spirit on four pages than many operas on four hundred. There are greater nocturnes than the one in G, Opus 37, No. 2, but I must nevertheless regard it as the most beautiful of all. It may bewitch and unman the player, as Niecks has said, but, on the other hand, I think its second melody, like a Venetian barcarolle breathed through the moonlight, is the most exquisite thing Chopin ever composed; and note how, without any undulating accompaniment, its rhythm nevertheless produces a gentle wavy effect. Probably the most familiar of all the Nocturnes is the one in E flat, the second in the first set, Opus 9. It has been played so much that unless it is interpreted in a perfect manner it comes perilously near to being hackneyed; but under the hands of a great pianist, who unites with absolute independence of all his ten fingers, the soul of a poet, it becomes an iridescent play of color, with a sombre picture of melancholy seen through the iridescence. Remenyi played a violin arrangement of it with such delicacy and so much poetry of feeling that he actually reconciled one to its transfer from the pianoforte to the soprano instrument of four strings. Chopin and Poe. John Field, an Irish composer (1782-1837), was the first to compose nocturnes, and it is not unlikely that Chopin got the pattern from him. Occasionally at historical recitals one hears a nocturne by John Field; but I think that if even those who love to question the originality of great men were familiar with the nocturnes of Field, they would realize how far Chopin went beyond him, making out of a small type an art form of such poetic content that, in spite of Field having been first in the lists, Chopin may be said to have originated the form. Naturally, Field did not relish seeing himself supplanted by this greater genius, and he said of Chopin that he composed music for a sick-room, and had "a talent of the hospital." On recital programs Chopin's nocturnes often appear, and, when played by a master like Paderewski, who is sensitive to every shade of Chopin's genius, they are heard with an exquisite feeling of sorrow. In these Nocturnes, Chopin always seems to me like Edgar Allan Poe in "Ullalume" or in "Annabel Lee"--and was not Poe one of the only two American poets of real genius? Waltzes and Mazurkas. A Chopin waltz will admirably afford contrast in a group of Chopin pieces on a recital program. Possibly the waltzes are the most frequently played by amateurs of all Chopin's compositions. But, to perpetrate an Irish bull, even those that have been played to death still are very much alive. It was Schumann who said that if these waltzes were to be played for dancing more than half the dancers should be Countesses, the music is so aristocratic. Indeed, to listen to these waltzes is like looking at a dance through a fairy lens. They seem to be improvisations of the pianist during a dance, and to reflect the thoughts that arise in the player's mind as he looks on, giving out the rhythm with the left hand, while the melody and the ornamental note-groups indicate his fancies--love, a jealous plaint, joy, ecstasy, and the tender whispering of enamored couples as they glide past. The slow A minor "Waltz," with its viola-like left-hand melody, was Chopin's favorite, and he was so pleased when Stephen Heller told him that it was his favorite one, too, that he invited him to luncheon. (Strange that we always should regard food as the most appropriate reward of artistic sympathy!) Each waltz, with the exception of some of the posthumous ones, has its individual charm, but to me the most beautiful is the one in C sharp minor, with its infinite expression of longing in its leading theme and its remarkable chromatic descent before the brilliant right-hand passage that follows in the second episode. These chromatics should be emphasized, as they are a feature of the passage and form gems of harmonization. But few pianists seem to appreciate their significance and pay sole attention to bringing out the upper voice. Thoroughly characteristic of Chopin, thoroughly in keeping with his Polish nationality and its traditions, are the Mazurkas--jewels of music, full of the finest feeling, the most delicate harmonization, and with a dash and spirit entirely their own. Weitzmann truly says that they are the most faithful and animated pictures of his nation which Chopin has left us, and that they are masterpieces of their class: "Here he stands forth in his full originality as the head of the romantic school of music; in them his novel and alluring melodic and harmonic progressions are even more surprising than in his larger compositions." Liszt on the Mazurkas. Liszt, too, pauses to pay his tribute to them: "Some portray foolhardy gaiety in the sultry and oppressive air of a ball, and on the eve of a battle; one hears the low sighs of parting, whose sobs are stifled by sharp rhythms of the dance. Others portray the grief of the sorely anxious soul amid festivities, whose tumult is unable to drown the profound woe of the heart. Others, again, show the tears, premonitions and struggles of a broken heart, devoured by jealousy, sorrowing over its loss, but repressing the curse. Now we are surrounded by a swirling frenzy, pierced by an ever-recurring palpitating melody like the anxious beating of a loving but rejected heart; and anon distant trumpet calls resound like dim memories of bygone fame." All this is very fine, although a trifle over-sentimental. The fact is that the Chopin Mazurkas are archly coquettish, passionately pleading, full of delicate banter, love, despair and conquest--and always thoroughly original and thoroughly interesting. In fact Chopin never is commonplace. A Mazurka or two will add zest to any group of his works on a recital program. The Polonaises are Chopin's battle-hymns. The roll of drums, the booming of cannon, the rattle of musketry and the plaint for the dead--all these things one may hear in some of these compositions. The mourning notes, however, are missing from the "A Major Polonaise," Opus 40, and usually called "Le Militaire." It is not a large canvas, but it is heroic and one of the most virile of all his works. It was of this polonaise Chopin said that if he could play it as it should be played, he would break all the strings of the pianoforte before he had finished. Other Works. And then the Ballades and the Scherzos. These are perhaps Chopin's greatest contributions to the music of the pianoforte. They are wonderfully original, wonderfully emotional, yet never to the point of morbidness, full of his original harmonies, fascinating rhythms and glow. In the Scherzos he is not gaily abandoned, as the title would suggest, but often grim and mocking--tragedy mocking itself. Chopin also wrote Sonatas--felt himself obliged to, perhaps, because he was writing for the pianoforte, because pianoforte music still was in the grip of the thirty-two Beethoven pianoforte sonatas. By no means did he adhere to the classical form; yet these three sonatas are not to be counted among his most successful compositions. One of them, the B flat minor, contains the familiar funeral march which has been said to "give forth the pain and grief of an entire nation"--Chopin's nation, sorrowing Poland; and, indeed, the middle episode, the trio of the march, is pathetic to the verge of tears, while in the other portions the march progresses to the grave amid the tolling of bells and the heavy tramp of soldiery. It is played and played, possibly played too much; and yet, when well played, never misses leaving a deep impression. Because people will persist in "playing" certain popular pieces, there is no reason these should not be enjoyed when interpreted by a master. There is a vast difference between interpretation and mere "playing." This funeral march is followed in the sonata by a finale which aptly enough has been described as night winds sweeping over graves. The funeral march often is played at recitals as a detached piece. I cannot see why pianists do not add this finale, which has real psychological connection with it. The "Berceuse," a "Barcarolle," two "Concertos for Piano and Orchestra," which often are slightingly spoken of, and most unjustly, since they are full of beautiful melody and most grateful to play--beyond these it does not seem necessary to go here, unless, perhaps, to mention the Impromptus, which are full of the most delightful _chiaroscuro_, and the great F minor "Fantaisie." A Noble from Head to Foot. Because Chopin wrote only for the pianoforte, because as a rule his pieces are not long, his greatness was not at first recognized. The conservatives seemed to think no man could be great unless he wrote sonatas in four movements for the piano and symphonies for the orchestra, unless he composed for fifty or sixty instruments instead of for only one. But although Jumbo was large, he was not accounted beautiful, and worship of the big is a mistaken kind of reverence. Chopin's briefest mazurka is worth infinitely more than many sonatas that cover many pages. This composer was a tone poet of the highest order. While to-day we regard him mainly as the interpreter of beauty, in his own day he was an innovator, a reformer and, like his own Poles, a revolutionist. The pianoforte--the pianoforte as a solo instrument--sufficed for his most beautiful dreams, for his most passionate longings. Bie, in his "History of the Pianoforte and Pianoforte Players," tells us that Chopin smiled when he heard that Czerny had composed another overture for eight pianos and sixteen persons, and was very happy over it. "Chopin," adds Bie, "opened to the two hands a wider world than Czerny could give to thirty-two." Rubinstein, as quoted by Huneker, apostrophizes him as "the piano bard, the piano rhapsodist, the piano mind, the piano soul.... Tragic, romantic, virile, heroic, dramatic, fantastic, soulful, sweet, dreamy, brilliant, grand, simple--all possible expressions are found in his compositions and all are sung by him upon his instrument." Huneker himself says: "In Chopin's music there are many pianists, many styles, and all are correct if they are poetically musical, logical and individually sincere." Best of all, he enlarged the scope for individual expression in music. Once for all, he got pianoforte music away from the set form of the classical sonata. "He was sincere, and his survival when nearly all of Mendelssohn, much of Schumann, and half of Berlioz have suffered an eclipse, is proof positive of his vitality."--Thus again Huneker. Bie says, in summing up his position, that his greatness is his aristocracy; that "he stands among musicians, in his faultless vesture, a noble from head to foot." But, above all, he is a searcher of the human soul, and, because he searched it out on the pianoforte, is he therefore less great than if he had drawn it out on the strings, piped it on the reeds, blown it through the tubes and battered it on the drumheads of the orchestra? VI SCHUMANN, THE "INTIMATE" Having finished with his Chopin group, the pianist is apt to follow it with his Schumann selections, and we meet with another original musical genius. Robert Schumann was born at Zwickau in June, 1810. His father was a book publisher and was in hopes that the son would show literary aptitude. In fact, the elder Schumann discouraged Robert's musical aspirations; and as a result, instead of receiving early in life a systematic musical training, his education was along other lines. He studied law at Leipzig in 1828 and in Heidelberg in 1829, and was thus what is rare among musicians--a composer with an academic education. His meeting with the celebrated pianoforte teacher, Frederick Wieck, the Leschetitzki of his day, determined Schumann to enter upon a musical career. Wieck took him into his home in Leipzig and he studied the pianoforte with a view of becoming a virtuoso. In order to gain greater freedom in fingering, he devised a mechanical apparatus by which one finger was suspended in a sling while the others played upon the keyboard. Unfortunately, through the use of this contrivance he strained the tendons of one hand and his dream of a virtuoso's career vanished. Meanwhile he had fallen in love with his teacher's daughter, Clara Wieck, and finally, after determined opposition on the part of her father, married her in 1840. Later in life a brain trouble from which he had suffered intermittently became more severe, and in February, 1854, he became possessed of the idea that Schubert's spirit had appeared to him and given him a theme to work out. He abruptly left the room in which he was sitting with some friends in his house at Düsseldorf and threw himself into the Rhine. Some boatmen rescued him from drowning, but he had to be taken to an asylum near Bonn, where he died in July, 1856. These circumstances in his life are mentioned here not only because of their interest, but because they explain some aspects of his music. Schumann was of a brooding disposition, intensely introspective. Compared with Chopin, his music lacks iridescence and shows a want of brilliancy. This will be immediately apparent if at a recital a pianist places the Schumann pieces after a Chopin group, as he is apt to do for the sake of the very contrast which they afford. But if Schumann's compositions are wanting in superficially attractive brightness, they more than make up for it in their profounder characteristics. All through them one seems to hear a deep-sounding tone. One might say that his works for the keyboard instrument are pianoforte music for the viola, and for that reason they appear to me so expressive and so appealing. The harmonies are wonderfully compact. One feels after striking a Schumann chord like stiffening the fingers in order to hold it down more firmly, keep a grip on it, and let it sound to its last echo. Poet, Bourgeois, and Philosopher. In Schumann's music the sensitive listener will find a curious blending of poet, bourgeois, and philosopher. He had the higher fancy, the warmth of the poet, a bourgeois love of what was intimate and homely, and the introspection of the philosopher. Sometimes he is so introspective that he appears to me actually to be burrowing in harmony like a mole. The melodies are interwoven; sometimes the upper voice flutters lightly down upon "contrapuntal collisions in the bass"; frequently his rhythms are syncopated; melodies are superimposed upon each other; he uses "imitations," canonic figuration, and often by introducing a single note foreign to the scale, suddenly lowers or lifts an entire passage. There are interior voices in his music, half suppressed, yet making themselves heard now and then above the principal melody. He loves "anticipations"--advancing a single note or a few notes of the harmony and then filling in the sustained tone or tones with what was at first lacking. These characteristics are so marked that it is as easy to recognize Schumann as it is to distinguish Chopin in the first few bars of a work by either. Each is _sui generis_, each has his own hallmark, and it is a great thing in music, as in other arts, to have one's product so personal that there can be no mistaking whose it is. Schumann made valuable contributions to so-called program music. His pieces, besides intrinsic musical worth, have a distinct meaning, usually indicated by the titles he gives them. And these titles themselves often are suggested by the works of authors whom he admired, or hark back to certain fanciful figures like harlequins and columbines. His second work for the pianoforte, "The Papillons," derived its inspiration from the poet, Jean Paul, who was at that time an object of his intense worship. But whoever expects to find butterflies fluttering through these Schumann pieces will be mistaken. They are rather symbols of thoughts still in the chrysalis state and waiting, like butterflies, to cast off the shell and gain air and freedom. This symbolism must be borne in mind in listening to "The Papillons." Schumann himself said, in a general way, regarding his programmatic intentions in this and other works, that the titles given to his music should be taken very much like the titles of poems, and that, as in the case of poems, the music in itself should be beautiful, irrespective of title or printed explanation. This is true of all program music that has survived. It will be found beautiful in itself; but it also is easy to discover that the titles and explanations which are calculated to place the hearer in certain receptive moods vastly add to his enjoyment. "Carnaval" and "Kreisleriana." I am always glad when a pianist elects to place the Schumann "Carnaval" on his program, because it is so characteristic of the composer's method of work and of his writing short pieces _en suite_, giving a separate name to each of his diversions yet uniting them into one composition by means of a comprehensive title. The complete title to this work is "Carnaval Scènes Mignonnes sur Quatre Notes pour Piano, Op. 9." The four notes are A S C H, and in explanation it should be said that in German S (es) is E flat, and H the B of our musical scale. Asch was the birthplace of Ernestine von Fricken, one of Schumann's early loves. Three of the divisions of the "Carnaval" are entitled Florestan, Eusebius, and March of the Davidsbündler. Schumann had founded the "Neue Zeitschrift für Musik," and he contributed to it under the noms-de-plume of Florestan, Eusebius and Raro; while his associates were denominated the Davidsbündler, it being their mission to combat and put to flight the old fogies of music, as David had the Philistines. Schumann himself is the looker-on at this carnival, a thinker wandering through the gay whirl, drawing his own conclusions, and noting down in music the varied figures as they pass, and his reflections on them. We meet Chopin and Paganini, each neatly characterized; Chiarina (the Italian diminutive of Clara) and Estrella (none other than Ernestine herself); also Harlequin, Pantalon, and Columbine. The Davidsbündler march in to the strains of the German folk-song, "Grandfather wedded my grandmother dear, So grandfather then was a bridegroom, I fear," and the whole ends in a merry uproar. He wrote another carnival suite, Opus 26, the "Faschingschwank aus Wien," in which he introduced a suggestion of the "Marseillaise," which was at that time forbidden to be played in Vienna. The title of another work which ranks among his finest productions, the "Kreisleriana," also requires explanation. This he derived from a book by E. T. A. Hoffmann, who sometimes is spoken of as the German Poe, although he lacks the exquisite art of the American author--in fact, is a Poe bound up in much heavy German philosophy and turgid introspection. The _Kreisler_ of Hoffmann's book is an exuberant sentimentalist, and is said to have had his prototype in Kapellmeister Ludwig Böhner, who, after a brilliant early career, had become addicted to drink and was reduced to maudlin memories of his former triumphs. In Hoffmann's book there is a contrast drawn between this pathetic character, whose ideals have become shadows which he vainly chases, and the prosaic views of life as set forth by another character _Kater Murr_ (literally _Tomcat Purr_). But these "Kreisleriana," of which Bie says "the joys and sorrows expressed in these pieces were never put into form with more sovereign power," should be entitled "Schumanniana," for although the title is derived from Hoffmann, the content is Schumann. Thoughts of His Clara. Concerning the work as a whole he wrote to Clara while in the throes of composition: "This music now in me, and always such beautiful melodies! Think of it, since my last letter to you I have another entire book of new things ready. I intend to call them 'Kreisleriana,' and in them you and a thought of you play the chief rôle, and I shall dedicate them to you. Yes, they belong to you as to no one else, and how sweetly you will smile when you find yourself in them! My music seems to me so wonderfully interwoven, in spite of all its simplicity, and speaking right from the heart. It has that effect upon all for whom I play these things, as I now do gladly and often." If Clara and a thought of Clara play the chief rôle, what becomes of _Kreisler_ and _Kater Murr_? Surely "Kreisleriana" are Schumanniana. Full of varied characteristics are the "Fantasie Pieces." Among these is the familiar "Warum," which one has but to hear to recognize at once that it is no ordinary Why, but a question upon the answer to which depends the happiness of a lifetime; "At Evening" (_Abends_), with its sense of perfect peace; the buoyant "Soaring" (_Aufschwung_); "Whims" (_Grillen_); "Night Scene," an echo of the legend of Hero and Leander; the fable, "Dream-Whirls" (_Traumeswirren_) and the "End of the Song," with its mingling of humor and sadness. These "Fantasie Pieces" and the aptly named "Novelettes" seem destined always to retain their popularity. And then there are the "Scenes from Childhood," to which belongs the "Träumerei"; the "Forest Scenes," the "Sonatas;" the heroic technical studies, based on the Paganini "Capriccios," and the "Études Symphoniques," and the "Fantasie," above the first movement of which he placed these lines from Schlegel: "Through every tone there passes, To him who deigns to list, In varied earthly dreaming, A tone of gentleness." Clara was the "tone," as he told her. It was largely through Madame Schumann's public playing of her husband's works that they won their way. Even so, owing to their lack of brilliancy and their introspection, they were long in coming to their own. But the best of them, including, of course, the admirable "A Minor Concerto," long will retain their hold on the modern pianist's repertoire. William Mason went to Leipzig in 1849. "Only a few years before I arrived at Leipzig," he says in his "Memories," "Schumann's genius was so little appreciated that when he entered the store of Breitkopf & Härtel with a new manuscript under his arm, the clerks would nudge one another and laugh. One of them told me that they regarded him as a crank and a failure because his pieces remained on the shelf and were in the way. * * * Shortly after my return from Germany (to New York) I went to Breusing's, then one of the principal music stores in the city,--the Schirmers are his successors,--and asking for certain compositions by Schumann, I was informed that they had his music in stock, but as there was no demand for it, it was packed away in a bundle, and kept in the basement." What a contrast now! VII LISZT, THE GIANT AMONG VIRTUOSOS It is possible, but not likely, that some pianist willing, for the moment at least, to sacrifice outward success to inward satisfaction, will, after he has played the Schumann selections on his program, essay one of Brahms's shorter pianoforte compositions. These are even more introspective than Schumann's works and combine a wealth of learning with great depth of musical feeling. It is almost necessary, however, that one should know them thoroughly in order to appreciate them, and audiences have been so slow to welcome them that they appear but infrequently on recital programs. Those of my readers, however, who are pianists yet still unacquainted with these rare and beautiful compositions, will soon find themselves under the spell of their intimate personal expression if they will get them and start to learn them. The Brahms Variations on a theme by Händel make a stupendous work, and the rare occasions on which it is played by any one capable of mastering it should be regarded as "events." Grieg, with his clear, fascinating Norwegian clang-tints, which also play through his fascinating "Concerta" in A minor; Dvorak, the Bohemian; Tschaikowsky, whose first "Concerto" in B flat minor is among the finest modern works of its kind; or some of the neo-Russians, are composers who may figure on the program of a modern pianoforte recital. But it is more likely that the virtuoso will here elect to bring his recital to a close with some work by the grandest figure in the history of pianoforte playing and one of the greatest in the history of composition--Franz Liszt. Kissed by Beethoven. Liszt was born at Raiding, near Odenburg in Hungary, in October, 1811, and he died in Bayreuth in July, 1886. From early boyhood, when he was a pianoforte prodigy, almost until his death, he occupied a unique position in the musical world. He was the Paganini of the pianoforte, the greatest pianist that ever lived, and he was a great composer; and although, as a virtuoso, he retired from public performances long before he died, his fame as a player and his still greater fame as a composer have not diminished and his influence still is potent. His father was an amateur, and began giving him instruction when he was six years old. The boy's talent was so pronounced that even without professional instruction he was able, when he was nine years old, to appear in public and play a difficult concerto by Ries. So great was his success that his father arranged for other concerts at Pressburg. After the second of these, several Hungarian noblemen agreed to provide an annual stipend of 600 florins for six years for Franz's further musical education. The family then removed to Vienna, where, for about a year and a half, the boy took pianoforte lessons from Czerny and theory with Salieri. Beethoven heard of him, and asked to see him, and at their meeting, after Franz had played, without notes and without the other instruments, Beethoven's pianoforte trio, Op. 97 (the large one in B flat major), the great master embraced and kissed him. In 1823 he was taken to Paris with a view to being placed in the Conservatoire. But although he passed his examination without difficulty, Cherubini, at that time the director of the institution and prejudiced against infant phenomena, revived a rule excluding foreigners and admission was denied him. His success as a pianist, however, was enormous and there was the greatest demand in salons and musical circles for "le petit Litz." (As some writer, whose name I cannot recall, has said, "the nearest Paris came to appreciating Liszt was to call him 'Litz.'") He was the friend of Chopin, of other musicians, and of painters and literary men, and the doors of the most exclusive drawing-rooms of the French capital were open to him. Paganini played in Paris in 1831, and his wonderful feats of technique inspired Liszt to efforts to develop the technique of the pianoforte with as much daring as Paganini had shown in developing the capacity of the violin. This was the beginning of those wonderful feats of virtuosity as well as of the remarkable technical demands made in his compositions, both of which combined have done so much to make the pianoforte what it is, and to bring out its full potentiality as regards execution and expression. Episode with Countess D'Agoult. For a time Liszt left Paris with the Countess d'Agoult, who wrote under the nom-de-plume of Daniel Stern, and who was the mother of his three children, of whom Cosima became the wife, first of Von Bülow and then of Wagner. His four years with the Countess he passed in Geneva. Twice, however, he came forth from this retirement to cross the sword of virtuosity with and vanquish his only serious rival in pianoforte playing, Sigismund Thalberg, a brilliant player and a man, like Liszt himself, of fascinating personality, but lacking the Hungarian's intellectual capacity. In 1829, he and Countess d'Agoult having separated, he began his triumphal progress through Europe, and for the following ten years the world rang with his fame. He then settled down as Court Conductor at Weimar, which became the headquarters of the new romantic movement in Germany. Hardly a person of distinction in music or any of the other arts passed through the town without a visit to the Altenburg, to pay his respects to Liszt. At Weimar, "Lohengrin" had its first performance; here Berlioz's works found a hearing; here everything new in music that also was meritorious was made welcome. Liszt's activity at Weimar continued until 1859, when he left there on account of the hostility displayed to the production of Cornelius's opera, "The Barber of Bagdad," and its resultant failure. He remained away from Weimar for eleven years, living for the most part in Rome, until 1870, when he was invited to conduct the Beethoven festival and re-established cordial relations with the Court. Thereafter he divided his year between Rome, Buda-Pest, where he had been made President of the new Hungarian Academy of Music, and Weimar. "Liszt, the artist and the man," says Baker, in his "Biographical Dictionary of Musicians," "is one of the grand figures in the history of music. Generous, kindly and liberal-minded, whole-souled in his devotion to art, superbly equipped as an interpreter of classic and romantic works alike, a composer of original conceptions and daring execution, a conductor of marvellous insight, worshipped as teacher and friend by a host of disciples, reverenced and admired by his fellow-musicians, honored by institutions of learning and by potentates as no artist before or since, his influence, spread by those whom he personally taught and swayed, will probably increase rather than diminish as time goes on." It has been said that Liszt passed through six lives in the course of his existence--only three less than a cat. As "petit Litz" he was the precocious child adored of Paris; as a youth, he plunged into the early romanticism which united the devotees of various branches of art in the French capital: next came the episode with the Countess d'Agoult; then his triumphal tours through Europe; settling at Weimar, he became the centre of the modern musical movement in Europe; finally, he revolved in a cycle through Rome, Buda-Pest and Weimar, followed from place to place by a band of devotees. Liszt's compositions for the pianoforte may be classified as follows: "Fantasies Dramatiques"; "Années de Pèlerinage"; "Harmonies Poetiques et Religieuses"; the Sonata, Concertos, Études, and miscellaneous works; "Rhapsodies Hongroises"; arrangements and transcriptions from Berlioz, Beethoven, Weber, Paganini, Schubert and others. The Don Juan Fantasie. Among the "Fantasies Dramatiques," which are variations on themes from operas, not mere potpourris or transcriptions, but genuine fantasies, and usually based on one or two themes only, the best known is the "Don Juan Fantasie." It is founded upon the duet, "La ci darem la mano." Liszt utilizes a passage from the overture as an introduction, then gives the entire duet, varying it, however, not in set form, but with the effect of a brilliant fantasia, and then winds up the whole with a presto on the "Champagne Song." It is true it no longer is Mozart--but Mozart might be glad if it were. It is even possible that the time will come when "Don Giovanni" will have vanished from the operatic stage, yet be remembered by this brilliant fantasia of Liszt's. It is one of the great _tours de force_ of pianoforte music, and it is good music as well. Another of the better known "Fantasies Dramatiques" is the one Liszt made from "Norma," in which occurs a long sustained trill and a melody for the right hand, while the left plays another melody and the accompaniment to the whole. In other words, there is in this passage a trill sustained throughout, two melodies and the accompaniment, all going on at the same time, yet written with such perfect knowledge of pianoforte technique that any virtuoso worthy of the name as used in a modern sense, can compass it. A work called the "Hexameron" is included in catalogues of Liszt's compositions, although he only contributed part of it. It is the march from Bellini's "Puritani" with six variations, written by six pianists and originally played by them on six pianofortes, five of them full grands, while Chopin, whose variation was not of the bravura, kind, sat at a two-stringed semi-grand. Liszt contributed the introduction, the connecting links and the finale of the "Hexameron." The "Années de Pèlerinage" were published in three divisions, extending in point of time from 1835 to 1883. They are a series of musical impressions, as the titles indicate--"Au lac de Wallenstadt, Pastoral," "Au bord d'une source, Sposalizio" (after Raphael's picture in the Brera), "Il Penseroso" (after Michael Angelo). Many of these are adroit and elegant in the treatment of the pianoforte, and at the same time beautiful as music. The "Harmonies" are partly transcriptions of his own vocal pieces, partly musical illustrations to poems. Among them is the familiar "Cantique d'Amour," and the "Benediction de Dieu dans la solitude," of which he himself was very fond. William Mason says that at the Altenburg a copy of it always was lying on the pianoforte, "which Liszt had used so many times when playing for his guests that it became associated with memories of Berlioz, Rubinstein, Vieuxtemps, Wieniawski, Joachim." When Mr. Mason left Weimar he took this copy with him as a souvenir, still has it, and treasures it all the more for the marks of usage which it bears. The "Consolations," which, as Edward Dannreuther says, may be taken as corollaries to the "Harmonies," are tenderly expressive pianoforte pieces. Giant Strides in Virtuosity. The Études bear the dates 1827, 1839 and 1852, and as they are in the main progressive editions of the same pieces, they represent the history of pianoforte technique as it developed under Liszt's own fingers. In their earliest shape when issued in 1827, they were but little different from the classical Études of Czerny and Cramer. In their latest shape they form the extreme of virtuosity. Indeed, these three editions are three giant strides in the development of pianoforte technique. Von Bülow's coupling of the Étude called "Feux Follets" with the A flat study (No. 10) of Chopin already has been quoted under that composer. He considered it even more difficult. Schumann called the collection "Sturm und Graus Etuden" (Studies of Storm and Dread), and expressed the opinion that there were only ten or twelve pianists living who could play them. In the Étude called "Waldesrauschen" will be found some ingenious double counterpoint. The theme is divided into two portions, a descending and ascending one, which later on appear together, with first one and then the other uppermost. Other titles among the Études are "Paysage," "Mazeppa" (a tremendous test of endurance), "Vision," "Chasse-neige," "Harmonies de Soir" and "Gnomentanz." Through Liszt's transcriptions of some of the Paganini pieces in the form of Études, which include the famous "Bell Rondo" from one of the Paganini concertos, this piece, for example, now is far better known as a pianoforte composition than in its original form for violin. Sonata, Concertos and Rhapsodies. The "Sonata in B Minor" dedicated to Schumann is one of the few sonatas in which there is psychological unity throughout. This is due to the fact that it is one movement; although by employing various themes both in rapid and in slow time, Liszt has given it a certain aspect of division into movements. It might well serve as a model to younger composers who think they have to write sonatas. Dannreuther, it is true, says of it that it is "a curious compound of true genius and empty rhetoric," but admits that it contains enough of genuine impulse and originality in the themes of the opening section, and of suave calm in the melody of the section that stands for the slow movement, to secure the hearer's attention. Mr. Hanchett's characterization of it as one of the most masterly compositions ever put into this form--a gigantic, wholly admirable and original work--is more just. The two pianoforte concertos (in E flat and A major) are superb works. Not only are they written with all the skill which Liszt knew so well how to apply when composing for the instrument, but with this technical perfection they also unite thought and feeling. Like the sonata, they show throughout their development the psychological unity which is so essentially modern. What the pianoforte owes to Chopin and Liszt can be summed up by saying that they were poets and thinkers who took the trouble to thoroughly understand the instrument. Because their music sounds so well on it, at least one of them, Liszt, frequently is stigmatized as a trickster of virtuosity and a charlatan, as if there were some wonderful mark of genius in writing something for one instrument that sounds better on another or may not sound as well as it ought to on any. If Liszt's pianoforte music is grateful to the player and equally grateful to the listener, it is not only because he knew how to write for the pianoforte, but because, with deep thoughts and poetic feelings, he also understood how to express them clearly and pianistically. The "Rhapsodies Hongroises" are of such dazzling brilliancy and show off a pianist's technique to such good purpose and so brilliantly, that their real musical worth has been under-estimated. They are full of splendid fire, vitality and passion, and their rhythmic throb is simply irresistible. Like the Études, their history is curious. At first they were merely short transcriptions of Hungarian tunes. These were elaborated and republished and canceled, and then rewritten and published again. In all there are fifteen pieces in the set, ending with the "Rakoczy March." As "Ungarische Melodien" they began to appear in 1838; as "Melodies Hongroises" in 1846; as "Rhapsodies Hongroises" in 1854. Consider that they are over fifty years old, yet remain the greatest pieces for the display of brilliant technique and the most grateful works for which a pianist can ask, and that at the same time they are full of admirable musical content! Because they happen to be brilliant and effective they are called trashy, whereas they owe their brilliancy and effectiveness to Liszt's own transcendent virtuosity, to his knowledge of the pianoforte. In order to be great must music be "classic," heavy and dull, and badly written for the instrument on which it is to be played? How Liszt Played. In those charming reminiscences from which I already have had occasion to quote several times, William Mason's "Memories of a Musical Life," Mr. Mason says that time and again at Weimar he heard Liszt play, and that there is absolutely no doubt in his mind that Liszt was the greatest pianist of the nineteenth century, what the Germans call an _Erscheinung_, an epoch-making genius. Tausig said of him: "Liszt dwells alone upon a solitary mountain-top and none of us can approach him." Rubinstein said to Mr. William Steinway, in the year 1873 (I quote from Mason): "Put all the rest of us together and we would not make one Liszt." While Mr. Mason willingly acknowledges that there have been other great pianists, some of them now living, he adds: "But I must dissent from those writers who affirm that any of these can be placed upon a level with Liszt. Those who make this assertion are too young to have heard Liszt other than in his declining years, and it is unjust to compare the playing of one who has long since passed his prime with that of one who is still in it." Edward Dannreuther, who heard Liszt play from 1863 onward, says that there was about his playing an air of improvisation and the expression of a grand and fine personality, perfect self-possession, grace, dignity and never-failing fire; that his tone was large and penetrating, but not hard, every effect being produced naturally and easily. Dannreuther adds that he has heard performances, it may be of the same pieces, by younger men, such as Rubinstein and Tausig, but that they left an impression as of Liszt at second-hand or of Liszt past his prime. "None of his contemporaries or pupils were so spontaneous, individual and convincing in their playing; and none except Tausig so infallible with their fingers and wrists." Liszt himself paid this superb tribute to the pianoforte as an instrument: "To me my pianoforte is what to the seaman is his boat, to the Arab his horse; nay, more, it has been till now my eye, my speech, my life. Its strings have vibrated under my passions and its yielding keys have obeyed my every caprice. It may be that the secret tie which binds me to it so closely is a delusion, but I hold the pianoforte very high. In my view, it takes the first place in the hierarchy of instruments. It is the oftenest used and the widest spread. In the circumference of its seven octaves it embraces the whole range of an orchestra, and a man's ten fingers are enough to render the harmonies which in an orchestra are brought out only by the combination of hundreds of musicians. The pianoforte has on the one side the capacity of assimilation, the capacity of taking unto itself the life of all instruments; on the other hand it has its own life, its own growth, its own individual development. My highest ambition is to leave to the piano players to come after me, some useful instructions, the footprints of advanced attainment, something which may some day provide a worthy witness of the labor and study of my youth." Bear in mind that Liszt played for Beethoven, that he was a contemporary of Chopin and Schumann, that he was one of the first to throw himself heart and soul into the Wagner movement, and that death came to him while he was attending the festival performances at Bayreuth; bear in mind, I repeat, that he played for Beethoven and died at "Parsifal"; strive to appreciate the extremes of musical history and development implied by this; then remember that he remains a potent force in music--and you may be able to form some idea of his greatness. VIII WITH PADEREWSKI--A MODERN PIANIST ON TOUR Liszt never was in this country, but we can gain some idea of the success that would have been his from the triumphs of Ignace Paderewski. Other famous pianists have come to this country--Thalberg in 1856; Rubinstein in 1872; Von Bülow, Joseffy, who took up his residence here; Rosenthal, Josef Hofmann. But Paderewski's success has been greater than any of these. Americans are said to be fickle; but although Paderewski no longer is a novelty, his name still is the one with which to fill a concert hall from floor to roof. Why this is so is no secret. Hear him and you will understand the reason. To a technique which does not hesitate at anything and an industry that flinches at nothing--no one practices more assiduously than he--he adds the soul of a poet and the strength of an athlete. He looks slender and poetical enough as he sits at the piano on the concert stage; but if you watch him from near by you will be able to note the great physical power which he can bring into play when necessary--_and which he never brings into play unless it is necessary_. Therefore he combines poetry with force; and back of both is thought--intellectual capacity. In a frame on the wall of a New York trust company is a check for $171,981.89. It represents the net receipts of one virtuoso for one concert tour, and is believed to be the largest actual amount ever earned in this country by an artist, whether singer or player, in a single season. This check is drawn to the order of Ignace J. Paderewski. An opinion regarding the piano by a man who by playing it can earn so large a sum, and earn it because he is the greatest living exponent of pianoforte playing, would seem worth having. Paderewski believes that, save in one respect, the pianoforte has reached perfection and is incapable of further improvement. He does not think that anything more should be done to add to its volume of tone. If anything, he considers this too great and the instrument too loud already. Instead of more power, rather less would be satisfactory. Wherein, however, he considers the instrument still lacking, notwithstanding its wonderful development during the last century, is in its capacity for sustained tone--for holding a long-drawn-out tone with the facility of the violin, for example. He is convinced, however, that the means of imparting this capacity for sustaining tone to the pianoforte will be discovered in due time and that the invention probably will be made in this country. That increased tone-sustaining power for the instrument is a great desideratum doubtless is the opinion of many experts; but that the greatest master of the pianoforte considers it perfect in other respects is highly interesting and significant. After all, it remains the greatest of all solo instruments, because, within the smallest compass and with the simplest means of control, it has the range of an orchestra. For this reason it is the most popular of instruments and, in its manufacture, extends from the polished dry-goods box with internal organs of iron, wire and felt and with a glistening row of celluloid teeth ready to bite as soon as ever the lid is raised, to the highest-class concert grand. The "Piano Doctor." We who have our pianofortes in our own homes and are content with an occasional visit from the tuner, little dream of the care bestowed upon the instrument on which an artist like Paderewski plays. Instrument? I should have said instruments; for, when he is on tour, he has a whole suite of them, no less than four, and each is coddled as if it were a prima donna fresh from the hands of Madame Marchesi, instead of a thing of wood, metal and ivory. True, these pianos do not have their throats sprayed on the slightest possible occasion, but they are carefully protected against extremes of heat and cold, and, while the prima donna consults her physician only at intervals, a "piano doctor" is in constant attendance on these instruments. Paderewski's "piano doctor" has traveled with him for several seasons, occupying the same private car and practically living with him during the entire tour. He was with him on the tour, in fact at his table at breakfast with him, when his special train was run on to an open siding near East Syracuse and left the track, Paderewski being thrown forward on his hands against the table and straining the muscles of one arm so severely that he was obliged to cancel his remaining engagements. Up to that time, however, his net receipts from seventy-four concerts had been $137,012.50, while before this American tour began he gave thirty-six concerts in Australia with average receipts of $5,000. His record concert was at Dallas, Texas, some years ago, when the receipts were $9,000. It occurred during a Confederate reunion. While he was at the pianoforte, the various posts marched up to the hall with bands and fife-and-drum corps playing. Paderewski, however, kept right on through the blasts and shrilling. But when one of the posts let out the famous "rebel yell," the pianist leaped from his seat as if he expected a tiger to spring at his throat. Then he realized what had happened, smiled and continued amid laughter and applause. He had heard of the famous "rebel yell," but this was the first time he had heard it. Pianofortes on Their Travels. But to return to the pianofortes on tour. When Paderewski came to this country from Australia, his piano doctor met him at San Francisco with four instruments which had been selected with great care in New York and been shipped West in charge of the "doctor." One of these the virtuoso reserved for his private car, for he practices en route whenever there is a stop long enough to make it worth while. He rarely plays when the car is in motion. Of the other three instruments, the two he liked best were sent to his hotel, where during four days preceding his first concert, he practiced from seven to eight hours a day, notifying the "doctor" twenty-four hours in advance which pianoforte he would use. This instrument became, officially, No. 1; the others No. 2 and No. 3. The pianist's route took him from San Francisco to Oakland, San José, and Portland, Oregon. To make certain that he always will have a fine instrument to play on, a method of shipping ahead the instruments not in use is adopted. Thus, while he was playing on No. 1 in San Francisco and Oakland, No. 2 was sent on to San José and No. 3 to Portland. Of course, none but an expert could detect the slightest difference in these pianofortes, but a player like Paderewski is sensitive to the most delicately balanced distinctions or nuances in tone and action. One of his idiosyncrasies is that always before going on he asks the "doctor" which of the three instruments is on the stage, because, as he himself expresses it, "I don't want to meet a stranger." After each concert, at supper, this conversation invariably takes place: Paderewski: "Well, 'Doctor,' it sounded all right to-night, didn't it?" "Doctor": "Yes, sir." Paderewski: "Well, then, please pass me the bread." There never has been occasion to record what would happen if the "doctor" were to say, "No, sir." For he always has been able to answer in the affirmative, with the most scrupulous regard for veracity. Paderewski is as careful to play his best in the least important place in which he gives a concert as he is in New York. This high sense of duty toward his public accounts in part for his supremacy among pianists Paderewski is not a mere virtuoso. He is a man of fine intellectual gifts who plays the piano like a poet. Paul Potter, the playwright, who lives in Geneva, Switzerland, and occasionally has dined there with Paderewski, tells me that he has conversed with the pianist on almost every conceivable subject _except music_ and always found him remarkably well informed. His knowledge of the history of his native land, Poland, and of its literature is said to be quite wonderful. Chopin, also a Pole, he idolizes and regards as far and away the greatest composer for the piano. To the fund for the Chopin memorial at Warsaw he contributes by charging one dollar for his autograph, and two dollars for his signature and a few bars of music. From the money received as the proceeds of one season's autographs he was able to remit about $1,300 to the fund. When the amusing little dialogue at the supper table, which I have recorded, takes place, the pianoforte which the virtuoso has used at his concert already will be on the way to its next destination. For it is part of the "doctor's" duty to see it safely out of the hall and onto the train before rejoining the party on the private car. The instrument is not boxed. The legs are removed and then a carefully fitted canvas is drawn over the body and held in place by straps. The body is slid out of the hall and slowly let down onto a specially constructed eight-wheel skid, swung low, so as to be as nearly as possible on a level with the platform. This skid is part of the outfit of the tour. The record time for detaching the legs of the pianoforte, covering the body, removing the instrument from the stage and having it on the skid ready to start for the station, is seven minutes. "Thawing Out" a Pianoforte. The instruments never are set up except under the "doctor's" personal supervision. Before each concert the pianoforte on which Paderewski is to play is carefully gone over and put in perfect condition--tuned and, if necessary, regulated, and this no matter how recently he may have used it. Defects so trifling that neither an ordinary player nor the public would notice them, would jar on the sensitive ear and nerves of the virtuoso. Sometimes the instrument has been exposed to such a low temperature that frost is found to have formed not only on the lid, but even on the iron plate inside. In such cases the pianoforte is set up and, after the film of frost has been scraped off, is allowed to thaw out slowly and naturally before it is touched for tuning or regulating. There was an amusing incident in the handling of one of the Paderewski instruments at Columbus, Mississippi, where Paderewski played for seven hundred girls at the State College, although it was more exciting than diverting at the time it happened. The "doctor" relies on local help for getting the pianoforte from the skid to the stage and back again. Usually efficient helpers are obtainable, but at Columbus, where the college hall is upstairs and reached only by a narrow flight of steps, there was no aid to be had save from among the negroes lounging on the public square. The "doctor" went among them. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Nawthin'." "Want a job?" "Naw, too busy," was the usual reply. At last, however, a band of twenty "colored gentlemen" was secured in the hope that muscle and quantity would make up for lack of quality. But never before has a high-grade pianoforte been in such imminent peril. It was got upstairs well enough, in spite of the fact that the negroes walked all over each other. But the descent! The "doctor," Emil C. Fischer, stood at the top of the stairs directing; J. E. Francke, the treasurer of the tour, below. Around the latter fell a shower of fragments from the wall, the rail, the posts; and at one time it seemed as if the whole banister would give way and the pianoforte crash in splinters on the floor. There were other moments of suspense, for the pianoforte as well as for the two watchers, who drew a long breath when the instrument safely was on the skid. Fortunately such untoward incidents are forgotten in the general atmosphere of good-humor which the pianist diffuses about him. He enjoys his little joke. During the last tour he handed a photograph of himself to Mr. Francke inscribed: "To the future Governor of Hoboken." At the Auditorium hotel, Chicago, Millward Adams' brother, about leaving on a trip, asked for an autograph. Paderewski, quick as a flash, wrote: "For the brother of Mr. _Adams_ on the _Eve_ of his departure from Chicago." Paderewski travels on a special train. With him usually are his wife, his manager, the treasurer of the tour, the piano "doctor," a secretary, valet and maid. His home is a villa on Lake Geneva, where he has a beautiful garden and vinery, his dogs, his room for billiards, a game of which he is very fond, and unlimited opportunity for swimming, his favorite exercise. Apparently slender and surely most poet-looking at the piano, he is a man of iron strength as well as of iron will. HOW TO APPRECIATE AN ORCHESTRAL CONCERT IX DEVELOPMENT OF THE ORCHESTRA The appreciation and consequent enjoyment of an orchestral concert will be greatly enhanced if the listener is familiar with certain details regarding the orchestra itself and some of the compositions he is apt to hear. This I have borne in mind in the chapter divisions of this portion of my book, and, as a result, I have divided the subject into the general development of the orchestra, the specific consideration of the principal orchestral instruments, a cursory commentary on certain phases of orchestral music and a chapter on Richard Strauss who represents its most advanced aspects. The first music of which we moderns take account was unaccompanied (_à capella_) singing for church service. It was composed in the old ecclesiastical modes, which are quite different from our modern scales, and the name which comes most prominently to mind in connection with this beginning of our musical history is that of Palestrina. With the influence of this old church choral music so dominant, there is little wonder that the first efforts to write music for instruments were awkward. It may be said right here that this awkwardness, or rather this lack of knowledge and appreciation of the individual capacity of various instruments, is shown throughout the school of contrapuntal composition, even by Bach. When Bach wrote for orchestral instruments he did not consider their peculiar tone quality, or their capacity for individual expression, but simply their pitch--which instrument could take up this, that or the other theme in his contrapuntal score, when he had carried it as high or as low as he could on some other instrument. This also is true of Händel, although in less degree. But just as we have seen that Domenico Scarlatti worked along original lines for the pianoforte and created the germ of the sonata form, while Bach was weaving and plaiting the counterpoint of his suites, partitas and "Well-Tempered Clavichord," so in Italy, during a large part of this contrapuntal period, a distinct kind of orchestral music was springing up. Again, just as we have seen that in Italy the pianoforte shook off the trammels of counterpoint when it began to be used as an accompaniment for dramatic recitative in opera, so the instruments in the orchestra, when composers began to use them for operatic accompaniments, were employed more with reference to their individual tone qualities and power of expression. Primitive Orchestral Efforts. Although, strictly speaking, not the first composer to use orchestral instruments in opera, and to display skill in utilizing their individual characteristics, the most important of these early men was Claudio Monteverde (1568-1643). In his "Orpheo," which he produced in 1608, he utilized, besides two harpsichords (and it may be of interest to note here that instruments of the pianoforte class were long used in orchestras as connecting links between all the other instruments), two bass viols, two tenor viols, one double harp, two little French violins, two large guitars, two wood organs, two viola di gambas, one regal, four trombones, two cornets, one octave flute, one clarion, and three trumpets with mutes--a fairly formidable array of instruments when the period is considered. Of especial interest are the "two little French violins," which probably were the same as our modern violins, now the prima donnas of the orchestra and far outnumbering any other instrument employed. It was Monteverde who in his "Tancredi e Clorinda" made use for the first time of a tremolo for stringed instruments, and it is said so to have astonished the performers that they at first refused to play it. Before Monteverde there were operatic composers like Jacopo Peri, and after him Cavalli and Alessandro Scarlatti, who did much for their day to develop the orchestra. This is a very brief summary of the early development of instrumental music, a story that easily could fill a volume--which, probably, however, very few people would take the trouble to read. Beethoven and the Modern Orchestra. The first really modern composer for the orchestra was Joseph Haydn (1732-1809), who also may be considered the father of the symphony. Born before Mozart, he also survived that composer. His music is gay and naive; while Mozart, although he had decidedly greater genius for the dramatic than Haydn, nevertheless is only a trifle more emotional in his symphonies. The three greatest of these which he composed during the summer of 1788, the E flat major, G minor and C major (known as the "Jupiter"), show a decided advance in the knowledge of orchestration, and the E flat major is notable because it is the first symphonic work in which clarinets were used. Haydn's and Mozart's symphonies--that is, the best of them--sound agreeable even to-day in a concert hall of moderate size. But because modern music with its sonorous orchestra requires large auditoriums, like Carnegie Hall in New York, these charming symphonic works of the earlier classical period are swallowed up in space and much of their naive and pretty effect is lost. Beethoven may be said to have established the modern orchestra. Very few instruments have been added to it since his time, and if an orchestra to-day sounds differently from what it did in his day, if the works of modern composers sound richer and more effective from a modern point of view than his orchestral compositions, it is not because we have added a lot of new instruments, but because our composers have acquired greater skill in bringing out their peculiar tone qualities and because the technique of orchestral players has greatly improved. It is for precisely the same reasons that Beethoven's symphonies show such a great advance upon those of his predecessors. The point is not that Beethoven added a few more instruments to the orchestra, but that, so far as his own purposes were concerned, he handled all the instruments which he included in his band with much greater skill than his predecessors had shown. Many writers affect to despise technique. But in point of fact the development of technique and the development of art go hand in hand. An artist, be he writer, painter or musician, cannot adequately express his ideas unless he has the means of doing so or the genius to create the means. How He Developed Orchestral Resources. In following Beethoven's symphonies from the First to the Ninth, we can see the modern orchestra developing under his hands from that handed over to him by Haydn and Mozart. In the First and Second Symphonies, Beethoven employs the usual strings, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets and tympani. In the Third Symphony, the "Eroica," he adds a third horn part; in the Fifth a piccolo, trombones and contrabassoon. Although employed in the finale only, these instruments here make their first bow in the symphonic orchestra. In the Ninth Symphony Beethoven introduced two additional horns, the first use of four horns in a symphony. The scoring of these symphonies is given somewhat more in detail in the chapter "How the Orchestra Grew," in Mr. W. J. Henderson's "The Orchestra and Orchestral Music," a well conceived and logically developed book, in which the full story of the orchestra and its growth is clearly and interestingly told. Beethoven not only understood to a greater degree than his predecessors the peculiar characteristics of orchestral instruments, he also compelled orchestral players to acquire a better technique by giving them more difficult music to execute. In point of greater difficulty in performance, a Beethoven symphony holds about the same relation to the symphonies of Mozart and Haydn as the Beethoven pianoforte sonatas do to the sonatas of those composers. Beethoven and Wagner. Just as Beethoven added only a few instruments to the orchestra of his predecessors, but showed greater skill in handling those instruments, so the modern musician--a Wagner or a Richard Strauss--achieves his striking instrumental effects by a still greater knowledge of instrumental resources. The Beethoven orchestra practically is the orchestra of to-day. Few, very few, instruments have been added. Modern composers steadily have asked for more and more instruments in each group; but that is quite a different thing from adding new instruments. They have required more instruments of the same kind, but have asked for very few instruments of new kinds. Let me illustrate this by two modern examples. Firm, compact and eloquent as is Beethoven's orchestra in the Fifth Symphony, it cannot for a moment be compared in richness, sonority, tone color, searching power of expression and unflagging interest, with Wagner's orchestra in "Die Meistersinger." Yet Wagner has added only one trumpet, a harp and a tuba to the very orchestra which Beethoven employed when he scored for the Fifth Symphony; while for his "Symphonie Pathétique," one of the finest of modern orchestral works, Tschaikowsky adds only a bass tuba to the orchestra used by Beethoven. The simple fact is that modern composers have studied every possible phase of tone color and expression of which each instrument is capable. Furthermore, by skillfully dividing the orchestra into groups and using these groups like separate orchestras, yet uniting them into one great orchestra, they produce wonderfully rich contrapuntal effects, and thus make the modern orchestra sound, not seventy-five years, but five hundred years more advanced than that of Beethoven, however great we gladly acknowledge Beethoven to have been. Berlioz, an Orchestral Juggler. Following Beethoven, the next great development in the handling of orchestral resources is due to Hector Berlioz (1803-1869), and it is curious here how nearly one musical epoch overlaps another. Scarlatti was composing sonatas, and thus voicing the beginning of the classical era, while Bach was bringing the contrapuntal period to a close. It was only five years after the completion of the Ninth Symphony that Berlioz's "Francs Juges" overture was played. A year later his "Symphonie Fantastique, Episode de la Vie d'un Artiste," was brought out. Yet the Berlioz orchestra sounds so utterly different from the Beethoven orchestra that it almost might be a collection of different instruments. Even more than Beethoven, Berlioz understood the individuality, the potential characteristics of each instrument. Berlioz composed on a colossal scale, so colossal that his music has been called architectural. The "Dies Irae" in his "Requiem" calls for four brass bands, in four different corners of the hall, and for fourteen kettledrums tuned to different notes, in addition to the regular orchestra, chorus and soloists. This has been dubbed "three-story music"--the orchestra on the ground floor, the chorus on the _belle étage_, while the four extra brass bands are stationed _aux troisième_. Unfortunately for Berlioz, his ambition, in so far as it related to the art of orchestration and the skill he showed in accomplishing what he wanted to with his body of instrumentalists, was far in excess of his inspiration. His knowledge of the orchestra was sufficient to have afforded him every facility for the expression of great thoughts if he had them to express. But his power of thematic invention, his gift for melody, was not equal to his genius for instrumentation. Nevertheless, through this genius for instrumentation--for his technique was so extraordinary that it amounted to genius--and through his very striving after bizarre, unusual and gigantic effects, he contributed largely toward the development of the technical resources of instrumental music. Wagner, Greatest of Orchestral Composers. Berlioz wrote a book on instrumentation, which has lately been re-edited by Richard Strauss. In it Strauss, modestly ignoring himself, says that Wagner's scores mark the only advance in orchestration worth mentioning since Berlioz. It is true, the technical possibilities of the orchestra were greatly improved, so far as the woodwind was concerned, by the introduction of keyed instruments constructed on the system invented by Theobald Böhm; while the French instrument maker, Adolphe Sax, also made important improvements by perfecting the bass clarinet and the bass tuba. But whatever aid Wagner derived from these improvements merely was incidental to the principle which is illustrated by every one of his scores--that technique merely is a means to an end. Wagner is the greatest orchestral virtuoso who ever breathed. Never, however, does he employ technique for technique's sake, but always only to enable his orchestra to convey the exact meaning he has in his mind or express the emotion he has in his heart, and he spares no pains to hit upon the best method of conveying these ideas and expressing these emotions. That is one reason why, although no one with any knowledge of music could mistake a passage by Wagner for any one else's music, each of his works has its own peculiar orchestral style. For each of his works reproduces through the orchestra the "atmosphere" of its subject. The scores of "Tannhäuser," "Lohengrin," "The Ring of the Nibelung," "Tristan," "Meistersinger" and "Parsifal" never could be mistaken for any one but Wagner's music. Yet how different they are from each other! He makes each instrument speak its own language. When, for example, the English horn speaks through Wagner, it speaks English, not broken English, and so it is with all the other instruments of the orchestra--he makes them speak without a foreign accent. If Wagner employs a large orchestra, it is not for the sake of making a noise, but in order to gain variety in expression. "He is wonderfully reserved in the use of his forces," says Richard Strauss. "He employs them as a great general would his battalions, and does not send in an army corps to pick off a skirmisher." Strauss regards "Lohengrin" as a model score for a somewhat advanced student, before proceeding to the polyphony of "Tristan" and "Meistersinger" or "the fairy region of the 'Nibelungs.'" "The handling of the wind instruments," writes Strauss, "reaches a hitherto unknown esthetic height. The so-called third woodwinds, English horn and bass clarinet, added for the first time to the woodwinds, are already employed in a variety of tone color; the voices of the second, third and fourth horn, trumpets and trombones established in an independent polyphony, the doubling of melodic voices characteristic of Wagner, carried out with such assurance and freedom and knowledge of their characteristic timbres, and worked out with an understanding of tonal beauty, that to this day evokes unstinted admiration. At the close of the second act the organ tones that Wagner lures out of the orchestra triumph over the queen of instruments itself." How Wagner Produces His Effects. The effects produced by Wagner are not due to a large orchestra, but to his manner of using the instruments in it. Among some of his special effects are the employment of full harmony with what formerly would have been merely single passing notes, and above all, the exploitation of every resource of counterpoint in combination with the well developed system of harmony inherited from Beethoven, but largely added to by himself. In fact, Wagner's greatness is due to the combination of several great gifts--his melodic inventiveness, his rich harmony and his wonderful technical skill in weaving together his themes in a still richer counterpoint. This counterpoint is not, however, dry and formal, because his themes--his leading motives--are themselves full of emotional significance and not conceived, like those of the old contrapuntists, merely: for formal treatment. Richard Strauss is such a master of orchestration that I am inclined to quote his summary of the development of the art of orchestration, from his edition of the Berlioz book, which at this writing has not yet been translated. I should like to recall to the reader's mind, however, the fact that Strauss' father was a noted French-horn player; that Strauss himself has a great love for the instrument; and that when, in summing up the causes of Wagner's primacy among orchestral writers, he finds one of them in the greater technical facility of the valve horn, it is well to take this with a grain of salt and attribute it somewhat to his own affection for the instrument. The symphonies of Haydn and Mozart, according to Strauss, are enlarged string quartets with obbligato woodwind, brass and tympani, and the occasional use of other instruments of noise to strengthen the tuttis. "Even with Beethoven, the symphony is still simply enlarged chamber music, the orchestra being treated in a pianistic spirit which unfortunately shows itself even in the orchestral work of Schumann and Brahms. Wagner owes his polyphonic string quintet not to the Beethoven orchestra, but to the last quartets of Beethoven, in which each instrument is the peer of the others. "Meanwhile, another kind of orchestral work was developing, for, from the time of Gluck on, the opera orchestra was gaining in coloring and in individual characteristics. Berlioz was not dramatic enough for opera nor symphonic enough for the concert stage, yet his efforts to write programmatic symphonies resulted in his discovering new effects, new possibilities in tone tints and in orchestral technics. Berlioz misses the polyphony that enriches Wagner's orchestra, and makes instruments like the second violins, violas, etc., second horns, etc., weave their threads or strands of melody into the woof. Wagner's primacy is due to his employment of the richest style of polyphony and counterpoint, the increased possibility of this through the invention of the valve horn, and his demand of solo virtuosity upon his orchestral players. His scores mark the only advance worth mentioning since Berlioz." X INSTRUMENTS OF THE ORCHESTRA An orchestra is an aggregation of many instruments which, under the baton of an able conductor, should play as one, so far as precision and expression are concerned. Separately, the instruments are like the paints on a palette, and the result of the composer's effort, like that of the painter's, depends upon what he has to express and his knowledge of how to use his materials in trying to express it. The orchestra has developed into several distinct groups, which are capable of playing independently, or in union with each other, and within these groups themselves there are various subdivisions. It is the purpose of every modern composer who amounts to anything, to get as many different quartets as possible out of his orchestra. By this is meant a grouping of instruments in such a way that as many groups as possible can play in independent harmony. It is through this system of orchestral groups that Wagner has been able to enrich orchestral tone coloring, and to say everything he wishes to say in exactly the way it should be said. We cannot, for example, imagine that the Love Motive in "Die Walküre" could be made to sound more beautiful on its first entrance in the score than it does. Nor could it. In that scene it is exactly suited to a solo violoncello, and to a solo violoncello Wagner gives it. In order, however, to produce a perfectly homogenous effect, in order that the violoncello quality of tone shall pervade not only the melody, but also the supporting harmony, he supports the melody with eight violoncellos, adding two double basses to give more sonorousness to the deepest note in the harmony. In other words he has made for the moment a complete orchestra out of nine violoncellos and two double basses, and produced a wondrously rich and thrilling effect--because, having a beautiful melody to score, he knew just the instruments for which to score it. This is an admirable example of what technique accomplishes in the hands of a genius. Another composer might have used an orchestra of a hundred instruments and not have produced the exquisite thrill that Wagner with his magical orchestral touch conjures out of this group of violoncellos, a group within a group, an orchestra of violoncellos within the string band. [Music illustration] The woodwind instruments are capable of several similar subdivisions. Flutes, oboes and bassoons, for example, may form a group capable of producing independent harmony, so can the clarinets, and the same is the case with the brass instruments. One of Wagner's most beautiful leading motives, the Walhalla Motive in the "Ring of the Nibelung," is sounded on four trombones. In brief, then, the modern composer strives to constitute his orchestra in such a way that he secures as many independent groups, and as many little orchestras, as possible, not, however, for the purpose of using them independently all the time, but merely in order to do so occasionally for special effects or to combine them whenever he sees fit in order to enrich his tone coloring or weave his polyphony. The grand divisions of the orchestra are the strings--violins, violas, violoncellos and double basses; the woodwind, consisting, broadly speaking, of flutes, oboes, clarinets and bassoons; the brass--horns, trumpets and trombones; and the instruments of percussion, or the "battery"--drums, triangles, cymbals and instruments of that kind. The Prima Donna of the Orchestra. The leading instrument of the string group, and in fact the leading instrument of the orchestra, is the violin. The first violins are the prima donnas of the orchestra, and one might say that it is almost impossible to have too many of them. The first and second violins should form about one-third of an orchestra, and better still it would be for the number to exceed that proportion. The Boston Symphony Orchestra, which has about eighty-one players, has thirty violins. Theodore Thomas's New York Festival Orchestra in 1882, consisting of three hundred and fourteen instruments, had one hundred violins. Great is the capacity of the violin. Its notes may be crisp, sharp, decisive, brilliant, or long-drawn-out and full of emotion. It has greater precision of attack than any other instrument in the orchestra. And right here it is interesting to note that while the multiplication of instruments gives greater sonority, it also gives much finer effects in soft passages. The pianissimo of one hundred violins is a very much finer pianissimo and at the same time infinitely richer and further carrying than the pianissimo of a solo violin. It is the very acme of a musical stage whisper. In this very first and most important group of the orchestra we can find examples of utilizing subdivisions of groups. Although the violin cannot be played lower than its G string, which sounds the G below the treble clef, the violin group nevertheless has been employed entirely by itself, and even subdivided within itself. The most exquisite example of this, one cited in every work on the orchestra worth reading, is the "Lohengrin" prelude. To this the violins are divided into four groups and on the highest register, with an effect that is most ethereal. [Music illustration] Modern orchestral virtuosity may be gauged by the statement that while Beethoven but once dared to score for his violins above the high F, Richard Strauss in the most casual manner carries them an octave higher. A little contrivance of wood or metal, with teeth, can be pressed down over the strings of the violin so as to deaden its vibrations. This is called the sordine, or mute. A famous example of the use of the violins _con sordini_ is the Queen Mab Scherzo in Berlioz's "Romeo et Juliette Symphonie." Another well-known use of the same effect is in Asa's Death, in Grieg's "Peer Gynt" Suite. Nothing can be more exquisite than the entrance of the muted violins after a long silence, in the last act of "Tristan und Isolde," just before _Isolde_ intones the Love Death. An unusual effect is produced by using the back of the bow instead of the horsehair. Liszt uses it in his symphonic poem, "Mazeppa," for imitating the snorting of the horse; Wagner in "Siegfried," for accompanying the mocking laugh of _Mime_; and Richard Strauss in "Feuersnot," to produce the effect of crackling flames. But, as Strauss remarks in his revision of Berlioz's work on instrumentation, it is effective only with a large orchestra. The plucking of the strings with the fingers--pizzicato--is a familiar device. Tschaikowski employed it almost throughout an entire movement, the "Pizzicato Ostinato" in his Fourth Symphony. Viola, Violoncello and Double Bass. The viola is a deeper violin, with a very beautiful and expressive tone. Méhul, the French composer, scored his one-act opera, "Uthal," without violins, employing the viola as the highest string instrument in his score. This, however, was not a success, the brilliant tone of the violin being missed more and more as the performance of the work progressed, until Grétry is said to have risen in his seat and exclaimed: "A thousand francs for an E string!" Meyerbeer, who was among the first to appreciate the beauty of the viola as a solo instrument, used a single viola for the accompaniment to _Raoul's_ romance, "Plus blanche que la blanche hermine," in the first act of "Les Huguenots." Strictly speaking, he wrote it for the viola d'amour, which is somewhat larger than the ordinary viola; but it almost always is played on the latter. Berlioz made exquisite use of it in his "Harold Symphony," practically making a _dramatis persona_ of it, for in the score a solo viola represents the melancholy wanderer; and in his "Don Quixote," Richard Strauss assigns to the instrument an equally important rôle. The violoncello is one of the most tenderly expressive of all the instruments in the orchestra. Beethoven employs it for the theme of the slow movement in his Fifth Symphony, and although the viola joins with the violoncello in playing this melody, the passage owes its beauty chiefly to the latter. One of the most exquisite melodies in all symphonic music is the theme which Schubert has given to the violoncellos in the first movement of his "Unfinished Symphony." They also are used with wonderfully expressive effect in the "Tristan Vorspiel." Rossini gives a melodious passage, in the introduction to the overture to "William Tell," to five violoncellos. But the most striking employment of the violoncellos as an independent group is in the Love Motive in the first act of "Die Walküre." Double basses first were used to simply double the violoncello part in the harmony. But through Beethoven's employment of them in the Fifth and Ninth Symphonies, in the former for a remarkably effective passage in the Scherzo and in the latter for a highly dramatic recitative, their importance as independent instruments in the orchestra was established. Verdi has made very effective use of them in the scene in "Otello" as the _Moor_ approaches _Desdemona's_ bed. In the introduction to "Rheingold," Wagner has half his double basses tuned down to E flat, which is half a note deeper than the usual range of the instrument, and in the second act of "Tristan und Isolde" two basses are obliged to tune their E string down to C sharp. Dividing the String Band. I have pointed out several examples in which the groups of instruments in the string band are divided within themselves, as in the prelude to "Lohengrin" and in the first act of "Die Walküre." The entire string band can be divided and subdivided with telling effect, when done by a master. When in the second act of "Tristan" _Brangäne_ warns the lovers from her position on the watch-tower, the accompaniment stirs the soul to its depth, because it gives the listener such a weird thrill of impending danger that he almost longs to inform the lovers of their peril. In this passage Wagner divides the string band into no less than fifteen parts. In the thunder-storm in "Rheingold" the strings are divided into twenty-one parts. Richard Strauss points out how in the introduction to "Die Walküre" much of the stormy effect is produced by strings only--sixteen second violins, twelve violas, twelve violoncellos and four double basses--a storm for strings where another composer would have unleashed a whole orchestra, including cymbals and bass drum, and crashed and thrashed about without producing a tithe of Wagner's effect! He also cites the tremolo at the beginning of the second act of "Tristan" as a wonderful example of tone painting which produces the effect of whispering foliage and conveys to the audience a sense of mystery and danger. Theodore Thomas always was insistent that the various divisions of a string band should bow exactly alike. It is said that he once stopped an orchestra because he had detected something wrong with the tonal effect, and, after watching the players, had discovered that one violoncellist among sixteen was bowing differently from the others. Richard Strauss, on the other hand, never insists on the same bowing throughout each division of strings. He thinks it robs the melody of intensity and beauty if each individual is not allowed to play according to his own peculiar temperament. A Passage in "Die Walküre." In the Magic Fire Scene in the finale of "Die Walküre," Wagner wrote violin passages which not even the greatest soloist can play cleanly, yet which, when played by all the violins, simulate in _sound_ the _aspect_ of licking, circling flames. Indeed, the effects that Wagner understood how to draw from the orchestral instruments are little short of marvellous. In the "Lohengrin" prelude the tone quality of the violins is absolutely angelic in purity; while in the third act of "Siegfried," the upswinging violin passages as the young hero reaches the height where _Brünnhilde_ slumbers, depict the action with a thrilling realism. Besides the regular string band, Wagner made frequent use of the harp. It is related that at the Munich performance of "Rheingold," when the harpist Trombo protested to him that some of the passages were unplayable, the composer replied: "You don't expect me to play the harp, too, do you? You perceive the general effect I am aiming at; produce that and I shall be satisfied." Liszt, in his "Dante Symphony," uses the _glissando_ of the harp as a symbol for the rising shades of _Francesco da Rimini_ and her lover, and a very beautiful use of harmonics on the harp with their faint tinkle is to be found in the Waltz of the Sylphs in Berlioz's "Damnation de Faust." The Woodwind. Flutes, oboes and clarinets form the woodwind. One of the best known passages for flute is in the third "Leonora Overture" of Beethoven, where it is employed with conspicuous grace. Probably, however, more fun has been made of the flute than of any other orchestral instrument, and a standard musical joke runs as follows: "Are you musical?" "No, but I have a brother who plays the flute." It has also been insinuated that in Donizetti's "Lucia" the heroine goes mad, not because she has been separated from _Edgardo_, but because a flute obbligato accompanies her principal aria. The piccolo is a high flute used for shrill effects. The instruments of both the oboe and clarinet families are reed instruments, with this difference, however: the instruments of the oboe family have two vibrating reeds in the mouthpieces; those of the clarinet family, only one. The oboe family consists of the oboe proper, the English horn which is an alt oboe, and the bassoon which is the bass of this group of instruments. In Italian the bassoon is called a _fagotto_, a name derived from its supposed resemblance to a bundle of fagots. "Candor, artless grace, tender joy, or the grief of a fragile soul, are found in the oboe's accents," says Berlioz of this instrument, and those who remember the exquisite oboe melody, with which the slow movement of Schubert's C major symphony opens, will agree with the French composer. Richard Strauss, in his "Sinfonia Domestica," employs the almost obsolete oboes d'amore to represent an "innocent, dreamy, playful child." The English Horn in "Tristan." The most famous use of the English horn is found in the third act of "Tristan," where it plays the "sad lay" while _Tristan_ awaits news of the ship which is bearing _Isolde_ toward him, and changes to a joyous strain when the ship is sighted. The bassoon and contrabassoon, besides their value as the bass of the oboe family, have certain humorous qualities, which are admirably brought out in Beethoven's Fifth and Ninth Symphonies and in the march of the clownish artisans in Mendelssohn's "Midsummer Night's Dream" music. In opera, Meyerbeer made the bassoon famous by his scoring of the dance of the _Spectre Nuns_ in "Robert le Diable" for it, and he also used it for the accompaniment to the female chorus in the second act of "Les Huguenots." The theme of the romanza, "Una fortiva lagrima," in Donizetti's "L'Elisir d'Amore," which Caruso sings so beautifully, is introduced by the bassoon, and with charming effect. The clarinets have a large compass. Usually three kinds of clarinets (in A, B flat and C because they are transposing instruments) are employed in the orchestra, besides the bass clarinet. The possibilities of the clarinet group have been enormously developed by Wagner. It is necessary only to recall the scene of _Elsa's_ bridal procession to the cathedral in the second act of "Lohengrin"; _Elisabeth's_ sad exit after her prayer in the third act of "Tannhäuser," in which the melody is played by the bass clarinet, while the accompaniment is given to three flutes and eight other clarinets; the change of scene in the first act of "Götterdämmerung," when clarinets give forth the Brünnhilde Motive; and passages in the second act of "Die Meistersinger," in the scene at nightfall; while for a generally skillful use of the woodwind the introduction to the third act of "Lohengrin" is a shining example. Brass Instruments. People usually associate the brass instruments with noise. But as a matter of fact, wonderfully rich and soft tone effects can be produced on the brass by a composer who knows how to score for it. Just as the pianissimo of many violins is a finer pianissimo than that of a solo violin, so a much more exquisitely soft effect can be produced on a large brass group than on a few brass instruments or a single one. When modern composers increase the number of instruments in the brass group, it is not for the sake of noise, but for richer effects. The trumpet is the soprano of the brass family. The fanfare in "Fidelio" when at the critical moment aid approaches; the Siegfried Motive and the Sword Motive, in the "Ring of the Nibelung," need only be cited to prove the effectiveness of the instrument in its proper place; and Richard Strauss instances the demoniacal and fateful effect of the deep trumpet tones in the introduction to the first act of Bizet's "Carmen." Although the notes of the trombone are produced by a slide, this instrument belongs to the trumpet family. For this reason, in the "Ring of the Nibelung," Wagner, in addition to the usual three tenor trombones, reintroduced the almost obsolete bass trombone. He wanted a trombone group complete in itself, and thus to be able to utilize the peculiar tone color of the instrument; as witness in the Walhalla Motive, where it is scored for the three tenor trombones and bass trombone, resulting in a wonderfully rich and velvety quality of tone. Excepting Wagner and Richard Strauss, there probably is not a composer who would not have used the bass tuba here instead of taking the trouble to revive the bass trombone. But Wagner wanted an unusually rich tone which should be solemn without a trace of sombreness, and his keen instrumental color sense informed him that he could secure it with the bass trombone, which, as it belongs to the trumpet family, has a touch of trumpet brilliancy, whereas the tone of the bass tuba is darker. [Music illustration] Mozart employed the trombone with fine effect in _Sarastro's_ solo in the "Magic Flute"; Schubert showed his genius for instrumentation by the manner in which he used them in the introduction to his C major symphony, as well as in the first movement of that symphony, in which a theme is given out by three trombones in unison; and another familiar example of good scoring for trombones is in the introduction to the third act of "Lohengrin." In the Death Prophecy scene in the second act of "Die Walküre," a trumpet melody is supported by the four trombones, another instance of Wagner's sense of homogeneity in sound, since trumpets and trombones belong to the same family. In fact, throughout the "Ring," as Strauss points out, Wagner wrote for his trombones in four parts, adding the bass trombone in order to differentiate wholly between it and the tuba, which latter he used with the horns, with which it is properly grouped. Wagner has a tremendous tuba recitative in a "Faust Overture," and in the Funeral March in the "Götterdämmerung" he introduces tenor tubas in order, again, to differentiate between the tone color of tubas and trombones and not to be obliged to employ trombones in this particular scene, the general tone color of the tuba being far more sombre than that of the trombone. Richard Strauss's Tribute to the Horn. To mention tubas and trombones before the horns is very much like putting the cart before the horse, but I have reserved the horns for the last of the brass on account of the great tribute which Richard Strauss has paid them. In the early orchestras one rarely found more than two horns. Beethoven used four in the Ninth Symphony, and now it is not at all unusual to find eight. "Of all instruments," says Richard Strauss, "the horn is perhaps the one that best can be joined with other groups. To substantiate this in all its numerous phases, I should be obliged to quote the entire 'Meistersinger' score. For I do not think I exaggerate when I maintain that the greatly developed technique of the valve horn has made it possible that a score which, with the addition of a third trumpet, a harp and a tuba, employs the same instruments as Beethoven used in his Fifth Symphony, has become with every bar something entirely different, something wholly new and unheard of. "Surely the two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets and two bassoons of Mozart have been exhausted by Wagner in every direction of their technical possibilities and plastically combined with an almost weird perception of all their tone secrets; the string quintet, through the most refined divisions into parts, and with added brilliance through the employment of the harp, produces innumerable new tone effects, and by superb polyphony is brought to a height and warmth of emotional expression such as never before was dreamed of; trumpet and trombones are made to express every phase of solemn or humorous characterization--but the main thing is the tireless participation of the horn, now for the melody, now for filling out, now as bass. The 'Meistersinger' score is the horn's hymn of praise. Through the introduction and perfection of the valve horn the greatest improvement in the technique of scoring, since Berlioz's day, has been made possible. "To illustrate exhaustively this Protean character of the horn, I should like (again!) to go through the scores of the great magician, bar by bar, beginning with 'Rheingold.' "Whether it rings through the primeval German forest with the sunny exuberance of _Siegfried's_ youthful heart and joy of living; whether in Liszt's 'Mazeppa' it dies out in the last hoarse gasp of the Cossack prince nigh unto death in the vast desert of the steppes; whether it conjures the childlike longing of _Siegfried_ for the mother he never has known; whether it hovers over the gently undulating sea which is to bring _Isolde's_ gladdening form to the dying _Tristan_, or nods _Hans Sachs'_ thanks to the faithful _'Prentice_; whether in _Erik's_ dream it causes in a few hollow accents the North Sea to break on the lonely coast; bestows upon the apples of Freia the gift of eternal youth; pokes fun at the curtain-heroes ('Meistersinger,' Act III); plies the cudgels on _Beckmesser_ with the jealous _David_ and his comrades, and is the real instigator of the riot; or sings in veiled notes of the wounds of _Tristan_--always the horn, in its place and to be relied on, responds, unique in its manifold meanings and its brilliant significance." Famous horn passages in the works of other composers are in the trio of the Scherzo in the "Eroica Symphony"; in the second movement of Schubert's C major symphony, the passage of which Schumann said that the notes of the horns just before the return of the principal subject were like the voice of an angel; in the opening of Weber's "Freischütz" overture; in the introduction to _Michaela's_ romance in "Carmen"; and in the opening theme of the slow movement of Tschaikowsky's Fifth Symphony, which is the perfection of a melodic phrase for solo horn. Instruments of Percussion. In the "battery" the instruments of prime importance are the tympani. Beethoven gave the cue to what could be accomplished with these in the scherzo of the Fifth Symphony and also in the octave thumps in the scherzo of the Ninth Symphony, while for a weirdly sombre effect there is nothing equal to the faint roll of the tympani at the beginning and end of the Funeral March in "Götterdämmerung." Cymbals are used in several ways. Besides the ordinary clash, Wagner has produced a sound somewhat like that of a gong, by the sharp stroke of a drum-stick on one cymbal, and also a roll by using a pair of drum-sticks on one cymbal. Among composers since Beethoven, Weber, Liszt, Saint-Saëns, Dvorak, Tschaikowsky, and, of course, Richard Strauss--it hardly is necessary to mention either Berlioz or Wagner again--have shown brilliant technique in orchestration. On the other hand, Schumann and Brahms do not appear to have understood or to have taken the trouble to understand the individual characteristics of orchestral instruments, and, as a result, their works for orchestra are not as effective as they should be. Their orchestration has been called "muddy." It is Richard Strauss's opinion that the next advancement in orchestration will be brought about by adding largely to certain groups of instruments which now have only comparatively few representatives in the orchestra. He instances that at the Brussels Conservatory one of the professors had Mozart's G minor symphony performed for him on twenty-two clarinets, of which four were basset horns (alto clarinets), two brass clarinets, and one contra-bass clarinet; and he suggests that it will be along such lines that the orchestra of the future will be enlarged. With an orchestra with all the family groups of instruments complete in the manner suggested by Strauss, and used by a musical genius, a genius who combines with melodic invention virtuosity of instrumentation, marvellous results are yet to be achieved. XI CONCERNING SYMPHONIES I have said that music, like all other arts, had a somewhat formless beginning, then gradually acquired form, then became too rigidly formal, and in modern times, while not discarding form, has become freer in its expression of emotion. Instrumental music, since the beginning of the classical period, has been governed largely by the symphony, which the reader should bear in mind is nothing more than a sonata for orchestra, the form having first developed on the pianoforte and having been handed over by it to the aggregation of instruments. Sir Hubert Parry, from whose book, "The Evolution of the Art of Music," I have had previous occasion to quote, has several apt paragraphs concerning the earlier development of the sonata, which of course apply with equal force to the symphony. After stating that the instinct of the composers who first sought the liberation of music from the all-predominating counterpoint, impelled them to develop movements of wider and freer range, which should admit of warm melodic expression, without degenerating into incoherent, rambling ecstasy, Sir Hubert continues: "They had the sense to see from the first that mere formal continuous melody is not the most suitable type for instrumental music. There is deep-rooted in the matter of all instrumental music the need of some rhythmic vitality. These composers then set themselves to devise a scheme in which, to begin with, the contour of connected melodic phrases, supported and defined by simple harmonic accompaniment, gave the impression of definite tonality--that is, of being decisively in some particular key and giving an unmistakable indication of it. They found out how to proceed by giving the impression of using that key and passing to another without departing from the characteristic spirit and mood of the music, as shown in the 'subjects' and figures; and how to give the impression of relative completeness, by closing in a key which is in strong contrast to the first, and so round off one-half of the design. "But this point being in apposition to the starting point, leaves the mind dissatisfied and in expectation of fresh disclosures; so they made the balance complete by resuming the subjects and melodic figures of the first part in extraneous keys, and working back to the starting point; and they made their final close with the same figures as were used to conclude the first half, but in the principal key instead of the key of contract." This is a somewhat more elaborate method of describing the sonata form than I have adopted in the division of this book relating to the pianoforte. Esthetic Purpose of the Symphony. Later on in his book, Sir Hubert, in discussing the type of sonata movement which was fairly established by the time of Haydn and Mozart, gives a simpler esthetic explanation, pointing out that the first part of the movement aims at definiteness of subject, definiteness of contrast of keys, definiteness of regular balancing groups of bars and rhythms, definiteness of progressions. By the time this first division is over the mind has had enough of such definiteness, and wants a change. The second division, therefore, represents the breaking up of the subjects into their constituent elements of figure and rhythm, the obliteration of the sense of regularity by grouping the bars irregularly; and aims, by moving constantly from key to key, to give the sense of artistic confusion; which, however, is always regulated by some inner but disguised principle of order. When the mind has gone through enough of the pleasing sense of bewilderment--the sense that has made riddles attractive to the human creature from time immemorial--the scheme is completed by resuming the orderly methods of the first division and firmly re-establishing the principal theme which has been carefully avoided since the commencement. The earlier symphonic writers usually wrote their symphonies in three movements: the first or sonata movement; a second slow movement in a simpler type of form, usually of the song, aria, or rondo type; and a final movement in lively time, also usually adapted to the rondo form. Concerning this three-movement symphony of the early writers, it was said by an old-time wit that they wrote the first movement to show what they could do, the second movement to show what they could feel, and the third movement to show how glad they were it was over--and this may be said to describe the view of the ultra-modern music-lover toward rigidity of form in general. Regarding form in music there is much prejudice one way or the other. The sonnet in poetry certainly is a rigid form; and yet those poets who have mastered it have produced extremely effective and highly artistic poems, and poems abounding in profound emotional expression. Walt Whitman, on the other hand, was quite formless, and yet he is sure to be ranked in time as one of the greatest poets of his age. Wagner's idea was that the symphonic form had reached its climax with Beethoven's Ninth Symphony; yet it is by no means incredible that if Wagner in his maturer years had undertaken to compose a symphony, the result would have disproved his own theory. Seems to Hamper Modern Composers. The symphonic form, however, or, to be more exact, the sonata form, seems to hamper every modern composer when he writes for the pianoforte, and the fact that most of Beethoven's pianoforte music was written in this form appears to be the reason for his works somewhat falling into disuse. On the other hand, the form is undoubtedly holding out better in the orchestral version of the sonata, the symphony, because the tone color of orchestral instruments gives it greater variety. Tschaikowsky, Dvorak and Brahms have worked successfully, and the two former even brilliantly, in this form; and if Brahms in his symphonies appears too continent, too classically reserved, it would seem to be not so much the form itself which is to blame, as his lack of skill in instrumentation. My own personal preference is for the freer form developed by Liszt in the symphonic poem, in which a leading motive, or possibly several motives skillfully varied dominate the whole composition and give it esthetic and psychological unity; and for the still freer development of instrumental music in the tone poem of Richard Strauss. But neither the symphonic poems of Liszt nor the tone poems of Strauss are formless music. That should be well understood, although it should be borne in mind with equal distinctness that these manifestations of the genius of two great composers show a complete liberation from the shackles of the classical symphony. In the end the test is found in the music itself. If the music of a symphonic poem which sets out to express a given title or a given motto, if the music of a tone poem which starts out to interpret a programmatic story or device, is worthy to be ranked with the great productions of the art, it not only is profoundly interesting as music, but gains immensely in interest through its incidental secondary meaning. It is the old story of art for art's sake--art for the purpose of merely gratifying the eye or the ear--or art for the purpose of conveying something besides itself to the beholder or the listener; and it seems to me that, in the history of the art, art for art's sake has always been the more primitive expression and eventually has been obliged to give way. The Naive Symphonists. At the risk of repeating what already has been said of the sonata, the symphony may be described as a work in four movements--the first movement, usually an Allegro, sometimes with a slow introduction, but more frequently without one; a second movement, ordinarily called the slow movement, and usually in Adagio or Andante; a third movement, either minuet or scherzo; and a final movement in fast time and usually in rondo form. It was Haydn who pretty definitely established these divisions of the symphony. He composed in all one hundred and twenty-five symphonies, of which only a few appear on modern concert programs, and even these but occasionally. Their music is marked by a simplicity bordering on naïveté, and the orchestration is a string quartet with a mere filling out by other instruments. Mozart was of a deeper and more dramatic nature than Haydn, and the expression of his thought was more intense. In the same way, there is a greater warmth and color in his orchestration. Nevertheless, the three finest of his forty-nine symphonies, the E flat, G minor and Jupiter, composed in 1788, seem almost childlike in their artless grace and beauty to us moderns. Beethoven's first two symphonies were written under the influence of Haydn and Mozart, but with the third he becomes distinctly epic in his musical utterance; and this symphony, both in regard to variety and depth of expression and skillful use of orchestral instruments, is as great an advance upon the work of his predecessors as, let us say, Tschaikowsky is upon Mendelssohn. Beethoven to the Fore. There are apparent in the sequences of Beethoven's symphonies certain climaxes and certain rests. Thus the Third is the climax of the first three. The Fourth is far less profound; the master relaxes. But the Fifth, with its compact, vigorous theme, which Beethoven himself is said to have described as Fate knocking at the door, and his skillful introduction of this theme in varied form in each of the movements, is by many regarded as his masterpiece--even greater than the Ninth. After this he seems to have relaxed again in the Sixth, Seventh and Eighth, in order to prepare himself for the climax of his career in his final symphonic work, the Ninth. In the slow movement of the Sixth (the "Pastoral"), in which he imitates the call of birds, he gives the direction: "_mehr Empfindung als Malerei_" (more feeling than painting), a direction which often is quoted by opponents of modern program music; notwithstanding the fact that Beethoven, in spite of his own qualifying words, straightway indulged in "painting" of the most childish description. The Seventh Symphony is an extremely brilliant work and the Eighth an exceedingly joyous one, while with the Ninth, as though he himself felt that he was going beyond the limits of orchestral music, he introduced in the last movement solo singers and a chorus, but not with as much effect as the employment of this unusual scheme might lead one to anticipate, because, unfortunately, his writing for voices is extremely awkward. Schubert's Genius. Like Beethoven, Schubert wrote nine symphonies, but the "Unfinished," which was his eighth, and the C major, his ninth, which was discovered by Schumann in the possession of Schubert's brother and sent to Mendelssohn for production at Leipzig, are the ones which seem destined to survive. They are among the most beautiful examples of orchestral music--the first movement of the "Unfinished Symphony" full of dramatic moments as well as of exquisite melody, the slow movement a veritable rose of orchestration; while as regards the C major symphony, Schumann's reference to its "heavenly length" sufficiently describes its inspiration. Mendelssohn's Italian and Scotch symphonies are his best known orchestral works. They are clear and serene, and for any one who thinks a symphony is something very abstruse and wants to be gradually familiarized with its mysteries, they form an easily taken and innocuous dose--the symphony made palatable. Of Schumann's four symphonies, the one in E flat, the "Rhenish," supposed to represent a series of impressions of the Rhine country, the fourth movement especially, to represent the exaltation which possessed his soul during a religious ceremony in the cathedral at Cologne; and the D minor, which latter really is a fantasia, deserve to rank highest. In the D minor the movements follow each other without pause; there is a certain thematic relationship between the first and the last movements, and this connection gives the work a freer and more modern effect. But Schumann was either indifferent to, or ignorant of, the advance in orchestration which had taken place since Beethoven. Practically the same thing applies to Brahms, who, however, deserves the credit for introducing into the symphony a new style of movement, the intermezzo, which takes the place of the scherzo or minuet. Rubinstein deserves "honorable mention"; but the most modern heroes of symphony are Dvorak, with his "New World," and Tschaikowsky, with his "Pathétique." Such works are life-preservers that may help keep a sinking art form afloat. But modern orchestral music is tending more and more toward the symphonic poem and the tone poem. Liszt has written two symphonies: the "Faust Symphony," consisting of three movements, which represent the three principal characters of Goethe's drama, _Faust_, _Gretchen_, and _Mephistopheles_; and a symphony to Dante's "Divina Commedia." In both these symphonies a chorus is introduced. Of his symphonic poems, the best known are "Les Préludes," and "Tasso, Lamento e Trionfo." In these symphonic poems Liszt has made use of the principle of the leitmotif in orchestral music. They are dramatic episodes for orchestra, superbly instrumentated, profoundly beautiful in thought and intention--great program music in fact, because conceived in accordance with the highest canons of the art, and infinitely more interesting than "pure" music because they mean something. By some people Liszt is regarded as a mere charlatan, by others as a great composer. Not only was he a great composer, but one of the very greatest. The Saint-Saëns symphonic poems, "Rouet d'Omphale," "Phaeton," "Danse Macabre," should be mentioned as successful works of this class, but considerably below Liszt's in genuine musical value. And then, there are the orchestral impressions of Charles Martin Loeffler, among which the symphonic poem, "La Mort de Tintagiles," is the most conspicuous. A separate chapter is devoted to Richard Strauss. Wagner is not supposed to have been a purely orchestral composer. Theoretically, he wrote for the theatre, and his orchestra was (again theoretically) only part of a triple scheme of voice, action and instrumental accompaniment. But put the instrumental part of any of his great music-drama episodes on a concert program, and with the first wave of the conductor's baton and the first chord, you forget everything else that has gone before! XII RICHARD STRAUSS AND HIS MUSIC Richard Strauss--a new name to conjure with in music! His banner is borne by a band of enthusiasts like those who, many years ago, carried the flag of Wagner to the front. "Did not Wagner put a full stop after the word 'music'?" some will ask in surprise. "Did he not strike the final note? Are the 'Ring,' 'Tristan' and 'Parsifal' not to be succeeded by an eternal pause? Is there something still to be achieved in music as in other arts and sciences?" Something new certainly has been achieved by Richard Strauss. It forms neither a continuation of Wagner nor an opposition to Wagner. It has nothing to do with Wagner, beyond that Strauss appropriates whatever in the progression of art the latest master has a right to take from his predecessors. Strauss is, in fact, one of the most original and individual of composers. He has been a student, not a copyist, of Wagner. Thus, where others who have sat at the feet of the Bayreuth master have written poor imitations of Wagner, and have therefore failed even to continue the school, giving only feeble echoes of its great master, Strauss has struck out for himself. With a mastery of every technical resource, acquired by deep and patient study, he has given wholly new value and importance to a form of art entirely different from the music-drama. The music of the average modern Wagner disciple sounds not like Wagner, but like Wagner and water. Richard Strauss sounds like Richard Strauss. One reason for this is that his art work, like Wagner's, has an independent intellectual reason for being. Let me not for one moment be understood as belittling Wagner, in order to magnify Strauss. Wagner is the one creator of an art-form who also seems destined to remain its greatest exponent. Other creators of art-forms have been mere pioneers, leaving to those who have come after them the development and rounding out of what with them were experiments. The story of the sonata form may be said to have begun with Philipp Emanuel Bach and to have been "continued in our next" to Beethoven, with "supplements" ever since. The music-drama had its tentative beginnings in "The Flying Dutchman," its consummation in "Parsifal." The years from 1843 to 1882 lay between, but the music-drama was guided ever by the same hand, the master hand of Richard Wagner. No, it would be self-defeating folly to make Wagner appear less in order to have Strauss appear more. Originator of the Tone Poem. Nor does Richard Strauss require such tactics. He has made three excursions into music-drama and he may make others. But his fame, at present, rests mainly upon what he has accomplished as an instrumental composer, and in the self-created realm of the Tone Poem. Tone poem is a new term in music. It stands for something that outstrips the symphonic poem of Liszt, something larger both in its boundaries and in its intellectual and musical scope. Strauss does not limit himself by the word symphonic. He leaves himself free to give full range to his ideas. A composer of "program music," his works are so stupendous in scope that the word symphonic would have hampered him. His "Also Sprach Zarathustra" ("Thus Spake Zarathustra") and "Ein Heldenleben" ("A Hero's Life") are not symphonic poems, but tone poems of enormous proportions. These, his last two instrumental productions, together with the growing familiarity of the musical public with his beautiful and eloquent songs, established his reputation in this country. To-day, a Strauss work on a program means as much to the musically elect as a Wagner work meant a quarter of a century ago. In fact, to advanced musicians, to those who are not content to rest upon what has been achieved, but are ready to welcome further serious effort, Strauss's works form the latest great utterance in music. Let me repeat verbatim a conversation that occurred on a recent rainy night, the date of an important concert. He: "Are you going to the concert to-night?" She: (_Looking out and seeing that it still is raining hard_) "Do they play anything by Richard Strauss?" He: "Not to-night." She: "Then I'm not going." This woman could meet the most enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven or Wagner on his own ground. But when she heard "Ein Heldenleben" under Emil Paur's baton at a concert of the New York Philharmonic Society, she heard what she had been waiting twenty years for--something new in music that also was something great; something that was not merely an imitation of what she had heard a hundred times before, but something which pointed the way to untraveled paths. It always is woman who throws the first rose at the feet of genius. Not a Juggler with the Orchestra. One first looks at Richard Strauss in mere amazement at the size of what he has produced. "Thus Spake Zarathustra" lasts thirty-three minutes, "A Hero's Life" forty-five--considerable lengths for orchestral works. This initial sense of "bigness," as such, having worn off, one becomes aware of marvellous tone combinations and orchestral effects. Listening again, one discovers that these daring instrumental combinations have not been entered into merely for the sake of juggling with the orchestra, but because the composer, being a modern of moderns, has the most modern message in music to deliver, and, in order to deliver it, has developed the modern orchestra to a state of efficiency and versatility of tonal expression beyond any of his predecessors. Richard Strauss scores, in the most casual manner, an octave higher than Beethoven dared go with the violins. Except in the "Egmont" overture, Beethoven did not carry the violins higher than F above the staff. What should have been higher he wrote an octave lower. All the strings in the Richard Strauss orchestra are scored correspondingly high. But this is not done as a mere fad. What Richard Strauss accomplishes with the strings is not merely queer or bizarre. What he seeks and obtains is genuine original musical effects. Often the highest register is used by him in a few of the strings only, because, for certain polyphonic effects--the weaving and interweaving of various themes--he divides and subdivides all the strings into numerous groups. For the same reason, he has regularly added four or five hitherto rarely used instruments to the woodwind and scores, regularly, for eight horns, besides employing from four to five trumpets. While he has increased the technical difficulties of every instrument, what he requires of them is not impossible. He does, indeed, call for first-rate artists in his orchestra; but so did Wagner as compared with Beethoven. He knows every instrument thoroughly, for he has taken lessons on all; and, therefore, when he is striving for new instrumental effects he is not putting problems which cannot be legitimately solved. His "Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks" makes, possibly, the greatest demand of all his works on an orchestra. But, if properly played, it is one of the most bizarre and amusing scherzos in the repertoire. In his "Don Quixote," he has gone outside the list of orchestral instruments; and in the scene where _Don Quixote_ has his tilt with the windmill, he has introduced a regular theatrical wind-machine. And why not? The effect to be produced justifies the means. There is an _à capella_ chorus by Strauss for sixteen voices. These are not divided into two double quartets, or into four quartets, but the composition actually is scored in sixteen parts. He shrinks from no musical problem. Not Mere Bulk and Noise. When "A Hero's Life" was produced in New York it was given at a public rehearsal and concert of the Philharmonic. It made such a profound impression--it was recognized as music, not as mere bulk and noise--that it had to be repeated at a following public rehearsal and concert, thus having the honor of four consecutive performances by the same society in one season. Previous performances of Strauss's works, mainly by the Chicago Orchestra, under Thomas, and the Boston Symphony Orchestra, had begun to direct public attention to this composer. But the "Heldenleben" performances by the Philharmonic created something of a sensation. They made the "hit" to which the public unconsciously had been working up for several seasons. Large as are the dimensions of "A Hero's Life," Richard Strauss had chosen a subject that made a very direct appeal. Despite its wealth of polyphony and theme combination, the score told, without a word of synopsis, a clear intelligible story of a hero's material victory, followed by a greater moral one. It placed the public on a human, familiar footing with a composer whom previously they had regarded with more awe than interest. Here was music interesting as mere music, but all the more interesting because it had an intellectual message to convey. Life and Truth. What is the difference between classical and modern music? Write a chapter or a book on it, and the difference still remains just this: Classical music is the expression of beauty; modern music the expression of life and truth. Modern music seems entering upon a new era with Strauss, which does not necessarily exclude beauty. It is beginning to illustrate itself, so to speak, like the author-artist who can both write and draw. To-day, music not only expresses truth, but represents it pictorially. How long will the time be in coming when a composer will wave his bâton, the orchestra strike a chord--and we be not only listeners but also beholders, hearing the chord, and seeing at the same time its image floating above the orchestra? In his "Melomaniacs," the most remarkable collection of musical stories I have read, Mr. Huneker has a tale called "A Piper of Dreams," the most advanced piece of musical fiction I know of. This piper of dreams produces music which is _seen_. "Do you know why you like it?" Mr. Huneker asked me, when I told him how intensely I admired the story. "Because," he continued, "the hero of the story is a Richard Strauss." Of course, this brilliantly written story was a daring incursion into a seemingly impossible future. Yet it points a tendency. When shall we have music that can be seen? Considering how closely related are the laws of acoustics and optics, is a "Piper of Dreams" so visionary? Who knows but that the music of the future may be visible sound--the work of a piper of dreams? Sometimes, when listening to Strauss, I think Mr. Huneker's _Piper_ is tuning up. Richard Strauss's tone poems are large in plan. In fact they are colossal. They show him to be a man of great intellectual activity, as well as an inspired composer. The latter, of course, is the test by which a musical work stands or falls. No matter how intellectually it is planned, if it is inadequate musically it fails. But if it is musically inspired, it gains vastly in effect when it rests on a brain basis. Literally Tone Dramas. That Richard Strauss is the most significant figure in the musical world to-day seems to me too patent to admit of discussion. The only question to be considered is, how has he become so? The question is best answered by showing what a Richard Strauss tone poem is. Take "Thus Spake Zarathustra" and "A Hero's Life." Without going into an elaborate discussion I must insist that, to consider Richard Strauss as in any way a development from Berlioz or Liszt, shows a deplorable unfamiliarity with his works. Berlioz wrote program music. Liszt wrote program music. Richard Strauss writes program music. But this point of resemblance is wholly superficial. Berlioz admittedly strove to adhere to the orthodox symphonic form. Liszt aptly named his own productions "symphonic poems." They are much freer in form than Berlioz's, and possibly pointed the way to the Richard Strauss tone poem. But when we examine the musical kernel, the difference at once is apparent. Polyphony, that is, the simultaneous interweaving of many themes, was foreign to Berlioz and Liszt. Their style is mainly homophonic. Richard Strauss is a polyphonic composer second not even to Wagner, whose system of leading motives in his music-dramas made his scores such marvellous polyphonic structures. Such, too, are the scores of Richard Strauss's tone poems. None but a master of polyphony could have attempted to express in music what Richard Strauss has expressed. For are not his tone poems literally tone dramas? It was like a man of great intellectual activity, such as Richard Strauss is, to select for musical illustration the Faust of modern literature--Nietzsche's "Zarathustra." The composer became interested in Nietzsche's works in 1892, when he was writing his music-drama, "Guntram." The full fruition of his study of this philosopher's works is "Thus Spake Zarathustra." But this is not an attempt to set Nietzsche to music, not an effort to express a system of philosophy through sound. It is rather the musical portrayal of a quest--a being longing to solve the problems of life, finding at the end of his varied pilgrimage that which he had left at the beginning, Nature deep and inscrutable. Musically, the great _fortissimo_ outburst in C major, which, at the beginning of the work, greets the seeker on the mountain-top with the glories of the sunrise, is the symbol of Nature. The seeker descends the mountain. He pursues the quest amid many surroundings, among all sorts and conditions of men. He experiences joy, passion, remorse. In wisdom, perchance, lies the final solution of the problem of life. But the emptiness of "wisdom" is depicted by the composer with the keenest satire in a learned, yet dry, five-part fugue. The seeker's varied experiences form as many divisions of the tone poem. There is even a waltz theme. Unending joy! Therein he may reach the end of his quest. But hark! a sombre strophe, followed twelve times by the even fainter stroke of a bell! Then a theme winging its flight on the highest register of modern instrumentation, until it seems to rise over the orchestra and vanish into thin air. It is the soul of the seeker, his earthly quest ended; while the theme which greeted him at sunrise on the mountain-top resounds in the orchestral depths, the symbol of Nature, still mysterious, still inscrutable. An Intellectual Force in Music. Even this brief synopsis suggests that "Zarathustra" is planned on a large scale. It presupposes an intellectual grasp of the subject on the composer's part. In its choice, in the selection and rejection of details and in outlining his scheme, Richard Strauss shows that he has thoroughly assimilated Nietzsche. But, at a certain point, the musician in Richard Strauss asserts himself above the litterateur. "Thus Spake Zarathustra" was not intended for a preachment, save indirectly. From what occurs during that vain quest, from the last deep mysterious chord of the Nature theme, let the listener draw his own conclusion. In the last analysis, "Thus Spake Zarathustra" is not a philosophical treatise, but a tone poem. In the last analysis, Richard Strauss is not a philosopher, but a musician. "A Hero's Life" is another work of large plan. Like "Zarathustra," it derives its importance as an art-work from its eloquence as a musical composition. With a musical work, no matter how intellectual or dramatic its foundation, its test ever will be its value as pure music. Richard Wagner's theories would have fallen like a house of cards, had not his music been eloquent and beautiful. But as his music gained wonderfully in added eloquence and beauty by induction from its intellectual content, so does Strauss's. The fact is, music is music, while philosophies come and go. Yesterday it was Schopenhauer; to-day it is Nietzsche; to-morrow it will be another. Doubtless, Wagner thought his "Ring" was Schopenhauer's "Negation of the Will to Live" set to music. Possibly, Richard Strauss thought Nietzsche looked out between the bars of "Thus Spake Zarathustra." In point of fact, neither Wagner nor Richard Strauss incorporated their favorite philosophers in their music. Wagner may have derived his inspiration from his reading of Schopenhauer, and Richard Strauss from Nietzsche, for one mind inspires another. But the real result, both in Wagner and Strauss, was great music. This is made clear by Strauss's "A Hero's Life." Like "Zarathustra," it would be effective as music without a line of programmatic explanation. The latter simply adds to its effectiveness by giving it the further interest of "fiction" and ethical import. In "A Hero's Life" we hear (and _see_, if you like) the hero himself, his jealous adversaries, the woman whose love consoles him, the battle in which he wins his greatest worldly triumph, his mission of peace, the world's indifference and the final flight of his soul toward the empyrean. All this is depicted musically with the greatest eloquence. The battlefield scene is a stupendous massing of orchestral forces. On the other hand, the amorous episode, entitled "The Hero's Helpmate," is impassioned and charming. In the world's indifference to the hero's mission of peace, there is little doubt that Strauss was indulging in a retrospect of his own struggles for recognition. For here are heard numerous reminiscences of his earlier works--his tone poems, "Don Juan," "Death and Transfiguration," "Macbeth," "Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks," "Thus Spake Zarathustra," "Don Quixote"; his music-drama, "Guntram"; and his song, "Dream During Twilight." These reminiscences give "A Hero's Life" the same autobiographical interest as attaches to Wagner's "Meistersinger." Tribute to Wagner. Strauss pays a tribute to Wagner in the one-act opera, "Feuersnot" ("Fire Famine"). According to the old legend on which this _Sing-gedicht_ (song-poem) is founded, a young maiden has offended her lover. But the lover being a magician, casts a spell over the town, causing the extinction of all fire, bringing cold and darkness upon the entire place, until the maiden relents and smiles again upon him, when the spell is lifted and the fires once more burn brightly. The young lover, _Kunrad_, in rebuking the people of the city, says: "In this house which to-day I destroy, Once lodged Richard the Master. Disgracefully did ye expel him In envy and baseness," etc., etc. Accompanying these lines, Strauss introduces themes from Wagner's "Ring of the Nibelung." Undoubtedly "Richard the Master," in the above lines, is Richard Wagner. While Mr. Paur was not the first orchestral leader who has played Strauss's music in this country, he may justly be regarded as Strauss's prophet in New York at least. Not only do we owe to him the performances of "A Hero's Life," which definitely "created" Strauss here, but it was he who brought forward "Thus Spake Zarathustra," when he was conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. As long ago as 1889, when Mr. Paur was conductor at Mannheim, he invited Strauss to direct his symphony in F minor there. Strauss accepted and also brought with him his just completed "Macbeth," asking to be allowed to try it over with the orchestra, as he wanted to hear it--a request which was readily granted. Afterward, at Mr. Paur's house, Strauss's piano quartet was played, with the composer himself at the piano and Mr. Paur at the violin. It is not surprising that when Mr. Paur came over here as the conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, he championed Richard Strauss's work, continued to do so after he became conductor of the New York Philharmonic Society, and probably still does as conductor of the Pittsburg Orchestra. Strauss has become such an important figure in the world of music that it is interesting to note what has been done to bring his work before the American public. Theodore Thomas, with the artistic liberality which he has always displayed toward every serious effort in music, produced Strauss's symphony in F minor, which bears date 1883, as early as December 13, 1884, with the New York Philharmonic Society. It was the first performance of this work anywhere. Strauss was not, however, heard again at the concerts of this organization until January, 1892, when Seidl brought out "Death and Transfiguration." After he became conductor of the Chicago Orchestra, Thomas gave many performances of Richard Strauss's works--in 1895, the prelude to "Guntram," "Death and Transfiguration" and "Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks"; in 1897, "Don Juan" and "Thus Spake Zarathustra"; in 1899, "Don Quixote" and the symphonic fantasia, "Italy"; in 1900, "A Hero's Life" (the first performance in this country) and the "Serenade" for wind instruments; in 1902, "Macbeth" (first performance in this country) and the "Feuersnot" fragment. Several of these works, besides those noted, had their first performance in this country by the Chicago Orchestra, and several have had repeated performances. The Boston Symphony Orchestra also has a fine record as regards the performance of Richard Strauss's works. Nikisch, Paur, and Gericke are the conductors under whom these performances have been given. Several of the works have been played repeatedly not only in Boston, but in other cities where this famous orchestra gives concerts. Richard Straussiana. As data regarding Strauss's life, at the disposal of English readers, are both scant and scattered, it may not be amiss to tell here something of his career. He was born on June 11, 1864, in Munich, where his father, Franz Strauss, played the French-horn in the Royal Orchestra, and was noted for his remarkable proficiency on the instrument. The elder Strauss lived long enough to watch with pride his son's growing fame. Richard began to play the piano when he was four years old. At the age of six he heard some children singing around a Christmas tree. "I can compose something like that," he said, and he produced unaided a three-part song. When he went to school, his mother by chance put covers of music paper on his books. As a result, he occupied much of his time composing on this paper, and during a French lesson sketched out the scherzo of a string quartet which has been published as his Opus 2. While he was still at school, he composed a symphony in D minor. This was played by the Royal Orchestra under Levi. When, in response to calls for the composer, Richard came out, some one in the audience asked: "What has that boy to do with the symphony?" "Oh, he's only the composer," was the reply. The year before (1880), the Royal Opera prima donna, Meysenheim, had publicly sung three of his songs. During his advanced school years, his piano lessons continued, he received lessons in the violin, and went through a severe course in composition with the Royal Kapellmeister, Meyer. In 1882, he attended the University of Munich. His "Serenade" for wind instruments, composed at this time, attracted the attention of Hans von Bülow, under whom he studied for a while at Raff's conservatory in Frankfort. Bülow invited him to Meiningen as co-director of the orchestra, and when in November, 1885, Bülow resigned as conductor, Strauss became his successor, remaining there, however, only till April, 1886. His symphonic fantasia, "Italy," had its origin through a trip to Rome and Naples during this year. In August, 1886, he was appointed assistant conductor to Levi and Fischer at the Munich Opera, where he remained until July, 1889, when he became conductor at Weimar. In 1892, he almost died from an attack of pneumonia, and on his recovery took a long trip through Greece, Egypt and Sicily. It was on this tour that he wrote and composed "Guntram," which was brought out at Weimar in May, 1894. After the first performance, he announced his engagement to the singer of _Freihild_ in "Guntram," Pauline de Ahna, the daughter of a Bavarian general. The same year he returned to Munich as conductor, remaining there until 1899, when he became one of the conductors at the Berlin Opera, which position he still holds. He is one of the "star" conductors of Europe, receiving invitations to conduct concerts in many cities, including Brussels, Moscow, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Madrid, London and Paris; and his American tour was a memorable one. He is a man of untiring industry. It is said that he worked no less than half a year on "Thus Spake Zarathustra," and that the writing of his scores is a model of beauty. Strauss occupies a commanding position in the world of music. He has achieved it through a remarkable combination of musical technique and inspiration coupled with rare industry. His ideals are of the highest. His intellectual activity is great. He seems a man of calm and noble poise, of broad horizon. It would be presumption to speak of "expectations" as to one who has accomplished so much. For the great achievements already to his credit, and among these "Salome" surely must be included, are the best promise for the future. XIII A NOTE ON CHAMBER MUSIC Lovers of chamber music form an extremely refined and cultured class, and, like all highly refined and cultured people, are very conservative. They are the purists among music-lovers, the last people who would care to see the classical forms abandoned, and who would be disturbed, not to say shocked, by any great departure from the sonata form. For the string quartet is to chamber music what the symphony is to orchestra and the sonata to the pianoforte--is, in fact, a sonata for two violins, viola and violoncello, just as the symphony is a sonata for orchestra. Oddly enough, a pianoforte solo is more effective in a large hall than a string quartet, although the latter employs four times as many instruments; and the same is true of those pieces of chamber music in which the pianoforte is used, such as sonatas for pianoforte and violin or violoncello, pianoforte trios, quartets, quintets, and so on. A fine soloist on the pianoforte will be more at home in a large auditorium like Carnegie Hall or even the Metropolitan Opera House than would a string quartet or any other combination of chamber-music players. Paderewski plays in Carnegie Hall, and, I am sure, would be equally effective in the Opera House. But an organization of chamber-music players would be lost in either place. The Kneisel Quartet plays in New York in Mendelssohn Hall, a small auditorium which is just about correctly proportioned for music of this kind. Indeed, compared with the opera, the orchestra and even with the pianoforte, chamber music requires a setting like a jewel. For just as its devotees are the purists among music-lovers, so chamber music itself is something very "precious." It certainly is a most charming and intimate form of musical entertainment and the constituency of a well-established string quartet inevitably consists of the musical élite. The same opinions that have been expressed regarding the sonatas and the symphonies of the great composers apply in a general way to their chamber music. Haydn's is naive; Mozart's more emotional in expression; Beethoven's, among that of classical composers, the most dramatic. In fact, Beethoven's last quartets, in which the instruments are employed quite independently and in which rôles practically of equal importance are assigned to each, are regarded by Richard Strauss as having given the cue to Wagner for his polyphonic treatment of the orchestra, and Wagner himself spoke of them as works through which "Music first raised herself to an equal height with the poetry and painting of the greatest periods of the past." Nevertheless, there are many who hold that in his last quartets Beethoven sought to accomplish more than can be expressed with four stringed instruments, and prefer his earlier works of this class, like the three "Rasumovski" quartets, Opus 59, dedicated by the composer to Count Rasumovski, who maintained a private string quartet in which he played second violin, the others being professionals. Schubert's most famous quartet is the one in D minor with the lovely slow movement, a theme with variations, the theme being his own song, "Death and the Maiden." One of the greatest works in the whole range of chamber music is his string quintet with two violoncellos. His pianoforte trios also are noble contributions to this branch of musical art. "One glance at this trio," writes Schumann of the Schubert trio in B flat major, "and all the wretchedness of existence is put to flight and the world seems young again.... Many and beautiful as are the things Time brings forth, it will be long ere it produces another Schubert." Mendelssohn's chamber music is as polished, affable and gentlemanly as most of his other productions, and rapidly falling into the same state of unlamented desuetude. Schumann has given us his lovely pianoforte quintet in E flat. Brahms has contributed much that is noteworthy to chamber music, and, as a rule, it is less complex and more intelligently scored than his orchestral music. Dvorak in his E flat major quartet (Opus 51) introduces as the second movement a Dumka or Bohemian elegy, one of the most exquisite of his compositions. Fascinating in his national musical tints, he was genius enough for his music to be universal in its expression; and he who used the folksongs of his native Bohemia so skillfully was no less artistic in the results he accomplished when, during his residence in New York, he wrote his string quartet in F (Opus 96) on Negro themes. Tschaikowsky and neo-Russians like Arensky, and the Frenchmen, César Franck, Saint-Saëns, d'Indy and Debussy, are some of the modern names that figure on chamber-music programs. HOW TO APPRECIATE VOCAL MUSIC XIV SONGS AND SONG COMPOSERS Songs either are strophic or "_durchcomponirt_" (composed through). In the strophic song the melody and accompaniment are repeated unchanged through each stanza or strophe of the poem; while, when a song is composed through, the music, although the principal melody may be repeated more than once, is subjected to changes in accordance with the moods of the poem. Schubert is the first song composer who requires serious consideration. While not strictly the originator of the _Lied_, he is universally acknowledged to be the first great song composer and to have lifted song to its proper place of importance in music. Gluck set Klopfstock's odes to music; Haydn as a song writer is remembered by "Liebes Mädchen hör' mir Zu"; Mozart by "Das Veilchen"; and Beethoven by "Adelaide" and one or two other songs. Before Schubert's day this form of composition was regarded as something rather trivial and beneath the dignity of genius. But Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven at least did one thing through which they may possibly have contributed to the development of song-writing. By their freer writing for the pianoforte they prepared the way for the Schubert accompaniments. Where Schubert got his musical genius from is a mystery. His father was a schoolmaster, whose first wife, Schubert's mother, was a cook. The couple had fourteen children and an income of $175. If this income is somewhat disproportionate to the size of the family, it yet is fortunate that they had fourteen children instead of only thirteen. Otherwise there would have been one great name less in musical history, for Schubert was the fourteenth. He was born in Vienna in January, 1797. His thirty-one years--for this genius who so enriched music lived to be only thirty-one--were passed in poverty. His father was wretchedly poor, and his own works, when they could be disposed of at all to publishers, were sold at beggarly prices. Now they are universally recognized as masterpieces and are worth many times their weight in gold. Too Poor to Buy Music Paper. Shortly before he was twelve years old, Schubert, who had been singing soprano solos and playing violin in the parish choir, was sent to the so-called Convict, the Imperial school for training boys for the Court chapel. During his five years there his progress was so rapid that even before he was fourteen years old he was occasionally asked to substitute for the conductor of the school orchestra. Life, however, was hard. He had no money with which to buy even a few luxuries in the way of food to eke out the wretched fare of the Convict, nor music paper. Had it not been for the kindness of a fellow pupil and friend, named Spaun, he would not have been able to write down and work out his ideas. When his voice changed, the straitened family circumstances obliged him to become an assistant in his father's school. He was able to bear poverty with patience, but not the drudgery of teaching, and he is said often to have lost his temper with the boys. Altogether, he taught for three years, 1815 to 1818; and while his work was most distasteful to him, his genius was so spontaneous that during his three years he composed many songs, among them his immortal "Erlking." Finally a university student, Franz von Schober, who, having heard some of Schubert's songs, had become an enthusiastic admirer of the composer, offered him one of his rooms as a lodging, whereupon Schubert, straightway accepting the offer, gave up teaching and from that time to the end of his brief life led a Bohemian existence with a clique of friends of varied accomplishments. In this circle he was known as "Canevas," because whenever some new person joined it, his first question regarding the newcomer was "_Kann er wass?_" (Can he do anything?) Outside a small circle of acquaintances, Schubert remained practically unknown until he made the acquaintance of Johann Michael Vogl, an opera singer, to whom his devoted friend, Von Schober, introduced him. Vogl was somewhat reserved in his opinion of the songs which he tried over with Schubert at their first meeting, but they made an impression. He followed up the acquaintance and became the first professional interpreter of Schubert's lyrics. "The manner in which Vogl sings and I accompany," wrote Schubert to his brother Ferdinand, "so that we appear like _one_ on such occasions, is something new and unheard of to our listeners." Publishers, however, held aloof. Five years after the "Erlking" was composed, several of them refused to print it, although Schubert offered to forego royalties on it. Finally, some of Schubert's friends had the song published at their own expense, and its success led to the issuing of eleven other songs, Schubert unwisely accepting eight hundred florins in lieu of royalty on these and the "Erlking." Yet from one of these songs alone, "The Wanderer," the publishers received twenty-seven thousand florins between the years 1822 and 1861. How the "Erlking" was Composed. Schubert being the greatest of song composers, and the "Erlking" his greatest song, the circumstances under which it was written are of especial interest. His friend Spaun, the same who provided him with music paper at the Convict, relates that one afternoon toward the close of the year 1815 he went with the poet Mayrhofer to visit Schubert. They found the composer all aglow, reading the "Erlking" aloud to himself. He walked up and down the room several times, book in hand, then suddenly sat down and as fast as his pen could travel put the music on paper. Having no piano, the three men hurried over to the Convict, where the "Erlking" was sung the same evening and received with enthusiasm. The old Court organist, Ruziczka, afterward played it over himself without the voice, and when some of those present objected to the dissonance which occurs three times in the course of the composition and depicts the child's terror of the _Erlking_, the old organist struck these chords and explained how perfectly they reflected the spirit of the poem and how felicitously they were worked out in their musical resolution. Schubert's song is almost Wagnerian in its descriptive and dramatic quality. The coaxing voice of the _Erlking_, the terror of the child, the efforts of the father to allay his boy's fears, each has its characteristic expression, which yet is different from the narrative portions of the poem, while in the accompaniment the horse gallops along. Schubert was but eighteen years old when he set this ballad of Goethe's to music; yet there is no more thrilling climax to be found in all song literature than those dissonances which I have mentioned and which with each repeat rise to a higher interval and become each time more shrill with terror. Whoever has heard Lilli Lehmann sing this song should be able to appreciate its real greatness, as Goethe, who had remained utterly indifferent to Schubert's music, did when the "Erlking" was sung to him by Frau Schroeder-Devrient, to whom he exclaimed: "Thank you a thousand times for this great artistic achievement. When I heard this song before I did not like it at all, but sung in your way it becomes a true picture." Finck on Schubert. More than six hundred songs by Schubert have been published, and when we remember that he wrote symphonies, sonatas, shorter pianoforte pieces, chamber music and operas, the fertility of his brief life is astounding. The rapidity with which he composed, however, was not due to carelessness, but to the spontaneity of his genius and the fact that he loved to compose. "He composed as a bird sings in the spring, or as a well gushes from a mountain-side, simply because he could not help it," says Mr. Finck, in his "Songs and Song Writers." We have it on the authority of Schubert's friend, Spaun, that when he went to bed he kept his spectacles on, so that when he woke up he could go right to the table and compose without wasting time looking for his glasses. In the two years 1815-16 he wrote no less than two hundred and fifty-four songs. Six of the songs in the "Winterreise" cycle were composed in one morning, and he had eight songs to his credit in a single day. The charming "Hark, Hark, the Lark" was written at a tavern where he chanced to see the poem in a book the leaves of which he was slowly turning over. "If I only had some music paper!" he exclaimed, whereupon one of his friends promptly ruled lines on the back of his _Speise Karte_, and Schubert, with the varied noises of the tavern going on about him, jotted down the song then and there. Of course, it is impossible to touch on all the aspects of such a genius as his. In his songs clear and beautiful melody is, as a rule, combined with a descriptive accompaniment. Sometimes the description is given by means of only a few chords, like the preluding ones in "Am Meer." At other times the description runs through the entire accompaniment, like the waves that flash and dance around the melody of "Auf dem Wasser zu Singen"; the galloping horse in the "Erlking"; the veiled mist that seems to hang over the scenes in the wonderfully dramatic poem, "Die Stadt"; the flutter of the bird in "Hark, Hark, the Lark"; the brook that flows like a leitmotif through the "Maid of the Mill" cycle--these are a few of the examples that with Schubert could be cited by the dozen. And the range of his work--here again space forbids the multiplication of examples. It extends from the naive "Haiden Röslein" to the tragic "Doppelgänger"; from the whispering foliage of the "Linden Tree" to the pathetic drone of the "Hurdy-Gurdy Man"; from the "Serenade" to "Todt und das Mädchen." Schubert is the greatest genius among song composers. Compare the growing reputation of him who of all musicians was perhaps the most neglected during his life, with that of Mendelssohn, the most fêted of composers, but now rapidly dropping to the position of a minor tone poet, and who, although he wrote eighty-three songs, is as a song writer remembered outside of Germany by barely more than one _Lied_, the familiar "On the Wings of Song." Schumann's Individuality. In Schumann's songs the piano part is more closely knit and interwoven with the vocal melody than with Schubert's, and, as a result, the voice does not stand out so clearly. While his songs are not what they have been called by a German critic, "pianoforte pieces with accidental vocal accompaniments," at times, in his vocal compositions, the pianoforte gains too great an ascendancy over the voice. If asked to draw a distinction between Schubert and Schumann, I should say that there is a twofold interest in most of Schubert's songs. He reproduces the feeling of the poem in his vocal melody; then, if the poem contains a descriptive suggestion, he produces that phase of it in his accompaniment, without, however, allowing the pianoforte part to encroach on the vocal melody. The melody gives the feeling, the accompaniment the description or mood picture. Schumann, on the other hand, rarely is descriptive. Nearly always he produces a mood picture in tone, but requires both voice and pianoforte to effect his purpose. As this, however, is Schumann's method of composition, and as it is better that each composer should leave the seal of his individuality on everything he does, and not be an imitator, it is not cause for regret that while Schubert is Schubert, Schumann is Schumann. The proportion of fine songs among the two hundred and forty-five composed by Schumann is, however, much smaller than in the heritage left us by Schubert; and while Schubert, from the time he wrote his first great vocal compositions, added many equally great ones every year, Schumann's songs, on the whole, show a decided falling off after he had wooed and won Clara Wieck. It was during his courtship that he produced his best songs. Separated from her by the command of her stern father, he made love to her in music. "I am now writing nothing but songs, great and small," we find him saying in a letter to a friend in the summer of 1840. "Hardly can I tell you how delicious it is to write for voice instead of for instruments, and what a turmoil and tumult I feel within me when I sit down to it." While he was composing his song cycle, "Die Myrthen," he wrote to Clara: "Since yesterday morning I have written twenty-seven pages of music, all new, concerning which the best I can tell you is that I laughed and wept for joy while composing them." A month later he writes her, in sending her his first printed songs: "When I composed them my soul was within yours; without such a love, indeed, no one could write such music--and this I intend as a special compliment." ... "I could sing myself to death, like a nightingale," he writes to her again, on May 15th. Never was there such a musical wooing, and those who wish to participate in it can do so by singing or listening to such songs as "Dedication," "The Almond Tree," "The Lotos Flower," "In the Forest" (Waldesgespräch), "Spring Night," "He, the Noblest of the Noble," "Thou Ring upon My Finger," "'Twas in the Lovely Month of May," "Where'er My Tears Are Falling," "I'll Not Complain," and "Nightly in My Dreaming." Among his songs not inspired by love should be mentioned the "Two Grenadiers," which Plançon sings so inimitably. Phases of Franz's Genius. Robert Franz (1815-1892) had his life embittered by neglect and physical ills. His family name originally was Knauth, his father having been Christoph Knauth. But in order to distinguish him from his brother, who was engaged in the same business, he was addressed as Christoph Franz, a name which he subsequently had legalized. Yet critics insisted that Robert Franz was a pseudonym which the composer had adopted from vanity in order to indicate that he was as great as _Robert_ Schumann and _Franz_ Schubert put together. Franz was strongly influenced by Bach and Händel, many of whose scores he supplied with what are known as "additional accompaniments," filling out gaps which these composers left in their scores according to the custom of their day. His songs show this influence in their polyphony, and the German critic, Ambros, said that Franz's song, "Der Schwere Abend," looked as if Bach had sat down and composed a Franz song out of thanks for all that Franz was to do for him through his additional accompaniments. Besides their polyphony derived from Bach, Franz's songs are interesting for their modulations, which are employed not simply for the sake of showing cleverness or originality, but for their appropriateness in expressing the mood of the poem. He also was extremely careful in regard to the choice of key and decidedly objected to transpositions of his songs, in order to make them singable for higher or lower voices than could use the original key. "When I am dead," he wrote to his publisher, "I cannot prevent these transpositions, but so long as I am alive I shall fight them." Franz did not endeavor to reproduce visible things in his pianoforte parts, and the voice in his songs often is declamatory, merging into melody only in the more deeply emotional passages. He is a reflective rather than a dramatic composer, disliked opera, and himself said that any one who had penetrated deeply into his songs well knew that the dramatic element was not to be found in them, nor was it intended to be. Composers, however, have many theories regarding their music which, in practice, come to naught; and whether Franz thought his songs dramatic or not, the fact remains that when Lilli Lehmann sang his "Im Herbst" it was as thrillingly dramatic as anything could be. Self-Critical. Franz was extremely self-critical. He kept his productions in his desk for years, working over them again and again, until in many cases the song in its final shape bore slight resemblance to what it had been at first. He declared his Opus 1 to be no worse than his latest work, because it had been composed with equal care and had had the benefit of his ripening judgment and experience. He admired Wagner and dedicated one of his song volumes to him; but when some critics fancied that they discovered Wagnerian traits in several songs in his last collection, Op. 51-52, he was able to prove that these very songs were among the first he had written, and were published so late in his career simply because he had kept them back for revision. His physical disabilities were pitiable. When he was about thirty-three years old and shortly after his marriage, he was standing in the Halle railway station when a locomotive close by sounded its shrill whistle. The effect upon him was like the piercing of his ears. For several days afterward he heard nothing but confused buzzing, and from that time on his hearing became worse and worse, until finally his ears pained him even when he composed. In 1876 he became totally deaf, and a few years later his right arm was paralyzed from shoulder to thumb. He was a poor man, and right at the worst time in his life, when he was totally deaf, a small pension which he had received from the Bach Society was taken away from him. But his admirers, many of them Americans, came to his rescue and raised a fund for his support. Among his finest songs are "Widmung," "Leise Zieht durch mein Gemuht," "Bitte," "Die Lotos Blume," "Es Ragt der Alte Eborus," "Meerfahrt," "Das is ein Brausen und Heulen," "Ich Hab' in Deinem Auge," "Ich Will meine seele Taugen," and "Es Hat' Die Rose sich Beklagt." Brahms a Thinker in Music. Brahms was a profound thinker in music--not a philosopher, but a reflective poet, whose musicianship, however, was so great that he cared too little for the practical side of his art as compared with the theoretical. If what he wrote looked all right on paper he was indifferent as to whether it sounded right or not; consequently, if he started out with a certain rhythmical figuration or a certain scheme of harmonic progression, he carried it through rigidly to its logical conclusion, utterly oblivious to, or at least utterly regardless of, any tonal blemishes that might result, although by slightly altering his scheme here and there he might have obviated these. This is the reason why some people find passages in his music which to them sound repellant. But those who have not allowed this aspect of Brahms's work to prejudice them and have familiarized themselves with his music, well know that he is one of the loftiest souls that ever put pen to staff. He never is drastic, never sensational, never superficial; and the climaxes of his songs, as in his other music, are produced not by great outbursts of sound, but by sudden modulations or change of rhythm, which give a wonderful "lift" to voice and accompaniment. Among his best known songs (and each of these is a masterpiece) are: "Wie Bist du meine Königin," "Ruhe, Süss Liebschen," "Von ewiger Liebe," "Wiegenlied," "Minnelied," "Feldeinsamkeit," "Wie Melodien zeiht es mir," "Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer," "Meine Lieder," "Wir wandelten, wir Swei, zusammen." * * * * * One of the most impassioned modern lyrical outbursts is Jensen's setting of Heine's "Lehn deine Wang' an Meine Wang'," and his "Frühlingsnacht" also is a very beautiful song, although the popularity of Schumann's setting of the same poem has cast it unduly into the shade. Rubinstein will be found considerably less prolix in his songs than in his music in other branches, and those which he wrote to the Persian poems of Von Bodenstedt ("Mirza Schaffy") are fascinating in their Oriental coloring. The "Asra," and "Yellow Rolls at my Feet," (Gold Rollt mir zu Füssen) are among the best known of these; while "Es blink't der Thau," "Du Bist wie eine Blume," and "Der Traum" are among Rubinstein's songs which are or should be in the repertoire of every singer. Tschaikowsky and Dvorak are not noteworthy as song writers, but the former's setting of "Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt" and the latter's "Gypsy Songs" are highly successful. Grieg's Originality. One of the most fascinating among modern song writers is the Norwegian, Grieg. He has been unusually fortunate in having a fine singer as a wife. Mr. Finck relates that Ibsen, after hearing her sing his poems as set to music by Grieg, whispered as he shook the hands of this musical couple, the one word, "Understood." Grieg's originality has not been thoroughly appreciated, because much of the beauty of his music has been attributed to what is supposed to be its Norwegian origin. Grieg is national, it is true, but not in a cramped or narrow sense. His music is the product of his individual genius, and his genius has made him so popular that what is his has come to be wrongly considered Norwegian, whereas it is Norway interpreted through the genius of Grieg. His music is not a dialect, but music of universal significance, fortunately tinged with his individuality. "I Love You," Ibsen's "The Swan," "By the Riverside," "Springtide," "Wounded Heart," "The Mother Sings" (a mother mourning her dead child), "At the Bier of a Young Woman," and "From Monte Pincio," are among his finest _Lieder_. Chopin is much too little known as a song writer. His genius as a composer for the pianoforte has overshadowed his songs, and the public is familiar with little else save "The Maiden's Wish," which is one of Madame Sembrich's favorite encores and to which she plays her own accompaniment so delightfully. But there is plenty of national color in the "Lithuanina" song, plenty of pathos in "Poland's Dirge," and plenty of lyrical passion in "My Delights." Finck says that in all music, lyric or dramatic, the thrill of a kiss has never been expressed so ecstatically as in the twelve bars of this song marked "_crescendo sempre piu accellerando_." Certainly _sempre_ (always) and _accellerando_ (faster) are capital words when applied to a kiss! Richard Wagner, when twenty-six years old, in Paris, tried to relieve his poverty by composing a few songs, among which is a very charming setting of Ronsard's "Dors mon enfant." He also set Heine's "The Two Grenadiers" to music, utilizing the "Marsellaise" in the accompaniment; but, as a whole, the Wagner version of this poem is not as effective as Schumann's. In 1862 he composed music to five poems written by Mathilde Wesendonck, among which is the famous "Träume," which utilizes the theme of the love duet that later on appeared in "Tristan." Liszt's Genius for Song. Liszt's songs are a complete musical exposition of the poems to which they are composed. Thus while, by way of comparison, Rubinstein's setting of "Du Bist wie eine Blume" gives through its simplicity a rare impression of purity, Liszt in his setting of the same poem adds to that purity the sense of sacredness with which the contemplation of a pure woman fills a man's heart and causes him to worship her. His "Lorelei" is a beautiful lyric scene. We view the flowing river, seem to hear the seductive voice of the temptress, and watch the treacherous and stormy current that hurries the ensnared boatman to his doom. And what song has more of that valuable quality we call "atmosphere" than Liszt's version of "Kennst du das Land?" As will be the case with Liszt in other branches of music, he will be recognized some day as one of the greatest of song composers. Richard Strauss's songs, from having been regarded as so bristling with difficulties as to be impossible, have become favorites in the song repertoire. When it is a genius who creates difficulties these are sure to be overcome by ambitious players and singers, and music advances technically by just so much. Strauss's "Ständchen," with its deliciously delicate accompaniment, so difficult to play with the requisite grace, was the first of Strauss's songs to become popular here, and it was the art of our great singer, Madame Nordica, that made it so. Now we hear "Die Nacht," "Traum durch die Dämmerung," "Heimliche Aufforderung," "Allerseelem," "Breit über mein Haupt Dein schwarzes Haar," and many of his other songs with growing frequency. There are few song composers with whom the pianoforte accompaniment is so entirely distinct from the melody (or so difficult to play), as often is the case with Strauss. As with Schubert, every descriptive suggestion contained in the poem is carried into the accompaniment, but the vocal part is more declamatory and more varied. Even now it seems certain that Strauss's songs are permanent acquisitions to the repertoire. It still is too soon, however, to affirm the same thing of the unfortunate Hugo Wolf's songs, although I find myself strongly attracted by "Er ists," "Frühling übers Jahr," "Fussteise," "Der König bei der Kröning," "Gesang Weyla's," "Elfenlied" and "Der Tambour." Saint-Saëns, Delibes, Godard, Massenet, Chaminade and the late Augusta Holmès are among French song writers whose work is clever, but who seem to me more concerned with manner than with matter. Gounod's rank as a song composer is much below his reputation as the composer of "Faust" and "Romeo et Juliette." Oddly enough, however, the idea that came to him of placing a melody above a prelude from Bach's "Well Tempered Clavichord" did more than anything he had accomplished up to that time to make him famous. Originally he scored it for violin with a small female chorus off stage. Then he replaced the chorus with a harmonium. Finally he seems to have been struck with the fact that the melody fitted the words of the "Ave Maria," substituted a single voice for the violin, which, however, still can supplement the vocal melody with an obbligato, did away with the harmonium, and the result was the Gounod-Bach "Ave Maria." The Bach prelude, of course, sinks to the level of a mere accompaniment, for it has to be taken much slower than Bach intended. American composers who have produced noteworthy songs are Edward A. MacDowell, G. W. Chadwick, Arthur Foote, Clayton Johns, Homer N. Bartlett, Margaret Ruthven Lang, and the late Ethelbert Nevin. XV ORATORIO Oratorio had its origin in an attempt by a sixteenth century Italian monk to make divine service more interesting--to draw to church people who might not be attracted by the opportunity to hear a sermon, but could be persuaded to come if music a trifle more entertaining to the common mind than the unaccompanied (_à capella_) ecclesiastical compositions of Palestrina and other masters of the polyphonic school, were thrown in with them. Music still is regarded as a prime drawing card in churches, and when nowadays a fine basso rises after the sermon and sings "It is enough," we can paraphrase it as meaning, "It is enough so far as the sermon is concerned, and now to make up for it you are going to have a chance to listen to some music." When the announcement is made that such-and-such a well-known singer has been engaged for a church it means that the Reverend ---- is doing just what the monk, Neri, did, about four hundred years ago--fishing for a congregation with music. As it exists to-day, however, oratorio has little to do with religious worship, and usually is practiced amid secular surroundings, with a female chorus in variegated evening attire and a male chorus in claw-hammers, the singers hanging more or less anxiously on the baton of the conductor. This living picture which, so far as this country is concerned, I have, I believe, drawn in correct perspective, is so much out of keeping with the religious subjects which usually underlie the texts of oratorios that it may account for the comparative lack of interest shown by Americans for this form of musical entertainment. It also is true, however, that in this country oratorio never has had more than half a chance. This is due to the fact that the American man is not as sensitive to music nor musically as well educated as the American woman, the result being that the male contingent of the average American oratorio chorus is less competent than the women singers. Tenors are "rare birds" in any land, and rarer here apparently than elsewhere, so that in this division of our mixed choruses there is a lack of brilliancy in tone and of precision in attack. These several circumstances combine to prevent that well-balanced ensemble necessary to a satisfactory performance. An Incongruous Art-Form. Even at its best, however, oratorio is an incongruous art-form, neither an opera nor a church service, but rather an attempt to design something that shall not shock people who consider it "wicked" to go to the opera, nor afflict with _ennui_ those who would consider an invitation to listen to sacred music during the week an imposition. It seems peculiarly adapted to the idea of entertainment which prevails in England, where apparently any diversion in order to be considered legal must be more or less of a bore. Fortunately, however, there be many men of many minds; so that while, for example, one could not well draw a gloomier picture of the hereafter for a critic like Mr. Henry T. Finck than as a place where he would be obliged to hear, let me suggest, semi-weekly performances of "The Messiah," the annual Christmas auditions of that work have been the financial salvation of oratorio in America. San Filippo Neri, who was born in Florence in 1515, and was the founder of the Congregation of the Fathers of the Oratory, was the originator of oratorio. In order to attract people to church, he instituted before and after the sermon dramatic and musical renderings of scenes from Scripture. It is not unlikely that the suggestion for the underlying dramatic text came from the old Mystery and Miracle plays, which, to say the least, were naive. In one of these, representing Noah and his family about to embark in the ark, _Mrs. Noah_ declares that she prefers to stay behind with her worldly friends, and when at last her son _Shem_ seizes and forces her into the ark, she retaliates by giving the worthy _Noah_ a box on the ear. In another play of this kind which represented the Creation, a horse, pigs with rings in their noses, and a mastiff with a brass collar were brought up to _Adam_ to name. But in one performance the mastiff spied a cow's rib-bone which had been provided for the formation of _Eve_, grabbed it and carried it off, in spite of the efforts of the _Angel_ to whistle him back, and _Eve_ had to be created without the aid of the rib. Primitive Efforts. It is not likely that any such contretemps accompanied the performances of San Filippo's primitive oratorios, and yet it is probable that they were not only sung, but also acted with some kind of scenic setting and costumes; for Emelio del Cavaliere, a Roman composer, whose oratorio, "La Rappresentazione dell' Anima e del Corpo" (The Soul and the Body), was performed in February, 1600, in the Church of Santa Maria della Vallicella, but who died before the production, left minute directions regarding the scenery and action. In this oratorio, as in some of the other early ones, there was a ballet, which, according to its composer's directions, was to enliven certain scenes "with capers" and to execute others "sedately and reverentially." It was the composer, Giovanni Carissimi, who first introduced the narrator in oratorio, this function being to continue the action with explanatory recitatives between the numbers. In his oratorio, "Jephtha," there is a solo for Jephtha's daughter, "Plorate colles, dolate montes" (Weep, ye hills; mourn, ye mountains), which has an echo for two sopranos at the end of each phrase of the melody. Alessandro Scarlatti, who developed the aria in opera, also gave more definite form to the solos in oratorio and a more dramatic accompaniment to the recitatives which related to action, leaving the narrative recitals unaccompanied. Up to this point, in fact, oratorio and opera may be said to have developed hand in hand, but now, through the influence of German composers and especially through their Passion Music, it assumed a more distinct form. "Die Auferstehung Christi" (The Resurrection), by Heinrich Schütz, produced in Dresden in 1623, and his "Sieben Worte Christi" (The Seven Words of Christ), subjects which have been reverentially set by many German composers, are regarded as pioneer works of their kind. In the development of Passion Music much use was made of church chorales, the grand sacred melodies of the German people, which have had incalculable influence in forming the stability of character that is a distinguishing mark of the race. They are conspicuous in the "Tod Jesu," a famous work by Karl Heinrich Graun, a contemporary of Bach, whose own "Passion According to St. Matthew" is regarded by advanced lovers of music as the greatest of all works in oratorio or quasi-oratorio style, although the English still cling to Händel. "However close the imitation or complicated the involutions of the several voices," says Rockstro, in writing of Händel, "we never meet with an inharmonious collision. He (Händel) seems always to have aimed at making his parts run on velvet; whereas Bach, writing on a totally different principle, evidently delighted in bringing harmony out of discord and made a point of introducing hard passing notes in order to avail himself of the pleasant effect of their ultimate resolution." The "inharmonious collisions," the "hard passing notes" are among the very things which make Bach so modern; since modern ears do not set much store by music that "runs on velvet." Bach's "Passion Music." It is interesting to note that this "Passion According to St. Matthew" is in two parts, and that, as was the case with the oratorios of San Filippo Neri, the sermon came between. The text was prepared by Christian Friedrichs Henrici, writing under the pseudonym of Picander, and is partly dramatic, partly epic in form, with an Evangelist to relate the various events in the story, but with the Lord, St. Peter and others using their own words according to the sacred text. A double chorus is employed, sometimes representing the Disciples, sometimes the infuriated populace; but always treated in dramatic fashion. At the time the "Passion" was written, the arias and certain of the choruses which contained meditations on the events narrated were called "Soliloquiæ"; and in singing the beautiful chorales, the congregation was expected to join. The recitatives assigned to the Saviour are accompanied by string orchestra only, and are, as Rockstro says, full of gentle dignity, while the choruses are marked by an amount of dramatic power which is remarkable when one considers that Bach never paid any attention to the most dramatic of all musical forms, the opera. The "Passion According to St. Matthew," by Johann Sebastian Bach, was his greatest work and one of the greatest works of all times. It was produced for the first time at the afternoon service in the Church of St. Thomas, Leipzig, where Bach was Cantor, on Good Friday, 1729, and it was one hundred years before it was heard again, when it was revived by Mendelssohn, in Berlin, on March 12th, 1829--an epoch-making performance. Strictly speaking, Passion Music is not an oratorio, but a church service, and Bach actually designed his to serve as a counter-attraction to the Mass as performed in the Roman Church. What we understand under oratorio derived its vitality from George Frederick Händel, who was born at Halle in Lower Saxony, 1685, but whose most important work was accomplished in London, where he died in 1759 and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Before Händel wrote his two greatest oratorios, "Israel in Egypt" and "The Messiah," he had, through the composition of numerous operas, mastered the principles of dramatic writing, and in his oratorios he aims, whenever the text makes it permissible, at dramatic expression. It is only necessary to recall the "Plague Choruses" in "Israel in Egypt," especially the "Hail-Stone Chorus" and the chorus of rejoicing ("The horse and his rider hath He thrown into the sea"); or by way of contrast, the tenderly expressive melody of "As for His people, He led them forth like sheep," to realize what an adept Händel was in dramatic expression. Rockstro on Händel. Händel may in fact be called the founder of variety and freedom in writing for chorus. While I must confess that I do not share Rockstro's intense enthusiasm for Händel and for "The Messiah," nevertheless he expresses so well the general feeling in England and the feeling on the part of those in this country who crowd the annual Christmas performances of "The Messiah," toward that work, that the best means of conveying an idea of what oratorio signifies to those who like it, is to quote him. Referring to Händel's free and varied treatment of chorus writing, he says: "He bids us 'Behold the Lamb of God' and we feel that he has helped us to do so. He tells us that 'With His stripes we are healed,' and we are sensible not of the healing only, but of the cruel price at which it was purchased. And we yield him equal obedience when he calls upon us to join in his hymns of praise. Who hearing the noble subject of 'I will sing unto the Lord,' led off by the tenors and altos, does not long to reinforce their voices with his own? Who does not feel a choking in his throat before the first bar of the 'Hallelujah Chorus' is completed, though he may be listening to it for the hundredth time? Hard indeed must his heart be who can refuse to hear when Händel preaches through the voice of his chorus." The "Messiah" also contains two of Händel's most famous solos, "He shall feed His flock" and "I know that my Redeemer liveth." This work was performed for the first time on April 13, 1742, at the Music Hall, Dublin, when Händel was on a visit to the Duke of Devonshire, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. The rehearsals, at which many people were present by invitation, had aroused so much enthusiasm, that those who were interested in the charitable object for which it was given, requested "as a favor that the ladies who honor this performance with their presence would be pleased to come without hoops, as it would greatly increase the charity by making room for more company." Gentlemen also were requested to come without swords, for the same reason. It is said that at the first London performance, when the "Hallelujah Chorus" rang out, the King rose in his place and, followed by the entire audience, stood during the singing of the chorus, and that thus the custom, which still is observed, originated. Following Händel, Haydn in 1798, when nearly seventy years old, wrote "The Creation," founded on passages from Milton's "Paradise Lost," and after it "The Seasons," for which Thomson's familiar poem supplied the text. In both of these there is much purely descriptive music, especially in the earlier oratorio, when the creation of various animals is related. In "The Creation," too, after the passages for muted strings, is the famous outburst of orchestra and chorus, "And there was light." Haydn was a far greater master of orchestration than Händel. He also was one of the early composers of the homophonic school, and there is a freer, more spontaneous flow of melody in his oratorios. But they undoubtedly lack the grandeur of Händel's. Mendelssohn's Oratorios. Between Haydn and Mendelssohn, in the development of oratorio, nothing need be mentioned, excepting Beethoven's "Mount of Olives" and Spohr's "The Last Judgment" (Die Letzten Dinge). Mendelssohn, in his "St. Paul," followed the example of the old passionists, and introduced chorales, but in his greater oratorio, "Elijah," which is purely an Hebraic subject, he discarded these. The dramatic quality of "Elijah" is so apparent that it has been said more than once to be capable of stage representation with scenery, costumes and action. This is especially true of the prophet himself, whose personality is so definitely developed that he stands before us almost like a character behind the footlights. This dramatic value is felt at the very beginning, when, after four solemn chords on the brass, the work, instead of opening with an overture, is ushered in by _Elijah's_ prophecy of the drought. Then comes the overture, which is descriptive of the effects of the prophecy. Next to "The Messiah," "Elijah" probably is the most popular of oratorios, and I think this is due to its dramatic value, and to the fact that its descriptive music, instead of being somewhat naive, not to say childish, as is the case with some passages in Haydn's "Creation," is extremely effective. It is necessary only to remind the reader of the descent of the fire and the destruction of the prophets of Baal; of the description of the gradual approach of the rain-storm, as _Elijah_, standing on Mount Carmel and watching for the coming of the rain, is informed of the little cloud, "out of the sea, like a man's hand"--a little cloud which we seem to see in the music, and which grows in size and blackness until it bursts like a deluge over the scene. Then there are the famous bass solo, "It is enough"; the unaccompanied "Trio of Angels"; the _Angel's_ song, "Oh, rest in the Lord"; and the tenderly expressive chorus, "He, watching over Israel." I once heard a performance of "Elijah" during which the _Angel_ carried on such a lively flirtation with the _Prophet_ that she almost missed the cue for her most important solo; in fact would have missed it, had not the conductor sharply called her attention to the fact that it was time for her to begin. I think that oratorio reached its successive climaxes with "The Messiah" and "Elijah." Gounod's "Redemption" and "Mors et Vita," in spite of passages of undeniable beauty, seem to me, as a whole, rather spineless. Edward Elgar's "Dream of Gerontius" and "The Apostles" have created much excitement in England and considerable interest here, but while it is too soon to hazard a definite opinion of this composer, he appears to be lacking in individuality--to derive from Wagner whatever is interesting in his scores, while what is original with him is unimportant. There are certain sacred, semi-sacred and even secular works that are apt to figure on the programs of oratorio and allied societies. Mr. Frank Damrosch's Society of Musical Art sings very beautifully some of the unaccompanied choruses of the early Italian polyphonic school, such as Palestrina's "Papae Marcelli Mass," "Stabat Mater" and "Requiem"; the "Miserere" of Allegri (sought to be retained exclusively by the choir of the Sistine Chapel, but which Mozart wrote out from memory after hearing it twice); and the "Stabat Mater" of Pergolesi. There are also the Bach cantatas, Mozart's "Requiem," with its tragic associations; Beethoven's "Mass in D;" Schumann's "Paradise and the Peri" and his music to Byron's "Manfred" (with recitation); Liszt's "Graner Mass," "Legend of St. Elizabeth" and "Christus"; Rubinstein's "Tower of Babel" and "Paradise Lost"; Brahms's "German Requiem," a noble but difficult work; Dvorak's "Stabat Mater"; Rossini's "Moses in Egypt" and "Stabat Mater"; Berlioz's "Requiem" and "Damnation de Faust," the American production of which latter was one of the late Dr. Leopold Damrosch's finest achievements; and Verdi's "Manzoni Requiem." XVI OPERA AND MUSIC-DRAMA Opera originated in Florence toward the close of the sixteenth century. A band of enthusiastic, intellectual composers aimed at reproducing the musical declamation which they believed to have been characteristic of the representation of Greek tragedy. The first attempt resulted in a cantata, "Il Conte Ugolino," for single voice with the accompaniment of a single instrument, and composed by Vincenzo Galileo, father of the famous astronomer. Another composer, Giulio Caccini, wrote several shorter pieces in similar style. These composers aimed at an exact oratorical rendering of the words. Consequently, their scores were neither fugal nor in any other sense polyphonic, but strictly monodic. They were not, however, melodious, but declamatory; and if Richard Wagner had wished, in the nineteenth century, to claim any historical foundation for the declamatory recitative which he introduced in his music-dramas, he might have fallen back upon these composers of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, and through them back to Greek tragedy with its bands of lyres and flutes. These Italian composers, then, were the creators of recitative, so different from the polyphonic church music of the school of Palestrina. What usually is classed as the first opera, Jacopo Peri's "Dafne," was privately performed at the Palazzo Corsi, Florence, in 1597. So great was its success that Peri was commissioned, in 1600, to write a similar work for the festivities incidental to the marriage of Henry IV of France with Maria de Medici, and produced "Euridice," the first Italian opera ever performed in public. The new art-form received great stimulus from Claudio Monteverde, the Duke of Mantua's _maestro di capella_, who composed "Arianna" in honor of the marriage of Francesco Gonzaga with Margherita, Infanta of Savoy. The scene in which _Ariadne_ bewails her desertion by her lover was so dramatically written (from the standpoint of the day, of course) that it produced a sensation, and when Monteverde brought out with even greater success his opera "Orfeo," which showed a great advance in dramatic expression, as well as in the treatment of the instrumental score, the permanency of opera was assured. Monteverde's scores contained, besides recitative, suggestions of melody, but these suggestions occurred only in the instrumental ritornelles. The Venetian composer Cavalli, however, introduced melody into the vocal score in order to relieve the monotonous effect of continuous recitative, and in his airs for voice he foreshadowed the aria form which was destined to be freely developed by Alessandro Scarlatti, who is regarded as the founder of modern Italian opera in the form in which it flourished from his day to and including the earlier period of Verdi's activity. Melody, free and beautiful melody, soaring above a comparatively simple accompaniment, was the characteristic of Italian opera from Scarlatti's first opera, "L'Onesta nell' Amore," produced in Rome in 1680, to Verdi's "Trovatore," produced in the same city in 1853. The names, besides Verdi's, associated with its most brilliant successes, are: Rossini ("Il Barbiere di Siviglia," "Guillaume Tell"), Bellini ("Norma," "La Sonnambula," "I Puritani"), and Donizetti ("Lucia," "L'Elisir d'Amore," "La Fille du Regiment"). These composers possessed dramatic verve to a great degree, aimed straight for the mark, and when at their best always hit the operatic target in the bull's-eye. Reforms by Gluck. The charge most frequently laid against Italian opera is that its composers have been too subservient to the singers, and have sacrificed dramatic truth and depth of expression, as well as the musicianship which is required of a well-written and well-balanced score, as between the vocal and instrumental portions, to the vanity of those upon the stage--in brief, that Italian opera consists too much of show-pieces for its interpreters. Among the first to protest practically against this abuse was Gluck, a German, who, from copying the Italian style of operatic composition early in his career, changed his entire method as late as 1762, when he was nearly fifty years old. "Orfeo et Euridice," the oldest opera that to-day still holds a place in the operatic repertoire, and containing the favorite air, "Che faro senza Euridice" (I have lost my Eurydice), was produced by Gluck, in Vienna, in the year mentioned. There Gluck followed it up with "Alceste," then went to Paris, and scored a triumph with "Iphigenie en Aulite." But on the arrival, in Paris, of the Italian composer, Piccini, the Italian party there seized upon him as a champion to pit against Gluck, and there then ensued in the French capital a rivalry so fierce that it became a veritable musical War of the Roses until Gluck completely triumphed over Piccini with "Iphigenie en Tauride." Gluck's reform of opera lay in his abandoning all effort at claptrap effect--effect merely for its own sake--and in making his choruses as well as his soloists participants, musically and actively, in the unfolding of the dramatic story. But while he avoided senseless vocal embellishments and ceased to make a display of singers' talents the end and purpose of opera, he never hesitated to introduce beautiful melody for the voice when the action justified it. In fact, what he aimed at was dramatic truth in his music, and with this end in view he also gave greater importance to the instrumental portion of his score. Comparative Popularity of Certain Operas. These characteristics remained for many years to come the distinguishing marks of German opera. They will be discovered in Mozart's "Nozze di Figaro," "Don Giovanni" and "Zauberflöte," which differ from Gluck's operas in not being based on heroic or classical subjects, and in exhibiting the general advance made in freer musical expression, as well as Mozart's greater spontaneity of melodic invention, his keen sense of the dramatic element and his superior skill in orchestration. They also will be discovered in Beethoven's "Fidelio," which again differs from Mozart's operas in the same degree in which the individuality of one great composer differs from that of another. With Weber's "Freischütz," "Euryanthe" and "Oberon," German opera enters upon the romantic period, from which it is but a step to the "Flying Dutchman," "Tannhäuser," "Lohengrin" and the music-dramas of Richard Wagner. Meanwhile, the French had developed a style of opera of their own, which is represented by Meyerbeer's "Les Huguenots," Gounod's "Faust," apparently destined to live as long as any opera that now graces the stage, and by Bizet's absolutely unique "Carmen." In French opera the instrumental support of the voices is far richer and more delicately discriminating than in Italian opera, and the whole form is more serious. It is better thought out, shows greater intellectual effort and not such a complete abandon to absolute musical inspiration. It is true, there is much claptrap in Meyerbeer, but "Les Huguenots" still lives--and vitality is, after all, the final test of an art-work. Unquestionably, Italian operas like "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," "La Sonnambula," "Lucia," and "Trovatore" are more popular in this country than Mozart's or Weber's operatic works. In assigning reasons for this it seems generally to be forgotten that these Italian operas are far more modern. "Don Giovanni" was produced in 1787, whereas "Il Barbiere" was brought out in 1816, "La Sonnambula" in 1831, "Lucia" in 1835, "Trovatore" in 1853 and Verdi's last work in operatic style, "Aida," in 1871. "Don Giovanni" still employs the dry recitative (recitatives accompanied by simple chords on the violoncello), which is exceedingly tedious and makes the work drag at many points. In "Il Barbiere," although the recitatives are musically as uninteresting, they are humorous, and, with Italian buffos, trip lightly and vivaciously from the tongue. As regards "Fidelio" and "Der Freischütz," the amount of spoken dialogue in them is enough to keep these works off the American stage, or at least to prevent them from becoming popular here. Wagner has had far-reaching effect upon music in general, and even Italian opera, which, of all art-forms, was least like his music-dramas, has felt his influence. Boito's "Mefistofele," Ponchielli's "La Gioconda," Verdi's "Otello" and "Falstaff," are examples of the far-reaching results of Wagner's theories. Even in "Aida," Verdi's more discriminating treatment of the orchestral score and his successful effort to give genuine Oriental color to at least some portions of it, show that even then he was beginning to weary of the cheaper successes he had won with operas like "Il Trovatore," "La Traviata" and "Rigoletto," and, while by no means inclined to menace his own originality by copying Wagner or by adopting his system, was willing to profit by the more serious attitude of Wagner toward his art. Puccini, in "La Tosca," has written a first-act finale which is palpably constructed on Wagnerian lines. In his "La Bohême," in Leoncavallo's "I Pagliacci" and in Mascagni's "Cavalleria Rusticana," the distinct efforts made to have the score reflect the characteristics of the text show Wagner's influence potent in the most modern phases of Italian opera. Humperdinck's "Hänsel und Gretel" and Richard Strauss's "Feuersnot" and "Salome" represent the further working out of Wagner's art-form in Germany. Wagner's Music-Dramas. I doubt whether Wagner had either the Greek drama or the declamatory recitative of the early Italian opera composers in mind when he originated the music-drama. My opinion is that he thought it out free from any extraneous suggestion, but afterward, anticipating the attacks which in the then state of music in Germany would be made upon his theories, sought for prototypes and found them in ancient Greece and renascent Italy. His theory of dramatic music is that it should express with undeviating fidelity the words which underly it; not words in their mere outward aspect, but their deeper significance in their relation to the persons, controlling ideas, impulses and passions out of which grow the scenes, situations, climaxes and crises of the written play, the libretto, if so you choose to call it--so long as you don't say "book of the opera." For even from this brief characterization, it must be patent that a music-drama is not an opera, but what opera should be or would be had it not, through the Italian love of clearly defined melody and the Italian admiration for beautiful singing, become a string of solos, duets and other "numbers" written in set form to the detriment of the action. Opera is the glorification of the voice and the deification of the singer.--Do we not call the prima donna a _diva_? Music-drama, on the other hand, is the glorification of music in its broadest sense, instrumental and vocal combined, and the deification of dramatic truth on the musical stage. Opera, as handled by the Italian and the French, undoubtedly is a very attractive art-form, but music-drama is a higher art-form, because more serious and more searching and more elevated in its expression of emotion. Wagner was German to the core--as national as Luther, says Mr. Krehbiel most aptly, in his "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," which, like everything this critic writes, is the work of a thinker. For the dramas which Wagner created as the bases for his scores, he went back to legends which, if not always Teutonic in their origin, had become steeped in Germanism. The profound impression made by Wagner's art works may be indicated by saying that the whole folk-lore movement dates from his activity, and that so far as Germany itself is concerned, his argument for a national art work as well as his practical illustration of what he meant through his own music-dramas, gave immense impetus to the development of united Germany as manifested in the German empire. He as well as the men of blood and iron had a share in Sedan. Wagner's first successful work, "Rienzi," was an out-and-out opera in Meyerbeerian style. The "Flying Dutchman" already is legendary and more serious, while "Tannhäuser" and "Lohengrin" show immense technical progress, besides giving a clue to his system of leading motives, which is fully developed in the scores of the "Ring of the Nibelung," "Tristan und Isolde," "Die Meistersinger," and "Parsifal." That his theories met with a storm of opposition and that for many years the battle between Wagnerism and anti-Wagnerism raged with unabated vigor in the musical world, are matters of history. Whoever wishes to explore this phase of Wagner's career will find it set forth in the most interesting Wagner biography in any language, Mr. Finck's "Wagner and His Works." Wagner a Melodist. It sometimes is contended that Wagner adopted his system of leading motives because he was not a melodist. This is refuted by the melodies that abound in his earlier works; and, even as I write, I can hear the pupils in a nearby public school singing the melody of the "Pilgrim's Chorus" from "Tannhäuser." Moreover, his leading motives themselves are descriptively or soulfully melodious as the requirement may be. They are brief phrases, it is true, but none the less they are melodies. And, in certain episodes in his music-dramas, when he deemed it permissible, he introduced beautiful melodies that are complete in themselves: _Siegmund's_ "Love Song" and _Wotan's_ "Farewell," in "Die Walküre," the Love Duet at the end of "Siegfried," the love scene in "Tristan und Isolde," the Prize Song in "Die Meistersinger." The eloquence of the brief melodious phrases which we call leading motives, considered by themselves alone and without any reference to the dramatic situation, must be clear to any one who has heard the Funeral March in "Götterdämmerung," which consists entirely of a series of leading motives that have occurred earlier in the Cycle, yet give this passage an overpowering pathos without equal in absolute music and just as effective whether you know the story of the music-drama and the significance of the motives, or not. If you do know the story and the significance of these musical phrases, you will find that in this Funeral March the whole "Ring of the Nibelung" is being summed up for you, and coming as it does near the end of "Götterdämmerung," but one scene intervening between it and the final curtain, it gives a wonderful sense of unity to the whole work. Unity is, in fact, a distinguishing trait of music-drama; and the very term "unity" suggests that certain recurring salient points in the drama, whether they be personages, ideas or situations, should be treated musically with a certain similarity, and have certain recognizable characteristics. In fact, the adaptation of music to a drama would seem to suggest association of ideas through musical unity, and to presuppose the employment of something like leading motives. They had indeed been used tentatively by Berlioz in orchestral music, and by Weber in opera ("Euryanthe"), but it remained for Wagner to work up the suggestion into a complete and consistent system. [Music illustration] To illustrate his method, take the Curse Motive, in the "Ring of the Nibelung," which is heard when _Alberich_ curses the Ring, and all into whose possession it shall come. When, near the end of "Rheingold," _Fafner_ kills his brother, _Fasolt_, in wresting the Ring from him, the motive recurs with a significance which is readily understood. _Fasolt_ is the first victim of the curse. Again, in "Götterdämmerung," when _Siegfried_ lands at the entrance to the castle of _Gibichungs_, and is greeted by _Hagen_, although the greeting seems hearty enough, the motive is heard and conveys its sinister lure. [Music illustration] When, in "Die Walküre," _Brünnhilde_ predicts the birth of a son to _Sieglinde_, you hear the Siegfried Motive, signifying that the child will be none other than the young hero of the next drama. The motive is heard again when _Wotan_ promises _Brünnhilde_ to surround her with a circle of flames which none but a hero can penetrate, _Siegfried_ being that hero; and also when _Siegfried_ himself, in the music-drama "Siegfried," tells of seeing his image in the brook. [Music illustration] There are motives which are almost wholly rhythmical, like the "Nibelung" Smithy Motive, which depicts the slavery of the _Nibelungs_, eternally working in the mines of Nibelheim; and motives with strange, weird harmonies, like the motive of the Tarnhelm, which conveys a sense of mystery, the Tarnhelm giving its wearer the power to change his form. [Music illustration] Leading Motives not Mere Labels. Leading motives are not mere labels. They concern themselves with more than the superficial aspect of things and persons. With persons they express character; with things they symbolize what these stand for. The Curse Motive is weird, sinister. You feel when listening to it that it bodes evil to all who come within its dark circle. The Siegfried Motive, on the other hand, is buoyant with youth, vigor, courage; vibrates with the love of achievement; and stirs the soul with its suggestion of heroism. But when you hear it in the Funeral March in "Götterdämmerung" and it recalls by association the gay-hearted, tender yet courageous boy, who slew the dragon, awakened _Brünnhilde_ with his kiss, only to be betrayed and murdered by _Hagen_, and now is being borne over the mountain to the funeral pyre, those heroic strains have a tragic significance that almost brings tears to your eyes. The Siegfried Motive is a good example of a musical phrase the contour of which practically remains unchanged through the music-drama. The varied emotions with which we listen to it are effected by association. But many of Wagner's leading motives are extremely plastic and undergo many changes in illustrating the development of character or the special bearing of certain dramatic situations upon those concerned in the action of the drama. As a gay-hearted youth, _Siegfried_ winds his horn: [Music illustration] This horn call becomes, when, as _Brünnhilde's_ husband, he bids farewell to his bride and departs in quest of knightly adventure, the stately Motive of _Siegfried_, the Hero: [Music illustration] And when the dead _Siegfried_, stretched upon a rude bier, is borne from the scene, it voices the climax of the tragedy with overwhelming power: [Music illustration] Thus we have two derivatives from the "Siegfried" horn call, each with its own special significance, yet harking back to the original germ. Soon after the opening of "Tristan und Isolde" a sailor sings an unaccompanied song of farewell to his _Irish Maid_. The words, "The wind blows freshly toward our home," are sung to an undulating phrase which seems to represent the gentle heaving of the sea. [Music illustration: Frisch weht der Wind der Hei-mat zu: mein i-risch Kind, wo wei-lest du?] This same phrase gracefully undulates through _Brangäne's_ reply to _Isolde's_ question as to the vessel's course, changes entirely in character, and surges savagely around her wild outburst of anger when she is told that the vessel is nearing Cornwall's shore, and breaks itself in savage fury against her despairing wrath when she invokes the elements to destroy the ship and all upon it. Examples like these occur many times in the scores of Wagner's music-dramas. [Music illustration] [Music illustration] Often, when several characters are participating in a scene, or when the act or influence of one, or the principle for which he stands in the drama, is potent, though he himself is not present, Wagner with rare skill combines several motives, utilizing for this purpose all the resources of counterpoint. Elsewhere I already have described how he has done this in the Magic Fire Scene in "Die Walküre," and one could add page after page of examples of this kind. I have also spoken of his supreme mastership of instrumentation, through which he gives an endless variety of tone color to his score. Wagner was a great dramatist, but he was a far greater musician. There are many splendid scenes and climaxes in the dramas which he wrote for his music, and if he had not been a composer it is possible he would have achieved immortality as a writer of tragedy. On the other hand, however, there are in his dramas many long stretches in which the action is unconsciously delayed by talk. He believed that music and drama should go hand in hand and each be of equal interest; but his supreme musicianship has disproved his own theories, for his dramas derive the breath of life from his music. Theoretically, he is not supposed to have written absolute music--music for its own sake--but music that would be intelligible and interesting only in connection with the drama to which it was set. But the scores of the great scenes in his music-dramas, played simply as instrumental selections in concert and without the slightest clue to their meaning in their given place, constitute the greatest achievements in absolute music that history up to the present time can show. THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Author's archaic and variable spelling and hyphenation is mostly preserved. Author's punctuation style is preserved. Illustrations have been moved closer to their relevant paragraphs, but the original page numbers are preserved in the List of Illustrations. Illustrations may be viewed full-size by clicking on them. Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. Passages in bold indicated by =equal signs=. Typographical problems have been changed, and are listed below. Transcriber's Changes: Page 35: Was 'Wesendonk' (as if I had it by heart," he writes from Venice to Mathilde =Wesendonck=, in relating to her the genesis of the great love) Page 139: Was 'Traümerei' (And then there are the "Scenes from Childhood," to which belongs the ="Träumerei"=; the "Forest Scenes," the "Sonatas;") Page 172: Was 'Pathètique' (while for his "Symphonie =Pathétique=," one of the finest of modern orchestral works, Tschaikowsky adds only a bass tuba) 
42918	----	THE STANDARD LIGHT OPERAS THEIR PLOTS AND THEIR MUSIC _A Handbook_ By GEORGE P. UPTON AUTHOR OF "THE STANDARD OPERAS," ETC. CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1902 Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1902 Published September 13, 1902 TO MY FRIEND CHARLES C. CURTISS PREFACE. The present volume, "The Standard Light Operas," has been prepared not only with the hope that it may supply a popular want in these days when the light opera is so much in vogue, but also with the purpose of completing the series which the author has already compiled, including the opera, oratorio, cantata, and symphony. It has been somewhat difficult to select from the "embarrassment of riches" in the material offered by the profusion of operettas, musical comedies, and legitimate light operas which have been produced during the last few years, and which are still turned out with almost bewildering rapidity. Still more difficult is it to determine accurately those among them which are standard. A few of the lighter works which are contained in the original edition of the "Standard Operas" have been recast, as they properly belong in a work of this kind, and as they may answer the needs of those who have not the former volume. The opera comique and the opera bouffe are also represented by the best of their class, those whose text is clearly objectionable being omitted. The entire list of the characteristic and delightful operettas by the late Sir Alexander Sullivan is included, and some of the musical comedies which have a strong hold upon popular admiration. The operas have not been analyzed with that closeness of detail which characterizes the "Standard Operas," as they do not call for treatment of that kind, and in many cases the leading numbers are only suggested. They are described rather than criticised, and as they have been compiled solely for the use of the general public they have been presented as untechnically as possible. They are intended to heighten popular enjoyment rather than to supply information for musicians, and as a _vade mecum_ for the opera-goer rather than a reference for the musical student. G. P. U. Chicago, August, 1902. CONTENTS PAGE ADAM The Postilion of Lonjumeau 15 AUBER Fra Diavolo 19 The Crown Diamonds 22 AUDRAN Olivette 26 The Mascot 29 BALFE The Bohemian Girl 33 The Rose of Castile 36 BELLINI La Sonnambula 40 BENEDICT The Lily of Killarney 43 BOIELDIEU La Dame Blanche 47 CELLIER Dorothy 50 CHASSAIQUE Falka 52 DeKOVEN Robin Hood 57 Maid Marian 60 Rob Roy 63 The Fencing-Master 67 DELIBES Lakmé 70 DONIZETTI The Daughter of the Regiment 73 Don Pasquale 76 Linda 78 The Elixir of Love 81 EICHBERG The Doctor of Alcantara 84 FLOTOW Martha 87 Stradella 90 GENÉE Nanon 93 GOUNOD Mirella 97 HUMPERDINCK Hansel and Gretel 100 JAKOBOWSKI Erminie 103 LECOCQ Girofle-Girofla 106 La Fille de Madame Angot 109 LÖRTZING Czar and Carpenter 113 LUDERS King Dodo 116 The Prince of Pilsen 118 MASSÉ Paul and Virginia 121 Queen Topaze 124 The Marriage of Jeannette 126 MILLÖCKER The Beggar Student 128 The Black Hussar 131 NESSLER The Trumpeter of Säkkingen 134 NICOLAI The Merry Wives of Windsor 138 OFFENBACH The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein 141 La Belle Hélène 145 Orpheus 148 PLANQUETTE The Chimes of Normandy 152 RICCI Crispino 155 ROSSINI The Barber of Seville 158 SOLOMON Billee Taylor 161 SOUSA El Capitan 164 STRAUSS The Merry War 167 The Queen's Lace Handkerchief 169 Queen Indigo 171 Die Fledermaus (The Bat) 174 STUART Florodora 177 SULLIVAN Cox and Box 180 Trial by Jury 182 The Sorcerer 185 H. M. S. Pinafore 188 The Pirates of Penzance 193 Patience 196 Iolanthe 200 Princess Ida 203 The Mikado 206 Ruddygore 209 The Yeomen of the Guard 213 The Gondoliers 216 SUPPÉ Fatinitza 220 Boccaccio 224 The Beautiful Galatea 227 THOMAS Mignon 230 WALLACE Maritana 233 Lurline 236 THE STANDARD LIGHT OPERAS. ADAM, ADOLPHE CHARLES. The Postilion of Lonjumeau. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by De Leuven and Brunswick. First produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, October 13, 1836.] PERSONAGES. Chapelou, postilion. Madeleine, mistress of the inn. Marquis de Courcy, opera manager. Bijou, village blacksmith. Boudon, chorus leader. [Villagers, chorus singers, etc.] The scene of the opera is laid in Lonjumeau, a French village, and Paris; time of Louis the Fifteenth. The sprightly opera "The Postilion of Lonjumeau" is characterized by grace and elegance of treatment, fascinating rhythm, and odd contrasts in effects. Its plot is very dramatic, and affords ample scope for humorous action. The opening scene of the first act introduces us to the wedding of Chapelou, the postilion, and Madeleine, mistress of the inn. During the merriment which follows, the Marquis de Courcy, Superintendent of the Paris Grand Opera, whose carriage has broken down, makes his appearance, seeking the aid of a wheelwright. He hears Chapelou singing, and is so pleased with his voice that he offers him a position in the opera. Chapelou after some persuasion accepts, entreats Bijou, the village blacksmith, to look after Madeleine, and goes off with the Marquis in quest of artistic glory. Bijou informs Madeleine of Chapelou's baseness, and the act closes with her denunciations of him, in which she is enthusiastically assisted by the female members of the wedding-party. The second act opens in Paris. Madeleine has inherited a fortune from an aunt, and makes her appearance in the gay city as a rich and noble lady, under the assumed name of Madame de la Tour. The Marquis de Courcy, who is in love with her, at her request brings Chapelou, who is now a famous tenor known as St. Phar, Bijou, the Lonjumeau blacksmith, who is primo basso under the name of Alcindor, and the operatic chorus to her château for a rehearsal. St. Phar, not wishing to sing, pleads a cold, but when he learns that he is in the apartments of Madame de la Tour he consents, and the rehearsal goes off finely. Left alone with his hostess, he proposes to her and is accepted, but as he is already married he arranges that Boudon, the chorus leader, shall play the part of priest. The Marquis, who overhears the conspiracy, informs Madame de la Tour, who sends for a real priest and accompanies St. Phar to the altar, where they are married for the second time. In the third act St. Phar, who fears that he will be hanged for committing bigamy, finds a happy escape from his troubles. The Marquis, furious because he has been rejected by Madame de la Tour in favor of an opera singer, seeks revenge, but his plans are thwarted. A humorous scene ensues, in which St. Phar is tormented by Alcindor and the wedding-party, as well as by the Marquis, who is now reconciled. Finally, upon being left alone in a darkened room with Madame de la Tour, she also aggravates him by personating two characters, singing from different sides of the apartment in the voice of the Madame and that of Madeleine. The dénouement ensues when she appears to him as the veritable Madeleine of Lonjumeau, whither the joyous pair return and are happy ever after. The principal music of the first act is a romanza for soprano, "Husband ever Dear," leading into a dance chorus; the famous Postilion's Song with whip-snapping accompaniment; and a balcony serenade by Madeleine. The second act opens with a long and well-written aria for soprano, which is followed by the rehearsal scene,--a clever bit of humorous musical writing. In the course of this scene the tenor has a characteristic aria, preceded by a clarinet obligato, and the basso also has one running down to G, in which he describes with much gusto the immunities of a basso with a "double G." A duet follows for soprano and tenor with a cadenza of extraordinary length, the act closing with a finale in the conventional Italian style. The third act opens with a long clarinet solo, the refrain of which is heard in the close of the act. This is followed by a "Good Night" chorus in mazurka time. The tenor then has an aria followed by a comic trio, which in reality is a duet, as the soprano is personating two singers with different voices. A duet and finale close the opera, the music of which is of just the class to be popular, while the action is so sustained in its humor as to make the bright little opera a favorite wherever heard. AUBER, DANIEL FRANÇOIS ESPRIT. Fra Diavolo. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Scribe. First produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, January 28, 1830; in English, at Drury Lane Theatre, London, November 3, 1831; in Italian, at the Lyceum, London, July 9, 1857.] PERSONAGES. Fra Diavolo, leader of the brigands. Lord Allcash, English nobleman. Lady Allcash, his wife. Matteo, innkeeper. Zerlina, Matteo's daughter. Lorenzo, Zerlina's lover. Beppo, } Giacomo, } brigands. The scene is laid at the village of Terracina, Italy; time, last century. The first act of this universally favorite opera opens with the hurried arrival of Lord Allcash, a typical English tourist, and his wife, at the inn of Terracina, kept by Matteo, whose daughter, Zerlina, is loved by Lorenzo, a young soldier. The latter is about to start for the capture of Fra Diavolo, the leader of the bandits, when the action of the opera begins. The English tourists have been robbed on their journey by the band of this same Fra Diavolo, who has followed them in the disguise of a marquis and has been very attentive to the susceptible Lady Allcash. Lord Allcash has a quarrel with his wife on this account in a humorous duet, "I don't object." Fra Diavolo learns that the travellers have saved the most of their valuables, and lays his own plans to secure them. In an interview with Zerlina, she, mistaking him for the Marquis, sings him the story of Fra Diavolo in a romanza, "On Yonder Rock Reclining," which has become a favorite the world over. To further his schemes he makes love to Lady Allcash in a graceful barcarole, "The Gondolier, Fond Passion's Slave." In the finale of the act Lorenzo and his carbineers return, and not finding Fra Diavolo at the inn, where they had hoped to surprise him, resume their search, leaving him to perfect his plans for the robbery. In the opening scene of the second act Zerlina is in her chamber, preparing to retire. Before doing so, she lights Lord and Lady Allcash to their room. During her absence Fra Diavolo and his companions, Beppo and Giacomo, conceal themselves in her closet, Fra Diavolo having previously given them the signal that the coast was clear by singing a serenade, "Young Agnes," in violation of every rule of dramatic consistency. Zerlina returns, and after singing a simple but charming prayer, "Oh! Holy Virgin," retires to rest. In attempting to cross the room they partially awake her. One of the bandits rushes to the bed to stab her, but desists from his purpose as he hears her murmuring her prayer. Then follows a trio by the robbers, sung pianissimo, which is very dramatic in its effect. At this point the carbineers return again, and the house at once is in an uproar. Lord and Lady Allcash rush in to find out the cause, followed by Lorenzo, who came to greet Zerlina. A sudden noise in the closet disturbs them. Fra Diavolo, knowing that he will be discovered, steps out into the room, and declares he is there to keep an appointment with Zerlina, whereupon Lorenzo challenges him. He accepts the challenge and coolly walks out of the room. One of his comrades is captured, but to secure his liberty agrees to betray his chief. The opening of the third act finds Fra Diavolo once more among his native mountains. He gives expression to his exultation in a dashing, vigorous song, "Proudly and wide my Standard flies," followed by the pretty rondo, "Then since Life glides so fast away." As he joyously contemplates a speedy meeting with Lord and Lady Allcash and the securing of their valuables, villagers arrayed in festival attire in honor of the approaching nuptials of Lorenzo and Zerlina enter, singing a bright pastoral chorus, "Oh, Holy Virgin, bright and fair." The finale of the act is occupied with the development of the scheme between Lorenzo, Beppo, and Giacomo to ensnare Fra Diavolo, and the final tragedy in which he meets his death at the hands of the carbineers, but not before he has declared Zerlina's innocence. The text of the opera is full of vivacity and humor, and the music so bright and melodious and yet artistically scored that it made Auber's reputation at the Opéra Comique. The Crown Diamonds. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Scribe and St. George. First produced in Paris in 1841; in English, at the Princess Theatre, London, May 2, 1844.] PERSONAGES. Count de Campo Mayor, Minister of Police. Don Henrique, nephew of the Count. Don Sebastian, friend of Don Henrique. Rebelledo, chief coiner. Catarina, leader of the coiners. Diana, cousin of Don Henrique. The scene is laid in Portugal; time, 1777. The story of "The Crown Diamonds," one of the most melodious of Auber's works, is as follows: Don Henrique, nephew of the Count de Campo Mayor, Minister of Police at Coimbra, on his way to participate in the coronation ceremonies and at the same time to sign a marriage contract with his cousin Diana, daughter of the Minister of Police, is overtaken by a storm in the mountains and seeks shelter in a ruined castle near the monastery of St. Huberto. While there he espies Rebelledo, the chief coiner, and two of his comrades examining the contents of his trunk. The latter, discovering him in turn and thinking him a spy, rush upon him, but he is saved by Catarina, the leader of the gang, who returns him his trunk and allows him to depart upon condition that he shall not mention what he has seen for a year. He consents, but before he leaves, the gang is surrounded by soldiers led by Don Sebastian, a friend of Don Henrique. They make their escape, however, disguised as monks, while Rebelledo and Catarina disappear through an underground passage, carrying with them a mysterious casket of jewels. The second act opens in the Château de Coimbra, and discloses Don Henrique in love with the mysterious Catarina and Diana with Don Sebastian. As Diana and Don Henrique are singing together, Don Sebastian announces that an accident has happened to a carriage and that its occupants desire shelter. Catarina and Rebelledo enter and accept the proffered hospitality. When Diana begins to read the account of a robbery containing a description of Rebelledo and his companions, that worthy vanishes, but Catarina remains in spite of Don Henrique's warning that she is in the house of the Minister of Police. He declares his love for her, and begs her to fly with him; she refuses, but gives him a ring as a souvenir. At this point the Count enters, and announces that the crown jewels have been stolen and Don Henrique's ring is recognized as one of them. Catarina is saved by Diana, who promises Don Henrique she will send her away in the Count's carriage if he will refuse to sign the marriage contract. He consents, and Catarina makes her escape. The last act opens in the anteroom of the royal palace at Lisbon, where the Count, Don Henrique, and Don Sebastian are present, and Diana awaits an audience with the Queen. While they converse, Rebelledo enters, announced as the Count Fuentes, and an usher brings him word that the Queen will have private audience with him. While awaiting her, Rebelledo in a monologue explains that the real crown jewels have been pledged for the national debt, and that he has been employed to make duplicates of them to be worn on state occasions until the genuine ones can be redeemed. The Queen enters, declares she is satisfied with the work, and makes Rebelledo Minister of Secret Police. Count de Campo Mayor then announces to her the decision of the Council that she shall marry the Prince of Spain. She declares she will make her own choice, and when the Count remonstrates she threatens to confiscate his property for allowing the crown jewels to be stolen, and orders him to arrest his daughter and nephew for giving shelter to the thieves. Diana, suddenly entering, fails to recognize her as Catarina, and implores pardon for her connivance in the escape. Then Don Henrique still further complicates the situation. He recognizes Catarina, and declares to Diana he will seize her and fly to some distant land. His purpose is thwarted by his arrest for treason upon the Queen's order. He rushes forward to implore mercy for Catarina, when the Queen reveals herself and announces that she has chosen Don Henrique for her husband and their King. The principal musical numbers of the opera are Rebelledo's rollicking muleteer's song, "O'er Mountain steep, through Valley roaming," the rondo, "The Young Pedrillo," with chorus accompaniment, and the lugubrious chorus of the pseudo monks, "Unto the Hermit of the Chapel," in the first act; the nocturne, "The Brigand," closing in gay bolero time, "In the Deep Ravine of the Forest," Catarina's bravura aria, "Love! at once I break thy Fetters," the duet, "If I could but Courage feel," and the beautiful ballade, "Oh! whisper what thou feelest," in the second act; the usually interpolated air, "When Doubt the Tortured Frame is rending," originally written for Louisa Pyne, who really made the first success for the opera, and the charming cavatina, "Love, dwell with me," sung by the Queen in the last act. AUDRAN, EDMUND. Olivette. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Chivat and Duru. First produced at the Bouffes Parisiens, Paris, November 13, 1879; first American production, New York, January 7, 1881.] PERSONAGES. Captain de Mérimac, of the Man of War "Cormorant." Valentine, his nephew, officer of the Rousillon Guards. Duc des Ifs, cousin of the Countess. Coquelicot, his foster brother. Marvejol, Seneschal to the Countess. Olivette, daughter of the Seneschal. Bathilde, Countess of Rousillon. Veloutine, the Seneschal's housekeeper. Moustique, Captain's boy on board the "Cormorant." [Nobles of the Court of Rousillon, the watch of Perpignan, citizens, gossips, wedding-guests, sailors, etc.] The scene is laid at Perpignan on the Mediterranean Sea; time of Louis the Fourteenth. Following the English version of the opera, at the opening of the first act the villagers of Perpignan are greatly excited over the approaching marriage of Olivette, the Seneschal's daughter, and De Mérimac, an old sea-captain. Olivette, however, just out of a convent, is in love with Valentine, a young officer and the Captain's nephew. In the mean time the Countess of Rousillon is also in love with Valentine and has come to Perpignan to see him. She is at the house of the Seneschal, and is surprised there by Valentine, who has climbed her balcony expecting to find Olivette. The old Captain, who is making slow progress with his suit, writes to the Countess demanding Olivette's hand. Valentine seizes his opportunity, passes himself off as the Captain, and marries Olivette at the request of the Countess herself. The second act opens with a ball which the Countess gives in honor of the wedding, at which Valentine is forced to personate both himself and the Captain. The latter appears upon the scene, and is heartily congratulated as the bridegroom. When Valentine also appears as the old man, De Mérimac resolves he will have the bride whom Valentine has secured by the use of his name. By a little craft Olivette rids herself of her elderly suitor only to encounter fresh trouble, for the Countess declares she will marry the soldier. A plot is formed, the result of which is an order sending the Countess out of the kingdom. The opening of the last act shows that the plot is partially successful. The Countess is a prisoner on board De Mérimac's vessel, and Olivette and Valentine, who are disguised as sailors, seek a vessel to take them away; but Valentine is recognized and seized, Olivette contrives to free the Countess, and passes herself off for her, Olivette's maid, Veloutine, pretending to be her mistress. This introduces a new complication, for the near-sighted Duke des Ifs courts the maid, supposing her to be Olivette, and boasts of it to Valentine in the hearing of De Mérimac. Both uncle and nephew then renounce Olivette until the Countess returns and an explanation is made. In the dénouement Valentine is united to Olivette and the Countess to the Duke, while the old Captain is advised to follow the example of the Venetian Doges and "marry the sea," which he promptly hastens to do, and follows his bride ever after. The music of "Olivette" is light and sprightly throughout, the most taking numbers being the marine madrigal, a song with chorus, "The Yacht and the Brig"; the pretty waltz song, "O Heart, wherefore so light," sung by the Countess; Olivette's tyrolienne song, "The Convent slept"; Valentine's serenade, "In Quaint and in Mystic Word," and Olivette's characteristic sob song, "Oh! my Father," in the first act: Olivette's serio-comic song, "The Matron of an Hour"; the Countess' song, "When Lovers around Woman throng"; another humorous song for Olivette, "I do think Fate, upon my Life"; a charming duet for Olivette and the Countess, "Like Carrier Dove, I'll swift be flying," with the refrain, "I love my Love so well," and the jolly farandole, "The Vintage over, then Maid and Lover," sung and danced by Olivette, Countess, and chorus, in the second act: the romanza "Nearest and dearest," an effective number for the Countess, and three delicious bits of nonsense,--"Give Milk to Babes, to Peasants Beer," styled in the score a Grog-orian chant, the ridiculous legend "The Torpedo and the Whale," and the dashing bolero, "Where Balmy Garlic scents the Air," in the last act. The Mascot. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Chivat and Duru. First produced at the Bouffes Parisiens, Paris, December 29, 1880; first American production, Gaiety Theatre, Boston, April 12, 1881.] PERSONAGES. Bettina, the Mascot. Fiametta, daughter of Prince Lorenzo. Pippo, a shepherd. Lorenzo, prince of Piombino. Rocco, a farmer. Frederic, prince of Pisa. Parafante, sergeant. Matheo, innkeeper. [Peasants, lords and ladies of court, soldiers, etc.] The scene is laid in Piombino, Italy; time, the fifteenth century. The story of "The Mascot" is charmingly romantic, and much more consistent and coherent than the usual plots of the comic operas. The first act opens with a vintage festival. The peasants are all rejoicing except Rocco, the farmer, who has had bad luck. Pippo, his shepherd, whom he had sent to his brother for help, returns with a basket of eggs and a letter in which he informs Rocco that he has also sent him Bettina, his turkey-keeper, who will bring him prosperity, as she is a mascot. Pippo, who is in love with Bettina, waxes eloquent over her charms, but when she comes she is coldly received by Rocco and ordered to go back. As she is preparing to leave, Prince Lorenzo, his daughter Fiametta, Prince Frederic, and others of a hunting-party arrive and stop for refreshment. Prince Lorenzo, who is one of the unlucky kind, learns by chance of Bettina's gift, and determines to take her to his court; but Rocco objects. The Prince, however, gains his consent by promising to make him Lord Chamberlain. The party sets off homeward with Rocco in good spirits and Bettina sad, while poor Pippo is left behind disconsolate. The second act opens in the palace at Piombino, where a festival is to be given in honor of the marriage of Fiametta to Prince Frederic of Pisa. Among the attractions of the fête is an entertainment by a troupe of actors and dancers, the most prominent of whom is Saltarello, in reality Pippo in disguise. The lovers discover each other and plan an escape; but Rocco, who has recognized Pippo, frustrates their scheme by disclosing his identity to the Prince, who orders his arrest. The situation is still further complicated by the fickle Fiametta, who has fallen in love with Pippo and tells him that Bettina is false and is about to marry Prince Lorenzo. At last Pippo and Bettina have a chance to meet, and they make their escape by leaping through a window into the river. The last act opens in the hall of an inn in Pisa. There has been a war between the two princes, and Frederic has defeated Lorenzo. Pippo has been a captain in the Pisan army, and Bettina, disguised as a trooper, has fought by his side. They reveal their real names to Frederic, and declare their intention of marriage. During preparations for the wedding Prince Lorenzo, Fiametta, and Rocco, who are travelling about the country as minstrels to make their living, owing to the misfortunes of war, meet the bridal party at the inn. After mutual explanations Fiametta returns to her old lover Frederic, and Pippo and Bettina are married. The Mascot brings good luck to them all at last. The most interesting numbers in the opera are the drinking-song, "All morose Thoughts now are flying"; the legend of the Mascots, "One Day the Arch Fiend drunk with Pride," sung by Pippo and chorus; Bettina's song, "Don't come too near, I tell you"; the quaint duet for Bettina and Pippo, "When I behold your Manly Form"; the charming coaching-chorus, "Come, let us now be off as quick as a Bird," sung by Bettina and chorus in the first act; the chorus and air of Saltarello, "Hail, Princesses and Lords"; the pretty duet, "Know'st thou those Robes," for Bettina and Pippo, and the concerted finale of the second act; the stirring rataplan, "Marking Time with Cadence so Steady," the entrance of the refugees preluding the grotesque "Orang-Outang Song," sung by Fiametta and chorus, and the graceful arietta following the entrance of the wedding-party in the last act. BALFE, MICHAEL WILLIAM. The Bohemian Girl. [Grand opera, in three acts; text by Bunn. First produced at Drury Lane Theatre, London, November 27, 1843.] PERSONAGES. Arline, daughter of Count Arnheim. Thaddeus, a Polish exile. Gypsy Queen. Devilshoof, Gypsy leader. Count Arnheim, Governor of Presburg. Florestein, nephew of the Count. [Retainers, hunters, soldiers, gypsies, etc.] The scene is laid at Presburg, Hungary; time, last century. "The Bohemian Girl," usually designated as grand opera, strictly speaking, is a ballad opera, and is one of the few English works of its class which has made a success upon the Continent and in the United States. The first act opens with the rescue of Arline, daughter of Count Arnheim, from the attack of a stag by Thaddeus, a Polish fugitive, who has joined a gypsy band to save himself from arrest. In return for his timely aid, the Count invites him to a banquet, where he gets into trouble by refusing to drink the health of the Emperor. Devilshoof, the leader of the band, saves him from the angry soldiers, but in turn is himself seized. The Count allows Thaddeus to go, and Devilshoof subsequently escapes, carrying Arline with him. Twelve years elapse between the first and second acts. The Count has received no tidings from Arline and has given her up as lost. The second act opens in the gypsy camp in the suburbs of Presburg, and discloses Arline asleep with Thaddeus watching over her. The gypsies themselves depart in quest of plunder, headed by Devilshoof, and happen upon Florestein, the Count's nephew, returning in a drunken condition from a revel. They speedily relieve him of his valuables. After their departure Arline awakes, and Thaddeus tells her how she received the scar upon her arm and of her rescue from the stag, at the same time declaring his love for her. Arline confesses her love for him, and the two are united according to the laws of the tribe by the Gypsy Queen, who is also in love with Thaddeus, and vows vengeance upon the pair. The scene now changes to a street in the city. A fair is in progress, and the gypsies resort to it with Arline at their head. As they mingle among the people, Florestein attempts to insult Arline, and an altercation ensues between them, ending in his repulse. He seeks revenge by having her arrested for stealing a medallion which belonged to him and which the Gypsy Queen, knowing it to be his, had maliciously given to her. Arline is brought before the Count for trial, during which he asks her about the scar on her arm. She replies by relating the story Thaddeus had told her, and this leads to his discovery of his daughter. The last act finds Arline restored to her old position but still retaining her love for Thaddeus. With Devilshoof's help he secures a meeting with her. The Gypsy Queen gives information to the Count, and Thaddeus is ordered to leave. Arline implores her father to relent, and threatens to go with her lover. The situation happily resolves itself when Thaddeus proves that he is of noble descent. The Count thereupon yields and gives his daughter to him. The baffled and furious Gypsy Queen induces one of the tribe to fire at Thaddeus, but by a timely movement of Devilshoof the bullet pierces the heart of the Queen. The principal musical numbers of the first act are the Count's solo, "A Soldier's Life"; the pathetic song, "'T is sad to leave your Fatherland"; the gypsy chorus, "In the Gypsy's Life you may read," and the prayer in the finale, "Thou who in Might supreme." The second act contains some of the most melodious and effective numbers in the work, including the quaint little chorus, "Silence, Silence, the Lady Moon"; the joyous song, "I dreamed I dwelt in Marble Halls," which is a universal favorite; the musical dialogue and ensemble, "The Secret of her Birth"; the gypsy's song, "Come with the Gypsy Bride"; the beautiful unaccompanied quartette, "From the Valleys and Hills," and the impressive reverie by the Count, "The Heart bowed down." The last act has two delightful numbers,--the tender and impassioned song, "When other Lips and other Hearts," and the stirring martial song, "When the Fair Land of Poland," in which Thaddeus avows his noble descent and boasts the deeds of his ancestry in battle. The Rose of Castile. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Harris and Falconer. First produced at the Lyceum Theatre, London, October 29, 1857.] PERSONAGES. Elvira, Queen of Leon and "Rose of Castile." Manuel, Don Sebastian, the Infant, in disguise of muleteer. Carmen, attendant of the Queen. Don Pedro, } Don Sallust, } Don Florio } conspirators. The scene is laid in Spain; time, last century. At the opening of the opera, Elvira, Queen of Leon, has just ascended the throne, and her hand has been demanded by the King of Castile for his brother, Don Sebastian, the Infant. The latter, with the design of satisfying his curiosity about her, is on the eve of entering Castile disguised as a muleteer. Elvira hears of this, and adopts the same expedient, by starting with Carmen, one of her attendants, disguised as peasants to intercept him. In the opening of the first act the two appear at an inn where the peasants are dancing. The innkeeper is rude to them, but Don Sebastian, disguised as Manuel the muleteer, protects them, and offers his services as escort, which the Queen willingly accepts, for she has recognized him and he has fulfilled the motive of the story by falling in love with her. At this point Don Pedro, who has designs upon the throne, with his fellow-conspirators Don Sallust and Don Florio, enter. Observing Elvira's likeness to the Queen, they persuade her to personate Her Majesty, which, after feigned reluctance, she consents to do. She also accepts their services as escorts, and all the more unhesitatingly because she knows Manuel will follow her. The second act opens in the throne-room of the palace. Don Pedro enters, somewhat dejected by the uncertainty of his schemes. The Queen, who has eluded the surveillance of the conspirators, also appears and grants an audience to Manuel, in which he informs her of the meeting with the peasant girl and boy and declares his belief they were the Queen and Carmen. He also informs her of the conspirators' plot to imprison her, which she thwarts by inducing a silly old Duchess to personate the Queen for one day and, closely veiled, ride to the palace in the royal carriage. Her scheme succeeds admirably. The Duchess is seized and conveyed to a convent. In the next scene Don Pedro and Don Florio are mourning over the loss of their peasant girl, when she appears. Their mourning turns to desperate perplexity when the Queen reveals herself and announces her intention of marrying the muleteer. In the last act Carmen and Don Florio agree to marry. Then the Queen and her ladies enter, and a message is delivered her from Don Sebastian announcing his marriage. Enraged at the discovery that the muleteer is not Don Sebastian, the Queen upbraids him and yet declares she will be true to him. This pleases Don Pedro, as he believes he can force her to abdicate if she marries a muleteer; but in the last scene Manuel mounts the throne, and announces he is King of Castile, Elvira expresses her delight, and all ends happily. The story of the opera is exceedingly involved, but the music is well sustained and ranks with the best that Balfe has written. The principal numbers of the first act are the lively chorus, "List to the Gay Castanet"; the vocal scherzo by Elvira, "Yes, I'll obey you"; Manuel's rollicking song, "I am a Simple Muleteer"; the buffo trio, which ends in a spirited bacchanal, "Wine, Wine, the Magician thou art"; and Elvira's pleasing rondo, "Oh! were I the Queen of Spain." The second act contains the expressive conspirators' chorus, "The Queen in the Palace"; the beautiful ballad, "Though Fortune darkly o'er me frowns," sung by Don Pedro; the ballad, "The Convent Cell," sung by Elvira, which is one of Balfe's happiest inspirations; the buffo trio, "I'm not the Queen, ha, ha"; and Elvira's characteristic scena, "I'm but a Simple Peasant Maid." The leading numbers of the last act are the bravura air, "Oh! Joyous, Happy Day," which was intended by the composer to show the vocal ability of Eliza Pyne, who first appeared in the role of Elvira; Manuel's fine ballad, "'Twas Rank and Fame that tempted thee"; Don Pedro's martial song, "Hark, hark, methinks I hear"; the stirring song by Manuel, when he mounts the throne, which recalls "The Fair Land of Poland" in "The Bohemian Girl"; and Elvira's second bravura air, "Oh! no, by Fortune blessed." BELLINI, VINCENZO. La Sonnambula. [Grand opera, in two acts; text by Romani. Produced for the first time in Milan, March 6, 1831; in London, at the King's Theatre, July 28, 1831; in Paris, October 28, 1831; in New York, May 14, 1842.] PERSONAGES. Amina, ward of the miller's wife. Elvino, a landholder. Rodolfo, lord of the village. Lisa, innkeeper. Alessio, a peasant, lover of Lisa. Teresa, mistress of the mill. The scene is laid in Switzerland; time, last century. The first act of the opera opens with the preparations for the marriage of Amina and Elvino. Lisa, the mistress of the inn, is also in love with Elvino and jealous of Amina. On the day before the wedding, Rodolfo, the young lord of the village, arrives to look after his estates, and puts up at the inn, where he meets Amina. He pays her many pretty compliments, much to the dissatisfaction of Elvino, who is inclined to quarrel with him. After Rodolfo retires to his chamber, Amina, who is addicted to sleep-walking, enters the room and throws herself upon the bed as if it were her own. She is seen not only by Rodolfo, but also by Lisa, who has been vainly seeking to captivate him. To escape the embarrassment of the situation, Rodolfo quietly goes out; but the malicious Lisa hastens to inform Elvino of what Amina has done, at the same time thoughtlessly leaving her handkerchief in Rodolfo's room. Elvino rushes to the spot with other villagers, finds Amina as Lisa had described, denounces her, and offers himself to the latter. In the last act Amina is seen stepping from the window of the mill in her sleep. She crosses a frail bridge above the mill wheel, descends in safety, and walks into Elvino's arms amid the jubilant songs of the villagers. Elvino at last is convinced of her innocence, while the discovery of Lisa's handkerchief in Rodolfo's room proclaims her the faithless one. The little pastoral story is of the simplest kind, but it is set to music as melodious as ever has come from an Italian composer, and the rôle of the heroine has engaged the services of nearly all the great artists of the nineteenth century from Malibran to Patti. Its most striking melodies are the aria "Sovra il sen" ("On my Heart your Hand do place"), in the third scene of the first act, where Amina declares her happiness; the aria for baritone in the sixth scene, "Vi ravviso" ("I recognize you, Pleasant Spot"), sung by Rodolfo; the playful duet, "Mai piu dubbi" ("Away with Doubts"), in which Amina chides her lover for his jealousy; the humorous and characteristic chorus of the villagers in the tenth scene, "Osservate, l'uscio è aperto" ("Observe, the Door is open"), as they tiptoe into the chamber; the duet in the next scene, "O mio dolor" ("Oh, my Sorrow"), in which Amina asserts her innocence; the aria for tenor in the third scene of the second act, "Tutto e sciolto" ("Every Tie is broken"), in which Elvino bemoans his hard lot; and that joyous outburst of birdlike melody, "Ah! non giunge" ("Human Thought cannot conceive"), which closes the opera. BENEDICT, SIR JULIUS. The Lily of Killarney. [Romantic opera, in three acts; text by Oxenford and Boucicault. First produced at Covent Garden Theatre, London, February 8, 1862.] PERSONAGES. Anne Chute, the heiress. Mrs. Cregan, of the hall at Tore Cregan. Father Tom, the priest. Eily O'Connor, the Colleen Bawn. Hardress Cregan, son of Mrs. Cregan. Sheelah. Danny Mann, the boatman. Myles na Coppaleen. Corrigan, "the middle-man." The scene is laid at Killarney, Ireland; time, last century. The opera "The Lily of Killarney" is the musical setting of the drama, "The Colleen Bawn." The plot is essentially similar, and the characters are identical. The first act opens with the festivities of Hardress Cregan's friends at the hall at Tore Cregan. During their temporary absence to witness a horse-race, Corrigan, "the middle-man," calls upon Mrs. Cregan and suggests to her the marriage of her son to the heiress, Anne Chute, as the only chance of securing the payment of a mortgage he holds upon the place. Failing in this, he expresses his own willingness to accept Mrs. Cregan's hand, but the hint meets with no favor. At this point Danny Mann, Hardress' boatman, is heard singing, and Corrigan informs Mrs. Cregan he is about to take her son to see Eily, the Colleen Bawn, Anne Chute's peasant rival. Danny and Hardress set off on their errand, leaving Mrs. Cregan disconsolate and Corrigan exultant. In the second scene Corrigan and Myles na Coppaleen, the peasant lover of the Colleen Bawn, have an interview in which Corrigan tells him she is the mistress of Hardress. The next scene introduces us to Eily's cottage, where Father Tom is seeking to induce her to persuade Hardress to make public announcement of his marriage to her. When Hardress appears he asks her to give up the marriage certificate and conceal their union; but Myles prevents this, and Father Tom makes Eily promise she will never surrender it. In the second act Hardress is paying court to Anne Chute, but is haunted by remorse over his desertion of Eily. Danny Mann suggests putting her on board a vessel and shipping her to America, but Hardress rejects the scheme. Danny then agrees that Eily shall disappear if he will send his glove, a token secretly understood between them. This also he rejects. Meanwhile Corrigan is pressing his alternative upon Mrs. Cregan, but is interrupted by Hardress, who threatens to kill him if he does not desist. Corrigan retires uttering threats of revenge. Danny Mann then intimates to Mrs. Cregan that if she will induce Hardress to send the glove, he can bring happiness to the family again. She secures the glove and gives it to Danny, who promptly takes it to Eily with the message that her husband has sent for her. Eily, in spite of Myles' warnings, gets into Danny's boat and trusts herself to him. Danny rows out to a water cave, and ordering her to step upon a rock demands the certificate. She refuses to give it up, and Danny pushes her into the water. Myles, who uses the cave for secret purposes, mistakes Danny for another and shoots him, and then, espying Eily, plunges in and saves her. The dénouement of the story is quickly told in the last act. Hardress is arrested for murder, but Danny, who was fatally wounded, makes a dying confession of his scheme against the life of the Colleen Bawn. Corrigan brings soldiers to the house of Anne Chute at the moment of Hardress' marriage with her, but is thwarted in his revenge when Myles produces Eily Cregan, Hardress' lawful wife. Mrs. Cregan also confesses her part in the plot, and absolves her son from intentional guilt. Everything being cleared up, Eily rushes into Hardress' arms, and the chorus declares "A cloudless day at last will dawn Upon the hapless Colleen Bawn." The music is very elaborate for light-opera purposes, and is written broadly and effectively, especially for the orchestra. Many Irish melodies sprinkled through the work relieve its heaviness. The principal numbers are the serenade and duet, "The Moon has raised her Lamp above"; Myles' song, "It is a Charming Girl I love"; Eily's song, "In my Wild Mountain Valley he sought me," and the well-known original Irish melody, "The Cruiskeen Lawn," also sung by Eily; the "Tally-ho" chorus, introducing the second act; Danny Mann's recitative and airs, "The Colleen Bawn" and "Duty? Yes, I'll do my duty"; the dramatic finale to the second act; Myles' serenade in the third act, "Your Slumbers, och! Soft as your Glance may be"; Hardress' beautiful song, "Eily Mavourneen, I see thee before me"; and the fine concerted trio which closes the act. BOIELDIEU, FRANÇOIS ADRIEN. La Dame Blanche. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Scribe. First produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, December 10, 1825; first time in English under the title of "The White Maid" at Covent Garden, London, January 2, 1827.] PERSONAGES. George Brown, or Julius of Avenel. Gaveston, late steward of the Avenel estate. MacIrton, an auctioneer. Dikson, an honest farmer. Anna, adopted child of the Lady of Avenel. Jenny, wife of Dikson. Margaret, servant of the late Lady of Avenel. [Mountaineers, peasants, etc.] The scene is laid in Scotland; time of the Stuarts. The story of this favorite opera, adapted from Walter Scott's novels "The Monastery" and "Guy Mannering," runs as follows. The Laird of Avenel, a Stuart partisan, upon the eve of going into exile after the battle of Culloden, entrusts his estate and a considerable treasure concealed in a statue, called "the White Lady," to Gaveston, his steward. The traditions affirmed that the White Lady was the protectress of the Avenels, and the villagers declared they had seen her in the neighborhood. Gaveston, however, who puts no faith in the legend, announces the sale of the castle, hoping that the superstition may keep others from bidding and that he may get it for a low price. The steward decides to sell, because he has heard the Laird is dead and knows there is no heir. Anna, an orphan, who had been befriended by the Laird, determines to frustrate the designs of Gaveston, and appears in the village disguised as the White Lady. She writes to Dikson, a farmer who is indebted to her, to meet her at midnight in the castle of Avenel. His superstitious fears lead him to decline the invitation, but George Brown, a young British soldier on furlough, who is sharing the farmer's hospitality, volunteers in his stead. He encounters the White Lady at the castle, and is informed by her that he will speedily meet a young lady who has saved his life by her careful nursing, Anna recognizing him as her recent patient. When the day of sale comes, George and Anna are present, and the former buys the castle in obedience to Anna's instructions, though he has not a shilling to his name. When the time for payment comes, Anna produces the treasure which had been concealed in the statue, and still in the disguise of the White Lady reveals to him the secret of his birth during the exile of his parents, and informs him he is Julius of Avenel. Gaveston approaches the spectre, and tears off her veil, revealing Anna. Moved by the zeal and fidelity of his father's ward, George offers her his hand, which after some maidenly scruples she accepts. In the first act the principal numbers are the opening song of George, "Ah! what Pleasure a Soldier to be"; the characteristic ballad of the White Lady with choral responses, "Where yon Trees your Eye discovers"; and the graceful trio in the finale, "Heavens! what do I hear." The second act opens with a plaintive romanza, "Poor Margaret, spin away," sung by Margaret, Anna's old nurse, at her spinning-wheel, as she thinks of the absent Laird, followed in the fifth scene by a beautiful cavatina for tenor, "Come, O Gentle Lady." In the seventh scene there is a charming duet, "From these Halls," and the act closes with an ensemble for seven voices and chorus which is extremely effective. The third act opens with a sentimental air for Anna, "With what Delight I behold," followed in the third scene by a stirring chorus of mountaineers, "Hail to our Gallant, our New-made Lord," and leading up to "The Lay ever sung by the Clan of Avenel"--set to the familiar melody of "Robin Adair." Though somewhat old-fashioned, the opera still retains its freshness, and its refined sentiment finds charming musical expression. CELLIER, ALFRED. Dorothy. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Stephenson. First produced at the Gaiety Theatre, London, September 25, 1886.] PERSONAGES. Dorothy Bantam, Squire Bantam's daughter. Lydia Hawthorne, her cousin. Priscilla Privett, a widow. Phyllis, Tuppet's daughter. Geoffrey Wilder, Bantam's nephew. Harry Sherwood, Wilder's chum. Squire Bantam, of Chanticleer Hall. Lurcher, a sheriff's officer. Tuppet, the village landlord. Tom Grass, in love with Phyllis. [Farm hands, hop-pickers, and ballet.] The scene is laid in Kent, England; time, a hundred years ago. The story of "Dorothy" is a simple one, but affords much scope for humor. The first act opens in a hop-field, introducing a chorus and dance of the hop-pickers. Afterward appears Dorothy, daughter of a wealthy squire, who is masquerading in a peasant's dress, and while serving the landlord's customers falls in love with a gentleman whose horse has lost a shoe. Her cousin, Lydia Hawthorne, who is with her in disguise, also falls in love with a customer. Each girl gives her lover a ring, and each lover vows he will never part with it; but that same evening at a ball the faithless swains give the rings to two fine ladies, who are none other than Dorothy and Lydia as their proper selves. After they have parted, the two lovers, Wilder and Sherwood, play the part of burglars and rob Squire Bantam. Dorothy, disguised in male attire, then challenges her lover, who, though he accepts, displays arrant cowardice, which leads up to the inevitable explanations. Incidentally there is much fun growing out of the efforts of Lurcher, the sheriff's officer, who has followed Wilder and Sherwood down from London to collect a bill against the former. In the end Wilder and Sherwood are united to Dorothy and Lydia amid great rejoicing at Chanticleer Hall. The principal numbers are the ballad, "With such a Dainty Dame"; the song of "The Sheriff's Man" by Lurcher, Wilder, and Sherwood; the quartette "You swear to be Good," and the jolly chorus "Under the Pump," in the first act; the introduction and country dance, the bass song by Bantam, "Contentment I give you," and the ballad, "I stand at your Threshold," sung by Sherwood, in the second act; and the chorus of old women, "Dancing is not what it used to be," Phyllis' ballad, "The Time has come when I must yield" and the septette and chorus, "What Joy untold," leading up to the elaborate finale of the last act. CHASSAIQUE, F. Falka. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Letterier and Vanloo.] PERSONAGES. Kolbach, military governor of Montgratz. Tancred, his nephew. Arthur, student, son of a rich Hungarian farmer. Lay Brother Pelican, doorkeeper of the convent. Konrad, captain of the governor's pages. Tekeli, sergeant of the patrol. Boboky, gypsy scout. Boleslas, chief of the gypsies. The Seneschal, Kolbach's steward. Falka, niece of Kolbach, at the convent school. Edwige, sister of Boleslas. Alexina de Kelkirsch, a young heiress. Minna, her maid. Janotha, landlady of the inn. [Military pages, soldiers of the watch, maids of honor, peasants, Bohemians, etc.] The scene is laid in Hungary; time, the middle of the eighteenth century. The first act of "Falka" opens with the announcement that Kolbach, the military governor of Hungary, has been promised a patent of nobility by the Emperor upon the condition that he can establish the succession with a male heir, either direct or collateral. He is childless himself, but he has a niece, Falka, who is in a convent, and a nephew, Tancred, who is usher in a village school. The brother of Kolbach is dead. His hopes for the heir rest upon Tancred, whom he has never seen. He summons him to take a place in his house as the heir presumptive. On his way, Tancred is captured by a band of gypsies, led by Boleslas, but is released by Edwige, Boleslas' sister, on condition that he marries her. All this has happened in the night, and Edwige has not even seen Tancred's face. The latter, when he learns who Edwige is, flies, and is pursued to the city where Kolbach lives by Boleslas and Edwige. From a pocket-book he has dropped they discover he is the nephew of the governor, and plot to identify him at the meeting, but Tancred, overhearing them, decides to baffle them by not appearing, and writes to his uncle that he is detained by illness. In the mean time Falka, the niece, has eloped with a young man named Arthur. Closely pursued by Brother Pelican, the convent doorkeeper, the fugitives arrive at the inn where Kolbach and Tancred were to have met. To foil Brother Pelican, Falka arrays herself in a suit of Arthur's, and then boldly decides to personate her brother. Kolbach is easily deceived, but new complications ensue. Brother Pelican, finding Falka's convent dress, suspects she has disguised herself as a boy and arrests Arthur for her. Boleslas and Edwige, witnessing the meeting of Falka and Kolbach, are certain Falka is the missing Tancred. For Falka's sake Arthur is silent, and the cortège sets out for the castle where the heir presumptive is to be engaged, by the Emperor's order, to the rich young Alexina de Kelkirsch. In the second act Brother Pelican takes Arthur to the convent in Falka's dress, and Falka remains in a soldier's uniform to win the consent of her uncle to their union. Her plans are now disturbed by the arrival of Tancred, disguised as a footman, to watch his own interests and thwart the schemes of the young soldier, who he little dreams is his own sister. He is afraid to reveal himself because he knows Boleslas is on his track. He contrives that Falka shall be accused of broken vows before Kolbach, and she is challenged by Boleslas, but escapes by revealing her sex to Edwige. Arthur, who has been brought back from the convent, confesses the interchange of dresses with Falka, whereupon Kolbach orders them both out of his presence. Tancred displays unusual satisfaction, and thus discloses his identity to Edwige. Thus the act closes with Kolbach's discovery that Tancred is betrothed to a gypsy and that the pseudo Tancred is his niece Falka. In the last act Kolbach reluctantly prepares for the marriage of Tancred to Alexina, as the Emperor desires. Falka is shut up in a tower, whence she is to be sent back to the convent. At this point Boleslas appears with Edwige. An interview between the two brides leads to the substitution of Edwige for Alexina, and Tancred marries the gypsy. Falka escapes from the tower, but is caught and brought before her uncle, who at last pardons her various follies, all the more willingly because he has received a despatch from the Emperor that he may adopt her as his heiress, the succession having been settled in the female line. The principal numbers in the first act are the stirring air and refrain, "I'm the Captain," sung by Edwige, Tancred, and Boleslas, preluded by a short march movement; a taking little nocturne, "There was no Ray of Light," sung by Edwige; a rondo duet, "For your Indulgence"; and the long and elaborate finale, which closes with an octette and full chorus. The second act opens with a charming chorus, "Tap, tap," sung by the maids of honor, followed by couplets, "Perhaps you will excuse." Falka has a pretty air, "Yon Life it seems," followed by the exit chorus, "Ah! is she not a Beauty?" This in turn is followed by a characteristic Bohemian chorus, "Tra-la-la," with a gypsy air, "Cradled upon the Heather," coming in as a kind of vocal intermezzo. After a long ensemble, "It was Tancred," a trio, "Oh Joy! oh Rapture!" is sung, in the course of which there is an ingenious passage burlesquing Italian opera, followed by a quintette, "His Aspect's not so overpowering," and leading up to an elaborately concerted finale. The last act, though short, contains many brilliant numbers; among them the bridal chorus, "Rampart and Bastian Gray," followed by a lively Hungarian rondo and dance, "Catchee, catchee"; a romanza "At Eventide," which literally passes "from grave to gay, from lively to severe," as it begins with an andante agitato, changing to an andante religioso, and ending with a waltz tempo, and repeating with the same abrupt changes; a charming duo Berceuse, "Slumber, O Sentinel"; and the bell chorus, "There the Bells go," preceding a short finale. DEKOVEN, REGINALD. Robin Hood. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Harry B. Smith. First produced in Chicago, June 9, 1890.] PERSONAGES. Robert of Huntington, afterward Robin Hood. Sheriff of Nottingham. Sir Guy of Gisborne, his ward. Little John, } Will Scarlet, } Friar Tuck, } Allan a Dale, } outlaws. Lady Marian Fitzwalker, afterwards Maid Marian. Dame Durden, a widow. Annabel, her daughter. [Villagers, milkmaids, outlaws, King's foresters, archers, pedlers, etc.] The scene is laid in England; time of Richard the First. The first act of "Robin Hood" opens in the market-place of Nottingham, where the villagers are holding a fair and at the same time celebrating May Day with a blithe chorus, for Robin Hood's name is often associated with that day. The three outlaws Allan a Dale, Little John, and Will Scarlet, enter, and sing most lustily the praises of their free life in Sherwood Forest, the villagers joining in chorus. The tantara changes to a graceful and yet hilarious dance chorus, "A Morris Dance must you entrance," sung fortissimo. The second number is a characteristic and lively song by Friar Tuck, in which he offers at auction venison, ale, and homespun, followed by No. 3, a humorous pastoral, the milkmaid's song with chorus, "When Chanticleer crowing." This leads up to the entrance of Robin Hood in a spirited chorus, "Come the Bowmen in Lincoln Green," in which the free life of the forest is still further extolled. Another and still more spirited scene introduces Maid Marian, which is followed by an expressive and graceful duet for Maid Marian and Robin Hood, "Though it was within this Hour we met," closing in waltz time. This is followed by the Sheriff's buffo song with chorus, "I am the Merry Sheriff of Nottingham," and this in turn by a trio introduced by the Sheriff, "When a Peer makes Love to a Damsel Fair," which, after the entrance of Sir Guy and his luckless wooing, closes in a gay waltz movement, "Sweetheart, my own Sweetheart." In the finale Robin Hood demands that the Sheriff shall proclaim him Earl. The Sheriff declares that by his father's will he has been disinherited, and that he has the documents to show that before Robin Hood's birth his father was secretly married to a young peasant girl, who died when the Earl's first child was born. He further declares that he reared the child, and that he is Sir Guy, the rightful heir of Huntington. Maid Marian declares she will suppress the King's command and not accept Sir Guy's hand, and Robin Hood vows justice shall be done when the King returns from the Crusades. The second act opens with a brisk hunting-chorus, "Oh! cheerily soundeth the Hunter's Horn," sung by Allan a Dale, Little John, Scarlet, and the male chorus, in the course of which Scarlet tells the story of the tailor and the crow, set to a humming accompaniment. This is followed by Little John's unctuous apostrophe to the nut-brown ale, "And it's will ye quaff with me, my Lads." The next number is a tinkers' song, "'Tis Merry Journeymen we are," with characteristic accompaniment, followed by an elaborate sextette, "Oh, see the Lambkins play." Maid Marian sings a joyous forest song, "In Greenwood Fair," followed by Robin Hood's serenade, "A Troubadour sang to his Love," and a quartette in which Maid Marian declares her love for Robin Hood and Allan a Dale vows revenge. In the finale, opening in waltz time, the Sheriff is placed in the stocks by the outlaws, who jeer at him while Dame Durden flouts him, but he is finally rescued by Sir Guy and his archers. The outlaws in turn find themselves in trouble, and Maid Marian and Robin Hood are in despair. The last act opens with a vigorous armorers' song, "Let Hammer on Anvil ring," followed by a pretty romance, "The Legend of the Chimes," with a ding-dong accompaniment. A graceful duet follows, "There will come a Time," in which Robin Hood and Maid Marian plight their troth. In strong contrast with this, Annabel, Dame Durden, Sir Guy, the Sheriff, and Friar Tuck indulge in a vivacious quintette, "When Life seems made of Pains and Pangs, I sing my Too-ral-loo-ral-loo." A jolly country dance and chorus, "Happy Day, Happy Day," introduce the finale, in which Maid Marian is saved by the timely arrival of Robin Hood at the church door with the King's pardon, leaving him free to marry. Maid Marian. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Harry B. Smith. First produced at Chestnut Street Opera House, Philadelphia, Pa., November 4, 1901.] PERSONAGES. Sheriff of Nottingham. Little John. Robin Hood. Will Scarlet. Friar Tuck. Allan a Dale. Guy of Gisborne. Dame Durden. Giles, } Geoffrey, } gamekeepers. Yussuf, a slave merchant. Sir H. Vere de Vere, } Sir Hugh Montford, } Knights of St. George. Amina, a snake-charmer. Lady Vivian. Maid Marian. [Huntsmen, men at arms, Saracen warriors, mummers, Crusaders, etc.] The scene is laid in England and Palestine; time of Richard the First. The story of "Maid Marian" introduces most of the familiar characters in "Robin Hood" and some new ones, and the scene alternates between Sherwood Forest and Palestine. It is intended as a sequel to the latter opera. The plot begins at the point where Maid Marian and Robin Hood were betrothed. Robin has joined the Crusaders and left Marian on the eve of the wedding. He also leaves a letter for Marian in Little John's charge, directing her in case of trouble to apply to him for help. This letter is stolen by the Sheriff of Nottingham, who substitutes for it a forged missive calculated to make her believe that Robin is false. The first act closes with the arrival of Little John and the forest outlaws, who leave for the holy war. Marian joins them to seek for Robin. The second act opens in the camp of the Crusaders, near the city of Acre. Maid Marian has been captured by the Saracens and sold into slavery, but is rescued by Robin Hood. Then the Sheriff of Nottingham and Guy of Gisborne, the latter still intent upon marrying Marian, appear in the disguise of merchants and betray the camp into the hands of the Saracens. Dame Durden's encounter with the Sheriff and Friar Tuck's antics as an odalisque add merriment to the story. In the last act all the principals are back in England and the scene opens with a Christmas revel in Huntington Castle. Robin thwarts all the schemes of the Sheriff, comes into his rights, and is reunited to Maid Marian. While the story lacks in interest as compared with that of "Robin Hood," the music gains in dramatic power and seriousness of purpose, and at the same time is full of life and vivacity. The overture is notable for being in genuine concert form,--the first instance of the kind in comic opera for many years past,--and thus naturally sets the pace, as it were, for the opera, and gives the clew to its musical contents. The most noticeable numbers in the first act are the Cellarer's Toast, "The Cellar is dark and the Cellar is deep," a rollicking song for Scarlet, Friar Tuck, and chorus; the charmingly melodious "Song of the Falcon," "Let one who will go hunt the Deer," for Maid Marian; the Sheriff's song, "I am the Sheriff Mild and Good," which is always popular; and a delightful madrigal, the quintette "Love may come and Love may go." The second act contains many pleasing and characteristic songs, among them "The Monk and the Magpie," sung by Scarlet and chorus; the "Song of the Outlaw," a spirited ballad by Robin Hood; the Sheriff's serenade, a popular tune, "When a Man is in Love"; "The Snake Charmer's Song," by Maid Marian; and the vigorous "Song of the Crusader" by Robin; but the two most effective numbers are a graceful song, "Tell me again, Sweetheart," sung by Allan a Dale, and the duet in waltz manner, "True Love is not for a Day," by Robin and Marian. The third act is largely choral, the introductory Christmas carolling and dance rhythms being especially effective, but it contains one of the best solo numbers in the work, the dainty song with chorus, "Under the Mistletoe Bough." The music throughout is dramatic, strong, and well written. While the opera has not been as popular as its predecessor, yet the music is of a higher order, and occasionally approaches grand opera in its breadth and earnestness. Rob Roy. [Romantic comic opera, in three acts; text by Harry B. Smith. First produced at the Herald Square Theatre, New York, October 29, 1894.] PERSONAGES. Rob Roy MacGregor, Highland chief. Janet, daughter of the Mayor. Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the young Pretender. Flora MacDonald, partisan of the Pretender. Dugald MacWheeble, Mayor of Perth. Lochiel, otherwise Donald Cameron. Capt. Ralph Sheridan, of the Grenadiers. Sandy MacSherry, town-crier. Tammas MacSorlie, the Mayor's henchman. Lieut. Cornwallis, of the Grenadiers. Lieut. Clinton. Angus MacAllister. Duncan Campbell. Stuart MacPherson. Donald MacAlpine. Nellie, barmaid of "The Crown and Thistle." [Highlanders, Lowlanders, townsmen, watchmen, drummer-boys, English Grenadiers, etc.] The scene is laid in Scotland; time of George the Second. The first act of "Rob Roy" opens in Perth, where Lochiel and his Highlanders have stolen a considerable sum of money in the keeping of the Provost, with which they propose to aid Prince Charles Stuart in his designs upon the English throne. Flora MacDonald, a zealous partisan of the young Pretender, appears upon the scene, and induces the Provost to consent to a gathering of the clans in Perth. Hearing of a Scotch victory, he compels his daughter Janet to marry Sandy MacSherry, the town-crier, who claims relationship with the Stuarts. In the mean time English grenadiers enter Perth, and their captain, Ralph Sheridan, falls in love with Janet. The Provost, who is always on the side that is uppermost, forces his daughter to declare herself the Captain's wife and then accuses Sandy of stealing the missing money. Janet obeys him, but immediately afterwards Rob Roy captures the town, and the Provost, to get rid of his new English son-in-law, causes his arrest. It now appears that the crafty Janet when she went through the Scotch form of marriage with Sandy and the Captain was already secretly married to Rob Roy. To escape her two nominal husbands she proposes to go with Rob Roy's Highlanders as his orderly. The act closes with the gathering of the clans and the elevation of the standard. The second act opens with the defeat of the Scotch at Culloden. A reward is offered for the Prince, who is in hiding among the MacGregors in their mountain stronghold. The Provost and his henchmen appear as strolling balladmongers, still in Highland dress, and not having heard of the Scotch defeat. When Sandy MacSherry arrives with the news of the English victory, the Provost gets into English uniform at once, and determines to secure the reward offered for the Prince. At last the Prince is found by the English, but when they are about to take him away, Flora MacDonald appears in the Prince's costume, declares him her servant, and is led away by the soldiers in spite of the efforts of Rob Roy and the Prince to rescue her. The third act opens near Stirling Castle, where Flora is confined under sentence of death on the morrow. Lochiel aids her to escape, and she goes to the MacGregors' cave, where the Prince is to join her. Meanwhile, her cell being empty, Lochiel, who has taken the turnkey's place, puts Sandy in it. The Provost, who is now an English corporal, supposing that Flora is still in the castle, brings her a disguise costume in which Sandy manages to effect his escape. Flora is found in the cave and brought back to the camp, but is saved from being shot by the timely arrival of the Prince, who gives himself up. As he is about to be executed, the Lowlanders around him throw off their coats and stand revealed as armed Highlanders. They keep the English soldiers at bay while the Prince and Flora are seen sailing away for France. In the first act, after a long choral scene and ensemble, Flora makes her entrance with the spirited song, "Away in the Morning Early," which is followed by a sentimental duet with the Prince, "Thou, Dear Heart." The town-crier next has a characteristic song with a ding-dong accompaniment. After a grenadier song and chorus by Captain Sheridan and his soldiers, there is a vigorous Highland chorus and song by Rob Roy, "The White and the Red, huzzah." The remaining prominent numbers in this act are a pretty duet for Rob Roy and Janet, "There he is and nae one wi' him"; a charming Scotch ballad, "My Hame is where the Heather blooms," and a humorous song by the Provost, "My Hairt is in the Highlands." The principal numbers in the second act are Janet's joyous song, "There was a Merry Miller of the Lowland"; the spirited martial lay of the Cavalier, "With their trappings all a-jingle"; the jolly song of the balladmongers, "From Place to Place I fare, Lads"; Rob Roy's song, "Come, Lairds of the Highlands"; and the effective romanza, "Dearest Heart of my Heart," sung by Flora. The third act opens with a vigorous rataplan chorus followed by a charming chansonette and duet, "Who can tell me where she dwells," sung by the Prince and Flora. The remaining numbers are a short but exceedingly effective bass song, "In the Donjon Deep"; the Provost's serenade, "The Land of Romances," followed by a dance, and a pretty little rustic song, "There's a Lass, some think her Bonny," for Rob Roy, Janet, and chorus, leading up to a vigorous choral finale. The Fencing-Master. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Harry B. Smith. First produced at the New York Casino, November 14, 1892.] PERSONAGES. Francesca, Torquato's daughter, brought up as a boy. Torquato, fencing-master of the Milanese court. Pasquino, private astrologer to the Duke. Galeazzo Visconti, Duke of Milan. Count Guido Malespine. Filippa, the Duke's ward. Marchesa di Goldoni. Theresa, daughter of a Milanese money-lender. Pietro, an innkeeper. Michaele Steno, Doge of Venice. Rinaldo, Captain of the Doge's Guards. Fortunio, rightful heir to the ducal throne. [Students in Torquato's Academy.] The scene is laid in Milan and Venice; time, the first quarter of the fifteenth century. The heroine of this opera is Francesca, daughter of a fencing-master, who has brought her up as a boy and taught her fencing among other accomplishments. She is in love with Fortunio, rightful heir to the throne of Milan, who believes her to be a boy. Fortunio in turn is in love with the Countess Filippa, and the Marchesa di Goldoni, a young widow, is in love with Francesca. The bankrupt and usurping Duke of Milan and his private astrologer, of whom he has purchased so many horoscopes as to deplete his exchequer, furnish the comedy element of the opera. The Duke has mortgaged one room after another in his palace to money-lenders, and has also employed a regularly organized stock company of Venetian bravos to remove Fortunio. The first act closes with the departure of Fortunio and Francesca to Venice on political business. The second act opens in Venice. Filippa has been sent there to be married, but Fortunio plans an elopement with her and entrusts the secret to Francesca. The jealous Francesca betrays the plan to Guido, his rival, who abducts Filippa. When Fortunio discovers what Francesca has done, he challenges the supposed young man, whose identity is revealed after he has wounded her. Fortunio is arrested by the Duke and is about to be taken to prison, when Francesca declares herself as the real traitor and is imprisoned in his stead. In the last act Francesca escapes through the connivance of the Marchesa, who still believes her to be a man. At a fête Filippa is expected to name her future husband. Fortunio has made an appointment with her, but meets Francesca disguised as the Countess, in a mask and domino like hers. She learns from Fortunio that he really loves her and not Filippa. The opera closes with the downfall of the usurping Duke and his astrologer and the restoration of Fortunio to his rights. The music has the Italian color, the first act containing a graceful tarantella and chorus, "Under thy Window I wait"; a duet, gavotte, and chorus, "Oh, listen, and in Verse I will relate," sung by Theresa and Pasquino; a lively song, "The Life of a Rover," by Fortunio; a charming habanera and quintette, "True Love is a Gem so Fair and Rare"; and a waltz quintette, "Lady Fair, I must decline." The second act opens with a barcarole, "Over the Moonlit Waves we glide," and contains also a graceful maranesca, "Oh, come, my Love, the Stars are bright"; a humorous serenade for the Duke, "Singing a Serenade is no Light Task"; a sentimental romanza for Francesca, "The Nightingale and the Rose"; and a brilliant finale in which the music accompanies the historic ceremony of the marriage with the Adriatic. The principal numbers of the third act are a graceful carnival scene with chorus opening the act; the serenade for the Marchesa and cavaliers, "Wild Bird that singeth"; a will-o'-the-wisp song by Francesca, "Traveller wandering wearily"; and a melodious duet for Francesca and Fortunio, "Dwells an Image in my Heart," leading up to a short finale. DELIBES, LEO. Lakmé. [Romantic opera, in three acts; text by Goudinet and Gille. First produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, April 14, 1883; in New York, March 1, 1886.] PERSONAGES. Lakmé, daughter of Nilakantha. Nilakantha, a Brahmin priest. Gerald, an English officer, lover of Lakmé. Frederick, an English officer. Mallika, slave of Lakmé. Hadji, slave of Lakmé. Ellen, } Rose, } daughters of the Viceroy. Mrs. Benson, their governess. [Hindoos, Chinamen, fruit-venders, sailors, etc.] The scene is laid in India; time, last century. The opera of "Lakmé" opens in the sacred grounds of Nilakantha, a Brahmin priest who has an aversion to all foreigners, where Gerald and Frederick, two young English officers, with ladies are strolling about. They gradually retire with the exception of Gerald, who is curious to see the owner of some jewels left upon a shrine. Lakmé, the daughter of Nilakantha, returns for them, espies Gerald, and there is a case of love at first sight. The priest however interrupts their demonstrations, and Gerald escapes his vengeance in a convenient thunder-storm. In the second act Lakmé and Nilakantha appear in the market-place in the guise of penitents. He forces his daughter to sing, hoping that her voice will induce her lover to disclose himself. The scheme succeeds, and Nilakantha, stealing upon Gerald, stabs him in the back and makes good his escape. The third act opens in a jungle where Lakmé is nursing Gerald with the hope of retaining his love. She eventually saves his life, but while she is absent to obtain some water which, according to the Indian legend, will make love eternal, Frederick finds him and urges him to return to his regiment. Duty is more powerful than passion, and he consents. When Lakmé finds that he is going, she takes poison and dies in Gerald's arms. The first act opens with a chorus of Hindoos, oriental in its coloring, followed by a duet between Lakmé and her father, the scene closing with a sacred chant. A beautiful duet for Lakmé and her slave follows, "Neath yon Dome where Jasmines with the Roses are blooming." As Lakmé appears at the shrine, she sings a restless love song, "Why love I thus to stray?" followed by Gerald's ardent response, "The God of Truth so Glowing." The first number of importance in the second act is the pathetic aria of Nilakantha, addressed to his daughter, "Lakmé, thy Soft Looks are over-clouded." Then follows Lakmé's bell song, "Where strays the Hindoo Maiden," a brilliant and gracefully embellished aria with tinkling accompaniment which will always be popular. The remaining principal numbers are an impassioned song by Gerald, "Ah! then 'tis Slumbering Love," followed by the mysterious response from Lakmé, "In the Forest near at Hand." The music of the third act is tinged with sadness throughout, as the action hastens to the tragic dénouement. Its principal numbers are the low murmuring song by Lakmé, "'Neath the Dome of Moon and Star," as she watches her sleeping lover; Gerald's song, "Tho' Speechless I, my Heart remembers," followed by a pretty three-part chorus in the distance; and Lakmé's last dying songs, "To me the Fairest Dream thou'st given," and "Farewell, the Dream is over." DONIZETTI, GAETANO. The Daughter of the Regiment. [Opéra comique, in two acts; text by Bayard and St. Georges. First produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, February 11, 1840.] PERSONAGES. Sulpice, an old sergeant. Tony, a Tyrolean peasant in love with Marie. Hortensius, secretary of the Marchioness. Marie, the adopted Daughter of the Regiment. Marchioness de Berkenfeld. Duchesse de Crackenthorpe. [Villagers, soldiers, gentlemen, guests.] The scene is laid in the Tyrol; time, about twelve years after the Battle of Marengo. At the opening of the opera Marie, the heroine, and vivandière in Napoleon's Twenty-first Regiment, has been saved from falling over a precipice by Tony, a Tyrolean peasant, and is ever after the object of his special admiration and, shortly, of his love. She tells the story of her life, from which it appears that she was adopted as the Daughter of the Regiment because she was picked up on the field of battle by Sergeant Sulpice, who found upon her person a letter written by her father to the Marchioness de Berkenfeld. Tony's reward for his rescue of Marie is his arrest as a spy, but not before he has declared his love for her. He easily clears up his record, and the soldiers decide he may have Marie's hand if he will join them. He gives joyous assent to this proposition, but his hopes are suddenly dashed to the ground when the Marchioness de Berkenfeld appears. Sergeant Sulpice delivers the letter to her, after reading which she claims Marie as her niece, and carries her off amidst smothered imprecations by the soldiers and especially by Tony upon the Marchioness. In the second act Marie is found in her new home at the castle of Berkenfeld, and the old sergeant is with her, while she is rehearsing a romance which she is to sing to a grand company. She and Sulpice suddenly break out into a rollicking rataplan, and go through military evolutions to the horror of the Marchioness. While the latter is expostulating with them, martial music announces the approach of the gallant Twenty-first, with Tony at their head, for he is now a colonel. He makes another appeal for Marie's hand, and the appeal is seconded by the soldiers, but the Marchioness refuses the favor. Tony then proposes an elopement, to which Marie consents. To thwart this scheme, the Marchioness announces that early in life she had been secretly married to an army officer of low rank and that he was Marie's father. Unable to disobey her mother's wishes, Marie gives up Tony and falls into a melancholy mood. Her sad plight rouses old associations in the mind of the Marchioness, and she at last gives her consent to the union. The music of the first act is very brilliant, and includes among its best numbers Marie's opening song, "The Camp was my Birthplace"; the duet with Sulpice, known the world over as "The Rataplan," stirring and martial in its character and accompanied by the rattling of drums and the sonorous strains of the brasses; the spirited "Salute to France"; Marie's song of the regiment, "All Men confess it"; her pretty duet with Tony, "No longer can I doubt it"; and her touching adieu to the regiment, "Farewell, a Long Farewell." In the second act the principal numbers are the "Rataplan" (repeated); Marie's aria, "By the Glitter of Greatness and Riches"; the soldiers' spirited choral appeal, "We have come our Child to free"; Tony's romance, "That I might live in her Dear Sight"; and the effective trio, "Once again, what Delight," leading to the exultant finale. The music of the opera is light, but exceedingly brilliant, and the leading rôles have always been esteemed by great artists. That of Marie was a favorite one with Jenny Lind, Patti, Sontag, and Albani. Don Pasquale. [Opera buffa, in three acts; text and music by Donizetti. First produced at the Theatre des Italiens, Paris, January 4, 1843.] PERSONAGES. Don Pasquale, an obstinate but kind-hearted bachelor. Dr. Malatesta, his friend and physician. Ernesto, Don Pasquale's nephew. Norina, a young widow. Notary. [Valets, chambermaids, majordomo, dressmaker, etc.] The scene is laid in Rome; time, last century. The opening of the first act of "Don Pasquale" discloses the Don enraged with Ernesto, his nephew, because he will not marry to suit him. Dr. Malatesta, a mutual friend, comes to the help of Ernesto, to whom he is greatly attached, and contrives a scheme to further his interests. He urges the Don to marry a lady, pretending she is his (the doctor's) sister, in reality Norina, with whom Ernesto is in love. Norina is let into the secret, her part being to consent to the marriage contract and then so torment Don Pasquale that he will be glad to get rid of her and even consent to her marriage with Ernesto. In the second act Ernesto is found bewailing his fate. The Don enters, showily arrayed for his wedding. Norina appears with the doctor, and shyly and reluctantly signs the wedding-contract. As soon as she has signed it, however, she drops all modesty. The bewildered Ernesto is kept quiet by signs from the doctor. Norina first refuses all the Don's demonstrations, and then declares Ernesto shall be her escort. She summons the servants, and lays out a scheme of housekeeping upon such an extravagant scale that Don Pasquale declares he will not pay the bills. She says he shall, as she is now master of the house. In the third act Norina continues her annoying antics. She employs the most expensive milliners and modistes. At length, when he finds that she is going to the theatre, he forbids it. A quarrel follows. She boxes his ears, and as she flounces out of the room she purposely drops a letter, the contents of which add jealousy to his other troubles. At this juncture Dr. Malatesta comes in and condoles with him. Nothing will satisfy Don Pasquale, however, except her leaving the house, and finally he orders her to go, at the same time taxing her with having a lover concealed on the premises. The doctor pleads with him to let his nephew marry Norina. When he finds she is really the doctor's sister, he is only too glad to get out of his troubles by consenting to the marriage of the young couple and blessing them. The principal numbers in the first act are the duet for Ernesto and Don Pasquale; the scena for Norina, "And in that Look she gave"; and the charming duet for Norina and the doctor, "What Sport we'll have," closing the act. The second act opens with the lugubrious aria, "Oh! how at one Fell Blow," in which Ernesto bewails his sad condition, and also contains a charming quartette. The gem of the opera is the serenade in the last act, "How Soft the Air -- in April Night so Fair," better known perhaps by its Italian title, "Com 'e gentil," which was inserted by Donizetti after the first performance to strengthen the work and make it more popular. The serenade has been heard the world over and is a favorite concert number still. The charm of "Don Pasquale" lies in its humorous situations and the bright, melodious music which illustrates them. For brilliant gayety it stands in the front rank of comic operas. Linda. [Grand opera, in three acts; text by Rossi. First produced at the Kärnthnerthor Theatre, Vienna, May 19, 1842.] PERSONAGES. Linda, daughter of Antonio. Pierotto, a villager. Antonio, a farmer. Madalina, his wife. Marquis of Boisfleury. Carlo, the Marquis' son. Prefect. [Villagers, Savoyards, etc.] The scene is laid in Switzerland; time, last century. The first act of "Linda de Chamouni" opens in the valley of that name, and discloses the home of Antonio Lonstolat, a farmer, and his old wife, Madalina, whose only daughter, Linda, is in love with Carlo, a young painter who has recently come into the valley. Misfortunes have overtaken the old couple, and they are in danger of losing their farm, which is owned by the Marchioness de Sirval. Their anxiety is temporarily relieved when the Marquis of Boisfleury visits them and assures them he will save the farm, his real purpose being to effect the ruin of Linda by ingratiating himself with her parents. The Prefect of the village, however, is aware of his designs, and induces them to let Linda accompany a party of villagers to Paris, promising at the same time to place her with his brother, who is supposed to be living in that city. She soon leaves under the protection of Pierotto, the Savoyard. The second act discloses them on the way to Paris, but Linda unfortunately loses her companion. Upon reaching Paris she finds that the Prefect's brother is dead. Meanwhile Carlo, who has followed her, arrives, and reveals to her that he is the Viscount Sirval, son of the Marchioness, and nephew of the Marquis. He renews his offer of marriage, and places her in a handsome apartment. In these questionable surroundings Pierotto discovers her. Her father, who has had to give up the farm, also finds her, and, distrusting her innocence amid such luxury, curses her. The Marchioness meanwhile, who has learned of her son's attachment, threatens to imprison Linda if he does not marry the lady she has selected for him. He gives his feigned consent, and Linda, thinking he has deserted her, goes insane. In the last act Pierotto takes her back to her native village. Carlo arrives there in search of her, and finding her with Pierotto sings to her, hoping she will recognize his voice and that her reason may return. The song has the desired effect. Subsequently the Marchioness relents, gives her consent to their union, and all ends happily. The music of "Linda" is of that serious and dignified kind which justifies its inclusion in the list of grand operas. In the first act the opening aria of Antonio, "We were both in this Valley nurtured," is a touching expression of the sorrow of the aged couple. Linda's farewell, "Oh, Stars that guide my Fervent Love," familiar on the concert stage by its Italian title, "O, luce di quest' anima," is an aria of strong dramatic power, and has always been a popular favorite. In this act also are Pierotto's pathetic ballad, "Once a Better Fortune seeking," and the passionate duet for Linda and Carlo, "Oh that the Blessed Day were come." The principal numbers in the second act are the brilliant duet for Linda and Pierotto, "Oh, Linda, at thy Happy Fate," which is highly embellished, and the aria for Linda, "Ah! go, my Love." The last act contains a mournful aria by Carlo, "If from Heaven the Bolts should reach me"; his charming song in which he appeals to Linda, "Hear the voice that, softly singing"; and the rapturous duet for Linda and Carlo, "Ah! the Vision of thy Sorrow fades," which closes the opera. The Elixir of Love. [Opera buffa, in two acts; text by Romani. First produced in Milan in 1832; in English at Drury Lane Theatre, London, in 1839.] PERSONAGES. Nemorino, a young husbandman. Sergeant Belcore. Dr. Dulcamara, a travelling quack. Landlord. Notary. Pietro, peasant. Adina, a country girl. Gianetta, } Floretta, } her companions. [Farmers, peasants, soldiers, villagers, etc.] The scene is laid in an Italian village; time, last century. Few more graceful little operas have been written than "The Elixir of Love." Its heroine, Adina, a capricious country girl, is loved by Nemorino, a farmer, whose uncle lies at the point of death, also by Belcore, a sergeant, whose troops are billeted upon the neighboring village. Adina has both her lovers in suspense when Dr. Dulcamara, a quack, arrives in the village to sell his nostrums. Nemorino applies to him for a bottle of the Elixir of Love, and receives from him a bottle of ordinary wine with the assurance that if he drinks of it he can command the love of any one on the morrow. To make sure of its agreeable properties, he drinks the whole of it with the result that he accosts Adina in a half-tipsy condition, and so disgusts her that she promises to marry the sergeant in a week. In the mean time an order comes for the departure of the troops, and the sergeant presses her to marry him that day. Adina gives her consent, and the second act opens with the assembling of the villagers to witness the signing of the marriage contract. While the principals and notary retire for the signing, Nemorino enters, and finding Dr. Dulcamara begs of him some charm that will make Adina love him; but as he has no money the quack refuses to assist him. Nemorino is in despair, but at this juncture the sergeant enters out of humor, as the capricious Adina has refused to sign until evening. Finding that Nemorino needs money, he urges him to enlist, and for the sake of the bonus of twenty crowns he consents. Nemorino hastens with the money to the quack, and obtains a second bottle of elixir which is much more powerful than the first. The girls of the village somehow have discovered that Nemorino's uncle has died and left him a handsome property, of which good fortune, however, Nemorino is ignorant. They use all their charms to attract his favor. Nemorino attributes his sudden popularity to the elixir, and even the quack himself is surprised at the remarkable change in his customer. Nemorino now pays Adina off in kind by making her jealous. Dr. Dulcamara comes to her assistance, seeing an opportunity for the sale of more elixir. He explains its properties to her, tells her of Nemorino's attachment, and advises her to try some of it. Struck with his devotion, she announces another change of mind to the sergeant, and bestows her hand upon the faithful Nemorino. The opera abounds with bright and gay musical numbers, the most attractive of which are the long and characteristic buffo song, "Give Ear now, ye Rustic Ones," in which Dr. Dulcamara describes his various nostrums to the villagers; the charmingly humorous duet, "Much obliged," for Nemorino and Dr. Dulcamara; and the ensemble, "The Wine-cup full teeming," in which the half-tipsy Nemorino appears in the finale of the first act. The prominent numbers of the second act are the beautiful duet, "What Affection and oh, how cruel," for Adina and Dr. Dulcamara; the beautiful romanza for Nemorino, "In her Dark Eye embathed there stood" ("Una furtiva lacrima"), which is of world-wide popularity; and Adina's gracefully melodious aria, "So much Joy is more than my Heart can contain." EICHBERG, JULIUS. The Doctor of Alcantara. [Comic operetta, in two acts; text by Wolfe. First produced at the Museum, Boston, Mass., April 7, 1862.] PERSONAGES. Dr. Paracelsus. Señor Balthazar. Carlos, his son. Perez, } Sancho, } porters. Don Pomposo, alguazil. Donna Lucrezia, wife of Dr. Paracelsus. Isabella, her daughter. Inez, her maid. [Serenaders, citizens, etc.] The scene is laid in Alcantara, Spain; time, last century. The first act of this operetta opens with a dainty serenade by Carlos, son of Señor Balthazar, to Señorita Isabella, daughter of Dr. Paracelsus, with whom he is in love. Isabella, who is intended for another by her mother, Donna Lucrezia, prefers this unknown serenader. As the song closes, Isabella, Lucrezia, and even the maid Inez claim it as a compliment, and quarrel over it in an effective buffo trio, "You Saucy Jade." Three songs follow this number,--"Beneath the Gloomy Convent Wall," "When a Lover is Poor," and "There was a Knight, as I've been told," in which the three women recite their unfortunate love affairs. As their songs close, the doctor enters with the announcement that a basket has arrived, ostensibly for Inez. The curious Lucrezia looks into it, and finds Carlos, who immediately jumps out and sings a passionate love-song, "I love, I love," which the infatuated Lucrezia takes to herself. The love scene is interrupted by a sudden noise, and in alarm she hurries Carlos back into the basket and flies. Carlos in the mean time gets out again and fills it with books. The doctor and Inez enter, and to conceal the receipt of the basket from Lucrezia, as she might be angry with the maid, they remove it to a balcony, whence by accident it tumbles into the river. Their terror when they learn that a man was concealed in it makes an amusing scene, and this is heightened by the entrance of the Alguazil, who announces himself in a pompous bass song, "I'm Don Hypolito Lopez Pomposo," and inquires into the supposed murder. In the second act the situation becomes still further complicated when the doctor and Inez find Carlos in the house. Convinced that he is a detective, they seek to conciliate him by offering him wine, but by mistake give him a narcotic draught which the doctor had mixed for one of his patients. Carlos falls insensible, and thinking him dead, they hide him under a sofa. Meanwhile Señor Balthazar, the father of the youth whom Isabella supposes she is to be forced to marry, and who turns out to be Carlos, arrives to pass the night. As they have no bed for him, he sleeps upon the sofa over the supposed corpse of his own son. A quartette, "Good-night, Señor Balthazar," follows, which is full of humor, mingled with ghostly terror, and grotesque in its effect, especially in the accompaniment. Daylight, however, dispels the illusion, and a happy dénouement is reached in the finale, "Hope, ever Smiling," which is quite brilliant in character. The operetta is very amusing in its situations, the songs are pretty and tuneful, and the concerted music is particularly effective. FLOTOW, FRIEDRICH VON. Martha. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by St. Georges. First produced in Vienna, November 25, 1847.] PERSONAGES. Plunkett, a wealthy young farmer. Lionel, his adopted brother, afterwards Earl of Derby. Lord Tristan Mickleford, Lady Henrietta's cousin. Sheriff of Richmond, footman to Lady Henrietta. Lady Henrietta, Maid of Honor to the Queen. Nancy, her waiting-maid. Molly Pitt, } Polly Smith, } Betsy Witt, } servants. [Farmers, farmers' wives, servants, ladies, hunters, huntresses, and footmen.] The scene is laid in Richmond, England; time of Queen Anne. The first act of "Martha," unquestionably the most popular of all light operas, opens during the progress of the servants' fair at Richmond, whither Lady Henrietta, maid of honor to the Queen, accompanied by Nancy, her maid, and Sir Tristan, her aged cousin and admirer, tired of court life, have resorted in the disguise of servants. In the first three scenes they arrange their masquerade. Sir Tristan, much to his disgust, is to be known as John, and Lady Henrietta as Martha. The first number is a duet for the two ladies, "Of the Knights so Brave and Charming," followed by an animated trio with Sir Tristan, in dance time. The fourth scene is laid in the market-place, in which appear Plunkett, a wealthy farmer, and Lionel, his adopted brother. The parentage of the latter is unknown, but he has a souvenir from his father in the form of a ring which he is to present to the Queen whenever he shall find himself in trouble. Lionel tells his story in a tenor aria, "Lost, proscribed, a Humble Stranger," which has been a favorite song the world over for years. The two have come to the fair to engage servants for the year, who are bound over by the sheriff. Plunkett and Lionel meet Martha and Nancy, and are so delighted with their looks that they tender the customary bonus which secures them. They accept it as a joke, but find that it is a serious matter when the young farmers drive off with them, leaving Sir Tristan in despair. The second act opens in Plunkett's farmhouse. After having learned their names, Plunkett attempts to find out what they can do, and tests them first at the spinning-wheel, which leads up to the delightful spinning quartette, "When the Foot the Wheel turns lightly." It does not take the brothers long to find out that they have engaged servants who are more ornamental than useful, but they decide to keep them. Nancy in a pet kicks her wheel over and runs off, followed by Plunkett, leaving Lionel alone with Martha. He at once falls in love with her, snatches a rose from her bosom, and refuses to return it unless she will sing. She replies with the familiar song, "The Last Rose of Summer," interpolated by Flotow, and made still more effective by introducing the tenor in the refrain. He asks for her hand, but she makes sport of him. In the mean time Plunkett and Nancy return, and a beautiful Good-night quartette follows, "Midnight Sounds." The brothers then retire, and Martha and Nancy, aided by Sir Tristan, make their escape. The next scene opens in the woods where farmers are carousing; among them Plunkett, who sings a rollicking drinking-song, "I want to ask you." The revel is interrupted by a hunting-party of court ladies, headed by the Queen. Martha and Nancy are among them, and are recognized by Plunkett and Lionel, but they are not recognized in turn. Plunkett attempts to seize Nancy, but the huntresses drive him off, leaving Lionel and Lady Henrietta alone. The scene is one of the most effective in the opera, and contains a beautiful tenor solo, "Like a Dream Bright and Fair"--better known perhaps by its Italian title, "M'appari," and a romance for soprano, "Here in Deepest Forest Shadows," the act closing with a finely concerted quintette and chorus. The despairing Lionel bethinks him of his ring, gives it to Plunkett, and asks him to show it to the Queen. It proves that he is the only son of the late Earl of Derby, and his estate, of which he has been unjustly deprived, is restored to him. The opera reaches its musical climax in the second act. The third is mainly devoted to the dénouement. The Lady Henrietta, who has really been seriously in love with Lionel, is united to him, and it hardly needs to be added that Nancy and Plunkett go and do likewise. Stradella. [Romantic opera, in three acts; text by Deschamps and Pacini. First produced as a lyric drama at the Palais Royal Theatre, Paris, in 1837; rewritten and produced in its present form, at Hamburg, December 30, 1844.] PERSONAGES. Alessandro Stradella, a famous singer. Bassi, a rich Venetian. Leonora, his ward. Barbarino, } Malvolio, } bandits. [Pupils of Stradella, masqueraders, guards, and people of the Romagna.] The scene is laid in Venice and Rome; time, the year 1769. The story of the opera follows in the main the familiar historical, and probably apochryphal, narrative of the experiences of the Italian musician, Alessandro Stradella, varying from it only in the dénouement. Stradella wins the hand of Leonora, the fair ward of the wealthy Venetian merchant, Bassi, who is also in love with her. They fly to Rome and are married, but in the mean time are pursued by two bravos, Barbarino and Malvolio, who have been employed by Bassi to make way with Stradella. They track him to his house, and while the bridal party are absent, they enter in company with Bassi and conceal themselves. Not being able to accomplish their purpose on this occasion, they secure admission a second time, disguised as pilgrims, and are kindly received by Stradella. In the next scene, while Stradella, Leonora, and the two bravos are singing the praises of their native Italy, pilgrims on their way to the shrine of the Virgin are heard singing outside, and Leonora and Stradella go out to greet them. The bravos are so touched by Stradella's singing that they hesitate in their purpose. Bassi upbraids them, and finally, upon receiving an additional sum of money, they agree to execute his designs, and conceal themselves. When Stradella returns and rehearses a hymn to the Virgin which he is to sing on the morrow, they are so affected that they emerge from their hiding-place, confess the object of their visit, and implore his forgiveness. Explanations follow, a reconciliation is effected, and the lovers are made happy. This dénouement differs from that of the historical version, in which both lovers are killed. The principal numbers are Stradella's serenade, "Hark! Dearest, hark"; the following nocturne, "Through the Valleys"; the brilliant carnival chorus, "Joyous ringing, Pleasure singing," in the first act: the aria of Leonora in her chamber, "Be Witness to my Fond Heart's Dreaming," the rollicking drinking-song of the two bravos, "Quick, let us drink," and the bandit ballad, "Within Lofty Mountains," sung by Stradella, in the second act; and an exquisite terzetto, "Tell me, then, Friend Barbarino," sung by Bassi and the two bravos when they hesitate to perform their work; and Stradella's lovely hymn to the Virgin, "Virgin Maria, humbly adoring," in the third act. GENÉE, RICHARD. Nanon. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Zell. First produced in Vienna in 1877.] PERSONAGES. Marquis de Marsillac. Hector, his nephew. Marquis d' Aubigné, King's chamberlain. Bombardine, his henchman. Louis XIV. Mons. l'Abbé. Nanon, mistress of the Golden Lamb. Ninon de l'Enclos, a famous beauty. Mme. de Frontenac, } Countess Houliers, } Ninon's friends. Gaston. Mme. de Maintenon, King's mistress. [Country relatives, peasants, soldiers, courtiers, ladies, etc.] The scene is laid in Paris; time of Louis the Fourteenth. The first act opens at the inn of the Golden Lamb, near the gates of Paris, kept by Nanon, who has become so famous for her wit and beauty that the Marquis de Marsillac, director of the Royal Theatre, takes his nephew Hector there to see her. Thither also goes Ninon de l'Enclos, the famous beauty, to get a sight of Nanon, who, she suspects, has attracted the attentions of her own lover, the Marquis d'Aubigné. She is told that Nanon is to be married to Grignan, the drummer, and returns to the city with her suspicions allayed. Grignan, however, is in reality the Marquis, who, in the disguise of a drummer, intends to abduct Nanon. After a serenade to her she surprises him with a proposal of marriage; but when everything is ready for the ceremony, the Marquis secures his own arrest by his Colonel on account of a duel. While grieving over the arrest, Nanon receives a ring and some friendly assurances from Gaston, the page of Ninon de l'Enclos, and thereupon turns to her for help in rescuing the supposed Grignan from death, which is the penalty for duelling. The second act opens in Ninon's salon. Marsillac, his nephew, and an Abbé, who is one of Ninon's lovers and confessor of Mme. de Maintenon, are present at a ball, likewise D'Aubigné, who is reproached by Ninon for having remained away so long and forgotten her birthday. To escape embarrassment he sings to her the same serenade he had sung to Nanon. Shortly afterwards Nanon arrives to seek Ninon's aid in saving Grignan. In the mean time D'Aubigné, jealous of Hector, because he pays court both to Nanon and Ninon, challenges him, and they hurry into the latter's garden and settle their quarrel with the sword. During their absence Marsillac, who has noted Grignan's serenade, also sings it, accompanied by the musicians of the court chapel, but is only laughed at for his trouble. When D'Aubigné returns from the duel, he is asked to clear up the mystery of this song; but before he can do so the guard, who has seen the duel, enters and arrests Hector, who has been wounded and refuses to give the name of his opponent. The third act opens in the private chapel of Mme. de Maintenon, where the Abbé sings to her the same serenade in the form of a hymn. Marsillac appears to ask for Hector's pardon, and receives it when it appears that D'Aubigné was the challenging party. D'Aubigné thereupon congratulates her upon her birthday with the serenade, and Marsillac repeats it. Ninon and Nanon next appear to intercede for their lovers, D'Aubigné and Grignan. The King presents Nanon with the life of Grignan, and she in turn, recognizing Grignan, presents the pardon to Ninon. Touched by her generosity, Grignan offers Nanon his hand, and Mme. de Maintenon, who is somewhat uneasy at the King's evident admiration for Nanon, gives her consent and she is made Marquise d'Aubigné. The music of "Nanon" is gay and brilliant throughout. The principal numbers are the serenade, a minstrel's song, as it is usually designated, "Ah! what a Joyful Day is this; I am so Full of Glee," which is heard in various forms in all three acts; the opening drinking-choruses; Nanon's ballad, "Once before this Tavern straying"; the jolly chorus of the country relatives, "Here we come in Troops of Dozens, Uncles, Nephews, Aunts, and Cousins"; Gaston's ballad, "All that Frenchmen now will heed"; Hector's song, "Young appearing," in the second act; and the lively concerted finale of the last act. GOUNOD, CHARLES. Mirella. [Pastoral opera, in three acts; text by Carré. First produced at the Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, March 19, 1864.] PERSONAGES. Mirella, daughter of Raimondo. Tavena, a fortune-teller. Andreluno, a shepherd boy. Vincenzina, sister of Vincenzo. Clemenza, a peasant girl. Vincenzo, lover of Mirella. Urias, his rival. Raimondo, a wealthy farmer. Ambrogio, father of Vincenzo. [Villagers, citizens, etc.] The scene is laid in Provence; time, the last century. The opera of "Mirella," in France known as "Mireille," is founded upon the "Mireio" of Mistral, the Provençal poet, and was originally written in five acts. Subsequently it was reduced to three acts and a waltz was added to the finale. Though one of the lighter of Gounod's operas, and not very strong dramatically, it has great lyric beauty. The first scene opens in a mulberry grove. Mirella is rallied by the girls upon her love for Vincenzo, the basket-maker, and is also warned by Tavena, the fortune-teller, against yielding to her attachment, as she foresees that Raimondo, Mirella's father, will never consent to the union. When she meets her lover, however, they renew their pledges and arrange, if their plans are thwarted, to meet at the Chapel of the Virgin. The second act opens with a merry-making at Arles. Tavena informs Mirella that Vincenzo has a rival in Urias, a wild herdsman, who has asked her hand of her father. Mirella however repulses him when he brings the father's consent. Ambrogio, Vincenzo's father, and his daughter, Vincenzina, intercede with Raimondo in Vincenzo's behalf, but in vain. Mirella, who has overheard them, declares to her father her irrevocable attachment for Vincenzo, which throws him into such a rage that he is about to strike her. She is saved from the blow by appealing to the memory of her mother. The last act opens upon a desolate sunburned plain. Mirella appears toiling across the hot sands to keep her appointment with her lover at the Chapel of the Virgin, accompanied by Andreluno, the shepherd boy, singing to the accompaniment of his pipe. Tavena meets them, and assures Mirella that Vincenzo will keep his appointment, and then returns to Arles to plead with the father in Mirella's behalf. The poor girl arrives at the chapel nearly prostrated with the burning heat. Vincenzo soon appears, and is shortly followed by Raimondo, who is so affected by the pitiable condition of his daughter, that he gives his consent to their union. A biographer of Gounod has condensed the story of the opera into these few words: "A rich young girl, a poor young man, an ill-fated love; and death of the young girl by sunstroke." In the revised version the dénouement is happy instead of tragic. The first act opens with the pretty and graceful pastoral chorus of the maidens under the mulberry-trees, "Sing, Happy Maidens, as we gather." The second act also opens with an equally graceful chorus and farandole, "The Gay Farandole never fails to delight," followed by a beautiful Provençal folk song, "Evening is Sweet with Summer Flowers," which is full of local color. Tavena sings a quaint fortune-teller's roundelay, "'Tis the Season of the Year," and in the next scene Mirella has a number of rare beauty, "The Frowns of Fortune I fear no longer," in which she declares her unalterable love for Vincenzo. The finale of this act with its vigorous aria for Mirella, "At your Feet, behold, I remain," is the only really dramatic episode in the opera. The third act opens with the quaint little song of Andreluno with oboe accompaniment, "The Day awakes," and also contains a plaintive song for tenor, "Angels of Paradise." It closes with a waltz song, "Gentle Bird of the Morning," which is most lavishly embellished and ends the quiet, naïve, little pastoral opera with a brilliant vocal pyrotechnical display. HUMPERDINCK, ENGELBERT. Hansel and Gretel. [Fairy opera, in three acts; text by Wette. First produced, in Germany in 1894.] PERSONAGES. Peter, a broom-maker. Gertrude, his wife. Witch. Hansel. Gretel. Sandman, the sleep fairy. Dewman, the dawn fairy. [Angels, witches, and fairies.] The scene is laid in a German forest; time, the present. The story of "Hansel and Gretel" is based upon one of Grimm's fairy tales. The first act opens at the house of Peter, the broom-maker, who with his wife is away seeking food. The children, Hansel and Gretel, have been left with injunctions to knit and make brooms. Instead of working they indulge in a childish romp, which is interrupted by the mother, who has returned. In her anger she upsets a pitcher of milk, which was the only hope of supper in the house. Thereupon she sends them into the forest, and bids them not to come home until they have filled their basket with strawberries. When Peter returns he brings provisions with him, but breaks out in a fit of rage when he is informed the children have been sent away, telling his wife of the witch who haunts the woods, entices children to her honey-cake house, bakes them into gingerbread, and devours them. The second act opens with a characteristic instrumental number, "The Witches' Ride." The children are disclosed near the Ilsenstein, making garlands and mocking the cuckoos in a beautiful duet with echo accompaniment. At last they realize that they are lost, and their distress is heightened by strange sights and sounds. In the midst of their trouble the Sandman approaches, strews sand in their eyes, and sings them to sleep with a charming lullaby, after they have recited their prayer, "When at Night I go to sleep, Fourteen Angels Watch do keep." As they go to sleep, the fourteen angels come down and surround them, while other angels perform a stately dance. The third act is called "The Witch's House." The angels have disappeared, and the Dawn Fairy wakens the children, singing a delightful song, "I'm up with Early Dawning." Gretel wakes first, and rouses Hansel by tickling him with a leaf, accompanying the act with a tickling song. When fairly aroused, they discover the witch's house, with an oven on one side and a cage on the other. The house is made of sweets and creams. Enticed by its sweetness, the hungry children break off fragments, and are surprised at their work by the old witch within. She comes out, and, after a series of invocations, accompanied with characteristic music, prepares to bake Gretel in the oven; but while she is looking into it the children push her into the fire. Then they dance a witch waltz, and meanwhile the oven falls into bits. Swarms of children rush round them, released from their gingerbread disguise, and sing a song of gratitude as two of the boys drag out the witch from the ruins in the form of a big cake. The father and mother at last find the children, and all join in the pious little hymn, "When past bearing is our Grief, God, the Lord, will send Relief." It is only a little child's tale, but it is accompanied by music of the highest order, and built up on the same plan of motives which Wagner has used in his imposing Nibelung Trilogy. JAKOBOWSKI, EDWARD. Erminie. [Musical comedy, in two acts; text by Bellamy and Paulton. First produced at the Comedy Theatre, London, November 9, 1885; in New York at the Casino, March 10, 1886.] PERSONAGES. Marquis de Pontvert. Eugene Marcel, the Marquis' secretary. Vicomte de Brissac. Delaunay, a young officer. Dufois, landlord of the Golden Lion. Chevalier de Brabazon, guest of the Marquis. Ravannes, } Cadeaux, } two thieves. Cerise Marcel, Erminie's companion. Javatte, Erminie's maid. Princesse de Gramponeur. Erminie de Pontvert. [Soldiers, peasantry, guards, waiters, etc.] The scene is laid in France; time, the last century. The story of "Erminie" is based upon the old melodrama "Robert Macaire," the two vagabonds, Ravannes and Cadeaux, taking the places of the two murderers, Macaire and Jacques Strop. Few melodramas were more popular in their day than "Robert Macaire," in which Lemaitre, the great French actor, made one of his most conspicuous successes. It is also true that few musical comedies have been more successful than "Erminie." At the opening of the opera, a gallant on the way to his betrothal with a young lady whom he has never seen is attacked by two thieves, Ravannes and Cadeaux, who carry off his wardrobe and tie him to a tree. Later, Ravannes arrives in the midst of the betrothal festivities, and passes himself off as the expected guest. He introduces Cadeaux as a nobleman, and explains their lack of proper attire with the statement that they had been robbed while on the way there. Erminie has an affection for Eugene, her father's secretary, and none for the man who claims to be a suitor for her hand. Ernst, who was the real victim of the robbery, and who is in love with Cerise, escapes from the predicament in which the two thieves placed him, and arrives in time for the festivities, to find himself denounced by Ravannes as the highwayman who had attacked them earlier in the day. Ravannes, by assuming great magnanimity and a certain nobility of conduct, and by his proffers of help to Erminie in securing the man she loves in return for her assistance in his plans, of which she of course is ignorant, so ingratiates himself in her confidence that he nearly succeeds in robbing the house. In the end, however, the two vagabonds are unmasked. Eugene obtains the hand of Erminie, and Ernst and Cerise are equally fortunate. The music of "Erminie" is light and graceful throughout. Its principal numbers are Erminie's song, "Ah! when Love is Young"; the duet for Eugene and Erminie, "Past and Future"; the Marquis' stirring martial song, "Dull is the Life of the Soldier in Peace"; the rollicking thieves' duet, "We're a Philanthropic Couple, be it known"; Erminie's pretty dream song, "At Midnight on my Pillow lying," and the lullaby "Dear Mother, in Dreams I see her," which is the gem of the opera; the song and whistling chorus, "What the Dicky Birds say"; the vocal gavotte, "Join in Pleasures, dance a Measure"; and the concerted piece, "Good-night," which leads up to the close of the last act. LECOCQ, CHARLES. Giroflé-Girofla. [Opera bouffe, in three acts; text by Vanloo and Aterrier. First produced at the Thèâtre des Fantasies Parisiennes, Brussels, March 21, 1874; in Paris, November 11, 1874; in New York at the Park Theatre, 1875.] PERSONAGES. Don Bolero d'Alcarazas, a Spanish grandee. Marasquin, banker. Mourzook, a Moorish chief. Giroflé, } Girofla, } Don Bolero's twin daughters. Aurore, their mother. Pedro, the page. Paquita. Pirate Chief. Godfather. Godmother. Fernand. Guzman. [Cousins, bridesmaids, pages, pirates, Moors, etc.] The scene is laid in Spain; time, the last century. The opening scene of "Giroflé-Girofla" which, with "La Fille de Madame Angot," made the reputation of Lecocq as an opera-bouffe composer, introduces Don Bolero d'Alcarazas, a Spanish grandee, and Aurore, his wife, also their twin daughters, Giroflé and Girofla, who, being of marriageble age, have been hastily betrothed, Giroflé to Marasquin, a banker to whom Don Bolero is heavily indebted, and Girofla to Mourzook, a Moorish chief who has made regular demands upon Don Bolero for money on penalty of death. By the double marriage he expects to get rid of his obligations on the one hand and avoid the payment of the enforced tribute on the other. Giroflé is married as arranged, but Girofla, who was to have been married the same day, is abducted by pirates before the ceremony can be performed. When Mourzook arrives and finds he has no bride, he is in a terrible rage, but is quieted down when, after a little manoeuvring by Aurore, Giroflé is passed off on him as Girofla and is thus to be married a second time. In the second act the wedding festivities are going on and both bridegrooms are clamoring for their brides. No word is heard from Admiral Matamoras, who has been sent to capture the pirates. Don Bolero and Aurore resort to all kinds of expedients to settle matters and pacify the irate banker and the furious Moor, and besides have much trouble in restraining Giroflé from flying to her Marasquin. At last she is locked up. She manages to get out, however, and goes off with some of her cousins for a revel. Her absence is explained by a report that the pirates have carried her off also, which adds to the parents' perplexity as well as to the fury of Marasquin and Mourzook. At last Giroflé appears in a tipsy condition and is claimed by both. The act closes with the report that Matamoras has been defeated, and that the pirates have carried Girofla to Constantinople. The third act opens on the following morning. The two would-be husbands have been locked into their apartments. Marasquin has passed a quiet night, but Mourzook has smashed the furniture and escaped through the window from his chamber. The parents assure Marasquin that even if Mourzook returns he will have to leave that afternoon, and suggest that there can be no harm in letting him have Giroflé for his wife until that time. Marasquin reluctantly consents, and when Mourzook returns and Giroflé is presented to him as Girofla, a ridiculous love scene occurs, which Marasquin contrives to interrupt by various devices. Finally the return of Girofla is announced, and Matamoras with his sailors appears, leading her by the hand. Explanations are made all round, the parents are forgiven, and Mourzook is satisfied. The music is lively throughout and oftentimes brilliant, and of a higher standard than usually characterizes opera bouffe. The most taking numbers are the ballad with pizzicato accompaniment, sung by Paquita, "Lorsque la journée est finis" ("When the Day is finished"); the concerted ensemble, "À la chapelle" ("To the Church"); the grotesque pirates' chorus, "Parmi les choses délicates" ("Among the Delicate Things to do"), and the sparkling duet for Giroflé and Marasquin, "C'est fini, le mariage" ("The Marriage has been solemnized"), in the first act: the bacchanalian chorus, "Écoutez cette musique" ("Listen to this Music"), leading up to a dance; a vivacious and well-written quintette, "Matamoras, grand capitaine" ("Matamoras, our Great Captain"); a fascinating drinking-song, "Le Punch scintille" ("This Flaming Bowl"), and the andante duet "O Giroflé, O Girofla," a smooth, tender melody, which is in striking contrast with the drinking-music preceding it and that which immediately follows the chorus of the half-tipsy wedding-guests, "C'ést le canon" ("It is the Cannon"): and the rondo, "Beau père une telle demand" ("Oh, my Father, now you ask"), sung by Marasquin, and the duet for Mourzook and Giroflé "Ma belle Giroflé" ("My Lovely Giroflé"), in the third act. La Fille de Madame Angot. [Opera bouffe, in three acts; text by Clairville, Sirandin, and Konig. First produced at the Fantasies Parisiennes, Brussels, November, 1872; in Paris at the Folies Dramatiques, February 23, 1873.] PERSONAGES. Clairette Angot, daughter of the market. Mlle. Lange, comedienne. Ange Pitou, street singer. Pomponnet, hairdresser. Larivaudière, } Louchard, } police officials. Javotte. Amaranthe. Cydalise. Hersilie. Babet. Trenitz. [Bourgeois, grenadiers, conspirators, hussars, servants, marketwomen, etc. The scene is laid in Paris; time, about the period of the French Revolution. The first act opens in a market square in Paris where the marketwomen and others in holiday costume are making ready to celebrate the wedding of Pomponnet, the hairdresser, and Clairette, the daughter of the late Madame Angot. During the festive preparations, for which Clairette has little desire, as her affections are fixed upon Ange Pitou, a street singer, who is continually in trouble by reason of his political songs, the latter makes his appearance. He is informed of the forthcoming wedding, which has been arranged by the market people, who have adopted Clairette as the child of the market. At the same time Larivaudière and Louchard, the police officials who caused his arrest because of his knowledge of the relations of Larivaudière and Mademoiselle Lange, the comedienne and favorite of Barras, are surprised to find him at large. To prevent him from reciting his knowledge in a song which he is sure has been written, Larivaudière buys him off. Pitou subsequently regrets his bargain. When the crowd clamors for a song, he says he has none. The people are furious with him, but Clairette comes to his rescue. She has found the song denouncing Larivaudière, sings it, and is arrested, notwithstanding Pitou's declaration that he is the author of it. The second act opens in Mademoiselle Lange's salon. She has persuaded Barras to release Clairette and have her brought to her apartments, so that she may discover why she sings this song denouncing the government and insulting her also. In the mean time she has also sent for Pomponnet, her hairdresser, and informs him what his future wife has done. He replies that Pitou wrote the song, and that he (Pomponnet) has it. She orders him to fetch it to her. When Clairette arrives they recognize each other as old school friends. Mademoiselle Lange assures her she shall not go back to prison and that she need not marry Pomponnet. She retires to Mademoiselle Lange's boudoir, when a visitor is announced. It is Ange Pitou, and a love scene at once occurs. The jealous Larivaudière enters and accuses them of being lovers. To justify herself Mademoiselle Lange declares that Pitou and Clairette are lovers, and the latter confirms the statement. Pomponnet's voice is heard in the outer room. He is admitted, and promptly arrested for having the revolutionary song on his person. The act closes with a meeting of conspirators, and Mademoiselle Lange's clever oiling of the grenadiers who have come to arrest them by turning the whole affair into a grand ball, to which they are invited. The last act is occupied with plots and counter-plots which at last succeed in disentangling all the complications. Mademoiselle Lange's perfidy, as well as Pitou's, is shown up, Larivaudière has his revenge, and Clairette and Pomponnet are made happy. The music of the opera is so bright, gay, and characteristic that it made Lecocq a dangerous rival of Offenbach. The most conspicuous numbers are Clairette's pretty romance, "L'enfant de la Halle" ("The Child of the Market"); Amaranthe's jolly couplets, "Marchande de marée" ("A Beautiful Fishwoman"); Ange Pitou's rondo, "Certainement j'aimais Clairette" ("'Tis true I loved Clairette") and Clairette's spirited song, "Jadis les rois, race proscrite" ("Once Kings, a Race proscribed"), in the first act: another equally spirited song, "Comme un Coursier" ("Like a Courser"); Pomponnet's pretty air, "Elle est tellement innocente" ("She is so innocent"); a charming sentimental duet for Mademoiselle Lange and Clairette, "Jours fortunes de notre enfance" ("Happy Days of Childhood"); a striking ensemble in the form of a quintette, "Oui, je vous le dis, c'est pour elle" ("Yes, 'tis on her Account alone"); and the famous conspirators' chorus, "Quand on conspire" ("When one conspires"), in the second act: and Clairette's couplets with chorus, "Vous aviez fait de la dépense" ("You put yourselves to Great Expense"); the humorous duet, "Larivaudière and Pomponnet," and Clairette's song, "Ah! c'est donc toi" ("Ah! 'tis you, then"), in the last act. LÖRTZING, ALBERT. Czar and Carpenter. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text and music by Lörtzing. First produced in Berlin in 1854.] PERSONAGES. Peter I., Czar of Russia under the name of Peter Michaelhoff. Peter Ivanoff, a young Russian shipwright. Herr van Bett, burgomaster of Saardam. Gen. Lefort, Russian ambassador. Lord Syndham, British ambassador. Marquis of Chateauneuf, French ambassador. Marie, niece of the burgomaster. Widow Brown, mistress of the shipyard. [Shipwrights, workmen, sailors, villagers, etc.] The scene is laid in Saardam; time, the year 1698. The opening of the first act of the "Czar and Carpenter" discloses Peter the Great and Peter Ivanoff, a deserter from the Russian army, at work in the shipyard of Mrs. Brown in Saardam. The British and French ambassadors, having been notified that the Czar is there in disguise, are searching for him with the object of negotiating a treaty with him, or, failing that, to abduct him. The British ambassador employs the pompous burgomaster of Saardam to find him a Russian named Peter, without however disclosing his real character to him. The burgomaster happens upon Peter Ivanoff and brings him to the ambassador, who, supposing him to be the Czar, seeks to arrange a treaty with him, and finally gives him a passport so that he may visit England. Meanwhile the people of Saardam, being informed that the Czar is with them, prepare a reception for him. The French ambassador, who has also been searching for the Czar, finds the real one by telling him the story of a Russian defeat which causes him to betray himself. The Czar, who is now anxious to go home and crush out the rebellion, seeks for some means to get away without the knowledge of the Dutch and the English. Finding out by chance that Ivanoff has an English passport, he secures it, and gives Ivanoff another paper which he is not to open until an hour has passed. During this time Ivanoff is enjoying the public reception, which suddenly is interrupted by cannon reports. The gateway of the port is opened, showing the Czar with the Russian and French ambassadors sailing away. Ivanoff opens his paper, and finds that his companion was the Czar, who has given him a good situation as well as his consent to his marriage with Marie, the burgomaster's niece. The leading numbers of the first act are the carpenter's spirited song, "Grip your Axes"; Marie's jealousy song, "Ah! Jealousy is a Bad Companion"; the humorous aria of Van Bett, "Oh! sancta Justitia, I shall go raving"; the long duet for Van Bett and Ivanoff, "Shall I make a Full Confession?" and the effective quartettes in the finale. The second act contains the best music of the opera. It opens with a mixed chorus of a bacchanalian sort, "Long live Joy and Pleasure," which after a long dialogue is followed by the tenor romanza, "Fare thee well, my Flandrish Maiden," a quaint melody, running at the end of each stanza into a duet, closing with full chorus accompaniment. A sextette, "The Work that we're beginning," immediately follows, which, though brief, is the most effective number in the opera. The next number of any consequence in this act, is a rollicking bridal song, "Charming Maiden, why do Blushes," sung by Marie. The last act has a comic aria and chorus, "To greet our Hero with a Stately Reception," and an effective song for the Czar, "In Childhood, with Crown and with Sceptre I played." LUDERS, GUSTAVE. King Dodo. [A musical comedy, in three acts; text by Pixley. First produced at the Studebaker Theatre, Chicago, May 27, 1901.] PERSONAGES. King Dodo I. Pedro, Court chamberlain. Dr. Fizz, Court physician. Mudge, Court historian. Sancho, an innkeeper. Bonilla, prime minister to Queen Lili. Lo Baswood. Lopez. Diego. José. Unio. Queen Lili. Angela, the King's ward. Piola, a soldier of fortune. Annette. [Courtiers, knights, ladies, etc.] The scene is laid in Dodoland and the South Sea islands; time, the present. "King Dodo," though usually set down on the programmes as a comic opera, strictly speaking, is a musical comedy, or comedy opera. Its plot turns upon the efforts of King Dodo to find the elixir of youth. His adventures carry him from his own kingdom in the land of nowhere in particular to the South Sea islands and back, a few absurd love episodes adding to the humor of the situations in which he finds himself. The old King is enamoured of the Princess Angela, and to secure her he determines to find the fountain which will renew his youth. His Court physician has failed in the attempt; but Piola, "a soldier of fortune," claims to know where the fountain is, but demands that when he finds it he shall have the hand of Angela as his reward. The King reluctantly consents, and starts with his whole establishment to find it. The wonderful spring is discovered in the land of the Spoopjus, and there King Dodo also finds Queen Lili, who promptly falls in love with him, because her ideal for a husband is a man full of years and experience. The King, however, accidentally drinks from the fountain, and is transformed into a child, whereupon the Queen rejects him. As the waters fortunately work both ways, when Dodo is thrown into them by conspirators, he becomes himself again, and the Queen devotes herself to him anew with such assiduity that they are united. Pedro and Annette and Piola and Angela also improve the occasion to get married, and all return in great glee to Dodoland. The musical numbers in "King Dodo," are all of a light, catchy kind, their success depending much upon the sprightliness of the performers. The most popular are the "Cats' Quartette"; "The Tale of the Bumble-bee"; Piola's song, "I'll do or die," which is accompanied by a stirring chorus; the melodious "Zamoña," sung by Angela and chorus; a drinking-song of a spirited sort by Annette and chorus; "The Eminent Dr. Fizz," sung by the doctor himself; and "The Jolly old Potentate" and the topical song, "They gave me a Medal for that," sung by King Dodo. The Prince of Pilsen. [A musical comedy, in two acts; text by Pixley. First produced in the Tremont Theatre, Boston, May 21, 1902.] PERSONAGES. Carl Otto, the Prince. Hans Wagner, an American citizen. Tom Wagner, his son. Arthur St. John Wilberforce. François. Mrs. Madison Crocker, an American widow. Sidonie. Edith. Nellie. Jimmy. [Tourists, students, flower-girls, sailors, etc. The scene is laid in Nice; time, the present. "The Prince of Pilsen," the latest, and in many respects the best, of Mr. Luders' productions, like most musical comedies of the prevailing kind, has but a brief and somewhat incongruous story. The first act opens during the annual flower festival at Nice. The proprietor of the Hôtel Internationale learns that the Prince of Pilsen will reach there on the morrow incognito, and determines he shall be received with all the attentions due to his rank. He employs a band of musicians to escort him from the station to the hotel, and hires flower-girls to strew his way with roses. Hans Wagner, a German-American brewer from Cincinnati, and his daughter, who go to Nice to meet the brewer's son, an American naval officer, arrive on the same day. The brewer is mistaken for the Prince, and he and his party meet with a brilliant but somewhat surprising reception. He can account for it in no other way than that his greeting as the Prince of Pilsen is a tribute to the excellence of his Pilsener beer, and accepts it complaisantly. When the real prince arrives, however, with a company of Heidelberg students, he is ignored, and even has some difficulty in securing accommodations. The Prince, however, does not declare his identity at once, but waits for an opportunity to expose the impostor who is trading on his name. He accidentally meets the daughter, and after some conversation with her is sure that her father has not intended to deceive and is not responsible for the mistake. He decides therefore to continue the rôle of private citizen, and is the more confirmed in his decision when he finds himself falling in love with the brewer's daughter. This enrages the brother, who challenges the Prince, which leads to the arrest of both of them. In the second act all the complications get straightened out. The real Prince marries the brewer's daughter, and the brewer himself takes home the American widow, Mrs. Madison Crocker, as his wife. On this somewhat slight thread of a plot the composer has strung numerous bits of lively, exhilarating music, some of it of a decidedly better kind than is usually found in these potpourris, but the most of it of the sort which is popular and easily caught up. The number of the lyrics as well as of the topical songs, choruses, and extravaganzas is so large, and they are of such uniformity in interest and tunefulness, that it is difficult to single out the most conspicuous. The numbers, however, which have made the greatest success are Wagner's topical song, "He didn't know exactly what to do"; a charming smoking-song, "Pictures in the Smoke"; the "Tale of the Sea-shell"; the unaccompanied male chorus, "Oh! Heidelberg, dear Heidelberg," which should be a favorite students' song; and the "Song of the Cities," in which the peculiarities of the girls of various American cities are imitated, the song ending with a droll cake walk. So far as numbers go, indeed, the opera presents a bewildering embarrassment of good things. MASSÉ, VICTOR. Paul and Virginia. [Romantic opera, in three acts and seven tableaux; text by Carré and Barbier. First produced at the Opéra National Lyrique, Paris, November 15, 1876; in London, June 1, 1878; in New York, March 28, 1883.] PERSONAGES. Paul. St. Croix, slave-master. Domingo, mulatto slave. M. de la Bourdonnais, governor of the island. Negro Slave. Virginia. Meala, mulatto slave. MME. de la Tour, mother of Virginia. Margaret, mother of Paul. Overseer. Old Lady, grand-aunt of Virginia. [Inhabitants of the island, sailors, slaves, etc.] The scene is laid upon an island on the African coast; time, the eighteenth century. The story of "Paul and Virginia," Massé's masterpiece, follows the lines of Bernardin St. Pierre's beautiful romance of the same name. The first act opens with the recital of the history of Madame de la Tour, mother of Virginia, and Margaret, the mother of Paul, and reveals the love of the two children for each other. While they are discussing the advisability of sending Paul to India for a time, against which his slave Domingo piteously protests, islanders come rushing towards the cabin announcing the arrival of a vessel from France. In hopes that she will have a letter announcing that she has been forgiven by the relatives who have renounced her, Madame de la Tour goes to the port. A love scene between the children follows, which is interrupted by the hurried entrance of the slave Meala, who is flying from punishment by her master, St. Croix. The two offer to go back with her and to intercede for her forgiveness, in which they are successful. St. Croix, who has designs upon Virginia, begs them to remain until night; but Meala warns them of their danger in a song, and they leave while St. Croix wreaks his revenge upon Meala. The second act opens in the home of Madame de la Tour. She has had a letter from her aunt forgiving her, making Virginia her heiress if she will come to France, and sending money for the journey. After a long struggle between duty to her mother and love for Paul, she declines to go. Meala makes them another hurried call, again flying from St. Croix, who this time is pursuing her with a twofold purpose, first, of punishing Meala and, second, of carrying out his base designs against Virginia. He soon appears at the house and demands his slave, but Paul refuses to give her up. At last St. Croix offers to sell her to Paul, and Virginia furnishes the money. The faithful Meala that night informs them of St. Croix's plot to seize Virginia when she goes to the vessel; but he is foiled, as she does not leave. The act closes with a call from the governor of the island, who bears express orders from Virginia's relatives, signed by the King, that she must go to France. The last act is brief, and relates the tragedy. It opens at a grotto on the seashore, where the melancholy Paul has waited and watched week by week for the vessel which will bring Virginia back to him. At last it is sighted, but a storm comes up and soon develops into a hurricane, and when it subsides the vessel is a wreck, and Virginia is found dead upon the beach. The opera is replete with beautiful melodies. There are, in the first act, a characteristic minor song for Domingo, "Ah! do not send my Dear Young Master," which the composer evidently intended to be in the Ethiopian manner; a chanson of the genuine French style, "Ah! Hapless Black," though sung by a negro boy; a lonely and expressive melody sung by Virginia, as she pleads with St. Croix, "What I would say my Tongue forgetteth"; the weird Bamboula chorus, sung by the slaves; and a very dramatic aria for Meala, "'Neath the Vines Entwining," in which she warns the children of their danger. The principal numbers in the second act are Virginia's romance, "As Last Night thro' the Woods"; a beautiful chanson for Domingo, "The Bird flies yonder"; Paul's couplets, "Ah! crush not my Courage"; the passionate duet for Paul and Virginia, "Ah! since thou wilt go," closing in unison; and Virginia's florid aria, "Ah, what Entrancing Calm," the cadenza of which is exceedingly brilliant. The best numbers in the short last act are Meala's song, "In vain on this Distant Shore"; Paul's letter song, "Dearest Mother"; and the vision and storm music at the close. Queen Topaze. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Lockroy and Battu. First produced at the Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, December 27, 1856.] PERSONAGES. La Reine Topaze. Le Capitaine Rafael. Annibal. Francappa. Fritellino. Filomèle. [Gypsies, soldiers, etc.] The scene is laid in France; time, last century. "Queen Topaze" ("La Reine Topaze") is one of the few of Massé's earlier works which have held the boards, mainly on account of its charming melodiousness. The rôle of the Queen was a great favorite with Miolan-Carvalho and Parepa-Rosa, as it offers opportunities for brilliant vocal execution. Its story is of the slightest kind. In her infancy Topaze is stolen by a band of gypsies and eventually becomes their queen. She falls in love with Rafael, a captain whom she wins from his affianced, a rich noblewoman. He does not marry her, however, until she discloses to him the secret of her birth. Some byplay among the gypsies supplies the humor of the situations. As to the text it is far from dramatic in character, and the dialogue is tedious and dragging. The music, however, is excellent, and it was to this feature that Massé owed his election in the year of its production as Auber's successor in the French Academy. The gypsy music is particularly charming. There are also a clever sextette, "We are six noblemen"--indeed, there is an unusual amount of six and seven part writing in the opera; the "Song of the Bee," a delightful melody for Queen Topaze with a particularly characteristic accompaniment, likewise a brilliant bolero; a lovely romance in the last act for Rafael, and a somewhat dramatic narrative song for him in the first act; and a skilfully constructed trio for Annibal and the two gypsies. The remaining number of importance is an interpolated one,--"The Carnival of Venice," with the Paganini variations, which was first introduced by Miolan-Carvalho, the creator of the title rôle. The Marriage of Jeannette. [Opéra comique, in one act; text by Carré and Barbière. First produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, February 4, 1853; in New York, in 1861.] PERSONAGES. Jean. Jeannette. Thomas. Petit Pierre. [Chorus of peasants.] The scene is laid in a French country village; time, the last century. Nothing could be simpler than the story of Massé's little opera, "Les Noces de Jeannette" ("The Marriage of Jeannette"), which was first given in this country in 1861, with Clara Louise Kellogg and M. Dubreul in the two principal parts, and twenty-five years later was a favorite in the repertory of the American Opera Company, under the direction of Theodore Thomas, who produced it as an after piece to Delibes' two-act ballet, "Sylvia." The story concerns only two persons. Jean, a boorish rustic, falls in love with Jeannette and proposes marriage. On the wedding-day, however, he suddenly changes his mind, and just as the notary hands him the pen to sign the contract, takes to his heels and runs home. Jeannette follows him up to demand an explanation, and pretends that she will not force him to marry her. In lieu of that she asks him to sign another contract from which she will withhold her name just to show that he was willing to do so. She furthermore promises publicly to reject him. When he has signed the new contract, she suddenly changes her mind also, and declares they are man and wife. In his fury Jean breaks up nearly everything in the house before he goes to sleep. The next day in his absence Jeannette provides new furniture from her own store, places things to rights again, sets the dinner, and awaits Jean's return. When he comes back again, he is in more tractable mood, and seeing what Jeannette has done acknowledges her as his wife. This simple story the composer has framed in a dainty musical setting, the principal numbers being the song "Others may hastily marry," sung by Jean after his escapade; Jeannette's pretty, simple melody, "From out a Throng of Lovers"; Jean's vigorous and defiant "Ah! little do you fancy"; the graceful song by Jeannette, "Fly now, my Needle, glancing brightly"; her brilliant and exultant song, "Voice that's sweetest"; and the spirited unison male chorus, "Ring out, Village Bells," that closes this refined and beautiful work. MILLÖCKER, CARL. The Beggar Student. [Opéra comique, in three acts; first produced in Vienna, 1882.] PERSONAGES. Symon Symonovicz, the beggar student. Janitsky, his friend. Gen. Ollendorf, military governor of Krakow. Enterich, } Puffki, } jailers. Major Holtzheim. Sitzky, an innkeeper. Countess Palmatica. Laura, } Bronislava, } her daughters. Eva. Ononphrie. Lieut. Poppenburg. Lieut. Schmeinitz. Lieut. Wangerheim. Burgomaster. Bogumil. [Prisoners, peasants, soldiers, musicians, courtiers, etc.] The scene is laid in Krakow; time, the year 1704. The first act of this tuneful opera opens in the city of Krakow. General Ollendorf, the military governor, is in a rage because he has been repulsed by Laura, daughter of the Countess Palmatica, to whom he has showed some unwelcome attentions. To avenge what he considers an insult, he conceives the idea of dressing some poor and low-born young fellow in the finery of a prince, and passing him off as such upon the Countess and her daughter, trusting that their poverty will induce them to accept the impostor. After such a marriage his revenge would be complete. He finds his accomplice in the military prison. Symon Symonovicz, a vagabond Polish student, is ready to play the gentleman, and only insists on taking along with him Janitsky, a fellow prisoner, to act as his secretary. The plot is successful. The Countess and her daughter, who have been living for a long time in genteel poverty, are dazzled by the finery and prospects of the suitor, and the act closes with the betrothal of Symon and Laura. In the second act the two find that they are really in love with each other. As the money furnished by the General is all spent, Symon decides to tell Laura of the deception practised upon her, though it may cost him the marriage, which was to have taken place that day. Afraid to tell her in person, he writes the disclosure, and intrusts the letter to the Countess with the request to have it given to Laura before the ceremony. The General, however, thwarts this scheme, and the pair are married, whereupon he exposes Symon to the assembled guests as an impostor and has him driven from the palace. At the opening of the third act Symon appears in melancholy plight and contemplating suicide. His friend Janitsky, who is in love with Laura's sister, Bronislava, comes to his rescue. He comes forward as a Polish officer engaged in a plot for the capture of the citadel and the reinstatement of King Stanislaus upon the throne of Poland. The plot with Symon's help succeeds, and in return Symon is not only ennobled, but the Countess and his wife forgive him, and the governor-general is foiled at every point. The principal numbers are Ollendorf's entrance song in waltz time, "And they say that towards Ladies"; the characteristic duet by Symon and Janitsky on leaving jail, "Confounded Cell, at last I leave thee"; the charming entrance trio for Laura, Bronislava, and the Countess, "Some little Shopping really we ought to do"; and Laura's brilliant song, "But when the Song is sweetly sounding," in the finale of the first act; Laura's humorous song, "If Joy in Married Life you'd find"; the sentimental duet of Bronislava and Janitsky, "This Kiss, Sweet Love"; Ollendorf's grotesque songs, "One Day I was perambulating," and "There in the Chamber Polish," which is usually adapted as a topical song; and the long and cleverly concerted finale of the second act: and Bronislava's song, "Prince a Beggar's said to be," and Symon's couplet, "I'm penniless and outlawed too," in the third act. The Black Hussar. [Opéra comique, in three acts. First produced at Vienna, 1886.] PERSONAGES. Helbert, officer of the Black Hussars. Waldermann, his companion. Hackenback, magistrate of Trautenfeld. Piffkow, his man of all work. Thorillière, major in Napoleon's army. Hetman, captain of the Cossacks. Mifflin, an actor. Minna, } Rosetta, } Hackenback's daughters. Barrara. Ricci. Goddess of Liberty. Germania. [Soldiers, peasants, villagers, conspirators, etc.] The scene is laid in the German village of Trautenfeld; time, the years 1812-13. The story of "The Black Hussar" is simple. Von Helbert, an officer of the Black Hussars, in the disguise of an army chaplain, is seeking to foment an insurrection in the town of Trautenfeld. Hackenback, the town magistrate, has carried himself so diplomatically, as between the Russians and French, and is so opposed to any rupture with either from fear of sudden visitation, that Von Helbert's efforts to induce his townsmen to rise against the Napoleonic régime are not altogether successful. The French in the mean time are hunting for him, but he cunningly succeeds in getting a description of the magistrate posted for that of himself. To be ready for any sudden emergency, Hackenback has a reversible panel on his house, one side having the portrait of the Czar and the other that of Napoleon. When he is suspected by the French, he calls their attention to it; but unfortunately for him the Russian side is exposed, and this with the description which Von Helbert had so kindly posted leads to his arrest. Finally the Black Hussar regiment arrives, and captures the French troops just as they have captured the Russian, which had previously been in occupation, so that there is no need for further disguises. The humorous situations in the opera grow out of the love-making between Von Helbert and his companion Waldermann and the magistrate's daughters Minna and Rosetta. Although "The Black Hussar" is musically inferior to "The Beggar Student," yet it has many interesting numbers, among them the long descriptive song of Piffkow, the man of all work, "Piffkow, Piffkow, that's the cry," which reminds one in its general character of Figaro's famous song in "The Barber of Seville"; the magistrate's buffo song, "All Night long I've weighed and sifted"; Helbert's martial recitative, "I've traversed Lands that once were green"; the jolly gossipers' chorus, introducing the second act; Piffkow's bombastic song, "'Twas in the Adjacent Town Last Night"; Minna's quaint Russian song, "Ivan loved his Katza well"; the introduced song, "Ohe, mamma"; and the trio following it, "The Ways of Love are very strange," which closes the act. NESSLER, VICTOR ERNST. The Trumpeter of Säkkingen. [Opera comique, in a prelude and three acts; text by Bunge. First produced at the Stadt Theatre, Leipsic, May 4, 1884.] PERSONAGES. Baron of Schoenau. Margaretha, his daughter. Count of Wildenstein. Countess Wildenstein, the Baron's cousin. Damian, the Count's son by a second marriage. Werner Kirchoff, the "trumpeter." Conradin, a trooper. [Heralds, youths, maidens, peasants, school children, students, troopers, etc.] The scene is laid in Säkkingen, on the Rhine; time, the year 1650, near the close of the Thirty Years' War. Few operas have had the advantage of such an excellent book as Nessler's "Trumpeter of Säkkingen," and few light operas have had their stories so legitimately and skilfully illustrated with music. The text is based upon the metrical romance of Victor von Scheffel's "Trumpeter Von Säkkingen," known and admired all over Germany, which tells the story of the young Werner and the fair Margaretha, their romantic wooing and final union. The time is near the close of the Thirty Years' War, and the hero is Werner Kirchoff, a handsome, dashing young student, who, with others of his comrades, is expelled from the University of Heidelberg because of their frequent carousals. They join a body of troopers, Werner in the capacity of a trumpeter, and go with them to Säkkingen. While there he has the good fortune to protect Margaretha, on a saint's fête day, from the rudeness of some Hauenstein peasants who are ready for a revolt against the Baron von Schoenau, her father. Margaretha, who is in company with the Countess Wildenstein, a cousin of the Baron, who has separated from her husband, gratefully gives Werner a forget-me-not. The Countess inquires his name of his trooper comrade, Conradin, and is struck with his resemblance to her son who had been carried off by gypsies in his childhood. In the next scene the Baron has received a letter from Count Wildenstein, in which he states that his second wife has died, that he wishes to settle the misunderstanding with his first wife, the Countess, and proposes Damian, his son by the second marriage, as a husband for Margaretha,--a proposal which the Baron promptly accepts. When Margaretha enters and tells of her adventures with Werner, the Baron regrets that his old trumpeter, Rassmann, is not alive to summon assistance from the city in case of attack by the peasants. Margaretha tells him of Werner, and notwithstanding the Countess' objections, he gives the position to him. The second act opens with a love scene between Werner and Margaretha, which is discovered by the Countess, who at once informs the Baron. When Werner asks him for the hand of Margaretha, he not only refuses it, but orders him to leave the castle. Werner takes his farewell of Margaretha, and leaves for his old position with the troopers in the city. Meanwhile the Count of Wildenstein arrives with Damian, but he makes no impression upon Margaretha notwithstanding the Baron's favor. In the last act the dénouement comes quickly. The peasants attack the castle, and the Baron calls upon Damian to head his retainers and go out to meet the mob. He proves himself, however, an arrant coward, and in the midst of his irresolution Werner rides up at the head of his troopers, performs prodigies of valor, and saves the inmates of the castle. A birthmark upon his arm reveals him as the long-lost son of the Countess, and nothing now stands in the way of Margaretha's and Werner's felicity. In the prelude and first act the most noticeable numbers are the students' and troopers' choruses, written in the best German style--the prelude indeed is almost entirely choral; the peasants' choruses and lively dances on St. Fridolin's Day; the characteristic growl of the Baron over his gout and the unreasonable peasants; and the charming lyric sung by Margaretha, "How Proud and Grand his Bearing." The most conspicuous numbers in the second act are a lyric sung by Werner, "On Shore I played me a Merry Tune"; the love scene between Margaretha and Werner, "Sun, has thy Light not grown in Splendor?" the dramatic quintette, "Must so soon the Sunshine vanish?" and Werner's sentimental and beautiful farewell, "Oh, it is sad that in this Life below." The principal numbers of the third act are Margaretha's song, "My Love rode out to the Wide, Wide World"; the May song, "There comes a Youth of Sweet Renown"; the pantomime and dance composing a May idyll; the duet for Margaretha and Werner, "True Love, I give thee Greeting"; and the ringing mass chorus, "Faithful Love and Trumpet blowing," which closes the opera. NICOLAI, OTTO. The Merry Wives of Windsor. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Mosenthal. First produced in Vienna, April 1, 1847; in London, May 3, 1864; in New York, April 27, 1863.] PERSONAGES. Sir John Falstaff. Mr. Ford, } Mr. Page, } gentlemen dwelling at Windsor. Fenton. Slender. Dr. Caius, the French physician. Mistress Ford. Mistress Page. Anne Page, her daughter, in love with Fenton. Host of the Garter Inn. [Citizens, wives of Windsor, servants, fairies, elves, etc.] The scene is laid at Windsor; time, the sixteenth century. The story of the opera follows closely that of the Shakespearian comedy, though the action is principally concerned with Falstaff's adventures with the merry wives, with the attachment between Fenton and Anne furnishing the romantic incident. Though the work of a German, the music is largely in the Italian style, and the dramatic finish is French. It is unnecessary to indicate the plot in further detail than to say it includes the receipt of Sir John's amatory epistles by Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page, his concealment among the foul linen in the hamper and subsequent sousing in the Thames, his sad experiences with Ford's cudgels, and his painful encounter with the mock fairies, elves, and other sprites in Windsor Park. The leading numbers in the opera are a duet for the two merry wives, opening the opera, in which they read Falstaff's letters, "No, no, this really is too bad," closing with an exquisitely humorous phrase as they pronounce the name of the writer in unison; a beautiful little aria, "Joking and Laughter," in the Italian style, sung by Mrs. Ford; and the finale to the first act beginning with a mock serious aria in which Mrs. Ford bewails her husband's jealousy, followed by a sextette and chorus, and closing with a highly dramatic aria in which Mrs. Ford changes from grief to rage and violently denounces Ford. The second act opens with a drinking-song for Falstaff, "Whilst yet a Child on my Mother's Breast," which is full of rollicking, bacchanalian humor, as well as are the accessories of the song. Falstaff sings one verse, and his followers drain their huge mugs to the bottom. One of them falls senselessly drunk, and is immediately borne out upon the shoulders of his comrades with funereal honors, led off by Falstaff, all chanting a sort of mock dirge. A descriptive and spirited buffo duet between Falstaff and Ford follows, in which the former relates his adventures in the hamper. The only remaining number of consequence in this act is the romanza, "Hark, the Lark in yonder Grove," sung by Fenton. The last act is very short, and made up of a beautiful trio for Mrs. Ford, Mrs. Page, and Falstaff, "The Bell has pealed the Midnight Chime"; the romantic ballad, "Of Herne, the Hunter, a Legend old," and the fairy dance and chorus, "About, about, ye Elves, about," which close the opera. OFFENBACH, JACQUES. The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein. [Opera bouffe, in three acts; text by Meilhac and Halévy. First produced at the Variétés, Paris, April 12, 1867.] PERSONAGES. Grand Duchess. Wanda, a peasant girl. Iza, maid of honor. Olga, maid of honor. Prince Paul, neglected suitor of the Duchess. Gen. Boum, in command of the army. Baron Puck, Court chamberlain. Baron Grog, emissary. Fritz, a recruit. Nepomuc, aide de camp. [Lords and court ladies, pages, soldiers, vivandières, country girls, etc.] The scene is laid in the imaginary Duchy of Gerolstein; time, the year 1720. "The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein," though in some respects inferior musically to "Orpheus," by the same composer, is altogether the most perfect type of the opera bouffe. For the drollness of its story, the originality of its characters as well as of its music and obstreperous gayety, dash, and geniality mixed with occasional seriousness and grace, this work when it first appeared was unique, though Offenbach rose to his highest achievement when dealing with the gods and goddesses of Olympus in his "Orpheus," which revealed his powers of musical burlesque at their best. The first act opens with a grand review of the army of the duchy, commanded by the pompous General Boum, at which the Duchess is present. In its ranks there is a recruit, known by the name of Fritz, who has already aroused the General's jealousy by his attentions to Wanda, a peasant girl. He continues still further to add to this jealousy when the Duchess, attracted by his good looks, singles him out for her regard and promotes him to the post of corporal. When she learns of his relations to Wanda, she raises him to the rank of lieutenant, evidently to separate him from Wanda by the new elevation. The review over, the Duchess studies the plan of a pending campaign against a neighboring enemy. She summons General Boum in the presence of Baron Puck, her court chamberlain, Prince Paul, a feeble and neglected suitor of the Duchess, and Lieutenant Fritz, who is now her special body-guard, and asks him for his plan of campaign, which he states, much to the disgust of Fritz, who declares it to be sheer nonsense. The Duchess then asks the latter for his plan, and is so much pleased with it that she appoints him general and raises him to the rank of baron, much to the discomfort and indignation of the others. The second act opens with the return of Fritz. He has been victorious, and at the public reception given him he tells the story of his adventures. Subsequently at a tête-à-tête with the Duchess, she makes open love to him; but he is so occupied with thoughts of Wanda that he is insensible to all her advances, which puts her in a rage. Overhearing a conspiracy between Puck, Paul, and the deposed General Boum against his life, she joins with them, and the act closes with a wild, hilarious dance. In the third act Baron Grog, emissary of Prince Paul's father, appears upon the scene to expedite the marriage of the Prince to the Duchess. He joins the conspiracy against Fritz, and so ingratiates himself with the Duchess that she finally consents to marry the Prince. In the mean time she countermands the order for Fritz's assassination, and gives him permission to marry Wanda. The conspirators, however, play a practical joke upon Fritz by a false message summoning him to the battle-field. He leaves at once on the wedding-night, but through the connivance of General Boum is waylaid and badly beaten. While the betrothal of the Duchess is being celebrated, Fritz returns in sad plight, with the sabre which the Duchess has given him in a battered condition. She adds to his misfortunes by depriving him of his command and bestowing it upon Baron Grog, but learning that he has a family, she reinstates General Boum. In the dénouement Fritz is restored to his Wanda and the Duchess marries Prince Paul. The music is in keeping with the drollery of the situations, and abounds in vivacity and odd descriptiveness, defying all accepted laws and adapting itself to the grotesquerie and extravagance of the action. The principal numbers in the first act are the pompous "Pif, paf, pouf" song of General Boum; the Grand Duchess' air, "Ah! I love the Military" ("Ah! que j'aime les militaires"); the regiment song for her and Fritz, "Oh! what a Famous Regiment" ("Ah! c'est un fameux régiment"); the couplets of Prince Paul, "To marry a Princess" ("Pour épouser une Princesse"); and the famous sabre song, "Lo, here the Sabre of my Sire" ("Voici, le sabre de mon père"). The best numbers of the second act are Fritz's spirited rondo, "All in Good Order, Colors flying" ("En très bon ordre nous partîmes"), in which he tells the story of his victory; the romanza "Say to him" ("Dites lui"), a delightful little song, and so refined that it hardly seems to belong to the opera; and the conspirators' trio, "Max was a Soldier of Fortune" ("Max était soldat de fortune"), which is irresistible in its broad humor and queer rhythms. The musical interest really reaches its climax in the second act. Outside of the chorus work in the third act, there is little of interest except the Duchess' ballad, "There lived in Times now long gone by" ("Il était un de mes aieux"), and Fritz' song to the Duchess, "Behold here, your Highness" ("Eh bien, Altesse, me voilà!"). La Belle Hélène. [Opera bouffe, in three acts; text by De Meilhac and Halévy. First produced at the Théâtre des Variétés, Paris, December 17, 1864.] PERSONAGES. Helen, Queen of Sparta. Paris, son of Priam. Menelaus, King of Sparta. Agamemnon, King of the Kings. Calchas, augur. Achilles, King of Phthiotis. Ajax I., King of Salamis. Ajax II., King of the Locrians. Orestes, son of Agamemnon. Bacchis, attendant of Helen. Parthoenis. Loena. Philocomes, servant of Calchas. Euthycles, a blacksmith. [Princes, princesses, courtiers, Helen's attendants, slaves, etc.] The scene is laid in Sparta; time mythical. In "La Belle Hélène" Offenbach goes back to the mythical period, and presents the heroes of the time of Helen and Paris in modern burlesque. The first act opens at the temple of Jupiter in Sparta, where, among others who have placed their offerings at his shrine, is Helen. When alone with Calchas, the augur, they discuss some means of avoiding the decree of the oracle which has declared she is to leave Menelaus, her husband, and fly with Paris, son of Priam, to Troy. Before a decision is reached, Paris, disguised as a shepherd, arrives, and soon he and Helen are lovers. They meet again in a grand tournament in which the two Ajaxes, Achilles, Agamemnon, and others announce themselves in the most comic fashion and guess at conundrums for a prize. Paris wins, and proclaims his name and lineage, to the delight of Helen, whose delight is still further enhanced when the oracle orders Menelaus to set off at once for Crete. In the second act Helen struggles against the decrees of Venus. Paris has an interview with her, but she will not yield, and he retires. By the aid of Calchas he secures admission to the chamber of the slumbering Queen, when Menelaus suddenly returns and an altercation ensues, during which Paris defies all the Grecian heroes, and Helen philosophically informs Menelaus he should have announced his coming beforehand. Paris again retreats, and Helen is now in despair. In the third act Helen and Menelaus have a family quarrel, and he charges her with being false. She denies it, and declares he has been dreaming. Calchas now appears, and announces that a new augur has been appointed and is on his way there. A golden galley is seen approaching, and the new augur is found to be Paris himself. He brings word that Venus is angry at what has been going on, but will relent if Helen will return with him to her shrine and sacrifice white heifers. She is reluctant to go, but finally decides to obey the voice of destiny, and sails away with him, leaving them all behind in grief and Menelaus in rage. The dialogue of "La Belle Hélène" is very witty, though coarse at times, and many of the situations are full of a humorous incongruity and drollness growing out of the attempt to modernize these mythological heroes. The music admirably fits the text, and though not so gay as that of "The Grand Duchess," yet is fresh, original, and interesting throughout. The chief numbers of the work are Helen's passionate song of mourning for Adonis, "Divine Love" ("Amours divins"); Paris' fable, "On Mount Ida, three Goddesses" ("Au Mont Ida, trois déesses"), in which he tells the well-known apple story; the march and chorus, "Here are the Kings of Greece" ("Voici les rois de la Grèce"), in which, one after the other, they come forward and announce themselves in an irresistibly funny manner; Helen's mock sentimental song, "We all are born with Solicitude" ("Nous naissons toutes soucieuses"); the droll goose march of the Kings; a fascinating chorus, "Let us wreathe Crowns of Roses" ("En courronnes tressons roses"); Helen's song, "A Husband Wise" ("Un mari sage"), one of the most characteristic numbers in the opera; and in the last act Orestes' song, "In spite of this Ardent Flame" ("Malgré cette ardente flamme"); the spirited trio, "When Greece has become a Field of Carnage" ("Lorsque la Grèce est un camp de carnage"); and the final chorus, "Let now our Wrath" ("Que notre colère"), which preludes the Trojan war. Orpheus. [Opera bouffe, in three acts; text by Cremieux. First produced at the Bouffes Parisiens, Paris, October 21, 1858.] PERSONAGES. Pluto, disguised as Aristeus. Jupiter, King of the Gods. Orpheus, the lutist. John Styx, the ferryman. Mercury, the messenger. Bacchus, God of wine. Mars, God of war. Eurydice, spouse of Orpheus. Diana, Goddess of the hunt. Public Opinion. Juno, consort of Jupiter. Venus, Goddess of love. Cupid, her messenger. Minerva, Goddess of wisdom. The scene is laid near Thebes; time, mythical. The best musical work of Offenbach undoubtedly is to be found in his "Orpheus aux Enfers," and the text which his librettist furnished him is in keeping with the music. It was a bold as well as droll conception to invest the Olympian gods and goddesses with human attributes and make them symbols of worldly departments of action and official life, to parade them in processions like the ordinary street pageant, to present them in banquets, to dress them in the most fantastically individual manner, and to make nineteenth-century caricatures of the whole Olympian coterie. The first scene of the opera discloses Eurydice in the Theban meadows plucking flowers with which to decorate the cabin of Aristeus, the shepherd, who is really Pluto in disguise. Suddenly Orpheus appears, not with his tortoise-shell lyre, but playing the violin and serenading, as he supposes, a shepherdess with whom he is in love. His mistake reveals the fact that each of them is false to the other, and a violent quarrel of the most ludicrous description ensues, ending in their separation. He goes to his shepherdess, she to her shepherd. Shortly afterwards, Aristeus meets Eurydice in the fields and reveals his real self. By supernatural power he turns day into night and brings on a tempest, in the midst of which he bears her away to the infernal regions, but not before she has written upon Orpheus' hut the fate that has overtaken her. When Orpheus returns he is overjoyed at his loss, but in the midst of his exultation, Public Opinion appears and commands him to go to Olympus and demand from Jupiter the restoration of his wife. Orpheus reluctantly obeys the order. The second act opens in Olympus, where the gods and goddesses are enjoying a nap, from which they are awakened by the blasts of Diana's horn. Thereupon much slanderous gossip is circulated amongst them, the latest news discussed being Pluto's abduction of Eurydice. Pluto himself shortly comes in, and is at once taxed by Jupiter with his unseemly behavior, whereupon Pluto retaliates by reference to Jupiter's numerous amours with mortals. This arouses the jealousy of Juno. Venus, with Cupid's assistance, starts a veritable riot, which is suddenly interrupted by the arrival of Orpheus and his guide, Public Opinion. He demands that his wife shall be restored to him, and Jupiter not only consents, but agrees to attend to the matter personally. The third act finds Eurydice in Hades, carefully guarded by John Styx. Jupiter is faithful to his promise, and soon arrives there, but not in his proper person. He appears in the disguise of a fly, and allows Eurydice to catch him, after which he reveals himself. When Pluto comes in, he finds her transformed into a bacchante of the most convivial sort. Other deities make their appearance, and finally Orpheus comes sailing up the Styx, playing his violin, and demanding of Jupiter the fulfilment of his contract. Jupiter consents, but makes the condition that he shall return to his boat, Eurydice following him, and that he must not look back. Orpheus sets out, but just before he reaches the boat, the cunning Jupiter launches a thunderbolt after him, which causes him to turn and lose Eurydice, much to the disgust of Public Opinion, but greatly to the edification of Orpheus, who is now at liberty to return to his shepherdess on the Theban plain. The most striking numbers in this curious travesty are the opening aria of Eurydice, as she gathers the flowers, "Woman that dreams" ("La femme dont la coeur rêve"); the pastoral sung to her by Aristeus, "To see through the Vines" ("Voir voltiger sous les treilles"); the fascinating hunting-song of Diana, "When Diana comes down the Plain" ("Quand Diane descend dans la plaine"); the characteristic and taking song of John Styx, "When I was King of Boeotia" ("Quand j'étais roi de Beotie"), which in its way is as striking as the sabre song in "The Grand Duchess"; Eurydice's delicate fly-song, "Beautiful Insect, with Golden Wings" ("Bel insecte, à l'aile dorée"); the drinking-song in the infernal regions, "Hail to the Wine" ("Vive le vin"); and Eurydice's vivacious bacchanalian song which immediately follows it, "I have seen the God Bacchus" ("J'ai vu le dieu Bacchus"). PLANQUETTE, ROBERT. The Chimes of Normandy. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Clairville and Gabet. First produced at the Folies Dramatiques, Paris, April 19, 1877.] PERSONAGES. Serpolette, the good-for-nothing. Germaine, the lost Marchioness. Susanne. Jeanne. Henri, Marquis of Corneville. Jean Grenicheux, a fisherman. Gaspard, an old miser. Baillie, magistrate. Notary. [Peasants, sailors, servants, waiting-maids, etc.] The scene is laid in Normandy; time of Louis the Fifteenth. The first act of this charming opera, one of the most popular of its class, opens in an old Norman village during the progress of a fair. Henri, the Marquis of Villeroi, who has been an exile since childhood, has just returned. The first scene discloses a number of village gossips who are retailing scandals about Serpolette, the good-for-nothing, who arrives in time to vindicate herself and retaliate upon the gossips. Gaspard, the miser, has arranged to give his niece Germaine in marriage to the sheriff, who is the chief dignitary in the village. Germaine, however, objects to the proposition, since if she marries at all she claims she must marry Jean Grenicheux, a young fisherman, in gratitude for saving her life. To escape the marriage she and Jean become the servants of the Marquis, and are joined by Serpolette, which is one of the privileges of fair-time. The second act is occupied with the exposure of the ghosts in the castle of Villeroi. The Marquis is confident that there is nothing supernatural about the apparition which has been seen or the sounds which have been heard in the various apartments. He therefore introduces his servants into the castle, and after careful searching discovers that the ghost of Villeroi is old Gaspard, the miser, who, when he is found out, becomes crazy through fear of losing treasures which are concealed there. In the last act the castle is restored to its old splendor, and the Marquis takes possession as master. He gives a fête and the villagers are invited, the crazy Gaspard being among them. Serpolette appears as a grand lady with Jean as her factotum, some papers found in the castle indicating she is the lost heiress. After a love scene between Henri and Germaine, however, Gaspard, who has recovered his reason, discloses that Germaine, and not Serpolette, is the rightful heiress and the true claimant to the title of marchioness. All the complications are now unravelled. Gaspard's treasure is restored to its rightful owner. Germaine comes to her rights, and Serpolette remains with her as her friend. The music of the opera is delightful throughout, and has scarcely a dull moment. Its most conspicuous numbers are Serpolette's rondo, "In my Mysterious History"; a delightful little fantaisie, "Go, Little Sailor"; the legend of the chimes, "Alas! we have lost Excellent Masters"; Henri's grand aria, "I have thrice made the Tour of the World"; and his couplets, "Under the Armor from Top to Toe"; Serpolette's sprightly aria, "Viscountess and Marchioness"; the chorus with the chimes, a most graceful and interesting number closing the second act; and in the last act Gaspard's quaint old Norman song, "We were full Five Hundred Rogues"; Serpolette's rondo, "The Apple's a Fruit full of Vigor"; and Henri's romance, "A Servant, what Matter to me?" RICCI, LUIGI. Crispino. [Opera buffa, in three acts; text by Piave. First produced in Venice, in 1850.] PERSONAGES. Annetta, the cobbler's wife. La Comare, the fairy. Crispino, the cobbler. Il Contino, the Count. Dr. Fabrizio. Dr. Mirobolante. Don Asdrubal. Lisetta. [Clerks, waiters, servants, etc.] The scene is laid in Venice; time, the last century. The first act of this charming little fairy opera opens with a unison chorus of apothecary's apprentices, "Thump, thump" ("Batti, batti"). Crispino, a poor cobbler, over head and ears in debt, whose wife Annetta tries to help him out by ballad singing, is seated at his bench at work in front of his house. In the intervals of the chorus the Count, who figures in a side plot, sings a beautiful romanza, "Thou Beauteous as an Angel art" ("Bella siccome un angelo"). Then Crispino bewails his hard fortune in a quaint melody, "Once a Cobbler" ("Una volta un ciabattino"), after which Annetta introduces herself with a canzonetta, "My Pretty Tales and Songs" ("Istorie belle e leggere"), leading up to a minor duet between them. In the sixth scene a buffo aria, "I am a Bit of a Philosopher" ("Io sono un po' filosofo") is sung by Dr. Fabrizio. At last Crispino gets into such desperate straits that he resolves to make way with himself. He is about to jump into a well when a fairy appears and dissuades him, at the same time giving him a purse of gold and offering to set him up in business as a doctor, telling him he must look about him whenever he has a patient, and if she is not present he will be successful. The act closes with a duet for Crispino and Annetta, "Since you have found a Fairy" ("Troffo so, basta per ova"). The second act discloses Crispino in the midst of a nourishing business, and the delighted Annetta sings a joyous little melody, "I no longer am Annetta" ("Io non sono piu l'Annetta"). A workman who has met with an accident is brought to Crispino for treatment, and as the fairy is not present he is successful. The musical treatment of the healing scene is worked up with great skill. It begins with a baritone solo, leading up to a duet with soprano and chorus accompaniment. A sextette then takes up the theme, and in the close all on the stage give it with impressive effect. A broadly humorous but very melodious trio of the doctors follows, "Sirs, what means this Quarrel?" ("Ma Signori, perchè tantes questione?"). In the next scene Annetta sings the pretty Fritola song, "Pietro, Darling, this Cake so Tempting" ("Piero mio, go qua una fritola"), in which she boasts the merits of a cake she has made for the Carnival. Meanwhile Crispino grows so puffed up with his wealth that when Annetta invites some old friends to the house he drives them out, and is about to strike Annetta when the fairy suddenly appears. In the last act the fairy has taken Crispino to a cavern, where she shows him crystal vases in which more or less brilliant lights are burning. She tells him that each represents a human life. The one burning so brightly is Annetta's, the one so dimly is his own. When he asks her to take some oil out of Annetta's lamp and put it into his, she upbraids him, reveals herself as death, and tells him to make his last request, for he is about to die. In a doleful ballad, "Little I ask, Dearest Fairy" ("Poco cerco, O mia Comare"), he asks for only a half-hour more, so that he may see Annetta and the children. A sudden change of scene shows him in his own house, awaking from sleep in his chair. As he realizes that it has been only a nightmare, occasioned by a sudden fit of illness, he expresses his delight and Annetta expresses her joy in a brilliant waltz movement, "There's no Joy that e'er hath given me" ("Non ha gioja in tal Momento"), which closes the opera. ROSSINI, GIOACHINO ANTONIO. The Barber of Seville. [Opera buffa, in two acts; text by Sterbini. First produced at the Argentina Theatre, Rome, February 5, 1816.] PERSONAGES. Rosina, ward of Dr. Bartolo. Berta. Figaro, the barber. Count Almaviva, lover of Rosina. Dr. Bartolo. Basilio, a music-master. [Officers, soldiers, etc.] The scene is laid in Seville; time, the eighteenth century. The story and the music of "The Barber of Seville" are as fresh and delightful as when the opera was first produced eighty-six years ago. Its story is almost as familiar as household words, and no music has been more popular on the operatic stage than its gay, brilliant arias. Count Almaviva loves Rosina, the ward of Dr. Bartolo, who wishes to marry her himself, but the Count is unable to get an interview with her until it is arranged for by Figaro, the factotum of the place. In spite of Bartolo's watchfulness, as well as that of Don Basilio, her music-teacher, who is only too willing to serve Bartolo, she succeeds in writing to the Count and telling him that his love is returned. With Figaro's help the Count gets into the house disguised as a drunken dragoon, but is promptly arrested. The next time he secures admission as a music-teacher upon the pretence that Don Basilio is sick, and has sent him to give Rosina her lesson. He further hoodwinks Bartolo by producing the letter Rosina had written to himself, and promises to persuade her that the letter has been given him by a mistress of the Count, which will break the connection between the two. He secures the coveted interview, and an elopement is planned. The unexpected appearance of Don Basilio, however, upsets the arrangements, and the disconcerted lover makes good his escape. In the mean time Bartolo, who has the letter, shows it to his ward and arouses her jealousy. She thereupon promises to marry her guardian. At the time set for the elopement, the Count and Figaro arrive. A reconciliation is speedily effected, and the Count and Rosina are married just as Bartolo makes his appearance with officers to arrest the Count. After mutual explanations, however, all ends happily. The opera opens, after a short chorus, with the Count's serenade, "Lo, smiling in the Orient Sky" ("Ecco ridente in cielo"), one of the most beautiful numbers in the opera. In the second scene Figaro sings the lively and well-known buffo aria, "Make Room for the Factotum" ("Largo al factotum"). A light and lively duet between Figaro and the Count leads up to the chamber aria of Rosina, "The Voice I heard just now" ("Una voce poco fa"), which is not only very expressive but remarkably rich in ornamentation. In the next scene occurs the calumny aria, "Oh! Calumny is like the Sigh" ("La Calunnia è un venticello"). It is followed by a florid duet and a dialogue between Rosina and Bartolo, closing with the bass aria, "No longer conceal the Truth" ("Non piu tacete"). The finale is composed of three scenes full of glittering dialogue and melodious passages. The second act opens with a soliloquy by Bartolo, interrupted by a duet with the Count. The music-lesson scene follows in which the artist personating Rosina is given an opportunity for interpolation. In the next scene occurs a dialogue quintette, which is followed by a long aria for Bertha, "There is always Noise" ("Sempre gridi"), which the Italians called the "aria de sorbetto," as they used to eat ices while it was sung. In the eighth scene, after a long recitative, an instrumental prelude occurs, representing a stormy night, followed by recitative in which the Count reveals himself, leading up to a florid trio, and this in turn to the elegant terzetto, "Softly, softly, no Delay" ("Zitti, zitti, piano, piano"). A bravura and finale of light, graceful melody close the opera. SOLOMON, EDWARD. Billee Taylor. [Nautical comic opera, in two acts; text by Stephens. First produced in London in 1880] PERSONAGES. Felix Flapper, R. N., Captain of "H. M. S. Thunderbomb." Sir Mincing Lane, knight. Billee Taylor. Ben Barnacle. Christopher Crab, tutor. Phoebe Farleigh, a charity girl. Arabella Lane, heiress. Eliza Dabsey. Susan. Jane Scraggs. [Villagers, peasants, sailors, press gang, etc.] The scene is laid in Southampton, England; time, the year 1805. The story of "Billee Taylor" is based upon an old English marine ballad of the same name. The first act opens at the inn of the Royal George in Southampton, where the villagers have gathered to celebrate the wedding of Billee Taylor and Phoebe Farleigh, a charity girl. The heiress, Arabella Lane, is also in love with Billee, and has offered him her hand, which he has rejected. Her father, Sir Mincing Lane, is going to give the villagers a feast upon the occasion of Billee's wedding, and invites his friend, Captain Flapper, to attend. The captain accepts, falls in love with Phoebe at sight, and vows Billee shall not marry her. Crab, the tutor, is also in love with Phoebe. In Captain Flapper's crew is Bill Barnacle, who went to sea "on account of Eliza," who had been unfaithful to him, and he is ordered by the press gang to carry Billee away, which he does during the wedding festivities. The second act opens at Portsmouth, two years supposedly having elapsed. All the charity girls, among them Phoebe, disguised as sailors, followed Billee to sea, who in the mean time has risen to a lieutenancy. Arabella forces her attentions upon him and he is inclined to yield. At this juncture Phoebe, still seeking her lover, turns up as a common sailor answering to the name of Richard Carr. Captain Flapper in her presence mentions that he is in love with her, also that Billee is about to marry Arabella. Sir Mincing Lane, now a commander of volunteers, endeavors to persuade some of the sailors to join him, and Phoebe offers herself as a recruit, but is claimed as a messmate by Barnacle, which leads to a quarrel. Crab then incites Phoebe to revenge herself upon her recreant lover, and she fires at him, but the shot hits Crab. She is arrested and is about to be executed, but is released when she declares herself a woman. In the end Billee is disrated, but marries Arabella. Barnacle secures his Eliza. Phoebe marries the captain, and is made full lieutenant of the "Thunderbomb." "Billee Taylor" is essentially a ballad opera. The best of the ballads are "The Virtuous Gardener," in which Billee describes the ethical pleasures of gardening; "The Two Rivers," sung by Phoebe, Susan, and chorus; "The Self-made Knight," by Sir Mincing Lane, which resembles Sir Joseph Porter's song in the first act of "Pinafore" ("When I was a Lad I served a Term"); Phoebe's sentimental song, "The Guileless Orphan"; Barnacle's well-known song, "All on account of Eliza"; Crab's humorous ditty, "The Poor Wicked Man"; Angelina's sentimental "Ballad of the Billow"; and Captain Flapper's disquisition on love in the interrogative song, "Do you know why the Rabbits are caught in the Snares?" SOUSA, JOHN PHILIP. El Capitan. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Klein. First produced at the Tremont Theatre, Boston, April 13, 1896.] PERSONAGES. Medigua, Viceroy of Peru. Cazarro, deposed viceroy. Pozzo, secretary of Medigua. Verrada, in love with Isabel. Scaramba, an insurgent. Estrelda, Cazarro's daughter. Marghanza, Medigua's wife. Isabel, her daughter. [Troops, insurgents, peasants, etc.] The scene is laid in Peru; time, the eighteenth century. At the opening of the story Cazarro, viceroy of Peru, has been deposed by the King of Spain, and Medigua has been appointed in his stead. Cazarro incites a revolution, and sends to Spain for El Capitan, a noted soldier, to come to his help. He sails on the same ship with Medigua, in the disguise of a seaman, but is killed in a quarrel on board. Medigua finds out who he was, and when he lands, discovering that his faction is in a hopeless minority, he proclaims himself El Capitan and joins the rebels. To further his scheme he induces his secretary, Pozzo, to represent the Viceroy. Among the other characters are Scaramba, a revolutionist in love with Estrelda, daughter of Cazarro; the Princess Marghanza, wife of Medigua; her daughter Isabel; and Count Verrada, who is in love with her. Estrelda falls in love with the pseudo El Capitan, which arouses Scaramba's jealousy. Pozzo is thrust into prison, much to the grief of the Princess and of Isabel, who believe him to be Medigua. After the arrival of the Spanish troops, however, Medigua declares himself. The rebellion is squelched, all are pardoned, and everything ends happily. The principal numbers of the first act are a pretty drinking-song for the chorus; a solo for Medigua, "If you examine Human Kind," followed by a dialogue and leading up to an aria for Estrelda, "When we hear the Call for Battle," with chorus in march time; a second march, "In me you see El Capitan," which heralds Medigua's entrance; the chorus, "Lo, the Awful Man approaches"; and the solo and chorus, "Bah, bah," closing the act. The second act opens with a march song, "Ditty of the Drill," which is shortly followed by an effective scene in which a mournful accompaniment representing the grief of Marghanza and Isabel, and a festive accompaniment setting forth the exultation of Estrelda and her companions as they bind El Capitan with garlands of roses, are interwoven. As the Princess discovers Medigua in El Capitan, a quarrel duet follows between her and Estrelda, leading up to a pompous military finale, as the Spanish troops appear. The leading numbers of the third act are a serenade and duet for Verrada and Isabel; a song by the tipsy Medigua, "The Typical Tune of Zanzibar," which is the most popular number in the opera; and a final march with chorus. STRAUSS, JOHANN. The Merry War. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Zell and Genée. First produced in Vienna, November 25, 1881.] PERSONAGES. Countess Violetta. Col. Umberto. Duke de Limburg. Balthasar Groats, dealer in tulip bulbs. Else, wife of Groats. Spiuzzi. Franchetti. Biffi. [Soldiers, citizens, etc.] The scene is laid in Genoa; time, the eighteenth century. The "merry war" is not a very serious one, as may be inferred from its title. It is a quarrel between two petty states, Genoa and Massa Carrara, growing out of the fact that a popular dancer has made simultaneous engagements at the theatres of each. Both claim her, and the question at issue is at which theatre the dancer shall appear. One harmless hand grenade is thrown from either side with monotonous regularity each day, and the "merry war" is without interesting incident until the pretty Countess Violetta appears in one of the camps. She is seeking to make her way in disguise into the city of the other camp, to take command of the citadel. Umberto, the colonel commanding, is deceived by her, and allows her to pass through the lines. When informed of the deception he determines to take his revenge by marrying her. Understanding that she is to marry the Duke de Limburg by proxy, he impersonates the Duke and is married to Violetta without arousing her suspicions. He is assisted in his scheme by Balthasar Groats, a Dutch speculator in tulip bulbs, whom the soldiers have arrested, thinking him a spy, and who is naturally willing to do anything for the Colonel to get him out of his predicament. Complications arise, however, when Groats' wife appears and becomes jealous, also because of Violetta's antipathy towards her supposed husband and her affection for Umberto. All these matters are arranged satisfactorily, however, when there is an opportunity for explanation, and a treaty of peace is signed between the two states, when it is found that the cause of the "merry war" will not keep her engagement with either theatre. The music of "The Merry War" is light and gay throughout. Like all the rest of the Strauss operas, it might be said that it is a collection of marches and waltzes, and a repetition of dance music which has done good service in ballrooms, strung upon the slight thread of a story. Its most taking numbers are Umberto's couplets, "Till now no Drop of Blood"; Balthasar's comical song, "General, ho!" and his tulip song, "From Holland to Florence in Peace we were going"; Violetta's arietta, "In vain I cannot fly"; the dainty duet for Violetta and Umberto, "Please do"; Else's romantic song, "I wandered on"; the ensemble and Dutch song by Artemisia, "The much Admired One"; Umberto's love song, "The Night begins to creep"; Violetta's song, "I am yet Commander for To-day," leading to a terzetto and spirited final chorus, "Of their Warlike Renown." The Queen's Lace Handkerchief. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Genée and Bohrmann-Riegen. First produced at Vienna, October 2, 1880.] PERSONAGES. The King. The Queen. Donna Irene, the Queen's confidante. Marquis of Villareal. Cervantes, poet. Count Villaboisy Roderiguez, Prime Minister. Don Sancho de Avellaneda, tutor to the King. Marquis de la Mancha Villareal, Minister of War. Duke of Feria, Minister of Finance. Count San Gregorio, Minister of the Interior. Count Ermos, Minister of the Navy. Don Diego de Barados, Minister of Police. Dancing-Master. Master of Ceremonies. Antonio, innkeeper. [Students, doctors, ladies and gentlemen of the court, toreadors, brigands, etc.] The scene is laid in Portugal; time, the year 1570. The romance of the story of "The Queen's Lace Handkerchief" has helped to make this opera one of the most popular of Strauss' works. The action begins at a time when Portugal is ruled by a ministry whose premier is in league with Philip II. of Spain, and who, to keep possession of power, has fomented trouble between the young Queen and King, and encouraged the latter in all kinds of dissipations. At this time Cervantes, the poet, who has been banished from Spain, is a captain in the Royal Guards, and in love with Irene, a lady in waiting. These two are good friends of both the King and Queen, and are eager to depose the ministry. Cervantes is reader to the Queen, and the latter, having a sentimental attachment for him, writes upon her handkerchief, "A queen doth love thee, yet art thou no king," and placing it in a volume of "Don Quixote," hands it to him. The book is seized, and as "Don Quixote" is Minister of War and "Sancho Panza" Minister of Instruction, Cervantes is arrested for libel and treason. Irene and the King, however, save him by proving him insane, and the King and Queen ascend the throne. In desperation the premier hands the King the handkerchief with the inscription on it, which leads to the re-arrest of Cervantes and the banishment of the Queen to a convent. Cervantes escapes, however, and joins some brigands. They capture the Queen on her way to the convent, and in the disguise of the host and waiting-maid of an inn, they serve the King, who happens there on a hunting-trip. Everything is satisfactorily accounted for, and the inscription on the handkerchief is explained as a message which the Queen sent to the King by Cervantes. The music is light and brilliant. Much of it is in the waltz movement, and the choral work is a strong feature. Its best numbers are the Queen's humorous romanza, "It was a wondrous Fair and Starry Night"; another humorous number, the King's truffle song, "Such Dish by Man not oft is seen"; the epicurean duet for the King and premier, "These Oysters are great"; Cervantes' recitative, "Once sat a Youth," in the finale of the first act: a dainty little romanza for Cervantes, "Where the Wild Rose sweetly doth blow"; the trio and chorus, "Great Professors, Learned Doctors"; the fine duet for the King and Cervantes, "Brighter Glance on him shall repose"; Sancho's vivacious couplet, "In the Night his Zither holding"; the Queen's showy song, "Seventeen Years had just passed o'er me"; and the two closing choruses, "Now the King all hail," in march time, and the Bull-fight, which is full of dash and spirit. Queen Indigo. [Opera comique, in three acts; text by Jaime and Wilder. First produced in Vienna, February 10, 1871.] PERSONAGES. Montadada I., widow of King Indigo. Fantasca, the late King's favorite. Janio, the late King's jester. Romadour, chief of the eunuchs. Babazouck, fruit and vegetable vender. Mysouf, general-in-chief. [Inmates of the harem, eunuchs, cooks, courtiers, soldiers, sailors, etc.] The scene is laid in Asiatic Turkey; time, the last century. At the opening of the opera King Indigo has just died, and his widow, Montadada I., decides to sell the harem. Fantasca, a beautiful slave, who was the favorite of the King, is included among those to be sold, and Romadour, chief of the eunuchs, resolves to secure her. Fantasca is in love with Janio, the King's jester, of her own country. Queen Montadada is also in love with him and has chosen him for her second husband, but he prefers Fantasca. The two contrive a cunning plot for the escape of the entire harem. Janio informs the Queen that one of her tribes has revolted, and as her troops are all sick he proposes that the women be armed and that he be placed in command. She accepts the proposal, and promises that the victor "shall choose the woman he loves, did she even wear a crown," not doubting Janio will select her, but, much to her chagrin, he announces Fantasca as his choice. The second act discloses the Amazon army with Janio and Fantasca at its head. The Queen also accompanies them, still bent upon securing Janio's love. At the first alarm the troops fly in all directions, and the Queen, suspicious that something is wrong, scours the woods for Janio, who makes his escape by changing clothes with Babazouck, a fruit-vender. The Queen meanwhile arrays herself in male attire, so that she may compete in physical attractions with Fantasca. She furthermore gets into a semi-drunken condition, but recognizes the cheat when Babazouck is brought before her. Immediately thereafter she falls into a drunken stupor. Romadour also comes in intoxicated, and mistaking her for Fantasca, sings to her, "O, my Queen, I love you," in a deep bass voice. The act closes with the two sleeping side by side, and the women of the harem carrying off the royal treasures. In the last act Janio, Fantasca, and the other slaves are preparing for flight, when the Queen and Romadour enter. The former announces she no longer loves Janio, but the man who had declared, "Oh, my Queen, I love you." At her request Romadour repeats the remark, but this time in a high falsetto voice which she does not recognize. Subsequently he changes his mind, after hearing of Fantasca's prowess in battle, and exclaims, "O, my Queen, I love you," in the bass voice. The Queen promptly claims him for her husband and he acquiesces. She then orders Janio and Fantasca to be sold, but Romadour intercedes in their behalf, and she banishes them. Like all the Strauss operas, "Queen Indigo" is full of charming waltz music, comprising, in addition to many novelties, several of his old-time favorites. The most effective vocal numbers are the trio, "What Dark Forebodings" ("Quel sombre et noir présage"); Fantasca's couplets, "A Model Soldier" ("Cavalier modèle"), and her song, "Woman is a Cunning Bird" ("La femme est un oiseau subtil"); the waltz song, "Oh! Maddening Flame" ("O flamme cuivrante"); the characteristic Tyrolienne, "Youpla! why, Fond Lover" ("Youplà, pourquoi, bel amoureux"); and the "Blue Danube" chorus of the sailors, in the last act. The Bat. (_Die Fledermaus._) [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Haffner and Genée. First produced in Vienna, July, 1874.] PERSONAGES. Eisenstein. Alfred, singing-master. Frosch, court usher. Frank, prison director. Dr. Blind, attorney. Dr. Falke, notary. Ivan, Prince Chamberlain. Ali Bey, an Egyptian. Murray, an American. Cancorney, a Marquis. Rosalind, wife of Eisenstein. Prince Orlofsky. Adele, Rosalind's maid. Lord Middleton. [Dancers, masqueraders, etc.] The scene is laid in Germany; time, the last century. Strauss' "Die Fledermaus," or "The Bat," is founded upon Meilhac and Halévy's "Le Revillon." In music it is Viennese; in dramatic effect, it is French. The scene opens with Adele, maid of the Baroness Rosalind, seeking permission to visit her sister Ida, a ballet-dancer, who is to be at a masked ball given by Prince Orlofsky, a Russian millionaire. She receives permission, and after she has gone, Dr. Falke, a notary, who has arranged the ball, calls at the house of the Baron Eisenstein, and induces him to go to it before going to jail, to which he has been sentenced for contempt of court. The purpose of the doctor is to seek revenge for his shabby treatment by the Baron some time before at a masquerade which they had attended,--Eisenstein dressed as a butterfly, and Falke as a bat. The doctor then notifies the Baroness that her husband will be at the ball. She thereupon decides that she will also be present. An amusing scene occurs when the Baron seeks to pass himself off as a French marquis, and pays his devotions to the ladies, but is quite astonished to find his wife there, flirting with an old lover. There are further complications caused by Falke, who manages to have Alfred, the singing-master, in the Baroness' apartments when the sheriff comes to arrest the Baron, and arrests Alfred, supposing him to be Eisenstein. In the last act, however, all the complications are disentangled, and everything ends happily. It would be impossible to name the conspicuous numbers in this animated and sprightly work without making a catalogue of them all. The opera is a grand potpourri of waltz and polka motives and fresh, bright melodies. The composer does not linger long with the dialogue, but goes from one waltz melody to another in a most bewildering manner, interspersing them with romanzas, drinking-songs, czardas, an almost endless variety of dance rhythms and choruses of a brilliant sort. It is a charming mixture of Viennese gayety and French drollery, and, like his "Roman Carnival" and "Queen Indigo," is the very essence of the dance. STUART, LESLIE. Florodora. [Musical comedy, in two acts; text by Hall. First produced in London, November 11, 1899.] PERSONAGES. Cyrus W. Gilfain, proprietor of the island of Florodora. Capt. Arthur Donegal, Lady Holyrood's brother. Frank Abercoed, manager for Mr. Gilfain. Leandro, overseer. Anthony Tweedlepunch, phrenologist. Dolores. Valleda, maid to Lady Holyrood. Estelle Lamont, stenographer. Angela Gilfain. Lady Holyrood. [Florodorean farmers, flower-girls, peasants, etc.] The scene is laid in the island of Florodora and Wales; time, the present. "Florodora," the title of a musical comedy which has had extraordinary success both in England and the United States, is the name of an island and a perfume. The island has been stolen by Cyrus Gilfain, the manufacturer of the perfume, from its rightful owner, whose daughter Dolores works in his factory. He is anxious to marry the girl, so that he may retain possession of the island, but she is in love with Abercoed, the chief clerk, who in reality is Lord Abercoed. The conspicuous comedy element of the work is supplied by Tweedlepunch, a detective, who arrives at the island in Gilfain's absence, disguised as a phrenologist and palmist, in search of the real owner's daughter. When Gilfain returns he is accompanied by Lady Holyrood, a London society woman, who is scheming to marry him. Lady Holyrood's brother, meanwhile, is in love with Angela, Gilfain's daughter. Gilfain, finding that Tweedlepunch is a phrenologist, bribes him to decide, after examination, that he and Dolores must wed, and that Abercoed, whom he has learned is a peer, must marry his daughter Angela. The scheme does not satisfy any one but Gilfain, and, least of all, Lady Holyrood, who bribes Tweedlepunch again to decide that she and Gilfain must marry. Abercoed refuses to marry Angela, is discharged by Gilfain, and goes back to England with the intention of returning later for Dolores. The second act opens in the grounds of Abercoed Castle in Wales, which has been bought by Gilfain, who refuses to admit his former clerk. He manages to get in, however, in company with Tweedlepunch and Dolores, and Tweedlepunch, by a story of the ghost of an ancient Abercoed which has threatened dreadful things will happen to Gilfain, so terrifies him that he confesses his villainy, and all ends happily. Gilfain finally marries Lady Holyrood, Donegal and Angela and Abercoed and Dolores are also married, and the castle is restored to the rightful owner. The music of "Florodora" is light and catchy, but though original of its kind, the work would hardly have achieved its remarkable vogue had it not been for its brilliant stage setting, dances, and the extravagant comedy rôle of Tweedlepunch. The best numbers in the first act are the sextette, "The Credit due to me," by the clerks and chorus; the song, "When I leave Town," by Lady Holyrood; and Abercoed's sentimental song, "In the Shade of the Sheltering Palm," the only serious and musicianly number in the work. The principal numbers of the second act are Lady Holyrood's topical song "Tact," and "I've an Inkling"; Angela's clever song, "The Fellow who might"; Donegal's song, "I want to be a Military Man"; the grotesque song and dance by Leandro and Valleda, "We get up at 8 A. M."; and the double sextette, "Tell me, Pretty Maiden," which is cleverly constructed and has a fascinating rhythm. SULLIVAN, ARTHUR. Cox and Box. [Comic operetta, in one act and seven tableaux; text by Burnand. First produced at the Adelphi Theatre, London, 1867.] PERSONAGES. James John Cox, a journeyman hatter. John James Box, a journeyman printer. Sergt. Bouncer, late of the Hampshire Yeomanry. The scene is laid in London; time, the present. "Cox and Box" is of interest because it is the germ from which sprang the long list of Sullivan's charming comic operas. Burnand, the author of the libretto, has told the story of how they came to write this little operetta. They had been to a private performance of Offenbach's "Les deux Aveugles," and, Burnand wishing to present something of the same kind to a party of his own friends, the notion suddenly occurred to him of turning Morton's well-known farce of "Box and Cox" into an opera. Sullivan took to the plan enthusiastically. Burnand reversed the title to "Cox and Box," and turned Mrs. Bouncer into Sergeant Bouncer, so as to admit of a martial air. They had but three weeks before them, but at the end of that time the work was finished, Sullivan setting the music with almost incredible rapidity. It made such a great hit that it was decided to give it publicly, and at the last moment the composer wrote an overture for it. The story is the familiar old one which as "Box and Cox" was for so many years and still is such a favorite on the stage. It turns upon the funny experiences of Cox, the hatter, and Box, the printer, who are occupying the same room, the one by night and the other by day, unbeknown to each other, and for which Sergeant Bouncer gets double rent. At last they meet in the room which each one claims as his own. After a ludicrous dispute they gradually become reconciled to each other, but another dispute ensues when Cox finds that the widow Penelope Ann, whom he is about to marry, has been deserted by Box, the latter pretending to have committed suicide to get rid of her. Cox insists upon restoring Box to the arms of his intended, but Box declines his generous offer. Then they agree to decide by lot which shall have her, but each tries to cheat the other. The situation resolves itself satisfactorily when a letter comes to Cox from Penelope Ann, announcing that she has decided to marry Knox. They give three cheers for Knox, and Bouncer closes the scene with a joyous rataplan in which all three join. The situations are extremely humorous throughout, and the action moves briskly. Though Sullivan wrote the music in great haste, it is in perfect keeping with the fun of the farce and keeps up its interest to the end. The principal numbers are Bouncer's rataplan song, "Yes, in those Merry Days," and his duet with Cox, "Stay, Bouncer, stay"; Cox's joyous song, "My Master is punctual always in Business," with its dance at the end of each stanza; the characteristic serenade, "The Buttercup dwells in the Lowly Mead" (Cox) and "The Floweret shines on the Minaret Fair" (Box); Box's solemn description of his pretended suicide, "Listen! I solemnly walked to the Cliff"; and the finale by the jolly triumvirate with the "rataplan." Trial by Jury. [Operetta, in one act; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Royalty Theatre, London, March 25, 1875.] PERSONAGES. Learned Judge. Plaintiff. Defendant. Counsel for the Plaintiff. Usher. Foreman of the Jury. Associate. First Bridesmaid. [Barristers, attorneys, journeymen, and bridesmaids.] The scene is laid in a London Court of Justice; time, the nineteenth century. The little operetta, "Trial by Jury," was the first result of the successful collaboration of Gilbert and Sullivan, though it gave little hint of the extraordinary excellence as well as popularity of the long list which followed it. "The words and music were written and all the rehearsals completed within three weeks, and all London went to see it," says Sullivan's biographer. It was produced March 25, 1875, and had quite a run, Frederick Sullivan, Sir Arthur's brother, appearing in the rôle of the judge and contributing much to its success. The story is a satire upon the English courts, the incident being a breach of promise case. Edwin is sued by Angelina. The usher impresses upon the jury its duty to divest itself of prejudice in one breath, and in the next seeks to prejudice it against the defendant by most violent denunciations of him. When Edwin enters he is at once requested by the jury to "dread our damages." He tells them how he became "the lovesick boy" first of one and then of another. The jurymen in chorus, while admitting that they were fickle when young, declare that they are now respectable and have no sympathy with him. The judge enters, and after informing the audience how he came to the bench, announces he is ready to try the breach of promise case. The jury is sworn. Angelina enters, accompanied by her bridesmaids. The judge takes a great fancy to the first bridesmaid, and sends her a note, which she kisses rapturously and places in her bosom. Immediately thereafter the judge transfers his admiration to the plaintiff, and directs the usher to take the note from the bridesmaid and give it to Angelina, which he does, while the jurymen taunt the judge with being a sly dog, and then express their love for her also. The plaintiff's counsel makes the opening speech, and Angelina takes the witness-stand, but, feeling faint, falls sobbing on the foreman's breast, who kisses her as a father. She revives, and then falls sobbing upon the judge's breast, while the jurymen shake their fists at the defendant, who comes forward and offers to marry Angelina "to-day and marry the other to-morrow." The judge thinks it a reasonable proposition, but the plaintiff's counsel submits that "to marry two at once is Burglaree." In this dilemma Angelina embraces Edwin rapturously, but he repels her furiously and throws her into the arms of her counsel. The jury thereupon becomes distracted, and asks for guidance, whereupon the judge decides he will marry Angelina himself, to which she gives enthusiastic consent. The best numbers in the operetta are the defendant's song, "When first my Old, Old Love I knew"; the juryman's song, "Oh! I was like that when I was a Lad"; the judge's song, "When I, Good Friends, was called to the Bar"; the pretty chorus of the bridesmaids, "Cover the Broken Flower"; the plaintiff's song, "O'er the Season Vernal"; and the defendant's song, "Oh! Gentlemen, listen, I pray." The London "Times," after the first performance, said: "There is a genuine humor in the music, as for instance in the unison chorus of the jurymen, and the clever parody on one of the most renowned finales of modern Italian opera; and there is also melody, both catching and fluent, here and there, moreover, set off by little touches in the orchestral accompaniments which reveal the experienced hand." The Sorcerer. [Comic opera, in two acts; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Opéra Comique, London, November 18, 1877.] PERSONAGES. Sir Marmaduke Pointdextre, an elderly baronet. Alexis, his son, of the Grenadier Guards. Dr. Daly, vicar of Ploverleigh. Notary. John Wellington Wells, of Wells & Co., family sorcerers. Lady Sangazure, a lady of ancient lineage. Aline, her daughter, betrothed to Alexis. Mrs. Partlet, a pew-opener. Constance, her daughter. [Chorus of peasantry.] The scene is laid upon an English estate; time, the present. The success of the two operettas, "Cox and Box" and "Trial by Jury," led to the organization of a company under the management of Mr. D'Oyly Carte for the production of the Sullivan-Gilbert collaborations, and the first of its performances was "The Sorcerer." Incidentally it may be stated that this opera introduced Mr. George Grossmith to the stage, and its success led to a proposition from "Lewis Carroll" to Sullivan to set his "Alice in Wonderland" as an opera, though the scheme was never realized. The libretto is replete with humor, and the music is original and characteristic, and particularly noticeable for its admirable parodies of the Italian operas, and yet it is always scholarly. The first act opens upon the grounds of Sir Marmaduke Pointdextre's estate, where the villagers are gathered to celebrate the betrothal of his son Alexis, and Aline, daughter of Lady Sangazure, with whom, fifty years before, Sir Marmaduke had been in love. Mrs. Partlet, the pew-opener, enters with her daughter Constance, who is hopelessly in love with Dr. Daly, the vicar, for he cannot be made to understand, either by her demonstrations or by the mother's hints, that he is the object of her devotion. Alexis and Aline are congratulated by all, and sign the marriage contract. When alone together, Alexis discourses upon his favorite theory that all artificial barriers should be broken down and that marriage should be contracted without regard to rank. To put his theory into practice he procures from the firm of J. W. Wells & Co., the old established family sorcerers of the place, a large quantity of their love potion, which has no effect upon married persons but will cause unmarried ones to couple without regard to rank or condition, mixes it with the tea and serves it out to all who are in attendance at the betrothal banquet. Gradually all fall insensible, and the act closes. The second act opens upon Sir Marmaduke's grounds at midnight. The guests, one after the other, are waking. Alexis tells Aline she must take some of the potion so that he may be sure of her love, which she does after much protesting. As they regain their senses, each guest makes offer of marriage to the first one seen. Constance declares her love for the old notary. Sir Marmaduke enters with Mrs. Partlet, the venerable pew-opener, on his arm and announces his intention of marrying her. Wells appears on the grounds in a remorseful condition as he beholds the mischief he has caused, and Lady Sangazure proposes to him, and leaves in great anguish when he declares he is already engaged to "a maiden fair on a South Pacific Isle." Aline beholds Dr. Daly and begins to fall violently in love with him and he with her. Alexis, in alarm at the trouble he is making, seeks out Wells and demands that he shall remove the spell. Wells explains that in order to do this, one or the other of them must offer his life to Ahrimanes. Alexis is not willing to give up Aline, and Wells is averse to losing his profitable business. They agree to leave the decision to the guests, and the latter agree that Wells shall make the sacrifice. He consents, and all go back to their old lovers as he sinks through a trap amid red fire. The most conspicuous numbers in the first act are Dr. Daly's ballad, "Time was when Love and I were well acquainted"; the duet between Sir Marmaduke and Lady Sangazure, "Welcome Joy, adieu to Sadness"; Alexis' ballad, "Love feeds on many Kinds of Food I know"; Wells' long and rollicking song, "Oh! my Name is John Wellington Wells"; and the incantation music, "Sprites of Earth and Air." The second act opens with a charming little country dance. The principal numbers which follow it are Constance's aria, "Dear Friends, take Pity on my Lot"; the ensemble for Aline, Alexis, Constance, and the Notary, "O, Joy! O, Joy!"; Alexis' ballad, "Thou hast the Power thy Vaunted Love"; the quintette, "I rejoice that it's decided"; Dr. Daly's humorous song, "Oh! my Voice is sad and low"; and the final ensemble, "Now to the Banquet we press." H. M. S. Pinafore; or, The Lass that Loved a Sailor. [Comic opera, in two acts; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Opéra Comique, London, May 28, 1878.] PERSONAGES. The Rt. Hon. Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., First Lord of the Admiralty. Capt. Corcoran, commanding "H. M. S. Pinafore." Ralph Rackstraw, able seaman. Dick Deadeye, able seaman. Bill Bobstay, boatswain's mate. Bob Becket, carpenter's man. Tom Tucker, midshipmite. Sergeant of Marines. Josephine, the Captain's daughter. Hebe, Sir Joseph's first cousin. Little Buttercup, a bumboat woman. [First Lord's sisters, his cousins, his aunts, sailors, marines, etc.] The scene is laid on the quarterdeck of "H. M. S. Pinafore"; time, the present. Although "Pinafore," when it was first produced in London, was received so coolly that it was decided to take it off the boards, yet eventually, with the exception of "The Beggar's Opera," it proved to be the most popular opera ever produced in England; while in the United States it was for years the rage, and is still a prime favorite. The first scene introduces the leading characters on the deck of "H. M. S. Pinafore" in the harbor of Portsmouth. Little Buttercup, a bumboat woman, "the rosiest, the roundest, and the reddest beauty in all Spithead," comes on board and has an interview with Dick Deadeye, the villain of the story, and Ralph Rackstraw, "the smartest lad in all the fleet," who is in love with Josephine, Captain Corcoran's daughter. The Captain comes on deck in a melancholy mood because Josephine has shown herself indifferent to Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., who is to ask for her hand that afternoon. She confesses to her father that she loves a common sailor, but will carry her love to the grave without letting him know of it. Sir Joseph comes on board with a long retinue of sisters, cousins, and aunts, who chant his praises. After attending to some minor details, he has a fruitless interview with the Captain and Josephine. She declares she cannot love him. Shortly afterwards she meets Ralph, who declares his love for her, but she haughtily rejects him. When he draws his pistol and declares he will shoot himself, she acknowledges her love, and they plan to steal ashore at night and be married. Dick Deadeye overhears the plot and threatens to thwart it. The second act opens at night. Captain Corcoran is discovered sadly complaining to the moon, and wondering why everything is at "sixes and sevens." Little Buttercup sympathizes with him, and is about to become affectionate, when he informs her he can only be her friend. She grows enraged, and warns him there is a change in store for him. Sir Joseph enters, and informs the Captain he is much disappointed at the way Josephine has acted. The Captain replies that she is probably dazzled by his rank, and that if he will reason with her and convince her that "love levels all ranks," everything will be right. Sir Joseph does so, but only pleads his rival's cause. She tells him she has hesitated, but now she hesitates no longer. Sir Joseph and the Captain are rejoicing over her apparent change of heart, when Dick Deadeye reveals the plot to elope that night. The Captain confronts them as they are stealthily leaving the vessel, and insists upon knowing what Josephine is about to do. Ralph steps forward and declares his love, whereupon the Captain grows furious and lets slip an oath. He is overheard by Sir Joseph, who orders him to his cabin "with celerity." He then inquires of Ralph what he has done to make the Captain profane. He replies it was his acknowledgment of love for Josephine, whereupon, in a towering rage, Sir Joseph orders his imprisonment in the ship's dungeon. He then remonstrates with Josephine, whereupon Little Buttercup reveals her secret. Years before, when she was practising baby-farming, she nursed two babies, one of "low condition," the other "a regular patrician," and she "mixed those children up and not a creature knew it." "The well-born babe was Ralph, your Captain was the other." Sir Joseph orders the two before him, gives Ralph the command of "H. M. S. Pinafore," and Corcoran Ralph's place. As his marriage with Josephine is now impossible, he gives her to Ralph, and Captain Corcoran, now a common seaman, unites his fortunes with those of Little Buttercup. It is one of the principal charms of this delightful work that it is entirely free from coarseness and vulgarity. The wit is always delicate, though the satire is keen. Words and music rarely go so well together as in this opera. As a prominent English critic said of "Trial by Jury," "it seems, as in the great Wagnerian operas, as though poem and music had proceeded simultaneously from one and the same brain." The chorus plays a very important part in it, and in the most solemnly ludicrous manner repeats the assertions of the principals in the third person. All its numbers might be styled the leading ones, but those which have become most popular are the song, "I'm called Little Buttercup"; Josephine's sentimental song, "Sorry her Lot who loves too well," one of the few serious numbers in the opera; Sir Joseph Porter's song, "I am the Monarch of the Sea," with its irresistible choral refrain, "And so are his Sisters and his Cousins and his Aunts, his Sisters and his Cousins, whom he reckons by the Dozens," leading up to the satirical song, "When I was a Lad, I served a Term"; the stirring trio, "A British Tar is a Soaring Soul"; Captain Corcoran's sentimental ditty, "Fair Moon, to thee I sing"; Josephine's scena, "The Hours creep on apace," with its mock heroic recitative; Dick Deadeye's delightful song, "The Merry Maiden and the Tar"; the pretty octette and chorus, "Farewell, my own"; Little Buttercup's legend, "A many Years ago, when I was young and charming"; and the choral finale, "Then give three Cheers and one Cheer more." The Pirates of Penzance; or, The Slave of Duty. [Comic opera, in two acts; text by Gilbert. First produced in England at the Opéra Comique, April 3, 1880.] PERSONAGES. Maj.-Gen. Stanley. Pirate King. Samuel, his lieutenant. Frederic, the pirate apprentice. Sergeant of Police. Mabel, } Edith, } Kate, } Isabel, } Gen. Stanley's daughters. Ruth, a pirate maid of all work. [Pirates, police, etc.] The scene is laid on the coast of Cornwall; time, the present. "The Pirates of Penzance" has a local interest from the fact that it was first produced in New York on New Year's Eve, December 31, 1879, under the immediate supervision of both Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Gilbert. When the composer left England he had only finished the second act, and that was without orchestration. After his arrival here he wrote the first act and scored the entire opera. By this performance the profits of the representations in this country were secured. The work was not published until after their return to England. At the opening of the opera it is disclosed that Frederic, when a boy, in pursuance of his father's orders, was to have been apprenticed to a pilot until his twenty-first year, but by the mistake of his nurse-maid, Ruth, he was bound out to one of the pirates of Penzance, who were celebrated for their gentleness and never molested orphans because they were orphans themselves. In the first scene the pirates are making merry, as Frederic has reached his majority and is about to leave them and seek some other occupation. Upon the eve of departure Ruth requests him to marry her, and he consents, as he has never seen any other woman, but shortly afterwards he encounters the daughters of General Stanley, falls in love with Mabel, the youngest, and denounces Ruth as a deceiver. The pirates encounter the girls about the same time, and propose to marry them, but when the General arrives and announces that he is an orphan, they relent and allow the girls to go. The second act opens in the General's ancient baronial hall, and reveals him surrounded by his daughters, lamenting that he has deceived the pirates by calling himself an orphan. Frederic appears, and bids Mabel farewell, as he is about to lead an expedition for the extermination of the pirates. While he is alone, the Pirate King and Ruth visit him and show him the papers which bound him to them. It is stated in them that he is bound "until his twenty-first birthday," but as his birthday is the 29th of February, he has had but five. Led by his strong sense of duty, he decides that he will go back to his old associates. Then he tells them of the General's orphan story, which so enrages them that they swear vengeance. They come by night to carry off the General, but are overpowered by the police and sent to prison, where they confess they are English noblemen. Upon promising to give up their piratical career, they are pardoned, and this releases Frederic. The principal numbers in the first act are Ruth's song, "When Frederic was a Little Lad"; the Pirate King's song, "Oh! better far to live and die"; Frederic's sentimental song, "Oh! is there not one Maiden Breast"; Mabel's reply, "Poor Wandering One"; and the descriptive song of the General, "I am the very Pattern of a Modern Major-General," which reminds one of Sir Joseph's song, "When I was a Lad I served a Term," in "Pinafore," and Wells' song, "Oh! my Name is John Wellington Wells," in "The Sorcerer." The second act opens with a chorus of the daughters and solo by Mabel, "Dear Father, why leave your Bed." The remaining most popular numbers are the Tarantara of the Sergeant; the Pirate King's humorous chant, "For some Ridiculous Reason"; Mabel's ballad, "Oh, leave me not to pine," and the Sergeant's irresistible song, "When a Fellow's not engaged in his Employment," which has become familiar as a household word by frequent quotation. Patience; or, Bunthorne's Bride. [Comic opera, in two acts; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Opéra Comique, London, April 23, 1881.] PERSONAGES. Col. Calverley, } Major Murgatroyd, } Lieutenant the Duke of Dunstable, } officers of Dragoon Guards. Reginald Bunthorne, a fleshly poet. Archibald Grosvenor, an idyllic poet. Mr. Bunthorne's Solicitor. Lady Angela, } Lady Saphir, } Lady Ella, } Lady Jane, } rapturous maidens. Patience, a dairy-maid. [Guards, æsthetic maidens.] The scene is laid at Castle Bunthorne; time, the last century. The opera of "Patience" is a pungent satire upon the fleshly school of poetry as represented by Oscar Wilde and his imitators, as well as upon the fad for æsthetic culture which raged so violently a quarter of a century ago. Bunthorne, in one of his soliloquies, aptly expresses the hollowness of the sham,-- "I am _not_ fond of uttering platitudes In stained-glass attitudes; In short, my mediævalism's affectation Born of a morbid love of admiration." In these four lines Gilbert pricked the æsthetic bubble, and nothing did so much to end the fad of lank, languorous maidens, and long haired, sunflowered male æsthetes, as Gilbert's well-directed shafts of ridicule in this opera. The story of the opera tells of the struggle for supremacy over female hearts between an æsthetic (Bunthorne) and an idyllic poet (Grosvenor). In the opening scene lovesick maidens in clinging gowns, playing mandolins, sing plaintively of their love for Bunthorne. Patience, a healthy milkmaid, comes upon the scene, and makes fun of them, and asks them why they sit and sob and sigh. She announces to them that the Dragoon Guards will soon arrive, but although they doted upon Dragoons the year before they spurn them now and go to the door of Bunthorne to carol to him. The Guards duly arrive, and are hardly settled down when Bunthorne passes by in the act of composing a poem, followed by the twenty lovesick maidens. After finishing his poem he reads it to them, and they go off together, without paying any attention to the Dragoons, who declare they have been insulted and leave in a rage. Bunthorne, when alone, confesses to himself he is a sham, and at the close of his confession Patience comes in. He at once makes love to her, but only frightens her. She then confers with Lady Angela, who explains love to her, and tells her it is her duty to love some one. Patience declares she will not go to bed until she has fallen in love with some one, when Grosvenor, the idyllic poet and "apostle of simplicity," enters. He and Patience had been playmates in early childhood, and she promptly falls in love with him, though he is indifferent. In the closing scene Bunthorne, twined with garlands, is led in by the maidens, and puts himself up as a prize in a lottery; but the drawing is interrupted by Patience, who snatches away the papers and offers herself as a bride to Bunthorne, who promptly accepts her. The maidens then make advances to the Dragoons, but when Grosvenor appears they all declare their love for him. Bunthorne recognizes him as a dangerous rival, and threatens "he shall meet a hideous doom." The opening of the second act reveals Jane, an antique charmer, sitting by a sheet of water mourning because the fickle maidens have deserted Bunthorne, and because he has taken up with "a puling milkmaid," while she alone is faithful to him. In the next scene Grosvenor enters with the maidens, of whom he is tired. They soon leave him in low spirits, when Patience appears and tells him she loves him, but can never be his, for it is her duty to love Bunthorne. The latter next appears, followed by the antique Jane, who clings to him in spite of his efforts to get rid of her. He accuses Patience of loving Grosvenor, and goes off with Jane in a wildly jealous mood. In the next scene the Dragoons, to win favor with the maidens, transform themselves into a group of æsthetes. Bunthorne and Grosvenor finally meet, and Bunthorne taxes his rival with monopolizing the attentions of the young ladies. Grosvenor replies that he cannot help it, but would be glad of any suggestion that would lead to his being less attractive. Bunthorne tells him he must change his conversation, cut his hair, and have a back parting, and wear a commonplace costume. Grosvenor at first protests, but yields when threatened with Bunthorne's curse. In the finale, when it is discovered that Grosvenor has become a commonplace young man, the maidens decide that if "Archibald the All-Right" has discarded æstheticism, it is right for them to do so. Patience takes the same view of the case, and leaves Bunthorne for Grosvenor. The maidens find suitors among the Dragoons, and even the antique Jane takes up with the Duke, and Bunthorne is left alone with his lily, nobody's bride. The most popular musical numbers in the opera are the Colonel's song, "If you want a Receipt for that Popular Mystery"; Bunthorne's "wild, weird, fleshly" song, "What Time the Poet hath hymned," also his song, "If you're anxious for to shine"; the romantic duet of Patience and Grosvenor, "Prithee, Pretty Maiden"; the sextette, "I hear the Soft Note of the Echoing Voice"; Jane's song, "Silvered is the Raven Hair"; Patience's ballad, "Love is a Plaintive Song"; Grosvenor's fable of the magnet and the churn; the rollicking duet of Bunthorne and Grosvenor, "When I go out of Door," and the "prettily pattering, cheerily chattering" chorus in the finale of the last act. Iolanthe; or, The Peer and the Peri. [Comic opera, in two acts; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Savoy Theatre, London, November 25, 1882.] PERSONAGES. Lord Chancellor. Earl of Mountararat. Earl Tollaller. Private Willis, of the Grenadier Guards. Strephon, an Arcadian shepherd. Iolanthe, a fairy, Strephon's mother. Queen of the fairies. Celia, } Leila, } Fleta, } fairies. Phyllis, an Arcadian shepherdess and ward in Chancery. [Dukes, marquises, earls, viscounts, barons, and fairies] The scene is laid in Arcady and at Westminster; time, between 1700 and 1882. The first act of "Iolanthe" opens in Arcady. Iolanthe, a fairy, having offended her Queen by marrying a mortal, has been banished for life; but in the opening scene, after twenty years of exile, she is pardoned. She tells the Queen of her marriage, and her son Strephon, half a fairy and half a shepherd, who is engaged to Phyllis, a shepherdess, and ward in Chancery. At this point Strephon enters, and informs his mother that the Lord Chancellor will not permit him to marry Phyllis, but he will do so in spite of him. He curses his fairyhood, but the Queen says she has a borough at her disposal, and will return him to Parliament as a Liberal-Conservative. In the next scene Strephon meets Phyllis and pleads against delay in marriage, since the Lord Chancellor himself may marry her, and many of the lords are attentive to her. Meanwhile the lords meet to decide which one of them shall have Phyllis, the Lord Chancellor waiving his claim, as it might lay his decision open to misconstruction. Phyllis is summoned before them, but is deaf to all entreaties, and declares she is in love with Strephon, who has just entered. The peers march out in a dignified manner, while the Lord Chancellor separates Phyllis and Strephon and orders her away. He then refuses Strephon his suit, whereupon the latter invokes the aid of his fairy mother, who promises to lay the case before her Queen. In the finale the peers are seen leading Phyllis, who overhears something said by Strephon and Iolanthe which induces her to believe he is faithless, and she denounces him. He replies that Iolanthe is his mother, but cannot convince her. She charges him with deceit, and offers her hand to any one of the peers. He then appeals to the Queen, who threatens vengeance upon the peers and declares that Strephon shall go into Parliament. The peers beg her for mercy, and Phyllis implores Strephon to relent, but he casts her from him. The second act opens at Westminster. Strephon is in Parliament and carrying things with a high hand. Phyllis is engaged to two of the lords and cannot decide between them, nor can they settle the matter satisfactorily. Whereupon the Lord Chancellor decides to press his own suit for her hand. Strephon finally proves his birth to Phyllis and explains away all her fears. Iolanthe then acknowledges that the Lord Chancellor is her husband and pleads with him in Strephon's behalf. When she makes this confession, she is condemned to death for breaking her fairy vow. Thereupon all the fairies confess that they have married peers. As it is impracticable to kill them all, the Queen hunts up a husband, and finds one in Private Willis, the sentry in the palace yard. All the husbands join the fairies, and thus matters are straightened out. The music of "Iolanthe" is peculiarly refined and fanciful, and abounds in taking numbers. The best of these are Strephon's song, "Good Morrow"; the delightful duet between Strephon and Phyllis, "None shall part us from each other," one of the most felicitous of the composer's lighter compositions; the Lord Chancellor's song, "When I went to the Bar"; Strephon's charming ballad, "In Babyhood upon her Lap I lay"; Private Willis's song, "When all Night long a Chap remains"; the patter song of the Lord Chancellor, "When you're lying awake with a Dismal Headache"; the duet of Strephon and Phyllis, "If we're weak enough to tarry"; and Iolanthe's pretty ballad, "He loves! if in the Bygone Years." Princess Ida; or, Castle Adamant. [Comic opera, in three acts; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Savoy Theatre, London, January 5, 1884.] PERSONAGES. King Hildebrand. Hilarion, his son. Cyril, } Florian, } Hilarion's friends. King Gama. Avac, } Guron, } Scynthius, } Gama's sons. Princess Ida, Gama's daughter. Lady Blanche, Professor of Abstract Science. Lady Psyche, Professor of Humanities. Melissa, Lady Blanche's daughter. Sacharissa, } Chloe, } Ada, } girl graduates. [Soldiers, courtiers, girl graduates, "daughters of the plough," etc.] The scene is laid at King Hildebrand's palace and Castle Adamant; time, the present. "Princess Ida" is the least effective of the Sullivan operas. Its libretto is also the least effective of the Gilbert stories set to the former's music. At the time it was written the composer was depressed by a severe family affliction, and at the same time had met the misfortune of losing all his savings through the failure of those to whom he had intrusted them. It may have been also that the labored and heavy style of the story had something to do with the dry and somewhat forced style of the music, as well as its lack of the brightness and fancy which are so apparent in "Pinafore" and "Patience." The first act opens at King Hildebrand's palace, where the courtiers are watching for the arrival of King Gama and his daughter, the Princess Ida, who has been promised in marriage to Hilarion, Hildebrand's son. When Gama finally comes, Ida is not with him, and he explains to the enraged Hildebrand that she is at Castle Adamant, one of his country houses, where she is president of a woman's university. Gama and his three sons, Avac, Guron, and Scynthius, are seized and held as hostages for her appearance, and in the mean time Hilarion, and his two friends, Cyril and Florian, determine to go to Castle Adamant and see if they cannot make some impression upon the Princess. The second act opens at Castle Adamant, and discloses the pupils of the university in discourse with Lady Psyche, the Professor of Humanities, and Lady Blanche, Professor of Abstract Science, who is ambitious to get control of the institution. Hilarion and his two friends scale the wall and get into the grounds, and finding some academic robes they disguise themselves as girls. They first meet the Princess and explain to her that they wish to enter the university, to which she gives her consent upon their subscription to the rules. They sign with enthusiasm, especially when they discover that there is one which requires them to give the fulness of their love to the hundred maidens of the university. Shortly afterwards they encounter Lady Psyche, who recognizes Florian as her brother. They tell their secret to her. Melissa, the daughter of Lady Blanche, overhears them, and is in raptures at her first sight of men. She discloses to her mother what she has discovered, but urges her not to speak of it, for if Hilarion is successful in his suit she (the Lady Blanche) may succeed to the presidency. At the luncheon, however, the Princess discovers she is entertaining three men and flees from the spot. In crossing a bridge she falls into the river, but is rescued by Hilarion. Her anger is not appeased by his gallantry, and she orders the arrest of the three. As they are marched off, there is a tumult outside. Hildebrand, with an armed force and with his four hostages, has arrived, and gives the Princess until the morrow afternoon to release Hilarion and become his bride. The last act opens with the preparations of the Princess and her pupils to defend themselves, but one after the other their courage deserts them. Gama proposes that his three sons shall be pitted against Hilarion and his two friends, and if the latter are defeated the Princess shall be free. In the contest Gama's sons are defeated, whereupon the Princess at once resigns and accepts Hilarion. The Lady Psyche falls to Cyril, and the delighted Melissa to Florian, and it is to be presumed the presidency of the Woman's College falls to Lady Blanche. As has already been intimated, the music as a whole is labored, but there are some numbers that are fully up to the Sullivan standard; among them Hilarion's ballad, "Ida was a twelvemonth old"; Gama's characteristic song, "If you give me your Attention," and the trio of Gama's sons, "For a Month to dwell," in the first act: the Princess's long aria, "At this my Call"; Lady Blanche's song, "Come, Mighty Must"; Lady Psyche's sarcastic evolution song, "A Lady Fair of Lineage High"; Cyril's song, "Would you know the Kind of Maid"; and Hilarion's song, "Whom thou hast chained must wear his Chain," in the second act: and the Princess's song, "I built upon a Rock"; Gama's song, "Whene'er I spoke Sarcastic Joke"; the soldiers' chorus, "When Anger spreads his Wing"; and the finale, "With Joy abiding," in the third act. The Mikado; or, The Town of Titipu. [Comic opera, in two acts; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Savoy Theatre, London, March 14, 1885.] PERSONAGES. Mikado of Japan. Nanki-Poo, his son, disguised as a minstrel, in love with Yum-Yum. Ko-Ko, Lord High Executioner of Titipu. Pooh-Bah, Lord High Everything Else. Pish-Tush, a noble lord. Yum-Yum, } Pitti-Sing, } Peep-Bo, } three sisters, wards of Ko-Ko. Katisha, an elderly lady, in love with Nanki-Poo. [School girls, nobles, guards, and coolies.] The scene is laid in Japan; time, the present. That the "Princess Ida," ineffective as it is in some respects, did not indicate that the resources of Gilbert and Sullivan were exhausted, is shown by the great success of both in "The Mikado," which immediately followed it. This charming travesty of Japan, with the exception perhaps of "Pinafore," has proved to be the most popular of the Sullivan operas, and has even made an impression in Germany. It has been an equal success for both the musician and the librettist, and still retains its freshness and vivacity after seventeen years of performance. The story of "The Mikado" is so well known that it need not be given with much fulness of detail. Nanki-Poo, the Mikado's son, is in love with Yum-Yum, the ward of the tailor Ko-Ko, who is also Lord High Executioner, and to whom she is betrothed, as Nanki-Poo is informed by Pooh-Bah, when he comes to Titipu in quest of her. Pooh-Bah, who accepted all the offices of the Ministers of State after their resignations when Ko-Ko was made Lord High Executioner, is also "the retailer of state secrets at a low figure," and furnishes much of the delightful comedy of the opera. Nanki-Poo nevertheless manages to secure an interview with Yum-Yum, confesses to her he is the Mikado's son, and that he is in disguise to escape punishment for not marrying the elderly Katisha. Ko-Ko's matrimonial arrangements are interfered with by a message from the Mikado, that unless some one is beheaded in Titipu within a month he will be degraded. Nanki-Poo consents to be beheaded if he is allowed to marry Yum-Yum and live with her for the month. This being satisfactory, the arrangements for the nuptials are made. The second act opens with Yum-Yum's preparations for her marriage. A _tête-à-tête_ with Nanki-Poo is interrupted by Ko-Ko, who announces that by the law when a married man is beheaded his wife must be burned alive. This cools Yum-Yum's passion, and to save her Nanki-Poo threatens to perform the Happy Despatch that day. As this would endanger Ko-Ko, he arranges to swear to a false statement of Nanki-Poo's execution. Suddenly the Mikado arrives. Ko-Ko gives him the statement, but a great danger is imminent when the Mikado informs him he has killed the heir apparent and must suffer some horrible punishment. In the dénouement Nanki-Poo reappears, and Ko-Ko gets out of trouble by marrying the ancient Katisha, leaving Yum-Yum to Nanki-Poo. The opera abounds in charming lyrics, though with a single exception, a march chorus in the second act, "Miya sama, miya sama," there is no local color to the music, as might have been expected in an opera entirely Japanese in its subject and dramatic treatment. Its lyrics are none the less delightful on that account. The most popular numbers in the first act are Ko-Ko's song, with its choral response, "You may put 'em on the List and they never will be missed"; the fascinating trio for Yum-Yum, Peep-Bo, and Pitti-Sing, "Three Little Maids from School are we"; Nanki-Poo's song, "A Wandering Minstrel"; and the trio for Ko-Ko, Pooh-Bah, and Pish-Tush, "My Brain, it teems." The leading numbers of the second act are Yum-Yum's song, "The Sun, whose Rays"; the quartette, "Brightly dawns our Wedding-Day"; the Mikado's song, "A more Humane Mikado never"; Ko-Ko's romantic ballad, "On a Tree by a River a little Tomtit," which is in the genuine old English manner, and the well-known duet for Nanki-Poo and Ko-Ko, "The Flowers that bloom in the Spring, tra la." Ruddygore; or, The Witch's Curse. [Comic opera, in two acts; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Savoy Theatre, London, January 22, 1887.] PERSONAGES. Robin Oakapple, a young farmer. Richard Dauntless, his foster brother and man-o'-war's man. Sir Despard Murgatroyd, the wicked Baronet. Old Adam Goodheart, Robin's faithful servant. Rose Maybud, a village maiden. Mad Margaret. Dame Hannah, Rose's aunt. Zorah, } Ruth, } professional bridesmaids. Six Murgatroyd Ghosts. Sir Roderic Murgatroyd, twenty-first Baronet. [Officers, ancestors, and professional bridesmaids.] The scene is laid in Cornwall; time, early in the last century. Although "Ruddygore," a satire upon the old English melodramas, has not been as successful as some of the other Sullivan operas, it is as entertaining as any in the series, while the story, with its grotesque dramatic features, is peculiarly Gilbertian in its humor. The first act opens in Cornwall. Sir Rupert Murgatroyd, the first of the baronets, employed his leisure in persecuting witches and committing other crimes. The chorus of "the legend," sung by Hannah, an old spinster, prophesies that each Murgatroyd will die "with sinning cloyed." To avoid this fate, the last inheritor of the title, Sir Ruthven, secludes himself under the name of Robin Oakapple, in the Cornish village of Rederring, and his younger brother, Despard, believing him to be dead, succeeds to the title. Robin, who is shy and modest, is in love with Rose, a foundling, who is very discreet. The love-making lags, and meanwhile Richard, his foster brother, a man-o'-war's man, returns from sea, and so commiserates Robin that he offers to plead his case with Rose. Instead of that he pleads his own case, and is accepted by her, much to the disappointment of Robin, who supports Richard's claim, however. Robin's younger brother, Sir Despard, next appears, and hears from Richard of the existence of the brother whom he had thought dead. He thereupon claims Robin as his elder brother, and Rose shows her preference for Sir Despard, who is also claimed by Mad Margaret, a village maiden, whom he had mistreated when he was under the influence of the Murgatroyd curse. The second act opens in the picture gallery of Ruddygore Castle. Robin and Adam, his faithful servant, are in the gallery, the former as Sir Ruthven, and Adam as Gideon Crawle, a new name he has taken. The new Sir Ruthven is under the curse, and asks his servant to suggest some daily crime for him to commit. The strong scene of the act is the coming to life of the various baronets whose portraits hang upon the walls, and their announcement that Robin will die in fearful agony unless he abducts some lady, it matters not whom. In the dénouement it is revealed that a Ruddygore baron can only die through refusing to commit the daily crime, but that such a refusal is tantamount to suicide. Hence none of the ancestors ought to have died at all, and they come back to life greatly to the delight of the professional bridesmaids, and Rose and Robin are at last united. The principal numbers in the first act are the weird legend, "Sir Rupert Murgatroyd, his Leisure and his Riches," sung by Hannah; Richard's breezy sea song, "I shipped, d' ye see, in a Revenue Sloop"; the very tuneful chorus of the bridesmaids, "Hail the Bridegroom, hail the Bride"; Mad Margaret's whimsical song, "Cheerily carols the Lark"; the melodious chorus of the bucks and blades, "When thoroughly tired of being admired"; Sir Despard's song, with its alternating choral refrains, "Oh, why am I moody and sad"; the madrigal, "Where the Buds are blossoming," written in the early English style, and supported by the chorus; and the charming gavotte leading to the finale, which contains some admirable duet and trio numbers. The leading numbers of the second act are the opening duet for Robin and Adam, "I once was as meek as a New-born Lamb," with a most melodramatic "Ha ha," followed by another charming duet for Richard and Rose, with choral refrain, "Happily coupled are we"; the weird song of Sir Roderic, "When the Night Wind howls in the Chimney Cowls," which is finely artistic in construction; the patter trio for Robin, Despard, and Margaret, "My Eyes are fully open to my Awful Situation"; Hannah's pretty ballad, "There grew a Little Flower"; and the brilliant finale, beginning with Robin's number, "Having been a Wicked Baronet a Week." The Yeoman of the Guard; or, The Merry Man and his Maid. [Comic opera, in two acts; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Savoy Theatre, October 3, 1888.] PERSONAGES. Sir Richard Cholmondeley, lieutenant of the Tower. Col. Fairfax, under sentence of death. Sergt. Meryll, of the Yeomen of the Guard. Leonard Meryll, his son. Jack Point, a strolling jester. Wilfred Shadbolt, head jailer of the Tower. Headsman. Elsie Maynard, a strolling singer. Phoebe Meryll, Sergt. Meryll's daughter. Dame Carruthers, housekeeper to the Tower. Kate, her niece. [Yeomen of the guard, gentlemen, citizens, etc.] The scene is laid at Tower Green, London; time, the sixteenth century. Although "The Yeomen of the Guard" has not enjoyed the popularity of some others of Sullivan's works, the composer himself believed it to be the best of his operas. The music is in some numbers a parody of the old English; the story is melodramatic. Colonel Fairfax has been sentenced to death for sorcery. As he has twice saved the life of Sergeant Meryll in battle, the latter and his daughter, Phoebe, are anxious to save him also. The chance comes when the brother of Phoebe, who has been appointed a yeoman of the Guard, is induced to let Fairfax take his place in the ranks. The latter is brought in to the lieutenant of the Tower and declares his readiness to die, but asks, as he has been condemned for sorcery through the machinations of one of his kinsmen who will succeed to the estate in case he dies unmarried, that he will find him some one whom he can marry at once. Elsie Maynard, a strolling singer, happens along with Jack Point, a jester, and she agrees for a money consideration to be married blindfolded to Fairfax, provided she can leave immediately after the ceremony. She marries him, and then the question arises how to get the yeoman suit to Fairfax in his cell and let him escape, as the keys are in the possession of Wilfred, the head jailer, who is in love with Phoebe. The problem is solved by Phoebe, who steals the keys, releases Fairfax, and returns them before Wilfred discovers their absence. The executioner comes forward, and the first act closes as he is waiting for his victim. The second act discloses the civilians and Dame Carruthers denouncing the warders for permitting their prisoner to escape. Point arranges with Wilfred that if he will discharge his arquebus and state that he has killed Fairfax he shall be a jester. When the shot is heard, Wilfred and Point notify the governor that Fairfax is dead. Dame Carruthers enters and informs Meryll that from what she has heard Elsie mutter in her sleep she is sure Fairfax is the man she married. Fairfax, in order to test her, makes love to Elsie in Point's interests, but ends by falling in love with her himself. In the dénouement, Leonard, son of Sergeant Meryll, arrives with a pardon which had been kept back by Fairfax's kinsmen. Now that he is free, Fairfax claims Elsie, Phoebe consents to marry Wilfred, and the sergeant surrenders to Dame Carruthers. The music is in humorous imitation of the antique, in which kind of work Sullivan is always happy. The choruses are interesting, especially the opening double one, "Tower Warders under Orders," which is swinging and tuneful. The principal numbers in the first act are Dame Carruthers' song with chorus, "When our Gallant Norman Foes"; Fairfax's sentimental song, "Is Life a Boon"; the irresistibly funny chorus, both in music and words, "Here's a Man of Jollity, jibe, joke, jollify; give us of your Quality, come, Fool, follify"; the extremely melodramatic duet for Elsie and Point, "I have a Song to sing"; Point's recitative and song, "I've Jest and Joke"; Elsie's pretty ballad, "'Tis done! I am a Bride"; Phoebe's graceful song, "Were I thy Bride"; and the trio in the finale, "To thy Fraternal Care." The leading numbers of the second act are Point's rollicking song, "Oh! a Private Buffoon is a Light-hearted Loon"; Fairfax's ballad, "Free from his Fetters Grim"; the quartette, "Strange Adventure! Maiden wedded"; the trio, "If he's made the Best Use of his Time," and the quartette, "When a Wooer goes a-wooing," which leads through a melodramatic ensemble to the finale, "Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me, lackadaydee! He sipped no sup and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladyee." The Gondoliers; or, The King of Barataria. [Comic opera, in two acts; text by Gilbert. First produced at the Savoy Theatre, London, December 7, 1889.] PERSONAGES. Duke of Plaza-Toro, a grandee of Spain. Luiz, his attendant. Don Alhambra del Bolero, the Grand Inquisitor. Duchess of Plaza-Toro. Casilda, her daughter. [Gondoliers, contadine, men-at-arms, heralds, and pages.] The scene is laid in Venice; time, the year 1750. "The Gondoliers" will always bring a feeling of regret to the admirers of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, as it was their last joint production. It was during its run at the London theatre that their partnership was dissolved after the extraordinary collaboration of twenty-three years. Both were at their best in their Swan Song. "The Gondoliers" is not so much melodrama or pleasant satire as it is genuine comedy. Among all the Gilbert books which he furnished the composer, none is more delightful or more full of his rollicking humor than this. The story opens in Venice. The contadine are weaving garlands for the two favorite gondoliers, Marco and Giuseppe, who, as they have no preference, make their choice blindfolded, and secure Tessa and Gianetta for their brides. As all gayly dance off, a gondola arrives with the Spanish Duke of Plaza-Toro, the Duchess, their daughter Casilda, and Luiz, their attendant. While waiting for an audience with the Grand Inquisitor, the Duke tells Casilda the object of their visit. When she was an infant she was married by proxy to the infant son of the King of Barataria. When the latter abandoned the creed of his fathers and became a Methodist, the Inquisitor had the young husband stolen and taken to Venice. Now that the King is dead, they have come to find the husband, and proclaim Casilda queen. During the audience the Inquisitor announces that the husband is a gondolier, and that the person who brought him up had "such a terrible taste for tippling" that he was never certain which child had been intrusted to him, his own or the other. The nurse, however, who is Luiz's mother, would know, and he would induce her to tell in the torture chamber. Shortly afterwards the Inquisitor meets the newly wedded gondoliers, Marco and Giuseppe, and decides that one or the other of them is the new King, but as he cannot tell which, he arranges that both of them shall rule until the nurse can be found and made to settle the matter. Thereupon they bid their wives good-by, and sail away for Barataria. The second act discloses the two Kings upon the thrones. While they are cleaning the crown and sceptre, and their friends, the gondoliers, are playing cards, contadine arrive with Tessa and Gianetta. The delighted Kings give them a grand banquet and ball, but the dance is interrupted by the Inquisitor, who informs them that the ducal party will shortly arrive, and that Casilda will claim one of them for her husband. When Tessa and Gianetta realize that neither of them can be Queen, they begin to weep, but are somewhat comforted when the Inquisitor assures them they will not be kept long in suspense as the foster-mother is in the torture chamber. In the dénouement she confesses that the late King intrusted the Prince to her, and when traitors came to steal him she substituted her own son and kept the Prince in hiding, and that Luiz is the real Prince. Thereupon Luiz ascends the throne with Casilda as his queen, and Marco and Guiseppe sail joyfully back to Venice with Tessa and Gianetta. The music is of Sullivan's best. He has reproduced in the score the old Italian forms, employs the legitimate modern ballad and song styles, and introduces also the "patter" songs and the "chant" songs which are so common in his other operas. Besides this, he has given strong local color with fandangoes, boleros, cachucas, and other dance rhythms. The best numbers are the ensemble for Marco and Giuseppe, "We're called Gondolieri"; the pompous song of the Duke, "In Enterprise of Martial Kind"; the serious duet for Casilda and Luiz, "There was a Time"; the Inquisitor's song, "I stab the Prince"; Tessa's beautiful song, "When a Merry Maiden marries"; the frolicsome quartette, "Then one of us will be a Queen"; the song of Marco with chorus, "For every one who feels inclined"; the characteristic song of Giuseppe, "Rising early in the Morning"; the gay and fascinating ensemble, "We will dance a Cachuca," with the brilliant dance music that follows it; the song of the Inquisitor, "There lived a King"; the ensemble, "In a Contemplative Fashion," a quiet movement with alternating comments by chorus, reaching a crescendo and then returning to the original movement, one of the most effective numbers in the opera; the Duchess' song, "On the Day when I was Wedded"; and the quintette in the finale, "I am a Courtier Grave and Serious." SUPPÉ, FRANZ VON. Fatinitza. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Zell and Genée. First produced in Vienna, January 5, 1876.] PERSONAGES. Count Timofey Gavrilovich Kantschakoff, Russian General. Princess Lydia Imanovna, his niece. Izzet Pasha, governor of Rustchuk fortress. Capt. Vasil Staravieff. Lieut. Ossipp Safonoff. Steipann, a sergeant. Vladimir Samoiloff, lieutenant of cavalry. Julian, special war correspondent. Hassan Bey, leader of Bashi-Bazouks. Mustapha, guardian of the harem. Vuika, a Bulgarian. Hanna, his wife. [Soldiers, Bashi-Bazouks, Cossacks, slaves, moujiks, etc.] The scene is laid at Rustchuk and near Odessa; time, the last century. Franz Von Suppé has been styled the German Offenbach, though the styles of the two composers differ widely. His operas are more purely comic operas, or operettas, than burlesques. He made his first success with an operetta, "Das Mädchen vom Lande" ("The Country Girl"), produced in Vienna in 1847, and his next work, a musical comedy called "Paragraph 3," made him known all over Germany. His entire list of light operas, musical farces, and vaudevilles includes over one hundred and sixty titles, but of these only two or three are well known in this country. "Fatinitza" is the best known, and is universally popular. The story is an interesting one. Vladimir Samoiloff, a young lieutenant in the Russian army, while masquerading in girl's costume under the name of Fatinitza, encounters a Russian general, Count Timofey Kantschakoff, who falls desperately in love with him. He manages to escape from him, and subsequently meets the General's niece, the Princess Lydia, whom he knows only as Lydia, and the two fall in love. Hearing of the attachment, the General transfers the young officer to the Russian outposts. The first act opens in camp at Rustchuk. Julian, a war correspondent, has just been brought in as a spy, but is recognized by Vladimir as an old friend. They plan private theatricals, in which Vladimir takes a female part. The General unexpectedly appears at the play, and recognizes Vladimir as his Fatinitza. When the opportunity presents itself, he resumes his love-making, but it is interrupted by the arrival of Lydia, whose noble rank Vladimir learns for the first time. Any danger of recognition, however, is averted by the correspondent, who tells Lydia that Fatinitza is Vladimir's sister. The doting old General commends Fatinitza to the Princess, and goes off to inspect his troops. In his absence some Bashi-Bazouks surprise the camp and capture Lydia, Vladimir, and Julian, leaving the latter behind to arrange a ransom. The second act opens in the harem of Izzet Pasha, governor of the Turkish fortress. Vladimir, in his female attire, and Lydia are brought in as captives, and the Pasha announces to his four wives that Lydia will be the fifth. Julian then arrives with the Russian sergeant, Steipann, to arrange for the release of his friends. The Pasha offers to give up Fatinitza, but declares he will retain Lydia. Steipann returns to the General with the Pasha's terms, carrying also a secret message from Julian, who has discovered how the Russians may capture the Turks. Julian remains with the Pasha, who gives him many entertainments, among them a shadow pantomime, during which the General and his soldiers rush in and rescue their friends. The third act opens in the General's summer palace at Odessa. He has promised his niece to an old and crippled friend of his, but Julian once more straightens out matters by convincing the General that the real Fatinitza has died of grief because she was separated from him. Thereupon he consents to his niece's union with Fatinitza's brother, Vladimir. The principal numbers of the first act are Vladimir's romance, in the sentimental vein, "Lost is the Dream that bound me"; the reporter's (Julian) jolly descriptive song, "With my Notebook in my Hand"; the pompously martial entrance song of General Kantschakoff, "Thunder! Lightning! who goes there?" which forcibly recalls General Boum's "Pif, paf, pouf" song in Offenbach's "Grand Duchess"; Lydia's sleighing-song, "When the Snow a Veil is flinging"; and the quartette in the next scene, "Not a Look shall tell," in the mock Italian style. The second act opens with the characteristic toilet chorus in the harem, "Washing, dressing, brushing, combing." The remaining most striking numbers are Izzet's song and dance, "I pine but for Progress"; the pretty duet for Vladimir and Lydia, "New Doubts, New Fears"; the effective sextette, "'Tis well; then learn that this young Russian"; the brilliant kismet duet for Izzet and Julian, "We are simply what Fortune pleases"; the sextette in the finale, "Silver Tinklings, ringing brightly," known as the Bell Sextette; and the characteristic music to the Karagois, or Turkish shadow pantomime, which forms a second finale. The leading numbers of the last act are Lydia's bell song, "Chime, ye Bells," accompanied by the ringing of bells on the stage, and distant shots; the trio for Lydia, Vladimir, and Julian, "Again, Love, we meet," which is one of the most effective bits in the opera; and the brilliant closing chorus, "Joy, Joy, Joy, to the Bride." Boccaccio. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Zell and Genée. First produced at the Carl Theatre, Vienna, February 1, 1879.] PERSONAGES. Boccaccio, novelist and poet. Leonetto, his friend and student. Pietro, Prince of Palermo. Lutteringhi, a cooper. Lambertuccio, a grocer. Scalza, a barber. Fratelli, a bookseller. Checco, a beggar. Fresco, the cooper's apprentice. Fiametta, Lambertuccio's adopted daughter. Beatrice, Scalza's daughter. Isabella, Lutteringhi's wife. Peronella, Lambertuccio's sister. Filippa. Oretta. [Beggars, students, citizens, coopers, courtiers, etc.] The scene is laid in Florence; time, near the close of the fourteenth century. Suppé is fond of introducing real characters among the personages of his operas, and in this one, which has become such a favorite, sharing equally in popularity with "Fatinitza," we find Boccaccio of the "Decameron," and the Fiametta whom he has immortalized in it (the Princess Maria of Naples, with whom he fell violently in love) masquerading as the adopted daughter of Lambertuccio, the grocer. In the opera he is rewarded with her hand in the finale. In reality, Maria, the Fiametta of the "Decameron," was already the wife of another when Boccaccio was enamoured of her. She died long before her lover, but her memory was cherished by him, as in the case of Beatrice and Dante, and to her we owe undoubtedly the collection of tales in the "Decameron" which furnished such abundant material to subsequent poets, story-tellers, and dramatists. The story of the opera is a simple one. Pietro, the Prince of Palermo, is to be married to Fiametta in accordance with the wishes of his father, and goes to Florence for that purpose. The Duke, her father, for reasons of his own, has had her reared as the adopted daughter of Lambertuccio, a grocer, who was not aware of her royal birth and intends that she shall marry Pietro, to whom she was betrothed in infancy. On his way to Florence Pietro falls in with a madcap lot of students, whose leader is Boccaccio, and he joins them in many of their pranks. Boccaccio himself has incurred the anger of the Florentine men for having ridiculed them in his stories, and he too is in love with Fiametta. Pietro among his other adventures has made love to a married woman whom the students induced him to believe was the niece instead of the wife of Lutteringhi, the cooper. He has the misfortune before presenting himself to the Duke and Fiametta to be mistaken for Boccaccio and to receive a sound beating. In the dénouement, when he is about to be united to Fiametta for reasons of state, Boccaccio, knowing that he is loved by her, arranges a play in which the misdeeds of Pietro are set forth in such strong light that she refuses the latter and gives her hand to the poet. The most popular numbers in the opera are the serenade to Beatrice, "Lovely Charmer, hear these Sounds"; Boccaccio's song with chorus, "I see a Gay Young Fellow standing nigh"; the charming duet for Fiametta and Peronetta, "Listen to the Bells' Sweet Chime"; Fiametta's romanza, "If I have but Affection"; the duet for Boccaccio and Fiametta, "A Poor Blind Man implores your Aid"; Leonetto's song, opening the second act, "The Girl of my Heart's a Treasure"; the cooper's rollicking song, "My Wife has a Scolding Tongue"; the coquette song by Isabella, "Young Maidens must beware"; the "cretin" song by Boccaccio, "When they ask me for the News"; the graceful waltz song by Fiametta, "Blissful Tidings, reassuring"; the rollicking drinking-song of Pietro, "See the Goblet flash and sparkle"; the duet for Boccaccio and Fiametta, "Mia bella fiorentina," in the Italian style; and the sextette, "Ye Foolish Men," which leads up to the finale of the last act. The Beautiful Galatea. [Opéra comique, in two acts; text by Zell and Genée. First produced in Vienna, 1865.] PERSONAGES. Galatea, the statue. Ganymede, Greek boy. Pygmalion, sculptor. Midas, art patron. [Chorus of Grecians.] The scene is laid in Greece; time, mythological. The opera of "Die Schöne Galatea" ("The Beautiful Galatea"), though of slight construction, is one of Suppé's most melodious works, while the story is a clever setting of the familiar mythological romance in a somewhat modern frame, in which respect it resembles the stories of Helen of Troy and Orpheus and Eurydice, which Offenbach so cleverly travestied. The first act opens with a graceful chorus of Grecians on their way to worship at the temple of Venus, at dawn ("Aurora is awaking in Heaven above"). Ganymede, Pygmalion's servant, declines to go with them, preferring to sleep, and bids them good-by with a lullaby ("With Violets, with Roses, let the Temple be decked"). His master, Pygmalion, who has finished a statue of Galatea, his ideal, also goes to the temple, and Ganymede decides to take a nap. His slumbers are interrupted, however, by Midas, a professional art patron, who has heard of the statue and informs Ganymede that he is ready to buy it, but first wishes to see it. The servant declares it is impossible, as his master is in love with it. Midas makes a further appeal to him in a long descriptive arietta ("My Dear Father Gordias") in which he boasts of his abilities, his patronage, and his conquests. He finally bribes Ganymede to show it to him, and as he stands gazing at it and praising its loveliness, Pygmalion, who has suddenly returned, enters and upbraids them. After a spirited trio, "Boiling Rage I feel within me," Ganymede takes to his heels and Midas is driven out. When Pygmalion is alone with the statue, a sudden impulse moves him to destroy it because it has been polluted by Midas's glances, but his hand is stayed as he hears the chorus of the returning worshippers, and he makes an impassioned appeal to Venus ("Venus, oh, see, I fly to thee") to give life to the marble. Venus answers his prayer. The statue comes to life, and Galatea falls in love with Pygmalion, the first man she has seen, which gives an opportunity for a charming number, the Awakening Duet ("I feel so warm, so sweet"), and for a solo closing the act ("Lightly sways and gently sweeps"). The second act opens with the couplets of Ganymede ("We Grecians"), at the close of which he espies Galatea gathering flowers. As soon as the fickle Galatea sees Ganymede, she falls in love with him because he is younger and handsomer than Pygmalion. As they are discoursing admiringly, Midas appears and recognizes Galatea, and proceeds to woo her with offers of jewels. A pretty trio follows, "See the Trinkets I have brought you." She accepts his trinkets and his money, but declines to accept him. As they are negotiating, Pygmalion returns. Ganymede once more takes to his heels, and Galatea conceals Midas by putting him on the pedestal behind the screen where she had stood. She then hides her jewels, and tells Pygmalion she is hungry. Ganymede is summoned and arranges the table, and they sit down, the servant with them at Galatea's request. She sings a brilliant drinking-song ("Bright in Glass the Foaming Fluid pass"), in which Pygmalion and Ganymede join. During the banquet Midas is discovered behind the screen, and Pygmalion also learns of Galatea's fickle conduct later, when he surprises her and Ganymede in a pretty love scene ("Ah, I'm drawn to Thee"). By this time Pygmalion is so enraged that he prays Venus to let her become a statue again. The goddess graciously consents, and the sculptor promptly gets rid of Galatea by selling her to Midas. THOMAS, CHARLES AMBROISE. Mignon. [Opéra comique, in three acts; text by Barbier and Carré. First produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, November 17, 1866.] PERSONAGES. Mignon. Wilhelm Meister, a student. Laertes, an actor. Frederic, an admirer of Filina. Lotario, Mignon's father in disguise of a harper. Filina, an actress. [Actors, gypsies, etc.] The scene is laid in Germany and Italy; time, the last century. The story of "Mignon," Thomas's universally popular opera, is based upon Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister." Mignon, the heroine, who is of noble birth, was stolen in her childhood by gypsies. Her mother died shortly afterwards, and her father, disguised as Lotario, the harper, has long and vainly sought for her. At the opening of the opera, a strolling band of actors, among them Filina and Laertes, arrive at a German inn on their way to the castle of a neighboring prince, where they are to perform. At the same time a gypsy band appears and arranges to give the guests an entertainment. Mignon, who is with the band, is ordered to dance, but being tired, she refuses. The leader of the band rushes at her, but Lotario, the old harper, intercedes in her behalf, whereupon he is singled out for assault, but is saved by the wandering student, Wilhelm Meister. To spare her any further persecution, he engages her as his page, and they follow on in the suite of Filina, to whom he is devoted. Touched by his kindness to her, Mignon falls in love with him; but he, ignorant of her passion, becomes more and more a victim to the actress's fascinations. When they arrive at the castle, all enter except Mignon, who is left outside. Maddened by jealousy, she is about to drown herself, but is restrained by the notes of Lotario's harp. She rushes to him for counsel, and invokes vengeance upon all in the castle. After the entertainment the guests come out, and Filina sends Mignon in for some flowers she has left. Suddenly flames appear in the window. Lotario has fired the castle. Wilhelm rushes in and brings out the insensible Mignon in his arms. In the dénouement Wilhelm discovers her attachment to him, and frees himself from Filina's fascinations. A casket containing a girdle Mignon had worn in childhood, a prayer which she repeats, and the picture of her mother convince Lotario that she is his daughter, and Wilhelm and Mignon are united. The leading numbers of the first act are the quintette immediately following the rescue of Mignon by Wilhelm; the romanza, "Non conosci il bel suol" ("Know'st thou the Land"), a song full of tender beauty and rare expression; the duet which immediately follows it, "Leggiadre rondinelli" ("Oh, Swallows Blithe"), known as the Swallow Duet, and of almost equal beauty with the romanza: and the graceful aria, "Grazia al gentil signore" ("You'll come with us"), in which Filina invites Wilhelm to join them. The best numbers in the second act are the trio, "Ohimè quell' acre riso" ("Alas! her Bitter Laugh"); Filina's gay, coquettish aria, "Gai complimenti" ("Brilliant Compliments"); Mignon's exquisite and characteristic song, "Conosco un zingarello" ("A Gypsy Lad I well do know"), which the composer himself calls the "Styrienne"; a bewitching rondo-gavotte, "Ci sono" ("I'm here at last"), sung by the love-lorn Frederic; Wilhelm's pathetic farewell to Mignon, "Addio, Mignon! fa core" ("Farewell, Mignon, take Heart"); the beautiful duet for Mignon and Lotario, "Sofferto hai tu" ("Hast thou e'er suffered"); and the polacca in the fourth scene, which is a perfect _feu de joie_ of sparkling music, closing with an extremely brilliant cadenza. The last act is more dramatic than musical, though it contains a few delightful numbers. Among them are the chorus barcarole in the first scene, "Orsù, scioglian le vele" ("Quick, the Sails unfurl"); a song by Wilhelm, "Ah, non credea" ("Ah, little Thought"), and the love duet, "Ah, son felice" ("Ah, I am happy"), in which is heard again the cadenza of Filina's polacca. WALLACE, WILLIAM VINCENT. Maritana. [Romantic opera, in three acts; text by Fitzball. First produced at Drury Lane Theatre, London, November 15, 1845.] PERSONAGES. Charles the Second, King of Spain. Don Jose de Santarem, his minister. Don Cæsar de Bazan. Marquis de Montefiori. Lazarillo. Maritana, a gitana. Marchioness de Montefiori. [Nobles, alquazils, soldiers, gypsies, populace, etc.] The scene is laid in Madrid; time of Charles the Second. The story of "Maritana" is founded upon the well-known play of "Don Cæsar de Bazan." At the opening of the first act a band of gypsies, Maritana among them, are singing to the people. The young King Charles listening to her is fascinated by her beauty. Don José, for reasons of his own, extols her charms and arouses her hopes for a brilliant future. At this point Don Cæsar de Bazan, a reckless, rollicking cavalier, once a friend of Don José, makes his appearance. He has parted with the last of his money to gamblers, and while he is relating his misfortunes to Don José, Lazarillo, a forlorn lad who has just tried to make away with himself, accosts Don Cæsar and tells him a piteous tale. The Don befriends, and thereby becomes involved in a duel. This leads to his arrest for duelling in Holy Week, which is forbidden on pain of death. While Don Cæsar sets off for the prison, Don José promises Maritana speedy marriage and presentation at court. The second act opens in the prison. Don José enters, and professes great sympathy for Don Cæsar. When asked if he has any last request, he begs to die like a soldier. Don José agrees that he shall not die an ignominious death if he will marry. He consents, and is also treated to a banquet, during which Lazarillo delivers a paper to Don José containing the royal pardon of Don Cæsar, but Don José conceals it. Maritana, her features disguised by a veil, is married to the Don, but at the expiration of an hour he is led out to meet his fate. The soldiers fire at him, but he escapes, as Lazarillo has managed to abstract the bullets from their guns. He feigns death, and when the opportunity presents itself hurries to a ball at the Montefiori palace, and arrives just as the Marquis, who has had his instructions from Don José, is introducing Maritana as his niece. Don Cæsar demands his bride, but Don José arranges with the Marquis to present him with the Marchioness closely veiled. The scheme does not work, as Don Cæsar hears Maritana's voice and claims her, but she is quickly spirited away. The last act finds Maritana in a royal apartment. Don José carries out his plot by introducing the King to her as her husband. At this juncture Don Cæsar rushes in. The King in a rage demands to know his errand. He replies that he is seeking the Countess de Bazan, and with equal rage demands to know who he (the King) is. When the King in confusion answers that he is Don Cæsar, the latter promptly replies, "Then I am the King of Spain." Before further explanations can be made, the King is summoned by the Queen. Don Cæsar and Maritana consult together, and he decides to appeal to the Queen. While waiting for her in the palace garden, he overhears Don José telling her that the King is to meet his mistress that night. Don Cæsar denounces him as a traitor, and slays him. The King, when he hears of Don Cæsar's loyalty, consigns Maritana to him, and appoints him Governor of Valencia. The opera is full of bright, melodious music. The principal numbers in the first act are Maritana's song, "It was a Knight of Princely Mien"; the romanza which she sings for Don José, "'Tis the Harp in the Air"; the duet between Don José and Maritana, "Of Fairy Wand had I the Power"; Don Cæsar's rollicking drinking-song, "All the World over"; and the delightful chorus, "Pretty Gitana, tell us what the Fates decree." The first scene of the second act is a mine of charming songs, including Lazarillo's, "Alas! those Chimes"; the trio, "Turn on, Old Time, thine Hourglass"; Don Cæsar's stirring martial air, "Yes, let me like a Soldier fall"; the sentimental ballad, "In Happy Moments, Day by Day"; and the quartette and chorus closing the scene, "Health to the Lady, the Lovely Bride." The next scene contains a pretty chorus in waltz time, "Ah! what Pleasure," followed by an aria sung by the King, "The Mariner in his Bark," and the act closes with a very dramatic ensemble, "What Mystery must now control." The leading numbers of the last act are Maritana's song, "Scenes that are Brightest," one of the most admired of all English songs; the love duet between Don Cæsar and Maritana, "This Heart with Bliss O'erflowing"; and Don Cæsar's song, "There is a Flower that bloometh," which is in the sentimental ballad style. Lurline. [Romantic opera, in three acts; text by Fitzball. First produced at Covent Garden Theatre, London, February 23, 1860.] PERSONAGES. Count Rudolph, a young nobleman. Wilhelm, his friend. Rhineberg, the river King. Baron Truenfels. Zelleck, a gnome. Conrad. Adolph. Lurline, nymph of the Lurlei-Berg. Ghiva, the Baron's daughter. Liba, a spirit of the Rhine. [Vassals, conspirators, pages, water spirits.] The scene is laid on the banks and in the waters of the Rhine; time, the present. The story of "Lurline" closely follows the old legend of the "Lorelei." Count Rudolph, having dissipated his fortune, proposes marriage with Ghiva, daughter of a neighboring baron, to recoup himself. The Baron, however, turns out to be as poor as the Count, and nothing comes of the proposition. Meanwhile Lurline, the Rhine nymph, has seen the Count sailing on the river and fallen in love with him. At the last banquet he and his companions give in the old castle, she appears, weaves spells about him, places a magic ring on his finger, and then disappears. When he comes to his reason, he finds himself enamoured of her, follows the notes of her harp on the Rhine, and is engulfed in the whirlpool to which Lurline allures her victims. The second act opens in Lurline's cavern under the Rhine, and Rudolph is there by virtue of his magic ring. He hears his friends singing and mourning his loss as they sail on the river, and is so touched by it that he implores permission to return to them for a short time. Lurline consents to his absence for three days, and agrees to wait for him on the summit of the Lurlei-Berg at moonrise on the third evening. She also prevails upon her father, the Rhine King, to give him treasures, with which he embarks in a fairy skiff, leaving Lurline dejected. In the last act Rudolph discloses to the Baron and his daughter, as well as to his companions, the secret of his wealth. The Baron once more encourages his suit, and the crafty Ghiva steals the magic ring and throws it into the Rhine. In the mean time Lurline waits nightly on the Lurlei-Berg for the return of her lover, and there a gnome brings to her the ring, token of his infidelity. Distracted between grief and anger, she determines to reproach him with his perfidy at a banquet in the castle; she suddenly appears, and demands her ring from him. A scene of bitter reproaches ensues, ending with her denunciation of his companions' treachery. Growing envious of the Count's wealth, they had conspired to destroy him and then plunder the castle. Ghiva and her father, overhearing the plot, reveal it to the Count and urge him to escape by flight. Rudolph, however, preferring death near Lurline, confronts the assassins. Love returns to Lurline once more. She strikes her harp and invokes the Rhine, which rises and engulfs the conspirators. When the waves subside, the Rhine King appears and gives the hand of his daughter to the Count. The principal numbers of the first act are Rhineberg's invocation aria, "Idle Spirit, wildly dreaming"; Lurline's beautiful romanzas with harp accompaniment, "Flow on, flow on, O Silver Rhine," and "When the Night Winds sweep the Wave"; the melodious chorus, "Sail, sail, sail on the Midnight Gale"; the drinking-song, "Drain the Cup of Pleasure"; the quaint tenor song, "Our Bark in Moonlight beaming"; and the vigorous chorus of the gnomes in the finale, "Vengeance, Vengeance." The second act opens with the gnomes' song, "Behold Wedges of Gold." The remaining conspicuous numbers are the Count's song, "Sweet Form that on my Dreamy Gaze"; Lurline's brilliant drinking-song with chorus, "Take this Cup of Sparkling Wine"; Ghiva's ballad, for contralto, "Troubadour Enchanting"; the breezy hunting-chorus, "Away to the Chase, come away"; Rhineberg's sentimental song, "The Nectar Cup may yield Delight"; and the ensemble in the finale, which is in the genuine Italian style. The third act is specially noticeable for the ballad sung by Rudolph, "My Home, my Heart's first Home"; Lurline's song on the Lurlei-Berg, "Sweet Spirit, hear my Prayer," which has been a great favorite on the concert stage; the unaccompanied quartette, "Though the World with Transport bless me"; the grand duet, "Lurline, my Naiad Queen," and the incantation music and closing chorus, "Flow on, thou Lovely Rhine." By GEORGE P. UPTON MUSICAL HANDBOOKS THE STANDARD OPERAS THE STANDARD ORATORIOS THE STANDARD CANTATAS THE STANDARD SYMPHONIES THE STANDARD LIGHT OPERAS 12mo. Yellow edges. Per volume, $1.50 WOMAN IN MUSIC 16mo. $1.00 MUSICAL PASTELS: A Series of Essays on Quaint and Curious Musical Subjects. Large 8vo. With ten full-page illustrations from rare wood engravings. A. C. McCLURG & COMPANY · CHICAGO Transcriber's Notes Silently corrected a few typos. Relocated promotional material to the end of the text. Generated a new cover image, provided for free use with this eBook. Included copyright information from the original printed book (this eBook is public-domain in the country of publication.) 
39211	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 39211-h.htm or 39211-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/39211/39211-h/39211-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/39211/39211-h.zip) [Illustration: _Josef Hofmann_] PIANO PLAYING With Piano Questions Answered by JOSEF HOFMANN Copyright © 1909 by Doubleday, Page and Company; renewed 1937 by J. Hofmann. © 1908 by McClure Company; renewed 1936 by J. Hofmann. © 1920 by Theodore Presser Company; renewed 1947 by Josef Hofmann. Piano Playing TO MY DEAR FRIEND CONSTANTIN VON STERNBERG CONTENTS PAGE A FOREWORD xv THE PIANO AND ITS PLAYER 3 GENERAL RULES 19 CORRECT TOUCH AND TECHNIC 34 THE USE OF THE PEDAL 41 PLAYING "IN STYLE" 49 HOW RUBINSTEIN TAUGHT ME TO PLAY 57 INDISPENSABLES IN PIANISTIC SUCCESS 70 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS _Josef Hofmann_ _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE _The Position of the Hand_ 20 _Incorrect Way to Play an Octave_ 28 _Correct Way to Play an Octave_ 28 _Incorrect Position of the Little Finger_ 29 _Correct Position of the Little Finger_ 29 _Incorrect Position of Thumb_ 38 _Correct Position of Thumb_ 38 _Incorrect Position of the Feet_ 42 _Correct Position of the Feet on the Pedal_ 43 _Anton Rubinstein_ 58 _How Rubinstein Taught Me to Play_ 59 A FOREWORD This little book purposes to present a general view of artistic piano-playing and to offer to young students the results of such observations as I have made in the years of my own studies, as well as of the experiences which my public activity has brought me. It is, of course, only the concrete, the material side of piano-playing that can be dealt with here--that part of it which aims to reproduce in tones what is plainly stated in the printed lines of a composition. The other, very much subtler part of piano-playing, draws upon and, indeed, depends upon imagination, refinement of sensibility, and spiritual vision, and endeavours to convey to an audience what the composer has, consciously or unconsciously, hidden _between_ the lines. That almost entirely psychic side of piano-playing eludes treatment in literary form and must, therefore, not be looked for in this little volume. It may not be amiss, however, to dwell a moment upon these elusive matters of æsthetics and conception, though it be only to show how far apart they are from technic. When the material part, the technic, has been completely acquired by the piano student, he will see a limitless vista opening up before him, disclosing the vast field of artistic interpretation. In this field the work is largely of an analytical nature and requires that intelligence, spirit, and sentiment, supported by knowledge and æsthetic perception, form a felicitous union to produce results of value and dignity. It is in this field that the student must learn to perceive the invisible something which unifies the seemingly separate notes, groups, periods, sections, and parts into an organic whole. The spiritual eye for this invisible something is what musicians have in mind when they speak of "reading between the lines"--which is at once the most fascinating and most difficult task of the interpretative artist; for, it is just between the lines where, in literature as in music, the soul of a work of art lies hidden. To play its notes, even to play them correctly, is still very far from doing justice to the life and soul of an artistic composition. I should like to reiterate at this point two words which I used in the second paragraph: the words "consciously or unconsciously." A brief comment upon this alternative may lead to observations which may throw a light upon the matter of reading between the lines, especially as I am rather strongly inclining toward the belief in the "unconscious" side of the alternative. I believe that every composer of talent (not to speak of genius) in his moments of creative fever has given birth to thoughts, ideas, designs that lay altogether beyond the reach of his conscious will and control. In speaking of the products of such periods we have hit upon exactly the right word when we say that the composer "has surpassed himself." For, in saying this we recognise that the act of surpassing one's self precludes the control of the self. A critical, sober overseeing of one's work during the period of creation is unthinkable, for it is the fancy and the imagination that carries one on and on, will-lessly, driftingly, until the totality of the tonal apparition is completed and mentally as well as physically absorbed. Now, inasmuch as the composer's conscious will takes little or no part in the creating of the work, it seems to follow that he is not, necessarily, an absolute authority as to the "only correct way" of rendering it. Pedantic adherence to the composer's own conception is, to my mind, not an unassailable maxim. The composer's way of rendering his composition may not be free from certain predilections, biases, mannerisms, and his rendition may also suffer from a paucity of pianistic experience. It seems, therefore, that to do justice to the work itself is of far greater importance than a slavish adherence to the composer's conception. Now, to discover what it is, intellectually or emotionally, that hides itself between the lines; how to conceive and how to interpret it--that must ever rest with the reproductive artist, provided that he possesses not only the spiritual vision which entitles him to an individual conception, but also the technical skill to express what this individual conception (aided by imagination and analysis) has whispered to him. Taking these two conditions for granted, his interpretations--however punctiliously he adhere to the text--will and must be a reflex of his breeding, education, temperament, disposition; in short, of all the faculties and qualities that go to make up his personality. And as these personal qualities differ between players, their interpretations must, necessarily, differ in the same measure. In some respects the performance of a piece of music resembles the reading of a book aloud to some one. If a book should be read to us by a person who does not understand it, would it impress us as true, convincing, or even credible? Can a dull person, by reading them to us, convey bright thoughts intelligibly? Even if such a person were drilled to read with outward correctness that of which he cannot fathom the meaning, the reading could not seriously engage our attention, because the reader's want of understanding would be sure to effect a lack of interest in us. Whatever is said to an audience, be the speech literary or musical, must be a free and individual expression, governed only by general or is it æsthetic laws or rules; it must be free to be artistic, and it must be individual to have vital force. Traditional conceptions of works of art are "canned goods," unless the individual happens to concur with the traditional conception, which, at best, is very rarely the case and does not speak well for the mental calibre of the easily contented treader of the beaten path. We know how precious a thing is freedom. But in modern times it is not only precious, it is also costly; it is based upon certain possessions. This holds as good in life as in art. To move comfortably with freedom in life requires money; freedom in art requires a sovereign mastery of technic. The pianist's artistic bank-account upon which he can draw at any moment is his technic. We do not gauge him by it as an artist, to be sure, but rather by the use he makes of it; just as we respect the wealthy according to the way in which they use their money. And as there are wealthy people that are vulgar, so there may be pianists who, despite the greatest technic, are not artists. Still, while money is to a gentleman perhaps no more than a rather agreeable adjunct, technic is to the pianist's equipment an indispensable necessity. To assist young students in acquiring this necessity, the following articles were written for _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and for this form I have gone over them and corrected and amplified. I sincerely hope that they will help my young colleagues to become free as piano-playing musicians first, and that this, in its turn and with the help of good fortune in their career, will bring them the means to make them equally free in their daily life. JOSEF HOFMANN. Piano Playing THE PIANO AND ITS PLAYER The first requisite for one who wishes to become a musicianly and artistic pianist is a precise knowledge of the possibilities and limitations of the piano as an instrument. Having properly recognised them both, having thus staked off a stretch of ground for his activity, he must explore it to discover all the resources for tonal expression that are hidden within its pale. With these resources, however, he must be contented. He must, above all, never strive to rival the orchestra. For there is no necessity to attempt anything so foolish and so futile, since the gamut of expressions inherent to the piano is quite extensive enough to vouchsafe artistic results of the very highest order, provided, of course, that this gamut is used in an artistic manner. THE PIANO AND THE ORCHESTRA From one point of view the piano can claim to be the equal of the orchestra; namely, in so far as it is--no less than the orchestra--the exponent of a specific branch of music which, complete by itself, reposes upon a literature exclusively its own and of a type so distinguished that only the orchestra can claim to possess its peer. The great superiority of the literature of the piano over that of any other single instrument has, to my knowledge, never been disputed. I think it is equally certain that the piano grants to its players a greater freedom of expression than any other instrument; greater--in certain respects--than even the orchestra, and very much greater than the organ, which, after all, lacks the intimate, personal element of "touch" and the immediateness of its variegated results. In dynamic and colouristic qualities, on the other hand, the piano cannot bear comparison with the orchestra; for in these qualities it is very limited indeed. The prudent player will not go beyond these limits. The utmost that the pianist can achieve in the way of colour may be likened to what the painters call "monochrome." For in reality the piano, like any other instrument, has only one colour; but the artistic player can subdivide the colour into an infinite number and variety of shades. The virtue of a specific charm, too, attaches as much to the piano as to other instruments, though, perhaps, in a lesser degree of sensuousness than to some others. Is it because of this lesser sensuous charm that the art of the piano is considered the chastest of all instruments? I am rather inclined to think that it is, partly at least, due to this chastity that it "wears" best, that we can listen longer to a piano than to other instruments, and that this chastity may have had a reflex action upon the character of its unparagoned literature. For this literature, though, we have to thank the pianists themselves, or, speaking more precisely, we are indebted to the circumstance that the piano is the only single instrument capable of conveying the complete entity of a composition. That melody, bass, harmony, figuration, polyphony, and the most intricate contrapuntal devices can--by skilful hands--be rendered simultaneously and (to all intents and purposes) completely on the piano has probably been the inducement which persuaded the great masters of music to choose it as their favourite instrument. It may be mentioned at this point that the piano did not have the effect of impairing the orchestration of the great composers--as some musical wiseacres assert from time to time--for they have written just as fine works for a variety of other instruments, not to speak of their symphonies. Thus has, for instance, the most substantial part of the violin literature been contributed by piano-players (Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bruch, Saint-Saëns, Tschaikowski, and many others). As to the literature of the orchestra, it came almost exclusively from those masters whose only, or chiefest, medium of musical utterance was the piano. Highly organised natures, as they were, they liked to dress their thoughts, sometimes, in the colour splendour of the orchestra. Looking at the depth of their piano works, however, at their sterling merit, at their poetry, I feel that even a refined musical nature may find lifelong contentment in the piano--despite its limitations--if, as I said before, the artist keeps within its boundaries and commands its possibilities. For it is, after all, not so very little that the piano has to offer. It is both governed and manipulated by one and the same mind and person; its mechanism is so fine and yet so simple as to make its tone response quite as direct as that of any other stringed instrument; it admits of the thoroughly personal element of touch; it requires no auxiliary instruments (for even in the Concerto the orchestra is not a mere accompanist but an equal partner, as the name "Concerto" implies); its limitations are not as bad as those of some other instruments or of the voice; it outweighs these limitations very fairly by the vast wealth of its dynamic and touch varieties. Considering all these and many other points of merit, I think that a musician may be pretty well satisfied with being a pianist. His realm is in more than one respect smaller than that of the conductor, to be sure, but on the other hand the conductor loses many lovely moments of sweet intimacy which are granted to the pianist when, world-oblivious and alone with his instrument he can commune with his innermost and best self. Consecrated moments, these, which he would exchange with no musician of any other type and which wealth can neither buy nor power compel. THE PIANO AND THE PLAYER Music makers are, like the rest of mankind, not free from sin. On the whole, however, I think that the transgressions of pianists against the canons of art are less grave and less frequent than those of other music makers; perhaps, because they are--usually--better grounded as musicians than are singers and such players of other instruments as the public places on a par with the pianists I have in mind. But, while their sins may be less in number and gravity--let it be well understood that the pianists are no saints. Alas, no! It is rather strange, though, that their worst misdeeds are induced by that very virtue of the piano of requiring no auxiliary instruments, of being independent. If it were not so; if the pianist were compelled always to play in company with other musicians, these other players might at times differ with him as to conception, tempo, etc., and their views and wishes should have to be reckoned with, for the sake of both equilibrium and--sweet peace. Left entirely to himself, however, as the pianist usually is in his performances, he sometimes yields to a tendency to move altogether too freely, to forget the deference due to the composition and its creator, and to allow his much-beloved "individuality" to glitter with a false and presumptuous brightness. Such a pianist does not only fail in his mission as an interpreter but he also misjudges the possibilities of the piano. He will, for instance, try to produce six _forte-s_ when the piano has not more than three to give, all told, except at a sacrifice of its dignity and its specific charm. The extremest contrasts, the greatest _forte_ and the finest _piano_, are given factors determined by the individual piano, by the player's skill of touch, and by the acoustic properties of the hall. These given factors the pianist must bear in mind, as well as the limitations of the piano as to colour, if he means to keep clear of dilettanteism and charlatanry. A nice appreciation of the realm over which he rules, as to its boundaries and possibilities, must be the supreme endeavour of every sovereign--hence also of every sovereign musician. Now, I hear it so often said of this and that pianist that "he plays with _so_ much feeling" that I cannot help wondering if he does not, sometimes at least, play with "_so_ much feeling" where it is not in the least called for and where "_so_ much feeling" constitutes a decided trespass against the æsthetic boundaries of the composition. My apprehension is usually well founded, for the pianist that plays _everything_ "with so much feeling" is an artist in name only, but in reality a sentimentalist, if not a vulgar sensationalist or a ranter upon the keyboard. What sane pianist would, for instance, attempt to play a cantilena with the same appealing sensuousness as the most mediocre 'cellist can do with the greatest ease? Yet many pianists attempt it; but since they are fully aware that they can never attain such ends by legitimate, artistic means, they make either the accompaniment or the rhythm, if not the phrasing, bear the brunt of their palpable dilettanteism. Of such illusory endeavours I cannot warn too strongly, for they are bound to destroy the organic relation of the melody to its auxiliaries and to change the musical "physiognomy" of a piece into a--"grimace:" This fault reveals that the pianist's spirit--of adventure--is too willing, but the flesh--of the fingers and their technic--too weak. The artistic and the dilettantic manners of expression must be sharply differentiated. They differ, principally, as follows: the artist knows and feels how far the responsiveness of his instrument, at any particular part of his piece, will allow him to go without violating æsthetics, and without stepping outside of the nature of his instrument. He shapes his rendition of the piece accordingly and practises wise economy in the use of force and in the display of feeling. As to feeling, _per se_, it is the ripe product of a multitude of æsthetic processes which the moment creates and develops; but the artist will keep this product from asserting itself until he has complied with every requirement of artistic _workmanship_; until he has, so to speak, provided a cleanly covered and fully set table upon which these matters of "feeling" appear as finishing, decorative touches, say, as flowers. The dilettante, on the other hand, does not consume any time by thinking and planning; he simply "goes for" his piece and, without bothering about workmanship or squirming around it as best he may, he rambles off into--"feeling," which in his case consists of naught but vague, formless, aimless, and purely sensuous sentimentality. His accompaniment drowns the melody, his rhythm goes on a sympathetic strike, dynamic and other artistic properties become hysterical; no matter, he--"feels"! He builds a house in which the cellar is under the roof and the garret in the basement. Let it be said in extenuation of such a player that he is not always and seldom wholly to blame for his wrong-doing. Very often he strays from the path of musical rectitude because of his misplaced trust in the judgment of others, which causes him to accept and follow advice in good faith, instead of duly considering its source. For, under certain conditions, the advice of even a connoisseur may be wrong. Many professional and well-equipped critics, for instance, fall into the bad habit of expecting that a pianist should tell all he knows in every piece he plays, whether the piano does or does not furnish the opportunities for displaying all his qualities. They expect him to show strength, temperament, passion, poise, sentiment, repose, depth, and so forth, in the first piece on his programme. He must tell his whole story, present himself at once as a "giant" or "Titan" of the piano, though the piece may call for naught but tenderness. With this demand, or the alternative of a "roasting," public artists are confronted rather frequently. Nor is this, perhaps, as much the fault of the critic as of the conditions under which they must write. From my own experience and that of others I know that the critics in large cities are so overburdened with work during the season that they have seldom time to listen to more than one piece out of a whole recital programme. After such a mere sample they form their opinions--so momentous for the career of a young pianist--and if this one piece happened to offer no opportunities to the pianist to show himself as the "great" So-and-so, why, then he is simply put down as one of the "littlefellows." It is no wonder that such conditions tempt many young aspirants to public renown to resort to æsthetic violence in order to make sure of "good notices"; to use power where it is not called for; to make "feeling" ooze from every pore; to double, treble the tempo or vacillate it out of all rhythm; to violate the boundaries of both the composition and the instrument--and all this for no other purpose than to show as quickly as possible that the various qualities are "all there." These conditions produce what may be called the pianistic nouveau-riche or parvenu, who practises the vices of the dilettante without, however, the mitigating excuse of ignorance or a lack of training. THE PIANIST AND THE COMPOSITION As the piano, so has also every composition its limitations as to the range of its emotions and their artistic expression. The hints in this direction I threw out before may now be amplified by discussing a very common error which underlies the matter of conception. It is the error of inferring the conception of a composition _from the name of its composer_; of thinking that Beethoven has to be played thus and Chopin thus. No error could be greater! True, every great composer has his own style, his habitual mode of thought development, his personality revealing lines. But it is equally true that the imagination of all great composers was strong enough to absorb them as completely in their own creation as the late Pygmalion was absorbed in his Galatea, and to lure them, for the time being, completely away from their habits of thought and expression; they become the willing servants of the new creature of their own fancy. Thus we find some of Beethoven's works as romantic and fanciful as any of Schumann's or Chopin's could be, while some of the latter's works show at times a good deal of Beethovenish classicity. It is, therefore, utterly wrong to approach every work of Beethoven with the preconceived idea that it must be "deep" and "majestic," or, if the work be Chopin's, that it must run over with sensuousness and "feeling." How would such a style of rendition do, for instance, for the Polonaise op. 53, or even for the little one in A, op. 40, No. 1? On the other hand, how would the stereotype, academic manner of playing Beethoven suit his Concerto in G--that poetic presage of Chopin? Every great master has written some works that are, and some that are not, typical of himself. In the latter cases the master's identity reveals itself only to an eye that is experienced enough to detect it in the smaller, more minute traits of his style. Such delicate features, however, must be left in their discreet nooks and niches; they must not be clumsily dragged into the foreground for the sake of a traditional rendition of the piece. That sort of "reverence" is bound to obliterate all the peculiarities of the particular, non-typical composition. It is not reverence, but fetichism. Justice to the composer means justice to his works; to every work in particular. And this justice we cannot learn from the reading of his biography, but by regarding every one of his works as a separate and complete entity; as a perfect, organic whole of which we must study the general character, the special features, the form, the manner of design, the emotional course, and the trend of thought. Much more than by his biography we will be helped, in forming our conception, by comparing the work in hand with others of the same master, though the comparison may disclose just as many differences of style as it may show similarities. The worship of names, the unquestioning acquiescence in traditional conceptions--those are not the principles which will lead an artist to come into his own. It is rather a close examination of every popular notion, a severe testing of every tradition by the touchstone of self-thinking that will help an artist to find himself and to see, what he does see, with his own eyes. Thus we find that--in a certain constructive meaning--even the reverence for the composer is not without boundaries; though these boundary lines are drawn here only to secure the widest possible freedom for their work. Goethe's great word expresses most tersely what I mean: Outwardly limited, Boundless to inward. GENERAL RULES Successful piano-playing, if it cannot be entirely acquired by some very simple rules, can, at least, be very much helped by what will seem to some as contributing causes so slight as to be hardly worth notice. Still, they are immensely valuable, and I will endeavour to set down a few. _The Value of the Morning Hour_ above any other time is not generally appreciated. The mental freshness gained from sleep is a tremendous help. I go so far as to say play away for an hour, or a half hour even, before breakfast. But before you touch the piano let me suggest one very prosaic little hint: wash the keyboard as clean as you did your hands. Eating always tastes best from a clean table. Just so with the piano: you cannot do clean work on an unclean keyboard. _Now, as to Practice_: Let me suggest that you never practise more than an hour, or, at the most, two hours, at a stretch--according to your condition and strength. Then go out and take a walk, and think no more of music. This method of mental unhitching, so to speak, is absolutely necessary in order that the newly acquired results of your work may--unconsciously to yourself--mature in your mind and get, as it were, into your flesh and blood. That which you have newly learned must become affixed to your entire organism, very much like the picture on a photographic plate is developed and affixed by the silver bath. If you allow Nature no time for this work the result of your previous efforts will vanish and you will have to begin all over again with your--photographing. Yes, photographing! For every acoustic or tone picture is, through the agency of the ear, photographed in the brain, and the whole occupation of the pianist consists in the reproduction of the previously received impressions through the fingers, which, with the help of the instrument, retranslate the pictures into audible tones. After every half hour make a pause until you feel rested. Five minutes will often be sufficient. Follow the example of the painter, who closes his eyes for a few moments in order to obtain upon reopening them a fresh color impression. _A Valuable Little Hint Here_, if you will allow me: Watch well that you actually hear every tone you mean to produce. Every missing tone will mean a blotch upon your photographic plate in the brain. Each note must be, not mentally but physically, heard, and to this imperative requirement your speed must ever subordinate itself. It is not at all necessary to practise loudly in order to foster the permanence of impressions. Rather let an inward tension take the place of external force. It will engage, sympathetically, your hearing just as well. _As to the Theory_--great energy, great results--I prefer my amended version: great energy, restrained power and moderate manifestation of it. Prepare the finger for great force, imagine the tone as being strong, and yet strike moderately. Continuous loud playing makes our playing coarse. On the other hand, continuous soft playing will blur the tone picture in our mind and cause us soon to play insecurely and wrongly. From time to time we should, of course, practise loudly so as to develop physical endurance. But for the greater part of practice I recommend playing with restrained power. And, incidentally, your neighbours will thank you for it, too. _Do Not Practise Systematically_, or "methodically," as it is sometimes called. Systematism is the death of spontaneousness, and spontaneousness is the very soul of art. If you play every day at the same time the same sequence of the same studies and the same pieces, you may acquire a certain degree of skill, perhaps, but the spontaneity of your rendition will surely be lost. Art belongs to the realm of emotional manifestations, and it stands to reason that a systematic exploiting of our emotional nature must blunt it. _With Regard to Finger Exercises_: Do not let them be too frequent or too long--at the most a half hour a day. A half hour daily, kept up for a year, is enough for any one to learn to play one's exercises. And if one can play them why should one keep everlastingly on playing them? Can anybody explain, without reflecting upon one's sanity, why one should persist in playing them? I suggest to use these exercises as "preliminary warmers" (as practised in engines). As soon as the hands have become warm and elastic, or pliable--"played in," as we pianists say--drop the exercises and repeat them for the same purpose the next morning, if you will. They can be successfully substituted, however. As compositions they are but lukewarm water. If you will dip your hands, instead, for five minutes into hot water you will follow my own method and find it just as efficacious. _A Rule for Memory Exercises_: If you wish to strengthen the receptivity and retentiveness of your memory you will find the following plan practical: Start with a short piece. Analyse the form and manner of its texture. Play the piece a number of times very exactly with the music before you. Then stop playing for several hours and try to trace the course of ideas mentally in the piece. Try to hear the piece inwardly. If you have retained some parts refill the missing places by repeated reading of the piece, away from the piano. When next you go to the piano--after several hours, remember--try to play the piece. Should you still get "stuck" at a certain place take the sheet music, but play only that place (several times, if necessary), and then begin the piece over again, as a test, if you have better luck this time with those elusive places. If you still fail resume your silent reading of the piece away from the piano. Under no circumstances skip the unsafe place for the time being, and proceed with the rest of the piece. By such forcing of the memory you lose the logical development of your piece, tangle up your memory and injure its receptivity. Another observation in connection with memorising may find a place here. When we study a piece we--unconsciously--associate in our mind a multitude of things with it which bear not the slightest relation upon it. By these "things" I mean not only the action of the piano, light or heavy, as it may be, but also the colour of its wood, the colour of the wall paper, discoloration of the ivory on some key of the piano, the pictures on the walls, the angle at which the piano stands to the architectural lines of the room, in short, all sorts of things. And we remain utterly unconscious of having associated them with the piece we are studying--until we try to play the well-learned piece in a different place, in the house of a friend or, if we are inexperienced enough to commit such a blunder, in the concert hall. Then we find that our memory fails us most unexpectedly, and we blame our memory for its unreliableness. But the fact is rather that our memory was only too good, too exact, for the absence of or difference from our accustomed surroundings disturbed our too precise memory. Hence, to make absolutely sure of our memory we should try our piece in a number of different places before relying upon our memory; this will dissociate the wonted environment from the piece in our memory. _With Regard to Technical Work_: Play good compositions and construe out of them your own technical exercises. In nearly every piece you play you will find a place or two of which your conscience tells you that they are not up to your own wishes; that they can be improved upon either from a rhythmical, dynamical or precisional point of view. Give these places the preference for a while, but do not fail to play from time to time again the whole piece in order to put the erstwhile defective and now repaired part into proper relation to its context. Remember that a difficult part may "go" pretty well when severed from its context and yet fail utterly when attempted in its proper place. You must follow the mechanic in this. If a part of a machine is perfected in the shop it must still go through the process of being "mounted"--that is, being brought into proper relation to the machine itself--and this often requires additional packing or filing, as the case may be. This "mounting" of a repaired part is done best by playing it in conjunction with one preceding and one following measure; then put two measures on each side, three, four, etc., until you feel your ground safely under your fingers. Not until then have you achieved your purpose of technical practice. The mere mastering of a difficulty _per se_ is no guarantee of success whatever. Many students play certain compositions for years, and yet when they are asked to play them the evidences of imperfection are so palpable that they cannot have finished the learning of them. The strong probability is that they never will finish the "study" of them, because they do not study right. _As to the Number of Pieces_: The larger the number of good compositions you are able to play in a finished manner, the better grow your opportunities to develop your versatility of style; for in almost every good composition you will find some traits peculiar to itself only which demand an equally special treatment. To keep as many pieces as possible in your memory and in good technical condition, play them a few times each week. Do not play them, however, in consecutive repetitions. Take one after the other. After the last piece is played the first one will appear fresh again to your mind. This process I have tested and found very helpful in maintaining a large repertory. [Illustration: _The Position of the Hand_] _Play Always with the Fingers_--that is, move your arms as little as possible and hold them--and the shoulder muscles--quite loosely. The hands should be nearly horizontal, with a slight inclination from the elbows toward the keys. Bend the fingers gently and endeavour to touch the keys in their centre and with the tips of the fingers. This will tend toward sureness and give eyes to your fingers, so to speak. _The Practice of Finger Octaves_: Play octaves first as if you were playing single notes with one finger of each hand. Lift the thumb and fifth finger rather high and let them fall upon the keys without using the wrist. Later let the wrist come to your aid, sometimes even the arm and shoulder muscles, though the latter should both be reserved for places requiring great power. Where powerful octaves occur in long continuation it is best to distribute the work over the joints and muscles of the fingers, wrists, and shoulders. With a rational distribution each of the joints will avoid over-fatigue and the player will gain in endurance. This applies, of course, only to bravura passages. In places where musical characteristics predominate the player does best to choose whichever of these sources of touch seems most appropriate. [Illustration: _Incorrect Way to Play an Octave_] [Illustration: _Correct Way to Play an Octave_] [Illustration: _Photograph by Byron_ _Incorrect Position of Little Finger_] [Illustration: _Correct Position of Little Finger_] _About Using the Pedal_: Beware of too frequent and--above all--of long-continued use of the pedal. It is the mortal enemy of clarity. Judiciously, however, you should use it when you study a new work, for if you accustom yourself to play a work without the pedal the habit of non-pedalling will grow upon you, and you will be surprised to find later how your feet can be in the way of your fingers. Do not delay the use of the pedal as if it were the dessert after a repast. _Never Play with a Metronome_: You may use a metronome for a little passage as a test of your ability to play the passage in strict time. When you see the result, positive or negative, stop the machine at once. For according to the metronome a really musical rhythm is unrhythmical--and, on the other hand, the keeping of absolutely strict time is thoroughly unmusical and deadlike. You should endeavour to reproduce the sum-total of the time which a musical thought occupies. Within its scope, however, you must vary your beats in accordance with their musical significance. This constitutes in musical interpretation what I call the individual pulse-beat which imparts life to the dead, black notes. Beware, however, of being too "individual"! Avoid exaggeration, or else your patient will grow feverish and all æsthetic interpretation goes to the happy hunting grounds! _The Correct Posture at the Piano_: Sit straight before the piano but not stiff. Have both feet upon the pedals, so as to be at any moment ready to use them. All other manners to keep the feet are--bad manners. Let your hand fall with the arm upon the keyboard when you start a phrase, and observe a certain roundness in all the motions of your arms and hands. Avoid angles and sharp bends, for they produce strong frictions in the joints, which means a waste of force and is bound to cause premature fatigue. _Do Not Attend Poor Concerts._ Do not believe that you can learn correct vision from the blind, nor that you can really profit by hearing how a piece should _not_ be played, and then trying the reverse. The danger of getting accustomed to poor playing is very great. What would you think of a parent who deliberately sent his child into bad company in order that such child should learn how _not_ to behave? Such experiments are dangerous. By attending poor concerts you encourage the bungler to continue in his crimes against good taste and artistic decency, and you become his accomplice. Besides, you help to lower the standard of appreciation in your community, which may sink so low that good concerts will cease to be patronised. If you desire that good concerts should be given in your city the least you can do is to withhold your patronage from bad ones. If you are doubtful as to the merits of a proposed concert ask your own or your children's music teacher. He will appreciate your confidence and be glad of the opportunity to serve you for once in a musical matter that lies on a higher plane than your own or your children's music lesson. _To Those Who Play in Public_ I should like to say this: Before you have played a composition in public two or three times you must not expect that every detail of it shall go according to your wishes. Do not be surprised at little unexpected occurrences. Consider that the acoustic properties of the various halls constitute a serious danger to the musician. Bad humor on your part, or a slight indisposition, even a clamlike audience, Puritanically austere or cool from diffidence--all these things can be overcome; but the acoustic properties remain the same from the beginning of your programme to its end, and if they are not a kindly counsellor they turn into a fiendish demon who sneers to death your every effort to produce noble-toned pictures. Therefore, try to ascertain, as early as possible, what sort of an architectural stomach your musical feast is to fill, and then--well, do the best you can. Approach the picture you hold in your mind as nearly as circumstances permit. _When I Find Bad Acoustics in a Hall._ An important medium of rectifying the acoustic misbehaviour of a hall I have found in the pedal. In some halls my piano has sounded as if I had planted my feet on the pedal for good and ever; in such cases I practised the greatest abstention from pedalling. It is a fact that we have to treat the pedal differently in almost every hall to insure the same results. I know that a number of books have been written on the use of the pedal, but they are theories which tumble down before the first adverse experience on the legitimate concert stage. There you can lean on nothing but experience. _About Reading Books on Music._ And speaking of books on music, let me advise you to read them, but not to believe them unless they support every statement with an argument, and unless this argument succeeds in convincing you. In art we deal far oftener with exceptions than with rules and laws. Every genius in art has demonstrated in his works the forefeeling of new laws, and every succeeding one has done by his precursors as his successors have in their turn done by him. Hence all theorising in art must be problematic and precarious, while dogmatising in art amounts to absurdity. Music is a language--the language of the musical, whatever and wherever be their country. Let each one, then, speak in his own way, as he thinks and feels, provided he is sincere. Tolstoi put the whole thing so well when he said: "There are only three things of real importance in the world. They are: Sincerity! Sincerity! Sincerity!" CORRECT TOUCH AND TECHNIC Great finger technic may be defined as extreme precision and great speed in the action of the fingers. The latter quality, however, can never be developed without the legato touch. I am convinced that the degree of perfection of finger technic is exactly proportionate to the development of the legato touch. The process of the non-legato touch, by showing contrary results, will bear me out. To play a rapid run non-legato will consume much more time than to play it legato because of the lifting of the fingers between the tones. In playing legato the fingers are not lifted off the keys, but--hardly losing contact with the ivory--glide sideways to the right or the left as the notes may call for it. This, naturally, saves both time and exertion, and thus allows an increase of speed. How is the true legato accomplished? By the gliding motion just mentioned, and by touching the next following key before the finger which played last has fully abandoned its key. To illustrate, let me say that in a run of single notes two fingers are simultaneously at work--the "played" and the "playing" one; in runs of double notes (thirds, sixths, etc.) the number of simultaneously employed fingers is, analogously, four. Only in this manner is a true legato touch to be attained. While the fingers are in action the hand must not move lest it produce gaps between the succeeding tones, causing not only a breaking of the connection between them but also a lessening of speed. The transfer of the hand should take place only when the finger is already in touch with the key that is to follow--not at the time of contact, still less before. The selection of a practical fingering is, of course, of paramount importance for a good legato touch. In attempting a run without a good fingering we will soon find ourselves "out of fingers." In that emergency we should have to resort to "piecing on," and this means a jerk at every instance--equal to a non-legato. A correct fingering is one which permits the longest natural sequel of fingers to be used without a break. By earnest thinking every player can contrive the fingering that will prove most convenient to him. But, admitting that the great diversity of hands prohibits a universal fingering, all the varieties of fingering ought to be based upon the principle of a natural sequel. If a player be puzzled by certain configurations of notes and keys as to the best fingering for them, he ought to consult a teacher, who, if a good one, will gladly help him out. Precision, the other component part of finger technic, is intimately related with the player's general sense of orderliness. As a matter of fact, precision is orderliness in the technical execution of a musical prescription. If the student will but look quite closely at the piece he is learning; if he has the patience to repeat a difficult place in it a hundred times if necessary--and correctly, of course--he will soon acquire the trait of precision and he will experience the resultant increase in his technical ability. Mental technic presupposes the ability to form a clear inward conception of a run without resorting to the fingers at all. Since every action of a finger has first to be determined upon by the mind, a run should be completely prepared mentally before it is tried on the piano. In other words, the student should strive to acquire the ability to form the tonal picture in his mind, rather than the note picture. The tonal picture dwells in our imagination. This acts upon the responsive portions of the brain, influences them according to its own intensity, and this influence is then transferred to the motoric nerve-centres which are concerned in music-making. As far as known this is the course by which the musician converts his musical concept into a tonal reality. Hence, when studying a new work, it is imperative that a tonal picture of perfect clarity should be prepared in the mind before the mechanical (or technical) practicing begins. In the earlier stages of cultivating this trait it will be best to ask the teacher to play the piece for us, and thus to help us in forming a correct tonal picture in our mind. The blurring of the tonal picture produces a temporary (don't get frightened!) paralysis of the motoric centres which control the fingers. Every pianist knows--unfortunately--the sensation of having his fingers begin to "stick" as if the keys were covered with flypaper, and he knows, also, that this sensation is but a warning that the fingers are going on a general and even "sympathetic" strike--sympathetic, because even the momentarily unconcerned fingers participate in it. Now the cause of this sensation lies not in a defective action of the fingers themselves, but solely in the mind. It is there that some undesired change has taken place, a change which impairs the action of the fingers. The process is like this: by quick repetitions of complicated figures, slight errors, slips, flaws escape our notice; the more quick repetitions we make the larger will be the number of these tiny blots, and this must needs lead finally to a completely distorted tonal picture. This distortion, however, is not the worst feature. Inasmuch as we are very likely not to make the same little blunders at every repetition the tonal picture becomes confused, blurred. The nerve contacts which cause the fingers to act become undecided first, then they begin to fail more and more, until they cease altogether and the fingers--stick! At such a juncture the student should at once resort to slow practice. He should play the defective place clearly, orderly, and, above all, slowly, and persist in this course until the number of correct repetitions proves sufficient to crowd the confused tonal picture out of the mind. This is not to be regarded as mechanical practice, for it is intended for the rehabilitation of a disarranged or disturbed mental concept. I trust this will speak for the practice of what I called "mental technic." Make the mental tonal picture sharp; the fingers must and will obey it. [Illustration: _Incorrect Position of Thumb_] [Illustration: _Correct Position of Thumb_] We are sometimes affected by "thought-laziness"--I translate this word literally from other languages, because it is a good compound for which I can find no better equivalent in English. Whenever we find the fingers going astray in the piece we play we might as well admit to ourselves that the trouble is in the main office. The mysterious controlling officer has been talking with a friend instead of attending to business. The mind was not keeping step with the fingers. We have relied on our automatism; we allowed the fingers to run on and the mind lagged behind, instead of being, as it should be, ahead of the fingers, preparing their work. Quick musical thinking, the importance of which is thus apparent, cannot be developed by any direct course. It is one of the by-products of the general widening of one's musical horizon. It is ever proportionate to the growth of one's other musical faculties. It is the result of elasticity of the mind acquired or developed by constant, never-failing, unremitting employment whenever we are at the piano. A procedure tending directly toward developing quick musical thinking is, therefore, not necessary. The musical will has its roots in the natural craving for musical utterance. It is the director-in-chief of all that is musical in us. Hence I recognise in the purely technical processes of piano-playing no less a manifestation of the musical will. But a technic without a musical will is a faculty without a purpose, and when it becomes a purpose in itself it can never serve art. THE USE OF THE PEDAL To speak in a concrete manner of the pedal is possible only on the basis of a complete understanding of the fundamental principle underlying its use. The reader must agree to the governing theory that the organ which governs the employment of the pedal is--the ear! As the eye guides the fingers when we read music, so must the ear be the guide--and the "sole" guide--of the foot upon the pedal. The foot is merely the servant, the executive agent, while the ear is the guide, the judge, and the final criterion. If there is any phase in piano-playing where we should remember particularly that music is for the ear it is in the treatment of the pedal. Hence, whatever is said here in the following lines with regard to the pedal must be understood as resting upon the basis of this principle. As a general rule I recommend pressing the lever or treadle down with a quick, definite, full motion and always immediately after--mark me, after--the striking of the keys, never simultaneously with the stroke of the fingers, as so many erroneously assume and do. To prevent a cacophonous mixture of tones we should consider that we must stop the old tone before we can give pedal to the new one, and that, in order to make the stopping of the past tone perfect, we must allow the damper to press upon the vibrating strings long enough to do its work. If, however, we tread down exactly with the finger-stroke we simply inhibit this stopping, because the damper in question is lifted again before it has had time to fall down. (In speaking of the dampers as moving up and down I have in mind the action of the "grand" piano; in the upright piano the word "off" must be substituted for "up," and "on" for "down.") This rule will work in a vast majority of cases, but like every rule--especially in art--it will be found to admit of many exceptions. [Illustration: _Photograph by Byron_ _Incorrect Position of the Feet_] [Illustration: _Photograph by Byron_ _Correct Position of the Feet on the Pedal_] _Harmonic Clarity in Pedalling is the Basis_, but it is only the basis; it is not all that constitutes an artistic treatment of the pedal. In spite of what I have just said above there are in many pieces moments where a blending of tones, seemingly foreign to one another, is a means of characterisation. This blending is especially permissible when the passing (foreign) tones are more than one octave removed from the lowest tone and from the harmony built upon it. In this connection it should be remembered that the pedal is not merely a means of tone prolongation but also a means of colouring--and pre-eminently that. What is generally understood by the term piano-charm is to the greatest extent produced by an artistic use of the pedal. For instance, great accent effects can be produced by the gradual accumulating of tone-volume through the pedal and its sudden release on the accented point. The effect is somewhat like that which we hear in the orchestra when a crescendo is supported by a roll of the drum or tympani making the last tap on the accented point. And, as I am mentioning the orchestra, I may illustrate by the French horns another use of the pedal: where the horns do not carry the melody (which they do relatively seldom) they are employed to support sustained harmonies, and their effect is like a glazing, a binding, a unifying of the various tone-colours of the other instruments. Just such a glazing is produced by the judicious use of the pedal, and when, in the orchestra, the horns cease and the strings proceed alone there ensues a certain soberness of tone which we produce in the piano by the release and non-use of the pedal. In the former instance, while the horns were active they furnished the harmonic background upon which the thematic development of the musical picture proceeded; in the latter case, when the horns cease the background is taken away and the thematic configurations stand out--so to speak--against the sky. Hence, the pedal gives to the piano tone that unifying, glazing, that finish--though this is not exactly the word here--which the horns or softly played trombones give to the orchestra. _But the Pedal Can Do More Than That._ At times we can produce strange, glasslike effects by purposely mixing non-harmonic tones. I only need to hint at some of the fine, embroidery-like cadenzas in Chopin's works, like the one in his E-minor Concerto (Andante, measures 101, 102, and 103). Such blendings are productive of a multitude of effects, especially when we add the agency of dynamic gradation: effects suggestive of winds from Zephyr to Boreas, of the splash and roar of waves, of fountain-play, of rustling leaves, etc. This mode of blending can be extended also to entire harmonies in many cases where one fundamental chord is to predominate for some time while other chords may pass in quicker succession while it lasts. In such cases it is by no means imperative to abandon the pedal; we need only to establish various dynamic levels and place the ruling harmony on a higher level than the passing ones. In other words, the predominating chord must receive so much force that it can outlast all those briefer ones which, though audible, must die of their own weakness, and while the strong, ruling chord was constantly disturbed by the weaker ones it also re-established its supremacy with the death of every weaker one which it outlasted. This use of the pedal has its limitations in the evanescent nature of the tone of the piano. That moment when the blending of non-harmonic tones imperils the tonal beauty of the piece in hand can be determined solely and exclusively by the player's own ear, and here we are once more at the point from which this article started, namely: that the ear is governor, and that it alone can decide whether or not there is to be any pedal. It were absurd to assume that we can greatly please the ear of others by our playing so long as our own ear is not completely satisfied. We should, therefore, endeavour to train the susceptibility of our ear, and we should ever make it more difficult to gain the assent of our own ear than to gain that of our auditors. They may, apparently, not notice defects in your playing, but at this juncture I wish to say a word of serious warning: Do not confound unmindfulness with consent! To hear ourselves play--that is, to listen to our own playing--is the bed-rock basis of all music-making and also, of course, of the technic of the pedal. Therefore, listen carefully, attentively to the tones you produce. When you employ the pedal as a prolongation of the fingers (to sustain tones beyond the reach of the fingers), see to it that you catch, and hold, the fundamental tone of your chord, for this tone must be always your chief consideration. _Whether You Use the Pedal as a Means of Mere Prolongation_ or as a medium of colouring, under no circumstances use it as a cloak for imperfection of execution. For, like charity, it is apt to be made to cover a multitude of sins; but, again like charity, who wants to make himself dependent upon it, when honest work can prevent it? Nor should the pedal be used to make up for a deficiency of force. To produce a forte is the business of the fingers (with or without the aid of the arm) but not of the pedal, and this holds true also--_mutatis mutandis_--of the left pedal, for which the Germans use a word (_Verschiebung_) denoting something like "shifting." In a "grand" piano the treading of the left pedal shifts the hammers so far to one side that instead of striking three strings they will strike only two. (In the pianos of fifty and more years ago there were only two strings to each tone, and when the hammers were shifted by the treading of the left pedal they struck only one string. From those days we have retained the term "_una corda_"--one string.) In an upright piano the lessening of tone-volume is produced by a lessening of the momentum of the hammer stroke. Now, as the right pedal should not be used to cover a lack of force, so should the left pedal not be regarded as a licence to neglect the formation of a fine _pianissimo_ touch. It should not cloak or screen a defective _pianissimo_, but should serve exclusively as a means of colouring where the softness of tone is coupled with what the jewellers call "dull finish." For the left pedal does not soften the tone without changing its character; it lessens the quantity of tone but at the same time it also markedly affects the quality. To _Sum Up_: Train your ear and then use both pedals honestly! Use them for what they were made. Remember that even screens are not used for hiding things behind them, but for decorative purposes or for protection. Those who do use them for hiding something must have something which they prefer to hide! PLAYING "IN STYLE" By playing a piece of music "in style" is understood a rendition which does absolute justice to its contents in regard to the manner of expression. Now, the true manner of expression must be sought and found for each piece individually, even though a number of different pieces may be written by one and the same composer. Our first endeavour should be to search out the peculiarity of the piece in hand rather than that of the composer in general. If you have succeeded in playing one work by Chopin in style, it does not follow, by any means, that you can play equally well any other work from his pen. Though on general lines his manner of writing may be the same in all his works, there will, nevertheless, be marked differences between the various pieces. Only by careful study of each work by itself can we find the key to its correct conception and rendition. We will never find it in books about the composer, nor in such as treat of his works, but only in the works themselves and in each one _per se_. People who study a lot of things about a work of art may possibly enrich their general knowledge, but they never can get that specific knowledge needful for the interpretation of the particular work in hand. Its own contents alone can furnish that knowledge. We know from frequent experience that book-learned musicians (or, as they are now called, musicologists) usually read everything in sight, and yet their playing rises hardly ever above mediocre dilettanteism. Why should we look for a correct conception of a piece anywhere but in the piece itself? Surely the composer has embodied in the piece all he knew and felt when he wrote it. Why, then, not listen to his specific language instead of losing our way in the terms of another art? Literature is literature, and music is music. They may combine, as in song, but one can never be substituted for the other. _Many Students Never Learn_ to understand a composer's specific language because their sole concern is to make the piece "effective" in the sense of a clever stunt. This tendency is most deplorable; for there really does exist a specifically musical language. By purely material means: through notes, pauses, dynamic and other signs, through special annotations, etc., the composer encloses in his work the whole world of his imagination. The duty of the interpretative artist is to extract from these material things the spiritual essence and to transmit it to his hearers. To achieve this he must understand this musical language in general and of each composition in particular. But--how is this language to be learned? By conning with careful attentiveness--and, of course, absorbing--the purely material matter of a piece: the notes, pauses, time values, dynamic indications, etc. If a player be scrupulously exact in his mere reading of a piece it will, of itself, lead him to understand a goodly portion of the piece's specific language. Nay, more! Through a really correct conning the player is enabled to determine upon the points of repose as well as upon the matter of climax, and thus to create a basis for the operations of his own imagination. After that, nothing remains but to call forth into tonal life, through the fingers, what his musical intelligence has grasped--which is a purely technical task. To transform the purely technical and material processes into a thing that lives, of course, rests with the natural, emotional, temperamental endowments of the individual; it rests with those many and complex qualities which are usually summarised by the term "talent," but this must be presupposed with a player who aspires to artistic work. On the other hand, talent alone cannot lift the veil that hides the spiritual content of a composition if its possessor neglects to examine the latter carefully as to its purely material ingredients. He may flatter the ear, sensuously speaking, but he can never play the piece in style. _Now How Can We Know_ whether we are or are not approaching the spiritual phase of a piece? By repetition under unremitting attention to the written values. If, then, you should find how much there is still left for you to do, you have proved to yourself that you have understood the piece spiritually and are on the right track to master it. With every repetition you will discover some hitherto unnoticed defect in your interpretation. Obviate these defects, one by one, and in so doing you will come nearer and nearer to the spiritual essence of the work in hand. As to the remaining "purely technical task" (as I said before), it must not be underestimated! To transmit one's matured conception to one's auditors requires a considerable degree of mechanical skill, and this skill, in its turn, must be under absolute control of the will. Of course--after the foregoing--this does not mean that everybody who has a good and well-controlled technic can interpret a piece in style. Remember that to possess wealth is one thing, to put it to good use is quite another. It is sometimes said that the too objective study of a piece may impair the "individuality" of its rendition. Have no fear of that! If ten players study the same piece with the same high degree of exactness and objectivity--depend upon it: each one will still play it quite differently from the nine others, though each one may think his rendition the only correct one. For each one will express what, according to his lights, he has mentally and temperamentally absorbed. Of the distinctive feature which constitutes the difference in the ten conceptions each one will have been unconscious while it formed itself, and perhaps also afterward. But it is just this unconsciously formed feature which constitutes legitimate individuality and which alone will admit of a real fusion of the composer's and the interpreter's thought. A purposed, blatant parading of the player's dear self through wilful additions of nuances, shadings, effects, and what not, is tantamount to a falsification; at best it is "playing to the galleries," charlatanism. The player should always feel convinced that he plays only what is written. To the auditor, who with his own and different intelligence follows the player's performance, the piece will appear in the light of the player's individuality. The stronger this is the more it will colour the performance, when unconsciously admixed. _Rubinstein Often Said to Me_: "Just play first exactly what is written; if you have done full justice to it and then still feel like adding or changing anything, why, do so." Mind well: after you have done full justice to what is written! How few are those who fulfil this duty! I venture to prove to any one who will play for me--if he be at all worth listening to--that he does not play more than is written (as he may think), but, in fact, a good deal less than the printed page reveals. And this is one of the principal causes of misunderstanding the esoteric portion, the inherent "style" of a piece--a misunderstanding which is not always confined to amateurs--inexact reading! The true interpretation of a piece of music results from a correct understanding of it, and this, in turn, depends solely upon scrupulously exact reading. _Learn the Language of Music_, then, I repeat, through exact reading! You will then soon fathom the musical meaning of a composition and transmit it intelligibly to your listeners. Would you satisfy your curiosity as to what manner of person the author is or was at the time of writing, you may do so. But--as I said in the "Foreword"--your chief interest should centre in the "composition," not in the "composer," for only by studying his work will you be enabled to play it in style. HOW RUBINSTEIN TAUGHT ME TO PLAY Outside of the regular students of the Imperial Conservatory of Music at St. Petersburg, Rubinstein accepted but one pupil. The advantage and privilege to be that one pupil was mine. I came to Rubinstein when I was sixteen years old and left him at eighteen. Since that time I have studied only by myself; for to whom could I have gone after Rubinstein? His very manner of teaching was such that it would have made any other teacher appear to me like a schoolmaster. He chose the method of indirect instruction through suggestive comparisons. He touched upon the strictly musical only upon rare occasions. In this way he wished to awaken within me the concretely musical as a parallel of his generalisations and thereby preserve my musical individuality. He never played for me. He only talked, and I, understanding him, translated his meaning into music and musical utterances. Sometimes, for instance, when I played the same phrase twice in succession, and played it both times alike (say in a sequence), he would say: "In fine weather you may play it as you did, but when it rains play it differently." Rubinstein was much given to whims and moods, and he often grew enthusiastic about a certain conception only to prefer a different one the next day. Yet he was always logical in his art, and though he aimed at hitting the nail from various points of view he always hit it on the head. Thus he never permitted me to bring to him, as a lesson, any composition more than once. He explained this to me once by saying that he might forget in the next lesson what he told me in the previous one, and by drawing an entirely new picture only confuse my mind. Nor did he ever permit me to bring one of his own works, though he never explained to me his reason for this singular attitude. [Illustration: _Anton Rubinstein_] [Illustration: _How Rubinstein Taught Me to Play_] Usually, when I came to him, arriving from Berlin, where I lived, I found him seated at his writing-desk, smoking Russian cigarettes. He lived at the Hôtel de l'Europe. After a kindly salute he would always ask me the same question: "Well, what is new in the world?" I remember replying to him: "I know nothing new; that's why I came to learn something new--from you." Rubinstein, understanding at once the musical meaning of my words, smiled, and the lesson thus promised to be a fine one. I noticed he was usually not alone when I came, but had as visitors several elderly ladies, sometimes very old ladies (mostly Russians), and some young girls--seldom any men. With a wave of his hand he directed me to the piano in the corner, a Bechstein, which was most of the time shockingly out of tune; but to this condition of his piano he was always serenely indifferent. He would remain at his desk studying the notes of the work while I played. He always compelled me to bring the pieces along, insisting that I should play everything just as it was written! He would follow every note of my playing with his eyes riveted on the printed pages. A pedant he certainly was, a stickler for the letter--incredibly so, especially when one considered the liberties he took when he played the same works! Once I called his attention modestly to this seeming paradox, and he answered: "When you are as old as I am now you may do as I do--if you can." Once I played a Liszt Rhapsody pretty badly. After a few moments he said: "The way you played this piece would be all right for auntie or mamma." Then rising and coming toward me he would say: "Now let us see how we play such things." Then I would begin all over again, but hardly had I played a few measures when he would interrupt and say: "Did you start? I thought I hadn't heard right----" "Yes, master, I certainly did," I would reply. "Oh," he would say vaguely. "I didn't notice." "How do you mean?" I would ask. "I mean this," he would answer: "Before your fingers touch the keys you must begin the piece mentally--that is, you must have settled in your mind the _tempo_, the manner of touch, and, above all, the attack of the first notes, before your actual playing begins. And by-the-bye, what is the character of this piece? Is it dramatic, tragic, lyric, romantic, humourous, heroic, sublime, mystic--what? Well, why don't you speak?" Generally I would mutter something after such a tirade, but usually I said something stupid because of the awe with which he inspired me. Finally, after trying several of his suggested designations I would hit it right. Then he would say: "Well, there we are at last! Humourous, is it? Very well! And rhapsodical, irregular--hey? You understand the meaning?" I would answer, "Yes." "Very well, then," he would reply; "now prove it." And then I would begin all over again. He would stand at my side, and whenever he wanted a special stress laid upon a certain note his powerful fingers would press upon my left shoulder with such force that I would stab the keys till the piano fairly screamed for me. When this did not have the effect he was after he would simply press his whole hand upon mine, flattening it out and spreading it like butter all over the keys, black and white ones, creating a frightful cacophony. Then he would say, almost with anger, "But cleaner, cleaner, cleaner," as if the discord had been of my doing. Such occurrences did not lack a humourous side, but their turn into the tragical always hung by a hair, especially if I had tried to explain or to make excuses. So I generally kept silent, and I found, after some experience, that was the only proper thing for me to do. For just as quickly as he would flare up he would also calm down again, and when the piece was ended I would hear his usual comment: "You are an excellent young man!" And how quickly was all pain then forgotten! I remember on one occasion that I played Schubert-Liszt's "Erl-König." When I came to the place in the composition where the Erl-King says to the child, "Thou dear, sweet child, oh, come with me," and I had played several false notes besides very poor arpeggios, Rubinstein asked me: "Do you know the text at this place?" As a reply I quoted the words. "Very well, then," he said, "the Erl-King addresses the child; Erl-King is a spirit, a ghost--so play this place in a spiritlike way, ghostly, if you will, but not ghastly with false notes!" I had to laugh at his word-play and Rubinstein himself chimed in, and the piece was saved, or rather the player. For when I repeated that particular part it went very well, and he allowed me to continue without further interruption. Once I asked him for the fingering of a rather complex passage. "Play it with your nose," he replied, "but make it sound well!" This remark puzzled me, and there I sat and wondered what he meant. As I understand it now he meant: Help yourself! The Lord helps those who help themselves! As I said before, Rubinstein never played for me the works I had to study. He explained, analysed, elucidated everything that he wanted me to know; but, this done, he left me to my own judgment, for only then, he would explain, would my achievement be my own and incontestable property. I learned from Rubinstein in this way the valuable truth that the conception of tone-pictures obtained through the playing of another gives us only transient impressions; they come and go, while the self-created conception will last and remain our own. Now, when I look back upon my study-days with Rubinstein, I can see that he did not so much instruct me as that I learned from him. He was not a pedagogue in the usual meaning of that word. He indicated to me an altitude offering a fine view, but how I was to get up there was my affair; he did not bother about it. "Play with your nose!" Yes--but when I bumped it till it fairly bled where would I get the metaphorical handkerchief? In my imagination! And he was right. To be sure, this method would not work with all pupils, but it is nevertheless well calculated to develop a student's original thought and bring out whatever acumen he may possess. If such a one succeeded by his own study and mental force to reach the desired point which the great magician's wizardry had made him see, he had gained the reliance in his own strength: he felt sure that he would always find that point again--even though he should lose his way once or twice, as every one with an honest aspiration is liable to do. I recall that Rubinstein once said to me: "Do you know why piano-playing is so difficult? Because it is prone to be either affected or else afflicted with mannerisms; and when these two pitfalls are luckily avoided then it is liable to be--dry! The truth lies between those three mischiefs!" When it was settled that I should make my Hamburg début under his baton with his own D-minor Concerto, I thought the time had come at last to study with him one of his own works. So I proposed it, but Rubinstein disposed of it! I still see him, as if it were but yesterday, seated in the greenroom of the Berlin Philharmonic during an intermission in his concert (it was on a Saturday) and telling me: "We shall appear together in Hamburg on Monday." The time was short, but I knew the Concerto and hoped to go through it with him some time in the remaining two days. I asked his permission to play the Concerto for him, but he declined my urgent request, saying: "It is not necessary; we understand each other!" And even in this critical moment he left me to my own resources. After the last (and only) rehearsal the great master embraced me before the whole orchestra, and I--well, I was not in the seventh, but in the "eighth" heaven! Everything was all right, I said to myself, for Rubinstein, Rubinstein was satisfied! The public simply had to be! The concert went off splendidly. After that memorable début in Hamburg, which was on March 14, 1894, I went directly to see Rubinstein, little dreaming that my eyes would then see him for the last time. I brought with me a large photograph of himself, and, though fully aware of his unconquerable aversion to autographing, my desire for the possession of his signature overruled my reluctance and I made my request. He raised both fists and thundered, half-angry and half-laughing: "_Et tu, Brute?_" But my wish was granted, and I reproduce the portrait in this article. Then I asked him when I should play for him again, and to my consternation he answered: "Never!" In my despair I asked him: "Why not?" He, generous soul that he was, then said to me: "My dear boy, I have told you all I know about legitimate piano-playing and music-making"--and then changing his tone somewhat he added: "And if you don't know it _yet_, why, go to the devil!" I saw only too well that while he smiled as he said it he meant it seriously, and I left him. I never saw Rubinstein again. Soon after that he returned to his villa in Peterhof, near St. Petersburg, and there he died on November 19, 1894. The effect that his death had upon me I shall never forget. The world appeared suddenly entirely empty to me, devoid of any interest. My grief made me realise how my heart had worshipped not only the artist in him but also the man; how I loved him as if he were my father. I learned of his death through the English papers while I was _en route_ from London to Cheltenham, where I was booked for a recital on the twentieth. The B-flat minor Sonata by Chopin happened to be on the programme, and as I struck the first notes of the Funeral March the whole audience rose from their seats as if by command and remained standing with bowed heads during the whole piece--in honour of the great departed. A singular coincidence occurred at my concert on the preceding day--the day of Rubinstein's death. On this day I played for the first time in public after my seven years' retirement (excepting my Hamburg début). It was in London. In this concert I played, as a novelty, a Polonaise in E-flat minor which Rubinstein had but recently written in Dresden and dedicated to me. He had included it in the set called "Souvenirs de Dresde." This piece has throughout the character of a Funeral March in all but the time-division. Little did I dream while I was playing it that day that I was singing him into his eternal rest, for it was but a few hours later that, in the far East of Europe, my great master passed away, suddenly, of heart failure. Two years later I played this same Polonaise for the second and last time. It was on the anniversary of his death, in St. Petersburg, where in honour of his memory I gave a recital, the proceeds of which I devoted to the Rubinstein Fund. Since then I have played this piece only once, at home and to myself, excluding it entirely from my public répertoire. For, though it was dedicated to me, the time and circumstances of its initial performance always made me feel as if it still belonged to my master, or, at best, as if it were something personal and private between us two. Indispensables in Pianistic Success I "The Indispensables in Pianistic Success? Are not the indispensables in all success very much the same? Nothing can take the place of real worth. This is especially true of America, in which country I have lived longer than in any other, and which I am glad to call my home. Americans are probably the most traveled people of the world, and it is futile to offer them anything but the best. Some years ago a conductor brought to this country an orchestra of second-class character, with the idea that the people would accept it just because it bore the name of a famous European city which possessed one of the great orchestras of the world. It was a good orchestra, but there were better orchestras in American cities, and it took American audiences just two concerts to find this out, resulting in a disastrous failure, which the conductor was man enough to face and personally defray. The American people know the best, and will have nothing but the best. Therefore, if you would make a list of the indispensables of pianistic success in this country at this time you must put at the head of your list, REAL WORTH. "Naturally, one of the first indispensables would include what many term 'the musical gift.' However, this is often greatly misunderstood. We are, happily, past the time when music was regarded as a special kind of divine dispensation, which, by its very possession, robbed the musician of any claim to possible excellence in other lines. In other words, music was so special a gift that it was even thought by some misguided people to isolate the musician from the world--to make him a thing apart and different from other men and women of high aspirations and attainments. "It is true that there have been famous prodigies in mathematics, and in games such as chess, who have given evidence of astonishing prowess in their chosen work, but who, at the same time, seem to have been lamentably under-developed in many other ways. This is not the case in music at this day at least, for, although a special love for music and a special quickness in mastering musical problems are indispensable, yet the musicians are usually men and women of broad cultural development if they desire it and are willing to work for it. "Nor can I concede that a very finely developed sense of hearing is in all cases essential. The possession of what is known as absolute pitch, which so many seem to think is a sure indication of musical genius, is often a nuisance. Schumann did not possess it, and (unless I am incorrectly informed) Wagner did not have absolute pitch. I have it, and can, I believe, distinguish differences of an eighth of a tone. I find it more disturbing than beneficial. My father had absolute pitch in remarkable fashion. He seemed to have extremely acute ears. Indeed, it was often impossible for him to identify a well-known composition if he heard it played in a different key--it sounded so different to him. Mozart had absolute pitch, but music, in his day, was far less complicated. We now live in an age of melodic and contrapuntal intricacy, and I do not believe that the so-called acute sense of hearing, or highly developed sense of absolute pitch, has very much to do with one's real musical ability. The physical hearing is nothing; the spiritual hearing--if one may say so--is what really counts. If, in transposing, for instance, one has associated the contents of a piece so closely with its corresponding tonality that it is hard to play in any other tonality, this constitutes a difficulty--not an advantage. II "Too much cannot be said about the advantage of an early drill. The impressions made during youth seem to be the most lasting. I am certain that the pieces that I learned before I was ten years of age remain more persistently in my memory than the compositions I studied after I was thirty. The child who is destined for a musical career should receive as much musical instruction in early life as is compatible with the child's health and receptivity. To postpone the work too long is just as dangerous to the child's career as it is dangerous to overload the pupil with more work than his mind and body can absorb. Children learn far more rapidly than adults--not merely because of the fact that the work becomes more and more complicated as the student advances, but also because the child mind is so vastly more receptive. The child's power of absorption in music study between the ages of eight and twelve is simply enormous; it is less between twelve and twenty; still less between twenty and thirty, and often lamentably small between thirty and forty. It might be represented by some such diagram as: --------------------------------------------------------------- 30 to 40 years of age Limited Receptivity Limited Results --------------------------------------------------------------- 20 to 30 } Still Less Accomplishment years of age } --------------------------------------------------------------- 12 to 20 } Less Accomplishment years of age } --------------------------------------------------------------- 8 to 12 } years } Greatest Receptivity of } Greatest Accomplishment age } --------------------------------------------------------------- "Of course, these lines are only comparative, and there are exceptional cases of astonishing development late in life, due to enormous ambition and industry. Yet the period of highest achievement is usually early in life. This is especially true in the arts where digital skill is concerned. "All teachers are aware of the need for the best possible drill early in life. The idea one so often hears expressed in America: 'Since my daughter is only beginning her studies--any teacher will do,' has been the source of great laxity in American musical education. If the father who has such an idea would only transpose the same thought to the building of a house he would be surprised to find himself saying: 'Since I am only laying a foundation, any kind of trashy material will do. I will use inferior cement, plaster, stone, bricks, decayed wood and cheap hardware, and employ the cheapest labor I can procure. But when I get to the roof I shall engage the finest roofmakers in the world!' "The beginning is of such tremendous importance that only the best is good enough. By this I do not mean the most expensive teacher obtainable, but someone who is thorough, painstaking, conscientious, alert and experienced. The foundation is the part of the house in which the greatest strength and thoroughness is required. Everything must be solid, substantial, firm and secure, to stand the stress of use and the test of time. Of course, there is such a thing as employing a teacher with a big reputation and exceptional skill, who would make an excellent teacher for an advanced student, but who might be incapable of laying a good foundation for the beginner. One wants strength at the foundation--not gold ornaments and marble trimmings and beautiful decorations, fretwork, carving. Just as in great cities one finds firms which make a specialty of laying foundations for immense buildings, so it is often wise to employ a teacher who specializes in instructing beginners. In European music schools this has almost always been the case. It is not virtuosity that is needed in the makeup of the teacher of beginners, but rather sound musicianship, as well as the comprehension of the child psychology. Drill, drill, and more drill, is the secret of the early training of the mind and hand. This is indicated quite as much in games such as tennis, billiards and golf. Think of the remarkable records of some very young players in these games, and you will see what may be accomplished in the early years of the young player. "In all arts and sciences, as one advances, complications and obstacles seem to multiply in complexity until the point of mastery is reached; then the tendency seems to reverse itself, until a kind of circle carries one round again to the point of simplicity. I have often liked to picture this to myself in this way: [Illustration] "It is encouraging for the student to know that he must expect to be confronted with ever-increasing difficulties, until he reaches the point where all the intense and intricate problems seem to solve themselves, dissolving gradually into the light of a clear understanding day. This is to me a general principle underlying almost all lines of human achievement, and it appears to me that the student should learn its application, not only to his own but to other occupations and attainments. This universal line of life, starting with birth, mounting to its climax in middle life, and then passing on to greater and greater simplicity of means, until at death the circle is almost completed, is a kind of human program which all successful men would appear to follow. Perhaps we can make this clearer by studying the evolution of the steam engine. "The steam engine started with the most primitive kind of apparatus. At the very first it was of the turbine type. Hero of Alexander (Heron, in Greek) made the first steam engine, which was little more than a toy. According to some historians, Heron lived in the second century before Christ, and according to others his work was done in the latter half of the first century. He was an ingenious mathematician who often startled the people of this time with his mechanical contrivances. It is difficult to show the principle of his engine in an exact drawing; but the following indicates in a crude way the application of steam force something after the manner in which Heron first applied it. [Illustration] "A is a retort containing water, which is heated to steam, which issues from the tube at B and is caught in the wheel in such a manner that the wheel revolves. The principle is simplicity itself; and the noteworthy fact is that--primitive as it is--it has the characteristic principle involved in the turbine engine of to-day. After Heron many others attempted to use controlled steam to produce force, until, in 1764, James Watt made discoveries which paved the way for the modern steam engine, constituting him virtually the inventor of the type. Thereafter, the machinery became more and more complicated and enormous in size. Double, triple and quadruple expansion types were introduced until, at the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, in 1876, a giant engine was exhibited by Corliss--a marvelous engine, with many elaborate details. Then, having reached the maximum curve of complexity, engine construction became more and more simple, and now we have turbine engines, such as the Parsons engines, which are all far smaller and simpler than their grandfathers of the seventies, but at the same time vastly more powerful and efficient. III "In the art of piano playing we have much the same line of curve. At first there was childlike simplicity. Then, with the further development of the art, we find the tendency toward enormous technical accomplishment and very great complexity. Fifty years ago technic was everything. The art of piano playing was the art of the musical speedometer--the art of playing the greatest number of notes in the shortest possible time. Of course, there were a few outstanding giants, Rubinsteins, Liszts and Chopins, who made their technic subordinate to their message; but the public was dazzled with technic--one might better say pyrotechnics. Now we find the circle drawing toward the point of simplicity again. Great beauty, combined with adequate technic, is demanded rather than enormous technic divorced from beauty. "Technic represents the material side of art, as money represents the material side of life. By all means achieve a fine technic, but do not dream that you will be artistically happy with this alone. Thousands--millions--of people believe that money is the basis of great happiness, only to find, when they have accumulated vast fortunes, that money is only one of the extraneous details which may--or may not--contribute to real content in life. "Technic is a chest of tools from which the skilled artisan draws what he needs at the right time for the right purpose. The mere possession of the tools means nothing; it is the instinct--the artistic intuition as to when and how to use the tools--that counts. It is like opening the drawer and finding what one needs at the moment. "There is a technic which liberates and a technic which represses the artistic self. All technic ought to be a means of expression. It is perfectly possible to accumulate a technic that is next to useless. I recall the case of a musician in Paris who studied counterpoint, harmony and fugue for eight years, and at the end of that time he was incapable of using any of his knowledge in practical musical composition. Why? Because he had spent all of his time on the mere dry technic of composition, and none in actual composition. He told me that he had been years trying to link his technic to the artistic side of things--to write compositions that embodied real music, and not merely the reflex of uninspired technical exercises. I am a firm believer in having technic go hand in hand with veritable musical development from the start. Neither can be studied alone; one must balance the other. The teacher who gives a pupil a long course in strict technic unbroken by the intelligent study of real music, is producing a musical mechanic--an artisan, not an artist. "Please do not quote me as making a diatribe against technic. I believe in technic to the fullest extent in its proper place. Rosenthal, who was unquestionably one of the greatest technicians, once said to me: 'I have found that the people who claim that technic is not an important thing in piano playing simply do not possess it.' For instance, one hears now and then that scales are unnecessary in piano practice. A well-played scale is a truly beautiful thing, but few people play them well because they do not practice them enough. Scales are among the most difficult things in piano playing; and how the student who aspires to rise above mediocrity can hope to succeed without a thorough and far-reaching drill in all kinds of scales, I do not know. I do know, however, that I was drilled unrelentingly in them, and that I have been grateful for this all my life. Do not despise scales, but rather seek to make them beautiful. "The clever teacher will always find some piece that will illustrate the use and result of the technical means employed. There are thousands of such pieces that indicate the use of scales, chords, arpeggios, thirds, etc., and the pupil is encouraged to find that what he has been working so hard to acquire may be made the source of beautiful expression in a real piece of music. This, to my mind, should be part of the regular program of the student from the very start; and it is what I mean when I say that the work of the pupil in technic and in musical appreciation should go hand in hand from the beginning. IV "The use of the pedal is an art in itself. Unfortunately, with many it is an expedient to shield deficiency--a cloak to cover up inaccuracy and poor touch. It is employed as the veils that fading dowagers adopt to obscure wrinkles. The pedal is even more than a medium of coloring. It provides the background so indispensable in artistic playing. Imagine a picture painted without any background and you may have an inkling of what the effect of the properly used pedal is in piano playing. It has always seemed to me that it does in piano playing what the wind instruments do in the tonal mass of the orchestra. The wind instruments usually make a sort of background for the music of the other instruments. One who has attended the rehearsal of a great orchestra and has heard the violins rehearsed alone, and then together with the wind instruments, will understand exactly what I mean. "How and when to introduce the pedal to provide certain effects is almost the study of a lifetime. From the very start, where the student is taught the bad effect of holding down the 'loud' pedal while two unrelated chords are played, to the time when he is taught to use the pedal for the accomplishment of atmospheric effects that are like painting in the most subtle and delicate shades, the study of the pedal is continuously a source of the most interesting experiment and revelation. "There should be no hard-and-fast rules governing the use of the pedal. It is the branch of pianoforte playing in which there must always be the greatest latitude. For instance, in the playing of Bach's works on the modern pianoforte there seems to have been a very great deal of confusion as to the propriety of the use of the pedal. The Bach music, which is played now on the keyboard of the modern piano, was, for the most part, originally written for either the clavier or for the organ. The clavichord had a very short sound, resembling in a way the staccato touch on the present-day piano, whereas the organ was and is capable of a great volume of sound of sustained quality. Due to the contradictory nature of these two instruments and the fact that many people do not know whether a composition at hand was written for the clavichord or for the organ, some of them try to imitate the organ sound by holding the pedal all the time or most of the time, while others try to imitate the clavichord and refrain from the use of the pedal altogether. The extreme theories, as in the case of all extreme theories, are undoubtedly wrong. "One may have the clavichord in mind in playing one piece and the organ in mind in playing another. There can be nothing wrong about that, but to transform the modern pianoforte, which has distinctly specific tonal attributes, into a clavichord or into an organ must result in a tonal abuse. "The pedal is just as much a part of the pianoforte as are the stops and the couplers a part of the organ or the brass tangents a part of the clavichord. It is artistically impossible to so camouflage the tone of the pianoforte as to make it sound like either the organ or the clavichord. Even were this possible, the clavichord is an instrument which is out of date, though the music of Bach is still a part and parcel of the musical literature of to-day. The oldest known specimen of the clavichord (dated 1537) is in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in New York City. Should you happen to view this instrument you would realize at once that its action is entirely different from that of the piano, just as its tone was different. You cannot possibly make a piano sound like a clavichord through any medium of touch or pedals. Therefore, why not play the piano as a piano? Why try to do the impossible thing in endeavoring to make the piano sound like another instrument of a different mechanism? Why not make a piano sound like a piano? Must we always endure listening to Wagner's music in a variety show and to Strauss' waltzes in Carnegie Hall? V "If one were to ask me what is the indispensable thing in the education of a pianist, I would say: 'First of all, a good guide.' By this I do not mean merely a good teacher, but rather a mentor, a pilot who can and who will oversee the early steps of the career of a young person. In my own case, I was fortunate in having a father, a professional musician, who realized my musical possibilities, and from the very beginning was intensely interested in my career, not merely as a father, but as an artist guiding and piloting every day of my early life. Fate is such a peculiar mystery, and the student, in his young life, can have but a slight idea of what is before him in the future. Therefore, the need of a mentor is essential. I am sure that my father was the author of a great deal of the success that I have enjoyed. It was he who took me to Moszkowski and Rubinstein. The critical advice--especially that of Rubinstein--was invaluable to me. The student should have unrelenting criticism from a master mind. Even when it is caustic, as was von Bülow's, it may be very beneficial. I remember once in the home of Moszkowski that I played for von Bülow. The taciturn, cynical conductor-pianist simply crushed me with his criticism of my playing. But, young though I was, I was not so conceited as to fail to realize that he was right. I shook hands with him and thanked him for his advice and criticism. Von Bülow laughed and said, 'Why do you thank me? It is like the chicken thanking the one who had eaten it, for doing so.' Von Bülow, on that same day played in such a jumbled manner with his old, stiffened fingers, that I asked Moszkowski how in the world it might be possible for von Bülow to keep a concert engagement which I knew him to have a few days later in Berlin. Moszkowski replied: 'Let von Bülow alone for that. You don't know him. If he sets out to do something, he is going to do it.' "Von Bülow's playing, however, was almost always pedantic, although unquestionably scholarly. There was none of the leonine spontaneity of Rubinstein. Rubinstein was a very exacting schoolmaster at the piano when he first undertook to train me; but he often said to me, 'The main object is to make the music sound right, even though you have to play with your nose!' With Rubinstein there was no _ignus fatuus_ of mere method. Any method that would lead to fine artistic results--to beautiful and effective performance--was justifiable in his eyes. "Finally, to the student let me say: 'Always work hard and strive to do your best. Secure a reliable mentor if you can possibly do so, and depend upon his advice as to your career. Even with the best advice there is always the element of fate--the introduction of the unknown--the strangeness of coincidence which would almost make one believe in astrology and its dictum that our terrestrial course may be guided by the stars. In 1887, when I played in Washington as a child of eleven, I was introduced to a young lady, who was the daughter of Senator James B. Eustis. Little did I dream that this young woman, of all the hundreds and hundreds of girls introduced to me during my tours, would some day be my wife. Fate plays its rôle--but do not be tempted into the fallacious belief that success and everything else depend upon fate, for the biggest factor is, after all, hard work and intelligent guidance.'" _Piano Questions Answered_ CONTENTS TECHNIQUE PAGE 1. General 3 2. Position of the Body 4 3. Position of the Hand 6 4. Position of the Fingers 6 5. Action of the Wrist 9 6. Action of the Arm 11 7. Stretching 12 8. The Thumb 14 9. The Other Fingers 16 10. Weak Fingers, etc. 18 11. Staccato 21 12. Legato 22 13. Precision 25 14. Piano Touch vs Organ Touch 26 15. Fingering 27 16. The Glissando 29 17. Octaves 29 18. Repetition Technique 34 19. Double Notes 35 THE INSTRUMENT 35 THE PEDALS 39 PRACTICE 45 MARKS AND NOMENCLATURE 57 ABOUT CERTAIN PIECES AND COMPOSERS 75 1. Bach 80 2. Beethoven 83 3. Mendelssohn 85 4. Chopin 86 EXERCISES AND STUDIES 93 POLYRHYTHMS 96 PHRASING 98 RUBATO 100 CONCEPTION 102 FORCE OF EXAMPLE 104 THEORY 104 THE MEMORY 112 SIGHT-READING 117 ACCOMPANYING 117 TRANSPOSING 119 PLAYING FOR PEOPLE 120 ABOUT THE PIANO PER SE 127 BAD MUSIC 133 ETHICAL 135 PITCH AND KINDRED MATTERS 136 THE STUDENT'S AGE 138 TEACHERS, LESSONS AND METHODS 140 MISCELLANEOUS QUESTIONS 150 A FOREWORD This little book is compiled from the questions and my answers to them, as they have appeared during the past two years in the _Ladies' Home Journal_. Since the questions came mostly from young piano students and cover a large number of matters important to the study of the piano, it was thought that this republication might be of interest to piano students in general, and that, gathered into a little volume, they might form a new and perhaps not unwelcome sort of reference book. To serve as such and to facilitate the reader's search for any particular subject, I have grouped the questions, together with their answers, under special headings. It is only natural, however, that a book of this character cannot contain more than mere suggestions to stimulate the reader's individual thinking. Positive facts, which can be found in books on musical history and in kindred works, are, therefore, stated only where they are needful as a basis for the replies. Any rule or advice given to some particular person cannot fit every other person unless it is passed through the sieve of one's own individual intelligence and is, by this process, so modified as to fit one's own particular case. There are, in addition to the questions presented and answered, one or two points about piano-playing that would naturally not occur to the average student. The opportunity to discuss those here is too favourable to be allowed to pass, and as they hardly admit of precise classification, I venture to offer them here as a brief foreword. To the hundreds of students who at various times have asked me: What is the quickest way to become a great piano-player? I will say that such a thing as a royal road, a secret trick, or a patent method to quickly become a great artist, does not exist. As the world consists of atoms; as it is the infinitely small things that have forced the microscope into the scientist's hand, so does art contain numberless small, seemingly insignificant things which, if neglected entirely, visit dire vengeance upon the student. Instead of prematurely concerning himself with his inspiration, spirituality, genius, fancy, etc., and neglecting on their account the material side of piano study, the student should be willing to progress from atom to atom, slowly, deliberately, but with absolute certainty that each problem has been completely solved, each difficulty fully overcome, before he faces the next one. Leaps, there are none! Unquestionably it does sometimes happen that an artist suddenly acquires a wide renown. In such a case his leap was not into greatness, but merely into the public's recognition of it; the greatness must have been in him for some time before the public became aware of it. If there was any leaping, it was not the artist, but the public that did it. Let us not close our eyes to the fact that there have been--and probably always will be--artists that gain a wide renown _without_ being great; puffery, aided by some personal eccentricity, is quite able to mislead the public, but these will, at best, do it only for a short time, and the collapse of such a reputation, as collapse there must be, is always sure, and sad to behold. The buoyancy of mind, its ability to soar, so necessary for both creative and interpretative art, these are never impaired by close attention to detail. If they should be destroyed by attention to detail, it would not matter, for they cannot have been genuine; they can have been but sentimental imaginings. Details are the very steps which, one by one, lead to the summit of art; we should be careful not to lift one foot before the other one rests quite securely upon its step. One should--to illustrate--not be satisfied with the ability of "getting through" some difficult passage "by the skin of the teeth" or "without breaking down," but should strive to be able to play _with_ it, to toy with it, in order to have it at one's beck and call in any variation of mood, so as to play it as it pleases the mind and not only the fingers. One should acquire sovereignty over it. This sovereignty is technique. But--technique is not art. It is only a means to achieve art, a paver of the path toward it. The danger of confounding technique with art itself is not inconsiderable, since it takes a long time to develop a trustworthy technique; and this prolonged association with one subject is apt to give it supremacy over all others in one's mind. To guard against this serious danger the student should, above all, never lose sight of the fact that music, as does any other art, springs from our innate craving for individual expression. As word-thought is transmitted from man to man by verbal language so are feelings, emotions, moods--crystallized into tone-thought--conveyed by music. The effects of music may, therefore, be ennobling and refining; but they can as easily be degrading and demoralizing. For the saints and sinners among music-makers are probably in the same proportion as among the followers of other professions. The ethical value of music depends, therefore, not upon the musician's technique, but solely upon his moral tendencies. The student should never strive to dazzle his auditor's ear with mere technical brilliancy, but should endeavour to gladden his heart, to refine his feelings and sensibilities, by transmitting noble musical thoughts to his mind. He should scorn all unnecessary, charlatanish externalities and strive ever for the inwardness of the composition he interprets; for, in being honest to the composition he will also be honest to himself and thus, consciously or not, express his own best self. If all musicians were sincere in this endeavour there could be neither envy nor jealousy among them; advancing hand in hand toward their common ideal they could not help being of mutual assistance to each other. Art, not unlike religion, needs an altar around which its devotees may congregate. Liszt, in his day, had erected such an altar in Weimar, and as its high priest he stood, himself, before it--a luminous example of devotion to art. Rubinstein did the same in St. Petersburg. Out of these atmospheres, thanks to the inspiring influences of Liszt's and Rubinstein's wonderful personalities, there have emerged a large number of highly meritorious and some eminent artists. That many of them have lacked the power in their later life to withstand the temptations of quick material gain by descending to a lower plane is to be regretted, but--such is life. Many are called, but few are chosen. Since those days several of these "many" have attempted to create similar centres in Europe. They failed, because they were not serving art, but rather made art serve their own worldly purposes. The artists of talent no longer group themselves around the man of genius. Perhaps he is not to be found just now. Each little celebrity among the pianists keeps nowadays a shop of his own and all to himself. Many of these shops are "mints," and some of them produce counterfeits. As a matter of course, this separative system precludes all unification of artistic principles and is, therefore, very harmful to the present generation of students. The honest student who will discriminate between these, sometimes cleverly masked, counterfeit mints, and a real art altar must be of a character in which high principles are natively ingrained. It might help him somewhat to remember that when there is no good to choose we can always reject the bad. What is true of teachers is just as true of compositions. The student should not listen to--should not, at least, repeat the hearing of--bad compositions, though they may be called symphonies or operas. And he can, in a considerable measure, rely upon his own instincts in this matter. He may not--and probably will not--fully fathom the depths of a new symphony at its first hearing, but he must have received general impressions of sufficient power and clearness to make him _wish_ for another hearing. When this wish is absent he should not hear the work again from a mere sense of duty; it were far wiser to avoid another hearing, for habit is a strong factor, and if we accustom our ear to hear cacophonous music we are apt to lose our aversion to it, which is tantamount to a loss of good, natural taste. It is with much of modern music as it is with opium, morphine, and other deadly drugs. We should shun their very touch. These musical opiates are sometimes manufactured by persons of considerable renown; of such quickly gained renown as may be acquired nowadays by the employment of commercialistic methods; a possibility for which the venal portion of the public press must bear part of the blame. The student should not be deceived by names of which the general familiarity is of too recent a date. I repeat that he should rather consult his own feelings and by following them contribute his modest share toward sending some of the present "moderns" back into their deserved obscurity and insignificance. I use the term "moderns" advisedly, for the true masters--some of whom died but recently--have never stooped to those methods of self-aggrandisement at which I hinted. Their places of honour were accorded to them by the world because they were theirs, by right of their artistic power, their genius and the purity of their art. My advice to the students and to all lovers of music is: Hold on with all your might to the school of sincerity and chastity in music! It is saner and, morally and æsthetically, safer than the entire pack of our present nerve-tickling, aye, and nerve-racking "modernists." Music should always elevate; it should always call forth what, according to the demands of time and place, is best in us. When, instead of serving this divine mission, it speculates upon, and arouses, our lowest instincts for no better purpose than to fill the pockets of its perpetrator, it should receive neither the help nor the encouraging attention of any noble-thinking and clean-minded man or woman. Passive resistance can do a good deal on these premises. The matter of abstention from a certain type of music recalls to my mind another evil from which Americans should abstain; it is the curious and out-of-date superstition that music can be studied abroad better than here. While their number is not very large, I personally can name five American teachers who have struggled here for many a year without gaining that high recognition which they deserve. And now? Now they are in the various capitals of Europe, receiving the highest fees that were ever paid for instruction, and they receive these high fees from American students that throng their studios. That the indifference of their compatriots drove these men practically out of their country proved to be of advantage to them; but how ought those to be regarded who failed to keep them here? The wrong is irreparable in so far as these men do not think of returning to America except as visitors. The duty of American students and lovers of good music is to see to it that such capable teachers as _are_ still here should _remain_ here. The mass of emigration to Europe of our music students should cease! If a student has what is understood by "finished" his studies here and his teacher sets him free, he may make a reconnoitring tour in Europe. The change of views and customs will, no doubt, broaden his mind in certain directions. But musically speaking, he will be sure to find that most of the enchantment of Europe was due to its distance. Excepting the excellent orchestras of Europe and speaking of the general music-making there, it is at present not quite as good as it is here: neither is the average music teacher in Europe a whit better than the man of equal standing here. Americans should take cognizance of the fact that their country has not stood still in music any more than in any other direction. Each year has recorded an advancing step in its development. We must cease to compare the Europe of to-day with the America of fifty years ago. At present there is an astonishingly large number of clever and capable musicians in America, and, as with good physicians and lawyers, their ability usually stands in inverse proportion to the amount of their advertising. It is these worthy teachers for whose sake the superstition of "studying abroad" should be foresworn. What Uncle Sam has, in the field of music, not directly produced he has acquired by the natural law of attraction; now that so many talented and learned instructors, both native and foreign, are here they should be given a fair opportunity to finish a pupil's development as far as a teacher can do it, instead of seeing him, half-done, rush off "to Europe." If I were not convinced that a change on this score is possible, I should not have devoted so many words to it. It is merely a question of making a start. Let me hope that each reader of this little book may start this change, or, that, if already started, he will foster and help it. If his efforts should be disparaged by some, he need not feel disheartened, but remember that he belongs to the "land of limitless possibilities." JOSEF HOFMANN. PIANO QUESTIONS TECHNIQUE 1. GENERAL [Sidenote: _What Does "Technique" Mean?_] What are the different techniques, and which one is most generally used? What is the difference between them? Technique is a generic term, comprising scales, arpeggios, chords, double notes, octaves, legato, and the various staccato touches as well as the dynamic shadings. They are all necessary to make up a complete technique. [Sidenote: _The More Technique the More Practice_] Why do pianists who have more technique than many others practise more than these others? Why have the Rothschilds more secretaries than I have? Because the administration of a large fortune entails more work than that of a small one. A pianist's technique is the material portion of his artistic possessions; it is his capital. To keep a great technique in fine working trim is in itself a considerable and time-absorbing task. And, besides, you know that the more we have the more we want. This trait is not only human; it is also pianistic. [Sidenote: _How to Improve the Technique_] Should I endeavour to improve my technique by trying difficult pieces? You should not confine yourself to pieces that come easy to you, for that would prevent all further technical progress. But beware of pieces that are so difficult that you could not play them--in a slower tempo--with absolute correctness. For this would lead to the ruin of your technique and kill the joy in your studies. Play pieces that are always a trifle harder than those you have completely mastered. Do not emulate those who say: "I play already this or that," without asking themselves "how" they play. Artistry depends ever upon the "how." 2. POSITION OF THE BODY [Sidenote: _Do Not Raise the Piano-Stool Too High_] Are the best results at the piano attained by sitting high or low? As a general rule, I do not recommend a high seat at the piano, because this induces the employment of the arm and shoulders rather than of the fingers, and is, of course, very harmful to the technique. As to the exact height of the seat, you will have to experiment for yourself and find out at which height you can play longest with the least fatigue. [Sidenote: _The Height of the Piano Seat_] Is my seat at the piano to be at the same height when I practise as when I play for people? Yes! Height and distance (from the keyboard) of your chair--which should never have arms--you should decide for yourself and once for all time; for only then can you acquire a normal hand position, which, in its turn, is a condition _sine qua non_ for the development of your technique. See also to it that both feet are in touch with their respective pedals so as to be in place when their action is required. If they stray away and you must grope for the pedals when you need them it will lead to a break in your concentration, and this will cause you to play less well than you really can. To let the feet stray from the pedals easily affects your entire position. It is a bad habit. Alas, that bad habits are so much easier acquired than good ones! 3. POSITION OF THE HAND [Sidenote: _The Tilt of The Hand in Playing Scales_] Should my hand in playing scales be tilted toward the thumb or toward the little finger? I find that in the scales with black keys it is much easier to play the latter way. I quite share your opinion, and extend it also to the scales without black keys. I think the natural tendency of the hands is to lean toward the little finger, and as soon as you have passed the stage of preliminary training, as soon as you feel fairly certain that your fingers act evenly, you may yield to their natural tendency, especially when you strive more for speed than force; for speed does not suffer tension, while force craves it. 4. POSITION OF THE FINGERS [Sidenote: _The Results Count, Not the Methods_] Does it make any difference if my fingers are held very much curved or only a little? I was told that Rubenstein used his fingers almost flat. Since you mention Rubinstein I may quote his saying: "Play with your nose, if you will, but produce euphony (_Wohlklang_) and I will recognize you as a master of your instrument." It is ever a question of the result, whether you play this way or that way. If you should play with very much curved fingers and the result should sound uneven and pieced, change the curving little by little until you find out what degree of curvature suits your hand best. Experiment for yourself. Generally speaking, I recommend a free and easy position of hand and fingers, for it is only in a position of greatest freedom that their elasticity can be preserved, and elasticity is the chief point. By a free and easy position I mean that natural position of hand and fingers into which they fall when you drop your hand somewhat leisurely upon the keyboard. [Sidenote: _Cantabile Passages_] Should a cantabile passage be played with a high finger-stroke or by using the weight of the arm? Certain characteristic moments in some pieces require the high finger-stroke. It may be used also in working up a climax, in which case the raising of the fingers should increase proportionately to the rise of the climax. Where, however, the strength of the fingers is sufficient to obtain the climacteric result by pressure, instead of the stroke, it is always preferable to use pressure. As a general principle, I believe in the free-hanging, limp arm and recommend using its weight in cantabile playing. [Sidenote: _An Incorrect Position of the Fingers_] Pray how can I correct the fault of bending out the first joints of the fingers when their cushions are pressed down upon the keys? Your trouble comes under the head of faulty touch, which nothing will correct but the constant supervision by a good teacher, assisted by a strong exertion of your own will power and strictest attention whenever you play. This bending out of the first joint is one of the hardest pianistic ailments to cure, but it is curable. Do not be discouraged if the cure is slow. The habit of years cannot be thrown off in a day. 5. ACTION OF THE WRIST [Sidenote: _Don't Stiffen the Hands in Playing Scales_] Should the hands be kept perfectly still in playing scales and arpeggios? Or, to lessen fatigue, is an occasional rise and fall of the wrist permissible in a long passage of scale or arpeggio? The hands should, indeed, be kept still, but not stiff. Protracted passages of scales or arpeggios easily induce a stiffening of the wrist. Hence, an occasional motion of the wrist, upward and downward, will do much to counteract this tendency. It will, besides, be a good test of the looseness of the wrist. [Sidenote: _The Loose Wrist_] Is it not impossible to preserve a complete looseness of the wrist in piano-playing because of the muscles that connect the forearm with the hand? By no means. You should only see to it that you do not stiffen the wrist _unconsciously_, as most players do. The arm should be held so that the wrist is on a line with it, not bent, and by concentrated thinking you should endeavour to transfer the display of force to the finger-tips instead of holding the tension in your arm. For this produces fatigue, while the way I suggest will lead you to develop considerable force through the hand and fingers alone and leave the arm practically limp and loose. It takes months of study under closest attention, however, to acquire this looseness of the arm. [Sidenote: _The Position of the Wrist_] Do you favour a low or high position of the wrist for average type of work? For average work, I recommend an average position; neither high nor low. Changes, upward or downward, must be made to meet the requirements of special occasions. [Sidenote: _Do Not Allow the Wrist to Get Stiff_] If one's wrist is stiff is there any set of exercises especially adapted to acquiring a freer movement? Or is there any special method of exercise? It depends on whether your wrist is stiff from non-use or from wrong use. Assuming the latter, I should recommend studies in wrist octaves, but you must watch your wrist while playing and rest at the slightest indication of its stiffening. 6. ACTION OF THE ARM [Sidenote: _When Tremolo Proves Unduly Fatiguing_] I cannot play tremolo in the left hand for any length of time without great fatigue. I have tried changing the position of the hand from high to low, the sidewise motion, and the quiet hand. What is the correct method, and may the difficulty be overcome by slow practice? The tremolo cannot be practised slowly, nor with a stiff or quiet hand. The action must be distributed over the hand, wrist, underarm and, if necessary, the elbow. The shoulder forms the pivot whence a vibratory motion must proceed and engage all the points on the road to the fingers. The division of labour cannot be done consciously, but should better proceed from a feeling as if the whole arm was subjected to an electric current while engaged in playing a tremolo. [Sidenote: _Play Chords With a Loose Arm_] Should octave chords be played with rigid arms, the wrists and fingers thereby increasing the tone volume, or should the arms be loose? My teachers differ in their methods; so I turn to you for advice. With few exceptions, dictated by certain characterizations, chords should always be played with a loose arm. Let the arm pull the hand above the keys and then let both fall heavily upon them, preparing the fingers for their appropriate notes while still in the air and not, as many do, after falling down. This mode of touch produces greater tone-volume, is least fatiguing, and will have no bad after-effects. 7. STRETCHING [Sidenote: _Fatiguing the Hand by Stretching_] I stretch between my fingers--taking the second and third, for instance, and trying to see how many keys I can get between them. It has helped me, but shall I be doing wrong to continue? If, as you say, you feel benefited by your stretching exercises you may continue them. But in your place I should beware of fatigue, for while the hand may show an improvement in its stretch while you are practising these exercises, if it is fatigued it will afterward contract so that its stretch is liable to become narrower than it was before. [Sidenote: _Do Not Injure the Hand by Stretching It_] Is there any way to increase the stretch of my very small hand? Any modern teacher, acquainted with stretching your hand, can devise certain exercises that will be applicable to your particular hand. As the lack of stretch, however, may be due to a number of different causes I should advise you to desist from any stretch exercise that might be recommended to you without a close examination of your hand, since the wrong kind of exercise is not only apt, but bound, to injure it, perhaps permanently. [Sidenote: _A Safe Way of Stretching the Small Hand_] Is there any exercise, on the piano or otherwise, that would tend to stretch my hand so as to enable me to play octaves? My fingers are short and stubby. My teacher has not given me anything definite on this score. The attempts to widen the natural stretch of the hand by artificial means lead easily to disastrous results. It was by just such attempts that Schumann rendered his hand useless for piano-playing. The best I can recommend is that before playing you soak your hands in rather hot water for several minutes and then--while still in the water--stretch the fingers of one hand with the other. By doing this daily you will gain in stretch, provided you refrain from forcing matters, and provided also that you are still young, and your hands are flexible. 8. THE THUMB [Sidenote: "_What is the Matter With My Scales?_"] What is the matter with my scales? I cannot play them without a perceptible jerk when I use my thumb. How can I overcome the unevenness? In answering this question I am in the position of a physician who is expected to prescribe a treatment for a patient whom he has neither examined nor even seen. I can therefore advise only in a very general way--as I have done with many questions to avoid the eventuality of being confronted by an exceptional case. The cause of the hand's unrest in the passing of the thumb lies usually in transferring the thumb too late. The thumb waits usually until the very moment when it is needed and then quickly jumps upon the proper key, instead of moving toward it as soon as the last key it touched can be released. This belatedness causes a jerky motion of the arm and imparts it to the hand. Another cause lies in a fault no less grave than the first. Since the hand has only five fingers while the scale numbers many notes (according to its length), the player must replenish his fingers by passing the thumb under the hand so as to form a conjunction between the notes played and those to be played. This passing of the thumb conditions a change or shifting of the hand toward the keys to follow, but the shifting of the hand must not coincide with the passing of the thumb or the result will be a jerk. The position of the hand in relation to the keyboard must not change. It must remain the same until the thumb has struck its new key. Not until then must the shifting of the hand take place. In this way the jumpiness or jerkiness of the scale can be avoided, provided one can follow this precept punctiliously--which is not an easy matter, especially in great speed. Alas, why are those pesky scales so difficult, in fact, the most difficult thing to do on the piano? [Sidenote: _How to Hold the Thumb_] What is the correct position for the thumb? Should it be curved well under the hand while playing? In scale-playing the thumb should be slightly curved and kept near the index finger in order to be ready when needed. In pieces this position of the thumb cannot, of course, always be observed. [Sidenote: _Which Fingers Demand Most Attention?_] Should one pay special attention to the training of the thumb? It may be said that the thumb and the middle finger are the two arch-conspirators against a precise finger technique. They crave your greatest attention. Above all, you must see to it that, in touching the keys with these fingers, you do not move the whole hand, still less the arm. 9. THE OTHER FINGERS [Sidenote: _The Fourth and Fifth Fingers_] What exercise would you recommend for the training of the fourth and the fifth fingers? Any collection of Etudes is sure to contain some that are devoted to the training of those two fingers. In the Cramer Etudes (Bulow's selection) you will find Nos. 9, 10, 11, 14, 19, 20 adapted to your case, but do not pin your faith to the print! In all matters of art the "how" is of far more consequence than the "what." Play what you will, but bear your weak points in mind while you play. This is the real remedy. Keep hand and arm as loose as you can while training the fourth and fifth fingers. [Sidenote: _The Action of the Little Finger_] In making wide skips in which the little finger strikes a single note, as, for instance, in left-hand waltz accompaniments, should one strike on the end of the little finger or on its side; and should the finger be curved or held more or less flat? The little finger should never strike with its side. It should always be held in its normally curved condition, and straighten at the stroke only on such occasions when its own force proves insufficient and requires the assistance of the wrist and arm muscles. 10. WEAK FINGERS, ETC. [Sidenote: _To Strengthen the Weak Finger Use It_] How can I strengthen the little finger of my right hand? I avoid it in playing, using the next finger instead. By employing your little finger as much as possible and at once quitting the habit of substituting another finger for it. [Sidenote: _The Weak Fingers of the Left Hand_] What exercise would you recommend for the training of the fourth and fifth fingers of the left hand? Slow trill with various touches, with highly lifted fingers producing strength through their fall and with a lesser lift of the fingers combined with pressure touch, watching closely that the little finger strikes with the tip and not with the side. Rhythmic evenness should also be punctiliously observed. [Sidenote: _When the Fingers Seem Weak_] What kind of technical work would you advise me to take to make my fingers strong in the shortest time consistent with good work? If your fingers are unusually weak it may be assumed that your muscular constitution in general is not strong. The training of the fingers alone will, in that case, lead to no decisive results. You will have to strive for a general strengthening of your muscular fibre. At this point, however, begins the province of your physician and mine ends. If you consider your constitution normal, four or five hours' daily work at the piano will develop the necessary digital force, if that time is judiciously used. [Sidenote: _No Necessity to Watch the Fingers_] Is it always necessary to watch the fingers with the eye? In places where the fingers slide, and do not jump from one note to another at a distance, there is no need of keeping the eye on them. [Sidenote: _Biting the Finger-Nails Spoils the Touch_] Is biting the finger-nails injurious to the piano touch? Certainly; biting the nails or any other injury to the finger-tips and hand will spoil your touch. Extreme cleanliness and care in cutting the nails the proper length are necessary to keep your hands in condition for playing the piano. [Sidenote: _To Prevent Sore Finger-Tips After Playing_] How can I prevent my finger-tips, after prolonged playing, from feeling sore the next day? Experience teaches that in such cases, as in many others, cleanliness is the best remedy. After playing wash your fingers at once in warm water, with soap and brush, and then rub them well with either cold cream or some similar fatty substance. In the development of speed on the piano, the rigidity of the skin on the fingers is a great hindrance; it makes us feel as if we played with gloves on the fingers. [Sidenote: _Broad-Tipped Fingers Not a Disadvantage_] Are broad-tipped fingers considered a detriment to a man student of piano; for instance, if the finger grazes the black keys on each side when playing between them? Unless broad-tipped fingers are of an unusual thickness I do not consider them an obstacle in the way of good piano-playing; the less so, as the white keys--whatever shape the fingers may have--should never be struck between the black ones, but only in the midst of the open space. Altogether, I hold that the shape of the hand is of far greater importance to the pianist than the shape of his fingers; for it furnishes the fingers with a base of operations and with a source of strength, besides holding the entire control over them. Studying the hands and fingers of celebrated pianists you will find a great variety of finger shapes, while their hands are usually broad and muscular. [Sidenote: _What to do With the Unemployed Hand_] When playing a piece in which a rest of a measure and a half or two measures occurs should I drop my hand in my lap or keep it on the keyboard? If the temporarily unemployed hand is tired it will rest better in the lap, because this position favours the blood circulation, which, in its turn, tends to renew the strength. I should, however, not put it away from the keyboard too often, for this might easily be taken for a mannerism. 11. STACCATO [Sidenote: _Wrist Staccato at a High Tempo_] What can I do to enable me to play wrist staccato very fast without fatiguing the arm? Change your wrist staccato for a little while to a finger or arm staccato, thus giving the wrist muscles a chance to rest and regain their strength. [Sidenote: _The Difference Between "Finger Staccato" and Other Kinds_] What does "finger staccato" mean? Is not staccato always done with the fingers? By no means! There is a well-defined arm staccato, a wrist staccato, and a finger staccato. The latter is produced by a touch similar to the rapid repetition touch--that is, by not allowing the fingers to fall perpendicularly upon the keys, but rather let them make a motion as if you were wiping a spot off the keys with the finger-tips, without the use of the arm, and rapidly pulling them toward the inner hand. The arm should take no part in it whatever. 12. LEGATO [Sidenote: _The Advantage of Legato Over Staccato_] Is it better for me to practise more staccato or more legato? Give the preference to legato, for it produces the genuine piano tone, and it develops the technique of the fingers; while the staccato touch always tends to draw the arm into action. If you play from the arm you cannot expect any benefit for the fingers. For the acquisition of a legitimate legato Chopin's works cannot be highly enough recommended, even in the transcriptions by Godowsky, which become impossible when tried with any touch other than legato. He wrote them, so to speak, out of his own hand, and his legato is so perfect that it may well be taken as a model by anybody. [Sidenote: _To Produce Good Legato_] Should you advise me to make use of a high finger-stroke? My teacher makes me use it exclusively, but I notice that my playing is neither legato nor quiet. It is almost humpy. Your manner of putting the question expressed your own--and correct--judgment in the matter. This playing "in the air" is lost energy, and will not lead to a good legato. The most beautiful tone in legato style is ever produced by a "clinging and singing" gliding of the fingers over the keys. Of course, you have to watch your touch in order that your "clinging" does not deteriorate into "blurring," and that your "gliding" may not turn into "smearing." If you apprehend any such calamity you must for a while increase the raising of your fingers and use more force in their falling upon the keys. Under constant self-observation and keen listening you may, after a while, return to the gliding manner. This much in general; of course, there are places and passages where just the opposite of my advice could be said, but still I think that the high finger-stroke should rather be employed for some special characteristic effects than as a general principle. [Sidenote: _The Firm and Crisp Legato Touch_] I am confused by the terms "firm legato touch" and "crisp legato touch." Wherein lies the difference? Legato means "bound together," for which we substitute the word "connected." Two tones are either connected or they are not connected. The idea of various kinds of legato is purely a sophism, a product of non-musical hyper-analysis. By "legato" I understand the connecting of tones with each other through the agency of the fingers (on the piano). The finger that evoked a tone should not leave its key until the tone generated by the next finger has been perceived by the ear. This rule governs the playing of melodies and slow passages. In rapid passages, where the control through the ear is lessened, the legato is produced by more strictly mechanical means, but there should, nevertheless, always be two fingers simultaneously occupied. Do not take the over-smart differentiations of legato seriously. There is no plural to the word "legato." 13. PRECISION [Sidenote: _Not Playing the Two Hands at Once_] My teachers have always scolded me for playing my left hand a little before my right. It is probably a very bad habit, but I do not hear it when I do it How can I cure it? This "limping," as it is called, is the worst habit you can have in piano playing, and you are fortunate in having a teacher who persists in his efforts to combat it. There is only one way to rid yourself of this habit, namely, by constant attention and closest, keenest listening to your own playing. You are probably misstating it when you say that you do not "hear" it when you "limp"; it seems more likely to me that you do not listen. Hearing is a purely physical function which you cannot prevent while awake, while listening is an act of your will-power--it means to give direction to your hearing. 14. PIANO TOUCH _vs._ ORGAN TOUCH [Sidenote: _How Organ-Playing Affects the Pianist_] Is alternate organ and piano playing detrimental to the "pianistic touch"? Inasmuch as the force of touch and its various gradations are entirely irrelevant on the organ, the pianist who plays much on the organ is more than liable to lose the delicacy of feeling for tone-production through the fingers, and this must, naturally, lessen his power of expression. [Sidenote: _Organ-Playing and the Piano Touch_] Is it true that a child beginning music lessons on an organ gets much better tone than one beginning on a piano, and does the side study of pipe-organ, after two years of extensive piano work, impair the piano touch? It is only natural that a child can get better tone out of an organ than on a piano, because it is not the child but the organ that produces the tone. If the child's purpose, however, is to learn piano-playing it would not be wise to let him begin on an organ, because this would leave the essential element--the art of touch--entirely undeveloped. And if his piano touch has been formed it can easily be undone again by letting him play on the organ. 15. FINGERING [Sidenote: _The Universal System of Marking Fingering_] In what respect does American fingering differ from foreign fingering, and which offers the greater advantages? There is no "American" fingering. Many years ago the "English" fingering (which counts only four fingers and a thumb, and indicates the latter by a plus mark: +) was adopted by a few of the less prominent publishers in America; but it was soon abandoned. If you have a piece of sheet music with English fingering you may be certain that it is not of a recent edition, and I would advise you to obtain a more modern one. The advantage of the universal fingering lies in its greater simplicity, and in the circumstance that it is universally adopted. [Sidenote: _The C-Scale Fingering for All Scales?_] Do you advise the use of the C-scale fingering for all the scales? Is it practicable? The C-scale fingering is not applicable to scales reposing on black keys because it creates unnecessary difficulties, the mastering of which would be a matter rather of mere sport than of art. [Sidenote: _Fingering the Chromatic Scale_] Which fingering of the chromatic scale the is most conducive to speed and accuracy? The right thumb always upon E and B, the left one upon F and C. Between times use three or four consecutive fingers as often as convenient. At the beginning of a long chromatic scale select such fingers as will most naturally bring you to one of the stations just mentioned. [Sidenote: _The Fingers Needed to Play a Mordent_] When executing the mordent, is not the use of three fingers preferable to two? The selection of the fingers for the execution of a mordent depends always upon the preceding notes or keys which lead up to it. Since we cannot lift the hand just before a mordent for the purpose of changing fingers (for this would mean a rude interruption) we have to use whatever fingers happen to be "on hand." An exchange of fingers in a mordent is seldom of any advantage, for it hampers precision and evenness, since, after all, each finger has its own tone-characteristics. 16. THE GLISSANDO [Sidenote: _To Play a Glissando Passage_] Will you describe the best method of holding the hand when playing glissando? Which is preferable to use, the thumb or the forefinger? In playing glissando in the right hand use the index finger when going upward, the thumb when going downward. In the left hand--where it hardly ever occurs--use the middle finger in either direction, or, if you should find it easier, the index finger downward. The production of so great a volume of tone, as is possible on our modern piano, has necessitated a deeper fall of the keys than former pianos possessed, and this deeper dip has banished the glissando almost entirely from modern piano literature. 17. OCTAVES [Sidenote: _How Best to Play the Octaves_] Should I play octaves using the "hinge" stroke from the wrist or by using the arm? I find I can get more tone by using the arm stroke, but cannot play so rapidly. The character of the octaves must govern the selection of means to produce them. For light octaves use the wrist, for heavier ones draw more upon the arm. Rapidity requires that you avoid fatigue. If you feel fatigue approaching from too constant use of one joint, change to the other, and in doing this change also the position of the hand from high to low, and _vice versa_. For wrist octaves I recommend the low position of the hand, for arm octaves the high one. [Sidenote: _Rapid Octaves_] Please suggest some method of playing octaves rapidly to one who finds this the most difficult part of piano-playing. Would be grateful also for naming some octave études that could be used in the répertoire. If rapid octaves seem to be "the most difficult part of piano-playing" to you, take it as an indication that they do not suit your nature. A "method" will never change your nature. This need not discourage you, however; it is only to prevent you from trying to make a specialty of something for which you are not especially qualified and to save you a needless disappointment. Hold arms and hands in but a slight tension, and at the slightest fatigue change the position of the hand from high to low and _vice versa_. Your seat at the piano should not be too low. Study the first book of Kullak's Octave School, and, later on, the second book. [Sidenote: _When Playing Octaves_] When should I use the arm to play octaves as I have seen some concert players do? As I was watching them there did not seem to be the slightest motion from the wrist. Most concert players play their octaves more from the arm than from the wrist, but their wrist is nevertheless not so inactive as it seems to have appeared to you. They have probably distributed the work over the wrist, the elbow, and the shoulder in such a way that each had to do only a part of it. Light octaves can come only from the wrist, while heavier ones put the elbow and shoulder into action. To make this distribution consciously is hardly possible. A striving for economy of force and the least possible fatigue will produce this "division of labour" unconsciously. [Sidenote: _Wrist Stroke in Long Octave Passages_] When playing extended octave passages, such as the Liszt arrangement of "The Erlking," should the endeavour be to play all from the pure wrist stroke; or is it well to relieve the strain by an occasional impulse (a sort of vibration) from the forearm? Is there any advantage in varying the height of the wrist? In extended octave playing it is well to vary the position of the wrist, now high and then low. The low position brings the forearm into action, while the whole arm coöperates when the wrist is held high. From the wrist alone such pieces as "The Erlking" cannot be played, because the wrist alone gives us neither the power nor the speed that such pieces require. Besides, the octaves, when all played from the wrist, would sound "cottony." The wrist alone is to be used only in light, graceful places. [Sidenote: _Stiff Wrists in Playing Octaves_] In playing octaves or other double notes my wrist seems to stiffen. How can I remedy this? Stiffness in the wrist results from an unmindful use of it. When practising octaves or double notes think always of holding the arm and its joints in a loose, limber condition, and when you feel fatigued do not fail to stop until the muscular contraction is relieved. In a little while you will see your conscientious practising rewarded by acquiring an elasticity commensurate with your general physical status. [Sidenote: _Premature Fatigue in the Arms_] Why does it tire my arms when I play octaves and a continuation of little runs? How can I avoid it, so that they will feel free and easy? Premature fatigue is usually caused by undue muscular contraction. Keep your arms and wrists loose and you will find that the fatigue disappears. For your sensation of fatigue may be due, not to exhaustion of muscular power, but to a stoppage of circulation caused by an unconscious stiffening of the wrist. Change the position of the wrist from high to low and _vice versa_ whenever you feel the "fatigue" coming on. [Sidenote: _Kullak's "Method of Octaves" Still Good_] Is Kullak's "Method of Octaves" still one of the best in its line? or can you recommend something better? Since the days when Kullak's "School of Octaves" was printed, experience has taught us some things which might be added to it, but nothing that would contradict it. Nor, so far as I know, has anything better appeared in print than the first volume of that work especially. 18. REPETITION TECHNIQUE [Sidenote: _The Difficulty of Playing Repetition Notes_] Please help me about my repetition notes. When I wish to play them rapidly it seems that the key does not always produce a sound? Is it because of my touch? First, examine the action of your piano. It occurs not infrequently that the fingers do their work well, but fail in the results because of an inert or lazy piano action. If, however, the fault does not lie in the instrument, it must lie in a certain stiffness of the fingers. To eliminate this you need, first of all, a loose wrist. Furthermore, you should not, in repetition technique, let the fingers fall perpendicularly upon the keys, but with a motion as if you were wiping the keys with the finger-tips and then pull them quickly toward the palm of the hand, bending every joint of them rapidly. 19. DOUBLE NOTES [Sidenote: _The Playing of Double Thirds_] Please tell me something about the general practice of thirds, both diatonic and chromatic; also, about those in the first movement of the Grieg Concerto. As the playing of passages in single notes requires a close single legato, to do double thirds requires an equally close double legato. As to the exact details of legato playing I may refer you to my book, "Piano Playing," where you will find the matter discussed at length in the chapter on "Touch and Technic." THE INSTRUMENT [Sidenote: _The Kind of Piano Upon Which to Practise_] Is it irrelevant whether I practise upon a good or a bad piano? For practice you should never use any but the very best available instrument. Far, rather, may the piano be bad when you play for people. This will not hurt you nearly so much as will the constant and habitual use of a piano with a mechanism in which every key demands a different kind of touch, and which is possibly out of tune. Such conditions impair the development of your musical ear as well as of your fingers. It cannot be otherwise. As I said once before, learning means the acquiring of habits: habits of thinking and of doing. With a bad instrument you cannot develop any good qualities, even if you should possess them by nature; much less can you acquire them. Hence, I recommend a good piano, clean keyboard--for your æsthetic perceptions should be developed all around--a correct seat and concentration of mind. But these recommendations presuppose on the part of the student some talent and a good teacher. [Sidenote: _Do Not Use a Piano Extreme in "Action"_] Is it not better for a student in the advanced stage of study, who is preparing for concert work, to practise on a piano with a heavy action in order to develop the finger and hand muscles, and to use an instrument with a light action for obtaining an artistic finish to the lighter passages occurring so often, for instance, in Chopin's music? All extremes are harmful in their effects upon study and practice. A too heavy action stiffens and overtires the fingers, while too light an action tends to impair your control. Try to obtain for your practice a piano the action of which approximates as nearly as possible that of the piano on which you have to play in the concert, in order to avoid unpleasant surprises, such as premature fatigue or a running away of the fingers. [Sidenote: _How Tight to Keep the Piano's Action_] Should I keep the action of my piano tight? Keep it tight enough to preserve the "feeling" of the keys under the fingers, but to make it more so would endanger your finger action and it may injure your hand. [Sidenote: _The Action of a Beginner's Piano_] Do you think it wise for a beginner to practise on a piano that has a heavy action? That depends upon the age and physical development of the beginner. "Heavy" and "light" action are not absolute but relative terms, which comprise in their meaning the power of resistance in the player's hand. The action should be so adjusted that the player can--even in the softest touch--always feel the key under his finger. A too heavy action leads necessarily to an employment of the shoulder muscles (which should be reserved for brief, special uses) and may permanently injure the hand. [Sidenote: _Playing On a Dumb Piano_] Are mechanical appliances, such as a dumb keyboard, of advantage to the student of the piano? Should its use be restricted to a particular stage in the course of study? Music is a language. Schumann said: "From the dumb we cannot learn to talk!" The totally dumb or mute piano should, therefore, not be used, or very little, if we aim at a "musical" technique--that is, a live, multicoloured technique qualified to express musical thought and feeling. Personally I have never used a dumb piano. THE PEDALS [Sidenote: _A General Rule About the Pedal_] Should I use the pedal with each melody note? Should like a general rule. The treading upon the pedal should always follow immediately after the striking of the note for which it is intended, or else there will be discords arising from the mingling of that note with the one preceding it. This is the general rule. Exceptions there are, of course, but they occur only in certain moments when a mingling of tones is purposed for some special effect. [Sidenote: _The Use of the Pedal for Colouring_] What is the use of the damper pedal? Primarily it serves to prolong such tones as we cannot hold with the fingers. But it is also one of the greatest means for colouring. The employment of it should always be governed by the ear. [Sidenote: _How to Use the Pedal_] Please tell me how to use the pedal. I find that in some pieces there is no mark under the measures to show me when it should be used. Is there any rule which you can give me? Assuming that you have in mind the artistic use of the pedal, I regret to say that there is no more a rule for this than for the mixing of colours upon the palette of a painter who strives for some particular shade or tint. He knows that blue and yellow make green, that red and blue make purple; but those are ground colours which he can rarely use. For the finer shades he has to experiment, to consult his eye and his judgment. The relation between the pedal and the player's ear is exactly similar to that of the palette and the painter's eye. Generally speaking (from sad experience) it is far more important to know when _not_ to use the pedal than when to use it. We must refrain from its use whenever there is the slightest danger of unintentional mingling of tones. This is best avoided by taking the pedal _after_ striking the tone upon which it is to act, and to release it promptly and simultaneously with the striking of the next tone. It may be at once taken again, and this alternation must be kept up where there is either a change of harmony or a succession of "passing notes." This is the only positive rule I can give, but even this is often violated. Let your ear be the guardian of your right foot. Accustom your ear to harmonic and melodic clarity, and--listen closely. To teach the use of the pedal independent of the action of your own ear is impossible. [Sidenote: _Let Your Ear Guide Your Pedalling_] In Weber's "Storm" should the pedal be held down throughout the entire piece, as directed? It produces quite a discord. Without knowing this piece, even by name, I may say that the pianos of Weber's time had a tone of such short duration and volume that the discords resulting from a continuous use of the pedal were not so noticeable, as they are now upon the modern piano with its magnificent volume and duration of tone. Hence, the pedal must now be used with the utmost caution. Generally speaking, I say--again--that the ear is the "sole" guide of the foot upon the pedal. [Sidenote: _Use Pedal With Caution in Playing Bach_] Is Bach's music ever played with the pedal? There is no piano-music that forbids in playing the use of the pedal. Even where the texture of a piece does not require the pedal--which happens very rarely--the player might employ it as an aid where the reach of his hand proves insufficient to hold all the parts of a harmony together. With Bach the pedal is often very important; for, by judicious use--as, for instance, in the cases of organ-point--it accumulates harmonic tones, holds the fundamental tone and thus produces effects not dissimilar to the organ. Qualitatively speaking, the pedal is as necessary in Bach's music as in any other; quantitatively, I recommend the utmost caution in its use, so as not to blur the fine texture of his polyphony. [Sidenote: _The Student with a Fondness for the Pedal_] I always want to use the pedal as soon as I take a new piece, but my teacher insists that I should get a good singing tone first. Is she right? You "want" to use the pedal? In the face of your teacher's advice to the contrary? Then why did you apply for a teacher? People who consider their own pleasure while engaged in any kind of study need no teacher. They need discipline. Learn obedience! If by following your teacher's advice you should fail to progress, even then you have no right to do anything else than go to another teacher. But he will in all probability not be very different from the first one in his precepts. Hence, I say again: You should learn obedience! [Sidenote: _Using the Two Pedals at Once_] May the damper pedal and the soft pedal be used simultaneously, or would this be detrimental to the piano? Since the mechanisms of the two pedals are entirely separate and independent of each other you may use them simultaneously, provided that the character of a particular place in your piece justifies it. [Sidenote: _To Produce a Softer Tone_] Should the expression "_p_" be executed by the aid of the soft pedal or through the fingers? The soft pedal serves to change the quality of tone, not the quantity. It should therefore never be used to hide a faulty _piano_ (or soft) touch. Mere softness of tone should always be produced by a decrease of finger-force and a lessening of the raising of the fingers. The soft pedal should be employed only when the softness of tone is coupled with a change of colouring, such as lies within its range of action. [Sidenote: _Do Not Over-Use the Soft Pedal_] Should the Gavotte in A, of Gluck-Brahms, be played without the soft pedal? Does a liberal use of the soft pedal tend to make the student lazy in using a light touch? Your first question is too general, as there is no piece of music that should be played entirely with or without the soft pedal; it is used only when a certain change of colouring is proposed. A too frequent use of the soft pedal does tend to a neglect of the _pianissimo_ touch, and it should, therefore, be discouraged. [Sidenote: _Once More the "Soft" Pedal_] My piano has a rather loud tone to which my people object, and urge me to play with the soft pedal. I use it most of the time, but am afraid now to play without it. What would you advise? If a soft touch and sound are liked, have the mechanism of your piano changed at the factory. I found myself in the bad condition at one time that I could not play certain passages independently of the position of my foot on the soft pedal. Such is the strength of association that very soon a constant use of the soft pedal produces physical inability to play unless the foot is pressing the pedal. PRACTICE [Sidenote: _The Morning Practice On the Piano_] In resuming my studies in the morning what should I play first? Begin with your technical work. Scales in all tonalities, each at least twice well rendered. First slowly, one after another, then somewhat quicker, but never very quickly as long as you are not absolutely sure that both hands are perfectly even, and that neither false notes nor wrong fingerings occur. To play the scales wrong is just as much a matter of habit as to play them right--only easier. You can get very firmly settled in the habit of striking a certain note wrong every time it occurs unless you take the trouble of counteracting the formation of such a habit. After these scales play them in octaves from the wrist, slowly and without tiring it by lifting the hand to a needless height. After this play either Czerny or Cramer, then Bach, and finally Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, and so on. If you have the time to do it, play one hour in the morning on technical studies and use one hour for the difficult places in the works you are studying. In the afternoon play another hour, and this hour you devote to interpretation. I mean by this that you should now apply æsthetically what you have technically gained in the morning by uniting your mechanical advantages with the ideal conception which you have formed in your mind of the work you are studying. [Sidenote: _Morning Is the Best Time to Practise_] How much time should I spend on clearly technical study? I am practising three hours a day; how long should I practise at a time? Purely technical work--that is, work of the fingers without the participation of mind and heart--you should do little or none, for it kills your musical spirit. If, as you say, you practise three hours a day I should recommend two hours in succession in the morning and one hour in the afternoon. The morning is always the best time for work. Make no long pauses in your work, for they would break your contact with the piano and it would take considerable time to reëstablish it. In the afternoon, after the major portion of your daily task is done, you may move with greater freedom, though even this freedom should be kept within proper bounds. [Sidenote: _Time to Devote to Technical Exercises_] Should I practise studies in general for my progress or should I confine myself strictly to my technical exercises? Your strictly technical exercises should occupy one-quarter of the entire time you can give to your work. Two quarters you should use for the technical preparation of the difficult passages you encounter in the pieces you are studying, and during the last quarter these passages which have been thus prepared should be ranged into their proper places in the pieces, in order that you may not lose your view of the totality of the pieces while studying or practising details. [Sidenote: _The Only Kind of Practice Worth While_] In purely technical, _i. e._, mechanical, practice may I have a book or a magazine on the music-stand and read? This question will appear grotesque to any one who has not thought of it, yet it is legitimate; for I know positively that this crime upon themselves has been committed by many. I cannot warn students too strongly against this pernicious habit. It is far better to practise only half as long, but with concentrated attention. Even purely mechanical matter must be transmitted to the motor-centres of the brain through the agencies of the ear and eye in order to bring beneficial technical results. If the brain is otherwise occupied it becomes insensible to the impression of the work in hand, and practise thus done is a complete waste of time. Not only should we not read, but also not think of anything else but the work before us, if we expect results. Concentration is the first letter in the alphabet of success. [Sidenote: _Practising Eight Hours Instead of Four_] Will I advance quicker by practising eight hours instead of four, as I do now? Playing too much in one day has often a deteriorating effect upon one's studies, because work is profitable, after all, only if done with full mental concentration, which can be sustained only for a certain length of time. Some exhaust their power of concentration quicker than others; but, however long it may have lasted, once it is exhausted all further work is like unrolling a scroll which we have laboriously rolled up. Practise self-examination, and if you notice that your interest is waning--stop. Remember that in studying the matter of quantity is of moment only when coupled with quality. Attention, concentration, devotion, will make unnecessary any inquiries as to how much you ought to practise. [Sidenote: _Playing With Cold Hands_] Shall I, when my hands are cold and stiff, play at once difficult and fatiguing things in order to limber them up? In forcing things with cold hands you always run the danger of overstraining, while with a gradual limbering you may safely try the same tasks with impunity. Handle the piano lightly while the hands are cold, and increase both force and speed only when the hands have gained their normal temperature and elasticity. This may take half or even three-quarters of an hour. It may be accelerated by putting the hands in hot water before playing, but this should not be done too often, because it is apt to weaken the nerves of the hands. [Sidenote: _Counting Out Loud_] Is counting aloud injurious to a pupil's playing--that is, does not the sound of the voice confuse the pupil in getting the correct tone of the note struck? Loud counting can hardly ever be injurious--especially not while the pupil is dealing with time and rhythm. This part mastered or fully understood, the audible counting may be lessened and finally abandoned. During practice loud counting is of inestimable value, for it develops and strengthens rhythmic feeling better than anything else will, and, besides, it is an infallible guide to find the points of stress in a phrase. [Sidenote: _The Study of Scales Is very Important_] Must all study of the piano absolutely begin with the study of scales? Scales should not be attempted until a good finger-touch has been formed and the very important action of the thumb in the scale has been fully prepared. After that, however, I consider the practising of scales important, not only for the fingers, but also for the discipline of the ear with regard to the feeling of tonality (key), understanding of intervals, and the comprehension of the total compass of the piano. [Sidenote: _The Study of the Scales_] Do you approve of the study of all the fifteen major scales by piano students, or is the practice of the enharmonic ones unnecessary? One should learn everything in that line in order to select from one's store of learning that which the occasion calls for. Study or practise all scales as they are written, and later also in thirds, sixths, and octaves. [Sidenote: _When Reading Over a New Piece_] When studying a new composition, which is preferable: to practise first with separate hands or together? When first looking over a new composition both hands should be employed, if possible, for this is necessary to obtain, approximately, at least, a mental picture of it. If the player's technique is too insufficient for this the deciphering must, of course, be done for each hand separately. [Sidenote: _Practising the Two Parts Separately_] When I am learning a new piece should the hands practise their parts separately? Provided you have formed a general idea of the piece, it is well to practise the hands separately, because you can, in this way, concentrate your attention upon the work of each hand. As soon, however, as each hand knows its work the hands should play together in order now to pursue the musical purpose for which the separate practice was only a technical preparation. [Sidenote: _Four Ways to Study a Piano Piece_] Should a composition be studied away from the piano? There are four ways to study a composition: 1. On the piano with the music. 2. Away from the piano with the music. 3. On the piano without the music. 4. Away from the piano without the music. 2 and 4 are mentally the most taxing and fatiguing ways, no doubt; but they also serve best to develop the memory and what we mean by "scope," which is a faculty of great importance. [Sidenote: _The Conditions Which Dictate Speed in Playing_] How fast or slow should Schubert-Liszt's "_Auf dem Wasser zu singen_" be played? What modern parlour pieces would you recommend after Bendel's "Zephyr"? Even if I did believe in metronomes, as I do not, I could not indicate speed for you or for anybody, because it will always depend upon the state of your technique and the quality of your tone. For modern parlour pieces I suggest the two volumes of Russian piano music published by G. Schirmer, New York. You will find pieces of various degrees of difficulty there from which you may select what suits you best. [Sidenote: _To Work Up a Fast Tempo_] Which is the best way to work up a fast tempo? The best help is to hear the piece or part which you have in mind played quickly by another person, for this aids you in forming the mental concept of it, which is the principal condition to which all ability is subject. There are, however, other ways which each one of us must find for himself: either by a gradual increase of speed until you reach your individual maximum or by starting at once at full tilt, even though some notes should drop under the piano and then be picked up in subsequent repetitions. Which of these two or any other ways is best for you no one can tell; your musical instinct will guide you if you follow it cautiously. [Sidenote: _The Best Way to Work Up a Quick Tempo_] Is it ever a waste of time to practise a piece over and over again for months as slowly as a beginner and with utmost concentration? After having done so and gradually working up a tempo, I then find I cannot play so fast as I want to. Is it not wise to begin all over again as slowly as possible? I prefer to work this way, but have been told that one gets "stale," studying the same music for a long time. Do you advise practising with or without the pedal? Slow practice is undoubtedly the basis for quick playing; but quick playing is not an immediate result of slow practice. Quick playing must be tried from time to time, with increasing frequency and heightened speed, even at a temporary loss of clearness. This loss is easily regained by subsequent returns to slow practice. After all, we must first learn to think quickly through the course of a piece before we can play it quickly, and this mental endeavour, too, will be greatly aided by occasional trials in a quicker tempo. As for getting "stale," a variety of pieces is necessary to preserve the freshness of each one. Regarding the pedal, I suggest that you use it judiciously from the very beginning of the study of a new piece; though never in finger exercises. [Sidenote: _Watch Your Breathing_] What is the purpose of associating breathing with piano playing, and to what extent should it be practised? Breathing is as important in piano playing as in all physical exertion, and more so when we speak of pieces that entail the use of great muscular force; for this causes a quickening in the action of the heart; respiration naturally keeps step with it, and the result is often a forcible breathing through the mouth. Players resort to open-mouth breathing in such cases because they cannot help themselves. If, at the last spurt of a bicycle race, we should call to the wheelmen, "Breathe through the nose!" we could not wonder if our advice remains unheeded. This open-mouth breathing, however, need not be learned; it is the self-help of nature. I recommend breathing through the nose as long as possible. It is more wholesome than mouth-breathing, and it refreshes the head more. When physical exertion becomes too great then you will neither need nor heed my advice or anybody's; your nature will find its own line of least resistance. [Sidenote: _Take a Month's Rest Every Year_] Must I keep up my practice during my Christmas holidays of a month? If you have worked well on your development during the spring, summer, and autumn it will be to your advantage to stop your practising entirely for a month. Such a pause renews your forces as well as the love for your work, and you will, upon resuming it, not only catch up quickly with what you may think to have missed, but you will also make a quick leap forward because the quality of your work will be better than it could be if you had persisted in it with a fatigued mind. In a tired condition of mind and body we are very apt not to notice the formation of bad habits, and since "to learn means to form correct habits of thinking and doing" we must beware of anything that might impair our watchfulness as to bad habits. The greatest persistence cannot turn a bad habit into a virtue. MARKS AND NOMENCLATURE [Sidenote: _The Metronome Markings_] What is the meaning of M. M. = 72 printed over a piece of music? The M stands for "metronome," the other for the name of its inventor, Maelzl. The figures indicate the number of beats a minute and the note shows what each beat represents--in this case a quarter note. The whole annotation says that the average speed of the piece should admit of seventy-two quarter notes being played in a minute. I advise you, however, rather to consult the state of your technique and your own feeling for what is musically right in deciding upon the speed of the piece. [Sidenote: _The Personal Element and the Metronome_] In Chopin's Prelude No. 15 is the movement in C-sharp minor to be played in the same tempo as the opening movements, or much faster? How should the 6-8 and 9-8 movements of Liszt's Dance of the Gnomes be metronomized? The C-sharp minor movement should not increase in speed, or only very little, because it rises to a considerable height dynamically, and this seems to counteract an increase of speed. As to the metronoming, I would not bother about it. The possibilities of your technique must ever regulate the speed question in a large degree. Tempo is so intimately related with touch and dynamics that it is in a large measure an individual matter. This does not mean that one may play andante where an allegro is prescribed, but that one person's allegro differs slightly from that of another person. Touch, tone, and conception influence the tempo. The metronome indications are to be accepted only with the utmost caution. [Sidenote: _Metronome Markings May Better Be Ignored_] How fast, by metronome, should the minuetto of Beethoven's Sonatina, opus 49, Number 2, be played? If you possess an edition of Beethoven that has no metronome marks you have been singularly fortunate, and I would not for the world interfere with such rare good luck. Consult your technique, your feelings, and have confidence in your good sense. [Sidenote: _There are Dangers in Using a Metronome_] How should one use the metronome for practising? I have been warned against it, as my teacher tells me one is liable to become very stiff and mechanical by the persistent use of it. Your teacher is eminently right. You should not play with the metronome for any length of time, for it lames the musical pulse and kills the vital expression in your playing. The metronome may well be used as a controlling device first, to find the approximate average speed of a piece, and, second, to convince yourself that, after playing for a while without it, your feelings have not caused you to drift too far away from the average tempo. [Sidenote: _The Real Meaning of Speed Terms_] What is the meaning of the words Adagio, Andante, and Allegro? Are they just indications of speed? They serve as such; though our musical ancestors probably selected these terms because of their indefiniteness, which leaves a certain margin to our individuality. Literally, Adagio (_ad agio_) means "at leisure." Andante means "going" in contradistinction to "running," going apace, also walking. Allegro (a contraction of _al leg-gie-ro_) means with "lightness, cheerful." Primarily these terms are, as you see, indications of mood; but they have come to be regarded as speed annotations. [Sidenote: _A Rule For Selecting the Speed_] As the words "largo," "allegro," etc., are supposed to indicate a certain rate of speed, can you give a rule so that a student who cannot have the aid of a teacher will be able to understand in what time he should play a composition? If the metronome is not indicated you have to consult your own good taste. Take the most rapid notes of your piece, play them rapidly as the general trend of the piece will æsthetically permit, and adjust the general tempo accordingly. [Sidenote: _How Grace Notes Are Played_] How are the grace notes played in these measures from Chopin's Valse, opus 42, and when are grace notes not struck simultaneously with the base? [Illustration] Grace notes and their chiefs--that is, those notes to which the grace notes are attached--should ever be played with one and the same muscular impulse. The time occupied by the grace notes should be so minimal that it should not be discernible whether they appear simultaneously with the base note or slightly before it. In modern music it is usually meant to precede the bass note, though the good taste of the player may occasionally prefer it otherwise. [Sidenote: _Rests Used Under or Over Notes_] What is the meaning of a rest above or below the notes of the treble clef? The rests you speak of can occur only when more than one voice (or part) is written in the same staff, and they indicate how long the entrance of the other voice is to be delayed. [Sidenote: _What a Double Dot Means_] What does it mean when a note is double-dotted, like: [Illustration] I thought first it was a misprint, but it seems to occur too frequently for that. As the first dot prolongs the note by one-half of its own value, so does the second dot add one-half of the value of the first dot. A half-note with one dot lasts three-quarters, with two dots it lasts seven-eighths. [Sidenote: _The Playing of Slurred Notes_] Should I accent the first note under a slur thus: [Illustration] or should I lift my hand at the end of the slur thus: [Illustration] Slurs and accents have nothing to do with each other, because accents relate to rhythm, while slurs concern the touch. The last note under a slur will usually be slightly curtailed in order to create that small pause which separates one phrase from another. Generally speaking, the slur in piano music represents the breathing periods of the vocalist. [Sidenote: _How a Tie and a Slur Differ_] What difference is there between a slur and a tie? None in appearance, but much in effect. A tie continues the sound of the note struck at its beginning as long as the note-value at its end indicates. It can be placed only upon two notes of similar name in the same octave which follow each other. As soon as another note intervenes the tie becomes a slur and indicates a _legato_ touch. [Sidenote: _Slurs and Accents Not Related_] How should the beginning of slurs be accented? Slurs and accents have nothing to do with each other. Slurs indicate either a legato touch or the grouping of the notes. Which one of the notes thus grouped is to be accented depends upon its rhythmical position in the measure. The strong and weak beat (or positive and negative beat) govern the accent always, unless there is an annotation to the contrary, and such an annotation must be carried out with great judiciousness, seldom literally. [Sidenote: _How Long an Accidental Affects a Note_] Where there is an accidental on the last beat of a measure does not that note resume its signature beyond the bar unless tied? The case I speak of was in a key of two flats, common time. The fourth beat, E, was naturalized and the first note of the next measure was E with the flat sign. I maintain that the flat sign is superfluous, and I should like to know if this is right? You are quite right, theoretically. Nevertheless, the proper tonality signature of a note that was changed is very frequently restated when the same note recurs beyond the bar. Though this special marking is not necessary theoretically, practical experience has shown that it is not an unwise precaution. [Sidenote: _"E-Sharp and B-Sharp" and the Double Flat_] What is the meaning of the sharps on the E and B line, and of a double-flat? Are they merely theoretical? They are not theoretical, but orthographical. You confound the note C with the key on the keyboard by that name. B-sharp is played upon the key called C, but its musical bearing is very remote from the note C. The same applies to double-flats (and double-sharps), for D with a double-flat is played upon the key called C, but it has no relation to the note C. This corresponds precisely with the homonym in language: "sow"--"sew"--"so"--sound alike, but are spelled in various ways according to the meaning they are to convey. [Sidenote: _The Effect of Double Flats_] How is an octave, written thus, to be played? [Illustration] As the single-flat lowers a note by a half-tone, so a double-flat lowers it by two half-tones or a full tone. [Sidenote: _Double Sharp Misprinted for Double Flat_] [Illustration] In playing an operetta recently I found the double-sharp sign used for double-flats as well. Is this correct? The sign may be a misprint. But if it should occur repeatedly I advise you to make quite sure, before taking the misprint for granted, that the sign is not, after all, meant for a double-sharp. [Sidenote: _When an Accidental Is in Parentheses_] [Illustration] Please tell me how a chord or an interval marked thus, is executed. What does an accidental in parentheses mean? Chords marked as above are slightly rolled in the same manner as if marked by a serpentine line, unless the sign denotes a linking with the other hand. Which of the two meanings is intended you will easily infer from the context. Accidentals in parentheses are mere warnings given by some composers wherever there is a possibility of doubt as to the correct reading caused by a momentary harmonic ambiguity. I have found these accidentals in parentheses so far only in the works of French composers. [Sidenote: _The Staffs Are Independent of Each Other_] Does an accidental in the right hand influence the left? Inasmuch as piano music is written in score form, the two staffs are as independent of each other as are the staffs in an orchestral score. We may, in cases of suspected misprints, draw certain inferences from one staff to the other, provided that they are justified by the prevailing harmony. As a rule, the two staffs are independent of each other in regard to accidental chromatic signs. [Sidenote: _Why Two Names for the "Same" Key?_] I am often asked why there must be fifteen keys in music instead of twelve--that is, why not always write in B instead of C-flat, in F-sharp instead of G-flat, in D-flat instead of C-sharp, or _vice versa_? I can only say that the circle of fifths would not be complete without the seven scales in sharps and the seven in flats: but Bach does not use all the fifteen keys in his Forty-eight Preludes and Fugues, omitting entirely, in the major keys, G-flat, D-flat, and C-flat, and, in the minor keys, A-sharp and A-flat. Are compositions in sharps considered more brilliant than those in flats? Do composers consider modulation in selecting their key? The answer to your question hinges upon whether you recognize in music mere tone-play or whether you concede a mental and psychic side to it. In the former case the mode of spelling a tone C-sharp or D-flat would be, indeed, irrelevant. But in the latter case you must admit the necessity of a musical orthography qualified to convey distinct tonal meanings and musical thoughts to the reader and to the player. Though there is in the tempered scale no difference between C-sharp and D-flat, the musical reader will conceive them as different from one another, partly because of their connection with other related harmonies. These determine usually the composer's selection in cases of enharmonic identities. In the script of human language you will find an analogy than which none could be more perfect. In English there are, for instance, "to," "too," and "two"; words in which the spelling alone, and not the sound of pronunciation, conveys the different meanings of the words. [Sidenote: _The Meaning and Use of "Motif"_] What is the meaning of a "motif"? What does a dash mean over a note? What is the best book of instruction for a beginner, a child of ten? A motif is the germ of a theme. A theme may be composed of reiterations of a motif, or by grouping several motifs together; it may also combine both modes of procedure. The most glorious exemplification of construction by reiteration of a motif you will find in the opening theme of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. A dash over a note enjoins the player to hold that note with the finger until it has received its full value. The best "instruction book" for a child is a good teacher who uses no instruction book, but imparts his knowledge to the child from out of his own inner consciousness. [Sidenote: _Tied Staccato Notes_] In playing notes written thus is it permissible to slide the fingers from the keys or should there be only a clinging touch? [Illustration] Notes marked as above are to be played in such a manner that each note is slightly separated from the next. The best touch for this is from the arm, so that the fingers are not lifted from their joints, nor from the wrist, but that the arm pulls the finger upward from the key. [Sidenote: _The "Tenuto" Dash and Its Effect_] What do short lines below or above a note or chord mean in contradistinction to a staccato or an accent? And does it affect the whole chord? The dash under or above a note is a substitute for the word "tenuto" (usually abbreviated into "ten."), which means "held," or, in other words, be particular about giving this note its full sound-duration. This substitute is usually employed when the holding concerns a single note or a single chord. [Sidenote: _A Rolled Chord Marked "Secco"_] How should I execute a chord that is written with a spread and also marked "secco"?--as in Chaminade's "Air de Ballet, No. 1." Roll the chord as evenly as possible in all its parts; but use no pedal and do not hold it, but play it briskly and short. [Sidenote: _Small Notes Under Large Ones_] What is the meaning of small notes printed under large ones? Usually the small notes are an indication that they may be omitted by players who have not the stretch of hand necessary to play them. [Sidenote: _Accenting a Mordent in a Sonata_] How should one play and accent the mordent occurring in the forty-seventh measure of the first movement--allegro di molto--of Beethoven's Sonata Pathétique, Opus 13? The accent ought to lie upon the first note of the mordent, but you should not make a triplet of it by occupying the whole quarter with its execution. The mordent must be played fast enough to preserve the rhythmic integrity of the melody-note. [Sidenote: _The Position of the Turn Over a Note_] [Illustration] The turn stands sometimes directly over the note and sometimes farther to the right of it. Does this difference indicate different executions and, if so, how would the two turns have to be played? The turn always begins with its uppermost note. When it stands directly over a note it takes the place of this note; when more to the right the note is struck first and the turn, judiciously distributed at the time of its disposal, follows. [Sidenote: _How Are Syncopated Notes to be Played?_] How are syncopated notes to be played? Notes occurring an entire beat of the prescribed time are, when syncopated, to be played between the beats. If the syncopated notes occupy only a fraction of the beats they are played between the fractional beats. [Sidenote: _A Trill Begins on the Melodic Note_] In modern compositions should all trills begin upon the note which is written, presuming there is no appoggiatura before the note? Is the alternation of the thumb and the second finger desirable in the playing of a trill? Where not expressly otherwise stated (by appoggiatura) trills usually begin upon the melodic tone (the note which is written). Change fingers when those employed get tired. For extended trills the use of three fingers is advantageous, while in shorter trills two fingers will preserve more clarity. [Sidenote: _Position of Auxiliary Note in a Trill_] In the accompanying example of the trill should the auxiliary note be a tone or a half-tone above the principal note? If the half-tone, what would be the name of the auxiliary note? [Illustration] The episode you quote moves evidently in the tonality of G minor. The trill stands on B-flat. As the auxiliary note of a trill is ever the diatonic sequel of a stated note it must, in this case, be a whole tone above B-flat, namely C. Since the piece is written in D major there should have been a "natural" marked under the sign of the trill. [Sidenote: _Speed and Smoothness in Trilling_] Will you kindly suggest a good method of gaining speed and smoothness in trilling? While there are no "methods" for trilling there are certain means by which sluggish muscles may be assisted. Yet, even these means cannot be suggested without knowing the seat and cause of your trouble. The causes differ with the individual, but they are, in the majority of cases, purely mental, not manual. To trill quickly we must think quickly; for if we trill only with the fingers they will soon stick, lose their rhythmic succession, and finish in a cramped condition. Hence, there is no direct way to learn trilling; it will develop with your general mental-musical advancement. The main thing is, of course, always to listen to your own playing, actually and physically, to perceive every tone you play; for only then can you form an estimate as to how quickly you can "hear." And, of course, you do not expect to play anything more quickly than your own ear can follow. [Sidenote: _Difference in Playing Trills_] What is the difference in the manner of playing the trill in measure 25, and those in measures 37 and 38, of the Chopin Polonaise, Opus 53? The significance of the trill in measure 25 is melodic, while that of the trills in measures 37 and 38 is purely rhythmic, somewhat in the nature of a snare-drum effect. The first trill requires greater stress on the melodic note, while in the other two you may throw your hand, so to speak, on both notes and roll the trill until it lands upon the next eighth-note. [Sidenote: _The Meaning of Solfeggio_] What is meant by "spelling" in music? Unless it means the variety of ways in which most chords can be written it refers to an oral reciting of notes, properly called solfeggio. ABOUT CERTAIN PIECES AND COMPOSERS [Sidenote: _Some Pieces for a Girl of Fourteen_] Please tell me some pieces of the classics which are not too difficult for my daughter of fourteen to play. She has a great deal of talent but not much technique. The Kuhlau Sonatinas she can play very well. If your daughter is fourteen years old and has--as you say--much talent but little technique, it is high time to think of developing her technique, for a pianist without technique is like a pleasure traveller without money. At any rate, I should prefer the easier sonatas by Haydn and Mozart to those of Kuhlau, because of their greater intrinsic merit. Any good teacher will assist you in selecting them to fit your daughter's case. [Sidenote: _In Playing a Sonata_] In playing sonatas my teacher tells me it is a great fault if I neglect to observe the repeat marks. I have heard it said by others that the repetition is not necessary, though it may be desirable. Will you please give me your opinion? In a sonata it is of serious importance to repeat the first part (exposition) of the first movement in order that the two principal themes, as well as their tributaries, may well impress themselves upon the mind and memory of your auditor. For, unless this is accomplished, he cannot possibly understand and follow their development in the next part. That the exposition part is not the only one to be repeated you will find frequently indicated; for instance, in the last movement of the "Appassionata," where the repetition is needful, not for the reason stated before, but for the sake of formal balance or proportion. Generally speaking, I am in favour of following the composer's indications punctiliously, hence, also, his repeat marks, which serve æsthetic purposes that you will perhaps not understand until later, when the sonata has, in your hands, outgrown the stage of being learned. [Sidenote: _A Point in Playing the "Moonlight Sonata"_] Should not the notes of the triplet figure in Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" be so blended into each other that you do not hear them in separate notes, but as a background, so to speak, for the notes in the melody? The truth lies midway between two extremes. While the accompaniment should be sufficiently subdued to form, as you say, a harmonic background, it ought, nevertheless, not to be blended to such a degree as to obliterate entirely the undercurrent of a triplet motion. The accumulation of each chord should be produced through the pedal, not through an excessive legato touch. [Sidenote: _Playing the "Spring Song" too Fast_] Should Mendelssohn's "Spring Song" be played in slow or fast time? It is marked "Allegretto grazioso." The latter term (graceful, in English) precludes a too-quick movement. [Sidenote: _What a Dot May Mean_] This is the seventh measure of Chopin's Polonaise, Opus 26, No. 1. What is the meaning of the dot placed after the D in the bass? Whenever this measure is repeated the dot occurs, or I should have thought it a misprint. [Illustration] The left-hand notes follow each other as eighth-notes. Their respective duration, however, is indicated by the upward stems and the dot. It is intended here that a complete chord should be built up by accumulation, as in illustration _a_: [Illustration] and I would also hold the fifth eighth as in illustration _b_. [Sidenote: _Where the Accent Should be Placed_] In playing Chopin's Impromptu in A-flat, Opus 29, should the first or the last note of the mordent receive the accent? I have heard the mordent sound like a triplet? Is this the correct accent? The last note of the mordent should be accented in this case. [Sidenote: _A Disputed Chopin Reading_] In Chopin's Nocturne in F-sharp, after the _Doppio_ Movement, when returning to Tempo I, and counting five measures, should the right hand in the fifth measure play this melody? [Illustration] The various editions differ from one another in this measure. Peters's edition, generally considered the best edition of Chopin's works, has the second version, which commends itself by its greater naturalness. [Sidenote: _Playing the "Melody in F"_] In Rubinstein's "Melody in F" should the melody be played in the left hand or be divided between the two hands? Where there is no valid reason for doing otherwise it is always best to follow the composer's prescription; for, in most cases--and with great composers in all cases--the author knows what he meant to say. In the aforesaid piece, too, I advise you to adhere to this principle, since it is written with a view to teach the division of the melody between the right and left hand. Any other execution would ruin this purposed design. [Sidenote: _When Two Fingers Have the Same Note_] In Schumann's "Blumenstück," third number, the uppermost notes of the left hand are identical with the lowest of the right hand. Should the thumbs of both hands strike the same keys at the same time all the way through or should the left hand omit them? The left hand should omit them, but be careful to omit only those that are really duplicates. There are a few places toward the end of each section where the left-hand notes differ from those in the right. In those cases you must be careful to play all the notes that are written. BACH [Sidenote: _The Beginner in Bach Music_] Can you give me a few helpful suggestions in a preliminary study of Bach? A totality consists of many parts. If you cannot master the totality of a work by Bach try each part by itself. Take one part of the right hand, one part of the left, add a third part, and so on until you have all the parts together. But be sure to follow out the line of each separate part (or "voice," as the Continentals say). Do not lose patience. Remember that Rome was not built in a day. [Sidenote: _Bach's Music Necessary to Good Technique_] Do you think the study of Bach is necessary to the development of one's technique, or should one let his music alone until a later day when one's technique is in good condition? Some of his music seems so dry. Bach's music is not the only music that develops the technique. There is, for instance, the music of Czerny and Clementi to be considered. But Bach's music is particularly qualified to develop the fingers in conjunction with musical expression and thematic characterization. You may start with Czerny and Clementi, but you ought soon to turn to Bach. That some of his music seems dry to you may be due to your mental attitude by which you possibly expect from ecclesiastical music what only the opera can give you. Think yourself into his style and you will find a mine of never-dreamed-of enjoyment. [Sidenote: _Always Keep in Touch with Bach_] Do you think that the playing of Bach's works will keep one's hands in good technical condition? And which is the best edition of Bach's piano works? Bach is good for the soul as well as for the body, and I recommend that you never lose touch with him. Which is the best edition would be hard to say, but I have found the Peters edition to be very good. [Sidenote: _Bach's Preludes and Fugues_] What is the plan of a "Fugue," how does it differ from an "Invention" and "Prelude," and what is the purpose of studying the pieces so named by Bach? The explanation of the plan of a Fugue would exceed by far the limits of the space at my disposal. It would require a text-book, of which there are many to be found in every good music store. The Fugue is the most legitimate representation of true polyphony. Its difference from an Invention is expressed in the two names. A Fugue (_fuga_, flight) is the flight of one musical thought through many voices or parts, subject to strict rules, while an Invention is an accumulation of thoughts moving with absolute freedom. The definition of Prelude, as something which intentionally precedes and fittingly introduces a main action, fits the musical Prelude perfectly; especially in the case of Bach. The purpose of all these forms is that of all good music-making, namely, the purification and development of good taste in music. [Sidenote: _As to the Bach Fugues_] Of the Bach fugues do you consider the C sharp major difficult to memorize, or do you advise the use of the D flat arrangement instead? Such little differences have never bothered me, and I can therefore hardly answer your question definitely. It has been frequently observed--though never explained--that to many people it comes easier to read music in D flat than in C sharp. Hence, if you prefer the D flat edition it will reduce the difficulty for you. Possibly this more accessible version may aid you optically or visually in your work of memorizing. BEETHOVEN [Sidenote: _Order of Studying Beethoven's Sonatas_] I am just beginning to reach an intelligent interpretation of Beethoven's music. Now, in what order should the Sonatas be studied? If you should really have the laudable intention to study all the Sonatas of Beethoven for your repertory I should think that you may safely take them up very much in the order in which they are printed, with the exception of Opus 53 and the Appassionata, which--spiritually as well as technically--rank with the last five. The Steingräber edition, however, furnishes a very fair order of difficulty in the index to the Sonatas. [Sidenote: _The Beethoven Sonata with a Pastoral Character_] My teacher calls the Sonata opus 28, by Beethoven, the "Pastoral" Sonata. I have not found anything "pastoral" in any of the movements. Is it because I do not understand it, or is the name a mere amateurish invention? The name "Pastoral Sonata" could, no doubt, be traced to an arbitrary invention, perhaps of some over-smart publisher endeavouring to heighten the attractiveness of the Sonata to the general public by the addition of a suggestive title. Yet it seems to fit the Sonata pretty well, because, really, its main characteristic is a rural sort of peaceful repose. Especially the first movement is of a tranquillity which, surely, does not suggest the life of a metropolis. But in the other movements, too, there are many episodes which by their naïveté and good-natured boisterousness indicate the life of the village. [Sidenote: _A Few, Well Played, Are Enough_] Must I play all the Sonatas of Beethoven's in order to become a good player, or is a certain number of them sufficient, and, if so, how many would you advise? Since the playing of all the Sonatas does not necessarily prove that they were all well played, I think it is better to play one Sonata well than to play many of them badly. Nor should Beethoven's Sonatas be regarded as a musical drilling-ground, but rather as musical revelations. As they are not all on precisely the same high plane of thought, it is not necessary to play them all. To familiarize yourself with Beethoven's style and grandeur of thought it is sufficient to have mastered six or eight of his Sonatas; though that number, at least, should be _mastered_. MENDELSSOHN [Sidenote: _The Study of Mendelssohn_] In a complete course for a piano student should the study of Mendelssohn be included? Which of his compositions are the most useful? Mendelssohn is surely a composer who is not to be omitted. His melody alone, besides other virtues, entitles him to be included, for melody seems to grow scarce nowadays. To develop a fine cantilena his "Songs Without Words" of slower motion, for instance, are just the thing. CHOPIN [Sidenote: _What Is the Best of Chopin?_] Which are the best compositions of Chopin to study by one who really desires to know him? All the Etudes, all the Preludes, the Ballades in A flat, G minor and F minor, the Berceuse and the Barcarolle. The Mazurkas, Nocturnes, Waltzes, and Polonaises you are probably familiar with; hence, I mention the aforesaid other works. Generally speaking, of Chopin a pianist should know everything. [Sidenote: _The Charm of Chopin's Touch_] What kind of touch did Chopin have? Since a description of his touch would require too much space I refer you to the book from which I gathered the most explicit information on this point. It is "The Life of Chopin," by Frederick Niecks (London and New York, Novello, Ewer & Co.), and in the second volume, from page 94 to about 104, you will find what you wish to know, as far as it is possible to convey the charm of one art through the medium of another. Since you seem interested in Chopin I would recommend that you closely study both volumes of this masterly biographical work. [Sidenote: _Mood and Tempo in the A-Flat Impromptu_] What is the tempo (by metronome) of Chopin's Impromptu in A-flat, and what idea did the composer embody in it? The editions vary in their metronome markings and I believe none of them. Your tempo will largely depend upon the state of your technique. To the second question my reply is that Chopin has composed "music" which--as you know--represents thoughts only in a musical sense, otherwise it deals with purely psychic processes, moods, etc. The humour of this Impromptu is mainly an amiable, ingratiating one, here and there slightly tinged with a sweet melancholy. It should not be played too fast, for it easily loses this latter attribute and then sounds like a Czerny exercise. A moderate tempo will also tend to bring out the many charming harmonic turns which, in too quick a tempo, are likely to be lost. [Sidenote: _Chopin's Barcarolle_] In Chopin's Barcarolle there is a number of trills preceded by grace notes. Are they to be executed according to Philipp Emmanuel Bach's rule, so that the grace notes take their time from the note that follows them? Philipp Emmanuel Bach's rule is a safe one to follow, but do not confound a rule with a law. If you have reached that plane on which an attempt at the Barcarolle by Chopin is rational, you must feel that your individual taste will not lead you too far astray even if it should prompt you occasionally to depart from the rule. [Sidenote: _Chopin's Works for a Popular Concert_] What works of Chopin would you suggest for a popular concert programme? Nocturne, Opus 27, No. 2; Fantasy Impromptu, Opus 66; Scherzo, Opus 31; Berceuse, Opus 57; Valse, Opus 64, No. 2; Polonaise, Opus 26, No. 1; Chants Polonais (in Liszt's transcription). [Sidenote: _Taking Liberties with the Tempo_] In playing Chopin may one take liberties with the tempo and play different parts of the same mazurka or nocturne in various degrees of tempo? Undoubtedly. But the extent of such liberties depends upon your æsthetic training. In principle your question admits of an affirmative reply, but a specific answer is impossible without an acquaintance with your musical status. I recommend that you be very cautious about "taking liberties"; without, however, ceasing altogether to follow the promptings of your good taste here and there. There is such a thing as "artistic conscience"; consult it always before taking a liberty with the tempo. [Sidenote: _Omitting One Note in a Chord_] [Illustration] In the beginning of the Waltz in E minor by Chopin the left hand has to play this chord a number of times. I can stretch any three of the four notes, but not all four. Can one of them be omitted, and which one? You may omit the upper E, the second note from the top, but you may do so only so long as it is physically impossible for you to strike all the four notes. For, by omitting this note you do alter the tone colour of the chord as well as its sonority. As soon as you have acquired the requisite stretch--and anybody who does possess it--I would advise that the note be not unnecessarily omitted. Chopin evidently meant to have that note played. [Sidenote: _Masters Cannot be Studied in Order_] Will you give me your views as to the order in which the masters of piano composition should be studied? To classify composers, without specifying their works, is never advisable. Beethoven's first and last sonatas differ so fundamentally from each other in every particular that one may play the first one very well and yet be for many years (perhaps forever) unable to play the last one. And still, it is the same Beethoven that wrote both works. We can, therefore, hardly speak of an "order of composers." So long as we are dealing with masters the question should not be: Which master?--but, Which composition does your stage of mental and technical development call for? If you will defer the study of any other composer until you have fully mastered the works of Beethoven--only the principal ones, at that--you will need a life of more length than the Bible allots to the average man. [Sidenote: _The Greatest Composers as Pianists_] Is it true that nearly all the great composers have been pianists? If by pianists you mean musicians whose sole medium of audible musical utterance was the piano, your question admits of no other than an affirmative reply. The only exception I can think of just now was Berlioz; there were, no doubt, others, but none who belongs to the truly great ones. The reason for this is, perhaps, the circumstance that the pianist throughout his education is brought into touch with greater polyphony than the players of other instruments, and that polyphony is a basic principle in music. [Sidenote: _The Study of Operatic Transcriptions_] Is the study of Thalberg's operatic transcriptions of any value to the piano student? Operatic transcriptions begin with Liszt. What was written before him in that line (and in some degree contemporary with him, hence it includes Thalberg) is hardly of any significance. If you feel a special inclination toward the transcriptions of Thalberg you may play them; they will not harm you so very much. But if you ask me whether they are of any musical value I must frankly say, no. [Sidenote: _Modern Piano Music_] Are such pieces as "Beautiful Star of Heaven" or "Falling Waters" in good taste? What contemporary composers write good piano music? Pieces with pretentious names are usually devoid of such contents as their names imply, so that the names are merely a screen to hide the paucity of thoughts and ideas. Speaking very generally, there seems to be not very much good music written for the piano just at present. By far the best comes from Russia. Most of these compositions are rather difficult to play, but there are some easy ones to be found among them, such as the "Music Box," by Liadow, "Fantastic Fairy Tales," No. 12, by Pachulski, and others. EXERCISES AND STUDIES [Sidenote: _Exercises for the Beginner to Practise_] Is there any special book of practice exercises that you think best for a beginner and that you would care to recommend? Any reliable music publisher will tell you which book of exercises is most in demand. The effect of the exercises depends, of course, upon the way you play them. Indications as to touch, etc., are usually given in such books. What kind of exercises your case demands cannot be determined without a personal examination by an expert. [Sidenote: _Good Finger Exercises_] What would you say are the best studies for plain finger work? The exercises of "Pischna" are to be recommended. They have appeared in two editions, of which one is abridged. They are known as the "large" and the "small Pischna." You may obtain them through any large music house, I think, in the Steingräber Edition. [Sidenote: _The Value of Heller's Studies_] Are Heller's studies practical for a young student lacking in rhythm and expression? Yes, they are very good, provided the teacher insists that the pupil plays exactly what is indicated and does not merely "come near it." [Sidenote: _Good Intermediate Books of Etudes_] Living in the country, where there is no teacher available, I would thank you for telling me what Etudes I ought to study. I have finished those by Cramer and Moscheles, and can play them well, but find those by Chopin too difficult. Are there no intermediate works? You seem to be fond of playing Etudes. Well, then, I suggest: "Twelve Etudes for Technique and Expression," by Edmund Neupert. "Concert Etudes," by Hans Seeling (Peters Edition). "Etudes," by Carl Baermann (two books), published in Germany. "Etudes," by Ruthardt (Peters Edition). But why not select an easy Etude by Chopin and make a start? The best preparation--if not the Etudes themselves--is Heller's Opus 154. [Sidenote: _Etudes For Advanced Players to Work at_] What regular technical work would you prescribe for a fairly advanced pianist--one who plays pretty well such things as the Chopin Etudes in C minor, Opus 10, No. 12, and in D flat, Opus 25, No. 8, and the B flat minor prelude? My advice to advanced players is always that they should construct their technical exercises out of such material as the different places in the pieces at hand furnish. If you should feel the need of Etudes for increasing your endurance and control of protracted difficult passages I suggest that you take up the Etudes by Baermann and those by Kessler. The former are a little easier than the latter. [Sidenote: _The Value of Clementi's "Gradus" To-day_] My first teacher laid great store by Clementi's "Gradus ad Parnassum," and insisted upon taking every study in it, while my new teacher, with whom I recently started lessons, says that it is "outlived, superannuated." Was my old or my new teacher right? They were both right; one as a pedagogue, the other as a musician. As you do not mention the reason of your first teacher's insistence, I must assume that he employed the "Gradus" as exercises, pure and simple. It serves this purpose quite well, though even as studies for the applying of technical disciplines they are, on account of their dryness, "outlived," as your new teacher correctly says. Modern writers have produced studies which combine with their technical usefulness greater musical value and attractiveness. POLYRHYTHMS [Sidenote: _Playing Duple Time Against Triple_] How must I execute triplets played against two-eighths? In Clementi's Sonatina, Opus 37, No. 3, first page, you will find such bars. In a slow tempo it may serve you to think of the second eighth-note of the triplet as being subdivided into two sixteenths. After both hands have played the first note of their respective groups simultaneously, the place of the aforesaid second sixteenth is to be filled by the second note of the couplet. In faster motion it is far better to practise at first each hand alone and with somewhat exaggerated accents of each group until the two relative speeds are well established in the mind. Then try to play the two hands together in a sort of semi-automatic way. Frequent correct repetition of the same figure will soon change your semi-automatic state into a conscious one, and thus train your ear to listen to and control two different rhythms or groupings at the same time. [Sidenote: _The Two Hands Playing Different Rhythms_] How should, in Chopin's Fantasy Impromptu, the four notes of the right be played to the three of the left? Is an exact division possible? An exact division would lead to such fractions as the musician has no means of measuring and no terms for expressing. There is but one way to play unequal rhythms simultaneously in both hands; study each hand separately until you can depend upon it, and put them together without thinking of either rhythm. Think of the points where the two hands have to meet, the "dead points" of the two motions, and rely on your automatism until, by frequent hearing, you have learned to listen to two rhythms at once. [Sidenote: _The Old Problem of Duple Time Against Triple_] [Illustration] How should the above-quoted notes be brought in with the lower triplets? It would be futile to attempt a precise and conscious division in such cases. The best, in fact, the only, way to do is to practise the hands separately with an exaggerated accent on each beat until the points where the hands meet are well conceived and the relative speed ratios are well understood. Then try to play the hands together, and do not be discouraged if the first attempts fail. Repeat the trial often and you will finally succeed if the separate practice has been sufficient to produce a semi-automatic action of the hands. PHRASING [Sidenote: _The Value and Correct Practice of Phrasing_] Can you give an amateur a concise definition of phrasing and a few helpful suggestions as to clear phrasing? Phrasing is a rational division and subdivision of musical sentences, and serves to make them intelligible. It corresponds closely with punctuation in literature and its recitation. Find out the start, the end, and the culminating point of your phrase. The last-named is usually to be found upon the highest note of the phrase, while the former are usually indicated by phrasing slurs. Generally speaking, the rising of the melody is combined with an increase of strength up to the point of culmination, where, in keeping with the note design, the decrease of strength sets in. For artistic phrasing it is of the utmost importance properly to recognize the principal mood of the piece, for this must, naturally, influence the rendition of every detail in it. A phrase occurring in an agitated movement, for instance, will have to be rendered very differently from a similar-looking phrase in a slow, dreamy movement. [Sidenote: _Do Not Raise Wrist in Marking a Rest_] In observing a rest should the hand be raised from the wrist? Never! Such a motion should be made only in rapid wrist octaves or other double notes when a staccato is prescribed. The regular way to conclude a phrase, or observe a pause, as you say, is to lift the arm from the keyboard and keep the wrist perfectly limp, so that the arm carries the loosely hanging hand upward. RUBATO [Sidenote: _As to Playing Rubato_] Will you please tell me what is the best method of playing rubato? The artistic principles ruling rubato playing are good taste and keeping within artistic bounds. The physical principle is balance. What you shorten of the time in one phrase or part of a phrase you must add at the first opportunity to another in order that the time "stolen" (rubato) in one place may be restituted in another. The æsthetic law demands that the total time-value of a music piece shall not be affected by any rubato, hence, the rubato can only have sway within the limits of such time as would be consumed if the piece were played in the strictest time. [Sidenote: _How to Play Passages Marked "Rubato"_] I find an explanation of _tempo rubato_ which says that the hand which plays the melody may move with all possible freedom, while the accompanying hand must keep strict time. How can this be done? The explanation you found, while not absolutely wrong, is very misleading, for it can find application only in a very few isolated cases; only inside of one short phrase and then hardly satisfactorily. Besides, the words you quote are not an explanation, but a mere assertion or, rather, allegation. _Tempo rubato_ means a wavering, a vacillating of time values, and the question whether this is to extend over both hands or over only one must be decided by the player's good taste; it also depends upon whether the occupation of the two hands can be thought of as separate and musically independent. I assume that you are able to play each hand alone with perfect freedom, and I doubt not that you can, with some practice, retain this freedom of each hand when you unite them, but I can see only very few cases to which you could apply such skill, and still less do I see the advantage thereof. [Sidenote: _Perfect Rubato the Result of Momentary Impulse_] In playing _rubato_ do you follow a preconceived notion or the impulse of the moment? Perfect expression is possible only under perfect freedom. Hence, the perfect _rubato_ must be the result of momentary impulse. It is, however, only a few very eminent players that have such command over this means of expression as to feel safe in trusting their momentary impulses altogether. The average player will do well carefully to consider the shifting of time values and to prepare their execution to a certain degree. This should not, however, be carried too far, as it would impair the naturalness of expression and lead to a stereotyped mannerism. [Sidenote: _The Difference Between Conception and Rubato_] Is there any difference between conception and _rubato?_ Conception is a generic term and comprises the service of each and all means of expression, among which _rubato_ plays a somewhat prominent part. For it is, so to speak, the musical pulse-beat of the player. Being subordinate to conception, its function and manner must be governed by the latter. CONCEPTION [Sidenote: _Different Conceptions May be Individually Correct_] Can one and the same phrase be conceived differently by different artists and still be individually correct in each instance? Certainly! Provided that--whatever the conception be--it preserves the logical relations of the parts in building up the phrase, and that it is carried through the whole course of the piece in a consistent manner. Whether a certain conception of a phrase is or is not compatible with the general character of the piece and how far the freedom of conception may extend, it will be for the æsthetic training and the good taste of the player to determine for each and every case separately. [Sidenote: _Which Should Come First--Conception or Technique?_] In the first attempts at a new piece must matters of conception be observed at once or only after the piece has been technically mastered? Unless one is a very experienced reader it will be hardly possible to think of matters of conception until the technical means to express them and the necessary perspective of the piece have been gained. It is always safer first to make sure that the notes as such, and their respective times value have been read correctly, and that the technical difficulties have, to a fair degree, been overcome. This done, the question must be settled as to whether the general character of the piece is dramatic, _i. e._, tragic or conciliatory, melancholy, lyric, rhapsodic, humorous, or changeable, and so forth. Only when our mind on this point is made up with the utmost definiteness, can we approach the details that are conditioned by the conception. FORCE OF EXAMPLE [Sidenote: _Hearing a Piece Before Studying It_] Should a pupil hear a piece played before studying it? If the pupil's imagination needs stimulation he should hear the piece well played before studying it. If, however, he is merely too lazy to find out the rhythm, melody, and so forth, and rather relies upon his purely imitative faculty, he should not hear it, but be compelled to do his own reading and thinking. THEORY [Sidenote: _Why the Pianist Should Study Harmony_] Do you recommend the study of harmony and counterpoint to the piano student? By all means! To gain a musical insight into the pieces you play you must be able to follow the course of their harmonies and understand the contrapuntal treatment of their themes. Without the knowledge gained through a serious study of harmony and counter-point your conceptions will be pure guesswork and will lack in outline and definiteness. [Sidenote: _Why so Many Different Keys?_] Why is it supposed to be necessary to have fifteen keys to complete the circle of fifths? Why would not twelve suffice, and thus avoid duplicate keys? Not fifteen, but twenty-five tonalities complete the circle of fifths, theoretically, and they are all necessary because of the many harmonic turns that occur in modern music and which could not be intelligently demonstrated unless we use the tonalities with seven, eight, nine or more sharps and flats. For otherwise we might have to change the signature so frequently as to become utterly confusing to even the most musicianly reader. C-sharp minor has but four sharps, yet the scale of its dominant (its next relative) has eight sharps. [Sidenote: _The Relation of Harmony to Piano-Playing_] Is it absolutely necessary for me to study harmony in connection with my piano? My teacher wants me to do it, but I don't see the use! Of what benefit is harmony? Of what benefit is the general school-work a child has to go through? To play the piano well a good hand and so many hours of practice are not sufficient; it requires a general musical education. This means, first and foremost, a knowledge of harmony, to which you may later add the study of counterpoint and forms. Your teacher is absolutely right. [Sidenote: _Text-Books on Harmony_] Would you care to recommend two or three of the best books on the study of harmony? The doctrine of harmony is ever the same, but the modes of teaching it are constantly changing and, I trust, improving. For this reason I feel a certain hesitation in recommending at this time the text-books which I studied many years ago, especially as I am not certain that they have been translated into English. I advise you, therefore, to inquire of some good teacher of harmony or, at least, of a reliable music publisher or dealer. E. F. Richter and Büssler wrote works of recognized merit, which, though no longer modern, may be safely studied. [Sidenote: _Learning to Modulate_] Is it possible to learn modulating from a book without the aid of a teacher, so as to connect two pieces of different tonality? Possible, yes, but not probable; for since in your written exercises you are likely to err at times, you will need some one to point out your errors and so show you the way to correct them. Generally speaking, I do not think much of studying the rudiments of anything without the aid of an experienced adviser. [Sidenote: _Studying Counterpoint by One's Self_] Is it possible to study counterpoint without a teacher, and, if so, what book can you recommend for its study? It is quite possible, provided you are certain never to misunderstand your text-book and never to commit any errors. Otherwise you will need the advice of an experienced musician in correcting them. A good teacher, however, is always better than a book for this study. Of text-books there are a great many. Any reliable music house will furnish you with a list of them. [Sidenote: _Should Piano Students Try to Compose?_] Besides my study of the piano shall I try to compose if I feel the inclination and believe I have some talent for it? The practice of constructing will always facilitate your work of reconstructing, which is, practically, what the rendition of a musical work means. Hence, I advise every one who feels able to construct even a modest little piece to try his hand at it. Of course, if you can write only a two-step it will not enable you to reconstruct a Beethoven Sonata; still, there may be little places in the Sonata that will clear up in your mind more quickly when you have come in touch with the technical act of putting down on paper what your mind has created, and you will altogether lose the attitude of the absolute stranger when facing a new composition. Do not construe this, however, as an encouragement to write two-steps! [Sidenote: _The Student Who Wants to Compose_] Please advise me as to the best way of learning composition. Which is the best work of that kind from which I could learn? First learn to write notes. Copying all sorts of music is the best practice for that. Then study the doctrine of harmony. Follow it up by a study of the various forms of counterpoint. Proceed to canon in its many kinds and intervals. Take up the fugue. Then study forms until you learn to feel them. Books for every one of these stages there are many, but better than all the books is a good teacher. [Sidenote: _The Difference Between Major and Minor Scales_] What is the difference between the major and minor scale? Does it lie in the arrangement of semitones or in the character, or in both? There are three differences: First, in the arrangement of the semitones; second, in the character; and, third, in the circumstance that the minor scale admits of a number of modifications for melodic purposes which cannot be made in the major scale. [Sidenote: _There is Only One Minor Scale_] Which is the true minor scale, the melodic or the harmonic? My teacher insists upon the harmonic, but it sounds ugly to me. Will you please tell me something about it? There is but one minor scale; it is the one upon which the chords of its tonality are built; it is the one upon which your teacher wisely insists, because the so-called melodic minor scale offers no new intervals to your fingers, and because the term melodic minor scale is applied to that form of deviation from the real scale which is most frequently used, but which is by no means the only deviation that is possible; nor is it the only one in use. [Sidenote: _What is the Difference Between the Major and Minor Scales?_] What is the difference between the major and minor scales? The major scale has a major third and sixth, while the minor scale has a minor third and sixth and raises its seventh to a major seventh by an accidental elevating sign, raising a natural note by a sharp, and a flat note by a natural. If you begin your major scale upon its sixth degree and, counting it as the first of the minor, raise the seventh, you obtain the minor scale, in which, however, many modifications are admissible for melodic (though not for harmonic) purposes. [Sidenote: _How Waltz, Menuet, Mazurka, and Polonaise Differ_] As a waltz and a menuet are both in three-fourth time, is it only the tempo in which they differ, or are there other differences? Waltz, menuet, mazurka, and polonaise are all in three-fourth time and are not confined to a definite tempo. The difference between them lies in the structure. A waltz period--that is, the full expression of a theme--needs sixteen measures; a menuet needs only eight, a mazurka only four measures. In a mazurka a motive occupies only one measure, in the menuet two, and in the waltz four. The polonaise subdivides its quarters into eighths, and the second eighth usually into two sixteenths; it differs, therefore, from the other three dances by its rhythm. [Sidenote: _The Meaning of "Toccata"_] What is the meaning of the word "Toccata"? I do not find it in the Italian lexicon and the English musical dictionaries differ widely in their definitions. None of their definitions seems to apply to the Toccata by Chaminade. To make the matter quite plain let me say, first, that "Cantata" (from _cantare_--to sing) meant in olden times a music piece to be sung; while "Sonata" (from _suonare_--to play) designated a piece to be played on an instrument; and "Toccato" meant a piece for keyboard instruments like the organ or piano and its precursors, written with the intention of providing special opportunities for the display of the skill of touch (from _toccare_--to touch) or, as we would now say, finger technique. The original meanings have changed so that these terms now imply definite forms, like the modern Cantata and Sonata. The Toccata is, at present, understood to be a piece in constant and regular motion, very much like those that are called "_moto perpetuo_" or "perpetual motion," of which Weber's "Perpetuum mobile" is a good example. I have no doubt that the Toccata by Chaminade, which I do not know, is written on similar lines. THE MEMORY [Sidenote: _Playing from Memory Is Indispensable_] Is memorization absolutely essential to a good player? Playing from memory is indispensable to the freedom of rendition. You have to bear in your mind and memory the whole piece in order to attend properly to its details. Some renowned players who take the printed sheets before them on the stage play, nevertheless, from memory. They take the music with them only to heighten their feeling of security and to counteract a lack of confidence in their memory--a species of nervousness. [Sidenote: _The Easiest Way to Memorize_] Will you please tell me which is the easiest way to memorize a piano piece? Begin by playing it a few times very carefully and slowly until you can play it with a fair degree of exactitude (you need not mind an occasional stopping). Then go over such places as appeared to you especially complex until you understand their construction. Now let the piece rest for a whole day and try to trace in your mind the train of thoughts in the piece. Should you come to a dead stop be satisfied with what you have achieved. Your mind will keep on working, subconsciously, as over a puzzle, always trying to find the continuation. If you find that the memory is a blank take the music in hand, look at the particular place--but only at this--and, since you have now found the connection, continue the work of mental tracing. At the next stop repeat this procedure until you have reached the end, not in every detail, but in large outlines. Of course, this does not mean that you can now _play_ it from memory. You have only arrived at the point of transition from the imagined to the real, and now begins a new kind of study: to transfer to the instrument what you have mentally absorbed. Try to do this piece by piece, and look into the printed sheets (which should not be on the music-rack but away from it) only when your memory absolutely refuses to go on. The real work with the printed music should be reserved to the last, and you should regard it in the light of a proof-reading of your mental impressions. The whole process of absorbing a piece of music mentally resembles that of photographing. The development of the acoustic picture (the tone-picture) is like the bath. The tentative playing is like the process of "fixing" against sensitiveness to lights; and the final work with the printed music is the retouching. [Sidenote: _In Order to Memorize Easily_] I find it very hard to memorize my music. Can you suggest any method that would make it easier? To retain in one's memory what does not interest one is difficult to everybody, while that which does interest us comes easy. In your case the first requirement seems to be that your interest in the pieces you are to play be awakened. This interest usually comes with a deeper understanding of music; hence, it may be said that nothing will assist a naturally reluctant memory so much as a general musical education. Special studies for the memory have not come to my knowledge because I never had any need of them. After all, the best way to memorize is--to memorize. One phrase to-day, another to-morrow, and so on, until the memory grows by its own force through being exercised. [Sidenote: _Memorizing Quickly and Forgetting as Readily_] I memorize very easily, so that I can often play my pieces from memory before I have fully mastered their technical difficulties, as my teacher says. But I forget them just as quickly, so that in a few weeks I cannot remember enough of them to play them clear through. What would you advise, to make my memory more retentive? There are two fundamental types of memory: One is very mobile--it acquires quickly and loses just as quickly; the other is more cumbrous in its action--it acquires slowly, but retains forever. A combination of the two is very rare, indeed; I never heard of such a case. A remedy against forgetting you will find in refreshing your memory in regular periods, playing your memorized pieces over (carefully) every four or five days. Other remedies I know not and I see no necessity for them. [Sidenote: _To Keep Errors from Creeping in_] I can always memorize a piece before I can play it fast. Do you advise practising with notes when I already know it by heart? The occasional playing of a memorized piece from the notes will keep errors from creeping in, provided you read the music correctly and carefully. SIGHT READING [Sidenote: _The Best Way to Improve Sight-Reading_] Is there any practical method that will assist one to greater rapidity in sight-reading? The best way to become a quick reader is to read as much as possible. The rapidity of your progress depends upon the state of your general musical education, for the more complete this is the better you will be able to surmise the logical sequel of a phrase once started. A large part of sight-reading consists of surmising, as you will find upon analyzing your book-reading. [Sidenote: _To Gain Facility in Sight-Reading_] What is a good plan to pursue to improve the facility in sight-reading? Much reading and playing at sight and as fast as possible, even though at first some slight inaccuracies may creep in. By quick reading you develop that faculty of the eye which is meant by "grasp," and this, in turn, facilitates your reading of details. ACCOMPANYING [Sidenote: _Learning To Accompany at Sight_] How can one learn to accompany at sight? Develop your sight-reading by playing many accompaniments, and endeavour--while playing your part--also to read and inwardly hear the solo part. [Sidenote: _The Art of Accompanying a Soloist_] How should one manage the accompaniment for a soloist inclined to play rubato? Since you cannot make a contract of artistically binding force with a soloist you must take refuge in "following." But do not take this word in its literal meaning; rather endeavour to divine the intentions of your soloist from moment to moment, for this divining is the soul of accompanying. To be, in this sense, a good accompanist, one must have what is called in musical slang a good "nose"--that is, one must musically "scent" whither the soloist is going. But, then, the nose is one of the things we are born with. We may develop it, as to its sensitiveness, but we cannot acquire a nose by learning. Experience will do much in these premises, but not everything. [Sidenote: _Learning the Art of Accompanying_] Wishing to become an accompanist I anticipate completing my studies in Berlin. What salary might I expect and what would be the best "course" to pursue? An experienced and very clever accompanist may possibly earn as much as fifty dollars a week if associated with a vocal, violin, or 'cello artist of great renown. Usually, however, accompanists are expected to be able to play solos. There are no special schools for accompanists, though there may be possibly some special courses in which experience may be fostered. If you come to Berlin you will find it easy to find what you seem to be seeking. TRANSPOSING [Sidenote: _The Problem of Transposing at Sight_] What, please, is the quickest and safest way of transposing from one key to another? I have trouble, for instance, in playing for singing if the piece is in A major and the singer wants it in F major. The question of transposing hinges on the process of hearing through the eye. I mean by this that you must study the piece until you learn to conceive the printed music as sounds and sound groups, not as key pictures. Then transfer the sound picture to another tonality in your mind, very much as if when moving from one floor to another with all your household goods you were to place them on the new floor as they were placed on the old. Practice will, of course, facilitate this process very much. Transposition at sight is based on somewhat different principles. Here you have to get mentally settled in the new tonality, and then follow the course of intervals. If you find transposition difficult you may derive consolation from the thought that it is difficult for everybody, and that transposing at sight is, of course, still more difficult than to transpose after studying the piece beforehand. PLAYING FOR PEOPLE [Sidenote: _When to "Play For People"_] During the period of serious study may I play for people (friends or strangers) or should I keep entirely away from the outside world? From time to time you may play for people the pieces you have mastered, but take good care to go over them afterward--the difficult places slowly--in order to eliminate any slight errors or unevenness that may have crept in. To play for people is not only a good incentive for further aspirations; it also furnishes you with a fairly exact estimate of your abilities and shortcomings, and indicates thereby the road to improvement. To retire from the outside world during the period of study is an outlived, obsolete idea which probably originated in the endeavour to curb the vanity of such students as would neglect their studies in hunting, prematurely, for applause. I recommend playing for people moderately and on the condition that for every such "performance" of a piece you play it afterward twice, slowly and carefully, at home. This will keep the piece intact and bring you many other unexpected advantages. [Sidenote: "_Afraid to Play Before People_"] I can never do myself justice when playing for people, because of my nervousness. How can I overcome it? If you are absolutely certain that your trouble is due to "nervousness" you should improve the condition of your nerves by proper exercise in the open air and by consulting your physician. But are you quite sure that your "nervousness" is not merely another name for self-consciousness, or, worse yet, for a "bad conscience" on the score of technical security? In the latter case you ought to perfect your technique, while in the former you must learn to discard all thought of your dear self, as well as of your hearers in relation to you, and concentrate your thinking upon the work you are to do. This you can well achieve by will-power and persistent self-training. [Sidenote: _Effect of Playing the Same Piece Often_] I have heard artists play the same piece year after year, and each time as expressively as before. After a piece has been played several hundred times it can hardly produce on the player the same emotional effect that it originally did. Is it possible for a player by his art and technical resources so to colour his tones that he can stimulate and produce in his audience an emotional condition which he himself does not at the time feel? In music emotion can be conveyed only through the means and modes of expression that are peculiar to music, such as dynamic changes, vacillations of tempo, differences of touch and kindred devices. When a piece is played in public very often on consecutive occasions--which artists avoid as much as they can--these expressions gradually assume a distinct form which is quite capable of preservation. Though it will in time lose its life-breath, it can still produce a deception just as (to draw a drastic parallel) a dead person may look as if he were only asleep. In this parallel the artist has, however, one great advantage. Since he cannot play a piece very often without having a number of errors, rearrangements, slight changes creeping into it, he must, in order to eliminate them and to cleanse the piece, return from time to time to slow practice in which he also refrains almost entirely from expression. When in the next public performance the right tempo and expression are added again they tend strongly to renew the freshness of the piece in the player's mind. [Sidenote: _The Pianist Who Fails to Express Herself_] I love music dearly and my teacher is always satisfied with my lessons, but when I play for my friends I never make a success. They compliment me, but I feel that they do not care for my playing; even my mother says that my playing is "mechanical." How can I change it? It is just possible that your friends and your mother may not be amenable to the high class of music which you play, but if this is not the case your affliction cannot be cured offhand. If the lack of expression in your playing should emanate from a lack of feeling in yourself, then your case would be incurable. If, however, you play "mechanically" because you do not know how to express your emotions in your playing--and I suspect it to be so--then you are curable, although there are no remedies that would act directly. I suggest that you form close associations with good musicians and with lovers of good music. By looking well and listening you can learn their modes of expression and employ them first by imitation until the habit of "saying something" when you play has grown upon you. I think, though, that you need an inward change before there can be any outward change. [Sidenote: _The Art of Playing With Feeling_] In the musical manifestations of feeling how does the artist chiefly differ from the amateur? The artist expresses his feelings with due deference to the canons of art. Above all, he plays correctly without allowing this ever-present correctness to make his playing seem lacking in feeling. Without unduly repressing or suppressing his individuality he respects the composer's intentions by punctiliously obeying every hint or suggestion he finds in the annotations, concerning speed, force, touch, changes, contrasts, etc. He delivers the composer's message truthfully. His personality or individuality reveals itself solely in the way he understands the composition and in the manner in which he executes the composer's prescriptions. Not so the amateur. Long before he is able to play the piece correctly he begins to twist and turn things in it to suit himself, under the belief, I suppose, that he is endowed with an "individuality" so strong as to justify an indulgence in all manner of "liberties," that is, licence. Feeling is a great thing; so is the will to express it; but both are worthless without ability. Hence, before playing with feeling, it were well to make sure that everything in the piece is in the right place, in the right time, strength, touch, and so forth. Correct reading--and not only of the notes _per se_--is a matter that every good teacher insists upon with his pupils, even in the earliest grades of advancement. The amateur should make sure of that before he allows his "feelings" to run riot. But he very seldom does. [Sidenote: _Affected Movements at the Piano_] Is there any justification for the swaying of the body, the nodding of the head, the exaggerated motion of the arms, and all grotesque actions in general while playing the piano, so frequently exhibited not only by amateurs but by concert players, too? All such actions as you describe reveal a lack of the player's proper self-control when they are unconsciously indulged in. When they are consciously committed, which is not infrequently the case, they betray the pianist's effort to deflect the auditors' attention from the composition to himself, feeling probably unable to satisfy his auditors with the result of his playing and, therefore, resorting to illustration by more or less exaggerated gesture. General well-manneredness, or its absence, has a good deal to do with the matter. ABOUT THE PIANO PER SE [Sidenote: _Is the Piano the Hardest to Master?_] Do you believe that the piano is the most difficult of all instruments to master--more so than the organ or the violin? If so, why? The piano is more difficult to master than the organ, because the tone-production on the piano is not so purely mechanical as it is on the organ. The pianist's touch is the immediate producer of whatever variety or colour of tone the moment requires, whereas the organist is powerless to produce any change of tone colour except by pulling a different stop. His fingers do not and cannot produce the change. As to string instruments, their difficulties lie in an entirely different field, and this fact precludes comparison with the piano. Technically, the string instrument may be more difficult, but, to become an exponent of musical art on the piano requires deeper study, because the pianist must present to his hearers the totality of a composition while the string instruments depend for the most part upon the accompaniments of some other instruments. [Sidenote: _Piano Study for Conductor and Composer_] Being a cornet player, and wishing to become a conductor and composer, I should like to know if the study of the piano is necessary in addition to my broad, theoretical studies and a common college course. It depends upon what you wish to conduct and what to compose. With no other means of musically expressing yourself than a cornet it is highly improbable that you will be able to write or conduct a symphony. But you may be able to lead a brass band and, perhaps, to write a march or dance piece. If your musical aims are serious by all means take to the piano. [Sidenote: _Why the Piano Is So Popular_] Why do more people play the piano than any other instrument? Because the rudimentary stages of music study are easier on the piano than on any other instrument. The higher stages, however, are so much more difficult, and it is then that the piano gets even with the bold aggressor. A violinist or 'cellist who can play a melody simply and with good tone is considered a fairly good amateur, for he must have mastered the difficulty of tone-production; he must have trained his right arm. A pianist who can play a melody equally well is the merest tyro. When he approaches polyphony, when the discrimination begins between the various parts speaking simultaneously, aye, then the real work begins--not to speak of velocity. It is, perhaps, for this reason that in reality there are a great many more violinists than pianists, if by either we mean persons who really master their instrument. The number of 'cellists is smaller, but the reason for this is to be found in the small range of 'cello literature and also, perhaps, in the comparative unwieldiness of the instrument, which does not admit of technical development as, for instance, the more handy violin. If all beginners at the piano realized what exasperating, harassing, discouraging, nerve-consuming difficulties await them later and beset the path to that mastery which so few achieve, there would be far fewer piano students and more people would study the violin or the 'cello. Of the harp and the wind instruments I need not speak, because they are to be considered only in matters orchestral and not--seriously--as solo instruments. [Sidenote: _The Genuine Piano Hand_] What shape of hand do you consider the best for piano playing? Mine is very broad, with rather long fingers. The best piano hand is not the popular, pretty, narrow hand with long fingers. Nearly all the great technicians had or have proportioned hands. The genuine piano hand must be broad, in order to give each finger a strong base for the action of its phalanges and to give this base space enough for the development of the various sets of muscles. The length of the fingers must be in proportion to the width of the hand, but it is the width which I consider most important. [Sidenote: _The Composition Must Fit the Player_] Would you advise players with small hands to attempt the heavier class of the compositions by Liszt? Never! Whether the hands are too small or the stretch between the fingers too narrow--if you attempt a piece which for these or other physical reasons you cannot fully master, you always run the serious risk of overstraining. This, however, should be most carefully avoided. If you cannot play a certain piece without undue physical strain, leave it alone and remember that singers choose their songs not because they lie within their compass, but because they suit their voice. Do likewise. Be guided by the nature and the type of your hand rather than by its rapidity of execution. [Sidenote: _The Best Physical Exercise for the Pianist_] What physical exercises are most advantageous to be taken in connection with piano practice? I have been swinging clubs to strengthen wrists and arms, but have imagined it stiffened my fingers. I am inclined to think that what you imagined was not far from the truth. Can you not replace the real clubs by imaginary ones? Since club-swinging tends to develop the agility of the arms and wrists rather than their strength you can easily make the same motions without the clubs; for all exertion of force that keeps the hands in a closed condition is bound to have a bad effect on piano playing. Undoubtedly the best exercise of all, however, is brisk walking in the open air, for it engages every part and every organ of the body, and by compelling deep breathing it fosters the general health through increased oxygenation. [Sidenote: _Horseback Riding Stiffens the Fingers_] My teacher objects to my riding horseback; not altogether, but he says I overdo it and it stiffens my fingers. Is he right? Yes, he is. Every abuse carries its own punishment in its train. The closed position of the hand, the pressure of the reins upon the fingers, as constant as it is the case in horseback riding, is surely not advantageous for the elasticity of the fingers. You should, therefore, allow the effect of one ride upon your fingers to disappear completely before you indulge in another. [Sidenote: _When to Keep Away from the Piano_] Do you think I should play and study the piano just because it is asked of me, and when I take no interest in it? Most emphatically, no! It would be a crime against yourself and against music. What little interest in music you may have left would be killed by a study that is distasteful to you, and this would be, therefore, bound to lead to failure. Leave this study to people who are sincerely interested in it. Thank heaven, there are still some of those, and there always will be some! Be sure, however, that you are really not interested, and discriminate well between a lack of interest and a mere opposition to a perhaps too strenuous urging on the part of your relatives. My advice would be to quit the study for a time entirely; if, after a while, you feel a craving for music you will find the way to your instrument. This advice, of course, holds good also for violin students or any type of music student. BAD MUSIC [Sidenote: _The Company That One Keeps in Music_] Must I persist in playing classical pieces when I prefer to play dance music? If, in your daily life, you wish to be regarded as a lady or a gentleman you are obliged to be careful as to the company you keep. It is the same in musical life. If you associate with the noble thoughts that constitute good--or, as you call it, classical--music, you will be counted with a higher class in the world of music. Remember that you cannot go through a flour-mill without getting dusty. Of course, not all pieces of dance music are bad; but the general run of them are such poor, if not vulgar, stuff as hardly to deserve the name of "compositions." Usually they are mere "expositions" of bad taste. Of these I warn you for your own sake, and if you wish to avoid the danger of confounding the good and the bad in that line it is best to abstain from it entirely. If dance music it must be, why, have you never heard of the waltzes and mazurkas by Chopin? [Sidenote: _Why Rag-Time Is Injurious_] Do you believe the playing of the modern rag-time piece to be actually hurtful to the student? I do, indeed, unless it is done merely for a frolic; though even such a mood might vent itself in better taste. The touch with vulgarity can never be but hurtful, whatever form vulgarity may assume--whether it be literature, a person, or a piece of music. Why share the musical food of those who are, by breeding or circumstance, debarred from anything better? The vulgar impulse which generated rag-time cannot arouse a noble impulse in response any more than "dime novels" can awaken the instincts of gentlemanliness or ladyship. If we watch the street-sweeper we are liable to get dusty. But remember that the dust on the mind and soul is not so easily removed as the dust on our clothes. ETHICAL [Sidenote: _What the Object of Study Should Be_] How can we know that our talent is great enough to warrant us in bestowing year after year of work upon its development? Pleasure and interest should be such that it is in the actual working that one is repaid. Do not think so much of the end of your work. Do not force your work with the one view of becoming a great artist. Let Providence and the future decide your standing in music. Go on studying with earnestness and interest, and find your pleasure in the endeavour, not in the accomplishment. PITCH AND KINDRED MATTERS [Sidenote: _The International Pitch_] What is meant by "pitch" as regards piano tuning? People say that a certain piano is pitched lower than another. Would E on one piano actually sound like F on another? Yes, it would if the pianos were not pitched alike. It is only recently that an international pitch has been established which was adopted everywhere except in England. In the international pitch the A in the second space of the treble staff makes 435 vibrations a second. [Sidenote: _The "International" Piano Pitch_] Which piano pitch is preferable, "concert" or "international"? By all means the "international," because it will fit your piano to be used in conjunction with any other instrument, no matter whence it may come. Besides, the international pitch was decided upon as far back as 1859, in Paris, by a government commission, numbering among its members such men as Auber, Halévy, Berlioz, Meyerbeer, Rossini, Ambroise Thomas, and many physicists and army generals. You can easily infer from this that, in determining that the A in the second space of the treble staff should have 435 vibrations a second, all phases of music--vocal, instrumental, string, brass, wood, wind--have been duly considered. [Sidenote: _The Well-Tempered Piano Scale_] Is there really a difference of three-eighths of a tone between A-sharp and B-flat on the piano? There is no difference on the piano. But acoustically there is a difference, over which, however, I would waste no time, since the evenly-tempered scale has been generally adopted, and every composition from Bach's time to the present day has been thought and written in it. [Sidenote: _The "Colour" of Various Keys_] Is it not a mistaken idea that any one particular key is more or less rich or melodious than another? The effect of a tonality upon our hearing lies not in its signature (as even Beethoven seemed to believe) but in the vibration proportions. It is, therefore, irrelevant whether we play a piece upon a high-pitched piano in C, or upon a low-pitched piano in D flat. There are certain keys preferable to others for certain colours, but I fear that the preference is based not upon acoustic qualities but rather upon a fitness for the hand or voice. We apply the word "colour" as much to tone as the painters apply "tone" to colour, but I hardly think that anybody would speak of C major as representing black, or F major green. THE STUDENT'S AGE [Sidenote: _Starting a Child's Musical Training_] At what age should a child begin the study of instrumental music? If my daughter (six years old) is to study the violin should she first spend a few years with the piano, or _vice versa_? The usual age for a child to begin the study of music is between six and seven years. A pianist hardly needs to learn another instrument to become a well-rounded musician, but violinists, as well as the players of all other instruments, and also vocalists, will be much hampered in their general musical development if they fail to acquire what may be called a speaking acquaintance with the piano. [Sidenote: _Age of the Student is Immaterial_] I am not longer in my first youth, cannot take more than one hour's lesson a week, and cannot practise more than three hours a day. Would you still advise me to begin the study of the piano? Provided there is gift and intelligence, the will, and the opportunity to study, age need not stand in your way. If your three hours of study are properly used, and your hour's lesson a week is with a good teacher, you should not become discouraged. [Sidenote: _Twenty-five Not Too Late to Begin_] Do you think that mastery of the piano is unlikely or impossible when the beginner is twenty-five years of age? It is neither unlikely nor impossible. Your age will to some degree handicap you, because from purely physical causes the elasticity of the fingers and wrists could be developed much more quickly if you were ten years younger. If, however, you are endowed with strong musical gifts in the abstract you will achieve results superior to those attained by younger people with less talent. In overcoming the difficulties due to a late beginning you will find great inward satisfaction, and your attainments are bound to be a source of joy to you. TEACHERS, LESSONS AND METHODS [Sidenote: _The Importance of the Right Teacher_] I have a son who is very desirous of learning to play the piano. I have been advised that an ordinarily good teacher is good enough to begin with. Others tell me a beginner should get the best teacher possible. Which would you advise? I live in a small town. The seriousness of your question is aggravated by the statement that you live in a small town, and that there is possibly no teacher of ability to be found in your town. And yet it is only such a one that I can recommend for your son. For nothing is more dangerous for the development of a talent than a bad foundation. Many people have tried all their lives to rid themselves of the bad habits acquired from an ignorant teacher in the rudimentary stages of their studies, and have failed. I should advise you to try your best to send your boy to some near-by city where there is an excellent teacher. [Sidenote: _Nothing But the Best Will Do_] Wishing to begin the study of the piano now, in my twenty-fourth year, just for the sake of my great love for music, and knowing not even the notes, is it necessary to go to an expensive teacher at once or would a cheaper teacher do for the beginning? If music is to be merely a pastime, and you content yourself with a minimum of knowledge, the cheaper teacher will do; but if you aspire to become musical in a better sense, why, by all means, apply to a teacher of the better class. The maxim: "For the beginning this or that is good enough," is one of the most harmful fallacies. What would you think of an architect who says: "For the foundation loam is good enough; we put a sandstone house over it, any way." Remember also, that the road a cheaper teacher has led you to take must usually be retraced when your aspirations rise toward the better in music. [Sidenote: _Music Schools and Private Teachers_] Shall I take my lessons in a music school or from a private teacher? Music schools are very good for acquiring a general musical education. For the higher study of an executive specialty (piano, violin, the voice, etc.) I should naturally prefer private instruction from a specialist, because he can give more attention to each individual pupil than is possible under the wholesale system followed, not by all, but by the majority of music schools. What I should advise would be a combination: General matters--harmony, counterpoint, forms, history, and æsthetics--in a music school; and private lessons for your specialty from a teacher who has an established name as an executive artist. The best music schools have such a man at their head, and in these you find the best combination. [Sidenote: _Individual Teacher, or Conservatory?_] After taking lessons for five years and a half from a good teacher, would you advise a continuance with the individual teacher or attendance at a college of music or conservatory? For a general musical education I always recommend a good music school or conservatory. For the study of the piano I think it best to take private lessons from an artist who is experienced both as an executant and as a teacher. Some music schools have such men on their staff, if not, indeed, at their head. [Sidenote: _Where Outside Criticism Is Desirable_] Having had twenty months' lessons and having now mastered Etudes by Berens, opus 61, by Heller, opus 47, and Smith's Octave Studies, do you think I am justified in continuing my lessons? Assuming that you have really "mastered" the works you mention I can only encourage you to continue your lessons; I would, however, advise you to obtain an experienced pianist's criticism in order to assure yourself that your idea of "mastering" is right. [Sidenote: _The Sex of the Piano Teacher_] Is there any preference as to sex in the question of choosing a piano teacher; in other words, is a woman teacher preferable for any reason for a girl and a man teacher for a man? Your question does not admit of generalization from a purely musical point of view. It must be--on this premise--decided by the quality, not by the sex, of the teacher. A good feminine teacher is better than a bad masculine one, and _vice versa_. The question of sex does not enter into the matter. Of course, the greater number of eminent teachers are found on the masculine side. [Sidenote: _Too Much "Method"_] My recently engaged teacher says that the word "method" jars on her nerves. Kindly advise me whether a method is not the best thing for a novice, and, if so, which one? Your teacher, while possibly a little over-sensitive, is not wrong. America is the most method-ridden country in the world. Most of the methods in vogue contain some good points--about a grain of truth to a ton of mere ballast. Your teacher's utterance makes me think that you were lucky in finding her, and that you have excellent reason to trust in her guidance. [Sidenote: _What the Leschetizky Method Is_] How does the Leschetizky method rank with other methods, and in what respect does it differ from them? There are but two methods in all the arts: a good one and a bad one. Since you do not specify with what "other" methods you wish to compare that of Leschetizky I cannot answer you with definiteness. There are, alas, so many "methods"! But the majority of them are based upon a deliberate disregard for that reverence which is due to great compositions and to the example of their rendition given by great interpreters. I have not studied with Leschetizky, but I think that he believes in a very low position of the hand and a sort of super-energetic tension of the tendons of the arms and hands. [Sidenote: _Give Your Teacher a Fair Trial_] Has a young pupil, after studying the piano irregularly for two months, tested fairly a teacher's ability? Of course not! Altogether I do not like the idea of a pupil's testing his teacher's ability, rather the reverse. He may possibly find his teacher unsympathetic, but even this matter he is apt to judge prematurely. In most cases of irregularly attended or poorly prepared lessons the lack of sympathy means nothing more than that the pupil is a trifler and the teacher's honesty of purpose is not to his taste. [Sidenote: _Either Trust Your Teacher or Get a New One_] I have a "Piano Method," left over from lessons with my first teacher; it was very expensive, and I learned only a few pages of it. We moved to a different city and my new teacher objects to using the book, or, as she says, any such book. I do not know what to do about it, and would thank you for your advice. When you apply to a teacher for instruction you must, first of all, decide in your own mind whether you have or have not absolute confidence in his ability. If you trust him you must do as you are advised to do; if not, you must apply to another teacher. A book, costing much or little, plays no part in the matter. By what you say of the new teacher, however, I am disposed to think that he is better than the first one. [Sidenote: _The Proper Course For a Little Girl_] Commencing piano lessons with my seven-year-old daughter, should I devote my efforts to the development of the fingers and hands, or retard such development so as to keep pace with the expansion of the mind? Your question is interesting. But if your mind is clear on that point--and it seems to be--that a one-sided development (in this case technical) is dangerous to the "musical" talent of your little daughter, why, then, your little girl is, indeed, "out of danger." Your very question is a credit to your insight. [Sidenote: _Frequent Lessons and Shorter_] Is it better for a young student to take one hour lesson or two half-hour lessons a week? Since young students are liable to form bad habits it is essential that they should come under the teacher's eye as frequently as possible. Hence, it is preferable to divide the hour into two equidistant parts. [Sidenote: _Number of Lessons Depends on Progress_] Which plan is better for a child of eleven or twelve years: to take a one-hour lesson or two half-hour lessons a week? The child's age is not the determining factor in this matter; it is his musical status. [Sidenote: _One Lesson a Week_] Is one lesson a week inadequate for a piano student? It will be sufficient in the more advanced stages of piano study. In the earlier stages, however, where the danger of forming bad habits is greatest, it is best to bring the pupil under his teacher's eye twice a week at the very least. [Sidenote: _Better Not Give the Child "Modified Classics"_] What little classics are best for a child after six months' lessons? There are collections without number of facilitated or simplified arrangements of classic pieces, but I do not altogether approve of them. Let the classics wait until the child is technically--and, above all, mentally--ripe to approach such works as they are written. [Sidenote: _Can Music Be Studied in America?_] Is it necessary for me to go to Europe to continue my music studies? If you have very much money to spare, why not? You will see much, also hear much--and some of it not quite so sublime as you anticipated--and, last but not least, you will have "studied abroad." While this slogan still exercises a certain charm upon some people in America, their number is growing less year by year, because the public has begun to understand that the United States affords just as good instruction in music as Europe does. It has also been found out that to "study abroad" is by no means a guarantee of a triumphant return. Many a young student who went abroad as a lamb returned as a mutton-head. And why should there not be excellent teachers in America by this time? Even if you should insist upon a European teacher you can find many of the best in America. Is it not simpler that one teacher from Europe go to America to teach a hundred students than that a hundred students should make the trip for the sake of one teacher? I should advise you to stay where you are or go to Philadelphia, New York, or Boston, where you can find excellent teachers, native, resident Americans and foreigners. To quote a case in point, let me say that in Berlin I found Godowsky's pupils to be almost exclusively Americans. They came from various sections of America to study with him and with no one else. But during the eighteen years he spent in Chicago they did not seem to want him. Perhaps he was too near by! Why this self-deception? Without mentioning any names I assure you that there are many teachers in America now who, if they should go to Europe, would draw a host of students after them, and some of these excellent men I know personally. It is high time to put an end to the superstitious belief in "studying abroad." MISCELLANEOUS QUESTIONS [Sidenote: _Organizing a Musical Club_] Please give me the name of a good book on musical history and advise me how to organize and conduct a musical club among my pupils. Also give me a name, please. You will find the "History of Music," by Baltzell, a serviceable book. As a name for your club I suggest that of the patron saint of music--Saint Cecilia--perhaps, or that of a great composer. Ask the secretaries of a number of musical clubs for their constitutions and by-laws and then adapt these to your locality and circumstances. Make your pupils feel that it is their club and act, yourself, as secretary, if possible. [Sidenote: _How to Get Music Published_] Please explain how to go about publishing a piece of music, and also give the name of some good publishing houses. It is very easy to publish a piece of music if the publisher sees any merit in it. Send your piece to any publishing house whose name you find on the title pages of your sheet music. The readers or advisers of the house will report to their chief as to the merit of your piece, and he will then decide and negotiate with you, if his decision is favourable. If he should not care for it he will return your manuscript and you may try some other house. I advise you, however, to obtain the opinion of a good musician before you send your piece to a publisher. [Sidenote: _"Playing in Time" and "Playing in Rhythm"_] What is the difference between playing "in time" and playing "in rhythm"? Playing in rhythm refers to the inner life of a composition--to its musical pulsation. Playing in time means the prompt arrival upon those points of repose which are conditioned by the rhythm. [Sidenote: _The Student Who Cannot Play Fast Music_] I find great difficulty in playing anything that goes quick, though in a more moderate tempo I can play my pieces faultlessly. Every teacher I had promised to develop my speed, but they all failed. Can you give me a hint how to overcome my difficulty? Quickness of action, of motion, even of resolution, cannot be acquired by training alone; it must partly be inborn. I assume that your piano-playing is one phase of a general slowness. There is but one remedy for that. You have relied upon your teachers to develop your speed--you should have relied upon your own will-power. Try to will it and to will it often; you will see the ability keep step with the exertions of your will. [Sidenote: _"Wonder-Children" as Pianists_] My child of five years of age shows signs of great talent for music. He has a keen, true ear, and plays rather well for his age. Does this justify me in hoping that something out of the ordinary will become of him? They say that so-called "wonder-children" never amount to anything in later life. That "wonder-children" never amount to anything in later life is not borne out by history. If some are disappointments it is either because they astonished by mere executive precocity, instead of charming by their talent, or because they were ruined by unscrupulous parents or managers who confounded the promise of a future with its realization. But, aside from these few, all great musicians were "wonder-children," whether they became composers, pianists, violinists, 'cellists, or what not. The biographies of our great masters of the past centuries as well as those of more recent times (Mendelssohn, Wagner, Chopin, Schumann, Liszt, Rubinstein, and all the others), will bear me out in this statement. If your child shows more than mere precocity--if, for instance, he does not merely play in his fifth year what others play in their tenth, but shows qualities of musical superiority--then you may with a fair degree of certainty feel hopeful of a fine musical future for him. [Sidenote: _The Value of Going to Concerts_] Shall I attend orchestra concerts or shall I give preference to soloists? By all means attend orchestra and chamber-music concerts! For these will acquaint you with those works which are, after all, of the greatest importance to the student. Besides, you will usually hear more correct interpretations than from soloists. The latter, with some luminous exceptions, overestimate their own authority and take such unseemly liberties that in many cases you hear more Smith, Jones, or Levy than Beethoven, Schumann, or Chopin. Individuality in a soloist is certainly a great quality, but only if it is tempered by a proper deference to the composer of the work in hand. If you cannot hear a soloist who is capable of sinking his individuality in the thought, mood, and style of the composer he is interpreting--and this is given to only the very greatest--you do far better to prefer to the "individual" renditions of a soloist the "collective" renditions of the orchestra or string quartette. The synthetic nature of the orchestra forestalls the extravagances of so-called individuality and insures, generally speaking, a truthful interpretation. The very worst conductor imaginable cannot do as much harm to a composition as can a mediocre soloist, for an orchestra is a large body and, therefore, not so easily moved and shifted from the path of musical rectitude as is a single voice or an instrument. A really great soloist is, of course, the finest flower of the garden of applied music, for his touch with the instrument is immediate and he needs no middleman to express the finest shades of his conceptions; while the conductor--and even the best--has to impart his conception (through the baton, facial expression, and gesture) to other people before it can become audible, and on this circuitous route much of the original fervour and ardour may be lost. But there are more good orchestras than great soloists, and hence you are safe in attending orchestra and chamber-music concerts. [Sidenote: _Books That Aid the Student Working Alone_] Compelled to study without a teacher for two years before I can go to a conservatory, what method should I study for my technique and what pieces? You fail to say whether you are a beginner or already somewhat advanced. Still, I think it safe to recommend Mason's "Touch and Technique," Sternberg's Etudes, opus 66; and select your pieces from the graded catalogues which any publisher will be glad to send you. [Sidenote: _Music as a Profession or as an Avocation_] Would you advise a young man with a good foundation to choose music--that is, concertizing--as a career, or should he keep his music as an accomplishment and avocation? Your distinguishing between music and concertizing gives direction to my reply; that the question was not answered by your own heart before you asked it prompts me to advise music for you as an avocation. The artist's career nowadays is not so simple as it appears to be. Of a thousand capable musicians there is, perhaps, one who attains to a general reputation and fortune. The rest of them, after spending money, time, and toil, give up in despair, and with an embittered disposition take up some other occupation. If you do not depend upon public music-making for a living; if your natural endowments are not of a very unusually high order, and if your entire personality does not imply the exercise of authority over assemblages of people--spiritual authority, I mean--it were better to enjoy your music in the circle of your friends. It is less risky and will, in all probability, give you much greater satisfaction. [Sidenote: _How Much You Can Get From Music_] When I hear a concert pianist I want to get more from his playing than æsthetic ear enjoyment. Can you give me a little outline of points for which to look that may help me in my piano study? There is no pleasure or enjoyment from which we can derive more than we bring with us in the way of receptiveness. As you deepen your study of music and gain insight into its forms, contrapuntal work and harmonic beauties you will derive more and more pleasure from listening to a good pianist the deeper your studies go. What their playing reflects of emotional life you will perceive in the exact measure of your own grasp upon life. Art is a medium connecting, like a telegraph, two stations: the sender of a message and the receiver. Both must be pitched equally high to make the communication perfect. [Sidenote: "_It is So Much Easier to Read Flats Than Sharps!_"] You would confer a favour upon a teacher by solving a problem for her that has puzzled her all her life; why do all pupils prefer flats to sharps? I am not at all sure that I do not, in some degree, share this preference. Is it a fault of training, or has it any other cause? Your question is both original and well justified by frequent observation, for it is quite true that people prefer to read flats to sharps. But note it well that the aversion to sharps refers only to the reading, not to the playing. If any one should find it harder to _play_ in sharps, say, after knowing the notes well, it would be a purely subjective deception, due to a mental association of the note-picture with the respective sounds. My personal belief is that the aversion to the _reading_ of sharps is caused by the comparative complexity of the sign itself, and this leads me to think that the whole matter belongs rather to ophthalmology than to either acoustics or music. [Sidenote: _Rubinstein or Liszt--Which the Greater?_] As between Liszt and Rubinstein, whom do you consider the greater? Rubinstein I knew very well (I was his pupil), and have heard him play a great many times. Liszt, who died when I was sixteen years old and had not appeared in public for some twenty years previously, I never met and never heard. Still, from the descriptions which many of my friends gave me of him, and from the study of his works, I have been able to form a fair idea of his playing and his personality. As a virtuoso I think Liszt stood above Rubinstein, for his playing must have possessed amazing, dazzling qualities. Rubinstein excelled by his sincerity, by his demoniacal, Heaven-storming power of great impassionedness, qualities which with Liszt had passed through the sieve of a superior education and--if you understand how I mean that term--gentlemanly elegance. He was, in the highest meaning of the word, a man of the world; Rubinstein, a world-stormer, with a sovereign disregard for conventionality and for Mrs. Grundy. The principal difference lay in the characters of the two. As musicians, with regard to their natural endowments and ability, they were probably of the same gigantic calibre, such as we would seek in vain at the present time. [Sidenote: _As to One Composer--Excluding All Others_] If I am deeply interested in Beethoven's music can I not find in him all that there is in music, in both an æsthetic and a technical sense? Is any one's music more profound? You imagine yourself in an impenetrable stronghold whence, safe from all attacks, you may look upon all composers (except Beethoven) with a patronizing, condescending smile. But you are gravely in error. Life is too rich in experience, too many-sided in its manifestations, to permit any one master, however great, to exhaust its interpretation through his art. If you base your preference for Beethoven upon your sympathies, and if, for this reason, his music satisfies you better than that of any other composer, you are to be complimented upon your good taste. But that gives you no right to contest, for instance, the profoundness of Bach, the æsthetic charm of Chopin, the wonders of Mozart's art, nor the many and various merits of your contemporary composers. The least that one can be charged with who finds the whole of life expressed in any one composer is one-sidedness, not to speak of the fact that the understanding cannot be very deep for one master if it is closed to all others. One of the chief requirements for true connoisseurship is catholicity of taste. [Sidenote: _A Sensible Scheme of Playing for Pleasure_] I am fifty-six years old, live in the mountains sixty-five miles from any railroad, alone with my husband, and I have not taken lessons in thirty-five years. Do you think "Pischna" would help me much to regain my former ability to play? If not, what would you advise me to do? Refrain from all especially technical work. Since your love of music is strong enough to cause you to resume your playing you should take as much pleasure in it as possible and work technically only in the pieces you play--that is, in those places which offer you difficulties. Decide upon a comfortable fingering first, and practise the difficult places separately and slowly until you feel that you can venture to play them in their appropriate speed. [Sidenote: _First Learn to Play Simple Things Well_] What pieces would you advise me to memorize after Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C-sharp minor and Chopin's A-flat Ballade? These pieces do not appeal to the majority of people, but I enjoy them. If such a work as Chopin's Ballade in A-flat does not "appeal to the majority"--as you say--the fault cannot lie in the composition, but must be sought in the interpretation. Why not try a few pieces of lesser complexity and play them so perfectly that they do appeal to the majority. Try Chopin's Nocturne, opus 27, No. 2; Schumann's Romanza, opus. 28, No. 2; or his "Traumerei," or some of the more pretentious "Songs Without Words" by Mendelssohn. [Sidenote: _About Starting on a Concert Career_] I am twenty-four, have had four years' rigorous work in a conservatory and a partial college training. My technique is adequate for Brahms's Rhapsody in G minor and McDowell's Sonatas. I have good health and am determined not to grow self-satisfied. Is there a place on the concert stage--even if only as an accompanist--for a woman thus equipped? Any public career must begin by earning the good opinion of others. One's own opinion, however just, is never a criterion. My advice is that you speak to some of the prominent concert agents, whose names and addresses you find in every well-accredited music paper. Play for them. They are usually not connoisseurs by actual knowledge, but they have developed a fine instinct for that which is of use to them, and you are, of course, aware that we must be of use to others before we can be of use to ourselves. If the right "stuff" is in you you will make your way. People of ability always do. That there is room for women on the concert stage is proved by the great array of meritorious women pianists. Especially for accompanying women are in demand--that is, for _good_ accompanying. But I would not start out with the idea of accompanying. It seems like going to a commercial school to study be to an "assistant" bookkeeper. Become a fine, all-round musician, a fine pianist, and see what the tide of affairs will bring you. The proper level for your ability is bound to disclose itself to you. [Sidenote: _Accompanist Usually Precedes Soloist at Entering_] Should an accompanist precede or follow the soloist on the stage in a concert or recital, and should sex be considered in the matter? If the soloist be a man the accompanist should precede him on the stage in order to arrange his music, the height of his seat or whatever may be necessary, during which time the soloist salutes the audience. For these reasons it should be the same when the soloist is a woman, but as women are of the feminine persuasion it will, perhaps, look better if the accompanist yields precedence to her. ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF QUESTIONS PAGE About Starting On a Concert Career 162 Accenting a Mordent in a Sonata 70 Accompanist Usually Precedes Soloist at Entering 164 Action of a Beginner's Piano, The 87 Action of the Little Finger, The 17 Advantage of Legato over Staccato, The 22 Affected Movements at the Piano 126 "Afraid to Play Before People" 121 Age of the Student is Immaterial 139 Always Keep in Touch With Bach 81 Art of Accompanying a Soloist, The 118 Art of Playing With Feeling, The 124 As to one Composer--Excluding All Others 160 As to Playing Rubato 100 As to the Bach Fugues 88 Bach's Music Necessary to Good Technique 80 Bach's Preludes and Fugues 82 Beethoven Sonata with a Pastoral Character, The 84 Beginner in Bach Music, The 80 Best Physical Exercise for the Pianist, The 181 Best Way to Improve Sight-Reading, The 117 Best Way to Work Up a Quick Tempo, The 54 Better Not Give the Child "Modified Classics" 148 Biting the Finger-Nails Spoils the Touch 19 Books that Aid the Student Working Alone 155 Broad-Tipped Fingers Not a Disadvantage 20 C-Scale Fingering for All Scales, The 28 Can Music be Studied in America? 148 Cantabile Passages 7 Charm of Chopin's Touch, The 86 Chopin's Barcarolle 88 Chopin's Works for a Popular Concert 88 "Colour" of Various Keys, The 187 Company that One Keeps in Music, The 188 Composition Must Fit the Player, The 130 Conditions Which Dictate Speed in Playing, The 53 Counting Out Loud 50 Difference Between Conception and Rubato, The 102 Difference Between "Finger Staccato" and Other Kinds, The 22 Difference Between Major and Minor Scales, The 109 Difference in Playing Trills, The 74 Different Conceptions May be Individually Correct 102 Difficulty of Playing Repetition Notes, The 34 Disputed Chopin Reading, A 78 Do not Allow the Wrist to Get Stiff 10 Do not Injure the Hand by Stretching It 13 Do not Over-Use the Soft Pedal 44 Do not Raise the Piano-Stool too High 4 Do not Raise Wrist in Marking a Rest 99 Do not Stiffen the Hands in Playing Scales 9 Do not Use a Piano Extreme in "Action" 36 Double Sharp Misprinted for Double Flat 65 E Sharp and B Sharp and the Double Flat 64 Easiest Way to Memorize, The 113 Effect of Double Flats, The 65 Effect of Playing the Same Piece Often, The 122 Either Trust Your Teacher or Get a New One 146 Etudes for Advanced Players to Work At 94 Exercises for the Beginner to Practise 93 Fatiguing the Hand by Stretching 12 Few Sonatas of Beethoven, Well Played, Are Enough, A 85 Fingering the Chromatic Scale 28 Fingers Needed to Play a Mordent, The 28 Firm and Crisp Legato Touch, The 24 First Learn to Play Simple Things Well 162 Four Ways to Study a Piano Piece 52 Fourth and Fifth Fingers, The 16 Frequent Lessons and Shorter 147 General Rule About the Pedal, A 39 Genuine Piano Hand, The 130 Give Your Teacher a Fair Trial 145 Good Finger Exercises 93 Good Intermediate Books of Etudes 94 Greatest Composers as Pianists, The 91 Hearing a Piece Before Studying It 104 Height of the Piano Seat, The 5 Horseback Riding Stiffens the Fingers 132 How a Tie and a Slur Differ 63 How Are Syncopated Notes to be Played? 71 How Best to Play the Octaves 29 How Grace Notes Are Played 61 How Long an Accidental Affects a Note 64 How Much You Can Get from Music 157 How Organ Playing Affects the Pianist 26 How Tight to Keep the Piano's Action 37 How to Get Music Published 150 How to Hold the Thumb 16 How to Improve the Technique 4 How to Play Passages Marked "Rubato" 100 How to Use the Pedal 39 How Waltz, Menuet, Mazurka and Polonaise Differ 111 Importance of Studying With the Right Teacher, The 140 Incorrect Position of the Fingers, An 8 Individual Teacher or Conservatory? 142 In Order to Memorize Easily 115 In Playing a Sonata 75 "International" Piano Pitch, The 136 International Pitch, The 136 Is the Piano the Hardest to Master? 127 "It is So Much Easier to Read Flats Than Sharps!" 157 Kind of Piano Upon Which to Practise, The 35 Kullak's "Method of Octaves" Still Good 34 Learning the Art of Accompanying 118 Learning to Accompany at Sight 117 Learning to Modulate 107 Let Your Ear Guide Your Pedalling 41 Loose Wrist, The 9 Masters Cannot be Studied In Order 90 Meaning and Use of "Motif," The 68 Meaning of Solfeggio, The 74 Meaning of "Toccata," The 111 Memorizing Quickly and Forgetting as Readily 115 Metronome Markings, The 57 Metronome Markings May Better be Ignored 59 Modern Piano Music 92 Mood and Tempo in the A Flat Impromptu 87 More Technique the More Practice, The 3 Morning is the Best Time to Practise 46 Morning Practice on the Piano, The 45 Music as a Profession or as an Avocation 156 Music Schools and Private Teachers 141 No Necessity to Watch the Fingers 19 Not Playing the Two Hands at Once 25 Nothing But the Best Will Do 141 Number of Lessons Depends on Progress, The 147 Old Problem of Duple Time against Triple, The 98 Omitting One Note in a Chord 89 Once More the "Soft" Pedal 44 One Lesson a Week 147 Only Kind of Practice Worth While, The 47 Order of Studying Beethoven's Sonatas 83 Organ Playing and the Piano Touch 26 Organizing a Musical Club 150 Perfect Rubato the Result of Momentary Impulse 101 Personal Element and the Metronome, The 58 Pianist Who Fails to Express Herself, The 123 Piano Study for Conductor and Composer 128 Play Chords With a Loose Arm 11 Playing Duple Time Against Triple 96 Playing from Memory is Indispensable 112 "Playing in Time" and "Playing in Rhythm" 151 Playing of Double Thirds, The 35 Playing of Slurred Notes, The 62 Playing On a Dumb Piano 38 Playing the "Melody in F" 79 Playing the "Spring Song" too Fast 77 Playing with Cold Hands 49 Point in Playing the "Moonlight Sonata," A 76 Position of Auxiliary Note in a Trill 72 Position of the Turn over a Note, The 71 Position of the Wrist, The 10 Practising Eight Hours Instead of Four 48 Practising the Two Parts Separately 52 Premature Fatigue in the Arms 33 Problem of Transposing at Sight, The 119 Proper Course for a Little Girl, The 146 Rapid Octaves 30 Real Meaning of Speed Terms, The 60 Relation of Harmony to Piano Playing, The 105 Rests Used under or over Notes 62 Results Count, Not the Methods, The 6 Rolled Chord Marked "Secco," A 70 Rubinstein or Liszt--Which is the Greater? 158 Rule for Selecting the Speed, A 60 Safe Way of Stretching the Small Hand, A 13 Sensible Scheme of Playing for Pleasure, A 161 Sex of the Piano Teacher, The 143 Should Piano Students Try to Compose? 108 Slurs and Accents Not Related 63 Small Notes under Large Ones 70 Some Pieces for a Girl of Fourteen 75 Speed and Smoothness in Trilling 73 Staffs are Independent of Each Other, The 66 Starting a Child's Musical Training 138 Stiff Wrists in Playing Octaves 33 Student Who Cannot Play Fast Music, The 151 Student Who Wants to Compose, The 108 Student with a Fondness for the Pedal, The 42 Study of Mendelssohn, The 85 Study of Operatic Transcriptions, The 91 Study of the Scales, The 51 Study of the Scales is very Important, The 50 Studying Counterpoint by One's Self 107 Take a Month's Rest Every Year 56 Taking Liberties With the Tempo 89 "Tenuto" Dash and Its Effect, The 69 Text-books on Harmony 106 There Are Dangers in Using a Metronome 59 There Is Only One Minor Scale 109 Tied Staccato Notes 69 Tilt of the Hand in Playing Scales, The 6 Time to Devote to Technical Exercises 47 To Gain Facility in Sight-Reading 117 To Keep Errors from Creeping in 116 To Play a Glissando Passage 29 To Prevent Sore Finger-tips After Playing 20 To Produce a Softer Tone 43 To Produce Good Legato 23 To Strengthen the Weak Finger, Use It 18 To Work up a Fast Tempo 53 Too Much "Method" 144 Trill Begins on the Melodic Note, A 72 Twenty-five Not Too Late to Begin 139 Two Hands Playing Difficult Rhythms, The 97 Universal System of Marking Fingering, The 27 Use of the Pedal for Colouring, The 39 Use Pedal With Caution In Playing Bach 41 Using the Two Pedals at Once 48 Value of Clementi's "Gradus" To-day, The 95 Value and Correct Practice of Phrasing, The 98 Value of Going to Concerts, The 153 Value of Heller's Studies, The 93 Watch Your Breathing 55 Weak Fingers of the Left Hand, The 18 Well-Tempered Piano Scale, The 137 What a Dot May Mean 77 What a Double Dot Means 62 What Does "Technique" Mean? 3 What Is the Best of Chopin? 86 What Is the Difference Between the Major and Minor Scales? 110 "What Is the Matter with My Scales?" 14 What the Leschetizky Method Is 144 What the Object of Study Should Be 135 What to Do with an Unemployed Hand 21 When an Accidental Is in Parentheses 66 When Playing Octaves 31 When Reading Over a New Piece 51 When the Fingers Seem Weak 18 When to Keep Away from the Piano 132 When to Play for People 120 When Tremolo Proves Unduly Fatiguing 11 When Two Fingers Have the Same Note 79 Where Outside Criticism Is Desirable 143 Where the Accent Should Be Placed 78 Which Fingers Demand Most Attention? 16 Which Should Come First--Conception or Technique? 103 Why Rag-time Is Injurious 134 Why So Many Different Keys? 105 Why the Pianist Should Study Harmony 104 Why the Piano Is So Popular 128 Why Two Names for the "Same" Key? 67 "Wonder Children" as Pianists 152 Wrist Staccato at a High Tempo 21 Wrist Stroke In Long Octave Passages 32 INDEX A flat, key of, 67. Impromptu in, 78, 87. Chopin's Ballade in, 162. A sharp, key of, 67. difference between, and B flat, 137. Accent, where the, should be placed, 78. Accenting a mordent, 70. Accents, slurs and, not related, 68. Accidental, how long an, affects a note, 64. when an, is in parentheses, 66. Accompaniment, 118. Accompaniments, in left-hand waltz, 17. Accompanist, 118, 119, 164. Accompanying, at sight, 117. a soloist, 118. the art of, 118. Action, of the wrist, 9. of the arm, 11. of the little finger, 17. a piano extreme in, 36. how tight to keep the piano's, 37. of a beginner's piano, 37. a too heavy, 38. too light an, 38. Adagio, 60. Advantage, of legato over staccato, 22. of universal fingering, 27. Affected movements at the piano, 126. Age, and physical development of the beginner, 138, 139. Age of the student, immaterial, 139. Aid, books that, the student working alone, 155. Allegretto grazioso, 77. Allegro, 60. America, can music be studied in, 148. "American" fingering, 27. Andante, 60. Appassionata, the last movement of the, 76. Appoggiatura, 72. Arm, action of the, 11. play chords with a loose, 11. Arms, premature fatigue in the, 33. Arpeggio, 3, 9. Art, of accompanying, the, 118. the canons of, 125. Attention, which fingers demand most, 16. Auber, 136. Auxiliary, position of, note in a trill, 72. Average, speed, 59. tempo, 60. Avocation, music as a profession or as an, 156. B flat minor, Chopin's Prelude in, 95. B sharp, 64, 65. Bach, use pedal with caution in playing, 41. the beginner in, music, 80. in touch with, 81. Bach, Philipp Emanuel, 88. Bach's, music, 80, 81. preludes, 67, 82. fugues, 67, 82, 83. Bad music, 183. Baermann, Carl, 94. Ballade, Chopin's, in A flat, 102. Baltzell, "History of Music," by, 150. Barcarolle, Chopin's, 88. Beethoven, the sonatas of, 83, 85. Beethoven's Sonatina, opus 49, 59. Fifth Symphony, 69. Sonata Pathétique, 70. "Moonlight Sonata," 76. sonatas, 83. order of studying, sonatas, 83. Sonata, opus 28, 84. style, 85. first and last sonatas, 90. Beginner's, the action of a, piano, 37. Bendel's "Zephyr," 53. Berceuse, Chopin's, opus 57, 86. Berens, 95, 143. Berlin, 118. Berlioz, 91, 136. Best, how to play the octaves, 29. morning is the, time to practise, 46. way to work up a quick tempo, 54. what is the, of Chopin, 86. the, book of instruction for a beginner, 93. the, way to improve sight-reading, 117. the, piano hand, 130. the, physical exercise for the pianist, 131. nothing but the, will do, 141. Biting the finger-nails, 19. Blumenstuck, Schumann's, 79. "Blurring," 23. Body, general position of the, 4. Books, of Etudes, 93, 94. that aid the student working alone, 155. Brahms, 162. Breathing, 55. Broad-tipped fingers, 20. Bulow, 17. Büssler, 106. C flat, 67. C sharp, key of, 67. C sharp major, Bach's fugue in, 83. C sharp minor movement, the, 58. Cantabile passages, 7. Cantata, 112. Chaminade, Toccata by, 111. Chaminade's "Air de Ballet," No. 1, 70. Chopin, Polonaise, opus 53, 74. a disputed, reading, 78. Life of, 86. the best of, 86. Etude by, 94. Etudes in C minor, 95. Chopin's works, 23, 79. Prelude, No. 15, 58. Valse, opus 42, 61. Polonaise, opus 58, 74. Polonaise, opus 26, No. 1, 77. Nocturne in F sharp, 78. Impromptu in A flat, opus 29, 78, 87. charm of, touch, 86. Chants Polonais, 88. Fantasy Impromptu, 88, 97. Barcarolle, 88. Nocturne, opus 27, No. 2, 88, 162. Chopin's works for a popular concert, 88. Ballade in A flat, 162. Chord, rolled, marked "secco," 70. in the Waltz in E minor, 89. Chords, play, with a loose arm, 11. Chromatic, the, scale 28. thirds, 35. accidental, signs, 66, 67. Classics, "modified," 148. Clementi, 81. Clementi's "Gradus ad Parnassum," 95. Sonatina, opus 37, 96. "Colour," of various keys, 137. Colouring, 39, 44, 137. Composer, piano-study for, 128. as to one, 160. Composers, the greatest, as pianists, 91. Composition, 108, 130. Conception, difference between, and rubato, 102. Conceptions, different, 102. Concert, Chopin's works for a popular, 88. etudes, 94. work, 156. career, 162. Concerto, the Grieg, 35. Concerts, the value of going to, 153. Conservatory, individual teacher or, 142. Conductor, piano-study for, 128. Correct practice of phrasing, 98. Counterpoint, studying, 107, 142. Cramer Etudes, the, 17, 45. C-scale fingering, 28. Counterpoint, studying, by one's self, 107. Counting, 50. Course, proper, for a little girl, 146. Criticism, where outside, is desirable, 143. Curved fingers, 6, 7. Czerny, 45, 81. D flat, key of, 67. arrangement of Bach's Fugues, 83. Damper pedal, the, 43. Dance, music, 134. Liszt's, of the Gnomes, 58. Dangers in using a metronome, 59. Dash, "tenuto," and its effect, 69. Diatonic, thirds, 35. sequel, 73. Different, conceptions, 102. rhythms, 97. keys, 105. Difference, between "finger staccato" and other kinds, 22. in playing trills, 74. between conception and rubato, 102. between major and minor scales, 109. Difficulty of playing repetition notes, 34. Doppio movement, in Chopin's Nocturne in F sharp, 78. Dot, double, 62. what a, may mean, 77. Double notes, 35. thirds, 35. dot, 62. flat, 64, 65. flats, 65. sharp, 65. Dumb piano, playing on a 38. Duple time, 96, 98. E minor, Waltz in, 89. E sharp, 64. Ear, let your, guide your pedalling, 41. Easiest way to memorize, 113. Edition, Peters's, of Chopin, 79. Edition, Steingräber, of Beethoven, 84. Education, general musical, 141. Element, personal, and the metronome, 58. "English" fingering, 27. Erlking, Liszt arrangement of the, 32. Errors, to keep, from creeping in, 116. Ethical, 135. Etudes, Cramer, 17, 45. octave, 30. for advanced players, 94. good intermediate books of, 94. by Ruthardt, 94. twelve, for technique and expression, 94. concert, 94. by Baermann, 94. of Chopin, 95. by Kessler, 95. by Berens, 95, 143. by Heller, 143. Sternberg's, 155. Example, force of, 104. Exercise, best physical, 131. Exercises, stretching, 12, 13. technical, 47. for the beginner, 93. good finger, 93. F, Melody in, 79. F minor, Chopin's Ballades in, 86. F sharp, key of, 67. Chopin's Nocturne in, 78. Fantastic Fairy Tales, 92. Fantasy Impromptu, Chopin's, 88, 97. Fatigue, premature, in the arms, 33. Faulty touch, 8, 43. Fifth Symphony, Beethoven's, 69. Finger, the middle, 16. technique, 16. the little, 17. the weak, 18. touch, 19. staccato, 22. exercises, 93. Fingering, English, 27. universal, 27. American, 27. the chromatic scale, 28. C-scale, 28. Finger-nails, biting the, 19. Fingers, position of, 6. the other, 16. fourth and fifth, 16. weak, 18. broad-tipped, 20. needed to play a mordent, 28. Finger-stroke, high, 7, 23, 24. Finger-tips, sore, 20. "wiping" the keys with the, 35. Firm legato touch, 24. Flat, double, 65. Flats, double, 65. Fugue, definition of a, 82. Fugues, Bach's, 82. G flat, key of, 67. G minor, Chopin's Ballade in, 86. Brahms's Rhapsody in, 162. Gavotte in A, the, 44. General, technique, 3. rule about the pedal, 39. musical education, 141. Glissando, the, 29. to play a, passage, 29. Gluck-Brahms, 44. Godowsky, transcriptions by, 23. Godowsky's pupils, 149. Going to concerts, value of, 158. Grace notes, 61. "Gradus ad Parnassum," Clementi's, 95. Grieg Concerto, the, 35. Halévy, 136. Hand, position of, 6. stretching the, 12. small, 13. unemployed, the, 21. genuine piano, 130. Hands, two at once, 25. playing with cold, 49. Harmonic, clarity, 41. turns, 105. Harmony, study of, 104. relation of, to piano-playing, 105. textbooks on, 106. Haydn, 75. Heller, etudes by, 143. Heller's studies, value of, 93. opus 154, 94. "History of Music," 150. Importance of the right teacher, 140. Impromptu, Chopin's, in A flat, 78. Chopin's Fantasy, opus 66, 88, 97. Instrument, the, 35. Intermediate, good, books of etudes, 94. International piano pitch, 136. International pitch, 136. Key, two names for the same, 67. Keys, why so many different, 105. "colour" of various, 187. Kuhlau Sonatinas, 75. Kullak's, Octave School, 31. "Method of Octaves," 34. Learning, to modulate, 107. to accompany at sight, 117. the art of accompanying, 118. Legato, 22, 23. advantage of, 22. touch, 24. meaning of, 24. Leschetizky method, the, 144. Lessons, teachers, and methods, 140. number of, depends on progress, 147. frequent, and shorter, 147. Liadow, "Music Box" by, 92. "Life of Chopin," the, 86. "Limping," 25. Liszt, 130, 158. Liszt's, Dance of the Gnomes, 58. transcription of Chants Polonais, 88. Little finger, action of the, 17. Loud counting, 50. MacDowell, Sonatas, 162. Major, difference between, and minor scales, 109, 110. Marking a rest, in, 99. Marks and Nomenclature, 57. Mason's "Touch and Technique", 155. Masters cannot be studied in order, 90. Mazurka, 111. Mazurkas, Chopin's, 86. Melody in F, the, 79. Memorize, easiest way to, 113. in order to, easily, 115. Memory, playing from, 112. the, 112. Mendelssohn, the study of, 85. Mendelssohn's "Spring Song," 77. Menuet, 111. Method, too much, 144. Leschetizky, 144. Methods, teachers, lessons and, 140. Metronome, markings, 57, 59. personal element and the, 58. dangers in using a, 59. Meyerbeer, 136. Minor, difference between major and, scales, 109. only one, scale, 109. Miscellaneous questions, 150. "Modified Classics," 148. Modulate, learning to, 107. Mood and tempo in the A flat Impromptu, 87. "Moonlight Sonata," the, 76. Mordent, fingers needed to play a, 28. accenting a, in a sonata, 70. Morning practice on the piano, 45. Moscheles, Etudes by, 94. Motif, meaning and use of, 68. "Moto perpetuo," 112. Mozart, 46, 75. Mozart's art, 160. Music, the beginner in Bach, 80. modern piano, 92. bad, 133. the company that one keeps in, 133. can, be studied in America, 148. how to get, published, 150. as a profession, 156. how much you can get from, 157. "Music Box," the, 92. Music schools and private teachers, 141. Nocturne, Chopin's, in F sharp, 78. opus 27, No. 2, 88, 162. Nocturnes, Chopin's, 86. Nomenclature, marks and, 57. Note, auxiliary, 72. when two fingers have the same, 79. Notes repetition, 34. double, 35. slurred, 62. tied staccato, 69. small, under large ones, 70. syncopated, 71. Object of study, 135. Octave, chords, 11. Kullak's, School, 31. in extended, playing, 32. passages, 32. Octaves, 29. rapid, 30. when playing, 31. wrist, 31, 32. arm, 31. stiff wrists in playing, 33. Operatic transcriptions, 91. Order of studying Beethoven's Sonatas, 83. Other fingers, the, 16. Organ, touch, 26. playing, 26. Pachulski, 92. Pedal, a general rule about the, 39. how to use the, 39. use of the, for colouring, 39. use, with caution in playing Bach, 41. the "soft," 43, 44. a constant use of the soft, 45. Pedalling, let your ear guide your, 41. Pedals, the, 39. using the two, at once, 43. "Perpetuum Mobile," Weber's, 112. Peters's Edition, 79, 82. Phrasing, value and correct practice of, 98. Physical exercise, best, for the pianist, 131. Pianists, the greatest composers as, 91. "wonder-children" as, 152. _Pianissimo_ touch, the, 44. Piano, height of the, seat, 5. touch, 26. kind of, upon which to practise, 35. extreme in action, 36. action of a beginner's, 37. playing on a dumb, 38. affected movements at the, 126. about the, per se, 127. genuine, hand, 130. when to keep away from the, 132. "Piano Playing," 35. "Pischna," exercises of, 93, 161. Pitch, international, 136. Pitch and kindred matters, 136. international piano, 136. Play for people, when to, 120. Playing for pleasure, 161. Polonaise, Chopin, opus 53, 74. Chopin, opus 26, No. 1, 77. Polonaises, Chopin's, 86. Polyrhythms, 96. Popular concert, Chopin's works for a, 88. Position, of the body, 4. of the hand, 6. of the fingers, 6, 8. of the wrist, 10. of the thumb, 16. of the turn over a note, 71. of auxiliary note in a trill, 72. Practice, morning, on the piano, 45. the only kind of, worth while, 47. of phrasing, 98. of constructing, 108. Practise, kind of a piano upon which to, 35. exercises for the beginner to, 93. Practising, eight hours instead of four, 48. the two parts separately, 52. Precision, 25. Prelude, the B flat minor, 95. in C sharp minor, 162 Preludes, Bach's, 82. Chopin's, 86. Private teachers, 141. Profession, music as a, 156. Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C sharp minor, 162. Rag-time, why, is injurious, 134. Repetition, technique, 34. notes, 34. Rests used under or over notes, 62. Rhapsody, Brahms's, in G minor, 162. Rhythm, accents relate to, 62. playing in, 151. Richter, E. F., 106. Romanza, Schumann's, 162. Rossini, 136. Rubato, as to playing, 100. passages marked, 100. difference between conception and, 102. Rubinstein, 158. Rubinstein's "Melody in F," 79. Russian piano music, 53. Ruthardt, "Etudes" by, 94. Scale, fingering the chromatic, 28. only one minor, 109. the well-tempered piano, 137. Scale playing, in, 16. Scales, tilt of the hand in playing the, 6. the practising of, 14, 51. the study of the, 50, 51. Scherzo, Chopin's, opus 31, 88. Schubert-Liszt's "Auf dem Wasser zu singern," 53. Schumann's "Blumenstuck," 79. Romanza, opus 28, No. 2, 162. "Traumerei," 162. "Secco," a rolled chord marked, 70. Seeling, Hans, 94. Sex of the teacher, 143. Sight-reading, 117. Slur, how a tie and a, differ, 63. Slurred notes, the playing of, 62. Slurs, 63. Smith's Octave Studies, 143. Solfeggio, meaning of, 74. Soloist, 118, 164. Sonata, accenting a mordent in a, 70. in playing a, 75. Moonlight, 76. Beethoven, with a pastoral character, 84. meaning of, 112. Sonatina, Beethoven's, 59. Sonatas of Beethoven, the, 83, 85. "Songs without Words," Mendelssohn's, 86, 162. Speed, gradual increase of, 54. average, 59. meaning of, terms, 60. rule for selecting the, 60. and smoothness in trilling, 73. "Spring Song," the, 77. Staccato, wrist, at a high tempo, 21. finger, 22. arm, 22. Staffs, the, 66. Starting, about, on a concert career, 162. Steingräber Edition of Beethoven's Sonatas, 84. Sternberg's Etudes, opus 66, 155. Stretching, 12, 13. Student, age of, immaterial, 139. books that aid the, working alone, 155. Students, piano, 108. Studies, Heller's, 93. Study, object of, 135. Studying, importance of, with the right teacher, 140. Syncopated notes, 71. System, universal, of fingering, 27. Teachers, lessons, and methods, 140. Technical, exercises, 47. work, 18, 45, 46. studies, 46. results, 48. Technique, a generic term, 3. how to improve the, 4. a precise finger, 16. of the fingers, 22. repetition, 34. a "musical," 38. Tempo, wrist staccato at a high, 21. to work up a fast, 53, 54. average, 60. in the A flat Impromptu, 87. taking liberties with the, 89. rubato, 100, 101. "Tenuto" dash, the, 69. Textbooks on harmony, 106. Thalberg, 91, 92. Theory, 104. Thirds, double, 35. diatonic, 35. chromatic, 35. Thomas, Ambroise, 136. Thumb, the, 14. how to hold the, 16. Tie, a, 63. Time, duple, against triple, 96, 98. playing in, 151. Toccata, meaning of, 111. Touch, faulty, 8, 43. finger, 19, 50. biting the finger-nails spoils the, 19. legato, 24, 63. crisp legato, 24. piano, 26. organ, 26. repetition, 34. charm of Chopin's, 86. and Technique, 155. Training, a child's musical, 138. Transcriptions, study of operatic, 91. Transposing at sight, 119. Tremolo, 11. Trill, position of auxiliary note in a, 72. Trills, on the melodic note, 72. extended, 72. difference in playing, 74. Triple time, 96, 98. "Twelve Etudes for Technique and Expression," 94. Universal system of marking fingering, 27. Valse, Chopin's, opus 42, 61. opus 64, No. 2, 88. Waltz, a chord in the, in E minor, 89. Waltzes, Chopin's, 86. Weak fingers, 18. Weber's "Storm," 41. pianos of, time, 41. "Perpetuum Mobile," 112. "Wonder-children" as pianists, 152. Wrist, action of the, 9. the loose, 9. position of the, 10. stiffness in the, 10. octaves, 31, 32. stroke in long octave passages, 32. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Punctuation has been made consistent. Other changes: Page iv and Index--'POLYRYTHMS' changed to 'POLYRHYTHMS.' Page xi--'As a matter _or_ course' changed to 'As a matter _of_ course.' Page 12--'I stretch _beween_ my fingers' changed to 'I stretch _between_ my fingers.' Page 43--'expresson' changed to 'expression.' Page 47--'_ti_ would take considerable time' changed to '_it_ would take considerable time.' Page 50--'rhymthic' changed to 'rhythmic.' Page 78--'Doggio' changed to 'Doppio.' Page 93--'_or_ which one is abridged' changed to '_of_ which one is abridged.' Page 123--'feel _they that_ do not care for my playing' changed to 'feel _that they_ do not care for my playing.' Page 140--'be be' changed to 'be.' Page 158--'Rubenstein' changed to 'Rubinstein.' Index--'F major, key of, [no page #]' removed. Index--'Gradus and Parnassum' corrected to 'Gradus ad Parnassum.' Index--'Hadyn' corrected to 'Haydn.' 
33900	----	transcribed by Linda Cantoni. Thanks to Alex Guzman for his assistance in interpreting orchestral notation. [Transcriber's Notes: This e-book was prepared from a 1964 reprint published by Dover Publications, Inc., New York, which in turn was prepared from the two-volume 1922 English translation published by Édition Russe de Musique, Paris. Volume I contains the text of the work; Volume II contains the musical examples referred to in Volume I. This plaintext version of the e-book contains only Volume I and the front matter of Volume II. To see and hear the musical examples in Volume II, see the HTML version. The original uses boxed numbers to refer to sections of musical scores. They are represented here in double square brackets, e.g., [[27]], [[B]]. See the footnote at the beginning of Chapter II for the editor's explanation of the musical examples and the boxed rehearsal numbers. The use of asterisks is explained in the Editor's Preface. Obvious printer errors have been corrected without note. Other apparent errors are noted with a [Transcriber's Note]. The original contains a number of tables of instrument distribution. Those occurring in the middle of a line are rendered in a single line, using forward slashes to indicate line breaks. For example, where the following occurs in the middle of a line, in the original, Vns I ] Vns II ] Vns III] 8 it is rendered in this e-book as Vns I/Vns II/Vns III] 8. This e-book uses the octave numbering system to describe the single-note music examples. Under this system, for example, middle C is C4, and the scale following would be D4, E4, etc.; the C below middle C is rendered as C3, and the scale following would be D3, E3, etc.; the C above middle C is rendered as C5, and the scale following would be D5, E5, etc. Sharp, flat, and natural symbols are rendered as [sharp], [flat], and [natural], respectively. Other musical symbols are rendered as [symbol: name]. Italics are surrounded by _underscores_. Boldface text is surrounded by =equal signs=.] NIKOLAY RIMSKY-KORSAKOV _Principles of Orchestration_ _with musical examples drawn from his own works_ Edited by MAXIMILIAN STEINBERG English translation by EDWARD AGATE [VOLUME I] [Édition Russe de Musique, Paris, 1922] CONTENTS page Editor's Preface VII--XII Extract from the Author's preface (1891) 1 Extract from the Preface to the last edition 5 Chapter I.--General review of orchestral groups A. Stringed instruments 6 B. Wind instruments: Wood-wind 12 Brass 21 C. Instruments of little sustaining power: Plucked strings 26 Pizzicato 27 Harp 27 Percussion instruments producing determinate sounds, keyed instruments Kettle-drums 29 Piano and Celesta 30 _Glockenspiel_, Bells, Xylophone 32 Percussion instruments producing indefinite sounds 32 Comparison of resonance in orchestral groups, and combination of different tone qualities 33 Chapter II.--Melody Melody in stringed instruments 36 Grouping in unison 39 Stringed instruments doubling in octaves 40 Melody in double octaves 44 Doubling in three and four octaves 45 Melody in thirds and sixths 45 Melody in the wood-wind 46 Combination in unison 47 Combination in octaves 49 Doubling in two, three and four octaves 51 Melody in thirds and sixths 52 Thirds and sixths together 53 Melody in the brass 53 Brass in unison, in octaves, thirds and sixths 55 Melody in different groups of instruments combined together 56 A. Combination of wind and brass in unison 56 B. Combination of wind and brass in octaves 57 C. Combination of strings and wind 58 D. Combination of strings and brass 61 E. Combination of the three groups 61 Chapter III.--Harmony General observations 63 Number of harmonic parts--Duplication 64 Distribution of notes in chords 67 String harmony 69 Wood-wind harmony 71 Four-part and three-part harmony 72 Harmony in several parts 76 Duplication of timbres 77 Remarks 78 Harmony in the brass 82 Four-part writing 82 Three-part writing 84 Writing in several parts 84 Duplication in the brass 85 Harmony in combined groups 88 A. Combination of wind and brass 88 1. In unison 88 2. Overlaying, crossing, enclosure of parts 90 B. Combination of strings and wind 94 C. Combination of the three groups 95 Chapter IV.--Composition of the orchestra Different ways of orchestrating the same music 97 Full _Tutti_ 101 _Tutti_ in the wind 103 _Tutti pizzicato_ 103 _Tutti_ in one, two and three parts 104 _Soli_ in the strings 104 Limits of orchestral range 106 Transference of passages and phrases 107 Chords of different tone quality used alternately 108 Amplification and elimination of tone qualities 109 Repetition of phrases, imitation, echo 110 _Sforzando-piano_ and _piano-sforzando_ chords 111 Method of emphasising certain notes and chords 111 _Crescendo_ and _diminuendo_ 112 Diverging and converging progressions 113 Tone quality as a harmonic force. Harmonic basis 114 Artificial effects 116 Use of percussion instruments for rhythm and colour 117 Economy in orchestral colour 118 Chapter V.--Combination of the human voice with orchestra. The Stage band Orchestral accompaniment of solo voices 119 General remarks 119 Transparence of accompaniment. Harmony 120 Doubling voices in the orchestra 122 Recitative and declamation 125 Orchestral accompaniment of the chorus 126 Solo voice with chorus 128 Instruments on the stage and in the wings 129 Chapter VI (Supplementary).--Voices Technical terms 132 Soloists 133 Range and register 133 Vocalisation 134 Vowels 136 Flexibility 137 Colour and character of voices 137 Voices in combination 139 Duet 139 Trios, quartets etc. 141 Chorus 142 Range and register 142 Melody 144 A. Mixed chorus 145 Chorus in unison 145 Progression in octaves 145 Voices _divisi_; harmonic use of the mixed chorus 146 B. Men's chorus and Women's chorus 148 Editor's Preface. Rimsky-Korsakov had long been engrossed in his treatise on orchestration. We have in our possession a thick note book of some 200 pages in fine hand writing, dating from the years 1873-1874, containing a monograph on the question of acoustics, a classification of wind instruments and a detailed description of the construction and fingering of the different kinds of flute, the oboe, clarinet and horn.[1] [Footnote 1: This manuscript was given to me by Alexander Glazounov; if a Rimsky-Korsakov museum is ever founded it will be placed there.] In his "Memoirs of my musical life" (1st edition, p. 120) the following passage occurs: "I had planned to devote all my energies to the compilation of a full treatise on orchestration. To this end I made several rough copies, jotting down explanatory notes detailing the technique of different instruments. What I intended to present to the world on this subject, was to include _everything_. The writing of this treatise, or, to be more exact, the sketch for it took up most of my time in the years 1873 and 1874. After reading the works of Tyndall and Helmholtz, I framed an introduction to my work, in which I endeavoured to expound the laws of acoustics as applied to the principles governing the construction of musical instruments. My manual was to begin with a detailed list of instruments, classified in groups and tabulated, including a description of the various systems in use at the present day. I had not yet thought of the second part of the book which was to be devoted to instruments in combination. But I soon realised that I had gone too far. With wind instruments in particular, the different systems were innumerable, and each manufacturer favoured his own pet theory. By the addition of a certain key the maker endowed his instrument with the possibility of a new trill, and made some difficult passages more playable than on an instrument of another kind. "There was no end to such complications. In the brass, I found instruments with three, four, and five valves, the mechanism varying according to the make. Obviously, I could not hope to cover so large a field; besides, of what value would such a treatise be to the student? Such a mass of detailed description of the various systems, their advantages and drawbacks, could not but fail to confuse the reader only too eager to learn. Naturally he would wish to know what instrument to employ, the extent of its capabilities etc., and getting no satisfactory information he would throw my massive work aside. For these reasons my interest in the book gradually waned, and finally I gave up the task." In 1891 Rimsky-Korsakov, now an artist of standing, the composer of _Snegourotchka_, _Mlada_, and _Shéhérazade_, a master of the orchestral technique he had been teaching for twenty years, returned to his handbook on instrumentation. He would seem to have made notes at different times from 1891 to 1893, during which period, after the first performance of _Mlada_, he gave up composition for a while. These notes, occasionally referred to in his _Memoirs_, are in three volumes of manuscript-paper. They contain the unfinished preface of 1891, a paragraph full of clear, thoughtful writing, and reprinted in this book.[2] [Footnote 2: This preface had already been published in his _Notes and Articles on Music_ (St. Petersburgh, 1911).] As the author tells us in his _Memoirs_ (p. 297), the progress of his work was hampered by certain troublesome events which were happening at the time. Dissatisfied with his rough draft, he destroyed the greater part of it, and once more abandoned his task. In 1894 he composed _The Christmas Night_; this was the beginning of his most fertile period. He became entirely engrossed in composition, making plans for a fresh opera as soon as the one in hand was completed. It was not until 1905 that his thoughts returned to the treatise on orchestration, his musical output remaining in abeyance through no fault of his own. Since 1891 the plan of the work had been entirely remodelled, as proved by the rough drafts still extant. The author had given up the idea of describing different instruments from their technical standpoint, and was more anxious to dwell upon the value of tone qualities and their various combinations. Among the author's papers several forms of the book have been found, each widely differing in detail from the other. At last, in the summer of 1905 Rimsky-Korsakov brought his plans to a head, and outlined the six chapters which form the foundation of the present volume. But the work suffered a further interruption, and the sketches were once more laid aside. In his _Memoirs_, Rimsky-Korsakov explains the fact by lack of interest in the work and a general feeling of weariness: "The treatise remained in abeyance. To start with, the form of the book was not a success, and I awaited the production of _Kitesh_, in order to give some examples from that work" (p. 360). Then came the autumn of 1906. The composer experienced another rush of creative energy; his opera, _The Golden Cockerel_ made rapid strides, and kept him busy all that winter and the following summer. When it was finished, in the autumn of 1907, his thoughts reverted to the treatise on orchestration. But the work made little progress. The author had his doubts as to the adequacy of the plan he had adopted, and, in spite of the entreaties of his pupils and friends, he could not bring himself to broach the latter part of the book. Towards the end of 1907 Rimsky-Korsakov was constantly ailing in health, and this materially affected his energy. He spent the greater part of his time reading old notes and classifying examples. About the 20th of May he set out for his summer residence in Lioubensk, and having just recovered from a third severe attack of inflammation of the lungs, began to work on the first chapter of the treatise in its present, final form. This chapter was finished on June 7/20, about 4 o'clock in the afternoon; the same night, the composer was seized with a fourth attack which proved fatal. The honour fell on me to prepare this last work of Rimsky-Korsakov for publication. Now that _Principles of Orchestration_ has appeared in print I think it necessary to devote a few words to the essential features of the book, and to the labour imposed upon me in my capacity as editor. On the first point I will say but little. The reader will observe from the Contents that the work differs from others, not merely by reason of its musical examples, but more especially in the systematic arrangement of material, not according to orchestral division in groups (the method adopted by Gevaert for instance), but according to _each constituent of the musical whole, considered separately_. The orchestration of melodic and harmonic elements (Chapters II and III) receives special attention, as does the question of orchestration in general (Chapter IV). The last two chapters are devoted to operatic music, and the sixth takes a supplementary form, having no direct bearing on the previous matter. Rimsky-Korsakov altered the title of his book several times, and his final choice was never made. The title I have selected seems to me to be the one most suitable to the contents of the work, "principles" in the truest sense of the word. Some may expect to find the "secrets" of the great orchestrator disclosed; but, as he himself reminds us in his preface, "to orchestrate is to create, and this is something which cannot be taught." Yet, as invention, in all art, is closely allied to technique, this book may reveal much to the student of instrumentation. Rimsky-Korsakov has often repeated the axiom that _good orchestration means proper handling of parts_. The simple use of tone-colours and their combinations may also be taught, but there the science of instruction ends. From these standpoints the present book will furnish the pupil with nearly everything he requires. The author's death prevented him from discussing a few questions, amongst which I would include full polyphonic orchestration and the scoring of melodic and harmonic designs. But these questions can be partly solved by the principles laid down in Chapters II and III, and I have no wish to overcrowd the first edition of this book with extra matter which can be added later, if it is found to be necessary. I had first of all to prepare and amplify the sketches made by Rimsky-Korsakov in 1905; these form a connected summary throughout the whole six chapters. Chapter I was completed by the author; it is published as it stands, save for a few unimportant alterations in style. As regards the other five chapters, I have tried to keep to the original drafts as far as possible, and have only made a few changes in the order, and one or two indispensable additions. The sketches made between 1891 and 1893 were too disconnected to be of much use, but, in point of fact, they corresponded very closely to the final form of the work. The musical examples are of greater importance. According to the original scheme, as noted on the 1891 MS., they were to be drawn from the works of Glinka and Tschaikovsky; those of Borodin and Glazounov were to be added later. The idea of choosing examples solely from his own works only came to Rimsky-Korsakov by degrees. The reasons for this decision are partly explained in the unfinished preface of 1905, but other motives may be mentioned. If Rimsky-Korsakov had chosen his examples from the works of these four composers, he would have had to give some account of their individual, and often strongly marked peculiarities of style. This would have been a difficult undertaking, and then, how to justify the exclusion of West-European composers, Richard Wagner, for example, whose orchestration Rimsky-Korsakov so greatly admired? Besides, the latter could hardly fail to realise that his own compositions afforded sufficient material to illustrate every conceivable manner of scoring, examples _emanating from one great general principle_. This is not the place to criticise his method; Rimsky-Korsakov's "school" is here displayed, each may examine it for himself. The brilliant, highly-coloured orchestration of Russian composers, and the scoring of the younger French musicians are largely developments of the methods of Rimsky-Korsakov, who, in turn, looked upon Glinka as his spiritual father. The table of examples found among the author's papers was far from complete; some portions were badly explained, others, not at all. The composer had not mentioned which musical quotations were to be printed in the second volume, and which examples were to indicate the study of the full score; further, no limit was fixed to the length of quotation. All this was therefore left to the editor's discretion. I selected the examples only after much doubt and hesitation, finding it difficult to keep to those stipulated by the composer, as every page of the master's works abounds in appropriate instances of this or that method of scoring. I was guided by the following considerations which agreed with the opinions of the author himself: in the first place the examples should be as simple as possible, so as not to distract the student's attention from the point under discussion; secondly, it was necessary that one example should serve to illustrate several sections of the book, and lastly, the majority of quotations should be those mentioned by the author. These amount to 214, in the second volume; the remaining 98 were added by me. They are drawn, as far as possible, from Rimsky-Korsakov's dramatic music, since operatic full-scores are less accessible than those of symphonic works.[3] [Footnote 3: Recently the firm of Belaieff has published Rimsky-Korsakov's symphonic works in miniature score, pocket-size.] At the end of Vol. II I have added three tables showing different ways of scoring full chords; all my additions to the text are marked with asterisks. I consider that the careful study of the examples contained in the second volume will be of the greatest use to the student _without replacing_ the need for the study of other composers' scores. Broadly speaking, the present work should be studied together with the reading of full scores in general. A few words remain to be said regarding Rimsky-Korsakov's intention to point out the faulty passages in his orchestral works, an intention expressed in his preface to the last edition. The composer often referred to the instructional value of such examinations. His purpose however was never achieved. It is not for me to select these examples, and I shall only mention two which were pointed out by the composer himself: 1. _The Legend of Tsar Saltan_ [[220]], 7th bar--the theme in the brass is not sufficiently prominent the trombones being _tacet_ (a mistake easily rectified); 2. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[233]], bars 10-14, if the marks of expression are observed in the brass, the counter-melody on the violas and violoncellos doubled by the wood-wind will hardly be heard. Example 75 may also be mentioned, to which the note on page 63, in the text, refers. I will confine myself to these examples. In conclusion I desire to express my deep gratitude to Madame Rimsky-Korsakov for having entrusted me with the task of editing this work, thereby providing me with the opportunity of performing a duty sacred to the memory of a master, held so deeply in reverence. _St. Petersburgh_, December 1912. MAXIMILIAN STEINBERG. Extract from the Author's Preface (1891). Our epoch, the post-Wagnerian age, is the age of brilliance and imaginative quality in orchestral tone colouring. Berlioz, Glinka, Liszt, Wagner, modern French composers--Delibes, Bizet and others; those of the new Russian school--Borodin, Balakirev, Glazounov and Tschaikovsky--have brought this side of musical art to its zenith; they have eclipsed, as colourists, their predecessors, Weber, Meyerbeer and Mendelssohn, to whose genius, nevertheless, they are indebted for their own progress. In writing this book my chief aim has been to provide the well-informed reader with the fundamental principles of modern orchestration from the standpoint of brilliance and imagination, and I have devoted considerable space to the study of tonal resonance and orchestral combination. I have tried to show the student how to obtain a certain quality of tone, how to acquire uniformity of structure and requisite power. I have specified the character of certain melodic figures and designs peculiar to each instrument or orchestral group, and reduced these questions briefly and clearly to general principles; in short I have endeavoured to furnish the pupil with matter and material as carefully and minutely studied as possible. Nevertheless I do not claim to instruct him as to how such information should be put to artistic use, nor to establish my examples in their rightful place in the poetic language of music. For, just as a handbook of harmony, counterpoint, or form presents the student with harmonic or polyphonic matter, principles of construction, formal arrangement, and sound technical methods, but will never endow him with the talent for composition, so a treatise on orchestration can demonstrate how to produce a well-sounding chord of certain tone-quality, uniformly distributed, how to detach a melody from its harmonic setting, correct progression of parts, and solve all such problems, but will never be able to teach the art of poetic orchestration. To orchestrate is to create, and this is something which cannot be taught. It is a great mistake to say: this composer scores well, or, that composition is well orchestrated, for orchestration is _part of the very soul of the work_. A work is thought out in terms of the orchestra, certain tone-colours being inseparable from it in the mind of its creator and native to it from the hour of its birth. Could the essence of Wagner's music be divorced from its orchestration? One might as well say that a picture is well _drawn_ in colours. More than one classical and modern composer has lacked the capacity to orchestrate with imagination and power; the secret of colour has remained outside the range of his creative faculty. Does it follow that these composers do not _know how_ to orchestrate? Many among them have had greater knowledge of the subject than the mere colourist. Was Brahms ignorant of orchestration? And yet, nowhere in his works do we find evidence of brilliant tone or picturesque fancy. The truth is that his thoughts did not turn towards colour; his mind did not exact it. The power of subtle orchestration is a secret impossible to transmit, and the composer who possesses this secret should value it highly, and never debase it to the level of a mere collection of formulæ learned by heart. Here I may mention the case of works scored by others from the composer's rough directions. He who undertakes such work should enter as deeply as he may into the spirit of the composer, try to realise his intentions, and develop them in all their essential features. Though one's own personality be subordinate to that of another, such orchestration is nevertheless creative work. But on the other hand, to score a composition never intended for the orchestra, is an undesirable practice. Many musicians have made this mistake and persist in it.[4] In any case this is the lowest form of instrumentation, akin to colour photography, though of course the process may be well or badly done. [Footnote 4: In the margin of the MS. a question mark is added here. (Editor's note.)] As regards orchestration it has been my good fortune to belong to a first-rate school, and I have acquired the most varied experience. In the first place I have had the opportunity of hearing all my works performed by the excellent orchestra of the St. Petersburgh Opera. Secondly, having experienced leanings towards different directions, I have scored for orchestras of different sizes, beginning with simple combinations (my opera _The May Night_ is written for natural horns and trumpets), and ending with the most advanced. In the third place, I conducted the choir of the Military Marine for several years and was therefore able to study wind-instruments. Finally I formed an orchestra of very young pupils, and succeeded in teaching them to play, quite competently, the works of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Glinka, etc. All this has enabled me to present this work to the public as the result of long experience. As a starting-point I lay down the following fundamental axioms: I. _In the orchestra there is no such thing as ugly quality of tone._ II. _Orchestral writing should be easy to play_; a composer's work stands the best chance when the parts are well written.[5] [Footnote 5: A. Glazounov has well expressed the various degrees of excellence in scoring, which he divides into three classes: 1. When the orchestra sounds well, playing from sight; magnificent, after a few rehearsals. 2. When effects cannot be brought off except with the greatest care and attention on the part of conductor and players. 3. When the orchestra never sounds well. Evidently the chief aim in orchestration is to obtain the first of these results. (Author's note.)] III. _A work should be written for the size of orchestra that is to perform it_, not for some imaginary body, as many composers persist in doing, introducing brass instruments in unusual keys upon which the music is impracticable because it is not played in the key the composer intends. It is difficult to devise any method of learning orchestration without a master. As a general rule it is best to advance by degrees from the simplest scoring to the most complicated. The student will probably pass through the following phases: 1. the phase during which he puts his entire faith in percussion instruments, believing that beauty of sound emanates entirely from this branch of the orchestra--this is the earliest stage; 2. the period when he acquires a passion for the harp, using it in every possible chord; 3. the stage during which he adores the wood-wind and horns, using stopped notes in conjunction with strings, muted or _pizzicato_; 4. the more advanced period, when he has come to recognise that the string group is the richest and most expressive of all. When the student works alone he must try to avoid the pitfalls of the first three phases. The best plan is to study full-scores, and listen to an orchestra, score in hand. But it is difficult to decide what music should be studied and heard. Music of all ages, certainly, but, principally, that which is fairly modern. Fairly modern music will teach the student how to score--classical music will prove of negative value to him. Weber, Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer (_The Prophet_), Berlioz, Glinka, Wagner, Liszt, and modern French and Russian composers--these will prove his best guides. It is useless for a Berlioz or a Gevaert to quote examples from the works of Gluck. The musical idiom is too old-fashioned and strange to modern ears; such examples are of no further use today. The same may be said of Mozart and of Haydn (the father of modern orchestration). The gigantic figure of Beethoven stands apart. His music abounds in countless leonine leaps of orchestral imagination, but his technique, viewed in detail, remains much inferior to his titanic conception. His use of the trumpets, standing out above the rest of the orchestra, the difficult and unhappy intervals he gives to the horns, the distinctive features of the string parts and his often highly-coloured employment of the wood-wind,--these features will combine causing the student of Beethoven to stumble upon a thousand and one points in contradiction. It is a mistake to think that the beginner will light upon no simple and instructive examples in modern music, in that of Wagner and others. On the contrary, clearer, and better examples are to be found amongst modern composers than in what is called the range of classical music. Extract from the Preface to the last edition. My aim in undertaking this work is to reveal the principles of modern orchestration in a somewhat different light than that usually brought to bear upon the subject. I have followed these principles in orchestrating my own works, and, wishing to impart some of my ideas to young composers, I have quoted examples from my own compositions, or given references to them, endeavouring to show, in all sincerity, what is successful and what is not. No one can know except the author himself the purpose and motives which governed him during the composition of a certain work, and the practice of explaining the intentions of a composer, so prevalent amongst annotators, however reverent and discreet, appears to me far from satisfactory. They will attribute a too closely philosophic, or excessively poetic meaning to a plain and simple fact. Sometimes the respect which great composers' names command will cause inferior examples to be quoted as good; cases of carelessness or ignorance, easily explained by the imperfections of current technique, give rise to whole pages of laborious exposition, in defence, or even in admiration of a faulty passage. This book is written for those who have already studied instrumentation from Gevaert's excellent treatise, or any other well-known manual, and who have some knowledge of a number of orchestral scores. I shall therefore only just touch on such technical questions as fingering, range, emission of sound etc.[6] [Footnote 6: A short review of these various questions forms the first chapter of the book. (Editor's note.)] The present work deals with the combination of instruments in separate groups and in the entire orchestral scheme; the different means of producing strength of tone and unity of structure; the sub-division of parts; variety of colour and expression in scoring,--the whole, principally from the standpoint of dramatic music. Chapter I. GENERAL REVIEW OF ORCHESTRAL GROUPS. A. Stringed Instruments. The following is the formation of the string quartet and the number of players required in present day orchestras, either in the theatre or concert-room. --------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | Full | Medium | Small | | orchestra | orchestra | orchestra | --------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | | | | Violins I | 16 | 12 | 8 | | | | | " II | 14 | 10 | 6 | | | | | Violas | 12 | 8 | 4 | | | | | Violoncellos | 10 | 6 | 3 | | | | | Double basses | 8-10 | 4-6 | 2-3 | --------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ In larger orchestras, the number of first violins may amount to 20 and even 24, the other strings being increased proportionately. But such a great quantity of strings overpowers the customary wood-wind section, and entails re-inforcing the latter. Sometimes orchestras contain less than 8 first violins; this is a mistake, as the balance between strings and wind is completely destroyed. In writing for the orchestra it is advisable to rely on a medium-sized body of strings. Played by a larger orchestra a work will be heard to greater advantage; played by a smaller one, the harm done will be minimised. Whenever a group of strings is written for more than five parts--without taking double notes or chords into consideration--these parts may be increased by dividing each one into two, three and four sections, or even more (_divisi_). Generally, one or more of the principal parts is split up, the first or second violins, violas or violoncellos. The players are then divided by desks, numbers 1, 3, 5 etc. playing the upper part, and 2, 4, 6 etc., the lower; or else the musician on the right-hand of each desk plays the top line, the one on the left the bottom line. Dividing by threes is less easy, as the number of players in one group is not always divisible by three, and hence the difficulty of obtaining proper balance. Nevertheless there are cases where the composer should not hesitate to employ this method of dividing the strings, leaving it to the conductor to ensure equality of tone. It is always as well to mark how the passage is to be divided in the score; Vns I, 1, 2, 3 desks, 6 'Cellos div. à 3, and so on. Division into four and more parts is rare, but may be used in _piano_ passages, as it greatly reduces volume of tone in the group of strings. _Note._ In small orchestras passages sub-divided into many parts are very hard to realise, and the effect obtained is never the one required. String parts may be divided thus: _a_ {Vns I div. _b_ {Vns II div. _c_ {Violas div. _d_ {'Cellos div. {Vns II div. {Violas div. {'Cellos div. {D. basses div. Possible combinations less frequently used are: _e_ {Vns I div. _f_ {Vns II div. _g_ {Violas div. {Violas div. {'Cellos div. {D. basses div. etc. _Note._ It is evident that the tone quality in _b_ and _e_ will be similar. Still _b_ is preferable since the number of Vns II (14-10-6) and Violas (12-8-4) is practically the same, the respective rôles of the two groups are more closely allied, and from the fact that second violins generally sit nearer to the violas than the first, thereby guaranteeing greater unity in power and execution. The reader will find all manner of divisions in the musical examples given in Vol. II. Where necessary, some explanation as to the method of dividing strings will follow in due course. I dwell on the subject here in order to show how the usual composition of the string quartet may be altered. Stringed instruments possess more ways of producing sound than any other orchestral group. They can pass, better than other instruments from one shade of expression to another, the varieties being of an infinite number. Species of bowing such as _legato_, detached, _staccato_, _spiccato_, _portamento_, _martellato_, light _staccato_, _saltando_, attack at the nut and at the point, [symbol: down bow] and [symbol: up bow] (down bow and up bow), in every degree of tone, _fortissimo_, _pianissimo_, _crescendo_, _diminuendo_, _sforzando_, _morendo_--all this belongs to the natural realm of the string quartet. The fact that these instruments are capable of playing double notes and full chords across three and four strings--to say nothing of sub-division of parts--renders them not only melodic but also harmonic in character.[7] [Footnote 7: To give a list of easy three and four-note chords, or to explain the different methods of bowing does not come within the scope of the present book.] From the point of view of activity and flexibility the violin takes pride of place among stringed instruments, then, in order, come the viola, 'cello and double bass. In practice the notes of extreme limit in the string quartet should be fixed as follows: for violins: [Music: A7], for violas: [Music: A5], for 'cellos: [Music: A4], for double basses: [Music: G4]. Higher notes given in Table A, should only be used with caution, that is to say when they are of long value, in _tremolando_, slow, flowing melodies, in not too rapid sequence of scales, and in passages of repeated notes. Skips should always be avoided. _Note._ In quick passages for stringed instruments long chromatic figures are never suitable; they are difficult to play and sound indistinct and muddled. Such passages are better allotted to the wood-wind. A limit should be set to the use of a high note on any one of the three lower strings on violins, violas and 'cellos. This note should be the one in the fourth position, either the octave note or the ninth of the open string. Nobility, warmth, and equality of tone from one end of the scale to the other are qualities common to all stringed instruments, and render them essentially superior to instruments of other groups. Further, each string has a distinctive character of its own, difficult to define in words. The top string on the violin (_E_) is brilliant in character, that of the viola (_A_) is more biting in quality and slightly nasal; the highest string on the 'cello (_A_) is bright and possesses a "chest-voice" timbre. The _A_ and _D_ strings on the violin and the _D_ string on the violas and 'cellos are somewhat sweeter and weaker in tone than the others. Covered strings (_G_), on the violin (_G_ and _C_), on the viola and 'cello are rather harsh. Speaking generally, the double bass is equally resonant throughout, slightly duller on the two lower strings (_E_ and _A_), and more penetrating on the upper ones (_D_ and _G_). _Note._ Except in the case of pedal notes, the double bass rarely plays an independent part, usually moving in octaves or in unison with the 'cellos, or else doubling the bassoons. The quality of the double bass tone is therefore seldom heard by itself and the character of its different strings is not so noticeable. The rare ability to connect sounds, or a series of sounds, the vibration of stopped strings combined with their above-named qualities--warmth and nobility of tone--renders this group of instruments far and away the best orchestral medium of melodic expression. At the same time, that portion of their range situated beyond the limits of the human voice, e.g. notes on the violin higher than the extreme top note of the soprano voice, from [Music: E6] upwards, and notes on the double bass below the range of the bass voice, descending from [Music: D3] (written sound) lose in expression and warmth of tone. Open strings are clearer and more powerful but less expressive than stopped strings. Comparing the range of each stringed instrument with that of the human voice, we may assign: to the violin, the soprano and contralto voice plus a much higher range; to the viola, the contralto and tenor voice plus a much higher register; to the 'cello, the tenor and bass voices plus a higher register; to the double bass, the bass voice plus a lower range. The use of harmonics, the mute, and some special devices in bowing produce great difference in the resonance and tone quality of all these instruments. Harmonics, frequently used today, alter the timbre of a stringed instrument to a very appreciable extent. Cold and transparent in soft passages, cold and brilliant in loud ones, and offering but little chance for expression, they form no fundamental part of orchestral writing, and are used simply for ornament. Owing to their lack of resonant power they should be used sparingly, and, when employed, should never be overpowered by other instruments. As a rule harmonics are employed on sustained notes, _tremolando_, or here and there for brilliant effects; they are rarely used in extremely simple melodies. Owing to a certain tonal affinity with the flute they may be said to form a kind of link between string and wood-wind instruments. Another radical change is effected by the use of mutes. When muted, the clear, singing tone of the strings becomes dull in soft passages, turns to a slight hiss or whistle in loud ones, and the volume of tone is always greatly reduced. The position of the bow on the string will affect the resonance of an instrument. Playing with the bow close to the bridge (_sul ponticello_), chiefly used _tremolando_, produces a metallic sound; playing on the finger-board (_sul tasto_, _flautando_) creates a dull, veiled effect. _Note._ Another absolutely different sound results from playing with the back or wood of the bow (_col legno_). This produces a sound like a xylophone or a hollow _pizzicato_. It is discussed under the heading of instruments of little sustaining power. Table A. String group. (These instruments give all chromatic intervals.) Violin. (I. II.) Viola. Violoncello. Double bass. [Music] Black lines on each string denote the general range in orchestral writing, the dotted lines give the registers, low, medium, high, very high. The five sets of strings with number of players given above produce a fairly even balance of tone. If there is any surplus of strength it must be on the side of the first violins, as they must be heard distinctly on account of the important part they play in the harmonic scheme. Besides this, an extra desk of first violins is usual in all orchestras, and as a general rule they possess a more powerful tone than second violins. The latter, with the violas, play a secondary part, and do not stand out so prominently. The 'cellos and double basses are heard more distinctly, and in the majority of cases form the bass in octaves. In conclusion it may be said that the group of strings, as a melodic element, is able to perform all manner of passages, rapid and interrupted phrases of every description, diatonic or chromatic in character. Capable of sustaining notes without difficulty, of playing chords of three and four notes; adapted to the infinite variety of shades of expression, and easily divisible into numerous sundry parts, the string group in an orchestra may be considered as an harmonic element particularly rich in resource. B. Wind instruments. Wood-wind. Apart from the varying number of players, the formation of the string group, with its five constituent parts remains constant, satisfying the demands of any orchestral full score. On the other hand the group of wood-wind instruments varies both as regards number of parts and the volume of tone at its command, and here the composer may choose at will. The group may be divided into three general classes: wood-wind instruments in pair's, in three's and in four's, (see table on page 13). Arabic numerals denote the number of players on each instrument; roman figures, the parts (1st, 2nd etc.). Instruments which do not require additional players, but are taken over by one or the other executant in place of his usual instrument, are enclosed in brackets. As a rule the first flute, first oboe, first clarinet and first bassoon never change instruments; considering the importance of their parts it is not advisable for them to turn from one mouth-piece to another. The parts written for piccolo, bass flute, English horn, small clarinet, bass clarinet and double bassoon are taken by the second and third players in each group, who are more accustomed to using these instruments of a special nature. ---------------------+--------------------------+-------------------------+ Wood-wind | Wood-wind | Wood-wind | in pair's | in three's | in four's | ---------------------+--------------------------+-------------------------+ | | | (II--Piccolo). | (III--Piccolo). | 1 Piccolo (IV). | | | | 2 Flutes I. II. | 3 Flutes I. II. III. | 3 Flutes I. II. III. | | | | | (II--Bass flute). | (III--Bass flute). | | | | 2 Oboes I. II. | 2 Oboes I. II. | 3 Oboes I. II. III. | | | | (II--Eng. horn). | 1 Eng. horn (III). | 1 Eng. horn (IV). | | | | | (II--Small clarinet). | (II--Small clarinet). | | | | 2 Clarinets I. II. | 3 Clarinets I. II. III. | 3 Clarinets I. II. III. | | | | (II--Bass clarinet). | (III--Bass clarinet). | 1 Bass clarinet (IV). | | | | 2 Bassoons I. II. | 2 Bassoons I. II. | 3 Bassoons I. II. III. | | | | | 1 Double bassoon (III). | 1 Double bassoon (IV). | ---------------------+--------------------------+-------------------------+ The formation of the first class may be altered by the permanent addition of a piccolo part. Sometimes a composer writes for two piccolos or two Eng. horns etc. without increasing the original number of players required (in three's or four's). _Note I._ Composers using the first class in the course of a big work (oratorio, opera, symphony, etc.) may introduce special instruments, called _extras_, for a long or short period of time; each of these instruments involves an extra player not required throughout the entire work. Meyerbeer was fond of doing this, but other composers, Glinka for example, refrain from increasing the number of performers by employing _extras_ (Eng. horn part in _Rousslân_). Wagner uses all three classes in the above table (in pair's: _Tannhäuser_--in three's: _Tristan_--in four's: _The Ring_). _Note II._ _Mlada_ is the only work of mine involving formation by four's. _Ivan the Terrible_, _Sadko_, _The Legend of Tsar Saltan_, _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitesh_ and _The Golden Cockerel_ all belong to the second class, and in my other works, wood-wind in pair's is used with a varying number of extras. _The Christmas Night_, with its two oboes, and two bassoons, three flutes and three clarinets, forms an intermediate class. Considering the instruments it comprises, the string group offers a fair variety of colour, and contrast in compass, but this diversity of range and timbre is subtle and not easily discerned. In the wood-wind department, however, the difference in register and quality of flutes, oboes, clarinets and bassoons is striking to a degree. As a rule, wood-wind instruments are less flexible than strings; they lack the vitality and power, and are less capable of different shade of expression. In each wind instrument I have defined the _scope of greatest expression_, that is to say the range in which the instrument is best qualified to achieve the various grades of tone, (_forte_, _piano_, _cresc._, _dim._, _sforzando_, _morendo_, etc.)--the register which admits of the most _expressive_ playing, in the truest sense of the word. Outside this range, a wind instrument is more notable for richness of colour than for expression. I am probably the originator of the term "scope of greatest expression". It does not apply to the piccolo and double bassoon which represent the two extremes of the orchestral compass. They do not possess such a register and belong to the body of highly-coloured but non-expressive instruments. The four kinds of wind instruments: flutes, oboes, clarinets and bassoons may be generally considered to be of equal power. The same cannot be said of instruments which fulfil a special purpose: piccolo, bass flute, Eng. horn, small clarinet, bass clarinet and double bassoon. Each of these instruments has four registers: low, middle, high and extremely high, each of which is characterised by certain differences of quality and power. It is difficult to define the exact limits of each register; adjacent registers almost blend together and the passage from one to another is scarcely noticeable. But when the instrument jumps from one register to another the difference in power and quality of tone is very striking. The four families of wind instruments may be divided into two classes: a) instruments of nasal quality and dark resonance--oboes and bassoons (Eng. horn and double bassoon); and b) instruments of "chest-voice" quality and bright tone--flutes and clarinets (piccolo, bass flute, small clarinet, bass clarinet). These characteristics of colour and resonance--expressed in too simple and rudimentary a form--are specially noticeable in the middle and upper registers. The lower register of the oboes and bassoons is thick and rough, yet still nasal in quality; the very high compass is shrill, hard and dry. The clear resonance of the flutes and clarinets acquires something nasal and dark in the lower compass; in the very high register it becomes somewhat piercing. Note to Table B. In the following Table B the top note in each register serves as the bottom note in the next, as the limits to each register are not defined absolutely. The note _G_ fixes the register of flutes and oboes, _C_ for the clarinets and bassoons. In the very high compass those notes are only given which can really be used; anything higher and not printed as actual notes are either too difficult to produce or of no artistic value. The number of sounds obtainable in the highest compass is indefinite, and depends, partly on the quality of the instrument itself, partly on the position and application of the lips. The signs [music symbol: decrescendo] [music symbol: crescendo] are not to be mistaken for _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_; they indicate how the resonance of an instrument increases or diminishes in relation to the characteristic quality of its timbre. The scope of greatest expression for each typical instrument is marked thus, [symbol: horizontal bracket] under the notes; the range is the same in each instrument of the same type. Table B. Wind group. These instruments give all chromatic intervals. Piccolo. Flute. Bass Flute Alto Fl. _F_, _G_). Oboe. English Horn (Cor anglais, alto oboe _F_). Small Clarinet (_E[flat]-D_). Clarinet (_B[flat]-A_). Bass Clarinet (_B[flat]-A_). Bassoon (Fagotto). Double bassoon (Contra-fagotto). [Music] _Note._ It is a difficult matter to define tone quality in words; we must encroach upon the domain of sight, feeling, and even taste. Though borrowed from these senses, I have no doubt as to the appropriateness of my comparisons, but, as a general rule definitions drawn from other sources are too elementary to be applied to music. No condemnatory meaning however should be attached to my descriptions, for in using the terms thick, piercing, shrill, dry, etc. my object is to express _artistic_ fitness in words, rather than material exactitude. Instrumental sounds which have no musical meaning are classed by me in the category of _useless sounds_, and I refer to them as such, giving my reasons. With the exception of these, the reader is advised to consider all other orchestral timbres beautiful from an artistic point of view, although it is necessary, at times, to put them to other uses. Further on, a table of wind instruments is appended, outlining the approximate limit of range, defining different qualities of tone and indicating the scope of greatest expression (the piccolo and double bassoon excepted). Flutes and clarinets are the most flexible wood-wind instruments (the flutes in particular), but for expressive power and subtlety in _nuances_ the clarinet supersedes them; this instrument can reduce volume of tone to a mere breath. The nasal instruments, oboe and bassoon, are less mobile and supple; this is accounted for by their double reed, but, having to effect all sorts of scales and rapid passages in common with the flutes and clarinets, oboes and bassoons may be considered melodic instruments in the real sense of the word, only of a more _cantabile_ and peaceful character. In very quick passages they often double the flutes, clarinets or strings. The four families are equally capable of _legato_ and _staccato_ playing and changing from one to the other in different ways, but distinct and penetrating _staccato_ passages are better suited to the oboes and bassoons, while the flutes and clarinets excel in well-sustained _legato_ phrases. Composite _legato_ passages should be allotted to the first two instruments, composite _staccato_ passages to the latter pair, but these general directions should not deter the orchestrator from adopting the opposite plan. In comparing the technical individualities of the wood-wind the following fundamental differences should be noted: a) The rapid repetition of a single note by single tonguing is common to all wind instruments; repetition of a single note by means of double tonguing is only possible on the flute, a reedless instrument. b) On account of its construction the clarinet is not well adapted to sudden leaps from one octave to another; these skips are easier on flutes, oboes and bassoons. c) _Arpeggios_ and rapid alternation of two intervals _legato_ sound well on flutes and clarinets, but not on oboes and bassoons. Wood-wind players cannot manage extremely long sustained passages, as they are compelled to take breath; care must be taken therefore to give them a little rest from time to time. This is unnecessary in the case of string players. In the endeavour to characterise the timbre of each instrument typical of the four families, from a psychological point of view, I do not hesitate to make the following general remarks which apply generally to the middle and upper registers of each instrument: a) Flute.--Cold in quality, specially suitable, in the major key, to melodies of light and graceful character; in the minor key, to slight touches of transient sorrow. b) Oboe.--Artless and gay in the major, pathetic and sad in the minor. c) Clarinet.--Pliable and expressive, suitable, in the major, to melodies of a joyful or contemplative character, or to outbursts of mirth; in the minor, to sad and reflective melodies or impassioned and dramatic passages. d) Bassoon.--In the major, an atmosphere of senile mockery; a sad, ailing quality in the minor. In the extreme registers these instruments convey the following impressions to my mind: _Low register_ _Very high register_ a) Flute-- Dull, cold Brilliant b) Oboe-- Wild Hard, dry c) Clarinet-- Ringing, threatening Piercing d) Bassoon-- Sinister Tense. _Note._ It is true that no mood or frame of mind, whether it be joyful or sad, meditative or lively, careless or reflective, mocking or distressed can be aroused by one single isolated timbre; it depends more upon the general melodic line, the harmony, rhythm, and dynamic shades of expression, upon the whole formation of a given piece of music. The choice of instruments and timbre to be adopted depends on the position which melody and harmony occupy in the seven-octave scale of the orchestra; for example, a melody of light character in the tenor register could not be given to the flutes, or a sad, plaintive phrase in the high soprano register confided to the bassoons. But the ease with which tone colour can be adapted to expression must not be forgotten, and in the first of these two cases it may be conceded that the mocking character of the bassoon could easily and quite naturally assume a light-hearted aspect, and in the second case, that the slightly melancholy timbre of the flute is somewhat related to the feeling of sorrow and distress with which the passage is to be permeated. The case of a melody coinciding in character with the instrument on which it is played is of special importance, as the effect produced cannot fail to be successful. There are also moments when a composer's artistic feeling prompts him to employ instruments, the character of which is at variance with the written melody (for eccentric, grotesque effects, etc.). The following remarks illustrate the characteristics, timbre, and employment of special instruments: The duty of the piccolo and small clarinet is, principally, to extend the range of the ordinary flute and clarinet in the high register. The whistling, piercing quality of the piccolo in its highest compass is extraordinarily powerful, but does not lend itself to more moderate shades of expression. The small clarinet in its highest register is more penetrating than the ordinary clarinet. The low and middle range of the piccolo and small clarinet correspond to the same register in the normal flute and clarinet, but the tone is so much weaker that it is of little service in those regions. The double bassoon extends the range of the ordinary bassoon in the low register. The characteristics of the bassoon's low compass are still further accentuated in the corresponding range of the double bassoon, but the middle and upper registers of the latter are by no means so useful. The very deep notes of the double bassoon are remarkably thick and dense in quality, very powerful in _piano_ passages. _Note._ Nowadays, when the limits of the orchestral scale are considerably extended (up to the high _C_ of the 7th octave, and down to the low _C_, 16 ft. contra octave), the piccolo forms an indispensable constituent of the wind-group; similarly, it is recognised that the double bassoon is capable of supplying valuable assistance. The small clarinet is rarely employed and only for colour effects. The English horn, or alto oboe (oboe in _F_) is similar in tone to the ordinary oboe, the listless, dreamy quality of its timbre being sweet in the extreme. In the low register it is fairly penetrating. The bass clarinet, though strongly resembling the ordinary clarinet, is of darker colour in the low register and lacks the silvery quality in the upper notes; it is incapable of joyful expression. The bass flute is an instrument seldom used even today; it possesses the same features as the flute, but it is colder in colour, and crystalline in the middle and high regions. These three particular instruments, apart from extending the low registers of the instruments to which they belong, have their own distinctive peculiarities of timbre, and are often used in the orchestra, as solo instruments, clearly exposed. _Note._ Of the six special instruments referred to above, the piccolo and double bassoon were the first to be used in the orchestra; the latter, however, was neglected after Beethoven's death and did not reappear until towards the end of the 19th century. The Eng. horn and bass clarinet were employed initially during the first half of the same century by Berlioz, Meyerbeer, and others, and for some time retained their position as _extras_, to become, later on, permanent orchestral factors, first in the theatre, then in the concert room. Very few attempts have been made to introduce the small clarinet into the orchestra (Berlioz etc.); this instrument together with the bass flute is used in my opera-ballet _Mlada_ (1892), and also in my most recent compositions, _The Christmas Night_, and _Sadko_; the bass flute will also be found in _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitesh_, and in the revised version of "_Ivan the Terrible_". Of late years the habit of muting the wood-wind has come into fashion. This is done by inserting a soft pad, or a piece of rolled-up cloth into the bell of the instrument. Mutes deaden the tone of oboes, Eng. horns, and bassoons to such an extent that it is possible for these instruments to attain the extreme limit of _pianissimo_ playing. The muting of clarinets is unnecessary, as they can play quite softly enough without artificial means. It has not yet been discovered how to mute the flutes; such a discovery would render great service to the piccolo. The lowest notes on the bassoon, [Music: B1] and on the oboe and Eng. horn [Music: B3] are impossible when the instruments are muted. Mutes have no effect in the highest register of wind instruments. Brass. The formation of the group of brass instruments, like that of the wood-wind is not absolutely uniform, and varies in different scores. The brass group may be divided into three general classes corresponding to those of the wood-wind (in pair's, in three's, and in four's). ----------------------+-------------------------+-------------------------+ Group corresponding | Group corresponding | Group corresponding | to the wood-wind | to the wood-wind | to the wood-wind | in pair's | in three's | in four's | ----------------------+-------------------------+-------------------------| | | (II--Small trumpet). | 2 Trumpets I, II. | 3 Trumpets I, II, III. | 3 Trumpets I, II, III. | | (III--Alto trumpet | (III--Alto trumpet or | | or: | Bass trumpet.) | | {2 Cornets I, II. | | | {2 Trumpets I, II.) | | | | | 4 Horns I, II, | 4 Horns I, II, III, IV. | 6 or 8 Horns I, II, | III, IV. | | III, IV, V, | | | VI, VII, VIII. | | | | 3 Trombones. | 3 Trombones I, II, III. | 3 Trombones I, II, III. | | | | 1 Tuba. | 1 Tuba[8]. | 1 Tuba. | ----------------------+-------------------------+-------------------------+ [Footnote 8: Of late years sometimes two tubas are employed, by Glazounov for instance in his Finnish Fantasia. (Editor's note.)] The directions are the same as in the preceding table for wood-wind. It is evident that in all three classes the formation may vary as the composer wishes. In music for the theatre or concert room page after page may be written without the use of trumpets, trombones and tuba, or some instrument may be introduced, temporarily as an _extra_. In the above table I have given the most typical formations, and those which are the most common at the present day. _Note I._ Besides the instruments given above, Richard Wagner used some others in _The Ring_, notably the quartet of tenor and bass tubas, and a contrabass trombone. Sometimes these additions weigh too heavily on the other groups, and at other times they render the rest of the brass ineffective. For this reason composers have doubtless refrained from employing such instruments, and Wagner himself did not include them in the score of _Parsifal_. Some present-day composers (Richard Strauss, Scriabine) write for as many as five trumpets. _Note II._ From the middle of the 19th century onward the natural brass disappeared from the orchestra, giving place to valve instruments. In my second opera, _The May Night_ I used natural horns and trumpets, changing the keys, and writing the best notes "stopped"; this was purposely done for practise. Though far less flexible than the wood-wind, brass instruments heighten the effect of other orchestral groups by their powerful resonance. Trumpets, trombones, and tubas are about equal in strength; cornets have not quite the same force; horns, in _forte_ passages, are about one half as strong, but _piano_, they have the same weight as other brass instruments played softly. To obtain an equal balance, therefore, the marks of expression in the horns should be one degree stronger than in the rest of the brass; if the trumpets and trombones play _pp_, the horns should be marked _p_. On the other hand, to obtain a proper balance in _forte_ passages, two horns are needed to one trumpet or one trombone. Brass instruments are so similar in range and timbre that the discussion of register is unnecessary. As a general rule quality becomes more brilliant as the higher register is approached, and _vice versa_, with a decrease in tone. Played _pp_ the resonance is sweet; played _ff_ the tone is hard and "crackling". Brass instruments possess a remarkable capacity for swelling from _pianissimo_ to _fortissimo_, and reducing the tone inversely, the _sf_ [music symbol: decrescendo] _p_ effect being excellent. The following remarks as to character and tone quality may be added: a) 1. _Trumpets_ (_B[flat]-A_). Clear and fairly penetrating in tone, stirring and rousing in _forte_ passages; in _piano_ phrases the high notes are full and silvery, the low notes troubled, as though threatening danger. 2. _Alto trumpet_ (in _F_). An instrument of my own invention, first used by me in the opera-ballet _Mlada_. In the deep register (notes 2 to 3 in the trumpet scale) it possesses a fuller, clearer, and finer tone. Two ordinary trumpets with an alto trumpet produce greater smoothness and equality in resonance than three ordinary trumpets. Satisfied with the beauty and usefulness of the alto trumpet, I have consistently written for it in my later works, combined with wood-wind in three's. _Note._ To obviate the difficulty of using the alto trumpet in ordinary theatres and some concert rooms, I have not brought into play the last four notes of its lowest register or their neighbouring chromatics; by this means the alto trumpet part may be played by an ordinary trumpet in _B[flat]_ or _A_. 3. _Small trumpet_ (in _E[flat]-D_). Invented by me and used for the first time in _Mlada_ to realise the very high trumpet notes without difficulty. In tonality and range the instrument is similar to the soprano cornet in a military band. _Note._ The small trumpet, (_B[flat]-A_) sounding an octave higher than the ordinary trumpet has not yet appeared in musical literature. b) _Cornets_ (in _B[flat]-A_). Possessing a quality of tone similar to the trumpet, but softer and weaker. It is a beautiful instrument though rarely employed today in theatre or concert room. Expert players can imitate the cornet tone on the trumpet, and _vice versa_. c) _Horn_ (in _F_). The tone of this instrument is soft, poetical, and full of beauty. In the lower register it is dark and brilliant; round and full in the upper. The middle notes resemble those of the bassoon and the two instruments blend well together. The horn, therefore, serves as a link between the brass and wood-wind. In spite of valves the horn has but little mobility and would seem to produce its tone in a languid and lazy manner. d) _Trombone._ Dark and threatening in the deepest register, brilliant and triumphant in the high compass. The _piano_ is full but somewhat heavy, the _forte_ powerful and sonorous. Valve trombones are more mobile than slide trombones, but the latter are certainly to be preferred as regards nobility and equality of sound, the more so from the fact that these instruments are rarely required to perform quick passages, owing to the special character of their tone. e) _Tuba._ Thick and rough in quality, less characteristic than the trombone, but valuable for the strength and beauty of its low notes. Like the double bass and double bassoon, the tuba is eminently useful for doubling, an octave lower, the bass of the group to which it belongs. Thanks to its valves, the tuba is fairly flexible. Table C. Brass group. These instruments give all chromatic intervals. Trumpet, Cornet. (_B[flat]-A, alto in F_).[A] Horn (_F, E_). Trombone (tenor-bass).[B] Tuba (_C_-bass). [Music] Natural sounds are given in white notes. The upper lines indicate the scope of greatest expression. [Footnote A: The 7th natural harmonic is everywhere omitted as useless; the same in the horns, the notes 11, 13, 14 and 15.] [Footnote B: The _b[natural]_ of the octave -1 does not exist on the trombones.] The group of brass instruments, though uniform in resonance throughout its constituent parts, is not so well adapted to expressive playing (in the exact sense of the word) as the wood-wind group. Nevertheless, a scope of greatest expression may be distinguished in the middle registers. In company with the piccolo and double bassoon it is not given to the small trumpet (_E[flat]-D_) and tuba to play with any great amount of expression. The rapid and rhythmical repetition of a note by single tonguing is possible to all members of the brass, but double tonguing can only be done on instruments with a small mouth-piece, trumpets and cornets. These two instruments can execute rapid _tremolando_ without difficulty. The remarks on breathing, in the section devoted to the wood-wind, apply with equal force to the brass. The use of stopped notes and mutes alters the character of brass tone. Stopped notes can only be employed on trumpets, cornets and horns; the shape of trombones and tubas prevents the hand from being inserted into the bell. Though mutes are applied indiscriminately to all brass instruments in the orchestra, tubas rarely possess them. Stopped and muted notes are similar in quality. On the trumpet, muting a note produces a better tone than stopping it. In the horn both methods are employed; single notes are stopped in short phrases, muted in longer ones. I do not propose to describe the difference between the two operations in detail, and will leave the reader to acquire the knowledge for himself, and to form an opinion as to its importance from his own personal observation. Sufficient to say that the tone is deadened by both methods, assuming a wild "crackling" character in _forte_ passages, tender and dull in _piano_. Resonance is greatly reduced, the silvery tone of the instrument so lost and a timbre resembling that of the oboe and Eng. horn is approached. Stopped notes (_con sordino_) are marked [music symbol: mute] underneath the note, sometimes followed by [music symbol: no mute], denoting the resumption of open sounds, _senza sordini_. Brass instruments, when muted, produce an effect of distance. C. Instruments of little sustaining power. Plucked strings. When the usual orchestral string quartet (Vns I, Vns II, Violas, 'Cellos, D. basses) does not make use of the bow, but plucks the strings with the finger, it becomes to my mind a new and independent group with its own particular quality of tone. Associated with the harp, which produces sound in a similar manner, I consider it separately under the heading of plucked strings. _Note._ In this group may be classed the guitar, zither, balalaïka; instruments plucked with a quill, such as the domra,[9] the mandoline etc., all of which may be used in an orchestra, but have no place in the scope of the present book. [Footnote 9: A Russian instrument which, like the balalaïka, is better known abroad. (Translator's note.)] Pizzicato. Although capable of every degree of power from _ff_ to _pp_, _pizzicato_ playing has but small range of expression, and is used chiefly as a colour effect. On open strings it is resonant and heavy, on stopped strings shorter and duller; in the high positions it is rather dry and hard. Table D on page 31 indicates the range in which _pizzicato_ may be used on each stringed instrument. In the orchestra, _pizzicato_ comes into operation in two distinct ways: a) on single notes, b) on double notes and chords. The fingers of the right hand playing _pizz._ are far less agile than the bow; _pizz._ passages therefore can never be performed as quickly as those played _arco_. Moreover, the speed of _pizzicato_ playing depends upon the thickness of the strings; on the double basses, for instance, it must always be much slower than on the violins. In _pizzicato_ chords it is better to avoid open strings, which produce a more brilliant tone than of covered strings. Chords of four notes allow of greater freedom and vigour of attack, as there is no danger of accidentally touching a wrong note. Natural harmonics played _pizz._ create a charming effect; the tone is weak however, and they are chiefly successful on the violoncello. Harp. In the orchestra, the harp is almost entirely an harmonic or accompanying instrument. The majority of scores require only one harp part, but in recent times composers have written for two or even three harps, which are sometimes compressed into the one part. _Note._ Full orchestras should include three or even four harps. My operas _Sadko_, _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitesh_, and _The Golden Cockerel_ are designed for two harps, _Mlada_ for three. The special function of the harp lies in the execution of chords, and the florid figures springing from them. As only four notes at the most can be played by each hand, the notes of a chord should be written close together, with not too great a space between one hand and the other. The chords must always be broken (_arpeggiato_); should the composer wish otherwise he should notify it (_non arpeggiato_). In the middle and lower octaves the resonance of the strings is slightly prolonged, and dies away gradually. In changes of harmony the player stops the vibration of the strings with his hands, but, in quick modulations, this method is not feasible, and the mixture of one chord with another produces a discordant effect. It follows that more or less rapid figures can only be realised clearly and neatly in the upper register of the harp, where the strings are shorter and harder in tone. As a general rule, in the whole range of the harp: [Music: C1[flat]-F7[sharp]] only the notes of the first to the fourth octave are used; the extreme notes in both compasses may be employed in special circumstances, and for doubling in octaves. The harp is essentially a diatonic instrument, since all chromatic passages depend on the manipulation of the pedals. For this reason the harp does not lend itself to rapid modulation, and the orchestrator is advised to bear this fact in mind. But the difficulty may be obviated by using two harps alternately.[10] [Footnote 10: A chromatic harp without pedals has now been invented in France (Lyon's system), on which the most abrupt modulations are possible. (Translator's note.)] _Note._ I would remind the reader that the harp is not capable of double sharps or double flats. For this reason, certain modulations from one key to another one, adjacent to it can only be accomplished enharmonically. For instance, the transition from _C_ flat, _G_ flat or _D_ flat, major to their minor subdominant chords or keys is not possible owing to double flats. It is therefore necessary to start enharmonically from the keys of _B_, _F_ sharp or _C_ sharp, major. Similarly, on account of double sharps, it is impossible to change from _A_ sharp, _D_ sharp or _G_ sharp, minor to their respective dominant major chords or keys; _B_ flat, _E_ flat and _A_ flat, minor must be the starting-points. The technical operation known as _glissando_ is peculiar to the harp alone. Taking for granted that the reader is conversant with the methods of acquiring different scales by means of double-notched pedals, it will be sufficient to remark that _glissando_ scales produce a discordant medley of sound owing to the length of time the strings continue to vibrate, and therefore, as a _purely musical_ effect, _glissando_ can only be used in the upper octaves, quite _piano_, where the sound of the strings is sufficiently clear, yet not too prolonged. _Forte glissando_ scales, entailing the use of the lower and middle strings are only permissible as embellishments. Glissando passages in chords of the seventh and ninth, enharmonically obtained, are much more common, and as the above reservations do not apply, every dynamic shade of tone is possible. Chords in harmonics can only consist of three notes written close together, two for the left hand and one for the right. The tender poetic quality of the harp is adapted to every dynamic shade, but it is never a very powerful instrument, and the orchestrator should treat it with respect. At least three, if not four harps in unison are necessary, if they are to be heard against a full orchestra playing _forte_. The more rapidly a _glissando_ passage is played, the louder it will sound. Harmonic notes on the harp have great charm but little resonance, and are only possible played quite softly. Speaking generally, the harp, like the string quartet, _pizzicato_, is more an instrument of colour than expression. Percussion instruments producing determinate sounds, keyed instruments. Kettle-drums. Kettle-drums, indispensable to every theatre and concert orchestra occupy the most important place in the group of percussion instruments. A pair of kettle-drums (_Timpani_), in the tonic and dominant keys, was the necessary attribute of an orchestra up to, and including Beethoven's time, but, from the middle of the 19th century onward, in western Europe and in Russia, an ever-increasing need was felt for the presence of three or even four kettle-drums, during the whole course or part of a work. If the expensive chromatic drum, permitting instant tuning is rarely met with, still, in the majority of good orchestras, three screw drums are generally to be found. The composer can therefore take it for granted that a good timpanist, having three kettle-drums at his command, will be able to tune at least one of them during a pause of some length. The limits of possible change in Beethoven's time was considered to be: Big kettle-drum: [Music: F2-C3 (chromatically)] Small kettle-drum: [Music: B[flat]2-F3 (chromatically)] In these days it is difficult to define the precise extent of high compass in the kettle-drums, as this depends entirely on the size and quality of the smallest one, of which there are many kinds, but I advise the composer to select: [Music: E2-G[sharp]3 (chromatically)] _Note._ A magnificent kettle-drum of very small size was made for my opera-ballet _Mlada_; this instrument gave the _D[flat]_ of the fourth octave. Kettle-drums are capable of every dynamic shade of tone, from thundering _fortissimo_ to a barely perceptible _pianissimo_. In _tremolando_ they can execute the most gradual _crescendo_, _diminuendo_, the _sfp_ and _morendo_. To deaden the sound, a piece of cloth is generally placed on the skin of the drum, according to the instruction: _timpani coperti_ (muffled drums). Table D. Pizzicato. Violin. Viola. Violoncello. Double bass. [Music] The black notes are dry and hard, without resonance, and should only be used when doubled with the wood-wind. * Table E. Glockenspiel, celesta, xylophone. Glockenspiel (with keyboard). Glockenspiel (ordinary). Celesta. Xylophone. [Music] Piano and Celesta. The use of a piano in the orchestra (apart from pianoforte concertos) belongs almost entirely to the Russian school.[11] The object is two-fold: the quality of tone, either alone, or combined with that of the harp, is made to imitate a popular instrument, the guzli, (as in Glinka), or a soft peal of bells. When the piano forms part of an orchestra, not as a solo instrument, an upright is preferable to a grand, but today the piano is gradually being superseded by the celesta, first used by Tschaikovsky. In the celesta, small steel plates take the place of strings, and the hammers falling on them produce a delightful sound, very similar to the _glockenspiel_. The celesta is only found in full orchestras; when it is not available it should be replaced by an upright piano, and not the _glockenspiel_. [Footnote 11: Rimsky-Korsakov's opera _Sadko_ and Moussorgsky's _Boris Godounov_ are particularly interesting in this respect. (Translator's note.)] Glockenspiel, Bells, Xylophone. The _glockenspiel_ (_campanelli_) may be made of steel bars, or played with a keyboard. The first type is the more satisfactory and possesses greater resonance. The use of the _glockenspiel_ is similar to the celesta, but its tone is more brilliant and penetrating. Big bells in the shape of hollow discs or metal tubes,[12] or real church bells of moderate size may be considered more as theatrical properties than orchestral instruments. [Footnote 12: Recently, bells have been made of suspended metal plates possessing the rare quality of a fairly pure tone, and which are sufficiently portable to be used on the concert platform. (Editor's note.)] The xylophone is a species of harmonica composed of strips or cylinders of wood, struck with two little hammers. It produces a clattering sound, both powerful and piercing. To complete this catalogue of sounds mention should be made of the strings playing _col legno_, that is with the wood or back of the bow. The sound produced is similar to the xylophone, and gains in quality as the number of players is increased. A table is appended showing the range of the celesta, _glockenspiel_ and xylophone. Percussion instruments producing indefinite sounds. Instruments in this group, such as triangle, castanets, little bells, tambourine, switch or rod (_Rute._ Ger.), side or military drum, cymbals, bass drum, and Chinese gong do not take any harmonic or melodic part in the orchestra, and can only be considered as ornamental instruments pure and simple. They have no intrinsic musical meaning, and are just mentioned by the way. The first three may be considered as _high_, the four following as _medium_, and the last _two_ as deep instruments. This may serve as a guide to their use with percussion instruments of determinate sounds, playing in corresponding registers. Comparison of resonance in orchestral groups and combination of different tone qualities. In comparing the resonance of the respective groups of sound-sustaining instruments we arrive at the following approximate conclusions: In the most resonant group, the brass, the strongest instruments are the trumpets, trombones and tuba. In loud passages the horns are only one-half as strong, 1 Trumpet = 1 Trombone = 1 Tuba = 2 Horns. Wood-wind instruments, in _forte_ passages, are twice as weak as the horns, 1 Horn = 2 Clarinets = 2 Oboes = 2 Flutes = 2 Bassoons; but, in _piano_ passages, all wind-instruments, wood or brass are of fairly equal balance. It is more difficult to establish a comparison in resonance between wood-wind and strings, as everything depends on the number of the latter, but, in an orchestra of medium formation, it may be taken for granted that in _piano_ passages, the whole of one department (_all_ 1st Violins or _all_ 2nd Violins etc.) is equivalent in strength to one wind instrument, (Violins I = 1 Flute etc.), and, in _forte_ passages, to two wind instruments, (Violins I = 2 Flutes = 1 Oboe + 1 Clarinet, etc.). It is still harder to form a comparison with instruments of little sustaining power, for too great a diversity in production and emission of sound exists. The combined force of groups of sustained resonance easily overpowers the strings played _pizz._ or _col legno_, the piano played softly, or the celesta. As regards the _glockenspiel_, bells, and xylophone, their emphatic tone will easily prevail over other groups in combination. The same may be said of the kettle-drums with their ringing, resounding quality, and also of other subsidiary instruments. The influence of the timbre of one group on another is noticeable when the groups are doubled; for instance, when the wood-wind timbre is closely allied to the strings on the one hand, and to the brass on the other. Re-inforcing both, the wind _thickens_ the strings and _softens_ the brass. The strings do not blend so well with the brass, and when the two groups are placed side by side, each is heard too distinctly. The combination of the three different timbres in unison produces a rich, mellow and coherent tone. All, or several wind instruments in combination will absorb one department of added strings: 2 Fl. + 2 Ob. + Vns I, or: 2 Ob. + 2 Cl. + Violas, or: 2 Cl. + 2 Fag. + 'Cellos. One department of strings added to the wood-wind in unison produces a sweet coherent quality, the wood-wind timbre still predominating; but the addition of one wind instrument to all or part of the strings in unison, only thickens the resonance of the latter, the wood-wind timbre being lost in the process: Vns I + Vns II + 1 Ob., or: Violas + 'Cellos + 1 Cl. or: 'Cellos + D. basses + 1 Fag. Muted strings do not combine so well with wood-wind, as the two tone qualities remain distinct and separate. Uniting plucked strings and percussion with instruments of sustained resonance results in the following: wind instruments, wood and brass, strengthen and clarify _pizzicato_ strings, harp, kettle-drums and percussion generally, the latter lending a touch of relief to the tone of the wood-wind. Uniting plucked strings and percussion with bowed instruments does not produce such a satisfactory blend, both qualities being heard independently. The combination of plucked strings with percussion alone, is excellent; the two blend perfectly, and the consequent increase in resonance yields an admirable effect. The relationship which exists between string harmonics and the flute or piccolo constitutes a link between the two groups in the upper range of the orchestra. Moreover, the timbre of the viola may be vaguely compared to the middle register of the bassoon and the lowest compass of the clarinet; hence, in the medium orchestral range, a point of contact is established between the quartet of strings and the wood-wind. The bassoon and horn provide the connection between wood-wind and brass, these two instruments being somewhat analogous in character when played _piano_ or _mezzo-forte_; the flute also, in its lowest register, recalls the _pianissimo_ trumpet tone. Stopped and muted notes in horns and trumpets are similar in quality to the oboe and Eng. horn, and blend tolerably well with the latter instrument. Concluding this survey of orchestral groups I add a few remarks which seem to me of special importance. The principal part in music is undertaken by three instrumental groups of sustained resonance, representing the three primary elements, melody, harmony and rhythm. Instruments of little sustaining power, though sometimes used independently, are chiefly employed for ornament and colour; instruments producing indeterminate sounds play no melodic or harmonic part, their functions being purely rhythmical. By glancing at the order in which the six orchestral groups are placed, strings, wood-wind, brass, plucked strings, percussion producing definite, and those producing indefinite sounds, the reader will be able to determine the part played by each in the art of orchestration, from the secondary standpoint of colour and expression. As regards expression, the strings come first, and the expressive capacity of the other groups diminishes in the above order, colour being the only attribute of the last group of percussion instruments. The same order obtains from the standpoint of general effect in orchestration. We can listen to strings for an almost indefinite period of time without getting tired, so varied are their characteristics (_vide_ the number of string quartets, suites, serenades etc. written for strings alone). The addition of a single group of strings will add lustre to a passage for wind instruments. On the other hand, the quality of wind instruments soon becomes wearisome; the same may be said of plucked strings, and also percussion of every kind which should only be employed at reasonable intervals in orchestral composition. It cannot be denied that the constant use of compound timbres, in pair's, in three's etc. eliminates characteristics of tone, and produces a dull, neutral texture, whereas the employment of simple, elementary combinations gives infinitely greater scope for variety in colour. 7 (20) June 1908. Chapter II. MELODY. Whether it be long or short, a simple theme or a melodic phrase, melody should always stand out in relief from the accompaniment. This may be done by artificial or natural means; artificially, when the question of tone quality does not come into consideration, and the melody is detached by means of strongly accentuated dynamic shades; naturally, by selection and contrast of timbres, strengthening of resonance by doubling, tripling, etc., or crossing of parts (violoncellos above the violas and violins, clarinets or oboes above the flutes, bassoons above the clarinets etc.). Melody planned in the upper parts stands out from the very fact of position alone, and likewise, to a less degree when it is situated in the low register. In the middle of the orchestral range it is not so prominent and the methods referred to above come into operation. They may also be employed for two part melody (in thirds and sixths) and for polyphonic writing. Melody in stringed instruments. Instances of the melodic use of stringed instruments are innumerable. The reader will find many examples in the present treatise. With the exception of the double basses,--dull in tone and of little flexibility, chiefly employed in unison or in octaves with the violoncellos,--each of the other stringed instruments, taken independently, is qualified to assume full responsibility for the melodic line. a) Violins. Melody in the soprano-alto register and an extra-high compass usually falls to the lot of the 1st Violins, sometimes to the 2nd Violins or to both in unison, a process which produces fuller resonance without impairing quality of tone. _Examples:_ _The Tsar's Bride_ [[84]].[C]--_Pianissimo_ melody (Vns I) of a troubled dramatic character. Harmonic accompaniment (Vns II and Violas _tremolando_--middle parts; the Violoncellos forming the bass). [Footnote C: The present volume is divided into two parts, text (pp. 1-152) and musical examples (pp. 1-333). The first page of the second part lists the standard full-score editions of Rimsky-Korsakov's works that are referred to throughout the book. These references to specific passages are always indicated by boxed numbers or boxed letters corresponding to the ones marking the sub-divisions of the particular score. On the other hand, references in the text to the 312 musical examples in the second part of the book are always indicated as "No. 1," "No. 2," etc. Thus, "_The Tsar's Bride_ [[84]]" indicates that the reader should look at section [[84]] of the score of _The Tsar's Bride_ as published by Belaieff in Leipzig, the music of which is not reprinted here; whereas "No. 1. _Shéhérazade_ 2nd movement [[B]]" indicates that the reader should look at the first musical example in the second part of the present book, which comes from the section marked [[B]] in the second movement of the score of _Shéhérazade_ as published by Belaieff.] _Antar_, before [[70]].--Descending melodic phrase, Vns I _con sordini piano_. No. 1. _Shéhérazade_ 2nd movement [[B]]. A _piano_ melody (Vns I) graceful in character. _Antar_ [[12]]. Light graceful melody, oriental in style; a dance measure (Vns I _con sord._), the mutes producing a dull ethereal quality of tone. No. 2. _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitesh_ [[283]]. No. 3. _Spanish Capriccio_ [[J]]. Vns I in the upper register doubling the high register of the wood-wind. Choice resonance. b) Violas. Melody in the alto-tenor register and a still higher compass is assigned to the violas. _Cantabile_ melodies however are not so frequently written for violas as for violins and 'cellos, partly because the viola tone is slightly nasal in quality and better fitted for short characteristic phrases, partly because the number of viola players in an orchestra is smaller. Melodies confided to the violas are generally doubled by other strings or by the wood-wind. _Examples:_ No. 4. _Pan Voyevoda_, duet in Act II [[145]]. A long _cantabile_ melody in the violas, _dolce_, in unison with the _mezzo soprano_ voice. No. 5. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[193]].--Flowing _cantabile_. No. 6. _Sadko._ Symphonic tableau [[12]].--Muted violas. A short dance theme, _piano_ in _D[flat]_ major. (The same theme in Eng. horn in the 6th scene of the opera _Sadko_ is slightly more penetrating in tone). c) Violoncellos. Violoncellos, representing the tenor-bass range + an extra-high compass are more often entrusted with tense passionate _cantabile_ melody than with distinctive figures or rapid phrases. Such melodies are usually laid out for the top string (_A_) which possesses a wonderfully rich "chest" quality. _Examples:_ _Antar_ [[56]]. _Cantabile_ on the _A_ string. _Antar_ [[63]]. The same melody in _D[flat]_ maj. on the _D_ string (doubled by the bassoons). No. 7. _Pan Voyevoda_ [[134]], nocturne, "Moonlight". A broad melody _dolce ed espressivo_, afterwards doubled by the first violins an octave higher. No. 8. _Snegourotchka_ [[231]]. At the fifth bar, a melody on the _A_ string _cantabile ed espressivo_, imitating the first clarinet. No. 9. _Snegourotchka_ [[274]]. Melodic phrase with embellishments. d) Double basses. Owing to its register--_basso profondo_ + a still lower compass,--and its muffled resonance, the double bass is little capable of broad _cantabile_ phrases and only in unison or in octaves with the 'cellos. In my own compositions there is no phrase of any importance given to the double bass without the support of 'cellos or bassoons. _Examples:_ * No. 10. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[306]]. Double bass solo, doubled first by the double bassoon, later by the bassoon. This example affords an instance of the rare use of the alto clef (in the last few notes). * No. 11. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[120]].--D. basses + D. bassoons. Grouping in unison. a) Vns I + Vns II.--It goes without saying that this combination entails no alteration in colour; it gains in power and richness of tone by reason of the increased number of players, and is usually attended by doubling of the melody in some departments of the wood-wind. The large number of violins prevents the wood-wind predominating, and the tone quality remains that of the string quartet, enriched and amplified. _Examples:_ No. 12. _Shéhérazade_, beginning of the third movement. _Cantabile_ for Vns I and II on the _D_ string, then on the _A_. _The May Night_, overture [[D]]. Quick _piano_ melody, beginning _cantabile_ and divided later in octaves (Vns I/Vns II] 8) with florid embellishment. No. 13. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[170]].--Vns I + II muted. b) Violins + Violas.--The combination of violins and violas presents no special characteristics, as in the preceding case. The violins remain predominant, and the resonance is rich and full. _Examples:_ No. 14. _Sadko_ [[208]].--Vns I + II + Violas (_G_ string). Quiet _cantabile_ melody _pp_, in unison with the altos and tenors of the chorus. The _Golden Cockerel_ [[142]].--Same combination. c) Violas + 'Cellos.--Produces a rich full resonance, the 'cello quality predominating. _Examples:_ No. 15. _Snegourotchka_ [[5]].--Apparition of Spring. Violas + 'Cellos + Eng. horn. The same melody, _mezzo-forte cantabile_ as in Ex. 9; but in a brighter key, a third higher, its resonance is more brilliant and tense. The addition of the Eng. horn makes no essential difference to the compound tone; the 'cellos stand out above the rest. No. 16. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[71]]. Violas + 'Cellos muted. d) Violins + 'Cellos.--A combination similar to the preceding one. The 'cello tone prevails and the resonance is fuller. _Examples:_ No. 17. _Snegourotchka_ [[288]]. "Spring descends upon the lake". Vns I + Vns II + 'Cellos + Eng. horn. The same _cantabile_ as in Ex. 9, and 15. The Eng. horn is absorbed in the musical texture, the principal colour being that of the 'cellos. Still more powerful in resonance. No. 18. _The May Night._ Act III [[L]]. Chorus of _Roussâlki_. The combination of the solo 'cello with the violins gives the latter a touch of the 'cello timbre. e) Vns I + II + Violas + 'Cellos.--Combining violins, violas and 'cellos in unison is not possible except in the alto-tenor register; this process unites the full resonance of the instruments into an _ensemble_ of complex quality, very tense and powerful in _forte_ passages, extremely full and rich in _piano_. _Examples:_ No. 19. _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement [[P]].--Energetic phrase _ff_. _Mlada_, Lithuanian dance, before [[36]]. _Mlada_, Act III. [[40]].--Cleopatra's dance. _Cantabile_ embellished in oriental fashion. f) Violoncellos + D. basses.--A combination of rich full resonance, used occasionally for phrases in the very low register. _Examples:_ No. 20. _Sadko_ [[260]].--A persistent _forte_ figure, severe in character. No. 21. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[240]].--A _pianissimo_ phrase, sinister and horrible in character. Stringed instruments doubling in octaves. a) Vns I and Vns II in octaves. This is a very common process used for all kinds of melodic figures, in particular those in the very high register. It has already been stated that the _E_ string diminishes in fulness of tone the higher it ascends from the limits of the soprano voice. Moreover, melodic figures in the very high register of the violins become too isolated from the rest of the _ensemble_ unless doubled in octaves. Such doubling secures expression, fulness of tone and firmness of timbre. The reader will find numerous examples of violins in octaves; a few are added below, chiefly broad and expressive phrases. _Examples:_ No. 22. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[166]]. _Cantabile, piano._ _The Tsar's Bride_ [[206]]. _Cantabile, mezzo-piano_; the lower part is in unison with the soprano voice. _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement [[J]]. _Cantabile_ in _G_ major; _dolce_ and _cantabile_ (the same as Ex. 12). No. 23. _The Legend of Tsar Saltan_ [[227]]. Melody with reiterated notes, _dolce, espress. e cantabile_. _Sadko_, Symphonic tableau [[12]]. Vns I/Vns II] 8 muted. A short dance phrase _pianissimo_, given first to the violas, then to the violins (cf. Ex. 6). No. 24. _Sadko_, opera [[207]]. Perhaps an unique example of its kind; violins playing in the very extremity of the high register. _Note._ This passage is difficult but nevertheless quite playable. One or two desks of the 1st Violins are sufficient to double the melody in the upper octave, all the other 1st Violins can play the octave below. In this way the piercing quality of the highest notes will be diminished, the melody will acquire a clearer and more pleasant sound, and the expressive tone quality of the lower octave will be strengthened. * _The Golden Cockerel_ [[156]]. * " " " [[165]]. * _Antar_, 1st movement [[11]]. * No. 25. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III [[63]]. b) Violins _divisi_ in octaves. First and second violins divided in two parts and progressing in octaves will deprive the melody of resonance, since the number of players is diminished by half, the consequences being specially noticeable in small orchestras. Nevertheless the method can be used occasionally when the strings are doubled by the wood-wind, and when the melody falls in a sufficiently high register. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[166]].--Vns I/Vns II] 8 _mezzo-forte espressivo_. Partial doubling of Coupava's song (Sopr.). One flute and one oboe double the melody. No. 26. _Snegourotchka_ [[283]].--Chorus of Flowers--2 Vns soli/Vns I + Fl. I] 8. _Pianissimo cantabile_ in two octaves, progressing with the women's chorus (Sopr. I), and given out earlier by the Eng. horn. The flute and all the 1st Violins except two play in the lower octave, the two solo violins, only, in the upper. The solo desk will be sufficiently prominent owing to the general _pianissimo_. c) Violins and Violas in octaves. First and second Violins progressing with the Violas in octaves is a common method, especially when the lower octave in the melody happens to go below the open _G_ string on the violins. 1. Vns (I or II)/Violas] 8. _Example:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[137]], finale of Act I. Quick melody, _piano_. 2. Vns I + II/Violas] 8 and 3. Vns I/Vns II + Violas] 8. These two distributions are not exactly the same. The first should be used to obtain greater brilliance in the upper part, the second to give the lower part a fuller and more _cantabile_ quality. _Examples:_ No. 27. _Sadko_, before [[181]].--Vns I + II/Violas] 8. Quick animated passage, _forte_, introducing reiterated notes. No. 28. _Snegourotchka_ [[137]], finale to Act I--Vns I/Vns II + Violas] 8. _Cantabile_ phrase, transmitted to the flute and clarinet (cf. Ex. 8). d) Violas and Violoncellos in octaves. Of special use when the Violins are otherwise employed. _Example:_ * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[59]], Violas/Cellos] 8, doubled by bassoons. e) Violins and Violoncellos in octaves. Used in very expressive passages where the 'cellos have to play on the _A_ or _D_ strings. This method produces a more resonant tone than the preceding one; instances of it are frequent. _Examples:_ No. 29. _Antar_ [[43]].--Vns I + Vns II/'Cellos] 8. _Cantabile_ of Eastern origin. _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement [[H]].--Vns I/'Cellos] 8. _Cantabile mezzo-forte appassionato_ (cf. Ex. 1). * No. 30. _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement, before [[P]]--Vns I/Vns II + 'Cellos] 8 and Vns I + II/'Cellos] 8. The first arrangement is rarely found. _Pan Voyevoda_ [[134]], nocturne "Moonlight"--Vns I/'Cellos] 8. _Cantabile_ melody given first to 'cellos alone (cf. Ex. 7). _The May Night_, Act III [[B, C, D]]--Vns I + Vns II/'Cellos] 8. A _forte_ melodic phrase. f) Violoncellos and Double basses in octaves. The bass is usually constructed in this manner. Examples of it are to be found everywhere. Sometimes the double bass part is simplified in comparison with the 'cello part. _Example:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[9]], Fairy Spring's _Aria_. g) Violas and Double basses in octaves. This combination seldom arises and is only used when the 'cellos are otherwise employed. _Example:_ No. 31. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[223]]. h) Parts progressing in octaves, each part doubled in unison. Melodies situated in the middle orchestral range may be allotted to 1st and 2nd Vns, in octaves with Violas and 'Cellos. This arrangement is constantly found, and produces a beautiful quality of tone, somewhat severe in character. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[58]], [[60]], [[65]] and [[68]]. The same melody, played twice _pianissimo_, not doubled, then twice (_mezzo-forte_ and _forte_), doubled in the wood-wind. _Mlada_, Act II, the beginning of the Lithuanian dance. A lively _piano_ theme. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act II [[28]]. _Note I._ It may be of use to point out that melodies lying in the extreme upper register, e.g. those exceeding the middle of the 5th octave, are generally doubled an octave below, whilst those situated in the extreme low register (below the middle of the 1st octave) are doubled an octave higher. _Examples:_ _Sadko_ [[207]] (cf. Ex. 24). _Note II._ Progression in octaves of divided strings _of the same kind_ is generally to be avoided: Violas I 'Cellos I D. basses I ] Violas II, 'Cellos II, D. basses II ] 8, for, in such cases the parts are played on strings which do not correspond, and unity of tone is impaired. This, however, does not apply to violins. _Note III._ The following distribution is occasionally found: Violas + 'Cellos I ] D. basses + 'Cellos II ] 8. Melody in double octaves. a) Vns I] 8/Vns II/Violas] 8 or Vns I] 8/Vns II/'Cellos] 8 may be used for full _cantabile_ melodies extremely tense in character, and in _forte_ passages for choice. _Example:_ No. 32. _Antar_ [[65]].--Vns I] 8./Vns II/Violas + 'Cellos] 8. b) Violas] 8/'Cellos/D. basses] 8 or Vns I + II] 8/Violas + 'Cellos/D. basses] 8 or Vns I + II + Violas] 8/'Cellos/D. basses] 8 are employed when the low register of each instrument is brought into play, and also to suit phrases of a rough and severe character. _Examples:_ _Legend of Kitesh_ [[66]], opening of the 2nd Act. No. 33. _Snegourotchka_ [[215]]. Tumblers' dance. _Note._ The lack of balance in the distribution: Vns I + II +Violas ] 8 'Cellos ] D. basses ] 8 is not of any great importance, for, in such cases, the partial harmonics of one octave support the tone of the other, and _vice versa_. Doubling in three and four octaves. The distribution Vns I/Vns II/Violas/'Cellos/D. basses] 8/8/8/8 is very seldom found, and as a rule, only when supported by wind instruments. _Examples:_ _The Legend of Kitesh_ [[150]] (_allargando_). * _Shéhérazade_, 4th movement, commencing at the 10th bar. Vns I ] Vns II ] Violas + 'Cellos ] 8. D. basses ] Melody in thirds and sixths. In confiding a melody in thirds to the strings it is frequently necessary to use the same quality of tone in both parts, but in the case of a melody in sixths different timbres may be employed. In writing thirds doubled in octaves, the first and second violins should be used. In spite of the difference in the quantity of players, the thirds will not sound unequal. The same arrangement may obtain in the viola and 'cello groups, but it is useless in the case of melody in sixths. _Examples:_ * No. 34. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[34]]--Vns I _div._) 3/Vns II _div._) 3] 8. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[39]]--Vns I/Violas] 6. Cf. also _Legend of Kitesh_ [[223]]: Vns I/Vns II} 3/Vns I/Vns II} 3] 8 (Ex. 31). Distribution in octaves, thirds, and sixths is usually regulated by the normal register of the respective instruments, so as to avoid any suggestion of mannerism resulting from the disturbance of balance. But such a departure from the recognised order may be permitted in special cases. For instance, in the following example of writing in sixths the upper part is allotted to the 'cellos, the lower part to the violins on the _G_ string; this arrangement produces a quality of tone distinctly original in character. _Example:_ No. 35. _Spanish Capriccio_ [[D]]--'Cellos/Vns I + II] 6. Melody in the wood-wind. * The choice of instruments for characteristic and expressive melody is based on their distinctive qualities, discussed minutely in the foregoing chapter. To a large extent the question is left to the orchestrator's own personal taste. Only the best methods of using the wood-wind in unison or octaves, and distributing a melody in thirds, sixths and mixed intervals, from the standpoint of resonance and tone quality will be indicated in this section of the work. Examples of the use of solo wood-wind are to be found in any score; the following are typical instances: _Examples of solo wood-wind:_ 1. _Piccolo: Serbian Fantasia_ [[C]]; No. 36. _Tsar Saltan_ [[216]]; _Snegourotchka_ [[54]]. 2. _Flute: Antar_ [[4]]; _Servilia_ [[80]]; _Snegourotchka_ [[79]], [[183]]; _A Fairy Tale_ [[L]]; _The Christmas Night_ [[163]]; No. 37. _Shéhérazade_, 4th movement, before [[A]] (_Fl. à 2_ in the low register). _Flute_ (double tonguing): _Pan Voyevoda_ [[72]]; _Shéhérazade_, 4th movement, after [[V]]; No. 38. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III, after [[10]]. 3. _Bass flute_: No. 39. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[44]]. 4. _Oboe_: No. 40. _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement [[A]]; _The May Night_, Act III [[Kk]]; No. 41. _Snegourotchka_ [[50]]; _Snegourotchka_ [[112]], [[239]]; _The Tsar's Bride_ [[108]] (cf. Ex. 284), No. 42 and 43. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[57]] and [[97]]. 5. _Eng. horn: Snegourotchka_ [[97]], [[283]] (cf. Ex. 26); No. 44. _Spanish Capriccio_ [[E]]; No. 45. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[61]]. 6. _Small Clarinet_: No. 46. _Mlada_, Act II [[33]]; _Mlada_, Act III [[37]]. 7. _Clarinet: Serbian Fantasia_ [[G]]; _Spanish Capriccio_ [[A]]; _Snegourotchka_ [[90]], [[99]], [[224]], [[227]], [[231]] (cf. Ex. 8); _The May Night_, Act I, before [[X]]; _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement [[D]]; _A Fairy Tale_ [[M]]; _The Tsar's Bride_ [[50]], [[203]]; _The Golden Cockerel_ [[97]] (lowest register, cf. Ex. 43). 8. _Bass clarinet_: No. 47 and 48. _Snegourotchka_ [[243]] and [[246-247]]. 9. _Bassoon: Antar_ [[59]]; No. 49. _Vera Scheloga_ [[36]]; _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement, beginning (cf. Ex. 40); No. 50. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[249]]; No. 51. _Mlada_, Act III, after [[29]]; cf. also Ex. 78. 10. _Double bassoon: Legend of Kitesh_, before [[84]], [[289]]; cf. also Ex. 10 (D. bassoon + D. bass solo). The normal order of wood-wind instruments and that which produces the most natural resonance is the following: _Flutes_, _Oboes_, _Clarinets_, _Bassoons_ (the order used in orchestral full scores). Departure from this natural order, e.g. placing bassoons above clarinets and oboes, or flutes below oboes and clarinets, and especially below the bassoons, creates a far-fetched, unnatural tone, useful, however, in certain cases to attain certain special effects. I do not advise the student to make too free a use of this proceeding. Combination in unison. The combination of two different wood-wind instruments in unison yields the following tone qualities: a) _Flute + Oboe._ A quality fuller than that of the flute, sweeter than that of the oboe. Played softly, the flute will predominate in the low, the oboe in the upper register. Example: No. 52. _Snegourotchka_ [[113]]. b) _Flute + Clarinet._ A quality fuller than that of the flute, duller than that of the clarinet. The flute will predominate in the lower, the clarinet in the higher register. Examples: No. 53. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[330]]; also [[339]] and [[342]]. c) _Oboe + Clarinet._ A fuller quality than that of either instrument heard separately. The dark, nasal tone of the oboe will prevail in the low register, the bright, "chest" quality of the clarinet in the high compass. Examples: _Snegourotchka_ [[19]]; No. 54. _Snegourotchka_ [[115]]. Cf. also _Legend of Kitesh_ [[68]], [[70]], [[84]]--2 Ob. + 3 Cl. (Ex. 199-201). d) _Flute + Oboe + Clarinet._ Very full in quality. The flute predominates in the low register, the oboe in the middle, and the clarinet in the high compass. Examples: _Mlada_, Act I [[1]]; * _Sadko_ [[58]] (2 Fl. + 2 Ob. + Small Cl.). e) _Bassoon + Clarinet._ Very full quality. The gloomy character of the clarinet prevails in the lower register, the sickly quality of the bassoon in the higher. Example: _Mlada_, Act II, after [[49]]. f) _Bassoon + Oboe_, and g) _Bassoon + Flute._ The combinations _f_ and _g_, as well as _Bassoon + Clarinet + Oboe_, and _Bassoon + Clarinet + Flute_ are very seldom found except in certain orchestral _tutti_, where they produce increased resonance without creating a fresh atmosphere. But in such combinations, the range of which is practically restricted to the limits of the third octave, the low notes of the flute will predominate in the lower third of this register, and the high notes of the bassoon in the middle third. The clarinet, weak in the middle compass will not stand out prominently in this particular combination. h) _Bassoon + Clarinet + Oboe + Flute._ This combination is equally rare. The colour is rich, and difficult to define in words. The tone of each instrument will be separated from the others more or less in the manner detailed above. Examples: _Russian Easter Fête_, the beginning; No. 55. _Snegourotchka_ [[301]]; _The May Night_, Act III [[Qqq]]. The process of combining two or more qualities of tone in unison, while endowing the music with greater resonance, sweetness and power, possesses the disadvantage of restricting the variety of colour and expression. Individual timbres lose their characteristics when associated with others. Hence such combinations should be handled with extreme care. Phrases or melodies demanding diversity of expression alone should be entrusted to solo instruments of simple timbres. The same applies to the coupling of two instruments of the same kind, such as 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons. The quality of tone will lose nothing of its individuality, and will gain in power, but its capacity for expression will be diminished accordingly. An instrument enjoys greater independence and freedom when used as a solo than when it is doubled. The use of doubling and mixed timbres is naturally more frequent in loud passages than in soft ones, also where expression and colour is broad rather than individual or intimate in character. I cannot refrain from mentioning how greatly I dislike the method of duplicating all the wood-wind, in order to balance a group of strings, reinforced out of all reason, to suit the ever-growing dimensions of concert halls. I am convinced that, artistically speaking, a limit should be set to the size of both concert room and orchestra. The music performed at these super-concerts must be specially composed on a plan of its own--a subject which cannot be considered here. Combination in octaves. When the melody is entrusted to two wood-wind instruments in octaves, the usual arrangement producing natural resonance is: 8 [Fl. Fl. Fl. Ob. Ob. Cl. [Ob. Cl. Fag. Cl. Fag. Fag.] 8. The combination of flute and bassoon in octaves is rare on account of the widely separated registers of the two instruments. Deviation from the natural order, such as placing the bassoon above the clarinet or oboe, the clarinet above the oboe or flute etc., creates an unnatural resonance occasioned by the confusion of registers, the instrument of lower compass playing in its high register and _vice versa_. The lack of proper relationship between the different tone qualities then becomes apparent. _Examples:_ No. 56. _Spanish Capriccio_ [[O]]--Fl./Ob.] 8. No. 57. _Snegourotchka_ [[254]]--Fl./Eng. horn] 8. * No. 58. _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement [[E]]--Fl./Cl.] 8. _Sadko_ [[195]]--Fl./Eng. horn] 8. _Pan Voyevoda_ [[132]]--Fl./Cl.] 8. _Tsar Saltan_ [[39]]--Cl./Fag.] 8. No. 59. _Vera Scheloga_ [[30]]--Cl./Fag.] 8, likewise any number of examples in the scores of various composers. The use of two instruments of the same colour in octaves, e.g. 2 flutes, 2 clarinets or 2 bassoons etc., if not exactly to be avoided is certainly not to be recommended, as the instruments, playing in different registers will not correspond one with the other. Nevertheless this method may be safely employed when stringed instruments, _arco_ or _pizzicato_ double the two members of the wood-wind, and especially in the middle compass. The process is most satisfactory for repeated notes or sustained passages. _Examples:_ _The May Night_, Act I [[T]]--Cl. I/Cl. II] 8. * _Sadko_, after [[159]]--Ob. I/Ob. II] 3, doubled by _pizz._ strings. * _Servilia_, after [[21]]--Fag. I/Fag. II] 8 + _pizz._ strings. Instruments of the same branch playing in octaves, e.g. 8 [Fag. Cl. Ob. Small cl. Flute Picc.] [C-Fag. Cl. basso Eng. horn Clar. Alto Fl. Fl. ] 8 always produce a good effect. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[5]]--Picc./Fl.] 8 (cf. Ex. 15). _The Tsar's Bride_ [[133]]--Picc./Fl.] 8. _Tsar Saltan_ [[216]]--Picc./Fl.] 8 (cf. Ex. 36). _Sadko_, after [[59]] Small cl./Cl.] 8. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[240]]--Fag./C-Fag.] 8 (cf. Ex. 21). No 60. _Mlada_, Act III, before [[44]]--Ob./Eng. horn] 8. As in the strings, so in the wood-wind it is advisable to double in octaves any melody situated in the extremely high or low compass; an octave lower in the first case, an octave higher in the second. Thus the piccolo will be doubled by the flute, oboe or clarinet an octave lower; the double bassoon will be doubled by bassoon, clarinet or bass clarinet an octave higher. 8 [Picc. Picc. Picc.] [Fl. Ob. Cl. ] 8. 8 [Fag. Bass cl. Cl. Cl. Fag. Fag. ] [C-Fag. Fag. Fag. Bass cl. Fag. Bass cl.] 8. _Examples:_ * _Tsar Saltan_ [[39]]--Picc./Ob.] 8. * No. 61. _Mlada_, Act II, Lithuanian dance [[32]]--Picc./Small cl.] 8. _Sadko_ [[150]]--Picc./Small cl.] 8. * Mixed qualities of tone may be employed in doubling in octaves, the above remarks still holding good. _Examples:_ _Pan Voyevoda_ [[134]]--Cl. + Ob./Cl. + Eng. horn] 8 (cf. Ex. 7). No. 62. _Servilia_ [[168]]--2 Fl. + Ob./2 Cl. + Eng. horn] 8. No. 63. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[120]]--3 Fl. + Ob./2 Cl. + Fag. + Eng. horn] 8. _Mlada_, Act III [[41]]--Fl. + Bass fl./Cl. + Bass cl.] 8. Doubling in two, three and four octaves. In such cases the student should follow the above-mentioned rules, and should take care not to infringe the natural order: Fl. Ob. Fl. Fl. ] 8 In 3 octaves: Ob. Cl. Cl. Ob. ] Cl. Fag. Fag. Fag.] 8. Fl. ] 8 In 4 octaves: Ob. ] Cl. ] 8 Fag.] 8. Mixed timbres may also be employed. _Examples:_ No. 64. _Spanish Capriccio_ [[P]]--melody in 4 octaves: Picc./2 Fl./2 Ob. + Cl./Fag.] 8/8/8. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[141]]--melody in 3 octaves. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[212]]--2 Cl./Bass cl./D. bassoon] 8/8. * No. 65. _Antar_, (1st version) 3rd movement, the beginning--Picc. + 2 Fl./2 Ob. + 2 Cl./2 Fag.] 8/8; also [[C]], melody in 4 octaves (piccolo in the upper octaves). * _Mlada_, Act III, after [[42]]--Fl./Ob./Eng. horn] 8/8. No. 66. _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement [[G]]--Picc./Cl. I/Cl. II] 8/8. Examples of melody doubled in five octaves are extremely rare; in such cases the strings participate in the process. Melody in thirds and sixths. Melodic progression in thirds and sixths demands either two instruments of the same colour (2 Fl., 2 Ob., 2 Cl., 2 Fag.), or instruments of different colours in the normal order of register: Fl. Fl. Ob. Cl. Ob. ] Ob. Cl. Cl. Fag. Fag.] 3 (6). If this order is inverted, e.g. Ob. Cl. Fag./Fl. Fl. Cl.] 3 (6), a strained and forced resonance is created. For progressions in thirds, the best method, from the standpoint of equality in tone is to use instruments of the same kind in pairs; for progressions in sixths instruments of different kinds are more suitable, but both courses are good and useful. They may also be employed for progressions in thirds and sixths, or thirds, fifths and sixths mixed, as for example: [Music] _Examples:_ _Legend of Kitesh_ [[24]]--different wind instruments in turn. _The May Night_, Act III [[G]]--Cl./Cl.] 3. _Sadko_ [[279-280]]--Fl./Fl.] 3 (6). No. 67. _Spanish Capriccio_, before [[V]]--various wood-wind in thirds and sixths. _Servilia_ [[228]]--Fl./Fl.] 3 and Cl./Cl.] 3. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[232]]--2 Fl./2 Ob.] 6. * _Sadko_ [[43]]--All wood-wind in turn, simple timbres. When the doubled parts progress in thirds or sixths, the following method is advisable: Fl. + Ob. ] Fl. + Cl. Fl. + Ob. ] 3 (6) or Fl. + Cl. ] 3 (6) etc., as well as: Fl. + Ob. ] Ob. + Fl. ] Fl. + Cl. ] 3 (6) or Fl. + Cl. ] 3 (6) etc. In the case of tripling the following arrangement may be adopted: Fl. + Ob. + Cl. ] Ob. + 2 Fl. ] Fl. + Ob. + Cl. ] 3 (6) or Ob. + 2 Cl. ] 3 (6) etc. _Examples:_ * No. 68. _The Christmas Night_ [[187]]--Ob. + Cl./Ob. + Cl.] 3. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[202-203]] different mixed timbres. Thirds and sixths together. [Music] Apart from the obvious distribution: Fl. Ob. Ob. or Cl., Cl. Fag. there are certain complicated methods which involve doubling: Upper part. Ob. + Fl. Middle " Fl. + Cl. Lower " Ob. + Cl. The following is a complex instance somewhat vague in character: No. 69. Legend of Kitesh [[35]]--Ob./Ob./Cl. + Cl. and Fl./Fl./Ob. + Ob. Melody in the brass. The natural scale, the only one which brass instruments had at their disposal prior to the invention of valves was: [Music] giving, in two part harmony: [Music] With the help of rhythm, these component parts have given rise to a whole series of themes and phrases named fanfares, trumpet calls or flourishes, best adapted to the character of brass instruments. In modern music, thanks to the introduction of valves, this scale is now possible in all keys for every chromatic brass instrument, without it being necessary to change the key, and the addition of a few notes foreign to the natural scale has enriched the possibilities of these flourishes and fanfares, and endowed them with greater variety of expression. These phrases, either as solos, or in two or three parts, fall specially to the lot of the trumpets and horns, but they may also be given to the trombones. The full, clear, ringing notes of the middle and upper register of horns and trumpets are best suited to figures of this description. _Examples:_ _Servilia_ [[20]]--Trumpets. _The Christmas Night_ [[182]]--Horn, Trumpets. _Vera Scheloga_, beginning of Overture, and after [[45]]--Horn, Trumpets. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III [[3]]--Cornet. _Snegourotchka_ [[155]]--Trumpets. No. 70. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[65]] and elsewhere.--3 Trumpets, 4 Horns. _Pan Voyevoda_ [[191]]--2 Trombones, Trumpet. * _The Golden Cockerel_ [[20]]--2 Horns and Trumpets/Horns] 8 (cf. further on). After fanfare figures, those melodies best suited to the brass quality are those of an unmodulated diatonic character, rousing and triumphant in the major key, dark and gloomy in the minor. _Examples:_ No. 71. _Sadko_ [[342]]--Trumpet. _Sadko_, before [[181]]--Trombones (cf. Ex. 27). No. 72. _Snegourotchka_ [[71]]--Trumpet. _Russian Easter Fête_ [[M]]--Trombone. _Spanish Capriccio_ [[E]]--Alternative use in the horn of open and stopped notes (cf. Ex. 44). _Ivan the Terrible_, Act II, before [[17]]--Bass trumpet, and 3 Horns a little further on. _Mlada_, Act II [[33]]--Bass trumpet (cf. Ex. 46). The genial and poetic tone of the horn in _piano_ passages affords greater scope in the choice of melodies and phrases that may be entrusted to this instrument. _Examples:_ _The May Night_, Overture [[13]]. _The Christmas Night_ [[1]]. _Snegourotchka_ [[86]]. _Pan Voyevoda_ [[37]]. No. 73. _Antar_ [[40]]. Melodies involving chromatic or enharmonic writing are much less suitable to the character of brass instruments. Nevertheless such melodies may sometimes be allotted to the brass, as in the music of Wagner, and the modern Italian realists, who, however, carry the proceeding to extremes. Vigourous phrases in the form of a fanfare, although introducing chromatic notes sound singularly beautiful on the brass. _Example:_ No. 74. _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement [[D]]. As a general rule, brass instruments lack the capacity to express passion or geniality. Phrases charged with these sentiments become sickly and insipid when confided to the brass. Energetic power, free or restrained, simplicity and eloquence constitute the valuable qualities of this group. Brass in unison, in octaves, thirds and sixths. As, from its very nature, the brass is not called upon to realise a wide range of expression, kindred instruments of one group may be employed _solo_, as well as in unison. The combination of 3 trombones or 4 horns in unison is frequently met with, and produces extreme power and resonance of tone. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[5]]--4 Horns (cf. Ex. 15). _Snegourotchka_ [[199]]--4 Horns and 2 Trumpets. _Sadko_ [[175]]--1, 2, 3 Trumpets. No. 75. _Sadko_ [[305]][13]--3 Trombones. [Footnote 13: The composer has emended the score in the following manner: from the fifth to the ninth bar after [[305]], and also from the fifth to the ninth bar after [[306]], the three clarinets play in unison, the trumpet being marked _forte_ instead of _fortissimo_; in the example, the first of these passages is corrected according to the composer's alteration. (Editor's note.)] No. 76. _The May Night_, beginning of Act III--1, 2, 3, 4 Horns. _Legend of Kitesh_, end of Act I--4 Horns (cf. Ex. 70). No. 77. _Shéhérazade_, 4th movement p. 204--3 Trombones. _Mlada_; Lithuanian dance--6 Horns (cf. Ex. 61). Owing to the resonant power of the entire group, the equality and even gradation of tone between the dark colour of the deep compass and the bright quality of the upper register, the use of brass instruments of the same kind in octaves, thirds or sixths invariably leads to satisfactory results. For the same reason the employment of brass instruments of different kinds, arranged according to normal order of register: Trumpet Trumpet Trombone 2 Trombones 2 Trumpets 2 Horns 2 Horns Trombone Tuba Trombone + Tuba 2 Trombones Tuba is likewise successful whether the instruments are doubled or not. Another possible method, though not so reliable, is to combine horns (above) with trombones, exclusively in octaves: 2 Horns ] 4 Horns ] 1 Trombone] 8 or 2 Trombones] 8. _Examples:_ _Sadko_, before [[120]]--Trumpet/Trumpet] 8. _Sadko_ [[5]]--2 Trumpets/4 Horns] 8. _Snegourotchka_ [[222]]--2 Trombones/Trombone + Tuba] 8. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III [[10]] 1 Trombone + Trumpet/2 Trombones] 8 (cf. Ex. 38) _The Golden Cockerel_ [[125]]--Trumpet/Trombone] 8. Cf. also _Snegourotchka_ [[325-326]]--Trombone/Trombone] 8 (Ex. 95). Melody in different groups of instruments combined together. A. Combination of wind and brass in unison. The combination of a wood-wind and brass instrument produces a complex resonance in which the tone of the brass predominates. This resonance is naturally more powerful than that of each instrument taken separately, but slightly sweeter than the brass instrument alone. The tone of the wood-wind blends with that of the brass, softens and rarefies it, as in the process of combining two wood-wind instruments of different colour. Instances of such doubling are fairly numerous, especially in _forte_ passages. The trumpet is the instrument most frequently doubled: Trumpet + Cl., Trumpet + Ob., Trumpet + Fl., as well as Trumpet + Cl. + Ob. + Fl.; the horn, less often: Horn + Cl., Horn + Fag. Trombones and Tuba may also be doubled: Trombone + Fag., Tuba + Fag. Combining the Eng. horn, bass clarinet and double bassoon with the brass, in corresponding registers, presents the same characteristics. _Examples:_ _Legend of Kitesh_ [[56]]--Trombone + Eng. horn. * _Mlada_, Act III, before [[34]]--3 Trombones + Bass cl. As a rule, the addition of a wind to a brass instrument yields a finer legato effect than when the latter instrument plays alone. B. Combination of wind and brass in octaves. Doubling the horns in octaves by clarinets, oboes or flutes often replaces the combination 1 Trumpet ] 1 Horn (or 2 Horns) ] 8. This is done when it is a question of introducing a rich tone into the upper octave which the trumpet is not capable of imparting. If a single horn is used, the upper part is allotted to 2 clarinets, 2 oboes, or 2 flutes. But if there are two horns playing the lower octave in unison, three or four wind instruments will be necessary above, especially in _forte_ passages: 8 [2 Ob. or 2 Cl. or 2 Fl. [1 Horn as well as 1 Ob. + 1 Cl.] 2 Fl. + 2 Cl.] 1 Horn ] 8; 2 Horns ] 8. To double a trumpet in the upper octave three or four wind instruments are required, but in the top register two flutes will suffice. [Music] [Music] Wood-wind instruments should not be used to double a trombone in the octave above; trumpets are more suitable. Examples of doubling in octaves: * _Snegourotchka_ [[71]]--Ob. + Cl./Horn] 8. * _Legend of Tsar Saltan_, before [[180]]--Ob. + Cl./Ob. + Cl.] 6/Horn/Horn] 6] 8. * Mention should also be made of mixed timbres (wood and brass) in progression in octaves. _Examples:_ _Mlada_, Act III, beginning of Scene III--Trombone + Bass cl./Tuba + C-fag.] 8. No. 78. _Mlada_, Act III after [[25]]--2 Cl. + 2 Horns + Trombone/Bass cl. + 2 Horns + Trombone] 8 (low register). No. 79. _Mlada_, Act III, before [[35]]--general unison. When it is desired to distribute the melody over three or four octaves, it is difficult to achieve perfect balance of tone. _Examples:_ * _Shéhérazade_, 4th movement, 15th bar after [[W]]--Picc./2 Fl. + 2 Ob./2 Trumpets] 8/8. * _Legend of Tsar Saltan_ [[228]]--Picc./2 Fl. + 2 Ob./Trumpet + Eng. horn] 8/8. C. Combination of strings and wind. In commencing this section of the work I consider it necessary to lay down the following fundamental rules which apply equally to melody, harmony, counterpoint and polyphonic writing. All combinations of strings and wood-wind are good; a wind instrument progressing in unison with a stringed instrument increases the resonance of the latter and amplifies its tone, while the quality of the strings softens that of the wood-wind. In such combinations the strings will predominate provided that the two instruments are of equal power, e.g. when violins are coupled with an oboe, a bassoon with the 'cellos. If several wind instruments play in unison with one group of strings, the latter will be overpowered. As a rule all combinations refine the characteristics of each instrument taken separately, the wood-wind losing more than the strings. _Doubling in unison._ The best and most natural combinations are between instruments whose registers correspond the nearest: Vns + Fl. (Bass fl., picc.), Vns + Ob., Vns + Cl. (small Cl.); Violas + Ob. (Eng. horn), Violas + Cl., Violas + Fag. 'Cellos + Cl. (Bass cl.), 'Cellos + Fag.; D. basses + Bass cl., D. basses + Fag.; D. basses + C-fag. The object of these combinations is: a) to obtain a new timbre of definite colour; b) to strengthen the resonance of the strings; c) to soften the quality of the wood-wind. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[5]]--'Cellos + Violas + Eng. horn (cf. Ex. 15). " [[28]]--Violas + Ob. + Eng. horn. " [[116]]--Vns I + II + Ob. + Cl. " [[288]]--Vns I + II + 'Cellos + Eng. horn (cf. Ex. 17). No. 80. _The May Night_, Act III [[Bb]]--Violas + Cl. No. 81. _Sadko_ [[311]]--Vns + Ob. No. 82. " [[77]]--Violas + Eng. horn. No. 83. " [[123]]--Violas + Eng. horn. _Servilia_ [[59]]--Vns _G_ string + Fl. _Tsar Saltan_ [[30]]--Vns I + II + 2 Cl. No. 84. _Tsar Saltan_ [[30]], 10th bar.--'Cellos + Violas + 3 Cl. + Fag. _Tsar Saltan_ [[156-159]]--Vns detached + Fl. _legato_. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[10]] Violas + 'Cellos + Fag. _Antar_, 4th movement [[63]]--'Cellos + 2 Fag. _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement [[H]]--Violas + Ob. + Eng. horn. _Parts doubled in octaves._ Examples of strings in octaves doubled by wood-wind also in octaves are numerous, and do not require special description; they are used according to the rules already laid down. The following are examples of melody distributed over 1, 2, 3 and 4 octaves: _Examples:_ No. 85. _Ivan the Terrible_, beginning of Overture--Vns I + II + 2 Cl./Violas + 'Cellos + 2 Fag.] 8. No. 86. _Sadko_ [[3]]--'Cellos + Bass cl./D. basses + C-fag.] 8. _Sadko_ [[166]]--'Cellos + Fag./D. basses + C-fag.] 8. " [[235]]--Violas + 2 Cl./'Cellos + D. basses + 2 Fag.] 8. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[14]]--'Cellos + Fag./D. basses + Fag.] 8. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[81]]--Vns I/Vns II div. + Fl./+ Ob.] 8. " " " [[166]]--Vns I + Fl./Vns II + Ob.] 8 (cf. Ex. 22). In three and four octaves: _Servilia_ [[93]]--Vns + 3 Fl./Violas + 2 Ob./'Cellos + 2 Fag.] 8/8. No. 87. _Kashtcheï_ [[105]]--Vns I + Picc./Vns II + Fl. + Ob./Violas + 'Cellos + 2 Cl. + Eng. horn + Fag.] 8/8. _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement [[M]]--Vns I + Fl./Vns II + Ob./'Cellos + Engl. horn] 8/8. _Examples of melody in thirds and sixths:_ _Servilia_ [[44]]--Fl. + Ob. + Cl. + Vns/Fl. + Ob. + Cl. + Vns div.] 3. No. 88. _Servilia_ [[111]]--Strings and wood-wind in thirds. No. 89. " [[125]]--same combination, in thirds and sixths. _Kashtcheï_ [[90]]--The same. It is necessary to pay more attention to cases where, of the two parts in octaves, only one is doubled. When this method is applied to a melody in the soprano register it is better to allow the wood-wind to progress in octaves, the lower part only being doubled by one of the string groups; Picc./Fl. + Vns] 8. Fl./Ob. (Cl.) + Vns] 8. _Examples:_ _Tsar Saltan_ [[102]]--2 Fl. + Picc./Vns I + II + Ob.] 8 (cf. Ex. 133). * No. 90. _Shéhérazade_, 4th movement [[U]]--2 Cl./'Cellos + 2 Horns] 8. In the case of a melody in the low register demanding a sweet soft tone, the violoncellos and double basses should be made to progress in octaves, the former doubled by a bassoon, the latter not doubled at all: 'Cellos + Fag./D. basses] 8. Sometimes a composer is obliged to use this method on account of the very low register of the double bass, especially if a double bassoon is not included in his orchestral scheme.[14] [Footnote 14: The process of doubling strings and wood-wind in octaves: Fl./Vns] 8, Ob./'Cellos] 8, etc. often used by the classics to obtain balance of tone, is not to be recommended, as the tone quality of the two groups is so widely different. As a result of the ever-increasing tendency to profusion of colour, this method has recently come into fashion again, notably among the younger French composers. (Editor's note.)] _Example:_ No. 91. _Tsar Saltan_ [[92]]--Violas + Fag./'Cellos + Fag./D. basses] 8/8. D. Combination of strings and brass. Owing to the dissimilarity between the quality of string and brass tone, the combination of these two groups in unison can never yield such a perfect blend as that produced by the union of strings and wood-wind. When a brass and a stringed instrument progress in unison, each can be heard separately, but the instruments in each group which can be combined with the greatest amount of success are those whose respective registers correspond the most nearly; Violin + Trumpet; Viola + Horn; 'Cellos/D. basses + Trombones/Tuba (for heavy massive effects). The combination of horns and 'cellos, frequently employed, produces a beautifully blended, soft quality of tone. _Examples:_ _Tsar Saltan_ [[29]]--Vns I + II + Horn. * No. 92. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[98]]--Violas _con sord._ + Horn. E. Combination of the three groups. The combination of members of the three groups in unison is more common, the presence of the wood-wind imparting a fuller and more evenly blended tone. The question as to which group will predominate in timbre depends upon the number of instruments employed. The most natural combinations, and those most generally in use are: Vns + Ob. (Fr., Cl.) + Trumpet; Violas (or 'Cellos) + Cl. (Eng. horn) + Horn; 'Cellos/D. basses + 2 Fag. + 3 Trombones + Tuba. Such groupings are used for preference in loud passages or for a heavy _piano_ effect. _Examples:_ No. 93-94. _Snegourotchka_ [[218]] and [[219]]--Vns I + II + Cl. + Horn and Vns I + II + Cl. + Trumpet. _Servilia_ [[168]]--Violas + Trombones/'Cellos + Trombone + Bass Cl./D. basses + Tuba + Fag.] 8/8 (cf. Ex. 62). No. 95. _Snegourotchka_ [[325]]--'Cellos + Violas + Fag. + Trombone/D. basses + Fag. + Tuba] 8. _Pan Voyevoda_ [[224]]--Vns + Fag. + Horn + Vn. + Cl. + Trumpet. (Stopped notes in the brass.) * _Mlada_, Act III, after [[23]]--Violas + 2 Cl. + Bass trumpet. * No. 96. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III, before [[66]]--Bass Cl. + Horn /D. basses + C-fag. + Tuba] 8. * _Ivan the Terrible_, Overture, 4th bar after [[9]]--Violas + 'Cellos + Eng. horn + 2 Cl. + Bass Cl. + 2 Fag. + 4 Horns. (The melody simplified in the horns.) Chapter III. HARMONY. General observations. The art of orchestration demands a beautiful and well-balanced distribution of chords forming the harmonic texture. Moreover, transparence, accuracy and purity in the movement of each part are essential conditions if satisfactory resonance is to be obtained. No perfection in resonance can accrue from faulty progression of parts. _Note._ There are people who consider orchestration simply as the art of selecting instruments and tone qualities, believing that if an orchestral score does not sound well, it is entirely due to the choice of instruments and timbres. But unsatisfactory resonance is often solely the outcome of faulty handling of parts, and such a composition will continue to sound badly whatever choice of instruments is made. So, on the other hand, it often happens that a passage in which the chords are properly distributed, and the progression of parts correctly handled, will sound equally well if played by strings, wood-wind or brass. The composer should picture to himself the exact harmonic formation of the piece he intends to orchestrate. If, in his rough sketch, there exist any uncertainly as to the number or movement of harmonic parts, he is advised to settle this at once. It is likewise essential for him to form a clear idea as to the construction and musical elements of the piece, and to realise the exact nature and limitations of the themes, phrases and ideas he is going to employ. Every transition from one order of harmonic writing to another, from four-part harmony to three, or from five-part harmony to unison etc., must coincide with the introduction of a new idea, a fresh theme or phrase; otherwise the orchestrator will encounter many unforeseen and insurmountable difficulties. For example, if, during a passage written in four parts a chord in five-part harmony is introduced, a fresh instrument must needs be added to play this particular fifth part, and this addition may easily damage the resonance of the chord in question, and render the resolution of a discord or the correct progression of parts impossible. Number of harmonic parts--Duplication. In the very large majority of cases harmony is written in four parts; this applies not only to single chords or a succession of them, but also to the formation of the harmonic basis. Harmony which at first sight appears to comprise 5, 6, 7 and 8 parts, is usually only four part harmony with extra parts added. These additions are nothing more than the duplication in the adjacent upper octave of one or more of the three upper parts forming the original harmony, the bass being doubled in the lower octave only. The following diagrams will explain my meaning: [Music: _A. Close part-writing._ Four part harmony. Duplication of 1 part. Duplication of 2 parts. Duplication of 3 parts.] [Music: _B. Widely-divided part-writing._ Four part harmony. Duplication of 1 part. Duplication of 2 parts.] _Note._ In widely-spaced harmony only the soprano and alto parts may be doubled in octaves. Duplicating the tenor part is to be avoided, as close writing is thereby produced, and doubling the bass part creates an effect of heaviness. The bass part should never mix with the others: Bad: [Music] On account of the distance between the bass and the three other parts, only partial duplication is possible. Good: [Music] _Note._ Notes in unison resulting from correct duplication need not be avoided, for although the tone in such cases is not absolutely uniform, the ear will be satisfied with the correct progression of parts. Consecutive octaves between the upper parts are not permissible: Bad: [Music] Consecutive fifths resulting from the duplication of the three upper parts moving in chords of sixths are of no importance: Good: [Music] The bass of an inversion of the dominant chord should never be doubled in any of the upper parts: Good: [Music] Bad: [Music] This applies also to other chords of the seventh and diminished seventh: Bad: [Music] Good: [Music] The rules of harmony concerning sustained and pedal passages apply with equal force to orchestral writing. As regards passing and auxiliary notes, _échappées_, considerable licence is permitted in rapid passages of different texture: One texture: [Music] A different one: [Music] One texture: [Music] A different one: [Music] A certain figure and its essentials, in simplified form, may proceed concurrently, as in the following example: One texture: [Music] A different one: [Music] A third: [Music] Upper and inner pedal notes are more effective on the orchestra than in pianoforte or chamber music, owing to the greater variety of tone colour: [Music] In Vol. II of the present work many examples of the above methods will be found. Distribution of notes in chords. The normal order of sounds or the natural harmonic scale: [Music] may serve as a guide to the orchestral arrangement of chords. It will be seen that the widely-spaced intervals lie in the lower part of the scale, gradually becoming closer as the upper register is approached: [Music] The bass should rarely lie at a greater distance than an octave from the part directly above it (tenor harmony). It is necessary to make sure that the harmonic notes are not lacking in the upper parts: To be avoided: [Music] The use of sixths in the upper parts, and the practice of doubling the upper note in octaves are sometimes effective methods: [Music] [Music] When correct progression increases the distance between the top and bottom notes of the upper parts, this does not matter: Good: [Music] But it would be distinctly bad to fill in the second chord thus: Not good: [Music] Hence it follows that the distribution of intermediate parts is a question of the greatest importance. Nothing is worse than writing chords, the upper and lower parts of which are separated by wide, empty intervals, especially in _forte_ passages; in _piano_ passages such distribution may be possible. Progression in contrary motion, the upper and lower parts diverging by degrees gives rise to the gradual addition of extra parts occupying the middle register: Schematic Example: [Music] When the voices converge, the middle parts are eliminated one by one: Schematic Example: [Music] String harmony. It is an incontrovertible rule that the resonance of different harmonic parts must be equally balanced, but this balance will be less noticeable in short sharp chords than in those which are connected and sustained. Both these cases will be studied separately. In the first case, in order to increase the number of harmonic parts, each instrument in the string group may be provided with double notes or chords of three and four notes. In the second case, the resources are limited to double notes _unis_, or division of parts. A. _Short chords._ Chords of three or four notes can only be executed rapidly on the strings. _Note._ It is true that the two upper notes of a chord can be sustained and held a long time; this, however, involves complications and will be considered later. Short chords, _arco_, only sound well when played _forte_ (_sf_), and when they can be supported by wind instruments. In the execution of double notes and chords of three and four notes on the strings, balance, perfect distribution of tone, and correct progression of parts are of minor importance. What must be considered before everything is the resonance of the chords themselves, and the degree of ease with which they can be played. Those comprising notes on the gut strings are the most powerful. Chords played on several strings are usually assigned to 1st and 2nd violins and violas, the different notes being divided between them according to ease in execution and the demands of resonance. On account of its low register the 'cello is rarely called upon to play chords on three or four strings, and is usually allotted the lowest note of the chord in company with the double bass. Chords on the latter instrument are even more uncommon, but it may supply the octave on an uncovered string. _Examples:_ No. 97. _Snegourotchka_ [[171]]; cf. also before [[140]] and before [[200]]. * _Spanish Capriccio_, before [[V]] (cf. Ex. 67). _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement [[P]] (cf. Ex. 19.) * No. 98. _Tsar Saltan_ [[135]]; cf. also [[141]] and before [[182]]. Isolated chords may be added to a melodic figure in the upper part, accentuating, _sforzando_, certain rhythmical moments. _Example:_ No. 99. _Snegourotchka_, before [[126]]; cf. also [[326]]. B. _Sustained and tremolando chords._ Chords sustained for a shorter or longer period of time, or tremolando passages, often used as a substitute, demand perfect balance of tone. Taking for granted that the different members of the string group are equal in power, the parts being written according to the usual order of register, (cf. Chap. I), it is patent that a passage in close four-part harmony, with the bass in octaves will also be uniformly resonant. When it is necessary to introduce notes to fill up the empty middle register, the upper parts being farther distant from the bass, doubled notes on the violins or violas should be used, or on both instruments together. The method of dividing strings, which is sometimes adopted, should be avoided in such cases, as certain parts of the chord will be divided and others will not; but, on the other hand, if a passage in six and seven-part harmony be written entirely for strings divided in the same manner, the balance of tone will be completely satisfactory, e.g., div. { Vns I/Vns I div. { Vns II/Vns II div. { Violas I/Violas II If the harmony in the three upper parts, thus strengthened, is written for divided strings, the 'cellos and basses, playing _non divisi_ will prove a trifle heavy; their tone must therefore be eased, either by marking the parts down or reducing the number of players. In the case of sustained chords or _forte tremolando_ on two strings, the progression of parts is not always according to rule, the intervals chosen being those which are the easiest to play. _Examples:_ No. 100. _The Christmas Night_ [[161]]--Full _divisi_. No. 101. " " " [[210]]--Violas div./'Cellos div.} 4 part harmony. No. 102. _Snegourotchka_ [[187-188]]--Four-part harmony, Vns I, Vns II, Violas and Violoncellos. " [[243]]--4 Solo 'cellos _divisi_. _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement, beginning.--4 D. bass soli div. (cf. Ex. 40). _The Tsar's Bride_ [[179]]--Chords on all strings (cf. Ex. 243). No. 103. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[8]]--Harmonic basis in the strings. " " " [[240]]--(Cf. Ex. 21). " " " [[283]]--Harmonic basis in the strings (cf. Ex. 2). No. 104. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[4]]--Basis in the strings. " " " [[125]]--Undulating rhythm in the strings as harmonic basis (cf. Ex. 271). In a _forte_ or _sfp_ chord, where one or two of the upper notes is held, either sustained or _tremolando_, the balance of tone must still be maintained, as in the following example: [Music: Vns I VnII Violas D. basses] Wood-wind harmony. Before entering upon this section of the work I would remind the reader of the general principles laid down in the beginning of the chapter. Harmonic texture, composed of plain chords or ornamental designs, simple or contrapuntal in character, must possess a resonance equally distributed throughout. This may be obtained by the following means: 1. Instruments forming chords must be used continuously in the same way during a given passage, that is to say they must be doubled or not throughout, except when one of the harmonic parts is to be made prominent: To be avoided: [Music] 2. The normal order of register must be followed, except in the case of crossing or enclosure of parts, which will be discussed later on: To be avoided: [Music] 3. Corresponding or adjacent registers should be made to coincide except for certain colour effects: To be avoided: [Music] The second flute will sound too weak and the oboes too piercing. 4. Concords (octaves, thirds and sixths) and not discords (fifths, fourths, seconds and sevenths), should be given to instruments of the same kind or colour, except when discords are to be emphasised. This rule should be specially observed in writing for the oboe with its penetrating quality of tone: To be avoided: [Music] Four-part and three-part harmony. Harmonic writing for the wood-wind may be considered from two points of view: a) instruments in pairs, 2 Fl., 2 Ob., 2 Cl., 2 Fag.; and b) instruments in three's, 3 Fl., 2 Ob., Eng. horn, 3 Cl., 2 Fag., C-fag. A. _In pairs._ There are three ways of distribution: 1. _Superposition_ or _overlaying_ (strictly following the normal order of register), 2. _Crossing_, and 3. _Enclosure_ of parts. The last two methods involve a certain disturbance of the natural order of register: [Music: Overlaying. Crossing. Enclosure.] In choosing one of these three methods the following points must not be forgotten: a) the register of a particular isolated chord; the soft and weak register of an instrument should not be coupled with the powerful and piercing range of another: [Music: Overlaying. Oboe too piercing. Crossing. Low notes of the flute too weak. Enclosure. Bassoon too prominent.] b) In a succession of chords the general progression of parts must be considered; one tone quality should be devoted to the stationary and another to the moving parts: [Music] When chords are in widely-divided four-part harmony notes may be allotted in pairs to two different tone qualities, adhering to the normal order of register: Good: [Music] etc. Any other distribution will result unquestionably in a grievous lack of relationship between registers: To be avoided: [Music] etc. If one tone quality is to be enclosed, it must be between two different timbres: Good: [Music] etc. It is possible to lend four distinct timbres to a chord in widely-divided four-part harmony, though such a chord will possess no uniformity in colour; but the higher the registers of the different instruments are placed, the less perceptible becomes the space which separates them: [Music: Fairly good Better Still better] The use of four different timbres in close four-part harmony is to be avoided, as the respective registers will not correspond: [Music: Bad Better Still slightly better] _Note._ In _Mozart and Salieri_, which is only scored for 1 Fl., 1 Ob., 1 Cl. and 1 Fag., wood-wind chords in four-part harmony are of necessity devoted to these four different timbres. The same rules apply to writing in three-part harmony, which is the most customary form when it is a question of establishing a harmonic basis, the lowest register of which is entrusted to another group of instruments (strings _arco_ or _pizz._, for example). Chords in three-part harmony are generally given to two instruments of one timbre and a third instrument of another, but never to three different timbres. Overlaying of parts is the best course to adopt: [Music] etc. The use of crossing and enclosure of parts (which in a way amount to the same thing) must depend on the manner of their progression: [Music: Enclosure] B. _Wood-wind in three's._ Here the distribution of chords in close three-part harmony is self-evident; any grouping of three instruments of the same timbre is sure to sound well: [Music] also: [Music] [Music] Overlaying of parts is the best method to follow in writing close four-part harmony; three instruments of the same timbre with a fourth instrument of another. Crossing and enclosure of parts may also be employed. Correspondence of timbres and the progression of remote parts must be kept in mind: [Music] The method of using three instruments of the same timbre in widely-divided three-part harmony is inferior: [Music: Not good Better Better Not good Better Better] But if the third instrument is of low register (Bass Fl., Eng. horn, Bass cl., or C-fag.), the resonance will be satisfactory: [Music] In chords of four-part harmony, three instruments of the same timbre should be combined with a fourth instrument of another: [Music] etc. Harmony in several parts. In writing chords of 5, 6, 7 and 8 part-harmony, whether they are independent, or constitute the harmonic basis, the student should follow the principles outlined in the previous chapter, dealing with the progression of wood-wind instruments in octaves. As the 5th, 6th, 7th and 8th notes are only duplications in octaves of lower notes of the real harmony (in 4 parts), instruments should be chosen which combine amongst themselves to give the best octaves. The process of crossing and enclosure of parts may also be used. A. Wood-wind in pairs (close distribution): [Music] In widely-divided harmony chords in several parts are to be avoided as they will entail both close and extended writing: [Music] _Note._ In the majority of cases this distribution is employed when the two upper harmonic parts have a special melodic duty to perform--this question is discussed above. B. Wood-wind in three's: [Music] [Music] etc. Overlaying of parts is the most satisfactory method in dealing with close three-part harmony. Crossing of parts is not so favourable, as octaves will be produced contrary to the natural order of register: [Music] Here the arrangement [Music] is bad. Duplication of timbres. A. If the wood-wind is in pairs it is a good plan to mix the doubled timbres as much as possible: [Music: Excellent], also: [Music] In chords of four-part harmony the classical method may be adopted: [Music] In this case, though the high _C_ in the flute is fairly powerful, the resonance of the _G_ and _E_ in the oboes is softened by the duplication of the 2nd flute and 1st clarinet, while the _C_ in the 2nd clarinets (not doubled) is feeble in comparison with the other notes. In any case the two extreme parts are the thinnest and weakest in tone, the intermediate parts the fullest and strongest. B. _Wood-wind in three's_ admit of perfectly balanced mixed timbres in chords of three-part harmony: [Music] These timbres may even originate from three-fold duplication: [Music] Remarks. 1. Modern orchestrators do not allow any void in the intermediate parts in writing close harmony; it was permitted to some extent by the classics: [Music] These empty spaces create a bad effect especially in _forte_ passages. For this reason widely-divided harmony, which is fundamentally based on the extension of intervals, can be used but seldom and only in _piano_ passages. Close writing is the more frequent form in all harmony devoted to the wood-wind, _forte_ or _piano_. 2. As a general rule a chord of greatly extended range and in several parts is distributed according to the order of the natural scale, with wide intervals (octaves and sixths), in the bass part, lesser intervals (fifths and fourths) in the middle, and close intervals (3rds or 2nds) in the upper register: [Music] 3. In many cases correct progression of parts demands that one of them should be temporarily doubled. In such cases the ear is reconciled to the brief overthrow of balance for the sake of a single part, and is thankful for the logical accuracy of the progression. The following example will illustrate my meaning: [Music] In the second bar of this example the _D_ is doubled in unison on account of the proximity of the three upper parts to their corresponding parts an octave lower. In the fourth bar the _F_ is doubled in unison in both groups. 4. The formation of the harmonic basis, which is essentially in four parts, does not by any means devolve upon the wood-wind alone. One of the parts is often devoted to the strings, _arco_ or _pizz._ More frequently the bass part is treated separately, the chords of greater value in the three upper parts being allotted to the wood-wind. Then, if the upper part is assigned to a group of strings, there remains nothing for the wind except the sustained harmony in the two middle parts. In the first case the three-part harmony in the wood-wind should form an independent whole, receiving no assistance from the bass; in this manner intervals of open fourths and fifths will be obviated. In the second case it is desirable to provide the intermediate parts with a moderately full tone, choosing no other intervals except seconds, sevenths, thirds or sixths. All that has been said with regard to the use of wood-wind in the formation of harmony, and the division of simple and mixed timbres applies with equal force to sustained chords, or harmonic progressions interchanging rapidly with _staccato_ chords. In short chords, separated by rests of some importance, the arrangement and division of timbres is not so perceptible to the ear, and progression of parts attracts less attention. It would be useless, nay, impossible to examine the countless combinations of tone colour, all the varieties of duplication and distribution of chords. It has been my aim to denote the fundamental principles upon which to work, and to indicate the general rules to be followed. Once having mastered these, if the student devote a little time to the study of full scores, and listen to them on the orchestra, he will soon learn when certain methods should be used and when to adopt others. The pupil is advised, generally, to write for wood-wind in its normal order of distribution, to take heed that each particular chord is composed entirely either of duplicated or non-duplicated parts, (except in certain cases resulting from progression), to use the methods of crossing and enclosure of timbres with full knowledge of what he is doing, and finally to concentrate his attention on close part-writing. _Examples of wood-wind harmony:_ a) Independent chords. No. 105. _The Christmas Night_ [[148]]--Cl., 2 Fag. No. 106. " " " beginning--Ob., Cl., Fag. (crossing of parts). _Snegourotchka_ [[16]]--2 Cl., Fag. " [[79]], 5th bar.--2 Ob., 2 Fag. (cf. Ex. 136). * No. 107. _Snegourotchka_ [[197]]--Picc., 2 Fl. (_tremolando_). No. 108. " [[204]]--2 Fl., 2 Ob. (high register). No. 109. _Shéhérazade_, beginning--Total wood-wind in different distribution. * _Russian Easter Fête_ [[A]]--3 Fl. _tremolando_ (cf. Ex. 176). * _Tsar Saltan_ [[45]] Ob., 2 Fag. No. 110. _Tsar Saltan_, before [[115]]--mixed timbres. No. 111. " " [[115]], and other similar passages--very sweet effect of wood-wind in three's. " " [[177]]--2 Ob., 2 Fag. _Sadko_, Symphonic Tableau [[9]]--Ob., 2 Cl., Fag. * _Sadko_, Opera [[4]]--Eng. horn, 2 Cl. " " before [[5]]--Total wood-wind. No. 112. _Sadko_ [[72]]--Chords in three-part harmony; simple and mixed timbres. * No. 113. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[126]] Full wind. * No. 114. _Legend of Kitesh_, before [[90]]--Enclosure of parts (Ob. I in the high register). No. 115. " " " before [[161]]--Wind and brass alternately. No. 116. " " " [[167]]--Full wind except oboe, with chorus. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[269]]--Fl., Cl., Fag. * _The Golden Cockerel_ [[125]]--Various wind instruments, 4 part harmony (cf. Ex. 271). " " " [[218]]--Ob., Eng. horn, Fag., C-fag.; cf. also [[254]]. No. 117. _The Golden Cockerel_, before [[236]]--Mixed timbre; 2 Fag. form the bass. b) Harmonic basis (sometimes joined by the horns). _The May Night_, Act III [[L]]--2 Fag., Eng. horn (cf. Ex. 18). _Antar_ [[68]]--3 Flutes. _Snegourotchka_ [[20]]--2 Cl., high register. " before [[50]]--2 Fl., Fag. " [[187]]--2 Ob., 2 Fag. " [[274]]--2 Cl., low register (cf. Ex. 9). " [[283]]--Fl., Eng. horn, Cl., Fag. (cf. Ex. 26). No. 118. _Snegourotchka_ [[292]]--Widely-divided harmony and doubling of parts in the wind. No. 119. " [[318-319]]--2 Flutes. _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement [[B]]--2 Cl., Fag. (sustained note in the horn) (cf. Ex. 1). _The Christmas Night_ [[1]]--3 Cl. _Sadko_ [[1]]--Cl., Bass Cl., Fag., C-fag. No. 120. _Sadko_ [[49]]--Ob., Cl., Horn, Fag. " [[99]]--2 Cl. (cf. Ex. 289, 290). No. 121. _Sadko_ [[144]]--Cl., Fag. No. 122. " [[195-196]]--2 Cl., Bass Cl. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[80]]--Cl., Fag. " " " [[166]]--harmonic parts in motion, Fl. and Cl. (cf. Ex. 22). _Servilia_ [[59]]--Cl. (low. register), Fag. * No. 123. _Kashtcheï the Immortal_ [[80]]--Ob., Fag. muted. * No. 124. _Legend of Kitesh._ [[52]]--Fl., Fag. " " " [[55]]--Fl., Ob. (cf. Ex. 197). " " " [[68]]--Eng. horn, Fag., C-fag. (cf. Ex. 199). No. 124. " " " [[118]]--mixed timbre: 2 Ob., Eng. horn and 3 Cl. " " " [[136]]--harmonic parts in motion: " " " before [[185]]--3 Fl. (low register) and 2 Cl. " " " [[223]]--Fl., Ob., Cl. (cf. Ex. 31). * No. 125. " " " [[247]]--2 Cl., Bass Cl. " " " [[273]]--Eng. horn, 2 Cl. and Bass Cl., Fag. * No. 126. " " " [[355]]--Eng. horn muted, Cl., 2 Fag. * No. 127. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[3]]--Cl., Bass Cl., Fag., C-fag. " " " [[40-41]] Bass Cl., Fag.; Fl., Cl.; Cl., Bass Cl. * No. 128. " " " [[156]]--harmonic parts in motion: Fl. and Cl. Harmony in the brass. Here, as in the wood-wind, part writing should be of the close order with no empty spaces in the intervals. Four-part writing. It is evident that the quartet of horns presents every facility for four-part harmony, perfectly balanced in tone, without doubling the bass in octaves: [Music] _Note._ In the diagrams of the present section the actual sounds of horns and trumpets are given, as in a piano score, for the sake of simplicity. When it is found necessary to double the bass in octaves, the too resonant trombone and tuba are seldom used, the duplication being effected by the bassoon, as explained further on. The quartet of trombones and tuba is not often employed in close four-part harmony; the third trombone and the tuba usually form the bass in octaves, and the three upper parts are generally allotted to the two remaining trombones reinforced by a trumpet or two horns in unison, so as to obtain a perfect balance of tone: [Music] I have often adopted the following combination of brass instruments, and consider it eminently satisfactory: 2 horns and tuba to form the bass in octaves, the three other parts given to the trombones: [Music] (beautiful full resonance). In the higher registers, four-part harmony, of which the two upper parts are given to the trumpets, may be completed by two trombones or four horns in pairs: [Music] When 3 trumpets are available the fourth part should be allotted to one trombone, or two horns in unison: [Music] Enclosure of parts may be used in single chords: [Music] or in progression: [Music] Three-part writing. The best combination is trombones, horns, or trumpets in three's. If the instruments are mixed the number of horns should be doubled: [Music] etc. Writing in several parts. When the whole group is used the number of horns should be doubled: [Music] etc. In seven, six, or five-part harmony certain instruments must be omitted: [Music] [Music] etc. Discords of the seventh or second are preferably entrusted to instruments of different tone colour: [Music] When such chords are written for an orchestra which only includes two trumpets, it is impossible for the horns to proceed in pairs. In such cases the following arrangement may obtain, the horns being marked one degree louder than the other instruments, to secure balance of tone: [Music] The same method should be followed whenever the use of horns in pairs fails to produce satisfactory tone. When chords of widely-divided harmony are distributed throughout several harmonic registers, the register occupied by the horns need not be doubled; the arrangement of the chord will resemble that of a chorale written for double or triple choir. For example: [Music] Duplication in the brass. Duplication in the brass group is most frequently effected by placing a chord for horns side by side with the same chord written for trumpets or trombones. The soft round quality of the horns intensifies the tone, and moderates the penetrating timbre of the trumpets and trombones: [Music] Similar juxtaposition of trumpets and trombones: [Music] is not so common, as this unites the two most powerful agents in the group. In handling an orchestra the brass is frequently employed to sustain notes in two or three octaves; this sphere of activity must not be ignored. The _tenuto_ is generally given to two trumpets, or to two or four horns in the octave, (in double octaves). The octave is sometimes formed by trumpets and horns acting together: [Music] The trombone with its ponderous tone rarely takes part in such combinations. Sustained notes in double octaves are usually apportioned thus: [Music] The imperfect balance arising from the duplication of the middle note is compensated for by the mixture of timbres, which lends some unity to the chord. _Examples of harmony in the brass:_ a) Independent chords: _Snegourotchka_ [[74]]--3 Trombones, 2 Horns. " [[140]]--3 Trombones, 2 Horns. Chords in different groups alternately (cf. Ex. 244). " [[171]]--Full brass; further on 3 Trombones (cf. Ex. 97). " [[255]]--4 Horns (stopped). No. 129. _Snegourotchka_, before [[289]]--4 Horns. " [[289]]--Full brass. * _Sadko_, before [[9]]--Full brass (enclosure of parts). No. 130. _Sadko_ [[175]]--Mixed timbres (juxtaposition) 3 Horns + 3 Trumpets. " before [[338]]--Full brass except Tuba. No. 131. " [[191-193]] (Full brass). No. 132. _The Christmas Night_, before [[180]]--Full muted brass. " " " [[181]]--4 Horns + 3 Trombones + Tuba (cf. Ex. 237). * _The Tsar's Bride_ [[178]]--Strings and brass alternately (cf. Ex. 242). * No. 133. _Tsar Saltan_ [[102]], 7th bar.--2 Trumpets, 2 Trombones + 4 Horns (juxtaposition). " " [[230]]--Full brass, thickly scored (cf. Table of chords No. II at the end of Vol. II, Ex. 12). * _Servilia_ [[154]]--Various brass instruments. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[130]]--3 Trumpets, Trombone and Tuba. No. 134. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[199]]--Short chords (juxtaposition). * No. 135. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[115]]--Horns, Trombones (enclosure). b) Harmonic basis: No. 136. _Snegourotchka_ [[79]], 6th bar.--4 Horns. " [[231]]--3 Trombones, soft and sweet (cf. Ex. 8). _Antar_ [[64-65]]--4 Horns; later 3 Trombones (cf. Ex. 32). * _Shéhérazade_, 1st movement, [[A]], [[E]], [[H]], [[K]], [[M]]--Harmonic bases of different power and timbre (cf. Ex. 192-195). No. 137. _Servilia_ [[93]]--Full brass. * No. 138. _Tsar Saltan_ [[127]]--4 muted Horns + 3 Trombones and Tuba _con sord. pp._ " " before [[147]]--Full brass _ff_ (the 2 Oboes and Eng. horn are of no particular importance). * _Pan Voyevoda_ [[136]], 9th bar.--4 Horns, then Trombones, 2 Horns. * No. 139. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[158]]--Trumpets, Trombones. No. 140. " " " [[248]]--3 Trombones. " " " before [[362]]--Full brass. Harmony in combined groups. A. Combination of wind and brass. Wind and brass instruments may be combined by the method of placing a chord in one timbre side by side with the same chord in another timbre, or by any of the three methods already described: overlaying, crossing and enclosure of parts. 1. _In unison (juxtaposition or contrast of tone qualities)._ This class of combination possesses the same features as combinations in the melodic line (cf. Chap. II). Wood-wind reinforces the brass, softens it and reduces its characteristic qualities. Arrangements such as the following are possible: 2 Trumpets + 2 Fl.; 2 Trumpets + 2 Ob.; 2 Trumpets + 2 Cl. 3 Trumpets + 3 Fl.; 3 Trumpets + 3 Ob.; 3 Trumpets + 3 Cl. Also [Music] etc. as well as: 2 Horns + 2 Fag.; 2 Horns + 2 Cl.; 3 Horns + 3 Fag.; 3 Horns + 3 Cl.; and: 2 Horns + 2 Fag. + 2 Cl. etc. The combinations 3 Trombones + 3 Fag., or 3 Trombones + 3 Cl. are very rare. A chord scored for full brass doubled by the same chords scored for full wood-wind (in pairs) produces a magnificent and uniform tone. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[315]]--2 Horns + 2 Cl. and 2 Horns + 2 Ob. (cf. Ex. 236). No. 141. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[50]]--4 Horns + 2 Cl., 2 Fag. No. 142. " " " [[142]]--Juxtaposition of full wind and brass. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act II [[30]]--Juxtaposition and enclosure (cf. Table of chords II, Ex. 8). No. 143. _The Christmas Night_ [[165]]--4 Horns + Fl., Cl., Fag. * No. 144. _Sadko_, before [[79]]--Horn, Trumpet + doubled wood-wind.[15] No. 145. " [[242]]--Full brass + Fl., Cl. [Footnote 15: In the full score a misprint occurs in the clarinet part; it is corrected in the example. (Editor's note.)] _Legend of Kitesh_, beginning--Horn, Trombones + Cl., Fag. (cf. also [[5]]--Ex. 249). * No. 146. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[10]]--Eng. horn, 2 Cl., Fag. _legato_ + 4 Horns non legato. " " " [[324]]--Full brass + wind. * No. 147. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[233]]--Trumpets + Ob./Horn + Cl.] 8. Stopped or muted notes in trumpets and horns resemble the oboe and Eng. horn in quality; the combination of these instruments produces a magnificent tone. _Examples:_ No. 148. _Russian Easter Fête_, p. 11.--Horn (+), Trumpets (low register) + Ob., Cl. * _The Christmas Night_, before [[154]]--Full muted brass + wind. * No. 149. _Tsar Saltan_ [[129]]--2 Ob., Eng. horn, + 3 Trumpets muted (3 Cl. at the bottom). * No. 150. " " [[131]] 17th bar.--Same combination with added horns. * No. 151. _Antar_ [[7]]--Ob., Eng. horn, 2 Fag. + 4 Horns (+). A beautiful dark tone is derived from the combination of middle notes in stopped horns and deep notes in the clarinet: [Music] If bassoons are substituted for clarinets the effect loses part of its character. _Examples:_ * _Kashtcheï the Immortal_ [[29]], 11th bar,--2 Ob., 2 Cl. + 4 Horns (+). " " " [[107]], 6th bar.--2 Cl., Fag. + 3 Horns (+). * _The Christmas Night_, p. 249--Cl., Fag. + 3 Horns (+). * _Mlada_, Act III [[19]]--3 Horns (+) + 3 Fag. and 3 Horns (+) + 3 Ob. (cf. Ex. 259). 2. _Overlaying (superposition), crossing, enclosure of parts._ It has already been stated that the bassoon and horn are the two instruments best capable of reconciling the groups of wood-wind and brass. Four-part harmony given to two bassoons and two horns, especially in soft passages, yields a finely-balanced tone recalling the effect of a quartet of horns, but possessing slightly greater transparence. In _forte_ passages the horns overwhelm the bassoons, and it is wiser to employ four horns alone. In the former case crossing of parts is to be recommended for the purposes of blend, the concords being given to the horns, the discords to the bassoons: [Music] and not: [Music] Bassoons may also be written inside the horns, but the inverse process is not to be recommended: [Music] The same insetting of parts may be used for sustained trumpet notes in octaves. In soft passages, thirds played in the low register of the flutes, sometimes combined with clarinets, produce a beautiful mysterious effect between trumpets in octaves. In a chain of consecutive chords it is advisable to entrust the stationary parts to the brass, the moving parts to the wood-wind. Clarinets, on account of their tone quality should rarely be set inside the horns, but, in the upper register, and in the higher harmonic parts, a chord of four horns, (_piano_), may be completed by clarinets as effectively as by oboes or flutes; the bassoon may then double the base an octave below: [Music] Played _forte_, the horns are more powerful than the wood-wind; balance may be established by doubling the upper harmonic parts: [Music] _Examples:_ a) Superposition. * _Sadko_, Symphonic Tableau [[1]], [[9]]--Fl., Ob., Cl., Horn (basis). " before [[14]]--2 Fl., Cl., Horns. " final chord--Fl., Cl., Horn. * _Antar_ [[22]]--Fl., Cl., Horns (basis). No. 152. _Antar_ [[56]]--3 Fl., 4 Horns (basis). * _Snegourotchka_ [[300]]--Full wind and horns. * _Shéhérazade_--Final chords of 1st and 4th movements. * _Russian Easter Fête_ [[D]]--Fl., Cl., Horn; later trumpets and trombones in juxtaposition (cf. Ex. 248). * No. 153. _The Christmas Night_ [[212]], 10th bar.--Wind and Horns; trumpets and trombones added later. " " " [[215]] 3 Fl. + 3 Cl./3 Horns] 8. * _Sadko_, Opera [[165]]--Juxtaposition and Superposition. No. 154. _Sadko_ [[338]]--Same distribution. No. 155. _Servilia_ [[73]] 3 Fl + 2 Ob., Cl./4 Horns. * No. 156. _Legend of Kitesh_, before [[157]]--3 Flutes, 3 Trombones. " " " final chord (cf. Table III of chords, Ex. 15). * _The Golden Cockerel_, before [[219]]--Mixed timbre of wood-wind, 4 Horns. b) Crossing. * _The Christmas Night_, before [[53]]--Horn, Fag. " " " [[107]]--Clar., Horn, Fag. * _Legend of Tsar Saltan_, before [[62]]--Horn, Fag. * _The Golden Cockerel_ [[220]]--3 Trombones, 2 Fag., C-fag. (cf. Ex. 232). * No. 157. _Antar_, before [[30]]--Wood-wind, Horns, then Trumpets. c) Enclosure: No. 158. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act I [[33]]--Flutes within horns; later horns within bassoons. No. 159. _Snegourotchka_ [[183]]--Trumpet/Fl., 2 Cl./Trumpet * _Sadko_, symphonic tableau [[3]]--Cl. + Fag./4 Horns/Cl. + Fag. * _Antar_ before [[37]]--Fag./2 Horns (+)/Cl. * _Sadko_, Opera [[105]]--Harmonic basis; oboes within trumpets (cf. Ex. 260). * No. 160. _Sadko_, Opera, before [[155]]--Flutes within trumpets. * _The Tsar's Bride_, end of Overture--Bassoons within horns (cf. Table III of chords, Ex. 14). * No. 161. _Tsar Saltan_ [[50]]--Trumpets within wood-wind doubled. No. 162. " " [[59]]--Flutes within trumpets; clarinets within horns. * No. 163. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[82]]--Oboes and clarinets within trumpets. The relationship which has been shown to exist between stopped horns and oboe or Eng. horn authorizes the simultaneous use of these instruments in one and the same chord, played _p_ or _sfp_: [Music] _Examples:_ * _The Christmas Night_ [[75]]--3 Horns (+) + Oboe. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[123]]--Ob., Eng. horn, Horn (+) (cf. Ex. 240). * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[244]]--Cl., 2 Fl., + 2 Ob., Eng. horn, 3 Horn (+). * No. 164. _Legend of Kitesh_, before [[256]]--2 Ob., Eng. horn/3 Horns (+)] 8. * Cf. also _Tsar Saltan_, before [[115]]--Horn (+)/2 Fl. + 2 Fag. (Ex. 110). If trumpets and trombones take part in a chord, flutes, oboes and clarinets are better used to form the harmonic part above the trumpets. The following should be the arrangement: [Music] etc. [Music] etc. _Examples:_ * _Sadko_, symphonic tableau [[20]]. * No. 165. _The May Night_, Act I [[Ee]]--3 Trombones, 2 Ob. + 2 Cl. + 2 Fag. " " " p. 325.--Final chord, _C_ maj. (cf. Table I of chords, Ex. 1). * No. 166. _Snegourotchka_ [[198]]; cf. also [[200]] and before [[210]]. * _Shéhérazade_, 1st movement [[E]], 2nd movement [[P]], 3rd movement [[M]], 4th movement p. 203 (cf. Ex. 195, 19, 210, 77). No. 167. _The Christmas Night_ [[205]]; cf. also [[161]], [[212]], 14th bar. (Ex. 100, 153). * _Mlada_, end of Act I (cf. Chord Table II, Ex. 13). Act II [[20]]. No. 168-169. _Sadko_, Opera, before [[249]], [[302]]; cf. also Ex. 120. No. 170. _Sadko_, Opera [[244]]--Chord of widely extended range; bassoons at the limit of low compass. " " [[142]], [[239]]; cf. also [[3]] (Ex. 86). * _The Tsar's Bride_ [[179]] (cf. Ex. 243). _Antar_ [[65]]--Alternation of notes in horns and wood-wind on trombone chords (cf. Ex. 32). _General observations._ It is not always possible to secure proper balance in scoring for full wood-wind. For instance, in a succession of chords where the melodic position is constantly changing, distribution is subordinate to correct progression of parts. In practice, however, any inequality of tone may be counterbalanced by the following acoustic phenomenon: in every chord the parts in octaves strengthen one another, the harmonic sounds in the lowest register coinciding with and supporting those in the highest. In spite of this fact it rests entirely with the orchestrator to obtain the best possible balance of tone; in difficult cases this may be secured by judicious dynamic grading, marking the wood-wind one degree louder than the brass. B. Combination of strings and wind. 1. We frequently meet with the combination of strings and wood-wind in the light of comparison of one timbre with another, either in long sustained notes, or _tremolando_ in the strings. Apart from the complete or partial doubling of the string quartet (two methods frequently used), the general and most natural arrangement is: Fl./Ob. (Cl.) + Vns div.; Clar./Fag. + 'Cellos + Violas div., etc. _Examples:_ * _Sadko_, Symphonic Tableau before [[4]], and [[4]], 9th bar. * _Shéhérazade_, 1st movement [[M]] 6 Vns soli + 2 Ob. (2 Fl.), Cl. * _Antar_ [[7]]--String quartet _divisi_ + wood-wind (cf. Ex. 151). * No. 171. _Antar_ [[57]]--Vns II, Violas div. + Fl., Horn (florid accompaniment in the Clar.). * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[295]]--the same; rhythmic motion in the wind, sustained harmony in the strings (cf. Ex. 213). 2. Owing to the complete absence of any affinity in tone quality, the combination of strings with brass is seldom employed in juxtaposition, crossing, or enclosure of parts. The first method may be used however when the harmony is formed by the strings _tremolando_, and the brass is employed in sustaining chords, also when the strings play short disconnected chords, _sforzando_. Another possible exception may be mentioned; the splendid effect of horns doubled by divided violas or 'cellos. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[242]]--Full brass + strings _tremolando_ (cf. 1st Table of chords, Ex. 6). * _Legend of Kitesh_, before [[240]]--the same (Horn, Trumpet +). * _Sadko_, Opera, before [[34]]--Horn + Violas _div._, Trombones + 'Cellos _div._[16] [Footnote 16: A splendid example of the combination of strings and brass may be found in the introduction to the 2nd scene of the 4th act of "_Khovanstchina_" by Moussorgsky, orchestrated by Rimsky-Korsakov. (Editor's note.)] C. Combination of the three groups. The combination of strings, wood-wind and brass instruments, set side by side, produces a full, round and firm tone. _Examples:_ No. 172. _The Tsar's Bride_, before [[145]]--Ob., Fag. + Horns + Strings. " " " final chord (cf. Table I of chords, Ex. 5). * No. 173. _Sadko_, end of 1st tableau--short chords. Last chords of the 1st, 3rd and 7th tableaux (cf. Table I and III, Vol. II, Ex. 9, 10, 18). * No. 174. _The Christmas Night_ [[22]]--Wind + Brass _c. sord._ + _tremolo_ strings. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[162]] (cf. Ex. 250). _Snegourotchka_--end of opera, (cf. Table III in Vol. II, Ex. 17) and a host of other examples. _General Observations._ Balance and correct distribution of tone is much more important in dealing with long sustained chords or those of rhythmic design; in the case of short, disconnected chords resonance is a minor consideration, but one which should not be entirely neglected. I have endeavoured to outline the general principles to be followed, but I do not profess to deal with all the countless cases which may arise in the course of orchestration. I have given a few examples of well-sounding chords; for further information I advise the reader to study full scores with care, as this is the only method to acquire perfect knowledge of the distribution and doubling of various instruments. Chapter IV. COMPOSITION OF THE ORCHESTRA. Different ways of orchestrating the same music. There are times when the general tone, character and atmosphere of a passage, or a given moment in an orchestral work point to one, and only one particular manner of scoring. The following simple example will serve for explanation. Take a short phrase where a flourish or fanfare call is given out above a _tremolando_ accompaniment, with or without change in harmony. There is no doubt that any orchestrator would assign the _tremolo_ to the strings and the fanfare to a trumpet, never _vice versa_. But taking this for granted, the composer or orchestrator may still be left in doubt. Is the fanfare flourish suitable to the range of a trumpet? Should it be written for two or three trumpets in unison, or doubled by other instruments? Can any of these methods be employed without damaging the musical meaning? These are questions which I shall endeavour to answer. If the phrase is too low in register for the trumpets it should be given to the horns (instruments allied to the trumpet); if the phrase is too high it may be entrusted to the oboes and clarinets in unison, this combination possessing the closest resemblance to the trumpet tone both in character and power. The question whether one trumpet or two should be employed must be decided by the degree of power to be vested in the given passage. If a big sonorous effect is required the instruments may be doubled, tripled, or even multiplied by four; in the opposite case one solo brass instrument, or two of the wood-wind will suffice (1 Ob. + 1 Cl.). The question whether the _tremolo_ in the strings should be supported by sustained harmony in the wood-wind depends upon the purpose in view. A composer realises his intentions beforehand, others who orchestrate his music can only proceed by conjecture. Should the composer desire to establish a strongly-marked difference between the harmonic basis and the melodic outline it is better not to employ wood-wind harmony, but to obtain proper balance of tone by carefully distributing his dynamic marks of expression, _pp_, _p_, _f_ and _ff_. If, on the contrary, the composer desires a full round tone as harmonic basis and less show of brilliance in the harmonic parts, the use of harmony in the wood-wind is to be recommended. The following may serve as a guide to the scoring of wood-wind chords: the harmonic basis should differ from the melody not only in fullness and intensity of tone, but also in colour. If the fanfare figure is allotted to the brass (trumpets or horns) the harmony should be given to the wood-wind; if the phrase is given to the wood-wind (oboes and clarinets) the harmony should be entrusted to the horns. To solve all these questions successfully a composer must have full knowledge of the purpose he has in view, and those who orchestrate his work should be permeated with his intentions. Here the question arises, what should those intentions be? This is a more difficult subject. The aim of a composer is closely allied to the form of his work, to the aesthetic meaning of its every moment and phrase considered apart, and in relation to the composition as a whole. The choice of an orchestral scheme depends on the musical matter, the colouring of preceding and subsequent passages. It is important to determine whether a given passage is a complement to or a contrast with what goes before and comes after, whether it forms a climax or merely a step in the general march of musical thought. It would be impossible to examine all such possible types of relationship, or to consider the _rôle_ played by each passage quoted in the present work. The reader is therefore advised not to pay too much attention to the examples given, but to study them and their bearing on the context in their proper place in the full scores. Nevertheless I shall touch upon a few of these points in the course of the following outline. To begin with, young and inexperienced composers do not always possess a clear idea of what they wish to do. They can improve in this direction by reading good scores and by repeatedly listening to an orchestra, provided they concentrate the mind to the fullest possible extent. The search after extravagant and daring effects in orchestration is quite a different thing from mere caprice; _the will to achieve is not sufficient; there are certain things which should not be achieved_. * * * * * The simplest musical ideas, melodic phrases in unison and octaves, or repeated throughout several octaves, chords, of which no single part has any melodic meaning are scored in various ways according to register, dynamic effect and the quality of expression or tone colour that may be desired. In many cases, one idea will be orchestrated in a different way every time it recurs. Later on I shall frequently touch upon this more complicated question. _Examples:_ * _Snegourotchka_ [[58]]; [[65]] and before [[68]]--sustained note in unison. There are fewer possible ways of scoring more complex musical ideas, harmonico-melodic phrases, polyphonic designs etc.; sometimes there are but two methods to be followed, for each of the primary elements in music, melody, harmony, and counterpoint possesses its own special requirements, regulating the choice of instruments and tone colour. The most complicated musical ideas sometimes admit of only one manner of scoring, with a few hardly noticeable variations in detail. To the following example, very simple in structure I add an alternative method of scoring: _Example:_ No. 175. _Vera Scheloga_, before [[35]]--a) actual orchestration, *b)--another method. It is obvious that the method b) will produce satisfactory tone. But a 3rd and 4th way of scoring would be less successful, and a continuation of this process would soon lead to the ridiculous. For instance if the chords were given to the brass the whole passage would sound heavy, and the soprano recitative in the low and middle register would be overpowered. If the _F_ sharp in the double basses were played _arco_ by 'cellos and basses together it would sound clumsy, if it were given to the bassoons a comic effect would be produced, and if played by the brass it would sound rough and coarse, etc. The object of scoring the same musical phrase in different ways is to obtain variety either in tone colour or resonance. In each case the composer may resort to the inversion of the normal order of instruments, duplication of parts, or the two processes in combination. The first of these is not always feasible. In the preceding sections of the book I have tried to explain the characteristics of each instrument and the part which each group of instruments plays in the orchestra. Moreover many methods of doubling are to be avoided; these I have mentioned, while there are also some instruments which cannot be combined owing to the great difference in their peculiarities. Therefore, as regards the general composition of the orchestra, the student should be guided by the general principles laid down in the earlier stages of the present work. The best means of orchestrating the same musical idea in various ways is by the adaptation of the musical matter. This can be done by the following operations: a) complete or partial transference into other octaves; b) repetition in a different key; c) extension of the whole range by the addition of octaves to the upper and lower parts; d) alteration of details (the most frequent method); e) variation of the general dynamic scheme, e.g. repeating a phrase _piano_, which has already been played _forte_. These operations are always successful in producing variety of orchestral colour. _Examples:_ No. 176, 177. _Russian Easter Fête_ [[A]] and [[C]]. _The Christmas Night_ [[158]] and [[179]]. No. 178-181. _The Tsar's Bride_, Overture: beginning, [[1]], [[2]], [[7]]. _Sadko_ [[99-101]] and [[305-307]] (cf. Ex. 289, 290, and 75). No. 182-186. _Tsar Saltan_ [[14]], [[17]], [[26]], [[28]], [[34]]. No. 187-189. " " [[181]], [[246]], [[220]]. * No. 190-191. _Ivan the Terrible_, Overture [[5]] and [[12]]. _Spanish Capriccio_--compare 1st and 3rd movement. * No. 192-195. _Shéhérazade_, 1st movement--beginning of the _allegro_ [[A]], [[E]], [[M]]. " 3rd movement--beginning [[A]], [[I]]. " 3rd " [[E]], [[G]], [[O]]. * No. 196-198. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[55]], [[56]], [[62]]. * No. 199-201. " " " [[68]], [[70]], [[84]]. (Cf. also Ex. 213, 214. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[294]] and [[312]].) * No. 202-203. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[229]], [[233]]. The process of scoring the same or similar ideas in different ways is the source of numerous musical operations, _crescendo_, _diminuendo_, interchange of tone qualities, variation of tone colour etc., and incidentally throws new light upon the fundamental composition of the orchestra. Full _Tutti_. The word _tutti_ generally means the simultaneous use of all instruments, but the word "all" is used relatively, and it must not be inferred that every single instrument must necessarily be employed to form a _tutti_. In order to simplify the following illustrations I will divide the word into two classes, _full tutti_ and _partial tutti_,--independently of whether the orchestra is constructed in pairs, in three's, or a larger number of instruments. I call _full tutti_ the combination of all melodic groups, strings, wind, and brass. By _partial tutti_ I mean passages in which the brass group only takes part, whether two horns or two trumpets participate alone, or whether two horns are combined with one or three trombones, without tuba, trumpets, or the two remaining horns, etc.: [4 Horns, 2 Horns 2 Horns ] [... or 2 Trumpets, or ... etc. ] [... ... 3 Trombones]. In both species of _tutti_ full wood-wind may be employed or not, according to the register and musical context of the passage. For instance, in the extreme high register it may be essential to include the piccolo; in the low register flutes will be unnecessary, and yet the passage can still be called _tutti_. The inclusion of kettle-drums, harp, and other instruments of little sustaining power, as of the percussion in general, does not come under discussion. The variety of orchestral operations increases with the number of instruments forming a _tutti_, in fact, so great does it become that it is impossible to consider all combinations. I can only give a few examples of full and partial _tutti_, and leave the reader to draw his own conclusions. Some of these examples fall under the double heading of full and partial _tutti_, and the student is reminded that the _tutti_ is used essentially in _forte_ and _fortissimo_, rarely in _pianissimo_ and _piano_ passages. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[61]] and [[62]]--Partial and full _Tutti_. " [[231]] Partial _Tutti_, without the trumpets (cf. Ex. 8). No. 204. _Snegourotchka_ [[216]]--Full _Tutti_. " [[325-326]]--Full _Tutti_ and chorus (cf. Ex. 8). _Sadko_ [[3]], [[223]], [[239]]--Full _Tutti_ (cf. Ex. 86). No. 205-206. _Sadko_ [[173]], [[177]]--Full _Tutti_ with chorus, differently scored. No. 207-208. _The Christmas Night_ [[184]] and [[186]]--Full _Tutti_, orchestrated in different ways, with and without chorus. * _The Tsar's Bride_, Overture [[1]], [[2]], [[7]]--Full and partial _Tutti_ (cf. Ex. 179-181). * " " " [[141]]--Full _Tutti_. * " " " [[177]]-- " " _Pan Voyevoda_ [[186]] and [[188]] Full _Tutti_. * _Antar_ [[65]]--(cf. Ex. 32). * No. 209. _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement [[M]]; cf. also 1st movement [[A]], [[E]], [[H]]; 2nd movement [[K]], [[P]], [[R]]; 3rd movement [[G]], [[O]]; 4th movement [[G]], [[P]], [[W]] and further on to [[Y]] (No. 193, 194, 19, 66, 77). * _Spanish Capriccio_ [[B]], [[F]], [[J]], [[P]], [[V]], [[X-Z]] (cf. Ex. 3). * _Russian Easter Fête_ [[F]], [[J]], before [[L]], [[Y]], up to the end. * _3rd Symphony_, 1st movement [[D]], [[R-T]], [[X]]; 2nd movement [[A]], [[E]]; 4th movement [[A]], [[H]], [[S]]. * _Sadko_, Symphonic tableau [[20-24]]. * _Mlada_, Act III [[12]] (cf. Ex. 258). * For examples of _Tutti_ chords, see special Tables at the end of Vol. II. _Tutti_ in the wind. In many cases the wood-wind and brass groups can form a _tutti_ by themselves for periods of varying length. Sometimes this is effected by the wood-wind alone, but more frequently with the support of horns. At other times the horns are found alone without the wood-wind, and, lastly, a _tutti_ may be comprised of instruments of each group in varying numbers. The addition of kettle-drums and the rest of the percussion is quite common and constitutes what the Germans call "Janitscharenmusik", or Turkish infantry music. Violoncellos and double basses playing more or less important _pizz._ notes are often added to wood-wind instruments (_tutti_), likewise the remainder of the strings and the harps; this process renders the sustained notes in the wood-wind more distinct. _Tutti_ passages in wood-wind and horns do not produce any great amount of power in _forte_ passages, but, on the other hand _tutti_ in the brass groups alone may attain an extraordinary volume of tone. In the following examples the formation of pedal notes by strings or wood-wind in no way alters the general character of the _Tutti_: _Examples:_ No. 210-211. _Snegourotchka_ [[149]], [[151]] (compare). _Tsar Saltan_ [[14]], [[17]], [[26]] (cf. Ex. 182-184). _Pan Voyevoda_ [[57]], [[186]], [[262]]. No. 212. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act II [[19]]; cf. also Act. III [[5]]. * No. 213-214. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[294]], [[312]] (compare). * No. 215. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[116]]; cf. also [[82]] and [[84]]. * _Antar_ [[37]] (cf. Ex. 65). _Tutti pizzicato._ The quartet of strings (_pizzicato_), reinforced occasionally by the harp and piano, may, in certain cases constitute a particular kind of _tutti_, which can only attain any great degree of strength by support from the wood-wind. Without this support it is of medium power, though still fairly brilliant in quality. _Examples:_ No. 216. _Snegourotchka_, before [[128]]; cf. also [[153]] and before [[305]]. * No. 217. _Russian Easter Fête_ [[K]]; cf. also [[U]] and [[V]]. * _Spanish Capriccio_ [[A]], [[C]], before [[S]], before [[P]]; cf. also [[O]] (Ex. 56). _Mlada_, Act II [[15]]. * _Sadko_: [[220]] (cf. Ex. 295). * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[101]]. * No. 218. _The May Night_, Act I, The Mayor's Song--combination of strings, _arco_ and _pizz._ _Tutti_ in one, two and three parts. It often happens that a moderately full orchestral _ensemble_ executes a passage composed of one or two harmonic parts, in unison or in octaves. Such melodic phrases call for more or less simple orchestration with the usual doubling of parts, or, in ornamental writing, admit of contrast in tone colouring, occasionally with the addition of sustained notes. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_, before [[152]], [[174]], [[176]]. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[120-121]] (cf. Ex. 63). _The Golden Cockerel_ [[215]]. * No. 219-221. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[142]], [[144]], [[147]]--3 part _Tutti_, with different scoring. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[138]], [[139]]--_Tutti_ in one part. _Soli_ in the strings. Although, in any orchestral piece, numerous instances are to be found of melodies and phrases entrusted to a solo wind instrument (generally the first of each group, wood-wind or brass), solos for stringed instruments, on the other hand, are extremely rare. Whilst the 1st violin and 1st 'cello are fairly frequently used in this manner, the solo viola is seldom found, and a solo on the double bass is practically unknown. Phrases demanding particular individuality of expression are entrusted to solo instruments; likewise passages that require extraordinary technique, beyond the scope of the orchestral rank and file. The comparatively weak tone of the solo instrument necessitates light, transparent accompaniment. Difficult virtuoso solos should not be written, as they attract too much attention to a particular instrument. Solo stringed instruments are also used when vigourous expression and technical facility are not required, but simply in order to obtain that singular difference in colour which exists between a solo stringed instrument and strings in unison. Two solo instruments can be coupled together, e.g. 2 _Violins soli_, etc. and in very rare cases a quartet of solo strings may be employed. _Examples:_ _Violin solo:_ No. 222-223. _Snegourotchka_ [[54]], [[275]]. _The May Night_, pp. 64-78. _Mlada_, Act I [[52]]; Act III, before [[19]]. * _A Fairy Tale_ [[W]]. * _Shéhérazade_, 1st movement [[C]], [[G]]; also the passages at the start of each movement. * _Spanish Capriccio_ [[H]], [[K]], [[R]], and the cadence on p. 38. * No. 224. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[310]]--Vn. solo, on harmonic basis of strings _sul ponticello_ and wood-wind. _Snegourotchka_ [[274]], [[279]]--2 Vns soli (cf. Ex. 9). _Viola solo:_ No. 225. _Snegourotchka_ [[212]]. _Sadko_ [[137]]. * No. 226. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[163]]; cf. also [[174]], [[177]]. _Violoncello solo:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[187]] (cf. Ex. 102). _The Christmas Night_, before [[29]], [[130]]. _Mlada_, Act III [[36]]. * _The Golden Cockerel_ [[177]], [[180]] (cf. Ex. 229). _Double bass solo:_ * No. 227. _Mlada_, Act II [[10-12]]--a special instance where the first string is tuned down. _Solo quartet:_ _The Christmas Night_ [[222]]--Vn., Viola, 'Cello, D. bass. * No. 228. _Tsar Saltan_ [[248]]--Vn. I, Vn. II, Viola, 'Cello. * The case of a solo stringed instrument doubled by the wood-wind in unison must not be forgotten. The object is to attain great purity and abundance of tone, without impairing the timbre of the solo instrument (especially in the high and low registers), or to produce a certain highly-coloured effect. _Examples:_ * _Mlada_, Act II [[52]]--Vn. + Fl.; Act IV [[31]]--Viol. + Fl. + Harp. * _The Christmas Night_ [[212]]--2 Vns + Fl. + Small Cl. (cf. Ex. 153). * _Pan Voyevoda_ [[67]]--2 Vns + 2 Ob.; 2 Violas + 2 Cl. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[306]]--Bass cl. + C-fag. (cf. Ex. 10). " " " [[309]]--Vn. + Fl. * No. 229. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[179]]--Vn. + Picc.; 'Cello + Bass cl. * As shown in Chap. II, 2 Vns soli or Violin solo + Fl. (Picc.) are often sufficient to double a melody in the upper register. _Examples:_ _Sadko_ [[207]]--cf. Chap. II, p. 42 and Ex. 24. * No. 230. _Russian Easter Fête_, p. 32--2 Solo violins (in harmonics). * No. 231. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[297]]--2 Solo violins + Picc. Limits of orchestral range. It is seldom that the entire orchestral conception is centred in the upper register of the orchestra (the 5th and 6th octaves), still more rarely is it focussed wholly in the lowest range (octaves 1 and -1) where the proximity of harmonic intervals creates a bad effect. In the first case the flutes and piccolo should be used along with the upper notes of the violins, _soli_ or _divisi_; in the second case the double bassoon and the low notes of the bassoons, bass clarinet, horns, trombones and tuba are brought into play. The first method gives brilliant colour, the second combination is dark and gloomy. The contrary would be fundamentally impossible. _Examples:_ _Pan Voyevoda_ [[122]], [[137]] } _Servilia_ [[168]], 8th bar. (cf. Ex. 62) } low No. 232. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[220]]; } register. cf. also [[218]], [[219]] } * _Snegourotchka_, before [[25]] } * _Legend of Kitesh_, before [[34]] } high * No. 233. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[113]], [[117]] } register. * No. 234. _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement pp. 59-62 } The upper and lower parts of a passage can seldom be widely separated without the intermediate octaves being filled in, for this is contrary to the first principles of proper distribution of chords. Nevertheless the unusual resonance thus produced serves for strange and grotesque effects. In the first of the following examples the piccolo figure doubled by the harp and the sparkling notes of the _glockenspiel_ is set about four octaves apart from the bass, which is assigned to a single Double bass and Tuba. But in the 3rd octave, the augmented fourths and diminished fifths in the two flutes help to fill up the intermediate space and lessen the distance between the two extreme parts, thus forming some sort of link between them. The general effect is fanciful. _Examples:_ No. 235. _Snegourotchka_ [[255]]. * No. 236. " [[315]], 5th and 6th bars. " [[274]] (cf. Ex. 9). _A Fairy Tale_ [[A]]. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[179]], 9th bar. (cf. Ex. 229). Transference of passages and phrases. A phrase or a figure is often transferred from one instrument to another. In order to connect the phrases on each instrument in the best possible way, the last note of each part is made to coincide with the first note of the following one. This method is used for passages the range of which is too wide to be performed on any one instrument, or when it is desired to divide a phrase into two different timbres. _Examples:_ * _Snegourotchka_ [[137]]--The melody is transferred from the violins to the flute and clarinet (cf. Ex. 28). * " before [[191]]--Solo violin--Solo 'cello. _Pan Voyevoda_ [[57]]--Trombones--Trumpets; Horn--Ob. + Cl. A similar operation is used in scoring passages covering the entire orchestral scale, or a great portion of it. When one instrument is on the point of completing its allotted part, another instrument takes up the passage, starting on one or two notes common to both parts, and so on. This division must be carried out to ensure the balance of the whole passage. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[36]], [[38]], [[131]]--Strings. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[190]]--Wood-wind. _Sadko_ [[72]]--Strings (cf. Ex. 112). " [[223]]--Strings. _The Christmas Night_, before [[180]]--Strings, wind and chorus (cf. Ex. 132). * No. 237. _The Christmas Night_, before [[181]]--String figure. * _Servilia_ [[111]]--Strings (cf. Ex. 88). " [[29]], 5th bar.--Ob.--Fl.; Cl.--Bass cl., Fag. No. 238. _The Golden Cockerel_, before [[9]]--Wood-wind. * " " " [[5]]--Fag.--Eng. horn (+ 'Cellos _pizz._). Chords of different tone quality used alternately. 1. The most usual practice is to employ chords on different groups of instruments alternately. In dealing with chords in different registers care should be taken that the progression of parts, though broken in passing from one group to another, remains as regular as if there were no leap from octave to octave; this applies specially to chromatic passages in order to avoid false relation. _Examples:_ No. 239. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act II [[29]]. No. 240-241. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[123]], before [[124]]. * No. 242-243. " " " [[178]], [[179]]. * _Note._ The rules regulating progression of parts may sometimes be ignored, when extreme contrast of timbre between two adjacent chords is intended. _Examples:_ * _Shéhérazade_, 8th bar from the beginning, (the chromatic progression at the 12th bar is undertaken by the same instruments, the 2nd cl. is therefore placed above the first in the opening)--cf. Ex. 109. * _The Christmas Night_, opening (cf. Ex. 106). 2. Another excellent method consists in transferring _the same chord or its inversion_ from one orchestral group to another. This operation demands perfect balance in progression of parts as well as register. The first group strikes a chord of short value, the other group takes possession of it simultaneously in the same position and distribution, either in the same octave or in another. The dynamic gradations of tone need not necessarily be the same in both groups. _Examples:_ _Ivan the Terrible_, commencement of the overture (cf. Ex. 85). No. 244. _Snegourotchka_ [[140]]. Amplification and elimination of tone qualities. The operation which consists in contrasting the resonance of two different groups (* or the different timbres of one and the same group), either in sustained notes or chords, transforms a simple into a complex timbre, suddenly, or by degrees. It is used in establishing a _crescendo_. While the first group effects the _crescendo_ gradually, the second group enters _piano_ or _pianissimo_, and attains its _crescendo_ more rapidly. The whole process is thereby rendered more tense as the timbre changes. The converse operation--the transition from a complex to a simple timbre, by the suppression of one of the groups, belongs essentially to the _diminuendo_. _Examples:_ No. 245. _Snegourotchka_ [[313]]. " [[140]] (cf. Ex. 244). _A Fairy Tale_ [[V]]. _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement [[D]] (cf. Ex. 74). * " 4th movement p. 221. No. 246. _Servilia_ [[228]]; cf. also [[44]]. _The Christmas Night_ [[165]] (cf. Ex. 143). No. 247. _The Tsar's Bride_, before [[205]]. * No. 248. _Russian Easter Fête_ [[D]]. * No. 249-250. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[5]], [[162]]. Repetition of phrases, imitation, echo. As regards choice of timbre, phrases in imitation are subject to the law of register. When a phrase is imitated in the upper register it should be given to an instrument of higher range and _vice versa_. If this rule is ignored an unnatural effect will be produced, as when the clarinet in its upper range replies to the oboe in the lower compass etc. The same rule must be followed in dealing with phrases, actually different, but similar in character; repeated phrases of different character should be scored in a manner most suitable to each. _Examples:_ _The Tsar's Bride_ [[157]], [[161]]. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[40-41]]. * No. 251. _Spanish Capriccio_ [[S]]. In echo phrases, that is to say imitation entailing not only decrease in volume of tone but also an effect of distance, the second instrument should be weaker than the first, but the two should possess some sort of affinity. An echo given to muted brass following the same phrase not muted produces this distant effect. Muted trumpets are eminently suited to echo a theme in the oboes; flutes also may imitate clarinets and oboes successfully. A wood-wind instrument cannot be used to echo the strings, or _vice versa_, on account of the dissimilarity in timbre. Imitation in octaves (with a decrease in resonance) creates an effect resembling an echo. _Examples:_ _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III [[3]]. No. 252. _Sadko_ [[264]]. * _Spanish Capriccio_ [[E]].--This example is not precisely an echo but resembles one in character (cf. Ex. 44). * _Shéhérazade_, 4th movement before [[O]]. _Sforzando-piano_ and _piano-sforzando_ chords. Besides the natural dynamic process of obtaining these marks of expression, a process which depends upon the player, they may also be produced by artificial means of orchestration. a) At the moment when the wood-wind begins a _piano_ chord, the strings attack it _sforzando_, a compound chord for preference, either _arco_ or _pizz._ In the opposite case the _sf_ in the strings must occur at the end of the wood-wind chord. The first method is also employed for a _sf-dim._, and the second for a _cresc.-sf_ effect. b) It is not so effective, and therefore less frequent to give the notes of sustained value to the strings, and the short chords to the wood-wind. In such cases the _tenuto_ chord is played _tremolando_ on the strings. _Examples:_ _Vera Scheloga_, before [[35]], [[38]], 10th bar. * No. 253. _Legend of Kitesh_, before [[15-16]]. * _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement, [[P]], 14th bar. Method of emphasising certain notes and chords. In order to stress or emphasise a certain note or chord, besides the marks of expression [music symbol: decrescendo] and _sf_, chords of 2, 3, and 4 notes can be inserted into the melodic progression by the instruments of the string quartet, each playing a single note; short notes in the wood-wind may also be used as well as a chain of three or four grace notes, in the form of a scale, either in strings or wood-wind. These unstressed notes (anacrusis), generally written very small, form a kind of upward glide, the downward direction being less common. As a rule they are connected to the main note by a slur. In the strings they should not lead up to chords of three or four notes, as this would be awkward for the bow. _Examples:_ No. 254. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[142]]--Anacrusis in the strings. * No. 255. _Shéhérazade_, 2nd movement [[C]]--Short _pizz._ chords. * " " " [[P]]--Short wind chords (cf. Ex. 19). _Crescendo_ and _diminuendo_. Short _crescendi_ and _diminuendi_ are generally produced by natural dynamic means; when prolonged, they are obtained by this method combined with other orchestral devices. After the strings, the brass is the group most facile in producing dynamic shades of expression, glorifying _crescendo_ chords into the most brilliant _sforzando_ climaxes. Clarinets specialise in _diminuendo_ effects and are capable of decreasing their tone to a breath (_morendo_). Prolonged orchestral _crescendi_ are obtained by the gradual addition of other instruments in the following order: strings, wood-wind, brass. _Diminuendo_ effects are accomplished by the elimination of the instruments in the reverse order (brass, wood-wind, strings). The scope of this work does not lend itself to the quotation of prolonged _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_ passages. The reader is referred, therefore, to the full scores: * _Shéhérazade_, pp. 5-7, 92-96, 192-200. * _Antar_ [[6]], [[51]]. * _The Christmas Night_ [[183]]. * _Sadko_ [[165-166]]. * _The Tsar's Bride_ [[80-81]]. Many examples of shorter _crescendi_ and _diminuendi_ will be found in Vol. II. Diverging and converging progressions. In the majority of cases, diverging and converging progressions simply consist in the gradual ascent of the three upper parts, with the bass descending. The distance separating the bass from the other parts is trifling at first, and grows by degrees. On the other hand, in converging progressions, the three upper parts, at first so far distant from the bass, gradually approach it. Sometimes these progressions involve an increase or a decrease in tone. The intermediate intervals are filled up by the introduction of fresh parts as the distance widens, so that the upper parts become doubled or trebled. In converging progressions the tripled and doubled parts are simplified, as the duplicating instruments cease to play. Moreover, if the harmony allows it, the group in the middle region which remains stationary is the group to be retained, or else the sustained note which guarantees unity in the operation. Below, the reader will find double examples of both descriptions. The first pair represents a diverging progression, 1. _piano_, in which the human voice takes part; 2. a purely orchestral _crescendo_. The second depicts two similar diverging progressions, firstly a gradual _crescendo_, secondly _dim._, during which the strings become more and more divided as the wind instruments cease to play. Ex. 258 accompanies the apparition of Mlada, Ex. 259, its disappearance. The atmosphere and colouring are weird and fanciful. The third pair of examples forms instances of converging progressions. In the first (Ex. 260) Princess Volkhova relates the wonders of the sea. Then in the middle of a powerful orchestral _crescendo_ the Sea-King appears (Ex. 261). Both examples include a sustained stationary chord of the diminished seventh. The handling of such progressions requires the greatest care. _Examples:_ No. 256-257. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[102]] and [[107]]. No. 258-259. _Mlada_, Act III [[12]] and [[19]]. No. 260-261. _Sadko_ [[105]] and [[119]]. _Sadko_ [[72]] (cf. Ex. 112). " before [[315]]. * _The Christmas Night_, beginning (cf. Ex. 106). * No. 262. _Antar_, end of 3rd movement. _Note._ A sustained note between the diverging parts does not always allow the empty space to be more completely filled up. _Example:_ No. 263. _The Golden Cockerel_, before [[106]]. Tone quality as a harmonic force. Harmonic basis. Melodic design comprising notes foreign to the harmony, passing or grace notes, embellishments etc., does not permit that a florid outline should proceed at the same time with another one, reduced to essential and fundamental notes: [Music] If, in the above example, the upper part is transposed an octave lower, the discordant effect produced by the contact of appoggiaturas and fundamental notes will be diminished; the quicker the passage is played the less harsh the effect will be, and _vice versa_. But it would be ill-advised to lay down any hard and fast rule as to the permissible length of these notes. There is no doubt that the harmonic notes, the thirds of the fundamental one (_E_) are more prominent from their proximity with the notes extraneous to the harmony. If the number of parts is increased (for instance, if the melodic figure is in thirds, sixths etc.), the question becomes still more complicated, since, to the original harmonic scheme, chords with different root bases are added, producing false relation. Nevertheless, for the solution of such problems, orchestration provides an element of the greatest importance: difference of timbres. The greater the dissimilarity in timbre between the harmonic basis on the one hand and the melodic design on the other, the less discordant the notes extraneous to the harmony will sound. The best example of this is to be found between the human voice and the orchestra, next comes the difference of timbres between the groups of strings, wood-wind, plucked strings and percussion instruments. Less important differences occur between wood-wind and brass; in these two groups, therefore, the harmonic basis generally remains an octave removed from the melodic design, and should be of inferior dynamic power. _Examples of harmonic basis in chords:_ No. 264. _Pan Voyevoda_, Introduction. _Legend of Kitesh_, Introduction (cf. also Ex. 125 and 140). * _Mlada_, Act III [[10]]. The harmonic basis may be ornamental in character, in which case it should move independently of the concurrent melodic design. _Examples:_ * No. 265-266. _Tsar Saltan_ [[103-104]], [[128]], [[149]], [[162-165]] (cf. below). Chords the most widely opposed in character may be used on a simple, stationary harmonic basis, a basis, founded, for example, on the chord of the tonic or diminished seventh. _Examples:_ No. 267. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[326-328]]--Wood-wind and harps on a string basis. No. 268-269. _Kashtcheï the Immortal_ [[33]], [[43]]. No. 270. _Mlada_, Act II, before [[17]], [[18]]], [[20]]. No. 271. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[125]]--Chords of the diminished seventh, on arpeggio basis (augmented fifth). The effect of alternating harmony produced between two melodic figures, e.g. one transmitting a note, held in abeyance, to the other, or the simultaneous progression of a figure in augmentation and diminution etc. becomes comprehensible and pleasant to the ear when the fundamental sustained harmony is different. _Examples:_ _Legend of Kitesh_ [[34]], [[36]], [[297]] (cf. Ex. 34 and 231). No. 272-274. _Tsar Saltan_ [[104]], [[162-165]] (cf. also [[147-148]]). * _Russian Easter Fête_, before [[V]]. The whole question as to what is allowed and what forbidden in the employment of notes extraneous to the harmony is one of the most difficult in the whole range of composition; the permissible length of such notes is in no way established. In absence of artistic feeling, the composer who relies entirely on the difference between two timbres will often find himself using the most painful discords. Innovations in this direction in the latest post-Wagnerian music are often very questionable; they depress the ear and deaden the musical senses, leading to the unnatural conclusion that what is good, taken separately, must necessarily be good in combination. Artificial effects. I apply this name to some orchestral operations which are based on certain defects of hearing and faculty of perception. Having no wish to specify those that already exist or to foretell those which may yet be invented, I will mention, in passing, a few which have been used by me in my own works. To this class belong _glissando_ scales or arpeggios in the harp, the notes of which do not correspond with those played simultaneously by other instruments, but which are used from the fact that long _glissandi_ are more resonant and brilliant than short ones. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[325]] (cf. Ex. 95). No. 275. _Pan Voyevoda_ [[128]]. * _Shéhérazade_, 3rd movement [[M]], 5th bar (cf. Ex. 248). * _Russian Easter Fête_ [[D]] (cf. Ex. 248). * Enharmonic _glissando_ in the strings should also be mentioned. No. 276. _The Christmas Night_ [[180]], 13th bar--'Cellos _glissando_. Use of percussion instruments for rhythm and colour. Whenever some portion of the orchestra executes a rhythmic figure, percussion instruments should always be employed concurrently. An insignificant and playful rhythm is suitable to the triangle, tambourine, castanets and side drum, a vigourous and straightforward rhythm may be given to the bass drum, cymbals and gong. The strokes on these instruments should almost invariably correspond to the strong beats of the bar, highly-accented syncopated notes or disconnected _sforzandi_. The triangle, side drum and tambourine are capable of various rhythmic figures. Sometimes the percussion is used separately, independently of any other group of instruments. The brass and wood-wind are the two groups which combine the most satisfactorily with percussion from the standpoint of colour. The triangle, side drum, and tambourine go best with harmony in the upper register; cymbals, bass drum and gong with harmony in the lower. The following are the combinations most generally employed: _tremolo_ on the triangle and tambourine with trills in wood-wind and violins; _tremolo_ on the side drum, or cymbals struck with drum sticks, and sustained chords on trumpets and horns; _tremolo_ on the bass drum or the gong with chords on trombones or low sustained notes on 'cellos and double basses. It must not be forgotten that the bass drum, cymbals, gong and a _tremolo_ on the side drum, played _fortissimo_, is sufficient to overpower any orchestral _tutti_. * The reader will find instances of the use of percussion instruments in any full score, and in several examples of the present work. _Examples:_ * _Shéhérazade_ pp. 107-119, also many passages in 4th movement. * _Antar_ [[40]], [[43]] (cf. Ex. 73, 29). * _Spanish capriccio_ [[P]] (cf. Ex. 64); the cadences to be studied in the 4th movement, where they are accompanied by various percussion instruments. * _Russian Easter Fête_ [[K]] (cf. Ex. 217). * _The Tsar's Bride_ [[140]]. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[196-197]]--"The Battle of Kerjémetz". * _Pan Voyevoda_ [[71-72]]. Economy in orchestral colour. Neither musical feeling nor the ear itself can stand, for long, the full resources of the orchestra combined together. The favourite group of instruments is the strings, then follow in order the wood-wind, brass, kettle-drums, harps, _pizzicato_ effects, and lastly the percussion, also, in point of order, triangle, cymbals, big drum, side drum, tambourine, gong. Further removed stand the celesta, _glockenspiel_ and xylophone, which instruments, though melodic, are too characteristic in timbre to be employed over frequently. The same may be said of the piano and castanets. A quantity of national instruments not included in the present work may be incorporated into the orchestra; such are the guitar, the domra, zither, mandoline, the oriental tambourine, small tambourine etc. These instruments are employed from time to time for descriptive-aesthetic purposes. These instruments are most frequently used in the above-named order. A group of instruments which has been silent for some time gains fresh interest upon its reappearance. The trombones, trumpets and tuba are occasionally _tacet_ for long periods, the percussion is seldom employed, and practically never all together, but in single instruments or in two's and three's. In national dances or music in ballad style, percussion instruments may be used more freely. After a long rest the re-entry of the horns, trombones and tuba should coincide with some characteristic intensity of tone, either _pp_ or _ff_; _piano_ and _forte_ re-entries are less successful, while re-introducing these instruments _mezzo-forte_ or _mezzo-piano_ produces a colourless and common-place effect. This remark is capable of wider application. For the same reasons it is not good to commence or finish any piece of music either _mf_ or _mp_. The scope of the musical examples in this work does not permit of illustrating by quotation the use of economy in orchestral colour, nor the re-entry of instruments thrown into prominence by prolonged rests. The reader must examine these questions in full scores. Chapter V. COMBINATION OF THE HUMAN VOICE WITH ORCHESTRA. THE STAGE BAND. Orchestral accompaniment of solo voices. General remarks. In accompanying the voice orchestral scoring should be light enough for the singer to make free use of all the dynamic shades of expression without hardness of tone. In overflowing lyrical moments, where full voice is required, the singer should be well supported by the orchestra. Opera singing may be divided into two general classes, lyric singing and declamation or recitative. The full, round, _legato_ aria affords greater facility for tone production than florid music or recitative, and the more movement and rhythmic detail contained in the vocal part, the greater freedom and liberty must there be given to the voice. In such a case the latter should not be doubled by the orchestra, neither should rhythmical figures be written for any instrument corresponding with those in the vocal part. In accompanying the voice the composer should bear these points in mind before turning his attention to the choice of orchestral colour. A confused, heavy accompaniment will overpower the singer; an accompaniment which is too simple in character will lack interest, and one which is too weak will not sustain the voice sufficiently. In modern opera it is rare that orchestral writing is confined to accompaniment pure and simple. It frequently happens that the principal musical idea, often complex in character, is contained in the orchestra. The voice may then be said to form the accompaniment, exchanging musical for literary interest. It becomes subordinate to the orchestra, as though it were an extra part, subsequently added as an after-thought. But it is evident that great care must be taken with orchestral writing in such cases. The scoring must not be so heavy or complicated as to drown the voice and prevent the words from being heard, thereby breaking the thread of the text, and leaving the musical imagery unexplained. Certain moments may require great volume of orchestral tone, so great that a voice of even phenomenal power is incapable of being heard. Even if the singer is audible, such unequal struggles between voice and orchestra are most inartistic, and the composer should reserve his orchestral outbursts for the intervals during which the voice is silent, distributing the singer's phrases and pauses in a free and natural manner, according to the sense of the words. If a prolonged _forte_ passage occurs in the orchestra it may be used concurrently with action on the stage. All artificial reduction of tone contrary to the true feeling of a passage, the sole object being to allow the voice to come through, should be strictly avoided, as it deprives orchestral writing of its distinctive brilliance. It must also be remembered that too great a disparity in volume of tone between purely orchestral passages and those which accompany the voice create an inartistic comparison. Therefore, when the orchestra is strengthened by the use of wood-wind in three's or four's, and brass in large numbers, the division of tone and colour must be manipulated skillfully and with the greatest care. In previous sections I have frequently stated that the structure of the orchestra is closely related to the music itself. The scoring of a vocal work proves this relationship in a striking manner, and, indeed, it may be stipulated that _only that which is well written can be well orchestrated_. Transparence of accompaniment. Harmony. The group of strings is the most transparent medium and the one least likely to overpower the voice. Then come the wood-wind and the brass, the latter in the following order: horns, trombones, trumpets. A combination of strings, _pizz._, and the harp forms a setting eminently favourable for the voice. As a general rule a singer is more easily overpowered by long sustained notes than by short detached ones. Strings doubled in the wood-wind and brass, and brass doubled by wood-wind are combinations liable to drown the singer. This may be done even more easily by _tremolando_ in the kettle-drums and other percussion instruments, which, even by themselves are capable of overpowering any other orchestral group of instruments. Doubling of wood-wind and horns, and the use of two clarinets, two oboes or two horns in unison to form one harmonic part is likewise to be avoided, as such combinations will have a similar effect on the voice. The frequent use of long sustained notes in the double basses is another course unfavourable to the singer; these notes in combination with the human voice produce a peculiar throbbing effect. Juxtaposition of strings and wood-wind which overweights _legato_ or declamatory singing may nevertheless be employed if one of the groups forms the harmony in sustained notes and the other executes a melodic design, when, for instance the sustaining instruments are clarinet, and bassoon, or bassoon and horn, and the melodic design is entrusted to violins or violas--or in the opposite case, when the harmony is given to violas and 'cellos _divisi_, and the harmonic [Transcriber's Note: melodic] figure to the clarinets. Sustained harmony in the register of the second octave to the middle of the third does not overpower women's voices, as these develop _outside_ this range; neither is it too heavy for men's voices, which although opening out _within_ the range itself sound an octave higher, as in the case of the tenor voice. As a rule women's voices suffer more than men's when they come in contact with harmony in a register similar to their own. Taken separately, and used in moderation, each group of orchestral instruments may be considered favourable to each type of voice. But the combination of two or three groups cannot be so considered unless they each play an independent part and are not united together at full strength. Incessant four-part harmony is to be deprecated. Satisfactory results will be obtained when the number of harmonic parts is gradually decreased, with some of them sustaining pedal notes, and when the harmony, interspersed with necessary pauses is confined to the limits of one octave, distributed over several octaves, or duplicated in the higher register. These manipulations allow the composer to come to the singer's aid; in voice-modulations, when the singer passes from the _cantabile_ to the declamatory style, the composer may reduce or eliminate some harmony which is found to be too heavy as the vocal tone diminishes, and conversely, support the voice by a fuller orchestral tone in broad phrases and climaxes. Ornamental writing and polyphonic accompaniment should never be too intricate in character, entailing the use of an unnecessary number of instruments. Some complicated figures are better partially entrusted to _pizz._ strings and harp, as this combination has little chance of overpowering the voice. Some examples of accompanying an _aria_ are given below. _Examples:_ _The Tsar's Bride_, Lykow's supplementary _Aria_ (Act III). " " " [[16-19]]--Griasnov's _Aria_. No. 277. _Snegourotchka_ [[45]]. * _Snegourotchka_ [[187-188]], [[212-213]] the two Cavatinas of Tsar Berendey (cf. extracts, Ex. 102, 225). No. 278. _Sadko_ [[143]]. " [[204-206]]--The Venetian's Song. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[39-41]], [[222-223]] (cf. Ex. 31). * _The Golden Cockerel_ [[153-157]], [[163]]. Florid singing which limits volume of tone requires a light accompaniment, simple in outline and colour, involving no duplication of instruments. _Examples:_ No. 279. _Snegourotchka_ [[42-48]]--_Snegourotchka's Aria_ (Prologue), Fragment. * _Sadko_ [[195-197]]--Hindoo Song (cf. Ex. 122). * _The Christmas Night_ [[45-50]]--Oxana's _Aria_. * _The Golden Cockerel_ [[131-136]]--_Aria_ of Queen Shémakhâ. Doubling voices in the orchestra. Melodic doubling of voices by orchestral instruments (in unison or octaves) is of frequent occurrence, but incessant duplication for an extended period of time should be avoided; it is only permissible in isolated phrases. The most natural duplication in unison of womens' voices is performed by violins, violas, clarinets and oboes; that of mens' voices by violas, 'cellos, bassoons and horns. Doubling in octaves is usually done in the upper register. Trombones and trumpets overpower the voice and cannot be used for this purpose. Uninterrupted or too frequent duplication should be avoided, not only because the operation deprives the singer of full freedom of expression, but also because it replaces by a mixed timbre the rare characteristic qualities of the human voice. Doubling, when limited to a few special phrases supports the voice and endows it with beauty and colour. It is only suitable _in tempo_; to apply it, in unison or octaves to a passage _ad. lib._ is both ineffective and dangerous. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[50-52]]--Snegourotchka's Arietta (cf. Ex. 41). _Sadko_ [[309-311]]--Volkhova's Cradle-song (cf. Ex. 81). Besides the question of doubling the voice for the object of colour there are instances when the singer executes only part of a phrase, allotted in its entirely to an orchestral instrument. _Example:_ _Vera Scheloga_ [[30]], [[36]] (cf. Ex. 49). Lyrical climaxes, _a piena voce_, or dramatic passages for the voice situated outside its normal range should be supported melodically and harmonically by the orchestra, in the register in which the voice is placed. The culminating point in such passages often coincides with the entry or sudden attack of the trombones or other brass instruments, or by a rush of strings. Strengthening the accompaniment in this manner will soften the tone of the voice. _Examples:_ No. 280. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[206]]. _Servilia_ [[126-127]]. " [[232]]. No. 281. _Sadko_ [[314]]. _Vera Scheloga_ [[41]]. If the culminating point is soft in colour and outline it is better left unsupported in the orchestra, but sometimes the wood-wind, sustaining such passages with light transparent melody or harmony may produce an entrancing effect. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[188]]. " [[318]] (cf. Ex. 119). No. 282. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[214]]. It is a common practice to support voices in concerted numbers by harmony and duplication; this operation makes for accuracy and brilliance when applied to duets, trios, quartets etc. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[292-293]]--Duet (cf. Ex. 118). _Sadko_ [[99-101]]--Duet (cf. Ex. 289 and 290). No. 283. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[169]]--sextet. " " " [[117]] quartet. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[341]]--quartet and sextet (cf. Ex. 305). The beautiful effect produced by a solo instrument accompanying a _cantabile aria_ cannot be denied. In such cases the instruments used are generally the violin, viola, and 'cello, or the flute, oboe, Eng. horn, clar., bass clar., bassoon, horn and harp. The accompaniment is often contrapuntal or composed of polyphonic designs. The solo instrument either plays alone or as the leading melodic voice in the _ensemble_. In combination with the voice, or associated with some action on the stage, a solo instrument is a powerful expedient for musical characterisation. Instances of this description are numerous. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[50]]--Soprano and oboe (cf. Ex. 41). " [[97]]--Contralto and Eng. horn. " [[243]], [[246]]--Baritone and bass clar. (cf. Ex. 47-48). No. 284. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[108]]--Soprano, 'cello and oboe. * _The Golden Cockerel_ [[163]]--Soprano and viola (cf. Ex. 226). It is comparatively rare for percussion instruments to take part in accompanying the voice. The triangle is occasionally used, the cymbals less frequently. An accompaniment may be formed by a figure or a _tremolo_ on the kettle-drums. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[97]], [[224]], [[247]] (Lell's 1st and 3rd songs). _Tsar Saltan_, before [[5]]. * No. 285. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[135]]; cf. also [[161]], [[197]]. The following are examples of powerful and expressive orchestral passages, the voice _tacet_: No. 286. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[81]]. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[282]], [[298]]. * _Servilia_ [[130]]. Recitative and declamation. The accompaniment of recitative and melodic declamatory phrases should be light enough to allow the voice to come through without strain, and the words to be heard distinctly. The most convenient method is to employ sustained chords and _tremolo_ on the strings or wood-wind, giving free latitude to the voice from a rhythmic point of view (_a piacere_). Another excellent plan is to write short chords in the strings combined with wood-wind in different ways. Sustained chords and those entailing change of position should occur preferably when the voice is silent, thus permitting both conductor and orchestra to keep a closer watch over the singer's irregularities of rhythm in _a piacere_ recitatives. If the accompaniment is more complex in character, melodic, polyphonic or ornamental in design, the recitative must be sung _in tempo_. Any phrase which it is necessary to emphasise in accordance with the sense of the words assumes a more _cantabile_ character, and must be reinforced by the orchestra. Opera, today, besides demanding much greater care in the treatment of the text than in the past, abounds in constant transition from declamation to _cantabile_, or in the fusion of the two. The orchestra offers more variety of texture and must be handled with greater regard to its relationship to the words, and the action on the stage. This class of orchestration can only be studied from lengthy examples. I refer the reader to operatic full scores and content myself with giving one or [Transcriber's Note: 'two' missing in original] short instances: _Examples:_ No. 287. _Snegourotchka_ [[16]]. No. 288. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[124-125]]. The following double examples, similar from a musical point of view, show different methods of handling an orchestra from the standpoint of accompaniment to the voice, and the _tutti_ form. _Examples:_ No. 289-291. _Sadko_ [[99-101]] and [[305-307]] (compare also Ex. 75). _Vera Scheloga_ [[3-7]] and [[28]]. Care should be taken not to score too heavily when accompanying singers in the wings. _Examples:_ * No. 292. _Sadko_ [[316]], [[318]], [[320]]. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[286-289]], [[304-305]]. Orchestral accompaniment of the chorus. The chorus, possessing much greater unity and power than the solo voice, does not demand such careful handling in the accompaniment. On the contrary, too great a refinement of orchestral treatment will prove harmful to the resonance of the chorus. As a general rule orchestration of choral works follows the rules laid down for purely instrumental scoring. It is obvious that dynamic marks of expression must correspond in both bodies, but doubling one orchestral group with another and coupling instruments of the same kind in unison (2 Ob., 2 Cl., 4 Horns, 3 Trombones etc.) are both possible operations, if performed according to the requirements of the musical context. Doubling choral parts by instruments is generally a good plan. In _cantabile_ passages such duplication may be melodic in character, and the design more ornamental in the orchestra than in the chorus. _Examples:_ _Ivan the Terrible_, Act II [[3-6]]; Act III [[66-69]]. _The May Night_, Act I [[X-Y]]; Act III [[L-Ee]], [[Ddd-Fff]]. _Snegourotchka_ [[61-73]], [[147-153]], [[323-328]]. _Mlada_, Act II [[22-31]], [[45-63]]; Act IV [[31-36]]. _The Christmas Night_ [[59-61]], [[115-123]]. _Sadko_ [[37-39]], [[50-53]], [[79-86]], [[173]], [[177]], [[187]], [[189]], [[218-221]], [[233]], [[270-273]]. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[29-30]], [[40-42]], [[50-59]], [[141]]. _Tsar Saltan_ [[67-71], [[91-93]], [[133-145]], [[207-208]]. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[167]], [[177-178]]. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[237-238]], [[262-264]]. The reader will find instances of choral accompaniment in many examples relating to other sections of the work. In the case of solitary exclamations or phrases in recitative, melodic doubling is not always suitable. It is better to support the voice simply by harmonic duplication. The repetition of notes--required by declamation--forming no fundamental part of the rhythmical structure of a phrase or chord should not be reproduced in the orchestra; the melodic or harmonic basis alone should be doubled. Sometimes the rhythmical structure of a choral phrase is simplified in comparison with its orchestral duplication. _Examples:_ No. 293. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[96]]. No. 294. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act I, before [[75]]. Choral passages, the musical context of which is complete in itself, forming a chorus _a cappella_ often remain undoubled by the orchestra, accompanied solely by sustained notes or an independent polyphonic figure. _Examples:_ No. 295. _Sadko_ [[219]]. * _Tsar Saltan_ [[207]]. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[167]] (cf. Ex. 116). * _The Golden Cockerel_ [[236]]. Heavier scoring is required for a mixed chorus; for a male voice chorus the orchestration should be lighter; still more so for women's voices alone. In scoring a certain passage the composer should not lose sight of the number of choristers he is employing, for scenic conditions may necessitate a reduction of that figure. The approximate number should be marked in the full score as a basis upon which to work. _Examples:_ No. 296. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act II [[37]]. * _Sadko_ [[17]], [[20]]. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[61]] (cf. Ex. 198). _Note._ It must also be remembered that a _ff_ passage on an enlarged orchestra, comprising wood-wind in fours, and numerous brass (sometimes in three's), is capable of overpowering a large mixed chorus. A chorus in the wings requires as light an accompaniment as that employed for a solo singer on the stage. _Examples:_ * _Ivan the Terrible_, Act I [[25-26]], [[90]]; Act III [[13-14]]. * _The May Night_, Act I, before [[X]]; Act III [[Bbb-Ccc]]. * No. 297. _Sadko_ [[102]]. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[54-56]] (cf. Ex. 196 and 197). Solo voice with chorus. When an _aria_ or recitative is coupled with the chorus great care must be taken in the choral writing. A woman's solo voice stands out well against a male voice chorus, likewise a solo male voice against a women's chorus, for in both cases, the timbre of the solo voice differs from the rest. But the combination of solo voice and chorus, of the same timbre, or mixed chorus, creates a certain amount of difficulty. In such cases the soloist should sing in a higher register than the chorus, the former _a piena voce_, the latter _piano_. The soloist should stand as near to the footlights as possible; the chorus up-stage. The orchestration should be adapted to the soloist, not to the chorus. _Examples:_ No. 298. _Snegourotchka_ [[143]]. _Ivan the Terrible._ Act II [[37]] (cf. Ex. 296). When the chorus sings in the wings the soloist is always heard distinctly. _Examples:_ _Ivan the Terrible_, Act I [[25-26]]. * _The May Night_, Act III [[Ccc]]. * _Sadko_ [[102]], [[111]]. Instruments on the stage and in the wings. The use of instruments on the stage or in the wings dates from distant times (Mozart, _Don Giovanni_, string orchestra in Act I, _finale_). In the middle of last century orchestras of brass instruments, or brass and wood-wind combined, made their appearance on the stage (Glinka, Meyerbeer, Gounod and others). More modern composers have abandoned this clumsy practice, not only unfortunate from the spectators' point of view, but also detrimental to the mediaeval or legendary setting of the majority of operas. Only those stage instruments are now used which suit the scene and surroundings in which the opera is laid. As regards instruments in the wings, invisible to the audience, the question is simple. Nevertheless, for the musician of today the choice of these instruments must be regulated by aesthetic considerations of greater importance than those governing the selection of a military band. The instruments are played in the wings, those visible on the stage are only for ornament. Sometimes stage-instruments may be replicas of those common to the period which the opera represents, (the sacred horns in _Mlada_, for example). The orchestral accompaniment must vary in power according to the characteristics of the instruments played in the wings. It is impossible to illustrate the use of all the instruments mentioned below, and to outline suitable accompaniments. I can only give a few examples and refer the reader once again to the passages in the full scores. a) Trumpets: _Servilia_ [[12]], [[25]]. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[53]], [[55]], [[60]]. * _Tsar Saltan_ [[139]] and further on. b) Horns, in the form of hunting horns: _Pan Voyevoda_ [[38-39]]. c) Trombones, leaving the orchestra to go on the stage: _Pan Voyevoda_ [[191]]. d) Cornets: _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III [[3]], [[7]]. e) Sacred horns (natural brass instruments in various keys): _Mlada_, Act II, pp. 179 onwards. f) Small clarinets and piccolos: No. 299-300. _Mlada_, Act III [[37]], [[39]]. g) Pipes of Pan: instruments, specially made, with many holes which are passed over the lips. These particular pipes produce a special enharmonic scale (_B_ flat, _C_, _D_ flat, _E_ flat, _E_, _F_ sharp, _G_, _A_), which has the effect of a glissando: _Mlada_, Act III [[39]], [[43]] (cf. Ex. 300). h) Harp, reproducing the effect of an aeolian harp: _Kashtcheï the Immortal_ [[32]] and further on (cf. Ex. 268, 269). i) Lyres. Instruments specially made and tuned so as to be able to perform a glissando chord of the diminished seventh: _Mlada_, Act III [[39]], [[43]] (cf. Ex. 300). k) Pianoforte, grand or upright: _Mozart and Salieri_ [[22-23]]. l) Gong, imitating a church bell: _Ivan the Terrible_, Act I [[57]] and further on. m) Bass Drum (without cymbals) to imitate the sound of cannon: _Tsar Saltan_ [[139]] and later. n) Small kettle-drum, in _D_ flat (3rd octave): _Mlada_, Act III [[41]] and later (cf. Ex. 60). o) Bells in various keys: _Sadko_ [[128]] and [[139]]. No. 301. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[181]] and further on. See also [[241]], [[323]] and later. * _Tsar Saltan_ [[139]] and further on. p) Organ: No. 302. _Sadko_ [[299-300]]. Wood-wind and strings are comparatively seldom used on the stage or in the wings. In Russian opera the strings are employed in this way by Rubinstein (_Gorioucha_), and in a splendidly characteristic manner by Serov (_Hostile Power_): in the latter opera the _E_ flat clarinet is used to imitate the fife in the Carnival procession.[17] [Footnote 17: Mention should be made of the happy use of a small orchestra in the wings (2 picc., 2 cl., 2 horns, 1 trombone, tambourine, 4 Vns, 2 violas, 1 D-bass) in _The May Night_, Act II, Sc. I. [[M-P]]. (Editor's note.)] Chapter VI (Supplementary). VOICES. Technical Terms. Among all the confused terms employed in singing to denote the compass, register and character of the human voice, there are four which may be said to represent elemental types: soprano, alto or contralto, tenor and bass. These names are used to denote the composition of the chorus with sub-divisions of _firsts_ and _seconds_, to determine how the parts must be divided. (Sopr. I, Sopr. II etc.) While the range of an instrument is exactly governed by its construction, the compass of the voice, on the other hand, depends on the individuality of the singer. It is therefore impossible to define the exact limits of each of these vocal types. When it is a question of dividing choristers into 1st and 2nd parts, those with the higher voices are classed among the firsts and _vice versa_. Besides the principal terms mentioned above, the names mezzo-soprano (between sop. and alto), and baritone (between tenor and bass) are also employed. _Note._ In the chorus mezzo-sopranos are classed with 2nd sopranos or 1st altos, baritones with 2nd tenors or first basses, according to quality and timbre of voice. Apart from these denominations which represent the six principal solo voices, a quantity of others are in use to denote either compass, timbre or technique, such as light soprano, _soprano giusto_, lyric soprano, dramatic soprano, light tenor, _tenorino-altino_, _baryton-martin_, lyric tenor, dramatic tenor, _basso cantante_ ("singing bass"), _basso profondo_ (deep bass) etc. To this lengthy list must be added the term _mezzo-carattere_, of intermediate character (between lyric and dramatic soprano, for example). If we try to discover the real meaning of these designations it soon becomes apparent that they are derived from widely different sources--for instance, "light soprano" implies agility and mobility in the voice; "dramatic tenor", the power to express strong dramatic feeling; _basso profondo_ signifies great resonance in the deep register. Minute examination of all the methods of attack and emission of sound lies within the province of the singing master and to enumerate them here would only perplex the student. The same applies to the position and exact limits of register (chest voice, middle and head voice in women; chest voice, mixed voice and falsetto in men). The work of a teacher of singing consists in equalising the voice throughout its whole compass, so that the transition from one register to another, on all the vowels, may be accomplished imperceptibly. Some voices are naturally even and flexible. The professor of singing must correct faults in breathing, determine the range of the voice and place it, equalise its tone, increase its flexibility, instruct as to the pronunciation of vowels, modulation from one grade of expression to another, etc. A composer should be able to rely upon flexible and equal voices without having to trouble himself as to the abilities or defects of individual singers. In these days a part is seldom written for a particular artist, and composers and librettists do not find it necessary to entrust a certain rôle to _fioriture_ singers, another to heavy dramatic voices. Poetic and artistic considerations demand greater variety of resource in the study of opera or vocal music in general. Soloists. Range and register. I advise the composer to be guided by Table F. which gives the approximate range of the six principal solo voices. A bracket under the notes defines the normal octave, the register in which the voice is generally used. Within these limits the composer may write freely without fear of hardening or tiring the voice. The normal octave applies also to declamatory singing and recitative; the notes above it are exceptional and should be used for the culminating points of a passage or for climaxes, the notes below, for the fall or decline of a melody. Employing voices in unusual registers for long periods of time will weary both singer and listener, but these registers may occasionally be used for brief intervals so as not to confine the voice too strictly to one octave. A few examples are added to illustrate melody in different types of voices. _Examples:_ _The Tsar's Bride_ [[102-109]] (for extracts cf. Ex. 256, 280, 284)--Marfa's Aria (Soprano). " " " [[16-18]]--Griaznov's Aria (Baritone). _Snegourotchka_--The 3 songs of Lell. (Contralto). _Sadko_ [[46-49]] (cf. extract, Ex. 120)--Sadko's Aria (Tenor). " [[129-131]]--Lioubava's Aria (Mezzo-sopr.). " [[191-193]] (cf. extract, Ex. 131)--Bass Aria. Vocalisation. A good vocal melody should contain notes of at least three different values, minims, crotchets and quavers (or crotchets, quavers and semiquavers etc.). Monotony in rhythmic construction is unsuited to vocal melody; it is applicable to instrumental music, but only in certain cases. _Cantabile_ melody requires a fair number of long notes, and a change of syllable in a word should occur at a moment when the voice quits a long sustained note. Short, single notes, changing with every syllable produce a harmonious effect. Owing to the requirements of diction, extended melodic figures sung _legato_ on one syllable must be used with care on the part of the composer; to perform these the singer must possess greater command over flexibility and technique. The possibility of taking breath in the right place is one of the conditions essential to all vocal writing. Breath cannot be taken in the middle of a word, sometimes not even during the course of a sentence or phrase in the text; hence the voice part must be suitably interspersed with rests. Table F. Voices. Chorus: [Music: Soprano. Contralto. Tenor. Bass.] Soloists: [Music: Soprano. Mezzo-soprano. Contralto. Tenor. Baritone. Bass.] _Note._ It must be remembered that there are some words upon which the voice may not dwell, or sing more than one or two notes. These words may be nouns, pronouns, numerals, prepositions, conjunctions and other parts of speech. It would be impossible and ridiculous, for instance, to write a sustained note on such words as "who", "he" etc. The voice may dwell on certain words which, so to speak, possess some poetical colour.[18] [Footnote 18: Here the author approaches a question so well known to the Russians that it does not require any further elucidation for their guidance. But a whole book would have to be written to form a compendium of practical rules on this subject, and to point out the errors which nearly all French composers openly commit--even those who are famous for their sense of diction and literary style. We can only conclude that the question has come to be considered of minor importance in France, perhaps on account of the lack of definite stress on the syllables of words, which is characteristic of the French language. It is not within the translator's province to discuss the question of French versification or to elaborate the excellent maxims laid down by Rimsky-Korsakov, the first, among many, to touch upon this delicate and important subject. (Translator's note.)] _Examples:_ No. 303. _Sadko_ [[236]]--Sadko's Aria (Tenor). " [[309-311]] (see extract, Ex. 81). Volkhova's Cradle Song (Soprano). _Snegourotchka_ [[9]]--Fairy Spring's Aria (Mezzo-sopr.). " [[187-188]], [[212-213]] (see extracts, Ex. 102 and 225)--the two Cavatinas of Tsar Berendey (Tenor). " [[247]]--Miskir's Aria (Baritone). Vowels. As regards vocalisation on one syllable, on long sustained notes and in the high register, the choice of vowels is a matter of some importance. The difference in the position of the mouth and lips in forming the open vowel =a= and the closed vowel =ou= is apparent to everyone. The series of vowels from the point of view of open sounds is: =a=, =i=, =o=, =e=, =u=. In women's voices the easiest vowel on high notes is =a=, for men it is =o=. The vowel =i= softens the penetrating quality of the top notes of a bass voice, and the vowel =a= adds to the extension of range in the very lowest compass. Lengthy florid passages are often written on the interjection =ah=, or simply on the vowel =a=. Owing to the restrictions imposed by literary and dramatic laws, the composer can only follow the above rules to a limited extent. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[293]], [[318-319]] (cf. Ex. 119). No. 304. _Sadko_ [[83]]. Flexibility. Voices possess the greatest amount of flexibility in their normal octave. Women's voices are more supple than men's, but in all types, the higher voice is the more agile, sopranos in women, the tenor voice in men. Although capable of performing florid and complicated figures, different varieties of phrasing and the rapid change from staccato to legato, the human voice is infinitely less flexible than a musical instrument. In passages of any rapidity, diatonic scales and _arpeggios_ in thirds come easiest to the voice. Intervals bigger than fourths in quick succession and chromatic scales are extremely difficult. Skips of an octave or more starting from a short note should always be avoided. Preparation should precede any extremely high note either by leading up to it gradually, or by the clear leap of a fourth, fifth or octave; but sometimes the voice may attack a high note without any due preparation. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[46-48]] (cf. extract, Ex. 279)--Snegourotchka's Aria (Soprano). " [[96-97]]--Lell's first song (Contralto). _Sadko_ [[196-193]] [Transcriber's Note: so in original] (cf. extract, Ex. 122)--Hindoo song (Tenor). " [[203-206]]--Venetian song (Baritone). _Pan Voyevoda_ [[20-26]]--Maria's cradle song (Sopr). Colour and character of voices. The colouring of the voice, whether it be brilliant or dull, sombre or sonorous depends upon the individual singer, and the composer has no need to consider it. The chief question is interpretation and may be solved by the judicious choice of artists. From the point of view of flexibility and expression voices may be divided into two classes, _lyric_ and _dramatic_. The latter is more powerful and of greater range, the former possesses more suppleness and elasticity and is more readily disposed to different shades of expression. Granted that the rare combination of the two classes is the composer's ideal, he should nevertheless be content to follow the main artistic purpose which he has set out the [Transcriber's Note: to] achieve. In complicated and important works the composer should bear in mind the characteristics of the various voices he employs; moreover, if he use two voices of the same calibre, e.g. 2 Sopranos or 2 Tenors, he should discriminate between the range and register of their respective parts, writing for one slightly higher than the other. It is no rare occurrence to meet with voices of an intermediate character (mezzo-carattere) combining the qualities of each type to a modified extent. To such voices the composer may assign rôles demanding the characteristics of each class, especially secondary rôles. At the present day, besides the rôles suitable to the dramatic and lyric type of voice, it is customary to give prominence to those demanding some special qualifications, voices of a certain tenderness or power, a specified range or degree of flexibility--attributes decided by the artistic object in view. In casting secondary and minor rôles the composer is advised to employ a medium range and less exacting demands on technique. _Note._ After Meyerbeer, who was the first to write for a special type of heavy mezzo-soprano and baritone, Richard Wagner created a type of powerful dramatic soprano, of extensive range, combining the quality and scope of the soprano and mezzo-soprano voices; likewise a similar type of tenor, possessing the attributes and compass of the tenor and baritone together. To demand that voices shall be equally brilliant and resonant in the high and low register, that singers shall be endowed with a super-powerful breathing apparatus and an extraordinary faculty for resistance to fatigue (Siegfried, Parsifal, Tristan, Brünhilda, Kundry, Isolda), is to exact something little short of the miraculous. Such voices are to be found, but there are some singers with excellent though not phenomenal vocal powers, who, by the constant pursuit of Wagnerian parts endeavour to increase their range and volume, and only succeed in depriving the voice of correct intonation, beauty of tone, and all subtlety of _nuances_. I believe that less exacting demands and greater perception of what is required, skilful and judicious use of the high and low registers of the voice, a proper understanding of _cantabile_ writing combined with orchestration which never overpowers the vocal part will be of greater service to the composer, from an artistic point of view, than the more elaborate methods of Richard Wagner. Voices in combination. Treating solo voices in a polyphonico-harmonic manner is the best method of preserving their individual character in _ensembles_. A distribution which is wholly harmonic or entirely polyphonic is seldom found. The first plan, largely used in choral writing, simplifies the movement of the voices too greatly, eliminating their melodic character; the second method is wearisome and somewhat disturbing to the ear. As a general rule the voices are arranged according to the law of normal register. Crossing of parts is rare and should only be done with the intention of emphasising the melody in the ascending voices above those adjacent in register, e.g. the tenor part above contralto, the mezzo-soprano above the soprano, etc. Duet. The combinations most conducive to the proper movement of parts are those of two voices related within an octave 8 [Sopr./Ten., M.-sopr./Bar., C.-alto/Bass. Movement in tenths, sixths, thirds or octaves (the last very seldom) will always produce satisfactory _ensemble_, and if the parts progress polyphonically, it need not happen _frequently_ that they are separated by more than a tenth, or that undesirable crossing of parts will result. _Examples:_ _Sadko_ [[99-101]]--Sopr. and Tenor (cf. Ex. 289, 290). _Servilia_ [[143]]--Sopr. and Tenor. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act I [[48-50]]--Sopr. and Tenor. _Kashtcheï the Immortal_ [[62-64]]. Mezzo-sopr. and Baritone. =Voices related in fifths and fourths, 5 [Sopr./C.-alto, 4 [C.-alto/Ten., 5 [Ten./Bass.= should progress nearer to one another; it is rare for them to move in tenths, common in sixths and thirds; they may also proceed in unison. The two voices are seldom separated at a greater distance than an octave, and certain cases will require crossing of parts, which, however, should only be for periods of short duration. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[263-264]]--Soprano and Alto. * _The Christmas Night_ [[78-80]]--Alto and Tenor. * _Legend of Kitesh_ [[338]]--Tenor and Bass. Voices related in thirds; 3 [Sopr. M.-sopr. Ten. Bar. [M.-sopr., C.-alto, Bass, Bass, may move in unison, in thirds and sixths, and admit very largely of the crossing of parts. Separation by more than an octave must only be momentary, and is generally to be avoided. _Examples:_ * _The Tsar's Bride_ [[174]]--Sopr. and Mezzo-sopr. * _Tsar Saltan_ [[5-6]]--Sopr. and Mezzo-sopr. In the case of voices related in twelfths: 12 [Sopr./Bass, intervals approaching one another do not create a good effect, for this transplants the deeper voice into the upper register and _vice versa_. Singing in unison is no longer possible, and thirds are to be avoided; the use of sixths, tenths and thirteenths is recommended. The voices will often be separated by more than a twelfth and crossing of parts is out of the question. _Example:_ * _Tsar Saltan_ [[254-255]]. Relationship in tenths 10 [Sopr./Bar. or M.-sopr./Bass is fairly common. The explanations given above are also applicable in this case. _Example:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[291-300]] (cf. extract, Ex. 118) Sopr. and Bar. The use of similar voices in pairs: Sopr./Sopr., Ten./Ten. entails singing in unison and thirds. They should rarely be separated beyond a sixth, but crossing of parts is inevitable, as otherwise the resultant volume of tone would be too weak. _Note._ Other possible combinations: C.-alto/Bar., M.-sopr./Ten., call for no special remarks. _Examples:_ * _The May Night_, Act I pp. 59-64--Mezzo-sopr. and Tenor. * _Sadko_ [[322-324]]--Mezzo-sopr. and Tenor. As a general rule, writing for two voices is only successful when the progression of parts is clear, when discords are prepared by a common note, or are the outcome of conveniently separated movement and correctly resolved. Empty intervals of fourths and perfect fifths, elevenths and twelfths should be avoided on the strong beats of a bar, especially on notes of some value. If, however, one of the voices assumes a melodic character, the other forming the harmonic accompaniment in declamatory style, it is not absolutely necessary to avoid the intervals mentioned above. _Note._ It is not within the scope of the present work to consider the writing of vocal parts in closer detail. This question must be left to the professor of free counterpoint. It remains to be noted that the human voice accompanied by the orchestra is always heard independently as something apart, something complete in itself. For this reason a composer may never rely on the orchestra to fill up an empty space or correct a fault in the handling of voices. All the rules of harmony and counterpoint, down to the last detail, must be applied to vocal writing, which is never dependent upon orchestral accompaniment. Trios, quartets etc. All that has been said regarding the relationship of voices in duet applies with equal force to the combination of three, four, five or more voices. An _ensemble_ of several voices is seldom purely polyphonic; as a rule, although some parts move polyphonically, progression in thirds, sixths, tenths and thirteenths is used for the remainder. Declamation for some voices on notes forming the harmony is also possible. This variety of simultaneous movement of vocal parts renders the comprehension of the total effect less difficult for the ear, and sanctions the distribution of distinctive and suitable figures or tone colouring to certain voices with other figures or timbres which may be proceeding at the same time. The skilful arrangement of pauses and re-entries facilitates the understanding of the whole, and gives desirable prominence to detail. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[267]]--Trio, Finale to Act III. _The Tsar's Bride_ [[116-118]]--Quartet in Act II. " " " [[168-171]]--Sextet in Act III (cf. extract, Ex. 283). _Servilia_ [[149-152]]--Quintet in Act III. The movement of solo voices is seldom purely harmonic in character with predominance given to the upper voices homophonically treated. The blending of all the parts into an harmonic whole, without any distinctive predominant feature in any one part (as in a chorale) is employed for songs or _ensembles_ in traditional style, prayers, hymns, etc. If this method is adopted for the quartet of voices, Sopr./Alto/Ten./Bass, it will be noted that widely-spaced part writing is the most natural and suitable form (especially in _forte_ passages), as the four voices can sing together in their proper registers (low, middle and high), while, in close part writing they may find themselves at a given moment in registers, which are entirely foreign. But both methods should be employed, as, otherwise, it would be impossible to guarantee equality in even the shortest succession of chords. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[178]] Hymn of Tsar Berendey's subjects. No. 305. _Legend of Kitesh_ [[341]]. The second half of the last example is an instance of six-part harmonic writing; the upper voice stands out prominently, the rest form a kind of accompaniment. Chorus. Range and register. The range of choral voices is slightly more limited than that of soloists. The exceptional register may be considered as two notes above and below the normal octave. The dotted lines extended still further indicate the limits upon which a composer may rely in very exceptional cases, as every full chorus must contain a few voices of more than average compass, in this respect approaching the solo voice in character. In many choruses one or two bass singers may be found who are able to go still lower than the limit of the exceptional range (they are called _octavists_).[19] [Footnote 19: _Contrebasses_ voices as they are called when mentioned in French works are peculiar to Russia, in which country they are plentiful. (Translator's note.)] _Note._ These uncommonly deep notes must be moderately well sustained and can only be used when the whole chorus is singing quite _piano_; they are hardly applicable except in unaccompanied choruses (_a cappella_). The difference in range between the "firsts" and "seconds" in each type may be fixed as follows: the normal octave and the exceptionally low register should be allotted to the "seconds", the same octave and the exceptionally high register to the "firsts". The composition of the chorus is approximately as follows: for a full chorus, 32 singers to each of the 4 parts sopr., alt., ten. and bass; for a chorus of medium size, from 16 to 20, and for a small chorus from 8 to 10 singers. The number of women will often predominate, and more voices are given to the "firsts" than to the "seconds". On account of stage requirements a chorus may have to be divided into two or even three separate parts. This is a great disadvantage, especially with a small chorus, as each chorister becomes more or less a soloist. The methods of writing for operatic chorus are very numerous. Besides the primary harmonico-polyphonic arrangement, containing the whole musical idea, the voices may be made to enter separately, singing or declaiming phrases of varying length; they may progress in unison or in octaves; one vocal part may repeat certain notes or the whole chorus reiterate certain chords; one melodic part may predominate (the upper part for preference), the others forming an harmonic accompaniment; isolated exclamatory phrases may be given to the whole chorus or to certain portions of it, and finally, the entire chorus may be treated in a purely harmonic manner in chords, with the essential melodic design allotted to the orchestra. Having outlined the principal methods of handling the chorus, I advise the reader to study vocal and orchestral scores where he will find many illustrations impossible to deal with here. There exists another most important operation, the division of the chorus into different groups. The most natural method is to divide it into men's chorus and women's chorus. Less frequent combinations are altos, tenors and basses, or sopranos, altos and tenors. There remains yet another point to be considered, the sub-division of each part into two's and three's. Men's and women's choruses, considered as distinct unities may alternate either one with the other, or with the principal chorus. For this reason sub-division increases the possibilities of choral writing, and, as I have already remarked, it is only by the study of choral works that the student will acquire mastery over this branch of composition, the fundamental principles of which can only be faintly outlined in the course of the present work. Melody. Melody is more limited in the chorus than in the solo voice, both as regards range as well as mobility. Choristers' voices are less "settled" and not so highly trained as those of soloists. Sometimes solo and choral melody are similar in point of range and technique, but more often the latter is lacking in freedom and variety of rhythm, restricted as it is to the repetition of short phrases, while the solo voice demands broader melodic outline and greater freedom in construction. In this respect choral melody more closely resembles instrumental melody. Pauses for taking breath are not so important with chorus singers as with soloists; the former do not need to breathe all together and each singer may take a slight rest from time to time, thus obviating the necessity for sudden complete silences. The question of suitable vowels is likewise of secondary importance. The change from notes of short value to long, vocalisation on syllables and other questions mentioned above are equally applicable to choral melody, but in a minor degree. Not more than two or three notes should be written on one syllable except for fanciful and whimsical effects. _Example:_ No. 306. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[262]]; see also before [[123]]. A. Mixed chorus. Chorus in unison. The simplest and most natural combination of voices is sopranos and altos, or tenors and basses. These combinations produce ample and vigourous tone, and the mixed timbres serve to give prominence to a melody in the upper or bass parts. In practice the other voices are often divided to thicken the harmony. The combination of altos and tenors produces a peculiar mixed tone quality, somewhat _bizarre_ and seldom used. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[64]]. _Sadko_ [[208]] (cf. Ex. 14). Progression in octaves. The most beautiful and natural combinations are sopranos and tenors 8 [Sopr./Ten., altos and basses 8 [Altos/Basses; they produce a tone both brilliant and powerful. Progression of sopranos and altos, or tenors and basses is seldom practised. Though the latter combinations may occur in choruses for women and men alone, they can only be used in melodies of restricted length. The difference of register in which the voices move does not permit of the same balance of tone obtained by voices of a distinctive kind. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[60]], [[61]]--Carnival Procession. " [[113]]--Wedding Ceremony. _Sadko_ [[37]]--Chorus of Guests, 1st Tableau. Dividing kindred voices in octaves is seldom done, 8 [Sopr. I/Sopr. II etc., except perhaps in the basses 8 [Basses I/Basses II, when the progression of parts demand it, or it is required to double the bass part in octaves. _Examples:_ _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III [[68]]--Final chorus (cf. Ex. 312). _Sadko_ [[341]]--Final chorus. A beautifully round tone results from doubling men's and women's voices in octaves 8 [Sopr. + Altos/Ten. + Basses. _Example:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[323]]--Final chorus. Brilliance and vigour is achieved when sopranos and altos progress in thirds doubled in octaves by tenors and basses also in thirds: 8 [Sopr./Altos] 3/[Ten./Basses] 3. _Examples:_ _Mlada_, Act I [[24]]; Act II, before [[31]]. _The Golden Cockerel_ [[235]]. On the rare occasions when the whole chorus progresses in double octaves the usual arrangement is: Sopr. + Altos] 8 [Sopr. 8 [Ten. ] 8, or else [Altos + Ten. ] [Basses Basses] 8. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[319]]. _Sadko_ [[182]]. Voices (_divisi_); harmonic use of the mixed chorus. The purely harmonic progression of a four-part mixed chorus is more natural and resonant when the harmony is of the widely divided order, so that the volume of tone is equally distributed throughout. _Example:_ No. 307. _Sadko_ [[144]]--Beginning of 3rd tableau. To secure a well-balanced _forte_ chord in close part writing the following distribution is recommended: [Sopr. I [Sopr. II Altos [Ten. I [Ten. II [Basses I [Basses II. Three harmonic parts in the high register (2 sopranos and altos) are doubled an octave lower by 2 tenors and the 1st basses. The lower part is undertaken by the 2nd basses. In this manner the tenors sing in the soprano octave, the 1st basses in the alto octave and the 2nd basses are independent. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[327]]--End of the work. _Mlada_, Act II [[20]]--Procession of Princes. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act II [[19]] (cf. Ex. 212). Division of parts can be adopted when one of them is entrusted with a melody, the remainder forming a sufficiently full accompaniment. The choice of parts to be divided depends upon the range of the upper one. When a harmonic-melodic phrase is repeated in different keys and registers, it may be necessary to distribute the parts and divide them in another manner, so as to maintain proper choral balance. As an illustration I give two extracts of identical musical context, the second (_F_ major) being a third higher than the first (_D_ major). In the first example the altos are added to the sopranos to strengthen the melody; the tenors and basses _divisi_ form the harmony. In the second example the melody being a third higher may be given to the sopranos alone; the altos therefore take part in the harmony, and consequently the lower parts are divided in a different way. _Examples:_ _Sadko_ [[173]] and [[177]] (cf. Ex. 205 and 206); compare also the same music in _G_ major [[189]]. No. 309-310. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act I [[77]]. Example 307 is an instance of widely-spaced four-part writing forming the harmonic basis, with the melodic idea in the orchestra. In Example 308, the same in musical context, the melodic figure is given to the sopranos, and among the other parts which form the harmony the tenors are divided. _Example:_ No. 308. _Sadko_ [[152]]. In polyphonic writing exceeding 4 part harmony the voices should be divided so as to obtain the necessary number of actual parts. One part may be divided into as many as three different parts, 3 sopranos, 3 altos etc. _Examples:_ No. 312. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III [[69]]--Final chorus. _Servilia_ [[233]]--Final chorus. _Mlada_, Act IV [[35-36]]--Final chorus. In _fugato_ writing and fugal imitation for mixed chorus the distribution is generally in four parts, but this number may be increased for cumulative effects as in the example quoted. In such cases the composer should be careful as to the arrangement of the final chord, the summit and climax of the passage. After the entry of the last of the voices the progression of such a passage should be handled with a view to the tone of the final chord. The treatment should be such that concords produced by divided voices or different groups of voices retain their full value; and if the final chord be a discord its effect may be heightened by means of crossing of parts. The reader is advised to examine carefully the progression of parts leading up to the final chord in each of the examples given above, paying special attention to the distribution of these final chords. Crossing of parts must not be effected at random. The arrangement of choral parts follows the natural order of register and can only be altered for short spaces of time to give momentary prominence to some melodic or declamatory phrase. _Examples:_ _Ivan the Terrible_, Act I [[79]], Act II [[5]], Act III [[67]]. B. Men's chorus and women's chorus. In writing a three-part female chorus the division should be either Sopr. I/Sopr. II/Altos or Sopr./Altos I/Altos II; the same for men: Ten. I/Ten. II/Bass or Ten./Bass I/Bass II. The choice of distribution depends upon which voice is to predominate, or the register in which the group is to be placed. The manner of dividing the parts may change, one following the other at will. In four-part harmonic writing the method of division is self-evident: Sopr. I Sopr. II Altos I Altos II Ten. I Ten. II Bass I Bass II To give prominence to a melody in the middle part in three-part harmony, the following method may be adopted: Sopr. I Ten. I Sopr. II + Altos I, or Ten. II + Bass I. Altos II Bass II If, in three-part writing, the melody has to stand out in the upper part, the harmony may be either widely-divided or close. _Examples:_ _Ivan the Terrible_, Act I [[25-26]], [[23-31]] (Women's chorus). _Sadko_, before [[181]]--Men's chorus (cf. Ex. 27). No. 311. _Sadko_ [[270-272]]--Women's chorus. In four-part choral writing close harmony is preferable, otherwise the upper part will be in too high a register and the range of the bottom part too low. _Examples:_ _Sadko_ [[17]]--Male chorus. _Ivan the Terrible_, Act II [[36-38]]--Female chorus (cf. Ex. 296). Distribution in two parts which is generally polyphonic does not call for any special remarks; the same may be said of chorus in unison. _Examples:_ _Sadko_ [[50]]--Male chorus. _Mlada_, beginning of Act I. } _Ivan the Terrible_, Act III [[13-15]]. } Female chorus. _Servilia_ [[26]]. } If male and female choruses are handled in a purely harmonic manner close part writing should be adopted. This is the only way to secure proper balance of tone in chords given to voices of the same kind. Successions of chords in three parts are more frequent than those in four; sometimes a series of chords is practicable only in two parts. _Examples:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[19]]--Chorus of Birds. " [[281-285]]--Chorus of Flowers (cf. Ex. 26). In _fugato_ writing, and fugal imitation in three parts, allotted to a chorus composed of voices of one kind, the principal subject is given to two parts, the counter subject to one; by this method the doubled themes will stand out to better advantage. _Examples:_ _Sadko_ [[20-21]]. * _The Tsar's Bride_ [[29-30]]. Male and female choruses, apart from the part they play as individual unities, may be introduced as separate groups in mixed choruses alternating with the whole _ensemble_. _Example:_ _Snegourotchka_ [[198]]--Hymn of Tsar Berendey's Subjects (cf. Ex. 166). As a general rule a female chorus does not contain the real harmonic bass part when this part is situated in the low register, so that no octaves are formed between the real bass and the lower choral voice. Harmony in a chorus for women is generally given to the three upper parts, the lower part acting as accompanying bass. It will be noticed that this rule may lead to the employment of chords of the sixth and empty consecutive fourth's and fifth's which should be avoided. In example No. 311 (_Sadko_ [[270]]), this is remedied by the high position of the bass part; later an empty interval (4/5) occurs, but only for a moment, and still further on another such interval is avoided by the union of all the voices in the octave (_B/B_). In Ex. No. 304 (_Sadko_ [[83]]) the harmonic bass in the low register is carefully omitted, but when transferred to the upper register it is doubled. I conclude the present chapter with the following necessary observations: 1. The operation of dividing voices undoubtedly weakens their resonance, and as the reader will have observed, one of the principal factors in good orchestration is _equal_ balance of tone in the distribution of chords. But in choral writing the question is somewhat different. The orchestra, even after repeated rehearsal always _plays from music_; the operatic chorus, on the other hand, sings by heart. The chorus master can carry out the composer's instructions as to the division of parts in one way or another, varying and adjusting the number of singers to each part. By manipulating some shade of expression he can maintain a balance of tone between divided and undivided voices. In orchestral material the composer has to handle a great number of timbres, widely different in character and volume of tone. In the chorus there are but four qualities. A chorus moving about the stage cannot convey varying shades of expression so exactly as an orchestra seated at the desk. It may therefore be safely assumed that a composer is entitled to some licence in the question of dividing choral parts; dealing with the orchestra involves greater foresight and care. 2. In trying to obtain equal balance in writing three-part choruses for male or female chorus I have often resorted to the method of doubling the middle part as recommended on p. 149. The chorus master is at liberty to equalise the chorus by transferring voices from one part to another. In choruses divided into three parts I have noticed that chorus masters are in the habit of giving the upper part to Sopr. I, or Ten. I, and the two lower parts to Sopr. II and Ten. II divided. I consider this arrangement unsound, as the balance of parts can never be equal. The attention of chorus masters is called to the necessity of strengthening middle parts, for the expedient of giving prominence to the upper part concerns melody alone and leaves harmony out of the question. 3. Skilful management of choral parts is a fairly safe guarantee of clear and satisfactory performance. Miscalculations in writing are a great hindrance to study, and the most experienced chorus may come to grief through faulty progression of parts. If the progression of parts is correct, if discords are properly prepared, sudden and remote modulations, even of the harshest and most uncommon kind will be comparatively simple and may be approached with some degree of confidence. This is a fact which composers do not always bear in mind, but singers know it well and appreciate its importance to the full. As an instance I quote the very difficult modulation which occurs in Ex. No. 169 (_Sadko_ [[302]]). I doubt whether it could be sung if written in any other way. Careful endeavour on the part of a composer is better than useless struggle inflicted upon the performer. July 31st (Aug. 13th) 1905. _Principles of Orchestration_ [VOLUME II] The musical examples in this volume are taken from the composer's following works: W. BESSEL & CO., publishers, Petrograd. "IVAN THE TERRIBLE", opera in 3 acts, 1894 edition. "SNEGOUROTCHKA", opera in prologue and 4 acts (1880-1881). "THE LEGEND OF TSAR SALTAN", opera in prologue and 4 acts (1899-1900). "SERVILIA", opera in 5 acts (1900-1901). "KASHTCHEÏ THE IMMORTAL", opera in 1 act of 3 scenes (1902). "PAN VOYEVODA", opera in 4 acts (1902-1903). "VERA SCHELOGA", prologue to "IVAN THE TERRIBLE", op. 54 (1898). "ANTAR", symphonic suite (2nd symphony), _new edition_ of 1897, published in 1913. P. JURGENSON, publisher, Moscow. "SADKO", symphonic poem, 1891-1892 edition. "THE GOLDEN COCKEREL", opera in 3 acts (1906-1907). M.P. BELAIEFF, publisher, Leipzig. "THE MAY NIGHT", opera in 3 acts (1878-1879). "MLADA", opera-ballet in 4 acts (1889-1890). "THE CHRISTMAS NIGHT", opera in 4 acts (1894-1895). "SADKO", opera-legend in 7 scenes (1895-1896). "THE TSAR'S BRIDE", opera in 4 acts (1898). "THE LEGEND OF THE INVISIBLE CITY OF KITESH AND THE MAID FEVRONIA", opera in 4 acts (1903-1905). "SPANISH CAPRICCIO", op. 34 (1887). "SHEHERAZADE", symphonic suite from the "THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS", op. 35 (1888). "RUSSIAN EASTER FÊTE", Overture on Russian Church Themes, op. 36 (1888). [Transcriber's Note: See the HTML version for the musical examples in Volume II.] 
3770	----	A SECOND BOOK OF OPERAS by Henry Edward Krehbiel CONTENTS AND INDEX CHAPTER I BIBLICAL OPERAS England and the Lord Chamberlain's censorship, et Gounod's "Reine de Saba," The transmigrations of "Un Ballo in Maschera," How composers revamp their music, et seq,--Handel and Keiser, Mozart and Bertati, Beethoven's readaptations of his own works, Rossini and his "Barber of Seville," Verdi's "Nebuchadnezzar," Rossini's "Moses," "Samson et Dalila," Goldmark's "Konigin von Saba," The Biblical operas of Rubinstein, Mehul's "Joseph," Mendelssohn's "Elijah" in dramatic form, Oratorios and Lenten operas in Italy, Carissimi and Peri, Scarlatti's oratorios, Scenery and costumes in oratorios, The passage of the Red Sea and "Dal tuo stellato," Nerves wrecked by beautiful music, "Peter the Hermit" and refractory mimic troops, "Mi manca la voce" and operatic amenities, Operatic prayers and ballets, Goethe's criticism of Rossini's "Mose," CHAPTER II BIBLE STORIES IN OPERA AND ORATORIO Dr. Chrysander's theory of the undramatic nature of the Hebrew, his literature, and his life, Hebrew history and Greek mythology, Some parallels, Old Testament subjects: Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, The "Kain" of Bulthaupt and d'Albert, "Tote Augen," Noah and the Deluge, Abraham, The Exodus, Mehal's "Joseph," Potiphar's wife and Richard Strauss, Raimondi's contrapuntal trilogy, Nebuchadnezzar, Judas Maccabaeus, Jephtha and his Daughter, Judith, Esther, Athalia, CHAPTER III RUBINSTEIN AND HIS "GEISTLICHE OPER" Anton Rubinstein and his ideals, An ambition to emulate Wagner, "The Tower of Babel," The composer's theories and strivings, et seq.--Dean Stanley, "Die Makkabaer," "Sulamith," "Christus," "Das verlorene Paradies," "Moses," Action and stage directions, New Testament stories in opera, The Prodigal Son, Legendary material and the story of the Nativity, Christ dramas, Hebbel and Wagner, "Parsifal," CHAPTER IV "SAMSON ET DALILA" The predecessors of M. Saint-Saens, Voltaire and Rameau, Duprez and Joachim Raff, History of Saint-Saens's opera, et seq.--Henri Regnault, First performances, As oratorio and opera in New York, An inquiry into the story of Samson, Samson and Herakles, The Hebrew hero in legend, A true type for tragedy, Mythological interpretations, Saint-Saens's opera described, et seq.--A choral prologue, Local color, The character of Dalila, et seq.--Milton on her wifehood and patriotism, "Printemps qui commence," "Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix," Oriental ballet music, The catastrophe, CHAPTER V "DIE KONIGIN VON SABA" Meritoriousness of the book of Goldmark's opera, Its slight connection with Biblical story, Contents of the drama et seq.--Parallelism with Wagner's "Tannhauser," First performance in New York, Oriental luxury in scenic outfit, Goldmark's music, CHAPTER VI "HERODIADE" Modern opera and ancient courtesans, Transformed morals in Massenet's opera, A sea-change in England, Who and what was Salome? Plot of the opera, Scenic and musical adornments, Performances in New York, (footnote). CHAPTER VII "LAKME" Story of the opera, et seq.--The "Bell Song," Some unnecessary English ladies, First performance in New York, American history of the opera, Madame Patti, Miss Van Zandt Madame Sembrich Madame Tetrazzini, Criticism of the drama, The music, CHAPTER VIII "PAGLIACCI" The twin operas, "Cavalleria Rusticana" and "Pagliacci," Widespread influence of Mascagni's opera, It inspires an ambition in Leoncavallo, History of his opera, A tragic ending taken from real life, et seq.--Controversy between Leoncavallo and Catulle Mendes, et seq.--"La Femme de Tabarin," "Tabarin" operas, The "Drama Nuevo" of Estebanez and Mr. Howells's "Yorick's Love," What is a Pagliaccio? First performances of the opera in Milan and New York, The prologue, et seq.--The opera described, et seq.--Bagpipes and vesper bells, Harlequin's serenade, The Minuet, The Gavotte, "Plaudite, amici, la commedia finita est!" Philip Hale on who should speak the final words, CHAPTER IX "CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA" How Mascagni's opera impressed the author when it was new, Attic tragedy and Attic decorum, The loathsome operatic brood which it spawned, Not matched by the composer or his imitators since, Mascagni's account of how it came to be written, et seq.--Verga's story, et seq.--Story and libretto compared, The Siciliano, The Easter hymn, Analysis of the opera, et seq.--The prelude, Lola's stornello, The intermezzo, "They have killed Neighbor Turiddu!" CHAPTER X THE CAREER OF MASCAGNI Influence of "Cavalleria Rusticana" on operatic composition, "Santuzza," a German sequel, Cilea's "Tilda," Giordano's "Mala Vita," Tasca's "A Santa Lucia," Mascagni's history, et seq.--Composes Schiller's "Hymn to Joy," "Il Filanda," "Ratcliff," "L'Amico Fritz," "I Rantzau," "Silvano," "Zanetto," "Le Maschere," "Vistillia," "Arnica," Mascagni's American visit, CHAPTER XI "IRIS" The song of the sun, Allegory and drama, Story of the opera, et seq.--The music, et seq.--Turbid orchestration, Local color, Borrowings from Meyerbeer, CHAPTER XII "MADAMA BUTTERFLY" The opera's ancestry, Loti's "Madame Chrysantheme," John Luther Long's story, David Belasco's play, How the failure of "Naughty Anthony" suggested "Madame Butterfly," William Furst and his music, Success of Mr. Belasco's play in New York, The success repeated in London, Brought to the attention of Signor Puccini, Ricordi and Co. and their librettists, "Madama Butterfly" fails in Milan, The first casts in Milan, Brescia, and New York, (footnote) Incidents of the fiasco, Rossini and Puccini, The opera revised, Interruption of the vigil, Story of the opera, et seq.--The hiring of wives in Japan, Experiences of Pierre Loti, Geishas and mousmes, A changed denouement, Messager's opera, "Madame Chrysantheme," The end of Loti's romance, Japanese melodies in the score, Puccini's method and Wagner's, "The Star-Spangled Banner," A tune from "The Mikado," Some of the themes of Puccini and William Furst, CHAPTER XIII "DER ROSENKAVALIER" The opera's predecessors, "Guntram," "Feuersnot," "Salome," Oscar Wilde makes a mistaken appeal to France, His necrophilism welcomed by Richard Strauss and Berlin, Conried's efforts to produce "Salome" at the Metropolitan Opera Blouse suppressed, Hammerstein produces the work, "Elektra," Hugo von Hoffmannsthal and Beaumarchais, Strauss and Mozart, Mozart's themes and Strauss's waltzes, Dancing in Vienna at the time of Maria Theresa, First performance of the opera at New York, "Der Rosenkavalier" and "Le Nozze di Figaro," Criticism of the play and its music, et seq.--Use of a melodic phrase from "Die Zauberflote," The language of the libretto, The music, Cast of the first American performance, (footnote) CHAPTER XIV "KONIGSKINDER" Story of the play, et seq.--First production of Hummerdinck's opera and cast, Earlier performance of the work as a melodrama, Author and composer, Opera and melodrama in Germany, Wagnerian symbolism and music, "Die Meistersinger" recalled, Hero and Leander, Humperdinck's music, CHAPTER XV "BORIS GODOUNOFF" First performance of Moussorgsky's opera in New York, Participation of the chorus in the tragedy, Imported French enthusiasm, Vocal melody, textual accents and rhythms, Slavicism expressed in an Italian translation, Moussorgsky and Debussy, Political reasons for French enthusiasm, Rimsky-Korsakoff's revision of the score, Russian operas in America, "Nero," "Pique Dame," "Eugene Onegin," Verstoffeky's "Askold's Tomb," The nationalism of "Boris Godounoff," The Kolydda song "Slava" and Beethoven, Lack of the feminine element in the drama, The opera's lack of coherency, Cast of the first American performance, CHAPTER XVI "MADAME SANS-GENE" AND OTHER OPERAS BY GIORDANO First performance of "Madame Sans-Gene," A singing Napoleon, Royalties in opera, Henry the Fowler, King Mark, Verdi's Pharaoh, Herod, Boris Godounoff, Macbeth, Gustavus and some mythical kings and dukes, et seq.--Mattheson's "Boris," Peter the Great, Sardou's play and Giordano's opera, Verdi on an operatic Bonaparte, Sardou's characters, "Andrea Chenier," French Rhythms, "Fedora," "Siberia," The historic Chenier, Russian local color, "Schone Minka," "Slava," "Ay ouchnem," French revolutionary airs, "La Marseillaise," "La Carmagnole," "Ca ira," CHAPTER XVII TWO OPERAS BY WOLF-FERRARI The composer's operas first sung in their original tongue in America, First performances of "Le Donne Curiose," "Il Segreto di Susanna," "I Giojelli della Madonna," "L'Amore Medico," Story and music of "Le Donne Curiose," Methods and apparatus of Mozart's day, Wolf-Ferrari's Teutonism, Goldoni paraphrased, Nicolai and Verdi, The German version of "Donne Curiose," Musical motivi in the opera, Rameau's "La Poule," Cast of the first performance in New York, (footnote)--Naples and opera, "I Giojelli della Madonna," et seq.--Erlanger's "Aphrodite," Neapolitan folksongs, Wolf-Ferrari's individuality, His "Vita Nuova," First performance in America of "I Giojelli," CHAPTER I BIBLICAL OPERAS Whether or not the English owe a grudge to their Lord Chamberlain for depriving them of the pleasure of seeing operas based on Biblical stories I do not know. If they do, the grudge cannot be a deep one, for it is a long time since Biblical operas were in vogue, and in the case of the very few survivals it has been easy to solve the difficulty and salve the conscience of the public censor by the simple device of changing the names of the characters and the scene of action if the works are to be presented on the stage, or omitting scenery, costumes and action and performing them as oratorios. In either case, whenever this has been done, however, it has been the habit of critics to make merry at the expense of my Lord Chamberlain and the puritanicalness of the popular spirit of which he is supposed to be the official embodiment, and to discourse lugubriously and mayhap profoundly on the perversion of composers' purposes and the loss of things essential to the lyric drama. It may be heretical to say so, but is it not possible that Lord Chamberlain and Critic have both taken too serious a view of the matter? There is a vast amount of admirable material in the Bible (historical, legendary or mythical, as one happens to regard it), which would not necessarily be degraded by dramatic treatment, and which might be made entertaining as well as edifying, as it has been made in the past, by stage representation. Reverence for this material is neither inculcated nor preserved by shifting the scene and throwing a veil over names too transparent to effect a disguise. Moreover, when this is done, there is always danger that the process may involve a sacrifice of the respect to which a work of art is entitled on its merits as such. Gounod, in collaboration with Barbier and Carre, wrote an opera entitled "La Reine de Saba." The plot had nothing to do with the Bible beyond the name of Sheba's Queen and King Solomon. Mr. Farnie, who used to make comic operetta books in London, adapted the French libretto for performance in English and called the opera "Irene." What a title for a grand opera! Why not "Blanche" or "Arabella"? No doubt such a thought flitted through many a careless mind unconscious that an Irene was a Byzantine Empress of the eighth century, who, by her devotion to its tenets, won beatification after death from the Greek Church. The opera failed on the Continent as well as in London, but if it had not been given a comic operetta flavor by its title and association with the name of the excellent Mr. Farnie, would the change in supposed time, place and people have harmed it? A few years ago I read (with amusement, of course) of the metamorphosis to which Massenet's "Herodiade" was subjected so that it might masquerade for a brief space on the London stage; but when I saw the opera in New York "in the original package" (to speak commercially), I could well believe that the music sounded the same in London, though John the Baptist sang under an alias and the painted scenes were supposed to delineate Ethiopia instead of Palestine. There is a good deal of nonsensical affectation in the talk about the intimate association in the minds of composers of music, text, incident, and original purpose. "Un Ballo in Maschera," as we see it most often nowadays, plays in Nomansland; but I fancy that its music would sound pretty much the same if the theatre of action were transplanted back to Sweden, whence it came originally, or left in Naples, whither it emigrated, or in Boston, to which highly inappropriate place it was banished to oblige the Neapolitan censor. So long as composers have the habit of plucking feathers out of their dead birds to make wings for their new, we are likely to remain in happy and contented ignorance of mesalliances between music and score, until they are pointed out by too curious critics or confessed by the author. What is present habit was former custom to which no kind or degree of stigma attached. Bach did it; Handel did it; nor was either of these worthies always scrupulous in distinguishing between meum and tuum when it came to appropriating existing thematic material. In their day the merit of individuality and the right of property lay more in the manner in which ideas were presented than in the ideas themselves. In 1886 I spent a delightful day with Dr. Chrysander at his home in Bergedorf, near Hamburg, and he told me the story of how on one occasion, when Keiser was incapacitated by the vice to which he was habitually prone, Handel, who sat in his orchestra, was asked by him to write the necessary opera. Handel complied, and his success was too great to leave Keiser's mind in peace. So he reset the book. Before Keiser's setting was ready for production Handel had gone to Italy. Hearing of Keiser's act, he secured a copy of the new setting from a member of the orchestra and sent back to Hamburg a composition based on Keiser's melodies "to show how such themes ought to be treated." Dr. Chrysander, also, when he gave me a copy of Bertati's "Don Giovanni" libretto, for which Gazzaniga composed the music, told me that Mozart had been only a little less free than the poet in appropriating ideas from the older work. One of the best pieces in the final scene of "Fidelio" was taken from a cantata on the death of the emperor of Austria, composed by Beethoven before he left Bonn. The melody originally conceived for the last movement of the Symphony in D minor was developed into the finale of one of the last string quartets. In fact the instances in which composers have put their pieces to widely divergent purposes are innumerable and sometimes amusing, in view of the fantastic belief that they are guided by plenary inspiration. The overture which Rossini wrote for his "Barber of Seville" was lost soon after the first production of the opera. The composer did not take the trouble to write another, but appropriated one which had served its purpose in an earlier work. Persons ignorant of that fact, but with lively imaginations, as I have said in one of my books, ["A Book of Operas," p. 9] have rhapsodized on its appositeness, and professed to hear in it the whispered plottings of the lovers and the merry raillery of Rosina contrasted with the futile ragings of her grouty guardian; but when Rossini composed this piece of music its mission was to introduce an adventure of the Emperor Aurelianus in Palmyra in the third century of the Christian era. Having served that purpose it became the prelude to another opera which dealt with Queen Elizabeth of England, a monarch who reigned some twelve hundred years after Aurelianus. Again, before the melody now known as that of Almaviva's cavatina had burst into the efflorescence which now distinguishes it, it came as a chorus from the mouths of Cyrus and his Persians in ancient Babylon. When Mr. Lumley desired to produce Verdi's "Nabucodonosor" (called "Nabucco" for short) in London in 1846 he deferred to English tradition and brought out the opera as "Nino, Re d'Assyria." I confess that I cannot conceive how changing a king of Babylon to a king of Assyria could possibly have brought about a change one way or the other in the effectiveness of Verdi's Italian music, but Mr. Lumley professed to have found in the transformation reason for the English failure. At any rate, he commented, in his "Reminiscences of the Opera," "That the opera thus lost much of its original character, especially in the scene where the captive Israelites became very uninteresting Babylonians, and was thereby shorn of one element of success present on the Continent, is undeniable." There is another case even more to the purpose of this present discussion. In 1818 Rossini produced his opera "Mose in Egitto" in Naples. The strength of the work lay in its choruses; yet two of them were borrowed from the composer's "Armida." In 1822 Bochsa performed it as an oratorio at Covent Garden, but, says John Ebers in his "Seven Years of the King's Theatre," published in 1828, "the audience accustomed to the weighty metal and pearls of price of Handel's compositions found the 'Moses' as dust in the balance in comparison." "The oratorio having failed as completely as erst did Pharaoh's host," Ebers continues, "the ashes of 'Mose in Egitto' revived in the form of an opera entitled 'Pietro l'Eremita.' Moses was transformed into Peter. In this form the opera was as successful as it had been unfortunate as an oratorio.... 'Mose in Egitto' was condemned as cold, dull, and heavy. 'Pietro l'Eremita,' Lord Sefton, one of the most competent judges of the day, pronounced to be the most effective opera produced within his recollection; and the public confirmed the justice of the remark, for no opera during my management had such unequivocal success." [Footnote: "Seven Years of the King's Theatre," by John Ebers, pp. 157, 158.] This was not the end of the opera's vicissitudes, to some of which I shall recur presently; let this suffice now: Rossini rewrote it in 1827, adding some new music for the Academie Royal in Paris, and called it "Moise"; when it was revived for the Covent Garden oratorios, London, in 1833, it was not only performed with scenery and dresses, but recruited with music from Handel's oratorio and renamed "The Israelites in Egypt; or the Passage of the Red Sea"; when the French "Moise" reached the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden, in April, 1850, it had still another name, "Zora," though Chorley does not mention the fact in his "Thirty Years' Musical Recollections," probably because the failure of the opera which he loved grieved him too deeply. For a long time "Moses" occupied a prominent place among oratorios. The Handel and Haydn Society of Boston adopted it in 1845, and between then and 1878 performed it forty-five times. In all the years of my intimate association with the lyric drama (considerably more than the number of which Mr. Chorley has left us a record) I have seen but one opera in which the plot adheres to the Biblical story indicated by its title. That opera is Saint-Saens's "Samson et Dalila." I have seen others whose titles and dramatis personae suggested narratives found in Holy Writ, but in nearly all these cases it would be a profanation of the Book to call them Biblical operas. Those which come to mind are Goldmark's "Konigin von Saba," Massenet's "Herodiade" and Richard Strauss's "Salome." I have heard, in whole or part, but not seen, three of the works which Rubinstein would fain have us believe are operas, but which are not--"Das verlorene Paradies," "Der Thurmbau zu Babel" and "Moses"; and I have a study acquaintance with the books and scores of his "Maccabaer," which is an opera; his "Sulamith," which tries to be one, and his "Christus," which marks the culmination of the vainest effort that a contemporary composer made to parallel Wagner's achievement on a different line. There are other works which are sufficiently known to me through library communion or concert-room contact to enable me to claim enough acquaintanceship to justify converse about them and which must perforce occupy attention in this study. Chiefest and noblest of these are Rossini's "Moses" and Mehul's "Joseph." Finally, there are a few with which I have only a passing or speaking acquaintance; whose faces I can recognize, fragments of whose speech I know, and whose repute is such that I can contrive to guess at their hearts--such as Verdi's "Nabucodonosor" and Gounod's "Reine de Saba." Rossini's "Moses" was the last of the Italian operas (the last by a significant composer, at least) which used to be composed to ease the Lenten conscience in pleasure-loving Italy. Though written to be played with the adjuncts of scenery and costumes, it has less of action than might easily be infused into a performance of Mendelssohn's "Elijah," and the epical element which finds its exposition in the choruses is far greater than that in any opera of its time with which I am acquainted. In both its aspects, as oratorio and as opera, it harks back to a time when the two forms were essentially the same save in respect of subject matter. It is a convenient working hypothesis to take the classic tragedy of Hellas as the progenitor of the opera. It can also be taken as the prototype of the Festival of the Ass, which was celebrated as long ago as the twelfth century in France; of the miracle plays which were performed in England at the same time; the Commedia spiritiuale of thirteenth-century Italy and the Geistliche Schauspiele of fourteenth-century Germany. These mummeries with their admixture of church song, pointed the way as media of edification to the dramatic representations of Biblical scenes which Saint Philip Neri used to attract audiences to hear his sermons in the Church of St. Mary in Vallicella, in Rome, and the sacred musical dramas came to be called oratorios. While the camerata were seeking to revive the classic drama in Florence, Carissimi was experimenting with sacred material in Rome, and his epoch-making allegory, "La Rappresentazione dell' Anima e del Corpo," was brought out, almost simultaneously with Peri's "Euridice," in 1600. Putting off the fetters of plainsong, music became beautiful for its own sake, and as an agent of dramatic expression. His excursions into Biblical story were followed for a century or more by the authors of sacra azione, written to take the place of secular operas in Lent. The stories of Jephtha and his daughter, Hezekiah, Belshazzar, Abraham and Isaac, Jonah, Job, the Judgment of Solomon, and the Last Judgment became the staple of opera composers in Italy and Germany for more than a century. Alessandro Scarlatti, whose name looms large in the history of opera, also composed oratorios; and Mr. E. J. Dent, his biographer, has pointed out that "except that the operas are in three acts and the oratorios in two, the only difference is in the absence of professedly comic characters and of the formal statement in which the author protests that the words fata, dio, dieta, etc., are only scherzi poetici and imply nothing contrary to the Catholic faith." Zeno and Metastasio wrote texts for sacred operas as well as profane, with Tobias, Absalom, Joseph, David, Daniel, and Sisera as subjects. Presently I shall attempt a discussion of the gigantic attempt made by Rubinstein to enrich the stage with an art-form to which he gave a distinctive name, but which was little else than, an inflated type of the old sacra azione, employing the larger apparatus which modern invention and enterprise have placed at the command of the playwright, stage manager, and composer. I am compelled to see in his project chiefly a jealous ambition to rival the great and triumphant accomplishment of Richard Wagner, but it is possible that he had a prescient eye on a coming time. The desire to combine pictures with oratorio has survived the practice which prevailed down to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Handel used scenes and costumes when he produced his "Esther," as well as his "Acis and Galatea," in London. Dittersdorf has left for us a description of the stage decorations prepared for his oratorios when they were performed in the palace of the Bishop of Groswardein. Of late years there have been a number of theatrical representations of Mendelssohn's "Elijah." I have witnessed as well as heard a performance of "Acis and Galatea" and been entertained with the spectacle of Polyphemus crushing the head of presumptuous Acis with a stave like another Fafner while singing "Fly, thou massy ruin, fly" to the bludgeon which was playing understudy for the fatal rock. This diverting incident brings me to a consideration of one of the difficulties which stand in the way of effective stage pictures combined with action in the case of some of the most admired of the subjects for oratorios or sacred opera. It was not the Lord Chamberlain who stood in the way of Saint-Saens's "Samson et Dalila" in the United States for many years, but the worldly wisdom of opera managers who shrank from attempting to stage the spectacle of the falling Temple of Dagon, and found in the work itself a plentiful lack of that dramatic movement which is to-day considered more essential to success than beautiful and inspiriting music. "Samson et Dalila" was well known in its concert form when the management of the Metropolitan Opera House first attempted to introduce it as an opera. It had a single performance in the season of 1894-1895 and then sought seclusion from the stage lamps for twenty years. It was, perhaps, fortunate for the work that no attempt was made to repeat it, for, though well sung and satisfactorily acted, the toppling of the pillars of the temple, discreetly supported by too visible wires, at the conclusion made a stronger appeal to the popular sense of the ridiculous than even Saint-Saens's music could withstand. It is easy to inveigh against the notion frivolous fribbles and trumpery trappings receive more attention than the fine music which ought to be recognized as the soul of the work, the vital spark which irradiates an inconsequential material body; but human nature has not yet freed itself sufficiently from gross clogs to attain so ideal an attitude. It is to a danger similar to that which threatened the original New York "Samson" that the world owes the most popular melody in Rossini's "Mose." The story is old and familiar to the students of operatic history, but will bear retelling. The plague of darkness opens the opera, the passage of the Red Sea concludes it. Rossini's stage manager had no difficulty with the former, which demanded nothing more than the lowering of the stage lights. But he could evolve no device which could save the final miracle from laughter. A hilarious ending to so solemn a work disturbed the management and the librettist, Totola, who, just before a projected revival in Naples, a year or two after the first production, came to the composer with a project for saving the third act. Rossini was in bed, as usual, and the poet showed him the text of the prayer, "Dal tuo stellato," which he said he had written in an hour. "I will get up and write the music," said Rossini; "you shall have it in a quarter of an hour." And he kept his word, whether literally or not in respect of time does not matter. When the opera was again performed it contained the chorus with its melody which provided Paganini with material for one of his sensational performances on the G-string. [figure: a musical score excerpt] Carpani tells the story and describes the effect upon the audience which heard it for the first time. Laughter was just beginning in the pit when the public was surprised to note that Moses was about to sing. The people stopped laughing and prepared to listen. They were awed by the beauty of the minor strain which was echoed by Aaron and then by the chorus of Israelites. The host marched across the mimic sea and fell on its knees, and the music burst forth again, but now in the major mode. And now the audience joined in the jubilation. The people in the boxes, says Carpani, stood up; they leaned over the railings; applauded; they shouted: "Bello! bello! O che bello!" Carpani adds: "I am almost in tears when I think of this prayer." An impressionable folk, those Italians of less than a century ago. "Among other things that can be said in praise of our hero," remarked a physician to Carpani, amidst the enthusiasm caused by the revamped opera, "do not forget that he is an assassin. I can cite to you more than forty attacks of nervous fever or violent convulsions on the part of young women, fond to excess of music, which have no other origin than the prayer of the Hebrews in the third act with its superb change of key!" Thus music saved the scene in Naples. When the opera was rewritten for London and made to tell a story about Peter the Hermit, the corresponding scene had to be elided after the first performance. Ebers tells the story: "A body of troops was supposed to pass over a bridge which, breaking, was to precipitate them into the water. The troops being made of basketwork and pulled over the bridge by ropes, unfortunately became refractory on their passage, and very sensibly refused, when the bridge was about to give way, to proceed any further; consequently when the downfall of the arches took place the basket men remained very quietly on that part of the bridge which was left standing, and instead of being consigned to the waves had nearly been set on fire. The audience, not giving the troops due credit for their prudence, found no little fault with their compliance with the law of self-preservation. In the following representations of the opera the bridge and basket men which, en passant (or en restant rather), had cost fifty pounds, were omitted." [Footnote: Op. cit., p. 160] When "Moise" was prepared in Paris 45,000 francs were sunk in the Red Sea. I shall recur in a moment to the famous preghiera but, having Ebers' book before me, I see an anecdote so delightfully illustrative of the proverbial spirit of the lyric theatre that I cannot resist the temptation to repeat it. In the revised "Moses" made for Paris there occurs a quartet beginning "Mi manca la voce" ("I lack voice") which Chorley describes as "a delicious round." Camporese had to utter the words first and no sooner had she done so than Ronzi di Begnis, in a whisper, loud enough to be heard by her companion, made the comment "E vero!" ("True!")--"a remark," says Mr. Ebers, "which produced a retort courteous somewhat more than verging on the limit of decorum, though not proceeding to the extremity asserted by rumor, which would have been as inconsistent with propriety as with the habitual dignity and self-possession of Camporese's demeanor." Somebody, I cannot recall who, has said that the success of "Dal tuo stellato" set the fashion of introducing prayers into operas. Whether this be true or not, it is a fact that a prayer occurs in four of the operas which Rossini composed for the Paris Grand Opera and that the formula is become so common that it may be set down as an operatic convention, a convention, moreover, which even the iconoclast Wagner left undisturbed. One might think that the propriety of prayer in a religious drama would have been enforced upon the mind of a classicist like Goethe by his admiration for the antique, but it was the fact that Rossini's opera showed the Israelites upon their knees in supplication to God that set the great German poet against "Mose." In a conversation recorded by Eckermann as taking place in 1828, we hear him uttering his objection to the work: "I do not understand how you can separate and enjoy separately the subject and the music. You pretend here that the subject is worthless, but you are consoled for it by a feast of excellent music. I wonder that your nature is thus organized that your ear can listen to charming sounds while your sight, the most perfect of your senses, is tormented by absurd objects. You will not deny that your 'Moses' is in effect very absurd. The curtain is raised and people are praying. This is all wrong. The Bible says that when you pray you should go into your chamber and close the door. Therefore, there should be no praying in the theatre. As for me, I should have arranged a wholly different 'Moses.' At first I should have shown the children of Israel bowed down by countless odious burdens and suffering from the tyranny of the Egyptian rulers. Then you would have appreciated more easily what Moses deserved from his race, which he had delivered from a shameful oppression." "Then," says Mr. Philip Hale, who directed my attention to this interesting passage, "Goethe went on to reconstruct the whole opera. He introduced, for instance, a dance of the Egyptians after the plague of darkness was dispelled." May not one criticise Goethe? If he so greatly reverenced prayer, according to its institution under the New Dispensation, why did he not show regard also for the Old and respect the verities of history sufficiently to reserve his ballet till after the passage of the Red Sea, when Moses celebrated the miracle with a song and "Miriam, the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances"? CHAPTER II BIBLE STORIES IN OPERA AND ORATORIO It was the fond belief of Dr. Chrysander, born of his deep devotion to Handel, in whose works he lived and moved and had his being, that the heroic histories of the Jews offered no fit material for dramatic representation. In his view the Jews never created dramatic poetry, partly because of the Mosaic prohibition against plastic delineation of their Deity, partly because the tragic element, which was so potent an influence in the development of the Greek drama, was wanting in their heroes. The theory that the Song of Songs, that canticle of canticles of love, was a pastoral play had no lodgment in his mind; the poem seemed less dramatic to him than the Book of Job. The former sprang from the idyllic life of the northern tribes and reflected that life; the latter, much more profound in conception, proved by its form that the road to a real stage-play was insurmountably barred to the Hebrew poet. What poetic field was open to him then? Only the hymning of a Deity, invisible, omnipresent and omnipotent, the swelling call to combat for the glory of God against an inimical world, and the celebration of an ideal consisting in a peaceful, happy existence in the Land of Promise under God's protecting care. This God presented Himself occasionally as a militant, all-powerful warrior, but only in moments when the fortunes of His people were critically at issue. These moments, however, were exceptional and few; as a rule, God manifested Himself in prophecy, through words and music. The laws were promulgated in song; so were the prophetic promises, denunciations, and calls to repentance; and there grew up a magnificent liturgical service in the temple. Hebrew poetry, epic and lyrical, was thus antagonistic to the drama. So, also, Dr. Chrysander contends, was the Hebrew himself. Not only had he no predilection for plastic creation, his life was not dramatic in the sense illustrated in Greek tragedy. He lived a care-free, sensuous existence, and either fell under righteous condemnation for his transgressions or walked in the way prescribed of the Lord and found rest at last in Abraham's bosom. His life was simple; so were his strivings, his longings, his hopes. Yet when it came to the defence or celebration of his spiritual possessions his soul was filled with such a spirit of heroic daring, such a glow of enthusiasm, as are not to be paralleled among another of the peoples of antiquity. He thus became a fit subject for only one of the arts--music; in this art for only one of its spheres, the sublime, the most appropriate and efficient vehicle of which is the oratorio. One part of this argument seems to me irrelevant; the other not firmly founded in fact. It does not follow that because the Greek conscience evolved the conceptions of rebellious pride and punitive Fate while the Hebrew conscience did not, therefore the Greeks were the predestined creators of the art-form out of which grew the opera and the Hebrews of the form which grew into the oratorio. Neither is it true that because a people are not disposed toward dramatic creation themselves they can not, or may not, be the cause of dramatic creativeness in others. Dr. Chrysander's argument, made in a lecture at the Johanneum in Hamburg in 1896, preceded an analysis of Handel's Biblical oratorios in their relation to Hebrew history, and his exposition of that history as he unfolded it chronologically from the Exodus down to the Maccabaean period was in itself sufficient to furnish many more fit operatic plots than have yet been written. Nor are there lacking in these stories some of the elements of Greek legend and mythology which were the mainsprings of the tragedies of Athens. The parallels are striking: Jephtha's daughter and Iphigenia; Samson and his slavery and the servitude of Hercules and Perseus; the fate of Ajax and other heroes made mad by pride, and the lycanthropy of Nebuchadnezzar, of whose vanity Dr. Hanslick once reminded Wagner, warning him against the fate of the Babylonian king who became like unto an ox, "ate grass and was composed by Verdi"; think reverently of Alcestis and the Christian doctrine of atonement! The writers of the first Biblical operas sought their subjects as far back in history, or legend, as the written page permitted. Theile composed an "Adam and Eve" in 1678; but our first parents never became popular on the serious stage. Perhaps the fearful soul of the theatrical costumer was frightened and perplexed by the problem which the subject put up to him. Haydn introduced them into his oratorio "The Creation," but, as the custom goes now, the third part of the work, in which they appear, is frequently, if not generally omitted in performance. Adam, to judge by the record in Holy Writ, made an uneventful end: "And all the days that Adam lived were nine hundred and thirty years: and he died"; but this did not prevent Lesueur from writing an opera on his death ten years after Haydn's oratorio had its first performance. He called it "La Mort d'Adam et son Apotheose," and it involved him in a disastrous quarrel with the directors of the Conservatoire and the Academie. Pursuing the search chronologically, the librettists next came upon Cain and Abel, who offered a more fruitful subject for dramatic and musical invention. We know very little about the sacred operas which shared the list with works based on classical fables and Roman history in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; inasmuch, however, as they were an outgrowth of the pious plays of the Middle Ages and designed for edifying consumption in Lent, it is likely that they adhered in their plots pretty close to the Biblical accounts. I doubt if the sentimental element which was in vogue when Rossini wrote "Mose in Egitto" played much of a role in such an opera as Johann Philipp Fortsch's "Kain und Abel; oder der verzweifelnde Brudermorder," which was performed in Hamburg in 1689, or even in "Abel's Tod," which came along in 1771. The first fratricidal murder seems to have had an early and an enduring fascination for dramatic poets and composers. Metastasio's "La Morte d'Abele," set by both Caldara and Leo in 1732, remained a stalking-horse for composers down to Morlacchi in 1820. One of the latest of Biblical operas is the "Kain" of Heinrich Bulthaupt and Eugen d'Albert. This opera and a later lyric drama by the same composer, "Tote Augen" (under which title a casual reader would never suspect that a Biblical subject was lurking), call for a little attention because of their indication of a possible drift which future dramatists may follow in treating sacred story. Wicked envy and jealousy were not sufficient motives in the eyes of Bulthaupt and d'Albert for the first fratricide; there must be an infusion of psychology and modern philosophy. Abel is an optimist, an idealist, a contented dreamer, joying in the loveliness of life and nature; Cain, a pessimist, a morose brooder, for whom life contained no beautiful illusions. He gets up from his couch in the night to question the right of God to create man for suffering. He is answered by Lucifer, who proclaims himself the benefactor of the family in having rescued them from the slothful existence of Eden and given them a Redeemer. The devil discourses on the delightful ministrations of that Redeemer, whose name is Death. In the morning Abel arises and as he offers his sacrifice he hymns the sacred mystery of life and turns a deaf ear to the new-found gospel of his brother. An inspiring thought comes to Cain; by killing Abel and destroying himself he will save future generations from the sufferings to which they are doomed. With this benevolent purpose in mind he commits the murder. The blow has scarcely been struck before a multitude of spirit-voices call his name and God thunders the question: "Where is Abel, thy brother?" Adam comes from his cave and looks upon the scene with horror. Now Cain realizes that his work is less than half done: he is himself still alive and so is his son Enoch. He rushes forward to kill his child, but the mother throws herself between, and Cain discovers that he is not strong-willed enough to carry out his design. God's curse condemns him to eternal unrest, and while the elements rage around him Cain goes forth into the mountain wilderness. Herr Bulthaupt did not permit chronology to stand in the way of his action, but it can at least be said for him that he did not profane the Book as Herr Ewers, Mr. d'Albert's latest collaborator, did when he turned a story of Christ's miraculous healing of a blind woman into a sensational melodrama. In the precious opera, "Tote Augen" ("Dead Eyes"), brought out in March, 1916, in Dresden, Myrocle, the blind woman, is the wife of Arcesius, a Roman ambassador in Jerusalem. Never having seen him, Myrocle believes her husband to be a paragon of beauty, but he is, in fact, hideous of features, crook-backed, and lame; deformed in mind and heart, too, for he has concealed the truth from her. Christ is entering Jerusalem, and Mary of Magdala leads Myrocle to him, having heard of the miracles which he performs, and he opens the woman's eyes at the moment that the multitude is shouting its hosannahs. The first man who fills the vision of Myrocle is Galba, handsome, noble, chivalrous, who had renounced the love he bore her because she was the wife of his friend. In Galba the woman believes she sees the husband whom in her fond imagination she had fitted out with the charms of mind and person which his friend possesses. She throws herself into his arms, and he does not repel her mistaken embraces; but the misshapen villain throws himself upon the pair and strangles his friend to death. A slave enlightens the mystified woman; the murderer, not the dead hero at his feet, is her husband. Singularly enough, she does not turn from him with hatred and loathing, but looks upon him with a great pity. Then she turns her eyes upon the sun, which Christ had said should not set until she had cursed him, and gazes into its searing glow until her sight is again dead. Moral: it is sinful to love the loveliness of outward things; from the soul must come salvation. As if she had never learned the truth, she returns to her wifely love for Arcesius. The story is as false to nature as it is sacrilegious; its trumpery theatricalism is as great a hindrance to a possible return of Biblical opera as the disgusting celebration of necrophilism in Richard Strauss's "Salome." In our historical excursion we are still among the patriarchs, and the whole earth is of one language and of one speech. Noah, the ark, and the deluge seem now too prodigious to be essayed by opera makers, but, apparently, they did not awe the Englishman Edward Eccleston (or Eggleston), who is said to have produced an opera, "Noah's Flood, or the Destruction of the World," in London in 1679, nor Seyfried, whose "Libera me" was sung at Beethoven's funeral, and who, besides Biblical operas entitled "Saul," "Abraham," "The Maccabees," and "The Israelites in the Desert," brought out a "Noah" in Vienna in 1818. Halevy left an unfinished opera, "Noe," which Bizet, who was his son-in-law, completed. Of oratorios dealing with the deluge I do not wish to speak further than to express my admiration for the manner in which Saint-Saens opened the musical floodgates in "Le Deluge." On the plain in the Land of Shinar the families of the sons of Noah builded them a city and a tower whose top they arrogantly hoped might reach unto heaven. But the tower fell, the tongues of the people were confounded, and the people were scattered abroad on the face of the earth. Rubinstein attempted to give dramatic representation to the tremendous incident, and to his effort and vain dream I shall revert in the next chapter of this book. Now I must on with the history of the patriarchs. The story of Abraham and his attempted offering of Isaac has been much used as oratorio material, and Joseph Elsner, Chopin's teacher, brought out a Polish opera, "Ofiara Abrama," at Warsaw in 1827. A significant milestone in the history of the Hebrews as well as Biblical operas has now been reached. The sojourn of the Jews in Egypt and their final departure under the guidance of Moses have already occupied considerable attention in this study. They provided material for the two operas which seem to me the noblest of their kind--Mehul's "Joseph" and Rossini's "Mose in Egitto." Mehul's opera, more than a decade older than Rossini's, still holds a place on the stages of France and Germany, and this despite the fact that it foregoes two factors which are popularly supposed to be essential to operatic success--a love episode and woman's presence and participation in the action. The opera, which is in three acts, was brought forward at the Theatre Feydeau in Paris on February 17, 1807. It owed its origin to a Biblical tragedy entitled "Omasis," by Baour Lormian. The subject--the sale of Joseph by his brothers into Egyptian slavery, his rise to power, his forgiveness of the wrong attempted against him, and his provision of a home for the people of Israel in the land of Goshen--had long been popular with composers of oratorios. The list of these works begins with Caldara's "Giuseppe" in 1722. Metastasio's "Giuseppe riconosciuto" was set by half a dozen composers between 1733 and 1788. Handel wrote his English oratorio in 1743; G. A. Macfarren's was performed at the Leeds festival of 1877. Lormian thought it necessary to introduce a love episode into his tragedy, but Alexander Duval, who wrote the book for Mehul's opera, was of the opinion that the diversion only enfeebled the beautiful if austere picture of patriarchal domestic life delineated in the Bible. He therefore adhered to tradition and created a series of scenes full of beauty, dignity, and pathos, simple and strong in spite of the bombast prevalent in the literary style of the period. Mehul's music is marked by grandeur, simplicity, lofty sentiment, and consistent severity of manner. The composer's predilection for ecclesiastical music, created, no doubt, by the blind organist who taught him in his childhood and nourished by his studies and labors at the monastery under the gifted Hauser, found opportunity for expression in the religious sentiments of the drama, and his knowledge of plain chant is exhibited in the score "the simplicity, grandeur, and dramatic truth of which will always command the admiration of impartial musicians," remarks Gustave Choquet. The enthusiasm of M. Tiersot goes further still, for he says that the music of "Joseph" is more conspicuous for the qualities of dignity and sonority than that of Handel's oratorio. The German Hanslick, to whom the absence from the action of the "salt of the earth, women" seemed disastrous, nevertheless does not hesitate to institute a comparison between "Joseph" and one of Mozart's latest operas. "In its mild, passionless benevolence the entire role of Joseph in Mehul's opera," he says, "reminds one strikingly of Mozart's 'Titus,' and not to the advantage of the latter. The opera 'Titus' is the work of an incomparably greater genius, but it belongs to a partly untruthful, wholly modish, tendency (that of the old opera seria), while the genre of 'Joseph' is thoroughly noble, true, and eminently dramatic. 'Joseph' has outlived 'Titus.'" [Footnote: "Die Moderne Opera," p. 92.] Carl Maria von Weber admired Mehul's opera greatly, and within recent years Felix Weingartner has edited a German edition for which he composed recitatives to take the place of the spoken dialogue of the original book. There is no story of passion in "Joseph." The love portrayed there is domestic and filial; its objects are the hero's father, brothers, and country--"Champs eternels, Hebron, douce vallee." It was not until our own day that an author with a perverted sense which had already found gratification in the stench of mental, moral, and physical decay exhaled by "Salome" and "Elektra" nosed the piquant, pungent odor of the episode of Potiphar's wife and blew it into the theatre. Joseph's temptress did not tempt even the prurient taste which gave us the Parisian operatic versions of the stories of Phryne, Thais, and Messalina. Richard Strauss's "Josephslegende" stands alone in musical literature. There is, indeed, only one reference in the records of oratorio or opera to the woman whose grovelling carnality is made the foil of Joseph's virtue in the story as told in the Book. That reference is found in a singular trilogy, which was obviously written more to disclose the possibilities of counterpoint than to set forth the story--even if it does that, which I cannot say; the suggestion comes only from a title. In August, 1852, Pietro Raimondi produced an oratorio in three parts entitled, respectively, "Putifar," "Giuseppe giusto," and "Giacobbe," at the Teatro Argentina, in Rome. The music of the three works was so written that after each had been performed separately, with individual principal singers, choristers, and orchestras, they were united in a simultaneous performance. The success of the stupendous experiment in contrapuntal writing was so great that the composer fell in a faint amidst the applause of the audience and died less than three months afterward. In the course of this study I have mentioned nearly all of the Biblical characters who have been turned into operatic heroes. Nebuchadnezzar appeared on the stage at Hamburg in an opera of Keiser's in 1704; Ariosti put him through his bovine strides in Vienna in 1706. He was put into a ballet by a Portuguese composer and made the butt of a French opera bouffe writer, J. J. Debillement, in 1871. He recurs to my mind now in connection with a witty fling at "Nabucco" made by a French rhymester when Verdi's opera was produced at Paris in 1845. The noisy brass in the orchestration offended the ears of a critic, and he wrote: Vraiment l'affiche est dans son tort; En faux, ou devrait la poursuivre. Pourquoi nous annoncer Nabuchodonos--or Quand c'est Nabuchodonos--cuivre? Judas Maccabaeus is one of the few heroes of ancient Israel who have survived in opera, Rubinstein's "Makkabaer" still having a hold, though not a strong one, on the German stage. The libretto is an adaptation by Mosenthal (author also of Goldmark's "Queen of Sheba") of a drama by Otto Ludwig. In the drama as well as some of its predecessors some liberties have been taken with the story as told in Maccabees II, chapter 7. The tale of the Israelitish champion of freedom and his brothers Jonathan and Simon, who lost their lives in the struggle against the tyranny of the kings of Syria, is intensely dramatic. For stage purposes the dramatists have associated the massacre of a mother and her seven sons and the martyrdom of the aged Eleazar, who caused the uprising of the Jews, with the family history of Judas himself. J. W. Franck produced "Die Maccabaische Mutter" in Hamburg in 1679, Ariosti composed "La Madre dei Maccabei" in 1704, Ignaz von Seyfried brought out "Die Makkabaer, oder Salmonaa" in 1818, and Rubinstein his opera in Berlin on April 17,1875. The romantic career of Jephtha, a natural son, banished from home, chief of a band of roving marauders, mighty captain and ninth judge of Israel, might have fitted out many an opera text, irrespective of the pathetic story of the sacrifice of his daughter in obedience to a vow, though this episode springs first to mind when his name is mentioned, and has been the special subject of the Jephtha operas. An Italian composer named Pollarolo wrote a "Jefte" for Vienna in 1692; other operas dealing with the history are Rolle's "Mehala, die Tochter Jephthas" (1784), Meyerbeer's "Jephtha's Tochter" (Munich, 1813), Generali, "Il voto di Jefte" (1827), Sanpieri, "La Figlia di Jefte" (1872). Luis Cepeda produced a Spanish opera in Madrid in 1845, and a French opera, in five acts and a prologue, by Monteclaire, was prohibited, after one performance, by Cardinal de Noailles in 1832. Judith, the widow of Manasseh, who delivered her native city of Bethulia from the Assyrian Holofernes, lulling him to sleep with her charms and then striking off his drunken head with a falchion, though an Apocryphal personage, is the most popular of Israelitish heroines. The record shows the operas "Judith und Holofernes" by Leopold Kotzeluch (1799), "Giuditta" by S. Levi (1844), Achille Peri (1860), Righi (1871), and Sarri (1875). Naumann wrote a "Judith" in 1858, Doppler another in 1870, and Alexander Seroff a Russian opera under the same title in 1863. Martin Roder, who used to live in Boston, composed a "Judith," but it was never performed, while George W. Chadwick's "Judith," half cantata, half opera, which might easily be fitted for the stage, has had to rest content with a concert performance at a Worcester (Mass.) festival. The memory of Esther, the queen of Ahasuerus, who saved her people from massacre, is preserved and her deed celebrated by the Jews in their gracious festival of Purim. A gorgeous figure for the stage, she has been relegated to the oratorio platform since the end of the eighteenth century. Racine's tragedy "Athalie" has called out music from Abbe Vogler, Gossec, Boieldieu, Mendelssohn, and others, and a few oratorios, one by Handel, have been based on the story of the woman through whom idolatry was introduced into Judah; but I have no record of any Athalia opera. CHAPTER III RUBINSTEIN'S "GEISTLICHE OPER" I have a strong belief in the essential excellence of Biblical subjects for the purposes of the lyric drama--at least from an historical point of view. I can see no reason against but many reasons in favor of a return to the stage of the patriarchal and heroic figures of the people who are a more potent power in the world to-day, despite their dispersal and loss of national unity, than they were in the days of their political grandeur and glory. Throughout the greater part of his creative career Anton Rubinstein was the champion of a similar idea. Of the twenty works which he wrote for the theatre, including ballets, six were on Biblical subjects, and to promote a propaganda which began with the composition of "Der Thurmbau zu Babel," in 1870, he not only entered the literary field, but made personal appeal for practical assistance in both the Old World and the New. His, however, was a religious point of view, not the historical or political. It is very likely that a racial predilection had much to do with his attitude on the subject, but in his effort to bring religion into the service of the lyric stage he was no more Jew than Christian: the stories to which he applied his greatest energies were those of Moses and Christ. Much against my inclination (for Rubinstein came into my intellectual life under circumstances and conditions which made him the strongest personal influence in music that I have ever felt), I have been compelled to believe that there were other reasons besides those which he gave for his championship of Biblical opera. Smaller men than he, since Wagner's death, have written trilogies and dreamed of theatres and festivals devoted to performances of their works. Little wonder if Rubinstein believed that he had created, or could create, a kind of art-work which should take place by the side of "Der Ring des Nibelungen," and have its special home like Bayreuth; and it may have been a belief that his project would excite the sympathetic zeal of the devout Jew and pious Christian alike, as much as his lack of the capacity for self-criticism, which led him like a will-o'-the-wisp along the path which led into the bogs of failure and disappointment. While I was engaged in writing the programme book for the music festival given in New York in 1881, at which "The Tower of Babel" was performed in a truly magnificent manner, Dr. Leopold Damrosch, the conductor of the festival, told me that Rubinstein had told him that the impulse to use Biblical subjects in lyrical dramas had come to him while witnessing a ballet based on a Bible story many years before in Paris. He said that he had seldom been moved so profoundly by any spectacle as by this ballet, and it suggested to him the propriety of treating sacred subjects in a manner worthy of them, yet different from the conventional oratorio. The explanation has not gotten into the books, but is not inconsistent with the genesis of his Biblical operas, as related by Rubinstein in his essay on the subject printed by Joseph Lewinsky in his book "Vor den Coulissen," published in 1882 after at least three of the operas had been written. The composer's defence of his works and his story of the effort which he made to bring about a realization of his ideals deserve to be rehearsed in justice to his character as man and artist, as well as in the interest of the works themselves and the subjects, which, I believe, will in the near future occupy the minds of composers again. "The oratorio," said Rubinstein, "is an art-form which I have always been disposed to protest against. The best-known masterpieces of this form have, not during the study of them but when hearing them performed, always left me cold; indeed, often positively pained me. The stiffness of the musical and still more of the poetical form always seemed to me absolutely incongruous with the high dramatic feeling of the subject. To see and hear gentlemen in dress coats, white cravats, yellow gloves, holding music books before them, or ladies in modern, often extravagant, toilets singing the parts of the grand, imposing figures of the Old and New Testaments has always disturbed me to such a degree that I could never attain to pure enjoyment. Involuntarily I felt and thought how much grander, more impressive, vivid, and true would be all that I had experienced in the concert-room if represented on the stage with costumes, decorations, and full action." The contention, said Rubinstein in effect, that Biblical subjects are ill adapted to the stage beeause of their sacred character is a testimony of poverty for the theatre, which should be an agency in the service of the highest purposes of culture. The people have always wanted to see stage representations of Bible incidents; witness the mystery plays of the Middle Ages and the Passion Play at Oberammergau to-day. But yielding to a prevalent feeling that such representations are a profanation of sacred history, he had conceived an appropriate type of art-work which was to be produced in theatres to be specially built for the purpose and by companies of artists to be specially trained to that end. This art-work was to be called Sacred Opera (geistliche Oper), to distinguish it from secular opera, but its purpose was to be purely artistic and wholly separate from the interests of the Church. He developed ways and means for raising the necessary funds, enlisting artists, overcoming the difficulties presented by the mise en scene and the polyphonic character of the choral music, and set forth his aim in respect of the subject-matter of the dramas to be a representation in chronological order of the chief incidents described in the Old and New Testaments. He would be willing to include in his scheme Biblical operas already existing, if they were not all, with the exception of Mehul's "Joseph," made unfit by their treatment of sacred matters, especially by their inclusion of love episodes which brought them into the domain of secular opera. For years, while on his concert tours in various countries, Rubinstein labored to put his plan into operation. Wherever he found a public accustomed to oratorio performances he inquired into the possibility of establishing his sacred theatre there. He laid the project before the Grand Duke of Weimar, who told him that it was feasible only in large cities. The advice sent him to Berlin, where he opened his mind to the Minister of Education, von Muhler. The official had his doubts; sacred operas might do for Old Testament stories, but not for New; moreover, such a theatre should be a private, not a governmental, undertaking. He sought the opinion of Stanley, Dean of Westminster Abbey, who said that he could only conceive a realization of the idea in the oldtime popular manner, upon a rude stage at a country fair. For a space it looked as if the leaders of the Jewish congregations in Paris would provide funds for the enterprise so far as it concerned itself with subjects taken from the Old Dispensation; but at the last they backed out, fearing to take the initiative in a matter likely to cause popular clamor. "I even thought of America," says Rubinstein, "of the daring transatlantic impresarios, with their lust of enterprise, who might be inclined to speculate on a gigantic scale with my idea. I had indeed almost succeeded, but the lack of artists brought it to pass that the plans, already in a considerable degree of forwardness, had to be abandoned. I considered the possibility of forming an association of composers and performing artists to work together to carry on the enterprise materially, intellectually, and administratively; but the great difficulty of enlisting any considerable number of artists for the furtherance of a new idea in art frightened me back from this purpose also." In these schemes there are evidences of Rubinstein's willingness to follow examples set by Handel as well as Wagner. The former composed "Judas Maccabaeus" and "Alexander Balus" to please the Jews who had come to his help when he made financial shipwreck with his opera; the latter created the Richard Wagner Verein to put the Bayreuth enterprise on its feet. Of the six sacred operas composed by Rubinstein three may be said to be practicable for stage representation. They are "Die Makkabaer," "Sulamith" (based on Solomon's Song of Songs) and "Christus." The first has had many performances in Germany; the second had a few performances in Hamburg in 1883; the last, first performed as an oratorio in Berlin in 1885, was staged in Bremen in 1895. It has had, I believe, about fourteen representations in all. As for the other three works, "Der Thurmbau zu Babel" (first performance in Konigsberg in 1870), "Das verlorene Paradies" (Dusseldorf, 1875), and "Moses" (still awaiting theatrical representation, I believe), it may be said of them that they are hybrid creations which combine the oratorio and opera styles by utilizing the powers of the oldtime oratorio chorus and the modern orchestra, with the descriptive capacity of both raised to the highest power, to illustrate an action which is beyond the capabilities of the ordinary stage machinery. In the character of the forms employed in the works there is no startling innovation; we meet the same alternation of chorus, recitative, aria, and ensemble that we have known since the oratorio style was perfected. A change, howeer, has come over the spirit of the expression and the forms have all relaxed some of their rigidity. In the oratorios of Handel and Haydn there are instances not a few of musical delineation in the instrumental as well as the vocal parts; but nothing in them can be thought of, so far at least as the ambition of the design extends, as a companion piece to the scene in the opera which pictures the destruction of the tower of Babel. This is as far beyond the horizon of the fancy of the old masters as it is beyond the instrumental forces which they controlled. "Paradise Lost," the text paraphrased from portions of Milton's epic, is an oratorio pure and simple. It deals with the creation of the world according to the Mosaic (or as Huxley would have said, Miltonic) theory and the medium of expression is an alternation of recitatives and choruses, the latter having some dramatic life and a characteristic accompaniment. It is wholly contemplative; there is nothing like action in it. "The Tower of Babel" has action in the restricted sense in which it enters into Mendelssohn's oratorios, and scenic effects which would tax the utmost powers of the modern stage-machinist who might attempt to carry them out. A mimic tower of Babel is more preposterous than a mimic temple of Dagon; yet, unless Rubinstein's stage directions are to be taken in a Pickwickian sense, we ought to listen to this music while looking at a stage-setting more colossal than any ever contemplated by dramatist before. We should see a wide stretch of the plain of Shinar; in the foreground a tower so tall as to give color of plausibility to a speech which prates of an early piercing of heaven and so large as to provide room for a sleeping multitude on its scaffoldings. Brick kilns, derricks, and all the apparatus and machinery of building should be on all hands, and from the summit of a mound should grow a giant tree, against whose trunk should hang a brazen shield to be used as a signal gong. We should see in the progress of the opera the bustling activity of the workmen, the roaring flames and rolling smoke of the brick kilns, and witness the miraculous spectacle of a man thrown into the fire and walking thence unharmed. We should see (in dissolving views) the dispersion of the races and behold the unfolding of a rainbow in the sky. And, finally, we should get a glimpse of an open heaven and the Almighty on His throne, and a yawning hell, with Satan and his angels exercising their dread dominion. Can such scenes be mimicked successfully enough to preserve a serious frame of mind in the observer? Hardly. Yet the music seems obviously to have been written in the expectation that sight shall aid hearing to quicken the fancy and emotion and excite the faculties to an appreciation of the work. "The Tower of Babel" has been performed upon the stage; how I cannot even guess. Knowing, probably, that the work would be given in concert form oftener than in dramatic, Rubinstein tries to stimulate the fancy of those who must be only listeners by profuse stage directions which are printed in the score as well as the book of words. "Moses" is in the same case. By the time that Rubinstein had completed it he evidently realized that its hybrid character as well as its stupendous scope would stand in the way of performances of any kind. Before even a portion of its music had been heard in public, he wrote in a letter to a friend: "It is too theatrical for the concert-room and too much like an oratorio for the theatre. It is, in fact, the perfect type of the sacred opera that I have dreamed of for years. What will come of it I do not know; I do not think it can be performed entire. As it contains eight distinct parts, one or two may from time to time be given either in a concert or on the stage." America was the first country to act on the suggestion of a fragmentary performance. The first scene was brought forward in New York by Walter Damrosch at a public rehearsal and concert of the Symphony Society (the Oratorio Society assisting) on January 18 and 19, 1889. The third scene was performed by the German Liederkranz, under Reinhold L. Herman, on January 27 of the same year. The third and fourth scenes were in the scheme of the Cincinnati Music Festival, Theodore Thomas, conductor, on May 25,1894. Each of the eight scenes into which the work is divided deals with an episode in the life of Israel's lawgiver. In the first scene we have the incident of the finding of the child in the bulrushes; in the second occurs the oppression of the Israelites by the Egyptian taskmasters, the slaying of one of the overseers by Moses, who, till then regarded as the king's son, now proclaims himself one of the oppressed race. The third scene discloses Moses protecting Zipporah, daughter of Jethro, a Midianitish priest, from a band of marauding Edomites, his acceptance of Jethro's hospitality and the scene of the burning bush and the proclamation of his mission. Scene IV deals with the plagues, those of blood, hail, locusts, frogs, and vermin being delineated in the instrumental introduction to the part, the action beginning while the land is shrouded in the "thick darkness that might be felt." The Egyptians call upon Osiris to dispel the darkness, but are forced at last to appeal to Moses. He demands the liberation of his people as the price to be paid for the removal of the plague; receiving a promise from Pharaoh, he utters a prayer ending with "Let there be light." The result is celebrated in a brilliant choral acclamation of the returning sun. The scene has a parallel in Rossini's opera. Pharaoh now equivocates; he will free the sons of Jacob, but not the women, children, or chattels. Moses threatens punishment in the death of all of Egypt's first-born, and immediately solo and chorus voices bewail the new affliction. When the king hears that his son is dead he gives his consent, and the Israelites depart with an ejaculation of thanks to Jehovah. The passage of the Red Sea, Miriam's celebration of that miracle, the backsliding of the Israelites and their worship of the golden calf, the reception of the Tables of the Law, the battle between the Israelites and Modbites on the threshold of the Promised Land, and the evanishment and apotheosis of Moses are the contents of the remainder of the work. It is scarcely to be wondered at that the subjects which opera composers have found adaptable to their uses in the New Testament are very few compared with those offered by the Old. The books written by the evangelists around the most stupendous tragical story of all time set forth little or nothing (outside of the birth, childhood, teachings, miracles, death, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth) which could by any literary ingenuity be turned into a stage play except the parables with which Christ enforced and illustrated His sermons. The sublime language and imagery of the Apocalypse have furnished forth the textual body of many oratorios, but it still transcends the capacity of mortal dramatist. In the parable of the Prodigal Son there is no personage whose presentation in dramatic garb could be looked upon as a profanation of the Scriptures. It is this fact, probably, coupled with its profoundly beautiful reflection of human nature, which has made it a popular subject with opera writers. There was an Italian "Figliuolo Prodigo" as early as 1704, composed by one Biffi; a French melodrama, "L'Enfant Prodigue," by Morange about 1810; a German piece of similar character by Joseph Drechsler in Vienna in 1820. Pierre Gaveaux, who composed "Leonore, ou l'Amour Conjugal," which provided Beethoven with his "Fidelio," brought out a comic opera on the subject of the Prodigal Son in 1811, and Berton, who had also dipped into Old Testament story in an oratorio, entitled "Absalon," illustrated the parable in a ballet. The most recent settings of the theme are also the most significant: Auber's five-act opera "L'Enfant Prodigue," brought out in Paris in 1850, and Ponchielli's "Il Figliuolo Prodigo," in four acts, which had its first representation at La Scala in 1880. The mediaeval mysteries were frequently interspersed with choral songs, for which the liturgy of the Church provided material. If we choose to look upon them as incipient operas or precursors of that art-form we must yet observe that their monkish authors, willing enough to trick out the story of the Nativity with legendary matter drawn from the Apocryphal New Testament, which discloses anything but a reverential attitude toward the sublime tragedy, nevertheless stood in such awe before the spectacle of Calvary that they deemed it wise to leave its dramatic treatment to the church service in the Passion Tide. In that service there was something approaching to characterization in the manner of the reading by the three deacons appointed to deliver, respectively, the narrative, the words of Christ, and the utterances of the Apostles and people; and it may be--that this and the liturgical solemnities of Holy Week were reverently thought sufficient by them and the authors of the first sacred operas. Nevertheless, we have Reiser's "Der Blutige und Sterbende Jesus," performed at Hamburg, and Metastasio's "La Passione di Gesu Christi," composed first by Caldara, which probably was an oratorio. Earlier than these was Theile's "Die Geburt Christi," performed in Hamburg in 1681. The birth of Christ and His childhood (there was an operatic representation of His presentation in the Temple) were subjects which appealed more to the writers of the rude plays which catered to the popular love for dramatic mummery than did His crucifixion. I am speaking now more specifically of lyric dramas, but it is worthy of note that in the Coventry mysteries, as Hone points out in the preface to his book, "Ancient Mysteries Described," [Footnote: "Ancient Mysteries Described, especially the English Miracle Plays Founded on Apocryphal New Testament Story," London, 1823.] there are eight plays, or pageants, which deal with the Nativity as related in the canon and the pseudo-gospels. In them much stress was laid upon the suspicions of the Virgin Mother's chastity, for here was material that was good for rude diversion as well as instruction in righteousness. That Rubinstein dared to compose a Christ drama must be looked upon as proof of the profound sincerity of his belief in the art-form which he fondly hoped he had created; also, perhaps, as evidence of his artistic ingenuousness. Only a brave or naive mind could have calmly contemplated a labor from which great dramatists, men as great as Hebbel, shrank back in alarm. After the completion of "Lohengrin" Wagner applied himself to the creation of a tragedy which he called "Jesus of Nazareth." We know his plan in detail, but he abandoned it after he had offered his sketches to a French poet as the basis of a lyric drama which he hoped to write for Paris. He confesses that he was curious to know what the Frenchman would do with a work the stage production of which would "provoke a thousand frights." He himself was unwilling to stir up such a tempest in Germany; instead, he put his sketches aside and used some of their material in his "Parsifal." Wagner ignored the religious, or, let us say, the ecclesiastical, point of view entirely in "Jesus of Nazareth." His hero was to have been, as I have described him elsewhere, [Footnote: "A Book of Operas," p. 288.] "a human philosopher who preached the saving grace of Love and sought to redeem his time and people from the domination of conventional law--the offspring of selfishness. His philosophy was socialism imbued by love." Rubinstein proceeded along the lines of history, or orthodox belief, as unreservedly in his "Christus" as he had done in his "Moses." The work may be said to have brought his creative activities to a close, although two compositions (a set of six pianoforte pieces and an orchestral suite) appear in his list of numbered works after the sacred opera. He died on November 20, 1894, without having seen a stage representation of it. Nor did he live to see a public theatrical performance of his "Moses," though he was privileged to witness a private performance arranged at the German National Theatre in Prague so that he might form an opinion of its effectiveness. The public has never been permitted to learn anything about the impression which the work made. On May 25, 1895, a series of representations of "Christus" was begun in Bremen, largely through the instrumentality of Professor Bulthaupt, a potent and pervasive personage in the old Hanseatic town. He was not only a poet and the author of the book of this opera and of some of Bruch's works, but also a painter, and his mural decorations in the Bremen Chamber of Commerce are proudly displayed by the citizens of the town. It was under the supervision of the painter-poet that the Bremen representations were given and, unless I am mistaken, he painted the scenery or much of it. One of the provisions of the performances was that applause was prohibited out of reverence for the sacred character of the scenes, which were as frankly set forth as at Oberammergau. The contents of the tragedy in some scenes and an epilogue briefly outlined are these: The first scene shows the temptation of Christ in the wilderness, where the devil "shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time." This disclosure is made by a series of scenes, each opening for a short time in the background--castles, palaces, gardens, mountains of gold, and massive heaps of earth's treasures. In the second scene John the Baptist is seen and heard preaching on the banks of the Jordan, in whose waters he baptizes Jesus. This scene at the Bremen representations was painted from sketches made by Herr Handrich in Palestine, as was also that of the "Sermon on the Mount" and "The Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes," which form the subject of the next part. The fourth tableau shows the expulsion of the money changers from the Temple; the fifth the Last Supper, with the garden of Gethsemane as a background; the sixth the trial and the last the crucifixion. Here, as if harking back to his "Tower of Babel," Rubinstein brings in pictures of heaven and hell, with angels and devils contemplating the catastrophe. The proclamation of the Gospel to the Gentiles by St. Paul is the subject of the epilogue. CHAPTER IV "SAMSON ET DALILA" There are but two musical works based on the story of Samson on the current list to-day, Handel's oratorio and Saint-Saens's opera; but lyric drama was still in its infancy when the subject first took hold of the fancy of composers and it has held it ever since. The earliest works were of the kind called sacred operas in the books and are spoken of as oratorios now, though they were doubtless performed with scenery and costumes and with action of a sort. Such were "Il Sansone" by Giovanni Paola Colonna (Bologna, 1677), "Sansone accecato da Filistri" by Francesco Antonio Uri (Venice, about 1700), "Simson" by Christoph Graupner (Hamburg, 1709), "Simson" by Georg von Pasterwitz (about 1770), "Samson" by J. N. Lefroid Mereaux (Paris, 1774), "Simson" by Johann Heinrich Rolle (about 1790), "Simson" by Franz Tuczek (Vienna, 1804), and "Il Sansone" by Francesco Basili (Naples, 1824). Two French operas are associated with great names and have interesting histories. Voltaire wrote a dramatic text on the subject at the request of La Popeliniere, the farmer-general, who, as poet, musician, and artist, exercised a tremendous influence in his day. Rameau was in his service as household clavecinist and set Voltaire's poem. The authors looked forward to a production on the stage of the Grand Opera, where at least two Biblical operas, an Old Testament "Jephte" and a New Testament "Enfant prodigue" were current; but Rameau had powerful enemies, and the opera was prohibited on the eve of the day on which it was to have been performed. The composer had to stomach his mortification as best he could; he put some of his Hebrew music into the service of his Persian "Zoroastre". The other French Samson to whom I have re ferred had also to undergo a sea-change like unto Rameau's, Rossini's Moses, and Verdi's Nebuchadnezzar. Duprez, who was ambitious to shine as a composer as well as a singer (he wrote no less than eight operas and also an oratorio, "The Last Judgment"), tried his hand on a Samson opera and succeeded in enlisting the help of Dumas the elder in writing the libretto. When he was ready to present it at the door of the Grand Opera the Minister of Fine Arts told him that it was impracticable, as the stage-setting of the last act alone would cost more than 100,000 francs, Duprez then followed the example set with Rossini's "Mose" in London and changed the book to make it tell a story of the crusades which he called "Zephora". Nevertheless the original form was restored in German and Italian translations of the work, and it had concert performances in 1857. To Joachim Raff was denied even this poor comfort. He wrote a German "Simson" between 1851 and 1857. The conductor at Darmstadt to whom it was first submitted rejected it on the ground that it was too difficult for his singers. Raff then gave it to Liszt, with whom he was sojourning at Weimar, and who had taken pity on his "Konig Alfred"; but the tenor singer at the Weimar opera said the music was too high for the voice. Long afterward Wagner's friend, Schnorr von Carolsfeld, saw the score in the hands of the composer. The heroic stature of the hero delighted him, and his praise moved Raff to revise the opera; but before this had been done Schnorr died of the cold contracted while creating the role of Wagner's Tristan at Munich in 1865. Thus mournfully ended the third episode. As late as 1882 Raff spoke of taking the opera in hand again, but though he may have done so his death found the work unperformed and it has not yet seen the light of the stage-lamps. Saint-Saens's opera has also passed through many vicissitudes, but has succumbed to none and is probably possessed of more vigorous life now than it ever had. It is the recognized operatic masterpiece of the most resourceful and fecund French musician since Berlioz. Saint-Saens began the composition of "Samson et Dalila" in 1869. The author of the book, Ferdinand Lemaire, was a cousin of the composer. Before the breaking out of the Franco-Prussian War the score was so far on the way to completion that it was possible to give its second act a private trial. This was done, an incident of the occasion-which afterward introduced one element of pathos in its history-being the singing of the part of Samson by the painter Henri Regnault, who soon after lost his life in the service of his country. A memorial to him and the friendship which existed between him and the composer is the "Marche Heroique," which bears the dead man's name on its title-page. Toward the end of 1872 the opera was finished. For two years the score rested in the composer's desk. Then the second act was again brought forth for trial, this time at the country home of Mme. Viardot, at Croissy, the illustrious hostess singing the part of Dalila. In 1875 the first act was performed in concert style by M. Edouard Colonne in Paris. Liszt interested himself in the opera and secured its acceptance at the Grand Ducal Opera House of Weimar, where Eduard Lassen brought it out on December 2, 1877. Brussels heard it in 1878; but it did not reach one of the theatres of France until March 3, 1890, when Rouen produced it at its Theatre des Arts under the direction of M. Henri Verdhurt. It took nearly seven months more to reach Paris, where the first representation was at the Eden Theatre on October 31 of the same year. Two years later, after it had been heard in a number of French and Italian provincial theatres, it was given at the Academie Nationale de Musique under the direction of M. Colonne. The part of Dalila was taken by Mme. Deschamps-Jehin, that of Samson by M. Vergnet, that of the High Priest by M. Lassalle. Eight months before this it had been performed as an oratorio by the Oratorio Society of New York. There were two performances, on March 25 and 26, 1892, the conductor being Mr. Walter Damrosch and the principal singers being Frau Marie Ritter-Goetze, Sebastian Montariol, H. E. Distelhurst, Homer Moore, Emil Fischer, and Purdon Robinson. London had heard the work twice as an oratorio before it had a stage representation there on April 26, 1909, but this performance was fourteen years later than the first at the Metropolitan Opera House on February 8, 1895. The New York performance was scenically inadequate, but the integrity of the record demands that the cast be given here: Samson, Signor Tamagno; Dalila, Mme. Mantelli; High Priest, Signor Campanari; Abimelech and An Old Hebrew, M. Plancon; First Philistine, Signor Rinaldini; Second Philistme, Signor de Vachetti; conductor, Signor Mancinelli. The Metropolitan management did not venture upon a repetition until the opening night of the season 1915-1916, when its success was such that it became an active factor in the repertory of the establishment; but by that time it had been made fairly familiar to the New York public by performances at the Manhattan Opera House under the management of Mr. Oscar Hammerstein, the first of which took place on November 13, 1908. Signor Campanini conducted and the cast embraced Mme. Gerville-Reache as Dalila, Charles Dalmores as Samson, and M. Dufranne as High Priest. The cast at the Metropolitan Opera House's revival of the opera on November 15,1915, was as follows: Dalila, Mme. Margarete Matzenauer; Samson, Signor Enrico Caruso; High Priest, Signor Pasquale Amato; Abimelech, Herr Carl Schlegel; An Old Hebrew, M. Leon Rothier; A Philistine Messenger, Herr Max Bloch; First Philistine, Pietro Audisio; Second Philistine, Vincenzo Reschiglian; conductor, Signor Polacco. It would be a curious inquiry to try to determine the source of the fascination which the story of Manoah's son has exerted upon mankind for centuries. It bears a likeness to the story of the son of Zeus and Alcmene, and there are few books on mythology which do not draw a parallel between the two heroes. Samson's story is singularly brief. For twenty years he "judged Israel," but the Biblical history which deals with him consists only of an account of his birth, a recital of the incidents in which he displayed his prodigious strength and valor, the tale of his amours, and, at the end, the account of his tragical destruction, brought about by the weak element in his character. Commentators have been perplexed by the tale, irrespective of the adornments which it has received at the hands of the Talmudists. Is Samson a Hebrew form of the conception personified by the Greek Herakles? Is he a mythical creature, born in the human imagination of primitive nature worship--a variant of the Tyrian sun-god Shemesh, whose name his so curiously resembles? [In Hebrew he is called Shimshon, and the sun shemesh.] Was he something more than a man of extraordinary physical strength and extraordinary moral weakness, whose patriotic virtues and pathetic end have kept his memory alive through the ages? Have a hundred generations of men to whom the story of Herakles has appeared to be only a fanciful romance, the product of that imagination heightened by religion which led the Greeks to exalt their supreme heroes to the extent of deification, persisted in hearing and telling the story of Samson with a sympathetic interest which betrays at least a sub-conscious belief in its verity? Is the story only a parable enforcing a moral lesson which is as old as humanity? If so, how got it into the canonical Book of Judges, which, with all its mythical and legendary material, seems yet to contain a large substratum of unquestionable history? There was nothing of the divine essence in Samson as the Hebrews conceived him, except that spirit of God with which he was directly endowed in supreme crises. There is little evidence of his possession of great wisdom, but strong proof of his moral and religious laxity. He sinned against the laws of Israel's God when he took a Philistine woman, an idolater, to wife; he sinned against the moral law when he visited the harlot at Gaza. He was wofully weak in character when he yielded to the blandishments of Delilah and wrought his own undoing, as well as that of his people. The disgraceful slavery into which Herakles fell was not caused by the hero's incontinence or uxoriousness, but a punishment for crime, in that he had in a fit of madness killed his friend Iphitus. And the three years which he spent as the slave of Omphale were punctuated by larger and better deeds than those of Samson in like situation--bursting the new cords with which the men of Judah had bound him and the green withes and new ropes with which Delilah shackled him. The record that Samson "judged Israel in the days of the Philistines twenty years" leads the ordinary reader to think of him as a sage, judicial personage, whereas it means only that he was the political and military leader of his people during that period, lifted to a magisterial position by his strength and prowess in war. His achievements were muscular, not mental. Rabbinical legends have magnified his stature and power in precisely the same manner as the imagination of the poet of the "Lay of the Nibelung" magnified the stature and strength of Siegfried. His shoulders, says the legend, were sixty ells broad; when the Spirit of God came on him he could step from Zorah to Eshtaol although he was lame in both feet; the hairs of his head arose and clashed against one another so that they could be heard for a like distance; he was so strong that he could uplift two mountains and rub them together like two clods of earth, Herakles tore asunder the mountain which, divided, now forms the Straits of Gibraltar and Gates of Hercules. The parallel which is frequently drawn between Samson and Herakles cannot be pursued far with advantage to the Hebrew hero. Samson rent a young lion on the road to Timnath, whither he was going to take his Philistine wife; Herakles, while still a youthful herdsman, slew the Thespian lion and afterward strangled the Nemean lion with his hands. Samson carried off the gates of Gaza and bore them to the top of a hill before Hebron; Herakles upheld the heavens while Atlas went to fetch the golden apples of Hesperides. Moreover, the feats of Herakles show a higher intellectual quality than those of Samson, all of which, save one, were predominantly physical. The exception was the trick of tying 300 foxes by their tails, two by two, with firebrands between and turning them loose to burn the corn of the Philistines. An ingenious way to spread a conflagration, probably, but primitive, decidedly primitive. Herakles was a scientific engineer of the modern school; he yoked the rivers Alpheus and Peneus to his service by turning their waters through the Augean stables and cleansing them of the deposits of 3000 oxen for thirty years. Herakles had excellent intellectual training; Rhadamanthus taught him wisdom and virtue, Linus music. We know nothing about the bringing up of Samson save that "the child grew and the Lord blessed him. And the Lord began to move him at times in the camp of Dan between Zorah and Eshtaol." Samson made little use of his musical gifts, if he had any, but that little he made well; Herakles made little use of his musical training, and that little he made ill. He lost his temper and killed his music master with his lute; Samson, after using an implement which only the black slaves of our South have treated as a musical instrument, to slay a thousand Philistines, jubilated in song:-- With the jawbone of an ass Heaps upon heaps! With the jawbone of an ass Have I slain a thousand men! The vast fund of human nature laid bare in the story of Samson is, it appears to me, quite sufficient to explain its popularity, and account for its origin. The hero's virtues--strength, courage, patriotism--are those which have ever won the hearts of men, and they present themselves as but the more admirable, as they are made to appear more natural, by pairing with that amiable weakness, susceptibility to woman's charms. After all Samson is a true type of the tragic hero, whatever Dr. Chrysander or another may say. He is impelled by Fate into a commission of the follies which bring about the wreck of his body. His marriage with the Philistine woman in Timnath was part of a divine plot, though unpatriotic and seemingly impious. When his father said unto him: "Is there never a woman among the daughters of thy brethren or among all my people that thou goest to take a wife of the uncircumcised Philistines?" he did not know that "it was of the Lord that he sought an occasion against the Philistines." Out of that wooing and winning grew the first of the encounters which culminated in the destruction of the temple of Dagon, when "the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life." So his yielding to the pleadings of his wife when she betrayed the answer to his riddle and his succumbing to the wheedling arts of Delilah when he betrayed the secret of his strength (acts incompatible with the character of an ordinary strong and wise man) were of the type essential to the machinery of the Greek drama. A word about the mythological interpretation of the characters which have been placed in parallel: It may be helpful to an understanding of the Hellenic mind to conceive Herakles as a marvellously strong man, first glorified into a national hero and finally deified. So, too, the theory, that Herakles sinking down upon his couch of fire is but a symbol of the declining sun can be entertained without marring the grandeur of the hero or belittling Nature's phenomenon; but it would obscure our understanding of the Hebrew intellect and profane the Hebrew religion to conceive Samson as anything but the man that the Bible says he was; while to make of him, as Ignaz Golziher suggests, a symbol of the setting sun whose curly locks (crines Phoebi) are sheared by Delilah-Night, would bring contumely upon one of the most beautiful and impressive of Nature's spectacles. Before the days of comparative mythology scholars were not troubled by such interpretations. Josephus disposes of the Delilah episode curtly: "As for Samson being ensnared by a woman, that is to be ascribed to human nature, which is too weak to resist sin." It is not often that an operatic figure invites to such a study as that which I have attempted in the case of Samson, and it may be that the side-wise excursion in which I have indulged invites criticism of the kind illustrated in the metaphor of using a club to brain a gnat. But I do not think so. If heroic figures seem small on the operatic stage, it is the fault of either the author or the actor. When genius in a creator is paired with genius in an interpreter, the hero of an opera is quite as deserving of analytical study as the hero of a drama which is spoken. No labor would be lost in studying the character of Wagner's heroes in order to illuminate the impersonations of Niemann, Lehmann, or Scaria; nor is Maurel's lago less worthy of investigation than Edwin Booth's. The character of Delilah presents even more features of interest than that of the man of whom she was the undoing, and to those features I purpose to devote some attention presently. There is no symbolism in Saint-Saens's opera. It is frankly a piece for the lyric theatre, albeit one in which adherence to a plot suggested by the Biblical story compelled a paucity of action which had to be made good by spectacle and music. The best element in a drama being that which finds expression in action and dialogue, and these being restricted by the obvious desire of the composers to avoid such extraneous matter as Rossini and others were wont to use to add interest to their Biblical operas (the secondary love stories, for instance), Saint-Saens could do nothing else than employ liberally the splendid factor of choral music which the oratorio form brought to his hand. We are introduced to that factor without delay. Even before the first scene is opened to our eyes we hear the voice of the multitude in prayer. The Israelites, oppressed by their conquerors and sore stricken at the reflection that their God has deserted them, lament, accuse, protest, and pray. Before they have been heard, the poignancy of their woe has been published by the orchestra, which at once takes its place beside the chorus as a peculiarly eloquent expositor of the emotions and passions which propel the actors in the drama. That mission and that eloquence it maintains from the beginning to the final catastrophe, the instrumental band doing its share toward characterizing the opposing forces, emphasizing the solemn dignity of the Hebrew religion and contrasting it with the sensuous and sensual frivolity of the worshippers of Dagon. The choral prayer has for its instrumental substructure an obstinate syncopated figure, [figure: an musical score excerpt] which rises with the agonized cries of the people and sinks with their utterances of despair. The device of introducing voices before the disclosure of visible action in an opera is not new, and in this case is both uncalled for and ineffective. Gounod made a somewhat similar effort in his "Romeo et Juliette," where a costumed group of singers presents a prologue, vaguely visible through a gauze curtain. Meyerbeer tried the expedient in "Le Pardon de Ploermel," and the siciliano in Mascagni's "Cavalleria Rusticana" and the prologue in Leoncavallo's "Pagliacci" are other cases in point. Of these only the last can be said to achieve its purpose in arresting the early attention of the audience. When the curtain opens we see a public place in Gaza in front of the temple of Dagon. The Israelites are on their knees and in attitudes of mourning, among them Samson. The voice of lamentation takes a fugal form-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] as the oppressed people tell of the sufferings which they have endured:-- Nous avons vu nos cites renversees Et les gentils profanants ton autel, etc. The expression rises almost to the intensity of sacrilegious accusation as the people recall to God the vow made to them in Egypt, but sinks to accents of awe when they reflect upon the incidents of their former serfdom. Now Samson stands forth. In a broad arioso, half recitative, half cantilena, wholly in the oratorio style when it does not drop into the mannerism of Meyerbeerian opera, he admonishes his brethren of their need to trust in God, their duty to worship Him, of His promises to aid them, of the wonders that He had already wrought in their behalf; he bids them to put off their doubts and put on their armor of faith and valor. As he proceeds in his preachment he develops somewhat of the theatrical pose of John of Leyden in "The Prophet." The Israelites mutter gloomily of the departure of their days of glory, but gradually take warmth from the spirit which has obsessed Samson and pledge themselves to do battle with the foe with him under the guidance of Jehovah. Now Abimelech, Satrap of Gaza, appears surrounded by Philistine soldiers. He rails at the Israelites as slaves, sneers at their God as impotent and craven, lifts up the horn of Dagon, who, he says, shall pursue Jehovah as a falcon pursues a dove. The speech fills Samson with a divine anger, which bursts forth in a canticle of prayer and prophecy. There is a flash as of swords in the scintillant scale passages which rush upward from the eager, angry, pushing figure which mutters and rages among the instruments. The Israelites catch fire from Samson's ecstatic ardor and echo the words in which he summons them to break their chains. Abimelech rushes forward to kill Samson, but the hero wrenches the sword from the Philistine's hand and strikes him dead. The satrap's soldiers would come to his aid, but are held in fear by the hero, who is now armed. The Israelites rush off to make war on their oppressors. The High Priest comes down from the temple of Dagon and pauses where the body of Abimelech lies. Two Philistines tell of the fear which had paralyzed them when Samson showed his might. The High Priest rebukes them roundly for their cowardice, but has scarcely uttered his denunciation before a Messenger enters to tell him that Samson and his Israelitish soldiers have overrun and ravaged the country. Curses and vows of vengeance against Israel, her hero, and her God from the mouth of Dagon's servant. One of his imprecations is destined to be fulfilled:-- Maudit soit le sein de la femme Qui lui donna le jour! Qu'enfin une compagne infame Trahisse son amour! Revolutions run a rapid course in operatic Palestine. The insurrection is but begun with the slaying of Abimelech, yet as the Philistines, bearing away his body, leave the scene, it is only to make room for the Israelites, chanting of their victory. We expect a sonorous hymn of triumph, but the people of God have been chastened and awed by their quick deliverance, and their paean is in the solemn tone of temple psalmody, the first striking bit of local color which the composer has introduced into his score--a reticence on his part of which it may be said that it is all the more remarkable from the fact that local color is here completely justified:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt, sung to the words "Praise, ye Jehovah! Tell all the wondrous story! Psalms of praise loudly swell!] "Hymne de joie, hymne de deliverance Montez vers l'Eternel!" It is a fine piece of dramatic characterization; which is followed by one whose serene beauty is heightened by contrast. Dalila and a company of singing and dancing Philistine women come in bearing garlands of flowers. Not only Samson's senses, our own as well, are ravished by the delightful music:-- Voici le printemps, nous portant des fleurs Pour orner le front des guerriers vainquers! Melons nos accents aux parfums des roses A peine ecloses! Avec l'oiseau chantons, mes soeurs! [figure: a musical score excerpt sung to the words "Now Spring's generous band, Brings flowers to the land"] Dalila is here and it is become necessary to say something of her, having said so much about the man whose destruction she accomplished. Let the ingenious and erudite Philip Hale introduce her: "Was Delilah a patriotic woman, to be ranked with Jael and Judith, or was she merely a courtesan, as certain opera singers who impersonate her in the opera seem to think? E. Meier says that the word 'Delilah' means 'the faithless one.' Ewald translates it 'traitress,' and so does Ranke. Knobel characterizes her as 'die Zarte,' which means tender, delicate, but also subtle. Lange is sure that she was a weaver woman, if not an out-and-out 'zonah.' There are other Germans who think the word is akin to the verb 'einlullen,' to lull asleep. Some liken it to the Arabic dalilah, a woman who misguides, a bawd. See in 'The Thousand Nights and a Night' the speech of the damsel to Aziz: 'If thou marry me thou wilt at least be safe from the daughter of Dalilah, the Wily One.' Also 'The Rogueries of Dalilah, the Crafty, and her daughter, Zayrah, the Coney Catcher.'" We are directly concerned here with the Dalila of the opera, but Mr. Hale invites us to an excursion which offers a pleasant occupation for a brief while, and we cheerfully go with him. The Biblical Delilah is a vague figure, except in two respects: She is a woman of such charms that she wins the love of Samson, and such guile and cupidity that she plays upon his passion and betrays him to the lords of the Philistines for pay. The Bible knows nothing of her patriotism, nor does the sacred historian give her the title of Samson's wife, though it has long been the custom of Biblical commentators to speak of her in this relation. St. Chrysostom set the fashion and Milton followed it:-- But who is this? What thing of sea or land-- Female of sex it seems-- That, so bedeck'd, ornate and gay Comes this way sailing Like a stately ship Of Tarsus, bound for the isles Of Javan or Gadire, With all her bravery on, and tackle trim, Sails fill'd and streamers waving, Courted by all the winds that hold them play; An amber scent of odorous perfume-- Her harbinger, a damsel train behind? Some rich Philistian matron she may seem; And now, at nearer view, no other certain Than Dalila, thy wife. It cannot be without significance that the author of the story in the Book of Judges speaks in a different way of each of the three women who play a part in the tragedy of Samson's life. The woman who lived among the vineyards of Timnath, whose murder Samson avenged, was his wife. She was a Philistine, but Samson married her according to the conventional manner of the time and, also according to the manner of the time, she kept her home with her parents after her marriage. Wherefore she has gotten her name in the good books of the sociological philosophers who uphold the matronymic theory touching early society. The woman of Gaza whom Samson visited what time he confounded his would-be captors by carrying off the doors of the gates of the city was curtly "an harlot." Of the third woman it is said only that it came to pass that Samson "loved a woman in the Valley of Sorek, whose name was Delilah." Thereupon follows the story of her bribery by the lords of the Philistines and her betrayal of her lover. Evidently a licentious woman who could not aspire even to the merit of the heroine of Dekker's play. Milton not only accepted the theory of her wifehood, but also attributed patriotic motives to her. She knew that her name would be defamed "in Dan, in Judah and the bordering tribes." But in my country, where I most desire, In Eeron, Gaza, Asdod and in Gath, I shall be nam'd among the famousest Of women, sung at solemn festivals, Living and dead recorded, who to save Her country from a fierce destroyer, chose Above the faith of wedlock bands; my tomb With odours visited and annual flowers; Not less renown'd than in Mount Ephraim Jael, who, with inhospitable guile, Smote Sisera sleeping. In the scene before us Dalila is wholly and simply a siren, a seductress who plays upon the known love of Samson from motives which are not disclosed. As yet one may imagine her moved by a genuine passion. She turns her lustrous black eyes upon him as she hails him a double victor over his foes and her heart, and invites him to rest from his arms in her embraces in the fair valley of Sorek. Temptation seizes upon the soul of Samson. He prays God to make him steadfast; but she winds her toils the tighter: It is for him that she has bound a coronet of purple grapes upon her forehead and entwined the rose of Sharon in her ebon tresses. An Old Hebrew warns against the temptress and Samson agonizingly invokes a veil over the beauty that has enchained him. "Extinguish the fires of those eyes which enslave me."--thus he. "Sweet is the lily of the valley, pleasant the juices of mandragora, but sweeter and more pleasant are my kisses!"--thus she. The Old Hebrew warns again: "If thou give ear to her honeyed phrases, my son, curses will alight on thee which no tears that thou may'st weep will ever efface." But still the siren song rings in his ears. The maidens who had come upon the scene with Dalila (are they priestesses of Dagon?) dance, swinging their floral garlands seductively before the eyes of Samson and his followers. The hero tries to avoid the glances which Dalila, joining in the dance, throws upon him. It is in vain; his eyes follow her through all the voluptuous postures and movements of the dance. [figure: a musical score excerpt] And Dalila sings "Printemps qui commence"--a song often heard in concert-rooms, but not so often as the air with which the love-duet in the second act reaches its culmination, which is popularly held also to mark the climax of the opera. That song is wondrously insinuating in its charm; it pulsates with passion, so much so, indeed, that it is difficult to conceive that its sentiments are feigned, but this is lovelier in its fresh, suave, graceful, and healthy beauty:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt, sung to the words "The Spring with her dower of bird and flower, brings hope in her train."] As Dalila leaves the scene her voice and eyes repeat their lure, while Samson's looks and acts betray the trouble of his soul. It is not until we see and hear Dalila in the second act that she is revealed to us in her true character. Not till now does she disclose the motives of her conduct toward her lover. Night is falling in the valley of Sorek, the vale which lies between the hill country which the Israelites entered from the East, and the coast land which the Philistines, supposedly an island people, invaded from the West. Dalila, gorgeously apparelled, is sitting on a rock near the portico of her house. The strings of the orchestra murmur and the chromatic figure which we shall hear again in her love-song coos in the wood-winds: [figure: a musical score excerpt] She awaits him whom passion has made her slave in full confidence of her hold upon him. Samson, recherchant ma presence, Ce soir doit venir en ces lieux. Voici l'heure de la vengeance Qui doit satisfaire nos dieux! Amour! viens aider ma faiblesse! The vengeance of her gods shall be glutted; it is to that end she invokes the power of love to strengthen her weakness. A passion like his will not down--that she knows. To her comes the High Priest: Samson's strength, he says, is supernatural and flows from a vow with which he was consecrated to effect the glory of Israel. Once while he lay in her arms that strength had deserted him, but now, it is said, he flouts her love and doubts his own passion. There is no need to try to awaken [figure: a musical score excerpt] jealousy in the heart of Dalila; she hates Samson more bitterly than the leader of his enemies. She is not mercenary, like the Biblical woman; she scorns the promise of riches which the High Priest offers so she obtain the secret of the Hebrew's strength. Thrice had she essayed to learn that secret and thrice had he set her spell at naught. Now she will assail him with tears--a woman's weapon. The rumblings of thunder are heard; the scene is lit up by flashes of lightning. Running before the storm, which is only a precursor and a symbol of the tempest which is soon to rend his soul, Samson comes. Dalila upbraids her lover, rebukes his fears, protests her grief. Samson cannot withstand her tears. He confesses his love, but he must obey the will of a higher power. "What god is mightier than Love?" Let him but doubt her constancy and she will die. And she plays her trump card: "Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix," while the fluttering strings and cooing wood-winds insinuate themselves into the crevices of Samson's moral harness and loosen the rivets that hold it together:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt to the words "My heart, at thy dear voice"] Herein lies the strength and the weakness of music: it must fain be truthful. Dalila's words may be hypocritical, but the music speaks the speech of genuine passion. Not until we hear the refrain echoed mockingly in the last scene of the drama can we believe that the passion hymned in this song is feigned. And we almost deplore hat the composer put it to such disgraceful use. Samson hears the voice of his God in the growing and again hesitates. The storm bursts as Dalila shrieks out the hate that fills her and runs toward her dwelling. Beethoven sought to suggest external as well as internal peace in the "Dona nobis" of his Mass in D by mingling the sounds of war with the prayer for peace; Saint-Saens pictures the storm in nature and in Samson's soul by the music which accompanies the hero as he raises his hands mutely in prayer; then follows the temptress with faltering steps and enters her dwelling. The tempest reaches its climax; Dalila appears at the window with a shout to the waiting Philistine soldiery below. The voice of Samson cuts through the stormy night: "Trahison!" Act III.--First scene: A prison in Gaza. Samson, shorn of his flowing locks, which as a Nazarite he had vowed should never be touched by shears, labors at the mill. He has been robbed of his eyes and darkness has settled down upon him; darkness, too, upon the people whom his momentary weakness had given back into slavery. "Total eclipse!" Saint-Saens has won our admiration for the solemn dignity with which he has invested the penitent confession of the blind hero. But who shall hymn the blindness of Manoah's son after Milton and Handel? From a crowd of captive Hebrews outside the prison walls come taunting accusations, mingled with supplications to God. We recognize again the national mood of the psalmody of the first act. The entire scene is finely conceived. It is dramatic in a lofty sense, for its action plays on the stage of the heart. Samson, contrite, humble, broken in spirit, with a prayer for his people's deliverance, is led away to be made sport of in the temple of Dagon. There, before the statue of the god, grouped among the columns and before the altar the High Priest and the lords of the Philistines. Dalila, too, with maidens clad for the lascivious dance, and the multitude of Philistia. The women's choral song to spring which charmed us in the first act is echoed by mixed voices. The ballet which follows is a prettily exotic one, with an introductory cadence marked by the Oriental scale, out of which the second dance melody is constructed--a scale which has the peculiarity of an interval composed of three semitones, and which we know from the song of the priestesses in Verdi's "Aida":-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] [figure: a musical score excerpt] The High Priest makes mock of the Judge of Israel: Let him empty the wine cup and sing the praise of his vanquisher! Dalila, in the pride of her triumph, tauntingly tells him how simulated love had been made to serve her gods, her hate, and her nation. Samson answers only in contrite prayer. Together in canonic imitation (the erudite form does not offend, but only gives dignity to the scene) priest and siren offer a libation on the altar of the Fish god. [figure: a musical score excerpt] The flames flash upward from the altar. Now a supreme act of insolent impiety; Samson, too, shall sacrifice to Dagon. A boy is told to lead him where all can witness his humiliation. Samson feels that the time for retribution upon his enemies is come. He asks to be led between the marble pillars that support the roof of the temple. Priests and people, the traitress and her dancing women, the lords of the Philistines, the rout of banqueters and worshippers--all hymn the praise of Dagon. A brief supplication to Israel's God-- "And Samson took hold of the two middle pillars upon which the house stood and on which it was borne up, of the one with his right hand and of the other with his left. "And Samson said, 'Let me die with the Philistines.' And he bowed himself with all his might: and the house fell upon the lords and upon all the people that were therein. So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life." CHAPTER V "DIE KONIGIN VON SABA" The most obvious reason why Goldmark's "Konigin von Saba" should be seen and heard with pleasure lies in its book and scenic investiture. Thoughtfully considered the book is not one of great worth, but in the handling of things which give pleasure to the superficial observer it is admirable. In the first place it presents a dramatic story which is rational; which strongly enlists the interest if not the sympathies of the observer; which is unhackneyed; which abounds with imposing spectacles with which the imagination of childhood already had made play, that are not only intrinsically brilliant and fascinating but occur as necessary adjuncts of the story. Viewed from its ethical side and considered with reference to the sources whence its elements sprang, it falls under a considerable measure of condemnation, as will more plainly appear after its incidents have been rehearsed. The title of the opera indicates that the Biblical story of the visit of the Queen of Sheba to Solomon had been drawn on for the plot. This is true, but only in a slight degree. Sheba's Queen comes to Solomon in the opera, but that is the end of the draft on the Scriptural legend so far as she is concerned. Sulamith, who figures in the drama, owes her name to the Canticles, from which it was borrowed by the librettist, but no element of her character nor any of the incidents in which she is involved. The "Song of Songs, which is Solomon's" contributes a few lines of poetry to the book, and a ritualistic service which is celebrated in the temple finds its original text in the opening verses of Psalms lxvii and cxvii, but with this I have enumerated all that the opera owes to the Bible. It is not a Biblical opera, in the degree that Mehul's "Joseph," Rossini's "Moses," or Rubinstein's "Maccabees" is Biblical, to say nothing of Saint-Saens's "Samson et Dalila." Solomon's magnificent reign and marvellous wisdom, which contribute a few factors to the sum of the production, belong to profane as well as to sacred history and it will be found most agreeable to deeply rooted preconceptions to think of some other than the Scriptural Solomon as the prototype of the Solomon of Mosenthal and Goldmark, who, at the best, is a sorry sort of sentimentalist. The local color has been borrowed from the old story; the dramatic motive comes plainly from Wagner's "Tannhauser." Assad, a favorite courtier, is sent by Solomon to extend greetings and a welcome to the Queen of Sheba, who is on the way to visit the king, whose fame for wealth and wisdom has reached her ears in far Arabia. Assad is the type (though a milk-and-watery one, it must be confessed) of manhood struggling between the things that are of the earth and the things which are of heaven--between a gross, sensual passion and a pure, exalting love. He is betrothed to Sulamith, the daughter of the High Priest of the temple, who awaits his return from Solomon's palace and leads her companions in songs of gladness. Assad meets the Queen at Gath, performs his mission, and sets out to return, but, exhausted by the heat of the day, enters the forest on Mount Lebanon and lies down on a bank of moss to rest. There the sound of plashing waters arrests his ear. He seeks the cause of the grateful noise and comes upon a transportingly beautiful woman bathing. The nymph, finding herself observed, does not, like another Diana, cause the death of her admirer, but discloses herself to be a veritable Wagnerian Venus. She clips him in her arms and he falls at her feet; but a reed rustles and the charmer flees. These incidents we do not see. They precede the opening of the opera, and we learn of them from Assad's narration. Assad returns to Jerusalem, where, conscience stricken, he seeks to avoid his chaste bride. To Solomon, however, he confesses his adventure, and the king sets the morrow as his wedding day with Sulamith. The Queen of Sheba arrives, and when she raises her veil, ostensibly to show unto Solomon the first view of her features that mortal man has ever had vouchsafed him, Assad recognizes the heroine of his adventure in the woods on Lebanon. His mind is in a maze; bewilderingly he addresses her, and haughtily he is repulsed. But the woman has felt the dart no less than Assad; she seeks him at night in the palace garden; whither she had gone to brood over her love and the loss which threatens her on the morrow, and the luring song of her slave draws him again into her arms. Before the altar in the temple, just as Assad is about to pronounce the words which are to bind him to Sulamith, she confronts him again, on the specious pretext that she brings gifts for the bride. Assad again addresses her. Again he is denied. Delirium seizes upon his brain; he loudly proclaims the Queen as the goddess of his devotion. The people are panic-stricken at the sacrilege and rush from the temple; the priests cry anathema; Sulamith bemoans her fate; Solomon essays words of comfort; the High Priest intercedes with heaven; the soldiery, led by Baal-Hanan, overseer of the palace, enter to lead the profaner to death. Now Solomon claims the right to fix his punishment. The Queen, fearful that her prey may escape her, begs his life as a boon, but Solomon rejects her appeal; Assad must work out his salvation by overcoming temptation and mastering his wicked passion. Sulamith approaches amid the wailings of her companions. She is about to enter a retreat on the edge of the Syrian desert, but she, too, prays for the life of Assad. Solomon, in a prophetic ecstasy, foretells Assad's deliverance from sin and in a vision sees a meeting between him and his pure love under a palm tree in the desert. Assad is banished to the sandy waste; there a simoom sweeps down upon him; he falls at the foot of a lonely palm to die, after calling on Sulamith with his fleeting breath. She comes with her wailing maidens, sees the fulfilment of Solomon's prophecy, and Assad dies in her arms. "Thy beloved is thine, in love's eternal realm," sing the maidens, while a mirage shows the wicked Queen, with her caravan of camels and elephants, returning to her home. The parallel between this story and the immeasurably more poetical and beautiful one of "Tannhauser" is apparent to half an eye. Sulamith is Elizabeth, the Queen is Venus, Assad is Tannhauser, Solomon is Wolfram von Eschenbach. The ethical force of the drama--it has some, though very little--was weakened at the performances at the Metropolitan Opera House [footnote: Goldmark's opera was presented for the first time in America at the Metropolitan Opera House on December 2, 1885. Cast: Sulamith, Fraulein Lilli Lehmann; die Konigin von Saba, Frau Kramer-Wiedl; Astaroth, Fraulein Marianne Brandt; Solomon, Herr Adolph Robinson; Assad, Herr Stritt; Der Hohe Priester, Herr Emil Fischer; Baal-Hanan, Herr-Alexi. Anton Seidl conducted, and the opera had fifteen representations in the season. These performances were in the original German. On April 3, 1888, an English version was presented at the Academy of Music by the National Opera Company, then in its death throes. The opera was revived at the Metropolitan Opera House by Mr. Conried in the season 1905-1906 and had five performances.] in New York by the excision from the last act of a scene in which the Queen attempts to persuade Assad to go with her to Arabia. Now Assad rises superior to his grosser nature and drives the temptress away, thus performing the saving act demanded by Solomon. Herr Mosenthal, who made the libretto of "Die Konigin von Saba," treated this material, not with great poetic skill, but with a cunning appreciation of the opportunities which it offers for dramatic effect. The opera opens with a gorgeous picture of the interior of Solomon's palace, decked in honor of the coming guest. There is an air of joyous expectancy over everything. Sulamith's entrance introduces the element of female charm to brighten the brilliancy of the picture, and her bridal song--in which the refrain is an excerpt from the Canticles, "Thy beloved is thine, who feeds among the roses"--enables the composer to indulge his strong predilection and fecund gift for Oriental melody. The action hurries to a thrilling climax. One glittering pageant treads on the heels of another, each more gorgeous and resplendent than the last, until the stage, set to represent a fantastical hall with a bewildering vista of carved columns, golden lions, and rich draperies, is filled with such a kaleidoscopic mass of colors and groupings as only an Oriental mind could conceive. Finally all the preceding strokes are eclipsed by the coming of the Queen. But no time is lost; the spectacle does not make the action halt for a moment. Sheba makes her gifts and uncovers her face, and at once we are confronted by the tragical element, and the action rushes on toward its legitimate and mournful end. In this ingenious blending of play and spectacle one rare opportunity after another is presented to the composer. Sulamith's epithalamium, Assad's narrative, the choral greeting to the Queen, the fateful recognition--all these things are made for music of the inspiring, swelling, passionate kind. In the second act, the Queen's monologue, her duet with Assad, and, most striking of all, the unaccompanied bit of singing with which Astaroth lures Assad into the presence of the Queen, who is hiding in the shadow of broad-leaved palms behind a running fountain--a melodic phrase saturated with the mystical color of the East--these are gifts of the rarest kind to the composer, which he has enriched to give them in turn to the public. That relief from their stress of passion is necessary is not forgotten, but is provided in the ballet music and the solemn ceremonial in the temple, which takes place amid surroundings that call into active operation one's childhood fancies touching the sacred fane on Mount Moriah and the pompous liturgical functions of which it was the theatre. Goldmark's music is highly spiced. He was an eclectic, and his first aim seems to have been to give the drama a tonal investiture which should be in keeping with its character, external as well as internal. At times his music rushes along like a lava stream of passion, every measure pulsating with eager, excited, and exciting life. He revels in instrumental color. The language of his orchestra is as glowing as the poetry attributed to the royal poet whom his operatic story celebrates. Many composers before him made use of Oriental cadences, rhythms, and idioms, but to none do they seem to have come so like native language as to Goldmark. It is romantic music, against which the strongest objection that can be urged is that it is so unvaryingly stimulated that it wearies the mind and makes the listener long for a change to a fresher and healthier musical atmosphere. CHAPTER VI "HERODIADE" In the ballet scene of Gounod's most popular opera Mephistopheles conjures up visions of Phryne, Lais, Aspasia, Cleopatra, and Helen of Troy to beguile the jaded interest of Faust. The list reads almost like a catalogue of the operas of Massenet whose fine talent was largely given to the celebration of the famous courtesans of the ancient world. With the addition of a few more names from the roster of antiquity (Thais, Dalila, and Aphrodite), and some less ancient but no less immoral creatures of modern fancy, like Violetta, Manon Lescaut, Zaza, and Louise, we might make a pretty complete list of representatives of the female type in which modern dramatists and composers seem to think the interest of humanity centres. When Massenet's "Herodiade" was announced as the first opera to be given at the Manhattan Opera House in New York for the season of 1909-1910 it looked to some observers as if the dominant note of the year was to be sounded by the Scarlet Woman; but the representation brought a revelation and a surprise. The names of the principal characters were those which for a few years had been filling the lyric theatres of Germany with a moral stench; but their bearers in Massenet's opera did little or nothing that was especially shocking to good taste or proper morals. Herod was a love-sick man of lust, who gazed with longing eyes upon the physical charms of Salome and pleaded for her smiles like any sentimental milksop; but he did not offer her Capernaum for a dance. Salome may have known how, but she did not dance for either half a kingdom or the whole of a man's head. Instead, though there were intimations that her reputation was not all that a good maiden's ought to be, she sang pious hosannahs and waved a palm branch conspicuously in honor of the prophet at whose head she had bowled herself in the desert, the public streets, and king's palaces. At the end she killed herself when she found that the vengeful passion of Herodias and the jealous hatred of Herod had compassed the death of the saintly man whom she had loved. Herodias was a wicked woman, no doubt, for John the Baptist denounced her publicly as a Jezebel, but her jealousy of Salome had reached a point beyond her control before she learned that her rival was her own daughter whom she had deserted for love of the Tetrarch. As for John the Baptist the camel's hair with which he was clothed must have cost as pretty a penny as any of the modern kind, and if he wore a girdle of skins about his loins it was concealed under a really regal cloak. He was a voice; but not one crying in the wilderness. He was in fact an operatic tenor comme il faut, who needed only to be shut up in a subterranean jail with the young woman who had pursued him up hill and down dale, in and out of season to make love to her in the most approved fashion of the Paris Grand Opera. What shall we think of the morals of this French opera, after we have seen and heard that compounded by the Englishman Oscar Wilde and the German Richard Strauss? No wonder that England's Lord Chamberlain asked nothing more than an elimination of the Biblical names when he licensed a performance of "Herodiade" at Covent Garden. There was no loss of dramatic quality in calling Herod, Moriame, and Herodias, Hesotade, and changing the scene from Jerusalem to Azoum in Ethiopia; though it must have been a trifle diverting to hear fair-skinned Ethiopians singing Schma Yisroel, Adonai Elohenu in a temple which could only be that of Jerusalem. John the Baptist was only Jean in the original and needed not to be changed, and Salome is not in the Bible, though Salome, a very different woman is--a fact which the Lord Chamberlain seems to have overlooked when he changed the title of the opera from "Herodiade" to "Salome." Where does Salome come from, anyway? And where did she get her chameleonlike nature? Was she an innocent child, as Flaubert represents her, who could but lisp the name of the prophet when her mother told her to ask for his head? Had she taken dancing lessons from one of the women of Cadiz to learn to dance as she must have danced to excite such lust in Herod? Was she a monster, a worse than vampire as she is represented by Wilde and Strauss? Was she an "Israelitish grisette" as Pougin called the heroine of the opera which it took one Italian (Zanardini) and three Frenchmen (Milliet, Gremont, and Massenet) to concoct? No wonder that the brain of Saint-Saens reeled when he went to hear "Herodiade" at its first performance in Brussels and found that the woman whom he had looked upon as a type of lasciviousness and monstrous cruelty had become metamorphosed into a penitent Magdalen. Read the plot of the opera and wonder! Salome is a maiden in search of her mother whom John the Baptist finds in his wanderings and befriends. She clings to him when he becomes a political as well as a religious power among the Jews, though he preaches unctuously to her touching the vanity of earthly love. Herodias demands his death of her husband for that he had publicly insulted her, but Herod schemes to use his influence over the Jews to further his plan to become a real monarch instead of a Roman Tetrarch. But when the pro-consul Vitellius wins the support of the people and Herod learns that the maiden who has spurned him is in love with the prophet, he decrees his decapitation. Salome, baffled in her effort to save her lover, attempts to kill Herodias; but the wicked woman discloses herself as the maiden's mother and Salome turns the dagger against her own breast. This is all of the story one needs to know. It is richly garnished with incident, made gorgeous with pageantry, and clothed with much charming music. Melodies which may be echoes of synagogal hymns of great antiquity resound in the walls of the temple at Jerusalem, in which respect the opera recalls Goldmark's "Queen of Sheba." Curved Roman trumpets mix their loud clangors with the instruments of the modern brass band and compel us to think of "Aida." There are dances of Egyptians, Babylonians, and Phoenicians, and if the movements of the women make us deplore the decay of the choreographic art, the music warms us almost as much as the Spanish measures in "Le Cid." Eyes and ears are deluged with Oriental color until at the last there comes a longing for the graciously insinuating sentimentalities of which the earlier Massenet was a master. Two of the opera's airs had long been familiar to the public from performance in the concert-room--Salome's "Il est doux" and Herod's "Vision fugitive"--and they stand out as the brightest jewels in the opera's musical crown; but there is much else which woos the ear delightfully, for Massenet was ever a gracious if not a profound melodist and a master of construction and theatrical orchestration. When he strives for massive effects, however, he sometimes becomes futile, banal where he would be imposing; but he commands a charm which is insinuating in its moments of intimacy. [Footnote: "Herodiade" had its first performance in New York (it had previously been given in New Orleans by the French Opera Company) on November 8, 1909. The cast was as follows: Salome--Lina Cavalieri; Herodias--Gerville-Reache; John--Charles Dalmores; Herod--Maurice Renaud; Vitellius--Crabbe; Phanuel--M. Vallier; High Priest--M. Nicolay. The musical director was Henriques de la Fuente.] CHAPTER VII "LAKME" Lakme is the daughter of Nilakantha, a fanatical Brahmin priest, who has withdrawn to a ruined temple deep in an Indian forest. In his retreat the old man nurses his wrath against the British invader, prays assiduously to Brahma (thus contributing a fascinating Oriental mood to the opening of the opera), and waits for the time to come when he shall be able to wreak his revenge on the despoilers of his country. Lakme sings Oriental duets with her slave, Mallika:-- Sous le dome epais ou le blanc jasmin A la rose s'assemble, Sur la rive en fleurs, riant au matin Viens, descendons ensemble-- a dreamy, sense-ensnaring, hypnotic barcarole. The opera opens well; by this time the composer has carried us deep into the jungle. The Occident is rude: Gerald, an English officer, breaks through a bamboo fence and makes love to Lakme, who, though widely separated from her operatic colleagues from an ethnological point of view like Elsa and Senta, to expedite the action requites the passion instanter. After the Englishman is gone the father returns and, with an Oriental's cunning which does him credit, deduces from the broken fence that an Englishman has profaned the sacred spot. This is the business of Act I. In Act II the father, disguised as a beggar who holds a dagger ever in readiness, and his daughter, disguised as a street singer, visit a town market in search of the profaner. The business is not to Lakme's taste, but it is not for the like of her to neglect the opportunity offered to win applause with the legend of the pariah's daughter, with its tintinnabulatory charm:-- Ou va la jeune Hindoue Fille des parias; Quand la lune se joue Dans les grand mimosas? It is the "Bell song," which has tinkled so often in our concert-rooms. Gerald recognizes the singer despite her disguise; and Nilakantha recognizes him as the despoiler of the hallowed spot in which he worships and incidentally conceals his daughter. The bloodthirsty fanatic observes sententiously that Brahma has smiled and cuts short Gerald's soliloquizing with a dagger thrust. Lakme, with the help of a male slave, removes him to a hut concealed in the forest. While he is convalescing the pair sing duets and exchange vows of undying affection. But the military Briton, who has invaded the country at large, must needs now invade also this cosey abode of love. Frederick, a brother officer, discovers Gerald and informs him that duty calls (Britain always expects every man to do his duty, no matter what the consequences to him) and he must march with his regiment. Frederick has happened in just as Lakme is gone for some sacred water in which she and Gerald were to pledge eternal love for each other, to each other. But, spurred on by Frederick and the memory that "England expects, etc.," Gerald finds the call of the fife and drum more potent than the voice of love. Lakme, psychologist as well as botanist, understands the struggle which now takes place in Gerald's soul, and relieves him, of his dilemma by crushing a poisonous flower (to be exact, the Datura stramonium) between her teeth, dying, it would seem, to the pious delight of her father, who "ecstatically" beholds her dwelling with Brahma. The story, borrowed by Gondinet and Gille from the little romance "Le Mariage de Loti," is worthless except to furnish motives for tropical scenery, Hindu dresses, and Oriental music. Three English ladies, Ellen, Rose, and Mrs. Bentson, figure in the play, but without dramatic purpose except to take part in some concerted music. They are, indeed, so insignificant in all other respects that when the opera was given by Miss Van Zandt and a French company in London for the first time in 1885 they were omitted, and the excision was commended by the critics, who knew that it had been made. The conversation of the women is all of the veriest stopgap character. The maidens, Rose and Ellen, are English ladies visiting in the East; Mrs. Bentson is their chaperon. All that they have to say is highly unimportant, even when true. "What do you see, Frederick?" "A garden." "And you, Gerald?" "Big, beautiful trees." "Anybody about?" "Don't know." "Look again." "That's not easy; the fence shuts out the view within." "Can't you make a peephole through the bamboo?" "Girls, girls, be careful." And so on and so on for quantity. But we must fill three acts, and ensemble makes its demands; besides, we want pretty blondes of the English type to put in contrast with the dark-skinned Lakme and her slave. At the first representation in New York by the American Opera Company, at the Academy of Music, on March 1, 1886, the three women were permitted to interfere with what there is of poetical spirit in the play, and their conversation, like that of the other principals, was uttered in the recitatives composed by Delibes to take the place of the spoken dialogue used at the Paris Opera Comique, where spoken dialogue is traditional. Theodore Thomas conducted the Academy performance, at which the cast was as follows: Lakme, Pauline L'Allemand; Nilakantha, Alonzo E. Stoddard; Gerald, William Candidus; Frederick, William H. Lee; Ellen, Charlotte Walker; Rose, Helen Dudley Campbell; Mrs. Bentson, May Fielding; Mallika, Jessie Bartlett Davis; Hadji, William H. Fessenden. Few operas have had a more variegated American history than "Lakme." It was quite new when it was first heard in New York, but it had already given rise to considerable theatrical gossip, not to say scandal. The first representation took place at the Opera Comique in April, 1883, with Miss Marie Van Zandt, an American girl, the daughter of a singer who had been actively successful in English opera in New York and London, as creator of the part of the heroine. The opera won a pretty triumph and so did the singer. At once there was talk of a New York performance. Mme. Etelka Gerster studied the titular role with M. Delibes and, as a member of Colonel Mapleson's company at the Academy of Music, confidently expected to produce the work there in the season of 1883-1884, the first season of the rivalry between the Academy and the Metropolitan Opera House, which had just opened its doors; but though she went so far as to offer to buy the American performing rights from Heugel, the publisher, nothing came of it. The reason was easily guessed by those who knew that there has been, or was pending, a quarrel between Colonel Mapleson and M. Heugel concerning the unauthorized use by the impresario of other scores owned by the publisher. During the same season, however, Miss Emma Abbott carried a version (or rather a perversion) of the opera, for which the orchestral parts had been arranged from the pianoforte score, into the cities of the West, and brought down a deal of unmerited criticism on the innocent head of M. Delibes. In the season of 1884-1885 Colonel Mapleson came back to the Academy with vouchers of various sorts to back up a promise to give the opera. There was a human voucher in the person of Miss Emma Nevada, who had also enjoyed the instruction of the composer and who had trunkfuls and trunkfuls and trunkfuls of Oriental dresses, though Lakme needs but few. There were gorgeous uniforms for the British soldiers, the real article, each scarlet coat and every top boot having a piece of history attached, and models of the scenery which any doubting Thomas of a newspaper reporter might inspect if he felt so disposed. When the redoubtable colonel came it was to be only a matter of a week or so before the opera would be put on the stage in the finest of styles; it was still a matter of a week or so when the Academy season came to an end. When Delibes's exquisite and exotic music reached a hearing in the American metropolis, it was sung to English words, and the most emphatic success achieved in performance was the acrobatic one of Mme. L'Allemand as she rolled down some uncalled-for pagoda steps in the death scene. Mme. Adelina Patti was the second Lakme heard in New York. After the fifth season of German opera at the Metropolitan Opera House had come to an end in the spring of 1890, Messrs. Abbey and Grau took the theatre for a short season of Italian opera by a troupe headed by Mme. Patti. In that season "Lakme" was sung once--on April 2, 1890. Now came an opportunity for the original representative of the heroine. Abbey and Grau resumed the management of the theatre in 1891, and in their company was Miss Van Zandt, for whom the opera was "revived" on February 22. Mr. Abbey had great expectations, but they were disappointed. For the public there was metal more attractive than Miss Van Zandt and the Hindu opera in other members of the company and other operas. It was the year of Emma Eames's coming and also of Jean de Reszke's (they sang together in Gounod's "Romeo et Juliette") and "Cavalleria Rusticana" was new. Then Delibes's opera hibernated in New York for fifteen years, after which the presence in the Metropolitan company of Mme. Marcella Sembrich led to another "revival." (Operas which are unperformed for a term of two or three years after having been once included in the repertory are "revived" in New York.) It was sung three times in the season of 1906-1907. It also afforded one of Mr. Hammerstein's many surprises at the Manhattan Opera House. Five days before the close of his last season, on March 21, 1910, it was precipitated on the stage ("pitchforked" is the popular and professional term) to give Mme. Tetrazzini a chance to sing the bell song. Altogether I know of no more singular history than that of "Lakme" in New York. Lakme is a child of the theatrical boards, who inherited traits from several predecessors, the strongest being those deriving from Aida and Selika. Like the former, she loves a man whom her father believes to be the arch enemy of his native land, and, like her, she is the means of betraying him into the hands of the avenger. Like the heroine of Meyerbeer's posthumous opera, she has a fatal acquaintance with tropical botany and uses her knowledge to her own destruction. Her scientific attainments are on about the same plane as her amiability, her abnormal sense of filial duty, and her musical accomplishments. She loves a man whom her father wishes her to lure to his death by her singing, and she sings entrancingly enough to bring about the meeting between her lover's back and her father's knife. That she does not warble herself into the position of "particeps criminis" in a murder she owes only to the bungling of the old man. Having done this, however, she turns physician and nurse and brings the wounded man back to health, thus sacrificing her love to the duty which her lover thinks he owes to the invaders of her country and oppressors of her people. After this she makes the fatal application of her botanical knowledge. Such things come about when one goes to India for an operatic heroine. The feature of the libretto which Delibes has used to the best purpose is its local color. His music is saturated with the languorous spirit of the East. Half a dozen of the melodies are lovely inventions, of marked originality in both matter and treatment, and the first half hour of the opera is apt to take one's fancy completely captive. The drawback lies in the oppressive weariness which succeeds the first trance, and is brought on by the monotonous character of the music. After an hour of "Lakme" one yearns for a few crashing chords of C major as a person enduring suffocation longs for a gush of fresh air. The music first grows monotonous, then wearies. Delibes's lyrical moments show the most numerous indications of beauty; dramatic life and energy are absent from the score. In the second act he moves his listeners only once--with the attempted repetition of the bell song after Lakme has recognized her lover. The odor of the poppy invites to drowsy enjoyment in the beginning, and the first act is far and away the most gratifying in the opera, musically as well as scenically. It would be so if it contained only Lakme's song "Pourquoi dans les grands bois," the exquisite barcarole--a veritable treasure trove for the composer, who used its melody dramatically throughout the work--and Gerald's air, "Fantaisie aux divins mensonges." Real depth will be looked for in vain in this opera; superficial loveliness is apparent on at least half its pages. CHAPTER VIII "PAGLIACCl" For a quarter of a century "Cavalleria Rusticana" and "Pagliacci" have been the Castor and Pollux of the operatic theatres of Europe and America. Together they have joined the hunt of venturesome impresarios for that Calydonian boar, success; together they have lighted the way through seasons of tempestuous stress and storm. Of recent years at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York efforts have been made to divorce them and to find associates for one or the other, since neither is sufficient in time for an evening's entertainment; but they refuse to be put asunder as steadfastly as did the twin brothers of Helen and Clytemnestra. There has been no operatic Zeus powerful enough to separate and alternate their existences even for a day; and though blase critics will continue to rail at the "double bill" as they have done for two decades or more, the two fierce little dramas will "sit shining on the sails" of many a managerial ship and bring it safe to haven for many a year to come. Twins the operas are in spirit; twins in their capacity as supreme representatives of verismo; twins in the fitness of their association; but twins they are not in respect of parentage or age. "Cavalleria Rusticana" is two years older than "Pagliacci" and as truly its progenitor as Weber's operas were the progenitors of Wagner's. They are the offspring of the same artistic movement, and it was the phenomenal [figure: a musical score excerpt] success of Mascagni's opera which was the spur that drove Leoncavallo to write his. When "Cavalleria Rusticana" appeared on the scene, two generations of opera-goers had passed away without experiencing anything like the sensation caused by this opera. They had witnessed the production, indeed, of great masterpieces, which it would be almost sacrilegious to mention in the same breath with Mascagni's turbulent and torrential tragedy, but these works were the productions of mature masters, from whom things monumental and lasting were expected as a matter of course; men like Wagner and Verdi. The generations had also seen the coming of "Carmen" and gradually opened their minds to an appreciation of its meaning and beauty, while the youthful genius who had created it sank almost unnoticed into his grave; but they had not seen the advent of a work which almost in a day set the world on fire and raised an unknown musician from penury and obscurity to affluence and fame. In the face of such an experience it was scarcely to be wondered at that judgment was flung to the winds and that the most volatile of musical nations and the staidest alike hailed the young composer as the successor of Verdi, the regenerator of operatic Italy, and the pioneer of a new school which should revitalize opera and make unnecessary the hopeless task of trying to work along the lines laid down by Wagner. And this opera was the outcome of a competition based on the frankest kind of commercialism--one of those "occasionals" from which we have been taught to believe we ought never to expect anything of ideal and lasting merit. "Pagliacci" was, in a way, a fruit of the same competition. Three years before "Cavalleria Rusticana" had started the universal conflagration Ruggiero Leoncavallo, who at sixteen years of age had won his diploma at the Naples Conservatory and received the degree of Doctor of Letters from the University of Bologna at twenty, had read his dramatic poem "I Medici" to the publisher Ricordi and been commissioned to set it to music. For this work he was to receive 2400 francs. He completed the composition within a year, but there was no contract that the opera should be performed, and this hoped-for consummation did not follow. Then came Mascagni's triumph, and Leoncavallo, who had been obliged meanwhile to return to the routine work of an operatic repetiteur, lost patience. Satisfied that Ricordi would never do anything more for him, and become desperate, he shut himself in his room to attempt "one more work"--as he said in an autobiographical sketch which appeared in "La Reforme," a journal published in Alexandria. In five months he had written the book and music of "Pagliacci," which was accepted for publication and production by Sonzogno, Ricordi's business rival, after a single reading of the poem. Maurel, whose friendship Leoncavallo had made while coaching opera singers in Paris, used his influence in favor of the opera, offered to create the part of Tonio, and did so at the first performance of the opera at the Teatro dal Verme, Milan, on May 17, 1892. Leoncavallo's opera turns on a tragical ending to a comedy which is incorporated in the play. The comedy is a familiar one among the strolling players who perform at village fairs in Italy, in which Columbina, Pagliaccio, and Arlecchino (respectively the Columbine, Clown, and Harlequin of our pantomime) take part. Pagliaccio is husband to Colombina and Arlecchino is her lover, who hoodwinks Pagliaccio. There is a fourth character, Taddeo, a servant, who makes foolish love to Columbina and, mingling imbecile stupidity with maliciousness, delights in the domestic discord which he helps to foment. The first act of the opera may be looked upon as an induction to the conventional comedy which comes to an unconventional and tragic end through the fact that the Clown (Canio) is in real life the husband of Columbine (Nedda) and is murderously jealous of her; wherefore, forgetting himself in a mad rage, he kills her and her lover in the midst of the mimic scene. The lover, however, is not the Harlequin of the comedy, but one of the spectators whom Canio had vainly sought to identify, but who is unconsciously betrayed by his mistress in her death agony. The Taddeo of the comedy is the clown of the company, who in real life entertains a passion for Nedda, which is repulsed, whereupon he also carries his part into actuality and betrays Nedda's secret to Canio. It is in the ingenious interweaving of these threads--the weft of reality with the warp of simulation--that the chief dramatic value of Leoncavallo's opera lies. Actual murder by a man while apparently playing a part in a drama is older as a dramatic motif than "Pagliacci," and Leoncavallo's employment of it gave rise to an interesting controversy and a still more interesting revelation in the early days of the opera. Old theatre-goers in England and America remember the device as it was employed in Dennery's "Paillaisse," known on the English stage as "Belphegor, the Mountebank." In 1874 Paul Ferrier produced a play entitled "Tabarin," in which Coquelin appeared at the Theatre Francais. Thirteen years later Catulle Mendes brought out another play called "La Femme de Tabarin," for which Chabrier wrote the incidental music. The critics were prompt in charging Mendes with having plagiarized Ferrier, and the former defended himself on the ground that the incident which he had employed, of actual murder in a dramatic performance, was historical and had often been used. This, however, did not prevent him from bringing an accusation of theft against Leoncavallo when "Pagliacci" was announced for production in French at Brussels and of beginning legal proceedings against the composer and his publisher on that score. The controversy which followed showed very plainly that Mendes did not have a leg to stand upon either in law or equity, and he withdrew his suit and made a handsome amende in a letter to the editor of "Le Figaro." Before this was done, however, Signor Leoncavallo wrote a letter to his publisher, which not only established that the incident in question was based upon fact but directed attention to a dramatic use of the motif in a Spanish play written thirty-five years before the occurrence which was in the mind of Leoncavallo. The letter was as follows:-- Lugano, Sept. 3, 1894. Dear Signor Sonzogno. I have read Catulle Mendes's two letters. M. Mendes goes pretty far in declaring a priori that "Pagliacci" is an imitation of his "Femme de Tabarin." I had not known this book, and only know it now through the accounts given in the daily papers. You will remember that at the time of the first performance of "Pagliacci" at Milan in 1892 several critics accused me of having taken the subject of my opera from the "Drama Nuevo" of the well known Spanish writer, Estebanez. What would M. Mendes say if he were accused of having taken the plot of "La Femme de Tabarin" from the "Drama Nuevo," which dates back to 1830 or 1840? As a fact, a husband, a comedian, kills in the last scene the lover of his wife before her eyes while he only appears to play his part in the piece. It is absolutely true that I knew at that time no more of the "Drama Nuevo" than I know now of "La Femme de Tabarin." I saw the first mentioned work in Rome represented by Novelli six months after "Pagliacci's" first production in Milan. In my childhood, while my father was judge at Montalto, in Calabria (the scene of the opera's plot), a jealous player killed his wife after the performance. This event made a deep and lasting impression on my childish mind, the more since my father was the judge at the criminal's trial; and later, when I took up dramatic work, I used this episode for a drama. I left the frame of the piece as I saw it, and it can be seen now at the Festival of Madonna della Serra, at Montalto. The clowns arrive a week or ten days before the festival, which takes place on August 15, to put up their tents and booths in the open space which reaches from the church toward the fields. I have not even invented the coming of the peasants from Santo Benedetto, a neighboring village, during the chorale. What I write now I have mentioned so often in Germany and other parts that several opera houses, notably that of Berlin, had printed on their bills "Scene of the true event." After all this, M. Mendes insisted on his claim, which means that he does not believe my words. Had I used M. Mendes's ideas I would not have hesitated to open correspondence with him before the first representation, as I have done now with a well known writer who has a subject that I wish to use for a future work. "Pagliacci" is my own, entirely my own. If in this opera, a scene reminds one of M. Mendes's book, it only proves that we both had the same idea which Estebanez had before us. On my honor and conscience I assure you that I have read but two of M. Mendes's books in my life--"Zo Hur" and "La Premiere Maitresse." When I read at Marienbad a little while ago the newspaper notices on the production of "La Femme de Tabarin" I even wrote to you, dear Signor Sonzogno, thinking this was an imitation of "Pagliacci." This assertion will suffice, coming from an honorable man, to prove my loyalty. If not, then I will place my undoubted rights under the protection of the law, and furnish incontestable proof of what I have stated here. I have the honor, etc., etc. At various times and in various manners, by letters and in newspaper interviews, Leoncavallo reiterated the statement that the incident which he had witnessed as a boy in his father's courtroom had suggested his drama. The chief actor in the incident, he said, was still living. After conviction he was asked if he felt penitent. The rough voice which rang through the room years before still echoed in Leoncavallo's ears: "I repent me of nothing! On the contrary, if I had it to do over again I'd do it again!" (Non mi pento del delitto! Tutt altro. Se dovessi ricominciare, ricomincerei!) He was sentenced to imprisonment and after the expiration of his term took service in a little Calabrian town with Baroness Sproniere. If Mendes had prosecuted his action, "poor Alessandro" was ready to appear as a witness and tell the story which Leoncavallo had dramatized. I have never seen "La Femme de Tabarin" and must rely on Mr. Philip Hale, fecund fountain of informal information, for an outline of the play which "Pagliacci" called back into public notice: Francisquine, the wife of Tabarin, irons her petticoats in the players' booth. A musketeer saunters along, stops and makes love to her. She listens greedily. Tabarin enters just after she has made an appointment with the man. Tabarin is drunk--drunker than usual. He adores his wife; he falls at her feet; he entreats her; he threatens her. Meanwhile the crowd gathers to see the "parade." Tabarin mounts the platform and tells openly of his jealousy. He calls his wife; she does not answer. He opens the curtain behind him; then he sees her in the arms of the musketeer. Tabarin snatches up a sword, stabs his wife in the breast and comes back to the stage with starting eyes and hoarse voice. The crowd marvels at the passion of his play. Francisquine, bloody, drags herself along the boards. She chokes; she cannot speak. Tabarin, mad with despair, gives her the sword, begs her to kill him. She seizes the sword, raises herself, hiccoughs, gasps out the word "Canaille," and dies before she can strike. Paul Ferrier and Emanuel Pessard produced a grand opera in two acts entitled "Tabarin" in Paris in 1885; Alboiz and Andre a comic opera with the same title, music by Georges Bousquet, in 1852. Gilles and Furpilles brought out an operetta called "Tabarin Duelliste," with music by Leon Pillaut, in 1866. The works seem to have had only the name of the hero in common. Their stories bear no likeness to those of "La Femme de Tabarin" or "Pagliacci." The Spanish play, "Drama Nuevo," by Estebanez, was adapted for performance in English by Mr. W. D. Howells under the title "Yorick's Love." The translation was made for Mr. Lawrence Barrett and was never published in book form. If it had the denouement suggested in Leoncavallo's letter to Sonzogno, the fact has escaped the memory of Mr. Howells, who, in answer to a letter of inquiry which I sent him, wrote: "So far as I can remember there was no likeness between 'Yorick's Love' and 'Pagliacci.' But when I made my version I had not seen or heard 'Pagliacci.'" The title of Leoncavallo's opera is "Pagliacci," not "I Pagliacci" as it frequently appears in books and newspapers. When the opera was brought out in the vernacular, Mr. Frederick E. Weatherly, who made the English adaptation, called the play and the character assumed by Canio in the comedy "Punchinello." This evoked an interesting comment from Mr. Hale: "'Pagliacci' is the plural of Pagliaccio, which does not mean and never did mean Punchinello. What is a Pagliaccio? A type long known to the Italians, and familiar to the French as Paillasse. The Pagliaccio visited Paris first in 1570. He was clothed in white and wore big buttons. Later, he wore a suit of bedtick, with white and blue checks, the coarse mattress cloth of the period. Hence his name. The word that meant straw was afterward used for mattress which was stuffed with straw and then for the buffoon, who wore the mattress cloth suit. In France the Paillasse, as I have said, was the same as Pagliaccio. Sometimes he wore a red checked suit, but the genuine one was known by the colors, white and blue. He wore blue stockings, short breeches puffing out a la blouse, a belted blouse and a black, close-fitting cap. This buffoon was seen at shows of strolling mountebanks. He stood outside the booth and by his jests and antics and grimaces strove to attract the attention of the people, and he told them of the wonders performed by acrobats within, of the freaks exhibited. Many of his jests are preserved. They are often in dialogue with the proprietor and are generally of vile indecency. The lowest of the strollers, he was abused by them. The Italian Pagliaccio is a species of clown, and Punchinello was never a mere buffoon. The Punch of the puppet-show is a bastard descendant of the latter, but the original type is still seen in Naples, where he wears a white costume and a black mask. The original type was not necessarily humpbacked. Punchinello is a shrewd fellow, intellectual, yet in touch with the people, cynical; not hesitating at murder if he can make by it; at the same time a local satirist, a dealer in gags and quips. Pagliacci is perhaps best translated by 'clowns'; but the latter word must not be taken in its restricted circus sense. These strolling clowns are pantomimists, singers, comedians." At the first performance of "Pagliacci" in Milan the cast was as follows: Canio, Geraud; Tonio, Maurel; Silvio, Ancona; Peppe, Daddi; Nedda, Mme. Stehle. The first performance in America was by the Hinrichs Grand Opera Company, at the Grand Opera House, New York, on June 15, 1893; Selma Kronold was the Nedda, Montegriffo the Canio, and Campanari the Tonio. The opera was incorporated in the Metropolitan repertory in the season of 1893-1894. Rinuccini's "Dafne," which was written 300 years ago and more, begins with a prologue which was spoken in the character of the poet Ovid. Leoncavallo's "Pagliacci" also begins with a prologue, but it is spoken by one of the people of the play; whether in his character as Tonio of the tragedy or Pagliaccio of the comedy there is no telling. He speaks the sentiments of the one and wears the motley of the other. Text and music, however, are ingeniously contrived to serve as an index to the purposes of the poet and the method and material of the composer. In his speech the prologue tells us that the author of the play is fond of the ancient custom of such an introduction, but not of the old purpose. He does not employ it for the purpose of proclaiming that the tears and passions of the actors are but simulated and false. No! He wishes to let us know that his play is drawn from life as it is--that it is true. It welled up within him when memories of the past sang in his heart and was written down to show us that actors are human beings like unto ourselves. An unnecessary preachment, and if listened to with a critical disposition rather an impertinence, as calculated to rob us of the pleasure of illusion which it is the province of the drama to give. Closely analyzed, Tonio's speech is very much of a piece with the prologue which Bully Bottom wanted for the play of "Pyramus" in Shakespeare's comedy. We are asked to see a play. In this play there is another play. In this other play one of the actors plays at cross-purposes with the author--forgets his lines and himself altogether and becomes in reality the man that he seems to be in the first play. The prologue deliberately aims to deprive us of the thrill of surprise at the unexpected denouement, simply that he may tell us what we already know as well as he, that an actor is a human being. Plainly then, from a didactic point of view, this prologue is a gratuitous impertinence. Not so its music. Structurally, it is little more than a loose-jointed pot-pourri; but it serves the purpose of a thematic catalogue to the chief melodic incidents of the play which is to follow. In this it bears a faint resemblance to the introduction to Berlioz's "Romeo and Juliet" symphony. It begins with an energetic figure, [figure: a musical score excerpt] which is immediately followed by an upward scale-passage with a saucy flourish at the end--not unlike the crack of a whiplash:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] It helps admirably to picture the bustling activity of the festa into which we are soon to be precipitated. The bits of melody which are now introduced might all be labelled in the Wolzogen-Wagner manner with reference to the play's peoples and their passions if it were worth while to do so, or if their beauty and eloquence were not sufficient unto themselves. First we have the phrase in which Canio will tell us how a clown's heart must seem merry and make laughter though it be breaking:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] Next the phrase from the love music of Nedda and Silvio:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] The bustling music returns, develops great energy, then pauses, hesitates, and makes way for Tonio, who, putting his head through the curtain, politely asks permission of the audience, steps forward and delivers his homily, which is alternately declamatory and broadly melodious. One of his melodies later becomes the theme of the between-acts music, which separates the supposedly real life of the strolling players from the comedy which they present to the mimic audience:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] At last Tonio calls upon his fellow mountebanks to begin their play. The curtain rises. We are in the midst of a rural celebration of the Feast of the Assumption on the outskirts of a village in Calabria. A perambulant theatre has been set up among the trees and the strolling actors are arriving, accompanied by a crowd of villagers, who shout greetings to Clown, Columbine, and Harlequin. Nedda arrives in a cart drawn by a donkey led by Beppe. Canio in character invites the crowd to come to the show at 7 o'clock (ventitre ore). There they shall be regaled with a sight of the domestic troubles of Pagliaccio and see the fat mischief-maker tremble. Tonio wants to help Nedda out of the cart, but Canio interferes and lifts her down himself; whereupon the women and boys twit Tonio. Canio and Beppe wet their whistles at the tavern, but Tonio remains behind on the plea that he must curry the donkey. The hospitable villager playfully suggests that it is Tonio's purpose to make love to Nedda. Canio, half in earnest, half in jest, points out the difference between real life and the stage. In the play, if he catches a lover with his wife, he flies into a mock passion, preaches a sermon, and takes a drubbing from the swain to the amusement of the audience. But there would be a different ending to the story were Nedda actually to deceive him. Let Tonio beware! Does he doubt Nedda's fidelity? Not at all. He loves her and seals his assurance with a kiss. Then off to the tavern. Hark to the bagpipes! Huzza, here come the zampognari! Drone pipes droning and chaunters skirling--as well as they can skirl in Italian! [figure: a musical score excerpt] Now we have people and pipers on the stage and there's a bell in the steeple ringing for vespers. Therefore a chorus. Not that we have anything to say that concerns the story in any way. "Din, don!" That would suffice, but if you must have more: "Let's to church. Din, don. All's right with love and the sunset. Din, don! But mamma has her eye on the young folk and their inclination for kissing. Din, don!" Bells and pipes are echoed by the singers. Her husband is gone to the tavern for refreshment and Nedda is left alone. There is a little trouble in her mind caused by the fierceness of Canio's voice and looks. Does he suspect? But why yield to such fancies and fears? How beautiful the mid-August sun is! Her hopes and longings find expression in the "Ballatella"--a waltz tune with twitter of birds and rustle of leaves for accompaniment. Pretty birds, where are you going? What is it you say? Mother knew your song and used once to tell it to her babe. How your wings flash through the ether! Heedless of cloud and tempest, on, on, past the stars, and still on! Her wishes take flight with the feathered songsters, but Tonio brings her rudely to earth. He pleads for a return of the love which he says he bears her, but she bids him postpone his protestations till he can make them in the play. He grows desperately urgent and attempts to rape a kiss. She cuts him across the face with a donkey whip, and he goes away blaspheming and swearing vengeance. Then Silvio comes--Silvio, the villager, who loves her and who has her heart. She fears he will be discovered, but he bids her be at peace; he had left Canio drinking at the tavern. She tells him of the scene with Tonio and warns him, but he laughs at her fears. Then he pleads with her. She does not love her husband; she is weary of the wandering life which she is forced to lead; if her love is true let her fly with him to happiness. No. 'Tis folly, madness; her heart is his, but he must not tempt her to its destruction. Tonio slinks in and plays eavesdropper. He hears the mutual protestations of the lovers, hears Nedda yield to Silvio's wild pleadings, sees them locked in each other's arms, and hurries off to fetch Canio. Canio comes, but not in time to see the man who had climbed over the wall, yet in time to hear Nedda's word of parting: A stanotte--e per sempre tua saro--"To-night, and forever, I am yours!" He throws Nedda aside and gives chase after the fugitive, but is baffled. He demands to be told the name of her lover. Nedda refuses to answer. He rushes upon her with dagger drawn, but Beppe intercepts and disarms him. There is haste now; the villagers are already gathering for the play. Tonio insinuates his wicked advice: Let us dissemble; the gallant may be caught at the play. The others go out to prepare for their labors. Canio staggers toward the theatre. He must act the merry fool, though his heart be torn! Why not? What is he? A man? No; a clown! On with the motley! The public must be amused. What though Harlequin steals his Columbine? Laugh, Pagliaccio, though thy heart break! The between-acts music is retrospective; it comments on the tragic emotions, the pathos foretold in the prologue. Act II brings the comedy which is to have a realistic and bloody ending. The villagers gather and struggle for places in front of the booth. Among them is Silvio, to whom Nedda speaks a word of warning as she passes him while collecting the admission fees. He reminds her of the assignation; she will be there. The comedy begins to the music of a graceful minuet:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] Columbine is waiting for Harlequin. Taddeo is at the market buying the supper for the mimic lovers. Harlequin sings his serenade under the window: "O, Colombina, il tenero fido Arlecchin"--a pretty measure! Taddeo enters and pours out his admiration for Colombina in an exaggerated cadenza as he offers her his basket of purchases. The audience shows enjoyment of the sport. Taddeo makes love to Colombina and Harlequin, entering by the window, lifts him up by the ears from the floor where he is kneeling and kicks him out of the room. What fun! The mimic lovers sit at table and discuss the supper and their love. Taddeo enters in mock alarm to tell of the coming of Pagliaccio. Harlequin decamps, but leaves a philtre in the hands of Columbine to be poured into her husband's wine. At the window Columbine calls after him: A stanotte--e per sempre io saro tua! At this moment Canio enters in the character of Pagliaccio. He hears again the words which Nedda had called after the fleeing Silvio, and for a moment is startled out of his character. But he collects himself and begins to play his part. "A man has been here!" "You've been drinking!" The dialogue of the comedy continues, but ever and anon with difficulty on the part of Pagliaccio, who begins to put a sinister inflection into his words. Taddeo is dragged from the cupboard in which he had taken hiding. He, too, puts color of verity into his lines, especially when he prates about the purity of Columbine. Canio loses control of himself more and more. "Pagliaccio no more, but a man--a man seeking vengeance. The name of your lover!" The audience is moved by his intensity. Silvio betrays anxiety. Canio rages on. "The name, the name!" The mimic audience shouts, "Bravo!" Nedda: if he doubts her she will go. "No, by God! You'll remain and tell me the name of your lover!" With a great effort Nedda forces herself to remain in character. The music, whose tripping dance measures have given way to sinister mutterings in keeping with Canio's mad outbursts, as the mimic play ever and anon threatens to leave its grooves and plunge into the tragic vortex of reality, changes to a gavotte:-- [figure: a musical excerpt] Columbine explains: she had no idea her husband could put on so tragical a mask. It is only harmless Harlequin who has been her companion. "The name! The name!! THE NAME!!!" Nedda sees catastrophe approaching and throws her character to the winds. She shrieks out a defiant "No!" and attempts to escape from the mimic stage. Silvio starts up with dagger drawn. The spectators rise in confusion and cry "Stop him!" Canio seizes Nedda and plunges his knife into her: "Take that! And that! With thy dying gasps thou'lt tell me!" Woful intuition! Dying, Nedda calls: "Help, Silvio!" Silvio rushes forward and receives Canio's knife in his heart. "Gesumaria!" shriek the women. Men throw themselves upon Canio. He stands for a moment in a stupor, drops his knife and speaks the words: "The comedy is ended." "Ridi Pagliaccio!" shrieks the orchestra as the curtain falls. "Plaudite, amici," said Beethoven on his death bed, "la commedia finita est!" And there is a tradition that these, too, were the last words of the arch-jester Rabelais. "When 'Pagliacci' was first sung here (in Boston), by the Tavary company," says Mr. Philip Hale, "Tonio pointed to the dead bodies and uttered the sentence in a mocking way. And there is a report that such was Leoncavallo's original intention. As the Tonio began the piece in explanation so he should end it. But the tenor (de Lucia) insisted that he should speak the line. I do not believe the story. (1) As Maurel was the original Tonio and the tenor was comparatively unknown, it is doubtful whether Maurel, of all men, would have allowed of the loss of a fat line. (2) As Canio is chief of the company it is eminently proper that he should make the announcement to the crowd. (3) The ghastly irony is accentuated by the speech when it comes from Canio's mouth." CHAPTER IX "CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA" Having neither the patience nor the inclination to paraphrase a comment on Mascagni's "Cavalleria Rusticana" which I wrote years ago when the opera was comparatively new, and as it appears to me to contain a just estimate and criticism of the work and the school of which it and "Pagliacci" remain the foremost exemplars, I quote from my book, "Chapters of Opera" [Footnote: "Chapters of Opera," by H. E. Krehbiel, p.223] "Seventeen years ago 'Cavalleria Rusticana' had no perspective. Now, though but a small portion of its progeny has been brought to our notice, we nevertheless look at it through a vista which looks like a valley of moral and physical death through which there flows a sluggish stream thick with filth and red with blood. Strangely enough, in spite of the consequences which have followed it, the fierce little drama retains its old potency. It still speaks with a voice which sounds like the voice of truth. Its music still makes the nerves tingle, and carries our feelings unresistingly on its turbulent current. But the stage-picture is less sanguinary than it looked in the beginning. It seems to have receded a millennium in time. It has the terrible fierceness of an Attic tragedy, but it also has the decorum which the Attic tragedy never violated. There is no slaughter in the presence of the audience, despite the humbleness of its personages. It does not keep us perpetually in sight of the shambles. It is, indeed, an exposition of chivalry; rustic, but chivalry nevertheless. It was thus Clytemnestra slew her husband, and Orestes his mother. Note the contrast which the duel between Alfio and Turiddu presents with the double murder to the piquant accompaniment of comedy in 'Pagliacci,' the opera which followed so hard upon its heels. Since then piquancy has been the cry; the piquant contemplation of adultery, seduction, and murder amid the reek and stench of the Italian barnyard. Think of Cilea's 'Tilda,' Giordano's 'Mala Vita,' Spinelli's 'A Basso Porto,' and Tasca's 'A Santa Lucia'! "The stories chosen for operatic treatment by the champions of verismo are all alike. It is their filth and blood which fructifies the music, which rasps the nerves even as the plays revolt the moral stomach. I repeat: Looking back over the time during which this so-called veritism has held its orgies, 'Cavalleria Rusticana' seems almost classic. Its music is highly spiced and tastes 'hot i' th' mouth,' but its eloquence is, after all, in its eager, pulsating, passionate melody--like the music which Verdi wrote more than half a century ago for the last act of 'Il Trovatore.' If neither Mascagni himself nor his imitators have succeeded in equalling it since, it is because they have thought too much of the external devices of abrupt and uncouth change of modes and tonalities, of exotic scales and garish orchestration, and too little of the fundamental element of melody which once was the be-all and end-all of Italian music. Another fountain of gushing melody must be opened before 'Cavalleria rusticana' finds a successor in all things worthy of the succession. Ingenious artifice, reflection, and technical cleverness will not suffice even with the blood and mud of the slums as a fertilizer." How Mascagni came to write his opera he has himself told us in a bright sketch of the early part of his life-history which was printed in the "Fanfulla della Domenica" of Rome shortly after he became famous. Recounting the story of his struggle for existence after entering upon his career, he wrote:-- In 1888 only a few scenes (of "Ratcliff") remained to be composed; but I let them lie and have not touched them since. The thought of "Cavalleria rusticana" had been in my head for several years. I wanted to introduce myself with, a work of small dimensions. I appealed to several librettists, but none was willing to undertake the work without a guarantee of recompense. Then came notice of the Sonzogno competition and I eagerly seized the opportunity to better my condition. But my salary of 100 lire, to which nothing was added, except the fees from a few pianoforte lessons in Cerignola and two lessons in the Philharmonic Society of Canosa (a little town a few miles from Cerignola), did not permit the luxury of a libretto. At the solicitation of some friends Targioni, in Leghorn, decided to write a "Cavalleria rusticana" for me. My mind was long occupied with the finale. The words: Hanno ammazzato compare Turiddu! (They have killed Neighbor Turiddu!) were forever ringing in my ears. I needed a few mighty orchestral chords to give characteristic form to the musical phrase and achieve an impressive close. How it happened I don't know, but one morning, as I was trudging along the road to give my lessons at Canosa, the idea came to me like a stroke of lightning, and I had found my chords. They were those seventh chords, which I conscientiously set down in my manuscript. Thus I began my opera at the end. When I received the first chorus of my libretto by post (I composed the Siciliano in the prelude later) I said in great good humor to my wife: "To-day we must make a large expenditure." "What for?" "An alarm clock." "Why?" "To wake me up before dawn so that I may begin to write on 'Cavalleria rusticana.'" The expenditure caused a dubious change in the monthly budget, but it was willingly allowed. We went out together, and after a good deal of bargaining spent nine lire. I am sure that I can find the clock, all safe and sound, in Cerignola. I wound it up the evening we bought it, but it was destined to be of no service to me, for in that night a son, the first of a row of them, was born to me. In spite of this I carried out my determination, and in the morning began to write the first chorus of "Cavalleria." I came to Rome in February, 1890, in order to permit the jury to hear my opera; they decided that it was worthy of performance. Returning to Cerignola in a state of the greatest excitement, I noticed that I did not have a penny in my pocket for the return trip to Rome when my opera was to be rehearsed. Signor Sonzogno helped me out of my embarrassment with a few hundred francs. Those beautiful days of fear and hope, of discouragement and confidence, are as vividly before my eyes as if they were now. I see again the Constanzi Theatre, half filled; I see how, after the last excited measures of the orchestra, they all raise their arms and gesticulate, as if they were threatening me; and in my soul there awakens an echo of that cry of approval which almost prostrated me. The effect made upon me was so powerful that at the second representation I had to request them to turn down the footlights in case I should be called out; for the blinding light seemed a hell to me, like a fiery abyss that threatened to engulf me. It is a rude little tale which Giovanni Verga wrote and which supplied the librettists, G. Targioni-Tozzetti and G. Menasci, with the plot of Mascagni's opera. Sententious as the opera seems, it is yet puffed out, padded, and bedizened with unessential ornament compared with the story. This has the simplicity and directness of a folk-tale or folk-song, and much of its characteristic color and strength were lost in fitting it out for music. The play, which Signora Duse presented to us with a power which no operatic singer can ever hope to match, was more to the purpose, quicker and stronger in movement, fiercer in its onrush of passion, and more pathetic in its silences than the opera with its music, though the note of pathos sounded by Signor Mascagni is the most admirable element of the score. With half a dozen homely touches Verga conjures up the life of a Sicilian village and strikes out his characters in bold outline. Turiddu Macca, son of Nunzia, is a bersagliere returned from service. He struts about the village streets in his uniform, smoking a pipe carved with an image of the king on horseback, which he lights with a match fired by a scratch on the seat of his trousers, "lifting his leg as if for a kick." Lola, daughter of Massaro Angelo, was his sweetheart when he was conscripted, but meanwhile she has promised to marry Alfio, a teamster from Licodia, who has four Sortino mules in his stable. Now Turiddu could do nothing better than sing spiteful songs under her window. Lola married the teamster, and on Sundays she would sit in the yard with her hands posed on her hips to show off the thick gold rings which her husband had given her. Opposite Alfio's house lived Massaro Cola, who was as rich as a hog, as they said, and who had an only daughter named Santa. Turiddu, to spite Lola, paid his addresses to Santa and whispered sweet words into her ear. "Why don't you go and say these nice things to Lola?" asked Santa one day. "Lola is a fine lady now; she has married a crown prince. But you are worth a thousand Lolas; she isn't worthy of wearing your old shoes. I could just eat you up with my eyes, Santa"--thus Turiddu. "You may eat me with your eyes and welcome, for then there will be no leaving of crumbs." "If I were rich I would like to have a wife just like you." "I shall never marry a crown prince, but I shall have a dowry as well as Lola when the good Lord sends me a lover." The tassel on his cap had tickled the girl's fancy. Her father disapproved of the young soldier, and turned him from his door; but Santa opened her window to him until the village gossips got busy with her name and his. Lola listened to the talk of the lovers from behind a vase of flowers. One day she called after Turiddu: "Ah, Turiddu! Old friends are no longer noticed, eh?" "He is a happy man who has the chance of seeing you, Lola." "You know where I live," answered Lola. And now Turiddu visited Lola so often that Santa shut her window in his face and the villagers began to smile knowingly when he passed by. Alfio was making a round of the fairs with his mules. "Next Sunday I must go to confession," said Lola one day, "for last night I dreamt that I saw black grapes." "Never mind the dream," pleaded Turiddu. "But Easter is coming, and my husband will want to know why I have not confessed." Santa was before the confessional waiting her turn when Lola was receiving absolution. "I wouldn't send you to Rome for absolution," she said. Alfio came home with his mules, and money and a rich holiday dress for his wife. "You do well to bring presents to her," said Santa to him, "for when you are away your wife adorns your head for you." "Holy Devil!" screamed Alfio. "Be sure of what you are saying, or I'll not leave you an eye to cry with!" "I am not in the habit of crying. I haven't wept even when I have seen Turiddu going into your wife's house at night." "Enough!" said Alfio. "I thank you very much." The cat having come back home, Turiddu kept off the streets by day, but in the evenings consoled himself with his friends at the tavern. They were enjoying a dish of sausages there on Easter eve. When Alfio came in Turiddu understood what he wanted by the way he fixed his eyes on him. "You know what I want to speak to you about," said Alfio when Turiddu asked him if he had any commands to give him. He offered Alfio a glass of wine, but it was refused with a wave of the hand. "Here I am," said Turiddu. Alfio put his arms around his neck. "We'll talk this thing over if you will meet me to-morrow morning." "You may look for me on the highway at sunrise, and we will go on together." They exchanged the kiss of challenge, and Turiddu, as an earnest that he would be on hand, bit Alfio's ear. His companions left their sausages uneaten and went home with Turiddu. There his mother was sitting up for him. "Mamma," Turiddu said to her, "do you remember that when I went away to be a soldier you thought I would never come back? Kiss me as you did then, mamma, for to-morrow I am going away again." Before daybreak he took his knife from the place in the haymow where he had hidden it when he went soldiering, and went out to meet Alfio. "Holy Mother of Jesus!" grumbled Lola when her husband prepared to go out; "where are you going in such a hurry?" "I am going far away," answered Alfio, "and it will be better for you if I never come back!" The two men met on the highway and for a while walked on in silence. Turiddu kept his cap pulled down over his face. "Neighbor Alfio," he said after a space, "as true as I live I know that I have wronged you, and I would let myself be killed if I had not seen my old mother when she got up on the pretext of looking after the hens. And now, as true as I live, I will kill you like a dog so that my dear old mother may not have cause to weep." "Good!" answered Alfio; "we will both strike hard!" And he took off his coat. Both were good with the knife. Turiddu received the first blow in his arm, and when he returned it struck for Alfio's heart. "Ah, Turiddu! You really do intend to kill me?" "Yes, I told you so. Since I saw her in the henyard I have my old mother always in my eyes." "Keep those eyes wide open," shouted Alfio, "for I am going to return you good measure!" Alfio crouched almost to the ground, keeping his left hand on the wound, which pained him. Suddenly he seized a handful of dust and threw it into Turiddu's eyes. "Ah!" howled Turiddu, blinded by the dust, "I'm a dead man!" He attempted to save himself by leaping backward, but Alfio struck him a second blow, this time in the belly, and a third in the throat. "That makes three--the last for the head you have adorned for me!" Turiddu staggered back into the bushes and fell. He tried to say, "Ah, my dear mother!" but the blood gurgled up in his throat and he could not. Music lends itself incalculably better to the celebration of a mood accomplished or achieved by action, physical or psychological, than to an expression of the action itself. It is in the nature of the lyric drama that this should be so, and there need be no wonder that wherever Verga offered an opportunity for set lyricism it was embraced by Mascagni and his librettists. Verga tells us that Turiddu, having lost Lola, comforted himself by singing spiteful songs under her window. This suggested the Siciliano, which, an afterthought, Mascagni put into his prelude as a serenade, not in disparagement, but in praise of Lola. It was at Easter that Alfio returned to discover the infidelity of his wife, and hence we have an Easter hymn, one of the musical high lights of the work, though of no dramatic value. Verga aims to awaken at least a tittle of extenuation and a spark of sympathy for Turiddu by showing us his filial love in conflict with his willingness to make reparation to Alfio; Mascagni and his librettists do more by showing us the figure of the young soldier blending a request for a farewell kiss from his mother with a prayer for protection for the woman he has wronged. In its delineation of the tender emotions, indeed, the opera is more generous and kindly than the story. Santuzza does not betray her lover in cold blood as does Santa, but in the depth of her humiliation and at the climax of her jealous fury created by Turiddu's rejection of her when he follows Lola into church. Moreover, her love opens the gates to remorse the moment she realizes what the consequence of her act is to be. The opera sacrifices some of the virility of Turiddu's character as sketched by Verga, but by its classic treatment of the scene of the killing it saves us from the contemplation of Alfio's dastardly trick which turns a duel into a cowardly assassination. The prelude to the opera set the form which Leoncavallo followed, slavishly followed, in "Pagliacci." The orchestral proclamation of the moving passions of the play is made by the use of fragments of melody which in the vocal score mark climaxes in the dialogue. The first high point in the prelude is reached in the strain to which Santuzza begs for the love of Turiddu even after she has disclosed to him her knowledge of his infidelity:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] [figure: a musical score excerpt] the second is the broad melody in which she pleads with him to return to her arms:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] Between these expositions falls the Siciliano, which interrupts the instrumental flood just as Lola's careless song, the Stornello, interrupts the passionate rush of Santuzza's protestations, prayers, and lamentations in the scene between her and her faithless lover:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt setting the words "O Lola, blanca come flor di spino, quando t'affaci ti s'affaccio il sole"] These sharp contrasts, heightened by the device of surprise, form one of the marked characteristics of Mascagni's score and one of the most effective. We meet it also in the instrumentation--the harp accompaniment to the serenade, the pauses which give piquancy to Lola's ditty, the unison violins, harp arpeggios, and sustained organ chords of the intermezzo. When the curtain rises it discloses the open square of a Sicilian village, flanked by a church and the inn of Lucia, Turiddu's mother. It is Easter morning and villagers and peasants are gathering for the Paschal mass. Church bells ring and the orchestra breaks into the eager melody which a little later we hear combined with the voices which are hymning the pleasant sights and sounds of nature:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt setting the words "tempo e si mormori"] A charming conception is the regular beat and flux and reflux of the women's voices as they sing [figure: a musical score excerpt setting the words "Gliaranci olezzano sui verdi margini cantando le allo do le tra i mirti in flor . . ."] Delightful and refreshing is the bustling strain of the men. The singers depart with soft exclamations of rapture called out by the contemplation of nature and thoughts of the Virgin Mother and Child in their hearts. Comes Santuzza, sore distressed, to Mamma Lucia, to inquire as to the whereabouts of her son Turiddu. Lucia thinks him at Francofonte; but Santuzza knows that he spent the night in the village. In pity for the maiden's distress, Lucia asks her to enter her home, but Santuzza may not--she is excommunicate. Alfio enters with boisterous jollity, singing of his jovial carefree life as a teamster and his love of home and a faithful wife. It is a paltry measure, endurable only for its offering of contrast, and we will not tarry with it, though the villagers echo it merrily. Alfio, too, has seen Turiddu, and Lucia is about to express her surprise when Santuzza checks her. The hour of devotion is come, and the choir in the church intones the "Regina coeli," while the people without fall on their knees and sing the Resurrection Hymn. After the first outburst, to which the organ appends a brief postlude, Santuzza leads in the canticle, "Innegiamo il Signor non dmorte": Let us sing of our Lord ris'n victorious! Let us sing of our Lord ever glorious:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] [figure: a musical score excerpt] The instrumental basses supply a foundation of Bachian granite, the chorus within the church interpolates shouts of "Alleluia!" and the song swells until the gates of sound fly wide open and we forget the theatre in a fervor of religious devotion. Only the critic in his study ought here to think of the parallel scene which Leoncavallo sought to create in his opera. Thus far the little dramatic matter that has been introduced is wholly expository; yet we are already near the middle of the score. All the stage folk enter the church save Santuzza and Lucia, and to the mother of her betrayer the maiden tells the story of her wrongs. The romance which she sings is marked by the copious use of one of the distinguishing devices of the veritist composers--the melodic triplet, an efficient help for the pushing, pulsating declamation with which the dramatic dialogue of Mascagni, Leoncavallo, and their fellows is carried on. Lucia can do no more for the unfortunate than commend her to the care of the Virgin. She enters the church and Turiddu comes. He lies as to where he has been. Santuzza is quick with accusation and reproach, but at the first sign of his anger and a hint of the vengeance which Alfio will take she abases herself. Let him beat and insult her, she will love and pardon though her heart break. She is in the extremity of agony and anguish when Lola is heard trolling a careless song:-- [figure: musical example setting the word "Fior di giaggiolo . . gli angeli belli stanno a mille in cielo . . ."] She is about to begin a second stanza when she enters and sees the pair. She stops with an exclamation. She says she is seeking Alfio. Is Turiddu not going to mass? Santuzza, significantly: "It is Easter and the Lord sees all things! None but the blameless should go to mass." But Lola will go, and so will Turiddu. Scorning Santuzza's pleadings and at last hurling her to the ground, he rushes into the church. She shouts after him a threat of Easter vengeance and fate sends the agent to her in the very moment. Alfio comes and Santuzza tells him that Turiddu has cuckolded him and Lola has robbed her of her lover:-- Turiddu mi tolse, mi tolse l'onore, E vostra moglie lui rapiva a me! [figure: musical example setting the above words] The oncoming waves of the drama's pathos have risen to a supreme height, their crests have broken, and the wind-blown spume drenches the soul of the listeners; but the composer has not departed from the first principle of the master of whom, for a time, it was hoped he might be the legitimate successor. Melody remains the life-blood of his music as it is that of Verdi's from his first work to his last;--as it will be so long as music endures. Terrible is the outbreak of Alfio's rage:-- Infami lero, ad esse non perdono, Vendetta avro pria che tra monti il di. [figure: musical example setting the above words] Upon this storm succeeds the calm of the intermezzo--in its day the best abused and most hackneyed piece of music that the world knew; yet a triumph of simple, straightforward tune. It echoes the Easter hymn, and in the midst of the tumult of earthly passion proclaims celestial peace. Its instrumentation was doubtless borrowed from Hellmesberger's arrangement of the air "Ombra mai fu" from "Serse," known the world over as Handel's "Largo"--violins in unison, harp arpeggios, and organ harmonies. In nothing artistically distinguished it makes an unexampled appeal to the multitude. Some years ago a burlesque on "Cavalleria rusticana" was staged at a theatre in Vienna. [figure: a musical score excerpt] It was part of the witty conceit of the author to have the intermezzo played on a handorgan. Up to this point the audience had been hilarious in its enjoyment of the burlesque, but with the first wheezy tones from the grinder the people settled down to silent attention; and when the end came applause for the music rolled out wave after wave. A burlesque performance could not rob that music of its charm. Ite missa est. Mass is over. The merry music of the first chorus returns. The worshippers are about to start homeward with pious reflections, when Turiddu detains Lola and invites his neighbors to a glass of Mamma Lucia's wine. We could spare the drinking song as easily as Alfio, entering, turns aside the cup which Turiddu proffers him. Turiddu understands. "I await your pleasure." Some of the women apprehend mischief and lead Lola away. The challenge is given and accepted, Sicilian fashion. Turiddu confesses his wrong-doing to Alfio, but, instead of proclaiming his purpose to kill his enemy, he asks protection for Santuzza in case of his death. Then, while the violins tremble and throb, he calls for his mother like an errant child:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] He has been too free with the winecup, he says, and must leave her. But first her blessing, as when he went away to be a soldier. Should he not return, Santa must be her care: "Voi dovrete fare; da madre a Santa!" It is the cry of a child. "A kiss! Another kiss, mamma! Farewell!" Lucia calls after him. He is gone, Santuzza comes in with her phrase of music descriptive of her unhappy love. It grows to a thunderous crash. Then a hush! A fateful chord! A whispered roll of the drums! A woman is heard to shriek: "They have killed Neighbor Turiddu!" A crowd of women rush in excitedly; Santuzza and Lucia fall in a swoon. "Hanno ammazzato compare Turiddu!" The tragedy is ended. CHAPTER X THE CAREER OF MASCAGNI It would be foolish to question or attempt to deny the merits of the type of Italian opera established by Mascagni's lucky inspiration. The brevity of the realistic little tragedy, the swiftness of its movement, its adherence to the Italian ideal of melody first, its ingenious combination of song with an illuminative orchestral part--these elements in union created a style which the composers of Italy, France, and Germany were quick to adopt. "Pagliacci" was the first fruit of the movement and has been the most enduring; indeed, so far as America and England are concerned, "Cavalleria rusticana" and "Pagliacci" are the only products of the school which have obtained a lasting footing. They were followed by a flood of Italian, French, and German works in which low life was realistically portrayed, but, though the manner of composition was as easily copied as the subjects were found in the slums, none of the imitators of Mascagni and Leoncavallo achieved even a tithe of their success. The men themselves were too shrewd and wise to attempt to repeat the experiment which had once been triumphant. In one respect the influence of the twin operas was deplorable. I have attempted to characterize that influence in general terms, but in order that the lesson may be more plainly presented it seems to me best to present a few examples in detail. The eagerness with which writers sought success in moral muck, regardless of all artistic elements, is strikingly illustrated in an attempt by a German writer, Edmund von Freihold, [Footnote: I owe this illustration to Ferdinand Pfobl's book "Die Moderne Oper."] to provide "Cavalleria rusticana" with a sequel. Von Freihold wrote the libretto for a "music drama" which he called "Santuzza," the story of which begins long enough after the close of Verga's story for both the women concerned in "Gavalleria rusticana" to have grown children. Santuzza has given birth to a son named Massimo, and Lola to a daughter, Anita. The youthful pair grow up side by side in the Sicilian village and fall in love with one another. They might have married and in a way expiated the sins of their parents had not Alfio overheard his wife, Lola, confess that Turiddu, not her husband, is the father of Anita, The lovers are thus discovered to be half brother and sister. This reminder of his betrayal by Lola infuriates Alfio anew. He rushes upon his wife to kill her, but Santuzza, who hates him as the slayer of her lover, throws herself between and plunges her dagger in Alfio's heart. Having thus taken revenge for Turiddu's death, Santuzza dies out of hand, Lola, as an inferior character, falls in a faint, and Massimo makes an end of the delectable story by going away from there to parts unknown. In Cilea's "Tilda" a street singer seeks to avenge her wrongs upon a faithless lover. She bribes a jailor to connive at the escape of a robber whom he is leading to capital punishment. This robber she elects to be the instrument of her vengeance. Right merrily she lives with him and his companions in the greenwood until the band captures the renegade lover on his wedding journey. Tilda rushes upon the bride with drawn dagger, but melts with compassion when she sees her victim in the attitude of prayer. She sinks to her knees beside her, only to receive the death-blow from her seducer. There are piquant contrasts in this picture and Ave Marias and tarantellas in the music. Take the story of Giordano's "Mala Vita." Here the hero is a young dyer whose dissolute habits have brought on tuberculosis of the lungs. The principal object of his amours is the wife of a friend. A violent hemorrhage warns him of approaching death. Stricken with fear he rushes to the nearest statue of the Madonna and registers a vow; he will marry a wanton, effect her redemption, thereby hoping to save his own miserable life. The heroine of the opera appears and she meets his requirements. He marries her and for a while she seems blest. But the siren, the Lola in the case, winds her toils about him as the disease stretches him on the floor at her feet. Piquancy again, achieved now without that poor palliative, punishment of the evil-doer. Tasca's "A Santa Lucia" has an appetizing story about an oysterman's son who deserts a woman by whom he has a child, in order to marry one to whom he had previously been affianced. The women meet. There is a dainty brawl, and the fiancee of Cicillo (he's the oysterman's son) strikes her rival's child to the ground. The mother tries to stab the fiancee with the operatic Italian woman's ever-ready dagger, and this act stirs up the embers of Cicillo's love. He takes the mother of his child back home--to his father's house, that is. The child must be some four years old by this time, but the oysterman--dear, unsuspecting old man!--knows nothing about the relation existing between his son and his housekeeper. He is thinking of marriage with his common law daughter-in-law when in comes the old fiancee with a tale for Cicillo's ears of his mistress's unfaithfulness. "It is not true!" shrieks the poor woman, but the wretch, her seducer, closes his ears to her protestations; and she throws herself into the sea, where the oysters come from. Cicillo rushes after her and bears her to the shore, where she dies in his arms, gasping in articulo mortis, "It is not true!" The romantic interest in Mascagni's life is confined to the period which preceded his sudden rise to fame. His father was a baker in Leghorn, and there he was born on December 7,1863. Of humble origin and occupation himself, the father, nevertheless, had large ambitions for his son; but not in the line of art. Pietro was to be shaped intellectually for the law. Like Handel, the boy studied the pianoforte by stealth in the attic. Grown in years, he began attending a music-school, when, it is said, his father confined him to his house; thence his uncle freed him and took over his care upon himself. Singularly enough, the man who at the height of his success posed as the most Italian of Italian masters had his inspiration first stirred by German poetry. Early in his career Beethoven resolved to set Schiller's "Hymn to Joy"; the purpose remained in his mind for forty years or so, and finally became a realization in the finale of the Ninth Symphony. Pietro Mascagni resolved as a boy to compose music for the same ode; and did it at once. Then he set to work upon a two-act opera, "Il Filanda." His uncle died, and a Count Florestan (here is another Beethovenian echo!) sent him to the Conservatory at Milan, where, like nearly all of his native contemporaries, he imbibed knowledge (and musical ideas) from Ponchielli. After two years or so of academic study he yielded to a gypsy desire and set out on his wanderings, but not until he had chosen as a companion Maffei's translation of Heine's "Ratcliff"--a gloomy romance which seems to have caught the fancy of many composers. There followed five years of as checkered a life as ever musician led. Over and over again he was engaged as conductor of an itinerant or stationary operetta and opera company, only to have the enterprise fail and leave him stranded. For six weeks in Naples his daily ration was a plate of macaroni. But he worked at his opera steadily, although, as he once remarked, his dreams of fame were frequently swallowed up in the growls of his stomach, which caused him more trouble than many a millionaire suffers from too little appetite or too much gout. Finally, convinced that he could do better as a teacher of the pianoforte, he ran away from an engagement which paid him two dollars a day, and, sending off the manuscript of "Ratcliff" in a portmanteau, settled down in Cerignola. There he became director of a school for orchestral players, though he had first to learn to play the instruments; he also taught pianoforte and thoroughbass, and eked out a troublous existence until his success in competition for the prize offered by Sonzogno, the Milanese publisher, made him famous in a day and started him on the road to wealth. It was but natural that, after "Cavalleria rusticana" had virulently affected the whole world with what the enemies of Signor Mascagni called "Mascagnitis," his next opera should be looked forward to with feverish anxiety. There was but a year to wait, for "L'Amico Fritz" was brought forward in Rome on the last day of October, 1891. Within ten weeks its title found a place on the programme of one of Mr. Walter Damrosch's Sunday night concerts in New York; but the music was a disappointment. Five numbers were sung by Mme. Tavary and Signor Campanini, and Mr. Damrosch, not having the orchestral parts, played the accompaniments upon a pianoforte. As usual, Mr. Gustav Hinrichs was to the fore with a performance in Philadelphia (on June 8, 1892), the principal singers being Mme. Koert-Kronold, Clara Poole, M. Guille, and Signor Del Puente. On January 31, 1893, the Philadelphia singers, aided by the New York Symphony Society, gave a performance of the opera, under the auspices of the Young Men's Hebrew Association, for the benefit of its charities, at the Carnegie Music Hall, New York. Mr. Walter Damrosch was to have conducted, but was detained in Washington by the funeral of Mr. Blaine, and Mr. Hinrichs took his place. Another year elapsed, and then, on January 10, 1894, the opera reached the Metropolitan Opera House. In spite of the fact that Madame Calve sang the part of Suzel, only two performances were given to the work. The failure of this opera did not dampen the industry of Mascagni nor the zeal of his enterprising publishers. For his next opera the composer went again to the French authors, Erckmann-Chatrian, who had supplied him with the story of "L'Amico Fritz." This time he chose "Les deux Freres," which they had themselves turned into a drama with the title of "Rantzau." Mascagni's librettist retained the title. The opera came out in Florence in 1892. The tremendous personal popularity of the composer, who was now as much a favorite in Vienna and Berlin as he was in the town of his birth which had struck a medal in his honor, or the town of his residence which had created him an honorary citizen, could not save the work. Now he turned to the opera which he had laid aside to take up his "Cavalleria," and in 1895 "Guglielmo Ratcliff," based upon the gloomy Scotch story told by Heine, was brought forward at La Scala, in Milan. It was in a sense the child of his penury and suffering, but he had taken it up inspired by tremendous enthusiasm for the subject, and inasmuch as most of its music had been written before success had turned his head, or desire for notoriety had begun to itch him, there was reason to hope to find in it some of the hot blood which surges through the score of "Cavalleria." As a matter of fact, critics who have seen the score or heard the work have pointed out that portions of "I Rantzau" and "Cavalleria" are as alike as two peas. It would not be a violent assumption that the composer in his eagerness to get his score before the Sonzogno jury had plucked his early work of its best feathers and found it difficult to restore plumage of equal brilliancy when he attempted to make restitution. In the same year, 1895, his next opera, "Silvano," made a fiasco in Milan. A year later there appeared "Zanetto," which seems like an effort to contract the frame of the lyric drama still further than is done in "Cavalleria." It is a bozzetto, a sketch, based on Coppee's duologue "Le Passant," a scene between a strumpet who is weary of the world and a young minstrel. Its orchestration is unique--there are but strings and a harp. It was brought out at Pesaro, where, in 1895, Mascagni had been appointed director of the Liceo Musicale Rossini. As director of the music-school in Rossini's native town Mascagni's days were full of trouble from the outset. He was opposed, said his friends, in reformatory efforts by some of the professors and pupils, whose enmity grew so virulent that in 1897 they spread the story that he had killed himself. He was deposed from his position by the administration, but reinstated by the Minister of Fine Arts. The criticism followed him for years that he had neglected his duties to travel about Europe, giving concerts and conducting his operas for the greater glory of himself and the profit of his publisher. At the time of the suicide story it was also said that he was in financial straits; to which his friends replied that he received a salary of 60 lire ($12) a day as director, 1000 lire ($200) a month from Sonzogno, and lived in a princely dwelling. After "Zanetto" came "Iris," to which, as the one opera besides "Cavalleria rusticana" which has remained in the American repertory, I shall devote the next chapter in this book. "Iris" was followed by "Le Maschere," which was brought out on January 17, 1901, simultaneously in six cities--Rome, Milan, Venice, Genoa, Turin, and Naples. It made an immediate failure in all of these places except Rome, where it endured but a short time. Mascagni's next operatic work was a lyric drama, entitled "Vistilia," the libretto of which, based upon an historical novel by Racco de Zerbi, was written by Menasci and Targioni-Tozzetti, who collaborated on the book of "Cavalleria rusticana." The action goes back to the time of Tiberius and deals with the loves of Vistilia and Helius. Then came another failure in the shape of "Amica," which lived out its life in Monte Carlo, where it was produced in March, 1905. In the winter of 1902-1903 Signor Mascagni was in the United States for the purpose of conducting performances of some of his operas and giving concerts. The company of singers and instrumentalists which his American agents had assembled for his purpose was, with a few exceptions, composed of the usual operatic flotsam and jetsam which can be picked up at any time in New York. The enterprise began in failure and ended in scandal. There had been no adequate preparation for the operas announced, and one of them was not attempted. This was "Ratcliff." "Cavalleria rusticana," "Zanetto," and "Iris" were poorly performed at the Metropolitan Opera House in October, and an attempt at Sunday night concerts was made. Signor Mascagni's countrymen labored hard to create enthusiasm for his cause, but the general public remained indifferent. Having failed miserably in New York, Mascagni, heavily burdened with debt, went to Boston. There he was arrested for breach of contract. He retaliated with a suit for damages against his American managers. The usual amount of crimination and recrimination followed, but eventually the difficulties were compounded and Mascagni went back to his home a sadly disillusionized man. [Footnote: The story of this visit is told in greater detail in my "Chapters of Opera," as is also the story of the rivalry among American managers to be first in the field with "Cavalleria rusticana."] "Zanetto" was produced along with "Cavalleria rusticana" at the Metropolitan Opera House on October 8, 1902, and "Iris" on October 16. Signor Mascagni conducted and the parts were distributed as follows among the singers of the company: Iris, Marie Farneti; Osaka, Pietro Schiavazzi; Kyoto, Virgilio Bollati; Il Cieco, Francesco Navarrini; Una Guecha, Dora de Filippe; Un Mercianola, Pasquale Blasio; Un Cencianola, Bernardino Landino. The opera was not heard of again until the season of 1907-1908, when, just before the end of the administration of Heinrich Conried, it was incorporated into the repertory of the Metropolitan Opera House apparently for the purpose of giving Mme. Emma Eames an opportunity to vie with Miss Geraldine Farrar in Japanese opera. CHAPTER XI "IRIS" "Light is the language of the eternal ones--hear it!" proclaims the librettist of "Iris" in that portion of his book which is neither said nor sung nor played. And it is the sun that sings with divers voices after the curtain has risen on a nocturnal scene, and the orchestra has sought to depict the departure of the night, the break of day, the revivification of the flowers and the sunrise. As Byron sang of him, so Phoebus Apollo celebrates himself as "the god of life and poetry and light," but does not stop there. He is also Infinite Beauty, Cause, Reason, Poetry, and Love. The music begins with an all but inaudible descending passage in the basses, answered by sweet concordant harmonies. A calm song tells of the first streaks of light; woodwind and harp add their voices; a mellifluous hymn chants the stirring flowers, and leads into a rhythmically, more incisive, but still sustained, orchestral song, which bears upon its surface the choral proclamation of the sun: "I am! I am life! I am Beauty infinite!" The flux and reflux of the instrumental surge grows in intensity, the music begins to glow with color and pulsate with eager life, and reaches a mighty sonority, gorged with the crash of a multitude of tamtams, cymbals, drums, and bells, at the climacteric reiteration of "Calore! Luce! Amor!" The piece is thrillingly effective, but as little operatic as the tintinnabulatory chant of the cherubim in the prologue of Boito's "Mefistofele." And now allegory makes room for the drama. To the door of her cottage, embowered on the banks of a quiet stream, comes Iris. The peak of Fujiyama glows in the sunlight. Iris is fair and youthful and innocent. A dream has disturbed her. "Gorgons and Hydras and Chimaeras dire" had filled her garden and threatened her doll, which she had put to sleep under a rose-bush. But the sun's rays burst forth and the monsters flee. She lifts her doll and moves its arms in mimic salutation to the sun. Osaka, a wealthy rake, and Kyoto, a pander, play spy on her actions, gloat on her loveliness and plot to steal her and carry her to the Yoshiwara. To this end they go to bring on a puppet show, that its diversion may enable them to steal her away without discovery. Women come down to the banks of the river and sing pretty metaphors as they wash their basketloads of muslins. Gradually the music of samisens, gongs, and drums approaches. Osaka and Kyoto have disguised themselves as travelling players, gathered together some geishas and musicians, and now set up a marionette theatre. Iris comforts her blind father, the only object of her love, besides her doll, and promises to remain at his side. The puppet play tells the story of a maiden who suffers abuse from a cruel father, who threatens to sell her to a merchant. Iris is much affected by the sorrows of the puppet. The voice of Jor, the son of the sun, is heard--it is Osaka, singing without. The melody is the melody of Turridu's Siciliano, but the words are a promise of a blissful, kissful death and thereafter life everlasting. The puppet dies and with Jor dances off into Nirvana. Now three geishas, representing Beauty, Death, and the Vampire, begin a dance. Kyoto distracts the attention of the spectators while the dancers flaunt their skirts higher and wider until their folds conceal Iris, and Osaka's hirelings seize her and bear her off toward the city. Kyoto places a letter and money at the cottage door for the blind father. Through a pedler and the woman he learns that his daughter is gone to be an inmate of the Yoshiwara. He implores the people who had been jeering him to lead him thither, that he may spit in her face and curse her. Iris is asleep upon a bed in the "Green House" of the district, which needs no description. A song, accompanied by the twanging of a samisen and the clanging of tamtams, is sung by three geishas. Kyoto brings in Osaka to admire her beauty, and sets a high price upon it. Osaka sends for jewels. Iris awakes and speculates in philosophical vein touching the question of her existence. She cannot be dead, for death brings knowledge and paradise joy; but she weeps. Osaka appears. He praises her rapturously--her form, her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her smile. Iris thinks him veritably Jor, but he says his name is "Pleasure." The maiden recoils in terror. A priest had taught her in an allegory that Pleasure and Death were one! Osaka loads her with jewels, fondles her, draws her to his breast, kisses her passionately. Iris weeps. She knows nothing of passion, and longs only for her father, her cottage, and her garden. Osaka wearies of his guest, but Kyoto plans to play still further upon his lust. He clothes her in richer robes, but more transparent, places her upon a balcony, and, withdrawing a curtain, exhibits her beauty to the multitude in the street. Amazed cries greet the revelation. Osaka returns and pleads for her love. "Iris!" It is the cry of the blind man hunting the child whom he thinks has sold herself into disgraceful slavery. The crowd falls back before him, while Iris rushes forward to the edge of the veranda and cries out to him, that he may know her presence. He gathers a handful of mud from the street and hurls it in the direction of her voice. "There! In your face! In your forehead! In your mouth! In your eyes! Fango!" Under the imprecations of her father the mind of Iris gives way. She rushes along a corridor and hurls herself out of a window. The third act is reached, and drama merges again into allegory. In the wan light of the moon rag-pickers, men and women, are dragging their hooks through the slimy muck that flows through the open sewer beneath the fatal window. They sing mockingly to the moon. A flash of light from Fujiyama awakens a glimmer in the filth. Again. They rush forward and pull forth the body of Iris and begin to strip it of its adornments. She moves and they fly in superstitious fear. She recovers consciousness, and voices from invisible singers, tell her of the selfish inspirations of Osaka, Kyoto, and her blind father; Osaka's desire baffled by fate--such is life! Kyoto's slavery to pleasure and a hangman's reward;--such is life! The blind man's dependence on his child for creature comforts;--such is life! Iris bemoans her fate as death comes gently to her. The sky grows rosy and the light brings momentary life. She stretches out her arms to the sun and acclaims the growing orb. As once upon Ida-- Glad earth perceives and from her bosom pours Unbidden herbs and voluntary flow'rs! A field of blossoms spreads around her, into which she sinks, while the sun, again many-voiced and articulate, chants his glory as in the beginning. The story is perhaps prettier in the telling than in the performance. What there is in its symbolism and its poetical suggestion that is ingratiating is more effective in the fancy than in the experience. There are fewer clogs, fewer stagnant pools, fewer eddies which whirl to no purpose. In the modern school, with its distemper music put on in splotches, there must be more merit and action. Psychological delineation in music which stimulates action, or makes one forget the want of outward movement, demands a different order of genius than that which Signor Mascagni possesses. Mere talent for artful device will not suffice. There are many effective bits of expressive writing in the score of "Iris," but most of them are fugitive and aim at coloring a word, a phrase, or at best a temporary situation. There is little flow of natural, fervent melody. What the composer accomplished with tune, characteristic but fluent, eloquent yet sustained, in "Cavalleria rusticana," he tries to achieve in "Iris" with violent, disjointed, shifting of keys and splashes of instrumental color. In this he is seldom successful, for he is not a master of orchestral writing--that technical facility which nearly all the young musicians have in the same degree that all pianists have finger technic. His orchestral stream is muddy; his effects generally crass and empty of euphony. He throws the din of outlandish instruments of percussion, a battery of gongs, big and little, drums, and cymbals into his score without achieving local color. Once only does he utilize it so as to catch the ears and stir the fancy of his listeners--in the beginning of the second act, where there is a murmur of real Japanese melody. As a rule, however, Signor Mascagni seems to have been careless in the matter of local color, properly so, perhaps, for, strictly speaking, local color in the lyric drama is for comedy with its petty limitations, not for tragedy with its appeal to large and universal passions. Yet it is in the lighter scenes, the scenes of comedy, like the marionette show, the scenes of mild pathos, like the monologues of Iris, and the scenes of mere accessory decoration, like that of the laundresses, the mousmes in the first act, with its purling figure borrowed from "Les Huguenots" and its unnecessarily uncanny col legno effect conveyed from "L'Africaine" that it is most effective. CHAPTER XII "MADAMA BUTTERFLY" This is the book of the generation of "Madama Butterfly": An adventure in Japan begat Pierre Loti's "Madame Chrysantheme"; "Madame Chrysantheme" begat John Luther Long's "Madame Butterfly," a story; "Madame Butterfly," the story, begat "Madame Butterfly," a play by David Belasco; "Madame Butterfly," the play, begat "Madama Butterfly," the opera by Giacomo Puccini. The heroine of the roving French romanticist is therefore seen in her third incarnation in the heroine of the opera book which L. Illica and G. Giacosa made for Puccini. But in operatic essence she is still older, for, as Dr. Korngold, a Viennese critic, pointed out, Selica is her grandmother and Lakme her cousin. Even this does not exhaust her family history; there is something like a bar sinister in her escutcheon. Mr. Belasco's play was not so much begotten, conceived, or born of admiration for Mr. Long's book as it was of despair wrought by the failure of another play written by Mr. Belasco. This play was a farce entitled "Naughty Anthony," created by Mr. Belasco in a moment of aesthetic aberration for production at the Herald Square Theatre, in New York, in the spring of 1900. Mr. Belasco doesn't think so now, but at the time he had a notion that the public would find something humorous and attractive in the spectacle of a popular actress's leg swathed in several layers of stocking. So he made a show of Blanche Bates. The public refused to be amused at the farcical study in comparative anatomy, and when Mr. Belasco's friends began to fault him for having pandered to a low taste, and he felt the smart of failure in addition, he grew heartily ashamed of himself. His affairs, moreover, began to take on a desperate aspect; the season threatened to be a ruinous failure, and he had no play ready to substitute for "Naughty Anthony." Some time before a friend had sent him Mr. Long's book, but he had carelessly tossed it aside. In his straits it came under his eyes again, and this time he saw a play in it--a play and a promise of financial salvation. It was late at night when he read the story, but he had come to a resolve by morning and in his mind's eye had already seen his actors in Japanese dress. The drama lay in the book snugly enough; it was only necessary to dig it out and materialize it to the vision. That occupation is one in which Mr. Belasco is at home. The dialogue went to his actors a few pages at a time, and the pictures rose rapidly in his mind. Something different from a stockinged leg now! Glimpses of Nippon--its mountains, waters, bridges, flowers, gardens, geishas; as a foil to their grace and color the prosaic figures of a naval officer and an American Consul. All things tinged with the bright light of day, the glories of sunset or the super-glories of sunrise. We must saturate the fancy of the audience with the atmosphere of Japan, mused Mr. Belasco. Therefore, Japanese scenes, my painter! Electrician, your plot shall be worked out as carefully as the dialogue and action of the play's people. "First drop discovered; house-lights down; white foots with blue full work change of color at back of drop; white lens on top of mountain; open light with white, straw, amber, and red on lower part of drop; when full on lower footlights to blue," and so on. Mr. Belasco's emotions, we know, find eloquent expression in stage lights. But the ear must be carried off to the land of enchantment as well as the eye. "Come, William Furst, recall your experiences on the Western coast. For my first curtain I want a quaint, soft Japanese melody, pp--you know how!" And so "Madame Butterfly," the play, was made. In two weeks all was ready, and a day after the first performance at the Herald Square Theatre, on March 5, 1900, the city began to hum with eager comment on the dramatic intensity of the scene of a Japanese woman's vigil, of the enthralling eloquence of a motionless, voiceless figure, looking steadily through a hole torn through a paper partition, with a sleeping child and a nodding maid at her feet, while a mimic night wore on, the lanterns on the floor flickered out one by one and the soft violins crooned a melody to the arpeggios of a harp. The season at the Herald Square Theatre was saved. Some time later, when Mr. Belasco accompanied Mr. Charles Frohman to London to put on "Zaza" at the Garrick Theatre, he took "Madame Butterfly" with him and staged it at the Duke of York's Theatre, hard by. On the first night of "Madame Butterfly" Mr. Frohman was at the latter playhouse, Mr. Belasco at the former. The fall of the curtain on the little Japanese play was followed by a scene of enthusiasm which endured so long that Mr. Frohman had time to summon his colleague to take a curtain call. At a stroke the pathetic play had made its fortune in London, and, as it turned out, paved the way for a new and larger triumph for Mr. Long's story. The musical critics of the London newspapers came to the house and saw operatic possibilities in the drama. So did Mr. Francis Nielson, at the time Covent Garden's stage manager, who sent word of the discovery to Signor Puccini. The composer came from Milan, and realized on the spot that the successor of "Tosca" had been found. Signori Illica and Giacosa, librettists in ordinary to Ricordi & Co., took the work of making the opera book in hand. Signor Illica's fancy had roamed in the Land of Flowers before; he had written the libretto for Mascagni's "Iris." The ephemeral life of Cho-Cho-San was over in a few months, but by that time "Madama Butterfly," glorified by music, had lifted her wings for a new flight in Milan. It is an old story that many operas which are recognized as masterpieces later, fail to find appreciation or approval when they are first produced. "Madama Butterfly" made a fiasco when brought forward at La Scala on February 17, 1904. [Footnote: At this premiere Campanini was the conductor and the cast was as follows: Butterfly, Storchio; Suzuki, Giaconia; Pinkerton, Zenatello; Sharpless, De Luca; Goro, Pini-Corsi; Bonzo, Venturini; Yakuside, Wulmann. At the first performance in London, on July 10, 1905, at Covent Garden, the cast was: Butterfly, Destinn; Suzuki, Lejeune; Pinkerton, Caruso; Sharpless, Scotti; Goro, Dufriche; Bonzo, Cotreuil; Yakuside, Rossi. Conductor, Campanini. After the revision it was produced at Brescia on May 28, 1904, with Zenatello, of the original cast, Krusceniski as Butterfly, and Bellati as Sharpless. The first American performances were in the English version, made by Mrs. B. H. Elkin, by the Savage Opera Company, which came to the Garden Theatre, New York, after a trial season in Washington, on November 12, 1906. It had a run of nearly three months before it reached the Metropolitan Opera House, on February 11, 1907. Mr. Walter Rothwell conducted the English performance, in which there were several changes of casts, the original Butterfly being Elza Szamozy (a Hungarian singer); Suzuki, Harriet Behne; Pinkerton, Joseph F. Sheehan, and Sharpless, Winifred Goff. Arturo Vigna conducted the first Italian performance at the Metropolitan, with Geraldine Farrar as Butterfly, Louise Homer as Suzuki, Caruso as Pinkerton, Scotti as Sharpless, and Albert Reiss as Goro.] So complete was the fiasco that in his anxiety to withdraw the work Signer Puccini is said to have offered to reimburse the management of the theatre for the expenditures entailed by the production. Failures of this kind are frequently inexplicable, but it is possible that the unconventional character of the story and the insensibility of the Italians to national musical color other than their own, had a great deal to do with it in this case. Whatever the cause, the popular attitude toward the opera was displayed in the manner peculiar to Italy, the discontented majority whistling, shrilling on house keys, grunting, roaring, bellowing, and laughing in the good old-fashioned manner which might be set down as possessed of some virtuous merit if reserved for obviously stupid creations. "The Pall Mall Gazette" reported that at the time the composer told a friend that on this fateful first night he was shut up in a small room behind the scenes, where he could hear nothing of what was going on on the stage or in the audience-room. On a similar occasion, nearly a century before, when "The Barber of Seville" scored an equally monumental failure, Rossini, in the conductor's chair, faced the mob, shrugged his shoulders, and clapped his hands to show his contempt for his judges, then went home and composedly to bed. Puccini, though he could not see the discomfiture of his opera, was not permitted to remain in ignorance of it. His son and his friends brought him the news. His collaborator, Giacosa, rushed into the room with dishevelled hair and staring eyes, crying: "I have suffered the passion of death!" while Signorina Storchio burst into such a flood of tears and sobs that it was feared she would be ill. Puccini was cut to the heart, but he did not lose faith in the work. He had composed it in love and knew its potentialities, His faith found justification when he produced it in Brescia three months later and saw it start out at once on a triumphal tour of the European theatres. His work of revision was not a large or comprehensive one. He divided the second act into two acts, made some condensations to relieve the long strain, wrote a few measures of introduction for the final scene, but refused otherwise to change the music. His fine sense of the dramatic had told him correctly when he planned the work that there ought not to be a physical interruption of the pathetic vigil out of which Blanche Bates in New York and Evelyn Millard in London had made so powerful a scene, but he yielded to the compulsion of practical considerations, trying to save respect for his better judgment by refusing to call the final scene an act, though he permitted the fall of the curtain; but nothing can make good the loss entailed by the interruption. The mood of the play is admirably preserved in the music of the intermezzo, but the mood of the listeners is hopelessly dissipated with the fall of the curtain. When the scene of the vigil is again disclosed, the charm and the pathos have vanished, never to return. It is true that a rigid application of the law of unities would seem to forbid that a vigil of an entire night from eve till morning be compressed into a few minutes; but poetic license also has rights, and they could have been pleaded with convincing eloquence by music, with its marvellous capacity for publishing the conflicting emotions of the waiting wife. His ship having been ordered to the Asiatic station, Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton, Lieutenant in the United States Navy, follows a custom (not at all unusual among naval officers, if Pierre Loti is to be believed) and for the summer sojourn in Japan leases a Japanese wife. (The word "wife" is a euphemism for housekeeper, companion, play-fellow, mistress, what not.) This is done in a manner involving little ceremony, as is known to travellers and others familiar with the social customs of Nippon, through a nakodo, a marriage broker or matrimonial agent. M. Loti called his man Kangourou; Mr. Long gave his the name of Goro. That, however, and the character of the simple proceeding before a registrar is immaterial. M. Loti, who assures us that his book is merely some pages from a veritable diary, entertains us with some details preliminary to his launch into a singular kind of domestic existence, which are interesting as bearing on the morals of the opera and as indicative of the fact that he is a closer observer of Oriental life than his American confrere. He lets us see how merchantable "wives" are chosen, permits M. Kangourou to exhibit his wares and expatiate on their merits. There is the daughter of a wealthy China merchant, a young woman of great accomplishments who can write "commercially" and has won a prize in a poetic contest with a sonnet. She is, consequently, very dear--100 yen, say $100--but that is of no consequence; what matters is that she has a disfiguring scar on her cheek. She will not do. Then there is Mlle. Jasmin, a pretty girl of fifteen years, who can be had for $18 or $20 a month (contract cancellable at the end of any month for non-payment), a few dresses of fashionable cut and a pleasant house to live in. Mlle. Jasmin comes to be inspected with one old lady, two old ladies, three old ladies (mamma and aunts), and a dozen friends and neighbors, big and little. Loti's moral stomach revolts at the thought of buying for his uses a child who looks like a doll, and is shocked at the public parade which has been made of her as a commodity. He has not yet been initiated into some of the extraordinary customs of Japan, nor yet into some of the distinctions attendant upon those customs. He learns of one of the latter when he suggests to the broker that he might marry a charming geisha who had taken his fancy at a tea house. The manner in which the suggestion was received convinced him that he might as well have purposed to marry the devil himself as a professional dancer and singer. Among the train of Mlle. Jasmin's friends is one less young than Mlle. Jasmin, say about eighteen, and already more of a woman; and when Loti says, "Why not her?" M. Kangourou trots her out for inspection and, discreetly sending Loti away, concludes the arrangement between night-fall and 10 o'clock, when he comes with the announcement: "All is arranged, sir; her parents will give her up for $20 a month--the same price as Mlle. Jasmin." So Mlle. Chrysantheme became the wife of Pierre Loti during his stay at Nagasaki, and then dutifully went home to her mother without breaking her heart at all. But she was not a geisha, only a mousme--"one of the prettiest words in the Nipponese language," comments M. Loti, "it seems almost as if there must be a little moue in the very sound, as if a pretty, taking little pout, such as they put on, and also a little pert physiognomy, were described by it." Lieutenant Pinkerton, equally ignorant with Lieutenant Loti but uninstructed evidently, marries a geisha whose father had made the happy dispatch at the request of the Son of Heaven after making a blunder in his military command. She is Cio-Cio-San, also Madama Butterfly, and she comes to her wedding with a bevy of geishas or mousmes (I do not know which) and a retinue of relations. All enjoy the hospitality of the American officer while picking him to pieces, but turn from their kinswoman when they learn from an uncle, who is a Buddhist priest and comes late to the wedding like the wicked fairy in the stories, that she has attended the Mission school and changed her religion. Wherefore the bonze curses her: "Hou, hou! Cio-Cio-San, hou, hou!" Sharpless, United States Consul at Nagasaki, had not approved of Pinkerton's adventure, fearing that it might bring unhappiness to the little woman; but Pinkerton had laughed at his scruples and emptied his glass to the marriage with an American wife which he hoped to make some day. Neither Loti nor Long troubles us with the details of so prosaic a thing as the marriage ceremony; but Puccini and his librettists make much of it, for it provides the only opportunity for a chorus and the musician had found delightfully mellifluous Japanese gongs to add a pretty touch of local color to the music. Cio-Cio-San has been "outcasted" and Pinkerton comforts her and they make love in the starlight (after Butterfly has changed her habiliments) like any pair of lovers in Italy. "Dolce notte! Quante stelle! Vieni, vieni!" for quantity. This is the first act of the opera, and it is all expository to Belasco's "Tragedy of Japan," which plays in one act, with the pathetic vigil separating the two days which form its period of action. When that, like the second act of the opera, opens, Pinkerton has been gone from Nagasaki and his "wife" three years, and a baby boy of whom he has never heard, but who has his eyes and hair has come to bear Butterfly company in the little house on the hill. The money left by the male butterfly when he flitted is all but exhausted. Madama Butterfly appears to be lamentably ignorant of the customs of her country, for she believes herself to be a wife in the American sense and is fearfully wroth with Suzuki, her maid, when she hints that she never knew a foreign husband to come back to a Japanese wife. But Pinkerton when he sailed away had said that he would be back "when the robins nest again," and that suffices Cio-Cio-San. But when Sharpless comes with a letter to break the news that his friend is coming back with an American wife, he loses courage to perform his mission at the contemplation of the little woman's faith in the truant. Does he know when the robins nest in America? In Japan they had nested three times since Pinkerton went away. The consul quails at that and damns his friend as a scoundrel. Now Goro, who knows Butterfly's pecuniary plight, brings Yamadori to her. Yamadori is a wealthy Japanese citizen of New York in the book and play and a prince in the opera, but in all he is smitten with Butterfly's beauty and wants to add her name to the list of wives he has conveniently married and as conveniently divorced on his visits to his native land. Butterfly insists that she is an American and cannot be divorced Japanese fashion, and is amazed when Sharpless hints that Pinkerton might have forgotten her and she would better accept Yamadori's hand. First she orders him out of the house, but, repenting her of her rudeness, brings in the child to show him something that no one is likely to forget. She asks the consul to write to his friend and tell him that he has a son, so fine a son, indeed, that she indulges in a day dream of the Mikado stopping at the head of his troops to admire him and make him a prince of the realm. Sharpless goes away with his mission unfulfilled and Suzuki comes in dragging Goro with her, for that he had been spreading scandalous tales about the treatment which children born like this child receive in America. Butterfly is tempted to kill the wretch, but at the last is content to spurn him with her foot. At this moment a cannon shot is heard. A man-of-war is entering the harbor. Quick, the glasses! "Steady my hand, Suzuki, that I may read the name." It is the Abraham Lincoln, Pinkerton's ship! Now the cherry tree must give up its every blossom, every bush or vine its violets and jessamines to garnish the room for his welcome! The garden is stripped bare, vases are filled, the floor is strewn with petals. Perfumes exhale from the voices of the women and the song of the orchestra. Here local color loses its right; the music is all Occidental. Butterfly is dressed again in her wedding gown of white and her pale cheeks are touched up with carmine. The paper partitions are drawn against the night. Butterfly punctures the shoji with three holes--one high up for herself to look through, standing; one lower for the maid to look through, sitting; one near the floor for the baby. And so Butterfly stands in an all-night vigil. The lanterns flicker and go out. Maid and babe sink down in sleep. The gray dawn creeps over the waters of the harbor. Human voices, transformed into instruments, hum a barcarolle. (We heard it when Sharpless tried to read the letter.) A Japanese tune rises like a sailors' chanty from the band. Mariners chant their "Yo ho!" Day is come. Suzuki awakes and begs her mistress to seek rest. Butterfly puts the baby to bed, singing a lullaby. Sharpless and Pinkerton come and learn of the vigil from Suzuki, who sees the form of a lady in the garden and hears that it is the American wife of Pinkerton. Pinkerton pours out his remorse melodiously. He will be haunted forever by the picture of his once happy home and Cio-Cio-San's reproachful eyes. He leaves money for Butterfly in the consul's hands and runs away like a coward. Kate, the American wife, and Suzuki meet in the garden. The maid is asked to tell her mistress the meaning of the visit, but before she can do so Butterfly sees them. Her questions bring out half the truth; her intuition tells her the rest. Kate (an awful blot she is on the dramatic picture) begs forgiveness and asks for the baby boy that her husband may rear him. Butterfly says he shall have him in half an hour if he will come to fetch him. She goes to the shrine of Buddha and takes from it a veil and a dagger, reading the words engraved on its blade: "To die with honor when one can no longer live with honor." It is the weapon which the Mikado had sent to her father. She points the weapon at her throat, but at the moment Suzuki pushes the baby into the room. Butterfly addresses it passionately; then, telling it to play, seats it upon a stool, puts an American flag into its hands, a bandage around its eyes. Again she takes dagger and veil and goes behind a screen. The dagger is heard to fall. Butterfly totters out from behind the screen with a veil wound round her neck. She staggers to the child and falls, dying, at its feet. Pinkerton rushes in with a cry of horror and falls on his knees, while Sharpless gently takes up the child. I have no desire to comment disparagingly upon the denouement of the book of Mr. Long or the play of Mr. Belasco which Puccini and his librettists followed; but in view of the origin of the play a bit of comparative criticism seems to be imperative. Loti's "Madame Chrysantheme" was turned into an opera by Andre Messager. What the opera was like I do not know. It came, it went, and left no sign; yet it would seem to be easy to guess at the reason for its quick evanishment. If it followed the French story, as no doubt it did, it was too faithful to the actualities of Japanese life to awaken a throb of emotion in the Occidental heart. Without such a throb a drama is naught--a sounding brass and tinkling cymbal. The charm of Loti's book lies in its marvellously beautiful portrayal of a country, a people, and a characteristic incident in the social life of that people. Its interest as a story, outside of the charm of its telling, is like that excited by inspection of an exotic curio. In his dedication of the book the author begged Mme. la Duchesse de Richelieu not to look for any meaning in it, but to receive it in the same spirit in which she would receive "some quaint bit of pottery, some grotesque carved ivory idol, or some preposterous trifle brought back from the fatherland of all preposterousness." It is a record of a bit of the wandering life of a poet who makes himself a part of every scene into which fortune throws him. He has spent a summer with a Japanese mousme, whom he had married Japanese fashion, and when he has divorced her, also in Japanese fashion, with regard for all the conventions, and sailed away from her forever, he is more troubled by thoughts of possible contamination to his own nature than because of any consequences to the woman. Before the final farewell he had felt a touch of pity for the "poor little gypsy," but when he mounted the stairs to her room for the last time he heard her singing, and mingled with her voice was a strange metallic sound, dzinn, dzinn! as of coins ringing on the floor. Is she amusing herself with quoits, or the jeu du crapaud, or pitch and toss? He creeps in, and there, dressed for the departure to her mother's, sitting on the floor is Chrysantheme; and spread out around her all the fine silver dollars he had given her according to agreement the night before. "With the competent dexterity of an old money changer she fingers them, turns them over, throws them on the floor, and armed with a little mallet ad hoc, rings them vigorously against her ear, singing the while I know not what little pensive, birdlike song, which I dare say she improvises as she goes along. Well, after all, it is even more completely Japanese than I could possibly have imagined it--this last scene of my married life! I feel inclined to laugh." And he commends the little gypsy's worldly wisdom, offers to make good any counterfeit piece which she may find, and refuses to permit her to see him go aboard of his ship. She does, nevertheless, along with the Japanese wives of four of his fellow officers, who peep at their flitting husbands through the curtains of their sampans. But when he is far out on the great Yellow Sea he throws the faded lotus flowers which she had given him through the porthole of his cabin, making his best excuses for "giving to them, natives of Japan, a grave so solemn and so vast"; and he utters a prayer: "O Ama-Terace-Omi-Kami, wash me clean from this little marriage of mine in the waters of the river of Kamo!" The story has no soul, and to give his story, which borrowed its motive from Loti's, a soul, Mr. Long had to do violence to the verities of Japanese life. Yet might not even a geisha feel a genuine passion? The use of folk-tunes in opera is older than "Madama Butterfly," but Puccini's score stands alone in the extent of the use and the consistency with which Japanese melody has been made the foundation of the music. When Signor Illica, one of the librettists, followed Sar Peladan and d'Annunzio into Nippon seeking flowers for "Iris," he took Mascagni with him--metaphorically, of course. But Mascagni was a timid gleaner. Puccini plucked with a bolder hand, as indeed he might, for he is an incomparably greater adept in the art of making musical nosegays. In fact, I know of only one score that is comparable with that of "Madama Butterfly" in respect of its use of national musical color, and that is "Boris Godounoff." Moussorgsky, however, had more, richer, and a greater variety of material to work with than Puccini. Japanese music is arid and angular, and yet so great is Puccini's skill in combining creative imagination and reflection that he knew how to make it blossom like a rose. Pity that he could not wholly overcome its rhythmical monotony. Japanese melody runs almost uninterruptedly through his instrumental score, giving way at intervals to the Italian style of lyricism when the characters and passions become universal rather than local types. Structurally, his score rests on the Wagnerian method, in that the vocal part floats on an uninterrupted instrumental current. In the orchestral part the tunes which he borrowed from the popular music of Japan are continuously recurrent, and fragments of them are used as the connecting links of the whole fabric. He uses also a few typical themes (Leitmotive) of his own invention, and to them it might be possible, by ingenious study of their relation to text and situation, to attach significances in the manner of the Wagnerian handbooks; but I do not think that such processes occupied the composer's mind to any considerable extent, and the themes are not appreciably characteristic. His most persistent use of a connecting link, arbitrarily chosen, is found in the case of the first motive of the theme, which he treats fugally in the introduction, and which appears thereafter to the end of the chapter (a, in the list of themes printed herewith). What might be called personal themes are the opening notes of "The Star-Spangled Banner" for Pinkerton and the melody (d) which comes in with Yamadori, in which the Japanese tune used by Sir Arthur Sullivan in "The Mikado" is echoed. The former fares badly throughout the score (for which no blame need attach to Signor Puccini), but the latter is used with capital effect, though not always in connection with the character. If Signor Puccini had needed the suggestion that Japanese music was necessary for a Japanese play (which of course he did not), he might have received it when he saw Mr. Belasco's play in London. For the incidental music in that play Mr. William Furst provided Japanese tunes, or tunes made over the very convenient Japanese last. Through Mr. Belasco's courtesy I am able to present here a relic of this original "Butterfly" music. The first melody (a) was the theme of the curtain-music; (b) that accompanying Cho-Cho-San, when discovered at the beginning spraying flowers, presenting an offering at the shrine and burning incense in the house at the foot of Higashi hill; (c) the Yamadori music; (d) the music accompanying the first production of the sword; (e) the music of the vigil. There were also two Occidental pieces--the melody of a little song which Pinkerton had taught Cho-Cho-San, "I Call Her the Belle of Japan," and "Rock-a-bye, Baby." [figure: a musical score excerpt] [figure: a musical score excerpt] Themes from Puccini's "Butterfly" music By permission of Ricordi & Co. [figure: a musical score excerpt] Meiodies from Mr. Furst's "Butterfly" music By permission of Mr. David Belasco. CHAPTER XIII "DER ROSENKAVALIER" In the beginning there was "Guntram," of which we in America heard only fragmentary echoes in our concert-rooms. Then came "Feuersnot," which reached us in the same way, but between which and the subject which is to occupy me in this chapter there is a kinship through a single instrumental number, the meaning of which no commentator has dared more than hint at. It is the music which accompanies the episode, politely termed a "love scene," which occurs at the climax of the earlier opera, but is supposed to take place before the opening of the curtain in the later. Perhaps I shall recur to them again--if I have the courage. These were the operas of Richard Strauss which no manager deemed it necessary or advisable to produce in New York. Now came "Salome." Popular neurasthenia was growing. Oscar Wilde thought France might accept a glorification of necrophilism and wrote his delectable book in French. France would have none of it, but when it was done into German, and Richard Strauss accentuated its sexual perversity by his hysterical music, lo! Berlin accepted it with avidity. The theatres of the Prussian capital were keeping pace with the pathological spirit of the day, and were far ahead of those of Paris, where, it had long been the habit to think, moral obliquity made its residence. If Berlin, then why not New York? So thought Mr. Conned, saturated with German theatricalism, and seeing no likely difference in the appeal of a "Parsifal" which he had successfully produced, and a "Salome," he prepared to put the works of Wagner and Strauss on the same footing at the Metropolitan Opera House. An influence which has not yet been clearly defined, but which did not spring from the director of the opera nor the gentlemen who were his financial backers, silenced the maunderings of the lust-crazed Herod and paralyzed the contortions of the lascivious dancer to whom he was willing to give one-half his kingdom. [Footnote: For the story of "Salome" in New York, see my "Chapters of Opera" (Henry Holt & Co., New York), p. 343 et seq.] Now Mr. Hammerstein came to continue the artistic education which the owners of the Metropolitan Opera House had so strangely and unaccountably checked. Salome lived out her mad life in a short time, dying, not by the command of Herod, but crushed under the shield of popular opinion. The operation, though effective, was not as swift as it might have been had operatic conditions been different than they are in New York, and before it was accomplished a newer phase of Strauss's pathological art had offered itself as a nervous, excitation. It was "Elektra," and under the guise of an ancient religious ideal, awful but pathetic, the people were asked to find artistic delight in the contemplation of a woman's maniacal thirst for a mother's blood. It is not necessary to recall the history of the opera at the Manhattan Opera House to show that the artistic sanity of New York was proof against the new poison. Hugo von Hoffmannsthal had aided Strauss in this brew and collaborated with him in the next, which, it was hoped, probably because of the difference in its concoction and ingredients, would make his rein even more taut than it had ever been on theatrical managers and their public. From the Greek classics he turned to the comedy of the Beaumarchais period. Putting their heads together, the two wrote "Der Rosenkavalier." It was perhaps shrewd on their part that they avoided all allusion to the opera buffa of the period and called their work a "comedy for music." It enabled them, in the presence of the ignorant, to assume a virtue which they did not possess; but it is questionable if that circumstance will help them any. It is only the curious critic nowadays who takes the trouble to look at the definition, or epithet, on a title page. It is the work which puts the hallmark on itself; not the whim of the composer. It would have been wise, very wise indeed, had Hoffmannsthal avoided everything which might call up a comparison between himself and Beaumarchais. It was simply fatal to Strauss that he tried to avoid all comparison between his treatment of an eighteenth century comedy and Mozart's. One of his devices was to make use of the system of musical symbols which are irrevocably associated with Wagner's method of composition. Mozart knew nothing of this system, but he had a better one in his Beaumarchaisian comedy, which "Der Rosenkavalier" recalls; it was that of thematic expression for each new turn in the dramatic situation--a system which is carried out so brilliantly in "Le Nozze di Figaro" that there is nothing, even in "Die Meistersinger," which can hold a candle to it. Another was to build up the vocal part of his comedy on orchestral waltzes. Evidently it was his notion that at the time of Maria Theresa (in whose early reign the opera is supposed to take place) the Viennese world was given over to the dance. It was so given over a generation later, so completely, indeed, that at the meetings in the ridotto, for which Mozart, Haydn, Gyrowetz, Beethoven, and others wrote music, retiring rooms had to be provided for ladies who were as unprepared for possible accidents as was one of those described by Pepys as figuring in a court ball in his time; but to put scarcely anything but waltz tunes under the dialogue of "Der Rosenkavalier" is an anachronism which is just as disturbing to the judicious as the fact that Herr Strauss, though he starts his half-dozen or more of waltzes most insinuatingly, never lets them run the natural course which Lanner and the Viennese Strauss, who suggested their tunes, would have made them do. Always, the path which sets out so prettily becomes a byway beset with dissonant thorns and thistles and clogged with rocks. All of this is by way of saying that "Der Rosenkavalier" reached New York on December 9, 1913, after having endured two years or so in Europe, under the management of Mr. Gatti-Casazza, and was treated with the distinction which Mr. Conried gave "Parsifal" and had planned for "Salome." It was set apart for a performance outside the subscription, special prices were demanded, and the novelty dressed as sumptuously and prepared with as lavish an expenditure of money and care as if it were a work of the very highest importance. Is it that? The question is not answered by the fact that its music was composed by Richard Strauss, even though one be willing to admit that Strauss is the greatest living master of technique in musical composition, the one concerning whose doings the greatest curiosity is felt and certainly the one whose doings are the best advertised. "Der Rosenkavalier," in spite of all these things, must stand on its merits--as a comedy with music. The author of its book has invited a comparison which has already been suggested by making it a comedy of intrigue merely and placing its time of action in Vienna and the middle of the eighteenth century. He has gone further; he has invoked the spirit of Beaumarchais to animate his people and his incidents. The one thing which he could not do, or did not do, was to supply the satirical scourge which justified the Figaro comedies of his great French prototype and which, while it made their acceptance tardy, because of royal and courtly opposition, made their popular triumph the more emphatic. "Le Nozze di Figaro" gave us more than one figure and more than one scene in the representation, and "Le Nozze di Figaro" is to those who understand its text one of the most questionable operas on the current list. But there is a moral purpose underlying the comedy which to some extent justifies its frank salaciousness. It is to prevent the Count from exercising an ancient seigniorial right over the heroine which he had voluntarily resigned, that all the characters in the play unite in the intrigue which makes up the comedy. Moreover, there are glimpses over and over again of honest and virtuous love between the characters and beautiful expressions of it in the music which makes the play delightful, despite its salaciousness. Even Cherubino who seems to have come to life again in Octavian, is a lovable youth if for no othe reason than that he represents youth in its amorousness toward all womankind, with thought of special mischief toward none. "Der Rosenkavalier" is a comedy of lubricity merely, with what little satirical scourge it has applied only to an old roue who is no more deserving of it than most of the other people in the play. So much of its story as will bear telling can be told very briefly. It begins, assuming its instrumental introduction (played with the scene discreetly hidden) to be a part of it, with a young nobleman locked in the embraces of the middle-aged wife of a field marshal, who is conveniently absent on a hunting expedition. The music is of a passionate order, and the composer, seeking a little the odor of virtue, but with an oracular wink in his eye, says in a descriptive note that it is to be played in the spirit of parody (parodistisch). Unfortunately the audience cannot see the printed direction, and there is no parody in music except extravagance and ineptitude in the utterance of simple things (like the faulty notes of the horns in Mozart's joke on the village musicians, the cadenza for violin solo in the same musical joke, or the twangling of Beckmesser's lute); so the introduction is an honest musical description of things which the composer is not willing to confess, and least of all the stage manager, for when the curtain opens there is not presented even the picture called for by the German libretto. Nevertheless, morn is dawning, birds are twittering, and the young lover, kneeling before his mistress on a divan, is bemoaning the fact that day is come and that he cannot publish his happiness to the world. The tete-a-tete is interrupted by a rude boor of a nobleman, who come to consult his cousin (the princess) about a messenger to send with the conventional offering of a silver rose to the daughter of a vulgar plebeian just elevated to the nobility because of his wealth. The conversation between the two touches on little more than old amours, and after the lady has held her levee designed to introduce a variety of comedy effects in music as well as action, the princess recommends her lover for the office of rosebearer. Meanwhile the lover has donned the garments of a waiting maid and been overwhelmed with the wicked attentions of the roue, Lerchenau. When the lovers are again alone there is a confession of renunciation on the part of the princess, based on the philosophical reflection that, after all, her Octavian being so young would bring about the inevitable parting sooner or later. In the second act what the princess in her prescient abnegation had foreseen takes place. Her lover carries the rose to the young woman whom the roue had picked out for his bride and promptly falls in love with her. She with equal promptness, following the example of Wagner's heroines, bowls herself at his head. The noble vulgarian complicates matters by insisting that he receive a dowry instead of paying one. The young hot-blood adds to the difficulties by pinking him in the arm with his sword, but restores order at the last by sending him a letter of assignation in his first act guise of a maid servant of the princess. This assignation is the background of the third act, which is farce of the wildest and most vulgar order. Much of it is too silly for description. Always, however, there is allusion to the purpose of the meeting on the part of Lerchenau, whose plans are spoiled by apparitions in all parts of the room, the entrance of the police, his presumptive bride and her father, a woman who claims him as her husband, four children who raise bedlam (and memories of the contentious Jews in "Salome"); by shouting "Papa! papa!" until his mind is in a whirl and he rushes out in despair. The princess leaves the new-found lovers alone. They hymn their happiness in Mozartian strains (the melody copied from the second part of the music with which Papageno sets the blackamoors to dancing in "Die Zauberflote"), the orchestra talks of the matronly renunciation of the princess, enthusiastic Straussians of a musical parallel with the quintet from Wagner's "Meistersinger," and the opera comes to an end after three and one-half hours of more or less unintelligible dialogue poised on waltz melodies. I have said unintelligible dialogue. For this unintelligibility there are two reasons-the chief one musical, the other literary. Though Strauss treats his voices with more consideration in "Der Rosenkavalier" than in his tragedies, he still so overburdens them that the words are distinguishable only at intervals. Only too frequently he crushes them with orchestral voices, which in themselves are not overwhelming--the voices of his horns, for instance, for which he shows a particular partiality. His style of declamation is melodic, though it is only at the end of the opera that he rises to real vocal melody; but it seems to be put over an orchestral part, and not the orchestral part put under it. There is no moment in which he can say, as Wagner truthfully and admiringly said of the wonderful orchestral music of the third act of "Tristan und Isolde," that all this swelling instrumental song existed only for the sake of what the dying Tristan was saying upon his couch. All of Strauss's waltzes seem to exist for their own sake, which makes the disappointment greater that they are not carried through in the spirit in which they are begun; that is, the spirit of the naive Viennese dance tune. A second reason for the too frequent unintelligibility of the text is its archaic character. Its idioms are eighteenth century as well as Viennese, and its persistent use of the third person even among individuals of quality, though it gives a tang to the libretto when read in the study, is not welcome when heard with difficulty. Besides this, there is use of dialect--vulgar when assumed by Octavian, mixed when called for by such characters as Valzacchi and his partner in scandal mongery, Annina. To be compelled to forego a knowledge of half of what such a master of diction as Mr. Reiss was saying was a new sensation to his admirers who understand German. Yet the fault was as little his as it was Mr. Goritz's that so much of what he said went for nothing; it was all his misfortune, including the fact that much of the music is not adapted to his voice. The music offers a pleasanter topic than the action and dialogue. It is a relief to those listeners who go to the opera oppressed with memories of "Salome" and "Elektra." It is not only that their ears are not so often assaulted by rude sounds, they are frequently moved by phrases of great and genuine beauty. Unfortunately the Straussian system of composition demands that beauty be looked for in fragments. Continuity of melodic flow is impossible to Strauss--a confession of his inability either to continue Wagner's method, to improve on it, or invent anything new in its place. The best that has been done in the Wagnerian line belongs to Humperdinck. [Footnote: "Der Rosenkavalier" had its first American production at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, on December 9, 1913, the cast being as follows:-- Feldmarschallin Furstin Werdenberg............ Frieda Hempel Baron Ochs auf Lerchenau...................... Otto Goritz Octavian, genannt Quinquin.................... Margarete Ober Herr von Faninal.............................. Hermann Weil Sophie, seine Tochter......................... Anna Case Jungfer Marianne Leitmetzerin................. Rita Fornia Valzacchi, ein Intrigant...................... Albert Reiss Annina, seine Begleiterin..................... Marie Mattfeld Ein Polizeikommissar.......................... Carl Schlegel Haushofmeister der Feldmarschalh'n............ Pietro Audisio Haushofmeister bei Faninal.................... Lambert Murphy Ein Notar..................................... Basil Ruysdael Ein Wirt...................................... Julius Bayer Ein Sanger.................................... Carl Jorn Drei adelige Waisen........................... Louise Cox Rosina Van Dyck Sophie Braslau Eine Modistin................................. Jeanne Maubourg Ein Lakai..................................... Ludwig Burgstaller Ein kleiner Neger............................. Ruth Weinstein Conductor--Alfred Hertz] CHAPTER XIV "Konigskinder" Once upon a time a witch cast a spell upon a king's daughter and held her in servitude as a gooseherd. A prince found her in the forest and loved her. She loved him in return, and would gladly have gone away from her sordid surroundings with him, though she had spurned the crown which he had offered her in exchange for her wreath of flowers; but when she escaped from her jailer she found that she could not break the charm which held her imprisoned in the forest. Then the prince left the crown lying at her feet and continued his wanderings. Scarcely had he gone when there came to the hut of the witch a broommaker and a woodchopper, guided by a wandering minstrel. They were ambassadors from the city of Hellabrunn, which had been so long without a king that its boorish burghers themselves felt the need of a ruler in spite of their boorishness. To the wise woman the ambassadors put the questions: Who shall be this ruler and by what sign shall they recognize him? The witch tells them that their sovereign shall be the first person who enters their gates after the bells have rung the noon hour on the morrow, which is the day of the Hella festival. Then the minstrel catches sight of the lovely goose-girl, and through the prophetic gift possessed by poets he recognizes in her a rightly born princess for his people. By the power of his art he is enabled to put aside the threatening spells of the witch and compel the hag to deliver the maiden into his care. He persuades her to break the enchantment which had held her bound hitherto and defy the wicked power. Meanwhile, however, grievous misfortunes have befallen the prince, her lover. He has gone to Hellabrunn, and desiring to learn to serve in order that he might better know how to rule, he had taken service as a swineherd. The daughter of the innkeeper becomes enamoured of the shapely body of the prince, whose proud spirit she cannot understand, and who has repulsed her advances. His thoughts go back to the goosegirl whose wreath, with its fresh fragrance, reminds him of his duty. He attempts to teach the burghers their own worth, but the wench whose love he had repulsed accuses him of theffy and he is about to be led off to prison when the bells peal forth the festal hour. Joyfully the watchmen throw open the strong town gates and the multitude and gathered councillors fall back to receive their king. But through the doors enters the gooseherd, proudly wearing her crown and followed by her flock and the minstrel The lovers fall into each other's arms, but only the poet and a little child recognize them as of royal blood. The boorish citizens, who had fancied that their king would appear in regal splendor, drive the youth and maiden out with contumely, burn the witch and cripple the minstrel by breaking one of his legs on the wheel. Seeking his home, the prince and his love lose their way in the forest during a snowstorm and die of a poisoned loaf made by the witch, for which the prince had bartered his broken crown, under the same tree which had sheltered them on their first meeting; but the children of Hellabrunn, who had come out in search of them, guided by a bird, find their bodies buried under the snow and give them royal acclaim and burial. And the prescient minstrel hymns their virtues. This is the story of Engelbert Humperdinck's opera "Konigskinder," which had its first performance on any stage at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, on December 28,1910, with the following cast: Der Konigssohn......................Herman Jadlowker Die Gansemagd.......................Geraldine Farrar Der Spielmann........................... Otto Goritz Die Hexe................................Louise Homer Der Holzhacker.......................... Adamo Didur Der Besenbinder........................ Albert Reiss Zwei Kinder..............Edna Walter and Lotte Engel Der Ratsalteste....................... Marcel Reiner Der Wirt..........................Antonio Pini-Corsi Die Wirtstochter................... Florence Wickham Der Schneider.......................... Julius Bayer Die Stallmagd.........................Marie Mattfeld Zwei Torwachter..... Ernst Maran and William Hinshaw Conductor: Alfred Hertz To some in the audience the drama was new only in the new operatic dress with which Humperdinck had clothed it largely at the instance of the Metropolitan management. It had been known as a spoken play for twelve years and three of its musical numbers--the overture and two pieces of between-acts music--had been in local concert-lists for the same length of time. The play had been presented with incidental music for many of the scenes as well as the overture and entr'actes in 1898 in an extremely interesting production at the Irving Place Theatre, then under the direction of Heinrich Conried, in which Agnes Sorma and Rudolf Christians had carried the principal parts. It came back four years later in an English version at the Herald Square Theatre, but neither in the German nor the English performance was it vouchsafed us to realize what had been the purpose of the author of the play and the composer of the music. The author, who calls herself Ernst Rosmer, is a woman, daughter of Heinrich Forges, for many years a factotum at the Bayreuth festivals. It was her father's devotion to Wagner which gave her the name of Elsa. She married a lawyer and litterateur in Munich named Bernstein, and has written a number of plays besides "Konigskinder," which she published in 1895, and afterward asked Herr Humperdinck (not yet a royal Prussian professor, but a simple musician, who had made essays in criticisms and tried to make a composer out of Siegfried Wagner) to provide with incidental music. Mr. Humperdinck took his task seriously. The play, with some incidental music, was two years old before Mr. Humperdinck had his overture ready. He had tried a new experiment, which proved a failure. The second and third acts had their preludes, and the songs of the minstrel had their melodies and accompaniments, and all the principal scenes had been provided with illustrative music in the Wagnerian manner, with this difference, that the dialogue had been "pointed," as a church musician would say--that is, the rhythm was indicated with exactness, and even the variations of pitch, though it was understood that the purpose was not to achieve song, but an intensified utterance, halfway between speech and song. This was melodrama, as Herr Humperdinck conceived it and as it had no doubt existed for ages--ever since the primitive Greek drama, in fact. It is easy to understand how Herr Humperdinck came to believe in the possibility of an art-form which, though accepted, for temporary effect, by Beethoven and Cherubini, and used for ballads with greater or less success by Schumann, had been harshly rejected by his great model and master, Wagner. Humperdinck lives in Germany, where in nearly every theatre there is more or less of an amalgamation of the spoken drama and the opera--where choristers play small parts and actors, though not professional singers, sing when not too much is required of them. And yet Herr Humperdinck found out that he had asked too much of his actors with his "pointed" and at times intoned declamation, and "Konigskinder" did not have to come to America to learn that the compromise was a failure. No doubt Herr Humperdinck thought of turning so beautiful a play into an opera then, but it seems to have required the stimulus which finally came from New York to persuade him to carry out the operatic idea, which is more than suggested in the score as it lies before me in its original shape, into a thorough lyric drama. The set pieces which had lived in the interim in the concert-room were transferred into the opera-score with trifling alterations and condensations and so were the set songs. As for the rest it needed only that note-heads be supplied to some of the portions of the dialogue which Humperdinck had designed for melodic declamation to have those portions ready for the opera. Here an example:-- [figure: a musical score excerpt] A German opera can generally stand severer criticism than one in another language, because there is a more strict application of principles in Germany when it comes to writing a lyric drama than in any other country. So in the present instance there is no need to conceal the fact that there are outbreaks of eroticism and offences against the German language which are none the less flagrant and censurable because they are, to some extent, concealed under the thin veneer of the allegory and symbolism which every reader must have recognized as running through the play. This is, in a manner, Wagnerian, as so much of the music is Wagnerian--especially that of the second act, which because it calls up scenes from the "Meistersinger" must also necessarily call up music from the same comedy. But there is little cause here for quarrel with Professor Humperdinck. He has applied the poetical principle of Wagner to the fairy tale which is so closely related to the myth, and he has with equal consistency applied Wagner's constructive methods musically and dramatically. It is to his great honor that, of all of Wagner's successors, he has been the only one to do so successfully. The story of "Konigskinder," though it belongs to the class of fairy tales of which "Hansel und Gretel" is so striking and beautiful an example, is not to be found as the author presents it in the literature of German Marchen. Mme. Bernstein has drawn its elements from many sources and blended them with the utmost freedom. To avoid a misunderstanding Germans will insist that the title be used without the article, for "Die Konigskinder" or "Zwei Konigskinder" both suggest the simple German form of the old tale of Hero and Leander, with which story, of course, it has nothing whatever to do. But if literary criticism forbids association between Humperdinck's two operas, musical criticism compels it. Many of the characters in the operas are close relations, dramatically as well as musically--the royal children themselves, the witches, of course, and the broom-makers. The rest of the characters have been taken from Wagner's "Meistersinger" picture book; the citizens of Hellabrunn are Nuremberg's burghers, the city's' councillors, the old master singers. The musical idiom is Humperdinck's, though its method of employment is Wagner's. But here lies its charm: Though the composer hews to a theoretical line, he does it freely, naturally, easily, and always with the principle of musical beauty as well as that of dramatic truthfulness and propriety in view. His people's voices float on a symphonic stream, but the voices of the instruments, while they sing on in endless melody, use the idiom which nature gave them. There is admirable characterization in the orchestral music, but it is music for all that; it never descends to mere noise, designed to keep up an irritation of the nerves. CHAPTER XV "BORIS GODOUNOFF" From whatever point of view it may be considered Mossourgsky's opera "Boris Godounoff" is an extraordinary work. It was brought to the notice of the people of the United States by a first performance at the Metropolitan Opera House, in New York, on March 19, 1913, but intelligence concerning its character had come to observers of musical doings abroad by reports touching performances in Paris and London. It is possible, even likely, that at all the performances of the work outside of Russia those who listened to it with the least amount of intellectual sophistication derived the greatest pleasure from it, though to them its artistic deficiencies must also have been most obvious. Against these deficiencies, however, it presented itself, first of all, as a historical play shot through and through with a large theme, which, since it belongs to tragedy, is universal and unhampered by time or place or people. To them it had something of the sweep, dignity, and solemnity and also something of the dramatic incongruity and lack of cohesion of a Shakespearian drama as contradistinguished from the coherence of purpose and manner of a modern drama. To them also it had much strangeness of style, a style which was not easily reconciled to anything with which the modern stage had made them familiar. They saw and heard the chorus enter into the action, not for the purpose of spectacular pageantry, nor as hymners of the achievements of the principal actors in the story, but as participants. They heard unwonted accents from these actors and saw them behave in conduct which from moment to moment appeared strangely contradictory. There were mutterings of popular discontent, which, under threats, gave way to jubilant acclamation in the first great scenes in the beginning of the opera. There were alternate mockeries and adulations in the next scene in which the people figured; and running through other scenes from invisible singers came ecclesiastical chants, against which were projected, not operatic song in the old conception, but long passages of heightened speech, half declamatory, half musical. A multitude cringed before upraised knouts and fell on its knees before the approach of a man whose agents swung the knotted cords; anon they acclaimed the man who sought to usurp a throne and overwhelmed with ridicule a village imbecile, who was yet supposed because of his mental weakness to be possessed of miraculous prescience, and therefore to have a prevision of what was to follow the usurpation. They saw the incidents of the drama moving past their eyes within a framework of barbaric splendor typical of a wonderful political past, an amazing political present, and possibly prophetic of a still more amazing political future. These happily ingenuous spectators saw an historical personage racked by conscience, nerve-torn by spectres, obsessed by superstitions, strong in position achieved, yet pathetically sweet and moving in his exhibition of paternal love, and going to destruction through remorse for crime committed. They were troubled by no curious questionings as to the accuracy of the historical representation. The Boris Godounoff before them was a remorse-stricken regicide, whose good works, if he did any, had to be summed up for their imagination in the fact that he loved his son. In all this, and also in some of its music, the new opera was of the opera operatic. But to the unhappily disingenuous (or perhaps it would be better to say, to the instructed) there was much more in the new opera; and it was this more which so often gave judgment pause, even while it stimulated interest and irritated curiosity. It was a pity that a recent extraordinary outburst of enthusiasm about a composer and an opera should have had the effect of distorting their vision and disturbing their judgment. There was a reason to be suspicious touching this enthusiasm, because of its origin. It came from France and not from the home land of the author of the play or the composer of the music. Moreover, it was largely based upon an element which has as little genuineness in France as a basis of judgment (and which must therefore be set down largely as an affectation) as in America. Loud hallelujahs have been raised in praise of Moussorgsky because, discarding conventional law, he vitalized the music of the lyric poem and also the dramatic line, by making it the emotional flowering of the spoken word. When it became necessary for the precious inner brotherhood of Frenchmen who hold burning incense sticks under each others' noses to acclaim "Pelleas et Melisande" as a new and beautiful thing in dramatic music, it was announced that Moussorgsky was like Debussy in that he had demonstrated in his songs and his operas that vocal melody should and could be written in accordance with the rhythm and accents of the words. We had supposed that we had learned that lesson not only from Gluck and Wagner, but from every true musical dramatist that ever lived! And when the Frenchmen (and their feeble echoers in England and America) began to cry out that the world make obeisance to Moussorgsky on that score, there was no wonder that those whose eagerness to enjoy led them to absorb too much information should ask how this marvellous psychical assonance between word and tone was to be conveyed to their unfortunate sense and feeling after the original Russian word had been transmogrified into French or English. In New York the opera, which we know to be saturated in some respects with Muscovitism, or Slavicism, and which we have every reason to believe is also so saturated in its musico-verbal essence, was sung in Italian. With the change some of the character that ought to make it dear to the Russian heart must have evaporated. It is even likely that vigorous English would have been a better vehicle than the "soft, bastard Latin" for the forceful utterances of the operatic people. It is a pity that a suspicion of disingenuousness and affectation should force itself upon one's thoughts in connection with the French enthusiasm over Moussorgsky; but it cannot be avoided. So far as Moussorgsky reflects anything in his art, it is realism or naturalism, and the latter element is not dominant in French music now, and is not likely to be so long as the present tendency toward sublimated subjectivism prevails. Debussy acclaimed Moussorgsky enthusiastically a dozen years ago, but for all that Moussorgsky and Debussy are antipodes in art--they represent extremes. It is much more likely that outside of its purely literary aspect (a large aspect in every respect in. France) the Moussorgsky cult of the last few years was a mere outgrowth of the political affiliation between France and Russia; as such it may be looked upon in the same light as the sudden appreciation of Berlioz which was a product of the Chauvinism which followed the Franco-Prussian War. It is easy even for young people of the day in which I write to remember when a Wagner opera at the Academie Nationale raised a riot, and when the dances at the Moulin Rouge and such places could not begin until the band had played the Russian national hymn. Were it not for considerations of this sort it would be surprising to contemplate the fact that Moussorgsky has been more written and talked about in France than he was in his native Russia, and that even his friend Rimsky-Korsakoff, to whose revision of the score "Boris Godounoff" owes its continued existence, has been subjected to much rude criticism because of his work, though we can only think of it as taken up in a spirit of affection and admiration. He and the Russians, with scarcely an exception, say that his labors were in the line of purification and rectification; but the modern extremists will have it that by remedying its crudities of harmonization and instrumentation he weakened it--that what he thought its artistic blemishes were its virtues. Of that we are in no position to speak, nor ought any one be rash enough to make the proclamation until the original score is published, and then only a Russian or a musician familiar with the Russian tongue and its genius. The production of the opera outside of Russia and in a foreign language ought to furnish an occasion to demand a stay of the artistic cant which is all too common just now in every country. We are told that "Boris Godounoff" is the first real Russian opera that America has ever heard. In a sense that may be true. The present generation has heard little operatic music by Russian composers. Rubinstein's "Nero" was not Russian music in any respect. "Pique Dame," by Tschaikowsky, also performed at the Metropolitan Opera House, had little in it that could be recognized as characteristically Russian. "Eugene Onegin" we know only from concert performances, and its Muscovitism was a negligible quantity. The excerpts from other Russian operas have been few and they demonstrated nothing, though in an intermezzo from Tschaikowsky's "Mazeppa," descriptive of the battle of Poltava, which has been heard here, we met with the strong choral tune which gives great animation to the most stirring scene in "Boris"--the acclamation of the Czar by the populace in the first act. Of this something more presently. There were American representations, however, of a Russian opera which in its day was more popular than "Boris" has ever been; but that was so long ago that all memories of it have died, and even the records are difficult to reach. Some fifty years ago a Russian company came to these shores and performed Verstoffsky's "Askold's Tomb," an opera which was republished as late as 1897 and which within the first twenty-five years of its existence had 400 performances in Moscow and 200 in St. Petersburg. Some venturesome critics have hailed Verstoffsky as even more distinctively a predecessor of Moussorgsky than Glinka; but the clamor of those who are preaching loudly that art must not exist for art's sake, and that the ugly is justified by the beauty of ugliness, has silenced the voices of these critical historians. This may thus far have seemed a long and discursive disquisition on the significance of the new opera; but the questions to which the production of "Boris Godounoff" give rise are many and grave, especially in the present state of our operatic activities. They have a strong bearing on the problem of nationalism in opera, of which those in charge of our operatic affairs appear to take a careless view. Aside from all aesthetic questions, "Boris Godounoff" bears heavily on that problem. It is a work crude and fragmentary in structure, but it is tremendously puissant in its preachment of nationalism; and it is strong there not so much because of its story and the splendid barbarism of its external integument as because of its nationalism, which is proclaimed in the use of Russian folk-song. All previous experiments in this line become insignificant in comparison with it, and it is questionable if any other body of folk-song offers such an opportunity to the operatic composer as does the Russian. The hero of the opera is in dramatic stature (or at least in emotional content) a Macbeth or a Richard III; his utterances are frequently poignant and heart searching in the extreme; his dramatic portrayal by M. Chaliapine in Europe and Mr. Didur in America is so gripping as to call up memories of some of the great English tragedians of the past. But we cannot speak of the psychology of the musical setting of his words because we have been warned that it roots deeply in the accents and inflections of a language with which we are unfamiliar and which was not used in the performance. But the music of the choral masses, the songs sung in the intimacy of the Czar Boris's household, the chants of the monks, needed not to be strange to any student of folk-song, nor could their puissance be lost upon the musically unlettered. In the old Kolyada Song "Slava" [Footnote: Lovers of chamber music know this melody from its use in the allegretto in Beethoven's E minor Quartet dedicated to Count Rasoumowski, where it appears thus:--] with which Boris is greeted by the populace, as well as in the wild shoutings of the Polish vagrom men and women in the scene before the last, it is impossible not to hear an out-pouring of that spirit of which Tolstoi wrote: "In it is yearning without end, without hope; also power invincible, the fateful stamp of destiny, iron preordination, one of the fundamental principles of our nationality with which it is possible to explain much that in Russian life seems incomprehensible." No other people have such a treasure of folk-song to draw on as that thus characterized, and it is not likely that any other people will develop a national school of opera on the lines which lie open to the Russian composer, and which the Russian composer has been encouraged to exploit by his government for the last twenty years or more. It is possible that some critics, actuated by political rather than artistic considerations, will find reasons [figure: a musical score excerpt] for the present condition of Moussorgsky's score in the attitude of the Russian government. It is said that court intrigues had much to do with the many changes which the score had to undergo before it became entirely acceptable to the powers that be in the Czar's empire. Possibly. But every change which has come under the notice of this reviewer has been to its betterment and made for its practical presentation. It is said that the popular scenes were curtailed because they represented the voice of the democracy. But there is still so much choral work in the opera that the judgment of the operatic audiences of to-day is likely to pronounce against it measurably on that account. For, splendid as the choral element in the work is, a chorus is not looked upon with admiration as a dramatic element by the ordinary opera lover. There was a lack of the feminine element in the opera, and to remedy this Moussorgsky had to introduce the Polish bride of the False Dmitri and give the pair a love scene, and incidentally a polonaise; but the love scene is uninteresting until its concluding measures, and these are too Meyerbeerian to call for comment beyond the fact that Meyerbeer, the much contemned, would have done better. As for the polonaise, Tschaikowsky has written a more brilliant one for his "Eugene Onegin." The various scores of the opera which have been printed show that Moussorgsky, with all his genius, was at sea even when it came to applying the principles of the Young Russian School, of which he is set down as a strong prop, to dramatic composition. With all his additions, emendations, and rearrangements, his opera still falls much short of being a dramatic unit. It is a more loosely connected series of scenes, from the drama of Boris Godounoff and the false Dmitri, than Boito's "Mefistofele" is of Goethe's "Faust." Had he had his own way the opera would have ended with the scene in which Dmitri proceeds to Moscow amid the huzzas of a horde of Polish vagabonds, and we should have had neither a Boris nor a Dmitri opera, despite the splendid opportunities offered by both characters. It was made a Boris opera by bringing it to an end with the death of Boris and leaving everything except the scenes in which the Czar declines the imperial crown, then accepts it, and finally dies of a tortured conscience, to serve simply as intermezzi, in which for the moment the tide of tragedy is turned aside. This and the glimpse into the paternal heart of the Czar is the only and beautiful purpose of the domestic scene, in which the lighter and more cheerful element of Russian folk-song is introduced. At the first American performance of "Boris Godounoff" the cast was as follows:-- Boris.....................................Adamo Didur Theodore....................................Anna Case Xenia..................................Lenora Sparkes The Nurse...............................Maria Duchene Marina...................................Louise Homer Schouisky.................................Angelo Bada Tchelkaloff......................Vincenzo Reschiglian Pimenn...................................Leon Rothier Dmitri......................Paul Althouse (his debut) Varlaam....................... ....Andrea de Segurola Missail............................... Pietro Audisio The Innkeeper........................ Jeanne Maubourg The Simpleton............................Albert Reiss A Police Officer.........................Giulio Rossi A Court Officer..................... Leopoldo Mariani Lovitzky......).Two Jesuits..........( V. Reschiglian Tcerniakowsky,) ( Louis Kreidler Conductor: Arturo Toscanini CHAPTER XVI "MADAME SANS-GENE" AND OTHER OPERAS BY GIORDANO The opera-goers of New York enjoyed a novel experience when Giordano's "Madame Sans-Gene" had its first performance on any stage in their presence at the Metropolitan Opera House on January 25, 1915. It was the first time that a royal and imperial personage who may be said to live freshly and vividly in the minds of the people of this generation as well as in their imaginations appeared before them to sing his thoughts and feelings in operatic fashion. At first blush it seemed as if a singing Bonaparte was better calculated to stir their risibilities than their interest or sympathies; and this may, indeed, have been the case; but at any rate they had an opportunity to make the acquaintance of Napoleon before he rose to imperial estate. But, in all seriousness, it is easier to imagine the figure which William II of Germany would cut on the operatic stage than the "grand, gloomy, and peculiar" Corsican. The royal people with whom the operatic public is familiar as a rule are sufficiently surrounded by the mists of antiquity and obscurity that the contemplation of them arouse little thought of the incongruity which their appearance as operatic heroes ought to create. Henry the Fowler in "Lohengrin," Mark in "Tristan und Isolde," the unnumbered Pharaoh in "Aida," Herod in "Salome" and "Herodiade," and the few other kings, if there are any more with whom the present generation of opera-goers have a personal acquaintance, so to speak, are more or less merely poetical creations whom we seldom if ever think of in connection with veritable history. Even Boris Godounoff is to us more a picture out of a book, like the Macbeth whom he so strongly resembles from a theatrical point of view, than the monarch who had a large part in the making of the Russian people. The Roman censorship prevented us long ago from making the acquaintance of the Gustavus of Sweden whom Ankerstrom stabbed to death at a masked ball, by transmogrifying him into the absurdly impossible figure of a Governor of Boston; and the Claudius of Ambroise Thomas's opera is as much a ghost as Hamlet's father, while Debussy's blind King is as much an abstraction as is Melisande herself. Operatic dukes we know in plenty, though most of them have come out of the pages of romance and are more or less acceptable according to the vocal ability of their representatives. When Caruso sings "La donna e mobile" we care little for the profligacy of Verdi's Duke of Mantua and do not inquire whether or not such an individual ever lived. Moussorgsky's Czar Boris ought to interest us more, however. The great bell-tower in the Kremlin which he built, and the great bell--a shattered monument of one of his futile ambitions--have been seen by thousands of travellers who never took the trouble to learn that the tyrant who had the bell cast laid a serfdom upon the Russian people which endured down to our day. Boris, by the way, picturesque and dramatic figure that he is as presented to us in history, never got upon the operatic stage until Moussorgsky took him in hand. Two hundred years ago a great German musician, Mattheson, as much scholar as composer if not more, set him to music, but the opera was never performed. Peter the Great, who came a century after Boris, lived a life more calculated to invite the attention of opera writers, but even he escaped the clutches of dramatic composers except Lortzing, who took advantage of the romantic episode of Peter's service as ship carpenter in Holland to make him the hero of one of the most sparkling of German comic operas. Lortzing had a successor in the Irishman T. S. Cooke, but his opera found its way into the limbo of forgotten things more than a generation ago, while Lortzing's still lives on the stage of Germany. Peter deserved to be celebrated in music, for it was in his reign that polyphonic music, albeit of the Italian order, was introduced into the Russian church and modern instrumental music effected an entrance into his empire. But I doubt if Peter was sincerely musical; in his youth he heard only music of the rudest kind. He was partial to the bagpipes and, like Nero, played upon that instrument. To come back to Bonaparte and music. "Madame Sans-Gene" is an operatic version of the drama which Sardou developed out of a little one-act play dealing with a partly fictitious, partly historical story in which Napoleon, his marshal Lefebvre, and a laundress were the principal figures. Whether or not the great Corsican could be justified as a character in a lyric drama was a mooted question when Giordano conceived the idea of making an opera out of the play. It is said that Verdi remarked something to the effect that the question depended upon what he would be called upon to sing, and how he would be expected to sing it. The problem was really not a very large or difficult one, for all great people are turned into marionettes when transformed into operatic heroes. In the palmy days of bel canto no one would have raised the question at all, for then the greatest characters in history moved about the stage in stately robes and sang conventional arias in the conventional manner. The change from old-fashioned opera to regenerated lyric drama might have simplified the problem for Giordano, even if his librettist had not already done so by reducing Napoleon to his lowest terms from a dramatic as well as historical point of view. The heroes of eighteenth-century opera were generally feeble-minded lovers and nothing more; Giordano's Napoleon is only a jealous husband who helps out in the denouement of a play which is concerned chiefly with other people. In turning Sardou's dramatic personages into operatic puppets a great deal of bloodletting was necessary and a great deal of the characteristic charm of the comedy was lost, especially in the cases of Madame Sans-Gene herself and Napoleon's sister; but enough was left to make a practicable opera. There were the pictures of all the plebeians who became great folk later concerned in the historical incidents which lifted them up. There were also the contrasted pictures which resulted from the great transformation, and it was also the ingratiating incident of the devotion of Lefebvre to the stout-hearted, honest little woman of the people who had to try to be a duchess. All this was fair operatic material, though music has a strange capacity for refining stage characters as well as for making them colorless. Giordano could not do himself justice as a composer without refining the expression of Caterina Huebscher, and so his Duchess of Dantzic talks a musical language at least which Sardou's washerwoman could not talk and remain within the dramatic verities. Therefore we have "Madame Sans-Gene" with a difference, but not one that gave any more offence than operatic treatment of other fine plays have accustomed us to. To dispose of the artistic merits of the opera as briefly as possible, it may be said that in more ways than one Giordano has in this work harked back to "Andrea Chenier," the first of his operas which had a hearing in America. The parallel extends to some of the political elements of the book as well as its musical investiture with its echoes of the popular airs of the period of the French Revolution. The style of writing is also there, though applied, possibly, with more mature and refined skill. I cannot say with as much ingenuousness and freshness of invention, however. Its spirit in the first act, and largely in the second, is that of the opera bouffe, but there are many pages of "Madame Sans-Gene" which I would gladly exchange for any one of the melodies of Lecocq, let us say in "La Fille de Mme. Angot." Like all good French music which uses and imitates them, it is full of crisp rhythms largely developed from the old dances which, originally innocent, were degraded to base uses by the sans-culottes; and so there is an abundance of life and energy in the score though little of the distinction, elegance, and grace that have always been characteristic of French music, whether high-born or low. The best melody in the modern Italian vein flows in the second act when the genuine affection and fidelity of Caterina find expression and where a light touch is combined with considerable warmth of feeling and a delightful daintiness of orchestral color. Much of this is out of harmony with the fundamental character of Sardou's woman, but music cannot deny its nature. Only a Moussorgsky could make a drunken monk talk truthfully in music. If Giordano's opera failed to make a profound impression on the New York public, it was not because that public had not had opportunity to learn the quality of his music. His "Andrea Chenier" had been produced at the Academy of Music as long before as November 13, 1896. With it the redoubtable Colonel Mapleson went down to his destruction in America. It was one of the many strange incidents in the career of Mr. Oscar Hammerstein as I have related them in my book entitled "Chapters of Opera" [Footnote: New York, Henry Holt & Co.] that it should have been brought back by him twelve years later for a single performance at the Manhattan Opera House. In the season of 1916-1917 it was incorporated in the repertory of the Boston-National Opera Company and carried to the principal cities of the country. On December 16, 1906, Mr. Heinrich Conried thought that the peculiar charms of Madame Cavalieri, combined with the popularity of Signor Caruso, might give habitation to Giordano's setting of an opera book made out of Sardou's "Fedora"; but it endured for only four performances in the season of 1906-1907 and three in the next, in which Conried's career came to an end. In reviving "Andrea Chenier" Mr. Hammerstein may have had visions of future triumphs for its composer, for a few weeks before (on February 5, 1908) he had brought forward the same composer's "Siberia," which gave some promise of life, though it died with the season that saw its birth. The critical mind seems disposed to look with kindness upon new works in proportion as they fall back in the corridors of memory; and so I am inclined to think that of the four operas by Giordano which I have heard "Andrea Chenier" gives greatest promise of a long life. The attempt to put music to "Fedora" seemed to me utterly futile. Only those moments were musical in the accepted sense of the word when the action of the drama ceased, as in the case of the intermezzo, or when the old principles of operatic construction waked into life again as in the confession of the hero-lover. Here, moreover, there comes into the score an element of novelty, for the confession is extorted from Lorris while a virtuoso is entertaining a drawing-roomful of people with a set pianoforte solo. As for the rest of the opera, it seems sadly deficient in melody beautiful either in itself or as an expression of passion. "Andrea Chenier" has more to commend it. To start with, there is a good play back of it, though the verities of history were not permitted to hamper the imagination of Signor Illica, the author of the book. The hero of the opera is the patriotic poet who fell under the guillotine in 1794 at the age of thirty-two. The place which Saint-Beuve gave him in French letters is that of the greatest writer of classic verse after Racine and Boileau. The operatic story is all fiction, more so, indeed, than that of "Madame Sans-Gene." As a matter of fact, the veritable Chenier was thrown into prison on the accusation of having sheltered a political criminal, and was beheaded together with twenty-three others on a charge of having engaged in a conspiracy while in prison. In the opera he does not die for political reasons, though they are alleged as a pretext, but because he has crossed the love-path of a leader of the revolution. When Giordano composed "Siberia," he followed the example of Mascagni and Puccini (if he did not set the example for them) by seeking local color and melodic material in the folk-songs of the country in which his scene was laid. Puccini went to Japan for musical ideas and devices to trick out his "Madama Butterfly" as Mascagni had done in "Iris." Giordano, illustrating a story of political oppression in "Siberia," called in the aid of Russian melodies. His exiles sing the heavy-hearted measures of the bargemen of the Volga, "Ay ouchnem," the forceful charm of which few Russian composers have been able to resist. He introduced also strains of Easter music from the Greek church, the popular song known among the Germans as "Schone Minka" and the "Glory" song (Slava) which Moussorgsky had forged into a choral thunderbolt in his "Boris Godounoff." It is a stranger coincidence that the "Slava" melody should have cropped up in the operas of Giordano and Moussorgsky than that the same revolutionary airs should pepper the pages of "Madame Sans-Gene" and "Andrea Chenier." These operas are allied in subject and period and the same style of composition is followed in both. Chenier goes to his death in the opera to the tune of the "Marseillaise" and the men march past the windows of Caterina Huebscher's laundry singing the refrain of Roget de Lisle's hymn. But Giordano does not make extensive use of the tune in "Madame Sans-Gene." It appears literally at the place mentioned and surges up with fine effect in a speech in which the Duchess of Dantzic overwhelms the proud sisters of Napoleon; but that is practically all. The case is different with two other revolutionary airs. The first crash of the orchestra launches us into "La Carmagnole," whose melody provides the thematic orchestral substratum for nearly the entire first scene. It is an innocent enough tune, differing little from hundreds of French vaudeville melodies of its period, but Giordano injects vitriol into its veins by his harmonies and orchestration. With all its innocence this was the tune which came from the raucous throats of politically crazed men and women while noble heads tumbled into the bloody sawdust, while the spoils of the churches were carried into the National Convention in 1793, and to which "several members, quitting their curule chairs, took the hands of girls flaunting in priests' vestures" and danced a wild rout, as did other mad wretches when a dancer was worshipped as the Goddess of Reason in the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Caterina's account of the rude familiarity with which she is treated by the soldiery (I must assume a knowledge of Sardou's play which the opera follows) is set to a melody of a Russian folk-song cast in the treatment of which Russian influences may also be felt; but with the first shouts of the mob attacking the Tuileries in the distance the characteristic rhythmical motif of the "Ca ira" is heard muttering in the basses. Again a harmless tune which in its time was perverted to a horrible use; a lively little contradance which graced many a cotillion in its early days, but which was roared and howled by the mob as it carried the beauteous head of the Lamballe through the streets of Paris on a pike and thrust it almost into the face of Marie Antoinette. Of such material and a pretty little dance ("La Fricassee") is the music of the first act, punctuated by cannon shots, made. It is all rhythmically stirring, it flows spiritedly, energetically along with the current of the play, never retarding it for a moment, but, unhappily, never sweetening it with a grain of pretty sentiment or adorning it with a really graceful contour. There is some graciousness in the court scene, some archness and humor in the scene in which the Duchess of Dantzic submits to the adornment of her person, some dramatically strong declamation in the speeches of Napoleon, some simulation of passion in the love passages of Lefebvre and of Neipperg; but as a rule the melodic flood never reaches high tide. CHAPTER XVII TWO OPERAS BY WOLF-FERRARI When the operas of Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari came to America (his beautiful setting of the "Vita Nuova" was already quite widely known at the time), it was thought singular and somewhat significant that though the operas had all been composed to Italian texts they should have their first Italian performances in this country. This was the case with "Le Donne Curiose," heard at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, on January 3, 1912; of "Il Segreto di Susanna," which the Chicago-Philadelphia Opera Company brought to New York after giving it a hearing in its home cities, in February, 1912; of "I Giojelli della Madonna" first produced in Berlin in December, 1911, and in Chicago a few weeks later. A fourth opera, "L'Amore Medico," had its first representation at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, on March 25, 1914. The circumstance to which I have alluded as worthy of comment was due, I fancy, more to the business methods of modern publishers than to a want of appreciation of the operas in Italy, though [figure: a musical score excerpt. A page of the Score of the German "Donne Curiose"] Signor Wolf-Ferrari sought to meet the taste of his countrymen (assuming that the son of a German father and a Venetian mother is to be set down as an Italian) when he betrayed the true bent of his genius and sought to join the ranks of the Italian veritists in his "Giojelli della Madonna." However, that is not the question I am desirous to discuss just now when the first impressions of "Le Donne Curiose" come flocking back to my memory. The book is a paraphrase of Goldoni's comedy of the same name, made (and very deftly made) for the composer by Count Luigi Sugana. It turns on the curiosity of a group of women concerning the doings of their husbands and sweethearts at a club from which they are excluded. The action is merely a series of incidents in which the women (the wives by rifling the pockets of their husbands, the maidens by wheedling, cajoling, and playing upon the feelings of their sweethearts) obtain the keys of the club-room, and effect an entrance only to find that instead of gambling, harboring mistresses, seeking the philosopher's stone, or digging for treasure, as is variously suspected, the men are enjoying an innocent supper. In their eagerness to see all that is going on, the women betray their presence. Then there follow scoldings, contrition, forgiveness, a graceful minuet, and the merriment runs out in a wild furlana. Book and score of the opera hark back a century or more in their methods of expression. The incidents of the old comedy are as loosely strung together as those of "Le Nozze di Figaro," and the parallel is carried further by the similarity between the instrumental apparatus of Mozart and Wolf-Ferrari and the dependence of both on melody, rather than orchestral or harmonic device, as the life-blood of the music upon which the comedy floats. It is Mozart's orchestra that the modern composer uses ("the only proper orchestra for comedy," as Berlioz said), eschewing even those "epical instruments," the trombones. It would not do to push the parallel too far, though a keen listener might feel tempted also to see a point of semblance in the Teutonism which tinctures the Italian music of both men; a Teutonism which adds an ingredient more to the taste of other peoples than that of the people whose language is employed. But while the Italianism of Mozart was wholly the product of the art-spirit of his time, the Teutonism of Wolf-Ferrari is a heritage from his German father and its Italianism partakes somewhat of the nature of a reversion to old ideals from which even his mother's countrymen have departed. There is an almost amusing illustration of this in the paraphrase of Goldoni's comedy which the composer took as a libretto. The Leporello of Da Ponte and Mozart has his prototype in the Arlecchino of the classic Italian comedy, but he has had to submit to so great a metamorphosis as to make him scarcely recognizable. But in the modern "Donne Curiose" we have not only the old figure down to his conventional dress and antics, but also his companions Pantaloon and Columbine. All this, however, may be better enjoyed by those who observe them in the representation than those who will only read about them, no matter how deftly the analysis may be made. It is Mozart's media and Mozart's style which Wolf-Ferrari adopts, but there are traces also of the idioms of others who have been universal musicians rather than specifically Italian. Like Nicolai's "O susse Anna!" (Shakespeare's "Oh, Sweet Anne Page"), Wolf-Ferrari's Florindo breathes out his languishing "Ah, Rosaura!" And in the lively chatter of the women there is frequently more than a suggestion of the lively gossip of Verdi's merry wives in his incomparable "Falstaff." Wolf-Ferrari is neither a Mozart nor a Verdi, not even a Nicolai, as a melodist, but he is worthy of being bracketed with them, because as frankly as they he has spoken the musical language which to him seemed a proper investiture of his comedy, and like them has made that language characteristic of the comedy's personages and illustrative of its incidents. He has been brave enough not to fear being called a reactionary, knowing that there is always progress in the successful pursuit of beauty. The advocates of opera sung in the language native to the hearers may find an eloquent argument in "Le Donne Curiose," much of whose humor lies in the text and is lost to those who cannot understand it despite the obviousness of its farcical action. On the other hand, a feeling of gratitude must have been felt by many others that they were not compelled to hear the awkward commonplaces of the English translation of the libretto. The German version, in which the opera had its first hearing in Munich six years before, is in a vastly different case--neither uncouth nor halting, even though it lacks the characteristic fluency essential to Italian opera buffa; yet no more than did the speech of most of the singers at the Metropolitan performance. The ripple and rattle of the Italian parlando seem to be possible only to Italian tongues. The Mozartian type of music is illustrated not only in the character of many of its melodies, but also in the use of motivi in what may be called the dramatic portions--the fleet flood upon which the dialogue dances with a light buoyancy that is delightfully refreshing. These motivi are not used in the Wagnerian manner, but as every change of situation or emotion is characterized in Mozart's marvellous ensembles by the introduction of a new musical idea, so they are in his modern disciple's. All of them are finely characteristic, none more so than the comical cackle so often heard from the oboe in the scenes wherein the women gossip about the imaginary doings of the men--an intentional echo, it would almost seem, of the theme out of which Rameau made his dainty harpsichord piece known as "La Poule." The motto of the club, "Bandie xe le done," is frequently proclaimed with more or less pomposity; Florindo's "Ah, Rosaura," with its dramatic descent, lends sentimental feeling to the love music, and the sprightly rhythm which accompanies the pranks of Colombina keeps much of the music bubbling with merriment. In the beginning of the third act, not only the instrumental introduction, but much of the delightful music which follows, is permeated with atmosphere and local color derived from a familiar Venetian barcarolle ("La biondina in gondoleta"), but the musical loveliness reaches its climax in the sentimental scenes--a quartet, a solo by Rosaura, and a duet, in which there breathes the sympathetic spirit of Smetana as well as Mozart. [Footnote: The cast at the first performance at the Metropolitan Opera House was as follows:-- Ottavio.................................Adamo Dfdur Beatrice........................... Jeanne Maubourg Rosaura............................Geraldine Farrar Florindo......................... Hermann Jadlowker Pantalone....................... Antonio Pini-Corso Lelio............................... Antonio Scotti Leandro................................ Angelo Bada Colombina...............................Bella Alten Eleonora................................Rita Fornia Arlechino....................... Andrea de Segurola Asdrubale........................... Pietro Audisio Almoro.............................. Lambert Murphy Alviso.......................... Charles Hargreaves Lunardo....................... Vincenzo Reschiglian Momolo............................... Paolo Ananian Menego................................ Giulio Rossi Un Servitore....................... Stefen Buckreus Conductor--Arturo Toscanini.] In "Le Donne Curiose," the gondoliers sing their barcarolle and compel even the cynic of the drama to break out into an enthusiastic exclamation: "Oh, beautiful Venice!" The world has heard more of the natural beauties of Naples than of the artificial ones of Venice, but when Naples is made the scene of a drama of any kind it seems that its attractions for librettist and composer lie in the vulgarity and vice, libertinism and lust, the wickedness and wantonness, of a portion of its people rather than in the loveliness of character which such a place might or ought to inspire. Perhaps it was not altogether surprising that when Wolf-Ferrari turned from Venice and "Le Donne Curiose" to "I Giojelli della Madonna" with Naples as a theatre for his drama he should not only change the style of his music, but also revert to the kind of tale which his predecessors in the field seem to have thought appropriate to the place which we have been told all of us should see once and die out of sheer ecstasy over its beauty. But why are only the slums of Naples deemed appropriate for dramatic treatment? How many stories of Neapolitan life have been told in operas since Auber wrote his "La Muette di Portici" I do not know; doubtless many whose existence ended with the stagione for which they were composed. But it is a singular fact bearing on the present discussion that when the young "veritists" of Italy broke loose after the success of Mascagni's "Cavalleria rusticana" there came almost a universal desire to rush to the Neapolitan shambles for subjects. New York has been spared all of these operas which I have described in an earlier chapter of this book, except the delectable "A Basso Porto" which Mr. Savage's company gave to us in English sixteen years ago; but never since. Whether or not Wolf-Ferrari got the subject of "I Giojelli della Madonna" from the sources drawn on by his predecessors, I do not know. I believe that, like Leoncavallo, he has said that the story of his opera has a basis of fact. Be this as it may, it is certain that the composer called on two versifiers to help him out in making the book of the opera and that the story in its essence is not far removed from that of the French opera "Aphrodite," by Baron Erlanger. In that opera there is a rape of the adornments of a statue of Venus; in Wolf-Ferrari's work of the jewels enriching an effigy of the Virgin Mary. The story is not as filthy as the other plots rehearsed elsewhere, but in it there is the same striving after sharp ("piquant," some will say) contrasts, the blending of things sacred and profane, the mixture of ecclesiastical music and dances, and--what is most significant--the generous use of the style of melody which came in with Ponchielli and his pupils. In "I Giojelli della Madonna" a young woman discards the love of an honest-hearted man to throw herself, out of sheer wantonness, into the arms of a blackguard dandy. To win her heart through her love of personal adornment the man of faithful mind (the suggestion having come from his rival) does the desperate deed of stealing for her the jewels of the Madonna. It is to be assumed that she rewards him for the sacrilegious act, but without turning away from the blackguard, to whom she grants a stolen interview during the time when her true love is committing the crime. But even the vulgar and wicked companions of the dandy, who is a leader among the Camorristi, turn from her with horror when they discover the stolen jewels around her neck, and she gives herself to death in the sea. Then the poor lover, placing the jewels on the altar, invokes forgiveness, and, seeing it in a ray of light which illumines them, thrusts a dagger into his heart and dies at the feet of the effigy of the goddess whom he had profaned. The story would not take long in the telling were it not tricked out with a multitude of incidents designed to illustrate the popular life of Naples during a festival. Such things are old, familiar, and unnecessary elements, in many cases not even understood by the audience. But with them Signor Wolf-Ferrari manages to introduce most successfully the atmosphere which he preserves even throughout his tragical moments--the atmosphere of Neapolitan life and feeling. The score is saturated with Neapolitan folk-song. I say Neapolitan rather than Italian, because the mixed population of Naples has introduced the elements which it would be rash to define as always Italian, or even Latin. While doing this the composer surrendered himself unreservedly and frankly to other influences. That is one of the things which make him admirable in the estimation of latter-day critics. In "Le Donne Curiose" he is most lovingly frank in his companionship with Mozart. In "II Segreto" there is a combination of all the styles that prevailed from Mozart to Donizetti. In "I Giojelli" no attempt seems to have been made by him to avoid comparison with the composer who has made the most successful attempt at giving musical expression to a drama which fifty years ago the most farsighted of critics would have set down as too rapid of movement to admit of adequate musical expression? Mascagni and his "Cavalleria rusticana," of course. But I am tempted to say that the most marvellous faculty of Wolf-Ferrari is to do all these things without sacrifice of his individuality. He has gone further. In "La Vita Nuova" there is again an entirely different man. Nothing in his operas seems half so daring as everything in this cantata. How he could produce a feeling of mediaevalism in the setting of Dante's sonnets and yet make use of the most modern means of harmonization and orchestration is still a mystery to this reviewer. Yet, having done it long ago, he takes up the modern style of Italian melody and blends it with the old church song, so that while you are made to think one moment of Mascagni, you are set back a couple of centuries by the cadences and harmonies of the hymns which find their way into the merrymakings of the festa. But everything appeals to the ear? nothing offends it, and for that, whatever our philosophical notions, we ought to be grateful to the melodiousness, the euphony, and the rich orchestration of the new opera. [The performances of "I Giojelli della Madonna" by the Chicago-Philadelphia Opera Company, as it was called in Chicago, the Philadelphia-Chicago Opera Company, as it was called in Philadelphia, were conducted by Cleofonte Campanini and the principal parts were in the hands of Carolina White, Louisa Barat, Amadeo Bassi, and Mario Sammarco.] 
40849	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) BEETHOVEN'S SYMPHONIES CRITICALLY DISCUSSED BY ALEXANDER TEETGEN With Preface by John Broadhouse LONDON: W. REEVES, 83 CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C. Dedication. TO J. O'MABONY, ESQ. Who taught me, when a happy schoolboy--in the house of my beloved and venerated master, the Rev. Alfred Whitehead, M.A., and his dear wife--to sing at sight, who first fostered my passion for music; to that genial and highly accomplished man, who has vanished from my view for years, but not from my memory, where he resides ever, as a kind of Apollo Belvedere of those far-off days--that New World to which the Columbus Man, may never return. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE v BEETHOVEN'S HARBINGERS 1 SYMPHONY, No. 1, Op. 21 16 SYMPHONY, No. 2, Op. 36--The Adagio 23 " " " The Allegro 27 " " " The Larghetto 33 SYMPHONY, No. 3, Op. 55 37 " " " Funeral March 46 " " " The Scherzo 49 SYMPHONY, No. 4, Op. 60 51 " " " The Adagio 56 SYMPHONY, No. 5, Op. 67 59 " " " The Andante 66 " " " The Allegro 69 " " " The Finale 72 THE PASTORAL SYMPHONY, No. 6, Op. 68 76 SYMPHONY, No. 7, Op. 92 86 " " " The Vivace 88 " " " The Allegretto 94 SYMPHONY, No. 8, Op. 93 96 THE CHORAL SYMPHONY, Op. 125 98 SUMMING UP 108 INDEX 119 PREFACE. These essays originally appeared in _The Musical Standard_, for which paper they were written. While admitting that the author has at times been carried away by his exuberant fancy, it is impossible to deny that he possesses in a very high degree those powers of analysis without which it is impossible to do justice to, or even approximately to understand, Beethoven. Music is verily the language of the soul--higher, finer, more delicate in its methods, and more ethereal in its results, than anything to which the tongue can give utterance; expressing what speech cannot speak, and affecting, as no mere talking can, the invisible player who manipulates the keyboard of the human intellect, and whom we call _The Soul_. Music is truly of such a nature, and appeals so powerfully and mysteriously to that soul, that the words of Jean Paul seem quite justified,-- _Ich glaube, nur Gott versteht unser Musik._ Beethoven wrote such music as few even among those calling themselves musicians can understand, as the word is generally used; and which, in Jean Paul's sense of the word, is understood not at all. Like the ocean, or Mont Blanc, we can feel its power, while at the same time we are conscious that explanation would be almost desecration. We do not want Beethoven's music explained, but would rather be left alone with that which we can only feel, but cannot understand while hampered with "this mortal coil." Under the spell of such music, we can only explain the emotions it produces in us, and we can only do this in a fashion far from complete. Mr. Teetgen has only attempted an explanation of Beethoven's symphonies in this latter sense; and so far from feeling his little book as an impertinence--which any attempt to explain Beethoven's music (his soul, _id est_) would be--we feel helped in our endeavours to understand something of the means by which the greatest tone-poet worked his incantations and wove his spells. We cannot always agree with Mr. Teetgen in his estimate of other composers--notably, Mendelssohn, whom he holds in much lighter esteem than we do, and we could not endorse all he says of Mozart, either; he does not worship his great hero too much, but the others too little. Of his most intense admiration for Beethoven, however, none can doubt; and those who read this little work will, we think, agree with us in saying that Mr. Teetgen's analytical and descriptive powers, in dealing with the symphonies, are on a par with his veneration for the great master whom we all delight to honour, and who realised his own ideal--some of us, at least, think so--"There is nothing higher than this--to get nearer the Godhead than other men, and thence diffuse its beams over mankind." Fashions change in music as in other things; but Beethoven's music has in it that truth which, being eternal, cannot change; and we cannot conceive a state of culture so advanced that these Symphonies shall be deemed old-fashioned. If ever that condition is reached, it will be reached not by progression, but retrogression. J. B. BEETHOVEN'S SYMPHONIES CRITICALLY AND SYMPATHETICALLY DISCUSSED BEETHOVEN'S HARBINGERS. There are some words of such indefinite pregnancy that they expand the soul when we pronounce them. The highest of these I do not name; but "love" is one, "spirit" another, "immortality" another, and "symphony" another. We suppose, the first symphony was when "the morning stars shouted together for joy;" and the mystic world-tree, Igdrasil, with its "leaves of human existence," and myriad manifestations, maketh a symphony for ever in the ear of the Eternal. As music is sound, so perhaps all sound is music, to a higher being--even the discord of pain, and the half cadence of sorrow being justified by a soul of meaning; just as music proper, itself would not be half so sweet or complete without its profound minors and expressive dissonances. The world is full of music--from the "tiny-trumpeting gnat" and the forest-buzz of summer, the happy murmur of the sea on its mother's breast, and the equally happy hum of the bee in the waxen cup, to the scream of the eagle and the roar of the lion, the thunder of the breakers and of heaven's artillery. Every one has observed how the very creak of a door may sometimes rise into music. And the whole world goeth up in music, swelling the symphony of the spheres. But, from these ground tones--these universal hints to their human expression and counterpart in the "father of all such as handle the harp and organ," was a long, long way. Nature waited to produce her mouthpiece, Man, to manifest herself forth in that prolongation of herself which we call _human_ nature. Then the vague sublimity of unfettered sound became incorporated in tone--became conscious--and spoke more humanly to the soul of man. At length, after a whole history of evolution, the pride of modern times--modern music--appeared; and in due course, after a tottering infancy and empiric youth, the modern symphony. As in every case, the outcome is the result of an endless series of gradations; for, if nature abhors a vacuum, she at least equally abhors drawing a line, and taking a jump. Therefore, if we denominate brave old Haydn as the father or founder of the modern symphony, it is for happy convenience sake, and not because strictly accurate. Always there were Agamemnons before Agamemnon; and Haydn borrowed and imitated like everybody who is first student and then master (in his old age, _sogar_, he learnt of and benefitted by Mozart). Cursorily we may mention as kinds of forerunners Bach's "Suites," such a piece as Purcell's prelude to "King Arthur" (what a prelude would such a subject demand now! Milton, too, thought of poemizing King Arthur); and Handel's "Pastoral Symphony," which so beautifully and for ever corroborates old King George's remark (which we suspect he stole). The value of no word is known till the greatest master of it has arrived. This is strikingly illustrated by a Handel symphony, and a Beethoven. It is the latter which expands the better part of us in the way spoken of at the outset. The unconscious men of Handel's time used it in little more than the sense of a strain; and here it may be remarked that progress is impossible without consciousness, but that--wheel within wheel--the higher consciousness will always have a soul of unconsciousness. The two are _sine quâ non_. Conservatism and convention are the eternal necessary protests and counterpoises to chaos; and _every_ man has his _roots_ in his time (and in the past); therefore we are not surprised that Haydn constructed his symphonies in the mode and spirit of that day--especially retaining the minuet--which Beethoven himself only later discarded for the scherzo. Moreover, a moment's reflection will show us that the form of a symphony, as of a sonata, is naturally dictated, of inner necessity, by the simple need of natural contrast. An adagio may well open the piece--so may an allegro; but then we certainly want an andante, or largo; scherzo, or minuet, are next expected; and a presto to wind up--for art also is dependent on flesh and blood; and the human body, as well as mind, dictates many of art's proceedings. The form, then, of the symphony was, we may say, on the whole, dictated, from the beginning of things. Nobody can particularly claim to be its inventor; "nature, even in art, has ever the greatest share." If Haydn could really claim to be the inventor of the symphony, he would be a far more original genius than he is ever believed to be--though probably we do really underrate his originality, a fate which inevitably overtakes all such men. If we leave the form, then, and consider the spirit of Haydn's symphonies, it is, shortly, the spirit of eternal youth; just as one could apply to Mozart Gilfillan's appellation of Shelley, "the eternal child." We get a negative idea of Haydn if we reflect how infinitely removed from Hamlet! (Beethoven, on the contrary, how allied!--a German Hamlet). I do not believe that Haydn, any more than the other two of that glorious Orion's belt, was a "good Catholic." I imagine, all three had a proclivity rather to natural than revealed religion; and I believe that we may compass and understand, in a manner, that marvellous outburst of South German music, with all its freedom and glow, by considering it as Roman Catholic without Roman Catholicism; one feels and sees rather the eternal truth and poetry of nature than the warped narrow spirit and practice, and garish glare, of papal dogma, priest-presided slavery, and superstition. But, to quit these impossible difficulties, the music of all three is stamped by one grand common characteristic--it is German. When to nationality we add individuality, we are more or less near to a tolerable understanding of it. Race is mixed in every man--who can resolve it? The influence of religion--especially so-called religion--is nearly as obscure; but nationality and individuality we can to some extent comprehend. No better epithets are to be found for Haydn than the time-honoured ones of "genial," "cheerful." We like to think of him under his poor old gable-roof, that let in the rain--happy at his poor old spinnet. Touching picture! the irrepressible spirit of the obscure composer, miserably poor, and neglected, for the first fifty or sixty years of his life! But the stars, we know, shone in on him through that dim old gable; and the grass outside was not fresher in spring than the spirit of Joseph Haydn. If reading, alone, maketh a "full man," as Bacon says, then Joseph Haydn was, I imagine, a very empty one. He knew nothing of books, or society, and little of men; _direct_ out of the fulness of his melodious heart he uttered himself forth in poetic music essentially genial and vigorous, "spraying over," as our German cousins say, with kindly humour. A "man child" he was, who will ever be historically--if not contemporaneously--immortal. The great forerunners! we owe them a debt which we must at last lose out of sight; but verily they _have_ their reward! Haydn's fundamental simplicity and child-like objectiveness, utterly prevented him from giving us Beethovenian music. He neither read, nor thought--nor did he feel very deeply. The doubts and difficulties which Brendel finely (though mistakenly, perhaps) speaks of Mozart's having fought out beforehand unconsciously, Haydn neither consciously nor unconsciously experienced. He was simply and purely a German musical genius of his time, blessed with one of the happiest constitutions ever given to mortal--_mens sana in corpore sano_. The unfathomable and infinitely involved beauty of Beethoven's symphonies is not to be dreamt of in Haydn. Those of the latter, indeed, may smell at times rather of the peruke than of the lion's mane (whence what "dew-drops"!) But such melodious eloquence as Haydn's "Hymn to the Emperor," one cannot imagine perishing--it is like a rainbow out of the Eden-time, hung for ever in heaven. The "Creation," too, is so inexpressibly fresh, naïve, vigorous, and beautiful, that it has given to some more _pleasure_ than the very "Messiah." "The heavens are telling," must be surely also melodious eloquence immortal, with its exquisite opening and noble culmination. The music of Haydn (Mozart too) may, perhaps, emphatically be called natural; in spite of--especially in the minuets--that _non so che_ which summons up the old-fashioned continental _noblesse_ and the frigid gardens of Versailles. If we _want_ a taste of this--or, also, after our higher flights (and none the less after our intermediate and subterranean flights in the wizard world of a Wagner), a banquet in the unlaboured loveliness of old time, we shall recur to Haydn; but if we want the higher flights, and broader flights, and deeper flights themselves, the sublime loveliness and Alpine grandeur--not Saxon Switzerland, but Tell's--we shall hasten with reverence and gladness to Beethoven, who towers above Haydn--and also above these colossal upshoots of this later "tertiary" period; for these latter men seem rather intense than universal; whereof more anon. A German word or two (they are always interesting, because earnest,) about Haydn, and we turn to Mozart. "Köstlin's remark about Haydn holds good also for his symphonies:--With Haydn began the free-style epoch, the spring and golden age of music. In him, music became conscious that she was not system and science, but free motion, and lyrical." Free motion--yes, significant words. What _e.g._, would the sea, would light be, without that? Undulatory free light! And I had as lief compare music with light as anything. As postscript here, we may recall Haydn's indignant exclamation after a Dryasdust dictum by the then pedantic oracle, Albrechtsberger, respecting, forsooth--I believe--our old acquaintances, those irrepressible "consecutive fifths":--"This will never do"! exclaimed Haydn, "art must be free." How really curious it is, your pedant never flashes _such_ a glance into things--into his own trade. But, indeed, the poor man can never have a glimmering of what one little word, yet so _multum in parvo_, like "free" means. He is full of learning, it is true, but still "in block"; and when the Apollo at his side suddenly takes wings, and flashes out of the marble, he knows not, poor man, whether he is more astounded or indignant. A clever man called Shakespeare, also, a barbarian. When will Dryasdust see that, _c[oe]teris paribus_, where innovation is the step of genius, and _not ignorance_, he, Dryasdust, had better, at least for a while, hold his tongue; see, rather, if he can't, by a dead-lift effort, raise himself up to Apollo, than try (ridiculously enough) to drag down the god flashing to the sun. I fear the difficulty is insuperable, because subjective. The misfortune is, Dryasdust never _can_ recognize genius, but wanders on with his blue "specs." to his unvisited grave. But, to recur to Elterlein, _ueber_ Haydn:--"When we look into Haydn's symphonies a little closer, with a glance at the same time at Haydn's followers, we find them stamped by greater simplicity in the expression of feeling, and by a limitation to certain well-defined spheres of mood and humour. This characteristic we may express in the definition, pure child-like ideality. Of course, we do not mean literal childhood, but rather abstract childhood in the soul and constitution, whose representation is worthy of the greatest of artists, _e.g._, of a Schumann in his charming 'Kinderscenen.' Naïve child humour plays a leading part in Haydn's symphonies; wherefore Brendel rightly names him the greatest master of sport and mood. Of inner necessity, the pangs and earnest of life, in their entirety, are excluded from these works. They do now and then appear, but only as light clouds skimming over. Haydn's restrictedness is, however, far from limiting his invention; on the contrary, we are astounded at it; he is veritably inexhaustible in his mode of expressing himself. The minuets are generally playgrounds for the most delicious sportive humour." (In Haydn himself we discover the germs of the so-called programme music:--_e.g._, symphonies entitled 'The Bear,' 'Maria Theresa,' 'The Schoolmaster'). We now turn to Mozart. Mozart was a world's-wonder in his boyhood, and neglected--especially at Vienna, and by the court--in his manhood. He has been denominated the most abstract musician that ever lived--a term which is more or less suggestive, if not precise. But, in so far as it points to his being wholly and solely a musician, it points to a defect and hindrance in him. (It has been said, however, that he had a great aptitude also for figures, and would have made no contemptible mathematician. His parents were one of the handsomest couples of their day.) Robert Schumann's wonderful music, so rich in contents (_inhaltreich_), sprang from a cultivated poet, equally practised with the heart, and soul, and brain, and hand. Wagner's marvellous art is the birth of a similar genius. In short, the age we live in has certainly this advantage: an artist now must be an educated man (in many senses). Haydn and Mozart--who never found time for study--were ill-informed, nay, ignorant men. They knew nothing of the past, little of the present, and less than nothing of the future. Beethoven, I think, certainly did know more--if only a little--and compensated for his deficiency by what alone can compensate--overpowering genius, universally colossal. I do not undertake to affirm that greater culture would have improved Haydn and Mozart, but I throw out the suggestion. Possibly, by expanding their minds, and strengthening their faculties, it might have done so. By reading (not only musical) they might have got new lights--loam and enrichment to their own fertile soil; they might have, at least, _widened_ that channel of inspiration which they were. A man's utterance, whether it be musical or other, is, at bottom, the outcome of the whole man. I know, that, in literature, such "education" as I have glanced at--a discipline and growth all ways, through _communion_ with deeper and higher spirits, and thoughts, and truths, has the effect I speak of. Natural genius is deepened, and enriched, and expanded, and sent up higher; roots and leaves, with increased fruit-capacity, grow together. It may be, therefore, that Haydn and Mozart, _minus_ a Shakespeare's genius (which seems an utter self-justified exception), owe their deficiency in music to their deficiency in culture--in a scientifically comprehensive sense. They were _too_ much musicians. It may be, that the fact of their lack was partly also due to an original inherent non-proclivity to culture. If so, here we have a deeper explanation; the bare fact is seen to be the symptom of a radical cause. But Beethoven was a born thinker: remember his flashes of remark:--"Read Shakespeare's 'Tempest.' 'So knocketh Fate at the portals.' 'I have another law for myself than Kant's "Categorical Imperative."' 'Better water from my body than from my pen.'" He was a born thinker; and in this fact we have the deeper explanation of his mighty music. Do we not see the fact stamped on his very brows! the very thrones of concentrated thought,--as the deep-set eyes full of dusky fire in the lion-like head are the homes of intense feeling, such as, possibly, no man equalled. The comparison, let alone the coupling, of Mozart with Shakespeare, I, for one, cannot for a moment away with; in fact, am inclined to cry with that author who could not tolerate a similar bracketing of Turner with Shakespeare, "Bah!" There is a power, a depth, a _seraphic_ wisdom of inspiration and universal view, an oracular utterance and constructive power _from within_ (the nearest approach to the Divine _modus operandi_ itself) in Shakespeare which Mozart can lay no proper claim to. The theory which would make his "Don Juan" characters (forsooth!) display this similar power--in the organic dramatic verisimilitude of the music--I cannot endorse. Only a very long way off is your Mozart like Shakespeare, with whom, properly, no one can measure, or be likened. He stands alone, a phenomenal unique. Such divine propriety he had! the intellect of an archangel; and a prolonged moulding-from-within power from Nature. Mozart had a lovely, sometimes heavenly, profuse--not incontinent--gift of melody, which is wont, however, to tire (unlike Beethoven's), by being too Mozartish; a marvellous genius for counterpoint; and a beautiful instinct for harmony and form. He was, _par excellence_, amiable; his music is loveable. He shines like the sun on a mild spring day. That he has serenity, as Shakespeare had, of course is patent and cardinal; but that it is Shakespeare's serenity I must beg to dispute. Shakespeare's is profound as the centre of the sun; Mozart's is rather diffusive than profound or moonlike. Shakespeare's is that of a god-like man; Mozart's that of an "eternal child." Mozart's is that of the Mediterranean; Shakespeare's of the whole ocean. And of Shakespeare--not of Mozart (according to our instinct)--may it be so eloquently asserted, "his serenity is that of one" (a _Potente_, as Dante says) "who had unconsciously fought out beforehand all the doubts and difficulties, and put them to flight." Mozart is supposed to have been "light o' love," if not fond of wine too. To be "light o' love" goes very well with the composer of "Don Juan," but I do not think anybody ever charged it on the inspirer of the passionate grandeur of the Countess Guicciardi sonata; of the heroic, C minor and other symphonies. _Had_ he been so, we should have had _such_ strains of remorse wailing up. Do we find them in Mozart? I trow not!--"Thy terrible beauty, Remorse, shining up from the depths of pain!" Mozart is cheerful, beautiful, at times vigorous; but surely somewhat light--a mountain lake with fleecy clouds, not the sea, with its sunsets and thunders. Not _his_ serenity, but Beethoven's rather, presupposes, like the sun of summer, and calm heart of nature, all the storms fought out(?) Was there, as in Beethoven, a soul of earnestness in him? Had he aim, consciously, or unconsciously? Does he speak from inspired depths, almost painful? Had he a glimmering of atheism? Did he ever clutch at the vanishing skirts of the Almighty? Could he kill himself almost, to be sure of immortality? So far from thinking he had thought and fought all these things out, consciously or unconsciously, we feel that he had no experience of them--_could_ not have--and so was for ever an incomplete man. "He knew not ye, ye mighty powers." Sunshine he can give us; yes, but sunshine _and_ thunderglooms (say, tropical)--roar of ocean, and spasm of lightning--no. His best symphonies will not strictly compare with Beethoven's best; his sonatas still less. And it is no very adventurous prediction (however horrifying to sundry), that his "Don Juan"--"the first opera in the world"(!), with its contemptible trash for libretto, and meagre musical constituents, will hide its diminished head more and more, till it disappear. Mozart, says the German essayist, means operas rather than symphonies: well, and what did he make of them? At this time of day, it is simply inconceivable how any intelligent man--let alone a tone-poet--could set trash by the hour or week together. It has become almost a trite idea now, that poetry is the soul of music: _caeteris paribus_, in proportion as the word is divine, so will the flesh be, which it takes unto itself and moulds from within, in which it eventuates. How great by comparison is Handel here! We have but to think of his words--"Hallelujah! Lord God Omnipotent! He shall reign for ever and ever, Amen!" to explain why we may search Mozart in vain for a Hallelujah Chorus, that temple of immortality! Beethoven, indefinitely higher and greater than Mozart, did have a notion of the exigency of the word--he spent hours and hours looking through some hundred libretti for an opera, and rejected them all. In setting trash, poor dear Mozart, the gifted, the easy-going nature, conscious of little but his fluent genius, and thinking of little but winning his painful bread for the day passing over, did not reflect that he was guilty of sacreligious high treason; as it were, of violation of Pallas Athene herself. "Music!" another of those _infinite_ words! When will her servants be worthy of her? When will she suffer the veil to be completely drawn away, and reveal herself in her full beauty? Not by the hands of a Mozart, with his deplorable "Don Juans" and chaotic nonsense of magic flutes. In his better sacred music he is better. But even in that I detect neither real belief--which can alone justify sacred music, and ensure its highest excellence--nor a great soul. Mozart was an inspired child; when grown up, a child-man--as Hadyn was a man-child. Nature selected him to speak out this element in her, as she selected Beethoven to speak out her passion and paradox, her divine and her terrible beauty--her world-wide grandeur--the infinitude of her universe; as she selected Schumann to speak out her romance, and twilight beauty; and Wagner her supernatural, demoniac, wizardlike. We must recollect, too, that Mozart was the child of his time. Every man is this, more or less, _plus_ his individuality. Now, in truth, Mozart seems rather "more," not "less." Beethoven approaches Shakespeare, in being for all time; but not Mozart. His individuality was not strong enough. I cannot agree with Elterlein, that Mozart represents "fair, free, humanity," if we are to give a higher, a Shakesperian meaning to these words. Shakespeare was truly representative of the Wisdom, viz., that covers the whole world, and every age; and belongs neither to the past, present, nor future, but to all time--to all three together; and so is the unique shadow afar off in the history of man, of the eternal I Am and Now. But such high language we can by no manner of means apply to Mozart, who hadn't a tithe of Shakespeare's insight and power; nor a third part of Goethe's--with whom Elterlein and others also put him. The "fair, free, humanity," which, in its unfettered action and thought towers towards the divine, which has long ago sloughed away, or stepped out of old crusts and rags of prejudice, superstition, and the things whose name is legion--but which remains equally free from shallow sin and selfish action; from the paralysis of indifferentism, and the laziness of no-thought; from mere bread-winning, and waste of genius (which waste is always rapidly hurried into oblivion)--this "fair, free, humanity," Mozart does not, can not, as it seems to us, represent. Shakespeare and Goethe truly do. And Beethoven, in his happier, victorious moods--in his darker moods he shadows forth rather man on the way to it; or, indeed, on the way from it. Elterlein couples Mozart with Raphael, as well as Goethe; that may pass; but who can imagine either of the two former being capable of a "Werther" and "Faust"? Mozart may "stand alone" for "amiability," and may truly enjoy the reputation of giving us, more or less, organic form; but he was a limited, local nature, neither based on the lowest deeps nor towering into the highest heights. He was no reformer--did not revolutionize music (his operas are but German-Italian by an Italian-German, to that extent), no one can call him colossal. He was a palm, rather than an oak. Handel, to me, is a name far grander. Like Beethoven, I would bare my head at _his_ tomb. And now let us turn to the shadowy colossus himself--towering aloft "In stifled splendour and gloom." If there are some nouns that affect us, there are some proper nouns that equally do so. One of the most potent of these is "Beethoven." At the mere mention of that name, we experience a "shock of joy" and reverence at once vaguely and vastly filling us with the sublime and beautiful--the grand and tender; in short, with all those attributes, in a degree, of Nature, for this seems to be the special and peculiar function and privilege of genius--of great human nature--to reflect and reproduce, with, as before noted, the force and charm peculiar to itself, nature, divinity. Great men are distinguished by the height to which they tower in doing this; they are but further manifestations of God--revelations of arcana. Up to our time, no man in any art has so towered aloft more than Beethoven. Armed with the most mystical of prophecies and utterance--music, he strewed abroad upon the winds and world such pregnant messages as stirred men to depths they were before unconscious of, and live and operate with the force of immortality. Let us approach these wonderful works and glance more or less into their truly divine depths. We shall not, however, by any means be indiscriminate--in the sympathy of the hero-worshipper forget the justice of the judge. We shall not forget that the best of men are but men at best; and that, for our comfort and ensample, as ever, the great Beethoven was also a child, a beginner, a student, an acolyte, as well as imperial master; and, alas! mortal man--with his sad liability to madness and decay; with his basis on the infernal, as well as heights in the divine. In the first place, what shall we say about the peculiarly original Beethoven's reflection at the outset of Hadyn and Mozart? At first sight, it rather jars. But shall we he correct if after consideration we pronounce that this is rather a merit, and to be expected, than otherwise; for it is characteristic of hero-worship, which is most passionate in genius truly original. Shakespeare, perhaps, is the great or even sole exception; but, as it is borne in on us, Shakespeare seems to be unique--a semi-god, or "seraph," rather than mere man; and I, for one, have no disinclination or repugnance to own that Beethoven, like the rest, does not equal Shakespeare. In parts he does--perhaps even gives us more terribly grand glances into depths than _Macbeth_ and _Lear_--but not as a whole. It the whole of Shakespeare that is so unique and overpowering. Beethoven often suggests rather Dante and Milton; though it is his peculiar praise, too, that he suggests all three, and yet is like none. And now to work: SYMPHONY NO. 1, OP. 21. "Opus 21."--So, when Beethoven came of age, musically speaking, he wrote his first symphony. Ah! who can realize the feelings of a Beethoven sitting down to write his first symphony; _fuller_ feelings probably were not, and could not, be in the world, among all the manifestations of human existence. What flush of hope! what throbs of pleasure! what high-beating plethora of imaginative blood! what almost painful fulness!--necessity to rush forth in poetic utterance, and fling all together what of latent as well as patent was within him! what struggling consciousness--what waking sense of giant powers--what secret assurance in the end of immortal victory, nay, perhaps, of an empire in music towering aloft above that of Hadyn and Mozart and predecessors and successors of all nations and individualities. I envy neither the powers nor immortality of that contemporary, Napoleon, compared with those of Beethoven:--Meteoric Corsican adventurer--eternal eldest son of genius! Dazzling egotist and semi-quack--concentrated sun of nature and the imperishable heavens!--I wonder what Beethoven had been reading previous to undertaking his first symphony--what he had been doing, talking, thinking! I like to picture imaginary scenes where he sat down to the intoxicating enterprise. Was it in the country, of an early morning, all dripping in the sunshine like the orange-bowers here, with the sun welcoming with his sweetest smile the fleecy clouds wandering up the heaven? Or was it (probably it was, for reality is painfully prosaic,) in some back attic--such as where Shakespeare perhaps wrote _his_ symphonies? The sublimely interesting young Beethoven! There he sits for a moment with his two hands pressed on those concentrated brows of the lion-like head, previously to penning the first chord! There he sits--look at him well--the fullest incarnation of music, till now the greatest home, emporium, and royal residence of musical power, with all which that implies--including, lowest down, the ineffable; for, always, a man is tender in proportion as he is strong, great in proportion as he is good--Ludwig van Beethoven, in his divine genius and terrible infliction (one of the most painful ironies of human history--like a fate out of high Greek story), one of the most intensely interesting of the race of men! And now for our criticism; or, rather, for our impressions--for every one of us is dominated by unknown moods and biasses. And the wise spirit which made Goethe call his autobiography "Fact and Fancy," should rule every critic--often the victim and slave of himself, the child of circumstance and time. First, for a general remark:--I see no essential difference--query, should there be?--between a symphony, especially a Beethoven one, and a sonata. Next, as corollary, let us even say that some of his sonatas (or at least parts) surpass the symphonies. For instance, that first part of the sonata "Patetica," as it is absurdly called, always impresses me as something really almost colossal--the "grave" itself truly so, like a temple four-square, based on the foundations of the world, and high towering towards all the winds. There is no comparison between it and any of the movements of the "No. 1 Symphony," except the first; and here, too, I am inclined to give the palm to the "Patetica," which, _au reste_, curiously enough is just as incongruously weak in the remaining movements as this symphony. Both, in fact, have one element (or stamp) in common, viz., the energetic, which we may characterise as martial--heroic. Beethoven is peculiarly distinguished by this--_plus_ a tender beauty of the most profound and healthy description. It is as with the fascinating Schumann; who is equally conspicuous for the energetic and tender--more mystical than Beethoven's, if not so healthy. But, in spite of the ineffable in Beethoven, I almost think we associate power more peculiarly with him. With power Beethoven ushers in his "No. 1." Mark that sforzando, and--B flat. A similar effect occurs in the opening to "Prometheus" (which we noticed independently of Berlioz). Here Beethoven--young and consciously vigorous--took that step of genius we adverted to as opposed to the rashness of ignorance; as it were, champion king-at-arms, flinging the gage of defiance to all the Dryasdusts alive. Poor Dryasdust! who never can be manly enough or genius enough to get free. Dryasdust, it is well known, armed with his blue "specs" and properly obscured thereby, enounces, pronounces, and proclaims--"Allah Akbar! it is unlawful and forbidden to open with a discord" (just as the poor Midas declares it is unpermissible to end in any other key--what has that got to do with it?). Young Beethoven, however--thank the god of originality--has inspired instinct--says "No," and "Take that! you'll soon get used to it." We do get used to it, and then--O the copyists! That B flat is a stroke of genius. Hence we learn, from what _depths_ genius speaks--your Beethoven young and vigorous, fresh into the world, henceforth to be a lawgiver and creator of the imperishable. That "B flat" is power; in short, all that originality includes and implies. But, to pass on from this point, which--as every point--might furnish an essay. The _p_ after the _sf_ is noteworthy; so, too, the chords--powerfully beautiful, unexpected. The strain is not peculiarly Beethoven; it does give us a taste of that Ineffable in him, but is meagrely brief--in fact, fragmentary and uncharacteristic--besides, too much suggesting "Prometheus." _Re_ the latter, a word _en parenthèse_. After hearing it, Haydn met Beethoven and complimented him on it. "Yes," said the young giant, "but it does not equal the 'Creation'". "No, I don't think it quite does," was the reply from the old maestro, "who didn't seem to like the remark." Poor, dear old Haydn! the glimmering suspicion he had was true enough--that young giant would shake dew-drops from the lion's mane more precious than the grandest Louis Quatorze peruke, plus the unspeakable Louis himself--sarcasm apart, would infallibly eclipse even Haydn's "Creation," naïve and fresh as that may be. We approach the "Allegro" _con amore_. It stirs our depths; it fills us with ideas. _En passant_, it opens with the same notes of the Sonata in F, Op. 54 (I think). This is another proof that it is not quite true that even Beethoven "never repeats himself;" though it is perhaps true enough to be said--because characteristic; and when he repeats himself, he generally does so consciously--the great point (another text for essay). The _p_ on the chord C E G rather surprises us--we expect a forte(?)--but it has original beauty, and makes an harmonious breathing instead of an emphatic utterance. The following, in the bass, is equally characteristic. As it goes on, the passage is powerfully suggestive, especially at the _cresc._ in unison. The mind's-eye sees a great river rising to overflow its mountain-guarded banks; or, forsooth, a great nation, to guard them! All this is the early Beethoven almost at his best--a true foreshadower of _the_ Beethoven--as much as to say, I _am_ Beethoven, in spite of Haydn, my very good master, and Mozart. We see the giant waking. About the next _motiv_ I hardly know what to say. In one mood it strikes me, like many other things even in Beethoven, as an incongruity; I think, "Why all at once this pastoral strain in the middle of a warlike defiance!" Such unconsciousness as this is an error. A genius must be an artist as well; and a man has no right to fling the first idea that occurs to him into a piece, which is incongruous with the whole. Undoubtedly Beethoven himself sinned here, and not seldom. It is notorious that he tacked on and foisted in pieces which literally had nothing to do with the work as a whole. Lazy or even thoughtless bad taste is a high crime in art--for art truly means, tasteful industry. The sense of fitness must not be offended. Incongruity is a great fault. The men of the conscious school are right here. Consciousness truly has its duties as well as its dangerous frailty. So we argue in that mood. But yet again, so diversified is music, we feel a peculiar, almost unspeakable charm, when, sympathetic fancy coming to our assistance, we consider this abstractly beautiful strain as giving us a glance back from the press of warriors and the noise of battle, to the green fields and silver streams far off we have left; and we think of Arnold von Winkelried leaving his wife and children, as in Deschwanden's affecting picture, so familiar in Switzerland. Then, almost tears come into the eyes, and we exclaim--Oh! thou unconscious wizard, Beethoven!--making us give to thy utterances a meaning thou thyself never didst dream of. Soon again, after this wistful glance back--with none of the sin in it of Lot's wife--we have the thunder and blaze of war, with his pride, pomp, and circumstance. Nay, I will say, are we not even reminded of the world-famous Symphony, No. 8, itself? Have we not essentially the same clamour and glamour? our blood is roused, hearts beat high, and we feel we are on the road to righteous victory--"Against the tyrant fought with holy glee." The _pp_ strain ensuing does not strike as incongruous, but of peculiar feeling and beauty. How beautifully melody, harmony, and bass, are all one--work together for good, and progress to the climax. As a bit of writing, it is a model for study; a very charming instance of the success of true scholarship and feeling--scholarship based on feeling; scholarship unconscious, so that the effect is nature. The codetta carries us back again to the pastoral mood--whence we are congruously re-taken to the warlike by the pompous vague chords--long used before Stephen Heller, for instance!--at the end. Part No. 2 suggests at the outset one broad general remark, which we hasten to make. It is this. Beethoven, herein not original, but imitative, generally confines himself--in the sonatas as well--to making the second part mostly a mere elaboration of the first. Now, we beg--at all events, at this time of day--to dissent from, and traverse this. We are for making your first part long enough, and repeating it if you will; but for giving us mostly new ideas, yet in character, in the second. We are not afraid of the "as a whole" theory; _da capo_ we traverse the dogma that what you have got to do is, to give one good idea thoroughly worked out. Wagner has carried this to a wearisome excess. We want no opera or symphony constructed out of "four notes" or forty. We want not an idea, but ideas. Your vaunted elaboration does not disguise--or rather conceal--the essential sameness--which becomes tameness. And we don't want as sets-off mere "episodes." Beethoven's episodes, as here, are of course, interesting; but, because episodes (?) fragmentary, intercalated, rather than essential; postponements of the old "Hauptsache," rather than independent new ideas. Because this second part is essentially but an elaboration (often a mere repetition, in another key, of ideas already repeated--surely, for the most part, an exploded error?), we have little new to say. The harmonious progressions to the episodes will be studied and felt by every musician. The minor passage, la--do--mi--sol nat.--la, is fine, but not novel in Beethoven. The crash, _ff_, is characteristically grand; the whole elaboration full again of power--power that _is_, and prophetic power to do; power latent and patent. At the beautiful contrapuntal passage in E flat we are again reminded of the F Sonata. The melodious breathings--which must be studied--a little farther on, teach us the very beautiful and interesting lesson (another subject for essay) of the unconscious effect of imitation; and of the unconscious imitation which often lies in effect. The progressions and culminations are Beethovenially grand; in fact, the whole second part superior, if possible, to the first, once admitted the right or propriety of the _modus operandi_. As a whole, the movement stands four-square, noble, filling us with the benefit and pleasure of energetic beauty. This is life--_mens sana in corpore sano_; no hint or shadow of madness; youthful power, generosity, enthusiasm, valour, and hope. At that utterance when first heard, once more men must have felt "a man-child is born into the world;" and the government shall be upon his shoulders--note especially, the do, do, la, do sharp, passage, and other culminations. Here, though Beethoven has not surpassed, if rivalled, the "Allegro" of Op. 13, he has given it a worthy counterpart. We are invigorated, and cheered--nay, roused to enthusiasm; poured full of virtuous resolve and noble daring. _Lebe hoch der junge Beethoven! Au reste_--we should have to use much colder language for the other movements (except the splendid minuet, so superior to the trio, which also suggests incongruity--unless we like to call it contrast?). The andante seems in no way superior to Haydn, and becomes veritably _langweilig_. How inferior to the "Andante, Op. 26!" The rondo is, comparatively, mere trifling--we are inclined to say, unworthy of Beethoven. We have no real pleasure in playing it, but constantly think, "Oh, for the first movement!" Summing up this symphony, we may perhaps decide: On the whole, guilty of incongruity--of want of proper consciousness. Why this halting between the pastoral and warlike? If your "as a whole" theory is good for a movement, why not for a symphony? due allowance for contrast excepted. Certainly, it may be said, the symphony is of unequal value; and that had Beethoven given us all equal to the "Allegro," it would have been a truly great symphony, quite worthy of his great name. As it is, the allegro and minuet alone partake of the immortal. SYMPHONY II. OPUS 36. THE ADAGIO. The worn-out despot offered a premium for a new pleasure; the critic would often do so for a new epithet. How shall I characterize this exquisite prelude? It is as the portico to the Walhalla of the gods. Here we have the real Beethoven in his _divine_ profundity--profound, _because_ beautiful; its very beauty constituting the depth, as it were, _thickening_ into it, like the ocean and heaven. This beauty, the true Proteus, is evasive; its import was not clear to the utterer himself, no message of the Divine is, to the human vehicle-- "A coral conduit ivory cisterns filling." We cannot exactly translate or interpret it, only we feel that _were_ it translated, we should have a divine poem in a divine language. One could spend hours going into the details of it--for every note demands a word; those two opening ones namely. How characteristic! There is the Emperor Tone-Poet, Napoleon of music, commanding "Attention!" and not--God forbid!--for himself, but for his message. It is the "Thus saith the Lord" of the prophet (some Elijah) of old. Utterance so simple--so all-compelling! Those two notes, merely, are, as it were, like the slightest scratch of an apostle. Then the next three bars! They at once usher us into that ineffability of Beethoven's which we spoke of. We have no reluctance to admitting that originality is not particularly studied here. Nay, we are inclined to say something higher--the modesty and moral courage to reject originality is displayed. Beethoven had to deliver that "Thus saith the Lord!" and he did it. First feel, and then study, the _un_studied eloquence of it. It is one of the beautiful instances whose name is legion in Beethoven, of simplicity-- "In its simplicity sublime." To me it says--"There! the storms _are_ all fought out. Peace, after all, is at the bottom, and in the heart." Or it is like a high man--say Beethoven himself--after the despicable petty disgusts, as well as chaotic horrors of life, falling back upon nature, the eternal star-glimmering universe--"they will not repel and deceive me, they are everlasting and sublime!" The phrase--like every great message--is really indescribable except by itself; the profound peace, or rather peaceful profundity of it, are unutterable-- "O that my tongue could utter"-- It is a great instance of height towering out of depth, high because deep, a peak in music, yet not clad with eternal glacier, except for its purity of heart, but eternal sunbeams. After an interesting passage of "harmonious breathing" interposed, and the still more interesting one of chromatic part-repetition, the shakes--which are ultimately to play a great part--first make their appearance. The taste for the shake can soon degenerate; and Beethoven himself sometimes used it incontinently. But, when properly introduced, as here, and especially at the last, it is an ornament that has a more or less magical charm. The next noble bit reminds us a little of the "Funeral March" in the A flat Sonata. Thereupon Beethoven, in his unconscious or conscious unconscious progress, promulgates some of these characteristic utterances of his--those harmonious and melodic breathings, so profound and pregnant with we know not what. Who or what moved him to his wonderful "progressions?" Truly indescribable tone-poet! so deep with tenderness, so rich with glow--glow is where Beethoven exceeded all of them, especially the Saxon school; he added glow to height, breadth, and depth; or, rather, his glow and depth--as in the sun--are like cause and effect, one. Now follow those warblings-- "Wild bird! whose warble liquid sweet Rings Eden through the budded quicks," and "deep answering unto deep," which we mentally alluded to at the outset, hard to decipher, seraphically beautiful. In what a musical river, to employ another figure, or concourse of confluences, the inspired orchestra rolls on; for yes, verily, the river is inspired with utterance, big with its message. And this is no merely European river, but rather some tropical Zambesi or Amazon with its colossal origin and surroundings; or, again, the river that rolls from the throne of the Fountain of Life--which truth it seems to declare, in the magnificent emphatic passage (anticipating the choral symphony?) so originally grand, in D minor, in unison, mark that. It seems to say--"Hear that, and believe it. The rolling river which this universe is, does not flow from Chaos and Diabolus, but from Eternal Self-Justified Will--humanly named, in short, 'God'; as it were, takes its course through the bosom of God, as 'King John' wished the rivers of his realm to, through his." After this colossal passage, we seem to be invited to listen to the warblings and happy murmurs in the halls of heaven--the habitation of the blest, of just spirits made perfect. It is all delicately, crystallinely ineffable; and the language of imaginative sympathy itself can scarcely transcend the beauty and exceeding excellence of the whole movement--that profound inspiration--any more than it can transcend the beauty and exceeding excellence, amounting to divinity, of the universe, that "Midsummer Night's Dream!" THE ALLEGRO. I often doubt, war can never cease, for its element is so great and potent in art--especially music and her twin-sister, poetry. Carlyle specially speaks of the "great stroke, too, that was in Shakespeare, had it come to that;" and, indeed, makes this--together with the "so much unexpressed in him to the last"--in short, his infinitude, the very thing which Schubert's kindred eye saw in Beethoven, differentiating him, his two chief points of admiration and test in general of a man. Besides, in our great historian himself--in Milton, too--we feel that there was a great stroke, as of the sublime Ironside; before him, in Dante; before him, in Homer--perhaps, Virgil; but not Horace. In our own day, the noble ring of our poet-laureate's verse, to mention no more, is at once a voucher for the same fact, apart from his "Maud," and more than one indignant utterance. The poetic imagination and classic beauty of all such men is not only concomitant with, but inseparable from, a "good stroke in them" (Dante and Cervantes were actually on the battle-field)--from an heroic element, the best thing they have. The greatest utterance--inspiration--cannot possibly come from any other. The hero is dear to God; the coward perhaps most despised of all. And why? The reason is philosophical enough. Because the soul of the universe is power--and without courage there can be no goodness. The grand doctrine of evolution, penetrating everywhere, has brought home to us, and borne in upon us, that there is not a field or a grove which is not the theatre of perpetual struggle--not one manifestation exempt from it. _Vae victis_ is the word of Nature herself, and the "struggle" is divinely ordained (competition is the salt of existence) for the elaboration of energies--the eventuation in higher life. What man would wish for the _dolce far niente_ of the Fool's Paradise? The world hath been groaning and travailing until now, and must for a long, long time to come; only one-fourth of it is even now "civilized," and in that civilisation what dregs and dens of barbarism seem ineradicable. All sorts of wrong still tyrannise; therefore, spiritually and physically, the warrior must stand forth great to wage war against the bad everywhere, politically and intellectually--against social evils, and art-darkness--against lies, and for truth--against weakness, and for strength; for Might _is_ Right in the universe--weakness is one with evil, strength with good. Only the good is strong; only the bad is weak. We have been led into these remarks by dwelling on the fact, how frequently the warlike spirit manifests itself forth in our Beethoven--indeed, is irrepressible; nay, I am urged to say, cardinal. In spite of Beethoven's truly divine beauty, he is stamped and distinguished by power. When he issues young into the arena, we see "victorious success" gleaming on his brows. Handel is distinguished in the same way. Hence the secret of Beethoven's own hero-worship for him. Apollo is great, but Jupiter is greater--Jupiter Optimus Maximus. If Mozart, Weber, Schubert may, more or less, figure as the sun-god, they cannot figure as the god of the sun-god. We might almost say, the first notes of Beethoven proclaimed power. He had to go forth and do battle with things. Nor is his own struggle for existence (not mere being, but immortality--a life in immortality here; that is existence to your Beethoven) in his own life-element, so strong and chaotic, in his own soul progress, undepicted, or shadowed forth. With unconscious-consciousness did he do it--on, right on to the end, the bitter end; on the verge of blindness, insanity--we know not what. Rushing as he did, into the conflict, conscious only of power, Beethoven would have been struck had he seen what, through the long vista of "stifled splendour and gloom," that power boded and implied: he would have been awed, had it been revealed to him what that power represented--little short of the Nineteenth Century itself, with all its Hamlet doubts, and chaotic, yet germ-rich smouldering of transition, whereof more anon. If the ineffable adagio--prelude of preludes (?), out, as Marx says, the last movement is the finale of finales--shows us the young God-disguised athlete, with the morning light on his brow, making ready to enter only the Olympian Games, the _allegro con brio_ shows him to us rushing into battle! The "heroic symphony" is by no means the first or last symphony heroic--indeed, could not have been written but for the pre-existence and exercise of that full power in the inspired young composer. Here is a grand epic outburst and onrushing worthy of that immortal masterpiece, and essentially one with it. We could almost say, not only the same power, but the same sort of power, is indiscernible in Haydn and Mozart. The style (which is truly the man--that to the man what the bark is to the tree) is so different--the man's dialect, as well as message; the phraseology altogether. These modulations are not those of Haydn and Mozart! (beyond praise grand is the _ff_ on the dominant of A minor--one of those glorious bursts and surprises of Beethoven's--we expect D minor); nor is the masculine fancy (god-like shall we say? and a Mozart's, goddess-like) theirs; and the great broad, quasi-Titanic strains and themes. This movement (Op. 36) is an advance on that of the symphony No. 1 (Op. 21), if in grade only, not kind. Here we see the young giant, not yet done growing, a little riper. There is no strain in it which we feel inclined to qualify, which "gives us pause," like the second motiv in its predecessor; all is homogeneous, epically great. But let us descend a little to details. At bars 1, 2, and 3, we imagine the firm tread of the warriors, singing (like the Ironsides before Dunbar--the 68th Psalm, "Let God arise,") on their way to victory, which they never doubt for a moment, not only because they are triumphant veterans, but on account (and more) of their cause. At bar 4 what a poetic rush (inrush) of fifes is suggested! then the great step is heard again; a great strain joins in; the chaunt of the warrior basses becomes more and more ominous; preliminary thunder is heard, and at last, with Olympian pæan and war-cry battle is joined;--great is the shock, and glorious is the struggle! The second subject in A is ushered in by those grand _third-less_ chords (long before our modern writers):-- [Music] the chromatic passage being doubled two octaves below by the basses. The new subject, more absolutely melodious, still keeps up the same theme--(for, _apropos_, we may also look upon this allegro as some Homeric or Shakespearian recital of a great victory--recall the superb opening lines of "Richard the Third," the "warriors' wreathed brows, and their bruised arms hung up for monuments"). At first it is heard softly--like a reinforcement in the distance (we think of the Prussians at Waterloo, in the westering summer sun)--then as it were in a blaze of music bursts in. Immediately after, where its exquisite first half (so simple--mark that--but so eloquent and picturesque) reappears in the basses (high), we are rather reminded of Mendelssohn's "Huntsman's Song without Words," in A (the same key), Book 1; but--we need not say--Mendelssohn has not gilded gold, or improved the lily; for his fancy was distinctly lighter and smaller than Beethoven's--or, let us say, he had fancy, Beethoven imagination. And now a happy spirit of triumph sings in the basses; and then burst out some crashing Beethoven-chords, of which I will but point to the one _ff_ (5th bar of them); it is characteristically the 6--4 of D--not, as anticipated, the 5--3 of F sharp minor. Then, after a foreboding crescendo--characteristic growth out of an initial fragment--and these two emphatic notes:-- [Music] --Beethoven all over--the first part closes, so to say, in a breadth of thunder-peals and fiery rain. Technically, note the grand entry of D minor, and mi--do--si--la--mi in unison, with the 3rd omitted; and the minor-seventh chords, resolving into the tonic dominant of the minor (D^1), so exquisitely expressive--alike of the pangs of victory and the heroic resolution to endure them. In the 2nd Part, on the way to G minor (Beethoven himself often never knew whither he was taking us, or at least the precise route--and so much the better!), we soon meet with a remarkable juncture of notes, viz., do and mi of the chord (G minor), with fa superadded:-- [Music] This fa, at first sight perplexing, turns out to be a stray note (as it seems) of the minor seventh chord on its way to the seventh, which, however, ultimately appears (with beautiful effect) as the 3rd of the dominant-seventh chord (to C minor). This powerfully, painfully expressive dissonance is likewise to be found in his "Lied Vom Tode" (Op. 48), amongst other instances; and the opening to Schubert's "Wanderer" owes its intense expression to the same. The _raison d'être_ of such discords is perhaps to be found in the enhancement they give to the resolution. We could not bear them too long, or too frequent; but, as a passing reminder of the tragedy of life, they profoundly move and interest us; and, perhaps, discords in life (likewise instituted by no Dryasdust) have essentially the same _raison d'être_ and explanation--life is _agro-dolce_, not _dolce_ alone, and better so. Thereupon we have a new idea, surely as playfully felicitous and characteristic as the scherzo of the "Eroica" itself--like the warriors at sport after victory; or like a glimpse of the same by them, back in a pause in the battle, which soon recommences, with the shouts of the combatants and groans of the wounded and dying. A page farther on, we have a truly sublime episode; great is the chaunt on the earnest theatre (proclaiming Right must and shall win) made up of the sufficient chord of F sharp minor, and the basses moving in such a way as served as a model for Wagner; this is epic, heroic, indeed! and--even greater--Pelion upon Ossa, piled by this Titan fighting on the side of the gods, is the culmination. Semitone by semitone mount the basses; and over all the great clouds become richer in the setting sun, and pealing hosts of heaven (as it were) join in the shouts of the victors, crying--"Hosanna in excelsis! Alto trionfo del regno verace! Right _is_ done!" "Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, Paid with a voice flying by, to be lost on an endless sea. Glory of virtue to fight! to struggle, to right the wrong, Give her the glory of going on, and still to be." THE LARGHETTO. At the moment we write, all round us we see nature emerged-- "Nobler and balmier for her bath of storm." The grim tempests of early winter have passed over, and after a South-Italian night--a perfect blaze of constellations, with the Evening Star incredible in the west, large, lustrous, evanescent--and Orion sublime in the forehead of the Night over the mountain--with Jupiter passed over, Mars and Sirius not far off, and the eternal cluster of the Pleiades (those beautiful heralds) winging its flight towards the north-west, and the leading star of the Ursus Major plunging through the dusk (yet shining) over Naples; after such a night, lo! the great amphitheatre of the world is a spectacle indeed! The mountain-island sweeps like a garden at our feet to the sea; the sea itself like an unspeakable floor or carpet spread out _for us_, bearing the islands--the "great globe itself"--so proudly on its nourishing bosom; and all round, out of a tender dusk (as it were, like Compassion) rises the snow-peaked world (like virtue clothing beauty, reason crowning power), the magnificent spur of the Alps--showing what mountains can do at an effort--called the Apennines, stretching down and around from Gaeta to Alicote, towering over treasures, as it seems, of unearthly beauty; Monte St. Angelo, with his colossal foot in the sea and roots in the world, his wrinkles lined with snow, looms and towers before us; on the right sweeps and bares itself the grand Bay of Salerno, and on the left the proud Bay of Naples, with its eternal Watch-fire, like a sentinel over all. Stupendous scene of beauty and power! and all that--on this heavenly morning, when the world once more seems made again, and to overpower us with its reiteration of Immortality--all that comes before us as a grand subject set to music in this larghetto of Beethoven's; all that, too--if the fancy may be allowed--seems in the key of A natural. Before _it_, we should like to hear this exquisite masterpiece--this, I will not say, Song without Words, but rather Te Deum laudamus--adequately performed, say by the Künstler of his "Vaterland." Here we have a sweetness and a serenity the more touching, because they are _not_ those of a Mozart, but a Beethoven; those of nature, "_nobler and balmier_ for her bath of storm" (human as well as physical nature); whether Mozart do or do not represent the storm already fought out, this is the sweetness, not of sweetness, but depth--the serenity, not of serenity, but power. And, indeed, we must hold, and urge, that however the objective may be of value, and rank pre-eminent in poetry, the greatest music has come down to us from perhaps the greatest subjective soul; and essentially, much of contemporary, morbidly-conscious music seems in comparison not only objective but material, not only material but sensational; the delusively brilliant (phosphorescently brilliant) product of a decaying time--we had almost said the elaborate effeteness of a written-out age. This larghetto is of Beethoven's first period, ripened of course (strive as refiners may, they will scarcely be able to alter the time-honoured division, so obviously founded in truth). Haydn and Mozart are distinctly discerned glimmering through it, but not very much more; it is Haydn and Mozart _plus_ Beethoven, which makes all the difference. We repeat, it is _his_ serenity and sweetness, his youth (so full and rich--of such _infinite_ promise), not theirs. Theirs be the grace, but his the grandeur; theirs the amiability, but his the milk of human kindness--so broad and deep (as of a yet unsoured Hamlet, an Othello, a King Lear; for there are great characters in Shakespeare which we _can_ blend Beethoven with, but not the others). The details of the larghetto must be studied (say, at the organ). I will here only advert to its reminiscence of the andante (the exquisite episode) in the pastoral sonata, written about the same period, truly worthy of symphonic treatment, with the deliciously-delicate passage, as it were like a shower of sunbeams, of gold sparkles-- "In the æther of Deity" (as the manifestations named men have been called). The movement is rich both in the great strokes and tender touches of genius--of genius which is power; and what we call the phraseology of the man as a whole, and in its parts, is again beautifully Beethovenian. Here is a lovely bit:-- [Music] The movement is not so _great_ as the preceding, and is perhaps too long (which is a decided art-fault--not merely a mistake in judgment); but, as a whole, it reminds us of Shakespeare's "entire and perfect chrysolite;" we greet it (and other movements of Beethoven's) with feelings of profound affection; as though we had realised those words "Yet a little while and ye have me with ye"; as though we had been living, for at least a breathing space, in the atmosphere and society of higher life, out of the sphere of time and in the sphere of the eternal. We have had such pleasure that we feel more good; we issue grateful and earnest, happier, better men. There have been sighs of regret that Beethoven did not write more music like his Symphony in F; but not only this movement, but these two first symphonies, the sonatas in E flat, "Adelaide"--nay, almost all his first period compositions. And here our glances at this symphony must cease. The trio, with its delicious strain, pleases us more than the scherzo (a strain that might be made much more of). The scherzo itself is less sympathetic than that of No. 1: seems, in fact, rather heavily frolicsome. The finale is a masterpiece, though decidedly inferior to the first movements. Do composers often write their finale when they are jaded? they should make this their golden rule, _toutes les choses ont leur matinée_. SYMPHONY NO. III., OP. 55. "Lo Motor primo a lui si volge licto, Soora tant'arte di natura, e spira Spirito nuovo, di virtù repleto"-- When we stand before this Symphony, like Death, it "gives us pause"; it looms so great, so vast. It was no wonder that it was not comprehended at first; and this should be not a subject of regret, but gratification, to the genius. Genius implies non-comprehension at first, and all sorts of "cold obstruction"; and here it may at once be said that, on the whole, genius, like virtue, is its own reward, and perfect compensation for all drawbacks. This should be borne in mind when uncalled-for lamentations are, not unnaturally, yet rather thoughtlessly made. Certainly, Beethoven would not have been satisfied had this phenomenal work, this prodigy, this spiritual Labour of Hercules (type of all the great Helpers and Saviours of mankind), been immediately grasped. To comprehend, in some small measure, the prodigy called the Universe around us, men and things have had to evolve for countless ages; it is the same, on a miniature scale, with individual works; and every poet rids himself of his message in the great spirit of the great Kepler:--"I may well wait a century for a reader, as God has waited six thousand years for an observer." To no man not rich in such a spirit will any great message be whispered and entrusted. Beethoven was, in his sphere, and with his vehicle of utterance, a prophet--a coming event that threw its shadow before. He revealed to men, if they could but have seen it, the Nineteenth Century--_its_ inner life, _plus_ the nature and passions of the present (his own day) and the past. No wonder, then, that the men of his own day--the great mass, the local majority--could not understand what really is a truer mirror of us--our doubts, and fears, and struggles, and hopes. And the _Sinfonia Eroica_, I take it, must be so interpreted--in a spiritual sense (at least as well as in the physical, or literal)--as much as the Symphony in C minor, at least as much as the Pastoral Symphony which Beethoven himself said was really emotional rather than descriptive. And it little matters whether or not Beethoven himself consciously uttered these manifold messages of his in this or that sense; he has as perfect a right as Shakespeare to be deemed full of all that can be packed into him; nay, it is all the better if he was _not_ conscious: to repeat--unconsciousness was the soul of his consciousness, as it ever is, and must be, of all higher speech and performance. No mere battle, or ordinary warfare--certainly Napoleonic--can adequately explain, is solely depicted in, this grand work; though they become far more satisfactory, so applied, when we consider them as coarse manifestations of the higher qualities; in fact, as backgrounds for and revelations of heroism. By dwelling on this, we get nearer to the soul of the symphony; spiritual warfare, rather, is what it proclaims.[A] Of Beethoven's notes, it may be quite as much said as of Luther's words--his notes are like other men's battles. Better than any poem this symphony (especially the first movement--_facile princeps_) seems to hold the mirror up to Man in his Warfare, specially and generally, physically and spiritually, with and in his own inscrutable self, and with and in the unspeakable elements of time. It is not without special beauty, in the last but one, or Faust sense (we were struck and pleased to come across Bendel's words, corroborating our own notion, that Beethoven was in some sort a Faust); and, before this symphony, we feel Beethoven was that good man, struggling with adversity, the spectacle of which is a benefit to the very gods; and, under this feeling, the symphony does us double good. The fact on the face of it is, its Titanic power in _maturity_. The first two symphonies, also rich in power, are stamped by a spirit of youth. This gives them a delicious charm which makes them extra dear; and which Beethoven himself (let alone others) was fundamentally mistaken (we feel) in underrating, nay, disparaging, as he was afterwards wont to do (really, when his mighty powers were waning, and he was perhaps in secret aware of that; it is the common melancholy trick of men). That peculiar spirit of freshness here at length we seem to miss, or are no longer struck by. Here we may draw the line. Here we see the ripe man, or very nearly so; at least in the prime and plenitude of his powers; not quite so _happy_ as before, but stronger; and as yet with no serious threatening shadow of gloom--though there may be clouds "as big as a man's hand," and even occasionally, perhaps, hints, like the mole "cinque-spotted i' the bottom of a cowslip," of tragedy and aberration among the most melancholy in the history of men. Beethoven was an emphatically conscious, but profoundly unconceited man. We are sure, therefore, that he entitled his symphony "Heroic" (if he did do so) with no unpardonable vanity; nevertheless, we regret that (as also in his "Grand" sonatas) he did not leave it to others--for itself to call itself that. Truly, he did not exceed much in betitling and programming--his sense of the infinitude of music was too profound, of that as being _the_ charm; but even in the few cases where he did, perhaps the breach would have been better than the observance. One great disadvantage of betitling music is, that it does not allow us to approach it afterwards without preoccupation and convention; whereas, we should approach it utterly free, except from our own nature, and previous existence. Moreover, if the work correspond ever so to the title or description, it is discounted beforehand. To say _afterwards_, "that is heroic!"--"this is pastoral!" is an added charm. But to details. [A] Strauss (_not_ the dance composer), in rather a cavilling spirit, says this symphony describes the life of a hero. So it does, but not in the external sense he uses it in, but in the internal; life, means inner life. Or, again, the work celebrates heroism rather than a hero. It will at once be noticed that Beethoven begins this symphony quite differently from its predecessors; _allegro con brio_, two emphatic chords, and then _in medias res_; the bass, however, leading off, as in No. II., with, moreover, the same well-balanced poise (delicate, yet firm as that of planet in its orbit), springy step, and self-contained power. A characteristic originality is the C sharp, where the bass breaks off, hardly begun, and the "Upper air bursts into life," with glorious breadth and soaring--soaring to the _primum mobile_ through obstructive cloud (discords of the dim. 7th on pedal tonic) with only increased _éclat_! Thereupon, the basses worthily show forth the heroic confidence of the nobly unstudied theme--great and gay with the certainty of final victory; as it were, the warriors of Israel advancing to conquer the Promised Land. Then, from none knows where--from the very heart of heaven--fall shafts of light indeed, as it were through the bosom of fragrance; which exquisite strain, perhaps, contradicts what we said about the absence of youth in this work. In any case, it is one of those many melodies which so movingly proclaim Beethoven a profoundly good man, and how he wrote them so _from above_, or rather they poured through him from infinite heights (depths overhead) of ineffability. In this, in the _power_ of his sweetness, he has never been surpassed, hardly equalled. There are melodies by later men very beautiful too, which seem, however, to come (we are almost tempted to write) like certain later poetry, from a profoundly _bad_ source; they have demoniac, not divine beauty. The strain in question:-- [Music] Certainly a "Dolce melodia in aria luminosa," seems the spirit of Love itself pure and simple--as it were, a glance from the "young-eyed cherubim" into the Warrior's--into Beethoven's own heart. But, in this "painfully earnest world," such blessedness cannot long last, and the sunshafts are soon again obscured in the smoke of battle--the mystic whisperings drowned in the din of artillery. _Apropos_, it struck us that, if we like the warlike figure, this grand battlepiece (by Rubens? or Tintonello?--_Rembrandt_, we would rather say) gains, if we consider it as a _sea_-battle, in a storm, with wizard lights and seams of fire all along the horizon. Nay, in the second part--those wonderful strokes of genius where the chord of the sub dominant (?) is piled on to and clashes against that of the relative minor A--we fancy it vividly depicting "Nelson falls!" (the true hero, whose pole-star is duty; not pleasure, nor ambition); and the unspeakable passage a little further on (in E minor--Beethoven alone capable of it--never dreamt of in the philosophy of his predecessors), suggested his death--(or rather, more stupendously, that of _the_ Christian Hero, when He "gave up the ghost," crying, "_Finitus est!_"). More than one modern work has attempted to depict the world-old great subject: Virtue and Vice contending for (or within) a human soul--the struggle of Good and Evil. Methinks, as long ago as this Heroic Symphony the same struggle is represented, or shadowed forth (for its great text, like music in general, and more so with Beethoven, has many meanings). The third (?) subject in this theme-rich movement, where Beethoven from his full heart pours forth one motiv after another, is especially suggestive of conflict--what shocks, clashes, contentions!--but the "good angel fires the bad one out," and bears the precious prize aloft in a whirl of triumph--resounding, as it were, through the halls of heaven-- "Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries, Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean Rings to the roar of an angel onset." But then-- "Me rather all that bowery loveliness, The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, And bloom profuse and cedar arches Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean," "Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, And, crimson-hued, the stately palm-woods Whisper, in odorous heights, of even." Then we have a strain which seems to anticipate Schumann himself, the greatest symphonist after Beethoven--a singular repose, of almost unearthly loveliness, after the high commotion. A little later, and _ecco!_ a new idea:-- [Music] exquisite in its lightness and strength (like a giant at play, or a river disporting in its banks); and thereupon, after bold progressions, six remarkable iterations--also like "So Fate knocketh at the portals!" or like blow after blow of virtuous resolutions; where all is characteristic, this is strikingly so. Then follows another of his ineffable thoughts (supremely); and then, after another whirl of the _sacred_ fury, which seems to be the soul of this unexampled movement, we are brought back to the original subject, which re-enters in its own colossal continence; and these truly "_stupendi pagine_" (and not those about Goethe's Frederika of Sessenheim, in his "Autobiography,") are repeated. The second part, or elaboration (as it is called) is likewise, and _par excellence_, stupendous, especially the part before adverted to, in A and E minor. Here, truly, the music quite transcends ordinary language and thought; to bring ideas worthy to it, we must recur to Him who cried "_Lama, Lama, Eli Sabbacthani!_" This is the anguish of a Redeemer-soul. But to such, also, is the victory; and to such the Father sendeth legions of angels. See, also, especially the passage further on, in G flat (should it not be _andante_?)--which, as it were, almost overcomes us with enchantment. Here, methinks, the Invisible Auxiliaries already bear the poor shell, and whisper at the same time a word of comfort to the Mother--whom no Power strikes into stone, like Niobe. "He that hath ears to hear, let him hear!"--ears that are but the outwork of the soul. Let him go, even as it were, prepared and attuned, in some sort like a Communicant--and receive music's banquet mysteriously provided for him. The message of a Beethoven is not trifling, but earnest; speaks inarticulately (more divinely so) of the greatest, solemnest, things; whispers and thunders from the Altar. If "the value of no word is known till the greatest master of it has arrived," so also the value of no utterance is known till the greatest receiver--understander--of it has arrived. Plato said, Poets speak greater things than they know. Of none was this ever truer than of Beethoven. He alone, in his day, most knew the value and import of his music; others come after (and will come) who know more. This is his greatest praise. There is no more congenial occupation to a sympathetic imagination than throwing together some of the images, thoughts, or ideas which his mighty music suggests. Goethe was displeased when importuned for the key idea (_more Germanico_) of his "Wilhelm Meister;" thought that itself should be sufficient of itself. It is the same with Beethoven and this symphony. No _rigid_ principle must be sought, or insisted on. The first movement especially does indeed stand very four-square and homogeneous; but the fiery soul of it (sun-fire, passion and beauty,) is very various in its manifestation; and unless we understand and apply the term "heroic" in its amplest sense, we are fettered and injured rather than benefitted and helped. The greatest Hero we yet wot of was personified self-sacrifice, love--who did not flame abroad over that world a devastation, but made his life answer the queries of philosophy, and the doubts of the sceptic; the greatest Hero was one who "went about doing good." Tennyson's eloquent alcaics on Milton-- "O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity"-- the rest of which have been already quoted, seems not inapplicable to Beethoven and this his symphony. Many others would do as well, or better. Of general application--when we _think_ of its melodious rush of ideas (one of the distinguishing features between it and the first two symphonies), great republican spirit (in the highest sense), Sun-god beauty, and Jove-like power; of its intellect, superior to that of Bach's (it seems to us), as Carlyle well says Shakespeare's was to that of the author of "_Novum Organum_," and of its grace and sweetness, profounder than, not only of Haydn's and Mozart's, but any other composer's, then the beautiful words of Dante, at the head of this chapter, may apply. The Prime Mover turns joyfully unto him, and, surpassing nature, breathes into him a new spirit, replete with virtue and power. THE FUNERAL MARCH. Beethoven was a gloomily profound soul;--herein differentiated from Shakespeare, who was pellucidly, cheerfully profound; and unlike Schopenhauer (whom he otherwise rather suggests), who was profoundly gloomy--one of the most so who ever lived; therefore he composed a "_Marcia Funèbre_" specially _con amore_, and therefore it is specially characteristic of him. In the present instance, this, as it were, unfathomably profound inspiration, gains, as in every other case, if we interpret it liberally rather than literally, and consider it to depict and deplore rather the death of a great Principle (such as Faith, Virtue, Truth,) than a great man; or the great man, the hero, _plus_ the heroic, buried with him, _ultimus Romanorum_. If we would realize the depths of this utterance--as it were almost speechless--choked with tears--we shall think of it in connection with such words as the following:-- "Tired with all these, for restful death I cry-- As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill; Tired with all these, from these I would be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone." Speaking of Schopenhauer, the difference between him and Beethoven seems to be this:--the latter shows us Optimism _victorious_ over Pessimism; his works, indeed, seem specially and wonderfully to mirror the struggle, as indeed, the whole of this century at least is profoundly tinctured, nay seems almost characteristically stamped by Pessimism; but Beethoven does not, and will not give way to, and end in the rayless paralysis of Pessimism; he fights through, and soars triumphant; in Mr. Picton's words, _re_ Materialism, "comes out at the other side." In this, methinks, the deadly struggle betwixt Optimism and Pessimism around us and within us; but the victory of the former, and the triumph of Immortality over Doubt and Denial, we have the key to Beethoven's music (of course unconsciously, and, as we say, so much the better; it would have been worse expressed had it been conscious). At a moment when Pessimism was uppermost, he might have sat down to write this Dead March: that it was to celebrate Napoleon Buonaparte was never the case, though it might have been to celebrate the Napoleon of Beethoven's imagination, a _Hero_, to bewail whose departure from among us no tones can be too pregnant and profound, especially if we think we have "fallen on evil times," and that we shall "never look upon his like again." And here a word about Beethoven's (the true hero) immortal act, when he heard that Napoleon had made himself crowned--(the other hero we spoke of refused a crown, and hid himself); was not _that_ a repudiation of Tyranny and Quackery? was not _that_ a royal piece of Iconoclasm? to me it is one of the highest private scenes of History. Summon it up one moment:--Beethoven's eye flashing fire; the lion locks almost shaking flames, as he tears the superscription in half (and Napoleon's fame with it), and dashes the "carefully written out" symphony on the floor, "put his foot down on _that_." _So_, I should like to see Beethoven painted; or still better, sculptured. Dr. Nohl has taken occassion to draw an elaborate parallel or comparison between Beethoven and another great contemporary of his, Goethe--(we would draw it also to the advantage of the former;) Carlyle has done so, between Napoleon and Goethe; we would do so between Napoleon and Beethoven, and call the latter in our great Sage's words, a "still white light shining far into the centuries," while the other was meteoric flame and volcanic glare--not wholly, solely, for he too was an instrument--an able, and necessary one, but in comparison. Let anyone ask himself how he feels at the mention of the two names. Is he not expanded, cheered, comforted, and made better--unconsciously made surer of goodness, truth, immortality, and all high things, at the name of Beethoven; and is he not repelled, if dazzled, by that of Napoleon? The good was not buried with Beethoven's bones. Think of the amount he has done after his death (like Handel and his "Messiah"); think of his industrious great life and character--so originally grand; and contrast it with the portentous mass of lies and murders, the conflagrations and widow's tears, the hideous battle-fields of the heartless, semi-conscious, semi-quack, diabolically selfish Napoleon, and the good _he_ has done after him. No! the good Wolfe had rather have been Gray than the victor of Quebec, and we would rather have been Beethoven than Napoleon--whose very genius, moreover, is over-rated; for we decidedly think with Madame de Stäel, that had he met with an able and honest adversary early, he would have been checked or defeated; nay, he _was_, when he met Sydney Smith at Acre; and, curiously enough, after, when he met _another_ Briton, who was never defeated--Wellington. Napoleon will always be marvelled at and written about, but it will never be said of him--"in his works you will find enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to teach them courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity; for, of examples teaching these virtues, his pages are full;"--as it was said of the author of "Hamlet," and as it is here repeated of the mighty composer of this "Dead March," with its wails from the deepest and strains from the highest thing known--the heart of man. THE SCHERZO. With a glance at the Scherzo, we will bring our remarks to a close, the more especially as the Finale seems less interesting, relevant, and original (Beethoven seems more to have copied himself,) than the rest. The Scherzo, with its _obbligato_ constituent element, the "Trio," is on the same great scale, and in the same epic spirit (we see no particular need, with Wagner, to seek a connection,) as the first movement. Here we _see_ the gods and heroes, the immortals, at sport in their own high hall--green-hill'd theatre, and "deep-domed empyrean." Here Optimism is not only victor, but full of play and humour. Such Olympian sport, such great picturesque music, was inconceivable to Beethoven's predecessors; and we get some idea of his merit when we reflect that the ground, when he began to write quartets and symphonies, seemed already occupied, the sphere exhausted; and when we reflect, how, of all Haydn's 119 symphonies (!) not one, in some seasons, is performed; whereas, Beethoven's are the feature of almost every performance, and are found now to be "favourite with all classes," as the Sydenham programme asserts--a statement which, otherwise, rather provokes an elevation of the eyebrows. The trio, especially, is of exceeding original beauty; there are few more grateful pages in Beethoven; none where his peculiarly characteristic _healthy_ sweetness (freshness-and-power--_depths_ of purity, beyond plummet's sound,) is so strikingly, so enchantingly displayed. At the base of a great mountain in Switzerland, with his foot in two lakes, and with sides that might almost have been an envy in Eden, there runs--from one magical sheet of water to the other--a heavenly valley. There we once saw a local military _Fest_, with flying banners and echoing music; and, as we walked along, under the eternal brow of that immense emerald bastion, with the spring sun before us, we thought of this Trio, and said--"Here is where it ought to sound, by a noble army on its return, laurel-laden, from righteous victory;" and Shakespeare's lines again _festeggiavano_ in the memory:-- "Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lower'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings; Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbèd steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute." How exquisitely we can fancy the horns making those mountain-walls and woodlands ring! and the hautboys in response, gladdening the pastures; while the flutes (later) curl the wave; and the bassoons, along with the other two epico-pastoral instruments, after the maiden welcome of the violins--welcome by maidens:-- "Oneste e leggiadre in ogni atto."-- "Set all the bells a-ringing--over lake and lea, Merrily, merrily, along with them in tune." It is all enchanting; no greater epico-lyric poem in Beethoven--who, even in the midst of this triumph and beauty, cannot (thank inspiration!) but speak from the profundities of him. I allude to that wonderful passage where he brings in (hitherto reserved) the clarinets (that voice of heroic women, as Berlioz finds it), over the intensely expressive progression of the strings, in response to the breathings of the horns. In music perhaps there is no profounder interchange of heart and soul, of sorrow and affection, touching reminiscence from the lowest well-spring. This, perhaps, is a glance at the "happy autumn days that are no more;" or an heroic wail over the dead and desolated; a glance back at the horrors of war--a thought for the widows and orphans' tears falling even now around; and yet, under all, a stern determination to brook no tyranny, love of duty, and a high submission, cost what it might, to the Supreme Will. SYMPHONY IN B FLAT, NO. 4, OP. 60. This Symphony is only another proof of Beethoven's kinship with Shakespeare. The terrible romance of "Romeo and Juliet" (where the atmosphere seems loaded with love and doom); the classic grandeur of "Coriolanus" and "Julius Cæsar"; the passionate intensity of "Othello"; the fearful sublimity (depth, as well as height and breadth) of "Macbeth" and "Lear;" the beautiful greatness of the "Tempest"; and the subtlety (seraphic, not demoniac), tragic picturesqueness, inner life, and almost superhuman power and insight of "Hamlet," are all, more or less (and, indeed, more rather than less), to be found reproduced in Beethoven; and truly, as it is borne in on us, in him, the tone-poet, more than in speech-poet, certainly more than in Schiller and Goethe; more also than in our own men, of whom none after Shakespeare can compare with Beethoven except Milton--and him we reckon inferior. There are indeed two elements of Shakespeare which Beethoven lacks, his characteristic serenity and humour; besides that, _Beethoven's tragedy is the tragedy of his own soul, whereas Shakespeare wrote outside himself_. Beethoven was a colossally subjective storm-tossed spirit (though also eminently objective--none surpasses him in broad vivid painting of images, as well as "the life of the soul";)--the dove of whose ark (to speak figuratively) never found soil for her foot after youth had died out, and the flood fairly set in. But, in his prime, also in the "April of his prime", and at his best, he bears a greater family likeness to the great ancestor than any other man, though he really resembles no one but himself, just like Shakespeare, as we feel after long but futile efforts to pair him with somebody--a fact highly curious and interesting! The kinship, however, is equally striking and fascinating; and nowhere, perhaps, is it more fascinating than in this B flat Symphony, which we are inclined to term _par excellence_ beautiful; as its predecessors are powerful and great. Indeed there seems something of the opaline varnish--or rather, lustre, like a leaf's--_from within_--of Mozart; specially beautiful, as _he_ is specially beautiful, and is not powerful or great, profound and earnest, grand. But, again, _plus_ the grace, there is also, below, the characteristic depth; after all, and as ever, power is _doch_ the soul of the beauty--as--and here is our point--in the "Tempest" (and "Midsummer Night's Dream"), as in Shakespeare, rather than in Mozart; indeed, we know not but what Haydn's beauty has more a soul of power. The enchanting spirit of Shakespeare's fairy plays, and the enchanting spirit world, seems that too of this symphony. Here are Puck and Blossom, Oberon and Titania; here are Ferdinand and Miranda--above all, Ariel and Prospero. Prospero, whose sublime spirit shines and rules in this inaugural adagio--adumbration of Chopin (?) which dwarfs Chopin indeed!--is much nearer akin to Schumann. It is like an inspired dream (a Jacob's, or Elijah's, or Daniel's). It seems a great foreshadowing of his later style; in its vagueness it is vast--as it were, a vestibule or forecourt of the Infinite, of higher life; of that beyond, methinks, whereinto Prospero (our own great dear, sad Beethoven, tired of all, and of himself,) sinks his dreamy glance, when he casts away for ever his magic wand (magic only in a lower sphere, where life and character are inferior); "deeper than did plummet sound," and cries, wrapt from the bystanders:-- "The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a wrack behind." In the allegro we seem to continue our analogy--in the wondrous isle itself (Isle of Formosa), "full of strange sights and sounds." Here, not Greek Naiads and Dryads, but Christian sprites and fairy-things, or both in loving rivalry, flit and trip invisibly and visibly; here is freshness! here are sunbeams! here simplicity and sweetness (woodland and pastoral beauty)! And if, in the matchless adagio the sea murmurs round the "still-vext Bermoothes," and Ariel fetches thence dew; here we have all-compelling Prospero commanding the most exquisite airy sport--but not for himself--but for the lovers. The scherzo (to take that next), forces upon us once more the question--how far did Beethoven, in composing, draw upon his early treasures? This delicious burst--or gush--of inspiration, as it were a moment flashing over, might have been written in the same spring months as that other delicious morsel--specially cherished by us; the scherzo ("Allegro") in E flat, in the early sonata of the same key--which has always seemed to us the very breath of spring itself--a page of nature in April. And why should a Beethoven disparage his early works? were they not _doch_ the works of a Beethoven! Alas, he can never be young again, never after equal them, for their breath and spirit, for the April of their prime. We should like to hear Liszt or Rubinstein play this morsel arranged. It is as delicate as Heller (whom it indeed anticipates) and Mendelssohn, and strong as Wagner;--but nay, Beethoven will compare only with himself. It is originally exquisite and exquisitely original. It has, too, the same magical, nay, mystical beauty whose glamour is over all this musical mirror of the "Tempest." The imaginative Sonata in D minor, which Beethoven himself referred to the enchanting drama--especially the first movement--reflects, I take it, the deeper bases and significance of the poem; tempest-tossed man, with his cries to the Unknowable, almost like a wounded animal, and rays of sunshine pouring still through storm; man, at war with the elements and himself, the elements without and within him; man, so little on this stupendous stage; man, so great with his alone-perception of it; man, so mean and hateful in his baser parts, so colossal, so divine in his higher; so low as animal (lower than they), so high as hero and sage. Indeed, the tremendous conflict of outer and inner life, this appalling discrepancy we seem to meet with everywhere; man's struggle with nature, and the struggle of both with themselves, seems to be the inner picture both of Shakespeare and Beethoven--especially the latter, who was a mighty brooding fermenting soul--how far transcending our Byron and his "Manfreds"!--more allied to "Faust," yet greater, nobler, dearer, difficult to arrive at harmony with others and himself ("perplext in faith, yet pure in deeds"), who seems happy only in the first part of his progress (expedition, undertaking, crusade), and victorious in the middle; and whom, alas! we fancy almost as despairing of solving the problem (_é pure troppo per me_) in the end, and going down in the tempest--yet, like the traditional Vengeur, with guns all shooting, and flag at the mast-head flying, and glorified in the setting sun. I will not dwell on the finale, but conclude with some fancies suggested by the rarely beautiful adagio--like a lovely bird from another world, like the ph[oe]nix new born. Here is what Elterlein says of the finale:--"The truly phantastic, airy, sprite-like (_elfenartige_), at times even boding twilight" (the Scotch uncanny gloaming would more approach the original, _Unheimlicht Düstere_--Scotch, by the way, would often marvellously translate German--they have a mass of expressive words which we have not)--"boding twilight, nay, wild culminates, however, only in the fourth movement. How light and vanishing do these tone-pictures hover and pass, what characteristic glooming (_Helldenkel_) does not envelope this scene too." Of course, this symphony cannot compare one moment with the Eroica and C minor, for grandeur, opulence, and power; but it is a lovely interlude, giving us a divine moment of gratification and repose--an Italian spring day by a lake, to a tropical one, with its Himalayas and interwoven forest, "like a cathedral with service on the blazing roof." And now for the adagio! which I will only preface by this admonition, always to be recollected; viz., that whatever fancies or figures music may suggest, and however the abstract terms--such as sweet, tender, vigorous, grand, &c.--may, and must be applied in common to all composers, yet each composer has a special individuality; and _the music that suggests the figures and fancies, the ideas, has, apart from this, for ever a special charm of its own_, which cannot be lost, nor yet transcribed. To those who do not, and to those who do approve the fancies, this charm _per se_ remains. THE ADAGIO. A work of supererogation, the adagio is still sometimes executed at concerts, which rejoices in the sensational title of "Le trille du Diable;" founded, it is said, on a dream of the composer's (Tartini); this, simply-named "Adagio," of Beethoven's, then--in considering which, I mean to surrender myself wholly to poetry--might be a reminiscence of his of music, in a dream, by the angel, Gabriel; or such, for instance, as might have escorted the seraph when he descended, and said, "_Ave Maria!_"--or it might be an unconscious reminiscence of previous existence of the great and good man; or the strain the Shepherds heard, in the field, watching their flocks by night--again, and more specially, a "Dolce melodia in aria lumino," through the purple air, mingled with ambrosia, and the beams of _that_ evening star. Nay, it might have lulled that head which had nowhere to rest, when perchance it _did_ find some rocky corner; or Saul of Tarsus, or Jonah below on the raging sea. It puts us in mind of the immortal line-- "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." Ah! we see therein the great weary spirit of its own eternal messenger, for once at least, rocked on its waves and soothed by its balm, in the sea of immortality. It is a pleasure to throw together all the ideas with which it inspires us. It seems a foretaste of Schumann and Ernst ("Elegy"); it has their glimmering romance, and Beethoven's own peculiar profound sweetness, _not_ tainted (at least here and yet) by anything morbid, or the suspicion of it. It, too, suggests earlier years--"_Ach!_" a reminiscence of childhood in Rhineland. It is glamorous, but with the glamour of Ariel--a spirit of good--the spirit of Shakespeare. It is tender and beautiful as Jean Paul; deep, sweet, unutterably. Methinks it paints this:-- "Oh sea! that lately raged and roared-- Art now unruffled by a breath?-- So shall it be, thou Mighty Teacher, With us--after Death." And this:-- "And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars." And this:-- "When summer's hourly mellowing change May breathe with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat That ripple round the lovely grange." And this--with peculiar propriety:-- "Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings and waft him o'er. So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead Through prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on thy dewy decks. Sphere all your lights around, above, Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love." (Note especially the truly seraphic ineffability of the passage in G flat). It is such music as might have accompanied Him who made the storm his mere mantle, and the raging sea the mere pathway of power; of Him who had the right of all men to say--out of whose mouth the word sounded fullest--Peace! SYMPHONY IN C MINOR, NO. 5, OP. 67. Beethoven might well write an Heroic Symphony, for the very soul of his symphonies is heroism. He _named_ one "heroic," but he _wrote_ many, including the sonatas, which are unfortunately limited to the piano, whose powers they utterly transcend. Heroism is the soul, and antagonism the substance, through which heroism ultimately fights its way. Beethoven is the Hercules of music (Hercules was in some sort also the Pagan Christ), undertaking labours for men's emancipation and help; beating Hydros down; conquering all sorts of opposition--unconquerable except by love; and, like the antique hero, alas! with an end as tragic. Such comparisons we are obliged to have recourse to, to explain Beethoven's music--its might and significance. "What, then, does this eternal conflict, and victorious heroism storming through, mean?" Ah! how they still paint the conflict of rule and anarchy, of the intellect and reason, of passion and prejudice! Man is called the microcosm of nature, and music is the microcosm of man; _his_ antagonism and heroism, internal as well as external, are herein mirrored. Music is the highest art; because the most spiritual, infinite, self-existent (creating, not copying), and comprehensive. No statue, picture, or pile, can compare with the power of a symphony--which, indeed, all but rivals that of nature herself, of the great world and starry heavens; the secret of whose power is also the Infinite, with its whispered promise--its soul--Immortality. Art is the shadowing forth of the infinite: music does this most, and Beethoven's is most music. Music, as we said, is the microcosm of man. As the world is comprised in him--alone realized _by_ him, and therefore in some sort alone existent _in_ him, so are his nature and history comprised in music--his depths and heights, beauties and deformities, aspirations and passions, circumstances and powers. It is the "might, majesty, and dominion," inarticulateness, _profound_ beauty--as it were searching flower-cups with star-beams: the effluence of a soul deep as heaven (beyond the other side of earth)--of man (not "_etwas_," of a man) that Beethoven shadows forth. That one, also, who struggled in the womb--what was he but a type of man in the all-comprising womb of nature? And this, also, Beethoven's music suggests; not least the music of this stupendous symphony--only another "Eroica," and greater, without the name (better so). _More suo_, Beethoven himself flashed a meaning more or less on it. "So knocketh Fate at the portal;" yes! with the portentousness of the "knocking at the gate" (see Lamb's remarks), in "Macbeth;" yes! fate in the form of duty. And truly, what higher subject--subject dear to the ancients as they are called--subject constantly treated in his own inspired way (Nature's), by Shakespeare--could be chosen? And Beethoven has rivalled Aiskulos and Shakespeare. Here is battle! here is victory!--here, too, the air seems almost oppressive with love and doom; and here, too, in the background, and from the deepest deeps, are wreaths and similes of celestial beauty. "Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." Another thing the first movement suggests is, that it is the greatest of "_Dies Iræ_." That passage, especially on the second page of the second part, where one half the orchestra answers the other with the same terrific unisons-- [Music] (_en passant_, did ever reiteration play such a part?), prompts the wildest fancies. We think of "The glooms of hell Echoed with thunder, while the angels wailed;" or again, echoes of deserted hell on the day of doom--the fiends summoned to the judgment-seat. But let us recur to Beethoven's more human suggestion. Fate knocketh in the form of Duty; Promethean free-will, human passion, rebels and struggles for a time, but at last yields; and heroic resolve is triumphant--heroic love. For, "Ach!" methinks these terrible blows are indeed those of Fate; but also those, viz., which nailed Heroic Love (comprehend both words) to the cross--heroic love that made even "Destiny coincide with Choice;" --that from the horrible instrument of torture and death itself, cried, "Father! forgive them, for they know not what they do;" and in the midst of the greatest of struggles and temptations (viz., with himself), wrestled and conquered, and cried, "Not my will (the local), but Thine (the universal) be done."--Such is the colossal difference between the pictures of Christ submitting, and Prometheus cursing the gods. It is a remarkable fact, that this symphony is so great--indeed, the greatest; and yet, it is a fact fundamentally, instructively natural; for, not premeditating it beforehand, Beethoven sat down to write about the greatest thinkable subject out of his inmost own heart--nay, as it were, with his own heart's blood. Another remarkable fact is, that the so much abused public soon realized that this symphony was the greatest. This symphony paints Beethoven's life--especially inner life--which "life" properly means. Here we see genius struggling with fate, in which his life was sunk (like every life); wherewith our little life is rounded, as with a sleep. Fate! What had it done for Beethoven? What does it mean? In the first place--mysteriously great fact--Fate had from the outset given him her own answer, had put into his hands _the_ weapon for defeating her, viz., Genius. Armed with this, he can bide his time, and take all the drawbacks _plus_; especially as with him genius implies, what, properly, it always implies, Valour--or, in the valuable Latin double-sense or many-sense of the word, Virtue. The drawbacks--disagreeables, obstacles, from drunken father, aye, and own character, downward--in no wise fail to come. Amongst the gravest are the physical, deafness; one mixed, unsatisfied heart; and one spiritual, unsatisfied soul--all sunk in the adamantine environment of Fate. But then, as observed, Fate equips her adversary for the battle. And mark how Beethoven quits himself in the encounter. In early morning, in the burden and heat of the day, and by declining sun, he--like every true man, (like the Son of Man, or Brother of Man)--fights Fate with his life; makes his _life_ answer doubts; and queries; and despair, the crucial questions which Fate forces on him. It is in this sense Emerson's saying applies. Beethoven thus answered questions he was not conscious enough to put; as, on the other hand, he also put questions he had not the power to answer--like the nineteenth century itself--questions which the twenty-ninth will probably be seeking a solution for. When Fate buffeted Beethoven at home (bitter mockery!), he worked in the direction, and with the instrument, which nature gave him; when she appeared as grim _Vièrge de Fer_, commanding him to earn his bread, he worked; when she appeared (more cruelly) as syren (mocking him), he worked (not went away and rioted); when--the most unkind cut of all--she made him deaf (him, Beethoven the grandest representation of man for the constituency, Music), he worked harder than ever; and all through the time, down to the end, _when_ he could not, _though_ he could not, satisfy the most irrepressible and unsatisfiable of all inquirers, his own unsettled soul--incapable of _grasping_ eternity, _knowing_ it must exist; incapable of _proving_ immortality, feeling it is the very breath of life and beauty, and must be--from first to last, he worked. For this, he could dispense with going to hear Immanuel Kant; though, assuredly, their understanding of the "Categorical Imperative" was one, viz., Conscience(?). "Two things strike me dumb,--the heavens by night, and the moral law in man." Let Fate knock as she may,--unannounced, her loudest, long-sustained--as in these portentous notes (was ever chord of the dim. 7th so treated--so inspiredly?):-- [Music] in these notes--whose indefinite dwelling seems to say, "I pause for a reply." Fate confronts man--a being _repleto di virtù_; a being bound by will, but with an unique sense of freewill: here she meets consciousness-and-conscience. Her blows are hard; but "a soft answer (the _p_ ensuing) turneth away wrath"--Beethoven turns her blows (_her_ blows) into beauty. I am also here struck by the reflection, that we may consider these as the blows of death (_cum æquo pede_)--_that_ form of fate; and they are answered by the soft whisper--"immortality." This soft whisper rises into storm-loudness, at its grandest (further on), that is, where man cries, "Aye, and though personal immortality be a vain dream, I will be immortal here, and thus answer thee, thou bug-bear, Death! Suffice it for me to be here great and good!" Mark especially, somewhat further on, after the stormy passage, the strain in the major (E flat). I have no words for its beauty (especially if played _andante_); it is like star-dew fallen into the bosom of a lily. Or, again, "deep answering unto deep," he rises and strikes her back with power. Every depth into which her blows fell him, only confers on this Antæus new power. Though o'er him, in the words of the Greek Beethoven (Aiskulos--in the Greek Macbeth, Agamemnon)-- "Billow-like, woe rolls on woe, In the light of heaven," they "Cannot bring him wholly under, more Than loud south-westerns, rolling ridge on ridge, The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs For ever;" --to use our own poet's magnificent image--(type, as here applied, of character; or of immortality--the eternal hope of it in man). Such we figure the conduct of this Titan in the stupendous conflict--Titan, who made the very gods tremble:-- "FIALTE.--La nome; e fece le gran prove, Quando i giganti fer paura ai Dei."-- He conquers, because "Soleva la lancia D'Achille e del suo padre esser cagione Prima di triste e poi di buona mancia," to quote the _Italian_ Beethoven; the spear of Achilles, and his father, heals its wounds. The cruel blows of Fate and Temptation (to error and despair) are resisted, cured, and beaten, as before said, by her own gift, or by herself, in the form of character and genius. In the light of the higher reading before-mentioned, Fate, under the terrible but divine form of duty (divine necessity), knocks at man's heart, and bids it open; but that being human-- "Frailty, thy name is Man,"-- hesitates, protests, rebels, in all the strength of selfish passion, of full-armed nature. As before thrown out, the grand lesson (whatever dialect man may speak or think), the tremendous spectacle, is in the Garden of Gethsemane and in Golgotha. Thither we must repair, if we would realize the force of this idea--of this music. In the light of morning we have once again played it (_gewiss_ not like a Rubinstein), and find our words no whit too strong (after orchestral performance one is simply overpowered). We are struck with the impression that it is the most dramatic work, not only in music, but human performance (no painting, even, can so evoke all the feelings of the Cross); and we would use the higher imaginings we have to give our brother musicians an idea of the true greatness, the sacred grandeur, of their art: it knows no rival but poetry. Let us, then, with a final glance at that stupendous drama, close. Fate, in the thunder-pregnant darkness, over all the cypress-bowers and cedar-glooms, "commends" the fearful chalice to the lips. Ensues the highest of struggles--godlike; but, finally, with the most immortal of earth's words, Character, the softly invincible heroism of self-sacrificing love, the grandeur of filial submission to the Universal Will, conquers; and a strain of seventh-heaven triumph bears away the words--"FATHER, not my will, but Thine be done!" It is the same in the fell scene of Golgotha. As we said, these blows are the nails driven home; _but they cannot nail down the spirit_; and the spouting blood is a fountain of glory; the cross by magic, made the highest symbol of men. Fate may do her worst now--from without or within; temptation was trampled under foot; and, lo! Fate is conquered!--or rather, one with apotheosis and immortality. THE ANDANTE. I recollect reading, some one exclaimed, in natural rapture on hearing this andante of andantes (the only rival of the sonata theme in A flat--?) "Oh! what must that man have felt who wrote this!" Yes; felt when he wrote it, and all through life. What inner life was not his! "It comes before me," as the Germans say, that this movement should be played before the distant sea, in the westering sun of a summer's day. Methinks, on its heavenliest of dreams, in view of that suggested sea of immortality, Beethoven's own spirit might pass away; had a sanctioned longing so to do; not in misanthropic disgust (nothing Byronic, _à la_ Manfred) but at peace--with all, all. This is the celestial _Nunc Dimittis_: the life and worship, including work, in the temple--this infinite--is over; the Messiah is come; higher life dawns upon men--therefore, "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!" It is impossible to express, only possible in some sort to feel, the unfathomable peace shadowed forth in this music. Or, again, it is a _Kinderscene_, greater than any of any Schumann. As for "Songs without words," they are tinsel to it. Here is a reverie by one of the highest, dearest, of men, from the summit where he first sees his shadow slope towards the grave, back into the holy dreamland of childhood. Here is its mystic infinitude reflected and shadowed forth by a heart that almost dies in the process for yearning and love. _Dies heisst Sehnsucht, dies Liebe!_ If Shakespeare, in his marvellous serenity, implies all the storms fought out beforehand (a description difficult to mend); here we have, at least, "the Peace of God which passeth understanding" (is superior to--as Goethe reads it--as well as, baffles), when they _have_ been fought out by the man, the sight of whom struggling with adversity (inner as well as outer, faults of character as well as blows of fate) benefits the gods. Here we have a spirit sunk in such peace as Petrarch's departed Laura speaks of-- "Mio ben non cape in intelletto umano"-- in the sphere Mamiani's "Ithuriel" describes, where there reigns an eternal "Santa armonia di voglie e di pensieri"-- sacred harmony of thought and will--which is the eternal desideratum, which so few men have, even the greater ones; sphere wherein our Beethoven himself, that "Anima alpestre," storm-tossed soul, buffeted spirit, out of harmony with himself and others, did not most reside (Shakespeare, on the contrary, did--seemed a _native_ of it, nay, dwelling _in_ it, and speaking _thence_ of the tragedies and annoys of earth); but of whose profoundest heart in compensation he knew the deepest secret, in whose bosom's centre he nestled (in his happy hours), repairing thither from the disgusts and battles of the world, or expatiating in the blessed hope of everlasting life, after the raging conflict of doubts and queries, to whose inmost holy of holies he penetrated, and was welcomed; he, the wayward child--to extend the idea--leaving all his toys, and running in a passion of sobs to the Eternal Bosom, with a more peculiar smile than that other who dwelt for ever in its courts, or lingered round his mother's (the Madonna's) knee; for Mozart I fancy the Mother's favourite, Beethoven the Father's; o'er Mozart's music one would inscribe this-- "Madre, fonte d'amore Ove ogni odio s'ammorza Che su dal ciel tanta dolcezza stille," but over Beethoven's-- "Ma sovra Olimpo ed Ossa Trona il gran Giove." Here, in this andante of andantes, we have, as in the bosom of spring after the storms of winter--as over cerulean seas in a southern clime after them,--that effluence, which is like the satisfaction of a good conscience; that breath which went up from the dominated ocean, when One said--"Be Still!" THE ALLEGRO. "_Quando Giove fu arcanamente giusto._" "_Ich glaube, nur Gott versteht unser Musik._" These two mottoes, from Dante and Jean Paul, give some sort of expression to the feelings excited by this music--music which makes rather premature that offer of a premium for a new epithet, at Symphony, No. 2. And yet it is distinctly the same Beethoven here, only full grown; not only serpent-strangling, but hydra-killing and labour-doing Hercules. Jove, left for ever the society of the nymphs, and speaking from the central throne, _orcanamente giusto_. One is certain, Beethoven himself could not have _explained_ this music; there is such a mysterious pregnancy in it, such a holy ominousness (if not played too fast), such a shadowy sorrow, such other-world tones of pathos and resolution and triumph. This is a message the prophet does not dream of daring to try and comprehend; an utterance which oracle itself would never attempt to explain. This is the sort of music Jean Paul alluded to, when he declared that it was above our own understanding, clear only to the Divine. This is the sort of music which might illustrate his sublime utterance, "Women are beautiful, because they suffer so much." Here (once more), we have the Invisible Host chaunting in almost appalling mournfulness round the cross, or the tomb--"It is over; it is over. The Man of Sorrows, and acquainted with grief! Thus have they 'done to death' their Highest among them!" But then-- [Music] ensues such high retrospect and encouragement-- "Love bears it out even to the end of doom;" then such angelic clamour of triumph--"O grave, where is thy victory! O death, where is thy sting?" This, too, is a walk "over the field of battle by night" (Marx, _re_ the Funeral March, _Eroica_); but it is another battle-field than a Napoleonic one--the world is the field, and Heroic Love has gone down on it, like a cloven star at sea. The world is the field, and the highest and the lowest in us doing battle therein, amidst heaps of slain. Poor humanity! It has been a fearful conflict. What do we not deplore? But, lo! as the infernal volumes roll sluggishly away, as though loth to quit the hateful banquet, high above all an unspeakable orb shines through, the orb of promise and peace. "Ach!" poor man, there is enough, indeed, to root pessimism in thee; evil seems to have nestled in every pore; life seems to try how hard she can make it to live; thou thyself shudderest at thy self; art tortured by appetites, goaded by passions, infested by thoughts, distracted by doubts, almost driven to despair. But, no! do _not_ despair. Progress is slow, but sure. All is justified at last; and higher life lightens in the dawn. Nay, even if thy dearest hope be a dream--that word too great for any mouth, Immortality--be good (great and strong) _here; that_, if not so happy, is a still higher immortality-- "Then what could death do, if thou should'st depart, Leaving thee living in posterity?" In such a sea of thoughts--such a thousand-path'd forest--does Beethoven's music plunge us; such a branching piece of the Infinite is it. For the rest, apart from ideas and images, the mere notes have an eternal self-charm. Who fore-ordered this collocation and sequence? Who suggested these harmonious mysteries? How minor and major here phrase and fall together! Never did they do so before; rarely will they do so again. Beethoven was a divine kaleidoscope in a divine hand. * * * * * The _fugato_ page takes us into another order of ideas. Here it would almost seem as though tragedy, which threatened to take entire possession of the spirits, were shaken off, and cheerful activity resumed. Here we seem to have the chase, or a military _festival_, or the resolute alacrity which precedes a patriotic war. The climax, those _klingende_ concords, in C _alt._, are very fresh and brilliant; and the imitation is a very interesting characteristic bit of Beethoven (proof amongst many that he studied Handel, if he studied anybody); nevertheless, though the resumption of the original inspired motive is simply grand (peculiar to Beethoven), a slightly uncomfortable feeling is occasioned by this music, in juxtaposition with its predecessor. A certain violence seems done to us; we feel "Is not this rather an incongruous intercalation?" Contrast it certainly is, and excellent in itself; but, had it not been better to have left it out altogether? nay, to have been content with the wonderful allegro as it stood--in those continent bars sublime, and not to be eclipsed. Are we not here too suddenly transported from sub-tropical to temperate zone; or, rather, from some undiscovered inter-world, where is the highest discourse on the "Issues of Life and Death" to every-day life? In any case, the music is curiously lighter than the preceding; nay, almost suggests the thought that Beethoven might have here made use of a more youthful idea. And, in strict justice, we must say, it is below the level--if not, indeed, unworthy of, incompatible with, this stupendous symphony. In one word, it does not seem to exist of inner necessity (the eternal test), like its marvellous predecessor: it was written, but not inspired. THE FINALE. [Music] This, rather than, as Marx says, the last movement of Symphony No. 2, might be designated the finale of finales (?)--"The most sublime chaunt of triumph ever pealed forth by an orchestra." _Multum in parvo_ I have put a mark against the D, because that one touch (of nature) makes all the difference; nay, I had almost said, stamps the passage. Substitute a B, and the emphasis is lost, together with the originality. Nevertheless, the movement is hardly of equal value throughout; it has its "worser half;" and is also, unfortunately, too long. As in so many other cases, ideas are repeated, repeated already. But this is not the worst; the worst is, that the overwhelming effect of the stupendous burst is seriously impaired. It should have "Smitten once, to smite no more." This terrible "elaboration," so superfluously "necessary"; such a fancied _sine quâ non_! Here, we must seriously repeat the protest against the conventional custom; nay, almost raise the question, whether it is not rather a reproach to Beethoven (the original) that he did not get out of this thoughtless old groove. Here, the idea did not extrude the form, but rather _con_formed to it; was, as it were, poured into the traditional mould. But the form should be the eventuation of the idea, of the germ-soul ("_pensiero di Dio_"), as in a living organism (tree, _e.g._, or man).[A] With regard to the "worser half" we ventured to speak of, it is simply, as in so many cases, even in Beethoven himself, and notably (as we have so often felt) in the _Lieder ohne Worte_; there, very rarely is the second motive equal to the first; the first _was motive_--the "germ-soul," inner necessity of the piece, _perforce_ giving birth to it; the second was factitious. In the present case, does not this subject-- [Music] seem really trifling (nay, almost jiggy) by the side of the grand opening, so broad and victorious? We are rather reminded of that traditional movement, whose ambling hilarity is our special horror, viz., the Rondo--we hope by now decently dead and buried; nay, we think, too, of the Sonata in G (Op. 31). This unlucky subject seems to us as unworthy its glorious predecessor as the last movement of that sonata is unworthy of the first--that burst of inspiration, like water from the rock, rolling on into broad _Symphonische Dichtung_. (In the course of the present _motiv_, consecutive octaves are prominent). A little further on--one bar and a half, true Beethoven, is worth a page of such undignified _Tonspiel_. It is one of those bars which convey a "shock of delight" whenever they catch the musician's eye-- [Music] [A] Neither can we but regret the re-introduction of the "allegro" subject; that sublime idea had already done its true work (as we feel), and there only remained to break into one overwhelming burst of triumph, and then an end. Few pleasures could be more elegant than to extend such an idea _ad lib._ as an andante on the organ. (We can imagine its effect as a prelude in some old rural church--say on a mellow Sunday afternoon). Another notable point is, the "grinding out" (long before Berlioz) of the minor second against the tonic; an effect of extraordinary resolution and power-- [Music] eloquently expressive, indeed, of a determination to bear it out against the shocks of doom. In this and other traits, we have the true Beethoven--such spiritual energy as (except in Handel, and with him it was less human) had not yet been dreamt of; such suffering in strife, and yet such glorying in it; such temptations in the wilderness (of his own heart, as well as elsewhere); such final victorious success! And, here we are brought back into our old more genial vein and strain; we forget the spots on the sun, and lose ourselves in his overpowering effulgence. This "_erhabensten Triumphgesang_" is, to us, that of resurrection; when the ponderous lid was burst from within with light, which at once--so the great fancy expatiates--redoubled the splendour of day all over the world. Handel's selected words--nay, and very remarkably, the great flash-of-chorus itself (one could, indeed, imagine it as having suggested Beethoven's, they are so much alike)--come into the mind,-- "By Man came also the Resurrection of the Dead." [Music] And these-- "LA RISURREZIONE." "Viva l'eterno Dio: sconfilto e vinto D'Averno il crudo regnator sen giace: L'empio pur sente il fiero braccio avvinte. E l'aspra morte abbassa it ciglio, e tace. Cade all'uom la catena onde fu cinto Per fallo antico di pensiero audace: Iddio, dell'nom vendicatore ha vinto! Il ciel canta vittoria, e annunzia pace. Io veggo gia sovra l'eterea mole Erger di Croce trionfale insegna, Primo terror d'ogni tartarea trama. E veggo in alto soglio il sommo Sole, Che a regnare in eterno ov'egli regna I redenti mortali aspetta, e chiama." In Teutonic language, which finds in the highest imaginings only the symbol and apotheosis of human worth and endeavour; which believes, indeed, that by man came and comes the resurrection from the dead; and which regards that life as the most priceless page in human history, to be for ever applied and interpreted by sympathy at will; and first becoming truly divine when we regard it as truly human--in Teutonic thought and dialect, we will conclude with this eloquent and intrinsic application to the greatest of Beethoven's symphonies:--"Nohl names the work the musical Faust of the moral will and its conflicts; a work whose progress shows that there is something greater than Fate, namely, Man, who, descending into the abysses of his own self, fetches counsel and power wherewith to battle with life; and then, re-inforced through his conviction of indestructible oneness with the god-like, celebrates, with dythyrambic victory, the triumph of the eternal Good, and of his own inner Freedom." THE PASTORAL SYMPHONY, NO. VI, OP. 68. "Here (in Heiligenstadt, near Vienna, in the summer of 1808, lying by the brook with nut-trees, listening to the birds singing), I wrote the 'Scene by the Brook,' and the goldhammers there up above me, the quails and cuckoos round about me, helped compose."--Beethoven to Schindler. These last words throw a light on the oft-abused passage where the birds are imitated. We should not judge a Beethoven hastily--especially not assign to his action low grounds. We here see that the passage was not introduced in mere material imitation, but rather as a genial tribute and record; _so_ the passage becomes beautiful, and the opposite of superficial. Emerson says, "Yon swallow weaving his straw into his nest should weave it into my poem." No doubt, in the savage--in his passionate love of freedom and roaming--we already find the germ of the poetic love of nature; and some two thousand years ago we find such sublime celebration as this (and what ages of evolution does it imply!)-- "As when in heaven the stars about the morn Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, And every height comes out and jutting peak And valley, and the immeasurable heavens Break open to their highest."--Iliad (Tennyson). "A rock-wall'd glen, water'd by a streamlet, And shadowed o'er with pines."--Euripides (Milman). "Yon starry conclave Those glorious dynasts of the sky, that bear Winter and summer round to mortal man." --Aiskulos (Idem). "Smooth lies the surface of the purple seas, Nor curl'd, nor whiten'd, by the gentle breeze; No more, hoarse dashing from the breakers steep, The heavy waves recoil into the deep; The zephyrs breathe, the murm'ring swallow weaves Her straw-built chamber 'neath the shadowy eaves." --Agathias (Idem). And yesterday, was written-- "Vesuvius wears his brilliant plume Above a sun-lit dome of snow; And darkly thro' the illumin'd gloom Extends his mighty base below: On Mount St. Angelo's ponderous crest, And in his furrows, snow, too, sleeps; Great glitt'ring clouds are piled o'er that: All rises out of glamourous deeps; For, glinting up, thro' olive bowers, And many an arm-outstretching tree, Is the sun-tipt, early-winter-morning, Slumberous, breathing sea." In the sister arts--sister graces--painting and music, down to Turner and the Turner of music, Beethoven (he also would have given us the Python slaying Apollo, and the going home of the Teméraire, the Plague of Darkness, Æneas leaving Carthage, and Italy, Ancient and Modern: Schumann, too, is very Turner-like, perhaps more so, has more of that mystical glamour--Beethoven, like Rembrandt, only ideal); in the sister arts, Nature could not fail to be celebrated, or rather let us say ideally reproduced, and even transfigured, through the geniuses of these arts, her eldest children--nay, herself (made man). In Beethoven, then--a tone-poet, German, and _born on the Rhine_, at, perhaps, its grandest part--as we might expect, this worship and celebration of nature, this apotheosis in tone, culminates. Her sweetness and her grandeur, coloured, too, by his own Beethoven-soul, are by him sublimely revealed--in many a page and passage dear to the sympathetic knower. It was, then, impossible that Beethoven should _not_ write (betitled or not) a Pastoral Symphony; and this, if only as one manifestation of his (like nature) many-sidedness. Moreover, though the Greek poesy reads as fresh as if written yesterday, nevertheless nature-worship, such as we understand it--an overpowering sense of her mysticism, a rapturous _losing_ of ourselves in her--seems a thing not only specially Teutonic and modern, but modern even among the Teutonic peoples themselves, dating after the Reformation; and, indeed, almost as though nature-worship was to supply the place of religion (in the narrow sense, worship of an anthropomorphic maker of nature), rapture in her to supply the place of religious rapture, no longer possible; if so, a beautiful ordinance! Hence, then, if we go a little way below the surface, the present masterpiece, Beethoven's universally favourite (though far from greatest, indeed, the Symphony in D is superior--much more powerful, especially the first movement, and at least equally fresh) "Pastoral Symphony." It does not, indeed (at least the opening allegro), celebrate that peculiar, that sacred sentiment we have been speaking of; it does not utter the unutterable, but it is a true and lovely nature-poem nevertheless, worthy of all acceptation; without it the splendid series of symphonies would have been incomplete. Let us approach it. What STRIKES us in this "household-word" work, especially in the first movement, is its significant simplicity. It is wonderful, as revealing to us how _profoundly_ simple a great man can be, and is; sublime in that, as well as in his opulence and power; indeed, simplicity is an inevitable concomitant and _sine quâ non_ of power; even in a Napoleon, let alone a Shakespeare, a Newton, and a Beethoven. So simple is the allegro, that it almost seems studiously so--almost as though Beethoven thereby wished to convey a reproach, at least a monition, to the artificial, and said, "Thus I hold the mirror up to Nature!" Musically, the piece (as it has always seemed to us) rather suffers by this. The ideas are more than usually re-repeated; and, remarkably, reiterations (though perhaps there was a psychological reason for this in the soul of Beethoven, as instinctively expressive, over and over again, of the one great joy he felt, or as saying--"After all, the essence and compelling spirit of this great Nature is one"). Moreover, the ideas, though in themselves beautifully pure and characteristic, seem almost _too_ simple, nay we had almost said languid, for they rather suggest to us the gratification of a convalescent than of a passionately profound (aye, and profoundly passionate) lover of nature, such as all Germans are, such as Schumann intensely was, and such as Beethoven must have exceptionally been. (Brendel says, Haydn's love of nature, as revealed in his music, was that of her very child, unconscious; Beethoven's, that of a town-dweller, conscious. But to this I would reply, town-dweller by compulsion). On the other hand, if Beethoven wished to enter a protest against _Schwärmerei_, for nature, none could be more effective than this movement. But nature ever was and remains mystic, and no celebration of her, above all by a Beethoven, can satisfy us which does not shadow forth, is not overpowered by, a sense of this--sense peculiar to this latter age; more so, even, than the similar companion-sense of love. Love without _Schwärmerei_ were not love; no more is love of nature. For these profounder realizations of nature, "glances into the deepest deeps of beauty," (Carlyle, on the remark about "the lilies of the field") reflected adumbrations of her wizardry, a sense of her intoxicating aroma, the ecstasy in her bosom, that mesmerizing infinitude of hers, we must look to Beethoven's sonatas, or other portions of his symphonies; and to such music as Schumann's; hardly in his Pastoral Symphony (except somewhat in the andante); more in his Pastoral Sonata--_that_ first movement is _profound_, as well as richer. There we see the poet-philosopher, nay, high-priest of nature; and the movement, four-square, almost perfect, is one of the masterpieces, and most precious legacies of Nature's Eldest Child. In the present movement we have peaceful pleasure, but not rapture, if even joy, or delight (in the Sonata Pastorale we have contemplative joy)--though Beethoven may possibly have expressly chastened the expression of feeling, as being, so, more "pastoral." Be that as it may, here we have sweetness rather than power (except, indeed, behind all); nay, rather the gratification of an habitual dweller in the country (and he no longer a young man), than the burst of rapture we might have expected from a lover of nature only just let loose from town. However, Beethoven _has_ written over the movements--"_Awakening_ of cheerful emotions on arrival in the country." He further said, the symphony was feeling rather than painting. This is a matter of course from a Beethoven; and note, it is a Beethoven's feelings that are depicted. What we have in the work is Nature _plus_ Beethoven--nature photographed after passing through him, and so becoming idealised. We have, however, both scene-painting and soul-painting through the emotions here excited and described; we see also the landscape which to a great extent occasioned them; (thus, this, like Goethe's, is an occasional poem). It is a truly pastoral district; quiet, sunny scenery, with a scent of the earliest hay; but nature in her splendour, with, say, in the distance, the great sea; nature, a blaze of flowers embosomed in hills, as in our own beautiful England in May; let alone nature in spring, with her background of Alps and Appenines. Nature, whose greatest hint--the secret of whose greatest power is, Immortality; a promise of that is hardly here celebrated; or, rather, that hint is not, for it is in every landscape:--"I, too, have looked upon the hills in their hazy veil, but their greatest charm, to me, was their promise." Neither, in spite of Elterlein's charming allusion, have we the scenery where, or the time when (_soust_) as Goethe so truly, sublimely expresses it (in two of his most inspired lines)-- "_Stürzte_ sich der Himmelsliebe Kuss Auf mich herab in ernsber Sabbath stille." When Beethoven wrote this music he had not in mind his revered Shakespeare's magnificent-- "Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heaving alchemy." This, rather, the immortal Symphony in A suggests; or such lines as these:-- "My other mighty passion was for thee, Thou glimmering, glamouring, manifestation of God! Unspeakable Nature, with thy distant sea, Wave-framing hills, dim woods, and flowery sod; My haziest, sweetest memories, are of you, Where inland-county beauty guards its stream; Oh! 'violet' memory 'dim' with _my_ tears' dew; Oh! shadowy pausing, touch'd with earliest beam; And sea-side recollections stir my heart, The calm's majestic cheerfulness, the storm, The bluff that through the vapours seem'd to start, A thousand miracles of tint and form; And ever as I yearn'd on wave and hill, The unconscious secret was thy Promise still." The "Scene by the Brook"-- "I draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river; Men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever." (exquisite image of immortality bearing along mortality)--is richer in significance. There, indeed, we do get some of those deep glimpses, far glances (and tender ones into flower-cups)--those unspeakable hints (note especially, as usual, the passage in the extra-poetic key of G flat; where, however, also as usual, Beethoven lingers too little; indeed, even he seems rather to _deviate_ into such keys, and to be afraid of dwelling in them). We see Beethoven, the colossally _un_happy soul, here at least happy, nay, blessed; lapped in flowers; caressed by the stream; soothed and tended by all the "angels and ministers of grace" of nature; while the everlasting heaven pronounces its benediction over him. For our own part, we are specially affected, because we call to mind a brook where we also were wont to be happy. But, it was not in quiet scenery, but in a Swiss mountain-valley; the brook came from heaven, and coursed through pine-woods and pastures into a stupendously beautiful lake, the shadows of whose mighty guardian Alps are reflected also in the Moonlight Sonata; while, afar off, as it were in colossal admonition, towered those eternal reminders, the peaks of the Bernese Oberland. The Scherzo has always seemed to us an inspiration--as much as the storm; so original and powerful, so tuneful in its picturesque, spontaneous gaiety. It is Beethoven at his genialist. The sublimity of the storm may speak for itself: I will only remark, in reply to the German Hume, who rather cavils and carps, and is no Beethoven-worshipper (but Mozart), and says "the cause for such a very loud storm is too trifling"--that the storm _also_ perchance broke over crowned heads and the fate of empires (Napoleon died in a storm, and so, just as curiously characteristic, did Beethoven). Storms do, too, come up in the brightest summer day (without or within us); and, in short, though the criticism is truly philosophical, that it should be left doubtful whether the storm was a physical or moral one--of nature or human nature--Beethoven, as ever, is entitled to a genial interpretation, a liberal application. In the meanwhile, _as_ a storm--storm of music, as well as musical storm--it is as grand as original; shaking us with the fullness of those sublime emotions of the natural storm (and surely our German Hume would not disparage these!), and its introduction is a happy felicity. _Beethoven's_ "Lobgesang," which concludes the work, is very noble in its unstudied beauty, expressing "pious and grateful feelings" by unsophisticated men after storm. The treatment of the greatly-simple theme is a masterpiece and model. Here is Wagner anticipated, but not spoilt! To sum up: the first movement, very exceptionally, is the weakest of all; and the whole work, though a treasure of its own, coming from Beethoven, revealing him as singularly loveable, is in no way so surpassing as to preclude the attempt by a follower also to compose a Pastoral Symphony. We conclude with Herr Elterlein's summary of the work--very charming, although he finds in the allegro considerably more than we do. "A refreshing morning breeze greets us; we have left behind the crowds and walls of the town. We are in the mood of Faust, on the sunny Easter spring morning. At first we are in silent rapture, the climax is not yet reached, Nature's myriad living voices do not at once re-echo in our inmost spirit. The farther we wander, the more natural beauties open up and greet us, the more multifarious becomes the scene. In proportion as the variety becomes richer, and the impression of this divine beauty--(_Gottesnatur_--German ought to be _known by every musician_, and read in the original, because their pregnant, often pantheistic, shades of expression, become lost in English; or, if 'transcribed,' are 'not English')--deeper, the more our rapture swells to utmost joy. Now, we perfectly revel (_schwelgen ganz_) in the full feast; entirely abandon ourselves to the impressions of absolute Nature; completely at one with ourselves, in this kingdom, we feel ourselves at one with her. "We have now reached the acmé of enthusiasm; our soul trembles in silent ecstasy; involuntarily the desire awakes in us, after expatiating in the universal beauty of Nature, to contemplate and enjoy her still life and operations in intimate communion. "Therefore, the scene changes in the second movement. We are transplanted to a peaceful woodland vale, through which a brook babbles. _'Scene am Bach_,' the tone-picture is also called by the master; it is elaborated out in the most thoughtful manner, and displays before us, in the richest, fullest colours, the murmur of the brook, the rustling of the swayed tree-tops, and the song of the birds. At last the brook is still, the trees rustle no more; we have already once said farewell to the soft babbling that long kept us spell-bound--quail, cuckoo, and nightingale are alone still heard.--(Beautifully imagined!) as it were, also saying 'farewell' to the sympathetic wanderer up the vale; who, only another human form of them, had stayed so long with them, loving them like their brother, enchanted by their song--enchanted in Nature's bosom. This way of putting it (of receiving it) is only another proof of the non-materialism, non-superficialism, nay, of the beauty of this passage (withal, quite brief--_only introduced at the end_); and a proof of the value and necessity of sympathetic audition of a Beethoven's works. (Only a poet--never Dryasdust--can rightly criticise a poet). "In the third movement the scene is again changed. We find ourselves in meadows. The characteristic multiformity of this piece would have told us its meaning, without the master's words. So, too, the storm--those tones full of fearful, dark sublimity. At last, the tempest and its fury cease, only in the distance the thunder still growls; the blue sky again opens up, the evening sun casts its mild light o'er the landscape--(genial thought)--enlivened by shepherds whose shalm now sounds. "The fourth movement, therefore, is dedicated to 'Shepherd's Song,'--'pious and grateful feelings after the storm.' The grateful strains begin softly, then swell ever more and more to topmost joy, pouring forth at their climax an intense, solemn, and yet again such a plain, simple thank-offering to Nature's Creator." SYMPHONY, NO. 7, OP. 92. In this magnificent symphony, the most picturesque of all, Beethoven seemed to have taken a new lease of originality. It is specially instructive and encouraging on that account; and, amongst other evidences, makes us weigh, whether his "third manner" (whereof this may be considered the noble isthmus that joins those continents), was really progress or decay, or a dubious transition step to something higher. However, the work is reckoned among those of his second manner, and so is certainly a potent argument for those who, with enlightened honesty (and not Philistine blindness), feel that Beethoven's second style is, _par excellence_, Beethoven--whether Wagner began or not where Beethoven left off. _Apropos_ of Wagner, does not this "Poco Sostenuto" call to mind that Wizard of the South's famous morçeaux in "Lohengrin," in the same key? Is not the style--nay, the motiv--much the same?-- [Music] There seems something of the same _mysticism_, though Beethoven is not tainted with the morbidness one scents in Wagner; seems, as a whole, broader, nobler, more _natural_, more truly deep; in a word, more healthy, and therefore greater, notwithstanding Wagner's undoubted genius, and still more stupendous energy for which we most envy him. This opening theme has a powerful tranquility about it--like that, say, of some Epaminondas; seems, as it were, an assurance and announcement that Beneficence, at bottom and after all, is paramount in this stupendous paradox and discrepancy called the universe; notwithstanding, it seems to go on to say, the ground-bass of storm, on and over which true heroism will ever ride (_re-entry of the theme ff_); notwithstanding the painfulnesses, which are only subtler proofs and manifestations of self-justified righteousness and power--most sublime in its subtlest judgments--as the private life of every self-strict person knows. Then, a new theme--fragment of the same essential peace--enters; curiously (and beautifully) reminding us of that early, early work of Beethoven's (Oh, Rhine-lad, written _how_ long ago!), the Sonata in C dedicated to Haydn-- [Music] but gaining by being slow. But "action, action, action," which these climbing basses--("And ever climbing up the climbing wave"), "life is painfully real,"--seem to say, soon break in again on this Elysian dream. It re-appears, however, like a heavenly messenger, holding us spell-bound, in a trance or veritable dream, whereof these two conflicting elements form the chief apparitions; conflicting, yet viewed largely, harmonious, like their counterparts in that oneness, Life,--whose painfulnesses are as much a _necessary_ part of it, as discords are of entire music. THE VIVACE. Great pictures--pictures of great action (like the actions themselves)--represent the moral qualities behind. Hence, many a page of music, eminently of Beethoven, may be objectively or subjectively interpreted, or both. It is the usual practice, and a natural one, to regard the "Eroica" symphony as objective, and the C minor as subjective--both illustrating the grand abstract fact, Conflict. The _vivace_ of the A major symphony _strikes_, no less, as objective. There is a ringing cheerfulness about it that suggests no spiritual struggles, psychological battle, but the open air and its beloved objects--by no means excluding the world's great foreground feature, man; rather, pre-eminently presenting and illustrating him, and this from your Beethoven, the intensely subjective soul. Intensely subjective, yes! far more so,--more grandly so,--than your Byron; more _characteristically_ so than Shakespeare; but, nevertheless--nay, therefore--also more truly, nobly objective than the former, kin with the latter (Turner is greater than Rosa). It is impossible to overstate the bright, the exhilarating impression of these tones. Here we at once revel in the outer world, in all the April of its prime, and feel ourselves magically strung up to virile deeds, to face the "rugged Hyrcanian boar"--"to do or die." Here the ringing woodland of feudal times is around us, and all the panoply, pride, pomp, and circumstance of a royal chase. The motto of Stephen Heller's admirable "Chasse" was very apt, which records how the French monarch, plunged in gloom by the death of his beloved, seeks distraction in the chase. Sir Walter--of our erst beloved "Ivanhoe"--comes sweeping through the mind; a rush of joy almost to tears. We see Garth, born thrall of Cedric, and the Jester in the gladed woodland; and there, at the glittering jousts (even more so) the heavenly Rebecca, Rowena, the Hero, and the Knight Templar; Jew and Christian; plumèd knight and lovely dame. This music is Ivanhoe, not forgetting the glamour of the Crusades, with knight and Saracen, and the breath of the Holy Land through it. Here is the chivalry of warriors, who fought for the Cross; in an age--so different from ours--when there was a frenzy of belief (thus we be-soul our objective); here is a phalanx of Bayards _sans peur et sans reproche_, inflamed with passion of hatred and love, _en route_ to storm their way to Calvary. This is the picture to fill our mind with; though we may also think of this glorious music as painting forth the Conqueror William, breaking up the chase to invade Harold's England, as being rock'd over thither on crisp seas in knight-throng'd vessels, gallant with streaming pennon; though we may also think of Ferdinand going out to welcome Columbus (in our copy, at the passage in G minor we have ejaculated, "Our Columbus"--Beethoven!--"has found a New World"), of Cortes and Pizarro invading Mexico (copper-coloured men and tropical scenery we may also conjure up); or, again, of Philip and his pompous Armada--of Elizabeth and English chivalry preparing to greet him. But that picture of the Crusades best suits us. So our nothing-if-not-religious Beethoven, the glorious genius, in the name of music, whose High Priest he was (and whom other great spirits serve), concerned only to pour forth what streamed into him; or rather, concerned only to let it stream through him (for it is certain he did not intentionally celebrate and pourtray all that his mighty music suggests, however the Germans may stamp it as Intellectual Music, _die Musik des Geistes_), so our hardly-entreated, much-bound, but triumphant immortal shadowed forth, on canvas made of air, pictures surpassing Angelo and Raphael--pictures that only a painter-Shakespeare could surpass or rival--pictures that have the material splendour and _éclat_ of a Rubens, the intense originality of a Rembrandt, _plus_ a _soul_ behind and within them, which only higher spirits than they can glimmeringly reveal. We have but to repeat, that these tone-pictures have always a charm _plus_ (or even apart from), viz., that of the tones themselves. Our interpretation of this master-movement is the same as that of Marx Nohl and Elterlein (whom we should _like_ to quote at length). Wagner's idea, genially understood, is also acceptable. That gifted despot "finds in the Symphony the apotheosis of the Dance _der in Tönen idealisch verkörperten Leibesbewegung_." Yes, it is a dance that sings; high dance and song together, as at some Pindar-celebrated Festival of Apollo; nay, of some ideal, some skylark soul of joy, not so much convinced of, as absolute lyrical part of, and one with the All; and threatening to melt for very rapture in its bosom. The Dance!--that is applicable enough, too! What a majestic _pas de deux_ is this ever advancing and retiring Day and Night! What a stately minuet the Four Seasons! The river dances to the sea; the blood (of the lover-poet) dances in the veins; what a wild waltz of elements we have!--galop of the north wind; the very sea as it were dances in prolonged rhythmic sway, "_molto maestoso_," to the all-compelling moon; nay, the moon and stars themselves, with stupendous majesty "keep time" to their "music of the spheres" through space; and the great rhythm of obedience--action and re-action, attraction and repulsion--is the grand universal law. Such are some of the lessons and suggestions of this curiously happy, magnificently pregnant rhythmic movement of Beethoven's; his first great performance in his new lease of originality--great step on the new road to immortality. The motive itself, truly a motive, is as exquisitely tuneful and simple (how great was Beethoven in not straining after effect!) as _grossartig_; and, _en passant_, it has only to be compared for our instruction for one moment with Mendelssohn's "Song without words." "The Chase," in the same key and time, Book I, to show the _striking_ superiority of Beethoven; nay, their generic difference--Mendelssohn was talent, and Beethoven genius. The grandiose breadth, the unstudied inspiration (cause of the former) is essentially, fatally absent in Mendelssohn, say what his fascinated devotees may! It is with him almost all talent and fancy, not oracle and prophecy. He is only a nephew of Beethoven's, Schumann his "well-beloved" son (as Wagner is of Schumann). I should be wrong not to give some of Herr Elterlein's ideas. After citing Wagner's notion, and repudiating it (naturally enough, unless one gives due weight to the word apotheosis, and due interpretation to the word dance), he alludes to (and also rejects as premature) the notion of Alberti, and others, that the symphony is an "announcement of German triumph and enthusiasm at their freedom at length from the French yoke." He then says, "Marx and Nohl seem to us to come nearer the truth, when the former finds embodied in the symphony the life of a southern people, especially of the Moorish race in ancient Spain,"--(picturesquely suggestive this; only does not the key-colouring seem rather too cool? have we not Teutonic brilliance rather than Oriental?)--"and the latter" (Herr Dr. Nohl), "_ritterliche Festpracht_" in general (the festival splendour of chivalry). He continues:--"We also, the more and more profoundly we have entered into this creation, have become clearer convinced, that, as in the "Eroica," we have displayed political heroism, battling and victorious; in the C minor symphony, the moral conflicts and triumphs of man; so in the A major symphony, we behold the manifold life and phenomena (_Lebensströmungen_) of a chivalrous, imaginative, hot-blooded people, in the full enjoyment of their health and power." We fancy one might prefix Goethe's words-- "_Im_ vollgewühl, im lebensregen Drange Vermischte sich die thätige Völkerschaar." ("In lusty swarms, crowds full of life, The deedful peoples intermixed.") "To arms! is now the word--arms and harness; and forwards to the peaceful jousts in the fair land. And now, how all hearts at first lightly thrill! then pulses beat ever higher; the crowds muster; the warrior horsemen curvet and gambol on slender steeds; pennons glitter, armour dazzles, swords flash in the sun; and the motley swarms stream forth pell-mell, not to bloody battle, like the hero-spirits of the "Eroica,"--no, but the peaceful tournament!" The scherzo and finale ("a sort of Bacchus triumph"--?) we shall abstain from discussing (they are of much less intrinsic import than the first two movements); but conclude with a glance at the greatest movement of all (with creditable and instinctive instinct almost always redemanded) the allegretto; first, however, citing two remarkable passages from the finale, worthy the attention of those correspondents of the _Musical Standard_ on "False Notation," especially of that one "whose memory could not serve him whether such a passage occurred in the masters":-- [Music] This repeatedly and persistently occurs; and it would have been gratifying had Beethoven indicated what he meant by it:--"Bacchusfest?"--or something deeper? The other passage is curiously like the one ventured by Dr. Macfarren's criticiser. The venture was no doubt perfectly justifiable--almost everything is allowable in music, for deliberate poetic effect. [Music] Beethoven no doubt did it for the sake of intensity. [P.S.--Since writing the above we have come across a chance remark of Goethe's, which struck us as singularly applicable to this great picturesque symphony. During the campaign in France, he noticed in one of the old German towns, the living contrast of knighthood and monkhood (or chivalry and the cloister, we might say). The suggestive words set us thinking if they might not prompt a symphony; and soon after, we saw that they may be applied, perhaps with curious felicity, to Beethoven's A major. Have we not here, indeed, an epitome of the olden time, with its knights, monks, revels, and all?] THE ALLEGRETTO. This has been well called "the riddle" of the symphony; nor can we altogether accept Herr Elterlein's solution of it, though _geistreich_. He prolongs his fancy, and looks upon this music as a contagious pause and period of melancholy, of pathetic reminiscence in the "hot-blooded southern folk." Imaginative sympathy has a right to its own fancies, and these fancies will ever be more or less true; nevertheless, a more profound, more sacred gloom--mystery of sorrow--is borne in upon us in these unfathomable tones. Here we seem to have the portentous, almost God-accusing, grief of insane love and virtue, in this fate-and-madness-haunted world--of Juliet in the tomb (re-read the tremendous lines)--of the ineffable Ophelia, after outraged princeliness and intellect had lost its reason, and killed Ophelia's own venerable father;--"Ach!" previous to the violent death (her own) of an angel. Or, we might feel here the incipient atheism of a Hamlet himself; wrestling with it, but dreading he wrestles in vain. Later, it is true (the A major melody--"immortal" Berlioz calls it), solace descends from heaven, through the toppling sun-gilt clouds; but it is unavailing (indeed, we rather regret the introduction of this episode? we had liefer be plunged to, and remain in, the heart of this "deeper, and deeper still" of grief): Rachel will not be comforted, in her _sublime_ despair; and the final strains seem those of incurable, illimitable woe. Ah! these are the strains, too, the accents--"Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem! thou that killest the prophets, how often would I have gathered thee as a hen gathereth her chickens and thou wouldst not!" The divine resolution to sacrifice self for all that (the A major motive?) remains even firmer, but the divine sorrow _at_ it remains even deeper and inextinguishable. SYMPHONY NO. 8. OP. 93. Man divides his time chiefly between love (of all sorts) and action. One of his most passionate, as well as purest, loves, is of nature. When the two blend--when at once the lover, and lover of nature, roams in nature, besouling and transfiguring her by love, then is passion at its sweetest, life at its highest. In this opening gush, or burst, of the 8th Symphony (_allegro vivace e con brio_) we seem to have such love. Here is that rapture we missed in the expressly culled Pastoral Symphony--rapture of emancipation, thrill and burst of joy! The great action of the Eroica, and C minor--aye, and of the A major symphonies--here gives place to the pure ecstatic emotion. Here we have indeed the broad breath of the fields; we perfectly revel in the flowery gold; the sweet streams winding there enchant us; the blue mountains sublime us with their great tender reminders; in the divine whole--this "_transcenden Tempel des Frühlings_"--we are ready to fall on our knees for joy. Rural, without doubt, are these opening strains; "escaped into the country"--"love in the country," seems written over them. Later, Alberti's and Elterlein's notion (independent) more obtains; "the symphony represents humour," (chiefly caprice, mood); "the base and character of the work is throughout humouristic." This, however, may well be, and the scene of these caprices still remains the divine country; the lights and shadows and fleecy clouds of the soul amid those of nature. Here we may fancy the scene of a superior Watteau. By running brook and swaying bough, gracious nymph and gallant swain exchange fancies and glances, and sport, and make love. Nay it is indeed like a back-glance of our Beethoven himself into his early years--when the days were bluer, the world broader, by the celestial Rhine yonder, and when he too, in his sweet and awful heart, felt shy unutterable emotions; thrill'd, as though fire had flashed in waves through his veins when _she_ touched his hand--that hand to be so creative. This may be a glance at those days, as the Countess Guicciardini Sonata (most lyric of all, like the passion of an Oriental night) is a burning record of others. In a word, and finally, Beethoven, who was essentially imaginative, has in this pendent to the Fourth Symphony, given himself up to, and given us, fancy; and a gracious present it is, like a handful of pearls, from the master. Not less precious, but more precious, are the smiles and sportive caresses of Hercules--the pleasantries of Jove. Ah! He who challenged the terrors of the cross, and threatened _Dies Irae_, (we must ever recur to Him as our highest type), spoke of the lilies of the field, and gathered to him little children; and more precious, if possible, than his words, or very deeds, were--if He ever had them--his smiles. The query is suggested by this youth-fresh work--did Beethoven write this Opus 93 out of his heart at that age (if so, what a heart!--with styles one and three close together), or did he draw upon fancies of his early years--tone-lyrics of that time? The Allegretto Scherzando, that Ariel-gush ("On a bat's back I do fly") is thus described by the German critic:--"In the second movement we have, especially, naïve joy; nay, at once the child-like innocence and mischievous sport of humour. The first motiv (as is well known) had its origin in a playful canon improvised by Beethoven for the metronome-maker, Maelzel; the whole piece has been praised by many, as the most charming morçeaux of Beethoven's." The Minuet he speaks of as dry humour, the Trio as revealing an inner _Liebesdrange_ (urgent need of and for love)--"such as is ever innate in the true humourist." The Finale seems another piece of "Tempest" music; now grateful as chased or filagree silver, now inly tender, as the soul of Ferdinand and Miranda of course is; now, even with a glance at the "dæmonish." These extraordinary "_Schreckennoten_," now as C sharp, now as D flat--which we were tempted to substitute on the first appearance of the note as C sharp--may furnish another pretty quarrel between the wranglers over "False Notation." They form one of the most original flashes of Beethoven (if not a hint of aberration), and strike us as properly belonging to a profoundly tragic movement, and not to such a one as this; where, indeed, their value seems hardly utilised. Such notes might have been blown as the "Blast of the breath of His displeasure"--before the Hand-writing on the Wall; at the Rending of the Veil 'fore the Holy of Holies; at the dawn of the Day of Doom; though, indeed, this latter also would break upon fairy revels, foambells, and butterflies, as well as wars, earthquakes, and volcanoes. In conclusion, we regret the absence of an Adagio in this genial work. We now turn to the portentous Choral Symphony. THE CHORAL SYMPHONY, OP. 125. A noble poet, on reading certain strophes in a long poem to a friend, remarked that they were experiments. The remark rather jarred, at the time, on the friend's ear, and sunk into his mind. _Apropos_, say what one will about the Choral Symphony, it strikes us as an experiment. The very title seems empiric. What we should understand by a choral symphony would be a symphonically grand chorus blended with a symphony; but this is rather a chorus preceded by a symphony--its opposite, too (though intentionally), in character; in part independent of, in part made up of the themes of the chorus. Now, a similar work--Mendelssohn's "Lobgesang,"--struck us as being likewise an experiment, and not a happy one; the prevailing and overpowering impression was--"Oh! when will the singers begin?" This gigantic preluding of the essential is a distracting postponement, a colossal interruption--difficult to be done justice to by the impatient hearer, even if perfect in itself. But, if perfect _in_ itself, it would be more perfect _by_ itself--(?)--for, as a prelude, it remains subordinate; and this to the symphony is fatally derogatory. Most "experiments" are mistakes in judgment, and these in art. This symphony strikes us as disproportionate as well as incongruous--no less serious musical than statuesque and architectural faults. We feel that it is indeed bound up with, but not one of the others; that it is an appendix. Beethoven himself began, after it, another symphony, whole in itself, like the others. No doubt he was impressed (and rightly) with the feeling that an Ode to Joy demanded a grandiose introduction; but he made an elementary mistake (?) in making that introduction too long and heterogeneous--in short, by giving us a symphony instead of an overture. With respect to its character, let us draw a little nearer--it is, no doubt, of the greatest importance. In this symphony, Beethoven summoned up all his then powers to pour forth and portray in one tremendous focus _the_ conflict which his symphonies and deeper music more or less generally depict, viz., that of Pessimism and Optimism--of good and evil. And in this he was herald-representative of the nineteenth century. Bach, Handel, Haydn, and Mozart, did not depict this struggle; at least we are not _struck_ by it. Pathos, and even tragedy, in general they too of course reveal--for joy and sadness make up music; nay, sadness is perhaps the soul of music, at least Beethoven makes us think so; but the characteristic Hamletism of the nineteenth century (which is Hamlet--as, according to Freiligrath, Germany is, or was before 1870),--it was reserved for Beethoven to manifest forth; Beethoven, the greatest Hamlet (not Faust he was too good) of all. The other centuries were centuries of belief or unbelief; this is one of doubt, with a soul--belief, groping after a new one. It _will_ be new, and not local--let alone parochial. Fearful doubts must have seized thinking, feeling men, at all times, after looking abroad and pondering what we have called this tremendous paradox and discrepancy, the universe. St. Paul himself said, with poignant realization, "The world groaneth and travaileth until 'now';" and it is difficult to overstate the wide-spread and individual imperfection and unhappiness. This sense, of old, drove men into what we called a frenzy of belief--in something exterior. That they clutched, and to that they clung, nailing their gaze, as it were, to happiness promised for faith bestowed; and full of such a fearful sense of the wretchedness below, that they laughed to scorn even torture and the stake; and warped away from this world, to bide wholly in the contemplation of another. As might have been predicted, however, this, too, could only be a phase and period of transition (and that not a long one in the history of man; we must revolutionise our ideas of time and greatness); and, inevitably, when science, beginning greatly with Copernicus, set in, Luther, the first Freethinker (modern), would soon follow, and in due course a Hume, a Spinoza, a Schopenhauer, and a Kant. Our Beethoven, who had his own "categorical inspiration," no doubt derived terrible arguments for Pessimism from few things more emphatic than his own life--so mysteriously gifted and afflicted, stinted and endowed. Hence, then, the Titanic character of his music; the tremendous temptation in the wilderness (of his own heart, of a feared to be God abandoned world), of a soul inclining to good, to go over to evil--but the good in the end is triumphant, and we see it ever struggling through:-- In pits of passion and dens of woe We see strong Eros struggling through. At the end of the awful conflict shadowed forth in the colossal opening of the choral symphony, we have been tempted to inscribe, "as if the world's heart-strings were cracking":-- [Music] --the atheism of a King David himself: "the fool hath said in his heart, there is no God!" but after that (the recitative to "O'er the raging waters of Galilee, the voice of One 'who made the storm his mere mantle, and the sea the pathway of power'":) the voice of peace--in modern dialect the voice of man; in the light of which reading, this entry of the human voice becomes portentous, as though it said, let the elements rage, let the arts stutter, the human voice alone can bring relief--light, and hope, and joy. Thus, Beethoven's design was characteristically and colossally grand; he wished to strive to paint what painting certainly could not, and what sculpture could not--nay, in a sense, what poetry could not, for words cannot represent a conflict (especially of the emotions) like music, cannot so awfully or sweetly thrill the soul. And he succeeded in a way that Michael Angelo (his analogue) and Raphael (whom Beethoven also blended with the Angelo in him), certainly did not, when they foolishly attempted to paint the unpaintable (the Last Judgment, and Transfiguration). Whether, however, he succeeded musically, in this symphony, as a tail-work, is a debateable question. The query may be put--Might he not have treated the Pessimism also vocally, and thereby avoided the undue length and unsupported character of the instrumental prelude? The work would then have been a homogenous whole. But, and perhaps even more importantly, the question arises--Might not the music itself have been better? The second movement, _Molto vivace_, marvellously pourtrays (before Wagner) the _Venusberg_--the Mephistopheles-pact into which the poor despairing Pessimist may be driven to plunge; and we recollect well how we felt after first hearing the _Adagio molto e cantabile_, and going away perforce into the outside world; _Ach! that_ is the true world--that world we have been in; and this is a world of dross! But the first movement we cannot help feeling to be laboured, especially in parts, compared with that of the C minor, which is simply one rush of inspiration, and the chief theme of the last movement is, we must say it, tame and undignified, if not commonplace--nay, almost "jiggy," played and sung so fast (_allegro assai_)--not to compare for one moment with that other burst, the Hallelujah Chorus, (or "For unto us"), or many of Beethoven's own motivs. But, besides, it is guilty of the gross, the heinous offence in this instance, of setting words utterly different. Here is the melody; notice, besides its extremely smooth (amounting, as we say, to the commonplace) character (and so, not characteristic)--notice, that it consists (_mirabile dictu!_) merely of one strain repeated, with the cadence slightly altered (full, instead of half):-- [Music: "Joy, thou gracious spark of God, His daughter, out of heaven sped." "With thy fire intoxicated, we thy sanctuary tread." ] it continues-- [Music: "Thy blessed magic binds again, Ties sever'd by the world." ] and then the phrase to the words "With thy fire intoxicated," &c., is used for:-- "All men are Brothers, where, sweet Joy, Thy gentle wing is furl'd." But, much worse--nay, absolutely shocking to the spiritual sense, is the persistent use of the same phrase, mediocre as it is, to these words:-- "Who that victory hath gained, Of a friend, the friend to be; Who a graceful wife hath gained (This, too, should hardly be sung by women?) Mix with ours his 'holy glee';[A] Yea, who calls but one soul his In all this round of sea and land: He who never knew that blessing Steal in tears from this bright band." [A] Wordsworth's sonnet on the Swiss. Would it have been thought possible for Beethoven (Inspired Instinct), to set these last lines to the same--we are almost provoked to say, rattling jingle. To a lower deep, alas! our Beethoven-Hamlet could scarcely fall-- "Oh, what a sovereign mind is there o'erthrown!" It was an incredible aboriginal mistake to set these lines to the same time, let alone same tune. Nor, indeed, can his choice of the words be considered happy. What made him in his grand old age (old for him) so harp upon Schiller's crude performance, we know not; nay, we ask whether a Beethoven should not have treated the glorious subject, Joy, when he was already young;--despise as he might (an egregious error) his earlier works. Had he at least undertaken it when he wrote the Symphony in D and the "Eroica"; or, in the "high and palmy state" of his powers, when he wrote the _facile princeps_ C minor! Schiller's first words would alone repel us; he talks--"babbles" would be the strictly truer word, barbarously babbles--of joy, as that spark of the gods, and, in the same breath, daughter out of Elysium. How could he so talk of that grand abstract fact--Joy! Joy, the sunshine of the soul--whose glow, thence outwards, fills the Universe; life, absolute being; wherein alone we rightly, fully live. We have no patience with such barbarous metaphorising, such schoolboy personification, such hectic rapture! No wonder Beethoven failed, falling on such words as these. (In passing--he has a few bars of interlude which Mendelssohn's famous "'Tis thus decreed," strangely resembles.) [Music] If the C were sharp, the passages would be identical. In continuation--Beethoven seems in general equally careless (or perverse) and unhappy in his treatment of the words--a curious misfortune in an expressly vocal celebration. We have the same smooth passages, and the same rattling pace, for various inflections of thought and feeling. He does not fail, however, to give us one of those "flashes" of his true genius, old power, which Spohr alluded to, at the words _ver Gott_:-- [Music] He proceeds thenceforth to intermix symphony with words in the way we spoke of as that which would seem natural to a choral symphony; and of the passage where the great broad theme (far happier) is _blended_ below, with the original motiv. Dr. Nohl strikingly remarks, that "Lo! here was a proof that music is also a thinker!" No doubt in our glorious Beethoven, who was all heart, and soul, and brain, (_plus_ robust body, till his sad latter days), if not exactly _mens sana in corpore sano_. Nevertheless, on the whole, we feel we must agree with Spohr (surely no unworthy judge, unless blinded by envy); and still rank this symphony as a colossal experiment rather than a genial success. As far as our feelings are a guide (and we have expressly acknowledged at the outset, how each one of us is the creature of prejudice and mood), we find the work veritably stamped and distinguished by laboured elaboration--nay, almost painful labour. Beethoven (we feel) perpetuated a fundamental, primary, pregnant mistake, in _setting himself_ to "work out" one melodic idea, and that such a poor one--disappointing almost to exasperation. Above all, varied words cannot be so set. Even in purely instrumental music the possibility soon has its natural limits, whatever the genius of the composer, and despite the undeniably great effects that may be accomplished. Did not Beethoven himself, on overhearing his--how many variations was it, on a theme?--exclaim: "Oh, Beethoven, what an ass thou art!" There spoke the great man! Nature will never be sacrificed to a crotchet. The design of this celebrated work was grand, characteristic, worthy of its great designer; but the execution we cannot feel corresponded. It seems to us the A-B-C of reasoning, that a time _must_ come in the career of every man when his powers decay. We speak, and rightly, of the records of his brain as messages from the Infinite; but, nevertheless, when those cells get enfeebled, that telegraph of nervous tissue corrupted, the messages are no longer mighty as of yore: Divine messages do not and will not come, except through the mystically-operating (for they also are divine) healthy physical mediums. Psychology and physiology are inextricably blended, if not one. Beethoven's faculties, then, it seems to us, had already begun to decay--he was older than other men at his years. He had been long deaf; was almost broken down with worry and care; and, probably, alas! trembled on the verge of incipient insanity (were it not already incipient). He was no longer rich in the fresh originality of his prime--in the original freshness of his youth; he had, perhaps, essentially written himself out (herein below Shakespeare). He began to repeat himself, to theorise, to _make_ music. Did he not himself say, "I plan, but when I sit down to perform, I find I have nothing to write." There again spoke the truly great man, honest to the last. He could, of course, never get away from his individuality--get out of himself; no man can. But even ideas now seemed to fail him, and their absence is no compensation for a new style of the old individual, let alone when that is dubious. To sum up. The Choral Symphony seems, at the best, a grand but doubtful experiment. Its greatest, its only inspired movement, is the adagio; and that, heavenly as it is, interferes with the progress of the work--with the scheme of it--as depicting doubt, denial, and despair ("there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth"), to be followed by oil upon the waters--by an uncontrollable outburst, sacred fury almost, of joy, at the perception by man that he is imperishable, part of the All; not only recipient of joy here, but justified demander and mortgagee of it hereafter; and joy of joy even at the high perception that even if we personally are not immortal, we are bubbles of the eternal sea, and that is immortal. SUMMING UP. Finally, it is such thoughts as these, consciously or unconsciously expressed, which stamp and distinguish Beethoven's music as a whole, to which we now turn. In his jubilation is the "fulness of joy"; in his sadness the core of sorrow. He has "made the passage from heaven to hell"; he has sounded the gamut of sound. In his four great symphonies, the one in D (the rushing forth and soaring up of youth, Elterlein considers it); the Eroica, the C minor, and the A major; in these four symphonies, to which the soul's eye in predilection turns, which stand out from all the rest; and in many of his other works--whose soul is as great, but substance less--we see Beethoven, probably the most glorious emotional representative of man in history--not only in music, but art, almost literature. He is thus the greatest phenomenon perhaps of modern times after Shakespeare. Shakespeare over-tops him; but who else? Not Dante--too fierce, and crude, and narrow (see how blatant he is about Mahomet, and his annotator, Professor Bianchi, ten times worse--he has the most stupendously stupid note we ever read!) not Milton, less rich and influential; not his own contemporary and countryman, Goethe, whose Faust and Egmont are in Beethoven's music rather than in his own words, and who had not Beethoven's genial humanity, world-wide breadth, heaven's-heart depth, and titanic power. Only his Fatherland's philosophical giants, methinks, can rank with him; and their influence and effect are naturally limited. He thought in music--the most delicious volumes of philosophy! thought and feeling are presented to us in one--aye, and painting too. _Apropos_, so also do we rank him above the artists. The works of Apelles and Phidias are gone; the very Parthenon is going. But his works will last; and they mesmerise and master us with a power which theirs never could do--theirs, and Angelo's, and Raphael's; or Rubens, and Rembrandt, and Turner. For music is the highest of the arts, as being most the message of the Highest: and here is the music of the highest of her messengers. Yes! for only Handel (whom he so characteristically revered) can match with him, and that only in power. In originality, in richness, in depth (including intensity--glow), in humanity, eminently in influence think of Beethoven's sonatas spread over the world, besides his quartets and symphonies, pyramidal models; whereas Handel would hardly be known but for his "Messiah," (and that chiefly in England); in a word, in universality, and a certain mystical soul of meaning--sacred mystery of insight and sorrow--within him; in these he surpasses Handel--and all. Not that he has exhausted music. No. Music was considered exhausted before him; and even his music, symphonies and sonatas alike, are of unequal quality and merit individually as well as comparatively. And not that all great music does not, more or less, like his work--reveal (or shadow forth) what his does; and instrumentation has made advances since him; but he is the _ne plus ultra_ as yet, though not, indeed, without companions. For this is a law as much morally or intellectually as physically. The highest peaks in the Himalayas, Andes, and Alps, are together; and here the appearances around me preach the same truth. One summit is the special manifestation of a general upheaval (we have already given particular instances), and these take place at periods. The musical upheaval (the tertiary deposit) has taken place late. Primevally was the architectural (least original, and slowest of all the arts--?), then the sculptural, pictorial, and poetic; groups and series, peaks and summits of masters, in all. With revived art and literature came the quasi seraph, Shakespeare; then science and music, contemporary with the greatest movement in philosophy, and this significantly--for nothing happens without import and relation. Beethoven, it is true, set masses; but he was essentially a Theist, if not Pantheist (unconscious pantheism, we take it, is the soul of his music). One worthy gentleman delivered himself of the following lucubration _re_ Beethoven's "Mount of Olives":--"It is a fine work, _but_ proves its author to have been a Deist, and--" Oh, that "but"! I cry you mercy, my fine particle; there is great virtue too in a "but." We could not help smiling, and thinking of "Poor God, with nobody to help him!" A highly curious and most instructive fact about Beethoven is, that (as we before remarked, I think), it is very difficult, if not impossible, to find his analogue. In this individuality he is sublime. Hardly any comparison satisfies us; neither Aiskulos, Homer, Virgil, Dante, Milton, or Shakespeare, is exactly his like. He has Dante's intensity, Milton's sublimity (more organ-like than Dante's), and Shakespeare's universality to a great extent--that is, his humanity and quasi superhuman lyrical beauty and dramatic power, but not his wonderful comic genius (as far as we can judge from music, though Beethoven's shows undoubted humour--which is part, indeed, of humanity); his _characteristic_, seraphic serenity, and infinity, wealth of creation, and inexhaustibility to the last. Beethoven is a unique (as Carlyle called Dickens) blending of these three (and allied to Shakespeare most), _plus_ his own great indispensable self (for there is ever a new factor in every new man). Neither can we quite match him with any of the artists. He has the severity of Phidias--or Praxiteles--who was famous for bronze, the grandeur of Bruneleschi and Angelo, the grace and feeling of Raffael and Canova, the mystic splendour of Turner, and the unique originality, the powerful chiaroscuro of Rembrandt. Indeed, his relationship to the latter is curiously interesting. These words, applied to Rembrandt, might be applied to Beethoven:--"His advance from youth to age is marked, if not by inexperience or feebleness, at all events by successive and distinctive manners." "The product of his art is startling; it is singular for individuality of character, supreme in light, shade, and colour." Beethoven, however, was not an "artist who took what may be termed his daily constitutional walk through the lower types of nature;" rather he was a Jove's eagle, a Gannymede on his pinions, winging his unseen way through empyreans. Among the artists of his own vocation he is likewise unique. It is true, that as Guinicelli closely preceded Dante (and may even be called his master--_Il Saggio_ Dante names him); as Tasso, and Ariosto, and Shakespeare, and Milton, were a grand cluster in the Elizabethan period, Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire later, Schiller, Goethe, and Wieland, after; so Beethoven splendours in what we have called the Orion's Belt of music, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven; but, to slightly vary, he is the red star in Orion, the Mont Blanc of the Alps; neither is Handel, the great sun in the "constellation Hercules" (to which our system is said to move), his superior--or quite his equal. Our persuasion of Beethoven's religious impressions ("he could be seldom got to speak about religion") was derived rather from internal evidence: but here is an explicit passage on the matter. We read in his _Tagebuch_, 1816, underlined, and written out in his own hand:--"_Aus der Indischen Literatur_: God is immaterial, therefore unthinkable: (_geht über jeden Begriff_: since he is invisible, he can have no form). But, from what we can gather in his works, we may conclude that He is almighty, all-knowing, and omnipresent." The following (still more significant) he wrote out in a _Quartblatt_, in large letters, had framed, and kept before him on his writing-table. It was taken from the temple of the Egyptian goddess, Neith, at Sais: 1. I Am what Is. 2. I am all that is, was, will be. No mortal hath ever lifted my veil. 3. He is alone, self existent (_Er ist allein von ihm selbst_); and to this Unique all things owe their being. In the last sentence, we may observe, there is (as usual) a contradiction with the first--a confusion between theism and pantheism; for, if the great I Am is all, all things cannot be said to owe their being to him, but _are_ him--fragmentary manifestations of him. A list of the books found in Beethoven's _Handbibliothek_, are also, in some sort, a key to the man (and his music). _Ecco!_ Shakespeare; Goethe's Poems, "Wilhelm Meister," and "Faust"; Schiller; Tiedge's "Urania" (Beethoven's beautiful "An die Hoffnung," Op. 32, is a setting of a song in that); Seumes' and Matthison's Poems, and others; "Briefe an Natalie über Gesang," von Nina d'Aubigny-Engelbrunner (much esteemed, and recommended by Beethoven); Klopstock; Zach; Werner; Herder (Goethe's "Master"); Plato; Aristotle; Xenophon; Plutarch; Euripides; Horace; Pliny; Quintilian (these, I presume, translated--Dr. Nohl does not say); Thomson (whose nature-painting made him specially prized); and Ossian (Napoleon's favourite). We read that against the words, often cited too, of Carlyle, "Two things strike me dumb; the moral law within us, and the starry heavens over us"; he wrote--"_mit kräftigen Schriftzug_"--KANT. In his celebrated will, we read--"I will seize Fate by the throat, quite bow me down it never shall." In his Journal, 1816, we read, "The grand mark of a great man; stedfastness in unhappy circumstances." One of his remarks was this:--"There is nothing higher than this--to get nearer to the Godhead than other men; and thence diffuse its beams over mankind." Another noteworthy observation was this:--"Celebrated artists are always prejudiced (or pre-occupied); therefore, their first works are the best, although they germinated in obscurity."--(Nohl's "Life of Beethoven," vol. 3, p. 238). One of his most pregnant remarks was the following:--"All real invention is moral progress" (_Alle echte Erfindung ist moralisher Fortschritt_). Beethoven's music is so pregnant, that it is difficult to sum up what it contains. As before stated, it is a microcosm, both of man and the world: it especially unrolls before us man (how he thinks, and feels, and fights) as much as the powerful disquisitions of a Kant or Hegel. It is representative, because so intensely subjective; representative from himself outward--he being not a narrowly but comprehensively subjective soul; we find in it (very profoundly) his own unsatisfied heart--type of how much in the world! We find in it his unhappy life--type of still more. We find in it his intense character, full of sublime passion, and only more dear to us for its faults. We find in it his infirmities--especially a dark prophesy of _mens_ IN_sana in corpore insano_; but we were spared that sad spectacle, by the "cruel-to-be-kind" messenger of Providence. We find in it the pure passionate love of Nature most concentrated in the Teutonic nature--coruscating with mystic sparks shooting from the heart on all sides outward. We find in it at once the most intense lyrical and dramatic power hitherto known. We find in it, alike, gracious fancy and grand imagination. We find in it humanity and humour. Moreover, we find in it the grandest _objective_ power of painting--heroic battles, as well as with hope--on "our prison walls; far-reaching landscapes and aurora"; together with a subjective power and pre-eminence that is almost awful in its majesty. We find in it the subtle and the sublime--if it be not for sublime to be subtle. Last, and lowest, we find in it unsettled faith--distracting a soul of good, wearying and worrying his great good heart, but not overcoming it: "It could not bring him wholly under more Than loud south-westerns, rolling ridge on ridge The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs For ever;" and herein is our Beethoven--he, too, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. _Ach!_ Man is that, most--most intensely representative. This is the real reason why he so speaks to us, and shakes us; why he so influenced his contemporaries and followers. An age is represented by its greatest--that is, by the richest in goodness and insight, and these mutually represent each other; but you will not find them in temple or tabernacle--except, indeed, that not made by hands. You will find them where you find their heart--(where a man's treasure is, there is his heart also). Ask them what they think, and feel. You will find that they consider all our common _isms_ and _alities_ but as episodes--aye, and brief ones--if not, more or less, unconscious insanities. That, inevitably, as the world in its giant history proceeded from Nothingism (for how many ages?) to Fetishism--to Confuciusism--to Buddhism--to Jewism--to Paganism (or Greek and Romanism)--to Christianity; so common Christianity (the temporal, dogmatic, superstitious, local, parochial), must also proceed to something higher; which shall be at once outcome and all-compriser of the rest. Man has got to realise his identity with the Imperishable (caring little, if he must "soon be making head to go" from this--has soon "notice to quit" this lodging--in the cold ground); the absolute indestructibility of any one manifestation of force--or rather fact of force--for the manifestations change, and pass away. He has got to learn to love goodness for its own sake alone, and know that Conscience is God--_realising_ with the most lyric and scientific conviction that _every_ violation of right or law, moral even more inevitably than physical--let every one search his own life and conscience for the proof--is punished here without or within--frequently, and most sublimely, subtly, within. Finally, he has got to make this his faith that--while clinging to the truly blessed hope of everlasting life, which is the natural corollary of our consciousness, as our dearest sheet-anchor; as the sense that most makes us feel infinite; and as the soul of beauty, or beautifying soul of all--so, nevertheless, the practical immortality of right action (or of goodness) perpetuating itself in what we do and say, here and now--is our chief concern, the sole thing essential; which we may supplement and consummate by falling back on the tremendous realization before expressed. If _we_ are not immortal, we are bubbles of the eternal sea of being, and _that_ is---- Once again, then, let us repeat, such high belief, more or less, is the _soul_ of Beethoven's music (aye, even in his masses), for the eternal speaks behind the temporary, the mask; hence its specific gravity (greatest of all), its infinite significance. He is the morning star of this reformation, the breast-inflaming dawn of a new heaven in a grander clime--new firmament over New Jerusalem. Powdered-wigged Haydn and Mozart--powdered-wigged genius even, including full-bottomed-wigged Handel--could not proclaim such a creed;--almost, as it were, with thunder of cannon. But Beethoven ushered in the nineteenth century; he was the Napoleon of its better half--higher life; and in due time and order followers and apostles will succeed--have already arisen. The symphony, especially the un-betitled be-programmed symphony, is the purest manifestation of music, whose eloquence is better than words--(space, too, is silent); and the talk of sundry German professors, &c., about music "no longer playing a single part," coolly assuming, almost, the symphony to be an exploded error, we are almost tempted to describe as crotchety maundering or wordy wind, if not blatant jargon. This superfluous pity for music standing alone, also reminds us of "Poor God! with nobody to help him!" No! the symphony will still be penned by the tone-poet--intensely feeling and thinking, lyrico-dramatic man. It will be broad as the world, and have a soul of the highest. It will be the grandest absolute expression of the best which we see and are. But it will also be counterparted and supplemented by the "Word-made-Flesh" in tone (the Word is never so beautifully made Flesh as in tone), as Thought is made Flesh in the Word. Religion is the Heart of Art, whence all pulses and flows; and composers will--at last--get sick of setting twaddle and dogma, however venerable; and will celebrate pure truth, old or new. In setting the Higher Utterance of the past, they will reject the husk and keep the kernel--that of eternal universal application; or they will transfigure by ideal interpretation. In setting the new, they will set lyrical expression of the profound poet--the earnest words of the intense thinker, and not the jingle of the song-writer, the farrago of the libretto-concocter. In a word, the higher oratorio (as well as the higher drama), will play its part; be the exponent--as the symphony will be the expression--of the new man. This will be the mightiest manifestation of music--universal truth, profound feeling, transcendency, and humanity; Shakespeare and Emerson (not Milton) in one; incarnate in tone, published and borne aloft by Music and the Human Voice; culminating in such apotheosis at last!--after so many ages of stuttering, _singing_ will at length have reached to Highest Thought! THE END. INDEX. PAGE Allegro con Brio of the 1st Symphony, 29 Adagio of 4th Symphony, 56 Andante of 5th Symphony, 66 Allegro of 5th Symphony, 69 Allegro of 5th Symphony depicts a Conflict, 70 Allegretto of 7th Symphony, 92 Allegretto Scherzando of 8th Symphony, 97 Beethoven suggestive of Dante and Milton, 15 Beethoven rivals Æschylus and Shakespeare, 60 Beethoven compared with Napoleon, 16 Beethoven distinguished by his great power, 28 Beethoven admired Handel, 28 Beethoven, his modulations peculiar to himself, 29 Beethoven a prophet, 37 Beethoven, his combined power and sweetness, 41 Beethoven compared with Shakespeare, 52 Beethoven not to be conquered by fate, 63 Beethoven, his music not to be explained, 69 Beethoven, his profound simplicity in the Pastoral Symphony, 79 Beethoven another Columbus, 90 Beethoven a Theist, 110 Beethoven, his individuality, 111 Beethoven, his religious creed, 112 Beethoven, his library, 113 Beethoven, his music pregnant with ideas, 114 Carlyle, 27 Chords without thirds, 30 Choral Symphony, 98 Choral Symphony was an experiment, 99 Choral Symphony, errors of judgment in, 104 Choral Symphony, execution not equal to the design, 107 Eroica, analysed, 40 Elterlein's summary of the Pastoral Symphony, 84 Eighth Symphony, 96 First Symphony, 16 Funeral March of Eroica Symphony, 46 Funeral March not written in honour of Napoleon, 48 Fourth Symphony, 51 Fifth Symphony, 59 Fifth Symphony another Eroica, 60 Fifth Symphony paints Beethoven's life, 62 Finale of Fifth Symphony, 72 Goethe and Wilhelm Meister, 45 Haydn, 4 Haydn, Elterlein's opinion upon, 7 Handel studied by Beethoven, 71 Heller, Stephen, 21 Inspiration defined, 27 Larghetto of 2nd Symphony 32 Larghetto " " shows influence of Haydn and Mozart, 33 Larghetto " " not so great as the preceding movement, 36 Mozart, 8 Mozart compared with Shakespeare, 10 Mendelssohn compared with Beethoven, 31 Mozart compared with Beethoven, 68 Michael Angelo the analogue of Beethoven, 102 Molto Vivace of 9th Symphony, 102 Napoleon, 24 Ninth Symphony, 98 Ode to Joy, 103 Pastoral Symphony, 76 Pastoral Symphony written near Vienna, 76 Pastoral Symphony feeling rather than painting, 81 Symphony and Sonata compared, 17 Symphony, power of the, 59 Second Symphony, 23 Schumann, greatest symphonist after Beethoven, 43 Scherzo of Eroica Symphony, 49 Sixth Symphony, 76 Scherzo of Pastoral Symphony, 83 Seventh Symphony, 86 Seventh Symphony, scherzo and finale of, 93 Schiller's Ode to Joy, 103 Spohr's judgment on the Choral Symphony, 106 Summing up, 108 Third Symphony, 37 Third Symphony, a prophecy of the 19th century, 38 Vivace of Seventh Symphony, 88 War, potent in art, 27 _Printed by the New Temple Press, Norbury Crescent, S.W. 16_ Transcriber's Notes: Page 3 -removed ex from ex-expected " 4 -changed hononored to honoured " 13 -changed on to no " 40 -changed how to show " 100 -changed afier to after 
32248	----	THE Standard Cantatas THEIR STORIES, THEIR MUSIC, AND THEIR COMPOSERS _A Handbook_ By GEORGE P. UPTON AUTHOR OF "THE STANDARD OPERAS," "THE STANDARD ORATORIOS," "WOMAN IN MUSIC," ETC. CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY 1888 Copyright By A. C. McClurg and Co. A.D. 1887 PREFACE. The "Standard Cantatas" is the third of the series in which the "Standard Operas" and "Standard Oratorios" have been its predecessors. Of necessity, therefore, the same method has been followed in the arrangement and presentation of the author's scheme. As in the works above mentioned, short sketches of the music and stories of the cantatas are presented, together with biographies of their composers, some of which are reproduced from the other volumes with slight changes, the repetitions being necessary for the sake of uniformity. The sketches are prefaced by a comprehensive study of the cantata in its various forms, from its early simple recitative or aria style down to its present elaborate construction, which sometimes verges closely upon that of the opera or oratorio. The word "cantata" is so flexible and covers such a wide area in music, that it has been a work of some difficulty to decide upon the compositions that properly come within the scheme of this volume. During the past two centuries it has been variously applied to songs, like those of the early Italian school; to ballads, like those of the early English composers; to concert arias, like those of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn; to short operettas, dramatic scenas, cycles of ballads, and even to oratorios, whose subjects are more or less dramatic. It is believed, however, that the most important of the modern cantatas are included in the volume, and with them will be found several works, such as the "Damnation of Faust" and the "Romeo and Juliet" vocal symphony and others, which, though not in the strict cantata form, are nevertheless compositions belonging to the concert-stage for voices and orchestra, performed without scenery, costumes, or stage accessories. The author has paid particular attention to cantatas by American composers, and has selected for description and analysis those which in his estimation rank the highest in musical merit. It would be manifestly impossible to include in a volume of the present size all the compositions by Americans which have been called cantatas, for their number is well-nigh "legion." Those have been selected which are creditable to American musical scholarship and are making a name for American music. It is possible some have been omitted which fulfil these conditions; if so, it is only because they have not come within the author's observation. The Appendix has been a work of great care, labor, and research, and wherever it was practicable the date of each cantata was verified. Like its two predecessors, the "Standard Cantatas" has been prepared for the general public, which has not the time or opportunity to investigate such matters, rather than for musicians, who are presumed to be familiar with them. On this account the text is made as untechnical as possible, and description takes the place of criticism. The work is intended to answer the purpose of a handbook and guide which shall acquaint the reader with the principal facts and accomplishments in this very interesting form of composition. The favor so generously accorded to the "Standard Operas" and "Standard Oratorios" leads the author to hope that this volume will also be welcome to music-lovers, and will find a place by the side of its companions in their libraries. G. P. U. Chicago, September, 1887. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE 3 THE CANTATA 13 BACH 29 Ich Hatte viel Bekümmerniss 31 Gottes Zeit 33 Festa Ascensionis Christi 37 Ein' Feste Burg 38 BALFE 44 Mazeppa 45 BEETHOVEN 48 The Ruins of Athens 49 The Glorious Moment 53 BENEDICT 56 St. Cecilia 57 BENNETT 62 The May Queen 64 The Exhibition Ode 66 BERLIOZ 68 Romeo and Juliet 70 The Damnation of Faust 74 BRAHMS 82 Triumphlied 83 BRUCH 86 Frithjof 87 Salamis 92 Fair Ellen 93 Odysseus 95 BUCK 101 Don Munio 103 Centennial Meditation of Columbia 106 The Golden Legend 109 The Voyage of Columbus 114 The Light of Asia 117 CORDER 123 The Bridal of Triermain 124 COWEN 128 The Sleeping Beauty 129 DVORÁK 134 The Spectre's Bride 136 FOOTE 140 Hiawatha 141 GADE 143 Comala 144 Spring Fantasie 146 The Erl King's Daughter 147 The Crusaders 149 GILCHRIST 153 The Forty-sixth Psalm 154 GLEASON 156 The Culprit Fay 157 The Praise Song To Harmony 161 HANDEL 163 Acis and Galatea 166 Alexander's Feast 173 L'Allegro 178 HATTON 186 Robin Hood 187 HAYDN 191 The Seven Words 194 Ariadne 198 HILLER 201 Song of Victory 203 HOFMANN 205 Melusina 206 LESLIE 209 Holyrood 210 LISZT 215 Prometheus 217 The Bells of Strasburg 221 MACFARREN 226 Christmas 228 MACKENZIE 232 The Story of Sayid 233 Jubilee Ode 237 MASSENET 241 Mary Magdalen 242 MENDELSSOHN 246 The Walpurgis Night 248 Antigone 254 Oedipus at Colonos 259 As the Hart Pants 262 The Gutenberg Fest-Cantata 263 Lauda Sion 265 MOZART 268 King Thamos 270 Davidde Penitente 274 The Masonic Cantatas 276 PAINE 280 Oedipus Tyrannus 281 The Nativity 286 The Realm of Fancy 288 Phoebus, Arise 289 PARKER, H. W. 291 King Trojan 292 PARKER, J. C. D. 295 The Redemption Hymn 296 RANDEGGER 298 Fridolin 299 RHEINBERGER 303 Christophorus 304 Toggenburg 306 ROMBERG 308 Lay of the Bell 309 SCHUBERT 313 Miriam's War Song 314 SCHUMANN 317 Advent Hymn 319 The Pilgrimage of the Rose 321 The Minstrel's Curse 322 SINGER 324 The Landing of the Pilgrims 325 SMART 327 The Bride of Dunkerron 328 King René's Daughter 330 SULLIVAN 332 On Shore and Sea 334 The Golden Legend 335 WAGNER 338 Love Feast of the Apostles 340 WEBER 342 Jubilee Cantata 344 Kampf Und Sieg 346 WHITING 348 The Tale of the Viking 349 APPENDIX 353 INDEX 365 THE STANDARD CANTATAS. THE CANTATA. The origin of the cantata is a matter of controversy, but it is clear that it had its birth in Italy. Adami, an old writer, attributes its invention to Giovanni Domenico Poliaschi Romano, a papal chapel-singer, who, it is claimed, wrote several cantatas as early as 1618. The same writer also asserts that the Cavalier da Spoleto, a singer in the same service, published cantatas in 1620. Hawkins asserts in one chapter of his "History of Music" that the invention is due to Carissimi, chapel-master of the Church of St. Apollinare in Rome, who unquestionably did an important service for dramatic music by perfecting recitative and introducing stringed accompaniments; but in a subsequent chapter the historian states that Barbara Strozzi, a Venetian lady contemporary with Carissimi, was the inventor, and assigns the year 1653 as the date when she published certain vocal compositions with the title "Cantate, Ariette e Duetti," prefixed by an advertisement setting forth that having invented this form of music, she had published them as an experiment. Burney takes notice of the claim made for Romano and Da Spoleto, but does not think it valid, and says: "The first time that I have found the term 'cantata' used for a short narrative lyric poem was in the _Musiche varie a voce sola del Signor Benedetto Ferrari da Reggio_, printed at Venice, 1638." This, as will be observed, disposes of the Venetian lady's claim, as it is antedated twenty years, and Burney states his facts from personal investigation. He mentions several cantatas written about this period, among them a burlesque one describing the leap of Marcus Curtius into the gulf. He concedes to Carissimi, however, the transfer of the cantata from the chamber to the church, and on this point nearly all the early writers are agreed. The cantata in its earliest form was a recitative, which speedily developed into a mixture of recitative and melody for a single voice, and was suggested by the lyric opera. Burney says:-- "The chief events were related in recitative. In like manner they received several progressive changes during the last century previous to their perfection. First, they consisted, like opera scenes, of little more than recitative, with frequent formal closes, at which the singer, either accompanied by himself or another performer on a single instrument, was left at liberty to show his taste and talents." The form then changed to a single air in triple time, independent of the recitative, and repeated to the different verses as in a ballad, the melody being written every time, as the _Da Capo_ was not then in use.[1] Choron defines the cantata as follows:-- "It is a little poem, which, considered in a literary sense, has no very determinate character, though it is usually the recital of a simple and interesting fact interspersed with reflections or the expression of some particular sentiment. It may be in all styles and all characters, sacred, profane, heroic, comic, and even ludicrous, representing the action or feeling of either a single or several persons. It even sometimes assumes the character of the oratorio." As applied to recitative, the new form was variously called "recitativo," "musica parlante," or "stilo rappresentativo," one of the first works in which style was "The Complaint of Dido," by the Cavalier Sigismondo d'India, printed in Venice in 1623. The mixture of recitative and air was eventually called "ariose cantate;" and with this title several melodies were printed by Sebastian Enno at Venice, 1655.[2] The seventeenth century witnessed the rapid perfecting of the cantata in its early forms by the Italian composers. The best examples are said to have been those of Carissimi, of whom mention has already been made. Several of them are preserved in the British Museum and at Oxford; among them, one written on the death of Mary Queen of Scots. Burney says:-- "Of twenty-two of his cantatas preserved in the Christ Church collection, Oxon., there is not one which does not offer something that is still new, curious, and pleasing; but most particularly in the recitatives, many of which seem the most expressive, affecting, and perfect that I have seen. In the airs there are frequently sweet and graceful passages, which more than a hundred years have not impaired." Of the thirteenth in this collection the same authority says:-- "This single air, without recitative, seems the archetype of almost all the _arie di cantabile_, the adagios, and pathetic songs, as well as instrumental, slow movements, that have since been made." Fra Marc Antonio Cesti, in his later life a monk in the monastery of Arezzo, and chapel-master of the Emperor Ferdinand III., was a pupil of Carissimi, and devoted much attention to the cantata, the recitative of which he greatly improved. One of his most celebrated compositions of this kind was entitled, "O cara Liberta," and selections from it are given both by Burney and Hawkins. He must have been one of the jolly monks of old, for all his cantatas are secular in character, and he was frequently censured for devoting so much time to theatrical instead of church music. Luigi Rossi was contemporary with Cesti, and has left several cantatas which are conspicuous for length and pedantry rather than for elegance or melodious charm. Giovanni Legrenzi of Bergamo, the master of Lotti and Gasparini, published twenty-four cantatas in Venice between 1674 and 1679, which were great favorites in his time. The celebrated painter Salvator Rosa not only wrote the words for many cantatas by his musical friends, but it is known that he composed both words and music to eight. The texts of these works have preserved for posterity pictures more graphic than any he could paint of his misanthropical character; for when he is not railing against his mistress he is launching satires against Nature and mankind in general. In one of these he complains that the earth is barren and the sun is dark. If he goes out to see a friend, it always rains. If he goes on shipboard, it always storms. If he buys provisions at the market, the bones outweigh the flesh. If he goes to court-- "The attendants at my dress make sport; Point at my garb, threadbare and shabby, And shun me, like a leper scabby." His only wealth is hope, which points to nothing better than "workhouse or a rope." In the heat of summer he has to trudge in winter clothes. He cannot even run away from misfortune. In a word, nothing pleases the poor painter, as is evident from the gloomy moral which "adorns the tale":-- "Then learn from me, ye students all, Whose wants are great and hopes are small, That better 'tis at once to die Than linger thus in penury; For 'mongst the ills with which we're curst, To live a beggar is the worst." In 1703 Giambatista Bassani, of Bologna, published twelve cantatas devoted to the tender passion, and all of them set to a violin accompaniment,--a practice first introduced by Scarlatti, of Naples, who was one of the most prolific writers of his day. The cantata was Scarlatti's favorite form of composition, and hundreds of them came from his busy pen, which were noted for their beauty and originality. The accompaniments were written for the violoncello as well as for the violin; those for the first-named instrument were so difficult and yet so excellent that those who could perform them were often thought to have supernatural assistance.[3] Contemporary with Scarlatti was Francesco Gasparini, a Roman composer and harpsichord player of such eminence that Scarlatti sent his son Domenico, who afterwards became famous by his musical achievements, to study with him. Gasparini wrote twelve cantatas,--not so scholarly but quite as popular as those by Scarlatti. As a return for the compliment which Scarlatti had paid him, Gasparini sent him a cantata, which was the signal for a lively cantata-correspondence between them, each trying to outdo the other. Following Gasparini came Bononcini, whose contentions with Handel in England are familiar to all musical readers. He was the most prolific cantata-writer of all the Italians next to Scarlatti, and dedicated a volume of them, in 1721, to the King of England. He also published in Germany a large number which show great knowledge of instrumentation, according to the musical historians of his time. Antonio Lotti, his contemporary, wrote several which are particularly noticeable for their harmony. His pupil Benedetto Marcello, the illustrious psalm-composer, excelled his master in this form of music. Two of his cantatas, "Il Timoteo" (after Dryden's ode) and "Cassandra," were very celebrated. He was of noble family, and is famous even to this day by his masses, serenades, and sonnets, and by his beautiful poetical and musical paraphrase of the Psalms, which was translated into English, German, and Russian. The Baron d'Astorga, whose "Stabat Mater" is famous, wrote many cantatas, but they do not reach the high standard of that work. Antonio Caldara, for many years composer to the Emperor at Vienna, published a volume of them at Venice in 1699. Porpora, who was a rival of Handel in England as an opera composer, published and dedicated twelve to the Prince of Wales in 1735 as a mark of gratitude for the support which he had given him in his disputes with the testy German.[4] After Pergolesi, who made himself famous by his "Stabat Mater," and published several cantatas at Rome, and Handel, who wrote many, which were eclipsed by his operas and oratorios, and are now hardly known, this style of the cantata languished, and gradually passed into the form of the concert aria, of which fine examples are to be found in the music of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn. After the death of Pergolesi, Sarti and Paisiello made an attempt to revive it, and in so doing prepared the way for the cantata in its beautiful modern form. In the latter's "Guinone Lucina," written for the churching of Caroline of Austria, Queen of Naples, and in his "Dafne ed Alceo" and "Retour de Persée" the melody is intermixed with choruses for the first time. Thus far the Italian cantatas have alone been considered; but it must not be supposed that this form of composition was confined to Italy. In France it was also a favorite style in the early part of the eighteenth century. Montclair, Campra, Mouret, Batistin, Clerambault, and Rousseau excelled in it. M. Ginguené, in the "Encyclopædia Methodique," says of these composers and their works:-- "They have left collections in which may be discovered among all the faults of the age, when Italian music was unknown in France, much art and knowledge of harmony, happy traits of melody, well-worked basses, and above all recitatives in which the accent of declamation and the character of the language are strictly observed." In Germany, however, the cantata at this time was approximating to its present form. Koch, a celebrated musical scholar of the early part of the present century, says:-- "The cantata is a lyrical poem set to music in different, alternating compositions, and sung with the accompaniment of instrumental music. The various melodies of which the whole is composed are the aria, with its subordinate species, the recitative or accompaniment, and the arioso, frequently also intermixed with choruses." Heydenreich, another writer of the same period, says:-- "The cantata is always lyrical. Its distinctive character lies in the aptitude of the passions and feelings which it contains to be rendered by music. The cantata ought to be a harmonious whole of ideas poetically expressed, concurring to paint a main passion or feeling, susceptible of various kinds and degrees of musical expression. It sometimes may have the character of the hymn or ode, sometimes that of the elegy, or of a mixture of these, in which, however, one particular emotion must predominate." The church cantata, according to Du Cange, dates back to 1314; but subsequent writers have shown that the term prior to the seventeenth century was used indiscriminately and without reference to any well-defined style of vocal music, and that as applied to church compositions it meant the anthem such as we now have, although not as elaborate. The noblest examples of the sacred cantata are those by Sebastian Bach, three hundred and eighty in all, over a hundred of which have been published under the auspices of the Bach-Gesellschaft. They are written in from four to seven movements for four voices and full orchestra, usually opening with chorus and closing with a chorale, the intermediate movements being in the form of recitatives, arias, and duets. The text of these cantatas is either a literal transcription of the Gospel or of portions of it. In the latter case the Gospel of the Sunday for which the cantata was written is introduced entire in the body of the work as the nucleus around which the great composer grouped the remaining parts. For instance, the cantata for Sexagesima Sunday turns upon the parable of the sower, and this being the Gospel for the day is made its central point. In like manner the cantata for the fourteenth Sunday after Trinity has for its subject the story of the ten lepers, which is introduced in recitative form in the middle of the work. The astonishing industry of Bach is shown by the fact that for nearly five years he produced a new cantata for each Sunday, in addition to his numerous fugues, chorales, motets, magnificats, masses, sanctuses, glorias, and other church music. The artistic sincerity and true genius of the old master also reveal themselves in the skill with which he finished these works for the congregation of St. Thomas,--few of whom, it is to be feared, had any conception of their real merit,--and in the untiring regularity with which he produced them, unrewarded by the world's applause, and little dreaming that long years after he had passed away they would be brought to light again, be published to the world, and command its admiration and astonishment on account of their beauty and scholarship.[5] Before passing to the consideration of the cantata in its present form, the following abridged description of those written by Bach, taken from Bitter's Life of the composer, will be of interest:-- "The directors who preceded Bach at Leipsic used to choose the cantatas or motets to be sung in the churches quite arbitrarily, without any regard to their connection with the rest of the service. But Bach felt that unless these elaborate pieces of music were really made a means of edification, they were mere intellectual pastimes suitable for a concert, but an interruption to divine worship; and he thought that they could best edify the congregation if their subjects were the themes to which attention was specially directed in the service and sermon of the day. He therefore made it a rule to ascertain from the clergymen of the four churches the texts of the sermons for the following Sunday, and to choose cantatas on the same or corresponding texts. As most of the clergy were in the habit of preaching on the Gospel of the day, the service thus became a harmonious whole, and the attention of the congregation was not divided between a variety of subjects. The clergyman of highest standing at Leipsic, Superintendent Deyling, a preacher of great eloquence and theological learning, co-operated heartily with Bach in this scheme. A series of cantatas for every Sunday and festival for five years--about three hundred and eighty in all--was composed by Bach, chiefly during the first years of his stay at Leipsic. Unfortunately many of these are lost; but one hundred and eighty-six for particular days, and thirty-two without any days specified, still remain. Their music is so completely in character with the subject of the words as to form a perfect exposition of the text. In some the orchestral introductions and accompaniments are made illustrative of the scene of the text; as for instance in one on Christ's appearing to His disciples in the evening after His resurrection, the introduction is of a soft, calming character, representing the peacefulness of evening and of the whole scene. Another, on the text 'Like as the rain and snow fall from heaven,' is introduced by a symphony in which the sound of gently-falling rain is imitated. In others the instrumental parts and some of the voices express the feelings excited by meditation on the words. Sometimes, in the midst of a chorus in which the words of the text are repeated, and, as it were, commented on, a single voice, with the accompaniment of a few instruments, breaks off into some well-known hymn in a similar strain of thought or feeling." Handel in his younger days wrote many cantatas for the church, though they are now but little known. The entire list numbers one hundred and fifty. On his return from England to his post of chapel-master at Hanover in 1711 he composed twelve, known as the Hanover cantatas, for the Princess Caroline, the words written by the Abbé Hortentio Mauro, to which no objection was offered by Handel's master and patron, notwithstanding he was a Lutheran prince. Several written in England are still preserved in the royal collections. On Holy Week of the year 1704, the same week in which Reinhardt Kaiser brought out his famous Passion oratorio, "The Bleeding and Dying Jesus," Handel's Passion cantata was first produced. Kaiser's work had been denounced as secular by the pastors, because it did not contain the words of Holy Scripture. Handel's was founded on the nineteenth chapter of St. John, and thus escaped the pulpit denunciation. This cantata is sometimes called the First Passion Oratorio, the second having been written at Hamburg in 1716.[6] In 1707 Handel was in Florence, where he wrote several cantatas, and thence went to Rome, where he produced some church music in the same form, notably the "Dixit Dominus," for five voices and orchestra; "Nisi Dominus," also for five voices; and "Laudate pueri," for solos and full orchestral accompaniment. The famous anthems written for the private chapel of James Brydges, Duke of Chandos, familiarly known as the Chandos Anthems, are in reality cantatas, as each one is preceded by an overture and in its structural form comprises solos, choruses, and instrumentation for full band and choir. It is also noteworthy that it was during Handel's residence at the Duke's palace at Cannons that he wrote his first English oratorio, the legitimate successor of the Chandos Anthems, and the precursor of the great works destined to immortalize his name. The cantatas left by Haydn are mainly secular in character; but it may well be imagined that during the days of his early married life, when his fanatical and termagant spouse was forcing him to write so much music for the priests and monks whom she entertained so sumptuously below-stairs while he was laboring above, more than one cantata must have come from his pen, which would have been preserved had he not reluctantly parted company with them to pacify his wife. The term "cantata," as it is now used, is very elastic, and covers a range of compositions which are too large to be considered as dramatic arias or ballads,--though ballads are sometimes written for various voices and orchestra,--and too small to be called operas or oratorios. It can best be defined, perhaps, as a lyric narrative, sacred, didactic, or dramatic in character, set to music for the concert stage only, being without _dramatis personæ_ in the theatrical acceptation of those words. Its general form is that of the oratorio, being for solo voices, usually the quartet, full chorus, and orchestra, though its shortness as compared with the oratorio adapts it to performance by a small chorus, and sometimes with only piano accompaniment. Among the most perfect forms of the modern cantatas are such works as Mendelssohn's "Walpurgis Night," Sterndale Bennett's "May Queen," Max Bruch's "Odysseus" and "Frithjof's Saga," Cowen's "Sleeping Beauty," Gade's "Comala," Hiller's "Song of Victory," Romberg's somewhat antiquated "Song of the Bell," Sullivan's "Golden Legend," Randegger's "Fridolin," and Dudley Buck's "Don Munio" and "Light of Asia." But besides such as these there are numerous other works, not usually classed as cantatas, which clearly belong to the same musical family; such as Berlioz's "Damnation of Faust," Brahms's "Triumphlied," Mendelssohn's settings of various Psalms, Handel's "Acis and Galatea" and "Alexander's Feast," Hofmann's "Melusina," Liszt's "Prometheus," Rheinberger's "Toggenberg," Schubert's "Song of Miriam," Schumann's ballads and "Advent Hymn," and Weber's "Kampf und Sieg." These and others of the same kin are drawn upon as illustrations and for analysis in the pages which follow. Considering the possibilities of the cantata, its adaptability to every form of narrative, and the musical inducements it holds out, particularly in these days, when a new opera or oratorio must be of extraordinary merit to suit the public, it is somewhat remarkable that no more of them are written. Mr. Charles Barnard has made this point very aptly and forcibly in a short article printed in the "Century" for January, 1886, in which he urges the cantata form of composition upon our writers, and makes many excellent suggestions.[7] It is certainly an inviting field, especially to American composers, among whom but three or four have as yet produced works of this kind possessing real merit. [1] Its first use is to be found in the opera of "Enea," performed at Genoa in 1676. Before 1680 it was universally adopted. [2] It is noteworthy that in this volume occur for the first time the musical terms "adagio," "piu adagio," "affetuoso," "presto," and "allegro." In the "Cantate da Camera a voce sola," published at Bologna (1677) by Gio. Bat. Mazzaferrata, the terms "vivace," "largo," and "ardito" are also found for the first time. [3] Geminiani used to relate that Franceschelli, a celebrated performer on the violoncello at the beginning of this century, accompanied one of these cantatas at Rome so admirably, while Scarlatti was at the harpsichord, that the company, being good Catholics, and living in a country where miraculous powers have not yet ceased, were firmly persuaded it was not Franceschelli who had played the violoncello, but an angel that had descended and assumed his shape.--_Burney's History_, vol. iv. p. 169 (1789). [4] Doctor Arbuthnot, in a humorous pamphlet called out by the operatic war, entitled "Harmony in an Uproar," calls Handel the Nightingale, and Porpora the Cuckoo. [5] It is curious to remember that the sacred cantatas were not composed for universal fame or for a musical public, but for the use of congregations who probably looked on them as a necessary part of the service, and thought little about the merits of their composition. In those days art-criticism was in its infancy, and they were scarcely noticed beyond the walls of Leipsic till after the composer's death.--_Bitter's Life of Bach_. [6] Handel's Second German Passion, as it is now generally called, differs entirely from the earlier Passion according to St. John, and bears no analogy at all to the Passion Music of Sebastian Bach. The choruses are expressive or vigorous in accordance with the nature of the words; but none exhibit any very striking form of contrapuntal development; nor do they ever rise to the grandeur of the Utrecht Te Deum or Jubilate.--_Rockstro's Life of Handel_. [7] The following list of cantatas by Americans hardly sustains Mr. Barnard in his assertion that there are but a few of them: Baker, B. F., "Burning Ship;" "Storm King."--Bechel, J. C., "Pilgrim's Progress;" "The Nativity;" "Ruth."--Bradbury, W. B., "Esther."--Brandeis, F., "The Ring."--Bristow, G. F., "The Pioneers;" "No More."--Buck, Dudley, "Don Munio;" "Centennial;" "Easter Cantatas;" "The Golden Legend;" "Light of Asia;" "Voyage of Columbus."--Butterfield, J. A., "Belshazzar;" "Ruth."--Chadwick, G. W., "The Viking's Last Voyage."--Damrosch, Leopold, "Ruth and Naomi;" "Sulamith."--Foote, A., "Hiawatha."--Gilchrist, W. W., "Forty-sixth Psalm;" "The Rose."--Gleason, F. G., "God our Deliverer;" "Culprit Fay;" "Praise of Harmony."--Hamerik, A., "Christmas Cantata."--Leavitt, W. J. D., "The Lord of the Sea;" "Cambyses; or, the Pearl of Persia."--Marsh, S. B., "The Saviour;" "King of the Forest."--Paine, J. K., "Oedipus Tyrannus;" "The Nativity;" "Phoebus, Arise;" "Realm of Fancy."--Parker, J. G., "Redemption Hymn."--Parker, H. W., "King Trojan."--Pratt, S. G., "Inca's Downfall."--Root, G. F., "Flower Queen;" "Daniel;" "Pilgrim Fathers;" "Belshazzar's Feast;" "Haymakers;" "Song Tournament;" "David."--Singer, Otto, "Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers;" "Festival Ode."--Trajetta, Philip, "The Christian's Joy;" "Prophecy;" "The Nativity;" "Day of Rest."--Whiting, G. E., "Dream Pictures;" "Tale of the Viking;" "Lenora;" and many others. BACH. Johann Sebastian Bach, the most eminent of the world's organ-players and contrapuntists, was born at Eisenach, March 21, 1685, and was the most illustrious member of a long line of musicians, the Bach family having been famous almost from time immemorial for its skill in music. He first studied the piano with his brother, Johann Christoph, and the organ with Reinecke in Hamburg, and Buxtehude in Lübeck. In 1703 he was court musician in Weimar, and afterwards was engaged as organist in Arnstadt and Mühlhausen. In 1708 he was court organist, and in 1714 concert-master in Weimar. In 1718 he was chapel-master to the Prince von Köthen, and in 1723 was appointed music-director and cantor at the St. Thomas School in Leipsic,--a position which he held during the remainder of his life. He has left for the admiration of posterity an almost endless list of vocal and instrumental works, including cantatas, chorales, motets, magnificats, masses, fugues, sonatas, and fantasies, the "Christmas Oratorio," and several settings of the Passion, of which the most famous are the "St. John" and "St. Matthew," the latter of which Mendelssohn re-introduced to the world in 1829, after it had slumbered an entire century. His most famous instrumental work is the "Well-tempered Clavichord,"--a collection of forty-eight fugues and preludes, which was written for his second wife, Anna Magdalena Bach, to whom he also dedicated a large number of piano pieces and songs. His first wife was his cousin, Maria Barbara Bach, the youngest daughter of Johann Michael Bach, a composer of no common ability. By these two wives he had twenty-one children, of whom the most celebrated were Carl Phillipp Emanuel, born in 1714, known as the "Berlin Bach;" Johann Christoph Friedrich, born in 1732, the "Bücheburger Bach;" and Johann Christian, born in 1735, who became famous as the "London Bach." Large as the family was, it is now extinct. Bach was industrious, simple, honest, and God-fearing, like all his family. He was an incessant and laborious writer from necessity, as his compensation was hardly sufficient to maintain his large family, and nearly all his music was prepared for the service of the church by contract. The prominent characteristics of his work are profound knowledge, the clearest statements of form, strength of logical sequences, imposing breadth, and deep religious sentiment. The latter quality was the outcome of his intense religious nature. Upon everyone of his principal compositions he inscribed "S. D. G.," "to the glory of God alone." He died July 28, 1750, and was buried at Leipsic; but no cross or stone marks the spot where he lies. His last composition was the beautiful chorale, "Wenn wir in höchsten Nöthen sein," freely translated, "When my last hour is close at hand," as it was written in his last illness. The only record of his death is contained in the official register: "A man, aged sixty-seven, M. Johann Sebastian Bach, musical director and singing-master at the St. Thomas School, was carried to his grave in the hearse, July 30, 1750." Ich hatte viel Bekümmerniss. The cantata with the above title, best known in English as "My Heart was full of Heaviness," was the first sacred piece in this form which Bach wrote. Its date is 1714, in which year he was living at Weimar, and its composition grew out of a difficulty which he had with the elders of the Liebfrauenkirche at Halle, touching his application for the position of organist. It occasioned him great sorrow, and it was while in this sad plight that he wrote the cantata. It was composed for the third Sunday after Trinity, June 17, and consists of eleven numbers,--an instrumental prelude, four choruses, three arias, a duet, and two recitatives. The prelude, which is brief and quiet in character, introduces the opening chorus ("Deep within my Heart was Sorrowing and great Affliction"), which in turn leads to the first aria ("Sighing, Mourning, Sorrow, Tears waste away my troubled Heart"), a tender and beautiful number for soprano, with oboe and string accompaniment. It is followed by the tenor recitative and aria, "Why hast Thou, O my God, in my sore Need so turned Thy Face from me?" in which the feeling of sorrow is intensified in utterance. The chorus, "Why, my Soul, art thou vexed?" a very pathetic number, closes the mournful but beautiful first part of the cantata. The second part is more tranquil and hopeful. It opens with a duet for soprano and bass, the two parts representing the soul and Christ, and sustaining a most expressive dialogue, leading up to a richly harmonized chorus ("O my Soul, be content and be thou peaceful") in which a chorale is introduced with consummate skill. A graceful tenor aria with a delightful and smoothly flowing accompaniment ("Rejoice, O my Soul, change Weeping to Smiling") follows and leads to the final number, which is based on the same subject as that of the "Hallelujah" in Handel's "Messiah." All the voices give out the words, "The Lamb that for us is slain, to Him will we render Power and Glory," with majestic effect; after which the solo bass utters the theme, "Power and Glory and Praise be unto Him forevermore," introducing the "Hallelujah," which closes the work in a burst of tremendous power, by voices and instruments. Gottes Zeit. During the first half of the period in which Bach resided at Weimar, occupying the position of court and chamber musician to Duke Wilhelm Ernst, he wrote three cantatas in the old church form which are notable as being the last he composed before adopting the newer style, and as the most perfect of that kind extant. The first of these, "Nach dir, Herr, verlanget mich," is based upon the first two verses of the Twenty-fifth Psalm. The second, "Aus der Tiefe rufe ich," includes the whole of the One hundred and thirtieth Psalm and two verses of the hymn "Herr Jesu Christ, du höchstes Gut." The third and most famous of the trio, "Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit" ("God's time is the best of all"), is generally known as the "Actus Tragicus," and sometimes as the "Mourning Cantata." Of its origin Spitta says:-- "Judging by its contents it was designed for the mourning for some man, probably of advanced age, to whom the song of Simeon could be suitably applied. No such death took place in the ducal house at this time, for Prince Johann Ernst died when a youth, and also when Bach's style of composition had reached a different stage. Possibly the cantata has reference to Magister Philipp Grossgebauer, the rector of the Weimar school before its reorganization, who died in 1711; at least, I can find no other suitable occasion. The contrast between the spirit of the Old and New Testaments,--between the wrath of an avenging God and the atoning love of Christ,--which had already appeared in the One hundred and thirtieth Psalm, is the germ and root of this cantata to such a degree that it is evident that Bach had fully realized by this time how fertile a subject for treatment it was. It contains no chorus of such depth and force as those of the One hundred and thirtieth Psalm. Its character is much more entirely individual and personal, and so it has a depth and intensity of expression which reach the extreme limits of possibility of representation by music. The arrangement of the poetic material is most excellent; it does not wholly consist of Scripture texts and verses of hymns; and in several fit and expressive thoughts, which are freely interspersed, we can almost recognize Bach's own hand. If such be the case, the whole arrangement of the poetry may with reason be ascribed to him." The introduction to the work is a quiet, tender movement in sonata form, written for two flutes, two viol-da-gambas and figured bass, which gives out some of the themes in the middle of the cantata. The opening chorus ("God's own Time is the best, ever best of all. In Him we live, move, and have our Being, as long as He wills. And in Him we die at His good Time") is very descriptive in character, opening with a slow and solemn movement, then passing to a quick fugue, and closing with phrases of mournful beauty to suit the last sentence of the text. A tenor solo follows, set to the words, "O Lord, incline us to consider that our Days are numbered; make us apply our Hearts unto Wisdom," and accompanied by the flutes, leading into a mournful aria for the bass, which forms the second part of the tenor solo ("Set in order thine House, for thou shalt die and not live"). The choir resumes with a new theme ("It is the old Decree, Man, thou art mortal"), in which the lower voices carry a double fugue, the soprano sings alone ("Yea, come, Lord Jesus"), and the instruments have the melody of the old hymn:-- "I have cast all my care on God, E'en let Him do what seems Him good; Whether I die, or whether live, No more I'll strive. But all my will to Him will give." Of this effective movement and its successor Spitta says:-- "The design is clear. The curse of death has been changed into blessing by the coming of Christ, and that which mankind dreaded before, they now stretch out entreating hands to; the bliss of the new condition of things shines out in supernatural glory against the dark background of a dispensation that has been done away. This is the idea of the concerted vocal parts; and the fact that thousands upon thousands have agreed in the joy of this faith is shown by the chorale tune now introduced; for to the understanding listener its worldless sounds convey the whole import of the hymn which speaks so sweetly of comfort in the hour of death, sounds which must recall to every pious heart all the feelings they had stirred when, among the chances and changes of life, this hymn had been heard,--feelings of sympathy with another's grief or of balm to the heart's own anxiety." The alto voice follows with the words spoken on the cross ("Into Thy Hands my Spirit I commend"), to which the bass replies in an arioso ("Thou shalt be with Me to-day in Paradise"). The next number is a chorale ("In Joy and Peace I pass away whenever God willeth") sung by the alto, the bass continuing its solo at the same time through a portion of the chorale. The final chorus is the so-called fifth Gloria:-- "All glory, praise, and majesty To Father, Son, and Spirit be, The holy, blessed Trinity; Whose power to us Gives victory Through Jesus Christ. Amen." The "Actus Tragicus" was one of the youthful compositions of Bach, but it has always attracted the notice of the best musical critics. It was a great favorite with Mendelssohn. Spitta says:-- "It is a work of art well rounded off and firm in its formation, and warmed by the deepest intensity of feeling even in the smallest details." Hauptmann writes to Jahn:-- "Yesterday, at the Euterpe concert, Bach's 'Gottes Zeit' was given. What a marvellous intensity pervades it, without a bar of conventionality! Of the cantatas known to me, I know none in which such design and regard are had to the musical import and its expression." Festa Ascensionis Christi. The cantata beginning with the words, "Wer da glaubet und getauft wird" ("Whoso believeth and is baptized"), commonly known as the Ascension cantata, was written for four voices, with accompaniment of two oboes, two violins, viola, and "continuo,"--the latter word implying a bass part, the harmonies indicated by figures from which the organist built up his own accompaniment. The original score has been lost; but it has been reconstructed from the parts, which are preserved in the Royal Library at Berlin. The cantata is in five numbers. A short prelude of a quiet and cheerful character introduces the stately opening chorus ("Who believeth and obeyeth will be blest forever"). Another brief prelude prepares the way for the brilliant tenor aria ("Of Love, Faith is the Pledge and Token"), which leads up to the chorale, "Lord God, my Father, holy One," based upon the old chorale, "Wie schön leucht uns der Morgenstern" ("How brightly shines the Morning Star"), which has always been a favorite in the church service, and which more than one composer has chosen for the embellishment of his themes. The chorale is not employed in its original form, but is elaborated with all the contrapuntal skill for which Bach was so famous. The next number is a short recitative for the bass voice ("Ye Mortals, hear, all ye who would behold the Face of God"), and leads to a stately bass aria ("Through Faith the Soul has Eagle's Pinions"). The cantata closes, after the customary manner of Bach, with a strong, earnest chorale ("Oh, give me Faith, my Father!"), in plain, solid harmony, for the use of the congregation, thus forming an effective devotional climax to the work. Ein' Feste Burg. "A safe stronghold our God is still, A trusty shield and weapon; He'll help us clear from all the ill That hath us now o'ertaken. The ancient Prince of Hell Hath risen with purpose fell; Strong mail of craft and power He weareth in this hour. On Earth is not his fellow. * * * * * "And were this world all devils o'er, And watching to devour us, We lay it not to heart so sore, Not they can overpower us. And let the Prince of Ill Look grim as e'er he will, He harms us not a whit; For why? His doom is writ, A word shall quickly slay him." There is now but little question that Martin Luther not only wrote the words but the music of the grand old hymn, the first and third stanzas of which, taken from Carlyle's free and rugged translation, are given above. Sleidan, a contemporary historian, indeed says that "Luther made a tune for it singularly suited to the words and adapted to stir the heart." The date of its composition is a matter of controversy; but it is clear that it must have been either in 1529 or 1530, and most writers agree that it was just before the Diet at Augsburg, where it was sung. Niederer, in a work published at Nuremberg, 1759, fixes the date as 1530, and finds it in Preussen's psalm-book, printed in 1537. Winterfeld observes it for the first time in the "Gesangbuch" of the composer Walther, a friend of Luther. Its usual title is, "Der XLVI. Psalm: Deus noster Refugium et virtus, pp. D., Martin Luther." It matters little, however, the exact year in which the sturdy old Reformer wrote the hymn which has stirred the human heart more than any other. It is indissolubly connected with his name, and every line of it is a reflex of his indomitable and God-fearing nature. Heine and Carlyle have paid it noble tributes. The German poet says:-- "The hymn which he composed on his way to Worms,[8] and which he and his companions chanted as they entered that city, is a regular war-song. The old cathedral trembled when it heard these novel sounds. The very rooks flew from their nests in the towers. That hymn, the Marseillaise of the Reformation, has preserved to this day its potent spell over German hearts." Carlyle still more forcibly says:-- "With words he had now learned to make music; it was by deeds of love or heroic valor that he spoke freely. Nevertheless, though in imperfect articulation, the same voice, if we listen well, is to be heard also in his writings, in his poems. The one entitled 'Ein' feste Burg,' universally regarded as the best, jars upon our ears; yet there is something in it like the sound of Alpine avalanches, or the first murmur of earthquakes, in the very vastness of which dissonance a higher unison is revealed to us. Luther wrote this song in times of blackest threatenings, which, however, could in no sense become a time of despair. In these tones, rugged and broken as they are, do we hear the accents of that summoned man, who answered his friends' warning not to enter Worms, in this wise: 'Were there as many devils in Worms as these tile roofs, I would on.'" It was the battle-song of the Reformation, stirring men to valiant deeds; and it did equal service in sustaining and consoling the Reformers in their darkest hours. "Come, Philip, let us sing the Forty-sixth Psalm," was Luther's customary greeting to Melanchthon, when the gentler spirit quailed before approaching danger, or success seemed doubtful. In music it has frequently served an important purpose. Not only Bach, but other composers of his time arranged it. Mendelssohn uses it with powerful effect in his Reformation symphony. Nicolai employs it in his Fest overture. Meyerbeer more than once puts it in the mouth of Marcel the Huguenot, when dangers gather about his master, though the Huguenots were not Lutherans but Calvinists; and Wagner introduces it with overwhelming power in his triumphal Kaiser March. Bitter, in his Life of Bach, says:-- "The bicentenary Reformation Festival was celebrated in October and November, 1717, and at Weimar especially it was, as an old chronicle tells us, a great jubilee. Bach composed his cantata, 'Ein' feste Burg,' for the occasion. In this piece it is clear that he had passed through his first phase of development and reached a higher stage of perfection." Winterfeld is inclined to the same belief; but Spitta, in his exhaustive biography of Bach, argues that it must have been written either for the Reformation Festival of 1730, or for the two hundredth anniversary of Protestantism in Saxony, May 17, 1739. The former date would bring its composition a year after the completion of his great Passions music, and four years before his still more famous "Christmas Oratorio,"--a period when he was at the height of his productive power; which favors the argument of Spitta, that in 1717 a chorus like the opening one in the cantata was beyond his capacity.[9] In the year 1730 Bach wrote three Jubilee cantatas, rearranged from earlier works, and Spitta claims that it was only about this period that he resorted to this practice. Further, he adds that "the Chorale Chorus [the opening number], in its grand proportions and vigorous flow, is the natural and highest outcome of Bach's progressive development, and he never wrote anything more stupendous." The cantata has eight numbers, three choruses and five solos. The solo numbers are rearranged from an earlier cantata, "Alles was von Gott geboren" ("All that is of God's creation"), written for the third Sunday in Lent, March 15, 1716. The opening number is a colossal fugue based upon a variation on the old melody and set to the first verse of the Luther hymn. It is followed by a duet for soprano and bass, including the second verse of the hymn and an interpolated verse by Franck,[10] who prepared the text. The third and fourth numbers are a bass recitative and soprano aria, the words also by Franck, leading up to the second great chorale chorus set to the words of the third stanza of the hymn, "And were the world all devils o'er," of which Spitta says:-- "The whole chorus sings the _Cantus firmus_ in unison, while the orchestra plays a whirl of grotesque and wildly leaping figures, through which the chorus makes its way undistracted and never misled, an illustration of the third verse, as grandiose and characteristic as it is possible to conceive." The sixth number is a recitative for tenor followed by a duet for alto and tenor ("How blessed then are they who still on God are calling"). The work closes with a repetition of the chorale, set to the last verse of the hymn, sung without accompaniment. The cantata is colossal in its proportions, and is characterized throughout by the stirring spirit and bold vigorous feeling of the Reformation days whose memories it celebrated. [8] This assumption, repeated by others, grows out of the similarity of sentiment in the third stanza to that of Luther's famous reply when he was urged not to attend the Diet of Worms. [9] There is yet a fourth rearrangement, which we may assign to 1730. The assertion is no doubt well founded that in this year the celebration of the Reformation Festival was considered of special importance, and kept accordingly; and it is evident that the cantata "Ein' feste Burg" must have been intended for some such extraordinary solemnity.--_Spitta_, vol. ii. p. 470. The Reformation Festival had no doubt a very distinct poetical sentiment of its own; and when any special occasion took the precedence, as in 1730 and 1739, the years of Jubilee, it would be misleading to seek for any close connection between the sermon and the cantata. Thus the cantata, "Ein' feste Burg," may very well have been connected with the sermon in 1730; still, it is possible that it was not written till 1739.--_Ibid._, vol. iii. p. 283. [10] Salomo Franck, a poet of more than ordinary ability, was born at Weimar, March 6, 1759. He published several volumes of sacred lyrics. BALFE. Michael William Balfe was born at Dublin, Ireland, May 15, 1808. Of all the English opera-composers, his career was the most versatile, as his success, for a time at least, was the most remarkable. At seven years of age he scored a polacca of his own for a band. In his eighth year he appeared as a violinist, and in his tenth was composing ballads. At sixteen he was playing in the Drury Lane orchestra, and about this time began taking lessons in composition. In 1825, aided by the generosity of a patron, he went to Italy, where for three years he studied singing and counterpoint. In his twentieth year he met Rossini, who offered him an engagement as first barytone at the Italian opera in Paris. He made his début with success in 1828, and at the close of his engagement returned to Italy, where he appeared again on the stage. About this time (1829-1830) he began writing Italian operas, and before he left the country had produced three which met with considerable success. In 1835 he returned to England; and it was in this year that his first English opera, "The Siege of Rochelle," was brought out. It was played continuously at Drury Lane for over three months. In 1835 appeared his "Maid of Artois;" in 1837, "Catharine Grey" and "Joan of Arc;" and in 1838, "Falstaff." During these years he was still singing in concerts and opera, and in 1840 undertook the management of the Lyceum. His finest works were produced after this date,--"The Bohemian Girl," in 1843; "The Enchantress," in 1844; "The Rose of Castile," "La Zingara," and "Satanella," in 1858; and "The Puritan's Daughter" in 1861. His last opera was "The Knight of the Leopard," known in Italian as "Il Talismano," which has also been performed in English as "The Talisman." He married Mademoiselle Rosen, a German singer, whom he met in Italy in 1835. His daughter Victoire, who subsequently married Sir John Crampton, and afterwards the Duc de Frias, also appeared as a singer in 1856. Balfe died Oct. 20, 1870, upon his own estate in Hertfordshire. Mazeppa. The cantata of "Mazeppa," the words written by Jessica Rankin, was one of the last productions of Balfe, having been produced in 1862, a year after "The Puritan's Daughter," and several years after he had passed his musical prime. The text is based upon the familiar story as told by Byron in his poem of the wild ride of the page of King Casimir, "The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold," and of the "noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, Who looked as though the speed of thought Was in his limbs." The main incidents in the story--the guilty love of the page Mazeppa for the Count Palatine's Theresa, his surprise and seizure by the spies, her mysterious fate, the wild flight of the steed with his wretched load through forest and over desert, and the final rescue by the Cossack maid--are preserved, but liberties of every description are taken in the recital of the narrative. It is but a feeble transcript of Byron's glowing verse, and in its diluted form is but a vulgar story of ordinary love, jealousy, and revenge. The cantata comprises twelve numbers. The first is a prelude in triplets intended to picture the gallop of the steed, a common enough device since the days when Virgil did it much better without the aid of musical notation, in his well-known line,-- "Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum." It leads to a stirring chorus which is followed by still another, based upon a very pleasant melody. The third number is a solo for barytone, in which the Count gives expression to his jealousy, which brings us to the heroine, who makes her appearance in a florid number. The next is a duet for Theresa and Mazeppa, followed by a solo for the tenor (Mazeppa) which is very effective. The chorus then re-enter and indicate the madness of the Count in words, the following sample of which will show their unsingableness:-- "Revenge fires his turbulent soul; No power his boundless rage can control." The eighth number is another duet for the Countess and Mazeppa in the conventional Italian style. It is followed by a graceful aria for tenor, which leads up to the best number in the work, a trio in canon form. A final aria by the Count leads to the last chorus, in which the repetition of the triplet gallop forebodes the ride into the desert and the punishment of the page. As might be inferred from the description, the cantata is like Hamlet with _Hamlet_ left out. There is very little of Mazeppa and his Tartar steed in the work, but very much of the jealousy and revenge which lead up to the penalty. BEETHOVEN. Ludwig von Beethoven was born Dec. 16, 1770, at Bonn, Germany. His father was a court-singer in the Chapel of the Elector of Cologne. The great composer studied in Vienna with Haydn, with whom he did not always agree, however, and afterwards with Albrechtsberger. His first symphony appeared in 1801,--his earlier symphonies, in what is called his first period, being written in the Mozart style. His only opera, "Fidelio," for which he wrote four overtures, was first brought out in Vienna, in 1805; his oratorio, "Christ on the Mount of Olives," in 1812; and his colossal Ninth Symphony, with its choral setting of Schiller's "Ode to Joy," in 1824. In addition to his symphonies, his opera, oratorios, and masses, and the immortal series of piano sonatas, which were almost revelations in music, he developed chamber music to an extent far beyond that reached by his predecessors, Mozart and Haydn. His symphonies exhibit surprising power, a marvellous comprehension of the deeper feelings in life, and the influences of nature, both human and physical. He wrote with the deepest earnestness, alike in the passion and the repose of his music, and he invested it also with a genial humor as well as with the highest expression of pathos. His works are epic in style. He was the great tone-poet of music. His subjects were always lofty and dignified, and to their treatment he brought not only a profound knowledge of musical technicality, but intense sympathy with the innermost feelings of human nature, for he was a humanitarian in the broadest sense. By the common consent of the musical world he stands at the head of all composers since his time, and has always been their guide and inspiration. He died March 26, 1827, in the midst of a raging thunder-storm,--one of his latest utterances being a recognition of the "divine spark" in Schubert's music. The Ruins of Athens. The most important compositions by Beethoven in 1811 were the music to two dramatic works written by the poet Kotzebue to celebrate the opening of the new theatre at Pesth, Hungary. One of these was a prologue in one act with overture and choruses, entitled "König Stephan,[11] Ungarn's erster Wohlthäter" ("King Stephen, Hungary's first Benefactor"); the other, an allegorical sketch, called "The Ruins of Athens," the subject of which is thus concisely stated by Macfarren:-- "Minerva has been since the golden age of Grecian art, the glorious epoch of Grecian liberty, for some or other important offence against the Olympian tribunal, the particulars of which I am unable to furnish, fettered with chains of heaven-wrought adamant by the omnipotent thunderer within a rock impenetrable alike to the aspirations of man and to the intelligence of the goddess, a rock through which neither his spirit of inquiry could approach, nor her wisdom diffuse itself upon the world. The period of vengeance is past; Jove relents, and the captive deity is enfranchised. The first steps of her freedom naturally lead Minerva to the scene of her ancient greatness. She finds Athens, her Athens, her especially beloved and most carefully cherished city, in ruins, the descendants of her fostered people enslaved to a barbarous and fanatic race; the trophies of her former splendor, the wrecks of that art which is the example and the regret of all time, appropriated to the most degrading purposes of vulgar householdry; and the frenzied worshippers of a faith that knows not the divine presence in its most marvellous manifestation, the intellect of man. Here is no longer the home of wisdom and the arts; so the liberated goddess proceeds to Pesth, where she establishes anew her temple in the new theatre, and presides over a triumphal procession in honor of the Emperor, its patron, under whose auspices the golden age is to prevail again." After the opening performances the music to "King Stephen" was laid aside until 1841, when it was given in Vienna; but the after-piece, "The Ruins of Athens," was presented again during Beethoven's lifetime upon the occasion of the opening of a theatre in that city. The new text, which was prepared for it by Carl Meisl, was entitled "Die Weihe des Hauses" ("The Dedication of the House"), and Beethoven wrote for it the overture which is now so famous, solos for soprano and violin, and a final chorus with dances. The music to the "Ruins of Athens" comprises eight numbers. The overture is very light and unpretentious, and by many critics, among them Ferdinand Ries, Beethoven's pupil, has been deemed unworthy of the composer. Thayer says:-- "When the overture was first played at Leipsic, people could hardly trust their ears, could hardly believe it to be the work of the author of the symphonies, of the overtures to 'Coriolan,' 'Egmont,' and 'Leonore' (Fidelio)." The opening number is a chorus ("Daughter of mighty Jove, awake!"), which is followed by a beautiful duet ("Faultless, yet hated"), voicing the lament of two Greek slaves for the destruction of their temples and the degradation of their land. The duet is very pathetic in character, and the melody, carried by the two voices, leaves an impression of sadness which cannot be resisted. The third number is the well-known chorus of Dervishes sung in unison by tenors and basses, thus forming a kind of choral chant. The melody is a weird one, and full of local color, but its powerful effect is gained by the manner of treatment. It begins pianissimo and is gradually worked to the extreme pitch of true Dervish delirium, culminating in the exclamation, "Great Prophet, hail!" and then gradually subsiding until it dies away, apparently from the exhaustion of such fervor. It is followed by the familiar Turkish march, founded on the theme of the Variations in D, op. 76, very simple in construction, Oriental in its character throughout, and peculiarly picturesque in effect. After an instrumental movement behind the scenes, a triumphal march and chorus ("Twine ye a Garland") is introduced. The seventh number is a recitative and aria by the high priest with chorus, which lead to a beautifully melodious chorus ("Susceptible Hearts"). An adagio aria for bass ("Deign, great Apollo") and a vigorous chorus ("Hail, our King") bring the work to a close. The piece was first brought out in England by Mendelssohn in 1844 at one of the Philharmonic Society's concerts; and ten or twelve years later an English version of it was performed at the Prince's Theatre, when the Royal Exchange and statue of Wellington were substituted for the Pesth Theatre, and Shakspeare took the place of the Emperor of Austria, concerning the good taste of which Macfarren pithily says:-- "Modifications admirably adapted to the commercial character and the blind vainglory that so eminently mark the British nation." [11] Born in the year 977 at Gran, and known in Austrian and Hungarian history as Saint Stephen. The Glorious Moment. In September, 1814, the same year in which the Allies entered Paris, the Vienna Congress met to adjust the relations of the various European States. It was an occasion of great moment in the ancient city,--this gathering of sovereigns and distinguished statesmen,--and the magistracy prepared themselves to celebrate it with befitting pomp and ceremony. Beethoven was requested to set a poem, written by Dr. Aloys Weissenbach, of Salzburg, in cantata form, which was to be sung as a greeting to the royal visitors. It was "Der glorreiche Augenblick," sometimes written "Der heilige Augenblick" ("The Glorious Moment"). The time for its composition was very brief, and was made still shorter by the quarrels the composer had with the poet in trying to reduce the barbarous text to a more inspiring and musical form. He began the composition in September, and it was first performed on the 29th of the following November, together with the "Battle of Vittoria," and the A major (Seventh) symphony, written in the previous year. The concert took place in the presence of the sovereigns and an immense audience which received his works with every demonstration of enthusiasm, particularly "The Glorious Moment,"--a moment which all hailed as the precursor of a happier epoch for Europe, soon to be freed from Napoleonic oppression. The occasion was one of great benefit to the composer at a time when he was sorely in need of assistance. The distinguished foreign visitors thronged the salon of the Archduke Rudolph to pay him homage. Handsome gifts were lavished upon him so that he was enabled to make a permanent investment of 20,000 marks in shares of the bank of Austria. Brilliant entertainments were given by the Russian ambassador, Prince Rasoumowsky,[12] in his palace, at one of which Beethoven was presented to the sovereigns. The Empress of Russia also gave him a reception and made him magnificent presents. Schindler says: "Not without feeling did the great master afterwards recall those days in the Imperial Palace and that of the Russian Prince; and once with a certain pride remarked that he had allowed the crowned heads to pay court to him, and that he had carried himself thereby proudly." The stern old republican, however, who could rebuke Goethe for taking off his hat in the presence of royalty, spoke such sentiments jocosely. He expresses his real feelings in a letter written to the attorney, Herr J. Kauka, of Prague:-- "I write nothing about our monarchs and monarchies, for the newspapers give you every information on these subjects. The intellectual realm is the most precious in my eyes, and far above all temporal and spiritual monarchies." The cantata itself, while not one of the most meritorious of the composer's works, for reasons which are sufficiently apparent, still is very effective in its choruses. The detailed parts do not need special description; they are six in number, as follows: No. 1, chorus ("Europa steht"); No. 2, recitative and chorus ("O, seht sie nah und näher treten"); No. 3, grand scena, soprano, with violin obligato and chorus ("O Himmel, welch' Entzücken"); No. 4, soprano solo and chorus ("Das Auge schaut"); No. 5, recitative and quartet for two sopranos, tenor, and bass ("Der den Bund im Sturme festgehalten"); No. 6, chorus and fugue ("Es treten hervor die Scharen der Frauen"), closing with a stirring "Heil und Gluck" to Vindobona, the ancient name of the city. In 1836, nine years after the composer's death, the cantata appeared with a new poetical setting by Friedrich Rochlitz, under the title of "Preis der Tonkunst" ("Praise of Music"), in which form it was better adapted for general performance. Among other compositions of Beethoven which assimilate to the cantata form, are Op. 112, "Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt," for four voices, with orchestra accompaniment; Op. 121, "Opferlied," for soprano solo, with chorus and orchestra accompaniment; and Op. 122, "Bundeslied," for two solo voices, three-part chorus, and accompaniment of two clarinets, two bassoons, and two horns. [12] Prince Rasoumowsky, who was the Russian ambassador at the Austrian Court for twenty years, was himself a thorough musician, and ranked as one of the best players in Vienna, of the Haydn and Beethoven quartets. His instrument was the second violin. BENEDICT. Sir Julius Benedict, whose name is so intimately connected with music in England, was born at Stuttgart, Nov. 27, 1804. After a short period of study with Hummel at Weimar he became a pupil of Weber. He progressed so rapidly that at the age of nineteen he conducted operatic performances in Vienna, and a few years afterwards was leader at the San Carlo in Naples, where he produced his first opera, "Giacinta ed Ernesto." In 1835 he went to Paris and thence to London, where he remained until his death. In 1836 he led the orchestra at the Lyceum Theatre, and was also conductor at Drury Lane during the memorable seasons in which the best of Balfe's operas were brought out. It was during this period also that he produced two of his own operas,--"The Brides of Venice" and "The Crusaders," which are ranked among his best works of this class. In 1850 he accompanied Jenny Lind on her memorable tour through this country. On his return to England he was engaged as conductor at Her Majesty's Theatre, and afterwards at Drury Lane. In 1860 he produced the cantata of "Undine;" in 1862 the opera "Lily of Killarney;" in 1863 the cantata "Richard Coeur de Leon;" in 1864 the operetta "Bride of Song;" in 1866 the cantata "St. Cecilia;" and in 1870 the oratorio "St. Peter." In 1871 he received the honor of knighthood, and in 1873 brought out a symphony which met with great success. In 1874, the occasion of his seventieth birthday, he was made Knight Commander of the orders of Francis and Joseph and of Frederic, Austrian and Wurtembergian decorations. Nearly every sovereign in Europe had thus honored him. He was also conductor of the London Monday Popular Concerts for many years, and directed many chamber concerts. He died full of honors in June, 1885. St. Cecilia. The legend of St. Cecilia for two centuries has inspired the poet and composer, and the custom of celebrating her festival has obtained in nearly all European countries during the same period. The earliest observance was at Evreux, France, in 1571. The first celebration in England of which any record remains was that of 1683; though it is clear from the accounts of musical writers in the seventeenth century that the custom had been practised many years prior to that date. From 1683 to 1750 St. Cecilia festivals were given annually in London, and for these occasions an ode was written and set to music.[13] In the latter year the distinctive name of the festival fell into disuse, though large musical festivals were frequently held after that year on the saint's day. In France regular entertainments were given on St. Cecilia's Day from 1573 to 1601, when the record terminates. In Italy the anniversary of the saint has not been celebrated except as a church festival. In Germany the custom prevailed as early as the sixteenth century; and in the next century Cecilia festivals were quite common in Spain. Prior to Benedict's work the most modern composition having the legend for its basis was a cantata by Van Bree, of Amsterdam, written in 1845. These preliminaries will enable the reader the better to understand the introduction which Mr. Chorley has written to the text of the cantata by Benedict, composed for the Norwich Festival of 1866. Mr. Chorley says:-- "It has long been a favorite fancy of mine to treat the legend of St. Cecilia for music with a view to the possible revival of such celebrations as were held in gone-by years, when English sympathy for the art was more limited in every respect than at the present time. It is true that the names of Dryden and Addison among the poets, and of Handel among the musicians, who have made 'divine Cecilia's' praise immortal, might be thought to deter anyone from dealing with the subject. But theirs were merely votive odes indirectly bearing on the power of the art of which Cecilia is patron saint. This cantata of mine sets forth her story, which, so far as I am aware, has not been done before in any of the works produced for the Cecilian festivals in England. All who are familiar with the accepted legend, as told in the 'Legenda Aurea' of Jacobus Januensis, Archbishop of Genoa, will perceive that I have treated it with a certain liberty. Some of the minor incidents--such as the conversion and martyrdom of Tiburtius, the brother of Valerianus--have been omitted with a view of avoiding the introduction of secondary persons, and of concentrating the main interest in the martyr heroine. Further, the catastrophe which (to cite Dryden's known line in defiance of its original import) "Raised a mortal to the skies," has been simplified. The legend narrates that after the agony of slow fire, which failed to kill the Christian bride, the sword ended her days. A literal adherence to this tradition might have weakened the closing scene by presenting two situations of the same character. Others must judge how far I have been indiscreet, or the reverse, in its omission." The story of the cantata is strikingly similar to that which forms the theme of Donizetti's opera "Il Poliuto," though the manner of the conversions differs. In the former it is Valerianus, the lover of Cecilia, who is turned from heathenism by the angelic vision. In the latter it is Paulina, the wife of the Roman convert Polyutus, who witnesses the divine illumination and hears the celestial harps, which induce her to abjure the worship of the gods and join her husband in martyrdom. It is in fact the old, old story of the persecutions of a new faith by the old. Cecilia, though married to Valerianus, hears the divine call summoning the bride away from her lover until he shall have been converted. She appeals to Heaven in his behalf. A vision of angels appears to him and their songs win his soul. The infuriated prefect, who has but just performed the rites of their marriage, orders their death,--Valerianus to be beheaded, and Cecilia to die by the slow martyrdom of fire. The tragedy of the former is left to the imagination. Cecilia dies surrounded by the angels and hears their voices:-- "Before mine eyes, already dim, Doth heaven unclose the gate; I hear the choiring seraphim Around the throne that wait. To join the song of that bright choir Thy mercy sets me free; And so I triumph o'er the fire, And rise, O Lord, to Thee." The work contains thirteen numbers, and the solos are divided as follows: Cecilia, soprano; Valerianus, tenor; the Prefect of Rome, bass; a Christian woman, contralto. The remaining numbers are assigned to choruses of Roman citizens, Christians, and angels. A tender and sorrowful prelude, foreshadowing the tragedy, introduces a bright and joyous wedding chorus ("Let the Lutes play their loudest"), which in its middle part is divided between male and female choir, returning to four-part harmony in the close. The next number is an ecstatic love-song for Valerianus ("The Love too deep for Words to speak"), which leads up to a scena and duet for Valerianus and Cecilia ("O my Lord, if I must grieve you"), which is very dramatic in its texture. The conversion music, including an obligato soprano solo with chorus of angels ("Praise the Lord"), recitative and air for tenor with choral responses ("Cease not, I pray you"), and an animated chorus of angels ("From our Home"), follows, and closes the first part. The second part opens with the curse of the prefect, a very passionate aria for bass ("What mean these Zealots vile?"), following which in marked contrast is a lovely aria for contralto ("Father, whose Blessing we entreat"). The next number, a quartet with full choral accompaniment ("God is our Hope and Strength"), is one of the most effective in the work, and is followed by the trial scene, a duet between Valerianus and the prefect, the latter accompanied by chorus. A short funeral march intervenes. Valerianus and Cecilia bid each other farewell; the former is borne away, and Cecilia sings her dying song ("Those whom the Highest One befriends") amid the triumphant hallelujahs of the angels. [13] The Ode for St. Cecilia's Day in 1683 was written by Christopher Fishburn and set to music by Purcell. The most famous odes of the next hundred years were as follows: "A song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687," by John Dryden, originally composed by Draghi, afterwards by Handel; ode by Thomas d'Urfrey, music by Dr. Blow, 1691; "Alexander's Feast," by Dryden, original music by Jeremiah Clark afterwards composed by Handel, 1697; ode by Joseph Addison, composed by Purcell, 1699; "Hymn to Harmony," by Congreve, composed by John Eccles, 1701; ode by Pope in 1708, set to music in 1757 by William Walond; an ode by Christopher Smart, composed by William Russell, 1800. BENNETT. William Sterndale Bennett, one of the most gifted and individual of English composers, was born at Sheffield, April 13, 1816. His musical genius displayed itself early, and in his tenth year he was placed in the Royal Academy of Music, of which in his later years he became principal. He received his early instruction in composition from Lucas and Dr. Crotch, and studied the piano with Cipriani Potter, who had been a pupil of Mozart. The first composition which gained him distinction was the Concerto in D minor, written in 1832, which was followed by the Capriccio in D minor. During the next three years he produced the overture to "Parisina," the F minor Concerto, and the "Naïades" overture, the success of which was so great that a prominent musical house in London offered to send him to Leipsic for a year. He went there, and soon won his way to the friendship of Schumann and Mendelssohn. With the latter he was on very intimate terms, which has led to the erroneous statement that he was his pupil. In 1840 he made a second visit to Leipsic, where he composed his Caprice in E, and the "Wood Nymphs" overture. In 1842 he returned to England, and for several years was busily engaged with chamber concerts. In 1849 he founded the Bach Society, arranged the "Matthew Passion" music of that composer, as well as his "Christmas Oratorio," and brought out the former work in 1854. The previous year he was offered the distinguished honor of the conductorship of the Gewandhaus concerts at Leipsic, but did not accept. In 1856 he was appointed conductor of the Philharmonic Society, and filled the position for ten years, resigning it to take the head of the Royal Academy of Music. In the same year he was elected musical professor at Cambridge, where he received the degree of Doctor of Music and other honors. In 1858 his beautiful cantata "The May Queen" was produced at the Leeds Festival, and in 1862 the "Paradise and the Peri" overture, written for the Philharmonic Society. In 1867 his oratorio, or, as he modestly terms it, "sacred cantata," "The Woman of Samaria," was produced with great success at the Birmingham Festival. In 1870 he was honored with a degree by the University of Oxford, and a year later received the empty distinction of knighthood. His last public appearance was at a festival in Brighton in 1874, where he conducted his "Woman of Samaria." He died Feb. 1, 1875, and was buried in Westminster Abbey with distinguished honors. The May Queen. "The May Queen," a pastoral cantata, the libretto by Henry F. Chorley, was first performed at the Leeds Festival of 1858. The solo parts are written for the May Queen (soprano); the Queen (contralto); the Lover (tenor); and the Captain of the Foresters, as Robin Hood (bass). The opening scene pictures the dressing of the tree for the spring festivity on the banks of the Thames, and the preparations for the reception of the May Queen. A despondent lover enters and sings his melancholy plight as he reflects upon the fickleness of the May Queen, interrupted at intervals by the merry shouts of the chorus:-- "With a laugh as we go round To the merry, merry sound Of the tabor and the pipe, We will frolic on the green; For since the world began, And our royal river ran, Was never such a May Day, And never such a Queen." The lover continues his doleful lamenting, which is at last interrupted by the entrance of the May Queen herself, who chides him for his complaints and argues her right to coquet on such a day. As their interview closes, a band of foresters enter with their greenwood king, Robin Hood, at their head, who after a rollicking hunting-song makes open love to the May Queen. The enraged lover resents his impertinence, and at last strikes him a blow, which by the laws exposes him to the loss of his hand. Before he can make his escape there is a flourish of trumpets, and the Queen enters and demands the reason for the brawl. The revellers inform her that the lover has struck the forester. She orders his arrest, whereupon the May Queen intercedes with her for her lover's release and declares her affection for him. Her appeal for mercy is granted. The forester is banished from the royal presence for lowering himself to the level of a peasant girl, the May Queen is ordered to wed her lover on the coming morn, and all ends happily with the joyous chorus:-- "And the cloud hath passed away, That was heavy on the May; And the river floweth fair, And the meadow bloometh green. They embrace, no more to part, While we sing from every heart, A blessing on the bridal! A blessing on the Queen!" The music of the cantata is divided into ten numbers, which are characterized by exquisite refinement and artistic taste. The solos, particularly No. 2, for tenor ("O Meadow, clad in early Green"), No. 4, the obligato soprano ("With the Carol in the Tree"), and No. 6, the forester's lusty greenwood song ("'Tis jolly to hunt in the bright Moonlight"), are very melodious, and well adapted to the individual characters. The concerted music is written in the most scholarly manner, the choruses are full of life and spirit, and the instrumentation is always effective. There are few more beautiful cantatas than "The May Queen," though the composer was hampered by a dull and not very inspiring libretto. Poor words, however, could not affect his delightful grace and fancy, which manifest themselves in every number of this little pastoral. It is surprising that so excellent a work, and one which is so well adapted to chorus singing and solo display, without making very severe demands upon the singers, is not more frequently given in this country. The Exhibition Ode. The music for the opening of the International Exhibition at London, which occurred in May, 1862, was of unusual excellence. Auber sent a composition which, though called a march, was in reality a brilliant overture. Meyerbeer contributed an overture in march form, in which three marches were blended in one, the whole culminating in "Rule Britannia." Verdi wrote a cantata, which was rejected by the Commissioners because by the side of the national anthem he had introduced the revolutionary Marseillaise and the Italian war-song called "Garibaldienne." Its rejection not only caused great indignation in the musical world, but at once made it famous; and it was afterwards publicly performed, Mademoiselle Titiens taking the soprano solos, Sir Julius Benedict conducting. The prominent feature of the musical programme, however, was the Ode which the poet laureate and Bennett conjointly furnished. Never before were Mr. Tennyson's verses more completely united with music. The work is divided into three parts, all choral, linked by recitatives. The first number is a hymn to the Deity ("Uplift a thousand Voices full and sweet"), written as a four-part chorale, which is very jubilant in style. The next movement,-- "O silent father of our kings to be, Mourned in this golden hour of jubilee, For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee," eloquently referring to the Prince Consort, is set in the minor key, and is one of the most pathetic musical passages ever written. Then follows a descriptive catalogue of the industries represented,--"harvest tool and husbandry," "loom and wheel and engin'ry," and so on, through which the music labors some, as might have been expected; but in the close it once more resumes its melodious flow, leading up to the final chorus, in which the theme of the opening chorale is borrowed and developed with peculiar originality and artistic skill into a movement of great richness in effects and beauty in expression. It is unfortunate for the popularity of such an excellent work that it was composed for a special occasion. BERLIOZ. Hector Berlioz, one of the most renowned of modern French composers, and an acute critic and skilful conductor as well, was born, Dec. 11, 1803, at La Côte St. André, in France. His father was a physician, and intended him for the same profession. He reluctantly went to Paris and began the study of medicine; but music became his engrossing passion, and medicine was abandoned. He entered the Conservatory as a pupil of Lesueur, and soon showed himself superior to all his masters except Cherubini, which aroused a strong opposition to him and his compositions. It was only after repeated trials that he took the first prize, which entitled him to go to Italy for three years. On his return to Paris he encountered renewed antipathy. His music was not well received, and he was obliged to support himself by conducting at concerts and writing articles for the press. As a final resort he organized a concert-tour through Germany and Russia, the details of which are contained in his extremely interesting Autobiography. At these concerts his own music was the staple of the programmes, and it met with great success, though not always played by the best of orchestras, and not always well by the best, as his own testimony shows; for his compositions are very exacting, and call for every resource known to the modern orchestra. The Germans were quick in appreciating his music; but it was not until after his death that his ability was conceded in France. In 1839 he was appointed librarian of the Conservatory, and in 1856 was made a member of the French Academy. These were the only honors he received, though he long sought to obtain a professorship in the Conservatory. A romantic but sad incident in his life was his violent passion for Miss Smithson, an Irish actress, whom he saw upon the Paris stage in the _rôle_ of Ophelia, at a time when Victor Hugo had revived an admiration for Shakspeare among the French. He married her, but did not live with her long, owing to her bad temper and ungovernable jealousy; though after the separation he honorably contributed to her support out of the pittance he was earning. Among his great works are the opera, "Benvenuto Cellini;" the symphony with chorus, "Romeo and Juliet;" "Beatrice and Benedict;" "Les Troyens," the text from Virgil's "Æneid;" the symphony, "Harold in Italy;" the symphony, "Funèbre et Triomphe;" the "Damnation of Faust;" a double-chorused "Te Deum;" the "Symphony Fantastique;" the "Requiem;" and the sacred trilogy, "L'Enfance du Christ." Berlioz stands among all other composers as the foremost representative of "programme music," and has left explicit and very detailed explanations of the meaning of his works, so that the hearer may listen intelligently by seeing the external objects his music is intended to picture. In the knowledge of individual instruments and the grouping of them for effect, in warmth of imagination and brilliancy of color, and in his daring combinations and fantastic moods, which are sometimes carried to the very verge of eccentricity, he is a colossus among modern musicians. He died in Paris, March 8, 1869. Romeo and Juliet. "Dramatic symphony, with choruses, solos, chant, and prologue in choral recitative" is the title which Berlioz gives to his "Romeo and Juliet." It was written in 1839, and its composition commemorates an interesting episode in his career. In the previous year he had written his symphony "Harold in Italy," the subject inspired by Byron's "Childe Harold." Paganini, the wonder of the musical world at that time, was present at its performance, and was so pleased with the work that he sent Berlioz an enthusiastic tribute of applause as well as of substantial remembrance.[14] The composer at that time was in straitened circumstances, and in his gratitude for this timely relief he resolved to write a work which should be worthy of dedication to the great violinist. His Autobiography bears ample testimony to the enthusiasm with which he worked. He says:-- "At last, after much indecision, I hit upon the idea of a symphony, with choruses, vocal solos, and choral recitatives, on the sublime and ever novel theme of Shakspeare's 'Romeo and Juliet.' I wrote in prose all the text intended for the vocal pieces which came between the instrumental selections. Émile Deschamps, with his usual delightful good-nature and marvellous facility, set it to verse for me, and I began.... "During all that time how ardently did I live! How vigorously I struck out on that grand sea of poetry caressed by the playful breeze of fancy, beneath the hot rays of that sun of love which Shakspeare kindled, always confident of my power to reach the marvellous island where stands the temple of true art! Whether I succeeded or not it is not for me to decide." The work opens with a fiery introduction representing the combats and tumults of the two rival houses of Capulet and Montague, and the intervention of the Prince. It is followed by a choral recitative for four altos, tenors, and basses ("Long smouldering Hatreds"), with which is interwoven a contralto solo ("Romeo too is there"), the number closing with a passionate chorus ("The Revels now are o'er"). A beautiful effect is made at this point by assigning to the alto voice two couplets ("Joys of first Love") which are serious in style but very rich in melody. A brief bit of choral recitative and a few measures for tenor--Mercutio's raillery--lead up to a dainty scherzetto for tenor solo and small chorus ("Mab! bright Elf of Dreamland"), and a short choral passage brings this scene to a close. The second scene, which is for orchestra only, an impressive declamatory phrase developing into a tender melody, representing the sadness of Romeo, set in tones against the brilliant dance music in the distance accompanying the revel of the Capulets, is one of the most striking effects Berlioz has accomplished, and illustrates his astonishing command of instrumentation. The third scene represents Capulet's garden in the stillness of night, the young Capulets passing through it, bidding each other adieu and repeating snatches of the dance music. As their strains die away in the distance the balcony scene between Romeo and Juliet is given by the orchestra alone in a genuine love-poem full of passion and sensuousness. No words could rival the impassioned beauty of this melodious number. The fourth scene is also given to the orchestra, and is a setting of Mercutio's description of Queen Mab. It is a scherzo intensely swift in its movement and almost ethereal in its dainty, graceful rhythm. The instrumentation is full of subtle effects, particularly in the romantic passages for the horns. In the fifth scene we pass from the tripping music of the fairies to the notes of woe. It describes the funeral procession of Juliet, beginning with a solemn march in fugue style, at first instrumental, with occasional entrances of the voices in monotone, and then vocal ("O mourn, O mourn, strew choicest Flowers"), the monotone being assigned to the instruments. It preludes a powerful orchestral scene representing Romeo's invocation, Juliet's awakening, and the despair and death of the lovers.[15] The finale is mainly for double chorus, representing the quarrel between the Montagues and Capulets in the cemetery, which is written with great dramatic power and conceived on the large scale of an operatic _ensemble_ both in the voice parts and instrumentation, and the final reconciliation through the intercession of Friar Laurence, whose declamatory solos are very striking, particularly the air, "Poor Children mine, let me mourn you." The work is one of almost colossal difficulty, and requires great artists, singers and players, to give expression to its daring realism. Among all of Berlioz's programme-music, this tone-picture of the principal episodes in Shakspeare's tragedy stands out clear and sharp by virtue of its astonishing dramatic power. [14] My dear Friend,--Beethoven is dead, and Berlioz alone can revive him. I have heard your divine composition, so worthy of your genius, and beg you to accept, in token of my homage, twenty thousand francs, which will be handed to you by the Baron de Rothschild on presentation of the enclosed.--Your most affectionate friend, Nicolo Paganini. Paris, Dec. 18, 1838. [15] Composer's Note. The public has no imagination; therefore pieces which are addressed solely to the imagination have no public. The following instrumental scene is in this case, and I think it should be omitted whenever this symphony is given before an audience not having a feeling for poetry, and not familiar with the fifth act of Shakspeare's tragedy. This implies its omission ninety-nine times out of a hundred. It presents, moreover, immense difficulties of execution. Consequently, after Juliet's funeral procession a moment of silence should be observed, then the finale should be taken up. The Damnation of Faust. The "Damnation of Faust," dramatic legend, as Berlioz calls it, was written in 1846. It is divided in four parts, the first containing three, the second four, the third six, and the fourth five scenes, the last concluding with an epilogue and the apotheosis of Marguerite. It was first produced in Paris in November, 1846, and had its first hearing in this country Feb. 12, 1880, when the late Dr. Leopold Damrosch brought it out with the assistance of the New York Symphony, Oratorio, and Arion Societies. Berlioz has left in his Autobiography an extremely interesting account of the manner in which he composed it. Though he had had the plan of the work in his mind for many years, it was not until 1846 that he began the legend. During this year he was travelling on a concert-tour through Austria, Hungary, Bohemia, and Silesia, and the different numbers were written at intervals of leisure. He says:-- "I wrote when I could and where I could; in the coach, on the railroad, in steamboats, and even in towns, notwithstanding the various cares entailed by my concerts." He began with Faust's invocation to Nature, which was finished "in my old German post-chaise." The introduction was written in an inn at Passau, and at Vienna he finished up the Elbe scene, Mephistopheles' song, and the exquisite Sylph's ballet. As to the introduction of the Rákóczy march, his words deserve quoting in this connection, as they throw some light on the general character of the work. He says:-- "I have already mentioned my writing a march at Vienna, in one night, on the Hungarian air of Rákóczy. The extraordinary effect it produced at Pesth made me resolve to introduce it in Faust, by taking the liberty of placing my hero in Hungary at the opening of the act, and making him present at the march of a Hungarian army across the plain. A German critic considered it most extraordinary in me to have made Faust travel in such a place. I do not see why, and I should not have hesitated in the least to bring him in in any other direction if it would have benefited the piece. I had not bound myself to follow Goethe's plot, and the most eccentric travels may be attributed to such a personage as Faust without transgressing the bounds of possibility. Other German critics took up the same thesis, and attacked me with even greater violence about my modifications of Goethe's text and plot; just as though there were no other Faust but Goethe's, and as if it were possible to set the whole of such a poem to music without altering its arrangement. I was stupid enough to answer them in the preface to the 'Damnation of Faust.' I have often wondered why I was never reproached about the book of 'Romeo and Juliet,' which is not very like the immortal tragedy. No doubt because Shakspeare was not a German. Patriotism! Fetichism! Idiotcy!" One night when he had lost his way in Pesth he wrote the choral refrain of the "Ronde des Paysans" by the gaslight in a shop; and at Prague he arose in the middle of the night to write down the Angels' Chorus in Marguerite's apotheosis. At Breslau he wrote the Students' Latin Song, "Jam nox stellata velamina pandit;" and on his return to France he composed the grand trio in the work while visiting a friend near Rouen. He concludes: "The rest was written in Paris, but always improvised, either at my own house, or at the café, or in the Tuileries gardens, and even on a stone in the Boulevard du Temple. I did not search for ideas, I let them come; and they presented themselves in a most unforeseen manner. When at last the whole outline was sketched, I set to work to re-do the whole, touch up the different parts, unite and blend them together with all the patience and determination of which I am capable, and to finish off the instrumentation, which had only been indicated here and there. I look upon this as one of my best works, and hitherto the public seems to be of the same opinion." This opinion, however, was of slow growth, for of the first performance of the work he says:-- "It was the end of November, 1846; snow was falling; the weather was dreadful. I had no fashionable cantatrice to sing the part of Marguerite. As for Roger, who did Faust, and Herman Léon, who took the part of Mephistopheles, they might be heard any day in this same theatre; moreover, they were no longer the fashion. The result was that Faust was twice performed to a half-empty room. The concert-going Parisian public, supposed to be fond of music, stayed quietly at home, caring as little about my new work as if I had been an obscure student at the Conservatoire; and these two performances at the Opéra Comique were no better attended than if they had been the most wretched operas on the list." The opening scene introduces Faust alone in the fields at sunrise on the Hungarian plains. He gives expression to his delight in a tender, placid strain ("The Winter has departed, Spring is here"). It is followed by an instrumental prelude of a pastoral character, in which are heard fragments of the roundelay of the peasants and of the fanfare in the Hungarian march, leading up to the "Dance of Peasants," a brisk, vivacious chorus ("The Shepherd donned his best Array"), beginning with the altos, who are finally joined by the sopranos, tenors, and basses in constantly accelerating time. The scene then changes to another part of the plain and discloses the advance of an army to the brilliant and stirring music of the Rákóczy march.[16] The second part (Scene IV.) opens in north Germany and discloses Faust alone in his chamber, as in Gounod's opera; he sings a soliloquy, setting forth his discontent with worldly happiness, and is about to drown his sorrow with poison, when he is interrupted by the Easter Hymn ("Christ is risen from the Dead"), a stately and jubilant six-part chorus, in the close of which he joins. As it comes to an end he continues his song ("Heavenly Tones, why seek me in the Dust?"), but is again interrupted by the sudden apparition of Mephistopheles, who mockingly sings, "Oh, pious Frame of Mind," and entraps him in the compact. They disappear, and we next find them in Auerbach's cellar in Leipsic, where the carousing students are singing a rollicking drinking-song ("O what Delight when Storm is crashing"). The drunken Brander is called upon for a song, and responds with a characteristic one ("There was a Rat in the Cellar Nest"), to which the irreverent students improvise a fugue on the word "Amen," using a motive of the song. Mephistopheles compliments them on the fugue, and being challenged to give them an air trolls out the lusty _lied_, "There was a King once reigning, who had a big black Flea," in the accompaniment of which Berlioz makes some very realistic effects. Amid the bravas of the drunken students they disappear again, and are next found in the flowery meadows of the Elbe, where Mephistopheles sings a most enchanting melody ("In this fair Bower"). Faust is lulled to slumber, and in his vision hears the chorus of the gnomes and sylphs ("Sleep, happy Faust"), a number of extraordinary beauty and fascinating charm. Its effect is still further heightened by the sylphs' ballet in waltz time. As they gradually disappear, Faust wakes and relates to Mephistopheles his vision of the "angel in human form." The latter promises to conduct him to her chamber, and they join a party of soldiers and students who will pass "before thy beauty's dwelling." The finale of the scene is composed of a stirring soldiers' chorus ("Stoutly-walled Cities we fain would win") and a characteristic students' song in Latin ("Jam nox stellata"), at first sung separately and then combined with great skill. The third part begins with a brief instrumental prelude, in which the drums and trumpets sound the tattoo, introducing a scene in Marguerite's chamber, where Faust sings a passionate love-song ("Thou sweet Twilight, be welcome"), corresponding with the well-known "Salve dimora" in Gounod's garden scene. At its close Mephistopheles warns him of the approach of Marguerite and conceals him behind a curtain. She enters, and in brief recitative tells her dream, in which she has seen the image of Faust, and discloses her love for him. Then while disrobing she sings the ballad "There was a King in Thule." As its pathetic strains come to a close, the music suddenly changes and Mephistopheles in a characteristic strain summons the will-o'-the-wisps to bewilder the maiden. It is followed by their lovely and graceful minuet, in which Berlioz again displays his wonderful command of orchestral realism. It is followed by Mephistopheles' serenade ("Why dost thou wait at the Door of thy Lover?"), with a choral accompaniment by the will-o'-the-wisps, interspersed with demoniac laughter. The last number is a trio ("Angel adored") for Marguerite, Faust, and Mephistopheles, wonderfully expressive in its utterances of passion, and closing with a chorus of mockery which indicates the coming tragedy. The fourth part opens with a very touching romance ("My Heart with Grief is heavy"), the familiar "Meine Ruh' ist hin" of Goethe, sung by Marguerite, and the scene closes with the songs of the soldiers and students heard in the distance. In the next scene Faust sings a sombre and powerful invocation to Nature ("O boundless Nature, Spirit sublime"). Mephistopheles is seen scaling the rocks and in agitated recitative tells his companion the story of Marguerite's crime and imprisonment. He bids him sign a scroll which will save him from the consequences of the deed, and Faust thus delivers himself over to the Evil One. Then begins the wild "Ride to Hell," past the peasants praying at the cross, who flee in terror as they behold the riders, followed by horrible beasts, monstrous birds, and grinning, dancing skeletons, until at last they disappear in an abyss and are greeted by the chorus of the spirits of hell in a tempest of sound, which is literally a musical pandemonium ("Has! Irimiru Karabras," etc.) in its discordant vocal strains and in the mighty dissonances and supernatural effects in the accompaniment. A brief epilogue, "On Earth," follows, in which Faust's doom is told, succeeded by a correspondingly brief one, "In Heaven," in which the seraphim plead for Marguerite. The legend closes with "Marguerite's Glorification," a jubilant double chorus announcing her pardon and acceptance among the blest. [16] This march, though the best known of all Hungarian airs, is liable to be confounded with others bearing the same name. It forms one of the group of national patriotic melodies called into existence by the heroism of the Transylvanian prince Franz Rákótzy, who at the beginning of the last century fought with rare valor, though little success, against the dominating power of Austria. Who composed it remains as unknown as the authorship of its less familiar companions; but though the origin of the tune, like that of so many others which nations cherish, is veiled in mystery, the march has enjoyed an enviable prominence. It was proscribed by the Austrian Government in the bad days when Hungary was treated as a conquered appanage of the Hapsburgs; its performance was a criminal act, and the possession of printed or written copies, if suspected, brought down domiciliary visits from the police.--_Albert Hall Programmes_, 1874. BRAHMS. Johannes Brahms, one of the most eminent of living German composers, was born at Hamburg, May 7, 1833. His father was a double-bass player in the orchestra in that city, and devoted his son at a very early age to his own profession. His first piano teacher was Cossell; but to Edward Marxsen, the royal music director, he owes his real success as a composer. Brahms remained in Hamburg until 1853, when he went upon a concert-tour with Reményí, the eccentric and somewhat sensational Hungarian, who has been a familiar figure upon the American concert-stage. He remained with him however but a very short time, for in October of that year they parted company. Brahms had attracted the notice of Liszt and Joachim, and it may have been through their advice that the musical partnership was dissolved. In any event, soon after leaving Reményí he went to Düsseldorf and visited Schumann, who announced him to the musical world in a very enthusiastic manner. The next year (1854) appeared his first works,--three sonatas, a trio and scherzo for piano, and three books of songs. After a visit to Liszt at Weimar he settled down as chorus-conductor and music-teacher at the court of Lippe-Detmold, where he remained a few years. After leaving Detmold he successively resided in Hamburg, Zürich, and Baden-Baden, though most of his time has been spent in Vienna, where he has directed the Singakademie and the concerts of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. Among his most famous compositions are a funeral hymn for chorus and wind-band; the "German Requiem;" "Triumphlied," for double chorus and orchestra; "Schicksalslied," for chorus and orchestra; six symphonies; variations on a theme of Haydn, for orchestra; the "Tragic" and "Academic" overtures; besides several trios, quartets, quintets, sextets, concertos, and sonatas. Triumphlied. "Triumphlied" ("Song of Triumph") was written by Brahms in commemoration of the victories of German arms and the re-establishment of the Empire, and is dedicated to "the German Emperor Wilhelm I." It was first performed at the fifty-first festival of the Lower Rhine at Cologne in 1873. The text is a paraphrase of certain verses in the nineteenth chapter of Revelation, and reads as follows:-- "Hallelujah, praise the Lord! Honor and power and glory to God! "For in righteousness and truth the Lord giveth judgment. "Glory be to God, all ye His servants, and ye that fear Him, all both humble and mighty. "Hallelujah, for the omnipotent God hath exalted His kingdom. "O, be joyful, let all be glad, to Him alone give honor. "Behold, the heavens opened wide, and yonder a snow-white horse, and on him sat one called Steadfast and Faithful, who warreth and judgeth all with righteousness. "And he treads the wine-press of wrath of the Lord God Almighty. "Lo! a great name hath he written upon his vesture and upon his girdle. "A King of kings and Lord of lords! Hallelujah! Amen!" The scriptural selections are divided into three movements, written for double chorus (with the exception of two short barytone solos), orchestra, and organ, and are introduced by a brief instrumental prelude of a solemn but animated and exultant character, in the closing measures of which both choirs break in with jubilant shouts of "Hallelujah! praise the Lord!" The theme of the movement is the stirring old German song "Heil dir im Siegerkranz,"[17] which is worked up with consummate skill. The first part closes with a climax of power and contrapuntal effect hardly to be found elsewhere outside the choruses of Handel. The second movement ("Glory be to God!") is of the same general character as the first. After the opening ascription, a short fugue intervenes, leading to a fresh melody alternately sung by both choruses. The third movement, after a very brief but spirited orchestral flourish, opens with an exultant barytone solo ("And behold then the Heavens opened wide"). The choruses respond with animation ("And yonder a snow-white Horse"). Again the barytone intervenes ("And lo! a great Name hath He written"), and then the choruses take up the majestic theme, "King of Kings and Lord of Lords," each answering the other with triumphant shouts that gather force and fire as they proceed, and closing with a mighty hallelujah in which voices, orchestra, and organ join with fullest power to produce one of the grandest harmonies ever written. The work is one of extreme difficulty, as the two choirs are treated independently and their harmonies are complicated, though blended in general effect. Neither choir receives assistance from the other. In fact, each rank of voices is required to perform music of the most exacting kind, so that a perfect performance of this great jubilee hymn requires singers of trained skill and more than ordinary intelligence. When thus given, few choruses of modern times reveal such artistic richness and symmetrical proportions. [17] A German national song, written by Heinrich Harries, a Holstein clergyman, for the birthday of Christian VII. of Denmark. It was originally in eight stanzas, but was reduced to five and otherwise slightly modified for Prussian use by B. G. Schumacher, and in this form appeared as a "Berliner Volkslied" in the _Spenersche Zeitung_ of Dec. 17, 1793.--_Grove's Dictionary_. BRUCH. Max Bruch, one of the most successful choral composers of the present time, was born at Cologne, Jan. 6, 1838. His father was a government official, and his mother a singer of more than ordinary ability. He received his early instructions, under her watchful supervision, from Professor Breidenstein, at Bonn. In 1852 he continued his studies with Hiller, Reinecke, and Breuning, at Cologne; and at this time began to produce compositions which gave unusual promise. In 1865 he was musical director at Coblenz, and subsequently at Berlin, where he conducted the Singakademie. In 1867 he was appointed chapel-master to the Prince of Schwarzburg-Sondershausen,--a post which he held until 1870. Since that time he has also been honored with a call to the directorship of the Liverpool Philharmonic Society. For some years past he has lived at Bonn and Berlin, and devoted himself exclusively to composition. His first public appearance as a composer was in connection with the performance of his operetta, "Scherz, List und Rache," set to Goethe's words; following which he produced several chamber compositions, among them a trio (op. 5), two string quartets (op. 9, 10), Capriccio (op. 2) for four hands, Fantasie (op. 11) for two pianos, the G minor and D minor violin concertos, besides two symphonies. He has also written an oratorio, "Arminius," and two operas, "Loreley," to the text which the poet Geibel wrote for Mendelssohn, and "Hermione," an adaptation of Shakspeare's "Winter's Tale." His greatest successes, however, have been made with his works in the cantata form, as he is a recognized master in writing for large masses of voices and instruments, though many of his solo melodies possess great beauty. In this class of his compositions the most conspicuous are "Scenes from the Frithjof-Saga," familiarly known as "Frithjof," "Flight of the Holy Family," "Roman Triumph Song," "Roman Obsequies," "Salamis," "Fair Ellen," "Odysseus," and "Rorate Coeli." Frithjof. The story of the old Norse hero Frithjof is told with exceeding spirit and beauty in the "Frithjof's Saga" of Esaias Tegnér, Bishop of Wexiö, Sweden, which has been translated into almost every European language, and to which music has been adapted by Crusell, Hedda Wrangel, Boman, Sandberg, Zanders, Caroline Ridderstolpe, Panny, Silcher, and other Scandinavian and German composers. It was Bishop Tegnér's Saga from which Bruch derived the incidents of his musical setting of this stirring Norse theme.[18] To make the text of the libretto intelligible, the incidents leading up to it must be briefly told. Frithjof was the son of Thorstein, a friend of King Bele of Baldershage, and was in love with Ingeborg, the king's daughter and his foster sister. Bele died, and left his kingdom to his two sons. When Thorstein passed away, he bequeathed to his son his ship "Ellida" and his gold ring. Soon thereafter Frithjof sailed across the fiord to demand the hand of Ingeborg. Her brothers Helge and Halfdan scorned his suit, whereupon Frithjof swore they should never have help from him. King Ring, a neighboring monarch, hearing of the trouble between them, improved the opportunity to menace their kingdom. The brothers appealed to Frithjof for aid, but he turned a deaf ear; and when they took the field against Bele, he returned to Baldershage and made love to Ingeborg, with whom he exchanged rings. Helge and Halfdan were defeated by Ring, and as part of the indemnity he demanded Ingeborg's hand. Finding upon their return that Frithjof had been there without their permission, they required him as a penalty to go to the Orkneys and collect the tribute which the islanders had neglected to pay since the death of Bele. Frithjof sailed away in "Ellida." Meanwhile the brothers resorted to witchcraft to raise a storm that should destroy his vessel, burned his barrow, and married the lamenting Ingeborg to Ring. It is at this point that the text of the cantata begins. The first scene pictures the return of Frithjof and his joy at the prospect of seeing Ingeborg, whose hand the false brothers had promised him if he were successful. Learning what had occurred in his absence, Frithjof goes to the temple where the kings are sacrificing, hurls the tribute in Helge's face, fires the edifice, and hurries to the sea, pursued by his enemies. The hero sails away again in "Ellida," and becomes a sea-rover. The text closes with this incident. In the Saga, after gaining great fame, Frithjof returns and goes disguised as a salt-burner to Ring's palace. The king recognized him, and moved by his sad story became his friend and appointed him guardian of his heir. Ring died soon after, and Frithjof married Ingeborg. Helge and Halfdan made war against him, Helge was killed, and Halfdan became his vassal. The cantata opens with an animated instrumental introduction, "Frithjof's Return," leading to the barytone recitative and aria ("How bravely o'er the Flood so bright"),--a very expressive song, interspersed with the tender, graceful chorus of his companions ("O, 'tis Delight when the Land far appeareth"). The second scene is preluded with a wedding march, whose blithe measures are in marked contrast with the bridal chorus ("Sadly the Skald walks before the Train"), and Ingeborg's song ("My Heart with Sorrow overflowing"), which describes her grief over her unhappy destiny. The third scene ("Frithjof's Revenge"), for barytone, chorus, and orchestra, is one of great power in its dramatic and descriptive character, as well as in its masterly instrumentation. It begins with a chorus of priests ("Midnight Sun on the Mountain burns"), gradually accelerating until it is interrupted by Frithjof's cry ("Go to Helas' dark Abode"). Three bars of chorus intervene ("Woe! O wicked Deed"), when Frithjof, after a short recitative, sings a spirited aria ("Where my Father rests"). At its close, as he rescues Ingeborg's ring and fires the temple, the chorus resumes ("Woe! he tugs with all his Might at the Ring"). The choral finale of this scene, with its effective instrumentation, is a masterpiece of dramatic music, worthy to rank with the highest work of its kind in opera. After the storm, the calm. In that calm occurs a melodical episode of an extraordinary character. The melody itself is so unlike anything which precedes or follows it that it must have been interpolated. In grateful contrast with the revenge of Frithjof, the burning of the temple, and the curses of the infuriated priests, comes the fourth scene, "Frithjof's Departure from the Northland,"--a solo quartet for male voices ("Sun in the Sky now mounteth high"), of exquisite harmony, leading up to and accompanying a barytone solo which has rarely been surpassed in the tender beauty of its melody or the majestic sonority of its style:[19]-- "World's grandest region, thou mighty North! From thy dominions I am driven forth; Within thy border I lov'd to dwell; Midsummer sun, farewell, farewell. Thou mighty North, farewell. My love is foiled, my roof-tree rent, Mine honor soiled, I in exile sent! Cheerless is my soul within me, Hopeless I must bear my lot. Ye rugged mountains, where heroes dwell, And Thor commandeth clouds and winds; Ye azure lakes, that I love so well, Ye woods and brakes, farewell." The fifth scene is Ingeborg's lament for her lost lover ("Storms wildly roar"),--a soprano solo, which, if not as dramatic as the music assigned to Frithjof, is nevertheless full of beautiful sentiment. The work closes with a delightful chorus, with short phrases for Frithjof ("Now he crosseth the Floods of the salt desert Waste"), supposed to be sung on board the hero's good ship "Ellida" as they sail off for conquest and the enjoyment of the booty he has promised his companions. [18] An admirable translation of the Saga was made by George Stephens, published in London and Stockholm in 1839. It includes besides the Saga, a life of Tegnér, by Bishop Franzén of Hernösand, Sweden; the Frithjof literature; description of Ingeborg's Arm Ring, by Hildebrand, the Royal Antiquarian of Sweden; Crusell's songs; and numerous notes and illustrations. [19] In the original Saga the "Farewell" has six verses, the first, second, and sixth of which are thus literally translated:-- "Heimskringla's forehead, Thou lofty North! Away I'm hurried From this thine earth. My race from thee goes, I boasting tell; Now, nurse of heroes, Farewell! Farewell! "Farewell, high-gleaming Walhalla's throne, Night's eye, bright-beaming, Midsummer's sun! Sky! where, as in hero's Soul, pure depths dwell, And thronging star-rows, Farewell! Farewell! * * * * * "My love insulted, My palace brent, My honor tarnished, In exile sent, From land in sadness To the sea we appeal, But life's young gladness, Farewell! Farewell!" Salamis. "Salamis, Triumphal Hymn of the Greeks" was written in 1862. It is a composition mostly for male chorus, and is admirably adapted for festival purposes. The poem, which celebrates the defeat of Xerxes, is by H. Lingg, and runs as follows:-- "Adorn the ships with Persian trophies! Let the purple sails be swelled! Joy floats about the masts! Evoe, the mighty foe, is vanquished! We broke, O sea, we broke the bond, Which the Persian Prince threw around thy neck. Thou rollest now unfettered, no longer embittered By the hateful trampling of the horses, Which thy waving surface, Thy bridge-fettered wrath, bore reluctantly. Fate overtook Xerxes And achieved a Hellenic victory on the waves. To the tyrant, to the arbitrary master, Did not succumb the people that dwell by the sea, For the old ruler of the sea filled his beloved race With boundless courage for the sea-fight. All around, the waves with delight Hear many an Ionic song; They roar and join the pæan After the splendid struggle There arise dithyrambic days of liberty!" The instrumental introduction to the work is written in massive style, its grand chorus being elegantly interwoven with runs by the wood instruments, preparing the way for the festive adorning of the ships,--a very beautiful allegro movement. This is followed by a slower movement which pictures the breaking of the bond, the rolling of the sea, and the trampling of the horses with all that vividness for which the composer is famous. It is succeeded by a passage which is very stately, particularly in the basses ("Fate overtook Xerxes"), leading up to the grand climax ("All around, the Waves with Delight"), when the orchestra and voices are in splendid accord. After a short repetition of the opening allegro the hymn closes. It would be hard to find a more admirable musical setting of a poem than this, whether in the strength and beauty of its vocal parts, or in the color, vigor, and general effectiveness of the instrumentation. Fair Ellen. The heroic defence of Lucknow by its British garrison in 1857, during the Sepoy rebellion, is one of the most memorable events in the English administration of India. The world is familiar with the story of the disaffection of the native troops, the failure of Sir Henry Lawrence, who was in command, to overcome the mutiny, the stubborn defence which the brave little garrison made against the repeated assaults of the native troops, their temporary assistance from Outram and Havelock, who cut their way into the city, and the final relief which was brought to them by Sir Colin Campbell. Of all the stirring incidents of the siege, however, not one has made such a strong impression as the fanciful story of the Scotch girl who heard the slogan of the MacGregors far away and knew the Highlanders were coming to their rescue. It is this incident which Bruch has used as the theme of his cantata "Schön Ellen" ("Fair Ellen"). The story is identical with the one so often told in prose and poetry, but the _dramatis personæ_ differ. Instead of General Lawrence we have Lord Edward, and instead of familiar Jessie Brown we have "Fair Ellen." The text of the libretto is weak and spiritless as compared with that of the poetical versions. The salient point of the story is thus versified in the former:-- "The Campbells are coming, I told you true; I hear the bugle blowing: The pibroch is borne adown the wind, The tones on the breezes quiver; 'Neath the tread of battalions that hurry along Afar the plains do shiver." Compare the above with the corresponding verses from Robert Lowell's fine poem:-- "The Highlanders! O dinna ye hear The slogan far awa? The MacGregors? Ah! I ken it weel; It's the grandest of them a'. * * * * * "Then Jessie said, 'The slogan's dune, But can ye no hear them noo? The Campbells are comin'! It's nae a dream; Our succors hae broken through." Weak as the text may be, the strong healthy music of the cantata makes ample compensation. It is quite brief, there being but two solo parts, "Fair Ellen" (soprano) and Lord Edward (barytone), and five short chorus numbers. The former are vigorous and somewhat declamatory in style, but the choruses are very melodious and stirring. The instrumentation is unusually effective, and a fine point is made in the climax by the interweaving of the familiar air, "The Campbells are Coming," with the orchestral score. It lends spirit and color to the finale, and closes up the work with a fine burst of powerful effect. Short as it is, "Fair Ellen" will always be a favorite with popular audiences. Odysseus. The cantata of "Odysseus," like that of "Frithjof," is made up of detached scenes, in this case selected from the Odyssey and arranged by William Paul Graff. The work was first produced in 1872, and has met with great success in Germany, England, and the United States. It is divided into two parts, the first containing four, and the second, six scenes. The characters are as numerous as those of a grand opera, and include Odysseus, barytone; Penelope, alto; Alcinoos, King of the Pheaces, bass; Arete, his consort, alto; Nausicaa, their daughter, soprano; the Helmsman, bass; Pallas Athene, soprano; Leucothea, soprano; Spirit of Tiresias, bass; Spirit of Anticlia, Odysseus' mother, alto; and Hermes, tenor. In performance, however, the parts of Arete and the Spirit of Anticlia, as well as of Nausicaa and Pallas Athene, are usually doubled. The choruses, which are a very important feature of the work, are assigned to Odysseus' companions, Spirits of the Departed, Sirens, Tritons, Nymphs of the sea, Pheaces, Rhapsodes, boatmen and people of Ithaca. In the first scene Odysseus is discovered on Calypso's enchanted island longing for home. Hermes, the messenger of the gods, appears to him and announces that the Immortals, touched by his sorrow, will rescue him and restore him to Penelope. In the next scene the wanderer has reached the abysses of Erebus, "where, loud thundering, the flood of Cocytus pours its black wave into Acheron's tide." Here he invokes the world of shades. The spirits of children, brides, youths, and old men successively appear to him and narrate their mournful stories. Then Tiresias the bard warns him of the Sirens, and Anticlia his mother bids him hasten to Penelope. In the third scene he passes the isles of the Sirens, and escapes their wiles through the firmness of his companions. The fourth scene describes the storm at sea, the wreck of the vessel, and Odysseus' rescue by Leucothea, who gives him the veil the Immortals have woven, and bids the Oceanides and Tritons guide him safely to land; and the first part closes with our hero peacefully sleeping on the flowery shore of the island of Pheacia. The second part opens with the lament of Penelope and her prayer to the gods to restore her husband to her. The sixth scene changes to the island again, and discloses Odysseus awakened from his slumbers by the sports and dances of Nausicaa and her joyful maidens. He appeals to her for help and refreshment, and is bidden to partake of their hospitality. In the next scene a sumptuous banquet is spread for him, at which he reveals his identity and asks that he be allowed to return to his home. The fair Nausicaa, though suddenly enamoured of the handsome stranger, conceals her passion and expedites his departure. The eighth scene gives us a sketch of Penelope weaving the garment, the _ruse_ by which she kept her suitors aloof. "This garment by day I weave in my sorrow, And ravel the web in the still hour of night; Thus wearying long, yet my tears greet the morrow, Hope vanishes as the long years take flight." The ninth scene opens with the arrival of Odysseus at Ithaca. The sleeping wanderer is borne ashore by his comrades, and upon awaking from his slumbers fails to recognize his own country until Pallas Athene appears to him. The goddess convinces him that he is at home once more, and then discloses the plot of the suitors, who are revelling in his palace, to compel Penelope to select one of them that day in order that they may gain possession of his property, as well as their conspiracy for his destruction, from which she promises to protect him. The final scene describes the glad acclamations of the people as they recognize Odysseus, and the joy of Penelope as she welcomes him home once more. The orchestral introduction is very free and flowing in character, and its themes are taken from the duet of Odysseus and Penelope, which occurs later on. The opening chorus of Calypso's nymphs ("Here, O Hermes, in midst of the Island") is very graceful in its movement and is set to a most delightful accompaniment. It is followed by Odysseus' lament ("Flow, ye Tears, since Days are hateful"), at first tender in its character, then changing to passionate utterances as the remembrance of Penelope comes to him, and closing with a hopeful strain after the promise of help from Zeus. In the second or Hades scene the music changes from its bright color to a gloomier minor tone. It opens with a male chorus ("The Bounds we have reached of the deep flowing Ocean"), pianissimo, gradually increasing in intensity and accompanied by remarkable effects in tone-color as the orchestra describes "the thundering of the flood Cocytus" and "the surging aloft of the shadows of the departed." It is followed by semi-choruses of the shades, and closes with a very spirited and dramatic male chorus ("Dread on Dread! Lo, surging aloft, the numberless Hosts of Departed"). The third scene opens with a fresh and characteristic male chorus ("Our Sails to the Breezes"), followed by the graceful and alluring chorus of the sirens ("Come, great Odysseus, Hero of Might"). The last scene is almost entirely choral and very dramatic in its effect, especially the opening number for the Oceanides and Tritons ("Hark! the Storm gathers from afar"), with its vigorous instrumental description of the tempest, and the closing number for full chorus ("Yonder beckons the wood-crested Harbor"), which in its tenderness and joyousness forms a striking contrast to the earlier part of the scene. The second part is introduced with a dignified and sombre recitative ("Thou far-darting Sun"), followed by an aria of the same character ("Oh! Atritone") in which Penelope bewails the absence of Odysseus. In the next scene the music changes to a bright and tripping strain, the chorus of Nausicaa's maidens ("On the flowery Mead, girt by the dimpling Tide"), which closely resembles that of Calypso's nymphs in the first scene. After Odysseus' fervent appeal ("Hark to me! Queen, or heaven-dwelling Goddess") the banquet scene occurs. It begins with an animated chorus of the Pheacians ("Be welcome, Stranger, to Pheacia's Land"), followed by an exquisite unison chorus of the Rhapsodes ("Ten Years now are past since Troy in the Dust was laid"), set to an accompaniment of harps. A simple and tender melody ("Let me then depart in Peace"), sung by Odysseus, in which the chorus singers gradually join, closes the scene. The eighth scene contains the most expressive solo number of the work, Penelope's aria ("This Garment by Day I weave in my Sorrow"), with a characteristic descriptive accompaniment. The gems of the ninth scene are Odysseus' passionate aria ("O my Fatherland! blest Remembrance!") and his furious revenge song ("Miscreant! woe to Thee"). The last scene opens with a joyous chorus of the people ("Say, have ye heard the Tidings of Joy?"), followed by a fervent duet between Odysseus and Penelope ("Omnipotent Zeus! we call on thy Name"). The final chorus begins in chorale style ("In Flames ascending"), and after repeating the melody of Odysseus' song in the seventh scene ("Nowhere abides such Delight"), closes with a fine fugued passage ("Slayer of Darkness"). BUCK. Dudley Buck, one of the most eminent of American organists and composers, was born March 10, 1839, at Hartford, Conn., where his father was engaged in the mercantile business. He studied both the piano and organ, the latter with such success that at the age of sixteen he was appointed organist at St. John's Church in his native city. In 1858 he went to Europe and entered the Leipsic Conservatory, where he studied the piano with Plaidy and Moscheles, and composition with Hauptmann and Richter. After remaining there a year and a half he went to Dresden and began the study of Bach's music with Johann Schneider. A year and a half later he went to Paris, and there acquainted himself with French music and musicians. He returned to this country in 1862, and accepted the position of organist at the Park Church, Hartford, but after the death of his parents removed to Chicago, where he obtained the position of organist at St. James's Episcopal Church, and also devoted much of his time to teaching and composition. In that city his home became a musical centre. His library, fine organ, and music-room were great attractions, and he had laid the foundation of a brilliant musical career, when the great fire of 1871 swept away his entire property, including many manuscript compositions. Like many other musicians at that time he left the city, seeing no prospect of advantage to him where it would require a long time to recover purely material losses. He went with his family to Boston, where his fame was already established, and obtained the position of organist at St. Paul's Church, as well as the charge of the large organ in the Music Hall. After remaining a short time in that city he removed to New York, where he has since resided. His life has been a very busy one, and he has had an important influence, both personally and in connection with Theodore Thomas, upon the progress of music in this country. It is not extravagant to say that there are few Protestant churches whose music has not been dignified and improved by his contributions, particularly of anthems and Te Deums, as well as of compositions for the organ, of which he is a consummate master. Singing societies are also indebted to him for many elegant four-part songs. Among his larger works are the cantata "Don Munio" (1874); the "Centennial," written for the Centennial at Philadelphia; "The Nun of Nidaros" (1878); "The Golden Legend," which was the prize cantata at the Cincinnati Festival of 1880; an Easter cantata; the Forty-sixth Psalm, written for the Boston Handel and Haydn Society; two volumes of sacred songs and motets; "Marmion," a symphonic overture, and other works for orchestra; the cantatas "Voyage of Columbus" (1885) and the "Light of Asia" (1886). The last two cantatas were issued in Europe, the one in Germany and the other in England, and thus came to this country bearing a foreign imprint,--a novelty for an American composer. Don Munio "Don Munio," a dramatic cantata for solos, chorus, and orchestra, was written in 1874. The story of it is taken from Washington Irving's Spanish papers, and the scene is laid in the period of the wars with the Moors. While hunting one morning, Don Munio de Hinojosa captures a cavalcade which is escorting the Moorish Prince, Abadil, and his betrothed, Constanza, on the way to their wedding. The Prince, all escape being cut off, seeks to purchase the good-will of Don Munio with his gold and jewels, and implores him not to separate him from his affianced. The Don, touched by their unfortunate condition, invites them to spend a fortnight at his castle, promising that the nuptials shall be celebrated there, and then they shall be released. The lovers accept, and Don Munio is faithful to his promise. Shortly after their departure he is ordered by the king to join in the expedition to Palestine. In one of the encounters of this crusade he is killed by Abadil, who does not recognize his former benefactor with his visor closed. His death is greatly mourned in Spain, but they are consoled when Roderigo, a messenger from Palestine, arrives and tells them that one evening while strolling near the Holy Sepulchre he saw seventy Christian knights riding in ghostly procession, with the late Don Munio at their head. This is regarded as an assurance that all is well with him. _Requiescat in pace._ These are the incidents which Mr. Buck has chosen for musical treatment, and he has done the work excellently well. After the orchestral introduction follows a spirited hunting-song for male chorus. The next scene opens in the chamber of Donna Maria, wife of Don Munio, who laments his absence in a minor strain, to which succeeds a rondo movement. The third is religious in character, marked "Evening. Close of vesper service in the chapel of the castle. Escobedo, the chaplain, with the women, and such retainers as have not followed Don Munio on his expedition." It begins with a prelude closing with full orchestra and organ, and leading to barytone solo and chorus, and a short exhortation to prayer by Escobedo. The next number is an Ave Maria for full chorus, which is very beautifully harmonized. In the next scene we encounter Don Munio in the forest, and are treated to the conventional hunting-song. The next number hints at the approach of the Moors, which is soon disclosed by a pretty three-part chorus of "the females of the Moorish cavalcade as they journey." The eighth scene contains some powerful chorus work, divided between the furious Spaniards and the frightened women, and set to a very vigorous accompaniment. After the tumult ends, Abadil very melodiously appeals to Don Munio, followed by a brief arioso in which the latter makes his terms, and a spirited chorus of gratitude to the Don, which close the first part. After a short prelude, the second part opens with a tenor aria for Abadil ("O, thou my Star") which is very refined in sentiment. It is followed by the chorale "Jesu, dulcis Memoria," sung by the chapel choir. A duet ensues between the two lovers on the castle terrace, which is very Italian in its flavor, and one of the most effective numbers in the cantata. The next two numbers furnish the wedding music,--a happy bridal chorus, and a charming bolero for orchestra. These lead to an unaccompanied quartet between Don Munio, Donna Maria, Abadil, and Constanza ("It is the Lot of Friends to part"). In the next scene occurs a vigorous duet between Don Munio and his wife, in which he informs her of his speedy departure for Palestine, followed by a stirring battle-hymn for male chorus. The next scene, "The chapel of the castle, choir chanting the dirge for the dead," is in strong contrast with the preceding. Mr. Buck has rarely written anything better in his sacred music than this beautiful requiem. In the next two numbers the messenger describes the manner of Don Munio's death, and the ghostly vision at the sepulchre, and at the end of his message the requiem changes to a jubilant chorus of gratitude ("In thankful Hymns ascending"). "Don Munio" is one of the most powerful and spontaneous of American compositions, and needs but little more amplification to deserve the name of opera. The Centennial Meditation of Columbia. The National Centennial celebration at Philadelphia was inaugurated May 10, 1876, with a special musical programme, in which the cantata with the above formidable title occupied a prominent place. The ode was written by Sydney Lanier, of Georgia, a poet who prior to that time had made considerable reputation by two poems printed in "Lippincott's Magazine." The national idea was satisfied by assigning the music to Dudley Buck, at that time living in Connecticut. It must be acknowledged that the work did not make a deep impression, although it contains some excellent musical writing, and for two sufficient reasons. First, it is not a work of musical genius or inspiration, as it was ordered by a commission for a popular show. It was not singular in this respect. The "Centennial March," written by Richard Wagner, for the same occasion, is page after page of sound and fury, executed for a most exorbitant remuneration. To ascertain its real want of inspiration one has but to place it by the side of the "Kaiser March," with its massive chords, its grand thematic treatment, and its stately movement, the outcome of patriotic fervor and national triumph. Second, the stilted and unmusical lines furnished by Mr. Lanier must have hampered the composer in every verse. This is all the more remarkable because Mr. Lanier himself was a practical musician. He had been for some time a violinist in the Peabody orchestra at Baltimore, under that accomplished leader, Asgar Hamerik. It is remarkable, therefore, that he should not have recognized the difficulties he was placing in the way both of the composer and the performers. The ode has sixty-one lines, divided into eight stanzas of unequal lengths. It sketches the past and present of the nation, the powers which opposed its progress and hindered the development of its freedom, and the elements which at last produced success, closing with cheering auguries for the future, and a welcome to the world. All this might have been set to smooth and fluent verse, which would readily have adapted itself to music; but what composer could have treated successfully such verses as these?-- "Mayflower, Mayflower, slowly hither flying, Trembling westward o'er yon balking sea, Hearts within, 'Farewell, dear England,' sighing, Winds without, 'But dear in vain,' replying, Gray-lipp'd waves about thee shouted, crying, 'No! it shall not be!' "Jamestown, out of thee-- Plymouth, thee--thee, Albany-- Winter cries, 'Ye freeze; away!' Fever cries, 'Ye burn; away!' Hunger cries, 'Ye starve; away!' Vengeance cries, 'Your graves shall stay!' "Hark! Huguenots whispering 'Yea' in the dark, Puritans answering 'Yea' in the dark! 'Yea,' like an arrow shot true to his mark, Darts through the tyrannous heart of Denial. Patience and Labor and solemn-souled Trial, Foiled, still beginning, Soiled, but not sinning, Toil through the stertorous death of the Night, Toil, when wild brother-wars new-dark the light, Toil, and forgive, and kiss o'er, and re-plight." Even in the last verse, where the composer must make his climax, and the singers must be most effective, they are confronted with this unsingable line:-- "And wave the world's best lover's welcome to the world." The only musical verse is the reply of the angel to Columbia in the midst of her ragged and cacophonous meditation, which the composer selected as a solo for bass voice:[20]-- "Long as thine Art shall love true love, Long as thy Science truth shall know, Long as thine Eagle harms no Dove, Long as thy Law by law shall grow, Long as thy God is God above, Thy brother every man below, So long, dear Land of all my love, Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall grow." The prelude for orchestra determines the motive of the whole cantata, and is very spirited; for here, at least, the composer was not hampered by words. The opening verse,-- "From this hundred-terraced height," is set very effectively in chorale form; but the next two verses, already quoted, are arranged for semi-chorus and full chorus, and close in a vocal stretto quite as hysterical as the words. Then follows the whispering of the Huguenots and Puritans, commencing _sotto voce_, and gradually increasing to a _forte_ at the close. A few bars for the horn lead to the bass solo, "Long as thine Art," with horn obligato,--a very impressive and dignified aria, and one which would speedily become a favorite in the concert-room if adapted to the words. The final number ("Music from this Height of Time") begins in full choral harmony and closes with a vigorous and well-written fugue. [20] Sung upon that occasion by Mr. Myron D. Whitney. The Golden Legend. "The Golden Legend" was written in competition for the prize of one thousand dollars, which the Cincinnati May Festival Association offered in 1879 for the best work of a native composer. The judges were Theodore Thomas, Otto Singer, Asgar Hamerik, Carl Zerrahn, and the late Dr. Leopold Damrosch. Their award was made to "The Golden Legend," and it was first performed at the Festival of 1880, with Miss Annie B. Norton as Elsie, Mr. Frederick Harvey as Prince Henry, Mr. J. F. Rudolphsen as Lucifer, and Mr. M. D. Whitney as Friar Paul. The text of the cantata is composed of a prologue, epilogue, and twelve scenes taken from Longfellow's Episode in "Christus" by the same name. The mediæval story is a very simple one. Prince Henry of Hoheneck, stricken down with an incurable ailment, after vainly seeking a remedy, is visited by Lucifer disguised as a physician, who tempts him to adopt a remedy prescribed by a doctor of Salerno; namely, the blood of a maiden who will voluntarily offer herself as a sacrifice. Elsie devotes her life to the Prince, and they journey together to Salerno, where her death must take place. Arrived at the spot, the Prince, touched by her magnanimity, entreats her to forego her purpose; but she insists upon it, bids him farewell in the school, and enters an inner apartment with Lucifer disguised as a friar. Before the tragedy can be consummated, the Prince bursts open the door, with the aid of his followers, and rescues her. The pair return to the castle on the Rhine, where of course the rapidly convalescing Prince marries Elsie, and the story closes with an epilogue reciting the discomfiture of Lucifer and the triumph of good over evil. Out of this material the composer has constructed his work, eliminating from and adding to the original matter to suit his musical scheme, but at the same time preserving the general spirit of the story. After a very spirited and energetic prelude, the prologue begins with the fruitless attempt of Lucifer to pull down the cross on the spire of Strasburg cathedral, the protests of the spirits of the air (first and second sopranos), the defiance of the bells (male chorus) as each attempt fails, and the final disappearance of the spirits amid the chanting of the majestic Latin hymn, "Nocte surgentes," by full chorus in the church, accompanied by the organ. The second scene opens in Prince Henry's chamber in the tower of the Vautsberg castle, and reminds one of the opening scene of "Faust," as set by Gounod. After an expressive declamation of his melancholy and his longing for rest and health ("I cannot sleep, my fervid Brain calls up the vanished Past again"), Lucifer appears in a flash of light, dressed as a travelling physician, and a dialogue ensues, the purport of which has already been told, which closes with an ingenious and beautifully-written number for the two voices, accompanied by a four-part chorus of mixed voices and a small semi-chorus of sopranos and altos ("Golden Visions wave and hover"). The fourth scene is an unaccompanied quartet, "The Evening Song," sung by Elsie, Bertha, Max, and Gottlieb in their peasant home in the Odenwald, as they light the lamps ("O gladsome Light of the Father"). It is a simple, tranquil hymn, but full of that sacred sentiment which this composer expresses so admirably in music. The fifth scene, Elsie's prayer in her chamber ("My Redeemer and my Lord"), in its calm beauty and religious feeling makes a fitting pendant to the quartet. In the next number, the orchestra is utilized to carry on the action, and in march tempo describes the pilgrimage to Salerno with stately intervals, in which is heard the sacred song, "Urbs coelestis, urbs beata," supposed to be sung by the pilgrims "moving slowly on their long journey with uncovered feet." The seventh scene is laid in the refectory of the convent of Hirschau, in the Black Forest, where Lucifer enters the gaudiolum of monks, disguised as a friar, and sings the rollicking Latin drinking-song, "Ave color vini clari," which Mr. Edmund C. Stedman versified for this work as follows:-- "Hail! thou vintage clear and ruddy! Sweet of taste and fine of body, Through thine aid we soon shall study How to make us glorious! "Oh! thy color erubescent! Oh! thy fragrance evanescent! Oh! within the mouth how pleasant! Thou the tongue's prætorius! "Blest the stomach where thou wendest! Blest the throat which thou distendest! Blest the mouth which thou befriendest, And the lips victorious! Chorus of Monks. "Pour the wine, then, pour it! Let the wave bear all before it! There's none to score it, So pour it in plenty, pour it!" The next number is for orchestra only, and once more the instruments are used for a continuance of the action by a description of the carousal of the monks in a characteristic allegro bacchanale, the abbot testifying his indignation through the medium of the trombone and the use of the Gregorian melody. The sentiment of the latter is expressed by the following verse:-- "What mean this revel and carouse? Is this a tavern and drinking-house? Are you Christian monks or heathen devils, To pollute this convent with your revels?" The ninth scene changes to Genoa. Elsie, on a terrace overlooking the sea, sings a charming aria ("The Night is calm and cloudless"), with a choral refrain of "Kyrie Eleison." The tenth is a graceful barcarolle for orchestra, but it is somewhat in the nature of an interpolation, and is only connected with the movement of the story by a thin thread, as will be seen from the verse which gives its motive:-- "The fisherman who lies afloat, With shadowy sail in yonder boat, Is singing softly to the night. A single step and all is o'er; And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free From martyrdom and agony." The eleventh scene is a spirited and beautifully-written male chorus of sailors ("The Wind upon our Quarter lies"). The twelfth reaches the climax in the scene at the college of Salerno between Lucifer, Elsie, and the Prince, with accompaniment of attendants, and is very dramatic throughout. It is followed by a tender love-duet for Elsie and the Prince on the terrace of the castle of Vautsberg, which leads to the epilogue, "O Beauty of Holiness," for full chorus and orchestra, in which the composer is at his very best both in the construction of the vocal parts and the elaborately worked-up accompaniments. The Voyage of Columbus. "The Voyage of Columbus" was written in 1885, and first published in Germany. The text of the libretto was prepared by the composer himself, extracts from Washington Irving's "Columbus" forming the theme of each of the six scenes, all of which are supposed to transpire at evening, and are therefore styled by the composer "night-scenes." Their arrangement, which is very skilfully accomplished, is as follows:-- Scene I. In the chapel of St. George at Palos, Aug. 2, 1492. "The squadron being ready to put to sea, Columbus, with his officers and crew, confessed themselves to the friar, Juan Perez. They entered upon the enterprise full of awe, committing themselves to the especial guidance and protection of Heaven." Scene II. On the deck of the Santa Maria. "Eighteen years elapsed after Columbus conceived his enterprise before he was enabled to carry it into effect. The greater part of that time was passed in almost hopeless solicitation, poverty, and ridicule." Scene III. The Vesper Hymn. "In the evening, according to the invariable custom on board the admiral's ship, the mariners sang the Vesper Hymn to the Virgin." Scene IV. Discontent and Mutiny. "In this way they fed each other's discontent, gathering into little knots, and fomenting a spirit of mutinous opposition ... finally breaking forth into turbulent clamor." Scene V. In distant Andalusia. "He compares the pure and balmy mornings to those of April in Andalusia, and observes that they wanted but the song of the nightingale to complete the illusion." Scene VI. Land and Thanksgiving. "As the evening darkened, Columbus took his station on the top of the castle or cabin, on the high poop of his vessel, ranging his eye along the horizon, and maintaining an intense and unremitting watch." The cantata opens with a brief orchestral prelude of a sombre character begun by the trombone sounding the Gregorian intonation, and leading to the barytone solo of the priest ("Ye men of Spain, the Time is nigh"), appealing to the crew to commit themselves to Heaven, to which the full male chorus responds with ever-increasing power, reaching the climax in the "Ora pro nobis." Twice the priest repeats his adjuration, followed by the choral response, the last time with joy and animation as the flag of Castile is raised and they bid farewell to the shores of Spain. A short allegro brings the scene to a close. The second scene is a bass aria for Columbus ("Eighteen long Years of Labor, Doubt, and Scorn"), of a vigorous and spirited character, changing to a solemn adagio in the prayer, "Lord of all Power and Might," and closing with a few spirited phrases in the opening tempo. It is followed by the Vesper Hymn, "Ave Maris Stella," a number in which the composer's eminent ability in sacred music is clearly shown. Its tranquil harmony dies away in the softest of pianissimos, and is followed by an agitated prelude introducing the furious chorus of the mutinous crew "Come, Comrades, come," which gathers intensity as it progresses, voices and instruments uniting in broken but powerful phrases, sometimes in full chorus and again in solo parts, until the climax is reached, when Columbus intervenes in brief solos of great dignity, to which the chorus responds, the scene closing with the renewal of allegiance,--a stirring bass solo with choral accompaniment. The fifth scene is a tenor recitative and love-song of a most graceful character, and one which will become a favorite when it is well known:-- "In Andalusia the nightingale Sings,--sings through the live-long night; Sings to its mate in pure delight: But, ah me! ah, my love! Vanished and lost to my sight In distant Andalusia." The final scene is very elaborate in its construction, and brings the work to a sonorous and stately close. It opens with a very dramatic recitative by Columbus ("The Night is dark, but many a Sign seen through this Day proclaims the Goal at Hand"), at the close of which there is a short orchestral prelude, which serves to introduce a trio ("Here at your Bidding") for Columbus and two officers (first tenor and first bass). At the cry of a seaman, "Land ho!" the chorus responds with animation. Columbus bids his crew join him "in prayer and grateful praise." The answer comes in a splendidly-written "Hallelujah," which is fairly majestic in its progression, reaching its close in full broad harmony, with the accompanying strains of trumpets. The Light of Asia. Mr. Buck's latest cantata, "The Light of Asia," well-nigh reaches the dimensions of an opera or oratorio. It was written in 1886 and first published in England. Its name reveals its source, and the composer has made compensation for the privilege of using Mr. Edwin Arnold's beautiful poem, by a graceful dedication of the work to him. The libretto was prepared by the composer himself, who has shown great skill in making his selections in such manner as not to disturb the continuity of the story. The purely philosophical portions are omitted, and only those are retained which have a human interest. In this manner he has avoided the obstacle which the lack of human sympathy in the poem, beautiful as it is, would otherwise have placed in his way. The text, as will be remembered, has no definite metre, much of it being in blank verse, and does not readily lend itself to musical expression; but it will be conceded that the composer has also overcome this difficulty in a very remarkable manner. The cantata is divided into four parts,--Prologue, the Renunciation and Temptation, the Return, and Epilogue and Finale. The first part has nine numbers. A brief prelude leads to the opening chorus:-- "Below the highest sphere four regents sit, Who rule the world; and under them are zones Nearer, but high, where saintliest spirits dead, Wait thrice ten thousand years, then live again." It begins with a fugue, opened by the basses, simple in its construction but stately in theme and very dignified throughout. It is followed by a bass solo of descriptive character ("The King gave Order that his Town should keep high Festival"), closing with a few choral measures, _sotto voce_, relating that the King had ordered a festival in honor of the advent of Buddha, and how a venerable saint, Asita, recognized the divinity of the child and "the sacred primal signs," and foretold his mission. The third number is the description of the young Siddârtha, set in graceful recitative and semi-chorus for female voices, with a charming accompaniment. The fourth is a spring song ("O come and see the Pleasance of the Spring"), begun by tenors and basses and then developing into full chorus with animated descriptive effects for the orchestra, picturing "the thickets rustling with small life," the rippling waters among the palms, the blue doves' cooings, the jungles laughing with the nesting-songs, and the far-off village drums beating for marriage feasts. A recitative for bass ("Bethink ye, O my Ministers"), in which the King counsels with his advisers as to the training of the child, leads to a four-part song for tenors and basses ("Love will cure these thin Distempers"), in which they urge him to summon a court of pleasure in which the young prince may award prizes to the fair. Then "If one or two Change the fixed sadness of his tender cheek, So may we choose for love with love's own eye." The King orders the festival, and in the next number--a march and animated three-part chorus for female voices--Kapilavastu's maidens flock to the gate, "each with her dark hair newly smoothed and bound." Then comes the recognition, briefly told in soprano recitative. Yasôdhara passes, and "at sudden sight of her he changed." A beautiful love-duet for soprano and tenor ("And their Eyes mixed, and from the Look sprang Love") closes the scene. The next number is a bass solo narrating the triumph of Siddârtha over all other suitors, leading to a jubilant and graceful wedding chorus ("Enter, thrice-happy! enter, thrice-desired!"), the words of which are taken from the "Indian Song of Songs." The second part opens with a soprano solo describing his pleasure with Yasôdhara, in the midst of which comes the warning of the Devas:-- "We are the voices of the wandering wind, That moan for rest and rest can never find. Lo! as the wind is, so is mortal life,-- A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife." This number is a semi-chorus, set for female voices, interspersed with brief phrases for tenor, and after a bass solo, relating the King's dream and the hermit's interpretation, which induces him to doubly guard Siddârtha's pleasure-house, leads up to a beautiful chorus, divided between two sopranos, alto, two tenors, and two basses:-- "Softly the Indian night sunk o'er the plain, Fragrant with blooms and jewelled thick with stars, And cool with mountain airs sighing adown From snow-flats on Himâla high outspread. The moon above the eastern peaks Silvered the roof-tops of the pleasure-house, And all the sleeping land." The next scene opens with a soprano solo ("Within the Bower of inmost Splendor"), in which Yasôdhara relates her dream of the voice crying "The Time is nigh," to Siddârtha, and closes with a tender duet for soprano and tenor. The next number is a brief chorus ("Then in her Tears she slept"), followed by the tenor solo, "I will depart," in which Siddârtha proclaims his resolve "to seek deliverance and the unknown light," and leading to a richly-colored and majestic chorus: "There came a wind which lulled each sense aswoon Of captains and of soldiers: The gates of triple brass rolled back all silently On their grim hinges; Then, lightly treading, where those sleepers lay, Into the night Siddârtha passed, While o'er the land a tremor spread, As if earth's soul beneath stirred with an unknown hope, And rich celestial music thrilled the air From hosts on hosts of shining ones." A tenor solo describes the six long years of wandering, followed by a characteristic chorus of voices of earth and air bidding him pass to the tree under whose leaves it was foretold that truth should come to him for the saving of the world. A short bass recitative leads to a vigorous descriptive chorus relating the temptations of Siddârtha, in which the orchestra is used with masterly effect. A brief soprano solo, the apparition of Yasôdhara among the wanton shapes floating about the tree, imploring him to return, and the tenor response, bidding the shadow depart, intervene; and then the chorus resumes with increased vigor, reaching a furious climax as the legions of hell tempt him, but dying away in the close to phrases of tender beauty:-- "Radiant, rejoicing, strong, Buddha arose, And far and near there spread an unknown peace. As that divinest daybreak lightened earth, The world was glad." The third part (the Return) opens with a soprano solo of a slow and mournful character, relating the sorrow of Yasôdhara and the visit of her damsels, who announce the arrival of merchants with tidings of Siddârtha. They are summoned, and tell their story in a short chorus, which is followed by a brief soprano solo ("Uprose Yasôdhara with Joy"), an exultant chorus ("While the Town rang with Music"), and another brief phrase for soprano, leading to a fine choral outburst ("'Tis he! Siddârtha, who was lost"). The next number, a bass solo describing the King's wrath when he learns that Siddârtha has returned as a yellow-robed hermit instead of with "shining spears and tramp of horse and foot," is very sonorous as well as dramatic, and is followed by a tenor and bass dialogue developing into a trio of great beauty ("Thus passed the Three into the Way of Peace"). The final number is a masterpiece of choral work both in the elaborateness of its construction and the majesty of its effect, and brings the cantata to a close with the mystic words:-- "The Dew is on the Lotus! Rise, great Sun! And lift my leaf and mix it with the wave. The Sunrise comes! the Sunrise comes! The Dewdrop slips into the shining sea. Hail, High Deliverer, Hail!" CORDER. Frederick Corder, the English composer and conductor, was born at Hackney, London, Jan. 26, 1852. He was a student at the Royal Academy of Music in 1874, and in the following year gained the Mendelssohn scholarship. From 1875 to 1878 he studied at Cologne with Hiller, and in 1879 returned to London, where he engaged for a time in literary pursuits. His abilities as a writer are very clearly shown in the librettos to his works. In 1880 he was appointed conductor of the orchestra at the Brighton Aquarium, and since that time he has devoted himself to teaching and composition. His principal works are "In the Black Forest," an orchestral suite, and "Evening on the Seashore," idyl for orchestra (1876); the opera "Morte d'Arthur" (1877); the one-act opera "Philomel" (1879); cantata, "The Cyclops" (1880); "Ossian," a concert overture for orchestra, produced by the London Philharmonic Society (1882); the cantata "Bridal of Triermain" (1886); and the opera "Nordisa," founded upon a Norwegian subject and brought out with great success in January, 1887 by the Carl Rosa opera troupe. Mr. Corder is one of the most ambitious and promising of all the younger English composers, and his music shows in a special degree the influence of Wagner. That he has also literary talent of a high order is evinced by his contributions to periodical literature and the librettos of his last two works,--"The Bridal of Triermain" and "Nordisa." The Bridal of Triermain. "The Bridal of Triermain" was written for the Wolverhampton (England) Festival of 1886, and was one of the most notable successes in the festival performances of that year. The subject is taken from Walter Scott's poem of the same name. The adaptation has been made in a very free manner, but the main incidents of the poem have been carefully preserved. Sir Roland's vision of the "Maid of Middle Earth;" the bard Lyulph's recital of the Arthurian legend, which tells of Gyneth's enchantment in the valley of St. John by Merlin, where she must sleep "Until a knight shall wake thee For feats of arms as far renowned As warrior of the Table Round;" the magic wrought by Merlin in the valley to delude Roland and thwart his effort to rescue Gyneth; his daring entrance into the palace grounds; the discovery of the Princess in the enchanted hall, and her final rescue are the themes which the composer has treated. In arranging his libretto he has, as has been said, made a free adaptation of the poem, sometimes using verses entire, at other times changing the text and rearranging it to suit the composer's musical demands, even at the expense of the original beauty and symmetry of the work. The cantata has no overture, but opens with a choral introduction ("Where is the Maiden of Mortal Strain?"). An orchestral interlude in the form of a tender graceful nocturne follows, leading up to the tenor solo, "The Dawn of an autumn Day did creep," in which the Baron relates the apparition he has seen in his dream. A short bass recitative by Lyulph the bard introduces the Legend, which is told in an effective number for soprano solo, bass solo, and chorus ("In Days e'en Minstrels now forget"). The next number, a very dramatic dialogue for soprano and tenor, gives us the conversation between Arthur and Gyneth, and leads to an energetic full chorus with very descriptive accompaniment, picturing the bloody tourney and its sudden interruption by the appearance of Merlin the enchanter. The first part closes with a charming number ("'Madmen,' he cried, 'your Strife forbear'") arranged for bass solo, quartet, and chorus, in which is described the spell which Merlin casts upon Gyneth. The second part, after a short allegro movement for orchestra, opens with a contralto solo ("Of wasted Fields and plundered Flocks") which prepares the way for a concerted number for solos and chorus ("And now the Moon her Orb has hid"), describing the magical arts which Merlin employed to thwart the Baron. This number alone is sufficient to stamp Mr. Corder as a composer of extraordinary ability. A succession of bass, tenor, and contralto recitatives ("Wroth waxed the Warrior") leads to another powerful chorus ("Rash Adventurer, bear thee back"), the song of the "four maids whom Afric bore," in which the composer has caught the weird, strange color of the scene and given it vivid expression. A tenor recitative ("While yet the distant Echoes roll") leads up to a graceful, sensuous soprano solo and female chorus ("Gentle Knight, awhile delay"). Its counterpart is found in the tenor recitative and spirited, dignified male chorus ("Son of Honor, Theme of Story"). The _dénouement_ now begins. A contralto solo, declamatory in style ("In lofty Hall, with Trophies graced"), and a short soprano solo of a joyous character ("Thus while she sang") lead to the final number ("Gently, lo! the Warrior kneels"), beginning with full chorus, which after short solos for tenor and soprano takes a spirited martial form ("And on the Champion's Brow was found") and closes with a quartet and chorus worked up to an imposing climax. The work is largely in narrative form; but this, instead of being a hindrance, seems to have been an advantage to the composer, who has not failed to invest his music with dramatic force that is remarkable. Mr. Corder is credited with being an ardent disciple of Wagner, and his cantata certainly shows the influences of that school. It is throughout a vigorous, effective work, and gives promise that its composer will yet be heard from outside the English musical world. COWEN. Frederic H. Cowen, the favorite English song-writer, was born at Kingston, Jamaica, Jan. 29, 1852, and went to England at a very early age. His first teachers were Benedict and Sir J. Goss, with whom he studied until 1865. During the next three years he continued his musical education at the conservatories of Leipsic and Berlin, returning to England in 1868. His earlier works were an operetta called "Garibaldi," a fantasie-sonata and piano concerto, a few pieces of chamber music, and a symphony in C minor. These served to introduce him to public notice, and since that time nearly all of his works have met with remarkable success, among them "The Rose Maiden" (1870); music to Schiller's "Joan of Arc" (1871); festival overture (1872); "The Corsair," composed for the Birmingham Festival of 1876; a symphony in F major and the Norwegian symphony, which have been favorably received in this country. His most important opera is "Pauline," which was produced in London with great success by the Carl Rosa company, Nov. 22, 1876. As a song-writer, Mr. Cowen is also well known; many of his lyrics, especially those written for Antoinette Sterling and Mrs. E. Aline Osgood, the American singers, having obtained a wide-spread popularity. The Sleeping Beauty. "The Sleeping Beauty," written for the Birmingham Festival of 1885, the poem by Francis Hueffer, has for its theme the well-known fairy tale which has been so often illustrated in music and upon canvas. It is a great favorite in England, and has also met with a successful reception in Paris, where it was brought out not long since by the Concordia Society of that city, under the title of "La Belle au Bois Dormant," the translation having been made by Miss Augusta Holmes, herself a musician of considerable repute. After a brief orchestral introduction, a three-part chorus (altos, tenors, and basses) tells the story of the ancient King to whom an heiress was born when all hope of offspring had been abandoned, the gay carousal which he ordered, and the sudden appearance of the twelve fays, guardians of his house, with their spinning-wheels and golden flax, who sing as they weave:-- "Draw the thread and weave the woof For the little child's behoof: Future, dark to human eyes, Openly before us lies; As we will and as we give, Haply shall the maiden live; Draw the thread and weave the woof For the little child's behoof." In beauty of melody and gracefulness of orchestration this chorus of the fays is specially noticeable. Its charming movement, however, is interrupted by a fresh passage for male chorus, of an agitated character, describing the entrance of the Wicked Fay, who bends over the cradle of the child and sings a characteristic contralto aria:-- "From the gold of the flaxen reel Threads of bliss have been spun to thee; By the whirl of the spinning wheel Cruel grief shall be done to thee. Thy fate I descry: Ere the buds of thy youth are blown, Ere a score of thy years have flown, Thou shalt prick thy hand, thou shalt die." Following this aria, the male chorus has a few measures, invoking a curse upon the Fay, which leads to a full chorus of an animated character, foretelling that there shall dawn a day when a young voice, more powerful than witchcraft, will save her; at the close of which the guardian fays are again heard drawing the thread and weaving the woof in low, murmuring tones, with a spinning accompaniment. It is followed by a trio (soprano, tenor, and bass), with chorus accompaniment, announcing the departure of the fays, and leading to a very melodious tenor solo, with two graceful orchestral interludes, which moralizes on what has occurred and closes the prologue. The first scene opens in a hall in the King's palace, and is full of animation. A brilliant orchestral prelude leads to the full chorus in waltz time ("At Dawn of Day on the first of May"), which moves along with a fascinating swing, and closes in a very vigorous climax. At this point the King makes his appearance and expresses his joy that the time has passed when the prophecy of the Wicked Fay could take effect, for this is the Princess's twentieth birthday. A dialogue follows between the King and his daughter, closing with a beautiful chorus ("Pure as thy Heart"), after which the dance-music resumes. Unobserved the Princess leaves the banqueting-hall, glides along a gallery, and ascends the staircase to a turret chamber. Before she enters she sings an aria, of a tranquil, dreamy nature ("Whither away, my Heart?"), and interwoven with it are heard the gradually lessening strains of the dance-music, which ceases altogether as her song comes to an almost inaudible close. The second scene opens in the turret chamber, where the Wicked Fay, disguised as an old crone, is spinning. After a short dialogue, in which the Fay explains to the Princess the use of the wheel, she bids her listen, and sings a weird ballad ("As I sit at my Spinning-wheel, strange Dreams come to me"), closing with the refrain of the old prophecy, "Ere the Buds of her Youth are blown." The Princess dreamily repeats the burden of the song, and then, fearing the presence of some ill-omen, opens the door to escape. She hears the dance-music again, but the Fay gently draws her back and induces her to touch the flax. As she does so, the Fay covertly pricks her finger with the spindle. She swoons away, the dance-music suddenly stops, and there is a long silence, broken at last by the Fay's triumphant declaration: "Thus have I wrought my Vengeance." The next number is the Incantation Music ("Spring from the Earth, red Roses"), a very dramatic declamation, sung by the Fay and interwoven with snatches of chorus and the refrain of the prophecy. A choral interlude ("Sleep in Bower and Hall") follows, describing in a vivid manner, both with voices and instruments, the magic sleep that fell upon the castle and all its inmates, and the absence of all apparent life save the spiders weaving their webs on the walls as the years go by:-- "The spells of witchcraft which enthrall Each sleeper in that desolate hall, Who can break them? Say, who can lift the deathly blight That covers king and lord and knight, To give them back to life and light, And awake them?" The answer comes in an animated prelude, through which is heard the strain of a horn signal, constantly growing louder, and heralding the Prince, who enters the silent palace, sword in hand, among the sleeping courtiers, knights, and ladies. After a vigorous declamation ("Light, Light at last") he passes on his way to the turret chamber, where he beholds the sleeping Princess. The love-song which follows ("Kneeling before Thee, worshipping wholly") is one of the most effective portions of the work. His kiss awakes her, and as she springs up, the dance-music at once resumes from the bar where it had stopped in the scene with the Wicked Fay. An impassioned duet follows, and the work closes with the animated waltz-chorus which opened the first scene. DVORÁK. Anton Dvorák, the Bohemian composer who has risen so suddenly into prominence, was born at Mülhausen, near Prague, Sept. 8, 1841. His father combined the business of tavern-keeper and butcher, and young Dvorák assisted him in waiting upon customers, as well as in the slaughtering business. As the laws of Bohemia stipulate that music shall be a part of common-school education, Dvorák learned the rudiments in the village school, and also received violin instruction. At the age of thirteen he went to work for an uncle, who resided in the village where the schoolmaster was a proficient musician. The latter, recognizing his ability, gave him lessons on the organ, and allowed him to copy music. Piano lessons followed, and he had soon grounded himself quite thoroughly in counterpoint. At the age of sixteen he was admitted to the organ-school of Prague, of which Joseph Pitsch was the principal. Pitsch died soon after, and was succeeded by Kreyci, who made Dvorák acquainted with the music of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn. The first orchestral work he heard was Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony," during its rehearsal under Spohr's direction. In 1860, being then in his nineteenth year, he obtained an engagement, with the meagre salary of one hundred and twenty-five dollars a year, as violinist in a band that played at cafés and dances. Two years later he secured a position in the Bohemian Opera House at Prague, then under the direction of Mayer, where he remained until 1871, in which year he left the theatre and devoted himself to teaching, with the prospect of earning two hundred and fifty dollars a year. These were hard days for the young musician; but while he was there struggling for a bare subsistence, he continued writing compositions, though he had no prospect of selling them or of having them played. About this time he wrote his "Patriotic Hymn" and the opera "König und Köhler." The latter was rejected after an orchestral trial; but he continued his work, undaunted by failure. Shortly after this he received the appointment of organist at the Adelbert Church, Prague, and fortune began to smile upon him. His Symphony in F was laid before the Minister of Instruction in Vienna, and upon the recommendation of Herbeck secured him a grant of two hundred dollars. When Brahms replaced Herbeck on the committee which reported upon artists' stipends, he fully recognized Dvorák's ability, and not only encouraged him, but also brought him before the world by securing him a publisher and commending him to Joachim, who still further advanced his interests by securing performances of his works in Germany and England. Since that time he has risen rapidly, and is now recognized as one of the most promising of living composers. Among his works which have been produced during the past few years are the "Stabat Mater," the cantata "The Spectre's Bride," three operas in the Czechist dialect, three orchestral symphonies, several Slavonic rhapsodies, overtures, violin and piano concertos, an exceedingly beautiful sextet, and numerous songs. The Spectre's Bride. The legend of the Spectre's Bride is current in various forms among all the Slavonic nations. The Russians, Servians, Slovaks, Lithuanians, and Poles all have poems in which the ghostly ride of the spectre and the maiden forms the theme. The German version, told by Bürger in his famous ballad "Lenore," is best known; and Raff has given it a musical setting in his Lenore Symphony. In general, the story is the same. The Spectre comes for his Bride and she rides away with him through the night, amid all manner of supernatural horrors, only to find at the end that she has ridden to the grave with a skeleton. The Bohemian poem used by Dvorák is that of Karel Jaromir Erben, a poet who obtained a national fame by making collections of the songs and legends of his country during his service as Secretary of the Royal Bohemian Museum and Keeper of the Archives at Prague. In his version, unlike the German, the Spectre and his Bride make their grewsome journey on foot. The _dénouement_ in the churchyard differs also, as the maiden is saved by an appeal to the Virgin. In the opening scene she is represented gazing at a picture of the Virgin, mourning the death of her parents and the absence of her lover, who has failed to keep his promise to return. His parting words were:-- "Sow flax, my love, I counsel thee, And every day remember me. Spin in the first year, spin with care, Bleach in the next the fabric fair; Then garments make, when the years are three, And every day remember me. Twine I that year a wreath for thee; We two that year shall wedded be." She has faithfully followed the counsel. The three years have expired, but still no tidings have come. As she appeals to the Virgin to bring him back, the picture moves, the flame of the lamp upleaps, there is an ominous knock at the door, and the voice of the apparition is heard urging her to cease praying and follow him to his home. She implores him to wait until the night is past, but the importunate Spectre bids her go with him, and she consents. On they speed over rough bowlders, through thorny brakes and swamps, attended by the baying of wolves, the screeching of owls, the croaking of frogs, and the fitful glow of corpse-candles. One by one he compels her to throw away her prayer-book, chaplet, and cross, and resisting all her appeals to stop and rest, at last they reach the churchyard wall. He calms her fears with the assurance that the church is his castle and the yard his garden, and bids her leap the wall with him. She promises to follow him, but after he has cleared it, sudden fear seizes her; she flies to a tiny house near by and enters. A ghastly scene takes place; spectres are dancing before the door, and the moonlight reveals to her a corpse lying upon a plank. As she gazes, horror-stricken, a knock is heard, and a voice bids the dead arise and thrust the living one out. Thrice the summons is repeated, and then as the corpse opens its eyes and glares upon her, she prays once more to the Virgin. At this instant the crowing of a cock is heard. The dead man falls back, the ghastly, spectral crew disappear, and night gives way to a peaceful morning. "All who to Mass at morning went Stood still in great astonishment; One tomb there was to ruin gone, And in the dead-house a maiden wan; On looking round, amazed were they, On every grave a garment lay. "Well was it, maiden, that thy mind Turned unto God, defence to find, For He thy foes did harmless bind; Had'st thou thyself, too, nothing done, Ill with thy soul it then had gone; Thy body, as the garments were, Mangled had been, and scattered there." Such is the horrible story which forms the theme of Dvorák's cantata. It was written for the Birmingham Festival of 1884, and the text was translated by the Rev. Dr. Troutbeck, from a German translation of the original poem made by K. J. Müller. It contains eighteen numbers, each of considerable length, of which eleven are descriptive, the barytone, with chorus response, acting the part of the narrator, and accompanied by instrumentation which vividly paints the horrors of the nocturnal tramp, even to the realistic extent of imitating the various sounds described. It is unnecessary to specify each of these numbers in detail, as they are all closely allied in color and general effect. The music which accompanies them is picturesque and weird, increasing in its power and actual supernaturalism until it reaches its climax in the dead-house where the maiden takes refuge; and in these numbers the orchestra bears the burden of the work. The remaining numbers are almost magical in their beauty and fascination, particularly the first song of the maiden, lamenting her lover, and closing with the prayer to the Virgin, which is thoroughly devotional music, and the second prayer, which saves her from her peril. There are four duets, soprano and tenor, between the Bride and Spectre, and one with chorus, in which are recounted the episodes of the chaplet, prayer-book, and cross, besides the hurried dialogue between them as he urges her on. These, too, abound in quaint rhythms and strange harmonies set against a highly-colored instrumental background. The story is not a pleasant one for musical treatment,--at least for voices,--and the prevailing tone of the composition is sombre; but of the wonderful power of the music and its strange fascination there can be no doubt. FOOTE. Arthur Foote, a rising young composer of Boston, whose works have already made more than a local reputation, was born at Salem, Mass., March 5, 1853. While at Harvard College he studied composition with Prof. J. K. Paine, and after graduation determined to devote himself to the musical profession. He studied the piano-forte and organ with Mr. B. J. Lang of Boston, and soon made his mark as a musician of more than ordinary promise. Among his published works which have attracted favorable attention are various songs and piano compositions; pieces for violin and piano, violoncello and piano; a string quartet; trio for piano, violin, and violoncello; and "Hiawatha," a ballad for male voices and orchestra. A suite for strings, in manuscript, has obtained the honor of performance at the London symphony concerts (January, 1887), and an overture, "In the Mountains," also in manuscript, was played by the Boston Symphony Orchestra in February, 1887. He is now living in Boston, where he is engaged in teaching the piano and organ. Hiawatha. "The Farewell of Hiawatha," for barytone solo, male voices, and orchestra, modestly styled by its composer a ballad, is a cantata in its lighter form. Its subject is taken from Longfellow's familiar poem, and includes the beautiful close of the legend beginning with the stanza:-- "From his place rose Hiawatha, Bade farewell to old Nokomis, Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, Did not wake the guests, that slumbered." The composer has made use of the remainder of the poem without change, except in repetitions demanded by musical necessity and in the omission of the seven lines immediately preceding the final words of farewell, which does not mar the context. A short orchestral introduction, _andante con moto_, followed by a chorus of tenors and basses in a few bars, recitative in form and sung pianissimo, lead to a barytone solo for Hiawatha ("I am going, O Nokomis") of a quiet and tender character. A graceful phrase for the violoncello introduces another choral morceau relating Hiawatha's farewell to the warriors ("I am going, O my People") a melodious combination of sweetness and strength, though it only rises to a display of energy in the single phrase, "The Master of Life has sent them," after which it closes quietly, and tenderly, in keeping with the sentiment of the text. The remainder of the work is choral. The westward sail of Hiawatha into the "fiery sunset," "the purple vapors," and "the dusk of evening" is set to a very picturesque accompaniment, which dies away in soft strains as he disappears in the distance. An allegro movement with a crescendo of great energy introduces the farewell of "the forests dark and lonely," moving "through all their depths of darkness," of the waves "rippling on the pebbles," and of "the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, from her haunts among the fen-lands." The last division of the chorus is an allegro, beginning pianissimo and closing with an exultant outburst:-- "Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter!" The work, which was written for the Apollo Club of Boston, is not a long one, nor is it at all ambitious in style. The composer has evidently tried to reflect the quiet and tender sentiment of the farewell in his music, and has admirably succeeded. Poetic beauty is its most striking feature, both in the instrumental parts, which are well sustained, and in the vocal, which are earnest, expressive, and at times very pathetic, of this pretty tone-picture. GADE. Niels W. Gade was born at Copenhagen, Oct. 22, 1817. His father was a musical-instrument maker and intrusted his early education to the Danish masters Wershall, Berggren, and Weyse. He made such good progress that he soon entered the royal orchestra of that city as a violinist and began to be known as a composer. His first important work, the overture "Nachklänge von Ossian," obtained a prize from the Copenhagen Musical Union and also secured for him the favor of the King, who provided him with the means for making a foreign journey. Prior to starting he sent a copy of a symphony to Mendelssohn, which met with the latter's enthusiastic approval. He arrived at Leipsic in 1843, and after producing his first symphony with success, travelled through Italy, returning to Leipsic in 1844, where during the winter of that year he conducted the Gewandhaus concerts in the place of Mendelssohn, who was absent in Berlin. In the season of 1845-46 he assisted Mendelssohn in the same concerts, and after the latter's death became the principal director, a post which he held until 1848, when he returned to Copenhagen and took a position as organist, and also conducted the concerts of the Musical Union. In 1861 he was appointed Hofcapellmeister, and was honored with the title of Professor of Music. Since that time he has devoted himself to composition, and has produced many excellent works, especially for festivals in England and elsewhere. Among them are the cantatas "Comala," "Spring Fantasie," "The Erl King's Daughter," "The Holy Night," "Spring's Message," "The Crusaders," and "Zion;" the overtures "In the Highlands," "Hamlet," and "Michael Angelo;" seven symphonies, and a large number of songs and piano pieces, as well as chamber-music compositions. Comala. "Comala," one of the earliest of Gade's larger vocal works, was first produced at Leipsic in March, 1843. Its subject is taken from Ossian, and relates the tragedy of "Comala," daughter of Sarno, King of Innistore, who had conceived a violent passion for Fingal, King of Morven. Her love is returned by the warrior, and disguised as a youth the princess follows him on his expedition against Caracul, King of Lochlin. On the day of the battle Fingal places her on a height, near the shore of the Carun, whence she can overlook the fight, and promises her if victorious that he will return at evening. Comala, though filled with strange forebodings, hopefully waits her royal lover's coming. As the tedious hours pass on a fearful storm arises, and amid the howling of the blast the spirits of the fathers sweep by her on their way to the battlefield to conduct to their home the souls of the fallen,--the same majestic idea which Wagner uses with such consummate power in his weird ride of the Valkyries. Comala imagines that the battle has been lost, and overcome with grief falls to the ground and dies. The victorious Fingal returns as evening approaches, accompanied by the songs of his triumphant warriors, only to hear the tidings of Comala's death from her weeping maidens. Sorrowing he orders the bards to chant her praises, and joining with her attendants to waft her departing soul "to the fathers' dwelling" with farewell hymns. The cantata is almost equally divided between male and female choruses, and these are the charm of the work. Many of the songs of Comala and her maids are in graceful ballad form, fresh in their melody, and marked by that peculiar refinement which characterizes all of Gade's music. The parting duet between Fingal and Comala is very beautiful, but the principal interest centres in the choruses. Those of the bards and warriors are very stately in their style and abound in dramatic power, particularly the one accompanying the triumphal return of Fingal. The chorus of spirits is very impressive, and in some passages almost supernatural. The female choruses, on the other hand, are graceful, tender, and pathetic; the final full chorus, in which the bards and maidens commend the soul of Comala to "the fathers' dwelling," has rarely been surpassed in beauty or pathos. The music of the cantata is in keeping with the stately grandeur and richly-hued tones of the Ossianic poem. The poetry and music of the North are happily wedded. Spring Fantasie. Though the "Spring Fantasie" is in undoubted cantata form, Gade designates it as a "Concertstück;" that is, a musical composition in which the instrumental parts are essential to its complete unity. Its origin is unquestionably to be found in the idea of Beethoven's "Choral Fantasie," which was subsequently developed in the choral symphony on a still larger and grander scale. The instrumental elements of the "Spring Fantasie" are unquestionably the most prominent. They do not play the subordinate part of accompaniment, but really enunciate the ideas of the poem, which are still further illustrated by the voices, acting as the interpreters of the meaning of the instrumentation. The "Fantasie" was written in 1850, its subject being a poem by Edmund Lobedanz, which of itself might appropriately be called a fantasy. The work consists of four movements, for four solo voices, orchestra, and piano-forte. The prominence which Gade has given to the instrumental parts is shown by his characterizing the movements,--I. _Allegro moderato e sostenuto_; II. _Allegro molto e con fuoco_; III. _Allegro vivace_. The poem in the original is one of more than ordinary excellence. The translation in most common use is one made by Mrs. Vander Weyde for a performance of the work in London in 1878 at the Royal Normal College and Academy of Music for the Blind, under the direction of Herr von Bülow. The first movement is in the nature of an invocation to spring, in which the longing for May and its flowers is very tenderly expressed. The second movement depicts with great vigor the return of the wintry storms, the raging of the torrents, the gradual rolling away of the clouds, the approach of more genial breezes, and the rising of the star, typifying "the joy of a fair maiden's love." The closing movement is full of rejoicing that the spring has come. Voices and instruments share alike in the jubilation:-- "For the spring-time has come, the May is here, On hill and in vale all is full of delight. How sweet is the spring-time, how lovely and bright,-- Its kingdom is over us all." The Erl King's Daughter. "The Erl King's Daughter" was written in 1852. Its story differs from that told in Goethe's famous poem, and set to music equally famous by Schubert in his familiar song. In Goethe's poem the father rides through the night clasping his boy and followed by the Erl King and his daughters, who entice the child unseen by the parent. In vain he assures him that the Erl King's voice is but the "sad wind sighing through the withered leaves," that his train is but the mist, and that his daughters are the aged gray willows deceiving his sight. The boy at first is charmed with the apparition, but cries in mortal terror as the Erl King seizes him, while the father gallops at last into the courtyard, only to find his child dead in his arms. In the poem used by Gade it is the Erl King's daughter who tempts a knight to his death. The prologue relates that Sir Oluf at eve stayed his steed and rested beneath the alders by the brook, where he was visited by two of the daughters, one of whom caressed him while the other invited him to join their revels. At sound of the cock-crow, however, they disappeared. It was the eve of Sir Oluf's wedding day. He arrives home in a distraught condition, and in spite of his mother's appeals decides to return to the alder grove in quest of the beauties who had bewitched him. He finds the alder-maids dancing in the moonlight, singing and beckoning him to join them. One of the fairest tempts him with a silken gown for the bride and silver armor for himself. When he refuses to dance with her, she seizes him by the arm and predicts his death on the morrow morning. "Ride home to your bride in robe of red," she cries as he hastens away. In the morning the mother anxiously waits his coming, and at last beholds him riding desperately through "the waving corn." He has lost his shield and helmet, and blood drips from his stirrups. As he draws rein at the door of the castle he drops dead from his saddle. A brief epilogue points the moral of the story in quaint fashion. It is to the effect that knights who will on horseback ride should not like Oluf stay in elfin groves with elfin maidens till morning. It is unnecessary to specify the numbers in detail; as with the exception of the melodramatic finale, where the music becomes quite vigorous, it is all of the same graceful, flowing, melodic character, and needs no key to explain it to the hearer. The Crusaders. "The Crusaders" is one of the most powerful as well as beautiful of modern cantatas. It was written for performance in Copenhagen in 1866, and ten years later was produced at the Birmingham Festival, under the composer's direction. It is divided into three parts, and its story may be told in a word. Its theme is the same as that which Wagner has treated in "Lohengrin" and in "Tännhauser,"--the conflict of the human soul with the powers of darkness, sensual beauty and sorcery, and its final triumph. It is the story of the temptation of Rinaldo d'Este, the bravest of the Crusaders, by Armida and her sirens, who at last calls upon the Queen of Spirits to aid them in their hopeless task, the thwarting of the powers of evil, and the final triumph before Jerusalem. The first part opens with a chorus of pilgrims and women in the band of the Crusaders, expressive of the weariness and sufferings they have endured in their long wanderings, the end of which still appears so far away. As the beautiful music dies away, the inspiring summons of Peter the Hermit is heard, leading up to the Crusaders' song,--a vigorous, war-like melody, full of manly hope and religious fervor. An evening prayer of pious longing and exalted devotion closes this part. The second part is entitled "Armida," and introduces the evil genius of the scene. A strange, mysterious orchestral prelude indicates the baneful magic of the sorcerer's wiles. In a remarkably expressive aria, Armida deplores her weakness in trying to overcome the power of the cross. As she sees Rinaldo, who has left his tent to wander for a time in the night air, she calls to the spirits to obey her incantation:-- "Cause a palace grand to rise, Let a sea before it glimmer. In the walls of richest gold Let the purest diamonds shimmer; Round the fountains' pearly rim, Where bright the sunbeams are glancing, Plashing low and murmuring sweet, Set the merry wavelets dancing. In yon hedge of roses where fairies rock in softest dreaming, Fays and elfins bid appear, and sirens float in waters dreaming. All around let music ring, Fill the air with sweetest singing; Lure them on with magic power, To our midst all captive bringing. Sing remembrance from their hearts, Till they bow, my will fulfilling; Make them every thought forego, Every wish, save mine own, stilling." After another invocation of the spirits, the sirens appear, singing a sensuous melody ("I dip my white Breast in the soft-flowing Tide"). Then begins the temptation of the wandering Knight. He starts in surprise as he hears the voices rising from the waves, and again they chant their alluring song. They are followed by Armida, who appeals to him in a seductive strain ("O Rinaldo, come to never-ending Bliss"). The Knight joins with her in a duet of melodious beauty. He is about to yield to the temptation, when he hears in the distance the tones of the Crusaders' song. He wavers in his resolution, Armida and the sirens appeal to him again, and again he turns as if he would follow them. The Crusaders' song grows louder, and rouses the Knight from the spell which has been cast about him, and the scene closes with a beautifully concerted number, in which Rinaldo, Armida, the chorus of Crusaders and of sirens contend for the mastery. The fascination of the Crusaders' song is the strongest. The cross triumphs over the sorceress, and in despair she sings,-- "Sink, scenes illusive, deep in dark abyss of doom! The light of day is turned to blackest night of gloom." The third part, entitled "Jerusalem," is religious in character, and mostly choral. In rapid succession follow the morning hymn with beautiful horn accompaniment, the march of the Pilgrims full of the highest exaltation, the hermit's revelation of the Holy City to them, their joyous greeting to it, Rinaldo's resolution to expiate his offence by his valor, the hermit's last call to strife, their jubilant reply, and the final victory:-- "As our God wills it. Up, arouse thee! Up! yon flag with hope endows thee. Jerusalem! the goal is there. We cry aloud, 'Hosanna!'" GILCHRIST. William W. Gilchrist, the American composer, was born at Jersey City, N. J., in 1846. He began his studies with H. A. Clarke, professor of music in the University of Pennsylvania. In 1872 he accepted the position of organist at the New Jerusalem Church in Cincinnati, Ohio, and was also appointed teacher in the Conservatory of Miss Bauer. A year later he returned to Philadelphia, where he has since resided. During this time he has done a great work for music in that city, having been conductor of several societies. He has been the recipient of honors on many occasions, having obtained several prizes from the Philadelphia Art Society and others for his compositions. In 1880 he contended for the prize offered by the Cincinnati Musical Festival Association, but stood third on the list, Dudley Buck being first and George E. Whiting second. In 1882 he made another trial for the Association's prize, and was successful; the committee, consisting of Carl Reinecke of Leipsic, M. Saint-Saens of Paris, and Theodore Thomas of New York, making him the award. The Forty-sixth Psalm. The composition referred to in the sketch of Mr. Gilchrist's life which secured for him the Cincinnati prize in 1882 was "The Forty-sixth Psalm." The composer's own analysis of the work, furnished at the time, is appended:-- "The composition is a setting of the Forty-sixth Psalm for soprano solo, chorus, orchestra, and organ, and has four principal divisions exclusive of an introduction, each following the other without pause, and connected by a gradual decrescendo in the orchestra. The opening of the Psalm seemed to me to indicate a strong outburst of praise or of thanksgiving for a deliverance from trials, which the introduction is intended to convey. But instead of beginning with a strong outburst, I lead up to it from a very subdued beginning, working gradually to a climax at the entrance of the chorus on the words, 'God is our refuge and our strength.' The opening movement of the chorus becomes a little subdued very shortly as it takes up the words, 'A very present help in trouble,' which is followed again by an _allegro con fuoco_ movement on the words, 'Therefore we will not fear though the earth be removed, though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.' This movement leads into still another, a furioso movement on the words, 'Though the waters thereof roar, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof.' This is followed by an elaborate coda, in which all the themes of the preceding movement are worked together, and which brings the chorus to a close. The second division, in E major, is marked by an _andante contemplativo_ on the words, 'There is a river the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God.' This movement is intended to be one of tranquillity, varied with occasional passionate outbursts on the words, 'God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved.' A peculiar rhythmical effect is sought by the alternation of 4/4 and 3/4 time, three bars of the first being answered by two bars of the second. This movement ends very tranquilly on the words, 'God shall help her, and that right early,' and is immediately followed by an _allegro molto_, in B minor, on the words, 'The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved; he uttered his voice, the earth melted.' In the middle of this chorus the soprano solo enters for the first time on the words, 'He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; He breaketh the bow and cutteth the spear in sunder.' The chorus works up to a strong climax on the words, 'He burneth the chariot with fire,' which is suddenly interrupted by a decrescendo on the words, 'Be still, and know that I am God.' This leads to the third division, which is a return of the second division in E major, and which is played through almost entirely by the orchestra, the chorus merely meditating on the words last quoted. This leads to the final chorus, which is a fugue, in E major, with _alla breve_ time, on the words, 'And the Lord of Hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge,' towards the close of which a _Gloria Patri_ is introduced, being woven in with fragments of the fugue to a strong climax. The whole composition finishes with an impetuous accelerando. My central idea was to make a choral and orchestral work, the solo, while requiring a good singer, being only secondary. The Psalm seemed to me particularly adapted for musical composition, as being capable of a varied, even dramatic effect." GLEASON. Frederick Grant Gleason was born at Middletown, Conn., Dec. 17, 1848. He inherited the love of music from his parents,--his father having been a flutist and his mother an alto singer and pianist. In his sixteenth year he showed a decided talent for composition; and two of his works, an oratorio, "The Captivity," and a Christmas oratorio, though crudely written, gave such promise that he was placed under the tuition of Dudley Buck, with whom he studied the piano and composition. He made such rapid progress that his parents were induced to send him to Germany, where he at once entered the Leipsic Conservatory. Moscheles taught him the piano, and Richter harmony, and he also took private lessons from Plaidy and Lobe. In 1870 he went to Berlin, where he continued his piano studies with Raif, a pupil of Tausig, and his tuition in harmony with Weitzmann. After a visit home he went to England and resumed lessons on the piano with Berringer, another pupil of Tausig, and also studied English music. He subsequently made a second visit to Berlin, and improved his time by studying theory with Weitzmann, the piano with Loeschorn, and the organ with Haupt. During this visit he also issued a valuable work entitled "Gleason's Motet Collection." After the completion of his studies he returned home and accepted the position of organist at one of the Hartford churches. In 1876 he removed to Chicago and engaged as teacher in the Hershey School of Musical Art. At present he is still occupied in teaching and also fills the position of musical critic for the "Tribune" of that city. During these years his pen has been very busy, as the list of his compositions shows. Among his principal works are two operas, still in manuscript,--"Otho Visconti" and "Montezuma;" the cantatas "God our Deliverer," "The Culprit Fay," and "Praise of Harmony;" and several trios, sonatas, and other works for the chamber, as well as many songs. The selections from his operas which have been played by the Thomas orchestra show that they are compositions of unusual excellence and scholarship. The Culprit Fay. "The Culprit Fay," a musical setting of Joseph Rodman Drake's well-known fairy poem, was written in 1879. It is divided into three parts,--the first containing five, the second five, and the third eight numbers; the solos being divided among soprano, alto, tenor, and barytone, the last named taking the part of the Fairy King. The exquisitely graceful fairy story told in the poem is too well known to need description. It is admirably adapted to music by its rhythmic fluency as well as by the delicacy of its poetical sentiment; and while it does not call for earnestness or strength in any of its movements, there is ample opportunity for melodious and attractive pictures in tone of the dainty descriptions of the poet. The composer has improved these opportunities with much skill, and, notwithstanding the intrinsic lightness of the score, has secured musical unity and poetical coherence by the artistic use of the _leit-motif_. Nine of these motives are employed, characterizing the summer night, the elfin mystery, the life of the fairies, the fay's love for the mortal maid, the penalty for this violation of fairy law, night on the river, the spells of the water imps, the penalties imposed upon the culprit, and the Sylphide Queen's passion for the Fay. The skilfulness with which these motives are adapted to characters and situations, and interwoven with the general movement in their proper recurrence, shows that the composer has not studied Wagner, the master of the _leit-motif_, in vain. After a short introduction for the horns and strings, the cantata opens with a full chorus of graceful, flowing character ("'Tis the Middle Watch of a Summer's Night") describing the moonlight scene about "Old Cro' Nest." It is followed by the mystery motive announcing a weird alto solo, "'Tis the Hour of Fairy Ban and Spell." It is the summons of the sentry elf, ringing the hour of twelve, indicated in the score by the triangle, and calling the fairies to confront the culprit. A stirring and blithe instrumental introduction, followed by a short chorus ("They come from Beds of Lichen green"), describes the gathering of the fays, retarded at the close, and growing sombre as it is announced that "an ouphe has broken his vestal vow." A tenor solo ("He has loved an earthly Maid") tells the sad story of the guilty one who "has lain upon her lip of dew" and "nestled on her snowy breast." They gather about to hear his doom, and do not have to wait long; for the tenor song leads without break to a barytone solo, in recitative form, by the Fairy King ("Fairy, Fairy, list and mark"), pronouncing the penalties he must pay for his transgression,--the catching of a drop from the sturgeon's silver bow to wash away the stain on his wings, and the relighting of his flamewood lamp by the last faint spark in the train of a shooting star. A graceful chorus ("Soft and pale is the moony Beam") opens the second part, picturing the scene upon the strand bordering the elfin land; and the leaps of the sturgeon, followed by a tenor solo and recitative describing the sorrow of the lonely sprite and his desperate effort to push his mussel-shell boat down to the verge of the haunted land. The alto, which does all the mystery work, goes on with the description of the vain attempt of the river imps to wreck his frail craft, and his discovery and pursuit of the sturgeon; then there is a pause. The full chorus, in a quick movement, pictures the pretty scene of the sturgeon's leap, the arch of silver sheen, and the puny goblin waiting to catch the drop. The tenor recitative announces his success, and a full jubilant chorus of the sprites ("Joy to thee, Fay! thy Task is done") bids him hasten back to the elfin shore. The third part opens with a full chorus, very animated in its progression ("Up to the Cope, careering swift"), describing the ride of the Fay past the sphered moon and up to the bank of the Milky Way, where he checks his courser to wait for the shooting star. In the next number, a short recitative, the alto has a more grateful task; this time it is the graceful sylphs of heaven who appear, weaving their dance about the Fay, and leading him on to the palace of the Sylphide Queen. It is followed by two charming soprano solos,--the one descriptive of her beauty as she listens to the story of the Fay, and the other ("O Sweet Spirit of Earth") of her sudden passion and the tempting inducements by which she seeks to make him forget the joys of fairy-land. Once more the tenor, who plays the part of narrator, enters, and in solo and recitative assures us how like a brave homunculus the Fay resisted her blandishments. A very vigorous and descriptive chorus, as fast as can be sung, pictures the Fay careering along on the wings of the blast up to the northern plain, where at length a star "bursts in flash and flame." The tenor announces his second success, and the final chorus ("Ouphe and Goblin! Imp and Sprite") sings his welcome back in an animated manner, beginning with a moderate movement which constantly accelerates and works up to a fine climax; after which-- "The hill-tops glow in morning's spring, The skylark shakes his dappled wing, The day glimpse glimmers on the lawn, The cock has crowed and the fays are gone." The Praise Song to Harmony. "The Praise Song to Harmony," written in 1886, is a musical setting of a poem of the same name by David Ebeling, a German poet who lived in the latter part of the eighteenth century. The composition is in a strict sense a symphonic cantata, somewhat in the manner of Mendelssohn's "Hymn of Praise," being prefaced with a symphonic allegro in the classical form which is written in a very scholarly manner and displays great skill in thematic treatment. The cantata proper opens with a short introduction, consisting of massive chord foundations for the full orchestra, connected by a figure for the strings, ushering in a chorus for male voices ("Hail thee, O Harmony, offspring of Heaven"). The words contain a description of the creation of worlds and of music, as the song of stars unites with the angel chorus in praise of the Almighty. At the close of this number begins a choral theme for trumpets, horns, and trombones, followed by strings and woodwinds, and introducing a soprano recitative ("With Grace, thy Gaze, O Harmony") descriptive of the blessing brought into the world by music, followed by a picture of the misery of the race without its consolation. At the close the brasses give out a solemn march-like theme. A short chorus ("Joy to us! Again descending, thou Heavenly One") describes the might of song. A brief orchestral interlude follows, preparing the entrance of a barytone solo with chorus ("Blessed Comforter in Grief"). The work closes with a partial repetition of the opening chorus, with a more elaborate and brilliant figural accompaniment, in the course of which the march-like subject is heard again in the brasses. At the end the strings maintain a tremolo while the rest of the orchestra presents a passage with varied harmonies. The opening theme of the cantata, though not a repetition, bears a strong analogy to the introduction of the symphony movement. HANDEL. George Frederick Handel was born at Halle, in Lower Saxony, Feb. 23, 1685, and like many another composer revealed his musical promise at a very early age, only to encounter parental opposition. His father intended him to be a lawyer; but Nature had her way, and in spite of domestic antagonism triumphed. The Duke of Saxe-Weissenfels recognized his ability and overcame the father's determination. Handel began his studies with Zachau, organist of the Halle cathedral. After the death of his father, in 1697, he went to Hamburg, and for a time played in the orchestra of the German opera. It was during his residence in that city that he wrote his first opera, "Almira" (1705). In the following year he went to Italy, where he remained several months under the patronage of the Grand Duke of Florence. During the next two years he visited Venice, Rome, and Naples, and wrote several operas and minor oratorios. In 1709 he returned to Germany, and the Elector of Hanover, subsequently George I. of England, offered him the position of capellmeister, which he accepted upon the condition that he might visit England, having received many invitations from that country. The next year he arrived in London and brought out his opera of "Rinaldo," which proved a great success. At the end of six months he was obliged to return to his position in Hanover; but the English success made him impatient of the dulness of the court. In 1712 he was in London again, little dreaming that the Elector would soon follow him as king. Incensed with him for leaving Hanover, the King at first refused to receive him; but some music which Handel composed for an aquatic fête in his honor brought about the royal reconciliation. In 1718 he accepted the position of chapel-master to the Duke of Chandos, for whom he wrote the famous Chandos Te Deum and Anthems, the serenata "Acis and Galatea," and "Esther," his first English oratorio. In 1720 he was engaged as director of Italian opera by the society of noblemen known as the Royal Academy of Music, and from that time until 1740 his career was entirely of an operatic character. Opera after opera came from his pen. Some were successful, others failed. At first composer, then director, he finally became _impresario_, only to find himself confronted with bitter rivalry, especially at the hands of Bononcini and Porpora. Cabals were instituted against him. Unable to contend with them alone, he formed a partnership with Heidegger, proprietor of the King's Theatre, in 1729. It was broken in 1734, and he took the management of Covent Garden. The Italian conspiracies against him broke out afresh. He failed in his undertaking and became a bankrupt. Slanders of all sorts were circulated, and his works were no longer well received. In the midst of his adversity sickness overtook him, ending with a partial stroke of paralysis. When sufficiently recovered he went to the Continent, where he remained for a few months. On his return to London he brought out some new works, but they were not favorably received. A few friends who had remained faithful to him persuaded him to give a benefit concert, which was a great success. It inspired him with fresh courage; but he did not again return to the operatic world. Thenceforward he devoted himself to oratorio, in which he made his name famous for all time. He himself said: "Sacred music is best suited to a man descending in the vale of years." "Saul" and the colossal "Israel in Egypt," written in 1740, head the list of his wonderful oratorios. In 1741 he was invited to visit Ireland. He went there in November, and many of his works were produced during the winter and received with great enthusiasm. In April, 1742, his immortal "Messiah" was brought out at Dublin. It was followed by "Samson," "Joseph," "Semele," "Belshazzar," and "Hercules," which were also successful; but even in the midst of his oratorio work his rivals did not cease their conspiracies against him, and in 1744 he was once more a bankrupt. For over a year his pen was idle. In 1746 the "Occasional Oratorio" and "Judas Maccabæus" appeared, and these were speedily followed by "Joshua," "Solomon," "Susanna," "Theodora," and "Jephthah." It was during the composition of the last-named work that he was attacked with the illness which finally proved fatal. He died April 14, 1759, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. During the last few days of his life he was heard to express the wish that "he might breathe his last on Good Friday, in hopes of meeting his good God, his sweet Lord and Saviour, on the day of His resurrection." The wish was granted him; for it was on Good Friday that he passed away, leaving behind him a name and fame that will be cherished so long as music retains its power over the human heart. Acis and Galatea. The first idea of Handel's famous pastoral, "Acis and Galatea," is to be found in a serenata, "Aci, Galatea, e Polifemo," which he produced at Naples in July, 1708. The plan of the work resembles that of the later pastoral, though its musical setting is entirely different.[21] Little was known of it however until nearly a quarter of a century afterwards, when the composer revived portions of it in one of his London concerts, as will shortly be seen. In 1718 Handel entered the service of James, Duke of Chandos, as chapel-master, succeeding Dr. Pepusch. His patron had accumulated an immense fortune and spent it in a princely manner. He had built a marble palace, at an enormous expense, at Cannons in Middlesex, where he lived in almost regal state. It was the chapel attached to this mansion over which Handel was called to preside, and there were ready for his use a large choir, a band of instrumental performers, and a fine organ. The anthems and services of his predecessor were laid aside, and that year Handel's busy pen supplied two new settings of the Te Deum and the twelve Chandos Anthems, which are really cantatas in form. His first English opera, "Esther," was also composed at Cannons, and was followed by the beautiful pastoral which forms the subject of this sketch. "Esther" was first performed Aug. 20, 1720, and it is generally agreed that "Acis and Galatea" followed it in the same year, though Schoelcher in his biography assigns 1721 as the date. Nine characters are contained in the original manuscript,--Galatea, Clori, and Eurilla, sopranos; Acis, Filli, Dorinda, and Damon, altos; Silvio, tenor; and Polifemo, bass. After this private performance the pastoral was not again heard from until 1731-32, when it was given under peculiar circumstances. On the 13th of March, 1731, it was performed for the benefit of one Rochetti, who took the rôle of Acis; but with this representation Handel had nothing to do. The act of piracy was repeated in the following year, when Mr. Arne, father of Dr. Arne the composer, and the lessee of the Little Theatre in the Haymarket, announced its performance as follows:-- "At the new theatre in the Haymarket, on Thursday next, 11th May, will be performed in English a pastoral opera called 'Acis and Galatea,' with all the choruses, scenes, machines, and other decorations, etc. (as before), being the first time it was ever performed in a theatrical way. The part of Acis by Mr. Mourtier, being the first time of his appearance in character on any stage; Galatea, Miss Arne.[22] Pit and boxes, 5_s._" Handel had taken no notice of the 1731 performance; but this representation, given at a theatre directly opposite the one of which he was manager, roused his resentment, though piracy of this kind was very common in those days. He determined to outdo the manager "over the way." On the 5th of June he announced in the "Daily Journal":-- "In the King's Theatre in the Haymarket, the present Saturday, being the 10th of June, will be performed a serenata called 'Acis and Galatea,' formerly composed by Mr. Handel, and now revised by him, with several additions, and to be performed by a great number of the best voices and instruments. There will be no action on the stage,[23] but the scene will represent in a picturesque manner a rural prospect, with rocks, groves, fountains, and grottos, among which will be disposed a chorus of nymphs and shepherds; the habits, and every other decoration, suited to the subject. Also on the 13th, 17th, 20th. The libretto printed for J. Watts, in three acts." The rival establishment had produced the work as it was originally given at Cannons; but as intimated in his advertisement, Handel made additions, interpolating a number of airs and choruses from the serenata which he had composed at Naples, thus requiring the work to be sung both in Italian and English,--a polyglot practice from which our own times are not exempt. The part of Acis was sung by Senesino, a male soprano; Galatea by Signora Strada; and Polyphemus by Montagnana. The other parts--Clori and Eurilla sopranos, Filli and Dorinda contraltos, and Silvio tenor--were also represented. It was performed eight times in 1732, and was brought out in the same form at Oxford in 1733; but in 1739 Handel restored it to its original shape as it had been given at Cannons. It is now generally performed in two parts with the three characters Galatea, Acis, and Polyphemus, and choruses of nymphs and shepherds. The pretty pastoral will always possess more than ordinary interest, as four celebrated poets are represented in the construction of the poem. Gay wrote the most of it. It also contains a strophe by Hughes, a verse by Pope,[24] and an extract from Dryden's translation of the Galatea myth in the Metamorphoses of Ovid.[25] The story is based on the seventh fable in the thirteenth book of the Metamorphoses,--the sad story which Galatea, daughter of Nereus, tells to Scylla. The nymph was passionately in love with the shepherd Acis, son of Faunus and of the nymph Symoethis, and pursued him incessantly. She too was pursued by Polyphemus, the one-eyed Cyclops of Ætna, contemner of the gods. One day, reclining upon the breast of Acis, concealed behind a rock, she hears the giant pouring out to the woods and mountains his story of love and despair: "I, who despise Jove and the heavens and the piercing lightnings, dread thee, daughter of Nereus; than the lightnings is thy wrath more dreadful to me. But I should be more patient under these slights if thou didst avoid all men. For why, rejecting the Cyclop, dost thou love Acis? And why prefer Acis to my embraces?" As he utters these last complaints, he espies the lovers. Then, raging and roaring so that the mountains shook and the sea trembled, he hurled a huge rock at Acis and crushed him. The shepherd's blood gushing forth from beneath the rock was changed into a river; and Galatea, who had fled to the sea, was consoled. The overture to the work, consisting of one movement, is thoroughly pastoral in its style and marked by all that grace and delicacy which characterize the composer's treatment of movements of this kind. It introduces a chorus ("O the Pleasures of the Plains!") in which the easy, careless life of the shepherds and their swains is pictured. Galatea enters seeking her lover, and after the recitative, "Ye verdant Plains and woody Mountains," relieves her heart with an outburst of melodious beauty:-- "Hush, ye pretty warbling choir! Your thrilling strains Awake my pains And kindle fierce desire. Cease your song and take your flight; Bring back my Acis to my sight." Acis answers her, after a short recitative, with another aria equally graceful ("Love in her Eyes sits playing and sheds delicious Death"). The melodious and sensuous dialogue is continued by Galatea, who once more sings:-- "As when the dove Laments her love All on the naked spray; When he returns No more she mourns, But loves the live-long day. Billing, cooing, Panting, wooing, Melting murmurs fill the grove, Melting murmurs, lasting love."-- Then in a duet, sparkling with the happiness of the lovers ("Happy We"), closing with chorus to the same words, this pretty picture of ancient pastoral life among the nymphs and shepherds comes to an end. In the second part there is another tone both to scene and music. The opening chorus of alarm ("Wretched Lovers") portends the coming of the love-sick Cyclops; the mountains bow, the forests shake, the waves run frightened to the shore as he approaches roaring and calling for "a hundred reeds of decent growth," that on "such pipe" his capacious mouth may play the praises of Galatea. The recitative, "I melt, I rage, I burn," is very characteristic, and leads to the giant's love-song, an unctuous, catching melody almost too full of humor and grace for the fierce brute of Ætna:-- "O ruddier than the cherry! O sweeter than the berry! O nymph more bright Than moonshine night, Like kidlings, blithe and merry. "Ripe as the melting cluster, No lily has such lustre. Yet hard to tame As raging flame, And fierce as storms that bluster." In marked contrast with this declaration follows the plaintive tender song of Acis ("Love sounds the Alarm"). Galatea appeals to him to trust the gods, and then the three join in a trio ("The Flocks shall leave the Mountain"). Enraged at his discomfiture, the giant puts forth his power. He is no longer the lover piping to Galatea and dissembling his real nature, but a destructive raging force; and the fragment of mountain which he tears away buries poor Acis as effectually as Ætna sometimes does the plains beneath. The catastrophe accomplished, the work closes with the sad lament of Galatea for her lover ("Must I my Acis still bemoan?") and the choral consolations of the shepherds and their swains:-- "Galatea, dry thy tears, Acis now a god appears; See how he rears him from his bed! See the wreath that binds his head! Hail! thou gentle murmuring stream; Shepherds' pleasure, Muses' theme; Through the plains still joy to rove, Murmuring still thy gentle love." [21] The superior attractions of the English serenata will probably prevent the earlier work from ever becoming a popular favorite; more especially since the rôle of Polifemo needs a bass singer with a voice of the extraordinary compass of two octaves and a half.--_Rockstro's Life of Handel_. [22] Miss Arne, afterwards Mrs. Cibber, enjoyed, under the latter name, a great reputation as a singer. Her husband was Theophilus Cibber, the brother of Colley Cibber, a poet laureate in the reign of George II.--_Schoelcher's Life of Handel_. [23] This undoubtedly is the manner in which this charming little piece ought to be performed. It is a dramatic poem, but not an acting play, and the incidents are such as cannot be represented on the stage. A few years ago another attempt was made to perform it as an opera, but without success. Polyphemus is entirely an ideal character, and any attempt to personate him must be ridiculous; and the concluding scene, in which the giant throws a huge rock at the head of his rival, produced shouts of merriment. "Acis and Galatea" is performed in an orchestra in the manner in which oratorios are performed; but its effect would certainly be heightened by the picturesque scenery and decorations employed by Handel himself.--_Hogarth's Musical Drama_. [24] "Not showers to larks so pleasing, Not sunshine to the bee, Not sleep to toil so easing, As these dear smiles to me." [25] "Help! Galatea! Help, ye parent gods! And take me dying to your deep abodes." Alexander's Feast. Handel composed the music for Dryden's immortal ode in 1736. In the original score the close of the first part is dated January 5, and the end of the work January 17, showing rapid composition. Three years before this time he had had a violent quarrel with Senesino, his principal singer at the opera-house in the Haymarket, which led to his abandonment of the theatre and its occupancy by his rival, Porpora. After an unsuccessful attempt to compete with the latter, which nearly bankrupted him in health and purse, he decided to quit opera altogether. He sought relief for his physical ailments at Aix-la-Chapelle, and upon his return to London in October, 1735, publicly announced that "Mr. Handel will perform Oratorios and have Concerts of Musick this Winter at Covent Garden Theatre." One of the first works for these concerts was "Alexander's Feast," completed, as stated above, Jan. 17, 1736. The poem was prepared by Newburgh Hamilton, who says in his preface:-- "I determined not to take any unwarrantable liberty with the poem, which has long done honor to the nation, and which no man can add to or abridge in anything material without injuring it. I therefore confined myself to a plain division of it into airs, recitatives or choruses, looking upon the words in general so sacred as scarcely to violate one in the order of its first place. How I have succeeded the world is to judge, and whether I have preserved that beautiful description of the passions, so exquisitely drawn, at the same time I strove to reduce them to the present taste in sounds. I confess my principal view was, not to lose this favorable opportunity of its being set to music by that great master who has with pleasure undertaken the task, and who only is capable of doing it justice; whose compositions have long shown that they can conquer even the most obstinate partiality, and inspire life into the most senseless words. If this entertainment can in the least degree give satisfaction to the real judges of poetry or music, I shall think myself happy in having promoted it; being persuaded that it is next to an improbability to offer the world anything in those arts more perfect than the united labors and utmost efforts of a Dryden and a Handel." In addition to the preface Hamilton appended a poem "To Mr. Handel on his setting to Musick Mr. Dryden's Feast of Alexander," in which he enthusiastically sings:-- "Two glowing sparks of that celestial flame Which warms by mystick art this earthly frame, United in one blaze of genial heat, Produced this piece in sense and sounds complete. The Sister Arts, as breathing from one soul, With equal spirit animate the whole. Had Dryden lived the welcome day to bless, Which clothed his numbers in so fit a dress, When his majestick poetry was crowned With all your bright magnificence of sound, How would his wonder and his transport rise, Whilst famed Timotheus yields to you the prize!" The work was first performed at Covent Garden Theatre, February 19, about a month after it was written; the principal singers being Signora Strada, Miss Young,[26] John Beard, and Mr. Erard. It met with remarkable success. The London "Daily Post," on the morning after its production, said:-- "Never was upon the like Occasion so numerous and splendid an Audience at any Theatre in London, there being at least 1,300 Persons present; and it is judged that the Receipt of the House could not amount to less than £450." It was repeated four times, and then withdrawn to make room for "Acis and Galatea" and the oratorio of "Esther." In March, 1737, it was revived, with two additional choruses made by Hamilton for the work; and upon the same occasion an Italian cantata in praise of Saint Cecilia was sung. It is unnecessary to inform the reader of the nature of a poem familiar the world over. The overture is written for strings and two oboes. Throughout the work the orchestration is thin, bassoons and horns being the only instruments added to those named above; but in 1790 Mozart amplified the accompaniments,--an improvement which he also made for the score of "Acis and Galatea." The great solos of the composition are the furious aria, "'Revenge, Revenge!' Timotheus cries," and the descriptive recitative, "Give the Vengeance due to the valiant Crew," in which Handel employs his imitative powers with consummate effect. Clouet, in his "Chants Classiques," says of the passage "And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy:-- "He paints Alexander issuing forth in the midst of an orgie, arming himself with a torch, and followed by his generals, running to set fire to Persepolis. While the accompaniment sparkles with the confused and unequal glare of the torches, the song expresses truthfully the precipitation and the tumult of the crowd, the rolling of the flames, and the living splendor of a conflagration." The choruses of the work are equally strong, and some of them are among the best Handel ever wrote, particularly, "He sang Darius great and good," "Break his Bands of Sleep asunder," "Let old Timotheus yield the Prize," and "The many rend the Skies with loud Applause." They are as genuine inspirations as the best choruses of the "Messiah" or of "Israel in Egypt." In 1739 Handel also set to music Dryden's shorter "Ode for St. Cecilia's Day," beginning, "From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began," the music for which had been originally composed in 1687 by Giovanni Baptista Draghi, an Italian, who was music-master to Queen Anne and Queen Mary, and at that time was organist to Catharine of Braganza, widow of Charles II. Handel's setting was first performed on the anniversary of the saint's festival, Nov. 22, 1739. The programme announced: "Lincoln's Inn Fields. At the Theatre Royal in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Thursday next, November 22 (being St. Cecilia's Day), will be performed an Ode of Mr. Dryden's, with two new Concertos for several instruments, which will be preceded by Alexander's Feast and a Concerto on the organ." Though one of the shortest of his vocal works, it contains some magnificent choruses. [26] Cecilia, a pupil of Geminiani, and afterwards wife of Dr. Arne. L'Allegro. "L'Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato," the first two movements of which contain a musical setting of Milton's well-known poem, was written in the seventeen days from Jan. 19 to Feb. 6, 1740, and was first performed on the 27th of the latter month at the Royal Theatre, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London. Upon this occasion the first and second parts were preceded, according to the handbook, by "a new concerto for several instruments," and the third by "a new concerto on the organ," which was played by the composer himself. It was performed again Jan. 31, 1741, with the addition of ten new numbers to the music, which in the original manuscript appear at the end, marked by Handel, "l'Additione." At a still later period Handel omitted the third part ("Moderato") entirely, and substituted for it Dryden's "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day," which he composed in 1739. The text of the first two parts is by Milton, Allegro, as is well known, chanting the praises of pleasure, Penseroso those of melancholy; Allegro represented by tenor and Penseroso by soprano, and each supported by a chorus which joins in the discussion of the two moods. There is a radical difference between the poem as Milton wrote it and as it appears set to Handel's music. Milton presented two distinct poems, though allied by antithesis, and Penseroso does not speak until Allegro has finished. In the poem as adapted for music they alternate in sixteen strophes and antistrophes. The adaptation of these two parts was made by Charles Jennens, who was a frequent collaborator with Handel.[27] He also suggested the addition of a third part, the Moderato, and wrote the words, in which he counsels both Allegro and Penseroso to take the middle course of moderation as the safest. The wisdom of the poet in suggesting the _via media_ is more to be commended than his boldness in supplementing Milton's stately verse with commonplaces, however wise they may have been. Chrysander, the German biographer of Handel presents a philosophical view of the case. He says: "In the two pictures a deeply thoughtful mind has fixed for itself two far-reaching goals. With these the poem has reached its perfect end, and in the sense of its inventor there is nothing further to be added. The only possible, the only natural outlet was that into a _life of action_, according to the direction which the spirit now should take; already it was the first step into this new domain which called forth the divided feeling. The two moods do not run together into any third mood as their point of union, but into active real life, as different characters, forever separate. Therefore 'Moderation' could not bring about the reconciliation; only life could do it; not contemplation, but deeds. Gladness and Melancholy are symptoms of a vigorous soul; moderation would be mediocrity. And herein lies the unpoetic nature of the addition by Jennens; read according to Milton, the concluding moral of a rich English land-owner whose inherited abundance points to nothing but a golden mean, and whose only real problem is to keep the balance in the lazy course of an inactive life, makes a disheartening impression." The work as a whole is one of Handel's finest inspirations. The Allegro is bright and spirited throughout; the Penseroso grave and tender; and the Moderato quiet and respectable, as might be expected of a person who never experiences the enthusiasms of joy or the comforts of melancholy. The most of the composition is assigned to solo voices which carry on the discussion, though in the Moderato it is mainly the chorus which urges the sedate compromise between the two. The work opens without overture, its place having originally been supplied by an orchestral concerto. In vigorous and very dramatic recitative Allegro bids "loathed Melancholy" hence, followed by Penseroso, who in a few bars of recitative far less vigorously consigns "vain, deluding joys" to "some idle brain;" Allegro replies with the first aria ("Come, come, thou Goddess fair"), a beautifully free and flowing melody, responded to by Penseroso, who in an aria of stately rhythm appeals to his goddess, "Divinest Melancholy." Now Allegro summons his retinue of mirth:-- "Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathèd smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek, Sport, that wrinkled care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides;" and the chorus takes up the jovial refrain in the same temper. The aria itself is well known as the laughing song. Indeed, both aria and chorus are full of unrestrained mirth, and go laughingly along in genuine musical giggles.[28] The effect is still further enhanced by the next aria for Allegro ("Come and trip it as you go"), a graceful minuet, which is also taken by the chorus. After a recitative by Penseroso ("Come, pensive Nun"), and the aria, "Come, but keep thy wonted State" the first Penseroso chorus occurs ("Join with thee calm Peace and Quiet"), a short but beautiful passage of tranquil harmony. Once more in recitative Allegro bids "loathed Melancholy" hence, and then in the aria, "Mirth, admit me of thy Crew," leading into a chorus, sings of the lark, "startling dull Night" and bidding good-morrow at his window,--a brilliant number accompanied with an imitation of the lark's song. Penseroso replies with an equally brilliant song ("Sweet Bird, that shuns't the Noise of Folly"), in which the nightingale plays the part of accompaniment. Another aria by Allegro ("Mirth, admit me of thy Crew") gives an opportunity for a blithe and jocund hunting-song for the bass, followed by one of the most beautiful numbers in the work ("Oft on a Plat of rising Ground") sung by Penseroso, in which the ringing of the far-off curfew, "swinging slow, with sullen roar," is introduced with telling effect. This is followed by a quiet meditative aria ("Far from all Resorts of Mirth"), when once again Allegro takes up the strain in the two arias, "Let me wander not unseen," and "Straight mine Eye hath caught new Pleasures." The first part closes with the Allegro aria and chorus ("Or let the merry Bells ring round"), full of the very spirit of joy and youth; and ending with an exquisite harmonic effect as the gay crowd creep to bed, "by whispering winds soon lulled to sleep." The second part begins with a stately recitative and aria by Penseroso ("Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy"), followed by one of the most characteristic arias in the work ("But O, sad Virgin, that thy Power might raise!") in which the passage, "Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as warbled to the string Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek," is accompanied by long persistent trills that admirably suit the words. The next number ("Populous Cities please me then") is a very descriptive solo for Allegro, with chorus which begins in canon form for the voices and then turns to a lively movement as it pictures the knights celebrating their triumphs and the "store of ladies" awarding prizes to their gallants. Again Allegro in a graceful aria sings, "There let Hymen oft appear." It is followed by a charming canzonet ("Hide me from Day's garish Eye") for Penseroso, which leads to an aria for Allegro ("I'll to the well-trod Stage anon"), opening in genuinely theatrical style, and then changing to a delightfully melodious warble at the words,-- "Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild." This is followed by three characteristic arias, "And ever, against eating Cares," "Orpheus himself may heave his Head," and "These Delights, if thou canst give,"--the last with chorus. Penseroso has a short chorus in plain but stately harmony ("There let the pealing Organ blow"), with pauses for the organ _ad libitum_, followed by the aria, "May at last my weary Age," and the majestic devotional fugued chorus, "These Pleasures, Melancholy, give!" which close the second part. The third part, "Il Moderato," is rarely given, and the work may well close with the fugue that so beautifully and harmoniously ends the second part. It opens with an aria in which Moderato tenders the sage advice:-- "Come, with native lustre shine, Moderation, grace divine, Whom the wise God of nature gave, Mad mortals from themselves to save. Keep as of old the middle way, Nor deeply sad nor idly gay; But still the same in look and gait, Easy, cheerful, and sedate, Keep as of old the middle way." With such didactic commonplaces as the above, Moderato commends temperance, health, contentment, frugality, equanimity, and chaste love, and bids them,-- "Come, with gentle hand restrain Those who fondly court their bane; One extreme with caution shunning, To another blindly running. Kindly teach how blest are they Who nature's equal rules obey, Who safely steer two rocks between, And prudent keep the golden mean." Thus Mr. Jennens's mild philosophy goes on, one of his verses, "As steals the Morn upon the Night," set to a brilliant tenor and soprano duet, followed by the closing chorus, "Thy Pleasures, Moderation, give," in full, broad, rich harmony. There needs no other proof of Handel's genius, than that he could link such Tupperisms to his grand measures. [27] Jennens was an amateur poet of the period, descended from a manufacturing family of Birmingham, from whom he inherited a large fortune. He lived on terms of close intimacy with Handel, and was mentioned in his will. He died Nov. 20, 1773. [28] I was lucky enough to meet with the approbation of Mr. Bates in the recitative of "Deeper and deeper still;" my next song was the laughing one. Mr. Harrison, my predecessor at those concerts, was a charming singer: his singing "Oft on a plat of rising ground," his "Lord, remember David," and "O come let us worship and fall down," breathed pure religion. No divine from the pulpit, though gifted with the greatest eloquence, could have inspired his auditors with a more perfect sense of duty to their Maker than Harrison did by his melodious tones and chaste style; indeed, it was faultless: but in the animated songs of Handel he was very deficient. I heard him sing the laughing song without moving a muscle, and determined, though it was a great risk, to sing it my own way, and the effect produced justified the experiment; instead of singing it with the serious tameness of Harrison, I laughed all through it, as I conceived it ought to be sung, and as must have been the intention of the composer. The infection ran; and their Majesties, and the whole audience, as well as the orchestra, were in a roar of laughter, and a signal was given from the royal box to repeat it, and I sang it again with increased effect.--_Michael Kelly's Reminiscences_, 1789. HATTON. John Liphot Hatton, a composer well known in America, not only by his songs and other works, but also by his visits here, was born in Liverpool in 1809. Though his early musical education was very scanty, he soon became known as a composer after his removal to London in 1832, and his works met with a very cordial reception. In 1842 he became conductor at Drury Lane Theatre, and while acting in that capacity brought out one of his operettas, called "The Queen of the Thames." In 1844 he went to Vienna and produced his opera "Pascal Bruno." Shortly afterwards he issued several songs under the _nom de plume_ of "Czapek," which secured for themselves widespread popularity. In 1848 he came to this country, and some years later made a concert-tour here. Upon his return to England he assumed direction of the music at the Princess' Theatre, and while engaged there wrote incidental music for "Macbeth," "Sardanapalus," "Faust and Marguerite," "King Henry VIII.," "Pizarro," "King Richard II.," "King Lear," "The Merchant of Venice," and "Much Ado About Nothing." In 1856 he wrote "Robin Hood," a cantata; in 1864 the opera "Rose, or Love's Ransom," for Covent Garden; and in 1877 "Hezekiah," a sacred drama, which was performed at the Crystal Palace. He has also written a large number of part songs, which are great favorites with quartet clubs, and nearly two hundred songs which are very popular; among them, "Good-by, Sweetheart, good-by," which has been a stock piece with concert tenors for years, and which the late Signor Brignoli used to sing with excellent effect. His music is specially characterized by grace and melodiousness. Hatton died in 1886. Robin Hood. The pastoral cantata of "Robin Hood" was written for the Bradford (England) Triennial Festival of 1856, Sims Reeves creating the part of the hero. Its name suggests the well-known story of the greenwood outlaw which has been charmingly versified by George Linley in the libretto. The personages are Maid Marian, Robin Hood, Little John, and "The Bishop." Maid Marian, it will be remembered, was the mistress who followed Robin into the Sherwood Forest and shared his wild life; and Little John was his stalwart lieutenant, whose name was transposed after he joined the band, thus heightening the incongruity between his name and his great size. The incident contained in Linley's poem appears to have been suggested by Robin Hood's penchant for capturing bishops and other ecclesiastics, notwithstanding his religious professions, which were exemplified by the retention of Friar Tuck as chaplain in the bold archer's household; or it may be based upon the historical story of the expedition which Edward II. and some of his retainers, disguised as monks, made into the forest for the purpose of exterminating the outlaws and thus stopping their slaughter of the royal deer. As the old story goes, they were led into an ambuscade by a forester who had agreed to conduct them to the haunts of Robin, and were captured. When Robin recognized the King in the disguise of the abbot, he craved forgiveness for himself and his band, which was granted upon condition that he should accompany his sovereign to Court and take a place in the royal household. The old collection of ballads, "The Lytell Geste of Robyn Hood," tells the same story and continues it, relating how after "dwelling in the Kynge's courte" a year, he tired of it and obtained permission to make a visit to the woods again, but forfeited his word and never returned, dying at last in Kirklees priory, through the treachery of the abbess, and how in his last moments he blew a loud blast on his horn, summoning Little John from the forest, to whom, after he had forced his way into his chamber, the dying Robin said: "Give me my bent bow in my hand, And an arrow I'll let free, And where that arrow is taken up, There let my grave digged be." The cantata opens with a chorus of the outlaws, who vigorously assert their independence of tribute, laws, and monarchs, followed by a bombastic bass aria by the Bishop, who threatens them for destroying the King's deer. His grandiloquence is speedily interrupted by the outlaws, with Robin at their head, who surround him without further ado and make him the butt of their sport. Robin Hood sings a charmingly melodious ballad, "Under the Greenwood Tree," in which the Bishop is invited to become one of their number and share their sylvan enjoyments. A trio and chorus follow, in the course of which the Bishop parts with his personal possessions in favor of the gentlemen around him in Lincoln green with "bent bows." A chorus ("Strike the Harp") also informs us that the ecclesiastic is forced to dance for the genial band much against his will as well as his dignity. Robin's sentimentalizing about the pleasures under the greenwood tree is still further emphasized by a madrigal for female voices, supposed to be sung by the forest maidens, though their identity is not very clear, as Marian was the only maid that accompanied the band. After the plundering scene, the cantata grows more passionate in character, describing a pretty and tender love-scene between Robin and Marian, which is somewhat incongruous, whether Marian be considered as the outlaw's mistress, or, as some of the old chroniclers have it, his wife Matilda, who changed her name when she followed him into the forest. From the musical standpoint, however, it affords an opportunity for another graceful ballad of sentiment, in which Marian describes her heart as "a frail bark upon the waters of love;" a duet in which the lovers passionately declare their love for each other as well as their delight with the forest; and a final chorus of the band, jubilantly proclaiming their hatred of kings and courtiers, and their loyalty to Robin Hood and Maid Marian. It may be worthy of note in this connection that Bishop, the English composer, wrote a legendary opera called "Maid Marian, or the Huntress of Arlingford," in which the heroine is Matilda. HAYDN. Joseph Haydn, the creator of the symphony and the string quartet, was born at Rohrau, a little Austrian village on the river Leitha, March 31, 1732. His father was a wheelwright and his mother a cook, in service with Count Harrach. Both the parents were fond of music, and both sang, the father accompanying himself upon the harp, which he played by ear. The child displayed a voice so beautiful that in his sixth year he was allowed to study music, and was also given a place in the village church-choir. Reutter, the capellmeister of St. Stephen's, Vienna, having heard him, was so impressed with the beauty of his voice that he offered him a position as chorister. Haydn eagerly accepted it, as it gave him an opportunity for study. While in the service of St. Stephen's he had lessons on the violin and piano, as well as in composition. When his voice broke, and his singing was of no further value, he was thrown upon the tender mercies of the world. Fortune favored him, however. He obtained a few pupils, and gave himself to composition. He made the acquaintance of Metastasio, Porpora, and Gluck. His trios began to attract attention, and he soon found himself rising into prominence. In 1759, through the influence of a wealthy friend and amateur, he was appointed to the post of musical director and composer in the service of Count Morzin, and about this time wrote his first symphony. When the Count dismissed his band, Prince Paul Anton Esterhazy received him as his second capellmeister, under Werner. When the latter died, in 1766, Haydn took his place as sole director. His patron meanwhile had died, and was succeeded by his son Nicolaus, between whom and Haydn there was the utmost good feeling. Up to this time Haydn had written thirty symphonies, a large number of trios, quartets, and several vocal pieces. His connection with the Prince lasted until 1790, and was only terminated by the latter's death. During this period of twenty-eight years his musical activity was unceasing; and as he had an orchestra of his own, and his patron was ardently devoted to music, the incentive to composition was never lacking. Anton succeeded Nicolaus, and was generous enough to increase Haydn's pension; but he dismissed the entire chapel, and the composer took up his abode in Vienna. He was hardly established before he received a flattering proposition from Salomon, the manager, to go to England. He had already had many pressing invitations from others, but could not accept them, owing to his engagement to Esterhazy. Now that he was free, he decided to make the journey. On New Year's Day, 1791, he arrived in London. Success greeted him at once. He became universally popular. Musicians and musical societies paid him devoted attention. He gave a series of symphony concerts which aroused the greatest enthusiasm. He was treated with distinguished courtesy by the royal family. Oxford gave him the honorary degree of Doctor of Music. The nobility entertained him sumptuously. After a year of continuous fêtes he returned to Germany, where he remained two years, during a portion of which time Beethoven was his pupil. In 1794 he made his second journey to England, where his former successes were repeated, and fresh honors were showered upon him. In 1804 he was notified by Prince Esterhazy that he was about to reorganize his chapel, and wished him for its conductor again. Haydn accordingly returned to his old position, where he remained during the rest of his life. He was already an old man, but it was during this period that his most remarkable works were produced, among them the Austrian National Hymn ("Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser"), the "Seven Words," the "Creation," the "Seasons," and many of his best trios and quartets. He died May 31, 1809, a few days after the occupation of Vienna by the French, and among the mourners at his funeral were many French officers. Funeral services were held in all the principal European cities. Honored and respected all over Europe, he was most deeply loved by his own countrymen, who still affectionately speak of him as "Papa" Haydn. The Seven Words. "The Seven Words of Jesus on the Cross," sometimes called "The Passion," was written by Haydn in 1785, for the cathedral of Cadiz, upon a commission from the chapter for appropriate music for Good Friday. It was at first composed as an instrumental work, consisting of seven adagio movements, and in this form was produced in London by the composer himself as a "Passione instrumentale." He afterwards introduced solos and choruses, and divided it into two parts, separating them by a largo movement for wind instruments. It was then given at Eisenstadt in 1797, and four years later was published in the new form, with the following preface by the composer himself:-- About fifteen years ago I was applied to by a clergyman in Cadiz, and requested to write instrumental music to the seven words of Jesus on the cross. It was then customary every year, during Lent, to perform an Oratorio in the Cathedral at Cadiz, the effect of which the following arrangements contributed to heighten. The walls, windows, and columns of the church were hung with black cloth, and only one large lamp, hanging in the centre, lighted the solemn and religious gloom. At noon all the doors were closed, and the music began. After a prelude, suited to the occasion, the bishop ascended the pulpit, pronounced one of the seven words, which was succeeded by reflections upon it. As soon as these were ended he descended from the pulpit and knelt before the altar. The pause was filled by music. The bishop ascended and descended again a second, a third time, and so on; and each time the orchestra filled up the intervals in the discourse. My composition must be judged on a consideration of these circumstances. The task of writing seven adagios, each of which was to last about ten minutes, to preserve a connection between them, without wearying the hearers, was none of the lightest, and I soon found that I could not confine myself within the limits of the time prescribed. The music was originally without text, and was printed in that form. It was only at a later period that I was induced to add the text. The Oratorio entitled "The Seven Words of our Redeemer on the Cross," as a complete and, as regards the vocal parts, an entirely new work, was first published by Messrs. Breitkopf and Härtel, of Leipsic. The partiality with which this work has been received by scientific musicians leads me to hope that it will not be without effect on the public at large. Joseph Haydn. Vienna, March 1, 1880. As the various movements are all of the same general tone and character, though varied with all that skill and mastery of instrumental effect for which Haydn was so conspicuous, it is needless to describe each separately. By many of the musicians of his day it was considered one of his most sublime productions; and Bombet declares that Haydn on more than one occasion, when he was asked to which of his works he gave the preference, replied, "The Seven Words." It opens with an adagio for full orchestra, of a very sorrowful but impressive character. Then follow each of the Seven Words, given out in simple chorale form, followed by its chorus, namely:-- I. PATIENCE. "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." _Chorus_: "Lamb of God! Surely Thou hast borne our sorrows." II. THE PENITENT FORGIVEN. "Verily I say unto thee, this day shalt thou be with me in Paradise." _Chorus_: "Lord, have mercy on me after Thy great goodness." III. THE MOURNERS. "Woman, behold thy Son. Son, behold Thy mother." _Chorus_: "Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for Me." IV. DESOLATION. "Eli, Eli, lama sabacthani?" _Chorus_: "O my God, look upon Me." V. THE BITTER CUP. "I thirst." _Chorus_: "He treadeth the winepress of the fierceness and wrath." VI. COMPLETE OBEDIENCE. "It is finished." _Chorus_: "He came down from Heaven." VII. THE GREAT OBLATION. "Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit." _Chorus_: "Into Thy hands, O Lord." Following immediately after the last number the whole spirit of the music changes with the chorus, "The Veil of the Temple was rent in twain," a presto movement, sung fortissimo, describing the darkness, the quaking of the earth, the rending of the rocks, the opening of the graves, and the arising of the bodies of the saints who slept, with all that vividness in imitation and sublimity of effect which characterize so many of the composer's passages in "The Creation" and "The Seasons." Haydn was by nature a deeply religious man, and that he felt the inspiration of the solemn subject is shown by the manner in which he conceived it, and by the exalted devotion of the music which accompanies the last words of the Man of Sorrows. The lines which Bombet quotes from Dante in this connection are hardly exaggerated:-- "He with such piety his thought reveals, And with such heavenly sweetness clothes each tone, That hell itself the melting influence feels." Ariadne. The cantata "Ariana a Naxos" was written in 1792, and is for a single voice with orchestra. As an illustration of the original cantata form, it is one of the most striking and perfect. Its story is an episode familiar in mythology. When Minos, King of Crete, had vanquished the Athenians, he imposed upon Ægeus, their king, the severe penalty that seven youths should be annually sent to Crete to be devoured by the Minotaur. In the fourth year the king's son, Theseus, was among the number. He was more fortunate than his predecessors, for he slew the Minotaur and was rescued from the labyrinth by following the thread of Ariadne, daughter of Minos, who had conceived a violent passion for the handsome warrior, conqueror of Centaurs and Amazons. Upon his return to Athens she accompanied him as far as the island Naxos, where the ungrateful wretch perfidiously left her. It is this scene of desertion which Haydn chose for his cantata. Ariadne is supposed to have just awakened from sleep and reclines upon a mossy bank. The first number is a recitative and largo in which she hopefully calls upon Theseus to return. The melody is noble and spirited in style, and yet tender and fervent in its expression of love for the absent one. In the next number, a recitative and andante ("No one listens! My sad Words Echo but repeats"), hopefulness turns to anxiety. The contrast between the blissful longing of the one and the growing solicitude expressed in the other number is very striking. The next melody, an _allegro vivace_,-- "What see I? O heavens! Unhappy me! Those are the sails of the Argosy! Greeks are those yonder! Theseus! 'Tis he stands at the prow,"-- is remarkable for its passionate intensity and dramatic strength. The clouds of despair close over her, and she calls down the vengeance of the gods upon the deserter. In the next two numbers, an adagio ("To whom can I turn me?"), and an andante ("Ah! how for Death I am longing"), the melodies closely follow the sentiment of the text, accompanied by very expressive instrumentation. An _allegro presto_, infused with the very spirit of hopeless gloom and despair, ends the cantata:-- "Woe's me! deceived, betrayed! Earth holds no consolation." In the mythological version, however, consolation came; for Bacchus, "ever young," and full of pity for lorn maids, married her, and gave her a crown of seven stars, which after her death was placed among the constellations. The music presents many difficulties for a singer, as it requires the noblest style of declamation, peculiar refinement of sentiment, and rare musical intelligence, as well as facility in execution to give expression to its recitative and strongly contrasting melodies, which have no unity of key, but follow the varying sentiments, with their changes of tone-color, as closely as Theseus followed his thread. HILLER. Ferdinand Hiller, one of the most eminent of modern German composers, and a writer of more than ordinary ability, was born at Frankfort-on-the-Main, Oct. 24, 1811. His musical talent displayed itself so early that in his tenth year he appeared in concerts. In 1825 he began his studies with Hummel, and two years afterwards accompanied him on a concert-tour to Vienna, where he published his first work, a piano-forte quartet. He next went to Paris, where he remained until 1835, occupying for a time the position of professor in Choron's "Institution de Musique," but principally devoting himself to piano-playing, composition, and concerts. In 1836 he returned to Frankfort, and for more than a year conducted the concerts of the Coecilienverein. He then went to Milan, where he met Rossini, and with his assistance brought out his opera "Romilda" at La Scala, but without much success. About the same time he began his oratorio "The Destruction of Jerusalem," one of his most important works. In 1841 he made a second journey to Italy and gave particular attention to church music. On his return he first resided at Frankfort, but was soon in Leipsic, where he conducted the Gewandhaus concerts (1843-44), and after that time in Dresden, where he produced two more operas, "Traum in der Christ-nacht" and "Conradin." In 1847 he was appointed municipal capellmeister at Düsseldorf, and three years later took a similar position at Cologne, where he organized the Conservatory. In that city he exercised a widespread influence, not alone by his teaching, but also by his direction of the famous Lower Rhine festivals. He also made many musical tours which increased his fame. In 1852-53 he conducted opera in Paris; in 1870, gave a series of successful concerts in St. Petersburg; and in 1871-72 visited England, where he produced his works both in public concerts and festivals. His compositions are very numerous, including among the most prominent, five operas, four overtures, a festival march for the opening of the Albert Hall, the Spring Symphony, the oratorios "Destruction of Jerusalem" and "Saul," and the cantatas "Heloise," "Night," "Loreley," "O weint um Sie," "Ver sacrum," "Nala and Damajanti," "Song of Victory," "Song of the Spirits over the Water," "Prometheus," and "Rebecca." He has also enriched musical literature with many important works, among them, "Aus dem Tonleben unserer Zeit" (1867), "Personalisches und Musikalisches" (1876), "Recollections of Mendelssohn" (1874), and "Letters to an Unknown" (1877). He died in May, 1885. Song of Victory. The "Song of Victory," a cantata for soprano solo, chorus, and orchestra, was first produced at the Cologne Festival of 1871, and was written to celebrate the victorious conclusion of the Franco-German war of 1870. It consists of eight numbers, all of which are sacred in character, though their purpose is to express gratitude and joy over the triumph of the German arms. The opening number is a vigorous, jubilant chorus ("The Lord great Wonders for us hath wrought"). It begins with a slow movement in massive chords, gathering animation as it proceeds, and closing pianissimo on the words, "There is none that searcheth or understandeth." The second number is a soprano solo and chorus ("Praise, O Jerusalem, praise the Lord") declamatory in style. The third ("The Heathen are fallen in the Pit") is assigned to chorus, and is the most dramatic in the work, describing as it does the terrors of war. In the fourth ("See, it is written in the Book of the Righteous"), a short soprano solo, the melody is a tender lament for the dead. The fifth ("He in Tears that soweth") is a soprano solo with chorus of first and second sopranos and altos. In this number lamentation gives way to hope and gladness, leading up to the last three numbers,--the six-part chorus ("Mighty is our God"), full of effective sustained harmony, and the soprano solos and choruses of praise and hallelujah which resume the triumphant style of the opening chorus with increased power and enthusiasm. HOFMANN. Heinrich Karl Johann Hofmann was born Jan. 13, 1842, at Berlin. In his younger days he was a scholar at the Kullak Conservatory, and studied composition with Grell, Dehn, and Wüerst. Prior to 1873 he devoted himself to private instruction, but since that time he has been engaged exclusively in composition. Among his works which first attracted public attention by their intrinsic excellence as well as by the knowledge of orchestration which they displayed, were an "Hungarian Suite" and the "Frithjof Symphony." Among his piano compositions are the following four-handed pieces, which have been remarkably popular: "Italienische Liebesnovelle," "Liebesfrühling," "Trompeter von Säckingen," "Steppenbilder," and "Aus meinem Tagebuch." His choral works are "Nonnengesang," "Die Schöne Melusine," "Aschenbrödel," and "Cinderella." Among his operas are "Cartouche" (1869), "Armin" (1878), and "Annchen von Tharau" (1878). He has also written several works for mixed chorus and männerchor, piano pieces, songs, duets, a violoncello concerto, piano trios and quartets, and a string sextet. Melusina. The beautiful story of Melusina has always had an attraction for artists and musicians. Moritz von Schwind, the painter, has illustrated it in a cycle of frescos; Julius Zellner has told it for us in a series of orchestral tone-pictures; and Mendelssohn has chosen it as the subject of one of his most charming overtures. The version which Hofmann uses in his cantata entitled "The Fable of the Fair Melusina" (written in 1875) runs as follows: Melusina, the nymph of a beautiful fountain in the Bressilian forest, and Count Raymond have fallen in love with each other. They declare their passion in the presence of her nymphs, and plight their troth. Melusina engages to be his dutiful wife the first six days of the week, but makes Raymond promise never to inquire or seek to discover what she does on the seventh, which, she assures him, shall "never see her stray from the path of duty." On that day she must assume her original form, half fish and half woman, and bathe with her nymphs. Raymond promises, calls his hunters, introduces his bride to them, and the wedding cortège moves joyfully on to the castle. In the second part Raymond's mother, Clotilda, and her brother, Sintram, intrigue against Melusina. They denounce her as a witch, and the accusation seems to be justified by a drought which has fallen upon the land since the marriage. The suffering people loudly clamor for the surrender of the "foul witch." After long resistance Raymond is induced to break into the bathing-house which he had erected over the fountain. Melusina and her nymphs, surprised by him, call upon the king of the water-spirits to avenge his treason. The king appears and consigns him to death. Seized with pity, Melusina intercedes for him, and the king agrees to spare his life upon condition that they shall separate. Raymond once more embraces her, neither of them knowing that it will be fatal to him, dies in her arms, and the sorrowing Melusina returns to the flood. The prologue describes Melusina's fountain, and contains a leading motive which characterizes Raymond. The chorus part is very romantic in its style, and is set to a graceful, poetical accompaniment. The opening number introduces Melusina and her nymphs in a chorus extolling their watery abode ("For the Flood is life-giving"). In the second number she describes the passion she feels when thinking of Raymond. The song is interrupted by horn signals indicating the approach of her lover and his hunters, who join in a fresh, vigorous hunting-song and then disperse. In the fourth number Raymond gives expression to his love for Melusina, followed by a fervid duet between them, in which the lovers interchange vows of constancy. The sixth number, describing their engagement in presence of the nymphs, and concluding with a stirring chorus of nymphs and hunters, closes the first part. The second part begins with a theme from the love-duet, followed by a significant theme in the minor, ominous of approaching danger. In the eighth number the people clamor in furious chorus for the witch. In the ninth, a trio and chorus, Clotilda warns her son of the misery he has brought upon his house and people, and urges him to discover what his wife does on the seventh day. The next number introduces Melusina and her nymphs in the bath, the former singing a plaintive song ("Love is freighted with Sorrow and Care"). A noise is heard at the gate, and the nymphs join in a chorus in canon form ("Hark! hark! Who has come to watch"). As Raymond appears, the scene grows very dramatic. The king of the water-spirits is summoned; but before he rises from the water Melusina, in very melodious recitative, laments her lover's treason. The scene culminates in the sentence, "Let Death be his lot." He is spared by her intercession, but she is commanded to return to the flood. Raymond appeals for forgiveness, and a part of the love-duet is repeated. The final embrace is fatal to him, and he dies in her arms. The chorus repeats the melody of the opening number ("For the Flood is life-giving"), and she bids her dead lover a last farewell, and disappears with the nymphs and water-spirits, singing, "Forget with the Dwellers on Earth all earthly Woe." The epilogue is substantially the same as the prologue. LESLIE. Henry David Leslie was born in London, June 18, 1822, and in his sixteenth year began his musical studies with Charles Lucas, a famous violoncellist and for a long time principal of the Royal Academy of Music. Like his master, Leslie played the violoncello several years in the concerts of the Sacred Harmonic Society, subsequently becoming its conductor,--a position which he held until 1861. In 1855 he organized the famous Leslie choir of one hundred voices, which took the first prize at the international competition of 1878 in Paris. In 1863 he was chosen conductor of the Herefordshire Philharmonic Society, and in the following year became principal of the National College of Music. In 1874 he was appointed conductor of the Guild of Amateur Musicians in London. He has been a prolific and very popular composer, among his works being the following: Te Deum and Jubilate in D (1846); symphony in F (1847); anthem, "Let God arise" (1849); overture, "The Templar" (1852); oratorio, "Immanuel" (1853); operetta, "Romance, or Bold Dick Turpin" (1857); oratorio, "Judith," written for the Birmingham Festival (1858); cantata, "Holyrood" (1860); cantata, "The Daughter of the Isles" (1861); and the opera "Ida" (1864). In addition to these he has written a large number of songs, anthems, part songs, madrigals, and piano pieces, besides music for his choir. Holyrood. "Holyrood" was written in 1861, and was first produced in February of that year at St. James's Hall, London. Leslie's collaborator was the accomplished scholar Chorley, who has certainly prepared one of the most refined and attractive librettos ever furnished a composer. The story represents an episode during the period of Queen Mary's innocent life, overshadowed in the close by the dismal prophecy of the terrible fate so rapidly approaching her. The characters are Queen Mary (soprano), Mary Beatoun (Beton), her maid of honor (contralto); Rizzio, the ill-fated minstrel (tenor); and John Knox (bass). The scene is laid in a court of the palace of Holyrood, and introduces a coterie of the court ladies and gentlemen engaged in one of those joyous revels of which Mary was so fond. In the midst of the pleasantry, however, the Queen moves pensively about, overcome with sadness, as if her thoughts were far away. Her favorite maid tries in vain to rouse her from her melancholy with a Scotch ballad. The minstrel Rizzio is then urged to try his skill. He takes his lute and sings an Italian canzonet which has the desired effect. The sensuous music of the South diverts her. She expresses her delight, and seizing his lute sings her new joy in a French romance. It is interrupted by a Puritan psalm of warning heard outside. The revellers seek to drown it; but it grows in power, and only ceases when the leader, John Knox, enters with stern and forbidding countenance. The Queen is angry at first, but bids him welcome provided his mission is a kindly one. He answers with a warning. As he has the gift of prophecy, she orders him to read her future. After the bridal, the murder of the bridegroom; after the murder, battle; after the battle, prison; after the prison, the scaffold, is the tragic fate he foresees. The enraged courtiers call for his arrest and punishment, but the light-hearted Queen bids him go free:-- "Let him go, and hear our laughter! Mirth to-day, whate'er come after." The cantata opens with a chorus for female voices in three divisions, with a contralto solo, in the Scotch style:-- "The mavis carols in the shaw, The leaves are green on every tree, And June, whose car the sunbeams draw, Is dropping gold on bank and lea; The hind is merry in the mead, The child that gathers gowan flower, The Thane upon his prancing steed, The high-born lady in her bower,-- Gay, gay, all are gay, On this happy summer day." After a short recitative passage in which Mary Beatoun appeals to the revellers to lure the Queen from her loneliness, and their reply ("O Lady, never sit alone"), the maid sings a very characteristic and engaging Scotch ballad:-- "There once was a maiden in Melrose town (Oh! the bright Tweed is bonny to see!) Who looked on the best in the country down, Because she had lovers, one, two, three. The first was a lord with his chest of gold, The second a ruddy shepherd so tall, The third was a spearsman bluff and bold,-- But Pride, it goeth before a fall. "One hour she smilèd, the next she wept (Oh! the bright Tweed is bonny to see!) And with frowns and blushes a chain she kept Round the necks of her hapless lovers three. For the lord in her lap poured wide his gold, And the shepherd ran at her beck and call, And the spearsman swore she was curst and cold, But Pride, it goeth before a fall. "At last it fell out on a bleak March day (Oh! the bright Tweed is bonny to see!) There sate at her window the maiden gay And looked o'er the frost for her lovers three. But the lord had to France sailed forth with his gold, And the shepherd had married her playmate small, And the spearsman in battle lay stark and cold,-- So Pride, it goeth before a fall." As might have been expected, this mournful ditty fails to rouse the Queen from her melancholy, whereupon Rizzio takes his lute and sings the canzonet "Calla stagion novella," a very slow and graceful movement, closing with a sensuous allegro, written in the genuine Italian style, though rather Verdi-ish for the times of Rizzio. The canzonet has the desired effect, and is followed by a delightful French romance, sung by the Queen, in which a tender minor theme is set off against a fascinating waltz melody, closing with a brilliant finale:-- "In my pleasant land of France There is gladness everywhere; In the very streams a dance, Full of life, yet debonair, Ah, me! ah, me! To have left it was a sin, Even for this kind countrie. But we will not mourn to-day, Bid the harp and rebec play, Merrilie, merrilie, Sing and smile, and jocund be; If my father's land is dear, Mirth and valor still are here; Maidens faithful, champions gay, France has melted far away Beyond the sea." At the close of the pretty romance, the revel begins with a stately minuet and vocal trio ("Fal, lal, la") for the Queen, Mary Beatoun, and Rizzio. It is interrupted by the unison psalm-tune of the Puritans, a stern, severe old melody set to a "moving bass" accompaniment:-- "O thou who sittest on the throne And wilt exalt thine horn on high, While captive men in prison groan, And women poor of hunger die, Beware! albeit a Haman proud, Served by thy slaves on bended knee, The heaven can speak in thunder loud And rend to dust both them and thee." There is a temporary pause in the revels, but at the Queen's command they are resumed with a quick-step introduced by the pipes and full of the genuine Scotch spirit and bustle, the "Fal lal" trio and chorus still accompanying it. It is interrupted afresh by a repetition of the psalm ("A Hand of Fire was on the Wall"), after which John Knox enters. With his entrance the gay music closes and the work assumes a gloomy tragic cast as the dialogue proceeds and the terrible incidents of the prophecy are unfolded. It is a relief when they join in a hopeful duet ("E'en if Earth should wholly fail me") which is very quiet and melodious. It leads to the Queen's farewell, a quaintly-written bit, with an old-fashioned cadenza, followed by the final chorus, which takes up a theme in the same joyous spirit as the opening one:-- "Hence with evil omen, Doleful bird of night, Who in tears of women Takest chief delight! Think not to alarm her, As with mystic power; Nought shall ever harm her, Scotland's lily flower." LISZT. Franz Liszt, the most eminent pianist of his time, who also obtained world-wide celebrity as a composer and orchestral conductor, was born at Raiding, Hungary, Oct. 22, 1811. His father was an accomplished amateur, and played the piano and violoncello with more than ordinary skill. He was so impressed with the promise of his son that he not only gave him lessons in music, but also devoted himself to his artistic progress with the utmost assiduity. In his ninth year Liszt played for the first time in public at Oedenburg. His performances aroused such enthusiasm that several Hungarian noblemen encouraged him to continue his studies, and guaranteed him sufficient to defray the expenses of six years' tuition. He went to Vienna at once and studied the piano with Czerny, besides taking lessons in composition of Salieri and Randhartinger. It was while in that city that his first composition, a variation on a waltz of Diabelli, appeared. In 1823 he went to Paris, hoping to secure permission to enter the Conservatory; but Cherubini refused it on account of his foreign origin, though Cherubini himself was a foreigner. Nothing daunted, young Liszt continued his studies with Reicha and Paer, and two years afterwards brought out a two-act opera entitled "Don Sancho," which met with a very cordial reception. The slight he received from Cherubini aroused popular sympathy for him. His wonderful playing attracted universal attention and gained him admission into the most brilliant Parisian salons. He was a favorite with every one, especially with the ladies. For two or three years he made artistic tours through France, Switzerland, and England, accompanied by his father, and everywhere met with the most brilliant success. In 1827 the father died, leaving him alone in the world; but good fortune was on his side. During his stay in Paris he had made the friendship of Victor Hugo, George Sand, Lamartine, and other great lights in literature and music, and their influence prepared the way for his permanent success. From 1839 to 1847 he travelled from one city to another, arousing the most extraordinary enthusiasm; his progress was one continued ovation. In 1849 he went to Weimar and accepted the post of conductor at the Court Theatre. He made that city the musical centre of Europe. It was there that his greatest compositions were written, that the school of the music of the future was founded, and that Wagner's operas first gained an unprejudiced hearing; and it is from Weimar that his distinguished pupils, like Von Bülow, Tausig, Bendel, Bronsart, Klindworth, Winterberger, Reubke, and many others date their success. In 1859 he resigned his position and after that time resided at Rome, Pesth, and Weimar, working for the best interest of his beloved art, and encouraging young musicians to reach the highest standards. Few men of this century have had such a powerful influence upon music, or have done so much to elevate and purify it. His most important works were the "Divina Commedia" and "Faust" symphonies, the twelve symphonic poems, the six Hungarian rhapsodies, the "Graner Mass," the "Hungarian Coronation Mass," and the oratorios "Christus" and "The Legend of the Holy Elizabeth." Besides these he wrote a large number of orchestral pieces, songs, and cantatas, and a rich and varied collection of piano-forte solos, transcriptions, and arrangements. He died July 31, 1886. Prometheus. Liszt's cantata "Prometheus," composed in 1850, is based upon the poem of the same name, written by Johann Gottfried von Herder, the court preacher of Weimar. The poem closely follows the well-known legend of Prometheus' punishment for stealing fire from heaven, and his ultimate rescue by Hercules from the vulture which preyed upon his vitals. The poet pictures the victim in the midst of his sufferings, consoled by the knowledge that he has been a benefactor to the human race. The spirits of the ocean mock and menace him, but the harvesters and tillers of the soil praise him for the bounteous gifts he has given to the earth. Ceres and Bacchus, protectors of the soil and its products, also pay their tribute of sympathy to him and thank him for the blessing of fire. Hercules at last releases him from his torture by killing the vulture and breaking the chains which bind him to his rock. The sufferer is brought before Themis, who announces that the divine wrath has been appeased by his long punishment, and that the gods forgive him. In building up his cantata Liszt has introduced several prologues from the poem without music, which serve as narrators explaining the situations, linking and leading up to the musical numbers, which are mainly choral. Thus the opening prologue pictures the sufferings of Prometheus, the crime for which he is forced to endure such a terrible penalty, and the patience, hope, and heroism of the victim. The closing lines,-- "Now through the hush of night burst well-known voices Upon his ear. From out the slumbering ocean, Fanning his cheek with breath of the sea waves, The daughters of Oceanus approach,"-- introduce the opening chorus of sea-nymphs ("Prometheus, Woe to thee"), for female voices, arranged in double parts, and set to a restless, agitated accompaniment, expressive of fear and despair. The second prologue, reciting the wrath of Oceanus "on his swift-winged ocean steed," that mortals should have dared to vex his peaceful waters, and the reply of Prometheus that "on the broad earth each place is free to all," introduces the choruses of Tritons and Oceanides. The first is a mixed chorus full of brightness and spirit ("Freedom! afar from Land upon the open Sea"). Their exultant song is followed by a fascinating melody ("Hail! O Prometheus, hail!") for female chorus, with short but expressive solos for soprano and alto ("When to our Waters the golden Time shall come"), the number closing with double chorus in full rich harmony ("Holy and grand and free is the Gift of Heaven"). Thereupon follows the third prologue:-- "Scarcely has ceased the Ocean's song of joy, Which, breathing peace unto Prometheus' soul, Wakens within his breast long-buried hope, When once again the sound of lamentation Bursts on his ear and fills the air with sighs. Seated within a lion-drawn chariot comes The founder of his race--Gæa herself-- With her a train of wood-nymphs, loudly weeping." It introduces a chorus of Dryads ("Woe to thee, Prometheus") of the same general character as the opening chorus of sea-nymphs, and containing a very dramatic and declamatory alto solo ("Deserted stand God's sacred Altars in the old Forest"). A dialogue follows between Gæa and Prometheus, in which the latter bravely defends his course. As the Dryads disappear, Prometheus soliloquizes:-- "'This is, in truth, the noblest deed Mortal has ever dared. Beat high, my heart! On this foundation built I up my race,-- On deathless friendship and fraternity. Courage, Alcides! Bravely fight thy fight. Conquer, and thou shalt free me.' From his dreams, Roused is the Titan by a song of joy. Before him, crowned with the rich harvest, stands Ceres with her train of reapers." A mixed chorus of gleaners follows ("With the Lark sweetly singing"), which can hardly be excelled for grace and loveliness of melody. In the next prologue Ceres consoles Prometheus, and while she is speaking a shout of gladness rises and Bacchus appears. He smites the rock, and at his touch a bower of grape-vines and ivy boughs interlaces over the head of the Titan and shadows him. This serves to introduce the chorus of Vine-dressers ("Hail to the Pleasure-giver"), a lively strain for male voices with an effective solo quartet. As Prometheus resumes his soliloquy, Hermes approaches, leading Pandora, and seeks to allure him from his purpose by her enchantments, but in vain:-- "The Titan conquers, and he feels the hour-- The fated hour--draw near. Above his head The vulture hovers, fearing to approach; While the earth trembles, and the rocks are shaken. Voices are heard from out the gloomy depths." The voices are those of the spirits in the lower regions singing a very melodramatic chorus ("Woe! woe! the sacred Sleep of the Dead has been disturbed"). An _allegro moderato_ for orchestra follows, preluding the approach of Hercules, who bends his giant bow and kills the vulture, strikes the fetters off and bids him "Go hence unto thy Mother's Throne." The scene introduces the seventh number ("All human Foresight wanders in deepest Night"), an expressive and stately male chorus with solo quartet. The last prologue describes the scene at the throne of Themis, the pardon of Prometheus, and her assurance that "Henceforth Olympus smiles upon the Earth." Pallas presents him with a veiled figure as the reward of his heroism, "who will bring to thy race the richest blessing,--Truth." The goddess unveils her and declares her name "Agathea. She brings to man the purest, holiest gift,--Charity." The closing chorus of the Muses follows:-- "Of all bright thoughts that bloom on earth, That raise poor mortals high as heaven, The holiest, the blessedest is Charity. Hail, Prometheus! Hail to mankind!" The Bells of Strasburg. "Die Glocken des Strassburger Münsters" ("The Bells of Strasburg Cathedral") was written in 1874, and is dedicated to the poet Longfellow, from whose "Golden Legend" the composer took his theme for musical treatment. The cantata, however, does not deal with the beautiful legend itself as related by the old minnesinger, Hartmann von Aue, which Longfellow has told so powerfully in his "Christus," but simply with the prologue, describing the futile attempt of Lucifer and the Powers of the Air to tear down the cross of the Strasburg Cathedral during the night storm. It was a subject peculiarly attractive to Liszt, as it offered him free scope for his fancies and unlimited opportunity for the display of his unique and sometimes eccentric orchestration. The work is written for barytone solo and mixed chorus, and is divided into two parts,--a short prelude which is entitled "Excelsior" (_andante maestoso_), and in which this word is several times repeated by the chorus with gradually increasing power from piano to fortissimo; and "The Bells," which comprises the principal part of the work. The second part opens with a massive introduction (_allegro agitato assai_), in which the bells, horns, and trumpets play an important part, leading up to the furious invocation of Lucifer:-- "Hasten! Hasten! O ye spirits! From its station drag the ponderous Cross of iron that to mock us Is uplifted high in air!" Without a break comes the response of the spirits, first and second sopranos, altos, and tenors ("Oh! we cannot, for around it"), followed by the Latin chant of the bells sung by tenors and basses, with a soft tremolo accompaniment:-- "Laudo Deum verum! Plebem voco! Congrego clerum!" Again with increasing power Lucifer shouts his command:-- "Lower! Lower! Hover downward! Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and Clashing, clanging to the pavement, Hurl them from their windy tower!" As before, the chorus responds in a sweet harmonious strain ("All thy Thunders here are harmless"), again followed by the slow and sonorous chant of the bells:-- "Defunctos ploro! Pestem fugo! Festa decoro!" Lucifer reiterates his command with constantly increasing energy:-- "Shake the casements Break the painted Panes that flame with gold and crimson; Scatter them like leaves of autumn, Swept away before the blast." In its response this time the chorus is full of energy and impetuosity as it shouts with great power, "O, we cannot! the Archangel Michael flames from every window." The chant of the bells is now taken by the basses alone:-- "Funera plango! Fulgura frango! Sabbato pango!" Lucifer makes his last appeal with all the strength that voice and orchestra can reach:-- "Aim your lightnings At the oaken Massive, iron-studded portals! Sack the house of God, and scatter Wide the ashes of the dead." In the choral response ("The Apostles and the Martyrs wrapped in Mantles") the sopranos and altos are in unison, making with the first and second tenors a splendid effect. For the last time the first and second basses sing the chant of the bells:-- "Excito lentos! Dissipo ventos! Paco cruentos!" With no abatement of vigor the baffled Lucifer sounds his signal for retreat, and the voices reply, sopranos and altos in unison:-- "Onward! onward! With the night-wind, Over field and farm and forest, Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, Blighting all we breathe upon." As the voices die away, choir, organ, and orchestra join with majestic effect in the intonation of the Gregorian chant:-- "Nocte surgentes Vigilemus omnes! Laudemus Deum verum." The cantata shows Liszt's talent rather than his genius. It is a wonderful mosaic-work of fancies, rather than an original, studied composition with definite purpose. Its motives, while not inspired, are finely conceived, and are presented not only gracefully, but in keeping with the spirituality of the subject. MACFARREN. George Alexander Macfarren, one of the most prominent of modern English composers, was born in London, March 2, 1813. He began the study of music under the tuition of Charles Lucas in 1827. Two years later he entered the Royal Academy of Music, and in 1834 became one of its professors. The latter year dates the beginning of his career as a composer, his first work having been a symphony in F minor. During the next thirty years his important works were as follows: overture, "Chevy Chace" (1836); "Devil's Opera," produced at the Lyceum (1838); "Emblematical Tribute on the Queen's Marriage" and an arrangement of Purcell's "Dido and Æneas" (1840); editions of "Belshazzar," "Judas Maccabæus," and "Jephthah," for the Handel Society (1843); the opera "Don Quixote" (1846); the opera "Charles II." (1849); serenata, "The Sleeper Awakened," and the cantata "Lenora" (1851); the cantata "May Day," for the Bradford Festival (1856); the cantata "Christmas" (1859); the opera "Robin Hood" (1860); the masque "Freya's Gift" and opera "Jessy Lea" (1863); and the operas "She Stoops to Conquer," "The Soldier's Legacy," and "Helvellyn" (1864). About the last year his sight, which had been impaired for many years, failed. His blindness, however, did not diminish his activity. He still served as professor in the Royal Academy, and dictated compositions,--indeed some of his best works were composed during this time of affliction. In 1873 appeared his oratorio "St. John the Baptist," which met with an enthusiastic reception at the Bristol Festival of that year. In 1875 he was elected professor of music at Cambridge, to fill the vacancy occasioned by the death of Sterndale Bennett, and in the same year was also appointed principal of the Royal Academy of Music. In 1876 his oratorio "The Resurrection" was performed at the Birmingham Festival, and in 1877 the oratorio "Joseph" at Leeds, besides the cantata "The Lady of the Lake" at Glasgow. Grove catalogues his other compositions as follows: a cathedral service, anthems, chants, psalm-tunes, and introits for the Holy Days and Seasons of the English Church (1866); "Songs in a Cornfield" (1868); "Shakspeare Songs for Four Voices" (1860-64); songs from Lane's "Arabian Nights," and Kingsley's and Tennyson's poems: overtures to "The Merchant of Venice," "Romeo and Juliet," "Hamlet," and "Don Carlos;" symphonies, string quartets, and a quintet; a concerto for violin and orchestra; and sonatas for piano-forte alone, and in combination with other instruments. As lecturer, writer, and critic, Sir George Macfarren also holds a high place, among his important works being "Rudiments of Harmony" (1860); six Lectures on Harmony (1867); analyses of oratorios for the Sacred Harmonic Society (1853-57), and of orchestral works for the Philharmonic Society (1869-71); and a "Musical History," being a reprint of an article on this subject contributed by him to the Encyclopædia Britannica. Christmas. "Christmas," the poem by John Oxenford, was written in 1859, and was first performed at one of the concerts of the Musical Society of London, on the 9th of May 1860. The poem itself contains no story. It is merely a tribute to the season; but at the same time it is not destitute of incident, so that it possesses considerable dramatic interest. After a short instrumental introduction the cantata opens with a double chorus in antiphonal style, in which both the bright and the dark sides of winter are celebrated. The second choir takes up the theme:-- "The trees lift up their branches bare Against the sky: Through the keen and nipping air For spring's return they seem to cry, As the winds with solemn tone About them sadly moan;" and the first choir replies:-- "Old Winter's hand is always free, He scatters diamonds round; They dart their light from every tree, They glisten on the ground. Then who shall call the branches bare, When gems like those are sparkling there?" The two then join and bring their friendly contest to a close:-- 2nd Choir.--"Come in, and closely shut the door Against the wintry weather; Of frost and snow we'll think no more, While round the fire we sit together." 1st Choir.--"Rush out from every cottage door, 'Tis brave and bracing weather; A madder throng ne'er met before, Than those which now have come together." This double number, which is very effective, is followed by a soprano recitative and romance ("Welcome, blest Season"), tender and yet joyous in character, which celebrates the delight of friendly reunions at Christmas tide, and the pleasure with which those long absent seek "the old familiar door." In the next number, an old English carol ("A Blessing on this noble House and all who in it dwell"), Christmas is fairly introduced. It is sung first in unison by full chorus, then changes to harmony, in which one choir retains the melody, and closes with a new subject for orchestral treatment, the united choirs singing the carol. Christmas would not be complete without its story; and this we have in the next number for contralto solo and chorus, entitled "A Christmas Tale." It is preceded by recitative, written in the old English style, and each verse closes with a refrain, first sung as a solo, and then repeated in full harmony by the chorus:-- "A bleak and kindless morning had broke on Althenay, Where shunning Danish foemen the good King Alfred lay; 'In search of food our hunters departed long ago, I fear that they have perished, embedded in the snow.' While thus he sadly muses, an aged man he sees, With white hair on his forehead like frost upon the trees. An image of the winter the haggard pilgrim stands, And breathing forth his sorrows, lifts up his withered hands: 'The Heavenly King, who reigns on high, Bless him who hears the poor man's cry.' "'Our hearts are moved with pity, thy sufferings we deplore,' Said Alfred's queen, the gentle, 'but scanty is our store; One loaf alone is left us.' 'Then give it,' said the King, 'For He who feeds the ravens, yes, He will fresh abundance bring.' The wind was roaring loudly, the snow was falling fast, As from the lofty turret the last, last loaf he cast. An image of the winter, the haggard pilgrim stands, And Alfred's welcome pittance he catches with his hands. 'The Heavenly King, who reigns on high, Bless him who hears the poor man's cry.' "The snow is thickly falling, the winter wind is loud, But yonder in the distance appears a joyous crowd. The hunters bring their booty, the peasants bring their corn, And cheering songs of triumph along the blast are borne. Before another morning down-stricken is the foe, And blood of Danish warriors is red upon the snow. Amid the conquering Saxons the aged pilgrim stands, And like a holy prophet exclaims with lifted hands, 'The Heavenly King, who reigns on high, Bless him who hears the poor man's cry.'" A graceful little duet for female voices ("Little Children, all rejoice"), picturing the delights of childhood and its exemption from care, follows the Saxon story and leads up to the finale, which is choral throughout, and gives all the pleasant details of Christmas cheer,--the feast in the vaulted hall, the baron of beef, the boar with the lemon in his jaw, the pudding, "gem of all the feast," the generous wassail, and the mistletoe bough with its warning to maids. In delightfully picturesque old English music the joyous scene comes to an end:-- "Varied sports the evening close, Dancers form in busy rows: Hoodwink'd lovers roam about, Hope to find the right one out, And when they fail how merry is the shout! Round yon flickering flame of blue Urchins sit, an anxious crew; Dainties rich the bold invite, While from the fire the timid shrink with fright. Welcome all, welcome all. 'Tis merry now in the vaulted hall, The mistletoe is overhead, The holly flaunts its berries red, The wassail-bowl goes gayly round; Our mirth awakes the echoes sound, All eyes are bright, all hearts are gay; Thus ends our Christmas day." MACKENZIE. Alexander C. Mackenzie, one of the very few successful Scotch composers, was born at Edinburgh, in 1847. His father was a musician, and recognizing his son's talent, sent him to Germany at the age of ten. He began his studies with Ulrich Eduard Stein at Schwartzburg-Sondershausen, and four years later entered the ducal orchestra as violinist. He remained there until 1862, when he went to England to study the violin with M. Sainton. In the same year he was elected king's scholar of the Royal Academy of Music. Three years later he returned to Edinburgh and established himself as a piano-teacher. The main work of his life, however, has been composition, and to this he has devoted himself with assiduity and remarkable success. Grove catalogues among his works: "Cervantes," an overture for orchestra; a scherzo, for ditto; overture to a comedy; a string quintet, and many other pieces in MS.; piano-forte quartet in B., op. 11; Trois Morceaux pour Piano, op. 15; two songs, op. 12; besides songs, part-songs, anthems, and pieces for the piano. This catalogue can now be increased by four of the most important works he has produced: a Scotch Rhapsody, introduced into this country by the Theodore Thomas orchestra; the oratorio "Rose of Sharon" (1884); an opera, "The Troubadour" (1885), and the cantata, "The Story of Sayid" (1886), which forms the subject of the subjoined sketch. The Story of Sayid. "The Story of Sayid," a dramatic cantata in two parts, the libretto by Joseph Bennett, was first produced at the Leeds Triennial Festival, Oct. 13, 1886. Its story is founded upon that of a poem in Edwin Arnold's "Pearls of the Faith," and embodies a myth which is current among nearly all Oriental nations. The characters are Ilmas, daughter of Sâwa (soprano); Sayid, an Arab chief (tenor); Sâwa, a Hindoo prince (barytone); a watchman (tenor or barytone); and a horseman (barytone). The opening scene pictures the desolation of the land of Sâwa, caused by the invasion of an Arab band, led by their chieftain, Sayid. In the midst of the popular lamentations a messenger announces the defeat of the Arabs and the capture of their leader, who is brought to the city and sentenced to death on the spot. As Sayid prepares to meet his fate, he is recognized by Sâwa as his rescuer at a time when he was hunting in the hills and perishing with thirst. He offers him any boon he may ask except that of life. Sayid entreats that he may be allowed to visit his aged father, promising to return afterwards and suffer his fate. When Sâwa asks who will be hostage for him, his own daughter, Ilmas, offers herself. Moved to pity for the Arab, she persists in her offer, and her father at last reluctantly consents. The second scene opens in Ilmas's palace, and we discover that pity has grown into passion for Sayid during his absence. She is interrupted in her meditations by Sâwa, who enters with his counsellors, and announces that lightnings have flashed from the altars of Siva, and that the gods have demanded that the hostage must suffer in the absence of Sayid. Ilmas bids her attendants array her in bridal robes, and in the next scene appears in an open space near the city gate, surrounded by the court retinue and soldiers, and accompanied by her maidens, strewing flowers in her path. Ilmas is led to the centre of the space and kneels down, the executioner standing over her and awaiting the signal to be given by the watchman when the sun sets. Before that time comes the latter excitedly announces the rapid approach of an Arab horseman. While the crowd stand eagerly waiting his arrival, Sayid gallops through the gateway and presents himself to the Prince. He then turns to Ilmas, who warmly receives him, and affirms that whatever fate may overtake him she shall always cherish his memory. Sâwa relents, bids the Arab live and be his friend, and we infer the happiness of the lovers from the invocation of "Love the Conqueror," which brings the Damon and Pythias story, to a close. A very brief orchestral prelude introduces the opening chorus with solos:-- "Alas! our land is desolate, The children cry for bread; Around, fierce fire and sword devour, Our women wail their dead. "We pray for vengeance on the foe, To death consign them all; Siva, arise and fight for us, Or see thine altars fall." As the expressive chorus comes to a close, an allegro movement leads to a dialogue between the people and the watchman, and subsequently with the horseman, who announces the approach of the victorious army, followed by a second chorus of the people invoking Siva ("Vishnu, Vishnu, thou hast heard our Cry!"). The scene is very dramatic throughout, and is accompanied by vigorous and suggestive music. The next number is a triumphal march, remarkable for its local color, and gradually increasing in power and effect as the army approaches the city. It is followed by an excited dialogue between Sâwa and Sayid, with choral responses, and leads up to a beautiful melody for Sayid:-- "Where sets the sun adown the crimson west My native valley lies; There by a gentle stream that murmurs rest My father's tents arise. "Fearing no harm, the happy peasant tills, The woolly flocks increase; The shepherd's pipe is heard upon the hills, And all around is peace." Another dramatic scene follows, in which Sâwa consents to Sayid's return to his father, and accepts Ilmas as his bondswoman, which leads to a very spirited and elaborate melody for the latter ("First of his Prophet's Warriors he"). The first part closes with the departure of Sayid and a repetition of the choral invocation of Siva. The second part opens in an apartment of Sâwa's palace, and discloses Ilmas sitting with her maidens, as a thunderstorm dies away in the distance. The latter join in a graceful chorus, which is one of the most beautiful numbers in the cantata:-- "Sweet the balmy days of spring, And blushing roses that they bring; But sweeter far is love." Ilmas answers them in a broad and exultant strain ("Ay, sweet indeed is Love"). As the song ends, Sâwa and attendants enter, and the scene closes with a very dramatic chorus and solos, accompanying the preparations for death. The second scene opens with a solemn march for orchestra, preparing the way for the climax, and leading up to a chorus and solo for Ilmas ("What have these Sounds to do with bridal Robes?"). As she kneels, awaiting her fate, an orchestral interlude, set to the rhythm of the gallop, indicates the rapid approach of Sayid. A short and agitated dialogue follows between the watchman and the people. Sayid declares his presence, and a graceful duet with Ilmas ensues ("Noble Maiden, low before thee Sayid bows"), leading to a powerful choral finale ("Never before was known a Deed like this"), closing with a stirring outburst for all the voices:-- "O Love, thy car triumphal Rolls round the subject world More glorious than the chariot Of the sun. "We hail thee, Love victorious! Ride on with strength divine, And quench all mortal passion In thine own." Jubilee Ode.[29] This work, upon which Dr. Mackenzie has been engaged for some time past, is now complete, and on its way to several distant parts of the Empire, where arrangements are making to perform it in celebration of the Jubilee. Primarily, as our readers know, the Ode was intended for the Crystal Palace only, but it will be given also in Canada, Australia, Trinidad, Cape Colony, etc.; thus standing out from all its fellows as in some sort an Imperial work. Without anticipating the criticism which will follow upon performance, we may here give some idea of the scope and character of the Ode. Mr. Joseph Bennett, the writer of the words, has kept strictly in view the exigencies of a musical setting. He has obviously prepared, not a short poem for readers, but one for musical hearers. Hence a variety of rhythm and structure which otherwise would certainly not have been ventured upon. From the same cause arises also the manner in which the subject is laid out, with a view to contrast of musical effect. We may indicate the nature of this arrangement. In the first vocal number, a chorus, the news of the Jubilee is proclaimed, and its diffusion throughout the Empire called for. The second number, a tenor solo, conveys to the Queen the affectionate greetings of her home-lands, declaring that, to keep the feast with unanimity, all weapons of party warfare are laid aside. In the third number the Colonies and Dependencies pay their homage, the idea worked out being that of a procession passing before the throne. First comes the Dominion, followed by Australia, the smaller colonies and islands, and, lastly, by India. Each of these divisions has a section of the chorus to itself. The fifth number, a soprano solo, dwells upon the personal virtues of the Sovereign; while the sixth, and last, opening with a choral prayer for the Empire, continues with lines leading to the National Anthem, for which a new second verse has been written. How far the writer has been guided by consideration for musical opportunities need not, after this outline sketch, be indicated. The spirit in which Mr. Bennett has approached his theme best appears, perhaps, in the opening verses:-- "For fifty years our Queen! Victoria! hail! Take up the cry, glad voices, And pass the strain O'er hill and plain, Peaceful hamlet, roaring city, flowing river, Till all the land rejoices. Wild clanging bells and thund'rous cannon With your loudest shock the air, and make it quiver From Dee to Tamar, Thames to Shannon. "For fifty years our Queen! Victoria! hail! Take up the cry, old ocean, And hoarsely shout The words about. British ships and world-wide British lands will cheer them, Rouse an Empire's full devotion. O blowing wind, come hither, bearing Answering voices, loud acclaiming. Hark! we hear them. They our loyal pride are sharing." In setting the words to music, Dr. Mackenzie has necessarily to consider the place of performance and the number of performers. This, however, was an amiable and fortunate obligation, since the result has been to give us a work built upon broad lines, and marked by plainness of structure to an extent unusual with the composer. We think that the music will be found to have a true festive ring, and a majestic solidity befitting the occasion. In the solos, with their more subdued expression, Dr. Mackenzie has kept contrast in view, without sacrifice of simplicity; but it is in the choruses that he best shows himself a master of bold and striking effects. Every bar goes straight to the point, while avoiding the commonplaces that naturally suggest themselves in the writing of festive music. The procession chorus is, in this respect, most noteworthy of all, and may be found no mean rival of that in the "Rose of Sharon." [29] As the score of Mr. Mackenzie's Ode has not yet reached this country, the author has taken the liberty of transferring the above analysis of it to his work from the London "Musical Times" for May, 1887. Although its local character may preclude its performance here, it is not improbable that the composition of a composer so eminent will attract attention among American musicians. MASSENET. Jules Émile Frédéric Massenet, a composer as yet but little known in this country, was born at Montaud, France, May 12, 1842. His musical education was obtained in the Paris Conservatory, in which between the years 1859 and 1863 he carried off two first prizes and one second. After leaving the Conservatory, he went to Italy for a time and pursued his studies in composition. On his return to Paris one of his operas, "La Grand Tante," was produced at the Opéra Comique (1867) through the influence of Ambroise Thomas, and this performance called attention to the works of the rising young musician. In 1872 he brought out "Don Cæsar de Bazan," an opéra comique in three acts, and in the following year incidental music to the tragedy "Les Erinnyes," after Æschylus. Among his works written since that time are "Le Roi de Lahore" (1877); "Herodiade" (1882); "Manon" (1885); "Le Cid" (1885); the cantata "Paix et Liberté" (1867); "Marie Magdaleine" (1873); "Eve," a mystery (1875); "La Vierge," sacred legend; and "Narcisse," antique idylle (1878). Among his orchestral works the best known are "Suites d'orchestre;" "Scenes Hongroises;" "Scenes Pittoresques;" "Scenes Dramatiques;" overture "Phèdre;" and "Pompeia," fantasia-symphony. He has also written numerous songs and piano-forte pieces. His operas thus far have been his most successful works, though several of his large concert pieces have been very favorably received. He now occupies a position in the Paris Conservatory, and is regarded as one of the most promising members of the modern French school. Mary Magdalen. "Mary Magdalen" was written in 1873, and was first performed at the Odéon, Paris, in that year, with Mmes. Viardot and Vidal and MM. Bosquin and Petit in the solo parts. It is styled by its composer a sacred drama, and is divided into three acts, the first entitled "The Magdalen at the Fountain;" the second, "Jesus before the Magdalen;" the third, "Golgotha," "The Magdalen at the Cross," and "The Tomb of Jesus and the Resurrection;" the first two scenes in the last act being included in one tableau, and the third in another. The characters represented are Mary Magdalen, Martha, Jesus, and Judas, the chorus parts being assigned to the Disciples, Pharisees, Scribes, publicans, soldiers, servants, holy women, and people. After a short introduction, pastoral in character, the work begins with a scene representing Mary at the fountain of Magdala near sunset, among women, publicans, Scribes, and Pharisees, strolling along the banks of the little stream that flows from it. The women sing a short chorus full of Oriental color anticipating the approach of the beautiful Nazarene. A group of young Magdalens pass along singing blithely of love and gay cavaliers ("C'est l'heure où conduisant de longues Caravanes"), and the song of the women blends with it. Next follows a chorus of the Scribes, discussing this Stranger, and pronouncing Him an impostor, and again the young Magdalens take up their strain. The second number is a pathetic aria by Mary ("O mes Soeurs"), which is full of tender beauty. The women shrink back from her and join in a taunting chorus ("La belle Pécheresse oublie"). Next, Judas appears upon the scene, and servilely saluting Mary counsels her to abandon sadness and return to love, in an aria which is a good illustration of irony in music. It is followed by a powerful and mocking chorus of women, Pharisees, and Scribes ("Vainement tu pleures"), in which she is taunted with her shame, despite her sad appeals for pity. The next scene is an aria and trio. Jesus appears in their midst, and in a calm impressive aria ("Vous qui flétrissez les Erreurs des autres") rebukes them. Mary prostrates herself at His feet and implores pardon, and the scene closes with a trio for Jesus, Mary, and Judas, leading up to a strong concerted finale closing the act, in which Jesus bids the Magdalen rise and return to her home, whither He is about to repair. The second act opens in the Magdalen's house, which is richly decorated with flowers and redolent with perfume. It begins with a sensuous female chorus ("Le Seuil est paré de Fleurs rares") followed by Martha's admonition to the servants that He who is more powerful than earthly kings cares not for vain shows. The chorus resumes its song, and at its close Judas appears and a long dialogue follows in which Martha rebukes his hypocrisy. As he departs, Mary and Martha in a very graceful duet discourse of the Saviour's coming, which is interrupted by His presence and invocation of blessing. After a duet between Jesus and Mary, in which He commends her to the Good Shepherd, the act closes with a powerful and very dramatic finale containing Jesus' rebuke to Judas and His declaration of the coming betrayal, after which the Disciples join in a simple but very effective prayer ("Notre Père, loué soit Nom radieux"). The third act is divided into two tableaux. In the first we have the scene of the crucifixion, the agitated choruses of the groups about the Cross, the mocking strains of the Pharisees bidding Him descend if He is the Master, the sorrowing song of Mary ("O Bien-aimé sous la sombre Couronne"), and the final tragedy. The second is devoted to the resurrection and apparition, which are treated very dramatically, closing with an exultant Easter hymn ("Christ est vivant, ressuscité"). In the first two acts the music is full of rich Oriental color and is gracefully melodious and well adapted to the situation; but in the last act the awful solemnity of the tragedy is somewhat lost in the theatrical manner of its treatment. Indeed it was hardly necessary that the composer should have disclaimed the title of oratorio which some have assigned to the work. His division of it into acts and tableaux was sufficient to indicate that he had the stage in mind when he was writing; or at least that his scheme was operatic in style. MENDELSSOHN. Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, the son of a Berlin banker, was born at Hamburg, Feb. 3, 1809, and, unlike almost all other composers, was reared in the lap of luxury. He enjoyed every advantage which wealth could procure, with the result that he became highly educated in the other arts as well as in music. His teachers in music were Zelter and Ludwig Berger, and he made such progress that in his ninth year he appeared in public as a pianist in Berlin and afterwards in Paris. The first of his compositions to attract general notice were the overture to Shakspeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream" and the little opera "The Marriage of Camacho," which were brought out in Berlin in 1827. After several concert-tours, in which he met with great success, he resided for some time in Düsseldorf. In 1835 he went to Leipsic as director of the famous Gewandhaus concerts,--which are still given in that city. Two years later he married Cécile Jeanrenaud, the beautiful daughter of a minister of the Reformed Church in Frankfort, and shortly afterwards went to Berlin as general director of church music. In 1843 he returned to his former post in Leipsic, and also took a position in the newly established Conservatory, where he spent the remainder of his days in company with his family, to whom he was closely attached. He has left a large and rich collection of musical works, which are favorites the world over. His three great oratorios are the "Hymn of Praise," catalogued as a symphony-cantata, "St. Paul," and "Elijah." Besides these oratorios, the exquisite music to the "Midsummer Night's Dream," which is familiar the world over, and his stately dramatic music to "Antigone," he has left five symphonies, of which the "Scotch," the "Italian," and the "Reformation" are best known; four beautiful overtures, "Ruy Blas," "Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage," "Hebrides," and "Melusina;" the very dramatic cantata, "The Walpurgis Night;" a long list of songs for one or more voices; the incidental music to Racine's "Athalia;" a very large collection of sacred music, such as psalms, hymns, anthems, and cantatas; several trios and other specimens of chamber music; and the lovely "Songs without Words," which are to be found upon almost every piano, the beauty and freshness of which time has not impaired. Mendelssohn never wrote a grand opera, owing to his fastidiousness as to a libretto; though he finally obtained one from Geibel on the subject of the "Loreley" which suited him. He had begun to write it, and had finished the finale to the first act, when death interrupted his work, Nov. 4, 1847. In addition to the subjoined compositions selected for description, the following may be mentioned as possessing the cantata characteristics: op. 31, the 115th Psalm, for solo, chorus, and orchestra; op. 46, the 95th Psalm, for chorus and orchestra; op. 51, the 114th Psalm, for double chorus and orchestra; op. 78, three Psalms for solo and chorus; op. 91, the 98th Psalm, for double chorus and orchestra; and op. 96, Hymn ("Lass, O Herr mich") for alto solo, chorus, and orchestra. The Walpurgis Night. It was during his Italian travels in 1831 that Mendelssohn composed the music to Goethe's poem "The First Walpurgis Night." His letters throw much and interesting light upon the composition and his ideas while writing it. In a letter written at Rome, Feb. 22, 1831, he says:-- "Listen and wonder! Since I left Vienna I have partly composed Goethe's 'First Walpurgis Night,' but have not yet had courage to write it down. The composition has now assumed a form and become a grand cantata, with full orchestra, and may turn out well. At the opening there are songs of spring, etc., and plenty others of the same kind. Afterwards, when the watchmen with their 'Gabeln, und Zacken, und Eulen,' make a great noise, the fairy frolics begin, and you know that I have a particular foible for them; the sacrificial Druids then appear with their trombones in C major, when the watchmen come in again in alarm; and here I mean to introduce a light, mysterious, tripping chorus, and lastly to conclude with a grand sacrificial hymn. Do you not think that this might develop into a new style of cantata? I have an instrumental introduction as a matter of course, and the effect of the whole is spirited." On the 27th of April ensuing he refers to it again:-- "I must however return to my witches, so you must forgive my not writing any more to-day. This whole letter seems to hover in uncertainty, or rather I do so in my 'Walpurgis Night,' whether I am to introduce the big drum or not. 'Zacken, Gabeln, und wilde Klapperstöcke' seem to force me to the big drum, but moderation dissuades me. I certainly am the only person who ever composed for the scene on the Brocken without employing a piccolo-flute, but I can't help regretting the big drum; and before I can receive Fanny's[30] advice, the 'Walpurgis Night' will be finished and packed up." On his way back to Germany he writes from Milan, July 13, 1831, to the artist and operatic director, Eduard Devrient:-- "I have been writing a large composition that perhaps will one day make some effect,--'The First Walpurgis Night' of Goethe. I began it simply because it pleased and excited me; I did not think of any performance. But now that it is finished, I see that it is well suited for a large concert piece, and in my first subscription concert in Berlin you shall sing the bearded Druid,--the chorus sung by ----, kindly assisted by ----. I have written the part of the Druid into your throstle (by permission), and you will have to sing it out again." It was several years before the "Walpurgis Night" was publicly performed, and meanwhile it underwent several changes. On the 28th of November, 1842, he writes to his mother:-- "I am really anxious to make the 'Walpurgis Night' into a symphony-cantata, for which it was originally intended, but did not become so from want of courage on my part." On the 11th of December of the same year he writes her:-- "My 'Walpurgis Night' is to appear once more in the second part, in a somewhat different garb indeed from the former one, which was somewhat too richly endowed with trombones, and rather poor in the vocal parts; but to effect this I have been obliged to re-write the whole score from A to Z, and to add two new arias, not to mention the rest of the clipping and cutting. If I don't like it now, I solemnly vow to give it up for the rest of my life." The cantata was first publicly performed in Leipsic, Feb. 2, 1843, at a concert, in which it occupied the second part of the programme. It had to stand a severe test of comparison, for the first part was very brilliant, including a Haydn symphony, a Mozart aria, Beethoven's "Choral Fantasie," the piano part played by Madame Schumann, the overture from "Euryanthe," and the chorus from Weber's "Lyre and Sword;" but it made a success, and was received with great enthusiasm. The subject of the cantata is a very simple one. The witches of the Northern mythology were supposed to hold their revels on the summit of the Brocken on the eve of the 1st of May (Walpurgis Night), and the details of their wild and infernal "Sabbath" are familiar to every reader of "Faust." In his separate poem Goethe seeks to go back to the origin of the first Walpurgis Night. May-day eve was consecrated to Saint Walpurgis, who converted the Saxons from Druidism to Christianity, and on that night the evil spirits were said to be abroad. Goethe conceived the idea that the Druids on that night betook themselves to the mountains to celebrate their rites without interference from the Christians, accomplishing their purpose by disguising their sentinels as demons, who, when the Christians approached, ran through the woods with torches, clashed their arms, uttered hideous noises, and thus frightened them away, leaving the Druids free to finish their sacrifices. The cantata begins with an overture in two movements, an _allegro con fuoco_ and an _allegro vivace_, which describes in vivid tone-colors the passing of the season from winter to spring. The first number is a tenor solo and chorus of Druids, which are full of spring feeling, rising to religious fervor in the close:-- "Now May again Breaks winter's chain, The buds and bloom are springing; No snow is seen, The vales are green, The woodland choirs are singing! Yon mountain height Is wintry white; Upon it we will gather,-- Begin the ancient holy rite; Praise our Almighty Father." The next number is an alto solo, the warning of an aged woman of the people, which is very dramatic in its style:-- "Know ye not a deed so daring Dooms us all to die despairing? Know ye not it is forbidden By the edicts of our foemen?" The warning is followed by a stately exhortation from the Druid priest ("The man who flies our sacrifice"), leading up to a short chorus of a very stirring character in which the Druids resolve to go on with their rites. It is followed by a pianissimo chorus of the guards whispering to each other to "secure the passes round the glen." One of them suggests the demon scheme for frightening the enemy, which leads to the chorus:-- "Come with torches brightly flashing; Rush along with billets clashing; Through the night-gloom lead and follow, In and out each rocky hollow. Owls and ravens, Howl with us and scare the cravens." In this chorus the composer has given the freest rein to his fancy, and presents the weird scene in a grotesque chaos of musical effects, both vocal and instrumental, which may fairly be called infernal, and yet preserves form and rhythm throughout. It is followed by an exalted and impressive hymn for bass solo and chorus, which is a relief after the diablerie of the preceding number:-- "Restrained by might We now by night In secret here adore Thee. Still it is day Whene'er we pray, And humbly bow before Thee. Thou canst assuage Our foemen's rage And shield us from their terrors. The flame aspires! The smoke retires! Thus clear our faith from errors! Our customs quelled, Our rights withheld, Thy light shall shine forever." Following this impressive hymn comes the terrified warning of the Christian guard (tenor) and the response of his equally terrified comrades:-- "Help, my comrades! see a legion Yonder comes from Satan's region! See yon group of witches gliding To and fro in flames advancing; Some on wolves and dragons riding, See, ah, see them hither prancing! What a clattering troop of evil! Let us, let us quickly fly them! Imp and devil Lead the revel; See them caper, Wrapt in clouds of lurid vapor." As the Christians disappear, scared by the demon _ruse_, the Druids once more, led by their priest, resume their rites, closing with another choral hymn of praise similar in style to the first. [30] His sister. Antigone. Mendelssohn wrote incidental music to four great dramas,--the "Antigone" of Sophocles (1841); the "Oedipus at Colonos" of Sophocles (1843); the "Athalia" of Racine (1843); and the "Midsummer Night's Dream" of Shakspeare (1843), the overture to which was written by him in 1826. The latter is mainly instrumental. Of the other three, the music to "Antigone" and "Oedipus" is most frequently performed, and for that reason has been selected for description. In June, 1841, the King of Saxony invited Mendelssohn to become his Capellmeister. Frederick William IV. of Prussia had made him a similar offer about the same time. He accepted the latter and removed to Berlin, and the first duty imposed upon him by the King was the composition of music to the "Antigone" of Sophocles. With the assistance of the poet Tieck, who helped arrange the text, the work was accomplished in the short space of eleven days, and was given on the Potsdam Court stage October 28, to a private audience. It was first performed in public at Leipsic, March 5, 1842. It is written for male chorus and orchestra, and includes seven numbers; namely, 1. Introduction and maestoso ("Strahl des Helios schönstes Licht"); 2. Andante con moto ("Vieles Gewaltige lebt"); 3. Moderato ("Ihr Seligen deren"); 4. Adagio ("O Eros, Allsieger im Kampf"); 5. Recitative and chorus ("Noch toset des Sturmes Gewalt"); 6. Allegro maestoso ("Vielnamiger! Wonn' und Stolz"); 7. Andante alla marcia ("Hier Kommt er ja selbst"). The following extracts will give a comprehensive view of this powerful and felicitous music. Lampadius, writing of the first public performance, says:-- "On the 5th of March the 'Antigone' of Sophocles, translated by Donner and set to music by Mendelssohn, was brought out at the Leipsic theatre before a full audience. The composer directed, and was received with great applause. The music indeed was not antique, if to be so it must be played on the {syrinx}, the {salpinx}, and the {phorminx}, or if the composer must confine himself to that Greek type of melody and harmony of which all we know is that it was extremely simple, and, according to our ideas, meagre; but it was antique completely, in its being filled with the fire of the tragedy and making its spirit intelligible to us moderns, strengthening the meaning of the words, and giving a running musical commentary on them.... With us at Leipsic, as indeed everywhere, the Eros Chorus, with its solemn awe in the presence of the divine omnipotence of love, and the Bacchus Chorus, which, swinging the thyrsus, celebrates the praise of the Theban maiden's son in joyous strains, as well as the melodramatic passages, where Antigone enters, wailing, the chamber where her dead lover lay, and whither Creon has borne in his son's corpse, had an imposing effect. The impression of the whole piece, taken by itself, was very powerful. With amazement our modern world realized the sublimity of the ancient tragic muse, and recognized the 'great, gigantic fate which exalts man while grinding him to powder.'" Devrient, the director of the opera at Carlsruhe, in his "Recollections of Mendelssohn," has left a delightful sketch of the composition of the work. He says:-- "Felix did not enter upon his task without the fullest consideration. The first suggestion was to set the chorus in unison throughout, and to recitative interspersed with solos; and as nearly as possible to intone or recite the words, with accompaniment of such instruments only as may be supposed in character with the time of Sophocles,--flutes, tubas, and harps, in the absence of lyres. I opposed to this plan that the voice parts would be intolerably monotonous, without the compensatory clearness of the text being attained.... "Nevertheless Felix made the attempt to carry out this view, but after a few days he confessed to me that it was impracticable; that I was right in maintaining the impossibility of making the words clear in choral singing, except in a few places that are obviously suited for recitative;[31] that the chanting of a chorus would be vexatiously monotonous, tedious, and unmusical; and that accompaniments for so few instruments would give so little scope for variety of expression that it would make the whole appear as a mere puerile imitation of the ancient music, about which, after all, we knew nothing. He concluded therefore that the choruses must be sung, as the parts must be recited, not to assimilate themselves with the usages of Attic tragedy (which might easily lead us into absurdity) but as we would now express ourselves in speech and song.... With this I fully concurred; and Felix set, so vigorously to work, that in a few weeks he played me sketches, and by the end of September nearly the whole chain of choruses was completed. Besides my delight at the beauty of these choruses, they confirmed me in the certainty that Felix's genius was eminently dramatic. They not only gave the key to every scene, the expression to each separate verse, from the narrow complacency of the Theban citizens to their heartful and exalted sympathy, but also a dramatic accent soaring far beyond the words of the poet. I allude particularly to the dithyrambus that occurs between Creon's attempt to rescue Antigone and the relation of its terrible failure. This song of praise really consists entirely of glorifying appeals to Bacchus, and its dramatic application lies only in the verse:-- 'She was its pride, Who, clasping the Thunderer, died; And now, seeking its lost repose, We pray thee to come and heal its woes. Oh, hither bend; From thy Parnassian heights descend.' "To raise this chorus to be the terrible turning-point of the action; to bring here to its culmination the tension excited by the awful impending doom; to give this continually gathering power to the invocation, 'Hear us, Bacchus!' till it becomes a cry of agony; to give this exhaustive musical expression to the situation, marks the composer to have a specially dramatic gift. And this is betokened no less in the melodramatic portions. The idea of adding rhythmical accompaniments to spoken words may have been suggested by a few well-set passages in the music to 'Faust' by Prince Radziwill. It is to be regretted that the public is scarcely able to appreciate how exquisitely Mendelssohn has done this, since the representatives of Antigone and of Creon are seldom sufficiently musical to enter completely into the composer's intention; besides that in two passages of the accompanied dialogue of Antigone the words are not correctly set under the music." Of the private performance before the King and Court, Oct. 28, 1841, the same writer says:-- "We had two more rehearsals on the following day, the evening one in the presence of the King, and the performance itself took place on the 28th, before the Court and all the invited celebrities of art and science. It produced a very great sensation. The deep impression that the revival of an ancient tragedy could produce in our theatrical life promised to become an influence; it has purified our musical atmosphere, and it is certain that to Mendelssohn must be ascribed great and important merit in the cause. "Although the learned, of whom each expected the ancient tragedy to be put upon the stage according to his peculiar conception of it (which would of course be totally different in every case) might find the music too modern, too operatic, in fact, not sufficiently philological, it is undeniable that Mendelssohn's music has made the tragedy of Sophocles accessible to the sympathies of the general public, without in any wise violating the spirit and aroma of the poem, but rather lending it new life and intelligibility." [31] The passages, "But see, the son of Menoetius comes," etc., and "See, Hæmon appears," etc., are examples. Oedipus at Colonos. The story of "Oedipus Tyrannus" is told in this work in connection with Professor Paine's composition. The "Oedipus at Colonos," to which Mendelssohn set music, is the continuation of Sophocles' tragedy, describing the banishment of the blind hero, the loving care of his daughters, his arrival at Attica, and his death in the gardens of the Eumenides at Colonos, absolved by the fate which had so cruelly pursued him. The music to "Oedipus" was written at the command of the King of Prussia in 1843, and was first produced at Potsdam, Nov. 1, 1845. It contains a short introduction and nine choral numbers. The first and second choruses describe the entrance of Oedipus and Antigone into the grove of the Eumenides, their discovery by the people, the story of his sorrows which he relates to them, his meeting with his daughter Ismene, and the arrival of Theseus the King. The third number is the gem of the work, and is often given on the concert-stage. The free translation of the text for this beautiful double chorus is as follows:-- "_Strophe_.--Thou hast come, O stranger, to the seats of this land, renowned for the steed; to seats the fairest on earth, the chalky Colonos; where the vocal nightingale, chief abounding, trills her plaintive note in the green dells, tenanting the dark-hued ivy and the leafy grove of the god, untrodden, teeming with fruits, impervious to the sun, and unshaken by the winds of every storm; where Bacchus, the reveller, ever roams attending his divine nurses. "_Antistrophe_.--And ever day by day the narcissus, with its beauteous clusters, bursts into bloom by heaven's dew, the ancient coronet of the mighty goddesses, and the saffron with golden ray; nor do the sleepless founts of Cephisus that wander through the fields fail, but ever each day it rushes o'er the plains with its limpid wave, fertilizing the bosom of the earth; nor have the choirs of the muses loathed this clime; nor Venus, too, of the golden reign. "_Strophe_.--And there is a tree, such as I hear not to have ever sprung in the land of Asia, nor in the mighty Doric island of Pelops, a tree unplanted by hand, of spontaneous growth, terror of the hostile spear, which flourishes chiefly in this region, the leaf of the pale gray olive that nourishes our young. This shall neither any one in youth nor in old age, marking for destruction, and having laid it waste with his hand, bring to nought; for the eye that never closes of Morian Jove regards it, and the blue-eyed Minerva. "_Antistrophe_.--And I have other praise for this mother-city to tell, the noblest gift of the mighty divinity, the highest vaunt, that she is the great of chivalry, renowned for the steed and famous on the main; for thou, O sovereign Neptune, son of Saturn, hast raised her to this glory, having first, in these fields, founded the bit to tame the horse; and the well-rowed boat, dashed forth by the hand, bounds marvellously through the brine, tracking on the hundred-footed daughters of Nereus." The first strophe is begun by one choir in unison after a short but graceful introduction which is repeated at the end of the strophe in another form, and then the second choir begins the antistrophe, set to the same beautiful melody. At its close the music changes in character and grows vigorous and excited as the first choir sings the second strophe, with which shortly the second choir joins in splendid eight-part harmony. The latter takes up the strain again in the second antistrophe, singing the praise of "the mother-city," and the number closes with the united invocation to Neptune,--an effect which has hardly been excelled in choral music. The fourth chorus, which is very dramatic in its effect, tells of the assault of Creon upon Oedipus, and the fifth, his protection by Theseus, who comes to the rescue. In this number the double choirs unite with magnificent effect in the appeal to the gods ("Dread Power, that fillest Heaven's high Throne") to defend Theseus in the conflict. The sixth number ("When the Health and Strength are gone") is a pathetic description of the blind hero's pitiful condition, and prepares the way for the powerful choruses in which his impending fate is foreshadowed by the thunderbolts of Jove which rend the heavens. The eighth and ninth choruses are full of the mournful spirit of the tragedy itself, and tell in notes as eloquent as Sophocles' lines of the mysterious disappearance of the Theban hero, ingulfed in the opening earth, and the sorrowful lamentations of the daughters for the father whom they had served and loved so devotedly. As the Hart Pants. The music to the Forty-second Psalm, familiarly known by the caption which forms the title of this sketch, was first performed at the tenth subscription Gewandhaus concert in Leipsic in 1838, Clara Novello taking the soprano part. Though not constructed upon the large scale of the "Hymn of Praise," or even of the "Walpurgis Night," it is a work which is thoroughly artistic, and just as complete and symmetrical in its way. It contains seven numbers. After a slow and well-sustained introduction, the work begins with a chorus ("As the Hart pants after the Water Brooks, so panteth my soul for Thee, O God") which is a veritable prayer in its tenderness and expression of passionate longing. After the chorus a delicate and refined soprano solo ("For my Soul thirsteth for God") continues the sentiment, first given out in an oboe solo, and then uttered by the voice in a beautifully melodious adagio. The third number is a soprano recitative ("My Tears have been my Meat") leading to a chorus in march time by the sopranos and altos ("For I had gone with the Multitude; I went with them to the House of God"). Then follows a full chorus beginning with male voices in unison ("Why, my Soul, art thou cast down?"), answered by the female voices ("Trust thou in God"). Again the soprano voice is heard in pathetic recitative ("O my God! my Soul is cast down within me; all Thy Waves and thy Billows are gone over me"). A beautiful quartet of male voices with string accompaniment replies: "The Lord will command His Loving-kindness in the Day-time; and in the Night His Song shall be with me, and my Prayer unto the God of my Life." The response is full of hope and consolation; but through it all runs the mournful strain of the soprano (forming a quintet at the end), coming to a close only when the full chorus joins in a repetition of the fourth number ("Trust thou in God"), this time elaborated with still greater effect, and closing with a stately ascription of praise to the God of Israel. The Gutenberg Fest-Cantata. The occasion for which the short festival cantata known as the "Gutenberg" was written, was the fourth centennial celebration of the art of printing, which was observed at Leipsic in 1840 by the unveiling of Gutenberg's statue in the public square, and other ceremonies. The direction of the musical part of the festivity was intrusted to Mendelssohn. The text for the hymn to be sung at the unveiling, which occurred on the morning of June 24, immediately after the public service in Church, was furnished by Adolphus Prölsz, a teacher in the Gymnasium at Freiberg. Lampadius, in his Life of Mendelssohn, says of the performance:-- "Mendelssohn arranged it with trombone accompaniment. When the opening words, 'Fatherland! within thy Confines broke the dawning Light,'--so the opening ran, if my memory is correct,--were heard in the Music Hall at the first rehearsal, the heartiest applause arose among the performers as well as the invited guests. Nothing so simple, powerful, joyous, and unconstrained had been heard for a long time.... Many will remember how, on the very day of the public performance, the slight form of Mendelssohn was seen moving nervously around to find just the right place for the trombonists, and how nearly he came to a fall from the platform. During that performance the singers were divided into two choirs, which sat at some distance from each other; one of them was conducted by David, and the other by Mendelssohn." The cantata opens with a stately chorale ("With solemn Hymn of Praise") set to the old tune "Honor to God alone," followed by the song in memory of Gutenberg ("Fatherland! within thy Confines"), which has been separately arranged and printed as a solo. The third number is a quick, spirited movement for tenors ("And God said, 'Let there be Light'") followed by another effective chorale ("Now, thank God all"), which brings the work to a close. On the afternoon of the same day Mendelssohn's much more important work, "The Hymn of Praise," was given. A sketch of this has already appeared in the "Standard Oratorios." Lauda Sion. The "Lauda Sion," or sequence sung at High Mass on the Feast of Corpus Christi, was chosen by Mendelssohn as the subject of one of his most beautiful cantatas, for four solo voices, chorus, and orchestra. The majestic rhythm of Saint Thomas Aquinas's verses loses none of its stateliness in this musical setting. The work was composed for the celebration of this Festival by the Church of St. Martin at Liège, and was first performed there June 11, 1846. Chorley, the English critic who accompanied Mendelssohn on that occasion, has left us in his "Modern German Music" an interesting sketch of its first production. He says:-- "The early summer of 1846 was a great year for the Rhine Land and its adjacent district; since there the Lower Rhenish Festival at Aix-la-Chapelle was conducted by Mendelssohn, and starred by Mlle. Jenny Lind; and within a fortnight afterwards was celebrated at Liège the 'Fête Dieu,' for which his 'Lauda Sion' was written.... "It was a pity that those who had commissioned such a composer to write such a work had so entirely miscalculated their means of presenting it even respectably. The picturesque old Church of St. Martin is one of those buildings which swallow up all sound, owing to the curve of the vaults and the bulk of the piers; the orchestra was little more powerful, when heard from below, than the distant scraping of a Christmas serenade far down the street; the chorus was toneless, and out of tune; and only one solo singer, the soprano, was even tolerable. On arriving at Liège with the purpose of conducting his work, Mendelssohn gave up the matter in despair. 'No! it is not good, it cannot go well, it will make a bad noise,' was his greeting to us.... "We drove with him that afternoon up to St. Martin's Church, to hear, as he merrily styled it, 'the execution of his music.' The sight of the steep, narrow, winding street, decked out with fir-trees and banners and the escutcheons of the different towns of Belgium, pleased him, for he was as keen a lover of a show as a child, and had a true artist's quick sense of the picturesque.... "Not envy's self could have helped being in pain for its composer, so slack and tuneless and ineffective was the execution of this clear and beautiful work, by a scrannel orchestra, and singers who could hardly be heard, and who evidenced their nationality by resolutely holding back every movement. But in the last verse, _alla breve_-- 'Ecce panis angelorum'-- there came a surprise of a different quality. It was scenically accompanied by an unforeseen exposition of the Host, in a gorgeous gilt tabernacle, that slowly turned above the altar, so as to reveal the consecrated elements to the congregation. Incense was swung from censers, and the evening sun, breaking in with a sudden brightness, gave a fairy-like effect to the curling fumes as they rose; while a very musical bell, that timed the movement twice in a bar, added its charm to the rite. I felt a quick grasp on my wrist, as Mendelssohn whispered to me, eagerly, 'Listen! how pretty that is! it makes amends for all their bad playing and singing,--and I shall hear the rest better some other time.' That other time I believe never came for the composer of the 'Lauda Sion,'--since this was only the year before his death." The work is composed in seven numbers. After a short introduction the voices give out the theme, "Lauda Sion," followed by a chorus, "Laudis Thema," full of devotional spirit. The soprano then enunciates in the "Sit Laus plena" phrases repeated by the chorus, followed by a beautifully accompanied quartet, "In hac Mensa." The fifth number is a solemn chorale in unison, leading to a soprano solo in the arioso style, "Caro cibus," which is exquisitely beautiful. The work concludes with a very dramatic solo and chorus, "Sumit unus," set to the words "Bone pastor," and the closing verses of the hymn itself. Short as the cantata is, it is one of the most felicitous of all Mendelssohn's settings of the ritual. MOZART. Johann Chrysostomus Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, one of the most remarkable of musical geniuses, and the only one of his contemporaries whose operas still hold the stage with unimpaired freshness, was born at Salsburg, Jan. 27, 1756. He was the son of Leopold Mozart, the Salzburgian Vice-Capellmeister, who gave him and his sister Nannerl their earliest instruction in music, and with such good results that the children travelled and gave concerts with great success. Before he was seven years of age he had composed several pieces for piano and violin, his earliest having been written at the age of five. At twelve he became court capellmeister in Salzburg. After his musical travels he went to Vienna, and there began his period of classic activity, which commenced with "Idomeneus," reached its culmination in "Don Giovanni," and closed with the "Requiem,"--the "swan-song" of his wonderful career. In his brief life Mozart composed more than fifty great works, besides hundreds of minor ones in every possible form of musical writing. His greatest compositions may be classed in the following order: "Idomeneus" (1780); "Entführung aus dem Serail" (1781); "Figaro's Hochzeit" ("The Marriage of Figaro"), (1785); "Don Giovanni" (1787); "Cosi fan Tutti," "Zauberflöte" ("The Magic Flute"), and "Titus" (1790); and the "Requiem" (1791, the year of his death). The catalogue of Mozart's works is an immense one, for his period of productivity was unusually long. From the age of five to his death there was not a year that was not crowded with his music. Besides his numerous operas, of which only the more famous are given above, he wrote a large number of symphonies (of which the "Jupiter" is now the best known), sonatas, concertos, for all kinds of instruments, even to musical-glasses, trios, quartets, quintets, and sextets for all possible combinations of instruments, marches, fugues, masses, hymns, arias of extraordinary brilliancy, liturgies, cantatas, songs and ballads, and indeed every form of music that is now known. His style was studied by Beethoven, and so closely imitated that the music of his first period, if published without autograph, would readily be attributed to Mozart. His style was so spontaneous and characteristic that it has been well said there is but one Mozart. The distinguishing trait of his music is its rich melodic beauty and its almost ravishing sweetness. His melody pours along in a bright unbroken stream that sometimes even overflows its banks, so abundant is it. It is peculiarly the music of youth and spring-time, exquisite in form, graceful in technique, and delightful in expression. It was the source where all his immediate successors went for their inspiration, though it lacked the maturity, majesty, and emotional depths which were reached by such a Titan as Beethoven. Old as it is, and antiquated in form, especially as compared with the work of the new schools, its perennial freshness, grace, and beauty have made it immortal. King Thamos. The historical drama, "Thamos, King of Egypt," was written by Freiherr von Gebler. Otto Jahn, in his Life of Mozart, gives the following sketch of its story:-- "Menes, King of Egypt, has been deposed by a usurper, Rameses, and, as it is thought, assassinated; but he is living, under the name of Sethos, as high priest of the Temple of the Sun, the secret being known only to the priest Hammon and the general Phanes. After the death of Rameses, his son Thamos is heir to the throne. The day arrives when Thamos attains majority, is to be invested with the diadem, and to select a bride. The friends of Menes seek in vain to persuade him to dispute the throne. He will not oppose the noble youth, whom he loves and esteems. But Pheron, a prince and confidant of Thamos, has, in conjunction with Mirza, the chief of the Virgins of the Sun, organized a conspiracy against Thamos, and won over a portion of the army. Tharsis, daughter of Menes, who is believed by all, even her father, to be dead, has been brought up by Mirza under the name of Sais. It is arranged that she shall be proclaimed rightful heir to the throne, and, as she will then have the right to choose her consort, Mirza will secure her beforehand for Pheron. When she discovers that Sais loves Thamos, and he her, she induces Sais to believe that Thamos prefers her playmate Myris, and Sais is generous enough to sacrifice her love and her hopes of the throne to her friend. Equally nobly Thamos rejects all suspicions against Pheron, and awards him supreme command. As the time for action draws near, Pheron discloses to Sethos, whom he takes for a devoted follower of Menes, and consequently for an enemy to Thamos, the secret of Sais' existence and his own plans. Sethos prepares secretly to save Thamos. Sais also, after being pledged to silence by an oath, is initiated into the secret by Mirza and Pheron, and directed to choose Pheron. She declines to give a decided answer, and Pheron announces to Mirza his determination to seize the throne by force in case of extremity. Sais, who believes herself not loved by Thamos, and will not therefore choose him as consort, but will not deprive him of the throne, takes the solemn and irrevocable oath as Virgin of the Sun. Thamos enters, and they discover, to their sorrow, their mutual love. Sethos, entering, enlightens Thamos as to the treachery of Pheron, without disclosing the parentage of Sais. Pheron, disturbed by the report that Menes is still living, comes to take council of Sethos, and adheres to his treacherous design. In solemn assembly Thamos is about to be declared king, when Mirza reveals the fact that Sais is the lost Tharsis, and heiress to the throne. Thamos is the first to offer her his homage. When she is constrained to choose between Thamos and Pheron she declares herself bound by her oath, and announces Thamos as the possessor of the throne. Then Pheron calls his followers to arms, but Sethos steps forward and discloses himself as Menes; whereupon all fall at his feet in joyful emotion. Pheron is disarmed and led off; Mirza stabs herself; Menes, as father and ruler, releases Sais from her oath, unites her with Thamos, and places the pair on the throne. A message arrives that Pheron has been struck with lightning by Divine judgment, and the piece ends." To this drama Mozart composed the incidental music in 1779 and 1780 at Salzburg, where it was produced under Böhm and Shickaneder's direction. The play did not keep the stage long. Mozart refers to this circumstance in a letter to his father, written Feb. 15, 1783:-- "I regret much not being able to make use of the music for 'Thamos,' for not having pleased here, it is included among the tabooed pieces, no longer to be performed. For the sake of the music alone it might possibly be given again, but it is not likely. It is really a pity." The music consists of five entr'actes and three choruses constructed in a large and majestic style and specially adapted to ceremonial performance. The first is a responsive chorus of maidens and priests ("Before thy Light, Sun-god, thy Foe the Darkness takes Wing") sung in the temple of the sun at Heliopolis. The second ("Godhead, throned in Power eternal") is also sung in the temple before Thamos' coronation, at the beginning of the fifth act, and contains short snatches of solos for a priest and maiden, leading to a close in full harmony for the voices, and an instrumental finale of soft music during which the priest offers sacrifice upon the altar. The third opens with a majestic bass solo for the high priest ("Ye Children of Dust, come, with Trembling, adore ye") and closes with a stately strain for all the voices ("We Children of Dust in our Reverence tremble"). Although the play was shelved, the music was not lost. Mozart subsequently set the choruses to Latin and German words, and they were adapted as hymns and motets for church use. They are now familiar to musicians as "Splendente te Deus," "Deus tibi Laus et Honor," and "Ne Pulvis et Cinis." Nohl says of them:-- "A certain solemnity pervades them such as few of his sacred works possess, and an elevation of feeling only surpassed in the 'Flauto Magico.' But the composer has relied on theatrical effect; and thus, in spite of his graver intentions, we find more worldly pomp than religious depth in these choruses, which Mozart worked out with all love and care, even in their most minute details, and which manifest the thoughtful mood that absorbed his soul." Davidde Penitente. The cantata "Davidde Penitente" was the outcome of a work of love. Before his marriage with Constance Weber, Mozart vowed that when he brought her to Salzburg as his wife he would write a mass for the occasion and have it performed there. In a letter written to his father, Jan. 4, 1783, he says: "As a proof of the fulfilment of this vow, the score of a 'half-mass' is now lying by, in hopes of some day being finished." Holmes, in his admirable Life of Mozart, says:-- "To exercise his pen in the grand contrapuntal style of church music was at all times agreeable to him; and he was now free from the local restrictions under which he had written his numerous masses at Salzburg, where neither the style, the length of the pieces, nor their instrumentation was left to his own discretion; hence, making due allowance for the effect of some few years in developing the composer's genius, the great superiority of 'Davidde Penitente,' by which title this mass was in the sequel better known over all the earlier masses, as well for breadth of style as in true ecclesiastical solemnity." The "half-mass" which Mozart brought to Salzburg in fulfilment of his vow comprised only the Kyrie, Gloria, Sanctus, and Benedictus. The remaining numbers were supplied from another mass, and in this form the work was produced at St. Peter's Church, Aug. 25, 1783, his wife taking the solo part. The original work is described as exceedingly majestic and beautiful, particularly the "Gratias" for five, and the "Qui Tollis" for eight-voiced chorus. Jahn says of them that the same wonderful and mysterious impression of the supernatural conveyed by the most beautiful numbers in his Requiem characterizes these choruses. The "half-mass" was destined to undergo still more radical changes. In the spring of 1785 the committee of the society for the relief of the widows and orphans of musicians at Vienna wished to celebrate their annual festival with some new work, and commissioned Mozart to write a cantata. As the time was very short, he took the Kyrie and Gloria of the mass, set Italian words to them, and added four new numbers, in which form it was produced under the title of "Davidde Penitente" at the Burg-theatre, March 13, the solo singers being Fraulein Cavalieri,[32] Fraulein Distler, and Herr Adamberger.[33] The cantata comprises ten numbers. The first number is a chorus ("Alzai le flebile voci") taken from the "Kyrie" of the mass; the second, an allegro chorus ("Cantiam le lodi"), from the "Gloria;" the third, a soprano solo ("Lungi le cure"), from the "Laudamus;" the fourth, an adagio chorus ("Sii pur sempre") from the "Gratias;" the fifth, a very melodious soprano duet ("Sorgi o Signore"), from the "Domine Deus;" the sixth, a beautiful tenor aria ("A te fra tanti affanni"), written for Adamberger; the seventh, a double chorus ("Se vuoi, puniscimi"); the eighth, a bravura aria for soprano ("Fra le oscure Ombre"), written for Mademoiselle Cavalieri; the ninth, a terzetto ("Tutti le mie speranze"); and the tenth, a final chorus and fugue which, by general consent of the critics of the time, was called the "queen of vocal fugues." Notwithstanding the introduction of specially-written arias, and the brilliant music assigned to the soprano, the cantata is regarded as one of the purest examples of Mozart's church style. [32] Catharina Cavalieri, born in 1761, died June 30, 1801. She was a singer in Italian and German opera in Vienna from 1775 to 1783; but as she never left that city her reputation was purely local. Mozart wrote for her the part of Constanza in his opera "Die Entführing." [33] Valentin Adamberger was born at Munich, July 6, 1743, and was famed for his splendid tenor voice. Mozart composed for him the part of Belmont in the "Entführing," and highly esteemed him as a friend and adviser. He died Aug. 24, 1804. The Masonic Cantatas. Mozart became a member of the Masonic fraternity shortly after his arrival in Vienna in 1784, and devoted himself to its objects with all the ardor of his nature. In the following year his father visited him and was also persuaded to join, though not without considerable entreaty on the son's part. He was a devoted member of the Church and entertained a deep reverence for its forms. The Church then, as now, was hostile to all secret orders, and was particularly inimical to the Masons because they had attacked certain alleged abuses in the cloisters. His prejudices were overcome, however, and he soon became as ardent a devotee of Masonry as his son. It formed one of the principal subjects of their correspondence; but unfortunately all these letters were destroyed by the cautious father a short time before his death, which occurred May 28, 1787. In only one letter do we find reference to the subject, and that in a guarded manner. On the 3d of April of that year Mozart heard of his father's illness, and the next day he writes to him:-- "I have this moment heard tidings which distress me exceedingly, and the more so that your last letter led me to suppose you were so well; but I now hear that you are really ill. I need not say how anxiously I shall long for a better report of you to comfort me, and I do hope to receive it, though I am always prone to anticipate the worst. As death (when closely considered) is the true goal of our life, I have made myself so thoroughly acquainted with this good and faithful friend of man, that not only has its image no longer anything alarming to me, but rather something most peaceful and consolatory; and I thank my Heavenly Father that He has vouchsafed to grant me the happiness, _and has given me the opportunity (you understand me), to learn that it is the key to our true felicity_." Mozart's membership in the order began at an opportune time for him. Though at the height of his fame he was at the very lowest depth of his finances; and both in 1787 and 1789, though he was Imperial Chamber Musician and his opera "Don Giovanni" was having a successful run, he was obliged to apply repeatedly to his friend and brother Mason, the merchant Puchberg of Vienna, for loans, and also to Herr Hofdämmel, who was about to become a Mason upon Mozart's solicitation. During the short remainder of his life he was devotedly attached to the order, and he was buried in the dress of the brotherhood; but, strange to say, not one of the members accompanied their illustrious associate to the grave. Four of Mozart's works were directly inspired by Masonry. In 1785 he wrote a simple but beautiful lodge song for voice, with piano accompaniment ("Die ihr einern neuen Grade"). This was followed by the wonderfully beautiful "Freemason's Funeral Music" for orchestra, written upon the occasion of the death of two brothers in the fraternity, of which Jahn says:-- "Mozart has written nothing more beautiful, from its technical treatment and finished effect of sound, its earnest feeling and psychological truth, than this short adagio. It is the utterance of a resolute, manly character, which, in the face of death, pays the rightful tribute to sorrow without being either crushed or stunned by it." In the same year he composed a small cantata, "Die Maurerfreude," for tenor and chorus, in honor of Herr Born, the master of the lodge to which he belonged in Vienna, which is full of true feeling combined with graceful melody. The second cantata, catalogued in Köchel "Eine Kleine Freimaurer Cantate, 'Laut verkünde unsre Freude,'" better known by its title "Lob der Freundschaft" ("Praise of Friendship") is notable as the last work written by Mozart. Its date is Nov. 15, 1791, only three weeks before his death. At this time he was engaged in finishing up his "Requiem," which had such a depressing effect upon him that he was ordered by his physician to lay it aside. The rest he thus secured had such a good effect that by the middle of November he was able to attend a Masonic meeting and produce the little cantata which he had just written for them. On reaching home after the performance he said to his wife, "O Stänerl, how madly they have gone on about my cantata! If I did not know that I had written better things, I should have thought this my best composition." It is constructed upon a larger scale than the cantata of 1785, and is very pleasing and popular, but lacks the spirit and earnestness of the former. It has six numbers: 1. Chorus, "Laut verkünde unsre Freude;" 2. Recitative, "Zum ersten Male;" 3. Tenor aria, "Dieser Gottheit Allmacht;" 4. Recitative, "Wohlan, ihr Brüder;" 5. Duet, "Lange sallen diese Mauern"; 6. Chorus, "Lasst uns mit geschlungen Händen." It was Mozart's swan-song. Two days after its performance he was stricken down with his last illness. PAINE. John K. Paine, one of the very few really eminent American composers, was born at Portland, Me., Jan. 9, 1839. He studied the piano, organ, and composition with Kotzschmar in that city, and made his first public appearance as an organist, June 25, 1857. During the following year he went to Germany, and studied the organ, composition, and instrumentation with Haupt and other masters in Berlin. He returned to this country in 1861, and gave several concerts, in which he played many of the organ works of the best writers for the first time in the United States. Shortly after his return he was appointed instructor of music in Harvard University, and in 1876 was honored with the elevation to a professorship and given a regular chair. He is best known as a composer, and several of his works have been paid the rare compliment of performance in Germany, among them his Mass in D and all his symphonies. The former was given at the Berlin Singakademie in 1867, under his own direction. Among his principal compositions are the oratorio "St. Peter," the music to "Oedipus," the cantatas, "Nativity," "The Realm of Fancy," and "Phoebus, Arise;" the Mass in D; the Centennial Hymn, set to Whittier's poem, and sung at the opening of the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition; the overture to "As You Like It;" "The Tempest," in the style of a symphonic poem; the symphony in C minor, and "Spring" symphony; besides numerous sonatas, fantasias, preludes, songs, and arrangements for organ and piano. His larger orchestral works have been made familiar to American audiences by Mr. Theodore Thomas's band, and have invariably met with success. His style of composition is large, broad, and dignified, based upon the best classic models, and evinces a high degree of musical scholarship. Oedipus Tyrannus. The first public performance of the "Oedipus Tyrannus" of Sophocles in this country was given at the Sanders Theatre (Harvard College), Cambridge, Mass., May 17, 1881, for which occasion Mr. Paine composed the music incidental to the world-famous tragedy. The performance was a memorable one in many ways. The tragedy was given in the original language. It was the first event of the kind in America. The audience was a representative one in culture, education, and social brilliancy. The programme was also unique, being printed in Greek, and translated into English was as follows:-- TO ALL THE SPECTATORS GREETING. [The college seal.] _Six verses from the Eumenides of Æschylus:_ "Hail people of the city That sit near to Zeus, Friends of the friendly goddess, Wise in your generation, Ye whom under the wings of Pallas The father guards." THE OEDIPUS TYRANNUS OF SOPHOCLES WILL BE REPRESENTED IN THE THEATRE OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY on the 17th of May ({Thargêliôn}), 1881, and again on the 19th, 20th, and 21st. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Oedipus, King of Thebes George Riddle. Priest of Zeus William Hobbs Manning. Creon, Jocasta's brother Henry Norman. Teiresias, the blind seer Curtis Guild. Jocasta, Queen of Thebes Leonard Eckstein Opdycke. Messenger, from Corinth Arthur Wellington Roberts. Servant of Laius Gardiner Martin Lane. Messenger from the Palace Owen Wister. ATTENDANTS. Attendants on Oedipus J. R. Coolidge, E. J. Wendell. Attendants on Jocasta J. J. Greenough, W. L. Putnam. Attendants on Creon G. P. Keith, J. Lee. Boy guide of Teiresias C. H. Goodwin. Antigone E. Manning. Ismene J. K. Whittemore. Suppliants.-- G. P. Keith, G. D. Markham (priests), W. H. Herrick, J. Lee, E. Lovering, H. Putnam, L. A. Shaw, C. M. Walsh (chosen youths), C. H. Goodwin, E. Manning, R. Manning, W. Merrill, E. R. Thayer, J. K. Whittemore (boys). CHORUS OF THEBAN OLD MEN. Coryphæus Louis Butler McCagg. Assistant to the chorus in the third stasmon, with solo George Laurie Osgood. MEMBERS OF THE CHORUS. N. M. Brigham, Frederick R. Burton, Henry G. Chapin, Sumner Coolidge, Edward P. Mason, Marshall H. Cushing, Wendell P. Davis, Morris Earle, Percival J. Eaton, Gustavus Tuckerman, Charles S. Hamlin, Jared S. How, Howard Lilienthal, Charles F. Mason. Leader of the chorus and composer of the music John Knowles Paine. Prompter George L. Kittredge. The scene is laid in front of the palace in Boetian Thebes. The chorus is composed of Theban old men. Oedipus speaks first. The managers request all the spectators to remain sitting until the postlude is ended. Immediately after the last chorus has been sung there will be a pause for those who wish to go out. After this the doors will be closed. After the play, horse-cars ({hamaxai hipposidêrodromikai}) will be ready for those who want to go to the city. Wilsons, printers. ({Oyilsônes typois egapsan}.) The story of the Theban hero, his ignorance of his own parentage, his dismay at the revelation of the oracle that he would kill his father and marry his mother, his quarrel with the former, resulting in the very tragedy he was seeking to avoid, his solution of the riddle of the sphinx, the reward of the Queen's hand which Creon had promised, leading to the unfortunate marriage with his mother, Jocasta, thus completing the revelation of the oracle, does not need description in detail. The marriage was followed by a pestilence that wasted Thebes, and at this point the plot of the drama begins. It concerns itself with the efforts of Oedipus to unravel the mystery of the death of his father, Laius, which lead to the discovery that he himself was the murderer, and that he had been guilty of incest with his own mother. Jocasta hangs herself, and Oedipus, rushing frantically into the palace, beholds her, and overwhelmed with horror at the sight and the fulfilment of the oracle, seizes her brooch-pin and blinds himself. In the Oedipus at Colonos the sequel is told. The hero dies in the gardens of the Eumenides, happy in the love of his daughters and the pardon which fate grants him. The music to the tragedy is thoroughly classical in spirit, and has all the nobility, breadth, dignity, and grace characteristic of the Greek idea. The principal lyric movements of the chorus, the choral odes, of which there are six, comprise the scheme of the composer. The melodramatic practice of the orchestra accompanying spoken dialogue only appears to a limited extent in the third ode; and the chorus, as narrator, is accompanied by music only in the seven last lines of the play, which form the postlude. The orchestral introduction, which is treated in a very skilful and scholarly manner, epitomizes the spirit of the work. The odes are divided as usual into strophes and antistrophes, assigned alternately to a male chorus of fifteen and full chorus. The first ("Oracle sweet-tongued of Zeus"), which has the genuine antique dignity and elevation, is a description of the sufferings of the people from the pestilence which has wasted Thebes since the unnatural marriage of Oedipus and Jocasta, and a fervent prayer to the gods for aid. The second ("Thou Delphic Rock, who can he be?") concludes the scene where the blind prophet Teiresias arrives upon the summons of Creon and accuses Oedipus of the crime, accompanying the accusation with dark hints of further guilt. In this ode, which is specially noticeable for its rich and graceful treatment, the chorus expresses its disbelief of the charges. In the third scene, Creon enters to protest against the accusations of Oedipus, but a quarrel ensues between them, which results in the menace of death to the former. Jocasta appears, and upon her intercession Creon is allowed to depart. In the ode, the chorus joins in this appeal to Oedipus,--a strong, vigorous number, the effect of which is heightened by the intervening spoken parts of Creon, Oedipus, and Jocasta, with musical accompaniment. The fourth ode ("O may my Life be spent in Virtue") is a vigorous denunciation of the impiety of Jocasta in speaking scornfully of the oracles. The fifth ode ("If I the Prophet's Gift possess") is full of idyllic grace and sweetness, realizing in a remarkable degree the old Grecian idea of sensuous beauty. It is a speculation upon the divine origin of Oedipus, after the messenger relates the story of the King's exposure in his childhood upon Mount Cithæron, and contains a charming tenor solo. The last ode ("O Race of mortal Men") bewails the vicissitudes of fortune, and is full of the tragic significance of impending fate. The work comes to a close with the postlude:-- "Ye who dwell in Thebes our city, fix on Oedipus your eyes, Who resolved the dark enigma, noblest liver and most wise. Glorious like a sun he mounted, envied of the popular throng, Now he sinks in seas of anguish, quenched the stormy waves among. Therefore I await the final hour, to ancient wisdom known, Ere I call one mortal happy. Never shall that thought be shown, Till he end his earthly being, scathless of a sigh or groan." Six public performances of the "Oedipus" were given in 1881, and every season since that time selections from the music have been performed in New York, Boston, and other cities. As the most important and scholarly work an American composer has yet produced, it cannot be heard too often. The Nativity. The text of "The Nativity," for chorus, solo voices, and orchestra, is taken from the hymn in Milton's ode "On the Morning of Christ's Nativity," and is composed in three parts. The first part includes the first, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh; the second, a combination of the eighth and ninth; and the third, the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth verses. After a short instrumental introduction, which works up to an effective climax, the cantata begins with a chorus ("It was the Winter wild"), introduced by the soprano, developing to full harmony at the words, "Nature in Awe to Him," and closing pianissimo. After a short soprano solo ("But, He her Fears to cease") the chorus resumes ("With Turtle Wing the amorous Clouds dividing"). A succession of choral passages follows, admirably suggestive of the sentiment of the poem,--a vigorous, stirring allegro, "No War or Battle's Sound was heard the World around;" "And Kings sat still with awful Eye," broadly and forcibly written; and a tender, graceful number, "But peaceful was the Night." They are followed by another soprano solo ("And though the shady Gloom"), full of brightness and animation, which leads directly to a majestic chorus ("He saw a greater Sun appear"), which closes the first part. The second part, a quartet and chorus, is pastoral in character, and reflects the idyllic quiet and beauty of the text. The quartet, "The Shepherds on the Lawn," is introduced by short tenor, bass, and alto solos, and also contains a very melodious and graceful solo for soprano ("When such Music sweet their Hearts and Ears did greet"), after which the full quartet leads up to a vigorous chorus ("The Air such Pleasure loath to lose"), closing the part. The third part is choral, and forms an effective climax to the work. It opens with the powerful chorus, "Ring out, ye crystal Spheres," emphasized by the organ bass with stately effect, and moves on majestically to the close,-- "And Heaven as at some festival Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall." The Realm of Fancy. "The Realm of Fancy" is a short cantata, the music set to Keats's familiar poem:-- "Ever let the fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth." With the exception of a dozen lines, the dainty poem is used entire, and is set to music with a keen appreciation of its graceful beauty. A short allegretto fancifully trips along to the opening chorus ("Ever let the Fancy roam"), which is admirable for its shifting play of musical color. A soprano solo ("She will bring in spite of Frost"), followed by a very expressive barytone solo ("Thou shalt at a Glance behold the Daisy and the Marigold"), leads up to a charming little chorus ("Shaded Hyacinth, always Sapphire Queen"). A short instrumental passage, in the time of the opening allegretto, introduces the final chorus ("O Sweet Fancy, let her loose"), charmingly worked up, and closing in canon form. The cantata is very short; but rarely have poem and music been more happily wedded than in this delightful tribute to fancy. Phoebus, Arise. Mr. Paine's ripe scholarship is shown to admirable advantage in his selection of the poem "Phoebus, Arise" from among the lyrics of the old Scottish poet, William Drummond, of Hawthornden, and the characteristic old-style setting he has given to it. Like "The Realm of Fancy," it is very short; but like that cantata, also, it illustrates the versatility of his talent and the happy manner in which he preserves the characteristics of the poem in his music. Drummond, who has been called "the Scottish Petrarch," and whose poems were so celebrated that even Ben Jonson could find it in his way to visit him, was noted for the grace and lightness of his verse, and the pensive cast with which it was tinged. It has little of the modern poetic style, and the composer has clothed his poem in a musical garb to correspond. The cantata is written for tenor solo, male chorus, and orchestra, and opens with a brilliant chorus ("Phoebus, arise, and paint the sable Skies with azure, white, and red"), closing with a crescendo in the old style. An expressive and somewhat pensive tenor solo follows:-- "This is that happy morn And day, long-wishèd day, Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates my hope betray), Which purely white deserves An everlasting diamond should it mark. This is the morn should bring unto the grove My love, to hear, and recompense my love." A short choral passage with tenor solo ("Fair King, who all preserves") leads to a full rich chorus ("Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest Guise"). In the next number the chorus returns to the opening theme ("Phoebus, Arise"), and develops it with constantly increasing power to the close. PARKER. Horatio W. Parker, a young American composer of more than ordinary promise, was born at Auburndale, Mass., Sept. 15, 1863. After his fifteenth year he began the study of music, taking his earlier lessons of the three Boston teachers, Stephen A. Emery, John Orth, and G. W. Chadwick. In 1882 he went to Munich and studied the organ and composition with Josef Rheinberger, for three years. In the spring of 1885 he wrote the cantata "King Trojan," and it was produced for the first time in that city with success during the summer of the same year. Since then it has been given in this country by Mr. Jules Jordan, of Providence, R. I., Feb. 8, 1887. His string quartet in F major was played at a concert of the Buffalo Philharmonic Society in January, 1886; and a short scherzo was performed by the Van der Stücken orchestra in New York City in the same year. Besides these compositions, he has written three overtures, quite a number of songs and pieces for the piano-forte, and a symphony in C, and ballade for chorus and orchestra, both of which were played in Munich last year. In 1886 he accepted the professorship of music at the Cathedral School of St. Paul, Garden City, L. I., and in February, 1887, went to New York, where he now resides, to take charge of a boy choir in St. Andrew's Church, Harlem. King Trojan. "King Trojan," composed for chorus, solos, and orchestra, was written in March, 1885, and first performed in July of the same year, at Munich. Its story is the poem of the same name, by Franz Alfred Muth, the English version being a free and excellent translation by the composer's mother, Mrs. Isabella G. Parker, of Auburndale, Mass. After a short and graceful introduction, the cantata opens with a solo describing the quiet beauty of a summer night, daintily accompanied by wind instruments and harp. A second voice replies ("O Summer Night"), and then the two join in a very vigorous duet ("O fill thou Even with Light of Heaven"). A short solo for third voice leads up to a chorus which gives us a picture of King Trojan's castle gleaming in the moonlight. It is followed by a very effective solo for the King ("The Horse is neighing, O Page of mine"), in which he bids his Page saddle his steed for a night ride to visit his distant love. The chorus intervenes with a reflective number ("What thinks she now?"), which is very dramatic in style, describing the mutual longing of the lovers to be together. The second scene opens with a short solo by the Page ("Up, up, O King, the Horses wait"), followed by the chorus as narrator, describing the ride of the King and his companion through the greenwood, with which is interwoven Trojan's solo ("How sweet and cool is yet the Night"). In the next number, a vivacious allegro, the story of the ride is continued by the chorus, with a characteristic accompaniment, and again Trojan sings a charming tribute to the summer night, which is followed by responsive solos of the King and the Page, in the allegro and penseroso style,--the one singing of the raptures of night, the other of the gladness of day and sunlight. A passionate bit of recitative ("Now swift, ye Horses") by Trojan reveals the secret of the King's haste. He is King of the night, and the morning ray will be fatal to him. A short choral number ("And forward fly they") brings the first part to a close with the arrival of the riders at the Queen's castle. The second part opens with a beautiful solo, quartet, and chorus ("Good-Night, the Lindens whisper"), which describes the meeting of the lovers, while "Beneath the lofty castle gate Slumbers the page who so long must wait. Then crows the cock, the hour is late." At this note of warning the Page appeals to his master to fly, for the sunlight will bring him pain and harm. The dallying King replies, "Hark! how the Nightingale yet sings." A small chorus intervenes with the warning, "Love is so fleeting, Night is so fair." The Queen appeals to him, "What seest thou, O King?" To which Trojan replies with agitation, "The ruddy Morning, it is my Death." Again comes the Page's warning. The King springs up in alarm and hastens to his steed. In a choral presto movement the ride back is described. The King conceals himself in a dark thicket, hoping to escape, but the night has vanished and the day has begun. Its beams penetrate his refuge, and with a last despairing cry ("Accursed Light, I feel thee now") he expires. A short choral passage, with harp accompaniment, brings this very dramatic and fanciful composition to a close:-- "And from his horse the king now falls, He was but king of the night; The sunlight sparkles, the sunlight shines, But death comes with morning light." PARKER. James C. D. Parker, an American composer, was born at Boston, Mass., June 2, 1828. He received his primary education in the schools of that city, was graduated from Harvard University in 1848, and immediately thereafter began the study of law. His love for music, however, was irresistible, and he soon dropped law-books and entered upon a thorough course of musical instruction, at first in Boston, and afterwards at the Conservatory in Leipsic, where he finished the regular course. He returned to Boston in 1854, and at once devoted himself to musical work in which he took a prominent part, and made an excellent reputation as pianist, organist, and teacher, as well as composer, though he has not as yet attempted any very large or ambitious works. In 1862 he organized an amateur vocal association under the name of the Parker Club, which has performed several works by Gade, Mendelssohn, Berlioz, Schumann, and others, with success. His most important composition is the "Redemption Hymn," which he wrote for the Boston Handel and Haydn Society during the period he was its organist. He has also held the position of organist and choir-director of Trinity Church in that city, and of Professor of the College of Music connected with the Boston University. During his unostentatious career he has earned an enviable reputation as an earnest, honest musician deeply devoted to his art. The Redemption Hymn. "The Redemption Hymn," for alto solo and chorus, was written for the Fourth Triennial Festival of the Handel and Haydn Society, and was first given on that occasion, May 17, 1877, Anna Louise Cary-Raymond taking the solo. The words are taken from Isaiah li. 9-11. Chorus:--"Awake, put on strength, O arm of the Lord! "Awake as in the ancient days, in the generations of old. "Art thou not it that hath cut Rahab and wounded the dragon? Awake, put on strength, O arm of the Lord! Solo and Chorus:--"Art thou not it that hath dried the sea, the waters of the great deep, that hath made the depths of the sea a way for the ransomed to pass over? Therefore the redeemed of the Lord shall return and come with singing unto Zion, and everlasting joy shall be upon their head; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and mourning shall flee away." The work opens with a brief but spirited orchestral introduction, which leads to an exultant chorus ("Awake, O Arm of the Lord"), changing to a well-written fugue in the middle part ("Art thou not it?"), and returning to the first theme in the close. The next number is an effective alto solo ("Art thou not it which hath dried the Sea?") alternating with chorus. It is followed by a slow movement for alto solo and chorus ("Therefore the Redeemed of the Lord shall return"), which closes very gracefully and tenderly on the words, "Sorrow and Mourning shall flee away." This little work has become a favorite with singing societies, by the scholarly and effective manner in which it is written. RANDEGGER. Alberto Randegger was born at Trieste, April 13, 1832, and began the study of music at an early age with Lafont and Ricci. In his twentieth year he had written numerous minor pieces of church music, several masses and two ballets which were produced with success in his native city. From 1852 to 1854 he was engaged as a conductor in the theatres of Fiume, Zera, Brescia, and Venice. In the latter year he brought out a grand opera in Brescia, called "Bianca Capello," shortly after which he went to London, where he has since resided and made a world-wide reputation as a teacher. In 1857 he conducted Italian opera at St. James's Theatre; in 1864 brought out a comic opera, "The Rival Beauties," at the Theatre Royal, Leeds; in 1868 was appointed Professor of Singing at the Royal Academy of Music, in which he has since become a director; in 1879-80 was conductor for the Carl Rosa English Opera Company at Her Majesty's Theatre, London; and has since been appointed conductor of the Norwich Festival in the place of Benedict. His principal works, besides those already mentioned, are: "Medea," a scena, sung by Madame Rudersdorff at the Gewandhaus, Leipsic (1869); the One hundred and fiftieth Psalm, for soprano solo, chorus, orchestra, and organ (1872); cantata, "Fridolin" (1873); soprano scena, "Saffo" (1875); funeral anthem for the death of the Prince Consort; and a large number of songs which are great favorites on the concert-stage. Fridolin. "Fridolin, or the Message to the Forge" was written for the Birmingham Triennial Musical Festival of 1873. The words, by Mme. Erminia Rudersdorff, are founded on Schiller's ballad, "Der Gang nach dem Eisenhammer." The _dramatis personæ_ are Waldemar, Count of Saverne; Eglantine, Countess of Saverne; Fridolin, page to the Countess; and Hubert, squire to the Count. The story closely follows that of Schiller. The preface to the piano score gives its details as follows:-- "Fridolin and Hubert are in the service of the Count of Saverne. Hubert, aspiring to win the affections of his beautiful mistress, conceives a violent hatred of Fridolin, whom he regards as an obstacle in his path. Taking advantage of Fridolin's loyal devotion to the Countess, Hubert excites the jealousy of the Count, and prompts a stern revenge. The Count forthwith writes to some mechanic serfs, ordering that whoever comes asking a certain question shall be at once thrown into their furnace. Fridolin, innocent of wrong and unconscious of danger, receives the 'message to the forge;' but, ere setting out, he waits upon his mistress for such commands as she might have to give. The Countess desires him to enter the chapel he would pass on his way and offer up a prayer for her. Fridolin obeys, and thus saves his own life; but vengeance overtakes the traitor Hubert, who, going to the forge to learn whether the plot has succeeded, himself asks the fatal question, 'Is obeyed your lord's command?' and himself becomes the victim. Fridolin subsequently appears, and is about to perish likewise, when the Count and Countess, between whom explanations have taken place, arrive on the scene, to preserve the innocent and to learn the fate of the guilty." The cantata opens with a short but stirring prelude, introducing the declamatory prologue-chorus:-- "A pious youth was Fridolin, Who served the Lord with zeal, And did his duty faithfully, Come thereby woe or weal. For this when subtle foe conspired And sought o'er him to boast, About his path in direst need Kept guard the angel host." The cantata proper opens with a recitative by Fridolin ("Arising from the Lap of star-clad Night"), leading up to the quiet, dreamy air, "None but holy, lofty Thoughts." It is followed by a bass scena for Hubert ("Proceed thou, hateful Minion, on thy Path") which opens in an agitated manner, but grows more reposeful and tender in style as the subject changes in the passage, "For one kind Glance from out those Eyes divine." Again the scena changes and becomes vigorous in the recitative, "Dispelled by jealous Rage is Hope's fond Dream," set to an imposing accompaniment, and leading to a brilliant fiery allegro ("A thousand hideous Deaths I'd make him die"). The next number is a very graphic and spirited hunting-chorus ("Hark! the Morn awakes the Horn"), introduced and accompanied by the horns, and full of breezy, out-door feeling. A long dialogue follows between Hubert and the Count, somewhat gloomy in character, in which the former arouses his master's jealous suspicions. The gloom still further deepens as Hubert suggests the manner of Fridolin's death ("Mid yon gloomy Mountains"). Then follows the message to the forge by the Count in monotone phrases ("Mark, ye Serfs, your Lord's Commands") and the scene closes with a very dramatic duet ("Death and Destruction fall upon his Head"). In striking contrast with these stormy numbers comes the charming, graceful chorus of the handmaidens ("Calmly flow the equal Hours"), followed by a very expressive song for the Countess ("No Bliss can be so great"). A short scene in recitative leads up to a tender duet ("Above yon Sun, the Stars above") for Fridolin and the Countess, closing with a powerful quartet for the four principal parts ("Now know I, Hubert, thou speakest true"). The ninth scene is admirably constructed. It opens with an animated and picturesque dance and chorus of villagers ("Song is resounding, Dancers are bounding"), which swings along in graceful rhythm until it is interrupted by a solemn phrase for organ, introduced by horns, which prepares the way for a chorale ("Guardian Angels sweet and fair"), closing with Fridolin's prayer at the shrine, interwoven with a beautiful sacred chorus ("Sancta Maria, enthroned above"). In a recitative and ballad ("The wildest Conflicts rage within my fevered Soul") the Count mourns over what he supposes to be the infidelity of his wife, followed by a long and very dramatic scene with the Countess ("My Waldemar, how erred thine Eglantine?"). The last scene is laid at the forge, and after a short but vigorous prelude opens with a chorus of the smiths ("Gift of Demons, raging Fire"), in which the composer has produced the effect of clanging anvils, roaring fire, and hissing sparks with wonderful realism. The chorus closes with passages describing the providential rescue of Fridolin and the fate of Hubert, and an _andante religioso_ ("Let your Voices Anthems raise"). The epilogue is mainly choral, and ends this very dramatic work in broad flowing harmonies. RHEINBERGER. Joseph Gabriel Rheinberger was born at Vaduz, in Lichtenstein, March 17, 1839, and displayed his musical talent at a very early age. He studied the piano in his fifth year, and in his seventh was organist in the church of his native place. At the age of twelve he entered the Munich Conservatory, where he remained as a scholar until he was nineteen, when he was appointed one of its teachers; at the same time he became organist at the Hofkirche of St. Michael, and afterwards director of the Munich Oratorio Society. In 1867 he was appointed professor and inspector of the Royal Music School, and since 1877 has been the royal Hofkapellmeister, directing the performances of the Kapellchor, an organization similar to that of the Berlin Domchor. He is a very prolific composer, nearly two hundred works having proceeded from his pen. Among them are the "Wallenstein" and "Florentine" symphonies; a Stabat Mater; two operas, "The Seven Ravens" and "Thürmer's Töchterlein;" incidental music to a drama of Calderon's; a symphony-sonata for piano; a requiem for the dead in the Franco-German war; theme and variations for string quartet; a piano concerto; five organ sonatas; the choral works, "Toggenburg," "Klärchen auf Eberstein," "Wittekind," and "Christophorus;" and a large number of songs and church pieces, besides much chamber music. Christophorus. "Christophorus," a legend, as Rheinberger calls it, was written in 1879, and is composed for barytone, soprano, and alto solos, chorus, and orchestra. Its subject is taken from the familiar story of the giant who bore the infant Christ across the flood. The chorus acts the part of narrator, and in its opening number relates the legend of Christophorus' wanderings and his arrival before the castle whose master he would serve. He offers his services, but when they are accepted as an offering from the gods he haughtily declares that he only serves "for fame and chivalry." A voice thereupon in an impressive solo ("Trust not this loud-voiced Stranger") warns him away as an envoy of Satan, and the chorus repeats the warning. The giant departs with the intention of drawing his sword in Satan's cause,-- "For he alone must be lord of all, Whose name doth so valiant a monarch appall." In a very picturesque number the chorus describes his wanderings among the mountain crags and rocks where Satan weaves his spells about him; and then suddenly changing to a tender, delicate strain ("Over us Stars shine") anticipates the Voice, which in a sensuous aria ("Who is the sovereign Lord of the Heart?") sings the power of love. In graceful chorus the spirits taunt him, whereupon he once more resolves to fly and to abandon the cause of Satan, but is thwarted by them. A weird chorus closes the first part ("Satan a-hunting is gone"), ending with an impressive strain:-- "Stormily falleth the night: Frightened maidens fleeing, Demon hordes all around. 'A cross, see, upraised! Fly, master! too far we have come. Hallowed is the ground.'" The second part opens with a reflective soliloquy by the giant, followed by a plaintive chorus ("All now is lone and silent") describing the suffering of our Saviour on the cross and the sadness of a hermit gazing upon the scene. The giant approaches the latter, and a dialogue ensues between them, in which the identity of the victim on the cross is revealed. Having found the King of the universe, Christophorus determines to devote himself to His cause, and inquires how he may serve Him. He is informed he must go to the swiftly-rolling river and carry the pilgrims across. A chanting chorus ("As flows the River seawards, so onward glide the Years") describes the work of the faithful toiler. Then comes a voice calling him, and he beholds an Infant waiting for him. He takes Him upon his shoulders and bears Him into the flood, but as he advances, bends and struggles beneath his load "as though the whole world he bore." He inquires the meaning, and the Voice replies:-- "Thou bear'st the world and bearest its Creator: This Child is Jesus, God's own Son. Soldier of Christ! Thine arms were charity and mercy, The arms of love. Now mayst rejoice: The prize of thy faith is won." A joyful, exultant chorus, ("Blessed of Rivers, the Child embrace") closes this very graceful little "legend." Toggenburg. "Toggenburg," a cycle of ballads, was written in 1880. The music is for solos and mixed chorus, the ballads being linked together by motives, thus forming a connected whole. The story is a very simple one. The bright opening chorus ("At Toggenburg all is in festive Array") describes the pageantry which has been prepared to welcome the return of Henry, Knight of Toggenburg, with his fair young Suabian bride, the Lady Etha. The chorus is followed by a duet and alto or barytone solo, which indicate the departure of the Knight for the wars, and the Lady Etha's loss of the wedding ring. The next number, a solo quartet and chorus ("Ah! Huntsman, who gave thee the Diamond Ring?"), is very dramatic in its delineation of the return of the victorious Knight, who, observing the ring on the finger of the huntsman, slays him, and then in a fit of jealousy hurls the Lady Etha from the tower where she was waving his welcome. The next number is a female chorus ("On mossy Bed her gentle Form reposes"), very slow in its movement and plaintive in character. It is followed by a weird and solemn chorus ("Through the Night rings the Horn's Blast with Power"), picturing the mad ride of the Knight through the darkness, accompanied by the dismal notes of ravens and mysterious sounds like "greetings from the dead," which only cease when he discovers the corpse of his lady with the cross on its breast. A short closing chorus, funereal in style, ends the mournful story:-- "Toggenburg all is in mourning array, The banners wave, the gate stands wide, Count Henry returns to his home this day, In death he anew has won his bride. Once more for their coming the hall is prepared, Where flickering tapers are ranged around, And far through the night in the valley are heard The chants of the monks with their mournful sound." Though the work has somewhat both of the Schumann and Mendelssohn sentiment in it, it is nevertheless original and characteristic in treatment. The melodies are pleasing throughout, and cover a wide range of expression, reaching from the tenderness of love to the madness of jealousy, and thence on to the elegiac finale. ROMBERG. Andreas Romberg was born April 27, 1767, at Vechte, near Münster. At a very early age he was celebrated as a violinist. In his seventeenth year he made a _furor_ by his playing at the Concerts Spirituels, Paris. In 1790, with his cousin Bernhard, who was even more celebrated as a violoncellist (indeed the Rombergs, like the Bachs, were all musicians), he played in the Elector's band, and also went with him to Rome, where the cousins gave concerts together under the patronage of one of the cardinals. During the next four years Andreas travelled in Austria and France, and during his stay at Vienna made the acquaintance of Haydn, who was very much interested in his musical work. In 1800 he brought out an opera in Paris which made a failure. He then left for Hamburg, where he married and remained many years. In 1820 he was appointed court capellmeister at Gotha, and died there in the following year. Among his compositions are six symphonies; five operas, "Das graue Ungeheuer," "Die Macht der Musik," "Der Rabe," "Die Grossmuth des Scipio," and "Die Ruinen zu Paluzzi;" and several cantatas, quartets, quintets, and church compositions. Of all his works, however, his "Lay of the Bell" is the best known. A few years ago it was the stock piece of nearly every choral society in Germany, England, and the United States; and though now relegated to the repertory of old-fashioned music, it is still very popular. Lay of the Bell. The "Lay of the Bell" was composed in 1808, the music being set to Schiller's famous poem of the same name, whose stately measures are well adapted to musical treatment. It opens with a bass solo by the Master, urging on the workmen:-- "In the earth right firmly planted, Stands well baked the mould of clay: Up, my comrades, be ye helpful; Let the bell be born to-day." The full chorus responds in a rather didactic strain ("The Labor we prepare in Earnest"), and as it closes the Master gives his directions for lighting the fire in the furnace and mixing the metals. In this manner the work progresses, the Master issuing his orders until the bell is ready for the casting, the solo singers or chorus replying with sentiments naturally suggested by the process and the future work of the bell. The first of these responses is the chorus, "What in the Earth profoundly hidden," a smoothly flowing number followed by a soprano solo ("For with a Burst of joyous Clangor"), a pleasantly-rippling melody picturing the joys of childhood, and a spirited tenor solo ("The Youth, Girl-playmates proudly leaving") indicating the dawn of the tender passion which broadens out into love, as the two voices join in the charming duet, "O tender Longing, Hope delightsome." The bass still further emphasizes their delight in the recitative, "When stern and gentle Troth have plighted," leading up to a long but interesting tenor solo ("Though Passion gives way") which describes the homely joys of domestic life. The male chorus thereupon takes up the story in a joyful strain ("And the good Man with cheerful Eye"), and tells us of the prosperity of the happy pair and the good man's boast,-- "Firm as the solid earth, Safe from misfortune's hand, Long shall my dwelling stand;" to which comes the ominous response of the female chorus:-- "Yet none may with Fate supernal Ever form a league eternal; And misfortune swiftly strides." The Master now gives the signal to release the metal into the mould, whereupon follows a stirring and picturesque chorus ("Right helpful is the Might of Fire") describing the terrors of fire, the wild alarm, the fright and confusion of the people, the clanging bells and crackling flames, and the final destruction of the homestead, closing the first part. The second part opens with the anxious orders of the Master to cease from work and await the result of the casting. The chorus takes up a slow and stately measure ("To Mother Earth our Work committing") which closes in a mournful finale describing the passing funeral train, followed by a pathetic soprano solo which tells the sad story of the death of the good man's wife, while "To the orphaned Home a Stranger comes unloving Rule to bear." The scene now changes from a desolate to a happy home as the Master bids the workmen seek their pleasure while the bell is cooling. A soprano solo takes up a cheery strain ("Wends the weary Wanderer"), picturing the harvest home, the dance of the youthful reapers, and the joys of evening by the fireside, followed by a tribute to patriotism, sung by tenor and bass, the pleasant scene closing with an exultant full chorus ("Thousand active Hands combining"). The Master then gives the order to break the mould, and in contemplation of the ruin which might have been caused had the metal burst it, the chorus breaks out in strong, startling phrases picturing the horrors of civil strife ("The Master's Hand the Mould may shatter"). The work, however, is complete and successful, and in the true spirit of German Gemüthlichkeit the Master summons his workmen:-- "Let us, comrades, round her pressing, Upon our bell invoke a blessing. 'Concordia,' let her name be called: In concord and in love of one another, Where'er she sound, may brother meet with brother." The cantata closes with a last invocation on the part of the Master, followed by a jubilant chorus ("She is moving, She is moving"). SCHUBERT. Franz Peter Schubert was born in Vienna, Jan. 31, 1797, and received his first musical lessons from his father and his elder brother Ignaz. In his eleventh year he sang in the Lichtenthal choir and shortly afterwards entered the Imperial Convict School, where for the next three or four years he made rapid progress in composition. In 1813 he returned home, and to avoid the conscription entered his father's school as a teacher, where he remained for three years, doing drudgery but improving his leisure hours by studying with Salieri and devoting himself assiduously to composition. His life had few events in it to record. It was devoted entirely to teaching and composition. He wrote in almost every known form of music, but it was in the Lied that he has left the richest legacy to the world, and in that field he reigns with undisputed title. Unquestionably many of these songs were inspirations, like the "Erl King," for instance, which came to him in the midst of a carousal. The most famous of them are to be found in the cycluses "Müllerlieder," "Die Gesänge Ossians," "Die Geistlichen Lieder," "Die Winterreise," and "Der Schwanengesang." They are wonderful for their completeness, their expression of passion, their beauty and grace of form, the delicacy of their fancy, and their high artistic finish. Among the other great works he has left are the lovely "Song of the Spirits over the Water," for male voices; "Die Allmacht;" "Prometheus;" "Miriam's War Song;" the eight-part chorus "An den Heiligen Geist;" the "Momens Musicale;" impromptus and Hungarian fantasies for piano; the sonatas in C minor and B flat minor; nine symphonies, two of them unfinished; the trios in B flat and E flat; the quartets in D minor and G major; the quintet in C; two operas, "Alfonso and Estrella" and "Fierrabras;" the mass in G, which he wrote when but eighteen years of age, and the mass in E flat, which was his last church composition. His catalogued works number over a thousand. He died Nov. 19, 1828, and his last wish was to be buried by the side of Beethoven, who on his death-bed had recognized "the divine spark" in Schubert's music. Three graves only separate the great masters of the Symphony and the Lied in the cemetery of Währing. Miriam's War Song. The majestic cantata, "Miriam's War Song," was written in March, 1828, the last year of Schubert's life,--a year which was rich, however, in the productions of his genius. The beautiful symphony in C, the mass in E flat, the string quartet in C, the three piano sonatas dedicated to Schumann, the eight-voiced "Hymn to the Holy Ghost," the 92d Psalm, a "Tantum Ergo," and several songs, among them "Am Strom," "Der Hirt auf den Felsen," and a part of the "Schwanengesang," all belong to this year. The authorities differ as to the time of the first performance of "Miriam's War Song." Nottebohm in his catalogue says that it was first sung at a concert, Jan. 30, 1829, given for the purpose of raising funds to erect a monument in memory of the composer, who died on the 19th of the previous November. Others assert that Schubert was induced to give a concert, March 26, 1828, the programme being composed entirely of his own music, and that it was first heard on that occasion. The work is for soprano solo and chorus, the words by the poet Grillparzer, and the accompaniment, for the piano, as Schubert left it. He had intended arranging it for orchestra, but did not live to complete it. The work, however, was done a year or two afterwards by his friend Franz Lachner, at that time officiating as Capellmeister at the Kärnthnerthor Theatre in Vienna. The theme of the cantata is Miriam's hymn of praise for the escape of the Israelites, and the exultant song of victory by the people, rejoicing not alone at their own delivery but at the destruction of the enemy. It opens with a spirited and broad harmony, "Strike the Cymbals," changing to a calm and graceful song, describing the Lord as a shepherd leading his people forth from Egypt. The next number, depicting the awe of the Israelites as they passed through the divided waters, the approach of Pharaoh's hosts, and their destruction, is worked up with great power. As the sea returns to its calm again, the opening chorus is repeated, closing with a powerful fugue. The cantata is short, but it is a work of imperishable beauty. SCHUMANN. Robert Schumann was born at Zwickau, in Saxony, June 8, 1810. In his earliest youth he was recognized as a child of genius. His first teacher in music was Baccalaureus Kuntzch, who gave him piano instruction. He studied the piano with Wieck, whose daughter Clara he subsequently married, now world-famous as a pianist. In 1830, in which year his artistic career really opened, he began the theoretical study of music, first with Director Kupsch in Leipsic and later with Heinrich Dorn, and at the same time entered upon the work of composition. Schumann was not only a musician but an able critic and graceful writer; and in 1834, with Schunke, Knorr, and Wieck, he founded the "Neue Zeitschrift für Musik," which had an important influence upon musical progress in Germany, and in which the great promise of such musicians as Chopin and Brahms was first recognized. He married Clara Wieck in 1840, after much opposition from her father; and in this year appeared some of his best songs, including the three famous cycluses, "Liederkreis," "Woman's Life and Love," and "Poet's Love," which now have a world-wide fame. In the following year larger works came from his pen, among them his B minor symphony, overture, scherzo, and finale in E major, and the symphony in D minor. During this period in his career he made many artistic journeys with his wife, which largely increased the reputation of both. In 1843 he completed his great "romantic oratorio," "Paradise and the Peri," set to Moore's text, and many favorite songs and piano compositions, among them the "Phantasiestücke" and "Kinderscenen," and his elegant piano quintet in E flat. In 1844, in company with his wife, he visited St. Petersburg and Moscow, and their reception was a royal one. The same year he abandoned his "Zeitschrift," in which "Florestan," "Master Raro," "Eusebius," and the other pseudonyms had become familiar all over Germany, and took the post of director in Düsseldorf, in the place of Ferdinand Hiller. During the last few years of his life he was the victim of profound melancholy, owing to an affection of the brain, and he even attempted suicide by throwing himself into the Rhine. He was then removed to an asylum at Endenich, where he died July 20, 1856. The two men who exercised most influence upon Schumann were Jean Paul and Franz Schubert. He was deeply pervaded with the romance of the one and the emotional feeling of the other. His work is characterized by genial humor, a rich and warm imagination, wonderfully beautiful instrumentation, especially in his accompaniments, the loftiest form of expression, and a rigid adherence to the canons of art. Advent Hymn. In a letter to Strakerjan, Schumann writes:-- "To apply his powers to sacred music is the artist's highest aim. But in youth we are all very firmly rooted to earth, with its joys and sorrows; in old age the twigs tend upwards. And so I hope that that day may not be too far distant from me." The first of his works indicated in the above words to his friend was the "Advent Hymn," written in 1848, based upon Rückert's poem. It was followed later by a requiem and a mass, these comprising his only sacred music. The "Advent Hymn" describes the entry of Christ into Jerusalem, reflectively considers his peaceful career as compared with that of earthly kings, and appeals to His servants to bear tidings of Him throughout the world, closing with a prayer that He will bring His peace to all its people. It is a hymn full of simple devotion and somewhat narrow in its limitations; but Schumann has treated it with all the dignity and breadth of the oratorio style. It opens with a melodious soprano solo ("In lowly Guise thy King appeareth"), with choral responses by sopranos and altos, leading to an effective five-part chorus ("O King indeed, though no Man hail Thee"), begun by first and second tenors and basses, and closing in full harmony with the added female voices. The soprano voice again announces a subject ("Thy Servants faithful, Tidings bearing"), which is taken up by full chorus, in somewhat involved form, though closing in plain harmony. The third number ("When Thou the stormy Sea art crossing") is given out by the soprano and repeated by the female chorus with a charming pianissimo effect. A few bars for male chorus ("Lord of Grace and Truth unfailing") lead into full chorus. The fifth number ("Need is there for Thyself returning"), also choral, is very elaborately treated with interchanging harmonies and bold rhythms, leading up to the final choruses, which are very intricate in construction, but at the close resolve into a double chorus of great power and genuine religious exaltation. There are other works of Schumann's which are more or less in the cantata form, such as "The King's Son," op. 116, set to a ballad of Uhland's; "The New Year's Song," op. 144, poem by Rückert; "The Luck of Edenhall," op. 143, poem by Uhland; "Of the Page and the King's Daughter," op. 140, poem by Geibel; the "Spanish Love Song," op. 138; the "Minnespiel," op. 101; and the "Ritornelle," op. 65. The Pilgrimage of the Rose. "The Pilgrimage of the Rose," for solo and chorus, with piano accompaniment, twenty-four numbers, was written in the spring of 1851, and was first performed May 6, 1852, at a Düsseldorf subscription concert. The story is taken from a somewhat vapid fairy-tale by Moritz Horn, and has little point or meaning. It turns upon the commonplace adventures of a young girl whose origin is disclosed by a rose which was never to fall from her hand. The principal numbers are the opening song, a joyous hymn to spring, in canon form, for two sopranos; the dancing choruses of the elves, for two sopranos and alto; the male chorus, "In the thick Wood," which is very effective in harmony; the exultant bridal songs, "Why sound the Horns so gayly?" and "Now at the Miller's;" the duet, "In the smiling Valley, 'mid the Trees so green;" the Grave Song; the quartet, "Oh, Joy! foretaste of Heaven's Rest;" and the duet, "I know a blushing Rosebud." The work as a whole has never attained the popularity of his "Paradise and the Peri," though detached numbers from it are frequently given with great success. The inadequacy of the poem has much to do with this; and it must also be remembered that it was written at a time when Schumann's powers had begun to weaken under the strain of the mental disorder which finally proved fatal. Reissmann, in his analysis of the work, says:-- "The man who had hitherto refused to allow even the simplest composition to flow from any but a distinct idea, who constantly strove to enter into relations with some distinct movement of the heart or the imagination, here grasped at a poem utterly destitute of any rational fundamental idea, and so arbitrary in execution, so tasteless in parts, that the musical inspiration it offered could never have moved any other composer to set it to music." The Minstrel's Curse. "The Minstrel's Curse," for solo voice, chorus and orchestra, was written in 1852, and first performed in the same year. Its text is based upon Uhland's beautiful ballad of the same name, which was adapted for the composer by Richard Pohl. The libretto shows numerous variations from the original text. Some of the verses are literally followed, others are changed, and many new songs and motives are introduced. Several of Uhland's other ballads are assigned to the minstrel, the youth, and the queen, among them "Die Drei Lieder," "Entsagung," and "Hohe Liebe," as well as extracts from "Rudello," "Lied des Deutschen Sängers," "Gesang und Krieg," and "Das Thal." Instead of the beautiful verse in the original poem:-- "They sing of spring and love, of happy golden youth, Of freedom, manly worth, of sanctity and truth. They sing of all emotions sweet the human breast that move, They sing of all things high the human heart doth love. The courtly crowd around forget to sneer and nod, The king's bold warriors bow before their God. The queen, to pleasure and to melancholy willing prey, Down to the singers casts the rose which on her bosom lay,"-- which leads up to the tragedy, it is the singing of the "Hohe Liebe" which is made the motive by Pohl, who from this point on follows the story as told by Uhland. The work contains fourteen numbers. The first two verses, describing the castle and its haughty monarch, are sung by the narrator, and are followed by an alto solo, very bright and joyous in style, which tells of the arrival of the two minstrels. The fourth number is a Provençal song, full of grace and poetical feeling, sung by the youth, followed by full chorus. The King angrily interposes in the next number, "Enough of Spring and Pleasure," whereupon the harper sings a beautiful ballad interpolated by the librettist. The queen follows with a quiet, soothing strain, appealing for further songs, and in reply the youth and harper once more sing of spring. The youth's powerful song of love, which changes to a trio in the close, the queen and harper joining, indicates the coming tragedy, and from this number on the chorus follows the story as told by Uhland, with great power and spirit. The general style of the work is declamatory, but in many of its episodes the ballad form is used with great skill and effect. SINGER. Otto Singer was born in Saxony, July 26, 1833, and attended the Leipsic Conservatory from 1851 to 1855, studying with Richter, Moscheles, and Hauptmann. In 1859 he went to Dresden and for two years thereafter studied with Liszt, of whom he was not only a favorite scholar but always a most zealous advocate. In 1867 he came to this country to take a position in the Conservatory at New York, then under the direction of Theodore Thomas and William Mason. In 1873, upon Mr. Thomas's suggestion, he went to Cincinnati and became the assistant musical director of the festival chorus of that city, a position which he filled with eminent ability for several years. At the festival of 1878 he conducted the first performance of Liszt's "Graner Mass" in this country, and also his own "Festival Ode" set to a poem by F. A. Schmitt, and written to commemorate the dedication of the new Music Hall. In the same year the Cincinnati College of Music was organized, and he was engaged as one of the principal instructors, a position which he still holds, and in which he has displayed signal ability. Mr. Singer has written many compositions for piano and orchestra, and besides his "Festival Ode," the cantata "Landing of the Pilgrims" (1876). The Landing of the Pilgrims. "The Landing of the Pilgrims," written in 1876, was Mr. Singer's Centennial offering to the patriotic music of that year. The text of the cantata is the familiar poem written by Mrs. Felicia Hemans, which was first set to music by her own sister, Miss Browne, though in somewhat different style from this work of the modern school. The cantata opens with an instrumental prelude which gives out the principal motive as we afterwards find it set to the words, "With their Hymns of lofty Cheer;" and truly lofty cheer it is, that antique, strong melody. Breathed softly at first, as from afar, it is repeated after a rapid crescendo with the whole weight of the orchestra, to melt away again on an organ point in more subdued tone-color. In the second movement (andante) it appears in quadruple time, augmented in its cadence by a chromatic harmony which serves well to enrich the working-up of this fine piece of orchestral writing. A short interlude containing the germ of a second theme, which afterwards appears at the words, "This was their Welcome Home," now prepares the entrance of the voices. To the words, "The breaking Waves dashed high," the basses and tenors give out the first motive, and after declaiming the stormy opening lines of the poem break forth in unison with "When a Band of Exiles moored their Bark on the wild New England Shore." The time again changing, the composer very happily contrasts the phrases, "Not as a Conqueror comes" and "They the true-hearted came." Soon, however, the ever-pliable principal theme falls into a martial stride, and a very effective setting of the words, "Not with the Roll of stirring Drums," concludes the opening male chorus. Here follows the Centennial Hymn as given out in the beginning, sung first by an alto voice, and repeated by the full chorus of mixed voices. After the close, the orchestra, dreaming along in the spell, as it were, seems to spiritualize the sturdy Pilgrim Fathers into meek Pilgrims of the Cross,--a piece of exquisite tenderness, Liszt-Wagnerish, and yet beautiful. After some alto recitatives and short choral phrases, the leading theme once more enters with heavy martial step to the words, "There was Manhood's Brow," etc. The musical setting of the question, "What sought they?" etc., is cast in simpler form, and the response, "They sought a Faith's pure Shrine," is given in six measures, _a capella_, for five voices. This brings us to the last movement, _andante maestoso_. The leading motive, now contracted into one measure, is tossed about in the double basses as on the waves of a heavy surf until it reaches the climax on the words "Freedom to worship God." The cantata forms a valuable addition to our musical literature, and was first sung by the Cincinnati Harmonic Society, of which Mr. Singer was leader at the time. SMART. Henry Smart, one of the most prominent of the modern English composers, was born in London, Oct. 26, 1813. Though almost entirely self-taught, he soon made his mark as a musician of more than ordinary ability. For many years he was principally known as an organist and organ-writer. He wrote numerous compositions for that instrument, which are still largely in use, and from 1836 to 1864 was famous in London for his contributions to the church service. In 1855 his opera, "Bertha, or the Gnome of Hartzburg," was produced with success in that city. Among his festival works were the cantatas, "The Bride of Dunkerron," for Birmingham (1864); "King René's Daughter" and "The Fishermaidens," for female voices (1871); the sacred cantata "Jacob," for Glasgow (1873); and two anthems for solos, chorus, and organ, for the London Choral Choirs' Association Festivals of 1876 and 1878. As a writer of part-songs he has also achieved a wide reputation. Grove states that he also was "a very accomplished mechanic, and had he taken up engineering instead of music, would no doubt have been successful. As a designer of organs he was often employed." Shortly after 1864 he lost his sight and thereafter composed entirely by dictation. His services for music secured him a government pension in June, 1879, but he did not live to enjoy it, dying July 6 of the same year. The Bride of Dunkerron. "The Bride of Dunkerron," words by Frederick Enoch, was written for the Birmingham Festival of 1864, and is based upon a tradition, the scene located at the Castle of Dunkerron, on the coast of Kerry, which has also been made the subject of a ballad by Crofton Croker. The story is a very simple one. The Lord of Dunkerron becomes enamoured of a sea-maiden, and as she is unable to leave her element he follows her to her abode. She seeks the Sea-King to obtain his consent to their union, but returns to her lover with the sad message that she is doomed to death for loving a mortal. He in turn is driven from the Sea-King's realm, and is cast back by the tempest to the shores of the upper world; and the work closes with the laments of the sea-spirits for the maiden, and of the serfs for their master. After an expressive orchestral introduction the cantata opens with a chorus of the serfs (tenors and basses) ("Ere the Wine-cup is dry"), followed by a very romantic chorus of sea-maidens, the two at times interwoven and responsive,--the one describing Lord Dunkerron's nightly vigils on the seashore, and the other the melody of the maidens which tempts him. A charming orchestral intermezzo, full of the feeling of the sea, ensues, and is followed by recitative and aria ("The full Moon is beaming") for Dunkerron, which is very simple in style but effective as a song, even apart from its setting. It leads up to another chorus of the sea-maidens ("Let us sing, the moonlit Shores along") and a long love dialogue between Dunkerron and the Maiden. The next number is a very spirited and picturesque chorus ("Down through the Deep") describing the passage of the lovers to the Maiden's home, which is followed by a sturdy, sonorous recitative and aria for bass voice ("Oh, the Earth is fair in Plain and Glade") sung by the Sea-King. Two very attractive choruses follow, the first ("O Storm King, hear us") with a solo for the Sea-King, and the second ("Hail to thee, Child of the Earth") by the sea-maidens. Another graceful melody, "Our Home shall be on this bright Isle," is assigned to the Maiden, leading to a duet with Dunkerron, in which she announces her departure to obtain the Sea-King's consent to their union. A chorus of the storm-spirits ("Roar, Wind of the Tempest, roar") indicates her doom and leads up to the finale. A powerful trio for the Maiden, Dunkerron, and Sea-King, followed by the angry commands of the latter ("Hurl him back!"), tells of the death of the lovers, and the work closes as it opened, with the intermingled choruses of serfs and sea-maidens, this time, however, full of lamentation over the sad tragedy. King René's Daughter. "King René's Daughter," a cantata for female voices only, the poem by Frederick Enoch, was written in 1871. The story is freely adapted from Henrik Hertz's lyric drama. Iolanthe, the daughter of King René, Count of Provence, was betrothed in her infancy to the son of the Count of Vaudemont. When but a year old she was stricken with blindness. She has been reared in ignorance of her affliction by a strict concealment from her of all knowledge of the blessings of sight. A wandering magician agrees to cure her by the use of an amulet, provided she is first informed of the existence of the missing sense; but her father refuses permission. Her betrothed has never seen her, but wandering one day through the valley of Vaucluse, singing his troubadour lays, he beholds her, and is captivated by her beauty. His song reveals to her the faculty of which she has been kept in ignorance, and the magician, his condition thus having been fulfilled, restores her to sight. The work is divided into thirteen numbers, the solo parts being Iolanthe (soprano), Martha (mezzo-soprano), and Beatrice (contralto). In the third number another soprano voice is required in a trio and chorus of vintagers; and in the sixth number, a soprano and contralto in the quartet, which acts the part of narrator, and tells of the troubadour's rose song to Iolanthe. It is unnecessary to specify the numbers in detail, as they are of the same general character,--smooth, flowing, and graceful in melody throughout. The most striking of them are No. 3, trio and chorus ("See how gay the Valley shines"); No. 5, arietta for Martha ("Listening to the Nightingales"); No. 6, quartet ("Who hath seen the Troubadour?"); No. 8, Iolanthe's song ("I love the Rose"); No. 11, duet and chorus ("Sweet the Angelus is ringing"); and the finale, with the jubilant chorus:-- "René the king will ride forth from the gate With his horsemen and banners in state; And the trumpets shall fanfaron ring To René, to René, the king. Then with rebec and lute and with drum The bride in her beauty will come; And the light of her eyes, they will say, has surpassed The diamonds that shine at her waist,-- The diamonds that shine in her long golden hair,-- King René's daughter the fair." SULLIVAN. Arthur Seymour Sullivan was born in London, May 13, 1842. His father, a band-master and clarinet-player of distinction, intrusted his musical education at first to the Rev. Thomas Hilmore, master of the children of the Chapel Royal. He entered the chapel in 1854 and remained there three years, and also studied in the Royal Academy of Music under Goss and Sterndale Bennett, during this period, leaving the latter institution in 1858, in which year he went to Leipsic. He remained in the Conservatory there until 1861, when he returned to London and introduced himself to its musical public, with his music to Shakspeare's "Tempest," which made a great success. The enthusiasm with which this was received, and the favors he gained at the hands of Chorley, at that time musical critic of the "Athenæum," gave him a secure footing. The cantata "Kenilworth," written for the Birmingham Festival, the music to the ballet "L'Île enchantée," and an opera, "The Sapphire Necklace," were produced in 1864. In 1866 appeared his first symphony and an overture, "In Memoriam," a tribute to his father, who died that year. The next year his overture "Marmion" was first performed. In 1869 he wrote his first oratorio, "The Prodigal son," in 1873 "The Light of the World," and in 1880 "The Martyr of Antioch;" the first for the Worcester, the second for the Birmingham, and the third for the Leeds festival. The beautiful "Overture di Ballo," so frequently played in this country by the Thomas orchestra, was written for Birmingham in 1870, and the next year appeared his brilliant little cantata, "On shore and Sea." On the 11th of May, 1867, was first heard in public his comic operetta, "Cox and Box." It was the first in that series of extraordinary successes, really dating from "The Sorcerer," which are almost without parallel in the operatic world, and which have made his name, and that of his collaborator, Gilbert, household words. He has done much for sacred as well as secular music. In addition to his oratorios he has written numerous anthems, forty-seven hymn tunes, two Te Deums, several carols, part-songs, and choruses, and in 1872 edited the collection of "Church Hymns with Tunes" for the Christian Knowledge Society. His latest works are the opera "Ruddygore" and the cantata "The Golden Legend," both written in 1886. He received the honorary degree of Doctor of Music from Cambridge in 1876, and from Oxford in 1879, and in 1883 was knighted by the Queen. On Shore and Sea. The cantata "On Shore and Sea" was written for the London International Exhibition of 1871. The solo parts are allotted to La Sposina, a Riviera woman, and Il Marinajo, a Genoese sailor. The action passes in the sixteenth century, at a port of the Riviera and on board of a Genoese and Moorish galley at sea. The cantata opens with a joyous sailors' chorus and the lament of the mothers and wives as the seamen weigh anchor and set sail. The scene then changes to the sea. On board one of the galleys, in the midnight watch, the Marinajo invokes the protection of Our Lady, Star of the Sea, for the loved one left behind. The scene next changes to the return of the fleet, triumphant in its encounters with the Moorish vessels. The women throng to the shore, headed by La Sposina, to welcome the sailors back, but the galley on board which her lover served is missing. It has been captured by the Moors, and in a pathetic song she gives expression to her sorrow. In the next scene we find him toiling at the oar at the bidding of his Moorish masters. While they are revelling he plans a rising among his fellow-captives which is successful. They seize the galley and steer back to the Riviera, entering port amid choruses of rejoicing. The cantata is full of charming melodies, the instrumentation is Oriental in color, and the choruses, particularly the closing ones, are very stirring. The Golden Legend. "The Golden Legend" was first produced at the Leeds Musical Festival, Oct. 16, 1886. The story of the legend has already been told in the description of Mr. Buck's cantata by the same name, which took the Cincinnati Festival prize in 1880. The adaptation of Mr. Longfellow's poem for the Sullivan cantata was made by Joseph Bennett, who while omitting its mystical parts, except the prologue, has confined himself to the story of Prince Henry and Elsie. All the principal scenes, though sometimes rearranged to suit the musical demands of the composer, have been retained, so that the unity of the legend is preserved. The prologue, representing the effort of Lucifer and the spirits of the air to tear down the cathedral cross, is used without change. The part of Lucifer is assigned to the barytone voice, the spirits of the air to the sopranos and altos, and the bells to the tenors and basses, the whole closing with the Gregorian Chant. The orchestral accompaniment is very realistic, particularly in the storm music and in the final number, where the organ adds its voice to the imposing harmony. The first scene opens with the soliloquy of Prince Henry in his chamber ("I cannot sleep"), followed by a dramatic duet with Lucifer, describing the temptation, and closes with a second solo by the Prince, accompanied by a warning chorus of angels. The second scene opens before the cottage of Ursula at evening, with a short alto recitative ("Slowly, slowly up the Wall") with pastoral accompaniment, followed by a very effective choral hymn ("O Gladsome Light") sung by the villagers ere they depart for their homes, the Prince's voice joining in the Amen. The remainder of the scene includes a dialogue between Elsie and her mother, in which the maid expresses her determination to die for the Prince, and a beautiful prayer ("My Redeemer and my Lord") in which she pleads for strength to carry out her resolution, closing with her noble offer to the Prince, which he accepts, the angels responding Amen to the blessing he asks for her. The third scene opens with Elsie, the Prince, and their attendants on the road to Salerno where the cure is to be effected by her sacrifice. They fall in with a band of pilgrims, among whom is Lucifer in the disguise of a monk. The two bands part company, and as night comes on the Prince's attendants encamp near the sea. The continuity of the narrative is varied by a simple, graceful duet for the Prince and Elsie ("Sweet is the Air with budding Haws"); the Gregorian music of the pilgrims in the distance ("Cujus clavis lingua Petri"); the mocking characteristic song of Lucifer ("Here am I too in the pious Band"), interwoven with the chant; the song of greeting to the sea by the Prince ("It is the Sea"); and a very effective solo for Elsie ("The Night is calm and cloudless"), which is repeated by full chorus with soprano obligato dwelling upon the words "Christe Eleison." The fourth scene opens in the Medical School at Salerno, and discloses Lucifer disguised as the physician Friar Angelo, who receives Elsie and takes her into an inner apartment, notwithstanding the protests of the Prince, who suddenly resolves to save her, and finally effects her rescue. The music to this scene is very dramatic, and it also contains a short but striking unaccompanied chorus ("O Pure in Heart"). The fifth scene is short. It passes at the door of Ursula's cottage, where a forester brings the mother the news of Elsie's safety and of the Prince's miraculous cure. The dialogue is followed by a prayer of thanksgiving ("Virgin, who lovest the Poor and Lowly"). The last scene opens on the terrace of the castle of Vautsberg. It is the evening of the wedding day, and amid the sound of bells heard in the distance the Prince relates to Elsie the story of Charlemagne and Fastrada, at the close of which the happy pair join in an exultant duet. The cantata ends with a choral epilogue, worked up to a fine fugal climax in which Elsie's "deed divine" is compared to the mountain brook flowing down from "the cool hills" to bless "the broad and arid plain." WAGNER. Richard Wagner, who has been sometimes ironically called the musician of the future, and whose music has been relegated to posterity by a considerable number of his contemporaries, was born at Leipsic, May 22, 1813. After his preliminary studies in Dresden and Leipsic, he took his first lessons in music from Cantor Weinlig. In 1836 he was appointed musical director in the theatre at Magdeburg, and later occupied the same position at Königsberg. Thence he went to Riga, where he began his opera "Rienzi." He then went to Paris by sea, was nearly shipwrecked on his way thither, and landed without money or friends. After two years of hard struggling he returned to Germany. His shipwreck and forlorn condition suggested the theme of "The Flying Dutchman," and while on his way to Dresden he passed near the castle of Wartburg, in the valley of Thuringia, whose legends inspired his well-known opera of "Tannhäuser." He next removed to Zurich, and about this time appeared "Lohengrin," his most popular opera. "Tristan and Isolde" was produced in 1856, and his comic opera, "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg," three years later. In 1864 he received the patronage of King Louis of Bavaria, which enabled him to complete and perform his great work, "Der Ring der Nibelungen." He laid the foundation of the new theatre at Baireuth in 1872, and in 1875 the work was produced, and created a profound sensation all over the musical world. "Parsifal," his last opera, was first performed in 1882. His works have aroused great opposition, especially among conservative musicians, for the reason that he has set at defiance the conventional operatic forms, and in carrying out his theory of making the musical and dramatic elements of equal importance, and employing the former as the language of the latter in natural ways, has made musical declamation take the place of set melody, and swept away the customary arias, duets, quartets, and concerted numbers of the Italian school, to suit the dramatic exigencies of the situations. Besides his musical compositions, he enjoys almost equal fame as a littérateur, having written not only his own librettos, but four important works,--"Art and the Revolution," "The Art Work of the Future," "Opera and Drama," and "Judaism in Music." His music has made steady progress through the efforts of such advocates as Liszt, Von Bülow, and Richter in Germany, Pasdeloup in France, Hueffer in England, and Theodore Thomas in the United States. In 1870 he married Frau Cosima von Bülow, the daughter of Liszt,--an event which produced almost as much comment in social circles as his operas have in musical. He died during a visit to Venice, Feb. 13, 1883. Love Feast of the Apostles. "Das Liebesmahl der Apostel" ("The Love Feast of the Apostles"), a Biblical scene for male voices and orchestra, dedicated to Frau Charlotte Emilie Weinlig, the widow of the composer's old teacher, was written in 1843, the year after "Rienzi," and was first performed in the Frauen-Kirche in Dresden at the Men's Singing Festival, July 6 of that year. The work opens with a full chorus of Disciples ("Gegrüsst seid, Brüder, in des Herren Namen"), who have gathered together for mutual help and strength to endure the persecutions with which they are afflicted. The movement flows on quietly, though marked by strong contrasts, for several measures, after which the chorus is divided, a second and third chorus taking up the two subjects, "Uns droht der Mächt'gen Hass," and "O fasst Vertrau'n," gradually accelerating and working up to a climax, and closing pianissimo ("Der Mächt'gen Späh'n verfolgt uns überall"). In the next number the Apostles enter (twelve bass voices) with a sonorous welcome ("Seid uns gegrüsst, ihr lieben Brüder"), reinforced by the Disciples, pianissimo ("Wir sind versammelt im Namen Jesu Christi"), the united voices at last in powerful strains ("Allmächt'ger Vater, der du hast gemacht Himmel und Erd' und Alles was darin") imploring divine help and the sending of the Holy Ghost to comfort them. At its close voices on high are heard ("Seid getrost, ich bin euch nah, und mein Geist ist mit euch"). The Disciples reply with increasing vigor ("Welch Brausen erfüllt die Luft"). The Apostles encourage them to steadfast reliance upon the Spirit ("Klein müthige! Hört an was jetzt der Geist zu Künden uns gebeut"), and the work comes to a close with a massive chorale ("Denn ihm ist alle Herrlichkeit von Ewigkeit zu Ewigkeit"), worked up with overpowering dramatic force, particularly in the instrumentation. Though but a small composition compared with the masterpieces for the stage which followed it, it is peculiarly interesting in its suggestions of the composer's great dramatic power which was to find its fruition in the later works from his pen. WEBER. Carl Maria von Weber was born Dec. 18, 1786, at Eutin, and may almost be said to have been born on the stage, as his father was at the head of a theatrical company, and the young Carl was carried in the train of the wandering troupe all over Germany. His first lessons were given to him by Henschkel, conductor of the orchestra of Duke Friedrich of Meiningen. At the age of fourteen he wrote his first opera, "Das Waldmädchen," which was performed several times during the year 1800. In 1801 appeared his two-act comic opera, "Peter Schmoll and his Neighbors," and during these two years he also frequently played in concerts with great success. He then studied with the Abbé Vogler, and in his eighteenth year was engaged for the conductorship of the Breslau opera. About this time appeared his first important opera, "Rubezahl." At the conclusion of his studies with Vogler he was made director of the opera at Prague. In 1816 he went to Berlin, where he was received with the highest marks of popular esteem, and thence to Dresden as hofcapellmeister. This was the most brilliant period in his career. It was during this time that he married Caroline Brandt, the actress and singer, who had had a marked influence upon his musical progress, and to whom he dedicated his exquisite "Invitation to the Dance." The first great work of his life, "Der Freischütz," was written at this period. Three other important operas followed,--"Preciosa," "Euryanthe," the first performance of which took place in Vienna in 1823, and "Oberon," which he finished in London and brought out there. Weber's last days were spent in the latter city, and it was while making preparations to return to Germany, which he longed to see again, that he was stricken down with his final illness. On the 4th of June, 1826, he was visited by Sir George Smart, Moscheles, and other musicians who were eager to show him attention. He declined to have any one watch by his bedside, thanked them for their kindness, bade them good-by, and then turned to his friend Fürstenau, and said, "Now let me sleep." These were his last words. The next morning he was found dead in his bed. He has left a rich legacy of works besides his operas,--a large collection of songs, many cantatas (of which the "Jubilee" and "Kampf und Sieg" are the finest), some masses, of which that in E flat is the most beautiful, and several concertos, besides many brilliant rondos, polaccas, and marches for the piano. Jubilee Cantata. The "Jubilee Cantata" was written in 1818 to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the reign of King Friedrich August of Saxony. The King having expressed a desire that there should be a court concert on the day of the anniversary, September 20, Count Vitzthum commissioned Weber to write a grand jubilee cantata. The poet Friedrich Kind supplied the words. While engaged in its composition Weber was informed by friends that other arrangements were being made for the concert, and on the 12th of September the information was confirmed by a letter from the Count which informed him that notwithstanding his personal protests, the Jubilee Cantata was not to be given. The son in his biography of his father intimates that the change was the result of intrigues on the part of his Italian rivals, Morlacchi, Zingarelli, and Nicolini. The same authority says that the cantata was finally produced in the Neustadt church for the benefit of the destitute peasantry in the Hartz mountains, Weber himself conducting the performance, and that only the overture to the work, now famous the world over as the "Jubel," was played at the court concert. The best authorities, however, now believe that the Jubel overture is an entirely independent work, having no connection with the cantata. The text of the cantata, which commemorates many special events in the life of the King, being found unsuitable for general performance, a second text was subsequently written by Amadeus Wendt, under the title of "Ernte-Cantata" ("Harvest Cantata") which is the one now in common use, although still another version was made under the name of "The Festival of Peace," by Hampdon Napier, which was used at a performance in London under the direction of the composer himself only a few days before his death. The cantata is written for the four solo voices, chorus, and orchestra. It opens after a short allegro movement with a full jubilant chorus ("Your thankful Songs upraise"), the solo quartet joining in the middle part with chorus. The second number is a very expressive recitative and aria for tenor ("Happy Nation, still receiving"). The third is characterized by quiet beauty, and is very devotional in spirit. It begins with a soprano recitative and aria ("Yet not alone of Labor comes our Plenty"), leading up to a second recitative and aria ("The gracious Father hears us when we call"), which are very vivacious in style, closing with a tenor recitative ("The Air is mild and clear and grateful to the Reapers"). These prepare the way for a short but very powerful chorus ("Woe! see the Storm-Clouds"). In the next number ("How fearful are the Terrors Nature brings") the bass voice moralizes on the powers of Nature, followed by a plaintive strain for two sopranos, which leads up to a majestic prayer for chorus ("Lord Almighty, full of Mercy"). A bass recitative ("Lo, once our Prayer") introduces a beautiful quartet and chorus of thanksgiving ("Wreathe into Garlands the Gold of the Harvest"). They are followed by a tenor recitative and soprano solo ("Soon noble Fruit by Toil was won"), and the work comes to a close with a stately chorus of praise ("Father, reigning in Thy Glory"). Kampf und Sieg. In June, 1815, Weber arrived in Munich and during his stay made the acquaintance of Fraulein Wohlbrück, the singer, which led to an introduction to her father, who was both an actor and a poet. On the very day that he met Wohlbrück, the news came to Munich of the victory of the Allies at Waterloo, the whole city was decorated and illuminated, and a great crowd, Weber with them, went to St. Michael's Church to listen to a Te Deum. While there the idea of a grand cantata in commemoration of the victory came into his mind. On his return home he met Wohlbrück and communicated his purpose to him. The enthusiastic poet agreed to furnish the words. About the first of August the text was placed in Weber's hands, and he at once set it to music. It was first produced on the 22d of December at Prague, and made a profound impression by its stirring military character and vivid battle-descriptions. The cantata is written for the four solo voices, chorus of sopranos, altos, two tenors, and basses and orchestra. A stirring orchestral introduction leads up to a people's chorus which describes the disappearance of dissensions heralding the approach of victory. No. 3 is a bass solo entitled "Faith," with a delightful violoncello accompaniment. In No. 4, Love (soprano) and Hope (tenor) join with Faith in a song full of feeling. No. 5 is a soldiers' chorus of an enthusiastic and martial character, while in the distance is heard the Austrian Grenadier's march mingling with it. In the next number the approach of the enemy is heard as the chorus closes with the majestic phrase, "Mit Gott sei unser Werk gethan." The lively march of the enemy comes nearer and nearer, interwoven with the next chorus, which is set to Körner's prayer "Wie auch die Hölle braust." Then follows the opening of the battle, with the roar of cannon, the shouts of the soldiers, and the cries of the wounded, through which is heard the French national air defiantly sounding. Another soldiers' chorus follows. It pictures the advance of the Prussian Jägers ("Ha! welch ein Klang"), followed by the simple strains of "God save the King!" In No. 9 the fight is renewed, the music reaching a pitch of almost ferocious energy, until the joyous cry is heard, "Hurrah! Er flieht," and the triumphant march of victory emphasizes the exultant pæan, "Heil dir im Siegerkranz." The rest of the cantata is purely lyrical in style. Once more the voices of "Faith" and "Love" are heard, leading up to the final majestic chorus, "Herr Gott, Dich loben wir," accompanying a solo voice chanting the theme "Gieb und erhalte den Frieden der Welt." WHITING. George Elbridge Whiting was born at Holliston, Mass., Sept. 14, 1842. He began the study of the piano at a very early age, but soon abandoned it for the organ. His progress was so rapid that at the age of thirteen he made his public appearance as a player. In 1857 he went to Hartford, Conn., where he had accepted a position in one of the churches, and while there organized the Beethoven Society. In 1862 he removed to Boston, but shortly afterwards went to England, where he studied the organ for a year with Best. On his return he was engaged as organist of St. Joseph's Church, Albany, N. Y., but his ambition soon took him to Europe again. This time he went to Berlin and finished his studies with Radecke and Haupt. He then returned to Albany and remained there three years, leaving that city to accept a position at the church of the Immaculate Conception, Boston. In 1874 he was appointed organist at the Music Hall, and was also for some time at the head of the organ department of the New England Conservatory of Music. In 1878 he was organist for the third Cincinnati May Festival, and in 1879 accepted a position in the College of Music in that city, at the same time taking charge of the organ in the Music Hall, with what success those who attended the May Festivals in that city will remember. He remained in Cincinnati three years and then returned to his old position in Boston. Mr. Whiting ranks in the first class of American organists, and has also been a prolific composer. Among his vocal works are a mass in C minor (1872); mass in F minor (1874); prologue to Longfellow's "Golden Legend" (1873); cantatas, "Dream Pictures" (1877), "The Tale of the Viking" (1880); a concert overture ("The Princess"); a great variety of organ music, including "The Organist," containing twelve pieces for that instrument, and "the First Six Months on the Organ," with twenty-five studies; several concertos, fantasies, and piano compositions, and a large number of songs. The Tale of the Viking. "The Tale of the Viking" was written in competition for the prize offered by the Cincinnati Musical Festival Association in 1879, and though unsuccessful, is still regarded as one of the most admirable and scholarly works yet produced in this country. The text of the cantata is Longfellow's "Skeleton in Armor," that weird and stirring story of the Viking, which the poet so ingeniously connected with the old mill at Newport. The work comprises ten numbers, and is written for three solo voices (soprano, tenor, and barytone), chorus, and orchestra. A long but very expressive overture, full of the dramatic sentiment of the poem, prepares the way for the opening number, a short male chorus:-- "'Speak! speak! thou fearful guest Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?'" Next comes a powerful chorus for mixed voices ("Then from those cavernous Eyes"), which leads up to the opening of the Viking's story ("I was a Viking old"), a barytone solo, which is made very dramatic by the skilful division of the song between recitative and the melody. In the fourth number the male chorus continues the narrative ("But when I older grew"), describing in a vivacious and spirited manner the wild life of the marauders on the sea and their winter wassails as they told the Berserker legends over their cups of ale. In the fifth the soprano voice tells of the wooing of "The blue-eyed Maid" in an aria ("Once, as I told in Glee") remarkable for its varying shades of expression. At its close a brilliant march movement, very sonorous in style and highly colored, introduces a vigorous chorus ("Bright in her Father's Hall"), which describes the refusal of old Hildebrand to give his daughter's hand to the Viking. A dramatic solo for barytone ("She was a Prince's Child") pictures the flight of the dove with the sea-mew, which is followed by a chorus of extraordinary power as well as picturesqueness ("Scarce had I put to Sea"), vividly describing the pursuit, the encounter, and the Viking's escape with his bride. A graceful but pathetic romance for tenor ("There lived we many Years"), which relates her death, and burial beneath the tower, leads to the closing number, a soprano solo with a full stately chorus, admirably worked up, picturing the death of the Viking, who falls upon his spear, and ending in an exultant and powerful burst of harmony, set to the words:-- "'Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended; There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, _Skoal_! to the Northland! _skoal_!' Thus the tale ended." APPENDIX. The following alphabetical list has been prepared to present the reader with the titles of the more important cantatas by well-known composers and the dates of their composition. To make an exhaustive catalogue of works of this class would be impossible, as a great number have been lost entirely, and hundreds of others are now only known by name; but the writer believes that those subjoined will provide musical students, as well as the general reader, with as complete a reference list as can be desired. Adam, Adolphe. Le Premiers Pas (1847); La Fête des Arts (1852); Chant de Victoire (1855); Birth of the Prince Imperial (1856). Anderton, Thomas. The Song of Deborah and Barak (1871); The Wreck of the Hesperus (1882); The Norman Baron (1884); Yuletide (1885). Arnold, Samuel. Sennacherib (1774). Aspa, Edward. The Gypsies (1870); Endymion (1875). Astorga, Emanuele. Quando penso (1706); Torne Aprile (1706); In questo core (1707); Dafni (1709). Bach, John Sebastian. Two hundred and twenty-six sacred cantatas, of which the following are most commonly sung: Ich hatte viel Bekümmerniss; Festo Ascensionis Christi; Ein' Feste Burg (Reformation festival of 1717); Aus tiefer Noth schrei ich; Christ unser Herr zum Jordan kam; Ehre sei Gott in der Höhe (Christmas cantata); Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit (mourning cantata); Lobe den Herrn (New Year's Day); O Ewigkeit, du Donnerwort; Gott ist mein König; Wie schön leucht uns der Morgenstern. Twenty-eight birthday, funeral, and secular cantatas: among them, Komische cantate, Kaffee cantate, Bauern oder Hochzeit's cantate. Balfe, Michael. Mazeppa (1862); The Page (?). Barnby, Joseph. Rebekah (1870). Barnett, John Francis. The Ancient Mariner (1867); Paradise and the Peri (1870); Lay of the Last Minstrel (1874); The Good Shepherd (1876); The Building of the Ship (1880). Beethoven, Ludwig von. Der Glorreiche Augenblick (1814); Meeresstille und glücklich Fahrt (1815). Bendall, Wilfred. Parizadeh (1870); The Lady of Shalott (1871). Benedict, Julius. Undine (1860); Richard Coeur de Leon (1863); Legend of St. Cecilia (1866); Legend of St. Elizabeth (1867); St. Peter (1870); Graziella (1882). Bennett, William Sterndale. May Queen (1858); International Exhibition Ode (1862); Cambridge Installation Ode (1862). Berlioz, Hector. Sardanaple (1830); Romeo and Juliet (dramatic symphony with solos and chorus) (1839); Damnation of Faust (dramatic scenes) (1846); L'Imperiale (1855); Le Cinq Mai (1857). Bishop, Henry. The Seventh Day (1840). Boito, Arrigo. Ode to Art (1880). Brahms, Johannes. Rinaldo (1868); Rhapsodie (1870); Schicksalslied (1871); Triumphlied (1873); Gesang der Parzen (1877); Boadicea (1878). Bridge, John Frederick. Rock of Ages (1880); Boadicea (1880). Bristow, George Frederick. Daniel (1876). Bronsart, Hans von. Christmarkt (1876). Bruch, Max. Die Birken und die Erlen (1853); Jubilate-Amen (1856); Rinaldo (1858); Rorate Coeli (1861); Frithjof's Saga (1862); Salamis (1862); Die Flucht der heilige Familie (1863); Gesang der heiligen drei Könige (1864); Römischer Triumphgesang (1864); Römische Leichenfeier (1864); Schön Ellen (1869); Odysseus (1872); Arminius (1873); Normannenzug (1874); Song of the Bell (1876); Achilleus (1885). Brüll, Ignaz. Die Gesternähren (1875). Buck, Dudley. Forty-sixth Psalm (1872); Don Munio (1874); Centennial Cantata (1876); The Nun of Nidaros (1878); Golden Legend (1880); Voyage of Columbus (1885); Light of Asia (1886). Caldicott, Alfred James. La Primavera (1880); The Widow of Nain (1881); Rhine Legend (1883); Queen of the May (1885). Carissimi, Giacomo. Jephthah (1660). Cherubini, Marie Luigi. La Pubblica Felicità (1774); Arnphion (1786); and seventeen others. Cimerosa, Domenico. La Nascita del Delfino (1786); and one hundred others. Clay, Frederick. The Knights of the Cross (1866); Lalla Rookh (1877). Corder, Frederick. The Cyclops (1880); The Bridal of Triermain (1886). Costa, Michael. The Dream (1815); La Passione (1827). Cowen, Frederick Hymen. The Rose Maiden (1870); The Corsair (1876); St. Ursula (1881); The Sleeping Beauty (1885). Cummings, William Hayman. The Fairy Ring (1873). Damrosch, Leopold. Ruth and Naomi (1870); Sulamith (1877). David, Félicien César. The Desert (1844). Dvorák, Anton. Patriotic Hymn (1880); The Spectre's Bride (1885). Erdmannsdorfer, Max. Prinzessin Ilse (1870); Die Schneewittchen (1871). Foote, Arthur. The Legend of Hiawatha (1879). Foster, Myles Birkett. The Bonnie Fishwives (1880). Fry, William Henry. The Fall of Warsaw (1858). Gabriel, Virginia. Dreamland (1870); Evangeline (1873). Gade, Niels Wilhelm. Comala (1843); Spring Fantasie (1850); The Holy Night (1851); Erl King's Daughter (1852); Frühlingsbotschaft (1853); Kalamus (1853); Psyche (1856); Zion (1860); The Crusaders (1866). Gadsby, Henry Robert. Alice Brand (1870); Lord of the Isles (1880); Columbus (1881). Garcia, Manuel. Endimione (1822). Gaul, Alfred Robert. Ruth (1881); The Holy City (1882). Gernsheim, Friedrich. Odin's Meeresritt (1860). Gilchrist, William Wallace. Forty-seventh Psalm (1882); The Rose (1886). Gleason, Frederick Grant. God our Deliverer (1878); The Culprit Fay (1879); Praise of Harmony (1886). Glover, Ferdinand. The Fire Worshippers (1857). Glover, William. The Corsair (1849). Glover, William Howard. Tam O'Shanter (1855). Gluck, Christoph Willibald. Alexander's Feast (1753); De Profundis (1760); The Last Judgment (finished by Salieri) (1761). Goetz, Hermann. By the Waters of Babylon (1874); Noenia (1875). Goldmark, Karl. Frühling's Hymne (1876). Gounod, Charles François. Marie Stuart et Rizzio (1837); Daughters of Jerusalem (1838); Fernand (1839); À la Frontière (1870); Gallia (1871). Grieg, Edward. Land Kennung (1865). Halévy, Jacques Fromental. Les Plages du Nil (1850); Italie (1850). Hamerik, Asger. Friedenshymne (1868). Handel, George Frederick. Passion (1704); twelve called "Hanover" (1711); seventy-nine written in Italy (1706-1712); Acis and Galatea (1720); Sei del cielo (1736); Alexander's Feast (1736); Ode on St. Cecilia's Day (1739); L'Allegro, il Penseroso, ed il Moderato (1740). Hatton, John Liphot. Robin Hood (1856). Hauptmann, Moritz. Herr, Herr! wende dich zum Gebet (1840); Die lustigen Musikanten (1842). Haydn, Joseph. Birthday of Prince Nicholas (1763); Applausus Musicus (1768); Die Erwahlung eines Kapellmeisters (1769); Ah! come il core mi palpito (1783); Invocation of Neptune (1783); An die Freude (1786); Das Erndtefest (1786); Deutschland's Klage auf den Tod Friedrichs der Grossen (1787); Des Dichter's Geburtsfest (1787); Hier liegt Constantia (1787); Ariadne a Naxos (1792); Ombra del caro bene (1798); Der Versohnung's Tod (1809). Heap, C. Swinnerton. The Maid of Astolat (1885). Hesse, Adolph Friedrich. Sei uns gnadig, Gott der gnaden (1831); Von Leiden ist me in Herz bedrängt (1832). Hiller, Ferdinand. Die lustige Musikanten (1838); O, weint um Sie (1839); Morning of Palm Sunday (1839); Whitsuntide (1840); Israel's Siegesgesang (1841); Song of the Spirits over the Water (1842); Prometheus (1843); Rebecca (1843); The Night of the Nativity (1843); Heloise (1844); Loreley (1845); Die Nacht (1846); Ostermorgen (1850); Richard Löwenherz (1855); An das Vaterland (1861); Song of Victory (1871); Song of Heloise (1871); Nala und Damajanti (1871); Pentecost (1872); Prince Papagei (1872). Himmel, Friedrich Heinrich. La Danza (1792); Hessan's Söhne und Prussien's Töchter (1797); Das Vertrauen auf Gott (1797); Funeral Cantata (1799). Hofmann, Heinrich K. J. Deutschland's Erhebung (1874); Aschenbrödel (1875); Song of the Norns (1875); Melusina (1876); Cinderella (1879). Hummel, Johann Nepomuk. Diana ed Endimione (1818). Isouard, Nicolo. Hebe (1813). Jackson, William. Lycidas (1767); The Praise of Music (1770); The Year (1785). Jensen, Adolf. Jephtha's Daughter (1864); Donald Caird ist wieder da (1875); The Feast of Adonis (1881). Krug, Arnold. Nomadenzug (1877); Sigurd (1882). Kücken, Friedrich. Friedenshymne (1870). Kuhlau, Friedrich. Die Feier des Wohlwollens (1818). Lachner, Franz. Die vier Menschenalter (1843); Der Sturm (1845); Sixty-third Psalm (1849); Des Krieger's Gebet (1851); Siegesgesang (1852); Mozart Fest Cantate (1852); Sturmesmythe (1853); Bundeslied (1854); One Hundred and Fiftieth Psalm (1854). Lahee, Henry. Building of the Ship (1869); The Blessing of the Children (1870). Lassen, Edward. Les Flamands sous van Arteveldt (1854); The Artists (1861); Fest Cantate (1874). Lefébvre, Wély Louis. Après le Victoire (1863). Leslie, Henry David. Judith (1858); Holyrood (1860); The Daughter of the Isles (1861). Lindpaintner, Peter Joseph von. Widow of Nain (1846). Liszt, Franz. Prometheus (1850); Ave Maria (1851); Pater Noster (1852); Schiller Cantata (1859); Die Seligkeiten (arranged from "Christus") (1863); Eighteenth Psalm (1867); Beethoven Festival Cantata (1870); Requiem (1870); One Hundred and Sixteenth Psalm (1873); The Bells of Strasburg (1874); An den heiligen Franziskus (1874); St. Cecilia (1875); Thirteenth Psalm (1877). Lloyd, Charles Harford. Hero and Leander (1884); The Song of Balder (1885); Andromeda (1886). Macfarren, George Alexander. Lenora (1852); May Day (1857); The Soldier's Legacy (1857); Christmas (1860); Songs in a Cornfield (1868); The Lady of the Lake (1877); Outward Bound (1877). Mackenzie, Alexander Campbell. The Bride (1880); Jason (1882); Story of Sayid (1886). Massenet, Jules Émile Frédéric. David Rizzio (1863); Paix et Liberté (1867); Mary Magdalen (1873); Eve (1875); Narcisse (1877). Mendelssohn, Bartholdy Felix. Christe, du Lamm Gottes (1827); Ach Gott von Himmel (1827); Humboldt Fest Cantate (1828); Walpurgis Night (1831); As the Hart pants (1838); Friedrich August Fest Cantate (1842); Lauda Sion (1846); To the Sons of Art (1846). Mercadante, Saverio. L'Unione delle belli Arte (1818); The Seven Words (1821). Meyerbeer, Giacomo. Seven sacred Cantatas from Klopstock (1810); God and Nature (1810); March of the Bavarian Archers (1816); The Genius of Music at the Grave of Beethoven (1830); Gutenberg Cantata (1836); Le Festa nella Corte di Ferrara (1843); Maria und ihr Genius (1851). Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus. Grabmusik (1767); Davidde penitente (1783); Die Seele (1783); Die Maurer freude (1785); La Betulia liberata (1786); Eine Kleine Freimaurer Cantate (1791). Neukomm, Sigismond. Napoleon's Midnight Review (1828); Easter Morning (1829). Oxenford, Edward. Crown of Roses (1886). Pacini, Giovanni. Dante Centenary (1865). Paer, Ferdinand. Bacco ed Ariadna (1804); La Conversazione Armonica (1804); Il Trionfo della chiesa Cattolica (1805); Europa in Creta (1806); Il S. Sepolcro (1815). Paine, John Knowles. Oedipus (1881); Phoebus Arise (1882); The Nativity (1883); Realm of Fancy (1884). Paine, Robert P. From Death unto Life (1883); Great is the Lord (1884); The Lay of the Last Minstrel (1884); A Day with our Lord (1885). Paisiello, Giovanni. Peleus (1763); Achille in Sciro (1783); Giunone Lucina (1784). Parker, James C. D. Redemption Hymn (1877); The Blind King (1886). Parker, H. W. King Trojan (1885). Pattison, Thomas Mee. The Ancient Mariner (1885); The Lay of the Last Minstrel (1885). Pepusch, John Christopher. Alexis (1712). Pergolesi, Giovanni. Siciliana (1730); Euridice (1730). Ponchielli, Amilcare. Donizetti ed Mayr Cantata (1875). Prout, Ebenezer. Hereward (1878); Freedom (1880); Alfred (1881); Queen Aimée (1885). Raff, Joseph Joachim. Wachet auf (1865); Deutschland's Auferstehung (1865); Einer Entschlaffener (1876); One Hundred and Thirtieth Psalm, "De Profundis" (1878); Die Tageszeiten (1878). Randegger, Albert. Medea (1869); The One Hundred and Fiftieth Psalm (1872); Fridolin (1873); Saffo (1875). Reichardt, Johann Friedrich. Trauer Cantate auf den Tod Friedrich (1786); La Danza (1790). Reinecke, Karl. Ein geistliche Abendlied (1851); Schlachtlied (1852); Schneewittchen (1852); Salvum fac regem (1859); Weinachts (1861); Belshazzar (1863); Te Deum Laudamus (1870); Flucht der heilige Familie (1873); Dörnroschen (1875); Aschenbrödel (1877); Hakon Jarl (1877); Die wilden Schwäne (1881). Reissiger, Karl Gottlieb. Der Herr macht Alles wohl (1830). Reissmann, August. Drusus' Death (1870); Lorelei (1871). Rheinberger, Joseph. Wasserfee (1867); Die Nacht (1868); Die tödte Braut (1873); Johannisnacht (1875); Klärchen auf Eberstein (1876); Christophorus (1880); Toggenburg (1880). Ries, Ferdinand. Der Morgen (1835). Rockstro, William Smyth. The little Daughter of Jairus (1871); The Good Shepherd (1885). Rode, Theodore. Passion's Cantata (1864). Romberg, Andreas. The Transient and the Eternal (1801); Lay of the Bell (1808). Rossini, Gioachino. Didone abandonnata (1811); Eglo e Irene (1814); Teti e Peleo (1816); I pastori (1820); Cara patria (1820); La Riconoscenza (1821); Il pianto delle Muse (1823); La sacra Alleanza (1823); Il vero ommagio (1823); Joan of Arc (1859). Rubinstein, Anton. E dunque vero (1865); Die Nixe (1866); The Morning (1868); Mignon (1869); Hecuba (1872); Hagar in the Wilderness (1872). Ryan, Desmond L. The Maid of Astolat (1886). Saint-Saens, Charles Camille. Les Noces de Prométhée (1867); Le Deluge (1876); Eighteenth Psalm (1877); Chanson d' Ancêtre (1878); La Lyre et la Harpe (1879); Hymn to Victor Hugo (1885). Salaman, Charles Kensington. Shakspeare Jubilee (1850). Salieri, Antonio. Le Dernier Jugement (1788); La Riconoscenza (1796). Scarlatti, Alessandro. Povera pelegrina (1697). Scharwenka, Ludwig Philipp. Herbstfeier (1882); Sakuntala (1883). Schira, Francesca. The Lord of Burleigh (1873). Schmitt, Aloys. Die Wörter des Glaubens (1816); Die Huldigung der Tonkunst (1818); Die Hoffnung (1820). Schubert, Franz. Salieri's Jubilee (1815); Prometheus (1816); Cantata (Spendau) (1816); Glaube, Hoffnung und Liebe (1816); Der Frühlingsmorgen (1818); Vogl Cantata (1818); Die Allmacht (1820); Constitution's Lied (1822); À la belle Irene (1827); Miriam's Song (1828). Schumann, Robert. Mignon's Requiem (1849); Advent Hymn (1849); Pilgrimage of the Rose (1851); The King's Son (1851); The Singer's Curse (1852); The Page and the King's Daughter (1852); The Luck of Edenhall (1853). Singer, Otto. Landing of the Pilgrims (1876); Festival Ode (1877). Smart, Henry. Bride of Dunkerron (1864); King René's Daughter (1871); The Fishermaidens (1871); Jacob (1873). Spohr, Louis. The Liberation of Germany (1814); Lord, Thou art great (1815); How lovely are Thy Dwellings (1815); Jehovah, Lord of Hosts (1820); The Lord's Prayer (1829); Hymn to the holy Cecilia (1856). Spontini, Gaspard. Borussia (1826); Gott segne der König (1828). Stainer, John. The Daughter of Jairus (1878); St. Mary Magdalene (1883). Stanford, Charles Villiers. The Revenge (1880); God is our Hope (1881). Sullivan, Arthur. Kenilworth (1864); On Shore and Sea (1871); The Martyr of Antioch (1875); The Golden Legend (1886). Svendsen, Johann. Marriage Cantata (1873). Thomas, Ambroise. Lesueur Cantata (1852); The Tyrol (1867); Carnival of Rome (1868); The Atlantic (1868); Sabbath Night (1869); Boieldieu Cantata (1875). Thomas, Arthur Goring. The Sun Worshippers (1881). Tschaikowsky, Peter I. Coronation Cantata (1882). Volkmann, Friedrich R. To-night (1867); Sappho (1868). Wagner, Richard. New Year's (1834); Das Liebesmahl der Apostel (1843); Gelegensheit Cantate (1843). Weber, Carl Maria von. Der Ester Ton (1808); Kampf und Sieg (1815); Natur und Liebe (1818); Jubilee Cantata (1818). Whiting, George Elbridge. Dream Pictures (1877); Lenora (1879); Tale of the Viking (1880); Henry of Navarre (1885). Winter, Peter. Pigmalione; Piramo e Thisbe; Die verlassene Dido; Vortigerne; Hector; Inez de Castro; Henri IV.; Baiersche Lustbarkeit; Der Franz Lustgarten; Die Hochzeit des Figaro; Andromaque; Prague et Philomela; Timoteo; Die Erlösung des Menschen; Die Auferstehung Germania's Friedens; (all written between 1789 and 1793). Zingarelli, Nicolo. Telemaco (1785); Eco (1802); Cantata Sacra (1829). INDEX. Acis and Galatea, 27, 166. Addison, 58, 59. Advent Hymn, 27, 319. Alexander's Feast, 27, 173. American Cantatas, 28. Antigone, 254. Appendix, 353. Ariadne, 198. Arnold, Edwin, 117, 233. As the Hart Pants, 262. Auber, 66. Bach, 22-25, 63, 308; life of, 29. Balfe, 56; life of, 44. Bassani, 18. Beethoven, 20, 134, 135, 146, 250, 269, 314; life of, 48. Bells of Strasburg, 221. Benedict, 66, 128, 299; life of, 56. Bennett, 27, 227, 332; life of, 62. Berlioz, 27, 295; life of, 68. Bononcini, 19, 164. Brahms, 27, 135, 317; life of, 82. Bridal of Triermain, 124. Bride of Dunkerron, 328. Bruch, 27; life of, 86. Buck, 27, 28, 153, 156, 335; life of, 101. Burney, 14, 16, 18. Byron, 45, 70. Caldara, 19. Cantata, origin of, 13; earlier form, 14; in France, 20; in Germany, 21; Church cantatas, 26-28; modern cantatas, 26-28. Carissimi, 13, 14, 16. Carlyle, 38, 39, 40. Centennial Meditation of Columbia, 28, 106. Cesti, 16. Chandos Anthems, 26, 164, 167. Chopin, 317. Chorley, 58, 64, 210, 265, 332. Choron, 15, 201. Christmas, 228. Christophorus, 304. Comala, 27, 144. Corder, life of, 123. Cowen, 27; life of, 128. Crusaders, 149. Culprit Fay, 28, 157. Damnation of Faust, 27, 74. Dante, 198. D'Astorga, 19. Davidde Penitente, 274. Donizetti, 59. Don Munio, 27, 28, 103. Dryden, 19, 58, 59, 170, 173, 175, 177, 178. Drummond, 289. Dvorák, life of, 134. Ein' Feste Burg, 38. Erl King's Daughter, 147. Exhibition Ode, 66. Fair Ellen, 93. Festa Ascensionis Christi, 37. Foote, 28, life of, 140. Forty-sixth Psalm, 28, 154. Fridolin, 27, 299. Frithjof's Saga, 27, 87. Gade, 27, 295; life of, 143. Gasparini, 17, 18. George Sand, 216. Gilchrist, 28; life of, 153. Gleason, 28; life of, 156. Glorious Moment, The, 53. Gluck, 192. Goethe, 54, 80, 86, 148, 248, 249, 251. Golden Legend (Buck), 28, 109. Golden Legend (Sullivan), 27, 335. Gottes Zeit, 33. Gounod, 78, 79. Gutenberg Fest, 263. Hamerik, 28, 107, 109. Handel, 19, 20, 25, 27, 32, 58, 59, 85; life of, 163. Handel's Passion Cantata, 25. Hanover Cantatas, 25. Hatton, life of, 186. Hawkins, 13, 16. Haydn, 26, 48, 54, 250; life of, 191. Heil der in Siegerkranz, 84. Heine, 39. Hiawatha, 28, 141. Hiller, 27, 86, 123, 318; life of, 201. Hofmann, 27; life of, 205. Holyrood, 210. Ich hatte viel Bekummerniss, 31. Irving, 103, 114. Italian Cantata writers, 16-20. Jubilee Cantata, 344. Jubilee Ode, 237. Kampf und Sieg, 27, 346. Keats, 288. King René's Daughter, 330. King Thamos, 270. King Trojan, 28, 292. L'Allegro, 178. Lamartine, 216. Landing of the Pilgrims, 28, 325. Lauda Sion, 265. Lay of the Bell, 27, 309. Legrenzi, 17. Leslie, life of, 209. Light of Asia, 27, 28, 117. Liszt, 27, 82, 83, 324, 339, 340; life of, 215. Lotti, 17, 19. Longfellow, 110, 141, 221, 222, 335, 349. Love Feast of the Apostles, 340. Luther, 38, 39, 40, 42. Macfarren, 50, 52; life of, 226. Mackenzie, life of, 232. Marcello, 19. Mary Magdalen, 242. Masonic Cantatas, 276. Massenet, life of, 241. May Queen, 27, 64. Mazeppa, 45. Melusina, 27, 206. Mendelssohn, 20, 27, 36, 40, 52, 62, 87, 134, 143, 161, 203, 206, 295, 307; life of, 246. Meyerbeer, 41, 66. Milton, 178, 179, 286. Minstrel's Curse, 322. Miriam's War Song, 314. Mozart, 20, 48, 62, 134, 176, 250; life of, 268. Nativity, The, 28, 286. Nicolai, 41. Odysseus, 27, 95. Oedipus at Colonos, 259. Oedipus Tyrannus, 28, 259, 281. On Shore and Sea, 334. Paganini, 70. Paine, 28, 140; life of, 280. Paisiello, 20. Parker, H. W., 28; life of, 291. Parker, J. C. D., 28; life of, 295. Pergolesi, 20. Phoebus, Arise, 28, 289. Pilgrimage of the Rose, 321. Pope, 170. Porpora, 19, 164, 192. Praise Song to Harmony, 28, 161. Prometheus, 27, 217. Raff, 136. Rákóczy March, 77. Randegger, 27; life of, 298. Realm of Fancy, 28, 288. Redemption Hymn, 28, 296. Rheinberger, 27, 291; life of, 303. Robin Hood, 187. Romberg, 27, 308. Romeo and Juliet, 70. Rosa Salvator, 17. Rossi, 17. Rossini, 44. Rousseau, 20. Ruins of Athens, 49. Saint-Saens, 153. Salamis, 92. Salieri, 215, 313. Sarti, 20. Scarlatti, 18, 19. Schiller, 299, 309. Schubert, 27, 49, 148, 318, life of, 313. Schumann, 27, 62, 82, 251, 295, 307, 315; life of, 317. Scott, Walter, 124. Seven Words, The, 194. Shakspeare, 71, 75, 87, 227, 246, 254, 332. Singer, 28, 109; life of, 324. Sleeping Beauty, 27, 129. Smart, life of, 327. Song of Miriam, 27. Song of Victory, 27, 203. Spectre's Bride, 136. Spring Fantasie, 146. St. Cecilia, 57. Story of Sayid, 233. Strozzi, 13. Sullivan, 27; life of, 332. Tale of the Viking, 28, 349. Tennyson, 67. Thomas, Ambroise, 241. Thomas, Theodore, 102, 109, 153, 233, 281, 324, 333, 339. Toggenburg, 27, 306. Triumphlied, 27, 83. Uhland, 320, 322, 323. Verdi, 66, 213. Victor Hugo, 216. Voyage of Columbus, 28, 114. Wagner, 41, 106, 127, 145, 149, 216; life of, 338. Walpurgis Night, 27, 248, 262. Weber, 27, 56, 251; life of, 342. Whiting, 28, 153; life of, 348. 
33358	----	GREAT SINGERS ON THE ART _of_ SINGING EDUCATIONAL CONFERENCES WITH FOREMOST ARTISTS BY JAMES FRANCIS COOKE A SERIES OF PERSONAL STUDY TALKS WITH THE MOST RENOWNED OPERA CONCERT AND ORATORIO SINGERS OF THE TIME _ESPECIALLY PLANNED FOR VOICE STUDENTS_ [Illustration] THEO. PRESSER CO. PHILADELPHIA, PA. COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY THEO. PRESSER CO. INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT SECURED CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION 5 THE TECHNIC OF OPERATIC PRODUCTION 21 WHAT THE AMERICAN GIRL SHOULD KNOW ABOUT AN OPERATIC CAREER _Frances Alda_ 31 MODERN VOCAL METHODS IN ITALY _Pasquale Amato_ 38 THE MAIN ELEMENTS OF INTERPRETATION _David Bispham_ 45 SUCCESS IN CONCERT SINGING _Dame Clara Butt_ 58 THE VALUE OF SELF-STUDY IN VOICE TRAINING _Giuseppe Campanari_ 68 ITALY, THE HOME OF SONG _Enrico Caruso_ 79 MODERN ROADS TO VOCAL SUCCESS _Julia Claussen_ 90 SELF-HELP IN VOICE STUDY _Charles Dalmores_ 100 IF MY DAUGHTER SHOULD STUDY FOR GRAND OPERA _Andreas Dippel_ 110 HOW A GREAT MASTER COACHED OPERA SINGERS _Emma Eames_ 121 THE OPEN DOOR TO OPERA _Florence Easton_ 133 WHAT MUST I GO THROUGH TO BECOME A PRIMA DONNA? _Geraldine Farrar_ 144 THE MASTER SONGS OF ROBERT SCHUMANN _Johanna Gadski_ 154 TEACHING YOURSELF TO SING _Amelita Galli-Curci_ 166 THE KNOW HOW IN THE ART OF SINGING _Mary Garden_ 176 BUILDING A VOCAL REPERTOIRE _Alma Gluck_ 185 OPPORTUNITIES FOR YOUNG CONCERT SINGERS _Emilio de Gogorza_ 191 THOROUGHNESS IN VOCAL PREPARATION _Frieda Hempel_ 200 COMMON SENSE IN TRAINING AND PRESERVING THE VOICE _Dame Nellie Melba_ 207 SECRETS OF BEL CANTO _Bernice de Pasquali_ 217 HOW FORTUNES ARE WASTED IN VOCAL EDUCATION _Marcella Sembrich_ 227 KEEPING THE VOICE IN PRIME CONDITION _Ernestine Schumann-Heink_ 235 ITALIAN OPERA IN AMERICA _Antonio Scotti_ 251 THE SINGER'S LARGER MUSICAL PUBLIC _Henri Scott_ 260 SINGING IN CONCERT AND WHAT IT MEANS _Emma Thursby_ 269 NEW ASPECTS OF THE ART OF SINGING IN AMERICA _Reinald Werrenrath_ 283 HOW I REGAINED A LOST VOICE _Evan Williams_ 292 INTRODUCTION VOCAL GOLD MINES AND HOW THEY ARE DEVELOPED Plutarch tells how a Laconian youth picked all the feathers from the scrawny body of a nightingale and when he saw what a tiny thing was left exclaimed, "_Surely thou art all voice and nothing else!_" Among the tens of thousands of young men and women who, having heard a few famous singers, suddenly determine to follow the trail of the footlights, there must be a very great number who think that the success of the singer is "voice and nothing else." If this collection of conferences serves to indicate how much more goes into the development of the modern singer than mere voice, the effort will be fruitful. Nothing is more fascinating in human relations than the medium of communication we call speech. When this is combined with beautiful music in song, its charm is supreme. The conferences collected in this book were secured during a period of from ten to fifteen years; and in every case the notes have been carefully, often microscopically, reviewed and approved by the artist. They are the record of actual accomplishment and not mere metempirical opinions. The general design was directed by the hundreds of questions that had been presented to the writer in his own experience in teaching the art of singing. Only the practical teacher of singing has the opportunity to discover the real needs of the student; and only the artist of wide experience can answer many of the serious questions asked. The writer's first interest in the subject of voice commenced with the recollection of the wonderfully human and fascinating vocal organ of Henry Ward Beecher, whom he had the joy to know in his early boyhood. The memory of such a voice as that of Beecher is ineradicable. Once, at the same age, he was taken to hear Beecher's rival pulpit orator, the Rev. T. de Witt Talmage, in the Brooklyn Tabernacle. The harsh, raucous, nasal, penetrating, rasping, irritating voice of that clergyman only served to emphasize the delight in listening to Beecher. Then he heard the wonderful orotund organ of Col. Robert J. Ingersoll and the sonorous, mellow voice of Edwin Booth. Shortly he found himself enlisted as a soprano in the boy choir of a large Episcopal church. While there he became the soloist, singing many of the leading arias from famous oratorios before he was able to identify the musical importance of such works. Then came a long training in piano and in organ playing, followed by public appearances as a pianist and engagements as an organist and choirmaster in different churches. This, coupled with song composition, musical criticism and editing, experience in conducting, managing concerts, accompanying noted singers and, later, in teaching voice for many years, formed a background that is recounted here only to let the reader know that the conferences were not put down by one unacquainted with the actual daily needs of the student, from his earliest efforts to his platform triumphs. WHAT MUST THE SINGER HAVE? What must the singer have? A voice? Of course. But how good must that voice be? "Ah, there's the rub!" It is this very point which adds so much fascination to the chances of becoming a great singer; and it is this very point upon which so many, many careers have been wrecked. The young singer learns that Jenny Lind was first refused by Garcia because he considered her case hopeless; he learns that Sir George Henschel told Bispham that he had insufficient voice to encourage him to take up the career of the singer; he learns dozens of similar instances; and then he goes to hear some famous singer with slender vocal gifts who, by force of tremendous dramatic power, eclipses dozens with finer voices. He thereupon resolves that "voice" must be a secondary matter in the singer's success. There could not be a greater mistake. There must be a good vocal basis. There must be a voice capable of development through a sufficient gamut to encompass the great works written for such a voice. It must be capable of development into sufficient "size" and power that it may fill large auditoriums. It must be sweet, true to pitch, clear; and, above all, it must have that kind of an individual quality which seems to draw the musical interest of the average person to it. THE PERFECT VOICE Paradoxically enough, the public does not seem to want the "perfect" voice, but rather, the "human" voice. A noted expert, who for many years directed the recording laboratories of a famous sound reproducing machine company, a man whose acquaintance with great singers of the time is very wide, once told the writer of a singer who made records so perfect from the standpoint of tone that no musical critic could possibly find fault with them. Yet these records did not meet with a market from the general public. The reason is that the public demands something far more than a flawless voice and technically correct singing. It demands the human quality, that wonderful something that shines through the voice of every normal, living being as the soul shines through the eyes. It is this thing which gives individuality and identity to the voice and makes the widest appeal to the greatest number of people. Patti was not great because her dulcet tones were like honey to the ear. Mere sweetness does not attract vast audiences time and again. Once, in a mediæval German city, the writer was informed that a nightingale had been heard in the _glacis_ on the previous night. The following evening a party of friends was formed and wandered through the park whispering with delight at every outburst from the silver throat. Never had bird music been so beautiful. The next night someone suggested that we go again; but no one could be found who was enthusiastic enough to repeat the experience. The very perfection of the nightingale's song, once heard, had been sufficient. THE LURE OF INDIVIDUALITY Certain performers in vaudeville owe their continued popularity to the fascinating individuality of their voices. Albert Chevalier, once heard, could never be forgotten. His pathetic lilt to "My Old Dutuch" has made thousands weep. When he sings such a number he has a far higher artistic control over his audience than many an elaborately trained singer trilling away at some very complicated aria. A second-rate opera singer once bemoaned his fate to the writer. He complained that he was obliged to sing for $100.00 a week, notwithstanding his years of study and preparation, while Harry Lauder, the Scotch comedian, could get $1000 a night on his tours. As a matter of fact Mr. Lauder, entirely apart from his ability as an actor, had a far better voice and had that appealing quality that simply commandeers his auditors the moment he opens his mouth. Any method or scheme of teaching the art of singing that does not seek to develop the inherent intellectual and emotional vocal complexion of the singer can never approach a good method. Vocal perfection that does not admit of the manifestation of the real individual has been the death knell of many an aspiring student. Nordica, Jean de Reszke, Victor Maurel, Plançon, Sims Reeves, Schumann-Heink, Garden, Dr. Wüllner, Evan Williams, Galli-Curci, and especially our greatest of American singers, David Bispham, all have manifested a vocal individuality as unforgetable to the ear as their countenances are to the eye. If the reader happens to be a young singer and can grasp the significance of the previous paragraph, he may have something more valuable to him than many lessons. The world is not seeking merely the perfect voice but a great musical individuality manifested through a voice developed to express that individuality in the most natural and at the same time the most comprehensive manner possible. Therefore, young man and young woman, does it not seem of the greatest importance to you to develop, first of all, the _mind and the soul_, so that when the great hour comes, your audience will hear through the notes that pour from your throat something of your intellectual and emotional character? They will not know how, nor will they ask why they hear it,--but its manifestation will either be there or it will not be there. Upon this will depend much of your future success. It can not be concealed from the discerning critics in whose hands your progress rests. The high intellectual training received in college by Ffrangçon Davies, David Bispham, Plunkett Greene, Herbert Witherspoon, Reinald Werrenrath and others, is just as apparent to the intelligent listener, in their singing at recitals, as it would be in their conversation. Others have received an equivalent intellectual training in other ways. The young singer, who thinks that in the future he can "get by" without such a training, is booked for disappointment. Get a college education if you can; and, if you can not, fight to get its equivalent. No useful experience in the singer's career is a wasted one. The early instrumental training of Melba, Sembrich, Campanari, Hempel, Dalmores, Garden, and Galli-Curci, shows out in their finished singing, in wonderful manner. Every singer should be able to play the piano well. It has a splendid effect in the musical discipline of the mind. In European conservatories, in many instances, the study of the piano is compulsory. YOUR PHILOSOPHY OF SINGING The student of singing should be an inveterate reader of "worthwhile" comments upon his art. In this way, if he has a discriminating mind, he will be able to form a "philosophy of singing" of his own. Richard Wagner prefaced his music dramas with lengthy essays giving his reasons for pursuing a certain course. Whatever their value may be to the musical public at this time, it could not have been less than that to the great master when he was fighting to straighten out for his own satisfaction in his own mind just what he should do and how he should do it. Therefore, read interminably; but believe nothing that you read until you have weighed it carefully in your own mind and determined its usefulness in its application to your own particular case. The student will find the following books of real value in his quest for vocal truth: _The Philosophy of Singing_, Clara Kathleen Rogers; _The Vocal Instructor_, E. J. Myer; _The Psychology of Singing_, David C. Taylor; _How to Sing_, Lilli Lehmann; _Reminiscences of a Quaker Singer_, David Bispham; _The Art of the Singer_, W. J. Henderson. The student should also read the biographies of famous singers and keep in touch with the progress of the art, through reading the best magazines. THE HISTORY OF SINGING The history of singing parallels the history of civilization. Egypt, Israel, Greece and Rome made their contributions; but how they sang and what they sang we can not definitely know because of the destruction of the bridge between ancient and modern notation, and because not until Thomas Edison invented the phonograph in 1877, was there any tangible means of recording the voices of the singers. The wisdom of Socrates, Plato and Cæsar is therefore of trifling significance in helping us to find out more than how highly the art was regarded. The absurd antics of Nero, in his ambition to distinguish himself as a singer, indicated in some more or less indefinite way the importance given to singing in the heyday of Rome. The incessant references to singing, in Greek literature, tell us that singing was looked upon not merely as an accomplishment but as one of the necessary arts. Coincident with the coming of Italian opera, about 1600, we find a great revival of the art of singing; and many of the old Italian masters have bequeathed us some fairly instructive comments upon the art of _bel canto_. That these old Italian teachers were largely individualists and taught empirically, with no set methods other than that which their own ears determined, seems to be accepted quite generally by investigators at this date. The _Osservazione sopra il Canto figurato_ of Pietro Francesco Tosi (procurable in English), published in 1723, and the _Reflessioni pratichi sul Canto figurato_, published in 1776, are valuable documents for the serious student, particularly because these men seemed to recognize that the so-called registers should be equalized. With them developed an ever-expanding jargon of voice directions which persist to this day among vocal teachers. Such directions as "sing through the mask" (meaning the face); "sing with the throat open"; "sing as though you were just about to smile"; "sing as though you were just about to experience the sensation of swallowing" (_come bere_); "support the tone"; etc., etc., are often more confusing than helpful. Manual Garcia (1805-1906), who invented the laryngoscope in 1855, made an earnest effort to bring scientific observation to the aid of the vocal teacher, by providing a tiny mirror on the end of a rod, enabling the teacher to see the vocal cords during the process of phonation. How much this actually helped the singing teacher is still a moot point; but it must be remembered that Garcia had many extremely successful pupils, including the immortal Jenny Lind. The writer again advises the serious student of singing to spend a great deal of time in forming his own conception of the principles by which he can get the most from his voice. Any progressive artist teacher will encourage him in this course. In other words, it is not enough in these days that he shall sing; but he must know how he produces his results and be able to produce them time and time again with constantly increasing success. Note in the succeeding conferences how many of the great singers have given very careful and minute consideration to this. The late Evan Williams spent years of thought and study upon it; and the writer considers that his observations in this volume are among the most important contributions to the literature of voice teaching. This was the only form in which they appeared in print. Only one student in a hundred thousand can dispense with a good vocal teacher, as did the brilliant Galli-Curci or the unforgetable Campanari. A really fine teacher of voice is practically indispensable to most students. This does not mean that the best teacher is the one with the greatest reputation. The reputation of a teacher only too often has depended upon his good fortune early in life in securing pupils who have made spectacular successes in a short time. There are hundreds of splendid vocal teachers in America now, and it is very gratifying to see many of their pupils make great successes in Europe without any previous instruction "on the other side." Surely nothing can be more helpful to the ambitious vocal student than the direct advice, personal suggestions and hints of the greatest singers of the time. It is with this thought that the writer takes especial pride in being the medium of the presentation of the following conferences. It is suggested that a careful study of the best sound-reproducing-machine records of the great singers included will add much to the interest of the study of this work. The enormous incomes received from some vocal gold mines, such as Caruso, John McCormack, Patti, Galli-Curci, and others, have made the lure of the singer's career so great that many young vocalists are inclined to forget that all of the great singers of the day have attained their triumphs only after years of hard work. Galli-Curci's overwhelmingly successful American début followed years of real labor, when she was glad to accept small engagements in order to advance in her art. John McCormack's first American appearances were at a side show at the St. Louis World's Fair. Sacrifice is often the seed kernel of large success. Too few young singers are willing to plant that kernel. They expect success to come at the end of a few courses of study and a few hundred dollars spent in advertising. The public, particularly the American public, is a wary one. It may be possible to advertise worthless gold mining stock in such a way that thousands may be swindled before the crook behind the scheme is jailed. But it is impossible to sell our public a so-called golden-voiced singer whose voice is really nothing more than tin-foil and very thin tin-foil at that. Every year certain kinds of slippery managers accept huge fees from would-be singers, which are supposed to be invested in a mysterious formula which, like the philosopher's stone, will turn a baser metal into pure gold. No campaign of advertising spent upon a mediocrity or an inadequately prepared artist can ever result in anything but a disastrous waste. Don't spend a penny in advertising until you have really something to sell which the public will want. It takes years to make a fine singer known; but it takes only one concert to expose an inadequate singer. Every one of the artists represented in this book has been "through the mill" and every one has triumphed gloriously in the end. There is one road. They have defined it in remarkable fashion in these conferences. The sign-posts read, "Work, Sacrifice, Joy, Triumph." With the multiplicity of methods and schemes for practice it is not surprising that the main essentials of the subject are sometimes obscured. That such discussions as those included in this book will enable the thinking student to crystallize in his own mind something which to him will become a method long after he has left his student days, can not be questioned. One of the significant things which he will have to learn is perfect intonation, keeping on the right pitch all the time; and another thing is freedom from restriction, best expressed by the word poise. William Shakespeare, greatest of English singing teachers of his day, once expressed these important points in the following words: "The Foundations of the Art of Singing are two in number: "First: (A) How to take breath and (B) how to press it out slowly. (The act of slow exhalation is seen in our endeavor to warm some object with the breath.) "Second: How to sing to this controlled breath pressure. "It may be interesting at this point to observe how the old singers practiced when seeking a full tone while using little breath. They watched the effect of their breath by singing against a mirror or against the flame of a taper. If a note required too much pressure the command over the breath was lost--the mirror was unduly tarnished or the flame unduly puffed. 'Ah' was their pattern vowel, being the most difficult on account of the openness of the throat--the vowel which, by letting more breath out, demanded the greatest control. The perfect poise of the instrument on the controlled breath was found to bring about _three_ important results to the singer: "_First result_--Unerring tuning. As we do not experience any sensation of consciously using the muscles in the throat, we can only judge of the result by listening. When the note sounds to the right breath control it springs unconsciously and instantaneously to the tune we intended. The freedom of the instrument not being interfered with, it follows through our wishing it--like any other act naturally performed. This unerring tuning is the first result of a right foundation. "_Second result_--The throat spaces are felt to be unconscious and arrange themselves independently in the different positions prompted by the will and necessary to pronounciation, the factors being freedom of tongue and soft palate, and freedom of lips. "_Third result_--The complete freedom of the face and eyes which adapt themselves to those changes necessary to the expression of the emotions. "The artist can increase the intensity of his tone without necessarily increasing its volume, and can thus produce the softest effect. By his skill he can emit the soft note and cause it to travel as far as a loud note, thus arousing emotions as of distance, as of memories of the past. He produces equally well the more powerful gradations without overstepping the boundary of noble and expressive singing. On the other hand, an indifferent performer would scarcely venture on a soft effect, the absence of breath support would cause him to become inaudible and should he attempt to crescendo such a note the result would be throaty and unsatisfactory." Another most important subject is diction, and the writer can think of nothing better than to quote from Mme. Lilli Lehmann, the greatest Wagnerian soprano of the last century. "Let us now consider some of the reasons why some American singers have failed to succeed. How do American women begin their studies? Many commence their lessons in December or January. They take two or three half-hour lessons a week, even attending these irregularly, and ending their year's instruction in March or, at the latest, in April. Surely music study under such circumstances is little less than farcical. The voice, above all things, needs careful and constant attention. Moreover, many are lacking lamentably in the right preparations. Some are evidently so benighted as to believe that preparation is unnecessary. Or do they believe that the singing teacher must also provide a musical and general education? "Is there one among them, for instance, who can enunciate her own language faultlessly; that is, as the stage demands? Many fail to realize that they should, first of all, be taught elocution (diction) by teachers who can show them how to pronounce vowels purely and beautifully, and consonants correctly and distinctly, so as to give words their proper sounds. How can anyone expect to sing in a foreign language when he has no idea of his own language--no idea how this wonderful member, the tongue, should be used--to say nothing of the terrible faults in speaking? I endorse the study of elocution as a preparatory study for all singing. No one can realize how much simpler and how much more efficient it would make the work of the singing teacher." Finally, the writer feels that there is much to be inferred from the popular criticism of the man in the street--"There is no music in that voice." Mr. Hoipolloi knows just what he means when he says that. As a matter of fact, the average voice has very little music in it. By music the man means that the pitch of the tones that he hears shall be so unmistakable and so accurate, that the quality shall be so pure and the thought of the singer so sincere and so worth-while, that the auditor feels the wonderful human emotion that comes only from listening to a beautiful human voice. Put real music in every tone and your success will not be far distant. JAMES FRANCIS COOKE. Bala, Pa. THE TECHNIC OF OPERATIC PRODUCTION WHAT THE STUDENT WHO ASPIRES TO GO INTO OPERA SHOULD KNOW ABOUT THE MECHANICAL SIDE OF GIVING AN OPERATIC PERFORMANCE Even after one has mastered the art of singing there is still much that the artist must learn about the actual working of the opera house itself. This of course is best done by actual experience; but the writer has found that much can be gained by insight into some of the conditions that exist in the modern opera house. In the childhood of hundreds of people now living opera was given with scenery and costumes that would be ridiculed in vaudeville if seen to-day. Pianos, lamps, chairs and even bird cages were often painted right on the scenery. One set of costumes and properties was made to do for the better part of the repertoire in such a way that even the most flexible imagination was stretched to the breaking point several times during the performance. Now, most of this has changed and the modern opera house stage is often a mechanical and electrical marvel. It is most human to want to peep behind the scenes and see something of the machinery which causes the wonderful spectacle of the stage. We remember how, as children, we longed to open the clock and see the wheels go round. Behind the asbestos curtain there is a world of ropes, lights, electrical and mechanical machinery, paints and canvas, which is always a territory filled with interest to those who sit in the seats in front. Much of the success of the opera in New York, during the early part of the present century, was due to the great efficiency of the Director, Giulio Gatti-Casazza. Gatti-Casazza was a graduate of the Royal Italian Naval Academy at Leghorn, and had been intended for a career as a naval engineer before he undertook the management of the opera at Ferrara. This he did because his father was on the board of directors of the Ferrara opera house, and the institution had not been a great success. His directorship was so well executed that he was appointed head director of the opera at La Scala in Milan and astonished the musical world with his wonderful Italian productions of Wagner's operas under the conductorship of Toscanini. In New York many reforms were instituted, and later took the New York company to Paris, giving performances which made Europe realize that opera in New York is as fine as that in any music center in the world, and in some particulars finer. The New York opera is more cosmopolitan than that of any other country. Its company included artists from practically every European country, but fortunately includes more American singers and musicians to-day than at any time in our operatic history. We are indebted to the staff of the Metropolitan Opera House, experts who, with the kind permission of the director, furnished the writer with the following interesting information: [Illustration: PROFILE OF THE PARIS GRAND OPERA. (NOTE THAT THE STAGE SECTION IS LARGER THAN THE AUDITORIUM. ALSO NOTE THE IMMENSE SPACE GIVEN TO THE GRAND ENTRANCE STAIRWAY.)] A WORLD OF DETAIL Few people have any idea of how many persons and how many departments are connected with the opera and its presentation. Considering them in order, they might be classed as follows: The General Manager and his assistants. The Musical Director and his assistants. The Stage Director and his assistants. The Technical Director and his assistants. The Business Director and his assistants. The Wardrobe Director and his assistants. The Master of Properties and his assistants. The Head Engineer and his assistants. The Accountant and his assistants. The Advertising Manager and his assistants. The Press Representatives and his assistants. The Superintendent and his assistants. The Head Usher and his assistants. The Electrician and his assistants. Few of these important and necessary factors in the production ever appear before the public. Like the miners who supply us with the wealth of the earth, they work, as it were, underground. No one is more directly concerned with making the production than the Technical Director. In that we are fortunate in having the views of Mr. Edward Siedle, Technical Director of the Metropolitan Opera Company, of New York. The complete picture that the public sees is made under the supervision of Mr. Siedle, and during the actual production he is responsible for all of the technical details. His experience has extended over a great many years in different countries. He writes: THE TECHNIC OF THE PRODUCTION I understand you wish me to give you some idea of the technicalities involved in producing the stage pictures which go to form an opera. Let us suppose it is an opera by an American composer. My first procedure would be to place myself in touch with the author and composer. After having one or two talks with them I secure a libretto. When a mutual understanding is agreed upon between us as to the character of the scenes required and the positions of particular things in relation to the business which has to take place during the performance, I make my plans accordingly, and look up all the data available bearing upon the subject. It is now time to call in the scenic artist, giving him my views and ideas, so that he can start upon the designing and painting of the scenery. His first design would be in the form of a rough sketch and a more clearly worked-out ground plan. After further discussion and alterations we should definitely agree upon a scheme, and he would proceed to make a scale model. When this model is finished it is a perfect miniature scene of the opera as it will appear on the night the opera is produced. The author and composer are then called in to meet the impresario and myself for a final consultation. We now finally criticize our plans, making any alterations which may seem necessary to us. When these alterations are completed the plans are handed over to the carpenter, who immediately starts making his frames and covering them with canvas, working from the scale model. The scenic artist is now able to commence his work in earnest. The "properties" are our next consideration. Sketches and patterns are made, authorities are consulted, and everything possible is done to aid the Property Master in doing his part of the work. Unless the opera in question calls for special mechanical effects, or special stage machinery, the scene is adapted to the stage as it is. If anything exceptional has to be achieved, however, special machinery is constructed. The designing of the costumes is gone over in much the same way as the construction of the scenery. The period in which the opera is laid, the various characters and their station in life, are all well talked over by the composer, author and myself. The costume designer is then called in, and after listening to what every one has to say and reading the libretto, he submits his designs. These, when finished, are criticized by the impresario, the composer, the author and myself, and any suggestion which will improve them is accepted by the designer, and alterations are made until everything is satisfactory. The designs are then sent to the costume maker. The important matter of lighting and electrical effects is not dealt with until after the scenery has been completed, painted and set up on the stage, except in the case when exceptional effects are demanded. The matter is then carefully discussed and arranged so that the apparatus will be ready by the time the earlier rehearsals are taking place. The staff required by a Technical Director in such an institution as the Metropolitan Opera House is necessarily a large one. He needs an able scenic artist with his assistants and an efficient carpenter with his assistants to complete the scenic arrangements as indicated in the models. The completed scenery is delivered over to the stage carpenter who has a large body of assistants, and is held responsible for the running of the opera during rehearsals and performances. The stage carpenter has also under his control a body of carpenters who work all night, commencing their duties after the opera is over, removing all the scenery used in the opera just finished from the opera house and bringing from the various storehouses the scenery required for the next performance or rehearsal. The electrician is an important member of my staff, and he, of course, has a number of assistants. The Property Master and his assistants and the Wardrobe Mistress and her assistants also are extremely important. Then the active engineer who is responsible for the heating and ventilating, and also for many of the stage effects, is another necessary and important member. In all, the Opera House, when in full swing, requires for the technical or stage detail work alone about 185 people. [Illustration: HOW AN OPERATIC STAGE LOOKS FROM BEHIND.] Thus far we have not considered the musical side of the production. This is, of course, under the management of the General Director and the leading Musical Director. Very little time at best is at the disposal of the musical director. A director like Toscanini would, in a first-class opera house, with a full and competent company, require about fifteen days to complete the rehearsals, and other preparations for such a production as _Aïda_, should such a work be brought out as a novelty. A good conductor needs at least four orchestra rehearsals. _Pelleas et Melisande_ would require more extensive rehearsing, as the music is of a new order and is, in a sense, a new form of art. IMPORTANT REHEARSALS While the head musical director is engaged with the principals and the orchestra, the Chorus-master spends his time training the chorus. If his work is not efficiently done, the entire production is greatly impeded. The assistant conductors undertake the work of rehearsing the soloists prior to their appearance in connection with the orchestra. They must know the Head Director's ideas perfectly, and see that the soloists do not introduce interpretations which are too much at variance with his ideas and the accepted traditions. In all about ten rehearsals are given to a work in a room set aside for that purpose, then there are five stage rehearsals, and finally four full ensemble rehearsals with orchestra. In putting on an old work, such as those in the standard repertoire, no rehearsals are demanded. The musical forces of the Metropolitan Opera House, for instance, make a company of at least two leading conductors, twelve assistant conductors, about ninety soloists, a chorus numbering at least one hundred and twenty-five singers, thirty musicians for stage music, about twenty stage attendants and an orchestra of from eighty to one hundred performers, to say nothing of the costume, scenic and business staff, making a little industry all in itself. The General Director, the Stage Manager, and often the Musical Director make innumerable suggestions to the singers regarding the proper histrionic presentation of their rôles. As a rule singers give too little attention to the dramatic side of their work and demand too much of the stage manager. In recent years there has been a great improvement in this. Prior to the time of Gluck, Weber and Wagner, acting in opera was a matter of ridicule. THE BALLET About seventy or one hundred persons make up the ballet of a modern grand opera. At least ten years of continuous study are required to make a finished ballet dancer in the histrionic sense. Many receive very large fees for their services. The art of stage dancing also has undergone many great reforms in recent years; and the ballets of to-day are therefore much more popular than they were in the latter part of the last century. The most popular ballets of to-day are the _Coppelia_ and _Sylvia_ of Delibes. The ballets from the operas of _La Gioconda_, _Samson et Delila_, _Armide_, _Mephistophele_, _Aïda_, _Orfeo_, _L'Africaine_, and _The Damnation of Faust_ also are very popular. At a modern opera house like the Metropolitan in New York City the number of employees will be between six hundred and seven hundred, and the cost of a season will be about one million dollars. FRANCES ALDA (MME. GIULIO GATTI-CASAZZA) BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Frances Alda was born at Christ Church, New Zealand, May 31st, 1883. She was educated at Melbourne and studied singing with Mathilde Marchesi in Paris. Her début was made in Massenet's _Manon_, at the Opera Comique in Paris in 1904. After highly successful engagements in Paris, Brussels, Parma and Milan (where she created the title rôle in the Italian version of _Louise_), she made her American début at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York as Gilda in Verdi's _Rigoletto_. Since her initial success in New York she has been connected with the Metropolitan stage every season. In 1910 she married Giulio Gatti-Casazza, manager of the Metropolitan Opera House, and is probably better able to speak upon the subject herewith discussed than any one in America. She has also appeared with great success in London, Warsaw, Buenos Aires and other cities, in opera and in concert. Many of the most important leading rôles in modern opera have been created by her in America. [Illustration: MME. FRANCES ALDA. © Underwood & Underwood.] WHAT THE AMERICAN GIRL SHOULD KNOW ABOUT AN OPERATIC CAREER MME. FRANCES ALDA (MME. GATTI-CASAZZA) REGULARITY AND SUCCESS To the girl who aspires to have an operatic career, who has the requisite vocal gifts, physical health, stage presence and--most important of all--a high degree of intelligence, the great essential is regular daily work. This implies regular lessons, regular practice, regular exercise, regular sleep, regular meals--in fact, a life of regularity. The daily lesson in most cases seems an imperative necessity. Lessons strung over a series of years merely because it seems more economical to take one lesson a week instead of seven rarely produce the expected results. Marchesi, with her famous wisdom on vocal matters, advised twenty minutes a day and then not more than ten minutes at a time. For nine months I studied with the great Parisian maestra and in my tenth month I made my début. Of course, I had sung a great deal before that time and also could play both the piano and the violin. A thorough musical knowledge is always valuable. The early years of the girl who is destined for an operatic career may be much more safely spent with Czerny exercises for the piano or Kreutzer studies for the violin than with Concone Solfeggios for the voice. Most girls over-exercise their voices during the years when they are too delicate. It always pays to wait and spend the time in developing the purely musical side of study. MODERATION AND GOOD SENSE More voices collapse from over-practice and more careers collapse from under-work than from anything else. The girl who hopes to become a prima donna will dream of her work morning, noon and night. Nothing can take it out of her mind. She will seek to study every imaginable thing that could in any way contribute to her equipment. There is so much to learn that she must work hard to learn all. Even now I study pretty regularly two hours a day, but I rarely sing more than a few minutes. I hum over my new rôles with my accompanist, Frank La Forge, and study them in that way. It was to such methods as this that Marchesi attributed the wonderful longevity of the voices of her best-known pupils. When they followed the advice of the dear old maestra their voices lasted a long, long time. Her vocal exercises were little more than scales sung very slowly, single, sustained tones repeated time and again until her critical ear was entirely satisfied, and then arpeggios. After that came more complicated technical drills to prepare the pupil for the fioriture work demanded in the more florid operas. At the base of all, however, were the simplest kind of exercises. Through her discriminating sense of tone quality, her great persistence and her boundless enthusiasm, she used these simple vocal materials with a wizardry that produced great _prime donne_. THE PRECIOUS HEAD VOICE Marchesi laid great stress upon the use of the head voice. This she illustrated to all her pupils herself, at the same time not hesitating to insist that it was impossible for a male teacher to teach the head voice properly. (Marchesi herself carried out her theories by refusing to teach any male applicants.) She never let any pupil sing above F on the top line of the treble staff in anything but the head voice. They rarely ever touched their highest notes with full voice. The upper part of the voice was conserved with infinite care to avoid early breakdowns. Even when the pupils sang the top notes they did it with the feeling that there was still something in reserve. In my operatic work at present I feel this to be of greatest importance. The singer who exhausts herself upon the top notes is neither artistic nor effective. THE AMERICAN GIRL'S CHANCES IN OPERA The American girl who fancies that she has less chances in opera than her sisters of the European countries is silly. Look at the lists of artists at the Metropolitan, for instance. The list includes twice as many artists of American nationality as of any other nation. This is in no sense the result of pandering to the patriotism of the American public. It is simply a matter of supply and demand. New Yorkers demand the best opera in the world and expect the best voices in the world. The management would accept fine artists with fine voices from China or Africa or the North Pole if they were forthcoming. A diamond is a diamond no matter where it comes from. The management virtually ransacks the musical marts of Europe every year for fine voices. Inevitably the list of American artists remains higher. On the whole, the American girls have better natural voices, more ambition and are willing to study seriously, patiently and energetically. This is due in a measure to better physical conditions in America and in Australia, another free country that has produced unusual singers. What is the result? America is now producing the best and enjoying the best. There is more fine music of all kinds now in New York during one week than one can get in Paris in a month and more than one can get in Milan in six months. This has made New York a great operatic and musical center. It is a wonderful opportunity for Americans who desire to enter opera. THE NEED FOR SUPERIOR INTELLIGENCE There was a time in the halcyon days of the old coloratura singers when the opera singer was not expected to have very much more intelligence than a parrot. Any singer who could warble away at runs and trills was a great artist. The situation has changed entirely to-day. The modern opera-goer demands great acting as well as great singing. The opera house calls for brains as well as voices. There should properly be great and sincere rivalry among fine singers. The singer must listen to other singers with minute care and patience, and then try to learn how to improve herself by self-study and intelligent comparison. Just as the great actor studies everything that pertains to his rôle, so the great singer knows the history of the epoch of the opera in which he is to appear, he knows the customs, he may know something of the literature of the time. In other words, he must live and think in another atmosphere before he can walk upon the stage and make the audience feel that he is really a part of the picture. Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree gave a presentation that was convincing and beautiful, while the mediocre actor, not willing to give as much brain work to his performance, falls far short of an artistic performance. A modern performance of any of the great works as they are presented at the Metropolitan is rehearsed with great care and attention to historical detail. Instances of this are the performances of _L'Amore di Tre Re_, _Carmen_, _Bohême_, and _Lohengrin_, as well as such great works as _Die Meistersinger_, and _Tristan und Isolde_. PHYSICAL STRENGTH AND SINGING Few singers seem to realize that an operatic career will be determined in its success very largely through physical strength, all other factors being present in the desired degree. That is, the singer must be strong physically in order to succeed in opera. This applies to women as well as to men. No one knows what the physical strain is, how hard the work and study are. In front of you is a sea of highly intelligent, cultured people, who for years have been trained in the best traditions of the opera. They pay the highest prices paid anywhere for entertainment. They are entitled to the best. To face such an audience and maintain the high traditions of the house through three hours of a complicated modern score is a musical, dramatic and intellectual feat that demands, first of all, a superb physical condition. Every day of my life in New York I go for a walk, mostly around the reservoir in Central Park, because it is high and the air is pure and free. As a result I seldom have a cold, even in mid-winter. I have not missed a performance in eight years, and this, of course, is due to the fact that my health is my first daily consideration. [Illustration: PASQUALE AMATO. © Mishkin.] PASQUALE AMATO BIOGRAPHICAL Pasquale Amato, for so many years the leading baritone at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, was born at Naples March 21st, 1878. He was intended for the career of an engineer and was educated at the Instituto Tecnico Domenico. He then studied at the Conservatory of Naples from 1896 to 1899. His teachers there were Cucialla and Carelli. He made his début as Germont in _La Traviata_ in the Teatro Bellini at Naples in 1900. Thereafter his successes have been exceptionally great in the music centers of South America, Italy, Russia, England, Egypt, and Germany. He has created numerous rôles at the Metropolitan Opera House, among them Jack Rance in the _Girl of the Golden West_; Golaud in _Pelleas and Melisande_ (Milan); _L'Amore di Tre Re_; _Cyrano_ (Damrosch); _Lodoletta_ (Mascagni); _Madame Sans Gene_. He has visited South America as an artist no less than ten times. His voice is susceptible of fine dramatic feeling. MODERN VOCAL METHODS IN ITALY PASQUALE AMATO When I was about sixteen years of age my voice was sufficiently settled to encourage my friends and family to believe that I might become a singer. This is a proud discovery for an Italian boy, as singing--especially operatic singing--is held in such high regard in Italy that one naturally looks forward with joy to a career in the great opera houses of one's native country and possibly to those over the sea. At eighteen I was accordingly entered in the conservatory, but not without many conditions, which should be of especial interest to young American vocal students. The teachers did not immediately accept me as good vocal material. I was recognized to have musical inclinations and musical gifts and I was placed under observation so that it might be determined whether the state-supported conservatory should direct my musical education along vocal lines or along other lines. This is one of the cardinal differences between musical education in America and musical education in Italy. In America a pupil suddenly determines that he is destined to become a great opera singer and forthwith he hires a teacher to make him one. He might have been destined to become a plumber, or a lawyer, or a comedian, but that has little to do with the matter if he has money and can employ a teacher. In Italy such a direction of talents would be considered a waste to the individual and to the state. Of course the system has its very decided faults, for a corps of teachers with poor or biased judgment could do a great deal of damage by discouraging real talent, as was, indeed, the case with the great Verdi, who at the age of eighteen was refused admission to the Milan Conservatory by the director, Basili, on the score of lack of talent. However, for the most part the judges are experienced and skilful men, and when a pupil has been under surveillance for some time the liability of an error in judgment is very slight. Accordingly, after I had spent some time in getting acquainted with music through the study of Notation, Sight-singing, Theory, Harmony, Piano, etc., I was informed at the end of two years that I had been selected for an operatic career. I can remember the time with great joy. It meant a new life to me, for I was certain that with the help of such conservative masters I should succeed. On the whole, at this time, I consider the Italian system a very wise one for it does not fool away any time with incompetence. I have met so many young musicians who have shown indications of great study but who seem destitute of talent. It seems like coaxing insignificant shrubs to become great oak trees. No amount of coaxing or study will give them real talent if they do not have it, so why waste the money of the state and the money of the individual upon it. On the other hand, wherever in the world there is real talent, the state should provide money to develop it, just as it provides money to educate the young. ITALIAN VOCAL TEACHING So much has been said about the Old Italian Vocal Method that the very name brings ridicule in some quarters. Nothing has been the subject for so much charlatanry. It is something that any teacher, good or bad, can claim in this country. Every Italian is of course very proud indeed of the wonderful vocal traditions of Italy, the centuries of idealism in search of better and better tone production. There are of course certain statements made by great voice teachers of other days that have been put down and may be read in almost any library in large American cities. But that these things make a vocal method that will suit all cases is too absurd to consider. The good sense of the old Italian master would hold such a plan up to ridicule. Singing is first of all an art, and an art can not be circumscribed by any set of rules or principles. The artist must, first of all, know a very great deal about all possible phases of the technic of his art and must then adjust himself to the particular problem before him. Therefore we might say that the Italian method was a method and then again that it was no method. As a matter of fact it is thousands of methods--one for each case or vocal problem. For instance, if I were to sing by the same means that Mr. Caruso employs it would not at all be the best thing for my voice, yet for Mr. Caruso it is without question the very best method, or his vocal quality would not be in such superb condition after constant years of use. He is the proof of his own method. I should say that the Italian vocal teacher teaches, first of all, with his ears. He listens with the greatest possible intensity to every shade of tone-color until his ideal tone reveals itself. This often requires months and months of patience. The teacher must recognize the vocal deficiencies and work to correct them. For instance, I never had to work with my high tones. They are to-day produced in the same way in which I produced them when I was a boy. Fortunately I had teachers who recognized this and let it go at that. Possibly the worst kind of a vocal teacher is the one who has some set plan or device or theory which must be followed "willy-nilly" in order that the teacher's theories may be vindicated. With such a teacher no voice is safe. The very best natural voices have to follow some patent plan just because the teacher has been taught in one way, is inexperienced, and has not good sense enough to let nature's perfect work alone. Both of my teachers knew that my high tones were all right and the practice was directed toward the lower tones. They worked me for over ten months on scales and sustained tones until the break that came at E flat above the Bass Clef was welded from the lower tones to the upper tones so that I could sing up or down with no ugly break audible. I was drilled at first upon the vowel "ah." I hear American vocal authorities refer to "ah" as in father. That seems to me too flat a sound, one lacking in real resonance. The vowel used in my case in Italy and in hundreds of other cases I have noted is a slightly broader vowel, such as may be found half-way between the vowel "ah" as in father, and the "aw" as in law. It is not a dull sound, yet it is not the sound of "ah" in father. Perhaps the word "doff" or the first syllable of Boston, when properly pronounced, gives the right impression. I do not know enough of American vocal training to give an intelligent criticism, but I wonder if American vocal teachers give as much attention to special parts of the training as teachers in Italy do. I hope they do, as I consider it very necessary. Consider the matter of staccato. A good vocal staccato is really a very difficult thing--difficult when it is right; that is, when on the pitch--every time, clear, distinct, and at the same time not hard and stiff. It took me weeks to acquire the right way of singing such a passage as _Un di, quando le veneri_, from _Traviata_, but those were very profitable weeks-- [Illustration: musical notation Un di, quan-do le ve-ne-ri il tem-po a-vrà fu-ga-te ] Accurate attack in such a passage is by no means easy. Anyone can sing it--but _how it is sung_ makes the real difference. The public has very odd ideas about singing. For instance, it would be amazed to learn that _Trovatore_ is a much more difficult rôle for me to sing and sing right than either _Parsifal_ or _Pelleas and Melisande_. This largely because of the pure vocal demands and the flowing style. The Debussy opera, wonderful as it is, does not begin to make the vocal demands that such a work as _Trovatore_ does. When the singer once acquires proficiency, the acquisition of new rôles comes very easy indeed. The main difficulty is the daily need for drilling the voice until it has the same quality every day. It can be done only by incessant attention. Here are some of the exercises I do every day with my accompanist: [Illustration: musical notation _First time forte second time piano._] DAVID BISPHAM BIOGRAPHICAL David Bispham, in many ways the most distinguished of all American singers, was born in Philadelphia January 5th, 1857. Educated at Haverford College, Pa. At first a highly successful amateur in Philadelphia choirs and theatricals, he went to Milan in 1886, studying with Vannuccini, Lamperti and later in London with Shakespeare and Randegger. His operatic début was made in Messager's _Basoche_ at the Royal English Opera House, 1891. In 1892 he appeared as Kurvenal and met with great favor. His Wagnerian rôles have been especially distinctive since the start. From 1896 to 1909 he sang alternately at the Metropolitan in New York and at Covent Garden in London, and was admittedly one of the foremost attractions of those great companies in the golden era of our operatic past. He was also immensely in demand as a recital and as an oratorio singer and as a dramatic reader. Few singers have shown the versatility and mastery of David Bispham and few have been so justly entitled to the academic honors LL.D., B.A., and Mus. Doc., which he had earned. He was the author of numerous articles on singing--the very successful autobiography, "A Quaker Singer's Reminiscences," and the collections, "David Bispham's Recital Album," "The David Bispham Song Book" (for schools). He was also ever a strong champion of the use of the English language in singing. He died in New York City Oct. 2d, 1921. [Illustration: DAVID BISPHAM.] THE MAIN ELEMENTS OF INTERPRETATION DAVID BISPHAM So many things enter into the great problem of interpretation in singing that it is somewhat difficult to state definitely just what the young singer should consider the most important. Generally speaking, the following factors are of prime significance: 1. Natural Aptitude. 2. General Education and Culture. 3. Good Musical Training. 4. Accurate Vocal Training. 5. Familiarity with Traditions. 6. Freedom of Mind. 7. Good Health. 8. Life Experience. 9. Personal Magnetism--one of the most essential,--and 10. Idealism. 1. _Natural Aptitude._--You will notice that foremost consideration is given to those broad general qualities without which all the technical and musical training of the world is practically worthless. The success of the art worker in all lines depends first upon the nature of the man or woman. Technical training of the highest and best kind is essential, but that which moves great audiences is not alone the mechanics of an art, but rather the broad education, experience, ideals, culture, the human sympathy and magnetism of the artist. 2. _The Value of Education and Culture._--I cannot emphasize too strongly the value of a good general education and wide culture for the singer. The day has passed when a pretty face or a well-rounded ankle could be mistaken for art on the operatic stage. The public now demands something more than the heroic looking young fellow who comes down to the footlights with the assurance of youth and offers, for real vocal art, a voice fresh but crudely trained, and a bungling interpretation. Good education has often been responsible for the phenomenal success of American singers in European opera houses. Before the last war, in nearly all of the great operatic centers of the Continent, one found Americans ranking with the greatest artists in Europe. This was a most propitious condition, for it meant that American audiences have been compelled to give the long-delayed recognition to our own singers, and methods of general and vocal education. In most cases the young people of America who aspire to operatic triumphs come from a somewhat better class than singers do in Europe. They have had, in most cases, better educational, cultural and home advantages than the average European student. Their minds are trained to study intelligently; they are acquainted with the history of the great nations of the world; their tastes are cultivated, and they are filled with the American energy which is one of the marvels of the centuries. More than this, they have had a kind of moral uplift in their homes which is of immense value to them. They have higher ideals in life, they are more businesslike and they keep their purposes very clearly in view. This has created jealousy in some European centers; but it is simply a case of the survival of the fittest, and Europe was compelled to bow in recognition of this. Vocal art in our own land is no longer to be ignored, for our standards are as high as the highest in the world, and we are educating a race of singers of which any country might be proud. 3. _Good Musical Training._--A thorough musical training--that is, a training upon some musical instrument such as the piano--is extremely desirable, but not absolutely essential; for the instrument called the Human Voice can be played on as effectively as a violin. The singer who is convinced of his ability, but who has not had such advantages in early youth, should not be discouraged. He can acquire a thorough knowledge of the essentials later on, but he will have to work very much harder to get his knowledge--as I was obliged to do. Artistic ability is by no means a certain quality. The famous art critic, Vassari, has called our attention to the fact that one painter who produced wonderful pictures had an exhaustive technical training, another arising at his side who also achieved wonderful results had to secure them by means of much bungling self-study. It is very hard to repress artistic ability. As the Bible says: "Many waters cannot quench love." So it is with music; if the ability is there, it will come to the front through fire and water. 4. _Accurate and Rational Vocal Training._--I have added the word rational for it seems a necessary term at a time when so much vocal teaching is apparently in the hands of "faddists." There is only one way to sing, that is _the right way_, the way that is founded upon natural conditions. So much has been said in print about breathing, and placing the voice, and resonance, that anything new might seem redundant at this time. The whole thing in a nutshell is simply to make an effort to get the breath under such excellent control that it will obey the will so easily and fluently that the singer is almost unconscious of any means he may employ to this end. This can come only through long practice and careful observation. When the breath is once under proper control the supply must be so adjusted that neither too much nor too little will be applied to the larynx at one time. How to do this can be discovered only by much practice and self-criticism. When the tone has been created it must be reinforced and colored by passing through the mouth and nose, and the latter is a very present help in time of vocal trouble. This leads to a good tone on at least twenty-six steps and half-steps of the scale and with twenty or more vowel sounds--no easy task by any means. All this takes time, but there is no reason why it should take an interminable amount of time. If good results are not forthcoming in from nine months to a year, something is wrong with either the pupil or the teacher. The matter of securing vocal flexibility should not be postponed too long, but may in many instances be taken up in conjunction with the studies in tone production, after the first principles have been learned. Thereafter one enters upon the endless and indescribably interesting field of securing a repertoire. Only a teacher with wide experience and intimacy with the best in the vocal literature of the world can correctly grade and select pieces suitable to the ever-changing needs of the pupil. No matter how wonderful the flexibility of the voice, no matter how powerful the tones, no matter how extensive the repertoire, the singer will find all this worthless unless he possesses a voice that is susceptible to the expression of every shade of mental and emotional meaning which his intelligence, experience and general culture have revealed to him in the work he is interpreting. At all times his voice must be under control. Considered from the mechanical standpoint, the voice resembles the violin, the breath, as it passes over the vocal cords, corresponding to the bow and the resonance chambers corresponding to the resonance chambers in the violin. 5. _Familiarity With Vocal Traditions._--We come to the matter of the study of the traditional methods of interpreting vocal masterpieces. We must, of course, study these traditions, but we must not be slaves to them. In other words, we must know the past in order to interpret masterpieces properly in the present. We must not, however, sacrifice that great quality--individuality--for slavery to convention. If the former Italian method of rendering certain arias was marred by the tremolo of some famous singers, there is no good artistic reason why any one should retain anything so hideous as a tremolo solely because it is traditional. There is a capital story of a young American singer who went to a European opera house with all the characteristic individuality and inquisitiveness of his people. In one opera the stage director told him to go to the back of the stage before singing his principal number and then walk straight down to the footlights and deliver the aria. "Why must I go to the back first?" asked the young singer. The director was amazed and blustered: "Why? Why, because the great Rubini did it that way--he created the part; it is the tradition." But the young singer was not satisfied, and finally found an old chorus man who had sung with Rubini, and asked him whether the tradition was founded upon a custom of the celebrated singer. "Yes," replied the chorus man, "da gretta Rubini he granda man. He go waya back; then he comea front; then he sing. Ah, grandissimo!" "But," persisted the young American, "_Why did he go to the back before he sang?_" "Oh!" exclaimed the excited Italian; "Why he go back? He go to spit!" Farcical as this incident may seem, many musical traditions are founded upon customs with quite as little musical or esthetic importance. Many traditions are to-day quite as useless as the buttons on the sleeves of our coats, although these very buttons were at one time employed by our forefathers to fasten back the long cuffs. There are, however, certain traditional methods of rendering great masterpieces, and particularly those marked by the florid ornamentation of the days of Handel, Bach and Haydn, which the singer must know. Unfortunately, many of these traditions have not been preserved in print in connection with the scores themselves, and the only way in which the young singer can acquire a knowledge of them is through hearing authoritative artists, or from teachers who have had wide and rich experience. 6. _Freedom of Mind._--Under ideal conditions the mind should be free for music study and for public performance. This is not always possible; and some artists under great mental pressure have done their best work solely because they felt that the only way to bury sorrow and trouble was to thrust themselves into their artistic life and thus forget the pangs of misfortune. The student, however, should do everything possible to have his mind free so that he can give his best to his work. One who is wondering where the next penny is coming from is in a poor condition to impress an audience. Nevertheless, if the real ability is there it is bound to triumph over all obstacles. 7. _Good Health._--Good health is one of the great factors of success in singing. Who needs a sounder mind than the artist? Good health comes from good, sensible living. The singer must never forget that the instrument he plays upon is a part of his body and that that instrument depends for its musical excellence and general condition upon good health. A $20,000 Stradivarius would be worthless if it were placed in a tub of water; and a larynx that earns for its owner from $500 to $1,500 a night is equally valueless when saturated with the poisons that come from intemperate or unwise living. Many of the singer's throat troubles arise from an unhealthy condition of the stomach caused by excesses of diet; but, aside from this, a disease localized in any other part of the body affects the throat sympathetically and makes it difficult for the singer to get good results. Recital work, with its long fatiguing journeys on railroads, together with the other inconveniences of travel and the responsibility and strain that come from knowing that one person alone is to hold from 1,000 to 5,000 people interested for nearly two hours, demands a very sound physical condition. 8. _Life Experience._--Culture does not come from the schoolroom alone. The refining processes of life are long and varied. As the violin gains in richness of tone and intrinsic value with age, so the singer's life experience has an effect upon the character of his singing. He must have seen life in its broadest sense, to place himself in touch with human sympathy. To do this and still retain the freshness and sweetness of his voice should be his great aim. The singer who lives a narrow and bigoted existence rarely meets with wide popular approval. The public wants to hear in a voice that wonderful something that tells them that it has had opportunities to know and to understand the human side of song, not giving parrot-like versions of some teacher's way of singing, but that the understanding comes from the very center of the mind, heart and soul. This is particularly true in the field of the song recital. Most of the renowned recital singers of the last half century, including Schumann-Heink, Sembrich, Wüllner, the Henschels and others, were considerably past their youth when they made their greatest successes. A painting fresh from the artist's brush is raw, hard and uninteresting, till time, with its damp and dust, night and day, heat and cold, gives the enriching touch which adds so wonderfully to the softness and beauty of a picture. We singers are all living canvases. Time, and time only, can give us those shades and tints which reveal living experience. The young artist should hear many of the best singers, actors, and speakers, should read many of the best books, should see many beautiful pictures and wonderful buildings. But most of all, he should know and study many people and learn of their joys and their sorrows, their successes and their failures, their strength and their weaknesses, their loves and their hates. In all art human life is reflected, and this is particularly true in the case of vocal art. For years, in my youth, I never failed to attend all of the musical events of consequence in my native city. This was of immense value to me, since it gave me the means of cultivating my own judgment of what was good or bad in singing. Do not fear that you will become _blasé_. If you have the right spirit every musical event you attend will spur you on. You may say that it is expensive to hear great singers, and that you can only attend recitals and the opera occasionally. If this is really the case you still have a means of hearing singers which you should not neglect. I refer to the reproducing machines which have grown to be of such importance in vocal education. Phonograph records are nothing short of marvelous, and my earnestness in this cause is shown by the fact that I have long advocated their employment in the public schools, and have placed the matter before the educational authorities of New York. I earnestly urge the music teachers of this country, who are working for the real musical development of our children, to take this matter up in all seriousness. I can assure them that their efforts will bring them rich dividends in increased interest in musical work of their pupils, and the forming of a musical public. But nothing but the classics of song must be used. The time for the scorning of "high-brow" songs is past, and music must help this country to rid itself of the vogue of the "low-brow" and the "tough." Let singers strive to become educated ornaments of their lofty profession. 9. _Personal Magnetism._--One of the most essential. The subject of "personal magnetism" is ridiculed by some, of course, but rarely laughed at by the artist who has experienced the astonishing phenomena in the opera house or the concert room. Like electricity it is intangible, indefinable, indescribable, but makes its existence known by manifestations that are almost uncanny. If personal magnetism does not exist, how then can we account for the fact that one pianist can sit down to the instrument and play a certain piece, and that another pianist could play the same piece with the same technical effect but losing entirely the charm and attractiveness with which the first pianist imbued the composition? Personal magnetism does not depend upon personal beauty nor erudition nor even upon perfect health. Henry Irving and Sarah Bernhardt were certainly not beautiful, but they held the world of the theater in the palm of their hand. Some artists have really been in the last stages of severe illness but have, nevertheless, possessed the divine electric spark to inspire hundreds, as did the hectic Chopin when he made his last famous visit to England and Scotland. Personal magnetism is not a kind of hypnotic influence to be found solely in the concert hall or the theater. Most artists possess it to a certain degree. Without this subtle and mysterious force, success with the public never comes. 10. _Idealism._--Ideals are the flowers of youth. Only too often they are not tenderly cared for, and the result is that many who have been on the right track are turned in the direction of failure by materialism. It is absolutely essential for the young singer to have high ideals. Direct your efforts to the best in whatever branch of vocal art you determine to undertake. Do not for a moment let mediocrity or the substitution of artificial methods enter your vision. Holding to your ideal will mean costly sacrifices to you; but all sacrifices are worth while if one can realize one's ideal. The ideal is only another term for Heaven to me. If we could all attain to the ideal, we would all be in a kind of earthly Paradise. It has always seemed to me that when our Lord said "The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand," he meant that it is at hand for us to possess now; that is the _ideal_ in life. [Illustration: DAME CLARA BUTT.] DAME CLARA BUTT BIOGRAPHICAL Dame Butt was born at Southwick, Sussex, February 1, 1873. Her first lessons were with D. W. Rootham in Bristol. In 1889 she won a scholarship at the Royal College of music where the teacher was J. H. Blower. Later she studied for short periods with Bouhy in Paris and Etelka Gerster in Berlin. Her début was made as Ursula in Sullivan's setting of the Longfellow poem, _Golden Legend_. Her success was immediate and very great. She became in demand at all of the great English musical festivals and also sang before enormous audiences for years in the great English cities. In 1900 she married the noted English baritone R. Kennerly Rumford and together they have made many tours, including a tour of the world, appearing everywhere with continued success. Her voice is one of rich, full contralto quality with such individual characteristics that great English composers have written special works to reveal these great natural gifts. Dame Butt received her distinction of "Dame" from King George in 1920. Her happy family life with her children has won her endless admirers among musical people everywhere. SUCCESS IN CONCERT SINGING DAME CLARA BUTT HEALTH AND SINGING It must be obvious to all aspiring vocal students that splendid good health is well nigh indispensable to the singer. There have been singers, of course, who have had physical afflictions that have made their public appearances extremely painful, but they have succeeded in spite of these unfortunate drawbacks. In fact, if the young singer is ambitious and has that wonderful gift of directing her efforts in the way most likely to bring fortunate results, even physical weakness may be overcome. By this I mean that the singer will work out some plan for bringing her physical condition to the standard that fine singing demands. I believe most emphatically that the right spirit will conquer obstacles that often seem impassable. One might safely say that nine-tenths of the successes in all branches of artistic work are due to the inextinguishable fire that burns in the heart and mind of the art worker and incites him to pass through any ordeal in order to deliver his message to the world. MISDIRECTED EFFORT The cruel part of it all is that many aspire to become great singers who can never possibly have their hopes realized. Natural selection rather than destiny seems to govern this matter. The ugly caterpillar seems like an unpromising candidate for the brilliant career of the butterfly, and it oftentimes happens that students who seem unpromising to some have just the qualities which, with the right time, instruction and experience, will entitle them to great success. It is the little ant who hopes to grow iridescent wings, and who travels through conservatory after conservatory, hoping to find the magic chrysalis that will do this, who is to be pitied. Great success must depend upon special gifts, intellectual as well as vocal. Oh, if we only had some instinct, like that possessed by animals, that would enable us to determine accurately in advance the safest road for us to take, the road that will lead us to the best development of our real talents--not those we imagine we may have or those which the flattery of friends have grafted upon us! Mr. Rumford and I have witnessed so much very hard and very earnest work carried on by students who have no rational basis to hope for success as singers, that we have been placed in the uncomfortable position of advising young singers to seek some other life work. WHEN TO BEGIN The eternal question, "At what age shall I commence to study singing?" is always more or less amusing to the experienced singer. If the singer's spirit is in the child, nothing will stop his singing. He will sing from morning until night, and seems to be guided in most cases by an all-providing Nature that makes its untutored efforts the very best kind of practice. Unless the child is brought into contact with very bad music he is not likely to be injured. Children seem to be trying their best to prove the Darwinian theory by showing us that they can mimic quite as well as monkeys. The average child comes into the better part of his little store of wisdom through mimicry. Naturally if the little vocal student is taken to the vaudeville theatre, where every imaginable vocal law is smashed during a three-hour performance, and if the child observes that the smashing process is followed by the enthusiastic applause of the unthinking audience, it is only reasonable to suppose that the child will discover in this what he believes to be the most approved art of singing. It is evident then that the first thing which the parent of the musical child should consider is that of teaching him to appreciate what is looked upon as good and what is looked upon as bad. Although many singers with fine voices have appeared in vaudeville, the others must be regarded as "horrible" examples, and the child should know that they are such. On the other hand, it is quite evident that the more good singing that the child hears in the impressionable years of its youth the greater will be the effect upon the mind which is to direct the child's musical future. This is a branch of the vocalist's education which may begin long before the actual lessons. If it is carefully conducted the teacher should have far less difficulty in starting the child with the actual work. The only possible danger might be that the child's imitative faculty could lead it to extremes of pitch in imitating some singer. Even this is hardly more likely to injure it than the shouting and screaming which often accompanies the play of children. The actual time of starting must depend upon the individual. It is never too early for him to start in acquiring his musical knowledge. Everything he might learn of music itself, through the study of the piano or any other instrument would all become a part of his capital when he became a singer. Those singers are fortunate whose musical knowledge commenced with the cradle and whose first master was that greatest of all teachers, the mother. Speaking generally, it seems to be the impression of singing teachers that voice students should not commence the vocal side of their studies until they are from sixteen to seventeen years of age. In this connection, consider my own case. My first public appearance with orchestra was when I was fourteen. It was in Bristol, England, and among other things I sang _Ora Pro Nobis_ from Gounod's _Workers_. I was fortunate in having in my first teacher, D. W. Rootham, a man too thoroughly blessed with good British common sense to have any "tricks." He had no fantastic way of doing things, no proprietary methods, that none else in the world was supposed to possess. He listened for the beautiful in my voice and, as his sense of musical appreciation was highly cultivated, he could detect faults, explain them to me and show me how to overcome them by purely natural methods. The principal part of the process was to make me realize mentally just what was wrong and then what was the more artistic way of doing it. LETTING THE VOICE GROW After all, singing is singing, and I am convinced that my master's idea of just letting the voice grow with normal exercise and without excesses in any direction was the best way for me. It was certainly better than hours and hours of theory, interesting to the student of physiology, but often bewildering to the young vocalist. Real singing with real music is immeasurably better than ages of conjecture. It appears that some students spend years in learning how they are going to sing at some glorious day in the future, but it never seems to occur to them that in order to sing they must really use their voices. Of course, I do not mean to infer that the student must omit the necessary preparatory work. Solfeggios, for instance, and scales are extremely useful. Concone, tried and true, gives excellent material for all students. But why spend years in dreaming of theories regarding singing when everyone knows that the theory of singing has been the battleground for innumerable talented writers for centuries? Even now it is apparently impossible to reconcile all the vocal writers, except in so far as they all modestly admit that they have rediscovered the real old Italian school. Perhaps they have. But, admitting that an art teacher rediscovered the actual pigments used by Leonardo da Vinci, Rembrandt or Raphael, he would have no little task in creating a student who could duplicate _Mona Lisa_, _The Night Watch_ or the _Sistine Madonna_. After leaving Rootham, I won the four hundred guinea scholarship at the Royal College of Music and studied with Henry Blower. This I followed with a course with Bouhy in Paris and Etelka Gerster in Berlin. Mr. Rumford and I both concur in the opinion that it is necessary for the student who would sing in any foreign language to study in the country in which the language is spoken. In no other way can one get the real atmosphere. The preparatory work may be done in the home country, but if one fails to taste of the musical life of the country in which the songs came into being, there seems to be an indefinable absence of the right flavor. I believe in employing the native tongue for songs in recital work. It seems narrow to me to do otherwise. At the same time, I have always been a champion for songs written originally with English texts, and have sung innumerable times with programs made from English lyrics. PREPARING A REPERTOIRE The idea that concert and recital work is not as difficult as operatic work has been pretty well exploded by this time. In fact, it is very much more difficult to sing a simple song well in concert than it is to sing some of the elaborate Wagnerian recitatives in which the very complexities of the music make a convenient hiding place for the artist's vocal shortcomings. In concert everything is concentrated upon the singer. Convention has ever deprived him of the convenient gestures that give ease to the opera singer. The selection of useful material for concert purposes is immensely difficult. It must have artistic merit, it must have human interest, it must suit the singer, in most cases the piano must be used for accompaniment and the song must not be dependent upon an orchestral accompaniment for its value. It must not be too old, it must not be too far in advance of popular tastes. It is a bad plan to wander indiscriminately about among countless songs, never learning any really well. The student should begin to select numbers with great care, realizing that it is futile to try to do everything. Lord Bolingbroke, in his essay on the shortness of human life, shows how impossible it is for a man to read more than a mere fraction of a great library though he read regularly every day of his life. It is very much the same with music. The resources are so vast and time is so limited that there is no opportunity to learn everything. Far better is it for the vocalist to do a little well than to do much ineffectually. Good music well executed meets with very much the same appreciation everywhere. During our latest tour we gave almost the very same programs in America as those we have been giving upon the European Continent. The music-loving American public is likely to differ but slightly from that of the great music centers of the old world. Music has truly become a universal language. In developing a repertoire the student might look upon the musical public as though it were a huge circle filled with smaller circles, each little circle being a center of interest. One circle might insist upon old English songs, such as the delightful melodies of Arne, Carey, Monroe. Another circle might expect the arias of the old Italian masters, Carissimi, Jomelli, Sacchini or Scarlatti. Another circle would want to hear the German Lieder of such composers as Schumann, Schubert, Brahms, Franz and Wolf. Still another circle might go away disappointed if they could not hear something of the ultra modern writers, such as Strauss, Debussy or even that freak of musical cacophony, Schoenberg. However diverse may be the individual likings of these smaller circles, all of the members of your audience are united in liking music as a whole. The audience will demand variety in your repertoire but at the same time it will demand certain musical essentials which appeal to all. There is one circle in your audience that I have purposely reserved for separate discussion. That is the great circle of concert goers who are not skilled musicians, who are too frank, too candid, to adopt any of the cant of those social frauds who revel in Reger and Schoenberg, and just because it might stamp them as real connoisseurs, but who really can't recognize much difference between the _Liebestod_ of _Tristan und Isolde_ and _Rule Britannia_,--but the music lovers who are too honest to fail to state that they like the _Lost Chord_ or the lovely folk songs of your American composer, Stephen Foster. Mr. Plunkett Greene, in his work upon song interpretation, makes no room for the existence of songs of this kind. Indeed, he would cast them all into the discard. This seems to me a huge mistake. Surely we can not say that music is a monopoly of the few who have schooled their ears to enjoy outlandish disonances with delight. Music is perhaps the most universal of all the arts and with the gradual evolution of those who love it, a natural audience is provided for music of the more complicated sort. We learn to like our musical caviar with surprising rapidity. It was only yesterday that we were objecting to the delightful piano pieces of Debussy, who can generate an atmosphere with a single chord just as Murillo could inspire an emotion with a stroke of the brush. It is not safe to say that you do not like things in this way. I think that even Schoenberg is trying to be true to his muse. We must remember that Haydn, Beethoven, Wagner and Brahms passed through the fire of criticism in their day. The more breadth a singer puts into her work the more likely is she to reap success. Time only can produce the accomplished artist. The best is to find a joy in your work and think of nothing but large success. If you have the gift, triumph will be yours. [Illustration: GIUSEPPE CAMPANARI. © Dupont.] GIUSEPPE CAMPANARI BIOGRAPHICAL Giuseppe Campanari was born at Venice, Italy, Nov. 17th, 1858. His parents were not particularly musical but were very anxious for the boy to become a musician. At the age of nine he commenced to study the piano and later he entered the Conservatory of Milan, making his principal instrument the violoncello. Upon his graduation he secured a position in the 'cello section of the orchestra at "La Scala." Here for years he heard the greatest singers and the greatest operas, gaining a musical insight into the works through an understanding of the scores which has seldom if ever been possessed by a great opera singer. His first appearance as singer was at the Teatro dal Verme in Milan. Owing to voice strain he was obliged to give up singing and in the interim he took a position as a 'cellist in the Boston Symphony Orchestra, remaining with that organization some years. He then made appearances with the Emma Juch Opera Company, the Heinrichs Opera Company, and eventually at the Metropolitan Opera Company in New York, where he achieved his greatest triumphs as leading baritone. Mr. Campanari long since became an American citizen and has devoted his attention to teaching for years. His conference which follows is particularly interesting, as from the vocal standpoint he is almost entirely self taught. THE VALUE OF SELF-STUDY IN VOICE TRAINING GIUSEPPE CAMPANARI So much has been written upon the futility of applying one method to all cases in vocal instruction that it seems useless for me to say anything that would add to the volume of testimony against the custom of trying to teach all pupils in the same manner. No one man ever has had, has, or ever will have, a "method" superior to all others, for the very simple reason that the means one vocalist might employ to reach artistic success would be quite different from that which another singer, with an entirely different voice, different throat and different intellect, would be obliged to employ. One of the great laws of Nature is the law of variation; that is, no two children of any parents are ever exactly alike. Even in the case of twins there is often a great variation. The great English philosopher, Darwin, made much of this principle. It is one which all voice students and teachers should consider, for although there are, from the nature of things, many foundation principles which must remain the same in all cases, the differences in individual cases are sufficient to demand the greatest keenness of observation, the widest experience and an inexhaustible supply of patience upon the part of the teacher. Please understand, I am not decrying the use of books of exercises such as those of Concone, Marchesi, Regine, Panofka and others. Such books are necessary. I have used these and others in teaching, suiting the book to the individual case. The pupil needs material of this kind, and it should be chosen with the greatest care and consideration not only of the pupil's voice, but of his intellectual capacity and musical experience. These books should not be considered "methods." They are the common property of all teachers, and most teachers make use of them. My understanding of a "method" is a set of hard and fast rules, usually emanating from the mind of some one person who has the effrontery to pass them off upon an all too gullible public as the one road to a vocal Parnassus. Only the singer with years of experience can realize how ridiculous this course is and how large is the percentage of failure of the pupils of teachers whose sole claim to fame is that they teach the---- method. Proud as I am of the glorious past of vocal art in the country of my birth, I cannot help being amused and at the same time somewhat irritated when I think of the many palpable frauds that are classed under the head of the "Real Old Italian Method" by inexperienced teachers. We cannot depend upon the past in all cases to meet present conditions. The singers of the olden day in Italy were doubtless great, because they possessed naturally fine voices and used them in an unaffected, natural manner. In addition to this they were born speaking a tongue favorable to beautiful singing, led simple lives and had opportunities for hearing the great operas and the great singers unexcelled by those of any other European country. That they became great through the practice of any set of rules or methods is inconceivable. There were great teachers in olden Italy, very great teachers, and some of them made notes upon the means they employed, but I cannot believe that if these teachers were living to-day they would insist upon their ideas being applied to each and every individual case in the same identical manner. THE VALUE OF OPERA This leads us to the subject at hand. The students in Italy in the past have had advantages for self-study that were of greatest importance. On all sides good singing and great singing might be heard conveniently and economically. Opera was and is one of the great national amusements of Italy. Opera houses may be found in all of the larger cities and in most of the smaller ones. The prices of admission are, as a rule, very low. The result is that the boys in the street are often remarkably familiar with some of the best works. Indeed, it would not be extravagant to say that they were quite as familiar with these musical masterpieces as some of the residents of America are with the melodramatic doings of Jesse James or the "Queen of Chinatown." Thus it is that the average Italian boy with a fair education and quick powers of observation reaches his majority with a taste for singing trained by many opportunities to hear great singers. They have had the best vocal instruction in the world, providing, of course, they have exercised their powers of judgment. Thus it is that it happens that such a singer as Caruso, certainly one of the greatest tenors of all time, could be accidentally heard by a manager while singing and receive an offer for an engagement upon the spot. Caruso's present art, of course, is the result of much training that would fall under the head of "coaching," together with his splendid experience upon the operatic stage itself. I trust that I have not by this time given the reader of this page the impression that teachers are unnecessary. This is by no means the case. A good teacher is extremely desirable. If you have the good fortune to fall into the hands of a careful, experienced, intelligent teacher, much may be accomplished; but the teacher is by no means all that is required. The teacher should be judged by his pupils, and by nothing else. No matter what he may claim, it is invariably the results of his work (the pupil's) which must determine his value. Teachers come to me with wonderful theories and all imaginable kinds of methods. I always say to them: "Show me a good pupil who has been trained by your methods and I will say that you are a good teacher." Before our national elections I am asked, "Which one of the candidates do you believe will make the best President?" I always reply, "Wait four years and I will pass my opinion upon the ability of the candidate the people select." In other words, "the proof of the pudding is in the eating." SINGERS NOT BORN, BUT MADE We often hear the trite expression, "Singers are born, not made." This, to my mind, is by no means the case. One may be born with the talent and deep love for music, and one may be born with the physical qualifications which lead to the development of a beautiful voice, but the singer is something far more than this. Given a good voice and the love for his music, the singer's work is only begun. He is at the outstart of a road which is beset with all imaginable kinds of obstacles. In my own case I was extremely ambitious to be a singer. Night after night I played 'cello in the orchestra at La Scala, in Milan, always wishing and praying that I might some day be one of the actors in the wonderful world behind the footlights. I listened to the famous singers in the great opera house with the minutest attention, making mental notes of their manner of placing their voices--their method of interpretation, their stage business, and everything that I thought might be of any possible use to me in the career of the singer, which was dearest to my heart. I endeavored to employ all the common sense and good judgment I possessed to determine what was musically and vocally good or otherwise. I was fortunate in having the training of the musician, and also in having the invaluable advantage of becoming acquainted with the orchestral scores of the famous operas. Finally the long-awaited opportunity came and I made my début at the Teatro dal Verme, in Milan. I had had no real vocal instruction in the commonly accepted sense of the term; but I had really had a kind of instruction that was of inestimable value. NOT GIVEN TO ALL TO STUDY SUCCESSFULLY WITHOUT A TEACHER Success brought with it its disadvantages. I foolishly strained my voice through overwork. But this did not discourage me. I realized that many of the greatest singers the world has ever known were among those who had met with disastrous failure at some time in their careers. I came to America and played the violoncello in the Boston Symphony Orchestra. All the time I was practicing with the greatest care and with the sole object of restoring my voice. Finally it came back better than ever and I sang for Maurice Grau, the impresario of the Metropolitan Opera House, in New York. He engaged me and I sang continuously at the Metropolitan for several years. Notwithstanding this varied experience, I will seek to learn, and to learn by practical example, not theory. The only opera school in the world is the opera house itself. No school ever "made" a great singer or a great artist. The most they have done has been to lay the foundation. The making of the artist comes later. In order to do without instruction one must be very peculiarly constituted. One must be possessed of the pedagogical faculty to a marked degree. One must have within oneself those qualities for observing and detecting the right means leading to an artistic end which every good teacher possesses. In other words, one must be both teacher and pupil. This is a rare combination, since the power to teach, to impart instruction, is one that is given to very few. It is far better to study alone or not at all than with a poor teacher. The teacher's responsibility, particularly in the case of vocal students, is very great. So very much depends upon it. A poor teacher can do incalculable damage. By poor teachers I refer particularly to those who are carried away by idiotic theories and quack methods. We learn to sing by singing and not by carrying bricks upon our chest or other idiotic antics. Consequently I say that it is better to go all through life with a natural or "green" voice than to undergo the vocal torture that is sometimes palmed off upon the public as voice teaching. At best, all the greatest living teacher can do is to put the artist upon the right track and this in itself is responsibility enough for one man or one woman to assume. SINGERS MAKE THEIR OWN METHODS As I have already said, most every singer makes a method unto himself. It is all the same in the end. The Chinese may, for instance, have one name for God, the Persians another, the Mohammedans another, and the people of Christian lands another. But the God principle and the worship principle are the same with all. It is very similar in singing. The means that apply to my own case may apparently be different from those of another, but we are all seeking to produce beautiful tones and interpret the meaning of the composer properly. One thing, however, the student should seek to possess above all things, and this is a thorough foundation training in music itself. This can not begin too early. In my own home we have always had music. My children have always heard singing and playing and consequently they become critical at a very early age. I can not help repeating my advice to students who hope to find a vocal education in books or by the even more ridiculous correspondence method. Books may set one's mental machinery in motion and incite one to observe singers more closely, but teach they can not and never can. The sound-reproducing machines are of assistance in helping the student to understand the breathing, phrasing, etc., but there is nothing really to take the place of the living singer who can illustrate with his voice the niceties of placing and _timbre_. My advice to the voice students of America is to hear great singers. Hear them as many times as possible and consider the money invested as well placed as any you might spend in vocal instruction. The golden magnet, as well as the opportunities in other ways offered artists in America, has attracted the greatest singers of our time to this country. It is no longer necessary to go abroad to listen to great singers. In no country of the world is opera given with more lavish expenditure of money than in America. The great singers are now by no means confining their efforts to the large Eastern cities. Many of them make regular tours of the country, and students in all parts of this land are offered splendid opportunities for self-help through the means of concerts and musical festivals. After all, the most important thing for any singer is the development of the critical sense. Blind imitation is, of course, bad, but how is the student to progress unless he has had an opportunity to hear the best singers of the day? In my youth I heard continually such artists as La Salle, Gayarre, Patti, De Reszke and others. How could I help profiting by such excellent experiences? GREAT VOICES ARE RARE One may be sure that in these days few, if any, great voices go undiscovered. A remarkable natural voice is so rare that some one is sure to notice it and bring it to the attention of musicians. The trouble is that so many people are so painfully deluded regarding their voices. I have had them come to me with voices that are obviously execrable and still remain unconvinced when I have told them what seemed to me the truth. This business of hearing would-be singers is an unprofitable and an uncomfortable one; and most artists try to avoid the ordeal, although they are always very glad to encourage real talent. Most young singers, however, have little more than the bare ambition to sing, coupled with what can only be described by the American term, "a swelled head." Someone has told them that they are wonderfully gifted, and persons of this kind are most always ready to swallow flattery indiscriminately. Almost everyone, apparently, wants to go into opera nowadays. To singers who have not any chance whatever I have only to say that the sooner this is discovered the better. Far better put your money in bank and let compound interest do what your voice can not. ENRICO CARUSO BIOGRAPHICAL Enrico Caruso was born at Naples, February 25th, 1873. His fondness for music dates from his earliest childhood; and he spent much of his spare money in attending the opera at San Carlo and hearing the foremost singers of his time in many of the rôles in which he appeared later on. His actual study, however, did not start until he was eighteen, when he came under the tuition of Guglielmo Vergine. In 1895 he made his début at the Teatro Cimarosa in _Caserta_. His first appearances drew comparatively little attention to his work and his future greatness was hardly suspected by many of those who heard him. However, by dint of long application to his art he gained more and more recognition. In 1902 he made his début in London. The following year he came to New York, where the world's greatest singers had found an El Dorado for nearly a quarter of a century. There he was at once proclaimed the greatest of all tenors and from that time his success was undeviating. Indeed his voice was so wonderful and so individual that it is difficult to compare him with any of his great predecessors; Tamagno, Campanini, de Reszke and others. In Europe and in America he was welcomed with acclaim and the records of his voice are to be found in thousands of homes of music lovers who have never come in touch with him in any other way. Signor Caruso had a remarkable talent for drawing and for sculpture. His death, August 2d, 1921, ended the career of the greatest male singer of history. [Illustration: ENRICO CARUSO.] ITALY, THE HOME OF SONG ENRICO CARUSO OPERA AND THE PUBLIC IN ITALY Anyone who has traveled in Italy must have noticed the interest that is manifested at the opening of the opera season. This does not apply only to the people with means and advanced culture but also to what might be called the general public. In addition to the upper classes, the same class of people in America who would show the wildest enthusiasm over your popular sport, base-ball, would be similarly eager to attend the leading operatic performances in Italy. The opening of the opera is accompanied by an indescribable fervor. It is "in the air." The whole community seems to breathe opera. The children know the leading melodies, and often discuss the features of the performances as they hear their parents tell about them, just as the American small boy retails his father's opinions upon the political struggles of the day or upon the last ball game. It should not be thought that this does not mean a sacrifice to the masses, for opera is, in a sense, more expensive in Italy than in America; that is, it is more expensive by comparison in most parts of the country. It should be remembered that monetary values in Italy are entirely different from those in America. The average Italian of moderate means looks upon a lira as a coin far more valuable than its equivalent of twenty cents in United States currency. His income is likely to be limited, and he must spend it with care and wisdom. Again, in the great operatic centers, such as Milan, Naples or Rome, the prices are invariably adjusted to the importance of the production. In first-class productions the prices are often very high from the Italian standpoint. For instance, at La Scala in Milan, when an exceptionally fine performance is given with really great singers, the prices for orchestra chairs may run as high as thirty lira or six dollars a seat. Even to the wealthy Italian this amount seems the same as a much larger amount in America. To give opera in Italy with the same spectacular effects, the same casts composed almost exclusively of very renowned artists, the same _mise en scene_, etc., would require a price of admission really higher than in America. As a matter of fact, there is no place in the world where such a great number of performances, with so many world-renowned singers, are given as at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. There is no necessity for any one to make a special trip to Europe to hear excellent performances in these days. Of course such a trip would be interesting, as the performances given in many European centers are wonderfully fine, and they would be interesting to hear if only from the standpoint of comparing them with those given at the Metropolitan. However, the most eminent singers of the world come here constantly, and the performances are directed by the ablest men obtainable, and I am at loss to see why America should not be extremely proud of her operatic advantages. In addition to this the public manifests a most intelligent appreciation of the best in music. It is very agreeable to sing in America, as one is sure that when he does well the public will respond at once. ITALIAN, THE LANGUAGE OF MUSIC Perhaps the fact that in Italy the audiences may understand the performances better because of their knowledge of their native language may add to the pleasure of opera-going. This, however, is a question, except in the case of some of the more modern works. The older opera librettos left much to be desired from the dramatic and poetic standpoints. Italian after all is the language of music. In fact it is music in itself when properly spoken. Note that I say "when properly spoken." American girls go to Italy to study, and of course desire to acquire a knowledge of the language itself, for they have heard that it is beneficial in singing. They get a mere smattering, and do not make any attempt to secure a perfect accent. The result is about as funny as the efforts of the comedians who imitate German emigrants on the American stage. If you start the study of Italian, persist until you have really mastered the language. In doing this your ear will get such a drill and such a series of exercises as it has never had before. You will have to listen to the vowel sounds as you have never listened. This is necessary because in order to understand the grammar of the language you must hear the final vowel in each word and you must hear the consonants distinctly. There is another peculiar thing about Italian. If the student who has always studied and sung in English, German or French or Russian, attempts to sing in Italian, he is really turning a brilliant searchlight upon his own vocal ability. If he has any faults which have been concealed in his singing in his own language, they will be discovered at once the moment he commences to study in Italian. I do not know whether this is because the Italian of culture has a higher standard of diction in the enunciation of the vowel sounds, or whether the sounds themselves are so pure and smooth that they expose the deficiencies, but it is nevertheless the case. The American girl who studies Italian for six months and then hopes to sing in that language in a manner not likely to disturb the sense of the ridiculous is deceiving herself. It takes years to acquire fluency in a language. AUDIENCES THE SAME THE WORLD AROUND Audiences are as sensitive as individuals. Italy is known as "the home of the opera"; but I find that, as far as manifesting enthusiasm goes, the world is getting pretty much the same. If the public is pleased, it applauds no matter whether it be in Vienna, Paris, Rome, Buenos Aires, New York, or Oshkosh. An artist feels his bond with his audience very quickly. He knows whether his auditors are delighted, whether they are merely interested or whether they are indifferent a few seconds after he has been upon the stage. I can judge my own work at once by the attitude of the audience. No artist sings exactly alike on two successive nights. That would be impossible. Although every sincere artist tries to do his best at all times, there are, nevertheless, occasions when one sings better than at others. If I sing particularly well the audience is particularly enthusiastic; if I am not feeling well and my singing indicates it, the audience will let me know at once by not being quite so enthusiastic. It is a barometer which is almost unfailing. This is also an important thing for the young singer to consider. Audiences judge by real worth and not by reputation. Reputation may attract money to the box office, but once the people are inside the opera house the artist must really please them or suffer. Young singers should not be led to think that anything but real worth is of any lasting value. If the audience does not respond, do not blame the audience. It would respond if you could sing so beautifully that you could compel a response that you know should follow real artistic achievement. Don't blame your teacher or your lack of practice or anything or anybody but yourself. The verdict of the audience is better than the examination of a hundred so-called experts. There is something about an audience that makes it seem like a great human individual, whether in Naples or in San Francisco. If you touch the heart or please the sense of beauty, the appetite for lovely music--common to all mankind--the audience is yours, be it Italian, French, German or American. OPERATIC PREPARATION IN ITALY The American student with a really good voice and a really fine vocal and musical training, would have more opportunities for engagements in the smaller Italian opera houses, for the simple reason that there are more of these opera houses and more of these opera companies. Bear in mind, however, that opera in Italy depends to a large extent upon the standing of the artists engaged to put on the opera. In some cities of the smaller size the municipality makes an appropriation, which serves as a guarantee or subsidy. An impresario is informed what operas the community desires and what singers. He tries to comply with the demand. Often the city is very small and the demand very slightly indicated in real money. As a result the performances are comparatively mediocre. The American student sometimes fails to secure engagements with the big companies and tries to gain experience in these small companies. Sometimes he succeeds, but he should remember before undertaking this work that many native Italian singers with realty fine voices are looking for similar opportunities and that only a very few stand any chance of reaching really noteworthy success. OPERA WILL ALWAYS BE EXPENSIVE He should, of course, endeavor to seek engagements with the big companies if his voice and ability will warrant it. Where the most money is, there will be the salaried artists and the finest operatic spectacle. That is axiomatic. Opera is expensive and will always be expensive. The supply of unusual voices has always been limited and the services of their possessors have always commanded a high reward. This is based upon an economic law which applies to all things in life. The young singer should realize that, unless he can rise to the very top of his profession, he will be compelled to enlist in a veritable army of singers with little talent and less opportunity. One thing exists in Italy which is very greatly missed in America. Even in small companies in Italy a great deal of time is spent in rehearsals. In America rehearsals are tremendously expensive and sometimes first performances have suffered thereby. In fact, I doubt whether the public realizes what a very expensive thing opera is. The public has little opportunity to look behind the scenes. It sees only the finished performance, which runs smoothly only when a tremendous amount of mental, physical and financial oil has been poured upon the machinery. I often hear men say here in New York, "I had to pay fifty dollars for my seat to-night." That is absurd--the money is going to speculators instead of into the rightful channels. This money is simply lost as far as doing any service whatever to art is concerned. It does not go into the opera house treasury to make for better performances, but simply into the hands of some fellow who had been clever enough to deprive the public of its just opportunity to purchase seats. The public seems to have money enough to pay an outrageous amount for seats when necessary. Would it not be better to do away with the speculator at the door and pay say $10.00 for a seat that now costs $7.00? This would mean more rehearsals and better opera and no money donated to the undeserving horde at the portals of the temple. THE STUDENT'S PREPARATION I am told that many people in America have the impression that my vocal ability is kind of a "God-given" gift; that is, something that has come to me without effort. This is so very absurd that I can hardly believe that sensible people would give it a moment's credence. Every voice is in a sense the result of a development, and this is particularly so in my own case. The marble that comes from the quarries of Carrara may be very beautiful and white and flawless, but it does not shape itself into a work of art without the hand, the heart, and the intellect of the sculptor. Just to show how utterly ridiculous this popular opinion really is, let me cite the fact that at the age of fifteen everybody who heard me sing pronounced me a bass. When I went to Vergine I studied hard for four years. During the first three years the work was for the most part moulding and shaping the voice. Then I studied repertoire for one year and made my début. Even with the experience I had had at that time it was unreasonable to expect great success at once. I kept working hard and worked for at least seven years more before any really mentionable success came to me. All the time I had one thing on my mind and that was never to let a day pass without seeing some improvement in my voice. The discouragements were frequent and bitter; but I kept on working and waiting until my long awaited opportunities came in London and in New York. The great thing is, not to stop. Do not think that, because these great cities gave me a flattering reception, my work ceased. Quite on the contrary, I kept on working and am working still. Every time I go upon the stage I am endeavoring to discover something that will make my art more worthy of public acceptance. Every act of each opera is a new lesson. DIFFERENT RÔLES It is difficult to invest a rôle with individuality. I have no favorite rôles. I have avoided this, because the moment one adopts a favorite rôle he becomes a specialist and ceases to be an artist. The artist does all rôles equally well. I have had the unique experience of creating many rôles in operas such as _Fedora_, _Adrienne_, _Germania_, _Girl of the Golden West_, _Maschera_. This is a splendid experience, as it always taxes the inventive faculties of the singing actor. This is particularly the case in the Italian opera of the newer composers, or rather the composers who have worked in Italy since the reformation of Wagner. Whatever may be said, the greatest influence in modern Italian opera is Wagner. Even the great Verdi was induced to change his methods in _Aïda_, _Otello_, and _Falstaff_--all representing a much higher art than his earlier operas. However, Wagner did nothing to rob Italy of its natural gift of melody, even though he did institute a reform. He also did not influence such modern composers as Puccini, Mascagni, and Leoncavallo to the extent of marring their native originality and fertility. [Illustration: MME. JULIA CLAUSSEN.] MME. JULIA CLAUSSEN BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Julia Claussen was born at Stockholm, Sweden, the land of Jenny Lind and Nilsson. Her voice is a rich, flexible mezzo-soprano, with a range that has enabled her to assume some contralto rôles with more success than the average so-called contralto. In her childhood she studied piano, but did not undertake the serious study of voice until she was eighteen, when she became a student at the Royal Academy of Music, under Professor Lejdstrom (studying harmony and theory under the famous Swedish composer Sjogren). Her début was made at the Royal Opera, at the age of twenty-two, in _La Favorita_, singing the rôle in Swedish. Later she went to Berlin, where she was coached in German opera by Professor Friedrich at the Royal High School of Music. Her American début was made in 1912, in Chicago, where she made an immediate success in such rôles as _Ortrud_, _Brünnhilde_ and _Carmen_. She was then engaged at Covent Garden and later sang at the Champs Elysée Theatre, under Nikisch, in Paris. For two years she appeared at the Metropolitan. She has received the rare distinction of being awarded the Jenny Lind Medal from her own government and also of being admitted to the Royal Academy of Sweden, the youngest member ever elected to that august scientific and artistic body. She has also been decorated by King Gustavus V of Sweden with Literis et Artibus. In America she has made an immense success as a concert singer. MODERN ROADS TO VOCAL SUCCESS MME. JULIA CLAUSSEN WHY SWEDEN PRODUCES SO MANY SINGERS The question, "Why does Sweden produce so many singers?" is often asked me. First it is a matter of climate, then a matter of physique, and lastly, because the Swedish children do far more singing than any one finds in many other countries. The air in Sweden is very rarefied, clear and exhilarating. Owing to frugal living and abundant systematic exercise, the people become very robust. This is not a matter of one generation or so, but goes back for centuries. The Swedes are a strong, energetic, thorough race; and the same attributes of industry and precision which have made them famous in science are applied to the study of music. The Swedish child is made to understand that singing is a needful, serious part of his life. His musical training begins very early in the schools, with a definite scheme. All schools have competent, experienced teachers of singing. In my childhood another factor played a very important part. There was never the endless round of attractions, toys, parties, theatres and pastimes (to say nothing of the all-consuming movies). Life was more tranquil and therefore the pursuit of good music was far more enjoyable. American life moves at aeroplane speed. The poor little children hardly have time to breathe, let alone time to study music. Ragtime is the musical symptom of this American craving for speed and incessant excitement. In a blare and confusion of noises, like bedlam broken loose, what chance has a child to develop good taste? It is admittedly fascinating at times; but is without rhyme, reason or order. I never permit my children to pollute my piano with it. They may have it on the talking machine, but they must not be accomplices in making it. Of course, things have changed in Sweden, too; and American ragtime, always contagious, has now infected all Europe. This makes the music teacher's task in this day far more difficult than formerly. I hear my daughters practicing, and now and then they seem to be putting a dash of ragtime into Bach. If I stop them I find that "Bach is too slow, I don't like Bach!" This is almost like saying, "I don't like Rubens, Van Dyke or Millet; please, teacher, give me Mutt and Jeff or the Katzenjammer Kids!" American children need to be constantly taught to reverence the great creators of the land. Why, Jenny Lind is looked upon as a great national heroine in Sweden, much as one might regard George Washington in America. Before America can go about musical educational work properly, the teachers must inculcate this spirit, a proper appreciation of what is really beautiful, instead of a kind of wild, mob-like orgy of blare, bang, smash and shriek which so many have come to know as ragtime and jazz. SELF-CRITICISM If one should ask me what is the first consideration in becoming a success as a singer, I should say the ability to criticise one's self. In my own case I had a very competent musician as a teacher. He told me that my voice was naturally placed and did very little to help place it according to his own ideas. Perhaps that was well for me, because I knew myself what I was about. He used to say, "That sounds beautiful," but all the time I knew that it sounded terrible. It was then that I learned that my ear must be my best teacher. My teacher, for instance, told me that I would never be able to trill. This was very disheartening; but he really believed, according to his conservative knowledge, that I should never succeed in getting the necessary flexibility. By chance I happened to meet a celebrated Swedish singer, Mme. Östberg, of the old school. I communicated to her the discouraging news that I could never hope to trill. "Nonsense, my dear," she said, "someone told me that too, but I determined that I was going to learn. I did not know how to go about it exactly, but I knew that with the proper patience and will-power I would succeed. Therefore I worked up to three o'clock one morning, and before I went to bed I was able to trill." I decided to take Mme. Östberg's advice, and I practiced for several days until I knew that I could trill, and then I went back to my teacher and showed him what I could do. He had to admit it was a good trill, and he couldn't understand how I had so successfully disproved his theories by accomplishing it. It was then that I learned that the singer can do almost anything within the limits of the voice, if one will only work hard enough. Work is the great producer, and there is no substitute for it. Do not think that I am ungrateful to my teacher. He gave me a splendid musical drilling in all the standard solfeggios, in which he was most precise; and in later years I said to him, "I am not grateful to you for making my voice, but because you did not spoil it." After having sung a great deal and thought introspectively a great deal about the voice, one naturally begins to form a kind of philosophy regarding it. Of course, breathing exercises are the basis of all good singing methods, but it seems to me that singing teachers ask many of their pupils to do many queer impractical things in breathing, things that "don't work" when the singer is obliged to stand up before a big audience and make everyone hear without straining. If I were to teach a young girl right at this moment I would simply ask her to take a deep breath and note the expansion at the waist just above the diaphragm. Then I would ask her to say as many words as possible upon that breath, at the same time having the muscles adjacent to the diaphragm to support the breath; that is, to sustain it and not collapse or try to push it up. The trick is to get the most tone, not with the most breath but with the least breath, and especially the very least possible strain at the throat, which must be kept in a floating, gossamer-like condition all the time. I see girls, who have been to expensive teachers, doing all sorts of wonderful calisthenics with the diaphragm, things that God certainly did not intend us to do in learning to speak and to sing. Any attempt to draw in the front walls of the abdomen or the intercostal muscles during singing must put a kind of pneumatic pressure upon the breath stream, which is sure to constrict the throat. Therefore, in my own singing, I note the opposite effect. That is, there is rather a sensation of expansion instead of contraction during the process of expiration. This soon becomes very comfortable, relieves the throat of strain, relieves the tones of breathiness or all idea of forcing. There is none of the ugly heaving of the chest or shoulders; the body is in repose, and the singer has a firm grip upon the tone in the right way. The muscles of the front wall of the abdomen and the muscles between the lower ribs become very strong and equal to any strain, while the throat is free. In the emission of the actual tone itself I would advise the sensation of inhaling at first. The beginner should blow out the tone. Usually instead of having a lovely floating character, with the impression of control, the tone starts with being forced, and it always remains so. The singer oversings and has nothing in reserve. When I am singing I feel as though the farther away from the throat, the deeper down I can control the breath stream, the better and freer the tone becomes. Furthermore, I can sing the long, difficult Wagnerian rôles, with their tremendous demands upon the vocal organs, without the least sensation of fatigue. Some singers, after such performances, are "all in." No wonder they lose their voices when they should be in their prime. For me the most difficult vowel is "ah." The throat then is most open and the breath stream most difficult to control properly. Therefore I make it a habit to begin my practice with "oo, oh, ah, ay, ee" in succession. I never start with sustained tones. This would give my throat time to stiffen. I employ quick, soft scales, always remembering the basic principle of breath control I have mentioned, and always as though inhaling. This is an example of what I mean. To avoid shrillness on the upper tone I take the highest note with oo and descend with oo. [Illustration: musical notation: Ex. 1] The same thought applied to an arpeggio would be: [Illustration: musical notation: Ex. 2] These I take within comfortable limits of my voice, always remembering that the least strain is a backward step. These exercises are taken through all possible keys. There can never be too much practice of a scale or arpeggio exercise. Many singers, I know, who wonder why they do not succeed, cannot do a good scale, the very first thing they should be able to do. Every one should be like perfect pearls on a thread. AMERICA'S FATAL AMBITION One of the great troubles in America is the irrepressible ambition of both teachers and pupils. Europe is also not untinged with this. Teachers want to show results. Some teachers, I am told, start in with songs at the first or second lesson, with the sad knowledge that if they do not do this they may lose the pupil to some teacher who will peddle out songs. After four or five months I was given an operatic aria; and, of course, I sang it. A year of scales, exercises and solfeggios would have been far more time-saving. The pupils have too much to say about their education in this way. The teacher should be competent and then decide all such questions. American girls do not want this. They expect to step from vocal ignorance to a repertoire over night. When you study voice, you should study not for two years, but realize you will never stop studying, if you wish to keep your voice. Like any others, without exercise, the singing muscles grow weak and inefficient. There are so many, many things to learn. Of course, my whole training was that of the opera singer, and I was schooled principally in the Wagnerian rôles. With the coming of the war the prejudice against the greatest anti-imperialist (with the possible exception of Beethoven) which music ever has known--the immortal Wagner--became so strong that not until now has the demand for his operas become so great that they are being resumed with wonderful success. Therefore, with the exception of a few Italian and French rôles, my operatic repertoire went begging. It was necessary for me to enter the concert field, as the management of the opera company with which I had contracts secured such engagements for me. It was like starting life anew. There is very little opportunity to show one's individuality in opera. One must play the rôle. Therefore I had to learn a repertoire of songs, every one of which required different treatment and different individuality. With eighteen members on the program, the singer has a musical, mental and vocal task which devolves entirely upon herself without the aid of chorus, co-singers, orchestra, costumes, scenery and the glamour of the footlights. It was with the greatest delight that I could fulfill the demands of the concert platform. American musical taste is very exacting. The audiences use their imagination all the time, and like romantic songs with an atmospheric background, which accounts for my great success with songs of such type as Lieurance's _By the Waters of Minnetonka_. One of the greatest tasks I ever have had is that of singing my rôles in many different languages. I learned some of them first in Swedish, then in Italian, then in French, then in German, then in English; as I am obliged to re-learn my Wagnerian rôles now. The road to success in voice study, like the road to success in everything else, has one compass which should be a consistent guide, and that is common sense. Avoid extremes; hold fast to your ideals; have faith in your possibilities, and work! work!! work!!! [Illustration: CHARLES DALMORES IN MASSENET'S HERODIADE. © Mishkin.] CHARLES DALMORES BIOGRAPHICAL M. Charles Dalmores was born at Nancy, France, December 31st, 1871. His musical education was received at the Nancy Conservatoire under Professor Dauphin, and it was his intention to become a specialist in French horn. He also played the 'cello. When he applied to the Paris Conservatoire he was refused admission to the singing course because "he was too good a musician to waste his time with singing." He became professor of French horn at the Lyons Conservatory; but his love for opera led him to study by himself until he made his début at Rouen in 1899. He then sang at the Theatre de la Monnaie in Brussels, Covent Garden, Bayreuth, New York, and Chicago, with ever-increasing success. Dalmores is a dramatic tenor, and his musicianship has enabled him to take extremely difficult rôles of the modern type and achieve real artistic triumphs. He is one of the finest examples of the self-trained vocalist. SELF-HELP IN VOICE STUDY CHARLES DALMORES It is always a pleasure to talk upon self-help and not self-study, because I believe most implicitly in the former and very much doubt the efficacy of the latter in actual voice study. The voice, of all things, demands the assistance of a good teacher, although in the end the results all come from within and not from without. That is, the voice is an organ of expression; and what we make of it depends upon our own thought a thousand times more than what we take in from the outside. It is the teacher who stimulates the right kind of thinking who is the best teacher. The teacher who seeks to make his pupils parrots rarely meets with success. My whole career is an illustration of this, and when I think of the apparently insurmountable obstacles over which I have been compelled to climb I cannot help feeling that the relation of a few of my own experiences in the way of self-help could not fail to be beneficial. AT THE PARIS CONSERVATORY I was born at Nancy on the 31st of December, 1871. I gave evidences of having musical talent and my musical instruction commenced at the age of six years. I studied first at the Conservatory at Nancy, intending to make a specialty of the violin. Then I had the misfortune of breaking my arm. It was decided thereafter that I had better study the French horn. This I did with much success and attribute my control of the breath at this day very largely to my elementary struggles with that most difficult of instruments. At the age of fourteen I played the second horn at Nancy. Finally, I went, with a purse made up by some citizens of my home town, to enter the great Conservatory at Paris. There I studied very hard and succeeded in winning my goal in the way of receiving the first prize for playing the French horn. For a time I played under Colonne, and between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three in Paris I played with the Lamoureaux Orchestra. All this time I had my heart set upon becoming a singer and paid particular attention to all of the wonderful orchestral works we rehearsed. The very mention of the fact that I desired to become a singer was met with huge ridicule by my friends, who evidently thought that it was a form of fanaticism. For a time I studied the 'cello and managed to acquire a very creditable technic upon that instrument. A DISCOURAGING PROSPECT Notwithstanding the success I had with the two instruments, I was confronted with the fact that I had before me the life of a poor musician. My salary was low, and there were few, if any, opportunities to increase it outside of my regular work with the orchestra. I was told that I had great talent, but this never had the effect of swelling my pocketbook. In my military service I played in the band of an infantry regiment; and when I told my companions that I aspired to be a great singer some day they greeted my declaration with howls of laughter, and pointed out the fact that I was already along in years and had an established profession. At the sedate age of twenty-three I was surprised to find myself appointed Professor of French Horn at the Conservatory of Lyons. Lyons is the second city of France from the standpoint of population. It is a busy manufacturing center, but is rich in architectural, natural and historical interest; and the position had its advantages, although it was away from the great French center, Paris. The opera at Nancy was exceedingly good, and I had an opportunity to go often. Singing and the opera were my life. My father had been manager at Nancy and I had made my first acquaintance with the stage as one of the boys in _Carmen_. A TEST THAT FAILED I have omitted to say that at Paris I tried to enter the classes for singing. My voice was apparently liked, but I was refused admission upon the basis that I was too good a musician to waste my time in becoming an inferior singer. Goodness gracious! Where is musicianship needed more than in the case of the singer? This amused me, and I resolved to bide my time. I played in opera orchestras whenever I had a chance, and thus became acquainted with the famous rôles. One eye was on the music and the other was on the stage. During the rests I dreamt of the time when I might become a singer like those over the footlights. Where there is a will there is usually a way. I taught solfeggio as well as French horn in the Lyons Conservatory. I devised all sorts of "home-made" exercises to improve my voice as I thought best. Some may have done me good, others probably were injurious. I listened to singers and tried to get points from them. Gradually I was unconsciously paving the way for the great opportunity of my life. It came in the form of an experienced teacher, Dauphin, who had been a basso for ten years at the leading theatre of Belgium, fourteen years in London, and later director at Geneva and Lyons. He also received the appointment of Professor at the Lyons Conservatory. A FAMOUS OPPORTUNITY One day Dauphin heard me singing and inquired who I was. Then he came in the room and said to me, "How much do you get here for teaching and playing?" I replied, proudly, "six thousand francs a year." He said, "You shall study with me and some day you shall earn as much as six thousand francs a month." Dauphin, bless his soul, was wrong. I now earn six thousand francs every night I sing instead of every month. I could hardly believe that the opportunity I had waited for so long had come. Dauphin had me come to his house and there he told me that my success in singing would depend quite as much upon my own industry as upon his instruction. Thus one professor in the conservatory taught another in the art he had long sought to master. Notwithstanding Dauphin's confidence in me, all of the other professors thought that I was doing a perfectly insane thing, and did all in their power to prevent me from going to what they thought was my ruin. DISCOURAGING ADVICE Nevertheless, I determined to show them that they were all mistaken. During the first winter I studied no less than six operas, at the same time taking various exercises to improve my voice. During the second winter I mastered one opera every month, and at the same time did all my regular work--studying in my spare hours. At the end of my course I passed the customary examination, receiving the least possible distinction from my colleagues who were still convinced that I was pursuing a course that would end in complete failure. This brought home the truth that if I was to get ahead at all I would have to depend entirely upon myself. The outlook was certainly not propitious. Nevertheless I studied by myself incessantly and disregarded the remarks of my pessimistic advisers. I sang in a church and also in a big synagogue to keep up my income. All the time I had to put up with the sarcasm of my colleagues who seemed to think, like many others, that the calling of the singer was one demanding little musicianship, and tried to make me see that in giving up the French horn and my conservatory professorship I would be abandoning a dignified career for that of a species of musician who at that time was not supposed to demand any special musical training. Could not a shoemaker or a blacksmith take a few lessons and become a great singer? I, however, determined to become a different kind of a singer. I believed that there was a place for the singer with a thorough musical training, and while I kept up my vocal work amid the rain of irony and derogatory remarks from my mistaken colleagues, I did not fail to keep up my interest in the deeper musical studies. I had a feeling that the more good music I knew the better would be my work in opera. I wish that all singers could see this. Many singers live in a little world all of their own. They know the music of the footlights, but there their experience ends. Every symphony I have played has been molded into my life experience in such a way that it cannot help being reflected in my work. A CRITICAL MOMENT Finally the time came for my début in 1899. It was a most serious occasion for me; for the rest of my career as a singer depended upon it. It was in Rouen, and my fee was to be fifteen hundred francs a month. I thought that that would make me the richest man in the world. It was the custom of the town for the captain of the police to come before the audience at the end and inquire whether the audience approved of the artist's singing or whether their vocal efforts were unsatisfactory. This was to be determined by a public demonstration. When the captain held up the sign "Approved," I felt as though the greatest moment in my life had arrived. I had worked so long and so hard for success and had been obliged to laugh down so much scorn that you can imagine my feelings. Suddenly a great volume of applause came from the house and I knew in a second what my future should be. Then it was that I realized that I was only a little way along my journey. I wanted to be the foremost French tenor of my time. I knew that success in France alone, while gratifying, would be limited, so I set out to conquer new worlds. Wagner, up to that time, had never been sung by any French tenor, so I determined to master German and become a Wagner singer. This I did, and it fell to me to receive that most coveted of Wagnerian distinctions, "soloist at Beyreuth," the citadel of the highest in German operatic art. In after years I sang in all parts of Germany with as much success as in France. Later I went to London and then to America, where I sang for many seasons. It has been no small pleasure for me to return to Paris, where I once lived in penury, and to receive the highest fee ever paid to a French singer in the French capital. THE NEED FOR GREAT CARE I don't know what more I can say upon the subject of self-help for the singer. I have simply told my own story and have related some of the obstacles that I have overcome. I trust that no one who has not a voice really worth while will be misled by what I have had to say. The voice is one of the most intricate and wonderful of the human organs. Properly exercised and cared for, it may be developed to a remarkable degree; but there are cases, of course, where there is not enough voice at the start to warrant the aspirant making the sacrifices that I have made to reach my goal. This is a very serious matter and one which should be determined by responsible judges. At the same time, the singers may see how possible it is for even experienced musicians, like my colleagues in Lyons, to be mistaken. If I had depended upon them and not fought my own way out, I would probably be an obscure teacher in the same old city earning the munificent salary of one hundred dollars a month. FIGHTING YOUR OWN WAY The student who has to fight his own way has a much harder battle of it; but he has a satisfaction which certainly does not come to the one who has all his instruction fees and living expenses paid for him. He feels that he has earned his success; and, by the processes of exploration through which the self-help student must invariably pass, he becomes invested with a confidence and "I know" feeling which is a great asset to him. The main thing is for him to keep busy all the time. He has not a minute to spare upon dreaming. He has no one to carry his burden but himself; and the exercise of carrying it himself is the thing which will do most to make him strong and successful. The artists who leap into success are very rare. Hundreds who have held mediocre positions come to the front, while those who appear most favored stay in the background. Do not seek to gain eminence by any influence but that of real earnest work; and if you do not intend to work and to work hard, drop all of your aspirations for operatic laurels. [Illustration: ANDREAS DIPPEL. © Dupont.] ANDREAS DIPPEL BIOGRAPHICAL Andreas Dippel was born at Cassel, 1866. His father was a manufacturer who had the boy educated at the local gymnasium, with the view to making him a banker. After five years in a banking house he decided to become a singer and studied with Mme. Zottmayr. Later he went to Berlin, Milan and Vienna, where he studied with Julius Hey, Alberto Leoni and Johann Ress. In 1887 he made his début at Bremen, in _The Flying Dutchman_. He remained with that company until 1892. In the meantime, however, he had appeared at the Metropolitan in New York, with such success that he toured America as a concert singer with Anton Seidl, Arthur Nikisch, and Theodore Thomas. From 1893 to 1898 he was a member of the Imperial Court Opera at Vienna. In 1898 he returned to America to the Metropolitan. In 1908 he was appointed administrative manager of the Metropolitan Company, later becoming the manager of the Philadelphia-Chicago Opera Company. Mr. Dippel is a fine dramatic tenor with the enormous repertoire of 150 works in four different languages. He is a fine actor and has been equally successful in New York, London, and Beyreuth. He also has a repertoire of 60 oratorios. IF MY DAUGHTER SHOULD STUDY FOR GRAND OPERA ANDREAS DIPPEL The training of the girl designed to become a great prima donna is one of the most complex problems imaginable. You ask me to consider the case of an imaginary daughter designed for the career in order to make my opinions seem more pertinent. Very well. If my daughter were studying for grand opera, and if she were a very little girl, I should first watch her very carefully to see whether she manifested any uncontrollable desire or ambition to become a great singer. Without such a desire she will never become great. Usually this ambition becomes evident at a very early age. Then I should realize that the mere desire to become a great singer is only an infinitesimal part of the actual requirements. She must have, first of all, fine health, abundant vitality and an artistic temperament. She must show signs of being industrious. She should have the patience to wait until real results can be accomplished. In fact, there are so many attributes that it is difficult to enumerate them all. But they are all worth considering seriously. Why? Simply because, if they are not considered, she may be obliged to spend years of labor for which she will receive no return except the most bitter disappointment conceivable. Of the thousands of girls who study to become prima donnas only a very few can succeed, from the nature of things. The others either abandon their ambitions or assume lesser rôles from little parts down to the chorus. You will notice that I have said but little about her voice. During her childhood there is very little means of judging of the voice. Some girls' voices that seem very promising when they are children turn out in a most disappointing manner. So you see I would be obliged to consider the other qualifications before I even thought of the voice. Of course, if the child showed no inclination for music or did not have the ability to "hold a tune," I should assume that she was one of those frequent freaks of nature which no amount of musical training can save. Above all things I should not attempt to force her to take up a career against her own natural inclinations or gifts. The designing mother who desires to have her own ambitions realized in her daughter is the bane of every impresario. With a will power worthy of a Bismarck she maps out a career for the young lady and then attempts to force the child through what she believes to be the proper channels leading to operatic success. She realizes that great singers achieve fame and wealth and she longs to taste of these. It is this, rather than any particular love for her child, that prompts her to fight all obstacles. No amount of advice or persuasion can make her believe that her child cannot become another Tetrazzini, or Garden, or Schumann-Heink, if only the impresario will give her a chance. In nine cases out of ten Fate and Nature have a conspiracy to keep the particular young lady in the rôle of a stenographer or a dressmaker; and in the battle with Fate and Nature even the most ambitious mother must be defeated. HER VERY EARLY TRAINING Once determined that she stood a fair chance of success in the operatic field I should take the greatest possible care of her health, both physically and intellectually. Note that I lay particular stress upon her physical training. It is most important, as no one but the experienced singer can form any idea of what demands are made upon the endurance and strength of the opera singer. Her general education should be conducted upon the most approved lines. Anything which will develop and expand the mind will be useful to her in later life. The later operatic rôles make far greater demands upon the mentality of the singer than those of other days. The singer is no longer a parrot with little or nothing to do but come before the footlights and sing a few beautiful tones to a few gesticulations. She is expected to act and to understand what she is acting. I would lay great stress upon history--the history of all nations--she should study the manners, the dress, the customs, the traditions, and the thought of different epochs. In order to be at home in _Pelleas and Melisande_, or _Tristan und Isolde_, or _La Bohême_ she must have acquainted her mind with the historical conditions of the time indicated by the composer and librettist. HER FIRST MUSICAL TRAINING Her first musical training should be musical. That is, she should be taught how to listen to beautiful music before she ever hears the word technic. She should be taught sight reading, and she ought to be able to read any melody as easily as she would read a book. The earlier this study is commenced with the really musical child, the better. Before it is of any real value to the singer her sight reading should become second nature. She should have lost all idea of the technic of the art and read with ease and naturalness. This is of immense assistance. Then she should study the piano thoroughly. The piano is the door to the music of the opera. The singer who is dependent upon some assistant to play over the piano scores is unfortunate. It is not really necessary for her to learn any of the other instruments; but she should be able to play readily and correctly. It will help her in learning scores, more than anything else. It will also open the door to much other beautiful music which will elevate her taste and ennoble her ideals. She should go to the opera as frequently as possible in order that she may become acquainted with the great rôles intuitively. If she cannot attend the opera itself she can at least gain an idea of the great operatic music through the talking machines. The "repertory" of records is now very large, but of course does not include all of the music of all of the scenes. She should be taught the musical traditions of the different historical musical epochs and the different so-called music schools. First she should study musical history itself and then become acquainted with the music of the different periods. The study of the violin is also an advantage in training the ear to listen for correct intonation; but the violin is by no means absolutely necessary. LANGUAGES All educators recognize the fact that languages are attained best in childhood. The child's power of mimicry is so wonderful that it acquires a foreign language quite without any suggestion of accent, in a time which will always put their elders to shame. Foreign children, who come to America before the age of ten, speak both then-native tongue and English with equal fluency. The first new language to be taken up should be Italian. Properly spoken, there is no language so mellifluous as Italian. The beautiful quantitative value given to the vowels--the natural quest for euphony and the necessity for accurate pronunciation of the last syllable of a word in order to make the grammatical sense understandable--is a training for both the ear and the voice. Italy is the land of song; and most of the conductors give their directions in Italian. Not only the usual musical terms, but also the other directions are denoted in Italian by the orchestral conductors; and if the singer does not understand she must suffer accordingly. After the study of Italian I would recommend, in order, French and German. If my daughter were studying for opera, I should certainly leave nothing undone until she had mastered Italian, French, German and English. Although she would not have many opportunities to sing in English, under present operatic conditions, the English-speaking people in America, Great Britain, Canada, South Africa, and Australia are great patrons of musical art; and the artist must of course travel in some of these countries. THE STUDY OF THE VOICE ITSELF Her actual voice study should not commence before she is seventeen or eighteen years of age. In the hands of a very skilled and experienced teacher it might commence a little earlier; but it is better to wait until her health becomes more settled and her mature strength develops. At first the greatest care must be taken. The teacher has at best a delicate flower which a little neglect or a little over training may deform or even kill. I can not discuss methods, as that is not pertinent to this conference. There is no one absolutely right way; and many famous singers have traveled what seem quite different roads to reach the same end. However, it is a historic fact that few great singers have ever acquired voices which have had beautiful quality, perfect flexibility and reliability, who have not sung for some years in the old Italian style. Mind you, I am not referring to an old Italian school of singing here, but more to that class of music adopted by the old Italian composers--a style which permitted few vocal blemishes to go by unnoticed. Most of the great Wagnerian singers have been proficient in coloratura rôles before they undertook the more complicated parts of the great master at Beyreuth. It is better to leave the study of repertoire until later years; that is, until the study of voice has been pursued for a sufficient time to insure regular progress in the study of repertoire. Personally, I am opposed to those methods which take the student directly to the study of repertoire without any previous vocal drill. The voice, to be valuable to the singer, must be able to stand the wear and tear of many seasons. It is often some years before the young singer is able to achieve real success and the profits come with the later years. A voice that is not carefully drilled and trained, so that the singer knows how to get the most out of it, with the least strain and the least expenditure of effort, will not stand the wear and tear of many years of opera life. After all, the study of repertoire is the easiest thing. Getting the voice properly trained is the difficult thing. In the study of repertoire the singer often makes the mistake of leaping right into the more difficult rôles. She should start with the simpler rôles; such as those of some of the lesser parts in the old Italian operas. Then, she may essay the leading rôles of, let us say, _Traviata_, _Barber of Seville_, _Norma_, _Faust_, _Romeo and Juliet_, and _Carmen_. Instead of simple rôles, she seems inclined to spend her time upon _Isolde_, _Mimi_, _Elsa_ or _Butterfly_. It has become so, that now, when a new singer comes to me and wants to sing _Tosca_ or some rôle that (sic) the so-called new or _verissimo_ Italian school, I almost invariably refuse to listen. I ask them to sing something from _Norma_ or _Puritani_ or _Dinorah_ or _Lucia_ in which it is impossible for them to conceal their vocal faults. But no, they want to sing the big aria from the second act of _Madama Butterfly_, which is hardly to be called an aria at all but rather a collection of dramatic phrases. When they are done, I ask them to sing some of the opening phrases from the same rôle, and ere long they discover that they really have nothing which an impresario can purchase. They are without the voice and without the complete knowledge of the parts which they desire to sing. Then they discover that the impresario knows that the tell-tale pieces are the old arias from old Italian operas. They reveal the voice in its entirety. If the breath control is not right, it becomes evident at once. If the quality is not right, it becomes as plain as the features of the young lady's face. There is no dramatic--emotional--curtain under which to hide these shortcomings. Consequently, knowing what I do, I would insist upon my daughter having a thorough training in the old Italian arias. HER TRAINING IN ACTING Her training in acting would depend largely upon her natural talent. Some children are born actors--natural mimics. They act from their childhood right up to old age. They can learn more in five minutes than others can learn in years. Some seem to require little or no training in the art of acting. As a rule they become the most forceful acting singers. Others improve wonderfully under the direction of a clever teacher. The new school of opera demands higher histrionic ability from the singer. In fact, we have come to a time when opera is a real drama set to music which is largely recitative and which does not distract from the action of the drama. The librettos of other days were, to say the least, ridiculous. If the music had not had a marvelous hold upon the people they could not have remained in popular favor. To my mind it is an indication of the wonderful power of music that these operas retain their favor. There is something about the melodies which seems to preserve them for all time; and the public is just as anxious to hear them to-day as it was twenty-five and fifty years ago. Richard Wagner turned the tide of acting in opera by his music dramas. Gluck and von Weber had already made an effort in the right direction; but it remained for the mighty power of Wagner to accomplish the final work. Now we are witnessing the rise of a school of musical dramatic actors such as Garden, Maurel, Renaud, and others which promises to raise the public taste in this matter and which will add vastly to the pleasure of opera going, as it will make the illusion appear more real. This also imposes upon the impresario a new contingency which threatens to make opera more and more expensive. Costumes, scenery and all the settings nowadays must be both historically authentic and costly. The collection of wigs, robes, and armor, together with a few sets of scenery, often with the chairs and other furniture actually painted on the scenes, which a few years ago were thought adequate for the equipment of an opera company, have now given way to equipment more elaborate than that of a Belasco or a Henry Irving. Nothing is left undone to make the picture real and beautiful. In fact operatic productions, as now given in America, are as complete and luxurious as any performances given anywhere in the world. MME. EMMA EAMES BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Emma Eames was born at Shanghai, China. Her father, a graduate of Harvard Law School, had been a sea-captain and had been in business in the Chinese city. At the age of five she was brought back to the home of her parents at Bath, Maine. Her mother was an accomplished amateur singer who supervised her early musical training. At sixteen she went to Boston to study with Miss Munger. At nineteen she became a pupil of Marchesi in Paris and remained with the celebrated teacher for two years. At twenty-one she made her début at the Grand Opera in Paris in _Romeo et Juliette_. Two years later she appeared at Covent Garden, London, with such success that she was immediately engaged for the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. Few singers ever gained such a strong hold upon the American and English public. Her voice is a fine flexible soprano, capable of doing _Marguerite_ or _Elisabeth_ equally well. Her husband, Emilio de Gogorza, with whom it is our privilege to present a conference later in this book, is one of the foremost baritones of our time. [Illustration: MME. EMMA EAMES.] HOW A GREAT MASTER COACHED OPERA SINGERS MME. EMMA EAMES GOUNOD AN IDEALIST One does not need to review the works of Charles Gounod to any great extent before discovering that above all things he was an idealist. His whole aspect of life and art was that of a man imbued with a sense of the beautiful and a longing to actualize some noble art purpose. He was of an age of idealists. Coming at the artificial period of the Second Empire, he was influenced by that artistic atmosphere, as were such masters of the brush as Jean August Ingres and Eugène Delacroix. This, however, was unconscious, and in no way affected his perfect sincerity in all he did. FIRST MEETING WITH GOUNOD I was taken to Gounod by my master, Mme. Mathilde Marchesi, who, perhaps, had some reason to regret her kindness in introducing me, since Gounod did not favor what he conceived as the Italian method of singing. He had a feeling that the Italian school, as he regarded it, was too obvious, and that French taste demanded more sincerity, more subtlety, better balance and a certain finesse which the purely vocal Italian style slightly obscured. Mme. Marchesi was very irate over Gounod's attitude, which she considered highly insulting; whereas, as a matter of fact, Gounod was doing the only thing that a man of his convictions could do, and that was to tell what he conceived as the truth. Gounod's study was a room which fitted his character perfectly. His very pronounced religious tendencies were marked by the stained glass windows which cast a delicate golden tint over the little piano he occasionally used when composing. On one side was a pipe organ upon which he was very fond of playing. In fact, the whole atmosphere was that of a chapel, which, together with the beautiful and dignified appearance of the master himself, made an impression that one could not forget. His great sincerity, his lofty aims, his wonderful earnestness, his dramatic intensity, were apparent at once. Many composers are hopelessly disappointing in their appearance, but when one saw Gounod, it was easy to realize whence come the beautiful musical colors which make _Romeo et Juliette_, _Faust_ and _The Redemption_ so rich and individual. His whole artistic character is revealed in a splendid word of advice he gave to me when I first went to him: "Anyone who is called to any form of musical expression must reveal himself only in the language that God has given him to speak with. Find this language yourself and try, above all things, to be sincere--never singing down to your public." Gounod had a wonderful power of compelling attention. While one was with him his personality was so great that it seemed to envelop you, obliterating everything else. This can be attributed not only to magnetism or hypnotism, but also to his own intense, all-burning interest in whatever he was engaged upon. Naturally the relationship of teacher and pupil is different from that of comradeship, but I was impressed that Gounod, even in moments of apparent repose, never seemed to lose that wonderful force which virtually consumed the entire attention of all those who were in his presence. He had remarkable gifts in painting word-pictures. His imagination was so vigorous that he could make one feel that which he saw in his mind's eye as actually present. I attribute this to the fact that he himself was possessed by the subject at hand and spoke from the fountains of his deepest conviction. First he made you see and then he made you express. He taught one that to convince others one must first be convinced. Indeed, he allowed a great variety of interpretations in order that one might interpret through one's own power of conception rather than through following blindly his own. During my lessons with Gounod he revealed not only his very pronounced histrionic ability, but also his charming talent as a singer. I had an accompanist who came with me to the lessons and when I was learning the various rôles, Gounod always sang the duets with me. Although he was well along in years, he had a small tenor voice, exquisitely sweet and sympathetic. He sang with delightful ease and with invariably perfect diction, and perfect vision. If some of our critics of musical performances were more familiar with the niceties of pronunciation and accentuation of different foreign languages, many of our present-day singers would be called upon to suffer some very severe criticisms. I speak of this because Gounod was most insistent upon correct pronunciation and accent, so that the full meaning of the words might be conveyed to every member of the audience. A HEARING AT THE OPERA When I went to the opera for my hearing or _audition_, Gounod went with me and we sang the duets together. The director, M. Gailhard, refused my application, claiming that I was a debutante and could not expect an initial performance at the Grand Opéra despite my ability and musical attainments. It may be interesting for aspiring vocal students to learn something of the various obstacles which still stand in the way of a singer, even after one has had a very thorough training and acquired proficiency which should compel a hearing. Alas! in opera, as in many other lines of human endeavor, there is a political background that is often black with intrigue and machinations. I was determined to fight my way on the merit of my art, and accordingly I was obliged to wait for nearly two years before I was able to make my début. These were years filled with many exasperating circumstances. I went to Brussels after two years' study with Marchesi, having been promised my début there. I was kept for months awaiting it and was finally prevented from making an appearance by one who, pretending to be my friend and to be doing all in her power to further my career, was in reality threatening the directors with instant breaking of her contract should I be allowed to appear. I had this on the authority of Mr. Gevaërt, the then director of the Conservatoire and my firm friend. The artist was a great success and her word was law. It was on my return that I was taken to Gounod and I waited a year for a hearing. Gounod's opera, _Romeo et Juliette_, had been given at the Opéra Comique many times but there was a demand for performances at the Grand Opéra. Accordingly Gounod added a ballet, which fitted it for performance at the Opéra. Apropos of this ballet, Gounod said to me, with no little touch of cynicism, "Now you shall see what kind of music a _Ga Ga_ can write" (Ga Ga is the French term for a very old man, that is, a man in his dotage). He was determined that I should be heard at the Grand Opera as Juliette, but even his influence could not prevent the director from signing an agreement with one he personally preferred, which required that she should have the honor of making her début at the Grand Opéra in the part. Then it was that I became aware that it was not only because I was a debutante that I had been denied. Gounod would not consent to this arrangement, insisting on her making her début previously in _Faust_, and fortunate it was, since the singer in question never attained more than mediocre success. Gounod still demanded as a compromise that the first six performances of the opera should be given to Adelina Patti, and that they should send for me for the subsequent ones. In the meantime I was engaged at the Opéra Comique. There Massenet looked with disfavor upon my début before that of Sybil Sanderson. Massenet had brought fortunes to the Opéra Comique through his immensely popular and theatrically effective operas. Consequently his word was law. I waited for some months and no suggestion of an opportunity for a performance presented itself. All the time I was engaged in extending my repertoire and becoming more and more indignant at the treatment I was receiving in not being allowed to sing the operas thus acquired. My year's contract had still three months to run when I received an offer from St. Petersburg. Shortly thereafter I received a note from M. Gailhard announcing that he wished to see me. I went and he informed me that Gounod was still insistent upon my appearance in the rôle of _Juliette_. I was irritated by the whole long train of aggravating circumstances, but said, "Give me the contract, I'll sign it." Then I went directly to the Opéra Comique and asked to see the director. I was towering with indignation--indeed, I felt myself at least seven feet tall and perhaps quite as wide. I demanded my contract. To his "Mais, Mademoiselle--" I commanded, "Send for it." He brought the contract and tore it up in my presence, only to learn next morning to his probable chagrin that I was engaged and announced for an important rôle at the Grand Opéra. The first performance of a debutante at the Grand Opéra is a great ordeal, and it is easy to imagine that the strain upon a young singer might deprive her of her natural powers of expression. The outcome of mine was most fortuitous and with success behind me I found my road very different indeed. However, if I had not had a friend at court, in the splendid person of Charles Gounod, I might have been obliged to wait years longer, and perhaps never have had an opportunity to appear in Paris, where only a few foreigners in a generation get such a privilege. It is a great one, I consider, as there is no school of good taste and restraint like the French, which is also one where one may acquire the more intellectual qualities in one's work and a sense of proportion and line. GOUNOD AS A MODERNIST I have continually called attention to Gounod's idealism. There are some to-day who might find the works of Gounod artificial in comparison with the works of some very modern writers. To them I can only say that the works of the great master gave a great deal of joy to audiences fully as competent to judge of their artistic and æsthetic beauty as any of the present day. Indeed, their flavor is so delicate and sublimated that the subsequent attempts at interpreting them with more realistic methods only succeeds in destroying their charm. It may be difficult for some who are saturated with the ultra-modern tendencies in music to look upon Gounod as a modernist, but thus he was regarded by his own friends. One of my most amusing recollections of Gounod was his telling me--himself much amused thereby--of the first performance of _Faust_. His friends had attended in large numbers to assist at the expected "success," only to be witnesses of a huge failure. Gounod told me that the only numbers to have any success whatsoever were the "Soldiers' Chorus," and that of the old men in the second part of the first act. He said that all his friends avoided him and disappeared or went on the other side of the street. Some of the more intimate told him that he must change his manner of writing as it was so "unmelodious" and "advanced." This seems to me a most interesting recollection, in view of the "cubist" music of Stravinsky and Co. of to-day. In thinking of Gounod we must not forget his period and his public. We must realize that his operatic heroes and heroines must be approached from an altogether idealistic attitude--never a materialistic one. See the manner in which Gounod has taken Shakespeare's _Juliette_ and translated her into an atmosphere of poetry. Nevertheless he constantly intensifies his dramatic situations as the dramatic nature of the composition demands. His _Juliette_, though consistent with his idea of her throughout, is not the _Juliet_ of Shakespeare. As also his _Marguerite_ is that of Kaulbach and not the Gretchen of Goethe. Of course, a great deal depends upon the training and school of the artist interpreting the rôle. In my own interpretations I am governed by certain art principles which seem very vital indeed to me. The figure of the Mediæval Princess _Elsa_ has to be represented with a restraint quite opposed to that of the panting savage _Aïda_. Also, the palpitating, elemental _Tosca_ calls for another type of character painting than, for instance, the modest, gestureless, timid and womanly Japanese girl in Mascagni's _Iris_. These things are not taught in schools by teachers. They come only after the prolonged study which every conscientious artist must give to her rôles. Gounod felt this very strongly and impressed it upon me. All music had a meaning to him--an inner meaning which the great mind invariably divines through a kind of artistic intuition difficult to define. I remember his playing to me the last act of _Don Giovanni_, which in his hands gained the grandeur and depth of Greek tragedy. He had in his hands the power to thrill one to the very utmost. Again he was keenly delighted with the most joyous passages in music. He was exceptionally fond of Mozart. _Le Nozze di Figaro_ was especially appreciated. He used to say, after accompanying himself in the aria of Cherubino the Page, from the 1st act, "Isn't that Spring? Isn't that youth? Isn't that the joy of life? How marvelously Mozart has crystallized this wonderful exuberant spirit in his music!" ONE REASON FOR GOUNOD'S EMINENCE One reason for Gounod's eminence lay in his great reverence for his art. He believed in the cultivation of reverence for one's art, as the religious devotee has reverence for his cult. To Gounod his art was a religion. To use a very expressive colloquialism, "He never felt himself above his job." Time and again we meet men and women who make it a habit to look down upon their work as though they were superior to it. They are continually apologizing to their friends and depreciating their occupation. Such people seem foreordained for failure. If one can not regard the work one is engaged upon with the greatest earnestness and respect--if one can not feel that the work is worthy of one's deepest _reverence_, one can accomplish little. I have seen so much of this with students and aspiring musicians that I feel that I would be missing a big opportunity if I did not emphasize this fine trait in Gounod's character. I know of one man in particular who has been going down and down every year largely because he has never considered anything he has had to do as worthy of his best efforts. He has always been "above his job." If you are dissatisfied with your work, seek out something that you think is really deserving of your labor, something commensurate with your idea of a serious dignified occupation in which you feel that you may do your best work. In most cases, however, it is not a matter of occupation but an attitude of mind--the difference between an earnest dignified worker and one who finds it more comfortable to evade work. This is true in music as in everything else. If you can make your musical work a cult as Gounod did, if you have talent--vision--ah! how few have vision, how few can really and truly see--if you have the understanding which comes through vision, there is no artistic height which you may not climb. One can not hope to give a portrait of Gounod in so short an interview. One can only point out a few of his most distinguishing features. One who enjoyed his magnificent friendship can only look upon it as a hallowed memory. After all, Gounod has written himself into his own music and it is to that we must go if we would know his real nature. MME. FLORENCE EASTON BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Florence Easton was born at Middleborough, Yorkshire, England, Oct. 25, 1887. At a very early age she was taken to Toronto, Canada, by her parents, who were both accomplished singers. She was given a musical training in youth with the view of making her a concert pianist. Her teacher was J. A. D. Tripp, and at the age of eleven she appeared in concert. Her vocal talents were discovered and she was sent to the Royal Academy at London, England, where her teachers were Reddy and Mme. Agnes Larkom, a pupil of Garcia. She then went to Paris and studied under Eliot Haslam, an English teacher resident in the French metropolis. She then took small parts in the well-known English Opera organization, the Moody-Manners Company, acquiring a large repertoire in English. With her husband, Francis Maclennen, she came to America to take the leading rôles in the Savage production of _Parsifal_, remaining to sing the next season in _Madama Butterfly_. The couple were then engaged to sing for six years at the Berlin Royal Opera and became wonderfully successful. After three years at Hamburg and two years with the Chicago Opera Company she was engaged for dramatic rôles at the Metropolitan, and has become a great favorite. [Illustration: MME. FLORENCE EASTON. © Mishkin.] THE OPEN DOOR TO OPERA MME. FLORENCE EASTON What is the open door to opera in America? Is there an open door, and if not, how can one be made? Who may go through that door and what are the terms of admission? These are questions which thousands of young American opera aspirants are asking just now. The prospect of singing at a great opera house is so alluring and the reward in money is often so great that students center their attentions upon the grand prize and are willing to take a chance of winning, even though they know that only one in a very few may succeed and then often at bitter sacrifice. The question is a most interesting one to me, as I think that I know what the open door to opera in this country might be--what it may be if enough patriotic Americans could be found to cut through the hard walls of materialism, conventionalism and indifference. It lies through the small opera company--the only real and great school which the opera singer of the future can have. THE SCHOOL OF PRIME DONNE In European countries there are innumerable small companies capable of giving good opera which the people enjoy quite as thoroughly as the metropolitan audiences of the world enjoy the opera which commands the best singers of the times. For years these small opera companies have been the training schools of the great singers. Not to have gone through such a school was as damaging an admission as that of not having gone through a college would be to a college professor applying for a new position. Lilli Lehmann, Schumann-Heink, Ruffo, Campanini, Jenny Lind, Patti, all are graduates of these schools of practice. In America there seems to have existed for years a kind of prejudice, bred of ignorance, against all opera companies except those employing all-star casts in the biggest theatres in the biggest cities. This existed, despite the fact that these secondary opera companies often put on opera that was superior to the best that was to be heard in some Italian, German and French cities which possessed opera companies that stood very high in the estimation of Americans who had never heard them. It was once actually the case that the fact that a singer had once sung in a smaller opera company prevented her from aspiring to sing in a great opera company. America, however, has become very much better informed and much more independent in such matters, and our opera goers are beginning to resemble European audiences in that they let their ears and their common sense determine what is best rather than their prejudices and their conventions regarding reputation. It was actually the case at one time in America that a singer with a great reputation could command a large audience, whereas a singer of far greater ability and infinitely better voice might be shut out because she had once sung in an opera company not as pretentious as those in the big cities. This seemed very comic indeed to many European singers, who laughed in their coat sleeves over the real situation. In the first place, the small companies in many cities would provide more singers with opportunities for training and public appearances. The United States now has two or three major opera companies. Count up on your fingers the greatest number of singers who could be accommodated with parts: only once or twice in a decade does the young singer, at the age when the best formative work must be done, have a chance to attain the leading rôles. If we had in America ten or twenty smaller opera companies of real merit, the chances would be greatly multiplied. The first thing that the singer has to fight is stage fright. No matter how well you may know a rôle in a studio, unless you are a very extraordinary person you are likely to take months in acquiring the stage freedom and ease in working before an audience. There is only one cure for stage fright, and that is to appear continually until it wears off. Many deserving singers have lost their great chances because they have depended upon what they have learned in the studio, only to find that when they went before a great and critical audience their ability was suddenly reduced to 10 per cent., if not to zero. Even after years of practice and experience in great European opera houses where I appeared repeatedly before royalty, the reputation of the Metropolitan Opera House in New York was so great that at the time I made my début there I was so afflicted by stage fright that my voice was actually reduced to one-half of its force and my other abilities accordingly. This is the truth, and I am glad to have young singers know it as it emphasizes my point. Imagine what the effect would have been upon a young singer who had never before sung in public on the stage. Footlight paralysis is one of the most terrifying of all acute diseases and there is no cure for it but experience. THE BEST BEGINNING In the Moody Manners Company in England, the directors wisely understood this situation and prepared for it. All the singers scheduled to take leading rôles (and they were for the most part very young singers, since when the singer became experienced enough she was immediately stolen by companies paying higher salaries) were expected to go for a certain time in the chorus (not to sing, just to walk off and on the stage) until familiar with the situation. Accordingly, my first appearance with the Moody Manners Company was when I walked out with the chorus. I have never heard of this being done deliberately by any other managers, but think how sensible it is! Again, it is far more advantageous for the young singer to appear in the smaller opera house at first, so that if any errors are made the opera goers will not be unforgiving. There is no tragedy greater than throwing a young girl into an operatic situation far greater than her experience and ability can meet, and then condemning her for years because she did not rise to the occasion. This has happened many times in recent years. Ambition is a beautiful thing; but when ambition induces one to walk upon a tight rope over Niagara, without having first learned to walk properly on earth, ambition should be restrained. I can recollect several singers who were widely heralded at their first performances by enthusiastic admirers, who are now no longer known. What has become of them? Is it not better to learn the profession of opera singing in its one great school, and learn it so thoroughly that one can advance in the profession, just as one may advance in every other profession? The singer in the small opera company who, night after night, says to herself, "To-morrow it must be better," is the one who will be the Lilli Lehmann, the Galli-Curci, or the Schumann-Heink of to-morrow; not the important person who insists upon postponing her début until she can appear at the Metropolitan or at Covent Garden. Colonel Henry W. Savage did America an immense service, as did the Aborn Brothers and Fortune Gallo, in helping to create a popular taste for opera presented in a less pretentious form. America needs such companies and needs them badly, not merely to educate the public up to an appreciation of the fact that the finest operatic performances in the world are now being given at the Metropolitan Opera House, but to help provide us with well-schooled singers for the future. NECESSITY OF ROUTINE Nothing can take the place of routine in learning operas. Many, many opera singers I have known seem to be woefully lacking in it. In learning a new opera, I learn all the parts that have anything to do with the part I am expected to sing. In other words, I find it very inadvisable to depend upon cues. There are so many disturbing things constantly occurring on the stage to throw one off one's track. For instance, when I made my first appearance in Mascagni's _Lodoletta_ I was obliged to go on with only twenty-four hours' notice, without rehearsal, in an opera I had seen produced only once. I had studied the rôle only two weeks. While on the stage I was so entranced with the wonderful singing of Mr. Caruso that I forgot to come in at the right time. He said to me quickly _sotto voce_-- "_Canta! Canta! Canta!_" And my routine drill of the part enabled me to come in without letting the audience know of my error. The mere matter of getting the voice to go with the orchestra, as well as that of identifying cues heard in the unusual quality of the orchestral instruments (so different from the tone quality of the piano), is most confusing, and only routine can accustom one to being ready to meet all of these strange conditions. One is supposed to keep an eye on the conductor practically all of the time while singing. The best singers are those who never forget this, but do it so artfully that the audience never suspects. Many singers follow the conductor's baton so conspicuously that they give the appearance of monkeys on a string. This, of course, is highly ludicrous. I don't know of any way of overcoming it but experience. Yes, there is another great help, and that is musicianship. The conductor who knows that an artist is a musician in fact, is immensely relieved and always very appreciative. Singers should learn as much about the technical side of music as possible. Learning to play the violin or the piano, and learning to play it well is invaluable. WATCHING FOR OPPORTUNITIES The singer must be ever on the alert for opportunities to advance. This is largely a matter of preparation. If one is capable, the opportunities usually come. I wonder if I may relate a little incident which occurred to me in Germany long before the war. I had been singing in Berlin, when the impresario of the Royal Opera approached me and asked me if I could sing _Aïda_ on a following Monday. I realized that if I admitted that I had never sung _Aïda_ before, the thoroughgoing, matter-of-fact German Intendant would never even let me have a chance. Emmy Destinn was then the prima donna at the Royal Opera, and had been taken ill. The post was one of the operatic plums of all Europe. Before I knew it, I had said "Yes, I can sing _Aïda_." It was a white lie, and once told, I had to live up to it. I had never sung _Aïda_, and only knew part of it. Running home I worked all night long to learn the last act. Over and over the rôle hundreds and hundreds of times I went, until it seemed as though my eyes would drop out of my head. Monday night came, and thanks to my routine experience in smaller companies, I had learned _Aïda_ so that I was perfectly confident of it. Imagine the strain, however, when I learned that the Kaiser and the court were to be present. At the end I was called before the Kaiser, who, after warmly complimenting me, gave me the greatly coveted post in his opera house. I do not believe that he ever found out that the little Toronto girl had actually fibbed her way into an opportunity. TALES OF STRAUSS Strauss was one of the leading conductors while I was at the Royal Opera and I sang under his baton many, many times. He was a real genius,--in that once his art work was completed, his interest immediately centered upon the next. Once while we were performing _Rosenkavalier_ he came behind the scenes and said: "Will this awfully _long_ opera never end? I want to go home." I said to him, "But Doctor, you composed it yourself," and he said, "Yes, but I never meant to conduct it." Let it be explained that Strauss was an inveterate player of the German card game, Scat, and would far rather seek a quiet corner with a few choice companions than go through one of his own works night after night. However, whenever the creative instinct was at work he let nothing impede it. I remember seeing him write upon his cuffs (no doubt some passing theme) during a performance of _Meistersinger_ he was conducting. THE SINGER'S GREATEST NEED The singer's greatest need, or his greatest asset if he has one, is an honest critic. My husband and I have made it a point never to miss hearing one another sing, no matter how many times we have heard each other sing in a rôle. Sometimes, after a big performance, it is very hard to have to be told about all the things that one did not do well, but that is the only way to improve. There are always many people to tell one the good things, but I feel that the biggest help that I have had through my career has been the help of my husband, because he has always told me the places where I could improve, so that every performance I had something new to think about. An artist never stands still. He either goes forward or backward and, of course, the only way to get to the top is by going forward. The difficulty in America is in giving the young singers a chance after their voices are placed. If only we could have a number of excellent stock opera companies, even though there had to be a few traveling stars after the manner of the old dramatic companies, where everybody had to start at the bottom and work his way up, because with a lovely voice, talent and perseverance anyone can get to the top if one has a chance to work. By "work" I mean singing as many new rôles as possible and as often as possible and not starting at a big opera house singing perhaps two or three times during a season. Just think of it,--the singer at a small opera house has more chance to learn in two months than the beginner at a big opera house might have in five years. After all, the thing that is most valuable to a singer is time, as with time the voice will diminish in beauty. Getting to the top via the big opera house is the work of a lifetime, and the golden tones are gone before one really has an opportunity to do one's best work. [Illustration: GERALDINE FARRAR.] GERALDINE FARRAR BIOGRAPHICAL Although one of the youngest of the noted American singers, none has achieved such an extensive international reputation as Miss Farrar. Born February 28, 1882, in Melrose, Mass., she was educated at the public schools in that city. At the school age she became the pupil of Mrs. J. H. Long, in Boston. After studying with several teachers, including Emma Thursby, in New York, and Trabadello, in Paris, she went to Lilli Lehmann in Berlin, and under this, the greatest of dramatic singers of her time, Miss Farrar received a most thorough and careful training in all the elements of her art. She made her début as Marguerite in _Faust_ at the Royal Opera in Berlin, October 15th, 1901. Later, after touring European cities with ever increasing successes, she was engaged at the Opera Comique and Grand Opera, Paris, and then at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, where she has been the leading soprano for many seasons. The many enticing offers made for appearances in moving pictures led to a new phase of her career. In many pictures she has appeared with her husband, M. Lou Tellegen, one of the most distinguished actors of the French school, who at one time was the leading man for Sarah Bernhardt. The following conference is rich in advice to any young woman who desires to know what she must do in order to become a prima donna. WHAT MUST I GO THROUGH TO BECOME A PRIMA DONNA? MME. GERALDINE FARRAR What must I do to become a prima donna? Let us reverse the usual method of discussing the question and begin with the artist upon the stage in a great opera house like the Metropolitan in New York, on a gala night, every seat sold and hundreds standing. It is a modern opera with a "heavy" score. What is the first consideration of the singer? Primarily, an artist in grand opera must _sing_ in some fashion to insure the proper projection of her rôle across the large spaces of the all-too-large auditoriums. Those admirable requisites of clear diction, facial expression and emotional appeal will be sadly hampered unless the medium of sound carries their message. It is only from sad experience that one among many rises superior to some of the disadvantages of our modern opera repertoire. Gone are the days when the facile vocalist was supported by a small group of musicians intent upon a discreet accompaniment for the benefit of the singer's vocal exertions. Voices trained for the older repertoire were not at the mercy of an enlarged orchestra pit, wherein the over-zealous gentlemen now fight--_furioso ad libitum_--for the supremacy of operatic effects. An amiable musical observer once asked me why we all shouted so in opera. I replied by a question, asking if he had ever made an after-dinner speech. He acquiesced. I asked him how many times he rapped on the table for attention and silence. He admitted it was rather often. I asked him why. He said, so that he might be heard. He answered his own question by conceding that the carrying timbre of a voice cannot compete successfully against even banquet hall festivities unless properly focused out of a normal speaking tone. The difference between a small room and one seating several hundred is far greater than the average auditor realizes. If the mere rattling of silver and china will eclipse this vocal effort in speech I leave to your imagination what must transpire when the singer is called upon to dominate with one thread of song the tremendous onslaught of an orchestra and to rise triumphant above it in a theater so large that the faithful gatherers in the gallery tell me we all look like pigmies, and half the time are barely heard. Since the recesses where we must perform are so exaggerated everything must be in like proportion, hence we are very often too noisy, but how can it be otherwise if we are to influence the eager taxpayer in row X? After all, he has not come to hear us _whisper_, and his point of vantage is not so admirable as if he were sitting at a musical comedy in a small theater. For this condition the size of the theater and the instrumentation imposed by the composer are to be censured, and less blame placed upon the overburdened shoulders of the vocal competitor against these odds. Little shading in operatic tone color is possible unless an accompanying phrase permits it or the trumpeter swallows a pin! LUCIA OR ZAZA If your repertoire is _The Barber_, _Lucia_, _Somnambula_ and all such Italian dainties, well and good. Nothing need disturb the complete enjoyment of this lace-work. But if your auditors weep at _Butterfly_ and _Zaza_ or thrill to _Pagliacci_, they demand you use a quite different technic, which comes to the point of my story. I believe it was Jean de Reszke who advocated the voice "in the mask" united to breath support from the diaphragm. From personal observation I should say our coloratura charmers lay small emphasis on that highly important factor and use their head voices with a freedom more or less God given. But the power and life-giving quality of this fundamental cannot be too highly estimated for us who must color our phrases to suit modern dramatics and evolve a carrying quality that will not only eliminate the difficulty of vocal demands, but at the same time insure immunity from harmful after-effects. This indispensable twin of the head voice is the dynamo which alone must endure all the necessary fatigue, leaving the actual voice phrases free to float unrestricted with no ignoble distortions or possible signs of distress. Alas! it is not easy to write of this, but the experience of years proves how vital a point is its saving grace and how, unfortunately, it remains an unknown factor to many. To note two of our finest examples of greatness in this marvelous profession, Lilli Lehmann and Jean de Reszke, neither of whom had phenomenal vocal gifts, I would point out their remarkable mental equipment, unceasing and passionate desire for perfection, paired with an unerring instinct for the noble and distinguished such as has not been found in other exponents of purely vocal virtuosity, with a few rare exceptions, as Melba and Galli-Curci, for instance, to mention two beautiful instruments of our generation. The singing art is not a casual inspiration and it should never be treated as such. The real artist will have an organized mental strategy just as minute and reliable as any intricate machinery, and will under all circumstances (save complete physical disability) be able to control and dominate her gifts to their fullest extent. This is not learned in a few years within the four walls of a studio, but is the result of a lifetime of painstaking care and devotion. There was a time when ambition and overwork so told upon me that mistakenly I allowed myself to minimize my vocal practice. How wrong that was I found out in short time and I have returned long since to my earlier precepts as taught me by Lilli Lehmann. KEEP THE VOICE STRONG AND FLEXIBLE In her book, _How to Sing_, there is much for the student to digest with profit, though possible reservations are advisable, dependent upon one's individual health and vocal resistance. Her strong conviction was, and is, that a voice requires daily and conscientious exercise to keep it strong and flexible. Having successfully mastered the older Italian rôles as a young singer, her incursion into the later-day dramatic and classic repertoire in no wise became an excuse to let languish the fundamental idea of beautiful sound. How vitally important and admirably _bel canto_ sustained by the breath support has served her is readily understood when one remembers that she has outdistanced all the colleagues of her earlier career and now well over sixty, she is as indefatigable in her daily practice as we younger singers should be. This brief extract about Patti (again quoting Lilli Lehmann) will furnish an interesting comparison: In Adelina Patti everything was united--the splendid voice paired with great talent for singing, and the long oversight of her studies by her distinguished teacher, Strakosch. She never sang rôles that did not suit her voice; in her earlier years she sang only arias and duets or single solos, never taking part in ensembles. She never sang even her limited repertory when she was indisposed. She never attended rehearsals, but came to the theater in the evening and sang triumphantly, without ever having seen the persons who sang or acted with her. She spared herself rehearsals, which, on the day of the performance or the day before, exhaust all singers because of the excitement of all kinds attending them, and which contribute neither to the freshness of the voice nor to the joy of the profession. Although she was a Spaniard by birth and an American by early adoption, she was, so to speak, the greatest Italian singer of my time. All was absolutely good, correct and flawless, the voice like a bell that you seemed to hear long after its singing had ceased. Yet she could give no explanation of her art, and answered all her colleagues' questions concerning it with "Ah, je n'en sais rien!" She possessed unconsciously, as a gift of nature, a union of all those qualities that other singers must attain and possess consciously. Her vocal organs stood in the most favorable relations to each other. Her talent and her remarkably trained ear maintained control over the beauty of her singing and her voice. Fortunate circumstances of her life preserved her from all injury. The purity and flawlessness of her tone, the beautiful equalization of her whole voice constituted the magic by which she held her listeners entranced. Moreover, she was beautiful and gracious in appearance. The accent of great dramatic power she did not possess, yet I ascribe this more to her intellectual indolence than to her lack of ability. But how few of us would ever make a career if we waited for such favors from Nature! LESSONS MUST BE ADEQUATE Bearing in mind the absolute necessity and real joy in vocal work, it confounds and amazes me that teachers of this art feel their duty has been accomplished when they donate twenty minutes or half an hour to a pupil! I do not honestly believe this is a fair exchange, and it is certainly not within reason to believe that within so short a time a pupil can actually benefit by the concentration and instruction so hastily conferred upon her. If this be very plain speaking, it is said with the object to benefit the pupil only, for it is, after all, _they_ who must pay the ultimate in success or failure. An hour devoted to the minute needs of one pupil is not too much time to devote to so delicate a subject. An intelligent taskmaster will let his pupil demonstrate ten or fifteen minutes and during the same period of rest will discuss and awaken the pupil's interest from an intelligent point of view, that some degree of individuality may color even the drudgery of the classroom. A word of counsel from such a mistress of song as Lehmann or Sembrich is priceless, but the sums that pour into greedy pockets of vocal mechanics, not to say a harsher word, is a regretable proceeding. Too many mediocrities are making sounds. Too many of the same class are trying to instruct, but, as in politics, the real culprit is the people. As long as the public forbear an intelligent protest in this direction, just so long will the studios be crowded with pathetic seekers for fame. What employment these infatuated individuals enjoyed before the advent of grand opera and the movies became a possible exhaust pipe for their vanity is not clear, but they certainly should be discouraged. New York alone is crowded with aspirants for the stage, and their little bag of tricks is of very slender proportions. Let us do everything in our power to help the really worthy talent; but it is a mistaken charity, and not patriotic, to shove singers and composers so called, of American birth, upon a weary public which perceives nothing except the fact that they are of native birth and have no talent to warrant such assumption. I do not think the musical observers are doing the cause of art in this country a favor when columns are written about the inferior works of the non-gifted. An ambitious effort is all right in its way, but that is no reason to connect the ill-advised production with American hopes. On the contrary, it does us a bad turn. I shall still contend that the English language is not a pretty one for our vocal exploitations, and within my experience of the past ten years I have heard but one American work which I can sincerely say would have given me pleasure to create, that same being Mr. Henry Hadley's recently produced _Cleopatra's Night_. His score is rich and deserving of the highest praise. In closing I should like to quote again from Mme. Lehmann's book an exercise that would seem to fulfill a long-felt want: "The great scale is the most necessary exercise for all kinds of voices. It was taught me by my mother. She taught it to all her pupils and to us." Here is the scale as Lehmann taught it to me. [Illustration: musical notation: Breath Breath Breath Breath] It was sung upon all the principal vowels. It was extended stepwise through different keys over the entire range of the two octaves of the voice. It was not her advice to practice it too softly, but it was done with all the resonating organs well supported by the diaphragm, the tone in a very supple and elastic "watery" state. She would think nothing of devoting from forty minutes to sixty minutes a day to the slow practice of this exercise. Of course, she would treat what one might call a heavy brunette voice quite differently from a bright blonde voice. These terms of blonde and brunette, of course, have nothing to do with the complexion of the individual, but to the color of the voice. THE ONLY CURE Lehmann said of this scale: "It is the only cure for all injuries, and at the same time the most excellent means of fortification against all over-exertion. I sing it every day, often twice, even if I have to sing one of the heaviest rôles in the evening. I can rely absolutely upon its assistance. I often take fifty minutes to go through it once, for I let no tone pass that is lacking in any degree in pitch, power, duration or in single vibration of the propagation form." Personally I supplement this great scale often with various florid legato phrases of arias selected from the older Italians or Mozart, whereby I can more easily achieve the vocal facility demanded by the tessitura of _Manon_ or _Faust_ and change to the darker-hued phrases demanded in _Carmen_ or _Butterfly_. But the open secret of all success is patient, never-ending, conscientious _work_, with a forceful emphasis on the _WORK_. [Illustration: JOHANNA GADSKI.] MME. JOHANNA GADSKI BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Gadski was born at Anclam, Prussia, June 15, 1872. Her studies in singing were principally with Mme. Schroeder-Chaloupha. When she was ten years old she sang successfully in concert at Stettin. Her operatic début was made in Berlin, in 1889, in Weber's _Der Freischütz_. She then appeared in the opera houses of Bremen and Mayence. In 1894 Dr. Walter Damrosch organized his opera company in New York and engaged Mme. Gadski for leading rôles. In 1898 she became high dramatic soprano with the Metropolitan Opera Company in New York, and the following year appeared at Covent Garden. She was constantly developing as a singer of Wagner rôles, notably _Brunhilde_ and _Isolde_. Her repertoire included forty rôles in all, and the demand for her appearance at festivals here and abroad became more and more insistent. She sang at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York until 1917, when the notoriety caused by the activities of her husband, Captain Hans Tauscher, American agent for large German weapon manufacturers, forced her to resign. Mme. Gadski made a close study of the Schumann Songs for years; and the following can not fail to be of artistic assistance to the singer. THE MASTER SONGS OF ROBERT SCHUMANN MME. JOHANNA GADSKI ROBERT SCHUMANN'S LYRIC GIFT One cannot delve very far into the works of Schumann without discovering that his gifts are peculiarly lyric. His melodic fecundity is all the more remarkable because of his strong originality. Even in many of his piano pieces, such as _Warum?_, _Träumerei_ or the famous _Slumber Song_, the lyric character is evident. Beautiful melodies which seem to lend themselves to the peculiar requirements of vocal music crop up every now and then in all his works. This is by no means the case with many of the other great masters. In some of Beethoven's songs, for instance, one can never lose sight of the fact that they are instrumental pieces. It was Schumann's particular privilege to be gifted with the acute sense of proportion which enabled him to estimate just what kind of an accompaniment a melody should have. Naturally some of his songs stand out far above others; and in these the music lover and vocal student will notice that there is usually a beautiful artistic balance between the accompaniment and the melody. Another characteristic is the sense of propriety with which Schumann connected his melodies with the thought of the poems he employed. This is doubtless due to the extensive literary training he himself enjoyed. It was impossible for a man of Schumann's life experience to apply an inappropriate melody to any given poem. With some song writers, this is by no means the case. The music of one song would fit almost any other set of words having the same poetic metre. Schumann was continually seeking after a distinctive atmosphere, and this it is which gives many of his works their lasting charm. THE INTIMATE AND DELICATE CHARACTER OF SCHUMANN SONGS Most of the greater Schumann songs are of a deliciously ultimate and delicate character. By this no one should infer that they are weak or spineless. Schumann was a deep student of psychology and of human life. In the majority of cases he eschewed the melodramatic. It is true that we have at least one song, _The Two Grenadiers_, which is melodramatic in the extreme; but this, according to the greatest judges, is not Schumann at his best. It was the particular delight of Schumann to take some intense little poem and apply to it a musical setting crowded full of deep poetical meaning. Again, he liked to paint musical pastels such as _Im wunderschönen Monat Mai_, _Frühlingsnacht_ and _Der Nussbaum_. These songs are redolent with the fragrance of out-of-doors. There is not one jarring note. The indefinable beauty and inspiration of the fields and forests have been caught by the master and imprisoned forever in this wonderful music. _Im wunderschönen Monat Mai_, which comes from the _Dichterliebe_ cycle, is indescribably delicate. It should be sung with great lightness and simplicity. Any effort toward a striving for effect would ruin this exquisite gem. _Frühlingsnacht_ with its wonderful accompaniment, which Franz Liszt thought so remarkable that he combined the melody and the accompaniment, with but slight alterations, and made a piano piece of the whole--is a difficult song to sing properly. If the singer does not catch the effervescent character of the song as a whole, the effect is lost. Any "dragging" of the tones destroys the wonderful exuberance which Schumann strove to connote. The balance between the singer and the accompanist must be perfect, and woe be to the singer who tries to sing _Frühlingsnacht_ with a lumbering accompanist. _Der Nussbaum_ is one of the most effective and "thankful" of all the Schumann songs. Experienced public singers almost invariably win popular appreciation with this song. It is probably my favorite of all the Schumann songs. Here again delicacy and simplicity reign supreme. In fact simplicity in interpretation is the great requirement of all the art songs. The amateur singer seems to be continually trying to secure "effect" with these songs and the only result of this is affectation. If amateurs could only realize how hard the really great masters tried to avoid results that were to be secured by the cheap methods of "affectation" and "show," they would make their singing more simple. Success in singing art songs comes through the ability of the artist to bring out the psychic, poetical and musical meaning of the song. There is no room for cheap vocal virtuosity. The great songs bear the sacred message of the best and finest in art. They represent the conscientious devotion of their composers to their loftiest ideals. I have mentioned three songs which are representative, but there are numberless other songs which reveal the intimate and personal character of Schumann's works. One popular mistake regarding these songs which is quite prevalent is that of thinking that they can only be sung in tiny rooms and never in large auditoriums. Time and again I have achieved some of the best results I have ever secured on the concert stage with delicate intimate works sung before audiences of thousands of people. The size of the auditorium has practically nothing to do with the song. The method of delivery is everything. If the song is properly and thoughtfully delivered, the audience, though it be one of thousands, will sit "quiet as mice" and listen reverently to the end. However, if one of these songs were to be sung in a flamboyant, bombastic manner, by some singer infected with the idea that in order to impress a multitude of people an exaggerated style is necessary, the results would be ruinous. If overdone, they are never appreciated. Art is art. Rembrandt in one of his master paintings exhibits just the right artistic balance. A copy of the same painting might become a mere daub, with a few twists of some bungling amateur's brush. Let the young singer remember that the results that are the most difficult to get in singing the art song are not those by which she may hope to make a sensational impression by means of show, but those which depend first and always upon sincerity, simplicity and a deep study of the real meaning of the masterpiece. THE LOVE INTEREST IN THE SCHUMANN SONGS Up to the time Schumann was thirty years of age (1840), his compositions were confined to works for the piano. These piano works include some of the very greatest and most inspired of his compositions for the instrument. In 1840 Schumann married Clara Wieck, daughter of his former pianoforte teacher. This marriage was accomplished only after the most severe opposition imaginable upon the part of the irate father-in-law, who was loath to see his daughter, whom he had trained to be one of the foremost pianists of her sex, marry an obscure composer. The effect of this opposition was to raise Schumann's affection to the condition of a kind of fanaticism. All this made a pronounced impression upon his art and seemed to make him long for expression through the medium of his love songs. He wrote to a friend at this time, "I am now writing nothing but songs great and small. I can hardly tell you how delightful it is to write for the voice, as compared with instrumental composition; and what a tumult and strife I feel within me as I sit down to it. I have brought forth quite new things in this line." In letters to his wife he is quite as impassioned over his song writing as the following quotations indicate: "Since yesterday morning, I have written twenty-seven pages of music (something new of which I can tell you nothing more than that I have laughed and wept for joy in composing them). When I composed them my soul was within yours. Without such a bride, indeed no one could write such music; once more I have composed so much that it seems almost uncanny. Alas! I cannot help it: I could sing myself to death like a nightingale." During the first year of his marriage Schumann wrote one hundred of the two hundred and forty-five songs that are attributed to him. In the published collections of his works, there are three songs attributed to Schumann which are known to be from the pen of his talented wife. As in his piano compositions Schumann avoided long pieces and preferred collections of comparatively short pieces, such as those in the _Carnaval_, _Kreisleriana_, _Papillons_, so in his early works for the voice Schumann chose to write short songs which were grouped in the form of cycles. Seven of these cycles are particularly well known. They are here given together with the best known songs from each group. Cycle Songs _Liederkreis_ {_Ich wandelte unter den Bäumen._ {_Mit Myrthen und Rosen._ {_Die Lotusblume._ _Myrthen_ {_Lass mich ihm am Busen hangen._ {_Du bist wie eine Blume._ {_Der Nussbaum._ _Eichendorff Liederkreis_ {_Waldesgespräch._ {_Frühlingsnacht._ {_Wanderlust._ _Kerner Cycle_ {_Frage._ {_Stille Thränen._ {_O, Ring an meinem Finger._ _Frauenliebe und Leben_ {_Er, der Herrlichste von Allen._ {_Ich grolle nicht._ _Dichterliebe_ {_Im wunderschönen Mai._ {_Ich hab' im Traum geweinet._ {_Three of the songs in this_ _Liebesfrühling_ {_Cycle are attributed to_ {_Clara Schumann._ Critics seem to be agreed that Schumann's talent gradually deteriorated as his mental disease increased. Consequently, with but few exceptions his best song works are to be found among his early vocal compositions. I have tried repeatedly to bring forth some of the lesser known songs of Schumann and have time and again devoted long periods to their study, but apparently the public, by an unmistakable indication of lack of approval, will have none of them. Evidently, the songs by which Schumann is now best known are his best works from the standpoint of popular appreciation. Popular approval taken in the aggregate is a mighty determining factor. The survival of the fittest applies to songs as well as to other things in life. This is particularly so in the case of the four famous songs, _Die beiden Grenadiere_, _Widmung_, _Der Nussbaum_ and _Ich grolle nicht_, which never seem to diminish in popularity. SCHUMANN'S LOVE FOR THE ROMANTIC Schumann's fervid imagination readily led to a love for the romantic. His early fondness for the works of Jean Paul developed into a kind of life tendency, which resulted in winning him the title of the "Tone-Poet of Romanticism." Few of his songs, however, are really dramatic. _Waldesgespräch_, which Robert Franz called a pianoforte piece with a voice part added, is probably the best of Schumann's dramatic-romantic songs. I have always found that audiences are very partial to this song; and it may be sung by a female voice as well as the male voice. The _Two Grenadiers_ is strictly a man's song. _Ich grolle nicht_, while sung mostly by men, may, like the _Erl-King_ of Schubert, be sung quite as successfully by women singers possessing the qualities of depth and dramatic intensity. PECULIAR DIFFICULTIES IN INTERPRETING SCHUMANN SONGS I have already mentioned the necessity for simplicity in connection with the interpretation of the Schumann songs. I need not tell the readers of these pages that the proper interpretation of these songs requires a much more extensive and difficult kind of preparatory work than the more showy coloratura works which to the novice often seem vastly more difficult. The very simplicity of the Schubert and Schumann songs makes them more difficult to sing properly than the works of writers who adopted a somewhat more complicated style. The smallest vocal discrepancies become apparent at once and it is only by the most intense application and great attention to detail that it is possible for the singer to bring her art to a standard that will stand the test of these simple, but very difficult works. Too much coloratura singing is liable to rob the voice of its fullness and is not to be recommended as a preparation for the singer who would become a singer of the modern art songs. This does not mean that scales and arpeggios are to be avoided. In fact the flexibility and control demanded of the singers of art songs are quite as great as that required of the coloratura singer. The student must have her full quota of vocal exercises before she should think of attempting the Schumann Lieder. SCHUMANN'S POPULARITY IN AMERICA Americans seem to be particularly fond of Schumann. When artists are engaged for concert performances it is the custom in this country to present optional programs to the managers of the local concert enterprises. These managers represent all possible kinds of taste. It is the experience of most concert artists that the Schumann selections are almost invariably chosen. This is true of the West as well as of the South and East. One section of the program is without exception devoted to what they call classical songs and by this they mean the best songs rather than the songs whose chief claim is that they are from the old Italian schools of Carissimi, Scarlatti, etc. I make it a special point to present as many songs as possible with English words. The English language is not a difficult language in which to sing; and when the translation coincides with the original I can see no reason why American readers who may not be familiar with a foreign tongue should be denied the privilege of understanding what the song is about. If they do not understand, why sing words at all? Why not vocalize the melodies upon some vowel? Songs, however, were meant to combine poetry and music; and unless the audience has the benefit of understanding both, it has been defrauded of one of its chief delights. Some German poems, however, are almost untranslatable. It is for this reason that many of the works of Löwe, for instance, have never attained wide popularity. The legends which Löwe employed are often delightful, but the difficulties of translation are such that the original meaning is either marred or destroyed. The songs or ballads of Löwe, without the words, do not seem to grasp American audiences and singers find it a thankless task to try to force them upon the public. I have been so long in America that I feel it my duty to share in popularizing the works of the many talented American composers. I frequently place MacDowell's beautiful songs on my programs; and the works of many other American composers, including Mrs. H. H. A. Beach, Sidney Homer, Frank Le Forge and others make fine concert numbers. It has seemed to me that America has a large future in the field of lyric composition. American poets have long since won their place in the international Hall of Fame. The lyrical spirit which they have expressed verbally will surely be imbued in the music of American composers. The opportunity is already here. Americans demand the best the world can produce. It makes no difference what the nationality of the composer. However, Americans are first of all patriotic; and the composer who produces real lyric masterpieces is not likely to be asked to wait for fame and competence, as did Schubert and Schumann. [Illustration: MME. AMELITA GALLI-CURCI. © Victor Georg.] MME. AMELITA GALLI-CURCI BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Galli-Curci was born at Milan, November 18th, 1889, of a family distinguished in the arts and in the professions. She entered the Milan Conservatory, winning the first prize and diploma in piano playing in 1903. For a time after her graduation she toured as a pianist and then resolved to become a singer. She is practically self-taught in the vocal art. Her début was made in Rome at the Teatro Constanzi, in the rôle of _Gilda_ in _Rigoletto_. She was pronouncedly successful from the very start. During the next six years she sang principally in Italy, South America (Three Tours), and in Spain, her success increasing with every appearance. In 1916 she appeared at Chicago with the Chicago Opera Company, creating a furore. The exceptionally beautiful records of her interpretations created an immense demand to hear her in concert, and her successes everywhere have been historic. Not since Patti has there been a singer upon whom such wide-spread critical comment has been made in praise of her exquisite velvety quality of tone, vocal technic and interpretative intelligence. Hailed as "Patti's only successor," she has met with greater popular success in opera and concert than any of the singers of recent years. In 1921 she married the gifted American composer, Homer Samuels, who for many years had been the pianist upon her tours. TEACHING YOURSELF TO SING MME. AMELITA GALLI-CURCI Just what influence heredity may have upon the musical art and upon musicians has, of course, been a much discussed question. In my own case, I was fortunate in having a father who, although engaged in another vocation, was a fine amateur musician. My grandfather was a conductor and my grandmother was an opera singer of distinction in Italy. Like myself, she was a coloratura soprano, and I can recollect with joy her voice and her method of singing. Even at the age of seventy-five her voice was wonderfully well preserved, because she always sang with the greatest ease and with none of the forced throat restrictions which make the work of so many singers insufferable. My own musical education began at the age of five, when I commenced to play the piano. Meanwhile I sang around the house, and my grandmother used to say in good humor: "Keep it up, my dear; perhaps some day you may be a better singer than I am." My father, however, was more seriously interested in instrumental music, and desired that I should become a pianist. How fortunate for me! Otherwise, I should never have had that thorough musical drill which gave me an acquaintance with the art which I cannot believe could come in any other way. Mascagni was a very good friend of our family and took a great interest in my playing. He came to our house very frequently, and his advice and inspiration naturally meant much to a young, impressionable girl. GENERAL EDUCATION My general education was very carefully guarded by my father, who sent me to the best schools in Milan, one of which was under the management of Germans, and it was there that I acquired my acquaintance with the German language. I was then sent to the Conservatorio, and graduated with a gold medal as a pianist. This won me some distinction in Italy and enabled me to tour as a pianist. I did not pretend to play the big, exhaustive works, but my programs were made up of such pieces as the _Abeg_ of Schumann, studies by Scharwenka, impromptus of Chopin, the four scherzos of Chopin, the first ballade, the nocturnes (the fifth in the book was my favorite) and works of Bach. (Of course, I had been through the Wohltemperiertes Clavier.) In those days I was very frail, and I had aspired to develop my repertoire so that later I could include the great works for the piano requiring a more or less exhaustive technic of the bravura type. Once I went to hear Busoni, and after the concert, came to me like a revelation, "You can never be such a pianist as he. Your hand and your physical strength will not permit it." I went home in more or less sadness, knowing that despite the success I had had in my piano playing, my decision was a wise one. Figuratively, I closed the lid of my piano upon my career as a pianist and decided to learn how to sing. The memory of my grandmother's voice singing Bellini's _Qui la Voce_ was still ringing in my ears with the lovely purity of tone that she possessed. Mascagni called upon us at that time, and I asked him to hear me sing. He did so, and threw up his hands, saying, "Why in the world have you been wasting your time with piano playing when you have a natural voice like that? Such voices are born. Start to work at once to develop your voice." Meanwhile, of course, I had heard a great deal of singing and a great deal of so-called voice teaching. I went to two teachers in Milan, but was so dissatisfied with what I heard from them and from their pupils that I was determined that it would be necessary for me to develop my own voice. Please do not take this as an inference that all vocal teachers are bad or are dispensable. My own case was peculiar. I had been saturated with musical traditions since my babyhood. I had had, in addition, a very fine musical training. Of course, without this I could not have attempted to do what I did in the way of self-training. Nevertheless, it is my firm conviction that unless the student of singing has in his brain and in his soul those powers of judging for himself whether the quality of a tone, the intonation (pitch), the shading, the purity and the resonance are what they should be to insure the highest artistic results, it will be next to impossible for him to secure these. This is what is meant by the phrase--"singers are born and not made." The power of discrimination, the judgment, etc., must be inherent. No teacher can possibly give them to a pupil, except in an artificial way. That, possibly, is the reason why so many students sing like parrots: because they have the power of mimicry, but nothing comes from within. The fine teacher can, of course, take a fine sense of tonal values, etc., and, provided the student has a really good natural voice, lead him to reveal to himself the ways in which he can use his voice to the best advantage. Add to this a fine musical training, and we have a singer. But no teacher can give to a voice that velvety smoothness, that liquid fluency, that bell-like clarity which the ear of the educated musician expects, and which the public at large demands, unless the student has the power of determining for himself what is good and what is bad. FOUR YEARS OF HARD TRAINING It was no easy matter to give up the gratifying success which attended my pianistic appearances to begin a long term of self-study, self-development. Yet I realized that it would hardly be possible for me to accomplish what I desired in less than four years. Therefore, I worked daily for four years, drilling myself with the greatest care in scales, arpeggios and sustained tones. The colorature facility I seemed to possess naturally, to a certain extent; but I realized that only by hard and patient work would it be possible to have all my runs, trills, etc., so that they always would be smooth, articulate and free--that is, unrestricted--at any time. I studied the rôles in which I aspired to appear, and attended the opera faithfully to hear fine singing, as well as bad singing. As the work went on it became more and more enjoyable. I felt that I was upon the right path, and that meant everything. If I had continued as a pianist I could never have been more than a mediocrity, and that I could not have tolerated. About this time came a crisis in my father's business; it became necessary for me to teach. Accordingly, I took a number of piano pupils and enjoyed that phase of my work very much indeed. I gave lessons for four years, and in my spare time worked with my voice, all by myself, with my friend, the piano. My guiding principles were: _There must be as little consciousness of effort in the throat as possible._ _There must always be the Joy of Singing._ _Success is based upon sensation, whether it feels right to me in my mouth, in my throat, that I know, and nobody else can tell me._ I remember that my grandmother, who sang _Una voce poco fa_ at seventy-five, always cautioned me to never force a single tone. I did not study exercises like those of Concone, Panofka, Bordogni, etc., because they seemed to me a waste of time in my case. I did not require musical knowledge, but needed special drill. I knew where my weak spots were. What was the use of vocal studies which required me to do a lot of work and only occasionally touched those portions of my voice which needed special attention? Learning a repertoire was a great task in itself, and there was no time to waste upon anything I did not actually need. Because of the natural fluency I have mentioned, I devoted most of my time to slower exercises at first. What could be simpler than this? [Illustration: musical notation: Ex. 1] These, of course, were sung in the most convenient range in my voice. The more rapid exercises I took from C to F above the treble staff. [Illustration: musical notation: Ex. 2] Even to this day I sing up to high F every day, in order that I may be sure that I have the tones to E below in public work. Another exercise which I used very frequently was this, in the form of a trill. Great care was taken to have the intonation (pitch) absolutely accurate in the rapid passages, as well as in the slow passages. [Illustration: musical notation: Ex. 3] When I had reached a certain point, I determined that it might be possible for me to get an engagement. I was then twenty, and my dear mother was horrified at the idea of my going on the stage so young. She was afraid of evil influences. In my own mind I realized that evil was everywhere, in business, society, everywhere, and that if one was to keep out of dirt and come out dean, one must make one's art the object first of all. Art is so great, so all-consuming, that any one with a deep reverence for its beauties, its grandeur, can have but little time for the lower things of life. All that an artist calls for in his soul is to be permitted to work at his best in his art. Then, and then only, is he happiest. Because of my mother's opposition, and because I felt I was strong enough to resist the temptations which she knew I might encounter, I virtually eloped with a copy of _Rigoletto_ under my arm and made my way for the Teatro Constanzi, the leading Opera House of Rome. I might readily have secured letters from influential musical friends, such as Mascagni and others, but I determined that it would be best to secure an engagement upon my own merits, if I could, and then I would know whether or not I was really prepared to make my début, or whether I had better study more. I went to the manager's office and, appealing to his business sense, told him that, as I was a young unknown singer, he could secure my services for little money, and begged for permission to sing for him. I knew he was beset by such requests, but he immediately gave me a hearing, and I was engaged for one performance of _Rigoletto_. The night of the début came, and I was obliged to sing _Caro Nome_ again in response to a vociferous encore. This was followed by other successes, and I was engaged for two years for a South American tour, under the direction of my good friend and adviser, the great operatic director, Mugnone. In South America there was enthusiasm everywhere, but all the time I kept working constantly with my voice, striving to perfect details. At the end of the South American tour I desired to visit New York and find out what America was like. Because of the war Europe was operatically impossible (it was 1916), but I had not the slightest idea of singing in the United States just then. By merest accident I ran into an American friend (Mr. Thorner) on Broadway. He had heard me sing in Italy, and immediately took me to Maestro Campanini, who was looking then for a coloratura soprano to sing for only two performances in Chicago, as the remainder of his program was filled for the year. This was in the springtime, and it meant that I was to remain in New York until October and November. The opportunity seemed like an unusual accident of fate, and I resolved to stay, studying my own voice all the while to improve it more and more. October and the début in _Rigoletto_ came. The applause astounded me; it was electric, like a thunderstorm. No one was more astonished than I. Engagements and offers came from everywhere, but not enough, I hope, to ever induce me not to believe that in the vocal art one must continually strive for higher and higher goals. Laziness, indifference and lassitude which come with success are the ruin of Art and the artist. The normal healthy artist with the right ideals never reaches his Zenith. If he did, or if he thought he did, his career would come to a sudden end. [Illustration: MARY GARDEN. © Mishkin.] MARY GARDEN BIOGRAPHICAL Mary Garden was born February 20th, 1877, in Aberdeen, Scotland. She came to America with her parents when she was eight years of age and was brought up in Chicopee, Massachusetts, Hartford, Connecticut, and Chicago, Illinois. She studied the violin when she was six and the piano when she was twelve. It was the ambition of her parents to make her an instrumental performer. She studied voice with Mrs. S. R. Duff, who in time took her to Paris and placed her under the instruction of Trabadello and Lucien Fugére. Her operatic début was made in Charpentier's _Louise_ at the Opera Comique in 1900. Her success was immediate both as an actress and as a singer. She was chosen by Debussy and others for especially intricate rôles. She created the rôle of _Melisande_; also, _Fiammette_ in Laroux's _La Reine Fiammette_. In 1907 she made her American début in _Thaïs_ at the Manhattan Opera House in New York City. Later she accepted leading rôles with the Philadelphia-Chicago Opera Co. She is considered by many the finest singing actress living--her histrionic gifts being in every way equal to her vocal gifts. In 1921 she was made the manager of the Chicago Opera Company. THE KNOW HOW IN THE ART OF SINGING MARY GARDEN The modern opera singer cannot content herself merely with the "know how" of singing. That is, she must be able to know so much more than the mere elemental facts of voice production that it would take volumes to give an intimation of the real requirements. The girl who wants to sing in opera must have one thought and one thought only--"what will contribute to my musical, histrionic and artistic success?" Unless the "career" comes first there is not likely to be any "career." I wonder if the public ever realizes what this sacrifice means to an artiste--to a woman. Of course, there are great recompenses--the thrill that comes with artistic triumphs--the sensations that accompany achievement--who but the artist can know what this means--the joy of bringing to life some great masterpiece? Music manifests itself in children at a very early age. It is very rare indeed that it comes to the surface later in life. I was always musical. Only the media changed--one time it was violin, then piano, then voice. The dolls of my sisters only annoyed me because I could not tolerate dolls. They seemed a waste of time to me, and when they had paper dolls, I would go into the room when nobody was looking and cut the dolls' heads off. I have never been able to account for my delight in doing this. My father was musical. He wanted me to be a musician, but he had little thought at first of my being a singer. Accordingly, at eight I was possessed of a fiddle. This meant more to me than all the dolls in the world. Oh, how I loved that violin, which I could make speak just by drawing a bow over it! There was something worth while. I was only as big as a minute, and, of course, as soon as I could play the routine things of de Beriot, variations and the like, I was considered one of those abominable things, "an infant prodigy." I was brought out to play for friends and any musical person who could stand it. Then I gave a concert, and my father saw the finger of destiny pointing to my career as a great violinist. To me the finger of destiny pointed the other way; because I immediately sickened of the violin and dropped it forever. Yes, I could play now if I had to, but you probably wouldn't want to hear me. Ah, but I do play. I play every time I sing. The violin taught me the need for perfect intonation, fluency in execution, ever so many things. Then came the piano. Here was a new artistic toy. I worked very hard with it. My sister and I went back to Aberdeen for a season of private school, and I kept up my piano until I could play acceptably many of the best-known compositions, Grieg, Chopin, etc., being my favorites. I was never a very fine pianist, understand me, but the piano unlocked the doors to thousands of musical treasure houses--admitted me to musical literature through the main gate, and has been of invaluable aid to me in my career. See my fingers, how long and thin they are--of course, I was a capable pianist--long, supple fingers, combined with my musical experience gained in violin playing, made that certain. Then I dropped the piano. Dropped it at once. Its possibilities stood revealed before me, and they were not to be the limit of my ambitions. For the girl who hopes to be an operatic "star" there could be nothing better than a good drilling in violin or piano. The girl has no business to sing while she is yet a child--and she is that until she is sixteen or over. Better let her work hard getting a good general education and a good musical education. The voice will keep, and it will be sweeter and fresher if it is not overused in childhood. Once, with my heart set upon becoming a singer, my father fortunately took me to Mrs. Robinson Duff, of Chicago. To her, my mentor to this day, I owe much of my vocal success. I was very young and very emotional, with a long pigtail down my back. At first the work did not enrapture me, for I could not see the use of spending so much time upon breathing. Now I realize what it did for me. What should the girl starting singing avoid? First, let her avoid an incompetent teacher. There are teachers, for instance, who deliberately teach the "stroke of the glottis" (coup de glotte). What is the stroke of the glottis? The lips of the vocal cords in the larynx are pressed together so that the air becomes compressed behind them and instead of coming out in a steady, unimpeded stream, it causes a kind of explosion. Say the word "up" in the throat very forcibly and you will get the right idea. This is a most pernicious habit. Somehow, it crept into some phases of vocal teaching, and has remained. It leads to a constant irritation of the throat and ruin to the vocal organs. When I went to Paris, Mrs. Duff took me to many of the leading vocal teachers of the city, and said, "Now, Mary, I want you to use your own judgment in picking out a teacher, because if you don't like the teacher you will not succeed." Thus we went around from studio to studio. One asked me to do this--to hum--to make funny, unnatural noises, anything but sing. Finally, Trabadello, now retired to his country home, really asked me to sing in a normal, natural way, not as a freak. I said to myself, "This is the teacher for me." I could not have had a better one. Look out for teachers with freak methods--ten to one they are making you one of their experiments. There is nothing that any voice teacher has ever found superior to giving simple scales and exercises sung upon the syllables Lah (ah, as in harbor), Leh (eh, as in they), Lee (ee, as in me). With a good teacher to keep watch over the breathing and the quality, "what more can one have?" I have always believed in a great many scales and in a great deal of singing florid rôles in Italian. Italian is inimitable for the singer. The dulcet, velvet-like character of the language gives something which nothing else can impart. It does not make any difference whether you purpose singing in French, German, English, Russian or Soudanese, you will gain much from exercising in Italian. Staccato practice is valuable. Here is an exercise which I take nearly every day of my life: [Illustration: musical notation] The staccato must be controlled from the diaphragm, however, and this comes only after a great deal of work. Three-quarters of an hour a day practice suffices me. I find it injurious to practice too long. But I study for hours. Such a rôle as _Aphrodite_ I take quietly and sing it over mentally time and time again without making a sound. I study the harmonies, the nuances, the phrasing, the breathing, so that when the time for singing it comes I know it and do not waste my voice by going over it time and again, as some singers do. In the end I find that I know it better for this kind of study. The study of acting has been a very personal matter with me. I have never been through any courses of study, such as that given in dramatic schools. This may do for some people, but it would have been impossible for me. There must be technic in all forms of art, but it has always seemed to me that acting was one of the arts in which the individual must make his own technic. I have seen many representatives of the schools of acting here and abroad. Sometimes their performances, based upon technical studies of the art, result in superb acting. Again, their work is altogether indifferent. Technic in acting is more likely to suppress than to inspire. If acting is not inspired, it is nothing. I study the human emotions that would naturally underlie the scene in which I am placed--then I think what one would be most likely to do under such conditions. When the actual time of appearance on the stage arrives, I forget all about this and make myself the person of the rôle. This is the Italian method rather than the French. There are, to my mind, no greater actors living than Duse and Zacchona, and they are both exponents of the natural method that I employ. Great acting has always impressed me wonderfully. I went from Paris to London repeatedly to see Beerbohm Tree in his best rôles. Sir Herbert was not always uniformly fine, but he was a great actor and I learned much from watching him. Once I induced Debussy to make the trip to see him act. Debussy was delighted. Debussy! Ah, what a rare genius--my greatest friend in Art! Everything he wrote we went over together. He was a terribly exacting master. Few people in America realize what a transcendent pianist he was. The piano seemed to be thinking, feeling, vibrating while he was at the keyboard. Time and again we went over his principal works, note for note. Now and then he would stop and clasp his hands over his face in sudden silence, repeating, "It is all wrong--it is all wrong." But he was too good a teacher to let it go at that. He could tell me exactly what was wrong and how to remedy it. When I first sang for him, at the time when they were about to produce _Pelleas and Melisande_ at the Opera Comique, I thought that I had not pleased him. But I learned later that he had said to M. Carré, the director: "Don't look for anyone else." From that time he and his family became my close friends. The fatalistic side of our meeting seemed to interest him very much. "To think," he used to say, "that you were born in Aberdeen, Scotland, lived in America all those years and should come to Paris to create my _Melisande_!" As I have said, Debussy was a gorgeous pianist. He could play with the greatest delicacy and could play in the leonine fashion of Rubinstein. He was familiar with Beethoven, Bach, Handel and the classics, and was devoted to them. Wagner he could not abide. He called him a "griffe papier"--a scribbler. He thought that he had no importance in the world of music, and to mention Wagner to him was like waving a red flag before a bull. It is difficult to account for such an opinion. Wagner, to me, is the great tone colorist, the master of orchestral wealth and dramatic intensity. Sometimes I have been so Wagner-hungry that I have not known what to do. For years I went every year to Munich to see the wonderful performances at the Prinzregenten Theater. In closing let me say that it seems to me a great deal of the failure among young singers is that they are too impatient to acquire the "know how." They want to blossom out on the first night as great prima donnas, without any previous experience. How ridiculous this is! I worked for a whole year at the Opera Comique, at $100 a month, singing such a trying opera as _Louise_ two and three times a week. When they raised me to $175 a month I thought that I was rich, and when $400 a month came, my fortune had surely been made! All this time I was gaining precious experience. It could not have come to me in any other way. As I have said, the natural school--the natural school, like that of the Italians--stuffed as it is with glorious red blood instead of the white bones of technic in the misunderstood sense, was the only possible school for me. If our girls would only stop hoping to make a début at $1,000 a night and get down to real hard work, the results would come much quicker and there would be fewer broken hearts. MME. ALMA GLUCK BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Alma Gluck was born at Jassy, Roumania. Her father played the violin, but was not a professional musician. At the age of six she was brought to America. She was taught the piano and sang naturally, but had no idea of becoming a singer. Her vocal training was not begun until she was twenty years of age. Her teacher, at that time, was Signor Buzzi-Peccia, with whom she remained for three years, going directly from his studio to the Metropolitan Opera House of New York. She remained there for three years, when the immense success of her concert work drew her away from opera. She then studied with Jean de Reszke, and later with Mme. Sembrich for four or five years. Since then she has appeared in all parts of the United States with unvarying success. Her records have been among the most popular of any ever issued. Together with her husband, Efrem Zimbalist, the distinguished violinist, she has appeared before immense audiences in joint recitals. [Illustration: MME. ALMA GLUCK. © Mishkin.] BUILDING A VOCAL REPERTOIRE ALMA GLUCK Many seem surprised when I tell them that my vocal training did not begin until I was twenty years of age. It seems to me that it is a very great mistake for any girl to begin the serious study of singing before that age, as the feminine voice, in most instances, is hardly settled until then. Vocal study before that time is likely to be injurious, though some survive it in the hands of very careful and understanding teachers. The first kind of a repertoire that the student should acquire is a repertoire of solfeggios. I am a great believer in the solfeggio. Using that for a basis, one is assured of acquiring facility and musical accuracy. The experienced listener can tell at once the voice that has had such training. Always remember that musicianship carries one much further than a good natural voice. The voice, even more than the hands, needs a kind of exhaustive technical drill. This is because in this training you are really building the instrument itself. In the piano, one has the instrument complete before he begins; but in the case of the voice, the instrument has to be developed and sometimes _made_ by study. When the pupil is practicing, tones grow in volume, richness and fluency. There are exercises by Bordogni, Concone, Vaccai, Lamperti, Marchesi, Panofka, Panserson and many others with which I am not familiar, which are marvelously beneficial when intelligently studied. These I sang on the syllable "Ah," and not with the customary syllable names. It has been said that the syllables Do, Re, Mi, Fa, etc., aid one in reading. To my mind, they are often confusing. GO TO THE CLASSICS After a thorough drilling in solfeggios and technical exercises, I would have the student work on the operatic arias of Bellini, Rossini, Donizetti, Verdi, and others. These men knew how to write for the human voice! Their arias are so vocal that the voice develops under them and the student gains vocal assurance. They were written before modern philosophy entered into music--when music was intended for the ear rather than for the mind. I cannot lay too much stress on the importance of using these arias. They are a tonic for the voice, and bring back the elasticity which the more subdued singing of songs taxes. When one is painting pictures through words, and trying to create atmosphere in songs, so much repression is brought into play that the voice must have a safety-valve, and that one finds in the bravura arias. Here one sings for about fifty bars, "The sky is clouded for me," "I have been betrayed," or "Joy abounds"--the words being simply a vehicle for the ever-moving melody. When hearing an artist like John McCormack sing a popular ballad it all seems so easy, but in reality songs of that type are the very hardest to sing and must have back of them years of hard training or they fall to banality. They are far more difficult than the limpid operatic arias, and are actually dangerous for the insufficiently trained voice. THE LYRIC SONG REPERTOIRE Then when the student has her voice under complete control, it is safe to take up the lyric repertoire of Mendelssohn, Old English Songs, etc. How simple and charming they are! The works of the lighter French composers, Hahn, Massenet, Chaminade, Gounod, and others. Then Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Löwe, Schubert, Schumann and Brahms. Later the student will continue with Strauss, Wolf, Reger, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Mousorgsky, Borodin and Rachmaninoff. Then the modern French composers, Ravel, Debussy, Georges, Köchlin, Hue, Chausson, and others. I leave French for the last because it is, in many ways, more difficult for an English-speaking person to sing. It is so full of complex and trying vowels that it requires the utmost subtlety to overcome these difficulties and still retain clarity in diction. For that reason the student should have the advice of a native French coach. When one has traveled this long road, then he is qualified to sing English songs and ballads. AMERICAN SONGS In this country we are rich in the quantity of songs rather than in the quality. The singer has to go through hundreds of compositions before he finds one that really says something. Commercialism overwhelms our composers. They approach their work with the question, "Will this go?" The spirit in which a work is conceived is that in which it will be executed. Inspired by the purse rather than the soul, the mercenary side fairly screams in many of the works put out by every-day American publishers. This does not mean that a song should be queer or ugly to be novel or immortal. It means that the sincerity of the art worker must permeate it as naturally as the green leaves break through the dead branches in springtime. Of the vast number of new American composers, there are hardly more than a dozen who seem to approach their work in the proper spirit of artistic reverence. ART FOR ART'S SAKE, A FARCE Nothing annoys me quite so much as the hysterical hypocrites who are forever prating about "art for art's sake." What nonsense! The student who deceives himself into thinking that he is giving his life like an ascetic in the spirit of sacrifice for art is the victim of a deplorable species of egotism. Art for art's sake is just as iniquitous an attitude in its way as art for money's sake. The real artist has no idea that he is sacrificing himself for art. He does what he does for one reason and one reason only--he can't help doing it. Just as the bird sings or the butterfly soars, because it is his natural characteristic, so the artist works. Time and again a student will send me an urgent appeal to hear her, saying she is poor and wants my advice as to whether it is worth while to continue her studies. I invariably refuse such requests, saying that if the student could give up her work on my advice she had better give it up without it. One does not study for a goal. One sings because one can't help it! The "goal" nine times out of ten is a mere accident. Art for art's sake is the mask of studio idlers. The task of acquiring a repertoire in these days, when the vocal literature is so immense, is so overwhelming, that the student with sense will devote all his energies to work, and not imagine himself a martyr to art. EMILIO DE GOGORZA BIOGRAPHICAL Emilio Edoardo de Gogorza was born in Brooklyn, New York, May 29th, 1874, of Spanish parents. His boyhood was spent in Spain, France and England. In the last named country he became a boy soprano and sang with much success. Part of his education was received at Oxford. He returned to America, where his vocal teachers were C. Moderati and E. Agramonte. His début was made in 1897 in a concert with Mme. Marcella Sembrich. His rich fluent baritone voice made him a great favorite at musical festivals in America. He has sung with nearly all of the leading American orchestras. The peculiar quality of his voice is especially adapted to record making and his records have been immensely popular. He married Emma Eames, July 13th, 1911. [Illustration: EMILIO DE GOGORZA. © Dupont] OPPORTUNITIES FOR YOUNG CONCERT SINGERS EMILIO DE GOGORZA There has never been a time or a country presenting more inviting opportunities to the concert and the oratorio singer than the America of to-day. As a corollary to this statement there is the obvious fact that the American public, taken as a whole, is now the most discriminating public to be found anywhere in the world. Every concert is adequately reviewed by able writers; and singers are continually on their mettle. It therefore follows that while there are opportunities for concert and oratorio singers, there is no room for the inefficient, the talentless, brainless aspirants who imagine that a great vocal career awaits them simply because they have a few good tones and a pleasing stage presence. This is the age of the brain. In singing, the voice is only a detail. It is the mentality, the artistic feeling, the skill in interpretation that counts. Some of the greatest artists are vocally inferior to singers of lesser reputation. Why? Because they read, because they study, because they broaden their intellects and extend their culture until their appreciation of the beautiful is so comprehensive that every degree of human emotion may be effectively portrayed. In a word they become artists. Take the case of Victor Maurel, for instance. If he were ninety years old and had only the shred of a voice but still retained his artistic grasp, I would rather hear him than any living singer. I have learned more from hearing him sing than from any other singer. Verdi chose him to sing in _Otello_ against the advice of several friends, saying: "He has more brain than any five singers I know." Some people imagine that when an artist is embarked upon his professional work study ceases. It is a great mistake. No one works harder than I do to broaden my culture and interpretative skill. I am constantly studying and trust that I may never cease. The greater the artist the more incessant the study. It is one of the secrets of large success. SPECIAL STUDY REQUIRED FOR CONCERT SINGING People imagine that the opera requires a higher kind of vocal preparation than the concert or oratorio stage. This is also a great misconception. The operatic singers who have been successful as concert singers at once admit that concert singing is much more difficult. Comparatively few opera singers succeed as concert singers. Why? Because in opera the voice needs to be concentrated and more or less uniform. An opera house is really two buildings, the auditorium and the stage. The stage with its tall scene-loft is frequently as large from the standpoint of cubic feet as the auditorium. Sometimes it is larger. To fill these two immense buildings the voice must be strong and continually concentrated, _dans le Masque_. The delicate little effects that the concert singer is obliged to produce would not be heard over the footlights. In order to retain interest without the assistance of scenery and action the concert singer's interpretative work must be marked by an attention to details that the opera singer rarely considers. The voice, therefore, requires a different treatment. It must be so finely trained that it becomes susceptible to the most delicate change of thought in the singer's mind. This demands a really enormous amount of work. The successful concert singer must also have an endurance that enables her to undergo strains that the opera singer rarely knows. The grand opera singer in the great opera houses of the world rarely sings more than two or three times a week. The concert singer is often obliged to sing every night for weeks. They must learn how to relax and save the voice at all times, otherwise they will lose elasticity and sweetness. A young woman vocal student, with talent, a good natural voice, intelligence, industry, sufficient practice time, a high school education, and a knowledge of the rudiments of music, might complete a course of study leading to a successful concert début in three years. More frequently four or five years may be required. With a bungling teacher she may spend six or seven. The cost of her instruction, with a good teacher in a great metropolis, will be more per year than if she went to almost any one of the leading universities admitting women. She will have to work harder than if she took a regular college course. Progress depends upon the individual. One girl will accomplish more in two years than another will accomplish in five years. Again, the rate of progress depends upon personal development. Sometimes a course of study with a good teacher will awaken a latent energy and mental condition that will enable the student to make great strides. My most important work has been done by self-study with the assistance and advice of many singers and teachers who have been my friends. No pupil who depends entirely upon a teacher will succeed. She must work out her own salvation. It is the private thought, incessant effort and individual attitude that lead to success. STUDY IN YOUR HOME COUNTRY I honestly believe that the young vocal student can do far better by studying in America than by studying abroad. European residence and travel are very desirable, but the study may be done to better advantage right here in our own country. Americans want the best and they get it. In Europe they have no conception whatever of the extent of musical culture in America. It is a continual source of amazement to me. In the West and Northwest I find audiences just as intelligent and as appreciative as in Boston. There is the greatest imaginable catholicity of taste. Just at present the tendency is away from the old German classics and is leading to the modern works of French, German and American composers. Still I find that I can sing a song like Schumann's "Widmung" in Western cities that only a few years ago were mere collections of frontier huts and shacks, and discover that the genius of Schumann is just as potent there as in New York City. I have recently been all over Europe, and I have seen no such condition anywhere as that I have just described. It is especially gratifying to note in America a tremendous demand for the best vocal works of the American composers. The young concert singer must have a very comprehensive repertoire. Every new work properly mastered is an asset. In oratorio she should first of all learn those works that are most in demand, like the _Messiah_, the _Elijah_, the _Creation_ and the _Redemption_. Then attention may be given to the modern works and works more rarely performed, like those of Elgar, Perosi and others. After the young singer has proven her worth with the public she may expect an income of from $10,000.00 to $15,000.00 a year. That is what our first-class singers have received for high-class concert work. Some European prima donnas like Schumann-Heink and others have commanded much higher figures. You ask me what influence the sound reproducing machines have had upon the demand for good vocal music in America. They have unquestionably increased the demand very greatly. They have even been known to make reputations for singers entirely without any other road to publicity. Take the case of Madame Michaelowa, a Russian prima donna who has never visited America. Thousands of records of her voice have been sold in America, and now the demand for her appearance in this country has been so great that she has been offered huge sums for an American tour. I believe that if used intelligently the sound reproducing machine may become a great help to the teacher and student. It is used in many of the great opera houses of the world as an aid in determining the engagement of new singers who cannot be personally heard. Some of the records of my own voice have been so excellent that they seem positively uncanny to me when I hear them reproduced. I have no patent exercises to offer to singing students. There are a thousand ways of learning to breathe properly and they all lead to one end. Breathing may best be studied when it is made coincident with the requirements of singing. I have no fantastic technical studies to offer. My daily work simply consists of scales, arpeggios and the simplest kind of exercises, the simpler the better. I always make it a point to commence practicing very softly, slowly and surely. I never sing notes outside my most comfortable range at the start. Taking notes too high or too low is an extremely bad plan at first. Many young students make this fault. They also sing much too loud. The voice should be exercised for some considerable time on soft exercises before loud notes are even attempted. It is precisely the same as with physical exercises. The athlete who exerts himself to his fullest extent at first is working toward ultimate exhaustion. I have known students who sang "at the top of their lungs" and called it practice. The next day they grew hoarse and wondered why the hoarseness came. NEVER SING WHEN TIRED Never sing when out of sorts, tired or when the throat is sore. It is all very well to try to throw such a condition off as if it were a state of mind. My advice is, DON'T. I have known singers to try to sing off a sore throat and secure as a result a loss of voice for several days. Our American climate is very bad for singers. The dust of our manufacturing cities gets in the throat and irritates it badly. The noise is very nerve racking, and I have a theory that the electricity in the air is injurious. As I have said, the chances in the concert and operatic field are unlimited for those who deserve to be there. Don't be misled. Thousands of people are trying to become concert and oratorio singers who have not talent, temperament, magnetism, the right kind of intelligence nor the true musical feeling. It is pitiful to watch them. They are often deluded by teachers who are biased by pecuniary necessity. It is safe to say that at the end of a year's good instruction the teacher may safely tell what the pupil's chances are. Some teachers are brutally frank. Their opinions are worth those of a thousand teachers who consider their own interests first. Secure the opinions of as many artists as possible before you determine upon a professional career. The artist is not biased. He does not want you for a pupil and has nothing to gain in praising you. If he gives you an unfavorable report, thank him, because he is probably thinking of your best interests. As I have said, progress depends upon the individual. One man can go into a steel foundry and learn more in two years than another can in five. If you do not become conscious of audible results at the end of one or two years' study do some serious thinking. You are either on the wrong track or you have not the natural qualifications which lead to success on the concert and oratorio stage. [Illustration: MME. FRIEDA HEMPEL. © Mitzi] FRIEDA HEMPEL BIOGRAPHICAL Frieda Hempel was born at Leipzig, June 26, 1885. She studied piano for a considerable time at the Leipzig Conservatory and the Stern Conservatory. Later she studied singing with Mme. Nicklass Kempner, to whom she is indebted for her entire vocal education up to the time of her début in opera. Her first appearance was in the _Merry Wives of Windsor_, at the Royal Opera in Berlin. After many very successful appearances in leading European Opera Houses she was engaged for the Metropolitan Opera House in New York where she immediately became very popular in stellar rôles. Her repertoire runs from the _Marriage of Figaro_ to _Die Meistersinger_. Her voice is a clear, pure, sweet soprano; and, like Mme. Sembrich and Mme. Galli-Curci, she clearly shows the value of her instrumental training in the accuracy, precision and clarity of her coloratura work. She has made many successful concert tours of the United States. In addition to being a brilliant singer she is an excellent actress. She is now an American citizen and the wife of an American business man. THOROUGHNESS IN VOCAL PREPARATION MME. FRIEDA HEMPEL WHY SOME SUCCEED AND SOME FAIL In every thousand girls who aspire to Grand Opera probably not more than one ever succeeds. This is by no means because of lack of good voices. There are great numbers of good voices; although many girls who want to be opera singers either deceive themselves or are deceived by others (often charlatan teachers) into believing that they have fine natural voices when they have not. There is nothing more glorious than a beautiful human voice--a voice strong, resonant, if necessary, but velvety and luscious if needs be. There are many girls with really beautiful natural voices who have lost their chances in Grand Opera largely because they have either not had the personal persistence necessary to carry them to the point where their services are in demand by the public or they have had the misfortune not to have the right kind of a vocal or musical drill master--a really good teacher. Teachers in these days waste a fearful amount of time in what they consider to be their methods. They tell you to sing in the back, or on the side or through the mask or what not, instead of getting right down to the real work. My teacher in Berlin, at the Conservatory, insisted first of all upon having me sing tones and scales--mostly long sustained tones--for at least one entire year. These were sung very softly, very evenly, until I could employ every tone in my voice with sureness and certainty. I don't see how it could possibly have been accomplished in less time. Try that on the American girl and she will think that she is being cheated out of something. Why should she wait a whole year with silly tones when she knows that she can sing a great aria with only a little more difficulty? The basis of all fine singing, whether in the opera house or on the concert stage, is a good legato. My teacher (Nicklass Kempner) was very insistent upon this. In working with such studies as those of Concone, Bordogni, Lütgen, Marchesi or Garcia--the best part of the attention of the teacher was given to the simple yet difficult matter of a beautiful legato. After one has been through a mass of such material, the matter of legato singing becomes more or less automatic. The tendency to slide from one tone to another is done away with. The connection between one tone and another in good legato is so clean, so free from blurs that there is nothing to compare it with. One tone takes the place of another just as though one coin or disk were placed directly on top of another without any of the edges showing. The change is instantaneous and imperceptible. If one were to gradually slide one coin over another coin you would have a graphic illustration of what most people think is legato. The result is that they sound like steam sirens, never quite definitely upon any tone of the scale. A GOOD LEGATO A good legato can only be acquired after an enormous amount of thorough training. The tendency to be careless is human. Habits of carefulness come only after much drill. The object of the student and the teacher should be to make a singer--not to acquire a scanty repertoire of a few arias. Very few of the operas I now sing were learned in my student days. That was not the object of my teacher. The object was to prepare me to take up anything from _Martha_ to _Rosenkavalier_ and know how to study it myself in the quickest and most thorough manner. Woe be to the pupil of the teacher who spends most of the time in teaching songs, arias, etc., before the pupil is really ready to study such things. GOOD FOUNDATIONS Everything is in a good foundation. If you expect a building to last only a few weeks you might put up a foundation in a day or so--but if you watch the builders of the great edifices here in American cities you will find that more time is often spent upon the foundation than upon the building itself. They dig right down to the bed rock and pile on so much stone, concrete and steel that even great earthquakes are often withstood. A LARGE REPERTOIRE With such a thorough foundation as I had it has not been difficult to acquire a repertoire of some seventy-five operas. That is, by learning one at a time and working continually over a number of years the operas come easily. In learning a new work I first read the work through as a whole several times to get the character well fixed in my mind. Then I play the music through several times until I am very familiar with it. Then I learn the voice part, never studying it as a voice part by itself, but always in relation to the orchestra and the other rôles. Finally, I learn the interpretation--the dramatic presentation. One gets so little help from the orchestra in modern works that many rehearsals are necessary. In some passages it is just like walking in a dark night. Only a true ear and thorough training can serve to keep one on the key or anywhere near the key. It is therefore highly necessary that vocal students should have a good musical training in addition to the vocal training. In most European conservatories the study of piano and harmony are compulsory for all vocal students. Not to have had this musical training that the study of the piano brings about, not to have had a good course in theory or in training for sight-singing (ear training) is to leave out important pillars in a thorough musical foundation. MORE OPERA FOR AMERICA It would be a great gratification for all who are interested in opera to see more fine opera houses erected in America with more opportunities for the people. The performances at the Metropolitan are exceedingly fine, but only a comparatively few people can possibly hear them and there is little opportunity for the performance of a wide variety of operas. The opera singer naturally gets tired of singing a few rôles over and over again. The American people should develop a taste for more and more different operas. There is such a wonderful field that it should not be confined to the performance of a very few works that happen to be in fashion. This is not at all the case in Europe--there the repertoires are very much more extensive--more interesting for the public and the artists alike. STRONG EDUCATIONAL VALUE OF OPERA Opera has always seemed to me a very necessary thing in the State. It has a strong educational value in that it develops the musical taste of the public as well as teaching lessons in history and the humanities in a very forceful manner. Children should be taken to opera as a regular part of their education. Opera makes a wonderful impression upon the child's imagination--the romance, the color, the music, the action are rarely forgotten. Many of the operas are beautiful big fairy stories and the little folks glory in them. Parents who desire to develop the taste of their children and at the same time stimulate their minds along broader lines can do no better than to take them to opera. Little towns in Europe often have fine opera houses, while many American cities several times their size have to put up with moving picture theatre houses. Why does not some enthusiastic American leader take up a campaign for more opera in America? With the taste of the public educated through countless talking machine records, it should not prove a bad business venture if it is gone about in a sensible manner. DAME NELLIE MELBA BIOGRAPHICAL Dame Nellie Melba (stage name for Mrs. Nellie Porter Armstrong, née Mitchell) is described in Grove's Dictionary as "the first singer of British birth to attain such an exalted position upon the lyric stage as well as upon the concert platform." Dame Melba was born at Burnley near Melbourne, May 19, 1861, of Scotch ancestry. She sang at the Town Hall at Richmond when she was six years of age. She studied piano, harmony, composition and violin very thoroughly. At one time she was considered the finest amateur pianist in Melbourne. She also played the church organ in the local church with much success. In 1882 she married Captain Charles Armstrong, son of Sir Andrew Armstrong, Baronet (of Kings County, Ireland). In 1886 she sang at Queens Hall in London. After studying with Mme. Marchesi for twelve months she made her début as Gilda (_Rigoletto_) at the Théâtre de la Monnaie in Brussels. Her success was instantaneous. Her London début was made in _Lucia_ in 1888. One year later she made her Parisian début in Thomas' _Hamlet_. In 1894 she created the rôle of Nedda in _I Pagliacci_. Petrograd "went wild" over her in 1892. In 1892 she repeated her successes and in 1893 she began her long series of American triumphs. The fact that her voice, like that of Patti, has remained astonishingly fresh and silvery despite the enormous amount of singing she has done attests better than anything else to the excellence of her method of singing. In the following conference she gives the secret of preserving the voice. [Illustration: DAME NELLIE MELBA.] COMMON SENSE IN TRAINING AND PRESERVING THE VOICE DAME NELLIE MELBA HOW CAN A GOOD VOICE BE DETECTED? The young singer's first anxiety is usually to learn whether her voice is sufficiently good to make it worth while to go through the enormous work of preparing herself for the operatic stage. How is she to determine this? Surely not upon the advice of her immediate friends, nor upon that of those to whom she would naturally turn for spiritual advice, medical advice or legal advice. But this is usually just what she does. Because of the honored positions held by her rector, her physician, or her family lawyer, their services are all brought to bear upon her, and after an examination of her musical ability their unskilled opinion is given a weight it obviously does not deserve. The only one to judge is a skilled musician, with good artistic taste and some experience in voice matters. It is sometimes difficult to approach a singing teacher for this advice, as even the most honest could not fail to be somewhat influenced where there is a prospect of a pupil. I do not mean to malign the thousands of worthy teachers, but such a position is a delicate one, and the pupil should avoid consulting with any adviser except one who is absolutely disinterested. In any event the mere possession of a voice that is sweet and strong by no means indicates that the owner has the additional equipment which the singer must possess. Musical intelligence is quite as great an asset as the possession of a fine voice. By musical intelligence I mean something quite different from general intelligence. People seem to expect that the young person who desires to become a fine pianist or a fine violinist, or a fine composer, should possess certain musical talents. That is, they should experience a certain quickness in grasping musical problems and executing them. The singer, however, by some peculiar popular ruling seems to be exempted from this. No greater mistake could possibly be made. Very few people are musically gifted. When one of these people happens to possess a good voice, great industry, a love for vocal art, physical strength, patience, good sense, good taste and abundant faith in her possibilities, the chances of making a good singer are excellent. I lay great stress upon great determination and good health. I am often obliged to sing one night, then travel a thousand miles to sing the next night. Notwithstanding such journeys, the singer is expected to be in prime condition, look nice, and please a veritable multitude of comparative strangers all expecting wonderful things from her. Do you wonder that I lay stress upon good health? The youthful training of the singer should be confined quite strictly to that of obtaining a good general and musical education. That is, the vocal training may be safely postponed until the singer is seventeen or eighteen years of age. Of course there have been cases of famous singers who have sung during their childhood, but they are exceptions to all rules. The study of singing demands the direction of an intelligent, well-ordered mind. It is by no means wholly a matter of imitation. In fact, without some cultivation of the taste, that is, the sense of discriminating between what is good and bad, one may imitate with disastrous results. WHAT WORK SHOULD THE GIRL UNDER EIGHTEEN DO? I remember well an incident in my own youth. I once went to a concert and heard a much lauded singer render an aria that was in turn vociferously applauded by the audience. This singer possessed a most wonderful tremolo. Every tone went up and down like the teeth of a saw. It was impossible for her to sing a pure even tone without wobbling up and down. But the untrained audience, hungry to applaud anything musical, had cheered the singer despite the tremolo. Consequently I went home and after a few minutes' work I found that it was possible for me to produce a very wonderful tremolo. I went proudly to my teacher and gave an exhibition of my new acquirement. "Who on earth have you been listening to?" exclaimed my teacher. I confessed and was admonished not to imitate. The voice in childhood is a very delicate organ despite the wear and tear which children give it by unnecessary howling and screaming. More than this, the child-mind is so susceptible to impressions and these impressions become so firmly fixed that the best vocal training for the child should be that of taking the little one to hear great singers. All that the juvenile mind hears is not lost, although much will be forgotten. However, the better part will be unconsciously stowed away in the subconscious mind, to burst forth later in beautiful song through no different process than that by which the little birds store away the song of the older birds. Dealers in singing birds place them in rooms with older and highly developed singing birds to train them. This is not exactly a process of imitation, but rather one of subconscious assimilation. The bird develops his own song later on, but has the advantage of the stored-up impressions of the trained birds. A GENERAL MUSICAL TRAINING I have known many singers to fail dismally because they were simply singers. The idea that all the singer needs to know is how to produce tones resonantly and sweetly, how to run scales, make gestures and smile prettily is a perfectly ridiculous one. Success, particularly operatic success, depends upon a knowledge of a great many things. The general education of the singer should be as well rounded as possible. Nothing the singer ever learns in the public schools, or the high schools, is ever lost. History and languages are most important. I studied Italian and French in my childhood and this knowledge was of immense help to me in my later work. When I first went to Paris I had to acquire a colloquial knowledge of the language, but in all cases I found that the drill in French verbs I had gone through virtually saved me years of work. The French pronunciation is extremely difficult to acquire and some are obliged to reside in France for years before a fluent pronunciation can be counted on. I cannot speak too emphatically upon the necessity for a thorough musical education. A smattering is only an aggravation. Fortunately, my parents saw to it that I was taught the piano, the organ, the violin and thoroughbass. At first it was thought that I would become a professional pianist; and many were good enough to declare that I was the finest amateur pianist in Melbourne. My Scotch-Presbyterian parents would have been horrified if they had had any idea that they were helping me to a career that was in any way related to the footlights. Fortunately, my splendid father, who is now eighty-five years old, has long since recovered from his prejudices and is the proudest of all over my achievements. But I can not be too grateful to him for his great interest in seeing that my early musical training was comprehensive. Aside from giving me a more musicianly insight into my work, it has proved an immense convenience. I can play any score through. I learn all my operas myself. This enables me to form my own conception, that is, to create it, instead of being unconsciously influenced by the tempos and expression of some other individual. The times that I have depended upon a _repititeur_ have been so few that I can hardly remember them. So there, little girl, when you get on your mother's long train and sing to an imaginary audience of thousands, you will do better to run to the keyboard and practice scales or study your études. THE FIRST VOCAL PRACTICE The first vocal practice should be very simple. There should be nothing in the way of an exercise that would encourage forcing of any kind. In fact the young singer should always avoid doing anything beyond the normal. Remember that a sick body means a sick voice. Again, don't forget your daily outdoor exercise. Horseback riding, golf and tennis are my favorites. An hour's walk on a lovely country road is as good for a singer as an hour's practice. I mean that. In avoiding strain the pupil must above all things learn to sing the upper notes without effort or rather strain. While it is desirable that a pupil should practice all her notes every day, she should begin with the lower notes, then take the middle notes and then the so-called upper notes or head notes which are generally described as beginning with the F sharp on the top line of the treble staff. This line may be regarded as a danger line for singers young and old. It is imperative that when the soprano sings her head notes, beginning with F sharp and upward, they shall proceed very softly and entirely without strain as they ascend. I can not emphasize this too strongly. PRESERVING THE VOICE Let me give you one of my greatest secrets. Like all secrets, it is perfectly simple and entirely rational. _Never give the public all you have._ That is, the singer owes it to herself never to go beyond the boundaries of her vocal possibilities. The singer who sings to the utmost every time is like the athlete who exhausts himself to the state of collapse. This is the only way in which I can account for what the critics term "the remarkable preservation" of my own voice. I have been singing for years in all parts of the musical world, growing richer in musical and human experience and yet my voice to-day feels as fresh and as dear as when I was in my teens. I have never strained, I have never continued rôles that proved unsuited to me, I have never sung when I have not been in good voice. This leads to another very important point. I have often had students ask me how they can determine whether their teachers are giving them the kind of method or instruction they should have. I have always replied, "If you feel tired after a lesson, if your throat is strained after a little singing, if you feel exhausted, your teacher is on the wrong track, no matter what he labels his method or how wonderful his credentials are." Isn't that very simple? I have known young girls to go on practicing until they couldn't speak. Let them go to a physician and have the doctor show them by means of a laryngoscope just how tender and delicate their vocal organs are. I call them my "little bits of cotton"; they seem so frail and so tiny. Do you wonder that I guard them carefully? This practice consists of the simplest imaginable exercises--sustained scales, chromatic scales and trills. It is not so much _what_ one practices, but _how_ one practices. IS THE ART OF SINGING DYING OUT? We continually hear critics complain that the art of singing is dying. It is easy enough to be a pessimist, and I do not want to class myself with the pessimists; but I can safely say that, unless more attention is paid to the real art of singing, there must be a decadence in a short time. By this I mean that the voice seems to demand a kind of exercise leading to flexibility and fluent tone production that is not found in the ultra-dramatic music of any of the modern composers. Young singers begin with good voices and, after an altogether inadequate term of preparation, they essay the works of Strauss and Wagner. In two years the first sign of a breakup occurs. Their voices become rough,--the velvet vanishes and note after note "breaks" disagreeably. The music of the older Italian composers, from Scarlatti or Carissimi to Donizetti and Bellini, despite the absurd libretti of their operas, demanded first of all dulcet tones and limpid fluency. The singers who turned their noses up at the florid arabesques of old Italy for the more rugged pageantry of modern Germany are destined to suffer the consequences. Let us have the masterpieces of the heroic Teutons, by all means, but let them be sung by vocalists trained as vocalists and not merely by actors who have only taken a few steps in vocal art. The main point of all operatic work must be observed if opera is to continue successfully. Delibes chose me to sing a performance of his _Lakmé_ at Brussels. It was to be my début in French. I had not then mastered the French pronunciation so that I could sing acceptably at the Paris Grand Opera, the scene of my later triumphs. Consequently I was permitted to sing in Brussels. There the directors objected to my pronunciation, calling it "abominable." Delibes replied, "_Qu'elle chante en chinois, si elle veut, mais qu'elle chante mon opera_" ("Even if she sang in Chinese, I would be glad to have her sing my opera"). I am asked what has been my greatest incentive. I can think of nothing greater than opposition. The early opposition from my family made me more and more determined to prove to them that I would be successful. If I heard some singer who sang successfully the rôles I essayed, then I would immediately make up my mind to excel that singer. This is a human trait I know; but I always profited by it. Never be afraid of competition or opposition. The more you overcome, the greater will be your ultimate triumph. MME. BERNICE DE PASQUALI BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Bernice de Pasquali, who succeeded Marcella Sembrich as coloratura soprano at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City, is not an Italian, as her name suggests, but an American. She was born in Boston and is a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Practically all of her musical training was received in New York City where she became a pupil of Oscar Saenger. Her successes, however, are not limited to America as she has appeared in Mexico, Cuba, South Africa and Europe, in many places receiving great ovations. Her voice is a clear, high, flexible soprano, equally fine for concert or opera. Her husband, Signor Pasquali, made a lifetime study of the principles of the "Bel Canto" school of singing, and the following conference is the result of long experiment and study in the esthetic, philosophical and physiological factors in the most significant of the so-called methods of voice training. [Illustration: MME. BERNICE DE PASQUALI.] SECRETS OF BEL CANTO MME. BERNICE DE PASQUALI CENTURIES OF EXPERIMENTAL EXPERIENCE In no land is song so much a part of the daily life of the individual as in Italy. The Italian peasant literally wakes up singing and goes to bed singing. Naturally a kind of respect, honor and even reverence attaches to the art of beautiful voice production in the land of Scarlatti, Palestrina and Verdi, that one does not find in other countries. When the Italian singing teachers looked for a word to describe their vocal methods they very naturally selected the most appropriate, "Bel Canto," which means nothing more or less than "Beautiful Singing." Probably no words have been more abused in music teaching than "bel canto," and probably no words have a more direct meaning or a wider significance. What then is "good singing" as the Italians understand it? Principally the production of a perfectly controlled and exquisitely beautiful tone. Simple as this may seem and simple as it really is, the laws underlying the best way of teaching how to secure a beautiful tone are the evolution of empirical experiences coming down through the centuries. It is a significant fact that practically all of the great singers in Wagner rôles have first been trained in what is so loosely termed "bel canto" methods. Lilli Lehmann, Schumann-Heink, Nordica and others were capable of singing fine coloratura passages before they undertook the works of the great master of Beyreuth. THE SECRET OF CONSERVING THE VOICE In the mass of traditions, suggestions and advice which go to make the "bel canto" style, probably nothing is so important to American students as that which pertains to conserving the voice. Whether our girls are inordinately fond of display or whether they are unable to control their vocal organs I do not know, but one is continually treated to instances of the most ludicrous prodigality of voice. The whole idea of these young singers seems to be to make a "hit" by shouting or even screeching. There can be no milder terms for the straining of the tones so frequently heard. This prodigality has only one result--loss of voice. The great Rubini once wrote to his friend, the tenor Duprez, "You lost your voice because you always sang with your capital. I have kept mine because I have used only the interest." This historical epigram ought to be hung in all the vocal studios of America. Our American voices are too beautiful, too rare to be wasted, practically thrown away by expending the capital before it has been able to earn any interest. Moreover, the thing which has the most telling effect upon any audience is the beauty of tone quality. People will stop at any time to listen to the wonderful call of the nightingale. In some parts of Europe it is the custom to make parties to go at nights to the woods to hear that wonderful singer of the forests. Did you ever hear of any one forming a party for the express purpose of listening to the crowing of a rooster? One is a treat to the ear, the other is a shock. When our young singers learn that people do not attend concerts to have their ears shocked but to have them delighted with beautiful sound, they will be nearer the right idea in voice culture. The student's first effort, then, should be to preserve the voice. From the very first lesson he must strive to learn how to make the most with little. How is the student to know when he is straining the voice? This is simple enough to ascertain. At the very instant that the slightest constriction or effort is noticed strain is very likely to be present. Much of this depends upon administering exactly the right amount of breath to the vocal cords at the moment of singing. Too much breath or too little breath is bad. The student finds by patient experiment under the direction of the experienced teacher just how much breath to use. All sorts of devices are employed to test the breath, but it is probable that the best devices of all are those which all singers use as the ultimate test, the ear and the feeling of delightful relaxation surrounding the vocal organs during the process of singing. COURAGE IN SINGING Much of the student's early work is marred by fear. He fears to do this and he fears to do that, until he feels himself walled in by a set of rules that make his singing stilted. From the very start the singer, particularly the one who aspires to become an operatic singer, should endeavor to discard fear entirely. Think that if you fail in your efforts, thousands of singers have failed in a similar manner in their student days. Success in singing is at the end of a tall ladder, the rungs of which are repeated failures. We climb up over our failures to success. Learn to fear nothing, the public least of all. If the singer gives the audience the least suspicion that she is in fear of their verdict, the audience will detect it at once and the verdict will be bad. Also do not fear the criticism of jealous rivals. Affirm success. Say to yourself, "I will surely succeed if I persevere." In this way you will acquire those habits of tranquillity which are so essential for the singer to possess. THE REASON FOR THE LACK OF WELL-TRAINED VOICES There are abundant opportunities just now for finely trained singers. In fact there is a real dearth of "well-equipped" voices. Managers are scouring the world for singers with ability as well as the natural voice. Why does this dearth exist? Simply because the trend of modern musical work is far too rapid. Results are expected in an impossible space of time. The pupil and the maestro work for a few months and, lo and behold! a prima donna! Can any one who knows anything about the art of singing fail to realize how absurd this is? More voices are ruined by this haste than by anything else. It is like expecting the child to do the feats of the athlete without the athlete's training. There are singers in opera now who have barely passed the, what might be called, rudimentary stage. With the decline of the older operas, singers evidently came to the conclusion that it was not necessary to study for the perfection of tone-quality, evenness of execution and vocal agility. The modern writers did not write such fioratura passages, then why should it be necessary for the student to bother himself with years of study upon exercises and vocalises designed to prepare him for the operas of Bellini, Rossini, Spontini, Donizetti, Scarlatti, Carissimi or other masters of the florid school? What a fatuous reasoning. Are we to obliterate the lessons of history which indicate that voices trained in such a school as that of Patti, Jenny Lind, Sembrich, Lehmann, Malibran, Rubini and others, have phenomenal endurance, and are able to retain their freshness long after other voices have faded? No, if we would have the wonderful vitality and longevity of the voices of the past we must employ the methods of the past. THE DELICATE NATURE OF THE HUMAN VOICE Of all instruments the human voice is by far the most delicate and the most fragile. The wonder is that it will stand as much "punishment" as is constantly given to it. Some novices seem to treat it with as little respect as though it were made out of brass like a tuba or a trombone. The voice is subject to physical and psychical influences. Every singer knows how acutely all human emotions are reflected in the voice; at the same time all physical ailments are immediately active upon the voice of the singer. There is a certain freshness or "edge" which may be worn off the voice by ordinary conversation on the day of the concert or the opera. Some singers find it necessary to preserve the voice by refraining from all unnecessary talking prior to singing. Long-continued practice is also very bad. An hour is quite sufficient on the day of the concert. During the first years of study, half an hour a day is often enough practice. More practice should only be done under special conditions and with the direction of a thoroughly competent teacher. Singing in the open air, when particles of dust are blowing about, is particularly bad. The throat seems to become irritated at once. In my mind tobacco smoke is also extremely injurious to the voice, notwithstanding the fact that some singers apparently resist its effects for years. I once suffered severely from the effects of being in a room filled with tobacco smoke and was unable to sing for at least two months. I also think that it is a bad plan to sing immediately after eating. The peristaltic action of the stomach during the process of digestion is a very pronounced function and anything which might tend to disturb it might affect the general health. The singer must lead an exceedingly regular life, but the exaggerated privations and excessive care which some singers take are quite unnecessary. The main thing is to determine what is a normal life and then to live as close to this as possible. If you find that some article of diet disagrees with you, remember to avoid that food; for an upset stomach usually results in complete demoralization of the entire vocal system. SOME PRACTICE SUGGESTIONS No matter how great the artist, daily practice, if even not more than forty minutes a day, is absolutely necessary. There is a deep philosophical and physiological principle underlying this and it applies particularly to the vocal student. Each minute spent in intelligent practice makes the voice better and the task easier. The power to do comes with doing. Part of each day's practice should be devoted to singing the scale softly and slowly with perfect intonation. Every tone should be heard with the greatest possible acuteness. The ears should analyze the tone quality with the same scrutiny with which a botanist would examine the petals of a newly discovered specimen. As the singer does this he will notice that his sense of tone color will develop; and this is a very vital part of every successful singer's equipment. He will become aware of beauties as well as defects in his voice which may never have been even suspected if he will only listen "microscopically" enough. Much of the singer's progress depends upon the mental model he keeps before him. The singer who constantly hears the best of singing naturally progresses faster than one surrounded by inferior singing. This does not recommend that the student should imitate blindly but that he should hear as much fine singing as possible. Those who have not the means to attend concerts and the opera may gain immensely from hearing fine records. Little Adelina Patti, playing as a child on the stage of the old Academy of Music in New York, was really attending the finest kind of a conservatory unawares. The old Italian teachers and writers upon voice, knowing the florid style in which their pupils would be expected to sing, did not have much to do with fanciful exercises. They gave their lives to the quest of the "bel canto"; and many of them had difficulty in convincing their pupils that the simplest exercises were often the hardest. Take for instance this invaluable scale exercise sung with the marks of expression carefully observed. This exercise is one of the most difficult to sing properly. Nevertheless, some student will rush on to florid exercises before he can master this exercise. To sing it right it must be regarded with almost devotional reverence. Indeed, it may well be practiced diligently for years. Every tone is a problem, a problem which must be solved in the brain and in the body of the singer and not in the mind of any teacher. The student must hold up every tone for comparison with his ideal tone. Every note must ring sweet and clear, pure and free. Every tone must be even more susceptible to the emotions than the expression upon the most mobile face. Every tone must be made the means of conveying some human emotion. Some singers practice their exercises in such a perfunctory manner that they get as a result voices so stiff and hard that they sound as though they came from metallic instruments which could only be altered in a factory instead of from throats lined with a velvet-like membrane. [Illustration: musical notation: Sing with great attention to intonation.] Flexibility, mobility and susceptibility to expression are quite as important as mere sweetness. After the above exercise has been mastered the pupil may pass to the chromatic scale (scala semitonata sostenuto); and this scale should be sung in the same slow sustained manner as the foregoing illustration. MME. MARCELLA SEMBRICH BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Marcella Sembrich (Praxede Marcelline Kochanska) was born in Wisnewczyk, Galicia, February 15, 1858. Sembrich was her mother's name. Her father was a music teacher and she tells with pleasure how she watched her father make a little violin for her to practice upon. At the age of seven she was taken to Wilhelm Stengel at Lemberg for further instruction. Later she went to study with the famous pedagogue, Julius Epstein, at Vienna, who was amazed by the child's prodigious talent as a pianist and as a violinist. He asked, "Is there anything else she can do?" "Yes," replied Stengel, "I think she can sing." Sing she did; and Epstein was not long in determining that she should follow the career of the singer. Her other teachers were Victor Rokitansky, Richard Lewy and G. B. Lamperti and a few months with the elder Francesco Lamperti. Her début was made in Athens in 1877, in _I Puritani_. Thereafter she toured all of the European art centers with invariable success. Her first American appearance was in 1883. She came again in 1898 and for years sang with immense success in all parts of America. America has since become her home, where she has devoted much time to teaching. [Illustration: MME. MARCELLA SEMBRICH. © Dupont.] HOW FORTUNES ARE WASTED IN VOCAL EDUCATION MME. MARCELLA SEMBRICH EVERY ONE WHO CAN SHOULD LEARN TO SING Few accomplishments are more delight-giving than that of being able to sing. I would most enthusiastically advise anyone possessing a fair voice to have it trained by some reliable singing teacher. European peoples appreciate the great privilege of being able to sing for their own amusement, and the pleasure they get from their singing societies is inspiring. If Americans took more time for the development of accomplishments of this kind their journey through life would be far more enjoyable and perhaps more profitable. I believe that all should understand the art of singing, if only to become amateurs. That music makes the soul more beautiful I have not the least doubt. Because some musicians have led questionable lives does not prove the contrary. What might these men have been had they not been under the benign influence of music? One has only to watch people who are under the magic spell of beautiful music to understand what a power it has for the good. I believe that good vocal music should be a part of all progressive educational work. The more music we have, the more beautiful this world will be, the more kindly people will feel toward each other and the more life will be worth living. WRONG TO ENCOURAGE VOICELESS ASPIRANTS But when I say that everyone who possesses a voice should learn to sing I do not by any means wish to convey the idea that anyone who desires may become a great singer. That is a privilege that is given to but a very few fortunate people. So many things go together to make a great singer that the one who gives advice should be very circumspect in encouraging young people to undertake a professional career--especially an operatic career. Giving advice under any conditions is often thankless. I have been appealed to by hundreds of girls who have wanted me to hear them sing. I have always told them what seemed to me the truth, but I have been so dismayed at the manner in which this has been received that I hesitate greatly before hearing aspiring singers. It is the same way with the teachers. I know that some teachers are blamed for taking voiceless pupils, but the pupils are more often to blame than the teacher. I have known pupils who have been discouraged by several good teachers to persist until they finally found a teacher who would take them. Most teachers are conscientious--often too conscientious for their pocketbooks. If a representative teacher or a prominent singer advises you not to attempt a public career you should thank him, as he is doubtless trying to save you from years of miserable failure. It is a very serious matter for the pupil, and one that should be given almost sacred consideration by those who have the pupil's welfare at heart. Wise, indeed, is the young singer who can so estimate her talents that she will start along the right path. There are many positions which are desirable and laudable which can be ably filled by competent singers. If you have limitations which will prevent your ever reaching that "will-o'-the-wisp" known as "fame," do not waste money trying to achieve what is obviously out of your reach. If you can fill the position of soloist in a small choir creditably, do so and be contented. Don't aspire for operatic heights if you are hopelessly shackled by a lack of natural qualifications. It is a serious error to start vocal instruction too early. I do not believe that the girl's musical education should commence earlier than at the age of sixteen. It is true that in the cases of some very healthy girls no very great damage may be done, but it is a risk I certainly would not advise. Much money and time are wasted upon voice training of girls under the age of sixteen. If the girl is destined for a great career she will have the comprehension, the grasp, the insight that will lead her to learn very rapidly. Some people can take in the whole meaning of a picture at a glance; others are obliged to regard the picture for hours to see the same points of artistic interest. Quick comprehension is a great asset, and the girl who is of the right sort will lose nothing by waiting until she reaches the above age. PIANO OR VIOLIN STUDY ADVISABLE FOR ALL SINGERS Ambition, faithfulness to ideals and energy are the only hopes left open to the singer who is not gifted with a wonderfully beautiful natural voice. It is true that some singers of great intelligence and great energy have been able to achieve wide fame with natural voices that under other conditions would only attract local notice. These singers deserve great credit for their efforts. While the training of the voice may be deferred to the age of sixteen, the early years should by no means be wasted. The general education of the child, the fortification of the health and the study of music through the medium of some instrument are most important. The young girl who commences voice study with the ability to play either the violin or the piano has an enormous advantage over the young girl who has had no musical training. I found the piano training of my youth of greatest value, and through the study of the violin I learned certain secrets that I later applied to respiration and phrasing. Although my voice was naturally flexible, I have no doubt that the study of these instruments assisted in intonation and execution in a manner that I cannot over-estimate. A beautiful voice is not so great a gift, unless its possessor knows how to employ it to advantage. The musical training that one receives from the study of an instrument is of greatest value. Consequently, I advise parents who hope to make their children singers to give them the advantage of a thorough musical training in either violin study or the piano. Much wasted money and many blasted ambitions can be spared by such a course. A GOOD GENERAL EDUCATION OF VAST IMPORTANCE The singer whose general education has been neglected is in a most unfortunate plight. And by general education I do not mean only those academic studies that people learn in schools. The imagination must be stimulated, the heartfelt love for the poetical must be cultivated, and above all things the love for nature and mankind must be developed. I can take the greatest joy in a walk through a great forest. It is an education to me to be with nature. Unfortunately, only too many Americans go rushing through life neglecting those things which make life worth living. MUSICAL ADVANCE IN AMERICA There has been a most marvelous advance in this respect, however, in America. Not only in nature love but in art it has been my pleasure to watch a wonderful growth. When I first came here in 1883 things were entirely different in many respects. Now the great operatic novelties of Europe are presented here in magnificent style, and often before they are heard in many European capitals. In this respect America to-day ranks with the best in the world. Will you not kindly permit me to digress for a moment and say to the music lovers of America that I appreciate in the deepest manner the great kindnesses that have been shown to me everywhere? For this reason, I know that my criticisms, if they may be called such, will be received as they are intended. The singer should make a serious study of languages. French, German, English and Italian are the most necessary ones. I include English as I am convinced that it is only a matter of a short time when a school of opera written by English-speaking composers will arise. The great educational and musical advance in America is an indication of this. As for voice exercises, I have always been of the opinion that it is better to leave that matter entirely to the discretion of the teacher. There can be no universal voice exercise that will apply to all cases. Again, it is more a matter of how the exercise is sung than the exercise itself. The simplest exercise can become valuable in the hands of the great teacher. I have no faith in the teachers who make each and every pupil go through one and the same set of exercises in the same way. The voice teacher is like the physician. He must originate and prescribe certain remedies to suit certain cases. Much money is wasted by trying to do without a good teacher. If the pupil really has a great voice and the requisite talent, it is economical to take her to the best teacher obtainable. American women have wonderful voices. Moreover, they have great energy, talent and temperament. Their accomplishments in the operatic world are matters of present musical history. With such splendid effort and such generosity, it is easy to prophesy a great future for musical America. This is the land of great accomplishments. With time Americans will give more attention to the cultivation of details in art, they will acquire more repose perhaps, and then the tremendous energy which has done so much to make the country what it is will be a great factor in establishing a school of music in the new world which will rank with the greatest of all times. MME. ERNESTINE SCHUMANN-HEINK BIOGRAPHICAL Mme. Ernestine Schumann-Heink (née Roessler) was born near the city of Prague, July 15, 1861. She relates that her father was a Czech and her mother was of Italian extraction. She was educated in Ursuline Convent and studied singing with Mme. Marietta von Leclair in Graz. Her first appearance was at the age of 15, when she is reported to have taken a solo part in a performance of the Beethoven Ninth Symphony, at an important concert in Graz. Her operatic début was made at the Royal Opera, Dresden, in _Trovatore_. There she studied under Krebs and Franz Wüllner. It is impossible to detail Mme. Schumann-Heink's operatic successes here, since her numerous appearances at the leading operatic houses of the world have been followed by such triumphs that she is admittedly the greatest contralto soloist of her time. At Bayreuth, Covent Garden, and at the Metropolitan her appearances have drawn multitudes. In concert she proved one of the greatest of all singers of art songs. In 1905 she became an American citizen, her enthusiasm for this country leading her to name one of her sons George Washington. During the great war (in which four of her sons served with the American colors) she toured incessantly from camp to camp, giving her services for the entertainment of the soldiers and winning countless admirers in this way. Her glorious voice extends from D on the third line of the bass clef to C on the second leger line above the treble clef. [Illustration: MME. ERNESTINE SCHUMANN-HEINK.] KEEPING THE VOICE IN PRIME CONDITION MME. ERNESTINE SCHUMANN-HEINK THE ARTIST'S RESPONSIBILITY Would you have me give the secret of my success at the very outstart? It is very simple and centers around this subject of the artist's responsibility to the audience. My secret is absolute devotion to the audience. I love my audiences. They are all my friends. I feel a bond with them the moment I step before them. Whether I am singing in blasé New York or before an audience of farmer folk in some Western Chautauqua, my attitude toward my audience is quite the same. I take the same care and thought with every audience. This even extends to my dress. The singer, who wears an elaborate gown before a Metropolitan audience and wears some worn-out old rag of a thing when singing at some rural festival, shows that she has not the proper respect in her mind. Respect is everything. Therefore it is necessary for me to have my voice in the best of condition every day of the year. It is my duty to my audience. The woman who comes to a country Chautauqua and brings her baby with her and perchance nurses the little one during the concert gets a great deal closer to my heart than the stiff-backed aristocrat who has just left a Pekingese spaniel outside of the opera house door in a $6000.00 limousine. That little country woman expects to hear the singer at her best. Therefore, I practice just as carefully on the day of the Chautauqua concert as I would if I were to sing _Ortrud_ the same night at the Metropolitan in New York. American audiences are becoming more and more discriminating. Likewise they are more and more responsive. As an American citizen, I am devoted to all the ideals of the new world. They have accepted me in the most whole-souled manner and I am grateful to the land of my adoption. THE ADVANTAGE OF AN EARLY TRAINING Whether or not the voice keeps in prime condition to-day depends largely upon the early training of the singer. If that training is a good one, a sound one, a sensible one, the voice will, with regular practice, keep in good condition for a remarkably long time. The trouble is that the average student is too impatient in these days to take time for a sufficient training. The voice at the outstart must be trained lightly and carefully. There must not be the least strain. I believe that at the beginning two lessons a week should be sufficient. The lessons should not be longer than one-half an hour and the home practice should not exceed at the start fifty minutes a day. Even then the practice should be divided into two periods. The young singer should practice _mezza voce_, which simply means nothing more or less than "half voice." Never practice with full voice unless singing under the direction of a well-schooled teacher with years of practical singing experience. It is easy enough to shout. Some of the singers in modern opera seem to employ a kind of megaphone method. They stand stock still on the stage and bawl out the phrases as though they were announcing trains in a railroad terminal. Such singers disappear in a few years. Their voices seem torn to shreds. The reason is that they have not given sufficient attention to _bel canto_ in their early training. They seem to forget that voice must first of all be beautiful. _Bel canto_,--beautiful singing,--not the singing of meaningless Italian phrases, as so many insist, but the glorious _bel canto_ which Bach, Haydn and Mozart demand,--a _bel canto_ that cultivates the musical taste, disciplines the voice and trains the singer technically to do great things. Please understand that I am not disparaging the good and beautiful in Italian masterpieces. The musician will know what I mean. The singer can gain little, however, from music that intellectually and vocally is better suited to a parrot than a human being. Some of the older singers made _bel canto_ such an art that people came to hear them for their voices alone, and not for their intellectual or emotional interpretations of a rôle. Perhaps you never heard Patti in her prime. Ah! Patti--the wonderful Adelina with the glorious golden voice. It was she who made me ambitious to study breathing until it became an art. To hear her as she trippingly left the stage in Verdi's _Traviata_ singing runs with ease and finish that other singers slur or stumble over,--ah! that was an art! [Illustration: musical notation: Ex. 1 il mio pen sier, il mio pen-sier___ il mio pen-sier. ] Volumes have been written on breathing and volumes more could be written. This is not the place to discuss the singer's great fundamental need. Need I say more than that I practice deep breathing every day of my life? THE AGE FOR STARTING It is my opinion that no girl who wishes to keep her voice in the prime of condition all the time in after years should start to study much earlier than seventeen or eighteen years of age. In the case of a man I do not believe that he should start until he is past twenty or even twenty-two. I know that this is contrary to what many singers think, but the period of mutation in both sexes is a much slower process than most teachers realize, and I have given this matter a great deal of serious thought. LET EVERYBODY SING! Can I digress long enough to say that I think that everybody should sing? That is, they should learn to sing under a good singing instructor. This does not mean that they should look forward toward a professional career. God forbid! There are enough half-baked singers in the world now who are striving to become professionals. But the public should know that singing is the healthiest kind of exercise imaginable. When one sings properly one exercises nearly all of the important muscles of the torso. The circulation of the blood is improved, the digestion bettered, the heart promoted to healthy action--in fact, everything is bettered. Singers as a rule are notoriously healthy and often very long lived. The new movement for community singing in the open air is a magnificent one. Let everybody sing! A great singing teacher with a reputation as big as Napoleon's or George Washington's is not needed. There are thousands and thousands of unknown teachers who are most excellent. Often the advice or the instruction is very much the same. What difference does it make whether I buy Castile soap in a huge Broadway store or a little country store, if the soap is the same? Many people hesitate to study because they can not study with a great teacher. Nonsense! Pick out some sensible, well-drilled teacher and then use your own good judgment to guide yourself. Remember that Schumann-Heink did not study with a world-famed teacher. Whoever hears of Marietta von Leclair in these days? Yet I do not think that I could have done any more with my voice if I had had every famous teacher from Niccolo Antonio Porpora down to the present day. The individual singer must have ideals, and then leave nothing undone to attain those ideals. One of my ideals was to be able to sing pianissimo with the kind of resonance that makes it carry up to the farthest gallery. That is one of the most difficult things I had to learn, and I attained it only after years of faithful practice. THE SINGER'S DAILY ROUTINE To keep the voice in prime condition the singer's first consideration is physical and mental health. If the body or the mind is over-taxed singing becomes an impossibility. It is amazing what the healthy body and the busy mind can really stand. I take but three weeks' vacation during the year and find that I am a great deal better for it. Long terms of enforced indolence do not mean rest. The real artist is happiest when at work, and I want to work. Fortunately I am never at loss for opportunity. The ambitious vocal student can benefit as much by studying a good book on hygiene or the conservation of the health as from a book on the art of singing. First of all comes diet. Americans as a rule eat far too much. Why do some of the good churchgoing people raise such an incessant row about over-drinking when they constantly injure themselves quite as much by over-eating? What difference does it make whether you ruin your stomach, liver or kidneys by too much alcohol or too much roast beef? One vice is as bad as another. The singer must live upon a light diet. A heavy diet is by no means necessary to keep up a robust physique. I am rarely ill, am exceedingly strong in every way, and yet eat very little indeed. I find that my voice is in the best of condition when I eat very moderately. My digestion is a serious matter with me, and I take every precaution to see that it is not congested in any way. This is most important to the singer. Here is an average ménu for my days when I am on tour: _BREAKFAST Two or more glasses of Cold Water (not ice water) Ham and Eggs Coffee Toast._ _MID-DAY DINNER Soup Some Meat Order A Vegetable Plenty of Salad Fruit._ _SUPPER A Sandwich Fruit._ Such a ménu I find ample for the heaviest kind of professional work. If I eat more, my work may deteriorate, and I know it. Fresh air, sunshine, sufficient rest and daily baths in tepid water night and morning are a part of my regular routine. I lay special stress upon the baths. Nothing invigorates the singer as much as this. Avoid very cold baths, but see to it that you have a good reaction after each bath. There is nothing like such a routine as this to avoid colds. If you have a cold try the same remedies to try to get rid of it. To me, one day at Atlantic City is better for a cold than all the medicine I can take. I call Atlantic City my cold doctor. Of course, there are many other shore resorts that may be just as helpful, but when I can do so I always make a bee line for Atlantic City the moment I feel a serious cold on the way. Sensible singers know now that they must avoid alcohol, even in limited quantities, if they desire to be in the prime of condition and keep the voice for a long, long time. Champagne particularly is poison to the singer just before singing. It seems to irritate the throat and make good vocal work impossible. I am sorry for the singer who feels that some spur like champagne or a cup of strong coffee is desirable before going upon the stage. It amuses me to hear girls say, "I would give anything to be a great singer"; and then go and lace themselves until they look like Jersey mosquitoes. The breath is the motive power of the voice. Without it under intelligent control nothing can be accomplished. One might as well try to run an automobile without gasoline as sing without breath. How can a girl breathe when she has squeezed her lungs to one-half their normal size? PREPARATION FOR HEAVY RÔLES The voice can never be kept in prime condition if it is obliged to carry a load that it has not been prepared to carry. Most voices that wear out are voices that have been overburdened. Either the singer does not know how to sing or the rôle is too heavy. I think that I may be forgiven for pointing out that I have repeatedly sung the heaviest and most exacting rôles in opera. My voice would have been shattered years ago if I had not prepared myself for these rôles and sung them properly. A man may be able to carry a load of fifty pounds for miles if he carries it on his back, but he will not be able to carry it a quarter of a mile if he holds it out at arm's length from the body, with one arm. Does this not make the point clear? Some rôles demand maturity. It is suicidal for the young singer to attempt them. The composer and the conductor naturally think only of the effect at the performance. The singer's welfare with them is a secondary consideration. I have sung under the great composers and conductors, from Richard Wagner to Richard Strauss. Some of the Strauss rôles are even more strenuous than those of Wagner. They call for great energy as well as great vocal ability. Young singers essay these heavy rôles and the voices go to pieces. Why not wait a little while? Why not be patient? The singer is haunted by the delusion that success can only come to her if she sings great rôles. If she can not ape Melba in _Traviata_, Emma Eames as Elizabeth in _Tannhäuser_ or Geraldine Farrar in _Butterfly_, she pouts and refuses to do anything. Offer her a small part and she sneers at it. Ha! Ha! All my earliest successes were made in the smallest kinds of parts. I realized that I had only a little to do and only very little time to do it in. Consequently, I gave myself heart and soul to that part. It must be done so artistically, so intelligently, so beautifully that it would command success. Imagine the rôles of Erda and Norna, and Marie in _Flying Dutchman_. They are so small that they can hardly be seen. Yet these rôles were my first door to success and fame. Wagner did not think of them as little things. He was a real master and knew that in every art-work a small part is just as important as a great part. It is a part of a beautiful whole. Don't turn up your nose at little things. Take every opportunity, and treat it as though it were the greatest thing in your life. It pays. Everything that amounts to anything in my entire career has come through struggle. At first a horrible struggle with poverty. No girl student in a hall bedroom to-day (and my heart goes out to them now) endures more than I went through. It was work, work, work, from morning to night, with domestic cares and worries enough all the time to drive a woman mad. Keep up your spirits, girls. If you have the right kind of fight in you, success will surely come. Never think of discouragement, no matter what happens. Keep working every day and always hoping. It will come out all right if you have the gift and the perseverance. Compulsion is the greatest element in the vocalist's success. Poverty has a knout in its hand driving you on. Well, let it,--and remember that under that knout you will travel twice as fast as the rich girl possibly can with her fifty-horse-power automobile. Keep true to the best. _Muss_--"I MUST," "I will," the mere necessity is a help not a hindrance, if you have the right stuff in you. Learn to depend upon yourself, and know that when you have something that the public wants it will not be slow in running after you. Don't ask for help. I never had any help. Tell that to the aspiring geese who think that I have some magic power whereby I can help a mediocre singer to success by the mere twist of the hand. DAILY EXERCISES OF A PRIMA DONNA [Illustration: musical notation] Daily vocal exercises are the daily bread of the singer. They should be practiced just as regularly as one sits down to the table to eat, or as one washes one's teeth or as one bathes. As a rule the average professional singer does not resort to complicated exercises and great care is taken to avoid strain. It is perfectly easy for me, a contralto, to sing C in alt but do you suppose I sing it in my daily exercises? It is one of the extreme notes in my range and it might be a strain. Consequently I avoid it. I also sing most of my exercises _mezza voce_. There should always be periods of intermission between practice. I often go about my routine work while on tour, walking up and down the room, packing my trunk, etc., and practicing gently at the same time. I enjoy it and it makes my work lighter. Of course I take great pains to practice carefully. My exercises are for the most part simple scales, arpeggios or trills. For instance, I will start with the following: [Illustration: musical notation] This I sing in middle voice and very softly. Thereby I do not become tired and I don't bother the neighborhood. If I sang this in the big, full lower tones and sang loud, my voice would be fatigued rather than benefited and the neighbors would hate me. This I continue up to _D_ or _E_ flat. [Illustration: musical notation] Above this I invariably use what is termed the head tone. Female singers should always begin the head tone on this degree of the staff and not on _F_ and _F#_, as is sometimes recommended. I always use the Italian vowel _ah_ in my exercises. It seems best to me. I know that _oo_ and _ue_ are recommended for contraltos, but I have long had the firm conviction that one should first perfect the natural vocal color through securing good tones by means of the most open vowel. After this is done the voice may be further colored by the judicious employment of other vowels. Sopranos, for instance, can help their head tones by singing _ee_ (Italian _i_). I know nothing better for acquiring a flexible tone than to sing trills like the following: [Illustration: musical notation] and at the same time preserve a gentle, smiling expression. Smile naturally, as though you were genuinely amused at something,--smile until your upper teeth are uncovered. Then, try these exercises with the vowel _ah_. Don't be afraid of getting a trivial, colorless tone. It is easy enough to make the tone sombre by willing it so, when the occasion demands. You will be amazed what this smiling, genial, _liebenswürdig_ expression will do to relieve stiffness and help you in placing your voice right. The old Italians knew about it and advocated it strongly. There is nothing like it to keep the voice youthful, fresh and in the prime of condition. THE SINGER MUST RELAX Probably more voices are ruined by strain than through any other cause. The singer must relax all the time. This does not mean flabbiness. It does not mean that the singer should collapse before singing. Relaxation in the singer's sense is a delicious condition of buoyancy, of lightness, of freedom, of ease and entire lack of tightening in any part. When I relax I feel as though every atom in my body were floating in space. There is not one single little nerve on tension. The singer must be particularly careful when approaching a climax in a great work of art. Then the tendency to tighten up is at its greatest. This must be anticipated. Take such a case as the following passage from the famous aria from Saint-Saëns' _Samson et Delila_, "_Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix_." The climax is obviously on the words "Ah!--verse moi." The climax is the note marked by a star (_f_ on the top line). [Illustration: musical notation: Reponds a ma ten-dres-se, Re-ponds a ma ten-dress-s! Ah!--ver-se-moi--ver-se-moi.. l-i-vres-se!] When I am singing the last notes of the previous phrase to the word "tendresse," anyone who has observed me closely will notice that I instinctively let my shoulders drop,--that the facial muscles become relaxed as when one is about to smile or about to yawn. I am then relaxing to meet the great melodic climax and meet it in such a manner that I will have abundant reserve force after it has been sung. When one has to sing before an audience of five or six thousand people such a climax is immensely important and it requires great balance to meet it and triumph in it. ANTONIO SCOTTI BIOGRAPHICAL Antonio Scotti was born at Naples, Jan. 25, 1866, and did much of his vocal study there with Mme. Trifari Paganini. His début was made at the Teatro Reale, in the Island of Malta, in 1889. The opera was _Martha_. After touring the Italian opera houses he spent seven seasons in South America at a time when the interest in grand opera on that continent was developing tremendously. He then toured Spain and Russia with great success and made his début at Covent Garden, London, in 1899. His success was so great that he was immediately engaged for the Metropolitan in New York, where he has sung every season since that time. His most successful rôles have been in _La Tosca_, _La Bohême_, _I Pagliacci_, _Carmen_, _Falstaff_, _L'Oracolo_ and _Otello_. His voice is a rich and powerful baritone. He is considered one of the finest actors among the grand opera singers. During recent years he has toured with an opera company of his own, making many successful appearances in some of the smaller as well as the larger American cities. [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ANTONIO SCOTTI IN THE COSTUME OF HIS MOST FAMOUS RÔLE, SCARPIA, IN "LA TOSCA," BY PUCCINI.] ITALIAN OPERA IN AMERICA ANTONIO SCOTTI So closely identified is Italy with all that pertains to opera, that the question of the future of Italian opera in America is one that interests me immensely. It has been my privilege to devote a number of the best years of my life to singing in Italian opera in this wonderful country, and one cannot help noticing, first of all, the almost indescribable advance that America has made along all lines. It is so marvelous that those who reside continually in this country do not stop to consider it. Musicians of Europe who have never visited America can form no conception of it, and when they once have had an opportunity to observe musical conditions in America, the great opera houses, the music schools, the theatres and the bustling, hustling activity, together with the extraordinary casts of world-famous operatic stars presented in our leading cities, they are amazed in the extreme. It is very gratifying for me to realize that the operatic compositions of my countrymen must play a very important part in the operatic future of America. It has always seemed to me that there is far more variety in the works of the modern Italian composers than in those of other nations. Almost all of the later German operas bear the unmistakable stamp of Wagner. Those which do not, show decided Italian influences. The operas of Mozart are largely founded on Italian models, although they show a marvelous genius peculiar to the great master who created them. OPERATIC TENDENCIES The Italian opera of the future will without doubt follow the lead of Verdi, that is, the later works of Verdi. To me _Falstaff_ seems the most remarkable of all Italian operas. The public is not well enough acquainted with this work to demand it with the same force that they demand some of the more popular works of Verdi. Verdi was always melodious. His compositions are a beautiful lace-work of melodies. It has seemed to me that some of the Italian operatic composers who have been strongly influenced by Wagner have made the mistake of supposing that Wagner was not a master of melody. Consequently they have sacrificed their Italian birthright of melody for all kinds of cacophony. Wagner was really wonderfully melodious. Some of his melodies are among the most beautiful ever conceived. I do not refer only to the melodies such as "Oh, Thou Sublime Evening Star" of _Tannhäuser_ or the "Bridal March" of _Lohengrin_, but also to the inexhaustible fund of melodies that one may find in most every one of his astonishing works. True, these melodies are different in type from most melodies of Italian origin, but they are none the less melodies, and beautiful ones. Verdi's later operas contain such melodies and he is the model which the young composers of Italy will doubtless follow. Puccini, Mascagni, Leoncavallo, and others, have written works rich in melody and yet not wanting in dramatic charm, orchestral accompaniment and musicianly treatment. OPERA THE NATURAL GENIUS OF ITALY'S COMPOSERS When the Italian student leaves the conservatory, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred his ambitions are solely along the line of operatic composition. This seems his natural bent or mould. Of course he has written small fugues and perhaps even symphonies, but in the majority of instances these have been mere academic exercises. I regret that this is the case, and heartily wish that we had more Bossis, Martuccis and Sgambattis, but, again, would it not be a great mistake to try to make a symphonist out of an operatic composer? In the case of Perosi I often regret that he is a priest and therefore cannot write for the theatre, because I earnestly believe that notwithstanding his success as a composer of religious music, his natural bent is for the theatre or the opera. THE COMPOSERS OF TO-DAY Of the great Italian opera composers of to-day, I feel that Puccini is, perhaps, the greatest because he has a deeper and more intimate appreciation of theatrical values. Every note that Puccini writes smells of the paint and canvas behind the proscenium arch. He seems to know just what kind of music will go best with a certain series of words in order to bring out the dramatic meaning. This is in no sense a depreciation of the fine things that Mascagni, Leoncavallo and others have done. It is simply my personal estimate of Puccini's worth as an operatic composer. Personally, I like _Madama Butterfly_ better than any other Italian opera written in recent years. Aside from _Falstaff_, my own best rôle is probably in _La Tosca_. The two most popular Italian operas of to-day are without doubt _Aïda_ and _Madama Butterfly_. That is, these operas draw the greatest audiences at present. It is gratifying to note a very much unified and catholic taste throughout the entire country. That is to say, in Chicago, San Francisco, Boston and Philadelphia one finds the public taste very similar. This indicates that the great musical advance in recent years in America has not been confined to one or two eastern cities. THE INFLUENCE OF THE STAR SYSTEM It is often regretable that the reputation of the singer draws bigger audiences in America than the work to be performed. American people go to hear some particular singer and not to hear the work of the composer. In other countries this is not so invariably the rule. It is a condition that may be overcome in time in America. It often happens that remarkably good performances are missed by the public who are only drawn to the opera house when some great operatic celebrity sings. The intrinsic beauties of the opera itself should have much to do with controlling its presentation. In all cases at present the Italian opera seems in preponderance, but this cannot be said to be a result of the engagement of casts composed exclusively of Italian singers. In our American opera houses many singers of many different nationalities are engaged in singing in Italian opera. Personally, I am opposed to operas being sung in any tongue but that in which the opera was originally written. If I am not mistaken, the Covent Garden Opera House and the Metropolitan Opera House are the only two opera houses in the world where this system is followed. No one can realize what I mean until he has heard a Wagner opera presented in French, a tongue that seems absolutely unfitted for the music of Wagner. THE POSSIBLE INFLUENCE OF STRAUSS AND DEBUSSY I do not feel that either Strauss or Debussy will have an influence upon the music of the coming Italian composers similar to that which the music of Wagner had upon Verdi and his followers. Personally, I admire them very much, but they seem unvocal, and Italy is nothing if not vocal. To me _Pelleas and Melisande_ would be quite as interesting if it were acted in pantomime with the orchestral accompaniment. The voice parts, to my way of thinking, could almost be dispensed with. The piece is a beautiful dream, and the story so evident that it could almost be played as an "opera without words." But vocal it certainly is not, and the opportunities of the singer are decidedly limited. Strauss, also, does not even treat the voice with the scant consideration bestowed upon it in some of the extreme passages of the Wagner operas. Occasionally the singer has an opportunity, but it cannot be denied that to the actor and the orchestra falls the lion's share of the work. OPERATIC CENTERS IN ITALY Americans seem to think that the only really great operatic center of Italy is Milan. This is doubtless due to the celebrity of the famous opera house, La Scala, and to the fact that the great publishing house of Ricordi is located there, but it is by no means indicative of the true condition. The fact is that the appreciation of opera is often greater outside of Milan than in the city. In Naples, Rome and Florence opera is given on a grand scale, and many other Italian cities possess fine theaters and fine operatic companies. The San Carlos Company, at Naples, is usually exceptionally good, and the opera house itself is a most excellent one. The greatest musical industry centers around Milan owing, as we have said, to the publishing interests in that city. If an Italian composer wants to produce one of his works he usually makes arrangements with his publisher. This, of course, brings him at once to Milan in most cases. MORE NEW OPERAS SHOULD BE PRODUCED It is, of course, difficult to gain an audience for a new work, but this is largely the fault of the public. The managers are usually willing and glad to bring out novelties if the public can be found to appreciate them. _Madama Butterfly_ is a novelty, but it leaped into immediate and enormous appreciation. Would that we could find a number like it! _Madama Butterfly's_ success has been largely due to the fact that the work bears the direct evidences of inspiration. I was with Puccini in London when he saw for the first time John Luther Long's story, dramatized by a Belasco, produced in the form of a one-act play. He had a number of librettos under consideration at that time, but he cast them all aside at once. I never knew Puccini to be more excited. The story of the little Japanese piece was on his mind all the time. He could not seem to get away from it. It was in this white heat of inspiration that the piece was moulded. Operas do not come out of the "nowhere." They are born of the artistic enthusiasm and intellectual exuberance of the trained composer. AMERICA'S MUSICAL FUTURE One of the marvelous conditions of music in this country is that the opera, the concert, the oratorio and the recital all seem to meet with equal appreciation. The fact that most students of music in this land play the piano has opened the avenues leading to an appreciation of orchestral scores. In the case of opera the condition was quite different. The appreciation of operatic music demands the voice of the trained artist and this could not be brought to the home until the sound reproducing machine had been perfected. The great increase in the interest in opera in recent years is doubtless due to the fact that thousands and thousands of those instruments are in use in as many homes and music studios. It is far past the "toy" stage, and is a genuine factor in the art development and musical education of America. At first the sound reproducing machine met with tremendous opposition owing to the fact that bad instruments and poorer records had prejudiced the public, but now they have reached a condition whereby the voice is reflected with astonishing veracity. The improvements I have observed during the past years have seemed altogether wonderful to me. The thought that half a century hence the voices of our great singers of to-day may be heard in the homes of all countries of the globe gives a sense of satisfaction to the singer, since it gives a permanence to his art which was inconceivable twenty-five years ago. [Illustration: HENRI SCOTT.] HENRI SCOTT BIOGRAPHICAL Henri Scott was born at Coatesville, Pa., April 8, 1876. He was intended for a business career but became interested in music, at first in an amateur way, in Philadelphia. Encouraged by local successes he went to study voice with Oscar Saenger, remaining with him for upward of eleven years. He was fortunate in making appearances with the "Philadelphia Operatic Society," a remarkable amateur organization giving performances of grand opera on a large scale. With this organization he made his first stage appearances as Ramphis in _Aïda_, in 1897. He had his passage booked for Europe, where he was assured many fine appearances, when he accidentally met Oscar Hammerstein, who engaged him for five years. Under this manager he made his professional début as Ramphis at the Manhattan Opera House in New York, in 1909. Hammerstein, a year thereafter, terminated his New York performances by selling out to the Metropolitan Opera Company. Mr. Scott then went to Rome, where he made his first appearance in _Faust_, with great success. He was immediately engaged for the Chicago Opera Company where, during three years, he sang some thirty-five different rôles. In 1911 he was engaged as a leading basso by the Metropolitan, where he remained for many seasons. He has sung on tour with the Thomas Orchestra, with Caruso and at many famous festivals. He has appeared with success in over one hundred cities in the United States and Canada. In response to many offers he went into vaudeville, where he has sung to hundreds of thousands of Americans, with immense success. Mr. Scott is therefore in a position to speak of this new and interesting phase of bringing musical masterpieces to "the masses." THE SINGER'S LARGER MUSICAL PUBLIC HENRI SCOTT Like every American, I resent the epithet, "the masses," because I have always considered myself a part of that mysterious unbounded organization of people to which all democratic Americans feel that they belong. One who is not a member of the masses in America is perforce a "snob" and a "prig." Possibly one of the reasons why our republic has survived so many years is that all true Americans are aristocratic, not in the attitude of "I am as good as everyone," but yet human enough to feel deep in their hearts, "Any good citizen is as good as I." WHY GRAND OPERA IS EXPENSIVE Music in America should be the property of everybody. The talking machines come near making it that, if one may judge from the sounds that come from half the homes at night. But the people want to hear the best music from living performers "in the flesh." At the same time, comparatively, very few can pay from two to twenty dollars a seat to hear great opera and great singers. The reason why grand opera costs so much is that the really fine voices, with trained operatic experience, are very, very few; and, since only a few performances are given a year, the price must be high. It is simply the law of supply and demand. There are, in America, two large grand opera companies and half a dozen traveling ones, some of them very excellent. There are probably twenty large symphony orchestras and at least one hundred oratorio societies of size. To say that these bodies and others purveying good music, reach more than five million auditors a year would possibly be a generous figure. But five million is not one-twentieth of the population of America. What about the nineteen-twentieths? On the other hand, there are in America between two and three thousand good vaudeville and moving picture houses where the best music in some form is heard not once or twice a week for a short season, but several times each day. Some of the moving picture houses have orchestras of thirty-five to eighty men, selected from musicians of the finest ability, many of whom have played in some of the greatest orchestras of the world. These orchestras and the talking machines are doing more to bring good music to the public than all the larger organizations, if we consider the subject from a standpoint of numbers. A REVOLUTION IN TASTE The whole character of the entertainments in moving picture and vaudeville theaters has been revolutionized. The buildings are veritable temples of art. The class of the entertainment is constantly improving in response to a demand which the business instincts of the managers cannot fail to recognize. The situation is simply this: The American people, with their wonderful thirst for self-betterment, which has brought about the prodigious success of the educational papers, the schools and the Chautauquas, like to have the beautiful things in art served to them with inspiriting amusement. We, as a people, have been becoming more and more refined in our tastes. We want better and better things, not merely in music, but in everything. In my boyhood there were thousands of families in fair circumstances who would endure having the most awful chromos upon their walls. These have for the most part entirely disappeared except in the homes of the newest aliens. It is true that much of our music is pretty raw in the popular field; but even in this it is getting better slowly and surely. If in recent years there has been a revolution in the popular taste for vaudeville, B. F. Keith was the "Washington" of that revolution. He understood the human demand for clean entertainment, with plenty of healthy fun and an artistic background. He knew the public call for the best music and instilled his convictions in his able followers. Mr. Keith's attitude was responsible for the signs which one formerly saw in the dressing rooms of good vaudeville theaters, which read: +--------------------------------------------------+ |Profanity of any kind, objectionable or suggestive| |remarks, are forbidden in this theater. | |Offenders are liable to have the curtain rung | |down upon them during such an act. | +--------------------------------------------------+ Fortunately these signs have now disappeared, as the actors have been so disciplined that they know that a coarse remark would injure them with the management. Vaudeville is on a far higher basis than much so-called comic opera. Some acts are paid exceedingly large sums. Sarah Bernhardt received $7000.00 a week; Calve, Bispham, Kocian, Carolina White and Marguerite Sylvia, accordingly. Dorothy Jordan, Bessie Abbott, Rosa Ponselle, Orville Harold and the recent Indian sensation at the Metropolitan, Chief Caupolican, actually had their beginnings in vaudeville. In other words, vaudeville was the stepping-stone to grand opera. SINGING FOR MILLIONS Success in this new field depends upon personality as well as art. It also develops personality. It is no place for a "stick." The singer must at all times be in human touch with the audience. The lofty individuals who are thinking far more about themselves than about the songs they are singing have no place here. The task is infinitely more difficult than grand opera. It is far more difficult than recital or oratorio singing. There can be no sham, no pose. The songs must please or the audience will let one know it in a second. The wear and tear upon the voice is much less than in opera. During the week I sing in all three and one-half hours (not counting rehearsals). When I am singing Mephistopheles in _Faust_ I am in a theater at least six hours--the make-up alone requires at least one and one-half hours. Then time is demanded for rehearsals with the company and with various coaches. THE ART OF "PUTTING IT OVER" Thus the vaudeville singer who is genuinely interested in the progress of his art has ample time to study new songs and new rôles. In the jargon of vaudeville, everything is based upon whether the singer is able "to put the number over." This is a far more serious matter than one thinks. The audience is made up of the great public--the common people, God bless them. There is not the select gathering of musically cultured people that one finds in Carnegie Hall or the Auditorium. Therefore, in singing music that is admittedly a musical masterpiece, one must select only those works which may be interpreted with a broad human appeal. One is far closer to his fellow-man in vaudeville than in grand opera, because the emotions of the auditors are more responsive. It is intensely gratifying to know that these people want real art. My greatest success has been in Lieurance's Indian songs and in excerpts from grand opera. Upon one occasion my number was followed by that of a very popular comedienne whose performance was known to be of the farcical, rip-roaring type which vaudeville audiences were supposed to like above all things. It was my pleasure to be recalled, even after the curtain had ascended upon her performance, and to be compelled to give another song as an encore. The preference of the vaudeville audience for really good music has been indicated to me time and again. But it is not merely the good music that draws: the music must be interpreted properly. Much excellent music is ruined in vaudeville by ridiculous renditions. HOW TO GET AN ENGAGEMENT Singers have asked me time and again how to get an engagement. The first thing is to be sure that you have something to sell that is really worth while. Think of how many people are willing to pay to hear you sing! The more that they are willing to pay, the more valuable you are to the managers who buy your services. Therefore reputation, of course, is an important point to the manager. An unknown singer can not hope to get the same fee as the celebrated singer no matter how fine the voice or the art. Mr. E. Falber and Mr. Martin Beck, who have been responsible for a great many of the engagements of great artists in vaudeville and who are great believers in fine music in vaudeville, have, through their high position in business, helped hundreds. But they can not help anyone who has nothing to sell. The home office of the big vaudeville exchange is at Forty-seventh and Broadway, N.Y., and it is one of the busiest places in the great city. Even at that, it has always been a mystery to me just how the thousands of numbers are arranged so that there will be as little loss as possible for the performers; for it must be remembered that the vaudeville artists buy their own stage clothes and scenery, attend to their transportation and pay all their own expenses; unless they can afford the luxury of a personal manager who knows how to do these things just a little better. The singer looking for an engagement must in some way do something to gain some kind of recognition. Perhaps it may come from the fact that the manager of the local theater in her town has heard her sing, or some well-known singer is interested in her and is willing to write a letter of introduction to someone influential in headquarters. With the enormous demands made upon the time of the "powers that be," it is hardly fair to expect them to hear anyone and everyone. With such a letter or such an introduction, arrange for an audition at the headquarters in New York. Remember all the time that if you have anything really worth while to sell the managers are just as anxious to hear you as you are to be heard. There is no occasion for nervousness. EXCELLENT CONDITIONS Sometimes the managers are badly mistaken. It is common gossip that a very celebrated opera singer sought a vaudeville engagement and was turned down because of the lack of the musical experience of the manager, and because she was unknown. If he wanted her to-day his figure would have to be several thousand dollars a week. The average vaudeville theater in America is far better for the singer, in many ways, than many of the opera houses. In fact the vaudeville theaters are new; while the opera houses are old, and often sadly run down and out of date. Possibly the finest vaudeville theater in America is in Providence, R. I., and was built by E. F. Albee. It is palatial in every aspect, built as strong and substantial as a fort, and yet as elegant as a mansion. It is much easier to sing in these modern theaters made of stone and concrete than in many of the old-fashioned opera houses. Indeed, some of the vaudeville audiences often hear a singer at far better advantage than in the opera house. The singer who realizes the wonderful artistic opportunities provided in reaching such immense numbers of people, who will understand that he must sing up to the larger humanity rather than thinking that he must sing down to a mob, who will work to do better vocal and interpretative thinking at every successive performance, will lose nothing by singing in vaudeville and may gain an army of friends and admirers he could not otherwise possibly acquire. EMMA THURSBY BIOGRAPHICAL Emma Thursby was born in Brooklyn, N. Y., and studied singing with Julius Meyers, Achille Errani, Mme. Rudersdorf, Lamperti (elder), San Giovanni and finally with Maurice Strakosch. She began her career as a church singer in New York and throngs went to different New York churches to hear her exquisitely mellow and beautiful voice. For many years she was the soprano of the famous Plymouth Church when Henry Ward Beecher was the pastor. Her voice became so famous that she went on a tour with Maurice Strakosch for seven years, in Europe and America, everywhere meeting with sensational success. Later she toured with the Gilmore Band and with the Thomas Orchestra. She became as popular in London and in Paris as in New York. Her fame became so great that she finally made a tour of the world, appearing with great success even in China and Japan. [Illustration: EMMA THURSBY.] SINGING IN CONCERT AND WHAT IT MEANS EMMA THURSBY Although conditions have changed very greatly since I was last regularly engaged in making concert tours, the change has been rather one of advantage to young singers than one to their disadvantage. The enormous advance in musical taste can only be expressed by the word "startling." For while we have apparently a vast amount of worthless music being continually inoculated into our unsuspecting public, we have, nevertheless, a corresponding cultivation of the love for good music which contributes much to the support of the concert singer of the present day. The old time lyceum has almost disappeared, but the high-class song recital has taken its place and recitals that would have been barely possible years ago are now frequently given with greatest financial and artistic success. Schumann, Franz, Strauss, Grieg and MacDowell have conquered the field formerly held by the vapid and meaningless compositions of brainless composers who wrote solely to amuse or to appeal to morbid sentimentality. The conditions of travel, also, have been greatly improved. It is now possible to go about in railroad cars and stop at hotels, and at the same time experience very little inconvenience and discomfort. This makes the career of the concert artist a far more desirable one than in former years. Uninviting hotels, frigid cars, poorly prepared meals and the lack of privacy were scarcely the best things to stimulate a high degree of musical inspiration. HEALTH Nevertheless, the girl who would be successful in concert must either possess or acquire good health as her first and all-essential asset. Notwithstanding the marvelous improvement in traveling facilities and accommodations, the nervous strain of public performance is not lessened, and it not infrequently happens that these very facilities enable the avaricious manager to crowd in more concerts and recitals than in former years, with the consequent strain upon the vitality of the singer. Of course, the singer must also possess the foundation for a good natural voice, a sense of hearing capable of being trained to the keenest perception of pitch, quality, rhythm and metre, an attractive personality, a bright mind, a good general education and an artistic temperament--a very extraordinary list, I grant you, but we must remember that the public pays out its money to hear extraordinary people and the would-be singer who does not possess qualifications of this description had better sincerely solicit the advice of some experienced, unbiased teacher or singer before putting forth upon the musical seas in a bark which must meet with certain destruction in weathering the first storm. The teacher who consciously advises a singer to undertake a public career and at the same time knows that such a career would very likely be a failure is beneath the recognition of any honest man or woman. THE SINGER'S EARLY TRAINING The education of the singer should not commence too early, if we mean by education the training of the voice. If you discover that a child has a very remarkable voice, "ear" and musical intelligence you had better let the voice alone and give your attention to the general musical education of the child along the lines of that received by Madame Sembrich, who is a fine violinist and pianist. So few are the teachers who know anything whatever about the child-voice, or who can treat it with any degree of safety, that it is far better to leave it alone than to tamper with it. Encourage the child to sing softly, sweetly and naturally, much as in free fluent conversation, telling him to form the habit of speaking his tones forward "on the lips" rather than in the throat. If you have among your acquaintances some musician or singer of indisputable ability and impeccable honor who can give you disinterested advice have the child go to this friend now and then to ascertain whether any bad and unnatural habits are being formed. Of course we have the famous cases of Patti and others, who seem to have sung from infancy. I have no recollection of the time when I first commenced to sing. I have always sung and gloried in my singing. See to it that your musical child has a good general education. This does not necessarily mean a college or university training. In fact, the amount of music study a singer has to accomplish in these days makes the higher academic training apparently impossible. However, with the great musical advance there has come a demand for higher and better ordered intellectual work among singers. This condition is becoming more and more imperative every day. At the same time you must remember also that nothing should be undertaken that might in any way be liable to undermine or impair the child's health. WHEN TO BEGIN TRAINING The time to begin training depends upon the maturity of the voice and the individual, considered together with the physical condition of the pupil. Some girls are ready to start voice work at sixteen, while others are not really in condition until a somewhat older age. Here again comes the necessity for the teacher of judgment and experience. A teacher who might in any way be influenced by the necessity for securing a pupil or a fee should be avoided as one avoids the shyster lawyer. Starting vocal instruction too early has been the precipice over which many a promising career has been dashed to early oblivion. In choosing a teacher I hardly know what to say, in these days of myriad methods and endless claims. The greatest teachers I have known have been men and women of great simplicity and directness. The perpetrator of the complicated system is normally the creator of vocal failures. The secret of singing is at once a marvelous mystery and again an open secret to those who have realized its simplicity. It cannot be altogether written, nor can it be imparted by words alone. Imitation undoubtedly plays an important part, but it is not everything. The teacher must be one who has actually realized the great truths which underlie the best, simplest and most natural methods of securing results and who must possess the wonderful power of exactly communicating these principles to the pupil. A good teacher is far rarer than a good singer. Singers are often poor teachers, as they destroy the individuality of the pupil by demanding arbitrary imitation. A teacher can only be judged by results, and the pupil should never permit herself to be deluded by advertisements and claims a teacher is unable to substantiate with successful pupils. HABITS OF SPEECH, POISE AND THINKING One of the deep foundation piers of all educational effort is the inculcation of habits. The most successful voice teacher is the one who is most happy in developing habits of correct singing. These habits must be watched with the persistence, perseverance and affectionate care of the scientist. The teacher must realize that the single lapse or violation of a habit may mean the ruin of weeks or months of hard work. One of the most necessary habits a teacher should form is that of speaking with ease, naturalness and vocal charm. Many of our American girls speak with indescribable harshness, slovenliness and shrillness. This is a severe tax upon the sensibilities of a musical person and I know of countless people who suffer acute annoyance from this source. Vowels are emitted with a nasal twang or a throaty growl that seem at times most unpardonable noises when coming from a pretty face. Consonants are juggled and mangled until the words are very difficult to comprehend. Our girls are improving in this respect, but there is still cause for grievous complaint among voice teachers, who find in this one of their most formidable obstacles. Another common natural fault, which is particularly offensive to me, is that of an objectionable bodily poise. I have found throughout my entire career that bodily poise in concert work is of paramount importance, but I seem to have great difficulty in sufficiently impressing this great truth upon young ladies who would be singers. The noted Parisian teacher, Sbriglia, is said to require one entire year to build up and fortify the chest. I have always felt that the best poise is that in which the shoulders are held well back, although not in a stiff or strained position, the upper part of the body leaning forward gently and naturally and the whole frame balanced by a sense of relaxation and ease. In this position the natural equilibrium is not taxed, and a peculiar sensation of non-constraint seems to be noticeable, particularly over the entire area of the front of the torso. This position suggests ease and an absence of that military rigidity which is so fatal to all good vocal effort. It also permits of a freer movement of the abdominal walls, as well as the intercostal muscles, and is thus conducive to the most natural breathing. Too much anatomical explanation is liable to confuse the young singer, and if the matter of breathing can be assisted by poise, just so much is gained. Another important habit that the teacher should see to at the start is that of correct thinking. Most vocal beginners are poor thinkers and fail to realize the vast importance of the mind in all voice work. Unless the teacher has the power of inspiring the pupil to a realization of the great fact that nothing is accomplished in the throat that has not been previously performed in the mind, the path will be a difficult one. During the process of singing the throat and the auxiliary vocal process of breathing are really a part of the brain, or, more specifically, the mind or soul. The body is never more than an instrument. Without the performer it is as voiceless as the piano of Richard Wagner standing in all its solitary silence at Wahnfried--a mute monument of the marvelous thoughts which once rang from its vibrating wires to all parts of the civilized world. We really sing with that which leaves the body after death. It is in the cultivation of this mystery of mysteries, the soul, that most singers fail. The mental ideal is, after all, that which makes the singer. Patti possessed this ideal as a child, and with it the wonderful bodily qualifications which made her immortal. But it requires work to overcome vocal deficiencies, and Patti as a child was known to have been a ceaseless worker and thinker, always trying to bring her little body up to the high æsthetic appreciation of the best artistic interpretation of a given passage. MAURICE STRAKOSCH'S TEN VOCAL COMMANDMENTS It was from Maurice Strakosch that I learned of the methods pursued by Patti in her daily work, and although Strakosch was not a teacher in the commercial sense of the word, as he had comparatively few pupils, he was nevertheless a very fine musician, and there is no doubt that Patti owed a great deal to his careful and insistent régime and instruction. Although our relation was that of impresario and artist, I cannot be grateful enough to him for the advice and instruction I received from him. The technical exercises he employed were exceedingly simple and he gave more attention to how they were sung than to the exercises themselves. I know of no more effective set of exercises than Strakosch's ten daily exercises. They were sung to the different vowels, principally to the vowel "ah," as in "father." Notwithstanding their great simplicity Strakosch gave the greatest possible attention and time to them. Patti used these exercises, which he called his "Ten Commandments for the Singer," daily, and there can be little doubt that the extraordinary preservation of her voice is the result of these simple means. I have used them for years with exceptional results in all cases. However, if the singer has any idea that the mere practice of these exercises to the different vowel sounds will inevitably bring success she is greatly mistaken. These exercises are only valuable when used with vowels correctly and naturally "placed," and that means, in some cases, years of the most careful and painstaking work. Following are the famous "Ten Vocal Commandments," as used by Adelina Patti and several great singers in their daily work. Note their simplicity and gradual increase in difficulty. They are to be transposed at the teacher's discretion to suit the range of the voice and are to be used with the different vowels. [Illustration: I, musical notation] [Illustration: II, musical notation] [Illustration: III, musical notation] [Illustration: IV, musical notation] [Illustration: V, musical notation] [Illustration: VI, musical notation] [Illustration: VII, musical notation] [Illustration: VIII, musical notation] [Illustration: IX, musical notation] [Illustration: X, musical notation] The concert singer of the present day must have linguistic attainments far greater than those in demand some years ago. She is required to sing in English, French, German, Italian and some singers are now attempting the interpretation of songs in Slavic and other tongues. Not only do we have to consider arias and passages from the great oratorios and operas as a part of the present-day repertoire, but the song of the "Lied" type has come to have a valuable significance in all concert work. Many songs intended for the chamber and the salon are now included in programs of concerts and recitals given in our largest auditoriums. Only a very few numbers are in themselves songs written for the concert hall. Most of the numbers now sung at song concerts are really transplanted from either the stage or the chamber. This makes the position of the concert singer an extremely difficult one. Without the dramatic accessories of the opera house or the intimacy of the home circle, she is expected to achieve results varying from the cry of the Valkyries, in _Die Walküre_, to the frail fragrance of Franz' _Es hat die Rose sich beklagt_. I do not wonder that Mme. Schumann-Heink and others have declared that there is nothing more difficult or exhausting than concert singing. The enormous fees paid to great concert singers are not surprising when we consider how very few must be the people who can ever hope to attain great heights in this work. [Illustration: REINALD WERRENRATH. © Mishkin.] REINALD WERRENRATH BIOGRAPHICAL Reinald Werrenrath was born in Brooklyn, N. Y., August 7, 1883. His father, George Werrenrath, was a distinguished singer, and his mother (née Aretta Camp) is the daughter of Henry Camp, who was for many years musical director of Plymouth Church during the ministry there of Henry Ward Beecher. George Werrenrath was a Dane, with an unusually rich tenor voice, trained by the best teachers of his time in Germany, Italy, France and England. During his engagement as leading tenor in the Royal Opera House in Wiesbaden, he left Germany by the advice of Adelina Patti, eventually going to England with Maurice Strakosch, who was then his coach. In London Werrenrath had a fine career, and there was formed a warm and ultimate friendship with Charles Gounod, with whom he studied and toured in concerts through England and Belgium. George Werrenrath came to New York in 1876, by the influence of Mme. Antoinette Sterling and of the well-known Dane, General C. T. Christensen. He immediately became well known by his appearance with the Theodore Thomas Orchestra, as well as by his engagement at Plymouth Church, where he was soloist for seven years. He was probably the first artist to give song-recitals in the United States, while his performances in opera are still cherished in the memories of those people who can look back on some of the fine representations given under the baton of Adolph Neuendorf, at the old Academy of Music, which made the way for the later work at the Metropolitan Opera House. His interpretation of _Lohengrin_ was adjudged most wonderfully poetical. Reinald Werrenrath studied first with his father. At the Boys' High School and at New York University he was leader of musical affairs throughout the eight years spent in those schools. He studied violin with Carl Venth for four years, and had as his vocal teachers Dr. Carl Dufft, Frank King Clark, Dr. Arthur Mees, Percy Rector Stephens and Victor Maurel, giving especial credit for his voice training to years of study with Mr. Stephens whose vocal teaching ideas he sketches in part in the following. He has appeared with immense success in concert and oratorio in all parts of the United States. His talking machine records have been in great demand for years, and his voice is known to thousands who have never seen him. His operatic début was in _Pagliacci_, as _Silvio_, in the Metropolitan Opera House, February 19, 1919, where he later had specially fine success as _Valentine_ in _Faust_ and as the _Toreador_ in _Carmen_. NEW ASPECTS OF THE ART OF SINGING IN AMERICA REINALD WERRENRATH Every now and then someone asks me whether America is really becoming musical. All I can say is that a year ago I, with my accompanist, traveled over 61,000 miles, touching every part of this country and, during that eight months, singing almost nightly when the transit facilities would permit, found everywhere the very greatest enthusiasm for the very best music. Of course, Americans want some numbers on the program with the so-called "human" element; but at the same time they court the best in vocal art and seem never to get enough of it. All of my instruction has been received in America. All of my teachers, with the exception of my father and Victor Maurel, were born in America; so I may be called very much of an American product. Just why Americans should ever have been obsessed with the idea that it was impossible to teach voice successfully on this side of the Atlantic is hard to tell. I have a suspicion that many like the adventure of foreign travel far more than the labor of study. Probably ninety-five per cent. of the pupils who went over did so for the fascinating experience of living in a European environment rather than for the downright purpose of coming back great artists. Therefore, we should not blame the European teachers altogether for the countless failures that have floated back to us almost on every tide. I have recently heard a report that many of the highest-priced and most efficient voice teachers in Italy are Americans who have Italianized their names. Certainly the most successful voice teachers in Berlin were George Ferguson and Frank King Clark, who was at the top of the list also in Paris when he was there. The American singer should remember in these days that, first of all, he must sing in America and in the English language more than in any other. I am not one of those who decry singing in foreign languages. Certain songs, it is true, cannot be translated so that their meaning can be completely understood in English; yet, if the reader will think for a moment, how is the American auditor to understand a single thought of a poem in a language of which he knows nothing? The Italian is a glorious language for the singer, and with it English cannot be compared, with its thirty-one vowel sounds and its many coughing, sputtering consonants. Training in Italian solfeggios is very fine for creating a free, flowing style. Many of the Italian teachers were obsessed with the idea of the big tone. The audiences fired back volleys of "Bravos!" and "Da Capos" when the tenor took off his plumed hat, stood on his toes and howled a high C. That was part of his stock in trade. Naturally, he forced his voice, and most of the men singers quit at the age of fifty. I hope to be in my prime at that time, as my voice seems to grow better each year. Battistini, who was born in 1857, is an exception. His voice, I am told, is remarkably preserved. CLIMATIC CONDITIONS A SERIOUS HANDICAP Climatic conditions in many parts of America prove a serious handicap to the singer. At the same time, according to the law of the survival of the fittest, American singers must take care of themselves much better than the Italians, for instance. The salubrious, balmy climate of most of Italy is ideal for the throat. On our Eastern seaboard I find that fifty per cent. of my audiences in winter seem to have colds and bronchitis. The singer who is obliged to tour must, of course, take every possible precaution against catching cold; and that means becoming infected from exposure to colds when the system is run down. I attempt to avoid colds by securing plenty of outdoor exercise. I always walk to my hotel and to the station when I have time; and I walk as much as I can during the day. When I am not singing I immediately start to play--to fish, swim or hunt in the woods if I can make an opportunity. OPERATIC STUDY In one respect Europe is unquestionably superior to America for the vocal student. The student who wants to sing in opera will find in Europe ten opportunities for gaining experience to one here. While we have a few more opera companies than twenty-five years ago, it is still a great task to secure even an opening. Americans, outside of the great cities, do not seem to be especially inclined toward opera. They will accept a little of it when it is given to them by a superb company like the Metropolitan. In New York we find a public more cosmopolitan than in any other city of the world, with the possible exception of London. In immediate ancestry it is more European than American, and naturally opera becomes a great public demand. Seats sell at fabulous prices and the houses are crowded. Next comes opera at popular prices; and we have one or two very good companies giving that with success. Then there is the opera in America's other cosmopolitan center, Chicago, where many world-famed artists appear. After that, opera in America is hardly worth mentioning. What chance has the student? Only one who for years has been uniformed in a black dress suit and backed into the curve of the grand piano in a recital hall can know what it means to get out on the operatic stage, in those fantastic clothes, walk around, act, sing and at the same time watch the conductor with his ninety men. Only he can know what the difference between singing in concert and on the operatic stage really is. Yet old opera singers who enter the recital field invariably say that it is far harder to get up alone in a large hall and become the whole performance, aided and abetted only by an able accompanist, than it is to sing in opera. The recital has the effect of preserving the fineness of many operatic voices. Modern opera has ruined dozens of fine vocal organs because of the tremendous strain made upon them and the tendency to neglect vocal art for dramatic impression. If there were more of the better _singing_ in opera, such as one hears from Mr. Caruso, there would be less comment upon opera as a bastard art. Operatic work is very exhilarating. The difference between concert and opera for the singer is that between oatmeal porridge and an old vintage champagne. There is no time at the Metropolitan for raw singers. The works in the repertoire must be known so well in the singing and the acting that they may be put on perfectly with the least possible rehearsals. Therefore, the singer has no time for routine. The lack of a foreign name will keep no American singer out of the Metropolitan; but the lack of the ability to save the company hundreds of dollars through needless waits at rehearsals will. NATURAL METHODS OF SINGING Certainly no country in recent years has produced so many "corking" good singers as America. Our voices are fresh, virile, pure and rich; when the teaching is right. Our singers are for the most part finely educated and know how to interpret the texts intelligently. Mr. W. J. Henderson, the eminent New York critic, in his "Art of Singing," gave the following definition, which my former teacher, the late Dr. Carl Dufft, endorsed very highly: "Singing is the expression of a text by means of tones made by the human voice." More and more the truth of this comes to me. Singing is not merely vocalizing but always a means of communication in which the artist must convey the message of the two great minds of the poet and the composer to his fellow man. In this the voice must be as natural as possible, as human as possible, and not merely a sugary tone. The German, the Frenchman, the Englishman and the American strive first for an intelligent interpretation of the text. The Italian thinks of tone first and the text afterward, except in the modern Italian school of realistic singing. For this one must consider the voice normally and sensibly. I owe my treatment of my voice largely to Mr. Stephens, with whom I have studied for the last eight years, taking a lesson every day I am in New York. This is advisable, I believe, because no matter how well one may think one sings, another trained mind with other ears may detect defects that might lead to serious difficulties later. His methods are difficult to describe; but a few main principles may be very interesting to vocalists. My daily work in practice is commenced by stretching exercises, in which I aim to free the muscles covering the upper part of the abdomen and the intercostal muscles at the side and back--all by stretching upward and writhing around, as it were, so that there cannot possibly be any constriction. Then, with my elbows bent and my fists over my head, I stretch the muscles over my shoulders and shoulder blades. Finally, I rotate my head upward and around, so that the muscles of the neck are freed and become very easy and flexible. While I am finishing with the last exercise I begin speaking in a fairly moderate tone such vowel combinations as "OH-AH," "OH-AH," "EE-AY," "EE-AY," "EE-AY-EE-AY-EE-AY," etc. While doing this I walk about the room so that there will not be any suggestion of stiltedness or vocal or muscular interference. At first this is done without the addition of any attempted nasal resonance. Gradually nasal resonance is introduced with different spoken vowels, while at the same time every effort is made to preserve ease and flexibility of the entire body. Then, when it seems as though the right vocal quality is coming, pitch is introduced at the most convenient range and exercises with pitch are taken through the range of the voice. The whole idea is to make the tones as natural and free and pure as possible with the least effort. I am opposed to the old idea of tone placing, in which the pupil toed a mark, set the throat at some prescribed angle, adjusted the tongue in some approved design, and then, gripped like the unfortunate victim in the old-fashioned photographer's irons, attempted to sing a sustained tone or a rapid scale. What was the result--consciousness and stiltedness and, as a rule, a tired throat and a ruined singer. These ideas may seem revolutionary to many. They are only a few of Mr. Stephens' very numerous devices; but for many years they have been of more benefit than anything else in keeping me vocally fit. We in the New World should be on the outlook for advance along all lines. Our American composers have held far too close to European ideals and done too little real thinking for themselves. Our vocal teachers and, for that matter, teachers in all branches of musical art in America have been most progressive in devising new ways and better methods. There will never be an American method of singing because we are too wise not to realize that every pupil needs different and special treatment. What is fine for one might be injurious to the next one. [Illustration: EVAN WILLIAMS.] EVAN WILLIAMS BIOGRAPHICAL Evan Williams, as his name suggests, was of Welsh ancestry, although born in Trumbull County, Ohio, Sept. 7, 1867. As a boy his singing attracted the attention of his friends and neighbors. When a young man he went to Mme. Louise von Fielitsen, in Cleveland, and studied under her for four years. At the end of this time it became necessary for him to earn money immediately, as he had married at the age of twenty. Accordingly he went with the "Primrose and West" minstrels for one season. Everywhere he appeared his voice attracted enthusiastic attention. This aroused his ambition and in 1894 he went to New York where he was engaged at All Angels Church at a yearly salary of $1000.00. Six months later the Marble Collegiate Church took him over at $1500.00 which was shortly raised to $2000.00. In 1896 he appeared at the Worcester Festival with great success and then went to New York to study with James Sauvage for three years. Notwithstanding his long terms of instruction with teachers of high reputation, Mr. Williams felt that he had still much to learn, as he would find himself singing finely one night and so badly on the next that he would resolve never to sing again. Accordingly he studied with Meehan for three years more. Then he retired from the concert stage for three years in order to improve himself. Deciding to appear in public again he went to London where he sang for three years with popular success. However, he was still dissatisfied with his voice. Mr. Williams' personal narrative tells how he got his voice back. His death, May 24, 1918, prevented him from carrying out his project to become a teacher and thus introduce his discoveries. The following, therefore, becomes of interesting historical significance. HOW I REGAINED A LOST VOICE EVAN WILLIAMS There is nothing so disquieting to the singer as the feeling that his voice, upon which his artistic hopes, to say nothing of his livelihood, depend, is not a reliable organ, but a fickle thing which to-day may be in splendid condition but to-morrow may be gone. Time and again I have been driven to the verge of desperation by my own voice. While I am grateful to all of my excellent teachers for the many valuable things they taught me, I had a strong feeling that there was something which I must know and which only I myself could find out for myself. After a very wide experience here and in England I found myself with so little confidence in my ability to produce uniformly excellent results when on the concert stage, that I retired to Akron, Ohio, resolving to spend the rest of my life in teaching. There I remained for four years, thinking out the great problem that confronted me. It is only during the last year that I have become convinced that I have solved it. My musical work has made me well-to-do and I want now to give my ideas to the world so that others may profit if they find them valuable. I have nothing to sell--but I trust that I can put into words, without inventing a new and bewildering nomenclature, something that will prove of practical assistance to young singers as it has been to me. AN INDISPUTABLE RECORD In 1908 I left Akron and resolved to try to reinstate myself in New York as a singer. I also made talking machine records, only to find that seldom could I make a record at the first attempt that was up to the very high standard maintained by the company in the case of all records placed upon the market for sale. This meant a great waste of my time and the company's material and services. It naturally set me thinking. If I could do it one time--why couldn't I do it all the time? There was no contradicting the talking machine record. The machine records the slightest blemish as well as the most perfect tone. There was no getting away from the fact that sometimes my singing was far from what I wished it to be. The strange thing about it all was that my singing did not seem to depend upon the physical condition or feeling of my throat. Some days when my throat felt at its very best the records would come back in a way that I was ashamed of. It is a strange feeling to hear one's own voice from the talking machine. It sounds quite differently from the impression one gets while singing. I began to ponder, why were some of my records poor and others good? After deep thought for a very long period of time, I commenced to make certain postulates which I believe I have since proved (to my own satisfaction at least) to be reasonable and true. They not only resulted in an improvement in my voice, but they enabled me to do at command what I had previously been able to do only occasionally. They are: I. Tone creates its own support. II. Much of the time spent in elaborate breathing exercises (while excellent for the health and valuable to the singer, in a way) do not produce the results that are expected. III. The singer's first studies should be with his brain and ear, rather than through an attempt at muscular control of the breathing muscles. IV. Vocal resonance can be developed through a proper understanding of tone color (vocal timbre), so that uniformly excellent production of tones will result. TONE CREATES ITS OWN SUPPORT The first two postulates can be discussed as one. Tone creates its own support. How does a bird learn to sing? How does the animal learn to cry? How does the lion learn to roar? Or the donkey learn to bray? By practicing breathing exercises? Most certainly not. I have known many, many singers with splendid voices who have never heard of breathing exercises. Go out into the Welsh mining districts and listen to the voices. They learn to breathe by learning how to sing, and by singing. These men have lungs that the average vocal student would give a fortune to possess. By singing correctly they acquire all the lung control that any vocal composition could demand. As a matter of fact, one does not need such a huge amount of breath to sing. The average singer uses entirely too much. A goose has lungs ten times as large as a nightingale but that doesn't make the goose's song lovely to listen to. I have known men with lungs big enough to work a blast furnace who yet had little bits of voices, so small that they were ridiculous. It would be better for most vocal students to emit the breath for five seconds before attacking the tone. One of the reasons for much vocal forcing is too much breath. Maybe I haven't thought about these things! I have spent hours in silence making up my mind. It is my firm conviction that the average person (entirely without instruction in breathing of a special kind) has enough breath to sing any phrase one might be called upon to sing. I think, without question, that teachers and singers have all been working their heads off to develop strength in the wrong direction. Mind you--this is not a sermon against breathing. I believe in plenty of breathing exercises for the sake of one's health. A GOOD POSITION Singers study breathing as though they were trying to learn how to push out the voice or pull it out by suction. By standing in a sensible position with the chest high (but not forced up) the lung capacity of the average individual is quite surprising. A good position can be secured through the old Delsarte exercise which is as follows: I. Stand on the balls of your feet, heels just touching the floor. II. Hold your arms at your side in a relaxed condition. III. Move your arms forward until they form an angle of forty-five degrees with the body. Press the palms down until the chest is up comfortably. IV. Now let your arms drop back without letting your chest fall. Feel a sense of ease and freedom over the whole body. Breathe naturally and deeply. In other words, to "poise" the breath, stand erect, at attention. Most people when called to this "attention" posture stiffen themselves so that they are in a position of resistance. When I say _attention_,--I mean the position in which you have alertness but at the same time complete freedom,--when you can freely smile, sigh, scowl and sneer,--the attention that will permit expansion of the chest with every change of mood. Then, open the mouth without inhaling. Let the breath out for five seconds, close the mouth and inhale through the nostrils. I keep the fact that I breathe into the lungs through the nostrils before me all the time. Again open the mouth without allowing the air to pass in. Practice this until a comfortable stretch is felt in the flesh of the face, the top of the head, the back, the chest and the abdomen. If you stretch violently you will not experience this feeling. SENSATIONS I fully realize that much of what I have said will not be in accord with what is preached, practiced and taught by many vocal teachers and I cannot attempt to reply to any critics. I merely know what sensations and experiences I have had after a lifetime of practical work in a profession which has brought me a fortune. Furthermore I know that anything anyone might say on the subject of the human voice would be at variance with the opinions of others. There is probably no subject in human ken in which there is such a marked difference of opinion. I can merely try to describe my own sensations and vocal experiences. In trying to represent the course of the sensation I experience in producing a good tone, I have employed the following illustration. Imagine two pieces of whip cord. Tie the ends together. Place the knot immediately under the upper lip directly beneath the center bone of the nose, run the strings straight back for an inch, then up over the cheek bones, then down around the uvula, thence down the large cords inside the neck. At a point in the center between the shoulders the cords would split in order to let one set go down the back and the other toward the chest, meeting again under the arm-pits, thence down the short ribs, thence down and joining in another knot slightly back of the pelvic bone. Laugh, if you will, but this is actually the sensation I have repeatedly felt in producing what the talking machine has shown to be a good tone. Remember that there were plenty to laugh at Columbus, Gallileo and even Darius Green of the Flying Machine. Stand in "attention" as directed, with the body responsive and the mind sensitive to physical impressions. When opening the mouth without taking in air a slight stretch will be experienced along the whole track I have described. The poise felt in this position is what permitted Bob Fitzsimmons to strike a deadly blow with a two-inch stroke. It is the responsive poise with which I sing both loud and soft tones. Furthermore, I do not believe in an absolutely relaxed lower jaw as though it had been broken. Who could sing with a broken jaw?--and a broken jaw would represent ideal relaxation. The jaw should be slightly stretched but never strained. I think that the word relaxation, as used by most teachers and as understood by most students, is responsible for more ruined voices than all other terms used in vocal teaching. I have talked this matter over with numberless great singers who are constantly before the public, and their very singing is the best contradiction of this. When you hold your hand out freely before you what is it that keeps it from falling at your side? That same condition controls the jaw. Find it: it is not relaxation. If you would be a perfect singer find the juggler who is balancing a feather. Imagine yourself poised on the top of that feather, and sing without falling off. CONTRASTING TIMBRES THAT LEAD TO A BEAUTIFUL TONE WHEN COMBINED We shall now seek to illustrate two contrasting qualities of tones, between which lies that quality which I sought for so long. The desired quality is not a compromise, but seems to be located half way between two extremes, and may best be brought to the attention of the reader by describing the extremes. The first is a dark quality of tone. To get this, place the tips of the second fingers on the sides of the voice box (Adam's apple) and make a dark almost breathy sound, using "u" as in the word hum. Do this without any signs of strain. Allow the sound to float up into the mouth and nose. To many there will also be a sensation as though the sound were also floating down into the lungs (into both lungs). Do not make any conscious effort to force the sound or place it in any particular location. The sound will do it of its own accord if you do not strain. While the sound is being made, there will be a slight upward pulling of the voice box, a slight tugging at the voice box. This, of course, occurs automatically, and there should be no attempt to control it or promote it. It is nature at work. The tongue, while making this sound, should be limp, with the tip resting on the lower front teeth. All along it is necessary to caution the singer not to strive to do artificial things. Therefore do not poke or stick the tip of your tongue against the front teeth. If your tongue is not strained it will rest there naturally. Work at this exercise until you can fill the mouth and nose (and also seemingly the chest) with a rich, smooth, well-controlled, well-modulated dark sound and do it easily,--with slight effort. Do not try to hold the sound in the throat. The second sound we shall experiment with is the extreme antithesis of the first sound. Its resonance is high and it is bright in every sense. Place the fingers on the joints just in front and above holes in the ears. Open the mouth without inhaling and make the sound of "e" as in when. As the dark sound described before cannot be made too dark this sound cannot be made too strident. It is the extreme from the rumble of the drum to the piercing rasp of the file. I have called it the animal sound, and in calling it strident, please do not infer that the nose, or any part of the mouth or soft palate, should be pinched to make it nasal, in the restricted sense of that term. When I sing this tone it is accompanied with a sensation as though the tone were being reflected downward from the voice box over to each side of the chest just in front of the arm-pits and then downward into the abdomen. Here the great danger arises that the unskilled student will try to produce this sensation, whereas the fact of the matter is that the sensation is the accompaniment of the properly produced tone and cannot be made artificially. Don't work for the sensation, work for the tone that produces such a sensation. At the same time the tone has a sensation of upward reflection, as though it arose at the back of the voice box and separated there, passed up behind the jaws to the points where your fingers are resting, entering the mouth from above, as it were from a point just between the hard and soft palates, and becoming one sound in the mouth. The uvula and part of the soft palate should be associated with the dark sound. The hard palate and part of the soft palate should be associated with the strident tone. THE TONGUE POSITION In making the strident sound the tongue should rest in the same position as for the dark sound. The dark tone never changes and is the basic sound which gives fullness, foundation, depth to the ultimate tone. Without it all voices are thin and unsubstantial. The nearer the singer gets to this the nearer he approaches the great vibrating base upon which the world is founded. Remember that the dark tone never changes. It is the background, the canvas upon which the singer paints his infinite moods by means of different vowels, emotions, and the tone colors which are derived in numberless modifications from the strident tone. Another simile may bring the subject nearer to the reader student. Imagine the dark tone and all the sensations in different parts of the body as a kind of atmosphere or gas which requires to be set on fire by the electric spark of the strident tone. The dark tone is all necessary, but it is useless unless it is properly electrified by the strident tone. A PRACTICAL STEP How shall we utilize what we have learned, so that the student may convince himself that herein ties the truth which, properly understood and sensibly applied, will lead to a means of improving his tone. If the foregoing has been carefully read and understood, the following exercise to get the tone which results from a combination of the dark and the strident is simple. I. Stand erect as directed. II. Open the mouth _without inhaling_. III. Produce the dark tone ("u" as in hum). IV. Close the mouth and allow the air to pass in and out of the nostrils for a few seconds. V. Open the mouth without inhaling. VI. Make the strident sound ("e" as in when). VII. Close the mouth and let the air pass in and out of nostrils a few seconds. VIII. Open the mouth without inhaling. IX. Sing the vowel "Ah" as in _father_ in such a manner that it is a combination of the dark tone and the strident tone. X. Do this in such a way that all of the breathy disagreeable features of the dark tone disappear but its foundation features remain to give it fullness and roundness, while all of the disagreeable features of the strident tone disappear although its color-giving, light-giving, life-giving characteristics are retained to give the combination-tone richness and sweetness. A beautiful result is inevitable, if the principle is properly understood. I have tried this with many people who have sung but little before in their lives and who were not conscious of having interesting voices. Without a long course of vocal lessons or anything of the sort they have been able to produce in a short time--a very few minutes--a tone that would be admired by any critic. A COMFORTABLE PITCH It is to be assumed that the student will, in these experiments, take the pitch in his voice which is most comfortable. Having mastered the combination tone on "Ah" at any pitch, it will be easy to try other pitches and other vowels. "Ah" is the natural vowel, but having secured the "know how" through a correct production of "Ah" the same results may be attained with any other vowel produced in a similar way. "E" as in _see_ has of course more of the strident quality, the high, bright quality and "OO" as in moon more of the dark, but even these extreme tones may be so placed that they become enriched through the employment of resonance of all those parts of the mouth, nose and body which may be brought naturally to reinforce them. "PING" I have never met a singer who was not looking for "ping" or what is called brightness. Most voices are hopelessly dead, and therefore lack sweetness. The voices are filled with night--black hollow gloomy night or else they are as strident as the caterwauling of a Tom Cat. The happy mean between the extremes is the area in which the singer's greatest results are attained. Think of your tone, always. The breath will then take care of itself. If the tone has a tremulo, or sounds stuffy or sounds weak, you have not apportioned the right amount of breath to it, but you are not going to gain this information by thinking of the breath but by thinking of the tone. LET YOUR OWN EARS CONVINCE YOU Now, that is all there is to it. I am not striving to found a method or anything of the sort; but I have seen students waste years on what is called "voice placing" and not come to anything like the same result that will come after the accomplishment of this simple matter. Try it out with your own voice. You will see in a short time what it will do. Your own ears will convince you, to say nothing of the ears of your friends. All I know is that after I discovered this, it was possible for me to employ it and make records with so small a percentage of discard that I have been surprised. It remains for the intelligent teachers to apply such knowledge to a systematic vocal course of exercises, studies and songs, which will help the pupil to progress most rapidly. Don't think that I am pretending to tell all that there is to vocal culture in an hour. It is a great and important study upon which I have spent a lifetime. However, as I said before, I have nothing to sell and I am only too happy to give this information which has cost me so many hours of thought to crystallize. Typographical errors corrected by the transcriber of this etext: Talmadge=>Talmage Artious=>Artibus citadal=>citadel Wohltemperites=>Wohltemperiertes liebenswurdig=>liebenswürdig Délibes=>Delibes Words not changed: unforgetable, skilful, Beyreuth, marvelous 
5724	----	The HTML version of this text produced by Bob Frone can be found at <http://www.intac.com/~rfrone/operas/Books/oper-books.htm> Plain text adaption by Andrew Sly. A BOOK OF OPERAS THEIR HISTORIES, THEIR PLOTS, AND THEIR MUSIC BY HENRY EDWARD KREHBIEL TO LUGIEN WULSIN AN OLD FRIEND "Old friends are best."--SELDEN. "I love everything that's old,--old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine."--GOLDSMITH. "Old wood to burn! Old wine to drink! Old friends to trust! Old authors to read!"--MELCHIOR. CONTENTS Chapter I "Il Barbiere di Siviglia" First performance of Italian opera in the United States--Production of Rossini's opera in Rome, London, Paris, and New York--Thomas Phillipps and his English version--Miss Leesugg and Mrs. Holman--Emanuel Garcia and his troupe--Malibran--Early operas in America--Colman's "Spanish Barber"--Other Figaro operas--How Rossini came to Write "Il Barbiere" --The story of a fiasco--Garcia and his Spanish song--"Segui, o caro" --Giorgi-Righetti--The plot of the opera--The overture--"Ecco ridente in cielo"--"Una voce poco fà,"--Rossini and Patti--The lesson scene and what singers have done with it--Grisi, Alboni, Catalani, Bosio, Gassier, Patti, Sembrich, Melba, and Viardot--An echo of Haydn. Chapter II "Le Nozze di Figaro" Beaumarchais and his Figaro comedies--"Le Nozze" a sequel to "Il Barbiere"--Mozart and Rossini--Their operas compared--Opposition to Beaumarchais's "Marriage de Figaro"--Moral grossness of Mozart's opera--A relic of feudalism--Humor of the horns--A merry overture --The story of the opera--Cherubino,--"Non so più cosa son"-- Benucci and the air "Non più andrai"--"Voi che sapete"--A marvellous finale--The song to the zephyr--A Spanish fandango--"Deh vieni non tardar." Chapter III "Die Zauberflöte" The oldest German opera current in America--Beethoven's appreciation of Mozart's opera--Its Teutonism--Otto Jahn's estimate--Papageno, the German Punch--Emanuel Schikaneder--Wieland and the original of the story of the opera--How "Die Zanberflöte" came to be written--The story of "Lulu"--Mozart and freemasonry--The overture to the opera-- The fugue theme and a theme from a sonata by Clementi--The opera's play--"O Isis und Osiris"--"Hellish rage" and fiorituri--The song of the Two Men in Armor--Goethe and the libretto of "Die Zauberflöte"-- How the opera should be viewed. Chapter IV "Don Giovanni" The oldest Italian operas in the American repertory--Mozart as an influence--What great composers have said about "Don Giovanni,"-- Beethoven--Rossini--Gounod--Wagner--History of the opera--Da Ponte's pilferings--Bertati and Gazzaniga's "Convitato di Pietra"--How the overture to "Don Giovanni" was written--First performances of the opera in Prague, Vienna, London, and New York--Garcia and Da Ponte --Malibran--English versions of the opera--The Spanish tale of Don Juan Tenorio--Dramatic versions--The tragical note in the overture --The plot of the opera--Gounod on the beautiful in Mozart's music --Leporello's catalogue--"Batti, batti o bel Masetto"--The three dances in the first finale--The last scene--Mozart quotes from his contemporaries--The original close of the opera. Chapter V "Fidelio" An opera based on conjugal love--"Fidelio," "Orfeo," and "Alceste"-- Beethoven a Sincere moralist--Technical history of "Fidelio,"--The subject treated by Paër and Gaveaux--Beethoven's commission--The first performance a failure--A revision by the composer's friends-- The second trial--Beethoven withdraws his opera--A second revision --The revival of 1814--Success at last--First performances in London and New York--The opera enriched by a ballet--Plot of "Fidelio"-- The first duet--The canon quartet--A dramatic trio--Milder-Hauptmann and the great scena--Florestan's air--The trumpet call--The opera's four overtures--Their history. Chapter VI "Faust" The love story in Gounod's opera--Ancient bondsmen of the devil-- Zoroaster, Democritus, Empedocles, Apollonius, Virgil, Albertus Magnus, Merlin, Paracelsus, Theophilus of Syracuse,--The myth-making capacity--Bismarck and the needle-gun--Printing, a black art--Johann Fust of Mayence--The veritable Faust--Testimony of Luther and Melanchthon--The literary history of Dr. Faustus--Goethe and his predecessors--Faust's covenant with Mephistopheles--Dr. Faustus and matrimony--The Polish Faust--The devil refuses to marry Madame Twardowska--History of Gounod's opera--The first performance-- Popularity of the opera--First productions in London and New York-- The story--Marguerite and Gretchen--The jewel song--The ballet. Chapter VII "Mefistofele" Music in the mediaeval Faust plays--Early operas on the subject-- Meyerbeer and Goethe's poem--Composers of Faust music--Beethoven-- Boito's reverence for Goethe's poem--His work as a poet--A man of mixed blood--"Mefistofele" a fiasco in Milan--The opera revised-- Boito's early ambitions--Disconnected episodes--Philosophy of the opera--Its scope--Use of a typical phrase--The plot--Humors of the English translation--Music of the prologue--The Book of Job--Boito's metrical schemes--The poodle and the friar--A Polish dance in the Rhine country--Gluck and Vestris--The scene on the Brocken--The Classical Sabbath--Helen of Troy--A union of classic and romantic art--First performance of Boito's opera in America, (footnote). Chapter VIII "La Damnation de Faust" Berlioz's dramatic legend--"A thing of shreds and patches"--Turned into an opera by Raoul Gunsbourg--The composer's "Scenes from Faust" --History of the composition--The Rakoczy March--Concert performances in New York--Scheme of the work--The dance of the sylphs and the aërial ballet--Dance of the will-o'-the-wisps--The ride to hell. Chapter IX "La Traviata" Familiarity with music and its effects--An experience of the author's--Prelude to Verdi's last act--Expressiveness of some melodies--Verdi, the dramatist--Von Bülow and Mascagni--How "Traviata" came to be written--Piave, the librettist--Composed simultaneously with "Il Trovatore,"--Failure of "La Traviata," --The causes--The style of the music--Dr. Basevi's view--Changes in costuming--The opera succeeds--First performance in New York, --A criticism by W. H. Fry--Story of the opera--Dumas's story and harles Dickens--Controversy as a help to popular success. Chapter X "Aïda" Popular misconceptions concerning the origin of Verdi's opera--The Suez Canal and Cairo Opera-house--A pageant opera--Local color-- The entombment scene--The commission for the opera--The plot and its author, Mariette Bey--His archaeological discoveries at Memphis --Camille du Locle and Antonio Ghislanzoni--First performance of the opera--Unpleasant experiences in Paris--The plot--Ancient Memphis--Oriental melodies and local color--An exotic scale--The antique trumpets and their march. Chapter XI "Der Freischütz" The overture--The plot--A Leitmotif before Wagner--Berlioz and Agathe's air--The song of the Bridesmaids--Wagner and his dying stepfather--The Teutonism of the opera--Facts from a court record --Folklore of the subject--Holda, Wotan, and the Wild Hint--How magical bullets may be obtained--Wagner's description of the Wolf's Glen--Romanticism and classicism--Weber and Theodor Körner--German opera at Dresden--Composition of "Der Freischütz"--First performances in New York, (footnote). Chapter XII "Tannhäuser" Wagner and Greek ideals--Methods of Wagnerian study--The story of the opera--Poetical and musical contents of the overture--The bacchanale--The Tannhäuser legend--The historical Tannhäuser--The contest of minstrels in the Wartburg--Mediaeval ballads--Heroes and their charmers--Classical and other parallels--Caves of Venus-- The Hörselberg in Thuringia--Dame Holda--The tale of Sir Adelbert. Chapter XIII "Tristan und Isolde" The old legend of Tristram and Iseult--Its literary history--Ancient elements--Wagner's ethical changes--How the drama came to be written --Frau Wesendonck--Wagner and Dom Pedro of Brazil--First performances in Munich and New York--The prelude--Wagner's poetical exposition-- The song of the Sailor--A symbol of suffering--The Death Phrase--The Shepherd's mournful melody--His merry tune--Tristan's death. Chapter XIV "Parsifal" The story--The oracle--The musical symbol of Parsifal--Herzeleide-- Kundry--Suffering and lamentation--The bells and march--The eucharistic hymn--The love-feast formula--Faith--Unveiling of the Grail--Klingsor's incantation--The Flower Maidens--The quest of the Holy Grail--Personages and elements of the legend--Ethical idea of Wagner's drama--Biblical and liturgical elements--Wagner's aim--The Knights Templars--John the Baptist, Herodias, and the bloody head-- Relics of Christ's sufferings--The Holy Grail at Genoa--The sacred lances at Nuremberg and Rome--Ancient and mediaeval parallels of personages, apparatuses, and scenes--Wagner's philosophy--Buddhism-- First performances of "Parsifal" in Bayreuth and New York, (footnote). Chapter XV "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg" "Ridendo castigat mores"--Wagner's adherence to classical ideals of tragedy and comedy--The subject of the satire in "Die Meistersinger" --Wagenseil's book on Nuremberg--Plot of the comedy--The Church of St. Catherine in Nuremberg--A relic of the mastersingers--Mastersongs in the Municipal Library--Wagner's chorus of mastersingers, (footnote) --A poem by Sixtus Beckmesser--The German drama in Nuremberg--Hans Sachs's plays--His Tannhäuser tragedy--"Tristram and Iseult"--"The Wittenberg Nightingale" and "Wach' auf!"--Wagner's quotation from an authentic mastersong melody--Romanticism and classicism--The prelude to "Die Meistersinger." Chapter XVI "Lohengrin" Wolfram von Eschenbach's story of Loherangrin--Other sources of the Lohengrin legend--"Der jüngere Titurel" and "Le Chevalier au Cygne" --The plot of Wagner's opera--A mixture of myths--Relationship of the Figaro operas--Contradictions between "Lohengrin" and "Parsifal" --The forbidden question--Wagner's love of theatrical effect--The finale of "Tannhäuser,"--The law of taboo in "Lohengrin"--Jupiter and Semele--Cupid and Psyche--The saga of Skéaf--King Henry, the Fowler. Chapter XVII "Hänsel und Gretel" Wagner's influence and his successors--Engelbert Humperdinck--Myths and fairy tales--Origin of "Hänsel und Gretel"--First performances-- An application of Wagnerian principles--The prelude--The Prayer Theme --The Counter-charm--Theme of Fulfilment--Story of the opera--A relic of an old Christmas song--Theme of the Witch--The Theme of Promise-- "Ring around a Rosy"--The "Knusperwalzer." CHAPTER I "IL BARBIERE DI SIVIGLIA" The history of what is popularly called Italian opera begins in the United States with a performance of Rossini's lyrical comedy "Il Barbiere di Siviglia"; it may, therefore, fittingly take the first place in these operatic studies. The place was the Park Theatre, then situated in Chambers Street, east of Broadway, and the date November 29, 1825. It was not the first performance of Italian opera music in America, however, nor yet of Rossini's merry work. In the early years of the nineteenth century New York was almost as fully abreast of the times in the matter of dramatic entertainments as London. New works produced in the English capital were heard in New York as soon as the ships of that day could bring over the books and the actors. Especially was this true of English ballad operas and English transcriptions, or adaptations, of French, German, and Italian operas. New York was five months ahead of Paris in making the acquaintance of the operatic version of Beaumarchais's "Barbier de Séville." The first performance of Rossini's opera took place in Rome on February 5, 1816. London heard it in its original form at the King's Theatre on March 10, 1818, with Garcia, the first Count Almaviva, in that part. The opera "went off with unbounded applause," says Parke (an oboe player, who has left us two volumes of entertaining and instructive memoirs), but it did not win the degree of favor enjoyed by the other operas of Rossini then current on the English stage. It dropped out of the repertory of the King's Theatre and was not revived until 1822--a year in which the popularity of Rossini in the British metropolis may be measured by the fact that all but four of the operas brought forward that year were composed by him. The first Parisian representation of the opera took place on October 26, 1819. Garcia was again in the cast. By that time, in all likelihood, all of musical New York that could muster up a pucker was already whistling "Largo al factotum" and the beginning of "Una voce poco fà," for, on May 17, 1819, Thomas Phillipps had brought an English "Barber of Seville" forward at a benefit performance for himself at the same Park Theatre at which more than six years later the Garcia company, the first Italian opera troupe to visit the New World, performed it in Italian on the date already mentioned. At Mr. Phillipps's performance the beneficiary sang the part of Almaviva, and Miss Leesugg, who afterward became the wife of the comedian Hackett, was the Rosina. On November 21, 1821, there was another performance for Mr. Phillipps's benefit, and this time Mrs. Holman took the part of Rosina. Phillipps and Holman--brave names these in the dramatic annals of New York and London a little less than a century ago! When will European writers on music begin to realize that musical culture in America is not just now in its beginnings? It was Manuel Garcia's troupe that first performed "Il Barbiere di Siviglia" in New York, and four of the parts in the opera were played by members of his family. Manuel, the father, was the Count, as he had been at the premières in Rome, London, and Paris; Manuel, son, was the Figaro (he lived to read about eighty-one years of operatic enterprise in New York, and died at the age of 101 years in London in 1906); Signora Garcia, mère, was the Berta, and Rosina was sung and played by that "cunning pattern of excellent nature," as a writer of the day called her, Signorina Garcia, afterward the famous Malibran. The other performers at this representation of the Italian "Barber" were Signor Rosich (Dr. Bartolo), Signor Angrisani (Don Basilio), and Signor Crivelli, the younger (Fiorello). The opera was given twenty-three times in a season of seventy-nine nights, and the receipts ranged from $1843 on the opening night and $1834 on the closing, down to $356 on the twenty-ninth night. But neither Phillipps nor Garcia was the first to present an operatic version of Beaumarchais's comedy to the American people. French operas by Rousseau, Monsigny, Dalayrac, and Grétry, which may be said to have composed the staple of the opera-houses of Europe in the last decades of the eighteenth century, were known also in the contemporaneous theatres of Charleston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York. In 1794 the last three of these cities enjoyed "an opera in 3 acts," the text by Colman, entitled, "The Spanish Barber; or, The Futile Precaution." Nothing is said in the announcements of this opera touching the authorship of the music, but it seems to be an inevitable conclusion that it was Paisiello's, composed for St. Petersburg about 1780. There were German "Barbers" in existence at the time composed by Benda (Friedrich Ludwig), Elsperger, and Schulz, but they did not enjoy large popularity in their own country, and Isouard's "Barbier" was not yet written. Paisiello's opera, on the contrary, was extremely popular, throughout Europe. True, he called it "The Barber of Seville," not "The Spanish Barber," but Colman's subtitle, "The Futile Precaution," came from the original French title. Rossini also adopted it and purposely avoided the chief title set by Beaumarchais and used by Paisiello; but he was not long permitted to have his way. Thereby hangs a tale of the composition and first failure of his opera which I must now relate. On December 26, 1815, the first day of the carnival season, Rossini produced his opera, "Torvaldo e Dorliska," at the Teatro Argentina, in Rome, and at the same time signed a contract with Cesarini, the impresario of the theatre, to have the first act of a second opera ready on the twentieth day of the following January. For this opera Rossini was to receive 400 Roman scudi (the equivalent of about $400) after the first three performances, which he was to conduct seated at the pianoforte in the orchestra, as was then the custom. He seems to have agreed to take any libretto submitted by the impresario and approved by the public censor; but there are indications that Sterbini, who was to write the libretto, had already suggested a remodelling of Paisiello's "Barber." In order to expedite the work of composition it was provided in the contract that Rossini was to take lodgings with a singer named Zamboni, to whom the honor fell of being the original of the town factotum in Rossini's opera. Some say that Rossini completed the score in thirteen days; some in fifteen. Castil-Blaze says it was a month, but the truth is that the work consumed less than half that period. Donizetti, asked if he believed that Rossini had really written the score in thirteen days, is reported to have replied, no doubt with a malicious twinkle in his eyes: "It is very possible; he is so lazy." Paisiello was still alive, and so was at least the memory of his opera, so Rossini, as a precautionary measure, thought it wise to spike, if possible, the guns of an apprehended opposition. So he addressed a letter to the venerable composer, asking leave to make use of the subject. He got permission and then wrote a preface to his libretto (or had Serbini write it for him), in which, while flattering his predecessor, he nevertheless contrived to indicate that he considered the opera of that venerable musician old-fashioned, undramatic, and outdated. "Beaumarchais's comedy, entitled 'The Barber of Seville, or the Useless Precaution,'" he wrote, "is presented at Rome in the form of a comic drama under the title of 'Almaviva, ossia l'inutile Precauzione,' in order that the public may be fully convinced of the sentiments of respect and veneration by which the author of the music of this drama is animated with regard to the celebrated Paisiello, who has already treated the subject under its primitive title. Himself invited to undertake this difficult task, the maestro Gioachino Rossini, in order to avoid the reproach of entering rashly into rivalry with the immortal author who preceded him, expressly required that 'The Barber of Seville' should be entirely versified anew, and also that new situations should be added for the musical pieces which, moreover, are required by the modern theatrical taste, entirely changed since the time when the renowned Paisiello wrote his work." I have told the story of the fiasco made by Rossini's opera on its first production at the Argentine Theatre on February 5, 1816, in an extended preface to the vocal score of "Il Barbiere," published in 1900 by G. Schirmer, and a quotation from that preface will serve here quite as well as a paraphrase; so I quote (with an avowal of gratitude for the privilege to the publishers):-- Paisiello gave his consent to the use of the subject, believing that the opera of his young rival would assuredly fail. At the same time he wrote to a friend in Rome, asking him to do all in his power to compass a fiasco for the opera. The young composer's enemies were not sluggish. All the whistlers of Italy, says Castil-Blaze, seemed to have made a rendezvous at the Teatro Argentina on the night set down for the first production. Their malicious intentions were helped along by accidents at the outset of the performance. Details of the story have been preserved for us in an account written by Signora Giorgi-Righetti, who sang the part of Rosina on the memorable occasion. Garcia had persuaded Rossini to permit him to sing a Spanish song to his own accompaniment on a guitar under Rosina's balcony in the first act. It would provide the needed local color, he urged. When about to start his song, Garcia found that he had forgotten to tune his guitar. He began to set the pegs in the face of the waiting public. A string broke, and a new one was drawn up amid the titters of the spectators. The song did not please the auditors, who mocked at the singer by humming Spanish fiorituri after him. Boisterous laughter broke out when Figaro came on the stage also with a guitar, and "Largo al factotum" was lost in the din. Another howl of delighted derision went up when Rosina's voice was heard singing within: "Segui o caro, deh segui così" ("Continue, my dear, continue thus"). The audience continued "thus." The representative of Rosina was popular, but the fact that she was first heard in a trifling phrase instead of an aria caused disappointment. The duet, between Almaviva and Figaro, was sung amid hisses, shrieks, and shouts. The cavatina "Una voce poco fà" got a triple round of applause, however, and Rossini, interpreting the fact as a compliment to the personality of the singer rather than to the music, after bowing to the public, exclaimed: "Oh natura!" "Thank her," retorted Giorgi-Righetti; "but for her you would not have had occasion to rise from your choir." The turmoil began again with the next duet, and the finale was mere dumb show. When the curtain fell, Rossini faced the mob, shrugged his shoulders, and clapped his hands to show his contempt. Only the musicians and singers heard the second act, the din being incessant from beginning to end. Rossini remained imperturbable, and when Giorgi-Rhigetti, Garcia, and Zamboni hastened to his lodgings to offer their condolences as soon as they could don street attire, they found him asleep. The next day he wrote the cavatina "Ecco ridente in cielo" to take the place of Garcia's unlucky Spanish song, borrowing the air from his own "Aureliano," composed two years before, into which it had been incorporated from "Ciro," a still earlier work. When night came, he feigned illness so as to escape the task of conducting. By that time his enemies had worn themselves out. The music was heard amid loud plaudits, and in a week the opera had scored a tremendous success. And now for the dramatic and musical contents of "Il Barbiere." At the very outset Rossini opens the door for us to take a glimpse at the changes in musical manner which were wrought by time. He had faulted Paisiello's opera because in parts it had become antiquated, for which reason he had had new situations introduced to meet the "modern theatrical taste"; but he lived fifty years after "Il Barbiere" had conquered the world, and never took the trouble to write an overture for it, the one originally composed for the opera having been lost soon after the first production. The overture which leads us into the opera nowadays is all very well in its way and a striking example of how a piece of music may benefit from fortuitous circumstances. Persons with fantastic imaginations have rhapsodized on its appositeness, and professed to hear in it the whispered plottings of the lovers and the merry raillery of Rosina, contrasted with the futile ragings of her grouty guardian; but when Rossini composed this piece of music, its mission was to introduce an adventure of the Emperor Aurelian in Palmyra in the third century of the Christian era. Having served that purpose, it became the prelude to another opera which dealt with Queen Elizabeth of England, a monarch who reigned some twelve hundred years after Aurelian. Again, before the melody now known as that of Almaviva's cavatina (which supplanted Garcia's unlucky Spanish song) had burst into the efflorescence which now distinguishes it, it came as a chorus from the mouths of Cyrus and his Persians in ancient Babylon. Truly, the verities of time and place sat lightly on the Italian opera composers of a hundred years ago. But the serenade which follows the rising of the curtain preserves a custom more general at the time of Beaumarchais than now, though it is not yet obsolete. Dr. Bartolo, who is guardian of the fascinating Rosina, is in love with her, or at least wishes for reasons not entirely dissociated from her money bags to make her his wife, and therefore keeps her most of the time behind bolts and bars. The Count Almaviva, however, has seen her on a visit from his estates to Seville, becomes enamoured of her, and she has felt her heart warmed toward him, though she is ignorant of his rank and knows him only under the name of Lindoro. Hoping that it may bring him an opportunity for a glance, mayhap a word with his inamorata, Amaviva follows the advice given by Sir Proteus to Thurio in "The Two Gentlemen of Verona"; he visits his lady's chamber window, not at night, but at early dawn, with a "sweet concert," and to the instruments of Fiorello's musicians tunes "a deploring dump." It is the cavatina "Ecco ridente in cielo." The musicians, rewarded by Almaviva beyond expectations, are profuse and long-winded in their expression of gratitude, and are gotten rid of with difficulty. The Count has not yet had a glimpse of Rosina, who is in the habit of breathing the morning air from the balcony of her prison house, and is about to despair when Figaro, barber and Seville's factotum, appears trolling a song in which he recites his accomplishments, the universality of his employments, and the great demand for his services. ("Largo al factotum dello città.") The Count recognizes him, tells of his vain vigils in front of Rosina's balcony, and, so soon as he learns that Figaro is a sort of man of all work to Bartolo, employs him as his go-between. Rosina now appears on the balcony. Almaviva is about to engage her in conversation when Bartolo appears and discovers a billet-doux which Rosina had intended to drop into the hand of her Lindoro. He demands to see it, but she explains that it is but a copy of the words of an aria from an opera entitled "The Futile Precaution," and drops it from the balcony, as if by accident. She sends Bartolo to recover it, but Almaviva, who had observed the device, secures it, and Bartolo is told by his crafty ward that the wind must have carried it away. Growing suspicious, he commands her into the house and goes away to hasten the preparations for his wedding, after giving orders that no one is to be admitted to the house save Don Basilio, Rosina's singing-master, and Bartolo's messenger and general mischief-maker. The letter which Rosina had thus slyly conveyed to her unknown lover begged him to contrive means to let her know his name, condition, and intentions respecting herself. Figaro, taking the case in hand at once, suggests that Almaviva publish his answer in a ballad. This the Count does ("Se il mio nome saper"), protesting the honesty and ardor of his passion, but still concealing his name and station. He is delighted to hear his lady-love's voice bidding him to continue his song. (It is the phrase, "Segui, o caro, deh segui così," which sounded so monstrously diverting at the first representation of the opera in Rome.) After the second stanza Rosina essays a longer response, but is interrupted by some of the inmates of the house. Figaro now confides to the Count a scheme by which he is to meet his fair enslaver face to face: he is to assume the rôle of a drunken soldier who has been billeted upon Dr. Bartolo, a plan that is favored by the fact that a company of soldiers has come to Seville that very day which is under the command of the Count's cousin. The plan is promptly put into execution. Not long after, Rosina enters Dr. Bartolo's library singing the famous cavatina, "Una voce poco fà," in which she tells of her love for Lindoro and proclaims her determination to have her own way in the matter of her heart, in spite of all that her tyrannical guardian or anybody else can do. This cavatina has been the show piece of hundreds of singers ever since it was written. Signora Giorgi-Righetti, the first Rosina, was a contralto, and sang the music in the key of E, in which it was written. When it became one of Jenny Lind's display airs, it was transposed to F and tricked out with a great abundance of fiorituri. Adelina Patti in her youth used so to overburden its already florid measures with ornament that the story goes that once when she sang it for Rossini, the old master dryly remarked: "A very pretty air; who composed it?" Figaro enters at the conclusion of Rosina's song, and the two are about to exchange confidences when Bartolo enters with Basilio, who confides to the old doctor his suspicion that the unknown lover of Rosina is the Count Almaviva, and suggests that the latter's presence in Seville be made irksome by a few adroitly spread innuendoes against his character. How a calumny, ingeniously published, may grow from a whispered zephyr to a crashing, detonating tempest, Basilio describes in the buffo air "La calunnia"--a marvellous example of the device of crescendo which in this form is one of Rossini's inventions. Bartolo prefers his own plan of compelling his ward to marry him at once. He goes with Basilio to draw up a marriage agreement, and Figaro, who has overheard their talk, acquaints Rosina with its purport. He also tells her that she shall soon see her lover face to face if she will but send him a line by his hands. Thus he secures a letter from her, but learns that the artful minx had written it before he entered. Her ink-stained fingers, the disappearance of a sheet of paper from his writing desk, and the condition of his quill pen convince Bartolo on his return that he is being deceived, and he resolves that henceforth his ward shall be more closely confined than ever. And so he informs her, while she mimics his angry gestures behind his back. In another moment there is a boisterous knocking and shouting at the door, and in comes Almaviva, disguised as a cavalry soldier most obviously in his cups. He manages to make himself known to Rosina, and exchanges letters with her under the very nose of her jailer, affects a fury toward Dr. Bartolo when the latter claims exemption from the billet, and escapes arrest only by secretly making himself known to the officer commanding the soldiers who had been drawn into the house by the disturbance. The sudden and inexplicable change of conduct on the part of the soldiers petrifies Bartolo; he is literally "astonied," and Figaro makes him the victim of several laughable pranks before he recovers his wits. Dr. Bartolo's suspicions have been aroused about the soldier, concerning whose identity he makes vain inquiries, but he does not hesitate to admit to his library a seeming music-master who announces himself as Don Alonzo, come to act as substitute for Don Basilio, who, he says, is ill. Of course it is Almaviva. Soon the ill-natured guardian grows impatient of his garrulity, and Almaviva, to allay his suspicions and gain a sight of his inamorata, gives him a letter written by Rosina to Lindoro, which he says he had found in the Count's lodgings. If he can but see the lady, he hopes by means of the letter to convince her of Lindoro's faithlessness. This device, though it disturbs its inventor, is successful, and Bartolo brings in his ward to receive her music lesson. Here, according to tradition, there stood in the original score a trio which was lost with the overture. Very welcome has this loss appeared to the Rosinas of a later day, for it has enabled them to introduce into the "lesson scene" music of their own choice, and, of course, such as showed their voices and art to the best advantage. Very amusing have been the anachronisms which have resulted from these illustrations of artistic vanity, and diverting are the glimpses which they give of the tastes and sensibilities of great prime donne. Grisi and Alboni, stimulated by the example of Catalani (though not in this opera), could think of nothing nobler than to display their skill by singing Rode's Air and Variations, a violin piece. This grew hackneyed, but, nevertheless, survived till a comparatively late day. Bosio, feeling that variations were necessary, threw Rode's over in favor of those on "Gia della mente involarmi"--a polka tune from Alary's "A Tre Nozze." Then Mme. Gassier ushered in the day of the vocal waltz--Venzano's, of amiable memory. Her followers have not yet died out, though Patti substituted Arditi's "Il Bacio" for Venzano's; Mme. Sembrich, Strauss's "Voce di Primavera," and Mme. Melba, Arditi's "Se saran rose." Mme. Viardot, with a finer sense of the fitness of things, but either forgetful or not apprehensive of the fate which befell her father at the first performance of the opera in Rome, introduced a Spanish song. Mme. Patti always kept a ready repertory for the scene, with a song in the vernacular of the people for whom she was singing to bring the enthusiasm to a climax and a finish: "Home, Sweet Home" in New York and London, "Solovei" in St. Petersburg. Usually she began with the bolero from "Les Vêpres Siciliennes," or the shadow dance from "Dinorah." Mme. Seinbrich, living in a period when the style of song of which she and Mme. Melba are still the brightest exemplars, is not as familiar as it used to be when they were children, also found it necessary to have an extended list of pieces ready at hand to satisfy the rapacious public. She was wont at first to sing Proch's Air and Variations, but that always led to a demand for more, and whether she supplemented it with "Ah! non giunge," from "La Sonnambula," the bolero from "The Sicilian Vespers," "O luce di quest anima," from "Linda," or the vocalized waltz by Strauss, the applause always was riotous, and so remained until she sat down to the pianoforte and sang Chopin's "Maiden's Wish," in Polish, to her own accompaniment. As for Mme. Melba, not to be set in the shade simply because Mme. Sembrich is almost as good a pianist as she is a singer, she supplements Arditi's waltz or Massenet's "Sevillana" with Tosti's "Mattinata," to which she also plays an exquisite accompaniment. But this is a long digression; I must back to my intriguing lovers, who have made good use of the lesson scene to repeat their protestations of affection and lay plots for attaining their happiness. In this they are helped by Figaro, who comes to shave Dr. Bartolo in spite of his protests, and, contriving to get hold of the latter's keys, "conveys" the one which opens the balcony lock, and thus makes possible a plan for a midnight elopement. In the midst of the lesson the real Basilio comes to meet his appointment, and there is a moment of confusion for the plotters, out of which Figaro extricates them by persuading Basilio that he is sick of a raging fever, and must go instantly home, Almaviva adding a convincing argument in the shape of a generously lined purse. Nevertheless, Basilio afterwards betrays the Count to Bartolo, who commands him to bring a notary to the house that very night so that he may sign the marriage contract with Rosina. In the midst of a tempest Figaro and the Count let themselves into the house at midnight to carry off Rosina, but find her in a whimsy, her mind having been poisoned against her lover by Bartolo with the aid of the unfortunate letter. Out of this dilemma Almaviva extricates himself by confessing his identity, and the pair are about to steal away when the discovery is made that the ladder to the balcony has been carried away. As they are tiptoeing toward the window, the three sing a trio in which there is such obvious use of a melodic phrase which belongs to Haydn that every writer on "Il Barbiere" seems to have thought it his duty to point out an instance of "plagiarism" on the part of Rossini. It is a trifling matter. The trio begins thus:-- [Musical excerpt--"Ziti, ziti, piano, piano, non facciamo confusionne"] which is a slightly varied form of four measures from Simon's song in the first part of "The Seasons":-- [Musical excerpt--"With eagerness the husbandman his tilling work begins."] With these four measures the likeness begins and ends. A venial offence, if it be an offence at all. Composers were not held to so strict and scrupulous an accountability touching melodic meum and tuum a century ago as they are now; yet there was then a thousand-fold more melodic inventiveness. Another case of "conveyance" by Rossini has also been pointed out; the air of the duenna in the third act beginning "Il vecchiotto cerca moglie" is said to be that of a song which Rossini heard a Russian lady sing in Rome. I have searched much in Russian song literature and failed to find the alleged original. To finish the story: the notary summoned by Bartolo arrives on the scene, but is persuaded by Figaro to draw up an attestation of a marriage agreement between Count Almaviva and Rosina, and Bartolo, finding at the last that all his precautions have been in vain, comforted not a little by the gift of his ward's dower, which the Count relinquishes, gives his blessing to the lovers. I have told the story of "Il Barbiere di Siviglia" as it appears in the book. It has grown to be the custom to omit in performance several of the incidents which are essential to the development and understanding of the plot. Some day--soon, it is to be hoped--managers, singers, and public will awake to a realization that, even in the old operas in which beautiful singing is supposed to be the be-all and end-all, the action ought to be kept coherent. In that happy day Rossini's effervescent lyrical arrangement of Beaumarchais's vivacious comedy will be restored to its rights. CHAPTER II "LE NOZZE DI FIGARO" Beaumarchais wrote a trilogy of Figaro comedies, and if the tastes and methods of a century or so ago had been like those of the present, we might have had also a trilogy of Figaro operas--"Le Barbier de Seville," "Le Mariage de Figaro," and "La Mère coupable." As it is, we have operatic versions of the first two of the comedies, Mozart's "Nozze di Figaro" being a sequel to Rossini's "Il Barbiere," its action beginning at a period not long after the precautions of Dr. Bartolo had been rendered inutile by Figaro's cunning schemes and Almaviva had installed Rosina as his countess. "Le Nozze" was composed a whole generation before Rossini's opera. Mozart and his public could keep the sequence of incidents in view, however, from the fact that Paisiello had acquainted them with the beginning of the story. Paisiello's opera is dead, but Rossini's is very much alive, and it might prove interesting, some day, to have the two living operas brought together in performance in order to note the effect produced upon each other by comparison of their scores. One effect, I fancy, would be to make the elder of the operas sound younger than its companion, because of the greater variety and freshness, as well as dramatic vigor, of its music. But though the names of many of the characters would be the same, we should scarcely recognize their musical physiognomies. We should find the sprightly Rosina of "Il Barbiere" changed into a mature lady with a countenance sicklied o'er with the pale cast of a gentle melancholy; the Count's tenor would, in the short interval, have changed into barytone; Figaro's barytone into a bass, while the buffo-bass of Don Basilio would have reversed the process with age and gone upward into the tenor region. We should meet with some new characters, of which two at least would supply the element of dramatic freshness and vivacity which we should miss from the company of the first opera--Susanna and Cherubino. We should also, in all likelihood, be struck by the difference in the moral atmosphere of the two works. It took Beaumarchais three years to secure a public performance of his "Mariage de Figaro" because of the opposition of the French court, with Louis XVI at its head, to its too frank libertinism. This opposition spread also to other royal and imperial personages, who did not relish the manner in which the poet had castigated the nobility, exalted the intellectuality of menials, and satirized the social and political conditions which were generally prevalent a short time before the French Revolution. Neither of the operas, however, met the obstacles which blocked the progress of the comedies on which they are founded, because Da Ponte, who wrote the book for Mozart, and Sterbini, who was Rossini's librettist, judiciously and deftly elided the objectionable political element. "Le Nozze" is by far the more ingeniously constructed play of the two (though a trifle too involved for popular comprehension in the original language), but "Il Barbiere" has the advantage of freedom from the moral grossness which pollutes its companion. For the unspoiled taste of the better class of opera patrons, there is a livelier as well as a lovelier charm in the story of Almaviva's adventures while outwitting Dr. Bartolo and carrying off the winsome Rosina to be his countess than in the depiction of his amatory intrigues after marriage. In fact, there is something especially repellent in the Count's lustful pursuit of the bride of the man to whose intellectual resourcefulness he owed the successful outcome of his own wooing. It is, indeed, a fortunate thing for Mozart's music that so few opera-goers understand Italian nowadays. The play is a moral blister, and the less intelligible it is made by excisions in its dialogue, the better, in one respect, for the virtuous sensibilities of its auditors. One point which can be sacrificed without detriment to the music and at only a trifling cost to the comedy (even when it is looked upon from the viewpoint which prevailed in Europe at the period of its creation) is that which Beaumarchais relied on chiefly to add piquancy to the conduct of the Count. Almaviva, we are given to understand, on his marriage with Rosina had voluntarily abandoned an ancient seignorial right, described by Susanna as "certe mezz' ore che il diritto feudale," but is desirous of reviving the practice in the case of the Countess's bewitching maid on the eve of her marriage to his valet. It is this discovery which induces Figaro to invent his scheme for expediting the wedding, and lends a touch of humor to the scene in which Figaro asks that he and his bride enjoy the first-fruits of the reform while the villagers lustily hymn the merits of their "virtuous" lord; but the too frank discussion of the subject with which the dialogue teems might easily be avoided. The opera, like all the old works of the lyrical stage, is in sad need of intelligent revision and thorough study, so that its dramatic as well as its musical beauties may be preserved. There is no lovelier merit in Mozart's music than the depth and tenderness with which the honest love of Susanna for Figaro and the Countess for her lord are published; and it is no demerit that the volatile passion of the adolescent Cherubino and the frolicsome, scintillant, vivacious spirit of the plotters are also given voice. Mozart's music could not be all that it is if it did not enter fully and unreservedly into the spirit of the comedy; it is what it is because whenever the opportunity presented itself, he raised it into the realm of the ideal. Yet Mozart was no Puritan. He swam along gayly and contentedly on the careless current of life as it was lived in Vienna and elsewhere in the closing decades of the eighteenth century, and was not averse, merely for the fun of the thing, to go even a step beyond his librettist when the chance offered. Here is an instance in point: The plotters have been working a little at cross-purposes, each seeking his own advantages, and their plans are about to be put to the test when Figaro temporarily loses confidence in the honesty of Susanna. With his trust in her falls to the ground his faith in all woman-kind. He rails against the whole sex in the air, beginning: "Aprite un po' quegl' occhi?" in the last act. Enumerating the moral blemishes of women, he at length seems to be fairly choked by his own spleen, and bursts out at the end with "Il resto nol dico, gia ognuno lo sa" ("The rest I'll not tell you--everybody knows it"). The orchestra stops, all but the horns, which with the phrase [Musical excerpt] aided by a traditional gesture (the singer's forefingers pointing upward from his forehead), complete his meaning. It is a pity that the air is often omitted, for it is eloquent in the exposition of the spirit of the comedy. The merriest of opera overtures introduces "Le Nozze di Figaro," and puts the listener at once into a frolicsome mood. It seems to be the most careless of little pieces, drawing none of its material from the music of the play, making light of some of the formulas which demanded respect at the time (there is no free fantasia), laughing and singing its innocent life out in less than five minutes as if it were breathing an atmosphere of pure oxygen. It romps; it does not reflect or feel. Motion is its business, not emotion. It has no concern with the deep and gentle feelings of the play, but only with its frolic. The spirit of playful torment, the disposition of a pretty tease, speaks out of its second subject:-- [Musical excerpt] and one may, if one wishes, hear the voice of only half-serious admonition in the phrase of the basses, which the violins echo as if in mockery:-- [Musical excerpt] But, on the whole, the overture does not ask for analysis or interpretation; it is satisfied to express untrammelled joy in existence. The curtain is withdrawn, and we discover the lovers preparing for their wedding. Figaro is taking the dimensions of a room, and the first motive of a duet illustrates his measured paces; Susanna is trimming a hat, and her happiness and her complacent satisfaction with her handiwork are published in the second motive, whose innocent joy explodes in scintillant semi-quavers in the fiddles at the third measure. His labors ended, Figaro joins Susanna in her utterances of joy. But there is a fly in the ointment, Why has Figaro been so busily measuring the room? To test its fitness as their chamber, for the Count has assigned it to them, though it is one of the best rooms in the palace. He points out its convenient location (duet: "Se a caso madama"); so near the room of the Countess that her maid can easily answer the "din din" of her bell, and near enough to the room of the Count that his "don don" would never sound in vain should he wish to send his valet on an errand. Altogether too convenient, explains Susanna; some fine day the Count's "don don" might mean a three-mile journey for the valet, and then the devil would fetch the dear Count to her side in three paces. Has he not been making love violently to her for a space, sending Don Basilio to give her singing lessons and to urge her to accept his suit? Did Figaro imagine it was because of his own pretty face that the Count had promised her so handsome a dowry? Figaro had pressed such a flattering unction to his soul, but now recalls, with not a little jealous perturbation, that the Count had planned to take him with him to London, where he was to go on a mission of state: "He as ambassador, Figaro as a courier, and Susanna as ambassadress in secret. Is that your game, my lord? Then I'll set the pace for your dancing with my guitar" (Cavatina: "Se vuol ballare"). Almaviva's obedient valet disappears, and presto! in his place we see our old friend, the cunning, resourceful barber and town factotum of the earlier days, who shall hatch out a plot to confound his master and shield his love from persecution. First of all he must hasten the wedding. He sets about this at once, but all unconscious of the fact that Dr. Bartolo has never forgiven nor forgotten the part he played in robbing him of his ward Rosina. He comes now to let us know that he is seeking revenge against Figaro and at the same time, as he hopes, rid himself of his old housekeeper, Marcellina, to whom he is bound by an obligation that is becoming irksome. The old duenna has been casting amatory glances in Figaro's direction, and has a hold on him in the shape of a written obligation to marry her in default of repayment of a sum of money borrowed in a time of need. She enlists Bartolo as adviser, and he agrees to lay the matter before the Count. Somewhat early, but naturally enough in the case of the conceited dotard, he gloats over his vengeance, which seems as good as accomplished, and celebrates his triumph in an air ("La vendetta!"). As she is about to leave the room, Marcellina meets Susanna, and the two make a forced effort to conceal their mutual hatred and jealousy in an amusing duettino ("Via resti servita, madama brillante!"), full of satirical compliments and curtsies. Marcellina is bowed out of the room with extravagant politeness, and Susanna turns her attention to her mistress's wardrobe, only to be interrupted by the entrance of Cherubino, the Count's page. Though a mere stripling, Cherubino is already a budding voluptuary, animated with a wish, something like that of Byron's hero, that all woman-kind had but a single mouth and he the privilege of kissing it. He adores the Countess; but not her alone. Susanna has a ribbon in her hand with which, she tells him, she binds up her mistress's tresses at night. Happy Susanna! Happy ribbon! Cherubino seizes it, refuses to give it up, and offers in exchange his latest ballad. "What shall I do with the song?" asks Susanna. "Sing it to the Countess! Sing it yourself! Sing it to Barbarina, to Marcellina, to all the ladies in the palace!" He tells Susanna (Air: "Non so più cosa son") of the torments which he endures. The lad's mind is, indeed, in a parlous state; he feels his body alternately burning and freezing; the mere sight of a maiden sends the blood to his cheeks, and he needs must sigh whenever he hears her voice; sleeping and waking, by lakeside, in the shadow of the woods, on the mountain, by stream and fountain, his thoughts are only of love and its sweet pains. It is quite impossible to describe the eloquence with which Mozart's music expresses the feverish unrest, the turmoil, and the longing which fill the lad's soul. Otto Jahn has attempted it, and I shall quote his effort:-- The vibration of sentiment, never amounting to actual passion, the mingled anguish and delight of the longing which can never be satisfied, are expressed with a power of beauty raising them out of the domain of mere sensuality. Very remarkable is the simplicity of the means by which this extraordinary effect is attained. A violin accompaniment passage, not unusual in itself, keeps up the restless movement; the harmonies make no striking progressions; strong emphasis and accents are sparingly used, and yet the soft flow of the music is made suggestive of the consuming glow of passion. The instrumentation is here of a very peculiar effect and quite a novel coloring; the stringed instruments are muted, and clarinets occur for the first time, and very prominently, both alone and in combination with the horns and bassoons. Cherubino's philandering with Susanna is interrupted by the Count, who comes with protestations of love, which the page hears from a hiding-place behind a large arm-chair, where Susanna, in her embarrassment, had hastily concealed him on the Count's entrance. The Count's philandering, in turn, is interrupted by Basilio, whose voice is heard long enough before his entrance to permit the Count also to seek a hiding-place. He, too, gets behind the chair, while Cherubino, screened by Susanna's skirts, ensconces himself in the seat, and finds cover under one of the Countess's gowns which Susanna hurriedly throws over him. Don Basilio comes in search of the Count, but promptly begins his pleas in behalf of his master. Receiving nothing but indignant rejoinders, he twits Susanna with loving the lad, and more than intimates that Cherubino is in love with the Countess. Why else does he devour her with his eyes when serving her at table? And had he not composed a canzonetta for her? Far be it from him, however, to add a word to what "everybody says." "Everybody says what?" demands the Count, discovering himself. A trio follows ("Cosa sento!") The Count, though in a rage, preserves a dignified behavior and orders the instant dismissal of the page from the palace. Susanna is overwhelmed with confusion, and plainly betrays her agitation. She swoons, and her companions are about to place her in the arm-chair when she realizes a danger and recovers consciousness. Don Basilio cringes before the Count, but is maliciously delighted at the turn which affairs have taken. The Count is stern. Cherubino had once before incurred his displeasure by poaching in his preserves. He had visited Barbarina, the pretty daughter of his gardener, and found the door bolted. The maid appeared confused, and he, seeking an explanation, drew the cover from the table and found the page hiding under. He illustrates his action by lifting the gown thrown over the chair, and there is the page again! This, then, is the reason of Susanna's seeming prudery--the page, her lover! He accuses Susanna, who asserts her innocence, and truthfully says that Cherubino had come to ask her to procure the Countess's intercession in his behalf, when his entrance had thrown them both into such confusion that Cherubino had concealed himself. Where? Behind the arm-chair. But the Count himself had hidden there. True, but a moment before the page had slipped around and into the chair. Then he had heard all that the Count had said to Susanna? Cherubino says he had tried his best not to overhear anything. Figaro is sent for and enters with the villagers, who hymn the virtues of their lord. To the Count's question as to the meaning of the demonstration, Figaro explains that it is an expression of their gratitude for the Count's surrender of seignorial rights, and that his subjects wish him to celebrate the occasion by bestowing the hand of Susanna on Figaro at once and himself placing the bridal veil upon her brow. The Count sees through Figaro's trick, but believing it will be frustrated by Marcellina's appeal, he promises to honor the bride, as requested, in due season. Cherubino has begged for the Count's forgiveness, and Susanna has urged his youth in extenuation of his fault. Reminded that the lad knows of his pursuit of Susanna, the Count modifies his sentence of dismissal from his service to banishment to Seville as an officer in his regiment. Figaro playfully inducts him into the new existence. The air "Non più andrai," in which this is done, is in vigorous march rhythm. Benucci, the original Figaro in Vienna, had a superbly sonorous voice, and Michael Kelly, the English tenor (who sang the two rôles of Don Basilio and Don Curzio), tells us how thrillingly he sang the song at the first rehearsal with the full band. Mozart was on the stage in a crimson pelisse and cocked hat trimmed with gold lace, giving the time to the orchestra. Figaro gave the song with the greatest animation and power of voice. "I was standing close to Mozart," says Kelly, "who, sotto voce, was repeating: 'Bravo, bravo, Benucci!' and when Benucci came to the fine passage, 'Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla gloria militar,' which he gave out with stentorian lungs, the effect was electricity itself, for the whole of the performers on the stage, and those in the orchestra, as if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated: 'Bravo, bravo, maestro! Viva, viva, grande Mozart!' Those in the orchestra I thought would never have ceased applauding by beating the bows of their violins against the music desks. The little man acknowledged by repeated obeisances his thanks for the distinguished mark of enthusiastic applause bestowed upon him." This ends the first act. At the opening of the second the Countess asks our sympathy because of the unhappiness caused by her errant husband. (Cavatina: "Porgi amor.") She prays the god of love to restore her to his affections. Susanna entering, the Countess asks her to continue her tale of the Count's pursuit of her. There is nothing to add, says the maid; the Count wooed as noblemen woo women of her class--with money. Figaro appears to tell that the Count is aiding Marcellina in her scheme and of the trick which he has devised to circumvent him. He had sent Basilio to his lordship with a letter warning him that the Countess had made an appointment to meet a lover at the ball to be given in the evening. This would fan the fires of his jealousy and so enrage him that he would forget his designs against Susanna until she was safely married, when he would discover that he had been outwitted. In the meantime, while he is reflecting on the fact that two could play at the game, Susanna is to apprise the Count that she will meet him in the garden in the evening. Cherubino, whose departure to Seville had been delayed for the purpose, is to meet the Count disguised as Susanna, and the Countess, appearing on the scene, is to unmask him. The Count is supposed to have gone a-hunting, and the plotters have two hours for preparation. Figaro leaves them to find Cherubino, that he may be put into petticoats. When the page comes, the Countess first insists on hearing the song which he had given to Susanna, and Cherubino, stammering and blushing at first, sings it to Susanna's guitar. (Canzone: "Voi che sapete.") Again I call upon Otto Jahn for a description of the music. "Cherubino is not here directly expressing his feelings; he is depicting them in a romance, and he is in the presence of the Countess, toward whom he glances with all the bashfulness of boyish passion. The song is in ballad form, to suit the situation, the voice executing the clear, lovely melody, while the stringed instruments carry on a simple accompaniment pizzicato, to imitate the guitar: this delicate outline is, however, shaded and animated in a wonderful degree by solo wind instruments. Without being absolutely necessary for the progress of the melodies and the completeness of the harmonies, they supply the delicate touches of detail, reading between the lines of the romance, as it were, what is passing in the heart of the singer. We know not whether to admire most the gracefulness of the melodies, the delicacy of the disposition of the parts, the charm of the tone coloring, or the tenderness of the expression--the whole is of entrancing beauty." Susanna finds that she and Cherubino are of the same height, and begins to array him in garments belonging to her, first locking the door against possible intruders. The Countess views the adventure with some misgivings at first, but, after all, Cherubino is a mere boy, and she rejoices him with approval of his songs, and smiles upon him till he is deliriously happy. Basilio has given him his commission in the Count's regiment, and the Countess discovers that it lacks a seal to secure which would cause a longer and desired delay. While Susanna is playing the rôle of dressing-maid to Cherubino, and instructing him in a ladylike bearing, the Count raps for admission to the room. Figaro's decoy letter caused him uneasiness, and he had abandoned the hunt. Cherubino hurries into the chamber, and the Countess turns the key upon him before admitting his lordship, who enters in an ill-humor which is soon turned into jealous rage. Cherubino has awkwardly overturned a chair in the chamber, and though the Countess explains that Susanna is within, she refuses to open the door, on the plea that her maid is making her toilet. The Count goes for tools to break open the door, taking the Countess with him. Susanna, who has heard all from an alcove, hastens to Cherubino's rescue, who escapes by leaping from the window of the Countess's apartment into the garden below. Susanna takes his place in the chamber. Then begins the most marvellously ingenious and beautiful finale in the whole literature of opera. Fast upon each other follow no fewer than eight independent pieces of music, each a perfect delineation of the quickly changing moods and situations of the comedy, yet each built up on the lines of musical symmetry, and developing a musical theme which, though it passes from mouth to mouth, appears each time to belong peculiarly to the person uttering it. The Countess throws herself upon the mercy of the Count, confesses that Cherubino, suspiciously garbed, is in the chamber, but pleads for his life and protests her innocence of wrong. She gives the key to her enraged husband, who draws his sword, unlocks the door, and commands the page to stand forth. Susanna confronts the pair with grave unconsciousness upon her features. The Countess is no less amazed than her lord. The Count goes into the chamber to search for the page, giving Susanna a chance to explain, and the nimble-witted women are ready for him when he comes back confused, confounded, and ready to ask forgiveness of his wife, who becomes tearful and accusing, telling him at length that the story of the page's presence was all an invention to test him. But the letter giving word of the assignation? Written by Figaro. He then shall be punished. Forgiveness is deserved only by those willing to forgive. All is well, and the Countess gives her hand to be kissed by her lord. Enters Figaro with joyous music to announce that all's ready for the wedding; trumpets sounding, pipes tootling, peasants singing and dancing. The Count throws a damper upon his exuberant spirits. How about that letter? In spite of the efforts of the Countess and Susanna to make him confess its authorship, Figaro stoutly insists that he knows nothing of it. The Count summons Marcellina, but before she arrives, the drunken gardener Antonio appears to tell the Count that some one had leaped out of the salon window and damaged his plants and pots. Confusion overwhelms the women. But Figaro's wits are at work. He laughs loudly and accuses Antonio of being too tipsy to know what had happened. The gardener sticks to his story and is about to describe the man who came like a bolt from the window, when Figaro says it was he made the leap. He was waiting in the salon to see Susanna, he explains, when he heard the Count's footsteps, and, fearing to meet him because of the decoy letter, he had jumped from the window and got a sprained ankle, which he offers in evidence. The orchestra changes key and tempo, and begins a new inquisition with pitiless reiteration:-- [Musical excerpt] Antonio produces Cherubino's commission, "These, then, are your papers?" The Count takes the commission, opens it, and the Countess recognizes it. With whispers and signs the women let Figaro know what it is, and he is ready with the explanation that the page had left the paper with him. Why? It lacked--the women come again to his rescue--it lacked the seal. The Count tears up the paper in his rage at being foiled again. But his allies are at hand, in the persons of Marcellina, Bartolo, and Basilio, who appear with the accusing contract, signed by Figaro. The Count takes the case under advisement, and the act ends with Figaro's enemies sure of triumph and his friends dismayed. The third act plays in a large hall of the palace decorated for the wedding. In a duet ("Crudel! perche finora") the Count renews his addresses to Susanna. She, to help along the plot to unmask him, consents to meet him in the garden. A wonderful grace rests upon the music of the duet, which Mozart's genius makes more illuminative than the words. Is it Susanna's native candor, or goodness, or mischievousness, or her embarrassment which prompts her to answer "yes" when "no" was expected and "no" when the Count had already received an affirmative? We can think as we please; the musical effect is delicious. Figaro's coming interrupts further conversation, and as Susanna leaves the room with her, she drops a remark to Figaro, which the Count overhears: "Hush! We have won our case without a lawyer." What does it mean? Treachery, of course. Possibly Marcellina's silence has been purchased. But whence the money? The Count's amour propre is deeply wounded at the thought that his menials should outwit him and he fail of his conquest. He swears that he will be avenged upon both. Apparently he has not long to wait, for Marcellina, Don Curzio, and Bartolo enter, followed by Figaro. Don Curzio announces the decision of the court in the duenna's suit against Figaro. He must pay or marry, according to the bond. But Figaro refuses to abide by the decision. He is a gentleman by birth, as proved by the jewels and costly clothing found upon him when he was recovered from some robbers who stole him when a babe, and he must have the consent of his parents. He has diligently sought them and will prove his identity by a mark upon his arm. "A spatula on the right elbow?" anxiously inquires Marcellina. "Yes." And now Bartolo and the duenna, who a moment ago would fain have made him an OEdipus, recognize in Figaro their own son, born out of wedlock. He rushes to their arms and is found embracing his mother most tenderly by Susanna, who comes with a purse to repay the loan. She flies into a passion and boxes Figaro's ears before the situation is explained, and she is made as happy by the unexpected dénouement as the Count and Don Curzio are miserable. Bartolo resolves that there shall be a double wedding; he will do tardy justice to Marcellina. Now we see the Countess again in her lamentable mood, mourning the loss of her husband's love. (Aria: "Dove sono.") Susanna comes to tell of her appointment with the Count. The place, "in the garden," seems to be lacking in clearness, and the Countess proposes that it be made more definite and certain (as the lawyers say), by means of a letter which shall take the form of a "Song to the Zephyr." This is the occasion of the exquisite duet which was surely in the mind of the composer's father when, writing to his daughter from Vienna after the third performance of the opera, he said: "One little duet had to be sung three times." Was there ever such exquisite dictation and transcription? Can any one say, after hearing this "Canzonetta sull' aria," that it is unnatural to melodize conversation? With what gracious tact the orchestra gives time to Susanna to set down the words of her mistress! How perfect is the musical reproduction of inquiry and repetition when a phrase escapes the memory of the writer! [Musical excerpt--Susanna: "sotto i pini?" Conte: "Sotto i pini del boschetto."] The letter is written, read over phrase by phrase, and sealed with a pin which the Count is to return as proof that he has received the note. The wedding festivities begin with a presentation of flowers to the Countess by the village maidens, among whom in disguise is the rogue Cherubino--so fair in hat and gown that the Countess singles him out of the throng to present his nosegay in person. Antonio, who had suspected that he was still about the palace, exposes him to the Count, who threatens the most rigorous punishment, but is obliged to grant Barberina's petition that he give his consent to her marriage to the page. Had he not often told her to ask him what she pleased, when kissing her in secret? Under the circumstances he can only grant the little maid's wish. During the dance which follows (it is a Spanish fandango which seems to have been popular in Vienna at the time, for Gluck had already made use of the same melody in his ballet "Don Juan"), Susanna kneels before the Count to have him place the wreath (or veil) upon her head, and slyly slips the "Canzonetta sull' aria" into his hands. He pricks his finger with the pin, drops it, but, on reading the postscript, picks it up, so that he may return it to the writer as a sign of understanding. In the evening Barberina, who has been commissioned to carry the pin to her cousin Susanna, loses it again, and her lamentation "L'ho perdita," with its childish sobs while hunting it, is one of the little gems of the opera. From her Figaro learns that the letter which he had seen the Count read during the dance was from Susanna, and becomes furiously jealous. In an air (which has already been described), he rails against man's credulity and woman's faithlessness. The time is come to unmask the Count. The Countess and Susanna have exchanged dresses, and now come into the garden. Left alone, Susanna gives voice to her longing and love (for Figaro, though the situation makes it seem to be for the Count) in the air which has won great favor in the concert-room: "Deh vieni non tardar." Here some of Otto Jahn's words are again appropriate:-- Mozart was right to let the feelings of the loving maiden shine forth in all their depth and purity, for Susanna has none but her Figaro in her mind, and the sentiments she expresses are her true ones. Figaro, in his hiding-place, listening and suspecting her of awaiting the Count's arrival, throws a cross-light on the situation, which, however, only receives its full dramatic signification by reason of the truth of Susanna's expression of feeling. Susanna, without her sensual charm, is inconceivable, and a tinge of sensuality is an essential element of her nature; but Mozart has transfigured it into a noble purity which may fitly be compared with the grandest achievements of Greek sculpture. Cherubino, watched from different places of concealment by the Count, Figaro, and Susanna, appears, and, seeing the Countess, whom he takes for Susanna, confounds not her alone, but also the Count and Figaro, by his ardent addresses to her. He attempts to kiss her, but the Count steps forward and interposes his cheek. The Count attempts to box Cherubino's ears, but Figaro, slipping forward at the moment, receives the blow instead. Confusion is at its height. The Count makes love to his wife, thinking she is Susanna, promises her a dowry, and places a ring on her finger. Seeing torches approaching, they withdraw into deeper darkness. Susanna shows herself, and Figaro, who takes her for the Countess, acquaints her of the Count's doings which he has just witnessed. Susanna betrays herself, and Figaro resolves to punish her for her masquerading. He makes love to her with extravagant pathos until interrupted by a slap in the face. Susanna's patience had become exhausted, and her temper got the better of her judgment. Figaro laughs at her ill-humor and confesses his trick, but renews his sham love-making when he sees the Count returning. The latter calls for lights, and seizes Figaro and his retainers. In the presence of all he is put to shame by the disclosures of the personality of the Countess and Susanna. He falls on his knees, asks forgiveness, receives it, and all ends happily. CHAPTER III "DIE ZAUBERFLÖTE" Mozart's "Zauberflöte"--"The Magic Flute"--is the oldest German opera holding a place on the American stage, though not quite 118 years old; but so far as my memory and records go, it has had but four performances in the original tongue in New York in a whole generation. There have been a few representations in English within this time and a considerable number in Italian, our operatic institutions being quick, as a rule, to put it upon the stage whenever they have at command a soprano leggiero with a voice of sufficient range and flexibility to meet the demands of the extraordinary music which Mozart wrote for the Queen of Night to oblige his voluble-throated sister-in-law, Mme. Hofer, who was the original representative of that character. The same operatic conditions having prevailed in New York and London for many years, it is not strange that English-speaking people have come to associate "The Magic Flute" with the Italian rather than the German repertory. Yet we have the dictum of Beethoven that it is Mozart's greatest opera, because in it his genius showed itself in so large a variety of musical forms, ranging from ditties in the folk-song style to figurated chorale and fugue, and more particularly because in it Mozart first disclosed himself as a German composer. By this Beethoven did not mean that Mozart had not written music before for a German libretto, but that he had never written German music before in an opera. The distinction is one more easily observed by Germans and critical historians than by the ordinary frequenters of our opera-houses. "Die Zauberflöte" has a special charm for people of German blood, which is both admirable and amiable. Its magnificent choruses are sung by men, and Germany is the home of the Männergesang; among the opera's songs are echoes of the Volkslied--ditties which seem to have been caught up in the German nurseries or plucked off the lips of the itinerant German balladist; its emotional music is heartfelt, warm, ingenuous, and in form and spirit free from the artificiality of Italian opera as it was in Mozart's day and as it continued to be for a long time thereafter. It was this last virtue which gave the opera its largest importance in the eyes of Otto Jahn, Mozart's biographer. In it, he said, for the first time all the resources of cultivated art were brought to bear with the freedom of genius upon a genuine German opera. In his Italian operas, Mozart had adopted the traditions of a long period of development, and by virtue of his original genius had brought them to a climax and a conclusion; but in "Die Zauberflöte" he "stepped across the threshold of the future and unlocked the sanctuary of national art for his countrymen." In this view every critical historian can concur, no matter what his tastes or where his home. But it is less easy for an English, French, or Italian critic than a German to pardon the incongruities, incoherences, and silly buffooneries which mar the opera. Some of the disturbing elements are dear to the Teutonic heart. Papageno, for instance, is but a slightly metamorphosed Kasperl, a Jack Pudding (Hanswurst) twice removed; and Kasperl is as intimately bound up in the German nature as his cousin Punch in the English. Kasperl is, indeed, directly responsible for "Die Zauberflöte." At the end of the eighteenth century there was in Vienna a singular individual named Emmanuel Schikaneder, a Jack-of-all-trades so far as public amusements were concerned--musician, singer, actor, playwright, and manager. There can be no doubt but that he was a sad scalawag and ribald rogue, with as few moral scruples as ever burdened a purveyor of popular amusements. But he had some personal traits which endeared him to Mozart, and a degree of intellectuality which won him a fairly respectable place among the writers for the stage at the turn of the century. Moreover, when he had become prosperous enough to build a new theatre with the proceeds of "Die Zauberflöte," he was wise enough to give a generous commission, unhampered by his customary meddlesome restrictions, to Beethoven; and discreet enough to approve of the highly virtuous book of "Fidelio." At the beginning of the last decade of the eighteenth century, however, his theatre had fallen on evil days, and in dire straits he went to Mozart, whose friendship he had enjoyed from the latter's Salzburg days, and begged him to undertake the composition of an opera for which he had written the book, in conjunction with one of his actors and choristers, named Gieseke (though this fact never received public acknowledgment at his hands). Wieland's "Oberon" had filled the popular mind with a great fondness for fantastic and Oriental subjects, and a rival manager had been successful with musical pieces in which the principal character was the popular Kasperl. Casting about for an operatic subject which should appeal to the general liking for romanticism and buffoonery at once, Schikaneder hit upon a tale called "Lulu; oder, Die Zauberflöte," written by Liebeskind, but published by Wieland in a volume of Orientalia entitled "Dschinnistan." He had got pretty deep in his work when a rival manager brought out an adaptation of the same story, with music by Wenzel Müller. The farcical character of the piece is indicated by its title, which was "Kasper, der Fagottist; oder, Die Zauberzither"; but it made so striking a success that Schikaneder feared to enter the lists against it with an opera drawn from the same source. He was either too lazy, too much in a hurry, or too indifferent to the principles of art to remodel the completed portion, but finished his book on lines far different from those originally contemplated. The transformation thus accomplished brought about all the blemishes of "Die Zauberflöte," but also gave occasion for the sublime music with which Mozart transfigured some of the scenes. This will be understood better if an outline of Liebeskind's tale is made to precede the story of the opera as it came from Mozart's hand. A wicked magician, Dilsenghuin, has robbed the "radiant fairy" Perifirime of her daughter, Sidi, and carried off a magic talisman. The magician keeps the damsel in confinement and persecutes her with amatory advances which she is able to resist through a power which is to support her so long as her heart is untouched by love. Perifirime promises the hand of her daughter, whose father is the King of Cashmere, to Prince Lulu, son of the King of Chorassan, if he regain the stolen talisman for her. To do this, however, is given only to one who has never felt the divine passion. Lulu undertakes the adventure, and as aids the fairy gives him a magic flute and a ring. The tone of the flute will win the hearts of all who hear it; by turning the ring, the wearer is enabled to assume any form desired at will; by throwing it away he may summon the fairy herself to his aid. The Prince assumes the form of an old man, and, like Orpheus, softens the nature of the wild beasts that he meets in the forest. He even melts the heart of the magician himself, who admits him to his castle. Once he is within its walls, the inmates all yield to the charm of his magical music, not excepting the lovely prisoner. At a banquet he throws the magician and his companions into a deep sleep, and possesses himself of the talisman. It is a gold fire-steel, every spark struck from which becomes a powerful spirit whose service is at the command of the possessor. With the help of genii, struck from the magical implement, and the fairy whom he summons at the last, Prince Lulu overcomes all the obstacles placed in his way. Discomfited, the magician flies away as an owl. Perifirime destroys the castle and carries the lovers in a cloud chariot to her own palace. Their royal fathers give their blessings, and Prince Lulu and Princess Sidi are joined in wedlock. Following in a general way the lines of this story, but supplying the comic element by the creation of Papageno (who is Kasperl in a habiliment of feathers), Schikaneder had already got his hero into the castle of the wicked magician in quest of the daughter of the Queen of Night (in whose character there was not yet a trace of maleficence), when the success of his rival's earlier presentation of the story gave him pause. Now there came to him (or to his literary colleague) a conceit which fired the imagination of Mozart and added an element to the play which was bound at once to dignify it and create a popular stir that might lead to a triumph. Whence the suggestion came is not known, but its execution, so far as the libretto was concerned, was left to Gieseke. Under the Emperor Leopold II the Austrian government had adopted a reactionary policy toward the order of Freemasons, which was suspected of making propaganda for liberal ideas in politics and religion. Both Schikaneder and Mozart belonged to the order, Mozart, indeed, being so enthusiastic a devotee that he once confessed to his father his gratitude to God that through Freemasonry he had learned to look upon death as the gateway to true happiness. In continuing the book of the opera, Schikaneder (or Gieseke for him) abruptly transformed the wicked magician into a virtuous sage who had carried off the daughter of a wicked sorceress, the Queen of Night, to save the maiden from the baleful influence of her mother. Instead of seeking to frustrate the efforts of the prince who comes to rescue her, the sage initiates him into the mysteries of Isis, leads him into the paths of virtue and wisdom, tests him by trials, and rewards him at the last by blessing his union with the maiden. The trials of silence, secrecy, and hardihood in passing through the dread elements of fire and water were ancient literary materials; they may be found in the account of the initiation of a neophyte into the mysteries of Isis in Apuleius's "Metamorphoses; or, The Golden Ass," a romance written in the second century. By placing the scene of the opera in Egypt, the belief of Freemasons that their order originated in that unspeakably ancient land was humored, while the use of some of its symbolism (such as the conflict between light and darkness) and the proclamation of what were believed to be some of its ethical principles could safely be relied upon to delight the knowing and irritate the curiosity of the uninitiated. The change also led to the shabby treatment which woman receives in the opera, while Schikaneder's failure to rewrite the first part accounts for such inconsistencies as the genii who are sent to guide the prince appearing first in the service of the evil principle and afterward as agents of the good. The overture to "Die Zauberflöte," because of its firm establishment in our concert-rooms, is more widely known than the opera. Two of its salient features have also made it the subject of large discussion among musical analysts; namely, the reiterated chords, three times three, which introduce the second part of the overture. {1} [Musical excerpt] and the fugued allegro, constructed with a skill that will never cease to be a wonder to the knowing, built up on the following subject:-- [Musical excerpt] In the chords (which are heard again in the temple scene, at which the hero is admitted as a novice and permitted to begin his probation), the analysts who seek to find as much symbolism as possible in the opera, see an allusion to the signals given by knocking at the door of the lodge-room. Some such purpose may been have in the mind of Mozart when he chose the device, but it was not unique when he applied it. I have found it used in an almost identical manner in the overture to "Günther von Schwarzburg," by Ignaz Holzbauer, a German opera produced in Mannheim fifteen years before "Die Zauberflöte" saw the light of the stage lamps. Mozart knew Holzbauer, who was a really great musician, and admired his music. Connected with the fugue theme there is a more familiar story. In 1781 Clementi, the great pianist and composer, visited Vienna. He made the acquaintance of Haydn, was introduced at court, and Emperor Joseph II brought him and Mozart together in a trial of skill at playing and improvising. Among other things Clementi played his own sonata in B-flat, the first movement of which begins thus:-- [Musical excerpt] The resemblance between this theme and Mozart's fugal subject is too plain to need pointing out. Such likenesses were more common in Mozart's day than they were a century ago; they were more common in Handel's day than in Mozart's; they are almost as common in our day as they were in Handel's, but now we explain them as being the products of "unconscious cerebration," whereas in the eighteenth century they were frank borrowings in which there was no moral obliquity; for originality then lay as much in treatment as in thematic invention, if not more. Come we now to a description of the action of the opera. Tamino,-- strange to say, a "Japanese" prince,--hunting far, very far, from home, is pursued, after his last arrow has been sped, by a great serpent. He flees, cries for help, and seeing himself already in the clutch of death, falls in a swoon. At the moment of his greatest danger three veiled ladies appear on the scene and melodiously and harmoniously unite in slaying the monster. They are smitten, in unison, with the beauty of the unconscious youth whom they have saved, and quarrel prettily among themselves for the privilege of remaining beside him while information of the incident is bearing to the Queen of Night, who lives hard by in a castle. No two being willing that the third shall stay, all three go to the Queen, who is their mistress. Tamino's consciousness returning, he discovers that the serpent has been slain, and hails Papageno, who comes upon the scene, as his deliverer. Papageno is a bird-catcher by trade and in the service of the Queen of Night--a happy-go-lucky, talkative fellow, whose thoughts do not go beyond creature comforts. He publishes his nature (and incidentally illustrates what has been said above about the naïve character of some of the music of the opera) by trolling a ditty with an opening strain as follows:-- [Musical excerpt] Papageno has no scruples about accepting credit and gratitude for the deed performed by the ladies, and, though he is the veriest poltroon, he boasts inordinately about the gigantic strength which had enabled him to strangle the serpent. He is punished for his mendacity when the ladies return and place a padlock upon his mouth, closing his lips to the things of which he is most fond--speech and food. To Tamino they give a miniature portrait, which excites him to rapturous song ("Dies Bildniss ist bezaubernd schön," or "Oh! cara immagine," as the case may be). Then he learns that the original of the portrait is Pamina, daughter of the Queen of Night, stolen from her mother by a "wicked demon," Sarastro. In the true spirit of knight-errantry he vows that he will restore the maid to her mother's arms. There is a burst of thunder, and the Queen appears in such apparel and manner as the exchequer at the theatre and the ingenuity of the stage mechanic are able to provide. (When last I saw her her robe was black, bespangled with stars and glittering gems, and she rode upon the crescent moon.) She knows the merits and virtues of the youth, and promises that he shall have Pamina to wife if he succeeds in his adventure. Papageno is commanded to accompany him, and as aids the ladies give to Tamino a magic flute, whose tones shall protect him from every danger, and to Papageno a bell-chime of equal potency. (These talismans have hundreds of prototypes in the folk-lore of all peoples.) Papageno is loath to accompany the prince, because the magician had once threatened to spit and roast him like the bird he resembled if ever he was caught in his domain, but the magical bells give him comfort and assurance. Meanwhile the padlock has been removed from his lips, with admonitions not to lie more. In the quintet which accompanies these sayings and doings, there is exquisite music, which, it is said, Mozart conceived while playing at billiards. Finally the ladies announce that three boys, "young, beautiful, pure, and wise," shall guide the pair to the castle of Sarastro. We are next in a room of the castle before the would-be rescuers arrive. Pamina has tried to escape, and is put in chains by her keeper, the Moor Monostatos. She weeps because of her misery, and repulses the protestations of love with which her jailer plagues her. Papageno enters the room, and he and the jailer run in opposite directions at sight of each other--Papageno frightened by the complexion of the blackamoor, Monostatos terror-stricken at the sight of a man in feathers. Returning, Papageno convinces himself of the identity of Pamina with the daughter of the Queen of Night, tells her of Tamino, who is coming for her with a heart full of love, and promptly they sing of the divine dignity of the marital state. It is the duet, "Bei Männern weiche Liebe fühlen," or "Là dove prende, amor ricetto," familiar to concert-rooms, and the melody to some hymnals. A story goes that Mozart had to write this duet three or five times before it would pass muster in the censorious eyes of Schikaneder. After the opera had made good its success, the duet as we have it to-day alternated at the performance with a more ornate version--in all likelihood one of the earlier forms in which Mozart cast it. The three boys--genii they are, and if I were stage-manager they should fly like Peter Pan--lead Tamino into a grove wherein stand three temples dedicated respectively to Wisdom, Nature, and Reason. The precinct is sacred; the music tells us that--the halo streaming from sustained notes of flutes and clarinets, the muted trumpets, the solemn trombones in softest monotone, the placid undulations of the song sung by the violins, the muffled, admonitory beats of the kettledrums. The genii leave Tamino after admonishing him to be "steadfast, patient, and silent." Conscious of a noble purpose, the hero boldly approaches the Temple of Reason, but before he can enter its portals, is stopped by an imperative injunction from within: "Back!" He essays the Temple of Nature, and is turned away again by the ominous word. Out of the Temple of Wisdom steps an aged priest, from whom he learns that Sarastro is master within, and that no one is privileged to enter whose heart, like his, harbors hatred and vengeful thoughts. Tamino thinks Sarastro fully deserving of hatred and revenge, and is informed that he had been deceived by a woman--one of the sex "that does little, chatters much." Tamino asks if Pamina lives, but the priest is bound by an oath to say nothing on that subject until "the hand of friendship shall lead him to an eternal union within the sanctuary." When shall night vanish and the light appear? Oracular voices answer, "Soon, youth, or never!" Does Pamina live? The voices: "Pamina still lives!" Thus comforted, he sings his happiness, filling the pauses in his song with interludes on the flute, bringing to his feet the wild beasts and forest creatures of all sorts. He hears Papageno's syrinx, and at length finds the fowler with Monostatos; but before their joy can have expression Pamina and the slaves appear and capture them. Papageno recollects him of his magic bells; he plays upon them, and the slaves, willy-nilly, dance themselves out of sight. Scarcely are the lovers free when a solemn strain announces the approach of Sarastro. He comes in a chariot drawn by lions and surrounded by a brave retinue. Pamina kneels to him, confesses her attempt to escape, but explains that it was to free herself from the odious attentions of Monostatos. The latter, asking his reward for having thwarted the plan of Papageno, receives it from Sarastro in the shape of a bastinado. Pamina pleads for restoration to her mother, but the sage refuses to free her, saying that her mother is a haughty woman, adding the ungallant reflection that woman's heart should be directed by man lest she step outside her sphere. He commands that Tamino and Papageno be veiled and led into the Temple of Probation. The first act is ended. The initiation of Tamino and Papageno into the mysteries, their trials, failures, triumph, and reward, form the contents of the second act. At a conclave of the elect, Sarastro announces that Tamino stands at the door of the Temple of Wisdom, desirous to gaze upon the "great light" of the sanctuary. He prays Isis and Osiris to give strength to the neophytes:-- [Musical excerpt--"O Isis und Osiris schenket Der Weisheit Geist dem neuen Paar."] To the impressiveness of this prayer the orchestra contributes as potent a factor as the stately melody or the solemn harmonies. All the bright-voiced instruments are excluded, and the music assigned to three groups of sombre color, composed, respectively, (1) of divided violas and violoncellos; (2) of three trombones, and (3) of two basset horns and two bassoons. The assent of the sacerdotal assembly is indicated by the three trumpet blasts which have been described in connection with the overture, and Tamino and Papageno are admitted to the Temple, instructed, and begin their probationary trials. True to the notion of the order, two priests warn the neophytes against the wiles of woman. Papageno has little inclination to seek wisdom, but enters upon the trials in the hope of winning a wife who shall be like himself in appearance. In the first trial, which is that of silence, the value of the priestly warning just received is at once made apparent. Tamino and Papageno have scarcely been left alone, when the three female attendants of the Queen of Night appear and attempt to terrify them with tales of the false nature of the priests, whose recruits, say they, are carried to hell, body and breeches (literally "mit Haut und Haar," i.e. "with skin and hair"). Papageno becomes terror-stricken and falls to the floor, when voices within proclaim that the sanctity of the temple has been profaned by woman's presence. The ladies flee. The scene changes. Pamina is seen asleep in a bower of roses, silvered over by the light of the moon. Monostatos, deploring the fact that love should be denied him because of his color, though enjoyed by everything else in nature, attempts to steal a kiss. A peal of thunder, and the Queen of Night rises from the ground. She importunes Pamina to free herself and avenge her mother's wrongs by killing Sarastro. To this end she hands her a dagger and pours out the "hellish rage" which "boils" in her heart in a flood of scintillant staceati in the tonal regions where few soprano voices move:-- [Musical excerpt] Monostatos has overheard all. He wrenches the dagger from Pamina, urges her again to accept his love, threatens her with death, and is about to put his threat into execution when Sarastro enters, dismisses the slave, and announces that his revenge upon the Queen of Night shall lie in promoting the happiness of the daughter by securing her union with Tamino. The probationary trials of Tamino and Papageno are continued. The two are led into a hall and admonished to remain silent till they hear a trumpet-call. Papageno falls to chattering with an old woman, is terrified beyond measure by a thunder-clap, and recovers his composure only when the genii bring back the flute and bells and a table of food. Tamino, however, remains steadfast, though Pamina herself comes to him and pleads for a word of love. Papageno boasts of his own hardihood, but stops to eat, though the trumpet has called. A lion appears; Tamino plays his flute, and the beast returns to his cage. The youth is prepared for the final trial; he is to wander for a space through flood and flame, and Pamina is brought to say her tearful farewells. The courage and will of the neophyte remain unshaken, though the maiden gives way to despair and seeks to take her own life. The genii stay her hand, and assure her that Tamino shall be restored to her. Two men in armor guard the gates of a subterranean cavern. They sing of the rewards to be won by him who shall walk the path of danger; water, fire, air, and earth shall purify him; and if he withstand death's terrors, heaven shall receive him and he be enlightened and fitted to consecrate himself wholly to the mysteries of Isis:-- [Musical excerpt--"Der, welcher wandert diese Strasse voll Beschwerde"] A marvellous piece of music is consorted with this oracular utterance. The words are set to an old German church melody--"Ach Gott, vom Himmel sieh darein"--around which the orchestral instruments weave a contrapuntal web of wondrous beauty. At the gates Pamina joins her lover and accompanies him on his journey, which is happily achieved with the help of the flute. Meanwhile Papageno is pardoned his loquacity, but told that he shall never feel the joy of the elect. He thinks he can make shift with a pretty wife instead. The old woman of the trial chamber appears and discloses herself as the charming, youthful Papageno, but only for an instant. He calls after her in vain, and is about to hang himself when the genii remind him of his magic bells. He rings and sings; his feathered mate comes to him. Monostatos aids the Queen of Night and her companions in an assault upon the sanctuary; but a storm confounds them, and Sarastro blesses the union of Tamino and Pamina, amidst joyful hymning by the elect. An extraordinary hodgepodge, truly, yet, taken all in all, an effective stage piece. Goethe was so impressed with the ingenuity shown by Schikaneder in treating the device of contrast that he seriously contemplated writing a second part, the music of which was to be composed by Wranitzky, who set Gieseke's operatic version of "Oberon." German critics and managers have deplored its absurdities and contradictions, but have found no way to obviate them which can be said to be generally acceptable. The buffooneries cannot be separated from the sublimities without disrupting the piece, nor can its doggerel be turned into dignified verse. It were best, I fancy, that managers should treat the opera, and audiences receive it, as a sort of Christmas pantomime which Mozart has glorified by his music. The tendency of German critics has been to view it with too much seriousness. It is difficult to avoid this while one is under the magic spell of its music, but the only way to become reconciled to it on reflection is to take it as the story of its creation shows that its creators intended it to be taken; namely, as a piece designed to suit the tastes of the uncultivated and careless masses. This will explain the singular sacrifice of principle which Mozart made in permitting a mountebank like Schikaneder to pass judgment on his music while he was composing it, to exact that one duet should be composed over five times before he would accept it, and even to suggest melodies for some of the numbers. Jahn would have us believe that Mozart was so concerned at the failure of the first act to win applause at the first performance that he came behind the scenes pale as death to receive comfort and encouragement from Schikaneder; I prefer to believe another story, which is to the effect that Mozart almost died with laughing when he found that the public went into ecstasies over his opera. Certain it is that his pleasure in it was divided. Schikaneder had told him that he might occasionally consult the taste of connoisseurs, and he did so, finding profound satisfaction in the music written for Sarastro and the priests, and doubtless also in the fine ensembles; but the enthusiasm inspired by what he knew to be concessions to the vulgar only excited his hilarity. The beautiful in the score is amply explained by Mozart's genius and his marvellous command of the technique of composition. The dignity of the simple idea of a celebration of the mysteries of Isis would have been enough, without the composer's reverence for Freemasonry and its principles, to inspire him for a great achievement when it came to providing a setting for the scenes in which the priests figure. The rest of the music he seems to have written with little regard to coherency or unity of character. His sister-in-law had a voice of extraordinary range and elasticity; hence the two display airs; Papageno had to have music in keeping in his character, and Mozart doubtless wrote it with as little serious thought as he did the "Piece for an Organ in a Clock, in F minor, 4-4," and "Andante to a Waltz for a Little Organ," which can be found entered in his autograph catalogue for the last year of his life. In the overture, one of the finest of his instrumental compositions, he returned to a form that had not been in use since the time of Hasse and Graum; in the scene with the two men in armor he made use of a German chorale sung in octaves as a canto firmo, with counterpoint in the orchestra--a recondite idea which it is difficult to imagine him inventing for this opera. I fancy (not without evidence) that he made the number out of material found in his sketch-book. These things indicate that the depth which the critics with deep-diving and bottom-scraping proclivities affect to see in the work is rather the product of imagination than real. Footnotes: {1} These chords, played by all the wind instruments of the band, are the chords of the introduction raised to a higher power. CHAPTER IV "DON GIOVANNI" In the preceding chapter it was remarked that Mozart's "Zauberflöte" was the oldest German opera in the current American repertory. Accepting the lists of the last two decades as a criterion, "Don Giovanni" is the oldest Italian opera, save one. That one is "Le Nozze di Figaro," and it may, therefore, be said that Mozart's operas mark the beginning of the repertory as it exists at the present time in America. Twenty-five years ago it was possible to hear a few performances of Gluck's "Orfeo" in English and Italian, and its name has continued to figure occasionally ever since in the lists of works put forth by managers when inviting subscriptions for operatic seasons; but that fact can scarcely be said to have kept the opera in the repertory. Our oldest Italian opera is less than 125 years old, and "Don Giovanni" only 122--an inconsiderable age for a first-class work of art compared with its companion pieces in literature, painting, and sculpture, yet a highly respectable one for an opera. Music has undergone a greater revolution within the last century than any other art in thrice the period, yet "Don Giovanni" is as much admired now as it was in the last decade of the eighteenth century, and, indeed, has less prejudice to contend with in the minds of musicians and critics than it had when it was in its infancy, and I confidently believe that to its score and that of "Le Nozze di Figaro" opera writers will soon be turning to learn the methods of dramatic characterization. Pure beauty lives in angelic wedlock with psychological expression in Mozart's dramatic music, and these factors will act as powerful loadstones in bringing composers who are now laboriously and vainly seeking devices for characterization in tricks and devices based on arbitrary formulas back to the gospel of truth and beauty. Wagner has had no successful imitator. His scheme of thematic identification and development, in its union of calculation, reflection, and musical inspiration, is beyond the capacities of those who have come after him. The bow of Ulysses is still unbent; but he will be a great musician indeed who shall use the resources of the new art with such large ease, freedom, power, and effectiveness as Mozart used those of the comparatively ingenuous art of his day. And yet the great opera composer who is to come in great likelihood will be a disciple of Gluck, Mozart, and the Wagner who wrote "Tristan und Isolde" and "Die Meistersinger" rather than one of the tribe of Debussy. The great opera composers of the nineteenth century were of one mind touching the greatness of "Don Giovanni." Beethoven was horrified by its licentious libretto, but tradition says that he kept before him on his writing-table a transcript of the music for the trombones in the second finale of the opera. Shortly after Mme. Viardot-Garcia came into possession of the autograph score of the masterpiece, Rossini called upon her and asked for the privilege of looking at it, adding, "I want to bow the knee before this sacred relic." After poring over a few pages, he placed his hands on the book and said, solemnly: "He is the greatest, the master of them all; the only composer who had as much science as he had genius, and as much genius as he had science." On another occasion he said to a questioner: "Vous voulez connaître celui de mes ouvrages que j'aime le mieux; eh bien, c'est 'Don Giovanni.'" Gounod celebrated the centenary of the opera by writing a commentary on it which he dedicated to young composers and artists called upon to take part in performances of the opera. In the preface of his book he characterizes it as "an unequalled and immortal masterpiece," the "apogee of the lyrical drama," a "wondrous example of truth, beauty of form, appropriateness of characterization, deep insight into the drama, purity of style, richness and restraint in instrumentation, charm and tenderness in the love passages, and power in pathos"--in one word, a "finished model of dramatic music." And then he added: "The score of 'Don Giovanni' has exercised the influence of a revelation upon the whole of my life; it has been and remains for me a kind of incarnation of dramatic and musical impeccability. I regard it as a work without blemish, of uninterrupted perfection, and this commentary is but the humble testimony of my Veneration and gratitude for the genius to whom I owe the purest and most permanent joys of my life as a musician." In his "Autobiographical Sketch" Wagner confesses that as a lad he cared only for "Die Zauberflöte," and that "Don Giovanni" was distasteful to him on account of the Italian text, which seemed to him rubbish. But in "Oper und Drama" he says: "Is it possible to find anything more perfect than every piece in 'Don Juan'? . . . Oh, how doubly dear and above all honor is Mozart to me that it was not possible for him to invent music for 'Tito' like that of 'Don Giovanni,' for 'Cosi fan tutte' like that of 'Figaro'! How shamefully would it have desecrated music!" And again: "Where else has music won so infinitely rich an individuality, been able to characterize so surely, so definitely, and in such exuberant plenitude, as here?" {1} Mozart composed "Don Giovanni" for the Italian Opera at Prague, which had been saved from ruin in the season 1786-1787 by the phenomenal success of "Le Nozze di Figaro." He chose the subject and commissioned Lorenzo da Ponte, then official poet to the imperial theatres of Austria, to write the book of words. In doing so, the latter made free use of a version of the same story made by an Italian theatrical poet named Bertati, and Dr. Chrysander (who in 1886 gave me a copy of this libretto, which Mozart's biographer, Otto Jahn, had not succeeded in finding, despite diligent search) has pointed out that Mozart also took as a model some of the music to which the composer Gazzaniga had set it. The title of the opera by Bertati and Gazzaniga was "Il Convitato di Pietra." It had been brought forward with great success in Venice and won wide vogue in Italy before Mozart hit upon it. It lived many years after Mozart brought out his opera, and, indeed, was performed in London twenty-three years before Mozart's opera got a hearing. It is doubtful, however, if the London representation did justice to the work. Da Ponte was poet to the opera there when "Il Convitato" was chosen for performance, and it fell to him to prepare the book to suit the taste of the English people. He tried to persuade the management to give Mozart's opera instead, and, failing in that, had the malicious satisfaction of helping to turn the work of Bertati and Gazzaniga into a sort of literary and musical pasticcio, inserting portions of his own paraphrase of Bertati's book in place of the original scenes and preparing occasion for the insertion of musical pieces by Sarti, Frederici, and Guglielmi. Mozart wrote the music to "Don Giovanni" in the summer of 1787. Judging by the circumstance that there is no entry in his autograph catalogue between June 24 and August 10 in that year, it would seem that he had devoted the intervening seven weeks chiefly, if not wholly, to the work. When he went to Prague in September he carried the unfinished score with him, and worked on it there largely in the summer house of his friends, the Duscheks, who lived in the suburbs of the city. Under date of October 28 he entered the overture in his catalogue. As a matter of fact, it was not finished till the early morn of the next day, which was the day of the first production of the opera. Thereby hangs the familiar tale of how it was composed. On the evening of the day before the performance, pen had not been touched to the overture. Nevertheless, Mozart sat with a group of merry friends until a late hour of the night. Then he went to his hotel and prepared to work. On the table was a glass of punch, and his wife sat beside him--to keep him awake by telling him stories. In spite of all, sleep overcame him, and he was obliged to interrupt his work for several hours; yet at 7 o'clock in the morning the copyist was sent for and the overture was ready for him. The tardy work delayed the representation in the evening, and the orchestra had to play the overture at sight; but it was a capital band, and Mozart, who conducted, complimented it before starting into the introduction to the first air. The performance was completely successful, and floated buoyantly on a tide of enthusiasm which set in when Mozart entered the orchestra, and rose higher and higher as the music went on. On May 7, 1788, the opera was given in Vienna, where at first it made a fiasco, though Mozart had inserted new pieces and made other alterations to humor the singers and add to its attractiveness. London heard it first on April 12, 1817, at the King's Theatre, whose finances, which were almost in an exhausted state, it restored to a flourishing condition. In the company which Manuel Garcia brought to New York in 1825 were Carlo Angrisani, who was the Masetto of the first London representation, and Domenico Crivelli, son of the tenor Gaetano Crivelli, who had been the Don Ottavio. Garcia was a tenor with a voice sufficiently deep to enable him to sing the barytone part of Don Giovanni in Paris and at subsequent performances in London. It does not appear that he had contemplated a performance of the opera in New York, but here he met Da Ponte, who had been a resident of the city for twenty years and recently been appointed professor of Italian literature at Columbia College. Da Ponte, as may be imagined, lost no time in calling on Garcia and setting on foot a scheme for bringing forward "my 'Don Giovanni,'" as he always called it. Crivelli was a second-rate tenor, and could not be trusted with the part of Don Ottavio, and a Frenchman named Milon, whom I conclude to have been a violoncello player, afterward identified with the organization of the Philharmonic Society, was engaged for that part. A Mme. Barbieri was cast for the part of Donna Anna, Mme. Garcia for that of Donna Elvira, Manuel Garcia, Jr. (who died in 1906 at the age of 101 years) for that of Leporello, Angrisani for his old rôle of Masetto, and Maria Garcia, afterward the famous Malibran, for that of Zerlina. The first performance took place on May 23, 1826, in the Park Theatre, and the opera was given eleven times in the season. This success, coupled with the speedily acquired popularity of Garcia's gifted daughter, was probably the reason why an English version of the opera which dominated the New York stage for nearly a quarter of a century soon appeared at the Chatham Theatre. In this version the part of the dissolute Don was played by H. Wallack, uncle of the Lester Wallack so long a theatrical favorite in the American metropolis. As Malibran the Signorina Garcia took part in many of the English performances of the work, which kept the Italian off the local stage till 1850, when it was revived by Max Maretzek at the Astor Place Opera-house. I have intimated that Bertati's opera-book was the prototype of Da Ponte's, but the story is centuries older than either. The Spanish tale of Don Juan Tenorio, who killed an enemy in a duel, insulted his memory by inviting his statue to dinner, and was sent to hell because of his refusal to repent him of his sins, was but a literary form of a legend of considerable antiquity. It seems likely that it was moulded into dramatic shape by monks in the Middle Ages; it certainly occupied industriously the minds of playwrights in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in Spain, Italy, Germany, and England. The most eminent men who treated it at various times were the Spaniard known as Tirza di Molina, the Frenchman Molière, the Italian Goldoni, and the Englishman Thomas Shadwell, whose "Libertine Destroyed" was brought forward in 1676. Before Mozart, Le Tellier had used it for a French comic opera, Righini and Gazzaniga for Italian operas, and Gluck for a ballet. But we are concerned now only with the play as Da Ponte and Mozart gave it to us. In the dramatic terminology of the eighteenth century "Don Giovanni" was a dramma giocoso; in the better sense of the phrase, a playful drama--a lyric comedy. Da Ponte conceived it as such, but Mozart gave it so tragical a turn by the awful solemnity with which he infused the scene of the libertine's punishment that already in his day it was felt that the last scene as written and composed to suit the conventional type of a comic opera was an intolerable anticlimax. Mozart sounds a deeply tragical note at the outset of his overture. The introduction is an Andante, which he drew from the scene of the opera in which the ghostly statue of the murdered Commandant appears to Don Giovanni while he is enjoying the pleasures of the table. Two groups of solemn chords command attention and "establish at once the majestic and formidable authority of divine justice, the avenger of crime." {2} They are followed by a series of solemn progressions in stern, sinister, unyielding, merciless, implacable harmonies. They are like the colossal strides of approaching Fate, and this awfulness is twice raised to a higher power, first by a searching, syncopated phrase in the violins which hovers loweringly over them, and next by a succession of afrighted minor scales ascending crescendo and descending piano, the change in dynamics beginning abruptly as the crest of each terrifying wave is reached. These wonderful scales begin thus:-- [Musical excerpt] in the last scene of the opera. They were an afterthought of the composer's. They did not appear in the original score of the scene, as the autograph shows, but were written in after the music had once been completed. They are crowded into the staves in tiny notes which sometimes extend from one measure into the next. This circumstance and the other, that they are all fairly written out in the autograph of the overture, indicate that they were conceived either at one of the rehearsals or while Mozart was writing the overture. They could not have been suggested at the first performance, as Jahn seems to imply. {3} The introduction is only thirty measures long, and the Allegro which follows is made up of new material. I quote again from Gounod: "But suddenly, and with feverish audacity, the Allegro breaks out in the major key, an Allegro full of passion and delirium, deaf to the warnings of Heaven, regardless of remorse, enraptured of pleasure, madly inconstant and daring, rapid and impetuous as a torrent, flashing and swift as a sword, overleaping all obstacles, scaling balconies, and bewildering the alguazils." {4} From the tragic introduction through the impetuous main section we are led to a peaceful night scene in the garden before the house of Donna Anna. There Leporello, the servant of Don Giovanni, is awaiting in discontented mood for the return of his master, who has entered the house in quest of amatory adventure. Leporello is weary of the service in which he is engaged, and contrasts his state with that of the Don. (Air: "Notte e giorno faticar.") He will throw off the yoke and be a gentleman himself. He has just inflated himself with pride at the thought, when he hears footsteps, and the poltroon in his nature asserts itself. He hides behind the shrubbery. Don Giovanni hurries from the house, concealing his features with his cloak and impeded by Donna Anna, who clings to him, trying to get a look into his face and calling for help. Don Giovanni commands silence and threatens. The Commandant, Donna Anna's father, appears with drawn sword and challenges the intruder. Don Giovanni hesitates to draw against so old a man, but the Commandant will not parley. They fight. At first the attacks and defences are deliberate (the music depicts it all with wonderful vividness), but at the last it is thrust and parry, thrust and parry, swiftly, mercilessly. The Commandant is no match for his powerful young opponent, and falls, dying. A few broken ejaculations, and all is ended. The orchestra sings a slow descending chromatic phrase "as if exhausted by the blood which oozes from the wound," says Gounod. How simple the means of expression! But let the modern composer, with all his apparatus of new harmonies and his multitude of instruments, point out a scene to match it in the entire domain of the lyric drama! Don Giovanni and his lumpish servant, who, with all his coward instincts, cannot help trying his wit at the outcome of the adventure, though his master is in little mood for sportiveness, steal away as they see lights and hear a commotion in the palace. Donna Anna comes back to the garden, bringing her affianced lover, Don Ottavio, whom she had called to the help of her father. She finds the Commandant dead, and breaks into agonizing cries and tears. Only an accompanied recitative, but every ejaculation a cry of nature! Gounod is wrought up to an ecstasy by Mozart's declamation and harmonies. He suspends his analysis to make this comment:-- But that which one cannot too often remark nor too often endeavor to make understood, that which renders Mozart an absolutely unique genius, is the constant and indissoluble union of beauty of form with truth of expression. By this truth he is human, by this beauty he is divine. By truth he teaches us, he moves us; we recognize each other in him, and we proclaim thereby that he indeed knows human nature thoroughly, not only in its different passions, but also in the varieties of form and character that those passions may assume. By beauty the real is transfigured, although at the same time it is left entirely recognizable; he elevates it by the magic of a superior language and transports it to that region of serenity and light which constitutes Art, wherein Intelligence repeats with a tranquillity of vision what the heart has experienced in the trouble of passion. Now the union of truth with beauty is Art itself. Don Ottavio attempts to console his love, but she is insane with grief and at first repulses him, then pours out her grief and calls upon him to avenge the death of her father. Together they register a vow and call on heaven for retribution. It is morning. Don Giovanni and Leporello are in the highway near Seville. As usual, Leporello is dissatisfied with his service and accuses the Don with being a rascal. Threats of punishment bring back his servile manner, and Don Giovanni is about to acquaint him of a new conquest, when a lady, Donna Elvira, comes upon the scene. She utters woful complaints of unhappiness and resentment against one who had won her love, then deceived and deserted her. (Air: "Ah! chi mi dice mai.") Don Giovanni ("aflame already," as Leporello remarks) steps forward to console her. He salutes her with soft blandishment in his voice, but to his dismay discovers that she is a noble lady of Burgos and one of the "thousand and three" Spanish victims recorded in the list which Leporello mockingly reads to her after Don Giovanni, having turned her over to his servant, for an explanation of his conduct in leaving Burgos, has departed unperceived. Leporello is worthy of his master in some things. In danger he is the veriest coward, and his teeth chatter like castanets; but confronted by a mere woman in distress he becomes voluble and spares her nothing in a description of the number of his master's amours, their place, the quality and station of his victims, and his methods of beguilement. The curious and also the emulous may be pleased to learn that the number is 2065, geographically distributed as follows: Italy, 240; Germany, 231; France, 100; Turkey, 91; and Spain, 1003. Among them are ladies from the city and rustic damsels, countesses, baronesses, marchionesses, and princesses. If blond, he praises her dainty beauty; brunette, her constancy; pale, her sweetness. In cold weather his preferences go toward the buxom, in summer, svelte. Even old ladies serve to swell his list. Rich or poor, homely or beautiful, all's one to him so long as the being is inside a petticoat. "But why go on? Lady, you know his ways." The air, "Madamina," is a marvel of malicious humor and musical delineation. "E la grande maestoso"--the music rises and inflates itself most pompously; "la piccina"--it sinks in quick iteration lower and lower just as the Italians in describing small things lower their hands toward the ground. The final words, "Voi sapete, quel che fa," scarcely to be interpreted for polite readers, as given by bass singers who have preserved the Italian traditions (with a final "hm" through the nose), go to the extreme of allowable suggestiveness, if not a trifle beyond. The insult throws Elvira into a rage, and she resolves to forego her love and seek vengeance instead. Don Giovanni comes upon a party of rustics who are celebrating in advance the wedding of Zerlina and Masetto. The damsel is a somewhat vain, forward, capricious, flirtatious miss, and cannot long withstand such blandishments as the handsome nobleman bestows upon her. Don Giovanni sends the merrymakers to his palace for entertainment, cajoles and threatens Masetto into leaving him alone with Zerlina, and begins his courtship of her. (Duet: "Là ci darem la mano.") He has about succeeded in his conquest, when Elvira intervenes, warns the maiden, leads her away, and, returning, finds Donna Anna and Don Ottavio in conversation with Don Giovanni, whose help in the discovery of the Commandant's murderer they are soliciting. Elvira breaks out with denunciations, and Don Giovanni, in a whisper to his companions, proclaims her mad, and leads her off. Departing, he says a word of farewell, and from the tone of his voice Donna Anna recognizes her father's murderer. She tells her lover how the assassin stole into her room at night, attempted her dishonor, and slew her father. She demands his punishment at Don Ottavio's hands, and he, though doubting that a nobleman and a friend could be guilty of such crimes, yet resolves to find out the truth and deliver the guilty man to justice. The Don commands a grand entertainment for Zerlina's wedding party, for, though temporarily foiled, he has not given up the chase. Masetto comes with pretty Zerlina holding on to the sleeve of his coat. The boor is jealous, and Zerlina knows well that he has cause. She protests, she cajoles; he is no match for her. She confesses to having been pleased at my lord's flattery, but he had not touched "even the tips of her fingers." If her fault deserves it, he may beat her if he wants to, but then let there be peace between them. The artful minx! Her wheedling is irresistible. Listen to it:-- [Musical excerpt--"Batti, batti, o bel Masetto"] The most insinuating of melodies floating over an obbligato of the solo violoncello "like a love charm," as Gounod says. Then the celebration of her victory when she captures one of his hands and knows that he is yielding:-- [Musical excerpt--"Pace, pace o vita mia"] A new melody, blither, happier, but always the violoncello murmuring in blissful harmony with the seductive voice and rejoicing in the cunning witcheries which lull Masetto's suspicions to sleep. Now all go into Don Giovanni's palace, from which the sounds of dance music and revelry are floating out. Donna Elvira, Donna Anna, and Don Ottavio, who come to confront him who has wronged them all, are specially bidden, as was the custom, because they appeared in masks. Within gayety is supreme. A royal host, this Don Giovanni! Not only are there refreshments for all, but he has humored both classes of guests in the arrangement of the programme of dances. Let there be a minuet, a country-dance, and an allemande, he had said to Leporello in that dizzying song of instruction which whirls past our senses like a mad wind: "Finch' han dal vino." No one so happy as Mozart when it came to providing the music for these dances. Would you connoisseurs in music like counterpoint? We shall give it you;--three dances shall proceed at once and together, despite their warring duple and triple rhythms:-- [Musical excerpts] Louis Viardot, who wrote a little book describing the autograph of "Don Giovanni," says that Mozart wrote in the score where the three bands play thus simultaneously the word accordano as a direction to the stage musicians to imitate the action of tuning their instruments before falling in with their music. Of this fact the reprint of the libretto as used at Prague and Vienna contains no mention, but a foot-note gives other stage directions which indicate how desirous Mozart was that his ingenious and humorous conceit should not be overlooked. At the point where the minuet, which was the dance of people of quality, is played, he remarked, "Don Ottavio dances the minuet with Donna Anna"; at the contra-dance in 2-4 time, "Don Giovanni begins to dance a contra-dance with Zerlina"; at the entrance of the waltz, "Leporello dances a 'Teitsch' with Masetto." The proper execution of Mozart's elaborate scheme puts the resources of an opera-house to a pretty severe test, but there is ample reward in the result. Pity that, as a rule, so little intelligence is shown by the ballet master in arranging the dances! There is a special significance in Mozart's direction that the cavalier humor the peasant girl by stepping a country-dance with her, which is all lost when he attempts to lead her into the aristocratic minuet, as is usually done. At the height of the festivities, Don Giovanni succeeds in leading Zerlina into an inner room, from which comes a piercing shriek a moment later. Anticipating trouble, Leporello hastens to his master to warn him. Don Ottavio and his friends storm the door of the anteroom, out of which now comes Don Giovanni dragging Leporello and uttering threats of punishment against him. The trick does not succeed. Don Ottavio removes his mask and draws his sword; Donna Anna and Donna Elvira confront the villain. The musicians, servants, and rustics run away in affright. For a moment Don Giovanni loses presence of mind, but, his wits and courage returning, he beats down the sword of Don Ottavio, and, with Leporello, makes good his escape. The incidents of the second act move with less rapidity, and, until the fateful dénouement is reached, on a lower plane of interest than those of the first, which have been narrated. Don Giovanni turns his attentions to the handsome waiting-maid of Donna Elvira. To get the mistress out of the way he persuades Leporello to exchange cloaks and hats with him and station himself before her balcony window, while he utters words of tenderness and feigned repentance. The lady listens and descends to the garden, where Leporello receives her with effusive protestations; but Don Giovanni rudely disturbs them, and they run away. Then the libertine, in the habit of his valet, serenades his new charmer. The song, "Deh vieni alla finestra," is of melting tenderness and gallantry; words and music float graciously on the evening air in company with a delightfully piquant tune picked out on a mandolin. The maid is drawn to the window, and Don Giovanni is in full expectation of another triumph, when Masetto confronts him with a rabble of peasants, all armed. They are in search of the miscreant who had attempted to outrage Zerlina. Don Giovanni is protected by his disguise. He feigns willingness to help in the hunt, and rids himself of Masetto's companions by sending them on a fool's errand to distant parts of the garden. Then he cunningly possesses himself of Masetto's weapons and belabors him stoutly with his own cudgel. He makes off, and Zerlina, hearing Masetto's cries, hurries in to heal his hurts with pretty endearments. (Air: "Vedrai carino.") Most unaccountably, as it will seem to those who seek for consistency and reason in all parts of the play, all of its actors except Don Giovanni find themselves together in a courtyard (or room, according to the notions of the stage manager). Leporello is trying to escape from Elvira, who still thinks him Don Giovanni, and is first confronted by Masetto and Zerlina and then by Ottavio and Anna. He is still in his master's hat and cloak, and is taken vigorously to task, but discloses his identity when it becomes necessary in order to escape a beating. Convinced at last that Don Giovanni is the murderer of the Commandant, Don Ottavio commends his love to the care of her friends and goes to denounce the libertine to the officers of the law. The last scene is reached. Don Giovanni, seated at his table, eats, drinks, indulges in badinage with his servant, and listens to the music of his private band. The musicians play melodies from popular operas of the period in which Mozart wrote--not Spanish melodies of the unfixed time in which the veritable Don Juan may have lived:-- [Musical excerpts--From Martin's "Una cosa rara." From "Fra i due litiganti" by Sarti. From "Nozze di Figaro."] Mozart feared anachronisms as little as Shakespeare. His Don Giovanni was contemporary with himself and familiar with the repertory of the Vienna Opera. The autograph discloses that the ingenious conceit was wholly Mozart's. It was he who wrote the words with which Leporello greets the melodies from "Una cosa rara," "I due Litiganti," and "Le Nozze di Figaro," and when Leporello hailed the tune "Non piu andrai" from the last opera with words "Questo poi la conosco pur troppo" ("This we know but too well"), he doubtless scored a point with his first audience in Prague which the German translator of the opera never dreamed of. Even the German critics of to-day seem dense in their unwillingness to credit Mozart with a purely amiable purpose in quoting the operas of his rivals, Martin and Sarti. The latter showed himself ungrateful for kindnesses received at Mozart's hands by publicly denouncing an harmonic progression in one of the famous six quartets dedicated to Haydn as a barbarism, but there was no ill-will in the use of the air from "I due Litiganti" as supper music for the delectation of the Don. Mozart liked the melody, and had written variations on it for the pianoforte. The supper is interrupted by Donna Elvira, who comes to plead on her knees with Don Giovanni to change his mode of life. He mocks at her solicitude and invites her to sit with him at table. She leaves the room in despair, but sends back a piercing shriek from the corridor. Leporello is sent out to report on the cause of the cry, and returns trembling as with an ague and mumbling that he has seen a ghost--a ghost of stone, whose footsteps, "Ta, ta, ta," sounded like a mighty hammer on the floor. Don Giovanni himself goes to learn the cause of the disturbance, and Leporello hides under the table. The intrepid Don opens the door. There is a clap of thunder, and there enters the ghost of the Commandant in the form of his statue as seen in the churchyard. The music which has been described in connection with the overture accompanies the conversation of the spectre and his amazed host. Don Giovanni's repeated offer of hospitality is rejected, but in turn he is asked if he will return the visit. He will. "Your hand as a pledge," says the spectre. All unabashed, the doomed man places his hand in that of the statue, which closes upon it like a vise. Then an awful fear shakes the body of Don Giovanni, and a cry of horror is forced out of his lips. "Repent, while there is yet time," admonishes the visitor again and again, and still again. Don Giovanni remains unshaken in his wicked fortitude. At length he wrests his hand out of the stony grasp and at the moment hears his doom from the stony lips, "Ah! the time for you is past!" Darkness enwraps him; the earth trembles; supernatural voices proclaim his punishment in chorus; a pit opens before him, from which demons emerge and drag him down to hell. Here the opera ends for us; but originally, after the catastrophe the persons of the play, all but the reprobate whom divine justice has visited, returned to the scene to hear a description of the awful happenings he had witnessed from the buffoon who had hidden under the table, to dispose their plans for the future (for Ottavio and Anna, marriage in a year; for Masetto and Zerlina, a wedding instanter; for Elvira, a nunnery), and platitudinously to moralize that, the perfidious wretch having been carried to the realm of Pluto and Proserpine, naught remained to do save to sing the old song, "Thus do the wicked find their end, dying as they had lived." Footnotes: {1} See my preface to "Don Giovanni" in the Schirmer Collection of Operas. {2} Gounod. {3} "The Life of Mozart," by Otto Jahn, Vol. III, p. 169. {4} "Mozart's Don Giovanni," by Charles Gounod, p. 3. CHAPTER V "FIDELIO" It was the scalawag Schikaneder who had put together the singular dramatic phantasmagoria known as Mozart's "Magic Flute," and acted the part of the buffoon in it, who, having donned the garb of respectability, commissioned Beethoven to compose the only opera which that supreme master gave to the world. The opera is "Fidelio," and it occupies a unique place in operatic history not only because it is the only work of its kind by the greatest tone-poet that ever lived, but also because of its subject. The lyric drama has dealt with the universal passion ever since the art-form was invented, but "Fidelio" is the only living opera which occurs to me now, except Gluck's "Orfeo" and "Alceste," which hymns the pure love of married lovers. The bond between the story of Alcestis, who goes down to death to save the life of Admetus, and that of Leonore, who ventures her life to save Florestan, is closer than that of the Orphic myth, for though the alloy only serves to heighten the sheen of Eurydice's virtue, there is yet a grossness in the story of Aristaeus's unlicensed passion which led to her death, that strongly differentiates it from the modern tale of wifely love and devotion. Beethoven was no ascetic, but he was as sincere and severe a moralist in life as he was in art. In that most melancholy of human documents, written at Heiligenstadt in October, 1802, commonly known as his will, he says to his brothers: "Recommend to your children virtue; it alone can bring happiness, not money. I speak from experience. It was virtue which bore me up in time of trouble; to her, next to my art, I owe thanks for my not having laid violent hands on myself." That Mozart had been able to compose music to such libretti as those of "Don Giovanni" and "Così fan tutte" filed him with pained wonder. Moreover, he had serious views of the dignity of music and of the uses to which it might be put in the drama, and more advanced notions than he has generally been credited with as to how music and the drama ought to be consorted. Like all composers, he longed to write an opera, and it is not at all unlikely that, like Mendelssohn after him, he was deterred by the general tendency of the opera books of his day. Certain it is that though he received a commission for an opera early in the year 1803, it was not until an opera on the story which is also that of "Fidelio" had been brought out at Dresden that he made a definitive choice of a subject. The production which may have infuenced him was that of Ferdinando Paër's" Leonora, ossia l'Amore conjugale," which was brought forward at Dresden, where its composer was conductor of the opera, on October 3, 1804. This opera was the immediate predecessor of Beethoven's, but it also had a predecessor in a French opera, "Léonore, ou l'Amour conjugal," of which the music was composed by Pierre Gaveaux, a musician of small but graceful gifts, who had been a tenor singer before he became a composer. This opera had its first performance on February 19, 1798, and may also have been known to Beethoven, or have been brought to his notice while he was casting about for a subject. At any rate, though it was known as early as June, 1803, that Beethoven intended to compose an opera for the Theater an der Wien, and had taken lodgings with his brother Caspar in the theatre building more than two months before, it was not until the winter of 1804 that the libretto of "Fidelio" was placed in his hands. It was a German version of the French book by Bouilly, which had been made by Joseph Sonnleithner, an intimate friend of Schubert, founder of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, who had recently been appointed secretary of the Austrian court theatres as successor of Kotzebue. Beethoven had gone to live in the theatre building for the purpose of working on the opera for Schikaneder, but early in 1804 the Theater an der Wien passed out of his hands into those of Baron von Braun. The intervening summer had been passed by the composer at Baden and Unter Döbling in work upon the "Eroica" symphony. The check upon the operatic project was but temporary. Baron von Braun took Schikaneder into his service and renewed the contract with Beethoven. This accomplished, the composer resumed his lodgings in the theatre and began energetically to work upon the opera. Let two facts be instanced here to show how energetically and how painstakingly he labored. When he went into the country in the early summer, as was his custom, he carried with him 346 pages of sketches for the opera, sixteen staves on a page; and among these sketches were sixteen openings of Florestan's great air, which may be said to mark the beginning of the dramatic action in the opera. For the rest of the history of the opera I shall draw upon the preface to "Fidelio," which I wrote some years ago for the vocal score in the Schirmer collection. The score was finished, including the orchestration, in the summer of 1805, and on Beethoven's return to Vienna, rehearsals were begun. It was the beginning of a series of trials which made the opera a child of sorrow to the composer. The style of the music was new to the singers, and they pronounced it unsingable. They begged him to make changes, but Beethoven was adamant. The rehearsals became a grievous labor to all concerned. The production was set down for November 20, but when the momentous day came, it found Vienna occupied by the French troops, Bonaparte at Schönbrunn and the capital deserted by the Emperor, the nobility, and most of the wealthy patrons of art. The performance was a failure. Besides the French occupation, two things were recognized as militating against the opera's success:--the music was not to the taste of the people, and the work was too long. Repetitions followed on November 21 and 22, but the first verdict was upheld. Beethoven's distress over the failure was scarcely greater than that of his friends, though he was, perhaps, less willing than they to recognize the causes that lay in the work itself. A meeting was promptly held in the house of Prince Lichnowsky and the opera taken in hand for revision. Number by number it was played on the pianoforte, sung, discussed. Beethoven opposed vehemently nearly every suggestion made by his well-meaning friends to remedy the defects of the book and score, but yielded at last and consented to the sacrifice of some of the music and a remodelling of the book for the sake of condensation, this part of the task being intrusted to Stephan von Breuning, who undertook to reduce the original three acts to two. {1} When once Beethoven had been brought to give his consent to the proposed changes, he accepted the result with the greatest good humor; it should be noted, however, that when the opera was put upon the stage again, on March 29, 1806, he was so dilatory with his musical corrections that there was time for only one rehearsal with orchestra. In the curtailed form "Fidelio" (as the opera was called, though Beethoven had fought strenuously from the beginning for the retention of the original title, "Leonore") made a distinctly better impression than it had four months before, and this grew deeper with the subsequent repetitions; but Beethoven quarrelled with Baron von Braun, and the opera was withdrawn. An attempt was made to secure a production in Berlin, but it failed, and the fate of "Fidelio" seemed to be sealed. It was left to slumber for more than seven years; then, in the spring of 1814, it was taken up again. Naturally, another revision was the first thing thought of, but this time the work was intrusted to a more practised writer than Beethoven's childhood friend. Georg Friedrich Treitschke was manager and librettist for Baron von Braun, and he became Beethoven's collaborator. The revision of the book was completed by March, 1814, and Beethoven wrote to Treitschke: "I have read your revision of the opera with great satisfaction. It has decided me to rebuild the desolate ruins of an ancient fortress." Treitschke rewrote much of the libretto, and Beethoven made considerable changes in the music, restoring some of the pages that had been elided at the first overhauling. In its new form "Fidelio" was produced at the Theater am Kärnthnerthor on May 23, 1814. It was a successful reawakening. On July 18 the opera had a performance for Beethoven's benefit; Moscheles made a pianoforte score under the direction of the composer, who dedicated it to his august pupil, the Archduke Rudolph, and it was published in August by Artaria. The history of "Fidelio," interesting as it is, need not be pursued here further than to chronicle its first performances in the English and American metropoles. London heard it first from Chelard's German company at the King's Theatre on May 18, 1832. It was first given in English at Covent Garden on June 12, 1835, with Malibran as Leonore, and in Italian at Her Majesty's on May 20, 1851, when the dialogue was sung in recitative written by Balfe. There has scarcely ever been a German opera company in New York whose repertory did not include "Fidelio," but the only performances for many years after it came were in English. A company of singers brought from England by Miss Inverarity to the Park Theatre produced it first on September 19, 1839. The parts were distributed as follows: Leonore, Mrs. Martyn (Miss Inverarity); Marcellina, Miss Poole; Florestan, Mr. Manvers; Pizarro, Mr. Giubilei; and Rocco, Mr. Martyn. The opera was performed every night for a fortnight. Such a thing would be impossible now, but lest some one be tempted to rail against the decadent taste of to-day, let it quickly be recorded that somewhere in the opera--I hope not in the dungeon scene--Mme. Giubilei danced a pas de deux with Paul Taglioni. Beethoven composed four overtures for "Fidelio," but a description of them will best follow comment on the drama and its music. Some two years before the incident which marks the beginning of the action, Don Pizarro, governor of a state prison in Spain, not far from Seville, has secretly seized Florestan, a political opponent, whose fearless honesty threatened to frustrate his wicked designs, and immured him in a subterranean cell in the prison. His presence there is known only to Pizarro and the jailer Rocco, who, however, knows neither the name nor the rank of the man whom, under strict command, he keeps in fetters and chained to a stone in the dimly lighted dungeon, which he alone is permitted to visit. Florestan's wife, Leonore, suspecting the truth, has disguised herself in man's attire and, under the name of Fidelio, secured employment in the prison. To win the confidence of Rocco, she has displayed so much zeal and industry in his interests that the old man, whose one weakness is a too great love of money, gives the supposed youth a full measure of admiration and affection. Fidelio's beauty and gentleness have worked havoc with the heart of Marcellina, the jailer's pretty daughter, who is disposed to cast off Jaquino, the turnkey, upon whose suit she had smiled till her love for Fidelio came between. Rocco looks with auspicious eye upon the prospect of having so industrious and thrifty a son-in-law as Fidelio promises to be to comfort his old age. The action now begins in the courtyard of the prison, where, before the jailer's lodge, Marcellina is performing her household duties--ironing the linen, to be specific. Jaquino, who has been watching for an opportunity to speak to her alone (no doubt alarmed at the new posture which his love affair is assuming), resolves to ask her to marry him. The duet, quite in the Mozartian vein, breathes simplicity throughout; plain people, with plain manners, these, who express simple thoughts in simple language. Jaquino begins eagerly:-- [Musical excerpt--"Jetzt, Schätzchen, jetzt sind wir allein, wir könnon vertraulich nun plaudern."] But Marcellina affects to be annoyed and urges him to come to the point at once. Quite delicious is the manner in which Beethoven delineates Jaquino's timid hesitation:-- [Musical excerpt--"Ich--ich habe"] Jaquino's wooing is interrupted by a knocking at the door (realistically reproduced in the music) [Musical excerpt] and when he goes to open the wicket, Marcellina expresses no sympathy for his sufferings, but ecstatically proclaims her love for Fidelio as the reason why she must needs say nay. And this she does, not amiably or sympathetically, but pettishly and with an impatient reiteration of "No, no, no, no!" in which the bassoon drolly supports her. A second knocking at the door, then a third, and finally she is relieved of her tormentor by Rocco, who calls him out into the garden. Left alone, Marcellina sings her longing for Fidelio and pictures the domestic bliss which shall follow her union with him. Rocco and Jaquino enter, and close after them Leonore, wearied by the weight of some chains which she had carried to the smith for repairs. She renders an account for purchases of supplies, and her thrift rejoices the heart of Rocco, who praises her zeal in his behalf and promises her a reward. Her reply, that she does not do her duty merely for the sake of wage, he interprets as an allusion to love for his daughter. The four now give expression to their thoughts and emotions. Marcellina indulges her day-dream of love; Leonore reflects upon the dangerous position in which her disguise has placed her; Jaquino observes with trepidation the disposition of Rocco to bring about a marriage between his daughter and Fidelio. Varied and contrasting emotions, these, yet Beethoven has cast their expression in the mould of a canon built on the following melody, which is sung in turn by each of the four personages:-- [Musical excerpt] From a strictly musical point of view the fundamental mood of the four personages has thus the same expression, and this Beethoven justifies by making the original utterance profoundly contemplative, not only by the beautiful subject of the canon, but by the exalted instrumental introduction--one of those uplifting, spiritualized slow movements which are typical of the composer. This feeling he enhances by his orchestration--violas and violoncellos divided, and basses--in a way copying the solemn color with more simple means which Mozart uses in his invocation of the Egyptian deities in "The Magic Flute." Having thus established this fundamental mood, he gives liberty of individual utterance in the counterpoint melodies with which each personage embroiders the original theme when sung by the others. Neither Rocco nor Marcellina seems to think it necessary to consult Leonore in the matter, taking her acquiescence for granted. Between themselves they arrange that the wedding shall take place when next Pizarro makes his monthly visit to Seville to give an account of his stewardship, and the jailer admonishes the youthful pair to put money in their purses in a song of little distinction, but containing some delineative music in the orchestra suggesting the rolling and jingling of coins. Having been made seemingly to agree to the way of the maid and her father, Leonore seeks now to turn it to the advantage of her mission. She asks and obtains the jailer's permission to visit with him the cells in which political prisoners are kept--all but one, in which is confined one who is either a great criminal or a man with powerful enemies ("much the same thing," comments Rocco). Of him even the jailer knows nothing, having resolutely declined to hear his story. However, his sufferings cannot last much longer, for by Pizarro's orders his rations are being reduced daily; he has been all but deprived of light, and even the straw which had served as a couch has been taken from him. And how long has he been imprisoned? Over two years. "Two years! "Leonore almost loses control of her feelings. Now she urges that she must help the jailer wait upon him. "I have strength and courage." The old man is won over. He will ask the governor for permission to take Fidelio with him to the secret cells, for he is growing old, and death will soon claim him. The dramatic nerve has been touched with the first allusion to the mysterious the matter, taking her acquiescence for granted. Between themselves they arrange that the wedding shall take place when next Pizarro makes his monthly visit to Seville to give an account of his stewardship, and the jailer admonishes the youthful pair to put money in their purses in a song of little distinction, but containing some delineative music in the orchestra suggesting the rolling and jingling of coins. Having been made seemingly to agree to the way of the maid and her father, Leonore seeks now to turn it to the advantage of her mission. She asks and obtains the jailer's permission to visit with him the cells in which political prisoners are kept--all but one, in which is confined one who is either a great criminal or a man with powerful enemies ("much the same thing," comments Rocco). Of him even the jailer knows nothing, having resolutely declined to hear his story. However, his sufferings cannot last much longer, for by Pizarro's orders his rations are being reduced daily; he has been all but deprived of light, and even the straw which had served as a couch has been taken from him. And how long has he been imprisoned? Over two years. "Two years!" Leonore almost loses control of her feelings. Now she urges that she must help the jailer wait upon him. "I have strength and courage." The old man is won over. He will ask the governor for permission to take Fidelio with him to the secret cells, for he is growing old, and death will soon claim him. The dramatic nerve has been touched with the first allusion to the mysterious prisoner who is being slowly tortured to death, and it is thrilling to note how Beethoven's genius (so often said to be purely epical) responds. In the trio which follows, the dialogue which has been outlined first intones a motif which speaks merely of complacency:-- [Musical excerpt--"Gut, Söhnchen, gut hab' immer"] No sooner does it reach the lips of Leonore, however, than it becomes the utterance of proud resolve:-- [Musical excerpt--"Ich habe Muth!"] and out of it grows a hymn of heroic daring. Marcellina's utterances are all concerned with herself, with an admixture of solicitude for her father, whose lugubrious reflections on his own impending dissolution are gloomily echoed in the music:-- [Musical excerpt--"Ich bin ja bald des Grabes Beute"] A march accompanies the entrance of Pizarro. {2} Pizarro receives his despatches from Rocco, and from one of the letters learns that the Minister of Justice, having been informed that several victims of arbitrary power are confined in the prisons of which he is governor, is about to set out upon a tour of inspection. Such a visit might disclose the wrong done to Florestan, who is the Minister's friend and believed by him to be dead, and Pizarro resolves to shield himself against the consequences of such a discovery by compassing his death. He publishes his resolution in a furious air, "Ha! welch' ein Augenblick!" in which he gloats over the culmination of his revenge upon his ancient enemy. It is a terrible outpouring of bloodthirsty rage, and I have yet to hear the singer who can cope with its awful accents. Here, surely, Beethoven asks more of the human voice than it is capable of giving. Quick action is necessary. The officer of the guard is ordered to post a trumpeter in the watch-tower, with instructions to give a signal the moment a carriage with outriders is seen approaching from Seville. Rocco is summoned, and Pizarro, praising his courage and fidelity to duty, gives him a purse as earnest of riches which are to follow obedience. The old man is ready enough until he learns that what is expected of him is [Musical excerpt--"Morden!"] whereupon he revolts, nor is he moved by Pizarro's argument that the deed is demanded by the welfare of the state. Foiled in his plan of hiring an assassin, Pizarro announces that he will deal the blow himself, and commands that a disused cistern be opened to receive the corpse of his victim. The duet which is concerned with these transactions is full of striking effects. The orchestra accompanies Rocco's description of the victim as "one who scarcely lives, but seems to float like a shadow" with chords which spread a cold, cadaverous sheen over the words, while the declamation of "A blow!--and he is dumb," makes illustrative pantomime unnecessary. Leonore has overheard all, and rushes forward on the departure of the men to express her horror at the wicked plot, and proclaim her trust in the guidance and help of love as well as her courageous resolve to follow its impulses and achieve the rescue of the doomed man. The scene and air in which she does this ("Abscheulicher! wo eilst du hin?") is now a favorite concert-piece of all dramatic singers; but when it was written its difficulties seemed appalling to Fräulein Milder (afterward the famous Frau Milder-Hauptmann), who was the original Leonore. A few years before Haydn had said to her, "My dear child, you have a voice as big as a house," and a few years later she made some of her finest successes with the part; but in the rehearsals she quarrelled violently with Beethoven because of the unsingableness of passages in the Adagio, of which, no doubt, this was one:-- [Musical excerpt--"sie wird's erreichen"] and when called upon, in 1814, to re-create the part which had been written expressly for her, she refused until Beethoven had consented to modify it. Everything is marvellous in the scena--the mild glow of orchestral color delineating the bow of promise in the recitative, the heart-searching, transfigurating, prayerful loveliness of the slow melody, the obbligato horn parts, the sweep of the final Allegro, all stand apart in operatic literature. At Leonore's request, and presuming upon the request which Pizarro had made of him, Rocco permits the prisoners whose cells are above ground to enjoy the light and air of the garden, defending his action later, when taken to task by Pizarro, on the plea that he was obeying established custom in allowing the prisoners a bit of liberty on the name-day of the king. In an undertone he begs his master to save his anger for the man who is doomed to die. Meanwhile Leonore convinces herself that her husband is not among the prisoners who are enjoying the brief respite, and is overjoyed to learn that she is to accompany Rocco that very day to the mysterious subterranean dungeon. With the return of the prisoners to their cells, the first act ends. An instrumental introduction ushers in the second act. It is a musical delineation of Florestan's surroundings, sufferings, and mental anguish. The darkness is rent by shrieks of pain; harsh, hollow, and threatening sound the throbs of the kettle-drums. The parting of the curtain discloses the prisoner chained to his rocky couch. He declaims against the gloom, the silence, the deathly void surrounding him, but comforts himself with the thought that his sufferings are but the undeserved punishment inflicted by an enemy for righteous duty done. The melody of the slow part of his air, which begins thus, [Musical excerpt--"In des Lebens Frühlingstaten ist das Glück von mir gefloh'n."] will find mention again when the overtures come under discussion. His sufferings have overheated his fancy, and, borne upon cool and roseate breezes, he sees a vision of his wife, Leonore, come to comfort and rescue him. His exaltation reaches a frenzy which leaves him sunk in exhaustion on his couch. Rocco and Leonore come to dig his grave. Melodramatic music accompanies their preparation, and their conversation while at work forms a duet. Sustained trombone tones spread a portentous atmosphere, and a contra-bassoon adds weight and solemnity to the motif which describes the labor of digging:-- [Musical excerpt] They have stopped to rest and refresh themselves, when Florestan becomes conscious and addresses Rocco. Leonore recognizes his voice as that of her husband, and when he pleads for a drink of water, she gives him, with Rocco's permission, the wine left in her pitcher, then a bit of bread. A world of pathos informs his song of gratitude. Pizarro comes to commit the murder, but first he commands that the boy be sent away, and confesses his purpose to make way with both Fidelio and Rocco when once the deed is done. He cannot resist the temptation to disclose his identity to Florestan, who, though released from the stone, is still fettered. The latter confronts death calmly, but as Pizarro is about to plunge the dagger into his breast, Leonore (who had concealed herself in the darkness) throws herself as a protecting shield before him. Pizarro, taken aback for a moment, now attempts to thrust Leonore aside, but is again made to pause by her cry, "First kill his wife!" Consternation and amazement seize all and speak out of their ejaculations. Determined to kill both husband and wife, Pizarro rushes forward again, only to see a pistol thrust into his face, hear a shriek, "Another word, and you are dead!" and immediately after the trumpet signal which, by his own command, announces the coming of the Minister of Justice:-- [Musical excerpt] Pizarro is escorted out of the dungeon by Rocco and attendants with torches, and the reunited lovers are left to themselves and their frenetic rejoicings. Surrounded by his guard, the populace attracted by his coming, and the prisoners into whose condition he had come to inquire, Don Fernando metes out punishment to the wicked Pizarro, welcomes his old friend back to liberty and honor, and bids Leonore remove his fetters as the only person worthy of such a task. The populace hymn wifely love and fidelity. Mention has been made of the fact that Beethoven wrote four overtures for his opera. Three of these are known as Overtures "Leonore No. 1," "Leonore No. 2," and "Leonore No. 3"--"Leonore" being the title by which the opera was known at the unfortunate first performance. The composer was never contented with the change to "Fidelio" which was made, because of the identity of the story with the "Leonore" operas, of Gaveaux and Paër. Much confusion has existed in the books (and still exists, for that matter) touching the order in which the four overtures were composed. The early biographers were mistaken on that point, and the blunder was perpetuated by the numbering when the scores were published. The true "Leonore No. 1," is the overture known in the concert-room, where it is occasionally heard, as "Leonore No. 2." This was the original overture to the opera, and was performed at the three representations in 1805. The overture called "Leonore No. 3" was the result of the revision undertaken by Beethoven and his friends after the failure. In May, 1807, the German opera at Prague was established and "Fidelio" selected as one of the works to be given. Evidently Beethoven was dissatisfied both with the original overture and its revision, for he wrote a new one, in which he retained the theme from Florestan's air, but none of the other themes used in Nos. 2 and 3. The performances at Prague did not take place, and nobody knows what became of the autograph score of the overture. When Beethoven's effects were sold at auction after his death, Tobias Haslinger bought a parcel of dances and other things in manuscript. Among them were a score and parts of an overture in C, not in Beethoven's handwriting, but containing corrections made by him. It bore no date, and on a violin part Beethoven had written first "Overtura, Violino Imo." Later he had added words in red crayon to make it read, "Overtura in C, charakteristische Overture, Violino Imo." On February 7, 1828, the composition was played at a concert in Vienna, but notwithstanding the reminiscence of Florestan's air, it does not seem to have been associated with the opera, either by Haslinger or the critics. Before 1832, when Haslinger published the overture as Op. 138, however, it had been identified, and, not unnaturally, the conclusion was jumped at that it was the original overture. That known as "Leonore No. 2" having been withdrawn for revision by Beethoven himself, was not heard of till 1840, when it was performed at a Gewandhaus concert in Leipsic. For the revival of the opera in 1814 Beethoven composed the overture in E major, now called the "Fidelio" overture, and generally played as an introduction to the opera, the much greater "Leonore No. 3" being played either between the acts, or, as by Mahler in New York and Vienna, between the two scenes of the second act, where it may be said it distinctly has the effect of an anticlimax. The thematic material of the "Leonore" overtures Nos. 2 and 3 being practically the same, careless listeners may easily confound one with the other. Nevertheless, the differences between the two works are many and great, and a deep insight into the workings of Beethoven's mind would be vouchsafed students if they were brought into juxtaposition in the concert-room. The reason commonly given for the revision of No. 2 (the real No. 1) is that at the performance it was found that some of the passages for wind instruments troubled the players; but among the changes made by Beethoven, all of which tend to heighten the intensity of the overture which presents the drama in nuce may be mentioned the elision of a recurrence to material drawn from his principal theme between the two trumpet-calls, and the abridgment of the development or free fantasia portion. Finally, it may be stated that though the "Fidelio" overture was written for the revival of 1814, it was not heard at the first performance in that year. It was not ready, and the overture to "The Ruins of Athens" was played in its stead. Footnotes: {1} As the opera is performed nowadays it is in three acts, but this division is the work of stage managers or directors who treat each of the three scenes as an act. At the Metropolitan Opera House, in New York, Mr. Mahler introduced a division of the first scene into two for what can be said to be merely picturesque effect, since the division is not demanded by the dramatic situation. {2} In Mr. Mahler's arrangement this march becomes entr'acte music to permit of a change of scene from the interior of the jailer's lodge to the courtyard of the prison prescribed in the book. CHAPTER VI "FAUST" MM. Michel Carré and Jules Barbier, who made the book for Gounod's opera "Faust," went for their subject to Goethe's dramatic poem. Out of that great work, which had occupied the mind of the German poet for an ordinary lifetime, the French librettists extracted the romance which sufficed them--the story of Gretchen's love for the rejuvenated philosopher, her seduction and death. This romance is wholly the creation of Goethe; it has no place in any of the old legends which are at the bottom of the history of Dr. Faust, or Faustus. Those legends deal with the doings of a magician who has sold his soul to the devil for the accomplishment of some end on which his ambition is set. There are many such legends in mediaeval literature, and their fundamental thought is older than Christianity. In a sense, the idea is a product of ignorance and superstition combined. In all ages men whose learning and achievements were beyond the comprehension of simple folk were thought to have derived their powers from the practice of necromancy. The list is a long one, and includes some of the great names of antiquity. The imagination of the Middle Ages made bondsmen of the infernal powers out of such men as Zoroaster, Democritus, Empedocles, Apollonius, Virgil, Albertus Magnus, Merlin, and Paracelsus. In the sixth century Theophilus of Syracuse was said to have sold himself to the devil and to have been saved from damnation only by the miraculous intervention of the Virgin Mary, who visited hell and bore away the damnable compact. So far as his bond was concerned, Theophilus was said to have had eight successors among the Popes of Rome. Architects of cathedrals and engineers of bridges were wont, if we believe popular tales, to barter their souls in order to realize their great conceptions. How do such notions get into the minds of the people? I attempted not an answer but an explanation in a preface to Gounod's opera published by Schirmer some years ago, which is serving me a good turn now. For the incomprehensible the Supernatural is the only accounting. These things are products of man's myth-making capacity and desire. With the advancement of knowledge this capacity and desire become atrophied, but spring into life again in the presence of a popular stimulant. The superstitious peasantry of Bavaria beheld a man in league with the devil in the engineer who ran the first locomotive engine through that country, More recently, I am told, the same people conceived the notion that the Prussian needle-gun, which had wrought destruction among their soldiery a the war of 1866, was an infernal machine for which Bismarck had given the immortal part of himself. When printing was invented, it was looked upon in a double sense as a black art, and it was long and widely believed that Johann Fust, or Faust, of Mayence, the partner of Gutenberg, was the original Dr. Johann Faustus (the prototype of Goethe's Faust), who practised magic toward the end of the fifteenth and at the beginning of the sixteenth century, made a compact with Mephistopheles, performed many miraculous feats, and died horribly at the last. But Fust, or Faust, was a rich and reputable merchant of Mayence who provided capital to promote the art of Gutenberg and Schöffer, and Mr. H. Sutherland Edwards, who gossips pleasantly and at great length about the Faust legends in Volume I of his book, "The Lyrical Drama," indulges a rather wild fancy when he considers it probable that he was the father of the real mediaeval in carnation of the ancient superstition. The real Faust had been a poor lad, but money inherited from a rich uncle enabled him to attend lectures at the University of Cracow, where he seems to have devoted himself with particular assiduity to the study of magic, which had at that period a respectable place in the curriculum. Having obtained his doctorial hat, he travelled through Europe practising necromancy and acquiring a thoroughly bad reputation. To the fact that this man actually lived, and lived such a life as has been described, we have the testimony of a physician, Philip Begardi; a theologian, Johann Gast, and no less a witness than Philip Melanchthon, the reformer. Martin Luther refers to Faust in his "Table Talk" as a man lost beyond all hope of redemption; Melanchthon, who says that he talked with him, adds: "This sorcerer Faust, an abominable beast, a common sewer of many devils (turpissima bestia et cloaca multorum diabolorum), boasted that he had enabled the imperial armies to win their victories in Italy." The literary history of Faust is much too long to be even outlined here; a few points must suffice us. In a book published in Frankfort in 1587 by a German writer named Spiess, the legend received its first printed form. An English ballad on the subject appeared within a year. In 1590 there came a translation of the entire story, which was the source from which Marlowe drew his "Tragical History of the Life and Death of Dr. Faustus," brought forward on the stage in 1593 and printed in 1604. New versions of the legend followed each other rapidly, and Faust became a favorite character with playwrights, romancers, and poets. Toward the end of the eighteenth century, when Goethe conceived the idea of utilizing the subject for publishing his comprehensive philosophy of human life, it seems to have held possession of a large portion of literary Germany. All together, it was in the mind of the great poet from his adolescence till his death; but while he was working on his original plan, literary versions of the legend were published by twenty-eight German authors, including Lessing, whose manuscript, unhappily, was lost. Goethe had known the legend from childhood, when he had seen puppet-plays based on it--these plays being the vulgar progeny of Marlowe's powerful tragedy, which is still an ornament of English literature. Music was a part of these puppet-plays. In the first one that fell into my hands I find the influence of opera manifest in recitatives and airs put into the mouth of Mephistopheles, and comic songs sung by Kasperle, the Punch of the German marionette fraternity. The love tale which furnished forth the entire opera book of MM. Carré and Barbier is, as I have said, wholly the invention of Goethe. There is the shadowy form of a maiden in some of the versions of the legend, but not a hint of the romantic sentiment so powerfully and pathetically set forth by the poet. Nor did the passion either for good or evil play a part in the agreement between Faust and the devil. That agreement covered five points only: Faust pledged himself to deny God, hate the human race, despise the clergy, never set foot in a church, and never get married. So far from being a love episode in the story, when Faustus, in the old book by Spiess, once expressed a wish to abrogate the last condition, Mephistopheles refused him permission on the ground that marriage is something pleasing to God, and for that reason in contravention of the contract. "Hast thou," quoth Mephistopheles, "sworn thyself an enemy to God and to all creatures? To this I answer thee, thou canst not marry; thou canst not serve two masters, God and thy prince. For wedlock is a chief institution ordained of God, and that thou hast promised to defy as we do all, and that thou hast not only done, but, moreover, thou hast confirmed it with thy blood. Persuade thyself that what thou hast done in contempt of wedlock, it is all to thine own delight. Therefore, Faustus, look well about thee and bethink thyself better, and I wish thee to change thy mind, for if thou keep not what thou hast promised in thy writing, we will tear thee in pieces, like the dust under thy feet. Therefore, sweet Faustus, think with what unquiet life, anger, strife, and debate thou shalt live in when thou takest a wife. Therefore, change thy mind." Faustus abandons his purpose for the time being, but within two hours summons his spirit again and demands his consent to marriage; whereupon up there comes a whirlwind, which fills the house with fire and smoke and hurls Faustus about until he is unable to stir hand or foot. Also there appears an ugly devil, so dreadful and monstrous to behold that Faustus dares not look upon him. This devil is in a mood for jesting. "How likest thou thy wedding?" he asks of Faustus, who promises not to mention marriage more, and is well content when Mephistopheles engages to bring him any woman, dead or alive, whom he may desire to possess. It is in obedience to this promise that Helen of Troy is brought back from the world of shades to be Faustus's paramour. By her he has a son, whom he calls Justus Faustus, but in the end, when Faustus loses his life, mother and child vanish. Goethe uses the scene of the amour between Faust and the ancient beauty in the second part of his poem as does Boito in his "Mefistofele," charging it with the beautiful symbolism which was in the German poet's mind. In the Polish tale of Pan Twardowsky, built on the lines of the old legend, there is a more amusing fling at marriage. In return for the help which he is to receive, the Polish wizard has the privilege of demanding three duties of the devil. After enjoying to the full the benefits conferred by two, he commands the devil to marry Mme. Twardowska. This is more than the devil had bargained for, or is willing to perform. He refuses; the contract is broken, and Twardowsky is saved. The story may have inspired Thackeray's amusing tale in "The Paris Sketch-book," entitled "The Painter's Bargain." For the facts in the story of the composition and production of Gounod's opera, we have the authority of the composer in his autobiography. In 1856 he made the acquaintance of Jules Barbier and Michel Carré, and asked them to collaborate with him in an opera. They assenting, he proposed Goethe's "Faust" as a subject, and it met with their approval. Together they went to see M. Carvalho, who was then director of the Théâtre Lyrique. He, too, liked the idea of the opera, and the librettists went to work. The composer had written nearly half of the score, when M. Carvaiho brought the disconcerting intelligence that a grand melodrama treating the subject was in preparation at the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin. Carvalho said that it would be impossible to get the opera ready before the appearance of the melodrama, and unwise to enter into competition with a theatre the luxury of whose stage mounting would have attracted all Paris before the opera could be produced. Carvalho therefore advised a change of subject, which was such a blow to Gounod that he was incapable of applying himself to work for a week. Finally, Carvalho came to the rescue with a request for a lyric comedy based on one of Molière's plays. Gounod chose "Le Médecin malgré lui," and the opera had its production at the Théâtre Lyrique on the anniversary of Molière's birth, January 15, 1858. The melodrama at the Porte Saint-Martin turned out to be a failure in spite of its beautiful pictures, and Carvalho recurred to the opera, which had been laid aside, and Gounod had it ready by July. He read it to the director in the greenroom of the theatre in that month, and Mme. Carvalho, wife of the director, who was present, was so deeply impressed with the rôle of Marguerite that M. Carvalho asked the composer's permission to assign it to her. "This was agreed upon," says Gounod, "and the future proved the choice to be a veritable inspiration." Rehearsals began in September, 1858, and soon developed difficulties. Gounod had set his heart upon a handsome young tenor named Guardi for the titular rôle, but he was found to be unequal to its demands. This caused such embarrassment that, it is said, Gounod, who had a pretty voice and was rather fond of showing it, seriously pondered the feasibility of singing it himself. He does not tell us this in his autobiography, but neither does he tell us that he had chosen Mme. Ugalde for the part of Marguerite, and that he yielded to M. Carvalho in giving it to the director's wife because Mme. Ugalde had quarrelled with him (as prima donnas will), about Massé's opera, "La Fée Carabosse," which preceded "Faust" at the Lyrique. The difficulty about the tenor rôle was overcome by the enlistment of M. Barbot, an artist who had been a companion of Carvalho's when he sang small parts at the Opéra Comique. He was now far past his prime, and a pensioned teacher at the Conservatoire, but Gounod bears witness that he "showed himself a great musician in the part of Faust." Of Belanqué, who created the part of Méphistophélès, Gounod says that "he was an intelligent comedian whose play, physique, and voice lent themselves wonderfully to this fantastic and Satanic personage." As for Mme. Carvalho, it was the opinion of the composer that, though her masterly qualities of execution and style had already placed her in the front rank of contemporary singers, no rôle, till Marguerite fell to her lot, had afforded her opportunity to show in such measure "the superior phases of her talent, so sure, so refined, so steady, so tranquil--its lyric and pathetic qualities." It was a distinguished audience that listened to the first performance of "Faust" on March 19, 1859. Auber, Berlioz, Reyer, Jules Janin, Perrin, Émile Ollivier, and many other men who had made their mark in literature, art, or politics sat in the boxes, and full as many more of equal distinction in the stalls. Among these latter were Delacroix, Vernet, Eugène Giraud, Pasdeloup, Scudo, Heugel, and Jules Lévy. The criticism of the journals which followed was, as usual, a blending of censure and praise. Berlioz was favorably inclined toward the work, and, with real discrimination, put his finger on the monologue at the close of the third act ("Il m'aime! Quel trouble en mon coeur") as the best thing in the score. Scudo gave expression to what was long the burden of the critical song in Germany; namely, the failure of the authors to grasp the large conception of Goethe's poem; but, with true Gallic inconsistency, he set down the soldiers' chorus as a masterpiece. The garden scene, with its sublimated mood, its ecstasy of feeling, does not seem to have moved him; he thought the third act monotonous and too long. There was no demand for the score on the part of the French publishers, but at length Choudens was persuaded to adventure 10,000 francs, one-half of an inheritance, in it. He was at that time an éditeur on a small scale, as well as a postal official, and the venture put him on the road to fortune. For the English rights Gounod is said to have received only forty pounds sterling, and this only after the energetic championship of Chorley, who made the English translation. The opera was given thirty-seven times at the Théâtre Lyrique. Ten years after its first performance it was revised to fit the schemes of the Grand Opéra, and brought forward under the new auspices on March 3, 1869. Mlle. Christine Nilsson was the new Marguerite. No opera has since equalled the popularity of "Faust" in Paris. Twenty-eight years after its first performance, Gounod was privileged to join his friends in a celebration of its 500th representation. That was in 1887. Eight years after, the 1000 mark was reached, and the 1250th Parisian representation took place in 1902. Two years before "Faust" reached London, it was given in Germany, where it still enjoys great popularity, though it is called "Margarethe," in deference to the manes of Goethe. Within a few weeks in 1863 the opera had possession of two rival establishments in London. At Her Majesty's Theatre it was given for the first time on June 11, and at the Royal Italian Opera on July 2. On January 23, 1864, it was brought forward in Mr. Chorley's English version at Her Majesty's. The first American representation took place at the Academy of Music, New York, on November 25, 1863, the parts being distributed as follows: Margherita, Miss Clara Louise Kellogg; Siebel, Miss Henrietta Sulzer; Martha, Miss Fanny Stockton; Faust, Francesco Mazzoleni; Mephistopheles, Hanibal Biachi; Valentine, G. Yppolito; Wagner, D. Coletti. It was sung in Italian, won immediate popularity, and made money for Max Maretzek, who was at once the manager and the conductor of the company. Forty years before an English version of Goethe's tragedy (the first part, of course) had been produced at the Bowery Theatre, with the younger Wallack as Faust and Charles Hill as Mephistopheles. The opera begins, like Goethe's dramatic poem, after the prologue, with the scene in Faust's study. The aged philosopher has grown weary of fruitless inquiry into the mystery of nature and its Creator, and longs for death. He has just passed a night in study, and as the morning breaks he salutes it as his last on earth and pledges it in a cup of poison. As he is about to put the cup to his lips, the song of a company of maidens floats in at the window. It tells of the joy of living and loving and the beauty of nature and its inspirations. Faust's hand trembles, strangely, unaccountably; again he lifts the cup, but only to pause again to listen to a song sung by a company of reapers repairing to the fields, chanting their gratitude to God for the loveliness surrounding them, and invoking His blessing. The sounds madden the despairing philosopher. What would prayer avail him? Would it bring back youth and love and faith? No. Accursed, therefore, be all things good--earth's pleasures, riches, allurements of every sort; the dreams of love; the wild joy of combat; happiness itself; science, religion, prayers, belief; above all, a curse upon the patience with which he had so long endured! He summons Satan to his aid. Méphistophélès answers the call, in the garb of a cavalier. His tone and bearing irritate Faust, who bids him begone. The fiend would know his will, his desires. Gold, glory, power?--all shall be his for the asking. But these things are not the heart's desire of Faust. He craves youthfulness, with its desires and delights, its passions and puissance. Méphistophélès promises all, and, when he hesitates, inflames his ardor with a vision of the lovely Marguerite seated at her spinning-wheel. Eagerly Faust signs the compact--the devil will serve Faust here, but below the relations shall be reversed. Faust drinks a pledge to the vision, which fades away. In a twinkling the life-weary sage is transformed into a young man, full of eager and impatient strength. Méphistophélès loses no time in launching Faust upon his career of adventures. First, he leads him to a fair in a mediaeval town. Students are there who sing the pleasures of drinking; soldiers, too, bent on conquest--of maidens or fortresses, all's one to them; old burghers, who find delight in creature comforts; maids and matrons, flirtatious and envious. All join in the merriest of musical hubbubs. Valentin, a soldier who is about to go to the wars, commends his sister Marguerite to the care of Siebel, a gentle youth who loves her. Wagner, a student, begins a song, but is interrupted by Méphistophélès, who has entered the circle of merry-makers with Faust, and who now volunteers to sing a better song than the one just begun. He sings of the Calf of Gold ("Le veau d'or est toujours debout"), and the crowd delightedly shouts the refrain. The singer accepts a cup of wine, but, finding it not at all to his taste, he causes vintages to the taste of every one to flow from the cask which serves as a tavern sign. He offers the company a toast, "To Marguerite!" and when Valentin attempts to resent the insult to his sister with his sword, it breaks in his hand as he tries to penetrate a magic circle which Méphistophélès draws around himself. The men now suspect the true character of their singular visitor, and turn the cruciform hilts of their swords against him, to his intense discomfort. With the return of the women the merrymaking is resumed. All join in a dance, tripping it gayly to one waltz sung by the spectators and another which rises simultaneously from the instruments. Marguerite crosses the market-place on her way home from church. Faust offers her his arm, but she declines his escort--not quite so rudely as Goethe's Gretchen does in the corresponding situation. Faust becomes more than ever enamoured of the maiden, whom he had seen in the vision conjured up in the philosopher's study. Méphistophélès is a bit amused at Faust's first attempt at wooing, and undertakes to point the way for him. He leads him into the garden surrounding the cottage in which Marguerite dwells. Siebel had just been there and had plucked a nosegay for the maiden of his heart, first dipping his fingers in holy water, to protect them from the curse which Méphistophélès had pronounced against them while parading as a fortune-teller at the fair. Faust is lost in admiration at sight of the humble abode of loveliness and innocence, and lauds it in a romance ("Salut! demeure chaste et pure"), but is taken aside by Méphistophélès, who gives warning of the approach of Marguerite, and places a casket of jewels beside the modest bouquet left by Siebel. Marguerite, seated at her spinning-wheel, alternately sings a stanza of a ballad ("Il était un Roi de Thule") and speaks her amazed curiosity concerning the handsome stranger who had addressed her in the marketplace. She finds the jewels, ornaments herself with them, carolling her delight the while, and admiring the regal appearance which the gems lend her. Here I should like to be pardoned a brief digression. Years ago, while the German critics were resenting the spoliation of the masterpiece of their greatest poet by the French librettists, they fell upon this so-called Jewel Song ("Air des bijoux," the French call it), and condemned its brilliant and ingratiating waltz measures as being out of keeping with the character of Gretchen. In this they forgot that Marguerite and Gretchen are very different characters indeed. There is much of the tender grace of the unfortunate German maiden in the creation of the French authors, but none of her simple, almost rude, rusticity. As created by, let me say, Mme. Carvalho and perpetuated by Christine Nilsson and the painter Ary Scheffer, Marguerite is a good deal of a grande dame, and against the German critics it might appositely be pleaded that there are more traces of childish ingenuousness in her rejoicing over the casket of jewels than in any of her other utterances. The episode is poetically justified, of course, by the eighth scene of Goethe's drama, and there was not wanting one German writer who boldly came to the defence of Marguerite on the ground that she moved on a higher moral plane than Gretchen. The French librettists, while they emptied the character of much of its poetical contents, nevertheless made it in a sense more gentle, and Gounod refined it still more by breathing an ecstasy into all of its music. Goethe's Gretchen, though she rejects Faust's first advances curtly enough to be called impolite, nevertheless ardently returns Faust's kiss on her first meeting with him in the garden, and already at the second (presumably) offers to leave her window open, and accepts the sleeping potion for her mother. It is a sudden, uncontrollable rush of passion to which Marguerite succumbs. Gretchen remains in simple amaze that such a fine gentleman as Faust should find anything to admire in her, even after she has received and returned his first kiss; but Marguerite is exalted, transfigured by the new feelings surging within her. Il m'aime! quel trouble en mon coeur! L'oiseau chante! Le vent murmure! Toutes les voix de la nature Semblent me répéter en choeur: Il t'aime! I resume the story. Martha, the neighborhood gossip, comes to encourage Marguerite in a belief which she scarcely dares cherish, that the jewels had been left for her by some noble admirer, and her innocent pleasure is interrupted by the entrance of Faust and Méphistophélès. The latter draws Martha away, and Faust wooes the maiden with successful ardor. They have indulged in their first embrace, and said their farewells till to-morrow: Faust is about to depart, when Méphistophélès detains him and points to Marguerite, who is burdening the perfumed air with her new ecstasy. He rushes to her, and, with a cry of delight, she falls into his arms. Goethe's scene at the fountain becomes, in the hands of the French librettists, a scene in the chamber of Marguerite. The deceived maiden is cast down by the jeers and mockings of her erstwhile companions, and comforted by Siebel. It is now generally omitted. Marguerite has become the talk of the town, and evil reports reach the ear of her brother Valentin on his return from the wars with the victorious soldiery. Valentin confronts Faust and Méphistophélès while the latter is singing a ribald serenade at Marguerite's door. The men fight, and, through the machinations of Méphistophélès, Valentin is mortally wounded. He dies denouncing the conduct of Marguerite, and cursing her for having brought death upon him. Marguerite seeks consolation in religious worship; but the fiend is at her elbow even in the holy fane, and his taunts and the accusing chant of a choir of demons interrupt her prayers. The devil reveals himself in his proper (or improper) person at the end, and Marguerite falls in a swoon. The Walpurgis night scene of Goethe furnished the suggestion for the ballet which fills the first three scenes of the fifth act, and which was added to the opera when it was remodelled for the Grand Opéra in 1869. The scene holds its place in Paris, but is seldom performed elsewhere. A wild scene in the Harz Mountains gives way to an enchanted hail in which are seen the most famous courtesans of ancient history--Phryne, Laïs, Aspasia, Cleopatra, and Helen of Troy. The apparition of Marguerite appears to Faust, a red line encircling her neck, like the mark of a headsman's axe. We reach the end. The distraught maiden has slain her child, and now lies in prison upon her pallet of straw, awaiting death. Faust enters and tries to persuade her to fly with him. Her poor mind is all awry and occupies itself only with the scenes of her first meeting and the love-making in the garden. She turns with horror from her lover when she sees his companion, and in an agony of supplication, which rises higher and higher with each reiteration, she implores Heaven for pardon. She sinks lifeless to the floor. Méphistophélès pronounces her damned, but a voice from on high proclaims her saved. Celestial voices chant the Easter hymn, "Christ is risen!" while a band of angels bear her soul heavenward. CHAPTER VII "MEFISTOFELE" There is no reason to question Gounod's statement that it was he who conceived the idea of writing a Faust opera in collaboration with MM. Barbier and Carré. There was nothing novel in the notion. Music was an integral part of the old puppet-plays which dealt with the legend of Dr. Faustus, and Goethe's tragedy calls for musical aid imperatively. A musical pantomime, "Harlequin Faustus," was performed in London as early as 1715, and there were Faust operas long before even the first part of Goethe's poem was printed, which was a hundred and one years ago. A composer named Phanty brought out an opera entitled "Dr. Faust's Zaubergürtel" in 1790; C. Hanke used the same material and title at Flushing in 1794, and Ignaz Walter produced a "Faust" in Hanover in 1797. Goethe's First Part had been five years in print when Spohr composed his "Faust," but it is based not on the great German poet's version of the legend, but on the old sources. This opera has still life, though it is fitful and feeble, in Germany, and was produced in London by a German company in 1840 and by an Italian in 1852, when the composer conducted it; but I have never heard of a representation in America. Between Spohr's "Faust," written in 1813 and performed in 1818, and Boito's "Mefistofele," produced in 1868, many French, German, English, Italian, Russian, and Polish Faust operas have come into existence, lived their little lives, and died. Rietz produced a German "Faust," founded on Goethe, at Düsseldorf, in 1836; Lindpainter in Berlin, in 1854; Henry Rowley Bishop's English "Faustus" was heard in London, in 1827; French versions were Mlle. Angélique Bertin's "Faust" (Paris, 1831), and M. de Pellaert's (Brussels, 1834); Italian versions were "Fausta," by Donizetti (Mme. Pasta and Signor Donzelli sang in it in Naples in 1832), "Fausto," by Gordigiano (Florence, 1837), and "Il Fausto arrivo," by Raimondi (Naples, 1837); the Polish Faust, Twardowsky, is the hero of a Russian opera by Verstowsky (Moscow, 1831), and of a Polish opera by J. von Zaitz (Agram, 1880). How often the subject has served for operettas, cantatas, overtures, symphonies, etc., need not be discussed here. Berlioz's "Dramatic Legend," entitled "La Damnation de Faust," tricked out with stage pictures by Raoul Gunsbourg, was performed as an opera at Monte Carlo in 1903, and in New York at the Metropolitan and Manhattan opera-houses in the seasons 1906-1907 and 1907-1908, respectively; but the experiment was unsuccessful, both artistically and financially. I have said that there is no reason to question Gounod's statement that it was he who conceived the idea of writing the opera whose popularity is without parallel in the musical history of the Faust legend; but, if I could do so without reflecting upon his character, I should like to believe a story which says that it was Barbier who proposed the subject to Gounod after Meyerbeer, to whom he first suggested it, had declined the collaboration. I should like to believe this, because it is highly honorable to Meyerbeer's artistic character, which has been much maligned by critics and historians of music since Wagner set an example in that direction. "'Faust,'" Meyerbeer is reported to have replied to Barbier's invitation, "is the ark of the covenant, a sanctuary not to be approached with profane music." For the composer who did not hesitate to make an opera out of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, this answer is more than creditable. The Germans, who have either felt or affected great indignation at the want of reverence for their great poet shown by the authors of "Faust" and "Mignon," ought to admire Meyerbeer in a special degree for the moral loftiness of his determination and the dignified beauty of its expression. Composers like Kreutzer, Reissiger, Pierson, Lassen, and Prince Radziwill have written incidental music for Goethe's tragedy without reflecting that possibly they were profaning the sanctuary; but Meyerbeer, compared with whom they were pygmies, withheld his hand, and thereby brought himself into sympathetic association with the only musician that ever lived who was completely equipped for so magnificent a task. That musician was Beethoven, to whom Rochlitz bore a commission for music to "Faust" from Breitkopf and Härtel in 1822. The Titan read the proposition and cried out: "Ha! that would be a piece of work! Something might come of that!" but declined the task because he had the choral symphony and other large plans on his mind. Boito is not a Beethoven nor yet a Meyerbeer; but, though he did what neither of them would venture upon when he wrote a Faust opera, he did it with complete and lovely reverence for the creation of the German poet. It is likely that had he had less reverence for his model and more of the stagecraft of his French predecessors his opera would have had a quicker and greater success than fell to its lot. Of necessity it has suffered by comparison with the opera of Barbier, Carré, and Gounod, though it was far from Boito's intentions that it should ever be subjected to such a comparison. Boito is rather more poet and dramatist than he is musician. He made the book not only of "Mefistofele," but also of "Otello" and "Falstaff," which Verdi composed, "La Gioconda," for which Ponchielli wrote the music, and "Ero e Leandro," which he turned over to Bottesini, who set it with no success, and to Mancinelli, who set it with little. One of the musical pieces which the poet composed for this last opera found its way into "Mefistofele," for which work "Ero e Leandro" seems to have been abandoned. He also translated Wagner's "Tristan und Isolde" into Italian. Being a poet in the first instance, and having the blood of the Northern barbarians as well as the Southern Romans in his veins, he was unwilling to treat Goethe's tragedy as the Frenchman had treated it. The tearful tale of the love of the rejuvenated philosopher, and the village maiden, with its woful outcome, did not suffice him. Though he called his opera "Mefistofele," not "Faust," he drew its scenes, of which only two have to do with Marguerite (or Gretchen), from both parts of Goethe's allegorical and philosophical phantasmagoria. Because he did this, he failed from one point of view. Attempting too much, he accomplished too little. His opera is not a well-knit and consistently developed drama, but a series of episodes, which do not hold together and have significance only for those who know Goethe's dramatic poem in its entirety. It is very likely that, as originally produced, "Mefistofele" was not such a thing of shreds and patches as it now is. No doubt, it held together better in 1868, when it was ridiculed, whistled, howled, and hissed off the stage of the Teatro la Scala, than it did when it won the admiration of the Italians in Bologna twelve years later. In the interval it had been subjected to a revision, and, the first version never having been printed, the critical fraternity became exceedingly voluble after the success in Bologna, one of the debated questions being whether Boito had bettered his work by his voluminous excisions, interpolations, and changes (Faust, now a tenor, was originally a barytone), or had weakly surrendered his better judgment to the taste of the hoi polloi, for the sake of a popular success. It was pretty fighting ground; it is yet, and will remain such so long as the means of comparison remain hidden and sentimental hero-worship is fed by the notion that Boito has refused to permit the opera or operas which he has written since to be either published or performed because the world once refused to recognize his genius. This notion, equally convenient to an indolent man or a colossal egoist--I do not believe that Boito is either--has been nurtured by many pretty stories; but, unhappily, we have had nothing to help us to form an opinion of Boito as a creative artist since "Mefistofele" appeared, except the opera books written for Verdi and Ponchielli and the libretto of "Ero e Leandro." Boito's father was an Italian, his mother a Pole. From either one or both he might have inherited the intensity of expression which marks his works, both poetical and musical; but the tendency to philosophical contemplation which characterizes "Mefistofele," even in the stunted form in which it is now presented, is surely the fruit of his maternal heritage and his studies in Germany. After completing the routine of the conservatory in Milan, he spent a great deal of time in Paris and the larger German cities, engrossed quite as much in the study of literature as of music. Had he followed his inclinations and the advice of Victor Hugo, who gave him a letter of introduction to Émile de Girardin, he would have become a journalist in Paris instead of the composer of "Mefistofele" and the poet of "Otello," "Falstaff," "La Gioconda," and "Ero e Leandro." But Girardin was too much occupied with his own affairs to attend to him when Boito presented himself, and after waiting wearily, vainly, and long, he went to Poland, where, for want of something else to do, he sketched the opera "Mefistofele," which made its memorable fiasco at Milan in March, 1868. To show that it is impossible to think of "Mefistofele" except as a series of disconnected episodes, it suffices to point out that its prologue, epilogue, and four acts embrace a fantastic parody or perversion of Goethe's Prologue in Heaven, a fragment of his Easter scene, a smaller fragment of the scene in Faust's study, a bit of the garden scene, the scene of the witches' gathering on the Brocken, the prison scene, the classical Sabbath in which Faust is discovered in an amour with Helen of Troy, and the death and salvation of Faust as an old man. Can any one who knows that music, even of the modern dramatic type, in which strictly musical forms have given way to as persistent an onward flow as the text itself, must of necessity act as a clog on dramatic action, imagine that such a number and variety of scenes could be combined into a logical, consistent whole, compassed by four hours in performance? Certainly not. But Boito is not content to emulate Goethe in his effort to carry his listeners "from heaven through the earth to hell"; he must needs ask them to follow him in his exposition of Goethe's philosophy and symbolism. Of course, that is impossible during a stage representation, and therefore he exposes the workings of his mind in an essay and notes to his score. From these we may learn, among other things, that the poet-composer conceives Faust as the type of man athirst for knowledge, of whom Solomon was the Biblical prototype, Prometheus the mythological, Manfred and Don Quixote the predecessors in modern literature. Also that Mephistopheles is as inexhaustible as a type of evil as Faust is as a type of virtue, and therefore that this picturesque stage devil, with all his conventionality, is akin to the serpent which tempted Eve, the Thersites of Homer, and--mirabile dictu!--the Falstaff of Shakespeare! The device with which Boito tried to link the scenes of his opera together is musical as well as philosophical. In the book which Barbier and Carré wrote for Gounod, Faust sells his soul to the devil for a period of sensual pleasure of indefinite duration, and, so far as the hero is concerned, the story is left unfinished. All that has been accomplished is the physical ruin of Marguerite. Méphistophélès exults for a moment in contemplation of the destruction, also, of the immortal part of her, but the angelic choir proclaims her salvation. Faust departs hurriedly with Méphistophélès, but whether to his death or in search of new adventures, we do not know. The Germans are, therefore, not so wrong, after all, in calling the opera after the name of the heroine instead of that of the hero. In Boito's book the love story is but an incident. Faust's compact with Mefistofele, as in Goethe's dramatic poem, is the outcome of a wager between Mefistofele and God, under the terms of which the Spirit of Evil is to be permitted to seduce Faust from righteousness, if he can. Faust's demand of Mefistofele is rest from his unquiet, inquisitive mind; a solution of the dark problem of his own existence and that of the world; finally, one moment of which he can say, "Stay, for thou art lovely! "The amour with Margherita does not accomplish this, and so Boito follows Goethe into the conclusion of the second part of his drama, and shows Faust, at the end, an old man about to die. He recalls the loves of Margherita and Helen, but they were insufficient to give him the desired moment of happiness. He sees a vision of a people governed by him and made happy by wise laws of his creation. He goes into an ecstasy. Mefistofele summons sirens to tempt him; and spreads his cloak for another flight. But the chant of celestial beings falls into Faust's ear, and he speaks the words which terminate the compact. He dies. Mefistofele attempts to seize upon him, but is driven back by a shower of roses dropped by cherubim. The celestial choir chants redeeming love. Thus much for the dramatic exposition. Boito's musical exposition rests on the employment of typical phrases, not in the manner of Wagner, indeed, but with the fundamental purpose of Wagner. A theme:-- [Musical excerpt] which begins the prologue, ends the epilogue. The reader may label it as he pleases. Its significance is obvious from the circumstances of its employment. It rings out fortissimo when the mystic chorus, which stands for the Divine Voice, puts the question, "Knowest thou Faust?" An angelic ascription of praise to the Creator of the Universe and to Divine Love is the first vocal utterance and the last. In his notes Boito observes: "Goethe was a great admirer of form, and his poem ends as it begins,--the first and last words of 'Faust' are uttered in Heaven." Then he quotes a remark from Blaze de Bury's essay on Goethe, which is apropos, though not strictly accurate: "The glorious motive which the immortal phalanxes sing in the introduction to the first part of 'Faust' recurs at the close, garbed with harmonies and mystical clouds. In this Goethe has acted like the musicians,--like Mozart, who recurs in the finale of 'Don Giovanni' to the imposing phrase of the overture." M. de Bury refers, of course, to the supernatural music, which serves as an introduction to the overture to "Don Giovanni," and accompanies the visitation of the ghostly statue and the death of the libertine. But this is not the end of Mozart's opera as he wrote it, as readers of this book have been told. This prologue of "Mefistofele" plays in heaven. "In the heavens," says Theodore Marzials, the English translator of Boito's opera, out of deference to the religious sensibilities of the English people, to spare which he also changes "God" into "sprites," "spirits," "powers of good," and "angels." The effect is vastly diverting, especially when Boito's paraphrase of Goethe's Von Zeit zu Zeit seh' ich den Alten gern Und hüte mich mit ihm zu brechen. Es ist gar hübsch von einem grossen Herrn, So menschlich mit dem Teufel selbst zu sprechen. {1} is turned into: "Now and again 'tis really pleasant thus to chat with the angels, and I'll take good care not to quarrel with them. 'Tis beautiful to hear Good and Evil speak together with such humanity." The picture disclosed by the opening of the curtain is a mass of clouds, with Mefistofele, like a dark blot, standing on a corner of his cloak in the shadow. The denizens of the celestial regions are heard but never seen. A trumpet sounds the fundamental theme, which is repeated in full harmony after instruments of gentler voice have sung a hymn-like phrase, as follows:-- [Musical excerpt] It is the first period of the "Salve Regina" sung by Earthly Penitents in the finale of the prologue. The canticle is chanted through, its periods separated by reiterations of the fundamental theme. A double chorus acclaims the Lord of Angels and Saints. A plan, evidently derived from the symphonic form, underlies the prologue as a whole. Prelude and chorus are rounded out by the significant trumpet phrase. One movement is completed. There follows a second movement, an Instrumental Scherzo, with a first section beginning thus:-- [Musical excerpt] and a trio. Over this music Mefistofele carries on converse with God. He begs to disagree with the sentiments of the angelic hymn. Wandering about the earth, he had observed man and found him in all things contemptible, especially in his vanity begotten by what he called "reason"; he, the miserable little cricket, vaingloriously jumping out of the grass in an effort to poke his nose among the stars, then falling back to chirp, had almost taken away from the devil all desire to tempt him to evil doings. "Knowest thou Faust?" asks the Divine Voice; and Mefistofele tells of the philosopher's insatiable thirst for wisdom. Then he offers the wager. The scene, though brief, follows Goethe as closely as Goethe follows the author of the Book of Job:-- Now, there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them. And the Lord said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? Then Satan answered the Lord and said, From going to and fro in the earth and from walking up and down in it. And the Lord said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God and escheweth evil? Then Satan answered the Lord, and said, Doth Job fear God for nought? . . . And the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in thy power; only upon himself put not forth thine hand. So Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord. Boito treats the interview in what he calls a Dramatic Interlude, which gives way to the third movement, a Vocal Scherzo, starting off with a chorus of Cherubim, who sing in fugacious thirds and droning dactyls:-- [Musical excerpt--"siam nimbi volanti dai limbi, nei santi"] It is well to note particularly Boito's metrical device. He seemingly counted much on the effect of incessantly reiterated dactyls. Not only do his Cherubim adhere to the form without deviation, but Helen and Pantalis use it also in the scene imitated from Goethe's Classical Walpurgis Night,--use it for an especial purpose, as we shall see presently. Rapid syllabication is also a characteristic of the song of the witches in the scene on the Brocken; but the witches sing in octaves and fifths except when they kneel to do homage to Mefistofele; then their chant sounds like the responses to John of Leyden's prayer by the mutinous soldiers brought to their knees in "Le Prophète." Not at all ineptly, Mefistofele, who does not admire the Cherubs, likens their monotonous cantillation to the hum of bees. A fourth movement consists of a concluding psalmody, in which the Cherubs twitter, Earthly Penitents supplicate the Virgin, and the combined choirs, celestial and terrestrial, hymn the Creator. The tragedy now begins. Boito changes the order of the scenes which he borrows from Goethe, presenting first the merrymaking of the populace outside the walls of Frankfort-on-the-Main, and then the interview between Faust and Mefistofele, in which, as in the opening scene of Gounod's opera, the infernal compact is agreed upon. There is some mediaeval pageantry in the first scene,--a cavalcade headed by the Elector, and including dignitaries, pages, falconers, the court fool, and ladies of the court. Students, townspeople, huntsmen, lads, and lasses pursue their pleasures, and up and down, through the motley groups, there wanders a gray friar, whose strange conduct repels some of the people, and whose pious garb attracts others. Faust and Wagner, his pupil, come upon the scene, conversing seriously, and stop to comment on the actions of the friar, who is approaching them, supposedly in narrowing circles. Wagner sees nothing in him except a mendicant friar, but Faust calls attention to the fact that to his eye, flames blaze up from his footprints. This friar is the "poodle" of Goethe's poem, and Mefistofele in disguise. It is thus that the devil presented himself to Faustus in the old versions of the legend, and as a friar he is a more practicable dramatic figure than he would have been as a dog; but it cannot but provoke a smile from those familiar with Goethe's poem to hear (as we do in the opera a few moments later) the familiar lines:-- Das also war des Pudels Kern! Ein fahrender Scolast? turned into: "This, then, was the kernel of the friar! A cavalier?" The music of the score is characterized by frequent changes from triple to double time, as illustrated in the opening measures: [Musical excerpt] The rhythmical energy and propulsiveness thus imparted to the music of the merrymaking is heightened by the dance. Peasants rush upon the scene with shouts of "Juhé!" and make preparations to trip it while singing what, at first, promises to be a waltz-song:-- [Musical excerpt] The dance, however, is not a waltz, but an obertass--the most popular of the rustic dances of Poland. Why should Boito have made his Rhinelanders dance a step which is characteristically that of the Poles? Sticklers for historical verity could easily convict him of a most unpardonable anachronism, if they were so disposed, by pointing out that even if German peasants were in the habit of dancing the obertass now (which they are not), they could not have done it in the sixteenth century, which is the period of the drama, for the sufficient reason that the Polish dance was not introduced in North Germany till near the middle of the eighteenth century. But we need not inquire too curiously into details like this when it comes to so arbitrary an art-form as the opera. Yet Boito was his own poet, master of the situation so far as all parts of his work were concerned, and might have consulted historical accuracy in a department in which Gluck once found that he was the slave of his ballet master. Gluck refused to introduce a chaconne into "Iphigénie en Aulide." "A chaconne?" cried the composer. "When did the Greeks ever dance a chaconne?" "Didn't they?" replied Vestris; "then so much the worse for the Greeks!" A quarrel ensued, and Gluck, becoming incensed, withdrew his opera and would have left Paris had not Marie Antoinette come to the rescue. But Vestris got his chaconne. In all likelihood Boito put the obertass into "Mefistofele" because he knew that musically and as a spectacle the Polish dance would be particularly effective in the joyous hurly-burly of the scene. A secondary meaning of the Polish word is said to be "confusion," and Boito doubtless had this in mind when he made his peasants sing with an orderly disorder which is delightful:-- Tutti vanno alla rinfusa Sulla musica confusa, or, as one English translation has it:-- All is going to dire confusion With the music in collusion. [Musical excerpt--"Juhé, Juhé! Tutti vanno alla rinfusa"] Perhaps, too, Boito had inherited a love for the vigorous dance from his Polish mother. Night falls, and Faust is returned to his laboratory. The gray friar has followed him (like Goethe's poodle) and slips into an alcove unobserved. The philosopher turns to the Bible, which lies upon a lectern, and falls into a meditation, which is interrupted by a shriek. He turns and sees the friar standing motionless and wordless before him. He conjures the apparition with the seal of Solomon, and the friar, doffing cowl and gown, steps forward as a cavalier (an itinerant scholar in Goethe). He introduces himself as a part of the power that, always thinking evil, as persistently accomplishes good--the spirit of negation. The speech ("Son lo Spirito che nega sempre") is one of the striking numbers of Boito's score, and the grim humor of its "No! "seems to have inspired the similar effect in Falstaff's discourse on honor in Verdi's opera. The pair quickly come to an understanding on the terms already set forth. Act II carries us first into the garden of Dame Martha, where we find Margherita strolling arm in arm with Faust, and Martha with Mefistofele. The gossip is trying to seduce the devil into an avowal of love; Margherita and Faust are discussing their first meeting and the passion which they already feel for each other. Boito's Margherita has more of Goethe's Gretchen than Gounod's Marguerite. Like the former, she wonders what a cavalier can find to admire in her simple self, and protests in embarrassment when Faust (or Enrico, as he calls himself) kisses her rough hand. Like Goethe's maiden, too, she is concerned about the religious beliefs of her lover, and Boito's Faust answers, like Goethe's Faust, that a sincere man dares protest neither belief nor unbelief in God. Nature, Love, Mystery, Life, God--all are one, all to be experienced, not labelled with a name. Then he turns the talk on herself and her domestic surroundings, and presses the sleeping potion for her mother upon her. The scene ends with the four people scurrying about in a double chase among the flowers, for which Boito found exquisitely dainty music. There is a change from the pretty garden of the first scene, with its idyllic music, to the gathering place of witches and warlocks, high up in the Brocken, in the second. We witness the vile orgies of the bestial crew into whose circles Faust is introduced, and see how Mefistofele is acclaimed king and receives the homage. Here Boito borrows a poetical conceit from Goethe's scene in the witches' kitchen, and makes it a vehicle for a further exposition of the character and philosophy of the devil. Mefistofele has seated himself upon a rocky throne and been vested with the robe and symbols of state by the witches. Now they bring to him a crystal globe, which he takes and discourses upon to the following effect (the translation is Theodore T. Barker's):-- Lo, here is the world! A bright sphere rising, Setting, whirling, glancing, Round the sun in circles dancing; Trembling, toiling, Yielding, spoiling, Want and plenty by turn enfold it-- This world, behold it! On its surface, by time abraded, Dwelleth a vile race, defiled, degraded; Abject, haughty, Cunning, naughty, Carrying war and desolation From the top to the foundation Of creation. For them Satan has no being; They scorn with laughter A hell hereafter, And heavenly glory As idle story. Powers eternal! I'll join their laugh infernal Thinking o'er their deeds diurnal. Ha! Ha! Behold the world! He dashes the globe to pieces on the ground and thereby sets the witches to dancing. To the antics of the vile crew Faust gives no heed; his eyes are fixed upon a vision of Margherita, her feet in fetters, her body emaciated, and a crimson line encircling her throat. His love has come under the headsman's axe! In the Ride to Hell, which concludes Berlioz's "Damnation de Faust," the infernal horsemen are greeted with shouts in a language which the mystical Swedenborg says is the speech of the lower regions. Boito also uses an infernal vocabulary. His witches screech "Saboé har Sabbah!" on the authority of Le Loyer's "Les Spectres." From the bestiality of the Brocken we are plunged at the beginning of the third act into the pathos of Margherita's death. The episode follows the lines laid down by Barbier and Carré in their paraphrase of Goethe, except that for the sake of the beautiful music of the duet (which Boito borrowed from his unfinished "Ero e Leandro"), we learn that Margherita had drowned her child. Faust urges her to fly, but her poor mind is all awry. She recalls the scene of their first meeting and of the love-making in Dame Martha's garden, and the earlier music returns, as it does in Gounod's score, and as it was bound to do. At the end she draws back in horror from Faust, after uttering a prayer above the music of the celestial choir, just as the executioner appears. Mefistofele pronounces her damned, but voices from on high proclaim her salvation. The story of Faust and Margherita is ended, but, in pursuance of his larger plan, already outlined here, Boito makes use of two scenes from the second part of Goethe's drama to fill a fourth act and epilogue. They tell of the adventure of Faust with Helen of Troy, and of his death and the demon's defeat. The "Night of the Classical Sabbath" serves a dramatic purpose even less than the scene on the Brocken, but as an intermezzo it has many elements of beauty, and its scheme is profoundly poetical. Unfortunately we can only attain to a knowledge of the mission of the scene in the study with Goethe's poem in hand and commentaries and Boito's prefatory notes within reach. The picture is full of serene loveliness. We are on the shore of Peneus, in the Vale of Tempe. The moon at its zenith sheds its light over the thicket of laurel and oleanders, and floods a Doric temple on the left. Helen of Troy and Pantalis, surrounded by a group of sirens, praise the beauty of nature in an exquisite duet, which flows on as placidly as the burnished stream. Faust lies sleeping upon a flowery bank, and in his dreams calls upon Helen in the intervals of her song. Helen and Pantalis depart, and Faust is ushered in by Mefistofele. He is clad in his proper mediaeval garb, in strong contrast to the classic robes of the denizens of the valley in Thessaly. Mefistofele suggests to Faust that they now separate; the land of antique fable has no charm for him. Faust is breathing in the idiom of Helen's song like a delicate perfume which inspires him with love; Mefistofele longs for the strong, resinous odors of the Harz Mountains, where dominion over the Northern hags belongs to him. Faust is already gone, and he is about to depart when there approaches a band of Choretids. With gentle grace they move through a Grecian dance, and Mefistofele retires in disgust. Helen returns profoundly disquieted by a vision of the destruction of Troy, of which she was the cause. The Choretids seek to calm her in vain, but the tortures of conscience cease when she sees Faust before her. He kneels and praises her beauty, and she confesses herself enamoured of his speech, in which sound answers sound like a soft echo. "What," she asks, "must I do to learn so sweet and gentle an idiom?" "Love me, as I love you," replies Faust, in effect, as they disappear through the bowers. Now let us turn to Goethe, his commentators, and Boito's explanatory notes to learn the deeper significance of the episode, which, with all its gracious charm, must still appear dramatically impertinent and disturbing. Rhyme was unknown to the Greeks, the music of whose verse came from syllabic quantity. Helen and her companions sing in classic strain, as witness the opening duet:-- La luna immobile innonda l'etere d'un raggio pallido. Callido balsamo stillan le ramora dai cespi roridi; Doridi e silfidi, cigni e nereidi vagan sul l'alighi. Faust addresses Helen in rhyme, the discovery of the Romantic poets:-- Forma ideal purissima Della bellezza eterna! Un uom ti si prosterna Innamorato al suolo Volgi ver me la cruna Di tua pupilla bruna, Vaga come la luna, Ardente come il sole. "Here," says Boito, "is a myth both beautiful and deep. Helen and Faust represent Classic and Romantic art gloriously wedded, Greek beauty and Germanic beauty gleaming under the same aureole, glorified in one embrace, and generating an ideal poesy, eclectic, new, and powerful." The contents of the last act, which shows us Faust's death and salvation, have been set forth in the explanation of Boito's philosophical purpose. An expository note may, however, profitably be added in the poet-composer's own words: "Goethe places around Faust at the beginning of the scene four ghostly figures, who utter strange and obscure words. What Goethe has placed on the stage we place in the orchestra, submitting sounds instead of words, in order to render more incorporeal and impalpable the hallucinations that trouble Faust on the brink of death." The ghostly figures referred to by Boito are the four "Gray Women" of Goethe--Want, Guilt, Care, and Necessity. Boito thinks like a symphonist, and his purpose is profoundly poetical, but its appreciation asks more than the ordinary opera-goer is willing or able to give. {2} Footnotes: {1} I like, at times, to hear the Ancient's word, And have a care to be most civil: It's really kind of such a noble Lord So humnanly to gossip with the Devil. --Bayard Taylor's Translation. {2} "Mefistofele" had its first performance in New York at the Academy of Music on November 24, 1880. Mlle. Valleria was the Margherita and Elena, Miss Annie Louise Cary the Marta and Pantalis, Signor Campanini Faust, and Signor Novara Mefistofele. Signor Arditi conducted. The first representation of the opera at the Metropolitan Opera-house took place on December 5, 1883, when, with one exception, the cast was the same as at the first performance in London, at Her Majesty's Theatre, on July 6, 1880--namely, Nilsson as Margherita and Elena, Trebelli as Marta and Pantalis, Campanini as Faust and Mirabella as Mefistofele. (In London Nannetti enacted the demon.) Cleofonte Campanini, then maestro di cembalo at the Metropolitan Opera-house, conducted the performance. CHAPTER VIII "LA DAMNATION DE FAUST" In an operatic form Berlioz's "Damnation de Faust" had its first representation in New York at the Metropolitan Opera-house on December 7, 1906. Despite its high imagination, its melodic charm, its vivid and varied colors, its frequent flights toward ideal realms, its accents of passion, its splendid picturesqueness, it presented itself as a "thing of shreds and patches." It was, indeed, conceived as such, and though Berlioz tried by various devices to give it entity, he failed. When he gave it to the world, he called it a "Dramatic Legend," a term which may mean much or little as one chooses to consider it; but I can recall no word of his which indicates that he ever thought that it was fit for the stage. It was Raoul Gunsbourg, director of the opera at Monte Carlo, who, in 1903, conceived the notion of a theatrical representation of the legend and tricked it out with pictures and a few attempts at action. Most of these attempts are futile and work injury to the music, as will presently appear, but in a few instances they were successful, indeed very successful. Of course, if Berlioz had wanted to make an opera out of Goethe's drama, he could have done so. He would then have anticipated Gounod and Boito and, possibly, have achieved one of those popular successes for which he hungered. But he was in his soul a poet, in his heart a symphonist, and intellectually (as many futile efforts proved) incapable of producing a piece for the boards. When the Faust subject first seized upon his imagination, he knew it only in a prose translation of Goethe's poem made by Gerald de Nerval. In his "Memoirs" he tells us how it fascinated him. He carried it about with him, reading it incessantly and eagerly at dinner, in the streets, in the theatre. In the prose translation there were a few fragments of songs. These he set to music and published under the title "Huit Scènes de Faust," at his own expense. Marx, the Berlin critic, saw the music and wrote the composer a letter full of encouragement. But Berlioz soon saw grave defects in his work and withdrew it from circulation, destroying all the copies which he could lay hands on. What was good in it, however, he laid away for future use. The opportunity came twenty years later, when he was fired anew with a desire to write music for Goethe's poem. Though he had planned the work before starting out on his memorable artistic travels, he seems to have found inspiration in the circumstance that he was amongst a people who were more appreciative of his genius than his own countrymen, and whose language was that employed by the poet. Not more than one-sixth of his "Eight Scenes" had consisted of settings of the translations of M. de Nerval. A few scenes had been prepared by M. Gaudonnière from notes provided by the composer. The rest of the book Berlioz wrote himself, now paraphrasing the original poet, now going to him only for a suggestion. As was the case with Wagner, words and music frequently presented themselves to him simultaneously. Travelling from town to town, conducting rehearsals and concerts, he wrote whenever and wherever he could--one number in an inn at Passau, the Elbe scene and the Dance of the Sylphs at Vienna, the peasants' song by gaslight in a shop one night when he had lost his way in Pesth, the angels' chorus in Marguerite's apotheosis at Prague (getting up in the middle of the night to write it down), the song of the students, "Jam nox stellata velamina pandit" (of which the words are also Berlioz's), at Breslau. He finished the work in Rouen and Paris, at home, at his café, in the gardens of the Tuilleries, even on a stone in the Boulevard du Temple. While in Vienna he made an orchestral transcription of the famous Rakoczy march (in one night, he says, though this is scarcely credible, since the time would hardly suffice to write down the notes alone). The march made an extraordinary stir at the concert in Pesth when he produced it, and this led him to incorporate it, with an introduction, into his Legend--a proceeding which he justified as a piece of poetical license; he thought that he was entitled to put his hero in any part of the world and in any situation that he pleased. This incident serves to indicate how lightly all dramatic fetters sat upon Berlioz while "La Damnation" was in his mind, and how little it occurred to him that any one would ever make the attempt to place his scenes upon the stage. In the case of the Hungarian march, this has been done only at the sacrifice of Berlioz's poetical conceit to which the introductory text and music were fitted; but of this more presently. As Berlioz constructed the "Dramatic Legend," it belonged to no musical category. It was neither a symphony with vocal parts like his "Roméo et Juliette" (which has symphonic elements in some of its sections), nor a cantata, nor an oratorio. It is possible that this fact was long an obstacle to its production. Even in New York where, on its introduction, it created the profoundest sensation ever witnessed in a local concert-room, it was performed fourteen times with the choral parts sung by the Oratorio Society before that organization admitted it into its lists. And now to tell how the work was fitted to the uses of the lyric theatre. Nothing can be plainer to persons familiar with the work in its original form than that no amount of ingenuity can ever give the scenes of the "Dramatic Legend" continuity or coherency. Boito, in his opera, was unwilling to content himself with the episode of the amour between Faust and Marguerite; he wanted to bring out the fundamental ethical idea of the poet, and he went so far as to attempt the Prologue in Heaven, the Classical Sabbath, and the death of Faust with the contest for his soul. Berlioz had no scruples of any kind. He chose his scenes from Goethe's poem, changed them at will, and interpolated an incident simply to account for the Hungarian march. Connection with each other the scenes have not, and some of the best music belongs wholly in the realm of the ideal. At the outset Berlioz conceived Faust alone on a vast field in Hungary in spring. He comments on the beauties of nature and praises the benison of solitude. His ruminations are interrupted by a dance of peasants and the passage of an army to the music of the Rakoczy march. This scene M. Gunsbourg changes to a picture of a mediaeval interior in which Faust soliloquizes, and a view through the window of a castle with a sally-port. Under the windows the peasants dance, and out of the huge gateway come the soldiery and march off to battle. At the climax of the music which drove the people of Pesth wild at its first performance, so that Berlioz confessed that he himself shuddered and felt the hair bristling on his head--when in a long crescendo fugued fragments of the march theme keep reappearing, interrupted by drum-beats like distant cannonading, Gunsbourg's battalions halt, and there is a solemn benediction of the standards. Then, to the peroration, the soldiers run, not as if eager to get into battle, but as if in inglorious retreat. The second scene reproduces the corresponding incident in Gounod's opera--Faust in his study, life-weary and despondent. He is about to drink a cup of poison when the rear wall of the study rolls up and discloses the interior of a church with a kneeling congregation which chants the Easter canticle, "Christ is risen!" Here is one of the fine choral numbers of the work for which concert, not operatic, conditions are essential. The next scene, however, is of the opera operatic, and from that point of view the most perfect in the work. It discloses the revel of students, citizens, and soldiers in Auerbach's cellar. Brander sings the song of the rat which by good living had developed a paunch "like Dr. Luther's," but died of poison laid by the cook. The drinkers shout a boisterous refrain after each stanza, and supplement the last with a mock-solemn "Requiescat in pace, Amen." The phrase suggests new merriment to Brander, who calls for a fugue on the "Amen," and the roisterers improvise one on the theme of the rat song, which calls out hearty commendation from Méphistophélès, and a reward in the shape of the song of the flea--a delightful piece of grotesquerie with its accompaniment suggestive of the skipping of the pestiferous little insect which is the subject of the song. The next scene is the triumph of M. Gunsbourg, though for it he is indebted to Miss Loie Fuller and the inventor of the aerial ballet. In the conceit of Berlioz, Faust lies asleep on the bushy banks of the Elbe. Méphistophélès summons gnomes and sylphs to fill his mind with lovely fancies. They do their work so well as to entrance, not only Faust, but all who hear their strains, The instrumental ballet is a fairy waltz, a filmy musical fabric, seemingly woven of moonbeams and dewy cobwebs, over a pedal-point on the muted violoncellos, ending with drum taps and harmonics from the harp--one of the daintiest and most original orchestral effects imaginable. So dainty is the device, indeed, that one would think that nothing could come between it and the ears of the transported listeners without ruining the ethereal creation. But M. Gunsbourg's fancy has accomplished the miraculous. Out of the river bank he constructs a floral bower rich as the magical garden of Klingsor. Sylphs circle around the sleeper and throw themselves into graceful attitudes while the song is sounding. Then to the music of the elfin waltz, others enter who have, seemingly, cast off the gross weight which holds mortals in contact with the earth. With robes a-flutter like wings, they dart upwards and remain suspended in mid-air at will or float in and out of the transporting picture. To Faust is also presented a vision of Marguerite. The next five scenes in Berlioz's score are connected by M. Gunsbourg and forced to act in sequence for the sake of the stage set, in which a picture of Marguerite's chamber is presented in the conventional fashion made necessary by the exigency of showing an exterior and interior at the same time, as in the last act of "Rigoletto." For a reason at which I cannot even guess, M. Gunsbourg goes farther and transforms the chamber of Marguerite into a sort of semi-enclosed arbor, and places a lantern in her hand instead of the lamp, so that she may enter in safety from the street. In this street there walk soldiers, followed by students, singing their songs. Through them Faust finds his way and into the trellised enclosure. The strains of the songs are heard at the last blended in a single harmony. Marguerite enters through the street with her lantern and sings the romance of the King of Thule, which Berlioz calls a Chanson Gothique, one of the most original of his creations and, like the song in the next scene, "L'amour l'ardente flamme," which takes the place of Goethe's "Meine Ruh' ist hin," is steeped in a mood of mystical tenderness quite beyond description. Méphistophétès summons will-o'-the-wisps to aid in the bewilderment of the troubled mind of Marguerite. Here realism sadly disturbs the scene as Berlioz asks that the fancy shall create it. The customary dancing lights of the stage are supplemented with electrical effects which are beautiful, if not new. They do not mar if they do not help the grotesque minuet. But when M. Gunsbourg materializes the ghostly flames and presents them as a mob of hopping figures, he throws douches of cold water on the imagination of the listeners. Later he spoils enjoyment of the music utterly by making it the accompaniment of some utterly irrelevant pantomime by Marguerite, who goes into the street and is seen writhing between the conflicting emotions of love and duty, symbolized by a vision of Faust and the glowing of a cross on the façade of a church. To learn the meaning of this, one must go to the libretto, where he may read that it is all a dream dreamed by Marguerite after she had fallen asleep in her arm-chair. But we see her awake, not asleep, and it is all foolish and disturbing stuff put in to fill time and connect two of Berlioz's scenes. Marguerite returns to the room which she had left only in her dream, Faust discovers himself, and there follows the inevitable love-duet which Méphistophétès changes into a trio when he enters to urge Faust to depart. Meanwhile, Marguerite's neighbors gather in the street and warn Dame Martha of the misdeeds of Marguerite. The next scene seems to have been devised only to give an environment to Berlioz's paraphrase of Goethe's immortal song at the spinning-wheel. From the distance is heard the fading song of the students and the last echo of drums and trumpets sounding the retreat. Marguerite rushes to the window, and, overcome, rather unaccountably, with remorse and grief, falls in a swoon. The last scene. A mountain gorge, a rock in the foreground surmounted by a cross. Faust's soliloquy, "Nature, immense, impénétrable et fière," was inspired by Goethe's exalted invocation to nature. Faust signs the compact, Méphistophétès summons the infernal steeds, Vortex and Giaour, and the ride to hell begins. Women and children at the foot of the cross supplicate the prayers of Mary, Magdalen, and Margaret. The cross disappears in a fearful crash of sound, the supplicants flee, and a moving panorama shows the visions which are supposed to meet the gaze of the riders--birds of night, dangling skeletons, a hideous and bestial phantasmagoria at the end of which Faust is delivered to the flames. The picture changes, and above the roofs of the sleeping town appears a vision of angels welcoming Marguerite. CHAPTER IX "LA TRAVIATA" In music the saying that "familiarity breeds contempt," is true only of compositions of a low order. In the case of compositions of the highest order, familiarity generally breeds ever growing admiration. In this category new compositions are slowly received; they make their way to popular appreciation only by repeated performances. It is true that the people like best the songs as well as the symphonies which they know best; but even this rule has its exceptions. It is possible to grow indifferent to even high excellence because of constant association with it. Especially is this true when the form--that is, the manner of expression--has grown antiquated; then, not expecting to find the kind of quality to which our tastes are inclined, we do not look for it, and though it may be present, it frequently passes unnoticed. The meritorious old is, therefore, just as much subject to non-appreciation as the meritorious new. Let me cite an instance. Once upon a time duty called me to the two opera-houses of New York on the same evening. At the first I listened to some of the hot-blooded music of an Italian composer of the so-called school of verismo. Thence I went to the second. Verdi's "Traviata" was performing. I entered the room just as the orchestra began the prelude to the last act. As one can see without observing, so one can hear without listening--a wise provision which nature has made for the critic, and a kind one; I had heard that music so often during a generation of time devoted to musical journalism that I had long since quit listening to it. But now my jaded faculties were arrested by a new quality in the prelude. I had always admired the composer of "Rigoletto," "Il Trovatore," and "Traviata," and I loved and revered the author of "Aïda," "Otello," and "Falstaff." I had toddled along breathlessly in the trail made by his seven-league boots during the last thirty-five years of his career; but as I listened I found myself wondering that I had not noticed before that his modernity had begun before I had commenced to realize even what maternity meant--more than half a century ago, for "La Traviata" was composed in 1853. The quivering atmosphere of Violetta's sick-room seemed almost visible as the pathetic bit of hymnlike music rose upward from the divided viols of the orchestra like a cloud of incense which gathered itself together and floated along with the pathetic song of the solo violin. The work of palliating the character of the courtesan had begun, and on it went with each recurrence of the sad, sweet phrase as it punctuated the conversation between Violetta and her maid, until memory of her moral grossness was swallowed up in pity for her suffering. Conventional song-forms returned when poet and composer gave voice to the dying woman's lament for the happiness that was past and her agony of fear when she felt the touch of Death's icy hand; but where is melody more truthfully eloquent than in "Addio, del passato," and "Gran Dio! morir so giovane"? Is it within the power of instruments, no matter how great their number, or harmony with all the poignancy which it has acquired through the ingenious use of dissonance, or of broken phrase floating on an instrumental flood, to be more dramatically expressive than are these songs? Yet they are, in a way, uncompromisingly formal, architectural, strophic, and conventionally Verdian in their repetition of rhythmical motives and their melodic formularies. This introduction to the third act recalls the introduction to the first, which also begins with the hymnlike phrase, and sets the key-note of pathos which is sounded at every dramatic climax, though pages of hurdy-gurdy tune and unmeaning music intervene. Recall "Ah, fors' è lui che l'anima," with its passionate second section, "A quell' amor," and that most moving song of resignation, "Dite all' giovine." These things outweigh a thousand times the glittering tinsel of the opera and give "Traviata" a merited place, not only beside the later creations of the composer, but among those latter-day works which we call lyric dramas to distinguish them from those which we still call operas, with commiserating emphasis on the word. That evening I realized the appositeness of Dr. von Bülow's remark to Mascagni when the world seemed inclined to hail that young man as the continuator of Verdi's operatic evangel: "I have found your successor in your predecessor, Verdi," but it did not seem necessary to think of "Otello" and "Falstaff" in connection with the utterance; "La Traviata" alone justifies it. Also it was made plain what Verdi meant, when after the first performance of his opera, and its monumental fiasco, he reproached his singers with want of understanding of his music. The story of that fiasco and the origin of the opera deserve a place here. "La Traviata," as all the world knows, is based upon the book and drama, "La Dame aux Camélias," by the younger Dumas, known to Americans and Englishmen as "Camille." The original book appeared in 1848, the play in 1852. Verdi witnessed a performance of the play when it was new. He was writing "Il Trovatore" at the time, but the drama took so strong a hold upon him that he made up his mind at once to turn it into an opera. As was his custom, he drafted a plan of the work, and this he sent to Piave, who for a long time had been his librettist in ordinary. Francesco Maria Piave was little more than a hack-writer of verse, but he knew how to put Verdi's ideas into practicable shape, and he deserves to be remembered with kindly interest as the great composer's collaborator in the creation of "I due Foscari," "Ernani," "Macbetto," "Il Corsaro," "Stiffclio," "Simon Boccanegra," "Aroldo" (a version of "Stiffelio"), and "La Forza del Destino." His artistic relations with Verdi lasted from 1844 to 1862, but the friendship of the men endured till the distressful end of Piave's life, which came in 1876. He was born three years earlier than Verdi (in 1810), in Durano, of which town his father had been the last podesta under the Venetian republic. He went mad some years before he died, and thenceforward lived off Verdi's bounty, the warm-hearted composer not only giving him a pension, but also caring for his daughter after his death. In 1853 Verdi's creative genius was at flood-tide. Four months was the time which he usually devoted to the composition of an opera, but he wrote "La Traviata" within four weeks, and much of the music was composed concurrently with that of "Il Trovatore." This is proved by the autograph, owned by his publishers, the Ricordis, and there is evidence of the association in fraternity of phrase in some of the uninteresting pages of the score. (See "Morrò! la mia memoria" for instance, and the dance measures with their trills.) "Il Trovatore" was produced at Rome on January 19, 1853, and "La Traviata" on March 6 of the same year at the Fenice Theatre in Venice. "Il Trovatore" was stupendously successful; "La Traviata" made a woful failure. Verdi seems to have been fully cognizant of the causes which worked together to produce the fiasco, though he was disinclined at the time to discuss them. Immediately after the first representation he wrote to Muzio: "'La Traviata' last night a failure. Was the fault mine or the singers'? Time will tell." To Vincenzo Luccardi, sculptor, professor at the Academy of San Luca in Rome, one of his most intimate friends, he wrote after, the second performance: "The success was a fiasco--a complete fiasco! I do not know whose fault it was; it is best not to talk about it. I shall tell you nothing about the music, and permit me to say nothing about the performers." Plainly, he did not hold the singers guiltless. Varesi, the barytone, who was intrusted with the part of the elder Germont, had been disaffected, because he thought it beneath his dignity. Nevertheless, he went to the composer and offered his condolences at the fiasco. Verdi wanted none of his sympathy. "Condole with yourself and your companions who have not understood my music," was his somewhat ungracious rejoinder. No doubt the singers felt some embarrassment in the presence of music which to them seemed new and strange in a degree which we cannot appreciate now. Abramo Basevi, an Italian critic, who wrote a book of studies on Verdi's operas, following the fashion set by Lenz in his book on Beethoven, divides the operas which he had written up to the critic's time into examples of three styles, the early operas marking his first manner and "Luisa Miller" the beginning of his second. In "La Traviata" he says Verdi discovered a third manner, resembling in some things the style of French oéera comique. "This style of music," he says, "although it has not been tried on the stage in Italy, is, however, not unknown in private circles. In these latter years we have seen Luigi Gordigiani and Fabio Campana making themselves known principally in this style of music, called da camera. Verdi, with his 'Traviata,' has transported this chamber-music on to the stage, to which the subject he has chosen still lends itself, and with happy success. We meet with more simplicity in this work than in the others of the same composer, especially as regards the orchestra, where the quartet of stringed instruments is almost always predominant; the parlanti occupy a great part of the score; we meet with several of those airs which repeat under the form of verses; and, finally, the principal vocal subjects are for the most part developed in short binary and ternary movements, and have not, in general, the extension which the Italian style demands." Campana and Gordigiani were prolific composers of romanzas and canzonettas of a popular type. Their works are drawing-room music, very innocuous, very sentimental, very insignificant, and very far from the conception of chamber-music generally prevalent now. How they could have been thought to have influenced so virile a composer as Verdi, it is difficult to see. But musical critics enjoy a wide latitude of observation. In all likelihood there was nothing more in Dr. Basevi's mind than the strophic structure of "Di Provenza," the song style of some of the other arias to which attention has been called and the circumstance that these, the most striking numbers in the score, mark the points of deepest feeling. In this respect, indeed, there is some relationship between "La Traviata" and "Der Freischütz"--though this is an observation which will probably appear as far-fetched to some of my critics as Dr. Basevi's does to me. There were other reasons of a more obvious and external nature for the failure of "La Traviata" on its first production. Lodovico Graziani, the tenor, who filled the rôle of Alfredo, was hoarse, and could not do justice to the music; Signora Salvini-Donatelli, the Violetta of the occasion, was afflicted with an amplitude of person which destroyed the illusion of the death scene and turned its pathos into absurdity. The spectacle of a lady of mature years and more than generous integumental upholstery dying of consumption was more than the Venetian sense of humor could endure with equanimity. The opera ended with shrieks of laughter instead of the lachrymal flood which the music and the dramatic situation called for. This spirit of irreverence had been promoted, moreover, by the fact that the people of the play wore conventional modern clothes. The lure of realism was not strong in the lyric theatres half a century ago, when laces and frills, top-boots and plumed hats, helped to confine the fancy to the realm of idealism in which it was believed opera ought to move. The first result of the fiasco was a revision of the costumes and stage furniture, by which simple expedient Mr. Dumas's Marguerite Gauthier was changed from a courtesan of the time of Louis Philippe to one of the period of Louis XIV. It is an amusing illustration of how the whirligig of time brings its revenges that the spirit of verismo, masquerading as a desire for historical accuracy, has restored the period of the Dumas book,--that is, restored it in name, but not in fact,--with the result, in New York and London at least, of making the dress of the opera more absurd than ever. Violetta, exercising the right which was conquered by the prima donna generations ago, appears always garbed in the very latest style, whether she be wearing one of her two ball dresses or her simple afternoon gown. For aught that I know, the latest fad in woman's dress may also be hidden in the dainty folds of the robe de chambre in which she dies. The elder Germont has for two years appeared before the New York public as a well-to-do country gentleman of Provence might have appeared sixty years ago, but his son has thrown all sartorial scruples to the wind, and wears the white waistcoat and swallowtail of to-day. The Venetians were allowed a year to get over the effects of the first representations of "La Traviata," and then the opera was brought forward again with the new costumes. Now it succeeded and set out upon the conquest of the world. It reached London on May 24, St. Petersburg on November 1, New York on December 3, and Paris on December 6--all in the same year, 1856. The first Violetta in New York was Mme. Anna La Grange, the first Alfredo Signor Brignoli, and the first Germont père Signor Amodio. There had been a destructive competition between Max Maretzek's Italian company at the Academy of Music and a German company at Niblo's Garden. The regular Italian season had come to an end with a quarrel between Maretzek and the directors of the Academy. The troupe prepared to embark for Havana, but before doing so gave a brief season under the style of the La Grange Opera Company, and brought forward the new opera on December 3, three days before the Parisians were privileged to hear it. The musical critic of the Tribune at the time was Mr. W. H. Fry, who was not only a writer on political and musical subjects, but a composer, who wrote an opera, "Leonora," in which Mme. La Grange sang at the Academy about a year and a half later. His review of the first performance of "La Traviata," which appeared in the Tribune of December 5, 1856, is worth reading for more reasons than one:-- The plot of "La Traviata" we have already given to our readers. It is simply "Camille." The first scene affords us some waltzing music, appropriate in its place, on which a (musical) dialogue takes place. The waltz is not specially good, nor is there any masterly outworking of detail. A fair drinking song is afforded, which pleased, but was not encored. A pretty duet by Mme. de la Grange and Signor Brignoli may be noticed also in this act; and the final air, by Madame de la Grange, "Ah! fors' e lui che l'anima," contained a brilliant, florid close which brought down the house, and the curtain had to be reraised to admit of a repetition. Act II admits of more intensified music than Act I. A brief air by Alfred (Brignoli) is followed by an air by Germont (Amodio), and by a duet, Violetta (La Grange) and Germont. The duet is well worked up and is rousing, passionate music. Verdi's mastery of dramatic accent--of the modern school of declamation--is here evident. Some dramatic work, the orchestra leading, follows--bringing an air by Germont, "Di Provenza il mar." This is a 2-4 travesty of a waltz known as Weber's Last Waltz (which, however, Weber never wrote); and is too uniform in the length of its notes to have dramatic breadth or eloquence. A good hit is the sudden exit of Alfred thereupon, not stopping to make an andiamo duet as is so often done. The next scene introduces us to a masquerade where are choruses of quasi-gypsies, matadors, and picadors,--sufficiently characteristic. The scene after the card-playing, which is so fine in the play, is inefficient in music. Act III in the book (though it was made Act IV on this occasion by subdividing the second) reveals the sick-room of Traviata. A sweet air, minor and major by turns, with some hautboy wailing, paints the sufferer's sorrows. A duet by the lovers, "Parigi, O cara," is especially original in its peroration. The closing trio has due culmination and anguish, though we would have preferred a quiet ending to a hectic shriek and a doubly loud force in the orchestra. Goldsmith's rule in "The Vicar" for criticising a painting was always to say that "the picture would have been better if the painter had taken more pains." Perhaps the same might be said about "La Traviata"; but whether it would have pleased the public more is another question. Some of the airs certainly would bear substitution by others in the author's happier vein. The opera was well received. Three times the singers were called before the curtain. The piece was well put on the stage. Madame La Grange never looked so well. Her toilet was charming. The principal incidents of Dumas's play are reproduced with general fidelity in the opera. In the first act there are scenes of gayety in the house of Violetta--dancing, feasting, and love-making. Among the devotees of the courtesan is Alfredo Germont, a young man of respectable Provençal family. He joins in the merriment, singing a drinking song with Violetta, but his devotion to her is unlike that of his companions. He loves her sincerely, passionately, and his protestations awaken in her sensations never felt before. For a moment, she indulges in a day-dream of honest affection, but banishes it with the reflection that the only life for which she is fitted is one devoted to the pleasures of the moment, the mad revels rounding out each day, and asking no care of the moment. But at the last the voice of Alfredo floats in at the window, burdening the air and her heart with an echo of the longing to which she had given expression in her brief moment of thoughtfulness. She yields to Alfredo's solicitations and a strangely new emotion, and abandons her dissolute life to live with him alone. In the second act the pair are found housed in a country villa not far from Paris. From the maid Alfredo learns that Violetta has sold her property in the city--house, horses, carriages, and all--in order to meet the expenses of the rural establishment. Conscience-smitten, he hurries to Paris to prevent the sacrifice, but in his absence Violetta is called upon to make a much greater. Giorgio Germont, the father of her lover, visits her, and, by appealing to her love for his son and picturing the ruin which is threatening him and the barrier which his illicit association with her is placing in the way of the happy marriage of his sister, persuades her to give him up. She abandons home and lover, and returns to her old life in the gay city, making a favored companion of the Baron Duphol. In Paris, at a masked ball in the house of Flora, one of her associates, Alfredo finds her again, overwhelms her with reproaches, and ends a scene of excitement by denouncing her publicly and throwing his gambling gains at her feet. Baron Duphol challenges Alfredo to fight a duel. The baron is wounded. The elder Germont sends intelligence of Alfredo's safety to Violetta, and informs her that he has told his son of the great sacrifice which she had made for love of him. Violetta dies in the arms of her lover, who had hurried to her on learning the truth, only to find her suffering the last agonies of disease. In the preface to his novel, Dumas says that the principal incidents of the story are true. It has also been said that Dickens was familiar with them, and at one time purposed to make a novel on the subject; but this statement scarcely seems credible. Such a novel would have been un-English in spirit and not at all in harmony with the ideals of the author of "David Copperfield" and "Dombey and Son." Play and opera at the time of their first production raised questions of taste and morals which have remained open ever since. Whether the anathema periodically pronounced against them by private and official censorship helps or hinders the growth of such works in popularity, there is no need of discussing here. There can scarcely be a doubt, however, but that many theatrical managers of to-day would hail with pleasure and expectation of profit such a controversy over one of their new productions as greeted "La Traviata" in London. The Lord Chamberlain had refused to sanction the English adaptations of "La Dame aux Camélias," and when the opera was brought forward (performance being allowed because it was sung in a foreign language), pulpit and press thundered in denunciation of it. Mr. Lumley, the manager of Her Majesty's Theatre, came to the defence of the work in a letter to the Times, but it was more his purpose to encourage popular excitement and irritate curiosity than to shield the opera from condemnation. He had every reason to be satisfied with the outcome. "La Traviata" had made a complete fiasco, on its production in Italy, where no one dreamed of objecting to the subject-matter of its story; in London there was a loud outcry against the "foul and hideous horrors of the book," and the critics found little to praise in the music; yet the opera scored a tremendous popular success, and helped to rescue Her Majesty's from impending ruin. CHAPTER X "AIDA" Two erroneous impressions concerning Verdi's "Aïda" may as well as not be corrected at the beginning of a study of that opera: it was not written to celebrate the completion of the Suez Canal, nor to open the Italian Opera-house at Cairo, though the completion of the canal and the inauguration of the theatre were practically contemporaneous with the conception of the plan which gave the world one of Verdi's finest and also most popular operas. It is more difficult to recall a season in any of the great lyric theatres of the world within the last thirty-five years in which "Aïda" was not given than to enumerate a score of productions with particularly fine singers and imposing mise en scène. With it Verdi ought to have won a large measure of gratitude from singers and impresarios as well as the fortune which it brought him; for though, like all really fine works, it rewards effort and money bestowed upon it with corresponding and proportionate generosity, it does not depend for its effectiveness on extraordinary vocal outfit or scenic apparel. Fairly well sung and acted and respectably dressed, it always wins the sympathies and warms the enthusiasm of an audience the world over. It is seldom thought of as a conventional opera, and yet it is full of conventionalities which do not obtrude themselves simply because there is so much that is individual about its music and its pictures--particularly its pictures. Save for the features of its score which differentiate it from the music of Verdi's other operas and the works of his predecessors and contemporaries, "Aïda" is a companion of all the operas for which Meyerbeer set a model when he wrote his works for the Académie Nationale in Paris--the great pageant operas like "Le Prophète," "Lohengrin," and Goldmark's "Queen of Sheba." With the last it shares one element which brings it into relationship also with a number of much younger and less significant works--operas like Mascagni's "Iris," Puccini's "Madama Butterfly," and Giordano's "Siberia." In the score of "Aïda" there is a slight infusion of that local color which is lavishly employed in decorating its externals. The pomp and pageantry of the drama are Egyptian and ancient; the play's natural and artificial environment is Egyptian and ancient; two bits of its music are Oriental, possibly Egyptian, and not impossibly ancient. But in everything else "Aïda" is an Italian opera. The story plays in ancient Egypt, and its inventor was an archaeologist deeply versed in Egyptian antiquities, but I have yet to hear that Mariette Bey, who wrote the scenario of the drama, ever claimed an historical foundation for it or pretended that anything in its story was characteristically Egyptian. Circumstances wholly fortuitous give a strong tinge of antiquity and nationalism to the last scene; but, if the ancient Egyptians were more addicted than any other people to burying malefactors alive, the fact is not of record; and the picture as we have it in the opera was not conceived by Mariette Bey, but by Verdi while working hand in hand with the original author of the libretto, which, though designed for an Italian performance, was first written in French prose. The Italian Theatre in Cairo was built by the khedive, Ismaïl Pacha, and opened in November, 1869. It is extremely likely that the thought of the advantage which would accrue to the house, could it be opened with a new piece by the greatest of living Italian opera composers, had entered the mind of the khedive or his advisers; but it does not seem to have occurred to them in time to insure such a work for the opening. Nevertheless, long before the inauguration of the theatre a letter was sent to Verdi asking him if he would write an opera on an Egyptian subject, and if so, on what terms. The opportunity was a rare one, and appealed to the composer, who had written "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" and "Don Carlos" for Paris, "La Forza del Destino" for St. Petersburg, and had not honored an Italian stage with a new work for ten years. But the suggestion that he state his terms embarrassed him. So he wrote to his friend Muzio and asked him what to do. Muzio had acquired much more worldly wisdom than ever came to the share of the great genius, and he replied sententiously: "Demand 4000 pounds sterling for your score. If they ask you to go and mount the piece and direct the rehearsals, fix the sum at 6000 pounds." Verdi followed his friend's advice, and the khedive accepted the terms. At first the opera people in Cairo thought they wanted only the score which carried with it the right of performance, but soon they concluded that they wanted also the presence of the composer, and made him, in vain, munificent offers of money, distinctions, and titles. His real reason for not going to prepare the opera and direct the first performance was a dread of the voyage. To a friend he wrote that he feared that if he went to Cairo they would make a mummy of him. Under the terms of the agreement the khedive sent him 50,000 francs at once, and deposited the balance of 50,000 francs in a bank, to be paid over to the composer on delivery of the score. The story of "Aïda" came from Mariette Bey, who was then director of the Egyptian Museum at Boulak. Auguste Édouard Mariette was a Frenchman who, while an attaché of the Louvre, in 1850, had gone on a scientific expedition to Egypt for the French government and had discovered the temple of Serapis at Memphis. It was an "enormous structure of granite and alabaster, containing within its enclosure the sarcophagi of the bulls of Apis, from the nineteenth dynasty to the time of the Roman supremacy." After his return to Paris, he was appointed in 1855 assistant conservator of the Egyptian Museum in the Louvre, and after some further years of service, he went to Egypt again, where he received the title of Bey and an appointment as director of the museum at Boulak. Bayard Taylor visited him in 1851 and 1874, and wrote an account of his explorations and the marvellous collection of antiquities which he had in his care. Mariette wrote the plot of "Aïda," which was sent to Verdi, and at once excited his liveliest interest. Camille du Locle, who had had a hand in making the books of "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" and "Don Carlos" (and who is also the librettist of Reyer's "Salammbô"), went to Verdi's home in Italy, and under the eye of the composer wrote out the drama in French prose. It was he who gave the world the information that the idea of the double scene in the last act was conceived by Verdi, who, he says, "took a large share in the work." The drama, thus completed, was translated into Italian verse by Antonio Ghislanzoni, who, at the time, was editor of the Gazetta Musicale, a journal published in Milan. In his early life Ghislanzoni was a barytone singer. He was a devoted friend and admirer of Verdi's, to whom he paid a glowing tribute in his book entitled "Reminiscenze Artistiche." He died some fifteen or sixteen years ago, and some of his last verses were translations of Tennyson's poems. The khedive expected to hear his opera by the end of 1870, but there came an extraordinary disturbance of the plan, the cause being nothing less than the war between France and Germany. The scenery and costumes, which had been made after designs by French artists, were shut up in Paris. At length, on December 24, 1871, the opera had its first performance at Cairo. Considering the sensation which the work created, it seems strange that it remained the exclusive possession of Cairo and a few Italian cities so long as it did, but a personal equation stood in the way of a performance at the Grand Opéra, where it properly belonged. The conduct of the conductor and musicians at the production of "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" had angered Verdi; and when M. Halanzier, the director of the Académie Nationale, asked for the opera in 1873, his request was refused. Thus it happened that the Théâtre Italien secured the right of first performance in Paris. It was brought out there on April 22, 1876, and had sixty-eight representations within three years. The original King in the French performance was Édouard de Reszke. It was not until March 22, 1880, that "Aïda" reached the Grand Opéra. M. Vaucorbeil, the successor of Halanzier, visited Verdi at his home and succeeded in persuading him not only to give the performing rights to the national institution, but also to assist in its production. Maurel was the Amonasro of the occasion. The composer was greatly fêted, and at a dinner given in his honor by President Grévy was made a Grand Officer of the National Order of the Legion of Honor. The opening scene of the opera is laid at Memphis, a fact which justifies the utmost grandeur in the stage furniture, and is explained by Mariette's interest in that place. It was he who helped moderns to realize the ancient magnificence of the city described by Diodorus. It was the first capital of the united kingdom of upper and lower Egypt, the chief seat of religion and learning, the site of the temples of Ptah, Isis, Serapis, Phra, and the sacred bull Apis. Mariette here, on his first visit to Egypt, unearthed an entire avenue of sphinxes leading to the Serapeum, over four thousand statues, reliefs, and inscriptions, eight gigantic sculptures, and many other evidences of a supremely great city. He chose his scenes with a view to an exhibition of the ancient grandeur. In a hall of the Royal Palace, flanked by a colonnade with statues and flowering shrubs, and commanding a view of the city's palaces and temples and the pyramids, Radames, an Egyptian soldier, and Ramfis, a high priest, discuss a report that the Ethiopians are in revolt in the valley of the Nile, and that Thebes is threatened. The high priest has consulted Isis, and the goddess has designated who shall be the leader of Egypt's army against the rebels. An inspiring thought comes into the mind of Radames. What if he should be the leader singled out to crush the rebellion, and be received in triumph on his return? A consummation devoutly to be wished, not for his own glory alone, but for the sake of his love, Aïda, whose beauty he sings in a romance ("Celeste Aïda") of exquisite loveliness and exaltation. Amneris, the daughter of the King of Egypt (Mariette gives him no name, and so avoids possible historical complications), enters. She is in love with Radames, and eager to know what it is that has so illumined his visage with joy. He tells her of his ambition, but hesitates when she asks him if no gentler dream had tenanted his heart. Aïda approaches, and the perturbation of her lover is observed by Amneris, who affects love for her slave (for such Aïda is), welcomes her as a sister, and bids her tell the cause of her grief. Aïda is the daughter of Ethiopia's king; but she would have the princess believe that her tears are caused by anxiety for Egypt's safety. The King appears with Ramfis and a royal retinue, and learns from a messenger that the Ethiopians have invaded Egypt and, under their king, Amonasro, are marching on Thebes. The King announces that Isis has chosen Radames to be the leader of Egypt's hosts. Amneris places the royal banner in his eager hand, and to the sounds of a patriotic march he is led away to the temple of Ptah (the Egyptian Vulcan), there to receive his consecrated armor and arms. "Return a victor!" shout the hosts, and Aïda, carried away by her love, joins in the cry; but, left alone, she reproaches herself for impiousness in uttering words which imply a wish for the destruction of her country, her father, and her kinsmen. (Scena: "Ritorna vincitor.") Yet could she wish for the defeat and the death of the man she loves? She prays the gods to pity her sufferings ("Numi, pieta"). Before a colossal figure of the god in the temple of Ptah, while the sacred fires rise upward from the tripods, and priestesses move through the figures of the sacred dance or chant a hymn to the Creator, Preserver, Giver, of Life and Light, the consecrated sword is placed in the hands of Radames. It is in this scene that the local color is not confined to externals alone, but infuses the music as well. Very skilfully Verdi makes use of two melodies which are saturated with the languorous spirit of the East. The first is the invocation of Ptah, chanted by an invisible priestess to the accompaniment of a harp:-- [Musical excerpt--"Possente, possente Ftha, del mondo spirito animator ah! noi t'in vo chiamo."] The second is the melody of the sacred dance:-- [Musical excerpt] The tunes are said to be veritable Oriental strains which some antiquary (perhaps Mariette himself) put into the hands of Verdi. The fact that their characteristic elements were nowhere else employed by the composer, though he had numerous opportunities for doing so, would seem to indicate that Verdi was chary about venturing far into the territory of musical nationalism. Perhaps he felt that his powers were limited in this direction, or that he might better trust to native expression of the mood into which the book had wrought him. The limitation of local color in his music is not mentioned as a defect in the opera, for it is replaced at the supreme moments, especially that at the opening of the third act, with qualities far more entrancing than were likely to have come from the use of popular idioms. Yet, the two Oriental melodies having been mentioned, it is well to look at their structure to discover the source of their singular charm. There is no mystery as to the cause in the minds of students of folk-song. The tunes are evolved from a scale so prevalent among peoples of Eastern origin that it has come to be called the Oriental scale. Its distinguishing characteristic is an interval, which contains three semitones:-- [Musical excerpt] The interval occurring twice in this scale is enclosed in brackets. Its characteristic effect is most obvious when the scale is played downward. A beautiful instance of its artistic use is in Rubinstein's song "Der Asra." The ancient synagogal songs of the Jews are full of it, and it is one of the distinguishing marks of the folk-songs of Hungary (the other being rhythmical), as witness the "Rakoczy March." In some of the Eastern songs it occurs once, in some twice (as in the case of the melodies printed above), and there are instances of a triple use in the folk-songs of the modern Greeks. Act II. News of the success of the Egyptian expedition against the Ethiopians has reached Amneris, whose slaves attire her for the scene of Radames's triumph. The slaves sing of Egypt's victory and of love, the princess of her longing, and Moorish slaves dance before her to dispel her melancholy. Aïda comes, weighed down by grief. Amneris lavishes words of sympathy upon her, and succeeds in making her betray her love for Radames by saying that he had been killed in battle. Then she confesses the falsehood and proclaims her own passion and purpose to crush her rival, who shall appear at the triumph of Radames as her slave. Aïda's pride rebels for the moment, and she almost betrays her own exalted station as the daughter of a king. As a slave she accompanies the princess to the entrance gate of Thebes, where the King, the priests, and a vast concourse of people are to welcome Radames and witness his triumphal entry. Radames, with his troops and a horde of Ethiopian prisoners, comes into the city in a gorgeous pageant. The procession is headed by two groups of trumpeters, who play a march melody, the stirring effect of which is greatly enhanced by the characteristic tone quality of the long, straight instruments which they use:-- [Musical excerpt] A word about these trumpets. In shape, they recall antique instruments, and the brilliancy of their tone is due partly to the calibre of their straight tubes and partly to the fact that nearly all the tones used are open--that is, natural harmonics of the fundamental tones of the tubes. There is an anachronism in the circumstance that they are provided with valves (which were not invented until some thousands of years after the period of the drama), but only one of the valves is used. The first trumpets are in the key of A-flat and the second B-natural, a peculiarly stirring effect being produced by the sudden shifting of the key of the march when the second group of trumpeters enters on the scene. The King greets Radames with an embrace, bids him receive the wreath of victory from the hands of his daughter and ask whatever boon he will as a reward for his services. He asks, first, that the prisoners be brought before the King. Among them Aïda recognizes her father, who is disguised as an officer of the Ethiopian army. The two are in each other's arms in a moment, but only long enough for Amonasro to caution his daughter not to betray him. He bravely confesses that he had fought for king and country, and pleads for clemency for the prisoners. They join in the petition, as does Aïda, and though the priests warn and protest, Radames asks the boon of their lives and freedom, and the King grants it. Also, without the asking, he bestows the hand of his daughter upon the victorious general, who receives the undesired honor with consternation. Transporting beauty rests upon the scene which opens the third act. The moon shines brightly on the rippling surface of the Nile and illumines a temple of Isis, perched amongst the tropical foliage which crowns a rocky height. The silvery sheen is spread also over the music, which arises from the orchestra like a light mist burdened with sweet odors. Amneris enters the temple to ask the blessing of the goddess upon her marriage, and the pious canticle of the servitors within floats out on the windless air. A tone of tender pathos breathes through the music which comes with Aïda, who is to hold secret converse with her lover. Will he come? And if so, will he speak a cruel farewell and doom her to death within the waters of the river? A vision of her native land, its azure skies, verdant vales, perfumed breezes, rises before her. Shall she never see them more? Her father comes upon her. He knows of her passion for Radames, but also of her love for home and kindred. He puts added hues into the picture with which her heavy fancy had dallied, and then beclouds it all with an account of homes and temples profaned, maidens ravished, grandsires, mothers, children, slain by the oppressor. Will she aid in the deliverance? She can by learning from her lover by which path the Egyptians will against the Ethiopians, who are still in the field, though their king is taken. That she will not do. But Amonasro breaks down her resolution. Hers will be the responsibility for torrents of blood, the destruction of cities, the devastation of her country. No longer his daughter she, but a slave of the Pharaohs! Her lover comes. She affects to repulse him because of his betrothal to Amneris, but he protests his fidelity and discloses his plan. The Ethiopians are in revolt again. Again he will defeat them, and, returning again in triumph, he will tell the King of his love for her and thereafter live in the walks of peace. But Aïda tells him that the vengeance of Amneris will pursue her, and urges him to fly with her. Reluctantly he consents, and she, with apparent innocence, asks by which path they shall escape the soldiery. Through the gorge of Napata; 'twill be unpeopled till to-morrow, for it has been chosen as the route by which the Egyptian advance shall be made. Exulting, Amonasro rushes from his place of concealment. At the gorge of Napata will he place his troops--he the King of Ethiopia! Radames has betrayed his country. Amneris comes out of the temple, and Amonasro is about to poignard her when Radames throws himself between. To the high priest, Ramfis, he yields himself and his sword. Amonasro drags Aïda away with him. We reach the last act of the drama. Radames is to be tried for treason in having betrayed a secret of war to his country's enemy. Amneris fain would save him were he to renounce Aïda and accept her love. She offers on such terms to intercede for him with her father, the king. From her Radames learns that Aïda escaped the guards who slew her father. He is resolute to die rather than prove faithless to her, and is led away to the subterranean trial chamber. Amneris, crouched without, hears the accusing voices of the priests and the awful silence which follows each accusation; for Radames refuses to answer the charges. The priests pronounce sentence:--Burial alive! Amneris hurls curses after them, but they depart, muttering, "Death to the traitor!" Radames is immured in a vault beneath the temple of Vulcan, whose sacred priestesses move in solemn steps above, while he gropes in the darkness below. Never again shall light greet his eyes, nor sight of Aïda. A groan. A phantom rises before him, and Aïda is at his side. She had foreseen the doom of her lover, and entered the tomb before him to die in his arms. Together they say their farewell to the vale of tears, and their streaming eyes have a prevision of heaven. Above in the temple a figure, shrouded in black, kneels upon the stone which seals the vault and implores Isis to cease her resentment and give her adored one peace. It is Amneris. CHAPTER XI "DER FREISCHUTZ" A description of Carl Maria von Weber's opera, "Der Freischütz," ought to begin with a study of the overture, since that marvellous composition has lived on and on in the concert-rooms of the world without loss of popularity for nearly a century, while the opera which it introduces has periodically come and gone according to popular whim or the artistic convictions or caprices of managers in all the countries which cultivate opera, except Germany. Why Germany forms an exception to the rule will find an explanation when the character of the opera and its history come under investigation. The overture, notwithstanding its extraordinary charm, is only an exalted example of the pot-pourri class of introductions (though in the classic sonata form), which composers were in the habit of writing when this opera came into existence, and which is still imitated in an ignoble way by composers of ephemeral operettas. It is constructed on a conventional model, and its thematic material is drawn from the music of the opera; but, like the prelude to Wagner's lyric comedy, "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg," it presents the contents of the play in the form of what many years after its composition came to be called a symphonic poem, and illustrates the ideal which was in Gluck's mind when, in the preface to "Alceste," he said, "I imagined that the overture ought to prepare the audience for the action of the piece, and serve as a kind of argument to it." The atmosphere of the opera is that which pervades the sylvan life of Germany--its actualities and its mysteries, the two elements having equal potency. Into the peacefulness of the woods the French horns ("Forest horns," the Germans call them) usher us at once with the hymn which they sing after a few introductory measures. [Musical excerpt] But no sooner do we yield to the caress of this mood than there enters the supernatural element which invests the tragical portion of the story. Ominous drum beats under a dissonant tremolo of the strings and deep tones of the clarinets, a plangent declamatory phrase of the violoncellos:-- [Musical excerpt] tell us of the emotions of the hero when he feels himself deserted by Heaven; the agitated principal subject of the main body of the overture (Molto vivace):-- [Musical excerpt] proclaims his terror at the thought that he has fallen into the power of the Evil One, while the jubilant second theme:-- [Musical excerpt] gives voice to the happiness of the heroine and the triumph of love and virtue which is the outcome of the drama. The first glimpse of the opera reveals an open space in a forest and in it an inn and a target-shooting range. Max, a young assistant to the Chief Forester of a Bohemian principality, is seated at a table with a mug of beer before him, his face and attitude the picture of despondency. Hard by, huntsmen and others are grouped around Kilian, a young peasant who fires the last shot in a contest of marksmanship as the scene is disclosed. He hits off the last remaining star on the target, and is noisily acclaimed as Schützenkönig (King of the Marksmen), and celebrated in a lusty song by the spectators, who decorate the victor, and forming a procession bearing the trophies of the match, march around the glade. As they pass Max they point their fingers and jeer at him. Kilian joins in the sport until Max's fuming ill-humor can brook the humiliation no longer; he leaps up, seizes the lapel of Kilian's coat, and draws his hunting-knife. A deadly quarrel seems imminent, but is averted by the coming of Cuno, Chief Forester, and Caspar, who, like Max, is one of his assistants. To the reproaches of Cuno, who sees the mob surging around Max, Kilian explains that there was no ill-will in the mockery of him, the crowd only following an old custom which permitted the people to make sport of a contestant who failed to hit the target, and thus forfeited the right to make trial for the kingship. Cuno is amazed that a mere peasant should have defeated one of his foresters, and that one the affianced lover of his daughter, Agathe, and who, as his son-in-law, would inherit his office, provided he could prove his fitness for it by a trial shot on the wedding day. That day had been set for the morrow. How the custom of thus providing for the successorship originated, Cuno now relates in answer to the questions of one of the party. His great-grandfather, also bearer of the name Cuno, had been one of the rangers of the prince who ruled the dominion in his day. Once upon a time, in the course of a hunt, the dogs started a stag who bounded toward the party with a man tied to his back. It was thus that poachers were sometimes punished. The Prince's pity was stirred, and he promised that whoever should shoot the stag without harming the man should receive the office of Chief Forester, to be hereditary in the family, and the tenancy of a hunting lodge near by. Cuno, moved more by pity than hope of reward, attempted the feat and succeeded. The Prince kept his promise, but on a suggestion that the old hunter may have used a charmed bullet, he made the hereditary succession contingent upon the success of a trial shot. Before telling the tale, Cuno had warned Max to have a care, for should he fail in the trial shot on the morrow, his consent to the marriage between him and Agathe would be withdrawn. Max had suspected that his ill luck for a month past, during which time he had brought home not a single trophy of bird or beast, was due to some malign influence, the cause of which he was unable to fathom. He sings of the prowess and joys that once were his (Aria: "Durch die Wälder, durch die Auen"), but falls into a moody dread at the thought that Heaven has forsaken him and given him over to the powers of darkness. It is here that the sinister music, mentioned in the outline of the overture, enters the drama. It accompanies the appearance of Samiel (the Wild Huntsman, or Black Hunter,--in short, the Devil), and we have thus in Von Weber's opera a pre-Wagnerian example of the Leitmotif of the Wagnerian commentators. Caspar returns to the scene, which all the other personages have left to join in a dance, and finds his associate in the depths of despair. He plies Max with wine, and, affecting sympathy with him in his misfortunes, gradually insinuates that there is a means of insuring success on the morrow. Max remains sceptical until Caspar hands him his rifle and bids him shoot at an eagle flying overhead. The bird is plainly out of rifle range, a mere black dot against the twilight sky; but Max, scarcely aiming, touches the trigger and an eagle of gigantic size comes hurtling through the air and falls at his feet. Max is convinced that there is a sure way to win his bride on the morrow. He asks Caspar if he has more bullets like the one just spent. No; that was the hunter's last; but more might be obtained, provided the effort be made that very night. The moment was propitious. It was the second of three days in which the sun was in the constellation of the Archer; at midnight there would occur an eclipse of the moon. What a fortunate coincidence that all the omens should be fair at so momentous a juncture of Max's affairs! The fear of losing his bride overcomes Max's scruples; he agrees to meet the tempter in the Wolf's Glen, a spot of evil repute, at midnight, and at least witness the casting of more of the charmed bullets. At the moment when Max's shot brought down the eagle, a portrait of the original Cuno fell from the wall of the cottage occupied by his descendant; and when the second act begins, we see Aennchen, a cousin of Agathe's, putting it back in its place. Aennchen is inclined to be playful and roguish, and serves as a pretty foil to the sentimental Agathe. She playfully scolds the nail which she is hammering into the wall again for so rudely dropping the old ranger to the floor, and seeks to dispel the melancholy which has obsessed her cousin by singing songs about the bad companionship of the blues and the humors of courtship. She succeeds, in a measure, and Agathe confesses that she had felt a premonition of danger ever since a pious Hermit, to whom she had gone for counsel in the course of the day, had warned her of the imminency of a calamity which he could not describe. The prediction seemed to have been fulfilled in the falling of the picture, which had slightly hurt her, but might easily have killed her. Aennchen urges her to go to bed, but she refuses, saying she shall not retire for sleep until Max has come. Agathe sings the scena which has clung to our concert-rooms as persistently as the overture. The slow portion of the aria ("Leise, leise, fromme Weise"), like the horn music at the beginning of the overture, has found its way into the Protestant hymn-books of England and America, and its Allegro furnishes forth the jubilant music of the instrumental introduction to the opera. Berlioz in his book "A Travers Chants" writes in a fine burst of enthusiasm of this scena: "It is impossible for any listener to fail to hear the sighs of the orchestra during the prayer of the virtuous maiden who awaits the coming of her affianced lover; or the strange hum in which the alert ear imagines it hears the rustling of the tree-tops. It even seems as if the darkness grew deeper and colder at that magical modulation to C major. What a sympathetic shudder comes over one at the cry: ''Tis he! 'tis he!' No, no. It must be confessed, there is no other aria as beautiful as this. No master, whether German, Italian, or French, was ever able to delineate, as is done here in a single scene, holy prayer, melancholy, disquiet, pensiveness, the slumber of nature, the mysterious harmony of the starry skies, the torture of expectation, hope, uncertainty, joy, frenzy, delight, love delirious! And what an orchestra to accompany these noble song melodies! What inventiveness! What ingenious discoveries! What treasures of sudden inspiration! These flutes in the depths; this quartet of violins; these passages in sixths between violas and 'cellos; this crescendo bursting into refulgence at the close; these pauses during which the passions seem to be gathering themselves together in order to launch their forces anew with greater vehemence! No, this piece has not its fellow! Here is an art that is divine! This is poetry; this is love itself!" Max comes at last, but he is preoccupied, and his words and acts do little to reassure Agathe. She wants to know what luck he had at the shooting-match, and he replies that he did not participate in the target-shooting, but had nevertheless been marvellously lucky, pointing to the eagle's feather in his hat as proof. At the same moment he notices the blood upon his sweetheart's hair, and her explanation of the falling of the portrait of her ancestor just as the clock struck seven greatly disturbs him. Agathe, too, lapses into gloomy brooding; she has fears for the morrow, and the thought of the monstrous eagle terrifies her. And now Max, scarcely come, announces that he must go; he had shot, he says, a stag deep in the woods near the Wolf's Glen, indeed, and must bring it in lest the peasants steal it. In a trio Aennchen recalls the uncanny nature of the spot, Agathe warns against the sin of tempting Providence and begs him to stay; but Max protests his fearlessness and the call of duty, and hurries away to meet Caspar, at the appointed time in the appointed place. We see him again in the Wolf's Glen, but Caspar is there before him. The glen lies deep in the mountains. A cascade tumbles down the side of a mighty crag on the one hand; on the other sits a monstrous owl on the branch of a blasted tree, blinking evilly. A path leads steeply down to a great cave. The moon throws a lurid light on the scene and shows us Caspar in his shirt-sleeves preparing for his infernal work. He arranges black stones in a circle around a skull. His tools lie beside him: a ladle, bullet-mould, and eagle's-wing fan. The high voices of an invisible chorus utter the cry of the owl, which the orchestra mixes with gruesome sounds, while bass voices monotonously chant:-- Poisoned dew the moon hath shed, Spider's web is dyed with red; Ere to-morrow's sun hath died Death will wed another bride. Ere the moon her course has run Deeds of darkness will be done. {1} On the last stroke of a distant bell which rings midnight, Caspar thrusts his hunting-knife into the skull, raises it on high, turns around three times, and summons his familiar:-- By th' enchanter's skull, oh, hear, Samiel, Samiel, appear! The demon answers in person, and the reason of Caspar's temptation of Max is made plain. He has sold himself to the devil for the charmed bullets, the last of which had brought down the eagle, and the time for the delivery of his soul is to come on the morrow. He asks a respite on the promise to deliver another victim into the demon's hands,--his companion Max. What, asks the Black Huntsman, is the proffered victim's desire? The magical bullets. Sechse treffen, Sieben äffen! warns Samiel, and Caspar suggests that the seventh bullet be directed to the heart of the bride; her death would drive both lover and father to despair. But Samiel says that as yet he has no power over the maiden; he will claim his victim on the morrow, Max or him who is already his bondsman. Caspar prepares for the moulding. The skull disappears, and in its place rises a small furnace in which fagots are aglow. Ghostly birds, perched on the trees round about in the unhallowed spot, fan the fire with their wings. Max appears on a crag on one side of the glen and gazes down. The sights and sounds below affright him; but he summons up his courage and descends part way. Suddenly his steps are arrested by a vision of his dead mother, who appears on the opposite side of the gulch and raises her hand warningly. Caspar mutters a prayer for help to the fiend and bids Max look again. Now the figure is that of Agathe, who seems about to throw herself into the mountain torrent. The sight nerves him and he hurries down. The moon enters into an eclipse, and Caspar begins his infernal work after cautioning Max not to enter the circle nor utter a word, no matter what he sees or who comes to join them. Into the melting-pot Caspar now puts the ingredients of the charm: some lead, bits of broken glass from a church window, a bit of mercury, three bullets that have already hit their mark, the right eye of a lapwing, the left of a lynx; then speaks the conjuration formula:-- Thou who roamst at midnight hour, Samiel, Samiel, thy pow'r! Spirit dread, be near this night And complete the mystic rite. By the shade of murderer's dead, Do thou bless the charmed lead. Seven the number we revere; Samiel, Samiel, appear! The contents of the ladle commence to hiss and burn with a greenish flame; a cloud obscures the moon wholly, and the scene is lighted only by the fire under the melting-pot, the owl's eyes, and the phosphorescent glow of the decaying oaks. As he casts the bullets, Caspar calls out their number, which the echoes repeat. Strange phenomena accompany each moulding; night-birds come flying from the dark woods and gather around the fire; a black boar crashes through the bushes and rushes through the glen; a hurricane hurtles through the trees, breaking their tops and scattering the sparks from the furnace; four fiery wheels roll by; the Wild Hunt dashes through the air; thunder, lightning, and hail fill the air, flames dart from the earth, and meteors fall from the sky; at the last the Black Hunter himself appears and grasps at Max's hand; the forester crosses himself and falls to the earth, where Caspar already lies stretched out unconscious. Samiel disappears, and the tempest abates. Max raises himself convulsively and finds his companion still lying on the ground face downward. At the beginning of the third act the wedding day has dawned. It finds Agathe kneeling in prayer robed for the wedding. She sings a cavatina ("Und ob die Wolken sie verhülle") which proclaims her trust in Providence. Aennchen twits her for having wept; but "bride's tears and morning rain--neither does for long remain." Agathe has been tortured by a dream, and Aennehen volunteers to interpret it. The bride had dreamt that she had been transformed into a white dove and was flying from tree to tree when Max discharged his gun at her. She fell stricken, but immediately afterward was her own proper self again and saw a monstrous black bird of prey wallowing in its blood. Aennchen explains all as reflexes of the incidents of the previous night--the work on the white bridal dress, the terrible black feather on Max's hat; and merrily tells a ghostly tale of a nocturnal visitor to her sainted aunt which turned out to be the watch-dog. Enter the bridesmaids with their song:-- [Musical excerpt--"Wir winden dir den Jungfernkranz mit veilchenblauer Seide"] Nearly three generations of Germans have sung this song; it has accompanied them literally from the cradle to the grave. When Ludwig Geyer, Richard Wagner's stepfather, lay dying, the lad, then seven years old, was told to play the little piece in a room adjoining the sick chamber. The dying man had been concerned about the future of his stepson. He listened. "What if he should have talent for music?" Long years after the mother told this story, and the son, when he became famous as a composer, repeated it in one of his autobiographical writings, and told with what awe his childish eyes had looked on the composer as he passed by the door on the way to and from the theatre. Evil omens pursue Agathe even on her bridal morn. The bridesmaids are still singing to her when Aennchen brings a box which she thinks contains the bridal wreath. All fall back in dismay when out comes a funeral wreath of black. Even Aennchen's high spirits are checked for a moment; but she finds an explanation. Old Cuno has tumbled from the wall a second time; but she herself assumes the blame: the nail was rusty and she not an adept with the hammer. The action now hastens to its close. Prince Ottokar, with his retainers, is present at the festival at which Max is to justify Cuno's choice of him as a son-in-law. The choice meets with the Prince's approval. The moment approaches for the trial shot, and Max stands looking at the last of his charmed bullets, which seems to weigh with ominous heaviness in his hand. He had taken four of the seven and Caspar three. Of the four he had spent three in unnecessary shots; but he hopes that Caspar has kept his. Of course Caspar has done nothing of the kind. It is suggested that Max shoot at once, not awaiting the arrival of his betrothed, lest the sight of her make him nervous. The Prince points to a white dove as the mark, and Max lifts his gun. At the moment Agathe rushes forward, crying, "Do not shoot; I am the dove!" The bird flies toward a tree which Caspar, impatient for the coming of his purposed victim, had climbed. Max follows it with his gun and pulls the trigger. Agathe and Caspar both fall to the ground. The holy man of the woods raises Agathe, who is unhurt; but Caspar dies with curses for everything upon his lips. The devil has cared for his own and claimed his forfeit. Ottokar orders his corpse thrown amongst the carrion in the Wolf's Glen and turns to Max for an explanation. He confesses his wrong and is ordered out of the Prince's dominion; but on the intercession of Cuno, Agathe, and the Hermit the sentence is commuted to a year of probation, at the end of which time he shall marry his love. But the traditional trial shot is abolished. * * * Though there are a dozen different points of view from which Weber's opera "Der Freischütz" is of fascinating interest, it is almost impossible for any one except a German to understand fully what the opera means now to the people from whose loins the composer sprung, and quite impossible to realize what it meant to them at the time of its production. "Der Freischütz" is spoken of in all the handbooks as a "national" opera. There are others to which the term might correctly and appropriately be applied--German, French, Italian, Bohemian, Hungarian, Russian; but there never was an opera, and there is no likelihood that there ever will be one, so intimately bound up with the loves, feelings, sentiments, emotions, superstitions, social customs, and racial characteristics of a people as this is with the loves, feelings, sentiments, emotions, superstitions, social customs, and racial characteristics of the Germans. In all its elements as well as in its history it is inextricably intertwined with the fibres of German nationality. It could not have been written at another time than it was; it could not have been written by any other composer living at that time; it could not have been conceived by any artist not saturated with Germanism. It is possible to argue one's self into a belief of these things, but only the German can feel them. Yet there is no investigator of comparative mythology and religion who ought not to go to the story of the opera to find an illustration of one of the pervasive laws of his science; there is no folklorist who ought not to be drawn to its subject; no student of politics and sociology who cannot find valuable teachings in its history; no critic who can afford to ignore its significance in connection with the evolution of musical styles and schools; no biographer who can fail to observe the kinship which the opera establishes between the first operatic romanticist and him who brought the romantic movement to its culmination; that is, between Carl Maria von Weber and Richard Wagner. It is even a fair subject for the study of the scientific psychologist, for, though the story of the opera is generally supposed to be a fanciful structure reared on a legendary foundation, it was a veritable happening which gave it currency a century ago and brought it to the notice of the composer; and this happening may have an explanation in some of the psychical phenomena to which modern science is again directing attention, such as hypnotism, animal magnetism, and the like. I am here not at all fanciful. Some thirty years ago I came across a pamphlet published by Dr. J. G. Th. Grässe, a Saxon Court Councillor, in which he traced the origin of the story at the base of "Der Freischütz" to a confession made in open court in a Bohemian town in 1710. Grässe found the story in a book entitled "Monathliche Unterredungen aus dem Reich der Geister," published in Leipsic in 1730, the author of which stated that he had drawn the following statement of facts from judicial records: In 1710 in a town in Bohemia, George Schmid, a clerk, eighteen years old, who was a passionate lover of target-shooting, was persuaded by a hunter to join in an enterprise for moulding charmed bullets on July 30, the same being St. Abdon's Day. The hunter promised to aid the young man in casting sixty-three bullets, of which sixty were to hit infallibly and three to miss just as certainly. The two men provided themselves with coals, moulds, etc., and betook themselves at nightfall to a cross-roads. There the hunter drew a circle with his knife and placed mysterious characters, the meaning of which his companion did not know, around the edge. This done, he told the clerk to step within the ring, take off his clothing, and make denial of God and the Holy Trinity. The bullets, said the hunter, must all be cast between eleven o'clock and midnight, or the clerk would fall into the clutches of the devil. At eleven o'clock the dead coals began to glow of their own accord, and the two men began the moulding, although all manner of ghostly apparitions tried to hinder them. At last there came a horseman in black, who demanded the bullets which had been cast. The hunter refused to yield them up, and in revenge the horseman threw something into the fire which sent out so noisome an odor that the two venturesome men fell half dead within the circle. The hunter escaped, and, as it turned out subsequently, betook himself to the Salzkammergut, near Salzburg; but the clerk was found lying at the crossroads and carried into town. There he made a complete confession in court, and because he had had intercourse with the Evil One, doubtless, was condemned to be burned to death. In consideration of his youth, however, the sentence was commuted to imprisonment at hard labor for six years. In the legend of the Wild Huntsman, who under the name of Samiel purchases the souls of men with his magic bullets, the folklorist and student of the evolution of religions sees one of many evidences of ancient mythology perverted to bring it into the service of Christianity. Originally the Wild Huntsman was Odin (or Wotan). The missionaries to the Germans, finding it difficult to root out belief in the ancient deities, gave their attributes to saints in a few cases, but for the greater part transformed them into creatures of evil. It was thus that Frau Holle (or Holda) became a wicked Venus, as we shall see in the next chapter. The little spotted beetle which English and American children call ladybug or lady-bird (that is, the bug or bird of our Lady), the Germans Marienkäferchen, and the French La bête du bon Dieu, was sacred to Holda; and though the name of the Virgin Mary was bestowed upon it in the long ago, it still remains a love oracle, as the little ones know who bid it-- Fly to the East, And fly to the West, And fly to the one that I love best! It was the noise of Wotan's hunting train which the ancient Germans heard when the storms of winter howled and whistled through the deep woods of the Northland; but in time it came to be the noise of the Wild Hunt. In Thuringia the rout headed by Frau Holda and the Wild Huntsman issues in the Yuletide from the cave in the Horselberg, which is the scene of Tannhäuser's adventure with Venus in Wagner's opera, and Holda is the mother of many of the uncanny creatures which strike terror to the souls of the unlucky huntsmen who chance to espy them. From the story drawn from the records of the Bohemian law court, it is plain that to make a compact with the Wild Huntsman was a much more gruesome and ceremonious proceeding than that which took place between Faust and the Evil One in the operas of Gounod and Boito. In both these instances a scratch of the pen sufficed, and the deliberations which preceded the agreement were conducted in a decorous and businesslike manner. But to invoke Samiel and obtain his gifts was a body, mind, and nerve-racking business. In some particulars the details differed a little from those testified to by the Bohemian clerk. In the first place, the Devil's customer had to repair to a crossroads of a Friday between midnight and one o'clock when the moon was in an eclipse and the sun in Sagittarius. If in such a place and at such a time he drew a circle around himself with his hunting-spear and called "Samiel!" three times, that worthy would appear, and a bargain might be driven with him for his wares, which consisted of seven magical bullets ("free bullets," they were called), which were then cast under the eye of the Evil One and received his "blessing." The course of six of them rested with the "free shooter," but the seventh belonged to Samiel, who might direct it wheresoever he wished. The price of these bullets was the soul of the man who moulded them, at the end of three years; but it was the privilege of the bondsman to purchase a respite before the expiration of the period by delivering another soul into the clutches of the demon. Weber used all these details in his opera, and added to them the fantastic terrors of the Wild Hunt and the Wolf's Glen. Of this favored abode of the Evil One, Wagner gave a vivid description in an essay on "Der Freischütz" which he wrote for the Gazette musicale in May, 1841, when the opera was preparing, under the hand of Berlioz, for representation at the Grand Opéra in Paris. Wagner's purpose in writing the essay was to acquaint the Parisians with the contents and spirit of the piece, make them understand its naïve Teutonism, and also to save it from the maltreatment and mutilation which he knew it would have to suffer if it were to be made to conform to the conventions of the Académie. He wanted to preserve the spoken dialogue and keep out the regulation ballet, for the sake of which he had to make changes in his "Tannhäuser" twenty years later. He failed in both efforts, and afterward wrote an account of the performance for a German newspaper, which is one of the best specimens of the feuilleton style which his sojourn in Paris provoked. There was no need of telling his countrymen what the Wolf's Glen was, for it had been the most familiar of all scenes in the lyric theatres of Germany for a score of years, but for the Parisians he pictured the place in which Weber's hero meets Samiel very graphically indeed:-- "In the heart of the Bohemian Forest, old as the world, lies the Wolf's Glen. Its legend lingered till the Thirty Years' War, which destroyed the last traces of German grandeur; but now, like many another boding memory, it has died out from the folk. Even at that time most men only knew the gulch by hearsay. They would relate how some gamekeeper, straying on indeterminable paths through wild, untrodden thickets, scarce knowing how, had come to the brink of the Wolf's Gulch. Returning, he had told of gruesome sights he had there seen, at which the hearer crossed himself and prayed the saints to shield him from ever wandering to that region. Even on his approach the keeper had heard an eerie sound; though the wind was still, a muffled moaning filled the branches of the ancient pines, which bowed their dark heads to and fro unbidden. Arrived at the verge, he had looked down into an abyss whose depths his eye could never plumb. Jagged reefs of rock stood high in shape of human limbs and terribly distorted faces. Beside them heaps of pitch-black stones in form of giant toads and lizards; they moved and crept and rolled in heavy ragged masses; but under them the ground could no more be distinguished. From thence foul vapors rose incessantly and spread a pestilential stench around. Here and there they would divide and range themselves in ranks that took the form of human beings with faces all convulsed. Upon a rotting tree-trunk in the midst of all these horrors sat an enormous owl, torpid in its daytime roost; behind it a frowning cavern, guarded by two monsters direly blent of snake and toad and lizard. These, with all the other seeming life the chasm harbored, lay in deathlike slumber, and any movement visible was that of one plunged in deep dreams; so that the forester had dismal fears of what this odious crew might wake into at midnight. "But still more horrible than what he saw, was what he heard. A storm that stirred nothing, and whose gusts he himself could not feel, howled over the glen, paused suddenly, as if listening to itself, and then broke out again with added fury. Atrocious cries thronged from the pit; then a flock of countless birds of prey ascended from its bowels, spread like a pitch-black pall across the gulf, and fell back again into night. The screeches sounded to the huntsman like the groans of souls condemned, and tore his heart with anguish never felt before. Never had he heard such cries, compared to which the croak of ravens was as the song of nightingales. And now again deep silence; all motion ceased; only in the depths there seemed a sluggish writhing, and the owl flapped its wings as though in a dream. The most undaunted huntsman, the best acquainted with the wood's nocturnal terrors, fled like a timid roe in speechless agony, and, heedless where his footsteps bore him, ran breathless to the nearest hut, the nearest cabin, to meet some human soul to whom to tell his horrible adventure, yet ne'er could find words in which to frame it." {2} So much for the folklore and mythology of "Der Freischütz," the element which makes it not only a national but also the chiefest of romantic operas. We are grown careless in our use of musical terms, or else it would not be necessary to devote words to an explanation of what is meant by romantic in this case. We hear a great deal about romanticism as contradistinguished from classicism, but it is seldom that we have the line of demarcation between the two tendencies or schools drawn for us. Classical composers, I am inclined to think, are composers of the first rank who have developed music to its highest perfection on its formal side in obedience to long and widely accepted laws, preferring aesthetic beauty over emotional content, or, at any rate, refusing to sacrifice form to characteristic expression. Romantic composers would then be those who have sought their ideals in other directions and striven to give them expression irrespective of the restrictions and limitations of form--composers who, in short, prefer content to manner. In the sense of these definitions, Weber's opera is a classic work, for in it the old forms which Wagner's influence destroyed are preserved. Nevertheless, "Der Freischütz" is romantic in a very particular sense, and it is in this romanticism that its political significance to which I have referred lies. It is romantic in subject and the source of its inspiration. This source is the same to which the creators of the romantic school of literature went for its subjects--the fantastical stories of chivalry and knighthood, of which the principal elements were the marvellous and supernatural. The literary romanticists did a great deal to encourage patriotism among the Germans in the beginning of the nineteenth century by disclosing to the German people the wealth of their legendary lore and the beauty of their folk-songs. The circumstances which established the artistic kinship between Von Weber and Wagner, to which I have alluded, was a direct fruit of this patriotism. In 1813 Von Weber went to Prague to organize a German opera. A part of the following summer he spent in Berlin. Prussia was leading Europe in the effort to throw off the yoke of Bonaparte, and the youths of the Prussian capital, especially the students, were drunken with the wine of Körner's "Lyre and Sword." While returning to Prague Von Weber stopped for a while at the castle Gräfen-Tonna, where he composed some of Körner's poems, among them "Lützow's wilde Jagd" and the "Schwertlied." These songs were soon in everybody's mouth and acted like sparks flung into the powder-magazine of national feeling. Naturally they reacted upon the composer himself, and under their influence and the spirit which they did so much to foster Weber's Germanism developed from an emotion into a religion. He worked with redoubled zeal in behalf of German opera at Prague, and when he was called to be Court Music Director in Dresden in 1817, he entered upon his duties as if consecrated to a holy task. He had found the conditions more favorable to German opera in the Bohemian capital than in the Saxon. In Prague he had sloth and indifference to overcome; in Dresden the obstacles were hatred of Prussia, the tastes of a court and people long accustomed to Italian traditions, and the intrigues of his colleagues in the Italian opera and the church. What I wrote some eighteen years ago {3} of Weber's labors in Dresden may serve again to make plain how the militant Germanism of the composer achieved its great triumph. The Italian régime was maintained in Dresden through the efforts of the conductor of the Italian opera, Morlacchi; the concert master, Poledro; the church composer, Schubert, and Count von Einsiedel, Cabinet Minister. The efforts of these men placed innumerable obstacles in Weber's path, and their influence heaped humiliations upon him. Confidence alone in the ultimate success of his efforts to regenerate the lyric drama sustained him in his trials. Against the merely sensuous charm of suave melody and lovely singing he opposed truthfulness of feeling and conscientious endeavor for the attainment of a perfect ensemble. Here his powers of organization, trained by his experiences in Prague, his perfect knowledge of the stage, imbibed with his mother's milk, and his unquenchable zeal, gave him amazing puissance. Thoroughness was his watchword. He put aside the old custom of conducting while seated at the pianoforte, and appeared before his players with a bâton. He was an inspiration, not a figurehead. His mind and his emotions dominated theirs, and were published in the performance. He raised the standard of the chorus, stimulated the actors, inspected the stage furnishings and costumes, and stamped harmony of feeling, harmony of understanding, and harmony of effort upon the first work undertaken--a performance of Méhul's "Joseph in Egypt." Nor did he confine his educational efforts to the people of the theatre. He continued in Dresden the plan first put into practice by him in Prague of printing articles about new operas in the newspapers to stimulate public appreciation of their characteristics and beauties. For a while the work of organization checked his creative energies, but when his duties touching new music for court or church functions gave him the opportunity, he wrote with undiminished energy. In 1810 Apel's "Gespensterbuch" had fallen into his hands and he had marked the story of "Der Freischütz" for treatment. His mind reverted to it again in the spring of 1817. Friedrich Kind agreed to write the book, and placed it complete in his hands on March 1, nine days after he had undertaken the commission. Weber's enthusiasm was great, but circumstances prevented him from devoting much time to the composition of the opera. He wrote the first of its music in July, 1817, but did not complete it till May 13, 1820. It was in his mind during all this period, however, and would doubtless have been finished much earlier had he received an order to write an opera from the Saxon court. In this expectation he was disappointed, and the honor of having encouraged the production of the most national opera ever written went to Berlin, where the patriotism which had been warmed by Weber's setting of Körner's songs was still ablaze, and where Count Brühl's plans were discussing to bring him to the Prussian capital as Capellmeister. The opera was given on June 18, 1821, under circumstances that produced intense excitement in the minds of Weber's friends. The sympathies of the musical areopagus of Berlin were not with Weber or his work--neither before nor after the first performance; but Weber spoke to the popular heart, and its quick, responsive throb lifted him at once to the crest of the wave which soon deluged all Germany. The overture had to be repeated to still the applause that followed its first performance, and when the curtain fell on the last scene, a new chapter in German art had been opened. {4} Footnotes: {1} Natalia Macfarren's translation. {2} "Richard Wagner's Prose Works," translated by William Ashton Ellis, Vol. VII, p. 169. {3} "Famous Composers and their Works," Vol. I, p. 396. {4} As I write it is nearly eighty-five years since "Der Freischütz" was first heard in New York. The place was the Park Theatre and the date March 2, 1825. The opera was only four years old at the time, and, in conformity with the custom of the period, the representation, which was in English, no doubt was a very different affair from that to which the public has become accustomed since. But it is interesting to know that there is at least one opera in the Metropolitan list which antedates the first Italian performance ever given in America. Even at that early day the scene in the Wolf's Glen created a sensation. The world over "Der Freischütz" is looked upon as peculiarly the property of the Germans, but a German performance of it was not heard in New York till 1856, when the opera was brought out under the direction of Carl Bergmann, at the old Broadway Theatre. CHAPTER XII "TANNHAUSER" Nothing could have demonstrated more perfectly the righteousness of Wagner's claim to the title of poet than his acceptance of the Greek theory that a people's legends and myths are the fittest subjects for dramatic treatment, unless it be the manner in which he has reshaped his material in order to infuse it with that deep ethical principle to which reference has several times been made. In "The Flying Dutchman," "The Nibelung's Ring," and "Tannhäuser" the idea is practically his creation. In the last of these dramas it is evolved out of the simple episode in the parent-legend of the death of Lisaura, whose heart broke when her knight went to kiss the Queen of Love and Beauty. The dissolute knight of the old story Wagner in turn metamorphoses into a type of manhood "in its passionate desires and ideal aspirations"--the Faust of Goethe. All the magnificent energy of our ideal man is brought forward in the poet's conception, but it is an energy which is shattered in its fluctuation between sensual delights and ideal aspirations, respectively typified in the Venus and Elizabeth of the play. Here is the contradiction against which he was shattered as the heroes of Greek tragedy were shattered on the rock of implacable Fate. But the transcendent beauty of the modern drama is lent by the ethical idea of salvation through the love of pure woman--a salvation touching which no one can be in doubt when Tannhäuser sinks lifeless beside the bier of the atoning saint, and Venus's cries of woe are swallowed up by the pious canticle of the returning pilgrims. {1} It will be necessary in the expositions of the lyric dramas of Wagner, which I shall attempt in these chapters, to choose only such material as will serve directly to help to an understanding of them as they move by the senses in the theatre, leaving the reader to consult the commentaries, which are plentiful, for deeper study of the composer's methods and philosophical purposes. Such study is not to be despised; but, unless it be wisely conducted, it is likely to be a hindrance rather than a help to enjoyment. It is a too common error of musical amateurs to devote their attention to the forms and names of the phrases out of which Wagner constructs his musical fabric, especially that of his later dramas. This tendency has been humored, even in the case of the earlier operas, by pedants, who have given names to the themes which the composer used, though he had not yet begun to apply the system of symbolization which marks his works beginning with "Tristan und Isolde." It has been done with "Tannhäuser," though it is, to all intents and purposes, an opera of the conventional type, and not what is called a "music-drama." The reminiscent use of themes is much older than Wagner. It is well to familiarize one's self with the characteristic elements of a score, but, as I have urged in the book quoted above, if we confine our study of Wagner to the forms of the musical motives and the names which have arbitrarily been given to them, we shall at the last have enriched our minds with a thematic catalogue, and nothing else. It is better to know nothing about these names, and content ourselves with simple, sensuous enjoyment, than to spend our time at the theatre answering the baldest of all the riddles of Wagner's orchestra: "What am I playing now?" In the studies of Wagner's works I shall point to some of the most significant phrases in the music in connection with significant occurrences in the play, but I shall seldom, if ever, analyze the motival construction in the style of the Wolzogen handbooks. * * * There are texts in the prefatory excerpt for a discussion of "Tannhäuser" from all the points of view which might make such a discussion interesting and profitable. There is no doubt in my mind that it is the poet-composer's noblest tragedy and, from a literary point of view, his most artistic. It is laid out on such a broad, simple, and symmetrical plan that its dramatic contents can be set forth in a few paragraphs, and we can easily forego a detailed description of its scenes. A knightly minstrel, who has taken part in one of the tournaments of song which tradition says used to be held at the court of the Landgrave of Thuringia in the early part of the thirteenth century, has, by his song and bearing, won the heart of Elizabeth, niece of the Landgrave. Unmindful of his great good fortune, he has found his way to the court held by the Goddess of Love within the hollow of the Hörselberg, which lies across the valley and over against the Wartburg. Dame Venus herself becomes enamoured of the knight, who calls himself Tannhäuser, and for a year and a day he remains at her side and in her arms. At length, mind and senses surfeited, a longing seizes him for the world which he has abandoned, for the refreshing sights and sounds of earth, and even for its pains. Dame Venus seeks to detain him, but he is resolute to leave her and her realm. Like a true knight, however, he promises to sing her praises wherever he may go; but when she offers to welcome him again if he should weary and sicken of the world and seek redemption from its hypocrisies, he replies that for him redemption rests only in the Virgin Mary. The invocation breaks the bonds of enchantment which have held him. The scenes of allurement which have so long surrounded him melt away, and he finds himself in an attitude of prayer in a blooming valley below the Wartburg. It is spring, and a shepherd lad, seated on a rock, trolls a lay to spring's goddess. A troop of pilgrims passing by on their way to Rome suggest by their canticle the need of absolution from the burden of sin which rests upon him, but before he can join them, the Landgrave and a hunting party come upon him. He is recognized by his erstwhile companions in song, and consents to return to the castle on being told by one of the minstrels, Wolfram von Esehenbach, that his song had vanquished not only them, but the heart of the saintly Elizabeth as well. In the Wartburg Tannhäuser meets the maiden whose heart he has won just after she has apostrophized the walls which had echoed his voice; and from him she learns the meaning of the strange emotion which fills her in his presence. Again minstrels gather before a company of great nobles for a contest in the Hall of Song. Love is to be the theme, and the hand of Elizabeth the reward of the victor. Spiritual love is hymned by Tannhäuser's companions. Wolfram von Eschenbach likens it to a pure fountain from which only high and sacred feelings can flow. Tannhäuser questions the right of those who have not experienced the passion as he has felt it to define the nature of love. Goaded by the taunts and threats of rude Biterolf, he bursts forth in a praise of Venus. The assembly is in commotion. Swords are drawn. Sacrilege must be punished. Death confronts the impiously daring minstrel. But Elizabeth, whose heart has been mortally pierced by his words, interposes to save him. She has been stricken, but what is that to his danger of everlasting damnation? Would they rob his soul of its eternal welfare? The knight, indifferent to a score of swords, is crushed by such unselfish devotion, and humbly accepts the Landgrave's clemency, which spares his life that he may join a younger band of pilgrims and seek absolution at Rome. He goes to the Holy City, mortifying his flesh at every step, and humbles himself in self-abasement and accusation before the Pope; but only to hear from the hard lips of the Keeper of the Keys that for such sin as his there is as little hope of deliverance as for the rebudding of the papal staff. The elder pilgrims return in the fall of the year, and Elizabeth eagerly seeks among them for the face of the knight whose soul and body she had tried to save. He is not among them. Gently she puts aside the proffered help of Wolfram, whose unselfish love is ever with her, climbs the hill to the castle, and dies. Famished and footsore, Tannhäuser staggers after the band of pilgrims who have returned to their homes with sins forgiven. His greeting of Wolfram is harsh, but the good minstrel's sympathy constrains him to tell the story of his vain pilgrimage. Salvation forfeited, naught is left for him but to seek surcease of suffering in the arms of Venus. Again he sees her grotto streaming with roseate light and hears her alluring voice. He rushes forward toward the scene of enchantment, but Wolfram utters again the name of her who is now pleading for him before the judgment seat, of God Himself; and he reels back. A funeral cortège descends from the castle. With an agonized cry: "Holy Elizabeth, pray for me!" Tannhäuser sinks lifeless beside the bier just as the band of younger pilgrims comes from Rome bearing the crozier of the Pope clothed in fresh verdure. They hymn the miracle of redemption. * * * Wagner has himself told us what fancies he is willing shall flit through the minds of listeners to the overture to his opera. It was performed at a concert under his direction while he was a political refugee at Zurich, and for the programme of the concert he wrote a synopsis of its musical and poetical contents which I shall give here in the translation made by William Ashton Ellis, but with the beginnings of the themes which are referred to reproduced in musical notes:-- To begin with, the orchestra leads before us the pilgrims' chant alone:-- [Musical excerpt] it draws near, then swells into a mighty outpour and passes, finally, away. Evenfall; last echo of the chant. As night breaks, magic sights and sounds appear, the whirlings of a fearsomely voluptuous dance are seen:-- [Musical excerpt] These are the Venusberg's seductive spells that show themselves at dead of night to those whose breasts are fired by daring of the senses. Attracted by the tempting show, a shapely human form draws nigh; 'tis Tannhäuser, love's minstrel. He sounds his jubilant song of love [Musical excerpt] in joyous challenge, as though to force the wanton witchery to do his bidding. Wild cries of riot answer him; the rosy cloud grows denser round him; entrancing perfumes hem him in and steal away his senses. In the most seductive of half-lights his wonder-seeing eye beholds a female form indicible; he hears a voice that sweetly murmurs out the siren call, which promises contentment of the darer's wildest wishes:-- [Musical excerpt] Venus herself it is, this woman who appears to him. Then the heart and senses burn within him; a fierce, devouring passion fires the blood in all his veins; with irresistible constraint it thrusts him nearer; before the goddess's self he steps with that canticle of love triumphant, and now he sings it in ecstatic praise of her. As though at wizard spell of his, the wonders of the Venusberg unroll their brightest fill before him; tumultuous shouts and savage cries of joy mount up on every hand; in drunken glee bacchantes drive their raging dance and drag Tanhäuser to the warm caresses of love's goddess, who throws her glowing arms around the mortal, drowned with bliss, and bears him where no step dare tread, to the realm of Being-no-more. A scurry, like the sound of the wild hunt, and speedily the storm is laid. Merely a wanton whir still pulses in the breeze, a wave of weird voluptuousness, like the sensuous breath of unblest love, still soughs above the spot where impious charms had shed their raptures and over which the night now broods once more. But dawn begins to break; already from afar is heard again the pilgrims' chant. As this chant draws closer and closer, as the day drives farther back the night, that whir and soughing of the air--which had erewhile sounded like the eerie cry of souls condemned--now rises to ever gladder waves, so that when the sun ascends at last in splendor and the pilgrims' chant proclaims in ecstasy to all the world, to all that live and move thereon, salvation won, this wave itself swells out the tidings of sublimest joy. 'Tis the carol of the Venusberg itself redeemed from curse of impiousness, this cry we hear amid the hymn of God. So wells and leaps each pulse of life in chorus of redemption, and both dissevered elements, both soul and senses, God and nature, unite in the atoning kiss of hallowed love. This description of the poetical contents of the overture to "Tannhäuser" applies to the ordinary form of the introduction to the opera which was used (and still is in many cases) until Wagner revised the opera for performance in Paris in 1861. The traditions of French opera called for a ballet in the third act. Wagner was willing to yield to the desire for a ballet, but he could not place it where the habits of the opera-going public demanded it. Instead, he remodelled the overture and, sacrificing the coda which brought back a return of the canticle of the pilgrims, he lengthened the middle portion to fit an extended choreographic scene, and with it led into the opera without a break. The neglect to provide a ballet in the usual place led to a tremendous disturbance in which the Jockey Club took the lead. Wagner's purpose in the extended portion of the overture now called the "Bacchanale" may be read in his stage-directions for the scene. The scene represents the interior of the Venusberg (Hörselberg), in the neighborhood of Eisenach. A large cave seems to extend to an invisible distance at a turn to the right. From a cleft through which the pale light of day penetrates, a green waterfall tumbles foaming over rocks the entire length of the cave. From the basin which receives the water, a brook flows toward the background, where it spreads out into a lake, in which naiads are seen bathing and on the banks of which sirens are reclining. On both sides of the grotto are rocky projections of irregular form, overgrown with singular, coral-like trophical plants. Before an opening extending upward on the left, from which a rosy twilight enters, Venus lies upon a rich couch; before her, his head upon her lap, his harp by his side, half kneeling, reclines Tannhäuser. Surrounding the couch in fascinating embrace are the Three Graces; beside and behind the couch innumerable sleeping amorettes, in attitudes of wild disorder, like children who had fallen asleep wearied with the exertions of a struggle. The entire foreground is illumined by a magical, ruddy light shining upward from below, through which the emerald green of the waterfall, with its white foam, penetrates. The distant background, with the shores of the lake, seems transfigured by a sort of moonlight. When the curtain rises, youths, reclining on the rocky projections, answering the beckonings of the nymphs, hurry down to them; beside the basin of the waterfall the nymphs have begun the dance designed to lure the youths to them. They pair off; flight and chase enliven the dance. From the distant background a procession of bacchantes approach, rushing through the rows of the loving couples and stimulating them to wilder pleasures. With gestures of enthusiastic intoxication they tempt the lovers to growing recklessness. Satyrs and fauns have appeared from the cleft of the rocks and, dancing the while, force their way between the bacchantes and lovers, increasing the disorder by chasing the nymphs. The tumult reaches its height, whereupon the Graces rise in horror and seek to put a stop to the wild conduct of the dancing rout and drive the mad roisterers from the scene. Fearful that they themselves might be drawn into the whirlpool, they turn to the sleeping amorettes and drive them aloft. They flutter about, then gather into ranks on high, filling the upper spaces of the cave, whence they send down a hail of arrows upon the wild revellers. These, wounded by the arrows, filled with a mighty love-longing, cease their dance and sink down exhausted. The Graces capture the wounded and seek, while separating the intoxicated ones into pairs, to scatter them in the background. Then, still pursued by the flying amorettes, the bacchantes, fauns, satyrs, nymphs, and youths depart in various directions. A rosy mist, growing more and more dense, sinks down, hiding first the amorettes and then the entire background, so that finally only Venus, Tannhäuser, and the Graces remain visible. The Graces now turn their faces to the foreground; gracefully intertwined, they approach Venus, seemingly informing her of the victory they have won over the mad passions of her subjects. The dense mist in the background is dissipated, and a tableau, a cloud picture, shows the rape of Europa, who, sitting on the back of a bull decorated with flowers and led by tritons and nereids, sails across the blue lake. Song of the Sirens:-- [Musical excerpt] The rosy mist shuts down, the picture disappears, and the Graces suggest by an ingratiating dance the secret significance that it was an achievement of love. Again the mists move about. In the pale moonlight Leda is discovered reclining by the side of the forest lake; the swan swims toward her and caressingly lays his head upon her breast. Gradually this picture also disappears and, the mist blown away, discloses the grotto deserted and silent. The Graces courtesy mischievously to Venus and slowly leave the grotto of love. Deepest silence. (The duet between Venus and Tannhäuser begins.) The work which Wagner accomplished in behalf of the legend of Tannhäuser is fairly comparable with the tales which have been woven around the figure of King Arthur. The stories of the Knights of the Round Table are in the mouths of all English-speaking peoples because of the "Idylls of the King"; the legend of Tannhäuser was saved from becoming the exclusive property of German literary students by Wagner's opera. Like many folk-tales, the story touches historical circumstance in part, and for the rest reaches far into the shadowy realm of legendary lore. The historical element is compassed by the fact that the principal human characters involved in it once had existence. There was a Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia whose court was held in the Wartburg--that noble castle which in a later century gave shelter to Martin Luther while he endowed the German people with a reformed religion, their version of the Bible and a literary language. The minstrel knights, which in the opera meet in a contest of song, also belong to history. Wolfram von Eschenbach wrote the version of the Quest of the Holy Grail which inspired Wagner's "Parsifal" and which is morally the most exalted epical form which that legend ever received. His companions also existed. Tannhäuser is not an invention, though it is to Wagner alone that we owe his association with the famous contest of minstrelsy which is the middle picture in Wagner's drama. Of the veritable Tannhäuser, we know extremely little. He was a knight and minstrel at the court of Duke Frederick II of Austria in the first decades of the thirteenth century, who, it is said, led a dissolute life, squandered his fortune, and wrecked his health, but did timely penance at the end and failed not of the consolations of Holy Church. After he had lost his estate near Vienna he found protection with Otto II of Bavaria, who was Stadtholder of Austria from A.D. 1246 till his death in 1253. He sang the praises of Otto's son-in-law, Conrad IV, who was father of Conradin, the last heir of the Hohenstaufens. Tannhäuser was therefore a Ghibelline, as was plainly the folk-poet who made him the hero of the ballad which tells of his adventure with Venus. Tannhäuser's extant poems, when not in praise of princes, are gay in character, with the exception of a penitential hymn--a circumstance which may have had some weight with the ballad-makers. There is a picture labelled with his name in a famous collection of minnesongs called the Manessian Manuscript, which shows him with the Crusaders' cross upon his cloak. This may be looked upon as evidence that he took part in one of the crusades, probably that of A.D. 1228. There is no evidence that the contest of minstrelsy at the Wartburg ever took place. It seems to have been an invention of mediaeval poets. The Manessian Manuscript is embellished with a picture of the principal personages connected with the story. They are Landgrave Hermann, the Landgravine Sophia, Wolfram von Eschenbach, Reinmar der Alte, Heinrich von Rispach, Biterolf, Heinrich von Ofterdingen, and Klingesor. The subject discussed by the minstrels was scholastic, and Ofterdingen, to save his life, sought help of Klingesor, who was a magician and the reputed nephew of Virgilius of Naples; and the Landgravine threw her cloak around him when he was hardest pressed. This incident, its ethical significance marvellously enhanced, is the culmination of Wagner's second act. Instead of the historical Sophia, however, we have in the opera Hermann's niece, Elizabeth, a creation of the poet's, though modelled apparently after the sainted Elizabeth of Hungary, who, however, had scarcely opened her eyes upon the world in the Wartburg at the date ascribed to the contest, i.e. A.D. 1206. Wagner has given the rôle played by Heinrich von Ofterdingen (also Effterdingen) to Tannhäuser apparently on the strength of an essay which appeared about the time that he took up the study of the mediaeval legends of Germany, which identified the two men. Ofterdingen himself is now thought to be a creation of some poet's fancy; but the large part devoted to his adventure in the old poem which tells of the contest of minstrelsy led the mediaeval poets to attribute many great literary deeds to him, one of them nothing less than the authorship of the "Nibelungenlied." Wagner seems to have been under the impression that there was an old book of folk-tales (a so-called Volksbuch) devoted to the story of Tannhäuser and his adventure with Dame Venus. This is a mistake. The legend came down to modern times by way of popular ballads. One of these, which was printed by Uhland, consists largely of the dialogue between Tannhäuser and his enslaver, as does also the carnival play which Hans Sachs wrote on the subject. The writer of the ballad was so energetic an enemy of the Papal power that he condemns Urban IV to eternal torment because of his severe judgment of the penitent sinner:-- Do was er widrumb in den berg und het sein lieb erkoren, des muoss der vierde babst Urban auch ewig sein verloren. A ballad which was sung in one Swiss district as late as the third decade of the nineteenth century gives the story of the knight and his temptress in fuller detail, though it knows as little of the episode of Elizabeth's love as it does of the tournament of song. In this ballad Tannhäuser (or "Tanhuser") is a goodly knight who goes out into the forest to seek adventures, or "see wonders." He finds a party of maidens engaged in a bewildering dance, and tarries to enjoy the spectacle. Frau Frene, or, as we would write it now, Freya (the Norse Venus whose memory we perpetuate in our Friday), seeks to persuade him to remain with her, promising to give him her youngest daughter to wife. The knight remains, but will not mate with the maiden, for he has seen the devil lurking in her brown eyes and learned that once in her toils he will be lost forever. Lying under Frau Frene's fig tree, at length, he dreams that he must quit his sinful life. He tears himself loose from the enchantment and journeys to Rome, where he falls at the feet of the Pope and asks absolution. The Pope holds in his hand a staff so dry that it has split. "Your sins are as little likely to be forgiven as this staff is to green," is his harsh judgment. Tannhäuser kneels before the altar, extends his arms, and asks mercy of Christ; then leaves the church in despair and is lost to view. On the third day after this the Pope's staff is found to be covered with fresh leaves. He sends out messengers to find Tannhäuser, but he has returned to Frau Frene. Then comes the moral of the tale expressed with a naïve forcefulness to which a translation cannot do justice:-- Drum soil kein Pfaff, kein Kardinal, Kein Sünder nie verdammen; Der Sünder mag sein so gross er will, Kann Gottes Gnad erlangen. Two other sources supplied Wagner with material for as many effective scenes in his drama. From E. T. A. Hofmann's "Der Kampf der Sänger" he got the second scene of the first act, the hunt and the gathering in the valley below Wartburg; from Ludwig Tieck's "Der getreue Eckhart und der Tannhäuser" the narrative of the minstrel's pilgrimage to Rome. Students of comparative mythology and folklore will have no difficulty in seeing in the legend of Tannhäuser one of the many tales of the association during a period of enchantment of men and elves. Parallels between the theatre and apparatus of these tales extend back into remote antiquity. The grotto of Venus, in which Tannhäuser steeps himself with sensuality, is but a German variant of the Garden of Delight, in which the heroes of antiquity met their fair enslavers. It is Ogygia, the Delightful Island, where Ulysses met Calypso. It is that Avalon in which King Arthur was healed of his wounds by his fairy sister Morgain. The crozier which bursts into green in token of Tannhäuser's forgiveness has prototypes in the lances which, when planted in the ground by Charlemagne's warriors, were transformed overnight into a leafy forest; in the javelins of Polydore, of which Virgil tells us in the "AEneid"; in the staff of St. Christopher, which grew into a tree after he had carried the Christ Child across the river; in the staff which put on leaves in the hands of Joseph, wherefore the Virgin Mary gave him her hand in marriage; in the rod of Aaron, which, when laid up among others in the tabernacle, "brought forth buds and bloomed blossoms and yielded almonds." There are many parallels in classic story and folklore of the incident of Tannhäuser's sojourn with Venus. I mention but a few. There are the episodes of Ulysses and Calypso, Ulysses and Circe, Numa and Egeria, Rinaldo and Armida, Prince Ahmed and Peri Banou. Less familiar are the folk-tales which Mr. Baring-Gould has collected of Helgi's life with the troll Ingibjorg, a Norse story; of James Soideman of Serraade, "who was kept by the spirits in a mountain during the space of seven years, and at length came out, but lived afterwards in great distress and fear lest they should again take him away"; of the young Swede lured away by an elfin woman from the side of his bride into a mountain, where he abode with the siren forty years and thought it but an hour. There are many Caves of Venus in Europe, but none around which there clusters such a wealth of legend as around the grotto in the Hörselberg. Nineteen years ago the writer of this book visited the scene and explored the cave. He found it a decidedly commonplace hole in the ground, but was richly rewarded by the results of the literary explorations to which the visit led him. Before Christianity came to reconstruct the folk-tales of the Thuringian peasants, the Hörselberg was the home of Dame Holda, or Holle, and the horde of weird creatures which used to go tearing through the German forests on a wild rout in the Yuletide. Dame Holle, like many another character in Teutonic mythology, was a benignant creature, whose blessing brought forth fruitfulness to fields and vineyards, before the Christian priests metamorphosed her into a thing wholly of evil. She was the mother of all the fays and fairies that followed in the train of the Wild Huntsman, and though she appeared at times as a seductive siren and tempted men to their destruction, she appeared oftener as an old woman who rewarded acts of kindness with endless generosity. It was she who had in keeping the souls of unborn children, and babes who died before they could be christened were carried by her to the Jordan and baptized in its waters. Even after priestly sermons had transformed her into a beauteous she-devil, she still kept up her residence in the cave, which now, in turn, took on a new character. Venturesome persons who got near its mouth, either purposely or by accident, told of strange noises which issued from it, like the rushing of many waters or the voice of a subterranean storm. The priests supplied explanation and etymology to fit the new state of things. The noise was the lamentation of souls in the fires of purgatory, to which place of torment the cave was an opening. This was said to account for the old German name of the mountain--"Hör-Seel-Berg"--that is, "Hear-Souls-Mountain." To this Latin writers added another, viz. "Mons Horrisonus"--"the Mountain of Horrible Sounds." The forbidding appearance of the exterior--in which some fantastic writers avowed they saw a resemblance to a coffin--was no check on the fancy of the mediaeval storyteller, however, who pictured the interior of the mountain as a marvellous palace, and filled it with glittering jewels and treasures incalculable. The story of Tannhäuser's sojourn within this magical cavern is only one of many, nor do they all end like that of the minstrel knight. Undeterred by the awful tales told by monks and priests, poets and romancers sang the glories and the pleasures of the cave as well as its gruesome punishments. From them we know many things concerning the appearance of the interior, the cave's inhabitants, and their merrymakings. I cannot resist the temptation to retell one of these old tales. Adelbert, Knight of Thuringia, was one of those who experienced the delights of the Cave of Venus, yet, unlike Tannhäuser in the original legend, was saved at the last. He met Faithful Eckhart at the mouth of the cave, who warned him not to enter, but entrancing music sounded within and he was powerless to resist. He entered. Three maidens came forward to meet him. They were airily clad, flowers were twisted in their brown locks, and they waved branches before them as they smiled and beckoned and sang a song of spring's awakening. What could Sir Adelbert do but follow when they glanced coyly over their white shoulders and led the way through a narrow passage into a garden surrounded with rose-bushes in bloom, and filled with golden-haired maidens, lovelier than the flowers, who wandered about hand in hand and sang with sirens' voices? In the middle of the rose-hedged garden stood a red gate, which bore in bold letters this legend:-- HERE DAME VENUS HOLDS COURT The gate-keeper was the fairest of the maidens, and her fingers were busy weaving a garland of roses, but she stopped her work long enough to smile a welcome to Sir Adelbert. He thanked her gallantly and queried: Was the pretty sight a May Day celebration? Replied the winsome gate-keeper: "Here Dame' Venus holds court in honor of the noble knight Sir Tannhäuser"; and she opened the gate and Adelbert entered. Within he beheld a gay tent pitched in a grove of flowering shrubs, and out of it emerged a beauteous creature and advanced toward him. Her robe was rose color, adorned with strings of pearls and festooned with fragrant blossoms. A crown which glistened with gems rested lightly on her head. In her right hand--a dainty hand--she carried a tiny kerchief of filmy white stuff embroidered with gold, and in her left a lute. She sate herself down on a golden chair, bent her head over her left shoulder. A dreamy, tender light came into her eyes, and her rosy fingers sought the strings of her lute--strings of gold. Would she sing? Just then one of the maidens approached her, lisped musically into her ear, and pointed to the approaching knight. Almost imperceptibly, but oh, so graciously, the lips of the vision moved. As if in obedience to a command, the maiden approached, and said in rhythmical cadence: "Greetings, Sir Knight, from Dame Venus, who sends you message that all who love gaming and fair women are welcome at her court." She gave him her hand to escort him, and when the knight pressed her fingers in gratitude he felt a gentle pressure in return. The knight approached the dazzling queen of the palace and fell upon his knee; but she gave him her hand and she bade him arise, which he did after he had kissed her fingers. And she called to a maiden, who fetched a golden horn filled to the brim with wine and handed it to the knight. "Empty the goblet, like a true knight, to the health of all fair women who love and are beloved," said the queen. Sir Adelbert smiled obedience: "To love, fair lady," he said and drank the wine at a draught. And thus he became a captive and a slave. Long did he sojourn within the magic realm, in loving dalliance with Venus and her maidens, until one day a hermit entered the cave in the absence of the queen and bore him back to the outer world, where penance and deeds of piety restored him to moral health and saved him from the fate of Tannhäuser. Footnotes: {1} "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," by H. E. Krehbiel, pp. 35, 36. CHAPTER XIII "TRISTAN UND ISOLDE" A vassal is sent to woo a beauteous princess for his lord. While he is bringing her home the two, by accident, drink a love potion, and ever thereafter their hearts are fettered together. In the midday of delirious joy, in the midnight of deepest woe, their thoughts are only of each other, for each other. Meanwhile the princess has become the vassal's queen. Then the wicked love of the pair is discovered, and the knight is obliged to seek safety in a foreign land. There (strange note this to our ears) he marries another princess whose name is like that of his love, save for the addition With the White Hand; but when wounded unto death he sends across the water for her who is still his true love, that she come and be his healer. The ship which is sent to bring her is to bear white sails on its return if successful in the mission; black, if not. Day after day the knight waits for the coming of his love while the lamp of his life burns lower and lower. At length the sails of the ship appear on the distant horizon. The knight is now himself too weak to look. "White or black?" he asks of his wife. "Black," replies she, jealousy prompting the falsehood; and the knight's heart-strings snap in twain just as his love steps over the threshold of his chamber. Oh, the pity of it! for with the lady is her lord, who, having learned the story of the fateful potion, has come to unite the lovers. Then the queen, too, dies, and the remorseful king buries the lovers in a common grave, from whose caressing sod spring a rose-bush and a vine and intertwine so curiously that none may separate them. {1} Upon the ancient legend which has thus been outlined Wagner reared his great tragedy entitled "Tristan und Isolde." Whence the story came nobody can tell. It is a part of the great treasure preserved from remotest antiquity by itinerant singers and story-tellers, and committed to writing by poets of the Middle Ages. The first of these, so far as unquestioned evidence goes, were French trouvères. From them the tale passed into the hands of the German minnesinger. The greatest of these who treated it was Gottfried von Strasburg (circa A.D. 1210), who, however, left the tale unfinished. His continuators were Ulrich von Türnheim and Heinrich von Freiberg, whose denouement (not, however, original with them) was followed by Hermann Kurtz when he published a version of Gottfried's poem in modern German in 1844. This, unquestionably, was the version which fell into Wagner's hands when, in the Dresden period (1843-1849) he devoted himself assiduously to the study of Teutonic legend and mythology. In English the romance has an equally honorable literary record. In 1804 Sir Walter Scott edited a metrical version which he fondly believed to be the work of the somewhat mythical Thomas the Rhymer and to afford evidence that the oldest literary form of the legend was British. The adventures of Tristram of Lyonesse (who is the Tristan of Wagner's tragedy) form a large portion of Sir Thomas Malory's thrice glorious "Morte d'Arthur." Of modern poets Tennyson, Matthew Arnold, and Swinburne have sung the passion of the ill-starred lovers. Elements of the legend can be traced back to the ancient literatures of the Aryan peoples. The courtship by proxy has a prototype in Norse mythology in Skirnir's wooing of Gerd for Van Frey. The incident of the sails belongs to Greek story--the legend of AEgeus and Theseus; the magic potion may be found in ancient Persian romance; the interlocked rose-tree and vine over the grave of the lovers is an example of those floral auguries and testimonies which I have mentioned in connection with the legend of Tannhäuser and the blossoming staff: in token of their innocence flowers spring miraculously from the graves of persons wrongly done to death. A legend which lives to be retold often is like a mirror which reflects not only the original picture, but also the social and moral surroundings of different relators. So this ancient tale has been varied by the poets who have told it; and of these variants the most significant are those made by Wagner. If the ethical scheme of the poet-composer is to be observed, the chief of these must be kept in mind. In the poems of Gottfried, Arnold, and Swinburne the love potion is drunk accidentally and the passion which leads to the destruction of the lovers is a thing for which they are in nowise responsible. Wagner puts antecedent and conscious guilt at the door of both of his heroic characters; they love each other before the dreadful drinking and do not pay the deference to the passion which in the highest conception it demands. Tristan is carried away by love of power and glory before man and Isolde is at heart a murderer and suicide. The potion is less the creator of an uncontrollable passion than it is an agency which makes the lovers forget honor, duty, and respect for the laws of society. Tennyson omits all mention of the potion and permits us to imagine Tristram and Iseult as a couple of ordinary sinners. Swinburne and Arnold follow the old story touching the hero's life in Brittany with the second Iseult (she of the White Hand); but while Swinburne preserves her a "maiden wife," Arnold gives her a family of children. Wagner ennobles his hero by omitting the second Isolde, thus bringing the story into greater sympathy with modern ideas of love and exalting the passion of the lovers. The purpose to write a Tristan drama was in Wagner's mind three years before he began its execution. While living in Zurich, in 1854, he had advanced as far as the second act of his "Siegfried" when, in a moment of discouragement, he wrote to Liszt: "As I have never in my life enjoyed the true felicity of love, I shall erect to this most beautiful of my dreams" (i.e. the drama on which he was working) "a monument in which, from beginning to end, this love shall find fullest gratification. I have sketched in my head a 'Tristan und Isolde,' the simplest of musical conceptions, but full-blooded; with the 'black flag' which waves at the end I shall then cover myself--to die." Three years later he took up the project, but under an inspiration vastly different from that notified to Liszt. The tragedy was not to be a monument to a mere dream of felicity or to his artistic despair, but a tribute to a consuming passion for Mathilde Wesendonck, wife of a benefactor who had given him an idyllic home at Triebschen, on the shore of Lake Lucerne. Mme. Wesendonck was the author of the two poems "Im Treibhaus" and "Träume," which, with three others from the same pen, Wagner set to music. The first four were published in the winter of 1857-1858; the last, "Im Treibhaus," on May 1, 1858. The musical theme of "Träume" was the germ of the love-music in the second act of "Tristan und Isolde"; out of "Im Treibhaus" grew some of the introduction to the third act. The tragedy was outlined in prose in August, 1857, and the versification was finished by September 18. The music was complete by July 16, 1859. Wagner gave the pencil sketches of the score to Mme. Wesendonck, who piously went over them with ink so that they might be preserved for posterity. In 1857 Wagner had been eight years an exile from his native land. Years had passed since he began work on "Der Ring des Nibelungen," and there seemed to him little prospect of that work receiving either publication or performance. In May of that year he received an invitation from Dom Pedro, Emperor of Brazil, to write an opera for Rio de Janeiro and direct its production. Two and a half years before he had seriously considered the project of coming to America for a concert tour; so the invitation did not strike him as so strange and extraordinary as it might have appeared to a musician of less worldly wisdom. It is not likely that he took it seriously into consideration, but at any rate it turned his thoughts again to the opera which he had mentioned to Liszt. With it he saw an opportunity for again establishing a connection with the theatre. Dom Pedro wanted, of course, an Italian opera. Wagner's plan contemplated the writing of "Tristan und Isolde" in German, its translation into Italian, the dedication of its score to the Emperor of Brazil, with the privilege of its performance there and a utilization of the opportunity, if possible, to secure a production beforehand of "Tannhäuser." Meanwhile, he would have the drama produced in its original tongue at Strasburg, then a French city conveniently near the German border, with Albert Niemann in the titular rôle and an orchestra from Karlsruhe, or some other German city which had an opera-house. He communicated the plan to Liszt, who approved of the project heartily, though he was greatly amazed at the intelligence which he had from another source that Wagner intended to write the music with an eye to a performance in Italian. "How in the name of all the gods are you going to make of it an opera for Italian singers, as B. tells me you are? Well, since the incredible and impossible have become your elements, perhaps you will achieve this, too," Liszt wrote to him, and promised to go to Strasburg with a Wagnerian coterie to act as a guard of honor for the composer. Nothing came of either plan. Inspired by his love for Mathilde Wesendonck, Wagner wrote the opera and succeeded in selling the score to Breitkopf & Härtel for the equivalent of $800. Then began the hunt for a theatre in which to give the first representation. Eduard Devrient urged Karlsruhe, where he was director, but Wagner wanted to supervise the production, and this was impossible in a theatre of Germany so long as the decree of banishment for participation in the Saxon rebellion hung over his head. The Grand Duke of Baden appealed to the King of Saxony to recall the decree, but in vain. Wagner went to Paris and Brussels, but had to content himself with giving concerts. Weimar, Prague, and Hanover were considered in order, and at length Wagner turned to Vienna. There the opera was accepted for representation at the Court Opera, but after fifty-four rehearsals between November, 1862, and March, 1863, it was abandoned as "impossible." The next year saw the turning-point in Wagner's career. Ludwig of Bavaria invited him to come to Munich, the political ban was removed, and "Tristan und Isolde" had its first performance, to the joy of the composer and a host of his friends, on June 10, 1865, at the Royal Court Theatre of the Bavarian capital, under the direction of Hans von Bölow. The rôles of Tristan and Isolde were in the hands of Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld and his wife. Albert Niemann was prevented by the failure of the Strasburg plan from being the first representative of the hero, but to him fell the honor of setting the model for all American representations. The first performance in the United States took place in the Metropolitan Opera-house on December 1, 1886, under the direction of Anton Seidl. The cast was as follows: Isolde, Lilli Lehmann; Brangäne, Marianne Brandt; Tristan, Albert Niemann; Kurwenal, Adolf Robinson; König Marke, Emil Fischer; Melot, Rudolph von Milde; ein Hirt, Otto Kemlitz; ein Steuermann, Emil Saenger; ein Seemann, Max Alvary. Two circumstances bid us look a little carefully into the instrumental prelude with which Wagner has prefaced his drama. One is that it has taken so prominent a place in the concert-room that even those whose love for pure music has made them indifferent to the mixed art-form called the opera ought to desire acquaintance with its poetical and musical contents; the other is that the prelude, like the overture to "Fidelio" known as "Leonore No. 3," presents the spiritual progress of the tragedy from beginning to end to the quickened heart and mind of the listener freed from all material integument. To do this it makes use of the themes which are most significant in the development of the psychology of the drama, which is far and away its most important element, for the pictures are not many, and the visible action is slight. Listening to the music without thought of the drama, and, therefore, with no purpose of associating it with the specific conceptions which later have exposition in the text, we can hear in this prelude an expression of an ardent longing, a consuming hunger, which doth make The meat it feeds on, a desire that cannot be quenched, yet will not despair. Then, at the lowest ebb of the sweet agony, an ecstasy of hope, a wildly blissful contemplation of a promise of reward. If I depart here for a brief space from my announced purpose not to analyze the music in the manner of the Wagnerian commentators, it will be only because the themes of the prelude are the most pregnant of those employed in the working out of the drama, because their specific significance in the purpose of the composer is plainly set forth by their association with scenes and words, and because they are most admirably fitted by structure and emotional content to express the things attributed to them. The most important of the themes is that with which the prelude begins:-- [Musical excerpt] Note that it is two-voiced and that one voice ascends chromatically (that is, in half steps), and the other descends in the same manner. In the aspiring voice there is an expression of longing; in the descending, of suffering and dejection. We therefore may look upon it as a symbol of the lovers and their passion in a dual aspect. After an exposition of this theme there enters another:-- [Musical excerpt] followed immediately by:-- [Musical excerpt] In the play the first of these two is associated with the character of the hero; the second with the glance which Tristan cast upon Isolde when she was about to kill him--the glance which inspired the love of the princess. Two modifications of the principal theme provide nearly all the rest of the material used in the building up of the prelude. The first is a diminution of the motif compassed by the second and third measures, which by reiteration develops the climax of the piece:-- [Musical excerpt] The second is a harmonized inversion of the same short figure, preceded by a jubilantly ascending scale:-- [Musical excerpt] This is the expression of the ecstasy of hope, the wildly blissful contemplation of a promise of reward of which I have spoken. Wagner tells us what the thing hoped for, the joy contemplated in expectation, is, not only in the drama, but also in an exposition of the contents of the prelude made for concert purposes. He deserves that it shall be known, and I reproduce it in the translation of William Ashton Ellis. After rehearsing the legend down to the drinking of the fateful philtre, he says:-- The musician who chose this theme for the prelude to his love drama, as he felt that he was now in the boundless realm of the very element of music, could only have one care: how he should set bounds to his fancy, for the exhaustion of the theme was impossible. Thus he took, once for all, this insatiable desire. In long-drawn accents it surges up, from its first timid confession, its softest attraction, through sobbing sighs, hope and pain, laments and wishes, delight and torment, up to the mightiest onslaught, the most powerful endeavor to find the breach which shall open to the heart the path to the ocean of the endless joy of love. In vain! Its power spent, the heart sinks back to thirst with desire, with desire unfulfilled, as each fruition only brings forth seeds of fresh desire, till, at last, in the depths of its exhaustion, the starting eye sees the glimmering of the highest bliss of attainment. It is the ecstasy of dying, of the surrender of being, of the final redemption into that wondrous realm from which we wander farthest when we strive to take it by force. Shall we call this Death? Is it not rather the wonder world of night, out of which, so says the story, the ivy and the vine sprang forth in tight embrace o'er the tomb of Tristan and Isolde? If we place ourselves in spirit among the personages of Wagner's play, we shall find ourselves at the parting of the curtain which hangs between the real and the mimic world, on board a mediaeval ship, within a few hours' sail of Cornwall, whither Tristan is bearing Isolde to be the wife of his king Marke. The cheery song of a sailor who, unseen, at the masthead, sings to the winds which are blowing him away from his wild Irish sweetheart, floats down to us. It has a refreshing and buoyant lilt, this song, with something of the sea breeze in it, and yet something, as it is sung, which emphasizes the loneliness of the singer:-- [Musical excerpt--"Frisch weht der Wind der Heimat zu: Mein irisch Kind, wo weilest du?"] An innocent song, the strain of which, more decorous than any modern chantey, inspires the sailors as they pull at the ropes, and gives voice to the delights of the peaceful voyage:-- [Musical excerpt] Yet it stirs up a tempest in the soul of Isolde. She is the daughter of an Irish queen, a sorceress, and she now deplores the degeneracy of her race and its former potency. Once her ancestors could command wind and wave, but now they can brew only balsamic potions. Wildly she invokes the elements to dash the ship to pieces, and when her maid, Brangäne, seeks to know the cause of her tumultuous disquiet, she tells the story of her love for Tristan and of its disgraceful requital. He had come to Ireland's queen to be healed of a wound received in battle. He had killed his enemy, and that enemy was Morold, Isolde's betrothed. The princess, ignorant of that fact,--ignorant, too, of his name, for he had called himself Tantris,--had herself nursed him back almost to health, when one day she found that a splinter of steel, taken from the head of Morold, where he had received the adolorous stroke, fitted into a nick in the sword of the wounded knight. At her mercy lay the slayer of her affianced husband. She raised the sword to take revenge, when his look fell upon her. In a twinkling her heart was empty of hate and filled instead with love. Now, instead of requiting her love, Tristan is taking her to Cornwall to deliver her to a loveless marriage to Cornwall's "weary king." It will be well to note in this narrative how the description of Tristan's sufferings are set to a descending chromatic passage, like the second voice of the principal theme already described:-- [Musical excerpt--"Von einem Kahn, der klein und arm"] The thought of her humiliation maddens the high-spirited woman, and she sends her maid, Brangäne, to summon the knight into her presence. The knight parleys diplomatically with the messenger. Duty keeps him at the helm, but once in port he will suffer no one but himself to escort the exalted lady into the presence of the king. At the last the maid is forced to deliver the command in the imperious words used by her mistress. This touches the pride of Tristan's squire, Kurwenal, who asks permission to frame an answer, and, receiving it, shouts a ballad of his master's method of paying tribute to Ireland with the head of his enemy; for the battle between Tristan and Morold had grown out of the effort made by the latter to collect tribute-money from England. It is a stiff stave, rugged, forceful, and direct, in which the spirit of the political ballad of all times is capitally preserved. Isolde resolves to wipe out what she conceives to be her disgrace by slaying Tristan and herself. Brangäne tries to persuade her that the crown of Cornwall will bring her honor, and when Isolde answers that it would be intolerable to live in the presence of Tristan and not have his love, she hints that her mother had not sent her into a strange land without providing for all contingencies. Isolde understands the allusion to her mother's magical lore, and commands that a casket be brought to her. Brangäne obeys with alacrity and exhibits its contents: lotions for wounds, antidotes for poisons, and, best of all,--she holds a phial aloft. Isolde will not have it so; she herself had marked the phial whose contents were to remedy her ills. "The death draught!" exclaims Brangäne, and immediately the "Yo, heave ho!" of the sailors is heard and the shout of "Land!" Throughout this scene a significant phrase is heard--the symbol of death:-- [Musical excerpt] Also the symbol of fate--a downward leap of a seventh, as in the last two notes of the brief figure illustrative of the glance which had inspired Isolde's fatal love. At sight of land Tristan leaves the helm and presents himself before Isolde. She upbraids him for having avoided her during the voyage; he replies that he had obeyed the commands of honor and custom. She reminds him that a debt of blood is due her--he owes her revenge for the death of Morold. Tristan offers her his sword and his breast; but she declines to kill the best of all Marke's knights, and offers to drink with him a cup of forgiveness. He divines her purpose and takes the cup from her hand and gives this pledge: Fidelity to his honor, defiance to anguish. To his heart's illusion, his scarcely apprehended dream, will he drink the draught which shall bring oblivion. Before he has emptied the cup, Isolde snatches it from his hands and drains it to the bottom. Thus they meet their doom, which is not death and surcease of sorrow, as both had believed, but life and misery; for Brangäne, who had been commanded to pour the poison in the cup, had followed an amiable prompting and presented the love-potion instead. A moment of bewilderment, and the fated ones are in each other's arms, pouring out an ecstasy of passion. Then her maids robe Isolde to receive the king, who is coming on board the ship to greet his bride. In the introduction to the second act, based upon this restless phrase,-- [Musical excerpt] we have a picture of the longing and impatience of the lovers before a meeting. When the curtains part, we discover a garden before the chamber of Isolde, who is now Cornwall's queen. It is a lovely night in summer. A torch burns in a ring beside the door opening into the chamber at the top of a stone staircase. The king has gone a-hunting, and the tones of the hunting-horns, dying away in the distance, blend entrancingly with an instrumental song from the orchestra which seems a musical sublimation of night and nature in their tenderest moods. Isolde appears with Brangäne and pleads with her to extinguish the torch and thus give the appointed signal to Tristan, who is waiting in concealment. But Brangäne suspects treachery on the part of Melot, a knight who is jealous of Tristan and himself enamoured of Isolde. It was he who had planned the nocturnal hunt. She warns her mistress, and begs her to wait. Beauty rests upon the scene like a benediction. To Isolde the horns are but the rustling of the forest leaves as they are caressed by the wind, or the purling and laughing of the brook. Longing has eaten up all patience, all discretion, all fear. In spite of Brangäne's pleadings she extinguishes the torch, and with wildly waving scarf beckons on her hurrying lover. Beneath the foliage they sing their love through all the gamut of hope and despair, of bliss and wretchedness. The duet consists largely of detached ejaculations and verbal plays, each paraphrasing or varying or giving a new turn to the outpouring of the other, the whole permeated with the symbolism of pessimistic philosophy in which night, death, and oblivion are glorified, and day, life, and memory contemned. In this dialogue lies the key to the philosophy which Wagner has proclaimed in the tragedy. In Wagner's exposition of the prelude we saw that he wishes us to observe "the one glimmering of the highest bliss of attainment" in the "surrender of being," the "final redemption into that wondrous realm from which we wander farthest when we try to take it by force." For this realm he chooses death and night as symbols, but what he means to imply is the nirvana of Buddhistic philosophy, the final deliverance of the soul from transmigration. Such love as that of Tristan and Isolde presented itself to Wagner as ceaseless struggle and endless contradiction, and for this problem nirvana alone offers a happy outcome; it means quietude and identity. In vain does Brangäne sing her song of warning from the tower; the lovers have been transported beyond all realization of their surroundings; they sing on, dream on in each other's arms, until at the moment of supremest ecstasy there comes a rude interruption. Kurwenal dashes in with a sword and a shout: "Save thyself, Tristan!" the king, Melot, and courtiers at his heels. Day, symbol of all that is fatal to their love, has dawned. Tristan is silent, though Marke bewails the treachery of his nephew and his friend. From the words of the heart-torn king we learn that he had been forced into the marriage with Isolde by the disturbed state of his kingdom, and had not consented to it until Tristan, whose purpose it was thus to quiet the jealous anger of the barons, had threatened to depart from Cornwall unless the king revoked his purpose to make him his successor, and took unto himself a wife. Tristan's answer to the sorrowful upbraidings of his royal uncle is to obtain a promise from Isolde to follow him into the "wondrous realm of night." Then, seeing that Marke does not wield the sword of retribution, he makes a feint of attacking Melot, but permits the treacherous knight to reach him with his sword. He falls wounded unto death. The last act has been reached. The dignified, reserved knight of the first act, the impassioned lover of the second, is now a dream-haunted, longing, despairing, dying man, lying under a lime tree in the yard of his ancestral castle in Brittany, wasting his last bit of strength in feverish fancies and ardent yearnings touching Isolde. Kurwenal has sent for her. Will she come? A shepherd tells of vain watches for the sight of a sail by playing a mournful melody on his pipe:-- [Musical excerpt] Oh, the heart-hunger of the hero! The longing! Will she never come? The fever is consuming him, and his heated brain breeds fancies which one moment lift him above all memories of pain and the next bring him to the verge of madness. Cooling breezes waft him again toward Ireland, whose princess healed the wound struck by Morold, then ripped it up again with the avenging sword with its telltale nick. From her hands he took the drink whose poison sears his heart. Accursed the cup and accursed the hand that brewed it! Will the shepherd never change his doleful strain? Ah, Isolde, how beautiful you are! The ship, the ship! It must be in sight. Kurwenal, have you no eyes? Isolde's ship! A merry tune bursts from the shepherd's pipe:-- [Musical excerpt] It is the ship! What flag flies at the peak? The flag of "All's well!" Now the ship disappears behind a cliff. There the breakers are treacherous. Who is at the helm? Friend or foe? Melot's accomplice? Are you, too, a traitor, Kurwenal? Tristan's strength is unequal to the excitement of the moment. His mind becomes dazed. He hears Isolde's voice, and his wandering fancy transforms it into the torch whose extinction once summoned him to her side: "Do I hear the light?" He staggers to his feet and tears the bandages from his wound. "Ha! my blood! flow merrily now! She who opened the wound is here to heal it!" Life endures but for one embrace, one glance, one word: "Isolde!" While Isolde lies mortally stricken upon Tristan's corpse, Marke and his train arrive upon a second ship. Brangäne has told the secret of the love-draught, and the king has come to unite the lovers. But his purpose is not known, and faithful Kurwenal receives his death-blow while trying to hold the castle against Marke's men. He dies at Tristan's side. Isolde, unconscious of all these happenings, sings out her broken heart, and expires. And ere her ear might hear, her heart had heard, Nor sought she sign for witness of the word; But came and stood above him, newly dead, And felt his death upon her: and her head Bowed, as to reach the spring that slakes all drouth; And their four lips became one silent mouth. {2} Footnotes: {1} "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," by H. E. Krehbiel. {2} Swinburne, "Tristram of Lyonesse." CHAPTER XIV "PARSIFAL" A lad, hotfoot in pursuit of a wild swan which one of his arrows has pierced, finds himself in a forest glade on the side of a mountain. There he meets a body of knights and esquires in attendance on a king who is suffering from a wound. The knights are a body of men whose mission it is to succor suffering innocence wherever they may find it. They dwell in a magnificent castle on the summit of the mountain, within whose walls they assemble every day to contemplate and adore a miraculous vessel from which they obtain both physical and spiritual sustenance. In order to enjoy the benefits which flow from this talisman, they are required to preserve their bodies in ascetic purity. Their king has fallen from this estate and been grievously wounded in an encounter with a magician, who, having failed in his ambition to enter the order of knighthood, had built a castle over against that of the king, where, by practice of the black art and with the help of sirens and a sorceress, he seeks the ruin of the pure and celestial soldiery. In his hands is a lance which once belonged to the knights, but which he had wrested from their king and with which he had given the dolorous stroke from which the king is suffering. The healing of the king can be wrought only by a touch of the lance which struck the wound; and this lance can be regained only by one able to withstand the sensual temptations with which the evil-minded sorcerer has surrounded himself in his magical castle. An oracle, that had spoken from a vision, which one day shone about the talisman, had said that this deliverer fool, an innocent simpleton, pity had made knowing:-- [Musical excerpt--"Durch mitleid wissend, der reine Thor, harre sein' den ich erkor." THE ORACLE] For this hero king and knights are waiting and longing, since neither lotions nor baths nor ointments can bring relief, though they be of the rarest potency and brought from all the ends of the earth. The lad who thus finds himself in this worshipful but woful company is himself of noble and knightly lineage. This we learn from the recital of his history, but also from the bright, incisive, militant, chivalresque music associated with him:-- [Musical excerpt--THE SYMBOL OF PARSIFAL] But he has been reared in a wilderness, far from courts and the institutions of chivalry and in ignorance of the world lying beyond his forest boundaries. His father died before he was born, and his mother withheld from him all knowledge of knighthood, hoping thus to keep him for herself. One day, however, he saw a cavalcade of horsemen in brilliant trappings. The spectacle stirred the chivalric spirit slumbering within him; he deserted his mother, followed after the knights, and set out in quest of adventure. The mother died:-- [Musical excerpt--THE SYMBOL OF HERZELEIDE] In the domain whither his quarry had led the lad, all animals were held sacred. A knight (Gurnemanz) rebukes him for his misdeed in shooting the swan, and rue leads him to break his bow and arrows. From a strange creature (Kundry),-- [Musical excerpt--THE PENITENT KUNDRY] in the service of the knights, he learns of the death of his mother, who had perished for love of him and grief over his desertion. He is questioned about himself, but is singularly ignorant of everything, even of his own name. Hoping that the lad may prove to be the guileless fool to whom knowledge was to come through pity, the knight escorts him to the temple, which is the sanctuary of the talisman whose adoration is the daily occupation of the brotherhood. They walk out of the forest and find themselves in a rocky defile of the mountain. A natural gateway opens in the face of a cliff, through which they pass, and are lost to sight for a space. Then they are seen ascending a sloping passage, and little by little the rocks lose their ruggedness and begin to take on rude architectural contours. They are walking to music which, while merely suggesting their progress and the changing natural scene in the main, ever and anon breaks into an expression of the most poignant and lacerating suffering and lamentation:-- [Musical excerpt--SUFFERING AND LAMENTATION] Soon the pealing of bells is heard:-- [Musical excerpt] and the tones blend synchronously and harmonously with the music of their march:-- [Musical excerpt--FUNDAMENTAL PHRASE OF THE MARCH] At last they arrive in a mighty Byzantine hail, which loses itself upward in a lofty, vaulted dome, from which light streams downward and illumines the interior. Under the dome, within a colonnade, are two tables, each a segment of a circle. Into the hall there come in procession knights wearing red mantles on which the image of a white dove is embroidered. They chant a pious hymn as they take their places at the refectory tables:-- [Musical excerpt--"Zum letzten Liebesmahle Gerüstet Tag für Tag." THE EUCHARISTIC HYMN] The king, whom the lad had seen in the glade, is borne in on a litter, before him a veiled shrine containing the mystical cup which is the object of the ceremonious worship. It is the duty of the king to unveil the talisman and hold it up to the adoration of the knights. He is conveyed to a raised couch and the shrine is placed before him. His sufferings of mind and body are so poignant that he would liever die than perform his office; but the voice of his father (Titurel), who had built the sanctuary, established the order of knighthood, and now lives on in his grave sustained by the sight of the talisman, admonishes the king of his duty. At length he consents to perform the function imposed upon him by his office. He raises himself painfully upon his couch. The attendants remove the covering from the shrine and disclose an antique crystal vessel which they reverently place before the lamentable king. Boys' voices come wafted down from the highest height of the dome, singing a formula of consecration: "Take ye my body, take my blood in token of our love":-- [Musical excerpt--THE LOVE-FEAST FORMULA] A dazzling ray of light flashes down from above and falls into the cup, which now glows with a reddish purple lustre and sheds a soft radiance around. The knights have sunk upon their knees. The king lifts the luminous chalice, moves it gently from side to side, and thus blesses the bread and wine provided for the refection of the knights. Meanwhile, celestial voices proclaim the words of the oracle to musical strains that are pregnant with mysterious suggestion. Another choir sturdily, firmly, ecstatically hymns the power of faith:-- [Musical excerpt--THE SYMBOL OF FAITH] and, at the end, an impressive antiphon, starting with the knights, ascends higher and higher, and, calling in gradually the voices of invisible singers in the middle height, becomes metamorphosed into an angelic canticle as it takes its flight to the summit. It is the voice of aspiration, the musical symbol of the talisman which directs the thoughts and desires of its worshippers ever upward:-- [Musical excerpt--THE SYMBOL OF THE HOLY GRAIL] The lad disappoints his guide. He understands nothing of the solemn happenings which he has witnessed, nor does he ask their meaning, though his own heart had been lacerated with pain at sight of the king's sufferings. He is driven from the sanctuary with contumely. He wanders forth in quest of further adventures and enters the magical garden surrounding the castle of the sorcerer. A number of knights who are sent against him he puts to rout. Now the magician summons lovely women, clad in the habiliments of flowers, to seduce him with their charms:-- [Musical excerpt--KLINGSOR'S INCANTATION] They sing and play about him with winsome wheedlings and cajoleries, with insinuating blandishments and dainty flatteries, with pretty petulancies and delectable quarrellings:-- [Musical excerpt--"Komm, Komm, holder Knabe," THE SEDUCTIVE SONG OF THE FLOWER MAIDENS] But they fail of their purpose, as does also an unwilling siren whom the magician invokes with powerful conjurations. It is Kundry, who is half Magdalen, half wicked sorceress, a messenger in the service of the pious knights, and as such hideous of aspect; a tool in the hands of the magician, and as such supernaturally beautiful. It was to her charms that the suffering king had yielded. To win the youth she tells him the story of his mother's death and gives to him her last message and--a kiss! At the touch of her impure lips a flood of passion, hitherto unfelt, pours through the veins of the lad, and in its surge comes understanding of the suffering and woe which he had witnessed in the castle on the mountain. Also a sense of his own remissness. Compassionate pity brings enlightenment; and he thrusts back the woman who is seeking to destroy him. Finding that the wiles of his tool have availed him naught, the wicked magician himself appears to give battle, for he, too, knows the oracle and fears the coming of the king's deliverer and the loss of the weapon which he hopes will yet enable him to achieve the mystical talisman. He hurls the lance at the youth, but it remains suspended in midair. The lad seizes it, makes the sign of the cross, speaks some words of exorcism, and garden, castle, damsels--all the works of enchantment disappear. Now the young hero is conscious of a mission. He must find again the abode of the knights and their ailing king, and bring to them surcease of suffering. After long and grievous wanderings he is again directed to the castle. Grief and despair have overwhelmed the knights, whose king, unable longer to endure the torture in which he has lived, has definitively refused to perform his holy office. In consequence, his father, no longer the recipient of supernatural sustenance, has died, and the king longs to follow him. The hero touches the wound in the side of the king with the sacred spear, ends his dolors, and is hailed as king in his place. The temptress, who has followed him as a penitent, freed from a curse which had rested upon her for ages, goes to a blissful and eternal rest. * * * Such is the story of Wagner's "Parsifal." It is the purpose of this book to help the musical layman who loves lyric drama to enjoyment. Criticism might do this, but a purpose of simple exposition has already been proclaimed, and shall be adhered to lest some reader think that he is being led too far afield. In this case the exposition shall take the form of a marshalling of the elements of the story in two aspects--religious and legendary. Careful readers of English literature will have had no difficulty in recognizing in it a story of the quest of the Holy Grail. Tennyson will have taught them that the hero is that Sir Percivale Whom Arthur and his knighthood called the Pure; that the talismanic vessel is the cup itself from which our Lord Drank at the last sad supper with His own; that the lance which struck and healed the grievous wound in the side of the king is the spear with which the side of the Christ was pierced on Calvary. It is also obvious that the king, whose name is Amfortas, that is, "the powerless one," is a symbol of humanity suffering from the wounds of slavery to desire; that the heroic act of Parsifal, as Wagner calls him, which brings release to the king and his knights, is renunciation of desire, prompted by pity, compassion, fellow-suffering; and that this gentle emotion it was that had inspired knowledge simultaneously of a great need and a means of deliverance. The ethical idea of the drama, as I set forth in a book entitled "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama" many years ago, is that it is the enlightenment which comes through pity which brings salvation. The allusion is to the redemption of mankind by the sufferings and compassionate death of Christ; and that stupendous tragedy is the prefiguration of the mimic drama which Wagner has constructed. The spectacle to which he invites us, and with which he hoped to impress us and move us to an acceptance of the lesson underlying his play, is the adoration of the Holy Grail, cast in the form of a mimicry of the Last Supper, bedizened with some of the glittering pageantry of mediaeval knighthood and romance. In the minds of many persons it is a profanation to make a stage spectacle out of religious things; and it has been urged that "Parsifal" is not only religious but specifically Christian; not only Christian but filled with parodies of elements which are partly liturgical, partly Biblical. In narrating the incidents of the play I have purposely avoided all allusions to the things which have been matters of controversy. It is possible to look upon "Parsifal" as a sort of glorified fairy tale, and to this end I purpose to subject its elements to inquiry, and shall therefore go a bit more into detail. Throughout the play Parsifal is referred to as a redeemer, and in the third act scenes in which he plays as the central figure are borrowed from the life of Christ. Kundry, the sorceress, who attempts his destruction at one time and is in the service of the knights of the Grail at another, anoints his feet and dries them with her hair, as the Magdalen did the feet of Christ in the house of Simon the Pharisee. Parsifal baptizes Kundry and admonishes her to believe in the Redeemer:-- Die Taufe nimm Und glaub' an den Erlöser! Kundry weeps. Unto the woman who was a sinner and wept at His feet Christ said: "Thy sins are forgiven. . . . Thy faith hath saved thee. Go in peace." At the elevation of the grail by Parsifal after the healing of Amfortas a dove descends from the dome and hovers over the new king's head. What saith the Scripture? "And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water; and lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him." (St. Matthew iii. 16.) It would be idle to argue that these things are not Biblical, though the reported allusions to Parsifal as a redeemer do not of necessity belong in the category. We shall see presently that the drama is permeated with Buddhism, and there were a multitude of redeemers and saviours in India besides the Buddha. Let us look at the liturgical elements. The Holy Grail is a chalice. It is brought into the temple in solemn procession in a veiled shrine and deposited on a table. Thus, also, the chalice, within its pall, is brought in at the sacrament of the mass and placed on the altar before the celebrant. In the drama boys' voices sing in the invisible heights:-- Nehmet hin mein Blut Um unserer Liebe willen! Nehmet hin meinem Leib Auf dass ihr mein gedenkt! Is there a purposed resemblance here to the words of consecration in the mass? Accipite, et manducate ex hoc omnes. Hoc est enim Corpus meum. Accipite, et bibite ex eo omnes. Hic est enim Calix sanguinis mei! In a moment made wonderfully impressive by Wagner's music, while Amfortas bends over the grail and the knights are on their knees, a ray of light illumines the cup and it glows red. Amfortas lifts it high, gently sways it from side to side, and blesses the bread and wine which youthful servitors have placed beside each knight on the table. In the book of the play, as the hall gradually grows light the cups before the knights appear filled with red wine, and beside each lies a small loaf of bread. Now the celestial choristers sing: "The wine and bread of the Last Supper, once the Lord of the Grail, through pity's love-power, changed into the blood which he shed, into the body which he offered. To-day the Redeemer whom ye laud changes the blood and body of the sacrificial offering into the wine poured out for you, and the bread that you eat!" And the knights respond antiphonally: "Take of the bread; bravely change it anew into strength and power. Faithful unto death, staunch in effort to do the works of the Lord. Take of the blood; change it anew to life's fiery flood. Gladly in communion, faithful as brothers, to fight with blessed courage." Are these words, or are they not, a paraphrase of those which in the canon of the mass follow the first and second ablutions of the celebrant: Quod ore sumpsimus Domine, etc., and: Corpus tuum, Domine, etc.? He would be but little critical who would deny it. Nevertheless, it does not necessarily follow that Wagner wished only to parody the eucharistic rite. He wanted to create a ceremonial which should be beautiful, solemn, and moving; which should be an appropriate accompaniment to the adoration of a mystical relic; which should, in a large sense, be neither Catholic, Protestant, nor Buddhistic; which should symbolize a conception of atonement older than Christianity, older than Buddhism, older than all records of the human imagination. Of this more anon. As was his custom, Wagner drew from whatever source seemed to him good and fruitful; and though he doubtless thought himself at liberty to receive suggestions from the Roman Catholic ritual, as well as the German Lutheran, it is even possible that he had also before his mind scenes from Christian Masonry. This possibility was once suggested by Mr. F. C. Burnand, who took the idea from the last scene of the first act only, and does not seem to have known how many connections the Grail legend had with mediaeval Freemasonry or Templarism. There are more elements associated with the old Knights Templars and their rites in Wagner's drama than I am able to discuss. To do so I should have to be an initiate and have more space at my disposal than I have here. I can only make a few suggestions: In the old Welsh tale of Peredur, which is a tale of the quest of a magical talisman, the substitute for the grail is a dish containing a bloody head. That head in time, as the legend passed through the imaginations of poets and romances, became the head of John the Baptist, and there was a belief in the Middle Ages that the Knights Templars worshipped a bloody head. The head of John the Baptist enters dimly into Wagner's drama in the conceit that Kundry is a reincarnation of Herodias, who is doomed to make atonement, not for having danced the head off the prophet's shoulders, but for having reviled Christ as he was staggering up Calvary under the load of the cross. But this is pursuing speculations into regions that are shadowy and vague. Let it suffice for this branch of our study that Mr. Burnand has given expression to the theory that the scene of the adoration of the grail and the Love Feast may also have a relationship with the ceremony of installation in the Masonic orders of chivalry, in which a cup of brotherly love is presented to the Grand Commander, who drinks and asks the Sir Knights to pledge him in the cup "in commemoration of the Last Supper of our Grand Heavenly Captain, with his twelve disciples, whom he commanded thus to remember him." Here, says Mr. Burnand, there is no pretence to sacrifice. Participation in the wine is a symbol of a particular and peculiarly close intercommunion of brotherhood. To get the least offence from "Parsifal" it ought to be accepted in the spirit of the time in which Christian symbolism was grafted on the old tales of the quest of a talisman which lie at the bottom of it. The time was the last quarter of the twelfth century and the first quarter of the thirteenth. It is the period of the third and fourth crusades. Relic worship was at its height. Less than a hundred years before (in 1101) the Genoese crusaders had brought back from the Holy Land as a part of the spoils of Caesarea, which they were helpful in capturing under Baldwin, a three-cornered dish, which was said to be the veritable dish used at the Last Supper of Christ and his Apostles. The belief that it was cut out of a solid emerald drew Bonaparte's attention to it, and he carried it away to Paris in 1806 and had it examined. It proved to be nothing but glass, and he graciously gave it back to Genoa in 1814. There it still reposes in the Church of St. John, but it is no longer an object of worship, though it might fairly excite a feeling of veneration. For 372 years Nuremberg possessed what the devout believed to be the lance of Longinus, with which the side of Christ was opened. The relic, like most objects of its kind (the holy coat, for instance), had a rival which, after inspiring victory at the siege of Antioch, found its way to Paris with the most sacred relics, for which Louis IX built the lovely Sainte Chapelle; now it is in the basilica of the Vatican, at Rome. The Nuremberg relic, however, enjoyed the advantage of historical priority. It is doubly interesting, or rather was so, because it was one of Wagner's historical characters who added it to the imperial treasure of the Holy Roman Empire. This was none other than Henry the Fowler, the king who is righteous in judgment and tuneful of speech in the opera "Lohengrin." Henry, so runs the story, wrested the lance from the Burgundian king, Rudolph III, some time about A.D. 929. After many vicissitudes the relic was given for safe keeping to the imperial city of Nuremberg, in 1424, by the Emperor Sigismund. It was placed in a casket, which was fastened with heavy chains to the walls of the Spitalkirche. There it remained until 1796. One may read about the ceremonies attending its annual exposition, along with other relics, in the old history of Nuremberg, by Wagenseil, which was the source of Wagner's knowledge of the mastersingers. The disruption of the Holy Roman Empire caused a scattering of the jewels and relics in the imperial treasury, and the present whereabouts of this sacred lance is unknown. The casket and chains, however, are preserved in the Germanic Museum at Nuremberg to this day, and there have been seen, doubtless, by many who are reading these lines. There is nothing in "Parsifal," neither personage nor incident nor thing, no principle of conduct, which did not live in legendary tales and philosophical systems long before Christianity existed as a universal religion. The hero in his first estate was born, bred, went out in search of adventure, rescued the suffering, and righted wrong, just as Krishna, Perseus, Theseus, OEdipus, Romulus, Remus, Siegfried, and Wolf-Dietrich did before him. He is an Aryan legendary and mythical hero-type that has existed for ages. The talismanic cup and spear are equally ancient; they have figured in legend from time immemorial. The incidents of their quest, the agonies wrought by their sight, their mission as inviters of sympathetic interest, and the failure of a hero to achieve a work of succor because of failure to show pity, are all elements in Keltic Quester and Quest stories, which antedate Christianity. Kundry, the loathly damsel and siren, has her prototypes in classic fable and romantic tale. Read the old English ballad of "The Marriage of Sir Gawain." So has the magic castle of Klingsor, surrounded by its beautiful garden. It is all the things which I enumerated in the chapter devoted to "Tannhäuser." It is also the Underworld, where prevails the law of taboo--"Thou must," or "Thou shalt not;" whither Psyche went on her errand for Venus and came back scot-free; where Peritheus and Theseus remained grown to a rocky seat till Hercules came to release them with mighty wrench and a loss of their bodily integrity. The sacred lance which shines red with blood after it has by its touch healed the wound of Amfortas is the bleeding spear which was a symbol of righteous vengeance unperformed in the old Bardic day of Britain; it became the lance of Longinus which pierced the side of Christ when Christian symbolism was applied to the ancient Arthurian legends; and you may read in Malory's "Morte d'Arthur" how a dolorous stroke dealt with it by Balin opened a wound in the side of King Pellam from which he suffered many years, till Galahad healed him in the quest of the Sangreal by touching the wound with the blood which flowed from the spear. These are the folklore elements in Wagner's "Parsifal." It is plain that they might have been wrought into a drama substantially like that which was the poet-composer's last gift to art without loss of either dignity or beauty. Then his drama would have been like a glorified fairy play, imposing and of gracious loveliness, and there would have been nothing to quarrel about. But Wagner was a philosopher of a sort, and a sincere believer in the idea that the theatre might be made to occupy the same place in the modern world that it did in the classic. It was to replace the Church and teach by direct preachments as well as allegory the philosophical notions which he thought essential to the salvation of humanity. For the chief of these he went to that system of philosophy which rests on the idea that the world is to be redeemed by negation of the will to live, the conquering of all desire--that the highest happiness is the achievement of nirvana, nothingness. This conception finds its highest expression in the quietism and indifferentism of the old Brahmanic religion (if such it can be called), in which holiness was to be obtained by speculative contemplation, which seems to me the quintessence of selfishness. In the reformed Brahmanism called Buddhism, there appeared along with the old principle of self-erasure a compassionate sympathy for others. Asceticism was not put aside, but regulated and ordered, wrought into a communal system. It was purged of some of its selfishness by appreciation of the loveliness of compassionate love as exemplified in the life of Çakya-Muni and those labors which made him one of the many redeemers and saviours of which Hindu literature is full. Something of this was evidently in the mind of Wagner as long ago as 1857, when, working on "Tristan und Isolde," he for a while harbored the idea of bringing Parzival (as he would have called him then) into the presence of the dying Tristan to comfort him with a sermon on the happiness of renunciation. Long before Wagner had sketched a tragedy entitled "Jesus of Nazareth," the hero of which was to be a human philosopher who preached the saving grace of love and sought to redeem his time and people from the domination of conventional law, the offspring of selfishness. His philosophy was socialism imbued by love. Before Wagner finished "Tristan und Isolde" he had outlined a Hindu play in which hero and heroine were to accept the doctrines of the Buddha, take the vow of chastity, renounce the union toward which love impelled them, and enter into the holy community. Blending these two schemes, Wagner created "Parsifal." For this drama he could draw the principle of compassionate pity and fellow-suffering from the stories of both Çakya-Muni and Jesus of Nazareth. But for the sake of a spectacle, I think, he accepted the Christian doctrine of the Atonement with all its mystical elements; for they alone put the necessary symbolical significance into the principal apparatus of the play--the Holy Grail and the Sacred Lance. {1} Footnotes: {1} "Parsifal" was performed for the first time at the Wagner Festival Theatre in Bayreuth on July 28, 1882. The prescription that it should belong exclusively to Bayreuth was respected till December 24, 1903, when Heinrich Conried, taking advantage of the circumstance that there was no copyright on the stage representation of the work in America, brought it out with sensational success at the Metropolitan Opera-house in New York. The principal artists concerned in this and subsequent performances were Milka Ternina (Kundry), Alois Burgstaller (Paraifal), Anton Van Rooy (Amfortas), Robert Blass (Gurnemanz), Otto Görlitz (Klingsor) and Louise Homer (a voice). CHAPTER XV "DIE MEISTERSINGER VON NÜRNBERG" The best definition of the true purpose of comedy which I know is that it is to "chastise manners with a smile" (Ridendo castigat mores); and it has no better exemplification in the literature of opera than Wagner's "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg." Wagner's mind dwelt much on Greek things, and as he followed a classical principle in choosing mythological and legendary subjects for his tragedies, so also he followed classical precedent in drawing the line between tragedy and comedy. "Tannhäuser," "Tristan und Isolde," "Der Ring des Nibelungen," "Parsifal," and, in a lesser degree, "Lohengrin," are examples of the old tragedy type. To them the restrictions of time and space do not apply. They deal with large passions, and their heroes are gods or godlike men who are shattered against the rock of immutable law--the "Fate" of the ancient tragedians. His only significant essay in the field of comedy was made in "Die Meistersinger," and this is as faithful to the old conception of comedy as the dramas mentioned are to that of tragedy. It deals with the manners, vices, and follies of the common people; and, therefore, it has local environment and illustrates a period in history. It was conceived as a satyr-play following a tragedy ("Tannhäuser"), and though there can be no doubt that it was designed to teach a lesson in art, it nevertheless aims primarily to amuse, and only secondarily to instruct and correct. Moreover, even the most cutting of its satirical lashes are administered with a smile. As a picture of the social life of a quaint German city three and a half centuries ago, its vividness and truthfulness are beyond all praise; it is worthy to stand beside the best dramas of the world, and has no equal in operatic literature. The food for its satire, too, is most admirably chosen, for no feature of the social life of that place and period is more amiably absurd than the efforts of the handicraftsmen and tradespeople, with their prosaic surroundings, to keep alive by dint of pedantic formularies the spirit of minstrelsy, which had a natural stimulus in the chivalric life of the troubadours and minnesingers of whom the mastersingers thought themselves the direct and legitimate successors. In its delineation of the pompous doings of the mastersingers, Wagner is true to the letter. He has vitalized the dry record to be found in old Wagenseil's book on Nuremberg, {1} and intensified the vivid description of a mastersingers' meeting which the curious may read in August Hagen's novel "Norica." His studies have been marvellously exact and careful, and he has put Wagenseil's book under literal and liberal contribution, as will appear after a while. Now it seems best to tell the story of the comedy before discussing it further. Veit Pogner, a rich silversmith, desiring to honor the craft of the mastersingers, to whose guild he belongs, offers his daughter Eva in marriage to the successful competitor at the annual meeting of the mastersingers on the feast of St. John. Eva is in love (she declares it in the impetuous manner peculiar to Wagner's heroines) with Walther von Stolzing, a young Franconian knight; and the knight with her. After a flirtation in church during divine service, Walther meets her before she leaves the building, and asks if she be betrothed. She answers in the affirmative, but it is to the unknown victor at the contest of singing on the morrow. He resolves to enter the guild so as to be qualified for the competition. A trial of candidates takes place in the church of St. Catherine in the afternoon, and Walther, knowing nothing of the rules of the mastersingers, some of which have hurriedly been outlined to him by David, a youngster who is an apprentice at shoemaking and also songmaking, fails, though Hans Sachs, a master in both crafts, recognizes evidences of genius in the knight's song, and espouses his cause as against Beckmesser, the town clerk, who aims at acquiring Pogner's fortune by winning his daughter. The young people, in despair at Walther's failure, are about to elope when they are prevented by the arrival on the scene of Beckmesser. It is night, and he wishes to serenade Eva; Sachs sits cobbling at his bench, while Eva's nurse, Magdalena, disguised, sits at a window to hear the serenade in her mistress's stead. Sachs interrupts the serenader, who is an ill-natured clown, by lustily shouting a song in which he seeks also to give warning of knowledge of her intentions to Eva, whose departure with the knight had been interrupted by the cobbler when he came out of his shop to work in the cool of the evening; but he finally agrees to listen to Beckmesser on condition that he be permitted to mark each error in the composition by striking his lap-stone. The humorous consequences can be imagined. Beckmesser becomes enraged at Sachs, sings more and more falsely, until Sachs is occupied in beating a veritable tattoo on his lap-stone. To add to Beckmesser's discomfiture, David, Sachs's apprentice and Magdalena's sweetheart, thinking the serenade intended for his love, begins to belabor the singer with a chub; neighbors join in the brawl, which proceeds right merrily until interrupted by the horn of a night watchman. The dignity and vigor of Wagner's poetical fancy are attested by the marvellous chose of the act. The tremendous hubbub of the street brawl is at its height and the business of the act is at an end. The coming of the Watchman, who has evidently been aroused by the noise, is foretold by his horn. The crowd is seized with a panic. All the brawlers disappear behind doors. The sleepy Watchman stares about him in amazement, rubs his eyes, sings the monotonous chant which publishes the hour of the night, continues on his round, and the moon shines on a quiet street in Nuremberg as the curtain falls. In the third act Walther, who had been taken into his house by Sachs and spent the night there, sings a recital of a dream; and Sachs, struck by its beauty, transcribes it, punctuating it with bits of comments and advice. Beckmesser, entering Sachs's shop when the cobbler-poet is out for a moment, finds the song, concludes that it is Sachs's own composition, and appropriates it. Sachs, discovering the theft, gives the song to Beckmesser, who secures a promise from Sachs not to betray him, and resolves to sing it at the competition. The festival is celebrated in a meadow on the banks of the Pegnitz River, between Fürth and Nuremberg. It begins with a gathering of all the guilds of Nuremberg, each division in the procession entering to characteristic music--a real masterpiece, whether viewed as spectacle, poetry, or music. The competition begins, and Beckmesser makes a monstrously stupid parody of Walther's song. He is hooted at and ridiculed, and, becoming enraged, charges the authorship of the song on Sachs, who coolly retorts that it is a good song when correctly sung. To prove his words he calls on Walther to sing it. The knight complies, the mastersingers are delighted, and Pogner rewards the singer with Eva's hand. Sachs, at the request of the presiding officer of the guild, also offers him the medal as the insignia of membership in the guild of mastersingers. Walther's experience with the pedantry which had condemned him the day before, when he had sung as impulse, love, and youthful ardor had prompted, leads him to decline the distinction; but the old poet discourses on the respect due to the masters and their, work as the guaranty of the permanence of German art, and persuades him to enter the guild of mastersingers. "Die Meistersinger" is photographic in many of its scenes, personages, and incidents; but so far as the stage pictures which we are accustomed to see in the opera-houses of New York and the European capitals are concerned, this statement must be taken with a great deal of allowance, owing to the fact that opera directors, stage managers, scene painters, and costumers are blithely indifferent to the verities of history. I have never seen a mimic reproduction of the church of St. Catherine on any stage; yet the church stands to-day with its walls intact as they were at the time in which the comedy is supposed to play. This time is fixed by the fact that its principal character, Hans Sachs, is represented as a widower who might himself be a suitor for Eva's hand. Now the veritable Sachs was a widower in the summer of the year 1560. I visited Nuremberg in 1886 in search of relics of the mastersingers and had no little difficulty in finding the church. It had not been put to its original purposes for more than a hundred years, and there seemed to be but few people in Nuremberg who knew of its existence. It has been many things since it became secularized: a painter's academy, drawing-school, military hospital, warehouse, concert-hall, and, no doubt, a score of other things. When I found it with the aid of the police it was the paint-shop and scenic storeroom of the municipal theatre. It is a small building, utterly unpretentious of exterior and interior, innocent of architectural beauty, hidden away in the middle of a block of lowly buildings used as dwellings, carpenter shops, and the like. That Wagner never visited it is plain from the fact that though he makes it the scene of one act of his comedy (as he had to do to be historically accurate), his stage directions could not possibly be accommodated to its architecture. In 1891 Mr. Louis Loeb, the American artist, whose early death in the summer of 1909 is widely mourned, visited the spot and made drawings for me of the exterior and interior of the church as it looked then. The church was built in the last half decade of the thirteenth century, and on its water-stained walls, when I visited it, there were still to be seen faint traces of the frescoes which once adorned it and were painted in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries; but they were ruined beyond hope of restoration. In the Germanic Museum I found a wooden tablet dating back to 1581, painted by one Franz Hein. It preserves portraits of four distinguished members of the mastersingers' guild. There is a middle panel occupied by two pictures, the upper showing King David, the patron saint of the guild, so forgetful of chronology as to be praying before a crucifix, the lower a meeting of the mastersingers. Over the heads of the assemblage is a representative of the medallion with which the victor in a contest used to be decorated, as we see in the last scene of Wagner's comedy. One of these decorations was given to the guild by Sachs and was in use for a whole century. At the end of that time it had become so worn that Wagenseil replaced it with another. Church and tablet are the only relics of the mastersingers left in Nuremberg which may be called personal. I had expected to find autobiographic manuscripts of Sachs, but in this was disappointed. There is a volume of mastersongs in the poet-cobbler's handwriting in the Royal Library of Berlin, and one of these is the composition of the veritable Sixtus Beckmesser; but most of the Sachs manuscripts are in Zwickau. In the Bibliotheca Norica Williana, incorporated with the Municipal Library of Nuremberg, there are several volumes of mastersingers' songs purchased from an old mastersinger some 135 years ago, and from these the students may learn the structure and spirit of the mastersongs of the period of the opera as well as earlier and later periods, though he will find all the instruction he needs in any dozen or twenty of the 4275 mastersongs written by Hans Sachs. The manuscript books known serve to prove one thing which needed not to have called up a doubt. In them are poems from all of the mastersingers who make up the meeting which condemns Walther in St. Catherine's church. Wagner has adhered to the record. {2} The most interesting of Sixtus Beckmesser's compositions is "A New Year's Song," preserved in the handwriting of Sachs in the Royal Library at Berlin. This I have translated in order to show the form of the old mastersongs as described by the apprentice, David, in Wagner's comedy, and also to prove (so far as a somewhat free translation can) that the veritable Beckmesser was not the stupid dunce that Wagner, for purposes of his own, and tempted, doubtless, by the humor which he found in the name, represented him to be. In fact, I am strongly tempted to believe that with the exception of Sachs himself, Beckmesser was the best of the mastersingers of the Nuremberg school:-- A NEW YEAR'S SONG By Sixtus Beckmesser (First "Stoll") Joy Christian thoughts employ This day Doth say The Book of old That we should hold The faith foretold; For naught doth doubt afford. The patriarchs with one accord Lived hoping that the Lord Would rout the wicked horde. Thus saith the word To all believers given. (Second "Stoll") God Council held, triune, When soon The boon The son foresaw: Fulfilled the law That we might draw Salvation's prize. God then An angel sent cross moor and fen, ('Twas Gabriel, heaven's denizen,) To Mary, purest maid 'mongst men. He greeted her With blessings sent from heaven. (The "Abgesang") Thus spake the angel graciously: "The Lord with thee, Thou blessed she; The Lord's voice saith, Which breathes thy breath, That men have earned eternal death. Faith Saves alone from sin's subjection; For while weak Eve God's anger waked, 'Twas, Ave, thine the blest election To give the world peace and protection, Most blessed gift To mortals ever given!" In Nuremberg the veritable Hans Sachs wrote plays on Tännhauser, Tristan, and Siegfried between three and four hundred years before the poet-composer who put the old cobbler-poet into his comedy. Very naïve and very archaic indeed are Hans Sachs's dramas compared with Wagner's; but it is, perhaps, not an exaggeration to say that Sachs was as influential a factor in the dramatic life of his time as Wagner in ours. He was among the earliest of the German poets who took up the miracle plays and mysteries after they had been abandoned by the church and developed them on the lines which ran out into the classic German drama. His immediate predecessors were the writers of the so-called "Fastnacht" (Mardi-gras) plays, who flourished in Nuremberg in the fifteenth century. Out of these plays German comedy arose, and among those who rocked its cradle was another of the mastersingers who plays a part in Wagner's opera,--Hans Folz. It was doubtless largely due to the influence of Hans Sachs that the guild of mastersingers built the first German theatre in Nuremberg in 1550. Before then plays with religious subjects were performed in St. Catherine's church, as we have seen, the meeting place of the guild. Secular plays were represented in private houses. Hans Sachs wrote no less than 208 dramas, which he divided into "Carnival Plays," "Plays," "Comedies," and "Tragedies." He dropped the first designation in his later years, but his first dramatic effort was a Fastnachtspiel, and treated the subject of Tannhäuser and Venus. It bears the date February 21, 1517, and was therefore written 296 years before Wagner was born. Of what is now dramatic form and structure, there is not a sign in this play. It is merely a dialogue between Venus and various persons who stand for as many classes of society. The title is: "Das Hoffgesindt Veneris," or, as it might be rendered in English, "The Court of Venus." The characters are a Herald, Faithful Eckhardt, Danheuser (sic), Dame Venus, a Knight, Physician, Citizen, Peasant, Soldier, Gambler, Drunkard, Maid, and Wife. The Knight, Citizen, and the others appear in turn before Venus and express contempt for her powers,--the Knight because of his bravery, the Physician because of his learning, the Maid because of her virtue, the Wife because of her honor. Faithful Eckhardt, a character that figures in many Thuringian legends, especially in tales of the Wild Hunt, warns each person in turn to beware of Venus. The latter listens to each boast and lets loose an arrow. Each boaster succumbs with a short lamentation. When the play opens, Danheuser is already a prisoner of the goddess. After all the rest have fallen victims, he begs for his release, and they join in his petition. Venus rejects the prayer, speaks in praise of her powers, and calls on a piper for music. A general dance follows, whereupon the company go with the enchantress into the Venusberg. The last speech of Venus ends with the line:-- So says Hans Sachs of Nuremberg. There is but a single scene in "The Court of Venus." In other plays written in after years, no matter how often the action demanded it, there is neither change of scenes nor division into acts; and the personages, whether Biblical or classical, talk in the manner of the simple folk of the sixteenth century. Sachs's tragedy, "Von der strengen Lieb' Herrn Tristrant mit der schönen Königin Isalden" ("Of the strong love of Lord Tristram and the beautiful Queen Iseult"), contains seven acts, as is specified in the continuation of the title "und hat sieben Akte." It was written thirty-six years later than the carnival play and three years after the establishment of a theatre in Nuremberg by the mastersingers. Each act ends with a triple rhyme. Though Sachs uses stage directions somewhat freely compared with the other dramatists of the period, the personages all speak in the same manner, and time and space are annihilated in the action most bewilderingly. Thus, no sooner does Herr Tristrant volunteer to meet Morhold der Held to settle the question of "Curnewelshland's" tribute to "Irland" than the two are at it hammer and tongs on an island in the ocean. All the other incidents of the old legends follow as fast as they are mentioned. Tristrant saves his head in Ireland when discovered as the slayer of Morhold by ridding the country of a dragon, and is repeatedly convicted of treachery and taken back into confidence by König Marx, as one may read in Sir Thomas Malory's "Morte d'Arthur." Sachs follows an old conclusion of the story and gives Tristrant a second Iseult to wife, and she tells the lie about the sails. The first Iseult dies of a broken heart at the sight of her lover's bier, and the Herald in a speech draws the moral of the tale:-- Aus dem so lass dich treulich warnen, O Mensch, vor solcher Liebe Garnen, Und spar dein Lieb' bis in die Eh', Dann hab' Ein lieb' und keine meh. Diesselb' Lieb' ist mit Gott und Ehren, Die Welt damit fruchtbar zu mehren. Dazu giebt Gott selbst allewegen Sein' Gnad' Gedeihen und milden Segen. Dass stete Lieb' und Treu' aufwachs' Im ehlich'n Stand', das wünscht Hans Sachs. One of the most thrilling scenes in "Die Meistersinger" is the greeting of Hans Sachs by the populace when the hero enters with the mastersingers' guild at the festival of St. John (the chorus, "Wach' auf! es nahet gen den Tag"). Here there is another illustration of Wagner's adherence to the verities of history, or rather, of his employment of them. The words of the uplifting choral song are not Wagner's, but were written by the old cobbler-poet himself. Wagner's stage people apply them to their idol, but Sachs uttered them in praise of Martin Luther; they form the beginning of his poem entitled "The Wittenberg Nightingale," which was printed in 1523. To the old history of Nuremberg written by Wagenseil, Wagner went for other things besides the theatre and personages of his play. From it he got the rules which governed the meeting of the mastersingers, like that which follows the religious service in the church of St. Catherine in the first act, and the singular names of the melodies to which, according to David, the candidates for mastersingers' honors were in the habit of improvising their songs. In one instance he made a draft on an authentic mastersinger melody. The march which is used throughout the comedy to symbolize the guild begins as follows:-- [Musical excerpt] Here we have an exact quotation from the beginning of the first Gesetz in the "Long Tone" of Heinrich Müglin, which was a tune that every candidate for membership in the guild had to be able to sing. The old song is given in full in Wagenseil's book, and on the next page I have reproduced a portion of this song in fac-simile, so that my readers can observe the accuracy of Wagner's quotation and form an idea of the nature of the poetic frenzy which used to fill the mastersingers, as well as enjoy the ornamental passages (called "Blumen" in the old regulations) and compare them with the fiorituri of Beckmesser's serenade. There is no doubt in my mind but that Wagner's purpose in "Die Meistersinger" was to celebrate the triumph of the natural, poetical impulse, stimulated by healthy emotion and communion with nature, over pedantry and hide-bound conservatism. In the larger study of the opera made in another place, I have attempted to show that the contest is in reality the one which is always waging between the principles of romanticism and classicism, a contest which is essentially friendly and necessary to progress. The hero of the comedy is not Walther, but Sachs, who represents in himself both principles, who stands between the combatants and checks the extravagances of both parties. {3} Like Beethoven in his "Leonore" overtures written for the opera "Fidelio," Wagner constructs the symphonic introduction to his comedy so as to indicate the elements of his dramatic story, their progress in the development of the play, and, finally, the outcome. The melodies are of two sorts conforming to the two parties into which the personages of the play can be divided; and, like those parties, the melodies are broadly distinguished by external physiognomy and emotional essence. Most easily recognized are the two broad march tunes typical of the mastersingers and their pageantry. One of them has already been presented. Like its companion,-- [Musical excerpt] which opens the prelude, it is a strong, simple melody, made on the intervals of the diatonic scale, square-cut in rhythm, firm and dignified, and, like the mastersingers, complacent and a trifle pompous in stride. The three melodies which are presented in opposition to the spirit represented by the mastersingers and their typical music, are disclosed by a study of the comedy to be associated with the passion of the young lovers, Walther and Eva. They differ in every respect--melodic, rhythmic, and harmonic,--from those which stand for the old guildsmen and their rule-of-thumb notions. They are chromatic, as see this:-- [Musical excerpt] and this (which is the melody which in a broadened form becomes that of Walther's prize song):-- [Musical excerpt] and this, which is peculiarly the symbol of youthful ardor:-- [Musical excerpt] Their rhythms are less regular and more eager (note the influence of syncopation upon them); they are harmonized with greater warmth and infused with greater passion. In the development of the prelude these melodies are presented at first consecutively, then as in conflict (first one, then another pushing forward for expression), finally in harmonious and contented union. The middle part of the prelude, in which the opening march tune is heard in short, quick notes (in diminution, as the theoreticians say) maybe looked upon as caricaturing the mastersingers, not in their fair estate, but as they are satirized in the comedy in the person of Beckmesser. Footnotes: {1} "Joh. Christophori Wagenseilii De Sacri Rom. Imperii Libera Civitate Noribergensi Commentatio. Accedit, De Germaniae Phonascorum Von Der Meister-Singer Origine, Praestantia, Utilitate, et Institutis, Sermone Vernaculo Liber. Altdorf Noricorum Typis Impensisque Jodoci Wilhelmi Kohlesii. CID ICD XCVII." {2} I quote from Wagenseil's book--he is writing about the history of the mastersingers: "Nach der Stadt Mäyntz, hat in den Stätten Nürnberg und Strassburg / die Meister-Singer-Kunst sonderlich floriret / wie dann auchXII. Alte Nürnbergische Meister annoch im Beruff sind; so mit Namen geheissen / 1. Veit Pogner. 2. Cuntz Vogelgesang. 3. Hermann Ortel. 4. Conrad Nachtigal. 5. Fritz Zorn. 6. Sixtus Beckmesser. 7. Fritz Kohtner. 8. Niclaus Vogel. 9. Augustin Moser. 10. Hannss Schwartz. 11. Ulrich Eisslinger. 12. Hannss Foltz." {3} "In the musical contest it is only the perverted idea of Classicism which is treated with contumely and routed; the glorification of the triumph of Romanticism is found in the stupendously pompous and brilliant setting given to the mastersingers' music at the end. You see already in this prelude that Wagner is a true comedian. He administers chastisement with a smile and chooses for its subject only things which are temporary aberrations from the good. What is strong, and true, and pure, and wholesome in the art of the mastersingers he permits to pass through his satirical fires unscathed. Classicism, in its original sense as the conservator of that which is highest and best in art, he leaves unharmed, presenting her after her trial, as Tennyson presents his Princess at the close of his corrective poem, when "All Her falser self slipt from her like a robe, And left her woman, lovelier in her mood Than in her mould that other, when she came From barren deeps to conquer all with love." --"Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," by H. E. Krehbiel, p. 95. CHAPTER XVI "LOHENGRIN" In the last hundred lines of the last book of his epic poem to which Wagner went for the fundamental incidents, not principles, of his "Parsifal," Wolfram von Eschenbach tells the story of one of the Grail King's sons whom he calls Loherangrin. This son was a lad when Parzival (thus Wolfram spells the name) became King of the Holy Grail and the knights who were in its service. When he had grown to manhood, there lived in Brabant a queen who was equally gifted in beauty, wealth, and gentleness. Many princes sought her hand in marriage, but she refused them all, and waited for the coming of one whom God had disclosed to her in a vision. One day a knight of great beauty and nobley, as Sir Thomas Mallory would have said, came to Antwerp in a boat drawn by a swan. To him the queen at once gave greeting as lord of her dominions; but in the presence of the assembled folk he said to her: "If I am to become ruler of this land, know that it will be at great sacrifice to myself. Should you nevertheless wish me to remain with you, you must never ask who I am; otherwise I must leave you forever." The queen made solemn protestation that she would never do aught against his will. Then her marriage with the stranger knight was celebrated, and they abode together long in happiness and honor. But at the last the queen was led to put the fatal question. Then the swan appeared with the boat, and Loherangrin, for it was he, was drawn back to Montsalvat, whence he had come. But to those whom he left behind he gave his sword, horn, and ring. There are other mediaeval poems which deal with the story of Lohengrin, more, indeed, than can or need be discussed here. Some, however, deserve consideration because they supply elements which Wagner used in his opera but did not find in Wolfram's poem. Wagner went, very naturally, to a poem of the thirteenth century, entitled "Lohengrin," for the majority of the incidents of the drama. Thence he may have drawn the motive for the curiosity of Elsa touching the personality of her husband. Of course, it lies in human nature, as stories which are hundreds if not thousands of years older attest; but I am trying, as I have been in preceding chapters in this book, to account for the presence of certain important elements in Wagner's opera, and so this poem must also be considered. In it Lohengrin rescues Elsa, the Duchess of Brabant, from the false accusations of Telramund, the knight having been summoned from Montsalvat (or "Monsalväsch," to be accurate) by the ringing of a bell which Elsa had taken from a falcon's leg. The knight marries her, but first exacts a promise that she will never seek of him knowledge of his race or country. After the happy domestic life of the pair has been described, it is told how Lohengrin overthrew the Duke of Cleves at a tournament in Cologne and broke his arm. The Duchess of Cleves felt humiliated at the overthrow of her husband by a knight of whom nothing was known, and wickedly insinuated that it was a pity that so puissant a jouster should not be of noble birth, thereby instilling a fatal curiosity into the mind of the Lady of Brabant, which led to questions which Lohengrin answered before the emperor's court and then disappeared from view. From "Der jüngere Titurel," another mediaeval poem, came the suggestion that the mysterious knight's prowess was due to sorcery and might be set at naught if his bodily integrity were destroyed even in the slightest degree. In the French tale of "Le Chevalier au Cygne," as told in the "Chansons de geste," you may read the story of Helyas, who was one of seven children of King Oriant and Queen Beatrix, who were born with silver chains around their necks. The chains being removed with evil purpose, the children turned into swans and flew away--all but one, Helyas, who was absent at the time. But Helyas got possession of all the chains but one, which had been wrought into a cup, and one day, when he heard the sound of wings, and six swans let themselves down into the water, he threw the chains around their necks, and they at once assumed the forms of his brothers. Also how, one day, Helyas, from the window of his palace, saw a swan drawing a boat, and how he donned his armor, took a golden horn, and was drawn away to Nimwegen, where Emperor Otto was holding court. There he found that the Count of Blankenbourg had accused his sister-in-law, the Duchess of Bouillon, of having poisoned her husband, and had laid claim to the duchy. There was to be a trial by ordeal of battle, and while the duchess waited for the coming of a champion, lo! there was the sound of a horn, and Helyas came down the river in a boat drawn by a swan, undertook the cause of the innocent lady, slew her accuser, and married her daughter. For long she was a good and faithful wife, and bore him a child who became the mother of Godfrey de Bouillon, Baldwin de Sebourg, and Eustace de Boulogne. But one day she asked of her lord his name and race. Then he bade her repair to Nimwegen, and commending her and her daughter to the care of the emperor, he departed thence in a swan-drawn boat and was never seen more. Here we have the essentials of the story which Wagner wrought into his opera "Lohengrin" Only a few details need be added to make the plot complete. The meeting of Lohengrin and Elsa takes place on the banks of the river Scheldt in Brabant. The King has come to ask the help of the Brabantians against the Huns, who are invading Germany. He finds Brabant in a disturbed state. The throne is vacant; Count Frederick of Telramund, who has his eyes upon it, had offered his hand in marriage to Elsa, who, with her brother, Gottfried, had been left in his care on the death of their father, but had met with a refusal. He had then married Ortrud, a Frisian princess. She is the last of a royal line, but a pagan, and practises sorcery. To promote the ambition of herself and her husband, she has changed Gottfried into a swan by throwing a magical chain about his neck, and persuaded Telramund to accuse Elsa of having murdered the boy in the hope of enjoying the throne together with a secret lover. The King summons Elsa to answer the charge and decrees trial by ordeal of battle. Commanded to name her champion, she tells of a knight seen in a dream: upon him alone will she rely. Not until the second call of the Herald has gone out and Elsa has fallen to her knees in prayer does the champion appear. He is a knight in shining white armor who comes in a boat drawn by a swan. He accepts the gage of battle, after asking Elsa whether or not she wants him to be her husband if victorious in the combat, and exacting a promise never to ask of him whence he came or what his name or race. He overcomes Telramund, but gives him his life; the King, however, banishes the false accuser and sets the stranger over the people of Brabant with the title of Protector. Telramund is overwhelmed by his misfortunes, but Ortrud urges him to make another trial to regain what he has lost. The knight, she says, had won by witchcraft, and if but the smallest joint of his body could be taken from him, he would be impotent. Together they instil disquiet and suspicion into the mind of Elsa as she is about to enter the minster to be married. After the wedding guests have departed, her newly found happiness is disturbed by doubt, and a painful curiosity manifests itself in her speech. Lohengrin admonishes, reproves, and warns in words of tenderest love. He had given up greater glories than his new life had to offer out of love for her. A horrible fear seizes her: he who had so mysteriously come would as mysteriously depart. Cost what it may, she must know who he is. She asks the question, but before he can reply Telramund rushes into the room with drawn weapon. Elsa has but time to hand Lohengrin his sword, with which he stretches the would-be assassin dead on the chamber floor. Then he commands that the body be carried before the King, whither he also directs her maids to escort his wife. There is another conclave of King and nobles. Lohengrin asks if he had acted within his right in slaying Telramund, and his deed is approved by all. Then he gives public answer to Elsa's question: In distant lands, where ye can never enter, A castle stands and Montsalvat its name; A radiant temple rises from its center More glorious far than aught of earthly fame. And there a vessel of most wondrous splendor, A shrine, most holy, guarded well doth rest, To which but mortals purest service render-- 'Twas brought to earth by hosts of angels blest! Once every year a dove from heaven descendeth To strengthen then its wondrous powers anew: 'Tis called the Grail--and purest faith it lendeth To those good knights who are its chosen few. To serve the Grail whoe'er is once elected Receives from it a supernatural might; From baneful harm and fraud is he protected, Away from him flees death and gloom of night! Yea, whom by it to distant lands is bidden As champion to some virtuous cause maintain, Well knows its powers are from him never hidden, If, as its knight, he unrevealed remain. Such wondrous nature is the Grail's great blessing, Reveal'd must then the knight from mortals flee: Let not rest in your hearts a doubt oppressing,-- If known to you he saileth o'er the sea. Now list what he to you in troth declareth: The Grail obeying here to you I came. My father Parzival, a crown he weareth, His knight am I and Lohengrin my name! {1} A prohibition which rests upon all who are served by a Knight of the Grail having been violated, he must depart from thence; but before going he gives his sword, horn, and ring to Elsa, and tells her that had he been permitted to live but one year at her side, her brother would have returned in conduct of the Grail. The swan appears to convey him back to his resplendent home. Ortrud recognizes the chain around its neck and gloats over her triumph; but Lohengrin hears her shout. He sinks on his knees in silent prayer. As he rises, a white dove floats downward toward the boat. Lohengrin detaches the chain from the neck of the swan. The bird disappears, and in its place stands Gottfried, released from the spell put upon him by the sorceress. The dove draws the boat with its celestial passenger away, and Elsa sinks lifeless into the arms of her brother. In this story of Lohengrin there is an admixture of several elements which once had no association. It is the story of an adventure of a Knight of the Holy Grail; also a story involving the old principle of taboo; and one of many stories of the transformation of a human being into a swan, or a swan into a human being. This swan myth is one of the most widely spread of all transformation tales; it may even be found in the folk-stories of the American Indians. To discuss this feature would carry one too far afield, and I have a different purpose in view. * * * The two Figaro operas, the discussion of which opened this book, were composed by different men, and a generation of time separated their production. The opera which deals with the second chapter of the adventures of Seville's factotum was composed first, and is the greater work of the two; yet we have seen how pleasantly they can be associated with each other, and, no doubt, many who admire them have felt with me the wish that some musician with sufficient skill and the needful reverence would try the experiment of remodelling the two and knitting their bonds closer by giving identity of voice to the personages who figure in both. The Wagnerian list presents something like a parallel, and it would be a pleasant thing if two of the modern poet-composer's dramas which have community of subject could be brought into similar association, so that one might be performed as a sequel to the other. The operas are "Lohengrin" and "Parsifal." A generation also lies between them, and they ought to bear a relationship to each other something like that existing between "Le Nozze di Figaro" and "Il Barbiere di Siviglia." Indeed, the bond ought to be closer, for one man wrote books and music as well of the Grail dramas, whereas different librettists and different composers created the Figaro comedies. But it will never be possible to bring Wagner's most popular opera and his "stage-consecrating play" into logical union, notwithstanding that both deal with the legend of the Holy Grail and that the hero of one proclaims himself to be the son of the hero of the other. Wagner cast a loving glance at the older child of his brain when he quoted some of the "swan music" of "Lohengrin "in "Parsifal"; but he built an insurmountable wall between them when he forsook the sane and simple ideas which inspired him in writing "Lohengrin" for the complicated fabric of mediaeval Christianity and Buddhism which he strove to set forth in "Parsifal." In 1847 Wagner was willing to look at the hero of the quest of the Holy Grail whom we call Percival through the eyes of his later guide, Wolfram von Eschenbach. To Wolfram Parzival was a married man; more than that--a married lover, clinging with devotion to the memory of the wife from whose arms he had torn himself to undertake the quest, and losing himself in tender brooding for days when the sight of blood-spots on the snow suggested to his fancy the red and white of fair Konwiramur's cheeks. Thirty years later Wagner could only conceive of his Grail hero as a celibate and an ascetic. Lohengrin glories in the fact that he is the son of him who wears the crown of the Grail; but Parsifal disowns his son. This is one instance of the incoherency of the two Grail dramas. There is another, and by this second departure from the old legends which furnished forth his subject, Wagner made "Lohengrin" and "Parsifal" forever irreconcilable. The whole fabric of the older opera rests on the forbidden question:-- Nie solist du mich befragen, noch Wissen's Sorge tragen, woher ich kam der Fahrt, noch wie mein Nam' und Art. {2} So impressed was Wagner with the significance of this dramatic motive sixty years ago, that he gave it a musical setting which still stands as the finest of all his many illustrations of the principle of fundamental or typical phrases in dramatic music:-- [Musical excerpt--"Nie sollst du mich befragen"] And no wonder. No matter where he turned in his studies of the Grail legend, he was confronted by the fact that it was by asking a question that the seeker after the Grail was to release the ailing king, whom he found in the castle in which the talismans were preserved, from his sufferings. In the Welsh tale of Peredur and the French romances the question went only to the meaning of the talismans; but this did not suffice Wolfram von Eschenbach, who in many ways raised the ethical standard of the Grail legend. He changed the question so as to make it a sign of affectionate and compassionate interest on the part of the questioner; it was no longer, "What mean the bloody head and the bleeding lance?" but "What ails thee, uncle?" Wagner was fond, a little overfond, indeed, of appealing to the public over the heads of the critics, of going to the jury rather than the judge, when asking for appreciation of his dramas; but nothing is plainer to the close student than that he was never wholly willing to credit the public with possession of that high imaginativeness to which his dramas more than those of any other composer make appeal. His first conception of the finale of "Tannhäuser," for instance, was beautiful, poetical, and reasonable; for the sake of a spectacle he reconstructed it after the original production and plunged it into indefensible confusion and absurdity. A desire to abstain as much as possible from criticism (that not being the purpose of this book) led me to avoid mention of this circumstance in the exposition of "Tannhäuser"; but I find that I must now set it forth, though briefly. In the original form of the opera there was no funeral procession and no death of the hero beside the bier of the atoning saint. The scene between Tannhäuser and Wolfram was interrupted by the tolling of a bell in the castle to indicate the death of Elizabeth and the appearance of a glow of rose-colored light across the valley to suggest the presence of Venus. By bringing the corpse of Elizabeth on the stage so that Tannhäuser might die by its side, Wagner was guilty of worse than an anachronism. The time which elapses in the drama between Elizabeth's departure from the scene and her return as a corpse is just as long as the song which Wolfram sings in which he apostrophizes her as his "holder Abendstern"--just as long and not a moment longer. There is no question here of poetical license, for Wolfram sings the apostrophe after her retreating figure, and the last chord of his postlude is interrupted by Tannhäuser's words, "Ich hörte Harfenschlag!" Yet we are asked to assume that in the brief interim Elizabeth has ascended the mountain to the Wartburg, died, been prepared for burial, and brought back to the valley as the central object of a stately funeral. It would have been much wiser to have left the death of Elizabeth to the imagination of the public than to have made the scene ridiculous. But Wagner was afraid to do that, lest his purpose be overlooked. He was a master of theatrical craft, and though he could write a tragedy like "Tristan und Isolde," with little regard for external action, he was quite unwilling to miss so effective a theatrical effect as the death of Tannhäuser beside Elizabeth's bier. After all, he did not trust the public, whose judgment he affected to place above that of his critics, and for this reason, while he was willing to call up memories of his earlier opera by quoting some of its music in "Parsifal," he ignored the question which plays so important a rôle in "Lohengrin," and made the healing of Amfortas depend upon a touch of the talismanic spear--a device which came into the Grail story from pagan sources, as I have already pointed out. Now, why was the questioning of Lohengrin forbidden? Wolfram von Eschenbach tells us, and his explanation sufficed Wagner when he made his first studies of the Grail legends as a preparation for "Lohengrin." It was the Holy Grail itself which pronounced the taboo. An inscription appeared on the talisman one day commanding that whenever a Knight of the Grail went into foreign lands to assume rule over a people, he was to admonish them not to question him concerning his name and race; should the question be put, he was to leave them at once. And the reason? Weil der gute Amfortas So lang in bittern Schmerzen lag, Und ihn die Frage lange mied, Ist ihnen alles Fragen leid; All des Grales Dienstgesellen Wollen sich nicht mehr fragen lassen. The same explanation is made in the mediaeval poem "Lohengrin." We are not called upon to admire the logic of Wolfram and the Knights of the Grail, but nothing could be plainer than this: The sufferings of Amfortas having been wofully prolonged by Parzival's failure to ask the healing question, the Knights of the Grail were thereafter required by their oracular guide to prohibit all questioning of themselves under penalty of forfeiture of their puissant help. When Wagner wrote his last drama, he was presented with a dilemma: should he remain consistent and adhere to the question as a dramatic motive, or dare the charge of inconsistency for the sake of that bit of spectacular apparatus, the sacred lance? He chose inconsistency and the show, and emphasized the element of relic worship to such a degree as to make his drama foreign to the intellectual and religious habits of the time in which he wrote. But this did not disturb him; for he knew that beauty addresses itself to the emotions rather than the intellect, and that his philosophical message of the redeeming power of loving comnpassion would find entrance to the hearts of the people over all the obstacles that reason might interpose. Yet he destroyed all the poetical bonds which ought or might have existed between "Parsifal" and "Lohengrin." It was Wagner who created the contradiction which puts his operas in opposition by his substitution of the sacred lance as a dramatic motive for the question. But poets had long before taken the privilege of juggling with two elements of ancient myths and folk-tales which are blended in the story of Lohengrin. Originally there was no relationship between the Knight of the Holy Grail and the Swan Knight, and there is no telling when the fusion of the tales was made. But the element of the forbidden question is of unspeakable antiquity and survives in the law of taboo which exists among savages to-day. When Wagner discussed his opera in his "Communication to My Friends" he pointed out the resemblance between the story of Lohengrin and the myth of Zeus and Semele. Its philosophical essence he proclaimed to be humanity's feeling of the necessity of love. Elsa was "the woman who drew Lohengrin from the sunny heights to the depths of earth's warm heart. . . . Thus yearned he for woman--for the human heart. And thus did he step down from out his loneliness of sterile bliss when he heard this woman's cry for succor, this heart cry from humanity below." This is all very well, and it would be churlish to say that it is not beautifully reflected in Wagner's drama; but it does not explain the need of the prohibition. A woman who loves must have unquestioning faith in her husband--that is all. But there are two ancient myths which show that the taboo was conceived as a necessary ingredient of the association of divine men with human women. Let both be recalled, for both have plainly gone over into the mediaeval story. The first is the one to which Wagner made allusion: Jupiter has given his love to Semele. Wickedly prompted by the jealous Juno, Semele asks her august lover to grant her a wish. He promises that she shall have her desire, and confirms his words with the irrevocable oath, swearing by the Stygian flood. Semele asks him then to appear to her in all his celestial splendor. The god would have stopped her when he realized her purpose, but it was too late. Sorrowfully he returned to the celestial abode and fearfully he put on his lesser panoply. Arrayed in this he entered the chamber of Semele, but though he had left behind him the greater splendors, the immortal radiance consumed her to ashes. That is one story; the other is the beautiful fable, freighted with ethical symbolism, which Apulcius gave to literature in the second century of the Christian era, though, no doubt, his exquisite story is only the elaboration of a much older conceit. Psyche, the daughter of a king, arouses the envy of Venus because of her beauty, and the goddess's anger because of the feeling which that beauty inspires among men. She resolves to punish her presumptuous mortal rival, and sends Cupid as her messenger of vengeance. But the God of Love falls himself a victim to the maiden's charms. The spell which he puts upon her he cannot wholly dissipate. Hosts of admirers still follow Psyche, but no worthy man offers her marriage. Her parents consult the oracle of Apollo, who tells him that she is doomed to become the wife of a monster who lives upon a high mountain. The maiden sees in this a punishment meted out by Venus and offers herself as a propitiatory sacrifice. Left alone by parents and friends, she climbs the rocky steeps and falls asleep in the wilderness. Thither come the Zephyrs and carry her to a beautiful garden, where unseen hands serve her sumptuously in a magnificent palace and the voices of invisible singers ravish her cars with music. Every night she is visited by a mysterious being who lavishes loving gifts upon her, but forbids her to look upon his face, and disappears before dawn. Psyche's sisters, envious of her good fortune and great happiness, fill her mind with wicked doubt and distrust. A fatal curiosity seizes upon her, and one night she uncovers her lamp to look upon the form of her doting companion. Instead of the monster spoken of by the oracle, she sees the loveliest of the immortals. It is Cupid who lies sleeping before her, with snowy wings folded, and golden ringlets clustering about his shoulders. Anxious for a closer view, Psyche leans over him, but a drop of hot oil falls from the lamp upon his shining skin. The god awakes, and without a word flies out of the window. Palace and garden disappear, and Psyche is left alone to suffer the consequences of her foolish curiosity. After wandering long in search of the lost one, she wins the sympathy of Ceres, who advises her to seek out Venus and offer reparation. She becomes the slave of the goddess, who imposes cruel tasks upon her. But at length Cupid can no longer endure to be separated from her, and goes to Jupiter, who intercedes with Venus and wins her forgiveness for Psyche. Then the supreme god gives her immortality, and she becomes forever the wife of Cupid. There are two other points, one legendary, one historical, which ought to be mentioned for the sake of those who like to know the sources of stories like that of Lohengrin. The ancient Angles had a saga which told of the arrival in their country of a boat, evidently sailless, oarless, and rudderless, containing only a child surrounded by arms and treasure. They brought him up and called him Skéaf (from which word our "sheaf"), because he lay upon a bundle of grain. He became king of the people, and, when he felt death upon him, commanded to be carried back to the shore where he had been found. There lay the boat in which he had come, and when his dead body was placed in it, it moved away of its own accord. From him descended a race of kings. Here, I am inclined to see a survival of the story of Danaë and her child Perseus found floating on the sea in a chest, as sung by Simonides. The historical element in "Lohengrin" is compassed by the figure of the king, who metes out justice melodiously in the opening and closing scenes. It is King Henry I of Germany, called the Fowler, who reigned from A.D. 918 to 936. He was a wise, brave, and righteous king, who fought the savage Huns, and for his sake the management of the festival performances at Bayreuth, in 1894, introduced costumes of the tenth century. Footnotes: {1} John P. Jackson's translation. {2} In Mr. John P. Jackson's translation:-- Ne'er with thy fears shalt task me, Nor questions idly ask me: The land and from whence I came, Nor yet my race and name. CHAPTER XVII "HÄNSEL UND GRETEL" In many respects "Hänsel und Gretel" is the most interesting opera composed since "Parsifal," and, by being an exception, proves the rule to which I directed some remarks in the chapter on "Don Giovanni." For a quarter of a century the minds of musical critics and historians have been occupied at intervals with the question whether or not progress in operatic composition is possible on the lines laid down by Wagner. Of his influence upon all the works composed within a period twice as long there never was a doubt; but this influence manifested itself for the greater part in modifications of old methods rather than the invention of new. In Germany attempts have been made over and over again to follow Wagner's system, but though a few operas thus produced have had a temporary success, in the end it has been found that the experiments have all ended in failures. It was but natural that the fact should provoke discussion. If no one could write successfully in Wagner's manner, was there a future for the lyric drama outside of a return to the style which he had striven to overthrow? If there was no such future, was the fact not proof of the failure of the Wagnerian movement as a creative force? The question was frequently answered in a spirit antagonistic to Wagner; but many of the answers were overhasty and short-sighted. It needed only that one should come who had thoroughly assimilated Wagner's methods and had the genius to apply them in a spirit of individuality, to demonstrate that it was possible to continue the production of lyric dramas without returning to the hackneyed manner of the opposing school. The composer who did this was Engelbert Humperdinck, and it is particularly noteworthy that his demonstration acquired its most convincing force from the circumstance that instead of seeking his material in the myths of antiquity, as Wagner did, he found them in the nursery. While emphasizing this fact, however, it is well not to forget that in turning to the literature of folklore for an operatic subject Humperdinck was only carrying out one of the principles for which Wagner contended. The Mährchen of a people are quite as much a reflex of their intellectual, moral, and emotional life as their heroic legends and myths. In fact, they are frequently only the fragments of stories which, when they were created, were embodiments of the most profound and impressive religious conceptions of which the people were capable. The degeneration of the sun god of our Teutonic forefathers into the Hans of Grimm's tale, who could not learn to shiver and shake, through the Sinfiotle of the "Volsunga Saga" and the Siegfried of the "Nibelungenlied," is so obvious that it needs no commentary. Neither should the translation of Brynhild into Dornröschen, the Sleeping Beauty of our children's tales. The progress illustrated in these examples is that from myth to Mährchen, and Humperdinck in writing his fairy opera, or nursery opera if you will, paid tribute to German nationality in the same coin that Wagner did when he created his "Ring of the Nibelung." Everything about "Hänsel und Gretel" is charming to those who can feel their hearts warm toward the family life and folklore of Germany, of which we are, or ought to be, inheritors. The opera originated, like Thackeray's delightful fireside pantomime for great and small children, "The Rose and the Ring." The composer has a sister, Frau Adelheid Wette, wife of a physician in Cologne. She, without any particular thought of literary activity, had been in the habit of writing little plays for production within the family circle. For these plays her brother provided the music. In this way grew the first dramatic version of the story of Hänsel and Gretel, which, everybody who has had a German nurse or has read Grimm's fairy tales knows, tells the adventures of two children, a brother and sister, who, driven into the woods, fell into the toils of the Crust Witch (Knusperhexe), who enticed little boys and girls into her house, built of gingerbread and sweetmeats, and there ate them up. The original performers of the principal characters in the play were the daughters of Frau Wette. Charmed with the effect of the fanciful little comedy, Herr Humperdinck suggested its expansion into a piece of theatrical dimensions; and the opera was the result. It was brought forward for the first time in public on December 23, 1893, in Weimar, and created so profound an impression that it speedily took possession of all the principal theatres of Germany, crossed the channel into England, made its way into Holland, Belgium, and Italy, and reached America within two years. Its first performance in New York was in an English version at Daly's Theatre on October 8, 1895. There were drawbacks in the representation which prevented a success, but after it had been incorporated in the German repertory of the Metropolitan Opera-house in the season of 1895-1896 it became as much of a permanency as any opera in the list. Humperdinck has built up the musical structure of "Hänsel und Gretel" in the Wagnerian manner, but has done it with so much fluency and deftness that a musical layman might listen to it from beginning to end without suspecting the fact, save from the occasional employment of what may be called Wagnerian idioms. The little work is replete with melodies which, though original, bear a strong family resemblance to two little songs which the children sing at the beginning of the first and second acts, and which are veritable nursery songs in Germany. These ditties and the principal melodies consorted with them contribute characteristic motifs out of which the orchestral part is constructed; and these motifs are developed in accordance with an interrelated scheme every bit as logical and consistent as the scheme at the bottom of "Tristan und Isolde." As in that stupendous musical tragedy, the orchestra takes the part played by the chorus in Greek tragedy, so in "Hänsel und Gretel" it unfolds the thoughts, motives, and purposes of the personages of the play and lays bare the simple mysteries of the plot and counterplot. The careless happiness of the children, the apprehension of the parents, promise and fulfilment, enchantment and disenchantment--all these things are expounded by the orchestra in a fine flood of music, highly ingenious in contrapuntal texture, rich in instrumental color, full of rhythmical life, on the surface of which the idyllic play floats buoyantly, like a water-lily which starts and slides Upon the level in little puffs of wind, Tho' anchored to the bottom. It is necessary, because the music is so beautiful and also because the piece, like the "Leonore" overtures of Beethoven and the "Meistersinger" prelude of Wagner (of which, indeed, it is a pretty frank imitation) is a sort of epitome of the play, to spend some time with the prelude to "Hänsel und Gretel." After I have done this I shall say what I have to say about the typical phrases of the score as they are reached, and shall leave to the reader the agreeable labor of discovering the logical scheme underlying their introduction and development. The prelude is built out of a few themes which are associated with some of the most significant elements of the play. Not one of them is a personal label, as is widely, but erroneously, supposed to be the case in Wagner's dramas. They stand for dramatic ideas and agencies, and when these are passed in review, as it is purposed shall be done presently, it will be found that not the sinister but the amiable features of the story have been chosen for celebration in the overture. Here, too, in what may be called the ethical meaning of the prelude, Humperdinck has followed the example of Wagner in the prelude to his comedy. Simply for the sake of identification hereafter names will be attached to the themes out of which the prelude is constructed and which come from the chief melodic factors of the opera. The most important of these is the melody sung by the horns at the beginning:-- [Musical excerpt] Let it be called the "Prayer Theme," for the melody is that of the prayer which the little ones utter before laying themselves down to sleep in the wood. The melody seems to be associated throughout the opera with the idea of divine guardianship, and is first heard in the first scene, when Hänsel, having complained of hunger, Gretel gently chides him and holds out comfort in the words (here I use the English version of the opera):-- When past bearing is our grief God, the Lord, will send relief. Humperdinck's splendid contrapuntal skill shows itself in a most varied use of this theme. Once in the prelude it appears in three different forms simultaneously, and in an augmented shape it forms the substratum of the prelude, while other themes are cunningly woven above it. The second theme is an exceedingly bright and energetic little phrase with which the rapid portion of the prelude begins. It shall be called the "Counter-Charm" theme, because it is the melodic phrase which serves as a formula with which the spell which the witch puts upon her victims is released by her as well as by the children who overhear it. When it occurs in the play it has this form:-- [Musical excerpt--"hocus pocus elder bush!"] Words and music come from the mouth of Gretel when she releases Hänsel from the spell in the third act, and from that of Hänsel when he performs the same office for the gingerbread children. After two phrases of minor significance there comes the "Theme of Fulfilment," so called because of its association with the answer to the prayer for protection in the woods. Thus it forms part of the dawn music at the beginning of the third act when the children are awakened by the Dewman. It makes up the original part of the song of this Dawn Fairy and is the melody to which Hänsel and Gretel sing their explanation to the wondering gingerbread children:-- The angels whispered in dreams to us in silent night What this happy day has brought to light. [Musical excerpt] There is a fourth theme, the "Theme of Rejoicing" which is the inspiration of the dance which the gingerbread children execute around Hänsel and Gretel to celebrate their release from the enchantment put upon them by the wicked Witch. At the parting of the curtain we see the interior of the hut of a poor broom-maker. Specimens of his handiwork hang upon the walls. A tiny window beside the door in the background, shows a glimpse of the forest beyond. Hänsel and Gretel are at work, he making brooms, she knitting. Gretel sings an old German folk-song, beginning thus:-- [Musical excerpt--"Suse liebe suse was raschelt im stroh?"] All the melodies in this act have a strong family resemblance, but this song, a cradle song of the long ago, is the only one not composed by Humperdinck. Miss Constance Bache has failed, in her English translation, to reproduce the quaint sentiment of the old song, which calls attention to the fact that all geese are shoeless. It is not for want of leather,--the shoemaker has that in plenty,--but he has no lasts, and so the poor things must needs go barefoot. The song invites a curious historical note. "Suse" and "Sause" were common expressions in the cradle songs which used to be sung to the Christ-child in the German churches at Christmas when the decadent nativity plays (now dwarfed to a mere tableau of the manger, the holy parents, and the adoring shepherds and magi) were still cultivated. From the old custom termed Kindeiwiegen, which remained in the German Protestant Church centuries after the Reformation, Luther borrowed the refrain, "Susaninne" for one of his Christmas chorales. The beginning of the little song which Gretel sings used to be "Sause liebe Ninne," which, of course, is Luther's "Susaninne." The song dominates the whole of the first act. Out of portions of its melody grows a large part of the instrumental accompaniment to the melodious recitative in which the dialogue is carried on. Through expressive changes, not only in this act, but later also, it provides a medium for much dramatic expression. A little motif with which the orchestra introduces it develops into a song, with which Hänsel greets his sister's announcement that a neighbor has sent in some milk, and when Gretel, as soon as she does, attempts to teach Hänsel how to dance, the delightful little polka tune which the two sing is almost a twin brother to the cradle song. It is the gift of milk which directly brings the sinister element into the play. The mother comes home weary, hungry, and out of humor. She finds that the children have neglected their work, and while attempting to punish them she overturns the milk jug. It is the last straw, and, with threats of a terrible beating if they do not bring home a heaping basket of berries for supper, she drives the little ones out into the forest. Exhausted, she falls asleep beside the hearth. From the distance comes the voice of the broom-maker trolling a song which is now merry, now sad. He enters his hut in great good humor, however, for he has sold all his wares and comes with his basket loaded with good things to eat and no inconsiderable quantity of kümmel in his stomach. Till now, save for the few moments which followed the entrance of the mother, the music has echoed nothing but childish joy. All this is changed, however, when the father, inquiring after his children, learns that they have gone into the woods. He tells his wife the legend of the Witch of the Ilsenstein and her dreadful practices, while the orchestra builds up a gruesome picture out of fragments from the innocent song which had opened the act. Fearful for the fate of her children, the mother dashes into the forest, followed by the broom-maker. A musical delineation of a witch's ride separates the first and second acts. It is a garishly colored composition beginning with a pompous proclamation of the "Theme of the Witch":-- [Musical excerpt] This is interwoven with echoes from the song of the broom-maker, and, as might be expected, a great deal of chromatic material, such as seems indispensable in musical pictures of the supernatural. Towards the close the weird elements gradually disappear and give way to a peaceful forest mood, pervaded by a long-drawn melody from the trumpet, accompanied by sounds suggestive of the murmuring of trees. The parting of the curtain discovers a scene in the depths of the woods. Gretel sits under a large tree weaving a garland of flowers. Hänsel is picking strawberries. The sun is setting. Gretel sings another folk-song, the meaning of which is lost to those who are unfamiliar with the song in the original. It is a riddle of the German nursery: "A little man stands in the forest, silent and alone, wearing a purplish red mantle. He stands on one leg, and wears a little black cap. Who is the little man?" Answer:--the Hagebutte; i.e. the rose apple, fruit of the rose tree. After the Witch's ride, nothing could be more effective in restoring the ingenuous mood essential to the play than this song, which is as graceful and pretty in melody as it is arch in sentiment. With the dialogue which follows, a variation of the closing cadence of the song is sweetly blended by the orchestra. Hänsel crowns Gretel Queen of the Woods with the floral wreath, and is doing mock reverence to her when a cuckoo calls from a distance. The children mimic the cry, then playfully twit the bird with allusions to its bad practice of eating the eggs of other birds and neglecting its own offspring. Then they play at cuckoo, eating the strawberries in lieu of eggs, until the basket is empty. They remember the threat of their mother, and want to fill the basket again, but darkness is settling around them. They lose their way, and their agitated fancy sees spectres and goblins all around them. Hänsel tries to reassure his sister by hallooing, and scores of voices send back echoes, while the cuckoo continues its lonely cry. Gretel is overcome by fear for a moment, and Hänsel, too, succumbs to fright when he sees a figure approaching through the mist. But it is not a goblin, as the children think--only the Sandman, a little gray, stoop-shouldered old man, carrying a bag. He smiles reassuringly and sings a song of his love for children, while he sprinkles sleep-sand in the eyes of the pair. The second part of his song introduces another significant phrase into the score; it is the "Theme of Promise," to which the Sleep Fairy sings the assurance that the angels give protection and send sweet dreams to good children while they are asleep:-- [Musical excerpt] "Sandman has been here," says Hänsel, sleepily; "let us say our evening blessing." They kneel and repeat the prayer to the melody which has been called the "Prayer Theme," then go to sleep in each other's arms. All has been dark. Now a bright light pierces the mist, which gathers itself into a cloud that gradually takes the shape of a staircase reaching apparently from heaven to earth. The orchestra plays a beautiful and extended piece of music, of which the principal melodic material is derived from the themes of "Prayer" and "Promise," while seven pairs of angels descend the cloud-stairs and group themselves about the little sleepers, and a golden host extends upward to the celestial abode. By this time the scene is filled with a glory of light, and the curtain closes. The greater part of the dramatic story is told in, the third act. The opening of the curtain is preceded by a brief instrumental number, the principal elements of which are a new theme:-- [Musical excerpt] and the "Theme of Fulfilment." The significance of the latter in this place is obvious: the promised benison to the children has been received. The former theme is a pretty illustration of what has already been said of Humperdinck's consistent devotion to the folk-song spirit in his choice of melodies. The phrase has an interrogatory turn and is, in fact, the melody of the mysterious question which comes from the house of the Witch a few minutes later, when the children help themselves to some of the toothsome material out of which the magic structure is built:-- [Musical excerpt--"Nibble, nibble, mouskin, Who's nibbling at my housekin?"] Simple as this little phrase is, it is yet a draught from a song-game that comes nigh to being universal. No phrase is more prevalent among nursery songs than that made up of the first six notes. The original German song itself has come down to American and English children, and enthusiastic folklorists see in it a relic of the ancient tree worship and an invocation of Frau Holda, the goddess of love and spring of our Teutonic ancestors. It is the first phrase of the German, "Ringel, ringel, reihe," which our children know as "Ring around a rosy." It was an amiable conceit of the composer's to put such a tune into the mouth of the Witch at a moment of terror in the play. By it he publishes his intention not to be too utterly gruesome in his treatment of the hag. This intention, moreover, he fulfils in the succeeding scene. The Witch appears weird and wicked enough in appearance, in her discordant laugh, and the instrumental delineation of her, but when she sings to the children, she is almost ingratiating. Of course, she is seeking to lure them to a horrible fate, but though she does not deceive them for even a moment, her musical manner is much like theirs, except when she is whirling through the air on a broomstick. When the curtain opens on the third act the scene is the same as at the close of the second, except that morning is breaking and the background is filled with mist, which is slowly dissipated during the song of the Dewman (Dawn Fairy), who sprinkles dew on the sleeping children as he sings. The beginning of his song is like that of the Sandman, but its second part consists of the melody of "Fulfilment" instead of that of "Promise." Gretel is the first to awake, and she wakes Hänsel by imitating the song of the lark. He springs up with the cry of chanticleer, and lark's trill and cock's crow are mingled in a most winsome duet, which runs out into a description of the dream. They look about them to point out the spot where the angels had been. By this time the last veil of mist has withdrawn from the background, and in the place of the forest of firs the gingerbread house stands glistening with barley sugar in the sunshine. To the left is the Witch's oven, to the right a cage, all inside a fence of gingerbread children. A duet of admiration and amazement follows in a new, undulatory melody. Hänsel wants to enter the house, but Gretel holds him back. Finally they decide to venture so far as to nibble a bit. Hänsel stealthily breaks a piece of gingerbread off the corner, and at once the voice of the Witch is heard in the phrase already quoted:-- Nibble, nibble, mousekin, Who's nibbling at my housekin? After a moment of alarm Gretel picks up a bit of the gingerbread which had fallen from Hänsel's hand at the sound of the Witch's voice, and the duet of enjoyment is resumed in a higher key. Then a second piece of gingerbread is stolen and munched, and the weird voice is heard again; but this time without alarm. The Witch stealthily approaches and throws a noose about Hänsel's neck. They have fallen into her clutches, and in a luring song she tells of the sweetmeats which she keeps in the house for children of whom she is fond. Hänsel and Gretel are not won over, however, by her blandishments, and try to run away. The Witch extends her magic wand and chants the charm which deprives her victims of the power of motion, beginning:-- [Musical excerpt--"Hocus pocus witches' charm"] This phrase stands in the score as the antithesis of the "Counter-Charm" mentioned in the analysis of the prelude. It illustrates an ingenious constructive device. Desiring to send Gretel on an errand a moment later, the Witch disenchants her with the formula, Hocus, pocus, elderbush, already described as the first theme of the Allegro in the prelude. It is an inversion of the theme of enchantment, a proceeding analogous to reversing the rod, or spelling the charm backward. Wagner makes use of the same device in "Götterdämmerung" when he symbolizes the end of things by inverting the symbol of the original elements in "Das Rheingold." The Witch now discloses her true character, and in the exuberance of her demoniac glee indulges in a ride on a broom, first repeating some jargon in imitation of the cabalistic formulas common to mediaeval necromancy. Frau Wette's lines are partly a copy of the Witch's multiplication table in Goethe's "Faust." The play hurries to its catastrophe. Gretel gives Hänsel power of motion by repeating the "Counter-Charm," which she has overheard from the Witch, and the children push the hag into her own oven while she is heating it to roast Hänsel. The two then break into a jubilant waltz, which the composer designates the Knusperwalzer, i.e. the "Crust Waltz." A frightful explosion destroys the Witch's oven, and with the crash the gingerbread covering falls from the children, who formed the fence around the house. They are unable to move, being still partly under a spell, but when Hänsel repeats the "Counter-Charm," they crowd around their deliverers and sing their gratitude. The parents of Hänsel and Gretel, who have been hunting them, appear on the scene. Out of the ruins of the oven the happy children drag the figure of the Witch baked into a monstrous gingerbread, and dance around it hand in hand. At the last all join in a swelling utterance of the "Prayer Theme" to the words, "When need is greatest God is nearest." 
40540	----	[Transcriber's Note: _The Complete Opera Book_ has been an important opera reference work since its first publication in 1919. It has been revised and updated a number of times, most famously by George Lascelles, 7th Earl of Harewood, and most recently in 1997. This e-book was prepared from the 1919 first edition. Gustav Kobbé was killed in a sailing accident in 1918 and apparently did not have the opportunity to make corrections before the book was published. There are consequently numerous typographical, spelling, and formatting errors and inconsistencies in the first edition, the most obvious of which have been corrected without note in this e-book. Ambiguous errors are noted in a [Transcriber's Note] where they appear. The author's deliberate interchanges of foreign words or names and their equivalents in English or other languages have been preserved as they appear in the original. Misplaced Table of Contents and index entries have been moved to their proper places. Photograph illustrations have been moved so as not to break up the flow of the text. Italic text is marked with _underscores_, and bold text with =equal signs=.] The Complete Opera Book The Stories of the Operas, together with 400 of the Leading Airs and Motives in Musical Notation By Gustav Kobbé Author of "Wagner's Music-Dramas Analysed," "All-of-a-Sudden Carmen," etc. _Illustrated with One Hundred Portraits in Costume and Scenes from Opera_ G.P. Putnam's Sons New York and London =The Knickerbocker Press= 1919 COPYRIGHT, 1919 BY GUSTAV KOBBÉ =The Knickerbocker Press, New York= _By Gustav Kobbé_ All-of-a-Sudden Carmen The Complete Opera Book [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Mary Garden as Sapho] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Pirie MacDonald GUSTAV KOBBÉ] FOREWORD Through the thoughtfulness of William J. Henderson I was asked to supply material for _The Complete Opera Book_, which was missing at the time of Mr. Kobbé's death. In performing my share of the work it has been my endeavor to confine myself to facts, rather than to intrude with personal opinions upon a work which should stand as a monument to Mr. Kobbé's musical knowledge and convictions. KATHARINE WRIGHT. NEW YORK, 1919. Contents PAGE Schools of Opera 1 Opera before Gluck 4 Christoph Willibald Gluck, 1714-1787 8 Orpheus and Eurydice Armide Iphigenia in Tauris Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, 1756-1791 21 Marriage of Figaro Don Giovanni Magic Flute Ludwig van Beethoven, 1770-1827 54 Fidelio Carl Maria von Weber, 1786-1826 63 Freischütz Euryanthe Oberon Why Some Operas are rarely given 77 From Weber to Wagner 79 Richard Wagner, 1813-1883 81 Rienzi Flying Dutchman Tannhäuser Lohengrin Ring of the Nibelung Rheingold--Walküre--Siegfried--Götterdämmerung Tristan and Isolde Meistersinger Parsifal Gioachino Antonio Rossini, 1792-1868 293 Barber of Seville Semiramide William Tell Vincenzo Bellini, 1802-1835 318 Sonnambula Norma Puritani Gaetano Donizetti, 1797-1848 334 Elisire d'Amore Lucrezia Borgia Lucia di Lammermoor Daughter of the Regiment Favorita Linda di Chamounix Don Pasquale Giuseppe Verdi, 1813-1901 376 Ernani Rigoletto Trovatore Traviata Ballo in Maschera Before and After "Ballo in Maschera" 433 Luisa Miller Sicilian Vespers Force of Destiny Don Carlos Aïda Othello Falstaff Arrigo Boïto, 1842- 474 Mephistopheles Nero Amilcare Ponchielli, 1834-1886 481 Gioconda French Opera 493 Méhul to Meyerbeer 495 Étienne Nicholas Méhul, 1763-1817 495 Joseph François Adrien Boieldieu, 1775-1834 495 Caliph of Bagdad Jean de Paris Dame Blanche Daniel François Esprit Auber, 1782-1871 496 Masaniello Fra Diavolo Louis J.F. Hérold, 1791-1833 497 Zampa Adolphe Charles Adam, 1802-1856 497 Postilion of Longumeau Jacques François Fromental Élie Halévy, 1799-1862 498 Juive Giacomo Meyerbeer, 1791-1864 499 Robert le Diable Huguenots Prophet L'Africaine Star of the North Dinorah Hector Berlioz, 1803-1869 535 Benvenuto Cellini Beatrice and Benedict Trojans Damnation of Faust Friedrich von Flotow, 1812-1883 546 Martha Charles François Gounod, 1818-1893 561 Faust Romeo and Juliet Ambroise Thomas, 1811-1896 580 Mignon Hamlet Georges Bizet 586 Carmen Pearl Fishers Djamileh Italian Opera Since Verdi 607 Pietro Mascagni, 1863- 610 Cavalleria Rusticana Maschere Friend Fritz Iris Lodoletta Isabeau Ruggiero Leoncavallo, 1858- 627 Pagliacci Giacomo Puccini, 1858- 638 Villi Manon Lescaut Bohème Tosca Madam Butterfly Girl of the Golden West Rondine Sister Angelica Tabarro Gianni Schicchi Riccardo Zandonai 680 Francesca da Rimini Franco Leoni, 1864- 686 L'Oracolo Rip Van Winkle Raggio di Luna Ib and Little Christina Italo Montemezzi, 1875- 690 Love of Three Kings Giovanni Gallurese Hélléra Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari, 1876- 698 Jewels of the Madonna Donne Curiose Secret of Suzanne Doctor Cupid Umberto Giordano, 1867- 707 Madame Sans-Gêne André Chénier Fedora Siberia Modern Italian Opera 715 Luigi Mancinelli 715 Ero e Leandro Riccardo Zandonai 716 Conchita Alberto Franchetti 717 Cristoforo Colombo Luigi and Federico Ricci 718 Crispino e la Comare Alfred Catalani 719 Loreley Umberto Giordano 720 Fedora Alberto Franchetti 721 Germania Modern French Opera 723 Jacques Offenbach 723 Tales of Hoffmann Delibes 724 Lakmé Saint-Saëns 725 Samson et Dalila Lalo 727 Roi d'Ys Massenet 727 Grisélidis Thaïs Manon Le Cid Don Quichotte Cinderella Navarraise Jongleur de Nôtre Dame Werther Hérodiade Sapho Cléopâtre Gustave Charpentier 750 Louise Reyer 752 Salammbô Debussy 752 Pelléas and Mélisande Pierre Louÿs 756 Aphrodite Alfred Bruneau 758 Attack on the Mill Paul Dukas 759 Ariadne and Blue-Beard Henri Février 761 Monna Vanna Gismonda Henri Rabaud 763 Marouf Sylvio Lazzari 764 Grasshopper Xavier Leroux 765 Queen Fiammette Wayfarer Raoul Gunsbourg 767 Old Eagle Modern German and Bohemian Opera 769 St. Elizabeth Peter Cornelius 770 Barber of Bagdad Herman Goetz 772 Taming of the Shrew Karl Goldmark 773 Queen of Sheba Cricket on the Hearth Engelbert Humperdinck 776 Königskinder Hänsel and Gretel Brüll 779 Golden Cross Blech 781 Sealed In Viktor E. Nessler 784 Trumpeter of Säkkingen Wilhelm Kienzl 787 Evangelist Kuhreigen Ludwig Thuille 791 Lobetanz Hugo Wolf 792 Magistrate Richard Strauss, 1864- 796 Fire Famine Guntram Salome Elektra Rosenkavalier Ariadne on Naxos Friedrich Smetana 815 Bartered Bride Russian Opera 818 Michael Ivanovich Glinka 818 Russlan and Ludmilla Borodin 819 Prince Igor Moussorgsky 822 Boris Godounoff Peter Ilitsch Tschaikowsky 825 Eugen Onegin Pique-Dame Rimsky-Korsakoff 828 Coq d'Or Ignace Jan Paderewski 830 Manru American Opera 832 Frederick Shepherd Converse 832 Sacrifice Pipe of Desire Charles Wakefield Cadman 834 Shanewis John Adams Hugo 834 Temple Dancer Joseph Breil 836 Legend Victor Herbert 837 Natomah Horatio Parker 840 Mona Walter Damrosch 841 Cyrano Reginald de Koven 843 Canterbury Pilgrims Spanish Opera 849 Enrique Granados, 1867-1916 849 Goyescas Index 851 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Mary Garden as Sapho _Frontispiece_ Louise Homer as Orpheus in "Orpheus and Eurydice" 10 Hempel (_Susanna_), Matzenauer (_The Countess_), and Farrar (_Cherubino_) in "Le Nozze di Figaro" 26 Scotti as _Don Giovanni_ 34 Sembrich as _Zerlina_ in "Don Giovanni" 35 Scotti as _Don Giovanni_ 42 Alten and Goritz as _Papagena_ and _Papageno_ in "The Magic Flute" 43 Matzenauer as _Fidelio_ 56 Farrar as _Elizabeth_ in "Tannhäuser" 108 "Tannhäuser," Finale, Act II. _Tannhäuser_ (Maclennan), _Elizabeth_ (Fornia), _Wolfram_ (Dean), _The Landgrave_ (Cranston) 109 Sembach as _Lohengrin_ 122 Schumann-Heink as _Ortrud_ in "Lohengrin" 123 Emma Eames as _Elsa_ in "Lohengrin" 128 Louise Homer as _Fricka_ in "The Ring of the Nibelung" 129 Lilli Lehmann as _Brünnhilde_ in "Die Walküre" 166 "The Valkyr" Act I. _Hunding_ (Parker), _Sieglinde_ (Rennyson), and _Siegmund_ (Maclennan) 167 Fremstad as _Brünnhilde_ in "Die Walküre" 172 Fremstad as _Sieglinde_ in "Die Walküre" 173 Weil as _Wotan_ in "Die Walküre" 178 "Die Walküre" Act III. _Brünnhilde_ (Margaret Crawford) 179 Édouard de Reszke as _Hagen_ in "Götterdämmerung" 210 Jean de Reszke as _Siegfried_ in "Götterdämmerung" 211 Nordica as _Isolde_ 228 Lilli Lehmann as _Isolde_ 236 Jean de Reszke as _Tristan_ 237 Gadski as _Isolde_ 242 Ternina as _Isolde_ 243 Emil Fischer as _Hans Sachs_ in "Die Meistersinger" 248 Weil and Goritz as _Hans Sachs_ and _Beckmesser_ in "Die Meistersinger" 249 The Grail-Bearer 272 Winckelmann and Materna as _Parsifal_ and _Kundry_ 273 Scaria as _Gurnemanz_ 273 Sammarco as _Figaro_ in "The Barber of Seville" 298 Galli-Curci as _Rosina_ in "The Barber of Seville" 302 Sembrich as _Rosina_ in "The Barber of Seville" 303 Hempel (_Adina_) and Caruso (_Nemorino_) in "L'Elisir d'Amore" 336 Caruso as _Edgardo_ in "Lucia di Lammermoor" 348 Galli-Curci as _Lucia_ in "Lucia di Lammermoor" 349 Galli-Curci as _Gilda_ in "Rigoletto" 392 Caruso as the Duke in "Rigoletto" 393 The Quartet in "Rigoletto." _The Duke_ (Sheehan), _Maddalena_ (Albright), _Gilda_ (Easton), _Rigoletto_ (Goff) 400 Riccardo Martin as _Manrico_ in "Il Trovatore" 401 Schumann-Heink as _Azucena_ in "Il Trovatore" 410 Galli-Curci as _Violetta_ in "La Traviata" 411 Farrar as _Violetta_ in "La Traviata" 420 Scotti as _Germont_ in "La Traviata" 421 Emma Eames as _Aïda_ 442 Saléza as _Rhadames_ in "Aïda" 443 Louise Homer as _Amneris_ in "Aïda" 448 Rosina Galli in the Ballet of "Aïda" 449 Alda as _Desdemona_ in "Otello" 460 Amato as _Barnaba_ in "La Gioconda" 461 Caruso as _Enzo_ in "La Gioconda" 488 Louise Homer as _Laura_ in "La Gioconda" 489 Plançon as _Saint Bris_ in "The Huguenots" 508 Jean de Reszke as _Raoul_ in "The Huguenots" 509 Ober and De Luca; Caruso and Hempel in "Martha" 548 Plançon as _Méphistophélès_ in "Faust" 549 Galli-Curci as _Juliette_ in "Roméo et Juliette" 578 Calvé as _Carmen_ with Sparkes as _Frasquita_, and Braslau as _Mercedes_ 579 Caruso as _Don José_ in "Carmen" 590 Caruso as _Don José_ in "Carmen" 591 Calvé as _Carmen_ 594 Amato as _Escamillo_ in "Carmen" 595 Gadski as _Santuzza_ in "Cavalleria Rusticana" 614 Bori as _Iris_ 615 Caruso as _Canio_ in "I Pagliacci" 630 Farrar as _Nedda_ in "I Pagliacci" 631 Farrar as _Mimi_ in "La Bohème" 644 Café Momus Scene, "La Bohème." Act II. _Mimi_ (Rennyson), _Musette_ (Joel), _Rudolph_ (Sheehan) 645 Cavalieri as _Tosca_ 656 Scotti as _Scarpia_ 657 Emma Eames as _Tosca_ 660 Caruso as _Mario_ in "Tosca" 661 Farrar as _Tosca_ 664 "Madama Butterfly." Act I. (Francis Maclennan, Renée Vivienne, and Thomas Richards) 665 Farrar as _Cio-Cio-San_ in "Madama Butterfly" 668 Destinn as _Minnie_, Caruso as _Johnson_, and Amato as _Jack Rance_ in "The Girl of the Golden West" 669 Alda as _Francesca_, and Martinelli as _Paolo_ in "Francesca da Rimini" 682 Bori and Ferrari-Fontana in "The Love of Three Kings" 683 Farrar as Catherine in "Mme. Sans-Gêne" 710 Galli-Curci as _Lakmé_ 711 Caruso as _Samson_ in "Samson and Dalila" 726 Mary Garden as _Grisélidis_ 727 Mary Garden as _Thaïs_ 730 Farrar and Amato as _Thaïs_ and _Athanaël_ 731 Farrar as _Thaïs_ 734 Farrar and Amato as _Thaïs_ and _Athanaël_ 735 Caruso as _Des Grieux_ in "Manon" 738 Mary Garden in "Le Jongleur de Nôtre Dame" 739 Mary Garden as _Louise_ 750 Lucienne Bréval as _Salammbô_ 751 Mary Garden as _Mélisande_ in "Pelléas and Mélisande" 754 Farrar as the _Goose Girl_ in "Königskinder" 776 Van Dyck and Mattfeld as _Hänsel_ and _Gretel_ 777 Mary Garden as _Salome_ 802 Hempel as the _Princess_ and Ober as _Octavian_ in "Der Rosenkavalier" 803 Scene from the Ballet in "Prince Igor" (with Rosina Galli) 820 Anna Case as _Feodor_, Didur as _Boris_, and Sparkes as _Xenia_ in "Boris Godounoff" 821 The Complete Opera Book Schools of Opera There are three great schools of opera,--Italian, French, and German. None other has developed sufficiently to require comment in this brief chapter. Of the three standard schools, the Italian is the most frankly melodious. When at its best, Italian vocal melody ravishes the senses. When not at its best, it merely tickles the ear and offends common sense. "Aïda" was a turning point in Italian music. Before Verdi composed "Aïda," Italian opera, despite its many beauties, was largely a thing of temperament, inspirationally, but often also carelessly set forth. Now, Italian opera composers no longer accept any libretto thrust at them. They think out their scores more carefully; they produce works in which due attention is paid to both vocal and orchestral effect. The older composers still represented in the repertoire are Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti, and Verdi. The last-named, however, also reaches well over into the modern school of Italian opera, whose foremost living exponent is Puccini. Although Rameau (1683-1764), whose "Castor and Pollux" held the stage until supplanted by Gluck's works, was a native of France, French opera had for its founder the Italian, Lully; and one of its chief exponents was the German, Meyerbeer. Two foreigners, therefore, have had a large share in developing the school. It boasts, however, many distinguished natives--Halévy, Auber, Gounod, Bizet, Massenet. In the French school of opera the instrumental support of the voice is far richer and the combination of vocal and instrumental effect more discriminating than in the old school of Italian opera. A first cousin of Italian opera, the French, nevertheless, is more carefully thought out, sometimes even too calculated; but, in general, less florid, and never indifferent to the librettist and the significance of the lines he has written and the situations he has evoked. Massenet is, in the truest sense, the most recent representative of the school of Meyerbeer and Gounod, for Bizet's "Carmen" is unique, and Débussy's "Pelléas et Mélisande" a wholly separate manifestation of French art for the lyric stage. The German school of opera is distinguished by a seriousness of purpose that discards all effort at vocal display for itself alone, and strives, in a score, well-balanced as between voice and orchestra, to express more forcibly than could the spoken work, the drama that has been set to music. An opera house like the Metropolitan, which practically has three companies, presents Italian, French, and German operas in the language in which they were written, or at least usually does so. Any speaker before an English-speaking audience can always elicit prolonged applause by maintaining that in English-speaking countries opera should be sung in English. But, in point of fact, and even disregarding the atrocities that masquerade as translations of opera into English, opera should be sung in the language in which it is written. For language unconsciously affects, I might even say determines, the structure of the melody. Far more important than language, however, is it that opera be sung by great artists. For these assimilate music and give it forth in all its essence of truth and beauty. Were great artists to sing opera in Choctaw, it would still be welcome as compared with opera rendered by inferior interpreters, no matter in what language. Opera Before Gluck Gluck's "Orfeo ed Euridice" (Orpheus and Eurydice), produced in 1762, is the oldest opera in the repertoire of the modern opera house. But when you are told that the Grand Opéra, Paris, was founded by Lully, an Italian composer, in 1672; that Italians were writing operas nearly a century earlier; that a German, Reinhard Keiser (1679-1739), is known to have composed at least 116 operas; and that another German, Johann Adolph Hasse, composed among his operas, numbering at least a hundred, one entitled "Artaxerxes," two airs from which were sung by Carlo Broschi every evening for ten years to soothe King Philip V. of Spain;--you will realize that opera existed, and even flourished before Gluck produced his "Orpheus and Eurydice." Opera originated in Florence toward the close of the sixteenth century. A band of composers, enthusiastic, intellectual, aimed at reproducing the musical declamation which they believed to have been characteristic of the representation of Greek tragedy. Their scores were not melodious, but composed in a style of declamatory recitative highly dramatic for its day. What usually is classed as the first opera, Jacopo Peri's "Dafne," was privately performed in the Palazzo Corsi, Florence, in 1597. So great was its success that Peri was commissioned, in 1600, to write a similar work for the festivities incidental to the marriage of Henry IV. of France with Maria de Medici, and composed "Euridice," said to have been the first opera ever produced in public. The new art form received great stimulus from Claudio Monteverdi, the Duke of Mantua's director of music, who composed "Arianna" (Ariadne) in honor of the marriage of Francesco Gonzaga with Margherita, Infanta of Savoy. The scene in which _Ariadne_ bewails her desertion by her lover was so dramatically written (from the standpoint of the day, of course) that it produced a sensation. The permanency of opera was assured, when Monteverdi brought out, with even greater success, his opera "Orfeo," which showed a further advance in dramatic expression, as well as in the treatment of the instrumental score. This composer invented the tremolo for strings--marvellous then, commonplace now, and even reprehensible, unless employed with great skill. Monteverdi's scores contained, besides recitative, suggestions of melody. The Venetian composer, Cavalli, introduced melody more conspicuously into the vocal score in order to relieve the monotonous effect of a continuous recitative, that was interrupted only by brief melodious phrases. In his airs for voice he foreshadowed the aria form, which was destined to be freely developed by Alessandro Scarlatti (1659-1725). Scarlatti was the first to introduce into an opera score the _ritornello_--the instrumental introduction, interlude, or postlude to a composition for voice. Indeed, Scarlatti is regarded as the founder of what we call Italian opera, the chief characteristic of which is melody for the voice with a comparatively simple accompaniment. By developing vocal melody to a point at which it ceased to be dramatically expressive, but degenerated into mere voice pyrotechnics, composers who followed Scarlatti laid themselves open to the charge of being too subservient to the singers, and of sacrificing dramatic truth and depth of expression to the vanity of those upon the stage. Opera became too much a series of show-pieces for its interpreters. The first practical and effective protest against this came from Lully, who already has been mentioned. He banished all meaningless embellishment from his scores. But in the many years that intervened between Lully's career and Gluck's, the abuse set in again. Then Gluck, from copying the florid Italian style of operatic composition early in his career, changed his entire method as late as 1762, when he was nearly fifty years old, and produced "Orfeo ed Euridice." From that time on he became the champion for the restoration of opera to its proper function as a well-balanced score, in which the voice, while pre-eminent, does not "run away with the whole show." Indeed, throughout the history of opera, there have been recurring periods, when it has become necessary for composers with the true interest of the lyric stage at heart, to restore the proper balance between the creator of a work and its interpreters, in other words to prevent opera from degenerating from a musical drama of truly dramatic significance to a mere framework for the display of vocal pyrotechnics. Such a reformer was Wagner. Verdi, born the same year as Wagner (1813), but outliving him nearly twenty years, exemplified both the faults and virtues of opera. In his earlier works, many of which have completely disappeared from the stage, he catered almost entirely to his singers. But in "Aïda" he produced a masterpiece full of melody which, while offering every opportunity for beautiful singing, never degenerates into mere vocal display. What is here said of Verdi could have been said of Gluck. His earlier operas were in the florid style. Not until he composed "Orpheus and Eurydice" did he approach opera from the point of view of a reformer. "Orpheus" was his "Aïda." Regarding opera Gluck wrote that "the true mission of music is to second the poetry, by strengthening the expression of the sentiments and increasing the interest of the situations, without interrupting and weakening the action by superfluous ornaments in order to tickle the ear and display the agility of fine voices." These words might have been written by Richard Wagner, they express so well what he accomplished in the century following that in which Gluck lived. They might also have been penned by Verdi, had he chosen to write an introduction to his "Aïda," "Otello," or "Falstaff"; and they are followed by every successful composer of grand opera today--Mascagni, Leoncavallo, Puccini, Massenet, Strauss. In fact, however much the public may be carried away temporarily by astonishing vocal display introduced without reason save to be astonishing, the fate of every work for the lyric stage eventually has been decided on the principle enunciated above. Without being aware of it, the public has applied it. For no matter how sensationally popular a work may have been at any time, it has not survived unless, consciously or unconsciously, the composer has been guided by the cardinal principle of true dramatic expression. Finally, I must not be misunderstood as condemning, at wholesale, vocal numbers in opera that require extraordinary technique. Scenes in opera frequently offer legitimate occasion for brilliant vocal display. Witness the arias of the _Queen of the Night_ in "The Magic Flute," "Una voce poco fa" in "The Barber of Seville," "Ah! non giunge" in "Sonnambula," the mad scene in "Lucia," "Caro nome" in "Rigoletto," the "Jewel Song" in "Faust," and even _Brünnhilde's_ valkyr shout in "Die Walküre"--works for the lyric stage that have escorted thousands of operatic scores to the grave, with Gluck's gospel on the true mission of opera for a funeral service. Christoph Willibald Gluck (1714-1787) Gluck is the earliest opera composer represented in the repertoire of the modern opera house. In this country three of his works survive. These are, in the order of their production, "Orfeo ed Euridice" (Orpheus and Eurydice), "Armide," and "Iphigénie en Tauride" (Iphigenia in Tauris). "Orpheus and Eurydice," produced in 1762, is the oldest work of its kind on the stage. It is the great-great-grandfather of operas. Its composer was a musical reformer and "Orpheus" was the first product of his musical reform. He had been a composer of operas in the florid vocal style, which sacrificed the dramatic verities to the whims, fancies, and ambitions of the singers, who sought only to show off their voices. Gluck began, with his "Orpheus," to pay due regard to true dramatic expression. His great merit is that he accomplished this without ignoring the beauty and importance of the voice, but by striking a correct balance between the vocal and instrumental portions of the score. Simple as his operas appear to us today, they aroused a strife comparable only with that which convulsed musical circles during the progress of Wagner's career. The opposition to his reforms reached its height in Paris, whither he went in 1772. His opponents invited Nicola Piccini, at that time famous as a composer of operas in the florid Italian style, to compete with him. So fierce was the war between Gluckists and Piccinists, that duels were fought and lives sacrificed over the respective merits of the two composers. Finally each produced an opera on the subject of "Iphigenia in Tauris." Gluck's triumphed, Piccini's failed. Completely victorious, Gluck retired to Vienna, where he died, November 25, 1787. ORFEO ED EURIDICE ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE Opera in three acts. Music by Christoph Willibald Gluck; book by Raniero di Calzabigi. Productions and revivals. Vienna, October 5, 1762; Paris, as "Orphée et Eurydice," 1774; London, Covent Garden, June 26, 1860; New York, Metropolitan Opera House, 1885 (in German); Academy of Music, American Opera Company, in English, under Theodore Thomas, January 8, 1886, with Helene Hastreiter, Emma Juch, and Minnie Dilthey; Metropolitan Opera House, 1910 (with Homer, Gadski, and Alma Gluck). CHARACTERS ORPHEUS _Contralto_ EURYDICE _Soprano_ AMOR, God of Love _Soprano_ A HAPPY SHADE _Soprano_ Shepherds and Shepherdesses, Furies and Demons, Heroes and Heroines in Hades. _Time_--Antiquity. _Place_--Greece and the Nether Regions. Following a brief and solemn prelude, the curtain rises on Act I, showing a grotto with the tomb of _Eurydice_. The beautiful bride of _Orpheus_ has died. Her husband and friends are mourning at her tomb. During an affecting aria and chorus ("Thou whom I loved") funeral honours are paid to the dead bride. A second orchestra, behind the scenes, echoes, with charming effect, the distracted husband's evocations to his bride and the mournful measures of the chorus, until, in answer to the piercing cries of _Orpheus_ and the exclamatory recitative, "Gods, cruel gods," _Amor_ appears. He tells the bereaved husband that Zeus has taken pity on him. He shall have permission to go down into Hades and endeavour to propitiate Pluto and his minions solely through the power of his music. But, should he rescue _Eurydice_, he must on no account look back at her until he has crossed the Styx. Upon that condition, so difficult to fulfil, because of the love of _Orpheus_ for his bride, turns the whole story. For should he, in answer to her pleading, look back, or explain to her why he cannot do so, she will immediately die. But _Orpheus_, confident in his power of song and in his ability to stand the test imposed by Zeus and bring his beloved _Eurydice_ back to earth, receives the message with great joy. "Fulfil with joy the will of the gods," sings _Amor_, and _Orpheus_, having implored the aid of the deities, departs for the Nether World. [Illustration: Copyright Photo by Dupont Louise Homer as Orpheus in "Orpheus and Eurydice"] Act I. Entrance to Hades. When _Orpheus_ appears, he is greeted with threats by the _Furies_. The scene, beginning with the chorus, "Who is this mortal?" is still considered a masterpiece of dramatic music. The _Furies_ call upon Cerberus, the triple-headed dog monster that guards the entrance to the Nether World, to tear in pieces the mortal who so daringly approaches. The bark of the monster is reproduced in the score. This effect, however, while interesting, is but a minor incident. What lifts the scene to its thrilling climax is the infuriated "No!" which is hurled at _Orpheus_ by the dwellers at the entrance to Hades, when, having recourse to song, he tells of his love for _Eurydice_ and his grief over her death and begs to be allowed to seek her. He voices his plea in the air, "A thousand griefs, threatening shades." The sweetness of his music wins the sympathy of the _Furies_. They allow him to enter the Valley of the Blest, a beautiful spot where the good spirits in Hades find rest. (Song for _Eurydice_ and her companions, "In this tranquil and lovely abode of the blest.") _Orpheus_ comes seeking _Eurydice_. His recitative, "What pure light!" is answered by a chorus of happy shades, "Sweet singer, you are welcome." To him they bring the lovely _Eurydice_. _Orpheus_, beside himself with joy, but remembering the warning of _Amor_, takes his bride by the hand and, with averted gaze, leads her from the vale. She cannot understand his action. He seeks to soothe her injured feelings. (Duet: "On my faith relying.") But his efforts are vain; nor can he offer her any explanation, for he has also been forbidden to make known to her the reason for his apparent indifference. Act III. A wood. _Orpheus_, still under the prohibition imposed by the gods, has released the hand of his bride and is hurrying on in advance of her urging her to follow. She, still not comprehending why he does not even cast a glance upon her, protests that without his love she prefers to die. _Orpheus_, no longer able to resist the appeal of his beloved bride, forgets the warning of _Amor_. He turns and passionately clasps _Eurydice_ in his arms. Immediately she dies. It is then that _Orpheus_ intones the lament, "Che farò senza Euridice" (I have lost my _Eurydice_), that air in the score which has truly become immortal and by which Gluck, when the opera as a whole shall have disappeared from the stage, will still be remembered. [Music] "All forms of language have been exhausted to praise the stupor of grief, the passion, the despair expressed in this sublime number," says a writer in the Clément and Larousse _Dictionnaire des Opéras_. It is equalled only by the lines of Virgil: Vox ipsa et frigida lingua, "Ah! miseram Eurydicen," anima fugiente, vocabat; "Eurydicen;" toto referabant flumine ripae. [E'en then his trembling tongue invok'd his bride; With his last voice, "Eurydice," he cried, "Eurydice," the rocks and river banks replied. DRYDEN.] In fact it is so beautiful that _Amor_, affected by the grief of _Orpheus_ appears to him, touches _Eurydice_ and restores her to life and to her husband's arms. The legend of "Orpheus and Eurydice" as related in Virgil's _Georgics_, from which are the lines just quoted is one of the classics of antiquity. In "Orfeo ed Euridice" Gluck has preserved the chaste classicism of the original. Orpheus was the son of Apollo and the muse Calliope. He played so divinely that trees uprooted themselves and rocks were loosened from their fastnesses in order to follow him. His bride, Eurydice, was the daughter of a Thracian shepherd. The rôle of _Orpheus_ was written for the celebrated male contralto Guadagni. For the Paris production the composer added three bars to the most famous number of the score, the "Che farò senza Euridice," illustrated above. These presumably were the three last bars, the concluding phrases of the peroration of the immortal air. He also was obliged to transpose the part of _Orpheus_ for the tenor Legros, for whom he introduced a vocal number not only entirely out of keeping with the rôle, but not even of his own composition--a bravura aria from "Tancred," an opera by the obscure Italian composer Fernandino Bertoni. It is believed that the tenor importuned Gluck for something that would show off his voice, whereupon the composer handed him the Bertoni air. Legros introduced it at the end of the first act, where to this day it remains in the printed score. When the tenor Nourrit sang the rôle many years later, he substituted the far more appropriate aria, "Ô transport, ô désordre extrême" (O transport, O ecstasy extreme) from Gluck's own "Echo and Narcissus." But that the opera, as it came from Gluck's pen, required nothing more, appeared in the notable revival at the Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, November, 1859, under Berlioz's direction, when that distinguished composer restored the rôle of _Orpheus_ to its original form and for a hundred and fifty nights the celebrated contralto, Pauline Viardot-Garcia, sang it to enthusiastic houses. The best production of the work in this country was that of the American Opera Company. It was suited, as no other opera was, to the exact capacity of that ill-starred organization. The representation was in four acts instead of three, the second act being divided into two, a division to which it easily lends itself. The opera has been the object of unstinted praise. Of the second act the same French authority quoted above says that from the first note to the last, it is "a complete masterpiece and one of the most astonishing productions of the human mind. The chorus of demons, 'What mortal dares,' in turn questions, becomes wrathful, bursts into a turmoil of threats, gradually becomes tranquil and is hushed, as if subdued and conquered by the music of _Orpheus's_ lyre. What is more moving than the phrase 'Laissez-vous toucher par mes pleurs'? (A thousand griefs, threatening shades.) Seeing a large audience captivated by this mythological subject; an audience mixed, frivolous and unthinking, transported and swayed by this scene, one recognizes the real power of music. The composer conquered his hearers as his _Orpheus_ succeeded in subduing the _Furies_. Nowhere, in no work, is the effect more gripping. The scene in the Elysian fields also has its beauties. The air of _Eurydice_, the chorus of happy shades, have the breath of inalterable calm, peace and serenity." Gaetano Guadagni, who created the rôle of _Orpheus_, was one of the most famous male contralti of the eighteenth century. Händel assigned to him contralto parts in the "Messiah" and "Samson," and it was Gluck himself who procured his engagement at Vienna. The French production of the opera was preceded by an act of homage, which showed the interest of the French in Gluck's work. For while it had its first performance in Vienna, the score was first printed in Paris and at the expense of Count Durazzo. The success of the Paris production was so great that Gluck's former pupil, Marie Antoinette, granted him a pension of 6,000 francs with an addition of the same sum for every fresh work he should produce on the French stage. The libretto of Calzabigi was, for its day, charged with a vast amount of human interest, passion, and dramatic intensity. In these particulars it was as novel as Gluck's score, and possibly had an influence upon him in the direction of his operatic reforms. ARMIDE Opera in five acts by Gluck; words by François Quinault, founded on Tasso's _Jerusalem Delivered_. Produced, Paris, 1777, at the Académie de Musique; New York, Metropolitan Opera House, November 14, 1910, with Fremstad, Caruso, Homer, Gluck, and Amato. CHARACTERS ARMIDE, a Sorceress, Niece of Hidraot _Soprano_ PHENICE } { _Soprano_ SIDONIE } her attendants { _Soprano_ HATE, a Fury _Soprano_ LUCINDE } { _Soprano_ MÉLISSE } apparitions { _Soprano_ RENAUD (RINALDO), a Knight of the Crusade under Godfrey of Bouillon _Tenor_ ARTEMIDORE, Captive Knight Delivered by Renaud _Tenor_ THE DANISH KNIGHT } Crusaders { _Tenor_ UBALDE } { _Bass_ HIDRAOT, King of Damascus _Bass_ ARONTES, leader of the Saracens _Bass_ A Naiad, a Love _Apparitions_ Populace, Apparitions and Furies. _Time_--First Crusade, 1098. _Place_--Damascus. Act I. Hall of _Armide's_ palace at Damascus. _Phenice_ and _Sidonie_ are praising the beauty of _Armide_. But she is depressed at her failure to vanquish the intrepid knight, _Renaud_, although all others have been vanquished by her. _Hidraot_, entering, expresses a desire to see _Armide_ married. The princess tells him that, should she ever yield to love, only a hero shall inspire it. People of Damascus enter to celebrate the victory won by _Armide's_ sorcery over the knights of Godfrey. In the midst of the festivities _Arontes_, who has had charge of the captive knights, appears and announces their rescue by a single warrior, none other than _Renaud_, upon whom _Armide_ now vows vengeance. Act II. A desert spot. _Artemidore_, one of the Christian knights, thanks _Renaud_ for his rescue. _Renaud_ has been banished from Godfrey's camp for the misdeed of another, whom he will not betray. _Artemidore_ warns him to beware the blandishments of _Armide_, then departs. _Renaud_ falls asleep by the bank of a stream. _Hidraot_ and _Armide_ come upon the scene. He urges her to employ her supernatural powers to aid in the pursuit of _Renaud_. After the king has departed, she discovers _Renaud_. At her behest apparitions, in the disguise of charming nymphs, shepherds and shepherdesses, bind him with garlands of flowers. _Armide_ now approaches to slay her sleeping enemy with a dagger, but, in the act of striking him, she is overcome with love for him, and bids the apparitions transport her and her hero to some "farthest desert, where she may hide her weakness and her shame." Act III. Wild and rugged landscape. _Armide_, alone, is deploring the conquest of her heart by _Renaud_. _Phenice_ and _Sidonie_ come to her and urge her to abandon herself to love. They assure her that _Renaud_ cannot fail to be enchanted by her beauty. _Armide_, reluctant to yield, summons _Hate_, who is ready to do her bidding and expel love from her bosom. But at the critical moment _Armide_ cries out to desist, and _Hate_ retires with the threat never to return. Act IV. From yawning chasms and caves wild beasts and monsters emerge in order to frighten _Ubalde_ and a _Danish Knight_, who have come in quest of _Renaud_. _Ubalde_ carries a magic shield and sceptre, to counteract the enchantments of _Armide_, and to deliver _Renaud_. The knights attack and vanquish the monsters. The desert changes into a beautiful garden. An apparition, disguised as _Lucinde_, a girl beloved by the _Danish Knight_, is here, accompanied by apparitions in various pleasing disguises. _Lucinde_ tries to detain the knight from continuing upon his errand, but upon _Ubalde_ touching her with the golden sceptre, she vanishes. The two then resume their journey to the rescue of _Renaud_. Act V. Another part of the enchanted garden. _Renaud_, bedecked with garlands, endeavours to detain _Armide_, who, haunted by dark presentiment, wishes to consult with the powers of Hades. She leaves _Renaud_ to be entertained by a company of happy _Lovers_. They, however, fail to divert the lovelorn warrior, and are dismissed by him. _Ubalde_ and the _Danish Knight_ appear. By holding the magic shield before _Renaud's_ eyes, they counteract the passion that has swayed him. He is following the two knights, when _Armide_ returns and vainly tries to detain him. Proof against her blandishments, he leaves her to seek glory. _Armide_ deserted, summons _Hate_ to slay him. But _Hate_, once driven away, refuses to return. _Armide_ then bids the _Furies_ destroy the enchanted palace. They obey. She perishes in the ruins. (Or, according to the libretto, "departs in a flying car"--an early instance of aviation in opera!) There are more than fifty operas on the subject of _Armide_. Gluck's has survived them all. Nearly a century before his opera was produced at the Académie, Paris, that institution was the scene of the first performance of "Armide et Renaud," composed by Lully to the same libretto used by Gluck, Quinault having been Lully's librettist in ordinary. "Armide" is not a work of such strong human appeal as "Orpheus"; but for its day it was a highly dramatic production; and it still admits of elaborate spectacle. The air for _Renaud_ in the second act, "Plus j'observe ces lieux, et plus je les admire!" (The more I view this spot the more charmed I am); the shepherd's song almost immediately following; _Armide's_ air at the opening of the third act, "Ah! si la liberté me doit être ravie" (Ah! if liberty is lost to me); the exquisite solo and chorus in the enchanted garden, "Les plaisirs ont choisi pour asile" (Pleasure has chosen for its retreat) are classics. Several of the ballet numbers long were popular. In assigning to a singer of unusual merit the ungrateful rôle of the _Danish Knight_, Gluck said: "A single stanza will compensate you, I hope, for so courteously consenting to take the part." It was the stanza, "Nôtre général vous rappelle" (Our commander summons you), with which the knight in Act V recalls _Renaud_ to his duty. "Never," says the relater of the anecdote, "was a prediction more completely fulfilled. The stanza in question produced a sensation." IPHIGÉNIE EN TAURIDE IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS Opera in four acts by Gluck, words by François Guillard. Produced at the Académie de Musique, Paris, May 18, 1779; Metropolitan Opera House, New York, November 25, 1916, with Kurt, Weil, Sembach, Braun, and Rappold. CHARACTERS IPHIGÉNIE, Priestess of Diana _Soprano_ ORESTES, her Brother _Baritone_ PYLADES, his Friend _Tenor_ THOAS, King of Scythia _Bass_ DIANA _Soprano_ SCYTHIANS, Priestesses of Diana. _Time_--Antiquity, after the Trojan War. _Place_--Tauris. _Iphigénie_ is the daughter of Agamemnon, King of Mycenae. Agamemnon was slain by his wife, Clytemnestra, who, in turn, was killed by her son, _Orestes_. _Iphigénie_ is ignorant of these happenings. She has been a priestess of Diana and has not seen _Orestes_ for many years. Act I. Before the atrium of the temple of Diana. To priestesses and Greek maidens, _Iphigénie_ tells of her dream that misfortune has come to her family in the distant country of her birth. _Thoas_, entering, calls for a human sacrifice to ward off danger that has been foretold to him. Some of his people, hastily coming upon the scene, bring with them as captives _Orestes_ and _Pylades_, Greek youths who have landed upon the coast. They report that _Orestes_ constantly speaks of having committed a crime and of being pursued by Furies. Act II. Temple of Diana. _Orestes_ bewails his fate. _Pylades_ sings of his undying friendship for him. _Pylades_ is separated from _Orestes_, who temporarily loses his mind. _Iphigénie_ questions him. _Orestes_, under her influence, becomes calmer, but refrains from disclosing his identity. He tells her, however, that he is from Mycenae, that Agamemnon (their father) has been slain by his wife, that Clytemnestra's son, _Orestes_, has slain her in revenge, and is himself dead. Of the once great family only a daughter, Electra, remains. Act III. _Iphigénie_ is struck with the resemblance of the stranger to her brother and, in order to save him from the sacrifice demanded by _Thoas_, charges him to deliver a letter to Electra. He declines to leave _Pylades_; nor until _Orestes_ affirms that he will commit suicide, rather than accept freedom at the price of his friend's life, does _Pylades_ agree to take the letter, and then only because he hopes to bring succour to _Orestes_. Act IV. All is ready for the sacrifice. _Iphigénie_ has the knife poised for the fatal thrust, when, through an exclamation uttered by _Orestes_, she recognizes him as her brother. The priestesses offer him obeisance as King. _Thoas_, however, enters and demands the sacrifice. _Iphigénie_ declares that she will die with her brother. At that moment _Pylades_ at the head of a rescue party enters the temple. A combat ensues in which _Thoas_ is killed. _Diana_ herself appears, pardons _Orestes_ and returns to the Greeks her likeness which the Scythians had stolen and over which they had built the temple. Gluck was sixty-five, when he brought out "Iphigénie en Tauride." A contemporary remarked that there were many fine passages in the opera. "There is only one," said the Abbé Arnaud. "Which?"--"The entire work." The mad scene for _Orestes_, in the second act, has been called Gluck's greatest single achievement. Mention should also be made of the dream of _Iphigénie_, the dances of the Scythians, the air of _Thoas_, "De noirs pressentiments mon âme intimidée" (My spirit is depressed by dark forebodings); the air of _Pylades_, "Unis dès la plus tendre enfance" (United since our earliest infancy); _Iphigénie's_ "Ô malheureuse (unhappy) Iphigénie," and "Je t'implore et je tremble" (I pray you and I tremble); and the hymn to Diana, "Chaste fille de Latone" (Chaste daughter of the crescent moon). Here may be related an incident at the rehearsal of the work, which proves the dramatic significance Gluck sought to impart to his music. In the second act, while _Orestes_ is singing, "Le calme rentre dans mon coeur," (Once more my heart is calm), the orchestral accompaniment continues to express the agitation of his thoughts. During the rehearsal the members of the orchestra, not understanding the passage, came to a stop. "Go on all the same," cried Gluck. "He lies. He has killed his mother!" Gluck's enemies prevailed upon his rival, Piccini, to write an "Iphigénie en Tauride" in opposition. It was produced in January, 1781, met with failure, and put a definite stop to Piccini's rivalry with Gluck. At the performance the prima donna was intoxicated. This caused a spectator to shout: "'Iphigénie en Tauride!' allons donc, c'est 'Iphigénie en Champagne!'" (Iphigenia in Tauris! Do tell! Shouldn't it be Iphigenia in Champagne?) The laugh that followed sealed the doom of the work. The Metropolitan production employs the version of the work made by Richard Strauss, which involves changes in the finales of the first and last acts. Ballet music from "Orfeo" and "Armide" also is introduced. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791) The operas of Gluck supplanted those of Lully and Rameau. Those of Mozart, while they did not supplant Gluck's, wrested from them the sceptre of supremacy. In a general way it may be said that, before Mozart's time, composers of grand opera reached back to antiquity and mythology, or to the early Christian era, for their subjects. Their works moved with a certain restricted grandeur. Their characters were remote. Mozart's subjects were more modern, even contemporary. Moreover, he was one of the brightest stars in the musical firmament. His was a complete and easy mastery of all forms of music. "In his music breathes the warm-hearted, laughter-loving artist," writes Theodore Baker. That is a correct characterization. "The Marriage of Figaro" is still regarded as a model of what a comic grand opera, if so I may call it, should be. "Don Giovanni," despite its tragic _dénouement_, sparkles with humour, and _Don Giovanni_ himself, despite the evil he does, is a jovial character. "The Magic Flute" is full of amusing incidents and, if its relationship to the rites of freemasonry has been correctly interpreted, was a contemporary subject of strong human interest, notwithstanding its story being laid in ancient Egypt. In fact it may be said that, in the evolution of opera, Mozart was the first to impart to it a strong human interest with humour playing about it like sunlight. The libretto of "The Marriage of Figaro" was derived from a contemporary French comedy; "Don Giovanni," though its plot is taken from an old Spanish story, has in its principal character a type of libertine, whose reckless daring inspires loyalty not only in his servant, but even in at least one of his victims--a type as familiar to Mozart's contemporaries as it is to us; the probable contemporary significance of "The Magic Flute" I have already mentioned, and the point is further considered under the head of that opera. For the most part as free from unnecessary vocal embellishments as are the operas of Gluck, Mozart, being the more gifted composer, attained an even higher degree of dramatic expression than his predecessor. May I say that he even gave to the voice a human clang it hitherto had lacked, and in this respect also advanced the art of opera? By this I mean that, full of dramatic significance as his voice parts are, they have, too, an ingratiating human quality which the music of his predecessor lacks. In plasticity of orchestration his operas also mark a great advance. Excepting a few works by Gluck, every opera before Mozart and the operas of every composer contemporary with him, and for a considerable period after him, have disappeared from the repertoire. The next two operas to hold the stage, Beethoven's "Fidelio" (in its final form) and Rossini's "Barber of Seville" were not produced until 1814 and 1816--respectively twenty-three and twenty-five years after Mozart's death. That Mozart was a genius by the grace of God will appear from the simple statement that his career came to an end at the age of thirty-five. Compare this with the long careers of the three other composers, whose influence upon opera was supreme--Gluck, Wagner, and Verdi. Gluck died in his seventy-third year, Wagner in his seventieth, and Verdi in his eighty-eighth. Yet the composer who laid down his pen and went to a pauper's grave at thirty-five, contributed as much as any of these to the evolution of the art of opera. LE NOZZE DI FIGARO THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO Opera in four acts by Mozart; words by Lorenzo da Ponte, after Beaumarchais. Produced at the National Theatre, Vienna, May 1, 1786, Mozart conducting. Académie de Musique, Paris, as "Le Mariage de Figaro" (with Beaumarchais's dialogue), 1793; as "Les Noces de Figaro" (words by Barbier and Carré), 1858. London, in Italian, King's Theatre, June 18, 1812. New York, 1823, with T. Phillips, of Dublin, as _Figaro_; May 10, 1824, with Pearman as _Figaro_ and Mrs. Holman, as _Susanna_; January 18, 1828, with Elizabeth Alston, as _Susanna_; all these were in English and at the Park Theatre. (See concluding paragraph of this article.) Notable revivals in Italian, at the Metropolitan Opera House: 1902, with Sembrich, Eames, Fritzi Scheff, de Reszke, and Campanari; 1909, Sembrich, Eames, Farrar, and Scotti; 1916, Hempel, Matzenauer, Farrar, and Scotti. CHARACTERS COUNT ALMAVIVA _Baritone_ FIGARO, his valet _Baritone_ DOCTOR BARTOLO, a Physician _Bass_ DON BASILIO, a music-master _Tenor_ CHERUBINO, a page _Soprano_ ANTONIO, a gardener _Bass_ DON CURZIO, counsellor at law _Tenor_ COUNTESS ALMAVIVA _Soprano_ SUSANNA, her personal maid, affianced to FIGARO _Soprano_ MARCELLINA, a duenna _Soprano_ BARBARINA, ANTONIO's daughter _Soprano_ _Time_--17th Century. _Place_--The Count's château of Aguas Frescas, near Seville. "Le Nozze di Figaro" was composed by Mozart by command of Emperor Joseph II., of Austria. After congratulating the composer at the end of the first performance, the Emperor said to him: "You must admit, however, my dear Mozart, that there are a great many notes in your score." "Not one too many, Sire," was Mozart's reply. (The anecdote, it should be noted, also, is told of the first performance of Mozart's "Così Fan Tutte.") No opera composed before "Le Nozze di Figaro" can be compared with it for development of ensemble, charm and novelty of melody, richness and variety of orchestration. Yet Mozart composed this score in a month. The finale to the second act occupied him but two days. In the music the sparkle of high comedy alternates with the deeper sentiment of the affections. Michael Kelly, the English tenor, who was the _Basilio_ and _Curzio_ in the original production, tells in his memoirs of the splendid sonority with which Benucci, the _Figaro_, sang the martial "Non più andrai" at the first orchestral rehearsal. Mozart, who was on the stage in a crimson pelisse and cocked hat trimmed with gold lace, kept repeating _sotto voce_, "Bravo, bravo, Benucci!" At the conclusion the orchestra and all on the stage burst into applause and vociferous acclaim of Mozart: "Bravo, bravo, Maestro! Viva, viva, grande Mozart!" Further, the _Reminiscences_ of Kelly inform us of the enthusiastic reception of "Le Nozze di Figaro" upon its production, almost everything being encored, so that the time required for its performance was nearly doubled. Notwithstanding this success, it was withdrawn after comparatively few representations, owing to Italian intrigue at the court and opera, led by Mozart's rival, the composer Salieri--now heard of only because of that rivalry. In Prague, where the opera was produced in January, 1787, its success was so great that Bondini, the manager of the company, was able to persuade Mozart to compose an opera for first performance in Prague. The result was "Don Giovanni." The story of "Le Nozze di Figaro" is a sequel to that of "The Barber of Seville," which Rossini set to music. Both are derived from "Figaro" comedies by Beaumarchais. In Rossini's opera it is _Figaro_, at the time a barber in Seville, who plays the go-between for _Count Almaviva_ and his beloved _Rosina_, _Dr. Bartolo's_ pretty ward. _Rosina_ is now the wife of the _Count_, who unfortunately, is promiscuous in his attentions to women, including _Susanna_, the _Countess's_ vivacious maid, who is affianced to _Figaro_. The latter and the music-master _Basilio_ who, in their time helped to hoodwink _Bartolo_, are in the service of the _Count_, _Figaro_ having been rewarded with the position of valet and majordomo. _Bartolo_, for whom, as formerly, _Marcellina_ is keeping house, still is _Figaro's_ enemy, because of the latter's interference with his plans to marry _Rosina_ and so secure her fortune to himself. The other characters in the opera also belong to the personnel of the _Count's_ household. Aside from the difference between Rossini's and Mozart's scores, which are alike only in that each opera is a masterpiece of the comic sentiment, there is at least one difference between the stories. In Rossini's "Barber" _Figaro_, a man, is the mainspring of the action. In Mozart's opera it is _Susanna_, a woman; and a clever woman may possess in the rôle of protagonist in comedy a chicness and sparkle quite impossible to a man. The whole plot of "Le Nozze di Figaro" plays around _Susanna's_ efforts to nip in the bud the intrigue in which the _Count_ wishes to engage her. She is aided by the _Countess_ and by _Figaro_; but she still must appear to encourage while evading the _Count's_ advances, and do so without offending him, lest both she and her affianced be made to suffer through his disfavour. In the libretto there is much that is _risqué_, suggestive. But as the average opera-goer does not understand the subtleties of the Italian language, and the average English translation is too clumsy to preserve them, it is quite possible--especially in this advanced age--to attend a performance of "Le Nozze di Figaro" without imperilling one's morals. There is a romping overture. Then, in Act I, we learn that _Figaro_, _Count Almaviva's_ valet, wants to get married. _Susanna_, the _Countess's_ maid, is the chosen one. The _Count_ has assigned to them a room near his, ostensibly because his valet will be able to respond quickly to his summons. The room is the scene of this Act. _Susanna_ tells her lover that the true reason for the _Count's_ choice of their room is the fact that their noble master is running after her. Now _Figaro_ is willing enough to "play up" for the little _Count_, if he should take it into his head "to venture on a little dance" once too often. ("Se vuol ballare, Signor Contino!") [Music] Unfortunately, however, _Figaro_ himself is in a fix. He has borrowed money from _Marcellina_, _Bartolo's_ housekeeper, and he has promised to marry her in case of his inability to repay her. She now appears, to demand of _Figaro_ the fulfilment of his promise. _Bartolo_ encourages her in this, both out of spite against _Figaro_ and because he wants to be rid of the old woman, who has been his mistress and even borne him a son, who, however, was kidnapped soon after his birth. There is a vengeance aria for _Bartolo_, and a spiteful duet for _Marcellina_ and _Susanna_, beginning: "Via resti servita, madama brillante" (Go first, I entreat you, Miss, model of beauty!). [Illustration: Photo by White Hempel (Susanna), Matzenauer (the Countess), and Farrar (Cherubino) in "Le Nozze di Figaro"] The next scene opens between the page, _Cherubino_, a boy in love with every petticoat, and _Susanna_. He begs _Susanna_ to intercede for him with the _Count_, who has dismissed him. _Cherubino_ desires to stay around the _Countess_, for whom he has conceived one of his grand passions. "Non so più cosa son, cosa faccio"--(Ah, what feelings now possess me!). The _Count's_ step is heard. _Cherubino_ hides himself behind a chair, from where he hears the _Count_ paying court to _Susanna_. The voice of the music-master then is heard from without. The _Count_ moves toward the door. _Cherubino_, taking advantage of this, slips out from behind the chair and conceals himself in it under a dress that has been thrown over it. The _Count_, however, instead of going out, hides behind the chair, in the same place where _Cherubino_ has been. _Basilio_, who has entered, now makes all kinds of malicious remarks and insinuations about the flirtations of _Cherubino_ with _Susanna_ and also with the _Countess_. The _Count_, enraged at the free use of his wife's name, emerges from behind the chair. Only the day before, he says, he has caught that rascal, _Cherubino_, with the gardener's daughter _Barbarina_ (with whom the _Count_ also is flirting). _Cherubino_, he continues, was hidden under a coverlet, "just as if under this dress here." Then, suiting the action to the words, by way of demonstration, he lifts the gown from the chair, and lo! there is _Cherubino_. The _Count_ is furious. But as the page has overheard him making love to _Susanna_, and as _Figaro_ and others have come in to beg that he be forgiven, the _Count_, while no longer permitting him to remain in the castle, grants him an officer's commission in his own regiment. It is here that _Figaro_ addresses _Cherubino_ in the dashing martial air, "Non più andrai, farfallone amoroso" (Play no more, the part of a lover). Act II. Still, the _Count_, for whom the claims of _Marcellina_ upon _Figaro_ have come in very opportunely, has not given consent for his valet's wedding. He wishes to carry his own intrigue with _Susanna_, the genuineness of whose love for _Figaro_ he underestimates, to a successful issue. _Susanna_ and _Figaro_ meet in the _Countess's_ room. The _Countess_ has been soliloquizing upon love, of whose fickleness the _Count_ has but provided too many examples.--"Porgi amor, qualche ristoro" (Love, thou holy, purest passion.) _Figaro_ has contrived a plan to gain the consent of the _Count_ to his wedding with _Susanna_. The valet's scheme is to make the _Count_ ashamed of his own flirtations. _Figaro_ has sent a letter to the _Count_, which divulges a supposed rendezvous of the _Countess_ in the garden. At the same time _Susanna_ is to make an appointment to meet the _Count_ in the same spot. But, in place of _Susanna_, _Cherubino_, dressed in _Susanna's_ clothes, will meet the _Count_. Both will be caught by the _Countess_ and the _Count_ thus be confounded. _Cherubino_ is then brought in to try on _Susanna's_ clothes. He sings to the _Countess_ an air of sentiment, one of the famous vocal numbers of the opera, the exquisite: "Voi che sapete, che cosa è amor" (What is this feeling makes me so sad). [Music] The _Countess_, examining his officer's commission, finds that the seal to it has been forgotten. While in the midst of these proceedings someone knocks. It is the _Count_. Consternation. _Cherubino_ flees into the _Countess's_ room and _Susanna_ hides behind a curtain. The evident embarrassment of his wife arouses the suspicions of her husband, who, gay himself, is very jealous of her. He tries the door _Cherubino_ has bolted from the inside, then goes off to get tools to break it down with. He takes his wife with him. While he is away, _Cherubino_ slips out and leaps out of a window into the garden. In his place, _Susanna_ bolts herself in the room, so that, when the _Count_ breaks open the door, it is only to discover that _Susanna_ is in his wife's room. All would be well, but unfortunately _Antonio_, the gardener, enters. A man, he says, has jumped out of the _Countess's_ window and broken a flowerpot. _Figaro_, who has come in, and who senses that something has gone wrong, says that it was he who was with _Susanna_ and jumped out of the window. But the gardener has found a paper. He shows it. It is _Cherubino's_ commission. How did _Figaro_ come by it? The _Countess_ whispers something to _Figaro_. Ah, yes; _Cherubino_ handed it to him in order that he should obtain the missing seal. Everything appears to be cleared up when _Marcellina_, accompanied by _Bartolo_, comes to lodge formal complaint against _Figaro_ for breach of promise, which for the _Count_ is a much desired pretext to refuse again his consent to _Figaro's_ wedding with _Susanna_. These, the culminating episodes of this act, form a finale which is justly admired, a finale so gradually developed and so skilfully evolved that, although only the principals participate in it, it is as effective as if it employed a full ensemble of soloists, chorus, and orchestra worked up in the most elaborate fashion. Indeed, for effectiveness produced by simple means, the operas of Mozart are models. But to return to the story. At the trial in Act III, between _Marcellina_ and _Figaro_, it develops that _Figaro_ is her long-lost natural son. _Susanna_ pays the costs of the trial and nothing now seems to stand in the way of her union with _Figaro_. The _Count_, however, is not yet entirely cured of his fickle fancies. So the _Countess_ and _Susanna_ hit upon still another scheme in this play of complications. During the wedding festivities _Susanna_ is to contrive to send secretly to the _Count_ a note, in which she invites him to meet her. Then the _Countess_, dressed in _Susanna's_ clothes, is to meet him at the place named. _Figaro_ knows nothing of this plan. Chancing to find out about the note, he too becomes jealous--another, though minor, contribution to the mix-up of emotions. In this act the concoction of the letter by the _Countess_ and _Susanna_ is the basis of the most beautiful vocal number in the opera, the "letter duet" or Canzonetta sull'aria (the "Canzonetta of the Zephyr")--"Che soave zeffiretto" (Hither gentle zephyr); an exquisite melody, in which the lady dictates, the maid writes down, and the voices of both blend in comment. [Music] The final Act brings about the desired result after a series of amusing _contretemps_ in the garden. The _Count_ sinks on his knees before his _Countess_ and, as the curtain falls, there is reason to hope that he is prepared to mend his ways. Regarding the early performances of "Figaro" in this country, these early performances were given "with Mozart's music, but adapted by Henry Rowley Bishop." When I was a boy, a humorous way of commenting upon an artistic sacrilege was to exclaim: "Ah! Mozart improved by Bishop!" I presume the phrase came down from these early representations of "The Marriage of Figaro." Bishop was the composer of "Home, Sweet Home." In 1839 his wife eloped with Bochsa, the harp virtuoso, afterwards settled in New York, and for many years sang in concert and taught under the name of Mme. Anna Bishop. DON GIOVANNI Opera in two acts by Mozart; text by Lorenzo da Ponte. Productions, Prague, Oct. 29, 1787; Vienna, May 17, 1788; London, April 12, 1817; New York, Park Theatre, May 23, 1826. Original title: "Il Dissoluto Punito, ossia il Don Giovanni" (The Reprobate Punished, or Don Giovanni). The work was originally characterized as an _opera buffa_, or _dramma giocoso_, but Mozart's noble setting lifted it out of that category. CHARACTERS DON PEDRO, the Commandant _Bass_ DONNA ANNA, his daughter _Soprano_ DON OTTAVIO, her betrothed _Tenor_ DON GIOVANNI _Baritone_ LEPORELLO, his servant _Bass_ DONNA ELVIRA _Soprano_ ZERLINA _Soprano_ MASETTO, betrothed to ZERLINA _Tenor_ [Transcriber's Note: should be 'Baritone'] "Don Giovanni" was presented for the first time in Prague, because Mozart, satisfied with the manner in which Bondini's troupe had sung his "Marriage of Figaro" a little more than a year before, had agreed to write another work for the same house. The story on which da Ponte based his libretto--the statue of a murdered man accepting an insolent invitation to banquet with his murderer, appearing at the feast and dragging him down to hell--is very old. It goes back to the Middle Ages, probably further. A French authority considers that da Ponte derived his libretto from "Le Festin de Pierre," Molière's version of the old tale. Da Ponte, however, made free use of "Il Convitato di Pietra" (The Stone-Guest), a libretto written by the Italian theatrical poet Bertati for the composer Giuseppe Gazzaniga. Whoever desires to follow up this interesting phase of the subject will find the entire libretto of Bertati's "Convitato" reprinted, with a learned commentary by Chrysander, in volume iv of the _Vierteljahrheft für Musikwissenschaft_ (Music Science Quarterly), a copy of which is in the New York Public Library. Mozart agreed to hand over the finished score in time for the autumn season of 1787, for the sum of one hundred ducats ($240). Richard Strauss receives for a new opera a guarantee of ten performances at a thousand dollars--$10,000 in all--and, of course, his royalties thereafter. There is quite a distinction in these matters between the eighteenth century and the present. And what a lot of good a few thousand dollars would have done the impecunious composer of the immortal "Don Giovanni!" Also, one is tempted to ask oneself if any modern ten thousand dollar opera will live as long as the two hundred and forty dollar one which already is 130 years old. Bondini's company, for which Mozart wrote his masterpiece of dramatic music, furnished the following cast: _Don Giovanni_, Signor Bassi, twenty-two years old, a fine baritone, an excellent singer and actor; _Donna Anna_, Signora Teresa Saporiti; _Donna Elvira_, Signora Catarina Micelli, who had great talent for dramatic expression; _Zerlina_, Signora Teresa Bondini, wife of the manager; _Don Ottavio_, Signor Antonio Baglioni, with a sweet, flexible tenor voice; _Leporello_, Signor Felice Ponziani, an excellent basso comico; _Don Pedro_ (the Commandant), and _Masetto_, Signor Giuseppe Lolli. Mozart directed the rehearsals, had the singers come to his house to study, gave them advice how some of the difficult passages should be executed, explained the characters they represented, and exacted finish, detail, and accuracy. Sometimes he even chided the artists for an Italian impetuosity, which might be out of keeping with the charm of his melodies. At the first rehearsal, however, not being satisfied with the way in which Signora Bondini gave _Zerlina's_ cry of terror from behind the scenes, when the _Don_ is supposed to attempt her ruin, Mozart left the orchestra and went upon the stage. Ordering the first act finale to be repeated from the minuet on, he concealed himself in the wings. There, in the peasant dress of _Zerlina_, with its short skirt, stood Signora Bondini, waiting for her cue. When it came, Mozart quickly reached out a hand from his place of concealment and pinched her leg. She gave a piercing shriek. "There! That is how I want it," he said, emerging from the wings, while the Bondini, not knowing whether to laugh or blush, did both. One of the most striking features of the score, the warning words which the statue of the _Commandant_, in the plaza before the cathedral of Seville, utters within the hearing of _Don Giovanni_ and _Leporello_, was originally accompanied by the trombones only. At rehearsal in Prague, Mozart, not satisfied with the way the passage was played, stepped over toward the desks at which the trombonists sat. One of them spoke up: "It can't be played any better. Even you couldn't teach us how." Mozart smiled. "Heaven forbid," he said, "that I should attempt to teach you how to play the trombone. But let me have the parts." Looking them over he immediately made up his mind what to do. With a few quick strokes of the pen, he added the wood-wind instruments as they are now found in the score. It is well known that the overture of "Don Giovanni" was written almost on the eve of the first performance. Mozart passed a gay evening with some friends. One of them said to him: "Tomorrow the first performance of 'Don Giovanni' will take place, and you have not yet composed the overture!" Mozart pretended to get nervous about it and withdrew to his room, where he found music-paper, pens, and ink. He began to compose about midnight. Whenever he grew sleepy, his wife, who was by his side, entertained him with stories to keep him awake. It is said that it took him but three hours to produce this overture. The next evening, a little before the curtain rose, the copyists finished transcribing the parts for the orchestra. Hardly had they brought the sheets, still wet, to the theatre, when Mozart, greeted by enthusiastic applause, entered the orchestra and took his seat at the piano. Although the musicians had not had time to rehearse the overture, they played it with such precision that the audience broke out into fresh applause. As the curtain rose and _Leporello_ came forward to sing his solo, Mozart laughingly whispered to the musicians near him: "Some notes fell under the stands. But it went well." The overture consists of an introduction which reproduces the scene of the banquet at which the statue appears. It is followed by an allegro which characterizes the impetuous, pleasure-seeking _Don_, oblivious to consequences. It reproduces the dominant character of the opera. Without pause, Mozart links up the overture with the song of _Leporello_. The four principal personages of the opera appear early in the proceedings. The tragedy which brings them together so soon and starts the action, gives an effective touch of fore-ordained retribution to the misdeeds upon which _Don Giovanni_ so gaily enters. This early part of the opera divides itself into four episodes. Wrapped in his cloak and seated in the garden of a house in Seville, Spain, which _Don Giovanni_, on amorous adventure bent, has entered secretly during the night--it is the residence of the _Commandant_--_Leporello_ is complaining of the fate which makes him a servant to such a restless and dangerous master. "Notte e giorno faticar" (Never rest by day or night), runs his song. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Scotti as Don Giovanni] _Don Giovanni_ hurriedly issues from the house, pursued by _Donna Anna_. There follows a trio in which the wrath of the insulted woman, the annoyance of the libertine, and the cowardice of _Leporello_ are expressed simultaneously and in turn in manner most admirable. _The Commandant_, attracted by the disturbance, arrives, draws his sword, and a duel ensues. In the unequal combat between the aged _Commandant_ and the agile _Don_, the _Commandant_ receives a fatal wound. The trio which follows between _Don Giovanni_, the dying _Commandant_, and _Leporello_ is a unique passage in the history of musical art. The genius of Mozart, tender, profound, pathetic, religious, is revealed in its entirety. Written in a solemn rhythm and in the key of F minor, so appropriate to dispose the mind to a gentle sadness, this trio, which fills only eighteen measures, contains in a restricted outline, but in master-strokes, the fundamental idea of this mysterious drama of crime and retribution. While the _Commandant_ is breathing his last, emitting notes broken by long pauses, _Donna Anna_, who, during the duel between her father and _Don Giovanni_, has hurried off for help, returns accompanied by her servants and by _Don Ottavio_, her affianced. She utters a cry of terror at seeing the dead body of her father. The recitative which expresses her despair is intensely dramatic. The duet which she sings with _Don Ottavio_ is both impassioned and solicitous, impetuous on her part, solicitous on his; for the rôle of _Don Ottavio_ is stamped with the delicacy of sentiment, the respectful reserve of a well-born youth who is consoling the woman who is to be his wife. The passage, "Lascia, O cara, la rimembranza amara!" (Through love's devotion, dear one) is of peculiar beauty in musical expression. After _Donna Anna_ and _Don Ottavio_ have left, there enters _Donna Elvira_. The air she sings expresses a complicated nuance of passion. _Donna Elvira_ is another of _Don Giovanni's_ deserted ones. There are in the tears of this woman not only the grief of one who has been loved and now implores heaven for comfort, but also the indignation of one who has been deserted and betrayed. When she cries with emotion: "Ah! chi mi dice mai quel barbaro dov'è?" (In memory still lingers his love's delusive sway) one feels that, in spite of her outbursts of anger, she is ready to forgive, if only a regretful smile shall recall to her the man who was able to charm her. _Don Giovanni_ hears from afar the voice of a woman in tears. He approaches, saying: "Cerchiam di consolare il suo tormento" (I must seek to console her sorrow). "Ah! yes," murmurs _Leporello_, under his breath: "Così ne consolò mille e otto cento" (He has consoled fully eighteen hundred). _Leporello_ is charged by _Don Giovanni_, who, recognizing _Donna Elvira_, hurries away, to explain to her the reasons why he deserted her. The servant fulfils his mission as a complaisant valet. For it is here that he sings the "Madamina" air, which is so famous, and in which he relates with the skill of a historian the numerous amours of his master in the different parts of the world. The "Air of Madamina," "Madamina! il catalogo"--(Dear lady, the catalogue) is a perfect passage of its kind; an exquisite mixture of grace and finish, of irony and sentiment, of comic declamation and melody, the whole enhanced by the poetry and skill of the accessories. There is nothing too much, nothing too little; no excess of detail to mar the whole. Every word is illustrated by the composer's imagination without his many brilliant sallies injuring the general effect. According to _Leporello's_ catalogue his master's adventures in love have numbered 2065. To these Italy has contributed 245 [Transcriber's Note: should be '640'], Germany 231, France 100, Turkey 91, and Spain, his native land, 1003. The recital enrages _Donna Elvira_. She vows vengeance upon her betrayer. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Sembrich as Zerlina in "Don Giovanni"] The scene changes to the countryside of _Don Giovanni's_ palace near Seville. A troop of gay peasants is seen arriving. The young and pretty _Zerlina_ with _Masetto_, her affianced, and their friends are singing and dancing in honour of their approaching marriage. _Don Giovanni_ and _Leporello_ join this gathering of light-hearted and simple young people. Having cast covetous eyes upon _Zerlina_, and having aroused her vanity and her spirit of coquetry by polished words of gallantry, the _Don_ orders _Leporello_ to get rid of the jealous _Masetto_ by taking the entire gathering--excepting, of course, _Zerlina_--to his château. _Leporello_ grumbles, but carries out his master's order. The latter, left alone with _Zerlina_, sings a duet with her which is one of the gems, not alone of this opera, but of opera in general: "Là ci darem la mano!" (Your hand in mine, my dearest). _Donna Elvira_ appears and by her denunciation of _Don Giovanni_, "Ah! fuggi il traditore," makes clear to _Zerlina_ the character of her fascinating admirer. _Donna Anna_ and _Don Ottavio_ come upon the stage and sing a quartette which begins: "Non ti fidar, o misera, di quel ribaldo cor" (Place not thy trust, O mourning one, in this polluted soul), at the end of which _Donna Anna_, as _Don Giovanni_ departs, recognizes in his accents the voice of her father's assassin. Her narrative of the events of that terrible night is a declamatory recitative "in style as bold and as tragic as the finest recitatives of Gluck." _Don Giovanni_ orders preparations for the festival in his palace. He gives his commands to _Leporello_ in the "Champagne aria," "Finch' han dal vino" (Wine, flow a fountain), which is almost breathless with exuberance of anticipated revel. Then there is the ingratiating air of _Zerlina_ begging _Masetto's_ forgiveness for having flirted with the _Don_, "Batti, batti, o bel Masetto" (Chide me, chide me, dear Masetto), a number of enchanting grace, followed by a brilliantly triumphant allegro, "Pace, pace o vita mia" (Love, I see you're now relenting). [Music] The finale to the first act of "Don Giovanni" rightly passes for one of the masterpieces of dramatic music. _Leporello_, having opened a window to let the fresh evening air enter the palace hall, the violins of a small orchestra within are heard in the first measures of the graceful minuet. _Leporello_ sees three maskers, two women and a man, outside. In accordance with custom they are bidden to enter. _Don Giovanni_ does not know that they are _Donna Anna_, _Donna Elvira_, and _Don Ottavio_, bent upon seeking the murderer of the _Commandant_ and bringing him to justice. But even had he been aware of their purpose it probably would have made no difference, for courage this dissolute character certainly had. After a moment of hesitation, after having taken council together, and repressing a movement of horror which they feel at the sight of the man whose crimes have darkened their lives, _Donna Elvira_, _Donna Anna_, and _Don Ottavio_ decide to carry out their undertaking at all cost and to whatever end. Before entering the château, they pause on the threshold and, their souls moved by a holy fear, they address Heaven in one of the most touching prayers written by the hand of man. It is the number known throughout the world of music as the "Trio of the Masks," "Protegga, il giusto cielo"--(Just Heaven, now defend us)--one of those rare passages which, by its clearness of form, its elegance of musical diction, and its profundity of sentiment, moves the layman and charms the connoisseur. [Music: D ANNA Protegga il giusto cielo D ELVIRA Vendichi D OTTAV Protegga il giusto cielo] The festivities begin with the familiar minuet. Its graceful rhythm is prolonged indefinitely as a fundamental idea, while in succession, two small orchestras on the stage, take up, one a rustic quadrille in double time, the other a waltz. Notwithstanding the differences in rhythm, the three dances are combined with a skill that piques the ear and excites admiration. The scene would be even more natural and entertaining than it usually is, if the orchestras on the stage always followed the direction _accordano_ (tune up) which occurs in the score eight bars before each begins to play its dance, and if the dances themselves were carried out according to directions. Only the ladies and gentlemen should engage in the minuet, the peasants in the quadrille; and before _Don Giovanni_ leads off _Zerlina_ into an adjoining room he should have taken part with her in this dance, while _Leporello_ seeks to divert the jealous _Masetto's_ attention by seizing him in an apparent exuberance of spirits and insisting on dancing the waltz with him. _Masetto's_ suspicions, however, are not to be allayed. He breaks away from _Leporello_. The latter hurries to warn his master. But just as he has passed through the door, _Zerlina's_ piercing shriek for help is heard from within. _Don Giovanni_ rushes out, sword in hand, dragging out with him none other than poor _Leporello_, whom he has opportunely seized in the entrance, and whom, under pretence that he is the guilty party, he threatens to kill in order to turn upon him the suspicion that rests upon himself. But this ruse fails to deceive any one. _Donna Anna_, _Donna Elvira_, and _Don Ottavio_ unmask and accuse _Don Giovanni_ of the murder of the _Commandant_, "Tutto già si sà" (Everything is known and you are recognized). Taken aback, at first, _Don Giovanni_ soon recovers himself. Turning, at bay, he defies the enraged crowd. A storm is rising without. A storm sweeps over the orchestra. Thunder growls in the basses, lightning plays on the fiddles. _Don Giovanni_, cool, intrepid, cuts a passage through the crowd upon which, at the same time, he hurls his contempt. (In a performance at the Academy of Music, New York, about 1872, I saw _Don Giovanni_ stand off the crowd with a pistol.) The second act opens with a brief duet between _Don Giovanni_ and _Leporello_. The trio which follows: "Ah! taci, ingiusto core" (Ah, silence, heart rebellious), for _Donna Elvira_, _Leporello_, and _Don Giovanni_, is an exquisite passage. _Donna Elvira_, leaning sadly on a balcony, allows her melancholy regrets to wander in the pale moonlight which envelops her figure in a semi-transparent gloom. In spite of the scene which she has recently witnessed, in spite of wrongs she herself has endured, she cannot hate _Don Giovanni_ or efface his image from her heart. Her reward is that her recreant lover in the darkness below, changes costume with his servant and while _Leporello_, disguised as the _Don_, attracts _Donna Elvira_ into the garden, the cavalier himself addresses to _Zerlina_, who has been taken under _Donna Elvira's_ protection, the charming serenade: "Deh! vieni alla finestra" (Appear, love at thy window), which he accompanies on the mandolin, or should so accompany, for usually the accompaniment is played pizzicato by the orchestra. As the result of complications, which I shall not attempt to follow, _Masetto_, who is seeking to administer physical chastisement to _Don Giovanni_, receives instead a drubbing from the latter. _Zerlina_, while by no means indifferent to the attentions of the dashing _Don_, is at heart faithful to _Masetto_ and, while I fancy she is by no means obtuse to the humorous aspect of his chastisement by _Don Giovanni_, she comes trippingly out of the house and consoles the poor fellow with the graceful measures of "Vedrai carino, se sei buonino" (List, and I'll find love, if you are kind love). Shortly after this episode comes _Don Ottavio's_ famous air, the solo number which makes the rôle worth while, "Il mio tesoro intanto" (Fly then, my love, entreating). Upon this air praise has been exhausted. It has been called the "pietra di paragone" of tenors--the touchstone, the supreme test of classic song. [Music] Retribution upon _Don Giovanni_ is not to be too long deferred. After the escapade of the serenade and the drubbing of _Masetto_, the _Don_, who has made off, chances to meet in the churchyard (or in the public square) with _Leporello_, who meanwhile has gotten rid of _Donna Elvira_. It is about two in the morning. They see the newly erected statue to the murdered _Commandant_. _Don Giovanni_ bids it, through _Leporello_, to supper with him in his palace. Will it accept? The statue answers, "Yea!" _Leporello_ is terrified. And _Don Giovanni_? "In truth the scene is bizarre. The old boy comes to supper. Now hasten and bestir yourself to spread a royal feast." Such is the sole reflection that the fateful miracle, to which he has just been a witness, draws from this miscreant, who, whatever else he may be, is brave. Back in his palace, _Don Giovanni_ seats himself at table and sings of the pleasures of life. An orchestra on the stage plays airs from Vincente Martino's "Una Cosa Rara" (A Rare Thing); Sarti's "Fra Due Litiganti" (Between Two Litigants), and Mozart's own "Nozze di Figaro," _Leporello_ announcing the selections. The "Figaro" air is "Non più andrai" (Play no more, boy, the part of a lover). _Donna Elvira_ enters. On her knees she begs the man who has betrayed her to mend his ways. Her plea falls on deaf ears. She leaves. Her shriek is heard from the corridor. She re-enters and flees the palace by another door. "Va a veder che cos'è stato" (Go, and see what it is) _Don Giovanni_ commands _Leporello_. The latter returns trembling with fright. He has seen in the corridor "l'uom di sasso, l'uomo bianco"--the man of stone, the big white man. Seizing a candle, drawing his sword, _Don Giovanni_ boldly goes into the corridor. A few moments later he backs into the room, receding before the statue of the _Commandant_. The lights go out. All is dark save for the flame of the candle in _Don Giovanni's_ hand. Slowly, with heavy footsteps that re-echo, the statue enters. It speaks. "Don Giovanni, you have invited me to sit at table with you. Lo! I am here." Well knowing the fate in store for him, yet, with unebbing courage, _Don Giovanni_ nonchalantly commands _Leporello_ to serve supper. "Desist!" exclaims the statue. "He who has sat at a heavenly banquet, does not break the bread of mortals.... Don Giovanni, will you come to sup with me?" "I will," fearlessly answers the _Don_. "Give me your hand in gage thereof." "Here it is." _Don Giovanni_ extends his hand. The statue's huge hand of stone closes upon it. "Huh! what an icy grasp!"--"Repent! Change your course at your last hour."--"No, far from me such a thought."--"Repent, O miscreant!"--"No, you old fool."--"Repent!"--"No!" Nothing daunts him. A fiery pit opens. Demons seize him--unrepentant to the end--and drag him down. The music of the scene is gripping, yet accomplished without an addition to the ordinary orchestra of Mozart's day, without straining after effect, without any means save those commonly to his hand. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Scotti as Don Giovanni] In the modern opera house the final curtain falls upon this scene. In the work, however, there is another scene in which the other characters moralize upon _Don Giovanni's_ end. There is one accusation, however, none can urge against him. He was not a coward. Therein lies the appeal of the character. His is a brilliant, impetuous figure, with a dash of philosophy, which is that, sometime, somewhere, in the course of his amours, he will discover the perfect woman from whose lips he will be able to draw the sweetness of all women. Moreover he is a villain with a keen sense of humour. Inexcusable in real life, he is a debonair, fascinating figure on the stage, whereas _Donna Anna_, _Donna Elvira_, and _Don Ottavio_ are mere hinges in the drama and as creations purely musical. _Zerlina_, on the other hand, is one of Mozart's most delectable characters. _Leporello_, too, is clearly drawn, dramatically and musically; a coward, yet loyal to the master who appeals to a strain of the humorous in him and whose courage he admires. For the Vienna production Mozart wrote three new vocal numbers, which are printed in the score as additions. Caterina Cavalieri, the _Elvira_, had complained to Mozart, that the Viennese public did not appreciate her as did audiences of other cities and begged him for something that would give her voice full scope. The result was the fine aria: "Mi tradì quell'alma ingrata." The _Ottavio_, Signor Morello, was considered unequal to "Il mio tesoro," so Mozart wrote the less exacting "Dalla sua pace," for him. To amuse the public he inserted a comic duet, "Per queste tue manine," for _Zerlina_ and _Leporello_. This usually is omitted. The other two inserts were interpolated in the second act of the opera before the finale. In the Metropolitan Opera House version, however, _Donna Elvira_ sings "Mi tradì" to express her rage after the "Madamina" of Leporello; and _Don Ottavio_ sings "Dalla sua pace" before the scene in _Don Giovanni's_ château. The first performance of "Don Giovanni" in America took place in the Park Theatre, New York, on Tuesday evening, May 23, 1826. I have verified the date in the file of the New York _Evening Post_. "This evening for the first time in America, the semi-serious opera of 'Il Don Giovanni,'" reads the advertisement of that date. Then follows the cast. Manuel Garcia played the title rôle; Manuel Garcia, Jr., afterwards inventor of the laryngoscope, who reached the age of 101, dying in London in 1906, was _Leporello_; Mme. Barbieri, _Donna Anna_; Mme. Garcia, _Donna Elvira_; Signorina Maria Garcia (afterwards famous under her married name of Malibran), _Zerlina_; Milon, whom Mr. Krehbiel identifies as a violoncellist later with the Philharmonic Society, _Don Ottavio_; and Carlo Angrisani, _Masetto_, a rôle he had sung at the first London performance of the work. Da Ponte, the librettist of the work, who had become Professor of Italian at Columbia College, had induced Garcia to put on the opera. At the first performance during the finale of the first act everything went at sixes and sevens, in spite of the efforts of Garcia, in the title rôle, to keep things together. Finally, sword in hand, he stepped to the front of the stage, ordered the performance stopped, and, exhorting the singers not to commit the crime of ruining a masterwork, started the finale over again, which now went all right. It is related by da Ponte that "my 'Don Giovanni,'" as he called it, made such a success that a friend of his who always fell asleep at operatic performances, not only remained awake during the whole of "Don Giovanni," but told him he couldn't sleep a wink the rest of the night for excitement. Pauline Viardot-Garcia, sister of Signorina Garcia (afterwards Mme. Malibran), the _Zerlina_ of the first New York performance, owned the original autograph score of "Don Giovanni." She bequeathed it to the Paris Conservatoire. The opera has engaged the services of famous artists. Faure and Maurel were great _Don Giovannis_, Jean de Reszke sang the rôle, while he was still a baritone; Scotti made his _début_ at the Metropolitan Opera House, December 27, 1899, in the rôle, with Nordica as _Donna Anna_, Suzanne Adams, as _Donna Elvira_, Sembrich as _Zerlina_, and Édouard de Reszke as _Leporello_. Renaud appeared as _Don Giovanni_ at the Manhattan Opera House. Lablache was accounted the greatest of _Leporellos_. The rôle of _Don Ottavio_ has been sung by Rubini and Mario. At the Mozart Festival, Salzburg, 1914, the opera was given with Lilli Lehmann, Farrar, and McCormack in the cast. A curious aside in the history of the work was an "adaptation," produced by Kalkbrenner in Paris, 1805. How greatly this differed from the original may be judged from the fact that the trio of the masks was sung, not by _Donna Anna_, _Donna Elvira_, and _Don Ottavio_, but by three policemen! [Illustration: Photo by White Alten and Goritz as Papagena and Papageno in "The Magic Flute"] THE MAGIC FLUTE DIE ZAUBERFLÖTE Opera in two acts by Mozart; words by Emanuel Schikaneder and Gieseke. Produced, September 30, 1791, in Vienna, in the Theatre auf der Wieden; Paris, 1801, as "Les Mystères d'Isis"; London, King's Theatre, June 6, 1811 (Italian); Covent Garden, May 27, 1833 (German); Drury Lane, March 10, 1838 (English); New York, Park Theatre, April 17, 1833 (English). The rôle of _Astrofiammante, Queen of the Night_, has been sung here by Carlotta Patti, Ilma di Murska, Gerster, Sembrich, and Hempel. CHARACTERS SARASTRO, High Priest of Isis _Bass_ TAMINO, an Egyptian Prince _Tenor_ PAPAGENO, a bird-catcher _Baritone_ ASTROFIAMMANTE, Queen of the Night _Soprano_ PAMINA, her daughter _Soprano_ MONOSTATOS, a Moor, chief slave of the Temple _Baritone_ PAPAGENA _Soprano_ Three Ladies-in-Waiting to the Queen; Three Youths of the Temple; Priests, Priestesses, Slaves, etc. _Time_--Egypt, about the reign of Rameses I. _Place_--Near and at the Temple of Isis, Memphis. The libretto to "The Magic Flute" is considered such a jumble of nonsense that it is as well to endeavour to extract some sense from it. Emanuel Johann Schikaneder, who wrote it with the aid of a chorister named Gieseke, was a friend of Mozart and a member of the same Masonic Lodge. He also was the manager of a theatrical company and had persuaded Mozart to compose the music to a puppet show for him. He had selected for this show the story of "Lulu" by Liebeskind, which had appeared in a volume of Oriental tales brought out by Wieland under the title of "Dschinnistan." In the original tale a wicked sorcerer has stolen the daughter of the Queen of Night, who is restored by a Prince by means of magic. While Schikaneder was busy on his libretto, a fairy story by Perinet, music by Wenzel Müller, and treating of the same subject, was given at another Viennese theatre. Its great success interfered with Schikaneder's original plan. At that time, however, freemasonry was a much discussed subject. It had been interdicted by Maria Theresa and armed forces were employed to break up the lodges. As a practical man Schikaneder saw his chance to exploit the interdicted rites on the stage. Out of the wicked sorcerer he made _Sarastro_, the sage priest of Isis. The ordeals of _Tamino_ and _Pamina_ became copies of the ceremonials of freemasonry. He also laid the scene of the opera in Egypt, where freemasonry believes its rites to have originated. In addition to all this Mozart's beautiful music ennobled the libretto even in its dull and unpoetical passages, and lent to the whole a touch of the mysterious and sacred. "The muse of Mozart lightly bears her century of existence," writes a French authority, of this score. Because of its supposed relation to freemasonry, commentators have identified the vengeful _Queen of the Night_ with Maria Theresa, and _Tamino_ with the Emperor. _Pamina_, _Papageno_, and _Papagena_ are set down as types of the people, and _Monostatos_ as the fugleman of monasticism. Mozart wrote on "The Magic Flute" from March until July and in September, 1791. September 30, two months before his death, the first performance was given. In the overture to "The Magic Flute" the heavy reiterated chords represent, it has been suggested, the knocking at the door of the lodge room, especially as they are heard again in the temple scene, when the novitiate of _Tamino_ is about to begin. The brilliancy of the fugued allegro often has been commented on as well as the resemblance of its theme to that of Clementi's sonata in B-flat. The story of "The Magic Flute" opens Act I, with _Tamino_ endeavouring to escape from a huge snake. He trips in running and falls unconscious. Hearing his cries for help, three black-garbed _Ladies-in-Waiting_ of the _Queen of the Night_ appear and kill the snake with their spears. Quite unwillingly they leave the handsome youth, who, on recovering consciousness, sees dancing toward him an odd-looking man entirely covered with feathers. It is _Papageno_, a bird-catcher. He tells the astonished _Tamino_ that this is the realm of the _Queen of the Night_. Nor, seeing that the snake is dead, does he hesitate to boast that it was he who killed the monster. For this lie he is immediately punished. The three _Ladies-in-Waiting_ reappear and place a padlock on his mouth. Then they show _Tamino_ the miniature of a maiden, whose magical beauty at once fills his heart with ardent love. Enter the _Queen of the Night_. She tells _Tamino_ the portrait is that of her daughter, _Pamina_, who has been taken from her by a wicked sorcerer, _Sarastro_. She has chosen _Tamino_ to deliver the maiden and as a reward he will receive her hand in marriage. The _Queen_ then disappears and the three _Ladies-in-Waiting_ come back. They take the padlock from _Papageno's_ mouth, give him a set of chimes and _Tamino_ a golden flute. By the aid of these magical instruments they will be able to escape the perils of their journey, on which they will be accompanied by three youths or genii. Change of scene. A richly furnished apartment in _Sarastro's_ palace is disclosed. A brutal Moor, _Monostatos_, is pursuing _Pamina_ with unwelcome attentions. The appearance of _Papageno_ puts him to flight. The bird-catcher recognizes _Pamina_ as the daughter of the _Queen of the Night_, and assures her that she will soon be rescued. In the meantime the _Three Youths_ guide _Tamino_ to a grove where three temples stand. He is driven away from the doors of two, but at the third there appears a priest who informs him that _Sarastro_ is no tyrant, no wicked sorcerer as the _Queen_ had warned him, but a man of wisdom and of noble character. The sound of _Papageno's_ voice arouses _Tamino_ from the meditations inspired by the words of the priest. He hastens forth and seeks to call his companion by playing on his flute. _Papageno_ is not alone. He is trying to escape with _Pamina_, but is prevented by the appearance of _Monostatos_ and some slaves, who endeavour to seize them. But _Papageno_ sets the Moor and his slaves dancing by playing on his magic chimes. Trumpet blasts announce the coming of _Sarastro_. _Pamina_ falls at the feet of the High Priest and explains that she was trying to escape the unwelcome attentions of the Moor. The latter now drags _Tamino_ in, but instead of the reward he expects, receives a sound flogging. By the command of _Sarastro_, _Tamino_ and _Pamina_ are brought into the Temple of Ordeals, where they must prove that they are worthy of the higher happiness. Act II. In the Palm Grove. _Sarastro_ informs the priests of the plans which he has laid. The gods have decided that _Pamina_ shall become the wife of the noble youth _Tamino_. _Tamino_, however, must prove, by his own power, that he is worthy of admission to the Temple. Therefore _Sarastro_ has taken under his protection _Pamina_, daughter of the _Queen of the Night_, to whom is due all darkness and superstition. But the couple must go through severe ordeals in order to be worthy of entering the Temple of Light, and thus of thwarting the sinister machinations of the _Queen_. In the succeeding scenes we see these fabulous ordeals, which _Tamino_, with the assistance of his magic flute and his own purity of purpose, finally overcomes in company with _Pamina_. Darkness is banished and the young couple enter into the light of the Temple of the Sun. _Papageno_ also fares well, for he receives _Papagena_ for wife. There is much nonsense and even buffoonery in "The Magic Flute"; and, in spite of real nobility in the rôle and music of _Sarastro_, Mr. Krehbiel's comment that the piece should be regarded as somewhat in the same category as a Christmas pantomime is by no means far-fetched. It lends itself to elaborate production, and spectacular performances of it have been given at the Metropolitan Opera House. Its representation requires for the rôle of _Astrofiammante, Queen of the Night_, a soprano of extraordinarily high range and agility of voice, as each of the two great airs of this vengeful lady extend to high F and are so brilliant in style that one associates with them almost anything but the dire outpouring of threats their text is intended to convey. They were composed because Mozart's sister-in-law, Josepha Weber (Mme. Hofer) was in the cast of the first performance and her voice was such as has been described above. The _Queen_ has an air in Act I and another in Act II. A quotation from the second, the so-called "Vengeance aria," will show the range and brilliancy of voice required of a singer in the rôle of _Astrofiammante_. [Music] One is surprised to learn that this _tour de force_ of brilliant vocalization is set to words beginning: "Vengeance of hell is boiling in my bosom"; for by no means does it boil with a vengeance. _Papageno_ in his dress of feathers is an amusing character. His first song, "A fowler bold in me you see," with interludes on his pipes, is jovial; and after his mouth has been padlocked his inarticulate and oft-repeated "Hm!" can always be made provocative of laughter. With _Pamina_ he has a charming duet "The manly heart that love desires." The chimes with which he causes _Monostatos_ and his slaves to dance, willy-nilly, are delightful and so is his duet with _Papagena_, near the end of the opera. _Tamino_, with the magic flute, charms the wild beasts. They come forth from their lairs and lie at his feet. "Thy magic tones shall speak for me," is his principal air. The concerted number for _Pamina_ and trio of female voices (the _Three Youths_ or genii) is of exceeding grace. The two _Men in Armour_, who in one of the scenes of the ordeals guard the portal to a subterranean cavern and announce to _Tamino_ the awards that await him, do so to the vocal strains of an old German sacred melody with much admired counterpoint in the orchestra. Next, however, in significance to the music for _Astrofiammante_ and, indeed, of far nobler character than the airs for the _Queen of the Night_, are the invocation of Isis by _Sarastro_, "O, Isis and Osiris," with its interluding chant of the priests, and his air, "Within this hallowed dwelling." Not only the solemnity of the vocal score but the beauty of the orchestral accompaniment, so rich, yet so restrained, justly cause these two numbers to rank with Mozart's finest achievements. "Die Zauberflöte" (The Magic Flute) was its composer's swan-song in opera and perhaps his greatest popular success. Yet he is said to have made little or nothing out of it, having reserved as his compensation the right to dispose of copies of the score to other theatres. Copies, however, were procured surreptitiously; his last illness set in; and, poor business man that he was, others reaped the rewards of his genius. In 1801, ten years after Mozart's death, there was produced in Paris an extraordinary version of "The Magic Flute," entitled "Les Mystères d'Isis" (The Mysteries of Isis). Underlying this was a considerable portion of "The Magic Flute" score, but also introduced in it were fragments from other works of the composer ("Don Giovanni," "Figaro," "Clemenza di Tito") and even bits from Haydn symphonies. Yet this hodge-podge not only had great success--owing to the magic of Mozart's music--it actually was revived more than a quarter of a century later, and the real "Zauberflöte" was not given in Paris until 1829. Besides the operas discussed, Mozart produced (1781) "Idomeneo" and (1791) "La Clemenza di Tito." In 1768, when he was twelve years old, a one-act "Singspiel" or musical comedy, "Bastien and Bastienne," based on a French vaudeville by Mme. Favart, was privately played in Vienna. With text rearranged by Max Kalbeck, the graceful little piece has been revived with success. The story is of the simplest. Two lovers, _Bastien_ (tenor) and _Bastienne_ (soprano), have quarrelled. Without the slightest complication in the plot, they are brought together by the third character, an old shepherd named _Colas_ (bass). "Der Schauspieldirektor" (The Impresario), another little comedy opera, produced 1786, introduces that clever rogue, Schikaneder, at whose entreaty "The Magic Flute" was composed. The other characters include Mozart himself, and Mme. Hofer, his sister-in-law, who was the _Queen of the Night_ in the original cast of "The Magic Flute." The story deals with the troubles of an impresario due to the jealousy of prima donnas. "Before they are engaged, opera singers are very engaging, except when they are engaged in singing." This line is from H.E. Krehbiel's translation of the libretto, produced, with "Bastien and Bastienne" (translated by Alice Matullah, as a "lyric pastoral"), at the Empire Theatre, New York, October 26, 1916. These charming productions were made by the Society of American Singers with a company including David Bispham (Schikaneder and Colas), Albert Reiss (Mozart and Bastien), Mabel Garrison, and Lucy Gates; the direction that of Mr. Reiss. There remain to be mentioned two other operatic comedies by Mozart: "The Elopement from the Serail" (Belmonte und Constanze), 1782, in three acts; and "Così fan Tutte" (They All Do It), 1790, in two. The music of "Così fan Tutte" is so sparkling that various attempts have been made to relieve it of the handicap imposed by the banality of the original libretto by da Ponte. Herman Levi's version has proven the most successful of the various rearrangements. The characters are two Andalusian sisters, _Fiordiligi_ (soprano), _Dorabella_ (soprano); two officers, their fiancés, _Ferrando_ (tenor), and _Guglielmo_ (baritone); _Alfonso_ (bass); and _Despina_ (soprano), maid to the two sisters. _Alfonso_ lays a wager with the officers that, like all women, their fiancées will prove unfaithful, if opportunity were offered. The men pretend their regiment has been ordered to Havana, then return in disguise and lay siege to the young ladies. In various ways, including a threat of suicide, the women's sympathies are played upon. In the original they are moved to pledge their hearts and hands to the supposed new-comers. A reconciliation follows their simple pronouncement that "they all do it." In the revised version, they become cognizant of the intrigue, play their parts in it knowingly, at the right moment disclose their knowledge, shame their lovers, and forgive them. An actual wager laid in Vienna is said to have furnished the basis for da Ponte's libretto. Ludwig van Beethoven FIDELIO "Fidelio," opera in two acts, by Ludwig van Beethoven. Produced in three acts, as "Fidelio, oder, die eheliche Liebe" (Fidelio, or Conjugal Love), at the Theatre on the Wien [Transcriber's Note: should be 'Theater auf der Wieden, Vienna'], November 20, 1805. Revised and given at the Imperial Private Theatre, March 29, 1806, but withdrawn after a few performances. Again revised and successfully brought out May 23, 1814, at the Kärnthnerthor Theatre (Theatre at the Carinthian Gate), Vienna. Paris, Théâtre Lyrique, May 5, 1860. London, King's Theatre, May 18, 1832; Covent Garden, June 12, 1835, with Malibran; May 20, 1851, in Italian, with recitatives by Balfe. New York, Park Theatre, September 9, 1839. (See last paragraph of this article.) The libretto was by Sonnleithner after Bouilly; first revision by Breuning; second by Treitschke. Four overtures, "Leonore," Nos. 1, 2, and 3; and "Fidelio." CHARACTERS FLORESTAN, a Spanish Nobleman _Tenor_ LEONORE, his wife, in male attire as FIDELIO _Soprano_ DON FERNANDO, Prime Minister of Spain _Bass_ PIZARRO, Governor of the prison and enemy to FLORESTAN _Bass_ ROCCO, chief jailer _Bass_ MARCELLINA, daughter of ROCCO _Soprano_ JACQUINO, assistant to ROCCO _Tenor_ Soldiers, prisoners, people. _Time_--18th Century. _Place_--A fortress, near Seville, Spain, used as a prison for political offenders. Ludwig van Beethoven, composer of "Fidelio," was born at Bonn, December 16, 1770. He died at Vienna, March 26, 1827. As he composed but this one opera, and as his fame rests chiefly on his great achievements outside the domain of the stage--symphonies, sonatas, etc.--it is possible, as Storck suggests in his _Opernbuch_, to dispense with biographical data and confine ourselves to facts relating to "Fidelio." The libretto, which appealed to the composer by reason of its pure and idealistic motive, was not written for Beethoven. It was a French book by Bouilly and had been used by three composers: Pierre Gabeaux (1798); Simon Mayr, Donizetti's teacher at Bergamo and the composer of more than seventy operas (1805); and Paër, whose "Leonora, ossia l'Amore Conjugale" (Leonora, or Conjugal Love) was brought out at Dresden in December, 1804. It was Schikaneder, the librettist and producer of Mozart's "Magic Flute," who commissioned Beethoven to compose an opera. But it was finally executed for Baron von Braun, who had succeeded to the management of the Theatre on the Wien. Beethoven's heart was bound up in the work. Conscientious to the last detail in everything he did, this noble man, inspired by a noble theme, appears to have put even more labour into his opera than into any other one work. There are no less than sixteen sketches for the opening of _Florestan's_ first air and 346 pages of sketches for the opera. Nor did his labour in it cease when the opera was completed and performed. Bouilly's libretto was translated and made over for Beethoven by Schubert's friend Joseph Sonnleithner. The opera was brought out November 20th and repeated November 21 and 22, 1805. It was a failure. The French were in occupation of Vienna, which the Emperor of Austria and the court had abandoned, and conditions generally were upset. But even Beethoven's friends did not blame the non-success of the opera upon these untoward circumstances. It had inherent defects, as was apparent even a century later, when at the "Fidelio" centennial celebration in Berlin, the original version was restored and performed. To remedy these, Beethoven's friend, Stephan von Breuning, condensed the three acts to two and the composer made changes in the score. This second version was brought forward April 29, 1806, with better success, but a quarrel with von Braun led Beethoven to withdraw it. It seems to have required seven years for the _entente cordiale_ between composer and manager to become re-established. Then Baron von Braun had the book taken in hand by a practical librettist, Georg Friedrich Treitschke. Upon receiving the revision, which greatly pleased him, Beethoven in his turn re-revised the score. In this form "Fidelio" was brought out May 23, 1814, in the Theatre am Kärnthnerthor. There was no question of failure this time. The opera took its place in the repertoire and when, eight years later, Mme. Schröder-Devrient sang the title rôle, her success in it was sensational. There are four overtures to the work, three entitled "Leonore" (Nos. 1, 2, and 3) and one "Fidelio." The "Leonore" overtures are incorrectly numbered. The No. 2 was given at the original performance and is, therefore, No. 1. The greatest and justly the most famous, the No. 3, is really No. 2. The so-called No. 1 was composed for a projected performance at Prague, which never came off. The score and parts, in a copyist's hand, but with corrections by Beethoven, were discovered after the composer's death. When it was recognized as an overture to the opera, the conclusion that it was the earliest one, which he probably had laid aside, was not unnaturally arrived at. The "Fidelio" overture was intended for the second revision, but was not ready in time. The overture to "The Ruins of Athens" was substituted. The overture to "Fidelio" usually is played before the opera and the "Leonore," No. 3, between the acts. [Illustration: Photo by White Matzenauer as Fidelio] Of the "Leonore," No. 3, I think it is within bounds to say that it is the first great overture that sums up in its thematic material and in its general scope, construction, and working out, the story of the opera which it precedes. Even the trumpet call is brought in with stirring dramatic effect. It may be said that from this time on the melodies of their operas were drawn on more and more by composers for the thematic material of their overtures, which thus became music-dramas in miniature. The overture "Leonore," No. 3, also is an established work in the classical concert repertoire, as is also _Leonore's_ recitative and air in the first act. In the story of the opera, _Florestan_, a noble Spaniard, has aroused the enmity of _Pizarro_, governor of a gloomy mediæval fortress, used as a place of confinement for political prisoners. _Pizarro_ has been enabled secretly to seize _Florestan_ and cast him into the darkest dungeon of the fortress, at the same time spreading a report of his death. Indeed, _Pizarro_ actually plans to do away with _Florestan_ by slow starvation; or, if necessary, by means more swift. One person, however, suspects the truth--_Leonore_, the wife of _Florestan_. Her faithfulness, the risks she takes, the danger she runs, in order to save her husband, and the final triumph of conjugal love over the sinister machinations of _Pizarro_, form the motive of the story of "Fidelio," a title derived from the name assumed by _Leonore_, when, disguised as a man, she obtains employment as assistant to _Rocco_, the chief jailer of the prison. _Fidelio_ has been at work and has become a great favourite with _Rocco_, as well as with _Marcellina_, the jailer's daughter. The latter, in fact, much prefers the gentle, comely youth, _Fidelio_, to _Jacquino_, the turnkey, who, before _Fidelio's_ appearance upon the scene, believed himself to be her accepted lover. _Leonore_ cannot make her sex known to the girl. It would ruin her plans to save her husband. Such is the situation when the curtain rises on the first act, which is laid in the courtyard of the prison. Act I. The opera opens with a brisk duet between _Jacquino_ and _Marcellina_, in which he urges her definitely to accept him and she cleverly puts him off. Left alone she expresses her regret for _Jacquino_, but wishes she were united with _Fidelio_. ("O wär' ich schon mit dir vereint"--O, were I but with you united.) Afterward she is joined by her father. Then _Leonore_ (as _Fidelio_) enters the courtyard. She has a basket of provisions and also is carrying some fetters which she has taken to be repaired. _Marcellina_, seeing how weary _Leonore_ is, hastens to relieve the supposed youth of his burden. _Rocco_ hints not only tolerantly but even encouragingly at what he believes to be the fancy _Fidelio_ and _Marcellina_ have taken to each other. This leads up to the quartet in canon form, one of the notable vocal numbers of the opera, "Mir ist so wunderbar" (How wondrous the emotion). Being a canon, the theme enunciated by each of the four characters is the same, but if the difference in the sentiments of each character is indicated by subtle nuance of expression on the part of the singers, and the intonation be correct, the beauty of this quartet becomes plain even at a first hearing. The participants are _Leonore_, _Marcellina_, _Rocco_, and _Jacquino_, who appears toward the close. "After this canon," say the stage directions, so clearly is the form of the quartet recognized, "_Jacquino_ goes back to his lodge." [Music] _Rocco_ then voices a song in praise of money and the need of it for young people about to marry. ("Wenn sich Nichts mit Nichts verbindet"--When you nothing add to nothing.) The situation is awkward for _Leonore_, but the rescue of her husband demands that she continue to masquerade as a man. Moreover there is an excuse in the palpable fact that before she entered _Rocco's_ service, _Jacquino_ was in high favour with _Marcellina_ and probably will have no difficulty in re-establishing himself therein, when the comely youth _Fidelio_, turns out to be _Leonore_, the faithful wife of _Florestan_. Through a description which _Rocco_ gives of the prisoners, _Leonore_ now learns what she had not been sure of before. Her husband is confined in this fortress and in its deepest dungeon. A short march, with a pronounced and characteristic rhythm, announces the approach of _Pizarro_. He looks over his despatches. One of them warns him that _Fernando_, the Minister of State, is about to inspect the fortress, accusations having been made to him that _Pizarro_ has used his power as governor to wreak vengeance upon his private enemies. A man of quick decision, _Pizarro_ determines to do away with _Florestan_ at once. His aria, "Ha! welch' ein Augenblick!" (Ah! the great moment!) is one of the most difficult solos in the dramatic repertoire for bass voice. When really mastered, however, it also is one of the most effective. _Pizarro_ posts a trumpeter on the ramparts with a sentry to watch the road from Seville. As soon as a state equipage with outriders is sighted, the trumpeter is to blow a signal. Having thus made sure of being warned of the approach of the _Minister_, he tosses a well-filled purse to _Rocco_, and bids him "for the safety of the State," to make away with the most dangerous of the prisoners--meaning _Florestan_. _Rocco_ declines to commit murder, but when _Pizarro_ takes it upon himself to do the deed, _Rocco_ consents to dig a grave in an old cistern in the vaults, so that all traces of the crime will be hidden from the expected visitor. _Leonore_, who has overheard the plot, now gives vent to her feelings in the highly dramatic recitative: "Abscheulicher! wo eilst du hin!" ("Accursed one! Where hasten'st thou!"); followed by the beautiful air, "Komm Hoffnung" (Come, hope!), a deeply moving expression of confidence that her love and faith will enable her, with the aid of Providence, to save her husband's life. Soon afterwards she learns that, as _Rocco's_ assistant, she is to help him in digging the grave. She will be near her husband and either able to aid him or at least die with him. The prisoners from the upper tiers are now, on _Leonore's_ intercession, permitted a brief opportunity to breathe the open air. The cells are unlocked and they are allowed to stroll in the garden of the fortress, until _Pizarro_, hearing of this, angrily puts an end to it. The chorus of the prisoners, subdued like the half-suppressed joy of fearsome beings, is one of the significant passages of the score. Act II. The scene is in the dungeon where _Florestan_ is in heavy chains. To one side is the old cistern covered with rubbish. Musically the act opens with _Florestan's_ recitative and air, a fit companion piece to _Leonore's_ "Komm Hoffnung" in Act I. The whispered duet between _Leonore_ and _Rocco_ as they dig the grave and the orchestral accompaniment impress one with the gruesome significance of the scene. _Pizarro_ enters the vault, exultantly makes himself known to his enemy, and draws his dagger for the fatal thrust. _Leonore_ throws herself in his way. Pushed aside, she again interposes herself between the would-be murderer and his victim, and, pointing at him a loaded pistol, which she has had concealed about her person, cries out: "First slay his wife!" At this moment, in itself so tense, a trumpet call rings out from the direction of the fortress wall. _Jacquino_ appears at the head of the stone stairway leading down into the dungeon. The _Minister of State_ is at hand. His vanguard is at the gate. _Florestan_ is saved. There is a rapturous duet, "O, namenlose Freude" (Joy inexpressible) for him and the devoted wife to whom he owes his life. In _Florestan_ the _Minister of State_ recognizes his friend, whom he believed to have died, according to the reports set afloat by _Pizarro_, who himself is now apprehended. To _Leonore_ is assigned the joyful task of unlocking and loosening her husband's fetters and freeing him from his chains. A chorus of rejoicing: "Wer ein solches Weib errungen" (He, whom such a wife has cherished) brings the opera to a close. It is well said in George P. Upton's book, _The Standard Operas_, that "as a drama and as an opera, 'Fidelio' stands almost alone in its perfect purity, in the moral grandeur of its subject, and in the resplendent ideality of its music." Even those who do not appreciate the beauty of such a work, and, unfortunately their number is considerable, cannot fail to agree with me that the trumpet call, which brings the prison scene to a climax, is one of the most dramatic moments in opera. I was a boy when, more than forty years ago, I first heard "Fidelio" in Wiesbaden. But I still remember the thrill, when that trumpet call split the air with the message that the _Minister of State_ was in sight and that _Leonore_ had saved her husband. [Music] When "Fidelio" had its first American performance (New York, Park Theatre, September 9, 1839) the opera did not fill the entire evening. The entertainment, as a whole, was a curiosity from present-day standards. First came Beethoven's opera, with Mrs. Martyn as _Leonore_. Then a _pas seul_ was danced by Mme. Araline; the whole concluding with "The Deep, Deep Sea," in which Mr. Placide appeared as _The Great American Sea Serpent_. This seems incredible. But I have searched for and found the advertisement in the New York _Evening Post_, and the facts are stated. Under Dr. Leopold Damrosch, "Fidelio" was performed at the Metropolitan Opera House in the season of 1884-85; under Anton Seidl, during the season of 1886-87, with Brandt and Niemann as well as with Lehmann and Niemann as _Leonore_ and _Florestan_. The 1886-87 representations of "Fidelio," by great artists under a great conductor, are among the most vivid memories of opera-goers so fortunate as to have heard them. Weber and his Operas Carl Maria von Weber, born at Eutin, Oldenberg, December 18, 1786, died in London, June 5, 1826, is the composer of "Der Freischütz;" "Euryanthe," and "Oberon." "Der Freischütz" was first heard in Berlin, June 18, 1821. "Euryanthe" was produced in Vienna, October 25, 1823. "Oberon" had its first performance at Covent Garden, London, April 12, 1826. Eight weeks later Weber died. A sufferer from consumption, his malady was aggravated by over-exertion in finishing the score of "Oberon," rehearsing and conducting the opera, and attending the social functions arranged in his honour. DER FREISCHÜTZ The first American performance of this opera, which is in three acts, was in English. The event took place in the Park Theatre, New York, March 2, 1825. This was only four years later than the production in Berlin. It was not heard here in German until a performance at the old Broadway Theatre. This occurred in 1856 under the direction of Carl Bergmann. London heard it, in English, July 23, 1824; in German, at the King's Theatre, May 9, 1832; in Italian, as "Il Franco Arciero," at Covent Garden, March 16, 1825. For this performance Costa wrote recitatives to replace the dialogue. Berlioz did the same for the production at the Grand Opéra, Paris, as "Le Franc Archer," June 7, 1841. "Freischütz" means "free-shooter"--someone who shoots with magic bullets. CHARACTERS PRINCE OTTOKAR _Baritone_ CUNO, head ranger _Bass_ MAX, a forester _Tenor_ KASPAR, a forester _Bass_ KILIAN, a peasant _Tenor_ A HERMIT _Bass_ ZAMIEL, the wild huntsman _Speaking Part_ AGATHE, Cuno's daughter _Soprano_ AENNCHEN (ANNETTE), her cousin _Soprano_ _Time_--Middle of 18th Century. _Place_--Bohemia. Act I. At the target range. _Kilian_, the peasant, has defeated _Max_, the forester, at a prize shooting, a Schützenfest, maybe. _Max_, of course, should have won. Being a forester, accustomed to the use of fire-arms, it is disgraceful for him to have been defeated by a mere peasant. _Kilian_ "rubs it in" by mocking him in song and the men and girls of the village join in the mocking chorus--a clever bit of teasing in music and establishing at the very start the originality in melody, style, and character of the opera. The hereditary forester, _Cuno_, is worried over the poor showing _Max_ has made not only on that day, but for some time past. There is to be a "shoot" on the morrow before _Prince Ottokar_. In order to win the hand in marriage of _Agathe_, _Cuno's_ daughter, and the eventual succession as hereditary forester, _Max_ must carry off the honours in the competition now so near at hand. He himself is in despair. Life will be worthless to him without _Agathe_. Yet he seems to have lost all his cunning as a shot. It is now, when the others have gone, that another forester, _Kaspar_, a man of dark visage and of morose and forbidding character, approaches him. He hands him his gun, points to an eagle circling far on high, and tells him to fire at it. _Max_ shoots. From its dizzy height the bird falls dead at his feet. It is a wonderful shot. _Kaspar_ explains to him that he has shot with a "free," or charmed bullet; that such bullets always hit what the marksman wills them to; and that if _Max_ will meet him in the Wolf's Glen at midnight, they will mould bullets with one of which, on the morrow, he easily can win _Agathe's_ hand and the hereditary office of forester. _Max_, to whom victory means all that is dear to him, consents. Act II. _Agathe's_ room in the head ranger's house. The girl has gloomy forebodings. Even her sprightly relative, _Aennchen_, is unable to cheer her up. At last _Max_, whom she has been awaiting, comes. Very soon, however, he says he is obliged to leave, because he has shot a deer in the Wolf's Glen and must go after it. In vain the girls warn him against the locality, which is said to be haunted. The scene changes to the Wolf's Glen, the haunt of _Zamiel_ the wild huntsman (otherwise the devil) to whom _Kaspar_ has sold himself, and to whom now he plans to turn over _Max_ as a victim, in order to gain for himself a brief respite on earth, his time to _Zamiel_ being up. The younger forester joins him in the Wolf's Glen and together they mould seven magic bullets, six of which go true to the mark. The seventh goes whither _Zamiel_ wills it. Act III. The first scene again plays in the forester's house. _Agathe_ still is filled with forebodings. She is attired for the test shooting which also will make her _Max's_ bride, if he is successful. Faith dispels her gloom. The bridesmaids enter and wind the bridal garland. The time arrives for the test shooting. But only the seventh bullet, the one which _Zamiel_ speeds whither he wishes, remains to _Max_. His others he has used up on the hunt in order to show off before the _Prince_. _Kaspar_ climbs a tree to watch the proceedings from a safe place of concealment. He expects _Max_ to be _Zamiel's_ victim. Before the whole village and the _Prince_ the test shot is to be made. The Prince points to a flying dove. At that moment _Agathe_ appears accompanied by a _Hermit_, a holy man. She calls out to _Max_ not to shoot, that she is the dove. But _Max_ already has pulled the trigger. The shot resounds. _Agathe_ falls--but only in a swoon. It is _Kaspar_ who tumbles from the tree and rolls, fatally wounded, on the turf. _Zamiel_ has had no power over _Max_, for the young forester had not come to the Wolf's Glen of his own free will, but only after being tempted by _Kaspar_. Therefore _Kaspar_ himself had to be the victim of the seventh bullet. Upon the _Hermit's_ intercession, _Max_, who has confessed everything, is forgiven by _Prince Ottokar_, the test shot is abolished and a year's probation substituted for it. Many people are familiar with music from "Der Freischütz" without being aware that it is from that opera. Several melodies from it have been adapted as hymn tunes, and are often sung in church. In Act I, are _Kilian's_ song and the chorus in which the men and women, young and old, rally _Max_ upon his bad luck. There is an expressive trio for _Max_, _Kaspar_, and _Cuno_, with chorus "O diese Sonne!" (O fateful morrow.) There is a short waltz. _Max's_ solo, "Durch die Wälder, durch die Auen" (Through the forest and o'er the meadows) is a melody of great beauty, and this also can be said of his other solo in the same scene, "Jetzt ist wohl ihr Fenster offen" (Now mayhap her window opens), while the scene comes to a close with gloomy, despairing accents, as _Zamiel_, unseen of course by _Max_, hovers, a threatening shadow, in the background. There follows _Kaspar's_ drinking song, forced in its hilariousness and ending in grotesque laughter, _Kaspar_ being the familiar of _Zamiel_, the wild huntsman. His air ("Triumph! Triumph! Vengeance will succeed") is wholly in keeping with his sinister character. Act II opens with a delightful duet for _Agathe_ and _Aennchen_ and a charmingly coquettish little air for the latter (Comes a comely youth a-wooing). Then comes _Agathe's_ principal scene. She opens the window and, as the moonlight floods the room, intones the prayer so simple, so exquisite, so expressive: "Leise, leise, fromme Weise" (Softly sighing, day is dying). [Music] This is followed, after a recitative, by a rapturous, descending passage leading into an ecstatic melody: "Alle meine Pulse schlagen" (All my pulses now are beating) as she sees her lover approaching. [Music] The music of the Wolf's Glen scene long has been considered the most expressive rendering of the gruesome that is to be found in a musical score. The stage apparatus that goes with it is such that it makes the young sit up and take notice, while their elders, because of its naïveté, are entertained. The ghost of _Max's_ mother appears to him and strives to warn him away. Cadaverous, spooky-looking animals crawl out from caves in the rocks and spit flames and sparks. Wagner got more than one hint from the scene. But in the crucible of his genius the glen became the lofty Valkyr rock, and the backdrop with the wild hunt the superb "Ride of the Valkyries," while other details are transfigured in that sublime episode, "The Magic Fire Scene." After a brief introduction, with suggestions of the hunting chorus later in the action, the third act opens with _Agathe's_ lovely cavatina, "And though a cloud the sun obscure." There are a couple of solos for _Aennchen_, and then comes the enchanting chorus of bridesmaids. This is the piece which Richard Wagner, then seven years old, was playing in a room, adjoining which his stepfather, Ludwig Geyer, lay in his last illness. Geyer had shown much interest in the boy and in what might become of him. As he listened to him playing the bridesmaids' chorus from "Der Freischütz" he turned to his wife, Wagner's mother, and said: "What if he should have a talent for music?" In the next scene are the spirited hunting chorus and the brilliant finale, in which recurs the jubilant melody from _Agathe's_ second act scene. The overture to "Der Freischütz" is the first in which an operatic composer unreservedly has made use of melodies from the opera itself. Beethoven, in the third "Leonore" overture, utilizes the theme of _Florestan's_ air and the trumpet call. Weber has used not merely thematic material but complete melodies. Following the beautiful passage for horns at the beginning of the overture (a passage which, like _Agathe's_ prayer, has been taken up into the Protestant hymnal) is the music of _Max's_ outcry when, in the opera, he senses rather than sees the passage of _Zamiel_ across the stage, after which comes the sombre music of _Max's_ air: "Hatt denn der Himmel mich verlassen?" (Am I then by heaven forsaken?). This leads up to the music of _Agathe's_ outburst of joy when she sees her lover approaching; and this is given complete. The structure of this overture is much like that of the overture to "Tannhäuser" by Richard Wagner. There also is a resemblance in contour between the music of _Agathe's_ jubilation and that of _Tannhäuser's_ hymn to Venus. Wagner worshipped Weber. Without a suggestion of plagiarism, the contour of Wagner's melodic idiom is that of Weber's. The resemblance to Weber in the general structure of the finales to the first acts of "Tannhäuser" and "Lohengrin" is obvious. Even in some of the leading motives of the Wagner music-dramas, the student will find the melodic contour of Weber still persisting. What could be more in the spirit of Weber than the ringing _Parsifal_ motive, one of the last things from the pen of Richard Wagner? Indeed the importance of Weber in the logical development of music and specifically of opera, lies in the fact that he is the founder of the romantic school in music;--a school of which Wagner is the culmination. Weber is as truly the forerunner of Wagner as Haydn is of Mozart, and Mozart of Beethoven. From the "Freischütz" Wagner derived his early predilection for legendary subjects, as witness the "Flying Dutchman," "Tannhäuser," and "Lohengrin," from which it was but a step to the mythological subject of the "Ring" dramas. "Der Freischütz" is heard far too rarely in this country. But Weber's importance as the founder of the romantic school and as the inspired forerunner of Wagner long has been recognized. Without this recognition there would be missing an important link in the evolution of music and, specifically, of opera. EURYANTHE Opera in three acts by Weber. Book, by Helmine von Chezy, adapted from "L'Histoire de Gérard de Nevers et de la belle et vertueuse Euryanthe, sa mie." Produced, Vienna, Kärnthnerthor Theatre (Theatre at the Carinthian Gate), October 25, 1823. New York, by Carl Anschütz, at Wallack's Theatre, Broadway and Broome Street, 1863; Metropolitan Opera House, December 23, 1887, with Lehmann, Brandt, Alvary, and Fischer, Anton Seidl conducting. CHARACTERS EURYANTHE DE SAVOIE _Soprano_ EGLANTINE DE PUISET _Mezzo-Soprano_ LYSIART DE FORÊT _Baritone_ ADOLAR DE NEVERS _Tenor_ LOUIS VI _Bass_ _Time_--Beginning of the Twelfth Century. _Place_--France. Act I. Palace of the King. Count _Adolar_ chants the beauty and virtue of his betrothed, _Euryanthe._ Count _Lysiart_ sneers and boasts that he can lead her astray. The two noblemen stake their possessions upon the result. Garden of the Palace of Nevers. _Euryanthe_ sings of her longing for _Adolar_. _Eglantine_, the daughter of a rebellious subject who, made a prisoner, has, on _Euryanthe's_ plea, been allowed the freedom of the domain, is in love with _Adolar._ She has sensed that _Euryanthe_ and her lover guard a secret. Hoping to estrange _Adolar_ from her, she seeks to gain _Euryanthe's_ confidence and only too successfully. For _Euryanthe_ confides to her that _Adolar's_ dead sister, who lies in the lonely tomb in the garden, has appeared to _Adolar_ and herself and confessed that, her lover having been slain in battle, she has killed herself by drinking poison from her ring; nor can her soul find rest until someone, innocently accused, shall wet the ring with tears. To hold this secret inviolate has been imposed upon _Euryanthe_ by _Adolar_ as a sacred duty. Too late she repents of having communicated it to _Eglantine_ who, on her part, is filled with malicious glee. _Lysiart_ arrives to conduct _Adolar's_ betrothed to the royal palace. Act II. _Lysiart_ despairs of accomplishing his fell purpose when _Eglantine_ emerges from the tomb with the ring and reveals to him its secret. In the royal palace, before a brilliant assembly, _Lysiart_ claims to have won his wager, and, in proof, produces the ring, the secret of which he claims _Euryanthe_ has communicated to him. She protests her innocence, but in vain. _Adolar_ renounces his rank and estates with which _Lysiart_ is forthwith invested and endowed, and, dragging _Euryanthe_ after him, rushes into the forest where he intends to kill her and then himself. Act III. In a rocky mountain gorge _Adolar_ draws his sword and is about to slay _Euryanthe_, who in vain protests her innocence. At that moment a huge serpent appears. _Euryanthe_ throws herself between it and _Adolar_ in order to save him. He fights the serpent and kills it; then, although _Euryanthe_ vows she would rather he slew her than not love her, he goes his way leaving her to heaven's protection. She is discovered by the _King_, who credits her story and promises to vindicate her, when she tells him that it was through _Eglantine_, to whom she disclosed the secret of the tomb, that _Lysiart_ obtained possession of the ring. Gardens of Nevers, where preparations are making for the wedding of _Lysiart_ and _Eglantine_. _Adolar_ enters in black armour with visor down. _Eglantine_, still madly in love with him and dreading her union with _Lysiart_, is so affected by the significance of the complete silence with which the assembled villagers and others watch her pass, that, half out of her mind, she raves about the unjust degradation she has brought upon _Euryanthe_. _Adolar_, disclosing his identity, challenges _Lysiart_ to combat. But before they can draw, the _King_ appears. In order to punish _Adolar_ for his lack of faith in _Euryanthe_, he tells him that she is dead. Savagely triumphant over her rival's end, _Eglantine_ now makes known the entire plot and is slain by _Lysiart_. At that moment _Euryanthe_ rushes into _Adolar's_ arms. _Lysiart_ is led off a captive. _Adolar's_ sister finds eternal rest in her tomb because the ring has been bedewed by the tears wept by the innocent _Euryanthe_. The libretto of "Euryanthe" is accounted extremely stupid, even for an opera, and the work is rarely given. The opera, however, is important historically as another stepping-stone in the direction of Wagner. Several Wagnerian commentators regard the tomb motive as having conveyed to the Bayreuth master more than a suggestion of the Leitmotif system which he developed so fully in his music-drama. _Adolar_, in black armour, is believed to have suggested _Parsifal's_ appearance in sable harness and accoutrements in the last act of "Parsifal." In any event, Wagner was a close student of Weber and there is more than one phrase in "Euryanthe" that finds its echo in "Lohengrin," although of plagiarism in the ordinary sense there is none. While "Euryanthe" has never been popular, some of its music is very fine. The overture may be said to consist of two vigorous, stirringly dramatic sections separated by the weird tomb motive. The opening chorus in the _King's_ palace is sonorous and effective. There is a very beautiful romanza for _Adolar_ ("'Neath almond trees in blossom"). In the challenge of the knights to the test of Euryanthe's virtue occurs the vigorous phrase with which the overture opens. _Euryanthe_ has an exquisite cavatina ("Chimes in the valley"). There is an effective duet for _Euryanthe_ and _Eglantine_ ("Threatful gather clouds about me"). A scene for _Eglantine_ is followed by the finale--a chorus with solo for _Euryanthe_. _Lysiart's_ recitations and aria ("Where seek to hide?"), expressive of hatred and defiance--a powerfully dramatic number--opens the second act. There is a darkly premonitory duet for _Lysiart_ and _Eglantine_. _Adolar_ has a tranquil aria ("When zephyrs waft me peace"); and a duet full of abandon with _Euryanthe_ ("To you my soul I give"). The finale is a quartette with chorus. The hunting chorus in the last act, previous to the _King's_ discovery of _Euryanthe_, has been called Weber's finest inspiration. Something should be done by means of a new libretto or by re-editing to give "Euryanthe" the position it deserves in the modern operatic repertoire. An attempt at a new libretto was made in Paris in 1857, at the Théâtre Lyrique. It failed. Having read a synopsis of that libretto, I can readily understand why. It is, if possible, more absurd than the original. Shakespeare's "Cymbeline" is derived from the same source as "Euryanthe," which shows that, after all, something could be made of the story. OBERON, OR THE ELF-KING'S OATH Opera in three acts, by Weber. Words by James Robinson Planché. CHARACTERS OBERON _Tenor_ TITANIA _Mute Character_ PUCK _Contralto_ DROLL _Contralto_ HUON DE BORDEAUX _Tenor_ SCHERASMIN, his esquire _Baritone_ HAROUN EL RASCHID _Baritone_ REZIA, his daughter _Soprano_ FATIMA, her slave _Soprano_ PRINCE BABEKAN _Tenor_ EMIR ALMANSOR _Baritone_ ROSCHANA, his wife _Contralto_ ABDALLAH, a pirate _Bass_ CHARLEMAGNE _Bass_ In a tribute to Weber, the librettist of "Oberon" wrote a sketch of the action and also gave as the origin of the story the tale of "Huon de Bordeaux," from the old collection of romances known as "La Bibliothèque Bleue." Wieland's poem "Oberon," is based upon the old romance and Sotheby's translation furnished Planché with the groundwork for the text. According to Planché's description of the action, _Oberon_, the Elfin King, having quarrelled with his fairy partner, _Titania_, vows never to be reconciled to her till he shall find two lovers constant through peril and temptation. To seek such a pair his "tricksy spirit," _Puck_, has ranged in vain through the world. _Puck_, however, hears sentence passed on _Sir Huon_, of Bordeaux, a young knight, who, having been insulted by the son of _Charlemagne_, kills him in single combat, and is for this condemned by the monarch to proceed to Bagdad, slay him who sits on the _Caliph's_ left hand, and claim the _Caliph's_ daughter as his bride. _Oberon_ instantly resolves to make this pair the instruments of his reunion with his queen, and for this purpose he brings up _Huon_ and _Scherasmin_ asleep before him, enamours the knight by showing him _Rezia_, daughter of the _Caliph_, in a vision, transports him at his waking to Bagdad, and having given him a magic horn, by the blasts of which he is always to summon the assistance of _Oberon_, and a cup that fills at pleasure, disappears. _Sir Huon_ rescues a man from a lion, who proves afterwards to be _Prince Babekan_, who is betrothed to _Rezia_. One of the properties of the cup is to detect misconduct. He offers it to _Babekan_. On raising it to his lips the wine turns to flame, and thus proves him a villain. He attempts to assassinate _Huon_, but is put to flight. The knight then learns from an old woman that the princess is to be married next day, but that _Rezia_ has been influenced, like her lover, by a vision, and is resolved to be his alone. She believes that fate will protect her from her nuptials with _Babekan_, which are to be solemnized on the next day. _Huon_ enters, fights with and vanquishes _Babekan_, and having spellbound the rest by a blast of the magic horn, he and _Scherasmin_ carry off _Rezia_ and _Fatima_. They are soon shipwrecked. _Rezia_ is captured by pirates on a desert island and brought to Tunis, where she is sold to the _Emir_ and exposed to every temptation, but she remains constant. _Sir Huon_, by the order of _Oberon_, is also conveyed thither. He undergoes similar trials from _Roschana_, the jealous wife of the _Emir_, but proving invulnerable she accuses him to her husband, and he is condemned to be burned on the same pyre with _Rezia_. They are rescued by _Scherasmin_, who has the magic horn, and sets all those who would harm _Sir Huon_ and _Rezia_ dancing. _Oberon_ appears with his queen, whom he has regained by the constancy of the lovers, and the opera concludes with _Charlemagne's_ pardon of _Huon_. The chief musical numbers are, in the first act, _Huon's_ grand scene, beginning with a description of the glories to be won in battle: in the second act, an attractive quartette, "Over the dark blue waters," _Puck's_ invocation of the spirits and their response, the great scene for _Rezia_, "Ocean, thou mighty monster, that liest like a green serpent coiled around the world," and the charming mermaid's song; and, in the third act, the finale. As is the case with "Euryanthe," the puerilities of the libretto to "Oberon" appear to have been too much even for Weber's beautiful music. Either that, or else Weber is suffering the fate of all obvious forerunners: which is that their genius finds its full and lasting fruition in those whose greater genius it has caused to germinate and ripen. Thus the full fruition of Weber's genius is found in the Wagner operas and music-dramas. Even the fine overtures, "Freischütz," "Euryanthe," and "Oberon," in former years so often found in the classical concert repertoire, are played less and less frequently. The "Tannhäuser" overture has supplanted them. The "Oberon" overture, like that to "Freischütz" and "Euryanthe," is composed of material from the opera--the horn solo from _Sir Huon's_ scena, portions of the fairies, chorus and the third-act finale, the climax of _Rezia's_ scene in the second act, and _Puck's_ invocation. In his youth Weber composed, to words by Heimer, an amusing little musical comedy entitled "Abu Hassan." It was produced in Dresden under the composer's direction. The text is derived from a well-known tale in the _Arabian Nights_. Another youthful opera by Weber, "Silvana," was produced at Frankfort-on-Main in 1810. The text, based upon an old Rhine legend of a feud between two brothers, has been rearranged by Ernst Pasqué, the score by Ferdinand Lange, who, in the ballet in the second act, has introduced Weber's "Invitation à la Valse" and his "Polonaise," besides utilizing other music by the composer. The fragment of another work, a comic opera, "The Three Pintos," text by Theodor Hell, was taken in hand and completed, the music by Gustav Mahler, the libretto by Weber's grandson, Carl von Weber. Why Some Operas are Rarely Given There is hardly a writer on music, no matter how advanced his views, who will not agree with me in all I have said in praise of "Orpheus and Eurydice," the principal Mozart operas, Beethoven's "Fidelio," and Weber's "Freischütz" and "Euryanthe." The question therefore arises: "Why are these works not performed with greater frequency?" A general answer would be that the modern opera house is too large for the refined and delicate music of Gluck and Mozart to be heard to best effect. Moreover, these are the earliest works in the repertoire. In Mozart's case there is the further reason that "Don Giovanni" and "The Magic Flute" are very difficult to give. An adequate performance of "Don Giovanni" calls for three prima donnas of the highest rank. The demands of "The Magic Flute" upon the female personnel of an opera company also are very great--that is if the work is to be given at all adequately and effectively. Moreover, the _recitativo secco_ (dry recitative) of the Mozart operas--a recitative which, at a performance of "Don Giovanni" in the Academy of Music, New York, I have heard accompanied by the conductor on an upright pianoforte--is tedious to ears accustomed to have every phrase in modern opera sung to an expressive orchestral accompaniment. As regards "Fidelio" it has spoken dialogue; and if anything has been demonstrated over and over again, it is that American audiences of today simply will not stand for spoken dialogue in grand opera. That also, together with the extreme naïveté of their librettos, is the great handicap of the Weber operas. It is neither an easy nor an agreeable descent from the vocalized to the spoken word. And so, works, admittedly great, are permitted to lapse into unpardonable desuetude, because no genius, willing or capable, has come forward to change the _recitativo secco_ of Mozart, or the dialogue that affronts the hearer in the other works mentioned, into recitatives that will restore these operas to their deserved place in the modern repertoire. Berlioz tried it with "Der Freischütz" and appears to have failed; nor have the "Freischütz" recitatives by Costa seemingly fared any better. This may have deterred others from making further attempts of the kind. But it seems as if a lesser genius than Berlioz, and a talent superior to Costa's, might succeed where they failed. From Weber to Wagner In the evolution of opera from Weber to Wagner a gap was filled by composers of but little reputation here, although their names are known to every student of the lyric stage. Heinrich Marschner (1795-1861) composed in "Hans Heiling," Berlin, 1833, an opera based on legendary material. Its success may have confirmed Wagner's bent toward dramatic sources of this kind already aroused by his admiration for Weber. "Hans Heiling," "Der Vampyr" (The Vampire), and "Der Templer und Die Judin" (Templar and Jewess, a version of _Ivanhoe_) long held an important place in the operatic repertoire of their composer's native land. On the other hand "Faust" (1818) and "Jessonda" (1823), by Ludwig Spohr (1784-1859), have about completely disappeared. Spohr, however, deserves mention as being one of the first professional musicians of prominence to encourage Wagner. Incapable of appreciating either Beethoven or Weber, yet, strange to say, he at once recognized the merits of "The Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhäuser," and even of "Lohengrin"--at the time sealed volumes to most musicians and music lovers. As court conductor at Kassel, he brought out the first two Wagner operas mentioned respectively in 1842 and 1853; and was eager to produce "Lohengrin," but was prevented by opposition from the court. Meyerbeer and his principal operas will be considered at length in the chapters in this book devoted to French opera. There is no doubt, however, that what may be called the "largeness" of Meyerbeer's style and the effectiveness of his instrumentation had their influence on Wagner. Gasparo Spontini (1774-1851) was an Italian by birth, but I believe can be said to have made absolutely no impression on the development of Italian opera. His principal works, "La Vestale" (The Vestal Virgin), and "Fernando Cortez," were brought out in Paris and later in Berlin, where he was general music director, 1820-1841. His operas were heavily scored, especially for brass. Much that is noisy in "Rienzi" may be traced to Spontini, but later Wagner understood how to utilize the brass in the most eloquent manner; for, like Shakespeare, Wagner possessed the genius that converts the dross of others into refined gold. Mention may be here made of three composers of light opera, who succeeded in evolving a refined and charming type of the art. We at least know the delightful overture to "The Merry Wives of Windsor," by Otto Nicolai (1810-1849); and the whole opera, produced in Berlin a few months before Nicolai died, is equally frolicksome and graceful. Conradin Kreutzer (1780-1849) brought out, in 1836, "Das Nachtlager in Granada" (A Night's Camp in Granada), a melodious and sparkling score. But the German light opera composer par excellence is Albert Lortzing (1803-1851). His chief works are, "Czar und Zimmermann" (Czar and Carpenter), 1834, with its beautiful baritone solo, "In childhood I played with a sceptre and crown"; "Der Wildschütz" (The Poacher); "Undine"; and "Der Waffenschmied" (The Armourer) which last also has a deeply expressive solo for baritone, "Ich auch war einst Jüngling mit lockigem Haar" (I too was a youth once with fair, curly hair). Richard Wagner (1813-1883) Richard Wagner was born at Leipsic, May 22, 1813. His father was clerk to the city police court and a man of good education. During the French occupation of Leipsic he was, owing to his knowledge of French, made chief of police. He was fond of poetry and had a special love for the drama, often taking part in amateur theatricals. Five months after Richard's birth his father died of an epidemic fever brought on by the carnage during the battle of Leipsic, October 16, 18, and 19, 1813. In 1815 his widow, whom he had left in most straitened circumstances, married Ludwig Geyer, an actor, a playwright, and a portrait painter. By inheritance from his father, by association with his stepfather, who was very fond of him, Wagner readily acquired the dramatic faculty so pronounced in his operas and music-dramas of which he is both author and composer. At the time Wagner's mother married Geyer, he was a member of the Court Theatre at Dresden. Thither the family removed. When the boy was eight years old, he had learned to play on the pianoforte the chorus of bridesmaids from "Der Freischütz," then quite new. The day before Geyer's death, September 30, 1821, Richard was playing this piece in an adjoining room and heard Geyer say to his mother: "Do you think he might have a gift for music?" Coming out of the death room Wagner's mother said to him: "Of you he wanted to make something." "From this time on," writes Wagner in his early autobiographical sketch, "I always had an idea that I was destined to amount to something in this world." At school Wagner made quite a little reputation as a writer of verses. He was such an enthusiastic admirer of Shakespeare that at the age of fourteen he began a grand tragedy, of which he himself says that it was a jumble of _Hamlet_ and _Lear_. So many people died in the course of it that their ghosts had to return in order to keep the fifth act going. In 1833, at the age of twenty, Wagner began his career as a professional musician. His elder brother Albert was engaged as tenor, actor, and stage manager at the Würzburg theatre. A position as chorus master being offered to Richard, he accepted it, although his salary was a pittance of ten florins a month. However, the experience was valuable. He was able to profit by many useful hints from his brother, the Musikverein performed several of his compositions, and his duties were not so arduous but that he found time to write the words and music of an opera in three acts entitled "The Fairies"--first performed in June, 1888, five years after his death, at Munich. In the autumn of 1834 he was called to the conductorship of the opera at Magdeburg. There he wrote and produced an opera, "Das Liebesverbot" (Love Veto), based on Shakespeare's _Measure for Measure_. The theatre at Magdeburg was, however, on the ragged edge of bankruptcy, and during the spring of 1836 matters became so bad that it was evident the theatre must soon close. Finally only twelve days were left for the rehearsing and the performance of his opera. The result was that the production went completely to pieces, singers forgetting their lines and music, and a repetition which was announced could not come off because of a free fight behind the scenes between two of the principal singers. Wagner describes this in the following amusing passage in his autobiographical sketch: "All at once the husband of my prima donna (the impersonator of _Isabella_) pounced upon the second tenor, a very young and handsome fellow (the singer of my _Claudio_), against whom the injured spouse had long cherished a secret jealousy. It seemed that the prima donna's husband, who had from behind the curtains inspected with me the composition of the audience, considered that the time had now arrived when, without damage to the prospects of the theatre, he could take his revenge on his wife's lover. _Claudio_ was so pounded and belaboured by him that the unhappy individual was compelled to retire to the dressing-room with his face all bleeding. _Isabella_ was informed of this, and, rushing desperately toward her furious lord, received from him such a series of violent cuffs that she forthwith went into spasms. The confusion among my personnel was now quite boundless: everybody took sides with one party or the other, and everything seemed on the point of a general fight. It seemed as if this unhappy evening appeared to all of them precisely calculated for a final settling up of all sorts of fancied insults. This much was evident, that the couple who had suffered under the 'love veto' (Liebesverbot) of _Isabella's_ husband, were certainly unable to appear on this occasion." Wagner was next engaged as orchestral conductor at Königsberg, where he married the actress Wilhelmina, or Minna Planer. Later he received notice of his appointment as conductor and of the engagement of his wife and sister at the theatre at Riga, on the Russian side of the Baltic. In Riga he began the composition of his first great success, "Rienzi." He completed the libretto during the summer of 1838, and began the music in the autumn, and when his contract terminated in the spring of 1839 the first two acts were finished. In July, accompanied by his wife and a huge Newfoundland dog, he boarded a sailing vessel for London, at the port of Pilau, his intention being to go from London to Paris. "I shall never forget the voyage," he says. "It was full of disaster. Three times we nearly suffered shipwreck, and once were obliged to seek safety in a Norwegian harbour.... The legend of the 'Flying Dutchman' was confirmed by the sailors, and the circumstances gave it a distinct and characteristic colour in my mind." No wonder the sea is depicted so graphically in his opera "The Flying Dutchman." He arrived in Paris in September, 1839, and remained until April 7, 1842, from his twenty-sixth to his twenty-ninth year. This Parisian sojourn was one of the bitter experiences of his life. At times he actually suffered from cold and hunger, and was obliged to do a vast amount of most uncongenial kind of hack work. November 19, 1840, he completed the score of "Rienzi," and in December forwarded it to the director of the Royal Theatre at Dresden. While awaiting a reply, he contributed to the newspapers and did all kinds of musical drudgery for Schlesinger, the music publisher, even making arrangements for the cornet à piston. Finally word came from Dresden. "Rienzi" had aroused the enthusiasm of the chorus master, Fischer, and of the tenor Tichatschek, who saw that the title rôle was exactly suited to his robust, dramatic voice. Then there was Mme. Schröder-Devrient for the part of _Adriano_. The opera was produced October 20, 1842, the performance beginning at six and ending just before midnight, to the enthusiastic plaudits of an immense audience. So great was the excitement that in spite of the late hour people remained awake to talk over the success. "We all ought to have gone to bed," relates a witness, "but we did nothing of the kind." Early the next morning Wagner appeared at the theatre in order to make excisions from the score, which he thought its great length necessitated. But when he returned in the afternoon to see if they had been executed, the copyist excused himself by saying the singers had protested against any cuts. Tichatschek said: "I will have no cuts; it is too heavenly." After a while, owing to its length, the opera was divided into two evenings. The success of "Rienzi" led the Dresden management to put "The Flying Dutchman" in rehearsal. It was brought out after somewhat hasty preparations, January 2, 1843. The opera was so different from "Rienzi," its sombre beauty contrasted so darkly with the glaring, brilliant music and scenery of the latter, that the audience failed to grasp it. In fact, after "Rienzi," it was a disappointment. Before the end of January, 1843, not long after the success of "Rienzi," Wagner was appointed one of the Royal conductors at Dresden. He was installed February 2d. One of his first duties was to assist Berlioz at the rehearsals of the latter's concerts. Wagner's work in his new position was somewhat varied, consisting not only of conducting operas, but also music between the acts at theatrical performances and at church services. The principal operas which he rehearsed and conducted were "Euryanthe," "Freischütz," "Don Giovanni," "The Magic Flute," Gluck's "Armide," and "Iphigenia in Aulis." The last-named was revised both as regards words and music by him, and his changes are now generally accepted. Meanwhile he worked arduously on "Tannhäuser," completing it April 13, 1844. It was produced at Dresden, October 19, 1845. At first the work proved even a greater puzzle to the public than "The Flying Dutchman" had, and evoked comments which nowadays, when the opera has actually become a classic, seem ridiculous. Some people even suggested that the plot of the opera should be changed so that _Tannhäuser_ should marry _Elizabeth_. The management of the Dresden theatre, which had witnessed the brilliant success of "Rienzi" and had seen "The Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhäuser" at least hold their own in spite of the most virulent opposition, looked upon his next work, "Lohengrin," as altogether too risky and put off its production indefinitely. Thinking that political changes might put an end to the routine stagnation in musical matters, Wagner joined in the revolutionary agitation of '48 and '49. In May, 1849, the disturbances at Dresden reached such an alarming point that the Saxon Court fled. Prussian troops were dispatched to quell the riot and Wagner thought it advisable to flee. He went to Weimar, where Liszt was busy rehearsing "Tannhäuser." While attending a rehearsal of this work, May 19, news was received that orders had been issued for his arrest as a politically dangerous individual. Liszt at once procured a passport and Wagner started for Paris. In June he went to Zurich, where he found Dresden friends and where his wife joined him, being enabled to do so through the zeal of Liszt, who raised the money to defray her journey from Dresden. Liszt brought out "Lohengrin" at Weimar, August 28, 1850. The reception of "Lohengrin" did not at first differ much from that accorded to "Tannhäuser." Yet the performance made a deep impression. The fact that the weight of Liszt's influence had been cast in its favour gave vast importance to the event, and it may be said that through this performance Wagner's cause received its first great stimulus. The so-called Wagner movement may be said to have dated from this production of "Lohengrin." He finished the librettos of the "Nibelung" dramas in 1853. By May, 1854, the music of "Das Rheingold" was composed. The following month he began "Die Walküre" and finished all but the instrumentation during the following winter and the full score in 1856. Previous to this, in fact already in the autumn of 1854, he had sketched some of the music of "Siegfried," and in the spring of 1857 the full score of the first act and of the greater part of the second act was finished. Then, recognizing the difficulties which he would encounter in securing a performance of the "Ring," and appalled by the prospect of the battle he would be obliged to wage, he was so disheartened that he abandoned the composition of "Siegfried" at the _Waldweben_ scene and turned to "Tristan." His idea at that time was that "Tristan" would be short and comparatively easy to perform. Genius that he was, he believed that because it was easy for him to write great music it would be easy for others to interpret it. A very curious, not to say laughable, incident occurred at this time. An agent of the Emperor of Brazil called and asked if Wagner would compose an opera for an Italian troupe at Rio de Janeiro, and would he conduct the work himself, all upon his own terms. The composition of "Tristan" actually was begun with a view of its being performed by Italians in Brazil! The poem of "Tristan" was finished early in 1857, and in the winter of the same year the full score of the first act was ready to be forwarded to the engraver. The second act is dated Venice, March 2, 1859. The third is dated Lyons, August, 1859. It is interesting to note in connection with "Tristan" that, while Wagner wrote it because he thought it would be easy to secure its performance, he subsequently found more difficulty in getting it produced than any other of his works. In September, 1859, he again went to Paris with the somewhat curious hope that he could there find opportunity to produce "Tristan" with German artists. Through the intercession of the Princess Metternich, the Emperor ordered the production of "Tannhäuser" at the Opéra. Beginning March 13, 1861, three performances were given, of which it is difficult to say whether the performance was on the stage or in the auditorium, for the uproar in the house often drowned the sounds from the stage. The members of the Jockey Club, who objected to the absence of a ballet, armed themselves with shrill whistles, on which they began to blow whenever there was the slightest hint of applause, and the result was that between the efforts of the singers to make themselves heard and of Wagner's friends to applaud, and the shrill whistling from his enemies, there was confusion worse confounded. But Wagner's friendship with Princess Metternich bore good fruit. Through her mediation, it is supposed, he received permission to return to all parts of Germany but Saxony. It was not until March, 1862, thirteen years after his banishment, that he was again allowed to enter the kingdom of his birth and first success. His first thought now was to secure the production of "Tristan," but at Vienna, after fifty-seven rehearsals, it was put upon the shelf as impossible. In 1863, while working upon "Die Meistersinger," at Penzing, near Vienna, he published his "Nibelung" dramas, expressing his hope that through the bounty of one of the German rulers the completion and performance of his "Ring of the Nibelung" would be made possible. But in the spring of 1864, worn out by his struggle with poverty and almost broken in spirit by his contest with public and critics, he actually determined to give up his public career, and eagerly grasped the opportunity to visit a private country seat in Switzerland. Just at this very moment, when despair had settled upon him, the long wished-for help came. King Ludwig II., of Bavaria, bade him come to Munich, where he settled in 1864. "Tristan" was produced there June 10, 1865. June 21, 1868, a model performance of "Die Meistersinger," which he had finished in 1867, was given at Munich under the direction of von Bülow, Richter acting as chorus master and Wagner supervising all the details. Wagner also worked steadily at the unfinished portion of the "Ring," completing the instrumentation of the third act of "Siegfried" in 1869 and the introduction and first act of "The Dusk of the Gods" in June, 1870. August 25, 1870, his first wife having died January 25, 1866, after five years' separation from him, he married the divorced wife of von Bülow, Cosima Liszt. In 1869 and 1870, respectively "The Rhinegold" and "The Valkyr" were performed at the Court Theatre in Munich. Bayreuth having been determined upon as the place where a theatre for the special production of his "Ring" should be built, Wagner settled there in April, 1872. By November, 1874, "Dusk of the Gods" received its finishing touches, and rehearsals had already been held at Bayreuth. During the summer of 1875, under Wagner's supervision, Hans Richter held full rehearsals there, and at last, twenty-eight years after its first conception, on August 13th, 14th, 16th, and 17th, again from August 20 to 23, and from August 27 to 30, 1876, "The Ring of the Nibelung" was performed at Bayreuth with the following cast: _Wotan_, Betz; _Loge_, Vogel; _Alberich_, Hill; _Mime_, Schlosser; _Fricka_, Frau Grün; _Donner_ and _Gunther_, Gura; _Erda_ and _Waltraute_, Frau Jaide; _Siegmund_, Niemann; _Sieglinde_, Frl. Schefsky; _Brünnhilde_, Frau Materna; _Siegfried_, Unger; _Hagen_, Siehr; _Gutrune_, Frl. Weckerin; _Rhinedaughters_, Lilli and Marie Lehmann, and Frl. Lammert. First violin, Wilhelmj; conductor, Hans Richter. The first _Rhinedaughter_ was the same Lilli Lehmann who, in later years, at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, became one of the greatest of prima donnas and, as regards the Wagnerian repertoire, set a standard for all time. Materna appeared at that house in the "Valkyr" production under Dr. Damrosch, in January, 1885, and Niemann was heard there later. To revert to Bayreuth, "Parsifal" was produced there in July, 1882. In the autumn of that year, Wagner's health being in an unsatisfactory state, though no alarming symptoms had shown themselves, he took up his residence in Venice at the Palazzo Vendramini, on the Grand Canal. He died February 13, 1883. In manner incidental, that is, without attention formally being called to the subject, Wagner's reform of the lyric stage is set forth in the descriptive accounts of his music-dramas which follow, and in which the leading motives are quoted in musical notation. But something directly to the point must be said here. Once again, like Gluck a century before, Wagner opposed the assumption of superiority on the part of the interpreter--the singer--over the composer. He opposed it in manner so thorough-going that he changed the whole face of opera. A far greater tribute to Wagner's genius than the lame attempts of some German composers at imitating him, is the frank adoption of certain phases of his method by modern French and Italian composers, beginning with Verdi in "Aïda." While by no means a Wagnerian work, since it contains not a trace of the theory of the leading motive, "Aïda," through the richness of its instrumentation, the significant accompaniment of its recitative, the lack of mere _bravura_ embellishment in its vocal score, and its sober reaching out for true dramatic effect in the treatment of the voices, substituting this for ostentatious brilliancy and ear-tickling fluency, plainly shows the influence of Wagner upon the greatest of Italian composers. And what is true of "Aïda," is equally applicable to the whole school of Italian _verismo_ that came after Verdi--Mascagni, Leoncavallo, Puccini. Wagner's works are conceived and executed upon a gigantic scale. They are Shakespearian in their dimensions and in their tragic power; or, as in the "Meistersinger," in their comedy element. Each of his works is highly individual. The "Ring" dramas and "Tristan" are unmistakably Wagner. Yet how individually characteristic the music of each! That of the "Ring" is of elemental power. The "Tristan" music is molten passion. Equally characteristic and individual are his other scores. The theory evolved by Wagner was that the lyric stage should present not a series of melodies for voice upon a mere framework of plot and versified story, but a serious work of dramatic art, the music to which should, both vocally and instrumentally, express the ever varying development of the drama. With this end in view he invented a melodious recitative which only at certain great crises in the progress of the action--such as the love-climax, the gathering at the Valkyr Rock, the "Farewell," and the "Magic Fire" scenes in "The Valkyr"; the meeting of _Siegfried_ and _Brünnhilde_ in "Siegfried"; the love duet and "Love-Death" in "Tristan"--swells into prolonged melody. Note that I say prolonged melody. For besides these prolonged melodies, there is almost constant melody, besides marvellous orchestral colour, in the weft and woof of the recitative. This is produced by the artistic use of leading motives, every leading motive being a brief, but expressive, melody--so brief that, to one coming to Wagner without previous study or experience, the melodious quality of his recitative is not appreciated at first. After a while, however, the hearer begins to recognize certain brief, but melodious and musically eloquent phrases--leading motives--as belonging to certain characters in the drama or to certain influences potent in its development, such as hate, love, jealousy, the desire for revenge, etc. Often to express a combination of circumstances, influences, passions, or personal actions, these leading motives, these brief melodious phrases, are combined with a skill that is unprecedented; or the voice may express one, while the orchestra combines with it in another. To enable the orchestra to follow these constantly changing phases in the evolution and development of the drama, and often to give utterance to them separately, it was necessary for Wagner to have most intimate knowledge of the individual tone quality and characteristics of every instrument in the orchestra, and this mastery of what I may call instrumental personality he possessed to a hitherto undreamed-of degree. Nor has anyone since equalled him in it. The result is a choice and variety of instrumentation which in itself is almost an equivalent for dramatic action and enables the orchestra to adapt itself with unerring accuracy to the varying phases of the drama. Consider that, when Wagner first projected his theory of the music-drama, singers were accustomed in opera to step into the limelight and, standing there, deliver themselves of set melodies, acknowledge applause and give as many encores as were called for, in fact were "it," while the real creative thing, the opera, was but secondary, and it is easy to comprehend the opposition which his works aroused among the personnel of the lyric stage; for music-drama demands a singer's absorption not only in the music but also in the action. A Wagner music-drama requires great singers, but the singers no longer absorb everything. They are part--a most important part, it is true--of a performance, in which the drama itself, the orchestra, and the stage pictures are also of great importance. A performance of a Wagner music-drama, to be effective, must be a well-rounded, eloquent whole. The drama must be well acted from a purely dramatic point of view. It must be well sung from a purely vocal point of view. It must be well interpreted from a purely orchestral point of view. It must be well produced from a purely stage point of view. For all these elements go hand in hand. It is, of course, well known that Wagner was the author of his own librettos and showed himself a dramatist of the highest order for the lyric stage. While his music-dramas at first aroused great opposition among operatic artists, growing familiarity with them caused these artists to change their view. The interpretation of a Wagner character was discovered to be a combined intellectual and emotional task which slowly, but surely, appealed more and more to the great singers of the lyric stage. They derived a new dignity and satisfaction from their work, especially as audiences also began to realize that, instead of mere entertainment, performances of Wagner music-dramas were experiences that both stirred the emotions to their depths and appealed to the intellect as well. To this day Lilli Lehmann is regarded by all, who had the good fortune to hear her at the Metropolitan Opera House, as the greatest prima donna and the most dignified figure in the history of the lyric stage in this country; for on the lyric stage the interpretation of the great characters in Wagnerian music-drama already had come to be regarded as equal to the interpretation of the great Shakespearian characters on the dramatic. Wagner's genius was so supreme that, although he has been dead thirty-four years, he is still without a successor. Through the force of his own genius he appears destined to remain the sole exponent of the art form of which he was the creator. But his influence is still potent. This we discover not only in the enrichment of the orchestral accompaniment in opera, but in the banishment of senseless vocal embellishment, in the search for true dramatic expression and, in general, in the greater seriousness with which opera is taken as an art. Even the minor point of lowering the lights in the auditorium during a performance, so as to concentrate attention upon the stage, is due to him; and even the older Italian operas are now given with an attention to detail, scenic setting, and an endeavour to bring out their dramatic effects, quite unheard of before his day. He was, indeed, a reformer of the lyric stage whose influence long will be potent "all along the line." RIENZI, DER LETZTE DER TRIBUNEN RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES Opera in five acts. Words and music by Wagner. Produced, Dresden, October 20, 1842. London, Her Majesty's Theatre, April 16, 1869. New York, Academy of Music, 1878, with Charles R. Adams, as _Rienzi_, Pappenheim as _Adriano_; Metropolitan Opera House, February 5, 1886, with Sylva as _Rienzi_, Lehmann as _Irene_, Brandt as _Adriano_, Fischer as _Colonna_. CHARACTERS COLA RIENZI, Roman Tribune and Papal Notary _Tenor_ IRENE, his sister _Soprano_ STEFFANO COLONNA _Bass_ ADRIANO, his son _Mezzo-Soprano_ PAOLO ORSINO _Bass_ RAIMONDO, Papal Legate _Bass_ BARONCELLO } { _Tenor_ CECCO DEL VECCHIO } Roman citizens { _Bass_ MESSENGER OF PEACE _Soprano_ Ambassadors, Nobles, Priests, Monks, Soldiers, Messengers, and Populace in General. _Time_--Middle of the Fourteenth Century. _Place_--Rome. _Orsino_, a Roman patrician, attempts to abduct _Irene_, the sister of _Rienzi_, a papal notary, but is opposed at the critical moment by _Colonna_, another patrician. A fight ensues between the two factions, in the midst of which _Adriano_, the son of _Colonna_, who is in love with _Irene_, appears to defend her. A crowd is attracted by the tumult, and among others _Rienzi_ comes upon the scene. Enraged at the insult offered his sister, and stirred on by _Cardinal Raimondo_, he urges the people to resist the outrages of the nobles. _Adriano_ is impelled by his love for _Irene_ to cast his lot with her brother. The nobles are overpowered, and appear at the capitol to swear allegiance to _Rienzi_, but during the festal proceedings _Adriano_ warns him that the nobles have plotted to kill him. An attempt which _Orsino_ makes upon him with a dagger is frustrated by a steel breastplate which _Rienzi_ wears under his robe. The nobles are seized and condemned to death, but on _Adriano's_ pleading they are spared. They, however, violate their oath of submission, and the people again under _Rienzi's_ leadership rise and exterminate them, _Adriano_ having pleaded in vain. In the end the people prove fickle. The popular tide turns against _Rienzi_, especially in consequence of the report that he is in league with the German emperor, and intends to restore the Roman pontiff to power. As a festive procession is escorting him to church, _Adriano_ rushes upon him with a drawn dagger, being infuriated at the slaughter of his family, but the blow is averted. Instead of the "Te Deum," however, with which _Rienzi_ expected to be greeted on his entrance to the church, he hears the malediction and sees the ecclesiastical dignitaries placing the ban of excommunication against him upon the doors. _Adriano_ hurries to _Irene_ to warn her of her brother's danger, and urges her to seek safety with him in flight. She, however, repels him, and seeks her brother, determined to die with him, if need be. She finds him at prayer in the capitol, but rejects his counsel to save herself with _Adriano_. _Rienzi_ appeals to the infuriated populace which has gathered around the capitol, but they do not heed him. They fire the capitol with their torches, and hurl stones at _Rienzi_ and _Irene_. As _Adriano_ sees his beloved one and her brother doomed to death in the flames, he throws away his sword, rushes into the capitol, and perishes with them. The overture of "Rienzi" gives a vivid idea of the action of the opera. Soon after the beginning there is heard the broad and stately melody of _Rienzi's_ prayer, and then the Rienzi Motive, a typical phrase, which is used with great effect later in the opera. It is followed in the overture by the lively melody heard in the concluding portion of the finale of the second act. These are the three most conspicuous portions of the overture, in which there are, however, numerous tumultuous passages reflecting the dramatic excitement which pervades many scenes. The opening of the first act is full of animation, the orchestra depicting the tumult which prevails during the struggle between the nobles. _Rienzi's_ brief recitative is a masterpiece of declamatory music, and his call to arms is spirited. It is followed by a trio between _Irene_, _Rienzi_, and _Adriano_, and this in turn by a duet for the two last-named which is full of fire. The finale opens with a double chorus for the populace and the monks in the Lateran, accompanied by the organ. Then there is a broad and energetic appeal to the people from _Rienzi_, and amid the shouts of the populace and the ringing tones of the trumpets the act closes. The insurrection of the people against the nobles is successful, and _Rienzi_, in the second act, awaits at the capitol the patricians who are to pledge him their submission. The act opens with a broad and stately march, to which the messengers of peace enter. They sing a graceful chorus. This is followed by a chorus for the senators, and the nobles then tender their submission. There is a terzetto, between _Adriano_, _Colonna_, and _Orsino_, in which the nobles express their contempt for the young patrician. The finale which then begins is highly spectacular. There is a march for the ambassadors, and a grand ballet, historical in character, and supposed to be symbolical of the triumphs of ancient Rome. In the midst of this occurs the assault upon _Rienzi_. _Rienzi's_ pardon of the nobles is conveyed in a broadly beautiful melody, and this is succeeded by the animated passage heard in the overture. With it are mingled the chants of the monks, the shouts of the people who are opposed to the cardinal and nobles, and the tolling of bells. The third act opens tumultuously. The people have been aroused by fresh outrages on the part of the nobles. _Rienzi's_ emissaries disperse, after a furious chorus, to rouse the populace to vengeance. After they have left, _Adriano_ has his great air, a number which can never fail of effect when sung with all the expression of which it is capable. The rest of the act is a grand accumulation of martial music or noise, whichever one chooses to call it, and includes the stupendous battle hymn, which is accompanied by the clashing of sword and shields, the ringing of bells, and all the tumult incidental to a riot. After _Adriano_ has pleaded in vain with _Rienzi_ for the nobles, and the various bands of armed citizens have dispersed, there is a duet between _Adriano_ and _Irene_, in which _Adriano_ takes farewell of her. The victorious populace appears and the act closes with their triumphant shouts. The fourth act is brief, and beyond the description given in the synopsis of the plot, requires no further comment. The fifth act opens with the beautiful prayer of _Rienzi_, already familiar from the overture. There is a tender duet between _Rienzi_ and _Irene_, an impassioned aria for _Rienzi_, a duet for _Irene_ and _Adriano_, and then the finale, which is chiefly choral. DER FLIEGENDE HOLLÄNDER THE FLYING DUTCHMAN Opera in three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner. Produced, Royal Opera, Dresden, January 2, 1843. London, July 23, 1870, as "L'Olandese Dannato"; October 3, 1876, by Carl Rosa, in English. New York, Academy of Music, January 26, 1877, in English, with Clara Louise Kellogg; March 12, 1877, in German; in the spring of 1883, in Italian, with Albani, Galassi, and Ravelli. CHARACTERS DALAND, a Norwegian sea captain _Bass_ SENTA, his daughter _Soprano_ ERIC, a huntsman _Tenor_ MARY, SENTA'S nurse _Contralto_ DALAND'S Steersman _Tenor_ THE DUTCHMAN _Baritone_ Sailors, Maidens, Hunters, etc. _Time_--Eighteenth Century. _Place_--A Norwegian Fishing Village. From "Rienzi" Wagner took a great stride to "The Flying Dutchman." This is the first milestone on the road from opera to music-drama. Of his "Rienzi" the composer was in after years ashamed, writing to Liszt: "I, as an artist and man, have not the heart for the reconstruction of that, to my taste, superannuated work, which in consequence of its immoderate dimensions, I have had to remodel more than once. I have no longer the heart for it, and desire from all my soul to do something new instead." He spoke of it as a youthful error, but in "The Flying Dutchman" there is little, if anything, which could have troubled his artistic conscience. One can hardly imagine the legend more effective dramatically and musically than it is in Wagner's libretto and score. It is a work of wild and sombre beauty, relieved only occasionally by touches of light and grace, and has all the interest attaching to a work in which for the first time a genius feels himself conscious of his greatness. If it is not as impressive as "Tannhäuser" or "Lohengrin," nor as stupendous as the music-dramas, that is because the subject of the work is lighter. As his genius developed, his choice of subjects and his treatment of them passed through as complete an evolution as his musical theory, so that when he finally abandoned the operatic form and adopted his system of leading motives, he conceived, for the dramatic bases of his scores, dramas which it would be difficult to fancy set to any other music than that which is so characteristic in his music-dramas. Wagner's present libretto is based upon the weirdly picturesque legend of "The Flying Dutchman"--the Wandering Jew of the ocean. A Dutch sea captain, who, we are told, tried to double the Cape of Good Hope in the teeth of a furious gale, swore that he would accomplish his purpose even if he kept on sailing forever. The devil, hearing the oath, condemned the captain to sail the sea until Judgment Day, without hope of release, unless he should find a woman who would love him faithfully unto death. Once in every seven years he is allowed to go ashore in search of a woman who will redeem him through her faithful love. The opera opens just as a term of seven years has elapsed. The _Dutchman's_ ship comes to anchor in a bay of the coast of Norway, in which the ship of _Daland_, a Norwegian sea captain, has sought shelter from the storm. _Daland's_ home is not far from the bay, and the _Dutchman_, learning he has a daughter, asks permission to woo her, offering him in return all his treasures. _Daland_ readily consents. His daughter, _Senta_, is a romantic maiden upon whom the legend of "The Flying Dutchman" has made a deep impression. As _Daland_ ushers the _Dutchman_ into his home _Senta_ is gazing dreamily upon a picture representing the unhappy hero of the legend. The resemblance of the stranger to the face in this picture is so striking that the emotional girl is at once attracted to him, and pledges him her faith, deeming it her mission to save him. Later on, _Eric_, a young huntsman, who is in love with her, pleads his cause with her, and the _Dutchman_, overhearing them, and thinking himself again forsaken, rushes off to his vessel. _Senta_ cries out that she is faithful to him, but is held back by _Eric_, _Daland_, and her friends. The _Dutchman_, who really loves _Senta_, then proclaims who he is, thinking to terrify her, and at once puts to sea. But she, undismayed by his words, and truly faithful unto death, breaks away from those who are holding her, and rushing to the edge of a cliff casts herself into the ocean, with her arms outstretched toward him. The phantom ship sinks, the sea rises high and falls back into a seething whirlpool. In the sunset glow the forms of _Senta_ and the _Dutchman_ are seen rising in each other's embrace from the sea and floating upward. In "The Flying Dutchman" Wagner employs several leading motives, not, indeed, with the skill which he displays in his music-dramas, but with considerably greater freedom of treatment than in "Rienzi." There we had but one leading motive, which never varied in form. The overture, which may be said to be an eloquent and beautiful musical narrative of the whole opera, contains all these leading motives. It opens with a stormy passage, out of which there bursts the strong but sombre Motive of the Flying Dutchman himself, the dark hero of the legend. The orchestra fairly seethes and rages like the sea roaring under the lash of a terrific storm. And through all this furious orchestration there is heard again and again the motive of the _Dutchman_, as if his figure could be seen amid all the gloom and fury of the elements. There he stands, hoping for death, yet indestructible. As the excited music gradually dies away, there is heard a calm, somewhat undulating phrase which occurs in the opera when the _Dutchman's_ vessel puts into the quiet Norwegian harbour. Then, also, there occurs again the motive of the _Dutchman_, but this time played softly, as if the storm-driven wretch had at last found a moment's peace. We at once recognize to whom it is due that he has found this moment of repose, for we hear like prophetic measures the strains of the beautiful ballad which is sung by _Senta_ in the second act of the opera, in which she relates the legend of "The Flying Dutchman" and tells of his unhappy fate. She is the one whom he is to meet when he goes ashore. The entire ballad is not heard at this point, only the opening of the second part, which may be taken as indicating in this overture the simplicity and beauty of _Senta's_ character. In fact, it would not be too much to call this opening phrase the Senta Motive. It is followed by the phrase which indicates the coming to anchor of the _Dutchman's_ vessel; then we hear the Motive of the Dutchman himself, dying away with the faintest possible effect. With sudden energy the orchestra dashes into the surging ocean music, introducing this time the wild, pathetic plaint sung by the _Dutchman_ in the first act of the opera. Again we hear his motive, and again the music seems to represent the surging, swirling ocean when aroused by a furious tempest. Even when we hear the measures of the sailors' chorus the orchestra continues its furious pace, making it appear as if the sailors were shouting above the storm. Characteristic in this overture, and also throughout the opera, especially in _Senta's_ ballad, is what may be called the Ocean Motive, which most graphically depicts the wild and terrible aspect of the ocean during a storm. It is varied from time to time, but never loses its characteristic force and weirdness. The overture ends with an impassioned burst of melody based upon a portion of the concluding phrases of _Senta's_ ballad; phrases which we hear once more at the end of the opera when she sacrifices herself in order to save her lover. A wild and stormy scene is disclosed when the curtain rises upon the first act. The sea occupies the greater part of the scene, and stretches itself out far toward the horizon. A storm is raging. _Daland's_ ship has sought shelter in a little cove formed by the cliffs. Sailors are employed in furling sails and coiling ropes. _Daland_ is standing on a rock, looking about him to discover in what place they are. The orchestra, chiefly with the wild ocean music heard in the overture, depicts the raging of the storm, and above it are heard the shouts of the sailors at work: "Ho-jo-he! Hal-lo-jo!" _Daland_ discovers that they have missed their port by seven miles on account of the storm, and deplores his bad luck that when so near his home and his beloved child, he should have been driven out of his course. As the storm seems to be abating the sailors descend into the hold and _Daland_ goes down into the cabin to rest, leaving his steersman in charge of the deck. The steersman walks the deck once or twice and then sits down near the rudder, yawning, and then rousing himself as if sleep were coming over him. As if to force himself to remain awake he intones a sailor song, an exquisite little melody, with a dash of the sea in its undulating measures. He intones the second verse, but sleep overcomes him and the phrases become more and more detached, until at last he falls asleep. The storm begins to rage again and it grows darker. Suddenly the ship of the _Flying Dutchman_, with blood-red sails and black mast, looms up in the distance. She glides over the waves as if she did not feel the storm at all, and quickly enters the harbour over against the ship of the Norwegian; then silently and without the least noise the spectral crew furl the sails. The _Dutchman_ goes on shore. Here now occur the weird, dramatic recitative and aria: "The term is passed, and once again are ended seven long years." As the _Dutchman_ leans in brooding silence against a rock in the foreground, _Daland_ comes out of the cabin and observes the ship. He rouses the steersman, who begins singing again a phrase of his song, until _Daland_ points out the strange vessel to him, when he springs up and hails her through a speaking trumpet. _Daland_, however, perceives the _Dutchman_ and going ashore questions him. It is then that the _Dutchman_, after relating a mariner's story of ill luck and disaster, asks _Daland_ to take him to his home and allow him to woo his daughter, offering him his treasures. At this point we have a graceful and pretty duet, _Daland_ readily consenting that the _Dutchman_ accompany him. The storm having subsided and the wind being fair, the crews of the vessels hoist sail to leave port, _Daland's_ vessel disappearing just as the _Dutchman_ goes on board his ship. After an introduction in which we hear a portion of the steersman's song, and also that phrase which denotes the appearance of the _Dutchman's_ vessel in the harbour, the curtain rises upon a room in _Daland's_ house. On the walls are pictures of vessels, charts, and on the farther wall the portrait of a pale man with a dark beard. _Senta_, leaning back in an armchair, is absorbed in dreamy contemplation of the portrait. Her old nurse, _Mary_, and her young friends are sitting in various parts of the room, spinning. Here we have that charming musical number famous all the musical world over, perhaps largely through Liszt's admirable piano arrangement of it, the "Spinning Chorus." For graceful and engaging beauty it cannot be surpassed, and may be cited as a striking instance of Wagner's gift of melody, should anybody at this late day be foolish enough to require proof of his genius in that respect. The girls tease _Senta_ for gazing so dreamily at the portrait of the _Flying Dutchman_, and finally ask her if she will not sing his ballad. This ballad is a masterpiece of composition, vocally and instrumentally, being melodious as well as descriptive. It begins with the storm music familiar from the overture, and with the weird measures of the Flying Dutchman's Motive, which sound like a voice calling in distress across the sea. [Music] _Senta_ repeats the measures of this motive, and then we have the simple phrases beginning: "A ship the restless ocean sweeps." Throughout this portion of the ballad the orchestra depicts the surging and heaving of the ocean, _Senta's_ voice ringing out dramatically above the accompaniment. She then tells how he can be delivered from his curse, this portion being set to the measures which were heard in the overture, _Senta_ finally proclaiming, in the broadly delivered, yet rapturous phrases with which the overture ends, [Music] that she is the woman who will save him by being faithful to him unto death. The girls about her spring up in terror and _Eric_, who has just entered the door and heard her outcry, hastens to her side. He brings news of the arrival of _Daland's_ vessel, and _Mary_ and the girls hasten forth to meet the sailors. _Senta_ wishes to follow, but _Eric_ restrains her and pleads his love for her in melodious measures. _Senta_, however, will not give him an answer at this time. He then tells her of a dream he has had, in which he saw a weird vessel from which two men, one her father, the other a ghastly-looking stranger, made their way. Her he saw going to the stranger and entreating him for his regard. _Senta_, worked up to the highest pitch of excitement by _Eric's_ words, now exclaims: "He seeks for me and I for him," and _Eric_, full of despair and horror, rushes away. _Senta_, after her outburst of excitement, remains again sunk in contemplation of the picture, softly repeating the measures of her romance. The door opens and the _Dutchman_ and _Daland_ appear. The _Dutchman_ is the first to enter. _Senta_ turns from the picture to him, and, uttering a loud cry of wonder, remains standing as if transfixed without removing her eyes from the _Dutchman_. _Daland_, seeing that she does not greet him, comes up to her. She seizes his hand and after a hasty greeting asks him who the stranger is. _Daland_ tells her of the stranger's request, and leaves them alone. Then follows a duet for _Senta_ and the _Dutchman_, with its broad, smoothly-flowing melody and its many phrases of dramatic power, in which _Senta_ gives herself up unreservedly to the hero of her romantic attachment, _Daland_ finally entering and adding his congratulations to their betrothal. This scene closes the act. The music of it re-echoes through the introduction of the next act and goes over into a vigorous sailors' chorus and dance. The scene shows a bay with a rocky shore. _Daland's_ house is in the foreground on one side, the background is occupied by his and the _Dutchman's_ ships, which lie near one another. The Norwegian ship is lighted up, and all the sailors are making merry on the deck. In strange contrast is the _Flying Dutchman's_ vessel. An unnatural darkness hangs over it and the stillness of death reigns aboard. The sailors and the girls in their merry-making call loudly toward the Dutch ship to join them, but no reply is heard from the weird vessel. Finally the sailors call louder and louder and taunt the crew of the other ship. Then suddenly the sea, which has been quite calm, begins to rise. The storm wind whistles through the cordage of the strange vessel, and as dark bluish flames flare up in the rigging, the weird crew show themselves, and sing a wild chorus, which strikes terror into all the merrymakers. The girls have fled, and the Norwegian sailors quit their deck, making the sign of the cross. The crew of the Flying Dutchman observing this, disappear with shrill laughter. Over their ship comes the stillness of death. Thick darkness is spread over it and the air and the sea become calm as before. _Senta_ now comes with trembling steps out of the house. She is followed by _Eric_. He pleads with her and entreats her to remember his love for her, and speaks also of the encouragement which she once gave him. The _Dutchman_ has entered unperceived and has been listening. _Eric_ seeing him, at once recognizes the man of ghastly mien whom he saw in his vision. When the _Flying Dutchman_ bids her farewell, because he deems himself abandoned, and _Senta_ endeavours to follow him, _Eric_ holds her and summons others to his aid. But, in spite of all resistance, _Senta_ seeks to tear herself loose. Then it is that the _Flying Dutchman_ proclaims who he is and puts to sea. _Senta_, however, freeing herself, rushes to a cliff overhanging the sea, and calling out, "Praise thou thine angel for what he saith; Here stand I faithful, yea, to death," casts herself into the sea. Then occurs the concluding tableau, the work ending with the portion of the ballad which brought the overture and spinning scene to a close. TANNHÄUSER UND DER SÄNGERKRIEG AUF DEM WARTBURG (AND THE SONG CONTEST AT THE WARTBURG) Opera in three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner. Produced, Royal Opera, Dresden, October 19, 1845. Paris, Grand Opéra, March 13, 1861. London, Covent Garden, May 6, 1876, in Italian; Her Majesty's Theatre, February 14, 1882, in English; Drury Lane, May 23, 1882, in German, under Hans Richter. New York, Stadt Theatre, April 4, 1859, and July, 1861, conducted by Carl Bergmann; under Adolff Neuendorff's direction, 1870, and, Academy of Music, 1877; Metropolitan Opera House, opening night of German Opera, under Dr. Leopold Damrosch, November 17, 1884, with Seidl-Kraus as _Elizabeth_, Anna Slach as _Venus_, Schott as _Tannhäuser_, Adolf Robinson as _Wolfram_, Josef Kögel as the _Landgrave_. CHARACTERS HERMANN, Landgrave of Thuringia _Bass_ TANNHÄUSER } _Tenor_ WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH } _Baritone_ WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE } Knights and _Tenor_ BITEROLF } Minnesinger _Bass_ HEINRICH DER SCHREIBER } _Tenor_ REINMAR VON ZWETER } _Bass_ ELIZABETH, niece of the Landgrave _Soprano_ VENUS _Soprano_ A YOUNG SHEPHERD _Soprano_ FOUR NOBLE PAGES _Soprano and Alto_ Nobles, Knights, Ladies, elder and younger Pilgrims, Sirens, Naiads, Nymphs, Bacchantes. _Time_--Early Thirteenth Century. _Place_--Near Eisenach. The story of "Tannhäuser" is laid in and near the Wartburg, where, during the thirteenth century, the Landgraves of the Thuringian Valley held sway. They were lovers of art, especially of poetry and music, and at the Wartburg many peaceful contests between the famous minnesingers took place. Near this castle rises the Venusberg. According to tradition the interior of this mountain was inhabited by Holda, the Goddess of Spring, who, however, in time became identified with the Goddess of Love. Her court was filled with nymphs and sirens, and it was her greatest joy to entice into the mountain the knights of the Wartburg and hold them captive to her beauty. Among those whom she has thus lured into the rosy recesses of the Venusberg is _Tannhäuser_. In spite of her beauty, however, he is weary of her charms and longs for a glimpse of the world. He seems to have heard the tolling of bells and other earthly sounds, and these stimulate his yearning to be set free from the magic charms of the goddess. In vain she prophesies evil to him should he return to the world. With the cry that his hope rests in the Virgin, he tears himself away from her. In one of the swiftest and most effective of scenic changes the court of _Venus_ disappears and in a moment we see _Tannhäuser_ prostrate before a cross in a valley upon which the Wartburg peacefully looks down. _Pilgrims_ on their way to Rome pass him by and _Tannhäuser_ thinks of joining them in order that at Rome he may obtain forgiveness for his crime in allowing himself to be enticed into the Venusberg. But at that moment the _Landgrave_ and a number of minnesingers on their return from the chase come upon him and, recognizing him, endeavour to persuade him to return to the Wartburg with them. Their pleas, however, are vain, until one of them, _Wolfram von Eschenbach_, tells him that since he has left the Wartburg a great sadness has come over the niece of the _Landgrave_, _Elizabeth_. It is evident that _Tannhäuser_ has been in love with her, and that it is because of her beauty and virtue that he regrets so deeply having been lured into the Venusberg. For _Wolfram's_ words stir him profoundly. To the great joy of all, he agrees to return to the Wartburg, the scene of his many triumphs as a minnesinger in the contests of song. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Farrar as Elizabeth in "Tannhäuser"] [Illustration: Photo by Hall "Tannhäuser," Finale, Act II Tannhäuser (Maclennan), Elizabeth (Fornia), Wolfram (Dean) The Landgrave (Cranston)] The _Landgrave_, feeling sure that _Tannhäuser_ will win the prize at the contest of song soon to be held, offers the hand of his niece to the winner. The minnesingers sing tamely of the beauty of virtuous love, but _Tannhäuser_, suddenly remembering the seductive and magical beauties of the Venusberg, cannot control himself, and bursts out into a reckless hymn in praise of _Venus_. Horrified at his words, the knights draw their swords and would slay him, but _Elizabeth_ throws herself between him and them. Crushed and penitent, _Tannhäuser_ stands behind her, and the _Landgrave_, moved by her willingness to sacrifice herself for her sinful lover, announces that he will be allowed to join a second band of pilgrims who are going to Rome and to plead with the Pope for forgiveness. _Elizabeth_ prayerfully awaits his return; but, as she is kneeling by the crucifix in front of the Wartburg, the _Pilgrims_ pass her by and in the band she does not see her lover. Slowly and sadly she returns to the castle to die. When the _Pilgrims'_ voices have died away, and _Elizabeth_ has returned to the castle, leaving only _Wolfram_, who is also deeply enamoured of her, upon the scene, _Tannhäuser_ appears, weary and dejected. He has sought to obtain forgiveness in vain. The Pope has cast him out forever, proclaiming that no more than that his staff can put forth leaves can he expect forgiveness. He has come back to re-enter the Venusberg. _Wolfram_ seeks to restrain him, but it is not until he invokes the name of _Elizabeth_ that _Tannhäuser_ is saved. A cortège approaches, and, as _Tannhäuser_ recognizes the form of _Elizabeth_ on the bier, he sinks down on her coffin and dies. Just then the second band of pilgrims arrive, bearing _Tannhäuser's_ staff, which has put forth blossoms, thus showing that his sins have been forgiven. From "The Flying Dutchman" to "Tannhäuser," dramatically and musically, is, if anything, a greater stride than from "Rienzi" to "The Flying Dutchman." In each of his successive works Wagner demonstrates greater and deeper powers as a dramatic poet and composer. True it is that in nearly every one of them woman appears as the redeeming angel of sinful man, but the circumstances differ so that this beautiful tribute always interests us anew. The overture of the opera has long been a favorite piece on concert programs. Like that of "The Flying Dutchman" it is the story of the whole opera told in music. It certainly is one of the most brilliant and effective pieces of orchestral music and its popularity is easily understood. It opens with the melody of the _Pilgrims'_ chorus, beginning softly as if coming from a distance and gradually increasing in power until it is heard in all its grandeur. At this point it is joined by a violently agitated accompaniment on the violins. This passage evoked great criticism when it was first produced and for many years thereafter. It was thought to mar the beauty of the pilgrims' chorus. But without doing so at all it conveys additional dramatic meaning, for these agitated phrases depict the restlessness of the world as compared with the grateful tranquillity of religious faith as set forth in the melody of the _Pilgrims'_ chorus. [Music] Having reached a climax, this chorus gradually dies away, and suddenly, and with intense dramatic contrast, we have all the seductive spells of the Venusberg displayed before us--that is, musically displayed; but then the music is so wonderfully vivid, it depicts with such marvellous clearness the many-coloured alluring scene at the court of the unholy goddess, it gives vent so freely to the sinful excitement which pervades the Venusberg, that we actually seem to see what we hear. This passes over in turn to the impassioned burst of song in which _Tannhäuser_ hymns Venus's praise, and immediately after we have the boisterous and vigorous music which accompanies the threatening action of the _Landgrave_ and minnesingers when they draw their swords upon _Tannhäuser_ in order to take vengeance upon him for his crimes. Upon these three episodes of the drama, which so characteristically give insight into its plot and action, the overture is based, and it very naturally concludes with the _Pilgrims'_ chorus which seems to voice the final forgiveness of _Tannhäuser_. The curtain rises, disclosing all the seductive spells of the Venusberg. _Tannhäuser_ lies in the arms of _Venus_, who reclines upon a flowery couch. Nymphs, sirens, and satyrs are dancing about them and in the distance are grottoes alive with amorous figures. Various mythological amours, such as that of Leda and the swan, are supposed to be in progress, but fortunately at a mitigating distance. [Music] Much of the music familiar from the overture is heard during this scene, but it gains in effect from the distant voices of the sirens and, of course, from artistic scenery and grouping and well-executed dances of the denizens of _Venus's_ court. Very dramatic, too, is the scene between _Venus_ and _Tannhäuser_, when the latter sings his hymn in her praise, but at the same time proclaims that he desires to return to the world. In alluring strains she endeavours to tempt him to remain with her, but when she discovers that he is bound upon going, she vehemently warns him of the misfortunes which await him upon earth and prophesies that he will some day return to her and penitently ask to be taken back into her realm. Dramatic and effective as this scene is in the original score, it has gained immensely in power by the additions which Wagner made for the production of the work in Paris, in 1861. The overture does not, in this version, come to a formal close, but after the manner of Wagner's later works, the transition is made directly from it to the scene of the Venusberg. The dances have been elaborated and laid out upon a more careful allegorical basis and the music of _Venus_ has been greatly strengthened from a dramatic point of view, so that now the scene in which she pleads with him to remain and afterwards warns him against the sorrows to which he will be exposed, are among the finest of Wagner's compositions, rivalling in dramatic power the ripest work in his music-dramas. Wagner's knowledge of the stage is shown in the wonderfully dramatic effect in the change of scene from the Venusberg to the landscape in the valley of the Wartburg. One moment we have the variegated allures of the court of the Goddess of Love, with its dancing nymphs, sirens, and satyrs, its beautiful grottoes and groups; the next all this has disappeared and from the heated atmosphere of _Venus's_ unholy rites we are suddenly transported to a peaceful scene whose influence upon us is deepened by the crucifix in the foreground, before which _Tannhäuser_ kneels in penitence. The peacefulness of the scene is further enhanced by the appearance upon a rocky eminence to the left of a young _Shepherd_ who pipes a pastoral strain, while in the background are heard the tinkling of bells, as though his sheep were there grazing upon some upland meadow. Before he has finished piping his lay the voices of the _Pilgrims_ are heard in the distance, their solemn measures being interrupted by little phrases piped by the _Shepherd_. As the _Pilgrims_ approach, the chorus becomes louder, and as they pass over the stage and bow before the crucifix, their praise swells into an eloquent psalm of devotion. _Tannhäuser_ is deeply affected and gives way to his feelings in a lament, against which are heard the voices of the _Pilgrims_ as they recede in the distance. This whole scene is one of marvellous beauty, the contrast between it and the preceding episode being enhanced by the religiously tranquil nature of what transpires and of the accompanying music. Upon this peaceful scene the notes of hunting-horns now break in, and gradually the _Landgrave_ and his hunters gather about _Tannhäuser_. _Wolfram_ recognizes him and tells the others who he is. They greet him in an expressive septette, and _Wolfram_, finding he is bent upon following the _Pilgrims_ to Rome, asks permission of the _Landgrave_ to inform him of the impression which he seems to have made upon _Elizabeth_. This he does in a melodious solo, and _Tannhäuser_, overcome by his love for _Elizabeth_, consents to return to the halls which have missed him so long. Exclamations of joy greet his decision, and the act closes with an enthusiastic _ensemble_, which is a glorious piece of concerted music, and never fails of brilliant effect when it is well executed, especially if the representative of _Tannhäuser_ has a voice that can soar above the others, which, unfortunately, is not always the case. The accompanying scenic grouping should also be in keeping with the composer's instructions. The _Landgrave's_ suite should gradually arrive, bearing the game which has been slain, and horses and hunting-hounds should be led on the stage. Finally, the _Landgrave_ and minnesingers mount their steeds and ride away toward the castle. The scene of the second act is laid in the singers' hall of the Wartburg. The introduction depicts _Elizabeth's_ joy at _Tannhäuser's_ return, and when the curtain rises she at once enters and joyfully greets the scenes of _Tannhäuser's_ former triumphs in broadly dramatic melodious phrases. _Wolfram_ then appears, conducting _Tannhäuser_ to her. _Elizabeth_ seems overjoyed to see him, but then checks herself, and her maidenly modesty, which veils her transport at meeting him, again finds expression in a number of hesitating but exceedingly beautiful phrases. She asks _Tannhäuser_ where he has been, but he, of course, gives misleading answers. Finally, however, he tells her she is the one who has attracted him back to the castle. Their love finds expression in a swift and rapidly flowing dramatic duet, which unfortunately is rarely given in its entirety, although as a glorious outburst of emotional music it certainly deserves to be heard in the exact form and length in which the composer wrote it. There is then a scene of much tender feeling between the _Landgrave_ and _Elizabeth_, in which the former tells her that he will offer her hand as prize to the singer whom she shall crown as winner. The first strains of the grand march are then heard. This is one of Wagner's most brilliant and effective orchestral and vocal pieces. Though in perfect march rhythm, it is not intended that the guests who assembled at the Wartburg shall enter like a company of soldiers. On the contrary, they arrive in irregular detachments, stride across the floor, and make their obeisance in a perfectly natural manner. After an address by the _Landgrave_, which can hardly be called remarkably interesting, the singers draw lots to decide who among them shall begin. This prize singing is, unfortunately, not so great in musical value as the rest of the score, and, unless a person understands the words, it is decidedly long drawn out. What, however, redeems it is a gradually growing dramatic excitement as _Tannhäuser_ voices his contempt for what seem to him the tame tributes paid to love by the minnesingers, an excitement which reaches its climax when, no longer able to restrain himself, he bursts forth into his hymn in praise of the unholy charms of _Venus_. [Music] The women cry out in horror and rush from the hall as if the very atmosphere were tainted by his presence, and the men, drawing their swords, rush upon him. This brings us to the great dramatic moment, when, with a shriek, _Elizabeth_, in spite of his betrayal of her love, throws herself protectingly before him, and thus appears a second time as his saving angel. In short and excited phrases the men pour forth their wrath at _Tannhäuser's_ crime in having sojourned with _Venus_, and he, realizing its enormity, seems crushed with a consciousness of his guilt. Of wondrous beauty is the septette, "An angel has from heaven descended," which rises to a magnificent climax and is one of the finest pieces of dramatic writing in Wagner's scores, although often execrably sung and rarely receiving complete justice. The voices of young _Pilgrims_ are heard in the valley. The _Landgrave_ then announces the conditions upon which _Tannhäuser_ can again obtain forgiveness, and _Tannhäuser_ joins the pilgrims on their way to Rome. The third act displays once more the valley of the Wartburg, the same scene as that to which the Venusberg changed in the first act. _Elizabeth_, arrayed in white, is kneeling, in deep prayer, before the crucifix. At one side, and watching her tenderly, stands _Wolfram_. After a sad recitative from _Wolfram_, the chorus of returning _Pilgrims_ is heard in the distance. They sing the melody heard in the overture and in the first act; and the same effect of gradual approach is produced by a superb crescendo as they reach and cross the scene. With almost piteous anxiety and grief _Elizabeth_ scans them closely as they go by, to see if _Tannhäuser_ be among them, and when the last one has passed and she realizes that he has not returned, she sinks again upon her knees before the crucifix and sings the prayer, "Almighty Virgin, hear my sorrow," music in which there is most beautifully combined the expression of poignant grief with trust in the will of the Almighty. As she rises and turns toward the castle, _Wolfram_, by his gesture, seems to ask her if he cannot accompany her, but she declines his offer and slowly goes her way up the mountain. Meanwhile night has fallen upon the scene and the evening star glows softly above the castle. It is then that _Wolfram_, accompanying himself on his lyre, intones the wondrously tender and beautiful "Song to the Evening Star," confessing therein his love for the saintly _Elizabeth_. [Music] Then _Tannhäuser_, dejected, footsore, and weary, appears, and in broken accents asks _Wolfram_ to show him the way back to the Venusberg. _Wolfram_ bids him stay his steps and persuades him to tell him the story of his pilgrimage. In fierce, dramatic accents, _Tannhäuser_ relates all that he has suffered on his way to Rome and the terrible judgment pronounced upon him by the Pope. This is a highly impressive episode, clearly foreshadowing Wagner's dramatic use of musical recitative in his later music-dramas. Only a singer of the highest rank can do justice to it. _Tannhäuser_ proclaims that, having lost all chance of salvation, he will once more give himself up to the delights of the Venusberg. A roseate light illumines the recesses of the mountain and the unholy company of the Venusberg again is seen, _Venus_ stretching out her arms for _Tannhäuser_, to welcome him. But at last, when _Tannhäuser_ seems unable to resist _Venus'_ enticing voice any longer, _Wolfram_ conjures him by the memory of the sainted _Elizabeth_. Then _Venus_ knows that all is lost. The light dies away and the magic charms of the Venusberg disappear. Amid tolling of bells and mournful voices a funeral procession comes down the mountain. Recognizing the features of _Elizabeth_, the dying _Tannhäuser_ falls upon her corpse. The younger pilgrims arrive with the staff, which has again put forth leaves, and amid the hallelujahs of the pilgrims the opera closes. Besides the character of _Elizabeth_ that of _Wolfram_ stands out for its tender, manly beauty. In love with _Elizabeth_, he is yet the means of bringing back her lover to her, and in the end saves that lover from perdition, so that they may be united in death. LOHENGRIN Opera in three acts, by Richard Wagner. Produced, Weimar, Germany, August 28, 1850, under the direction of Franz Liszt; London, Covent Garden, May 8, 1875; New York, Stadt Theater, in German, April 3, 1871; Academy of Music, in Italian, March 23, 1874, with Nilsson, Cary, Campanini, and Del Puente; Metropolitan Opera House, in German, November 23, 1885, with Seidl-Kraus, Brandt, Stritt, Robinson, and Fischer, American début of Anton Seidl as conductor. CHARACTERS HENRY THE FOWLER, King of Germany _Bass_ LOHENGRIN _Tenor_ ELSA OF BRABANT _Soprano_ DUKE GODFREY, her brother _Mute_ FREDERICK OF TELRAMUND, Count of Brabant _Baritone_ ORTRUD, his wife _Mezzo-Soprano_ THE KING'S HERALD _Bass_ Saxon, Thuringian, and Brabantian Counts and Nobles, Ladies of Honour, Pages, Attendants. _Time_--First half of the Tenth Century. _Scene_--Antwerp. The circumstances attending the creation and first production of "Lohengrin" are most interesting. Prior to and for more than a decade after he wrote and composed the work Wagner suffered many vicissitudes. In Paris, where he lived from hand to mouth before "Rienzi" was accepted by the Royal Opera House at Dresden, he was absolutely poverty-stricken and often at a loss how to procure the next meal. "Rienzi" was produced at the Dresden Opera in 1842. It was brilliantly successful. "The Flying Dutchman," which followed, was less so, and "Tannhäuser" seemed even less attractive to its early audiences. Therefore it is no wonder that, although Wagner was royal conductor in Dresden, he could not succeed in having "Lohengrin" accepted there for performance. Today "Rienzi" hardly can be said to hold its own in the repertoire outside of its composer's native country. The sombre beauty of "The Flying Dutchman," though recognized by musicians and serious music lovers, has prevented its becoming popular. But "Tannhäuser," looked at so askance at first, and "Lohengrin," absolutely rejected, are standard operas and, when well given, among the most popular works of the lyric stage. Especially is this true of "Lohengrin." This opera, at the time of its composition so novel and so strange, yet filled with beauties of orchestration and harmony that are now quoted as leading examples in books on these subjects, was composed in less than a year. The acts were finished almost, if not quite, in reversed order. For Wagner wrote the third act first, beginning it in September, 1846, and completing it March 5, 1847. The first act occupied him from May 12th to June 8th, less than a month; the second act from June 18th to August 2d. Fresh and beautiful as "Lohengrin" still sounds today, it is, in fact, a classic. Wagner's music, however, was so little understood at the time, that even before "Lohengrin" was produced and not a note of it had been heard, people made fun of it. A lithographer named Meser had issued Wagner's previous three scores, but the enterprise had not been a success. People said that before publishing "Rienzi," Meser had lived on the first floor. "Rienzi" had driven him to the second; "The Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhäuser" to the third; and now "Lohengrin" would drive him to the garret--a prophecy that didn't come true, because he refused to publish it. In 1849, "Lohengrin" still not having been accepted by the Dresden Opera, Wagner, as already has been stated, took part in the May revolution, which, apparently successful for a very short time, was quickly suppressed by the military. The composer of "Lohengrin" and the future composer of the "Ring of the Nibelung," "Tristan und Isolde," "Meistersinger," and "Parsifal," is said to have made his escape from Dresden in the disguise of a coachman. Occasionally there turns up in sales as a great rarity a copy of the warrant for Wagner's arrest issued by the Dresden police. As it gives a description of him at the time when he had but recently composed "Lohengrin," I will quote it: "Wagner is thirty-seven to thirty-eight years of age, of medium stature, has brown hair, an open forehead; eyebrows, brown; eyes, greyish blue; nose and mouth, proportioned; chin, round, and wears spectacles. Special characteristics: rapid in movements and speech. Dress: coat of dark green buckskin, trousers of black cloth, velvet vest, silk neckerchief, ordinary felt hat and boots." Much fun has been made of the expression "chin, round, and wears spectacles." Wagner got out of Dresden on the pass of a Dr. Widmann, whom he resembled. It has been suggested that he made the resemblance still closer by discontinuing the habit of wearing spectacles on his chin. I saw Wagner several times in Bayreuth in the summer of 1882, when I attended the first performance of "Parsifal," as correspondent by cable and letter for one of the large New York dailies. Except that his hair was grey (and that he no longer wore his spectacles on his chin) the description in the warrant still held good, especially as regards his rapidity of movement and speech, to which I may add a marked vivacity of gesture. There, too, I saw the friend, who had helped him over so many rough places in his early career, Franz Liszt, his hair white with age, but framing a face as strong and keen as an eagle's. I saw them seated at a banquet, and with them Cosima, Liszt's daughter, who was Wagner's second wife, and their son, Siegfried Wagner; Cosima the image of her father, and Siegfried a miniature replica of the composer to whom we owe "Lohengrin" and the music-dramas that followed it. The following summer one of the four was missing. I have the "Parsifal" program with mourning border signifying that the performances of the work were in memory of its creator. In April, 1850, Wagner, then an exile in Zurich, wrote to Liszt: "Bring out my 'Lohengrin!' You are the only one to whom I would put this request; to no one but you would I entrust the production of this opera; but to you I surrender it with the fullest, most joyous confidence." Wagner himself describes the appeal and the result, by saying that at a time when he was ill, unhappy, and in despair, his eye fell on the score of "Lohengrin" which he had almost forgotten. "A pitiful feeling overcame me that these tones would never resound from the deathly-pale paper; two words I wrote to Liszt, the answer to which was nothing else than the information that, as far as the resources of the Weimar Opera permitted, the most elaborate preparations were being made for the production of 'Lohengrin.'" Liszt's reply to which Wagner refers, and which gives some details regarding "the elaborate preparations," while testifying to his full comprehension of Wagner's genius and the importance of his new score as a work of art, may well cause us to smile today at the small scale on which things were done in 1850. "Your 'Lohengrin,'" he wrote, "will be given under conditions that are most unusual and most favourable for its success. The direction will spend on this occasion almost 2000 thalers [about $1500]--a sum unprecedented at Weimar within memory of man ... the bass clarinet has been bought," etc. Ten times fifteen hundred dollars might well be required today for a properly elaborate production of "Lohengrin," and the opera orchestra that had to send out and buy a bass clarinet would be a curiosity. But Weimar had what no other opera house could boast of--Franz Liszt as conductor. Under his brilliant direction "Lohengrin" had at Weimar its first performance on any stage, August 28, 1850. This was the anniversary of Goethe's birth, the date of the dedication of the Weimar monument to the poet, Herder, and, by a coincidence that does not appear to have struck either Wagner or Liszt, the third anniversary of the completion of "Lohengrin." The work was performed without cuts and before an audience which included some of the leading musical and literary men of Germany. The performance made a deep impression. The circumstance that Liszt added the charm of his personality to it and that the weight of his influence had been thrown in its favour alone gave vast importance to the event. Indeed, through Liszt's production of Wagner's early operas Weimar became, as Henry T. Finck has said in _Wagner and His Works_, a sort of preliminary Bayreuth. Occasionally special opera trains were put on for the accommodation of visitors to the Wagner performances. In January, 1853, Liszt writes to Wagner that "the public interest in 'Lohengrin' is rapidly increasing. You are already very popular at the various Weimar hotels, where it is not easy to get a room on the days when your operas are given." The Liszt production of "Lohengrin" was a turning point in his career, the determining influence that led him to throw himself heart and soul into the composition of the "Ring of the Nibelung." On May 15, 1861, when, through the intervention of Princess Metternich, he had been permitted to return to Germany, fourteen years after he had finished "Lohengrin" and eleven years after its production at Weimar, he himself heard it for the first time at Vienna. A tragedy of fourteen years--to create a masterpiece of the lyric stage, and be forced to wait that long to hear it! Before proceeding to a complete descriptive account of the "Lohengrin" story and music I will give a brief summary of the plot and a similar characterization of the score. Wagner appears to have become so saturated with the subject of his dramas that he transported himself in mind and temperament to the very time in which his scenes are laid. So vividly does he portray the mythological occurrences told in "Lohengrin" that one can almost imagine he had been an eye-witness of them. This capacity of artistic reproduction of a remote period would alone entitle him to rank as a great dramatist. But he has done much more; he has taken unpromising material, which in the original is strung out over a period of years, and, by condensing the action to two days, has converted it into a swiftly moving drama. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Sembach as Lohengrin] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Schumann-Heink as Ortrud in "Lohengrin"] The story of "Lohengrin" is briefly as follows: The Hungarians have invaded Germany, and _King Henry I._ visits Antwerp for the purpose of raising a force to combat them. He finds the country in a condition of anarchy. The dukedom is claimed by _Frederick_, who has married _Ortrud_, a daughter of the Prince of Friesland. The legitimate heir, _Godfrey_, has mysteriously disappeared, and his sister, _Elsa_, is charged by _Frederick_ and _Ortrud_ with having done away with him in order that she might obtain the sovereignty. The _King_ summons her before him so that the cause may be tried by the ordeal of single combat between _Frederick_ and a champion who may be willing to appear for _Elsa_. None of the knights will defend her cause. She then describes a champion whose form has appeared to her in a vision, and she proclaims that he shall be her champion. Her pretence is derided by _Frederick_ and his followers, who think that she is out of her mind; but after a triple summons by the _Herald_, there is seen in the distance on the river, a boat drawn by a swan, and in it a knight clad in silver armour. He comes to champion _Elsa's_ cause, and before the combat betroths himself to her, but makes a strict condition that she shall never question him as to his name or birthplace, for should she, he would be obliged to depart. She assents to the conditions, and the combat which ensues results in _Frederick's_ ignominious defeat. Judgment of exile is pronounced on him. Instead, however, of leaving the country he lingers in the neighbourhood of Brabant, plotting with _Ortrud_ how they may compass the ruin of _Lohengrin_ and _Elsa_. _Ortrud_ by her entreaties moves _Elsa_ to pity, and persuades her to seek a reprieve for _Frederick_, at the same time, however, using every opportunity to instil doubts in _Elsa's_ mind regarding her champion, and rousing her to such a pitch of nervous curiosity that she is on the point of asking him the forbidden question. After the bridal ceremonies, and in the bridal chamber, the distrust which _Ortrud_ and _Frederick_ have engendered in _Elsa's_ mind so overcomes her faith that she vehemently puts the forbidden question to her champion. Almost at the same moment _Frederick_ and four of his followers force their way into the apartment, intending to take the knight's life. A single blow of his sword, however, stretches _Frederick_ lifeless, and his followers bear his corpse away. Placing _Elsa_ in the charge of her ladies-in-waiting, and ordering them to take her to the presence of the _King_, he repairs thither himself. The Brabantian hosts are gathering, and he is expected to lead them to battle, but owing to _Elsa's_ question he is now obliged to disclose who he is and to take his departure. He proclaims that he is _Lohengrin_, son of Parsifal, Knight of the Holy Grail, and that he can linger no longer in Brabant, but must return to the place of his coming. The swan has once more appeared, drawing the boat down the river, and bidding _Elsa_ farewell he steps into the little shell-like craft. Then _Ortrud_, with malicious glee, declares that the swan is none other than _Elsa's_ brother, whom she (_Ortrud_) bewitched into this form, and that he would have been changed back again to his human shape had it not been for _Elsa's_ rashness. But _Lohengrin_, through his supernatural powers, is able to undo _Ortrud's_ work, and at a word from him the swan disappears and _Godfrey_ stands in its place. A dove now descends, and, hovering in front of the boat, draws it away with _Lohengrin_, while _Elsa_ expires in her brother's arms. Owing to the lyric character of the story upon which "Lohengrin" is based, the opera, while not at all lacking in strong dramatic situations is characterized by a subtler and more subdued melodiousness than "Tannhäuser," is more exquisitely lyrical in fact than any Wagnerian work except "Parsifal." There are typical themes in the score, but they are hardly handled with the varied effect that entitles them to be called leading motives. On the other hand there are fascinating details of orchestration. These are important because the composer has given significant clang-tints to the music that is heard in connection with the different characters in the story. He uses the brass chiefly to accompany the _King_, and, of course, the martial choruses; the plaintive, yet spiritual high wood-wind for _Elsa_; the English horn and sombre bass clarinet--the instrument that had to be bought--for _Ortrud_; the violins, especially in high harmonic positions, to indicate the Grail and its representative, for _Lohengrin_ is a Knight of the Holy Grail. Even the keys employed are distinctive. The _Herald's_ trumpeters blow in C and greet the _King's_ arrival in that bright key. F-sharp minor is the dark, threatful key that indicates _Ortrud's_ appearance. The key of A, which is the purest for strings and the most ethereal in effect, on account of the greater ease of using "harmonics," announces the approach of _Lohengrin_ and the subtle influence of the Grail. Moreover Wagner was the first composer to discover that celestial effects of tone colour are produced by the prolonged notes of the combined violins and wood-wind in the highest positions more truly than by the harp. It is the association of ideas with the Scriptures, wherein the harp frequently is mentioned, because it was the most perfected instrument of the period, that has led other composers to employ it for celestial tone-painting. But while no one appreciated the beauty of the harp more than Wagner, or has employed it with finer effect than he, his celestial tone-pictures with high-violins and wood-wind are distinctly more ecstatic than those of other composers. The music clothes the drama most admirably. The Vorspiel or Prelude immediately places the listener in the proper mood for the story which is to unfold itself, and for the score, vocal and instrumental, whose strains are to fall upon his ear. The Prelude is based entirely upon one theme, a beautiful one and expressive of the sanctity of the Grail, of which _Lohengrin_ is one of the knights. Violins and flutes with long-drawn-out, ethereal chords open the Prelude. Then is heard on the violins, so divided as to heighten the delicacy of the effect, the Motive of the Grail, the cup in which the Saviour's blood is supposed to have been caught as it flowed from the wound in His side, while he was on the Cross. No modern book on orchestration is considered complete unless it quotes this passage from the score, which is at once the earliest and, after seventy years, still the most perfect example of the effect of celestial harmony produced on the high notes of the divided violin choir. This interesting passage in the score is as follows: [Music] Although this is the only motive that occurs in the Prelude, the ear never wearies of it. Its effectiveness is due to the wonderful skill with which Wagner handles the theme, working it up through a superb crescendo to a magnificent climax, with all the splendours of Wagnerian orchestration, after which it dies away again to the ethereal harmonies with which it first greeted the listener. Act I. The curtain, on rising, discloses a scene of unwonted life on the plain near the River Scheldt, where the stream winds toward Antwerp. On an elevated seat under a huge oak sits _King Henry I._ On either side are his Saxon and Thuringian nobles. Facing him with the knights of Brabant are _Count Frederick of Telramund_ and his wife, _Ortrud_, daughter of the Prince of Friesland, of dark, almost forbidding beauty, and with a treacherous mingling of haughtiness and humility in her carriage. It is a strange tale the _King_ has just heard fall from _Frederick of Telramund's_ lips. _Henry_ has assembled the Brabantians on the plain by the Scheldt in order to summon them to join his army and aid in checking the threatened invasion of Germany by the Hungarians. But he has found the Brabantians themselves torn by factional strife, some supporting, others opposing _Frederick_ in his claim to the ducal succession of Brabant. "Sire," says _Frederick_, when called upon by the _King_ to explain the cause of the discord that has come upon the land, "the late Duke of Brabant upon his death-bed confided to me, his kinsman, the care of his two children, _Elsa_ and her young brother _Godfrey_, with the right to claim the maid as my wife. But one day _Elsa_ led the boy into the forest and returned alone. From her pale face and faltering lips I judged only too well of what had happened, and I now publicly accuse _Elsa_ of having made away with her brother that she might be sole heir to Brabant and reject my right to her hand. Her hand! Horrified, I shrank from her and took a wife whom I could truly love. Now as nearest kinsman of the duke I claim this land as my own, my wife, too, being of the race that once gave a line of princes to Brabant." So saying, he leads _Ortrud_ forward, and she, lowering her dark visage, makes a deep obeisance to the _King_. To the latter but one course is open. A terrible accusation has been uttered, and an appeal must be made to the immediate judgment of God in trial by combat between _Frederick_ and whoever may appear as champion for _Elsa_. Solemnly the _King_ hangs his shield on the oak, the Saxons and Thuringians thrust the points of their swords into the ground, while the Brabantians lay theirs before them. The royal _Herald_ steps forward. "Elsa, without delay appear!" he calls in a loud voice. A sudden hush falls upon the scene, as a slender figure robed in white slowly advances toward the _King_. It is _Elsa_. With her fair brow, gentle mien, and timid footsteps it seems impossible that she can be the object of _Frederick's_ dire charge. But there are dark forces conspiring against her, of which none knows save her accuser and the wife he has chosen from the remoter North. In Friesland the weird rites of Odin and the ancient gods still had many secret adherents, _Ortrud_ among them, and it is the hope of this heathenish woman, through the undoing of _Elsa_, and the accession of _Frederick_ whom she has completely under her influence, to check the spread of the Christian faith toward the North and restore the rites of Odin in Brabant. To this end she is ready to bring all the black magic of which she secretly is mistress into play. What wonder that _Elsa_, as she encounters her malevolent gaze, lowers her eyes with a shudder! Up to the moment of _Elsa's_ entrance, the music is harsh and vigorous, reflecting _Frederick's_ excitement as, incited by _Ortrud_, he brings forward his charge against _Elsa_. With her appearance a change immediately comes over the music. It is soft, gentle, and plaintive; not, however, entirely hopeless, as if the maiden, being conscious of her innocence, does not despair of her fate. "Elsa," gently asks the _King_, "whom name you as your champion?" She answers as if in a trance; and it is at this point that the music of "Elsa's Dream" is heard. In the course of this, violins whisper the Grail Motive and in dreamy rapture _Elsa_ sings, "I see, in splendour shining, a knight of glorious mien. His eyes rest upon me with tranquil gaze. He stands amid clouds beside a house of gold, and resting on his sword. Heaven has sent him to save me. He shall my champion be!" [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Emma Eames as Elsa in "Lohengrin"] The men regard each other in wonder. But a sneer curls around _Ortrud's_ lips, and _Frederick_ again proclaims his readiness to prove his accusation in trial by combat for life and death. "_Elsa_," the _King_ asks once more, "whom have you chosen as your champion?" "Him whom Heaven shall send me; and to him, whatever he shall ask of me, I freely will give, e'en though it be myself as bride!" Again there is heard the lovely, broad and flowing melody of which I have already spoken and which may be designated as the ELSA MOTIVE. [Music] The _Herald_ now stations his trumpeters at the corners of the plain and bids them blow a blast toward the four points of the compass. When the last echo has died away he calls aloud: "He who in right of Heaven comes here to fight for _Elsa_ of Brabant, let him step forth!" The deep silence that follows is broken by _Frederick's_ voice. "No one appears to repel my charge. 'Tis proven." "My King," implores _Elsa_, whose growing agitation is watched by _Ortrud_ with a malevolent smile, "my champion bides afar. He has not yet heard the summons. I pray you let it go forth once more." Again the trumpeters blow toward the four points of the compass, again the _Herald_ cries his call, again there is the fateful silence. "The Heavens are silent. She is doomed," murmured the men. Then _Elsa_ throws herself upon her knees and raises her eyes in prayer. Suddenly there is a commotion among the men nearest the river bank. "A wonder!" they cry. "A swan! A swan--drawing a boat by a golden chain! In the boat stands a knight! See, it approaches! His armour is so bright it blinds our eyes! A wonder! A wonder!" There is a rush toward the bank and a great shout of acclaim, as the swan with a graceful sweep rounds a bend in the river and brings the shell-like boat, in which stands a knight in dazzling armour and of noble mien, up to the shore. Not daring to trust her senses and turn to behold the wondrous spectacle, _Elsa_ gazes in rapture heavenward, while _Ortrud_ and _Telramund_, their fell intrigue suddenly halted by a marvel that surpasses their comprehension, regard each other with mingled amazement and alarm. A strange feeling of awe overcomes the assembly, and the tumult with which the advent of the knight has been hailed dies away to breathless silence, as he extends his hand and in tender accents bids farewell to the swan, which gently inclines its head and then glides away with the boat, vanishing as it had come. There is a chorus, in which, in half-hushed voices, the crowd gives expression to the mystery of the scene. Then the men fall back and the Knight of the Swan, for a silver swan surmounts his helmet and is blazoned upon his shield, having made due obeisance to the _King_, advances to where _Elsa_ stands and, resting his eyes upon her pure and radiant beauty, questions her. "Elsa, if I become your champion and right the foul wrong that is sought to be put upon you, will you confide your future to me; will you become my bride?" "My guardian, my defender!" she exclaims ecstatically. "All that I have, all that I am, is yours!" "Elsa," he says slowly, as if wishing her to weigh every word, "if I champion your cause and take you to wife, there is one promise I must exact: Never must you ask me whence I come or what my name." "I promise," she answers, serenely meeting his warning look. He repeats the warning and again she promises to observe it. "Elsa, I love you!" he exclaims, as he clasps her in his arms. Then addressing the _King_ he proclaims his readiness to defend her innocence in trial by combat. In this scene occurs one of the significant themes of the opera, the MOTIVE OF WARNING--for it is Elsa's disregard of it and the breaking of her promise that brings her happiness to an end. [Music] Three Saxons for the Knight and three Brabantians for _Frederick_ solemnly pace off the circle within which the combatants are to fight. The _King_, drawing his sword, strikes three resounding blows with it upon his shield. At the first stroke the Knight and _Frederick_ take their positions. At the second they draw their swords. At the third they advance to the encounter. _Frederick_ is no coward. His willingness to meet the Knight whose coming had been so strange proves that. But his blows are skilfully warded off until the Swan Knight, finding an opening, fells him with a powerful stroke. _Frederick's_ life is forfeited, but his conqueror, perchance knowing that he has been naught but a tool in the hands of a woman leagued with the powers of evil, spares it and bids his fallen foe rise. The _King_ leads _Elsa_ to the victor, while all hail him as her deliverer and betrothed. The scenes here described are most stirring. Before the combat begins, the _King_ intones a prayer, in which first the principals and then the chorus join with noble effect, while the music of rejoicing over the Knight's victory has an irresistible onsweep. Act II. That night in the fortress of Antwerp, the palace where abide the knights is brilliantly illuminated and sounds of revelry issue from it, and lights shine from the kemenate, where _Elsa's_ maids-in-waiting are preparing her for the bridal on the morrow. But in the shadow of the walls sit two figures, a man and a woman; the man, his head bowed in despair, the woman looking vindictively toward the palace. They are _Frederick_ and _Ortrud_, who have been condemned to banishment, he utterly dejected, she still trusting in the power of her heathenish gods. To her the Swan Knight's chivalrous forbearance in sparing _Frederick's_ life has seemed weak instead of noble, and _Elsa_ she regards as an insipid dreamer and easy victim. Not knowing that _Ortrud_ still darkly schemes to ruin _Elsa_ and restore him to power, _Frederick_ denounces her in an outburst of rage and despair. As another burst of revelry, another flash of light, causes _Frederick_ to bow his head in deeper gloom, _Ortrud_ begins to unfold her plot to him. How long will a woman like _Elsa_--as sweet as she is beautiful, but also as weak--be able to restrain herself from asking the forbidden question? Once her suspicion aroused that the Knight is concealing from her something in his past life, growing jealousy will impel her first to seek to coax from him, then to demand of him his name and lineage. Let _Frederick_ conceal himself within the minster, and when the bridal procession reaches the steps, come forth and, accusing the Knight of treachery and deceit, demand that he be compelled to disclose his name and origin. He will refuse, and thus, even before _Elsa_ enters the minster, she will begin to be beset by doubts. She herself meanwhile will seek to enter the kemenate and play upon her credulousness. "She is for me; her champion is for you. Soon the daughter of Odin will teach you all the joys of vengeance!" is _Ortrud's_ sinister exclamation as she finishes. Indeed it seems as if Fate were playing into her hand. For at that very moment _Elsa_, all clad in white, comes out upon the balcony of the kemenate and, sighing with happiness, breathes out upon the night air her rapture at the thought of what bliss the coming day has in store for her. As she lets her gaze rest on the calm night she hears a piteous voice calling her name, and looking down sees _Ortrud_, her hands raised in supplication to her. Moved by the spectacle of one but a short time before so proud and now apparently in such utter dejection, the guileless maid descends and, herself opening the door of the kemenate, hastens to _Ortrud_, raises her to her feet, and gently leads her in, while, hidden in the shadows, _Frederick of Telramund_ bides his time for action. Thus within and without, mischief is plotting for the unsuspecting _Elsa_. These episodes, following the appearance of _Elsa_ upon the balcony, are known as the "Balcony Scene." It opens with the exquisite melody which _Elsa_ breathes upon the zephyrs of the night in gratitude to heaven for the champion sent to her defence. Then, when in pity she has hastened down to _Ortrud_, the latter pours doubts regarding her champion into _Elsa's_ mind. Who is he? Whence came he? May he not as unexpectedly depart? The whole closes with a beautiful duet, which is repeated by the orchestra, as _Ortrud_ is conducted by _Elsa_ into the apartment. It is early morn. People begin to gather in the open place before the minster and, by the time the sun is high, the space is crowded with folk eager to view the bridal procession. They sing a fine and spirited chorus. At the appointed hour four pages come out upon the balcony of the kemenate and cry out: "Make way, our Lady Elsa comes!" Descending, they clear a path through the crowd to the steps of the minster. A long train of richly clad women emerges upon the balcony, slowly comes down the steps and, proceeding past the palace, winds toward the minster. At that moment a great shout, "Hail! Elsa of Brabant!" goes up, as the bride herself appears followed by her ladies-in-waiting. For the moment _Ortrud's_ presence in the train is unnoticed, but as _Elsa_ approaches the minster, _Frederick's_ wife suddenly throws herself in her path. "Back, Elsa!" she cries. "I am not a menial, born to follow you! Although your Knight has overthrown my husband, you cannot boast of who he is--his very name, the place whence he came, are unknown. Strong must be his motives to forbid you to question him. To what foul disgrace would he be brought were he compelled to answer!" Fortunately the _King_, the bridegroom, and the nobles approaching from the palace, _Elsa_ shrinks from _Ortrud_ to her champion's side and hides her face against his breast. At that moment _Frederick of Telramund_, taking his cue from _Ortrud_, comes out upon the minster steps and repeats his wife's accusation. Then, profiting by the confusion, he slips away in the crowd. The insidious poison, however, has already begun to take effect. For even as the _King_ taking the Knight on his right and _Elsa_ on his left conducts them up the minster steps, the trembling bride catches sight of _Ortrud_ whose hand is raised in threat and warning; and it is clinging to her champion, in love indeed but love mingled with doubt and fear, that she passes through the portal, and into the edifice. These are crucial scenes. The procession to the minster, often known as the bridal procession, must not be confused with the "Bridal Chorus." It is familiar music, however, because at weddings it often is played softly as a musical background to the ceremony. Act III. The wedding festivities are described in the brilliant "Introduction to Act III." This is followed in the opera by the "Bridal Chorus," which, wherever heard--on stage or in church--falls with renewed freshness and significance upon the ear. In this scene the Knight and _Elsa_ are conducted to the bridal chamber in the castle. From the right enter _Elsa's_ ladies-in-waiting leading the bride; from the left the _King_ and nobles leading the Knight. Preceding both trains are pages bearing lights; and voices chant the bridal chorus. The _King_ ceremoniously embraces the couple and then the procession makes its way out, until, as the last strains of the chorus die away, _Elsa_ and her champion are for the first time alone. It should be a moment of supreme happiness for both, and indeed, _Elsa_ exclaims as her bridegroom takes her to his arms, that words cannot give expression to all its hidden sweetness. Yet, when he tenderly breathes her name, it serves only to remind her that she cannot respond by uttering his. "How sweetly sounds my name when spoken by you, while I, alas, cannot reply with yours. Surely, some day, you will tell me, all in secret, and I shall be able to whisper it when none but you is near!" In her words the Knight perceives but too clearly the seeds of the fatal mistrust sown by _Ortrud_ and _Frederick_. Gently he leaves her side and throwing open the casement, points to the moonlit landscape where the river winds its course along the plain. The same subtle magic that can conjure up this scene from the night has brought him to her, made him love her, and give unshrinking credence to her vow never to question his name or origin. Will she now wantonly destroy the wondrous spell of moonlight and love? But still _Elsa_ urges him. "Let me be flattered by your trust and confidence. Your secret will be safe in my heart. No threats, not even of death, shall tear it from my lips. Tell me who you are and whence you come!" "Elsa!" he cries, "come to my heart. Let me feel that happiness is mine at last. Let your love and confidence compensate me for what I have left behind me. Cast dark suspicion aside. For know, I came not hither from night and grieving but from the abode of light and noble pleasures." But his words have the very opposite effect of what he had hoped for. "Heaven help me!" exclaims _Elsa_. "What must I hear! Already you are beginning to look back with longing to the joys you have given up for me. Some day you will leave me to sorrow and regret. I have no magic spells wherewith to hold you. Ah!"--and now she cries out like one distracted and with eyes straining at distance--"See!--the swan!--I see him floating on the waters yonder! You summon him, embark!--Love--madness--whatever it may be--your name declare, your lineage and your home!" Hardly have these mad words been spoken by her when, as she stands before her husband of a few hours, she sees something that with a sudden shock brings her to her senses. Rushing to the divan where the pages laid the Knight's sword, she seizes it and thrusts it into his hand, and he, turning to discover what peril threatens, sees _Frederick_, followed by four Brabantian nobles, burst into the room. With one stroke he lays the leader lifeless, and the others, seeing him fall, go down on their knees in token of submission. At a sign from the Knight they arise and, lifting _Frederick's_ body, bear it away. Then the Knight summons _Elsa's_ ladies-in-waiting and bids them prepare her in her richest garments to meet him before the _King_. "There I will make fitting answer to her questions, tell her my name, my rank, and whence I come." Sadly he watches her being led away, while she, no longer the happy bride, but the picture of utter dejection, turns and raises her hands to him in supplication as though she would still implore him to undo the ruin her lack of faith in him has wrought. Some of the most beautiful as well as some of the most dramatic music of the score occurs in these scenes. The love duet is exquisite--one of the sweetest and tenderest passages of which the lyric stage can boast. A very beautiful musical episode is that in which the Knight, pointing through the open casement to the flowery close below, softly illumined by the moon, sings to an accompaniment of what might be called musical moonbeams, "Say, dost thou breathe the incense sweet of flowers?" But when, in spite of the tender warning which he conveys to her, she begins questioning him, he turns toward her and in a passionate musical phrase begs her to trust him and abide with him in loving faith. Her dread that the memory of the delightful place from which he has come will wean him from her; the wild vision in which she imagines she sees the swan approaching to bear him away from her, and when she puts to him the forbidden questions, are details expressed with wonderful vividness in the music. After the attack by _Frederick_ and his death, there is a dramatic silence during which _Elsa_ sinks on her husband's breast and faints. When I say silence I do not mean that there is a total cessation of sound, for silence can be more impressively expressed in music than by actual silence itself. It is done by Wagner in this case by long drawn-out chords followed by faint taps on the tympani. When the Knight bends down to _Elsa_, raises her, and gently places her on a couch, echoes of the love duet add to the mournfulness of the music. The scene closes with the Motive of Warning, which resounds with dread meaning. A quick change of scene should be made at this point in the performance of the opera, but as a rule the change takes so long that the third act is virtually given in two acts. It is on the banks of the Scheldt, the very spot where he had disembarked, that the Knight elects to make reply to _Elsa's_ questions. There the _King_, the nobles, and the Brabantians, whom he was to lead, are awaiting him to take command, and as their leader they hail him when he appears. This scene, "Promise of Victory," is in the form of a brilliant march and chorus, during which the Counts of Brabant, followed by their vassals, enter on horseback from various directions. In the average performance of the opera, however, much of it is sacrificed in order to shorten the representation. The Knight answers their hail by telling them that he has come to bid them farewell, that _Elsa_ has been lured to break her vow and ask the forbidden questions which he now is there to answer. From distant lands he came, from Montsalvat, where stands the temple of the Holy Grail, his father, Percival, its King, and he, _Lohengrin_, its Knight. And now, his name and lineage known, he must return, for the Grail gives strength to its knights to right wrong and protect the innocent only so long as the secret of their power remains unrevealed. Even while he speaks the swan is seen floating down the river. Sadly _Lohengrin_ bids _Elsa_ farewell. Sadly all, save one, look on. For _Ortrud_, who now pushes her way through the spectators, it is a moment of triumph. "Depart in all your glory," she calls out. "The swan that draws you away is none other than Elsa's brother Godfrey, changed by my magic into his present form. Had she kept her vow, had you been allowed to tarry, you would have freed him from my spell. The ancient gods, whom faithfully I serve, thus punish human faithlessness!" By the river bank _Lohengrin_ falls upon his knees and prays in silence. Suddenly a white dove descends over the boat. Rising, _Lohengrin_ loosens the golden chain by which the swan is attached to the boat; the swan vanishes; in its place _Godfrey_ stands upon the bank, and _Lohengrin_, entering the boat, is drawn away by the dove. At sight of the young Duke, _Ortrud_ falls with a shriek, while the Brabantian nobles kneel before him as he advances and makes obeisance to the _King_. _Elsa_ gazes on him in rapture until, mindful of her own sorrow, as the boat in which _Lohengrin_ stands vanishes around the upper bend of the river, she cries out, "My husband! My husband!" and falls back in death in her brother's arms. _Lohengrin's_ narrative of his origin is beautifully set to music familiar from the Prelude; but when he proclaims his name we hear the same measures which _Elsa_ sang in the second part of her dream in the first act. Very beautiful and tender is the music which he sings when he hands _Elsa_ his horn, his sword, and his ring to give to her brother, should he return, and also his greeting to the swan when it comes to bear him back. The work is brought to a close with a repetition of the music of the second portion of _Elsa's_ dream, followed by a superb climax with the Motive of the Grail. DER RING DES NIBELUNGEN THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG A stage-festival play for three days and a preliminary evening (Ein Bühnenfestspiel für drei Tage und einen Vorabend), words and music by Richard Wagner. The first performance of the entire cycle of four music-dramas took place at Bayreuth, August 13, 14, 16, and 17, 1876. "Das Rheingold" had been given September 22, 1869, and "Die Walküre," June 26, 1870, at Munich. January 30, 1888, at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, "Die Walküre" was given as the first performance of the "Ring" in America, with the omission, however, of "Das Rheingold," the cycle therefore being incomplete, consisting only of the three music-dramas--"Die Walküre," "Siegfried," and "Götterdämmerung"; in other words the trilogy without the Vorabend, or preliminary evening. Beginning Monday, March 4, 1889, with "Das Rheingold," the complete cycle, "Der Ring des Nibelungen," was given for the first time in America; "Die Walküre" following Tuesday, March 5; "Siegfried," Friday, March 8; "Götterdämmerung," Monday, March 11. The cycle was immediately repeated. Anton Seidl was the conductor. Among the principals were Lilli Lehmann, Max Alvary, and Emil Fischer. Seidl conducted the production of the "Ring" in London, under the direction of Angelo Neumann, at Her Majesty's Theatre, May 5-9, 1882. The "Ring" really is a tetralogy. Wagner, however, called it a trilogy, regarding "Das Rheingold" only as a Vorabend to the three longer music-dramas. In the repetitions of the "Ring" in this country many distinguished artists have appeared: Lehmann, Moran-Olden, Nordica, Ternina, Fremstad, Gadski, Kurt, as _Brünnhilde_; Lehmann, Nordica, Eames, Fremstad, as _Sieglinde_; Alvary and Jean de Reszke as _Siegfried_, both in "Siegfried" and "Götterdämmerung"; Niemann and Van Dyck, as _Siegmund_; Fischer and Van Rooy as _Wotan_; Schumann-Heink and Homer as _Waltraute_ and _Erda_. [Illustration: Copyright A. Dupont, N.Y. Louise Homer as Fricka in "The Ring of the Nibelung"] INTRODUCTION The "Ring of the Nibelung" consists of four music-dramas--"Das Rheingold" (The Rhinegold), "Die Walküre" (The Valkyr), "Siegfried," and "Götterdämmerung" (Dusk of the Gods). The "books" of these were written in inverse order. Wagner made a dramatic sketch of the Nibelung myth as early as the autumn of 1848, and between then and the autumn of 1850 he wrote the "Death of Siegfried." This subsequently became the "Dusk of the Gods." Meanwhile Wagner's ideas as to the proper treatment of the myth seem to have undergone a change. "Siegfried's Death" ended with Brünnhilde leading Siegfried to Valhalla,--dramatic, but without the deeper ethical significance of the later version, when Wagner evidently conceived the purpose of connecting the final catastrophe of his trilogy with the "Dusk of the Gods," or end of all things, in Northern mythology, and of embodying a profound truth in the action of the music-dramas. This metaphysical significance of the work is believed to be sufficiently explained in the brief synopsis of the plot of the trilogy and in the descriptive musical and dramatic analyses below. In the autumn of 1850 when Wagner was on the point of sketching out the music of "Siegfried's Death," he recognized that he must lead up to it with another drama, and "Young Siegfried," afterwards "Siegfried," was the result. This in turn he found incomplete, and finally decided to supplement it with the "Valkyr" and "Rhinegold." "Das Rheingold" was produced in Munich, at the Court Theatre, September 22, 1869; "Die Walküre," on the same stage, June 20, 1870. "Siegfried" and "Dusk of the Gods" were not performed until 1876, when they were produced at Bayreuth. Of the principal characters in the "Ring of the Nibelung," _Alberich_, the Nibelung, and _Wotan_, the chief of the gods, are symbolic of greed for wealth and power. This lust leads _Alberich_ to renounce love--the most sacred of emotions--in order that he may rob the _Rhinedaughters_ of the Rhinegold and forge from it the ring which is to make him all-powerful. _Wotan_ by strategy obtains the ring, but instead of returning it to the _Rhinedaughters_, he gives it to the giants, _Fafner_ and _Fasolt_, as ransom for _Freia_, the goddess of youth and beauty, whom he had promised to the giants as a reward for building Walhalla. _Alberich_ has cursed the ring and all into whose possession it may come. The giants no sooner obtain it than they fall to quarrelling over it. _Fafner_ slays _Fasolt_ and then retires to a cave in the heart of a forest where, in the form of a dragon, he guards the ring and the rest of the treasure which _Wotan_ wrested from _Alberich_ and also gave to the giants as ransom for _Freia_. This treasure includes the Tarnhelmet, a helmet made of Rhinegold, the wearer of which can assume any guise. _Wotan_ having witnessed the slaying of _Fasolt_, is filled with dread lest the curse of _Alberich_ be visited upon the gods. To defend _Walhalla_ against the assaults of _Alberich_ and the host of Nibelungs, he begets in union with _Erda_, the goddess of wisdom, the Valkyrs (chief among them _Brünnhilde_), wild maidens who course through the air on superb chargers and bear the bodies of departed heroes to Walhalla, where they revive and aid the gods in warding off the attacks of the Nibelungs. But it is also necessary that the curse-laden ring should be wrested from _Fafner_ and restored through purely unselfish motives to the _Rhinedaughters_, and the curse thus lifted from the race of the gods. None of the gods can do this because their motive in doing so would not be unselfish. Hence _Wotan_, for a time, casts off his divinity, and in human disguise as Wälse, begets in union with a human woman the Wälsung twins, _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_. _Siegmund_ he hopes will be the hero who will slay _Fafner_ and restore the ring to the _Rhinedaughters_. To nerve him for this task, _Wotan_ surrounds the Wälsungs with numerous hardships. _Sieglinde_ is forced to become the wife of her robber, _Hunding_. _Siegmund_, storm-driven, seeks shelter in _Hunding's_ hut, where he and his sister, recognizing one another, flee together. _Hunding_ overtakes them and _Wotan_, as _Siegmund_ has been guilty of a crime against the marriage vow, is obliged, at the request of his spouse _Fricka_, the Juno of Northern mythology, to give victory to _Hunding_. _Brünnhilde_, contrary to _Wotan's_ command, takes pity on _Siegmund_, and seeks to shield him against _Hunding_. For this, _Wotan_ causes her to fall into a profound slumber. The hero who will penetrate the barrier of fire with which _Wotan_ has surrounded the rock upon which she slumbers can claim her as his bride. After _Siegmund's_ death _Sieglinde_ gives birth to _Siegfried_, a son of their illicit union, who is reared by one of the Nibelungs, _Mime_, in the forest where _Fafner_ guards the Nibelung treasure. _Mime_ is seeking to weld the pieces of _Siegmund's_ sword (Nothung or Needful) in order that _Siegfried_ may slay _Fafner_, _Mime_ hoping then to kill the youth and to possess himself of the treasure. But he cannot weld the sword. At last _Siegfried_, learning that it was his father's weapon, welds the pieces and slays _Fafner_. His lips having come in contact with his bloody fingers, he is, through the magic power of the dragon's blood, enabled to understand the language of the birds, and a little feathery songster warns him of _Mime's_ treachery. _Siegfried_ slays the Nibelung and is then guided to the fiery barrier around the Valkyr rock. Penetrating this, he comes upon _Brünnhilde_, and enraptured with her beauty, awakens her and claims her as his bride. She, the virgin pride of the goddess, yielding to the love of the woman, gives herself up to him. He plights his troth with the curse-laden ring which he has wrested from _Fafner_. _Siegfried_ goes forth in quest of adventure. On the Rhine lives the Gibichung _Gunther_, his sister _Gutrune_ and their half-brother _Hagen_, none other than the son of the Nibelung _Alberich_. _Hagen_, knowing of _Siegfried's_ coming, plans his destruction in order to regain the ring for the Nibelungs. Therefore, craftily concealing _Brünnhilde's_ and _Siegfried's_ relations from _Gunther_, he incites a longing in the latter to possess _Brünnhilde_ as his bride. Carrying out a plot evolved by _Hagen_, _Gutrune_ on _Siegfried's_ arrival presents to him a drinking-horn filled with a love-potion. _Siegfried_ drinks, is led through the effect of the potion to forget that _Brünnhilde_ is his bride, and, becoming enamoured of _Gutrune_, asks her in marriage of _Gunther_. The latter consents, provided _Siegfried_ will disguise himself in the Tarnhelmet as _Gunther_ and lead _Brünnhilde_ to him as bride. _Siegfried_ readily agrees, and in the guise of _Gunther_ overcomes _Brünnhilde_ and delivers her to the Gibichung. But _Brünnhilde_, recognizing on _Siegfried_ the ring, which her conquerer had drawn from her finger, accuses him of treachery in delivering her, his own bride, to _Gunther_. The latter, unmasked and also suspicious of _Siegfried_, conspires with _Hagen_ and _Brünnhilde_, who, knowing naught of the love-potion, is roused to a frenzy of hate and jealousy by _Siegfried's_ seeming treachery, to compass the young hero's death. _Hagen_ slays _Siegfried_ during a hunt, and then in a quarrel with _Gunther_ over the ring also kills the Gibichung. Meanwhile _Brünnhilde_ has learned through the _Rhinedaughters_ of the treachery of which she and _Siegfried_ have been the victims. All her jealous hatred of _Siegfried_ yields to her old love for him and a passionate yearning to join him in death. She draws the ring from his finger and places it on her own, then hurls a torch upon the pyre. Mounting her steed, she plunges into the flames. One of the _Rhinedaughters_, swimming in on the rising waters, seizes the curse-laden ring. _Hagen_ rushes into the flooding Rhine hoping to regain it, but the other _Rhinedaughters_ grasp him and draw him down into the flood. Not only the flames of the pyre, but a glow which pervades the whole horizon illumine the scene. It is Walhalla being consumed by fire. Through love--the very emotion _Alberich_ renounced in order to gain wealth and power--_Brünnhilde_ has caused the old order of things to pass away and a human era to dawn in place of the old mythological one of the gods. The sum of all that has been written concerning the book of "The Ring of the Nibelung" is probably larger than the sum of all that has been written concerning the librettos used by all other composers. What can be said of the ordinary opera libretto beyond Voltaire's remark that "what is too stupid to be spoken is sung"? But "The Ring of the Nibelung" produced vehement discussion. It was attacked and defended, praised and ridiculed, extolled and condemned. And it survived all the discussion it called forth. It is the outstanding fact in Wagner's career that he always triumphed. He threw his lance into the midst of his enemies and fought his way up to it. No matter how much opposition his music-dramas excited, they gradually found their way into the repertoire. It was contended on many sides that a book like "The Ring of the Nibelung" could not be set to music. Certainly it could not be after the fashion of an ordinary opera. Perhaps people were so accustomed to the books of nonsense which figured as opera librettos that they thought "The Ring of the Nibelung" was so great a work that its action and climaxes were beyond the scope of musical expression. For such, Wagner has placed music on a higher level. He has shown that music makes a great drama greater. One of the most remarkable features of Wagner's works is the author's complete absorption of the times of which he wrote. He seems to have gone back to the very period in which the scenes of his music-dramas are laid and to have himself lived through the events in his plots. Hans Sachs could not have left a more faithful portrayal of life in the Nuremberg of his day than Wagner has given us in "Die Meistersinger." In "The Ring of the Nibelung" he has done more--he has absorbed an imaginary epoch; lived over the days of gods and demigods; infused life into mythological figures. "The Rhinegold," which is full of varied interest from its first note to its last, deals entirely with beings of mythology. They are presented true to life--if that expression may be used in connection with beings that never lived--that is to say, they are so vividly drawn that we forget such beings never lived, and take as much interest in their doings and saying as if they were lifelike reproductions of historical characters. Was there ever a love scene more thrilling than that between _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_? It represents the gradations of the love of two souls from its first awakening to its rapturous greeting in full self-consciousness. No one stops to think during that impassioned scene that the close relationship between _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_ would in these days have been a bar to their legal union. For all we know, in those moments when the impassioned music of that scene whirls us away in its resistless current, not a drop of related blood courses through their veins. It has been said that we could not be interested in mythological beings--that "The Ring of the Nibelung" lacked human interest. In reply, I say that wonderful as is the first act of "The Valkyr," there is nothing in it to compare in wild and lofty beauty with the last act of that music-drama--especially the scene between _Brünnhilde_ and _Wotan_. That there are faults of dramatic construction in "The Ring of the Nibelung" I admit. In what follows I have not hesitated to point them out. But there are faults of construction in Shakespeare. What would be the critical verdict if "Hamlet" were now to have its first performance in the exact form in which Shakespeare left it? With all its faults of dramatic construction "The Ring of the Nibelung" is a remarkable drama, full of life and action and logically developed, the events leading up to superb climaxes. Wagner was doubly inspired. He was both a great dramatist and a great musician. The chief faults of dramatic construction of which Wagner was guilty in "The Ring of the Nibelung" are certain unduly prolonged scenes which are merely episodical--that is, unnecessary to the development of the plot so that they delay the action and weary the audience to a point which endangers the success of the really sublime portions of the score. In several of these scenes, there is a great amount of narrative, the story of events with which we have become familiar being retold in detail although some incidents which connect the plot of the particular music-drama with that of the preceding one are also related. But, as narrative on the stage makes little impression, and, when it is sung perhaps none at all, because it cannot be well understood, it would seem as if prefaces to the dramas could have taken the place of these narratives. Certain it is that these long drawn-out scenes did more to retard the popular recognition of Wagner's genius than the activity of hostile critics and musicians. Still, it should be remembered that these music-dramas were composed for performance under the circumstances which prevail at Bayreuth, where the performances begin in the afternoon and there are long waits between the acts, during which you can refresh yourself by a stroll or by the more mundane pleasures of the table. Then, after an hour's relaxation of the mind and of the sense of hearing, you are ready to hear another act. Under these agreeable conditions one remains sufficiently fresh to enjoy the music even of the dramatically faulty scenes. One of the characters in "The Ring of the Nibelung," _Brünnhilde_, is Wagner's noblest creation. She takes upon herself the sins of the gods and by her expiation frees the world from the curse of lust for wealth and power. She is a perfect dramatic incarnation of the profound and beautiful metaphysical motive upon which the plot of "The Ring of the Nibelung" is based. There now follow descriptive accounts of the stories and music of the four component parts of this work by Wagner--perhaps his greatest. DAS RHEINGOLD THE RHINEGOLD Prologue in four scenes to the trilogy of music-dramas, "The Ring of the Nibelung," by Richard Wagner. "Des Rheingold" was produced, Munich, September 22, 1869. "The Ring of the Nibelung" was given complete for the first time in the Wagner Theatre, Bayreuth, in August, 1876. In the first American performance of "Das Rheingold," Metropolitan Opera House, New York, January 4, 1889, Fischer was _Wotan_, Alvary _Loge_, Moran-Oldern _Fricka_, and Katti Bettaque _Freia_. CHARACTERS WOTAN } _Baritone-Bass_ DONNER } Gods _Baritone-Bass_ FROH } _Tenor_ LOGE } _Tenor_ FASOLT } Giants _Baritone-Bass_ FAFNER } _Bass_ ALBERICH } Nibelungs _Baritone-Bass_ MIME } _Tenor_ FRICKA } _Soprano_ FREIA } Goddesses _Soprano_ ERDA } _Mezzo-Soprano_ WOGLINDE } _Soprano_ WELLGUNDE } Rhinedaughters _Soprano_ FLOSSHILDE } _Mezzo-Soprano_ _Time_--Legendary. _Place_--The bed of the Rhine; a mountainous district near the Rhine; the subterranean caverns of Nibelheim. In "The Rhinegold" we meet with supernatural beings of German mythology--the Rhinedaughters _Woglinde_, _Wellgunde_, and _Flosshilde_, whose duty it is to guard the precious Rhinegold; _Wotan_, the chief of the gods; his spouse _Fricka_; _Loge_, the God of Fire (the diplomat of Walhalla); _Freia_, the Goddess of Youth and Beauty; her brothers _Donner_ and _Froh_; _Erda_, the all-wise woman; the giants _Fafner_ and _Fasolt_; _Alberich_ and _Mime_ of the race of Nibelungs, cunning, treacherous gnomes who dwell in the bowels of the earth. The first scene of "Rhinegold" is laid in the Rhine, at the bottom of the river, where the _Rhinedaughters_ guard the Rhinegold. The work opens with a wonderfully descriptive Prelude, which depicts with marvellous art (marvellous because so simple) the transition from the quietude of the water-depths to the wavy life of the _Rhinedaughters_. The double basses intone E-flat. Only this note is heard during four bars. Then three contra bassoons add a B-flat. The chord, thus formed, sounds until the 136th bar. With the sixteenth bar there flows over this seemingly immovable triad, as the current of a river flows over its immovable bed, the =Motive of the Rhine=. [Music] A horn intones this motive. Then one horn after another takes it up until its wave-like tones are heard on the eight horns. On the flowing accompaniment of the 'cellos the motive is carried to the wood-wind. It rises higher and higher, the other strings successively joining in the accompaniment, which now flows on in gentle undulations until the motive is heard on the high notes of the wood-wind, while the violins have joined in the accompaniment. When the theme thus seems to have stirred the waters from their depth to their surface the curtain rises. The scene shows the bed and flowing waters of the Rhine, the light of day reaching the depths only as a greenish twilight. The current flows on over rugged rocks and through dark chasms. _Woglinde_ is circling gracefully around the central ridge of rock. To an accompaniment as wavy as the waters through which she swims, she sings: Weia! Waga! Woge, du Welle, Walle zur Wiege! Wagala weia! Wallala, Weiala weia! They are sung to the =Motive of the Rhinedaughters=. [Music: Weia Waga! Woge, du Welle, walle zur Wiege! Wagala weia! wallala, weiala weia!] In wavy sport the _Rhinedaughters_ dart from cliff to cliff. Meanwhile _Alberich_ has clambered from the depths up to one of the cliffs, and watches, while standing in its shadow, the gambols of the _Rhinedaughters_. As he speaks to them there is a momentary harshness in the music, whose flowing rhythm is broken. In futile endeavours to clamber up to them, he inveighs against the "slippery slime" which causes him to lose his foothold. _Woglinde_, _Wellgunde_, and _Flosshilde_ in turn gambol almost within his reach, only to dart away again. He curses his own weakness in the =Motive of the Nibelungs' Servitude=. [Music] Swimming high above him the _Rhinedaughters_ incite him with gleeful cries to chase them. _Alberich_ tries to ascend, but always slips and falls down. Then his gaze is attracted and held by a glow which suddenly pervades the waves above him and increases until from the highest point of the central cliff a bright, golden ray shoots through the water. Amid the shimmering accompaniment of the violins is heard on the horn the =Rhinegold Motive=. [Music] With shouts of triumph the _Rhinedaughters_ swim around the rock. Their cry "Rhinegold," is a characteristic motive. The =Rhinedaughters' Shout of Triumph= and the accompaniment to it are as follows: [Music: Rheingold!] As the river glitters with golden light the Rhinegold Motive rings out brilliantly on the trumpet. The Nibelung is fascinated by the sheen. The _Rhinedaughters_ gossip with one another, and _Alberich_ thus learns that the light is that of the Rhinegold, and that whoever shall shape a ring from this gold will become invested with great power. We hear =The Ring Motive=. [Music] _Flosshilde_ bids her sisters cease their prattle, lest some sinister foe should overhear them. _Wellgunde_ and _Woglinde_ ridicule their sister's anxiety, saying that no one would care to filch the gold, because it would give power only to him who abjures or renounces love. At this point is heard the darkly prophetic =Motive of the Renunciation of Love=. [Music] _Alberich_ reflects on the words of the _Rhinedaughters_. The Ring Motive occurs both in voice and orchestra in mysterious pianissimo (like an echo of _Alberich's_ sinister thoughts), and is followed by the Motive of Renunciation. Then is heard the sharp, decisive rhythm of the Nibelung Motive. _Alberich_ fiercely springs over to the central rock. The _Rhinedaughters_ scream and dart away in different directions. _Alberich_ has reached the summit of the highest cliff. "Hark, ye floods! Love I renounce forever!" he cries, and amid the crash of the Rhinegold Motive he seizes the gold and disappears in the depths. With screams of terror the _Rhinedaughters_ dive after the robber through the darkened water, guided by _Alberich's_ shrill, mocking laugh. There is a transformation. Waters and rocks sink. As they disappear, the billowy accompaniment sinks lower and lower in the orchestra. Above it rises once more the Motive of Renunciation. The Ring Motive is heard, and then, as the waves change into nebulous clouds, the billowy accompaniment rises pianissimo until, with a repetition of the Ring Motive, the action passes to the second scene. One crime has already been committed--the theft of the Rhinegold by _Alberich_. How that crime and the ring which he shapes from the gold inspire other crimes is told in the course of the following scenes of "Rhinegold." Hence the significance of the Ring Motive as a connecting link between the first and second scenes. Scene II. Dawn illumines a castle with glittering turrets on a rocky height at the back. Through a deep valley between this and the foreground flows the Rhine. The =Walhalla Motive= now heard is a motive of superb beauty. It greets us again and again in "Rhinegold" and frequently in the later music-dramas of the cycle. Walhalla is the abode of gods and heroes. Its motive is divinely, heroically beautiful. Though essentially broad and stately, it often assumes a tender mood, like the chivalric gentleness which every hero feels toward woman. Thus it is here. In crescendo and decrescendo it rises and falls, as rises and falls with each breath the bosom of the beautiful _Fricka_, who slumbers at _Wotan's_ side. [Music] As _Fricka_ awakens, her eyes fall on the castle. In her surprise she calls to her spouse. _Wotan_ dreams on, the Ring Motive, and later the Walhalla Motive, being heard in the orchestra, for with the ring _Wotan_ is planning to compensate the giants for building Walhalla, instead of rewarding them by presenting _Freia_ to them as he has promised. As he opens his eyes and sees the castle you hear the Spear Motive, which is a characteristic variation of the Motive of Compact. For _Wotan_ should enforce, if needful, the compacts of the gods with his spear. _Wotan_ sings of the glory of Walhalla. _Fricka_ reminds him of his compact with the giants to deliver over to them for their work in building Walhalla, _Freia_, the Goddess of Youth and Beauty. This introduces on the 'cellos and double basses the =Motive of Compact=, a theme expressive of the binding force of law and with the inherent dignity and power of the sense of justice. [Music] In a domestic spat between _Wotan_ and _Fricka_, _Wotan_ charges that she was as anxious as he to have Walhalla built. _Fricka_ answers that she desired to have it erected in order to persuade him to lead a more domestic life. At _Fricka's_ words, "Halls, bright and gleaming," the =Fricka Motive= is heard, a caressing motive of much grace and beauty. [Music] It is also prominent in _Wotan's_ reply immediately following. _Wotan_ tells _Fricka_ that he never intended to really give up _Freia_ to the giants. Chromatics, like little tongues of flame, appear in the accompaniment. They are suggestive of the Loge Motive, for with the aid of _Loge_ the God of Fire, _Wotan_ hopes to trick the giants and save _Freia_. "Then save her at once!" calls Fricka, as _Freia_ enters in hasty flight. The =Motive of Flight= is as follows: [Music] The following is the =Freia Motive=: [Music] With _Freia's_ exclamations that the giants are pursuing her, the first suggestion of the Giant Motive appears and as these "great, hulking fellows" enter, the heavy, clumsy =Giant Motive= is heard in its entirety: [Music] For the giants, _Fasolt_, and _Fafner_, have come to demand that _Wotan_ deliver up to them _Freia_, according to his promise when they agreed to build Walhalla for him. In the ensuing scene, in which _Wotan_ parleys with the _Giants_, the Giant Motive, the Walhalla Motive, the Motive of the Compact, and the first bar of the Freia Motive figure until _Fasolt's_ threatening words, "Peace wane when you break your compact," when there is heard a version of the Motive of Compact characteristic enough to be distinguished as the =Motive of Compact with the Giants=: [Music] The Walhalla, Giant, and Freia motives again are heard until _Fafner_ speaks of the golden apples which grow in _Freia's_ garden. These golden apples are the fruit of which the gods partake in order to enjoy eternal youth. The Motive of Eternal Youth, which now appears, is one of the loveliest in the cycle. It seems as though age could not wither it, nor custom stale its infinite variety. Its first bar is reminiscent of the Ring Motive, for there is subtle relationship between the Golden Apples of Freia and the Rhinegold. Here is the =Motive of Eternal Youth=: [Music] It is finely combined with the Giant Motive at _Fafner's_ words: "Let her forthwith be torn from them all." _Froh_ and _Donner_, _Freia's_ brothers, enter hastily to save their sister. _Froh_ clasps her in his arms, while _Donner_ confronts the giants, the Motive of Eternal Youth rings out triumphantly on the horns and wood-wind. But _Freia's_ hope is short-lived. For though _Wotan_ desires to keep _Freia_ in Walhalla, he dare not offend the giants. At this critical moment, however, he sees his cunning adviser, _Loge_, approaching. These are _Loge's_ characteristic motives: [Music] _Wotan_ upbraids _Loge_ for not having discovered something which the giants would be willing to accept as a substitute for _Freia_. _Loge_ says he has travelled the world over without finding aught that would compensate man for the renunciation of a lovely woman. This leads to _Loge's_ narrative of his wanderings. With great cunning he tells _Wotan_ of the theft of the Rhinegold and of the wondrous worth of a ring shaped from the gold. Thus he incites the listening giants to ask for it as a compensation for giving up _Freia_. Hence Wagner, as _Loge_ begins his narrative, has blended, with a marvellous sense of musical beauty and dramatic fitness, two phrases: the Freia Motive and the accompaniment to the _Rhinedaughters'_ Shout of Triumph in the first scene. This music continues until _Loge_ says that he discovered but one person (_Alberich_) who was willing to renounce love. Then the Rhinegold Motive is sounded tristly in a minor key and immediately afterward is heard the Motive of Renunciation. _Loge_ next tells how _Alberich_ stole the gold. He has already excited the curiosity of the giants, and when _Fafner_ asks him what power _Alberich_ will gain through the possession of the gold, he dwells upon the magical attributes of the ring shaped from Rhinegold. _Loge's_ diplomacy is beginning to bear results. _Fafner_ tells _Fasolt_ that he deems the possession of the gold more important than _Freia_. Notice here how the Freia motive, so prominent when the giants insisted on her as their compensation, is relegated to the bass and how the Rhinegold Motive breaks in upon the Motive of Eternal Youth, as _Fafner_ and _Fasolt_ again advance toward _Wotan_, and bid him wrest the gold from _Alberich_ and give it to them as ransom for _Freia_. _Wotan_ refuses, for he himself now lusts for the ring made of Rhinegold. The giants having proclaimed that they will give _Wotan_ until evening to determine upon his course, seize _Freia_ and drag her away. Pallor now settles upon the faces of the gods; they seem to have grown older. They are affected by the absence of _Freia_, the Goddess of Youth, whose motives are but palely reflected by the orchestra. At last _Wotan_ proclaims that he will go with _Loge_ to Nibelung and wrest the entire treasure of Rhinegold from _Alberich_ as ransom for _Freia_. _Loge_ disappears down a crevice in the side of the rock. From it a sulphurous vapour at once issues. When _Wotan_ has followed _Loge_ into the cleft the vapour fills the stage and conceals the remaining characters. The vapours thicken to a black cloud, continually rising upward until rocky chasms are seen. These have an upward motion, so that the stage appears to be sinking deeper and deeper. With a _molto vivace_ the orchestra dashes into the Motive of Flight. From various distant points ruddy gleams of light illumine the chasms, and when the Flight Motive has died away, only the increasing clangour of the smithies is heard from all directions. This is the typical =Nibelung Motive=, characteristic of Alberich's Nibelungs toiling at the anvil for him. Gradually the sounds grow fainter. [Music] Then as the Ring Motive resounds like a shout of malicious triumph (expressive of _Alberich's_ malignant joy at his possession of power), there is seen a subterranean cavern, apparently of illimitable depth, from which narrow shafts lead in all directions. Scene III. _Alberich_ enters from a side cleft dragging after him the shrieking _Mime_. The latter lets fall a helmet which _Alberich_ at once seizes. It is the Tarnhelmet, made of Rhinegold, the wearing of which enables the wearer to become invisible or assume any shape. As _Alberich_ closely examines the helmet the =Motive of the Tarnhelmet= is heard. [Music] It is mysterious, uncanny. To test its power _Alberich_ puts it on and changes into a column of vapour. He asks _Mime_ if he is visible, and when _Mime_ answers in the negative _Alberich_ cries out shrilly, "Then feel me instead," at the same time making poor _Mime_ writhe under the blows of a visible scourge. _Alberich_ then departs--still in the form of a vaporous column--to announce to the _Nibelungs_ that they are henceforth his slavish subjects. _Mime_ cowers down with fear and pain. _Wotan_ and _Loge_ enter from one of the upper shafts. _Mime_ tells them how _Alberich_ has become all-powerful through the ring and the Tarnhelmet made of the Rhinegold. Then _Alberich_, who has taken off the Tarnhelmet and hung it from his girdle, is seen in the distance, driving a crowd of _Nibelungs_ before him from the caves below. They are laden with gold and silver, which he forces them to pile up in one place and so form a hoard. He suddenly perceives _Wotan_ and _Loge_. After abusing _Mime_ for permitting strangers to enter Nibelheim, he commands the _Nibelungs_ to descend again into the cavern in search of new treasure for him. They hesitate. You hear the Ring Motive. _Alberich_ draws the ring from his finger, stretches it threateningly toward the _Nibelungs_, and commands them to obey their master. They disperse in headlong flight, with _Mime_, into the cavernous recesses. _Alberich_ looks with mistrust upon _Wotan_ and _Loge_. _Wotan_ tells him they have heard report of his wealth and power and have come to ascertain if it is true. The Nibelung points to the hoard. He boasts that the whole world will come under his sway (Ring Motive), that the gods who now laugh and love in the enjoyment of youth and beauty will become subject to him (Freia Motive); for he has abjured love (Motive of Renunciation). Hence, even the gods in Walhalla shall dread him (Walhalla Motive) and he bids them beware of the time when the night-begotten host of the Nibelungs shall rise from Nibelheim into the realm of daylight. (Rhinegold Motive followed by Walhalla Motive, for it is through the power gained by the Rhinegold that _Alberich_ hopes to possess himself of Walhalla.) _Loge_ cunningly flatters _Alberich_, and when the latter tells him of the Tarnhelmet, feigns disbelief of _Alberich's_ statements. _Alberich_, to prove their truth, puts on the helmet and transforms himself into a huge serpent. The Serpent Motive expresses the windings and writhings of the monster. The serpent vanishes and _Alberich_ reappears. When _Loge_ doubts if _Alberich_ can transform himself into something very small, the Nibelung changes into a toad. Now is _Loge's_ chance. He calls _Wotan_ to set his foot on the toad. As _Wotan_ does so, _Loge_ puts his hand to its head and seizes the Tarnhelmet. _Alberich_ is seen writhing under _Wotan's_ foot. _Loge_ binds _Alberich_; both seize him, drag him to the shaft from which they descended and disappear ascending. The scene changes in the reverse direction to that in which it changed when _Wotan_ and _Loge_ were descending to Nibelheim. The orchestra accompanies the change of scene. The Ring Motive dies away from crashing fortissimo to piano, to be succeeded by the dark Motive of Renunciation. Then is heard the clangour of the Nibelung smithies. The Giant, Walhalla, Loge, and Servitude Motives follow the last with crushing force as _Wotan_ and _Loge_ emerge from the cleft, dragging the pinioned _Alberich_ with them. His lease of power was brief. He is again in a condition of servitude. Scene IV. A pale mist still veils the prospect as at the end of the second scene. _Loge_ and _Wotan_ place _Alberich_ on the ground and _Loge_ dances around the pinioned Nibelung, mockingly snapping his fingers at the prisoner. _Wotan_ joins _Loge_ in his mockery of _Alberich_. The Nibelung asks what he must give for his freedom. "Your hoard and your glittering gold," is _Wotan's_ answer. _Alberich_ assents to the ransom and _Loge_ frees the gnome's right hand. _Alberich_ raises the ring to his lips and murmurs a secret behest. The _Nibelungs_ emerge from the cleft and heap up the hoard. Then, as _Alberich_ stretches out the ring toward them, they rush in terror toward the cleft, into which they disappear. _Alberich_ now asks for his freedom, but _Loge_ throws the Tarnhelmet on to the heap. _Wotan_ demands that _Alberich_ also give up the ring. At these words dismay and terror are depicted on the Nibelung's face. He had hoped to save the ring, but in vain. _Wotan_ tears it from the gnome's finger. Then _Alberich_, impelled by hate and rage, curses the ring. The =Motive of the Curse=: [Music] To it should be added the syncopated measures expressive of the ever-threatening and ever-active =Nibelung's Hate=: [Music] Amid heavy thuds of the Motive of Servitude _Alberich_ vanishes in the cleft. The mist begins to rise. It grows lighter. The Giant Motive and the Motive of Eternal Youth are heard, for the giants are approaching with _Freia_. _Donner_, _Froh_, and _Fricka_ hasten to greet _Wotan_. _Fasolt_ and _Fafner_ enter with _Freia_. It has grown clear except that the mist still hides the distant castle. _Freia's_ presence seems to have restored youth to the gods. _Fasolt_ asks for the ransom for _Freia_. _Wotan_ points to the hoard. With staves the giants measure off a space of the height and width of _Freia_. That space must be filled out with treasure. _Loge_ and _Froh_ pile up the hoard, but the giants are not satisfied even when the Tarnhelmet has been added. They wish also the ring to fill out a crevice. _Wotan_ turns in anger away from them. A bluish light glimmers in the rocky cleft to the right, and through it _Erda_ rises. She warns _Wotan_ against retaining possession of the ring. The Erda Motive bears a strong resemblance to the Rhine Motive. The syncopated notes of the Nibelung's Malevolence, so threateningly indicative of the harm which _Alberich_ is plotting, are also heard in _Erda's_ warning. _Wotan_, heeding her words, throws the ring upon the hoard. The giants release _Freia_, who rushes joyfully towards the gods. Here the Freia Motive combined with the Flight Motive, now no longer agitated but joyful, rings out gleefully. Soon, however, these motives are interrupted by the Giant and Nibelung motives, and later the Nibelung's Hate and Ring Motive. For _Alberich's_ curse already is beginning its dread work. The giants dispute over the spoils, their dispute waxes to strife, and at last _Fafner_ slays _Fasolt_ and snatches the ring from the dying giant, while, as the gods gaze horror-stricken upon the scene, the Curse Motive resounds with crushing force. _Loge_ congratulates _Wotan_ on having given up the curse-laden ring. But even _Fricka's_ caresses, as she asks _Wotan_ to lead her into Walhalla, cannot divert the god's mind from dark thoughts, and the Curse Motive accompanies his gloomy reflections--for the ring has passed through his hands. It was he who wrested it from _Alberich_--and its curse rests on all who have touched it. _Donner_ ascends to the top of a lofty rock. He gathers the mists around him until he is enveloped by a black cloud. He swings his hammer. There is a flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and lo! the cloud vanishes. A rainbow bridge spans the valley to Walhalla, which is illumined by the setting sun. _Wotan_ eloquently greets Walhalla, and then, taking _Fricka_ by the hand, leads the procession of the gods into the castle. The music of this scene is of wondrous eloquence and beauty. Six harps are added to the ordinary orchestral instruments, and as the variegated bridge is seen their arpeggios shimmer like the colours of the rainbow around the broad, majestic =Rainbow Motive=: [Music] Then the stately Walhalla Motive resounds as the gods gaze, lost in admiration, at the Walhalla. It gives way to the Ring Motive as _Wotan_ speaks of the day's ills; and then as he is inspired by the idea of begetting a race of demigods to conquer the Nibelungs, there is heard for the first time the =Sword Motive=: [Music] The cries of the _Rhinedaughters_ greet _Wotan_. They beg him to restore the ring to them. But _Wotan_ must remain deaf to their entreaties. He gave the ring, which he should have restored to the _Rhinedaughters_, to the giants, as ransom for _Freia_. The Walhalla Motive swells to a majestic climax and the gods enter the castle. Amid shimmering arpeggios the Rainbow Motive resounds. The gods have attained the height of their glory--but the Nibelung's curse is still potent, and it will bring woe upon all who have possessed or will possess the ring until it is restored to the _Rhinedaughters_. _Fasolt_ was only the first victim of _Alberich's_ curse. DIE WALKÜRE THE VALKYR Music-drama in three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner. Produced, Munich, June 25, 1870. New York, Academy of Music, April 2, 1877, an incomplete and inadequate performance with Pappenheim as _Brünnhilde_, Pauline Canissa _Sieglinde_, A. Bischoff _Siegmund_, Felix Preusser _Wotan_, A. Blum _Hunding_, Mme. Listner _Fricka_, Frida de Gebel, _Gerhilde_, Adolf Neuendorff, conductor. The real first performance in America was conducted by Dr. Leopold Damrosch at the Metropolitan Opera House, January 30, 1885, with Materna, the original Bayreuth _Brünnhilde_ in that rôle, Schott as _Siegmund_, Seidl-Kraus as _Sieglinde_, Marianne Brandt as _Fricka_, Staudigl as _Wotan_, and Kögel as _Hunding_. CHARACTERS SIEGMUND _Tenor_ HUNDING _Bass_ WOTAN _Baritone-Bass_ SIEGLINDE _Soprano_ BRÜNNHILDE _Soprano_ FRICKA _Mezzo-Soprano_ Valkyrs (Sopranos and Mezzo-Sopranos): Gerhilde, Ortlinde, Waltraute, Schwertleite, Helmwige, Siegrune, Grimgerde, Rossweisse. _Time_--Legendary. _Place_--Interior of Hunding's hut; a rocky height; the peak of a rocky mountain (the Brünnhilde-rock). _Wotan's_ enjoyment of Walhalla was destined to be short-lived. Filled with dismay by the death of _Fasolt_ in the combat of the giants for the accursed ring, and impelled by a dread presentiment that the force of the curse would be visited upon the gods, he descended from Walhalla to the abode of the all-wise woman, _Erda_, who bore him nine daughters. These were the Valkyrs, headed by _Brünnhilde_--the wild horsewomen of the air, who on winged steeds bore the dead heroes to Walhalla, the warriors' heaven. With the aid of the Valkyrs and the heroes they gathered to Walhalla, _Wotan_ hoped to repel any assault upon his castle by the enemies of the gods. But though the host of heroes grew to a goodly number, the terror of _Alberich's_ curse still haunted the chief of gods. He might have freed himself from it had he returned the ring and helmet made of Rhinegold to the _Rhinedaughters_, from whom _Alberich_ filched it; but in his desire to persuade the giants to relinquish _Freia_, whom he had promised to them as a reward for building Walhalla, he, having wrested the ring from _Alberich_, gave it to the giants instead of returning it to the _Rhinedaughters_. He saw the giants contending for the possession of the ring and saw _Fasolt_ slain--the first victim of _Alberich's_ curse. He knows that the giant _Fafner_, having assumed the shape of a huge serpent, now guards the Nibelung treasure, which includes the ring and the Tarnhelmet, in a cave in the heart of a dense forest. How shall the Rhinegold be restored to the _Rhinedaughters_? _Wotan_ hopes that this may be consummated by a human hero who, free from the lust for power which obtains among the gods, shall, with a sword of _Wotan's_ own forging, slay _Fafner_, gain possession of the Rhinegold and restore it to its rightful owners, thus righting _Wotan's_ guilty act and freeing the gods from the curse. To accomplish this _Wotan_, in human guise as _Wälse_, begets, in wedlock with a human, the twins _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_. How the curse of _Alberich_ is visited upon these is related in "The Valkyr." The dramatis personæ in "The Valkyr" are _Brünnhilde_, the valkyr, and her eight sister valkyrs; _Fricka_, _Sieglinde_, _Siegmund_, _Hunding_ (the husband of _Sieglinde_), and _Wotan_. The action begins after the forced marriage of _Sieglinde_ to _Hunding_. The Wälsungs are in ignorance of the divinity of their father. They know him only as _Wälse_. Act I. In the introduction to "The Rhinegold," we saw the Rhine flowing peacefully toward the sea and the innocent gambols of the _Rhinedaughters_. But "The Valkyr" opens in storm and stress. The peace and happiness of the first scene of the cycle seem to have vanished from the earth with _Alberich's_ abjuration of love, his theft of the gold, and _Wotan's_ equally treacherous acts. This "Valkyr" Vorspiel is a masterly representation in tone of a storm gathering for its last infuriated onslaught. The elements are unleashed. The wind sweeps through the forest. Lightning flashes in jagged streaks across the black heavens. There is a crash of thunder and the storm has spent its force. Two leading motives are employed in this introduction. They are the =Storm Motive= and the =Donner Motive=. The =Storm Motive= is as follows: [Music] These themes are elemental. From them Wagner has composed storm music of convincing power. In the early portion of this vorspiel only the string instruments are used. Gradually the instrumentation grows more powerful. With the climax we have a tremendous _ff_ on the contra tuba and two tympani, followed by the crash of the Donner Motive on the wind instruments. The storm then gradually dies away. Before it has quite passed over, the curtain rises, revealing the large hall of _Hunding's_ dwelling. This hall is built around a huge ash-tree, whose trunk and branches pierce the roof, over which the foliage is supposed to spread. There are walls of rough-hewn boards, here and there hung with large plaited and woven hangings. In the right foreground is a large open hearth; back of it in a recess is the larder, separated from the hall by a woven hanging, half drawn. In the background is a large door. A few steps in the left foreground lead up to the door of an inner room. The furniture of the hall is primitive and rude. It consists chiefly of a table, bench, and stools in front of the ash-tree. Only the light of the fire on the hearth illumines the room; though occasionally its fitful gleam is slightly intensified by a distant flash of lightning from the departing storm. The door in the background is opened from without. _Siegmund_, supporting himself with his hand on the bolt, stands in the entrance. He seems exhausted. His appearance is that of a fugitive who has reached the limit of his powers of endurance. Seeing no one in the hall, he staggers toward the hearth and sinks upon a bearskin rug before it, with the exclamation: Whose hearth this may be, Here I must rest me. [Illustration: Lilli Lehmann as Brünnhilde in "Die Walküre"] [Illustration: Photo by Hall "The Valkyr." Act I Hunding (Parker), Sieglinde (Rennyson), and Siegmund (Maclennan)] Wagner's treatment of this scene is masterly. As _Siegmund_ stands in the entrance we hear the =Siegmund Motive=. This is a sad, weary strain on 'cellos and basses. It seems the wearier for the burden of an accompanying figure on the horns, beneath which it seems to stagger as _Siegmund_ staggers toward the hearth. Thus the music not only reflects _Siegmund's_ weary mien, but accompanies most graphically his weary gait. Perhaps Wagner's intention was more metaphysical. Maybe the burden beneath which the Siegmund Motive staggers is the curse of _Alberich_. It is through that curse that _Siegmund's_ life has been one of storm and stress. [Music] When the storm-beaten Wälsung has sunk upon the rug the Siegmund Motive is followed by the Storm Motive, _pp_--and the storm has died away. The door of the room to the left opens and a young woman--_Sieglinde_--appears. She has heard someone enter, and, thinking her husband returned, has come forth to meet him--not impelled to this by love, but by fear. For _Hunding_ had, while her father and kinsmen were away on the hunt, laid waste their dwelling and abducted her and forcibly married her. Ill-fated herself, she is moved to compassion at sight of the storm-driven fugitive before the hearth, and bends over him. Her compassionate action is accompanied by a new motive, which by Wagner's commentators has been entitled the Motive of Compassion. But it seems to me to have a further meaning as expressing the sympathy between two souls, a tie so subtle that it is at first invisible even to those whom it unites. _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_, it will be remembered, belong to the same race; and though they are at this point of the action unknown to one another, yet, as _Sieglinde_ bends over the hunted, storm-beaten _Siegmund_, that subtle sympathy causes her to regard him with more solicitude than would be awakened by any other unfortunate stranger. Hence I have called this motive the =Motive of Sympathy=--taking sympathy in its double meaning of compassion and affinity of feeling: [Music] The beauty of this brief phrase is enhanced by its unpretentiousness. It wells up from the orchestra as spontaneously as pity mingled with sympathetic sorrow wells up from the heart of a gentle woman. As it is _Siegmund_ who has awakened these feelings in _Sieglinde_, the Motive of Sympathy is heard simultaneously with the Siegmund Motive. _Siegmund_, suddenly raising his head, ejaculates, "Water, water!" _Sieglinde_ hastily snatches up a drinking-horn and, having quickly filled it at a spring near the house, swiftly returns and hands it to _Siegmund_. As though new hope were engendered in _Siegmund's_ breast by _Sieglinde's_ gentle ministration, the Siegmund Motive rises higher and higher, gathering passion in its upward sweep and then, combined again with the Motive of Sympathy, sinks to an expression of heartfelt gratitude. This passage is scored entirely for strings. Yet no composer, except Wagner, has evoked from a full orchestra sounds richer or more sensuously beautiful. Having quaffed from the proffered cup the stranger lifts a searching gaze to her features, as if they awakened within him memories the significance of which he himself cannot fathom. She, too, is strangely affected by his gaze. How has fate interwoven their lives that these two people, a man and a woman, looking upon each other apparently for the first time, are so thrilled by a mysterious sense of affinity? Here occurs the =Love Motive= played throughout as a violoncello solo, with accompaniment of eight violoncellos and two double basses; exquisite in tone colour and one of the most tenderly expressive phrases ever penned. [Music] The Love Motive is the mainspring of this act. For this act tells the story of love from its inception to its consummation. Similarly in the course of this act the Love Motive rises by degrees of intensity from an expression of the first tender presentiment of affection to the very ecstasy of love. _Siegmund_ asks with whom he has found shelter. _Sieglinde_ replies that the house is _Hunding's_, and she his wife, and requests _Siegmund_ to await her husband's return. Weaponless am I: The wounded guest, He will surely give shelter, is _Siegmund's_ reply. With anxious celerity, _Sieglinde_ asks him to show her his wounds. But, refreshed by the draught of cool spring water and with hope revived by her sympathetic presence, he gathers force and, raising himself to a sitting posture, exclaims that his wounds are but slight; his frame is still firm, and had sword and shield held half so well, he would not have fled from his foes. His strength was spent in flight through the storm, but the night that sank on his vision has yielded again to the sunshine of _Sieglinde's_ presence. At these words the Motive of Sympathy rises like a sweet hope. _Sieglinde_ fills the drinking-horn with mead and offers it to _Siegmund_. He asks her to take the first sip. She does so and then hands it to him. His eyes rest upon her while he drinks. As he returns the drinking-horn to her there are traces of deep emotion in his mien. He sighs and gloomily bows his head. The action at this point is most expressively accompanied by the orchestra. Specially noteworthy is an impassioned upward sweep of the Motive of Sympathy as _Siegmund_ regards _Sieglinde_ with traces of deep emotion in his mien. In a voice that trembles with emotion, he says: "You have harboured one whom misfortune follows wherever he wends his footsteps. Lest through me misfortune enter this house, I will depart." With firm, determined strides he already has reached the door, when she, forgetting all in the vague memories that his presence have stirred within her, calls after him: "Tarry! You cannot bring sorrow to the house where sorrow already reigns!" Her words are followed by a phrase freighted as if with sorrow, the Motive of the Wälsung Race, or =Wälsung Motive=: [Music] _Siegmund_ returns to the hearth, while she, as if shamed by her outburst of feeling, allows her eyes to sink toward the ground. Leaning against the hearth, he rests his calm, steady gaze upon her, until she again raises her eyes to his, and they regard each other in long silence and with deep emotion. The woman is the first to start. She hears _Hunding_ leading his horse to the stall, and soon afterward he stands upon the threshold looking darkly upon his wife and the stranger. _Hunding_ is a man of great strength and stature, his eyes heavy-browed, his sinister features framed in thick black hair and beard, a sombre, threatful personality boding little good to whomever crosses his path. With the approach of _Hunding_ there is a sudden change in the character of the music. Like a premonition of _Hunding's_ entrance we hear the =Hunding Motive=, _pp_. Then as _Hunding_, armed with spear and shield, stands upon the threshold, this Hunding Motive--as dark, forbidding, and portentous of woe to the two Wälsungs as _Hunding's_ sombre visage--resounds with dread power on the tubas: [Music] Although weaponless, and _Hunding_ armed with spear and shield, the fugitive meets his scrutiny without flinching, while the woman, anticipating her husband's inquiry, explains that she had discovered him lying exhausted at the hearth and given him shelter. With an assumed graciousness that makes him, if anything, more forbidding, _Hunding_ orders her prepare the meal. While she does so he glances repeatedly from her to the stranger whom she has harboured, as if comparing their features and finding in them something to arouse his suspicions. "How like unto her," he mutters. "Your name and story?" he asks, after they have seated themselves at the table in front of the ash-tree, and when the stranger hesitates, _Hunding_ points to the woman's eager, inquiring look. "Guest," she urges, little knowing the suspicions her husband harbours, "gladly would I know whence you come." Slowly, as if oppressed by heavy memories, he begins his story, carefully, however, continuing to conceal his name, since for all he knows, _Hunding_ may be one of the enemies of his race. Amid incredible hardships, surrounded by enemies against whom he and his kin constantly were obliged to defend themselves, he grew up in the forest. He and his father returned from one of their hunts to find the hut in ashes, his mother a corpse, and no trace of his twin sister. In one of the combats with their foes he became separated from his father. At this point you hear the Walhalla Motive, for _Siegmund's_ father was none other than _Wotan_, known to his human descendants, however, only as Wälse. In _Wotan's_ narrative in the next act it will be discovered that _Wotan_ purposely created these misfortunes for _Siegmund_, in order to strengthen him for his task. Continuing his narrative _Siegmund_ says that, since losing track of his father, he has wandered from place to place, ever with misfortune in his wake. That very day he has defended a maid whom her brothers wished to force into marriage. But when, in the combat that ensued, he had slain her brothers, she turned upon him and denounced him as a murderer, while the kinsmen of the slain, summoned to vengeance, attacked him from all quarters. He fought until shield and sword were shattered, then fled to find chance shelter in _Hunding's_ dwelling. [Illustration: Photo by White Fremstad as Brünnhilde in "Die Walküre"] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Fremstad as Sieglinde in "Die Walküre"] The story of _Siegmund_ is told in melodious recitative. It is not a melody in the old-fashioned meaning of the term, but it fairly teems with melodiousness. It will have been observed that incidents very different in kind are related by _Siegmund_. It would be impossible to treat this narrative with sufficient variety of expression in a melody. But in Wagner's melodious recitative the musical phrases reflect every incident narrated by _Siegmund_. For instance, when _Siegmund_ tells how he went hunting with his father there is joyous freshness and abandon in the music, which, however, suddenly sinks to sadness as he narrates how they returned and found the Wälsung dwelling devastated by enemies. We hear also the Hunding Motive at this point, which thus indicates that whose who brought this misfortune upon the Wälsungs were none other than _Hunding_ and his kinsmen. As _Siegmund_ tells how, when he was separated from his father, he sought to mingle with men and women, you hear the Love Motive, while his description of his latest combat is accompanied by the rhythm of the Hunding Motive. Those whom _Siegmund_ slew were _Hunding's_ kinsmen. Thus _Siegmund's_ dark fate has driven him to seek shelter in the house of the very man who is the arch-enemy of his race and is bound by the laws of kinship to avenge on _Siegmund_ the death of kinsmen. As _Siegmund_ concludes his narrative the Wälsung Motive is heard. Gazing with ardent longing toward _Sieglinde_, he says: Now know'st thou, questioning wife, Why "Peaceful" is not my name. These words are sung to a lovely phrase. Then, as _Siegmund_ rises and strides over to the hearth, while _Sieglinde_, pale and deeply affected by his tale, bows her head, there is heard on the horns, bassoons, violas, and 'cellos a motive expressive of the heroic fortitude of the Wälsungs in struggling against their fate. It is the =Motive of the Wälsungs' Heroism=, a motive steeped in the tragedy of futile struggle against destiny. [Music] The sombre visage at the head of the table has grown even darker and more threatening. _Hunding_ arises. "I know a ruthless race to whom nothing is sacred, and hated of all," he says. "Mine were the kinsmen you slew. I, too, was summoned from my home to take blood vengeance upon the slayer. Returning, I find him here. You have been offered shelter for the night, and for the night you are safe. But tomorrow be prepared to defend yourself." Alone, unarmed, and in the house of his enemy! And yet the same roof harbours a friend--the woman. What strange affinity has brought them together under the eye of the pitiless savage with whom she has been forced into marriage? The embers on the hearth collapse. The glow that for a moment pervades the room seems to his excited senses a reflection from the eyes of the woman to whom he has been so unaccountably yet so strongly drawn. Even the spot on the old ash-tree, where he saw her glance linger before she left the room, seems to have caught its sheen. Then the embers die out. All grows dark. The scene is eloquently set to music. _Siegmund's_ gloomy thoughts are accompanied by the threatening rhythm of the Hunding Motive and the Sword Motive in a minor key, for _Siegmund_ is still weaponless. A sword my father did promise.... Wälse! Wälse! Where is thy sword! The Sword Motive rings out like a shout of triumph. As the embers of the fire collapse, there is seen in the glare, that for a moment falls upon the ash-tree, the hilt of a sword whose blade is buried in the trunk of the tree at the point upon which _Sieglinde's_ look last rested. While the Motive of the Sword gently rises and falls, like the coming and going of a lovely memory, _Siegmund_ apostrophizes the sheen as the reflection of _Sieglinde's_ glance. And although the embers die out, and night falls upon the scene, in _Siegmund's_ thoughts the memory of that pitying, loving look glimmers on. Is it his excited fancy that makes him hear the door of the inner chamber softly open and light footsteps coming in his direction? No; for he becomes conscious of a form, her form, dimly limned upon the darkness. He springs to his feet. _Sieglinde_ is by his side. She has given _Hunding_ a sleeping-potion. She will point out a weapon to _Siegmund_--a sword. If he can wield it she will call him the greatest hero, for only the mightiest can wield it. The music quickens with the subdued excitement in the breasts of the two Wälsungs. You hear the Sword Motive and above it, on horns, clarinet, and oboe, a new motive--that of the =Wälsungs' Call to Victory=: [Music] for _Sieglinde_ hopes that with the sword the stranger, who has awakened so quickly love in her breast, will overcome _Hunding_. This motive has a resistless, onward sweep. _Sieglinde_, amid the strains of the stately Walhalla Motive, followed by the Sword Motive, narrates the story of the sword. While _Hunding_ and his kinsmen were feasting in honour of her forced marriage with him, an aged stranger entered the hall. The men knew him not and shrank from his fiery glance. But upon her his look rested with tender compassion. With a mighty thrust he buried a sword up to its hilt in the trunk of the ash-tree. Whoever drew it from its sheath to him it should belong. The stranger went his way. One after another the strong men tugged at the hilt--but in vain. Then she knew who the aged stranger was and for whom the sword was destined. The Sword Motive rings out like a joyous shout, and _Sieglinde's_ voice mingles with the triumphant notes of the Wälsungs' Call to Victory as she turns to _Siegmund_: O, found I in thee The friend in need! The Motive of the Wälsungs' heroism, now no longer full of tragic import, but forceful and defiant--and _Siegmund_ holds _Sieglinde_ in his embrace. There is a rush of wind. The woven hangings flap and fall. As the lovers turn, a glorious sight greets their eyes. The landscape is illumined by the moon. Its silver sheen flows down the hills and quivers along the meadows whose grasses tremble in the breeze. All nature seems to be throbbing in unison with the hearts of the lovers, and, turning to the woman, _Siegmund_ greets her with the =Love Song=: [Music] The Love Motive, impassioned, irresistible, sweeps through the harmonies--and Love and Spring are united. The Love Motive also pulsates through _Sieglinde's_ ecstatic reply after she has given herself fully up to _Siegmund_ in the Flight Motive--for before his coming her woes have fled as winter flies before the coming of spring. With _Siegmund's_ exclamation: Oh, wondrous vision! Rapturous woman! there rises from the orchestra like a vision of loveliness the Motive of Freia, the Venus of German mythology. In its embrace it folds this pulsating theme: [Music] It throbs on like a love-kiss until it seemingly yields to the blandishments of this caressing phrase: [Music] This throbbing, pulsating, caressing music is succeeded by a moment of repose. The woman again gazes searchingly into the man's features. She has seen his face before. When? Now she remembers. It is when she has seen her own reflection in a brook! And his voice? It seems to her like an echo of her own. And his glance; has it never before rested on her? She is sure it has, and she will tell him when. She repeats how, while _Hunding_ and his kinsmen were feasting at her marriage, an aged man entered the hall and, drawing a sword, thrust it to the hilt in the ash-tree. The first to draw it out, to him it should belong. One after another the men strove to loosen the sword, but in vain. Once the aged man's glance rested on her and shone with the same light as now shines in his who has come to her through night and storm. He who thrust the sword into the tree was of her own race, the Wälsungs. Who is he? "I, too, have seen that light, but in your eyes!" exclaimed the fugitive. "I, too, am of your race. I, too, am a Wälsung, my father none other than Wälse himself." "Was Wälse your father?" she cries ecstatically. "For you, then, this sword was thrust in the tree! Let me name you, as I recall you from far back in my childhood, _Siegmund_--_Siegmund_--_Siegmund_!" "Yes, I am _Siegmund_; and you, too, I now know well. You are _Sieglinde_. Fate has willed that we two of our unhappy race, shall meet again and save each other or perish together." Then, leaping upon the table, he grasps the sword-hilt which protrudes from the trunk of the ash-tree where he has seen that strange glow in the light of the dying embers. A mighty tug, and he draws it from the tree as a blade from its scabbard. Brandishing it in triumph, he leaps to the floor and, clasping _Sieglinde_, rushes forth with her into the night. And the music? It fairly seethes with excitement. As _Siegmund_ leaps upon the table, the Motive of the Wälsungs' Heroism rings out as if in defiance of the enemies of the race. The Sword Motive--and he has grasped the hilt; the Motive of Compact, ominous of the fatality which hangs over the Wälsungs; the Motive of Renunciation, with its threatening import; then the Sword Motive--brilliant like the glitter of refulgent steel--and _Siegmund_ has unsheathed the sword. The Wälsungs' Call to Victory, like a song of triumph; a superb upward sweep of the Sword Motive; the Love Motive, now rushing onward in the very ecstasy of passion, and _Siegmund_ holds in his embrace _Sieglinde_, his bride--of the same doomed race as himself! Act II. In the _Vorspiel_ the orchestra, with an upward rush of the Sword Motive, resolved into 9-8 time, the orchestra dashes into the Motive of Flight. The Sword Motive in this 9-8 rhythm closely resembles the Motive of the Valkyr's Ride, and the Flight Motive in the version in which it appears is much like the Valkyr's Shout. The Ride and the Shout are heard in the course of the _Vorspiel_, the former with tremendous force on trumpets and trombones as the curtain rises on a wild, rocky mountain pass, at the back of which, through a natural rock-formed arch, a gorge slopes downward. In the foreground stands _Wotan_, armed with spear, shield, and helmet. Before him is _Brünnhilde_ in the superb costume of the Valkyr. The stormy spirit of the _Vorspiel_ pervades the music of _Wotan's_ command to _Brünnhilde_ that she bridle her steed for battle and spur it to the fray to do combat for _Siegmund_ against _Hunding_. _Brünnhilde_ greets _Wotan's_ command with the weirdly joyous =Shout of the Valkyrs= [Music: Hojotoho! Heiaha-ha.] [Illustration: Photo by White Weil as Wotan in "Die Walküre"] [Illustration: Photo by Hall "Die Walküre." Act III Brünnhilde (Margaret Crawford)] It is the cry of the wild horsewomen of the air, coursing through storm-clouds, their shields flashing back the lightning, their voices mingling with the shrieks of the tempest. Weirder, wilder joy has never found expression in music. One seems to see the steeds of the air and streaks of lightning playing around their riders, and to hear the whistling of the wind. The accompanying figure is based on the Motive of the =Ride of the Valkyrs=: [Music] _Brünnhilde_, having leapt from rock to rock to the highest peak of the mountain, again faces _Wotan_, and with delightful banter calls to him that _Fricka_ is approaching in her ram-drawn chariot. _Fricka_ has appeared, descended from her chariot, and advances toward _Wotan_, _Brünnhilde_ having meanwhile disappeared behind the mountain height. _Fricka_ is the protector of the marriage vow, and as such she has come in anger to demand from _Wotan_ vengeance in behalf of _Hunding_. As she advances hastily toward _Wotan_, her angry, passionate demeanour is reflected by the orchestra, and this effective musical expression of _Fricka's_ ire is often heard in the course of the scene. When near _Wotan_ she moderates her pace, and her angry demeanour gives way to sullen dignity. _Wotan_, though knowing well what has brought _Fricka_ upon the scene, feigns ignorance of the cause of her agitation and asks what it is that harasses her. Her reply is preceded by the stern Hunding motive. She tells _Wotan_ that she, as the protectress of the sanctity of the marriage vow, has heard _Hunding's_ voice calling for vengeance upon the Wälsung twins. Her words, "His voice for vengeance is raised," are set to a phrase strongly suggestive of _Alberich's_ curse. It seems as though the avenging Nibelung were pursuing _Wotan's_ children and thus striking a blow at _Wotan_ himself through _Fricka_. The Love Motive breathes through _Wotan's_ protest that _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_ only yielded to the music of the spring night. _Wotan_ argues that _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_ are true lovers, and _Fricka_ should smile instead of venting her wrath on them. The motive of the Love Song, the Love Motive, and the caressing phrase heard in the love scene are beautifully blended with _Wotan's_ words. In strong contrast to these motives is the music in _Fricka's_ outburst of wrath, introduced by the phrase reflecting her ire, which is repeated several times in the course of this episode. _Wotan_ explains to her why he begat the Wälsung race and the hopes he has founded upon it. But _Fricka_ mistrusts him. What can mortals accomplish that the gods, who are far mightier than mortals, cannot accomplish? _Hunding_ must be avenged on _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_. _Wotan_ must withdraw his protection from _Siegmund_. Now appears a phrase which expresses _Wotan's_ impotent wrath--impotent because _Fricka_ brings forward the unanswerable argument that if the Wälsungs go unpunished by her, as guardian of the marriage vow, she, the Queen of the Gods, will be held up to the scorn of mankind. _Wotan_ would fain save the Wälsungs. But _Fricka's_ argument is conclusive. He cannot protect _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_, because their escape from punishment would bring degradation upon the queen-goddess and the whole race of the gods, and result in their immediate fall. _Wotan's_ wrath rises at the thought of sacrificing his beloved children to the vengeance of _Hunding_, but he is impotent. His far-reaching plans are brought to nought. He sees the hope of having the Ring restored to the _Rhinedaughters_ by the voluntary act of a hero of the Wälsung race vanish. The curse of _Alberich_ hangs over him like a dark, threatening cloud. The =Motive of Wotan's Wrath= is as follows: [Music] _Brünnhilde's_ joyous shouts are heard from the height. _Wotan_ exclaims that he had summoned the Valkyr to do battle for _Siegmund_. In broad, stately measures, _Fricka_ proclaims that her honour shall be guarded by _Brünnhilde's_ shield and demands of _Wotan_ an oath that in the coming combat the Wälsung shall fall. _Wotan_ takes the oath and throws himself dejectedly down upon a rocky seat. _Fricka_ strides toward the back. She pauses a moment with a gesture of queenly command before _Brünnhilde_, who has led her horse down the height and into a cave to the right, then departs. In this scene we have witnessed the spectacle of a mighty god vainly struggling to avert ruin from his race. That it is due to irresistible fate and not merely to _Fricka_ that _Wotan's_ plans succumb, is made clear by the darkly ominous notes of Alberich's Curse, which resound as _Wotan_, wrapt in gloomy brooding, leans back against the rocky seat, and also when, in a paroxysm of despair, he gives vent to his feelings, a passage which, for overpowering intensity of expression, stands out even from among Wagner's writings. The final words of this outburst of grief: The saddest I among all men, are set to this variant of the Motive of Renunciation; the meaning of this phrase having been expanded from the renunciation of love by _Alberich_ to cover the renunciation of happiness which is forced upon _Wotan_ by avenging fate: [Music] _Brünnhilde_ casts away shield, spear, and helmet, and sinking down at _Wotan's_ feet looks up to him with affectionate anxiety. Here we see in the Valkyr the touch of tenderness, without which a truly heroic character is never complete. Musically it is beautifully expressed by the Love Motive, which, when _Wotan_, as if awakening from a reverie, fondly strokes her hair, goes over into the Siegmund Motive. It is over the fate of his beloved Wälsungs _Wotan_ has been brooding. Immediately following _Brünnhilde's_ words, What an I were I not thy will, is a wonderfully soft yet rich melody on four horns. It is one of those beautiful details in which Wagner's works abound. In _Wotan's_ narrative, which now follows, the chief of the gods tells _Brünnhilde_ of the events which have brought this sorrow upon him, of his failure to restore the stolen gold to the _Rhinedaughters_; of his dread of _Alberich's_ curse; how she and her sister Valkyrs were born to him by _Erda_; of the necessity that a hero should without aid of the gods gain the Ring and Tarnhelmet from _Fafner_ and restore the Rhinegold to the _Rhinedaughters_; how he begot the Wälsungs and inured them to hardships in the hope that one of the race would free the gods from _Alberich's_ curse. The motives heard in _Wotan's_ narrative will be recognized, except one, which is new. This is expressive of the stress to which the gods are subjected through _Wotan's_ crime. It is first heard when _Wotan_ tells of the hero who alone can regain the ring. It is the =Motive of the Gods' Stress=. [Music] Excited by remorse and despair _Wotan_ bids farewell to the glory of the gods. Then he in terrible mockery blesses the Nibelung's heir--for _Alberich_ has wedded and to him has been born a son, upon whom the Nibelung depends to continue his death struggle with the gods. Terrified by this outburst of wrath, _Brünnhilde_ asks what her duty shall be in the approaching combat. _Wotan_ commands her to do _Fricka's_ bidding and withdraw protection from _Siegmund_. In vain _Brünnhilde_ pleads for the Wälsung whom she knows _Wotan_ loves, and wished a victor until _Fricka_ exacted a promise from him to avenge _Hunding_. But her pleading is in vain. _Wotan_ is no longer the all-powerful chief of the gods--through his breach of faith he has become the slave of fate. Hence we hear, as _Wotan_ rushes away, driven by chagrin, rage, and despair, chords heavy with the crushing force of fate. Slowly and sadly _Brünnhilde_ bends down for her weapons, her actions being accompanied by the Valkyr Motive. Bereft of its stormy impetuosity it is as trist as her thoughts. Lost in sad reflections, which find beautiful expression in the orchestra, she turns toward the background. Suddenly the sadly expressive phrases are interrupted by the Motive of Flight. Looking down into the valley the Valkyr perceives _Siegmund_ and _Sieglinde_ approaching in hasty flight. She then disappears in the cave. With a superb crescendo the Motive of Flight reaches its climax and the two Wälsungs are seen approaching through the natural arch. For hours they have toiled forward; often _Sieglinde's_ limbs have threatened to fail her, yet never have the fugitives been able to shake off the dread sound of _Hunding_ winding his horn as he called upon his kinsmen to redouble their efforts to overtake the two Wälsungs. Even now, as they come up the gorge and pass under a rocky arch to the height of the divide, the pursuit can be heard. They are human quarry of the hunt. Terror has begun to unsettle _Sieglinde's_ reason. When _Siegmund_ bids her rest she stares wildly before her, then gazes with growing rapture into his eyes and throws her arms around his neck, only to shriek suddenly: "Away, away!" as she hears the distant horn-calls, then to grow rigid and stare vacantly before her as _Siegmund_ announces to her that here he proposes to end their flight, here await _Hunding_, and test the temper of _Wälse's_ sword. Then she tries to thrust him away. Let him leave her to her fate and save himself. But a moment later, although she still clings to him, she apparently is gazing into vacancy and crying out that he has deserted her. At last, utterly overcome by the strain of flight with the avenger on the trail, she faints, her hold on _Siegmund_ relaxes, and she would have fallen had he not caught her form in his arms. Slowly he lets himself down on a rocky seat, drawing her with him, so that when he is seated her head rests on his lap. Tenderly he looks down upon the companion of his flight, and, while, like a mournful memory, the orchestra intones the Love Motive, he presses a kiss upon her brow--she of his own race, like him doomed to misfortune, dedicated to death, should the sword which he has unsheathed from _Hunding's_ ash-tree prove traitor. As he looks up from _Sieglinde_ he is startled. For there stands on the rock above them a shining apparition in flowing robes, breastplate, and helmet, and leaning upon a spear. It is _Brünnhilde_, the Valkyr, daughter of _Wotan_. =The Motive of Fate=--so full of solemn import--is heard. [Music] While her earnest look rests upon him, there is heard the =Motive of the Death-Song=, a tristly prophetic strain. [Music] _Brünnhilde_ advances and then, pausing again, leans with one hand on her charger's neck, and, grasping shield and spear with the other, gazes upon _Siegmund_. Then there rises from the orchestra, in strains of rich, soft, alluring beauty, an inversion of the Walhalla Motive. The Fate, Death-Song and Walhalla motives recur, and _Siegmund_, raising his eyes and meeting _Brünnhilde's_ look, questions her and receives her answers. The episode is so fraught with solemnity that the shadow of death seems to have fallen upon the scene. The solemn beauty of the music impresses itself the more upon the listener, because of the agitated, agonized scene which preceded it. To the Wälsung, who meets her gaze so calmly, _Brünnhilde_ speaks in solemn tones: "Siegmund, look on me. I am she whom soon you must prepare to follow." Then she paints for him in glowing colours the joys of Walhalla, where _Wälse_, his father, is awaiting him and where he will have heroes for his companions, himself the hero of many valiant deeds. _Siegmund_ listens unmoved. In reply he frames but one question: "When I enter Walhalla, will _Sieglinde_ be there to greet me?" When _Brünnhilde_ answers that in Walhalla he will be attended by valkyrs and wishmaidens, but that _Sieglinde_ will not be there to meet him, he scorns the delights she has held out. Let her greet _Wotan_ from him, and _Wälse_, his father, too, as well as the wishmaidens. He will remain with _Sieglinde_. Then the radiant Valkyr, moved by _Siegmund's_ calm determination to sacrifice even a place among the heroes of Walhalla for the woman he loves, makes known to him the fate to which he has been doomed. _Wotan_ desired to give him victory over _Hunding_, and she had been summoned by the chief of the gods and commanded to hover above the combatants, and by shielding _Siegmund_ from _Hunding's_ thrusts, render the Wälsung's victory certain. But _Wotan's_ spouse, _Fricka_, who, as the first among the goddesses, is guardian of the marriage vows, has heard _Hunding's_ voice calling for vengeance, and has demanded that vengeance be his. Let _Siegmund_ therefore prepare for Walhalla, but let him leave _Sieglinde_ in her care. She will protect her. "No other living being but I shall touch her," exclaims the Wälsung, as he draws his sword. "If the Wälsung sword is to be shattered on Hunding's spear, to which I am to fall a victim, it first shall bury itself in her breast and save her from a worse fate!" He poises the sword ready for the thrust above the unconscious _Sieglinde_. "Hold!" cries _Brünnhilde_, thrilled by his heroic love. "Whatever the consequences which Wotan, in his wrath, shall visit upon me, today, for the first time I disobey him. Sieglinde shall live, and with her Siegmund! Yours the victory over Hunding. Now Wälsung, prepare for battle!" _Hunding's_ horn-calls sound nearer and nearer. _Siegmund_ judges that he has ascended the other side of the gorge, intending to cross the rocky arch. Already _Brünnhilde_ has gone to take her place where she knows the combatants must meet. With a last look and a last kiss for _Sieglinde_, _Siegmund_ gently lays her down and begins to ascend toward the peak. Mist gathers; storm-clouds roll over the mountain; soon he is lost to sight. Slowly _Sieglinde_ regains her senses. She looks for _Siegmund_. Instead of seeing him bending over her she hears _Hunding's_ voice as if from among the clouds, calling him to combat; then _Siegmund's_ accepting the challenge. She staggers toward the peak. Suddenly a bright light pierces the clouds. Above her she sees the men fighting, _Brünnhilde_ protecting _Siegmund_ who is aiming a deadly stroke at _Hunding_. At that moment, however, the light is diffused with a reddish glow. In it _Wotan_ appears. As _Siegmund's_ sword cuts the air on its errand of death, the god interposes his spear, the sword breaks in two and _Hunding_ thrusts his spear into the defenceless Wälsung's breast. The second victim of _Alberich's_ curse has met his fate. With a wild shriek, _Sieglinde_ falls to the ground, to be caught up by _Brünnhilde_ and swung upon the Valkyr's charger, which, urged on by its mistress, now herself a fugitive from _Wotan's_ anger, dashes down the defile in headlong flight for the Valkyr rock. Act III. The third act opens with the famous "Ride of the Valkyrs," a number so familiar that detailed reference to it is scarcely necessary. The wild maidens of Walhalla coursing upon winged steeds through storm-clouds, their weapons flashing in the gleam of lightning, their weird laughter mingling with the crash of thunder, have come to hold tryst upon the Valkyr rock. When eight of the Valkyrs have gathered upon the rocky summit of the mountain, they espy _Brünnhilde_ approaching. It is with savage shouts of "Hojotoho! Heiha!" those who already have reached their savage eyrie, watch for the coming of their wild sisters. Fitful flashes of lightning herald their approach as they storm fearlessly through the wind and cloud, their weird shouts mingling with the clash of thunder. "Hojotoho! Heihe!--Hojotoho! Heiha!" But, strange burden! Instead of a slain hero across her pommel, _Brünnhilde_ bears a woman, and instead of urging her horse to the highest crag, she alights below. The Valkyrs hasten down the rock, and there the wild sisters of the air stand, curiously awaiting the approach of _Brünnhilde_. In frantic haste the Valkyr tells her sisters what has transpired, and how _Wotan_ is pursuing her to punish her for her disobedience. One of the Valkyrs ascends the rock and, looking in the direction from which _Brünnhilde_ has come, calls out that even now she can descry the red glow behind the storm-clouds that denotes _Wotan's_ approach. Quickly _Brünnhilde_ bids _Sieglinde_ seek refuge in the forest beyond the Valkyr rock. The latter, who has been lost in gloomy brooding, starts at her rescuer's supplication and in strains replete with mournful beauty begs that she may be left to her fate and follow _Siegmund_ in death. The glorious prophecy in which _Brünnhilde_ now foretells to _Sieglinde_ that she is to become the mother of _Siegfried_, is based upon the =Siegfried Motive=: [Music] _Sieglinde_, in joyous frenzy, blesses _Brünnhilde_ and hastens to find safety in a dense forest to the eastward, the same forest in which _Fafner_, in the form of a serpent, guards the Rhinegold treasures. _Wotan_, in hot pursuit of _Brünnhilde_, reaches the mountain summit. In vain her sisters entreat him to spare her. He harshly threatens them unless they cease their entreaties, and with wild cries of fear they hastily depart. In the ensuing scene between _Wotan_ and _Brünnhilde_, in which the latter seeks to justify her action, is heard one of the most beautiful themes of the cycle. It is the =Motive of Brünnhilde's Pleading=, which finds its loveliest expression when she addresses _Wotan_ in the passage beginning: [Music: Thou, who this love within my breast inspired.] _Brünnhilde_ is _Wotan's_ favourite daughter, but instead of the loving pride with which he always has been wont to regard her, his features are dark with anger at her disobedience of his command. He had decreed _Siegmund's_ death. She has striven to give victory to the Wälsung. Throwing herself at her father's feet, she pleads that he himself had intended to save _Siegmund_ and had been turned from his purpose only by _Fricka's_ interference, and that he had yielded only most grudgingly to _Fricka's_ insistent behest. Therefore, when she, his daughter, profoundly moved by _Siegmund's_ love for _Sieglinde_, and her sympathies aroused by the sad plight of the fugitives, disregarded his command, she nevertheless acted in accordance with his real inclinations. But _Wotan_ is obdurate. She has revelled in the very feelings which he was obliged, at _Fricka's_ behest, to forego--admiration for _Siegmund's_ heroism and sympathy for him in his misfortune. Therefore she must be punished. He will cause her to fall into a deep sleep upon the Valkyr rock, which shall become the Brünnhilde-rock, and to the first man who finds her and awakens her, she, no longer a Valkyr, but a mere woman, shall fall prey. This great scene between _Wotan_ and _Brünnhilde_ is introduced by an orchestral passage. The Valkyr lies in penitence at her father's feet. In the expressive orchestral measures the Motive of Wotan's Wrath mingles with that of Brünnhilde's Pleading. The motives thus form a prelude to the scene in which the Valkyr seeks to appease her father's anger, not through a specious plea, but by laying bare the promptings of a noble heart, which forced her, against the chief god's command, to intervene for _Siegmund_. The Motive of Brünnhilde's Pleading is heard in its simplest form at _Brünnhilde's_ words: Was it so shameful what I have done, and it may be noticed that as she proceeds the Motive of Wotan's Wrath, heard in the accompaniment, grows less stern, until with her plea, Soften thy wrath, it assumes a tone of regretful sorrow. _Wotan's_ feelings toward _Brünnhilde_ have softened for the time from anger to grief that he must mete out punishment for her disobedience. In his reply excitement subsides to gloom. It would be difficult to point to other music more touchingly expressive of deep contrition than the phrase in which _Brünnhilde_ pleads that _Wotan_ himself taught her to love _Siegmund_. It is here that the Motive of Brünnhilde's Pleading assumes the form in the notation given above. Then we hear from _Wotan_ that he had abandoned _Siegmund_ to his fate, because he had lost hope in the cause of the gods and wished to end his woe in the wreck of the world. The weird terror of the Curse Motive hangs over this outburst of despair. In broad and beautiful strains _Wotan_ then depicts _Brünnhilde_ yielding to her emotions when she intervened for _Siegmund_. _Brünnhilde_ makes her last appeal. She tells her father that _Sieglinde_ has found refuge in the forest, and that there she will give birth to a son, _Siegfried_,--the hero for whom the gods have been waiting to overthrow their enemies. If she must suffer for her disobedience, let _Wotan_ surround her sleeping form with a fiery circle which only such a hero will dare penetrate. The Motive of Brünnhilde's Pleading and the Siegfried Motive vie with each other in giving expression to the beauty, tenderness, and majesty of this scene. Gently the god raises her and tenderly kisses her brow; and thus bids farewell to the best beloved of his daughters. Slowly she sinks upon the rock. He closes her helmet and covers her with her shield. Then, with his spear, he invokes the god of fire. Tongues of flame leap from the crevices of the rock. Wildly fluttering fire breaks out on all sides. The forest beyond glows like a furnace, with brighter streaks shooting and throbbing through the mass, as _Wotan_, with a last look at the sleeping form of _Brünnhilde_, vanishes beyond the fiery circle. A majestic orchestral passage opens _Wotan's_ farewell to _Brünnhilde_. In all music for bass voice this scene has no peer. Such tender, mournful beauty has never found expression in music--and this, whether we regard the vocal part or the orchestral accompaniment in which the lovely =Slumber Motive=: [Music] As _Wotan_ leads _Brünnhilde_ to the rock, upon which she sinks, closes her helmet, and covers her with her shield, then invokes _Loge_, and, after gazing fondly upon the slumbering Valkyr, vanishes amid the magic flames, the Slumber Motive, the Magic Fire Motive, and the Siegfried Motive combine to place the music of the scene with the most brilliant and beautiful portion of our heritage from the great master-musician. But here, too, lurks Destiny. Towards the close of this glorious finale we hear again the ominous muttering of the Motive of Fate. _Brünnhilde_ may be saved from ignominy, _Siegfried_ may be born to _Sieglinde_--but the crushing weight of _Alberich's_ curse still rests upon the race of the gods. SIEGFRIED Music-drama in three acts, by Richard Wagner. Produced, Bayreuth, August 16, 1876. London, by the Carl Rosa Company, 1898, in English. New York, Metropolitan Opera House, November 9, 1887, with Lehmann (_Brünnhilde_), Fischer (_Wotan_), Alvary (_Siegfried_), and Seidl-Kraus (_Forest bird_). CHARACTERS SIEGFRIED _Tenor_ MIME _Tenor_ WOTAN (disguised as the WANDERER) _Baritone-Bass_ ALBERICH _Baritone-Bass_ FAFNER _Bass_ ERDA _Contralto_ FOREST BIRD _Soprano_ BRÜNNHILDE _Soprano_ _Time_--Legendary. _Place_--A rocky cave in the forest; deep in the forest; wild region at foot of a rocky mount; the Brünnhilde-rock. The Nibelungs were not present in the dramatic action of "The Valkyr," though the sinister influence of _Alberich_ shaped the tragedy of _Siegmund's_ death. In "Siegfried" several characters of "The Rhinegold," who do not take part in "The Valkyr," reappear. These are the Nibelungs _Alberich_ and _Mime_; the giant _Fafner_, who in the guise of a serpent guards the Ring, the Tarnhelmet, and the Nibelung hoard in a cavern, and _Erda_. _Siegfried_ has been born of _Sieglinde_, who died in giving birth to him. This scion of the Wälsung race has been reared by _Mime_, who found him in the forest by his dead mother's side. _Mime_ is plotting to obtain possession of the ring and of _Fafner's_ other treasures, and hopes to be aided in his designs by the lusty youth. _Wotan_, disguised as a wanderer, is watching the course of events, again hopeful that a hero of the Wälsung race will free the gods from _Alberich's_ curse. Surrounded by magic fire, _Brünnhilde_ still lies in deep slumber on the Brünnhilde Rock. The _Vorspiel_ of "Siegfried" is expressive of _Mime's_ planning and plotting. It begins with music of a mysterious brooding character. Mingling with this is the Motive of the Hoard, familiar from "The Rhinegold." Then is heard the Nibelung Motive. After reaching a forceful climax it passes over to the Motive of the Ring, which rises from pianissimo to a crashing climax. The ring is to be the prize of all _Mime's_ plotting. He hopes to weld the pieces of _Siegmund's_ sword together, and that with this sword _Siegfried_ will slay _Fafner_. Then _Mime_ will slay _Siegfried_ and possess himself of the ring. Thus it is to serve his own ends only, that _Mime_ is craftily rearing _Siegfried_. The opening scene shows _Mime_ forging a sword at a natural forge formed in a rocky cave. In a soliloquy he discloses the purpose of his labours and laments that _Siegfried_ shivers every sword which has been forged for him. Could he (_Mime_) but unite the pieces of _Siegmund's_ sword! At this thought the Sword Motive rings out brilliantly, and is jubilantly repeated, accompanied by a variant of the Walhalla Motive. For if the pieces of the sword were welded together, and _Siegfried_ were with it to slay _Fafner_, _Mime_ could surreptitiously obtain possession of the ring, slay _Siegfried_, rule over the gods in Walhalla, and circumvent _Alberich's_ plans for regaining the hoard. _Mime_ is still at work when _Siegfried_ enters, clad in a wild forest garb. Over it a silver horn is slung by a chain. The sturdy youth has captured a bear. He leads it by a bast rope, with which he gives it full play so that it can make a dash at _Mime_. As the latter flees terrified behind the forge, _Siegfried_ gives vent to his high spirits in shouts of laughter. Musically his buoyant nature is expressed by a theme inspired by the fresh, joyful spirit of a wild, woodland life. It may be called, to distinguish it from the Siegfried Motive, the =Motive of Siegfried the Fearless=. [Music] It pervades with its joyous impetuosity the ensuing scene, in which _Siegfried_ has his sport with _Mime_, until tiring of it, he loosens the rope from the bear's neck and drives the animal back into the forest. In a pretty, graceful phrase _Siegfried_ tells how he blew his horn, hoping it would be answered by a pleasanter companion than _Mime_. Then he examines the sword which _Mime_ has been forging. The Siegfried Motive resounds as he inveighs against the weapon's weakness, then shivers it on the anvil. The orchestra, with a rush, takes up the =Motive of Siegfried the Impetuous=. [Music] This is a theme full of youthful snap and dash. _Mime_ tells _Siegfried_ how he tenderly reared him from infancy. The music here is as simple and pretty as a folk-song, for _Mime's_ reminiscences of _Siegfried's_ infancy are set to a charming melody, as though _Mime_ were recalling to _Siegfried's_ memory a cradle song of those days. But _Siegfried_ grows impatient. If _Mime_ really tended him so kindly out of pure affection, why should _Mime_ be so repulsive to him; and yet why should he, in spite of _Mime's_ repulsiveness, always return to the cave? The dwarf explains that he is to _Siegfried_ what the father is to the fledgling. This leads to a beautiful lyric episode. _Siegfried_ says that he saw the birds mating, the deer pairing, the she-wolf nursing her cubs. Whom shall he call Mother? Who is _Mime's_ wife? This episode is pervaded by the lovely =Motive of Love-Life=. [Music] _Mime_ endeavours to persuade _Siegfried_ that he is his father and mother in one. But _Siegfried_ has noticed that the young of birds and deer and wolves look like the parents. He has seen his features reflected in the brook, and knows he does not resemble the hideous _Mime_. The notes of the Love-Life Motive pervade this episode. When _Siegfried_ speaks of seeing his own likeness, we also hear the Siegfried Motive. _Mime_, forced by _Siegfried_ to speak the truth, tells of _Sieglinde's_ death while giving birth to _Siegfried_. Throughout this scene we find reminiscences of the first act of "The Valkyr," the Wälsung Motive, the Motive of Sympathy, and the Love Motive. Finally, when _Mime_ produces as evidence of the truth of his words the two pieces of _Siegmund's_ sword, the Sword Motive rings out brilliantly. _Siegfried_ exclaims that _Mime_ must weld the pieces into a trusty weapon. Then follows _Siegfried's_ "Wander Song," so full of joyous abandon. Once the sword welded, he will leave the hated _Mime_ for ever. As the fish darts through the water, as the bird flies so free, he will flee from the repulsive dwarf. With joyous exclamations he runs from the cave into the forest. * * * * * The frank, boisterous nature of _Siegfried_ is charmingly portrayed. His buoyant vivacity finds capital expression in the Motives of Siegfried the Fearless, Siegfried the Impetuous, and his "Wander Song," while the vein of tenderness in his character seems to run through the Love-Life Motive. His harsh treatment of _Mime_ is not brutal; for _Siegfried_ frankly avows his loathing for the dwarf, and we feel, knowing _Mime's_ plotting against the young Wälsung, that _Siegfried's_ hatred is the spontaneous aversion of a frank nature for an insidious one. _Mime_ has a gloomy soliloquy. It is interrupted by the entrance of _Wotan_, disguised as a wanderer. At the moment _Mime_ is in despair because he cannot weld the pieces of _Siegmund's_ sword. When the _Wanderer_ departs, he has prophesied that only he who does not know what fear is--only a fearless hero--can weld the fragments, and that through this fearless hero _Mime_ shall lose his life. This prophecy is reached through a somewhat curious process which must be unintelligible to anyone who has not made a study of the libretto. The _Wanderer_, seating himself, wagers his head that he can correctly answer any three questions which _Mime_ may put to him. _Mime_ then asks: "What is the race born in the earth's deep bowels?" The _Wanderer_ answers: "The Nibelungs." _Mime's_ second question is: "What race dwells on the earth's back?" The _Wanderer_ replies: "The race of giants." _Mime_ finally asks: "What race dwells on cloudy heights?" The _Wanderer_ answers: "The race of the gods." The _Wanderer_, having thus answered correctly _Mime's_ three questions, now put three questions to _Mime_: "What is that noble race which _Wotan_ ruthlessly dealt with, and yet which he deemeth most dear?" _Mime_ answers correctly: "The Wälsungs." Then the _Wanderer_ asks: "What sword must _Siegfried_ then strike with, dealing to _Fafner_ death?" _Mime_ answers correctly: "With _Siegmund's_ sword." "Who," asks the _Wanderer_, "can weld its fragments?" _Mime_ is terrified, for he cannot answer. Then _Wotan_ utters the prophecy of the fearless hero. The scene is musically most eloquent. It is introduced by two motives, representing _Wotan_ as the Wanderer. The mysterious chords of the former seem characteristic of _Wotan's_ disguise. The latter, with its plodding, heavily-tramping movement, is the motive of _Wotan's_ wandering. The third new motive found in this scene is characteristically expressive of the _Cringing Mime_. Several motives familiar from "The Rhinegold" and "The Valkyr" are heard here. The Motive of Compact so powerfully expressive of the binding force of law, the Nibelung and Walhalla motives from "The Rhinegold," and the Wälsungs' Heroism motives from the first act of "The Valkyr," are among these. When the _Wanderer_ has vanished in the forest _Mime_ sinks back on his stool in despair. Staring after _Wotan_ into the sunlit forest, the shimmering rays flitting over the soft green mosses with every movement of the branches and each tremor of the leaves seem to him like flickering flames and treacherous will-o'-the-wisps. We hear the Loge Motive (_Loge_ being the god of fire) familiar from "The Rhinegold" and the finale of "The Valkyr." At last _Mime_ rises to his feet in terror. He seems to see _Fafner_ in his serpent's guise approaching to devour him, and in a paroxysm of fear he falls with a shriek behind the anvil. Just then _Siegfried_ bursts out of the thicket, and with the fresh, buoyant "Wander Song" and the Motive of Siegfried the Fearless, the weird mystery which hung over the former scene is dispelled. _Siegfried_ looks about him for _Mime_ until he sees the dwarf lying behind the anvil. Laughingly the young Wälsung asks the dwarf if he has thus been welding the sword. "The sword? The sword?" repeats _Mime_ confusedly, as he advances, and his mind wanders back to _Wotan's_ prophecy of the fearless hero. Regaining his senses he tells _Siegfried_ there is one thing he has yet to learn, namely, to be afraid; that his mother charged him (_Mime_) to teach fear to him (_Siegfried_). _Mime_ asks _Siegfried_ if he has never felt his heart beating when in the gloaming he heard strange sounds and saw weirdly glimmering lights in the forest. _Siegfried_ replies that he never has. He knows not what fear is. If it is necessary before he goes forth in quest of adventure to learn what fear is he would like to be taught. But how can _Mime_ teach him? The Magic Fire Motive and Brünnhilde's Slumber Motive familiar from Wotan's Farewell, and the Magic Fire scene in the third act of "The Valkyr" are heard here, the former depicting the weirdly glimmering lights with which _Mime_ has sought to infuse dread into _Siegfried's_ breast, the latter prophesying that, penetrating fearlessly the fiery circle, _Siegfried_ will reach _Brünnhilde_. Then _Mime_ tells _Siegfried_ of _Fafner_, thinking thus to strike terror into the young Wälsung's breast. But far from it! _Siegfried_ is incited by _Mime's_ words to meet _Fafner_ in combat. Has _Mime_ welded the fragments of _Siegmund's_ sword, asks _Siegfried_. The dwarf confesses his impotency. _Siegfried_ seizes the fragments. He will forge his own sword. Here begins the great scene of the forging of the sword. Like a shout of victory the Motive of Siegfried the Fearless rings out and the orchestra fairly glows as _Siegfried_ heaps a great mass of coal on the forge-hearth, and, fanning the heat, begins to file away at the fragments of the sword. The roar of the fire, the sudden intensity of the fierce white heat to which the young Wälsung fans the glow--these we would respectively hear and see were the music given without scenery or action, so graphic is Wagner's score. The Sword Motive leaps like a brilliant tongue of flame over the heavy thuds of a forceful variant of the Motive of Compact, till brightly gleaming runs add to the brilliancy of the score, which reflects all the quickening, quivering effulgence of the scene. How the music flows like a fiery flood and how it hisses as _Siegfried_ pours the molten contents of the crucible into a mould and then plunges the latter into water! The glowing steel lies on the anvil and _Siegfried_ swings the hammer. With every stroke his joyous excitement is intensified. At last the work is done. He brandishes the sword and with one stroke splits the anvil from top to bottom. With the crash of the Sword Motive, united with the Motive of Siegfried the Fearless, the orchestra dashes into a furious prestissimo, and _Siegfried_, shouting with glee, holds aloft the sword! Act II. The second act opens with a darkly portentous _Vorspiel_. On the very threshold of it we meet _Fafner_ in his motive, which is so clearly based on the Giant Motive that there is no necessity for quoting it. Through themes which are familiar from earlier portions of the work, the _Vorspiel_ rises to a crashing fortissimo. The curtain lifts on a thick forest. At the back is the entrance to _Fafner's_ cave, the lower part of which is hidden by rising ground in the middle of the stage, which slopes down toward the back. In the darkness the outlines of a figure are dimly discerned. It is the Nibelung _Alberich_, haunting the domain which hides the treasures of which he was despoiled. From the forest comes a gust of wind. A bluish light gleams from the same direction. _Wotan_, still in the guise of a Wanderer, enters. The ensuing scene between _Alberich_ and the _Wanderer_ is, from a dramatic point of view, episodical. Suffice it to say that the fine self-poise of _Wotan_ and the maliciously restless character of _Alberich_ are superbly contrasted. When _Wotan_ has departed the Nibelung slips into a rocky crevice, where he remains hidden when _Siegfried_ and _Mime_ enter. _Mime_ endeavours to awaken dread in _Siegfried's_ heart by describing _Fafner's_ terrible form and powers. But _Siegfried's_ courage is not weakened. On the contrary, with heroic impetuosity, he asks to be at once confronted with _Fafner_. _Mime_, well knowing that _Fafner_ will soon awaken and issue from his cave to meet _Siegfried_ in mortal combat, lingers on in the hope that both may fall, until the young Wälsung drives him away. Now begins a beautiful lyric episode. _Siegfried_ reclines under a linden-tree, and looks up through the branches. The rustling of the trees is heard. Over the tremulous whispers of the orchestra--known from concert programs as the "Waldweben" (forest-weaving)--rises a lovely variant of the Wälsung Motive. _Siegfried_ is asking himself how his mother may have looked, and this variant of the theme which was first heard in "The Valkyr," when _Sieglinde_ told _Siegmund_ that her home was the home of woe, rises like a memory of her image. Serenely the sweet strains of the Love-Life Motive soothe his sad thoughts. _Siegfried_, once more entranced by forest sounds, listens intently. Birds' voices greet him. A little feathery songster, whose notes mingle with the rustling leaves of the linden-tree, especially charms him. The forest voices--the humming of insects, the piping of the birds, the amorous quiver of the branches--quicken his half-defined aspirations. Can the little singer explain his longing? He listens, but cannot catch the meaning of the song. Perhaps, if he can imitate it he may understand it. Springing to a stream hard by, he cuts a reed with his sword and quickly fashions a pipe from it. He blows on it, but it sounds shrill. He listens again to the birds. He may not be able to imitate his song on the reed, but on his silver horn he can wind a woodland tune. Putting the horn to his lips he makes the forest ring with its notes: [Music] The notes of the horn have awakened _Fafner_ who now, in the guise of a huge serpent or dragon, crawls toward _Siegfried_. Perhaps the less said about the combat between _Siegfried_ and _Fafner_ the better. This scene, which seems very spirited in the libretto, is ridiculous on the stage. To make it effective it should be carried out very far back--best of all out of sight--so that the magnificent music will not be marred by the sight of an impossible monster. The music is highly dramatic. The exultant force of the Motive of Siegfried the Fearless, which rings out as _Siegfried_ rushes upon _Fafner_, the crashing chord as the serpent roars when _Siegfried_ buries the sword in its heart, the rearing, plunging music as the monster rears and plunges with agony--these are some of the most graphic features of the score. _Siegfried_ raises his fingers to his lips and licks the blood from them. Immediately after the blood has touched his lips he seems to understand the bird, which has again begun its song, while the forest voices once more weave their tremulous melody. The bird tells _Siegfried_ of the ring and helmet and of the other treasures in _Fafner's_ cave, and _Siegfried_ enters it in quest of them. With his disappearance the forest-weaving suddenly changes to the harsh, scolding notes heard in the beginning of the Nibelheim scene in "The Rhinegold." _Mime_ slinks in and timidly looks about him to make sure of Fafner's death. At the same time _Alberich_ issues forth from the crevice in which he was concealed. This scene, in which the two Nibelungs berate each other, is capitally treated, and its humour affords a striking contrast to the preceding scenes. As _Siegfried_ comes out of the cave and brings the ring and helmet from darkness to the light of day, there are heard the Ring Motive, the Motive of the Rhinedaughters' Shout of Triumph, and the Rhinegold Motive. The forest-weaving again begins, and the birds bid the young Wälsung beware of _Mime_. The dwarf now approaches _Siegfried_ with repulsive sycophancy. But under a smiling face lurks a plotting heart. _Siegfried_ is enabled through the supernatural gifts with which he has become endowed to fathom the purpose of the dwarf, who unconsciously discloses his scheme to poison _Siegfried_. The young Wälsung slays _Mime_, who, as he dies, hears _Alberich's_ mocking laugh. Though the Motive of Siegfried the Fearless predominates at this point, we also hear the Nibelung Motive and the Motive of the Curse--indicating _Alberich's_ evil intent toward _Siegfried_. _Siegfried_ again reclines under the linden. His soul is tremulous with an undefined longing. As he gazes in almost painful emotion up to the branches and asks if the bird can tell him where he can find a friend, his being seems stirred by awakening passion. The music quickens with an impetuous phrase, which seems to define the first joyous thrill of passion in the youthful hero. It is the Motive of =Love's Joy=: [Music] It is interrupted by a beautiful variant of the Motive of Love-Life, which continues until above the forest-weaving the bird again thrills him with its tale of a glorious maid who has so long slumbered upon the fire-guarded rock. With the Motive of Love's joy coursing through the orchestra, _Siegfried_ bids the feathery songster continue, and, finally, to guide him to _Brünnhilde_. In answer, the bird flutters from the linden branch, hovers over _Siegfried_, and hesitatingly flies before him until it takes a definite course toward the background. _Siegfried_ follows the little singer, the Motive of Love's joy, succeeded by that of Siegfried the Fearless, bringing the act to a close. Act III. The third act opens with a stormy introduction in which the Motive of the Ride of the Valkyrs accompanies the Motive of the Gods' Stress, the Compact, and the Erda motives. The introduction reaches its climax with the =Motive of the Dusk of the Gods=: [Music] Then to the sombre, questioning phrase of the Motive of Fate, the action begins to disclose the significance of this _Vorspiel_. A wild region at the foot of a rocky mountain is seen. It is night. A fierce storm rages. In dire distress and fearful that through _Siegfried_ and _Brünnhilde_ the rulership of the world may pass from the gods to the human race, _Wotan_ summons _Erda_ from her subterranean dwelling. But _Erda_ has no counsel for the storm-driven, conscience-stricken god. The scene reaches its climax in _Wotan's_ noble renunciation of the empire of the world. Weary of strife, weary of struggling against the decree of fate, he renounces his sway. Let the era of human love supplant this dynasty, sweeping away the gods and the Nibelungs in its mighty current. It is the last defiance of all-conquering fate by the ruler of a mighty race. After a powerful struggle against irresistible forces, _Wotan_ comprehends that the twilight of the gods will be the dawn of a more glorious epoch. A phrase of great dignity gives force to _Wotan's_ utterances. It is the =Motive of the World's Heritage=: [Music] _Siegfried_ enters, guided to the spot by the bird; _Wotan_ checks his progress with the same spear which shivered _Siegmund's_ sword. _Siegfried_ must fight his way to _Brünnhilde_. With a mighty blow the young Wälsung shatters the spear and _Wotan_ disappears 'mid the crash of the Motive of Compact--for the spear with which it was the chief god's duty to enforce compacts is shattered. Meanwhile the gleam of fire has become noticeable. Fiery clouds float down from the mountain. _Siegfried_ stands at the rim of the magic circle. Winding his horn he plunges into the seething flames. Around the Motive of Siegfried the Fearless and the Siegfried Motive flash the Magic Fire and Loge motives. The flames, having flashed forth with dazzling brilliancy, gradually pale before the red glow of dawn till a rosy mist envelops the scene. When it rises, the rock and _Brünnhilde_ in deep slumber under the fir-tree, as in the finale of "The Valkyr," are seen. _Siegfried_ appears on the height in the background. As he gazes upon the scene there are heard the Fate and Slumber motives and then the orchestra weaves a lovely variant of the Freia Motive. This is followed by the softly caressing strains of the Fricka Motive. _Fricka_ sought to make _Wotan_ faithful to her by bonds of love, and hence the Fricka Motive in this scene does not reflect her personality, but rather the awakening of the love which is to thrill _Siegfried_ when he has beheld _Brünnhilde's_ features. As he sees _Brünnhilde's_ charger slumbering in the grove we hear the Motive of the Valkyr's Ride, and when his gaze is attracted by the sheen of _Brünnhilde's_ armour, the theme of Wotan's Farewell. Approaching the armed slumberer under the fir-tree, _Siegfried_ raises the shield and discloses the figure of the sleeper, the face being almost hidden by the helmet. Carefully he loosens the helmet. As he takes it off _Brünnhilde's_ face is disclosed and her long curls flow down over her bosom. _Siegfried_ gazes upon her enraptured. Drawing his sword he cuts the rings of mail on both sides, gently lifts off the corselet and greaves, and _Brünnhilde_, in soft female drapery, lies before him. He starts back in wonder. Notes of impassioned import--the Motive of Love's Joy--express the feelings that well up from his heart as for the first time he beholds a woman. The fearless hero is infused with fear by a slumbering woman. The Wälsung Motive, afterwards beautifully varied with the Motive of Love's Joy, accompanies his utterances, the climax of his emotional excitement being expressed in a majestic crescendo of the Freia Motive. A sudden feeling of awe gives him at least the outward appearance of calmness. With the Motive of Fate he faces his destiny; and then, while the Freia Motive rises like a vision of loveliness, he sinks over _Brünnhilde_, and with closed eyes presses his lips to hers. _Brünnhilde_ awakens. _Siegfried_ starts up. She rises, and with a noble gesture greets in majestic accents her return to the sight of earth. Strains of loftier eloquence than those of her greeting have never been composed. _Brünnhilde_ rises from her magic slumbers in the majesty of womanhood: [Music] With the Motive of Fate she asks who is the hero who has awakened her. The superb Siegfried Motive gives back the proud answer. In rapturous phrases they greet one another. It is the =Motive of Love's Greeting=, [Music] which unites their voices in impassioned accents until, as if this motive no longer sufficed to express their ecstasy, it is followed by the =Motive of Love's Passion=, [Music] which, with the Siegfried Motive, rises and falls with the heaving of _Brünnhilde's_ bosom. These motives course impetuously through this scene. Here and there we have others recalling former portions of the cycle--the Wälsung Motive, when _Brünnhilde_ refers to _Siegfried's_ mother, _Sieglinde_; the Motive of Brünnhilde's Pleading, when she tells him of her defiance of _Wotan's_ behest; a variant of the Walhalla Motive when she speaks of herself in Walhalla; and the Motive of the World's Heritage, with which _Siegfried_ claims her, this last leading over to a forceful climax of the Motive of Brünnhilde's Pleading, which is followed by a lovely, tranquil episode introduced by the =Motive of Love's Peace=, [Music] succeeded by a motive, ardent yet tender--the =Motive of Siegfried the Protector=: [Music] These motives accompany the action most expressively. _Brünnhilde_ still hesitates to cast off for ever the supernatural characteristics of the Valkyr and give herself up entirely to _Siegfried_. The young hero's growing ecstasy finds expression in the Motive of Love's Joy. At last it awakens a responsive note of purely human passion in _Brünnhilde_ and, answering the proud Siegfried Motive with the jubilant Shout of the Valkyrs and the ecstatic measures of Love's Passion, she proclaims herself his. With a love duet--nothing puny and purring, but rapturous and proud--the music-drama comes to a close. _Siegfried_, a scion of the Wälsung race, has won _Brünnhilde_ for his bride, and upon her finger has placed the ring fashioned of Rhinegold by _Alberich_ in the caverns of Nibelheim, the abode of the Nibelungs. Clasping her in his arms and drawing her to his breast, he has felt her splendid physical being thrill with a passion wholly responsive to his. Will the gods be saved through them, or does the curse of _Alberich_ still rest on the ring worn by _Brünnhilde_ as a pledge of love? GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG DUSK OF THE GODS Music-drama in a prologue and three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner. Produced, Bayreuth, August 17, 1876. New York, Metropolitan Opera House, January 25, 1888, with Lehmann (_Brünnhilde_), Seidl-Kraus (_Gutrune_), Niemann (_Siegfried_), Robinson (_Gunther_), and Fischer (_Hagen_). Other performances at the Metropolitan Opera House have had, among others, Alvary and Jean de Reszke as _Siegfried_ and Édouard de Reszke as _Hagen_. CHARACTERS SIEGFRIED _Tenor_ GUNTHER _Baritone_ ALBERICH _Baritone_ HAGEN _Bass_ BRÜNNHILDE _Soprano_ GUTRUNE _Soprano_ WALTRAUTE _Mezzo-Soprano_ FIRST, SECOND, AND THIRD NORN _Contralto, Mezzo-Soprano, and Soprano_ WOGLINDE, WELLGUNDE, AND FLOSSHILDE _Sopranos and Mezzo-Soprano_ Vassals and Women. _Time_--Legendary. _Place_--On the Brünnhilde-Rock; Gunther's castle on the Rhine; wooded district by the Rhine. THE PROLOGUE The first scene of the prologue is a weird conference of the three grey sisters of fate--the _Norns_ who wind the skein of life. They have met on the Valkyrs' rock and their words forebode the end of the gods. At last the skein they have been winding breaks--the final catastrophe is impending. An orchestral interlude depicts the transition from the unearthly gloom of the Norn scene to break of day, the climax being reached in a majestic burst of music as _Siegfried_ and _Brünnhilde_, he in full armour, she leading her steed by the bridle, issue forth from the rocky cavern in the background. This climax owes its eloquence to three motives--that of the Ride of the Valkyrs and two new motives, the one as lovely as the other is heroic, the =Brünnhilde Motive=, [Music] and the =Motive of Siegfried the Hero=: [Music] The Brünnhilde Motive expresses the strain of pure, tender womanhood in the nature of the former Valkyr, and proclaims her womanly ecstasy over wholly requited love. The motive of Siegfried the Hero is clearly developed from the motive of Siegfried the Fearless. Fearless youth has developed into heroic man. In this scene _Brünnhilde_ and _Siegfried_ plight their troth, and _Siegfried_ having given to _Brünnhilde_ the fatal ring and having received from her the steed Grane, which once bore her in her wild course through the storm-clouds, bids her farewell and sets forth in quest of further adventure. In this scene, one of Wagner's most beautiful creations, occur the two new motives already quoted, and a third--the =Motive of Brünnhilde's Love=. [Music] A strong, deep woman's nature has given herself up to love. Her passion is as strong and deep as her nature. It is not a surface-heat passion. It is love rising from the depths of a heroic woman's soul. The grandeur of her ideal of _Siegfried_, her thoughts of him as a hero winning fame, her pride in his prowess, her love for one whom she deems the bravest among men, culminate in the Motive of Brünnhilde's Love. _Siegfried_ disappears with the steed behind the rocks and _Brünnhilde_ stands upon the cliff looking down the valley after him; his horn is heard from below and _Brünnhilde_ with rapturous gesture waves him farewell. The orchestra accompanies the action with the Brünnhilde Motive, the Motive of Siegfried the Fearless, and finally with the theme of the love duet with which "Siegfried" closed. The curtain then falls, and between the prologue and the first act an orchestral interlude describes _Siegfried's_ voyage down the Rhine to the castle of the Gibichungs where dwell _Gunther_, his sister _Gutrune_, and their half-brother _Hagen_, the son of _Alberich_. Through _Hagen_ the curse hurled by _Alberich_ in "The Rhinegold" at all into whose possession the ring shall come, is to be worked out to the end of its fell purpose--_Siegfried_ betrayed and destroyed and the rule of the gods brought to an end by _Brünnhilde's_ expiation. In the interlude between the prologue and the first act we first hear the brilliant Motive of Siegfried the Fearless and then the gracefully flowing Motives of the Rhine, and of the Rhinedaughters' Shout of Triumph with the Motives of the Rhinegold and Ring. _Hagen's_ malevolent plotting, of which we are soon to learn in the first act, is foreshadowed by the sombre harmonies which suddenly pervade the music. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Édouard de Reszke as Hagen in "Götterdämmerung"] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Jean de Reszke as Siegfried in "Götterdämmerung"] Act I. On the river lies the hall of the Gibichungs, where house _Gunther_, his sister _Gutrune_, and _Hagen_, their half-brother. _Gutrune_ is a maiden of fair mien, _Gunther_ a man of average strength and courage, _Hagen_ a sinister plotter, large of stature and sombre of visage. Long he has planned to possess himself of the ring fashioned of Rhinegold. He is aware that it was guarded by the dragon, has been taken from the hoard by _Siegfried_, and by him given to _Brünnhilde_. And now observe the subtle craft with which he prepares to compass his plans. A descendant, through his father, _Alberich_, the Nibelung, of a race which practised the black art, he plots to make _Siegfried_ forget _Brünnhilde_ through a love-potion to be administered to him by _Gutrune_. Then, when under the fiery influence of the potion and all forgetful of _Brünnhilde_, _Siegfried_ demands _Gutrune_ to wife, the price demanded will be that he win _Brünnhilde_ as bride for _Gunther_. Before _Siegfried_ comes in sight, before _Gunther_ and _Gutrune_ so much as even know that he is nearing the hall of the Gibichungs, _Hagen_ begins to lay the foundation for this seemingly impossible plot. For it is at this opportune moment _Gunther_ chances to address him: "Hark, Hagen, and let your answer be true. Do I head the race of the Gibichungs with honour?" "Aye," replies _Hagen_, "and yet, Gunther, you remain unwived while Gutrune still lacks a husband." Then he tells _Gunther_ of _Brünnhilde_--"a circle of flame surrounds the rock on which she dwells, but he who can brave that fire may win her for wife. If Siegfried does this in your stead, and brings her to you as bride, will she not be yours?" _Hagen_ craftily conceals from his half-brother and from _Gutrune_ the fact that _Siegfried_ already has won _Brünnhilde_ for himself; but having aroused in _Gunther_ the desire to possess her, he forthwith unfolds his plan and reminds _Gutrune_ of the magic love-potion which it is in her power to administer to _Siegfried_. At the very beginning of this act the Hagen Motive is heard. Particularly noticeable in it are the first two sharp, decisive chords. They recur with dramatic force in the third act when _Hagen_ slays _Siegfried_. The =Hagen Motive= is as follows: [Music] This is followed by the =Gibichung Motive=, the two motives being frequently heard in the opening scene. [Music] Added to these is the =Motive of the Love-Potion= which is to cause _Siegfried_ to forget _Brünnhilde_, and conceive a violent passion for _Gutrune_. [Music] Whatever hesitation may have been in _Gutrune's_ mind, because of the trick which is involved in the plot, vanishes when soon afterwards _Siegfried's_ horn-call announces his approach from the river, and, as he brings his boat up to the bank, she sees this hero among men in all his youthful strength and beauty. She hastily withdraws, to carry out her part in the plot that is to bind him to her. The three men remain to parley. _Hagen_ skilfully questions _Siegfried_ regarding his combat with the dragon. Has he taken nothing from the hoard? "Only a ring, which I have left in a woman's keep," answers _Siegfried_; "and this." He points to a steel network that hangs from his girdle. "Ha," exclaims _Hagen_, "the Tarnhelmet! I recognize it as the artful work of the Nibelungs. Place it on your head and it enables you to assume any guise." He then flings open a door and on the platform of a short flight of steps that leads up to it, stands _Gutrune_, in her hand a drinking-horn which she extends toward _Siegfried_. "Welcome, guest, to the house of the Gibichungs. A daughter of the race extends to you this greeting." And so, while _Hagen_ looks grimly on, the fair _Gutrune_ offers _Siegfried_ the draught that is to transform his whole nature. Courteously, but without regarding her with more than friendly interest, _Siegfried_ takes the horn from her hands and drains it. As if a new element coursed through his veins, there is a sudden change in his manner. Handing the horn back to her he regards her with fiery glances, she blushingly lowering her eyes and withdrawing to the inner apartment. New in this scene is the =Gutrune Motive=: [Music] "Gunther, your sister's name? Have you a wife?" _Siegfried_ asks excitedly. "I have set my heart on a woman," replies _Gunther_, "but may not win her. A far-off rock, fire-encircled, is her home." "A far-off rock, fire-encircled," repeats _Siegfried_, as if striving to remember something long forgotten; and when _Gunther_ utters _Brünnhilde's_ name, _Siegfried_ shows by his mien and gesture that it no longer signifies aught to him. The love-potion has caused him to forget her. "I will press through the circle of flame," he exclaims. "I will seize her and bring her to you--if you will give me Gutrune for wife." And so the unhallowed bargain is struck and sealed with the oath of blood-brotherhood, and _Siegfried_ departs with _Gunther_ to capture _Brünnhilde_ as bride for the Gibichung. The compact of blood-brotherhood is a most sacred one. _Siegfried_ and _Gunther_ each with his sword draws blood from his arm, which he allows to mingle with wine in a drinking-horn held by _Hagen_; each lays two fingers upon the horn, and then, having pledged blood-brotherhood, drinks the blood and wine. This ceremony is significantly introduced by the Motive of the Curse followed by the Motive of Compact. Phrases of _Siegfried's_ and _Gunther's_ pledge are set to a new motive whose forceful simplicity effectively expresses the idea of truth. It is the =Motive of the Vow=. [Music] Abruptly following _Siegfried's_ pledge: Thus I drink thee troth, are those two chords of the Hagen Motive which are heard again in the third act when the Nibelung has slain _Siegfried_. It should perhaps be repeated here that _Gunther_ is not aware of the union which existed between _Brünnhilde_ and _Siegfried_, _Hagen_ having concealed this from his half-brother, who believes that he will receive the Valkyr in all her goddess-like virginity. When _Siegfried_ and _Gunther_ have departed and _Gutrune_, having sighed her farewell after her lover, has retired, _Hagen_ broods with wicked glee over the successful inauguration of his plot. During a brief orchestral interlude a drop-curtain conceals the scene which, when the curtain again rises, has changed to the Valkyr's rock, where sits _Brünnhilde_, lost in contemplation of the Ring, while the Motive of Siegfried the Protector is heard on the orchestra like a blissful memory of the love scene in "Siegfried." Her rapturous reminiscences are interrupted by the sounds of an approaching storm and from the dark cloud there issues one of the Valkyrs, _Waltraute_, who comes to ask of _Brünnhilde_ that she cast back the ring _Siegfried_ has given her--the ring cursed by _Alberich_--into the Rhine, and thus lift the curse from the race of gods. But _Brünnhilde_ refuses: More than Walhalla's welfare, More than the good of the gods, The ring I guard. It is dusk. The magic fire rising from the valley throws a glow over the landscape. The notes of _Siegfried's_ horn are heard. _Brünnhilde_ joyously prepares to meet him. Suddenly she sees a stranger leap through the flames. It is _Siegfried_, but through the Tarnhelmet (the motive of which, followed by the Gunther Motive dominates the first part of the scene) he has assumed the guise of the Gibichung. In vain _Brünnhilde_ seeks to defend herself with the might which the ring imparts. She is powerless against the intruder. As he tears the ring from her finger, the Motive of the Curse resounds with tragic import, followed by trist echoes of the Motive of Siegfried the Protector and of the Brünnhilde Motive, the last being succeeded by the Tarnhelmet Motive expressive of the evil magic which has wrought this change in _Siegfried_. _Brünnhilde_, in abject recognition of her impotence, enters the cavern. Before _Siegfried_ follows her he draws his sword Nothung (Needful) and exclaims: Now, Nothung, witness thou, that chaste my wooing is; To keep my faith with my brother, separate me from his bride. Phrases of the pledge of Brotherhood followed by the Brünnhilde, Gutrune, and Sword motives accompany his words. The thuds of the typical Nibelung rhythm resound, and lead to the last crashing chord of this eventful act. Act II. The ominous Motive of the Nibelung's Malevolence introduces the second act. The curtain rises upon the exterior of the hall of the Gibichungs. To the right is the open entrance to the hall, to the left the bank of the Rhine, from which rises a rocky ascent toward the background. It is night. _Hagen_, spear in hand and shield at side, leans in sleep against a pillar of the hall. Through the weird moonlight _Alberich_ appears. He urges _Hagen_ to murder _Siegfried_ and to seize the ring from his finger. After hearing _Hagen's_ oath that he will be faithful to the hate he has inherited, _Alberich_ disappears. The weirdness of the surroundings, the monotony of _Hagen's_ answers, uttered seemingly in sleep, as if, even when the Nibelung slumbered, his mind remained active, imbue this scene with mystery. A charming orchestral interlude depicts the break of day. Its serene beauty is, however, broken in upon by the =Motive of Hagen's Wicked Glee=, which I quote, as it frequently occurs in the course of succeeding events. [Music] All night _Hagen_ has watched by the bank of the river for the return of the men from the quest. It is daylight when _Siegfried_ returns, tells him of his success, and bids him prepare to receive _Gunther_ and _Brünnhilde_. On his finger he wears the ring--the ring made of Rhinegold, and cursed by _Alberich_--the same with which he pledged his troth to _Brünnhilde_, but which in the struggle of the night, and disguised by the Tarnhelmet as _Gunther_, he has torn from her finger--the very ring the possession of which _Hagen_ craves, and for which he is plotting. _Gutrune_ has joined them. _Siegfried_ leads her into the hall. _Hagen_, placing an ox-horn to his lips, blows a loud call toward the four points of the compass, summoning the Gibichung vassals to the festivities attending the double wedding--_Siegfried_ and _Gutrune_, _Gunther_ and _Brünnhilde_; and when the Gibichung brings his boat up to the bank, the shore is crowded with men who greet him boisterously, while _Brünnhilde_ stands there pale and with downcast eyes. But as _Siegfried_ leads _Gutrune_ forward to meet _Gunther_ and his bride, and _Gunther_ calls _Siegfried_ by name, _Brünnhilde_ starts, raises her eyes, stares at _Siegfried_ in amazement, drops _Gunther's_ hand, advances, as if by sudden impulse, a step toward the man who awakened her from her magic slumber on the rock, then recoils in horror, her eyes fixed upon him, while all look on in wonder. The Motive of Siegfried the Hero, the Sword Motive, and the Chords of the Hagen Motive emphasize with a tumultuous crash the dramatic significance of the situation. There is a sudden hush--_Brünnhilde_ astounded and dumb, _Siegfried_ unconscious of guilt quietly self-possessed, _Gunther_, _Gutrune_, and the vassals silent with amazement--it is during this moment of tension that we hear the motive which expresses the thought uppermost in _Brünnhilde_, the thought which would find expression in a burst of frenzy were not her wrath held in check by her inability to quite grasp the meaning of the situation or to fathom the depth of the treachery of which she has been the victim. This is the =Motive of Vengeance=: [Music] "What troubles Brünnhilde?" composedly asks _Siegfried_, from whom all memory of his first meeting with the rock maiden and his love for her have been effaced by the potion. Then, observing that she sways and is about to fall, he supports her with his arm. "Siegfried knows me not!" she whispers faintly, as she looks up into his face. "There stands your husband," is _Siegfried's_ reply, as he points to _Gunther_. The gesture discloses to _Brünnhilde's_ sight the ring upon his finger, the ring he gave her, and which to her horror _Gunther_, as she supposed, had wrested from her. In the flash of its precious metal she sees the whole significance of the wretched situation in which she finds herself, and discovers the intrigue, the trick, of which she has been the victim. She knows nothing, however, of the treachery _Hagen_ is plotting, or of the love-potion that has aroused in _Siegfried_ an uncontrollable passion to possess _Gutrune_, has caused him to forget her, and led him to win her for _Gunther_. There at _Gutrune's_ side, and about to wed her, stands the man she loves. To _Brünnhilde_, infuriated with jealousy, her pride wounded to the quick, _Siegfried_ appears simply to have betrayed her to _Gunther_ through infatuation for another woman. "The ring," she cries out, "was taken from me by that man," pointing to _Gunther_. "How came it on your finger? Or, if it is not the ring"--again she addresses _Gunther_--"where is the one you tore from my hand?" _Gunther_, knowing nothing about the ring, plainly is perplexed. "Ha," cries out _Brünnhilde_ in uncontrollable rage, "then it was Siegfried disguised as you and not you yourself who won it from me! Know then, Gunther, that you, too, have been betrayed by him. For this man who would wed your sister, and as part of the price bring me to you as bride, was wedded to me!" In all but _Hagen_ and _Siegfried_, _Brünnhilde's_ words arouse consternation. _Hagen_, noting their effect on _Gunther_, from whom he craftily has concealed _Siegfried's_ true relation to _Brünnhilde_, sees in the episode an added opportunity to mould the Gibichung to his plan to do away with _Siegfried_. The latter, through the effect of the potion, is rendered wholly unconscious of the truth of what _Brünnhilde_ has said. He even has forgotten that he ever has parted with the ring, and, when the men, jealous of _Gunther's_ honour, crowd about him, and _Gunther_ and _Gutrune_ in intense excitement wait on his reply, he calmly proclaims that he found it among the dragon's treasure and never has parted with it. To the truth of this assertion, to a denial of all _Brünnhilde_ has accused him of, he announces himself ready to swear at the point of any spear which is offered for the oath, the strongest manner in which the asseveration can be made and, in the belief of the time, rendering his death certain at the point of that very spear should he swear falsely. How eloquent the music of these exciting scenes!--Crashing chords of the Ring Motive followed by that of the Curse, as _Brünnhilde_ recognizes the ring on _Siegfried's_ finger, the Motive of Vengeance, the Walhalla Motive, as she invokes the gods to witness her humiliation, the touchingly pathetic Motive of Brünnhilde's Pleading, as she vainly strives to awaken fond memories in _Siegfried_; then again the Motive of Vengeance, as the oath is about to be taken, the Murder Motive and the Hagen Motive at the taking of the oath, for the spear is _Hagen's_; and in _Brünnhilde's_ asseveration, the Valkyr music coursing through the orchestra. It is _Hagen_ who offers his weapon for the oath. "Guardian of honour, hallowed weapon," swears _Siegfried_, "where steel can pierce me, there pierce me; where death can be dealt me, there deal it me, if ever I was wed to Brünnhilde, if ever I have wronged Gutrune's brother." At his words, _Brünnhilde_, livid with rage, strides into the circle of men, and thrusting _Siegfried's_ fingers away from the spearhead, lays her own upon it. "Guardian of honour, hallowed weapon," she cries, "I dedicate your steel to his destruction. I bless your point that it may blight him. For broken are all his oaths, and perjured now he proves himself." _Siegfried_ shrugs his shoulders. To him _Brünnhilde's_ imprecations are but the ravings of an overwrought brain. "Gunther, look to your lady. Give the tameless mountain maid time to rest and recover," he calls out to Gutrune's brother. "And now, men, follow us to table, and make merry at our wedding feast!" Then with a laugh and in highest spirits, he throws his arm about _Gutrune_ and draws her after him into the hall, the vassals and women following them. But _Brünnhilde_, _Hagen_, and _Gunther_ remain behind; _Brünnhilde_ half stunned at sight of the man with whom she has exchanged troth, gaily leading another to marriage, as though his vows had been mere chaff; _Gunther_, suspicious that his honour wittingly has been betrayed by _Siegfried_, and that _Brünnhilde's_ words are true; _Hagen_, in whose hands _Gunther_ is like clay, waiting the opportunity to prompt both _Brünnhilde_ and his half-brother to vengeance. "Coward," cries _Brünnhilde_ to _Gunther_, "to hide behind another in order to undo me! Has the race of the Gibichungs fallen so low in prowess?" "Deceiver, and yet deceived! Betrayer, and yet myself betrayed," wails _Gunther_. "Hagen, wise one, have you no counsel?" "No counsel," grimly answers _Hagen_, "save Siegfried's death." "His death!" "Aye, all these things demand his death." "But, Gutrune, to whom I gave him, how would we stand with her if we so avenged ourselves?" For even in his injured pride _Gunther_ feels that he has had a share in what _Siegfried_ has done. But _Hagen_ is prepared with a plan that will free _Gunther_ and himself of all accusation. "Tomorrow," he suggests, "we will go on a great hunt. As Siegfried boldly rushes ahead we will fell him from the rear, and give out that he was killed by a wild boar." "So be it," exclaims _Brünnhilde_; "let his death atone for the shame he has wrought me. He has violated his oath; he shall die!" At that moment as they turn toward the hall, he whose death they have decreed, a wreath of oak on his brow and leading _Gutrune_, whose hair is bedecked with flowers, steps out on the threshold as though wondering at their delay and urges them to enter. _Gunther_, taking _Brünnhilde_ by the hand, follows him in. _Hagen_ alone remains behind, and with a look of grim triumph watches them as they disappear within. And so, although the valley of the Rhine re-echoes with glad sounds, it is the Murder Motive that brings the act to a close. Act III. How picturesque the _mise-en-scène_ of this act--a clearing in the forest primeval near a spot where the bank of the Rhine slopes toward the river. On the shore, above the stream, stands _Siegfried_. Baffled in the pursuit of game, he is looking for _Gunther_, _Hagen_, and his other comrades of the hunt, in order to join them. One of the loveliest scenes of the trilogy now ensues. The _Rhinedaughters_ swim up to the bank and, circling gracefully in the current of the river, endeavour to coax from him the ring of Rhinegold. It is an episode full of whimsical badinage and, if anything, more charming even than the opening of "Rhinegold." _Siegfried_ refuses to give up the ring. The _Rhinedaughters_ swim off leaving him to his fate. Here is the principal theme of their song in this scene: [Music] Distant hunting-horns are heard. _Gunther_, _Hagen_, and their attendants gradually assemble and encamp themselves. _Hagen_ fills a drinking-horn and hands it to _Siegfried_ whom he persuades to relate the story of his life. This _Siegfried_ does in a wonderfully picturesque, musical, and dramatic story in which motives, often heard before, charm us anew. In the course of his narrative he refreshes himself by a draught from the drinking-horn into which meanwhile _Hagen_ has pressed the juice of an herb. Through this the effect of the love-potion is so far counteracted that tender memories of _Brünnhilde_ well up within him and he tells with artless enthusiasm how he penetrated the circle of flame about the Valkyr, found _Brünnhilde_ slumbering there, awoke her with his kiss, and won her. _Gunther_ springs up aghast at this revelation. Now he knows that _Brünnhilde's_ accusation is true. Two ravens fly overhead. As _Siegfried_ turns to look after them the Motive of the Curse resounds and _Hagen_ plunges his spear into the young hero's back. _Gunther_ and the vassals throw themselves upon _Hagen_. The Siegfried Motive, cut short with a crashing chord, the two murderous chords of the Hagen Motive forming the bass--and _Siegfried_, who with a last effort has heaved his shield aloft to hurl it at _Hagen_, lets it fall, and, collapsing, drops upon it. So overpowered are the witnesses--even _Gunther_--by the suddenness and enormity of the crime that, after a few disjointed exclamations, they gather, bowed with grief, around _Siegfried_. _Hagen_, with stony indifference turns away and disappears over the height. With the fall of the last scion of the Wälsung race we hear a new motive, simple yet indescribably fraught with sorrow, the =Death Motive=. [Music] _Siegfried_, supported by two men, rises to a sitting posture, and with a strange rapture gleaming in his glance, intones his death-song. It is an ecstatic greeting to _Brünnhilde_. "Brünnhilde!" he exclaims, "thy wakener comes to wake thee with his kiss." The ethereal harmonies of the Motive of Brünnhilde's Awakening, the Motive of Fate, the Siegfried Motive swelling into the Motive of Love's Greeting and dying away through the Motive of Love's Passion to Siegfried's last whispered accents--"Brünnhilde beckons to me"--in the Motive of Fate--and _Siegfried_ sinks back in death. Full of pathos though this episode be, it but brings us to the threshold of a scene of such overwhelming power that it may without exaggeration be singled out as the supreme musico-dramatic climax of all that Wagner wrought, indeed of all music. _Siegfried's_ last ecstatic greeting to his Valkyr bride has made us realize the blackness of the treachery which tore the young hero and _Brünnhilde_ asunder and led to his death; and now as we are bowed down with a grief too deep for utterance--like the grief with which a nation gathers at the grave of its noblest hero--Wagner voices for us, in music of overwhelmingly tragic power, feelings which are beyond expression in human speech. This is not a "funeral march," as it is often absurdly called--it is the awful mystery of death itself expressed in music. Motionless with grief the men gather around _Siegfried's_ corpse. Night falls. The moon casts a pale, sad light over the scene. At the silent bidding of _Gunther_ the vassals raise the body and bear it in solemn procession over the rocky height. Meanwhile with majestic solemnity the orchestra voices the funeral oration of the "world's greatest hero." One by one, but tragically interrupted by the Motive of Death, we hear the motives which tell the story of the Wälsungs' futile struggle with destiny--the Wälsung Motive, the Motive of the Wälsungs' Heroism, the Motive of Sympathy, and the Love Motive, the Sword Motive, the Siegfried Motive, and the Motive of Siegfried the Hero, around which the Death Motive swirls and crashes like a black, death-dealing, all-wrecking flood, forming an overwhelmingly powerful climax that dies away into the Brünnhilde Motive with which, as with a heart-broken sigh, the heroic dirge is brought to a close. Meanwhile the scene has changed to the Hall of the Gibichungs as in the first act. _Gutrune_ is listening through the night for some sound which may announce the return of the hunt. Men and women bearing torches precede in great agitation the funeral train. _Hagen_ grimly announces to _Gutrune_ that _Siegfried_ is dead. Wild with grief she overwhelms _Gunther_ with violent accusations. He points to _Hagen_ whose sole reply is to demand the ring as spoil. _Gunther_ refuses. _Hagen_ draws his sword and after a brief combat slays _Gunther_. He is about to snatch the ring from _Siegfried's_ finger, when the corpse's hand suddenly raises itself threateningly, and all--even _Hagen_--fall back in consternation. _Brünnhilde_ advances solemnly from the back. While watching on the bank of the Rhine she has learned from the _Rhinedaughters_ the treachery of which she and _Siegfried_ have been the victims. Her mien is ennobled by a look of tragic exaltation. To her the grief of _Gutrune_ is but the whining of a child. When the latter realizes that it was _Brünnhilde_ whom she caused _Siegfried_ to forget through the love-potion, she falls fainting over _Gunther's_ body. _Hagen_ leaning on his spear is lost in gloomy brooding. _Brünnhilde_ turns solemnly to the men and women and bids them erect a funeral pyre. The orchestral harmonies shimmer with the Magic Fire Motive through which courses the Motive of the Ride of the Valkyrs. Then, her countenance transfigured by love, she gazes upon her dead hero and apostrophizes his memory in the Motive of Love's Greeting. From him she looks upward and in the Walhalla Motive and the Motive of Brünnhilde's Pleading passionately inveighs against the injustice of the gods. The Curse Motive is followed by a wonderfully beautiful combination of the Walhalla Motive and the Motive of the Gods' Stress at _Brünnhilde's_ words: Rest thee! Rest thee! O, God! For with the fading away of Walhalla, and the inauguration of the reign of human love in place of that of lust and greed--a change to be wrought by the approaching expiation of _Brünnhilde_ for the crimes which began with the wresting of the Rhinegold from the _Rhinedaughters_--_Wotan's_ stress will be at an end. _Brünnhilde_, having told in the graceful, rippling Rhine music how she learned of _Hagen's_ treachery through the _Rhinedaughters_, places upon her finger the ring. Then turning toward the pyre upon which _Siegfried's_ body rests, she snatches a huge firebrand from one of the men, and flings it upon the pyre, which kindles brightly. As the moment of her immolation approaches the Motive of Expiation begins to dominate the scene. _Brünnhilde_ mounts her Valkyr charger, Grane, who oft bore her through the clouds, while lightning flashed and thunder reverberated. With one leap the steed bears her into the blazing pyre. The Rhine overflows. Borne on the flood, the _Rhinedaughters_ swim to the pyre and draw, from _Brünnhilde's_ finger, the ring. _Hagen_, seeing the object of all his plotting in their possession, plunges after them. Two of them encircle him with their arms and draw him down with them into the flood. The third holds up the ring in triumph. In the heavens is perceived a deep glow. It is Götterdämmerung--the dusk of the gods. An epoch has come to a close. Walhalla is in flames. Once more its stately motive resounds, only to crumble, like a ruin, before the onsweeping power of the motive of expiation. The Siegfried Motive with a crash in the orchestra; once more then the Motive of Expiation. The sordid empire of the gods has passed away. A new era, that of human love, has dawned through the expiation of _Brünnhilde_. As in "The Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhäuser," it is through woman that comes redemption. TRISTAN UND ISOLDE TRISTAN AND ISOLDE Music-drama in three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner, who calls the work, "eine Handlung" (an action). Produced, under the direction of Hans von Bülow, Munich, June 10, 1865. First London production, June 20, 1882. Produced, December 1, 1886, with Anton Seidl as conductor, at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, with Niemann (_Tristan_), Fischer (_King Marke_), Lehmann (_Isolde_), Robinson (_Kurwenal_), von Milde (_Melot_), Brandt (_Brangäne_), Kemlitz (a _Shepherd_), Alvary (a _Sailor_), Sänger (a _Helmsman_). Jean de Reszke is accounted the greatest _Tristan_ heard at the Metropolitan. Nordica, Ternina, Fremstad, and Gadski are other _Isoldes_, who have been heard at that house. Édouard de Reszke sang _King Marke_, and Bispham _Kurwenal_. CHARACTERS TRISTAN, a Cornish knight, nephew to KING MARKE _Tenor_ KING MARKE, of Cornwall _Bass_ ISOLDE, an Irish princess _Soprano_ KURWENAL, one of TRISTAN'S retainers _Baritone_ MELOT, a courtier _Baritone_ BRANGÄNE, ISOLDE'S attendant _Mezzo-Soprano_ A SHEPHERD _Tenor_ A SAILOR _Tenor_ A HELMSMAN _Baritone_ Sailors, Knights, Esquires, and Men-at-Arms. _Time_--Legendary. _Place_--A ship at sea; outside _King Marke's_ palace, Cornwall; the platform at Kareol, _Tristan's_ castle. Wagner was obliged to remodel the "Tristan" legend thoroughly before it became available for a modern drama. He has shorn it of all unnecessary incidents and worked over the main episodes into a concise, vigorous, swiftly moving drama, admirably adapted for the stage. He shows keen dramatic insight in the manner in which he adapts the love-potion of the legends to his purpose. In the legends the love of Tristan and Isolde is merely "chemical"--entirely the result of the love-philtre. Wagner, however, presents them from the outset as enamoured of one another, so that the potion simply quickens a passion already active. To the courtesy of G. Schirmer, Inc., publishers of my _Wagner's Music-Dramas Analysed_, I am indebted, as I have already stated elsewhere, for permission to use material from that book. I have there placed a brief summary of the story of "Tristan and Isolde" before the descriptive account of the "book" and music, and, accordingly do so here. In the Wagnerian version the plot is briefly as follows: _Tristan_, having lost his parents in infancy, has been reared at the court of his uncle, _Marke_, King of Cornwall. He has slain in combat Morold, an Irish knight, who had come to Cornwall, to collect the tribute that country had been paying to Ireland. Morold was affianced to his cousin _Isolde_, daughter of the Irish king. _Tristan_, having been dangerously wounded in the combat, places himself, without disclosing his identity, under the care of Morold's affianced, _Isolde_, who comes of a race skilled in magic arts. She discerns who he is; but, although she is aware that she is harbouring the slayer of her affianced, she spares him and carefully tends him, for she has conceived a deep passion for him. _Tristan_ also becomes enamoured of her, but both deem their love unrequited. Soon after _Tristan's_ return to Cornwall, he is dispatched to Ireland by _Marke_, that he may win _Isolde_ as Queen for the Cornish king. The music-drama opens on board the vessel in which _Tristan_ bears _Isolde_ to Cornwall. Deeming her love for _Tristan_ unrequited she determines to end her sorrow by quaffing a death-potion; and _Tristan_, feeling that the woman he loves is about to be wedded to another, readily consents to share it with her. But _Brangäne_, _Isolde's_ companion, substitutes a love-potion for the death-draught. This rouses their love to resistless passion. Not long after they reach Cornwall, they are surprised in the castle garden by the King and his suite, and _Tristan_ is severely wounded by _Melot_, one of _Marke's_ knights. _Kurwenal_, _Tristan's_ faithful retainer, bears him to his native place, Kareol. Hither _Isolde_ follows him, arriving in time to fold him in her arms as he expires. She breathes her last over his corpse. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Nordica as Isolde] THE VORSPIEL All who have made a study of opera, and do not regard it merely as a form of amusement, are agreed that the score of "Tristan and Isolde" is the greatest setting of a love story for the lyric stage. In fact to call it a love story seems a slight. It is a tale of tragic passion, culminating in death, unfolded in the surge and palpitation of immortal music. This passion smouldered in the heart of the man and woman of this epic of love. It could not burst into clear flame because over it lay the pall of duty--a knight's to his king, a wife's to her husband. They elected to die; drank, as they thought, a death potion. Instead it was a magic love-philtre, craftily substituted by the woman's confidante. Then love, no longer vague and hesitating, but roused by sorcerous means to the highest rapture, found expression in the complete abandonment of the lovers to their ecstasy--and their fate. What precedes the draught of the potion in the drama, is narrative, explanatory and prefatorial. Once _Tristan_ and _Isolde_ have shared the goblet, passion is unleashed. The goal is death. The magic love-philtre is the excitant in this story of rapture and gloom. The _Vorspiel_ therefore opens most fittingly with a motive which expresses the incipient effect of the potion upon _Tristan_ and _Isolde_. It clearly can be divided into two parts, one descending, the other ascending chromatically. The potion overcomes the restraining influence of duty in two beings and leaves them at the mercy of their passions. The first part, with its descending chromatics, is pervaded by a certain trist mood, as if _Tristan_ were still vaguely forewarned by his conscience of the impending tragedy. The second soars ecstatically upward. It is the woman yielding unquestioningly to the rapture of requited love. Therefore, while the phrase may be called the Motive of the Love-Potion, or, as Wolzogen calls it, of Yearning, it seems best to divide it into the =Tristan and Isolde Motives= (A and B). [Music] The two motives having been twice repeated, there is a fermate. Then the Isolde Motive alone is heard, so that the attention of the hearer is fixed upon it. For in this tragedy, as in that of Eden, it is the woman who takes the first decisive step. After another fermate, the last two notes of the Isolde Motive are twice repeated, dying away to _pp_. Then a variation of the Isolde Motive [Music] leads with an impassioned upward sweep into another version, full of sensuous yearning, and distinct enough to form a new Motive, the =Motive of the Love Glance=. [Music] This occurs again and again in the course of the _Vorspiel_. Though readily recognized, it is sufficiently varied with each repetition never to allow the emotional excitement to subside. In fact, the _Vorspiel_ gathers impetus as it proceeds, until, with an inversion of the Love Glance Motive, borne to a higher and higher level of exaltation by upward rushing runs, it reaches its climax in a paroxysm of love, to die away with repetitions of the Tristan, the Isolde, and the Love Glance motives. [Music] In the themes it employs this prelude tells, in music, the story of the love of _Tristan_ and _Isolde_. We have the motives of the hero and heroine of the drama, and the Motive of the Love Glance. When as is the case in concerts, the finale of the work, "Isolde's Love-Death," is linked to the _Vorspiel_, we are entrusted with the beginning and the end of the music-drama, forming an eloquent epitome of the tragic story. Act I. Wagner wisely refrains from actually placing before us on the stage, the events that transpired in Ireland before _Tristan_ was despatched thither to bring _Isolde_ as a bride to _King Marke_. The events, which led to the two meetings between _Tristan_ and _Isolde_, are told in _Isolde's_ narrative, which forms an important part of the first act. This act opens aboard the vessel in which _Tristan_ is conveying _Isolde_ to Cornwall. The opening scene shows _Isolde_ reclining on a couch, her face hid in soft pillows, in a tent-like apartment on the forward deck of a vessel. It is hung with rich tapestries, which hide the rest of the ship from view. _Brangäne_ has partially drawn aside one of the hangings and is gazing out upon the sea. From above, as though from the rigging, is heard the voice of a young _Sailor_ singing a farewell song to his "Irish maid." It has a wild charm and is a capital example of Wagner's skill in giving local colouring to his music. The words, "Frisch weht der Wind der Heimath zu" (The wind blows freshly toward our home) are sung to a phrase which occurs frequently in the course of this scene. It represents most graphically the heaving of the sea and may be appropriately termed the Ocean Motive. It undulates gracefully through _Brangäne's_ reply to _Isolde's_ question as to the vessel's course, surges wildly around _Isolde's_ outburst of impotent anger when she learns that Cornwall's shore is not far distant, and breaks itself in savage fury against her despairing wrath as she invokes the elements to destroy the ship and all upon it. =Ocean Motive.= [Music] It is her hopeless passion for _Tristan_ which has prostrated _Isolde_, for the Motive of the Love Glance accompanies her first exclamation as she starts up excitedly. _Isolde_ calls upon _Brangäne_ to throw aside the hangings, that she may have air. _Brangäne_ obeys. The deck of the ship, and, beyond it, the ocean, are disclosed. Around the mainmast sailors are busy splicing ropes. Beyond them, on the after deck, are knights and esquires. A little aside from them stands _Tristan_, gazing out upon the sea. At his feet reclines _Kurwenal_, his esquire. The young sailor's voice is again heard. _Isolde_ beholds _Tristan_. Her wrath at the thought that he whom she loves is bearing her as bride to another vents itself in a vengeful phrase. She invokes death upon him. This phrase is the =Motive of Death=. [Music] The Motive of the Love Glance is heard--and gives away _Isolde's_ secret--as she asks _Brangäne_ in what estimation she holds _Tristan_. It develops into a triumphant strain as _Brangäne_ sings his praises. _Isolde_ then bids her command _Tristan_ to come into her presence. This command is given with the Motive of Death, for it is their mutual death _Isolde_ wishes to compass. As _Brangäne_ goes to do her mistress's bidding, a graceful variation of the Ocean Motive is heard, the bass marking the rhythmic motions of the sailors at the ropes. _Tristan_ refuses to leave the helm and when _Brangäne_ repeats _Isolde's_ command, _Kurwenal_ answers in deft measures in praise of _Tristan_. Knights, esquires, and sailors repeat the refrain. The boisterous measures--"Hail to our brave Tristan!"--form the =Tristan Call=. [Music: Heil unser Held Tristan,] _Isolde's_ wrath at _Kurwenal's_ taunts find vent in a narrative in which she tells _Brangäne_ that once a wounded knight calling himself Tantris landed on Ireland's shore to seek her healing art. Into a niche in his sword she fitted a sword splinter she had found imbedded in the head of Morold, which had been sent to her in mockery after he had been slain in a combat with the Cornish foe. She brandished the sword over the knight, whom thus by his weapon she knew to be _Tristan_, her betrothed's slayer. But _Tristan's_ glance fell upon her. Under its spell she was powerless. She nursed him back to health, and he vowed eternal gratitude as he left her. The chief theme of this narrative is derived from the Tristan Motive. [Music] What of the boat, so bare, so frail, That drifted to our shore? What of the sorely stricken man feebly extended there? Isolde's art he humbly sought; With balsam, herbs, and healing salves, From wounds that laid him low, She nursed him back to strength. Exquisite is the transition of the phrase "His eyes in mine were gazing," to the Isolde and Love Glance motives. The passage beginning: "Who silently his life had spared," is followed by the Tristan Call, _Isolde_ seeming to compare sarcastically what she considers his betrayal of her with his fame as a hero. Her outburst of wrath as she inveighs against his treachery in now bearing her as bride to _King Marke_, carries the narrative to a superb climax. _Brangäne_ seeks to comfort _Isolde_, but the latter, looking fixedly before her, confides, almost involuntarily, her love for _Tristan_. It is clear, even from this brief description, with what constantly varying expression the narrative of Isolde is treated. Wrath, desire for vengeance, rapturous memories that cannot be dissembled, finally a confession of love to _Brangäne_--such are the emotions that surge to the surface. They lead _Brangäne_ to exclaim: "Where lives the man who would not love you?" Then she weirdly whispers of the love-potion and takes a phial from a golden salver. The motives of the Love Glance and of the Love-Potion accompany her words and action. But _Isolde_ seizes another phial, which she holds up triumphantly. It is the death-potion. Here is heard an ominous phrase of three notes--the =Motive of Fate=. [Music] A forceful orchestral climax, in which the demons of despairing wrath seem unleashed, is followed by the cries of the sailors greeting the sight of the land, where she is to be married to _King Marke_. _Isolde_ hears them with growing terror. _Kurwenal_ brusquely calls to her and _Brangäne_ to prepare soon to go ashore. _Isolde_ orders _Kurwenal_ that he command _Tristan_ to come into her presence; then bids _Brangäne_ prepare the death-potion. The Death Motive accompanies her final commands to _Kurwenal_ and _Brangäne_, and the Fate Motive also drones threatfully through the weird measures. But _Brangäne_ artfully substitutes the love-potion for the death-draught. _Kurwenal_ announces _Tristan's_ approach. _Isolde_, seeking to control her agitation, strides to the couch, and, supporting herself by it, gazes fixedly at the entrance where _Tristan_ remains standing. The motive which announces his appearance is full of tragic defiance, as if _Tristan_ felt that he stood upon the threshold of death, yet was ready to meet his fate unflinchingly. It alternates effectively with the Fate Motive, and is used most dramatically throughout the succeeding scene between _Tristan_ and _Isolde_. Sombrely impressive is the passage when he bids _Isolde_ slay him with the sword she once held over him. If so thou didst love thy lord, Lift once again this sword, Thrust with it, nor refrain, Lest the weapon fall again. Shouts of the sailors announce the proximity of land. In a variant of her narrative theme _Isolde_ mockingly anticipates _Tristan's_ praise of her as he leads her into _King Marke's_ presence. At the same time she hands him the goblet which contains, as she thinks, the death-potion and invites him to quaff it. Again the shouts of the sailors are heard, and _Tristan_, seizing the goblet, raises it to his lips with the ecstasy of one from whose soul a great sorrow is about to be lifted. When he has half emptied it, _Isolde_ wrests it from him and drains it. The tremor that passes over _Isolde_ loosens her grasp upon the goblet. It falls from her hand. She faces _Tristan_. Is the weird light in their eyes the last upflare of passion before the final darkness? What does the music answer as it enfolds them in its wondrous harmonies? The Isolde Motive;--then what? Not the glassy stare of death; the Love Glance, like a swift shaft of light penetrating the gloom. The spell is broken. _Isolde_ sinks into _Tristan's_ embrace. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Lilli Lehmann as Isolde] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Jean de Reszke as Tristan] Voices! They hear them not. Sailors are shouting with joy that the voyage is over. Upon the lovers all sounds are lost, save their own short, quick interchange of phrases, in which the rapture of their passion, at last uncovered, finds speech. Music surges about them. But for _Brangäne_ they would be lost. It is she who parts them, as the hangings are thrust aside. Knights, esquires, sailors crowd the deck. From a rocky height _King Marke's_ castle looks down upon the ship, now riding at anchor in the harbour. Peace and joy everywhere save in the lovers' breasts! _Isolde_ faints in _Tristan's_ arms. Yet it is a triumphant climax of the Isolde Motive that is heard above the jubilation of the ship-folk, as the act comes to a close. Act II. This act also has an introduction, which together with the first scene between _Isolde_ and _Brangäne_, constitutes a wonderful mood picture in music. Even Wagner's bitterest critic, Edward Hanslick, of Vienna, was forced to compare it with the loveliest creations of Schubert, in which that composer steeps the senses in dreams of night and love. And so, this introduction of the second act opens with a motive of peculiar significance. During the love scene in the previous act, _Tristan_ and _Isolde_ have inveighed against the day which jealously keeps them apart. They may meet only under the veil of darkness. Even then their joy is embittered by the thought that the blissful night will soon be succeeded by day. With them, therefore, the day stands for all that is inimical, night for all that is friendly. This simile is elaborated with considerable metaphysical subtlety, the lovers even reproaching the day with _Tristan's_ willingness to lead _Isolde_ to _King Marke_, _Tristan_ charging that in the broad light of the jealous day his duty to win _Isolde_ for his king stood forth so clearly as to overpower the passion for her which he had nurtured during the silent watches of the night. The phrase, therefore, which begins the act as with an agonized cry is the =Day Motive=. [Music] The Day Motive is followed by a phrase whose eager, restless measures graphically reflect the impatience with which _Isolde_ awaits the coming of _Tristan_--the =Motive of Impatience=. [Music] Over this there hovers a dulcet, seductive strain, the =Motive of the Love Call=, which is developed into the rapturous measures of the =Motive of Ecstasy=. [Music] When the curtain rises, the scene it discloses is the palace garden, into which _Isolde's_ apartments open. It is a summer night, balmy and with a moon. The _King_ and his suite have departed on a hunt. With them is _Melot_, a knight who professes devotion to _Tristan_, but whom _Brangäne_ suspects. _Brangäne_ stands upon the steps leading to _Isolde's_ apartment. She is looking down a bosky _allée_ in the direction taken by the hunt. This silently gliding, uncanny creature, the servitor of sin in others, is uneasy. She fears the hunt is but a trap; and that its quarry is not the wild deer, but her mistress and the knight, who conveyed her for bride to _King Marke_. Meanwhile against the open door of _Isolde's_ apartment is a burning torch. Its flare through the night is to be the signal to _Tristan_ that all is well, and that _Isolde_ waits. The first episode of the act is one of those exquisite tone paintings in the creation of which Wagner is supreme. The notes of the hunting-horns become more distant. _Isolde_ enters from her apartment into the garden. She asks _Brangäne_ if she cannot now signal for _Tristan_. _Brangäne_ answers that the hunt is still within hearing. _Isolde_ chides her--is it not some lovely, prattling rill she hears? The music is deliciously idyllic--conjuring up a dream-picture of a sylvan spring night bathed in liquescent moonlight. _Brangäne_ warns _Isolde_ against _Melot_; but _Isolde_ laughs at her fears. In vain _Brangäne_ entreats her mistress not to signal for _Tristan_. The seductive measures of the Love Call and of the Motive of Ecstasy tell throughout this scene of the yearning in _Isolde's_ breast. When _Brangäne_ informs _Isolde_ that she substituted the love-potion for the death-draught, _Isolde_ scorns the suggestion that her guilty love for _Tristan_ is the result of her quaffing the potion. This simply intensified the passion already in her breast. She proclaims this in the rapturous phrases of the Isolde Motive; and then, when she declares her fate to be in the hands of the goddess of love, there are heard the tender accents of the =Love Motive=. [Music] In vain _Brangäne_ warns once more against possible treachery from _Melot_. The Love Motive rises with ever increasing passion until _Isolde's_ emotional exaltation finds expression in the Motive of Ecstasy as she bids _Brangäne_ hie to the lookout, and proclaims that she will give _Tristan_ the signal by extinguishing the torch, though in doing so she were to extinguish the light of her life. The Motive of the Love Call ringing out triumphantly accompanies her action, and dies away into the Motive of Impatience as she gazes down a bosky avenue through which she seems to expect _Tristan_ to come to her. Then the Motive of Ecstasy and _Isolde's_ rapturous gesture tell that she has discerned her lover; and, as this Motive reaches a fiercely impassioned climax, _Tristan_ and _Isolde_ rush into each other's arms. The music fairly seethes with passion as the lovers greet one another, the Love Motive and the Motive of Ecstasy vying in the excitement of this rapturous meeting. Then begins the exchange of phrases in which the lovers pour forth their love for one another. This is the scene dominated by the Motive of the Day, which, however, as the day sinks into the soft night, is softened into the =Night Motive=, which soothes the senses with its ravishing caress. [Music] This motive throbs through the rapturous harmonies of the duet: "Oh, sink upon us, Night of Love," and there is nothing in the realms of music or poetry to compare in suggestiveness with these caressing, pulsating phrases. The duet is broken in upon by _Brangäne's_ voice warning the lovers that night will soon be over. The _arpeggios_ accompanying her warning are like the first grey streaks of dawn. But the lovers heed her not. In a smooth, soft melody--the =Motive of Love's Peace=--whose sensuous grace is simply entrancing, they whisper their love. [Music] It is at such a moment, enveloped by night and love, that death should have come to them; and, indeed, it is for such a love-death they yearn. Hence we have here, over a quivering accompaniment, the =Motive of the Love-Death=, [Music] Once more _Brangäne_ calls. Once more _Tristan_ and _Isolde_ heed her not. Night will shield us for aye! Thus exclaims _Isolde_ in defiance of the approach of dawn, while the Motive of Ecstasy, introduced by a rapturous mordent, soars ever higher. [Music] A cry from _Brangäne_, _Kurwenal_ rushing upon the scene calling to _Tristan_ to save himself--and the lovers' ravishing dream is ended. Surrounded by the _King_ and his suite, with the treacherous _Melot_, they gradually awaken to the terror of the situation. Almost automatically _Isolde_ hides her head among the flowers, and _Tristan_ spreads out his cloak to conceal her from view while phrases reminiscent of the love scene rise like mournful memories. Now follows a soliloquy for the _King_, whose sword instead should have leapt from its scabbard and buried itself in _Tristan's_ breast. For it seems inexplicable that the monarch, who should have slain the betrayer of his honour, indulges instead in a philosophical discourse, ending: The unexplained, Unpenetrated Cause of all these woes, Who will to us disclose? _Tristan_ turns to _Isolde_. Will she follow him to the bleak land of his birth? Her reply is that his home shall be hers. Then _Melot_ draws his sword. _Tristan_ rushes upon him, but as _Melot_ thrusts, allows his guard to fall and receives the blade. _Isolde_ throws herself on her wounded lover's breast. Act III. The introduction to this act opens with a variation of the Isolde Motive, sadly prophetic of the desolation which broods over the scene to be disclosed when the curtain rises. On its third repetition it is continued in a long-drawn-out ascending phrase, which seems to represent musically the broad waste of ocean upon which _Tristan's_ castle looks down from its craggy height. The whole passage appears to represent _Tristan_ hopelessly yearning for _Isolde_, letting his fancy travel back over the watery waste to the last night of love, and then giving himself up wholly to his grief. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Gadski as Isolde] [Illustration: N.Y. Photographic Co. Ternina as Isolde] The curtain rises upon the desolate grounds of Kareol, between the outer walls of _Tristan's_ castle and the main structure, which stands upon a rocky eminence overlooking the sea. _Tristan_ is stretched, apparently lifeless, under a huge linden-tree. Over him, in deep sorrow, bends the faithful _Kurwenal_. A _Shepherd_ is heard piping a strain, whose plaintive notes harmonize most beautifully with the despairing desolation and sadness of the scene. It is the =Lay of Sorrow=, and by it, the _Shepherd_, who scans the sea, conveys to _Kurwenal_ information that the ship he has dispatched to Cornwall to bear _Isolde_ to Kareol has not yet hove in sight. The Lay of Sorrow is a strain of mournful beauty, with the simplicity and indescribable charm of a folk-song. Its plaintive notes cling like ivy to the grey and crumbling ruins of love and joy. [Music] The _Shepherd_ peers over the wall and asks if _Tristan_ has shown any signs of life. _Kurwenal_ gloomily replies in the negative. The _Shepherd_ departs to continue his lookout, piping the sad refrain. _Tristan_ slowly opens his eyes. "The old refrain; why wakes it me? Where am I?" he murmurs. _Kurwenal_ is beside himself with joy at these signs of returning life. His replies to _Tristan's_ feeble and wandering questions are mostly couched in a motive which beautifully expresses the sterling nature of this faithful retainer, one of the noblest characters Wagner has drawn. [Music] When _Tristan_ loses himself in sad memories of _Isolde_, _Kurwenal_ seeks to comfort him with the news that he has sent a trusty man to Cornwall to bear _Isolde_ to him that she may heal the wound inflicted by _Melot_ as she once healed that dealt _Tristan_ by Morold. In _Tristan's_ jubilant reply, during which he draws _Kurwenal_ to his breast, the Isolde Motive assumes a form in which it becomes a theme of joy. But it is soon succeeded by the =Motive of Anguish=, [Music] when _Tristan_ raves of his yearning for _Isolde_. "The ship! the ship!" he exclaims. "Kurwenal, can you not see it?" The Lay of Sorrow, piped by the _Shepherd_, gives the sad answer. It pervades his sad reverie until, when his mind wanders back to _Isolde's_ tender nursing of his wound in Ireland, the theme of Isolde's Narrative is heard again. Finally his excitement grows upon him, and in a paroxysm of anguish bordering on insanity he even curses love. _Tristan_ sinks back apparently lifeless. But no--as _Kurwenal_ bends over him and the Isolde Motive is breathed by the orchestra, he again whispers of _Isolde_. In ravishing beauty the Motive of Love's Peace caressingly follows his vision as he seems to see _Isolde_ gliding toward him o'er the waves. With ever-growing excitement he orders _Kurwenal_ to the lookout to watch the ship's coming. What he sees so clearly cannot _Kurwenal_ also see? Suddenly the music changes in character. The ship is in sight, for the _Shepherd_ is heard piping a joyous lay. [Music] It pervades the music of _Tristan's_ excited questions and _Kurwenal's_ answers as to the vessel's movements. The faithful retainer rushes down toward the shore to meet _Isolde_ and lead her to _Tristan_. The latter, his strength sapped by his wound, his mind inflamed to insanity by his passionate yearning, struggles to rise. He raises himself a little. The Motive of Love's Peace, no longer tranquil, but with frenzied rapidity, accompanies his actions as, in his delirium, he tears the bandage from his wounds and rises from his couch. _Isolde's_ voice! Into her arms, outstretched to receive him, staggers _Tristan_. Gently she lets him down upon his couch, where he has lain in the anguish of expectancy. "Tristan!" "Isolde!" he answers in broken accents. This last look resting rapturously upon her, while in mournful beauty the Love Glance Motive rises from the orchestra, he expires. In all music there is no scene more deeply shaken with sorrow. Tumultuous sounds are heard. A second ship has arrived. _Marke_ and his suite have landed. _Tristan's_ men, thinking the _King_ has come in pursuit of _Isolde_, attack the new-comers, _Kurwenal_ and his men are overpowered, and _Kurwenal_, having avenged _Tristan_ by slaying _Melot_, sinks, himself mortally wounded, dying by _Tristan's_ side. He reaches out for his dead master's hand, and his last words are: "Tristan, chide me not that faithfully I follow you." When _Brangäne_ rushes in and hurriedly announces that she has informed the _King_ of the love-potion, and that he comes bringing forgiveness, _Isolde_ heeds her not. As the Love-Death Motive rises softly over the orchestra and slowly swells into the impassioned Motive of Ecstasy, to reach its climax with a stupendous crash of instrumental forces, she gazes with growing transport upon her dead lover, until, with rapture in her last glance, she sinks upon his corpse and expires. In the Wagnerian version of the legend this love-death, for which _Tristan_ and _Isolde_ prayed and in which they are united, is more than a mere farewell together to life. It is tinged with Oriental philosophy, and symbolizes the taking up into and the absorption of by nature of all that is spiritual, and hence immortal, in lives rendered beautiful by love. DIE MEISTERSINGER VON NÜRNBERG THE MASTERSINGERS OF NUREMBURG Opera in three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner. Produced, Munich, June 21, 1868, under direction of Hans von Bülow. London, Drury Lane, May 30, 1882, under Hans Richter; Covent Garden, July 13, 1889, in Italian; Manchester, in English, by the Carl Rosa Company, April 16, 1896. New York, Metropolitan Opera House, January 4, 1886, with Fischer (_Hans Sachs_), Seidl-Kraus (_Eva_), Marianne Brandt (_Magdalena_), Stritt (_Walther_), Kemlitz (_Beckmesser_); Conductor, Seidl. _Sachs_ has also been sung by Édouard de Reszke, Van Rooy, and Whitehill; _Walther_ by Jean de Reszke; _Eva_ by Eames, Gadski, and Hempel; _Beckmesser_ by Goritz; _Magdalena_ by Schumann-Heink and Homer. CHARACTERS HANS SACHS, Cobbler } _Bass_ VEIT POGNER, Goldsmith } _Bass_ KUNZ VOGELGESANG, Furrier } _Tenor_ CONRAD NACHTIGALL, Buckle-Maker } _Bass_ SIXTUS BECKMESSER, Town Clerk } _Bass_ FRITZ KOTHNER, Baker } Mastersingers _Bass_ BALTHAZAR ZORN, Pewterer } _Tenor_ ULRICH EISLINGER, Grocer } _Tenor_ AUGUST MOSER, Tailor } _Tenor_ HERMANN ORTEL, Soap-boiler } _Bass_ HANS SCHWARZ, Stocking-Weaver } _Bass_ HANS FOLZ, Coppersmith } _Bass_ WALTHER VON STOLZING, a young Franconian knight _Tenor_ DAVID, apprentice to HANS SACHS _Tenor_ A NIGHT WATCHMAN _Bass_ EVA, daughter of POGNER _Soprano_ MAGDALENA, EVA'S nurse _Mezzo-Soprano_ Burghers of the Guilds, Journeymen, 'Prentices, Girls, and Populace. _Time_--Middle of the Sixteenth Century. _Place_--Nuremburg. Wagner's music-dramas are all unmistakably Wagner, yet they are wonderfully varied. The style of the music in each adapts itself plastically to the character of the story. Can one, for instance, imagine the music of "Tristan" wedded to the story of "The Mastersingers," or _vice versa_? A tragic passion, inflamed by the arts of sorcery inspired the former. The latter is a thoroughly human tale set to thoroughly human music. Indeed, while "Tristan" and "The Ring of the Nibelung" are tragic, and "Parsifal" is deeply religious, "The Mastersingers" is a comic work, even bordering in one scene on farce. Like Shakespeare, Wagner was equally at home in tragedy and comedy. _Walther von Stolzing_ is in love with _Eva_. Her father having promised her to the singer to whom at the coming midsummer festival the _Mastersingers_ shall adjudge the prize, it becomes necessary for _Walther_ to seek admission to their art union. He is, however, rejected, his song violating the rules to which the Mastersingers slavishly adhere. _Beckmesser_ is also instrumental in securing _Walther's_ rejection. The town clerk is the "marker" of the union. His duty is to mark all violations of the rules against a candidate. _Beckmesser_, being a suitor for _Eva's_ hand, naturally makes the most of every chance to put down a mark against _Walther_. _Sachs_ alone among the _Mastersingers_ has recognized the beauty of _Walther's_ song. Its very freedom from rule and rote charms him, and he discovers in the young knight's untrammelled genius the power which, if properly directed, will lead art from the beaten path of tradition toward a new and loftier ideal. After _Walther's_ failure before the Mastersingers the impetuous young knight persuades _Eva_ to elope with him. But at night as they are preparing to escape, _Beckmesser_ comes upon the scene to serenade _Eva_. _Sachs_, whose house is opposite _Pogner's_, has meanwhile brought his work bench out into the street and insists on "marking" what he considers _Beckmesser's_ mistakes by bringing his hammer down upon his last with a resounding whack. The louder _Beckmesser_ sings the louder _Sachs_ whacks. Finally the neighbours are aroused. _David_, who is in love with _Magdalena_ and thinks _Beckmesser_ is serenading her, falls upon him with a cudgel. The whole neighbourhood turns out and a general _mêlée_ ensues, during which _Sachs_ separates _Eva_ and _Walther_ and draws the latter into his home. The following morning _Walther_ sings to _Sachs_ a song which has come to him in a dream, _Sachs_ transcribing the words and passing friendly criticism upon them and the music. The midsummer festival is to take place that afternoon, and through a ruse _Sachs_ manages to get _Walther's_ poem into _Beckmesser's_ possession, who, thinking the words are by the popular cobbler-poet, feels sure he will be the chosen master. _Eva_, coming into the workshop to have her shoes fitted, finds _Walther_, and the lovers depart with _Sachs_, _David_, and _Magdalena_ for the festival. Here _Beckmesser_, as _Sachs_ had anticipated, makes a wretched failure, as he has utterly missed the spirit of the poem, and _Walther_, being called upon by _Sachs_ to reveal its beauty in music, sings his prize song, winning at once the approbation of the _Mastersingers_ and the populace. He is received into their art union and at the same time wins _Eva_ as his bride. [Illustration: Photo by Falk Emil Fischer as Hans Sachs in "Die Meistersinger"] [Illustration: Photo by White Weil and Goritz as Hans Sachs and Beckmesser in "Die Meistersinger"] The Mastersingers were of burgher extraction. They flourished in Germany, chiefly in the imperial cities, during the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. They did much to generate and preserve a love of art among the middle classes. Their musical competitions were judged according to a code of rules which distinguished by particular names thirty-two faults to be avoided. Scriptural or devotional subjects were usually selected and the judges or Merker (Markers) were, in Nuremburg, four in number, the first comparing the words with the Biblical text, the second criticizing the prosody, the third the rhymes, and the fourth the tune. He who had the fewest marks against him received the prize. Hans Sachs, the most famous of the Mastersingers, born November 5, 1494, died January, 1576, in Nuremburg, is said to have been the author of some six thousand poems. He was a cobbler by trade-- Hans Sachs was a shoe- Maker and poet too. A monument was erected to him in the city of his birth in 1874. "The Mastersingers" is a simple, human love story, simply told, with many touches of humour to enliven it, and its interest enhanced by highly picturesque, historical surroundings. As a drama it conveys also a perfect picture of the life and customs of Nuremburg of the time in which the story plays. Wagner must have made careful historical researches, but his book lore is not thrust upon us. The work is so spontaneous that the method and manner of its art are lost sight of in admiration of the result. Hans Sachs himself could not have left a more faithful portrait of life in Nuremburg in the middle of the sixteenth century. "The Mastersingers" has a peculiarly Wagnerian interest. It is Wagner's protest against the narrow-minded critics and the prejudiced public who so long refused him recognition. Edward Hanslick, the bitterest of Wagner's critics, regarded the libretto as a personal insult to himself. Being present by invitation at a private reading of the libretto, which Wagner gave in Vienna, Hanslick rose abruptly and left after the first act. _Walther von Stolzing_ is the incarnation of new aspirations in art; the champion of a new art ideal, and continually chafing under the restraints imposed by traditional rules and methods. _Hans Sachs_ is a conservative. But, while preserving what is best in art traditions, he is able to recognize the beautiful in what is new. He represents enlightened public opinion. _Beckmesser_ and the other _Mastersingers_ are the embodiment of rank prejudice--the critics. _Walther's_ triumph is also Wagner's. Few of Wagner's dramatic creations equal in lifelike interest the character of _Sachs_. It is drawn with a strong, firm hand, and filled in with many delicate touches. The _Vorspiel_ gives a complete musical epitome of the story. It is full of life and action--pompous, impassioned, and jocose in turn, and without a suggestion of the overwrought or morbid. Its sentiment and its fun are purely human. In its technical construction it has long been recognized as a masterpiece. In the sense that it precedes the rise of the curtain, this orchestral composition is a _Vorspiel_, or prelude. As a work, however, it is a full-fledged overture, rich in thematic material. These themes are Leading Motives heard many times, and in wonderful variety in the three acts of "The Mastersingers." To a great extent an analysis of this overture forecasts the work itself. Accordingly, again through the courtesy of G. Schirmer Inc., I avail myself of my _Wagner's Music-Dramas Analysed_, in the account of the _Vorspiel_ and of the action and music that follow it. The pompous =Motive of the Mastersingers= opens the _Vorspiel_. This theme gives capital musical expression to the characteristics of these dignitaries; eminently worthy but self-sufficient citizens who are slow to receive new impressions and do not take kindly to innovations. Our term of old fogy describes them imperfectly, as it does not allow for their many excellent qualities. They are slow to act, but if they are once aroused their ponderous influence bears down all opposition. At first an obstacle to genuine reform, they are in the end the force which pushes it to success. Thus there is in the Motive of the Mastersingers a certain ponderous dignity which well emphasizes the idea of conservative power. [Music] In great contrast to this is the =Lyric Motive=, which seems to express the striving after a poetic ideal untrammelled by old-fashioned restrictions, such as the rules of the _Mastersingers_ impose. [Music] But, the sturdy conservative forces are still unwilling to be persuaded of the worth of this new ideal. Hence the Lyric Motive is suddenly checked by the sonorous measures of the =Mastersingers' March=. [Music] In this the majesty of law and order finds expression. It is followed by a phrase of noble breadth and beauty, obviously developed from portions of the Motive of the Mastersingers, and so typical of the goodwill which should exist among the members of a fraternity that it may be called the =Motive of the Art Brotherhood=. [Music] It reaches an eloquent climax in the =Motive of the Ideal=. [Music] Opposed, however, to this guild of conservative masters is the restless spirit of progress. Hence, though stately the strains of the Mastersingers' March and of the Guild Motive, soon yield to a theme full of emotional energy and much like the Lyric Motive. _Walther_ is the champion of this new ideal--not, however, from a purely artistic impulse, but rather through his love for _Eva_. Being ignorant of the rules and rote of the _Mastersingers_ he sings, when he presents himself for admission to the fraternity, measures which soar untrammelled into realms of beauty beyond the imagination of the masters. But it was his love for _Eva_ which impelled him to seek admission to the brotherhood, and love inspired his song. He is therefore a reformer only by accident; it is not his love of art, but his passion for _Eva_, which really brings about through his prize song a great musical reform. This is one of Wagner's finest dramatic touches--the love story is the mainspring of the action, the moral is pointed only incidentally. Hence all the motives in which the restless striving after a new ideal, or the struggles of a new art form to break through the barriers of conservative prejudice, find expression, are so many love motives, _Eva_ being the incarnation of _Walther's_ ideal. Therefore the motive which breaks in upon the Mastersingers' March and Guild Motive with such emotional energy expresses _Walther's_ desire to possess _Eva_, more than his yearning for a new ideal in art. So I call it the =Motive of Longing=. [Music] A portion of "Walther's Prize Song," like a swiftly whispered declaration of love, leads to a variation of one of the most beautiful themes of the work--the =Motive of Spring=. [Music] [Music] And now Wagner has a fling at the old fogyism which was so long an obstacle to his success. He holds the masters up to ridicule in a delightfully humorous passage which parodies the Mastersingers' and Art Brotherhood motives, while the Spring Motive vainly strives to assert itself. In the bass, the following quotation is the =Motive of Ridicule=, the treble being a variant of the Art Brotherhood Motive. [Music] When it is considered that the opposition Wagner encountered from prejudiced critics, not to mention a prejudiced public, was the bane of his career, it seems wonderful that he should have been content to protest against it with this pleasant raillery instead of with bitter invective. The passage is followed by the Motive of the Mastersingers, which in turn leads to an imposing combination of phrases. We hear the portion of the Prize Song already quoted--the Motive of the Mastersingers as bass--and in the middle voices portions of the Mastersingers' March; a little later the Motive of the Art Brotherhood and the Motive of Ridicule are added, this grand massing of orchestral forces reaching a powerful climax, with the Motive of the Ideal, while the Motive of the Mastersingers brings the _Vorspiel_ to a fitting close. In this noble passage, in which the "Prize Song" soars above the various themes typical of the masters, the new ideal seems to be borne to its triumph upon the shoulders of the conservative forces which, won over at last, have espoused its cause with all their sturdy energy. This concluding passage in the _Vorspiel_ thus brings out with great eloquence the inner significance of "Die Meistersinger." In whatever the great author and composer of this work wrote for the stage, there always was an ethical meaning back of the words and music. Thus we draw our conclusion of the meaning of "Die Meistersinger" story from the wonderful combination of leading motives in the peroration of its _Vorspiel_. In his fine book, _The Orchestra and Orchestral Music_, W.J. Henderson relates this anecdote: "A professional musician was engaged in a discussion of Wagner in the corridor of the Metropolitan Opera House, while inside the orchestra was playing the 'Meistersinger' overture. "'It is a pity,' said this wise man, in a condescending manner, 'but Wagner knows absolutely nothing about counterpoint.' "At that instant the orchestra was singing five different melodies at once; and, as Anton Seidl was the conductor, they were all audible." In a rare book by J.C. Wagenseil, printed in Nuremburg in 1697, are given four "Prize Master Tones." Two of these Wagner has reproduced in modern garb, the former in the Mastersingers' March, the latter in the Motive of the Art Brotherhood. [Music] [Music] Act I. The scene of this act is laid in the Church of St. Catherine, Nuremburg. The congregation is singing the final chorale of the service. Among the worshippers are _Eva_ and her maid, _Magdalena_. _Walther_ stands aside, and, by means of nods and gestures, communicates with _Eva_. This mimic conversation is expressively accompanied by interludes between the verses of the chorale, interludes expressively based on the Lyric, Spring, and Prize Song motives, and contrasting charmingly with the strains of the chorale. The service over, the Motive of Spring, with an impetuous upward rush, seems to express the lovers' joy that the restraint is removed, and the Lyric Motive resounds exultingly as the congregation departs, leaving _Eva_, _Magdalena_, and _Walther_ behind. _Eva_, in order to gain a few words with _Walther_, sends _Magdalena_ back to the pew to look for a kerchief and hymn-book, she has purposely left there. _Magdalena_ urges _Eva_ to return home, but just then _David_ appears in the background and begins putting things to rights for the meeting of the _Mastersingers_. _Magdalena_ is therefore only too glad to linger. The Mastersinger and Guild motives, which naturally accompany _David's_ activity, contrast soberly with the ardent phrases of the lovers. _Magdalena_ explains to _Walther_ that _Eva_ is already affianced, though she herself does not know to whom. Her father wishes her to marry the singer to whom at the coming contest the _Mastersingers_ shall award the prize; and, while she shall be at liberty to decline him, she may marry none but a master. _Eva_ exclaims: "I will choose no one but my knight!" Very pretty and gay is the theme heard when _David_ joins the group--the =Apprentice Motive=. [Music] How capitally this motive expresses the light-heartedness of gay young people, in this case the youthful apprentices, among whom _David_ was as gay and buoyant as any. Every melodious phrase--every motive--employed by Wagner appears to express exactly the character, circumstance, thing, or feeling, to which he applies it. The opening episodes of "Die Meistersinger" have a charm all their own. The scene closes with a beautiful little terzet, after _Magdalena_ has ordered _David_, under penalty of her displeasure, to instruct the knight in the art rules of the _Mastersingers_. When the 'prentices enter, they proceed to erect the marker's platform, but stop at times to annoy the somewhat self-sufficient _David_, while he is endeavouring to instruct _Walther_ in the rules of the _Mastersingers_. The merry Apprentice Motive runs through the scene and brings it to a close as the 'prentices sing and dance around the marker's box, suddenly, however, breaking off, for the _Mastersingers_ appear. There is a roll-call and then the fine passage for bass voice, in which _Pogner_ offers _Eva's_ hand in marriage to the winner of the coming song contest--with the proviso that _Eva_ adds her consent. The passage is known on concert programmes as "Pogner's Address." _Walther_ is introduced by _Pogner_. The =Knight Motive=: [Music] _Beckmesser_, jealous, and determined that _Walther_ shall fail, enters the marker's box. _Kothner_ now begins reading off the rules of singing established by the masters, which is a capital take-off on old-fashioned forms of composition and never fails to raise a hearty laugh if delivered with considerable pomposity and unction. Unwillingly enough _Walther_ takes his seat in the candidate's chair. _Beckmesser_ shouts from the marker's box: "Now begin!" After a brilliant chord, followed by a superb ascending run on the violins, _Walther_, in ringing tones, enforced by a broad and noble chord, repeats _Beckmesser's_ words. But such a change has come over the music that it seems as if that upward rushing run had swept away all restraint of ancient rule and rote, just as the spring wind whirling through the forest tears up the spread of dry, dead leaves, thus giving air and sun to the yearning mosses and flowers. In _Walther's_ song the Spring Motive forms an ever-surging, swelling accompaniment, finally joining in the vocal melody and bearing it higher and higher to an impassioned climax. In his song, however, _Walther_ is interrupted by the scratching made by _Beckmesser_ as he chalks the singer's violations of the rules on the slate, and _Walther_, who is singing of love and spring, changes his theme to winter, which, lingering behind a thorny hedge, is plotting how it can mar the joy of the vernal season. The knight then rises from the chair and sings a second stanza with defiant enthusiasm. As he concludes it _Beckmesser_ tears open the curtains which concealed him in the marker's box, and exhibits his board completely covered with chalk marks. _Walther_ protests, but the masters, with the exception of _Sachs_ and _Pogner_, refuse to listen further, and deride his singing. We have here the =Motive of Derision=. [Music] _Sachs_ protests that, while he found the knight's art method new, he did not find it formless. The =Sachs Motive= is here introduced. [Music] The Sachs Motive betokens the genial nature of this sturdy, yet gentle man--the master spirit of the drama. He combines the force of a conservative character with the tolerance of a progressive one, and is thus the incarnation of the idea which Wagner is working out in this drama, in which the union of a proper degree of conservative caution with progressive energy produces a new ideal in art. To _Sachs's_ innuendo that _Beckmessers'_ marking hardly could be considered just, as he is a candidate for _Eva's_ hand, _Beckmesser_, by way of reply, chides _Sachs_ for having delayed so long in finishing a pair of shoes for him, and as _Sachs_ makes a humorously apologetic answer, the Cobbler Motive is heard. The sturdy burgher calls to _Walther_ to finish his song in spite of the masters. And now a finale of masterful construction begins. In short, excited phrases the masters chaff and deride _Walther_. His song, however, soars above all the hubbub. The 'prentices see their opportunity in the confusion, and joining hands they dance around the marker's box, singing as they do so. We now have combined with astounding skill _Walther's_ song, the 'prentices' chorus, and the exclamations of the masters. The latter finally shout their verdict: "Rejected and outsung!" The knight, with a proud gesture of contempt, leaves the church. The 'prentices put the seats and benches back in their proper places, and in doing so greatly obstruct the masters as they crowd toward the doors. _Sachs_, who has lingered behind, gazes thoughtfully at the singer's empty chair, then, with a humorous gesture of discouragement, turns away. Act II. The scene of this act represents a street in Nuremburg crossing the stage and intersected in the middle by a narrow, winding alley. There are thus two corner houses--on the right corner of the alley _Pogner's_, on the left _Sachs's_. Before the former is a linden-tree, before the latter an elder. It is a lovely summer evening. The opening scene is a merry one. _David_ and the 'prentices are closing shop. After a brisk introduction based on the Midsummer Festival Motive the 'prentices quiz _David_ on his love affair with _Magdalena_. The latter appears with a basket of dainties for her lover, but on learning that the knight has been rejected, she snatches the basket away from _David_ and hurries back to the house. The 'prentices now mockingly congratulate _David_ on his successful wooing. _David_ loses his temper and shows fight, but _Sachs_, coming upon the scene, sends the 'prentices on their way and then enters his workshop with _David_. The music of this episode, especially the 'prentices' chorus, is bright and graceful. _Pogner_ and _Eva_, returning from an evening stroll, now come down the alley. Before retiring into the house the father questions the daughter as to her feelings concerning the duty she is to perform at the Mastersinging on the morrow. Her replies are discreetly evasive. The music beautifully reflects the affectionate relations between _Pogner_ and _Eva_. When _Pogner_, his daughter seated beside him under the linden-tree, speaks of the morrow's festival and _Eva's_ part in it in awarding the prize to the master of her choice before the assembled burghers of Nuremburg, the stately =Nuremburg Motive= is ushered in. [Music] _Magdalena_ appears at the door and signals to _Eva_. The latter persuades her father that it is too cool to remain outdoors and, as they enter the house, _Eva_ learns from _Magdalena_ of _Walther's_ failure before the masters. Magdalena advises her to seek counsel with _Sachs_ after supper. The Cobbler Motive shows us _Sachs_ and _David_ in the former's workshop. When the master has dismissed his 'prentice till morning, he yields to his poetic love of the balmy midsummer night and, laying down his work, leans over the half-door of his shop as if lost in reverie. The Cobbler Motive dies away to _pp_, and then there is wafted from over the orchestra like the sweet scent of the blooming elder the Spring Motive, while tender notes on the horn blossom beneath a nebulous veil of tremolo violins into memories of _Walther's_ song. Its measures run through _Sachs's_ head until, angered at the stupid conservatism of his associates, he resumes his work to the brusque measures of the Cobbler's Motive. As his ill humour yields again to the beauties of the night, this motive yields once more to that of spring, which, with reminiscences of _Walther's_ first song before the masters, imbues this masterful monologue with poetic beauty of the highest order. The last words in praise of _Walther_ ("The bird who sang today," etc.) are sung to a broad and expressive melody. _Eva_ now comes out into the street and, shyly approaching the shop, stands at the door unnoticed by _Sachs_ until she speaks to him. The theme which pervades this scene seems to breathe forth the very spirit of lovely maidenhood which springs from the union of romantic aspirations, feminine reserve, and rare physical graces. It is the =Eva Motive=, which, with the delicate touch of a master, Wagner so varies that it follows the many subtle dramatic suggestions of the scene. The Eva Motive, in its original form, is as follows: [Music] When at _Eva's_ first words _Sachs_ looks up, there is this elegant variation of the Eva Motive: [Music] Then the scene being now fully ushered in, we have the Eva Motive itself. _Eva_ leads the talk up to the morrow's festival, and when _Sachs_ mentions _Beckmesser_ as her chief wooer, roguishly hints, with evident reference to _Sachs_ himself, that she might prefer a hearty widower to a bachelor of such disagreeable characteristics as the marker. There are sufficient indications that the sturdy master is not indifferent to _Eva's_ charms, but, whole-souled, genuine friend that he is, his one idea is to further the love affair between his fair neighbour and _Walther_. The music of this passage is very suggestive. The melodic leading of the upper voice in the accompaniment, when _Eva_ asks: "Could not a widower hope to win me?" is identical with a variation of the Isolde Motive in "Tristan and Isolde," while the Eva Motive, shyly _pp_, seems to indicate the artfulness of _Eva's_ question. The reminiscence from "Tristan" can hardly be regarded as accidental, for _Sachs_ afterwards boasts that he does not care to share the fate of poor King Marke. _Eva_ now endeavours to glean particulars of _Walther's_ experience in the morning, and we have the Motive of Envy, the Knight Motive, and the Motive of Ridicule. _Eva_ does not appreciate the fine satire in _Sachs's_ severe strictures on _Walther's_ singing--he re-echoes not his own views, but those of the other masters, for whom, not for the knight, his strictures are really intended--and she leaves him in anger. This shows _Sachs_ which way the wind blows, and he forthwith resolves to do all in his power to bring _Eva's_ and _Walther's_ love affair to a successful conclusion. While _Eva_ is engaged with _Magdalena_, who has come out to call her, he busies himself in closing the upper half of his shop door so far that only a gleam of light is visible, he himself being completely hidden. _Eva_ learns from _Magdalena_ of _Beckmesser's_ intended serenade, and it is agreed that the maid shall personate _Eva_ at the window. Steps are heard coming down the alley. _Eva_ recognizes _Walther_ and flies to his arms, _Magdalena_ discreetly hurrying into the house. The ensuing ardent scene between _Eva_ and _Walther_ brings familiar motives. The knight's excitement is comically broken in upon by the _Night Watchman's_ cow-horn, and, as _Eva_ lays her hand soothingly upon his arm and counsels that they retreat within the shadow of the linden-tree, there steals over the orchestra, like the fragrance of the summer night, a delicate variant of the Eva Motive--=The Summer Night Motive=. [Music] _Eva_ vanishes into the house to prepare to elope with _Walther_. The _Night Watchman_ now goes up the stage intoning a mediæval chant. Coming in the midst of the beautiful modern music of "The Mastersingers," its effect is most quaint. As _Eva_ reappears and she and the knight are about to make their escape, _Sachs_, to prevent this precipitate and foolish step, throws open his shutters and allows his lamp to shed a streak of brilliant light across the street. The lovers hesitate; and now _Beckmesser_ sneaks in after the _Night Watchman_ and, leaning against _Sachs's_ house, begins to tune his lute, the peculiar twang of which, contrasted with the rich orchestration, sounds irresistibly ridiculous. Meanwhile, _Eva_ and _Walther_ have once more retreated into the shade of the linden-tree, and _Sachs_, who has placed his work bench in front of his door, begins hammering at the last and intones a song which is one of the rough diamonds of musical invention, for it is purposely brusque and rough, just such a song as a hearty, happy artisan might sing over his work. It is aptly introduced by the Cobbler Motive. _Beckmesser_, greatly disturbed lest his serenade be ruined, entreats _Sachs_ to cease singing. The latter agrees, but with the proviso that he shall "mark" each of _Beckmesser's_ mistakes with a hammer stroke. As if to bring out as sharply as possible the ridiculous character of the serenade, the orchestra breathes forth once more the summer night's music before _Beckmesser_ begins his song, and this is set to a parody of the Lyric Motive. Wagner, with keen satire, seems to want to show how a beautiful melody may become absurd through old-fogy methods. _Beckmesser_ has hardly begun before _Sachs's_ hammer comes down on the last with a resounding whack, which makes the town clerk fairly jump with anger. He resumes, but soon is rudely interrupted again by a blow of _Sachs's_ hammer. The whacks come faster and faster. _Beckmesser_, in order to make himself heard above them, sings louder and louder. Some of the neighbours are awakened by the noise and coming to their windows bid _Beckmesser_ hold his peace. _David_, stung by jealousy as he sees _Magdalena_ listening to the serenade, leaps from his room and falls upon the town clerk with a cudgel. The neighbours, male and female, run out into the street and a general _mêlée_ ensues, the masters, who hurry upon the scene, seeking to restore quiet, while the 'prentices vent their high spirits by doing all in their power to add to the hubbub. All is now noise and disorder, pandemonium seeming to have been let loose upon the dignified old town. Musically this tumult finds expression in a fugue whose chief theme is the =Cudgel Motive=. [Music] From beneath the hubbub of voices--those of the 'prentices and journeymen, delighted to take part in the shindy, of the women who are terrified at it, and of the masters who strive to stop it, is heard the theme of _Beckmesser's_ song, the real cause of the row. This is another of those many instances in which Wagner vividly expresses in his music the significance of what transpires on the stage. _Sachs_ finally succeeds in shoving the 'prentices and journeymen out of the way. The street is cleared, but not before the cobbler-poet has pushed _Eva_, who was about to elope with _Walther_, into her father's arms and drawn _Walther_ after him into his shop. The street is quiet. And now, the rumpus subsided and all concerned in it gone, the _Night Watchman_ appears, rubs his eyes and chants his mediæval call. The street is flooded with moonlight. The _Watchman_ with his clumsy halberd lunges at his own shadow, then goes up the alley. We have had hubbub, we have had humour, and now we have a musical ending elvish, roguish, and yet exquisite in sentiment. The effect is produced by the Cudgel Motive played with the utmost delicacy on the flute, while the theme of _Beckmesser's_ serenade merrily runs after itself on clarinet and bassoon, and the muted violins softly breathe the Midsummer Festival Motive. Act III. During this act the tender strain in _Sachs's_ sturdy character is brought out in bold relief. Hence the prelude develops what may be called three Sachs themes, two of them expressive of his twofold nature as poet and cobbler, the third standing for the love which his fellow-burghers bear him. The prelude opens with the Wahn Motive or Motive of Poetic Illusion. This reflects the deep thought and poetic aspirations of _Sachs_ the poet. It is followed by the theme of the beautiful chorus, sung later in the act, in praise of _Sachs_: "Awake! draws nigh the break of day." This theme, among the three heard in the prelude, points to _Sachs's_ popularity. The third consists of portions of the cobbler's song in the second act. This prelude has long been considered one of Wagner's masterpieces. The themes are treated with the utmost delicacy, so that we recognize through them both the tender, poetic side of _Sachs's_ nature and his good-humoured brusqueness. =The Motive of Poetic illusion= is deeply reflective, and it might be preferable to name it the Motive of Poetic Thought, were it not that it is better to preserve the significance of the term Wahn Motive, which there is ample reason to believe originated with Wagner himself. The prelude is, in fact, a subtle analysis of character expressed in music. [Music] How peaceful the scene on which the curtain rises. _Sachs_ is sitting in an armchair in his sunny workshop, reading in a large folio. The Illusion Motive has not yet died away in the prelude, so that it seems to reflect the thoughts awakened in _Sachs_ by what he is reading. _David_, dressed for the festival, enters just as the prelude ends. There is a scene full of charming _bonhomie_ between _Sachs_ and his 'prentice, which is followed, when the latter has withdrawn, by _Sachs's_ monologue: "Wahn! Wahn! Ueberall Wahn!" (Illusion, everywhere illusion.) While the Illusion Motive seems to weave a poetic atmosphere about him, _Sachs_, buried in thought, rests his head upon his arm over the folio. The Illusion Motive is followed by the Spring Motive, which in turn yields to the Nuremburg Motive as _Sachs_ sings the praises of the stately old town. At his reference to the tumult of the night before there are in the score corresponding allusions to the music of that episode. "A glowworm could not find its mate," he sings, referring to _Walther_ and _Eva_. The Midsummer Festival, Lyric, and Nuremburg motives in union foreshadow the triumph of true art through love on Nuremburg soil, and thus bring the monologue to a stately conclusion. _Walther_ now enters from the chamber, which opens upon a gallery, and, descending into the workshop, is heartily greeted by _Sachs_ with the Sachs Motive, which dominates the immediately ensuing scene. Very beautiful is the theme in which _Sachs_ protests against _Walther's_ derision of the masters; for they are, in spite of their many old-fogyish notions, the conservators of much that is true and beautiful in art. _Walther_ tells _Sachs_ of a song which came to him in a dream during the night, and sings two stanzas of this "Prize Song," _Sachs_ making friendly critical comments as he writes down the words. The Nuremburg Motive in sonorous and festive instrumentation closes this melodious episode. When _Sachs_ and _Walther_ have retired _Beckmesser_ is seen peeping into the shop. Observing that it is empty he enters hastily. He is ridiculously overdressed for the approaching festival, limps, and occasionally rubs his muscles as if he were still stiff and sore from his drubbing. By chance his glance falls on the manuscript of the "Prize Song" in _Sachs's_ handwriting on the table, when he breaks forth in wrathful exclamations, thinking now that he has in the popular master a rival for _Eva's_ hand. Hearing the chamber door opening he hastily grabs the manuscript and thrusts it into his pocket. _Sachs_ enters. Observing that the manuscript is no longer on the table, he realizes that _Beckmesser_ has stolen it, and conceives the idea of allowing him to keep it, knowing that the marker will fail most wretchedly in attempting to give musical expression to _Walther's_ inspiration. The scene places _Sachs_ in a new light. A fascinating trait of his character is the dash of scapegrace with which it is seasoned. Hence, when he thinks of allowing _Beckmesser_ to use the poem the Sachs Motive takes on a somewhat facetious, roguish grace. There now ensues a charming dialogue between _Sachs_ and _Eva_, who enters when _Beckmesser_ has departed. This is accompanied by a transformation of the Eva Motive, which now reflects her shyness and hesitancy in taking _Sachs_ into her confidence. With it is joined the Cobbler Motive when _Eva_ places her foot upon the stool while _Sachs_ tries on the shoes she is to wear at the festival. When, with a cry of joy, she recognizes her lover as he appears upon the gallery, and remains motionless, gazing upon him as if spellbound, the lovely Summer Night Motive enhances the beauty of the tableau. While _Sachs_ cobbles and chats away, pretending not to observe the lovers, the Motive of Maidenly Reserve passes through many modulations until there is heard a phrase from "Tristan and Isolde" (the Isolde Motive), an allusion which is explained below. The Lyric Motive introduces the third stanza of _Walther's_ "Prize Song," with which he now greets _Eva_, while she, overcome with joy at seeing her lover, sinks upon _Sachs's_ breast. The Illusion Motive rhapsodizes the praises of the generous cobbler-poet, who seeks relief from his emotions in bantering remarks, until _Eva_ glorifies him in a noble burst of love and gratitude in a melody derived from the Isolde Motive. It is after this that _Sachs_, alluding to his own love of _Eva_, exclaims that he will have none of King Marke's triste experience; and the use of the King Marke Motive at this point shows that the previous echoes of the Isolde Motive were premeditated rather than accidental. _Magdalena_ and _David_ now enter, and _Sachs_ gives to _Walther's_ "Prize Song" its musical baptism, utilizing chiefly the first and second lines of the chorale which opens the first act. _David_ then kneels down and, according to the custom of the day, receives from _Sachs_ a box on the ear in token that he is advanced from 'prentice to journeyman. Then follows the beautiful quintet, in which the "Prize Song," as a thematic germ, puts forth its loveliest blossoms. This is but one of many instances in which Wagner proved that when the dramatic situation called for it he could conceive and develop a melody of most exquisite fibre. After the quintet the orchestra resumes the Nuremburg Motive and all depart for the festival. The stage is now shut off by a curtain behind which the scene is changed from _Sachs's_ workshop to the meadow on the banks of the Pegnitz, near Nuremburg. After a tumultuous orchestral interlude, which portrays by means of motives already familiar, with the addition of the fanfare of the town musicians, the noise and bustle incidental to preparations for a great festival, the curtain rises upon a lively scene. Boats decked out in flags and bunting and full of festively clad members of the various guilds and their wives and children are constantly arriving. To the right is a platform decorated with the flags of the guilds which have already gathered. People are making merry under tents and awnings where refreshments are served. The 'prentices are having a jolly time of it heralding and marshalling the guilds who disperse and mingle with the merrymakers after the standard bearers have planted their banners near the platform. Soon after the curtain rises the cobblers arrive, and as they march down the meadow, conducted by the 'prentices, they sing in honour of St. Crispin, their patron saint, a chorus, based on the Cobbler Motive, to which a melody in popular style is added. The town watchmen, with trumpets and drums, the town pipers, lute makers, etc., and then the journeymen, with comical sounding toy instruments, march past, and are succeeded by the tailors, who sing a humorous chorus, telling how Nuremburg was saved from its ancient enemies by a tailor, who sewed a goatskin around him and pranced around on the town walls, to the terror of the hostile army, which took him for the devil. The bleating of a goat is capitally imitated in this chorus. With the last chord of the tailors' chorus the bakers strike up their song and are greeted in turn by cobblers and tailors with their respective refrains. A boatful of young peasant girls in gay costumes now arrives, and the 'prentices make a rush for the bank. A charming dance in waltz time is struck up. The 'prentices with the girls dance down toward the journeymen, but as soon as these try to get hold of the girls, the 'prentices veer off with them in another direction. This veering should be timed to fall at the beginning of those periods of the dance to which Wagner has given, instead of eight measures, seven and nine, in order by this irregularity to emphasize the ruse of the 'prentices. The dance is interrupted by the arrival of the masters, the 'prentices falling in to receive, the others making room for the procession. The _Mastersingers_ advance to the stately strains of the Mastersinger Motive, which, when _Kothner_ appears bearing their standard with the figure of King David playing on his harp, goes over into the sturdy measures of the Mastersingers' March. _Sachs_ rises and advances. At sight of him the populace intone the noblest of all choruses: "Awake! draws nigh the break of day," the words of which are a poem by the real Hans Sachs. At its conclusion the populace break into shouts in praise of _Sachs_, who modestly yet most feelingly gives them thanks. When _Beckmesser_ is led to the little mound of turf upon which the singer is obliged to stand, we have the humorous variation of the Mastersinger Motive from the Prelude. _Beckmesser's_ attempt to sing _Walther's_ poem ends, as _Sachs_ had anticipated, in utter failure. The town clerk's effort is received with jeers. Before he rushes away, infuriated but utterly discomfited, he proclaims that _Sachs_ is the author of the song they have derided. The cobbler-poet declares to the people that it is not by him; that it is a beautiful poem if sung to the proper melody and that he will show them the author of the poem, who will in song disclose its beauties. He then introduces _Walther_. The knight easily succeeds in winning over people and masters, who repeat the closing melody of his "Prize Song" in token of their joyous appreciation of his new and wondrous art. _Pogner_ advances to decorate _Walther_ with the insignia of the Mastersingers' Guild. [Music] In more ways than one the "Prize Song" is a mainstay of "Die Meistersinger." It has been heard in the previous scene of the third act, not only when _Walther_ rehearses it for _Sachs_, but also in the quintet. Moreover, versions of it occur in the overture and indeed, throughout the work, adding greatly to the romantic sentiment of the score. For "Die Meistersinger" is a comedy of romance. In measures easily recognized from the Prelude, to which the Nuremburg Motive is added, _Sachs_ now praises the masters and explains their noble purpose as conservators of art. _Eva_ takes the wreath with which _Walther_ has been crowned, and with it crowns _Sachs_, who has meanwhile decorated the knight with the insignia. _Pogner_ kneels, as if in homage, before _Sachs_, the masters point to the cobbler as to their chief, and _Walther_ and _Eva_ remain on either side of him, leaning gratefully upon his shoulders. The chorus repeats _Sachs's_ final admonition to the closing measures of the Prelude. PARSIFAL Stage Dedication Festival Play (Bühnenweihfestspiel) in three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner. Produced Bayreuth, July 26, 1882. Save in concert form, the work was not given elsewhere until December 24, 1903, when it was produced at the Metropolitan Opera House at that time under the direction of Heinrich Conried. At the Bayreuth performances there were alternating casts. Winckelmann was the _Parsifal_ of the _première_, Gudehus of the second performance, Jäger of the third. The alternating _Kundrys_ were Materna, Marianne Brandt, and Malten; _Gurnemanz_ Scaria and Siehr; _Amfortas_ Reichmann; _Klingsor_, Hill and Fuchs. Hermann Levi conducted. In the New York cast Ternina was _Kundry_, Burgstaller _Parsifal_, Van Rooy _Amfortas_, Blass _Gurnemanz_, Goritz _Klingsor_, Journet _Titurel_, Miss Moran and Miss Braendle the first and second, Harden and Bayer the third and fourth _Esquires_, Bayer and Mühlmann two _Knights_ of the Grail, Homer a _Voice_. CHARACTERS AMFORTAS, son of TITUREL, ruler of the Kingdom of the Grail _Baritone-Bass_ TITUREL, former ruler _Bass_ GURNEMANZ, a veteran Knight of the Grail _Bass_ KLINGSOR, a magician _Bass_ PARSIFAL _Tenor_ KUNDRY _Soprano_ FIRST AND SECOND KNIGHTS _Tenor and Bass_ FOUR ESQUIRES _Sopranos and Tenors_ SIX OF KLINGSOR'S FLOWER MAIDENS _Sopranos_ Brotherhood of the Knights of the Grail; Youths and Boys; Flower Maidens (two choruses of sopranos and altos). _Time_--The Middle Ages. _Place_--Spain, near and in the Castle of the Holy Grail; in Klingsor's enchanted castle and in the garden of his castle. [Illustration: Photographs of the First Performance of "Parsifal," Bayreuth, 1882 The Grail-Bearer] [Illustration: Photographs of the First Performance of "Parsifal," Bayreuth, 1882 Winckelmann and Materna as Parsifal and Kundry Scaria as Gurnemanz] "Parsifal" is a familiar name to those who have heard "Lohengrin." Lohengrin, it will be remembered, tells Elsa that he is Parsifal's son and one of the knights of the Holy Grail. The name is written Percival in "Lohengrin," as well as in Tennyson's "Idyls of the King." Now, however, Wagner returns to the quainter and more "Teutonic" form of spelling. "Parsifal" deals with an earlier period in the history of the Grail knighthood than "Lohengrin." But there is a resemblance between the Grail music in "Parsifal" and the "Lohengrin" music--a resemblance not in melody, nor even in outline, but merely in the purity and spirituality that breathes through both. Three legends supplied Wagner with the principal characters in this music-drama. They were "Percival le Galois; or Contes de Grail," by Chrétien de Troyes (1190); "Parsifal," by Wolfram von Eschenbach, and a manuscript of the fourteenth century called by scholars the "Mabinogion." As usual, Wagner has not held himself strictly to any one of these, but has combined them all, and revivified them through the alchemy of his own genius. Into the keeping of _Titurel_ and his band of Christian knights has been given the Holy Grail, the vessel from which the Saviour drank when He instituted the Last Supper. Into their hands, too, has been placed, as a weapon of defence against the ungodly, the Sacred Spear, the arm with which the Roman soldier wounded the Saviour's side. The better to guard these sanctified relics _Titurel_, as King of the Grail knighthood, has reared a castle, Montsalvat, which, from its forest-clad height, facing Arabian Spain, forms a bulwark of Christendom against the pagan world and especially against _Klingsor_, a sorcerer and an enemy of the good. Yet time and again this _Klingsor_, whose stronghold is nearby, has succeeded in enticing champions of the Grail into his magic garden, with its lure of flower-maidens and its arch-enchantress _Kundry_, a rarely beautiful woman, and in making them his servitors against their one-time brothers-in-arms. Even _Amfortas_, _Titurel's_ son, to whom _Titurel_, grown old in service and honour, has confided his reign and wardship, has not escaped the thrall of _Klingsor's_ sorcery. Eager to begin his reign by destroying _Klingsor's_ power at one stroke, he penetrated into the garden to attack and slay him. But he failed to reckon with human frailty. Yielding to the snare so skilfully laid by the sorcerer and forgetting, at the feet of the enchantress, _Kundry_, the mission upon which he had sallied forth, he allowed the Sacred Spear to drop from his hand. It was seized by the evil-doer he had come to destroy, and he himself was grievously wounded with it before the knights who rushed to his rescue could bear him off. This wound no skill has sufficed to heal. It is sapping _Amfortas's_ strength. Indecision, gloom, have come over the once valiant brotherhood. Only the touch of the Sacred Spear that made the wound will avail to close it, but there is only one who can regain it from _Klingsor_. For to _Amfortas_, prostrate in supplication for a sign, a mystic voice from the sanctuary of the Grail replied: By pity guided, The guileless fool; Wait for him, My chosen tool. This prophecy the knights construe to signify that their king's salvation can be wrought only by youth so "guileless," so wholly ignorant of sin, that, instead of succumbing to the temptations of _Klingsor's_ magic garden, he will become, through resisting them, cognizant of _Amfortas's_ guilt, and, stirred by pity for him, make his redemption the mission of his life, regain the Spear and heal him with it. And so the Grail warders are waiting, waiting for the coming of the "guileless fool." The working out of this prophecy forms the absorbing subject of the story of "Parsifal." The plot is allegorical. _Parsifal_ is the personification of Christianity, _Klingsor_ of Paganism, and the triumph of _Parsifal_ over _Klingsor_ is the triumph of Christianity over Paganism. The character of _Kundry_ is one of Wagner's most striking creations. She is a sort of female Ahasuerus--a wandering Jewess. In the Mabinogion manuscript she is no other than Herodias, condemned to wander for ever because she laughed at the head of John the Baptist. Here Wagner makes another change. According to him she is condemned for laughing in the face of the Saviour as he was bearing the cross. She seeks forgiveness by serving the Grail knights as messenger on her swift horse, but ever and anon she is driven by the curse hanging over her back to _Klingsor_, who changes her to a beautiful woman and places her in his garden to lure the Knights of the Grail. She can be freed only by one who resists her temptations. Finally she is freed by _Parsifal_ and is baptized. In her character of Grail messenger she has much in common with the wild messengers of Walhalla, the Valkyrs. Indeed, in the Edda Saga, her name appears in the first part of the compound Gundryggja, which denotes the office of the Valkyrs. THE VORSPIEL The _Vorspiel_ to "Parsifal" is based on three of the most deeply religious motives in the entire work. It opens with the =Motive of the Sacrament=, over which, when it is repeated, _arpeggios_ hover, as in the religious paintings of old masters angel forms float above the figure of virgin or saint. [Music] Through this motive we gain insight into the office of the Knights of the Grail, who from time to time strengthen themselves for their spiritual duties by partaking of the communion, on which occasions the Grail itself is uncovered. This motive leads to the =Grail Motive=, effectively swelling to forte and then dying away in ethereal harmonies, like the soft light with which the Grail illumines the hall in which the knights gather to worship. [Music] The trumpets then announce the =Motive of Faith=, severe but sturdy--portraying superbly the immutability of faith. [Music] The Grail Motive is heard again and then the Motive of Faith is repeated, its severity exquisitely softened, so that it conveys a sense of peace which "passeth all understanding." [Music] The rest of the _Vorspiel_ is agitated. That portion of the Motive of the Sacrament which appears later as the Spear Motive here assumes through a slight change a deeply sad character, and becomes typical throughout the work of the sorrow wrought by _Amfortas's_ crime. I call it the =Elegiac Motive=. [Music] Thus the _Vorspiel_ depicts both the religious duties which play so prominent a part in the drama, and unhappiness which _Amfortas's_ sinful forgetfulness of these duties has brought upon himself and his knights. Act I. One of the sturdiest of the knights, the aged _Gurnemanz_, grey of head and beard, watches near the outskirts of the forest. One dawn finds him seated under a majestic tree. Two young _Esquires_ lie in slumber at his feet. Far off, from the direction of the castle, sounds a solemn reveille. "Hey! Ho!" _Gurnemanz_ calls with brusque humour to the _Esquires_. "Not forest, but sleep warders I deem you!" The youths leap to their feet; then, hearing the solemn reveille, kneel in prayer. The Motive of Peace echoes their devotional thoughts. A wondrous peace seems to rest upon the scene. But the transgression of the _King_ ever breaks the tranquil spell. For soon two _Knights_ come in the van of the train that thus early bears the _King_ from a bed of suffering to the forest lake nearby, in whose waters he would bathe his wound. They pause to parley with _Gurnemanz_, but are interrupted by outcries from the youths and sounds of rushing through air. "Mark the wild horsewoman!"--"The mane of the devil's mare flies madly!"--"Aye, 'tis Kundry!"--"She has swung herself off," cry the _Esquires_ as they watch the approach of the strange creature that now rushes in--a woman clad in coarse, wild garb girdled high with a snake-skin, her thick black hair tumbling about her shoulders, her features swarthy, her dark eyes now flashing, now fixed and glassy. Precipitately she thrusts a small crystal flask into _Gurnemanz's_ hand. "Balsam--for the king!" There is a savagery in her manner that seems designed to ward off thanks, when _Gurnemanz_ asks her whence she has brought the flask, and she replies: "From farther away than your thought can travel. If it fail, Arabia bears naught else that can ease his pain. Ask no further. I am weary." Throwing herself upon the ground and resting her face on her hands, she watches the _King_ borne in, replies to his thanks for the balsam with a wild, mocking laugh, and follows him with her eyes as they bear him on his litter toward the lake, while _Gurnemanz_ and four _Esquires_ remain behind. _Kundry's_ rapid approach on her wild horse is accompanied by a furious gallop in the orchestra. [Music] Then, as she rushes upon the stage, the =Kundry Motive=--a headlong descent of the string instruments through four octaves--is heard. [Music] _Kundry's_ action in seeking balsam for the _King's_ wound gives us insight into the two contradictory natures represented by her character. For here is the woman who has brought all his suffering upon _Amfortas_ striving to ease it when she is free from the evil sway of _Klingsor_. She is at times the faithful messenger of the Grail; at times the evil genius of its defenders. When _Amfortas_ is borne in upon a litter there is heard the =Motive of Amfortas's Suffering=, expressive of his physical and mental agony. It has a peculiar heavy, dragging rhythm, as if his wound slowly were sapping his life. [Music] A beautiful idyl is played by the orchestra when the knights bear _Amfortas_ to the forest lake. [Music] One of the youths, who has remained with _Gurnemanz_, noting that _Kundry_ still lies where she had flung herself upon the ground, calls out scornfully, "Why do you lie there like a savage beast?" "Are not even the beasts here sacred?" she retorts, but harshly, and not as if pleading for sufferance. The other _Esquires_ would have joined in harassing her had not _Gurnemanz_ stayed them. "Never has she done you harm. She serves the Grail, and only when she remains long away, none knows in what distant lands, does harm come to us." Then, turning to where she lies, he asks: "Where were you wandering when our leader lost the Sacred Spear? Why were you not here to help us then?" "I never help!" is her sullen retort, although a tremor, as if caused by a pang of bitter reproach, passes over her frame. "If she wants to serve the Grail, why not send her to recover the Sacred Spear!" exclaims one of the _Esquires_ sarcastically; and the youths doubtless would have resumed their nagging of _Kundry_, had not mention of the holy weapon caused _Gurnemanz_ to give voice to memories of the events that have led to its capture by _Klingsor_. Then, yielding to the pressing of the youths who gather at his feet beneath the tree, he tells them of _Klingsor_--how the sorcerer has sued for admission to the Grail brotherhood, which was denied him by _Titurel_, how in revenge he has sought its destruction and now, through possession of the Sacred Spear, hopes to compass it. Prominent with other motives already heard, is a new one, the =Klingsor Motive=: [Music] During this recital _Kundry_ still lies upon the ground, a sullen, forbidding looking creature. At the point when _Gurnemanz_ tells of the sorcerer's magic garden and of the enchantress who has lured _Amfortas_ to his downfall, she turns in quick, angry unrest, as if she would away, but is held to the spot by some dark and compelling power. There is indeed something strange and contradictory in this wild creature, who serves the Grail by ranging distant lands in search of balsam for the _King's_ wound, yet abruptly, vindictively almost, repels proffered thanks, and is a sullen and unwilling listener to _Gurnemanz's_ narrative. Furthermore, as _Gurnemanz_ queried, where does she linger during those long absences, when harm has come to the warders of the Grail and now to their _King_? The Knights of the Grail do not know it, but it is none other than she who, changed by _Klingsor_ into an enchantress, lures them into his magic garden. _Gurnemanz_ concludes by telling the _Esquire_ that while _Amfortas_ was praying for a sign as to who could heal him, phantom lips pronounced these words: By pity lightened The guileless fool; Wait for him, My chosen tool. This introduces an important motive, that of the =Prophecy=, a phrase of simple beauty, as befits the significance of the words to which it is sung. _Gurnemanz_ sings the entire motive and then the _Esquires_ take it up. [Music] They have sung only the first two lines when suddenly their prayerful voices are interrupted by shouts of dismay from the direction of the lake. A moment later a wounded swan, one of the sacred birds of the Grail brotherhood, flutters over the stage and falls dead near _Gurnemanz_. The knights follow in consternation. Two of them bring _Parsifal_, whom they have seized and accuse of murdering the sacred bird. As he appears the magnificent =Parsifal Motive= rings out on the horns: [Music] It is a buoyant and joyous motive, full of the wild spirit and freedom of this child of nature, who knows nothing of the Grail and its brotherhood or the sacredness of the swan, and freely boasts of his skilful marksmanship. During this episode the Swan Motive from "Lohengrin" is effectively introduced. Then follows _Gurnemanz's_ noble reproof, sung to a broad and expressive melody. Even the animals are sacred in the region of the Grail and are protected from harm. _Parsifal's_ gradual awakening to a sense of wrong is one of the most touching scenes of the music-drama. His childlike grief when he becomes conscious of the pain he has caused is so simple and pathetic that one cannot but be deeply affected. After _Gurnemanz_ has ascertained that _Parsifal_ knows nothing of the wrong he committed in killing the swan he plies him with questions concerning his parentage. _Parsifal_ is now gentle and tranquil. He tells of growing up in the woods, of running away from his mother to follow a cavalcade of knights who passed along the edge of the forest and of never having seen her since. In vain he endeavours to recall the many pet names she gave him. These memories of his early days introduce the sad motive of his mother, =Herzeleid= (Heart's Sorrow) who has died in grief. [Music] The old knight then proceeds to ply _Parsifal_ with questions regarding his parentage, name, and native land. "I do not know," is the youth's invariable answer. His ignorance, coupled, however, with his naïve nobility of bearing and the fact that he has made his way to the Grail domain, engender in _Gurnemanz_ the hope that here at last is the "guileless fool" for whom prayerfully they have been waiting, and the _King_, having been borne from the lake toward the castle where the holy rite of unveiling the Grail is to be celebrated that day, thither _Gurnemanz_ in kindly accents bids the youth follow him. Then occurs a dramatically effective change of scene. The scenery becomes a panorama drawn off toward the right, and as _Parsifal_ and _Gurnemanz_ face toward the left they appear to be walking in that direction. The forest disappears; a cave opens in rocky cliffs and conceals the two; they are then seen again in sloping passages which they appear to ascend. Long sustained trombone notes softly swell; approaching peals of bells are heard. At last they arrive at a mighty hall which loses itself overhead in a high vaulted dome, down from which alone the light streams in. The change of scene is ushered in by the solemn =Bell Motive=, which is the basis of the powerful orchestral interlude accompanying the panorama, and also of the scene in the hall of the Grail Castle. [Music] As the communion, which is soon to be celebrated, is broken in upon by the violent grief and contrition of _Amfortas_, so the majestic sweep of this symphony is interrupted by the agonized =Motive of Contrition=, which graphically portrays the spiritual suffering of the _King_. This subtly suggests the Elegiac Motive and the Motive of Amfortas's Suffering, but in greatly intensified degrees. For it is like an outcry of torture that affects both body and soul. With the Motive of the Sacrament resounding solemnly upon the trombones, followed by the Bell Motive, sonorous and powerful, _Gurnemanz_ and _Parsifal_ enter the hall, the old knight giving the youth a position from which he can observe the proceedings. From the deep colonnades on either side in the rear the knights issue, march with stately tread, and arrange themselves at the horseshoe-shaped table, which incloses a raised couch. Then, while the orchestra plays a solemn processional based on the Bell Motive, they intone the chorus: "To the last love feast." After the first verse a line of pages crosses the stage and ascend into the dome. The graceful interlude here is based on the Bell Motive. [Music] The chorus of knights closes with a glorious outburst of the Grail Motive as _Amfortas_ is borne in, preceded by pages who bear the covered Grail. The _King_ is lifted upon the couch and the holy vessel is placed upon the stone table in front of it. When the Grail Motive has died away amid the pealing of the bells, the youths in the gallery below the dome sing a chorus of penitence based upon the Motive of Contrition. Then the Motive of Faith floats down from the dome as an unaccompanied chorus for boys' voices--a passage of ethereal beauty--the orchestra whispering a brief postludium like a faint echo. This is, when sung as it was at Bayreuth, where I heard the first performance of "Parsifal" in 1882, the most exquisite effect of the whole score. For spirituality it is unsurpassed. It is an absolutely perfect example of religious music--a beautiful melody without the slightest worldly taint. _Titurel_ now summons _Amfortas_ to perform his sacred office--to uncover the Grail. At first, tortured by contrition for his sin, of which the agony from his wound is a constant reminder, he refuses to obey his aged father's summons. In anguish he cries out that he is unworthy of the sacred office. But again ethereal voices float down from the dome. They now chant the prophecy of the "guileless fool" and, as if comforted by the hope of ultimate redemption, _Amfortas_ uncovers the Grail. Dusk seems to spread over the hall. Then a ray of brilliant light darts down upon the sacred vessel, which shines with a soft purple radiance that diffuses itself through the hall. All are on their knees save the youth, who has stood motionless and obtuse to the significance of all he has heard and seen save that during _Amfortas's_ anguish he has clutched his heart as if he too felt the pang. But when the rite is over--when the knights have partaken of communion--and the glow has faded, and the _King_, followed by his knights, has been borne out, the youth remains behind, vigorous, handsome, but to all appearances a dolt. "Do you know what you have witnessed?" _Gurnemanz_ asks harshly, for he is grievously disappointed. For answer the youth shakes his head. "Just a fool, after all," exclaims the old knight, as he opens a side door to the hall. "Begone, but take my advice. In future leave our swans alone, and seek yourself, gander, a goose!" And with these harsh words he pushes the youth out and angrily slams the door behind him. This jarring break upon the religious feeling awakened by the scene would be a rude ending for the act, but Wagner, with exquisite tact, allows the voices in the dome to be heard once more, and so the curtains close, amid the spiritual harmonies of the Prophecy of the Guileless Fool and of the Grail Motive. Act II. This act plays in _Klingsor's_ magic castle and garden. The _Vorspiel_ opens with the threatful Klingsor motive, which is followed by the Magic and Contrition Motives, the wild Kundry Motive leading over to the first scene. In the inner keep of his tower, stone steps leading up to the battlemented parapet and down into a deep pit at the back, stands _Klingsor_, looking into a metal mirror, whose surface, through his necromancy, reflects all that transpires within the environs of the fastness from which he ever threatens the warders of the Grail. Of all that just has happened in the Grail's domain it has made him aware; and he knows that of which _Gurnemanz_ is ignorant--that the youth, whose approach the mirror divulges, once in his power, vain will be the prophecy of the "guileless fool" and his own triumph assured. For it is that same "guileless fool" the old knight impatiently has thrust out. _Klingsor_ turns toward the pit and imperiously waves his hand. A bluish vapour rises from the abyss and in it floats the form of a beauteous woman--_Kundry_, not the _Kundry_ of a few hours before, dishevelled and in coarse garb girdled with snake-skin; but a houri, her dark hair smooth and lustrous, her robe soft, rich Oriental draperies. Yet even as she floats she strives as though she would descend to where she has come from, while the sorcerer's harsh laugh greets her vain efforts. This then is the secret of her strange actions and her long disappearances from the Grail domain, during which so many of its warders have fallen into _Klingsor's_ power! She is the snare he sets, she the arch-enchantress of his magic garden. Striving as he hints while he mocks her impotence, to expiate some sin committed by her during a previous existence in the dim past, by serving the brotherhood of the Grail knights, the sorcerer's power over her is such that at any moment he can summon her to aid him in their destruction. Well she knows what the present summons means. Approaching the tower at this very moment is the youth whom she has seen in the Grail forest, and in whom she, like _Klingsor_, has recognized the only possible redeemer of _Amfortas_ and of--herself. And now she must lure him to his doom and with it lose her last hope of salvation, now, aye, now--for even as he mocks her, _Klingsor_ once more waves his hand, castle and keep vanish as if swallowed up by the earth, and in its place a garden heavy with the scent of gorgeous flowers fills the landscape. The orchestra, with the Parsifal Motive, gives a spirited description of the brief combat between _Parsifal_ and _Klingsor's_ knights. It is amid the dark harmonies of the Klingsor Motive that the keep sinks out of sight and the magic garden, spreading out in all directions, with _Parsifal_ standing on the wall and gazing with astonishment upon the brilliant scene, is disclosed. The _Flower Maidens_ in great trepidation for the fate of their lover knights rush in from all sides with cries of sorrow, their confused exclamations and the orchestral accompaniment admirably enforcing their tumultuous actions. The Parsifal Motive again introduces the next episode, as _Parsifal_, attracted by the grace and beauty of the girls, leaps down into the garden and seeks to mingle with them. It is repeated several times in the course of the scene. The girls, seeing that he does not seek to harm them, bedeck themselves with flowers and crowd about him with alluring gestures, finally circling around him as they sing this caressing melody: [Music] The effect is enchanting, the music of this episode being a marvel of sensuous grace. _Parsifal_ regards them with childlike, innocent joy. Then they seek to impress him more deeply with their charms, at the same time quarrelling among themselves over him. When their rivalry has reached its height, _Kundry's_ voice--"Parsifal, tarry!"--is wafted from a flowery nook nearby. [Music] "Parsifal!" In all the years of his wandering none has called him by his name; and now it floats toward him as if borne on the scent of roses. A beautiful woman, her arms stretched out to him, welcomes him from her couch of brilliant, redolent flowers. Irresistibly drawn toward her, he approaches and kneels by her side; and she, whispering to him in tender accents, leans over him and presses a long kiss upon his lips. It is the lure that has sealed the fate of many a knight of the Grail. But in the youth it inspires a sudden change. The perilous subtlety of it, that is intended to destroy, transforms the "guileless fool" into a conscious man, and that man conscious of a mission. The scenes he has witnessed in the Grail castle, the stricken _King_ whose wound ever bled afresh, the part he is to play, the peril of the temptation that has been placed in his path--all these things become revealed to him in the rapture of that unhallowed kiss. In vain the enchantress seeks to draw him toward her. He thrusts her from him. Maddened by the repulse, compelled through _Klingsor's_ arts to see in the handsome youth before her lawful prey, she calls upon the sorcerer to aid her. At her outcry _Klingsor_ appears on the castle wall, in his hand the Spear taken from _Amfortas_, and, as _Parsifal_ faces him, hurls it full at him. But lo, it rises in its flight and remains suspended in the air over the head of him it was aimed to slay. Reaching out and seizing it, _Parsifal_ makes with it the sign of the cross. Castle and garden wall crumble into ruins, the garden shrivels away, leaving in its place a sere wilderness, through which _Parsifal_, leaving _Kundry_ as one dead upon the ground, sets forth in search of the castle of the Grail, there to fulfil the mission with which now he knows himself charged. Act III. Not until after long wanderings through the wilderness, however, is it that _Parsifal_ once more finds himself on the outskirts of the Grail forest. Clad from head to foot in black armour, his visor closed, the Holy Spear in his hand, he approaches the spot where _Gurnemanz_, now grown very old, still holds watch, while _Kundry_, again in coarse garb, but grown strangely pale and gentle, humbly serves the brotherhood. It is Good Friday morn, and peace rests upon the forest. _Kundry_ is the first to discern the approach of the black knight. From the tender exaltation of her mien, as she draws _Gurnemanz's_ look toward the silent figure, it is apparent that she divines who it is and why he comes. To _Gurnemanz_, however, he is but an armed intruder on sanctified ground and upon a holy day, and, as the black knight seats himself on a little knoll near a spring and remains silent, the old warder chides him for his offence. Tranquilly the knight rises, thrusts the Spear he bears into the ground before him, lays down his sword and shield before it, opens his helmet, and, removing it from his head, places it with the other arms, and then himself kneels in silent prayer before the Spear. Surprise, recognition of man and weapon, and deep emotion succeed each other on _Gurnemanz's_ face. Gently he raises _Parsifal_ from his kneeling posture, once more seats him on the knoll by the spring, loosens his greaves and corselet, and then places upon him the coat of mail and mantle of the knights of the Grail, while _Kundry_, drawing a golden flask from her bosom anoints his feet and dries them with her loosened hair. Then _Gurnemanz_ takes from her the flask, and, pouring its contents upon _Parsifal's_ head, anoints him king of the knights of the Grail. The new king performs his first office by taking up water from the spring in the hollow of his hand and baptizing _Kundry_, whose eyes, suffused with tears, are raised to him in gentle rapture. Here is heard the stately =Motive of Baptism=: [Music] The "Good Friday Spell," one of Wagner's most beautiful mood paintings in tone color, is the most prominent episode in these scenes. [Music] Once more _Gurnemanz_, _Kundry_ now following, leads the way toward the castle of the Grail. _Amfortas's_ aged father, _Titurel_, uncomforted by the vision of the Grail, which _Amfortas_, in his passionate contrition, deems himself too sullied to unveil, has died, and the knights having gathered in the great hall, _Titurel's_ bier is borne in solemn procession and placed upon a catafalque before _Amfortas's_ couch. "Uncover the shrine!" shout the knights, pressing upon _Amfortas_. For answer, and in a paroxysm of despair, he springs up, tears his garments asunder and shows his open wound. "Slay me!" he cries. "Take up your weapons! Bury your sword-blades deep--deep in me, to the hilts! Kill me, and so kill the pain that tortures me!" As _Amfortas_ stands there in an ecstasy of pain, _Parsifal_ enters, and, quietly advancing, touches the wound with the point of the Spear. "One weapon only serves to staunch your wounded side--the one that struck it." _Amfortas's_ torture changes to highest rapture. The shrine is opened and _Parsifal_, taking the Grail, which again radiates with light, waves it gently to and fro, as _Amfortas_ and all the knights kneel in homage to him, while _Kundry_, gazing up to him in gratitude, sinks gently into the sleep of death and forgiveness for which she has longed. The music of this entire scene floats upon ethereal _arpeggios_. The Motive of Faith especially is exquisitely accompanied, its spiritual harmonies finally appearing in this form. [Music] There are also heard the Motives of Prophecy and of the Sacrament, as the knights on the stage and the youths and boys in the dome chant. The Grail Motive, which is prominent throughout the scene, rises as if in a spirit of gentle religious triumph and brings, with the Sacrament Motive, the work to a close. Gioachino Antonio Rossini (1792-1868) It would be difficult to persuade any one today that Rossini was a reformer of opera. But his instrumentation, excessively simple as it seems to us, was regarded, by his contemporaries, as distracting too much attention from the voices. This was one of the reasons his _Semiramide_ was coolly received at its production in Venice, 1823. But however simple, not to say primitive, the instrumentation of his Italian operas now strikes us, he made one great innovation in opera for which we readily can grant him recognition as a reformer. He dispensed with _secco_ recitative, the so-called "dry" recitative, which I have mentioned as a drawback to the operatic scores of Mozart. For this Rossini substituted a more dramatic recital of the text leading up to the vocal numbers, and accompanied it with such instruments, or combinations of instruments even to full orchestra, as he considered necessary. We accept a well accompanied recitative in opera as a matter of course. But in its day it was a bold step forward, and Rossini should receive full credit for it. Indeed it will be found that nearly all composers, whose works survive in the repertoire, instead of tamely accepting the routine of workmanship in opera, as inherited from their predecessors, had ideas of their own, which they put into effect, sometimes at the temporary sacrifice of popularity. Gluck and Wagner, especially the latter, were extreme types of the musical reformer. Compared with them Rossini was mild. But his merits should be conceded, and gratefully. Rossini often is spoken of as the "Swan of Pesaro," where he was born. His mother sang _buffa_ rôles in a travelling opera troupe, in the orchestra of which his father was a horn player. After previous musical instruction in Bologna, he was turned over to Angelo Tesei, sang in church and afterwards travelled with his parents both as singer and accompanist, thus gaining at first hand valuable experience in matters operatic. In 1807 he entered the Liceo (conservatory) at Bologna, studying 'cello under Cavedagni and composition with Padre Mattei. By 1810 already he was able to bring out in Venice, and with applause, a one act comedy opera, "La Cambiale di Matrimonio." During 1812 he received commissions for no less than five light operas, scoring, in 1813, with his "Tancredi" his first success in the grand manner. There was scarcely a year now that did not see a work from his pen, sometimes two, until his "Guillaume Tell" was produced in Paris, 1829. This was an entire change of style from his earlier works, possibly, however, foreshadowed by his "Comte Ory," a revision of a previous score, and produced, as was his "Tell," at the Grand Opéra. "Guillaume Tell" not only is written to a French libretto; it is in the French style of grand opera, in which the vocal melody is less ornate and the instrumental portion of the score more carefully considered than in the Italian. During the remaining thirty-nine years of his life not another opera did Rossini compose. He appears deliberately to have formed this resolution in 1836, after hearing "Les Huguenots" by Meyerbeer, as if he considered it useless for him to attempt to rival that composer. He resided in Bologna and Florence until 1855, then in Paris, or near there, dying at Ruelle. He presents the strange spectacle of a successful composer of opera, who lived to be seventy-six, abruptly closing his dramatic career at thirty-seven. IL BARBIERE DI SIVIGLIA THE BARBER OF SEVILLE Opera in two acts, by Rossini; text by Cesare Sterbini, founded on Beaumarchais. Produced, Argentina Theatre, Rome, February 5, 1816; London, King's Theatre, March 10, 1818. Paris, in Italian, 1819; in French, 1824. New York, in English, at the Park Theatre, May 3, 1819, with Thomas Phillipps and Miss Leesugg, as _Almaviva_ and _Rosina_; in Italian, at the Park Theatre, November 29, 1825, with Manuel Garcia, the elder, as _Almaviva_; Manuel Garcia, the younger, _Figaro_; Signorina Garcia (afterwards the famous Malibran), _Rosina_; Signor Rosick, _Dr. Bartolo_; Signor Angrisani, _Don Basilio_; Signor Crivelli, the younger, _Fiorello_, and Signora Garcia, _mère_, _Berta_. (See concluding paragraphs of this article.) Adelina Patti, Melba, Sembrich, Tetrazzini are among the prima donnas who have been familiar to opera lovers in this country as _Rosina_. Galli-Curci appeared in this rôle in Chicago, January 1, 1917. CHARACTERS COUNT ALMAVIVA _Tenor_ DOCTOR BARTOLO _Bass_ BASILIO, a Singing Teacher _Bass_ FIGARO, a Barber _Baritone_ FIORELLO, servant to the Count _Bass_ AMBROSIO, servant to the Doctor _Bass_ ROSINA, the Doctor's ward _Soprano_ BERTA (or MARCELLINA), Rosina's Governess _Soprano_ Notary, Constable, Musicians and Soldiers. _Time_--Seventeenth Century. _Place_--Seville, Spain. Upon episodes in Beaumarchais's trilogy of "Figaro" comedies two composers, Mozart and Rossini, based operas that have long maintained their hold upon the repertoire. The three Beaumarchais comedies are "Le Barbier de Séville," "Le Mariage de Figaro," and "La Mère Coupable." Mozart selected the second of these, Rossini the first; so that although in point of composition Mozart's "Figaro" (May, 1786) antedates Rossini's "Barbiere" (February, 1816) by nearly thirty years, "Il Barbiere di Siviglia" precedes "Le Nozze di Figaro" in point of action. In both operas _Figaro_ is a prominent character, and, while the composers were of wholly different nationality and race, their music is genuinely and equally sparkling and witty. To attempt to decide between them by the flip of a coin would be "heads I win, tails you lose." There is much to say about the first performance of "Il Barbiere di Siviglia"; also about the overture, the origin of _Almaviva's_ graceful solo, "Ecco ridente in cielo," and the music selected by prima donnas to sing in the "lesson scene" in the second act. But these details are better preceded by some information regarding the story and the music. * * * * * Act I, Scene 1. A street by _Dr. Bartolo's_ house. _Count Almaviva_, a Grandee of Spain, is desperately in love with _Rosina_, the ward of _Doctor Bartolo_. Accompanied by his servant Fiorello and a band of lutists, he serenades her with the smooth, flowing measures of "Ecco ridente in cielo," (Lo, smiling in the Eastern sky). [Music: Ecco ridente in cielo,] Just then _Figaro_, the barber, the general factotum and busybody of the town, dances in, singing the famous patter air, "Largo al factotum della città" (Room for the city's factotum). [Music: Largo al factotum della città largo,] He is _Dr. Bartolo's_ barber, and, learning from the _Count_ of his heart's desire, immediately plots with him to bring about his introduction to _Rosina_. There are two clever duets between _Figaro_ and the _Count_--one in which _Almaviva_ promises money to the _Barber_; the other in praise of love and pleasure. _Rosina_ is strictly watched by her guardian, _Doctor Bartolo_, who himself plans to marry his ward, since she has both beauty and money. In this he is assisted by _Basilio_, a music-master. _Rosina_, however, returns the affection of the _Count_, and, in spite of the watchfulness of her guardian, she contrives to drop a letter from the balcony to _Almaviva_, who is still with _Figaro_ below, declaring her passion, and at the same time requesting to know her lover's name. Scene 2. Room in _Dr. Bartolo's_ house. _Rosina_ enters. She sings the brilliant "Una voce poco fa" (A little voice I heard just now), [Music: Una voce poco fa qui nel cor mi risuonò] followed by "Io sono docile" (With mild and docile air). [Music: Io sono docile, son rispettosa,] _Figaro_, who has left _Almaviva_ and come in from the street, tells her that the _Count_ is Signor Lindor, claims him as a cousin, and adds that the young man is deeply in love with her. _Rosina_ is delighted. She gives him a note to convey to the supposed Signor Lindor. (Duet, _Rosina_ and _Figaro_: "Dunque io son, tu non m'inganni?"--Am I his love, or dost thou mock me?) Meanwhile _Bartolo_ has made known to _Basilio_ his suspicions that _Count Almaviva_ is in love with _Rosina_. _Basilio_ advises to start a scandal about the _Count_ and, in an aria ("La calunnia") remarkable for its descriptive crescendo, depicts how calumny may spread from the first breath to a tempest of scandal. [Music: La calunnia è un venticello] To obtain an interview with _Rosina_, the _Count_ disguises himself as a drunken soldier, and forces his way into _Bartolo's_ house. The disguise of _Almaviva_ is penetrated by the guardian, and the pretended soldier is placed under arrest, but is at once released upon secretly showing the officer his order as a Grandee of Spain. Chorus, preceded by the trio, for _Rosina_, _Almaviva_ and _Bartolo_--"Fredda ed immobile" (Awestruck and immovable). Act II. The _Count_ again enters _Bartolo's_ house. He is now disguised as a music teacher, and pretends that he has been sent by _Basilio_ to give a lesson in music, on account of the illness of the latter. He obtains the confidence of _Bartolo_ by producing _Rosina's_ letter to himself, and offering to persuade _Rosina_ that the letter has been given him by a mistress of the _Count_. In this manner he obtains the desired opportunity, under the guise of a music lesson--the "music lesson" scene, which is discussed below--to hold a whispered conversation with _Rosina_. _Figaro_ also manages to obtain the keys of the balcony, an escape is determined on at midnight, and a private marriage arranged. Now, however, _Basilio_ makes his appearance. The lovers are disconcerted, but manage, by persuading the music-master that he really is ill--an illness accelerated by a full purse slipped into his hand by _Almaviva_--to get rid of him. Duet for _Rosina_ and _Almaviva_, "Buona sera, mio Signore" (Fare you well then, good Signore). [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Sammarco as Figaro in "The Barber of Seville"] [Music: (Count) Buona sera, mio Signore (Rosina) Buona sera, buona sera;] When the _Count_ and _Figaro_ have gone, _Bartolo_, who possesses the letter _Rosina_ wrote to _Almaviva_, succeeds, by producing it, and telling her he secured it from another lady-love of the _Count_, in exciting the jealousy of his ward. In her anger she discloses the plan of escape and agrees to marry her guardian. At the appointed time, however, _Figaro_ and the _Count_ make their appearance--the lovers are reconciled, and a notary, procured by _Bartolo_ for his own marriage to _Rosina_, celebrates the marriage of the loving pair. When the guardian enters, with officers of justice, into whose hands he is about to consign _Figaro_ and the _Count_, he is too late, but is reconciled by a promise that he shall receive the equivalent of his ward's dower. * * * * * Besides the music that has been mentioned, there should be reference to "the big quintet" of the arrival and departure of _Basilio_. Just before _Almaviva_ and _Figaro_ enter for the elopement there is a storm. The delicate trio for _Almaviva_, _Rosina_ and _Figaro_, "Zitti, zitti, piano" (Softly, softly and in silence), bears, probably without intention, a resemblance to a passage in Haydn's "Seasons." [Music: Zitti, zitti, piano, piano,] The first performance of "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," an opera that has held its own for over a century, was a scandalous failure, which, however, was not without its amusing incidents. Castil-Blaze, Giuseppe Carpani in his "Rossiniane," and Stendhal in "Vie de Rossini" (a lot of it "cribbed" from Carpani) have told the story. Moreover the _Rosina_ of the evening, Mme. Giorgi-Righetti, who was both pretty and popular, has communicated her reminiscences. December 26, 1815, Duke Cesarini, manager of the Argentine Theatre, Rome, for whom Rossini had contracted to write two operas, brought out the first of these, "Torvaldo e Dorliska," which was poorly received. Thereupon Cesarini handed to the composer the libretto of "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," which Paisiello, who was still living, had set to music more than half a century before. A pleasant memory of the old master's work still lingered with the Roman public. The honorarium was 400 Roman crowns (about $400) and Rossini also was called upon to preside over the orchestra at the pianoforte at the first three performances. It is said that Rossini composed his score in a fortnight. Even if not strictly true, from December 26th to the February 5th following is but little more than a month. The young composer had too much sense not to honour Paisiello; or, at least, to appear to. He hastened to write to the old composer. The latter, although reported to have been intensely jealous of the young maestro (Rossini was only twenty-five) since the sensational success of the latter's "Elisabetta, Regina d'Inghilterra" (Elizabeth, Queen of England), Naples, 1815, replied that he had no objection to another musician dealing with the subject of his opera. In reality, it is said, he counted on Rossini's making a glaring failure of the attempt. The libretto was rearranged by Sterbini, and Rossini wrote a preface, modest in tone, yet not without a hint that he considered the older score out of date. But he took the precaution to show Paisiello's letter to all the music lovers of Rome, and insisted on changing the title of the opera to "Almaviva, ossia l'Inutile Precauzione" (Almaviva, or the Useless Precaution). Nevertheless, as soon as the rumour spread that Rossini was making over Paisiello's work, the young composer's enemies hastened to talk in the cafés about what they called his "underhand action." Paisiello himself, it is believed, was not foreign to these intrigues. A letter in his handwriting was shown to Rossini. In this he is said to have written from Naples to one of his friends in Rome urging him to neglect nothing that would make certain the failure of Rossini's opera. Mme. Giorgi-Righetti reports that "hot-headed enemies" assembled at their posts as soon as the theatre opened, while Rossini's friends, disappointed by the recent ill luck of "Torvaldo e Dorliska" were timid in their support of the new work. Furthermore, according to Mme. Giorgi-Righetti, Rossini weakly yielded to a suggestion from Garcia, and permitted that artist, the _Almaviva_ of the première, to substitute for the air which is sung under _Rosina's_ balcony, a Spanish melody with guitar accompaniment. The scene being laid in Spain, this would aid in giving local colour to the work--such was the idea. But it went wrong. By an unfortunate oversight no one had tuned the guitar with which _Almaviva_ was to accompany himself, and Garcia was obliged to do this on the stage. A string broke. The singer had to replace it, to an accompaniment of laughter and whistling. This was followed by _Figaro's_ entrance air. The audience had settled down for this. But when they saw Zamboni, as _Figaro_, come on the stage with another guitar, another fit of laughing and whistling seized them, and the racket rendered the solo completely inaudible. _Rosina_ appeared on the balcony. The public greatly admired Mme. Giorgi-Righetti and was disposed to applaud her. But, as if to cap the climax of absurdity, she sang: "Segui, o caro, deh segui così" (Continue my dear, do always so). Naturally the audience immediately thought of the two guitars, and went on laughing, whistling, and hissing during the entire duet between _Almaviva_ and _Figaro_. The work seemed doomed. Finally _Rosina_ came on the stage and sang the "Una voce poco fa" (A little voice I heard just now) which had been awaited with impatience (and which today is still considered an operatic _tour de force_ for soprano). The youthful charm of Mme. Giorgi-Righetti, the beauty of her voice, and the favour with which the public regarded her, "won her a sort of ovation" in this number. A triple round of prolonged applause raised hopes for the fate of the work. Rossini rose from his seat at the pianoforte, and bowed. But realizing that the applause was chiefly meant for the singer, he called to her in a whisper, "Oh, natura!" (Oh, human nature!) "Give her thanks," replied the artiste, "since without her you would not have had occasion to rise from your seat." What seemed a favourable turn of affairs did not, however, last long. The whistling was resumed louder than ever at the duet between _Figaro_ and _Rosina_. "All the whistlers of Italy," says Castil-Blaze, "seemed to have given themselves a rendezvous for this performance." Finally, a stentorian voice shouted: "This is the funeral of Don Pollione," words which doubtless had much spice for Roman ears, since the cries, the hisses, the stamping, continued with increased vehemence. When the curtain fell on the first act Rossini turned toward the audience, slightly shrugged his shoulders, and clapped his hands. The audience, though greatly offended by this show of contemptuous disregard for its opinion, reserved its revenge for the second act, not a note of which it allowed to be heard. At the conclusion of the outrage, for such it was, Rossini left the theatre with as much nonchalance as if the row had concerned the work of another. After they had gotten into their street clothes the singers hurried to his lodgings to condole with him. He was sound asleep! [Illustration: Photo copyright, 1916, by Victor Georg Galli-Curci as Rosina in "The Barber of Seville"] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Sembrich as Rosina in "The Barber of Seville"] There have been three historic failures of opera. One was the "Tannhäuser" fiasco, Paris, 1861; another, the failure of "Carmen," Paris, 1875. The earliest I have just described. For the second performance of "Il Barbiere" Rossini replaced the unlucky air introduced by Garcia with the "Ecco ridente in cielo," as it now stands. This cavatina he borrowed from an earlier opera of his own, "Aureliano in Palmira" (Aurelian in Palmyra). It also had figured in a cantata (not an opera) by Rossini, "Ciro in Babilonia" (Cyrus in Babylon)--so that measures first sung by a Persian king in the ancient capital of Nebuchadnezzar, and then by a Roman emperor and his followers in the city which flourished in an oasis in the Syrian desert, were found suitable to be intoned by a lovesick Spanish count of the seventeenth century as a serenade to his lady of Seville. It surely is amusing to discover in tracing this air to its original source, that "Ecco ridente in cielo" (Lo, smiles the morning in the sky) figured in "Aureliano in Palmira" as an address to Isis--"Sposa del grande Osiride" (Spouse of the great Osiris). Equally amusing is the relation of the overture to the opera. The original is said to have been lost. The present one has nothing to do with the ever-ready _Figaro_, the coquettish _Rosina_, or the sentimental _Almaviva_, although there have been writers who have dilated upon it as reflecting the spirit of the opera and its characters. It came from the same source as "Lo, smiles the morning in the sky"--from "Aureliano," and in between had figured as the overture to "Elisabetta, Regina d'Inghilterra." It is thus found to express in "Elisabetta" the conflict of love and pride in one of the most haughty souls of whom history records the memory, and in "Il Barbiere" the frolics of _Figaro_. But the Italians, prior to Verdi's later period, showed little concern over such unfitness of things, for it is recorded that this overture, when played to "Il Barbiere," was much applauded. "Ecco ridente in cielo," it is gravely pointed out by early writers on Rossini, is the "first example of modulation into the minor key later so frequently used by this master and his crowd of imitators." Also that "this ingenious way of avoiding the beaten path was not really a discovery of Rossini's, but belongs to Majo (an Italian who composed thirteen operas) and was used by several musicians before Rossini." What a delightful pother over a modulation that the veriest tyro would now consider hackneyed! However, "Ecco ridente," adapted in such haste to "Il Barbiere" after the failure of Garcia's Spanish ditty, was sung by that artist the evening of the second performance, and loudly applauded. Moreover, Rossini had eliminated from his score everything that seemed to him to have been reasonably disapproved of. Then, pretending to be indisposed, he went to bed in order to avoid appearing at the pianoforte. The public, while not over-enthusiastic, received the work well on this second evening; and before long Rossini was accompanied to his rooms in triumph several evenings in succession, by the light of a thousand torches in the hands of the same Romans who had hissed his opera but a little while before. The work was first given under the title Rossini had insisted on, but soon changed back to that of the original libretto, "Il Barbiere di Siviglia." It is a singular fact that the reception of "Il Barbiere" in Paris was much the same as in Rome. The first performance in the Salle Louvois was coldly received. Newspapers compared Rossini's "Barber" unfavourably with that of Paisiello. Fortunately the opposition demanded a revival of Paisiello's work. Paër, musical director at the Théâtre Italien, not unwilling to spike Rossini's guns, pretended to yield to a public demand, and brought out the earlier opera. But the opposite of what had been expected happened. The work was found to be superannuated. It was voted a bore. It scored a fiasco. Rossini triumphed. The elder Garcia, the _Almaviva_ of the production in Rome, played the same rôle in Paris, as he also did in London, and at the first Italian performance of the work in New York. Rossini had the reputation of being indolent in the extreme--when he had nothing to do. We have seen that when the overture to "Il Barbiere di Siviglia" was lost (if he really ever composed one), he did not take the trouble to compose another, but replaced it with an earlier one. In the music lesson scene in the second act the original score is said to have contained a trio, presumably for _Rosina_, _Almaviva_, and _Bartolo_. This is said to have been lost with the overture. As with the overture, Rossini did not attempt to recompose this number either. He simply let his prima donna sing anything she wanted to. "_Rosina_ sings an air, ad libitum, for the occasion," reads the direction in the libretto. Perhaps it was Giorgi-Righetti who first selected "La Biondina in gondoletta," which was frequently sung in the lesson scene by Italian prima donnas. Later there was substituted the air "Di tanti palpiti" from the opera "Tancredi," which is known as the "aria dei rizzi," or "rice aria," because Rossini, who was a great gourmet, composed it while cooking his rice. Pauline Viardot-Garcia (Garcia's daughter), like her father in the unhappy première of the opera, sang a Spanish song. This may have been "La Calesera," which Adelina Patti also sang in Paris about 1867. Patti's other selections at this time included the laughing song, the so-called "L'Éclat de Rire" (Burst of Laughter) from Auber's "Manon Lescaut," as highly esteemed in Paris in years gone by as Massenet's "Manon" now is. In New York I have heard Patti sing, in this scene, the Arditi waltz, "Il Bacio" (The Kiss); the bolero of Hélène, from "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" (The Sicilian Vespers), by Verdi; the "Shadow Dance" from Meyerbeer's "Dinorah"; and, in concluding the scene, "Home, Sweet Home," which never failed to bring down the house, although the naïveté with which she sang it was more affected than affecting. Among prima donnas much earlier than Patti there were at least two, Grisi and Alboni (after whom boxes were named at the Academy of Music) who adapted a brilliant violin piece, Rode's "Air and Variations," to their powers of vocalization and sang it in the lesson scene. I mention this because the habit of singing an air with variations persisted until Mme. Sembrich's time. She sang those by Proch, a teacher of many prima donnas, among them Tietjens and Peschka-Leutner, who sang at the Peace Jubilee in Boston (1872) and was the first to make famous her teacher's coloratura variations, with "flauto concertante." Besides these variations, Mme. Sembrich sang Strauss's "Voce di Primavera" waltz, "Ah! non giunge," from "La Sonnambula," the bolero from "The Sicilian Vespers" and "O luce di quest'anima," from "Linda di Chamounix." The scene was charmingly brought to an end by her seating herself at the pianoforte and singing, to her own accompaniment, Chopin's "Maiden's Wish." Mme. Melba sang Arditi's waltz, "Se Saran Rose," Massenet's "Sevillana," and the mad scene from "Lucia," ending, like Mme. Sembrich, with a song to which she played her own accompaniment, her choice being Tosti's "Mattinata." Mme. Galli-Curci is apt to begin with the brilliant vengeance air from "The Magic Flute," her encores being "L'Éclat de Rire" by Auber and "Charmante Oiseau" (Pretty Bird) from David's "La Perle du Brésil" (The Pearl of Brazil). "Home, Sweet Home" and "The Last Rose of Summer," both sung by her to her own accompaniment, conclude this interesting "lesson," in which every _Rosina_, although supposedly a pupil receiving a lesson, must be a most brilliant and accomplished prima donna. The artifices of opera are remarkable. The most incongruous things happen. Yet because they do not occur in a drawing-room in real life, but on a stage separated from us by footlights, we lose all sense of their incongruity. The lesson scene occurs, for example, in an opera composed by Rossini in 1816. But the compositions now introduced into that scene not only are not by Rossini but, for the most, are modern waltz songs and compositions entirely different from the class that a voice pupil, at the time the opera was composed, could possibly have sung. But so convincing is the fiction of the stage, so delightfully lawless its artifices, that these things do not trouble us at all. Mme. Galli-Curci, however, by her choice of the "Magic Flute" aria shows that it is entirely possible to select a work that already was a classic at the time "Il Barbiere" was composed, yet satisfies the demand of a modern audience for brilliant vocalization in this scene. There is evidence that in the early history of "Il Barbiere," Rossini's "Di tanti palpiti" (Ah! these heartbeats) from his opera "Tancredi" (Tancred), not only was invariably sung by prima donnas in the lesson scene, but that it almost became a tradition to use it in this scene. In September, 1821, but little more than five years after the work had its première, it was brought out in France (Grand Théâtre, Lyons) with French text by Castil-Blaze, who also superintended the publication of the score. "I give this score," he says, "as Rossini wrote it. But as several pieces have been transposed to favour certain Italian opera singers, I do not consider it useless to point out these transpositions here.... Air No. 10, written in G, is sung in A." Air No. 10, published by Castil-Blaze as an integral part of the score of "Il Barbiere," occurs in the lesson scene. It is "Di tanti palpiti" from "Tancredi." [Music: Di tanti palpiti e tante pene] Readers familiar with the history of opera, therefore aware that Alboni was a contralto, will wonder at her having appeared as _Rosina_, when that rôle is associated with prima donnas whose voices are extremely high and flexible. But the rôle was written for low voice. Giorgi-Righetti, the first _Rosina_, was a contralto. As it now is sung by high sopranos, the music of the rôle is transposed from the original to higher keys in order to give full scope for brilliant vocalization on high notes. Many liberties have been taken by prima donnas in the way of vocal flourishes and a general decking out of the score of "Il Barbiere" with embellishments. The story goes that Patti once sang "Una voce poco fa," with her own frills added, to Rossini, in Paris. "A very pretty song! Whose is it?" is said to have been the composer's cutting comment. There is another anecdote about "Il Barbiere" which brings in Donizetti, who was asked if he believed that Rossini really had composed the opera in thirteen days. "Why not? He's so lazy," is the reported reply. If the story is true, Donizetti was a very forward young man. He was only nineteen when "Il Barbiere" was produced, and had not yet brought out his first opera. The first performance in America of "The Barber of Seville" was in English at the Park Theatre, New York, May 3, 1819. (May 17th, cited by some authorities, was the date of the third performance, and is so announced in the advertisements.) Thomas Phillips was _Almaviva_ and Miss Leesugg _Rosina_. "Report speaks in loud terms of the new opera called 'The Barber of Seville' which is announced for this evening. The music is said to be very splendid and is expected to be most effective." This primitive bit of "publicity," remarkable for its day, appeared in _The Evening Post_, New York, Monday, May 3, 1819. The second performance took place May 7th. Much music was interpolated. Phillips, as _Almaviva_, introduced "The Soldier's Bride," "Robin Adair," "Pomposo, or a Receipt for an Italian Song," and "the favourite duet with Miss Leesugg, of 'I love thee.'" (One wonders what was left of Rossini's score.) In 1821 he appeared again with Miss Holman as _Rosina_. That Phillips should have sung _Figaro_, a baritone rôle in "Le Nozze di Figaro," and _Almaviva_, a tenor part, in "Il Barbiere," may seem odd. But in the Mozart opera he appeared in Bishop's adaptation, in which the _Figaro_ rôle is neither too high for a baritone, nor too low for a tenor. In fact the liberties Bishop took with Mozart's score are so great (and so outrageous) that Phillips need have hesitated at nothing. On Tuesday, November 22, 1825, Manuel Garcia, the elder, issued the preliminary announcement of his season of Italian opera at the Park Theatre, New York. The printers appear to have had a struggle with the Italian titles of operas and names of Italian composers. For _The Evening Post_ announces that "The Opera of 'H. Barbiora di Seviglia,' by Rosina, is now in rehearsal and will be given as soon as possible." That "soon as possible" was the evening of November 29th, and is regarded as the date of the first performance in this country of opera in Italian. SEMIRAMIDE Opera in two acts by Rossini, words by Gaetana Rossi, founded on Voltaire's tragedy, "Sémiramis." Produced, February 3, 1823, Fenice Theatre, Venice; London, King's Theatre, July 15, 1824; Paris, July 9, 1860, as Sémiramis; New York, April 25, 1826; 1855 (with Grisi and Vestivalli); 1890 (with Patti and Scalchi). CHARACTERS SEMIRAMIDE, Queen of Babylon _Soprano_ ARSACES, Commander of the Assyrian Army _Contralto_ GHOST OF NINUS _Bass_ OROE, Chief of the Magi _Bass_ ASSUR, a Prince _Baritone_ AZEMA, a Princess _Soprano_ IDRENUS } { _Tenor_ MITRANUS } of the royal house household { _Baritone_ Magi, Guards, Satraps, Slaves. _Time_--Antiquity. _Place_--Babylon. "Semiramide" seems to have had its day. Yet, were a soprano and a contralto, capable of doing justice to the rôles of _Semiramide_ and _Arsaces_, to appear in conjunction in the operatic firmament the opera might be successfully revived, as it was for Patti and Scalchi. The latter, in her prime when she first appeared here, was one of the greatest of contraltos. I think that all, who, like myself, had the good fortune to hear that revival of "Semiramide," still consider the singing by Patti and Scalchi of the duet, "Giorno d'orrore" (Day of horror) the finest example of _bel canto_ it has been their privilege to listen to. For beauty and purity of tone, smoothness of phrasing, elegance, and synchronization of embellishment it has not been equalled here since. In the first act of the opera is a brilliant aria for _Semiramide_, "Bel raggio lusinghier" (Bright ray of hope),--the one piece that has kept the opera in the phonograph repertoire. [Music: Bel raggio lusinghier] A priests' march and chorus, which leads up to the finale of the first act, is accompanied not only by orchestra, but also by full military band on the stage, the first instance of the employment of the latter in Italian opera. The duet, "Giorno d'orrore," is in the second act. [Music] For many years the overture to "Semiramide" was a favourite at popular concerts. It was admired for the broad, hymnlike air in the introduction, which in the opera becomes an effective chorus, [Music] and for the graceful, lively melody, which is first announced on the clarinet. I call it "graceful" and "lively," and so it would be considered today. But in the opera it accompanies [Music] the cautious entrance of priests into a darkened temple where a deep mystery is impending, and, at the time the opera was produced, this music, which now we would describe as above, was supposed to be "shivery" and gruesome. In fact the scene was objected to by audiences of that now seemingly remote period, on the ground that the orchestra was too prominent and that, in the treatment of the instrumental score to his operas, Rossini was leaning too heavily toward German models! But this, remember, was in 1824. The story of "Semiramide" can be briefly told. _Semiramide_, Queen of Babylon, has murdered her husband, _Ninus_, the King. In this deed she was assisted by _Prince Assur_, who expects to win her hand and the succession to the throne. _Semiramide_, however, is enamoured of a comely youth, _Arsaces_, victorious commander of her army, and supposedly a Scythian, but in reality her own son, of which relationship only _Oroe_, the chief priest of the temple, is aware. _Arsaces_ himself is in love with the royal Princess _Azema_. At a gathering in the temple, the gates of the tomb of _Ninus_ are opened as if by invisible hands. The shade of _Ninus_ announces that _Arsaces_ shall be his successor; and summons him to come to the tomb at midnight there to learn the secret of his assassination. Enraged at the prophecy of the succession of _Arsaces_ and knowing of his coming visit to the tomb of _Ninus_, _Assur_ contrives to enter it; while _Semiramide_, who now knows that the young warrior is her son, comes to the tomb to warn him against _Assur_. The three principal personages in the drama are thus brought together at its climax. _Assur_ makes what would be a fatal thrust at _Arsaces_. _Semiramide_ interposes herself between the two men and receives the death wound. _Arsaces_ then fights and kills _Assur_, ascends the throne and weds _Azema_. According to legend, Semiramis, when a babe, was fed by doves; and, after reigning for forty-two years, disappeared or was changed into a dove and flew away. For the first New York performance Garcia announced the work as "La Figlia dell'Aria, or Semiramide" (The Daughter of the Air, etc.). GUILLAUME TELL WILLIAM TELL Opera by Rossini, originally in five acts, cut down to three by omitting the third act and condensing the fourth and fifth into one, then rearranged in four; words by "Jouy" (V.J. Étienne), rearranged by Hippolyte and Armand Marast. Produced, Grand Opéra, Paris, August 3, 1829, Nourrit being the original _Arnold_; revived with Duprez, 1837. Italy, "Guglielmo Tell," at Lucca, September 17, 1831. London, Drury Lane, 1830, in English; Her Majesty's Theatre, 1839, in Italian. In New York the title rôle has been sung by Karl Formes, who made his first American tour in 1857. The interpreters of _Arnold_ have included the Polish tenor Mierzwinski at the Academy of Music, and Tamagno. CHARACTERS WILLIAM TELL _Baritone_ HEDWIGA, Tell's wife _Soprano_ JEMMY, Tell's son _Soprano_ ARNOLD, suitor of Matilda _Tenor_ MELCTHAL, Arnold's father _Bass_ GESSLER, governor of Schwitz and Uri _Bass_ MATILDA, Gessler's daughter _Soprano_ RUDOLPH, captain in Gessler's guard _Tenor_ WALTER FURST _Bass_ LEUTHOLD, a shepherd _Bass_ RUEDI, a fisherman _Tenor_ Peasants, Knights, Pages, Ladies, Hunters, Soldiers, Guards, and three Bridal Couples. _Time_--Thirteenth Century. _Place_--Switzerland. _Arnold_, a Swiss patriot and son of the venerable Swiss leader, _Melcthal_, has saved from drowning _Matilda_, daughter of the Austrian tyrant _Gessler_, whom the Swiss abhor. _Arnold_ and _Matilda_ have fallen in love with each other. Act I. A beautiful May morning has dawned over the Lake of Lucerne, on which _Tell's_ house is situated. It is the day of the Shepherd Festival. According to ancient custom the grey-haired _Melcthal_ blesses the loving couples among them. But his own son, _Arnold_, does not ask a blessing of the old man. Yet, although he loves _Matilda_, his heart also belongs to his native land. The festival is interrupted by the sound of horns. It is the train of _Gessler_, the hated tyrant. _Leuthold_ rushes in, breathless. In order to protect his daughter from dishonour, he has been obliged to kill one of _Gessler's_ soldiers. He is pursued. To cross the lake is his only means of escape. But who will take him in the face of the storm that is coming up? _Tell_ wastes no time in thinking. He acts. It is the last possible moment. _Gessler's_ guards already are seen, _Rudolph_ at their head. With _Tell's_ aid the fugitive escapes them, but they turn to the country folk, and seize and carry off old _Melcthal_. Act II. In a valley by a lake _Arnold_ and _Matilda_ meet and again pledge their love. _Arnold_ learns from _Tell_ and _Walter_ that his father has been slain by _Gessler's_ order. His thoughts turn to vengeance. The three men bind themselves by oath to free Switzerland. The cantons gather and swear to throw off the Austrian yoke. Act III. The market-place in Altdorf. It is the hundredth anniversary of Austrian rule in Switzerland. Fittingly to celebrate the day _Gessler_ has ordered his hat to be placed on top of a pole. The Swiss are commanded to make obeisance to the hat. _Tell_ comes along holding his son _Jemmy_ by the hand. He refuses to pay homage to the hat. As in him is also recognized the man who saved _Leuthold_, he must be punished. _Gessler_ cynically orders him to shoot an apple from _Jemmy's_ head. The shot succeeds. Fearless, as before, _Tell_ informs _Gessler_ that the second arrow was intended for him, had the first missed its mark. _Tell's_ arrest is ordered, but the armed Swiss, who have risen against Austria, approach. _Gessler_ falls by _Tell's_ shot; the fight ends with the complete victory for the Swiss. _Matilda_ who still loves _Arnold_ finds refuge in his arms. "Guillaume Tell" is the only opera by an Italian of which it can be said that the overture has gained world-wide fame, and justly so, while the opera itself is so rarely heard that it may almost be said to have passed out of the repertoire. Occasionally it is revived for the benefit of a high tenor like Tamagno. In point of fact, however, it is too good a work to be made the vehicle of a single operatic star. It is a question if, with a fine ensemble, "Guillaume Tell" could not be restored to the list of operas regularly given. Or, is it one of those works more famous than effective; and is that why, at this point I am reminded of a passage in Whistler's "Ten O'clock"? The painter is writing of art and of how little its spirit is affected by the personality of the artist, or even by the character of a whole people. "A whimsical goddess," he writes, "and a capricious, her strong sense of joy tolerates no dullness, and, live we never so spotlessly, still may she turn her back upon us. "As, from time immemorial, has she done upon the Swiss in their mountains. "What more worthy people! Whose every Alpine gap yawns with tradition, and is stocked with noble story; yet, the perverse and scornful one will none of it, and the sons of patriots are left with the clock that turns the mill, and the sudden cuckoo, with difficulty restrained in its box!" Because we associate Switzerland with tourists, personally conducted and otherwise, with hotels, guides, and a personnel trained to welcome, entertain, and speed the departing guest, is it difficult for us to grasp the heroic strain in "Guillaume Tell"? Surely it is a picturesque opera; and Switzerland has a heroic past. Probably the real reasons for the lack of public interest in the opera are the clumsy libretto and the fact that Rossini, an Italian, was not wholly in his element in composing a grand opera in the French style, which "Guillaume Tell" is. It would be difficult to point out just how and where the style hampered the composer, but there constantly is an undefined feeling that it did--that the score is not as spontaneous as, for example, "The Barber of Seville"; and that, although "Guillaume Tell" is heroic, the "sudden cuckoo, with difficulty restrained in its box," may at any time pop out and join in the proceedings. The care which Rossini bestowed on this work is seen in the layout and composition of the overture, which as an instrumental number is as fine a _tour de force_ as his "Una voce poco fa," "Bel raggio," or "Giorno d'orrore" are for voice. The slow introduction denotes Alpine calm. There is a beautiful passage for violoncellos, which has been quoted in books on instrumentation. In it Rossini may well have harked back to his student years, when he was a pupil in violoncello playing at the conservatory in Bologna. The calm is followed by a storm and this, in turn, by a "Ranz des Vaches." The final section consists of a trumpet call, followed by a fast movement, which can be played so as to leave the hearer quite breathless. It is supposed to represent the call to arms and the uprising of the Swiss against their Austrian oppressors, whose yoke they threw off. The most striking musical number in the first act of the opera, is _Arnold's_ "Ah, Matilda." [Music: Ah! Matilda, io t'amo, t'adoro [Transcriber's Note: original ends with incorrect 'e amoe']] A tenor with powerful high tones in his voice always can render this with great effect. In fact it is so effective that its coming so early in the work is a fault of construction which in my opinion has been a factor in the non-success of the opera as a whole. Even a tenor like Mierzwinski, "a natural singer of short-lived celebrity," with remarkable high notes, in this number could rouse to a high pitch of enthusiasm an audience that remained comparatively calm the rest of the evening. The climax of the second act is the trio between _Arnold_, _Tell_, and _Walter_, followed by the assembly of the cantons and the taking of the oath to conquer or die ("La gloria infiammi--i nostri petti"--May glory our hearts with courage exalt). Its most effective passage begins as follows: [Music] Another striking musical number is _Arnold's_ solo in the last act, at sight of his ruined home, "O muto asil" (O, silent abode). The opera ends with a hymn to liberty, "I boschi, i monti" (Through forests wild, o'er mountain peaks). At the initial performance of "Guillaume Tell" in Paris, there was no indication that the opera was not destined to remain for many years in the repertoire. It was given fifty-six times. Then, because of the great length of the opera, only the second act was performed in connection with some other work, until the sensational success of Duprez, in 1837, led to a revival. "Guillaume Tell," given in full, would last nearly five hours. The poor quality of the original libretto by "Jouy" led to the revision by Bis, but even after that there had to be cuts. "Ah, Maestro," exclaimed an enthusiastic admirer of Rossini to that master, "I heard your 'William Tell' at the Opera last night!" "What?" asked Rossini. "The whole of it?" Clever; but by his question Rossini unconsciously put his finger on the weak spot of the opera he intended to be his masterpiece. Be it never so well given, it is long-winded. Vincenzo Bellini (1802-1835) Bellini, born in Catania, Sicily, November 3, 1802, is the composer of "La Sonnambula," one of the most popular works of the old type of Italian opera still found in the repertoire. "I Puritani," another work by him, was given for the opening of two New York opera houses, Palmo's in 1844, and Hammerstein's Manhattan, in 1903. But it maintains itself only precariously. "Norma" is given still more rarely, although it contains "Casta diva," one of the most famous solos for soprano in the entire Italian repertory. This composer died at the village of Puteaux, France, September 23, 1835, soon after the highly successful production of "I Puritani" in Paris, and while he was working on a commission to compose two operas for the San Carlo Theatre, Naples, which had come to him through the success of "Puritani." He was only thirty-two. It is not unlikely that had this composer, with his facile and graceful gift for melody, lived longer he would have developed, as Verdi did, a maturer and broader style, and especially have paid more attention to the instrumentation of his operas, a detail which he sadly neglected. LA SONNAMBULA THE SLEEPWALKER Opera in three acts by Bellini, words by Felice Romani. Produced, Carcano Theatre, Milan, March 6, 1831. London, King's Theatre, July 28, 1831; in English, Drury Lane, May 1, 1833. New York, Park Theatre, November 13, 1835, in English, with Brough, Richings, and Mr. and Mrs. Wood; in Italian, Palmo's Opera House, May 11, 1844; frequently sung by Gerster and by Adelina Patti at the Academy of Music, and at the Metropolitan Opera House by Sembrich; at the Manhattan Opera House by Tetrazzini. CHARACTERS COUNT RODOLPHO, Lord of the castle _Bass_ TERESA, proprietress of the mill _Soprano_ AMINA, her foster daughter _Soprano_ LISA, proprietress of the village inn _Soprano_ ELVINO, a young farmer _Tenor_ ALESSIO, a villager _Bass_ Notary, Villagers, etc. _Time_--Early Nineteenth Century. _Place_--A Village in Switzerland. Act I. The village green. On one side an inn. In the background a water mill. In the distance mountains. As the curtain rises the villagers are making merry, for they are about to celebrate a nuptial contract between _Amina_, an orphan brought up as the foster-child of _Teresa_, the mistress of the village mill, and _Elvino_, a young landowner of the neighbourhood. These preparations, however, fill with jealousy the heart of _Lisa_, the proprietress of the inn. For she is in love with _Elvino_. Nor do _Alessio's_ ill-timed attentions please her. _Amina_ enters under the care of _Teresa_, and returns her thanks to her neighbours for their good wishes. She has two attractive solos. These are "Come per me sereno" (How, for me brightly shining) [Music: Come per me sereno] and "Sovra il sen la man mi posa" (With this heart its joy revealing). [Music: Sovra il sen la man mi posa,] Both are replete with grace and charm. When the village _Notary_ and _Elvino_ appear the contract is signed and attested, and _Elvino_ places a ring on _Amina's_ finger. Duet: "Prendi, l'anel ti dono" (Take now the ring I give you), a composition in long-flowing expressive measures. Then the village is startled by the crack of whips and the rumble of wheels. A handsome stranger in officer's fatigue uniform appears. He desires to have his horses watered and fed, before he proceeds to the castle. The road is bad, night is approaching. Counselled by the villagers, and urged by _Lisa_, the officer consents to remain the night at the inn. The villagers know it not at this time, but the officer is _Rodolpho_, the lord of the castle. He looks about him and recalls the scenes of his youth: "Vi ravviso" (As I view). [Music: Vi ravviso a luoghi ameni,] He then gallantly addresses himself to _Amina_ in the charming air, "Tu non sai con quei begli occhi" (You know not, maid, the light your eyes within). [Music: Tu non sai con quei begli occhi,] _Elvino_ is piqued at the stranger's attentions to his bride, but _Teresa_ warns all present to retire, for the village is said to be haunted by a phantom. The stranger treats the superstition lightly, and, ushered in by _Lisa_, retires to the village inn. All then wend their several ways homeward. _Elvino_, however, finds time to upbraid _Amina_ for seemingly having found much pleasure in the stranger's gallant speeches, but before they part there are mutual concessions and forgiveness. Act II. _Rodolpho's_ sleeping apartment at the inn. He enters, conducted by _Lisa_. She is coquettish, he quite willing to meet her halfway in taking liberties with her. He learns from her that his identity as the lord of the castle has now been discovered by the villagers, and that they will shortly come to the inn to offer their congratulations. He is annoyed, but quite willing that _Lisa's_ attractions shall atone therefor. At that moment, however, there is a noise without, and _Lisa_ escapes into an adjoining room. In her haste she drops her handkerchief, which _Rodolpho_ picks up and hangs over the bedpost. A few moments later he is amazed to see _Amina_, all in white, raise his window and enter his room. He realizes almost immediately that she is walking in her sleep, and that it is her somnambulism which has given rise to the superstition of the village phantom. In her sleep _Amina_ speaks of her approaching marriage, of _Elvino's_ jealousy, of their quarrel and reconciliation. _Rodolpho_, not wishing to embarrass her by his presence should she suddenly awaken, extinguishes the candles, steps out of the window and closes it lightly after him. Still asleep _Amina_ sinks down upon the bed. The villagers enter to greet _Rodolpho_. As the room is darkened, and, to their amusement, they see the figure of a woman on the bed, they are about to withdraw discreetly, when _Lisa_, who knows what has happened, enters with a light, brings in _Elvino_, and points out _Amina_ to him. The light, the sounds, awaken her. Her natural confusion at the situation in which she finds herself is mistaken by _Elvino_ for evidence of guilt. He casts her off. The others, save _Teresa_, share his suspicions. _Teresa_, in a simple, natural way, takes the handkerchief hanging over the bedpost and places it around _Amina's_ neck, and when the poor, grief-stricken girl swoons, as _Elvino_ turns away from her, her foster-mother catches her in her arms. In this scene, indeed in this act, the most striking musical number is the duet near the end. It is feelingly composed, and, as befits the situation of a girl mistakenly, yet none the less cruelly, accused by her lover, is almost wholly devoid of vocal embellishment. It begins with _Amina's_ protestations of innocence: "D'un pensiero, e d'un accento" (Not in thought's remotest region). When _Elvino's_ voice joins hers there is no comfort for her in his words. He is still haunted by dark suspicions. [Music] An unusual and beautiful effect is the closing of the duet with an expressive phrase for tenor alone: "Questo pianto del mio cor" (With what grief my heart is torn). [Music] Act III, Scene 1. A shady valley between the village and the castle. The villagers are proceeding to the castle to beg _Rodolpho_ to intercede with _Elvino_ for _Amina_. _Elvino_ meets _Amina_. Still enraged at what he considers her perfidy, he snatches from her finger the ring he gave her. _Amina_ still loves him. She expresses her feelings in the air: "Ah! perchè non posso odiarti" (Ah! Why is it I cannot hate him [Transcriber's Note: should be 'hate you']). Scene 2. The village, near _Teresa's_ mill. Water runs through the race and the wheel turns rapidly. A slender wooden bridge, spanning the wheel, gives access from some dormer lights in the millroof to an old stone flight of steps leading down to the foreground. _Lisa_ has been making hay while the sun shines. She has induced _Elvino_ to promise to marry her. Preparations for the wedding are on foot. The villagers have assembled. _Rodolpho_ endeavours to dissuade _Elvino_ from the step he is about to take. He explains that _Amina_ is a somnambulist. But _Elvino_ has never heard of somnambulism. He remains utterly incredulous. _Teresa_ begs the villagers to make less disturbance, as poor _Amina_ is asleep in the mill. The girl's foster-mother learns of _Elvino's_ intention of marrying _Lisa_. Straightway she takes from her bosom _Lisa's_ handkerchief, which she found hanging over _Rodolpho's_ bedpost. _Lisa_ is confused. _Elvino_ feels that she, too, has betrayed him. _Rodolpho_ again urges upon _Elvino_ that _Amina_ never was false to him--that she is the innocent victim of sleepwalking. "Who can prove it?" _Elvino_ asks in agonized tones. "Who? She herself!--See there!" exclaims _Rodolpho_. For at that very moment _Amina_, in her nightdress, lamp in hand, emerges from a window in the mill roof. She passes along, still asleep, to the lightly built bridge spanning the mill wheel, which is still turning round quickly. Now she sets foot on the narrow, insecure bridge. The villagers fall on their knees in prayer that she may cross safely. _Rodolpho_ stands among them, head uncovered. As _Amina_ crosses the bridge a rotting plank breaks under her footsteps. The lamp falls from her hand into the torrent beneath. She, however, reaches the other side, and gains the stone steps, which she descends. Still walking in her sleep, she advances to where stand the villagers and _Rodolpho_. She kneels and prays for _Elvino_. Then rising, she speaks of the ring he has taken from her, and draws from her bosom the flowers given to her by him on the previous day. "Ah! non credea mirarti sì presto estinto, o fiore" (Scarcely could I believe it that so soon thou would'st wither, O blossoms). [Music: Ah! non credea mirarti sì presto estinto, o fiore,] Gently _Elvino_ replaces the ring upon her finger, and kneels before her. "Viva Amina!" cry the villagers. She awakens. Instead of sorrow, she sees joy all around her, and _Elvino_, with arms outstretched, waiting to beg her forgiveness and lead her to the altar. "Ah! non giunge uman pensiero Al contento ond'io son piena" (Mingle not an earthly sorrow With the rapture now o'er me stealing). [Music: Ah! non giunge uman pensiero Al contento ond'io son piena] It ends with this brilliant passage: [Music] The "Ah! non giunge" is one of the show-pieces of Italian opera. Nor is its brilliance hard and glittering. It is the brightness of a tender soul rejoicing at being enabled to cast off sorrow. Indeed, there is about the entire opera a sweetness and a gentle charm, that go far to account for its having endured so long in the repertoire, out of which so many works far more ambitious have been dropped. Opera-goers of the old Academy of Music days will recall the bell-like tones of Etelka Gerster's voice in "Ah! non giunge"; nor will they ever forget the bird-like, spontaneous singing in this rôle of Adelina Patti, gifted with a voice and an art such as those who had the privilege of hearing her in her prime have not heard since, nor are likely to hear again. Admirers of Mme. Sembrich's art also are justly numerous, and it is fortunate for habitués of the Metropolitan that she was so long in the company singing at that house. She was a charming _Amina_. Tetrazzini was brilliant in "La Sonnambula." _Elvino_ is a stick of a rôle for tenor. _Rodolpho_ has the redeeming grace of chivalry. _Amina_ is gentle, charming, appealing. The story of "Sonnambula" is simple and thoroughly intelligible, which cannot be said for all opera plots. The mainspring of the action is the interesting psycho-physical manifestation of somnambulism. This is effectively worked out. The crossing of the bridge in the last scene is a tense moment in the simple story. It calls for an interesting stage "property"--the plank that breaks without precipitating _Amina_, who sometimes may have more embonpoint than voice, into the mill-race. All these elements contribute to the success of "La Sonnambula," which, produced in 1831, still is a good evening's entertainment. _Amina_ was one of Jenny Lind's favourite rôles. There is a beautiful portrait of her in the character by Eichens. It shows her, in the last act, kneeling and singing "Ah! non credea," and is somewhat of a rarity. A copy of it is in the print department of the New York Public Library. It is far more interesting than her better known portraits. NORMA Opera in two acts, by Bellini; words by Felice Romani, based on an old French story. Produced, December 26, 1831, Milan. King's Theatre, June 20, 1833, in Italian; Drury Lane, June 24, 1837, in English. Paris, Théâtre des Italiens, 1833. New York, February 25, 1841, at the Park Theatre; October 2, 1854, for the opening of the Academy of Music, with Grisi, Mario, and Susini; December 19, 1891, Metropolitan Opera House, with Lilli Lehmann as _Norma_. CHARACTERS POLLIONE, Roman Pro-consul in Gaul _Tenor_ OROVESO, Archdruid, father of Norma _Bass_ NORMA, High-priestess of the druidical temple of Esus _Soprano_ ADALGISA, a virgin of the temple _Contralto_ CLOTILDA, Norma's confidante _Soprano_ FLAVIUS, a centurion _Tenor_ Priests, Officers of the Temple, Gallic Warriors, Priestesses and Virgins of the Temple, and Two Children of Norma and Pollione. _Time_--Roman Occupation, about 50 B.C. _Place_--Gaul. Act I. Sacred grove of the Druids. The high priest _Oroveso_ comes with the Druids to the sacred grove to beg of the gods to rouse the people to war and aid them to accomplish the destruction of the Romans. Scarcely have they gone than the Roman Pro-consul _Pollione_ appears and confides to his Centurion, _Flavius_, that he no longer loves _Norma_, although she has broken her vows of chastity for him and has borne him two sons. He has seen _Adalgisa_ and loves her. At the sound of the sacred instrument of bronze that calls the Druids to the temple, the Romans disappear. The priests and priestesses approach the altar. _Norma_, the high-priestess, daughter of _Oroveso_, ascends the steps of the altar. No one suspects her intimacy with the Roman enemy. But she loves the faithless man and therefore seeks to avert the danger that threatens him, should Gaul rise against the Romans, by prophesying that Rome will fall through its own weakness, and declaring that it is not yet the will of the gods that Gaul shall go to war. She also prays to the "chaste goddess" for the return of the Roman leader, who has left her. Another priestess is kneeling in deep prayer. This is _Adalgisa_, who also loves _Pollione_. The scene changes and shows _Norma's_ dwelling. The priestess is steeped in deep sadness, for she knows that _Pollione_ plans to desert her and their offspring, although she is not yet aware of her rival's identity. _Adalgisa_ comes to her to unburden her heart to her superior. She confesses that to her faith she has become untrue through love--and love for a Roman. _Norma_, thinking of her own unfaithfulness to her vows, is about to free _Adalgisa_ from hers, when _Pollione_ appears. Now she learns who the beloved Roman of _Adalgisa_ is. But the latter turns from _Pollione_. She loves _Norma_ too well to go away with the betrayer of the high-priestess. Act II. _Norma_, filled with despair, is beside the cradle of her little ones. An impulse to kill them comes over her. But motherhood triumphs over unrequited love. She will renounce her lover. _Adalgisa_ shall become the happy spouse of _Pollione_, but shall promise to take the place of mother to her children. _Adalgisa_, however, will not hear of treachery to _Norma_. She goes to _Pollione_, but only to remind him of his duty. The scene changes again to a wooded region of the temple in which the warriors of Gaul have gathered. _Norma_ awaits the result of _Adalgisa's_ plea to _Pollione_; then learns that she has failed and has come back to the grove to pass her life as a priestess. _Norma's_ wrath is now beyond control. Three times she strikes the brazen shield; and, when the warriors have gathered, they joyfully hear her message: War against the Romans! But with their deep war song now mingles the sound of tumult from the temple. A Roman has broken into the sacred edifice. He has been captured. It is _Pollione_, who she knows has sought to carry off _Adalgisa_. The penalty for his intrusion is death. But _Norma_, moved by love to pity, and still hoping to save her recreant lover, submits a new victim to the enraged Gauls--a perjured virgin of the priesthood. "Speak, then, and name her!" they cry. To their amazement she utters her own name, then confesses all to her father, and to his care confides her children. A pyre has been erected. She mounts it, but not alone. _Pollione_, his love rekindled at the spectacle of her greatness of soul, joins her. In the flames he, too, will atone for their offences before God. * * * * * The ambition of every dramatic soprano of old was to don the robes of a priestess, bind her brow with the mystic vervain, take in her hand a golden sickle, and appear in the sacred grove of the Druids, there to invoke the chaste goddess of the moon in the famous "Casta diva." Prima donnas of a later period found further inspiration thereto in the beautiful portrait of Grisi as _Norma_. Perhaps the last to yield to the temptation was Lilli Lehmann, who, not content with having demonstrated her greatness as _Brünnhilde_ and _Isolde_, desired in 1891, to demonstrate that she was also a great _Norma_, a demonstration which did not cause her audience to become unduly demonstrative. The fact is, it would be difficult to revive successfully "Norma" as a whole, although there is not the slightest doubt that "Casta diva, che in argenti" (Chaste goddess, may thy silver beam), is one of the most exquisite gems of Italian song. [Music: Casta Diva,] It is followed immediately by "Ah! bello a me ritorna" (Beloved, return unto me), which, being an allegro, contrasts effectively with the long, flowing measures of "Casta diva." Before this in the opera there has occurred another familiar number, the opening march and chorus of the Druids, "Dell'aura tua profetica" (With thy prophetic oracle). [Music] There is a fine trio for _Norma_, _Adalgisa_, and _Pollione_, at the end of the first act, "Oh! di qual sei tu vittima" (O, how his art deceived you). [Music: Oh! di qual sei tu vittima] In the scene between _Norma_ and _Adalgisa_, in the second act, is the duet, "Mira, O, Norma!" (Hear me, Norma). [Music: Mira, o, Norma! a' tuoi ginocchi,] Among the melodious passages in the opera, this is second in beauty only to "Casta diva." I PURITANI THE PURITANS Opera in three acts, by Bellini; words by Count Pepoli. Produced, Paris, Théâtre des Italiens, January 25, 1835, with Grisi as _Elvira_, Rubini as _Arturo_, Tamburini as _Riccardo_ and Lablache as _Giorgio_. London, King's Theatre, May 21, 1835, in Italian (I Puritani ed i Cavalieri). New York, February 3, 1844; Academy of Music, 1883, with Gerster; Manhattan Opera House, December 3, 1906, with Bonci as _Arturo_, and Pinkert as _Elvira_; and in 1909 with Tetrazzini as _Elvira_. CHARACTERS LORD GAUTIER WALTON of the Puritans _Bass_ SIR GEORGE WALTON, his brother, of the Puritans _Bass_ LORD ARTHUR TALBOT, of the Cavaliers _Tenor_ SIR RICHARD FORTH, of the Puritans _Baritone_ SIR BENNO ROBERTSON, of the Puritans _Tenor_ HENRIETTA, of France, widow of Charles I. _Soprano_ ELVIRA, daughter of Lord Walton _Soprano_ Puritans, Soldiers of the Commonwealth, Men-at-Arms, Women, Pages, etc. _Time_--During the Wars between Cromwell and the Stuarts. _Place_--Near Plymouth, England. Act I is laid in a fortress near Plymouth, held by _Lord Walton_ for Cromwell. _Lord Walton's_ daughter, _Elvira_, is in love with _Lord Arthur Talbot_, a cavalier and adherent of the Stuarts, but her father has promised her hand to _Sir Richard Forth_, like himself a follower of Cromwell. He relents, however, and _Elvira_ is bidden by her uncle, _Sir George Walton_, to prepare for her nuptials with _Arthur_, for whom a safe-conduct to the fortress has been provided. _Queen Henrietta_, widow of Charles I., is a prisoner in the fortress. On discovering that she is under sentence of death, _Arthur_, loyal to the Stuarts, enables her to escape by draping her in _Elvira's_ bridal veil and conducting her past the guards, as if she were the bride. There is one critical moment. They are met by _Sir Richard_, who had hoped to marry _Elvira_. The men draw their swords, but a disarrangement of the veil shows _Sir Richard_ that the woman he supposes to be _Lord Arthur's_ bride is not _Elvira_. He permits them to pass. When the escape is discovered, _Elvira_, believing herself deserted, loses her reason. Those who had gathered for the nuptials, now, in a stirring chorus, invoke maledictions upon _Arthur's_ head. Act II plays in another part of the fortress. It concerns itself chiefly with the exhibition of _Elvira's_ madness. But it has also the famous martial duet, "Suoni la tromba" (Sound the trumpet), in which _Sir George_ and _Sir Richard_ announce their readiness to meet _Arthur_ in battle and strive to avenge _Elvira's_ sad plight. Act III is laid in a grove near the fortress. _Arthur_, although proscribed, seeks out _Elvira_. Her joy at seeing him again temporarily lifts the clouds from her mind, but renewed evidence of her disturbed mental state alarms her lover. He hears men, whom he knows to be in pursuit of him, approaching, and is aware that capture means death, but he will not leave _Elvira_. He is apprehended and is about to be executed when a messenger arrives with news of the defeat of the Stuarts and a pardon for all prisoners. _Arthur_ is freed. The sudden shock of joy restores _Elvira's_ reason. The lovers are united. * * * * * As an opera "I Puritani" lacks the naïveté of "La Sonnambula," nor has it any one number of the serene beauty of the "Casta diva" in "Norma." Occasionally, however, it is revived for a tenor like Bonci, whose elegance of phrasing finds exceptional opportunity in the rôle of _Arthur_; or for some renowned prima donna of the brilliant coloratura type, for whom _Elvira_ is a grateful part. The principal musical numbers are, in act first, _Sir Richard Forth's_ cavatina, "Ah! per sempre io ti perdei" (Ah! forever have I lost thee); _Arthur's_ romance, "A te o cara" (To thee, beloved); [Music: A te o cara, amor talora,] and _Elvira's_ sparkling polacca, "Son vergin vezzosa" (I am a blithesome maiden). [Music: Son vergin vezzosa, in vesto di sposa,] In the second act we have _Elvira's_ mad scene, "Qui la voce sua soave" (It was here in sweetest accents). [Music: Qui la voce sua soave] For _Elvira_ there also is in this act the beautiful air, "Vien, diletto" (Come, dearest love). The act closes with the duet for baritone and bass, between _Sir Richard_ and _Sir George_, "Suoni la tromba," a fine proclamation of martial ardour, which "in sonorousness, majesty and dramatic intensity," as Mr. Upton writes, "hardly has an equal in Italian opera." [Music: Suoni la tromba, e intrepido Io pugnerò da forte;] "A una fonte afflitto e solo" (Sad and lonely by a fountain), a beautiful number for _Elvira_ occurs in the third act. There also is in this act the impassioned "Star teco ognor" (Still to abide), for _Arthur_, with _Elvira's_ reply, "Caro, non ho parola" (All words, dear love are wanting). It was in the duet at the end of Act II, on the occasion of the opera's revival for Gerster, that I heard break and go to pieces the voice of Antonio Galassi, the great baritone of the heyday of Italian opera at the Academy of Music. "Suoni la tromba!"--He could sound it no more. The career of a great artist was at an end. "I Puritani" usually is given in Italian, several of the characters having Italian equivalents for English names--_Arturo_, _Riccardo_, _Giorgio_, _Enrichetta_, etc. The first performance in New York of "I Puritani," which opened Palmo's Opera House, was preceded by a "public rehearsal," which was attended by "a large audience composed of the Boards of Aldermen, editors, police officers, and musical people," etc. Signora Borghese and Signor Antognini "received vehement plaudits." Antognini, however, does not appear in the advertised cast of the opera. Signora Borghese was _Elvira_, Signor Perozzi _Arturo_, and Signor Valtellino _Giorgio_. The performance took place Friday, February 2, 1844. Gaetano Donizetti (1797-1848) The composer of "Lucia di Lammermoor," an opera produced in 1835, but seemingly with a long lease of life yet ahead of it, was born at Bergamo, November 29, 1797. He composed nearly seventy operas. His first real success, "Anna Bolena," was brought out in Rome, in 1830. Even before that, however, thirty-one operas by him had been performed. Of his many works, the comparatively few still heard nowadays are, in the order of their production, "L'Elisire d'Amore," "Lucrezia Borgia," "Lucia di Lammermoor," "La Figlia del Reggimento," "La Favorita," "Linda di Chamounix," and "Don Pasquale." A clever little one-act comedy opera, "Il Campanello di Notte" (The Night Bell) was revived in New York in the spring of 1917. With a gift for melody as facile as Bellini's, Donizetti is more dramatic, his harmonization less monotonous, and his orchestration more careful. This is shown by his choice of instruments for special effects, like the harp solo preceding the appearance of _Lucia_, the flute obligato in the mad scene in the opera of which she is the heroine, and the bassoons introducing "Una furtiva lagrima," in "L'Elisire d'Amore." He is a distinct factor in the evolution of Italian opera from Rossini to and including Verdi, from whom, in turn, the living Italian opera composers of note derive. Donizetti's father was a weaver, who wished his son to become a lawyer. But he finally was permitted to enter the conservatory at Bergamo, where, among other teachers, he had J.H. Mayr in harmony. He studied further, on Mayr's recommendation, with Padre Martini. As his father wanted him to teach so that he would be self-supporting, he enlisted in the army, and was ordered to Venice. There in his leisure moments he composed his first opera, "Enrico di Borgogna," produced, Venice, 1818. In 1845 he was stricken with paralysis. He died at Bergamo, April 8, 1848. L'ELISIRE D'AMORE THE ELIXIR OF LOVE Opera, in two acts. Music by Donizetti; words by Felice Romani. Produced, Milan, May 12, 1832; London, December 10, 1836; New Orleans, March 30, 1842; New York, Academy of Music, 1883-84, with Gerster; Metropolitan Opera House, 1904, with Sembrich, Caruso, Scotti, and Rossi. CHARACTERS NEMORINO, a young peasant _Tenor_ ADINA, wealthy, and owner of a farm _Soprano_ BELCORE, a sergeant _Baritone_ DULCAMARA, a quack doctor _Bass_ GIANNETTA, a peasant girl _Soprano_ _Time_--Nineteenth Century. _Place_--A small Italian village. Act I. Beauty and riches have made the young peasant woman, _Adina_, exacting. She laughs at the embarrassed courting of the true-hearted peasant lad, _Nemorino_; she laughs at the story of "Tristan and Isolde," and rejoices that there are now no more elixirs to bring the merry heart of woman into slavish dependence on love. Yet she does not seem so much indifferent to _Nemorino_ as piqued over his lack of courage to come to the point. _Sergeant Belcore_ arrives in the village at the head of a troop of soldiers. He seeks to win _Adina's_ heart by storm. The villagers tease _Nemorino_ about his soldier rival. The young peasant is almost driven to despair by their raillery. Enter the peripatetic quack, _Dr. Dulcamara_. For a ducat _Nemorino_ eagerly buys of him a flask of cheap Bordeaux, which the quack assures him is an elixir of love, and that, within twenty-four hours, it will enable him to win _Adina_. _Nemorino_ empties the flask at a draught. A certain effect shows itself at once. Under the influence of the Bordeaux he falls into extravagant mirth, sings, dances--and grieves no more about _Adina_, who becomes piqued and, to vex _Nemorino_, engages herself to marry _Sergeant Belcore_. An order comes to the troops to move. The _Sergeant_ presses for an immediate marriage. To this _Adina_, still under the influence of pique, consents. _Nemorino_ seeks to console himself by louder singing and livelier dancing. Act II. The village is assembled on _Adina's_ farm to celebrate her marriage with the _Sergeant_. But it is noticeable that she keeps putting off signing the marriage contract. _Nemorino_ awaits the effect of the elixir. To make sure of it, he buys from _Dulcamara_ a second bottle. Not having the money to pay for it, and _Belcore_ being on the lookout for recruits, _Nemorino_ enlists and, with the money he receives, pays _Dulcamara_. The fresh dose of the supposed elixir makes _Nemorino_ livelier than ever. He pictures to himself the glory of a soldier's career. He also finds himself greatly admired by the village girls, for enlisting. _Adina_ also realizes that he has joined the army out of devotion to her, and indicates that she favours him rather than _Belcore_. But he now has the exalted pleasure of treating her with indifference, so that she goes away very sad. He attributes his luck to the elixir. [Illustration: Photo by White Hempel (Adina) and Caruso (Nemorino) in "L'Elisir d'Amore"] The villagers have learned that his rich uncle is dead and has left a will making him his heir. But because this news has not yet been communicated to him, he thinks their attentions due to the love-philtre, and believes the more firmly in its efficacy. In any event, _Adina_ has perceived, upon the _Sergeant's_ pressing her to sign the marriage contract, that she really prefers _Nemorino_. Like a shrewd little woman, she takes matters into her own hands, and buys back from _Sergeant Belcore_ her lover's enlistment paper. Having thus set him free, she behaves so coyly that _Nemorino_ threatens to seek death in battle, whereupon she faints right into his arms. The _Sergeant_ bears this unlucky turn of affairs with the bravery of a soldier, while _Dulcamara's_ fame becomes such that he can sell to the villagers his entire stock of Bordeaux for love elixir at a price that makes him rich. The elixir of life of this "Elixir of Love" is the romance for tenor in the second act, "Una furtiva lagrima" (A furtive tear), which _Nemorino_ sings as _Adina_ sadly leaves him, when she thinks that he has become indifferent to her. It was because of Caruso's admirable rendition of this beautiful romance that the opera was revived at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, in 1904. Even the instrumental introduction to it, in which the bassoons carry the air, is captivating. [Music: Una furtiva lagrima Negl'occhi suoi spuntò;] Act I is laid on _Adina's_ farm. _Adina_ has a florid air, "Chiedi all'aura lusinghiera" (Go, demand of yon light zephyr), with which she turns aside from _Nemorino's_ attentions. [Music: Chiedi all'aura lusinghiera,] The scene then changes to a square in the village. Here _Dr. Dulcamara_ makes his entry, singing his buffo air, "Udite, udite, o rustici" (Give ear, now, ye rustic ones). There are two attractive duets in this scene. One is for _Nemorino_ and _Dr. Dulcamara_, "Obbligato! obbligato!" (Thank you kindly! thank you kindly!). [Music] The other, for _Adina_ and _Nemorino_, is "Esulti pur la barbara per poco alle mie pene" (Tho' now th' exulting cruel one can thus deride my bitter pain). Act II, which shows a room in _Adina's_ farmhouse, opens with a bright chorus of rejoicing at her approaching wedding. _Dulcamara_ brings out a piece of music, which he says is the latest thing from Venice, a barcarole for two voices. He and _Adina_ sing it; a dainty duet, "Io son ricco, e tu sei bella" (I have riches, thou hast beauty) which figures in all the old potpourris of the opera. [Music: Io son ricco, e tu sei bella; Io ducati, e vezzi hai tu] There is a scene for _Nemorino_, _Giannetta_, and the peasants, in which _Nemorino_ praises the elixir, "Dell'elisir mirabile" (Of this most potent elixir). Later comes another duet for _Adina_ and _Dulcamara_, "Quanto amore!" (What affection!) in which _Adina_ expresses her realization of the death of _Nemorino's_ affection for her. "The score of 'Elisire d'Amore,'" says the _Dictionnaire des Opéras_, "is one of the most pleasing that the Bergamo composer has written in the comic vein. It abounds in charming motifs and graceful melodies. In the first act the duet for tenor and bass between the young villager and _Dr. Dulcamara_ is a little masterpiece of animation, the accompaniment of which is as interesting as the vocal parts. The most striking passages of the second act are the chorus, 'Cantiamo, facciam brindisi'; the barcarole for two voices, 'Io son ricco, e tu sei bella'; the quartet, 'Dell'elisir mirabile'; the duet between _Adina_ and _Dulcamara_, 'Quanto amore'; and finally the lovely and smoothly-flowing romance of Nemorino, 'Una furtiva lagrima,' which is one of the most remarkable inspirations of Donizetti." LUCREZIA BORGIA Opera, in a prologue and two acts, by Donizetti; words by Felice Romani, after Victor Hugo. Produced, La Scala, Milan, 1834; Théâtre des Italiens, Paris, 1840; London, 1839; in English, 1843; New York, Astor Place Opera House, 1847; with Grisi, September 5, 1854; with Tietjens and Brignoli, 1876; Academy of Music, October 30, 1882; Metropolitan Opera House, with Caruso, 1902. CHARACTERS ALFONSO D'ESTE, Duke of Ferrara _Baritone_ LUCREZIA BORGIA _Soprano_ MAFFIO ORSINI _Contralto_ GENNARO } Young noblemen in { _Tenor_ LIVEROTTO } the service of the { _Tenor_ VITELLOZZO } Venetian Republic { _Bass_ GAZELLO _Bass_ RUSTIGHELLO, in the service of DON ALFONSO _Tenor_ GUBETTA } { _Bass_ ASTOLFO } in the service of Lucrezia { _Tenor_ Gentlemen-at-arms, officers, and nobles of the Venetian Republic; same, attached to court of Alfonso; ladies-in-waiting, Capuchin monks, etc. _Time_--Early sixteenth century. _Place_--Venice and Ferrara. When an opera, without actually maintaining itself in the repertory, nevertheless is an object of occasional revival, it is sure to contain striking passages that seem to justify the experiment of bringing it forward again. "Lucrezia Borgia" has a male character, _Maffio Orsini_, sung by a contralto. _Orsini's_ _ballata_, "Il segreto per esser felici" (O the secret of bliss in perfection), is a famous contralto air which Ernestine Schumann-Heink, with her voice of extraordinary range, has made well known all over the United States. I quote the lines from the Ditson libretto: O the secret of bliss in perfection, Is never to raise an objection, Whether winter hang tears on the bushes, Or the summer-kiss deck them with blushes. Drink, and pity the fool who on sorrow, Ever wastes the pale shade of a thought. Never hope for one jot from the morrow, Save a new day of joy by it brought! The music has all the dash and abandon that the words suggest. _Orsini_ sings it at a banquet in Ferrara. Suddenly from a neighbouring room comes the sound of monks' voices chanting a dirge. A door opens. The penitents, still chanting, enter. The lights grow dim and one by one go out. The central doors swing back. _Lucrezia Borgia_ appears in the entrance. The banqueters are her enemies. She has poisoned the wine they have just quaffed to _Orsini's_ song. They are doomed. The dirge is for them. But--what she did not know--among them is _Gennaro_, her illegitimate son, whom she dearly loves. She offers him an antidote, but in vain. He will not save himself, while his friends die. She then discloses the fact that she is his mother. But, even then, instead of accepting her proffered aid to save his life, he repulses her. _Lucrezia_ herself then drains the poisoned cup from which he has quaffed, and sinks, dying, upon his prostrate form. Such is the sombre setting for the _Brindisi_--the drinking song--"the secret of bliss in perfection"--when heard in the opera. [Music: Il segreto per esser felici Sò per prova e l'insegno agli amici] The tenor rôle of _Gennaro_ also has tempted to occasional revivals of the work. Mario introduced for this character as a substitute for a scene in the second act, a recitative and air by Lillo, "Com'è soave quest'ora di silenzio" (Oh! how delightful this pleasing hour of silence), a change which is sometimes followed. Prologue. Terrace of the Grimani palace, Venice. Festival by night. _Gennaro_, weary, separates from his friends and falls asleep on a stone bench of the terrace. Here he is discovered by _Lucrezia_, who is masked. She regards him with deep affection. "Com'è bello quale incanto" (Holy beauty, child of nature) she sings. [Music: Com'è bello quale incanto] _Gennaro_ awakens. In answer to her questions he tells her that he has been brought up by a poor fisherman, "Di pescatore ignobile" (Deem'd of a fisher's lowly race). [Music: Di pescatore ignobile] The youth's friends come upon the scene. _Maffio Orsini_ tears the mask from _Lucrezia's_ face, and in a dramatic concerted number he and his friends remind _Lucrezia_, for the benefit of _Gennaro_, who had been struck by her beauty and was unaware that she was the hated _Borgia_, how each has lost a brother or other relative through her. "Maffio Orsini, signora, son'io cui svenaste il dormente fratello" (Madam, I am Orsini. My brother you did poison, the while he was sleeping). And so each one in order. [Music: Maffio Orsini, signora, son'io] _Gennaro_ turns from her in loathing. She faints. Act I. A public place in Ferrara. On one side a palace. _Alfonso_, who, incidentally, is _Lucrezia's_ fourth husband, she having done away with his predecessors by poison, or other murderous means, is jealous of _Gennaro_. Like the youth himself, he is ignorant that _Lucrezia_ is his mother, and is persuaded that he is her paramour. He has two solos. The first is "Vieni, la mia vendetta" (Haste then to glut a vengeance); the second, "Qualunque sia l'evento" (On this I stake my fortune). [Music: Qualunque sia l'evento che può recar fortuna,] _Gennaro_ and his friends come into the Plaza. They see the letters BORGIA under the escutcheon of the palace. _Gennaro_, to show his detestation of _Lucrezia's_ crimes, rushes up the steps and with his sword hacks away the first letter of the name, leaving only ORGIA. At the command of the _Duke_, he is arrested. _Lucrezia_, not knowing who has committed the outrage, demands of her husband that its perpetrator be put to death. _Alfonso_, with cynical readiness, consents. _Gennaro_ is led in. _Lucrezia_ now pleads for his life. The _Duke_ is firm, even though _Lucrezia_ quite casually reminds him that he is her fourth husband and may share the fate of the other three. ("Aye, though the fourth of my husbands, you lord it.") His comment is the command that _Gennaro_ shall meet death by quaffing a goblet of poisoned wine handed to him by _Lucrezia_ herself. There is here a strong trio for _Lucrezia_, _Gennaro_, and _Alfonso_, as _Alfonso_ pours wine for himself and _Lucrezia_ from a silver flagon, while he empties the poisoned contents of a gold vessel, "the Borgia wine," into _Gennaro's_ cup. But _Lucrezia_ has the antidote; and, the _Duke_ having left her with _Gennaro_, in order that she shall have the pleasure of watching the death of the man of whom he suspects her to be enamored, she gives it to _Gennaro_, and bids him flee from _Ferrara_. Act II is laid in the Negroni palace, and is the scene of the banquet, which has already been described. When "Lucrezia Borgia" was produced in Paris, in 1840, Victor Hugo, author of the drama upon which the libretto is based, objected. The French have long gone much further than we do in protecting the property rights of authors and artists in their creations. The producers of the opera were obliged to have the libretto rewritten. The title was changed to "La Rinegata" and the scene was transferred to Turkey. LUCIA DI LAMMERMOOR Opera in three acts, by Donizetti; words by Salvatore Cammarano, after Scott's novel, "The Bride of Lammermoor." Produced, San Carlo Theatre, Naples, September 26, 1835, with Persiani as _Lucia_, and Duprez as _Edgardo_, the rôles having been especially composed for these artists. London, Her Majesty's Theatre, April 5, 1838, and, in English, at the Princess Theatre, January 19, 1848. Paris, 1839. New York in English, at the Park Theatre, November 17, 1845; and, in Italian, November 14, 1849. Among celebrated _Lucias_ heard in this country, are Patti, Gerster, Melba, Sembrich, Tetrazzini and Galli-Curci (Chicago, November 21, 1916); among _Edgardos_, Italo Campanini and Caruso. CHARACTERS LORD HENRY ASHTON, of Lammermoor _Baritone_ LUCY, his sister _Soprano_ EDGAR, Master of Ravenswood _Tenor_ LORD ARTHUR BUCKLAW _Tenor_ RAYMOND, chaplain at Lammermoor _Bass_ ALICE, companion to Lucy _Mezzo-Soprano_ NORMAN, follower of Lord Ashton _Tenor_ Relatives, Retainers, and Friends of the House of Lammermoor. _Time_--About 1700. _Place_--Scotland. (Note. The characters in Italian are Enrico, Lucia, Edgardo, Arturo, Raimondo, Alisa, and Normanno.) "Lucia di Lammermoor" is generally held to be Donizetti's finest work. "In it the vein of melody--now sparkling, now sentimental, now tragic--which embodies Donizetti's best claim on originality and immortality, finds, perhaps, freest and broadest development." These words are quoted from Baker's _Biographical Dictionary of Musicians_, a volume that rarely pauses to comment on an individual work. "Lucia" is indeed its composer's masterpiece; and a masterpiece of Italian opera in the older definition of that term. Its melodies are many and beautiful, and even when ornate in passages, are basically expressive of the part of the tragic story to which they relate. Moreover, the sextet at the end of the second act when _Edgar of Ravenswood_ appears upon the scene just as Lucy with trembling hand has affixed her signature to the contract of marriage between _Lord Bucklaw_ and herself, ranks as one of the finest pieces of dramatic music in all opera, and as a concerted number is rivalled, in Italian opera, by only one other composition, the quartet in "Rigoletto." The sextet in "Lucia" rises to the full height of the dramatic situation that has been created. It does so because the music reflects the part each character plays in the action. It has "physiognomy"--individual aspect and phraseology for each participant in the drama; but, withal, an interdependence, which blends the voices, as they are swept along, into one grand, powerful, and dramatic climax. Another number, the mad scene in the third act, gives coloratura sopranos an opportunity for technical display equal to that afforded by the lesson scene in "Il Barbiere di Siviglia"; and, unlike the latter, the music does not consist of interpolated selections, but of a complete _scena_ with effective recitatives and brilliant solos, that belong to the score. In the story of "Lucia," the heroine's brother, _Lord Henry Ashton_ of Lammermoor, in order to retrieve his fallen fortunes, and extricate himself from a perilous situation in which his participation in political movements directed against the King has placed him, arranges a marriage between his sister and _Lord Arthur Bucklaw_. _Lucy_ herself knows nothing of this arrangement. _Henry_, on the other hand, is equally ignorant of an attachment which exists between _Lucy_ and _Edgar of Ravenswood_, between whose family and his own there long has been a deadly feud. When he discovers it, he uses the most underhand methods to break it off. _Edgar of Ravenswood_ is the last of his race. While he is absent on a mission to France in the interests of Scotland, he despatches many letters to _Lucy_. These letters are intercepted by _Henry_ who also arranges that a forged paper, tending to prove the infidelity of _Edgar_, is shown to _Lucy_. Urged by the necessities of her brother, and believing herself deserted by her lover, _Lucy_ unwillingly consents to become the bride of _Lord Arthur Bucklaw_. But, just as she has signed the marriage contract, _Edgar of Ravenswood_ suddenly appears. He has returned from France, and now comes to claim the hand of _Lucy_--but too late. Convinced that _Lucy_ has betrayed his love, he casts the ring she gave him at her feet and invokes imprecations upon her and his ancient enemies, the House of Lammermoor. At night he is sought out in his gloomy castle by _Henry_. They agree upon a duel to be fought near the tombs of the Ravenswoods, on the ensuing morning, when _Edgar_, weary of life, and the last of a doomed race, intends to throw himself on his adversary's weapon. But the burden of woe has proved too much for _Lucy_ to bear. At night, after retiring, she goes out of her mind, slays her husband, and dies of her sorrows. _Edgar_ awaits his enemy in the churchyard of Ravenswood. But _Ashton_ has fled. Instead, _Edgar's_ solitude is interrupted by a train of mourners coming from the Castle of Lammermoor. Upon hearing of _Lucy's_ death he plunges his dagger into his breast, and sinks down lifeless in the churchyard where repose the remains of his ancestors. On the stage this story is developed so that shortly after the curtain rises on Act I, showing a grove near the Castle of Lammermoor, _Henry_ learns from _Norman_ the latter's suspicions that _Lucy_ and _Edgar_ have been meeting secretly in the park of Lammermoor. _Norman_ has despatched his huntsmen to discover, if they can, whether or not his suspicions are correct. "Cruda funesta smania" (each nerve with fury trembleth) sings _Henry_. Returning, the hunters relate, in a brisk chorus, that Long they wander'd o'er the mountain, Search'd each cleft around the fountain, finally to learn by questioning a falconer that the intruder upon the domain of Lammermoor was none other than _Edgar of Ravenswood_. Rage and the spirit of revenge are expressed in _Henry's_ vigorous aria, "La pietade in suo favore" (From my breast I mercy banish). [Music: La pietade in suo favore] The scene changes to the park near a fountain. What now occurs is usually as follows. The curtain rises, and shows the scene--evening and moonlight. There is played a beautiful harp solo, an unusual and charming effect in opera. Having prepared the mood for the scene which is to follow, it is promptly encored and played all over again. Then _Lucy_ appears with her companion, _Alice_. To her she relates the legend of the fountain, "Regnava nel silenzio" (Silence o'er all was reigning). [Music: Regnava nel silenzio] This number gives an idea of the characteristics of _Lucy's_ principal solos. It is brilliant in passages, yet its melody is dreamy and reflective. Largely due to this combination of traits is the popularity of "Lucia di Lammermoor," in which, although there is comparatively little downright cheerful music, it is relieved of gloom by the technical brilliancy for which it often calls;--just as, in fact, _Lucy's_ solo following the legend of the fountain, dispels the dark forebodings it inspired. This second solo for _Lucy_, one of the best-known operatic numbers for soprano, is the "Quando rapito" (Then swift as thought). [Music: Quando rapito in estasi del più cocente ardore] Another beautiful and familiar number is the duet between _Lucy_ and _Edgar_, who has come to tell her of his impending departure for France and to bid her farewell: "Verranno a te [Transcriber's Note: original has incorrect "lá"] sull'aure" (My sighs shall on the balmy breeze). [Music: Verranno a te sull'aure i miei sospiri ardenti] Act II. Apartment in the Castle of Lammermoor. "Il pallor funesto, orrendo" (See these cheeks so pale and haggard). [Music: Il pallor funesto, orrendo] In this sad air _Lucy_ protests to her brother against the marriage which he has arranged for her with _Bucklaw_. _Henry_ then shows her the forged letter, which leads her to believe that she has been betrayed by her lover. "Soffriva nel pianto, languia nel dolore" (My sufferings and sorrow I've borne without repining) begins the duet between _Lucy_ and _Henry_ with an especially effective cadenza--a dramatic number. Though believing herself deserted by _Edgar_, _Lucy_ still holds back from the thought of marriage with another, and yields only to save her brother from a traitor's death, and even then not until she has sought counsel from _Raymond_, the chaplain of Lammermoor, who adds his persuasions to _Henry's_. The scene of the signing of the dower opens with a quick, bright chorus of guests who have assembled for the ceremony. [Music] There is an interchange of courtesies between _Henry_ and _Arthur_; and then _Lucy_ enters. The sadness of her mien is explained by her brother to _Arthur_ on the ground that she is still mourning the death of her mother. Desperate, yet reluctant, _Lucy_ signs the contracts of dower; and at that moment, one of the most dramatic in opera, _Edgar_, a sombre figure, but labouring under evident though suppressed tension, appears at the head of the broad flight of steps in the background, and slowly comes forward. The orchestra preludes briefly: [Music] [Illustration: Photo by Mishkin Caruso as Edgardo in "Lucia di Lammermoor"] [Illustration: Photo copyright, 1916, by Victor Georg Galli-Curci as Lucia in "Lucia di Lammermoor"] The greatest ensemble number in Italian opera, the sextet, has begun. _Edgardo_: "Chi mi frena in tal momento? Chi troncò dell'ire il corso?" (What restrains me at this moment? Why my sword do I not straightway draw?): [Music: Chi mi frena in tal momento?] Because he sees _Lucy_ "as a rose 'mid tempest bending": [Music] Even _Henry_ is moved to exclaim, "To my own blood I am a traitor": [Music] The chorus swells the volume of sound, but _Lucy's_ voice soars despairingly above all: [Music] _Lucy_ and _Edgar_--they are the victims of _Henry's_ treachery, as will soon transpire. Act III. The first scene is laid in _Edgar's_ gloomy castle, whither at night comes _Henry_ to challenge him to a duel at morn. The scene then changes back to Lammermoor, where the wedding guests still are feasting. Their revels are halted by _Raymond_, who, horror-stricken, announces to them that _Lucy_ has gone mad and slain her husband; and soon the unhappy bride herself appears. Then follows the mad scene, one of the greatest "show numbers" for soprano, with the further merit that it fits perfectly into the scheme of the work. This is an elaborate _scena_. In an earlier part of the opera Donizetti made effective use of a harp. In the mad scene he introduces a flute obligato, which plays around the voice, joins with it, touches it with sharp, brilliant accentuations, and glides with it up and down the scale in mellifluous companionship. In a brief article in _The Musician_, Thomas Tapper writes that "to perform the mad scene has been an inspiration and incentive to attainment for many singers. Its demands are severe. There must be the 'mood,' that is, the characterization of the mental state of _Lucy_ must be evidenced both in vocal tone and physical movement. The aria requires an unusual degree of facility. Its transparency demands adherence to pitch that must not vary a shade from the truth (note the passage where voice and flute are in unison). The coloratura soprano is here afforded unusual opportunity to display fluency and flexibility of voice, to portray the character that is 'as Ophelia was'; the dramatic intensity is paramount and must be sustained at a lofty eminence. In brief, the aria is truly a _tour de force_." One of the best things in the above is its insistence on the "mood," the emotional situation that underlies the music. However brilliant the singing of the prima donna, something in her performance must yet convey to her hearers a sense of the sad fortunes of _Lucy of Lammermoor_. To the accomplishment of this Donizetti lends a helping hand by introducing, as a mournful reminiscence, the theme of the first act love duet for _Lucy_ and _Edgar_ ("My sighs shall on the balmy breeze"); also by the dreaminess of the two melodies, "Alfin son tua" (Thine am I ever); [Music] and "Spargi d'amaro pianto" (Shed thou a tear of sorrow). [Music] Preceding the first of these, and also between the two, are dramatic recitatives, in which the flute, possibly introduced merely for musical effect, yet, with its clear, limpid notes, by no means untypical of _Lucy's_ pure and spiritual personality, is prominent in the instrumental part of the score. Upon a brilliant phrase of vocalization, like "Yet shall we meet, dear Edgar, before the altar," [Music: Qui ricovriamo, Edgardo, a piè dell'ara] it follows with this phrase: [Music] which simple, even commonplace, as it seems, nevertheless, in place, has the desired effect of ingenuousness and charm; while the passage beginning, [Music] has decided dramatic significance. I also give an example of a passage in which flute and voice combine in a manner that requires impeccable intonation on the singer's part. [Music: a noi sarà, la vita etc.] The _scena_ ends with a _stretto_, a concluding passage taken in more rapid tempo in order to enhance the effect. It is always interesting to me to hear this scene, when well rendered, and to note the simple means employed by the composer to produce the impression it makes. The flute is an instrument that long has been the butt of humorists. "What is worse than one flute?"--"Two flutes." This is a standard musical joke. The kind suggestion also has been volunteered that _Lucy of Lammermoor_ went out of her head, not because she was deserted by _Edgar_, but because she was accompanied by a flute. Nevertheless the flute is precisely the instrument required as an _obligato_ to this scene. Italian composers, as a rule, pay little attention to instrumentation. Yet it is a fact that, when they make a special choice of an instrument in order to produce a desired effect, their selection usually proves a happy inspiration. The flute and the harp in "Lucia" are instances; the bassoons in the introduction to "Una furtiva lagrima" (A furtive tear) in "L'Elisire d'Amore" furnish another; and the wood-wind in the "Semiramide" duet, "Giorno d'orrore" (Dark day of horror) may also be mentioned. There is a point in the mad scene where it is easy to modulate into the key of G major. Donizetti has written in that key the aria "Perchè non ho del vento" (Oh, for an eagle's pinions) which sopranos sometimes introduce during the scene, since it was composed for that purpose. Probably the air is unfamiliar to opera-goers in this country. Lionel Mapleson, the librarian of the Metropolitan Opera House, never has heard it sung there, and was interested to know where I had found it. As it is a florid, brilliant piece of music, and well suited to the scene, I quote a line of it, as a possible hint to some prima donna. [Music: Perchè non ho del vento l'infaticabil vole] During the finale of the opera, laid near the churchyard where lie the bones of _Edgar's_ ancestors, _Lucy's_ lover holds the stage. His final aria, "Tu che a Dio spiegasti l'ali" (Tho' from earth thou'st flown before me), is a passage of mournful beauty, which has few equals in Italian opera. [Music: Tu che a Dio spiegasti l'ali, o bell'alma innamorata] Of the singers of former days who have been heard here as _Lucia_, Adelina Patti interpreted the rôle with the least effort and the greatest brilliancy. Hers was a pure flexible soprano, which seemed to flow forth spontaneously from an inexhaustible reservoir of song. Unfortunately she was heard here by many long after her day had passed. She had too many "farewells." But those who heard her at her best, always will remember her as the possessor of a naturally beautiful voice, exquisitely trained. Italo Campanini, a tenor who was in his prime when Mapleson was impresario at the Academy of Music, was one of the great _Edgardos_. He was an elder brother of Cleofante Campanini, orchestral conductor and director of the Chicago Opera Company. As for Caruso, rarely have I witnessed such excitement as followed the singing of the sextet the evening of his first appearance as _Edgardo_ at the Metropolitan Opera House. It is a fact that the policeman in the lobby, thinking a riot of some sort had broken loose in the auditorium, grabbed his night stick and pushed through the swinging doors--only to find an audience vociferously demanding an encore. Even granted that some of the excitement was "worked up," it was, nevertheless, a remarkable demonstration. The rôle of _Enrico_, though, of course, of less importance than _Edgardo_, can be made very effective by a baritone of the first rank. Such, for example, was Antonio Galassi, who, like Campanini, was one of Mapleson's singers. He was a tall, well-put-up man; and when, in the sextet, at the words "È mio rosa inaridita" [Transcriber's Note: should be 'È mio sangue, l'ho tradita'] (Of thine own blood thou'rt the betrayer), he came forward in one stride, and projected his voice into the proceedings, it seemed as if, no matter what happened to the others, he could take the entire affair on his broad shoulders and carry it through to success. LA FIGLIA DEL REGGIMENTO LA FILLE DU RÉGIMENT--THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT. Opera in two acts, by Donizetti; words by Bayard and Jules H. Vernoy (Marquis St. Georges). Produced, Opéra Comique, Paris, as "La Fille du Régiment," February 11, 1840; Milan, October 30, 1840; London, in English, at the Surrey Theatre, December 21, 1847; the same season in Italian, with Jenny Lind. First American performance, New Orleans, March 7, 1843. _Marie_ was a favorite rôle with Jenny Lind, Sontag, Lucca, and Patti, all of whom appeared in it in New York; also Sembrich, with Charles Gilibert as _Sulpice_, Metropolitan Opera House, 1902-03; and Hempel, with Scotti as _Sulpice_, same house, December 17, 1917. Tetrazzini, McCormack, and Gilibert, Manhattan Opera House, 1909. An opera with a slight hold on the repertoire, but liable to occasional revival for coloratura sopranos. CHARACTERS MARIE, the "Daughter of the Regiment," but really the daughter of the Marquise de Birkenfeld _Soprano_ SULPICE, Sergeant of French Grenadiers _Bass_ TONIO, a Tyrolese peasant in love with Marie; afterwards an officer of Grenadiers _Tenor_ MARQUISE DE BIRKENFELD _Soprano_ HORTENSIO, steward to the Marquise _Bass_ CORPORAL _Bass_ Soldiers, peasants, friends of the Marquise, etc. _Time_--1815. _Place_--Mountains of the Swiss Tyrol. Act I. A passage in the Tyrolese mountains. On the right is a cottage, on the left the first houses of a village. Heights in the background. Tyrolese peasants are grouped on rising ground, as if on the lookout. Their wives and daughters kneel before a shrine to the Virgin. The _Marquise de Birkenfeld_ is seated on a rustic bench. Beside her stands _Hortensio_, her steward. They have been caught in the eddy of the war. An engagement is in progress not far away. The Tyrolese chorus sings valiantly, the women pray; the French are victorious. And why not? Is not the unbeaten Twenty-first Regiment of Grenadiers among them? One of them is coming now, _Sergeant Sulpice_, an old grumbler. After him comes a pretty girl in uniform, a vivandière--_Marie_, the daughter of the regiment, found on the field of battle when she was a mere child, and brought up by a whole regiment of fathers, the spoiled darling of the grenadiers. She sings "Apparvi alla luce, sul campo guerrier" [Music: Apparvi alla luce, Sul campo guerrier,] (I first saw the light in the camp of my brave grenadiers), which ends in a brilliant cadenza. [Music] This indicates why the revival of this opera attends the appearance upon the horizon of a coloratura star. It is typical of the requirements of the character. The _Sergeant_ puts her through a drill. Then they have a "Rataplan" duet, which may be called a repetition of _Marie's_ solo with an accompaniment of rataplans. The drum is the music that is sweetest to her; and, indeed, _Marie's_ manipulation of the drumsticks is a feature of the rôle. But for a few days _Marie_ has not been as cheerful as formerly. She has been seen with a young man. _Sulpice_ asks her about him. She tells the _Sergeant_ that this young man saved her life by preventing her from falling over a precipice. That, however, establishes no claim upon her. The regiment has decreed that only a grenadier shall have her for wife. There is a commotion. Some soldiers drag in _Tonio_, whom they charge as a spy. They have discovered him sneaking about the camp. His would have been short shrift had not _Marie_ pleaded for him, for he is none other than her rescuer. As he wants to remain near _Marie_, he decides to become a soldier. The grenadiers celebrate his decision by drinking to his health and calling upon _Marie_ to sing the "Song of the Regiment," a dapper tune, which is about the best-known number of the score: "Ciascun lo dice, ciascun lo sà! È il Reggimento, ch'egual non ha." (All men confess it, Go where we will! Our gallant Regiment Is welcome still.) [Music: Ciascun lo dice, Ciascun lo sà! È il Reggimento Ch'egual non ha.] There is then a love scene for _Marie_ and _Tonio_, followed by a duet for them, "A voti così ardente" [Transcriber's Note: should be 'A confession sì ardente'] (No longer can I doubt it). Afterwards the grenadiers sing a "Rataplan" chorus. [Music: Rataplan, rataplan, rataplan,] But, alas, the _Sergeant_ has been informed that the _Marquise de Birkenfeld_ desires safe conduct. Birkenfeld! That is the very name to which were addressed certain papers found on _Marie_ when she was discovered as a baby on the battlefield. The _Marquise_ examines the papers, declares that _Marie_ is her niece and henceforth must live with her in the castle. Poor _Tonio_ has become a grenadier in vain. The regiment cannot help him. It can only lament with him that their daughter is lost to them. She herself is none too happy. She sings a sad farewell, "Convien partir! o miei compagni d'arme" (Farewell, a long farewell, my dear companions). Act II. In the castle of the _Marquise_. _Marie_ is learning to dance the minuet and to sing classical airs. But in the midst of her singing she and _Sulpice_, whom the _Marquise_ also has brought to the castle, break out into the "Song of the Regiment" and stirring "rataplans." Their liveliness, however, is only temporary, for poor _Marie_ is to wed, at her aunt's command, a scion of the ducal house of Krakenthorp. The march of the grenadiers is heard. They come in, led by _Tonio_, who has been made a captain for valour. _Sulpice_ can now see no reason why _Marie_ should not marry him instead of the nobleman selected by her aunt. And, indeed, _Marie_ and _Tonio_ decide to elope. But the _Marquise_ confesses to the _Sergeant_, in order to win his aid in influencing _Marie_, that the girl really is her daughter, born out of wedlock. _Sulpice_ informs _Marie_, who now feels that she cannot go against her mother's wishes. In the end, however, it is _Marie_ herself who saves the situation. The guests have assembled for the signing of the wedding contract, when _Marie_, before them all, sings fondly of her childhood with the regiment, and of her life as a vivandière, "Quando il destino, in mezzo a strage ria" (When I was left, by all abandoned). The society people are scandalized. But the _Marquise_ is so touched that she leads _Tonio_ to _Marie_ and places the girl's hand in that of her lover. The opera ends with an ensemble, "Salute to France!" LA FAVORITA THE FAVORITE Opera in four acts, by Donizetti; words by Alphonse Royer and Gustave Waez [Transcriber's Note: more commonly 'Vaëz'], adapted from the drama "Le Comte de Comminges," of Baculard-Darnaud. Produced at the Grand Opéra, Paris, December 2, 1840. London, in English, 1843; in Italian, 1847. New York, Park Theatre, October 4, 1848. CHARACTERS ALFONSO XI., King of Castile _Baritone_ FERDINAND, a young novice of the Monastery of St. James of Compostella; afterwards an officer _Tenor_ DON GASPAR, the King's Minister _Tenor_ BALTHAZAR, Superior of the Monastery of St. James _Bass_ LEONORA DI GUSMANN _Soprano_ INEZ, her confidante _Soprano_ Courtiers, guards, monks, ladies of the court, attendants. _Time_--About 1340. _Place_--Castile, Spain. _Leonora_, with Campanini as _Fernando_, was, for a number of seasons, one of the principal rôles of Annie Louise Cary at the Academy of Music. Mantelli as _Leonora_, Cremonini as _Fernando_, Ancona as _King Alfonso_, and Plançon as _Balthazar_, appeared, 1895-96, at the Metropolitan, where "La Favorita" [Transcriber's Note: this is the Italian title] was heard again in 1905; but the work never became a fixture, as it had been at the Academy of Music. The fact is that since then American audiences, the most spoiled in the world, have established an operatic convention as irrevocable as the laws of the Medes and Persians. In opera the hero must be a tenor, the heroine a true soprano. "La Favorita" fulfils the first requisite, but not the second. The heroine is a rôle for contralto, or mezzo-soprano. Yet the opera contains some of Donizetti's finest music, both solo and ensemble. Pity 'tis not heard more frequently. There is in "La Favorita" a strong, dramatic scene at the end of the third act. As if to work up to this as gradually as possible, the opera opens quietly. _Ferdinand_, a novice in the Monastery of St. James of Compostella, has chanced to see and has fallen in love with _Leonora_, the mistress of _Alfonso_, King of Castile. He neither knows her name, nor is he aware of her equivocal position. So deeply conceived is his passion, it causes him to renounce his novitiate and seek out its object. Act I. The interior of the monastery. _Ferdinand_ makes known to _Balthazar_, the Superior, that he desires to renounce his novitiate, because he has fallen in love, and cannot banish the woman of his affections from his thoughts. He describes her to the priest as "Una vergine, un angel di Dio" (A virgin, an angel of God). [Music: Una vergine, un angel di Dio] Although this air bears no resemblance to "Celeste Aïda" its flowing measures and melodious beauty, combined with its position so early in the opera, recall the Verdi aria--and prepare for it the same fate--which is to be marred by the disturbance caused by late-comers and to remain unheard by those who come still later. _Balthazar's_ questions elicit from _Ferdinand_ that his only knowledge of the woman, whose praises he has sung, is of her youth and beauty. Name and station are unknown to him, although he believes her to be of high rank. _Balthazar_, who had hoped that in time _Ferdinand_ would become his successor as superior of the monastery, releases him reluctantly from his obligations, and prophesies, as the novice turns away from the peaceful shades of the cloister, that he will retrace his steps, disappointed and heart-broken, to seek refuge once more within the monastery's walls. The scene changes to an idyllic prospect on the island of St. Leon, where _Leonora_ lives in splendour. She, in her turn, is deeply enamoured of _Ferdinand_, yet is convinced that, because of her relations with _King Alfonso_, he will despise her should he discover who she is. But so great is her love for him, that, without letting him learn her name or station, she has arranged that he shall be brought, blindfolded, to the island. "Bei raggi lucenti" (Bright sunbeams, lightly dancing), a graceful solo and chorus for _Inez_, _Leonora's_ confidante, and her woman companions, opens the scene. It is followed by "Dolce zeffiro, il seconda" (Gentle zephyr, lightly wafted), which is sung by the chorus of women, as the boat conveying _Ferdinand_ touches the island and he, after disembarking, has the bandage withdrawn from over his eyes, and looks in amazement upon the charming surroundings amid which he stands. He questions _Inez_ regarding the name and station of her who holds gentle sway over the island, but in vain. _Inez_ and her companions retire, as _Leonora_ enters. She interrupts _Ferdinand's_ delight at seeing her by telling him--but without giving her reasons--that their love can lead only to sorrow; that they must part. He protests vehemently. She, however, cannot be moved from her determination that he shall not be sacrificed to their love, and hands him a parchment, which she tells him will lead him to a career of honour. He still protests. But at that moment _Inez_, entering hurriedly, announces the approach of the _King_. _Leonora_ bids _Ferdinand_ farewell and goes hastily to meet _Alfonso_. _Ferdinand_ now believes that the woman with whom he has fallen in love is of rank so high that she cannot stoop to wed him, yet expresses her love for him by seeking to advance him. This is confirmed when, on reading the scroll she has given him, he discovers that it gratifies his highest ambition and confers upon him a commission in the army. The act closes with his martial air, "Sì, che un tuo solo accento" (Oh, fame, thy voice inspiring). He sees the path to glory open up before him, and with it the hope that some great deed may yet make him worthy to claim the hand of the woman he loves. Act II. Gardens of the Palace of the Alcazar. _Ferdinand's_ dream of glory has come true. We learn, through a brief colloquy between _Alfonso_ and _Don Gaspar_, his minister, that the young officer has led the Spanish army to victory against the Moors. Indeed, this very palace of the Alcazar has been wrested from the enemy by the young hero. _Gaspar_ having retired, the _King_, who has no knowledge of the love between _Ferdinand_ and _Leonora_, sings of his own passion for her in the expressive air, "Vien, Leonora, a' piedi tuoi" (Come, Leonora, before the kneeling). The object of his love enters, accompanied by her confidante. The _King_ has prepared a fête in celebration of _Ferdinand's_ victory, but _Leonora_, while rejoicing in the honours destined to be his, is filled with foreboding because of the illicit relations between herself and the _King_, when she truly loves another. Moreover, these fears find justification in the return of _Gaspar_ with a letter in _Ferdinand's_ handwriting, and intended for _Leonora_, but which the minister has intercepted in the hand of _Inez_. The _King's_ angry questions regarding the identity of the writer are interrupted by confused sounds from without. There enters _Balthazar_, preceded by a priest bearing a scroll with the Papal seal. He faces the _King_ and _Leonora_ while the lords and ladies, who have gathered for the fête, look on in apprehension, though not wholly without knowledge of what is impending. For there is at the court of _Alfonso_ a strong party that condemns the _King's_ illicit passion for _Leonora_, so openly shown. This party has appealed to the Papal throne against the _King_. The Pope has sent a Bull to _Balthazar_, in which the Superior of the Monastery of St. James is authorized to pronounce the interdict on the _King_ if the latter refuses to dismiss his favourite from the Court and restore his legitimate wife to her rights. It is with this commission _Balthazar_ has now appeared before the _King_, who at first is inclined to refuse obedience to the Papal summons. He wavers. _Balthazar_ gives him time till the morrow, and until then withholds his anathema. _Balthazar's_ vigorous yet dignified denunciation of the _King_, "Ah paventa il furor d'un Dio vendicatore" (Do not call down the wrath of God, the avenger, upon thee), forms a broadly sonorous foundation for the finale of the act. [Music: Ah paventa il furor d'un Dio vendicatore,] Act III. A salon in the Palace of the Alcazar. In a brief scene the _King_ informs his minister that he has decided to heed the behest of the church and refrain from braving the Papal malediction. He bids _Gaspar_ send _Leonora_ to him, but, at the first opportunity, to arrest _Inez_, her accomplice. It is at this juncture, as _Gaspar_ departs, that _Ferdinand_ appears at court, returning from the war, in which he has not only distinguished himself by his valour, but actually has saved the kingdom. _Alfonso_ asks him to name the prize which he desires as recompense for his services. _Leonora_ enters. _Ferdinand_, seeing her, at once asks for the bestowal of her hand upon him in marriage. The _King_, who loves her deeply, and has nearly risked the wrath of the Pope for her sake, nevertheless, because immediately aware of the passion between the two, gives his assent, but with reluctance, as indeed appears from the irony that pervades his solo, "A tanto amor" (Thou flow'r belov'd). He then retires with _Ferdinand_. _Leonora_, touched by the _King's_ magnanimity, inspired by her love for _Ferdinand_, yet shaken by doubts and fears, because aware that he knows nothing of her past, now expresses these conflicting feelings in her principal air, "O, mio Fernando," one of the great Italian airs for mezzo-soprano. [Music: O, mio Fernando, della terra il trono] She considers that their future happiness depends upon _Ferdinand's_ being truthfully informed of what her relations have been with the _King_, thus giving him full opportunity to decide whether, with this knowledge of her guilt, he will marry her, or not. Accordingly she despatches _Inez_ with a letter to him. _Inez_, as she is on her way to deliver this letter, is intercepted by _Gaspar_, who carries out the _King's_ command and orders her arrest. She is therefore unable to place in _Ferdinand's_ hands the letter of _Leonora_. Into the presence of the assembled nobles the _King_ now brings _Ferdinand_, decorates him with a rich chain, and announces that he has created him Count of Zamora. The jealous lords whisper among themselves about the scandal of _Ferdinand's_ coming marriage with the mistress of the _King_; but _Leonora_, who enters in bridal attire, finds _Ferdinand_ eagerly awaiting her, and ready to wed her, notwithstanding, as she believes, his receipt of her communication and complete knowledge of her past. While the ceremony is being performed in another apartment, the nobles discuss further the disgrace to _Ferdinand_ in this marriage. That _Leonora_ was the mistress of the _King_ is, of course, a familiar fact at court, and the nobles regard _Ferdinand's_ elevation to the rank of nobility as a reward, not only for his defeat of the Moors, but also for accommodatingly taking _Leonora_ off the hands of the _King_, when the latter is threatened with the malediction of Rome. They cannot imagine that the young officer is ignorant of the relations that existed between his bride and the _King_. _Ferdinand_ re-enters. In high spirits he approaches the courtiers, offers them his hand, which they refuse. _Balthazar_ now comes to learn the decision of the _King_. _Ferdinand_, confused by the taunting words and actions of the courtiers, hastens to greet _Balthazar_, who, not having seen him since he has returned victorious and loaded with honours, embraces him, until he hears _Gaspar's_ ironical exclamation, "Leonora's bridegroom!" _Balthazar_ starts back, and it is then _Ferdinand_ learns that he has just been wedded "alla bella del Re"--to the mistress of the _King_. At this moment, when _Ferdinand_ has but just been informed of what he can only interpret as his betrayal by the _King_ and the royal favourite, _Alfonso_ enters, leading _Leonora_, followed by her attendants. In a stirring scene, the dramatic climax of the opera, _Ferdinand_ tears from his neck the chain _Alfonso_ has bestowed upon him, and throws it contemptuously upon the floor, breaks his sword and casts it at the _King's_ feet, then departs with _Balthazar_, the nobles now making a passage for them, and saluting, while they sing "Ferdinand, the truly brave, We salute, and pardon crave!" Act IV. The cloisters of the Monastery of St. James. Ceremony of _Ferdinand's_ entry into the order. "Splendon più belle in ciel le stelle" (Behold the stars in splendour celestial), a distinguished solo and chorus for _Balthazar_ and the monks. Left alone, _Ferdinand_ gives vent to his sorrow, which still persists, in the romance, "Spirto gentil" (Spirit of Light), one of the most exquisite tenor solos in the Italian repertory. [Music: Spirto gentil, ne' sogni miei brillasti un dì, ma ti perdei] In 1882, thirty-four years after Donizetti's death, there was produced in Rome an opera by him entitled "Il Duca d'Alba" (The Duke of Alba). Scribe wrote the libretto for Rossini, who does not appear to have used it. So it was passed on to Donizetti, who composed, but never produced it. "Spirto gentil" was in this opera, from which Donizetti simply transferred it. _Balthazar_ and the monks return. With them _Ferdinand_ enters the chapel. _Leonora_, disguised as a novice, comes upon the scene. She hears the chanting of the monks, _Ferdinand's_ voice enunciating his vows. He comes out from the chapel, recognizes _Leonora_, bids her be gone. "Ah! va, t'invola! e questa terra" (These cloisters fly, etc.). She, however, tells him of her unsuccessful effort to let him know of her past, and craves his forgiveness for the seeming wrong she has wrought upon him. "Clemente al par di Dio" [Transcriber's Note: some scores render this as 'Pietoso al par del Nume'] (Forgiveness through God I crave of thee). All of _Ferdinand's_ former love returns for her. "Vieni, ah! vieni," etc. (Joy once more fills my breast). He would bear her away to other climes and there happily pass his days with her. But it is too late. _Leonora_ dies in his arms. "By tomorrow my soul, too, will want your prayers," are _Ferdinand's_ words to _Balthazar_, who, approaching, has drawn _Leonora's_ cowl over her dishevelled hair. He calls upon the monks to pray for a departed soul. LINDA DI CHAMOUNIX LINDA OF CHAMOUNIX Opera, in three acts, by Donizetti; words by Rossi. Produced, May 19, 1842, Theatre near the Carinthian Gate (Kärnthnerthor), Vienna. London, June, 1843. New York, Palma's Opera House, January 4, 1847, with Clothilda Barili; Academy of Music, March 9, 1861, with Clara Louise Kellogg, later with Patti as _Linda_ and Galassi as _Antonio_; Metropolitan Opera House, April 23, 1890, with Patti. CHARACTERS MARQUIS DE BOISFLEURY _Bass_ CHARLES, Vicomte de Sirval _Tenor_ PREFECT _Bass_ PIERROT _Contralto_ LINDA _Soprano_ ANTONIO _Baritone_ MADELINE _Soprano_ INTENDANT _Tenor_ Peasant men and women, Savoyards, etc. _Time_--1760, during the reign of Louis XV. _Place_--Chamounix and Paris. "Linda di Chamounix" contains an air for soprano without which no collection of opera arias is complete. This is _Linda's_ aria in the first act, "O luce di quest'anima" (Oh! star that guid'st my fervent love). When Donizetti was composing "Linda di Chamounix" for Vienna, with this air and its fluent embellishments, he also was writing for the Imperial chapel a "Miserere" and an "Ave Maria" which were highly praised for a style as severe and restrained as "O luce di quest'anima" is light and graceful. "Linda di Chamounix" is in three acts, entitled "The Departure," "Paris," "The Return." The story is somewhat naïve, as its exposition will show. Act I. The village of Chamounix. On one side a farmhouse. On an eminence a church. _Antonio_ and _Madeline_ are poor villagers. _Linda_ is their daughter. She has fallen in love with an artist, _Charles_, who really is the _Viscount de Sirval_, but has not yet disclosed his identity to her. When the opera opens _Linda's_ parents are in fear of being dispossessed by the _Marquis de Boisfleury_, who is _Charles's_ uncle, but knows nothing of his nephew's presence in Chamounix, or of his love for _Linda_. She, it may be remarked, is one of those pure, sweet, unsophisticated creatures, who exist only on the stage, and possibly only in opera. When the opera opens, _Antonio_ returns from a visit to the _Marquis's_ agent, the _Intendant_. Hopes have been held out to him that the _Marquis_ will relent. _Antonio_ communicates these hopes to his wife in the beautiful solo, "Ambo nati in questa valle" (We were both in this valley nurtured). [Music: Ambo nati in questa valle,] There are shouts of "Viva!" without. The _Marquis_ has arrived. He seems kindness itself to the old couple. He asks for _Linda_, but she has gone to prayers in the chapel. We learn from an aside between the _Marquis_ and his _Intendant_, that the _Marquis's_ apparent benevolence is merely part of a libidinous scheme which involves _Linda_, whose beauty has attracted the titled roué. After this scene, _Linda_ comes on alone and sings "O luce di quest'anima." [Music: O luce di quest'anima, Delizia, amore e vita;] I also quote the concluding phrase: [Music: Unita nostra sorte, In ciel, in ciel sarà.] Savoyards are preparing to depart for Paris to go to work there. Among them is _Pierrot_, with his hurdy-gurdy. He sings a charming ballad, "Per sua madre andò una figlia" (Once a better fortune seeking). There is then a love scene between _Linda_ and _Charles_, with the effective duet, "A consolarmi affrettisi" (Oh! that the blessed day were come, when standing by my side), a phrase which is heard again with significant effect in the third act. [Music: A consolarmi affrettisi, Tal giorno sospirato,] _Antonio_ then learns from the good _Prefect_ of the village that the latter suspects the _Marquis_ of sinister intentions toward _Linda_. Indeed at that moment _Linda_ comes in with a paper from the _Marquis_, which assures to her parents their home; but, she adds, naïvely, that she has been invited by the _Marquis_ to the castle. Parents and _Prefect_ are alarmed for her safety. The _Prefect_ has a brother in Paris. To his protection it is decided that _Linda_ shall go with her Savoyard friends, who even now are preparing to depart. Act II. Room in a handsome, well-furnished apartment in Paris. This apartment is _Linda's_. In it she has been installed by _Charles_. The natural supposition, that it has been paid for by her virtue, is in this instance a mistake, but one, I am sure, made by nine people out of ten of those who see the opera, since the explanation of how she got there consists merely of a few incidental lines in recitative. _Linda_ herself, but for her incredible naïveté would realize the impossibility of the situation. A voice singing in the street she recognizes as _Pierrot's_, calls him up to her, and assists him with money, of which she appears to have plenty. She tells him that the _Prefect's_ brother, in whose house she was to have found protection, had died. She was obliged to support herself by singing in the street. Fortunately she had by chance met _Charles_, who disclosed to her his identity as the _Viscount de Sirval_. He is not ready to marry her yet on account of certain family complications, but meanwhile has placed her in this apartment, where he provides for her. There is a duet, in which _Linda_ and _Pierrot_ sing of her happiness. _Pierrot_ having left, the _Marquis_, who has discovered her retreat, but does not know that it is provided by his nephew _Charles_, calls to force his unwelcome attentions upon her. He laughs, as is not unnatural, at her protestations that she is supported here in innocence; but when she threatens him with possible violence from her intended, he has a neat little solo of precaution, ending "Guardati, pensaci, marchese mio" (Be cautious--ponder well, Marquis most valiant). The _Marquis_, having prudently taken his departure, _Linda_ having gone to another room, and _Charles_ having come in, we learn from his recitative and air that his mother, the Marquise de Sirval, has selected a wife for him, whom she insists he shall marry. He hopes to escape from this marriage, but, as his mother has heard of _Linda_ and also insists that he shall give her up, he has come to explain matters to her and temporarily to part from her. But when he sees her, her beauty so moves him that his courage fails him, although, as he goes, there is a sadness in his manner that fills her with sad forebodings. For three months _Linda_ has heard nothing from her parents. Letters, with money, which she has sent them, have remained unanswered--another of the situations in which this most artless heroine of opera discovers herself, without seeking the simple and obvious way of relieving the suspense. In any event, her parents have become impoverished through the _Marquis de Boisfleury's_ disfavour, for at this moment her father, in the condition of a mendicant, comes in to beg the intercession in his behalf of the _Viscount de Sirval_ (Charles). Not recognizing _Linda_, he mistakes her for _Charles's_ wife. She bestows bounteous alms upon him, but hesitates to make herself known, until, when he bends over to kiss her hand she cannot refrain from disclosing herself. Her surroundings arouse his suspicions, which are confirmed by _Pierrot_, who comes running in with the news that he has learned of preparations for the marriage of _Charles_ to a lady of his mother's choice. In a scene (which a fine singer like Galassi was able to invest with real power) _Antonio_ hurls the alms _Linda_ has given him at her feet, denounces her, and departs. _Pierrot_ seeks to comfort her. But alas! her father's denunciation of her, and, above all, what she believes to be _Charles's_ desertion, have unseated her reason. Act III. The village of Chamounix. The Savoyards are returning and are joyfully greeted. _Charles_, who has been able to persuade his mother to permit him to wed _Linda_, has come in search of her. Incidentally he has brought solace for _Antonio_ and _Madeline_. The De Sirvals are the real owners of the farm, the _Marquis_, _Charles's_ uncle, being only their representative. _Linda's_ parents are to remain in undisturbed possession of the farm;--but where is she? _Pierrot_ is heard singing. Whenever he sings he is able to persuade _Linda_ to follow him. Thus her faithful friend gradually has led her back to Chamounix. And when _Charles_ chants for her a phrase of their first act duet, "O consolarmi affrettisi," her reason returns, and it is "Ah! di tue pene sparve il sogno" (Ah! the vision of my sorrow fades). In this drama of naïveté, an artlessness which I mention again because I think it is not so much the music as the libretto that has become old-fashioned, even the _Marquis_ comes in for a good word. For when he too offers his congratulations, what does _Linda_ do but refer to the old libertine, who has sought her ruin, as "him who will be my uncle dear." DON PASQUALE Opera, in three acts, by Donizetti; words by Salvatore Cammarano, adapted from his earlier libretto, "Ser Marc'Antonio," which Stefano Pavesi had set to music in 1813. Produced, Paris, January 4, 1843, Théâtre des Italiens. London, June 30, 1843. New York, March 9, 1846, in English; 1849, in Italian; revived for Bonci (with di Pasquali, Scotti, and Pini-Corsi) at the New Theatre, December 23, 1909; given also at the Metropolitan Opera House with Sembrich as _Norina_. CHARACTERS DON PASQUALE, an old bachelor _Bass_ DR. MALATESTA, his friend _Baritone_ ERNESTO, nephew of Don Pasquale _Tenor_ NORINA, a young widow, affianced to Ernesto _Soprano_ A NOTARY _Baritone_ Valets, chambermaids, majordomo, dress-makers, hairdresser. _Time_--Early nineteenth century. _Place_--Rome. "Don Pasquale" concerns an old man about to marry. He also is wealthy. Though determined himself to have a wife, on the other hand he is very angry with his nephew, _Ernesto_, for wishing to marry, and threatens to disinherit him. _Ernesto_ is greatly disturbed by these threats. So is his lady-love, the sprightly young widow, _Norina_, when he reports them to her. _Pasquale's_ friend, _Dr. Malatesta_, not being able to dissuade him from marriage, pretends to acquiesce in it. He proposes that his sister shall be the bride, and describes her as a timid, naïve, ingenuous girl, brought up, he says, in a convent. She is, however, none other than _Norina_, the clever young widow, who is in no degree related to _Malatesta_. She quickly enters into the plot, which involves a mock marriage with _Don Pasquale_. An interview takes place. The modest graces of the supposed convent girl charm the old man. The marriage--a mock ceremony, of course--is hurriedly celebrated, so hurriedly that there is no time to inform the distracted _Ernesto_ that the proceedings are bogus. _Norina_ now displays toward _Don Pasquale_ an ungovernable temper. Moreover she spends money like water, and devotes all her energies to nearly driving the old man crazy. When he protests, she boxes his ears. He is on the point of suicide. Then at last _Malatesta_ lets him know that he has been duped. _Notary_ and contract are fictitious. He is free. With joy he transfers to _Ernesto_ his conjugal burden--and an income. Act I plays in a room in _Don Pasquale's_ house and later in a room in _Norina's_, where she is reading a romance. She is singing "Quel guardo" (Glances so soft) and "So anch'io la virtù magica" (I, too, thy magic virtues know) in which she appears to be echoing in thought what she has been reading about in the book. [Music: So anch'io la virtù magica D'un guardo a tempo e loco] The duet, in which she and _Malatesta_ agree upon the plot--the "duet of the rehearsal"--is one of the sprightly numbers of the score. Act II is in a richly furnished salon of _Don Pasquale's_ house. This is the scene of the mock marriage, of _Norina's_ assumed display of temper and extravagance, _Don Pasquale's_ distraction, _Ernesto's_ amazement and enlightenment, and _Malatesta's_ amused co-operation. In this act occur the duet of the box on the ears, and the quartet, which begins with _Pasquale's_ "Son ardito" [Transcriber's Note: should be 'Son tradito'] (I am betrayed). It is the finale of the act and considered a masterpiece. Act III is in two scenes, the first in _Don Pasquale's_ house, where everything is in confusion; the second in his garden, where _Ernesto_ sings to _Norina_ the beautiful serenade, "Com'è gentil" (Soft beams the light). [Music: Com'è gentil, la notte a mezzo April,] _Don Pasquale_, who has suspected _Norina_ of having a rendezvous in the garden, rushes out of concealment with _Malatesta_. But _Ernesto_ is quick to hide, and _Norina_ pretends no one has been with her. This is too much for _Don Pasquale_, and _Malatesta_ now makes it the occasion for bringing about the dénouement, and secures the old man's most willing consent to the marriage between _Ernesto_ and _Norina_. When the opera had its original production in Paris, Lablache was _Don Pasquale_, Mario _Ernesto_, Tamburini _Malatesta_, and Grisi _Norina_. Notwithstanding this brilliant cast, the work did not seem to be going well at the rehearsals. After one of these, Donizetti asked the music publisher, Dormoy, to go with him to his lodgings. There he rummaged among a lot of manuscripts until, finding what he was looking for, he handed it to Dormoy. "There," he said, "give this to Mario and tell him to sing it in the last scene in the garden as a serenade to _Norina_." When the opera was performed Mario sang it, while Lablache, behind the scenes, played an accompaniment on the lute. It was the serenade. Thus was there introduced into the opera that air to which, more than any other feature of the work, it owes its occasional resuscitation. A one-act comedy opera by Donizetti, "Il Campanello di Notte" (The Night Bell) was produced in Naples in 1836. It would hardly be worth referring to but for the fact that it is in the repertoire of the Society of American Singers, who gave it, in an English version by Sydney Rosenfeld, at the Lyceum Theatre, New York, May 7, 1917. This little work turns on the attempts of a lover, who has been thrown over, to prevent his successful rival, an apothecary, from going to bed on the night of his marriage. He succeeds by adopting various disguises, ringing the night bell, and asking for medicine. In the American first performance David Bispham was the apothecary, called in the adaptation, _Don Hannibal Pistacchio_. Miss Gates, the _Serafina_, interpolated "O luce di quest'anima," from "Linda di Chamounix." Mr. Reiss was _Enrico_, the lover. Giuseppe Verdi (1813-1901) Verdi ranks as the greatest Italian composer of opera. There is a marked distinction between his career and those of Bellini and Donizetti. The two earlier composers, after reaching a certain point of development, failed to advance. No later opera by Bellini equals "La Sonnambula"; none other by Donizetti ranks with "Lucia di Lammermoor." But Verdi, despite the great success of "Ernani," showed seven years later, with "Rigoletto," an amazing progress in dramatic expression and skill in ensemble work. "Il Trovatore" and "La Traviata" were other works of the period ushered in by "Rigoletto." Eighteen years later the composer, then fifty-eight years old, gave evidence of another and even more notable advance by producing "Aïda," a work which marks the beginning of a new period in Italian opera. Still not satisfied, Verdi brought forward "Otello" (1887) and "Falstaff" (1893), scores which more nearly resemble music-drama than opera. Thus the steady forging ahead of Verdi, the unhalting development of his genius, is the really great feature of his career. In fact no Italian composer since Verdi has caught up with "Falstaff," which may be as profitably studied as "Le Nozze di Figaro," "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," "Die Meistersinger," and "Der Rosenkavalier." Insert "Falstaff" in this list, in its proper place between "Meistersinger" and "Rosenkavalier," and you have the succession of great operas conceived in the divine spirit of comedy, from 1786 to 1911. In the article on "Un Ballo in Maschera," the political use made of the letters of Verdi's name is pointed out. See p. 428. Verdi was born at Roncole, near Busseto, October 9, 1813. He died at Rome, January 27, 1901. There remains to be said that, at eighteen, he was refused admission to the Milan Conservatory "on the score of lack of musical talent." What fools these mortals be! ERNANI Opera, in four acts, by Verdi; words by Francesco Maria Piave, after Victor Hugo's drama, "Hernani." Produced, Fenice Theatre, Venice, March 9, 1844; London, Her Majesty's Theatre, March 8, 1845; New York, 1846, at the Astor Place Theatre. Patti, at the Academy of Music, Sembrich at the Metropolitan Opera House, have been notable interpreters of the rôle of _Elvira_. CHARACTERS DON CARLOS, King of Castile _Baritone_ DON RUY GOMEZ DI SILVA, Grandee of Spain _Bass_ ERNANI, or JOHN OF ARAGON, a bandit chief _Tenor_ DON RICCARDO, esquire to the King _Tenor_ JAGO, esquire to SILVA _Bass_ ELVIRA, kinswoman to SILVA _Soprano_ GIOVANNA, in ELVIRA'S service _Soprano_ Mountaineers and bandits, followers of _Silva_, ladies of _Elvira_, followers of _Don Carlos_, electors and pages. _Time_--Early sixteenth century. _Place_--Spain. _John of Aragon_ has become a bandit. His father, the Duke of Segovia, had been slain by order of _Don Carlos's_ father. _John_, proscribed and pursued by the emissaries of the King, has taken refuge in the fastnesses of the mountains of Aragon, where, under the name of _Ernani_, he has become leader of a large band of rebel mountaineers. _Ernani_ is in love with _Donna Elvira_, who, although she is about to be united to her relative, the aged _Ruy Gomez di Silva_, a grandee of Spain, is deeply enamoured of the handsome, chivalrous bandit chief. _Don Carlos_, afterwards Emperor Charles V., also has fallen violently in love with _Elvira_. By watching her windows he has discovered that at dead of night a young cavalier (_Ernani_) gains admission to her apartments. He imitates her lover's signal, gains admission to her chamber, and declares his passion. Being repulsed, he is about to drag her off by force, when a secret panel opens, and he finds himself confronted by _Ernani_. In the midst of a violent scene _Silva_ enters. To allay his jealousy and anger, naturally aroused by finding two men, apparently rival suitors, in the apartment of his affianced, the _King_, whom _Silva_ has not recognized, reveals himself, and pretends to have come in disguise to consult him about his approaching election to the empire, and a conspiracy that is on foot against his life. Then the _King_, pointing to _Ernani_, says to _Silva_, "It doth please us that this, our follower, depart," thus insuring _Ernani's_ temporary safety--for a Spaniard does not hand an enemy over to the vengeance of another. Believing a rumour that _Ernani_ has been run down and killed by the _King's_ soldiers, _Elvira_ at last consents to give her hand in marriage to _Silva_. On the eve of the wedding, however, _Ernani_, pursued by the _King_ with a detachment of troops, seeks refuge in _Silva's_ castle, in the disguise of a pilgrim. Although not known to _Silva_, he is, under Spanish tradition, his guest, and from that moment entitled to his protection. _Elvira_ enters in her bridal attire. _Ernani_ is thus made aware that her nuptials with _Don Silva_ are to be celebrated on the morrow. Tearing off his disguise, he reveals himself to _Silva_, and demands to be delivered up to the _King_, preferring death to life without _Elvira_. But true to his honour as a Spanish host, _Silva_ refuses. Even his enemy, _Ernani_, is safe in his castle. Indeed he goes so far as to order his guards to man the towers and prepare to defend the castle, should the _King_ seek forcible entry. He leaves the apartment to make sure his orders are being carried out. The lovers find themselves alone. When _Silva_ returns they are in each other's arms. But as the _King_ is at the castle gates, he has no time to give vent to his wrath. He gives orders to admit the _King_ and his men, bids _Elvira_ retire, and hides _Ernani_ in a secret cabinet. The _King_ demands that _Silva_ give up the bandit. The grandee proudly refuses. _Ernani_ is his guest. The _King's_ wrath then turns against _Silva_. He demands the surrender of his sword and threatens him with death, when _Elvira_ interposes. The _King_ pardons _Silva_, but bears away _Elvira_ as hostage for the loyalty of her kinsman. The _King_ has gone. From the wall _Silva_ takes down two swords, releases his guest from his hiding place, and bids him cross swords with him to the death. _Ernani_ refuses. His host has just protected his life at the danger of his own. But, if _Silva_ insists upon vengeance, let grandee and bandit first unite against the _King_, with whom the honour of _Elvira_ is unsafe. _Elvira_ rescued, _Ernani_ will give himself up to _Silva_, to whom, handing him his hunting horn, he avows himself ready to die, whenever a blast upon it shall be sounded from the lip of the implacable grandee. _Silva_, who has been in entire ignorance of the _King's_ passion for _Elvira_, grants the reprieve, and summons his men to horse. He sets on foot a conspiracy against the _King_. A meeting of the conspirators is held in the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle, in the vault, within which stands the tomb of Charlemagne. Here it is resolved to murder the _King_. A ballot decides who shall do the deed. _Ernani's_ name is drawn. The _King_, however, has received information of the time and place of this meeting. From the tomb he has been an unobserved witness of the meeting and purpose of the conspirators. Booming of cannon outside tells him of his choice as head of the Holy Roman Empire. Emerging from the tomb, he shows himself to the awed conspirators, who imagine they see Charlemagne issuing forth to combat them. At the same moment the doors open. The electors of the Empire enter to pay homage to Charles V. "The herd to the dungeon, the nobles to the headsman," he commands. _Ernani_ advances, discovers himself as John of Aragon, and claims the right to die with the nobles--"to fall, covered, before the _King_." But upon _Elvira's_ fervent plea, the _King_, now also Emperor, commences his reign with an act of grace. He pardons the conspirators, restores to _Ernani_ his titles and estates, and unites him with _Elvira_. _Silva_, thwarted in his desire to marry _Elvira_, waits until _Ernani_ and _Elvira_, after their nuptials, are upon the terrace of _Ernani's_ castle in Aragon. At their most blissful moment he sounds the fatal horn. _Ernani_, too chivalrous to evade his promise, stabs himself in the presence of the grim avenger and of _Elvira_ who falls prostrate upon his lifeless body. In the opera, this plot develops as follows: Act I opens in the camp of the bandits in the mountains of Aragon. In the distance is seen the Moorish castle of _Silva_. The time is near sunset. Of _Ernani's_ followers, some are eating and drinking, or are at play, while others are arranging their weapons. They sing, "Allegri, beviamo" (Haste! Clink we our glasses). _Ernani_ sings _Elvira's_ praise in the air, "Come rugiada al cespite" (Balmier than dew to drooping bud). [Music: Come rugiada al cespite] This expressive number is followed by one in faster time, "O tu, che l'alma adora" (O thou toward whom, adoring soul). [Music: O tu, che l'alma adora, Vien, vien, la mia vita infiora,] Enthusiastically volunteering to share any danger _Ernani_ may incur in seeking to carry off _Elvira_, the bandits, with their chief at their head, go off in the direction of _Silva's_ castle. The scene changes to _Elvira's_ apartment in the castle. It is night. She is meditating upon _Ernani_. When she thinks of _Silva_, "the frozen, withered spectre," and contrasts with him _Ernani_, who "in her heart ever reigneth," she voices her thoughts in that famous air for sopranos, one of Verdi's loveliest inspirations, "Ernani! involami" (Ernani! fly with me). [Music: Ernani! Ernani! involami All'abborrito amplesso.] It ends with a brilliant cadenza, "Un Eden quegli antri a me" (An Eden that opens to me). [Music: un Eden quegli antri a me.] Young maidens bearing wedding gifts enter. They sing a chorus of congratulation. To this _Elvira_ responds with a graceful air, the sentiment of which, however, is expressed as an aside, since it refers to her longing for her young, handsome and chivalrous lover. "Tutto sprezzo che d'Ernani" (Words that breathe thy name Ernani). [Music: Tutto sprezzo che d'Ernani] The young women go. Enter _Don Carlos_, the _King_. There is a colloquy, in which _Elvira_ protests against his presence; and then a duet, which the _King_ begins, "Da quel dì che t'ho veduta" (From the day, when first thy beauty). A secret panel opens. The _King_ is confronted by _Ernani_, and by _Elvira_, who has snatched a dagger from his belt. She interposes between the two men. _Silva_ enters. What he beholds draws from him the melancholy reflections--"Infelice! e tu credevi" (Unhappy me! and I believed thee), [Music: Infelice! e tu credevi] an exceptionally fine bass solo. He follows it with the vindictive "Infin, che un brando vindice" (In fine a swift, unerring blade). Men and women of the castle and the _King's_ suite have come on. The monarch is recognized by _Silva_, who does him obeisance, and, at the _King's_ command, is obliged to let _Ernani_ depart. An ensemble brings the act to a close. Act II. Grand hall in _Silva's_ castle. Doors lead to various apartments. Portraits of the Silva family, surmounted by ducal coronets and coats-of-arms, are hung on the walls. Near each portrait is a complete suit of equestrian armour, corresponding in period to that in which lived the ancestor represented in the portrait. A large table and a ducal chair of carved oak. The persistent chorus of ladies, though doubtless aware that _Elvira_ is not thrilled at the prospect of marriage with her "frosty" kinsman, and has consented to marry him only because she believes _Ernani_ dead, enters and sings "Esultiamo!" (Exultation!), then pays tribute to the many virtues and graces of the bride. To _Silva_, in the full costume of a Grandee of Spain, and seated in the ducal chair, is brought in _Ernani_, disguised as a monk. He is welcomed as a guest; but, upon the appearance of _Elvira_ in bridal array, throws off his disguise and offers his life, a sacrifice to _Silva's_ vengeance, as the first gift for the wedding. _Silva_, however, learning that he is pursued by the _King_, offers him the protection due a guest under the roof of a Spaniard. "Ah, morir potessi adesso" (Ah, to die would be a blessing) is the impassioned duet sung by _Elvira_ and _Ernani_, when _Silva_ leaves them together. [Music: Ah, morir potessi adesso O mio Ernani sul tuo petto] _Silva_, even when he returns and discovers _Elvira_ in _Ernani's_ arms, will not break the law of Spanish hospitality, preferring to wreak vengeance in his own way. He therefore hides _Ernani_ so securely that the _King's_ followers, after searching the castle, are obliged to report their complete failure to discover a trace of him. Chorus: "Fu esplorato del castello" (We have now explored the castle). Then come the important episodes described--the _King's_ demand for the surrender of _Silva's_ sword and threat to execute him; _Elvira's_ interposition; and the _King's_ sinister action in carrying her off as a hostage, after he has sung the significant air, "Vieni meco, sol di rose" (Come with me, a brighter dawning waits for thee). [Music: Vieni meco, sol di rose] _Ernani's_ handing of his hunting horn to _Silva_, and his arousal of the grandee to an understanding of the danger that threatens _Elvira_ from the _King_, is followed by the finale, a spirited call to arms by _Silva_, _Ernani_, and chorus, "In arcione, in arcione, cavalieri!" (To horse, to horse, cavaliers!). _Silva_ and _Ernani_ distribute weapons among the men, which they brandish as they rush from the hall. Act III. The scene is a sepulchral vault, enclosing the tomb of Charlemagne in the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle. The tomb is entered by a heavy door of bronze, upon which is carved in large characters the word "Charlemagne." Steps lead to the great door of the vault. Other and smaller tombs are seen and other doors that give on other passageways. Two lamps, suspended from the roof, shed a faint light. It is into this sombre but grandiose place the _King_ has come in order to overhear, from within the tomb of his greatest ancestor, the plotting of the conspirators. His soliloquy, "Oh, de' verd'anni miei" (Oh, for my youthful years once more), derives impressiveness both from the solemnity of the situation and the music's flowing measure. [Music: Oh de' verd'anni miei] The principal detail in the meeting of the conspirators is their chorus, "Si ridesti il Leon di Castiglia" (Let the lion awake in Castilia). Dramatically effective, too, in the midst of the plotting, is the sudden booming of distant cannon. It startles the conspirators. Cannon boom again. The bronze door of the tomb swings open. Then the _King_ presents himself at the entrance of the tomb. Three times he strikes the door of bronze with the hilt of his dagger. The principal entrance to the vault opens. To the sound of trumpets six Electors enter, dressed in cloth of gold. They are followed by pages carrying, upon velvet cushions, the sceptre, crown, and other imperial insignia. Courtiers surround the Emperor. _Elvira_ approaches. The banners of the Empire are displayed. Many torches borne by soldiers illuminate the scene. The act closes with the pardon granted by the _King_, and the stirring finale, "Oh, sommo Carlo!" (Charlemagne!) Act IV, on the terrace of _Ernani's_ castle, is brief, and there is nothing to add to what has been said of its action. _Ernani_ asks _Silva_ to spare him till his lips have tasted the chalice filled by love. He recounts his sad life: "Solingo, errante, misero" (To linger in exiled misery). _Silva's_ grim reply is to offer him his choice between a cup of poison and a dagger. He takes the latter. "Ferma, crudele, estinguere" (Stay thee, my lord, for me at least) cries _Elvira_, wishing to share his fate. In the end there is left only the implacable avenger, to gloat over _Ernani_, dead, and _Elvira_ prostrate upon his form. * * * * * "Ernani," brought out in 1844, is the earliest work by Verdi that maintains a foothold in the modern repertoire, though by no means a very firm one. And yet "Ernani" is in many respects a fine opera. One wonders why it has not lasted better. Hanslick, the Viennese critic, made a discriminating criticism upon it. He pointed out that whereas in Victor Hugo's drama the mournful blast upon the hunting horn, when heard in the last act, thrills the listener with tragic forebodings, in the opera, after listening to solos, choruses, and a full orchestra all the evening, the audience is but little impressed by the sounding of a note upon a single instrument. That comment, however, presupposes considerable subtlety, so far undiscovered, on the part of operatic audiences. The fact is, that since 1844 the whirligig of time has made one--two--three--perhaps even four revolutions, and with each revolution the public taste that prevailed, when the first audience that heard the work in the Teatro Fenice, went wild over "Ernani Involami" and "Sommo Carlo," has become more remote and undergone more and more changes. To turn back operatic time in its flight requires in the case of "Ernani," a soprano of unusual voice and personality for _Elvira_, a tenor of the same qualities for the picturesque rôle of _Ernani_, a fine baritone for _Don Carlos_, and a sonorous basso, who doesn't look too much like a meal bag, for _Don Ruy Gomez di Silva_, Grandee of Spain. Early in its career the opera experienced various vicissitudes. The conspiracy scene had to be toned down for political reasons before the production of the work was permitted. Even then the chorus, "Let the lion awake in Castilia," caused a political demonstration. In Paris, Victor Hugo, as author of the drama on which the libretto is based, raised objections to its representation, and it was produced in the French capital as "Il Proscritto" (The Proscribed) with the characters changed to Italians. Victor Hugo's "Hernani" was a famous play in Sarah Bernhardt's repertoire during her early engagements in this country. Her _Doña Sol_ (_Elvira_ in the opera) was one of her finest achievements. On seeing the play, with her in it, I put to test Hanslick's theory. The horn was thrilling in the play. It certainly is less so in the opera. RIGOLETTO Opera in three acts, by Verdi; words by Francesco Maria Piave, founded on Victor Hugo's play, "Le Roi s'Amuse." Produced, Fenice Theatre, Venice, March 11, 1851; London, Covent Garden, May 14, 1853; Paris, Théâtre des Italiens, January 19, 1857; New York, Academy of Music, November 4, 1857, with Bignardi and Frezzolini. Caruso made his début in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, as the _Duke_ in "Rigoletto," November 23, 1903; Galli-Curci hers, as _Gilda_, Chicago, November 18, 1916. CHARACTERS THE DUKE OF MANTUA _Tenor_ RIGOLETTO, his jester, a hunchback _Baritone_ COUNT CEPRANO } { _Bass_ COUNT MONTERONE } Nobles { _Baritone_ SPARAFUCILE, a bravo _Bass_ BORSA, in the Duke's service _Tenor_ MARULLO _Bass_ COUNTESS CEPRANO _Soprano_ GILDA, daughter of Rigoletto _Soprano_ GIOVANNI, her duenna _Soprano_ MADDALENA, sister to Sparafucile _Contralto_ Courtiers, nobles, pages, servants. _Time_--Sixteenth century. _Place_--Mantua. "Rigoletto" is a distinguished opera. Composed in forty days in 1851, nearing three-quarters of a century of life before the footlights, it still retains its vitality. Twenty years, with all they imply in experience and artistic growth, lie between "Rigoletto" and "Aïda." Yet the earlier opera, composed so rapidly as to constitute a _tour de force_ of musical creation, seems destined to remain a close second in popularity to the more mature work of its great composer. There are several reasons for the public's abiding interest in "Rigoletto." It is based upon a most effective play by Victor Hugo, "Le Roi s'Amuse," known to English playgoers in Tom Taylor's adaptation as "The Fool's Revenge." The jester was one of Edwin Booth's great rôles. This rôle of the deformed court jester, _Rigoletto_, the hunchback, not only figures in the opera, but has been vividly characterized by Verdi in his music. It is a vital, centralizing force in the opera, concentrating and holding attention, a character creation that appeals strongly both to the singer who enacts it and to the audience who sees and hears it. The rôle has appealed to famous artists. Ronconi (who taught singing in New York for a few years, beginning in 1867) was a notable _Rigoletto_; so was Galassi, whose intensely dramatic performance still is vividly recalled by the older opera-goers; Renaud at the Manhattan Opera House, Titta Ruffo at the Metropolitan Opera House, Philadelphia, both made their American débuts as _Rigoletto_. But the opera offers other rôles of distinction. Mario was a famous _Duke_ in other days. Caruso made his sensational début at the Metropolitan in the character of the volatile _Duca di Mantua_, November 23, 1903. We have had as _Gilda_ Adelina Patti, Melba, and Tetrazzini, to mention but a few; and the heroine of the opera is one of the rôles of Galli-Curci, who appeared in it in Chicago, November 18, 1916. No coloratura soprano can, so to speak, afford to be without it. Thus the opera has plot, a central character of vital dramatic importance, and at least two other characters of strong interest. But there is even more to be said in its behalf. For, next to the sextet in "Lucia," the quartet in the last act of "Rigoletto" is the finest piece of concerted music in Italian opera--and many people will object to my placing it only "next" to that other famous ensemble, instead of on complete equality with, or even ahead of it. The "argument" of "Rigoletto" deals with the amatory escapades of the _Duke of Mantua_. In these he is aided by _Rigoletto_, his jester, a hunchback. _Rigoletto_, both by his caustic wit and unscrupulous conduct, has made many enemies at court. _Count Monterone_, who comes to the court to demand the restoration of his daughter, who has been dishonoured by the _Duke_, is met by the jester with laughter and derision. The _Count_ curses _Rigoletto_, who is stricken with superstitious terror. For _Rigoletto_ has a daughter, _Gilda_, whom he keeps in strict seclusion. But the _Duke_, without being aware who she is, has seen her, unknown to her father, and fallen in love with her. _Count Ceprano_, who many times has suffered under _Rigoletto's_ biting tongue, knowing that she is in some way connected with the jester, in fact believing her to be his mistress, and glad of any opportunity of doing him an injury, forms a plan to carry off the young girl, and so arranges it that _Rigoletto_ unwittingly assists in her abduction. When he finds that it is his own daughter whom he has aided to place in the power of the _Duke_, he determines to murder his master, and engages _Sparafucile_, a bravo, to do so. This man has a sister, _Maddalena_, who entices the _Duke_ to a lonely inn. She becomes fascinated with him, however, and begs her brother to spare his life. This he consents to do if before midnight any one shall arrive at the inn whom he can kill and pass off as the murdered _Duke_. _Rigoletto_, who has recovered his daughter, brings her to the inn so that, by being a witness of the _Duke's_ inconstancy, she may be cured of her unhappy love. She overhears the plot to murder her lover, and _Sparafucile's_ promise to his sister. Determined to save the _Duke_, she knocks for admittance, and is stabbed on entering. _Rigoletto_ comes at the appointed time for the body. _Sparafucile_ brings it out in a sack. The jester is about to throw it into the water, sack and all, when he hears the _Duke_ singing. He tears open the sack, only to find his own daughter, at the point of death. Act I opens in a salon in the _Duke's_ palace. A suite of other apartments is seen extending into the background. All are brilliantly lighted for the fête that is in progress. Courtiers and ladies are moving about in all directions. Pages are passing to and fro. From an adjoining salon music is heard and bursts of merriment. [Music] There is effervescent gayety in the orchestral accompaniment to the scene. A minuet played by an orchestra on the stage is curiously reminiscent of the minuet in Mozart's "Don Giovanni." The _Duke_ and _Borsa_ enter from the back. They are conversing about an "unknown charmer"--none other than _Gilda_--whom the _Duke_ has seen at church. He says that he will pursue the adventure to the end, although a mysterious man visits her nightly. Among a group of his guests the _Duke_ sees the _Countess Ceprano_, whom he has been wooing quite openly, in spite of the _Count's_ visible annoyance. The dashing gallant cares nothing about what anyone may think of his escapades, least of all the husbands or other relatives of the ladies. "Questa o quella per me pari sono" (This one, or that one, to me 'tis the same). [Music] This music floats on air. It gives at once the cue to the _Duke's_ character. Like _Don Giovanni_ he is indifferent to fate, flits from one affair to another, and is found as fascinating as he is dangerous by all women, of whatever degree, upon whom he confers his doubtful favours. _Rigoletto_, hunchbacked but agile, sidles in. He is in cap and bells, and carries the jester's bauble. The immediate object of his satire is _Count Ceprano_, who is watching his wife, as she is being led off on the _Duke's_ arm. _Rigoletto_ then goes out looking for other victims. _Marullo_ joins the nobles. He tells them that _Rigoletto_, despite his hump, has an inamorata. The statement makes a visible impression upon _Count Ceprano_, and when the nobles, after another sally from the jester, who has returned with the _Duke_, inveigh against his bitter tongue, the _Count_ bids them meet him at night on the morrow and he will guarantee them revenge upon the hunchback for the gibes they have been obliged to endure from him. The gay music, which forms a restless background to the recitatives of which I have given the gist, [Music] trips buoyantly along, to be suddenly broken in upon by the voice of one struggling without, and who, having freed himself from those evidently striving to hold him back, bursts in upon the scene. It is the aged _Count Monterone_. His daughter has been dishonoured by the _Duke_, and he denounces the ruler of Mantua before the whole assembly. His arrest is ordered. _Rigoletto_ mocks him until, drawing himself up to his full height, the old noble not only denounces him, but calls down upon him a father's curse. _Rigoletto_ is strangely affrighted. He cowers before _Monterone's_ malediction. It is the first time since he has appeared at the gathering that he is not gibing at someone. Not only is he subdued; he is terror-stricken. _Monterone_ is led off between halberdiers. The gay music again breaks in. The crowd follows the _Duke_. But _Rigoletto_? The scene changes to the street outside of his house. It is secluded in a courtyard, from which a door leads into the street. In the courtyard are a tall tree and a marble seat. There is also seen at the end of the street, which has no thoroughfare, the gable end of _Count Ceprano's_ palace. It is night. As _Rigoletto_ enters, he speaks of _Monterone's_ curse. His entrance to the house is interrupted by the appearance of _Sparafucile_, an assassin for hire. In a colloquy, to which the orchestra supplies an accompaniment, interesting because in keeping with the scene, he offers to _Rigoletto_ his services, should they be needed, in putting enemies out of the way--and his charges are reasonable. [Music] _Rigoletto_ has no immediate need of him, but ascertains where he can be found. _Sparafucile_ goes. _Rigoletto_ has a soliloquy, beginning, "How like are we!--the tongue, my weapon, the dagger his! to make others laugh is my vocation,--his to make them weep!... Tears, the common solace of humanity, are to me denied.... 'Amuse me buffoon'--and I must obey." His mind still dwells on the curse--a father's curse, pronounced upon him, a father to whom his daughter is a jewel. He refers to it, even as he unlocks the door that leads to his house, and also to his daughter, who, as he enters, throws herself into his arms. He cautions her about going out. She says she never ventures beyond the courtyard save to go to church. He grieves over the death of his wife--_Gilda's_ mother--that left her to his care while she was still an infant. "Deh non parlare al misero" (Speak not of one whose loss to me). [Music: Deh non parlare al misero] He charges her attendant, _Giovanna_, carefully to guard her. _Gilda_ endeavours to dispel his fears. The result is the duet for _Rigoletto_ and _Gilda_, beginning with his words to _Giovanna_, "Veglia, o donna, questo fiore" (Safely guard this tender blossom). [Illustration: Photo copyright, 1916, by Victor Georg Galli-Curci as Gilda in "Rigoletto"] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Caruso as the Duke in "Rigoletto"] _Rigoletto_ hears footsteps in the street and goes out through the door of the courtyard to see who may be there. As the door swings out, the _Duke_, for it is he, in the guise of a student, whose stealthy footsteps have been heard by the jester, conceals himself behind it, then slips into the courtyard, tosses a purse to _Giovanna_, and hides in the shadow of the tree. _Rigoletto_ reappears for a brief moment to say good-bye to _Gilda_ and once more to warn _Giovanna_ to guard her carefully. When he has gone _Gilda_ worries because fear drove her to refrain from revealing to her father that a handsome youth has several times followed her from church. This youth's image is installed in her heart. "I long to say to him 'I lo--'" The _Duke_ steps out of the tree's shadow, motions to _Giovanna_ to retire and, throwing himself at _Gilda's_ feet, takes the words out of her mouth by exclaiming, "I love thee!" No doubt taken by surprise, yet also thrilled with joy, she hearkens to him rapturously as he declares, "È il sol dell'anima, la vita è amore" (Love is the sun by which passion is kindled). [Music: È il sol dell'anima, la vita è amore,] The meeting is brief, for again there are footsteps outside. But their farewell is an impassioned duet, "Addio speranza ed anima" (Farewell, my hope, my soul, farewell). He has told her that he is a student, by name Walter Maldè. When he has gone, she muses upon the name, and, when she has lighted a candle and is ascending the steps to her room, she sings the enchanting coloratura air, "Caro nome che il mio cor" (Dear name, my heart enshrines). [Music: Caro nome che il mio cor Festi primo palpitar,] If the _Gilda_ be reasonably slender and pretty, the scene, with the courtyard, the steps leading up to the room, and the young maiden gracefully and tenderly expressing her heart's first romance, is charming, and in itself sufficient to account for the attraction which the rôle holds for prima donnas. Tiptoeing through the darkness outside come _Marullo_, _Ceprano_, _Borsa_, and other nobles and courtiers, intent upon seeking revenge for the gibes _Rigoletto_ at various times has aimed at them, by carrying off the damsel, whom they assume to be his inamorata. At that moment, however, the jester himself appears. They tell him they have come to abduct the _Countess Ceprano_ and bear her to the Ducal palace. To substantiate this statement _Marullo_ quickly has the keys to _Ceprano's_ house passed to him by the _Count_, and in the darkness holds them out to _Rigoletto_, who, his suspicions allayed because he can feel the Ceprano crest in basso-relievo on the keys, volunteers to aid in the escapade. _Marullo_ gives him a mask and, as if to fasten it securely, ties it with a handkerchief, which he passes over the piercings for the eyes. _Rigoletto_, confused, holds a ladder against what he believes to be the wall of _Ceprano's_ house. By it, the abductors climb his own wall, enter his house, gag, seize, and carry away _Gilda_, making their exit from the courtyard, but in their hurry failing to observe a scarf that has fluttered from their precious burden. _Rigoletto_ is left alone in the darkness and silence. He tears off his mask. The door to his courtyard is open. Before him lies _Gilda's_ scarf. He rushes into the house, into her room; reappears, staggering under the weight of the disaster, which, through his own unwitting connivance, has befallen him. "Ah! La maledizione!" he cries out. It is _Monterone's_ curse. Act II has its scene laid in the ducal palace. This salon has large folding doors in the background and smaller ones on each side, above which are portraits of the _Duke_ and of the Duchess, a lady who, whether from a sense of delicacy or merely to serve the convenience of the stage, does not otherwise appear in the opera. The _Duke_ is disconsolate. He has returned to _Rigoletto's_ house, found it empty. The bird had flown. The scamp mourns his loss--in affecting language and music, "Parmi veder le lagrime" (Fair maid, each tear of mine that flows). In a capital chorus he is told by _Marullo_ and the others that they have abducted _Rigoletto's_ inamorata. [Music: Scorrendo uniti remota via] The _Duke_ well knows that she is the very one whose charms are the latest that have enraptured him. "Possente amor mi chiama" (To her I love with rapture). He learns from the courtiers that they have brought her to the palace. He hastens to her, "to console her," in his own way. It is at this moment _Rigoletto_ enters. He knows his daughter is in the palace. He has come to search for her. Aware that he is in the presence of those who took advantage of him and thus secured his aid in the abduction of the night before, he yet, in order to accomplish his purpose, must appear light-hearted, question craftily, and be diplomatic, although at times he cannot prevent his real feelings breaking through. It is the ability of Verdi to give expression to such varied emotions which make this scene one of the most significant in his operas. It is dominated by an orchestral motive, that of the clown who jests while his heart is breaking. [Music: La rà, la rà, la la, la rà, la rà, la rà, la rà etc.] Finally he turns upon the crowd that taunts him, hurls invective upon them; and, when a door opens and _Gilda_, whose story can be read in her aspect of despair, rushes into his arms, he orders the courtiers out of sight with a sense of outrage so justified that, in spite of the flippant words with which they comment upon his command, they obey it. Father and daughter are alone. She tells him her story--of the handsome youth, who followed her from church--"Tutte le feste al tempio" (One very festal morning). Then follows her account of their meeting, his pretence that he was a poor student, when, in reality, he was the _Duke_--to whose chamber she was borne after her abduction. It is from there she has just come. Her father strives to comfort her--"Piangi, fanciulla" (Weep, my child). At this moment he is again reminded of the curse pronounced upon him by the father whose grief with him had been but the subject of ribald jest. _Count Monterone_, between guards, is conducted through the apartment to the prison where he is to be executed for denouncing the _Duke_. Then _Rigoletto_ vows vengeance upon the betrayer of _Gilda_. But such is the fascination which the _Duke_ exerts over women that _Gilda_, fearing for the life of her despoiler, pleads with her father to "pardon him, as we ourselves the pardon of heaven hope to gain," adding, in an aside, "I dare not say how much I love him." It was a corrupt, carefree age. Victor Hugo created a debonair character--a libertine who took life lightly and flitted from pleasure to pleasure. And so Verdi lets him flit from tune to tune--gay, melodious, sentimental. There still are plenty of men like the _Duke_, and plenty of women like _Gilda_ to love them; and other women, be it recalled, as discreet as the Duchess, who does not appear in this opera save as a portrait on the wall, from which she calmly looks down upon a jester invoking vengeance upon her husband, because of the wrong he has done the girl, who weeps on the breast of her hunchback father. To Act III might be given as a sub-title, "The Fool's Revenge," the title of Tom Taylor's adaptation into English of Victor Hugo's play. The scene shows a desolate spot on the banks of the Mincio. On the right, with its front to the audience, is a house two stories high, in a very dilapidated state, but still used as an inn. The doors and walls are so full of crevices that whatever is going on within can be seen from without. In front are the road and the river; in the distance is the city of Mantua. It is night. The house is that of _Sparafucile_. With him lives his sister, _Maddalena_, a handsome young gypsy woman, who lures men to the inn, there to be robbed--or killed, if there is more money to be had for murder than for robbery. _Sparafucile_ is seen within, cleaning his belt and sharpening his sword. Outside are _Rigoletto_ and _Gilda_. She cannot banish the image of her despoiler from her heart. Hither the hunchback has brought her to prove to her the faithlessness of the _Duke_. She sees him in the garb of a soldier coming along the city wall. He descends, enters the inn, and calls for wine and a room for the night. Shuffling a pack of cards, which he finds on the table, and pouring out the wine, he sings of woman. This is the famous "La donna è mobile" (Fickle is woman fair). [Music: La donna è mobile Qual piuma al vento,] It has been highly praised and violently criticized; and usually gets as many encores as the singer cares to give. As for the criticisms, the cadenzas so ostentatiously introduced by singers for the sake of catching applause, are no more Verdi's than is the high C in "Il Trovatore." The song is perfectly in keeping with the _Duke's_ character. It has grace, verve, and buoyancy; and, what is an essential point in the development of the action from this point on, it is easily remembered. In any event I am glad that among my operatic experiences I can count having heard "La donna è mobile" sung by such great artists as Campanini, Caruso, and Bonci, the last two upon their first appearances in the rôle in this country. At a signal from _Sparafucile_, _Maddalena_ joins the _Duke_. He presses his love upon her. With professional coyness she pretends to repulse him. This leads to the quartet, with its dramatic interpretation of the different emotions of the four participants. The _Duke_ is gallantly urgent and pleading: "Bella figlia dell'amore" (Fairest daughter of the graces). [Music] _Maddalena_ laughingly resists his advances: "I am proof, my gentle wooer, 'gainst your vain and empty nothings." [Music] _Gilda_ is moved to despair: "Ah, thus to me of love he spoke." [Music] _Rigoletto_ mutters of vengeance. It is the _Duke_ who begins the quartet; _Maddalena_ who first joins in by coyly mocking him; _Gilda_ whose voice next falls upon the night with despairing accents; _Rigoletto_ whose threats of vengeance then are heard. With the return of the theme, after the first cadence, the varied elements are combined. They continue so to the end. _Gilda's_ voice, in brief cries of grief, rising twice to effective climaxes, then becoming even more poignant through the syncopation of the rhythm. Rising to a beautiful and highly dramatic climax, the quartet ends pianissimo. This quartet usually is sung as the pièce de résistance of the opera, and is supposed to be the great event of the performance. I cannot recall a representation of the work with Nilsson and Campanini in which this was not the case, and it was so at the Manhattan when "Rigoletto" was sung there by Melba and Bonci. But at the Metropolitan, since Caruso's advent, "Rigoletto" has become a "Caruso opera," and the stress is laid on "La donna è mobile," for which numerous encores are demanded, while with the quartet, the encore is deliberately side-stepped--a most interesting process for the initiated to watch. [Illustration: Photo by Hall The Quartet in "Rigoletto" The Duke (Sheehan), Maddalena (Albright), Gilda (Easton), Rigoletto (Goff)] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Riccardo Martin as Manrico in "Il Trovatore"] After the quartet, _Sparafucile_ comes out and receives from _Rigoletto_ half of his fee to murder the _Duke_, the balance to be paid when the body, in a sack, is delivered to the hunchback. _Sparafucile_ offers to throw the sack into the river, but that does not suit the fool's desire for revenge. He wants the grim satisfaction of doing so himself. Satisfied that _Gilda_ has seen enough of the _Duke's_ perfidy, he sends her home, where, for safety, she is to don male attire and start on the way to Verona, where he will join her. He himself also goes out. A storm now gathers. There are flashes of lightning; distant rumblings of thunder. The wind moans. (Indicated by the chorus, _à bouche fermée_, behind the scenes.) The _Duke_ has gone to his room, after whispering a few words to _Maddalena_. He lays down his hat and sword, throws himself on the bed, sings a few snatches of "La donna è mobile," and in a short time falls asleep. _Maddalena_, below, stands by the table. _Sparafucile_ finishes the contents of the bottle left by the _Duke_. Both remain silent for awhile. _Maddalena_, fascinated by the _Duke_, begins to plead for his life. The storm is now at its height. Lightning plays vividly across the sky, thunder crashes, wind howls, rain falls in torrents. Through this uproar of the elements, to which night adds its terrors, comes _Gilda_, drawn as by a magnet to the spot where she knows her false lover to be. Through the crevices in the wall of the house she can hear _Maddalena_ pleading with _Sparafucile_ to spare the _Duke's_ life. "Kill the hunchback," she counsels, "when he comes with the balance of the money." But there is honour even among assassins as among thieves. The bravo will not betray a customer. _Maddalena_ pleads yet more urgently. Well--_Sparafucile_ will give the handsome youth one desperate chance for life: Should any other man arrive at the inn before midnight, that man will he kill and put in the sack to be thrown into the river, in place of _Maddalena's_ temporary favourite. A clock strikes the half-hour. _Gilda_ is in male attire. She determines to save the _Duke's_ life--to sacrifice hers for his. She knocks. There is a moment of surprised suspense within. Then everything is made ready. _Maddalena_ opens the door, and runs forward to close the outer one. _Gilda_ enters. For a moment one senses her form in the darkness. A half-stifled outcry. Then all is buried in silence and gloom. The storm is abating. The rain has ceased; the lightning become fitful, the thunder distant and intermittent. _Rigoletto_ returns. "At last the hour of my vengeance is nigh." A bell tolls midnight. He knocks at the door. _Sparafucile_ brings out the sack, receives the balance of his money, and retires into the house. "This sack his winding sheet!" exclaims the hunchback, as he gloats over it. The night has cleared. He must hurry and throw it into the river. Out of the second story of the house and on to the wall steps the figure of a man and proceeds along the wall toward the city. _Rigoletto_ starts to drag the sack with the body toward the stream. Lightly upon the night fall the notes of a familiar voice singing: La donna è mobile Qual piuma al vento; Muta d'accento, E di pensiero. (Fickle is woman fair, Like feather wafted; Changeable ever, Constant, ah, never.) It is the _Duke_. Furiously the hunchback tears open the sack. In it he beholds his daughter. Not yet quite dead, she is able to whisper, "Too much I loved him--now I die for him." There is a duet: _Gilda_, "Lassù in cielo" (From yonder sky); _Rigoletto_, "Non morir" (Ah, perish not). "Maledizione!"--The music of _Monterone's_ curse upon the ribald jester, now bending over the corpse of his own despoiled daughter, resounds on the orchestra. The fool has had his revenge. For political reasons the performance of Victor Hugo's "Le Roi s'Amuse" was forbidden in France after the first representation. In Hugo's play the principal character is Triboulet, the jester of François I. The King, of course, also is a leading character; and there is a pen-portrait of Saint-Vallier. It was considered unsafe, after the revolutionary uprisings in Europe in 1848, to present on the stage so licentious a story involving a monarch. Therefore, to avoid political complications, and copyright ones possibly later, the Italian librettist laid the scene in Mantua. _Triboulet_ became _Rigoletto_; _François I._ the _Duke_, and _Saint-Vallier_ the _Count Monterone_. Early in its career the opera also was given under the title of "Viscardello." IL TROVATORE THE TROUBADOUR Opera in four acts, by Verdi; words by Salvatore Cammarano, based on the Spanish drama of the same title by Antonio Garcia Gutierrez. Produced, Apollo Theatre, Rome, January 19, 1853. Paris, Théâtre des Italiens, December 23, 1854; Grand Opéra, in French as "Le Trouvère," January 12, 1857. London, Covent Garden, May 17, 1855; in English, as "The Gypsy's Vengeance," Drury Lane, March 24, 1856. America: New York, April 30, 1855, with Brignoli (_Manrico_), Steffanone (_Leonora_), Amodio (_Count di Luna_), and Vestvali (_Azucena_); Philadelphia, Walnut Street Theatre, January 14, 1856, and Academy of Music, February 25, 1857; New Orleans, April 13, 1857. Metropolitan Opera House, New York, in German, 1889; 1908, Caruso, Eames, and Homer. Frequently performed at the Academy of Music, New York, with Campanini (_Manrico_), Nilsson (_Leonora_), and Annie Louise Cary (_Azucena_); and Del Puente or Galassi as _Count di Luna_. CHARACTERS COUNT DI LUNA, a young noble of Aragon _Baritone_ FERRANDO, DI LUNA'S captain of the guard _Bass_ MANRICO, a chieftain under the Prince of Biscay, and reputed son of AZUCENA _Tenor_ RUIZ, a soldier in MANRICO'S service _Tenor_ AN OLD GYPSY _Baritone_ DUCHESS LEONORA, lady-in-waiting to a Princess of Aragon _Soprano_ INEZ, confidante of LEONORA _Soprano_ AZUCENA, a Biscayan gypsy woman _Mezzo-Soprano_ Followers of COUNT DI LUNA and of MANRICO; messenger, gaoler, soldiers, nuns, gypsies. _Time_--Fifteenth century. _Place_--Biscay and Aragon. For many years "Il Trovatore" has been an opera of world-wide popularity, and for a long time could be accounted the most popular work in the operatic repertoire of practically every land. While it cannot be said to retain its former vogue in this country, it is still a good drawing card, and, with special excellences of cast, an exceptional one. The libretto of "Il Trovatore" is considered the acme of absurdity; and the popularity of the opera, notwithstanding, is believed to be entirely due to the almost unbroken melodiousness of Verdi's score. While it is true, however, that the story of this opera seems to be a good deal of a mix-up, it is also a fact that, under the spur of Verdi's music, even a person who has not a clear grasp of the plot can sense the dramatic power of many of the scenes. It is an opera of immense verve, of temperament almost unbridled, of genius for the melodramatic so unerring that its composer has taken dance rhythms, like those of mazurka and waltz, and on them developed melodies most passionate in expression and dramatic in effect. Swift, spontaneous, and stirring is the music of "Il Trovatore." Absurdities, complexities, unintelligibilities of story are swept away in its unrelenting progress. "Il Trovatore" is the Verdi of forty working at white heat. One reason why the plot of "Il Trovatore" seems such a jumbled-up affair is that a considerable part of the story is supposed to have transpired before the curtain goes up. These events are narrated by _Ferrando_, the _Count di Luna's_ captain of the guard, soon after the opera begins. But as even spoken narrative on the stage makes little impression, narrative when sung may be said to make none at all. Could the audience know what _Ferrando_ is singing about, the subsequent proceedings would not appear so hopelessly involved, or appeal so strongly to humorous rhymesters, who usually begin their parodies on the opera with, This is the story of "Il Trovatore." What is supposed to have happened before the curtain goes up on the opera is as follows: The old Count di Luna, sometime deceased, had two sons nearly of the same age. One night, when they still were infants, and asleep, in a nurse's charge in an apartment in the old Count's castle, a gypsy hag, having gained stealthy entrance into the chamber, was discovered leaning over the cradle of the younger child, Garzia. Though she was instantly driven away, the child's health began to fail and she was believed to have bewitched it. She was pursued, apprehended and burned alive at the stake. Her daughter, _Azucena_, at that time a young gypsy woman with a child of her own in her arms, was a witness to the death of her mother, which she swore to avenge. During the following night she stole into the castle, snatched the younger child of the Count di Luna from its cradle, and hurried back to the scene of execution, intending to throw the baby boy into the flames that still raged over the spot where they had consumed her mother. Almost bereft of her senses, however, by her memory of the horrible scene she had witnessed, she seized and hurled into the flames her own child, instead of the young Count (thus preserving, with an almost supernatural instinct for opera, the baby that was destined to grow up into a tenor with a voice high enough to sing "Di quella pira"). Thwarted for the moment in her vengeance, _Azucena_ was not to be completely baffled. With the infant Count in her arms she fled and rejoined her tribe, entrusting her secret to no one, but bringing him up--_Manrico, the Troubadour_--as her own son; and always with the thought that through him she might wreak vengeance upon his own kindred. When the opera opens, _Manrico_ has grown up; she has become old and wrinkled, but is still unrelenting in her quest of vengeance. The old Count has died, leaving the elder son, _Count di Luna_ of the opera, sole heir to his title and possessions, but always doubting the death of the younger, despite the heap of infant's bones found among the ashes about the stake. "After this preliminary knowledge," quaintly says the English libretto, "we now come to the actual business of the piece." Each of the four acts of this "piece" has a title: Act I, "Il Duello" (The Duel); Act II, "La Gitana" (The Gypsy); Act III, "Il Figlio della Zingara" (The Gypsy's Son); Act IV, "Il Supplizio" (The Penalty). Act I. Atrium of the palace of Aliaferia, with a door leading to the apartments of the _Count di Luna_. _Ferrando_, the captain of the guard, and retainers, are reclining near the door. Armed men are standing guard in the background. It is night. The men are on guard because _Count di Luna_ desires to apprehend a minstrel knight, a troubadour, who has been heard on several occasions to be serenading from the palace garden, the _Duchess Leonora_, for whom a deep, but unrequited passion sways the _Count_. Weary of the watch, the retainers beg _Ferrando_ to tell them the story of the _Count's_ brother, the stolen child. This _Ferrando_ proceeds to do in the ballad, "Abbietta zingara" (Sat there a gypsy hag). _Ferrando's_ gruesome ballad and the comments of the horror-stricken chorus dominate the opening of the opera. The scene is an unusually effective one for a subordinate character like _Ferrando_. But in "Il Trovatore" Verdi is lavish with his melodies--more so, perhaps, than in any of his other operas. The scene changes to the gardens of the palace. On one side a flight of marble steps leads to _Leonora's_ apartment. Heavy clouds obscure the moon. _Leonora_ and _Inez_ are in the garden. From the confidante's questions and _Leonora's_ answers it is gathered that _Leonora_ is enamoured of an unknown but valiant knight who, lately entering a tourney, won all contests and was crowned victor by her hand. She knows her love is requited, for at night she has heard her _Troubadour_ singing below her window. In the course of this narrative _Leonora_ has two solos. The first of these is the romantic "Tacea la notte placida" (The night calmly and peacefully in beauty seemed reposing). [Music: Tacea la notte placida, E bella in ciel sereno;] It is followed by the graceful and engaging "Di tale amor che dirsi" (Of such a love how vainly), [Music: Di tale amor che dirsi] with its brilliant cadenza. _Leonora_ and _Inez_ then ascend the steps and retire into the palace. The _Count di Luna_ now comes into the garden. He has hardly entered before the voice of the _Troubadour_, accompanied on a lute, is heard from a nearby thicket singing the familiar romanza, "Deserto sulla terra" (Lonely on earth abiding). [Music: Deserto sulla terra] From the palace comes _Leonora_. Mistaking the Count in the shadow of the trees for her _Troubadour_, she hastens toward him. The moon emerging from a cloud, she sees the figure of a masked cavalier, recognizes it as that of her lover, and turns from the _Count_ toward the _Troubadour_. Unmasking, the _Troubadour_ now discloses his identity as _Manrico_, one who, as a follower of the Prince of Biscay, is proscribed in Aragon. The men draw their swords. There is a trio that fairly seethes with passion--"Di geloso amor sprezzato" (Fires of jealous, despised affection). [Music] These are the words, in which the _Count_ begins the trio. It continues with "Un istante almen dia loco" (One brief moment thy fury restraining). [Music: Un istante almen dia loco] The men rush off to fight their duel. _Leonora_ faints. Act II. An encampment of gypsies. There is a ruined house at the foot of a mountain in Biscay; the interior partly exposed to view; within a great fire is lighted. Day begins to dawn. _Azucena_ is seated near the fire. _Manrico_, enveloped in his mantle, is lying upon a mattress; his helmet is at his feet; in his hand he holds a sword, which he regards fixedly. A band of gypsies are sitting in scattered groups around them. Since an almost unbroken sequence of melodies is a characteristic of "Il Trovatore," it is not surprising to find at the opening of this act two famous numbers in quick succession;--the famous "Anvil Chorus," [Music] in which the gypsies, working at the forges, swing their hammers and bring them down on clanking metal in rhythm with the music; the chorus being followed immediately by _Azucena's_ equally famous "Stride la vampa" (Upward the flames roll). [Music: Stride la vampa!] In this air, which the old gypsy woman sings as a weird, but impassioned upwelling of memories and hatreds, while the tribe gathers about her, she relates the story of her mother's death. "Avenge thou me!" she murmurs to _Manrico_, when she has concluded. The corps de ballet which, in the absence of a regular ballet in "Il Trovatore," utilizes this scene and the music of the "Anvil Chorus" for its picturesque saltations, dances off. The gypsies now depart, singing their chorus. With a pretty effect it dies away in the distance. [Music] Swept along by the emotional stress under which she labours, _Azucena_ concludes her narrative of the tragic events at the pyre, voice and orchestral accompaniment uniting in a vivid musical setting of her memories. Naturally, her words arouse doubts in _Manrico's_ mind as to whether he really is her son. She hastens to dispel these; they were but wandering thoughts she uttered. Moreover, after the recent battle of Petilla, between the forces of Biscay and Aragon, when he was reported slain, did she not search for and find him, and has she not been tenderly nursing him back to strength? The forces of Aragon were led by _Count di Luna_, who but a short time before had been overcome by _Manrico_ in a duel in the palace garden;--why, on that occasion, asks the gypsy, did he spare the _Count's_ life? _Manrico's_ reply is couched in a bold, martial air, "Mal reggendo all'aspro assalto" (Ill sustaining the furious encounter). But at the end it dies away to _pp_, when he tells how, when the _Count's_ life was his for a thrust, a voice, as if from heaven, bade him spare it--a suggestion, of course, that although neither _Manrico_ nor the _Count_ know that they are brothers, _Manrico_ unconsciously was swayed by the relationship, a touch of psychology rare in Italian opera librettos, most unexpected in this, and, of course, completely lost upon those who have not familiarized themselves with the plot of "Il Trovatore." Incidentally, however, it accounts for a musical effect--the _pp_, the sudden softening of the expression, at the end of the martial description of the duel. Enter now _Ruiz_, a messenger from the Prince of Biscay, who orders _Manrico_ to take command of the forces defending the stronghold of Castellor, and at the same time informs him that _Leonora_, believing reports of his death at Petilla, is about to take the veil in a convent near the castle. The scene changes to the cloister of this convent. It is night. The _Count_ and his followers, led by _Ferrando_, and heavily cloaked, advance cautiously. It is the _Count's_ plan to carry off _Leonora_ before she becomes a nun. He sings of his love for her in the air, "Il Balen" (The Smile)--"Il balen del suo sorriso" (Of her smile, the radiant gleaming)--which is justly regarded as one of the most chaste and beautiful baritone solos in Italian opera. [Music: Il balen del suo sorriso] It is followed by an air _alla marcia_, also for the _Count_, "Per me ora fatale" (Oh, fatal hour impending). [Music: Per me ora fatale,] A chorus of nuns is heard from within the convent. _Leonora_, with _Inez_, and her ladies, come upon the scene. They are about to proceed from the cloister into the convent when the _Count_ interposes. But before he can seize _Leonora_, another figure stands between them. It is _Manrico_. With him are _Ruiz_ and his followers. The _Count_ is foiled. "E deggio!--e posso crederlo?" (And can I still my eyes believe!) exclaims _Leonora_, as she beholds before her _Manrico_, whom she had thought dead. It is here that begins the impassioned finale, an ensemble consisting of a trio for _Leonora_, _Manrico_, and the _Count di Luna_, with chorus. Act III. The camp of _Count di Luna_, who is laying siege to Castellor, whither _Manrico_ has safely borne _Leonora_. There is a stirring chorus for _Ferrando_ and the soldiers. [Music] The _Count_ comes from his tent. He casts a lowering gaze at the stronghold from where his rival defies him. There is a commotion. Soldiers have captured a gypsy woman found prowling about the camp. They drag her in. She is _Azucena_. Questioned, she sings that she is a poor wanderer, who means no harm. "Giorni poveri vivea" (I was poor, yet uncomplaining). [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Schumann-Heink as Azucena in "Il Trovatore"] But _Ferrando_, though she thought herself masked by the grey hairs and wrinkles of age, recognizes her as the gypsy who, to avenge her mother, gave over the infant brother of the _Count_ to the flames. In the vehemence of her denials, she cries out to _Manrico_, whom she names as her son, to come to her rescue. This still further enrages the _Count_. He orders that she be cast into prison and then burned at the stake. She is dragged away. The scene changes to a hall adjoining the chapel in the stronghold of Castellor. _Leonora_ is about to become the bride of _Manrico_, who sings the beautiful lyric, "Amor--sublime amore" ('Tis love, sublime emotion). Its serenity makes all the more effective the tumultuous scene that follows. It assists in giving to that episode, one of the most famous in Italian opera, its true significance as a dramatic climax. Just as _Manrico_ takes _Leonora's_ hand to lead her to the altar of the chapel, _Ruiz_ rushes in with word that _Azucena_ has been captured by the besiegers and is about to be burned to death. Already through the windows of Castellor the glow of flames can be seen. Her peril would render delay fatal. Dropping the hand of his bride, _Manrico_, draws his sword, and, as his men gather, sings "Di quella pira l'orrendo foco" (See the pyre blazing, oh, sight of horror), and rushes forth at the head of his soldiers to attempt to save _Azucena_. [Music] The line, "O teco almeno, corro a morir" (Or, all else failing, to die with thee), contains the famous high C. [Music: O teco almeno corro a morir] This is a _tour de force_, which has been condemned as vulgar and ostentatious, but which undoubtedly adds to the effectiveness of the number. There is, it should be remarked, no high C in the score of "Di quella pira." In no way is Verdi responsible for it. It was introduced by a tenor, who saw a chance to make an effect with it, and succeeded so well that it became a fixture. A tenor now content to sing "O teco almeno" as Verdi wrote it [Music] would never be asked to sing it. Dr. Frank E. Miller, author of _The Voice_ and _Vocal Art Science_, the latter the most complete exposition of the psycho-physical functions involved in voice-production, informs me that a series of photographs have been made (by an apparatus too complicated to describe) of the vibrations of Caruso's voice as he takes and holds the high C in "Di quella pira." The record measures fifty-eight feet. While it might not be correct to say that Caruso's high C is fifty-eight feet long, the record is evidence of its being superbly taken and held. Not infrequently the high C in "Di quella pira" is faked for tenors who cannot reach it, yet have to sing the rôle of _Manrico_, or who, having been able to reach it in their younger days and at the height of their prime, still wish to maintain their fame as robust tenors. For such the number is transposed. The tenor, instead of singing high C, sings B-flat, a tone and a half lower, and much easier to take. By flourishing his sword and looking very fierce he usually manages to get away with it. Transpositions of operatic airs, requiring unusually high voices, are not infrequently made for singers, both male and female, no longer in their prime, but still good for two or three more "farewell" tours. All they have to do is to step up to the footlights with an air of perfect confidence, which indicates that the great moment in the performance has arrived, deliver, with a certain assumption of effort--the semblance of a real _tour de force_--the note which has conveniently been transposed, and receive the enthusiastic plaudits of their devoted admirers. But the assumption of effort must not be omitted. The tenor who sings the high C in "Di quella pira" without getting red in the face will hardly be credited with having sung it at all. Act IV. _Manrico's_ sortie to rescue his supposed mother failed. His men were repulsed, and he himself was captured and thrown into the dungeon tower of Aliaferia, where _Azucena_ was already enchained. The scene shows a wing of the palace of Aliaferia. In the angle is a tower with window secured by iron bars. It is night, dark and clouded. _Leonora_ enters with _Ruiz_, who points out to her the place of _Manrico's_ confinement, and retires. That she has conceived a desperate plan to save her lover appears from the fact that she wears a poison ring, a ring with a swift poison concealed under the jewel, so that she can take her own life, if driven thereto. Unknown to _Manrico_, she is near him. Her thoughts wander to him;--"D'amor sull'ali rosee" (On rosy wings of love depart). [Music: D'amor sull'ali rosee] It is followed by the "Miserere," which was for many years and perhaps still is the world over the most popular of all melodies from opera, although at the present time it appears to have been superseded by the "Intermezzo" from "Cavalleria Rusticana." The "Miserere" is chanted by a chorus within. [Music] Against this as a sombre background are projected the heart-broken ejaculations of _Leonora_. [Music] Then _Manrico's_ voice in the tower intones "Ah! che la morte ognora" (Ah! how death still delayeth). [Music] One of the most characteristic phrases, suggestions of which occur also in "La Traviata" and even in "Aïda," is the following: [Music: a chi desia, a chi desia morir!] Familiarity may breed contempt, and nothing could well be more familiar than the "Miserere" from "Il Trovatore." Yet, well sung, it never fails of effect; and the gaoler always has to let _Manrico_ come out of the tower and acknowledge the applause of an excited house, while _Leonora_ stands by and pretends not to see him, one of those little fictions and absurdities of old-fashioned opera that really add to its charm. The _Count_ enters, to be confronted by _Leonora_. She promises to become his wife if he will free _Manrico_. _Di Luna's_ passion for her is so intense that he agrees. There is a solo for _Leonora_, "Mira, di acerbe lagrime" (Witness the tears of agony), followed by a duet between her and the _Count_, who little suspects that, _Manrico_ once freed, she will escape a hated union with himself by taking the poison in her ring. The scene changes to the interior of the tower. _Manrico_ and _Azucena_ sing a duet of mournful beauty, "Ai nostri monti" (Back to our mountains). [Music: Ai nostri monti] [Music: Riposa o madre, io prono e muto] _Leonora_ enters and bids him escape. But he suspects the price she has paid; and his suspicions are confirmed by herself, when the poison she has drained from beneath the jewel in her ring begins to take effect and she feels herself sinking in death, while _Azucena_, in her sleep, croons dreamily, "Back to our mountains." The _Count di Luna_, coming upon the scene, finds _Leonora_ dead in her lover's arms. He orders _Manrico_ to be led to the block at once and drags _Azucena_ to the window to witness the death of her supposed son. "It is over!" exclaims _Di Luna_, when the executioner has done his work. "The victim was thy brother!" shrieks the gypsy hag. "Thou art avenged, O mother!" She falls near the window. "And I still live!" exclaims the _Count_. With that exclamation the cumulative horrors, set to the most tuneful score in Italian opera, are over. LA TRAVIATA THE FRAIL ONE Opera in three acts by Verdi; words by Francesco Maria Piave, after the play "La Dame aux Camélias," by Alexandre Dumas, _fils_. Produced Fenice Theatre, Venice, March 6, 1853. London, May 24, 1856, with Piccolomini. Paris, in French, December 6, 1856; in Italian, October 27, 1864, with Christine Nilsson. New York, Academy of Music, December 3, 1856, with La Grange (_Violetta_), Brignoli (_Alfredo_), and Amodio (_Germont, père_). Nilsson, Patti, Melba, Sembrich and Tetrazzini have been among famous interpreters of the rôle of _Violetta_ in America. Galli-Curci first sang _Violetta_ in this country in Chicago, December 1, 1916. CHARACTERS ALFREDO GERMONT, lover of VIOLETTA _Tenor_ GIORGIO GERMONT, his father _Baritone_ GASTONE DE LETORIÈRES _Tenor_ BARON DOUPHOL, a rival of ALFREDO _Bass_ MARQUIS D'OBIGNY _Bass_ DOCTOR GRENVIL _Bass_ GIUSEPPE, servant to VIOLETTA _Tenor_ VIOLETTA VALÉRY, a courtesan _Soprano_ FLORA BERVOIX, her friend _Mezzo-Soprano_ ANNINA, confidante of VIOLETTA _Soprano_ Ladies and gentlemen who are friends and guests in the houses of Violetta and Flora; servants and masks; dancers and guests as matadors, picadors, and gypsies. _Time_--Louis XIV. [Transcriber's Note: The correct time is about 1850. See author's discussion below.] _Place_--Paris and vicinity. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Galli-Curci as Violetta in "La Traviata"] At its production in Venice in 1853 "La Traviata" was a failure, for which various reasons can be advanced. The younger Dumas's play, "La Dame aux Camélias," familiar to English playgoers under the incorrect title of "Camille," is a study of modern life and played in modern costume. When Piave reduced his "Traviata" libretto from the play, he retained the modern period. This is said to have nonplussed an audience accustomed to operas laid in the past and given in "costume." But the chief blame for the fiasco appears to have rested with the singers. Graziani, the _Alfredo_, was hoarse. Salvini-Donatelli, the _Violetta_, was inordinately stout. The result was that the scene of her death as a consumptive was received with derision. Varesi, the baritone, who sang _Giorgio Germont_, who does not appear until the second act, and is of no importance save in that part of the opera, considered the rôle beneath his reputation--notwithstanding _Germont's_ beautiful solo, "Di Provenza"--and was none too cheerful over it. There is evidence in Verdi's correspondence that the composer had complete confidence in the merits of his score, and attributed its failure to its interpreters. When the opera was brought forward again a year later, the same city which had decried it as a failure acclaimed it a success. On this occasion, however, the period of the action differed from that of the play. It was set back to the time of Louis XIV., and costumed accordingly. There is, however, no other opera today in which this matter of costume is so much a go-as-you-please affair for the principals, as it is in "La Traviata." I do not recall if Christine Nilsson dressed _Violetta_ according to the Louis XIV. period, or not; but certainly Adelina Patti and Marcella Sembrich, both of whom I heard many times in the rôle (and each of them the first time they sang it here) wore the conventional evening gown of modern times. To do this has become entirely permissible for prima donnas in this character. Meanwhile the _Alfredo_ may dress according to the Louis XIV. period, or wear the swallow-tail costume of today, or compromise, as some do, and wear the swallow-tail coat and modern waistcoat with knee-breeches and black silk stockings. As if even this diversity were not yet quite enough, the most notable _Germont_ of recent years, Renaud, who, at the Manhattan Opera House, sang the rôle with the most exquisite refinement, giving a portrayal as finished as a genre painting by Meissonnier, wore the costume of a gentleman of Provence of, perhaps, the middle of the last century. But, as I have hinted before, in old-fashioned opera, these incongruities, which would be severely condemned in a modern work, don't amount to a row of pins. Given plenty of melody, beautifully sung, and everything else can go hang. Act I. A salon in the house of _Violetta_. In the back scene is a door, which opens into another salon. There are also side doors. On the left is a fireplace, over which is a mirror. In the centre of the apartment is a dining-table, elegantly laid. _Violetta_, seated on a couch, is conversing with _Dr. Grenvil_ and some friends. Others are receiving the guests who arrive, among whom are _Baron Douphol_ and _Flora_ on the arm of the _Marquis_. The opera opens with a brisk ensemble. _Violetta_ is a courtesan (_traviata_). Her house is the scene of a revel. Early in the festivities _Gaston_, who has come in with _Alfred_, informs _Violetta_ that his friend is seriously in love with her. She treats the matter with outward levity, but it is apparent that she is touched by _Alfred's_ devotion. Already, too, in this scene, there are slight indications, more emphasized as the opera progresses, that consumption has undermined _Violetta's_ health. First in the order of solos in this act is a spirited drinking song for _Alfred_, which is repeated by _Violetta_. After each measure the chorus joins in. This is the "Libiamo ne' lieti calici" (Let us quaff from the wine cup o'erflowing). [Music: Libiamo, libiamo ne' lieti calici] Music is heard from an adjoining salon, toward which the guests proceed. _Violetta_ is about to follow, but is seized with a coughing-spell and sinks upon a lounge to recover. _Alfred_ has remained behind. She asks him why he has not joined the others. He protests his love for her. At first taking his words in banter, she becomes more serious, as she begins to realize the depth of his affection for her. How long has he loved her? A year, he answers. "Un dì felice, eterea" (One day a rapture ethereal), he sings. In this the words, "Di quell'amor ch'è palpito" (Ah, 'tis with love that palpitates) are set to a phrase which _Violetta_ repeats in the famous "Ah, fors'è lui," just as she has previously repeated the drinking song. Verdi thus seems to intend to indicate in his score the effect upon her of _Alfred's_ genuine affection. She repeated his drinking song. Now she repeats, like an echo of heartbeats, his tribute to a love of which she is the object. It is when _Alfred_ and the other guests have retired that _Violetta_, lost in contemplation, her heart touched for the first time, sings "Ah fors'è lui che l'anima" (For him, perchance, my longing soul). [Music: Ah, fors'è lui che l'anima solinga ne' tumulti, solinga ne' tumulti] Then she repeats, in the nature of a refrain, the measures already sung by _Alfred_. Suddenly she changes, as if there were no hope of lasting love for woman of her character, and dashes into the brilliant "Sempre libera degg'io folleggiare di gioja in gioja" (Ever free shall I still hasten madly on from pleasure to pleasure). [Music: Sempre libera degg'io folleggiare] With this solo the act closes. Act II. Salon on the ground floor of a country house near Paris, occupied by _Alfred_ and _Violetta_, who for him has deserted the allurements of her former life. _Alfred_ enters in sporting costume. He sings of his joy in possessing _Violetta_: "Di miei bollenti spiriti" (Wild my dream of ecstasy). From _Annina_, the maid of _Violetta_, he learns that the expenses of keeping up the country house are much greater than _Violetta_ has told him, and that, in order to meet the cost, which is beyond his own means, she has been selling her jewels. He immediately leaves for Paris, his intention being to try to raise money there so that he may be able to reimburse her. After he has gone, _Violetta_ comes in. She has a note from _Flora_ inviting her to some festivities at her house that night. She smiles at the absurdity of the idea that she should return, even for an evening, to the scenes of her former life. Just then a visitor is announced. She supposes he is a business agent, whom she is expecting. But, instead, the man who enters announces that he is _Alfred's_ father. His dignity, his courteous yet restrained manner, at once fill her with apprehension. She has foreseen separation from the man she loves. She now senses that the dread moment is impending. The elder _Germont's_ plea that she leave _Alfred_ is based both upon the blight threatened his career by his liaison with her, and upon another misfortune that will result to the family. There is not only the son; there is a daughter. "Pura siccome un angelo" (Pure as an angel) sings _Germont_, in the familiar air: [Music: Pura siccome un angelo] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Farrar as Violetta in "La Traviata"] [Illustration: Photo by Mishkin Scotti as Germont in "La Traviata"] Should the scandal of _Alfred's_ liaison with _Violetta_ continue, the family of a youth, whom the daughter is to marry, threaten to break off the alliance. Therefore it is not only on behalf of his son, it is also for the future of his daughter, that the elder _Germont_ pleads. As in the play, so in the opera, the reason why the rôle of the heroine so strongly appeals to us is that she makes the sacrifice demanded of her--though she is aware that among other unhappy consequences to her, it will aggravate the disease of which she is a victim and hasten her death, wherein, indeed, she even sees a solace. She cannot yield at once. She prays, as it were, for mercy: "Non sapete" (Ah, you know not). Finally she yields: "Dite alla giovine" (Say to thy daughter); then "Imponete" (Now command me); and, after that, "Morrò--la mia memoria" (I shall die--but may my memory). _Germont_ retires. _Violetta_ writes a note, rings for _Annina_, and hands it to her. From the maid's surprise as she reads the address, it can be judged to be for _Flora_, and, presumably, an acceptance of her invitation. When _Annina_ has gone, she writes to _Alfred_ informing him that she is returning to her old life, and that she will look to _Baron Douphol_ to maintain her. _Alfred_ enters. She conceals the letter about her person. He tells her that he has received word from his father that the latter is coming to see him in an attempt to separate him from her. Pretending that she leaves, so as not to be present during the interview, she takes of him a tearful farewell. _Alfred_ is left alone. He picks up a book and reads listlessly. A messenger enters and hands him a note. The address is in _Violetta's_ handwriting. He breaks the seal, begins to read, staggers as he realizes the import, and would collapse, but that his father, who has quietly entered from the garden, holds out his arms, in which the youth, believing himself betrayed by the woman he loves, finds refuge. "Di Provenza il mar, il suol chi dal cor ti cancellò" (From fair Provence's sea and soil, who hath won thy heart away), sings the elder _Germont_, in an effort to soften the blow that has fallen upon his son. [Music: Di Provenza il mar, il suol] _Alfred_ rouses himself. Looking about vaguely, he sees _Flora's_ letter, glances at the contents, and at once concludes that _Violetta's_ first plunge into the vortex of gayety, to return to which she has, as he supposes, abandoned him, will be at _Flora's_ fête. "Thither will I hasten, and avenge myself!" he exclaims, and departs precipitately, followed by his father. The scene changes to a richly furnished and brilliantly lighted salon in _Flora's_ palace. The fête is in full swing. There is a ballet of women gypsies, who sing as they dance "Noi siamo zingarelle" (We're gypsies gay and youthful). _Gaston_ and his friends appear as matadors and others as picadors. _Gaston_ sings, while the others dance, "È Piquillo, un bel gagliardo" ('Twas Piquillo, so young and so daring). It is a lively scene, upon which there enters _Alfred_, to be followed soon by _Baron Douphol_ with _Violetta_ on his arm. _Alfred_ is seated at a card table. He is steadily winning. "Unlucky in love, lucky in gambling!" he exclaims. _Violetta_ winces. The _Baron_ shows evidence of anger at _Alfred's_ words and is with difficulty restrained by _Violetta_. The _Baron_, with assumed nonchalance, goes to the gaming table and stakes against _Alfred_. Again the latter's winnings are large. A servant's announcement that the banquet is ready is an evident relief to the _Baron_. All retire to an adjoining salon. For a brief moment the stage is empty. _Violetta_ enters. She has asked for an interview with _Alfred_. He joins her. She begs him to leave. She fears the _Baron's_ anger will lead him to challenge _Alfred_ to a duel. The latter sneers at her apprehensions; intimates that it is the _Baron_ she fears for. Is it not the _Baron Douphol_ for whom he, _Alfred_, has been cast off by her? _Violetta's_ emotions almost betray her, but she remembers her promise to the elder _Germont_, and exclaims that she loves the _Baron_. _Alfred_ tears open the doors to the salon where the banquet is in progress. "Come hither, all!" he shouts. They crowd upon the scene. _Violetta_, almost fainting, leans against the table for support. Facing her, _Alfred_ hurls at her invective after invective. Finally, in payment of what she has spent to help him maintain the house near Paris in which they have lived together, he furiously casts at her feet all his winnings at the gaming table. She faints in the arms of _Flora_ and _Dr. Grenvil_. The elder _Germont_ enters in search of his son. He alone knows the real significance of the scene, but for the sake of his son and daughter cannot disclose it. A dramatic ensemble, in which _Violetta_ sings, "Alfredo, Alfredo, di questo core non puoi comprendere tutto l'amore" (Alfred, Alfred, little canst thou fathom the love within my heart for thee) brings the act to a close. Act III. _Violetta's_ bedroom. At the back is a bed with the curtains partly drawn. A window is shut in by inside shutters. Near the bed stands a tabouret with a bottle of water, a crystal cup, and different kinds of medicine on it. In the middle of the room is a toilet-table and settee. A little apart from this is another piece of furniture upon which a night-lamp is burning. On the left is a fireplace with a fire in it. _Violetta_ awakens. In a weak voice she calls _Annina_, who, waking up confusedly, opens the shutters and looks down into the street, which is gay with carnival preparations. _Dr. Grenvil_ is at the door. _Violetta_ endeavours to rise, but falls back again. Then, supported by _Annina_, she walks slowly toward the settee. The doctor enters in time to assist her. _Annina_ places cushions about her. To _Violetta_ the physician cheerfully holds out hope of recovery, but to _Annina_ he whispers, as he is leaving, that her mistress has but few hours more to live. _Violetta_ has received a letter from the elder _Germont_ telling her that _Alfred_ has been apprised by him of her sacrifice and has been sent for to come to her bedside as quickly as possible. But she has little hope that he will arrive in time. She senses the near approach of death. "Addio del passato" (Farewell to bright visions) she sighs. For this solo, [Music: Addio del passato bei sogni ridenti,] when sung in the correct interpretive mood, should be like a sigh from the depths of a once frail, but now purified soul. A bacchanalian chorus of carnival revellers floats up from the street. _Annina_, who had gone out with some money which _Violetta_ had given her to distribute as alms, returns. Her manner is excited. _Violetta_ is quick to perceive it and divine its significance. _Annina_ has seen _Alfred_. He is waiting to be announced. The dying woman bids _Annina_ hasten to admit him. A moment later he holds _Violetta_ in his arms. Approaching death is forgotten. Nothing again shall part them. They will leave Paris for some quiet retreat. "Parigi, o cara, noi lasceremo" (We shall fly from Paris, beloved), they sing. [Music: Parigi, o cara, noi lasceremo] But it is too late. The hand of death is upon the woman's brow. "Gran Dio! morir sì giovine" (O, God! to die so young). The elder _Germont_ and _Dr. Grenvil_ have come in. There is nothing to be done. The cough that racked the poor frail body has ceased. _La traviata_ is dead. Not only were "Il Trovatore" and "La Traviata" produced in the same year, but "La Traviata" was written between the date of "Trovatore's" première at Rome (January 19th) and March 6th. Only four weeks in all are said to have been devoted to it, and part of the time Verdi was working on "Trovatore" as well. Nothing could better illustrate the fecundity of his genius, the facility with which he composed. But it was not the fatal facility that sacrifices real merit for temporary success. There are a few echoes of "Trovatore" in "Traviata"; but the remarkable achievement of Verdi is not in having written so beautiful an opera as "La Traviata" in so short a time, but in having produced in it a work in a style wholly different from "Il Trovatore." The latter palpitates with the passions of love, hatred, and vengeance. The setting of the action encourages these. It consists of palace gardens, castles, dungeons. But "La Traviata" plays in drawing-rooms. The music corresponds with these surroundings. It is vivacious, graceful, gentle. When it palpitates, it is with sorrow. The opera also contains a notably beautiful instrumental number--the introduction to the third act. This was a favourite piece with Theodore Thomas. Several times--years ago--I heard it conducted by him at his Popular Concerts. Oddly enough, although "Il Trovatore" is by far the more robust and at one time was, as I have stated, the most popular opera in the world, I believe that today the advantage lies with "La Traviata," and that, as between the two, there belongs to that opera the ultimate chance of survival. I explain this on the ground that, in "Il Trovatore" the hero and heroine are purely musical creations, the real character drawing, dramatically and musically, being in the rôle of _Azucena_, which, while a principal rôle, has not the prominence of _Leonora_ or _Manrico_. In "La Traviata," on the other hand, we have in the original of _Violetta_--the _Marguerite Gauthier_ of Alexandre Dumas, _fils_--one of the great creations of modern drama, the frail woman redeemed by the touch of an artist. Piave, in his libretto, preserves the character. In the opera, as in the play, one comprehends the injunction, "Let him who is not guilty throw the first stone." For Verdi has clothed _Violetta_ in music that brings out the character so vividly and so beautifully that whenever I see "Traviata" I recall the first performance in America of the Dumas play by Bernhardt, then in her slender and supple prime, and the first American appearance in it of Duse, with her exquisite intonation and restraint of gesture. In fact, operas survive because the librettist has known how to create a character and the composer how to match it with his musical genius. Recall the dashing _Don Giovanni_; the resourceful _Figaro_, both in the Mozart and the Rossini opera; the real interpretive quality of a mild and gracious order in the heroine of "La Sonnambula"--innocence personified; the gloomy figure of _Edgardo_ stalking through "Lucia di Lammermoor"; the hunchback and the titled gallant in "Rigoletto," and you can understand why these very old operas have lived so long. They are not make-believe; they are real. UN BALLO IN MASCHERA THE MASKED BALL Opera in three acts, by Verdi; words by Somma, based on Scribe's libretto for Auber's opera, "Gustave III., ou Le Bal Masqué" (Gustavus III., or the Masked Ball). Produced, Apollo Theatre, Rome, February 17, 1859. Paris, Théâtre des Italiens, January 13, 1861. London, June 15, 1861. New York, February 11, 1861. Revivals, Metropolitan Opera House, N.Y., with Jean de Reszke, 1903; with Caruso, Eames, Homer, Scotti, Plançon, and Journet, February 6, 1905; with Caruso, Destinn, Matzenauer, Hempel, and Amato, November 22, 1913. CHARACTERS RICHARD, Count of Warwick and Governor of Boston (or Riccardo, Duke of Olivares and Governor of Naples) _Tenor_ AMELIA (Adelia) _Soprano_ REINHART (Renato), secretary to the Governor and husband of Amelia _Baritone_ SAMUEL } enemies of the Governor _Bass_ TOM (Tommaso) } SILVAN, a sailor _Soprano_ OSCAR (Edgardo), a page _Soprano_ ULRICA, a negress astrologer _Contralto_ A judge, a servant of Amelia, populace, guards, etc., conspirators, maskers, and dancing couples. _Place_--Boston, or Naples. _Time_--Late seventeenth or middle eighteenth century. The English libretto of "Un Ballo in Maschera," literally "A Masked Ball," but always called by us "The Masked Ball," has the following note: "The scene of Verdi's 'Ballo in Maschera' was, by the author of the libretto, originally laid in one of the European cities. But the government censors objected to this, probably, because the plot contained the record of a successful conspiracy against an established prince or governor. By a change of scene to the distant, and, to the author, little-known, city of Boston, in America, this difficulty seems to have been obviated. The fact should be borne in mind by Bostonians and others, who may be somewhat astonished at the events which are supposed to have taken place in the old Puritan city." Certainly the events in "The Masked Ball" are amazing for the Boston of Puritan or any other time, and it was only through necessity that the scene of the opera was laid there. Now that political reasons for this no longer exist, it is usually played with the scene laid in Naples. Auber produced, in 1833, an opera on a libretto by Scribe, entitled "Gustave III., ou Le Bal Masqué." Upon this Scribe libretto the book of "Un Ballo in Maschera" is based. Verdi's opera was originally called "Gustavo III.," and, like the Scribe-Auber work, was written around the assassination of Gustavus III., of Sweden, who, March 16, 1792, was shot in the back during a masked ball at Stockholm. Verdi composed the work for the San Carlo Theatre, Naples, where it was to have been produced for the carnival of 1858. But January 14th of that year, and while the rehearsals were in progress, Felice Orsini, an Italian revolutionist, made his attempt on the life of Napoleon III. In consequence the authorities forbade the performance of a work dealing with the assassination of a king. The suggestion that Verdi adapt his music to an entirely different libretto was put aside by the composer, and the work was withdrawn, with the result that a revolution nearly broke out in Naples. People paraded the street, and by shouting "Viva Verdi!" proclaimed, under guise of the initials of the popular composer's name, that they favoured the cause of a united Italy, with Victor Emanuel as King; viz.: Vittorio Emmanuele Re D'Italia (Victor Emanuel, King of Italy). Finally the censor in Rome suggested, as a way out of the difficulty, that the title of the opera be changed to "Un Ballo in Maschera" and the scene transferred to Boston. For however nervous the authorities were about having a king murdered on the stage, they regarded the assassination of an English governor in far-off America as a quite harmless diversion. So, indeed, it proved to be, the only excitement evinced by the audience of the Apollo Theatre, Rome, on the evening of February 18, 1859, being the result of its enthusiasm over the various musical numbers of the work, this enthusiasm not being at all dampened by the fact that, with the transfer to Boston, two of the conspirators, _Samuel_ and _Tommaso_, became negroes, and the astrologer who figures in the opera, a negress. The sensible change of scene from Boston to Naples is said to have been initiated in Paris upon the instance of Mario, who "would never have consented to sing his ballad in the second act in short pantaloons, silk stockings, red dress, and big epaulettes of gold lace. He would never have been satisfied with the title of Earl of Warwick and the office of governor. He preferred to be a grandee of Spain, to call himself the Duke of Olivares, and to disguise himself as a Neapolitan fisherman, besides paying little attention to the strict accuracy of the rôle, but rather adapting it to his own gifts as an artist." The ballad referred to in this quotation undoubtedly is _Richard's_ barcarolle, "Di' tu se fedele il flutto m'aspetta" (Declare if the waves will faithfully bear me). Act I. Reception hall in the Governor's house. _Richard, Earl of Warwick_, is giving an audience. _Oscar_, a page, brings him the list of guests invited to a masked ball. _Richard_ is especially delighted at seeing on it the name of _Amelia_, the wife of his secretary, _Reinhart_, although his conscience bitterly reproaches him for loving _Amelia_, for _Reinhart_ is his most faithful friend, ever ready to defend him. The secretary also has discovered a conspiracy against his master; but as yet has been unable to learn the names of the conspirators. At the audience a judge is announced, who brings for signature the sentence of banishment against an old fortune teller, the negress _Ulrica_. _Oscar_, however, intercedes for the old woman. _Richard_ decides to visit her in disguise and test her powers of divination. The scene changes to _Ulrica's_ hut, which _Richard_ enters disguised as a fisherman. Without his knowledge, _Amelia_ also comes to consult the negress. Concealed by a curtain he hears her ask for a magic herb to cure her of the love which she, a married woman, bears to _Richard_. The old woman tells her of such an herb, but _Amelia_ must gather it herself at midnight in the place where stands the gibbet. _Richard_ thus learns that she loves him, and of her purpose to be at the place of the gibbet at midnight. When she has gone he comes out of his concealment and has his fortune told. _Ulrica_ predicts that he will die by the hand of a friend. The conspirators, who are in his retinue, whisper among themselves that they are discovered. "Who will be the slayer?" asks Richard. The answer is, "Whoever first shall shake your hand." At this moment _Reinhart_ enters, greets his friend with a vigorous shake of the hand, and _Richard_ laughs at the evil prophecy. His retinue and the populace rejoice with him. Act II. Midnight, beside the gallows. _Amelia_, deeply veiled, comes to pluck the magic herb. _Richard_ arrives to protect her. _Amelia_ is unable to conceal her love for him. But who comes there? It is _Reinhart_. Concern for his master has called him to the spot. The conspirators are lying in wait for him nearby. _Richard_ exacts from _Reinhart_ a promise to escort back to the city the deeply veiled woman, without making an attempt to learn who she is, while he himself returns by an unfrequented path. _Reinhart_ and his companion fall into the hands of the conspirators. The latter do not harm the secretary, but want at least to learn who the _Governor's_ sweetheart is. They lift the veil. _Reinhart_ sees his own wife. Rage grips his soul. He bids the leaders of the conspiracy to meet with him at his house in the morning. Act III. A study in _Reinhart's_ dwelling. For the disgrace he has suffered he intends to kill _Amelia_. Upon her plea she is allowed to embrace her son once more. He reflects that, after all, _Richard_ is much the more guilty of the two. He refrains from killing her, but when he and the conspirators draw lots to determine who shall kill _Richard_, he calls her in, and, at his command, she draws a piece of paper from an urn. It bears her husband's name, drawn unwittingly by her to indicate the person who is to slay the man she loves. Partly to remove _Amelia's_ suspicions, _Reinhart_ accepts the invitation to the masked ball which _Oscar_ brings him, _Richard_, of course, knowing nothing of what has transpired. In the brilliant crowd of maskers, the scene having changed to that of the masked ball, _Reinhart_ learns from _Oscar_ what disguise is worn by _Richard_. _Amelia_, who, with the eyes of apprehensive love, also has recognized _Richard_, implores him to flee the danger that threatens him. But _Richard_ knows no fear. In order that the honour of his friend shall remain secure, he has determined to send him as an envoy to England, accompanied by his wife. Her, he tells _Amelia_, he will never see again. "Once more I bid thee farewell, for the last time, farewell." "And thus receive thou my farewell!" exclaims _Reinhart_, stabbing him in the side. With his last words _Richard_ assures _Reinhart_ of the guiltlessness of _Amelia_, and admonishes all to seek to avenge his death on no one. It is hardly necessary to point out how astonishing these proceedings are when supposed to take place in Colonial Boston. Even the one episode of _Richard, Earl of Warwick_, singing a barcarolle in the hut of a negress who tells fortunes is so impossible that it affects the whole story with incredibility. But Naples--well, anything will go there. In fact, as truth is stranger than fiction, we even can regard the events of "The Masked Ball" as occurring more naturally in an Italian city than in Stockholm, where the assassination of Gustavus III. at a masquerade actually occurred. Although the opera is a subject of only occasional revival, it contains a considerable amount of good music and a quintet of exceptional quality. Early in the first act comes _Richard's_ solo, "La rivedrà nell'estasi" (I shall again her face behold). [Music: La rivedrà nell'estasi] This is followed by the faithful _Reinhart's_ "Alla vita che t'arride" (To thy life with joy abounding), with horn solo. Strikingly effective is _Oscar's_ song, in which the page vouches for the fortune-teller. "Volta la terrea fronte alle stelle" (Lift up thine earthly gaze to where the stars are shining). [Music: Volta la terrea fronte alle stelle] In the scene in the fortune-teller's hut are a trio for _Amelia_, _Ulrica_, and _Richard_, while the latter overhears _Amelia's_ welcome confession of love for himself, and _Richard's_ charming barcarolle addressed to the sorceress, a Neapolitan melody, "Di' tu se fedele il flutto m'aspetta" (Declare if the waves will faithfully bear me). [Music: Di' tu se fedele il flutto m'aspetta,] The quintet begins with _Richard's_ laughing disbelief in _Ulrica's_ prophecy regarding himself, "È scherzo od è follia" ('Tis an idle folly). Concluding the scene is the chorus, in which, after the people have recognized _Richard_, they sing what has been called, "a kind of 'God Save the King' tribute to his worth"--"O figlio d'Inghilterra" (O son of mighty England). The second act opens with a beautiful air for _Amelia_, "Ma dall'arido stelo divulsa" (From the stem, dry and withered, dissevered). An impassioned duet occurs during the meeting at the place of the gibbet between _Richard_ and _Amelia_: "O qual soave brivido" (Oh, what delightful ecstasies). The act ends with a quartet for _Amelia_, _Reinhart_, _Samuel_, and _Tom_. In the last act is _Amelia's_ touching supplication to her husband, in which "The weeping of the violoncello and the veiled key of E-flat minor stretch to the last limits of grief this prayer of the wife and mother,"--"Morrò, ma prima in grazia" (I die, but first in mercy). "O dolcezze perdute!" (O delights now lost for ever) sings her husband, in a musical inspiration prefaced by harp and flute. During the masked ball there is a quintet for _Amelia_, _Oscar_, _Reinhart_, _Samuel_, and _Tom_, from which the sprightly butterfly allegro of _Oscar_, "Di che fulgor, che musiche" (What brilliant lights, what music gay) detaches itself, while later on the _Page_ has a buoyant "tra-la-la" solo, beginning, in reply to _Reinhart's_ question concerning _Richard's_ disguise, "Saper vorreste di che si veste" (You'd fain be hearing what mask he's wearing). There is a colloquy between _Richard_ and _Amelia_. Then the catastrophe. BEFORE AND AFTER "UN BALLO" Prior to proceeding to a consideration of "Aïda," I will refer briefly to certain works by Verdi, which, although not requiring a complete account of story and music, should not be omitted from a book on opera. At the Teatro San Carlo, Naples, December 8, 1849, Verdi brought out the three-act opera "Luisa Miller," based on a play by Schiller, "Kabale und Liebe" (Love and Intrigue). It appears to have been Verdi's first real success since "Ernani" and to have led up to that achieved by "Rigoletto" a year later, and to the successes of "Il Trovatore" and "La Traviata." "Luisa Miller" was given at the Academy of Music, New York, October 20, 1886, by Angelo's Italian Opera Company. Giulia Valda was _Luisa_ and Vicini _Rodolfo_. The story is a gloomy one. The first act is entitled "Love," the second "Intrigue," the third "Poison." CHARACTERS COUNT WALTER _Bass_ RODOLFO, his son _Tenor_ MILLER, an old soldier _Bass_ LUISA, his daughter _Soprano_ FREDERICA, DUCHESS OF OSTHEIM, Walter's niece _Contralto_ LAURA, a peasant girl _Contralto_ Ladies attending the Duchess, pages, servants, archers, and villagers. _Luisa_ is the daughter of _Miller_, an old soldier. There is ardent love between her and _Rodolfo_, the son of _Count Walter_, who has concealed his real name and rank from her and her father and is known to them as a peasant named Carlo. Old _Miller_, however, has a presentiment that evil will result from their attachment. This is confirmed on his being informed by _Wurm_ that Carlo is _Rodolfo_, his master's son. _Wurm_ is himself in love with _Luisa_. The _Duchess Frederica_, _Count Walter's_ niece, arrives at the castle. She had been brought up there with _Rodolfo_, and has from childhood cherished a deep affection for him; but, compelled by her father to marry the Duke d'Ostheim, has not seen _Rodolfo_ for some years. The Duke, however, having died, she is now a widow, and, on the invitation of _Count Walter_, who has, unknown to _Rodolfo_, made proposals of marriage to her on his son's behalf, she arrives at the castle, expecting to marry at once the love of her childhood. The _Count_ having been informed by _Wurm_ of his son's love for _Luisa_, resolves to break off their intimacy. _Rodolfo_ reveals to the _Duchess_ that he loves another. He also discloses his real name and position to _Luisa_ and her father. The _Count_ interrupts this interview between the lovers. Enraged at his son's persistence in preferring a union with _Luisa_, he calls in the guard and is about to consign her and her father to prison, when he is, for the moment, deterred and appalled by _Rodolfo's_ threat to reveal that the _Count_, aided by _Wurm_, assassinated his predecessor, in order to obtain possession of the title and estates. _Luisa's_ father has been seized and imprisoned by the _Count's_ order. She, to save his life, consents, at the instigation of _Wurm_, to write a letter in which she states that she had never really loved _Rodolfo_, but only encouraged him on account of his rank and fortune, of which she was always aware; and finally offering to fly with _Wurm._ This letter, as the _Count_ and his steward have arranged, falls into the hands of _Rodolfo_, who, enraged by the supposed treachery of the woman he loves, consents to marry the _Duchess_, but ultimately resolves to kill _Luisa_ and himself. _Luisa_ also has determined to put an end to her existence. _Rodolfo_ enters her home in the absence of _Miller_, and, after extracting from _Luisa's_ own lips the avowal that she did write the letter, he pours poison into a cup. She unwittingly offers it to him to quench his thirst. Afterwards, at his request, she tastes it herself. She had sworn to _Wurm_ that she would never reveal the fact of the compulsion under which she had written the letter, but feeling herself released from her oath by fast approaching death, she confesses the truth to _Rodolfo_. The lovers die in the presence of their horror-stricken parents. The principal musical numbers include _Luisa's_ graceful and brilliant solo in the first act--"Lo vidi, e'l primo palpito" (I saw him and my beating heart). Besides there is _Old Miller's_ air, "Sacra la scelta è d'un consorte" (Firm are the links that are forged at the altar), a broad and beautiful melody, which, were the opera better known, would be included in most of the operatic anthologies for bass. There also should be mentioned _Luisa's_ air in the last act, "La tomba è un letto sparso di fiori" (The tomb a couch is, covered with roses). * * * * * "I Vespri Siciliani" (The Sicilian Vespers) had its first performance at the Grand Opéra, Paris, under the French title, "Les Vêpres Siciliennes," June 13, 1855. It was given at La Scala, Milan, 1856; London, Drury Lane, 1859; New York, Academy of Music, November 7, 1859; and revived there November, 1868. The work also has been presented under the title of "Giovanna di Guzman." The libretto is by Scribe and deals with the massacre of the French invaders of Sicily, at vespers, on Easter Monday, 1282. The principal characters are _Guy de Montford_, French Viceroy, _baritone_; _Arrigo_, a Sicilian officer, _tenor_; _Duchess Hélène_, a prisoner, _soprano_; _Giovanni di Procida_, a native conspirator, _bass_. _Arrigo_, who afterwards is discovered to be the brutal _Guy de Montford's_ son, is in love with _Hélène_. The plot turns upon his efforts to rescue her. There is one famous number in the "The Sicilian Vespers." This is the "Bolero," sung by _Hélène_--"Mercé, dilette amiche" (My thanks, beloved companions). * * * * * At Petrograd, November 10, 1862, there was brought out Verdi's opera in four acts, "La Forza del Destino" (The Force of Destiny). London heard it in June, 1867; New York, February 2, 1865, and, with the last act revised by the composer, at the Academy of Music in 1880, with Annie Louise Cary, Campanini, Galassi, and Del Puente. The principal characters are _Marquis di Calatrava_, _bass_; _Donna Leonora_ and _Don Carlo_, his children, _soprano_ and _baritone_; _Don Alvaro_, _tenor_; _Abbot of the Franciscan Friars_, _bass_. There are muleteers, peasants, soldiers, friars, etc. The scenes are laid in Spain and Italy; the period is the middle of the eighteenth century. The libretto is based on the play, "Don Alvaro o La Fuerza de Sino" by the Duke of Rivas. _Don Alvaro_ is about to elope with _Donna Leonora_, daughter of the _Marquis_, when the latter comes upon them and is accidentally killed by _Don Alvaro_. The _Marquis_ curses his daughter with his dying breath and invokes the vengeance of his son, _Don Carlo_, upon her and her lover. She escapes in male attire to a monastery, confesses to the _Abbot_, and is conducted by him to a cave, where he assures her of absolute safety. _Don Alvaro_ and _Don Carlo_ meet before the cave. They fight a duel in which _Don Alvaro_ mortally wounds _Don Carlo_. _Donna Leonora_, coming out of the cave and finding her brother dying, goes to him. With a last effort he stabs her in the heart. _Don Alvaro_ throws himself over a nearby precipice. "Madre, pietosa Vergine" (Oh, holy Virgin) is one of the principal numbers of the opera. It is sung by _Donna Leonora_, kneeling in the moonlight near the convent, while from within is heard the chant of the priests. The "Madre pietosa" also is utilized as a theme in the overture. * * * * * "Don Carlos," produced at the Grand Opéra, Paris, March 11, 1867, during the Universal Exposition, was the last opera composed by Verdi before he took the musical world by storm with "Aïda." The work is in four acts, the libretto, by Méry and du Locle, having been reduced from Schiller's tragedy of the same title as the opera. The characters are _Philip II._, of Spain, _bass_; _Don Carlos_, his son, _tenor_; _Rodrigo, Marquis de Posa_, _baritone_; _Grand Inquisitor_, _bass_; _Elizabeth de Valois_, Queen of _Philip II._, and stepmother of _Don Carlos_, _soprano_; _Princess Eboli_, _soprano_. In the original production the fine rôle of _Rodrigo_ was taken by Faure. _Don Carlos_ and _Elizabeth de Valois_ have been in love with each other, but for reasons of state _Elizabeth_ has been obliged to marry _Philip II._, _Don Carlos's_ father. The son is counselled by _Rodrigo_ to absent himself from Spain by obtaining from his father a commission to go to the Netherlands, there to mitigate the cruelties practised by the Spaniards upon the Flemings. _Don Carlos_ seeks an audience with _Elizabeth_, in order to gain her intercession with _Philip_. The result, however, of the meeting, is that their passion for each other returns with even greater intensity than before. _Princess Eboli_, who is in love with _Don Carlos_, becomes cognizant of the _Queen's_ affection for her stepson, and informs the _King_. _Don Carlos_ is thrown into prison. _Rodrigo_, who visits him there, is shot by order of _Philip_, who suspects him of aiding Spain's enemies in the Low Countries. _Don Carlos_, having been freed, makes a tryst with the _Queen_. Discovered by the _King_, he is handed over by him to the Inquisition to be put to death. * * * * * "La Forza del Destino" and "Don Carlos" lie between Verdi's middle period, ranging from "Luisa Miller" to "Un Ballo in Maschera" and including "Rigoletto," "Il Trovatore," and "La Traviata," and his final period, which began with "Aïda." It can be said that in "La Forza" and "Don Carlos" Verdi had absorbed considerable of Meyerbeer and Gounod, while in "Aïda," in addition to these, he had assimilated as much of Wagner as is good for an Italian. The enrichment of the orchestration in the two immediate predecessors of "Aïda" is apparent, but not so much so as in that masterpiece of operatic composition. He produced in "Aïda" a far more finished score than in "La Forza" or "Don Carlos," sought and obtained many exquisite instrumental effects, but always remained true to the Italian principle of the supremacy of melody in the voice. AÏDA Grand opera in four acts by Giuseppe Verdi. Plot by Mariette Bey. Written in French prose by Camille du Locle. Translated into Italian verse by Antonio Ghislanzoni. Produced in Cairo, Egypt, December 24, 1871; La Scala, Milan, under the composer's direction, February 8, 1872; Théâtre Italien, Paris, April 22, 1876; Covent Garden, London, June 22, 1876; Academy of Music, New York, November 26, 1873; Grand Opéra, Paris, March 22, 1880; Metropolitan Opera House, with Caruso, 1904. CHARACTERS AÏDA, an Ethiopian slave _Soprano_ AMNERIS, daughter of the King of Egypt _Contralto_ AMONASRO, King of Ethiopia, father of Aïda _Baritone_ RHADAMES, captain of the Guard _Tenor_ RAMPHIS, High Priest _Bass_ KING OF EGYPT _Bass_ MESSENGER _Tenor_ Priests, soldiers, Ethiopian slaves, prisoners, Egyptians, etc. _Time_--Epoch of the Pharaohs. _Place_--Memphis and Thebes. "Aïda" was commissioned by Ismail Pacha, Khedive of Egypt, for the Italian Theatre in Cairo, which opened in November, 1869. The opera was produced there December 24, 1871; not at the opening of the house, as sometimes is erroneously stated. Its success was sensational. Equally enthusiastic was its reception when brought out at La Scala, Milan, February 7, 1872, under the direction of Verdi himself, who was recalled thirty-two times and presented with an ivory baton and diamond star with the name of Aïda in rubies and his own in other precious stones. It is an interesting fact that "Aïda" reached New York before it did any of the great European opera houses save La Scala. It was produced at the Academy of Music under the direction of Max Strakosch, November 26, 1873. I am glad to have heard that performance and several other performances of it that season. For the artists who appeared in it gave a representation that for brilliancy has not been surpassed if, indeed, it has been equalled. In support of this statement it is only necessary to say that Italo Campanini was _Rhadames_, Victor Maurel _Amonasro_, and Annie Louise Cary _Amneris_. No greater artists have appeared in these rôles in this country. Mlle. Torriani, the _Aïda_, while not so distinguished, was entirely adequate. Nannetti as _Ramphis_, the high priest, Scolara as the _King_, and Boy as the _Messenger_, completed the cast. I recall some of the early comment on the opera. It was said to be Wagnerian. In point of fact "Aïda" is Wagnerian only as compared with Verdi's earlier operas. Compared with Wagner himself, it is Verdian--purely Italian. It was said that the fine melody for the trumpets on the stage in the pageant scene was plagiarized from a theme in the Coronation March of Meyerbeer's "Prophète." Slightly reminiscent the passage is, and, of course, stylistically the entire scene is on Meyerbeerian lines; but these resemblances no longer are of importance. Paris failed to hear "Aïda" until April, 1876, and then at the Théâtre Italien, instead of at the Grand Opéra, where it was not heard until March, 1880, when Maurel was the _Amonasro_ and Édouard de Reszke, later a favourite basso at the Metropolitan Opera House, the _King_. In 1855 Verdi's opera, "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" (The Sicilian Vespers) had been produced at the Grand Opéra and occurrences at the rehearsals had greatly angered the composer. The orchestra clearly showed a disinclination to follow the composer's minute directions regarding the manner in which he wished his work interpreted. When, after a conversation with the chef d'orchestre, the only result was plainly an attempt to annoy him, he put on his hat, left the theatre, and did not return. In 1867 his "Don Carlos" met only with a _succès d'estime_ at the Opéra. He had not forgotten these circumstances, when the Opéra wanted to give "Aïda." He withheld permission until 1880. But when at last this was given, he assisted at the production, and the public authorities vied in atoning for the slights put upon him so many years before. The President of France gave a banquet in his honour and he was created a Grand Officer of the National Order of the Legion of Honour. When the Khedive asked Verdi to compose a new opera especially for the new opera house at Cairo, and inquired what the composer's terms would be, Verdi demanded $20,000. This was agreed upon and he was then given the subject he was to treat, "Aïda," which had been suggested to the Khedive by Mariette Bey, the great French Egyptologist. The composer received the rough draft of the story. From this Camille du Locle, a former director of the Opéra Comique, who happened to be visiting Verdi at Busseto, wrote a libretto in French prose, "scene by scene, sentence by sentence," as he has said, adding that the composer showed the liveliest interest in the work and himself suggested the double scene in the finale of the opera. The French prose libretto was translated into Italian verse by Antonio Ghislanzoni, who wrote more than sixty opera librettos, "Aïda" being the most famous. Mariette Bey brought his archeological knowledge to bear upon the production. "He revived Egyptian life of the time of the Pharaohs; he rebuilt ancient Thebes, Memphis, the Temple of Phtah; he designed the costumes and arranged the scenery. And under these exceptional circumstances, Verdi's new opera was produced." Verdi's score was ready a year before the work had its première. The production was delayed by force of circumstances. Scenery and costumes were made by French artists. Before these accessories could be shipped to Cairo, the Franco-Prussian war broke out. They could not be gotten out of Paris. Their delivery was delayed accordingly. Does the score of "Aïda" owe any of its charm, passion, and dramatic stress to the opportunity thus afforded Verdi of going over it and carefully revising it, after he had considered it finished? Quite possibly. For we know that he made changes, eliminating, for instance, a chorus in the style of Palestrina, which he did not consider suitable to the priesthood of Isis. Even this one change resulted in condensation, a valuable quality, and in leaving the exotic music of the temple scene entirely free to exert to the full its fascination of local colour and atmosphere. The story is unfolded in four acts and seven scenes. Act I. Scene 1. After a very brief prelude, the curtain rises on a hall in the _King's_ palace in Memphis. Through a high gateway at the back are seen the temples and palaces of Memphis and the pyramids. It had been supposed that, after the invasion of Ethiopia by the Egyptians, the Ethiopians would be a long time in recovering from their defeat. But _Amonasro_, their king, has swiftly rallied the remnants of his defeated army, gathered new levies to his standard, and crossed the frontier--all this with such extraordinary rapidity that the first news of it has reached the Egyptian court in Memphis through a messenger hot-foot from Thebes with the startling word that the sacred city itself is threatened. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Emma Eames as Aïda] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Saléza as Rhadames in "Aïda"] While the priests are sacrificing to Isis in order to learn from the goddess whom she advises them to choose as leader of the Egyptian forces, _Rhadames_, a young warrior, indulges in the hope that he may be the choice. To this hope he joins the further one that, returning victorious, he may ask the hand in marriage of _Aïda_, an Ethiopian slave of the Egyptian King's daughter, _Amneris_. To these aspirations he gives expression in the romance, "Celeste Aïda" (Radiant Aïda). [Music: Celeste Aïda] It ends effectively with the following phrase: [Music: un trono vicino al sol, un trono vicino al sol] He little knows that _Aïda_ is of royal birth or that _Amneris_ herself, the Princess Royal, is in love with him and, having noted the glances he has cast upon _Aïda_, is fiercely jealous of her--a jealousy that forms the mainspring of the story and leads to its tragic dénouement. A premonition of the emotional forces at work in the plot is given in the "Vieni, O diletta" (Come dearest friend), beginning as a duet between _Amneris_ and _Aïda_ and later becoming a trio for them and _Rhadames_. In this the _Princess_ feigns friendship for _Aïda_, but, in asides, discloses her jealous hatred of her. Meanwhile the Egyptian hosts have gathered before the temple. There the _King_ announces that the priests of Isis have learned from the lips of that goddess the name of the warrior who is to lead the army--_Rhadames_! It is the _Princess_ herself who, at this great moment in his career, places the royal standard in his hands. But amid the acclaims that follow, as _Rhadames_, to the strains of march and chorus, is conducted by the priests to the temple of Phtah to be invested with the consecrated armour, _Amneris_ notes the fiery look he casts upon _Aïda_. Is this the reason _Rhadames_, young, handsome, brave, has failed to respond to her own guarded advances? Is she, a princess, to find a successful rival in her own slave? Meanwhile _Aïda_ herself is torn by conflicting emotions. She loves _Rhadames_. When the multitude shouts "Return victorious!" she joins in the acclamation. Yet it is against her own people he is going to give battle, and the Ethiopians are led by their king, _Amonasro_, her father. For she, too, is a princess, as proud a princess in her own land as _Amneris_, and it is because she is a captive and a slave that her father has so swiftly rallied his army and invaded Egypt in a desperate effort to rescue her, facts which for obvious reasons she carefully has concealed from her captors. It is easy to imagine _Aïda's_ agonized feelings since _Rhadames_ has been chosen head of the Egyptian army. If she prays to her gods for the triumph of the Ethiopian arms, she is betraying her lover. If she asks the gods of victory to smile upon _Rhadames_, she is a traitress to her father, who has taken up arms to free her, and to her own people. Small wonder if she exclaims, as she contemplates her own wretched state: "Never on earth was heart torn by more cruel agonies. The sacred names of father, lover, I can neither utter nor remember. For the one--for the other--I would weep, I would pray!" This scene for _Aïda_, beginning "Ritorna vincitor" (Return victorious), in which she echoes the acclamation of the martial chorus immediately preceding, is one of the very fine passages of the score. The lines to which it is set also have been highly praised. They furnished the composer with opportunity, of which he made full use, to express conflicting emotions in music of dramatic force and, in its concluding passage, "Numi pietà" (Pity, kind heaven), of great beauty. [Music: Numi pietà Del mio soffrir! Speme non v'ha pel mio dolor.] Scene 2. _Ramphis_, the high priest, at the foot of the altar; priests and priestesses; and afterwards _Rhadames_ are shown in the Temple of Vulcan at Memphis. A mysterious light descends from above. A long row of columns, one behind the other, is lost in the darkness; statues of various deities are visible; in the middle of the scene, above a platform rises the altar, surmounted by sacred emblems. From golden tripods comes the smoke of incense. A chant of the priestesses, accompanied by harps, is heard from the interior. _Rhadames_ enters unarmed. While he approaches the altar, the priestesses execute a sacred dance. On the head of _Rhadames_ is placed a silver veil. He is invested with consecrated armor, while the priests and priestesses resume the religious chant and dance. The entire scene is saturated with local colour. Piquant, exotic, it is as Egyptian to the ear as to the eye. You see the temple, you hear the music of its devotees, and that music sounds as distinctively Egyptian as if Mariette Bey had unearthed two examples of ancient Egyptian temple music and placed them at the composer's disposal. It is more likely, however, that the themes are original with Verdi and that the Oriental tone colour, which makes the music of the scene so fascinating, is due to his employment of certain intervals peculiar to the music of Eastern people. The interval, which, falling upon Western ears, gives an Oriental clang to the scale, consists of three semi-tones. In the very Eastern sounding themes in the temple scenes in "Aïda," these intervals are G to F-flat, and D to C-flat. The sacred chant, [Music] twice employs the interval between D and C-flat, the first time descending, the second time ascending, in which latter it sounds more characteristic to us, because we regard the scale as having an upward tendency, whereas in Oriental systems the scale seems to have been regarded as tending downward. In the sacred dance, [Music] the interval is from G to F-flat. The intervals, where employed in the two music examples just cited, are bracketed. The interval of three semi-tones--the characteristic of the Oriental scale--could not be more clearly shown than it is under the second bracket of the sacred dance. Act II. Scene 1. In this scene, which takes place in a hall in the apartments of _Amneris_, the Princess adopts strategy to discover if _Aïda_ returns the passion which she suspects in _Rhadames_. Messengers have arrived from the front with news that _Rhadames_ has put the Ethiopians to utter rout and is returning with many trophies and captives. Naturally _Aïda_ is distraught. Is her lover safe? Was her father slain? It is while _Aïda's_ mind and heart are agitated by these questions that _Amneris_ chooses the moment to test her feelings and wrest from her the secret she longs yet dreads to fathom. The Princess is reclining on a couch in her apartment in the palace at Thebes, whither the court has repaired to welcome the triumphant Egyptian army. Slaves are adorning her for the festival or agitating the air with large feather fans. Moorish slave boys dance for her delectation and her attendants sing: While on thy tresses rain Laurels and flowers interwoven, Let songs of glory mingle With strains of tender love. In the midst of these festive preparations _Aïda_ enters, and _Amneris_, craftily feigning sympathy for her lest she be grieving over the defeat of her people and the possible loss in battle of someone dear to her, affects to console her by telling her that _Rhadames_, the leader of the Egyptians, has been slain. It is not necessary for the Princess to watch the girl intently in order to note the effect upon her of the sudden and cruelly contrived announcement. Almost as suddenly, having feasted her eyes on the slave girl's grief, the Princess exclaims: "I have deceived you; _Rhadames_ lives!" "He lives!" Tears of gratitude instead of despair now moisten _Aïda's_ eyes as she raises them to Heaven. "You love him; you cannot deny it!" cries _Amneris_, forgetting in her furious jealousy her dignity as a Princess. "But know, you have a rival. Yes--in me. You, my slave, have a rival in your mistress, a daughter of the Pharaohs!" Having fathomed her slave's secret, she vents the refined cruelty of her jealous nature upon the unfortunate girl by commanding her to be present at the approaching triumphant entry of _Rhadames_ and the Egyptian army: "Come, follow me, and you shall learn if you can contend with me--you, prostrate in the dust, I on the throne beside the king!" What has just been described is formulated by Verdi in a duet for _Amneris_ and _Aïda_, "Amore! gaudio tormento" (Oh, love! Oh, joy and sorrow!), which expresses the craftiness and subtlety of the Egyptian Princess, the conflicting emotions of _Aïda_, and the dramatic stress of the whole episode. This phrase especially seems to express the combined haughtiness and jealousy in the attitude of _Amneris_ toward _Aïda_: [Music] Scene 2. Brilliant indeed is the spectacle to which _Aïda_ is compelled to proceed with the Princess. It is near a group of palms at the entrance to the city of Thebes that the _King_ has elected to give _Rhadames_ his triumph. Here stands the temple of Ammon. Beyond it a triumphal gate has been erected. When the _King_ enters to the cheers of the multitude and followed by his gaudily clad court, he takes his seat on the throne surmounted by a purple canopy. To his left sits _Amneris_, singling out for her disdainful glances the most unhappy of her slaves. A blast of trumpets, and the victorious army begins its defile past the throne. After the foot soldiers come the chariots of war; then the bearers of the sacred vases and statues of the gods, and a troupe of dancing girls carrying the loot of victory. A great flourish of trumpets, an outburst of acclaim, and _Rhadames_, proudly standing under a canopy borne high on the shoulders of twelve of his officers, is carried through the triumphal gate and into the presence of his _King_. As the young hero descends from the canopy, the monarch, too, comes down from the throne and embracing him exclaims: "Savior of your country, I salute you. My daughter with her own hand shall place the crown of laurels upon your brow." And when _Amneris_, suiting her action to her father's words, crowns _Rhadames_, the _King_ continues: "Now ask of me whatever you most desire. I swear by my crown and by the sacred gods that nothing shall be denied to you this day!" [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Louise Homer as Amneris in "Aïda"] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Rosina Galli in the Ballet of "Aïda"] But although no wish is nearer the heart of _Rhadames_ than to obtain freedom for _Aïda_, he does not consider the moment as yet opportune. Therefore he requests that first the prisoners of war be brought before the _King_. When they enter, one of them, by his proud mien and spirited carriage, easily stands forth from the rest. Hardly has _Aïda_ set eyes upon him than she utters the startled exclamation, "My father!" It is indeed none other than _Amonasro_, the Ethiopian king, who, his identity unknown to the Egyptians, has been made captive by them. Swiftly gliding over to where _Aïda_ stands, he whispers to her not to betray his rank to his captors. Then, turning to the Egyptian monarch, he craftily describes how he has seen the king of Ethiopia dead at his feet from many wounds, and concludes by entreating clemency for the conquered. Not only do the other captives and _Aïda_ join in his prayer, but the people, moved by his words and by his noble aspect, beg their king to spare the prisoners. The priests, however, protest. The gods have delivered these enemies into the hands of Egypt; let them be put to death lest, emboldened by a pardon so easily obtained, they should rush to arms again. Meanwhile _Rhadames_ has had eyes only for _Aïda_, while _Amneris_ notes with rising jealousy the glances he turns upon her hated slave. At last _Rhadames_, carried away by his feelings, himself joins in the appeal for clemency. "Oh, _King_," he exclaims, "by the sacred gods and by the splendour of your crown, you swore to grant my wish this day! Let it be life and liberty for the Ethiopian prisoners." But the high priest urges that even if freedom is granted to the others, _Aïda_ and her father be detained as hostages and this is agreed upon. Then the _King_, as a crowning act of glory for _Rhadames_, leads _Amneris_ forth, and addressing the young warrior, says: "_Rhadames_, the country owes everything to you. Your reward shall be the hand of _Amneris_. With her one day you shall reign over Egypt." A great shout goes up from the multitude. Unexpectedly _Amneris_ sees herself triumphant over her rival, the dream of her heart fulfilled, and _Aïda_ bereft of hope, since for _Rhadames_ to refuse the hand of his king's daughter would mean treason and death. And so while all seemingly are rejoicing, two hearts are sad and bewildered. For _Aïda_, the man she adores appears lost to her forever and all that is left to her, the tears of hopeless love; while to _Rhadames_ the heart of _Aïda_ is worth more than the throne of Egypt, and its gift, with the hand of _Amneris_, is like the unjust vengeance of the gods descending upon his head. This is the finale of the second act. It has been well said that not only is it the greatest effort of the composer, but also one of the grandest conceptions of modern musical and specifically operatic art. The importance of the staging, the magnificence of the spectacle, the diversity of characterization, and the strength of action of the drama all conspire to keep at an unusually high level the inspiration of the composer. The triumphal chorus, "Gloria all'Egitto" (Glory to Egypt), is sonorous and can be rendered with splendid effect. It is preceded by a march. [Music] Then comes the chorus of triumph. [Music] Voices of women join in the acclaim. [Music] The trumpets of the Egyptian troops execute a most brilliant modulation from A-flat to B-natural. The reference here is to the long, straight trumpets with three valves (only one of which, however, is used). These trumpets, in groups of three, precede the divisions of the Egyptian troops. The trumpets of the first group are tuned in A-flat. [Music] When the second group enters and intones the same stirring march theme in B-natural, the enharmonic modulation to a tone higher gives an immediate and vastly effective "lift" to the music and the scene. [Music] The entrance of _Rhadames_, borne on high under a canopy by twelve officers, is a dramatic climax to the spectacle. But a more emotional one is to follow. The recognition of _King Amonasro_ by his daughter; the supplication of the captives; the plea of _Rhadames_ and the people in their favour; the vehement protests of the priests who, in the name of the gods of Egypt, demand their death; the diverse passions which agitate _Rhadames_, _Aïda_, and _Amneris_; the hope of vengeance that _Amonasro_ cherishes--all these conflicting feelings are musically expressed with complete success. The structure is reared upon _Amonasro's_ plea to the _King_ for mercy for the Ethiopian captives, "Ma tu, re, tu signore possente" (But thou, O king, thou puissant lord). [Music] When the singer who takes the rôle of _Amonasro_ also is a good actor, he will know how to convey, between the lines of this supplication, his secret thoughts and unavowed hope for the reconquest of his freedom and his country. After the Egyptian _King_ has bestowed upon _Rhadames_ the hand of _Amneris_, the chorus, "Gloria all'Egitto," is heard again, and, above its sonorous measures, _Aïda's_ cry: What hope now remains to me? To him, glory and the throne; To me, oblivion--the tears Of hopeless love. It is largely due to Verdi's management of the score to this elaborate scene that "Aïda" not only has superseded all spectacular operas that came before it, but has held its own against and survived practically all those that have come since. The others were merely spectacular. In "Aïda" the surface radiates and glows because beneath it seethe the fires of conflicting human passion. In other operas spectacle is merely spectacle. In "Aïda" it clothes in brilliant habiliments the forces of impending and on-rushing tragedy. Act III. That tragedy further advances toward its consummation in the present act. It is a beautiful moonlight night on the banks of the Nile--moonlight whose silvery rays are no more exquisite than the music that seems steeped in them. [Music] Half concealed in the foliage is the temple of Isis, from which issues the sound of women's voices, softly chanting. A boat approaches the shore and out of it steps _Amneris_ and the high priest, with a train of closely veiled women and several guards. The _Princess_ is about to enter upon a vigil in the temple to implore the favour of the goddess before her nuptials with _Rhadames_. For a while after they have entered the temple, the shore seems deserted. But from the shadow of a grove of palms _Aïda_ cautiously emerges into the moonlight. In song she breathes forth memories of her native land: _Oh, patria mia!--O cieli azzurri!_ (Oh, native land!--Oh, skies of tender blue!). [Music: O cieli azzurri, o dolci aure native,] The phrase, _O patria mia! mai più ti rivedrò_ (Oh, native land! I ne'er shall see thee more)--a little further on--recalls the famous "Non ti scordar" from the "Miserere" in "Trovatore." Here _Rhadames_ has bid _Aïda_ meet him. Is it for a last farewell? If so, the Nile shall be her grave. She hears a swift footfall, and turning, in expectation of seeing _Rhadames_, beholds her father. He has fathomed her secret and divined that she is here to meet _Rhadames_--the betrothed of _Amneris_! Cunningly _Amonasro_ works upon her feelings. Would she triumph over her rival? The Ethiopians again are in arms. Again _Rhadames_ is to lead the Egyptians against them. Let her draw from him the path which he intends to take with his army and that path shall be converted into a fatal ambuscade. At first the thought is abhorrent to _Aïda_; but her father by craftily inciting her love of country and no less her jealousy and despair, at last is able to wrest consent from her; then draws back into the shadow as he hears _Rhadames_ approaching. This duet of _Aïda_ and _Amonasro_ is and will remain one of the beautiful dramatic efforts of the Italian repertory. The situation is one of those in which Verdi delights; he is in his element. It is difficult to bring _Aïda_ to make the designs of her father agree with her love for the young Egyptian chief. But the subtlety of the score, its warmth, its varied and ably managed expression, almost make plausible the submission of the young girl to the adjurations of _Amonasro_, and excusable a decision of which she does not foresee the consequences. To restore the crown to her father, to view again her own country, to escape an ignominious servitude, to prevent her lover becoming the husband of _Amneris_, her rival,--such are the thoughts which assail her during this duet, and they are quite capable of disturbing for a moment her better reason. _Amonasro_ sings these phrases, so charming in the Italian: Rivedrai le foreste imbalsamate, Le fresche valli, i nostri templi d'or! Sposa felice a lui che amasti tanto, Tripudii immensi ivi potrai gioir!... (Thou shalt see again the balmy forests, The green valleys, and our golden temples. Happy bride of him thou lovest so much, Great rejoicing thenceforth shall be thine.) As she still is reluctant to lure from her lover the secret of the route by which, in the newly planned invasion of her country, the Egyptians expect to enter Ethiopia, _Amonasro_ changes his tactics and conjures up for her in music a vision of the carnage among her people, and finally invokes her mother's ghost, until, in pianissimo, dramatically contrasting with the force of her father's savage imprecation, she whispers, _O patria! quanto mi costi!_ (Oh, native land! how much thou demandest of me!). _Amonasro_ leaves. _Aïda_ awaits her lover. When she somewhat coldly meets _Rhadames's_ renewed declaration of love with the bitter protest that the rites of another love are awaiting him, he unfolds his plan to her. He will lead the Egyptians to victory and on returning with these fresh laurels, he will prostrate himself before the _King_, lay bare his heart to him, and ask for the hand of _Aïda_ as a reward for his services to his country. But _Aïda_ is well aware of the power of _Amneris_ and that her vengeance would swiftly fall upon them both. She can see but one course to safety--that _Rhadames_ join her in flight to her native land, where, amid forest groves and the scent of flowers, and all forgetful of the world, they will dream away their lives in love. This is the beginning of the dreamy yet impassioned love duet--"Fuggiam gli ardori inospiti" (Ah, fly with me). She implores him in passionate accents to escape with her. Enthralled by the rapture in her voice, thrilled by the vision of happiness she conjures up before him, he forgets for the moment country, duty, all else save love; and exclaiming, "Love shall be our guide!" turns to fly with her. This duet, charged with exotic rapture, opens with recitativo phrases for _Aïda_. I have selected three passages for quotation: "Là tra foreste vergini" (There 'mid the virgin forest groves); "Di fiori profumate" (And 'mid the scent of flowers); and "In estasi la terra scorderem" (In ecstasy the world forgotten). [Music: Là tra foreste vergini,] [Music: In estasi beate la terra scorderem,] [Music: in estasi la terra scorderem,] But Aïda, feigning alarm, asks: "By what road shall we avoid the Egyptian host?" "The path by which our troops plan to fall upon the enemy will be deserted until tomorrow." "And that path?" "The pass of Napata." A voice echoes his words, "The pass of Napata." "Who hears us?" exclaims _Rhadames_. "The father of _Aïda_ and king of the Ethiopians," and _Amonasro_ issues forth from his hiding place. He has uncovered the plan of the Egyptian invasion, but the delay has been fatal. For at the same moment there is a cry of "Traitor!" from the temple. It is the voice of _Amneris_, who with the high priest has overheard all. _Amonasro_, baring a dagger, would throw himself upon his daughter's rival, but _Rhadames_ places himself between them and bids the Ethiopian fly with _Aïda_. _Amonasro_, drawing his daughter away with him, disappears in the darkness; while _Rhadames_, with the words, "Priest, I remain with you," delivers himself a prisoner into his hands. Act IV. Scene 1. In a hall of the Royal Palace _Amneris_ awaits the passage, under guard, of _Rhadames_ to the dungeon where the priests are to sit in judgment upon him. There is a duet between _Rhadames_ and this woman, who now bitterly repents the doom her jealousy is about to bring upon the man she loves. She implores him to exculpate himself. But _Rhadames_ refuses. Not being able to possess _Aïda_ he will die. He is conducted to the dungeon, from where, as from the bowels of the earth, she hears the sombre voices of the priests. Ramfis. (Nel sotterraneo.) Radames--Radames: tu rivelasti Della patria i segreti allo straniero.... Sacer. Discolpati! Ramfis. Egli tace. Tutti. Traditor! Ramphis. (In the subterranean hall.) Rhadames, Rhadames, thou didst reveal The country's secrets to the foreigner.... Priests. Defend thyself! Ramphis. He is silent. All. Traitor! The dramatically condemnatory "Traditor!" is a death knell for her lover in the ears of _Amneris_. And after each accusation, silence by _Rhadames_, and cry by the priests of "Traitor!" _Amneris_ realizes only too well that his approaching doom is to be entombed alive! Her revulsions of feeling from hatred to love and despair find vent in highly dramatic musical phrases. In fact _Amneris_ dominates this scene, which is one of the most powerful passages for mezzo-soprano in all opera. Scene 2. This is the famous double scene. The stage setting is divided into two floors. The upper floor represents the interior of the Temple of Vulcan, resplendent with light and gold; the lower floor a subterranean hall and long rows of arcades which are lost in the darkness. A colossal statue of Osiris, with the hands crossed, sustains the pilasters of the vault. In the temple _Amneris_ and the priestesses kneel in prayer. And _Rhadames_? Immured in the dungeon and, as he thought, to perish alone, a form slowly takes shape in the darkness, and his own name, uttered by the tender accents of a familiar voice, falls upon his ear. It is _Aïda_. Anticipating the death to which he will be sentenced, she has secretly made her way into the dungeon before his trial and there hidden herself to find reunion with him in death. And so, while in the temple above them the unhappy _Amneris_ kneels and implores the gods to vouchsafe Heaven to him whose death she has compassed, _Rhadames_ and _Aïda_, blissful in their mutual sacrifice, await the end. From "Celeste Aïda," _Rhadames's_ apostrophe to his beloved, with which the opera opens, to "O, terra, addio; addio, valle di pianti!" (Oh, earth, farewell! Farewell, vale of tears!), [Music: O terra addio; addio valle di pianti] which is the swan-song of _Rhadames_ and _Aïda_, united in death in the stone-sealed vault,--such is the tragic fate of love, as set forth in this beautiful and eloquent score by Giuseppe Verdi. OTELLO OTHELLO Opera in four acts, by Verdi. Words by Arrigo Boïto, after Shakespeare. Produced, La Scala, Milan, February 5, 1887, with Tamagno (_Otello_), and Maurel (_Iago_). London, Lyceum Theatre, July 5, 1889. New York, Academy of Music, under management of Italo Campanini, April 16, 1888, with Marconi, Tetrazzini, Galassi, and Scalchi. (Later in the engagement Marconi was succeeded by Campanini.); Metropolitan Opera House, 1894, with Tamagno, Albani, Maurel; 1902, Alvarez, Eames, and Scotti; later with Slezak, Alda, and Scotti; Manhattan Opera House, with Zenatello, Melba, and Sammarco. CHARACTERS OTHELLO, a Moor, general in the army of Venice _Tenor_ IAGO, ancient to Othello _Baritone_ CASSIO, lieutenant to Othello _Tenor_ RODERIGO, a Venetian _Tenor_ LODOVICO, Venetian ambassador _Bass_ MONTANO, Othello's predecessor in the government of Cyprus _Bass_ A HERALD _Bass_ DESDEMONA, wife of Othello _Soprano_ EMILIA, wife of Iago _Mezzo-Soprano_ Soldiers and sailors of the Republic of Venice; men, women, and children of Venice and of Cyprus; heralds; soldiers of Greece, Dalmatia, and Albania; innkeeper and servants. _Time_--End of fifteenth century. _Place_--A port of the island of Cyprus. Three years after the success of "Aïda," Verdi produced at Milan his "Manzoni Requiem"; but nearly sixteen years were to elapse between "Aïda" and his next work for the lyric stage. "Aïda," with its far richer instrumentation than that of any earlier work by Verdi, yet is in form an opera. "Otello" more nearly approaches a music-drama, but still is far from being one. It is only when Verdi is compared with his earlier self that he appears Wagnerian. Compared with Wagner, he remains characteristically Italian--true to himself, in fact, as genius should be. Nowhere, perhaps, is this matter summed up as happily as in Baker's _Biographical Dictionary of Musicians_: "Undoubtedly influenced by his contemporaries Meyerbeer, Gounod, and Wagner in his treatment of the orchestra, Verdi's dramatic style nevertheless shows a natural and individual development, and has remained essentially Italian as an orchestral accompaniment of vocal melody; but his later instrumentation is far more careful in detail and luxuriant than that of the earlier Italian school, and his melody more passionate and poignant in expression." "Otello" is a well-balanced score, composed to a libretto by a distinguished poet and musician--the composer of "Mefistofele." It has vocal melodies, which are rounded off and constitute separate "numbers" (to employ an expression commonly applied to operatic airs), and its recitatives are set to a well thought out instrumental accompaniment. It is difficult to explain the comparative lack of success with the public of Verdi's last two scores for the lyric stage, "Otello" and "Falstaff." Musicians fully appreciate them. Indeed "Falstaff," which followed "Otello," is considered one of the greatest achievements in the history of opera. Yet it is rarely given, and even "Otello" has already reached the "revival" stage, while "Aïda," "Rigoletto," "La Traviata," and "Il Trovatore" are fixtures, although "Rigoletto" was composed thirty-six years before "Otello" and forty-two before "Falstaff." Can it be that critics (including myself) and professional musicians have been admiring the finished workmanship of Verdi's last two scores, while the public has discovered in them a halting inspiration, a too frequent substitution of miraculous skill for the old-time _flair_, and a lack of that careless but attractive occasional _laissez faire aller_ of genius, which no technical perfection can replace? Time alone can answer. When "Otello" opens, _Desdemona_ has preceded her husband to Cyprus and is living in the castle overlooking the port. There are a few bars of introduction. [Illustration: Photo by White Alda as Desdemona in "Otello"] Act I. In the background a quay and the sea; a tavern with an arbour; it is evening. Through a heavy storm _Othello's_ ship is seen to be making port. Among the crowd of watchers, who exclaim upon the danger to the vessel, are _Iago_ and _Roderigo_. _Othello_ ascends the steps to the quay, is acclaimed by the crowd, and proceeds to the castle followed by _Cassio_, _Montano_, and soldiers. The people start a wood fire and gather about it dancing and singing. It transpires in talk between _Iago_ and _Roderigo_ that _Iago_ hates _Othello_ because he has advanced _Cassio_ over him, and that _Roderigo_ is in love with _Desdemona_. The fire dies out, the storm has ceased. _Cassio_ has returned from the castle. Now comes the scene in which _Iago_ purposely makes him drunk, in order to cause his undoing. They, with others, are grouped around the table outside the tavern. _Iago_ sings his drinking song, "Inaffia l'ugola! trinca tracanna" (Then let me quaff the noble wine, from the can I'll drink it). [Music: Inaffia l'ugola! trinca, tracanna,] Under the influence of the liquor _Cassio_ resents the taunts of _Roderigo_, instigated by _Iago_. _Montano_ tries to quiet him. _Cassio_ draws. There follows the fight in which _Montano_ is wounded. The tumult, swelled by alarums and the ringing of bells, brings _Othello_ with _Desdemona_ to the scene. _Cassio_ is dismissed from the Moor's service. _Iago_ has scored his first triumph. The people disperse. Quiet settles upon the scene. _Othello_ and _Desdemona_ are alone. The act closes with their love duet, which _Desdemona_ begins with "Quando narravi" (When thou dids't speak). [Music] Act II. A hall on the ground floor of the castle. _Iago_, planning to make _Othello_ jealous of _Desdemona_, counsels _Cassio_ to induce the Moor's wife to plead for his reinstatement. _Cassio_ goes into a large garden at the back. _Iago_ sings his famous "Credo in un Dio crudel che m'ha creato" [Transcriber's Note: should be 'un Dio crudel,' but 'crudel' was possibly omitted deliberately, as 'cruel' is also missing from the translation] (I believe in a God, who has created me in his image). This is justly regarded as a masterpiece of invective. It does not appear in Shakespeare, so that the lines are as original with Boïto as the music is with Verdi. Trumpets, employed in what may be termed a declamatory manner, are conspicuous in the accompaniment. _Iago_, seeing _Othello_ approach, leans against a column and looks fixedly in the direction of _Desdemona_ and _Cassio_, exclaiming, as _Othello_ enters, "I like not that!" As in the corresponding scene in the play, this leads up to the questioning of him by _Othello_ and to _Iago's_ crafty answers, which not only apply the match to, but also fan the flame of _Othello's_ jealousy, as he watches his wife with _Cassio_. Children, women, and Cypriot and Albanian sailors now are seen with _Desdemona_. They bring her flowers and other gifts. Accompanying themselves on the cornemuse, and small harps, they sing a mandolinata, "Dove guardi splendono" (Wheresoe'er thy glances fall). This is followed by a graceful chorus for the sailors, who bring shells and corals. The scene and _Desdemona's_ beauty deeply move the _Moor_. He cannot believe her other than innocent. But, unwittingly, she plays into _Iago's_ hand. For her first words on joining _Othello_ are a plea for _Cassio_. All the _Moor's_ jealousy is re-aroused. When she would apply her handkerchief to his heated brow, he tears it from her hand, and throws it to the ground. _Emilia_ picks it up, but _Iago_ takes it from her. The scene is brought to a close by a quartet for _Desdemona_, _Othello_, _Iago_, and _Emilia_. _Othello_ and _Iago_ are left together again. _Othello_ voices the grief that shakes his whole being, in what Mr. Upton happily describes as "a pathetic but stirring melody." In it he bids farewell, not only to love and trust, but to the glories of war and battle. The trumpet is effectively employed in the accompaniment to this outburst of grief, which begins, "Addio sante memorie" (Farewell, O sacred memories). [Music: Addio sante memorie, addio sublimi incanti del pensier] To such a fury is the _Moor_ aroused that he seizes _Iago_, hurls him to the ground, and threatens to kill him should his accusations against _Desdemona_ prove false. There is a dramatic duet in which _Iago_ pledges his aid to _Othello_ in proving beyond doubt the falseness of _Desdemona_. Act III. The great hall of the castle. At the back a terrace. After a brief scene in which the approach of a galley with the Venetian ambassadors is announced, _Desdemona_ enters. Wholly unaware of the cause of _Othello's_ strange actions toward her, she again begins to plead for _Cassio's_ restoration to favour. _Iago_ has pretended to _Othello_ that _Desdemona's_ handkerchief (of which he surreptitiously possessed himself) had been given by her to _Cassio_, and this has still further fanned the flame of the _Moor's_ jealousy. The scene, for _Othello_, is one of mingled wrath and irony. Upon her knees _Desdemona_ vows her constancy: "Esterrefatta fisso lo sguardo tuo tremendo" (Upon my knees before thee, beneath thy glance I tremble). I quote the phrase, "Io prego il cielo per te con questo pianto" (I pray my sighs rise to heaven with prayer). [Music: Io prego il cielo per te con questo pianto] _Othello_ pushes her out of the room. He soliloquizes: "Dio! mi potevi scagliar tutti i mali della miseria" (Heav'n had it pleased thee to try me with affliction). _Iago_, entering, bids _Othello_ conceal himself; then brings in _Cassio_, who mentions _Desdemona_ to _Iago_, and also is led by _Iago_ into light comments on other matters, all of which _Othello_, but half hearing them from his place of concealment, construes as referring to his wife. _Iago_ also plays the trick with the handkerchief, which, having been conveyed by him to _Cassio_, he now induces the latter (within sight of _Othello_) to draw from his doublet. There is a trio for _Othello_ (still in concealment), _Iago_, and _Cassio_. The last-named having gone, and the _Moor_ having asked for poison with which to kill _Desdemona_, _Iago_ counsels that _Othello_ strangle her in bed that night, while he goes forth and slays _Cassio_. For this counsel _Othello_ makes _Iago_ his lieutenant. The Venetian ambassadors arrive. There follows the scene in which the recall of _Othello_ to Venice and the appointment of _Cassio_ as Governor of Cyprus are announced. This is the scene in which, also, the _Moor_ strikes down _Desdemona_ in the presence of the ambassadors, and she begs for mercy--"A terra--sì--nel livido fango" (Yea, prostrate here, I lie in the dust); and "Quel sol sereno e vivido che allieta il cielo e il mare" (The sun who from his cloudless sky illumes the heavens and sea). [Music: Quel Sol sereno e vivido che allieta il cielo e il mare] After this there is a dramatic sextet. All leave, save the _Moor_ and his newly created lieutenant. Overcome by rage, _Othello_ falls in a swoon. The people, believing that the _Moor_, upon his return to Venice, is to receive new honours from the republic, shout from outside, "Hail, Othello! Hail to the lion of Venice!" "There lies the lion!" is _Iago's_ comment of malignant triumph and contempt, as the curtain falls. Act IV. The scene is _Desdemona's_ bedchamber. There is an orchestral introduction of much beauty. Then, as in the play, with which I am supposing the reader to be at least fairly familiar, comes the brief dialogue between _Desdemona_ and _Emilia_. _Desdemona_ sings the pathetic little willow song, said to be a genuine Italian folk tune handed down through many centuries. [Music: Piangea cantando nell'erma landa, piangea la mesta.... O Salce!] _Emilia_ goes, and _Desdemona_ at her prie-Dieu, before the image of the Virgin, intones an exquisite "Ave Maria," beginning and ending in pathetic monotone, with an appealing melody between. [Music: Prega per chi adorando a te si prostra, Ave! Amen!] _Othello's_ entrance is accompanied by a powerful passage on the double basses. Then follows the scene of the strangling, through which are heard mournfully reminiscent strains of the love duet that ended the first act. _Emilia_ discloses _Iago's_ perfidy. _Othello_ kills himself. FALSTAFF Opera in three acts, by Verdi; words by Arrigo Boïto, after Shakespeare's "Merry Wives of Windsor" and "King Henry IV." Produced, La Scala, Milan, March 12, 1893. Paris, Opéra Comique, April 18, 1894. London, May 19, 1894. New York, Metropolitan Opera House, February 4, 1895. This was the first performance of "Falstaff" in North America. It had been heard in Buenos Aires, July 19, 1893. The Metropolitan cast included Maurel as _Falstaff_, Eames as _Mistress Ford_, Zélie de Lussan as _Nannetta_ (_Anne_), Scalchi as _Dame Quickly_, Campanini as _Ford_, Russitano as _Fenton_. Scotti, Destinn, Alda, and Gay also have appeared at the Metropolitan in "Falstaff." The London production was at Covent Garden. CHARACTERS SIR JOHN FALSTAFF _Baritone_ FENTON, a young gentleman _Tenor_ FORD, a wealthy burgher _Baritone_ DR. CAJUS _Tenor_ BARDOLPH } followers of Falstaff { _Tenor_ PISTOL } { _Bass_ ROBIN, a page in Ford's household MISTRESS FORD _Soprano_ ANNE, her daughter _Soprano_ MISTRESS PAGE _Mezzo-Soprano_ DAME QUICKLY _Mezzo-Soprano_ Burghers and street-folk, Ford's servants, maskers, as elves, fairies, witches, etc. _Time_--Reign of Henry IV. _Scene_--Windsor. Note. In the Shakespeare comedy _Anne Ford_ is _Anne Page_. Shakespeare's comedy, "The Merry Wives of Windsor," did not have its first lyric adaptation when the composer of "Rigoletto" and "Aïda," influenced probably by his distinguished librettist, penned the score of his last work for the stage. "Falstaff," by Salieri, was produced in Vienna in 1798; another "Falstaff," by Balfe, came out in London in 1838. Otto Nicolai's opera "The Merry Wives of Windsor" is mentioned on p. 80 of this book. The character of _Falstaff_ also appears in "Le Songe d'une Nuit d'Été" (The Midsummer Night's Dream) by Ambroise Thomas, Paris, 1850, "where the type is treated with an adept's hand, especially in the first act, which is a masterpiece of pure comedy in music." "Le Songe d'une Nuit d'Été" was, in fact, Thomas's first significant success. A one-act piece, "Falstaff," by Adolphe Adam, was produced at the Théâtre Lyrique in 1856. The comedy of the "Merry Wives," however, was not the only Shakespeare play put under contribution by Boïto. At the head of the "Falstaff" score is this note: "The present comedy is taken from 'The Merry Wives of Windsor' and from several passages in 'Henry IV.' by Shakespeare." Falstaff, it should be noted, is a historic figure; he was a brave soldier; served in France; was governor of Honfleur; took an important part in the battle of Agincourt, and was in all the engagements before the walls of Orleans, where the English finally were obliged to retreat before Joan of Arc. Sir John Falstaff died at the age of eighty-two years in county Norfolk, his native shire, after numerous valiant exploits, and having occupied his old age in caring for the interests of the two universities of Oxford and Cambridge, to the foundation of which he had largely contributed. To us, however, he is known almost wholly as an enormously stout comic character. The first scene in the first act of the work by Boïto and Verdi shows _Falstaff_ in a room of the Garter Inn. He is accompanied by those two good-for-nothings in his service, _Bardolph_ and _Pistol_, ragged blackguards, whom he treats with a disdain measured by their own low standards. _Dr. Cajus_ enters. He comes to complain that _Falstaff_ has beaten his servants; also that _Bardolph_ and _Pistol_ made him drunk and then robbed him. _Falstaff_ laughs and browbeats him out of countenance. He departs in anger. _Falstaff_ has written two love letters and despatched them to two married belles of Windsor--_Mistress Alice Ford_ and _Mistress Meg Page_, asking each one for a rendezvous. The scene changes to the garden of _Ford's_ house, and we are in presence of the "merry wives"--_Alice Ford_, _Meg Page_, and _Mistress Quickly_. With them is _Anne Ford_, _Mistress Ford's_ daughter. Besides the garden there is seen part of the Ford house and the public road. In company with _Dame Quickly_, _Meg_ has come to pay a visit to _Alice Ford_, to show her a letter which she has just received from _Falstaff_. _Alice_ matches her with one she also has received from him. The four merry women then read the two letters, which, save for the change of address, are exactly alike. The women are half amused, half annoyed, at the pretensions of the fat knight. They plan to avenge themselves upon him. Meanwhile _Ford_ goes walking before his house in company with _Cajus_, young _Fenton_ (who is in love with _Anne_), _Bardolph_, and _Pistol_. The last two worthies have betrayed their master. From them _Ford_ has learned that _Falstaff_ is after his wife. He too meditates revenge, and goes off with the others, except _Fenton_, who lingers, kisses _Anne_ through the rail fence of the garden, and sings a love duet with her. The men return. _Fenton_ rejoins them. _Anne_ runs back to her mother, and the four women are seen up-stage, concocting their conspiracy of revenge. The second act reverts to the Garter Inn, where _Falstaff_ is still at table. _Dame Quickly_ comes with a message from _Alice_ to agree to the rendezvous he has asked for. It is at the Ford house between two and three o'clock, it being Ford's custom to absent himself at that time. _Falstaff_ is pompously delighted. He promises to be prompt. Hardly has _Dame Quickly_ left, when _Ford_ arrives. He introduces himself to _Falstaff_ under an assumed name, presents the knight with a purse of silver as a bait, then tells him that he is in love with _Mistress Ford_, whose chastity he cannot conquer, and begs _Falstaff_ to lay siege to her and so make the way easier for him. _Falstaff_ gleefully tells him that he has a rendezvous with her that very afternoon. This is just what _Ford_ wanted to know. The next scene takes place in _Ford's_ house, where the four women get ready to give _Falstaff_ the reception he merits. One learns here, quite casually from talk between _Mistress Ford_ and _Anne_, that _Ford_ wants to marry off the girl to the aged pedant _Cajus_, while she, of course, will marry none but _Fenton_, with whom she is in love. Her mother promises to aid her plans. _Falstaff's_ arrival is announced. _Dame Quickly_, _Meg_, and _Anne_ leave _Mistress Ford_ with him, but conceal themselves in readiness to come in response to the first signal. They are needed sooner than expected. _Ford_ is heard approaching. Quick! The fat lover must be concealed. This is accomplished by getting him behind a screen. _Ford_ enters with his followers, hoping to surprise the rake. With them he begins a search of the rooms. While they are off exploring another part of the house the women hurry _Falstaff_ into a big wash basket, pile the soiled clothes over him, and fasten it down. Scarcely has this been done when _Ford_ comes back, thinking of the screen. Just then he hears the sound of kissing behind this piece of furniture. No longer any doubt! _Falstaff_ is hidden there with his wife. He knocks down the screen--and finds behind it _Anne_ and _Fenton_, who have used to their own purpose the diversion of attention from them by the hunt for _Falstaff_. _Ford_, more furious than ever, rushes out. His wife and her friends call in the servants, who lift the basket and empty it out of the window into the Thames, which flows below. When _Ford_ comes back, his wife leads him to the window and shows him _Falstaff_ striking out clumsily for the shore, a butt of ridicule for all who see him. In the third act _Dame Quickly_ is once more seen approaching _Falstaff_, who is seated on a bench outside the Garter Inn. In behalf of _Mistress Ford_, she offers him another rendezvous. _Falstaff_ wants to hear no more, but _Dame Quickly_ makes so many good excuses for her friend that he decides to meet _Mistress Ford_ at the time and place asked for by her--midnight, at Herne's oak in Windsor forest, _Falstaff_ to appear in the disguise of the black huntsman, who, according to legend, hung himself from the oak, with the result that the spot is haunted by witches and sprites. _Falstaff_, in the forest at midnight, is surrounded by the merry women, the whole _Ford_ entourage, and about a hundred others, all disguised and masked. They unite in mystifying, taunting, and belabouring him, until at last he realizes whom he has to deal with. And as it is necessary for everything to end in a wedding, it is then that _Mistress Ford_ persuades her husband to abandon his plan to take the pedantic _Dr. Cajus_ for son-in-law and give his daughter _Anne_ to _Fenton_. Even taking into account "Otello," the general form of the music in "Falstaff" is an innovation for Verdi. All the scenes are connected without break in continuity, as in the Wagnerian music-drama, but applied to an entirely different style of music from Wagner's. "It required all the genius and dramatic experience of a Verdi, who had drama in his blood, to succeed in a lyrical adventure like 'Falstaff,' the whole score of which displays amazing youthfulness, dash, and spirit, coupled with extraordinary grace." On the other hand, as regards inspiration pure and simple, it has been said that there is not found in "Falstaff" the freshness of imagination or the abundance of ideas of the earlier Verdi, and that one looks in vain for one of those motifs _di prima intenzione_, like the romance of _Germont_ in "La Traviata," the song of the _Duke_ in "Rigoletto," or the "Miserere" in "Il Trovatore," and so many others that might be named. The same writer, however, credits the score with remarkable purity of form and with a _sveltesse_ and lightness that are astonishing in the always lively attraction of the musical discourse, to say nothing of a "charming orchestration, well put together, likeable and full of coquetry, in which are found all the brilliancy and facility of the Rossini method." Notwithstanding the above writer's appreciative words regarding the instrumentation of "Falstaff," he has fallen foul of the work, because he listened to it purely in the spirit of an opera-goer, and judged it as an opera instead of as a music-drama. If I may be pardoned the solecism, a music-drama "listens" different from an opera. A person accustomed only to opera has his ears cocked for song soaring above an accompaniment that counts for nothing save as a support for the voice. The music-lover, who knows what a music-drama consists of, is aware that it presents a well-balanced score, in which the orchestra frequently changes place with the voice in interpreting the action. It is because in "Falstaff" Verdi makes the orchestra act and sing--which to an opera-goer, his ears alert for vocal melody, means nothing--that the average audience, expecting something like unto what Verdi has given them before, is disappointed. Extremists, one way or another, are one-sided. Whoever is able to appreciate both opera and music-drama, a catholicity of taste I consider myself fortunate in possessing, can admire "Rigoletto," "Il Trovatore," and "La Traviata" as much as the most confirmed devotee of opera; but can also go further, and follow Verdi into regions where the intake is that of the pure spirit of comedy at times exhaled by the voice, at times by the orchestra. While not divided into distinct "numbers," there are passages in "Falstaff" in which Verdi has concentrated his attention on certain characteristic episodes. In the first scene of the first act occurs _Falstaff's_ lyric in praise of _Mistress Ford_, "O amor! Sguardo di stella!" (O Love, with star-like eyes). I quote the beautiful passage at "Alice è il nome" (And Alice is her name). [Music: (Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)] The same scene has the honour monologue from "King Henry IV.," which is purely declamatory, but with a remarkably vivid and characteristic accompaniment, in which especially the bassoons and clarinets comment merrily on the sarcastic sentences addressed to _Bardolph_ and _Pistol_. In the second scene of Act I, besides the episodes in which _Mistress Ford_ reads _Falstaff's_ letter, the unaccompanied quartet for the women ("Though shaped like a barrel, he fain would come courting"), the quartet for the men, and the close of the act in which both quartets take part, there is the piquant duet for _Anne_ and _Fenton_, in which the lovers kiss each other between the palings of the fence. From this duet I quote the amatory exchange of phrases, "Labbra di foco" (Lips all afire) and "Labbra di fiore" (Lips of a flower) between _Anne_ and _Fenton_. [Music: (Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)] As the curtain falls _Mistress Ford_ roguishly quotes a line from _Falstaff's_ verses, the four women together add another quotation, "Come una stella sull'immensità" (Like some sweet star that sparkles all the night), and go out laughing. In fact the music for the women takes many a piquant turn. [Music: (Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)] In Act II, the whole scene between _Falstaff_ and _Dame Quickly_ is full of witty commentary by the orchestra. The scene between _Falstaff_ and _Ford_ also derives its significance from the instrumentation. _Ford's_ monologue, when he is persuaded by _Falstaff's_ boastful talk that his wife is fickle, is highly dramatic. The little scene of _Ford's_ and _Falstaff's_ departure--_Ford_ to expose his betrayal by his wife, _Falstaff_ for his rendezvous with her--"is underscored by a graceful and very elegant orchestral dialogue." The second scene of this act has _Dame Quickly's_ madcap narrative of her interview with _Falstaff_; and _Falstaff's_ ditty sung to _Mistress Ford_, "Quand'ero paggio del Duca di Norfolk" (When I was page to the Duke of Norfolk). From the popular point of view, this is the outstanding musical number of the work. It is amusing, pathetic, graceful, and sad; irresistible, in fact, in its mingled sentiments of comedy and regret. Very brief, it rarely fails of encores from one to four in number. I quote the following: [Music: Quand'ero paggio del Duca di Norfolk ero sottile, sottile, sottile, (Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)] The search for _Falstaff_ by _Ford_ and his followers is most humorously treated in the score. In Act III, in the opening scene, in which _Falstaff_ soliloquizes over his misadventures, the humour, so far as the music is concerned, is conveyed by the orchestra. From _Fenton's_ song of love, which opens the scene at Herne's oak in Windsor forest, I quote this expressive passage: [Music: (Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)] Another delightful solo in this scene is _Anne's_ "Erriam sotto la luna" (We'll dance in the moonlight). [Music: (Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)] There are mysterious choruses--sibilant and articulately vocalized--and a final fugue. Arrigo Boïto, 1842- MEFISTOFELE (MEPHISTOPHELES) Opera in four acts; words and music by Arrigo Boïto, the book based on Goethe's _Faust_. Produced, without success, La Scala, Milan, March 5, 1868; revised and revived, with success, Bologna, October 4, 1875. London, Her Majesty's Theatre, July 1, 1880. New York, Academy of Music, November 24, 1880, with Campanini, Valleria, Cary, and Novara; and Metropolitan Opera House, December 5, 1883, Campanini, Nilsson, Trebelli, and Mirabella. Revivals: Metropolitan Opera House, 1889 (Lehmann); 1896 (Calvé); 1901 (Margaret McIntyre, Homer, and Plançon); 1904 (Caruso and Eames); 1907 (Chaliapine); later with Caruso, Hempel, Destinn, and Amato. Manhattan Opera House, 1906, with Renaud. Chicago Opera Company, with Ruffo. The singer of _Margaret_ usually takes the part of _Elena_ (Helen), and the _Martha_ also is the _Pantalis_. CHARACTERS MEFISTOFELE _Bass_ FAUST _Tenor_ MARGHERITA _Soprano_ MARTHA _Contralto_ WAGNER _Tenor_ ELENA _Soprano_ PANTALIS _Contralto_ NERENO _Tenor_ Mystic choir, celestial phalanxes, cherubs, penitents, wayfarers, men-at-arms, huntsmen, students, citizens, populace, townsmen, witches, wizards, Greek chorus, sirens, nayads, dancers, warriors. _Time_--Middle Ages. _Place_--Heaven; Frankfurt, Germany; Vale of Tempe, Ancient Greece. "Mefistofele" is in a prologue, four acts, and epilogue. In Gounod's "Faust," the librettists were circumspect, and limited the book of the opera to the first part of Goethe's _Faust_, the story of _Faust_ and _Marguerite_--succinct, dramatic, and absorbing. Only for the ballet did they reach into the second part of Goethe's play and appropriate the scene on the Brocken, which, however, is frequently omitted. Boïto, himself a poet, based his libretto on both parts of Goethe's work, and endeavoured to give it the substratum of philosophy upon which the German master reared his dramatic structure. This, however, resulted in making "Mefistofele" two operas in one. Wherever the work touches on the familiar story of _Faust_ and _Marguerite_, it is absorbingly interesting, and this in spite of the similarity between some of its scenes and those of Gounod's "Faust." When it strays into Part II of Goethe's drama, the main thread of the action suddenly seems broken. The skein ravels. That is why one of the most profound works for the lyric stage, one of the most beautiful scores that has come out of Italy, is heard so rarely. Theodore T. Barker prefaces his translation of the libretto, published by Oliver Ditson Company, with a recital of the story. The Prologue opens in the nebulous regions of space, in which float the invisible legions of angels, cherubs, and seraphs. These lift their voices in a hymn of praise to the Supreme Ruler of the universe. _Mefistofele_ enters on the scene at the close of the anthem, and, standing erect amid the clouds, with his feet upon the border of his cloak, mockingly addresses the Deity. In answer to the question from the mystic choir, "Knowest thou Faust?" he answers contemptuously, and offers to wager that he will be able to entice _Faust_ to evil, and thus gain a victory over the powers of good. The wager is accepted, and the spirits resume their chorus of praise. Musically the Prologue is full of interest. There are five distinct periods of music, varied in character, so that it gives necessary movement to a scene in which there is but little stage action. There are the prelude with mystic choir; the sardonic scherzo foreshadowing the entry of _Mefistofele_; his scornful address, in which finally he engages to bring about the destruction of _Faust's_ soul; a vivacious chorus of cherubs (impersonated by twenty-four boys); a psalmody of penitents and spirits. Act I. The drama opens on Easter Sunday, at Frankfort-on-the-Main. Crowds of people of all conditions move in and out of the city gates. Among them appears a grey friar, an object of both reverence and dread to those near him. The aged _Dr. Faust_ and his pupil _Wagner_ descend from a height and enter upon the scene, shadowed by the friar, whose actions they discuss. _Faust_ returns to his laboratory, still at his heels the friar, who, unheeded, enters with him, and conceals himself in an alcove. _Faust_ gives himself to meditation, and upon opening the sacred volume, is startled by a shriek from the friar as he rushes from his place of concealment. _Faust_ makes the all-potent "sign of Solomon," which compels _Mefistofele_ to throw off his friar's disguise and to appear in his own person in the garb of a cavalier, with a black cloak upon his arm. In reply to _Faust's_ questionings, he declares himself the spirit that denieth all things, desiring only the complete ruin of the world, and a return to chaos and night. He offers to make _Faust_ the companion of his wanderings, upon certain conditions, to which the latter agrees, saying: "If thou wilt bring me one hour of peace, in which my soul may rest--if thou wilt unveil the world and myself before me--if I may find cause to say to some flying moment, 'Stay, for thou art blissful,' then let me die, and let hell's depths engulf me." The contract completed, _Mefistofele_ spreads his cloak, and both disappear through the air. The first scene of this act gains its interest from the reflection in the music of the bustle and animation of the Easter festival. The score plastically follows the many changing incidents of the scene upon the stage. Conspicuous in the episodes in _Faust's_ laboratory are _Faust's_ beautiful air, "Dai campi, dai prati" (From the fields and from the meadows); and _Mefistofele's_ proclamation of his identity, "Son lo spirito che nega" (I am the spirit that denieth). Act II opens with the garden scene. _Faust_, rejuvenated, and under the name of _Henry_; _Margaret_, _Mefistofele_, and _Martha_ stroll here and there in couples, chatting and love-making. Thence _Mefistofele_ takes _Faust_ to the heights of the Brocken, where he witnesses the orgies of the Witches' Sabbath. The fiend is welcomed and saluted as their king. _Faust_, benumbed and stupefied, gazes into the murky sky, and experiences there a vision of _Margaret_, pale, sad, and fettered with chains. In this act the garden scene is of entrancing grace. It contains _Faust's_ "Colma il tuo cor d'un palpito" (Flood thou thy heart with all the bliss), and the quartet of farewell, with which the scene ends, _Margaret_, with the gay and reckless laugh of ineffable bliss, exclaiming to _Faust_ that she loves him. The scene in the Brocken, besides the whirl of the witches' orgy, has a solo for _Mefistofele_, when the weird sisters present to him a glass globe, reflected in which he sees the earth. "Ecco il mondo" (Behold the earth). Act III. The scene is a prison. _Margaret_ lies extended upon a heap of straw, mentally wandering, and singing to herself. _Mefistofele_ and _Faust_ appear outside the grating. They converse hurriedly, and _Faust_ begs for the life of _Margaret_. _Mefistofele_ promises to do what he can, and bids him haste, for the infernal steeds are ready for flight. He opens the cell, and _Faust_ enters it. _Margaret_ thinks the jailors have come to release her, but at length recognizes her lover. She describes what followed his desertion of her, and begs him to lay her in death beside her loved ones;--her babe, whom she drowned, her mother whom she is accused of having poisoned. _Faust_ entreats her to fly with him, and she finally consents, saying that in some far distant isle they may yet be happy. But the voice of _Mefistofele_ in the background recalls her to the reality of the situation. She shrinks away from _Faust_, prays to Heaven for mercy, and dies. Voices of the celestial choir are singing softly "She's saved!" _Faust_ and _Mefistofele_ escape, as the executioner and his escort appear in the background. The act opens with _Margaret's_ lament, "L'altra notte in fonda al mare" (To the sea, one night in sadness), in which she tells of the drowning of her babe. There is an exquisite duet, for _Margaret_ and _Faust_, "Lontano, sui flutti d'un ampio oceano" (Far away, o'er the waves of a far-spreading ocean). Act IV. _Mefistofele_ takes _Faust_ to the shores of the Vale of Tempe. _Faust_ is ravished with the beauty of the scene while _Mefistofele_ finds that the orgies of the _Brocken_ were more to his taste. 'Tis the night of the classic Sabbath. A band of young maidens appear, singing and dancing. _Mefistofele_, annoyed and confused, retires. _Helen_ enters with chorus, and, absorbed by a terrible vision, rehearses the story of Troy's destruction. _Faust_ enters, richly clad in the costume of a knight of the fifteenth century, followed by _Mefistofele_, _Nereno_, _Pantalis_, and others, with little fauns and sirens. Kneeling before _Helen_, he addresses her as his ideal of beauty and purity. Thus pledging to each other their love and devotion, they wander through the bowers and are lost to sight. _Helen's_ ode, "La luna immobile innonda l'etere" (Motionless floating, the moon floods the dome of night); her dream of the destruction of Troy; the love duet for _Helen_ and _Faust_, "Ah! Amore! mistero celeste" ('Tis love, a mystery celestial); and the dexterous weaving of a musical background by orchestra and chorus, are the chief features in the score to this act. In the Epilogue, we find _Faust_ in his laboratory once more--an old man, with death fast approaching, mourning over his past life, with the holy volume open before him. Fearing that _Faust_ may yet escape him, _Mefistofele_ spreads his cloak, and urges _Faust_ to fly with him through the air. Appealing to Heaven, _Faust_ is strengthened by the sound of angelic songs, and resists. Foiled in his efforts, _Mefistofele_ conjures up a vision of beautiful sirens. _Faust_ hesitates a moment, flies to the sacred volume, and cries, "Here at last I find salvation"; then falling on his knees in prayer, effectually overcomes the temptations of the evil one. He then dies amid a shower of rosy petals, and to the triumphant song of a celestial choir. _Mefistofele_ has lost his wager, and holy influences have prevailed. We have here _Faust's_ lament, "Giunto sul passo estremo" (Nearing the utmost limit); his prayer, and the choiring of salvation. * * * * * Arrigo Boïto was, it will be recalled, the author of the books to Ponchielli's opera "La Gioconda," and Verdi's "Otello" and "Falstaff." He was born in Padua, February 24, 1842. From 1853 to 1862 he was a pupil of the Milan Conservatory. During a long sojourn in Germany and Poland he became an ardent admirer of Wagner's music. Since "Mefistofele" Boïto has written and composed another opera, "Nerone" (Nero), but has withheld it from production. Amilcare Ponchielli (1834-1886) Amilcare Ponchielli, the composer of "La Gioconda," was born at Paderno Fasolaro, Cremona, August 31, 1834. He studied music, 1843-54, at the Milan Conservatory. In 1856 he brought out at Cremona an opera, "I Promessi Sposi" (The Betrothed), which, in a revised version, Milan, 1872, was his first striking success. The same care Ponchielli bestowed upon his studies, which lasted nearly ten years, he gave to his works. Like "I Promessi Sposi," his opera, "I Lituani" (The Lithuanians), brought out in 1874, was revived ten years later, as "Alguna"; and, while "La Gioconda" (1876) did not wait so long for success, it too was revised and brought out in a new version before it received popular acclaim. Among his other operas are, 1880, "Il Figliuol Prodigo" (The Prodigal Son), and, 1885, "Marion Delorme." "La Gioconda," however, is the only one of his operas that has made its way abroad. Ponchielli died at Milan, January 16, 1886. He was among the very first Italian composers to yield to modern influences and enrich his score with instrumental effects intended to enhance its beauty and give the support of an eloquent and expressive accompaniment to the voice without, however, challenging its supremacy. His influence upon his Italian contemporaries was considerable. He, rather than Verdi, is regarded by students of music as the founder of the modern school of Italian opera. What really happened is that there was going on in Italy, influenced by a growing appreciation of Wagner's works among musicians, a movement for a more advanced style of lyric drama. Ponchielli and Boïto were leaders in this movement. Verdi, a far greater genius than either of these, was caught up in it, and, because of his genius, accomplished more in it than the actual leaders. Ponchielli's influence still is potent. For he was the teacher of the most famous living Italian composer of opera, Giacomo Puccini. LA GIOCONDA THE BALLAD SINGER Opera in four acts by Ponchielli, libretto by Arrigo Boïto, after Victor Hugo's play, "Angelo, Tyrant of Padua." Boïto signed the book with his anagram, "Tobia Gorrio." Produced in its original version, La Scala, Milan, April 8, 1876; and with a new version of the libretto in Genoa, December, 1876. London, Covent Garden, May 31, 1883. New York, December 20, 1883 (for details, see below); revived, Metropolitan Opera House, November 28, 1904, with Nordica, Homer, Edyth Walker, Caruso, Giraldoni, and Plançon; later with Destinn, Ober, and Amato. CHARACTERS LA GIOCONDA, a ballad singer _Soprano_ LA CIECA, her blind mother _Contralto_ ALVISE, one of the heads of the State Inquisition _Bass_ LAURA, his wife _Mezzo-Soprano_ ENZO GRIMALDO, a Genoese noble _Tenor_ BARNABA, a spy of the Inquisition _Baritone_ ZUÀNE, a boatman _Bass_ ISÈPO, a public letter-writer _Tenor_ A PILOT _Bass_ Monks, senators, sailors, shipwrights, ladies, gentlemen, populace, maskers, guards, etc. _Time_--17th Century. _Place_--Venice. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Amato as Barnaba in "La Gioconda"] Twenty-one years elapsed between the production of "La Gioconda" at the Metropolitan Opera House and its revival. Since its reawakening it has taken a good hold on the repertoire, which makes it difficult to explain why it should have been allowed to sleep so long. It may be that possibilities of casting it did not suggest themselves. Not always does "Cielo e mar" flow as suavely from lips as it does from those of Caruso. Then, too, managers are superstitious, and may have hesitated to make re-trial of anything that had been attempted at that first season of opera at the Metropolitan, one of the most disastrous on record. Even Praxede Marcelline Kochanska (in other words Marcella Sembrich), who was a member of Henry E. Abbey's troupe, was not re-engaged for this country, and did not reappear at the Metropolitan until fourteen years later. "La Gioconda" was produced at that house December 20, 1883, with Christine Nilsson in the title rôle; Scalchi as _La Cieca_; Fursch-Madi as _Laura_; Stagno as _Enzo_; Del Puente as _Barnaba_; and Novara as _Alvise_. Cavalazzi, one of the leading dancers of her day, appeared in the "Danza delle Ore" (Dance of the Hours). It was a good performance, but Del Puente hardly was sinister enough for _Barnaba_, or Stagno distinguished enough in voice and personality for _Enzo_. There was in the course of the performance an unusual occurrence and one that is interesting to hark back to. Nilsson had a voice of great beauty--pure, limpid, flexible--but not one conditioned to a severe dramatic strain. Fursch-Madi, on the other hand, had a large, powerful voice and a singularly dramatic temperament. When _La Gioconda_ and _Laura_ appeared in the great duet in the second act, "L'amo come il fulgor del creato" (I love him as the light of creation), Fursch-Madi, without great effort, "took away" this number from Mme. Nilsson, and completely eclipsed her. When the two singers came out in answer to the recalls, Mme. Nilsson, as etiquette demanded, was slightly in advance of the mezzo-soprano, for whom, however, most of the applause was intended. Mme. Fursch-Madi was a fine singer, but lacked the pleasing personality and appealing temperament that we spoiled Americans demand of our singers. She died, in extreme poverty and after a long illness, in a little hut on one of the Orange mountains in New Jersey, where an old chorus singer had given her shelter. She had appeared in many tragedies of the stage, but none more tragic than her own last hours. Each act of "La Gioconda" has its separate title: Act I, "The Lion's Mouth"; Act II, "The Rosary"; Act III, "The House of Gold"; Act IV, "The Orfano Canal." The title of the opera can be translated as "The Ballad Singer," but the Italian title appears invariably to be used. Act I. "The Lion's Mouth." Grand courtyard of the Ducal palace, decorated for festivities. At back, the Giant's Stairway, and the Portico della Carta, with doorway leading to the interior of the Church of St. Mark. On the left, the writing-table of a public letter-writer. On one side of the courtyard one of the historic Lion's Mouths, with the following inscription cut in black letters into the wall: FOR SECRET DENUNCIATIONS TO THE INQUISITION AGAINST ANY PERSON, WITH IMPUNITY, SECRECY, AND BENEFIT TO THE STATE. It is a splendid afternoon in spring. The stage is filled with holiday-makers, monks, sailors, shipwrights, masquers, etc., and amidst the busy crowd are seen some Dalmatians and Moors. _Barnaba_, leaning his back against a column, is watching the people. He has a small guitar, slung around his neck. The populace gaily sings, "Feste e pane" (Sports and feasting). They dash away to watch the regatta, when _Barnaba_, coming forward, announces that it is about to begin. He watches them disdainfully. "Above their graves they are dancing!" he exclaims. _Gioconda_ leads in _La Cieca_, her blind mother. There is a duet of much tenderness between them: "Figlia, che reggi il tremulo" (Daughter in thee my faltering steps). _Barnaba_ is in love with the ballad singer, who has several times repulsed him. For she is in love with _Enzo_, a nobleman, who has been proscribed by the Venetian authorities, but is in the city in the disguise of a sea captain. His ship lies in the Fusina Lagoon. _Barnaba_ again presses his love upon the girl. She escapes from his grasp and runs away, leaving her mother seated by the church door. _Barnaba_ is eager to get _La Cieca_ into his power in order to compel _Gioconda_ to yield to his sinister desires. Opportunity soon offers. For, now the regatta is over, the crowd returns bearing in triumph the victor in the contest. With them enter _Zuàne_, the defeated contestant, _Gioconda_, and _Enzo_. _Barnaba_ subtly insinuates to _Zuàne_ that _La Cieca_ is a witch, who has caused his defeat by sorcery. The report quickly spreads among the defeated boatman's friends. The populace becomes excited. _La Cieca_ is seized and dragged from the church steps. _Enzo_ calls upon his sailors, who are in the crowd, to aid him in saving her. At the moment of greatest commotion the palace doors swing open. From the head of the stairway where stand _Alvise_ and his wife, _Laura_, who is masked, _Alvise_ sternly commands an end to the rioting, then descends with _Laura_. _Barnaba_, with the keenness that is his as chief spy of the Inquisition, is quick to observe that, through her mask, _Laura_ is gazing intently at _Enzo_, and that _Enzo_, in spite of _Laura's_ mask, appears to have recognized her and to be deeply affected by her presence. _Gioconda_ kneels before _Alvise_ and prays for mercy for her mother. When _Laura_ also intercedes for _La Cieca_, _Alvise_ immediately orders her freed. In one of the most expressive airs of the opera, "Voce di donna, o d'angelo" (Voice thine of woman, or angel fair), _La Cieca_ thanks _Laura_ and gives to her a rosary, at the same time extending her hands over her in blessing. She also asks her name. _Alvise's_ wife, still masked, and looking significantly in the direction of _Enzo_, answers, "Laura!" "'Tis she!" exclaims _Enzo_. The episode has been observed by _Barnaba_, who, when all the others save _Enzo_ have entered the church, goes up to him and, despite his disguise as a sea captain, addresses him by his name and title, "Enzo Grimaldo, Prince of Santa Fior." The spy knows the whole story. _Enzo_ and _Laura_ were betrothed. Although they were separated and she obliged to wed _Alvise_, and neither had seen the other since then, until the meeting a few moments before, their passion still is as strong as ever. _Barnaba_, cynically explaining that, in order to obtain _Gioconda_ for himself, he wishes to show her how false _Enzo_ is, promises him that he will arrange for _Laura_, on that night, to be aboard _Enzo's_ vessel, ready to escape with him to sea. _Enzo_ departs. _Barnaba_ summons one of his tools, _Isèpo_, the public letter-writer, whose stand is near the Lion's Mouth. At that moment _Gioconda_ and _La Cieca_ emerge from the church, and _Gioconda_, seeing _Barnaba_, swiftly draws her mother behind a column, where they are hidden from view. The girl hears the spy dictate to _Isèpo_ a letter, for whom intended she does not know, informing someone that his wife plans to elope that evening with _Enzo_. Having thus learned that _Enzo_ no longer loves her, she vanishes with her mother into the church. _Barnaba_ drops the letter into the Lion's Mouth. _Isèpo_ goes. The spy, as keen in intellect as he is cruel and unrelenting in action, addresses in soliloquy the Doge's palace. "O monumento! Regia e bolgia dogale!" (O mighty monument, palace and den of the Doges). The masquers and populace return. They are singing. They dance "La Furlana." In the church a monk and then the chorus chant. _Gioconda_ and her mother come out. _Gioconda_ laments that _Enzo_ should have forsaken her. _La Cieca_ seeks to comfort her. In the church the chanting continues. Act II. "The Rosary." Night. A brigantine, showing its starboard side. In front, the deserted bank of an uninhabited island in the Fusina Lagoon. In the farthest distance, the sky and the lagoon. A few stars visible. On the right, a cloud, above which the moon is rising. In front, a small altar of the Virgin, lighted by a red lamp. The name of the brigantine--"Hecate"--painted on the prow. Lanterns on the deck. At the rising of the curtain sailors are discovered; some seated on the deck, others standing in groups, each with a speaking trumpet. Several cabin boys are seen, some clinging to the shrouds, some seated. Remaining thus grouped, they sing a _Marinaresca_, in part a sailors' "chanty," in part a regular melody. In a boat _Barnaba_ appears with _Isèpo_. They are disguised as fishermen. _Barnaba_ sings a fisherman's ballad, "Ah! Pescator, affonda l'esca" (Fisher-boy, thy net now lower). [Music] He has set his net for _Enzo_ and _Laura_, as well as for _Gioconda_, as his words, "Some sweet siren, while you're drifting, in your net will coyly hide," imply. The song falls weirdly upon the night. The scene is full of "atmosphere." _Enzo_ comes up on deck, gives a few orders; the crew go below. He then sings the famous "Cielo e mar!" (O sky, and sea)--an impassioned voicing of his love for her whom he awaits. The scene, the moon having emerged from behind a bank of clouds, is of great beauty. [Music] A boat approaches. In it _Barnaba_ brings _Laura_ to _Enzo_. There is a rapturous greeting. They are to sail away as soon as the setting of the moon will enable the ship to depart undetected. There is distant singing. _Enzo_ goes below. _Laura_ kneels before the shrine and prays, "Stella del marinar! Vergine santa!" (Star of the mariner! Virgin most holy). _Gioconda_ steals on board and confronts her rival. The duet between the two women, who love _Enzo_, and in which each defies the other, "L'amo come il fulgor del creato" (I adore him as the light of creation), is the most dramatic number in the score. [Music] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Caruso as Enzo in "La Gioconda"] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Louise Homer as Laura in "La Gioconda"] _Gioconda_ is about to stab _Laura_, but stops suddenly and, seizing her with one hand, points with the other out over the lagoon, where a boat bearing _Alvise_ and his armed followers is seen approaching. _Laura_ implores the Virgin for aid. In doing so she lifts up the rosary given to her by _La Cieca_. Through it _Gioconda_ recognizes in _Laura_ the masked lady who saved her mother from the vengeance of the mob. Swiftly the girl summons the boat of two friendly boatmen who have brought her thither, and bids _Laura_ make good her escape. When _Barnaba_ enters, his prey has evaded him. _Gioconda_ has saved her. _Barnaba_ hurries back to _Alvise's_ galley, and, pointing to the fugitive boat in the distance, bids the galley start in pursuit. _Enzo_ comes on deck. Instead of _Laura_ he finds _Gioconda_. There is a dramatic scene between them. Venetian galleys are seen approaching. Rather than that his vessel shall be captured by them, _Enzo_ sets fire to it. Act III. "The House of Gold." A room in _Alvise's_ house. _Alvise_ sings of the vengeance he will wreak upon _Laura_ for her betrayal of his honour. "Sì! morir ella de'" (Yes, to die is her doom). He summons _Laura_. Nocturnal serenaders are heard singing without, as they wend their way in gondolas along the canal. _Alvise_ draws the curtains from before a doorway and points to a funeral bier erected in the chamber beyond. To _Laura_ he hands a vial of swift poison. She must drain it before the last note of the serenade they now hear has died away. He will leave her. The chorus ended, he will return to find her dead. When he has gone, _Gioconda_, who, anticipating the fate that might befall the woman who has saved her mother, has been in hiding in the palace, hastens to _Laura_, and hands her a flask containing a narcotic that will create the semblance of death. _Laura_ drinks it, and disappears through the curtains into the funeral chamber. _Gioconda_ pours the poison from the vial into her own flask, and leaves the empty vial on the table. The serenade ceases. _Alvise_ re-entering, sees the empty vial on the table. He enters the funeral apartment for a brief moment. _Laura_ is lying as one dead upon the bier. He believes that he has been obeyed and that _Laura_ has drained the vial of poison. The scene changes to a great hall in _Alvise's_ house, where he is receiving his guests. Here occurs the "Dance of the Hours," a ballet suite which, in costume changes, light effects and choreography represents the hours of dawn, day, evening, and night. It is also intended to symbolize, in its mimic action, the eternal struggle between the powers of darkness and light. _Barnaba_ enters, dragging in with him _La Cieca_, whom he has found concealed in the house. _Enzo_ also has managed to gain admittance. _La Cieca_, questioned as to her purpose in the House of Gold, answers, "For her, just dead, I prayed." A hush falls upon the fête. The passing bell for the dead is heard slowly tolling. "For whom?" asks _Enzo_ of _Barnaba_. "For Laura," is the reply. The guests shudder. "D'un vampiro fatal l'ala fredda passò" (As if over our brows a vampire's wing had passed), chants the chorus. "Già ti vedo immota e smorta" (I behold thee motionless and pallid), sings _Enzo_. _Barnaba_, _Gioconda_, _La Cieca_, and _Alvise_ add their voices to an ensemble of great power. _Alvise_ draws back the curtains of the funeral chamber, which also gives upon the festival hall. He points to _Laura_ extended upon the bier. _Enzo_, brandishing a poniard, rushes upon _Alvise_, but is seized by guards. Act IV. "The Orfano Canal." The vestibule of a ruined palace on the island of Giudecca. In the right-hand corner an opened screen, behind which is a bed. Large porch at back, through which are seen the lagoon, and, in the distance, the square of Saint Mark, brilliantly illuminated. A picture of the Virgin and a crucifix hang against the wall. Table and couch; on the table a lamp and a lighted lantern; the flask of poison and a dagger. On a couch are various articles of mock jewelry belonging to _Gioconda_. On the right of the scene a long, dimly lighted street. From the end two men advance, carrying in their arms _Laura_, who is enveloped in a black cloak. The two _cantori_ (street singers) knock at the door. It is opened by _Gioconda_, who motions them to place their burden upon the couch behind the screen. As they go, she pleads with them to search for her mother, whom she has not been able to find since the scene in the House of Gold. She is alone. Her love for _Enzo_, greater than her jealousy of _Laura_, has prompted her to promise _Barnaba_ that she will give herself to him, if he will aid _Enzo_ to escape from prison and guide him to the Orfano Canal. Now, however, despair seizes her. In a dramatic soliloquy--a "terrible song," it has been called--she invokes suicide. "Suicidio! ... in questi fieri momenti tu sol mi resti" (Aye, suicide, the sole resource now left me). For a moment she even thinks of carrying out _Alvise's_ vengeance by stabbing _Laura_ and throwing her body into the water--"for deep is yon lagoon." Through the night a gondolier's voice calls in the distance over the water: "Ho! gondolier! hast thou any fresh tidings?" Another voice, also distant: "In the Orfano Canal there are corpses." In despair _Gioconda_ throws herself down weeping near the table. _Enzo_ enters. In a tense scene _Gioconda_ excites his rage by telling him that she has had _Laura's_ body removed from the burial vault and that he will not find it there. He seizes her. His poniard already is poised for the thrust. Hers--so she hopes--is to be the ecstacy of dying by his hand! At that moment, however, the voice of _Laura_, who is coming out of the narcotic, calls, "Enzo!" He rushes to her, and embraces her. In the distance is heard a chorus singing a serenade. It is the same song, before the end of which _Alvise_ had bidden _Laura_ drain the poison. Both _Laura_ and _Enzo_ now pour out words of gratitude to _Gioconda_. The girl has provided everything for flight. A boat, propelled by two of her friends, is ready to convey them to a barque, which awaits them. What a blessing, after all, the rosary, bestowed upon the queenly _Laura_ by an old blind woman has proved to be. "Che vedo là! Il rosario!" (What see I there! 'Tis the rosary!) Thus sings _Gioconda_, while _Enzo_ and _Laura_ voice their thanks: "Sulle tue mani l'anima tutta stempriamo in pianto" (Upon thy hands thy generous tears of sympathy are falling). The scene works up to a powerful climax. Once more _Gioconda_ is alone. The thought of her compact with _Barnaba_ comes over her. She starts to flee the spot, when the spy himself appears in the doorway. Pretending that she wishes to adorn herself for him, she begins putting on the mock jewelry, and, utilizing the opportunity that brings her near the table, seizes the dagger that is lying on it. "Gioconda is thine!" she cries, facing _Barnaba_, then stabs herself to the heart. Bending over the prostrate form, the spy furiously shouts into her ear, "Last night thy mother did offend me. I have strangled her!" But no one hears him. _La Gioconda_ is dead. With a cry of rage, he rushes down the street. French Opera Gluck, Wagner, and Verdi each closed an epoch. In Gluck there culminated the pre-Mozartean school. In Mozart two streams of opera found their source. "Don Giovanni" and "Le Nozze di Figaro" were inspirations to Rossini, to whom, in due course of development, varied by individual characteristics, there succeeded Bellini, Donizetti, and Verdi. The second stream of opera which found its source in Mozart was German. The score of "Die Zauberflöte" showed how successfully the rich vein of popular melody, or folk music, could be worked for the lyric stage. The hint was taken by Weber, from whom, in the course of gradual development, there derived Richard Wagner. Meanwhile, however, there was another development which came direct from Gluck. His "Iphigénie en Aulide," "Orphée et Eurydice," "Alceste," and "Armide" were produced at the Académie Royale de Musique, founded by Lully in 1672, and now the Grand Opéra, Paris. They contributed materially to the development of French grand opera, which derives from Gluck, as well as from Lully (pp. 1, 4, and 6), and Rameau (p. 1). French opera also was sensibly influenced, and its development in the serious manner furthered, by one of the most learned of composers, Luigi Cherubini, for six years professor of composition and for twenty years thereafter (1821-1841) director of the Paris Conservatoire and at one time widely known as the composer of the operas "Les Deux Journées" (Paris, 1800; London, as "The Water-carrier," 1801); and "Faniska," Vienna, 1806. To the brief statement regarding French grand opera on p. 2, I may add, also briefly, that manner as well as matter is a characteristic of all French art. The Frenchman is not satisfied with what he says, unless he says it in the best possible manner or style. Thus, while Italian composers long were contented with an instrumental accompaniment that simply did not interfere with the voice, the French always have sought to enrich and beautify what is sung, by the instrumental accompaniment with which they have supported and environed it. In its seriousness of purpose, and in the care with which it strives to preserve the proper balance between the vocal and orchestral portions of the score, French opera shows most clearly its indebtedness to Gluck, and, after him, to Cherubini. It is a beautiful form of operatic art. In the restricted sense of the repertoire in this country, French grand opera means Meyerbeer, Gounod, Bizet, and Massenet. In fact it is a question if, popularly speaking, we draw the line at all between French and Italian grand opera, since, both being Latin, they are sister arts, and quite distinct from the German school. Having traced opera in Germany from Gluck to Wagner, and in Italy from Rossini to Verdi, I now turn to opera in France from Meyerbeer and a few predecessors to Bizet. Méhul to Meyerbeer Certain early French operas still are in the Continental repertoire, although they may be said to have completely disappeared here. They are of sufficient significance to be referred to in this book. The pianoforte pupils abroad are few who, in the course of their first years of instruction, fail to receive a potpourri of the three-act opera "Joseph" (Joseph in Egypt), by Étienne Nicholas Méhul (1763-1817). The score is chaste and restrained. The principal air for _Joseph_ (tenor), "À peine au sortir de l'enfance" (Whilst yet in tender childhood), and the prayer for male voice, "Dieu d'Israel" (Oh, God of Israel), are the best-known portions of the score. In constructing the libretto Alexander Duval followed the Biblical story. When the work opens, not only has the sale of _Joseph_ by his brethren taken place, but the young Jew has risen to high office. Rôles, besides _Joseph_, are _Jacob_ (bass), _Siméon_ (baritone) [Transcriber's Note: should be 'tenor'], _Benjamin_ (soprano), _Utobal_, _Joseph's_ confidant (bass). "Joseph en Egypte" was produced at the Théâtre Feydeau, Paris, February 17, 1808. "Le Calife de Bagdad," "Jean de Paris," and "La Dame Blanche" (The White Lady), by François Adrien Boieldieu (1775-1834), are still known by their graceful overtures. In "La Dame Blanche" the composer has used the song of "Robin Adair," the scene of the opera being laid in Scotland, and drawn by Scribe from Scott's novels, "The Monastery" and "Guy Mannering." _George Brown_ was a favorite rôle with Wachtel. He sang it in this country. The graceful invocation to the white lady was especially well suited to his voice. "La Dame Blanche" was produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, December 10, 1825. Boieldieu's music is light and graceful, in perfect French taste, and full of charm. It has the spirit of comedy and no doubt helped develop the comic vein in the lighter scores of Daniel François Esprit Auber (1782-1871). But in his greatest work, "Masaniello," the French title of which is "La Muette de Portici" (The Dumb Girl of Portici), Auber is, musically, a descendant of Méhul. The libretto is by Scribe and Delavigne. The work was produced in Paris, February 29, 1828. It is one of the foundation stones of French grand opera. Eschewing vocal ornament merely as such, and introducing it only when called for by the portrayal of character, the emotion to be expressed, or the situation devised by the librettist, it is largely due to its development from this work of Auber's that French opera has occupied for so long a time the middle ground between Italian opera with its frank supremacy of voice on the one hand, and German opera with its solicitude for instrumental effects on the other. The story of "Masaniello" is laid in 1647, in and near Naples. It deals with an uprising of the populace led by _Masaniello_. He is inspired thereto both by the wrongs the people have suffered and by his sister _Fenella's_ betrayal by _Alfonso_, Spanish viceroy of Naples. The revolution fails, its leader loses his mind and is killed, and, during an eruption of Vesuvius, _Fenella_ casts herself into the sea. _Fenella_ is dumb. Her rôle is taken by a pantomimist, usually the _prima ballerina_. Greatly admired by musicians though the score be, "Masaniello's" hold upon the repertory long has been precarious. I doubt if it has been given in this country upon any scale of significance since the earliest days of opera in German at the Metropolitan, when Dr. Leopold Damrosch revived it with Anton Schott in the title rôle. Even then it was difficult to imagine that, when "Masaniello" was played in Brussels, in 1830, the scene of the uprising so excited the people that they drove the Dutch out of Belgium, which had been joined to Holland by the Congress of Vienna. The best-known musical number in the opera is the "Air du Sommeil" (Slumber-song) sung by _Masaniello_ to _Fenella_ in the fourth act. Auber composed many successful operas in the vein of comedy. His "Fra Diavolo" long was popular. Its libretto by Scribe is amusing, the score sparkling. _Fra Diavolo's_ death can be made a sensational piece of acting, if the tenor knows how to take a fall down the wooden runway among the canvas rocks, over which the dashing bandit--the villain of the piece--is attempting to escape, when shot. "Fra Diavolo" was given here with considerable frequency at one time. But in a country where opéra comique (in the French sense of the term) has ceased to exist, it has no place. We swing from one extreme to the other--from grand opera, with brilliant accessories, to musical comedy, with all its slap-dash. The sunlit middle road of opéra comique we have ceased to tread. Two other works, once of considerable popularity, also have disappeared from our stage. The overture to "Zampa," by Louis J.F. Hérold (1791-1833) still is played; the opera no more. It was produced in Paris May 3, 1831. The libretto, by Mélésville, is based on the old tale of "The Statue Bride." The high tenor rôle of _Chappelou_ in "Le Postillon de Longjumeau," by Adolphe Charles Adam (1802-1856), with its postillion song, "Ho! ho!--Ho! ho!--Postillion of Longjumeau!" was made famous by Theodore Wachtel, who himself was a postillion before his voice was discovered by patrons of his father's stable, with whom he chanced to join in singing quartet. It was he who introduced the rhythmic cracking of the whip in the postillion's song. Wachtel sang the rôle in this country in the season of 1871-72, at the Stadt Theatre, and in 1875-76 at the Academy of Music. Then, having accumulated a fortune, chiefly out of the "Postillon," in which he sang more than 1200 times, he practically retired, accepting no fixed engagements. During the Metropolitan Opera House season of 1884-85, Dr. Leopold Damrosch revived, in German, "La Juive," a five-act opera by Jacques François Fromental Élie Halévy (1799-1862), the libretto by Scribe. Materna was the Jewess, _Rachel_ (in German _Recha_). I cannot recall any production of the work here since then, and a considerable period had elapsed since its previous performance here. It had its _première_ in Paris, February 23, 1835. Meyerbeer's "Robert le Diable" had been produced in 1831. Nevertheless "La Juive" scored a triumph. But with the production of Meyerbeer's "Les Huguenots," that composer became the operatic idol of the public, and Halévy's star paled, although musicians continued for many years to consider "La Juive" one of the finest opera scores composed in France; and there are many who would be glad to see an occasional revival of this work, as well as of Auber's "Masaniello." The libretto of "La Juive," originally written for Rossini, was rejected by that composer for "William Tell" (see p. 312). Giacomo Meyerbeer (1791-1864) Although he was born in Berlin (September 5, 1791), studied pianoforte and theory in Germany, and attained in that country a reputation as a brilliant pianist, besides producing several operas there, Meyerbeer is regarded as the founder of what generally is understood as modern French grand opera. It has been said of him that "he joined to the flowing melody of the Italians the solid harmony of the Germans, the poignant declamation and varied, piquant rhythm of the French"; which is a good description of the opera that flourishes on the stage of the Académie or Grand Opéra, Paris. The models for elaborate spectacular scenes and finales furnished by Meyerbeer's operas have been followed ever since by French composers; nor have they been ignored by Italians. He understood how to write effectively for the voice, and he was the first composer of opera who made a point of striving for tone colour in the instrumental accompaniment. Sometimes the effect may be too calculated, too cunningly contrived, too obviously sought for. But what he accomplished had decided influence on the enrichment of the instrumental score in operatic composition. Much criticism has been directed at Meyerbeer, and much of his music has disappeared from the stage. But such also has been the fate of much of the music of other composers earlier than, contemporary with, and later than he. Meyerbeer had the pick of the great artists of his day. His works were written for and produced with brilliant casts, and had better not be sung at all than indifferently. His greatest work, "Les Huguenots," is still capable of leaving a deep impression, when adequately performed. Meyerbeer, like many other composers for the lyric stage, has suffered much from writers who have failed to approach opera as opera, but have written about it from the standpoint of the symphony, with which it has nothing in common, or have looked down upon it from the lofty heights of the music-drama, from which, save for the fact that both are intended to be sung and acted with scenery on a stage, it differs greatly. Opera is a highly artificial theatrical product, and those who have employed convincingly its sophisticated processes are not lightly to be thrust aside. Meyerbeer came of a Jewish family. His real name was Jacob Liebmann Beer. He prefixed "Meyer" to his patronymic at the request of a wealthy relative who made him his heir. He was a pupil in pianoforte of Clementi; also studied under Abbé Vogler, being a fellow pupil of C.M. von Weber. His first operas were German. In 1815 he went to Italy and composed a series of operas in the style of Rossini. Going to Paris in 1826, he became "immersed in the study of French opera, from Lully onward." The first result was "Robert le Diable" (Robert the Devil), Grand Opéra, Paris, 1831. This was followed by "Les Huguenots," 1836; "Le Prophète," 1849; "L'Étoile du Nord," Opéra Comique, 1854; "Dinorah, ou le Pardon de Ploërmel" (Dinorah, or the Pardon of Ploërmel), Opéra Comique, 1859. Much of the music of "L'Étoile du Nord" came from an earlier score, "Das Feldlager in Schlesien" (The Camp in Silesia), Berlin, 1843. Meyerbeer died May 2, 1864, in Paris, where his "L'Africaine" was produced at the Grand Opéra in 1865. ROBERT LE DIABLE ROBERT THE DEVIL Opera in five acts, by Meyerbeer; words by Scribe and Delavigne. Produced, Grand Opéra, Paris, November 22, 1831. Drury Lane, London, February 20, 1832, in English, as "The Demon, or the Mystic Branch"; Covent Garden, February 21, 1832, in English, as "The Fiend Father, or Robert of Normandy"; King's Theatre, June 11, 1832, in French; Her Majesty's Theatre, May 4, 1847, in Italian. Park Theatre, New York, April 7, 1834, in English, with Mrs. Wood as _Isabel_ and Wood as _Robert_, the opera being followed by a _pas seul_ by Miss Wheatley, and a farce, "My Uncle John"; Astor Place Opera House, November 3, 1851, with Bettini (_Robert_), Marini (_Bertram_), Bosio (_Isabella_), Steffanone (_Alice_); Academy of Music, November 30, 1857, with Formes as _Bertram_. CHARACTERS ALICE, foster-sister of Robert _Soprano_ ISABELLA, Princess of Sicily _Soprano_ THE ABBESS _Dancer_ ROBERT, Duke of Normandy _Tenor_ BERTRAM, the Unknown _Bass_ RAIMBAUT, a minstrel _Tenor_ _Time_--13th Century. _Place_--Sicily. The production of "Robert le Diable" in Paris was such a sensational success that it made the fortune of the Grand Opéra. Nourrit was _Robert_, Levasseur, _Bertram_ (the prototype of _Mephistopheles_); the women of the cast were Mlle. Dorus as _Alice_, Mme. Cinti-Damoreau as _Isabella_, and Taglioni, the famous danseuse, as the _Abbess_. Jenny Lind made her début in London as _Alice_, in the Italian production of the work. In New York Carl Formes was heard as _Bertram_ at the Astor Place Theatre, November 30, 1857. Whatever criticism may now be directed against "Robert le Diable," it was a remarkable creation for its day. Meyerbeer's score not only saved the libretto, in which the grotesque is carried to the point of absurdity, but actually made a brilliant success of the production as a whole. The story is legendary. _Robert_ is the son of the arch-fiend by a human woman. _Robert's_ father, known as _Bertram_, but really the devil, ever follows him about, and seeks to lure him to destruction. The strain of purity in the drama is supplied by _Robert's_ foster-sister, _Alice_, who, if _Bertram_ is the prototype of _Mephistopheles_ in "Faust," may be regarded as the original of _Michaela_ in "Carmen." _Robert_, because of his evil deeds (inspired by _Bertram_), has been banished from Normandy, and has come to Sicily. He has fallen in love with _Isabella_, she with him. He is to attend a tournament at which she is to award the prizes. Tempted by _Bertram_, he gambles and loses all his possessions, including even his armour. These facts are disclosed in the first act. This contains a song by _Raimbaut_, the minstrel, in which he tells of Robert's misdeeds, but is saved from the latter's fury by _Alice_, who is betrothed to _Raimbaut_, and who, in an expressive air, pleads vainly with _Robert_ to mend his ways and especially to avoid _Bertram_, from whom she instinctively shrinks. In the second act _Robert_ and _Isabella_ meet in the palace. She bestows upon him a suit of armour to wear in the tournament. But, misled by _Bertram_, he seeks his rival elsewhere than in the lists, and, by his failure to appear there, loses his honour as a knight. In the next act, laid in the cavern of St. Irene, occurs an orgy of evil spirits, to whose number _Bertram_ promises to add _Robert_. Next comes a scene that verges upon the grotesque, but which is converted by Meyerbeer's genius into something highly fantastic. This is in the ruined convent of St. Rosalie. _Bertram_ summons from their graves the nuns who, in life, were unfaithful to their vows. The fiend has promised _Robert_ that if he will but seize a mystic cypress branch from over the grave of St. Rosalie, and bear it away, whatever he wishes for will become his. The ghostly nuns, led by their _Abbess_, dance about him. They seek to inveigle him with gambling, drink, and love, until, dazed by their enticements, he seizes the branch. Besides the ballet of the nuns, there are two duets for _Robert_ and _Bertram_--"Du rendezvous" (Our meeting place), and "Le bonheur est dans l'inconstance" (Our pleasure lies in constant change). The first use _Robert_ makes of the branch is to effect entrance into _Isabella's_ chamber. He threatens to seize her and bear her away, but yields to her entreaties, breaks the branch, and destroys the spell. In this act--the fourth--occurs the famous air for _Isabella_, "Robert, toi que j'aime" (Robert, whom I love). Once more _Bertram_ seeks to make with _Robert_ a compact, the price for which shall be paid with his soul. But _Alice_, by repeating to him the last warning words of his mother, delays the signing of the compact until the clock strikes twelve. The spell is broken. _Bertram_ disappears. The cathedral doors swing open disclosing _Isabella_, who, in her bridal robes, awaits _Robert_. The finale contains a trio for _Alice_, _Robert_, and _Bertram_, which is considered one of Meyerbeer's finest inspirations. LES HUGUENOTS THE HUGUENOTS Opera in five acts; music by Meyerbeer, words by Scribe and Deschamps. Produced, Grand Opéra, Paris, February 29, 1836. New York, Astor Place Opera House, June 24, 1850, with Salvi (_Raoul_), Coletti (_de Nevers_), Setti (_St. Bris_), Marini (_Marcel_), Signorina Bosio (_Marguerite_), Steffanone (_Valentine_), Vietti (Urbain); Academy of Music, March 8, 1858, with La Grange and Formes; April 30, 1872, Parepa-Rosa, Wachtel, and Santley (_St. Bris_): Academy of Music, 1873, with Nilsson, Cary, Del Puente, and Campanini; Metropolitan Opera House, beginning 1901, with Melba or Sembrich as _Marguerite de Valois_, Nordica (_Valentine_), Jean de Reszke (_Raoul_), Édouard de Reszke (_Marcel_), Plançon (_St. Bris_), Maurel (_de Nevers_), and Mantelli (_Urbain_) (performances known as "the nights of the seven stars"); Metropolitan Opera House, 1914, with Caruso, Destinn, Hempel, Matzenauer, Braun, and Scotti. The first performance in America occurred April 29, 1839, in New Orleans. CHARACTERS VALENTINE, daughter of St. Bris _Soprano_ MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, betrothed to Henry IV., of Navarre _Soprano_ URBAIN, page to Marguerite _Mezzo-Soprano_ COUNT DE ST. BRIS } Catholic noblemen { _Baritone_ COUNT DE NEVERS } { _Baritone_ COSSE _Tenor_ MÉRU } { _Baritone_ THORE } Catholic gentlemen { _Baritone_ TAVANNES } { _Tenor_ DE RETZ _Baritone_ RAOUL DE NANGIS, a Huguenot nobleman _Tenor_ MARCEL, a Huguenot soldier, servant to Raoul _Bass_ Catholic and Huguenot ladies, and gentlemen of the court; soldiers, pages, citizens, and populace; night watch, monks, and students. _Place_--Touraine and Paris. _Time_--August, 1572. It has been said that, because Meyerbeer was a Jew, he chose for two of his operas, "Les Huguenots" and "Le Prophète," subjects dealing with bloody uprisings due to religious differences among Christians. "Les Huguenots" is written around the massacre of the Huguenots by the Catholics, on the night of St. Bartholomew's, Paris, August 24, 1572; "Le Prophète" around the seizure and occupation of Münster, in 1555, by the Anabaptists, led by John of Leyden. Even the ballet of the spectral nuns, in "Robert le Diable," has been suggested as due to Meyerbeer's racial origin and a tendency covertly to attack the Christian religion. Far-fetched, I think. Most likely his famous librettist was chiefly responsible for choice of subjects and Meyerbeer accepted them because of the effective manner in which they were worked out. Even so, he was not wholly satisfied with Scribe's libretto of "Les Huguenots." He had the scene of the benediction of the swords enlarged, and it was upon his insistence that Deschamps wrote in the love duet in Act IV. As it stands, the story has been handled with keen appreciation of its dramatic possibilities. Act I. Touraine. _Count de Nevers_, one of the leaders of the Catholic party, has invited friends to a banquet at his château. Among these is _Raoul de Nangis_, a Huguenot. He is accompanied by an old retainer, the Huguenot soldier, _Marcel_. In the course of the fête it is proposed that everyone shall toast his love in a song. _Raoul_ is the first to be called upon. The name of the beauty whom he pledges in his toast is unknown to him. He had come to her assistance while she was being molested by a party of students. She thanked him most graciously. He lives in the hope of meeting her again. _Marcel_ is a fanatic Huguenot. Having followed his master to the banquet, he finds him surrounded by leaders of the party belonging to the opposite faith. He fears for the consequences. In strange contrast to the glamour and gaiety of the festive proceedings, he intones Luther's hymn, "A Stronghold Sure." The noblemen of the Catholic party instead of becoming angry are amused. _Marcel_ repays their levity by singing a fierce Huguenot battle song. That also amuses them. At this point the _Count de Nevers_ is informed that a lady is in the garden and wishes to speak with him. He leaves his guests who, through an open window, watch the meeting. _Raoul_, to his surprise and consternation, recognizes in the lady none other than the fair creature whom he saved from the molestations of the students and with whom he has fallen in love. Naturally, however, from the circumstances of her meeting with _de Nevers_ he cannot but conclude that a liaison exists between them. _De Nevers_ returns, rejoins his guests. _Urbain_, the page of _Queen Marguerite de Valois_, enters. He is in search of _Raoul_, having come to conduct him to a meeting with a gracious and noble lady whose name, however, is not disclosed. _Raoul's_ eyes having been bandaged, he is conducted to a carriage and departs with _Urbain_, wondering what his next adventure will be. Act II. In the Garden of Chenonçeaux, _Queen Marguerite de Valois_ receives _Valentine_, daughter of the _Count de St. Bris_. The _Queen_ knows of her rescue from the students by _Raoul_. Desiring to put an end to the differences between Huguenots and Catholics, which have already led to bloodshed, she has conceived the idea of uniting _Valentine_, daughter of one of the great Catholic leaders, to _Raoul_. _Valentine_, however, was already pledged to _de Nevers_. It was at the _Queen's_ suggestion that she visited _de Nevers_ and had him summoned from the banquet in order to ask him to release her from her engagement to him--a request which, however reluctantly, he granted. Here, in the Gardens of Chenonçeaux, _Valentine_ and _Raoul_ are, according to the Queen's plan, to meet again, but she intends first to receive him alone. He is brought in, the bandage is removed from his eyes, he does homage to the _Queen_, and when, in the presence of the leaders of the Catholic party, _Marguerite de Valois_ explains her purpose and her plan through this union of two great houses to end the religious differences which have disturbed her reign, all consent. _Valentine_ is led in. _Raoul_ at once recognizes her as the woman of his adventure but also, alas, as the woman whom _de Nevers_ met in the garden during the banquet. Believing her to be unchaste, he refuses her hand. General consternation. _St. Bris_, his followers, all draw their swords. _Raoul's_ flashes from its sheath. Only the _Queen's_ intervention prevents bloodshed. Act III. The scene is an open place in Paris before a chapel, where _de Nevers_, who has renewed his engagement with _Valentine_, is to take her in marriage. The nuptial cortège enters the building. The populace is restless, excited. Religious differences still are the cause of enmity. The presence of Royalist and Huguenot soldiers adds to the restlessness of the people. _De Nevers_, _St. Bris_, and another Catholic nobleman, _Maurevert_, come out from the chapel, where _Valentine_ has desired to linger in prayer. The men are still incensed over what appears to them the shameful conduct of _Raoul_ toward _Valentine_. _Marcel_ at that moment delivers to _St. Bris_ a challenge from _Raoul_ to fight a duel. When the old Huguenot soldier has retired, the noblemen conspire together to lead _Raoul_ into an ambush. During the duel, followers of _St. Bris_, who have been placed in hiding, are suddenly to issue forth and murder the young Huguenot nobleman. From a position in the vestibule of the chapel, _Valentine_ has overheard the plot. She still loves _Raoul_ and him alone. How shall she warn him of the certain death in store for him? She sees _Marcel_ and counsels him that his master must not come here to fight the duel unless he is accompanied by a strong guard. As a result, when _Raoul_ and his antagonist meet, and _St. Bris's_ soldiers are about to attack the Huguenot, _Marcel_ summons the latter's followers from a nearby inn. A street fight between the two bodies of soldiers is imminent, when the _Queen_ and her suite enter. A gaily bedecked barge comes up the river and lays to at the bank. It bears _de Nevers_ and his friends. He has come to convey his bride from the chapel to his home. And now _Raoul_ learns, from the Queen, and to his great grief, that he has refused the hand of the woman who loved him and who had gone to _de Nevers_ in order to ask him to release her from her engagement with him. Act IV. _Raoul_ seeks _Valentine_, who has become the wife of _de Nevers_, in her home. He wishes to be assured of the truth of what he has heard from the _Queen_. During their meeting footsteps are heard approaching and _Valentine_ barely has time to hide _Raoul_ in an adjoining room when _de Nevers_, _St. Bris_, and other noblemen of the Catholic party enter, and form a plan to be carried out that very night--the night of St. Bartholomew--to massacre the Huguenots. Only _de Nevers_ refuses to take part in the conspiracy. Rather than do so, he yields his sword to _St. Bris_ and is led away a prisoner. The priests bless the swords, _St. Bris_ and his followers swear loyalty to the bloody cause in which they are enlisted, and depart to await the order to put it into effect, the tolling of the great bell from St. Germain. _Raoul_ comes out from his place of concealment. His one thought is to hurry away and notify his brethren of their peril. _Valentine_ seeks to detain him, entreats him not to go, since it will be to certain death. As the greatest and final argument to him to remain, she proclaims that she loves him. But already the deep-voiced bell tolls the signal. Flames, blood-red, flare through the windows. Nothing can restrain _Raoul_ from doing his duty. _Valentine_ stands before the closed door to block his egress. Rushing to a casement, he throws back the window and leaps to the street. Act V. Covered with blood, _Raoul_ rushes into the ballroom of the Hôtel de Nesle, where the Huguenot leaders, ignorant of the massacre that has begun, are assembled, and summons them to battle. Already Coligny, their great commander, has fallen. Their followers are being massacred. [Illustration: Copyright photo by A. Dupont Plançon as Saint Bris in "The Huguenots"] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Jean de Reszke as Raoul in "The Huguenots"] The scene changes to a Huguenot churchyard, where _Raoul_ and _Marcel_ have found temporary refuge. _Valentine_ hurries in. She wishes to save _Raoul_. She adjures him to adopt her faith. _De Nevers_ has met a noble death and she is free--free to marry _Raoul_. But he refuses to marry her at the sacrifice of his religion. Now she decides that she will die with him and that they will both die as Huguenots and united. _Marcel_ blesses them. The enemy has stormed the churchyard and begins the massacre of those who have sought safety there and in the edifice itself. Again the scene changes, this time to a square in Paris. _Raoul_, who has been severely wounded, is supported by _Marcel_ and _Valentine_. _St. Bris_ and his followers approach. In answer to _St. Bris's_ summons, "Who goes there?" _Raoul_, calling to his aid all the strength he has left, cries out, "Huguenots." There is a volley. _Raoul_, _Valentine_, _Marcel_ lie dead on the ground. Too late _St. Bris_ discovers that he has been the murderer of his own daughter. Originally in five acts, the version of "Les Huguenots" usually performed contains but three. The first two acts are drawn into one by converting the second act into a scene and adding it to the first. The fifth act (or in the usual version the fourth) is nearly always omitted. This is due to the length of the opera. The audience takes it for granted that, when _Raoul_ leaves _Valentine_, he goes to his death. I have seen a performance of "Les Huguenots" with the last act. So far as an understanding of the work is concerned, it is unnecessary. It also involves as much noise and smell of gunpowder as Massenet's opera, "La Navarraise"--and that is saying a good deal. The performances of "Les Huguenots," during the most brilliant revivals of that work at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, under Maurice Grau, were known as "les nuits de sept étoiles" (the nights of the seven stars). The cast to which the performances owed this designation is given in the summary above. A manager, in order to put "Les Huguenots" satisfactorily upon the stage, should be able to give it with seven first-rate principals, trained as nearly as possible in the same school of opera. The work should be sung preferably in French and by singers who know something of the traditions of the Grand Opéra, Paris. Mixed casts of Latin and Teutonic singers mar a performance of this work. If "Les Huguenots" appears to have fallen off in popularity since "the nights of the seven stars," I am inclined to attribute this to inability or failure to give the opera with a cast either as fine or as homogeneous as that which flourished at the Metropolitan during the era of "les nuits de sept étoiles," when there not only were seven stars on the stage, but also seven dollars in the box office for every orchestra stall that was occupied--and they all were. Auber's "Masaniello," Rossini's "William Tell," Halévy's "La Juive," and Meyerbeer's own "Robert le Diable" practically having dropped out of the repertoire in this country, "Les Huguenots," composed in 1836, is the earliest opera in the French grand manner that maintains itself on the lyric stage of America--the first example of a school of music which, through the "Faust" of Gounod, the "Carmen" of Bizet, and the works of Massenet, has continued to claim our attention. After a brief overture, in which Luther's hymn is prominent, the first act opens with a sonorous chorus for the banqueters in the salon of _de Nevers's_ castle. _Raoul_, called upon to propose in song a toast to a lady, pledges the unknown beauty, whom he rescued from the insolence of a band of students. He does this in the romance, "Plus blanche que la plus blanche hermine" (Whiter than the whitest ermine). The accompaniment to the melodious measures, with which the romance opens, is supplied by a viola solo, the effective employment of which in this passage shows Meyerbeer's knowledge of the instrument and its possibilities. This romance is a perfect example of a certain phase of Meyerbeer's art--a suave and elegant melody for voice, accompanied in a highly original manner, part of the time, in this instance, by a single instrument in the orchestra, which, however, in spite of its effectiveness, leaves an impression of simplicity not wholly uncalculated. _Raoul's_ romance is followed by the entrance of _Marcel_, and the scene for that bluff, sturdy old Huguenot campaigner and loyal servant of _Raoul_, a splendidly drawn character, dramatically and musically. _Marcel_ tries to drown the festive sounds by intoning the stern phrases of Luther's hymn. This he follows with the Huguenot battle song, with its "Piff, piff, piff," which has been rendered famous by the great bassos who have sung it, including, in this country, Formes and Édouard de Reszke. _De Nevers_ then is called away to his interview with the lady, whom _Raoul_ recognizes as the unknown beauty rescued by him from the students, and whom, from the circumstances of her visit to _de Nevers_, he cannot but believe to be engaged in a liaison with the latter. Almost immediately upon _de Nevers's_ rejoining his guests there enters _Urbain_, the page of _Marguerite de Valois_. He greets the assembly with the brilliant recitative, "Nobles Seigneurs salut!" This is followed by a charming cavatina, "Une dame noble et sage" (A wise and noble lady). Originally this was a soprano number, _Urbain_ having been composed as a soprano rôle, which it remained for twelve years. Then, in 1844, when "Les Huguenots" was produced in London, with Alboni as _Urbain_, Meyerbeer transposed it, and a contralto, or mezzo-soprano, part it has remained ever since, its interpreters in this country having included Annie Louise Cary, Trebelli, Scalchi, and Homer. The theme of "Une dame noble et sage" is as follows: [Transcriber's Note: Music apparently missing from original.] The letter brought by _Urbain_ is recognized by the Catholic noblemen as being in the handwriting of _Marguerite de Valois_. As it is addressed to _Raoul_, they show by their obsequious demeanour toward him the importance they attach to the invitation. In accordance with its terms _Raoul_ allows himself to be blindfolded and led away by _Urbain_. Following the original score and regarding what is now the second scene of Act I as the second act, this opens with _Marguerite de Valois's_ apostrophe to the fair land of Touraine (Ô beau pays de la Touraine), which, with the air immediately following, "À ce mot tout s'anime et renaît la nature" (At this word everything revives and Nature renews itself), [Music] constitutes an animated and brilliant scene for coloratura soprano. There is a brief colloquy between _Marguerite_ and _Valentine_, then the graceful female chorus, sung on the bank of the Seine and known as the "bathers' chorus," this being followed by the entrance of _Urbain_ and his engaging song--the rondeau composed for Alboni--"Non!--non, non, non, non, non! Vous n'avez jamais, je gage" (No!--no, no, no, no, no! You have never heard, I wager). _Raoul_ enters, the bandage is removed from his eyes, and there follows a duet, "Beauté divine, enchanteresse" (Beauty brightly divine, enchantress), between him and _Marguerite_, all graciousness on her side and courtly admiration on his. The nobles and their followers come upon the scene. _Marguerite de Valois's_ plan to end the religious strife that has distracted the realm meets with their approbation. The finale of the act begins with the swelling chorus in which they take oath to abide by it. There is the brief episode in which _Valentine_ is led in by _St. Bris_, presented to _Raoul_, and indignantly spurned by him. The act closes with a turbulent ensemble. Strife and bloodshed, then and there, are averted only by the interposition of _Marguerite_. Act III opens with the famous chorus of the Huguenot soldiers in which, while they imitate with their hands the beating of drums, they sing their spirited "Rataplan." By contrast, the Catholic maidens, who accompany the bridal cortège of _Valentine_ and _de Nevers_ to the chapel, intone a litany, while Catholic citizens, students, and women protest against the song of the Huguenot soldiers. These several choral elements are skilfully worked out in the score. _Marcel_, coming upon the scene, manages to have _St. Bris_ summoned from the chapel, and presents _Raoul's_ challenge to a duel. The Catholics form their plot to assassinate _Raoul_, of which _Valentine_ finds opportunity to notify _Marcel_, in what is one of the striking scenes of the opera. The duel scene is preceded by a stirring septette, a really great passage, "En mon bon droit j'ai confiance" (On my good cause relying). The music, when the ambuscade is uncovered and _Marcel_ summons the Huguenots to _Raoul's_ aid, and a street combat is threatened, reaches an effective climax in a double chorus. The excitement subsides with the arrival of _Marguerite de Valois_, and of the barge containing _de Nevers_ and his retinue. A brilliant chorus, supported by the orchestra and by a military band on the stage, with ballet to add to the spectacle forms the finale, as _de Nevers_ conducts _Valentine_ to the barge, and is followed on board by _St. Bris_ and the nuptial cortège. The fourth act, in the home of _de Nevers_, opens with a romance for _Valentine_, "Parmi les pleurs mon rêve se ranime" (Amid my tears, by dreams once more o'ertaken), which is followed by a brief scene between her and _Raoul_, whom the approach of the conspirators quickly obliges her to hide in an adjoining apartment. The scene of the consecration of the swords is one of the greatest in opera; but that it shall have its full effect _St. Bris_ must be an artist like Plançon, who, besides being endowed with a powerful and beautifully managed voice, was superb in appearance and as _St. Bris_ had the bearing of the dignified, commanding yet fanatic nobleman of old France. Musically and dramatically the scene rests on _St. Bris's_ shoulders, and broad they must be, since his is the most conspicuous part in song and action, from the intonation of his solo, "Pour cette cause sainte, obéisses sans crainte" (With sacred zeal and ardor let now your soul be burning), [Music] to the end of the savage _stretta_, when, the conspirators, having tiptoed almost to the door, in order to disperse for their mission, suddenly turn, once more uplift sword hilts, poignards, and crucifixes, and, after a frenzied adjuration of loyalty to a cause that demands the massacre of an unsuspecting foe, steal forth into the shades of fateful night. Powerful as this scene is, Meyerbeer has made the love duet which follows even more gripping. For now he interprets the conflicting emotions of love and loyalty in two hearts. It begins with _Raoul's_ exclamation, "Le danger presse et le temps vole, laisse-moi partir" (Danger presses and time flies. Let me depart), and reaches its climax in a _cantilena_ of supreme beauty, "Tu l'as dit, oui tu m'aimes" (Thou hast said it; aye, thou lov'st me), [Music] which is broken in upon by the sinister tolling of a distant bell--the signal for the massacre to begin. An air for _Valentine_, an impassioned _stretta_ for the lovers, _Raoul's_ leap from the window, followed by a discharge of musketry, from which, in the curtailed version, he is supposed to meet his death, and this act, still an amazing achievement in opera, is at an end. In the fifth act, there is the fine scene of the blessing by _Marcel_ of _Raoul_ and _Valentine_, during which strains of Luther's hymn are heard, intoned by Huguenots, who have crowded into their church for a last refuge. "Les Huguenots" has been the subject of violent attacks, beginning with Robert Schumann's essay indited as far back as 1837, and starting off with the assertion, "I feel today like the young warrior who draws his sword for the first time in a holy cause." Schumann's most particular "holy cause" was, in this instance, to praise Mendelssohn's oratorio, "St. Paul," at the expense of Meyerbeer's opera "Les Huguenots," notwithstanding the utter dissimilarity of purpose in the two works. On the other hand Hanslick remarks that a person who cannot appreciate the dramatic power of this Meyerbeer opera, must be lacking in certain elements of the critical faculty. Even Wagner, one of Meyerbeer's bitterest detractors, found words of the highest praise for the passage from the love duet, which is quoted immediately above. The composer of "The Ring of the Nibelung" had a much broader outlook upon the world than Schumann, in whose genius there was, after all, a good deal of the _bourgeois_. Pro or con, when "Les Huguenots" is sung with a fully adequate cast, it cannot fail of making a deep impression--as witness "les nuits de sept étoiles." A typical night of the seven stars at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, was that of December 26, 1894. The _sept étoiles_ were Nordica (_Valentine_), Scalchi (_Urbain_), Melba (_Marguerite de Valois_), Jean de Reszke (_Raoul_), Plançon (_St. Bris_), Maurel (_de Nevers_), and Édouard de Reszke (_Marcel_). Two Academy of Music casts are worth referring to. April 30, 1872, Parepa-Rosa, for her last appearance in America, sang _Valentine_. Wachtel was _Raoul_ and Santley _St. Bris_. The other Academy cast was a "Night of six stars," and is noteworthy as including Maurel twenty years, almost to the night, before he appeared in the Metropolitan cast. The date was December 24, 1874. Nilsson was _Valentine_, Cary _Urbain_, Maresi _Marguerite de Valois_, Campanini _Raoul_, Del Puente _St. Bris_, Maurel _de Nevers_, and Nannetti _Marcel_. With a more distinguished _Marguerite de Valois_, this performance would have anticipated the "nuits de sept étoiles." LE PROPHÈTE THE PROPHET Opera in five acts, by Meyerbeer; words by Scribe. Produced, Grand Opéra, Paris, April 6, 1849. London, Covent Garden, July 24, 1849, with Mario, Viardot-Garcia, Miss Hayes, and Tagliafico. New Orleans, April 2, 1850. New York, Niblo's Garden, November 25, 1853, with Salvi (_John of Leyden_), Steffanone and Mme. Maretzek. Revived in German, Metropolitan Opera House, by Dr. Leopold Damrosch, December 17, 1884, with Anton Schott as _John of Leyden_, Marianne Brandt as _Fides_ and Schroeder-Hanfstaengl as _Bertha_. It was given ten times during the season, in which it was equalled only by "Tannhäuser" and "Lohengrin." Also, Metropolitan Opera House, 1898-99, with Jean de Reszke, Brema (_Fides_), Lehmann (_Bertha_); January 22, 1900, Alvarez, Schumann-Heink, Suzanne Adams, Plançon and Édouard de Reszke; by Gatti-Casazza, February 7, 1918, with Caruso, Matzenauer, Muzio, Didur, and Mardones. CHARACTERS JOHN OF LEYDEN _Tenor_ FIDES, his mother _Mezzo-Soprano_ BERTHA, his bride _Soprano_ JONAS } { _Tenor_ MATTHISEN } Anabaptists { _Bass_ ZACHARIAS } { _Bass_ COUNT OBERTHAL _Baritone_ Nobles, citizens, Anabaptists, peasants, soldiers, prisoners, children. _Time_--1534-35. _Place_--Dordrecht, Holland, and Münster. Act I. At the foot of _Count Oberthal's_ castle, near Dordrecht, Holland, peasants and mill hands are assembled. _Bertha_ and _Fides_ draw near. The latter is bringing to _Bertha_ a betrothal ring from her son _John_, who is to marry her on the morrow. But permission must first be obtained from _Count Oberthal_ as lord of the domain. The women are here to seek it. There arrive three sombre looking men, who strive to rouse the people to revolt against tyranny. They are the Anabaptists, _Jonas_, _Matthisen_, and _Zacharias_. The _Count_, however, who chances to come out of the castle with his followers, recognizes in _Jonas_ a steward who was discharged from his employ. He orders his soldiers to beat the three men with the flat of their swords. _John's_ mother and _Bertha_ make their plea to _Oberthal_. _John_ and _Bertha_ have loved ever since he rescued her from drowning in the Meuse. Admiring _Bertha's_ beauty, _Oberthal_ refuses to give permission for her to marry _John_, but, instead, orders her seized and borne to the castle for his own diversion. The people are greatly agitated and, when the three Anabaptists reappear, throw themselves at their feet, and on rising make threatening gestures toward the castle. Act II. In _John's_ inn at Leyden are the three Anabaptists and a throng of merry-making peasants. Full of longing for _Bertha_, _John_ is thinking of the morrow. The Anabaptists discover that he bears a remarkable resemblance to the picture of King David in the Cathedral of Münster. They believe this resemblance can be made of service to their plans. _John_ tells them of a strange dream he has had, and in which he found himself standing under the dome of a temple with people prostrate before him. They interpret it for him as evidence that he will mount a throne, and urge him to follow them. But for him there is but one throne--that of the kingdom of love with _Bertha_. At that moment, however, she rushes in and begs him quickly to hide her. She has escaped from _Oberthal_, who is in pursuit. _Oberthal_ and his soldiers enter. The _Count_ threatens that if _John_ does not deliver over _Bertha_ to him, his mother, whom the soldiers have captured on the way to the inn, shall die. She is brought in and forced to her knees. A soldier with a battle-axe stands over her. After a brief struggle _John's_ love for his mother conquers. He hands over _Bertha_ to _Oberthal_. She is led away. _Fides_ is released. The three Anabaptists return. Now _John_ is ready to join them, if only to wreak vengeance on _Oberthal_. They insist that he come at once, without even saying farewell to his mother, who must be kept in ignorance of their plans. John consents and hurries off with them. Act III. In the winter camp of the Anabaptists in a forest of Westphalia, before Münster. On a frozen lake people are skating. The people have risen against their oppressors. _John_ has been proclaimed a prophet of God. At the head of the Anabaptists he is besieging Münster. The act develops in three scenes. The first reveals the psychological medley of fanaticism and sensuality of the Anabaptists and their followers. In the second _John_ enters. _Oberthal_ is delivered into his hands. From him _John_ learns that _Bertha_ again has escaped from the castle and is in Münster. The three Anabaptist leaders wish to put the _Count_ to death. But _John_, saying that _Bertha_ shall be his judge, puts off the execution, much to the disgust of the three fanatics, who find _John_ assuming more authority than is agreeable to them. This scene, the second of the act, takes place in _Zachariah's_ tent. The third scene shows again the camp of the Anabaptists. The leaders, fearing _John's_ usurpation of power, have themselves headed an attack by their followers on Münster and met with defeat. The rabble they have led is furious and ready to turn even against _John_. He, however, by sheer force of personality coupled with his assumption of superhuman inspiration, rallies the crowd to his standard, and leads it to victory. Act IV. A public place in Münster. The city is in possession of the Anabaptists. _John_, once a plain innkeeper of Leyden, has been swept along on the high tide of success and decides to have himself proclaimed Emperor. Meanwhile _Fides_ has been reduced to beggary. The Anabaptists, in order to make her believe that _John_ is dead--so as to reduce to a minimum the chance of her suspecting that the new _Prophet_ and her son are one and the same--left in the inn a bundle of _John's_ clothes stained with blood, together with a script stating that he had been murdered by the _Prophet_ and his followers. The poor woman has come to Münster to beg. There she meets _Bertha_, who, when _Fides_ tells her that _John_ has been murdered, vows vengeance upon the _Prophet_. _Fides_ follows the crowd into the cathedral, to which the scene changes. When, during the coronation scene, _John_ speaks, and announces that he is the elect of God, the poor beggar woman starts at the sound of his voice. She cries out, "My son!" _John's_ cause is thus threatened and his life at stake. He has claimed divine origin. If the woman is his mother, the people, whom he rules with an iron hand, will denounce and kill him. With quick wit he meets the emergency, and even makes use of it to enhance his authority by improvising an affirmation scene. He bids his followers draw their swords and thrust them into his breast, if the beggar woman again affirms that he is her son. Seeing the swords held ready to pierce him, _Fides_, in order to save him, now declares that he is not her son--that her eyes, dimmed by age, have deceived her. Act V. The three Anabaptists, _Jonas_, _Matthisen_, and _Zacharias_, had intended to use _John_ only as an instrument to attain power for themselves. The German Emperor, who is moving on Münster with a large force, has promised them pardon if they will betray the _Prophet_ and usurper into his hands. To this they have agreed, and are ready on his coronation day to betray him. At _John's_ secret command _Fides_ has been brought to the palace. Here her son meets her. He, whom she has seen in the hour of his triumph and who still is all-powerful, implores her pardon, but in vain, until she, in the belief that he has been impelled to his usurpation of power and bloody deeds only by thirst for vengeance for _Bertha's_ wrongs, forgives him, on condition that he return to Leyden. This he promises in full repentance. They are joined by _Bertha_. She has sworn to kill the _Prophet_ whom she blames for the supposed murder of her lover. To accomplish her purpose, she has set a slow fire to the palace. It will blaze up near the powder magazine, when the _Prophet_ and his henchmen are at banquet in the great hall of the palace, and blow up the edifice. She recognizes her lover. Her joy, however, is short-lived, for at the moment a captain comes to _John_ with the announcement that he has been betrayed and that the Emperor's forces are at the palace gates. Thus _Bertha_ learns that her lover and the bloodstained _Prophet_ are one. Horrified, she plunges a dagger into her heart. _John_ determines to die, a victim to the catastrophe which _Bertha_ has planned, and which is impending. He joins the banqueters at their orgy. At the moment when all his open and secret enemies are at the table and pledge him in a riotous bacchanale, smoke rises from the floor. Tongues of fire shoot up. _Fides_, in the general uproar and confusion, calmly joins her son, to die with him, as the powder magazine blows up, and, with a fearful crash the edifice collapses in smoke and flame. _John of Leyden's_ name was Jan Beuckelszoon. He was born in 1509. In business he was successively a tailor, a small merchant, and an innkeeper. After he had had himself crowned in Münster, that city became a scene of orgy and cruelty. It was captured by the imperial forces June 24, 1535. The following January the "prophet" was put to death by torture. The same fate was meted out to Knipperdölling, his henchman, who had conveniently rid him of one of his wives by cutting off her head. * * * * * The music of the first act of "Le Prophète" contains a cheerful chorus for peasants, a cavatina for _Bertha_, "Mon coeur s'élance" (My heart throbs wildly), in which she voices her joy over her expected union with _John_; the Latin chant of the three Anabaptists, gloomy yet stirring; the music of the brief revolt of the peasantry against _Oberthal_; the plea of _Fides_ and _Bertha_ to _Oberthal_ for his sanction of _Bertha's_ marriage to _John_, "Un jour, dans les flots de la Meuse" (One day in the waves of the Meuse); _Oberthal's_ refusal, and his abduction of _Bertha_; the reappearance of the three Anabaptists and the renewal of their efforts to impress the people with a sense of the tyranny by which they are oppressed. Opening the second act, in _John's_ tavern, in the suburbs of Leyden, are the chorus and dance of _John's_ friends, who are rejoicing over his prospective wedding. When the three Anabaptists have recognized his resemblance to the picture of David in the cathedral at Münster, _John_, observing their sombre yet impressive bearing, tells them of his dream, and asks them to interpret it: "Sous les vastes arceaux d'un temple magnifique" (Under the great dome of a splendid temple). They promise him a throne. But he knows a sweeter empire than the one they promise, that which will be created by his coming union with _Bertha_. Her arrival in flight from _Oberthal_ and _John's_ sacrifice of her in order to save his mother from death, lead to _Fides's_ solo, "Ah, mon fils" (Ah, my son), one of the great airs for mezzo-soprano. [Music] Most attractive in the next act is the ballet of the skaters on the frozen lake near the camp of the Anabaptists. The scene is brilliant in conception, the music delightfully rhythmic and graceful. There is a stirring battle song for _Zacharias_, in which he sings of the enemy "as numerous as the stars," yet defeated. Another striking number is the fantastic trio for _Jonas_, _Zacharias_, and _Oberthal_, especially in the descriptive passage in which in rhythm with the music, _Jonas_ strikes flint and steel, ignites a lantern and by its light recognizes _Oberthal_. When _John_ rallies the Anabaptists, who have been driven back from under the walls of Münster and promises to lead them to victory, the act reaches a superb climax in a "Hymne Triomphal" for _John_ and chorus, "Roi du Ciel et des Anges" (Ruler of Heaven and the Angels). At the most stirring moment of this finale, as _John_ is being acclaimed by his followers, mists that have been hanging over the lake are dispelled. The sun bursts forth in glory. [Music] In the next act there is a scene for _Fides_ in the streets of Münster, in which, reduced to penury, she begs for alms. There also is the scene at the meeting of _Fides_ and _Bertha_. The latter believing, like _Fides_, that _John_ has been slain by the Anabaptists, vows vengeance upon the _Prophet_. The great procession in the cathedral with its march and chorus has been, since the production of "Le Prophète" in 1849, a model of construction for striking spectacular scenes in opera. The march is famous. Highly dramatic is the scene in which _Fides_ first proclaims and then denies that John is her son. The climax of the fifth act is the drinking song, "Versez, que tout respire l'ivresse et le délire" (Quaff, quaff, in joyous measure; breathe, breathe delirious pleasure), in the midst of which the building is blown up, and _John_ perishes with those who would betray him. * * * * * During the season of opera which Dr. Leopold Damrosch conducted at the Metropolitan Opera House, 1884-85, when this work of Meyerbeer's led the repertoire in number of performances, the stage management produced a fine effect in the scene at the end of Act III, when the _Prophet_ rallies his followers. Instead of soldiers tamely marching past, as _John_ chanted his battle hymn, he was acclaimed by a rabble, wrought up to a high pitch of excitement, and brandishing cudgels, scythes, pitchforks, and other implements that would serve as weapons. The following season, another stage manager, wishing to outdo his predecessor, brought with him an electric sun from Germany, a horrid thing that almost blinded the audience when it was turned on. L'AFRICAINE THE AFRICAN Opera in five acts, by Meyerbeer; words by Scribe. Produced Grand Opéra, Paris, April 28, 1865. London, in Italian, Covent Garden, July 22, 1865; in English, Covent Garden, October 21, 1865. New York, Academy of Music, December 1, 1865, with Mazzoleni as _Vasco_, and Zucchi as _Selika_; September 30, 1872, with Lucca as _Selika_; Metropolitan Opera House, January 15, 1892, Nordica (_Selika_), Pettigiani (_Inez_), Jean de Reszke (_Vasco_), Édouard de Reszke (_Don Pedro_), Lasalle (_Nelusko_). CHARACTERS SELIKA, a slave _Soprano_ INEZ, daughter of Don Diego _Soprano_ ANNA, her attendant _Contralto_ VASCO DA GAMA, an officer in the Portuguese Navy _Tenor_ NELUSKO, a slave _Baritone_ DON PEDRO, President of the Royal Council _Bass_ DON DIEGO } Members of the Council { _Bass_ DON ALVAR } { _Tenor_ GRAND INQUISITOR _Bass_ Priests, inquisitors, councillors, sailors, Indians, attendants, ladies, soldiers. _Time_--Early sixteenth century. _Place_--Lisbon; on a ship at sea; and India. In 1838 Scribe submitted to Meyerbeer two librettos: that of "Le Prophète" and that of "L'Africaine." For the purposes of immediate composition he gave "Le Prophète" the preference, but worked simultaneously on the scores of both. As a result, in 1849, soon after the production of "Le Prophète," a score of "L'Africaine" was finished. The libretto, however, never had been entirely satisfactory to the composer. Scribe was asked to retouch it. In 1852 he delivered an amended version to Meyerbeer who, so far as his score had gone, adapted it to the revised book, and finished the entire work in 1860. "Thus," says the _Dictionnaire des Opéras_, "the process of creating 'L'Africaine' lasted some twenty years and its birth appears to have cost the life of its composer, for he died, in the midst of preparations for its production, on Monday, May 2, 1864, the day after a copy of his score was finished in his own house in the Rue Montaigne and under his eyes." * * * * * Act I. Lisbon. The Royal Council Chamber of Portugal. Nothing has been heard of the ship of Bartholomew Diaz, the explorer. Among his officers was _Vasco da Gama_, the affianced of _Inez_, daughter of the powerful nobleman, _Don Diego_. _Vasco_ is supposed to have been lost with the ship and her father now wishes _Inez_ to pledge her hand to _Don Pedro_, head of the Royal Council of Portugal. During a session of the Council, it is announced that the King wishes to send an expedition to search for Diaz, but one of the councillors, _Don Alvar_, informs the meeting that an officer and two captives, the only survivors from the wreck of Diaz's vessel have arrived. The officer is brought in. He is _Vasco da Gama_, whom all have believed to be dead. Nothing daunted by the perils he has been through, he has formed a new plan to discover the new land that, he believes, lies beyond Africa. In proof of his conviction that such a land exists, he brings in the captives, _Selika_ and _Nelusko_, natives, apparently, of a country still unknown to Europe. _Vasco_ then retires to give the Council opportunity to discuss his enterprise. In his absence _Don Pedro_, who desires to win _Inez_ for himself, and to head a voyage of discovery, surreptitiously gains possession of an important chart from among _Vasco's_ papers. He then persuades the _Grand Inquisitor_ and the Council that the young navigator's plans are futile. Through his persuasion they are rejected. _Vasco_, who has again come before the meeting, when informed that his proposal has been set aside, insults the Council by charging it with ignorance and bias. _Don Pedro_, utilizing the opportunity to get him out of the way, has him seized and thrown into prison. Act II. _Vasco_ has fallen asleep in his cell. Beside him watches _Selika_. In her native land she is a queen. Now she is a captive and a slave, her rank, of course, unknown to her captor, since she and _Nelusko_ carefully have kept it from the knowledge of all. _Selika_ is deeply in love with _Vasco_ and is broken-hearted over his passion for _Inez_, of which she has become aware. But the love of this supposedly savage slave is greater than her jealousy. She protects the slumbering _Vasco_ from the thrust of _Nelusko's_ dagger. For her companion in captivity is deeply in love with her and desperately jealous of the Portuguese navigator for whom she has conceived so ardent a desire. Not only does she save _Vasco's_ life, but on a map hanging on the prison wall she points out to him a route known only to herself and _Nelusko_, by which he can reach the land of which he has been in search. _Inez_, _Don Pedro_, and their suite enter the prison. _Vasco_ is free. _Inez_ has purchased his freedom through her own sacrifice in marrying _Don Pedro_. _Vasco_, through the information received from _Selika_, now hopes to undertake another voyage of discovery and thus seek to make up in glory what he has lost in love. But he learns that _Don Pedro_ has been appointed commander of an expedition and has chosen _Nelusko_ as pilot. _Vasco_ sees his hopes shattered. Act III. The scene is on _Don Pedro's_ ship at sea. _Don Alvar_, a member of the Royal Council, who is with the expedition, has become suspicious of _Nelusko_. Two ships of the squadron have already been lost. _Don Alvar_ fears for the safety of the flagship. At that moment a Portuguese vessel is seen approaching. It is in command of _Vasco da Gama_, who has fitted it out at his own expense. Although _Don Pedro_ is his enemy, he comes aboard the admiral's ship to warn him that the vessel is on a wrong course and likely to meet with disaster. _Don Pedro_, however, accuses him of desiring only to see _Inez_, who is on the vessel, and charges that his attempted warning is nothing more than a ruse, with that purpose in view. At his command, _Vasco_ is seized and bound. A few moments later, however, a violent storm breaks over the ship. It is driven upon a reef. Savages, for whom _Nelusko_ has signalled, clamber up the sides of the vessel and massacre all save a few whom they take captive. Act IV. On the left, the entrance to a Hindu temple; on the right a palace. Tropical landscape. Among those saved from the massacre is _Vasco_. He finds himself in the land which he has sought to discover--a tropical paradise. He is threatened with death by the natives, but _Selika_, in order to save him, protests to her subjects that he is her husband. The marriage is now celebrated according to East Indian rites. _Vasco_, deeply touched by _Selika's_ fidelity, is almost determined to abide by his nuptial vow and remain here as _Selika's_ spouse, when suddenly he hears the voice of _Inez_. His passion for her revives. Act V. The gardens of _Selika's_ palace. Again _Selika_ makes a sacrifice of love. How easily she could compass the death of _Vasco_ and _Inez_! But she forgives. She persuades _Nelusko_ to provide the lovers with a ship and bids him meet her, after the ship has sailed, on a high promontory overlooking the sea. To this the scene changes. On the promontory stands a large manchineel tree. The perfume of its blossoms is deadly to anyone who breathes it in from under the deep shadow of its branches. From here _Selika_ watches the ship set sail. It bears from her the man she loves. Breathing in the poison-laden odour from the tree from under which she has watched the ship depart, she dies. _Nelusko_ seeks her, finds her dead, and himself seeks death beside her under the fatal branches of the manchineel. * * * * * Meyerbeer considered "L'Africaine" his masterpiece, and believed that through it he was bequeathing to posterity an immortal monument to his fame. But although he had worked over the music for many years, and produced a wonderfully well-contrived score, his labour upon it was more careful and self-exacting than inspired; and this despite moments of intense interest in the opera. Not "L'Africaine," but "Les Huguenots," is considered his greatest work. "L'Africaine" calls for one of the most elaborate stage-settings in opera. This is the ship scene, which gives a lengthwise section of a vessel, so that its between-decks and cabin interiors are seen--like the compartments of a huge but neatly partitioned box laid on its oblong side; in fact an amazing piece of marine architecture. Scribe's libretto has been criticized, and not unjustly, on account of the vacillating character which he gives _Vasco da Gama_. In the first act this operatic hero is in love with _Inez_. In the prison scene, in the second act, when _Selika_ points out on the map the true course to India, he is so impressed with her as a teacher of geography, that he clasps the supposed slave-girl to his breast and addresses her in impassioned song. _Selika_, being enamoured of her pupil, naturally is elated over his progress. Unfortunately _Inez_ enters the prison at this critical moment to announce to _Vasco_ that she has secured his freedom. To prove to _Inez_ that he still loves her _Vasco_ glibly makes her a present of _Selika_ and _Nelusko_. _Selika_, so to speak, no longer is on the map, so far as _Vasco_ is concerned, until, in the fourth act, she saves his life by pretending he is her husband. Rapturously he pledges his love to her. Then _Inez's_ voice is heard singing a ballad to the Tagus River--and _Selika_ again finds herself deserted. There is nothing for her to do but to die under the manchineel tree. "Is the shadow of this tree so fatal?" asks a French authority. "Monsieur Scribe says yes, the naturalists say no." With this question and answer "L'Africaine" may be left to its future fate upon the stage, save that it seems proper to remark that, although the opera is called "The African," _Selika_ appears to have been an East Indian. Early in the first act of the opera occurs _Inez's_ ballad, "Adieu, mon beau rivage" (Farewell, beloved shores). It is gracefully accompanied by flute and oboe. This is the ballad to the river Tagus, which _Vasco_ hears her sing in the fourth act. The finale of the first act--the scene in which _Vasco_ defies the Royal Council--is a powerful ensemble. The slumber song for _Selika_ in the second act, as she watches over _Vasco_, "Sur mes genoux, fils du soleil" (On my knees, offspring of the sun) is charming, and entirely original, with many exotic and fascinating touches. _Nelusko's_ air of homage, "Fille des rois, à toi l'hommage" (Daughter of Kings, my homage thine), expresses a sombre loyalty characteristic of the savage whose passion for his queen amounts to fanaticism. The finale of the act is an unaccompanied septette for _Inez_, _Selika_, _Anna_, _Vasco_, _d'Alvar_, _Nelusko_, and _Don Pedro_. In the act which plays aboardship, are the graceful chorus of women, "Le rapide et léger navire" (The swiftly gliding ship), the prayer of the sailors, "Ô grand Saint Dominique," and Nelusko's song, "Adamastor, roi des vagues profondes" (Adamastor, monarch of the trackless deep), a savage invocation of sea and storm, chanted to the rising of a hurricane, by the most dramatic figure among the characters in the opera. For like _Marcel_ in "Les Huguenots" and _Fides_ in "Le Prophète," _Nelusko_ is a genuine dramatic creation. The Indian march and the ballet, which accompanies the ceremony of the crowning of _Selika_, open the fourth act. The music is exotic, piquant, and in every way effective. The scene is a masterpiece of its kind. There follow the lovely measures of the principal tenor solo of the opera, _Vasco's_ "Paradis sorti du sein de l'onde" (Paradise, lulled by the lisping sea). Then comes the love duet between _Vasco_ and _Selika_, "Ô transport, ô douce extase" (Oh transport, oh sweet ecstacy). One authority says of it that "rarely have the tender passion, the ecstacy of love been expressed with such force." Now it would be set down simply as a tiptop love duet of the old-fashioned operatic kind. The scene of _Selika's_ death under the manchineel tree is preceded by a famous prelude for strings in unison supported by clarinets and bassoons, a brief instrumental recital of grief that makes a powerful appeal. The opera ends dramatically with a soliloquy for _Selika_--"D'ici je vois la mer immense" (From here I gaze upon the boundless deep). L'ÉTOILE DU NORD AND DINORAH Two other operas by Meyerbeer remain for mention. One of them has completely disappeared from the repertoire of the lyric stage. The other suffers an occasional revival for the benefit of some prima donna extraordinarily gifted in lightness and flexibility of vocal phrasing. These operas are "L'Étoile du Nord" (The Star of the North), and "Dinorah, ou Le Pardon de Ploërmel" (Dinorah, or The Pardon of Ploërmel). Each of these contains a famous air. "L'Étoile du Nord" has the high soprano solo with _obbligato_ for two flutes, which was one of Jenny Lind's greatest show-pieces, but has not sufficed to keep the opera alive. In "Dinorah" there is the "Shadow Song," in which _Dinorah_ dances and sings to her own shadow in the moonlight--a number which, at long intervals of time, galvanizes the rest of the score into some semblance of life. The score of "L'Étoile du Nord," produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, February 16, 1854, was assembled from an earlier work, "Das Feldlager in Schlesien" (The Camp in Silesia), produced for the opening of the Berlin Opera House, February 17, 1847; but the plots differ. The story of "L'Étoile du Nord" relates to the love of _Peter the Great_ for _Catherine_, a cantinière. Their union finally takes place, but not until _Catherine_ has disguised herself as a soldier and served in the Russian camp. After surreptitiously watching _Peter_ and a companion drink and roister in the former's tent with a couple of girls, she loses her reason. When it is happily restored by Peter playing familiar airs to her on his flute, she voices her joy in the show-piece, "La, la, la, air chéri" (La, la, la, beloved song), to which reference already has been made. In the first act _Catherine_ has a "Ronde bohémienne" (Gypsy rondo), the theme of which Meyerbeer took from his opera "Emma de Rohsburg." "L'Étoile du Nord" is in three acts. There is much military music in the second act--a cavalry chorus, "Beau cavalier au coeur d'acier" (Brave cavalier with heart of steel); a grenadier song with chorus, "Grenadiers, fiers Moscovites" (grenadiers, proud Muscovites), in which the chorus articulates the beat of the drums ("tr-r-r-um"); the "Dessauer" march, a cavalry fanfare "Ah! voyez nos Tartares du Don" (Ah, behold our Cossacks of the Don); and a grenadiers' march: stirring numbers, all of them. The libretto is by Scribe. The first act scene is laid in Wyborg, on the Gulf of Finland; the second in a Russian camp; the third in Peter's palace in Petrograd. Time, about 1700. * * * * * Barbier and Carré wrote the words of "Dinorah," founding their libretto on a Breton tale. Under the title, "Le Pardon de Ploërmel" (the scene of the opera being laid near the Breton village of Ploërmel) the work was produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, April 4, 1859. It has three principal characters--a peasant girl, _Dinorah_, _soprano_; _Hoël_, a goat-herd, _baritone_; _Corentino_, a bagpiper, _tenor_. The famous baritone, Faure, was the _Hoël_ of the Paris production. Cordier (_Dinorah_), Amodio (_Hoël_), Brignoli (_Corentino_) were heard in the first American production, Academy of Music, New York, November 24, 1864. As _Dinorah_ there also have been heard here Ilma di Murska (Booth's Theatre, 1867), Marimon (with Campanini as _Corentino_), December 12, 1879; Adelina Patti (1882); Tetrazzini (Manhattan Opera House, 1907); and Galli-Curci (Lexington Theatre, January 28, 1918), with the Chicago Opera Company. _Dinorah_ is betrothed to _Hoël_. Her cottage has been destroyed in a storm. _Hoël_, in order to rebuild it, goes into a region haunted by evil spirits, in search of hidden treasure. _Dinorah_, believing herself deserted, loses her reason and, with her goat, whose tinkling bell is heard, wanders through the mountains in search of _Hoël_. The opera is in three acts. It is preceded by an overture during which there is sung by the villagers behind the curtain the hymn to Our Lady of the Pardon. The scene of the first act is a rough mountain passage near _Corentino's_ hut. _Dinorah_ finds her goat asleep and sings to it a graceful lullaby, "Dors, petite, dors tranquille" (Little one, sleep; calmly rest). _Corentino_, in his cottage, sings of the fear that comes over him in this lonely region. To dispel it, he plays on his cornemuse. _Dinorah_ enters the hut, and makes him dance with her, while she sings. When someone is heard approaching, she jumps out of the window. It is _Hoël_. Both he and _Corentino_ think she is a sprite. _Hoël_ sings of the gold he expects to find, and offers _Corentino_ a share in the treasure if he will aid him lift it. According to the legend, however, the first one to touch the treasure must die, and _Hoël's_ seeming generosity is a ruse to make _Corentino_ the victim of the discovery. The tinkle of the goat's bell is heard. _Hoël_ advises that they follow the sound as it may lead to the treasure. The act closes with a trio, "Ce tintement que l'on entend" (The tinkling tones that greet the ear). _Dinorah_ stands among the high rocks, while _Hoël_ and _Corentino_, the latter reluctantly, make ready to follow the tinkle of the bell. A wood of birches by moonlight is the opening scene of the second act. It is here _Dinorah_ sings of "Le vieux sorcier de la montagne" (The ancient wizard of the mountain), following it with the "Shadow Song," "Ombre légère qui suis mes pas" (Fleet shadow that pursues my steps)--"Ombra leggiera" in the more familiar Italian version. [Music] This is a passage so graceful and, when sung and acted by an Adelina Patti, was so appealing, that I am frank to confess it suggested to me the chapter entitled "Shadows of the Stage," in my novel of opera behind the scenes, _All-of-a-Sudden Carmen_. The scene changes to a wild landscape. A ravine bridged by an uprooted tree. A pond, with a sluiceway which, when opened, gives on the ravine. The moon has set. A storm is rising. _Hoël_ and _Corentino_ enter; later _Dinorah_. Through the night, that is growing wilder, she sings the legend of the treasure, "Sombre destinée, âme condamnée" (O'ershadowing fate, soul lost for aye). Her words recall the tragic story of the treasure to _Corentino_, who now sees through _Hoël's_ ruse, and seeks to persuade the girl to go after the treasure. She sings gaily, in strange contrast to the gathering storm. Lightning flashes show her her goat crossing the ravine by the fallen tree. She runs after her pet. As she is crossing the tree, a thunderbolt crashes. The sluice bursts, the tree is carried away by the flood, which seizes _Dinorah_ in its swirl. _Hoël_ plunges into the wild waters to save her. Not enough of the actual story remains to make a third act. But as there has to be one, the opening of the act is filled in with a song for a _Hunter_ (_bass_), another for a _Reaper_ (_tenor_), and a duet for _Goat-herds_ (_soprano and contralto_). _Hoël_ enters bearing _Dinorah_, who is in a swoon. _Hoël_ here has his principal air, "Ah! mon remords te venge" (Ah, my remorse avenges you). _Dinorah_ comes to. Her reason is restored when she finds herself in her lover's arms. The villagers chant the "Hymn of the Pardon." A procession forms for the wedding, which is to make happy _Dinorah_ and _Hoël_, every one, in fact, including the goat. Except for the scene of the "Shadow Dance," the libretto is incredibly inane--far more so than the demented heroine. But Meyerbeer evidently wanted to write a pastoral opera. He did so; with the result that now, instead of pastoral, it sounds pasteurized. Hector Berlioz (1803-1869) This composer, born Côte-Saint-André, near Grenoble, December 11, 1803; died Paris, March 9, 1869, has had comparatively little influence upon opera considered simply as such. But, as a musician whose skill in instrumentation, and knowledge of the individual tone quality of every instrument in the orchestra amounted to positive genius, his influence on music in general was great. In his symphonies--"Episode de la Vie d'un Artiste" (characterized by him as a _symphonie phantastique_), its sequel, "Lelio, ou la Retour à la Vie," "Harold en Italie," in which Harold is impersonated by the viola, and the _symphonie dramatique_, "Roméo et Juliette," he proved the feasibility of producing, by means of orchestral music, the effect of narrative, personal characterization and the visualization of dramatic action, as well as of scenery and material objects. He thus became the founder of "program music." Of Berlioz's operas not one is known on the stage of English-speaking countries. For "La Damnation de Faust," in its original form, is not an opera but a dramatic cantata. First performed in 1846, it was not made over into an opera until 1893, twenty-four years after the composer's death. BENVENUTO CELLINI Opera in three acts, by Berlioz. Words by du Wailly and Barbier. Produced, and failed completely, Grand Opéra, Paris, September 3, 1838, and London a fortnight later. Revived London, Covent Garden, 1853, under Berlioz's own direction; by Liszt, at Weimar, 1855; by von Bülow, Hanover, 1879. CHARACTERS CARDINAL SALVIATI _Bass_ BALDUCCI, Papal Treasurer _Bass_ TERESA, his daughter _Soprano_ BENVENUTO CELLINI, a goldsmith _Tenor_ ASCANIO, his apprentice _Mezzo-Soprano_ FRANCESCO } Artisans in { _Tenor_ BERNARDINO } Cellini's workshop { _Bass_ FIERAMOSCA, sculptor to the Pope _Baritone_ POMPEO, a bravo _Baritone_ _Time_--1532. _Place_--Rome. Act I. The carnival of 1532. We are in the house of the Papal treasurer, _Balducci_, who has scolded his daughter _Teresa_ for having looked out of the window. The old man is quite vexed, because the Pope has summoned the goldsmith _Cellini_ to Rome. _Balducci's_ daughter _Teresa_, however, thinks quite otherwise and is happy. For she has found a note from _Cellini_ in a bouquet that was thrown in to her from the street by a mask--_Cellini_, of course. A few moments later he appears at her side and proposes a plan of elopement. In the morning, during the carnival mask, he will wear a white monk's hood. His apprentice _Ascanio_ will wear a brown one. They will join her and they will flee together. But a listener has sneaked in--_Fieramosca_, the Pope's sculptor, and no less _Cellini's_ rival in love than in art. He overhears the plot. Unexpectedly, too, _Teresa's_ father, _Balducci_, comes back. His daughter still up? In her anxiety to find an excuse, she says she heard a man sneak in. During the search _Cellini_ disappears, and _Fieramosca_ is apprehended. Before he can explain his presence, women neighbours, who have hurried in, drag him off to the public bath house and treat him to a ducking. Act II. In the courtyard of a tavern _Cellini_ is seated, with his assistants. He is happy in his love, for he places it even higher than fame, which alone heretofore he has courted. He must pledge his love in wine. Unfortunately the host will no longer give him credit. Just then _Ascanio_ brings some money from the Papal treasurer, but in return _Cellini_ must promise to complete his "Perseus" by morning. He promises, although the avaricious _Balducci_ has profited by his necessity and has sent too little money. _Ascanio_ is informed by _Cellini_ of the disguises they are to wear at the carnival, and of his plan that _Teresa_ shall flee with him. Again _Fieramosca_ has been spying, and overhears the plot. Accordingly he hires the bravo _Pompeo_ to assist him in carrying off _Teresa_. A change of scene shows the crowd of maskers on the Piazza di Colonna. _Balducci_ comes along with _Teresa_. Both from the right and left through the crowd come two monks in the disguise she and her lover agreed upon. Which is the right couple? Soon, however, the two couples fall upon each other. A scream, and one of the brown-hooded monks (_Pompeo_) falls mortally wounded to the ground. A white-hooded monk (_Cellini_) has stabbed him. The crowd hurls itself upon _Cellini_. But at that moment the boom of a cannon gives notice that the carnival celebration is over. It is Ash Wednesday. In the first shock of surprise _Cellini_ escapes, and in his place the other white-hooded monk, _Fieramosca_, is seized. Act III. Before _Cellini's_ house, in the background of which, through a curtain, is seen the bronze foundry, the anxious _Teresa_ is assured by _Ascanio_ that her lover is safe. Soon he comes along himself, with a band of monks, to whom he describes his escape. Then _Balducci_ and _Fieramosca_ rush in. _Balducci_ wants to force his daughter to become _Fieramosca's_ bride. The scene is interrupted by the arrival of _Cardinal Salviati_ to see the completed "Perseus." Poor _Cellini_! Accused of murder and the attempted kidnapping of a girl, the "Perseus" unfinished, the money received for it spent! Heavy punishment awaits him, and another shall receive the commission to finish the "Perseus." The artist flies into a passion. Another finish his masterpiece! Never! The casting shall be done on the spot! Not metal enough? He seizes his completed works and throws them into the molten mass. The casting begins. The master shatters the mould. The "Perseus," a noble work of art, appears before the eyes of the astonished onlookers--a potent plea for the inspired master. Once more have Art and her faithful servant triumphed over all rivals. The statue of Perseus, by Benvenuto Cellini, one of the most famous creations of mediæval Italy, is one of the art treasures of Florence. BEATRICE AND BENEDICT Opera in two acts, by Berlioz. Words by the composer, after Shakespeare's comedy, "Much Ado about Nothing." Produced at Baden Baden, 1862. CHARACTERS DON PEDRO, a general _Bass_ LEONATO, governor of Messina _Bass_ HERO, his daughter _Soprano_ BEATRICE, his niece _Soprano_ CLAUDIO, an officer _Baritone_ BENEDICT, an officer _Tenor_ URSULA, Hero's companion _Contralto_ SOMARONE, orchestral conductor _Bass_ The story is an adaptation of the short version of Shakespeare's play, which preserves the spirit of the comedy, but omits the saturnine intrigue of _Don John_ against _Claudio_ and _Hero_. The gist of the comedy is the gradual reaction of the brilliant but captious _Beatrice_ from pique and partially feigned indifference toward the witty and gallant _Benedict_, to love. Both have tempers. In fact they reach an agreement to marry as a result of a spirited quarrel. LES TROYENS THE TROJANS PART I. "LA PRISE DE TROIE" THE CAPTURE OF TROY Opera in three acts, by Berlioz. Words by the composer, based upon a scenario furnished by Liszt's friend, the Princess Caroline Sayn-Wittgenstein. Produced, November 6, 1890, in Karlsruhe, under the direction of Felix Mottl. CHARACTERS PRIAM _Bass_ HECUBA _Contralto_ CASSANDRA _Mezzo-Soprano_ POLYXENA _Soprano_ HECTOR'S ghost _Bass_ ANDROMACHE } _Mutes_ ASTYONAX } ÆNEAS _Tenor_ ASCANIUS _Soprano_ PANTHEUS _Bass_ CHOROEBUS _Baritone_ _Time_--1183 B.C. _Place_--The Trojan Plain. Act I. The Greek camp before Troy. It has been deserted by the Greeks. The people of Troy, rejoicing at what they believe to be the raising of the siege, are bustling about the camp. Many of them, however, are standing amazed about a gigantic wooden horse. There is only one person who does not rejoice, _Cassandra_, _Priam's_ daughter, whose clairvoyant spirit foresees misfortune. But no one believes her dire prophecies, not even her betrothed, _Choroebus_, whom she implores in vain to flee. Act II. In a grove near the walls of the city the Trojan people, with their princes at their head, are celebrating the return of peace. _Andromache_, however, sees no happiness for herself, since _Hector_ has fallen. Suddenly _Æneas_ hurries in with the news that the priest _Laocoon_, who had persisted in seeing in the wooden horse only a stratagem of the Greeks, has been strangled by a serpent. Athena must be propitiated; the horse must be taken into the city, to the sacred Palladium, and there set up for veneration. Of no avail is _Cassandra's_ wailing, when the goddess has so plainly indicated her displeasure. Act III. _Æneas_ is sleeping in his tent. A distant sound of strife awakens him. _Hector's Ghost_ appears to him. Troy is lost; far away, to Italy, must _Æneas_ go, there to found a new kingdom. The _Ghost_ disappears. The priest, _Pantheus_, rushes in, bleeding from wounds. He announces that Greeks have come out of the belly of the horse and have opened the gates of the city to the Greek army. Troy is in flames. _Æneas_ goes forth to place himself at the head of his men. The scene changes to the vestal sanctuary in _Priam's_ palace. To the women gathered in prayer _Cassandra_ announces that _Æneas_ has succeeded in saving the treasure and covering a retreat to Mount Ida. But her _Choroebus_ has fallen and she desires to live no longer. Shall she become the slave of a Greek? She paints the fate of the captive woman in such lurid colours that they decide to go to death with her. Just as the Greeks rush in, the women stab themselves, and grief overcomes even the hardened warriors. PART II. "LES TROYENS À CARTHAGE" THE TROJANS IN CARTHAGE Opera in five acts. Music by Berlioz. Words by the composer. Produced, Paris, November 4, 1863, when it failed completely. Revived, 1890, in Karlsruhe, under the direction of Felix Mottl. Mottl's performances in Karlsruhe, in 1890, of "La Prise de Troie" and "Les Troyens à Carthage" constituted the first complete production of "Les Troyens." CHARACTERS DIDO _Soprano_ ANNA _Contralto_ ÆNEAS _Tenor_ ASCANIUS _Soprano_ PANTHEUS _Bass_ NARBAL _Bass_ JOPAS _Tenor_ HYLAS _Tenor_ _Time_--1183 B.C. _Place_--Carthage. Act I. In the summer-house of her palace _Dido_ tells her retainers that the savage Numidian King, Jarbas, has asked for her hand, but she has decided to live only for the memory of her dead husband. Today, however, shall be devoted to festive games. The lyric poet _Jopas_ enters and announces the approach of strangers, who have escaped from the dangers of the sea. They arrive and _Ascanius_, son of _Æneas_, begs entertainment for a few days for himself and his companions. This _Dido_ gladly grants them. Her Minister, _Narbal_, rushes in. The Numidian king has invaded the country. Who will march against him? _Æneas_, who had concealed himself in disguise among his sailors, steps forth and offers to defend the country against the enemy. Act II. A splendid festival is in progress in Dido's garden in honour of the victor, _Æneas_. _Dido_ loves _Æneas_, who tells her of Andromache, and how, in spite of her grief over _Hector_, she has laid aside her mourning and given her hand to another. Why should _Dido_ not do likewise? Night closes in, and under its cover both pledge their love and faith. Has _Æneas_ forgotten his task? To remind him, Mercury appears and strikes resoundingly on the weapons that have been laid aside, while invisible voices call out to _Æneas_: "Italie!" Act III. Public festivities follow the betrothal of _Dido_ and _Æneas_. But _Dido's_ faithful Minister knows that, although _Æneas_ is a kingly lover, it is the will of the gods that the Trojan proceed to Italy; and that to defy the gods is fatal. Meanwhile the destiny of the lovers is fulfilled. During a hunt they seek shelter from a thunderstorm in a cave. There they seal their love compact. (This scene is in pantomime.) Act IV. The Trojans are incensed that _Æneas_ places love ahead of duty. They have determined to seek the land of their destiny without him. Finally _Æneas_ awakes from his infatuation and, when the voices of his illustrious dead remind him of his duty, he resolves, in spite of _Dido's_ supplications, to depart at once. Act V. Early morning brings to _Dido_ in her palace the knowledge that she has lost _Æneas_ forever. She decides not to survive her loss. On the sea beach she orders a huge pyre erected. All the love tokens of the faithless one are fed to the flames. She herself ascends the pyre. Her vision takes in the great future of Carthage and the greater one of Rome. Then she throws herself on her lover's sword. LA DAMNATION DE FAUST THE DAMNATION OF FAUST In its original form a "dramatic legend" in four parts for the concert stage. Music by Hector Berlioz. Words, after Gerald de Nerval's version of Goethe's play, by Berlioz, Gérard, and Gandonnière. Produced in its original form as a concert piece at the Opéra Comique, Paris, December 6, 1846; London, two parts of the work, under Berlioz's direction, Drury Lane, February 7, 1848; first complete performance in England, Free Trade Hall, Manchester, February 5, 1880. New York, February 12, 1880, by Dr. Leopold Damrosch. Adapted for the operatic stage by Raoul Gunsberg, and produced by him at Monte Carlo, February 18, 1893, with Jean de Reszke as _Faust_; revived there March, 1902, with Melba, Jean de Reszke, and Maurice Renaud. Given in Paris with Calvé, Alvarez, and Renaud, to celebrate the centennial of Berlioz's birth, December 11, 1903. New York, Metropolitan Opera House, December 7, 1906; Manhattan Opera House, November 6, 1907, with Dalmorès as _Faust_ and Renaud as _Méphistophélès_. CHARACTERS MARGUERITE _Soprano_ FAUST _Tenor_ MÉPHISTOPHÉLÈS _Bass_ BRANDER _Bass_ Students, soldiers, citizens, men and women, fairies, etc. _Time_--Eighteenth Century. _Place_--A town in Germany. In the first part of Berlioz's dramatic legend _Faust_ is supposed to be on the Plains of Hungary. Introspectively he sings of nature and solitude. There are a chorus and dance of peasants and a recitative. Soldiers march past to the stirring measures of the "Rákóczy March," the national air of Hungary. This march Berlioz orchestrated in Vienna, during his tour of 1845, and conducted it at a concert in Pesth, when it created the greatest enthusiasm. It was in order to justify the interpolation of this march that he laid the first scene of his dramatic legend on the plains of Hungary. Liszt claimed that his pianoforte transcription of the march had freely been made use of by Berlioz, "especially in the harmony." In the operatic version Gunsbourg shows _Faust_ in a mediæval chamber, with a view, through a window, of the sally-port of a castle, out of which the soldiers march. At one point in the march, which Berlioz has treated contrapuntally, and where it would be difficult for marchers to keep step, the soldiers halt and have their standards solemnly blessed. The next part of the dramatic legend only required a stage setting to make it operatic. _Faust_ is in his study. He is about to quaff poison, when the walls part and disclose a church interior. The congregation, kneeling, sings the Easter canticle, "Christ is Risen." Change of scene to Auerbach's cellar, Leipsic. Revel of students and soldiers. _Brander_ sings the "Song of the Rat," whose death is mockingly grieved over by a "Requiescat in pace" and a fugue on the word "Amen," sung by the roistering crowd. _Méphistophélès_ then "obliges" with the song of the flea, in which the skipping about of the elusive insect is depicted in the accompaniment. In the next scene in the dramatic legend, _Faust_ is supposed to be asleep on the banks of the Elbe. Here is the most exquisite effect of the score, the "Dance of the Sylphs," a masterpiece of delicate and airy illustration. Violoncellos, _con sordini_, hold a single note as a pedal point, over which is woven a gossamer fabric of melody and harmony, ending with the faintest possible pianissimo from drum and harps. Gunsbourg employed here, with admirable results, the aërial ballet, and has given a rich and beautiful setting to the scene, including a vision of _Marguerite_. The ballet is followed by a chorus of soldiers and a students' song in Latin. The scenic directions of Gounod's "Faust" call _Marguerite's_ house--so much of it as is projected into the garden scene--a pavilion. Gunsbourg makes it more like an arbour, into which the audience can see through the elimination of a supposedly existing wall, the same as in _Sparafucile's_ house, in the last act of "Rigoletto." Soldiers and students are strolling and singing in the street. _Marguerite_ sings the ballad of the King of Thule. Berlioz's setting of the song is primitive. He aptly characterizes the number as a "Chanson Gothique." The "Invocation" of _Méphistophélès_ is followed by the "Dance of Will-o'-the-Wisps." Then comes _Méphistophélès's_ barocque serenade. _Faust_ enters _Marguerite's_ pavilion. There is a love duet, which becomes a trio when _Méphistophélès_ joins the lovers and urges _Faust's_ departure. _Marguerite_ is alone. Berlioz, instead of using Goethe's song, "Meine Ruh ist hin" (My peace is gone), the setting of which by Schubert is famous, substitutes a poem of his own. The unhappy _Marguerite_ sings, "D'Amour, l'ardente flamme" (Love, devouring fire). The singing of the students and the soldiers grows fainter. The "retreat"--the call to which the flag is lowered at sunset--is sounded by the drums and trumpets. _Marguerite_, overcome by remorse, swoons at the window. A mountain gorge. _Faust's_ soliloquy, "Nature, immense, impénétrable et fière" (Nature, vast, unfathomable and proud). The "Ride to Hell"; moving panorama; pandemonium; redemption of _Marguerite_, whom angels are seen welcoming in the softly illumined heavens far above the town, in which the action is supposed to have transpired. The production by Dr. Leopold Damrosch of "La Damnation de Faust" in its original concert form in New York, was one of the sensational events of the concert history of America. As an opera, however, the work has failed so far to make the impression that might have been expected from its effect on concert audiences; "... the experiment, though tried in various theatres," says Grove's _Dictionary of Music and Musicians_, "has happily not been permanently successful." Why "happily"? It would be an advantage to operatic art if a work by so distinguished a composer as Berlioz could find a permanent place in the repertoire. Gounod's "Faust," Boïto's "Mefistofele," and Berlioz's "La Damnation de Faust" are the only settings of the Faust legend, or, more properly speaking, of Goethe's "Faust," with which a book on opera need concern itself. Gounod's "Faust," with its melodious score, and full of a sentiment that more than occasionally verges on sentimentality, has genuine popular appeal, and is likely long to maintain itself in the repertoire. "Mefistofele," nevertheless, is the profounder work. Boïto, in his setting, sounds Goethe's drama to greater depths than Gounod. It always will be preferred by those who do not have to be written down to. "La Damnation de Faust," notwithstanding its brilliant and still modern orchestration, is the most truly mediæval of the three scores. Berlioz himself characterizes the ballad of the King of Thule as "Gothic." The same spirit of the Middle Ages runs through much of the work. In several important details the operatic adaptation has been clumsily made. Were it improved in these details, this "Faust" of Berlioz would have a chance of more than one revival. F. von Flotow MARTHA Opera in four acts, by Friedrich von Flotow; words by Wilhelm Friedrich Riese, the plot based on a French ballet pantomime by Jules H. Vernoy and Marquis St. Georges (see p. 559). Produced at the Imperial Opera House, Vienna, November 25, 1847. Covent Garden, London, July 1, 1858, in Italian; in English at Drury Lane, October 11, 1858. Paris, Théâtre Lyrique, December 16, 1865, when was interpolated the famous air "M'apparì," from Flotow's two-act opera, "L'Âme en Peine," produced at the Grand Opéra, Paris, June, 1846. New York, Niblo's Garden, November 1, 1852, with Mme. Anna Bishop; in French, at New Orleans, January 27, 1860. An opera of world-wide popularity, in which, in this country, the title rôle has been sung by Nilsson, Patti, Gerster, Kellogg, Parepa-Rosa, and Sembrich, and _Lionel_ by Campanini and Caruso. CHARACTERS LADY HARRIET DURHAM, Maid of Honor to Queen Anne _Soprano_ LORD TRISTAN DE MIKLEFORD, her cousin _Bass_ PLUNKETT, a young farmer _Bass_ LIONEL, his foster-brother. Afterwards Earl of Derby _Tenor_ NANCY, waiting-maid to Lady Harriet _Contralto_ SHERIFF _Bass_ THREE MAN SERVANTS _Tenor_ and two _Basses_ THREE MAID SERVANTS _Soprano_ and two _Mezzo-Sopranos_ Courtiers, pages, ladies, hunters and huntresses, farmers, servants, etc. _Time_--About 1710. _Place_--In and near Richmond. The first act opens in _Lady Harriet's_ boudoir. The second scene of this act is the fair at Richmond. The scene of the second act is laid in _Plunkett's_ farmhouse; that of the third in a forest near Richmond. The fourth act opens in the farmhouse and changes to _Lady Harriet's_ park. Act I. Scene 1. The _Lady Harriet_ yawned. It was dull even at the court of Queen Anne. "Your Ladyship," said _Nancy_, her sprightly maid, "here are flowers from _Sir Tristan_." "Their odour sickens me," was her ladyship's weary comment. "And these diamonds!" urged _Nancy_, holding up a necklace for her mistress to view. "They hurt my eyes," said her ladyship petulantly. The simple fact is the _Lady Harriet_, like many others whose pleasures come so easily that they lack zest, was bored. Even the resourceful _Nancy_, a prize among maids, was at last driven to exclaim: "If your ladyship only would fall in love!" But herein, too, _Lady Harriet_ had the surfeit that creates indifference. She had bewitched every man at court only to remain unmoved by their protestations of passion. Even as _Nancy_ spoke, a footman announced the most persistent of her ladyship's suitors, _Sir Tristan of Mikleford_, an elderly cousin who presumed upon his relationship to ignore the rebuffs with which she met his suit. _Sir Tristan_ was a creature of court etiquette. His walk, his gesture, almost his speech itself were reduced to rule and method. The stiffness that came with age made his exaggerated manner the more ridiculous. In fact he was the incarnation of everything that the _Lady Harriet_ was beginning to find intolerably tedious. "Most respected cousin, Lady in Waiting to Her Most Gracious Majesty," he began sententiously, and would have added all her titles had she not cut him short with an impatient gesture, "will your ladyship seek diversion by viewing the donkey races with me today?" "I wonder," _Nancy_ whispered so that none but her mistress could hear, "if he is going to run in the races himself?" which evoked from the _Lady Harriet_ the first smile that had played around her lips that day. Seeing this and attributing it to her pleasure at his invitation _Sir Tristan_ sighed like a wheezy bellows and cast sentimental glances at her with his watery eyes. To stop this ridiculous exhibition of vanity her ladyship straightway sent him trotting about the room on various petty pretexts. "Fetch my fan, Sir!--Now my smelling salts--I feel a draught. Would you close the window, cousin? Ah, I stifle for want of air! Open it again!" To these commands _Sir Tristan_ responded with as much alacrity as his stiff joints would permit, until _Nancy_ again whispered to her mistress, "See! He is running for the prize!" Likely enough _Sir Tristan's_ fair cousin soon would have sent him on some errand that would have taken him out of her presence. But when he opened the window again, in came the strains of a merry chorus sung by fresh, happy voices of young women who, evidently, were walking along the highway. The _Lady Harriet's_ curiosity was piqued. Who were these women over whose lives ennui never seemed to have hung like a pall? _Nancy_ knew all about them. They were servants on the way to the Richmond fair to hire themselves out to the farmers, according to time-honoured custom. [Illustration: Photo by White Ober and De Luca; Caruso and Hempel in "Martha"] The Richmond fair! To her ladyship's jaded senses it conveyed a suggestion of something new and frolicsome. "Nancy," she cried, carried away with the novelty of the idea, "let us go to the fair dressed as peasant girls and mingle with the crowd! Who knows, someone might want to hire us! I will call myself Martha, you can be Julia, and you, cousin, can drop your title for the nonce and go along with us as plain Bob!" And when _Sir Tristan_, shocked at the thought that a titled lady should be willing so to lower herself, to say nothing of the part he himself was asked to play, protested, she appealed to him with a feigned tenderness that soon won his consent to join them in their lark. Then to give him a foretaste of what was expected of him, they took him, each by an arm, and danced him about the room, shouting with mock admiration as he half slid, half stumbled, "Bravo! What grace! What agility!" The _Lady Harriet_ actually was enjoying herself. Scene 2. Meanwhile the Richmond fair was at its height. From a large parchment the pompous _Sheriff_ had read the law by which all contracts for service made at the fair were binding for at least one year as soon as money had passed. Among those who had come to bid were a sturdy young farmer, _Plunkett_, and his foster-brother _Lionel_. The latter evidently was of a gentler birth, but his parentage was shrouded in mystery. As a child he had been left with _Plunkett's_ mother by a fugitive, an aged man who, dying from exposure and exhaustion, had confided the boy to her care, first, however, handing her a ring with the injunction that if misfortune ever threatened the boy, to show the ring to the queen. One after another the girls proclaimed their deftness at cooking, sewing, gardening, poultry tending, and other domestic and rural accomplishments, the _Sheriff_ crying out, "Four guineas! Who'll have her?--Five guineas! Who'll try her?" Many of them cast eyes at the two handsome young farmers, hoping to be engaged by them. But they seemed more critical than the rest. Just then they heard a young woman's voice behind them call out, "No, I won't go with you!" and, turning, they saw two sprightly young women arguing with a testy looking old man who seemed to have a ridiculous idea of his own importance. _Lionel_ and _Plunkett_ nudged each other. Never had they seen such attractive looking girls. And when they heard one of them call out again to the old man, "No, we won't go with you!"--for _Sir Tristan_ was urging the _Lady Harriet_ and _Nancy_ to leave the fair--the young men hurried over to the group. "Can't you hear her say she won't go with you?" asked _Lionel_, while _Plunkett_ called out to the girls near the _Sheriff's_ stand, "Here, girls, is a bidder with lots of money!" A moment later the absurd old man was the centre of a rioting, shouting crowd of girls, who followed him when he tried to retreat, so that finally "Martha" and "Julia" were left quite alone with the two men. The young women were in high spirits. They had sallied forth in quest of adventure and here it was. _Lionel_ and _Plunkett_, on the other hand, suddenly had become very shy. There was in the demeanour of these girls something quite different from what they had been accustomed to in other serving maids. Somehow they had an "air," and it made the young men bashful. _Plunkett_ tried to push _Lionel_ forward, but the latter hung back. "Watch me then," said _Plunkett_. He advanced as if to speak to the young women, but came to a halt and stood there covered with confusion. It chanced that _Lady Harriet_ and _Nancy_ had been watching these men with quite as much interest as they had been watched by them. _Lionel_, who bore himself with innate grace and refinement under his peasant garb, had immediately attracted "Martha," while the sturdier _Plunkett_ had caught "Julia's" eye, and they were glad when, after a few slyly reassuring glances from them, _Plunkett_ overcame his hesitancy and spoke up: "You're our choice, girls! We'll pay fifty crowns a year for wages, with half a pint of ale on Sundays and plum pudding on New Year's thrown in for extras." "Done!" cried the girls, who thought it all a great lark, and a moment later the _Lady Harriet_ had placed her hand in _Lionel's_ and _Nancy_ hers in _Plunkett's_ and money had passed to bind the bargain. And now, thinking the adventure had gone far enough and that it was time for them to be returning to court, they cast about them for _Sir Tristan_. He, seeing them talking on apparently intimate terms with two farmers, was scandalized and, having succeeded in standing off the crowd by scattering money about him, he called out brusquely, "Come away!" "Come away?" repeated _Plunkett_ after him. "_Come away?_ Didn't these girls let you know plainly enough a short time ago that they wouldn't hire out to you?" "But I rather think," interposed "Martha," who was becoming slightly alarmed, "that it is time for 'Julia' and myself to go." "What's that!" exclaimed _Plunkett_. "_Go?_ No, indeed," he added with emphasis. "You may repent of your bargain, though I don't see why. But it is binding for a year." "If only you knew who," began _Sir Tristan_, and he was about to tell who the young women were. But "Martha" quickly whispered to him not to disclose their identity, as the escapade, if it became known, would make them the sport of the court. Moreover _Plunkett_ and _Lionel_ were growing impatient at the delay and, when the crowd again gathered about _Sir Tristan_, they hurried off the girls,--who did not seem to protest as much as might have been expected,--lifted them into a farm wagon, and drove off, while the crowd blocked the blustering knight and jeered as he vainly tried to break away in pursuit. Act II. The adventure of the _Lady Harriet_ and her maid _Nancy_, so lightly entered upon, was carrying them further than they had expected. To find themselves set down in a humble farmhouse, as they did soon after they left the fair, and to be told to go into the kitchen and prepare supper, was more than they had bargained for. "Kitchen work!" exclaimed the _Lady Harriet_ contemptuously. "Kitchen work!" echoed _Nancy_ in the same tone of voice. _Plunkett_ was for having his orders carried out. But _Lionel_ interceded. A certain innate gallantry that already had appealed to her ladyship, made him feel that although these young women were servants, they were, somehow, to be treated differently. He suggested as a substitute for the kitchen that they be allowed to try their hands at the spinning wheels. But they were so awkward at these that the men sat down to show them how to spin, until _Nancy_ brought the lesson to an abrupt close by saucily overturning _Plunkett's_ wheel and dashing away with the young farmer in pursuit, leaving _Lionel_ and "Martha" alone. It was an awkward moment for her ladyship, since she could hardly fail to be aware that _Lionel_ was regarding her with undisguised admiration. To relieve the situation she began to hum and, finally, to sing, choosing her favorite air, "The Last Rose of Summer." But it had the very opposite effect of what she had planned. For she sang the charming melody so sweetly and with such tender expression that Lionel, completely carried away, exclaimed: "Ah, Martha, if you were to marry me, you no longer would be a servant, for I would raise you to my own station!" As _Lionel_ stood there she could not help noting that he was handsome and graceful. Yet that a farmer should suggest to her, the spoiled darling of the court, that he would raise her to _his_ station, struck her as so ridiculous that she burst out laughing. Just then, fortunately, _Plunkett_ dragged in _Nancy_, whom he had pursued into the kitchen, where she had upset things generally before he had been able to seize her; and a distant tower clock striking midnight, the young farmers allowed their servants, whose accomplishments as such, if they had any, so far remained undiscovered, to retire to their room, while they sought theirs, but not before _Lionel_ had whispered: "Perchance by the morrow, Martha, you will think differently of what I have said and not treat it so lightly." Act III. But when morning came the birds had flown the cage. There was neither a Martha nor a Julia in the little farmhouse, while at the court of Queen Anne a certain _Lady Harriet_ and her maid _Nancy_ were congratulating themselves that, after all, an old fop named _Sir Tristan of Mikleford_ had had sense enough to be in waiting with a carriage near the farmhouse at midnight and helped them escape through the window. It even is not unlikely that within a week the _Lady Harriet_, who was so anxious not to have her escapade become known, might have been relating it at court as a merry adventure and that _Nancy_ might have been doing the same in the servants' hall. But unbeknown to the others, there had been a fifth person in the little farmhouse, none other than Dan Cupid, who had hidden himself, perhaps behind the clock, and from this vantage place of concealment had discharged arrows, not at random, but straight at the hearts of two young women and two young men. And they had not recovered from their wounds. The _Lady Harriet_ no longer was bored; she was sad; and even _Nancy_ had lost her sprightliness. The two men, one of them so courteous despite his peasant garb, the other sturdy and commanding, with whom their adventure had begun at the Richmond fair and ended after midnight at the farmhouse, had brought some zest into their lives; they were so different from the smooth, insincere courtiers by whom the _Lady Harriet_ had been surrounded and from the men servants who aped their masters and with whom _Nancy_ had been thrown when she was not with her ladyship. The simple fact is that the _Lady Harriet_ and _Nancy_, without being certain of it themselves, were in love, her ladyship with _Lionel_ and _Nancy_ with _Plunkett_. Of course, there was the difference in station between _Lady Harriet_ and _Lionel_. But he had the touch of innate breeding that made her at times forget that he was a peasant while she was a lady of title. As for _Nancy_ and _Plunkett_, that lively young woman felt that she needed just such a strong hand as his to keep her out of mischief. And so it happened that the diversions of the court again palled upon them and that, when a great hunt was organized in which the court ladies were asked to join, the _Lady Harriet_, although she looked most dapper in her hunting costume, found the sport without zest and soon wandered off into the forest solitudes. Here, too, it chanced that _Lionel_, in much the same state of mind and heart as her ladyship, was wandering, when, suddenly looking up, he saw a young huntress in whom, in spite of her different costume, he recognized the "Martha" over whose disappearance he had been grieving. But she was torn by conflicting feelings. However her heart might go out toward _Lionel_, her pride of birth still rebelled against permitting a peasant to address words of love to her. "You are mistaken. I do not know you!" she exclaimed. And when he first appealed to her in passionate accents and then in anger began to upbraid her for denying her identity to him who was by law her master, she cried out for help, bringing not only _Sir Tristan_ but the entire hunting train to her side. Noting the deference with which she was treated and hearing her called "My Lady," _Lionel_ now perceived the trick that had been played upon himself and _Plunkett_ at the fair. Infuriated at the heartless deceit of which he was a victim, he protested: "But if she accepted earnest money from me, if she bound herself to serve me for a year----" He was interrupted by a shout of laughter from the bystanders, and the _Lady Harriet_, quickly profiting by the incredulity with which his words were received, exclaimed: "I never have laid eyes on him before. He is a madman and should be apprehended!" Immediately _Lionel_ was surrounded and might have been roughly handled, had not my lady herself, moved partly by pity, partly by a deeper feeling that kept asserting itself in spite of all, begged that he be kindly treated. Act IV. Before very long, however, there was a material change in the situation. In his extremity, _Lionel_ remembered about his ring and he asked _Plunkett_ to show it to the queen and plead his cause. The ring proved to have been the property of the Earl of Derby. It was that nobleman who, after the failure of a plot to recall James II. from France and restore him to the throne, had died a fugitive and confided his son to the care of _Plunkett's_ mother, and that son was none other than _Lionel_, now discovered to be the rightful heir to the title and estates. Naturally he was received with high favor at the court of Anne, the daughter of the king to whom the old earl had rendered such faithful service. Despite his new honours, however, _Lionel_ was miserably unhappy. He was deeply in love with the _Lady Harriet_. Yet he hardly could bring himself to speak to her, let alone appear so much as even to notice the advances which she, in her contrition, so plainly made toward him. So, while she too suffered, he went about lonely and desolate, eating out his heart with love and the feeling of injured pride that prevented him from acknowledging it. This sad state of affairs might have continued indefinitely had not _Nancy's_ nimble wit come to the rescue. She and _Plunkett_, after meeting again, had been quick in coming to an understanding, and now the first thing they did was to plan how to bring together _Lionel_ and the _Lady Harriet_, who were so plainly in love with each other. One afternoon _Plunkett_ joined _Lionel_ in his lonely walk and, unknown to him, gradually guided him into her ladyship's garden. A sudden turn in the path brought them in view of a bustling scene. There were booths as at the Richmond fair, a crowd of servants and farmers and a sheriff calling out the accomplishments of the girls. As the crowd saw the two men, there was a hush. Then above it _Lionel_ heard a sweet, familiar voice singing: 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lonely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them, Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed-- Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. The others quickly vanished. "Martha!" cried _Lionel_. "Martha! Is it really you?" She stood before him in her servant's garb, no longer, however, smiling and coquettish as at Richmond, but with eyes cast down and sad. And then as if answering to a would-be master's question of "What can you do?" she said: "I can forget all my dreams of wealth and gold. I can despise all the dross in which artifice and ignoble ambition mask themselves. I can put all these aside and remember only those accents of love and tenderness that I would have fall upon my hearing once more." She raised her eyes pleadingly to _Lionel_. All that had intervened was swept away. _Lionel_ saw only the girl he loved. And, a moment later, he held his "Martha" in his arms. * * * * * "Martha" teems with melody. The best-known airs are "The Last Rose of Summer" and _Lionel's_ "M'apparì" (Like a dream). The best ensemble piece, a quintet with chorus, occurs near the close of Act III.--"Ah! che a voi perdoni Iddio" (Ah! May Heaven to you grant pardon). The spinning-wheel quartet in Act II is most sprightly. But, as indicated, there is a steady flow of light and graceful melody in this opera. Almost at the very opening of Act I, _Lady Harriet_ and _Nancy_ have a duet, "Questo duol che si v'affana" (Of the knights so brave and charming). Bright, clever music abounds in the Richmond fair scene, and _Lionel_ and _Plunkett_ express their devotion to each other in "Solo, profugo, reietto" (Lost, proscribed, a friendless wanderer), and "Ne giammai saper potemmo" (Never have we learned his station). Then there is the gay quartet when the two girls leave the fair with their masters, while the crowd surrounds _Sir Tristan_ and prevents him from breaking through and interfering. It was in this scene that the bass singer Castelmary, the _Sir Tristan_ of a performance of "Martha" at the Metropolitan Opera House, February 10, 1897, was stricken with heart failure and dropped dead upon the stage. A capital quartet opens Act II, in the farmhouse, and leads to the spinning-wheel quartet, "Di vederlo" (What a charming occupation). There is a duet between _Lady Harriet_ and _Lionel_, in which their growing attraction for each other finds expression, "Il suo sguardo è dolce tanto" (To his eye, mine gently meeting). Then follows "Qui sola, vergin rosa" ('Tis the last rose of summer), the words a poem by Tom Moore, the music an old Irish air, "The Groves of Blarney," to which Moore adapted "The Last Rose of Summer." A new and effective touch is given to the old song by Flotow in having the tenor join with the soprano at the close. Moreover, the words and music fit so perfectly into the situation on the stage that for Flotow to have "lifted" and interpolated them into his opera was a master-stroke. To it "Martha" owes much of its popularity. [Music: 'Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone,] There is a duet for _Lady Harriet_ and _Lionel_, "Ah! ride del mio pianto" (She is laughing at my sorrow). The scene ends with another quartet, one of the most beautiful numbers of the score, and known as the "Good Night Quartet," "Dormi pur, ma il mio riposo" (Cruel one, may dreams transport thee). Act III, played in a hunting park in Richmond forest, on the left a small inn, opens with a song in praise of porter, the "Canzone del Porter" by _Plunkett_, "Chi mi dirà?" (Will you tell me). The pièces de résistance of this act are the "M'apparì"; a solo for _Nancy_, "Il tuo stral nel lanciar" [Music] (Huntress fair, hastens where); _Martha's_ song, "Qui tranquilla almen poss'io" (Here in deepest forest shadows); and the stirring quintet with chorus. [Music] In Act IV there are a solo for _Plunkett_, "Il mio Lionel perirà" (Soon my Lionel will perish), and a repetition of some of the sprightly music of the fair scene. * * * * * It is not without considerable hesitation that I have classed "Martha" as a French opera. For Flotow was born in Teutendorf, April 27, 1812, and died in Darmstadt January 24, 1883. Moreover, "Martha," was produced in Vienna, and his next best-known work, "Alessandro Stradella," in Hamburg (1844). The music of "Martha," however, has an elegance that not only is quite unlike any music that has come out of Germany, but is typically French. Flotow, in fact, was French in his musical training, and both the plot and score of "Martha" were French in origin. The composer studied composition in Paris under Reicha, 1827-30, leaving Paris solely on account of the July revolution, and returning in 1835, to remain until the revolution in March, 1848, once more drove him away. After living in Paris again, 1863-8, he settled near Vienna, making, however, frequent visits to that city, the French capital, and Italy. During his second stay in Paris he composed for the Grand Opéra the first act of a ballet, "Harriette, ou la Servante de Greenwiche." This ballet, the text by Vernoy and St. George, was for Adèle Dumilâtre. The reason Flotow was entrusted with only one of the three acts was the short time in which it was necessary to complete the score. The other acts were assigned, one each, to Robert Bergmüller and Édouard Deldevez. Of this ballet, written and composed for a French dancer and a French audience, "Martha" is an adaptation. This accounts for its being so typically French and not in the slightest degree German. Flotow's opera "Alessandro Stradella" also is French in origin. It is adapted from a one-act _pièce lyrique_, brought out by him in Paris, in 1837. Few works produced so long ago as "Martha" have its freshness, vivacity, and charm. Pre-eminently graceful, it yet carries in a large auditorium like the Metropolitan, where so many operas of the lighter variety have been lost in space. Charles François Gounod (1818-1893) The composer of "Faust" was born in Paris, June 17, 1818. His father had, in 1783, won the second prix de Rome for painting at the École des Beaux Arts. In 1837, the son won the second prix de Rome for music, and two years later captured the grand prix de Rome, by twenty-five votes out of twenty-seven, at the Paris Conservatoire. His instructors there had been Reicha in harmony, Halévy in counterpoint and fugue, and Leseur in composition. Gounod's first works, in Rome and after his return from there, were religious. At one time he even thought of becoming an abbé, and on the title-page of one of his published works he is called Abbé Charles Gounod. A performance of his "Messe Solenelle" in London evoked so much praise from both English and French critics that the Grand Opéra commissioned him to write an opera. The result was "Sapho," performed April 16, 1851, without success. It was his "Faust" which gave him European fame. "Faust" and his "Roméo et Juliette" (both of which see) suffice for the purposes of this book, none of his other operas having made a decided success. "La Rédemption," and "Mors et Vita," Birmingham, England, 1882 and 1885, are his best-known religious compositions. They are "sacred trilogies." Gounod died, Paris, October 17, 1893. In Dr. Theodore Baker's _Biographical Dictionary of Musicians_ Gounod's merits as a composer are summed up as follows: "Gounod's compositions are of highly poetic order, more spiritualistic than realistic; in his finest lyrico-dramatic moments he is akin to Weber, and his modulation even reminds of Wagner; his instrumentation and orchestration are frequently original and masterly." These words are as true today as when they were written, seventeen years ago. FAUST Opera, in five acts, by Gounod; words by Barbier and Carré. Produced, Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, March 19, 1859, with Miolan-Carvalho as _Marguerite_; Grand Opéra, Paris, March 3, 1869, with Christine Nilsson as _Marguerite_, Colin as _Faust_, and Faure as _Méphistophélès_. London, Her Majesty's Theatre, June 11, 1863; Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden, July 2, 1863, in Italian, as "Faust e Margherita"; Her Majesty's Theatre, January 23, 1864, in an English version by Chorley, for which, Santley being the _Valentine_, Gounod composed what was destined to become one of the most popular numbers of the opera, "Even bravest heart may swell" ("_Dio possente_"). New York, Academy of Music, November 26, 1863, in Italian, with Clara Louise Kellogg (_Margherita_), Henrietta Sulzer (_Siebel_), Fanny Stockton (_Martha_), Francesco Mazzoleni (_Faust_), Hannibal Biachi (_Méphistophélès_), G. Yppolito (_Valentine_), D. Coletti (_Wagner_). Metropolitan Opera House, opening night, October 22, 1883, with Nilsson, Scalchi, Lablache, Campanini, Novara, Del Puente. CHARACTERS FAUST, a learned doctor _Tenor_ MÉPHISTOPHÉLÈS, Satan _Bass_ MARGUERITE _Soprano_ VALENTINE, a soldier, brother to Marguerite _Baritone_ SIEBEL, a village youth, in love with Marguerite _Mezzo-Soprano_ WAGNER, a student _Baritone_ MARTHA SCHWERLEIN, neighbour to Marguerite _Mezzo-Soprano_ Students, soldiers, villagers, angels, demons, Cleopatra, Laïs, Helen of Troy, and others. _Time_--16th Century. _Place_--Germany. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Plançon as Méphistophélès in "Faust"] Popular in this country from the night of its American production, Gounod's "Faust" nevertheless did not fully come into its own here until during the Maurice Grau régime at the Metropolitan Opera House. Sung in French by great artists, every one of whom was familiar with the traditions of the Grand Opéra, Paris, the work was given so often that William J. Henderson cleverly suggested "Faustspielhaus" as an appropriate substitute for the name of New York's yellow brick temple of opera; a _mot_ which led Krehbiel, in a delightful vein of banter, to exclaim, "Henderson, your German jokes are better than your serious German!" Several distinguished singers have been heard in this country in the rôle of _Faust_. It is doubtful if that beautiful lyric number, _Faust's_ romance, "Salut! demeure chaste et pure" (Hail to the dwelling chaste and pure), ever has been delivered here with more exquisite vocal phrasing than by Campanini, who sang the Italian version, in which the romance becomes "Salve! dimora casta e pura." That was in the old Academy of Music days, with Christine Nilsson as _Marguerite_, which she had sung at the revival of the work by the Paris Grand Opéra. The more impassioned outbursts of the _Faust_ rôle also were sung with fervid expression by Campanini, so great an artist, in the best Italian manner, that he had no Italian successor until Caruso appeared upon the scene. Yet, in spite of the _Faust_ of these two Italian artists, Jean de Reszke remains the ideal _Faust_ of memory. With a personal appearance distinguished beyond that of any other operatic artist who has been heard here, an inborn chivalry of deportment that made him a lover after the heart of every woman, and a refinement of musical expression that clarified every rôle he undertook, his _Faust_ was the most finished portrayal of that character in opera that has been heard here. Jean de Reszke's great distinction was that everything he did was in perfect taste. Haven't you seen _Faust_ after _Faust_ keep his hat on while making love to _Marguerite_? Jean de Reszke, a gentleman, removed his before ever he breathed of romance. Muratore is an admirable _Faust_, with all the refinements of phrasing and acting that characterize the best traditions of the Grand Opéra, Paris. Great tenors do not, as a rule, arrive in quick succession. In this country we have had two distinct tenor eras and now are in a third. We had the era of Italo Campanini, from 1873 until his voice became impaired, about 1880. Not until eleven years later, 1891, did opera in America become so closely associated with another tenor, that there may be said to have begun the era of Jean de Reszke. It lasted until that artist's voluntary retirement. We are now in the era of Enrico Caruso, whose repertoire includes _Faust_ in French. Christine Nilsson, Adelina Patti, Melba, Eames, Calvé, have been among the famous _Marguerites_ heard here. Nilsson and Eames may have seemed possessed of too much natural reserve for the rôle; but Gounod's librettists made _Marguerite_ more refined than Goethe's _Gretchen_. Patti acted the part with great simplicity and sang it flawlessly. In fact her singing of the ballad "Il était un roi de Thulé" (There once was a king of Thule) was a perfect example of the artistically artless in song. It seemed to come from her lips merely because it chanced to be running through her head. Melba's type of beauty was somewhat mature for the impersonation of the character, but her voice lent itself beautifully to it. Calvé's _Marguerite_ is recalled as a logically developed character from first note to last, and as one of the most original and interesting of _Marguerites_. But Americans insisted on Calvé's doing nothing but _Carmen_. When she sang in "Faust" she appeared to them a _Carmen_ masquerading as _Marguerite_. So back to _Carmen_ she had to go. Sembrich and Farrar are other _Marguerites_ identified with the Metropolitan Opera House. Plançon unquestionably was the finest _Méphistophélès_ in the history of the opera in America up to the present time--vivid, sonorous, and satanically polished or fantastical, as the rôle demanded. Gounod's librettists, Michel Carré and Jules Barbier, with a true Gallic gift for practicable stage effect, did not seek to utilize the whole of Goethe's "Faust" for their book, but contented themselves with the love story of _Faust_ and _Marguerite_, which also happens to have been entirely original with the author of the play, since it does not occur in the legends. But because the opera does not deal with the whole of "Faust," Germany, where Gounod's work enjoys great popularity, refuses to accept it under the same title as the play, and calls it "Margarethe" after the heroine. As reconstructed for the Grand Opéra, where it was brought out ten years after its production at the Théâtre Lyrique, "Faust" develops as follows: There is a brief prelude. A _ff_ on a single note, then mysterious, chromatic chords, and then the melody which Gounod composed for Santley. Act I. _Faust's_ study. The philosopher is discovered alone, seated at a table on which an open tome lies before him. His lamp flickers in its socket. Night is about turning to dawn. _Faust_ despairs of solving the riddle of the universe. Aged, his pursuit of science vain, he seizes a flask of poison, pours it into a crystal goblet, and is about to drain it, when, day having dawned, the cheerful song of young women on their way to work arrests him. The song dies away. Again he raises the goblet, only to pause once more, as he hears a chorus of labourers, with whose voices those of the women unite. _Faust_, beside himself at these sounds of joy and youth, curses life and advancing age, and calls upon Satan to aid him. There is a flash of red light and out of it, up through the floor, rises _Méphistophélès_, garbed as a cavalier, and in vivid red. Alternately suave, satirical, and demoniacal in bearing, he offers to _Faust_ wealth and power. The philosopher, however, wants neither, unless with the gift also is granted youth. "Je veux la jeunesse" (What I long for is youth). That is easy for his tempter, if the aged philosopher, with pen dipped in his blood, will but sign away his soul. _Faust_ hesitates. At a gesture from _Méphistophélès_ the scene at the back opens and discloses _Marguerite_ seated at her spinning-wheel, her long blond braid falling down her back. "Ô Merveille!" (A miracle!) exclaims _Faust_, at once signs the parchment, and drains to the vision of _Marguerite_ a goblet proffered him by _Méphistophélès_. The scene fades away, the philosopher's garb drops off _Faust_. The grey beard and all other marks of old age vanish. He stands revealed a youthful gallant, eager for adventure, instead of the disappointed scholar weary of life. There is an impetuous duet for _Faust_ and _Méphistophélès_: "À moi les plaisirs" ('Tis pleasure I covet). They dash out of the cell-like study in which _Faust_ vainly has devoted himself to science. Act II. Outside of one of the city gates. To the left is an inn, bearing as a sign a carved image of Bacchus astride a keg. It is kermis time. There are students, among them _Wagner_, burghers old and young, soldiers, maidens, and matrons. The act opens with a chorus. "Faust" has been given so often that this chorus probably is accepted by most people as a commonplace. In point of fact it is an admirable piece of characterization. The groups of people are effectively differentiated in the score. The toothless chatter of the old men (in high falsetto) is an especially amusing detail. In the end the choral groups are deftly united. _Valentine_ and _Siebel_ join the kermis throng. The former is examining a medallion which his sister, _Marguerite_, has given him as a charm against harm in battle. He sings a cavatina. It is this number which Gounod composed for Santley. As most if not all the performances of "Faust" in America, up to the time Grau introduced the custom of giving opera in the language of the original score, were in Italian, this cavatina is familiarly known as the "Dio possente" (To thee, O Father!). In French it is "À toi, Seigneur et Roi des Cieux" (To Thee, O God, and King of Heaven). Both in the Italian and French, _Valentine_ prays to Heaven to protect his sister during his absence. In English, "Even bravest heart may swell," the number relates chiefly to _Valentine's_ ambitions as a soldier. _Wagner_ mounts a table and starts the "Song of the Rat." After a few lines he is interrupted by the sudden appearance of _Méphistophélès_, who, after a brief parley, sings "Le veau d'or" (The golden calf), a cynical dissertation on man's worship of mammon. He reads the hands of those about him. To _Siebel_ he prophesies that every flower he touches shall wither. Rejecting the wine proffered him by _Wagner_, he strikes with his sword the sign of the inn, the keg, astride of which sits Bacchus. Like a stream of wine fire flows from the keg into the goblet held under the spout by _Méphistophélès_, who raising the vessel, pledges the health of _Marguerite_. This angers _Valentine_ and leads to the "Scène des épées" (The scene of the swords). _Valentine_ unsheathes his blade. _Méphistophélès_, with his sword describes a circle about himself. _Valentine_ makes a pass at his foe. As the thrust carries his sword into the magic circle, the blade breaks. He stands in impotent rage, while _Méphistophélès_ mocks him. At last, realizing who his opponent is, _Valentine_ grasps his sword by its broken end, and extends the cruciform hilt toward the red cavalier. The other soldiers follow their leader's example. _Méphistophélès_, no longer mocking, cowers before the cross-shaped sword hilts held toward him, and slinks away. A sonorous chorus, "Puisque tu brises le fer" (Since you have broken the blade) for _Valentine_ and his followers distinguishes this scene. The crowd gathers for the kermis dance--"the waltz from Faust," familiar the world round, and undulating through the score to the end of the gay scene, which also concludes the act. While the crowd is dancing and singing, _Méphistophélès_ enters with _Faust_. _Marguerite_ approaches. She is on her way from church, prayerbook in hand. _Siebel_ seeks to join her. But every time the youth steps toward her he confronts the grinning yet sinister visage of _Méphistophélès_, who dexterously manages to get in his way. Meanwhile _Faust_ has joined her. There is a brief colloquy. He offers his arm and conduct through the crowd. She modestly declines. The episode, though short, is charmingly melodious. The phrases for _Marguerite_ can be made to express coyness, yet also show that she is not wholly displeased with the attention paid her by the handsome stranger. She goes her way. The dance continues. "Valsons toujours" (Waltz alway!). Act III. _Marguerite's_ garden. At the back a wall with a wicket door. To the left a bower. On the right _Marguerite's_ house, with a bow window facing the audience. Trees, shrubs, flower beds, etc. _Siebel_ enters by the wicket. Stopping at one of the flower beds and about to pluck a nosegay, he sings the graceful "Faites-lui mes aveux" (Bear my avowal to her). But when he culls a flower, it shrivels in his hand, as _Méphistophélès_ had predicted. The boy is much perturbed. Seeing, however, a little font with holy water suspended by the wall of the house, he dips his fingers in it. Now the flowers no longer shrivel as he culls them. He arranges them in a bouquet, which he lays on the house step, where he hopes _Marguerite_ will see it. He then leaves. _Faust_ enters with _Méphistophélès_, but bids the latter withdraw, as if he sensed the incongruity of his presence near the home of a maiden so pure as _Marguerite_. The tempter having gone, _Faust_ proceeds to apostrophize _Marguerite's_ dwelling in the exquisite romance, "Salut! demeure chaste et pure." [Music] _Méphistophélès_ returns. With him he brings a casket of jewels and a handsome bouquet. With these he replaces _Siebel's_ flowers. The two men then withdraw into a shadowy recess of the garden to await _Marguerite's_ return. She enters by the wicket. Her thoughts are with the handsome stranger--above her in station, therefore the more flattering and fascinating in her eyes--who addressed her at the kermis. Pensively she seats herself at her spinning-wheel and, while turning it, without much concentration of mind on her work, sings "Le Roi de Thulé," the ballad of the King of Thule, her thoughts, however, returning to _Faust_ before she resumes and finishes the number, which is set in the simple fashion of a folk-song. Approaching the house, and about to enter, she sees the flowers, stops to admire them, and to bestow a thought of compassion upon _Siebel_ for his unrequited devotion, then sees and hesitatingly opens the casket of jewels. Their appeal to her feminine vanity is too great to permit her to return them at once to the casket. Decking herself out in them, she regards herself and the sparkling gems in the handglass that came with them, then bursts into the brilliant "Air des Bijoux" (Jewel Song): [Music] Ah! je ris de me voir Si belle en ce miroir!... Est-ce toi, Marguerite? (Ah! I laugh just to view-- Marguerite! Is it you?-- Such a belle in the glass!...) one of the most brilliant airs for coloratura soprano, affording the greatest contrast to the folklike ballad which preceded it, and making with it one of the most effective scenes in opera for a soprano who can rise to its demands: the chaste simplicity required for the ballad, the joyous abandon and faultless execution of elaborate embellishments involved in the "Air des Bijoux." When well done, the scene is brilliantly successful; for, added to its own conspicuous merit, is the fact that, save for the very brief episode in Act II, this is the first time in two and a half acts that the limpid and grateful tones of a solo high soprano have fallen upon the ear. _Martha_, the neighbour and companion of _Marguerite_, joins her. In the manner of the average duenna, whose chief duty in opera is to encourage love affairs, however fraught with peril to her charge, she is not at all disturbed by the gift of the jewels or by the entrance upon the scene of _Faust_ and _Méphistophélès_. Nor, when the latter tells her that her husband has been killed in the wars, does she hesitate, after a few exclamations of rather forced grief, to seek consolation on the arm of the flatterer in red, who leads her off into the garden, leaving _Faust_ with _Marguerite_. During the scene immediately ensuing the two couples are sometimes in view, sometimes lost to sight in the garden. The music is a quartet, beginning with _Faust's_ "Prenez mon bras un moment" (Pray lean upon mine arm). It is artistically individualized. The couples and each member thereof are deftly characterized in Gounod's score. For a moment _Méphistophélès_ holds the stage alone. Standing by a bed of flowers in an attitude of benediction, he invokes their subtle perfume to lull _Marguerite_ into a false sense of security. "Il était temps!" (It was the hour), begins the soliloquy. For a moment, as it ends, the flowers glow. _Méphistophélès_ withdraws into the shadows. _Faust_ and _Marguerite_ appear. _Marguerite_ plucks the petals of a flower: "He loves me--he loves me not--he loves!" There are two ravishing duets for the lovers, "Laisse-moi contempler ton visage" (Let me gaze upon thy beauty), and "Ô nuit d'amour ... ciel radieux!" [Music] (Oh, night of love! oh, starlit sky!). The music fairly enmeshes the listener in its enchanting measures. [Music] _Faust_ and _Marguerite_ part, agreeing to meet on the morrow--"Oui, demain! des l'aurore!" (Yes, tomorrow! at dawn!). She enters the house. _Faust_ turns to leave the garden. He is confronted by _Méphistophélès_, who points to the window. The casement is opened by _Marguerite_, who believes she is alone. Kneeling in the window, she gazes out upon the night flooded with moonlight. "Il m'aime; ... Ah! presse ton retour, cher bien-aimé! Viens!" (He loves me; ah! haste your return, dearly beloved! Come!). With a cry, _Faust_ rushes to the open casement, sinks upon his knees. _Marguerite_, with an ecstatic exclamation, leans out of the embrasure and allows him to take her into his arms. Her head rests upon his shoulder. At the wicket is _Méphistophélès_, shaking with laughter. Act IV. The first scene in this act takes place in _Marguerite's_ room. No wonder _Méphistophélès_ laughed when he saw her in _Faust's_ arms. She has been betrayed and deserted. The faithful _Siebel_, however, still offers her his love--"Si la bonheur à sourire t'invite" (When all was young and pleasant, May was blooming)--but _Marguerite_ still loves the man who betrayed her, and hopes against hope that he will return. This episode is followed by the cathedral scene. _Marguerite_ has entered the edifice and knelt to pray. But, invisible to her, _Méphistophélès_ stands beside her and reminds her of her guilt. A chorus of invisible demons calls to her accusingly. _Méphistophélès_ foretells her doom. The "Dies iræ," accompanied on the organ, is heard. _Marguerite's_ voice joins with those of the worshippers. But _Méphistophélès_, when the chant is ended, calls out that for her, a lost one, there yawns the abyss. She flees in terror. This is one of the most significant episodes of the work. Now comes a scene in the street, in front of _Marguerite's_ house. The soldiers return from war and sing their familiar chorus, "Gloire immortelle" (Glory immortal). _Valentine_, forewarned by _Siebel's_ troubled mien that all is not well with _Marguerite_, goes into the house. _Faust_ and _Méphistophélès_ come upon the scene. Facing the house, and accompanying himself on his guitar, the red gallant sings an offensive serenade. _Valentine_, aroused by the insult, which he correctly interprets as aimed at his sister, rushes out. There is a spirited trio, "Redouble, ô Dieu puissant" (Give double strength, great God on high). _Valentine_ smashes the guitar with his sword, then attacks _Faust_, whose sword-thrust, guided by _Méphistophélès_, mortally wounds _Marguerite's_ brother. _Marguerite_ comes into the street, throws herself over _Valentine's_ body. With his dying breath her brother curses her. Sometimes the order of the scenes in this act is changed. It may open with the street scene, where the girls at the fountain hold themselves aloof from _Marguerite_. Here the brief meeting between the girl and _Siebel_ takes place. _Marguerite_ then goes into the house; the soldiers return, etc. The act then ends with the cathedral scene. Act V. When Gounod revised "Faust" for the Grand Opéra, Paris, the traditions of that house demanded a more elaborate ballet than the dance in the kermis scene afforded. Consequently the authors reached beyond the love story of _Faust_ and _Marguerite_ into the second part of Goethe's drama and utilized the legendary revels of Walpurgis Night (eve of May 1st) on the Brocken, the highest point of the Hartz mountains. Here _Faust_ meets the courtesans of antiquity--Laïs, Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, Phryne. "Les Nubiennes," "Cléopatra et la Coupe d'Or" (Cleopatra and the Goblet of Gold), "Les Troyennes" (The Troyan Women), "Variation," and "Dance de Phryne" are the dances in this ballet. More frequently than not the scene is omitted. To connect it with the main story, there comes to _Faust_, in the midst of the revels, a vision of _Marguerite_. Around her neck he beholds a red line, "like the cut of an axe." He commands _Méphistophélès_ to take him to her. They find her in prison, condemned to death for killing her child. There is an impassioned duet for _Faust_ and _Marguerite_. He begs her to make her escape with him. But her mind is wandering. In snatches of melody from preceding scenes, she recalls the episode at the kermis, the night in the garden. She sees _Méphistophélès_, senses his identity with the arch-fiend. There is a superb trio, in which _Marguerite_ ecstatically calls upon angels to intervene and save her--"Anges purs! Anges radieux!" (Angels pure, radiant, bright). [Music] The voices mount higher and higher, _Marguerite's_ soaring to a splendid climax. She dies. "Condemned!" cries _Méphistophélès_. "Saved," chant ethereal voices. The rear wall of the prison opens. Angels are seen bearing _Marguerite_ heavenward. _Faust_ falls on his knees in prayer. _Méphistophélès_ turns away, "barred by the shining sword of an archangel." During the ten years that elapsed between the productions at the Théâtre Lyrique and the Grand Opéra, "Faust" had only thirty-seven performances. Within eight years (1887) after it was introduced to the Grand Opéra, it had 1000 performances there. From 1901-1910 it was given nearly 3000 times in Germany. After the score had been declined by several publishers, it was brought out by Choudens, who paid Gounod 10,000 francs ($2000) for it, and made a fortune out of the venture. For the English rights the composer is said to have received only £40 ($200) and then only upon the insistence of Chorley, the author of the English version. ROMÉO ET JULIETTE ROMEO AND JULIET Opera in five acts, by Gounod; words by Barbier and Carré, after the tragedy by Shakespeare. Produced Paris, Théâtre Lyrique, April 27, 1867; January, 1873, taken over by the Opéra Comique; Grand Opéra, November 28, 1888. London, Covent Garden, in Italian, July 11, 1867. New York, Academy of Music, November 15, 1867, with Minnie Hauck as _Juliet_; Metropolitan Opera House, December 14, 1891, with Eames (_Juliet_), Jean de Reszke (_Romeo_), Édouard de Reszke (_Friar Lawrence_). Chicago, December 15, 1916, with Muratore as _Romeo_ and Galli-Curci as _Juliet_. CHARACTERS THE DUKE OF VERONA _Bass_ COUNT PARIS _Baritone_ COUNT CAPULET _Bass_ JULIET, his daughter _Soprano_ GERTRUDE, her nurse _Mezzo-Soprano_ TYBALT, Capulet's nephew _Tenor_ ROMEO, a Montague _Tenor_ MERCUTIO _Baritone_ BENVOLIO, Romeo's page _Soprano_ GREGORY, a Capulet retainer _Baritone_ FRIAR LAWRENCE _Bass_ Nobles and ladies of Verona, citizens, soldiers, monks, and pages. _Time_--14th Century. _Place_--Verona. Having gone to Goethe for "Faust," Gounod's librettists, Barbier and Carré, went to Shakespeare for "Roméo et Juliette," which, like "Faust," reached the Paris Grand Opéra by way of the Théâtre Lyrique. Mme. Miolan-Carvalho, the original _Marguerite_, also created _Juliette_. "Roméo et Juliette" has been esteemed more highly in France than elsewhere. In America, save for performances in New Orleans, it was only during the Grau régime at the Metropolitan Opera House, when it was given in French with casts familiar with the traditions of the Grand Opéra, that it can be said regularly to have held a place in the repertoire. Eames is remembered as a singularly beautiful _Juliette_, vocally and personally; Capoul, Jean de Reszke, and Saléza, as _Roméos_; Édouard de Reszke as _Frère Laurent_. Nicolini, who became Adelina Patti's second husband, sang _Roméo_ at the Grand Opéra to her _Juliette_. She was then the Marquise de Caux, her marriage to the Marquis having been brought about by the Empress Eugénie. But that this marriage was not to last long, and that the _Romeo_ and _Juliet_ were as much in love with each other in actual life as on the stage, was revealed one night to a Grand Opéra audience, when, during the balcony scene, prima donna and tenor--so the record says--imprinted twenty-nine real kisses on each other's lips. The libretto is in five acts and follows closely, often even to the text, Shakespeare's tragedy. There is a prologue in which the characters and chorus briefly rehearse the story that is to unfold itself. Act I. The grand hall in the palace of the Capulets. A fête is in progress. The chorus sings gay measures. _Tybalt_ speaks to _Paris_ of _Juliet_, who at that moment appears with her father. _Capulet_ bids the guests welcome and to be of good cheer--"Soyez les bienvenus, amis" (Be ye welcome, friends), and "Allons! jeunes gens! Allons! belles dames!" (Bestir ye, young nobles! And ye, too, fair ladies!). _Romeo_, _Mercutio_, _Benvolio_, and half-a-dozen followers come masked. Despite the deadly feud between the two houses, they, Montagues, have ventured to come as maskers to the fête of the Capulets. _Mercutio_ sings of Queen Mab, a number as gossamerlike in the opera as the monologue is in the play; hardly ever sung as it should be, because the rôle of _Mercutio_ rarely is assigned to a baritone capable of doing justice to the airy measures of "Mab, la reine des mensonges" (Mab, Queen Mab, the fairies' midwife). The Montagues withdraw to another part of the palace. _Juliet_ returns with _Gertrude_, her nurse. Full of high spirits, she sings the graceful and animated waltz, "Dans ce rêve, qui m'enivre" [Transcriber's Note: correct title is 'Je veux vivre dans le rêve'] (Fair is the tender dream of youth). [Music] The nurse is called away. _Romeo_, wandering in, meets _Juliet_. Their love, as in the play, is instantaneous. _Romeo_ addresses her in passionate accents, "Ange adorable" (Angel! adored one). His addresses, _Juliet's_ replies, make a charming duo. Upon the re-entry of _Tybalt_, _Romeo_, who had removed his mask, again adjusts it. But _Tybalt_ suspects who he is, and from the utterance of his suspicions, _Juliet_ learns that the handsome youth, to whom her heart has gone out, is none other than _Romeo_, scion of the Montagues, the sworn enemies of her house. The fiery _Tybalt_ is for attacking _Romeo_ and his followers then and there. But old _Capulet_, respecting the laws of hospitality, orders that the fête proceed. Act II. The garden of the Capulets. The window of _Juliet's_ apartment, and the balcony, upon which it gives. _Romeo's_ page, _Stephano_, a character introduced by the librettists, holds a ladder by which _Romeo_ ascends to the balcony. _Stephano_ leaves, bearing the ladder with him. _Romeo_ sings, "Ah! lève-toi, soleil" (Ah! fairest dawn arise). The window opens, _Juliet_ comes out upon the balcony. _Romeo_ conceals himself. From her soliloquy he learns that, although he is a Montague, she loves him. He discloses his presence. The interchange of pledges is exquisite. Lest the sweetness of so much love music become too cloying, the librettists interrupt it with an episode. The Capulet retainer, _Gregory_, and servants of the house, suspecting that an intruder is in the garden, for they have seen _Stephano_ speeding away, search unsuccessfully and depart. The nurse calls. _Juliet_ re-enters her apartment. _Romeo_ sings, "Ô nuit divine" (Oh, night divine). _Juliet_ again steals out upon the balcony. "Ah! je te l'ai dit, je t'adore!" (Ah, I have told you that I adore you), sings _Romeo_. There is a beautiful duet, "Ah! ne fuis pas encore!" (Ah, do not flee again). A brief farewell. The curtain falls upon the "balcony scene." Act III, Part I. _Friar Lawrence's_ cell. Here takes place the wedding of _Romeo_ and _Juliet_, the good friar hoping that their union may lead to peace between the two great Veronese houses of Montague and Capulet. There are in this part of the act _Friar Lawrence's_ prayer, "Dieu, qui fis l'homme à ton image" (God, who made man in Thine image); a trio, in which the friar chants the rubric, and the pair respond; and an effective final quartet for _Juliet_, _Gertrude_, _Romeo_, and _Friar Lawrence_. Part II. A street near _Capulet's_ house. _Stephano_, having vainly sought _Romeo_, and thinking he still may be in concealment in _Capulet's_ garden, sings a ditty likely to rouse the temper of the Capulet household, and bring its retainers into the street, thus affording _Romeo_ a chance to get away. The ditty is "Que fais-tu, blanche tourterelle" (Gentle dove, why art thou clinging?). _Gregory_ and _Stephano_ draw and fight. The scene develops, as in the play. Friends of the two rival houses appear. _Mercutio_ fights _Tybalt_ and is slain, and is avenged by _Romeo_, who kills _Tybalt_, _Juliet's_ kinsman, and, in consequence, is banished from Verona by the _Duke_. [Illustration: Photo copyright, 1916, by Victor Georg Galli-Curci as Juliette in "Roméo et Juliette"] Act IV. It is the room of _Juliet_, to which _Romeo_ has found access, in order to bid her farewell, before he goes into exile. The lingering _adieux_, the impassioned accents in which the despair of parting is expressed--these find eloquent utterance in the music. There is the duet, "Nuit d'hyménée, Ô douce nuit d'amour" (Night hymeneal, sweetest night of love). _Romeo_ hears the lark, sure sign of approaching day, but _Juliet_ protests. "Non, non, ce n'est pas le jour" (No, no! 'Tis not yet the day). Yet the parting time cannot be put off longer. _Romeo:_ "Ah! reste! reste encore dans mes bras enlacés" (Ah! rest! rest once more within mine entwining arms); then both, "Il faut partir, hélas" (Now we must part, alas). Hardly has _Romeo_ gone when _Gertrude_ runs in to warn _Juliet_ that her father is approaching with _Friar Lawrence_. _Tybalt's_ dying wish, whispered into old _Capulet's_ ear, was that the marriage between _Juliet_ and the noble whom _Capulet_ has chosen for her husband, _Count Paris_, be speeded. _Juliet's_ father comes to bid her prepare for the marriage. Neither she, the friar, nor the nurse dare tell _Capulet_ of her secret nuptials with _Romeo_. This gives significance to the quartet, "Ne crains rien" (I fear no more). _Capulet_ withdraws, leaving, as he supposes, _Friar Lawrence_ to explain to _Juliet_ the details of the ceremony. It is then the friar, in the dramatic, "Buvez donc ce breuvage" (Drink then of this philtre), gives her the potion, upon drinking which she shall appear as dead. The scene changes to the grand hall of the palace. Guests arrive for the nuptials. There is occasion for the ballet, so essential for a production at the Grand Opéra. _Juliet_ drains the vial, falls as if dead. Act V. The tomb of the Capulets. _Romeo_, having heard in his exile that his beloved is no more, breaks into the tomb. She, recovering from the effects of the philtre, finds him dying, plunges a dagger into her breast, and expires with him. In the music there is an effective prelude. _Romeo_, on entering the tomb, sings, "Ô ma femme! ô ma bien aimée" (O wife, dearly beloved). _Juliet_, not yet aware that _Romeo_ has taken poison, and _Romeo_ forgetting for the moment that death's cold hand already is reaching out for him, they sing, "Viens fuyons au bout du monde" (Come, let us fly to the ends of the earth). Then _Romeo_ begins to feel the effect of the poison, and tells _Juliet_ what he has done. "Console-toi, pauvre âme" (Console thyself, sad heart). But _Juliet_ will not live without him, and while he, in his wandering mind, hears the lark, as at their last parting, she stabs herself. * * * * * As "Roméo et Juliette" contains much beautiful music, people may wonder why it lags so far behind "Faust" in popularity. One reason is that, in the layout of the libretto the authors deliberately sought to furnish Gounod with another "Faust," and so challenged comparison. Even _Stephano_, a character of their creation, was intended to give the same balance to the cast that _Siebel_ does to that of "Faust." In a performance of Shakespeare's play it is possible to act the scene of parting without making it too much the duplication of the balcony scene, which it appears to be in the opera. The "balcony scene" is an obvious attempt to create another "garden scene." But in "Faust," what would be the too long-drawn-out sweetness of too much love music is overcome, in the most natural manner, by the brilliant "Jewel Song," and by _Méphistophélès's_ sinister invocation of the flowers. In "Roméo et Juliette," on the other hand, the interruption afforded by _Gregory_ and the chorus is too artificial not to be merely disturbing. It should be said again, however, that French audiences regard the work with far more favour than we do. "In France," says Storck, in his _Opernbuch_, "the work, perhaps not unjustly, is regarded as Gounod's best achievement, and has correspondingly numerous performances." Ambroise Thomas MIGNON Opera in three acts by Ambroise Thomas, words, based on Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister," by Barbier and Carré. Produced, Opéra Comique, Paris, November 17, 1866. London, Drury Lane, July 5, 1870. New York, Academy of Music, November 22, 1871, with Nilsson, Duval (_Filina_), Mlle. Ronconi (_Frederick_) and Capoul; Metropolitan Opera House, October 21, 1883, with Nilsson, Capoul, and Scalchi (_Frederick_). CHARACTERS MIGNON, stolen in childhood from an Italian castle _Mezzo-Soprano_ PHILINE, an actress _Soprano_ FRÉDÉRIC, a young nobleman _Buffo Tenor or Contralto_ WILHELM, a student on his travels _Tenor_ LAERTES, an actor _Tenor_ LOTHARIO _Bass_ GIARNO, a gypsy _Bass_ ANTONIO, a servant _Bass_ Townspeople, gypsies, actors and actresses, servants, etc. _Time_--Late 18th Century. _Place_--Acts I and II, Germany. Act III, Italy. Notwithstanding the popularity of two airs in "Mignon"--"Connais-tu le pays?" and the "Polonaise"--the opera is given here but infrequently. It is a work of delicate texture; of charm rather than passion; with a story that is, perhaps, too ingenuous to appeal to the sophisticated audience of the modern opera house. Moreover the "Connais-tu le pays" was at one time done to death here, both by concert singers and amateurs. Italian composers are fortunate in having written music so difficult technically that none but the most accomplished singers can risk it. The early performances of "Mignon" in this country were in Italian, and were more successful than the later revivals in French, by which time the opera had become somewhat passé. From these early impressions we are accustomed to call _Philine_ by her Italian equivalent of _Filina_. _Frédéric_, since Trebelli appeared in the rôle in London, has become a contralto instead of a buffo tenor part. The "Rondo Gavotte" in Act II, composed for her by Thomas, has since then been a fixture in the score. She appeared in the rôle at the Metropolitan Opera House, December 5, 1883, with Nilsson and Capoul. Act I. Courtyard of a German inn. Chorus of townspeople and travellers. _Lothario_, a wandering minstrel, sings, accompanying himself on his harp, "Fugitif et tremblant" (A lonely wanderer). _Filina_ and _Laertes_, on the way with their troupe to give a theatrical performance in a neighbouring castle, appear on a balcony. _Mignon_ is sleeping on straw in the back of a gypsy cart. _Giarno_, chief of the gypsy band, rouses her. She refuses to dance. He threatens her with a stick. _Lothario_ and _Wilhelm_ protect her. _Mignon_ divides a bouquet of wild flowers between them. _Laertes_, who has come down from the balcony, engages _Wilhelm_ in conversation. _Filina_ joins them. _Wilhelm_ is greatly impressed with her blonde beauty. He does not protest when _Laertes_ takes from him the wild flowers he has received from _Mignon_ and hands them to _Filina_. When _Filina_ and _Laertes_ have gone, there is a scene between _Wilhelm_ and _Mignon_. The girl tells him of dim memories of her childhood--the land from which she was abducted. It is at this point she sings "Connais-tu le pays" (Knowest thou the land). _Wilhelm_ decides to purchase her freedom, and enters the inn with _Giarno_ to conclude the negotiations. _Lothario_, who is about to wander on, has been attracted to her, and, before leaving, bids her farewell. They have the charming duet, "Légères hirondelles" (O swallows, lightly gliding). There is a scene for _Filina_ and _Frédéric_, a booby, who is in love with her. _Filina_ is after better game. She is setting her cap for _Wilhelm_. _Lothario_ wishes to take _Mignon_ with him. But _Wilhelm_ fears for her safety with the old man, whose mind sometimes appears to wander. Moreover _Mignon_ ardently desires to remain in the service of _Wilhelm_ who has freed her from bondage to the gypsies, and, when _Wilhelm_ declines to let her go with _Lothario_, is enraptured, until she sees her wild flowers in _Filina's_ hand. For already she is passionately in love with _Wilhelm_, and jealous when _Filina_ invites him to attend the theatricals at the castle. _Wilhelm_ waves adieu to _Filina_, as she drives away. _Lothario_, pensive, remains seated. _Mignon's_ gaze is directed toward _Wilhelm_. Act II. _Filina's_ boudoir at the castle. The actress sings of her pleasure in these elegant surroundings and of _Wilhelm_. _Laertes_ is heard without, singing a madrigal to _Filina_, "Belle, ayez pitié de nous" (Fair one, pity take on us). He ushers in _Wilhelm_ and _Mignon_, then withdraws. _Mignon_, pretending to fall asleep, watches _Wilhelm_ and _Filina_. While _Wilhelm_ hands to the actress various toilet accessories, they sing a graceful duet, "Je crois entendre les doux compliments" (Pray, let me hear now the sweetest of phrases). Meanwhile _Mignon's_ heart is tormented with jealousy. When _Wilhelm_ and _Filina_ leave the boudoir the girl dons one of _Filina's_ costumes, seats herself at the mirror and puts on rouge and other cosmetics, as she has seen _Filina_ do. In a spirit of abandon she sings a "Styrienne," "Je connais un pauvre enfant" (A gypsy lad I well do know). She then withdraws into an adjoining room. _Frédéric_ enters the boudoir in search of _Filina_. He sings the gavotte, "Me voici dans son boudoir" (Here am I in her boudoir). _Wilhelm_ comes in, in search of _Mignon_. The men meet. There is an exchange of jealous accusations. They are about to fight, when _Mignon_ rushes between them. _Frédéric_ recognizes _Filina's_ costume on her, and goes off laughing. _Wilhelm_, realizing the awkward situation that may arise from the girl's following him about, tells her they must part. "Adieu, Mignon, courage" (Farewell, Mignon, have courage). She bids him a sad farewell. _Filina_ re-enters. Her sarcastic references to _Mignon's_ attire wound the girl to the quick. When _Wilhelm_ leads out the actress on his arm, _Mignon_ exclaims: "That woman! I loathe her!" The second scene of this act is laid in the castle park. _Mignon_, driven to distraction, is about to throw herself into the lake, when she hears the strains of a harp. _Lothario_, who has wandered into the park, is playing. There is an exchange of affection, almost paternal on his part, almost filial on hers, in their duet, "As-tu souffert? As-tu pleureé?" (Hast thou known sorrow? Hast thou wept?). _Mignon_ hears applause and acclaim from the conservatory for _Filina's_ acting. In jealous rage she cries out that she wishes the building might be struck by lightning and destroyed by fire; then runs off and disappears among the trees. _Lothario_ vaguely repeats her words. "'Fire,' she said! Ah, 'fire! fire!'" Through the trees he wanders off in the direction of the conservatory, just as its doors are thrown open and the guests and actors issue forth. They have been playing "A Midsummer Night's Dream," and _Filina_, flushed with success, sings the brilliant "Polonaise," "Je suis Titania" (Behold Titania, fair and gay). _Mignon_ appears. _Wilhelm_, who has sadly missed her, greets her with so much joy that _Filina_ sends her into the conservatory in search of the wild flowers given to _Wilhelm_ the day before. Soon after _Mignon_ has entered the conservatory it is seen to be in flames. _Lothario_, obedient to her jealous wish, has set it on fire. At the risk of his life _Wilhelm_ rushes into the burning building and reappears with _Mignon's_ fainting form in his arms. He places her on a grassy bank. Her hand still holds a bunch of withered flowers. Act III. Gallery in an Italian castle, to which _Wilhelm_ has brought _Mignon_ and _Lothario_. _Mignon_ has been dangerously ill. A boating chorus is heard from the direction of a lake below. _Lothario_, standing by the door of _Mignon's_ sick-room, sings a lullaby, "De son coeur j'ai calmé la fièvre" (I've soothed the throbbing of her aching heart). _Wilhelm_ tells _Lothario_ that they are in the Cipriani castle, which he intends to buy for _Mignon_. At the name of the castle _Lothario_ is strangely agitated. _Wilhelm_ has heard _Mignon_ utter his own name in her aberrations during her illness. He sings, "Elle ne croyait pas" (She does not know). When she enters the gallery from her sick-room and looks out on the landscape, she is haunted by memories. There is a duet for _Mignon_ and _Wilhelm_, "Je suis heureuse, l'air m'enivre" (Now I rejoice, life reawakens). _Filina's_ voice is heard outside. The girl is violently agitated. But _Wilhelm_ reassures her. In the scenes that follow, _Lothario_, his reason restored by being again in familiar surroundings, recognizes in the place his own castle and in _Mignon_ his daughter, whose loss had unsettled his mind and sent him, in minstrel's disguise, wandering in search of her. The opera closes with a trio for _Mignon_, _Wilhelm_, and _Lothario_. In it is heard the refrain of "Connais-tu le pays." * * * * * "Hamlet," the words by Barbier and Carré, based on Shakespeare's tragedy, is another opera by Ambroise Thomas. It ranks high in France, where it was produced at the Grand Opéra, March 9, 1868, with Nilsson as _Ophelia_ and Faure in the title rôle; but outside of France it never secured any approach to the popularity that "Mignon" at one time enjoyed. It was produced in London, in Italian, as "Amleto," Covent Garden, June 19, 1869, with Nilsson and Santley. In America, where it was produced in the Academy of Music, March 22, 1872, with Nilsson, Cary, Brignoli, Barré, and Jamet, it has met the fate of practically all operas in which the principal character is a baritone--esteem from musicians, but indifference on the part of the public. It was revived in 1892 for Lasalle, and by the Chicago Opera Company for Ruffo. The opera contains in Act I, a love duet for _Hamlet_ and _Ophelia_, and the scene between _Hamlet_ and his father's _Ghost_; in Act II, the scene with the players, with a drinking song for _Hamlet_; in Act III, the soliloquy, "To be or not to be," and the scene between _Hamlet_ and the _Queen_; in Act IV, _Ophelia's_ mad scene and suicide by drowning; in Act V, the scene in the graveyard, with a totally different ending to the opera from that to the play. _Hamlet_ voices a touching song to _Ophelia's_ memory; then, stung by the _Ghost's_ reproachful look, stabs the _King_, as whose successor he is proclaimed by the people. Following is the distribution of voices: _Hamlet_, baritone; _Claudius_, King of Denmark, bass; _Laertes_, Polonius's son, tenor; _Ghost_ of the dead King, bass; _Polonius_, bass; _Gertrude_, Queen of Denmark, Hamlet's mother, mezzo-soprano; and _Ophelia_, Polonius's daughter, soprano. * * * * * Ambroise Thomas was born at Metz, August 5, 1811; died at Paris, February 12, 1896. He studied at the Paris Conservatory, where, in 1832, he won the grand prix de Rome. In 1871 he became director of the Conservatory, being considered Auber's immediate successor, although the post was held for a few days by the communist Salvador Daniel, who was killed in battle, May 23d. Georges Bizet CARMEN Opera in four acts by Georges Bizet; words by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halévy, founded on the novel by Prosper Mérimée. Produced, Opéra Comique, Paris, March 3, 1875, the title rôle being created by Galli-Marié. Her Majesty's Theatre, London, in Italian, June 22, 1878; same theatre, February 5, 1879, in English; same theatre, November 8, 1886, in French, with Galli-Marié. Minnie Hauck, who created _Carmen_, in London, also created the rôle in America, October 23, 1879, at the Academy of Music, New York, with Campanini (_Don José_), Del Puente (_Escamillo_), and Mme. Sinico (_Micaela_). The first New Orleans _Carmen_, January 14, 1881, was Mme. Ambré. Calvé made her New York début as _Carmen_ at the Metropolitan Opera House, December 20, 1893, with Jean de Reszke (_Don José_), and Eames (_Micaela_). Bressler-Gianoli, and afterwards Calvé, sang the rôle at the Manhattan Opera House. Farrar made her first appearance as _Carmen_ at the Metropolitan Opera House, November 19, 1914. Campanini, Jean de Reszke, and Caruso are the most famous _Don Josés_ who have appeared in this country; but the rôle also has been admirably interpreted by Saléza and Dalmorès. No singer has approached Emma Eames as _Micaela_; nor has any interpreter of _Escamillo_ equalled Del Puente, who had the range and quality of voice and buoyancy of action which the rôle requires. Galassi, Campanari, Plançon, and Amato should be mentioned as other interpreters of the rôle. February 13, 1912, Mary Garden appeared as _Carmen_ at the Metropolitan Opera House, with the Chicago Opera Company. "Carmen" is an opera of world-wide popularity, and as highly esteemed by musicians as by the public. CHARACTERS DON JOSÉ, a corporal of dragoons _Tenor_ ESCAMILLO, a toreador _Baritone_ EL DANCAIRO } smugglers { _Baritone_ EL REMENDADO } { _Tenor_ ZUNIGA, a captain _Bass_ MORALES, an officer _Bass_ MICAELA, a peasant girl _Soprano_ FRASQUITA } gypsies, { _Mezzo-Soprano_ MERCEDES } friends of Carmen { _Mezzo-Soprano_ CARMEN, a cigarette girl and gypsy _Soprano_ Innkeeper, guide, officers, dragoons, boys, cigarette girls, gypsies, smugglers, etc. _Time_--About 1820. _Place_--Seville, Spain. [Illustration: Photo by White Calvé as Carmen with Sparkes as Frasquita and Braslau as Mercedes] Act I. A square in Seville. On the right the gate of a cigarette factory. At the back, facing the audience, is a practicable bridge from one side of the stage to the other, and reached from the stage by a winding staircase on the right beyond the factory gate. The bridge also is practicable underneath. People from a higher level of the city can cross it and descend by the stairway to the square. Others can pass under it. In front, on the left, is a guard-house. Above it three steps lead to a covered passage. In a rack, close to the door, are the lances of the dragoons of Almanza, with their little red and yellow flags. _Morales_ and soldiers are near the guard-house. People are coming and going. There is a brisk chorus, "Sur la place" (O'er this square). _Micaela_ comes forward, as if looking for someone. "And for whom are you looking?" _Morales_ asks of the pretty girl, who shyly has approached the soldiers lounging outside the guard-house. "I am looking for a corporal," she answers. "I am one," _Morales_ says, gallantly. "But not _the_ one. His name is José." The soldiers, scenting amusement in trying to flirt with a pretty creature, whose innocence is as apparent as her charm, urge her to remain until _Don José_ comes at change of guard. But, saying she will return then, she runs away like a frightened deer, past the cigarette factory, across the square, and down one of the side streets. A fascinating little march for fifes and trumpets is heard, at first in the distance, then gradually nearer. The change of guard arrives, preceded by a band of street lads, imitating the step of the dragoons. After the lads come _Captain Zuniga_ and _Corporal José_; then dragoons, armed with lances. The ceremony of changing guard is gone through with, to the accompaniment of a chorus of gamins and grown-up spectators. It is a lively scene. "It must have been Micaela," says _Don José_, when they tell him of the girl with tresses of fair hair and dress of blue, who was looking for him. "Nor do I mind saying," he adds, "that I love her." And indeed, although there are some sprightly girls in the crowd that have gathered in the square to see the guard changed, he has no eyes for them, but, straddling a chair out in the open, busies himself trying to join the links of a small chain that has come apart. The bell of the cigarette factory strikes the work hour, and the cigarette girls push their way through the crowd, stopping to make eyes at the soldiers and young men, or lingering to laugh and chat, before passing through the factory gates. A shout goes up: "Carmen!" A girl, dark as a gypsy and lithe as a panther, darts across the bridge and down the steps into the square, the crowd parting and making way for her. "Love you?" she cries insolently to the men who press around her and ply her with their attentions. "Perhaps tomorrow. Anyhow not today." Then, a dangerous fire kindling in her eyes, she sways slowly to and fro to the rhythm of a "Habanera," singing the while, "L'amour est un oiseau rebelle," etc. "Love is a gypsy boy, 'tis true, He ever was and ever will be free; Love you not me, then I love you, Yet, if I love you, beware of me!" [Music] Often she glances toward _José_, often dances so close to him that she almost touches him, and by subtle inflections in her voice seeks to attract his attention. But he seems unaware of her presence. Indeed if, thinking of _Micaela_, he has steeled himself against the gypsy, in whose every glance, step, and song lurks peril, the handsome dragoon could not be busying himself more obstinately with the broken chain in his hand. "Yet, if I love you, beware of me!" Tearing from her bodice a blood-red cassia flower, she flings it at him point blank. He springs to his feet, as if he would rush at her. But he meets her look, and stops where he stands. Then, with a toss of the head and a mocking laugh, she runs into the factory, followed by the other girls, while the crowd, having had its sport, disperses. The librettists have constructed an admirable scene. The composer has taken full advantage of it. The "Habanera" establishes _Carmen_ in the minds of the audience--the gypsy girl, passionate yet fickle, quick to love and quick to tire. Hers the dash of fatalism that flirts with death. At _José's_ feet lies the cassia flower thrown by _Carmen_, the glance of whose dark eyes had checked him. Hesitatingly, yet as if in spite of himself, he stoops and picks it up, presses it to his nostrils and draws in its subtle perfume in a long breath. Then, still as if involuntarily, or as if a magic spell lies in its odour, he thrusts the flower under his blouse and over his heart. He no more than has concealed it there, when _Micaela_ again enters the square and hurries to him with joyful exclamations. She brings him tidings from home, and some money from his mother's savings, with which to eke out his small pay. They have a charming duet, "Ma mère, je la vois, je revois mon village" (My home in yonder valley, my mother, lov'd, again I'll see). It is evident that _Micaela's_ coming gives him a welcome change of thought, and that, although she cannot remain long, her sweet, pure presence has for the time being lifted the spell the gypsy has cast over him. For, when _Micaela_ has gone, _José_ grasps the flower under his blouse, evidently intending to draw it out and cast it away. [Illustration: Copyright photo by A. Dupont Caruso as Don José in "Carmen"] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Caruso as Don José in "Carmen"] Just then, however, there are cries of terror from the cigarette factory and, in a moment, the square is filled with screaming girls, soldiers, and others. From the excited utterances of the cigarette girls it is learned that there has been a quarrel between _Carmen_ and another girl, and that _Carmen_ has wounded the latter with a knife. _Zuniga_ promptly orders _José_ to take two dragoons with him into the factory and arrest her. None abashed, and smirking, she comes out with them. When the captain begins questioning her, she answers with a gay "Tra la la, tra la la," pitching her voice on a higher note after each question with an indescribable effect of mockery, that makes her dark beauty the more fascinating. Losing patience, the officer orders her hands tied behind her back, while he makes out the warrant for her imprisonment. The soldiers having driven away the crowd, _Don José_ is left to guard _Carmen_. Pacing up and down the square, he appears to be avoiding her. But she, as if speaking to herself, or thinking aloud, and casting furtive glances at him, tells of a handsome young dragoon with whom she has fallen in love. "He is not a captain, nor even a lieutenant--only a corporal. But he will do what I ask--because he is in love with me!" "I?--I love you?" _José_ pauses beside her. With a coquettish toss of the head and a significant glance she asks, "Where is the flower I threw at you? What have you done with it?" Then, softly, she sings another, alluring melody in typical Spanish dance measure, a "Seguidilla," "Près des remparts de Séville." "Near by the ramparts of Seville, Is the inn of my friend, Lillas Pastia, There I'll dance the gay Seguidilla-- And the dance with my lover I'll share." [Music] "Carmen!" cries _José_, "you have bewitched me...." "Near by the ramparts of Seville.... And the dance with my lover I'll share!" she murmurs insinuatingly, and at the same time she holds back her bound wrists toward him. Quickly he undoes the knot, but leaves the rope about her wrists so that she still appears to be a captive, when the captain comes from the guard-house with the warrant. He is followed by the soldiers, and the crowd, drawn by curiosity to see _Carmen_ led off to prison, again fills the square. _José_ places her between two dragoons, and the party starts for the bridge. When they reach the steps, _Carmen_ quickly draws her hands free of the rope, shoves the soldiers aside, and, before they know what has happened, dashes up to the bridge and across it, tossing the rope down into the square as she disappears from sight, while the crowd, hindering pursuit by blocking the steps, jeers at the discomfited soldiers. Act II. The tavern of Lillas Pastia. Benches right and left. Towards the end of a dinner. The table is in confusion. _Frasquita_, _Mercedes_, and _Morales_ are with _Carmen_; also other officers, gypsies, etc. The officers are smoking. Two gypsies in a corner play the guitar and two others dance. _Carmen_ looks at them. _Morales_ speaks to her; she does not listen to him, but suddenly rises and sings, "Les tringles des sistres tintaient" (Ah, when of gay guitars the sound). _Frasquita_ and _Mercedes_ join in the "Tra la la la" of the refrain. While Carmen clicks the castanets, the dance, in which she and others have joined the two gypsies, becomes more rapid and violent. With the last notes _Carmen_ drops on a seat. The refrain, "Tra la la la," with its rising inflection, is a most characteristic and effective bit. [Music] There are shouts outside, "Long live the torero! Long live Escamillo!" The famous bullfighter, the victor of the bull ring at Granada, is approaching. He sings the famous "Couplets du Toréador," a rousing song with refrain and chorus. "Votre toast je peux vous le rendre" (To your toast I drink with pleasure) begins the number. The refrain, with chorus, is "Toréador, en garde" (Toreador, e'er watchful be). [Music] _Escamillo's_ debonair manner, his glittering uniform, his reputation for prowess, make him a brilliant and striking figure. He is much struck with _Carmen_. She is impressed by him. But her fancy still is for the handsome dragoon, who has been under arrest since he allowed her to escape, and only that day has been freed. The _Toreador_, followed by the crowd, which includes _Morales_, departs. It is late. The tavern keeper closes the shutters and leaves the room. _Carmen_, _Frasquita_, and _Mercedes_ are quickly joined by the smugglers, _El Dancairo_ and _El Remendado_. The men need the aid of the three girls in wheedling the coast-guard, and possibly others, into neglect of duty. Their sentiments, "En matière de tromperie," etc. [Transcriber's Note: Correct lyrics are 'Quand il s'agit de tromperie'] (When it comes to a matter of cheating ... let women in on the deal), are expressed in a quintet that is full of spontaneous merriment--in fact, nowhere in "Carmen," not even in the most dramatic passages, is the music forced. The men want the girls to depart with them at once. _Carmen_ wishes to await _José_. The men suggest that she win him over to become one of their band. Not a bad idea, she thinks. They leave it to her to carry out the plan. Even now _José_ is heard singing, as he approaches the tavern, "Halte là! Qui va là? Dragon d'Alcala!" (Halt there! Who goes there? Dragoon of Alcala!). He comes in. Soon she has made him jealous by telling him that she was obliged to dance for _Morales_ and the officers. But now she will dance for him. She begins to dance. His eyes are fastened on her. From the distant barracks a bugle call is heard. It is the "retreat," the summons to quarters. The dance, the bugle call, which comes nearer, passes by and into the distance, the lithe, swaying figure, the wholly obsessed look of _José_--these are details of a remarkably effective scene. _José_ starts to obey the summons to quarters. _Carmen_ taunts him with placing duty above his love for her. He draws from his breast the flower she gave him, and, showing it to her in proof of his passion, sings the pathetic air, "La fleur que tu m'avais jetée" (The flower that once to me you gave). [Music] Despite her lure, he hesitates to become a deserter and follow her to the mountains. But at that moment _Morales_, thinking to find _Carmen_ alone, bursts open the tavern door. There is an angry scene between _Morales_ and _José_. They draw their sabres. The whole band of smugglers comes in at _Carmen's_ call. _El Dancairo_ and _El Remandado_ cover _Morales_ with their pistols, and lead him off. "And you? Will you now come with us?" asks _Carmen_ of _Don José_. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Calvé as Carmen] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Amato as Escamillo in "Carmen"] He, a corporal who has drawn his sabre against an officer, an act of insubordination for which severe punishment awaits him, is ready now to follow his temptress to the mountains. Act III. A rocky and picturesque spot among rocks on a mountain. At the rising of the curtain there is complete solitude. After a few moments a smuggler appears on the summit of a rock, then two, then the whole band, descending and scrambling down the mass of rocks. Among them are _Carmen_, _Don José_, _El Dancairo_, _El Remendado_, _Frasquita_, and _Mercedes_. The opening chorus has a peculiarly attractive lilt. _Don José_ is unhappy. _Carmen's_ absorbing passion for him has been of brief duration. A creature of impulse, she is fickle and wayward. _Don José_, a soldier bred, but now a deserter, is ill at ease among the smugglers, and finds cause to reproach himself for sacrificing everything to a fierce and capricious beauty, in whose veins courses the blood of a lawless race. Yet he still loves her to distraction, and is insanely jealous of her. She gives him ample cause for jealousy. It is quite apparent that the impression made upon her by _Escamillo_, the dashing toreador and victor in many bullfights, is deepening. _Escamillo_ has been caught in the lure of her dangerous beauty, but he doesn't annoy her by sulking in her presence, like _Don José_, but goes on adding to his laurels by winning fresh victories in the bull ring. Now that _Don José_ is more than usually morose, she says, with a sarcastic inflection in her voice: "If you don't like our mode of life here, why don't you leave?" "And go far from you! Carmen! If you say that again, it will be your death!" He half draws his knife from his belt. With a shrug of her shoulders _Carmen_ replies: "What matter--I shall die as fate wills." And, indeed, she plays with fate as with men's hearts. For whatever else this gypsy may be, she is fearless. While _Don José_ wanders moodily about the camp, she joins _Frasquita_ and _Mercedes_, who are telling their fortunes by cards. The superstitious creatures are merry because the cards favour them. _Carmen_ takes the pack and draws. "Spades!--A grave!" she mutters darkly, and for a moment it seems as if she is drawing back from a shadow that has crossed her path. But the bravado of the fatalist does not long desert her. "What matters it?" she calls to the two girls. "If you are to die, try the cards a hundred times, they will fall the same--spades, a grave!" Then, glancing in the direction where _Don José_ stood, she adds, in a low voice, "First I, then he!" The "Card Trio," "Mêlons! Coupons!" (Shuffle! Throw!) is a brilliant passage of the score, broken in upon by _Carmen's_ fatalistic soliloquy. A moment later, when the leader of the smugglers announces that it is an opportune time to attempt to convey their contraband through the mountain pass, she is all on the alert and aids in making ready for the departure. _Don José_ is posted behind a screen of rocks above the camp, to guard against a surprise from the rear, while the smugglers make their way through the pass. Unseen by him, a guide comes out on the rocks, and, making a gesture in the direction of the camp, hastily withdraws. Into this wild passage of nature, where desperate characters but a few moments before were encamped, and where _Carmen_ had darkly hinted at fate, as foretold by the stars, there descends _Micaela_, the emblem of sweetness and purity in this tragedy of the passions. She is seeking _Don José_, in hopes of reclaiming him. Her romance, "Je dis que rien ne m'épouvante" (I try not to own that I tremble), is characterized by Mr. Upton as "the most effective and beautiful number in the whole work." The introduction for horns is an exquisite passage, and the expectations it awakens are fully met by the melodious measures of the romance. [Music] Having looked about her, and failing to find _Don José_, she withdraws. Meanwhile _Don José_, from the place where he stands guard, has caught sight of a man approaching the camp. A shot rings out. It is _Don José_ who has fired at the man coming up the defile. He is about to fire again, but the nonchalant manner in which the stranger comes on, and, waving his hat, calls out, "An inch lower and it would have been all over with me!" causes him to lower his gun and advance to meet him. "I am Escamillo and I am here to see Carmen," he says gaily. "She had a lover here, a dragoon, who deserted from his troop for her. She adored him, but that, I understand, is all over with now. The loves of Carmen never last long." "Slowly, my friend," replies _Don José_. "Before any one can take our gypsy girls away, he must pay the price." "So, so. And what is it?" "It is paid with the knife," grimly answers _José_, as he draws his blade. "Ah," laughs the _Toreador_, "then you are the dragoon of whom Carmen has wearied. I am in luck to have met you so soon." He, too, draws. The knives clash, as the men, the one a soldier, the other a bullfighter, skilfully thrust and parry. But _Don José's_ is the better weapon, for, as he catches one of _Escamillo's_ thrusts on his blade, the _Toreador's_ knife snaps short. It would be a fatal mishap for _Escamillo_, did not at that moment the gypsies and smugglers, recalled by the shot, hurry in and separate the combatants. Unruffled by his misadventure, especially as his ardent glances meet an answering gleam in _Carmen's_ eyes, the _Toreador_ invites the entire band to the coming bullfight in Seville, in which he is to figure. With a glad shout they assent. "Don't be angry, dragoon," he adds tauntingly. "We may meet again." For answer _Don José_ seeks to rush at him, but some of the smugglers hold him back, while the _Toreador_ leisurely goes his way. The smugglers make ready to depart again. One of them, however, spies _Micaela_. She is led down. _Don José_ is reluctant to comply with her pleas to go away with her. The fact that _Carmen_ urges him to do what the girl says only arouses his jealousy. But when at last _Micaela_ tells him that his mother is dying of a broken heart for him, he makes ready to go. In the distance _Escamillo_ is heard singing: "Toreador, on guard e'er be! Thou shalt read, in her dark eyes, Hopes of victory. Her love is the prize!" _Carmen_ listens, as if enraptured, and starts to run after him. _Don José_ with bared knife bars the way; then leaves with _Micaela_. Act IV. A square in Seville. At the back the entrance to the arena. It is the day of the bullfight. The square is animated. Watersellers, others with oranges, fans, and other articles. Chorus. Ballet. Gay the crowd that fills the square outside the arena where the bullfights are held. It cheers the first strains of music heard as the festival procession approaches, and it shouts and applauds as the various divisions go by and pass into the arena: "The Aguacil on horseback!"--"The chulos with their pretty little flags!"--"Look! The bandilleros, all clad in green and spangles, and waving the crimson cloths!"--"The picadors with the pointed lances!"--"The cuadrilla of toreros!"--"Now! Vivo, vivo! Escamillo!" And a great shout goes up, as the _Toreador_ enters, with _Carmen_ on his arm. There is a brief but beautiful duet for _Escamillo_ and _Carmen_, "Si tu m'aimes, Carmen" (If you love me, Carmen), before he goes into the building to make ready for the bullfight, while she waits to be joined by some of the smugglers and gypsies, whom _Escamillo_ has invited to be witnesses, with her, of his prowess. As the Alcalde crosses the square and enters the arena, and the crowd pours in after him, one of the gypsy girls from the smugglers' band whispers to _Carmen_: "If you value your life, Carmen, don't stay here. He is lurking in the crowd and watching you." "He?--José?--I am no coward.--I fear no one.--If he is here, we will have it over with now," she answers, defiantly, motioning to the girl to pass on into the arena into which the square is rapidly emptying itself. _Carmen_ lingers until she is the only one left, then, with a shrug of contempt, turns to enter--but finds herself facing _Don José_, who has slunk out from one of the side streets to intercept her. "I was told you were here. I was even warned to leave here, because my life was in danger. If the hour has come, well, so be it. But, live or die, yours I shall never be again." Her speech is abrupt, rapid, but there is no tremor of fear in her voice. _Don José_ is pale and haggard. His eyes are hollow, but they glow with a dangerous light. His plight has passed from the pitiable to the desperate stage. "Carmen," he says hoarsely, "leave with me. Begin life over again with me under another sky. I will adore you so, it will make you love me." "You never can make me love you again. No one can _make_ me do anything. Free I was born, free I die." The band in the arena strikes up a fanfare. There are loud vivos for _Escamillo_. _Carmen_ starts to rush for the entrance. Driven to the fury of despair, his knife drawn, as it had been when he barred her way in the smugglers' camp, _Don José_ confronts her. He laughs grimly. "The man for whom they are shouting--he is the one for whom you have deserted me!" "Let me pass!" is her defiant answer. "That you may tell him how you have spurned me, and laugh with him over my misery!" Again the crowd in the arena shouts: "Victory! Victory! Vivo, vivo, Escamillo, the toreador of Granada!" A cry of triumph escapes _Carmen_. "You love him!" hisses _Don José_. "Yes, I love him! If I must die for it, I love him! Victory for Escamillo, victory! I go to the victor of the arena!" She makes a dash for the entrance. Somehow she manages to get past the desperate man who has stood between her and the gates. She reaches the steps, her foot already touches the landing above them, when he overtakes her, and madly plunges his knife into her back. With a shriek heard above the shouts of the crowd within, she staggers, falls, and rolls lifeless down the steps into the square. The doors of the arena swing open. Acclaiming the prowess of _Escamillo_, out pours the crowd, suddenly to halt, hushed and horror-stricken, at the body of a woman dead at the foot of the steps. "I am your prisoner," says _Don José_ to an officer. "I killed her." Then, throwing himself over the body, he cries: "Carmen!--Carmen! I love you!--Speak to me!--I adore you!" * * * * * At its production at the Opéra Comique, "Carmen" was a failure. In view of the world-wide popularity the work was to achieve, that failure has become historic. It had, however, one lamentable result. Bizet, utterly depressed and discouraged, died exactly three months after the production, and before he could have had so much as an inkling of the success "Carmen" was to obtain. It was not until four months after his death that the opera, produced in Vienna, celebrated its first triumph. Then came Brussels, London, New York. At last, in 1883, "Carmen" was brought back to Paris for what Pierre Berton calls "the brilliant reparation." But Bizet, mortally wounded in his pride as an artist, had died disconsolate. The "reparation" was to the public, not to him. Whoever will take the trouble to read extracts from the reviews in the Paris press of the first performance of "Carmen" will find that the score of this opera, so full of well-rounded, individual, and distinctive melodies--ensemble, concerted, and solo--was considered too Wagnerian. More than one trace of this curious attitude toward an opera, in which the melodies, or tunes, if you choose so to call them, crowd upon each other almost as closely as in "Il Trovatore," and certainly are as numerous as in "Aïda," still can be found in the article on "Carmen" in the _Dictionnaire des Opéras_, one of the most unsatisfactory essays in that work. Nor, speaking with the authority of Berton, who saw the second performance, was the failure due to defects in the cast. He speaks of Galli-Marié (_Carmen_), Chapuis (_Micaela_), Lherie (_Don José_), and Bouhy (_Escamillo_), as "equal to their tasks ... an admirable quartet." America has had its _Carmen_ periods. Minnie Hauck established an individuality in the rôle, which remained potent until the appearance in this country of Calvé. When Grau wanted to fill the house, all he had to do was to announce Calvé as _Carmen_. She so dominated the character with her beauty, charm, _diablerie_, and vocal art that, after she left the Metropolitan Opera House, it became impossible to revive the opera there with success, until Farrar made her appearance in it, November 19, 1914, with Alda as _Micaela_, Caruso as _Don José_, and Amato as _Escamillo_. A season or two before Oscar Hammerstein gave "Carmen" at the Manhattan Opera House, a French company, which was on its last legs when it struck New York, appeared in a performance of "Carmen" at the Casino, and the next day went into bankruptcy. The _Carmen_ was Bressler-Gianoli. Her interpretation brought out the coarse fibre in the character, and was so much the opposite of Calvé's, that it was interesting by contrast. It seemed that had the company been able to survive, "Carmen" could have been featured in its repertoire, by reason of Bressler-Gianoli's grasp of the character as Mérimée had drawn it in his novel, where _Carmen_ is of a much coarser personality than in the opera. The day after the performance I went to see Heinrich Conried, then director of the Metropolitan Opera House, and told him of the impression she had made, but he did not engage her. The _Carmen_ of Bressler-Gianoli (with Dalmorès, Trentini, Ancona, and Gilibert) was one of the principal successes of the Manhattan Opera House. It was first given December 14, 1906, and scored the record for the season with nineteen performances, "Aïda" coming next with twelve, and "Rigoletto" with eleven. Mary Garden's _Carmen_ is distinctive and highly individualized on the acting side. It lacks however the lusciousness of voice, the vocal lure, that a singer must lavish upon the rôle to make it a complete success. One of the curiosities of opera in America was the appearance at the Metropolitan Opera House, November 25, 1885, of Lilli Lehmann as _Carmen_. A word is due Bizet's authors for the admirable libretto they have made from Mérimée's novel. The character of _Carmen_ is, of course, the creation of the novelist. But in his book the _Toreador_ is not introduced until almost the very end, and is but one of a succession of lovers whom _Carmen_ has had since she ensnared _Don José_. In the opera the _Toreador_ is made a principal character, and figures prominently from the second act on. _Micaela_, so essential for contrast in the opera, both as regards plot and music, is a creation of the librettists. But their master-stroke is the placing of the scene of the murder just outside the arena where the bullfight is in progress, and in having _Carmen_ killed by _Don José_ at the moment _Escamillo_ is acclaimed victor by the crowd within. In the book he slays her on a lonely road outside the city of Cordova the day after the bullfight. LES PÊCHEURS DE PERLES THE PEARL FISHERS Besides "Carmen," Bizet was the composer of "Les Pêcheurs de Perles" (The Pearl Fishers) and "Djamileh." "Les Pêcheurs de Perles," the words by Carré and Cormon, is in three acts. It was produced at the Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, September 29, 1863. London saw it under the title of "Leila," April 22, 1887, at Covent Garden; as "Pescatori di Perle," May 18, 1899. The New York production was at the Metropolitan Opera House, January 11, 1896, with Calvé; and November 13, 1916, with Caruso. The scene is Ceylon, the period barbaric. The first act shows a company of pearl fishers on the coast. They choose _Zurga_ as chief. He and his friend _Nadir_, in the duet, "Au fond du temple saint" (In the depths of the temple), recall their former rivalry for the hand of the beautiful priestess, _Leila_, and how they swore never to see her again. Now approaches a veiled priestess who comes annually to pray for the success of the pearl fishers. She prays to Brahma. _Nadir_ recognizes _Leila_. His love for her at once revives. She goes into the temple. He sings "Je crois entendre encore" (I hear as in a dream). When she returns and again invokes the aid of Brahma, she manages to convey to _Nadir_ the knowledge that she has recognized and still loves him. In the second act, in a ruined temple, the high priest, _Nourabad_, warns her, on pain of death, to be faithful to her religious vows. _Leila_ tells him he need have no fear. She never breaks a promise. The necklace she wears was given her by a fugitive, whose hiding place she refused to reveal, although the daggers of his pursuers were pointed at her heart. She had promised not to betray him. Her solo, "Comme autrefois," etc. (A fugitive one day), is followed by the retirement of the priest, and the entrance of _Nadir_. There is an impassioned love duet, the effect of which is heightened by a raging storm without: "Ton coeur n'a pas compris" (You have not understood). _Nourabad_, returning unexpectedly, overhears the lovers, and summons the people. _Zurga_, as chief and judge, desires to be merciful for the sake of his friend. But _Nourabad_ tears the veil from _Leila_. It is the woman _Nadir_ has sworn never to see--the woman _Zurga_ also loves. Enraged, he passes sentence of death upon them. In the third act, the camp of _Zurga_, _Leila_ expresses her willingness to die, but pleads for _Nadir_, "Pour moi je ne crains rien" (I have no fear). _Zurga_ is implacable, until he recognizes the necklace she wears as one he had given many years before to the girl who refused when he was a fugitive to deliver him up to his enemies. The scene changes to the place of execution, where has been erected a funeral pyre. Just as the guilty lovers are to be led to their death, a distant glow is seen. _Zurga_ cries out that the camp is on fire. The people rush away to fight the flames. _Zurga_ tells _Leila_ and _Nadir_ that he set fire to the camp. He then unfastens their chains and bids them flee. Terzet: "Ô lumière sainte" (O sacred light). From a hiding place _Nourabad_ has witnessed the scene. When the people return, he denounces _Zurga's_ act in setting fire to the camp and permitting _Leila_ and _Nadir_ to escape. _Zurga_ is compelled to mount the pyre. A deep glow indicates that the forest is ablaze. The people prostrate themselves to Brahma, whose wrath they fear. _Leila_ is for soprano, _Nadir_ tenor, _Zurga_ baritone, _Nourabad_ bass. In the performance with Calvé only two acts were given. The rest of the program consisted of "La Navarraise," by Massenet. DJAMILEH "Djamileh," produced at the Opéra Comique, is in one act, words by Louis Gallet, based on Alfred de Musset's poem, "Namouna." The scene is Cairo, the time mediæval. _Djamileh_, a beautiful slave, is in love with her master, _Prince Haroun_, a Turkish nobleman, who is tired of her and is about to sell her. She persuades his secretary, _Splendiano_, who is in love with her, to aid her in regaining her master's affections. She will marry _Splendiano_ if she fails. Accordingly, with the secretary's aid, when the slave dealer arrives, she is, in disguise, among the slaves offered to _Haroun_. She dances. _Haroun_ is entranced, and immediately buys her. When she discloses her identity, and pleads that her ruse was prompted by her love for him, he receives her back into his affections. _Djamileh_ is for mezzo-soprano, the men's rôles for tenor. Besides the dance, there are a duet for the men, "Que l'esclave soit brune ou blonde" (Let the slave be dark or fair); a trio, "Je voyais au loin la mer s'étendre" (The distant sea have I beheld extending); and the chorus, "Quelle est cette belle" (Who is the charmer). Italian Opera Since Verdi Chief among Italian opera composers of the present day are Puccini, Mascagni, and Leoncavallo. Others are Giordano, Wolf-Ferrari, Zandonai, Montemezzi, and Leoni. Modern Italian opera differs from Italian opera, old style, largely through the devotion of the moderns to effects of realism--the Italian _verismo_, of which we hear so much. These effects of realism are produced largely by an orchestral accompaniment that constantly adapts itself descriptively to what is said and done on the stage. At not infrequent intervals, however, when a strongly emotional situation demands sustained expression, the restless play of orchestral depiction and the brief exchange of vocal phrases merge into eloquent melody for voice with significant instrumental accompaniment. Thus beautiful vocal melody, fluently sung, remains, in spite of all tendency toward the much vaunted effect of _verismo_, the heart and soul, as ever, of Italian opera. Much difference, however, exists between the character of the melody in the modern and the old Italian opera. Speaking, of course, in general terms, the old style Italian operatic melody is sharply defined in outline and rhythm, whereas the melody of modern Italian opera, resting upon a more complicated accompaniment, is subject in a much greater degree to rhythmic and harmonic changes. Since, however, that is little more than saying that the later style of Italian opera is more modern than the older, I will add, what seems to me the most characteristic difference in their idioms. Italian melody, old style, derives much of its character from the dotted note, with the necessarily marked acceleration of the next note, as, for example, in "Ah! non giunge" ("La Sonnambula"), an air which is typical of the melodious measures of Italian opera of the first sixty or seventy years of the last century; and that, too, whether the emotion to be expressed is ecstasy, as in "Ah! non giunge," above; grief, as in _Edgardo's_ last aria in "Lucia di Lammermoor,"--"Tu che a Dio spiegasti l'ali" (Thou has [Transcriber's Note: should be 'hast'] spread thy wings to Heaven), the spirit of festive greeting as in the chorus from the previous act of the same opera, or passionate love as in _Elvira's_ and _Ernani's_ duet; "Ah morir potessi adesso." It does not occur as frequently in Rossini as in Bellini and Donizetti, while Verdi, as he approaches his ripest period, discards it with growing frequency. I am also aware that the dotted note is found in abundance in the music of all civilized countries. Nevertheless it is from its prominence in the melodic phrase, the impetus imparted by it, and the sharp reiterated rhythmic beat which it usually calls for, that Italian melody of the last century, up to about 1870, derives much of its energy, swing, and passion. It is, in fact, idiomatic. Wholly different is the idiom of modern Italian music. It consists of the sudden stressing of the melody at a vital point by means of the triolet--the triplet, as we call it. An excellent example is the love motif for _Nedda_ in "I Pagliacci," by Leoncavallo. [Music] If the dotted note is peculiarly adapted to the careless rapture with which the earlier Italian composers lavished melody after melody upon their scores, the triolet suits the more laboured efforts of the modern Italian muse. Another effect typical of modern Italian opera is the use of the foreign note--that is, the sudden employment of a note strange to the key of the composition. This probably is done for the sake of giving piquancy to a melody that otherwise might be considered commonplace. _Turiddu's_ drinking song in "Cavalleria Rusticana" is a good example. [Music] In orderly harmonic progression the first tone in the bass of the second bar would be F-sharp, instead of F-natural, which is a note foreign to the key. This example is quoted in Ferdinand Pfohl's _Modern Opera_, in which he says of the triolet and its use in the opera of modern Italy, that its peculiarly energetic sweep, powerful suspense, and quickening, fiery heart-beat lend themselves amazingly to the art of _verismo_. Pietro Mascagni (1863- ) Pietro Mascagni was born in Leghorn, Italy, December 7, 1863. His father was a baker. The elder Mascagni, ambitious for his boy, wanted him to study law. The son himself preferred music, and studied surreptitiously. An uncle, who sympathized with his aims, helped him financially. After the uncle's death a nobleman, Count Florestan, sent him to the Milan Conservatory. There he came under the instruction and influence of Ponchielli. After two years' study at the conservatory he began a wandering life, officiating for the next five years as conductor of opera companies, most of which disbanded unexpectedly and impecuniously. He eked out a meagre income, being compelled at one time to subsist on a plate of macaroni a day. His finances were not greatly improved when he settled in Cerignola, where he directed a school for orchestra players and taught pianoforte and theory. He was married and in most straitened circumstances when he composed "Cavalleria Rusticana" and sent it off to the publisher Sonzogno, who had offered a prize for a one-act opera. It received the award. May 17, 1890, at the Constanzi Theatre, Rome, it had its first performance. Before the representation had progressed very far, the half-filled house was in a state of excitement and enthusiasm bordering on hysteria. The production of "Cavalleria Rusticana" remains one of the sensational events in the history of opera. It made Mascagni famous in a night. Everywhere it was given--and it was given everywhere--it made the same sensational success. Its vogue was so great, it "took" so rapidly, that it was said to have infected the public with "Mascagnitis." In "'Cavalleria Rusticana' music and text work in wonderful harmony in the swift and gloomy tragedy." Nothing Mascagni has composed since has come within hailing distance of it. The list of his operas is a fairly long one. Most of them have been complete failures. In America, "Iris" has, since its production, been the subject of occasional revival. "Lodoletta," brought out by Gatti-Casazza at the Metropolitan Opera House in 1918, had the advantage of a cast that included Caruso and Farrar. "Isabeau" had its first performance in the United States of America, in Chicago by the Chicago Opera Company under the direction of Cleofante Campanini in 1917, and was given by the same organization in New York in 1918. (See p. 625.) With Mascagni's opera, "Le Maschere" (The Maskers), which was produced in 1901, the curious experiment was made of having the first night occur simultaneously in six Italian cities. It was a failure in all, save Rome, where it survived for a short time. Of the unfortunate results of Mascagni's American visit in 1902 not much need be said. A "scratch" company was gotten together for him. With this he gave poor performances at the Metropolitan Opera House, of "Cavalleria Rusticana," "Zanetto," and "Iris." The tour ended in lawsuits and failure. "Zanetto," which is orchestrated only for string band and a harp, was brought out with "Cavalleria Rusticana" in a double bill, October 8, 1902; "Iris," October 16th. CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA RUSTIC CHIVALRY Opera, in one act, by Mascagni; words by Giovanni Targioni-Toggetti and G. Menasci, the libretto being founded on a story by Giovanni Verga. Produced, Constanzi Theatre, Rome, May 17, 1890. London, Shaftesbury Theatre, October 19, 1891. Covent Garden, May 16, 1892. America: Philadelphia, Grand Opera House, September 9, 1891, under the direction of Gustav Hinrichs, with Selma Kronold (_Santuzza_), Miss Campbell (_Lola_), Jeannie Teal (_Lucia_), Guille (_Turiddu_), Del Puente (_Alfio_). Chicago, September 30, 1891, with Minnie Hauck as _Santuzza_. New York, October 1, 1891, at an afternoon "dress rehearsal" at the Casino, under the direction of Rudolph Aronson, with Laura Bellini (_Santuzza_), Grace Golden (_Lola_), Helen von Doenhof (_Lucia_), Charles Bassett (_Turiddu_), William Pruette (_Alfio_), Gustav Kerker, conductor, Heinrich Conried, stage manager. Evening of same day, at the Lenox Lyceum, under the direction of Oscar Hammerstein, with Mme. Janouschoffsky (_Santuzza_), Mrs. Pemberton Hincks (_Lola_), Mrs. Jennie Bohner (_Lucia_), Payne Clarke (_Turiddu_), Herman Gerold (_Alfio_), Adolph Neuendorff, conductor. Metropolitan Opera House, December 30, 1891, with Eames as _Santuzza_; November 29, 1893, with Calvé (début) as _Santuzza_. CHARACTERS TURIDDU, a young soldier _Tenor_ ALFIO, the village teamster _Baritone_ LOLA, his wife _Mezzo-Soprano_ MAMMA LUCIA, Turiddu's mother _Contralto_ SANTUZZA, a village girl _Soprano_ Villagers, peasants, boys. _Time_--The present, on Easter day. _Place_--A village in Sicily. "Cavalleria Rusticana" in its original form is a short story, compact and tense, by Giovanni Verga. From it was made the stage tragedy, in which Eleonora Duse displayed her great powers as an actress. It is a drama of swift action and intense emotion; of passion, betrayal, and retribution. Much has been made of the rôle played by the "book" in contributing to the success of the opera. It is a first-rate libretto--one of the best ever put forth. It inspired the composer to what so far has remained his only significant achievement. But only in that respect is it responsible for the success of "Cavalleria Rusticana" as an opera. The hot blood of the story courses through the music of Mascagni, who in his score also has quieter passages, that make the cries of passion the more poignant. Like practically every enduring success, that of "Cavalleria Rusticana" rests upon merit. From beginning to end it is an inspiration. In it, in 1890, Mascagni, at the age of twenty-one, "found himself," and ever since has been trying, unsuccessfully, to find himself again. The prelude contains three passages of significance in the development of the story. The first of these is the phrase of the despairing _Santuzza_, in which she cries out to _Turiddu_ that, despite his betrayal and desertion of her, she still loves and pardons him. The second is the melody of the duet between _Santuzza_ and _Turiddu_, in which she implores him to remain with her and not to follow _Lola_ into the church. The third is the air in Sicilian style, the "Siciliana," which, as part of the prelude, _Turiddu_ sings behind the curtain, in the manner of a serenade to _Lola_, "O Lola, bianca come fior di spino" (O Lola, fair as a smiling flower). With the end of the "Siciliana" the curtain rises. It discloses a public square in a Sicilian village. On one side, in the background, is a church, on the other _Mamma Lucia's_ wineshop and dwelling. It is Easter morning. Peasants, men, women, and children cross or move about the stage. The church bells ring, the church doors swing open, people enter. A chorus, in which, mingled with gladness over the mild beauty of the day, there also is the lilt of religious ecstasy, follows. Like a refrain the women voice and repeat "Gli aranci olezzano sui verdi margini" (Sweet is the air with the blossoms of oranges). They intone "La Vergine serena allietasi del Salvator" (The Holy Mother mild, in ecstasy fondles the child), and sing of "Tempo è si mormori," etc. (Murmurs of tender song tell of a joyful world). The men, meanwhile, pay a tribute to the industry and charm of woman. Those who have not entered the church, go off singing. Their voices die away in the distance. _Santuzza_, sad of mien, approaches _Mamma Lucia's_ house, just as her false lover's mother comes out. There is a brief colloquy between the two women. _Santuzza_ asks for _Turiddu_. His mother answers that he has gone to Francofonte to fetch some wine. _Santuzza_ tells her that he was seen during the night in the village. The girl's evident distress touches _Mamma Lucia_. She bids her enter the house. "I may not step across your threshold," exclaims _Santuzza_. "I cannot pass it, I, most unhappy outcast! Excommunicated!" _Mamma Lucia_ may have her suspicions of _Santuzza's_ plight. "What of my son?" she asks. "What have you to tell me?" But at that moment the cracking of a whip and the jingling of bells are heard from off stage. _Alfio_, the teamster, comes upon the scene. He is accompanied by the villagers. Cheerfully he sings the praises of a teamster's life, also of _Lola's_, his wife's, beauty. The villagers join him in chorus, "Il cavallo scalpita" (Gayly moves the tramping horse). _Alfio_ asks _Mamma Lucia_ if she still has on hand some of her fine old wine. She tells him it has given out. _Turiddu_ has gone away to buy a fresh supply of it. "No," says _Alfio_. "He is here. I saw him this morning standing not far from my cottage." _Mamma Lucia_ is about to express great surprise. _Santuzza_ is quick to check her. [Illustration: Gadski as Santuzza in "Cavalleria Rusticana"] _Alfio_ goes his way. A choir in the church intones the "Regina Coeli." The people in the square join in the "Allelujas." Then they kneel and, led by _Santuzza's_ voice, sing the Resurrection hymn, "Inneggiamo, il Signor non è morto" (Let us sing of the Lord now victorious). The "Allelujas" resound in the church, which all, save _Mamma Lucia_ and _Santuzza_, enter. _Mamma Lucia_ asks the girl why she signalled her to remain silent when _Alfio_ spoke of _Turiddu's_ presence in the village. "Voi lo sapete" (Now you shall know), exclaims _Santuzza_, and in one of the most impassioned numbers of the score, pours into the ears of her lover's mother the story of her betrayal. Before _Turiddu_ left to serve his time in the army, he and _Lola_ were in love with each other. But, tiring of awaiting his return, the fickle _Lola_ married _Alfio_. _Turiddu_, after he had come back, made love to _Santuzza_ and betrayed her; now, lured by _Lola_, he has taken advantage of _Alfio's_ frequent absences, and has gone back to his first love. _Mamma Lucia_ pities the girl, who begs that she go into church and pray for her. _Turiddu_ comes, a handsome fellow. _Santuzza_ upbraids him for pretending to have gone away, when instead he has surreptitiously been visiting _Lola_. It is a scene of vehemence. But when _Turiddu_ intimates that his life would be in danger were _Alfio_ to know of his visits to _Lola_, the girl is terrified. "Battimi, insultami, t'amo e perdono" (Beat me, insult me, I still love and forgive you). Such is her mood--despairing, yet relenting. But _Lola's_ voice is heard off stage. Her song is carefree, a key to her character, which is fickle and selfish, with a touch of the cruel. "Fior di giaggiolo" (Bright flower, so glowing) runs her song. Heard off stage, it yet conveys in its melody, its pauses, and inflections, a quick sketch in music of the heartless coquette, who, to gratify a whim, has stolen _Turiddu_ from _Santuzza_. She mocks the girl, then enters the church. Only a few minutes has she been on the stage, but Mascagni has let us know all about her. A highly dramatic scene, one of the most impassioned outbursts of the score, occurs at this point. _Turiddu_ turns to follow _Lola_ into the church. _Santuzza_ begs him to stay. "No, no, Turiddu, rimani, rimani, ancora--Abbandonarmi dunque tu vuoi?" (No, no, Turiddu! Remain with me now and forever! Love me again! How can you forsake me?). [Music] A highly dramatic phrase, already heard in the prelude, occurs at "La tua Santuzza piange e t'implora" (Lo! here thy Santuzza, weeping, implores thee). _Turiddu_ repulses her. She clings to him. He loosens her hold and casts her from him to the ground. When she rises, he has followed _Lola_ into the church. But the avenger is nigh. Before _Santuzza_ has time to think, _Alfio_ comes upon the scene. He is looking for _Lola_. To him in the fewest possible words, and in the white voice of suppressed passion, _Santuzza_ tells him that his wife has been unfaithful with _Turiddu_. In the brevity of its recitatives, the tense summing up in melody of each dramatic situation as it develops in the inexorably swift unfolding of the tragic story, lies the strength of "Cavalleria Rusticana." _Santuzza_ and _Alfio_ leave. The square is empty. But the action goes on in the orchestra. For the intermezzo--the famous intermezzo--which follows, recapitulates, in its forty-eight bars, what has gone before, and foreshadows the tragedy that is impending. There is no restating here of leading motives. The effect is accomplished by means of terse, vibrant melodic progression. It is melody and yet it is drama. Therein lies its merit. For no piece of serious music can achieve the world-wide popularity of this intermezzo and not possess merit. [Music] Mr. Krehbiel, in _A Second Book of Operas_, gives an instance of its unexampled appeal to the multitude. A burlesque on this opera was staged in Vienna. The author of the burlesque thought it would be a great joke to have the intermezzo played on a hand-organ. Up to that point the audience had been hilarious. But with the first wheezy tone of the grinder the people settled down to silent attention, and, when the end came, burst into applause. Even the hand-organ could not rob the intermezzo of its charm for the public! What is to follow in the opera is quickly accomplished. The people come out of church. _Turiddu_, in high spirits, because he is with _Lola_ and because _Santuzza_ no longer is hanging around to reproach him, invites his friends over to his mother's wineshop. Their glasses are filled. _Turiddu_ dashes off a drinking song, "Viva, il vino spumeggiante" (Hail! the ruby wine now flowing). The theme of this song will be found quoted on p. 609. _Alfio_ joins them. _Turiddu_ offers him wine. He refuses it. The women leave, taking _Lola_ with them. In a brief exchange of words _Alfio_ gives the challenge. In Sicilian fashion the two men embrace, and _Turiddu_, in token of acceptance, bites _Alfio's_ ear. _Alfio_ goes off in the direction of the place where they are to test their skill with the stiletto. _Turiddu_ calls for _Mamma Lucia_. He is going away, he tells her. At home the wine cup passes too freely. He must leave. If he should not come back she must be like a kindly mother to _Santuzza_--"_Santa_, whom I have promised to lead to the altar." "Un bacio, mamma! Un altro bacio!--Addio!" (One kiss, one kiss, my mother. And yet another. Farewell!) He goes. _Mamma Lucia_ wanders aimlessly to the back of the stage. She is weeping. _Santuzza_ comes on, throws her arms around the poor woman's neck. People crowd upon the scene. All is suppressed excitement. There is a murmur of distant voices. A woman is heard calling from afar: "They have murdered neighbour Turiddu!" Several women enter hastily. One of them, the one whose voice was heard in the distance, repeats, but now in a shriek, "Hanno ammazzato compare Turiddu!"--(They have murdered neighbour Turiddu!) _Santuzza_ falls in a swoon. The fainting form of _Mamma Lucia_ is supported by some of the women. "Cala rapidamente la tela" (The curtain falls rapidly). A tragedy of Sicily, hot in the blood, is over. When "Cavalleria Rusticana" was produced, no Italian opera had achieved such a triumph since "Aïda"--a period of nearly twenty years. It was hoped that Mascagni would prove to be Verdi's successor, a hope which, needless to say, has not been fulfilled. To "Cavalleria Rusticana," however, we owe the succession of short operas, usually founded on debased and sordid material, in which other composers have paid Mascagni the doubtful compliment of imitation in hopes of achieving similar success. Of all these, "Pagliacci," by Leoncavallo, is the only one that has shared the vogue of the Mascagni opera. The two make a remarkably effective double bill. L'AMICO FRITZ FRIEND FRITZ Opera in three acts, by Pietro Mascagni; text by Suaratoni [Transcriber's Note: later editions have P. Suardon (N. Daspuro)], from the story by Erckmann-Chatrian. Produced, Rome, 1891. Philadelphia, by Gustav Hinrichs, June 8, 1892. New York, Metropolitan Opera House, with Calvé as _Suzel_, January 10, 1894. CHARACTERS FRITZ KOBUS, a rich bachelor _Tenor_ DAVID, a Rabbi _Baritone_ FREDERICO } friends of Fritz { _Tenor_ HANEGO } { _Tenor_ SUZEL, a farmer's daughter _Soprano_ BEPPE, a gypsy _Soprano_ CATERINA, a housekeeper _Contralto_ _Time_--The present. _Place_--Alsace. Act I. _Fritz Kobus_, a well-to-do landowner and confirmed bachelor, receives felicitations on his fortieth birthday. He invites his friends to dine with him. Among the guests is _Suzel_, his tenant's daughter, who presents him with a nosegay, and sits beside him. Never before has he realized her charm. _Rabbi David_, a confirmed matchmaker, wagers with the protesting _Fritz_ that he will soon be married. Act II. _Friend Fritz_ is visiting _Suzel's_ father. The charming girl mounts a ladder in the garden, picks cherries, and throws them down to _Fritz_, who is charmed. When _Rabbi David_ appears and tells him that he has found a suitable husband for _Suzel_, _Fritz_ cannot help revealing his own feelings. Act III. At home again _Fritz_ finds no peace. _David_ tells him _Suzel's_ marriage has been decided on. _Fritz_ loses his temper; says he will forbid the bans. _Suzel_, pale and sad, comes in with a basket of fruit. When her wedding is mentioned she bursts into tears. That gives _Fritz_ his chance which he improves. _David_ wins his wager, one of _Fritz's_ vineyards, which he promptly bestows upon _Suzel_ as a dowry. The duet of the cherries in the second act is the principal musical number in the opera. IRIS Opera in three acts, by Mascagni. Words by Luigi Illica. Produced, Constanzi Theatre, Rome, November 22, 1898; revised version, La Scala, Milan, 1899. Philadelphia, October 14, 1902, and Metropolitan Opera House, New York, October 16, 1902, under the composer's direction (Marie Farneti, as _Iris_); Metropolitan Opera House, 1908, with Eames (_Iris_), Caruso (_Osaka_), Scotti, and Journet; April 3, 1915, Bori, Botta, and Scotti. CHARACTERS IL CIECO, the blind man _Bass_ IRIS, his daughter _Soprano_ OSAKA _Tenor_ KYOTO, a _takiomati_ _Baritone_ Ragpickers, shopkeepers, geishas, _mousmés_ (laundry girls), _samurai_, citizens, strolling players, three women representing Beauty, Death, and the Vampire; a young girl. _Time_--Nineteenth century. _Place_--Japan. [Illustration: Copyright photo by White Bori as Iris] Act I. The home of _Iris_ near the city. The hour is before dawn. The music depicts the passage from night into day. It rises to a crashing climax--the instrumentation including tamtams, cymbals, drums, and bells--while voices reiterate, "Calore! Luce! Amor!" (Warmth! Light! Love!). In warmth and light there are love and life. A naturalistic philosophy, to which this opening gives the key, runs through "Iris." Fujiyama glows in the early morning light, as _Iris_, who loves only her blind father, comes to the door of her cottage. She has dreamed that monsters sought to injure her doll, asleep under a rosebush. With the coming of the sun the monsters have fled. _Mousmés_ come to the bank of the stream and sing prettily over their work. _Iris_ is young and beautiful. She is desired by _Osaka_, a wealthy rake. _Kyoto_, keeper of a questionable resort, plots to obtain her for him. He comes to her cottage with a marionette show. While _Iris_ is intent upon the performance, three geisha girls, representing Beauty, Death, and the Vampire, dance about her. They conceal her from view by spreading their skirts. She is seized and carried off. _Osaka_, by leaving money for the blind old father, makes the abduction legal. When _Il Cieco_ returns, he is led to believe that his daughter has gone voluntarily to the Yoshiwara. In a rage he starts out to find her. Act II. Interior of the "Green House" in the Yoshiwara. _Iris_ awakens. At first she thinks it is an awakening after death. But death brings paradise, while she is unhappy. _Osaka_, who has placed jewels beside her, comes to woo, but vainly seeks to arouse her passions. In her purity she remains unconscious of the significance of his words and caresses. His brilliant attire leads her to mistake him for Tor, the sun god, but he tells her he is Pleasure. That frightens her. For, as she narrates to him, one day, in the temple, a priest told her that pleasure and death were one. _Osaka_ wearies of her innocence and leaves her. But _Kyoto_, wishing to lure him back, attires her in transparent garments and places her upon a balcony. The crowd in the street cries out in amazement over her beauty. Again _Osaka_ wishes to buy her. She hears her father's voice. Joyously she makes her presence known to him. He, ignorant of her abduction and believing her a voluntary inmate of the "Green House," takes a handful of mud from the street, flings it at her, and curses her. In terror, she leaps from a window into the sewer below. Act III. Ragpickers and scavengers are dragging the sewer before daylight. In song they mock the moon. A flash of light from the mystic mountain awakens what is like an answering gleam in the muck. They discover and drag out the body of _Iris_. They begin to strip her of her jewels. She shows signs of life. The sordid men and women flee. The rosy light from Fujiyama spreads over the sky. Warmth and light come once more. _Iris_ regains consciousness. Spirit voices whisper of earthly existence and its selfish aspirations typified by the knavery of _Kyoto_, the lust of _Osaka_, the desire of _Iris's_ father, _Il Cieco_, for the comforts of life through her ministrations. Enough strength comes back to her for her to acclaim the sanctity of the sun. In its warmth and light--the expression of Nature's love--she sinks, as if to be absorbed by Nature, into the blossoming field that spreads about her. Again, as in the beginning, there is the choired tribute to warmth, light, love--the sun! Partly sordid, partly ethereal in its exposition, the significance of this story has escaped Mascagni, save in the climax of the opening allegory of the work. Elsewhere he employs instruments associated by us with Oriental music, but the spirit of the Orient is lacking. In a score requiring subtlety of invention, skill in instrumentation, and, in general, the gift for poetic expression in music, these qualities are not. The scene of the _mousmés_ in the first act with _Iris's_ song to the flowers of her garden, "In pure stille" ([Transcriber's Note: translation left blank in original; should probably be 'In pure droplets']); the vague, yet unmistakable hum of Japanese melody in the opening of Act II; and her narrative in the scene with _Osaka_ in the same act, "Un dì al tempio" (One day at the temple)--these, with the hymn to the sun, are about the only passages that require mention. LODOLETTA Opera in three acts, by Mascagni. Words by Gioacchino Forzano, after Ouida's novel, _Two Little Wooden Shoes_. Produced, Rome, April 30, 1917. Metropolitan Opera House, New York, January 12, 1918, with Farrar (later in the season, Florence Easton) as _Lodoletta_, Caruso (_Flammen_), Amato (_Giannotto_), and Didur (_Antonio_). CHARACTERS LODOLETTA _Soprano_ FLAMMEN _Tenor_ FRANZ _Bass_ GIANNOTTO _Baritone_ ANTONIO _Bass_ A MAD WOMAN _Mezzo-Soprano_ VANNARD _Mezzo-Soprano_ MAUD _Soprano_ A VOICE _Tenor_ A letter carrier, an old violinist. _Time_--Second empire. _Place_--A Dutch village. _Lodoletta_, a young girl, who lives in a little Dutch village, is a foundling, who has been brought up by old _Antonio_. He discovered her as an infant in a basket of flowers at the lakeside. When she has grown up to be sixteen, she is eager for a pair of red wooden shoes, but _Antonio_ cannot afford to buy them. _Flammen_, a painter from Paris, offers him a gold piece for a roadside Madonna he owns. _Antonio_ takes it, and with it buys the shoes for _Lodoletta_. Soon afterwards the old man is killed by a fall from a tree. _Lodoletta_ is left alone in the world. _Flammen_, who has conceived a deep affection for her, persuades her to be his model. This makes the villagers regard her with suspicion. She begs him to go. He returns to Paris, only to find that absence makes him fonder of the girl than ever. He returns to the village. _Lodoletta_ has disappeared. His efforts to find her fail. On New Year's his friends gather at his villa to celebrate, and make him forget his love affair in gayety. The celebration is at its height, when _Lodoletta_, who, in her turn, has been searching for _Flammen_, reaches the garden. She has wandered far and is almost exhausted, but has found _Flammen's_ house at last. She thinks he is expecting her, because the villa is so brilliantly illuminated. But, when she looks through the window upon the gay scene, she falls, cold, exhausted, and disillusioned, in the snow just as midnight sounds. _Flammen's_ party of friends depart, singing merrily. As he turns back toward the house he discovers a pair of little red wooden shoes. They are sadly worn. But he recognizes them. He looks for _Lodoletta_, only to find her frozen to death in the snow. It may be that "Lodoletta's" success at its production in Rome was genuine. Whatever acclaim it has received at the Metropolitan Opera House is due to the fine cast with which it has been presented. There is little spontaneity in the score. A spirit of youthfulness is supposed to pervade the first act, but the composer's efforts are so apparent that the result is childish rather than youthful. Moreover, as Henry T. Finck writes in the N.Y. _Evening Post_, "Lodoletta" seems to have revived some of the dramatic inconsistencies of the old-fashioned kind of Italian opera. For instance, in the last act, the scene is laid outside _Flammen's_ villa in Paris on New Year's eve--it is zero weather to all appearances, although there is an intermittent snowstorm--but _Flammen_ and _Franz_, and later all his guests, come out without wraps, and stay for quite awhile. Later _Lodoletta_, well wrapped (though in rags), appears, and is quickly frozen to death. The scene of the first act is laid in the village in April. _Lodoletta's_ cottage is seen and the shrine with the picture of the Madonna. It is in order to copy or obtain this that _Flammen_ comes from Paris. In the background is the tree which _Antonio_ climbs and from which, while he is plucking blossom-laden branches for the spring festival, he falls and is killed--a great relief, the character is so dull. There is much running in and out, and singing by boys and girls in this act. The music allotted to them is pretty without being extraordinarily fetching. An interchange of phrases between _Flammen_ and _Lodoletta_ offers opportunity for high notes to the tenor, but there is small dramatic significance in the music. In the second act the stage setting is the same, except that the season is autumn. There is a song for _Lodoletta_, and, as in Act I, episodes for her and the children, who exclaim delightedly when they see the picture _Flammen_ has been painting, "È Lodoletta viva, com'è bella" (See! Lodoletta, and so pretty!). But there is little progress made in this act. Much of it has the effect of repetition. In the third act one sees the exterior of _Flammen's_ villa, and through the open gates of the courtyard Paris in the midst of New Year's gayety. The merriment within the villa is suggested by music and silhouetted figures against the windows. Some of the guests dash out, throw confetti, and indulge in other pranks, which, intended to be bright and lively, only seem silly. As in the previous acts, the sustained measures for _Lodoletta_ and for _Flammen_, while intended to be dramatic, lack that quality--one which cannot be dispensed with in opera. "The spectacle of _Flammen_, in full evening dress and without a hat, singing on his doorstep in a snowstorm, would tickle the funny bone of any but an operatic audience," writes Grenville Vernon in the N.Y. _Tribune_. ISABEAU With Rosa Raisa in the title rôle, the Chicago Opera Company produced Mascagni's "Isabeau" at the Auditorium, Chicago, November 12, 1918. The company repeated it at the Lexington Theatre, New York, February 13, 1918, also with Rosa Raisa as _Isabeau_. The opera had its first performances on any stage at Buenos Aires, June 2, 1911. The libretto, based upon the story of Lady Godiva, is in three acts, and is the work of Luigi Illica. The opera has made so little impression that I restrict myself to giving the story. In Illica's version of the Godiva story, the heroine, _Isabeau_, is as renowned for her aversion to marriage as for her beauty. Her father, _King Raimondo_, eager to find for her a husband, arranges a tournament of love, at which she is to award her hand as prize to the knight who wins her favour. She rejects them all. For this obstinacy and because she intercedes in a quarrel, _Raimondo_ dooms her to ride unclad through the town at high noon of the same day. At the urging of the populace he modifies his sentence, but only so far as to announce that, while she rides, no one shall remain in the streets or look out of the windows. The order is disobeyed only by a simpleton, a country lout named _Folco_. Dazed by _Isabeau's_ beauty, he strews flowers for her as she comes riding along. For this the people demand that he suffer the full penalty for violation of the order, which is the loss of eyesight and life. _Isabeau_, horrified by _Folco's_ act, visits him in prison. Her revulsion turns to love. She decides to inform her father that she is ready to marry. But the _Chancellor_ incites the populace to carry out the death sentence. _Isabeau_ commits suicide. When "Isabeau" had its American production in Chicago, more than twenty-seven years had elapsed since the first performance of "Cavalleria Rusticana." A long list of operas by Mascagni lies between. But he still remains a one-opera man, that opera, however, a masterpiece. Ruggiero Leoncavallo (1858- ) Leoncavallo, born March 8, 1858, at Naples, is a dramatic composer, a pianist, and a man of letters. He is the composer of the successful opera "Pagliacci," has made concert tours as a pianoforte virtuoso, is his own librettist, and has received the degree of Doctor of Letters from the University of Bologna. He studied at the Naples Conservatory. His first opera, "Tommaso Chatterton," was a failure, but was successfully revived in 1896, in Rome. An admirer of Wagner and personally encouraged by him, he wrote and set to music a trilogy, "Crepusculum" (Twilight): I. "I Medici"; II. "Gerolamo Savonarola"; III. "Cesare Borgia." The performing rights to Part I were acquired by the Ricordi publishing house, but, no preparations being made for its production, he set off again on his travels as a pianist; officiating also as a répétiteur for opera singers, among them Maurel, in Paris, where he remained several years. His friendship with that singer bore unexpected fruit. Despairing of ever seeing "I Medici" performed, and inspired by the success of "Cavalleria Rusticana," Leoncavallo wrote and composed "Pagliacci," and sent it to Ricordi's rival, the music publisher Sonzogno. The latter accepted "Pagliacci" immediately after reading the libretto. Maurel then not only threw his influence in favour of the work, but even offered to create the rôle of _Tonio_; and in that character he was in the original cast (1892). "I Medici" was now produced (La Scala, Milan, 1893), but failed of success. Later operas by Leoncavallo, "La Bohème" (La Fenice Theatre, Venice, 1897) and "Zaza" (Milan, 1900), fared somewhat better, and the latter is played both in Italy and Germany. But "Roland of Berlin," commissioned by the German Emperor and performed December 13, 1904, was a complete failure. In fact Leoncavallo's name is so identified with "Pagliacci" that, like Mascagni, he may be called a one-opera composer. PAGLIACCI CLOWNS Opera in two acts, words and music by Ruggiero Leoncavallo. Produced, Teatro dal Verme, Milan, May 17, 1892. Grand Opera House, New York, June 15, 1893, under the direction of Gustav Hinrichs, with Selma Kronold (_Nedda_), Montegriffo (_Canio_), and Campanari (_Tonio_). Metropolitan Opera House, December 11, 1893, with Melba as _Nedda_, De Lucia as _Canio_, and Ancona as _Tonio_. CHARACTERS CANIO (in the play _Pagliaccio_), head of a troupe of strolling players _Tenor_ NEDDA (in the play _Columbine_), wife of _Canio_ _Soprano_ TONIO (in the play _Taddeo_, a clown) _Baritone_ BEPPE (in the play _Harlequin_) _Tenor_ SILVIO, a villager _Baritone_ Villagers. _Time_--The Feast of the Assumption, about 1865-70. _Place_--Montalto, in Calabria. "Pagliacci" opens with a prologue. There is an instrumental introduction. Then _Tonio_ pokes his head through the curtains,--"Si può? Signore, Signori" (By your leave, Ladies and Gentlemen),--comes out, and sings. The prologue rehearses, or at least hints at, the story of the opera, and does so in musical phrases, which we shall hear again as the work progresses--the bustle of the players as they make ready for the performance; _Canio's_ lament that he must be merry before his audiences, though his heart be breaking; part of the love-making music between _Nedda_ and _Silvio_; and the theme of the intermezzo, to the broad measures of which _Tonio_ sings, "E voi, piuttosto che le nostre povere gabbane" (Ah, think then, sweet people, when you behold us clad in our motley). [Music] The prologue, in spite of ancient prototypes, was a bold stroke on the part of Leoncavallo, and, as the result proved, a successful one. Besides its effectiveness in the opera, it has made a good concert number. Moreover, it is quite unlikely that without it Maurel would have offered to play _Tonio_ at the production of the work in Milan. Act I. The edge of the village of Montalto, Calabria. People are celebrating the Feast of the Assumption. In the background is the tent of the strolling players. These players, _Canio_, _Nedda_, _Tonio_, and _Beppe_, in the costume of their characters in the play they are to enact, are parading through the village. The opening chorus, "Son qua" (They're here), proclaims the innocent joy with which the village hails the arrival of the players. The beating of a drum, the blare of a trumpet are heard. The players, having finished their parade through the village, are returning to their tent. _Beppe_, in his _Harlequin_ costume, enters leading a donkey drawing a gaudily painted cart, in which _Nedda_ is reclining. Behind her, in his _Pagliaccio_ costume, is _Canio_, beating the big drum and blowing the trumpet. _Tonio_, dressed as _Taddeo_, the clown, brings up the rear. The scene is full of life and gayety. Men, women, and boys, singing sometimes in separate groups, sometimes together, form the chorus. The rising inflection in their oft-repeated greeting to _Canio_ as "il principe sei dei Pagliacci" (the prince of Pagliaccios), adds materially to the lilt of joy in their greeting to the players whose coming performance they evidently regard as the climax to the festival. _Canio_ addresses the crowd. At seven o'clock the play will begin. They will witness the troubles of poor _Pagliaccio_, and the vengeance he wreaked on the _Clown_, a treacherous fellow. 'Twill be a strange combination of love and of hate. Again the crowd acclaims its joy at the prospect of seeing the players on the stage behind the flaps of the tent. _Tonio_ comes forward to help _Nedda_ out of the cart. _Canio_ boxes his ears, and lifts _Nedda_ down himself. _Tonio_, jeered at by the women and boys, angrily shakes his fists at the youngsters, and goes off muttering that _Canio_ will have to pay high for what he has done. _Beppe_ leads off the donkey with the cart, comes back, and throws down his whip in front of the tent. A villager asks _Canio_ to drink at the tavern. _Beppe_ joins them. _Canio_ calls to _Tonio_. Is he coming with them? _Tonio_ replies that he must stay behind to groom the donkey. A villager suggests that _Tonio_ is remaining in order to make love to _Nedda_. _Canio_ takes the intended humour of this sally rather grimly. He says that in the play, when he interferes with _Tonio's_ love-making, he lays himself open to a beating. But in real life--let any one, who would try to rob him of _Nedda's_ love, beware. The emphasis with which he speaks causes comment. "What can he mean?" asks _Nedda_ in an aside. "Surely you don't suspect her?" question the villagers of _Canio_. Of course not, protests _Canio_, and kisses _Nedda_ on the forehead. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Caruso as Canio in "I Pagliacci"] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Farrar as Nedda in "I Pagliacci"] Just then the bagpipers from a neighbouring village are heard approaching. The musicians, followed by the people of their village, arrive to join in the festival. All are made welcome, and the villagers, save a few who are waiting for _Canio_ and _Beppe_, go off down the road toward the village. The church bells ring. The villagers sing the pretty chorus, "Din, don--suona vespero" (Ding, dong--the vespers bell). _Canio_ nods good-bye to _Nedda_. He and _Beppe_ go toward the village. _Nedda_ is alone. _Canio's_ words and manner worry her. "How fierce he looked and watched me!--Heavens, if he should suspect me!" But the birds are singing, the birds, whose voices her mother understood. Her thoughts go back to her childhood. She sings, "Oh! che volo d'augelli" (Ah, ye beautiful song-birds), which leads up to her vivacious _ballatella_, "Stridono lassù, liberamente" (Forever flying through the boundless sky). _Tonio_ comes on from behind the theatre. He makes violent love to _Nedda_. The more passionately the clown pleads, the more she mocks him, and the more angry he grows. He seeks forcibly to grasp and kiss her. She backs away from him. Spying the whip where _Beppe_ threw it down, she seizes it, and with it strikes _Tonio_ across the face. Infuriated, he threatens, as he leaves her, that he will yet be avenged on her. A man leans over the wall. He calls in a low voice, "Nedda!" "Silvio!" she cries. "At this hour ... what madness!" He assures her that it is safe for them to meet. He has just left _Canio_ drinking at the tavern. She cautions him that, if he had been a few moments earlier, his presence would have been discovered by _Tonio_. He laughs at the suggestion of danger from a clown. _Silvio_ has come to secure the promise of the woman he loves, and who has pledged her love to him, that she will run away with him from her husband after the performance that night. She does not consent at once, not because of any moral scruples, but because she is afraid. After a little persuasion, however, she yields. The scene reaches its climax in an impassioned love duet, "E allor perchè, di', tu m'hai stregato" (Why hast thou taught me Love's magic story). The lovers prepare to separate, but agree not to do so until after the play, when they are to meet and elope. The jealous and vengeful _Tonio_ has overheard them, and has run to the tavern to bring back _Canio_. He comes just in time to hear _Nedda_ call after _Silvio_, who has climbed the wall, "Tonight, love, and forever I am thine." _Canio_, with drawn dagger, makes a rush to overtake and slay the man, who was with his wife. _Nedda_ places herself between him and the wall, but he thrusts her violently aside, leaps the wall, and starts in pursuit. "May Heaven protect him now," prays _Nedda_ for her lover, while _Tonio_ chuckles. The fugitive has been too swift for _Canio_. The latter returns. "His name!" he demands of _Nedda_, for he does not know who her lover is. _Nedda_ refuses to give it. _Silvio_ is safe! What matter what happens to her. _Canio_ rushes at her to kill her. _Tonio_ and _Beppe_ restrain him. _Tonio_ whispers to him to wait. _Nedda's_ lover surely will be at the play. A look, or gesture from her will betray him. Then _Canio_ can wreak vengeance. _Canio_ thinks well of _Tonio's_ ruse. _Nedda_ escapes into the theatre. It is time to prepare for the performance. _Beppe_ and _Tonio_ retire to do so. _Canio's_ grief over his betrayal by _Nedda_ finds expression in one of the most famous numbers in modern Italian opera, "Vesti la giubba" (Now don the motley), with its tragic "Ridi, Pagliaccio" (Laugh thou, Pagliaccio), as _Canio_ goes toward the tent, and enters it. It is the old and ever effective story of the buffoon who must laugh, and make others laugh, while his heart is breaking. [Music] Act II. The scene is the same as that of the preceding act. _Tonio_ with the big drum takes his position at the left angle of the theatre. _Beppe_ places benches for the spectators, who begin to assemble, while _Tonio_ beats the drum. _Silvio_ arrives and nods to friends. _Nedda_, dressed as _Columbine_, goes about with a plate and collects money. As she approaches _Silvio_, she pauses to speak a few words of warning to him, then goes on, and re-enters the theatre with _Beppe_. The brisk chorus becomes more insistent that the play begin. Most of the women are seated. Others stand with the men on slightly rising ground. A bell rings loudly. The curtain of the tent theatre on the stage rises. The mimic scene represents a small room with two side doors and a practicable window at the back. _Nedda_, as _Columbine_, is walking about expectantly and anxiously. Her husband, _Pagliaccio_, has gone away till morning. _Taddeo_ is at the market. She awaits her lover, _Arlecchino_ (_Harlequin_). A dainty minuet forms the musical background. A guitar is heard outside. _Columbine_ runs to the window with signs of love and impatience. _Harlequin_, outside, sings his pretty serenade to his _Columbine_, "O Colombina, il tenero" (O Columbine, unbar to me thy lattice high). The ditty over, she returns to the front of the mimic stage, seats herself, back to the door, through which _Tonio_, as _Taddeo_, a basket on his arm, now enters. He makes exaggerated love to _Columbine_, who, disgusted with his advances, goes to the window, opens it, and signals. _Beppe_, as _Harlequin_, enters by the window. He makes light of _Taddeo_, whom he takes by the ear and turns out of the room, to the accompaniment of a few kicks. All the while the minuet has tripped its pretty measure and the mimic audience has found plenty to amuse it. _Harlequin_ has brought a bottle of wine, also a phial with a sleeping-potion, which she is to give her husband, when opportunity offers, so that, while he sleeps, she and _Harlequin_ may fly together. Love appears to prosper, till, suddenly, _Taddeo_ bursts in. _Columbine's_ husband, _Pagliaccio_, is approaching. He suspects her, and is stamping with anger. "Pour the philtre in his wine, love!" admonishes _Harlequin_, and hurriedly gets out through the window. _Columbine_ calls after him, just as _Canio_, in the character of _Pagliaccio_, appears in the door, "Tonight, love, and forever, I am thine!"--the same words _Canio_ heard his wife call after her lover a few hours before. _Columbine_ parries _Pagliaccio's_ questions. He has returned too early. He has been drinking. No one was with her, save the harmless _Taddeo_, who has become alarmed and has sought safety in the closet. From within, _Taddeo_ expostulates with _Pagliaccio_. His wife is true, her pious lips would ne'er deceive her husband. The audience laughs. But now it no longer is _Pagliaccio_, it is _Canio_, who calls out threateningly, not to _Columbine_, but to _Nedda_, "His name!" "Pagliaccio! Pagliaccio!" protests _Nedda_, still trying to keep in the play. "No!" cries out her husband--in a passage dramatically almost as effective as "Ridi, Pagliaccio!"--"I am _Pagliaccio_ no more! I am a man again, with anguish deep and human!" The audience thinks his intensity is wonderful acting--all save _Silvio_, who shows signs of anxiety. "Thou had'st my love," concludes _Canio_, "but now thou hast my hate and scorn." "If you doubt me," argues _Nedda_, "why not let me leave you?" "And go to your lover!--His name! Declare it!" Still desperately striving to keep in the play, and avert the inevitable, _Nedda_, as if she were _Columbine_, sings a chic gavotte, "Suvvia, così terribile" (I never knew, my dear, that you were such a tragic fellow). [Music] She ends with a laugh, but stops short, at the fury in _Canio's_ look, as he takes a knife from the table. "His name!" "No!"--Save her lover she will, at whatever cost to herself. The audience is beginning to suspect that this is no longer acting. The women draw back frightened, overturning the benches. _Silvio_ is trying to push his way through to the stage. _Nedda_ makes a dash to escape into the audience. _Canio_ pursues and catches up with her. "Take that--and--that!" (He stabs her in the back.) "Di morte negli spasimi lo dirai" (In the last death agony, thou'lt call his name). "Soccorso ... Silvio!" (Help! Help!--Silvio!) A voice from the audience cries, "Nedda!" A man has nearly reached the spot where she lies dead. _Canio_ turns savagely, leaps at him. A steel blade flashes. _Silvio_ falls dead beside _Nedda_. "Gesummaria!" shriek the women; "Ridi _Pagliaccio_!" sob the instruments of the orchestra. _Canio_ stands stupefied. The knife falls from his hand: "La commedia è finita" (The comedy is ended). There are plays and stories in which, as in "Pagliacci," the drama on a mimic stage suddenly becomes real life, so that the tragedy of the play changes to the life-tragedy of one or more of the characters. "Yorick's Love," in which I saw Lawrence Barrett act, and of which I wrote a review for _Harper's Weekly_, was adapted by William D. Howells from "Drama Nuevo" by Estébanez, which is at least fifty years older than "Pagliacci." In it the actor _Yorick_ really murders the actor, whom in character, he is supposed to kill in the play. In the plot, as in real life, this actor had won away the love of _Yorick's_ wife, before whose eyes he is slain by the wronged husband. About 1883, I should say, I wrote a story, "A Performance of Othello," for a periodical published by students of Columbia University, in which the player of _Othello_, impelled by jealousy, actually kills his wife, who is the _Desdemona_, and then, as in the play, slays himself. Yet, although the _motif_ is an old one, this did not prevent Catulle Mendès, who himself had been charged with plagiarizing, in "La Femme de Tabarin," Paul Ferrier's earlier play, "Tabarin," from accusing Leoncavallo of plagiarizing "Pagliacci" from "La Femme de Tabarin," and from instituting legal proceedings to enjoin the performance of the opera in Brussels. Thereupon Leoncavallo, in a letter to his publisher, stated that during his childhood at Montalto a jealous player killed his wife after a performance, that his father was the judge at the criminal's trial--circumstances which so impressed the occurrence on his mind that he was led to adapt the episode for his opera. Catulle Mendès accepted the explanation and withdrew his suit. There has been some discussion regarding the correct translation of "Pagliacci." It is best rendered as "Clowns," although it only is necessary to read in Italian cyclopedias the definition of _Pagliaccio_ to appreciate Philip Hale's caution that the character is not a clown in the restricted circus sense. Originally the word, which is the same as the French _paillasse_, signified a bed of straw, then was extended to include an upholstered under-mattress, and finally was applied to the buffoon in the old Italian comedy, whose costume generally was striped like the ticking or stuff, of which the covering of a mattress is made. The play on the mimic stage in "Pagliacci" is, in fact, one of the _Harlequin_ comedies that has been acted for centuries by strolling players in Italy. But for the tragedy that intervenes in the opera, _Pagliaccio's_ ruse in returning before he was expected, in order to surprise his wife, _Columbina_, with _Arlecchino_, would have been punished by his being buffetted about the room and ejected. For "the reward of _Pagliaccio's_ most adroit stratagems is to be boxed on the ears and kicked." Hence the poignancy of "Ridi, Pagliaccio!" Giacomo Puccini (1858- ) This composer, born in Lucca, Italy, June 22, 1858, first studied music in his native place as a private pupil of Angeloni. Later, at the Royal Conservatory, Milan, he came under the instruction of Ponchielli, composer of "La Gioconda," whose influence upon modern Italian opera, both as a preceptor and a composer, is regarded as greater than that of any other musician. Puccini himself is considered the most important figure in the operatic world of Italy today, the successor of Verdi, if there is any. For while Mascagni and Leoncavallo each has one sensationally successful short opera to his credit, neither has shown himself capable of the sustained effort required to create a score vital enough to maintain the interest of an audience throughout three or four acts, a criticism I consider applicable even to Mascagni's "Lodoletta," notwithstanding its production and repetitions at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, which I believe largely due to unusual conditions produced by the European war. Puccini, on the other hand, is represented in the repertoire of the modern opera house by four large works: "Manon Lescaut" (1870), "La Bohème" (1896), "Tosca" (1900), and "Madama Butterfly" (1904). His early two-act opera, "Le Villi" (The Willis, Dal Verme Theatre, Milan, 1884), and his three-act opera, "La Fanciulla del West" (The Girl of the Golden West), 1910, have been much less successful; his "Edgar" (La Scala, Milan, 1889), is not heard outside of Italy. And his opera, "La Rondine," has not at this writing been produced here, and probably will not be until after the war, the full score being the property of a publishing house in Vienna, which, because of the war, has not been able to send copies of it to the people in several countries to whom the performing rights had been sold. LE VILLI "Le Villi" (The Willis), signifying the ghosts of maidens deserted by their lovers, is the title of a two-act opera by Puccini, words by Ferdinando Fortuna, produced May 31, 1884, Dal Verme Theatre, Milan, after it had been rejected in a prize competition at the Milan Conservatory, but revised by the composer with the aid of Boïto. It is Puccini's first work for the lyric stage. When produced at the Dal Verme Theatre, it was in one act, the composer later extending it to two, in which form it was brought out at the Reggio Theatre, Turin, December 26, 1884; Metropolitan Opera House, N.Y., December 17, 1908, with Alda (_Anna_), Bonci (_Robert_), Amato (_Wulf_). Of the principal characters _Wulf_ is a mountaineer of the Black Forest; _Anna_, his daughter; _Robert_, her lover. After the betrothal feast, _Robert_, obliged to depart upon a journey, swears to _Anna_ that he will be faithful to her. In the second act, however, we find him indulging in wild orgies in Mayence and squandering money on an evil woman. In the second part of this act he returns to the Black Forest a broken-down man. The Willis dance about him. From _Wulf's_ hut he hears funeral music. _Anna's_ ghost now is one of the wild dancers. While he appeals to her, they whirl about him. He falls dead. The chorus sings "Hosanna" in derision of his belated plea for forgiveness. Most expressive in the score is the wild dance of the Willis, who "have a character of their own, entirely distinct from that of other operatic spectres" (Streatfield). The prelude to the second act, "L'Abbandono," also is effective. Attractive in the first act are the betrothal scene, a prayer, and a waltz. "Le Villi," however, has not been a success outside of Italy. "Manon Lescaut," on the other hand, has met with success elsewhere. Between it and "Le Villi" Puccini produced another opera, "Edgar," Milan, La Scala, 1889, but unknown outside of the composer's native country. MANON LESCAUT Opera in four acts, by Puccini. Produced at Turin, February 1, 1893. Covent Garden, London, May 14, 1894. Grand Opera House, Philadelphia, in English, August 29, 1894; Wallack's Theatre, New York, May 27, 1898, by the Milan Royal Italian Opera Company of La Scala; Metropolitan Opera House, New York, January 18, 1907, with Caruso, Cavalieri, and Scotti. The libretto, founded on Abbé Prévost's novel, is by Puccini, assisted by a committee of friends. The composer himself directed the production at the Metropolitan Opera House. CHARACTERS MANON LESCAUT _Soprano_ LESCAUT, sergeant of the King's Guards _Baritone_ CHEVALIER DES GRIEUX _Tenor_ GERONTE DE RAVOIR, Treasurer-General _Bass_ EDMUND, a student _Tenor_ _Time_--Second half of eighteenth century. _Place_--Amiens, Paris, Havre, Louisiana. Act I plays in front of an inn at Amiens. _Edmund_ has a solo with chorus for students and girls. _Lescaut_, _Geronte_, and _Manon_ arrive in a diligence. _Lescaut_ is taking his sister to a convent to complete her education, but finding her to be greatly admired by the wealthy _Geronte_, is quite willing to play a negative part and let the old satyr plot with the landlord to abduct _Manon_. _Des Grieux_, however, has seen her. "Donna non vidi mai simile a questa" (Never did I behold so fair a maiden), he sings in praise of her beauty. [Music] With her too it is love at first sight. When she rejoins him, as she had promised to, they have a love duet. "Vedete! Io son fedele alla parola mia" (Behold me! I have been faithful to my promise), she sings. _Edmund_, who has overheard _Geronte's_ plot to abduct _Manon_, informs _Des Grieux_, who has little trouble in inducing the girl to elope with him. They drive off in the carriage _Geronte_ had ordered. _Lescaut_, who has been carousing with the students, hints that, as _Des Grieux_ is not wealthy and _Manon_ loves luxury, he will soon be able to persuade her to desert her lover for the rich Treasurer-General. Such, indeed, is the case, and in Act II, she is found ensconced in luxurious apartments in _Geronte's_ house in Paris. But to _Lescaut_, who prides himself on having brought the business with her wealthy admirer to a successful conclusion, she complains that "in quelle trine morbide"--in those silken curtains--there's a chill that freezes her. "O mia dimora umile, tu mi ritorni innanzi" (My little humble dwelling, I see you there before me). She left _Des Grieux_ for wealth and the luxuries it can bring--"Tell me, does not this gown suit me to perfection?" she asks _Lescaut_--and yet she longs for her handsome young lover. _Geronte_ sends singers to entertain her. They sing a madrigal, "Sulla vetta tu del monte erri, O Clori" (Speed o'er the summit of the mountain, gentle Chloe). [Music] Then a dancing master enters. _Manon_, _Lescaut_, _Geronte_, and old beaus and abbés, who have come in with _Geronte_, form for the dance, and a lesson in the minuet begins. [Music] _Lescaut_ hurries off to inform _Des Grieux_, who has made money in gambling, where he can find _Manon_. When the lesson is over and all have gone, her lover appears at the door. At first he reproaches her, but soon is won by her beauty. There is an impassioned love duet, "Vieni! Colle tue braccia stringi Manon che t'ama" (Oh, come love! In your arms enfold Manon, who loves you). _Geronte_ surprises them, pretends to approve of their affection, but really sends for the police. _Lescaut_ urges them to make a precipitate escape. _Manon_, however, now loath to leave the luxuries _Geronte_ has lavished on her, insists on gathering up her jewels in order to take them with her. The delay is fatal. The police arrive. She is arrested on the charge made by _Geronte_ that she is an abandoned woman. Her sentence is banishment, with other women of loose character, to the then French possession of Louisiana. The journey to Havre for embarkation is represented by an intermezzo in the score, and an extract from Abbé Prévost's story in the libretto. The theme of the "Intermezzo," a striking composition, is as follows: [Music] Act III. The scene is laid in a square near the harbour at Havre. _Des Grieux_ and _Lescaut_ attempt to free _Manon_ from imprisonment, but are foiled. There is much hubbub. Then the roll is called of the women, who are to be transported. As they step forward, the crowd comments upon their looks. This, together with _Des Grieux's_ plea to the captain of the ship to be taken along with _Manon_, no matter how lowly the capacity in which he may be required to serve on board, make a dramatic scene. Act IV. "A vast plain on the borders of the territory of New Orleans. The country is bare and undulating, the horizon is far distant, the sky is overcast. Night falls." Thus the libretto. The score is a long, sad duet between _Des Grieux_ and _Manon_. _Manon_ dies of exhaustion. _Des Grieux_ falls senseless upon her body. LA BOHÈME THE BOHEMIANS Opera in four acts by Puccini; words by Giuseppe Giacosa and Luigi Illica, founded on Henri Murger's book, _La Vie de Bohème_. Produced, Teatro Reggio, Turin, February 1, 1896. Manchester, England, in English, as "The Bohemians," April 22, 1897. Covent Garden, London, in English, October 2, 1897; in Italian, July 1, 1899. San Francisco, March, 1898, and Wallack's Theatre, New York, May 16, 1898, by a second-rate travelling organization, which called itself The Milan Royal Italian Opera Company of La Scala; American Theatre, New York, in English, by Henry W. Savage's Castle Square Opera Company, November 20, 1898; Metropolitan Opera House, New York, in Italian, December 18, 1901. CHARACTERS RUDOLPH, a poet _Tenor_ MARCEL, a painter _Baritone_ COLLINE, a philosopher _Bass_ SCHAUNARD, a musician _Baritone_ BENOIT, a landlord _Bass_ ALCINDORO, a state councillor and follower of _Musetta_ _Bass_ PARPIGNOL, an itinerant toy vender _Tenor_ CUSTOM-HOUSE SERGEANT _Bass_ MUSETTA, a grisette _Soprano_ MIMI, a maker of embroidery _Soprano_ Students, work girls, citizens, shopkeepers, street venders, soldiers, waiters, boys, girls, etc. _Time_--About 1830. _Place_--Latin Quarter, Paris. "La Bohème" is considered by many Puccini's finest score. There is little to choose, however, between it, "Tosca," and "Madama Butterfly." Each deals successfully with its subject. It chances that, as "La Bohème" is laid in the Quartier Latin, the students' quarter of Paris, where gayety and pathos touch elbows, it laughs as well as weeps. Authors and composers who can tear passion to tatters are more numerous than those who have the light touch of high comedy. The latter, a distinguished gift, confers distinction upon many passages in the score of "La Bohème," which anon sparkles with merriment, anon is eloquent of love, anon is stressed by despair. Act I. The garret in the Latin Quarter, where live the inseparable quartet--_Rudolph_, poet; _Marcel_, painter; _Colline_, philosopher; _Schaunard_, musician, who defy hunger with cheerfulness and play pranks upon the landlord of their meagre lodging, when he importunes them for his rent. When the act opens, _Rudolph_ is at a table writing, and _Marcel_ is at work on a painting, "The Passage of the Red Sea." He remarks that, owing to lack of fuel for the garret stove, the Red Sea is rather cold. "Questo mar rosso" (This Red Sea), runs the duet, in the course of which _Rudolph_ says that he will sacrifice the manuscript of his tragedy to the needs of the stove. They tear up the first act, throw it into the stove, and light it. _Colline_ comes in with a bundle of books he has vainly been attempting to pawn. Another act of the tragedy goes into the fire, by which they warm themselves, still hungry. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Farrar as Mimi in "La Bohème"] [Illustration: Photo by Hall Café Momus Scene, "La Bohème," Act II Mimi (Rennyson), Musette (Joel), Rudolph (Sheehan)] But relief is nigh. Two boys enter. They bring provisions and fuel. After them comes _Schaunard_. He tosses money on the table. The boys leave. In vain _Schaunard_ tries to tell his friends the ludicrous details of his three-days' musical engagement to an eccentric Englishman. It is enough for them that it has yielded fuel and food, and that some money is left over for the immediate future. Between their noise in stoking the stove and unpacking the provisions, _Schaunard_ cannot make himself heard. _Rudolph_ locks the door. Then all go to the table and pour out wine. It is Christmas eve. _Schaunard_ suggests that, when they have emptied their glasses, they repair to their favourite resort, the Café Momus, and dine. Agreed. Just then there is a knock. It is _Benoit_, their landlord, for the rent. They let him in and invite him to drink with them. The sight of the money on the table reassures him. He joins them. The wine loosens his tongue. He boasts of his conquests of women at shady resorts. The four friends feign indignation. What! He, a married man, engaged in such disreputable proceedings! They seize him, lift him to his feet, and eject him, locking the door after him. The money on the table was earned by _Schaunard_, but, according to their custom, they divide it. Now, off for the Café Momus--that is, all but _Rudolph_, who will join them soon--when he has finished an article he has to write for a new journal, the _Beaver_. He stands on the landing with a lighted candle to aid the others in making their way down the rickety stairs. With little that can be designated as set melody, there nevertheless has not been a dull moment in the music of these scenes. It has been brisk, merry and sparkling, in keeping with the careless gayety of the four dwellers in the garret. Re-entering the room, and closing the door after him, _Rudolph_ clears a space on the table for pens and paper, then sits down to write. Ideas are slow in coming. Moreover, at that moment, there is a timid knock at the door. "Who's there?" he calls. It is a woman's voice that says, hesitatingly, "Excuse me, my candle has gone out." _Rudolph_ runs to the door, and opens it. On the threshold stands a frail, appealingly attractive young woman. She has in one hand an extinguished candle, in the other a key. _Rudolph_ bids her come in. She crosses the threshold. A woman of haunting sweetness in aspect and manner has entered Bohemia. She lights her candle by his, but, as she is about to leave, the draught again extinguishes it. _Rudolph's_ candle also is blown out, as he hastens to relight hers. The room is dark, save for the moonlight that, over the snow-clad roofs of Paris, steals in through the garret window. _Mimi_ exclaims that she has dropped the key to the door of her room. They search for it. He finds it but slips it into his pocket. Guided by _Mimi's_ voice and movements, he approaches. As she stoops, his hand meets hers. He clasps it. "Che gelida manina" (How cold your hand), he exclaims with tender solicitude. "Let me warm it into life." He then tells her who he is, in what has become known as the "Racconto di Rodolfo" (Rudolph's Narrative), which, from the gentle and solicitous phrase, "Che gelida manina," followed by the proud exclamation, "Sono un poeta" (I am a poet), leads up to an eloquent avowal of his dreams and fancies. Then comes the girl's charming "Mi chiamano Mimi" (They call me Mimi), in which she tells of her work and how the flowers she embroiders for a living transport her from her narrow room out into the broad fields and meadows. "Mi chiamano Mimi" is as follows:-- [Music] Her frailty, which one can see is caused by consumption in its early stages, makes her beauty the more appealing to _Rudolph_. His friends call him from the street below. Their voices draw _Mimi_ to the window. In the moonlight she appears even lovelier to _Rudolph_. "O soave fanciulla" (Thou beauteous maiden), he exclaims, as he takes her to his arms. This is the beginning of the love duet, which, though it be sung in a garret, is as impassioned as any that, in opera, has echoed through the corridors of palaces, or the moonlit colonnades of forests by historic rivers. The theme is quoted here in the key, in which it occurs, like a premonition, a little earlier in the act. [Music] The theme of the love duet is used by the composer several times in the course of the opera, and always in association with _Mimi_. Especially in the last act does it recur with poignant effect. Act II. A meeting of streets, where they form a square, with shops of all sorts, and the Café Momus. The square is filled with a happy Christmas eve crowd. Somewhat aloof from this are _Rudolph_ and _Mimi_. _Colline_ stands near the shop of a clothes dealer. _Schaunard_ is haggling with a tinsmith over the price of a horn. _Marcel_ is chaffing the girls who jostle against him in the crowd. There are street venders crying their wares; citizens, students, and work girls, passing to and fro and calling to each other; people at the café giving orders--a merry whirl, depicted in the music by snatches of chorus, bits of recitative, and an instrumental accompaniment that runs through the scene like a many-coloured thread, and holds the pattern together. _Rudolph_ and _Mimi_ enter a bonnet shop. The animation outside continues. When the two lovers come out of the shop, _Mimi_ is wearing a new bonnet trimmed with roses. She looks about. "What is it?" _Rudolph_ asks suspiciously. "Are you jealous?" asks _Mimi_. "The man in love is always jealous." _Rudolph's_ friends are at a table outside the café. _Rudolph_ joins them with _Mimi_. He introduces her to them as one who will make their party complete, for he "will play the poet, while she's the muse incarnate." _Parpignol_, the toy vender, crosses the square and goes off, followed by children, whose mothers try to restrain them. The toy vender is heard crying his wares in the distance. The quartet of Bohemians, now a quintet through the accession of _Mimi_, order eatables and wine. Shopwomen, who are going away, look down one of the streets, and exclaim over someone whom they see approaching. "'Tis Musetta! My, she is gorgeous!--Some stammering old dotard is with her." _Musetta_ and _Marcel_ have loved, quarrelled, and parted. She has recently put up with the aged but wealthy _Alcindoro de Mittoneaux_, who, when she comes upon the square, is out of breath trying to keep up with her. Despite _Musetta's_ and _Marcel's_ attempt to appear indifferent to each other's presence, it is plain that they are not so. _Musetta_ has a chic waltz song, "Quando me'n vo soletta per la via" (As through the streets I wander onward merrily), one of the best-known numbers of the score, which she deliberately sings at _Marcel_, to make him aware, without arousing her aged gallant's suspicions, that she still loves him. [Music] Feigning that a shoe hurts her, she makes the ridiculous _Alcindoro_ unlatch and remove it, and trot off with it to the cobbler's. She and _Marcel_ then embrace, and she joins the five friends at their table, and the expensive supper ordered by _Alcindoro_ is served to them with their own. The military tattoo is heard approaching from the distance. There is great confusion in the square. A waiter brings the bill for the Bohemians' order. _Schaunard_ looks in vain for his purse. _Musetta_ comes to the rescue. "Make one bill of the two orders. The gentleman who was with me will pay it." The patrol enters, headed by a drum major. _Musetta_, being without her shoe, cannot walk, so _Marcel_ and _Colline_ lift her between them to their shoulders, and carry her through the crowd, which, sensing the humour of the situation, gives her an ovation, then swirls around _Alcindoro_, whose foolish, senile figure, appearing from the direction of the cobbler's shop with a pair of shoes for _Musetta_, it greets with jeers. For his gay ladybird has fled with her friends from the _Quartier_, and left him to pay all the bills. Act III. A gate to the city of Paris on the Orleans road. A toll house at the gate. To the left a tavern, from which, as a signboard hangs _Marcel's_ picture of the Red Sea. Several plane trees. It is February. Snow is on the ground. The hour is that of dawn. Scavengers, milk women, truckmen, peasants with produce, are waiting to be admitted to the city. Custom-house officers are seated, asleep, around a brazier. Sounds of revelry are heard from the tavern. These, together with characteristic phrases, when the gate is opened and people enter, enliven the first scene. Into the small square comes _Mimi_ from the Rue d'Enfer, which leads from the Latin Quarter. She looks pale, distressed, and frailer than ever. A cough racks her. Now and then she leans against one of the bare, gaunt plane trees for support. A message from her brings _Marcel_ out of the tavern. He tells her he finds it more lucrative to paint signboards than pictures. _Musetta_ gives music lessons. _Rudolph_ is with them. Will not _Mimi_ join them? She weeps, and tells him that _Rudolph_ is so jealous of her she fears they must part. When _Rudolph_, having missed _Marcel_, comes out to look for him, _Mimi_ hides behind a plane tree, from where she hears her lover tell his friend that he wishes to give her up because of their frequent quarrels. "Mimi è una civetta" (Mimi is a heartless creature) is the burden of his song. Her violent coughing reveals her presence. They decide to part--not angrily, but regretfully: "Addio, senza rancor" (Farewell, then, I wish you well), sings _Mimi_. [Music] Meanwhile _Marcel_, who has re-entered the tavern, has caught _Musetta_ flirting with a stranger. This starts a quarrel, which brings them out into the street. Thus the music becomes a quartet: "Addio, dolce svegliare" (Farewell, sweet love), sing _Rudolph_ and _Mimi_, while _Marcel_ and _Musetta_ upbraid each other. The temperamental difference between the two women, _Mimi_ gentle and melancholy, _Musetta_ aggressive and disputatious, and the difference in the effect upon the two men, are admirably brought out by the composer. "Viper!" "Toad!" _Marcel_ and _Musetta_ call out to each other, as they separate; while the frail _Mimi_ sighs, "Ah! that our winter night might last forever," and she and _Rudolph_ sing, "Our time for parting's when the roses blow." Act IV. The scene is again the attic of the four Bohemians. _Rudolph_ is longing for _Mimi_, of whom he has heard nothing, _Marcel_ for _Musetta_, who, having left him, is indulging in one of her gay intermezzos with one of her wealthy patrons. "Ah, Mimi, tu più" (Ah, Mimi, fickle-hearted), sings _Rudolph_, as he gazes at the little pink bonnet he bought her at the milliner's shop Christmas eve. _Schaunard_ thrusts the water bottle into _Colline's_ hat as if the latter were a champagne cooler. The four friends seek to forget sorrow and poverty in assuming mock dignities and then indulging in a frolic about the attic. When the fun is at its height, the door opens and _Musetta_ enters. She announces that _Mimi_ is dying and, as a last request, has asked to be brought back to the attic, where she had been so happy with _Rudolph_. He rushes out to get her, and supports her feeble and faltering footsteps to the cot, on which he gently lowers her. She coughs; her hands are very cold. _Rudolph_ takes them in his to warm them. _Musetta_ hands her earrings to _Marcel_, and bids him go out and sell them quickly, then buy a tonic for the dying girl. There is no coffee, no wine. _Colline_ takes off his overcoat, and, having apostrophized it in the "Song of the Coat," goes out to sell it, so as to be able to replenish the larder. _Musetta_ runs off to get her muff for _Mimi_, her hands are still so cold. _Rudolph_ and the dying girl are now alone. This tragic moment, when their love revives too late, finds expression, at once passionate and exquisite, in the music. The phrases "How cold your hand," "They call me Mimi," from the love scene in the first act, recur like mournful memories. _Mimi_ whispers of incidents from early in their love. "Te lo rammenti" (Ah! do you remember). [Music] _Musetta_ and the others return. There are tender touches in the good offices they would render the dying girl. They are aware before _Rudolph_ that she is beyond aid. In their faces he reads what has happened. With a cry, "Mimi! Mimi!" he falls sobbing upon her lifeless form. _Musetta_ kneels weeping at the foot of the bed. _Schaunard_, overcome, sinks back into a chair. _Colline_ stands dazed at the suddenness of the catastrophe. _Marcel_ turns away to hide his emotion. Mi chiamano Mimi! TOSCA Opera in three acts by Puccini; words by L. Illica and G. Giacosa after the drama, "La Tosca," by Sardou. Produced, Constanzi Theatre, Rome, January 14, 1900; London, Covent Garden, July 12, 1900. Buenos Aires, June 16, 1900. Metropolitan Opera House, New York, February 4, 1901, with Ternina, Cremonini, Scotti, Gilibert (_Sacristan_), and Dufriche (_Angelotti_). CHARACTERS FLORIA TOSCA, a celebrated singer _Soprano_ MARIO CAVARADOSSI, a painter _Tenor_ BARON SCARPIA, Chief of Police _Baritone_ CESARE ANGELOTTI _Bass_ A SACRISTAN _Baritone_ SPOLETTA, police agent _Tenor_ SCIARRONE, a gendarme _Bass_ A GAOLER _Bass_ A SHEPHERD BOY _Contralto_ Roberti, executioner; a cardinal, judge, scribe, officer, and sergeant, soldiers, police agents, ladies, nobles, citizens, artisans, etc. _Time_--June, 1800. _Place_--Rome. Three sharp, vigorous chords, denoting the imperious yet sinister and vindictive character of _Scarpia_--such is the introduction to "Tosca." * * * * * Act I. The church of Sant'Andrea della Valle. To the right the Attavanti chapel; left a scaffolding, dais, and easel. On the easel a large picture covered by a cloth. Painting accessories. A basket. Enter _Angelotti_. He has escaped from prison and is seeking a hiding place. Looking about, he recognizes a pillar shrine containing an image of the Virgin, and surmounting a receptacle for holy water. Beneath the feet of the image he searches for and discovers a key, unlocks the Attavanti chapel and disappears within it. The _Sacristan_ comes in. He has a bunch of brushes that he has been cleaning, and evidently is surprised not to find _Cavaradossi_ at his easel. He looks into the basket, finds the luncheon in it untouched, and now is sure he was mistaken in thinking he had seen the painter enter. The Angelus is rung. The _Sacristan_ kneels. _Cavaradossi_ enters. He uncovers the painting--a Mary Magdalen with large blue eyes and masses of golden hair. The _Sacristan_ recognizes in it the portrait of a lady who lately has come frequently to the church to worship. The good man is scandalized at what he considers a sacrilege. _Cavaradossi_, however, has other things to think of. He compares the face in the portrait with the features of the woman he loves, the dark-eyed _Floria Tosca_, famous as a singer. "Recondita armonia di bellezze diverse" (Strange harmony of contrasts deliciously blending), he sings. Meanwhile the _Sacristan_, engaged in cleaning the brushes in a jug of water, continues to growl over the sacrilege of putting frivolous women into religious paintings. Finally, his task with the brushes over, he points to the basket and asks, "Are you fasting?" "Nothing for me," says the painter. The _Sacristan_ casts a greedy look at the basket, as he thinks of the benefit he will derive from the artist's abstemiousness. The painter goes on with his work. The _Sacristan_ leaves. _Angelotti_, believing no one to be in the church, comes out of his hiding place. He and _Cavaradossi_ recognize each other. _Angelotti_ has just escaped from the prison in the castle of Sant'Angelo. The painter at once offers to help him. Just then, however, _Tosca's_ voice is heard outside. The painter presses the basket with wine and viands upon the exhausted fugitive, and urges him back into the chapel, while from without _Tosca_ calls more insistently, "Mario!" Feigning calm, for the meeting with _Angelotti_, who had been concerned in the abortive uprising to make Rome a republic, has excited him, _Cavaradossi_ admits _Tosca_. Jealously she insists that he was whispering with someone, and that she heard footsteps and the swish of skirts. Her lover reassures her, tries to embrace her. Gently she reproves him. She cannot let him kiss her before the Madonna until she has prayed to her image and made an offering. She adorns the Virgin's figure with flowers she has brought with her, kneels in prayer, crosses herself and rises. She tells _Cavaradossi_ to await her at the stage door that night, and they will steal away together to his villa. He is still distrait. When he replies, absent-mindedly, he surely will be there, her comment is, "Thou say'st it badly." Then, beginning the love duet, "Non la sospiri la nostra casetta" (Dost thou not long for our dovecote secluded), she conjures up for him a vision of that "sweet, sweet nest in which we love-birds hide." For the moment _Cavaradossi_ forgets _Angelotti_; then, however, urges _Tosca_ to leave him, so that he may continue with his work. She is vexed and, when she recognizes in the picture of Mary Magdalen the fair features of the Marchioness Attavanti, she becomes jealous to the point of rage. But her lover soon soothes her. The episode is charming. In fact the libretto, following the Sardou play, unfolds, scene by scene, an always effective drama. _Tosca_ having departed, _Cavaradossi_ lets _Angelotti_ out of the chapel. He is a brother of the Attavanti, of whom _Tosca_ is so needlessly jealous, and who has concealed a suit of woman's clothing for him under the altar. They mention _Scarpia_--"A bigoted satyr and hypocrite, secretly steeped in vice, yet most demonstratively pious"--the first hint we have in the opera of the relentless character, whose desire to possess _Tosca_ is the mainspring of the drama. A cannon shot startles them. It is from the direction of the castle and announces the escape of a prisoner--_Angelotti_. _Cavaradossi_ suggests the grounds of his villa as a place of concealment from _Scarpia_ and his police agents, especially the old dried-up well, from which a secret passage leads to a dark vault. It can be reached by a rough path just outside the Attavanti chapel. The painter even offers to guide the fugitive. They leave hastily. The _Sacristan_ enters excitedly. He has great news. Word has been received that Bonaparte has been defeated. The old man now notices, however, greatly to his surprise, that the painter has gone. Acolytes, penitents, choristers, and pupils of the chapel crowd in from all directions. There is to be a "Te Deum" in honour of the victory, and at evening, in the Farnese palace, a cantata with _Floria Tosca_ as soloist. It means extra pay for the choristers. They are jubilant. _Scarpia_ enters unexpectedly. He stands in a doorway. A sudden hush falls upon all. For a while they are motionless, as if spellbound. While preparations are making for the "Te Deum," _Scarpia_ orders search made in the Attavanti chapel. He finds a fan which, from the coat-of-arms on it, he recognizes as having been left there by _Angelotti's_ sister. A police agent also finds a basket. As he comes out with it, the _Sacristan_ unwittingly exclaims that it is _Cavaradossi's_, and empty, although the painter had said that he would eat nothing. It is plain to _Scarpia_, who has also discovered in the Mary Magdalen of the picture the likeness to the Marchioness Attavanti, that _Cavaradossi_ had given the basket of provisions to _Angelotti_, and has been an accomplice in his escape. _Tosca_ comes in and quickly approaches the dais. She is greatly surprised not to find _Cavaradossi_ at work on the picture. _Scarpia_ dips his fingers in holy water and deferentially extends them to _Tosca_. Reluctantly she touches them, then crosses herself. _Scarpia_ insinuatingly compliments her on her religious zeal. She comes to church to pray, not, like certain frivolous wantons--he points to the picture--to meet their lovers. He now produces the fan. "Is this a painter's brush or a mahlstick?" he asks, and adds that he found it on the easel. Quickly, jealously, _Tosca_ examines it, sees the arms of the Attavanti. She had come to tell her lover that, because she is obliged to sing in the cantata she will be unable to meet him that night. Her reward is this evidence, offered by _Scarpia_, that he has been carrying on a love affair with another woman, with whom he probably has gone to the villa. She gives way to an outburst of jealous rage; then, weeping, leaves the chapel, to the gates of which _Scarpia_ gallantly escorts her. He beckons to his agent _Spoletta_, and orders him to trail her and report to him at evening at the Farnese palace. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Cavalieri as Tosca] [Illustration: Photo by Mishkin Scotti as Scarpia] Church bells are tolling. Intermittently from the castle of Sant'Angelo comes the boom of the cannon. A Cardinal has entered and is advancing to the high altar. The "Te Deum" has begun. _Scarpia_ soliloquizes vindictively: "Va, Tosca! Nel tuo cuor s'annida Scarpia" (Go, Tosca! There is room in your heart for Scarpia). He pauses to bow reverently as the Cardinal passes by. Still soliloquizing, he exults in his power to send _Cavaradossi_ to execution, while _Tosca_ he will bring to his own arms. For her, he exclaims, he would renounce his hopes of heaven; then kneels and fervently joins in the "Te Deum." This finale, with its elaborate apparatus, its complex emotions and the sinister and dominating figure of _Scarpia_ set against a brilliant and constantly shifting background, is a stirring and effective climax to the act. Act II. The Farnese Palace. _Scarpia's_ apartments on an upper floor. A large window overlooks the palace courtyard. _Scarpia_ is seated at table supping. At intervals he breaks off to reflect. His manner is anxious. An orchestra is heard from a lower story of the palace, where Queen Caroline is giving an entertainment in honour of the reported victory over Bonaparte. They are dancing, while waiting for _Tosca_, who is to sing in the cantata. _Scarpia_ summons _Sciarrone_ and gives him a letter, which is to be handed to the singer upon her arrival. _Spoletta_ returns from his mission. _Tosca_ was followed to a villa almost hidden by foliage. She remained but a short time. When she left it, _Spoletta_ and his men searched the house, but could not find _Angelotti_. _Scarpia_ is furious, but is appeased when _Spoletta_ tells him that they discovered _Cavaradossi_, put him in irons, and have brought him with them. Through the open window there is now heard the beginning of the cantata, showing that _Tosca_ has arrived and is on the floor below, where are the Queen's reception rooms. Upon _Scarpia's_ order there are brought in _Cavaradossi_, _Roberti_, the executioner, and a judge with his clerk. _Cavaradossi's_ manner is indignant, defiant, _Scarpia's_ at first suave. Now and then _Tosca's_ voice is heard singing below. Finally _Scarpia_ closes the window, thus shutting out the music. His questions addressed to _Cavaradossi_ are now put in a voice more severe. He has just asked, "Once more and for the last time," where is _Angelotti_, when _Tosca_, evidently alarmed by the contents of the note received from _Scarpia_, hurries in and, seeing _Cavaradossi_, fervently embraces him. Under his breath he manages to warn her against disclosing anything she saw at the villa. _Scarpia_ orders that _Cavaradossi_ be removed to an adjoining room and his deposition there taken. _Tosca_ is not aware that it is the torture chamber the door to which has closed upon her lover. With _Tosca_ _Scarpia_ begins his interview quietly, deferentially. He has deduced from _Spoletta's_ report of her having remained but a short time at the villa that, instead of discovering the Attavanti with her lover, as she jealously had suspected, she had found him making plans to conceal _Angelotti_. In this he has just been confirmed by her frankly affectionate manner toward _Cavaradossi_. At first she answers _Scarpia's_ questions as to the presence of someone else at the villa lightly; then, when he becomes more insistent, her replies show irritation, until, turning on her with "ferocious sternness," he tells her that his agents are attempting to wring a confession from _Cavaradossi_ by torture. Even at that moment a groan is heard. _Tosca_ implores mercy for her lover. Yes, if she will disclose the hiding place of _Angelotti_. Groan after groan escapes from the torture chamber. _Tosca_, overcome, bursts into convulsive sobs and sinks back upon a sofa. _Spoletta_ kneels and mutters a Latin prayer. _Scarpia_ remains cruelly impassive, silent, until, seeing his opportunity in _Tosca's_ collapse, he steps to the door and signals to the executioner, _Roberti_, to apply still greater torture. The air is rent with a prolonged cry of pain. Unable longer to bear her lover's anguish and, in spite of warnings to say nothing, which he has called out to her between his spasms, she says hurriedly and in a stifled voice to _Scarpia_, "The well ... in the garden." _Cavaradossi_ is borne in from the torture chamber and deposited on the sofa. Kneeling beside him _Tosca_ lavishes tears and kisses upon him. _Sciarrone_, the judge, _Roberti_ and the _Clerk_ go. In obedience to a sign from _Scarpia_, _Spoletta_ and the agents remain behind. Still loyal to his friend, _Cavaradossi_, although racked with pain, asks _Tosca_ if unwittingly in his anguish he has disclosed aught. She reassures him. In a loud and commanding voice _Scarpia_ says to _Spoletta_: "In the well in the garden--Go _Spoletta_!" From _Scarpia's_ words _Cavaradossi_ knows that _Tosca_ has betrayed _Angelotti's_ hiding place. He tries to repulse her. _Sciarrone_ rushes in much perturbed. He brings bad news. The victory they have been celebrating has turned into defeat. Bonaparte has triumphed at Marengo. _Cavaradossi_ is roused to enthusiasm by the tidings. "Tremble, Scarpia, thou butcherly hypocrite," he cries. It is his death warrant. At _Scarpia's_ command _Sciarrone_ and the agents seize him and drag him away to be hanged. Quietly seating himself at table, _Scarpia_ invites _Tosca_ to a chair. Perhaps they can discover a plan by which _Cavaradossi_ may be saved. He carefully polishes a wineglass with a napkin, fills it with wine, and pushes it toward her. "Your price?" she asks, contemptuously. Imperturbably he fills his glass. She is the price that must be paid for _Cavaradossi's_ life. The horror with which she shrinks from the proposal, her unfeigned detestation of the man putting it forward, make her seem the more fascinating to him. There is a sound of distant drums. It is the escort that will conduct _Cavaradossi_ to the scaffold. _Scarpia_ has almost finished supper. Imperturbably he peels an apple and cuts it in quarters, occasionally looking up and scanning his chosen victim's features. Distracted, not knowing whither or to whom to turn, _Tosca_ now utters the famous "Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva": (Music and love--these have I lived for, Nor ever have I harmed a living being.... In this, my hour of grief and bitter tribulation, O, Heavenly Father, why hast Thou forsaken me), The "Vissi d'arte" justly is considered the most beautiful air in the repertoire of modern Italian opera. It is to passages of surpassing eloquence like this that Puccini owes his fame, and his operas are indebted for their lasting power of appeal. Beginning quietly, "Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore," [Music] it works up to the impassioned, heart-rending outburst of grief with which it comes to an end. [Music] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Emma Eames as Tosca] [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Caruso as Mario in "Tosca"] A knock at the door. _Spoletta_ comes to announce that _Angelotti_, on finding himself discovered, swallowed poison. "The other," he adds, meaning _Cavaradossi_, "awaits your decision." The life of _Tosca's_ lover is in the hands of the man who has told her how she may save him. Softly _Scarpia_ asks her, "What say you?" She nods consent; then, weeping for the shame of it, buries her head in the sofa cushions. _Scarpia_ says it is necessary for a mock execution to be gone through with, before _Tosca_ and _Cavaradossi_ can flee Rome. He directs _Spoletta_ that the execution is to be simulated--"as we did in the case of Palmieri.--You understand." "Just like Palmieri," _Spoletta_ repeats with emphasis, and goes. _Scarpia_ turns to _Tosca_. "I have kept my promise." She, however, demands safe conduct for _Cavaradossi_ and herself. _Scarpia_ goes to his desk to write the paper. With trembling hand _Tosca_, standing at the table, raises to her lips the wineglass filled for her by _Scarpia_. As she does so she sees the sharp, pointed knife with which he peeled and quartered the apple. A rapid glance at the desk assures her that he still is writing. With infinite caution she reaches out, secures possession of the knife, conceals it on her person. _Scarpia_ has finished writing. He folds up the paper, advances toward _Tosca_ with open arms to embrace her. "_Tosca_, at last thou art mine!" With a swift stroke of the knife, she stabs him full in the breast. "It is thus that _Tosca_ kisses!" He staggers, falls. Ineffectually he strives to rise; makes a final effort; falls backward; dies. Glancing back from time to time at _Scarpia's_ corpse, _Tosca_ goes to the table, where she dips a napkin in water and washes her fingers. She arranges her hair before a looking-glass, then looks on the desk for the safe-conduct. Not finding it there, she searches elsewhere for it, finally discovers it clutched in _Scarpia's_ dead fingers, lifts his arm, draws out the paper from between the fingers, and lets the arm fall back stiff and stark, as she hides the paper in her bosom. For a brief moment she surveys the body, then extinguishes the lights on the supper table. About to leave, she sees one of the candles on the desk still burning. With a grace of solemnity, she lights with it the other candle, places one candle to the right, the other to the left of _Scarpia's_ head, takes down a crucifix from the wall, and, kneeling, places it on the dead man's breast. There is a roll of distant drums. She rises; steals out of the room. In the opera, as in the play, which was one of Sarah Bernhardt's triumphs, it is a wonderful scene--one of the greatest in all drama. Anyone who has seen it adequately acted, knows what it has signified in the success of the opera, even after giving Puccini credit for "Vissi d'arte" and an expressive accompaniment to all that transpires on the stage. Act III. A platform of the Castle Sant'Angelo. Left, a casement with a table, a bench, and a stool. On the table are a lantern, a huge register book, and writing materials. Suspended on one of the walls are a crucifix and a votive lamp. Right, a trap door opening on a flight of steps that lead to the platform from below. The Vatican and St. Paul's are seen in the distance. The clear sky is studded with stars. It is just before dawn. The jangle of sheep bells is heard, at first distant, then nearer. Without, a shepherd sings his lay. A dim, grey light heralds the approach of dawn. The firing party conducting _Cavaradossi_ ascends the steps through the trap door and is received by a jailer. From a paper handed him by the sergeant in charge of the picket, the jailer makes entries in the register, to which the sergeant signs his name, then descends the steps followed by the picket. A bell strikes. "You have an hour," the jailer tells _Cavaradossi_. The latter craves the favour of being permitted to write a letter. It being granted, he begins to write, but soon loses himself in memories of _Tosca_. "E lucevan le stelle ed olezzava la terra" (When the stars were brightly shining, and faint perfumes the air pervaded)--a tenor air of great beauty. [Music] He buries his face in his hands. _Spoletta_ and the sergeant conduct _Tosca_ up the steps to the platform, and point out to her where she will find _Cavaradossi_. A dim light still envelopes the scene as with mystery. _Tosca_, seeing her lover, rushes up to him and, unable to speak for sheer emotion, lifts his hands and shows him--herself and the safe-conduct. "At what price?" he asks. Swiftly she tells him what _Scarpia_ demanded of her, and how, having consented, she thwarted him by slaying him with her own hand. Lovingly he takes her hands in his. "O dolci mani mansuete e pure" (Oh! gentle hands, so pitiful and tender). Her voice mingles with his in love and gratitude for deliverance. "Amaro sol per te m'era il morire" (The sting of death, I only felt for thee, love). [Music] She informs him of the necessity of going through a mock execution. He must fall naturally and lie perfectly still, as if dead, until she calls to him. They laugh over the ruse. It will be amusing. The firing party arrives. The sergeant offers to bandage _Cavaradossi's_ eyes. The latter declines. He stands with his back to the wall. The soldiers take aim. _Tosca_ stops her ears with her hands so that she may not hear the explosion. The officer lowers his sword. The soldiers fire. _Cavaradossi_ falls. "How well he acts it!" exclaims _Tosca_. A cloth is thrown over _Cavaradossi_. The firing party marches off. _Tosca_ cautions her lover not to move yet. The footsteps of the firing party die away--"Now get up." He does not move. Can he not hear? She goes nearer to him. "Mario! Up quickly! Away!--Up! up! Mario!" She raises the cloth. To the last _Scarpia_ has tricked her. He had ordered a real, not a mock execution. Her lover lies at her feet--a corpse. There are cries from below the platform. _Scarpia's_ murder has been discovered. His myrmidons are hastening to apprehend her. She springs upon the parapet and throws herself into space. [Illustration: Farrar as Tosca] MADAMA BUTTERFLY MADAM BUTTERFLY Opera in two acts, by Giacomo Puccini, words after the story of John Luther Long and the drama of David Belasco by L. Illica and G. Giacosa. English version by Mrs. R.H. Elkin. Produced unsuccessfully, La Scala, Milan, February 17, 1904, with Storchio, Zenatello, and De Luca, conductor Cleofante Campanini. Slightly revised, but with Act II divided into two distinct parts, at Brescia, May 28, 1904, with Krusceniski, Zenatello, and Bellati, when it scored a success. Covent Garden, London, July 10, 1905, with Destinn, Caruso, and Scotti, conductor Campanini. Washington, D.C., October, 1906, in English, by the Savage Opera Company, and by the same company, Garden Theatre, New York, November 12, 1906, with Elsa Szamozy, Harriet Behne, Joseph F. Sheehan, and Winifred Goff; Metropolitan Opera House, New York, February 11, 1907, with Farrar (_Butterfly_), Homer (_Suzuki_), Caruso (_Pinkerton_), Scotti (_Sharpless_), and Reiss (_Goro_). CHARACTERS MADAM BUTTERFLY (Cio-Cio-San) _Soprano_ SUZUKI (her servant) _Mezzo-Soprano_ KATE PINKERTON _Mezzo-Soprano_ B.F. PINKERTON, Lieutenant, U.S.N. _Tenor_ SHARPLESS (U.S. Consul at Nagasaki) _Baritone_ GORO (a marriage broker) _Tenor_ PRINCE YAMADORI _Baritone_ THE BONZE (_Cio-Cio-San's uncle_) _Bass_ YAKUSIDE _Baritone_ THE IMPERIAL COMMISSIONER _Bass_ THE OFFICIAL REGISTRAR } _Baritone_ CIO-CIO-SAN'S MOTHER } Members of _Mezzo-Soprano_ THE AUNT } the Chorus _Mezzo-Soprano_ THE COUSIN } _Soprano_ TROUBLE (_Cio-Cio-San's Child_) _Cio-Cio-San's_ relations and friends. Servants. _Time_--Present day. _Place_--Nagasaki. [Illustration: Photo by Hall "Madame Butterfly," Act I (Francis Maclennan, Renée Vivienne, and Thomas Richards)] Although "Madama Butterfly" is in two acts, the division of the second act into two parts by the fall of the curtain, there also being an instrumental introduction to part second, practically gives the opera three acts. Act I. There is a prelude, based on a Japanese theme. This theme runs through the greater part of the act. It is employed as a background and as a connecting link, with the result that it imparts much exotic tone colour to the scenes. The prelude passes over into the first act without a break. _Lieutenant B.F. Pinkerton_, U.S.N., is on the point of contracting a "Japanese marriage" with _Cio-Cio-San_, whom her friends call _Butterfly_. At the rise of the curtain _Pinkerton_ is looking over a little house on a hill facing the harbour. This house he has leased and is about to occupy with his Japanese wife. _Goro_, the nakodo or marriage broker, who has arranged the match, also has found the house for him and is showing him over it, enjoying the American's surprise at the clever contrivances found in Japanese house construction. Three Japanese servants are in the house, one of whom is _Suzuki_, _Butterfly's_ faithful maid. _Sharpless_, the American Consul at Nagasaki, arrives. In the chat which follows between the two men it becomes apparent that _Sharpless_ looks upon the step _Pinkerton_ is about to take with disfavour. He argues that what may be a mere matter of pastime to the American Naval lieutenant, may have been taken seriously by the Japanese girl and, if so, may prove a matter of life or death with her. _Pinkerton_ on the other hand laughs off his friend's fears and, having poured out drinks for both, recklessly pledges his real American wife of the future. Further discussion is interrupted by the arrival of the bride with her relatives and friends. After greetings have been exchanged, the Consul on conversing with _Butterfly_ becomes thoroughly convinced that he was correct in cautioning _Pinkerton_. For he discovers that she is not contemplating the usual Japanese marriage of arrangement, but, actually being in love with _Pinkerton_, is taking it with complete seriousness. She has even gone to the extent, as she confides to _Pinkerton_, of secretly renouncing her religious faith, the faith of her forefathers, and embracing his, before entering on her new life with him. This step, when discovered by her relatives, means that she has cut herself loose from all her old associations and belongings, and entrusts herself and her future entirely to her husband. Minor officials whose duty it is to see that the marriage contract, even though it be a "Japanese marriage," is signed with proper ceremony, arrive. In the midst of drinking and merry-making on the part of all who have come to the wedding, they are startled by fierce imprecations from a distance and gradually drawing nearer. A weird figure, shouting and cursing wildly, appears upon the scene. It is _Butterfly's_ uncle, the _Bonze_ (Japanese priest). He has discovered her renunciation of faith, now calls down curses upon her head for it, and insists that all her relatives, even her immediate family, renounce her. _Pinkerton_ enraged at the disturbance turns them out of the house. The air shakes with their imprecations as they depart. _Butterfly_ is weeping bitterly, but _Pinkerton_ soon is enabled to comfort her. The act closes with a passionate love scene. The Japanese theme, which I have spoken of as forming the introduction to the act, besides, the background to the greater part of it, in fact up to the scene with the _Bonze_, never becomes monotonous because it is interrupted by several other musical episodes. Such are the short theme to which _Pinkerton_ sings "Tutto è pronto" (All is ready), and the skippy little theme when _Goro_ tells _Pinkerton_ about those who will be present at the ceremony. When _Pinkerton_ sings, "The whole world over, on business or pleasure the Yankee travels," a motif based on the "Star-Spangled Banner," is heard for the first time. In the duet between _Pinkerton_ and _Sharpless_, which _Pinkerton_ begins with the words, "Amore o grillo" (Love or fancy), _Sharpless's_ serious argument and its suggestion of the possibility of _Butterfly's_ genuine love for _Pinkerton_ are well brought out in the music. When _Butterfly_ and her party arrive, her voice soars above those of the others to the strains of the same theme which occurs as a climax to the love duet at the end of the act and which, in the course of the opera, is heard on other occasions so intimately associated with herself and her emotions that it may be regarded as a motif, expressing the love she has conceived for _Pinkerton_. Full of feeling is the music of her confession to _Pinkerton_ that she has renounced the faith of her forefathers, in order to be a fit wife for the man she loves:--"Ieri son salita" (Hear what I would tell you). An episode, brief but of great charm, is the chorus "Kami! O Kami! Let's drink to the newly married couple." Then comes the interruption of the cheerful scene by the appearance of the _Bonze_, which forms a dramatic contrast. It is customary with Puccini to create "atmosphere" of time and place through the medium of the early scenes of his operas. It is only necessary to recall the opening episodes in the first acts of "La Bohème" and "Tosca." He has done the same thing in "Madam Butterfly," by the employment of the Japanese theme already referred to, and by the crowded episodes attending the arrival of _Butterfly_ and the performance of the ceremony. These episodes are full of action and colour, and distinctly Japanese in the impression they make. Moreover, they afford the only opportunity throughout the entire opera to employ the chorus upon the open stage. It is heard again in the second act, but only behind the scenes and humming in order to give the effect of distance. [Illustration: Photo by White Farrar as Cio-Cio-San in "Madama Butterfly"] The love scene between _Pinkerton_ and _Butterfly_ is extended. From its beginning, "Viene la sera" (Evening is falling), [Music] to the end, its interest never flags. It is full of beautiful melody charged with sentiment and passion, yet varied with lighter passages, like _Butterfly's_ "I am like the moon's little goddess"; "I used to think if anyone should want me"; and the exquisite, "Vogliatemi bene" (Ah, love me a little). There is a beautiful melody for _Pinkerton_, "Love, what fear holds you trembling." The climax of the love duet is reached in two impassioned phrases:--"Dolce notte! Quante stelle" (Night of rapture, stars unnumbered), [Music] and "Oh! Quanti occhi fisi, attenti" (Oh, kindly heavens). [Music] Act II. Part I. Three years have elapsed. It is a long time since _Pinkerton_ has left _Butterfly_ with the promise to return to her "when the robins nest." When the curtain rises, after an introduction, in which another Japanese theme is employed, _Suzuki_, although convinced that _Pinkerton_ has deserted her mistress, is praying for his return. _Butterfly_ is full of faith and trust. In chiding her devoted maid for doubting that _Pinkerton_ will return, she draws in language and song a vivid picture of his home-coming and of their mutual joy therein:--"Un bel dì vedremo" (Some day he'll come). [Music] In point of fact, _Pinkerton_ really is returning to Nagasaki, but with no idea of resuming relations with his Japanese wife. Indeed, before leaving America he has written to _Sharpless_ asking him to let _Butterfly_ know that he is married to an American wife, who will join him in Nagasaki. _Sharpless_ calls upon _Butterfly_, and attempts to deliver his message, but is unable to do so because of the emotions aroused in _Butterfly_ by the very sight of a letter from _Pinkerton_. It throws her into a transport of joy because, unable immediately to grasp its contents, she believes that in writing he has remembered her, and must be returning to her. _Sharpless_ endeavours to make the true situation clear to her, but is interrupted by a visit from _Yamadori_, a wealthy Japanese suitor, whom _Goro_ urges _Butterfly_ to marry. For the money left by Pinkerton with his little Japanese wife has dwindled almost to nothing, and poverty stares her in the face. But she will not hear of an alliance with _Yamadori_. She protests that she is already married to _Pinkerton_, and will await his return. When _Yamadori_ has gone, _Sharpless_ makes one more effort to open her eyes to the truth. They have a duet, "Ora a noi" (Now at last), in which he again produces the letter, and attempts to persuade her that Pinkerton has been faithless to her and has forgotten her. Her only reply is to fetch in her baby boy, born since _Pinkerton's_ departure. Her argument is, that when the boy's father hears what a fine son is waiting for him in Japan, he will hasten back. She sings to _Trouble_, as the little boy is called:--"Sai cos'ebbe cuore" (Do you hear, my sweet one, what that bad man is saying). _Sharpless_ makes a final effort to disillusion her, but in vain. If _Pinkerton_ does not come back, there are two things, she says, she can do--return to her old life and sing for people, or die. She sings a touching little lullaby to her baby boy, _Suzuki_ twice interrupting her with the pathetically voiced exclamation, "Poor Madam Butterfly!" A salute of cannon from the harbour announces the arrival of a man-of-war. Looking through the telescope, _Butterfly_ and _Suzuki_ discover that it is _Pinkerton's_ ship, the "Abraham Lincoln." Now _Butterfly_ is convinced that _Sharpless_ is wrong. Her faith is about to be rewarded. The man she loves is returning to her. The home must be decorated and made cheerful and attractive to greet him. She and _Suzuki_ distribute cherry blossoms wherever their effect will be most charming. The music accompanying this is the enchanting duet of the flowers, "Scuoti quella fronda di ciliegio" (Shake that cherry tree till every flower). Most effective is the phrase, "Gettiamo a mani piene mammole e tuberose" (In handfuls let us scatter violets and white roses.) [Music] _Butterfly_ adorns herself and the baby boy. Then with her fingers she pierces three holes in the paper wall of the dwelling. She, _Suzuki_, and the baby peer through these, watching for _Pinkerton's_ arrival. Night falls. _Suzuki_ and the boy drop off to sleep. _Butterfly_ rigid, motionless, waits and watches, her faith still unshaken, for the return of the man who has forsaken her. The pathos of the scene is profound; the music, with the hum of voices, borne upon the night from the distant harbour, exquisite. Act II. Part II. When the curtain rises, night has passed, dawn is breaking. _Suzuki_ and the baby are fast asleep, but _Butterfly_ still is watching. Again Puccini employs a Japanese melody (the "vigil" theme). [Music] When _Suzuki_ awakes, she persuades the poor little "wife" to go upstairs to rest, which _Butterfly_ does only upon _Suzuki's_ promise to awaken her as soon as _Pinkerton_ arrives. _Pinkerton_ and _Sharpless_ appear. _Suzuki_ at first is full of joyful surprise, which, however, soon gives way to consternation, when she learns the truth. _Pinkerton_ himself, seeing about him the proofs of _Butterfly's_ complete loyalty to him, realizes the heartlessness of his own conduct. There is a dramatic trio for _Pinkerton_, _Sharpless_, and _Suzuki_. _Pinkerton_, who cannot bear to face the situation, rushes away, leaving it to _Sharpless_ to settle matters as best he can. _Butterfly_ has become aware that people are below. _Suzuki_ tries to prevent her coming down, but she appears radiantly happy, for she expects to find her husband. The pathos of the scene in which she learns the truth is difficult to describe. But she does not burst into lamentations. With a gentleness which has been characteristic of her throughout, she bears the blow. She even expresses the wish to _Kate_, _Pinkerton's_ real wife, that she may experience all happiness, and sends word to _Pinkerton_ that, if he will come for his son in half an hour, he can have him. _Sharpless_ and _Mrs. Pinkerton_ withdraw. In a scene of tragic power, _Butterfly_ mortally wounds herself with her father's sword, the blade of which bears the inscription, "To die with honour when one can no longer live with honour," drags herself across the floor to where the boy is playing with his toys and waving a little American flag, and expires just as _Pinkerton_ enters to take away the son whom thus she gives up to him. From examples that already have been given of modern Italian opera, it is clear that "atmosphere," local colour, and character delineation are typical features of the art of Italy's lyric stage as it flourishes today. In "Madama Butterfly" we have exotic tone colour to a degree that has been approached but not equalled by Verdi in "Aïda." Certain brief scenes in Verdi's opera are Egyptian in tone colour. In "Madama Butterfly" Japanese themes are used _in extenso_, and although the thrilling climaxes in the work are distinctively Italian, the Japanese under-current, dramatic and musical, always is felt. In that respect compare "Madama Butterfly" with a typical old Italian opera like "Lucia di Lammermoor" the scene of which is laid in Scotland, but in which there is nothing Scotch save the costumes--no "atmosphere," no local colour. These things are taken seriously by modern Italian composers, who do not ignore melody, yet also appreciate the value of an eloquent instrumental support to the voice score; whereas the older Italian opera composers were content to distribute melody with a lavish hand and took little else into account. In character delineation in the opera _Butterfly_ dominates. She is a sweet, trusting, pathetic little creature--traits expressed in the music as clearly as in the drama. The sturdy devotion of _Suzuki_ is, if possible, brought out in an even stronger light in the opera than in the drama, and _Sharpless_ is admirably drawn. _Pinkerton_, of course, cannot be made sympathetic. All that can be expected of him is that he be a tenor, and sing the beautiful music allotted to him in the first act with tender and passionate expression. The use of the "Star-Spangled Banner" motif as a personal theme for _Pinkerton_, always has had a disagreeable effect upon me, and from now on should be objected to by all Americans. Some one in authority, a manager like Gatti-Casazza, or Ricordi & Co.'s American representatives, should call Puccini's attention to the fact that his employment of the National Anthem of the United States of America in "Madama Butterfly" is highly objectionable and might, in time, become offensive; although no offence was meant by him. I "did" the first night of David Belasco's play "Madam Butterfly" for the New York _Herald_. The production occurred at the Herald Square Theatre, Broadway and Thirty-fifth Street, New York, March 5, 1900, with Blanche Bates as _Butterfly_. It was given with "Naughty Anthony," a farce-comedy also by Belasco, which had been a failure. The tragedy had been constructed with great rapidity from John Luther Long's story, but its success was even swifter. At the Duke of York's Theatre, London, it was seen by Francis Nielsen, stage manager of Covent Garden, who immediately sent word to Puccini urging him to come from Milan to London to see a play which, in his hands, might well become a successful opera. Puccini came at once, with the result that he created a work which has done its full share toward making the modern Italian lyric stage as flourishing as all unprejudiced critics concede it to be. The Milan production of "Madama Butterfly" was an utter failure. The audience hooted, the prima donna was in tears. The only person behind the scenes not disconcerted was the composer, whose faith in his work was so soon to be justified. LA FANCIULLA DEL WEST (THE GIRL OF THE GOLDEN WEST) Opera in three acts by Puccini; words by C. Zangarini and G. Civini, after the play by David Belasco. Produced, Metropolitan Opera House, New York, December 10, 1910, with Destinn, Mattfeld, Caruso, Amato, Reiss, Didur, Dinh-Gilly, Pini-Corsi, and De Segurola. CHARACTERS MINNIE _Soprano_ JACK RANCE, sheriff _Baritone_ DICK JOHNSON (Ramerrez) _Tenor_ NICK, bartender at the "Polka" _Tenor_ ASHBY, Wells-Fargo agent _Bass_ SONORA } _Baritone_ TRIM } _Tenor_ SID } _Baritone_ HANDSOME } Miners _Baritone_ HARRY } _Tenor_ JOE } _Tenor_ HAPPY } _Baritone_ LARKENS } _Bass_ BILLY JACKRABBIT, an Indian redskin _Bass_ WOWKLE, Billy's squaw _Mezzo-Soprano_ JAKE WALLACE, a travelling camp minstrel _Baritone_ JOSÉ CASTRO, a greaser from Ramerrez's gang _Bass_ A POSTILLION _Tenor_ MEN OF THE CAMP _Time_--1849-1850, the days of the gold fever. _Place_--A mining-camp at the foot of the Cloudy Mountains, California. [Illustration: Photo by White Destinn as Minnie, Caruso as Johnson, and Amato as Jack Rance in "The Girl of the Golden West"] Successful in producing "atmosphere" in "La Bohème," "Tosca," and "Madama Butterfly," Puccini has utterly failed in his effort to do so in his "Girl of the Golden West." Based upon an American play, the scene laid in America and given in America for the first time on any stage, the opera has not been, the more's the pity, a success. In the first act, laid in the "Polka" bar-room, after a scene of considerable length for the miners (intended, no doubt, to create "atmosphere") there is an episode between _Rance_ and _Minnie_, in which it develops that _Rance_ wants to marry her, but that she does not care for him. _Johnson_ comes in. He and _Minnie_ have met but once before, but have been strongly attracted to each other. She asks him to visit her in her cabin, where they will be undisturbed by the crowd, which has gone off to hunt for Ramerrez, head of a band of outlaws, reported to be in the vicinity but which soon may be back. The scene of the second act is _Minnie's_ cabin, which consists of a room and loft. After a brief scene for _Billy_ and _Wowkle_, _Minnie_ comes in. Through night and a blizzard _Johnson_ makes his way up the mountainside. There is a love scene--then noises outside. People are approaching. Not wishing to be found with _Johnson_, _Minnie_ forces him to hide. _Rance_ and others, who are on the trail of _Ramerrez_ and hope to catch or kill him any moment, come in to warn her that _Johnson_ is Ramerrez. When they have gone, and _Johnson_ acknowledges that he is the outlaw, _Minnie_ denounces him and sends him out into the blizzard. There is a shot. _Johnson_, sorely wounded, staggers into the cabin. A knock at the door. _Rance's_ voice. With _Minnie's_ aid the wounded man reaches the loft where he collapses. _Rance_ enters, expecting to find _Johnson_. He is almost persuaded by _Minnie_ that the fugitive is not there, when, through the loose timbers of the loft, a drop of blood falls on his hand. _Minnie_ proposes that they play cards--_Johnson_ to live, or she to marry the sheriff. They play. She cheats, and wins. The third act is laid in the forest. _Johnson_, who has recovered and left _Minnie's_ cabin, is caught, and is to be hung. But at the critical moment _Minnie_ arrives, and her pleading moves the men to spare him, in spite of _Rance's_ protests. They leave to begin a new life elsewhere. In the score there is much recitative. It is not interesting in itself, nor is it made so by the insufficiently varied instrumental accompaniment. For the action of the play is too vigorous to find expression by means of the Debussyan manner that predominates in the orchestra. The most genuinely inspired musical number is _Johnson's_ solo in the last act, when it seems certain that he is about to be executed.--"Ch'ella mi creda libero e lontano" (Let her believe that I have gained my freedom). LA RONDINE THE SWALLOW The opera begins in Paris during the Second Empire. _Magda_, the heroine, is a _demi-mondaine_ living under the protection of the rich banker _Rambaldo_. Satisfied with the luxuries he lavishes upon her, she longs for true affection, and is unable to stifle the remembrance of her first love, a poor young student. She meets _Ruggero_, who like her earlier love, is young and poor, and a student. At Bouilliers, the rendezvous of the gay life of Paris, _Ruggero_ declares his love for _Magda_. They leave Paris for Nice, where they hope to lead an idyllic existence. _Ruggero_ looks forward to a life of perfect happiness. He writes to his parents asking their consent to his marriage with _Magda_. The reply is that if she is virtuous and honourable, she will be received with open arms. _Magda_ now considers herself (like _Violetta_ in "La Traviata") unworthy of _Ruggero's_ love and lest she shall bring dishonour upon the man she loves, she parts with him. Other principal rôles are _Lisetta_ and _Prunia_, and there are numerous second parts requiring first-rate artists. In the second act of "La Rondine" is a quartet which, it is said, Puccini believes will rival that at the end of the third act in "La Bohème." "I have let my pen run," he is reported to have said, "and no other method suffices to obtain good results, in my opinion. No matter what marvellous technical effects may be worked up by lengthy meditation, I believe in heart in preference to head." The opera was produced in March, 1917, in Monte Carlo, and during the summer of the same year, in Buenos Aires. Puccini intended to compose it with dialogue as a genuine opéra comique, but finally substituted recitative. The work is said to approach opéra comique in style. Reports regarding its success vary. After the first Italian performance, San Carlo Theatre, Naples, February 26, 1918, Puccini, according to report, decided to revise "La Rondine." Revision, as in the case of "Madama Butterfly," may make a great success of it. ONE-ACT OPERAS Three one-act operas by Puccini have been composed for performance at one sitting. They are "Suor Angelica" (Sister Angelica), "Il Tabarro" (The Cloak), and "Gianni Schicchi." The motifs of these operas are sentiment, tragedy, and humour. The scene of "Suor Angelica" is laid within the walls of a mountain convent, whither she has retired to expiate an unfortunate past. Her first contact with the outer world is through a visit from an aunt, who needs her signature to a document. Timidly she asks about the tiny mite, whom she was constrained to abandon before she entered the convent. Harshly the aunt replies that the child is dead. _Sister Angelica_ decides to make an end to her life amid the flowers she loves. Dying, she appeals for pardon for her act of self-destruction. The doors of the convent church open, and a dazzling light pours forth revealing the Virgin Mary on the threshold surrounded by angels, who, intoning a sweet chorus, bear the poor, penitent, and weary soul to eternal peace. This little work is entirely for female voices. The libretto of "Il Tabarro" is tragic. The great scene is between a husband and his wife. The husband has killed her lover, whose body he shows to his unfaithful wife, lifting from the ground the cloak (il tabarro) under which it is hidden. The scene of "Il Tabarro" is laid on the deck of a Seine barge at sunset, when the day's work is over, and after dark. The husband is _Michele_, the wife _Giorgetta_, the lover, _Luigi_, and there are two other bargemen. These latter go off after the day's work. _Luigi_ lingers in the cabin. He persuades _Giorgetta_ that, when all is quiet on the barge, and it will be safe for him to return to her, she shall strike a match as a signal. He then goes. _Michele_ has suspected his wife. He reminds her of their early love, when he sheltered her under his cloak. _Giorgetta_, however, receives these reminiscences coldly, feigns weariness, and retires to the cabin. It has grown dark. _Michele_ lights his pipe. _Luigi_, thinking it is _Giorgetta's_ signal, clambers up the side of the barge, where he is seized and choked to death by _Michele_, who takes his cloak and covers the corpse with it. _Giorgetta_ has heard sounds of a struggle. She comes on deck in alarm, but is somewhat reassured, when she sees _Michele_ sitting alone and quietly smoking. Still somewhat nervous, however, she endeavours to atone for her frigidity toward him, but a short time before, by "making up" to him, telling him, among other things, that she well recalls their early love and wishes she could again find shelter in the folds of his big cloak. For reply, he raises the cloak, and lets her see _Luigi's_ corpse. I have read another synopsis of this plot, in which _Michele_ forces his wife's face close to that of her dead lover. At the same moment, one of the other bargemen, whose wife also had betrayed him, returns brandishing the bloody knife, with which he has slain her. The simpler version surely is more dramatic than the one of cumulative horrors. * * * * * When the action of "Gianni Schicchi" opens one _Donati_ has been dead for two hours. His relations are thinking of the will. A young man of the house hands it to his mother [Transcriber's Note: should be 'aunt'] but exacts the promise that he shall marry the daughter of neighbour _Schicchi_. When the will is read, it is found that _Donati_ has left his all to charity. _Schicchi_ is called in, and consulted. He plans a ruse. So far only those in the room know of _Donati's_ demise. The corpse is hidden. _Schicchi_ gets into bed, and, when the _Doctor_ calls, imitates the dead man's voice and pretends he wants to sleep. The lawyer is sent for. _Schicchi_ dictates a new will--in favour of himself, and becomes the heir, in spite of the anger of the others. Riccardo Zandonai FRANCESCA DA RIMINI FRANCESCA OF RIMINI Opera in four acts, by Riccardo Zandonai; words by Tito Ricordi, after the drama of the same title by Gabriele d'Annunzio. English version from Arthur Symons's translation of the drama. Produced, Reggio Theatre, Turin, February 1, 1914. Covent Garden Theatre, London, July 16, 1914. Metropolitan Opera House, New York, December 22, 1916, with Alda (_Francesca_), Martinelli (_Paolo_), and Amato (_Giovanni_). CHARACTERS GIOVANNI, the lame } sons of { _Baritone_ PAOLO, the beautiful } Malatesta da { _Tenor_ MALATESTINO, the one-eyed } Verrucchio { _Tenor_ OSTASIO, son of Guido Minore da Polenta _Baritone_ SER TOLDO BERARDENGO, a notary _Tenor_ A JESTER _Bass_ A BOWMAN _Tenor_ TOWER WARDEN _Baritone_ FRANCESCA, daughter of Guido and sister of Ostasio _Soprano_ SAMARITANA, sister of Francesca and Ostasio _Soprano_ BIANCOFIORE } { _Soprano_ GARSENDA } women of Francesca { _Soprano_ ALTICHIARA } { _Mezzo-Soprano_ DONELLA _Mezzo-Soprano_ SMARADI, a slave _Contralto_ Bowmen, archers, and musicians. _Time_--Thirteenth century. _Place_--First act, Ravenna, then Rimini. A pretentious but not wholly successful score based upon a somewhat diffuse drama--such is the net impression made by Zandonai's opera "Francesca da Rimini." The story of Francesca and Paolo is one of the world's immortal tales of passion, and an opera set to it should be inspired beyond almost any other. But as W.J. Henderson wrote in the New York _Sun_ the day after the production of Zandonai's work in New York, "In all human probability the full measure of 'love insatiable' was never taken in music but once, and we cannot expect a second 'Tristan und Isolde' so soon." Act I. The scene is a court in the house of the Polentani, in Ravenna, adjacent to a garden, whose bright colours are seen through a pierced marble screen. A colloquy between _Francesca's_ brother _Ostasio_ and the notary _Ser Toldo Berardengo_ informs us that for reasons of state, _Francesca_ is to be married to that one of the three sons of Malatesta da Verrucchio, who although named _Giovanni_, is known as _Gianciotto, the Lamester_, because of his deformity and ugliness. As _Francesca_ surely would refuse to marry _Gianciotto_, a plot has been formed by which she is introduced to his handsome younger brother _Paolo_, with whom, under the impression that he is her destined bridegroom, she falls deeply in love at first sight, a passion that is fully reciprocated by him, although they have only beheld each other, and not yet exchanged a word. Such is the procedure of the first act. When _Francesca_ and _Paolo_ behold each other through the marble screen, which divides the court from the garden, in which _Paolo_ stands amid brightly coloured flowers, the orchestra intones a phrase which may properly be called the love motif. [Music] The act is largely lyric in its musical effect. Much charm is given to it by the quartette of women who attend upon _Francesca_. Almost at the outset the composer creates what might be called the necessary love mood, by a playful scene between _Francesca's_ women and a strolling jester, who chants for them the story of "Tristan und Isolde." The setting of the scene is most picturesque. In fact everything in this act tends to create "atmosphere," and were the rest of the opera as successful, it would be one of the finest works of its kind to have come out of modern Italy. Act II. The scene is the interior of a round tower in the fortified castle of the Malatestas. The summit of the tower is crowned with engines of war and arms. There are heavy cross-bows, ballistas, a catapult, and other mediæval machinery of battle. The castle is a stronghold of the Guelfs. In the distance, beyond the city of Rimini, are seen the battlements of the highest Ghibelline Tower. A narrow fortified window looks out on the Adriatic. Soon after the act opens, an attack takes place. The battle rages. Amid all this distracting, and therefore futile tumult, occurs the first meeting between _Francesca_ and _Paolo_, since the marriage into which she was tricked. Their love is obvious enough. _Paolo_ despairingly seeks death, to which _Francesca_ also exposes herself by remaining on the platform of the tower during the combat. The relation between these two principal characters of the opera is clearly enough set forth, and the impression made by it would be forcible, were not attention distracted by the fiercely raging mediæval combat. The Malatestas are victorious. The attacking foes are driven off. _Gianciotto_ comes upon the platform and brings news to _Paolo_ of his election as Captain of the people and Commune of Florence, for which city _Paolo_ departs. [Illustration: Photo by White Alda as Francesca and Martinelli as Paolo in "Francesca da Rimini"] Act III. The scene is the beautiful apartment of _Francesca_, where, from an old tome, she is reading to her women the story of _Lancelot and Guenevere_. This episode has somewhat of the same charm as that which pervaded portions of the first act. Especially is this true, when to the accompaniment of archaic instruments, the women sing their measures in praise of spring, "Marzo è giunto, e Febbraio gito se n'è col ghiado" (March comes, and February goes with the wind today). [Music] The women dance and sing, until on a whispered word from her slave, _Francesca_ dismisses them. _Paolo_ has returned. The greeting from her to him is simple enough: "Benvenuto, signore mio cognato" (Welcome my lord and kinsman), but the music is charged with deeper significance. [Music] Even more pronounced is the meaning in the musical phrase at Francesca's words, "Paolo, datemi pace" (Paolo, give me peace). [Music] Together they read the story which _Francesca_ had begun reading to her women. Their heads come close together over the book. Their white faces bend over it until their cheeks almost touch; and when in the ancient love tale, the queen and her lover kiss, _Francesca's_ and _Paolo's_ lips meet and linger in an ecstasy of passion. Act IV. This act is divided into two parts. The scene of the first part is an octagonal hall of gray stone. A grated door leads to a subterranean prison. Cries of a prisoner from there have disturbed Francesca. When she complains of this to the youngest brother of _Gianciotto_, _Malatestino_, he goes down into the prison and kills the captive. The introduction to this act is, appropriately enough, based on an abrupt phrase. [Music] _Malatestino_ is desperately in love with Francesca, urges his suit upon her, and even hints that he would go to the length of poisoning _Gianciotto_. _Francesca_ repulses him. Out of revenge he excites the jealousy of _Gianciotto_ by arousing his suspicions of _Paolo_ and _Francesca_, pointing out especially that _Paolo_ has returned from Florence much sooner than his duties there would justify him in doing. The scene of part two is laid in _Francesca's_ chamber. It is night. Four waxen torches burn in iron candlesticks. _Francesca_ is lying on the bed. From her sleep she is roused by a wild dream that harm has come to _Paolo_. Her women try to comfort her. After an exchange of gentle and affectionate phrases, she dismisses them. A light knocking at the door, and _Paolo's_ voice calling, "Francesca!" She flings open the door and throws herself into the arms of her lover. There is an interchange of impassioned phrases. Then a violent shock is heard at the door, followed by the voice of _Gianciotto_, demanding admission. _Paolo_ spies a trap door in the floor of the apartment, pulls the bolt, and bids _Francesca_ open the door of the room for her husband, while he escapes. _Gianciotto_ rushes into the room. _Paolo's_ cloak has caught in the bolt of the trap door. He is still standing head and shoulders above the level of the floor. Seizing him by the hair, the _Lamester_ forces him to come up. _Paolo_ unsheathes his dagger. _Gianciotto_ draws his sword, thrusts at _Paolo_. _Francesca_ throws herself between the two men, receives the thrust of her husband's sword full in the breast, and falls into _Paolo's_ arms. Mad with rage, her deformed husband with another deadly thrust pierces his brother's side. _Paolo_ and _Francesca_ fall at full length to the floor. With a painful effort, _Gianciotto_ breaks his bloodstained sword over his knee. Where the drama is lyric in character, and where it concentrates upon the hot-blooded love story, a tradition in the Malatesta family, and narrated by a Malatesta to Dante, who, as is well known, used it in his "Inferno," the music is eloquent. Where, however, the action becomes diffuse, and attention is drawn to subsidiary incidents, as is far too often the case, interest in the music flags. With great benefit to the score at least a third of the libretto could be sacrificed. * * * * * Riccardo Zandonai was born at Sacco. He studied with Gianferrai and at the Rossini Conservatory. "Conchita," another opera by him, Milan, 1912, was produced in this country in Chicago and New York in 1913. Franco Leoni L'ORACOLO THE SAGE Opera in one act by Franco Leoni, words by Camillo Zanoni, adapted from the play, "The Cat and the Cherub," by Chester Bailey Fernald. Produced, Covent Garden Theatre, London, June 28, 1905. Metropolitan Opera House, New York, February 4, 1915, with Scotti, as _Chim-Fen_; Didur, as _Win-She_; Botta, as _Win-San-Lui_; and Bori, as _Ah-Joe_. CHARACTERS WIN-SHE, a wise man, called the Sage _Baritone_ CHIM-FEN, an opium den proprietor _Baritone_ WIN-SAN-LUI, son of Win-She _Tenor_ HU-TSIN, a rich merchant _Bass_ HU-CHI, a child, son of Hu-Tsin AH-JOE, niece of Hu-Tsin _Soprano_ HUA-QUI, nurse of Hu-Chi _Contralto_ Four opium fiends, a policeman, an opium maniac, a soothsayer, distant voices, four vendors, Chinese men, women, and children. _Time_--The present. _Place_--Chinatown, San Francisco. _Chim-Fen_ is about to close up his opium den. A man half crazed by the drug comes up its steps and slinks away. Out of the house of the merchant _Hu-Tsin_ comes _Hua-Qui_, the nurse of _Hu-Tsin's_ son, _Hu-Chi_. _Chim-Fen_ wants to marry the merchant's daughter _Ah-Joe_. The nurse is in league with him. She brings him a fan, upon which _Ah-Joe's_ lover, _San-Lui_, son of the sage, _Win-She_, has written an avowal of love. _Hua-Qui_ is jealous, because _Chim-Fen_ is in love with _Ah-Joe_. Her jealousy annoys him. He threatens her and drives her away. Four gamblers, drunk with opium, emerge from the den. _Chim-Fen_ looks after them with contempt. It is now very early in the morning of New Year's Day. _Win-She_ comes along. _Chim-Fen_ greets him obsequiously and is admonished by the sage to mend his vile ways. _San-Lui_ sings a serenade to _Ah-Joe_, who comes out on her balcony to hear him. People pass by, street venders cry their wares. _Ah-Joe_ withdraws into the house, _San-Lui_ goes his way. When _Hu-Tsin_, the rich merchant, comes out, he is accosted by _Chim-Fen_, who asks for the promise of _Ah-Joe's_ hand. _Hu-Tsin_ spurns the proposal. A fortune-teller comes upon the scene. _Chim-Fen_ has his fortune told. "A vile past, a future possessed of the devil. Wash you of your slime." When _Chim-Fen_ threatens the fortune-teller, the crowd, which has gathered, hoots him and repeats the words of the fortune-teller amid howls and jeers. _Hu-Tsin_, with _Ah-Joe_, _Hua-Qui_, and the baby boy come into the street, where _Win-She_, gathering a group of worshippers about him, bids _San-Lui_ prevent the crowd from creating a disturbance, then, with all the people kneeling, intones a prayer, from which he finally passes into a trance. When he comes out of it, he says that he has seen two souls, one aspiring toward Nirvana, the other engulfed in the inferno. He also has witnessed the grief of a father at the killing of a hope. At this _Hu-Tsin_ shows alarm for the safety of _Hu-Chi_, and the people join in lamentations, but _Win-She_ prophesies, "_Hu-Chi_ is safe." Along comes the procession of the dragon. In watching this _Hua-Qui_ neglects her charge. Utilizing this opportunity _Chim-Fen_ seizes the child and carries him off into his cellar. When _Hu-Tsin_ discovers the loss and has berated the nurse, he offers to give the hand of _Ah-Joe_ in marriage to the finder of his son. This is just what _Chim-Fen_ expected. _San-Lui_, however, immediately takes up the search, in spite of _Ah-Joe's_ protests, for the girl fears that some harm will come to him. _San-Lui_ starts towards _Chim-Fen's_ den. _Hua-Qui_ tries to warn him, by telling him how the opium dealer deceived her and is seeking the hand of _Ah-Joe_, in order to obtain _Hu-Tsin's_ money. _San-Lui_, however, compels _Chim-Fen_ to descend with him to the cellar, where he finds and is about to rescue _Hu-Chi_, when _Chim-Fen_ kills him with a hatchet. _San-Lui_ staggers up the steps to the street, calls _Ah-Joe's_ name, and falls dead. She wails over his body, a crowd gathers, and _Hu-Tsin_ is horror-stricken to find that the man who has been slain at his door is _San-Lui_. _Win-She_, the father of _San-Lui_, tells the merchant to wait; the death of _San-Lui_ will be avenged. Immediately _Win-She_ goes over to the opium den, hears the child's cry in the cellar, finds _Hu-Chi_ and restores him to his father. He then goes to the door of the opium den, calls _Chim-Fen_, who comes out, apparently filled with indignation against the murderer of _Win-She's_ son, whom he says he would like to throttle with his own hands. From the merchant's house there is heard every now and then the voice of _Ah-Joe_, who has lost her reason through grief, and is calling her lover's name. The two men seat themselves on a bench near the opium den. _Win-She_ speaks calmly, quietly, and unperceived by _Chim-Fen_, draws a knife, and plunges it into the villain's back. _Chim-Fen_ not dying at once, _Win-She_ quietly winds the man's own pigtail around his neck and proceeds slowly and gradually to strangle him, meanwhile disclosing his knowledge of the murder, but without raising his voice, propping up _Chim-Fen_ against some cases, and speaking so quietly, that a policeman, who saunters by, thinks two Chinamen are in conversation, and turns the corner without realizing that anything is wrong. _Win-She_ now goes his way. _Chim-Fen's_ body falls to the ground. It will have been observed that many incidents are crowded into this one act, but that the main features of the drama, the villainy of _Chim-Fen_, and the calm clairvoyance of _Win-She_ are never lost sight of. The music consists mainly of descriptive and dramatic phrases, with but little attempt to give the score definite Chinese colouring. _Ah-Joe's_ song on her balcony to the silvery dawn is the most tuneful passage in the opera. Scotti, whose _Chim-Fen_ is a performance of sinister power, Didur (_Win-She_), and Bori (_Ah-Joe_) were in the Metropolitan production. * * * * * Franco Leoni was born at Milan, October 24, 1864. He studied under Ponchielli at the Conservatory in his native city. Other works by him are "Rip Van Winkle," "Raggio di Luna," and "Ib and Little Christina." Italo Montemezzi L'AMORE DEI TRE RE THE LOVE OF THREE KINGS Opera in three acts, by Italo Montemezzi; words by Sem Benelli, from his tragedy ("tragic poem") of the same title, English version, by Mrs. R.H. Elkin. Produced, La Scala, Milan, April 10, 1913; Metropolitan Opera House, New York, January 2, 1914, with Didur (_Archibaldo_), Amato (_Manfredo_), Ferrari-Fontana (_Avito_), Bori (_Fiora_). Covent Garden Theatre, London, May 27, 1914. Théâtre des Champs Elysées, Paris, April 25, 1914. In the Milan production Luisa Villani was _Fiora_, and Ferrari-Fontana _Avito_. CHARACTERS ARCHIBALDO, King of Altura _Bass_ MANFREDO, son of Archibaldo _Baritone_ AVITO, a former prince of Altura _Tenor_ FLAMINIO, a castle guard _Tenor_ FIORA, wife of Manfredo _Soprano_ A youth, a boy child (voice behind the scenes), a voice behind the scenes, a handmaiden, a young girl, an old woman, other people of Altura. _Time_--The tenth century. _Place_--A remote castle of Italy, forty years after a Barbarian invasion, led by _Archibaldo_. [Illustration: Photo by Mishkin Bori and Ferrari-Fontana in "The Love of Three Kings"] This opera is justly considered one of the finest products of modern Italian genius. Based upon a powerful tragedy, by Sem Benelli, one of the foremost of living playwrights in Italy, it is a combination of terse, swiftly moving drama with a score which vividly depicts events progressing fatefully toward an inevitable human cataclysm. While there is little or no set melody in Montemezzi's score, nevertheless it is melodious--a succession of musical phrases that clothe the words, the thought behind them, their significance, their most subtle suggestion, in the weft and woof of expressive music. It is a mediæval tapestry, the colours of which have not faded, but still glow with their original depth and opulence. Of the many scores that have come out of Italy since the death of Verdi, "L'Amore dei Tre Re" is one of the most eloquent. Act I. The scene is a spacious hall open to a terrace. A lantern employed as a signal sheds its reddish light dimly through the gloom before dawn. From the left enters _Archibaldo_. He is old with flowing white hair and beard, and he is blind. He is led in by his guide _Flaminio_, who is in the dress of the castle guard. As if he saw, the old blind king points to the door of a chamber across the hall and bids _Flaminio_ look and tell him if it is quite shut. It is slightly open. _Archibaldo_ in a low voice orders him to shut it, but make no noise, then, hastily changing his mind, to leave it as it is. In the setting of the scene, in the gloom penetrated only by the glow of the red lantern, in the costumes of the men, in the actions of the old king, who cannot see but whose sense of hearing is weirdly acute, and in the subtle suggestion of suspicion that all is not well, indicated in his restlessness, the very opening of this opera immediately casts a spell of the uncanny over the hearer. This is enhanced by the groping character of the theme which accompanies the entrance of _Archibaldo_ with his guide, depicting the searching footsteps of the blind old man. [Music] There is mention of _Fiora_, the wife of _Archibaldo's_ son, _Manfredo_, who is in the north, laying siege to an enemy stronghold. There also is mention of _Avito_, a prince of Altura, to whom _Fiora_ was betrothed before _Archibaldo_ humbled Italy, but whose marriage to _Manfredo_, notwithstanding her previous betrothal, was one of the conditions of peace. Presumably--as is to be gathered from the brief colloquy--_Archibaldo_ has come into the hall to watch with _Flaminio_ for the possible return of _Manfredo_, but the restlessness of the old king, his commands regarding the door opposite, and even certain inferences to be drawn from what he says, lead to the conclusion that he suspects his son's wife and _Avito_. It is also clear--subtly conveyed, without being stated in so many words--that _Flaminio_, though in the service of _Archibaldo_, is faithful to _Avito_, like himself a native of the country, which _Archibaldo_ has conquered. When _Flaminio_ reminds _Archibaldo_ that _Avito_ was to have wedded _Fiora_, the blind king bids his guide look out into the valley for any sign of _Manfredo's_ approach. "Nessuno, mio signore! Tutto è pace!" is Flaminio's reply. (No one, my lord! All is quiet!) [Music] _Archibaldo_, recalling his younger years, tells eloquently of his conquest of Italy, apostrophizing the ravishing beauty of the country, when it first met his gaze, before he descended the mountains from which he beheld it. He then bids _Flaminio_ put out the lantern, since _Manfredo_ comes not. _Flaminio_ obeys then, as there is heard in the distance the sound of a rustic flute, he urges upon _Archibaldo_ that they go. It is nearly dawn, the flute appears to have been a signal which _Flaminio_ understands. He is obviously uneasy, as he leads _Archibaldo_ out of the hall. _Avito_ and _Fiora_ come out of her room. The woman's hair hangs in disorder around her face, her slender figure is draped in a very fine ivory-white garment. The very quiet that prevails fills _Avito_ with apprehension. It is the woman, confident through love, that seeks to reassure him. "Dammi le labbra, e tanta ti darò di questa pace!" (Give me thy lips, and I will give thee of this peace). [Music] For the moment _Avito_ is reassured. There is a brief but passionate love scene. Then _Avito_ perceives that the lantern has been extinguished. He is sure someone has been there, and they are spied upon. Once more _Fiora_ tries to give him confidence. Then she herself hears someone approaching. _Avito_ escapes from the terrace into the dim daylight. The door on the left opens and _Archibaldo_ appears alone. He calls "Fiora! Fiora! Fiora!" Concealing every movement from the old man's ears, she endeavours to glide back to her chamber. But he hears her. "I hear thee breathing! Thou'rt breathless and excited! O Fiora, say, with whom hast thou been speaking?" Deliberately she lies to him. She has been speaking to no one. His keen sense tells him that she lies. For when she sought to escape from him, he heard her "gliding thro' the shadows like a snowy wing." _Flaminio_ comes hurrying in. The gleam of armoured men has been seen in the distance. _Manfredo_ is returning. His trumpet is sounded. Even now he is upon the battlement and embraced by his father. Longing for his wife, _Fiora_, has led him for a time to forsake the siege. _Fiora_ greets him, but with no more than a semblance of kindness. With cunning, she taunts _Archibaldo_ by telling _Manfredo_ that she had come out upon the terrace at dawn to watch for him, the truth of which assertion _Archibaldo_ can affirm, for he found her there. As they go to their chamber, the old man, troubled, suspecting, fearing, thanks God that he is blind. Act II. The scene is a circular terrace on the high castle walls. A single staircase leads up to the battlements. It is afternoon. The sky is covered with changing, fleeting clouds. Trumpet blasts are heard from the valley. From the left comes _Manfredo_ with his arms around _Fiora_. He pleads with her for her love. As a last boon before he departs he asks her that she will mount the stairway and, as he departs down the valley, wave to him with her scarf. Sincerely moved to pity by his plea, a request so simple and yet seemingly meaning so much to him, she promises that this shall be done. He bids her farewell, kisses her, and rushes off to lead his men back to the siege. _Fiora_ tries to shake off the sensation of her husband's embrace. She ascends to the battlemented wall. A handmaid brings her an inlaid casket, from which she draws forth a long white scarf. The orchestra graphically depicts the departure of _Manfredo_ at the head of his cavalcade. [Music] _Fiora_ sees the horsemen disappear in the valley. As she waves the veil, her hand drops wearily each time. _Avito_ comes. He tells her it is to say farewell. At first, still touched by the pity which she has felt for her husband, _Fiora_ restrains her passionate longing for her lover, once or twice waves the scarf, tries to do so again, lets her arms drop, her head droop, then, coming down the steps, falls into his arms open to receive her, and they kiss each other as if dying of love. "Come tremi, diletto" (How thou art trembling, beloved!) whispers Fiora. [Music] "Guarda in sù! Siamo in cielo!" (Look up! We are in heaven!) responds _Avito_. [Music] But the avenger is nigh. He is old, he is blind, but he knows. _Avito_ is about to throw himself upon him with his drawn dagger, but is stopped by a gesture from _Flaminio_, who has followed the king. _Avito_ goes. But _Archibaldo_ has heard his footsteps. The king orders _Flaminio_ to leave him with _Fiora_. _Flaminio_ bids him listen to the sound of horses' hoofs in the valley. _Manfredo_ is returning. _Fiora_ senses that her husband has suddenly missed the waving of the scarf. _Archibaldo_ orders _Flaminio_ to go meet the prince. The old king bluntly accuses _Fiora_ of having been with her lover. Cowering on a stone bench that runs around the wall, she denies it. _Archibaldo_ seizes her. Rearing like a serpent, _Fiora_, losing all fear, in the almost certainty of death at the hands of the powerful old man, who holds her, boldly vaunts her lover to him. _Archibaldo_ demands his name, that he and his son may be avenged upon him. She refuses to divulge it. He seizes her by the throat, again demands the name, and when she again refuses to betray her lover, throttles her to death. _Manfredo_ arrives. Briefly the old man tells him of _Fiora's_ guilt. Yet _Manfredo_ cannot hate her. He is moved to pity by the great love of which her heart was capable, though it was not for him. He goes out slowly, while _Archibaldo_ hoists the slender body of the dead woman across his chest, and follows him. Act III. The crypt of the castle, where _Fiora_ lies upon her bier with white flowers all about her, and tapers at her head and feet. Around her, people of her country, young and old, make their moan, while from within the chapel voices of a choir are heard. Out of the darkness comes _Avito_. The others depart in order that he may be alone with his beloved dead, for he too is of their country, and they know. "Fiora! Fiora!--È silenzio!" (Fiora! Fiora!--Silence surrounds us) are his first words, as he gazes upon her. [Music: Fiora, Fiora! È silenzio.] Then, desperately, he throws himself beside her and presses his lips on hers. A sudden chill, as of approaching death, passes through him. He rises, takes a few tottering steps toward the exit. Like a shadow, _Manfredo_ approaches. He has come to seize his wife's lover, whose name his father could not wring from her, but whom at last they have caught. He recognizes _Avito_. Then it was he whom she adored. "What do you want?" asks _Avito_. "Can you not see that I can scarcely speak?" Scarcely speak? He might as well be dead. Upon _Fiora's_ lips _Archibaldo_ has spread a virulent poison, knowing well that her lover would come into the crypt to kiss her, and in that very act would drain the poison from her lips and die. Thus would they track him. With his last breath, _Avito_ tells that she loved him as the life that they took from her, aye, even more. Despite the avowal, _Manfredo_ cannot hate him; but rather is he moved to wonder at the vast love _Fiora_ was capable of bestowing, yet not upon himself. _Avito_ is dead. _Manfredo_, too, throws himself upon _Fiora's_ corpse, and from her lips draws in what remains of the poison, quivers, while death slowly creeps through his veins, then enters eternal darkness, as _Archibaldo_ gropes his way into the crypt. The blind king approaches the bier, feels a body lying by it, believes he has caught _Fiora's_ lover, only to find that the corpse is that of his son. Such is the love of three kings;--of _Archibaldo_ for his son, of _Avito_ for the woman who loved him, of _Manfredo_ for the woman who loved him not. Or, if deeper meaning is looked for in Sem Benelli's powerful tragedy, the three kings are in love with Italy, represented by _Fiora_, who hates and scorns the conqueror of her country, _Archibaldo_; coldly turns aside from _Manfredo_, his son and heir apparent with whose hand he sought to bribe her; hotly loves, and dies for a prince of her own people, _Avito_. Tragic is the outcome of the conqueror's effort to win and rule over an unwilling people. Truly, he is blind. * * * * * Italo Montemezzi was born in 1875, in Verona. A choral work by him, "Cantico dei Cantici," was produced at the Milan Conservatory, 1900. Besides "L'Amore dei Tre Re," he has composed the operas "Giovanni Gallurese," Turin, 1905, and "Hélléra," Turin, 1909. Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari was born in Venice, January 12, 1876, the son of August Wolf, a German painter, and an Italian mother. At first self-taught in music, he studied later with Rheinberger in Munich. From 1902-09 he was director of the conservatory Licio Benedetto Marcello. He composed, to words by Dante, the oratorio "La Vita Nuova." His operas, "Le Donne Curiose," "Il Segreto di Susanna," and "L'Amore Medico," are works of the utmost delicacy. They had not, however, been able to hold their own on the operatic stage of English-speaking countries. This may explain the composer's plunge into so exaggerated, and "manufactured" a blood and thunder work as "The Jewels of the Madonna." In American opera this has held its own in the repertoire of the Chicago Opera Company. It has at least some substance, some approach to passion, even if this appears worked up when compared with such spontaneous productions as "Cavalleria Rusticana" and "I Pagliacci," which it obviously seeks to outdo in sordidness and brutality. The failure of Wolf-Ferrari's other operas to hold the stage in English-speaking countries disappointed many, who regarded him as next to Puccini, the most promising contemporary Italian composer of opera. The trouble is that the plots of his librettos are mere sketches, and his scores delicate to the point of tenuity, so that even with good casts, they are futile attempts to re-invoke the Spirit of Mozart behind the mask of a half-suppressed modern orchestra. I GIOJELLI DELLA MADONNA (THE JEWELS OF THE MADONNA) Opera in three acts by Wolf-Ferrari; plot by the composer, versification by C. Zangarini and E. Golisciani. Produced in German (Der Schmuck der Madonna), at the Kurfuersten Oper, Berlin, December 23, 1911. Covent Garden Theatre, London, March 30, 1912. Auditorium Theatre, Chicago, January 16, 1912; Metropolitan Opera House, New York, March 5, 1912, both the Chicago and New York productions by the Chicago Opera Company, conducted by Cleofonte Campanini, with Carolina White, Louis Bérat, Bassi, and Sammares. CHARACTERS GENNARO, in love with _Maliella_ _Tenor_ MALIELLA, in love with _Rafaele_ _Soprano_ RAFAELE, leader of the Camorrists _Baritone_ CARMELA, _Gennaro's_ mother _Mezzo-Soprano_ BIASO _Tenor_ CICCILLO _Tenor_ STELLA _Soprano_ CONCETTA _Soprano_ SERENA _Soprano_ ROCCO _Bass_ Grazia, a dancer; Totonno, vendors, monks, populace. _Time_--The present. _Place_--Naples. Act I. A small square in Naples, near the sea. _Carmela's_ house, _Gennaro's_ smithy, an inn, and the little hut of _Biaso_, the scribe, among many other details. "It is the gorgeous afternoon of the festival of the Madonna, and the square swarms with a noisy crowd, rejoicing and celebrating the event with that strange mixture of carnival and superstition so characteristic of Southern Italy." This describes most aptly the gay, crowded scene, and the character of the music with which the opera opens. It is quite kaleidoscopic in its constant shifting of interest. At last many in the crowd follow a band, which has crossed the square. _Gennaro_ in his blacksmith's shop is seen giving the finishing touches to a candelabra on which he has been working. He places it on the anvil, as on an altar, kneels before it, and sings a prayer to the Madonna--"Madonna, con sospiri" (Madonna, tears and sighing). _Maliella_ rushes out of the house pursued by _Carmela_. She is a restless, wilful girl, possessed of the desire to get away from the restraint of the household and throw herself into the life of the city, however evil--a potential _Carmen_, from whom opportunity has as yet been withheld. Striking an attitude of bravado, and in spite of _Gennaro's_ protests, she voices her rebellious thoughts in the "Canzone di Cannetella,"--"Diceva Cannetella vedendosi inserata" (Thus sang poor Cannetella, who yearned and sighed for her freedom). A crowd gathers to hear her. From the direction of the sea comes the chorus of the approaching Camorrists. _Maliella_ and the crowd dance wildly. When _Carmela_ reappears with a pitcher of water on her head, the wayward girl is dashing along the quay screaming and laughing. _Carmela_ tells her son the brief story of _Maliella_. _Gennaro_ languished, when an infant. _Carmela_ vowed to the Madonna to seek an infant girl of sin begotten, and adopt her. "In the open street I found her, and you recovered." There is a touching duet for mother and son, in which _Carmela_ bids him go and pray to the Madonna, and _Gennaro_ asks for her blessing, before he leaves to do so. _Carmela_ then goes into the house. _Maliella_ runs in. The Camorrists, _Rafaele_ in the van, are in pursuit of her. _Rafaele_, the leader of the band, is a handsome, flashy blackguard. When he advances to seize and kiss her, she draws a dagger-like hat pin. Laughing, he throws off his coat, like a duellist, grasps and holds her tightly. She stabs his hand, making it bleed, then throws away the skewer. Angry at first, he laughs disdainfully, then passionately kisses the wound. While the other Camorrists buy flowers from a passing flower girl and make a carpet of them, _Rafaele_ picks up the hat pin, kneels before _Maliella_, and hands it to her. _Maliella_ slowly replaces it in her hair, and then _Rafaele_, her arms being uplifted, sticks a flower she had previously refused, on her breast, where she permits it to remain. A few moments later she plucks it out and throws it away. _Rafaele_ picks it up, and carefully replaces it in his buttonhole. A little later he goes to the inn, looks in her direction, and raises his filled glass to her, just at the moment, when, although her back is toward him, a subtle influence compels her to turn and look at him. Tolling of bells, discharge of mortars, cheers of populace, announce the approach of the procession of Madonna. While hymns to the Virgin are chanted, _Rafaele_ pours words of passion into _Maliella's_ ears. The image of the Virgin, bedecked with sparkling jewels--the jewels of the Madonna--is borne past. _Rafaele_ asseverates that for the love of _Maliella_ he would even rob the sacred image of the jewels and bedeck her with them. The superstitious girl is terrified. _Gennaro_, who returns at that moment, warns her against _Rafaele_ as "the most notorious blackguard in this quarter," at the same time he orders her into the house. _Rafaele's_ mocking laugh infuriates him. The men seem about to fight. Just then the procession returns, and they are obliged to kneel. _Rafaele's_ looks, however, follow _Maliella_, who is very deliberately moving toward the house, her eyes constantly turning in the Camorrist's direction. He tosses her the flower she has previously despised. She picks it up, puts it between her lips, and flies indoors. Act II. The garden of _Carmela's_ house. On the left wall a wooden staircase. Under this is a gap in the back wall shut in by a railing. It is late evening. _Carmela_, having cleared the table, goes into the house. _Gennaro_ starts in to warn _Maliella_. She says she will have freedom, rushes up the staircase to her room, where she is seen putting her things together, while she hums, "E ndringhete, ndranghete" (I long for mirth and folly). She descends with her bundle and is ready to leave. _Gennaro_ pleads with her. As if lost in a reverie, with eyes half-closed, she recalls how _Rafaele_ offered to steal the jewels of the Madonna for her. _Gennaro_, at first shocked at the sacrilege in the mere suggestion, appears to yield gradually to a desperate intention. He bars the way to _Maliella_, locks the gate, and stands facing her. Laughing derisively, she reascends the stairs. Her laugh still ringing in his ears, no longer master of himself, he goes to a cupboard under the stairs, takes out a box, opens it by the light of the lamp at the table, selects from its contents several skeleton keys and files, wraps them in a piece of leather, which he hides under his coat, takes a look at _Maliella's_ window, crosses himself, and sneaks out. From the direction of the sea a chorus of men's voices is heard. _Rafaele_ appears at the gate with his Camorrist friends. To the accompaniment of their mandolins and guitars he sings to _Maliella_ a lively waltzlike serenade. The girl, in a white wrapper, a light scarlet shawl over her shoulders descends to the garden. There is a love duet--"in a torrent of passion," according to the libretto, but not so torrential in the score:--"T'amo, sì, t'amo" (I love you, I love you), for _Maliella_; "Stringimi forte" (Cling fast to me) for _Rafaele_; "Oh! strette ardenti" (Rapture enthralling) for both. She promises that on the morrow she will join him. Then _Rafaele's_ comrades signal that someone approaches. Left to herself, she sees in the moonlight _Gennaro's_ open tool box. As if in answer to her presentiment of what it signifies, he appears with a bundle wrapped in red damask. He is too distracted by his purpose to question her presence in the garden at so late an hour and so lightly clad. Throwing back the folds of the damask, he spreads out on the table, for _Maliella_, the jewels of the Madonna. _Maliella_, in an ecstacy, half mystic, half sensual, and seemingly visioning in _Gennaro_ the image of the man who promised her the jewels, _Rafaele_, who has set every chord of evil passion in her nature vibrating--no longer repulses _Gennaro_, but, when, at the foot of a blossoming orange tree, he seizes her, yields herself to his embrace;--a scene described in the Italian libretto with a realism that leaves no doubt as to its meaning. Act III. A haunt of the Camorrists on the outskirts of Naples. On the left wall is a rough fresco of the Madonna, whose image was borne in procession the previous day. In front of it is a sort of altar. The Camorrists gather. They are men and women, all the latter of doubtful character. There is singing with dancing--the "Apache," the "Tarantella." _Stella_, _Concetta_, _Serena_, and _Grazia_, the dancer, are the principal women. They do not anticipate _Maliella's_ expected arrival with much pleasure. When _Rafaele_ comes in, they ask him what he admires in her. In his answer, "Non sapete ... di Maliella" (know you not of Maliella), he tells them her chief charm is that he will be the first man to whom she has yielded herself. In the midst of an uproar of shouting and dancing, while _Rafaele_, standing on a table, cracks a whip, _Maliella_ rushes in. In an agony she cries out that, in a trance, she gave herself up to _Gennaro_. The women laugh derisively at _Rafaele_, who has just sung of her as being inviolable to all but himself. There is not a touch of mysticism about _Rafaele_. That she should have confused _Gennaro_ with him, and so have yielded herself to the young blacksmith, does not appeal to him at all. For him she is a plucked rose to be left to wither. Furiously he rejects her, flings her to the ground. The jewels of the Madonna fall from her cloak. They are readily recognized; for they are depicted in the rough fresco on the wall. _Gennaro_, who has followed her to the haunt of the Camorrists, enters. He is half mad. _Maliella_, laughing hysterically, flings the jewels at his feet, shrieking that he stole them for her. The crowd, as superstitious as it is criminal, recoils from both intruders. The women fall to their knees. _Rafaele_ curses the girl. At his command, the band disperses. _Maliella_ goes out to drown herself in the sea. "Madonna dei dolor! Miserere!" (Madonna of our pain, have pity), prays _Gennaro_. His thoughts revert to his mother. "Deh non piangere, O Mamma mia" (Ah! Weep not, beloved mother mine). Among the débris he finds a knife and plunges it into his heart. * * * * * "Le Donne Curiose" (Inquisitive Women), words by Luigi Sagana, after a comedy by Goldoni, was produced at the Hofoper, Munich, November 27, 1903, in German. It was given for the first time in Italian at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, January 3, 1912. Several Venetian gentlemen, including _Ottavio_, the father of _Rosaura_, who is betrothed to _Florindo_, have formed a club, to which women are not admitted. The latter immediately have visions of forbidden pleasures being indulged in by the men at the club. By various intrigues the women manage to obtain a set of keys, and enter the club, only to find the men enjoying themselves harmlessly at dinner. All ends in laughter and dancing. The principal characters are _Ottavio_, a rich Italian (_Bass_); _Beatrice_, his wife (_Mezzo-Soprano_); _Rosaura_, his daughter (_Soprano_); _Florindo_, betrothed to _Rosaura_ (_Tenor_); _Pantalone_, a Venetian merchant (_Buffo-Baritone_); his friends, _Lelio_ (_Baritone_), and _Leandro_ (_Tenor_); _Colombina_, _Rosaura's_ maid (_Soprano_); _Eleanora_, wife to _Lelio_ (_Soprano_); _Arlecchino_; servant to _Pantalone_ (_Buffo-Bass_). There are servants, gondoliers, and men and women of the populace. The action is laid in Venice in the middle of the eighteenth century. There are three acts: Act I, in the Friendship Club, and later in Ottavio's home; Act II, in _Lelio's_ home; Act III, a street in Venice near the Grand Canal, and later in the club. In the music the club's motto, "Bandie xe le Done" (No Women Admitted) is repeated often enough to pass for a motif. The most melodious vocal passage is the duet for _Rosaura_ and _Florindo_ in Act II, "Il cor nel contento" (My heart, how it leaps in rejoicing). In the first scene of Act III a beautiful effect is produced by the composer's use of the Venetian barcarolle, "La Biondina in Gondoletta," which often, in the earlier days of Rossini's Opera, "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," was introduced by prima donnas in the lesson scene. In the Metropolitan production Farrar was _Rosaura_, Jadlowker _Florindo_, and Scotti _Lelio_. Toscanini conducted. The rôles of _Colombina_ and _Arlecchino_ (Harlequin) are survivals of old Italian comedy, which Goldoni still retained in some of his plays. * * * * * "Il Segreto di Susanna" (The Secret of Suzanne), the scene a drawing-room in Piedmont, time 1840, is in one act. _Countess Suzanne_ (_Soprano_) smokes cigarettes. The aroma left by the smoke leads _Count Gil_ (_Baritone_) to suspect his wife of entertaining a lover. He discovers her secret--and all is well. The third character, a servant, _Sante_, is an acting part.--A musical trifle, at the Hofoper, Munich, November 4, 1909; Metropolitan Opera House, New York, by the Chicago Opera Company, March 14, 1911, with Carolina White and Sammarco; Constanzi Theatre, Rome, November 27, 1911. The "book" is by Enrico Golisciani, from the French. * * * * * "L'Amore Medico," Metropolitan Opera House, March 25, 1914, is another typical bit of Wolf-Ferrari musical bric-a-brac--slight, charming, and quite unable to hold its own in the hurly-burly of modern _verismo_. A girl is lovesick. Her father, who does not want her ever to leave him, thinks her ailment physical, and vainly summons four noted physicians. Then the clever maid brings in the girl's lover disguised as a doctor. He diagnoses the case as love-hallucination, and suggests as a remedy a mock marriage, with himself as bridegroom. The father consents, and an actual marriage takes place. The scene of "L'Amore Medico" (Doctor Cupid), words by Golisciani after Molière's "L'Amour Médecin," is a villa near Paris, about 1665 (Louis XIV). The characters are _Arnolfo_, a rich, elderly landowner (_Bass_); _Lucinda_, his daughter (_Soprano_); _Clitandro_, a young cavalier, (_Tenor_); _Drs. Tomes_ (_Bass_); _Desfonandres_ (_Bass_); _Macroton_ (_Baritone_); _Bahis_ (_Tenor_); _Lisetta_, _Lucinda's_ maid (_Soprano_); _Notary_ (_Bass_). There also are servants, peasants and peasant girls, musicians, dancing girls, etc. The work is in two acts, the scene of the first the villa garden; of the second a handsome interior of the villa. The original production, in German, was at the Dresden Royal Opera House, December 4, 1913. Umberto Giordano Umberto Giordano was born at Foggia, August 26, 1867. Paolo Serrão was his teacher in music at the Naples Conservatory. With a one-act opera, "Marina," he competed for the Sonzogno prize, which Mascagni won with "Cavalleria Rusticana." "Marina," however, secured for him a commission for the three-act opera, "Mala Vita," Rome, 1892. Then followed the operas which have been noticed above. MADAME SANS-GÊNE Opera in four acts by Umberto Giordano, words by Renato Simoni after the play by Victorien Sardou and E. Moreau. Produced, for the first time on any stage, Metropolitan Opera House, New York January 25, 1915, with Farrar as _Catherine_, and Amato as _Napoleon_. CHARACTERS NAPOLEON BONAPARTE _Baritone_ LEFEBVRE, sergeant of the National Guards, later a Marshal of France and Duke of Danzig _Tenor_ FOUCHÉ, officer of the National Guards, later Minister of Police _Baritone_ COUNT DE NEIPPERG _Tenor_ VINAIGRE, drummer boy _Tenor_ DESPRÉAUX, dancing master _Tenor_ GELSOMINO, page _Baritone_ LEROY, tailor _Baritone_ DE BRIGODE, chamberlain _Baritone_ ROUSTAN, head of the Mamelukes _Baritone_ CATHERINE HUEBSCHER, "Madame Sans-Gêne," laundress; later Duchess of Danzig _Soprano_ TOINETTE } { _Soprano_ JULIA } laundresses { _Soprano_ LA ROSSA } { _Soprano_ QUEEN CAROLINE } sisters of { _Soprano_ PRINCESS ELISA } NAPOLEON { _Soprano_ LADY DE BÜLOW, matron of honour to the Empress _Soprano_ _Maturino_, _Constant_ (valet to _Napoleon_), the voice of the Empress, citizens, shopkeepers, villagers, soldiers, ladies of the court, officials, diplomats, academicians, hunters, pages, and two Mamelukes. _Time_--August 10, 1792; and September, 1811. _Place_--Paris. "Madame Sans-Gêne" is an opera that maintains itself in the repertoire largely because of the play that underlies it. The title rôle is delightful. It has been among the successes of several clever actresses, including Ellen Terry, to whose _Catherine_ Henry Irving was the _Napoleon_. Its creator in the opera was Geraldine Farrar, to whose vivacity in interesting the character, far more than to the musical merit of the work itself, is due the fact that the opera has not dropped out of the repertoire. In point of fact the same composer's "André Chénier" is of greater musical interest, but the leading character does not offer the same scope for acting, which accounts for its having dropped almost entirely out of the repertoire in America. In "Madame Sans-Gêne," _Catherine_ (in the Italian libretto _Caterina_) is a laundress. The first act opens in her laundry in Paris during the French Revolution. The nickname of Madame Sans-Gêne, usually translated Madame Free-and-Easy, is given her because of her vivacity, originality, straightforwardness in speech, and charm. Discharge of cannon and other sounds indicate that fighting is going on in the streets. Three women employed by _Catherine_ are at work in the laundry. _Catherine_ comes in from the street. She tells of her adventures with a lot of rough soldiers. She does this amazingly, but her experience has cured her of her curiosity to see what is going on outside. There is a scene between _Catherine_ and _Fouché_, a time-server, waiting to observe how matters go, before he decides whether to cast his fortunes with the Royalists or the people. They gossip about a Corsican officer, who owes _Catherine_ for laundry, but is so poor he has been obliged to pawn his watch for bread. Nevertheless, the good-hearted, lively _Madame Sans-Gêne_ continues to do his laundry work for him, and trusts to the future for the bill. _Catherine_ is left alone. Rifle shots are heard. _Count Neipperg_, a wounded Austrian officer of the Queen's suite, comes in and asks to be hidden. Although she is of the people, _Catherine_ hides him in her own room. His pursuers enter. It chances they are led by _Catherine's_ betrothed, _Sergeant Lefebvre_. For a while _Catherine_ diverts the squad from its purpose by offering wine. _Lefebvre_ uncorks the bottle, meanwhile giving a lively description of the sacking of the Tuilleries. There is a scene of affection between him and _Catherine_. He notices that his hands are black with powder and, intending to wash them in _Catherine's_ room, becomes violently suspicious on finding the door locked. He wrenches the key from her, unlocks the door, enters the room. _Catherine_, expecting every moment to hear him despatching the wounded man stops up her ears. _Lefebvre_ comes out quietly. He tells her the man in her room is dead. As she is not at all excited, but merely surprised, he knows that he has no cause to suspect that the wounded man is her lover. He will help her to save him. _Catherine_ throws herself into his arms. There are sounds of drums and of marching and shouting in the street. _Lefebvre_ leads out his squad. Like most modern composers who do not possess the gift for sustained melody, Giordano would make up for it by great skill in the handling of his orchestra and constant depiction of the varying phases of the action. There is considerable opportunity for a display of this talent in the first act of "Madame Sans-Gêne," and the composer has furnished a musical background, in which the colours are laid on in short, quick, and crisp strokes. "The Marseillaise" is introduced as soldiers and mob surge past _Catherine's_ laundry. Act II. The drawing-room of the Château de Compiègne. The Empire has been established. _Lefebvre_ is a Marshal and has been created Duke of Danzig. _Catherine_ is his duchess. She scandalizes the court with her frequent breaches of etiquette. [Illustration: Photo by White Farrar as Catherine in "Mme. Sans-Gêne"] When the act opens _Despréaux_, the dancing master, _Gelsomino_, the valet, and _Leroy_, the ladies' tailor, are engaged in passing criticisms upon her. She enters, is as unconventional as ever, and amusingly awkward, when she tries on the court train, or is being taught by _Despréaux_ how to deport herself, when she receives the Emperor's sisters, whom she is expecting. _Lefebvre_ comes in like a thunder cloud. _Napoleon_, he tells her, has heard how she has scandalized the court by her conduct and has intimated that he wishes him to divorce her. There is a charming scene--perhaps the most melodious in the opera--between the couple who love each other sincerely. _Neipperg_, who now is Austrian Ambassador, comes upon the scene to bid his old friends good-bye. _Napoleon_ suspects that there is an intrigue between him and the Empress, and has had him recalled. _Fouché_, Minister of Police, announces _Napoleon's_ sisters--_Queen Carolina_ and _Princess Elisa_. _Catherine's_ court train bothers her. She is unrestrained in her language. The royal ladies and their suite at first laugh contemptuously, then as _Catherine_, in her resentment, recalls to _Carolina_ that _King Murat_, her husband, once was a waiter in a tavern, the scene becomes one of growing mutual recrimination, until, to the measures of "The Marseillaise," _Catherine_ begins to recount her services to _Napoleon's_ army as _Cantinière_. Enraged, the royal ladies and their suite leave. _De Brigode_, the court chamberlain, summons _Catherine_ to the presence of the _Emperor_. Not at all disconcerted, she salutes in military fashion the men who have remained behind, and follows _De Brigode_. Act III. Cabinet of the _Emperor_. There is a brief scene between _Napoleon_ and his sisters, to whom he announces that there is to be a hunt at dawn, at which he desires their presence. They withdraw; _Catherine_ is announced. _Napoleon_ brusquely attacks her for her behaviour. She recalls his own humble origin, tells of her services to the army, and of the wound in the arm she received on the battlefield, maintains that his sisters in insulting her also insulted his army, and, as a climax draws out a bit of yellow paper--a laundry bill he still owes her, for he was the impecunious young lieutenant mentioned in the first act. With much chicness she even tells him that, when she delivered his laundry, she tried to attract his attention, but he was always too absorbed in study to take notice of her, and make love to her. The _Emperor_ is charmed. He kisses the scar left by the wound on her arm. _Catherine_, bowing, exclaims, "The Emperor owes me nothing more!" _Catherine_ is about to go, _Napoleon_ ordering for her the escort of an officer, when _Neipperg_ is apprehended, as he is approaching the _Empress's_ door. Infuriated, _Napoleon_ tears the string of medals from the Ambassador's breast and appears about to strike him in the face with it. _Neipperg_ draws his sword. Officers rush in. _Napoleon_ orders that he be shot ere dawn, and that _Fouché_ and _Lefebvre_ have charge of the execution. Act IV. The scene is the same, but it is far into the night. The candles are burning low, the fire is dying out, _Catherine_ and _Lefebvre_ have a brief scene in which they deplore that they are powerless to prevent _Neipperg's_ execution. _Catherine_ cannot even inform the _Empress_ and possibly obtain her intervention, for her door, at _Napoleon's_ command, is guarded by _Roustan_. But _Napoleon_, when he comes in, is sufficiently impressed by _Catherine's_ faith in the _Empress's_ loyalty to put it to the test. At his direction, she knocks at the _Empress's_ door, and pretending to be her Matron of Honour, Mme. de Bülow, says, "Majesty, Neipperg is here." The _Empress_ passes out a letter. "Give this to him--and my farewell." _Napoleon_ takes the letter, breaks the seal. The letter is to the _Empress's_ father, the Emperor of Austria, whom she asks to entertain _Neipperg_ in Vienna as his assiduity troubles her and the _Emperor_. _Napoleon_ orders _Fouché_ to restore _Neipperg's_ sword and let him depart. "As for your divorce," he says to _Lefebvre_, with a savage look, "My wish is this"--playfully he tweaks _Catherine_ by the ear. "Hold her for ever true. Give thanks to heaven for giving her to you." Hunting-horns and the chorus of hunters are heard outside. ANDRÉ CHÉNIER "André Chénier" was produced at La Scala, Milan, March 23, 1896. It was given in London, in English, April 26, 1903. Long before that, November 13, 1896, New York heard it at the Academy of Music, under Mapleson. It had a single performance, under the management of Oscar Hammerstein, at the Manhattan Opera House in 1908, and eight years later was given by, and endured through the season of, the Boston-National Opera Company, both in Boston and on tour. Historical as a character though André Chénier be, Giordano's librettist, Luigi Illica, has turned his life into fiction. Chénier was a poet, dreamer, and patriot. Born at Constantinople, he went to Paris for his education. Later he became a participant in and victim of the French Revolution. CHARACTERS ANDRÉ CHÉNIER _Tenor_ CHARLES GÉRARD _Baritone_ COUNTESS DE COIGNY _Soprano_ MADELEINE, her daughter _Soprano_ BERSI, her maid _Mezzo-Soprano_ ROUCHER _Bass_ MATHIEU _Baritone_ MADELON _Soprano_ FLÉVILLE _Tenor_ THE ABBÉ _Tenor_ SCHMIDT, jailer at St. Lazare _Bass_ A SPY _Tenor_ [Transcriber's Note: "Tenor" missing in original] Guests at ball, servants, pages, peasants, soldiers of the Republic, masqueraders, judges, jurymen, prisoners, mob, etc. _Time_--Just prior to and during the French Revolution. _Place_--Paris. Act I. Ballroom in a château. _Gérard_, a servant, but also a revolutionist, is secretly in love with _Madeleine_, the _Countess's_ daughter. Among the guests at a ball is _André Chénier_, a poet with revolutionary tendencies. _Madeleine_ asks him to improvise a poem on love. Instead, he sings of the wrongs of the poor. _Gérard_ appears with a crowd of ragged men and women, but at the _Countess's_ command servants force the intruders out. _Chénier_ and _Madeleine_, the latter weary of the routine of fashion, have been attracted to each other. Act II. Café Hottot in Paris, several years later. _Chénier_ has offended the Revolutionists by denouncing Robespierre. A spy is watching _Bersi_, _Madeleine's_ old nurse, and sees her hand _Chénier_ a letter. It is from _Madeleine_. She loves him. She is dogged by spies, begs him come to her aid, and arranges a meeting. Robespierre passes, followed by a mob. _Gérard_, now high in favour, seeks to possess _Madeleine_, who comes to meet the poet. They are about to flee, when _Gérard_, notified by the spy, interposes. _Chénier_ and _Gérard_ fight with swords. _Gérard_ is wounded. The lovers escape. Act III. Revolutionary Tribunal. The crowd sings the "Carmagnole." _Chénier_ has been captured. _Gérard_ writes the indictment for his rival. _Madeleine_ pleads for her lover, finally promising to give herself to _Gérard_ if _Chénier_ is spared. _Gérard_, moved by the girl's love, agrees to save _Chénier_ if he can. At the trial he declares that the indictment against _Chénier_ is false. But the mob, thirsting for more blood, demands the poet's death. Act IV. Prison of Lazare at midnight. _Madeleine_ enters to _Chénier_ with _Gérard_. She has bribed the _jailer_ to allow her to substitute for another woman prisoner. If she cannot live for her lover, she can, at least, die with him. Together she and _Chénier_ go to the scaffold. * * * * * Two other operas by Giordano have been heard in America--"Fedora," after Sardou, Metropolitan Opera House, December 16, 1906, with Cavalieri and Caruso; and "Siberia," Manhattan Opera House, February 5, 1908. They have not lasted. Modern Italian Opera ERO E LEANDRO Opera in three acts by Luigi Mancinelli; libretto by Arrigo Boïto. First produced in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, March 10, 1899, with the composer conducting and the following cast: _Hero_, Mme. Eames; _Leandro_, Saléza, and Plançon as _Ariofarno_. In the first act the lovers meet at a festival. _Leandro_, victor in the Aphrodisian games both as a swordsman and cytharist, is crowned by _Hero_. He sings two odes borrowed from Anacreon. _Ariofarno_, the archon, loves _Hero_. When he seeks to turn her from her sacred mission as priestess of Aphrodite she spurns his love. She invokes an omen from a sea shell, on the altar of the goddess, and hears in it rushing waters and the surging sea, that will eventually turn her romance to tragedy. When she kneels before the statue of Apollo and pleads to know her fate, _Ariofarno_, concealed, answers: "Death." The second act takes place in the temple of Aphrodite. The archon claims that he has been warned by the oracle to reinstate a service in a town by the sea. He consecrates _Hero_ to the duty of giving warning of approaching storms, so that the raging waters may be appeased by priestly ritual. He offers to release her from this task if she will return his love. When she again spurns him, _Leandro_ attempts to attack him. For this, the young man is banished to the shores of Asia, while _Hero_ sadly pledges herself to the new service. In the third act _Leandro_ has performed his famous swimming feat. The lovers sing their ecstasy. Meanwhile a storm arises unobserved. The trumpet that should have been sounded by _Hero_ is sounded from the vaults beneath the tower. _Leandro_ throws himself into the Hellespont while _Ariofarno_ and his priests chide _Hero_ for her neglect as they discover its cause. A thunderbolt shatters a portion of the tower wall and _Leandro's_ body is disclosed. _Hero_ falls dying to the ground, while the archon rages. CONCHITA Opera in four acts by Riccardo Zandonai; text by Vaucaire and Zangarini, based on Pierre Louÿs's "La Femme et le Pantin" (The Woman and the Puppet). Produced, Milan, 1911. CHARACTERS CONCHITA _Soprano_ MATEO _Tenor_ CONCHITA'S MOTHER _Mezzo-Soprano_ RUFINA _Mezzo-Soprano_ ESTELLA _Mezzo-Soprano_ THE SUPERINTENDENT _Mezzo-Soprano_ THE INSPECTOR _Bass_ GARCIA, Dance Hall Proprietor _Bass_ TONIO, waiter _Bass_ Various characters in a cigar factory, a dance hall, and a street. Distant voices. _Time_--The Present. _Place_--Seville. Act I. In a cigar factory. Among the visitors _Conchita_, one of the cigar girls, recognizes _Mateo_, a wealthy Spaniard, who rescued her from the forced attentions of a policeman. She invites _Mateo_ to her home. The girl's mother, delighted that her daughter has attracted a wealthy man, goes out to make some purchases. Love scene for _Mateo_ and _Conchita_. The mother returns, and, unseen by _Conchita_, _Mateo_ gives her money. When _Mateo_ leaves, and _Conchita_ discovers he has given her mother money, she is furious and vows never to see _Mateo_ again, because she thinks he has endeavoured to purchase her love. In her anger she leaves her home. Act II. A dance hall, where _Conchita_ earns a living by her risqué dances. _Mateo_, who finds her after a long search, is astounded. He begs her to go away with him. She refuses, and executes a most daring dance for a group of visitors. _Mateo_, watching her from outside, and wild with jealousy, breaks through the window. _Conchita_, angry at first, takes from him the key to a little house he owns and tells him that, if he comes at midnight, she will open her lattice to him as to a mysterious lover. Act III. A street in Seville. _Mateo_ stands before the house. But instead of admitting him, when he pleads his love, she turns and calls, as if to someone within, "Morenito!"--the name of a man he saw her dancing with at the dance hall. _Mateo_ tries to break into the house. _Conchita_ taunts him. He staggers away. Act IV. _Mateo_ is desperate. _Conchita_ comes to his home and says she certainly expected him to kill himself for love of her. Enraged, he seizes her. She tries to stab him. He beats her without mercy. At last--and it seems about time--_Conchita_ now sees how desperately he must love her. She declares that she has loved him all the time. He takes her, radiant, into his arms. CRISTOFORO COLOMBO Opera in three acts and an epilogue, by Alberto Franchetti, text by Luigi Illica. Produced, Genoa, 1892; in revised version, same year, at La Scala, Milan. Metropolitan Opera House, Philadelphia, November 20, 1913, with Titta Ruffo. CHARACTERS CRISTOFORO COLOMBO _Baritone_ QUEEN ISABELLA OF SPAIN _Soprano_ DON FERNANDO GUEVARA, Captain of the Royal Guards _Tenor_ DON ROLDANO XIMENES, Spanish Knight _Bass_ MATHEOS, Foreman of the Crew _Tenor_ ANACOANA, Indian Queen _Mezzo-Soprano_ IGUAMOTA, her daughter _Soprano_ BOBADILLA, False Messenger of the King of Spain _Bass_ _Time_--Before, during, and soon after Columbus's voyage of discovery. _Place_--Spain and America. In act first, on the square in Salamanca, _Colombo_ learns that the council has rejected his plans. In the convent of San Stefano _Queen Isabella_ is praying. _Colombo_ tells her of the council's acts. She promises him the ships. In act second, on the _Santa Maria_, the sailors mutiny. At the critical moment _Colombo_ points to a distant shore. In act three, _Roldano_, an enemy to _Colombo_, has slain an Indian king. The Indian queen, _Anacoana_, pretends to love her husband's slayer, hoping for opportunity to avenge his death. But an Indian uprising is quelled and _Bobadilla_, a false messenger arriving from Spain, announces that _Colombo_ has been deposed from authority, and _Roldano_ been made viceroy in his stead. The epilogue shows the royal tombs of Spain. _Colombo_--the librettist here stretching historical license--learning that _Queen Isabella_ has died and is buried here, expires upon her tomb. CRISPINO E LA COMARE (THE COBBLER AND THE FAIRY) Opera "Bouffe" in three acts by Luigi and Federico Ricci; text by Francesco Maria Piave. Produced, Venice, 1850. CHARACTERS CRISPINO, a cobbler _Baritone_ ANNETTA, his wife, a ballad singer _Soprano_ COUNT DEL FIORE _Tenor_ FABRIZIO, a physician _Bass_ MIRABOLANO, an apothecary _Tenor_ DON ASDRUBALE, a miser _Bass_ LA COMARE, a fairy _Mezzo-Soprano_ BORTOLO, a mason _Bass_ LISETTA, ward of DON ASDRUBALE _Soprano_ Doctors, Scholars, Citizens. _Place_--Venice. _Time_--Seventeenth Century. Act I. _Crispino_, the cobbler, and _Annetta_, his wife, the ballad singer, are in sore straits. _Don Asdrubale_, their landlord, who is a miser, is about to put them out for non-payment of rent, but hints that if _Annetta_ will respond to his suit he may reconsider. _Crispino_, in desperation, runs away, and is followed by _Annetta_. He is about to drown himself in a well when a fairy appears to him. She predicts that he will be a famous doctor. _Crispino_ and _Annetta_ rejoice. Act II. _Crispino_ nails up a physician's sign. The neighbours rail, but soon a mason is brought in severely hurt, and, though the doctors fail to bring him around, _Crispino_ cures him. Act III. _Crispino_, overbearing since his good fortune, has built a fine house. He ignores former friends and even is unkind to _Annetta_. He even berates the _Fairy_. Suddenly he is in a cavern. The _Fairy's_ head has turned into a skull. She has become Death. Humbled, he begs for another glimpse of _Annetta_ and the children. He awakes to find himself with them and to hear a joyous song from _Annetta_. LORELEY Alfred Catalani's "Loreley" was presented by the Chicago Opera Company for the first time in New York, at the Lexington Theatre, on Thursday evening, February 13, 1919, with Anna Fitziu, Florence Macbeth, Virgilio Lazzari, Alessandro Dolci, and Giacomo Rimini. The librettists are Messrs. D'Ormeville and Zanardini. The legendary siren who sits combing her hair on a rock in the traditional manner, is in this opera the reincarnated spirit of a young orphan, who has been jilted by her fiancé, _Walter_, Lord of Oberwessel. When the faithless young man is about to marry another beautiful maiden, _Anna_, _Loreley_ casts her spell upon him, and _Anna_, too, is thrown over. _Walter_ follows _Loreley_ to a watery grave, and _Anna_ dies of grief. FEDORA Opera in three acts, by Umberto Giordano; text, after the Sardou drama, by Colautti. Produced, Milan, 1898. CHARACTERS PRINCESS FEDORA _Soprano_ COUNT LORIS _Tenor_ COUNTESS OLGA _Soprano_ DE SIRIEX, a diplomat _Baritone_ GRECH, a police officer _Bass_ DMITRI, a groom _Contralto_ CYRIL, a coachman _Baritone_ BOROV, a doctor _Baritone_ BARON ROUVEL _Baritone_ _Time_--Present. _Place_--Paris and Switzerland. Act I. Home of _Count Vladimir_, St. Petersburg. While the beautiful _Princess Fedora_ awaits the coming of her betrothed, _Count Vladimir_, he is brought in, by _De Siriex_, mortally wounded. Suspicion for the murder falls upon _Count Loris_. _Fedora_ takes a Byzantine jewelled cross from her breast and swears by it to avenge her betrothed. Act II. Salon of _Fedora_ in Paris. _Loris_ is entertained by her. She uses all her arts of fascination in hope of securing proof of his guilt. He falls desperately in love with her, and she succeeds in drawing from him a confession of the murder. _Grech_, a police officer, plans to take _Loris_ after all the guests have left. Then, however, _Loris_ tells her further that he killed the _Count_ because he betrayed his young wife and brought about her untimely death. _Fedora_, who herself has fallen in love with _Loris_, now takes him into her arms. But the trap is ready to be sprung. She is, however, able to escape with him. Act III. Switzerland. _Loris_ and _Fedora_ are married. _Loris's_ footsteps, however, are followed by a spy. _Fedora_ learns that because of _Loris's_ act his brother has been thrown into prison and has died there. _Loris's_ mother has died of shock. He discovers that it was _Fedora_ who set the secret service on his track. He is about to kill her when, in despair, she swallows poison. _Loris_ now pleads with her to live, but it is too late. She dies in his arms. GERMANIA Opera in a prologue, two acts and an epilogue, by Alberto Franchetti; text by Luigi Illica. Produced, Milan, March 11, 1902; in this country, January 22, 1910. CHARACTERS FREDERICK LOEWE, member of the brotherhood _Tenor_ CARL WORMS, member of the brotherhood _Baritone_ GIOVANNI PALM, member of the brotherhood _Bass_ CRISOGONO, member of the brotherhood _Baritone_ STAPPS, Protestant priest _Bass_ RICKE, a Nuremberg maiden _Soprano_ JANE, her sister _Mezzo-Soprano_ LENA ARMUTH, a peasant woman _Mezzo-Soprano_ JEBBEL, her nephew _Soprano_ LUIGI LÜTZOW, an officer _Bass_ CARLO KÖRNER, an officer _Tenor_ PETERS, a herdsman _Bass_ SIGNORA HEDVIGE _Mezzo-Soprano_ CHIEF OF POLICE _Bass_ _Time_--Napoleonic Wars. _Place_--Germany. Prologue. An Old Mill near Nuremberg. Students under _Palm_ are shipping out in grain-bags literature directed against the invader--Napoleon. _Ricke_ tells _Worms_, whose mistress she has been, that her sweetheart, the poet _Loewe_, will soon return, and that she must confess to him her guilty secret. _Worms_ dissuades her. _Loewe_ arrives and is joyously welcomed by his comrades. The police break in, arrest _Palm_, and take him off to be executed. Act I. A Hut in the Black Forest. Seven years are supposed to have passed. _Loewe_, his aged mother, and _Ricke_ and _Jane_ have found refuge here from the victorious troops of Napoleon. _Worms_ is thought to be dead. _Loewe_ is to be married to _Ricke_. But suddenly the voice of _Worms_ is heard in the forest. _Loewe_ joyously meets his old friend, who, however, is much disconcerted at the sight of _Ricke_, and goes away. _Ricke_ flees from her husband, who concludes that she has fled with _Worms_. Act II. Secret Cellar at Koenigsberg. _Worms_ and others plot to overthrow Napoleon. _Loewe_ challenges _Worms_ to a duel. _Worms_, penitent, asks _Loewe_ to kill him. But the preparations are stayed by _Queen Louise_. She declares they should be fighting against Napoleon, not against each other. Epilogue. Battlefield of Leipzig. Napoleon has been defeated. The great field is strewn with dead and dying. Among the latter, _Ricke_, still loving _Loewe_, finds him. He asks her to forgive _Worms_, who lies dead. She forgives the dead man, then lies down beside her dying husband. Distant view of the retreat of Napoleon's shattered legions. Modern French Opera The contemporaries and successors of Bizet wrote many charming operas that for years have given pleasure to large audiences. French opera has had generous representation in New York. Offenbach's "Tales of Hoffmann," Delibes's "Lakmé," Saint-Saëns's "Samson et Dalila," Massenet's "Manon" are among the most distinguished works of this school. "Les Contes d'Hoffmann"; a fanciful opera in four acts; words by MM. Michel Carré and Jules Barbier; posthumous music by Jacques Offenbach, produced at the Opéra Comique on February 10, 1881. "Les Contes d'Hoffmann" had been played thirty years before, on March 31, 1851, at the Odéon, in the shape of a comedy. Such as it was designed to be, the work offers an excellent frame for the music, bringing on the stage in their fantastic form three of the prettiest tales of the German story-teller, connected with each other in an ingenious fashion, with the contrasts which present themselves. Lyrical adaptation therefore appeared quite natural and it was done with much taste. Offenbach had almost entirely finished its music when death came to surprise him. At the same time he had not put his score into orchestral form and it was Ernest Girard who was charged with finishing this and writing the instrumentation, which it was easy to perceive at hearing it, Girard being a musician taught differently from the author of the "Belle Hélène" and "Orphée aux Enfers." It is right to say that several passages of the Contes d'Hoffmann were welcome and testify to a real effort by the composer. If to that be added the interest that the libretto offers and the excellence of an interpretation entrusted to Mlle. Adèle Isaac (_Stella_, _Olympia_, _Antonia_), to MM. Talazac (_Hoffmann_), Taskin (_Lindorf_, _Coppélius_, _Dr. Miracle_), Belhomme (_Crespel_), Grivot (_Andrès_, _Cochenille_, _Frantz_), Gourdon (_Spalanzani_), Collin (_Wilhelm_), Mlles. Marguerite Ugalde (_Nicklausse_), Molé (_the nurse_), one will understand the success which greeted the work. The Contes d'Hoffmann was reproduced in 1893 at the Renaissance, during the transient directorship of M. Détroyat, who gave to this theatre the title of Théâtre Lyrique. LAKMÉ Opera in three acts by Delibes; libretto by Gille and Gondinet. [Illustration: Photo copyright, 1916, by Victor Georg Galli-Curci as Lakmé] _Lakmé_ is the daughter of _Nilakantha_, a fanatical Brahmin priest. While he nurses his hatred of the British invader, his daughter strolls in her garden, singing duets with her slave _Mallika_. An English officer, one _Gerald_, breaks through the bambou fence that surrounds _Nilakantha's_ retreat, in a ruined temple in the depths of an Indian forest. He courts _Lakmé_ who immediately returns his love. _Nilakantha_ seeing the broken fence at once suspects an English invader. In act two the old man disguised as a beggar is armed with a dagger. _Lakmé_ is disguised as a street singer. Together they search for the profaner of the sacred spot at a market. It is here that she sings the famous Bell Song. _Gerald_ recognizes _Lakmé_ as _Nilakantha_ recognizes the disturber of his peace. A dagger thrust lays _Gerald_ low. _Lakmé_ and her slave carry him to a hut hidden in the forest. During his convalescence the time passes pleasantly. The lovers sing duets and exchange vows of undying love. But _Frederick_, a brother officer and a slave to duty, informs _Gerald_ that he must march with his regiment. _Lakmé_ makes the best of the situation by eating a poisonous flower which brings about her death. The story is based by Gondinet and Gille upon "Le Mariage de Loti." _Ellen_, _Rose_, and _Mrs. Benson_, Englishwomen, hover in the background of the romance. But their parts are of negligible importance, and in fact when Miss Van Zandt and a French Company first gave the opera in London they were omitted altogether, some said wisely. The opera was first presented in Paris at the Opéra Comique with Miss Van Zandt. It was first sung in New York by the American Opera Company at the Academy of Music, March 1, 1886. The first _Lakmé_ to be heard in New York was Pauline L'Allemand, the second Adelina Patti, this time in 1890 and at the Metropolitan Opera House. Mme. Sembrich and Luisa Tetrazzini sang it later. SAMSON ET DALILA Opera in three acts and four scenes. Music by Saint-Saëns; text by Ferdinand Lemaire. Produced: Weimar, December 2, 1877. CHARACTERS DALILA _Mezzo-Soprano_ SAMSON _Tenor_ HIGH PRIEST OF DAGON _Baritone_ ABIMELECH, satrap of Gaza _Bass_ AN OLD HEBREW _Bass_ THE PHILISTINES' WAR MESSENGER _Tenor_ _Place_--Gaza. _Time_--1136 B.C. Act I. Before the curtain rises we hear of the Philistines at Gaza forcing the Israelites to work. When the curtain is raised we see in the background the temple of Dagon, god of the Philistines. With the lamentations of the Jews is mixed the bitter scorn of _Abimelech_. But _Samson_ has not yet expressed a hope of conquering. His drink-inspired songs agitate his fellow countrymen so much that it now amounts to an insurrection. _Samson_ slays _Abimelech_ with the sword he has snatched from him and Israel's champion starts out to complete the work. _Dagon's_ high priest may curse, the Philistines are not able to offer resistance to the onslaught of the enemy. Already the Hebrews are rejoicing and gratefully praise God when there appear the Philistines' most seductive maidens, _Dalila_ at their head, to do homage to the victorious _Samson_. Of what use is the warning of an old Hebrew? The memory of the love which she gave him when "the sun laughed, the spring awoke and kissed the ground," the sight of her ensnaring beauty, the tempting dances ensnare the champion anew. Act II. The beautiful seductress tarries in the house of her victim. Yes, her victim. She had never loved the enemy of her country. She hates him since he left her. And so the exhortation of the high priest to revenge is not needed. _Samson_ has never yet told her on what his superhuman strength depends. Now the champion comes, torn by irresolute reproaches. He is only going to say farewell to her. Her allurements in vain entice him, he does not disclose his secret. But he will not suffer her scorn and derision; overcome, he pushes her into the chamber of love. And there destiny is fulfilled. _Dalila's_ cry of triumph summons the Philistines. Deprived of his hair, the betrayed champion is overcome. [Illustration: Copyright photo by White Caruso as Samson in "Samson and Dalila"] Act III. In a dungeon the blinded giant languishes. But more tormenting than the corporal disgrace or the laments of his companions are the reproaches in his own breast. Now the doors rattle. _Beadles_ come in to drag him to the Philistines' celebration of their victory--(change of scene). In _Dagon's_ temple the Philistine people are rejoicing. Bitter scorn is poured forth on _Samson_ whom the high priest insultingly invites to sing a love-song to _Dalila_. The false woman herself mocks the powerless man. But _Samson_ prays to his God. Only once again may he have strength. And while the intoxication of the festival seizes on everybody, he lets himself be led between the two pillars which support the temple. He clasps them. A terrible crash--the fragments of the temple with a roar bury the Philistine people and their conqueror. LE ROI D'YS Opera by Lalo, produced at the Opéra Comique in 1888, and given in London in 1901. The story is founded upon a Breton legend. _Margared_ and _Rozenn_, daughters of the King of Ys, love _Mylio_. But the warrior has only eyes for _Rozenn_. In revenge _Margared_ betrays her father's city to _Karnac_, a defeated enemy. To him she gives the keys of the sluices which stand between the town and the sea. When the town and all its inhabitants are about to be swept away, the girl in remorse throws herself into the sea. St. Corentin, patron saint of Ys, accepts her sacrifice and the sea abates. GRISÉLIDIS Massenet's "Grisélidis," a lyric tale in three acts and a prologue, poem by Armand Silvestre and Eugène Morand based on the "Mystery" in free verse by the same authors, produced at the Comédie-Française, Paris, May 15, 1891, was given for the first time in America, January 19, 1910, at the Manhattan Opera House, New York. The story of the patient _Griselda_ has been handed down to posterity by Boccaccio in the Decameron, 10th day, 10th novel, and by Chaucer, who learned it, he said from Petrarch at Padua, and then put it into the mouth of the Clerk of Oxenforde. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Mary Garden as Grisélidis] The old ballad of "Patient Grissell" begins thus: A noble marquess As he did ride a-hunting, Hard by a forest side, A fair and comely maiden, As she did sit a-spinning, His gentle eye espied. Most fair and lovely And was of comely grace was she, Although in simple attire, She sang most sweetly, With pleasant voice melodiously, Which set the lord's heart on fire. An English drama, "Patient Grissel," was entered at Stationers' Hall in 1599. The word "Grizel," the proverbial type of a meek and patient wife, crept into the English language through this story. Chaucer wrote: No wedded man so hardy be tassaille His wyves patience, in hope to fynde Grisildes, for in certain he shall fail. Several operas on this subject were written before Massenet's, but the ballet "Griseldis: Les Cinq Sens" by Adam (Paris, 1848), has another story. So too has Flotow's comic opera, "Griselda, l'esclave du Camoens." Silvestre and Morand represented _Griselda_ as tempted by _Satan_ in person that he might win a wager made with the marquis. When the "Mystery" was given in 1891 the cast included Miss Bartet as _Griseldis_; Coquelin cadet as _Le Diable_; Silvain as the _Marquis de Saluce_ and A. Lambert, fils, as _Alain_. It was played at fifty-one consecutive performances. According to Mr. Destranges, Bizet wrote music for a "Grisélidis" with a libretto by Sardou, but most of this was destroyed. Only one air is extant, that is the air sung by Micaela in "Carmen." According to the same authority Massenet's score lay "En magasin" for nearly ten years. Thus the music antedated that of "Thaïs" (1894), "La Navarraise" (1894), "Sapho" (1897), "Cendrillon" (1899), and it was not performed until 1901. "Grisélidis" was produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, November 20, 1901, with Lucienne Bréval, Lucien Fugère, Messrs. Maréchal and Dufranne. André Messager conducted. On November 23, 1901, the opera drew the largest receipts known thus far in the history of the Opéra Comique--9538 francs. Mr. Philip Hale tells the story of the opera as follows: "The scene is in Provence and in the fourteenth century. The _Marquis of Saluzzo_, strolling about in his domains, met _Griselda_, a shepherdess, and he loved her at first sight. Her heart was pure; her hair was ebon black; her eyes shone with celestial light. He married her and the boy _Loÿs_ was born to them. The happy days came to an end, for the _Marquis_ was called to the war against the Saracens. Before he set out, he confided to the prior his grief at leaving _Griselda_. The prior was a Job's comforter: 'Let my lord look out for the devil! When husbands are far away, _Satan_ tempts their wives.' The _Marquis_ protests for he knew the purity of _Griselda_; but as he protested he heard a mocking laugh, and he saw at the window an ape-like apparition. It was the devil all in green. The _Marquis_ would drive him away, but the devil proposed a wager: he bet that he would tempt _Griselda_ to her fall, while the _Marquis_ was absent. The _Marquis_ confidently took up the wager, and gave the devil his ring as a pledge. The devil of these librettists had a wife who nagged her spouse, and he in revenge sought to make other husbands unhappy. He began to lay snares for _Griselda_; he appeared in the disguise of a Byzantine Jew, who came to the castle, leading as a captive, his own wife, _Fiamina_, and he presented her: 'This slave belongs to the _Marquis_. He bids you to receive her, to put her in your place, to serve her, to obey her in all things. Here is his ring.' _Griselda_ meekly bowed her head. The devil said to himself that _Griselda_ would now surely seek vengeance on her cruel lord. He brought _Alain_ by a spell to the castle garden at night--_Alain_, who had so fondly loved _Griselda_. She met him in an odorous and lonely walk. He threw himself at her feet and made hot love. _Griselda_ thought of her husband who had wounded her to the quick, and was about to throw herself into _Alain's_ arms, when her little child appeared. _Griselda_ repulsed _Alain_, and the devil in his rage bore away the boy, _Loÿs_. The devil came again, this time as a corsair, who told her that the pirate chief was enamoured of her beauty; she would regain the child if she would only yield; she would see him if she would go to the vessel. She ran to the ship, but lo! the _Marquis_, home from the East. And then the devil, in another disguise, spoke foully of _Griselda's_ behaviour, and the _Marquis_ was about to believe him, but he saw _Griselda_ and his suspicions faded away. The devil in the capital of a column declared that _Loÿs_ belonged to him. Foolish devil, who did not heed the patron saint before whom the _Marquis_ and _Griselda_ were kneeling. The cross on the altar was bathed in light; the triptych opened; there, at the feet of St. Agnes, was little _Loÿs_ asleep. "The opera begins with a prologue which is not to be found in the version played at the Comédie-Française in 1891. The prologue acquaints us with the hope of the shepherd _Alain_ that he may win _Griselda_: with the _Marquis_ meeting _Griselda_ as he returns from the chase, his sudden passion for her, his decision to take the young peasant as his wife, the despair of _Alain_. This prologue, with a fine use of themes that are used in the opera as typical, is described as one of the finest works of Massenet, and even his enemies among the ultra-moderns admit that the instrumentation is prodigiously skilful and truly poetic. "The first act pictures the oratory of _Griselda_, and ends with the departure of the _Marquis_. "The second act passes before the château, on a terrace adorned with three orange trees, with the sea glittering in the distance. It is preceded by an entr'acte of an idyllic nature. It is in this act that the devil and his wife enter disguised, the former as a slave merchant, the latter as an odalisque. In this act the devil, up to his old tricks, orders the flowers to pour madding perfumes into the air that they may aid in the fall of _Griselda_. And in this act _Alain_ again woos his beloved, and the devil almost wins his wager. "The third act is in _Griselda's_ oratory. At the end, when _Loÿs_ is discovered at the feet of St. Agnes, the retainers rush in and all intone the 'Magnificat' and through a window the devil is seen in a hermitage, wearing cloak and hood. "The passages that have excited the warmest praise are the prologue, _Griselda's_ scene in the first act, 'L'Oiseau qui pars à tire-d'aile,' and the quiet ending of the act after the tumult of the departure to the East; in the second act, the prelude, the song, 'Il partit au printemps,' the invocation, and the duet; in the third act, a song from the _Marquis_, and the final and mystic scene." THAÏS "Thaïs," a lyric comedy in three acts and seven scenes, libretto by M. Louis Gallet, taken from the novel by M. Anatole France which bears the same title; music by Massenet; produced at the Opéra on March 16, 1894. It had been, I think, more than sixty years since the Opéra had applied the designation of "lyric comedy" to a work produced on its stage, which is a little too exclusively solemn. As a matter of fact there is no question in Thaïs of one of those powerful and passionate dramas, rich in incidents and majestic dramatic strokes, or one of those subjects profoundly pathetic like those of "Les Huguenots," "La Juive," or "Le Prophète." One could extract from the intimate and mystic novel of "Thaïs" only a unity and simplicity of action without circumlocutions or complications, developing between two important persons and leaving all the others in a sort of discreet shadow, the latter serving only to emphasize the scenic movement and to give to the work the necessary life, color, and variety. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Mary Garden as Thaïs] [Illustration: Photo by White Farrar and Amato as Thaïs and Athanaël] The librettist had the idea of writing his libretto in prose, rhymed, if not entirely in blank verse, in a measured prose to which, in a too long article reviewing it, he gave the name of "poésie mélique." This explanation left the public indifferent, the essential for them being that the libretto be good and interesting and that it prove useful to the musician. The action of "Thaïs" takes place at the end of the fourth century. The first act shows us in a corner of the Theban plain on the banks of the Nile a refuge of cenobites. The good fathers are finishing a modest repast at their common table. One place near them remains empty, that of their comrade _Athanaël_ (Paphnuce in the novel) who has gone to Alexandria. Soon he comes back, still greatly scandalized at the sensation caused in the great city by the presence of a shameless courtesan, the famous actress and dancer, _Thaïs_, who seems to have turned the sceptical and light heads of its inhabitants. Now in his younger days _Athanaël_ had known this _Thaïs_, and in Alexandria too, which he left to consecrate himself to the Lord and to take the robe of a religious. _Athanaël_ is haunted by the memory of _Thaïs_. He dreams that it would be a pious and meritorious act to snatch her from her unworthy profession and from a life of debauchery which dishonours her and of which she does not even seem to be conscious. He goes to bed and sleeps under the impress of this thought, which does not cease to confront him, so much so that he sees her in a dream on the stage of the theatre of Alexandria, representing the Loves of Venus. He can refrain no longer and on awaking he goes to find her again, firmly resolved to do everything to bring about her conversion. Arrived at Alexandria, _Athanaël_ meets an old friend, the beau _Nicias_, to whom he makes himself known and who is the lover of _Thaïs_ for a day longer because he has purchased her love for a week which is about to end. _Athanaël_ confides his scheme to _Nicias_ who receives him like a brother and makes him put on clothes which will permit him to attend a fête and banquet which he is to give that very night in honour of _Thaïs_. Soon he finds himself in the presence of the courtesan who laughs at him at his first words and who engages him to come to see her at her house if he expects to convert her. He does not fail to accept this invitation and once in _Thaïs's_ house tells her to be ashamed of her disorderly life and with eloquent words reveals to her the heavenly joys and the felicities of religion. _Thaïs_ is very much impressed; she is on the point of yielding to his advice when afar off in a song are heard the voices of her companions in pleasure. Then she repels the monk, who, without being discouraged, goes away, saying to her: "At thy threshold until daylight I will await thy coming." In fact here we find him at night seated on the front steps of _Thaïs's_ house. Time has done its work and a few hours have sufficed for the young woman to be touched by grace. She goes out of her house, having exchanged her rich garments for a rough woollen dress, finds the monk, and begs him to lead her to a convent. The conversion is accomplished. But _Athanaël_ has deceived himself. It was not love of God but it was jealousy that dictated his course without his being aware of it. When he has returned to the Thebaid after having conducted _Thaïs_ to a convent and thinks he has found peace again, he perceives with horror that he loves her madly. His thoughts without ceasing turn to her and in a new dream, a cruel dream, he seems to see _Thaïs_, sanctified and purified by remorse and prayer, on the point of dying in the convent where she took refuge. On awaking, under the impression of this sinister vision, he hurries to the convent where _Thaïs_ in fact is near to breathing her last breath. But he does not wish that she die; and while she, in ecstasy, is only thinking of heaven and of her purification, he wants to snatch her from death and only talks to her of his love. The scene is strange and of real power. _Thaïs_ dies at last and _Athanaël_ falls stricken down beside her. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Farrar as Thaïs] [Illustration: Photo by White Farrar and Amato as Thaïs and Athanaël] This subject, half mystic, half psychological, was it really a favourable one for theatrical action? Was it even treated in such a way as to mitigate the defects it might present in this connection? We may doubt it. Nevertheless M. Massenet has written on this libretto of "Thaïs" a score which, if it does not present the firm unity of those of "Manon" and of "Werther," certainly does not lack either inspiration or colour or originality and in which moreover are found in all their force and all their expansion the astonishing technical qualities of a master to whom nothing in his art is foreign. All the music of the first act, which shows us the retreat of the cenobites, is of a sober and severe colour, with which will be contrasted the movement and the gracefulness of the scene at the house of _Nicias_. There should be noted the peaceful chorus of monks, the entrance of _Athanaël_, the fine phrase which follows his dream: "Toi qui mis la pitié dans nos âmes," and the very curious effect of the scene where he goes away again from his companions to return to Alexandria. In the second act the kind of invocation placed in the mouth of the same _Athanaël_: "Voilà donc la terrible cité," written on a powerful rhythm, is followed by a charming quartette, a passage with an emphasis full of grace and the end of which especially is delightful. I would indicate again in this act the rapid and kindly dialogue of _Nicias_ and of _Thaïs_: "Nous nous sommes aimés une longue semaine," which seems to conceal under its apparent indifference a sort of sting of melancholy. I pass over the air of _Thaïs_: "Dis-moi que je suis belle," an air of bravado solely destined to display the finish of a singer, to which I much prefer the whole scene that follows, which is only a long duet in which _Athanaël_ tries to convert _Thaïs_. The severe and stern accents of the monk put in opposition to the raillery and the voluptuous outbreaks (buoyancy) of the courtesan produce a striking contrast which the composer has known how to place in relief with a rare felicity and a real power. The symphonic intermezzo which, under the name of "Méditation," separates this act from the following, is nothing but an adorable violin solo, supported by the harps and the development of which, on the taking up again of the first motif by the violin, brings about the entrance of an invisible chorus, the effect of which is purely exquisite. The curtain then rises on the scene in which _Thaïs_, who has put on a rough woollen dress, goes to seek the monk to flee with him. Here there is a duet in complete contrast with the preceding. _Athanaël_ wants _Thaïs_ to destroy and burn whatever may preserve the memory of her past. She obeys, demanding favour only for a little statue of Eros: "L'amour est un vertu rare." It is a sort of invocation to the purity of love, written, if one may say so, in a sentiment of chaste melancholy and entirely impressed with gracefulness and poetry. But what should be praised above all is the final scene, that of the death of _Thaïs_. This scene, truly pathetic and powerful, has been treated by the composer with a talent of the first order and an incontestable superiority. There again he knew wonderfully well how to seize the contrast between the pious thoughts of _Thaïs_, who at the moment of quitting life begins to perceive eternal happiness, and the powerless rage of _Athanaël_, who, devoured by an impious love, reveals to her, without her understanding or comprehending it, all the ardour of a passion that death alone can extinguish in him. The touching phrases of _Thaïs_, the despairing accents of _Athanaël_, interrupted by the desolate chants of the nuns, companions of the dying woman, provoke in the hearer a poignant and sincere emotion. That is one of the finest pages we owe to the pen of M. Massenet. We must point out especially the return of the beautiful violin phrase which constitutes the foundation of the intermezzo of the second act. The work has been very well played by Mlle. Sybil Sanderson (_Thaïs_), M. Delmas (_Athanaël_), M. Alvarez (_Nicias_), Mmes. Héglon and Marcy, and M. Delpouget. MANON Opera in five acts by Massenet; words by Henri Meilhac and Philippe Gille, after the story by Abbé Prévost. Produced Opéra Comique, Paris, January 19, 1884; Théâtre de la Monnaie, Brussels, March 15, 1884. In English, by the Carl Rosa Company, Liverpool, January 17, 1885; and at Drury Lane, London, May 7, 1885, with Marie Roze, Barton McGuckin, and Ludwig. In French, Covent Garden, May 14, 1894. Carcano Theatre, Milan, October 19, 1893. Academy of Music, New York, December 23, 1885, with Minnie Hauck (_Manon_), Giannini (_Des Grieux_), and Del Puente (_Lescaut_); Metropolitan Opera House, January 16, 1895, with Sibyl Sanderson and Jean de Reszke. CHARACTERS CHEVALIER DES GRIEUX _Tenor_ COUNT DES GRIEUX, his father _Bass_ LESCAUT, of the Royal Guard, cousin to Manon _Baritone_ GUILLOT DE MORFONTAINE, Minister of Finance, an old beau _Bass_ DE BRÉTIGNY, a nobleman _Baritone_ MANON _Soprano_ POUSSETTE, JAVOTTE, ROSETTE, actresses _Sopranos_ Students, innkeeper, a sergeant, a soldier, gamblers, merchants and their wives, croupiers, sharpers, guards, travellers, ladies, gentlemen, porters, postilions, an attendant at the Monastery of St. Sulpice, the people. _Time_--1821. _Place_--Amiens, Paris, Havre. Act I. Courtyard of the inn at Amiens. _Guillot_ and _De Brétigny_, who have just arrived with the actresses _Poussette_, _Javotte_, and _Rosette_, are shouting for the innkeeper. Townspeople crowd about the entrance to the inn. They descry a coach approaching. _Lescaut_, who has alighted from it, enters followed by two guardsmen. Other travellers appear amid much commotion, amusement, and shouting on the part of the townspeople. He is awaiting his cousin _Manon_, whom he is to conduct to a convent school, and who presently appears and gives a sample of her character, which is a mixture of demureness and vivacity, of serious affection and meretricious preferment, in her opening song, "Je suis encore tout étourdie" (A simple maiden fresh from home), in which she tells how, having left home for the first time to travel to Amiens, she sometimes wept and sometimes laughed. It is a chic little song. _Lescaut_ goes out to find her luggage. From the balcony of the inn the old roué _Guillot_ sees her. She is not shocked, but laughs at his hints that he is rich and can give her whatever she wants. _De Brétigny_, who, accompanied by the actresses, comes out on the balcony in search of _Guillot_, also is much struck with her beauty. _Guillot_, before withdrawing with the others from the balcony, softly calls down to her that his carriage is at her disposal, if she will but enter it and await him. _Lescaut_ returns but at the same time his two guardsmen come after him. They want him to join with them in gambling and drinking. He pretends to _Manon_ that he is obliged to go to his armoury for a short time. Before leaving her, however, he warns her to be careful of her actions. "Regardez-moi bien dans les yeux" (Now give good heed to what I say). Left alone, _Manon_ expresses admiration for the jewels and finery worn by the actresses. She wishes such gems and dresses might belong to her. The _Chevalier des Grieux_, young, handsome, ardent, comes upon the scene. He loves _Manon_ at first sight. Nor does she long remain unimpressed by the wooing of the _Chevalier_. Beginning with his words, "If I knew but your name," and her reply, "I am called Manon," the music soon becomes an impassioned love duet. To him she is an "enchantress." As for her--"À vous ma vie et mon âme" (To you my life and my soul). _Manon_ sees _Guillot's_ postilion, who has been told by his master to take his orders from _Manon_. She communicates to _Des Grieux_ that they will run away to Paris in _Guillot's_ conveyance. "Nous vivrons à Paris" ('Tis to Paris we go), they shout in glad triumph, and are off. There is much confusion when the escape is discovered. Ridicule is heaped upon _Guillot_. For is it not in his carriage, in which the old roué hoped to find _Manon_ awaiting him, that she has driven off with her young lover! Act II. The apartment of _Des Grieux_ and _Manon_, Rue Vivienne, Paris. _Des Grieux_ is writing at his desk. Discovering _Manon_ looking over his shoulder, he reads her what he has written--a letter to his father extolling her charms and asking permission to marry her. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Caruso as Des Grieux in "Manon"] The scene is interrupted by knocking and voices without. The maid servant announces that two guardsmen demand admission. She whispers to _Manon_, "One of them loves you--the nobleman, who lives near here." The pair are _Lescaut_ and _De Brétigny_, the latter masquerading as a soldier in _Lescaut's_ regiment. _Lescaut_ scents more profit for himself and for his cousin _Manon_ in a liaison between her and the wealthy nobleman than in her relations with _Des Grieux_. Purposely he is gruff and demands "yes" or "no" to his question as to whether or not _Des Grieux_ intends to marry the girl. _Des Grieux_ shows the letter he is about to despatch to his father. Apparently everything is satisfactory. But _De Brétigny_ manages to convey to _Manon_ the information that the _Chevalier's_ father is incensed at his son's mode of life, and has arranged to have him carried off that night. If she will keep quiet about it, he (_De Brétigny_) will provide for her handsomely and surround her with the wealth and luxury she craves. She protests that she loves _Des Grieux_--but is careful not to warn him of the impending abduction. _Lescaut_ and the nobleman depart, after _Lescaut_, sly fellow, has blessed his "children," as he calls _Manon_ and _Des Grieux_. Shortly afterwards the latter goes out to despatch the letter to his father. _Manon_, approaching the table, which is laid for supper, sings the charming air, "Adieu, nôtre petite table" (Farewell, dear little table). This is followed by the exquisite air with harp accompaniment, "Le Rève de Manon" (A vision of Manon), which is sung by _Des Grieux_, who has re-entered and describes her as he saw her in a dream. There is a disturbance outside. _Manon_ knows that the men who will bear away her lover have arrived. She loves _Des Grieux_, but luxury means more to her than love. An effort is made by her to dissuade the _Chevalier_ from going outside to see who is there--but it is a half-hearted attempt. He goes. The noise of a struggle is heard. _Manon_, "overcome with grief," exclaims, "He has gone." Act III. Scene I. The Cours de la Reine, Paris, on the day of a popular fête. Stalls of traders are among the trees. There is a pavilion for dancing. After some lively preliminary episodes between the three actresses and _Guillot_, _De Brétigny_ enters with _Manon_. She sings a clever "Gavotte." It begins, "Obéissons, quand leur voix appelle" (List to the voice of Youth when it calleth). The _Count des Grieux_, father of the _Chevalier_, comes upon the scene. From a conversation between him and _De Brétigny_, which _Manon_ overhears, she learns that the _Chevalier_ is about to enter the seminary of St. Sulpice and intends to take holy orders. After a duet between _Manon_ and the _Count_, who retires, the girl enters her chair, and bids the wondering _Lescaut_ to have her conveyed to the seminary. Scene II. Parlour in the Seminary of St. Sulpice. Nuns and visitors, who have just attended religious service, are praising the sermon delivered by _Des Grieux_, who enters a little later attired in the garb of an abbé. The ladies withdraw, leaving _Des Grieux_ with his father, who has come in unobserved, and now vainly endeavours to dissuade his son from taking holy orders. Left alone, _Des Grieux_ cannot banish _Manon_ from his thoughts. "Ah! fuyez douce image" (Ah! depart, image fair), he sings, then slowly goes out. Almost as if in answer to his soliloquy, the woman whose image he cannot put away enters the parlour. From the chapel chanting is heard. Summoned by the porter of the seminary, _Des Grieux_ comes back. He protests to _Manon_ that she has been faithless and that he shall not turn from the peace of mind he has sought in religious retreat. Gradually, however, he yields to the pleading of the woman he loves. "N'est-ce plus ma main que cette main presse?... Ah! regarde-moi! N'est-ce plus Manon?" ("Is it no longer my hand, your own now presses?... Ah! look upon me! Am I no longer Manon?") The religious chanting continues, but now only as a background to an impassioned love duet--"Ah! Viens, Manon, je t'aime!" (Ah, Manon, Manon! I love thee.) Act IV. A fashionable gambling house in Paris. Play is going on. _Guillot_, _Lescaut_, _Poussette_, _Javotte_, and _Rosette_ are of the company. Later _Manon_ and _Des Grieux_ come in. _Manon_, who has run through her lover's money, counsels the _Chevalier_ to stake what he has left on the game. _Des Grieux_ plays in amazing luck against _Guillot_ and gathers in winning after winning. "Faites vos jeux, Messieurs," cry the croupiers, while _Manon_ joyously sings, "Ce bruit de l'or, ce rire, et ces éclats joyeux" (Music of gold, of laughter, and clash of joyous sounds). The upshot of it all, however, is that _Guillot_ accuses the _Chevalier_ of cheating, and after an angry scene goes out. Very soon afterwards, the police, whom _Guillot_ has summoned, break in. Upon _Guillot's_ accusation they arrest _Manon_ and the _Chevalier_. "Ô douleur, l'avenir nous sépare" (Oh despair! Our lives are divided for ever), sings _Manon_, her accents of grief being echoed by those of her lover. Act V, originally given as a second scene to the fourth act. A lonely spot on the road to Havre. _Des Grieux_ has been freed through the intercession of his father. _Manon_, however, with other women of her class, has been condemned to deportation to the French colony of Louisiana. _Des Grieux_ and _Lescaut_ are waiting for the prisoners to pass under an escort of soldiers. _Des Grieux_ hopes to release _Manon_ by attacking the convoy, but _Lescaut_ restrains him. The guardsman finds little difficulty in bribing the sergeant to permit _Manon_, who already is nearly dead from exhaustion, to remain behind with _Des Grieux_, between whom the rest of the opera is a dolorous duet, ending in _Manon's_ death. Even while dying her dual nature asserts itself. Feebly opening her eyes, almost at the last, she imagines she sees jewels and exclaims, "Oh! what lovely gems!" She turns to _Des Grieux_: "I love thee! Take thou this kiss. 'Tis my farewell for ever." It is, of course, this dual nature which makes the character drawn by Abbé Prévost so interesting. * * * * * "Manon" by Massenet is one of the popular operas in the modern repertoire. Its music has charm, and the leading character, in which Miss Farrar appears with such distinction, is both a good singing and a good acting rôle, a valuable asset to a prima donna. I have an autograph letter of Massenet's written, presumably to Sibyl Sanderson, half an hour before the curtain rose on the _première_ of "Manon," January 19, 1884. In it he writes that within that brief space of time they will know whether their hopes are to be confirmed, or their illusions dissipated. In New York, eleven years later, Miss Sanderson failed to make any impression in the rôle. The beauty of Massenet's score is responsible for the fact that audiences are not troubled over the legal absurdity in the sentence of deportation pronounced upon _Manon_ for being a courtesan and a gambler's accomplice. In the story she also is a thief. The last act is original with the librettists. In the story the final scene is laid in Louisiana (see Puccini's _Manon Lescaut_). The effective scene in the convent of St. Sulpice was overlooked by Puccini, as it also was by Scribe, who wrote the libretto for Auber's "Manon." This latter work survives in the laughing song, "L'Éclat de Rire," which Patti introduced in the lesson scene in "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," and which Galli-Curci has revived for the same purpose. LE CID "Le Cid"; opera in four acts and ten scenes; the poem by MM. d'Ennery, Louis Gallet, and Édouard Blau; music by Massenet; produced at the Opéra on November 30, 1885. The authors of the libretto of "Le Cid" declared at the start of it that they had been inspired by Guillen de Castro and by Corneille. The sole masterpiece of Corneille which is built about a sort of psychological analysis of the character of _Chimène_ and of the continual conflict of the two feelings which divide her heart, in fact would not have given them sufficient action; on the other hand they would not have been able to find in it the pretext for adornments, for sumptuousness, for the rich stage setting which the French opera house has been accustomed for two centuries to offer to its public. This is the way the opera is arranged: First act, first scene: at the house of the _Comte de Gormas_; scene between _Chimène_ and the _Infanta_. Second scene: entering the cathedral of Burgos. _Rodrigo_ is armed as a knight by the _King_. The _King_ tells _Don Diego_ that he names him governor of the _Infanta_. Quarrel of _Don Diego_ and _Don Gormas_. Scene of _Don Diego_ and _Don Rodrigo_: "Rodrigue, as-tu du coeur?" Second act, third scene: A street in Burgos at night. Stanzas by _Rodrigo_: "Percé jusques au fond du coeur." _Rodrigo_ knocks at the door of _Don Gormas_: "À moi, comte, deux mots!" Provocation; duel; death of _Don Gormas_. _Chimène_ discovers that _Rodrigo_ is the slayer of her father. Fourth scene: The public square in Burgos. A popular festival. Ballet. _Chimène_ arrives to ask the _King_ for justice. _Don Diego_ defends his son. A Moorish courier arrives to declare war on the _King_ on the part of his master. The _King_ orders _Rodrigo_ to go and fight the infidels. Third act, fifth scene: The chamber of _Chimène_: "Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez-vous en eau." Scene of _Chimène_ and _Rodrigo_. Sixth scene: the camp of _Rodrigo_. Seventh scene: _Rodrigo's_ tent. The vision. St. James appears to him. Eighth scene: the camp. The battle. Defeat of the Moors. Fourth act, ninth scene: The palace of the Kings at Granada. _Rodrigo_ is believed to be dead. _Chimène_ mourns for him: "Éclate ô mon amour, tu n'as plus rien à craindre." Tenth scene: A courtyard in the palace. _Rodrigo_ comes back as a conqueror. _Chimène_ forgives him. The end. DON QUICHOTTE Opera in five acts by Jules Massenet; text by Henri Cain, after the play by Jacques Le Lorrain, based on the romance of Cervantes. Produced, Monte Carlo, 1910. CHARACTERS LA BELLE DULCINÉE _Contralto_ DON QUICHOTTE _Bass_ SANCHO _Baritone_ PEDRO, burlesquer _Soprano_ GARCIAS, burlesquer _Soprano_ RODRIGUEZ _Tenor_ JUAN _Tenor_ TWO VALETS _Baritone_ TENEBRUN, chief, and other bandits, friends of Dulcinée, and others. _Time_--The Middle Ages. _Place_--Spain. Act I. Square in front of the house of _Dulcinée_, whose beauty people praise in song. Into the midst of the throng ride _Don Quichotte_ and his comical companion, _Sancho_. Night and moonlight. _Don Quichotte_ serenades _Dulcinée_, arousing the jealousy of _Juan_, a lover of the professional beauty, who now appears and prevents a duel. She is amused by the avowals of _Don Quichotte_, and promises to become his beloved if he will recover a necklace stolen from her by brigands. Act II. On the way to the camp of the brigands. Here occurs the fight with the windmill. Act III. Camp of the brigands. _Don Quichotte_ attacks them. _Sancho_ retreats. The Knight is captured. He expects to be put to death. But his courage, his grave courtesy, and his love for his _Dulcinée_, deeply impress the bandits. They free him and give him the necklace. Act IV. Fête at _Dulcinée's_. To the astonishment of all _Don Quichotte_ and _Sancho_ put in their appearance. _Dulcinée_, overjoyed at the return of the necklace, embraces the Knight. He entreats her to marry him at once. Touched by his devotion, _Dulcinée_ disillusions him as to the kind of woman she is. Act V. A forest. _Don Quichotte_ is dying. He tells _Sancho_ that he has given him the island he promised him in their travels; the most beautiful island in the world--the "Island of Dreams." In his delirium he sees _Dulcinée_. The lance falls from his hand. The gaunt figure in its rusty suit of armour--no longer grotesque, but tragic--stiffens in death. CENDRILLON CINDERELLA Opera, in four acts, by Massenet, text by Henri Cain. Produced, Opéra Comique, Paris, May 24, 1899. CHARACTERS CINDERELLA _Soprano_ MME. DE LA HALTIÈRE, her stepmother _Mezzo-Soprano_ NOÉMIE, her stepsister _Soprano_ DOROTHÉE, her stepsister _Soprano_ PANDOLFE, her father _Baritone_ THE PRINCE CHARMING _Soprano_ THE FAIRY _Soprano_ THE KING _Baritone_ DEAN OF THE FACULTY _Baritone_ MASTER OF CEREMONIES _Tenor_ PRIME MINISTER _Bass_ _Time_--Period of Louis XIII. _Place_--France. The story follows almost entirely the familiar lines of the fairy tale. It may differ from some versions in including _Cinderella's_ father, _Pandolfe_, among the characters. In the third act, sympathizing with her in her unhappiness with her stepmother and stepsisters, he plans to take her back to the country. But she goes away alone, falls asleep under the fairy oak, and in a dream sees the _Prince_, with whom she has danced at the ball. The fairy reveals them to each other and they pledge their love. In the fourth act the dream turns into reality. As for the music, it is bright, graceful, and pretty, especially in the dances, the fairy scenes, and the love scene between _Cinderella_ and _Prince Charming_. LA NAVARRAISE Opera in one act by Massenet; libretto by Jules Claretie and Henri Cain. It was performed for the first time at Covent Garden, June 20, 1894, by Mme. Calvé and Messrs. Alvarez, Plançon, Gilibert, Bonnard, and Dufriche. The opera is one of other days. Now it is seldom given. There were two famous _Anitas_--Emma Calvé and Jeanne Gerville-Réache. The extraordinary success of "Cavalleria Rusticana" no doubt impelled Massenet to try his hand at a tragic one-act opera, just as "Hänsel and Gretel" was responsible for his "Cendrillon." It is among the best of his works. The music is intensely dramatic. It has colour, vitality. The action is swift and stirring, uninterrupted by sentimental romanzas. The libretto is based on a short story, "La Cigarette," written by Jules Claretie and published in the _Figaro Illustré_ about 1890. Later it gave the title to a collection of short stories. The time is during the last days of the Carlist war. The place is Spain. _Araquil_, a Biscayan peasant, loves _Anita_ madly, but her parents frown upon his poverty. No crime seems too great to win his bride. _General Garrito_, the Spanish chief, has promised a reward to any man who will deliver up _Zucarraga_, the Carlist. When this dangerous foe is injured in battle, _Araquil_ poisons the wound and claims the promised reward. The general pays the sum, but, disgusted, orders _Araquil_ to be shot. _Anita's_ father consents to the wedding before the execution. But _Anita_ refuses disdainfully, and _Araquil_ is killed as he puffs a cigarette. This is Claretie's story. At his suggestion and for the purposes of opera the parts were changed. _Araquil_ became _Anita_ and the peasant with the cigarette became _La Navarraise_. LE JONGLEUR DE NÔTRE DAME Opera in three acts by Jules Massenet. Libretto by Maurice Léna. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Mary Garden in "Le Jongleur de Nôtre Dame"] The opera was first sung at Monte Carlo, February 18, 1902, when the part of Jean was taken by Mr. Maréchal, for this miracle play with music was composed originally for male singers. The only two women in the cast were represented as angels. The part of _Boniface_ the cook was created by Mr. Renaud. The story was first published by Gaston Paris as "Le Tombeor de Nostre Dame" in 1874-75 in the review, _Romania_, and later in his "Étude sur la Poésie Française au Moyen Âge." The story is better known, however, by Anatole France's version, included in his "Étui de Nacre" (1912). A poor juggler after performing in the streets to earn his bread, begins to think of the future life and enters a monastery. There he sees the monks paying homage to the Virgin in eloquent prayers. Unable in his ignorance to imitate their pious learning, _Jean_ decides to offer homage through the only means in his power. He shuts himself in the chapel, turns somersaults, and performs his feats in Our Lady's honour. When the monks searching for _Jean_ rush in and cry "Sacrilege" at his singing, dancing, and tumbling, the statue of the Virgin comes to life, smiles, and blesses the poor juggler, who dies in ecstasy at her feet, while the monks chant the beatitude concerning the humble. Massenet was later persuaded to turn the part of _Jean_ into a soprano. It is known to New York through Miss Mary Garden. It is said that the libretto of this opera was handed to Massenet by the postman, one day, as he was leaving for the country. In the railway carriage, seeking distraction, he opened the registered package. He was delighted with the libretto and wrote at once to the author, a teacher in the university. WERTHER Opera in four acts by Jules Massenet with a libretto by Édouard Blau, Paul Milliet, and G. Hartmann. First performance in New York, April 19, 1894, with Mme. Eames and Sigrid Arnoldson and Jean de Reszke. In the first act the bailiff, _Charlotte's_ father, is seen teaching his youngest children to sing a Christmas carol, while _Charlotte_ dresses for a ball. Ready before the carriage arrives, she gives the children their bread and butter as she has done every day since their mother died. She greets _Werther_, her cousin, who is also invited to the ball, with a kiss. After they have gone, _Albert_ returns. He has been away six months. He wonders whether _Charlotte_, his betrothed, still cares for him and is reassured as to her fidelity by her younger sister _Sophie_. When _Charlotte_ and _Werther_ return from the ball _Werther_ declares his love. At that moment the bailiff announces _Albert's_ return. _Charlotte_ tells _Werther_ that she had promised to marry him only to please her mother. _Werther_ replies: "If you keep that promise I shall die." Act II takes place three months later. _Charlotte_ and _Albert_ are man and wife. _Albert_ knows that _Werther_ loves his wife but trusts him. _Charlotte_ begs _Werther_ not to try to see her again until Christmas day. In Act III _Charlotte_ is at home alone. Her thoughts are with _Werther_ and she wonders how she could have sent him away. Suddenly _Werther_ returns and there is a passionate love scene. When _Werther_ has gone _Albert_ enters, and notices his wife's agitation. A servant brings a note from _Werther_ saying that he is about to go on a long journey and asking _Albert_ to lend him his pistols. _Charlotte_ has a horrible presentiment and hastily follows the servant. In Act IV _Charlotte_ finds _Werther_ dying in his apartments. He is made happy by her confession that she has loved him from the moment when she first saw him. HÉRODIADE Massenet's "Hérodiade," with a libretto by Paul Milliet, had its first performance in New York at the Manhattan Opera House, November, 1908, with Lina Cavalieri, Jeanne Gerville-Réache, Charles Dalmorès, and Maurice Renaud in the principal rôles. The scene is Jerusalem and the first act shows _Herod's_ palace. _Salome_ does not know that she is the daughter of _Herodias_, for she was mysteriously separated from her mother in childhood. With a caravan of Jewish merchants, who bring gifts to _Herod_, she comes to Jerusalem in search of her mother. She tells _Phanuel_, a young philosopher, that she wishes to return to the _Prophet_ who had been kind to her in the desert. As she leaves _Herod_ enters, notices her, and is aroused by her beauty. He calls upon her to return. But instead _Herodias_ enters demanding _John's_ head for he has publicly called her Jezebel. _Herod_ refuses. _John_ appears and continues his denunciation. The royal couple flee. _Salome_ returns and falls at _John's_ feet confessing her love. _Herod_ in vain seeks to put the thought of _Salome_ from him. _Herodias_, mad with jealousy, consults the astrologer _Phanuel_ who tells her that her daughter is her rival. In the temple _Herod_ offers his love to _Salome_, who repulses him crying: "I love another who is mightier than Cæsar, stronger than any hero." In his fury _Herod_ orders both _Salome_ and _John_, who has been seized and put in chains, delivered into the hands of the executioner. _John_ in his dungeon clasps _Salome_ in his arms. In the last scene _Salome_ implores _Herodias_ to save _John_, but the executioner's sword is already bloodstained. _Salome_ snatches a dagger and rushes upon _Herodias_ who cries in terror, "Have mercy. I am your mother." "Then take back your blood and my life," cries _Salome_, turning the weapon upon herself. SAPHO Massenet's "Sapho," with a libretto by Henri Cain and Arthur Bernède, based on Daudet's famous novel, was a complete failure in New York when it was sung for three performances in 1909. Its favourable reception in Paris, where it was produced at the Opéra Comique in 1897, was chiefly due to the vivid impersonation of Emma Calvé. The story concerns an artist's model who captivates an unsophisticated young man from the country and wrecks his life in attempting to rise above her past. CLÉOPÂTRE Opera by J. Massenet. Written for Lucy Arbell, the opera was produced by Raoul Gunsbourg, at Monte Carlo, in his season of 1914-15 with Marie Kousnezova in the title rôle. The first performance in America took place in Chicago, at the Auditorium, January 10, 1916, with the same singer. The first performance in New York was on January 23, 1919, with Miss Mary Garden as the Queen of Egypt and Alfred Maguénat, who created the rôle at Monte Carlo and in Chicago, as the _Marc Anthony_. The story is the traditional one. LOUISE A musical romance in four acts, libretto and music by Gustave Charpentier. CHARACTERS JULIEN _Tenor_ THE FATHER _Baritone_ LOUISE _Soprano_ THE MOTHER _Contralto_ IRMA _Soprano_ The opera was produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, February 2, 1900. The part of _Louise_ was created by Miss Rioton, who then sang for the first time in an opera house; that of _Julien_ by Maréchal; that of the father by Fugère, and that of the mother by Mme. Deschamps-Jéhin. [Illustration: Photo by Mishkin Mary Garden as Louise] The story is simple. _Louise_, a working girl, loves _Julien_, an artist. Her father puts no trust in an artist of irregular life, so _Louise_ leaves her family. The lovers are happy, but _Louise_ is remorseful. She grieves for her father and reproaches herself for ingratitude. Finally she returns home. But free forgiveness does not make up for the freedom she has lost. Paris the city of pleasure tempts her again, and again she succumbs. Her family realizes that she is for ever lost to the home. Charpentier himself described his work to F. de Menil. When asked why he called his opera a musical romance, he replied: "Because in a romance there are two entirely distinct sides, the drama and the description, and in my 'Louise' I wish to treat these different sides. I have a descriptive part, composed of decoration, scenic surroundings, and a musical atmosphere in which my characters move; then I have the purely dramatic part, devoted wholly to the action. This is, therefore, a truly musical romance." When asked whether the work were naturalistic, realistic, or idealistic, he answered: "I have a horror of words that end in 'istic.' I am not a man of theories. 'Louise,' as everything that I do, was made by me instinctively. I leave to others, the dear critics, the care of disengaging the formulas and the tendencies of the work. I have wished simply to give on the stage that which I have given in concert; the lyric impression of the sensations that I reap in our beautiful, fairy-like modern life. Perhaps I see this as in a fever, but that is my right for the street intoxicates me. The essential point of the drama is the coming together, the clashing of two sentiments in the heart of _Louise_--love, which binds her to her family, to her father, the fear of leaving suffering behind her, and, on the other hand, the irresistible longing for liberty, pleasure, happiness, love, the cry of her being, which demands to live as she wishes. Passion will conquer because it is served by a prodigious and mysterious auxiliary, which has little by little breathed its dream into her young soul--Paris, the voluptuous city, the great city of light, pleasure, and joy, which calls her irresistibly towards an undaunted future." SALAMMBÔ Reyer's "Salammbô" received a gorgeous production at the Metropolitan Opera House on March 20, 1901, with the following cast: _Salammbô_, Lucienne Bréval; _Taanach_, Miss Carrie Bridewell; _Mathô_, Albert Saléza; _Shahabarim_, Mr. Salignac; _Narr'Havas_, Mr. Journet; _Spendius_, Mr. Sizes; _Giscon_, Mr. Gilibert; _Autharite_, Mr. Dufriche; _Hamilcar_, Mr. Scotti. Mr. Mancinelli conducted. The exquisitely painted scenes were copies of the Paris models, and the costumes were gorgeous. Miss Bréval's radiant Semitic beauty shone in the title rôle. Flaubert's novel was made into a libretto by Camille du Locle. History supplied the background for romance in the shape of the suppression of a mutiny among the mercenaries of the Carthaginians in the first Punic war. Against this is outlined in bold relief the story of the rape of the sacred veil of Tanit by the leader of the revolting mercenaries, his love for _Salammbô_, daughter of the Carthaginian general; her recovery of the veil, bringing in its train disaster to her lover and death to both. [Illustration: Photo by Histed Lucienne Bréval as Salammbô] PELLÉAS ET MÉLISANDE Opera in five acts (12 scenes). Music by Debussy; text by Maurice Maeterlinck. Produced: Paris, April 30, 1902. New York, February 19, 1908. CHARACTERS ARKEL, King of Allemonde _Bass_ GENOVEVA, mother of Pelléas and Golo _Alto_ PELLÉAS } King Arkel's { _Tenor_ GOLO } grandsons { _Baritone_ MÉLISANDE _Soprano_ LITTLE YNIOLD, Golo's son by first marriage _A child's voice_ A PHYSICIAN _Bass_ Act I. Scene I. In a forest. _Golo_ while hunting has lost his way following a wild boar and come to a place unknown to him. There he sees a woman sitting by a spring. She acts like a figure in a fairy tale and behaves like a person stranger to and isolated from the world. Finally _Golo_ succeeds in inducing _Mélisande_--she at last tells him her name after being urged--to follow him out of the dark woods. Scene II. A room in the castle. _Genoveva_ is reading to the aged, almost blind _King Arkel_ a letter which _Golo_ has written to his half-brother _Pelléas_. From this letter we learn that _Golo_ has already been married six months to the mysterious _Mélisande_. He has great love for his wife, about whom, however, he knows no more today than he did at first in the woods. So he fears that his grandfather, the _King_, may not forgive him for this union and asks _Pelléas_ to give him a sign in case the _King_ is ready "to honour the stranger as his daughter." Otherwise he will steer the keel of his ship to the most remote land. _King Arkel_ has arrived at that time of life when the wisdom of experience tends to make one forgiving toward everything that happens. So he pardons _Golo_ and commissions his grandson _Pelléas_ to give his brother the sign agreed upon. Scene III. Before the castle. The old queen _Genoveva_ seeks to calm _Mélisande's_ distress at the gloominess of the world into which she has wandered. _Pelléas_ too is there. He would like to go to see a distant friend who is ill but fate holds him here. Or rather have not chains been wound about the twain of which they yet have no anticipation? Act II. Scene IV. A fountain in the park. _Pelléas_ and _Mélisande_ have arrived at this thickly shaded spot. Is _Mélisande_ a Melusine-like creature? Water attracts her wonderfully. She bends over her reflection. Because she cannot reach it, she is tempted to play with the ring that _Golo_ sent her. It slips from her hand and sinks. Scene V. There must have been some peculiar condition attached to the ring. At the same hour that it fell in the fountain _Golo's_ horse shied while hunting so that he was hurt and now lies wounded in bed. _Mélisande_ is taking care of him. She tells _Golo_ that she did not feel well the day before. She is oppressed by a certain foreboding, she does not know what it is. _Golo_ seizes her hands to console her and sees that the ring is missing. Then he drives her out into the night to look for it. "Sooner would I give away everything I have, my fortune and goods, rather than have lost the precious ring." _Pelléas_ will help her. Scene VI. Before a grotto in the rocks. _Mélisande_ has deceived _Golo_ by telling him that the ring has slipped from her hand into the sea. So _Pelléas_ must now lead her to this grotto in order that she may know at least the place in which she can claim that she lost the ring. A dreadful place in which the shudder of death stalks. Act III. Scene VII. A tower in the castle. At the window of the tower _Mélisande_ is standing combing her hair that she has let down. Then _Pelléas_ comes along the road that winds around under her window. _Pelléas_ is coming to say farewell. Early the next morning he is going away. So _Mélisande_ will at least once more reach out her hand to him that he may press it to his lips. Love weaves a web about the twain with an ever thicker netting without their noticing it. Their hands do not touch but as _Mélisande_ leans forward so far her long hair falls over _Pelléas's_ head and fills the youth with passionate feelings. Their words become warmer--then _Golo_ comes near and reproves their "childishness." [Illustration: Copyright photo by Davis & Sanford Co. Mary Garden as Mélisande in "Pelléas and Mélisande"] Scene VIII. In the vault under the castle. Like a gloomy menace _Golo_ leads _Pelléas_ into these underground rooms where the breeze of death blows. Seized with shuddering they go out. On the terrace at the entrance to the vault _Golo_ in earnest words warns _Pelléas_ to keep away from _Mélisande_ and to refrain from confidential conversations with her. Scene IX. Before the castle. In vain _Golo_ has sought to quiet himself by saying that it was all only childishness. Jealousy devours his heart. So now he seeks with hypocritical calm his little son _Yniold_, offspring of his first marriage, to inquire about the intimacy of _Pelléas_ and _Mélisande_. The child cannot tell him of anything improper yet _Golo_ feels how it is with the couple. And he feels that he himself is old, much older than _Pelléas_ and _Mélisande_. Act IV. Scene X. In a room in the castle _Pelléas_ and _Mélisande_ meet. This evening he must see her. She promises to go in the park to the old fountain where she formerly lost the ring. It will be their last meeting. Yet _Mélisande_ does not understand what is driving the youth away. The old _King Arkel_ enters the room. The aged man has taken _Mélisande_ to his heart. He feels that the young wife is unhappy. Now _Golo_ also enters. He can scarcely remain master of his inner commotion. The sight of his wife, who appears the picture of innocence, irritates him so much that he finally in a mad rage throws her on her knees and drags her across the room by her hair. Scene XI. By the old spring in the park. There is an oppressive feeling of disaster in the air. Only little _Yniold_ does not suffer this gripping burden. It is already growing dark when _Mélisande_ goes to _Pelléas_. And yet in their farewell, perhaps also on account of _Golo's_ outburst of anger, the couple clearly see what has caused their condition. And there comes over them something like the affirmation of death and the joy of dying. How fate shuts the gates upon them; like a fate they see _Golo_ coming. They rejoice in the idea of death. _Pelléas_ falls by _Golo's_ sword, _Mélisande_ flees from her husband's pursuit into the night. Act V. Scene XII. A room in the castle. _Mélisande_ lies stretched out in bed. _Arkel_, _Golo_, and the physician are conversing softly in the room. No; _Mélisande_ is not dying from the insignificant wound _Golo_ has given her. Perhaps her life will be saved. She awakes as if from dreaming. Everything that has happened is like a dream to her. Desperately _Golo_ rushes to her couch, begs her pardon, and asks her for the truth. He is willing to die too but before his death he wants to know whether she had betrayed him with _Pelléas_. She denies it. _Golo_ presses her so forcibly and makes her suffer so that she is near death. Then earthly things fall away from her as if her soul were already free. It is not possible to bring her back now. The aged _Arkel_ offers the last services for the dying woman, to make the way free for her soul escaping from earthly pain and the burden of the tears of persons left behind. APHRODITE A lyric drama in five acts and seven scenes after the story by Pierre Louÿs. Adapted by Louis de Gramont. Music by Camille Erlanger. First given at the Opéra Comique, Paris, March 23, 1906, with Mary Garden as _Chrysis_, Leon Beyle as _Démétrios_, Gustave Huberdeau as the _Jailor_, Mmes. Mathieu-Lutz and Demellin as _Myrto_ and _Rhodis_, and Claire Friche as _Bacchis_. CHARACTERS DÉMÉTRIOS _Tenor_ TIMON _Baritone_ PHILODÈME _Tenor_ LE GRAND PRÊTRE _Bass_ CALLIDÈS _Bass_ LE GEÔLIER _Bass_ CHRYSIS _Soprano_ BACCHIS _Mezzo-Soprano_ MYRTO _Soprano_ RHODIS _Mezzo-Soprano_ CHIMARIS _Mezzo-Soprano_ SÉSO _Soprano_ Act I. The wharf at Alexandria. Act II. The temple of Aphrodite. Act III. At the house of _Bacchis_. Act IV. The studio of _Démétrios_. Act V. Scene I. The lighthouse; Scene II. The prison; Scene III. The garden of Hermanubis. Act I. The throng moves back and forth on the crowded wharf. There are young people, courtesans, philosophers, sailors, beggars, fruit-sellers. _Rhodis_ and _Myrto_ play on their flutes while _Théano_ dances. _Démétrios_ the sculptor approaches and leans on the parapet overlooking the sea. The Jewess _Chimaris_, a fortune-teller, reads his hand. She tells him that she sees past happiness and love in the future, but that this love will be drowned first in the blood of one woman, then in that of a second, and finally in his own. _Chrysis_, a beautiful courtesan, appears on the wharf. _Démétrios_ wishes to follow her, but she declines his advances. To possess her he must bring her three gifts, the silver mirror of _Bacchis_, the courtesan, the ivory comb of _Touni_, wife of the High Priest, and the pearl necklace clasped around the neck of the statue of the goddess Aphrodite in the temple. _Démétrios_ is appalled but swears to fulfil her wishes. She embraces him and disappears. In Act II the temple guards and eunuchs perform their sacred offices. _Démétrios_ enters the temple. He has committed two of the three crimes. He has stolen the mirror from _Bacchis_ and stabbed Touni to take her comb. The celebration of the first day of the Aphrodisiacs begins. Courtesans bring offerings to the goddess. _Rhodis_ and _Myrto_ bring a caged dove. _Chrysis_ hands the High Priest her bronze mirror, her copper comb, and her emerald necklace, as offerings. When the crowd leaves the temple, _Démétrios_ snatches the necklace from the statue and disappears. Act III shows the feast and the bacchanale at the house of _Bacchis_. The theft of the mirror is discovered. _Corinna_, a slave, is accused and crucified. _Chrysis_ is inwardly exultant that her wish has been obeyed. In Act IV _Chrysis_ goes to _Démétrios_ to receive the gifts and to bestow the reward. _Démétrios_, mad with passion, clasps her in his embrace. The clamour without reminds him of his misdeed. In a fit of disgust he demands that the beautiful woman shall not hoard her treasures in secret, but appear in public decked with them, as an atonement. He sends her away. On the island of the lighthouse of Alexandria the crowds discuss the theft of the mirror and the crucifixion of _Corinna_. _Timon_ announces the slaying of Touni and the stealing of her comb. _Chrysis_ appears wrapped in a long mantle. The sacred courtesans and the temple guards announce the theft of the jewels from the temple. Suddenly _Chrysis_ appears on the highest balcony of the lighthouse, the stolen comb in her hair, the mirror in her hand, and the necklace about her throat. Disclosed in a flash of lightning the crowds think it is the goddess in person. Soon they realize the truth and _Chrysis_ is seized and taken to prison. The _Jailor_ brings a poisoned goblet to her cell. She drinks--_Démétrios_ arrives too late, to find her dead. Her friends, _Myrto_ and _Rhodis_, bury her body in the Garden of Hermanubis. L'ATTAQUE DU MOULIN THE ATTACK ON THE MILL This is a four-act music-drama by Alfred Bruneau, the libretto by Louis Gallet, based on a story from Zola's "Soirées de Medan." It was produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, November 23, 1893, and in this country in 1908. The tale is an episode of the Franco-Prussian War. In the first act we see the betrothal of _Françoise_, daughter of the miller, _Merlier_, to _Dominique_. The _Town Crier_ announces the declaration of war. In the second act the mill is attacked and captured by the Germans. _Dominique_ is made a prisoner and locked in the mill. _Françoise_ gets a knife to him. While (in the third act) the girl engages the attention of the sentinel, _Dominique_ makes his way out of the mill, kills the sentinel, and escapes. In the fourth act the French, guided by _Dominique_, return. But just as they enter, with _Dominique_ at their head, the Germans shoot _Merlier_ before his daughter's eyes. * * * * * In writing about his theories of the lyric drama, Bruneau, who was regarded as a promising follower of Wagner, used these words: "It is music uniting itself intimately to the poetry ... the orchestra comments upon the inward thoughts of the different characters." Wagnerian--but also requiring the genius of a Wagner. ARIANE ET BARBE-BLEUE ARIADNE AND BLUE-BEARD Opera in three acts, by Paul Dukas; text by Maurice Maeterlinck. Produced in New York, March 3, 1911. CHARACTERS BLUE-BEARD _Bass_ ARIANE, wife of _Blue-Beard_ _Soprano_ THE NURSE _Contralto_ SÉLYSETTE, wife of _Blue-Beard_ _Mezzo-Soprano_ YGRAINE, wife of _Blue-Beard_ _Soprano_ MÉLISANDE, wife of _Blue-Beard_ _Soprano_ BELLANGÈRE, wife of _Blue-Beard_ _Soprano_ ALLAINE, wife of _Blue-Beard_ _Acting Rôle_ AN OLD PEASANT _Bass_ Peasants and Mob. _Time_--Middle Ages. _Place_--_Blue-Beard's_ Castle. Act I. Hall in _Blue-Beard's_ castle. _Ariane_, sixth wife of _Blue-Beard_, is warned by voices of the crowd outside that _Blue-Beard_ has already murdered five wives. _Ariane_ has seven keys--six of silver and one of gold. When _Ariane_, intent only on opening the forbidden chamber, throws down the six silver keys, her _Nurse_ picks them up. With one she unlocks the first door. Instantly amethysts set in diadems, bracelets, rings, girdles, fall down in a shower on _Ariane_. And so, to her joy, as door after door swings open, she is showered with sapphires, pearls, emeralds, rubies, and diamonds. Now _Ariane_ opens, with the golden key, the seventh door. Darkness, out of which come the voices of the five lost wives. Here _Ariane_ is surprised by _Blue-Beard_, who lays hold of her. The crowd, admitted by the _Nurse_, rush in to kill _Blue-Beard_, but are told by _Ariane_ that he has not harmed her. Act II. A subterranean hall. _Ariane_ descends with the _Nurse_ into the depths of the blackness on which the seventh door opened. There she finds the five wives still alive but emaciated and in rags. She tells them that she has obeyed a higher law than _Blue-Beard's_, and that outside birds are singing and the sun is shining. A jet of water extinguishes _Ariane's_ light, but she is not fearful. She leads the five toward a radiant spot at the end of the vault. She throws herself against the barred wall. It gives away. The sunlight streams in. Blinded at first by its brilliance, the five wives finally come out of the vault and go off singing joyously. Act III. Same as Act I. The wives are adorning themselves with the help of _Ariane_. She urges them to make the best use of their gifts. _Blue-Beard_ is approaching. The people are lying in wait for him. The wives watch his capture. Bound and wounded, he is brought in. But to the astonishment of all _Ariane_ bandages his wounds and the others help her. Then she cuts the cords and frees him, but herself departs, although _Blue-Beard_ pleads with her to remain. But when she in turn implores the five wives to go with her, they decline, and she leaves them in the castle. The allegory in this tale is that five out of six women prefer captivity (with a man) to freedom without him. The opera has not been popular in this country. MONNA VANNA Henry Février's "Monna Vanna" was first sung in New York in 1914 by Mary Garden and Lucien Muratore. The opera is based upon Maeterlinck's play in which _Monna Vanna_ to save the starving Pisans goes to _Prinzivalle's_ tent clad only in a cloak and her long hair. The commander of the besieging army does not profit by the bargain, but treats her with the utmost respect while he discourses eloquently of his youthful love. The music is as commonplace as that of this composer's other opera, "Gismonda." GISMONDA Opera in four acts by Henri Février with a libretto based on Sardou's famous play had its first performance in America in Chicago, January 14, 1919, with Miss Mary Garden, Charles Fontaine, Gustave Huberdeau, Marcel Journet, and other members of the Chicago Opera Company in the leading rôles. The opera was given on the opening night of the same organization's season in New York, January 27, 1919, at the Lexington Theatre with the same cast. The story follows that of the play. _Gismonda_, Duchess of Athens, promises to wed the man who succeeds in rescuing her little son from a tiger's pit, into which he has been pushed by a conspirator who wishes to help _Zaccaria Franco_ to seize the Duchy. _Almério_, a young falconer, kills the beast and saves the child. But the proud though grateful _Duchess_ will not consider a peasant for her husband. If _Almério_ will renounce his claim _Gismonda_ promises to spend a night at his hut. When she discovers that _Zaccaria_ has followed her she slays him. _Almério_ takes the guilt for the murder upon himself but _Gismonda_ makes public confession of her visit to his hut, hands over the wicked _Grégoras_, who had attempted to murder her little son, to justice, and proclaims the falconer her lord and husband. MAROUF, THE COBBLER OF CAIRO "Marouf" was sung for the first time in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, December 19, 1917, with Frances Alda, Kathleen Howard, Léon Rothier, Andrés de Segurola, Thomas Chalmers, and Giuseppe de Luca as the Cobbler, in the cast. Pierre Monteux conducted. _Marouf_ is unhappy at home. His wife, _Fatimah_, is ugly and has a bad disposition. When she asked for rice cake, sweetened with honey, and thanks to his friend the pastry cook, _Marouf_ brought her cake sweetened with cane sugar instead, she flew into a rage and ran to tell the _Cadi_ that her husband beat her. The credulous _Cadi_ orders the _Cobbler_ thrashed by the police, in spite of protesting neighbours. _Marouf_, disgusted, decides to disappear. He joins a party of passing sailors. A tempest wrecks the ship. He alone is saved. _Ali_, his friend, whom he has not seen for twenty years and who has become rich in the meantime, picks him up on the shore and takes him to the great city of Khaltan, "somewhere between China and Morocco." _Marouf_ is presented to the townspeople as the richest merchant in the world who has a wonderful caravan on the way. He is accepted everywhere and in spite of the doubting _Vizier_ the Sultan invites him to his palace. Furthermore, he offers him his beautiful daughter as a bride. For forty days _Marouf_ lives in luxury with the princess. He empties the treasury of the _Sultan_ who consoles himself with thoughts of the promised caravan which must soon arrive. At last the _Princess_ questions _Marouf_ who tells the truth. They decide upon flight, and the _Princess_ disguises herself as a boy. At an oasis in the desert they are sheltered by a poor peasant. _Marouf_ seeks to repay his hospitality by a turn at his plow. The implement strikes an iron ring attached to the covering of a subterranean chamber. The ring also has magic power. When the _Princess_ rubs it the poor peasant is transformed into a genii, who offers his services, and discloses a hidden treasure. When the _Sultan_ and his guards, in pursuit of the fugitives, appear upon the scene, the sounds of an approaching caravan are also heard in the distance. The ruler apologizes. _Marouf_ and the _Princess_ triumph. The doubting _Vizier_ is punished with a hundred lashes. * * * * * Henri Rabaud, composer of "Marouf," is a Parisian, the son of a professor of the Conservatoire of which he is also a graduate. His second symphony has been played in New York. He has to his credit a string quartet, other smaller works, and an opera, "La Fille de Roland," which was given some years ago at the Opéra Comique. "Marouf" was produced at that theatre in the spring of 1914. M. Rabaud, for several years conductor at the Grand Opéra and the Opéra Comique, was called to America in 1918 to be the conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, succeeding Karl Muck, and Pierre Monteux who filled the vacancy for a few weeks before M. Rabaud's arrival from France. LE SAUTERIOT THE GRASSHOPPER "Le Sauteriot" (Grasshopper) by Sylvio Lazzari, with a libretto by Henri Pierre Roche and Martial Perrier, based on E. de Keyserling's drama "Sacre de Printemps," is the story of a modern Cinderella, _Orti_, who lives in Lithuania. She is the natural daughter of _Mikkel_, whose wife _Anna_, lies dying as the curtain rises. The doctor gives _Orti_, or _Grasshopper_ as she is known, some medicine to give the patient if she grows worse. Only ten drops though, because the remedy is a powerful poison. _Anna's_ old mother, _Trine_, tells _Orti_ the legend of the mother who prayed that she might die in place of her baby, and whose prayer was granted. Realizing herself despised and a drudge, _Orti_ prays to die instead of _Anna_. _Grasshopper_ is secretly in love with _Indrik_. But he has no eyes for her. All his attention is fixed upon _Madda_, _Mikkel's_ youngest sister. In the second act at a village festival, _Indrik_, who has quarrelled with _Madda_, fights with his successor in her affections, _Josef_. _Orti_ rushes in and seizes _Josef's_ hand as he is about to slay _Hendrik_. She is the heroine of the festival. _Hendrik_ pays court to her and leads her to believe that he will marry her. When a few days later she discovers that he has gone back to _Madda_, _Grasshopper_ commits suicide. * * * * * M. Lazzari of Paris is by birth a Tyrolean, whose father was an Italian. But the composer has spent most of his life in Paris. He entered the Conservatoire at twenty-four, where his teachers were Guiraud and César Franck. His operas "L'Ensorcelée" and "La Lépreuse" were first sung in Paris. "Le Sauteriot" would also have had its first performance there. But the war made it possible for Mr. Campanini to acquire it for Chicago. It was presented there on the closing day of the season, January 19, 1918. The Chicago Opera Company gave New York its first opportunity to hear the work on February 11, 1918, when it was conducted by the composer. LA REINE FIAMMETTE QUEEN FIAMMETTE "La Reine Fiammette," by Xavier Leroux, with a libretto adapted from his play by Catulle Mendès, had its first performance in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, January 24, 1919. The cast was as follows: CHARACTERS ORLANDA _Geraldine Farrar_ DANIELO _Hipolito Lazaro_ GIORGIO D'AST _Adamo Didur_ CARDINAL SFORZA _Léon Rothier_ PANTASILLE _Flora Perini_ MOTHER AGRAMENTE _Kathleen Howard_ VIOLINE _Kittie Beale_ VIOLETTE _Lenore Sparkes_ VIOLA _Mary Ellis_ POMONE _Marie Tiffany_ MICHELA _Lenore Sparkes_ ANGIOLETTA _Mary Ellis_ CHIARINA _Marie Mattfeld_ TWO BOYS { _Mary Mellish_ { _Cecil Arden_ LUC AGNOLO _Mario Laurenti_ CASTIGLIONE _Angelo Bada_ CORTEZ _Albert Reiss_ CESANO _Giordano Paltrinieri_ VASARI _Pietro Audisio_ PROSECUTOR _Paolo Ananian_ TWO NOVICES { _Phillis White_ { _Veni Warwick_ While this was the first operatic performance of Catulle Mendès's famous work, Charles Dillingham produced the play for the first time in America at the Hollis Street Theatre, Boston, October 6, 1902, with Julia Marlowe. Paul Kester made the English adaptation. The late Frank Worthing appeared as _Danielo_. Others in the cast were Frank Reicher, Albert Bruning, and Arthur Lawrence. The story takes place in Italy of the sixteenth century, in an imaginary Kingdom of Bologna, whose ruler _Queen Fiammette_, young and capricious, has chosen as her consort _Giorgio d'Ast_, an adventurer. It is this very man whom the Papal See has determined to elevate to the throne in place of the madcap _Orlanda_. But _Cardinal Sforza_ is not satisfied with the mere dethroning of _Orlanda_. He wishes her to be assassinated, and goes to Bologna to hatch the plot for her doom. The _Prince Consort_ agrees to play his part and to involve several young courtiers in the scheme. It is decided to slay the _Queen_ during a fête at her palace. _Danielo_, a young monk, is chosen to strike the blow. The _Cardinal_ tells him that after indulging in a passing fancy for his brother, the _Queen_ has had the youth killed. The monk is only too eager for revenge. He has been in the habit of meeting a beautiful woman, whose identity is unknown, at a convent. This is none other than _Fiammette_ herself who uses the convent for her gallantries. _Danielo_ confides his mission of vengeance to the fair unknown. But when he recognizes in the queen the woman he adores he is powerless to carry out his intention of slaying her. He is arrested by order of the _Cardinal_ for failing to keep his pact. The _Queen_ signs her abdication and hopes to fly with her lover, but the _Cardinal_ condemns both to the headsman's block. LE CHEMINEAU THE WAYFARER Opera by Xavier Leroux with a libretto by Jean Richepin, performed for the first time in America at New Orleans in 1911. A jovial wayfarer dallies with _Toinette_, one of the pretty girls working on a farm in Normandy. He loves her and goes his way. In despair _Toinette_ marries _François_. The wayfarer's child, _Toinet_, is born. Years later when _François_ has become a hopeless invalid, _Toinet_ woos _Aline_, the daughter of _Pierre_, a surly neighbour, who doubting the youth's origin refuses his consent to the match. Suddenly the wayfarer reappears. _François_ expires, after commending _Toinette_ to the care of her former lover. But the call of the open road is too strong. The wayfarer refuses to contemplate domesticity. Once more he takes his well-worn hat and goes out into the storm. LE VIEIL AIGLE THE OLD EAGLE Raoul Gunsbourg wrote both the words and the music for his one act lyric drama, "Le Vieil Aigle" (The Old Eagle), which was first produced at the Opera House in Monte Carlo, February 13, 1909. The first performance of the opera in New York was given by the Chicago Opera Company at the Lexington Theatre with Georges Baklanoff in the title rôle, supported by Yvonne Gall, Charles Fontaine, and Désiré Defrère, February 28, 1919. The scene of the story is a rocky coast in the Crimea. The time, the fourteenth century. The _Khan Asvezel Moslain_ informs his son _Tolak_, who has just returned from a successful campaign against the Russians, that great preparations have been made to celebrate his return. But the young man is sad and replies that he only seeks forgetfulness in death. He asks his father to grant him the dearest wish of his heart and confesses his love for the _Khan's_ favourite slave _Zina_. The old man consents to give her to his son, but when he orders the girl to follow _Tolak_ she refuses to do so. The _Khan_, wishing to retain his son's love, throws the disobedient slave into the sea, but as this far from restores harmony between the generations the old man follows her to her watery grave. Modern German and Bohemian Opera Wagner's powerful influence upon German opera produced countless imitators. For some reason or other it appeared to be almost impossible for other German composers to assimilate his ideas and yet impart originality to their scores. Among those who took his works for a model were Peter Cornelius, Hermann Goetz, and Carl Goldmark. Perhaps the most important contribution to German opera during the decade that followed Wagner's death was Humperdinck's "Hänsel und Gretel." Then came Richard Strauss with his "Feuersnot," "Salome," "Elektra," and "Der Rosenkavalier." The most famous representative of the Bohemian school of opera, which is closely allied to the German, is Smetana. ST. ELIZABETH Operatic version of Liszt's "Legend," made by Artur Bodanzky, from the book of the oratorio by Otto Roquette. Sung in English at the Metropolitan Opera House, January 3, 1918, with the following cast: CHARACTERS ELIZABETH _Florence Easton_ LANDGRAVINE SOPHIE _Margarete Matzenauer_ LANDGRAVE LUDWIG _Clarence Whitehill_ LANDGRAVE HERMANN _Carl Schlegel_ A HUNGARIAN MAGNATE _Basil Ruysdael_ SENESCHAL _Robert Leonhardt_ Conductor, _Artur Bodanzky_ The dramatic version of Liszt's sacred work once had sixty performances at Prague. Although the score of "Saint Elizabeth" is dedicated to Wagner's benefactor, Ludwig II. of Bavaria, the Grand Duke Alexander of Weimar was responsible for the fact that Liszt undertook a setting of a poem on this subject by Otto Roquette. This poem was inspired by a series of frescoes by Moritz Schwind at the Wartburg, which tells the story of _Elizabeth's_ sad life. The daughter of a Hungarian king of the thirteenth century, she was brought to the Wartburg at the age of four and betrothed to the boy, _Ludwig_, son of the Landgrave of Thuringia. The children were reared as brother and sister, and at seventeen _Elizabeth_ was married to _Ludwig_ who succeeded to the throne. A famine came upon the land. _Elizabeth_ impoverished herself by helping the poor, and incurred the displeasure of her mother-in-law. Forbidden to give any further aid to the victims of the famine, she was one day found by her husband carrying a basket. She declared that it was filled with flowers. When he tore it from her hands a miracle had happened, and the bread and wine had changed into roses. Then she confessed her deception which was atoned for by the miracle. The two after offering a prayer of thanksgiving renew their vows. Soon afterwards _Ludwig_ joins a passing procession of crusaders. He is killed in battle with the Saracens and his wife becomes ruler of the Wartburg. _Sophie_, her mother-in-law, plots with the _Seneschal_ and drives _Elizabeth_ out with her children into a storm. She finds refuge in a hospital she once founded. The remainder of her life is devoted to assisting the helpless and the poor. The closing scene of the opera shows her apotheosis. THE BARBER OF BAGDAD Opera in two acts. Words and music by Peter Cornelius. Produced: Weimar, December 15, 1858. CHARACTERS THE CALIPH _Baritone_ BABA MUSTAPHA, a cadi _Tenor_ MARGIANA, his daughter _Soprano_ BOSTANA, a relative of the cadi _Mezzo-Soprano_ NUREDDIN _Tenor_ THE BARBER _Bass_ Act I. _Nureddin_ is ill, very ill his servants say. They must know very little of such youthful illnesses. _Margiana_ calls the invalid in a dream. _Margiana_ is the medicine that can cure him, _Margiana_, the marvellously glorious daughter of the mighty cadi, _Baba Mustapha_. And see how health reanimates _Nureddin's_ limbs, when _Bostana_, a relative of the cadi, approaches and brings the sweet news that _Margiana_ will wait for her lover about noon when her father has gone to prayers in the mosque. But the latter, in order to appear properly, needs above everything else a barber. And _Bostana_ appoints--"O knowest thou, revered one, I find for you a learned one--the greatest of all barbers, _Abdul Hassan Ali Ebn Bekar_. He is great as a barber, a giant as a talker, swift his razor, a thousand times quicker his tongue." Act II. A magnificent room in the cadi's house. What a stirring, harmonious picture. _Margiana_, _Bostana_, and the cadi rejoice: "He comes! he comes! oh, delightful pleasure." Of course the covetous old cadi is not thinking of young _Nureddin_ but of the rich old _Selim_ who wants to have _Margiana_ for his wife. A mighty chest full of rich gifts, so he announces. But the cadi goes off full of dignity to prayers in the mosque. And now _Nureddin_ comes. How happy the couple are. But is not that the barber approaching with his love-song? "O Allah, save us from the flood of his talk"--no, rather save us from the cadi who suddenly comes back. The screams of a servant, whom he is punishing with a bastonade by his own hand, announce his arrival. There is only one escape. Quickly the chest is emptied and _Nureddin_ gets in. Then the barber with _Nureddin's_ servant. _Abdul Hassan Ali Ebn Bekar_ leaves no customers in the lurch. He who screamed can only be _Nureddin_ whom the furious cadi has murdered. _Bostana_ advises him to drag forth the chest; the cadi opposes. The wild clamour brings, in crowds, the people of Bagdad who hear rumours of a murder. Finally the caliph comes too. What is in the chest? _Nureddin's_ corpse, says the barber; _Margiana's_ dowry, answers the cadi. The chest is opened. The cadi is right, for _Nureddin_ is not a corpse but only in a swoon because he was nearly smothered, but he is without doubt _Margiana's_ dowry and he will become so publicly. A cadi cannot lightly oppose the wish of a caliph. The barber is seized but is ordered by the caliph to be taken to his palace to entertain him with stories. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW Opera in four acts; libretto adapted by Victor Widmann from Shakespeare's comedy. Music by Herman Goetz. CHARACTERS BAPTISTA _Otto Goritz_ KATHARINA _Margarete Ober_ BIANCA _Marie Rappold_ HORTENSIO _Robert Leonhardt_ LUCENTIO _Johannes Sembach_ PETRUCHIO _Clarence Whitehill_ GRUMIO _Basil Ruysdael_ A TAILOR _Albert Reiss_ MAJOR DOMO _Max Bloch_ HOUSEKEEPER _Marie Mattfeld_ This opera was produced at the Metropolitan Opera House in commemoration of Shakespeare in 1916. It was first sung in Mannheim in 1874, when it was known as "Die Widerspenstigen Zachmung." Mr. Bodanzky came to conduct at the Metropolitan Opera House, from that city, and the New York performance was perhaps the result of a suggestion made by him. Widmann in his libretto brings into prominence the wooing of _Bianca_ by rival suitors. This is done to give relief to _Petruchio's_ blustering and to the exhibitions of temper by the _Shrew_. The librettist also provides his own introduction which includes the rival suitors, a chorus of angry servants, interested women on the balcony, and _Petruchio's_ entrance. The second act represents _Petruchio's_ tempestuous wooing. In the third _Bianca_ is courted by _Lucentio_ as a tutor and _Hortensio_ as a musician. The wedding party returns and _Petruchio_ makes his hasty exit bearing his sulky bride. Servants and wedding guests provide an opportunity for chorus music. The tailor is introduced and _Katharina_ is finally tamed. THE QUEEN OF SHEBA Opera in four acts: music by Karl Goldmark; text by G.H. Mosenthal. Produced: Vienna, March 10, 1875. CHARACTERS KING SOLOMON _Baritone_ BAAL HANAU, the palace overseer _Baritone_ ASSAD _Tenor_ THE HIGH PRIEST _Bass_ SULAMITH, his daughter _Tenor_ THE QUEEN OF SHEBA _Mezzo-Soprano_ ASTAROTH, her slave _Soprano_ _Time_--Tenth Century B.C. _Place_--Jerusalem. Act I. In _Solomon's_ magnificent palace everybody is preparing for the reception of the _Queen of Sheba_. But nobody is more delighted than _Sulamith_, the daughter of the High Priest. _Assad_, who had gone to meet the foreign queen, returns. Here he comes already into the hall. But _Assad_, growing pale, draws back before his betrothed. He confesses to _King Solomon_ that he has not yet seen the _Queen of Sheba_ but at a certain well a wonderful woman favoured him with her love and since then his mind has been confused. The King consoles the young man by telling him that God will permit him to find her again. Now the queen's train approaches; she greets _Solomon_ and unveils herself. _Assad_ rushes toward her. What does the young man want of her? She does not know him. Act II. The queen did not want to recognize _Assad_ but the woman in her is consumed with longing for him. He comes and happy love unites them. Then the scene changes and shows the interior of the Temple. The wedding of _Assad_ and _Sulamith_ is about to be solemnized. Then, at a decisive moment the queen appears, and _Assad_ throws the ring on the floor and hurries to the queen as if the deceit were making a fool of him. She has never seen him, she declares a second time. _Assad_, however, who has offended the Almighty, has incurred the penalty of death. In the meantime _Solomon_, who is examining the affair, defers sentence. Act III. _Solomon_ is alone with the queen. She has one request to make of him, that he shall release _Assad_. Why? He is nothing to her but she wants to see whether the king has regard for his guest. And _Solomon_ refuses the request of the deceitful woman who, breathing vengeance, strides out of the palace. But when _Sulamith_ complains, _Solomon_ consoles her. _Assad_ will shake off the unworthy chains. Far away on the borders of the desert, she will find peace with _Assad_. Act IV. Again the scene changes. On the border of the desert stands the asylum of the young women consecrated to God in which _Sulamith_ has found rest from the deceitful world. _Assad_ staggers hither; a weary, banished man. And again the _Queen of Sheba_ appears before him offering him her love. But he flees from the false woman for whom he had sacrificed _Sulamith_, the noble one. A desert storm arises, burying _Assad_ in the sand. When the sky becomes clear again _Sulamith_, taking a walk with her maidens, finds her lover. She pardons the dying man and points out to him the eternal joys which they will taste together. THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH Opera in three acts, by Carl Goldmark, text by M. Willner, after the story by Charles Dickens. Produced, Berlin, 1896; in this country, 1910. CHARACTERS JOHN _Baritone_ DOT, his wife _Soprano_ MAY _Soprano_ EDWARD PLUMMER _Tenor_ TACKLETON _Basso_ THE CRICKET _Soprano_ _Time_--Early Part of 19th Century. _Place_--An English Village. Act I. Room in _John's_ house. Invisible chorus of elves. To the _Cricket_, the guiding spirit of the house, _Dot_ confides her secret. She hopes soon to have a child. _May_, a pretty young girl, a toymaker, is to be married the next day to _Tackleton_, her employer. She bemoans her fate. She still loves _Edward Plummer_, who disappeared several years before. After _May's_ departure _John_ appears with _Edward_, disguised as a sailor, and is not recognized either by _John_ or the villagers. Act II. A garden. _May_ and _Tackleton_ are supping together. _John_ makes _Tackleton_ jealous of the stranger, _Edward_, who, seeing that _May_ is only marrying _Tackleton_ because his wealth will save her old foster-father from want, reveals his identity to _Dot_. _Tackleton_ now makes _John_ jealous of _Edward_, but _John_ is lulled to sleep by the _Cricket_, and dreams of himself as a happy father. Act III. _May_ resolves to be true to _Edward_. Recognizing him (after his song, "Hulla, list to the Seas"), they drive off in _Tackleton's_ carriage. _John_ is told of _Dot's_ secret. Reconciliation, with the _Cricket_ chirping merrily. There is much pretty music (for instance, the quintet on the hearth in the second act, and _Edward's_ song), which, however, has not sufficed to keep the piece in the repertoire in this country. KÖNIGSKINDER KING'S CHILDREN Opera by Engelbert Humperdinck with a libretto by Ernst Rosmer. The first performance on any stage was at the Metropolitan Opera House, December 28, 1910, with the following cast: DER KÖNIGSSOHN _Herman Jadlowker_ DIE GANSEMAGD _Geraldine Farrar_ DER SPIELMANN _Otto Goritz_ DIE HEXE _Louise Homer_ DER HOLZHACKER _Adamo Didur_ DER BESENBINDER _Albert Reiss_ ZWEI KINDER _Edna Walter and Lotta Engel_ DER RATSALTESTE _Marcel Reiner_ DER WIRT _Antonio Pini-Corsi_ DIE WIRTSTOCHTER _Florence Wickham_ DER SCHNEIDER _Julius Bayer_ DIE STALLMAGD _Marie Mattfeld_ ZWEI TORWACHTER _Ernst Maran and William Hinshaw_ [Illustration: Photo by White Farrar as the Goose Girl in "Königskinder"] A king's daughter forced to act as a goose-girl in a forest, by an old witch who has cast a spell upon her, is discovered and loved by a king's son. Though she returned his love and would gladly go with him she finds that she cannot break the spell which holds her a prisoner in the forest. Leaving the crown at her feet the prince continues his wanderings. No sooner has he gone than a broom-maker and a wood-chopper guided by a wandering minstrel come to the witch's hut. They are ambassadors from the city of Hellabrunn which has been so long without a sovereign that the people themselves feel sadly in need of a government. The ambassadors ask the witch who this ruler shall be and by what signs the people may recognize him. The witch answers that their ruler will be the first person who enters the gates of the city after the bells have rung the hour of noon on the following day, which is the day of the festival of Hella. The minstrel notices the beautiful goose-girl and recognizes her to be of royal birth. He breaks the spell of the witch and forces her to give the lovely maiden into his keeping. He persuades her to break the enchantment and defy the evil powers by which she has been bound. The prince, meanwhile, is at Hellabrunn, acting as a swineherd. The innkeeper's daughter loves the handsome young man but he proudly repulses her advances. He dreams of the goose-girl. The innkeeper's daughter revenges herself by proclaiming him a thief. As he is about to be led away to prison the bells announce the hour of the festival, and the gates are thrown open in expectation of the new ruler. Through the gates comes the goose-girl, wearing her wreath of flowers and followed by her geese and the minstrel. The lovers embrace. But only the minstrel and a little child recognize their royal rank. The townspeople, thinking that their sovereign would appear in royal regalia, drive the kings' children from the city, burn the witch, and break the minstrel's leg on a wheel. The two lovers lose their way in a forest as the snow falls. They both die of a poisoned loaf made by the witch. The children of Hellabrunn, guided by a bird, find them buried under the same tree under which they had first met. HÄNSEL UND GRETEL A fairy opera in three acts. Music by Engelbert Humperdinck. Book by Adelheid Wette. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Dupont Van Dyck and Mattfeld as Hänsel and Gretel] The first act represents the hut of a broom-maker. _Hänsel_ is binding brooms and _Gretel_ is knitting. The children romp, quarrel, and make up. When their mother, _Gertrude_, enters she is angry to see them idle, but wishing to strike them, she upsets a pitcher of milk instead. With all hope of supper banished she sends the children out into the woods with little baskets to look for strawberries, while she herself, bemoaning their poverty, sinks exhausted upon a chair and falls asleep. A riotous song announces the approach of her husband, drunk as usual. She is about to utter reproaches when she notices that he has brought sausages, bread and butter, coffee--enough for a feast. He tells her that he has had good luck at the Kirmes and bids her prepare supper. When he asks for the children he is horrified to hear that they have been sent into the woods, for a wicked fairy lives near the Ilsenstein who entices children to bake them in her oven and devour them. Both parents rush off in search of _Hänsel_ and _Gretel_. The second act takes place near the Ilsenstein. _Hänsel_ has filled his basket with berries and _Gretel_ has made a wreath with which her brother crowns her. Before they realise what they are doing the children eat all the berries. Then they see that it is both too dark to look for any more or to find their way home. _Gretel_ weeps with fear. _Hänsel_ comforts her. They grow sleepy. The sandman sprinkles sand into their eyes, but before going to sleep the children are careful not to forget their evening prayer. Fourteen guardian angels are seen descending the heavenly ladder to protect them. Morning comes with the third act. The dew fairy sprinkles dew on the children. Suddenly they notice a little house made of cake and sugar. They start to break off little bits when a voice cries out from within and the witch opens the door. She throws a rope around _Hänsel's_ throat, urging them both to enter. Frightened, they try to escape, but after binding them with a magic spell she imprisons _Hänsel_ in a kennel, [Transcriber's Note: missing 'and'] she forces _Gretel_ to go into the house. When she believes _Hänsel_ to be asleep she turns her attention to the oven, then rides around the house on her broom-stick. When she alights she orders _Hänsel_ to show her his finger. But it is still thin and the witch orders more food for him. While she turns her back, _Gretel_, seizing the juniper bough, speaks the magic words and breaks her brother's enchantment. Then the witch tells _Gretel_ to get into the oven and see if the honey cakes are done. But _Gretel_ pretends to be stupid and asks her to show her how to get in. Together the children push the old witch into the oven and slam the door. The oven soon falls to pieces. The children then see a row of boys and girls standing stiffly against the house. _Gretel_ breaks the spell for them as she had done for _Hänsel_. There is general rejoicing. _Gertrude_ and _Peter_ now appear, the old witch is pulled out of the ruined oven as gigantic honey cake and everyone on the stage joins in a hymn of thanksgiving. THE GOLDEN CROSS Opera in two acts. Music by Brüll; text by H. Mosenthal, after the French. Produced: Berlin, December 22, 1875. CHARACTERS GONTRAN DE L'ANERY, a young nobleman _Tenor_ COLAS, an innkeeper _Baritone_ CHRISTINE, his sister _Soprano_ THÉRÈSE, his bride _Soprano_ BOMBARDON, a sergeant _Bass_ _Time_--1812. _Place_--Melun, near Paris. Act I. The town of Melun is suffering heavily from the great campaign which Napoleon is undertaking against Russia in 1812, so many of the young men must take the field. Among the hardest hit are _Thérèse_ and _Christine_, the first a bride, the other a beloved sister. Their _Colas_ has been taken away; if he can find no substitute he must go to the war. _Sergeant Bombardon_, who is to take away the drafted men, is already in town with his soldiers. At the same time as the sergeant, a young nobleman, _Gontran de l'Anery_, arrives. He hears that _Christine_ has promised her hand to the man who goes to war in place of her brother. She will give him a golden cross and when he brings it back will be his bride. But no one has the desire to expose himself to the hazards of war. Then _Gontran_, seized by a violent love, decides to take _Colas'_ place. Through the sergeant he sends for the cross. _Christine_ does not know who has offered himself for her brother. Act II. Three years have passed. In the house of the innkeeper _Colas_, now as brave as before, having been wounded in battle with the invading enemy, _Captain Gontran_ finds himself received as a severely wounded person. He loves his nurse _Christine_ with all his heart and she also is attached to him. He even has a claim upon her as having been once a substitute for her brother, but he will not force her affections, and besides, he no longer has "the golden cross." _Christine_ too dares not follow her inclinations for, as _Gontran_ tells her that it was he who went to the war, she would offend him very much if she, true to her oath, should ask for the cross. This also reappears. A cripple, in whom one would scarcely recognize the former stalwart _Sergeant Bombardon_, is the bearer. _Christine's_ heart nearly breaks, but she does not hesitate to keep her word. But no! _Bombardon_ is not an impostor. He got the cross from a dying man. Yet, who is this? Dare he trust his eyes? The man whom he believed dead comes out of the house. It is _Gontran_. What happiness for the two lovers! VERSIEGELT SEALED IN Opera in one act after Raupach. Music by Blech. Words by Richard Batka and Pordes-Milo. Produced: Hamburg, November 4, 1908. CHARACTERS BRAUN, a burgomaster _Baritone_ ELSE, his daughter _Soprano_ FRAU GERTRUD, a young widow _Mezzo-Soprano_ FRAU WILLMERS _Alto_ BERTEL, her son, a court clerk _Tenor_ LAMPE, a bailiff _Bass_ _Time_--1830. _Place_--A small German town. In the centre of the whole scene stands a sideboard. This same sideboard belongs to _Frau Willmers_ who now comes running to the apartment of the pretty young widow, _Gertrud_, with every sign of agitation, to tell her that the bailiff, _Lampe_, intends to seize her sideboard, an old and valuable heirloom. The burgomaster bears her ill will because her son _Bertel_ has been casting eyes at his daughter _Else_, and now takes occasion to inflict on her this disgrace. To escape this she begs her lodger the favour of taking in the sideboard for her. _Frau Gertrud_ is very willing. She has a grudge against the burgomaster. He used to call on her almost every day, and _Frau Gertrud_ allowed herself to hope that sometime she would become the _Frau_ burgomistress. Nevertheless, she would very willingly accelerate his decision. Scarcely is the sideboard, with the help of a neighbour, happily installed at _Frau Gertrud's_ than _Bertel_, _Frau Willmers'_ son and the burgomaster's daughter _Else_ enter. They have made every effort to make the burgomaster kindly disposed but it was in vain. But as the couple have decided not to give up each other, they have come to _Frau Gertrud_ to beg her influence with the burgomaster. When she thus receives confirmation of her suspicion of the burgomaster's liking for her, she naturally is not averse to the rôle of matchmaker. Out of her beautiful dreams of the future the young woman, left alone by her neighbours, is aroused by a knock. But it is not the burgomaster, whom she secretly expected, but the bailiff, _Lampe_. Loquacious, conceited, and intrusive, he begins by telling her all his merits and his skill, brings greetings to the widow, as the burgomaster has commissioned him. The sideboard seems to him very suspicious. So now he will go only to _Frau Willmers'_ to convince himself whether his suspicion is well founded. As soon as he has gone the burgomaster comes. He also makes use of evasions and then confides to his gentle friend the anxieties of a father. It grieves him very much that his _Else_ loves this _Bertel_, son of his bitterest enemy, who is now dead. _Frau Gertrud_, however, interests her self bravely in favour of her protégés. Her remark that the burgomaster surely has not a heart of stone, brings him nearer to realizing his own condition. Instead of the children he now talks of himself. First he is seeking for a sign that she means well by him with her advice. Soon she has led him so far that he confesses his love for her and begs a kiss. The twilight that has begun favours the idyll. Then again comes the trouble-maker _Lampe_. Nothing worse can happen to the couple than to be discovered by this gossiper. So the burgomaster must hide in order to save his own and _Frau Gertrud's_ reputation. But where? There is nothing better than the empty sideboard. Scarcely has the somewhat corpulent burgomaster fortunately concealed himself in it than _Lampe_ enters the apartment and, "In the name of the authorities" seals up the sideboard. Unfortunately the burgomaster in his hiding place finds himself not so quiet as caution demanded. The sound does not escape _Lampe_ and his evil thoughts scent here something very improper. Surely there is a lover concealed in the sideboard, and he goes away with the malicious idea of finding the burgomaster to tell him that _Frau Gertrud_ is not the right sort of woman for him. But _Frau Gertrud_ is sure of her point and, as _Bertel_ and _Else_ also come in with _Frau Willmers_, a plot is soon concocted by the four so that the happiness of everybody will result from this favourable accident. The two women leave the young couple alone so that through a put-up game on the father everything will be obtained. _Else_ plays the lovesick girl, _Bertel_ on the other hand the virtuous one whose respect for the burgomaster knows no bounds. So he refuses to accept _Else's_ love against the will of her father and she, desperate, wants to run away when a voice proceeds from the sideboard. Now the father and burgomaster must humbly beg of his clerk that he take upon himself the offence of breaking the seal and letting him out of the sideboard. Naturally, the first takes place after _Else_ has dictated the marriage contract. The burgomaster, who at all hazards must get out before _Lampe_ comes back, consents to everything. _Bertel_ employs his profession in writing out the whole contract and through a peephole in the sideboard the burgomaster has to sign it before the door is finally opened to him. But he makes his terms. In place of himself, _Bertel_ and _Else_ must enter the sideboard. Naturally they do not hesitate long and they are for the first time together undisturbed within it. The burgomaster has concealed himself in the next room when the two women come back with a gay company. (The following very indelicate passage, which endangers all the sympathy of the audience for _Frau Gertrud_, might easily be cut out.) _Frau Gertrud_ has brought people from a nearby shooters' festival to show them the trapped burgomaster, evidently because she believes her scheme more assured thus. All the greater is the astonishment when the young couple step out of the opened sideboard. But the burgomaster all of a sudden appears in the background. Then _Frau Gertrud_ cleverly takes everything on herself. She had shut up the young couple in it and had spread the report that the burgomaster was concealed in it in order that he might be affected by it and could no longer oppose the union of the two young people. Surely everything is solved satisfactorily when _Lampe_ arrives with every sign of agitation. He has not found the burgomaster, and _Else_ and the clerk of the court have disappeared. The burgomaster must certainly have been murdered by the clerk. _Lampe_ rages so long in the excessive indignation of his official power that he himself is shut up in the sideboard and the others, now undisturbed, seal their compact and reseal it. DER TROMPETER VON SÄKKINGEN THE TRUMPETER OF SÄKKINGEN Opera in three acts and a Prologue; music by Viktor E. Nessler; text by Rudolf Bunge after Viktor von Scheffel's poem with the same title. Produced: Leipzig, May 4, 1884. CHARACTERS WERNER KIRCHHOFER _Baritone_ KONRADIN, a peasant _Bass_ THE STEWART _Tenor_ THE RECTOR _Bass_ BARON VON SCHÖNAU _Bass_ MARIA, his daughter _Soprano_ COUNT VON WILDENSTEIN _Bass_ HIS DIVORCED WIFE _Alto_ DAMIAN, Count von Wildenstein's son _Tenor_ Prologue. In the Heidelberg palace courtyard there is a merry company of students and peasants gathered in a drinking bout. The enthusiasm for "Old Heidelberg the fine" and for the gay life of a cavalier takes on such a noisy expression that the steward of the _Rector's_ wife orders them to be quiet. _Werner Kirchhofer_, a law student, leaps on a table, the peasant _Konradin_ lends him his trumpet and now there echoes forth the sweet song "which once the Palsgrave Friedrich sang" in honour of the "Palsgravin, the most beautiful of women." But the _Rector_ and the Senate entertain other views of the nightly noise of trumpets and the entire body of students is expelled. So they all seek to become cavaliers. Act I. In Säkkingen a great festival is being held, Fridolin's day. Peasants from the suburbs have come to town for it. There is a suspicious agitation among them. _Konradin_ who is now in the service of the state has his hands full keeping order. What happiness when he sees his old comrade _Werner_. But now as _Maria_, daughter of the _Baron von Schönau_; together with her haughty aunt, the divorced wife of _Count von Wildenstein_, arrive at the church, insurrection breaks out. Who knows what the peasants would not have done to the ladies had not _Werner_ as knightly protector sprung between them. Love at first sight seized the two young people. (Change of scene.) Above in Schönau castle the old baron is again tormented by chills. Serving as a means of lessening his pain comes a letter from his brother-in-law, _Count von Wildenstein_, who announces that he is coming to visit him. He has a son, _Damian_, who would be just the right husband for _Schönau's_ daughter _Maria_. Moreover that would be an opportunity to bring about a reconciliation between the count and his divorced wife, none other than _Maria's_ aunt. The marriage was dissolved and their son was once stolen by gypsies. _Damian_ is a son of the second wife of _Count von Wildenstein_, who is dead. Out of his pleasant thoughts about his future son-in-law and protector of the castle in these evil days the _Baron_ is frightened by the reports of his women about the uprising of the peasants. In the praise that _Maria_ gives to the brave trumpeter is echoed his playing from the Rhine to here. That stirs the old baron like an elixir of youth in his bones. The trumpeter is summoned and a look in _Maria's_ love-warmed eyes is enough for him to accept the Baron's offer to become trumpeter of the castle. Of course the proximity of the young people will not please the aunt. Act II. That they love each other both already long know but the acknowledgment nevertheless would be very beautiful. But the old aunt is always at hand especially at the music lessons which _Werner_ gives to the young woman. A real piece of luck that _Konradin_ is coming today to the castle to bring wine for the May festival. He knows how to arrange it so that the old woman must go to the wine cellar. Now it is all over with pride. _Maria_ lies in the arms of the humble trumpeter. Unfortunately, the old aunt comes back. She is not moved by their prayers, but tells all about it to the excited Baron. Nothing helps, the trumpeter must leave the house. _Maria's_ bridegroom is already chosen. At today's May festival he will take part. _Damian_ is certainly stupid enough but that does not help the lovers. "Would to God that it had not been so beautiful, would to God it had not been!" Act III. But _Damian_ is not only stupid, he is also a miserable coward. That is shown as it now behooves him to defend _Baron von Schönau's_ castle against the revolted peasants. The knights there would have been lost had not relief suddenly come. It is _Werner_ who arrives with a troop of country people. _Maria_ flees to her lover's arms. But alas, he is wounded in the arm. And what is that? That mole? The old _Countess Wildenstein_ recognizes in the trumpeter her son, whom the gypsies once stole. Now naturally there is nothing in the way of the union. Now "young _Werner_ is the happiest man" and who can deny that "Love and trumpet sounds are very useful, good things." DER EVANGELIMANN THE EVANGELIST Music-drama in two acts by Wilhelm Kienzl; text by the composer after a tale by L.F. Meissner. Produced: Berlin, May 4, 1895. CHARACTERS FRIEDRICH ENGEL _Bass_ MARTHA, his niece _Soprano_ MAGDALENA, her friend _Alto_ JOHANNES FREUDHOFER, teacher at St. Othmar's _Baritone_ MATTHIAS FREUDHOFER, his brother, actuary in a monastery _Tenor_ ZITTERBART, a tailor and other artisans _Tenor_ Act I. The feelings in the breast of _Johannes Freudhofer_, the teacher, do not correspond to the peaceful spectacle of the monastery of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Othmar. He is filled with a savage jealousy of his own brother, _Matthias_, who is actuary in the monastery, because he sees that the affections of _Martha_, the beautiful niece of _Engel_, the steward of the monastery, are denied him. He thinks to injure his brother when he betrays the latter's love to the haughty steward. And the latter actually dismisses _Matthias_ from his office. But with this _Johannes_ has not attained his object. For he himself can spy on them and see the two plighting eternal faithfulness on his secret departure. So the treacherous man resolved upon the complete ruin of the lovers. He sets fire to the monastery. _Matthias_, who is tarrying in the arbour beside his sweetheart hurries out to get help, but is seized by the other as the incendiary out of revenge. Act II. Thirty years have elapsed. In the courtyard of a house in Vienna, _Magdalena_ meets an evangelist in whom she recognizes _Matthias_, the friend of her youth. She herself is here caring for _Johannes_ who is ill. How has _Matthias_ become an evangelist? He tells her his sad history. He had been sentenced to prison for twenty years. When he had finished his punishment he learned that his sweetheart _Martha_ out of grief had sought death in the water. Then he had become a wandering, singing preacher. Second Part. In the sitting-room, _Johannes_ lies ill. But more than pain disturbs his mind. Then he hears outside the voice of the evangelist. _Magdalena_ must call him in. Without recognizing him _Johannes_ tells his brother of the infamous action through which he had ruined the other's life. And _Matthias_ not only preaches love but practices it too. He forgives his brother who now can die in peace. DER KUHREIGEN RANZ DES VACHES Music-drama in three acts; music by Wilhelm Kienzl; poem by Richard Batka. CHARACTERS THE KING _Bass_ MARQUIS MASSIMELLE, commandant _Bass_ BLANCHEFLEUR, his wife _Soprano_ CLEO, their lady at court _Mezzo-Soprano_ CAPTAIN BRAYOLE _Tenor_ PRIMUS THALLUS _Tenor_ DURSEL (_Bass_) and under officers in a Swiss regiment FAVART, under-officer of Chasseurs _Baritone_ DORIS, daughter of the keeper of a canteen in the St. Honoré barracks _Soprano_ _Time_--1792-3. _Place_--Paris and Versailles. Act I. Barracks of St. Honoré. Under penalty of death the Swiss soldiers have been forbidden to sing their native songs especially the Kuhreigen or "Ranz des Vaches," because songs of their native land always awakened homesickness and had led to desertions. But a quarrel between _Primus Thallus_, of the Swiss, and _Favart_, of the Chasseurs, excites the Swiss and they sing "In the fort at Strassburg" (Zu Strassburg auf der Schanz) the song of the Swiss who became a deserter through homesickness, the song which was forbidden by such a severe decree, especially because it introduced the Kuhreigen or "Ranz des Vaches." Then _Favart_ believed the moment had come to be able to avenge himself. He quickly called an officer to hear the forbidden song. The officer first wants to arrest all the Swiss, but _Primus Thallus_ takes all the blame on himself; he is glad to prevent the others being imprisoned. Act II. In the King's bedroom at Versailles the ceremony of the royal levee is taking place. This medley of laughable ceremonial and the practice of the highest refinement makes a sharp contrast with the wild ferment and discontent among the people, of which, however, no one hears anything in these rooms and will know nothing. So the commandant _Massimelle_ is among those waiting because he has to lay before the _King_ the death sentence on the unsubdued Swiss. Naturally the _King_ thinks nothing about bringing an obsolete law into force again, and leaves the decision to _Massimelle's_ wife, _Blanchefleur_. She begs _Thallus's_ life for herself and wants to learn the fellow manners in her service. Silly as are the thoughts of this whole company, so also are those of _Blanchefleur_. Through a whim she has obtained the release of the young Swiss, now she wants as a reward to have diversion with him. The high authorities already are glad to play shepherds and shepherdesses; what would happen if they could have a real Swiss as a shepherd! _Cleo_, the court lady, is perfectly delighted with the idea and awaits with enjoyment the play in which _Primus Thallus_ shall appear with _Blanchefleur_. But the play takes a serious turn, _Primus Thallus_ sees no joke in the thing. To him, _Blanchefleur_ appears as the image of his dreams, and yet he knows that this dream never can be a reality, at least not for a man to whom, as to this Swiss, love is not merely a form of amusement in life. So _Blanchefleur_ has to give up her shepherd's dream and let _Primus Thallus_ withdraw. Act III. The earnest man is very quickly drawn in. In the ruined dining-hall of the palace of _Massimelle_, the sans-culottes are lodged. _Favart_, under whose direction the castle has been stormed, is vexed at his report for which _Doris_, his sweetheart, and the others with their wild drinking and quarrelling scarcely leave him the possibility. By chance the half-drunken men discover a secret door. They go down into the passage and drag out _Blanchefleur_ who had concealed herself there. _Favart_ wants her to play for the men, but he cannot prevail upon her to do it. With her graceful, distinguished air she refuses to have anything to do with the dirty, uncivilized men and smilingly allows herself to be condemned to death and led away to the frightful prison of the Temple. Hardly has she gone than _Primus Thallus_ enters. He has been promoted by the Directory to be a captain as a reward because he has often been threatened with death by the royalists. His great courage certainly makes an impression on these savage troops, but as _Massimelle_ outside is being led to the scaffold and he learns of the arrest of _Blanchefleur_ only one thought rules him--to save the beautiful woman. The scene changes to the underground prison of the Temple. One can hardly recognize the figure of _Primus Thallus_ who presents himself here, but one must admit of these aristocrats that while they know how to live laughingly they also know how to die with a smile. While without the guillotine is fulfilling its awful task uninterruptedly, they are dancing and playing here underneath as though these were still the gayest days of the _King's_ delights at Versailles. In vain _Primus Thallus_ uses all his eloquence to persuade _Blanchefleur_ to flee or to give him her hand because then he could obtain a pardon. She has only one reward for his faithfulness: a dance. Then when her name is called she dances with a light minuet step to the scaffold. LOBETANZ Opera in three acts; music by Ludwig Thuille; text by Otto Julius Bierbaum. Produced: Carlsruhe, February 6, 1898. CHARACTERS LOBETANZ _Tenor_ THE PRINCESS _Mezzo-Soprano_ THE KING _Bass_ THE FORESTER, the executioner, the judge _Speaking parts_ A TRAVELLING STUDENT _Tenor_ Act I. This play takes place somewhere and somewhen but begins in a blooming garden in spring. And the most fragrant flowers in the garden are the lovely girls that play in it. Take care, _Lobetanz_; take care! Now that you have leaped over the wall into the garden, still take care! You are a travelling singer, your clothes are tattered; but you are a magnificent fellow and sing as only a bird can sing or a fellow who knows nothing about the illness of the _Princess_. What is the matter with her then? She no longer laughs as she once did, her cheeks are pale, she no longer sings but sighs. "Alas!" Oh, the maidens know what is the matter with her but no one asks the maidens. The poet-laureate today at the festival of the Early Rose Day will announce what is the matter with the child of the _King_. And the _King_ is coming, the _Princess_ and the people. And the poets proudly strut in and make known their wisdom. But that does not help. Now the sound of a violin is heard. How the _Princess_ listens and now the player comes before her and fiddles and sings and the maid revives. Roses bloom on her cheeks; her eyes shine in looking at the violinist who is singing of the morning in May when they kissed each other, innocently dear, and played "bridegroom and bride." You must flee, _Lobetanz_, flee; that is magic with which you are subduing the child of the _King_. Act II. Spring has awakened your heart, you happy singer, and has brought to life what was asleep deep within you. Now you may dream of what will be. And see, she comes to you, the sick _Princess_, to be restored to health by you. And she sits there by you in the branch of a linden tree. But alas, alas! The _King_ and his hunting train are suddenly there and all things have an end. Act III. In a dungeon sits the bird once so gay. For "dead, dead, dead must he be and so slip with hurrahs into the infernal abode." And they lead you to the gallows and tell you your sentence. And the _King_ and the people, the envious singers and the _Princess_ sick unto death on her bier are all there. Now choose your last present, you poor gallows bird. So let me once more sing. And, "see, Oh see, how the delicate face is covered with a rosy glow." He is singing her back to life, the lovely _Princess_, until finally she flees to his arms: "Thou art mine!" Now leave the gallows, there is a wedding today. "A great magician is _Lobetanz_, let the couple only look, the gallows shine with luck and lustre; spring has done wonders." DER CORREGIDOR THE MAGISTRATE Opera in four acts; music by Hugo Wolf; text by Rosa Mayreder-Obermayer. Produced: Mannheim, June 7, 1896. CHARACTERS THE CORREGIDOR (magistrate) _Tenor_ DOÑA MERCEDES, his wife _Soprano_ REPELA, his valet _Bass_ TIO LUCAS, a miller _Baritone_ FRASQUITA, his wife _Mezzo-Soprano_ JUAN LOPEZ, the alcalde _Bass_ PEDRO, his secretary _Tenor_ MANUELA, a maid _Mezzo-Soprano_ TONUELO, a court messenger _Bass_ Act I. The miller, _Tio Lucas_, is living a happy life with his beautiful wife, _Frasquita_. Her love is so true that jealousy, to which he is inclined, cannot thrive. Jealous? Yes, he has a bump of jealousy. True, the _Corregidor_, who eagerly concerns him about the miller's pretty wife, has one too. But no matter, he is a high, very influential functionary. Meanwhile _Frasquita_ loves her _Tio Lucas_ so truly that she can even allow herself a dance with the _Corregidor_. Perhaps she will cure him so, perhaps she will obtain in addition the wished-for official place for her nephew. The _Corregidor_ too does not keep her waiting long and _Frasquita_ makes him so much in love with her that he becomes very impetuous. Thereupon he loses his balance and the worthy official falls in the dust, out of which the miller, without suspecting anything, raises him up. But the _Corregidor_ swears revenge. Act II. The opportunity for this comes very quickly. As the miller one evening is sitting with his wife in their cozy room, there comes a knock at the door. It is the drunken court messenger, _Tonuelo_, who produces a warrant of arrest. _Tio Lucas_ must follow him without delay to the alcalde who has lent himself as a willing instrument to the _Corregidor_. _Frasquita_ is trying to calm her anxiety with a song when outside there is a cry for help. She opens the door and before it stands the _Corregidor_ dripping with water. He had fallen in the brook. Now he begs admission from _Frasquita_ who is raging with anger. He has also brought with him the appointment of the nephew. But the angry woman will pay no attention and sends the _Corregidor_ away from her threshold. Then he falls in a swoon. His own servant now comes along. _Frasquita_ admits both of them to the house and herself goes into town to look for her _Tio Lucas_. When the _Corregidor_, awakened out of his swoon, hears this, full of anxiety, he sends his valet after her; he himself, however, hangs his wet clothes before the fire and goes to bed in the miller's bedroom. (Change of scene.) In the meantime _Tio Lucas_ has drunk under the table the alcalde and his fine comrades and seizes the occasion to flee. Act III. In the darkness of the night, _Tio Lucas_ and _Frasquita_ pass by without seeing each other. The miller comes to his mill. (Change of scene.) Everything is open. In the dust lies the appointment of the nephew; before the fire hang the _Corregidor's_ clothes. A frightful suspicion arises in _Tio Lucas's_ mind which becomes certainty when through the keyhole he sees the _Corregidor_ in his own bed. He is already groping for his rifle to shoot the seducer and the faithless woman when another thought strikes him. The _Corregidor_ also has a wife, a beautiful wife. Here the _Corregidor's_ clothes are hanging. He quickly slips into them and goes back to town. In the meantime the _Corregidor_ has awakened. He wants to go back home now. But he does not find his clothes and so he crawls into those of the miller. Thus he is almost arrested by the alcalde who now enters with his companions and _Frasquita_. When the misunderstanding is cleared up, they all go with different feelings into the town after the miller. Act IV. Now comes the explanation and the punishment of the _Corregidor_, at least in so far as he receives a sound thrashing and becomes really humbled. In reality the miller also has not yet had his "revenge," but he is recognized and likewise is beaten blue. That he must suffer in reparation for his doubt of the faithful _Frasquita_, and he hears it willingly for they have now come to a good understanding about everything. Richard Strauss Richard Strauss was born at Munich, June 11, 1864. His father, Franz Strauss, was a distinguished horn player in the Royal Opera orchestra. From him Richard received rigid instruction in music. His teacher in composition was the orchestral conductor, W. Meyer. At school he wrote music on the margins of his books. He was so young at the first public performance of a work by him, that when he appeared and bowed in response to the applause, someone asked, "What has that boy to do with it?" "Nothing, except that he composed it," was the reply. Strauss is best known as the composer of many beautiful songs and of the orchestral works _Tod und Verklaerung_ (Death and Transfiguration), and _Till Eulenspiegel's Lustige Streiche_ (Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks). The latter is a veritable _tour de force_ of orchestral scoring and a test of the virtuosity of a modern orchestra. _Thus Spake Zarathustra_, _Don Quixote_, and _Ein Heldenleben_ (A Hero's Life) are other well-known orchestral works by him. They are of large proportions. To the symphony, and the symphonic poem, Strauss has added the tone poem as a form of instrumental music even freer in its development than the symphonic poem, which was Liszt's legacy to music. FEUERSNOT FIRE FAMINE Opera in one act. Music by Richard Strauss; text by Ernst von Wolzogen. Produced: Dresden, November 21, 1901. CHARACTERS SCHWEIKER VON GUNDELFINGEN, keeper of the castle _Tenor_ ORTOLF SENTLINGER, burgomaster _Bass_ DIEMUT, his daughter _Soprano_ KUNRAD, the leveller _Baritone_ _Time_--13th Century. _Place_--Munich. The action takes place in Munich on the day of the winter solstice in olden times. At the time of the representation the twelfth century has just passed. A big crowd of children, followed by grown-ups, is going in whimsical wantonness from house to house to collect wood for the solstitial fire ("Subendfeuer"). After they have collected rich booty at the burgomaster's they go over to the house opposite. It appears strangely gloomy. Shutters and doors are closed as though it were empty. Yet a short time ago young _Herr Kunrad_ lived there. It is his legal inheritance and property, a legacy from his ancestor who was an "excellent sorcerer" and now taken possession of after a long absence. Nevertheless, the superstition of the masses had been much concerned with the house. The most reasonable was that its occupant was a strange fellow, the majority thought him a gloomy magician. In reality the young man sat in the house poring over books. The noise of the children calls him forth. When he hears that it is the solstice, the great festival of his profession, an agitation seizes him in which he tells the children to take away all the wood from his house. This destruction stirs the townsmen but _Kunrad_ is so struck at sight of _Diemut_, who seems to him like a revelation of life, that he dashes through the townsmen and kisses the girl on the mouth. The agitation of the townsmen is silenced sooner than _Diemut's_ who plans revenge for this outrage. Now the townsmen are all out of doors on account of the solstitial holiday. But in _Kunrad's_ heart the promptings of love are blazing like a fire. A mad longing for _Diemut_ seizes him, and as she now appears on her balcony he begs for her love with warm words. The spark has also been well kindled in her heart, but still she only thinks of revenge. So she lures him toward the side street where the order basket still stands on the ground. _Kunrad_ steps into it and _Diemut_ hauls him upward. But halfway up she lets him hang suspended. So _Kunrad_ becomes a laughing-stock for the townsmen returning home. Then a fearful rage seizes upon him; he makes use of his magic art: "May an ice-cold everlasting night surround you because you have laughed at the might of love." Every light is extinguished and a deep darkness covers the town and its inhabitants. Now _Kunrad_ from the balcony, addresses the townsmen, furious with rage in a speech filled with personal references whose basic idea is that the people always recognize and follow their great masters. So they have sadly mistaken his purpose and the maid whom he had chosen had mocked him. For punishment their light is now extinguished. Let all the warmth leave the women, all the light of love depart from ardent young maidens, until the fire burns anew. Now the tables are turned. All recognize in _Kunrad_ a great man. In their self-reproaches are mingled complaints about the darkness and an imploring cry to _Diemut_ by her love to make an end of the lack of fire. But _Diemut_ in the meantime has changed her mind; love in her too gets the upper hand as the sudden rekindling of every light makes known. GUNTRAM Music-drama in three acts: music and words by Richard Strauss. Produced: Weimar, May 10, 1894. CHARACTERS THE OLD DUKE _Bass_ FREIHILD, his daughter _Soprano_ DUKE ROBERT, her betrothed _Baritone_ GUNTRAM, a singer _Tenor_ FRIEDHOLD, a singer _Bass_ THE DUKE'S CLOWN _Tenor_ _Time_--Thirteenth Century. _Place_--A German duchy. Act I. _Guntram_ has been brought up to manhood as pupil of the religious knightly Band of the Good. This band has set for itself the realization of the Christian idea of love for the soul. The brotherly union of all men, who shall be brought through love to world peace is the aim of the band, the noble art of song its means of obtaining recruits. _Guntram_ seems to his teacher _Friedhold_ ready for the great work and so he is assigned to a difficult task. The _Old Duke_ has given the hand of his daughter _Freihild_, and also his estate, to _Duke Robert_. The latter, the only one of the powerful tyrants left, through his oppression had so stirred up the peaceful people that they rose against his rule. Then he had put down the rising cruelly and had burdened the unfortunate people so heavily that they were thinking of leaving their homes. _Freihild_ most deeply sympathizes with the people and had given her hand to the _Duke_ only unwillingly, and she seeks in the happiness of the people consolation for her loveless life. But the _Duke_ has forbidden her this work of love and she seeks release from life in a voluntary death in the waters of the lake. _Guntram_ rescues her. The _Old Duke_, out of gratitude for saving his daughter, promises pardon to the rebels and invites the singer to the feast that is to be given in the ducal palace in celebration of the putting down of the rebellion. Act II. At the festive banquet _Guntram_, relying upon the power of the thought of love as presented by him, will make use of the occasion to win the _Duke's_ heart for peace. The _Duke_, whose _clown_ has just irritated him, in a rage interrupts _Guntram_. But the latter is protected by the vassals all of whom at heart are angry at the cruel ruler. When a messenger brings news of a new revolt, a vote is taken and they all decide for war. Then _Guntram_ reminds them anew of peace in inspired songs. In a rage the _Duke_ scorns him as a rebel, assaults him and, after a brief wrestle, _Guntram_ strikes down the tyrant. Then the _Old Duke_ has him thrown into a dungeon and goes off with the vassals to put down the rebellion again. But _Freihild_, whose heart is inflamed with love for the bold, noble singer, conspires with the _clown_ to save him and flee with him. Act III. In the gloomy dungeon in which _Guntram_ is awaiting his punishment, the young hero has plenty of leisure to meditate on his deeds and their motives. The Band of the Good has sent _Friedhold_ to him in order that he may ask of him an account of his sinful deed. For such an act is considered as murder in every case. _Guntram_ feels that he is not guilty in the opinion of the Band but is self-convicted in the opinion of the highest humanity. For he cannot conceal from himself that the passionate love for _Freihild_, wife of the _Duke_, which burns in his heart, led him to his deed. Therefore, he can certainly reject the reproach of the Band, but he charges himself with renunciation as expiation for his deed. He has taught himself that true freedom cannot be attained unless it is acquired by one's own power and victory over one's self. So the Band of the Good is caught in an error and _Guntram_ renounces his connection with them. But _Freihild_, who has succeeded to the duchy since the _Old Duke_ has fallen on the field, he refers to the godly message which calls her to promote the happiness of the people. In this noble task she will find indemnification for the personal sacrifice of her lost love. The singer withdraws thence into solitude. SALOME Opera in one act by Richard Strauss; words after Oscar Wilde's poem of the same title, translated into German by Hedwig Lachmann. Produced at the Court Opera, Dresden, December 9, 1905. Metropolitan Opera House, New York, 1907, with Olive Fremstad; Manhattan Opera House, New York, with Mary Garden. CHARACTERS HEROD ANTIPAS, Tetrarch of Judea _Tenor_ HERODIAS, wife of Herod _Mezzo-Soprano_ SALOME, daughter of Herodias _Soprano_ JOKANAAN (John the Baptist) _Baritone_ NARRABOTH, a young Syrian, Captain of the Guard _Tenor_ A PAGE _Alto_ A young Roman, the executioner, five Jews, two Nazarenes, two soldiers, a Cappadocian and a slave. _Time_--About 30 A.D. _Place_--The great terrace in the palace of Herod at Tiberias, Galilee, the capital of his kingdom. On the great terrace of _Herod's_ palace, off the banquet hall, is his body-guard. The ardent looks of the young captain, _Narraboth_, a Syrian, are directed toward the banquet hall where _Salome_ is seated. In vain the _Page_, who is aware of the neurotic taint in the woman, warns him. The young captain is consumed with ardent desires. The night is sultry. The soldiers' talk is interrupted by the sounds from the hall. Suddenly there is heard a loud and deep voice, as from a tomb. Dread seizes even upon the rough soldiers. He who calls is a madman according to some, a prophet according to others, in either case, a man of indomitable courage who with terrifying directness of speech brings the ruling powers face to face with their sins and bids them repent. This is _Jokanaan_. His voice sounds so reverberant because it issues from the gloomy cistern in which he is held a captive. Suddenly _Salome_, in great commotion, steps out on the terrace. The greedy looks with which the _Herod_, her stepfather, has regarded her, as well as the talk and noisy disputes of the gluttons and degenerates within have driven her out. In her stirs the sinful blood of her mother, who, in order that she might marry _Herod_, slew her husband. Depraved surroundings, a court at which the satiating of all desires is the main theme of the day, have poisoned her thoughts. She seeks new pleasures, as yet untasted enjoyments. Now, as she hears the voice of the _Prophet_, there arises in her the lust to see this man, whom she has heard her mother curse, because he has stigmatized her shame, and whom she knows the Tetrarch fears, although a captive. What she desires is strictly forbidden, but _Narraboth_ cannot resist her blandishments. The strange, gloomy figure of the _Jokanaan_, fantastically noble in the rags of his captivity, stirs _Salome's_ morbid desires. Her abandoned arts are brought into full play in her efforts to tempt him, but with the sole result that he bids her do penance. This but adds fuel to the flame. When _Narraboth_, in despair over her actions, kills himself on his own sword, she does not so much as notice it. Appalled by the wickedness of the young woman, the _Prophet_ warns her to seek for the only one in whom she can find redemption, the Man of Galilee. But realizing that his words fall on deaf ears, he curses her, and retreats into his cistern. [Illustration: Copyright photo by Mishkin Mary Garden as Salome] _Herod_, _Herodias_, and their suite come out on the terrace. _Herod_ is suffering under the weight of his crimes, but the infamous _Herodias_ is as cold as a serpent. _Herod's_ sinful desire for his stepdaughter is the only thing that can stir his blood. But _Salome_ is weary and indifferent; _Herodias_ full of bitter scorn for him and for her daughter. Against the _Prophet_, whose voice terrifies the abandoned gatherings at table, her hatred is fierce. But _Herod_ stands in mysterious awe of the _Prophet_. It is almost because of his dread of the future, which _Jokanaan_ proclaims so terribly, that _Herod_ asks as a diversion for _Salome's_ dance in order that life may flow warm again in his chilled veins. _Salome_ demurs, until he swears that he will grant any request she may make of him. She then executes the "Dance of the Seven Veils," casting one veil after another from her. _Herod_ asks what her reward shall be. In part prompted by _Herodias_, but also by her own mad desire to have vengeance for her rejected passion, she demands the head of the _Prophet_. _Herod_ offers her everything else he can name that is most precious, but _Salome_ refuses to release him from his promise. The executioner descends into the cistern. _Jokanaan_ is slain and his severed head presented to _Salome_ upon a silver charger. Alive he refused her his lips. Now, in a frenzy of lust, she presses hers upon them. Even _Herod_ shudders, and turns from her revolted. "Kill that woman!" he commands his guards, who crush her under their shields. Regarding the score of "Salome," Strauss himself remarked that he had paid no consideration whatever to the singers. There is a passage for quarrelling Jews that is amusing; and, for a brief spell, in the passage in which _Salome_ gives vent to her lust for _Jokanaan_, the music is molten fire. But considered as a whole, the singers are like actors, who intone instead of speaking. Whatever the drama suggests, whatever is said or done upon the stage--a word, a look, a gesture--is minutely and realistically set forth in the orchestra, which should consist of a hundred and twelve pieces. The real musical climax is "The Dance of the Seven Veils," a superb orchestral composition. Strauss calls the work a drama. As many as forty motifs have been enumerated in it. But they lack the compact, pregnant qualities of the motifs in the Wagner music-dramas which are so individual, so melodically eloquent that their significance is readily recognized not only when they are first heard, but also when they recur. Nevertheless, the "Salome" of Richard Strauss is an effective work--so effective in the setting forth of its offensive theme that it was banished from the Metropolitan Opera House, although Olive Fremstad lavished her art upon the title rôle; nor have the personal fascination and histrionic gifts of Mary Garden been able to keep it alive. At the Metropolitan Opera House, then under the direction of Heinrich Conried, it was heard at a full-dress rehearsal, which I attended, and at one performance. It was then withdrawn, practically on command of the board of directors of the opera company, although the initial impulse is said to have come from a woman who sensed the brutality of the work under its mask of "culture." ELEKTRA Opera in one act by Richard Strauss; words by Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Produced: Dresden, January 25, 1909. Manhattan Opera House, New York, in a French version by Henry Gauthier-Villars, and with Mazarin as _Elektra_. CHARACTERS CLYTEMNESTRA, wife of _Aegisthus_ _Mezzo-Soprano_ ELEKTRA } her daughters by the { _Soprano_ CHRYSOTHEMIS } murdered king Agamemnon { _Soprano_ AEGISTHUS _Tenor_ ORESTES _Baritone_ Preceptor of _Orestes_, a confidant, a train bearer, an overseer of servants, five serving women, other servants, both men and women, old and young. _Time_--Antiquity. _Place_--Mycenae. Storck, in his _Opera Book_, has this to say of Von Hofmannsthal's libretto: "The powerful subject of the ancient myth is here dragged down from the lofty realm of tragedy, to which Sophocles raised it, to that of the pathologically perverse. With a gloomy logic the strain of blood-madness and unbridled lust is exploited by the poet so that the overwhelming effect of its consequences becomes comprehensible. None the less, there is the fact, of no little importance, that through its treatment from this point of view, a classical work has been dragged from its pedestal." The inner court of the palace in Mycenae is the scene of the drama. Since _Clytemnestra_, in league with her paramour, _Aegisthus_, has compassed the murder of her husband, _Agamemnon_, her daughter _Elektra_ lives only with the thought of vengeance. She exists like a wild beast, banished from the society of human beings, a butt of ridicule to the servants, a horror to all, only desirous of the blood of her mother and _Aegisthus_ in atonement for that of her father. The murderers too have no rest. Fear haunts them. _Elektra's_ sister, _Chrysothemis_, is entirely unlike her. She craves marriage. But it is in a disordered way that her desire for husband and child is expressed. _Clytemnestra_ also is morbidly ill. Deeply she deplores her misdeed, but for this very reason has completely surrendered herself to the unworthy _Aegisthus_. So frightfully do her dreams torment her that she even comes to seek help from the hated Elektra in her hovel in the inner court. It is the latter's first triumph in all her years of suffering. But it is short-lived, for _Clytemnestra_ mocks her with the news that _Orestes_ has died in a distant land. A terrible blow this for _Elektra_, who had hoped that _Orestes_ would return and wreak vengeance on the queen and _Aegisthus_. Now the daughters must be the instruments of vengeance. And as _Chrysothemis_, shocked, recoils from the task, _Elektra_ determines to complete it alone. She digs up in the courtyard the very axe with which her father was slain and which she had buried in order to give it to her brother on his return. But the message regarding the death of _Orestes_ was false. It was disseminated by her brother in order to allay the fears of the murderers of his father and put them off their guard. The stranger, who now enters the court, and at first cannot believe that the half-demented woman in rags is his sister, finally is recognized by her as _Orestes_, and receives from her the axe. He enters the palace, slays _Clytemnestra_ and, upon the return of _Aegisthus_, pursues him from room to room and kills him. _Elektra_, her thirst for vengeance satisfied, under the spell of a blood-madness, dances, beginning weirdly, increasing to frenzy, and ending in her collapse, dead, upon the ground, where, since her father's death, she had grovelled waiting for the avenger. As in "Salome," so in "Elektra" there is a weft and woof of leading motifs which, lacking the compactness, firmness, and unmistakable _raisons d'être_ of the leading motives in the Wagner music-dramas, crawl, twist, and wind themselves in spineless convolutions about the characters and the action of the piece. In "Salome" the score worked up to one set climax, the "Dance of the Seven Veils." In "Elektra" there also is a set composition. It is a summing up of emotions, in one eloquent burst of song, which occurs when _Elektra_ recognizes _Orestes_. It may be because it came in the midst of so much cacophony that its effect was enhanced. But at the production of the work in the Manhattan Opera House, it seemed to me not only one of Strauss's most spontaneous lyrical outgivings, but also one of the most beautiful I had ever heard. Several times every year since then, I have been impelled to go to the pianoforte and play it over, although forced to the unsatisfactory makeshift of playing-in the voice part with what already was a pianoforte transcription of the orchestral accompaniment. Mme. Schumann-Heink, the _Clytemnestra_ of the original production in Dresden, said: "I will never sing the rôle again. It was frightful. We were a set of mad women.... There is nothing beyond 'Elektra.' We have lived and reached the furthest boundary in dramatic writing for the voice with Wagner. But Richard Strauss goes beyond him. His singing voices are lost. We have come to a full stop. I believe Strauss himself sees it."--And, indeed, in his next opera, "Der Rosenkavalier," the composer shows far more consideration for the voice, and has produced a score in which the melodious elements are many. DER ROSENKAVALIER THE KNIGHT OF THE ROSE Opera in three acts by Richard Strauss; words by Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Produced: Royal Opera House, Dresden, January 26, 1911; Covent Garden, London, January 1, 1913; Metropolitan Opera House, New York, by Gatti-Casazza, December 9, 1913, with Hempel (_Princess Werdenberg_), Ober (_Octavian_), Anna Case (_Sophie_), Fornia (_Marianne_), Mattfeld (_Annina_), Goritz (_Lerchenan_), Weil (_Faninal_), and Reiss (_Valzacchi_). CHARACTERS BARON OCHS of Lerchenan _Bass_ VON FANINAL, a wealthy parvenu, recently ennobled _Baritone_ VALZACCHI, an intriguer _Tenor_ OCTAVIAN, Count Rofrano, known as "Quin-Quin" _Mezzo-Soprano_ PRINCESS VON WERDENBERG _Soprano_ SOPHIE, daughter of _Faninal_ _Soprano_ MARIANNE, duenna of _Sophie_ _Soprano_ ANNINA, companion of _Valzacchi_ _Alto_ A singer (_tenor_), a flutist, a notary, commissary of police, four lackeys of _Faninal_, a master of ceremonies, an innkeeper, a milliner, a noble widow and three noble orphans, a hairdresser and his assistants, four waiters, musicians, guests, two watchmen, kitchen maids and several apparitions. _Time_--Eighteenth century during the reign of Maria Theresa. _Place_--Vienna. [Illustration: Photo by White Hempel as the Princess and Ober as Octavian in "Der Rosenkavalier"] With the exception of Humperdinck's "Hänsel und Gretel," "Der Rosenkavalier," by Richard Strauss, is the only opera that has come out of Germany since the death of Wagner, which has appeared to secure a definite hold upon the repertoire. Up to the season of 1917-18, when it was taken out of the repertoire on account of the war in Europe, it had been given twenty-two times at the Metropolitan Opera House, since its production there late in 1913. The work is called a "comedy for music," which is mentioned here simply as a fact, since it makes not the slightest difference to the public what the composer of an opera chooses to call it, the proof of an opera being in the hearing just as the proof of a pudding always is in the eating. So far it is the one opera by Richard Strauss which, after being heralded as a sensation, has not disappeared through indifference. To those who know both works, the libretto of "Der Rosenkavalier" which has been violently attacked, goes no further in suggestiveness than that of "Le Nozze di Figaro." But it is very long, and unquestionably the opera would gain by condensation, although the score is a treasure house of orchestration, a virtuosity in the choice of instruments and manner of using them which amounts to inspiration. An examination of the full orchestral score shows that 114 instruments are required, seventeen of them for an orchestra on the stage. The composer demands for his main orchestra 32 violins, 12 violas, 10 violoncellos, 8 double basses, 3 flutes, 3 oboes, 2 clarinets, 1 bass clarinet, 3 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, 1 tuba, 2 harps, glockenspiel, triangle, bell, castanets, tympani, side and bass drums, cymbals, celeste, and rattle. A small orchestra for the stage also requires 1 oboe, 1 flute, 2 clarinets, 2 horns, 2 bassoons, 1 trumpet, 1 drum, harmonium, piano, and string quintet. "Der Rosenkavalier" also contains melodious phrases in number and variety, which rarely permit the bearer's interest to flag. Waltz themes abound. They are in the manner of Johann Strauss and Lanner. It is true that these composers flourished much later than the rococo period in which the opera is laid, but just as it makes no difference what a composer calls an opera, so it makes no difference whether he indulges in anachronisms or not. Gavottes, etc., would have been more in keeping with the period, but the waltz themes served Strauss's purpose far better and are introduced with infinite charm. They give the work that subtle thing called atmosphere, and play their part in making passages, like the finale to the second act, the most significant music for the stage of opera that has been penned in the composer's country since Wagner. They also abound in the scene between _Octavian_ and _Lerchenan_ in the third act. Act I. Room in the _Princess von Werdenberg's_ palace. Morning. The curtain rises after an impassioned orchestral introduction which is supposed to depict _risqué_ incidents of the previous night suggested by the stage directions. These directions were not followed in the production made at the Metropolitan Opera House. Not only did their disregard show respect for the audience's sense of decency, it in no way interfered with the success of the work as a comedy set to music. _Octavian_, a handsome youth, is taking a passionate leave of the _Princess_, whose husband, a Field Marshal, is away on military duty. _Octavian_ is loath to go, the _Princess_, equally loather to have him depart. For the _Princess_ cannot conceal from herself that in spite of _Octavian's_ present love for her, the disparity in their ages soon will cause him to look to women younger than herself for love. There is a commotion beyond the door of the _Princess's_ suite of rooms. One of her relatives, the vulgar _Baron Ochs von Lerchenan_, wishes to see her. The servants remonstrate with him that the hour is much too early, but he forces his way in. Taking alarm, and in order to spare the _Princess_ the scandal of having him discovered with her, _Octavian_ escapes into an inner room where he disguises himself in the attire of a chambermaid, a rôle which his youthful, beardless beauty enables him to carry out to perfection. _Von Lerchenan_ has come to inquire of the _Princess_ if, as she promised, she has sent a Knight of the Rose with an offer of his hand to _Sophie_, daughter of the wealthy, recently ennobled _Herr von Faninal_. A Knight of the Rose was chosen at that period as a suitor by proxy to bear a silver rose, as a symbol of love and fidelity, to the lady of his principal's choice. Unfortunately the _Princess's_ passion for _Octavian_ has entirely diverted her thoughts from _Lerchenan's_ commission. He, however, consoles himself by flirting with the pretty chambermaid, _Octavian_, whose assumed coyness, coupled with slyly demure advances, charms him. Before this, however, he has lost his temper, because he has been unable to engage the _Princess's_ attention amid the distractions provided by her morning levee, at which she receives various petitioners--a singer, _Valzacchi_, and _Annina_, who are Italian intriguers, three noble orphans, and others. This levee, together with the love intrigues and the looseness of manners and morals indicated by the plot, is supposed in a general way to give to the piece the tone of the rococo period in which the story is laid. The scene is a lively one. _Lerchenan_ is appeased not only by the charms of the supposed chambermaid, who waits on the _Princess_ and her relative at breakfast, but also because he is so eager to make a rendezvous with her. _Octavian_ in his disguise understands so well how to lead _Lerchenan_ on without granting his request, that he forgets the cause of his annoyance. Moreover the _Princess_ promises that she presently will despatch a Knight of the Rose to the daughter of the wealthy _Faninal_ whose wealth, of course, is what attracts _Lerchenan_. The _Princess_ chooses _Octavian_ to be the Knight of the Rose. Later she regrets her choice. For after the handsome youth has departed on his mission, and she is left alone, she looks at herself in the glass. She is approaching middle age, and although she still is a handsome woman, her fear that she may lose _Octavian_, to some younger member of her sex, cannot be banished from her thoughts. Act II. Salon in the house of _Herr von Faninal_. This lately ennobled _nouveau rich_ considers it a great distinction that the _Baron von Lerchenan_, a member of the old nobility, should apply for the hand of his daughter. That the _Baron_ only does it to mend his broken fortunes does not worry him, although his daughter _Sophie_ is a sweet and modest girl. Inexperienced, she awaits her suitor in great agitation. Then his proxy, _Octavian_, comes with the silver rose to make the preliminary arrangements for his "cousin," _Baron von Lerchenan_. _Octavian_ is smitten with the charms of the girl. She, too, is at once attracted to the handsome young cavalier. So their conversation imperceptibly has drifted into an intimate tone when the real suitor enters. His brutal frankness in letting _Sophie_ comprehend that he is condescending in courting her, and his rude manners thoroughly repel the girl. _Octavian_ meanwhile is boiling with rage and jealousy. The girl's aversion to the _Baron_ increases. The two men are on the point of an outbreak, when _Lerchenan_ is called by a notary into an adjoining room where the marriage contract is to be drawn up. _Sophie_ is shocked at what she has just experienced. Never will it be possible for her to marry the detested _Baron_, especially since she has met the gallant _Octavian_. The two are quick in agreeing. _Sophie_ sinks into his arms. At that moment there rush out from behind the two large chimney pieces that adorn the room, the intriguers, _Valzacchi_ and his companion _Annina_, whom _Lerchenan_ has employed as spies. Their cries bring the _Baron_ from the next room. The staff of servants rushes in. _Octavian_ tells the _Baron_ of _Sophie's_ antipathy, and adds taunt to taunt, until, however reluctant to fight, the _Baron_ is forced to draw his sword. In the encounter _Octavian_ lightly "pinks" him. The _Baron_, a coward at heart, raises a frightful outcry. There ensues the greatest commotion, due to the mix-up of the servants, the doctor, and the rage of _Faninal_, who orders _Sophie_ to a convent when she positively refuses to give her hand to _Lerchenan_. The latter, meanwhile, rapidly recovers when his wound has been dressed and he has drunk some of _Faninal's_ good wine. _Octavian_ is determined to win _Sophie_. For that purpose he decides to make use of the two intriguers, who are so disgusted by the niggardly pay given them by the _Baron_, that they readily fall in with the plans of the brilliant young cavalier. After the crowd has dispersed and the _Baron_ is alone for a moment, _Annina_ approaches and hands him a note. In this the _Princess's_ chambermaid promises him a rendezvous. _Lerchenan_ is delighted over the new conquest he believes himself to have made. Act III. A room in an inn near Vienna. With the help of _Valzacchi_ and _Annina_, who are now in the service both of the _Baron_ and of _Octavian_, but are more prone to further the latter's plans because he pays them better, _Octavian_ has hired a room in an inn. This room is fitted up with trapdoors, blind windows and the like. Here, at the suggestion of the intriguers, who have the run of the place and know to what uses the trick room can be put, _Lerchenan_ has made his rendezvous for the evening with the pretty chambermaid. _Octavian_, in his girl's clothes, is early at the place. Between the _Baron_ and the disguised _Octavian_, as soon as they are alone, a rude scene of courtship develops. _Octavian_ is able to hold him off skilfully, and gradually there is unfolded the mad web of intrigue in which the _Baron_ is caught. Strange figures appear at the windows. _Lerchenan_, ignorant, superstitious, thinks he sees ghosts. Suddenly what was supposed to be a blind window, bursts open, and a woman dressed in mourning rushes in. It is the disguised intriguante, _Annina_, who claims to be the deserted wife of _Lerchenan_. Innkeeper and servants hurry in. The clamour and confusion become more and more frantic. Finally the _Baron_ himself calls for the police, without thinking what a "give away" it may be for himself. When the Commissary of Police arrives, to save his face, he gives out that his companion, the supposed chambermaid, is his affianced, _Sophie von Faninal_. That, however, only adds to the confusion, for _Octavian's_ accomplices have sought out _Faninal_ and invited him on behalf of the _Baron_ to come to the inn. In his amazement the _Baron_ knows of no other way out of the dilemma save to act as if he did not know _Faninal_ at all, whereupon the latter, naturally, is greatly angered. When the confusion is at its height the _Princess_ suddenly appears. A lackey of the _Baron_, seeing his master in such difficulties, has run to her to ask for her powerful protection. She quickly takes in the whole situation; and however bitterly _Octavian's_ disaffection grieves her, she is a clever enough woman of the world to recognize that the time for her to give him up has come. The threads now quickly disentangle themselves. The _Baron_ leaves, _Octavian_ and _Sophie_ are forgiven, and _Herr von Faninal_ feels himself fully compensated for all he has been through, because he is to be driven home beside the _Princess_ in her carriage. ARIADNE AUF NAXOS ARIADNE ON NAXOS Opera in one act; by Richard Strauss; words by Hugo von Hofmannsthal. To follow Molière's Comedy, "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme." CHARACTERS ARIADNE _Soprano_ BACCHUS _Tenor_ NAIAD _Soprano_ DRYAD _Alto_ ECHO _Soprano_ ZERBINETTA _Soprano_ ARLECCHINO } Characters in _Baritone_ SCARAMUCCIO } old Italian _Tenor_ TRUFFALDIN } comedy _Bass_ BRIGHELLA _Tenor_ _Time_--Antiquity. _Place_--The Island of Naxos. NOTE: On the stage there are present, as spectators of the opera, _Jourdain_, _Marquise Dorimène_ and _Count Dorantes_, characters from "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme." The peculiar relationship of this opera to Molière's comedy is easily explained, although the scheme is a curious one. In "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme," Molière has _Jourdain_, the commoner, who in his folly strives to imitate the nobility, engage an entire ballet troupe for a private performance at his house. The opera, "Ariadne auf Naxos," is supposed to take the place of this ballet. Besides the opera, Richard Strauss has composed eleven incidental musical members for the two acts of the comedy, to which the opera is added as an independent third act. Into the representation there enters another factor, which is liable to cause confusion, unless it is understood by the spectator. Besides the opera, _Jourdain_ has engaged a troupe of buffoons to give a performance of the old Italian Harlequin (Arlecchino) comedy. Having paid for both, he insists that both shall take place, with the result that, while the opera is in progress, the comedians dash on the stage, go through their act, and dash off again. The adapter of Molière's work to Strauss's purpose has omitted the entire passage of the love scene between _Cléonte_ and _Lucille_, _Jourdain's_ daughter, so that the two acts of the comedy concern themselves mainly with _Jourdain's_ folly--his scenes with the music teacher, the dancing master, the fencing master, the philosopher, and the tailor. They also show how the intriguing _Count Dorantes_ makes use of _Jourdain's_ stupidity, borrowing a large sum of money from him, and persuading him that he can win the favour of the _Marquise_ with costly presents and by arranging in her honour the fête at which the opera is given. At the same time the sly _Dorantes_ represents everything to the _Marquise_ as if he himself had contrived and paid for the gifts and the fête in her honour. The _Marquise_ goes to _Jourdain's_ house to the banquet and celebration, as a climax to which the opera "Ariadne auf Naxos" is presented. The opera therefore follows the adaptation of "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme." On a desert island lies _Ariadne_ asleep before a cave. _Naiad_, _Echo_ and _Dryad_ are singing. _Ariadne_, on awaking, bewails the lot of the forsaken one. In her grief she feels herself near death. Then the old comedy figures come whirling in. In her desire for death _Ariadne_ does not notice them. _Zerbinetta_ sings and dances with her four _Harlequins_. This is their idea of life--to enjoy things lightly. When they have disappeared, _Naiad_, _Dryad_, and _Echo_ come back and announce the arrival of a youthful god. _Bacchus_ approaches the island. From afar he sings. _Ariadne_ hopes it is Death coming to release her. She longs for him, sinks into his arms. They are the arms of love. DIE VERKAUFTE BRAUT THE BARTERED BRIDE Opera in three acts; music by Friedrich Smetana, Czech, text by R. Sabina. Produced in Czech, May 30, 1866, at Prague; in German, April 2, 1893, in Vienna. CHARACTERS KRUSCHINA, a peasant _Baritone_ KATRINKA, his wife _Soprano_ MARIE, their daughter _Soprano_ MICHA, a landlord _Bass_ AGNES, his wife _Mezzo-Soprano_ WENZEL, their son _Tenor_ HANS, MICHA'S son by a first marriage _Tenor_ KEZAL, a marriage broker _Bass_ SPRINGER, manager of a troop of artists _Tenor_ ESMERALDA, a danseuse _Soprano_ MUFF, a comedian _Tenor_ Act I. It is the anniversary of the consecration of the village church. _Marie_, daughter of the rich peasant _Kruschina_, is not happy for she must today accept a suitor picked out for her by her parents and she only loves _Hans_ although she does not know his antecedents. _Hans_ consoles her. He will always be true to her and he comes from a good family, only a wicked stepmother has robbed him of his father's love. So she must be of good cheer. Then _Marie's_ parents arrive with the marriage broker, _Kezal_. The latter wants to complete arrangements for the marriage of _Marie_ and _Wenzel_, the rich son of the peasant _Micha_. When _Marie's_ father has given his consent to this union, the go-between considers _Marie's_ opposition as a trifle which, he tells _Micha_ outside in the inn, can be easily remedied. Act II. But with what eyes has _Kezal_ looked upon _Wenzel_ that he praises his excellences so loudly? At any rate not with those of a young woman. Can _Kruschina's Marie_ love this stutterer and coxcomb? Never! Fortunately for her, he does not know her; and so the clever girl is able to deceive him. She speaks disparagingly to him of _Kruschina's Marie_ who loves another and whom therefore he should not allow himself to marry. The puzzled _Wenzel_, enamoured, runs after the laughing girl. On this _Hans_ comes in with _Kezal_. The latter is telling his companion to give up his love affair. He offers him first a hundred and finally three hundred florins if he will do so. At last _Hans_ consents but only on condition that _Marie_ shall marry none other than the son of _Micha's_ wife. _Kezal_ is content with that as he understands it. He goes away to get witnesses and everybody is provoked at the light heart with which _Hans_ has sold his bride. Act III. In the meantime, _Wenzel_ has fallen in love with _Esmeralda_ the danseuse in a troop of acrobats. In his infatuation he allows himself to be induced to act in place of a drunken comedian. His parents and _Kezal_ surprise him while practising his dance. They are very much astonished when he absolutely refuses to marry _Kruschina's Marie_. But the matter would have been entirely different had he recognized her to be the lovely maiden of earlier in the day. _Marie_ herself, out of revolt and grief at the fact that her lover has so lightly prized her heart, is ready for everything. Then _Hans_ rushes in, freely expressing his supercilious feelings. All stand astounded until _Micha_ recognizes in _Hans_ his own long missing son by his first marriage. That _Hans_ now signs the contract as the happy husband of _Marie_ is the joyful end of this merry opera. Russian Opera Too little is known of Russian opera in this country. It is true that Tschaikowsky's "Pique-Dame," Rubinstein's "Nero," Moussorgsky's "Boris Godounoff," Borodin's "Prince Igor," Rimsky-Korsakoff's fascinating "Coq d'Or" have been performed here; while one act of Serge Rachmaninoff's "Miser Knight" was given by Henry Russell at the Boston Opera House with that excellent artist George Baklanoff in the title rôle. But according to Mr. Rachmaninoff thirteen operas of Rimsky-Korsakoff still await an American production and this represents the work of only one composer. Who will undertake the further education of the American public in this respect? RUSSLAN AND LUDMILLA Michael Ivanovich Glinka's second opera is based upon one of Pushkin's earliest poems. The poet had hardly agreed to prepare a dramatic version of his fairy tale for the composer when he was killed in a duel incurred owing to the supposed infidelity of his wife. As a result of his untimely end, Glinka employed the services of no less than five different librettists. This, of course, weakened the story. The opera opens with an entertainment held by the Grand Duke of Kieff in honour of his daughter _Ludmilla's_ suitors. Of the three, _Russlan_, a knight, _Ratmir_, an Oriental poet, and _Farlaf_, a blustering coward. _Russlan_ is the favoured one. A thunderclap followed by sudden darkness interrupts the festivities. When this is over, _Ludmilla_ has disappeared. Her father, _Svietosar_, promises her hand in marriage to anyone who will rescue her. The second act takes place in the cave of _Finn_, the wizard, to whom _Russlan_ has come for advice. The knight hears that the abduction is the work of _Tchernomor_ the dwarf. _Finn_ warns him against the interference of _Naina_, a wicked fairy. He then starts out on his search. The next scene shows _Farlaf_ in consultation with _Naina_. The fairy advises him to neglect _Ludmilla_ until she is found by _Russlan_, then to carry her off again. The next scene shows _Russlan_ on a battlefield. In spite of the mist he finds a lance and shield. When the atmosphere grows clearer he discovers a gigantic head, which by its terrific breathing creates a storm. _Russlan_ subdues the head with a stroke of his lance. Under it is the magic sword which will make him victorious over _Tchernomor_. The head then explains that its condition is due to its brother, the dwarf, and reveals to _Russlan_ the means to be made of the sword. In the third act, at the enchanted palace of _Naina_, _Gorislava_, who loves _Ratmir_ appears. When the object of her passion appears he slights her for a siren of _Naina's_ court. _Russlan_, too, is imperilled by the sirens, but he is saved from their fascination by _Finn_. The fourth act takes place in the dwelling of _Tchernomor_. _Ludmilla_, in despair, refuses to be consoled by any distraction. She finally falls asleep, only to be awakened by _Tchernomor_ and his train. The arrival of _Russlan_ interrupts the ensuing ballet. Forcing _Ludmilla_ into a trance, _Tchernomor_ meets _Russlan_ in single combat. The knight is victorious, but unable to awaken _Ludmilla_ from her sleep. He carries her off. In the fifth act, _Russlan_ with a magic ring, the gift of _Finn_, breaks _Tchernomor's_ spell and restores _Ludmilla_ to consciousness. PRINCE IGOR Opera in four acts and a prologue by Borodin. Libretto suggested by Stassoff, written by the composer. The prologue takes place in the market-place of Poultivle where _Igor_, Prince of Seversk lives. Although implored to postpone his departure because of an eclipse of the sun, which his people regard as an evil omen, _Igor_ with his son _Vladimir Igoreivitch_ departs to pursue the Polovtsy, an Oriental tribe, driven to the plains of the Don by _Prince Sviatoslav_ of Kiev. _Prince Galitzky_, _Igor's_ brother, remains to govern Poultivle and watch over the _Princess Yaroslavna_. The first scene of the first act shows _Galitzky_ a traitor, endeavouring to win the populace to his side with the help of _Eroshka_ and _Skoula_, two deserters from _Igor's_ army. In the second scene of this act young girls complain to _Yaroslavna_ about the abduction of one of their companions. They ask her protection against _Galitzky_. _Yaroslavna_ has a scene with her brother and orders him from her presence. News is brought that _Igor's_ army has been defeated, that he and the young prince are prisoners, and that the enemy is marching upon Poultivle. The loyal Boyards swear to defend their princess. The second and third acts take place in the camp of the Polovtsy. Young _Vladimir_ has fallen in love with _Khan Konchak's_ beautiful daughter, _Konchakovna_. He serenades her in her tent. His father laments his captivity. _Ovlour_, a soldier of the enemy, offers to help him escape, but _Igor_ refuses to repay the _Khan's_ chivalrous conduct in that manner. In the second act the _Khan_ gives a banquet in honour of his captive. Oriental dances and choruses are introduced. [Illustration: Photo by Mishkin Scene from the Ballet in "Prince Igor" (with Rosina Galli)] In the third act the victorious Polovstians return with prisoners from Poultivle. _Igor_ consents to escape. _Konchakovna_ learns of the secret preparations for flight which _Ovlour_ arranges by giving the army a liberal allowance of wine. After a wild orgy the soldiers fall asleep. When _Igor_ gives the signal for flight, _Konchakovna_ throws herself upon young _Vladimir_ and holds him until his father has disappeared. The soldiers rush to kill him as in revenge for _Igor's_ escape, but the _Khan_ is content to let him remain as his daughter's husband. In the last act the lamenting _Yaroslavna_ is cheered by the return of her husband, and together they enter the Kremlin at Poultivle. Borodin, who divided his life between science and music, wrote his opera piece by piece. Rimsky-Korsakoff wrote that he often found him working in his laboratory that communicated directly with his house. "When he was seated before his retorts, which were filled with colourless gases of some kind, forcing them by means of tubes from one vessel to another, I used to tell him that he was spending his time in pouring water into a sieve. As soon as he was free he would take me to his living-rooms and there we occupied ourselves with music and conversation, in the midst of which Borodin would rush off to the laboratory to make sure that nothing was burning or boiling over, making the corridor ring as he went with some extraordinary passage of ninths or seconds. Then back again for more music and talk." Borodin, himself, wrote: "In winter I can only compose when I am too unwell to give my lectures. So my friends, reversing the usual custom, never say to me, 'I hope you are well' but 'I do hope you are ill.' At Christmas I had influenza, so I stayed at home and wrote the Thanksgiving Chorus in the last act of 'Igor.'" He never finished his opera. It was completed by Rimsky-Korsakoff and his pupil Glazounoff, and three years after his death received its first performance. Borodin never wrote down the overture, but Glazounoff heard him play it so frequently that it was an easy matter for him to orchestrate it according to Borodin's wishes. The composer left this note about his opera: "It is curious to see how all the members of our set agree in praise of my work. While controversy rages amongst us on every other subject, all, so far, are pleased with 'Igor.' Moussorgsky, the ultra-realist, the innovating lyrico-dramatist, Cui, our master, Balakireff, so severe as regards form and tradition, Vladimir Stassoff himself, our valiant champion of everything that bears the stamp of novelty or greatness." BORIS GODOUNOFF Opera in four acts and eight scenes; libretto taken from the dramatic scenes of Pushkin which bear this title; music by Moussorgsky; produced at the theatre Marie in Petrograd in 1874. CHARACTERS BORIS GODOUNOFF _Baritone_ FEODOR _Mezzo-Soprano_ XENIA _Soprano_ THE OLD NURSE _Contralto_ PRINCE SHOUISKY _Tenor_ ANDREY STCHELAKOV, clerk of the Douma _Baritone_ PIMEN, monk and chronicler _Bass_ THE PRETENDER DIMITRI, called _Gregory_ _Tenor_ MARINA _Soprano_ RANGONI, a Jesuit in disguise _Bass_ VARLAAM _Bass_ MISSAIL _Tenor_ THE HOSTESS _Mezzo-Soprano_ NIKITIN (_Michael_), constable _Bass_ _Time_--1598-1605. _Place_--Russia. [Illustration: Photo by White Anna Case as Feodor, Didur as Boris, and Sparkes as Xenia, in "Boris Godounoff"] The subject brings to the stage one of the most curious episodes of the history of Russia in the seventeenth century. A privy councillor of the _Czar Feodor_, son of Ivan, named _Boris Godounoff_, has caused to be assassinated the young _Dimitri_, brother of the emperor and his only heir. On the death of _Feodor_, _Boris_, who has committed his crime with the sole object of seizing power, causes himself to be acclaimed by the people and ascends the throne. But about the same time, a young monk named Grischka escapes from his convent, discards his habit, and goes to Poland where he passes as the dead czarevitch _Dimitri_. The Polish government receives him all the more cordially as it understands all the advantage such an event might afford it. Soon the pretended _Dimitri_, who has married the daughter of one of the most powerful magnates, puts himself at the head of the Polish army and marches with it against Russia. Just at this moment they hear of the death of _Boris_, and the false _Dimitri_, taking advantage of the circumstances, in turn usurps power which he is destined not to keep very long. Such is the poetical drama, the arrangement of which is a little inconsistent from the scenic point of view, and which a historian of Russian music, himself a musician, M. César Cui, treats in these words: "There is no question here of a subject of which the different parts, combined in such a way as to present a necessary sequence of events, one flowing from the other, correspond in their totality to the ideas of a strict dramatic unity. Each scene in it is independent; the rôles, for the greater part, are transitory. The episodes that we see follow each other necessarily have a certain connection; they all relate more or less to a general fact, to a common action; but the opera would not suffer from a rearrangement of the scenes nor even from a substitution of certain secondary episodes by others. This depends on the fact that 'Boris Godounoff' properly speaking is neither a drama nor an opera, but rather a musical chronicle after the manner of the historical dramas of Shakespeare. Each of the acts, taken separately, awakens a real interest which, however, is not caused by what goes before and which stops brusquely without connection with the scene which is going to follow." Let us add that some of these scenes are written entirely in prose while others are in verse and we will have a general idea of the make-up of the libretto of "Boris Godounoff," which moreover offered the composer a series of scenes very favourable to music. The score of Moussorgsky is uneven, like his talents, but nevertheless remains very interesting and indicative of a distinct personality. Although the composer was not much of a symphonist and rather indifferently understood how to manage the resources of the orchestra, although his harmony is sometimes strange and rude and his modulation incorrect and excessive, he had at least a lavishness of inspiration, the abundance and zest of which are calculated to cause astonishment. He is a musician perhaps of more instinct than of knowledge, who goes straight ahead without bothering himself about obstacles and who sometimes trips while on his way but who nevertheless reaches his object, sometimes even going beyond it by his strength of audacity. Not much of a symphonist, as I have said, Moussorgsky did not even take the trouble to write an overture and some entr'actes. But certain pages of his score are not the less remarkable for their accent, their colour, and their scenic effect, and especially for the national feeling which from a musical point of view flows from them. Under this head we would point out in the first act the great military scene, which is of superb brilliance, and the chorus of begging monks; in the second, the entire scene of the inn, in which the dramatic intensity does not lessen for a second and which presents an astonishing variety of rhythm and colour; then, in the third, the chorus of female attendants, sung on a Cracovian woman's air, the song of _Marina_ in the style of a mazurka, and a great Polish dance full of go and warmth; finally the whole episode of the death of _Boris_, which has a really gripping effect. These are enough, in spite of the inequalities and defects of the work, to cause regret for the death of an artist endowed with a very individual style, whose instruction had been doubtless incomplete, but who nevertheless seemed called to have a brilliant future. EUGEN ONEGIN Opera in three acts; music by Peter Ilitsch Tschaikowsky; text after Pushkin's tale by Modeste Tschaikowsky, the composer's brother; German text by von A. Bernhard. Produced at Moscow, March, 1879. CHARACTERS LARINA, who owns an estate _Mezzo-Soprano_ TATIANA } her daughters { _Soprano_ OLGA } { _Alto_ FILIPIEVNA, a waitress _Mezzo-Soprano_ EUGEN ONEGIN _Baritone_ LENSKI _Tenor_ PRINCE GREMIN _Baritone_ A CAPTAIN _Bass_ SARETSKY _Bass_ TRIQUET, a Frenchman _Tenor_ As the characterization of the opera as "lyrical scenes" shows, the poet offers no substantial work, but follows closely, often even word for word, Pushkin's epic tale, with which one must be fully acquainted--as is the case with everybody in Russia--in order to be able to follow the opera properly. Act I. _Eugen Onegin_ has been called from a wild life of pleasure to his sick uncle, of whose property he takes possession after the uncle's sudden death. He has brought with him from the big city a profound satiety of all enjoyments and a deep contempt for the society of mankind in his solitary country seat. Here, however, he forms a friendship for a young fanatic, the poet _Lenski_. Through him he is introduced to _Larina_, a woman who owns an estate. Her two daughters, _Olga_ and _Tatiana_, correspond to the double nature of their mother, whose youth was a period of sentimentality in which she allowed herself to be affected like others by Richardson's novels, raved over Grandison, and followed the wild adventures of Lovelace with anxious thrills. Life later had made her rational, altogether too rational and insipid. _Olga_ now has become a cheerful, superficial, pleasureful silly young girl; _Tatiana_, a dreamer whose melancholy is increasing through reading books which her mother had once used. _Lenski_ is betrothed to _Olga_. _Tatiana_ recognizes at her first sight of _Onegin_ the realization of her dreams. Her heart goes out to meet him and in her enthusiasm she reveals all her feelings in a letter to him. _Onegin_ is deeply stirred by this love; a feeling of confidence in mankind that he had not known for such a long time awakens in him. But he knows himself too well. He knows that every faculty as a husband is departing from him. And now he considers it his duty not to disappoint this maiden soul, to be frank. He refuses her love. He takes the blame on himself, but he would not have been the worldly wise man if his superiority to the simple country child had not been emphasized chiefly on this account. But _Tatiana_ only listens to the refusal; she is very unhappy. _Onegin_ remains her ideal, who now will be still more solitary, in spite of it. Act II. _Tatiana's_ name-day is being celebrated with a big ball. _Onegin_ goes there on _Lenski's_ invitation. The stupid company with their narrow views about him vex him so much that he seeks to revenge himself on _Lenski_ for it, for which he begins courting _Olga_. _Lenski_ takes the jest in earnest; it comes to a quarrel between the friends. _Lenski_ rushes out and sends _Onegin_ a challenge. Social considerations force _Onegin_ to accept the challenge; a duelling fanatic landlord, _Saretsky_ stirs _Lenski's_ anger so severely that a reconciliation is not possible. This part in Pushkin's work is the keenest satire, an extraordinarily efficacious mockery of the whole subject of duelling. There is derision on _Onegin's_ side, too, for he chooses as his second his coachman Gillot. But the duel was terribly in earnest; _Lenski_ falls shot through by his opponent's bullet. (This scene recalls a sad experience of the poet himself; for he himself fell in a duel by the bullet of a supercilious courtier, Georg d'Anthès-Heckeren, who died in Alsace in 1895.) Act III. Twenty-six years later. _Onegin_ has restlessly wandered over the world. Now he is in St. Petersburg at a ball given by _Prince Gremin_. There, if he sees aright, Princess Gremina, that accomplished woman of the world is "his" _Tatiana_. Now his passion is aroused in all its strength. He must win her. _Tatiana_ does not love him with the same ardour as before. When she upbraids _Onegin_ that he loves her only because she has now become a brilliant woman of the world it is only a means of deceiving herself and her impetuous adorer as to her real feelings. But finally her true feeling is revealed. She tells _Onegin_ that she loves him as before. But at the same time she explains that she will remain true to her duty as a wife. Broken-hearted _Onegin_ leaves her. PIQUE-DAME THE QUEEN OF SPADES The libretto of Tschaikowsky's "Pique-Dame" was first prepared by the composer's brother Modeste for a musician who later refused to use it. Tschaikowsky wrote it in six weeks, during a stay in Florence. The libretto is that of the well-known story by Pushkin. _Herman_, the hero, a passionate gambler, loves _Lisa_, whom he met while walking in the summer garden in St. Petersburg. He learns that she is the granddaughter of "the belle of St. Petersburg," famous in her old age as the luckiest of card players. So strange is the old lady's appearance that she has been named "The Queen of Spades." The two women exert conflicting influences over _Herman_. He loves _Lisa_, while the old woman awakens his gambling impulses. It is said that the old _Countess's_ success at the card table is based upon her secret knowledge of a combination of three cards. _Herman_ is bent upon learning the secret. Although _Lisa_ loves _Herman_ she engages herself to _Prince Yeletsky_. With the hope of forcing the old woman to reveal her secret, he hides in her bedroom one night. When she sees him the shock kills her, and _Herman_ learns nothing. Half-crazed with remorse _Herman_ is haunted by the old _Countess's_ ghost. The apparition shows him the three cards. When he goes to her house the night after her funeral and plays against _Prince Yeletsky_, he wins twice by the cards shown him by the ghost. He stakes everything he possesses on the third card but he turns up, not the expected card, but the queen of spades herself. At the same instant he sees a vision of the _Countess_, triumphant and smiling. Desperate, _Herman_ ends his life. Tschaikowsky enjoyed his work on this opera. He wrote as follows to the Grand Duke Constantine: "I composed this opera with extraordinary joy and fervour, and experienced so vividly in myself all that happens in the tale, that at one time I was actually afraid of the spectre of the Queen of Spades. I can only hope that all my creative fervour, my agitation, and my enthusiasm will find an echo in the heart of my audiences." First performed at St. Petersburg in 1890, this opera soon rivalled "Eugen Onegin" in popularity. LE COQ D'OR THE GOLDEN COCK Opera pantomime in three acts with prologue and epilogue. Produced in May, 1910, at Zimin's Private Theatre, Moscow. Music by Rimsky-Korsakoff. CHARACTERS KING DODON _Baritone_ PRINCE GUIDON _Tenor_ PRINCE AFRON _Baritone_ VOEVODA POLKAN (the General) _Baritone_ AMELFA (the royal housekeeper) _Contralto_ THE ASTROLOGER _Tenor_ THE QUEEN OF SHEMAKHAN _Soprano_ THE GOLDEN COCK _Soprano_ "Le Coq D'Or" was Rimsky-Korsakoff's last opera. The censor refused to sanction its performance during the composer's lifetime and his difficulties with the authorities in this matter are supposed to have hastened his death. When the work was given in Petrograd it was thought to be over-taxing for the singers who are obliged to dance, or for the dancers who are obliged to sing. M. Fokine ingeniously devised the plan of having all the singers seated at each side of the stage, while the dancers interpreted, in pantomime, what was sung. In spite of the protests made by the composer's family, this was done in Paris, London, and New York. The opera is composed to a libretto, by V. Bielsky, based upon a well-known poem by Pushkin. In a preface to the book the author says: "The purely human nature of Pushkin's 'Golden Cock'--that instructive tragicomedy of the unhappy consequences following upon mortal passions and weaknesses--permits us to place the plot in any region and in any period." _King Dodon_, lazy and gluttonous, is oppressed by the cares of state. Warlike neighbours harass him with their attacks. Holding council in the hall of his palace with his Boyards, he asks the advice first of one son, then the other. But the wise old _General_ disagrees with the solutions suggested by the young princes. Soon the entire assembly is in an uproar. The astrologer then appears and offers the _King_ a golden cock. The bird has the power to foretell events, and in case of danger will give warning. The _King_ is overjoyed. From a spire in the capital the bird sends out various messages. At its bidding citizens now rush for their weapons, now continue peaceful occupations. _Dodon's_ bed is brought upon the stage, and the monarch relieved of all responsibility goes to sleep, after having been tucked in by the royal housekeeper. Suddenly the cock sounds the war alarm. The rudely awakened sovereign first sends his sons, then goes himself. _Dodon's_ army fares ill. In the second act, the moonlight in a narrow pass reveals the bodies of his two sons. At dawn, _Dodon_ notices a tent under the hillside. The _King_ thinks it is the tent of the enemy leader, but to his astonishment, a beautiful woman emerges. The lovely _Queen_ lures on the aged _Dodon_, mocks at his voice, and forces him to dance, until he falls exhausted to the ground. Finally she agrees to become his bride. The third act shows the populace preparing to welcome _Dodon_, There is a wonderful procession led by _Dodon_ and the _Queen_, followed by a grotesque train of giants and dwarfs. Soon the _Queen_ is bored. The astrologer returns, claiming a reward for his magic bird. He demands the _Queen_. _Dodon_ kills the astrologer by a blow on the head with his sceptre, but this does not improve his position with his bride. With an ominous cry, the bird flies towards the _King_ and fells him with one blow from his beak. A thunderclap is followed by darkness. When light returns both _Queen_ and cock have disappeared. The people lament the death of the _King_. In the epilogue the resuscitated astrologer announces that the story is only a fairy tale and that in _Dodon's_ kingdom only the _Queen_ and himself are mortals. MANRU Opera in three acts. Music by Ignace Jan Paderewski. Book by Alfred Nossig. The first performance in New York was on February 14, 1902, at the Metropolitan Opera House. Mr. Damrosch conducted. The cast included Mme. Sembrich, Mme. Homer, Miss Fritzi Scheff, Alexander van Bandrowski, Mr. Mühlmann, Mr. Blass, Mr. Bispham. The opera had its first performance on any stage at the Court Theatre, Dresden, May 29, 1901. Before being sung in New York it was heard in Cracow, Lemberg, Zurich, and Cologne. The scene is laid among the Tatra mountains, between Galicia and Hungary. The story illustrates the gypsy's wanderlust. The plot is borrowed from a Polish romance. _Manru_ has won the love of a Galician girl, _Ulana_, and married her gypsy fashion. After a time she returns to her native village among the Tatra mountains, seeking her mother's help and forgiveness. But her mother curses her, and she is the object of the villagers' scorn. They taunt her with a song which celebrates the inconstancy of all gypsies under the spell of the full moon. As she has already noticed signs of uneasiness in her husband, _Ulana_ seeks the help of _Urok_, a dwarf, who loves her and who is said to be a sorcerer. He gives her a magic draught by means of which she wins back _Manru_ for a time. Alone in the mountains, however, the influence of the moon, the charm of gypsy music, and the fascinations of a gypsy girl are too strong for him. He rejoins his companions. _Oros_, the gypsy chief, himself in love with the maiden of _Manru's_ fancy, opposes her reinstatement in the band. But through the influence of _Jagu_, a gypsy fiddler, his wishes are overruled and _Manru_ is made chief in _Oros's_ place. The deposed chief revenges himself by hurling his successful rival down a precipice, a second after the distraught _Ulana_ has thrown herself into a mountain lake. American Opera No really distinguished achievement has as yet been reached in the world of American opera. Various reasons are given for the delinquency. Some say that American composers are without that sense of the theatre so apparent in the composers of the modern Italian school. But whatever the reasons, the fact remains inalterably true. The Metropolitan has housed several worthy efforts. Two of the most successful were Mr. Parker's "Mona" and Mr. Damrosch's "Cyrano de Bergerac." After much fulsome praise had been bestowed upon both, however, these operas were promptly shelved. Others have taken their place. But the writer of a truly great American opera has yet to make his appearance. THE SACRIFICE Opera in three acts by Frederick Shepherd Converse. Mr. Converse wrote his own libretto. The lyrics are by John Macy. The story takes place in southern California in 1846. Americans are guarding the Anaya mansion, and the American officer, _Burton_, a baritone, is in love with _Chonita_, the beauty of the household. _Chonita_ has an old Indian servant, _Tomasa_, who hates the Americans, yet seems to realize that they will conquer. _Chonita_, praying in the Mission Church desecrated by the invaders, is told by _Burton_ that he has killed a Mexican. Her questions reveal that _Bernal_ is the dead man. But _Bernal_ is wounded, not dead, and he comes into the church. _Burton_ again assures _Chonita_ of his love and promises to do for her all that a man can do. "You wretched devil, 'tis I she loves," cries _Bernal_, and he rushes at _Burton_ with a dagger. _Chonita_ throws herself between the two, and is accidentally wounded by the American's sword. _Bernal_ is held a prisoner. In the third act, _Chonita_ is in bed apparently dying. If she could only have her lover she would live, she sings; despair is killing her. _Padre Gabriel_ brings her consolation, and sets a trap for the Americans. _Burton_ brings _Bernal_ that he may sing a love duet with _Chonita_. She pleads for _Bernal's_ freedom. "He is not a spy." _Burton_ stands between love and duty. To give _Chonita_ happiness he is willing to die. The Americans are suddenly attacked and _Burton_, throwing down his sword, is killed by Mexican rescuers. _Tomasa_ looks at _Burton's_ corpse and sums up the whole tragedy: "'Tis true as ever. Love brings life and death." THE PIPE OF DESIRE Opera in one act by Frederick Shepherd Converse. Poem by George Edwards Barton. The scene takes place in a wood during the first day of spring. Elves flit to and fro performing sundry occupations. One scatters seeds to the winds. Others remove dead leaves from flowers. They sing of the awakening of Nature from her sleep through the winter. _Iolan_, a peasant, is heard singing in the distance. The elves although reproached by the _Old One_ desire to show themselves to him. _Iolan_ tells them that he is to wed _Naoia_ tomorrow, and bids them come to the wedding. The _Old One_ reminds them that it is forbidden to show themselves to man, and adds that no good can come of it. _Iolan_ laughs at the _Old One_ and his Pipe. The _Old One_ plays for the elves to dance, but with misgivings. _Iolan_ still defies the power of the Pipe. The elves demand that the _Old One_ make him dance and respect its power. When he cannot resist the music, he snatches the Pipe and breaks the cord which holds it. The _Old One_ tells him that it is the Pipe God gave to Lilith, who played it to Adam in Eden, and that the mortal who now plays the Pipe without understanding its secret will die when it becomes known to him. _Iolan_, however, puts the Pipe to his lips. At first only discordant sound, later beautiful music is his reward. _Iolan_ sees a vision of what he most desires. He is rich. He owns horses, goats, and wine. _Naoia_, his wife, comes to him through roses. His children play about the door of their home. He calls on _Naoia_ to come to him. She comes to him, bleeding. Because he played the Pipe misfortune has come to her. She dies and _Iolan_ soon follows her, while the sorrowing elves proclaim that they who die for love have accomplished their life. SHANEWIS, OR THE ROBIN WOMAN An American opera in two parts; book by Nelle Richmond Eberhardt; music by Charles Wakefield Cadman. Produced at the Metropolitan Opera House, March 23, 1918, with the following cast: SHANEWIS _Sophie Braslau_ MRS. EVERTON _Kathleen Howard_ AMY EVERTON _Marie Sundelius_ LIONEL _Paul Althouse_ PHILIP _Thomas Chalmers_ An Indian girl, whose voice has been elaborately cultivated, falls in love with the son of her benefactress. The young man is already betrothed to _Mrs. Everton's_ daughter. An Indian suitor offers _Shanewis_ a bow and poisoned arrow which she rejects. When he discovers that his rival has left _Shanewis_ in ignorance of his previous betrothal he shoots the gay deceiver, and finishes both the youth and the opera. THE TEMPLE DANCER Opera in one act in English by John Adam Hugo. Libretto by Jutta Bell-Ranske. Performed for the first time on any stage at the Metropolitan Opera House, March 12, 1919, with Florence Easton, Morgan Kingston, and Carl Schlegel. CHARACTERS TEMPLE DANCER _Soprano_ GUARD _Tenor_ YOGA _Bass_ The leading dancer of the Temple of Mahadeo has fallen in love with a youth who is not of her faith. Through her lover's suffering she realizes the unjust and immoral demands made upon the temple dancers whose beauty is sold to passers-by in order that jewels may be bought for Mahadeo. The opera opens with a ceremony in the temple. The great Mahadeo sits blazing in jewels. _The Dancer_ enters. She has decided to take the jewels for her lover, who is in want. She considers that the jewels bought with the price of her beauty are hers, by right. She pleads for a sign from the god, but as her prayer remains unanswered she threatens the temple. The returning temple guard, hearing her imprecations, threatens her with death. To protect herself, she takes the snake from Mahadeo and winds it around her. She begs to be permitted to pray before being slain, and in a seductive dance, that interprets her prayer, fascinates the guard. He promises her his protection and she pretends to return his passion. In a love scene he loosens the bands of her outer robe, which falls off. A letter to her lover tells of her plan to meet him with the stolen jewels. The guard, enraged, prepares to torture her. But she dances again, and as a last prayer begs for a drop of water. When the guard brings her the water she poisons it and persuades him to drink to her courage in facing death. He drinks and dies cursing her, her laughter, and her mocking dance. As he dies the dancer calls down curses upon the temple. A thunderstorm is the answer. Lightning shatters the walls and as the dancer puts out her hand to take the jewels of the god it strikes her and she falls dead beside the guard. The priests, returning, see the bodies of guard and dancer and call upon the gods for protection. The opera closes with the singing of the hymn of redemption, which implores forgiveness for the erring spirits of the dead. THE LEGEND A lyric tragedy in one act in English by Joseph Breil, with a libretto by Jacques Byrne. Produced for the first time on any stage at the Metropolitan Opera House, March 12, 1919, with Rosa Ponselle, Kathleen Howard, Paul Althouse, and Louis d'Angelo. _Count Stackareff_, an impoverished nobleman, lives with his daughter, _Carmelita_, at his hunting lodge in Muscovadia, a mythical country in the Balkans. In order to make his living, he leads a double life. By day he is a courtly nobleman, and by night a bloodthirsty bandit, _Black Lorenzo_. No one but his daughter knows his secret, and she is in constant fear of his discovery for there is a price upon his head. The story opens on a stormy night. _Stackareff_ tells his daughter that he has captured a wealthy merchant, and is holding him for a large ransom. He expects the ransom to arrive by messenger at any moment. If it does not come _Stackareff_ intends to kill the prisoner. _Carmelita_ not only fears for the safety of her father, but that her lover _Stephen Pauloff_, whom she met in Vienna, will find out that she is the daughter of such a rogue, and cast her off. She prays before the statue of the Virgin that the young man will not discover her father's double life. _Marta_, an old servant, enters and tells _Carmelita_ that she has seen _Stephen_ in the woods. He has told her that he will soon come to see his sweetheart. _Carmelita_ rejoices but _Marta_ warns her of the legend that on this night the Evil One walks abroad and knocks at doors. He who opens the door dies within a year. _Carmelita_ scoffs and asks _Marta_ to tell her fortune with the cards. The ace of spades, the death card, presents itself at every cutting. _Marta_ refuses to explain its significance and leaves her young mistress bewildered. The storm increases. There are two knocks. Thinking it is _Stephen_, _Carmelita_ opens the door. No one is there. She is terrified. Later _Stephen_ arrives. In his arms she for the moment forgets her fears, but they are soon renewed when her lover tells her that he has been sent to take the murderous bandit, _Black Lorenzo_, dead or alive. _Carmelita_ makes the young man swear before the Virgin that he will never desert her. Then she prepares to elope with him. _Stackareff_ enters, expecting to find the messenger. He is apprehensive when he sees a soldier at his fireside. _Carmelita's_ assurance that _Stephen_ is her lover calms his fear. But _Stephen_ in answer to _Stackareff's_ questions tells him that he is after _Black Lorenzo_. Again the knocks are heard. _Stackareff_, after shouting at _Stephen_ that he is his man, escapes through the door. When the young soldier resists her prayers to desist from pursuing the murderer _Carmelita_ stabs him. Two soldiers bring in the mortally wounded body of her father. Realizing that _Carmelita_ has killed their captain they fire upon her. Their shot rings out through the music of the finale. NATOMAH Opera in three acts by Victor Herbert. First performance on any stage at the Metropolitan Opera House, Philadelphia, February 23, 1911, with Miss Mary Garden, Miss Lillian Grenville, Mr. Huberdeau, Mr. Dufranne, Mr. Sammarco, Mr. Preisch, Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Nicolay, Mr. McCormack. CHARACTERS DON FRANCISCO DE LA GUERRA, a noble Spaniard of the old régime _Bass_ FATHER PERALTA, Padre of the Mission Church _Bass_ JUAN BAPTISTA ALVARADO, a young Spaniard _Baritone_ JOSÉ CASTRO, a half-breed _Baritone_ PICO } bravos, comrades of Castro _Tenor_ KAGAMA } _Bass_ PAUL MERRILL, Lieut. on the U.S. Brig _Liberty_ _Tenor_ BARBARA DE LA GUERRA, daughter of Don Francisco _Soprano_ NATOMAH, an Indian girl _Soprano_ The time is 1820, under the Spanish régime. The scene of Act I is laid on the Island of Santa Cruz, two hours' sail from the mainland. Act II takes place in the plaza of the town of Santa Barbara on the mainland, in front of the Mission Church. Act III represents the interior of the Mission Church. At the beginning of the opera _Don Francisco_ is awaiting the return from a convent of his only child, _Barbara_. His reverie is interrupted by the arrival of _Alvarado_ and his comrades _Castro_, _Pico_, and _Kagama_. _Alvarado_ wishes to marry his cousin _Barbara_ in order to gain possession of the estates left to her by her mother. _Castro_ is a half-breed. _Pico_ and _Kagama_ are vaqueros and hunters. All three have come to the island ostensibly for a wild-boar hunt, but _Alvarado_ has timed his arrival with the return of his cousin. _Lieutenant Paul Merrill_, an American naval officer, and _Natomah_, a pure-blooded Indian girl, appear together at the back of the stage. His ship has dropped anchor in the Bay of Santa Barbara. _Natomah_ has never seen an American before and she is fascinated by him. She tells him of a legend of her people. She is the last of her race. During their childhood she was _Barbara's_ playmate. She tells him of the young girl's beauty, and imagining that when he sees _Barbara_ he will fall in love, the Indian girl begs him to permit her to be at least his slave. _Barbara_ and _Father Peralta_ enter. With the young girl and _Paul_ it is a case of love at first sight. When all but _Castro_ and _Natomah_ have gone into the hacienda, the half-breed urges _Natomah_ to cease spending her time with white people and to follow him, the leader of her race. _Natomah_ turns from him in disgust. When they separate, _Alvarado_ serenades _Barbara_ who appears on the porch. He has heard that she has eyes only for the American. Fearing to lose time he declares his love. But he does not advance his suit by taunting her with her infatuation for the American officer. When she leaves him he swears to have _Paul's_ life. _Castro_ suggests that it would be better to carry _Barbara_ off. _Natomah_, hidden in an arbour, overhears them discussing their plans. The next day a fiesta will be held in honour of _Barbara's_ return. When the festivity is at its height fast horses will be ready to bear the young girl away to the mountains where pursuit would be difficult. When all the guests have departed, _Barbara_ speaks aloud in the moonlight of her love for _Paul_. He suddenly appears and they exchange vows. The next act shows the fiesta. _Alvarado_ dances the Habanera with the dancing-girl _Chiquita_. There is formal ceremony in which the _Alcalde_ and the leading dignitaries of the town pay tribute to the young girl on her coming of age. _Alvarado_ begs the honour of dancing with his cousin. The American ship salutes and _Paul_ arrives with an escort to pay tribute to the Goddess of the Land, _Barbara_. _Alvarado_ demands that his cousin continue the dance. A number of couples join them and the dance changes into the Panuelo or handkerchief dance of declaration. Each man places his hat upon the head of his partner. Each girl retains the hat but _Barbara_ who tosses _Alvarado's_ disdainfully aside. During this time _Natomah_ has sat motionless upon the steps of the grand-stand. When _Castro_ approaches in an ugly mood, rails at the modern dances and challenges someone to dance the dagger dance with him, she draws her dagger and hurls it into the ground beside the half-breed's. The crowd is fascinated by the wild dance. Just as _Alvarado_ is about to smother _Barbara_ in the folds of his serape, _Natomah_, purposely passing him, plunges her dagger into the would-be abductor. The dance comes to a sudden stop. _Alvarado_ falls dead. _Paul_ and his escort hold the crowd at bay. _Natomah_ seeks protection in the Mission Church at the feet of _Father Peralta_. At the opening of the third act _Natomah_ is crooning an Indian lullaby to herself in the church. She wishes to join her people, but instead _Father Peralta_ persuades her to enter the convent. MONA Opera in three acts. Poem by Brian Hooker. Music by Horatio Parker. The action takes place during the days of the Roman rule in Britain. First performance at the Metropolitan, March 4, 1912. _Quintus_, son of the Roman _Governor_, by a British captive, has grown up as one of his mother's people. Known to them as _Gwynn_, he has won power and position among them as a bard. He is about to marry _Mona_, foster-child of _Enya_ and _Arth_, and last of the blood of Boadicea. But a great rebellion is stirred up in Britain by _Caradoc_, the chief bard, and _Gloom_, the Druid, foster-brother of _Mona_. By birthright and by old signs and prophecies she is proclaimed leader. The girl has been taught to hate Rome and to dream of great deeds. _Gwynn_, fearing to lose _Mona_ and his power, swears fellowship in the conspiracy. But in spite of this, for urging peace, he is cast off by _Mona_ and her followers. The faithful lover follows her about on her mission to arouse revolt, prevents the Roman garrisons from seizing her, and secretly saves her life many times. The _Governor_, his father, blames him for this, but he replies that through _Mona_ he will yet keep the tribes from war. The _Governor_ lays all the responsibility upon his shoulders. He promises to spare the Britons if they remain passive, but swears to crush them without mercy if they attack. _Gwynn_ meets _Mona_ just before the battle and so moves her love for him that she becomes his creature from that moment. Triumphantly he begins to tell her of his plans for peace. Suddenly she seems to realize that he is a Roman, and calls the Britons to her aid. Still, she lies to save his life. The youth is made prisoner and led by _Mona_ and the bards against the Roman town. The rebellion is crushed. _Arth_ and _Gloom_ are slain. _Gwynn_, coming upon them and _Mona_, tells her of his parentage and pleads for assistance. But having believed him a traitor, she now thinks him a liar and slays him. The _Governor_ and his soldiers take her captive. From them she learns that _Gwynn_ had spoken the truth. CYRANO Opera in four acts by Walter Damrosch. Book by William J. Henderson after the drama by Edmond Rostand. First performance on any stage at the Metropolitan Opera House, February 27, 1913, with Pasquale Amato as _Cyrano_, Frances Alda as _Roxane_, and Riccardo Martin as _Christian_. CHARACTERS CYRANO DE BERGERAC _Baritone_ ROXANE _Soprano_ DUENNA _Alto_ LISE _Soprano_ A FLOWER GIRL _Soprano_ RAGUENEAU _Tenor_ CHRISTIAN _Bass_ DE GUICHE _Bass_ LE BRET _Bass_ A TALL MUSKETEER _Tenor_ MONTFLEURY _Bass_ FIRST CAVALIER _Bass_ SECOND CAVALIER _Tenor_ THIRD CAVALIER _Bass_ A CADET _Tenor_ Act I. Interior of the Hôtel de Bourgogne. Act II. "The Poet's Eating House," _Ragueneau's_ cook and pastry shop. Act III. A small square in the Old Marais. Act IV, Scene 1. Entrenchment at the siege of Arras. Scene 2. A convent garden near the field of battle. Rostand's play was first produced, October, 1898, by Richard Mansfield, and repeated in subsequent seasons. In 1900 it was given in French by Bernhardt and Coquelin. The libretto of the opera follows the play closely. Mr. Henderson retained and successfully remodelled the main incidents of the drama. The operatic version begins at the Hôtel de Bourgogne where "La Clorise" is to be played. _Cyrano_ orders the leading actor off the stage because he has dared to cast insolent glances at his cousin _Roxane_, whom _Cyrano_ loves but dares not woo because of the deformity of his hideous nose. _Roxane_, from a box, sees in the audience the man with whom she has fallen in love, although she has never met him. _Cyrano_ fights a duel with _De Guiche_, a married suitor of _Roxane_, and pricks him in the arm. Elated at the prospect of a meeting with his cousin arranged through her duenna, _Cyrano_ rushes off to disperse one hundred men who are waiting to kill one of his friends. In Act II, _Cyrano_ is at _Ragueneau's_ shop waiting for his cousin. He writes an ardent love letter, intending to give it to her. His hopes are high, but they are dashed to the ground when _Roxane_ tells him of her love for _Christian_, who is to join her cousin's regiment that day. _Cyrano_ promises to watch over _Christian_. He bears his insults and agrees to woo _Roxane_ for _Christian_ by his wit and verse. He even sacrifices his own love letter. In Act III, _Christian_ rebels at the second-hand love-making. But when _Roxane_ is disgusted with his commonplaces he is glad to turn again to _Cyrano_. Under cover of night, _Cyrano_ courts _Roxane_ beneath her balcony. She is delighted and rewards her lover with a kiss. _De Guiche_ sends a priest with a letter in which he attempts to gain an interview with her. _Roxane_ tells the priest that the letter contains an order for him to perform the marriage ceremony. While _Cyrano_ keeps _De Guiche_ outside the lovers are married. In revenge, _De Guiche_ orders the Gascon regiment of which _Cyrano_ and _Christian_ are both members to the war. In the last act, _Roxane_ visits the entrenchment at the siege of Arras. Her carriage is driven by the faithful _Ragueneau_. _Cyrano's_ love letters, ostensibly from _Christian_, have prompted her coming. Her husband realizes that the man she really loves is _Cyrano_, although she believes it to be _Christian_. He leaves the cousins alone, urging _Cyrano_ to tell the truth. He is soon brought back, mortally wounded. _Cyrano_ assures him that he has told _Roxane_ of the deception and that _Christian_ is the man she loves. The second scene takes place in a convent. _Cyrano_, wounded and dying, visits _Roxane_. He begs to see her husband's last letter. Forgetting himself, he recites it in the dusk. Thus he betrays his love. But when _Roxane_ realizes the truth he denies it, "dying," as he declares, "without a stain upon his soldier's snow-white plume." THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS Opera in four acts by Reginald de Koven. Book by Percy Mackaye. Produced for the first time on any stage at the Metropolitan Opera House, March 8, 1917, with the following cast: CHAUCER _Johannes Sembach_ THE WIFE OF BATH _Margaret Ober_ THE PRIORESS _Edith Mason_ THE SQUIRE _Paul Althouse_ KING RICHARD II _Albert Reiss_ JOHANNA _Marie Sundelius_ THE FRIAR _Max Bloch_ JOANNES _Pietro Audisio_ MAN OF LAW _Robert Leonhardt_ THE MILLER _Basil Ruysdael_ THE HOST _Giulio Rossi_ THE HERALD _Riccardo Tegani_ TWO GIRLS { _Marie Tiffany_ { _Minnie Egener_ THE PARDONER _Julius Bayer_ THE SUMMONER _Carl Schlegel_ THE SHIPMAN _Mario Laurenti_ THE COOK _Pompilio Malatesta_ Conductor, Bodanzky The time is April, 1387; the place, England. _Chaucer_, first poet-laureate of England, travelling incognito with pilgrims from London to Canterbury, encounters _Alisoun_, the _Wife of Bath_, a woman of the lower middle class, buxom, canny, and full of fun, who has had five husbands, and is looking for a sixth. She promptly falls in love with _Chaucer_ who, instead of returning her sprightly attentions, conceives a high, serious, poetic affection for the _Prioress_. She is a gentlewoman, who, according to the custom of the time, is both ecclesiastical and secular, having taken no vows. The _Wife of Bath_, however, is determined to win her man. Devising a plan for this, she wagers that she will be able to get from the _Prioress_ the brooch, bearing the inscription "Amor Vincit Omnia," that this lady wears upon her wrist. Should _Alisoun_ win, _Chaucer_ is bound by compact to marry her. After much plotting and by means of a disguise, the _Wife of Bath_ wins her bet, and _Chaucer_ ruefully contemplates the prospect of marrying her. In his plight he appeals to _King Richard II_, who announces that the _Wife of Bath_ may marry a sixth time if she chooses, but only on condition that her prospective bridegroom be a miller. A devoted miller, who has long courted her, joyfully accepts the honour, and the opera ends with a reconciliation between _Chaucer_ and the _Prioress_. Mr. Mackaye in speaking of his libretto at the time of the production of the opera had this to say: "In writing 'The Canterbury Pilgrims' one of my chief incentives was to portray, for a modern audience, one of the greatest poets of all times in relation to a group of his own characters. As a romancer of prolific imagination and dramatic insight, Chaucer stands shoulder to shoulder with Shakespeare. For English speech he achieved what Dante did for Italian, raising a local dialect to a world language. "Yet the fourteenth-century speech of Chaucer is just archaic enough to make it difficult to understand in modern times. Consequently his works are little known today, except by students of English literature. "To make it more popularly known I prepared a few years ago (with Professor J.S.P. Tatlock) 'The Modern Readers' Chaucer'; and I wrote for Mr. E.H. Sothern in 1903 my play 'The Canterbury Pilgrims,' which since then has been acted at many American universities by the Coburn Players, and in book form is used by many Chaucer classes. "In the spring of 1914, at the suggestion of Mr. De Koven, I remodelled the play in the form of opera, condensing its plot and characters to the more simple essentials appropriate to operatic production. Thus focussed, the story depicts Chaucer--the humorous, democratic, lovable poet of Richard Second's court--placed between two contrasted feminine characters, the _Prioress_, a shy, religious-minded gentlewoman, who has retired from the world, but has as yet taken no vows; and the _Wife of Bath_, a merry, sensual, quick-witted hoyden of the lower middle class, hunting for a sixth husband. These three, with many other types of old England, are pilgrims, en route from London to the shrine of Thomas à Becket, at Canterbury. "Becoming jealous of the _Prioress_, the _Wife of Bath_ makes a bet with _Chaucer_ concerning the gentlewoman's behaviour--a bet which she wins by a trick in the third act, only to lose it in the fourth. "The work is a comedy in blank verse of various metres, interspersed with rhythmed lyrics. For the first time, I believe, in drama of any language, it inaugurates on the stage the character of the famous first poet-laureate of England--the 'Father of English Literature.'" Mr. De Koven also tells how he came to compose the music: "I have often been asked the question why I have never before now written a work in the larger operatic form, and my answer has always been that I was waiting until I could find a really good book. For an opera libretto that successfully meets the requirements of a lyric work of this class, which is primarily for and of the stage, in the way of dramatic interest, development and climax, a poetic knowledge of the possibilities and limitations of the English language when sung, and those visual and picturesque qualities in the story which alone can make the unreal conditions of opera, _per se_, either plausible or intelligible, is about as rare as the proverbial white crow--as many gifted composers have found to their cost. "All these requirements are, I think, fulfilled in the really charming libretto which Mr. Mackaye has written in 'The Canterbury Pilgrims,' which came to me unsought as it were. As a member of a committee for choosing plays to be used in settlement work on the East Side, my wife read Mr. Mackaye's earlier play of the same name, and told me she thought it contained excellent operatic material. Agreeing with her, I went to Mr. Mackaye and suggested the idea to him. He agreed with me and soon afterwards, early in 1914, we set to work. To adapt a play of over 17,000 words for operatic purposes by merely cutting it was manifestly impossible. Entire reconstruction, both in structure and language, was necessary, and this Mr. Mackaye has so successfully accomplished that in my judgment his libretto, as an artistic whole, is far superior to his earlier play. "I took the first act with me when I went abroad in March, 1914, and the entire opera, begun October 10, 1914, was finished on December 21, 1915, during which time I lived at Vevey, Switzerland, amid, and yet far from, wars and rumours of wars. "As to my part of the work, the characters of Mr. Mackaye's story, whose essentially old English atmosphere appealed to me strongly from the first, naturally suggested Verdi's 'Falstaff' as a model in a sense. But Verdi abjured the leit motif or motto theme, and I had always felt that Wagner's theory, applied in some form, was the true basis of construction for all musico-dramatic work. Yet again it always seemed to me that, save in the hands of a consummate master, the leit motif, pushed to its logical development, was only too apt to become tiresome, obscure, and ineffective. So, after much consideration, I bethought me of the very way in which Massenet in 'Manon' had used a limited number of what might be called recurrent themes--such as the one for 'Des Grieux'--and made up my mind to try what could be done along these simpler and more plastic lines. "So, without attempting to describe pictorially in music, swords, tarnhelms, or dragons, or to weave music into an intricate contrapuntal work, I have in 'The Canterbury Pilgrims,' while following closely the spirit and meaning of Mr. Mackaye's poetic text, attributed a number of saliently melodic themes to the characters, incidents, and even material objects of the story, and when these recur in or are suggested by the text the attributive themes recur with them, so that, as I hope, they may be readily recognizable by the untechnical opera-goer and aid him in following this story and action. "Just a word in regard to the English language as a medium for opera and song. As Mr. Gatti says that a typical operatic audience in Italy, knowing their own language and generally familiar with both text and story of their operas, only expect to understand about half the words as sung, owing to the very conditions of opera itself, may it not be fairly said that American audiences who go to hear operas in English, expecting to understand every word, expect the impossible, and should be more reasonable in their demands? "Again, I have always contended and maintained that the English language, properly used, is an entirely singable language, and as so far during the rehearsals of 'The Canterbury Pilgrims' none of the artists has seemed to find any great difficulty in singing in English beyond that inherent to a certain lack of familiarity with the language itself, it looks as if my contention stands at least a fair chance of being admitted." Spanish Opera During the winter of 1915-16 the interest in Spanish music was at its height in New York. Enrique Granados, a distinguished Spanish composer and pianist, came to the city to superintend the production of his opera, "Goyescas," sung in Spanish at the Metropolitan. Pablo Casals, the famous Spanish 'cellist, and Miguel Llobet, virtuoso of the guitar, were making frequent appearances. La Argentina was dancing, and Maria Barrientos made her début at the Metropolitan. In the season of 1917-18 the Spanish craze culminated in "The Land of Joy," a musical revue which came first to the Park Theatre, then was transferred to the Knickerbocker Theatre. The music was by Joaquin Valverde, fils, and the entertainment was an entrancing blend of colour and intoxicating rhythms, with the dancing of the passionate gipsy, Doloretes, as the most amazing and vivid feature. GOYESCAS The characters and setting of the opera are suggested by the work of the Spanish painter Goya. The opera opens with a crowd of _majas_ and _majos_ enjoying a holiday on the outskirts of Madrid. Some of the _majas_ are engaged in the popular pastime of tossing the _pelele_ (a man of straw) in a blanket. _Paquiro_ the toreador is paying compliments to the women. _Pepa_, his sweetheart of the day, arrives in her dogcart. Popular, she is warmly welcomed. Soon _Rosario_, a lady of rank, arrives in her sedan-chair to keep a tryst with her lover, _Fernando_, a captain in the Royal Spanish Guards. _Paquiro_ reminds her of a _baile de candil_ (a ball given in a room lit by candlelight) which she once attended. He invites her to go again. _Fernando_ overhears his remarks. His jealousy is aroused. He informs _Paquiro_ that _Rosario_ shall go to the ball, but that he, _Fernando_, will accompany her. He extracts _Rosario's_ promise to go with him, while _Pepa_, enraged by _Paquiro's_ neglect, vows vengeance upon her. The second tableau shows the scene at the ball. _Fernando_ appears with _Rosario_. His haughty bearing and disdainful speech anger all present. The two men arrange for a duel that evening, and when _Rosario_ recovers from a swoon, _Fernando_ takes her away. The third tableau reveals _Rosario's_ garden. _Fernando_ visits her before keeping his appointment with _Paquiro_. When a bell strikes the fatal hour, _Fernando_ tears himself away. He is followed hesitatingly by _Rosario_. Soon the silence is broken by a cry from _Fernando_, followed by a shriek from _Rosario_. The lovers reappear. _Rosario_ supports _Fernando_ to a stone bench where he dies in her arms. Enrique Granados, perhaps the first important composer from Spain to visit North America, was born July 27, 1867, at Lerida, Catalonia. He died March 24, 1916, a passenger on the _Sussex_, torpedoed in the English Channel. The libretto for his "Goyescas" is by Fernando Periquet. INDEX NOTE: In setting this index, different faces of type have been used as follows: For operas, thus: =Aïda=. For characters, thus: Rhadames. For singers, thus: _Eames_. For composers, thus: VERDI. A Abimelech, 725 Adalgisa, 326 ff. ADAM, ADOLPHE CHARLES, 467, 497 _Adams, Suzanne_, 45, 516 Adina, 335 ff. Adriano, 94 ff. Æneas, 539, 541 Aennchen, 64 ff. Afron, Prince, 829 Aegisthus, 804 Agathe, 64 ff. Agnes, 816 Agramente, Mother, 765 Ah-Joe, 686 ff. =Aïda=, 1, 6, 7, 90, 433, 438, 439, 466, 602, 618, 672 Alain, 728 Alberich, 89, 141, 148, 208 Albert, 748 _Alboni_, 306, 308 =Alceste=, 493 Alcindoro, 643 ff. _Alda, Frances_, 458, 466, 602, 680, 762, 841 =Alessandro Stradella=, 559 Alessio, 319 ff. Alfio, 612 ff. Alfonso, 52, 53, 496 Alfonso XI., 359 ff. Ali, 762 Alice, 343 ff., 501 ff. Aline, 767 Alisa, 343 Allaine, 760 Almaviva, 308 Almaviva, Count, 23 ff., 295 ff. Almaviva, Countess, 23 ff. Almério, 762 _Alston, Elizabeth_, 23 _Althouse, Paul_, 834, 836, 843 Altichiara, 680 ff. Alvar, Don, 524 ff. Alvarado, Juan Baptista, 838 _Alvarez, M._, 458, 516, 543, 736, 745 Alvaro, Don, 437 ff. _Alvary, Max_, 69, 140, 148, 191, 208, 227 Alvise, 482 ff. _Amato, Pasquale_, 14, 427, 475, 482, 587, 602, 622, 639, 674, 680, 690, 707, 841 _Ambré, Mme._, 586 Ambrosio, 295 Amelfa, 829 Amelia (Adelia), 427 ff. Amfortas, 272 ff. =Amico Fritz, L'=, 618 ff. Amina, 319 ff. Amneris, 439 ff. _Amodio_, 402, 416, 531 Amonasro, 439 ff. Amor, God of Love, 9 ff. =Amore Medici, L'=, 698 Anacoana, 718 ff. _Ananian, Paolo_, 765 _Ancona_, 359, 602, 628 Andrès, 724 =André Chénier=, 712 ff. Andromache, 539 ANGELINO, 638 _Angelo_ (Director), 434 Angelotti, Cesare, 653 ff. Angioletta, 765 _Angrisani, Carlo_, 44, 295 Anita, 746 Anna, 523 ff., 541, 639, 720, 764 =Anna Bolena=, 334 Anne, 466 ff. Annetta, 718 ff. Annina, 416 ff., 807 _Anschütz, Carl_ (Director), 69 Antipas, Herod, 801 _Antognini, Signor_, 333 Antonia, 724 Antonio, 23 ff., 367 ff., 581 ff., 622 ff. =Aphrodite=, 756 ff. _Araline, Mme._, 62 Araquil, 746 ARBELL, LUCY (Librettist), 750 Archibaldo, 690 ff. _Arden, Cecil_, 765 ARDITI, 306 Ariadne, 813 =Ariadne= (=Arianna=), 5 =Ariadne auf Naxos=, 813 Ariane, 759 ff. =Ariane et Barbe-Bleue=, 759 =Arianna= (=Ariadne=), 5 Ariofarno, 715 Arkel, 752 ff. Arlecchino, 705 ff., 814 =Armide=, 8, 20, 85, 493 Armide, 14 ff. Armuth, Lena, 721 Arnold, 313 ff. _Arnoldson, Sigrid_, 748 Arnolfo, 706 Arontes, 15 ff. Arrigo, 436 ff. Arsaces, 310 ff. =Artaxerxes=, 4 Artemidore, 15 ff. Arth, 840 Arturo, 343 Ascanio, 536 ff. Ascanius, 539, 541 Asdrubale, Don, 719 Ashby, 674 ff. Ashton, Lord Henry, 343 ff. Assad, 773 Assur, 310 ff. Astaroth, 773 Astolfo, 339 ff. Astyonax, 539 Astrofiammante, Queen of the Night, 45 Asvezel Moslain, Khan, 767 Athanaël, 732 =Attaque du Moulin, L'=, 758 ff. AUBER, DANIEL FRANÇOIS ESPRIT, 2, 306, 426, 496, 498, 510 _Audisio, Pietro_, 765, 844 Autharite, 752 Avito, 690 ff. Azema, 310 ff. Azucena, 403 ff. B Baal Hanau, 773 Bacchis, 757 Bacchus, 813 _Bada, Angelo_, 765 _Baglioni, Antonio_, 32 Bahis, Dr., 706 _Baklanoff, Georges_, 767 Balducci, 536 ff. BALFE, 467 =Ballo in Maschera, Un=, 426, 438 Balthazar, 359 ff. _Bandrowski, Alexander Van_, 830 Baptista, 772 Barbarina, 23 ff. =Barber of Bagdad, The=, 770 =Barber of Seville=, 7, 22, 25, 295, 307, 308, 315, 376, 742 BARBIER, JULES (Librettist), 23, 531, 535, 562, 565, 574, 580, 585, 723 _Barbieri, Mme._, 44 Bardolph, 466 ff. _Barili, Clothilda_, 367 Barnaba, 482 ff. Baroncello, 94 ff. _Barré_, 585 _Barrientos, Maria_, 849 _Bartet, Miss_, 728 Bartolo, 719 Bartolo, Doctor, 23 ff., 295 ff. BARTON, GEORGE EDWARDS (Librettist), 833 Basilio, 295 _Bassett, Charles_, 612 _Bassi, Signor_, 32, 699 Bastien, 52 =Bastien and Bastienne=, 51 Bastienne, 52 BATKA, RICHARD (Libretttist), 781, 788 _Bayer, Julius_, 272, 776, 844 _Beale, Kittie_, 765 Beatrice, 583, 704 ff. =Beatrice and Benedict=, 538 BEAUMARCHAIS (Librettist), 23 Beckmesser, Sixtus, 246 ff. BEETHOVEN, 22, 54, 55, 56, 77 _Behne, Harriet_, 665 Belcore, 335 ff. _Belhomme_, M., 724 BELL-RANSKE, JUTTA (Librettist), 834 Bellangère, 760 _Bellati_, 665 _Bellini, Laura_, 612 BELLINI, VINCENZO, 1, 318 ff., 325, 329, 334, 376, 493, 608 Benedict, 538 BENELLI, SEM (Librettist), 690 Benjamin, 495 Benoit, 643 ff. Benson, Mrs., 725 =Benvenuto Cellini=, 535 ff. Benvolio, 575 ff. Beppe, 619 ff., 628 ff. Berardengo, Ser Toldo, 680 ff. _Bérat, Louis_, 699 _Bergmann, Carl_ (Director), 63, 107 BERGMÜLLER, ROBERT, 559 BERLIOZ, HECTOR, 13, 63, 78, 85, 535, 542 Bernal, 832 Bernardino, 536 ff. BERNÈDE, ARTHUR (Librettist), 749 BERNHARD, A. (Librettist), 825 Bersi, 713 ff. Berta, 295 Bertel, 781 Bertha, 516 ff. BERTONI, FERNANDINO, 12 Bertram, the Unknown, 501 Bervoix, Flora, 416 ff. Besenbinder, Der, 776 =Betrothed, The= (=I Promessi Sposi=), 481 _Bettaque, Katti_, 148 _Bettini_, 501 _Betz_, 89 BEY, MARIETTE (Librettist), 439 _Beyle, Leon_, 756 _Biachi, Hannibal_, 562 Bianca, 772 Biancofiore, 680 ff. Biaso, 699 ff. BIELSKY, V., 829 BIERBAUM, OTTO JULIUS (Librettist), 791 _Bignardi_, 386 BIS (Librettist), 317 _Bischoff, A._, 163 _Bispham, David_, 52, 227, 375, 830 BISHOP, HENRY ROWLEY, 30 _Bishop, Mme. Anna_, 546 Biterolf, 107 ff. BIZET, GEORGES, 2, 494, 510, 586, 601, 603, 728 Black Lorenzo, 836 Blanchefleur, 788 _Blass, M._, 272, 830 BLAU, EDOUARD (Librettist), 742, 747 BLECH, 781 _Bloch, Max_, 772, 844 Blue-Beard, 759 ff. _Blum, A._, 163 Bobadilla, 718 ff. BODANZKY, ARTUR, 769, 773, 844 =Bohème, La= (Leoncavallo), 628 =Bohème, La= (Puccini), 638, 643 ff. _Bohner, Mrs. Jennie_, 612 BOIELDIEU, FRANÇOIS ADRIEN, 495 BOÏTO, ARRIGO (Librettist), 458, 466, 474, 480, 482, 715 Bombardon, 779 _Bonci_, 329, 372, 639 _Bondini, Teresa_, 32 Boniface, 747 _Bonnard_, 745 Bonze, The, 665 ff. _Borghese, Signora_, 333 Borgia, Lucrezia, 339 ff. _Bori_, 620, 686, 690 =Boris Godounoff=, 822 BORODIN, 819 Borov, 720 Borsa, 387 ff. _Bosio, Signorina_, 501, 503 Bostana, 771 Botta, 620, 686 BOUILLY (Librettist), 55 Boy, 440 _Braendle, Miss_, 272 Brander, 543 ff. Brangäne, 227 ff. _Brandt, Marianne_, 62, 69, 117, 163, 236, 272, 516 _Braun_, 18, 504 Braun, 781 _Braslau, Sophie_, 834 Brayole, Captain, 788 BREIL, JOSEPH, 836 _Brema_, 516 _Bressler-Gianoli_, 586, 602 Bret, Le, 841 BREUNING (Librettist), 54 _Bréval, Lucienne_, 729, 752 _Bridewell, Carrie_, 752 Brighella, 814 _Brignoli_, 339, 402, 416, 513, 585 _Broschi, Carlo_, 4 _Brough_, 319 BRÜLL, 779 BRUNEAU, ALFRED, 758 Brünnhilde, 7, 89, 140, 142, 146, 164, 208 Bucklaw, Lord Arthur, 343 ff. BUNGE, RUDOLF (Librettist), 784 _Burgstaller_, 272 Burton, 832 Butterfly, Madam (Cio-Cio-San), 665 ff. =Butterfly, Madama=, 638, 644, 664 BYRNE, JACQUES (Librettist), 836 C Cadi, 762 CADMAN, CHARLES WAKEFIELD, 834 CAIN, HENRI (Librettist), 743, 745, 749 Cajus, Dr., 466 ff. Calatrava, Marquis di, 437 ff. Caliph, The, 771 =Calife de Bagdad, Le=, 495 Callidès, 756 ff. _Calvé, Mme._, 475, 543, 564, 586, 602, 604, 612, 618, 745 CALZABIGI, RANIERO DI (Librettist), 9 =Cambiale di Matrimonio, La=, 294 CAMMARANO, SALVATORE (Librettist), 343, 372, 402 _Campanari_, 23, 628 =Campanello di Notte, Il=, 334, 374 ff. _Campanini, Cleofante_ (Director), 354, 458, 466, 611, 665, 699 _Campanini, Italo_, 117, 343, 354, 359, 402, 437, 440, 475, 503, 531, 546, 562, 586, 587 _Campbell, Miss_, 612 Canio, 628 ff. _Canissa, Pauline_, 163 =Canterbury Pilgrims, The=, 843 _Capoul_, 575, 580 Capulet, Count, 575 ff. Caradoc, 840 Carlos, Don, 377, 437, 438 Carmela, 699 ff. Carmelita, 836 =Carmen=, 2, 303, 510, 586, 587, 603 Caroline, Queen, 708 ff. CARRÉ, MICHEL (Librettist), 2, 531, 562, 565, 574, 580, 585, 603, 723 _Caruso_, 14, 335, 337, 339, 343, 354, 386, 388, 402, 412, 426, 475, 482, 504, 516, 546, 564, 587, 602, 604, 611, 620, 622, 640, 665, 674, 714 _Cary, Annie Louise_, 117, 359, 402, 437, 440, 475, 503, 585 _Case, Anna_, 807 Cassandra, 539 Cassio, 459 ff. _Castelmary_, 557 Castiglione, 765 CASTIL-BLAZE (Librettist), 299, 307 =Castor and Pollux=, 1 Castro, José, 675, 838 CATALINA, ALFRED, 719 Caterina, 619 ff. Catherine, 530 CAVALIERI, CATERINA, 43 _Cavalieri, Lina_, 640, 715, 749 =Cavalleria Rusticana=, 609, 610, 612, 626, 698, 707, 746 CAVALLI, 5 Cavaradossi, Mario, 652 ff. Cellini, Benvenuto, 536 ff. =Cendrillon=, 728, 745 Ceprano, Count, 386 ff. Ceprano, Countess, 387 ff. Cesano,765 =Cesare Borgia=, 627 _Cesarini, Duke_ (Director), 300 _Chaliapine_, 475 _Chalmers, Thomas_, 762, 834 Chappelou, 497 _Chapuis_, 601 Charles, Vicomte de Sirval, 367 ff. Charlotte, 748 Charming, Prince, 745 CHARPENTIER, GUSTAVE, 750 Chaucer, 843 =Chemineau, Le=, 766 Chénier, André, 713 ff. CHERUBINI, LUIGI, 493, 494 Cherubino, 23 ff. Chiarina, 765 Chim-Fen, 686 ff. Chimaris, 757 Chimène, 742 Chonita, 832 CHOPIN, 306 CHORLEY (Librettist), 574 Choroebus, 539 Christian, 841 Christine, 779 Chrysis, 757 Chrysothemis, 804 Ciccillo, 699 ff. =Cid, Le=, 742 Cieca, La, 482 ff. Cinderella, 745 _Cinti-Damoreau, Mlle._, 501 CIVINI, G., 674 CLARETIE, JULES (Librettist), 745 _Clarke, Payne_, 612 Claudio, 538 =Clemenza di Tito=, 51 Cleo, 788 Cleopatra, 750 =Cléopâtre=, 750 Clitandro, 706 Clotilda, 326 ff. Clytemnestra, 804 Cochenille, 724 Colas, 52, 779 COLAUTTI (Librettist), 720 _Coletti_, 503, 562 _Colin_, 562 _Collin, M._, 724 Colline, 643 ff. Colombina, 704 ff. Colombo, Cristoforo, 717 ff. Colonna, Steffano, 94 ff. Comare, La, 719 Concetta, 699 ff. =Conchita=, 685, 716 Conchita, 716 ff. _Conried, Heinrich_ (Director), 272, 612, 804 =Contes d'Hoffmann, Les=, 723 CONVERSE, FREDERICK SHEPHERD, 832, 833 Coppélius, 724 =Coq d'Or, Le=, 828 _Coquelin_, 728 _Cordier_, 531 Corentino, 531 ff. CORMON (Librettist), 603 CORNEILLE, 742 CORNELIUS, PETER, 769, 770 =Corregidor, Der=, 792 _Corsi, Pini_, 674 =Cortez, Fernando=, 80 Cortez, 765 Cosse, 504 ff. =Così Fan Tutte=, 24, 52 COSTA, 63, 78 _Crabbe, Mr._, 837 _Cremonini_, 359, 652 =Crepusculum=, 627 Crespel, 724 =Cricket on the Hearth, The=, 775 Crisogono, 721 =Crispino e La Comare=, 718 ff. Crispino, 718 ff. =Cristoforo Colombo=, 717 ff. _Crivelli, Signor_, 295 Cuno, 63 ff. Cyril, 720 =Cyrano de Bergerac=, 832, 841 =Czar und Zimmermann= (=Czar and Carpenter=), 80 D =Dafne=, 4 Daland, 98 ff. Dalila, 725 _Dalmorès, Charles_, 543, 587, 602, 749 =Dame Blanche, La=, 495 Damian, 784 =Damnation de Faust, La=, 535, 542 ff. _Damrosch, Dr. Leopold_ (Director), 62, 90, 107, 163, 498, 523, 542, 830 DAMROSCH, WALTER, 832, 841 _d'Angelo, Louis_, 836 Danielo, 765 Danish Knight, The, 15 ff. DA PONTE, LORENZO (Librettist), 29, 30, 31, 44, 52 David, 247 ff., 619 ff. DÉBUSSY, 2, 752 _Defrère, Désiré_, 767 D'ENNERY, M. (Librettist), 742 _de Gebel, Frida_, 163 DE GRAMONT, LOUIS (Librettist), 756 DE KOVEN, REGINALD, 843 DELAVIGNE (Librettist), 496, 501 DELDEVEZ, EDOUARD, 559 DELIBES, 724 _Delmas, M._, 736 _Delpouget, M._, 736 _Del Puente_, 402, 503, 562, 586, 612, 736 _de Luca, Giuseppe_, 628, 665, 762 _Demellin_, 756 Démétrios, 756 ff. _de Reszke, Édouard_, 45, 208, 227, 246, 440, 503, 516, 523 _de Reszke, Jean_, 23, 45, 140, 208, 227, 246, 426, 503, 516, 523, 542, 575, 563, 586, 736, 748 DESCHAMPS (Librettist), 503 _Deschamps-Jéhin, Mme._, 750 Desdemona, 459 ff. _de Segurola, Andrés_, 674, 762 Desfonandres, Dr., 706 Despina, 52 Despréaux, 707 ff. d'Este, Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, 339 ff. _Destinn, E._, 427, 466, 475, 482, 504, 665, 674 =Deux Journées, Les=, 493 Diable, Le, 728 Diana, 18 ff. Dido, 541 _Didur, Adamo_, 516, 622, 674, 686, 690, 765, 776 Diego, Don, 524 ff., 742 Diemut, 797 _Dilthey, Minnie_, 9 Dimitri, the Pretender, 822 _di Murska, Ilma_, 531 _Dinh-Gilly_, 674 Dinorah, 531 ff. =Dinorah, ou le Pardon de Ploërmel=, 500, 530 Di Silva, Don Ruy Gomez, 377 ff. =Djamileh=, 605 Djamileh, 605 Dmitri, 720 d'Obigny, Marquis, 416 ff. Dodon, King, 828 _Dolci, Alessandro_, 720 Dominique, 759 Donati, 679 =Don Carlos=, 437, 441 Donella, 680 ff. DONIZETTI, 1, 308, 334, 359, 366, 372, 376, 493, 608 =Donne Curiose, Le=, 698, 704 Donner, 89, 148 Dorabella, 52 D'ORINVILLE (Librettist), 720 Doris, 788 _Dorus, Mlle._, 501 Dot, 775 Douphol, Baron, 416 ff. =Duca d'Alba, Il=, 366 _Dufranne, Mr._, 729, 837 _Dufriche_, 652, 745, 752 DUKAS, PAUL, 759 Dulcamara, 335 ff. Dulcinée, La belle, 743 ff. DU LOCLE, CAMILLE (Librettist), 752 _Duprez_, 313, 343 Durham, Lady Harriet, 546 ff. Dursel, 788 =Dusk of the Gods, The=, 89 Dutchman, The, 98 DUVAL, ALEXANDER (Librettist), 495 DU WAILLY (Librettist), 535 E _Eames, Emma_, 23, 140, 246, 402, 426, 458, 466, 475, 564, 575, 586, 612, 620, 715, 748 _Easton, Florence_, 622, 769, 835 EBERHARDT, NELLE RICHMOND (Librettist), 834 Eboli, Princess, 438 =Edgar=, 639 Edgar of Ravenswood, 343 ff. Edgardo, 343, 608 Edmund, 640 ff. _Egener, Minnie_, 844 Eislinger, Ulrich, 246 ff. El Dancairo, 587 ff. Eleanora, 704 ff. =Elektra=, 769, 804 Elektra, 804 Elena, 475 ff. Elisa, Princess, 708 ff. Elizabeth, 107 ff. Elizabeth, St., 769 Ellen, 725 _Ellis, Mary_, 765 =Elopement from the Serail, The= (=Belmonte und Constance=), 52 El Remendado, 587 ff. Elsa of Brabant, 117 ff. Else, 781 Elvino, 319 ff. Elvira, 330, 377, 608 Elvira, Donna, 31 ff. Emilia, 459 ff. Engel, Friedrich, 787 _Engel, Lotta_, 776 Enrico, 343, 375 =Enrico di Borgogna=, 335 =Ensorcelée, L'=, 764 Enya, 840 Erda, 89, 140, 142, 148 Eric, 98 ff. ERLANGER, CAMILLE, 756 =Ernani=, 377, 385 Ernani, 608 Ernani, John, of Aragon, 377 ff. Ernesto, 372 ff. Eroshka, 820 Escamillo, 587 ff. Eschenbach, Wolfram von, 107 ff. Esmeralda, 816 Estella, 716 ff. ÉTIENNE, V.J. ("JOUY"), 313 =Eugen Onegin=, 825, 828 =Euryanthe=, 63, 69, 77, 85 Eurydice, 9 ff. Eva, 247 ff. =Evangelimann, Der=, 787 Everton, Amy, 834 Everton, Mrs., 834 F Fabrizio, 718 ff. Fafner, 141, 148 =Fairies, The=, 82 =Falstaff=, 7, 376, 466, 480, 847 Falstaff, Sir Henry, 466 ff. =Fanciulla del West, La=, 638, 674 =Faniska=, 494 Farlaf, 818 _Farneti, Marie_, 620 _Farrar, Geraldine_, 23, 45, 565, 586, 602, 611, 622, 665, 705, 707, 741, 765, 776 Fasolt, 141, 148 Fatimah, 762 _Faure_, 45, 531, 562, 585 =Faust=, 7, 79, 510, 561, 562 Faust, 475, 543, 562 Favart, 788 =Favorita, La=, 334, 359 =Fedora=, 714, 720 Fedora, Princess, 720 =Feldlager in Schlesien, Das=, 500, 530 Fenella, 496 Fenton, 466 ff. Feodor, 822 Ferdinand, 359 ff. Fernando, 850 =Fernando Cortez=, 80 Fernando, Don, 54 ff. Ferrando, 52, 402 _Ferrari-Fontana_, 690 =Feuersnot=, 769, 796 FEVRIER, HENRY, 761 Fiamina, 729 =Fidelio=, 22, 54, 56, 62, 77 Fides, 516 ff. Fieramosca, 536 ff. Figaro, 23, 24, 295, 309 =Figaro, Marriage of=, 51, 295 =Figlia del Reggimento, La=, 334, 355 =Figliuol Prodigo, Il=, 481 Filipievna, 825 =Fille de Roland, La=, 763 Finn, 818 Fiordiligi, 52 Fiorello, 295 _Fischer, Emil_, 69, 117, 140, 148, 191, 208, 227, 246 _Fitziu, Anna_, 719 Flaminio, 690 ff. Flammen, 622 ff. Flavius, 326 ff. Fléville, 713 ff. Flora, 690 ff. Florestan, 54, 62 Florinda, 704 ff. Flosshilde, 148, 208 =Flying Dutchman, The=, 69, 79, 84, 98, 109, 118, 226 Folco, 626 Folz, Hans, 246 ff. _Fontaine, Charles_, 761, 767 Ford, 466 ff. Ford, Mistress, 466 ff. Forêt, Lysiart de, 69 ff. _Formes, Carl_, 313, 501, 503 _Fornia_, 807 Forth, Sir Richard, 330 ff. FORTUNA, FERDINANDO (Librettist), 639 =Forza del Destino, La=, 436 ff. FORZANO, GIOACCHINO (Librettist), 622 Fouché, 707 =Fra Diavolo=, 497 Francesca, 680 ff. =Francesca Da Rimini=, 680 ff. Francesco, 536 ff. FRANCHETTI, ALBERTO, 717, 721 =Franco Arciero, Il=, 63 François, 767 Françoise, 759 Frantz, 724 Franz, 622 ff. Frasquita, 587, 793 Frédéric, 581 ff. Frederica, Duchess of Ostheim, 434 ff. Frederick, 724 Frederick of Telramund, 117 ff. Frederico, 619 ff. Freia, 141, 148 ff. =Freischütz, Der=, 62, 77, 81, 85 _Fremstad, Olive_, 14, 140, 227, 801, 804 Freudhofer, Johannes, 787 Freudhofer, Matthias, 787 _Frezzolini_, 386 _Friche, Claire_, 756 Fricka, 89, 142, 148, 164 Friedhold, 799 Froh, 148 ff. _Fuchs_, 272 _Fugère, Lucien_, 729, 750 Furies, The, 10 _Fursch-Madi_, 483 Furst, Walter, 313 ff. G GABEAUX, PIERRE, 55 Gabriel, Padre, 833 _Gadski, Johanna_, 9, 227, 246 _Galassi, Antonio_, 332, 354, 367, 387, 402, 437, 458, 587 Galitzky, Prince, 820 _Gall, Yvonne_, 767 GALLET, M. LOUIS (Librettist), 605, 731, 742, 758 _Galli-Curci, Amelita_, 295, 306, 343, 386, 388, 416, 532, 575, 742 _Galli-Marié_, 586, 601 GANDONNIÈRE, 542 Gansemagd, Die, 776 Garcia, 716, 743 ff. _Garcia, Mme._, 44 _Garcia, Manuel_, 44, 295, 309 _Garcia, Jr., Manuel_, 44 _Garcia, Maria_, 44, 295 _Garden, Mary_, 587, 603, 747, 750, 756, 761, 801, 804, 837 _Garrison, Mabel_, 52 Garrito, Gen., 746 Garsenda, 680 ff. Gaspar, Don, 359 ff. _Gates, Lucy_, 52, 375 _Gatti-Casazza_, 516, 611 GAUTHIER-VILLARS, HENRY (Librettist), 804 _Gay_, 466 Gazello, 339 ff. GAZZANIGA, GIUSEPPE, 31 Gelsomino, 707 ff. Gennaro, 339, 699 ff. Genoveva, 752 ff. Geôlier, Le, 756 ff. Gerald, 724 GÉRARD (Librettist), 542 Gérard, Charles, 713 ff. =Germania=, 720 Germont, Alfredo, 416 ff. Germont, Giorgio, 416 ff. =Gerolamo Savonarola=, 627 _Gerold, Herman_, 612 Geronte de Ravoir, 640 ff. _Gerster, Etelka_, 45, 319, 325, 329, 335, 343, 546 Gertrud, Frau, 781 Gertrude, 575, 778 Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, 586 _Gerville-Réache, Jeanne_, 746, 749 Gessler, 313 ff. GHISLANZONI, ANTONIO, 439, 441 GIACOSA, GIUSEPPE (Librettist), 643, 652, 664 _Gianini_, 736 Giannetta, 335 ff. Giannetto, 622 ff. =Gianni Schicchi=, 677 Giarno, 581 ff. GIESEKE (Librettist), 45, 46 Gil, Count, 705 Gilda, 387 ff. _Gilibert, Charles_, 355, 602, 652, 745, 752 GILLE, PHILIPPE (Librettist), 724, 736 =Gioconda, La=, 480, 481, 482, 638 Gioconda, La, 482 ff. GIORDANO, UMBERTO, 607, 707, 726 Giorgetta, 678 Giorgio D'Ast, 765 _Giorgi-Righetti_, 300, 308 Giovanni, 377, 387, 680 =Giovanni di Guzman--Vespri Siciliani=, 436 =Giovanni, Don=, 21, 22, 25, 30, 31, 32, 33, 43, 51, 85, 493 Giovanni, Don, 21, 31 ff. _Giraldoni_, 482 =Giovanni Gallurese=, 697 GIRARD, ERNEST, 723 Giscon, 752 =Gismonda=, 761 Gismonda, 761 Giuseppe, 416 ff. GLINKA, MICHAEL IVANOVICH, 818 Gloom, 840 _Gluck, Alma_, 9, 14 GLUCK, CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD, 1, 4, 6, 8, 12, 14, 17, 19, 20, 22, 77, 90, 293, 493, 494 Godfrey, Duke, 117 ff. =Godounoff, Boris=, 822 Godounoff, Boris, 822 GOETZ, HERMANN, 769, 772 _Goff, Winifred_, 665 =Golden Cross, The=, 779 _Golden, Grace_, 612 GOLDMARK, CARL, 769, 773, 775 GOLISCIANI, ENRICO (Librettist), 699, 705 Golo, 752 ff. GONDINET (Librettist), 724 Gorislava, 819 _Goritz, Otto_, 246, 272, 772, 776, 807 Gormas, Comte de, 742 Goro, 665 =Götterdämmerung=, 140, 207 GOUNOD, CHARLES FRANÇOIS, 2, 438, 459, 494, 510 _Gourdon, M._, 724 =Goyescas=, 849 GRANADOS, ENRIQUE, 849 _Grange, La_, 416, 503 _Grau, Maurice_ (Director), 509, 563 Grazia, 699 ff. _Graziani_, 417 Grech, 720 Grégoras, 762 Gregory, 575 ff. Gremin, 825 Grenvil, Dr., 416 ff. _Grenville, Miss Lilian_, 837 Gretel, 778 Grieux, Chevalier Des, 640, 736 ff. Grieux, Count Des, 736 ff. Grimaldo, Enzo, 482 ff. Griselda, 727 =Grisélidis=, 727 _Grivot, M._, 724 _Grisi_, 306, 309, 326, 329, 339, 374 Grumio, 772 _Grün, Frau_, 89 _Guadagni, Gaetano_, 12, 14 Gubetta, 339 ff. _Gudehus_, 272 Guerra, Barbara de la, 838 Guerra, Don Francisco de la, 837 Guevara, Don Fernando, 717 ff. Guglielmo, 52 Guidon, Prince, 828 Guiche, de, 841 GUILLARD, FRANÇOIS (Librettist), 18 =Guillaume Tell=, 294, 312 _Guille_, 612 GUNSBOURG, RAOUL, 767 Gunther, 89, 143, 208 =Guntram=, 798 Guntram, 799 _Gura_, 89 Gurnemanz, 272 ff. Gusmann, Leonora di, 359 ff. =Gustave III, ou Le Bal Masqué=, 426 GUTIERREZ, ANTONIO GARCIA (Librettist), 402 Gutrune, 89, 143, 208 Gwynn, 840 H Hänsel, 778 =Hänsel und Gretel=, 746, 769, 778, 807 Hagen, 89, 143, 208 HALÉVY, JACQUES, 2, 498, 510 Haltière, Mme. de la, 745 Hamilcar, 752 =Hamlet=, 585 Hamlet, 585 _Hammerstein, Oscar_ (Director), 612 HÄNDEL, 14 Handsome, 674 Hanego, 619 ff. Hans, 816 =Hans Heiling=, 79 Happy, 674 ff. =Happy Shade, A=, 9 ff. _Harden_, 272 Haroun, Prince, 605 =Harriette, ou La Servante de Greenwiche=, 559 Harry, 674 ff. HARTMANN, G. (Librettist), 747 HASSE, JOHANN ADOLPH, 4 _Hastreiter, Helene_, 9 Hate, 14 ff. _Hauck, Minnie_, 575, 586, 602, 612, 736 HAYDN, 51 _Hayes, Miss_, 516 Hecuba, 539 Hedvige, Signora, 721 Hedwiga, 313 ff. _Héglon, Mme._, 736 Hélène, Duchess, 436 ff. HELL, THEODOR (Librettist), 76 =Hélléra=, 697 _Hempel, Freda_, 23, 45, 246, 427, 475, 504, 807 HENDERSON, WILLIAM J. (Librettist), 841 Henrietta, 330 ff. Henry the Fowler, 117 ff. HERBERT, VICTOR, 837 Herman, 827 Hermann, 107 ff. Hermann, Landgrave, 769 Hero, 538, 715 =Hero e Leandro=, 715 ff. Herod, 749 =Hérodiade=, 748 Herodias, 749, 801 HÉROLD, LOUIS J.F., 497 Hexe, Die, 776 Hidraot, 15 ff. _Hill_, 89, 272 _Hincks, Mrs. Pemberton_, 612 _Hinrichs, Gustave_ (Director), 612, 618, 628 _Hinshaw, William_, 776 HIPPOLYTE (Librettist), 313 Hoël, 531 ff. _Hofer, Mme._, 52 Hoffman, 724 _Holman, Miss_, 309 _Holman, Mrs._, 23 Holzhacker, Der, 776 _Homer, Louise_, 9, 14, 140, 246, 272, 402, 427, 475, 482, 665, 776, 830 HOOKER, BRIAN (Librettist), 840 Hortensio, 355, 772 _Howard, Kathleen_, 762, 765, 834, 836 Hua-Qui, 686 ff. _Huberdeau, Gustave_, 756, 761, 837 Hu-chi, 686 ff. Huebscher, Catherine, 708 ff. HUGO, JOHN ADAM, 834 HUGO, VICTOR (Librettist), 343, 377, 386 =Huguenots, Les=, 294, 498, 500, 503, 510, 527, 731 HUMPERDINCK, ENGELBERT, 769, 776, 778 Hunding, 142, 163 Hu-Tsin, 686 ff. Hylas, 541 I Iago, 458 ff. =Ib and Little Christina=, 689 =Idomeneo=, 51 Idrenus, 310 ff. Igor, 820 =Igor, Prince=, 819 Igoreivitch, Vladimir, 820 Iguamota, 718 ff. =Il Barbiere di Siviglia=, 705 Il Cieco, 620 ff. =Il Dissoluto Punito, ossia il Don Giovanni=, 30 ILLICA, LUIGI (Librettist), 619, 625, 643, 652, 664, 712, 717, 721 Inez, 359, 403, 523 Infanta, 742 Intendant, 367 Iolan, 833 =Iphigénie en Aulide=, 493 =Iphigénie en Tauride=, 8, 9, 18, 19, 20 Iphigénie, 18 ff. =Iphigenia in Aulis=, 85 Irene, 94 ff. =Iris=, 611, 619, 620 Irma, 750 _Isaac, Mlle. Adèle_, 724 Isèpo, 482 ff. =Isabeau=, 611, 625 Isabeau, 625 ff. Isabella, 501 ff. Isabel of Spain, Queen, 717 ff. Isolde, 227 ff. J Jackrabbit, Billy, 674 ff. Jacob, 495 Jacquino, 54 ff. _Jadlowker, Herman_, 705, 776 _Jäger_, 272 Jago, 377 ff. Jagu, 831 _Jaide_, 89 _Jamet_, 585 Jane, 721 _Janouschoffsky, Mme._, 612 Javotte, 736 ff. Jean, 746, 747 =Jean de Paris=, 495 Jebbel, 721 Jemmy, 313 ff. =Jessonda=, 79 =Jewels of the Madonna, The=, 699 Joannes, 844 Joe, 674 ff. Johanna, 844 John, 775 Johnson, Dick (Ramerrez), 674 ff. John the Baptist, 749 Jokanaan, 801 Jonas, 516 ff. =Jongleur de Nôtre Dame, Le=, 746 ff. Jopas, 541 José, Don, 587 ff. Josef, 764 =Joseph en Egypte=, 495 Joseph, 495 _Journet, Marcel_, 272, 477, 620, 752, 761 "JOUY," V.J. ÉTIENNE (Librettist), 313 Juan, 744 _Juch, Emma_, 9 =Juive, La=, 498, 510, 731 Julia, 708 ff. Julien, 750 Juliet, 575 ff. K Kagama, 838 KALBECK, MAX (Librettist), 51 Karnac, 727 Kaspar, 64 ff. Katharina, 772 Katrinka, 815 KEISER, REINHARD, 4 _Kellogg, Clara Louise_, 367, 546, 562 _Kelly, Michael_, 24 _Kemlitz_, 227, 246 _Kerker, Gustave_ (Director), 612 Kezal, 817 KIENZL, WILHELM, 787, 788 Kilian, 64 ff. _Kingston, Morgan_, 835 Kirchhofer, Werner, 784 Klingsor, 272 ff. Kobus, Fritz, 619 ff. _Kögel, Josef_, 107, 163 Konchak, Khan, 820 Konchakovna, 820 =Königskinder=, 776 Königssohn, Der, 776 Konradin, 784 Körner, Carlo, 721 Kothner, Fritz, 246 ff. _Kousnezova, Marie_, 750 KREUTZER, CONRADIN, 80 _Kronold, Selma_, 612, 628 _Krusceniski_, 665 Kruschina, 815 =Kuhreigen, Der=, 788 Kundry, 273 ff. Kunrad, 797 _Kurt_, 18, 140 Kurwenal, 227 ff. Kyoto, 630 ff. L _Lablache_, 45, 329, 374, 562 LACHMANN, HEDWIG (Librettist), 800 Laertes, 581, 586 =L'Africaine=, 500, 523, 527 =Lakmé=, 724 Lakmé, 724 _L'Allemand, Pauline_, 725 LALO, 727 _Lambert, A._, 728 =L'Âme en Peine=, 546 _Lammert, Fräulein_, 89 =L'Amore Medici=, 705 ff. =L'Amore Dei Tre Re=, 690 ff. Lampe, 781 L'Anery, Gontran de, 779 LANGE, FERDINAND, 76 LANNER, 808 Larina, 825 Larkens, 674 ff. _Lasalle_, 523, 585 Laura, 434, 482 _Laurenti, Mario_, 765, 844 Lawrence, Friar, 575 ff. _Lazaro, Hipolito_, 765 LAZZARI, SYLVIO, 764 _Lazzari, Virgilio_, 720 Leandro, 704, 715 =Le Villi=, 638 _Leesugg, Miss_, 295, 308 Lefebvre, 707 ff. _Legros_, 12, 13 =Legend, The=, 836 _Lehmann, Lilli_, 45, 62, 69, 89, 93, 140, 191, 207, 227, 326, 475, 516, 603 _Lehmann, Marie_, 89 =Leila=, 603 Leila, 604 Lelio, 704 ff. =L'Elisire d'Amore=, 334, 335 LEMAIRE, FERDINAND (Librettist), 725 LÉNA, MAURICE (Librettist), 746 Lenski, 825 Leonato, 538 LEONI, 607, 686 LEONCAVALLO, RUGGIERO, 7, 91, 607, 608, 627, 628, 638 _Leonhardt, Robert_, 769, 772, 844 Leonora, Donna, 437 ff. Leonora, Duchess, 403 ff. =Leonora, ossia L'Amore Conjugale=, 55 Leonore, 54, 62 Leporello, 31 ff. =Lépreuse, La=, 764 LEROUX, XAVIER, 765, 766 Leroy, 707 ff. Lescaut, 640, 736 =L'Étoile du Nord=, 500, 530 Letorières, Gastone de, 416 ff. Leuthold, 313 ff. _Levasseur_, 501 _Levi, Hermann_ (Director), 52, 272 _Lherie_, 601 =Liebesverbot, Das=, 82 _Lind, Jenny_, 325, 334, 355, 501 Linda, 367 ff. =Linda di Chamounix=, 367 Lindorf, 724 Lionel, 546, 834 Lisa, 319, 827 Lise, 841 Lisetta, 706, 719 _Listner, Mme._, 163 LISZT, FRANZ, 86, 98, 117, 120, 535, 769 =Lituani, I=, 481 Liverotto, 339 ff. =Lobetanz=, 791 Lobetanz, 791 LOCLE, CAMILLE DU (Librettist), 439, 441 =Lodoletta=, 611, 622 Lodoletta, 622 ff. Lodovico, 459 ff. Loewe, Frederick, 721 Loge, 89, 148 =Lohengrin=, 68, 69, 79, 86, 99, 117, 118, 273, 516 Lohengrin, 117 ff. Lola, 612 ff. _Lolli, Giuseppe_, 32 Lopez, Juan, 793 =Loreley=, 719 ff. Loreley, 720 Loris, Count, 720 LORTZING, ALBERT, 80 Lothario, 581 ff. Louis VI., 69 ff. =Louise=, 750 Louise, 750 Loÿs, 729 Luc Agnolo, 765 _Lucca_, 355, 523 Lucentio, 772 Lucia, 343 =Lucia di Lammermoor=, 7, 334, 343, 376, 426, 608, 673 Lucia, Mamma, 612 ff. Lucinda, 706 Lucinde, 14 ff. =Lucrezia Borgia=, 334, 339 Lucy, 343 ff. Ludmilla, 818 _Ludwig_, 736 Ludwig, Landgrave, 769 Luigi, 678 Luisa, 434 ff. =Luisa Miller=, 433, 438 LULLY, 4, 6, 17, 21 _Lussan, Zélie de_, 466 Lützow, Luigi, 721 M _Macbeth, Florence_, 719 MACKAYE, PERCY (Librettist), 843 Macroton, Dr., 706 Madda, 764 Maddalena, 387 ff. Madeleine, 713 ff. Madeline, 367 ff. Madelon, 713 ff. MAETERLINCK, MAURICE (Librettist), 752, 759 Magda, 676 ff. Magdalena, 247, 787 _Maguénat, Alfred_, 750 MAHLER, GUSTAVE, 76 =Magic Flute, The=, 7, 21, 22, 45, 52, 55, 77, 85, 307 Malatesta, Dr., 372 ff. _Malatesta, Pompilio_, 844 Malatestino, 680 ff. =Mala Vita=, 707 _Malibran_, 44 Maliella, 699 ff. Mallika, 724 _Malten_, 262 _Mancinelli_ (Director), 752 MANCINELLI, LUIGI, 715 Manfredo, 690 ff. =Manon Lescaut=, 638, 640, 736, 741, 742 Manon Lescaut, 640, 736 ff. _Maran, Ernst_, 776 Mantua, Duke of, 386 ff. Manuela, 793 _Mapleson_ (Director), 354, 712 Manrico, 402 ff. =Manru=, 830 Manru, 831 _Mantelli_, 359, 503 Marcel, 504, 643 MARAST, ARMAND (Librettist), 313 Marc Antony, 750 Marcellina, 23 ff., 54 ff. _Marconi_, 458 _Marcy, Mme._, 736 _Mardones_, 516 _Maréchal, Mr._, 729, 746, 750 _Maretzek, Mme._, 516 Margared, 727 Margherita, 475 ff. Margiana, 771 Marguerite, 543, 562 Maria, 784 Marianne, 807 Marie, 355, 816 _Marimon_, 531 =Marina=, 707 Marina, 822 _Marini_, 501, 503 _Mario_, 45, 326, 374, 388, 516 =Marion Delorme=, 481 Marke, King, 227 ff. Marouf, 762 =Marouf, the Cobbler of Cairo=, 762 =Marriage of Figaro, The=, 21, 22, 23, 30, 31, 295 MARSCHNER, HEINRICH, 79 Marta, 836 =Martha=, 546 ff. Martha, 475, 787 _Martinelli_, 680 _Martin, Riccardo_, 841 _Martyn, Mrs._, 62 Marullo, 387 ff. Mary, 98 ff. =Masaniello=, 496, 498, 510 Masaniello, 496 MASCAGNI, PIETRO, 7, 91, 607, 610, 612, 618, 638 =Maschere, Le= (=The Maskers=), 611 Masetto, 31 ff., 36 ff. =Masked Ball, The= (=Un Ballo in Maschera=), 426 ff. _Mason, Edith_, 843 MASSENET, JULES, 2, 7, 306, 494, 510, 727, 731, 736, 742, 743, 745, 746, 747, 748, 750 Massimelle, Marquis, 788 Mateo, 716 ff. _Materna, Frau_, 89, 163, 272, 498 Mathieu, 713 ff. _Mathieu-Lutz, Mme._, 756 Matheos, 718 ff. Mathô, 752 _Mattfeld, Marie_, 674, 765, 772, 776, 807 Matthisen, 516 ff. MATTINATA, 306 _Matzenauer, Margarete_, 23, 427, 504, 516, 769 _Maurel, Victor_, 45, 440, 458, 466, 503, 623, 627 Max, 64 ff. May, 775 MAYR, SIMON, 55 MEYREDER-OBERMAYER, ROSA, 792 _Mazarin_, 804 _Mazzoleni, Francesco_, 523, 562 _McCormack, John_, 45, 355, 837 _McGuckin, Barton_, 736 _McIntyre, Margaret_, 475 =Medici, I=, 627 Mefistofele, 475 ff. MÉHUL, ÉTIENNE NICHOLAS, 495 MEILHAC, HENRI (Librettist), 586, 736 =Meistersinger von Nürnberg, Die=, 88, 91, 119, 246, 376 _Melba, Nellie_, 295, 306, 343, 388, 416, 458, 503, 543, 564, 628 Melcthal, 313 ff. MÉLÉSVILLE (Librettist), 497 Mélisande, 753, 760 Mélisse, 14 ff. Melot, 227 ff. MENASCI, G., 612 MENDÈS, CATULLE (Librettist), 765 =Mephistopheles=, 474 Méphistophélès, 543, 562 Mercedes, 587 ff. Mercedes, Doña, 793 Mercutio, 575 ff. =Mère Coupable, La=, 296 Merlier, 759 Merrill, Paul, 838 =Merry Wives of Windsor, The=, 80 Méru, 504 ff. MÉRY (Librettist), 437 =Messiah, The=, 14 MEYERBEER, GIACOMO, 1, 2, 79, 438, 440, 459, 494, 498, 499, 510, 523 Micaela, 587 ff. _Micelli, Catarina_, 32 Micha, 816 Michela, 765 Michele, 678 _Mierzwinski_, 313 =Mignon=, 580 ff. Mignon, 581 ff. Mikkel, 764 Mikleford, Lord Tristan de, 546 ff. Miller, 434 ff. MILLIET, PAUL (Librettist), 747, 748 _Milon_, 44 Mime, 89, 148 Mimi, 143, 644 Minnie, 674 ff. _Miolan-Carvalho_, 562, 575 _Mirabella_, 475 Mirabolano, 719 Miracle, Dr., 724 Missail, 822 Mitranus, 310 ff. _Molé, Mlle._, 724 =Mona=, 832, 840 Mona, 840 =Monna Vanna=, 761 Monna Vanna, 761 Montano, 459 ff. _Monteux, Pierre_ (Director), 762 _Montegriffo_, 628 MONTEMEZZI, ITALO, 607, 690 Monterone, Count, 386 ff. MONTEVERDI, CLAUDIO, 5 Montfleury, 841 Montford, Guy de, 436 ff. Morales, 587 ff. MORAND, EUGÈNE (Librettist), 727 _Moran, Miss_, 272 _Moran-Oldern_, 140, 148 _Morello, Signor_, 43 Morfontaine, Guillot de, 736 ff. =Mors et Vita=, 561 MOSENTHAL, G.H. (Librettist), 773 MOSENTHAL, H. (Librettist), 779 Moser, August, 246 ff. _Mottl, Felix_ (Director), 539 Monostatos, 46 ff. MOUSSORGSKY, 822, 824 MOZART, 21, 22, 24, 30, 33, 43, 45, 51, 55, 77, 293, 295, 426, 493 =Muette de Portici, La= (=Masaniello=), 496 Muff, 816 _Mühlmann_, 272, 830 MÜLLER, WENZEL, 46 _Muratore_, 564, 575, 761 _Murska, Ilma di_, 45 Musetta, 643 ff. Mustapha, Baba, 771 _Muzio_, 516 Mylio, 727 Myrto, 757 =Mystères d'Isis, Les=, 45, 51 N Nachtigall, Conrad, 246 ff. =Nachtlager in Granada, Das=, 80 Nadir, 604 Naiad, 15, 814 Nancy, 546 ff. Nangis, Raoul de, 504 ff. _Nannetti_, 440 Naoia, 833 Napoleon Bonaparte, 707 ff. Narbal, 541 Narraboth, 801 Narr'Havas, 752 =Natomah=, 837 Natomah, 838 =Navarraise, La=, 605, 728, 745 Nedda, 608, 628 Neipperg, Count de, 707 ff. Nelusko, 523 ff. Nemorino, 335 ff. Nereno, 475 ff. =Nerone= (=Nero=), 480 NESSLER, VIKTOR E., 784 _Neuendorff, Adolff_, 107, 162, 163 _Neumann, Angelo_ (Director), 140 Nevers, Adolar de, 69 ff. Nevers, Count de, 504 ff. =Nibelungen, Der Ring des=, 139 ff. =Nibelung, The, Dramas=, 87, 88 Nicias, 732 Nick, 674 ff. Nicklausse, 724 NICOLAI, OTTO, 80, 466 _Nicolay, Mr._, 837 _Nicolini_, 575 _Niemann_, 62, 89, 140, 207, 227 Nikitin, (Michael), 822 Nilakantha, 724 _Nilsson, Christine_, 117, 402, 416, 475, 483, 503, 546, 562, 580, 585 Ninus, Ghost of, 310 ff. Noémie, 745 _Nordica, Lillian_, 45, 140, 227, 482, 503, 523 Norina, 372 ff. =Norma=, 318, 325 Norma, 326 ff. Norman, 343 ff. Normanno, 343 NOSSIG, ALFRED (Librettist), 830 Nourabad, 604 _Nourrit_, 13, 313, 501 _Novara_, 475, 483, 562 =Nozze di Figaro, Le=, 23, 24, 309, 376, 493, 808 Nureddin, 771 O _Ober, Margarete_, 482, 772, 807, 843 =Oberon=, 63 Oberthal, Count, 516 ff. Ochs, Baron, 807 Octavian, 807 OFFENBACH, JACQUES, 723 Olga, 825 Olga, Countess, 720 Olympia, 724 Onegin, Eugen, 825 Ophelia, 585 =Oracola, L'=, 686 ff. Orestes, 18, 20, 804 Orfeo, 8, 9, 13, 14 =Orfeo ed Euridice=, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 20, 77, 493 Orlando, 765 Oroe, 310 ff. Oros, 831 Oroveso, 326 ff. Orsini, Maffio, 339 ff. Orsino, Paolo, 94 ff. Ortel, Hermann, 246 ff. Orti, 764 Ortrud, 117 ff. Osaka, 620 ff. Oscar (Edgardo), 427 ff. Ostasio, 680 ff. =Othello=, 7, 376, 458, 480 Othello, 458 ff. Ottavio, 704 ff. Ottavio, Don, 31 ff. Ottokar, Prince, 63 ff. =Ory, Comte=, 294 P PADEREWSKI, IGNACE JAN, 830 PAËR, 55 Page, Mistress, 466 ff. =Pagliacci, I=, 608, 618, 626, 628, 698 PAISIELLO, 300 Palm, Giovanni, 721 _Paltrinieri, Giordano_, 765 Pamina, 45 ff. Pandolfe, 745 Pantalis, 475 ff. Pantalone, 704 ff. Pantasille, 765 Pantheus, 539, 541 Paolo, 680 ff. Papagena, 46 ff. Papageno, 45 ff. _Pappenheim_, 163 Paquiro, 849 _Parepa-Rosa_, 503 Paris, Count, 575 ff. PARKER, HORATIO, 832, 840 Parpignol, 643 ff. =Parsifal=, 90, 119, 247, 272 Parsifal, 272 ff. _Pasquali, di_, 372 =Pasquale, Don=, 334, 372 Pasquale, Don, 372 ff. PASQUÉ, ERNST, 76 _Patti, Adelina_, 295, 305, 308, 309, 319, 343, 354, 355, 367, 377, 388, 416, 531, 546, 564, 725, 742 _Patti, Carlotta_, 45 Pauloff, Stephen, 836 _Pearman_, 23 =Pêcheurs de Perles, Les=, 603 ff. Pedro, 743, 793 Pedro, Don, 31, 523, 538 Pelléas, 752 ff. =Pelléas et Mélisande=, 2, 752 PEPOLI, COUNT (Librettist), 329 Peralta, Father, 837 PERI, JACOPO, 4 PERINET (Librettist), 46 _Perini, Flora_, 765 PERIQUET, FERNANDO (Librettist), 850 _Perozzi, Signor_, 333 PERRIER, MARTIAL (Librettist), 764 _Persiani_, 343 =Pescatori di Perle=, 603 _Peschka-Leutner_, 306 Peter, 779 Peters, 721 Peter the Great, 530 Petruchio, 772 _Pettigiani_, 523 Phanuel, 749 Phenice, 14 ff. Philine, 581 ff. Philip, 834 Philip II., 438 _Phillipps, Thomas_, 23, 295, 308 Philodème, 756 ff. PIAVE, FRANCESCO MARIA (Librettist), 377, 386, 416, 718 PICCINI, NICOLA, 8, 9, 20 _Piccolomini_, 416 Pico, 838 Pierre, 767 Pierrot, 367 ff. Pimen, 822 ff. _Pini-Corsi, Antonio_, 372, 776 _Pinkert_, 329 Pinkerton, Kate, 665 ff. Pinkerton, Lieutenant B.F., 665 ff. =Pipe of Desire, The=, 833 =Pique-Dame=, 827 Pistacchio, Don Hannibal, 375 Pistol, 466 ff. Pizarro, 54 ff. _Placide, Mr._, 62 _Plançon, Pol_, 359, 427, 475, 482, 503, 516, 565, 587, 715, 745 Plummer, Edward, 775 Plunkett, 564 ff. Pogner, Veit, 246 ff. Polkan, Voevoda, 829 Pollione, 326 ff. Polonius, 586 Polyxena, 539 Pomone, 765 Pompeo, 536 ff. PONCHIELLI, AMILCARE, 480, 481, 638 _Ponselle, Rosa_, 836 _Ponziani, Felice_, 32 PORDES-MILO (Librettist), 781 =Postillon de Longumeau, Le=, 497 Poussette, 736 ff. Prefect, 367 ff. _Preisch, Mr._, 837 Prêtre, Le Grand, 756 ff. _Preusser, Felix_, 163 Priam, 539 Procida, Giovanni di, 436 ff. =Prodigal Son, The=, 481 =Prophète, Le=, 500, 504, 516, 731 _Pruette, William_, 612 PUCCINI, GIACOMO, 1, 7, 91, 482, 607, 638, 643, 652 _Puente, Del_, 117, 437, 483 Puiset, Eglantine de, 69 ff. =Puritani, I=, 318, 329 PUSHKIN (Librettist), 822 Pylades, 182 ff. Q =Quichotte, Don=, 743 ff. Quichotte, Don, 743 ff. Quickly, Dame, 466 ff. QUINALT, FRANÇOIS (Librettist), 14, 17 Quintus, 840 R RABAUD, HENRI, 763 Rachel, 498 Rafaele, 699 ff. =Raggio di Luna=, 689 Ragueneau, 841 Raimbaut, 501 Raimondo, 343 Raimondo, 94 ff. Raimondo, King, 625 ff. _Raisa, Rosa_, 625 Rambaldo, 676 ff. RAMEAU, 1, 21 Ramphis, 439 Rance, Jack, 674 ff. Rangoni, 822 _Rappold, Marie_, 18, 772 Ratmir, 818 Ratsalteste, Der, 776 Raymond, 343 ff. =Rédemption, La=, 561 _Reichmann_, 272 =Reine Fiammette, La=, 765 _Reiner, Marcel_, 776 Reinhart (Renato), 427 ff. _Reiss, Albert_, 52, 375, 665, 674, 765, 772, 776, 807, 843 _Renaud, Maurice_, 45, 387, 475, 543, 747, 749 Renaud (Rinaldo), 15 ff. Repela, 793 Retz, de, 504 REYER, 752 Rhadames, 439 ff. =Rheingold, Das=, 87, 89, 139, 148 Rhinedaughters, 89, 141 Rhodis, 757 Riccardo, Don, 377 ff. RICCI, FEDERICO, 718 RICCI, LUIGI, 718 RICCORDI, TITO (Librettist), 680 Richard, Count of Warwick, 427 ff. Richard II., King, 843 RICHEPIN, JEAN (Librettist), 766 _Richings_, 319 _Richter, Hans_ (Director), 89, 107, 246 Ricke, 721 =Rienzi, der Letzte der Tribune=, 84, 94, 98, 109, 118 Rienzi, Cola, 94 ff. RIESE, WILHELM FRIEDRICH (Librettist), 546 =Rigoletto=, 7, 376, 386, 426, 438, 466, 471, 602 Rigoletto, 386 ff. _Rimini, Giacomo_, 720 RIMSKY-KORSAKOFF, 828 =Rinegata, La=, 343 =Ring Dramas, The=, 91, 119, 122, 247 _Rioton, Miss_, 750 =Rip Van Winkle=, 689 RIVAS, DUKE OF (Librettist), 437 Robert, 639 Robert, Duke, 501, 799 Roberti, 653 ff. =Robert le Diable=, 498, 500, 504, 510 Robertson, Sir Benno, 330 ff. Robin, 466 ff. _Robinson, Adolf_, 107, 117, 208, 227 Rocco, 54, 699 ROCHE, HENRI PIERRE (Librettist), 764 Roderigo, 459 ff. Rodolpho, Count, 319, 434 Rodrigo, 742 Rodrigo, Marquis de Posa, 438 Rodriguez, 744 =Roi d'Ys, Le=, 727 =Roland of Berlin=, 628 ROMANI, FELICE (Librettist), 318, 325, 335, 339 Romeo, 575 ff. =Roméo et Juliette=, 561, 574 _Ronconi, Mlle._, 580 _Ronconi_, 387 =Rondine, La=, 639, 676 ROQUETTE, OTTO (Librettist), 769 _Rosa, Parepa_, 546 Rosario, 850 Rosaura, 704 ff. =Rosenkavalier, Der=, 376, 759, 807 Rose, 725 ROSENFELD, SYDNEY, 374 Rosette, 736 ff. _Rosick, Signor_, 295 Rosina, 295, 306, 308 ROSMER, ERNST (Librettist), 776 Rossa, La, 708 ff. ROSSI, GAETANO (Librettist), 309, 367 _Rossi, Giulio_, 335, 844 ROSSINI, GIOACHINO ANTONIO, 1, 22, 25, 293, 307, 309, 312, 334, 426, 493, 494, 498, 510, 608 _Rothier, Léon_, 762, 765 Roucher, 713 ff. Roustan, 707 ff. Rouvel, Baron, 720 Roxana, 841 ROYER, ALPHONSE (Librettist), 359 _Roze, Marie_, 736 Rozenn, 727 _Rubini_, 45, 329 Rudolph, 313, 643 Ruedi, 313 ff. Rufina, 716 ff. _Ruffo, Titta_, 387, 475, 585, 717 Ruggero, 676 ff. =Ruin of Athens, The=, 56 Ruiz, 402 ff. _Russitano_, 466 Russlan, 818 =Russlan und Ludmilla=, 818 Rustighello, 339 ff. _Ruysdael, Basil_, 769, 772, 844 S SABINA, R. (Librettist), 815 Sachs, Hans, 145, 246 =Sacrifice, The=, 832 SAGANA, LUIGI (Librettist), 704 St. Bris, Count de, 504 ff. =St. Elizabeth=, 769 ST. GEORGE, 559 SAINT-SAËNS, 725 =Salammbô=, 752 Salammbô, 752 _Saléza, Albert_, 575, 587, 715, 752 _Salignac, Mr._, 752 SALIERI, 24, 466 =Salome=, 769, 800 Salome, 749, 801 Saluce, Marquis de, 728 _Salvi_, 502, 516 Salviati, Cardinal, 536 ff. _Salvini-Donatelli_, 417 Samaritana, 680 ff. _Sammarco, Mr._, 458, 705, 837 _Sammares_, 699 Samson, 725 =Samson et Dalila=, 14, 725 Samuel, 427 ff. Sancho, 743 ff. _Sänger_, 227 _Sanderson, Sibyl_, 736, 741 =Sans-Gêne, Madame=, 707 ff. Sante, 705 _Santley_, 503, 562, 585 Santuzza, 612 ff. _Saporiti, Teresa_, 32 =Sapho=, 561, 728, 749 Sarastro, 45 ff. SARDOU (Librettist), 728, 761 Saretsky, 825 Satan, 728 =Sauteriot, Le=, 764 Savoie, Euryanthe de, 69 ff. _Scalchi_, 309, 458, 466, 483, 562, 580 Scaramuccio, 814 _Scaria_, 272 SCARLATTI, ALESSANDRO, 5 Scarpia, Baron, 652 ff. Schaunard, 643 ff. =Schauspieldirektor, Der=, 52 _Scheff, Fritzi_, 23, 830 _Schefsky, Fräulein_, 89 Schicchi, 679 SCHIKANEDER, EMANUEL (Librettist), 45, 46, 55 SCHILLER (Librettist), 434, 437 _Schlegel, Carl_, 769, 835, 844 _Schlosser_, 89 Schmidt, 713 ff. Schneider, Der, 776 _Schott, Anton_, 107, 163, 497, 516 Schreiber, Heinrich der, 107 ff. _Schröder-Devrient, Mme._, 56, 84 _Schroeder-Hanfstaengl_, 516 _Schumann-Heink_, 140, 246, 340, 516, 806 Schwartz, Hans, 246 ff. Schwerlein, Martha, 562 ff. Sciarrone, 653 ff. _Scolara_, 440 _Scotti, Antonio_, 23, 45, 335, 372, 427, 458, 466, 504, 620, 640, 652, 665, 686, 705, 752 SCRIBE (Librettist), 436, 495, 498, 501, 503, 516, 523, 528 =Segreto di Susanna, Il=, 698, 705 _Seidl, Anton_ (Director), 62, 69, 117, 140, 227, 246, 255 _Seidl-Kraus_, 107, 117, 163, 191, 207, 246 Selika, 523 ff. Sélysette, 759 ff. _Sembach, Johannes_, 18, 772, 843 _Sembrich_, 23, 45, 295, 306, 319, 325, 335, 343, 355, 372, 377, 416, 483, 503, 546, 565, 725, 830 =Semiramide=, 309 ff. Semiramide, 310 ff. Seneschal, 769 Senta, 98 ff. Sentlinger, Ortolf, 797 Serafina, 375 Serena, 699 ff. Séso, 757 _Setti_, 503 Sforza, Cardinal, 765 Shahabarim, 752 Shanewis, 834 =Shanewis, or The Robin Woman=, 834 Sharpless, 665 ff. =Sheba, The Queen of=, 773 Sheba, Queen of, 773 _Sheehan, Joseph F._, 665 Shouisky, 822 =Siberia=, 714 Sid, 674 ff. Sidonie, 14 ff. Siebel, 562 ff. =Siegfried=, 87, 89, 91, 140, 191 Siegfried, 89, 140, 143, 208 Sieglinde, 89, 140, 142, 146, 164 Siegmund, 89, 140, 142, 146, 163 _Siehr_, 89, 272 _Silvain_, 728 Silvan, 427 ff. SILVESTRE, ARMAND (Librettist), 727 Silvio, 628 ff. Siméon, 495 SIMONI, RENATO (Librettist), 707 =Singspiel=, 51 _Sinico, Mme._, 586 Siriex, de, 720 _Sizes_, 752 Skoula, 820 _Slach, Anna_, 107 _Slezak_, 458 Smaradi, 680 ff. SMETANA, FRIEDRICH, 769, 815 Solomon, King, 773 Somarone, 538 SOMMA-SCRIBE (Librettist), 426 =Songe d'une Nuit d'Été, Le=, 467 =Sonnambula, La=, 7, 318, 331, 376, 426, 608 SONNLEITHNER, JOSEPH (Librettist), 54, 55 Sonora, 674 ff. _Sontag_, 355 Sophie, 748, 807 Sophie, Landgravine, 769 Spalanzani, 724 Sparafucile, 386 ff. _Sparkes, Lenore_, 765 Spendius, 752 Spielmann, Der, 776 Splendiano, 605 SPOHR, LUDWIG, 79 Spoletta, 653 ff. SPONTINI, GASPARO, 80 Springer, 816 Stackareff, Count, 836 _Stagno_, 483 Stallmagd, Die, 776 Stapps, 721 STASSOFF (Librettist), 819 _Staudigl_, 163 Stchelakov, Andrey, 822 _Steffanone_, 402, 501, 503, 516 Stella, 699, 724 STERBINI, CESARE (Librettist), 295 _Stockton, Fanny_, 562 Stolzing, Walther von, 246 ff. _Storchio_, 665 _Strakosch, Max_ (Director), 440 STRAUSS, JOHANN, 808 STRAUSS, RICHARD, 7, 20, 32, 306, 769, 796, 798, 800, 804, 807, 813 _Stritt_, 117, 246 SUARATONI (Librettist), 618 Sulamith, 773 Sulpice, 355 ff. _Sulzer, Henrietta_, 562 _Sundelius, Marie_, 834, 844 =Suor Angelica=, 677 Susanna, 23 ff. _Susini_, 326 Suzanne, Countess, 705 Suzel, 619 ff. Suzuki, 665 ff. Sviatoslav, Prince, 820 Svietosar, 818 _Szamozy, Elsa_, 665 T =Tabarro, Il=, 677 Tackleton, 775 _Tagliafico_, 516 _Taglioni_, 501 _Talazac, M._, 724 Talbot, Lord Arthur, 330 ff. _Tamagno_, 313, 458 _Tamburini_, 329, 374 =Taming of the Shrew, The=, 772 Tamino, 45 ff. =Tancredi=, 12, 294, 307 =Tannhäuser=, 68, 69, 79, 85, 86, 88, 99, 106, 118, 226, 303, 516 Tannhäuser, 107 ff. Tan Taanach, 752 TARGIONI-TOGGETTI, GIOVANNI (Librettist), 612 _Taskin, M._, 724 Tatiana, 825 Tavannes, 504 ff. Tchernomor, 819 _Teal, Jeannie_, 612 _Tegani, Riccardo_, 844 Tell, William, 313 ff. =Temple Dancer, The=, 834 =Templer und die Judin, Der=, 79 Tenebrun, 744 Teresa, 319, 536 _Ternina, Milka_, 140, 227, 272, 652 _Tetrazzini, Luisa_, 295, 319, 325, 329, 343, 355, 388, 416, 458, 531, 725 =Thaïs=, 728, 731 Thaïs, 732 Thallus, Primus, 788 Thérèse, 779 Thoas, 18 ff. THOMAS, AMBROISE, 580, 585, 586 Thore, 504 ff. =Three Pintos, The=, 76 THUILLE, LUDWIG, 791 _Tichatschek_, 84 _Tietjens_, 306, 339 _Tiffany, Marie_, 765, 844 Timon, 756 ff. Tio Lucas, 793 Titurel, 272 ff. Toinet, 767 Toinette, 708, 767 Tolak, 767 Tom (Tommaso), 427 ff. Tomaso, 832 Tomes, Dr., 706 =Tommaso Chatterton=, 626 Tonio, 355, 628, 716 Tonuelo, 793 _Torriani, Mlle._, 440 =Torvaldo e Dorliska=, 300 =Tosca=, 638, 644, 652 Tosca, Floria, 652 ff. _Toscanini_ (Director), 705 =Traviata, La=, 376, 416, 438, 471 Trebelli, 475, 581 TREITSCHKE, GEORG FRIEDRICH (Librettist), 54, 56 _Trentini_, 602 Trim, 674 ff. Trine, 764 Triquet, 825 Tristan, 227 ff. =Tristan und Isolde=, 87, 88, 91, 119, 227, 247, 335 =Trompeter von Säkkingen, Der=, 784 Trouble (Cio-Cio-San's child), 665 ff. =Trovatore, Il=, 376, 402, 471 =Troyens à Carthage=, 540 ff. =Troyens, Les, La Prise de Troie=, 539 ff. Truffaldin, 814 TSCHAIKOWSKY, MODESTE (Librettist), 825, 827 TSCHAIKOWSKY, PETER ILITSCH, 825, 827 Turiddu, 609, 612 Tybalt, 575 ff. U Ubalde, 15 ff. _Ugalde, Mlle. Marguerite_, 724 Ulana, 831 Ulrica, 427 ff. =Undine=, 80 _Unger_, 89 Urbain, 504 ff. Urok, 831 Ursula, 538 Utobal, 495 V _Valda, Giulia_, 434 Valentine, 504, 562 Valéry, Violetta, 416 ff. =Valkyr, The=, 89, 91 _Valleria_, 475 Valois, Elizabeth de, 438 Valois, Marguerite de, 504 ff. _Valtellino, Signor_, 333 Valzacchi, 807 =Vampyr, Der=, 79 _Van Dyck_, 140 Vannard, 622 ff. _Van Rooy_, 140, 246, 272 _Van Zandt, Miss_, 725 _Varesi_, 417 Varlaam, 822 Vasari, 765 Vasco Da Gama, 523 ff. VAUCAIRE (Librettist), 716 Vecchio, Cecco del, 94 ff. Venus, 107 ff. =Vêpres Siciliennes, Les=, 440 VERDI, GIUSEPPE, 1, 6, 7, 22, 90, 91, 334, 376, 377, 386, 402, 416, 426, 436, 481, 493, 494, 608, 638, 847 =Verkaufte Braut, Die=, 815 VERNOY, BAYARD (Librettist), 355 VERNOY, JULES H. (Librettist), 355, 559 Verona, Duke of, 575 ff. =Versiegelt=, 781 =Vestale, La=, 80 _Vestivalli_, 309, 402 _Viardot-Garcia, Pauline_, 13, 44, 305, 516 _Vicini_, 434 =Vieil Aigle, Le=, 767 _Vietti_, 503 _Villani, Louise_, 690 =Villi, Le=, 639 ff. Vinaigre, 707 ff. Viola, 765 Violette, 765 Violine, 765 =Viscardello=, 402 Vitellozzo, 339 ff. _Vogel_, 89 Vogelgesang, Kunz, 246 ff. Vogelweide, von der, 107 ff. VON BREUNING, STEPHAN (Librettist), 56 _von Bülow, Hans_ (Director), 227, 246, 535 VON CHEZY, HELMINE (Librettist), 69 _von Doenhof, Helen_, 612 von Faninal, 807 VON FLOTOW, FRIEDRICH, 546, 559 von Gundelfingen, Schweiker, 797 VON HOFMANNSTHAL, HUGO (Librettist), 804, 807, 813 _von Milde_, 227 von Schönau, Baron, 784 von Werdenberg, Princess, 807 von Wildenstein, Count, 784 VON WOLZOGEN, ERNST, 796 W _Wachtel, Theodore_, 496, 497, 503 WAEZ, GUSTAVE (Librettist), 359 =Waffenschmied, Der=, 80 Wagner, 475, 562 WAGNER, RICHARD, 6, 8, 68, 71, 79, 81, 86, 90, 98, 106, 117, 118, 139, 148, 163, 191, 207, 227, 293, 459, 481, 483, 494, 562, 626, 759, 769, 803, 807, 847 _Walker, Edyth_, 482 =Walküre, Die=, 7, 87, 139, 163 ff. Wallace, Jake, 675 ff. Wälse, 142 ff. Walter, 720 Walter, Count, 434 ff. _Walter, Edna_, 776 Walton, Lord Gautier, 329 ff. Walton, Sir George, 329 ff. Waltraute, 89, 140, 208 _Warwick, Veni_, 765 WEBER, CARL MARIA VON, 63, 68, 76, 77, 79, 493, 562 _Weckerin, Fräulein_, 89 _Weil_, 18, 807 Wellgunde, 148, 208 Wenzel, 816 =Werther=, 747 Werther, 748 WETTE, ADELHEID (Librettist), 778 _White, Carolina_, 699, 705 _White, Phillis_, 765 _Whitehill, Clarence_, 246, 769, 772 _Wickham, Florence_, 776 WIDMANN, VICTOR (Librettist), 772 Wilhelm, 584 ff., 724 =Wildschütz, Der=, 80 =William Tell=, 498, 510 Willmers, Frau, 781 WILLNER, M. (Librettist), 775 _Winckelmann_, 272 Win-San-Lui, 686 ff. Win-She, 686 ff. Wirt, Der, 776 Wirtstochter, Die, 776 Woglinde, 148, 208 WOLF-FERRARI, ERMANO, 607, 698 WOLF, HUGO, 792 _Wood, Mr._, 319, 501 _Wood, Mrs._, 319, 501 Worms, Carl, 721 Wotan, 89, 140, 141, 148, 164 Wowkle, 675 ff. Wulf, 639 X Xenia, 822 Ximenes, Don Roldano, 718 ff. Y Yakuside, 665 ff. Yamadori, Prince, 665 ff. Yaroslavna, Princess, 820 Yeletsky, Prince, 828 Ygraine, 759 ff. Yniold, 753 ff. Yoga, 835 _Yppolito, G._, 562 Z Zaccaria, Franco, 762 Zacharias, 516 ff. _Zamboni_, 301 Zamiel, 64 ff. =Zampa=, 497 ZANARDINI (Librettist), 720 ZANDONAI, RICCARDO, 607, 680, 716 =Zanetto=, 611 ZANGARINI, C. (Librettist), 674, 699, 716 ZANONI, CAMILLO (Librettist), 686 =Zauberflöte, Die=, 51, 493 =Zaza=, 628 _Zenatello_, 458, 665 Zerbinetta, 814 Zerlina, 31, 36 Zina, 767 Zitterbart, 787 Zorn, Balthazar, 246 ff. Zuàne, 482 ff. Zucarraga, 746 _Zucchi_, 523 Zuniga, 587 ff. Zurga, 604 Zweter, Reinmar von, 107 ff. My Path Through Life By Lilli Lehmann Translated from the German by Alice Benedict Seligman _8o. About 500 pp. With 50 Illustrations_ Mme. Lehmann gives us a volume of memoirs, musical and personal, which will command the attention of the world-wide public which this great singer has charmed. The book is written with her characteristic sincerity and frankness. She unfolds the complete story of her life, devoting a generous measure of attention to her friends and rivals upon the operatic stage. Her achievements in Prague, Leipsic, Vienna, and elsewhere, her struggles in Berlin, her extended tours in Europe and America, are fascinatingly told. She presents an account of her collaborations with Wagner at Bayreuth, and tells of her experiences at Court. The pleasant as well as the arduous aspects of the artist's career are presented with a wealth of anecdote. G.P. Putnam's Sons New York London _"Clear in construction, direct in purpose, and written with intellectual calm, yet with the enthusiasm of a musician."--N.Y. Sun._ The Life of Johann Sebastian Bach BY Sir Hubert Parry, M.A., Mus. Doc., D.C.L. Professor of Music, Oxford; Director of Royal College of Music Author of "Studies of Great Composers," "Evolution of the Art of Music," etc. _8vo. With Portraits._ Sir Hubert Parry's _Johann Sebastian Bach, Composer_, is at once a biography and a critical and historical study of the achievements of the great eighteenth-century composer, director, and performer upon the organ and piano. The eminence of Sir Hubert Parry himself as a composer and as a writer and student of music needs no comment here. For the last decade he has been professor of music at Oxford. Considering the importance of the man who is the subject of this life, and the authority of Sir Hubert Parry as a critic and writer, no student of music can afford to be a stranger to this thorough and comprehensive work. G.P. Putnam's Sons New York London Memoirs of a Prima Donna By Clara Louise Kellogg (Mme. Strakosch) _8o. With 48 Illustrations._ Clara Louise Kellogg, who is now Clara Louise Strakosch, was the first American prima donna to win recognition abroad. After making her début in opera at the Academy of Music, in New York, in 1861, she appeared in opera in London and later in Berlin, Vienna, and Saint Petersburg. In every country she was received with acclaim and returned to her native land covered with honors showered upon her by the best audiences that the old world affords. Miss Kellogg created the rôle of Marguerite in Gounod's _Faust_ in this country, and of Mignon in Ambroise Thomas's opera of that name. After winning laurels in Italian opera she organized an English opera company of her own, which sang for several seasons in New York and the principal cities of the United States. While at the head of her own company she produced Wagner's _Flying Dutchman_ for the first time in America, creating the rôle of Senta, and she was the first prima donna to sing _Aïda_ and _Carmen_ in English. Miss Kellogg was famous not only for the beautiful quality of her voice but for her marvelous musical ear. It is said that there were over forty operas that she could sing on twenty-four hours' notice, and that never once in the course of her operatic career had she been known to sing a fraction of a tone off the key. These Memoirs are filled with anecdotes of the interesting people whom she met, on and off the stage, and contain a fund of information about voice culture and the study of music that no one interested in the subject can read without profit. G.P. Putnam's Sons New York London _An Ideal Biography_ Richard Wagner His Life and His Dramas A Biographical Study of the Man and an Explanation of His Work By W.J. Henderson Author of "The Story of Music," "Preludes and Studies," "What Is Good Music," etc. The purpose of this book is to supply Wagner-lovers with a single work which shall meet all their needs. The author has told the story of Wagner's life, explained his artistic aims, given the history of each of his great works, examined its literary sources, shown how Wagner utilized them, surveyed the musical plan of each drama, and set forth the meaning and purpose of its principal ideas. The volume has been prepared with great care and no little labor, and is not intended to be critical, but is designed to be expository. It aims to help the Wagner-lover to a thorough knowledge and understanding of the man and his works. "An exposition rather than a criticism of Wagner's art, for in Wagner's case it is peculiarly true that any biographical study of the man is inseparable from an explanation of his works. Mr. Henderson's book is intended to help the lover of Wagner to a thorough knowledge and understanding both of the man and his works. Nothing in the English language, at least, has ever so fully covered the subject."--_Review of Reviews._ G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS New York London 
30560	----	by Linda Cantoni. [Transcriber's Note: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Questionable text is marked with a [Transcriber's Note]. A macron over a letter is represented by an equal sign, e.g., punct[=u]s. A caron over a letter is represented by a v, e.g., Dvo[vr]ák.] MUSIC: AN ART AND A LANGUAGE BY WALTER RAYMOND SPALDING _Price $2.50 net_ THE ARTHUR P. SCHMIDT CO. BOSTON 120 BOYLSTON STREET NEW YORK 8 WEST 40th STREET Copyright, 1920, by THE ARTHUR P. SCHMIDT CO. International Copyright Secured A.P.S. 11788 TO MY COLLEAGUES IN THE DEPARTMENT OF MUSIC AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY WILLIAM CLIFFORD HEILMAN, EDWARD BURLINGAME HILL, ARCHIBALD THOMPSON DAVISON, EDWARD BALLANTINE SUPPLEMENTARY ILLUSTRATIONS for _MUSIC: an ART and a LANGUAGE_ Vols. I & II now ready (_Schmidt's Educational Series No. 257-a, b_) Price $1.00 each volume Preface Although "of the making of books there is no end," this book, on so human a subject as music, we believe should justify itself. A twenty-years' experience in teaching the Appreciation of Music at Harvard University and Radcliffe College has convinced the author that a knowledge of musical grammar and structure does enable us, as the saying is, to get more out of music. This conviction is further strengthened by the statement of numerous students who testify that after analyzing certain standard compositions their attitude towards music has changed and their love for it greatly increased. In the illustrations (published in a Supplementary Volume) no concessions have been made to so-called "popular taste"; people have an instinctive liking for the best when it is fairly put before them. We are not providing a musical digest, since music requires _active coöperation_ by the hearer, nor are we trying to interpret music in terms of the other arts. Music is itself. For those who may be interested in speculating as to the connection between music and art, numerous books are available--some of them excellent from their point of view. This book concerns itself with music _as_ music. It is assumed that, if anyone really loves this art, he is willing and glad to do serious work to quicken his sense of hearing, to broaden his imagination, and to strengthen his memory so that he may become intelligent in appreciation rather than merely absorbed in honeyed sounds. Music is of such power and glory that we should be ready to devote to its study as much time as to a foreign language. In the creed of the music-lover the first and last article is familiarity. When we thoroughly know a composition so that its themes sing in our memory and we feel at home in the structure, the music will speak to us directly, and all books and analytical comments will be of secondary importance--those of the present writer not excepted. Special effort has been made to select illustrations of musical worth, and upon these the real emphasis in study should be laid. The material of the book is based on lectures, often of an informal nature, in the Appreciation Course at Harvard University and lays no claim to original research. The difficulty in establishing points of approach makes it far more baffling to speak or write about music than about the other arts. Music is sufficient unto itself. Endowed with the insight of a Ruskin or a Pater, one may say something worth while about painting. But in music the line between mere statistical analysis and sentimental rhapsody must be drawn with exceeding care. If the subject matter be clearly presented and the analyses true--allowance being made for honest difference of opinion--every hope will be realized. The author's gratitude is herewith expressed to Mr. Percy Lee Atherton for his critical revision of the text and to Professor William C. Heilman for valuable assistance in selecting and preparing the musical illustrations. W.R.S. Cambridge, Massachusetts _June_, 1919 Contents I. PRELIMINARY CONSIDERATIONS 1 II. THE FOLK-SONG 18 III. POLYPHONIC MUSIC; SEBASTIAN BACH, THE FUGUE 33 IV. THE MUSICAL SENTENCE 50 V. THE TWO-PART AND THREE-PART FORMS 69 VI. THE CLASSICAL AND THE MODERN SUITE 73 VII. THE RONDO FORM 81 VIII. THE VARIATION FORM 85 IX. THE SONATA-FORM AND ITS FOUNDERS--EMMANUEL BACH AND HAYDN 91 X. MOZART. THE PERFECTION OF CLASSIC STRUCTURE AND STYLE 108 XI. BEETHOVEN, THE TONE-POET 122 XII. THE ROMANTIC COMPOSERS. SCHUBERT, WEBER 160 XIII. SCHUMANN AND MENDELSSOHN 172 XIV. CHOPIN AND PIANOFORTE STYLE 188 XV. BERLIOZ AND LISZT. PROGRAM MUSIC 202 XVI. BRAHMS 228 XVII. CÉSAR FRANCK 255 XVIII. THE MODERN FRENCH SCHOOL--D'INDY AND DEBUSSY 280 XIX. NATIONAL SCHOOLS--RUSSIAN, BOHEMIAN AND SCANDINAVIAN 300 XX. THE VARIED TENDENCIES OF MODERN MUSIC 326 _Music is the universal language of mankind._ --LONGFELLOW. _Music can noble hints impart, Engender fury, kindle love; With unsuspected eloquence can move And manage all the man with secret art._ --ADDISON. _Music is the sound of the circulation in nature's veins. It is the flux which melts nature. Men dance to it, glasses ring and vibrate, and the fields seem to undulate. The healthy ear always hears it, nearer or more remote._ --THOREAU. _To strike all this life dead, Run mercury into a mold like lead, And henceforth have the plain result to show-- How we Feel hard and fast, and what we Know-- This were the prize, and is the puzzle!--which Music essays to solve._ --BROWNING. _All music is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the instruments._ --WHITMAN. Music: an Art and a Language CHAPTER I PRELIMINARY CONSIDERATIONS In approaching the study of any subject we may fairly expect that this subject shall be defined, although some one has ironically remarked that every definition is a misfortune. Music-lovers, however, will rejoice that their favorite art is spared such a misfortune, for it can not be defined. We know the factors of which music is constituted, rhythm and sound; and we can trace the historic steps by which methods of presentation and of style have been so perfected that by means of this twofold material the emotions and aspirations of human beings may be expressed and permanently recorded. We realize, and with our inborn equipment can appreciate, the moving power of music; but to define, in the usual sense of the term definition, what music really is, will be forever impossible. The fact indeed that music--like love, electricity and other elemental forces--cannot be defined is its special glory. It is a peculiar, mysterious power;[1] quite in a class by itself, although with certain aspects which it shares with the other arts. The writings of all the great poets, such as Milton, Shakespeare, Browning and Whitman, abound in eloquent tributes to the power and influence of music, but it is noticeable that no one attempts to define it. The mystery of music must be approached with reverence and music must be loved for itself with perfect sincerity. [Footnote 1: For suggestive comments on this point see the essays _Harmonie et Melodie_ by Saint-Saëns, Chapters I and II.] Some insight, however, may be gained into the nature of music by a clear recognition of what it is _not_, and by a comparison with the more definite and familiar arts. Music consists of the intangible and elusive factors of rhythm and sound; in this way differing fundamentally from the concrete static arts such as architecture, sculpture and painting. Furthermore, instrumental music, _i.e._, music freed from a dependence on words, is not an exact language like prose and poetry. It speaks to our feelings and imaginations, as it were by suggestion; reaching for this very reason depths of our being quite beyond the power of mere words. No one can define rhythm except by saying that rhythm, in the sense of motion, is the fundamental fact in the universe and in all life, both physical and human. Everything in the heavens above and in the earth beneath is in ceaseless motion and change; nothing remains the same for two consecutive seconds. Even the component parts of material--such as stone and wood, which we ordinarily speak of as concrete and stationary--are whirling about with ceaseless energy, and often in perfect rhythm. Thus we see how natural and vital is the art of music, for it is inseparably connected with life itself. As for the other factor, sound is one of the most elemental and mysterious of all physical phenomena.[2] When the air is set in motion by the vibration of certain bodies of wood, metal and other material, we know that sound waves, striking upon the tympanum of the ear, penetrate to the brain and imagination. Sound is a reciprocal phenomenon; for, even if there were systematic activity of vibrating bodies, there could be no sound without some one to hear it.[3] Good musicians are known for their power of keen and discriminating hearing; and the ear,[4] as Saint-Saëns says, is the sole avenue of approach to the musical sense. The first ambition for one who would appreciate music should be to cultivate this power of hearing. It is quite possible to be stone-deaf outwardly and yet hear most beautiful sounds within the brain. This was approximately the case with Beethoven after his thirtieth year. On the other hand, many people have a perfect outward apparatus for hearing but nothing is registered within. [Footnote 2: See Chapter II of Gurney's _Power of Sound_, a book remarkable for its insight.] [Footnote 3: It is understood that this statement is made in a subjective rather than a purely physical sense. See the _Century Dictionary_ under _Sound_.] [Footnote 4: Il y a donc, dans l'art des sons, quelque chose qui traverse l'oreille comme un portique, la raison comme un vestibule et qui va plus loin. HARMONIE ET MELODIE, CHAPTER II.] Combarieu, the French aesthetician, defines music as "the art of thinking in tones."[5] There is food for thought in this statement, but it seems to leave out one very important factor--namely, the emotional. Every great musical composition reveals a carefully planned and perfect balance between the emotional and intellectual elements. And yet the basic impulse for the creation of music is an emotional one; and, of all the arts, music makes the most direct appeal to the emotions and to those shadowy, but real portions of our being called the imagination and the soul. Emotion is as indispensable to music as love to religion. Just as there can be no really great art without passion, so we can not imagine music without all the emotions of mankind: their loves, joys, sorrows, hatreds, ideals and subtle fancies. Music, in fact, is a presentation of emotional experience, fashioned and controlled by an overruling intellectual power. [Footnote 5: _La musique, ses lois, son evolution_, by Jules Combarieu.] We can now foresee, though at first dimly, what is to be our line of approach to this mystery. One of the peculiar characteristics of music is that it is both the most natural and least artificial of the arts, and as well the most complicated and subtle. On the one hand it is the most natural and direct, because the materials of which it is constituted--that is, sound and rhythm--make an instinctive appeal to every normally equipped human being.[6] Every one likes to listen to beautiful sounds merely for their sensuous effect, just as everyone likes to look at the blue sky, the green grass and the changing hues of a sunset; so the rhythm of music, akin to the human heart-beat and to the ceaseless change and motion, which is the basic fact in all life, appeals at once to our own physical vitality. This fact may be observed at a symphony concert where so many people are wagging their heads, beating time with their hands or even tapping on the floor with their feet; a habit which shows a rudimentary love of music but which for obvious reasons is not to be commended. On the other hand, music is the most complicated of all the arts from the nature of its constituent parts--intangible, evanescent sounds and rhythms--and from the subtle grammar and structure by which these factors are used as means of personal communication. This grammar of music, _i.e._, its methods of structure and of presentation, has been worked out through centuries of free experimentation on the part of some of the best minds in the world, and thus any great musical composition is an intellectual achievement of high rank. Behind the sensuous factors, sound and rhythm, lies always the personal message of the composer, and if we are to grasp this and to make it our own, we must go with him hand in hand so that the music actually lives again in our minds and imaginations. The practical inference from this dual nature of the art we are considering is clear; everyone can derive a large amount of genuine pleasure and even spiritual exaltation, can feel himself under the influence of a strong tonic force, merely by putting himself in contact with music, by opening his ears and drinking in the sounds and rhythms in their marvellous variety. The all-sufficient reason for the lack of a complete appreciation of music is that so many people stop at this point, _i.e._ for them music is a sensuous art and nothing more. Wagner himself, in fact, is on record in a letter to Liszt as saying, in regard to the appreciation of his operas: "I require nothing from the public but healthy senses and a human heart." Although this may be particularly true of opera, which is a composite form of art, making so varied an appeal to the participant that everyone can get something from its picture of life--historical, legendary, even fictitious--as well as from the actors, the costumes and the story, the statement is certainly not applicable to what is called absolute music, where music is disassociated from the guiding help of words, and expressed by the media of orchestra, string quartet, pianoforte, and various ensemble groups. For in addition to its sensuous appeal, music is a language used as a means of personal expression; sometimes in the nature of an intimate soliloquy, but far more often as a direct means of communication between the mind and soul of the composer and of the listener. To say that we understand the message expressed in this language just because we happen to like beautiful sounds and stimulating rhythms is surely to be our own dupes. We might as well say that because we enjoy hearing Italians or Frenchmen speak their own beautiful languages we are understanding what they say. The question, therefore, faces us: how shall we learn this mysterious language so as readily to understand it? And the answer is equally inevitable: by learning something of the material of which it is composed, and above all, the fundamental principles of its structure. [Footnote 6: Just as some people are color-blind there are those who are tone-deaf--to whom, that is, music is a disagreeable noise--but they are so few as to be negligible.] In attempting to carry out this simple direction, however, we are confronted by another of the peculiar characteristics of music. Music, in distinction from the static, concrete and imitative arts, is always in motion, and to follow it requires an intensity of concentration and an accuracy of memory which can be acquired, but for which, like most good things, we have to work. We all know the adage that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" and that any work of art must be recreated in the imagination of the participant. The difficulty of this process of recreation, as applied to music, is that we have, derived from our ordinary daily experiences, so little to help us. Anyone can begin, at least, to understand a work of architecture; it must have doors and windows, and should conform to practical ideas of structure. In like manner, a painting, either a portrait or a landscape, must show some correspondence with nature herself, and so we have definite standards to help our imagination. But music has worked out its own laws which are those of pure fancy, having little to do with other forms of thought; and unless we know something of the constructive principles, instead of recreating the work before us, we are simply lost--"drowned in a sea of sound"--often rudely shaken up by the rhythms, but far from understanding what the music is really saying. As the well-known critic, Santayana, wittily says, "To most people music is a drowsy revery relieved by nervous thrills." Notwithstanding, however, the peculiar nature of music and the difficulty of gaining logical impressions as the sounds and rhythms flood in upon us, there is one simple form of coöperation which solves most of the difficulties; that is, familiarity. It is the duty of the composer so to express himself, to make his meaning so clear, that we can receive it with a minimum of mental friction if we can only get to know the music. All really good music corresponds to such a standard; that is, if it is needlessly involved, abstruse, diffuse, or turgid, it is _in so far_ not music of the highest artistic worth. In this connection we must always remember that music does not "stay put," like a picture on the wall. We cannot walk through it, as is the case with a cathedral; turn back, as in a book; touch it, as with a statue. It is not the expression of more or less definite ideas, such as we find in prose and poetry. On the other hand, it rushes upon us with the impassioned spirit of an eloquent orator, and what we get from it depends almost entirely upon our own intensity of application and upon our knowledge of the themes and of the general purpose of the work. Only with increased familiarity does the architecture stand revealed. Beethoven, it is said, when once asked the meaning of a sonata of his, played it over again and replied, "It means that." Music is itself. The question for every music-lover is: can I equip myself in such a way as to feel at home in this language, to receive the message as directly as possible, and finally with perfect ease and satisfaction? This equipment demands a strong, accurate memory, a keen power of discrimination and a sympathetic, open mind. Another paradoxical characteristic of music on which it is interesting to reflect is this: Music is the oldest as well as the youngest of the arts, _i.e._, it has always[7] existed generically, and all human beings born, as they are, with a musical instrument--the voice--are _ipso facto_ musicians; and yet in boundless scope of possibilities it is just in its infancy. For who can limit the combinations of sound and rhythm, or forecast the range of the human imagination? The creative fancy of the composer is always in advance of contemporary taste and criticism. Hence, in listening to new music, we should beware of reckless assertions of personal preference. The first question, in the presence of an elaborate work of music, should never be, "Do I like it or not?" but "Do I understand it?" "Is the music conveying a logical message to me, or is it merely a sea of sound?" The first and last article in the music-lover's creed, I repeat, should be _familiarity_. When we thoroughly know a symphony, symphonic poem or sonata so that, for example, we can sing the themes to ourselves, the music will reveal itself. The difference between the trained listener and the person of merely general musical tendencies is that the former gains a definite meaning from the music often at a first hearing; whereas, to the latter, many hearings are necessary before he can make head or tail of the composition. Since the creative composer of music is a thinker in tones, our perceptions must be so trained that, as we listen, we make sense of the fabric of sounds and rhythms. [Footnote 7: From earliest times, mothers have doubtless crooned to their infants in instinctive lullabies.] It is evident from the foregoing observations that our approach to the subject is to be on the intellectual side. Music, to be sure, is an emotional art and so appeals to our emotions, but these will take care of themselves. We all have a reasonable supply of emotion and practically no human being is entirely deficient in the capacity for being moved by music. We can, however, sharpen our wits and strengthen our musical memories; for it is obvious that if we cannot recognize a theme or remember it whenever it appears, often in an amplified or even subtly disguised form, we are in no condition to follow and appreciate the logical growth and development of the themes themselves which, in a work of music, are just as real beings as the "dramatis personae" in a play. The would-be appreciator should early recognize the fact that listening to music is by no means passive, a means of light amusement or to pass the time, but demands coöperation of an active nature. Whether or not we have the emotional capacity of a creator of music may remain an open question; but by systematic mental application we _can_, as we listen to it, get from the music that sense which the composer meant to convey. Music--more than the other arts--demands, to use a happy expression of D.G. Mason, that we "mentally organize our sensations and ideas"; for the language of music has no such fixed grammar as verbal modes of expression, and the message, even when received, is suggestive rather than definite. In this way only can the composition be recreated in our imaginations. For acquiring this habit of mind, this alertness and concentration, the start, as always, is more than half the battle. Schumann's good advice to young composers may be transferred to the listener: "Be sure that you invent a thoroughly vital theme; the rest will grow of itself from this." Likewise in listening to music, one should be sure to grasp the opening theme, the fundamental motive, in order to follow it intelligently and to enjoy its subsequent growth into the complete work.[8] [Footnote 8: In this connection we cannot refrain from suggesting the improvement which should be made in the concert manners of the public. How often, at the beginning of a concert, do we see people removing their wraps, looking at their neighbors, reading the programme book, etc., instead of concentrating on the music itself; with the result that the composition is often well on its way before such people have found their bearings.] Every piece of music, with the exception of intentionally rhapsodic utterances, begins with some group of notes of distinct rhythmic and melodic interest, which is the germ--the generative force--of the whole, and which is comparable to the text of a sermon or the subject of a drama. This introductory group of notes is called, technically, a _motive_ or moving force and may be defined as _the simplest unit of imaginative life in terms of rhythm and sound_, which instantly impresses itself upon our consciousness and, when heard several times, cannot be forgotten or confused with any other motive. A musical theme--a longer sweep of thought (to be explained later)--may consist of several motives of which the first is generally the most important. Just here lies the difference between the Heaven-born themes of a truly creative composer and the bundle of notes put forth by lesser men. These living themes pierce our imaginations and sing in our memories, sometimes for years, whereas the inept and flabby tunes of certain so-called composers make no strong impression and are forgotten almost as soon as heard. Motives obviously differ from each other in regard to the intervals of the tones composing them, _i.e._, the up and down relationship in pitch, the duration of the tones and their grouping into metric schemes. But a real motive is always terse, concise, characteristic and pregnant with unrevealed meaning. The chief glory of such creative tone-poets as Beethoven, Wagner, Brahms and Franck is that their imaginations could give birth to musical offspring that live for ever and are loved like life itself. The first step, then, in the progress of the appreciator of music is the recognition of the chief motive or motives of a composition and the development of power to follow them in their organic growth. This ability is particularly necessary in modern music: for frequently all four movements of a symphony or string-quartet are based upon a motive which keeps appearing--often in altered form and in relationships which imply a dramatic or suggestive meaning. A few of such motives are cited herewith, taken from works with which, as we proceed, we shall become familiar. [Music: CÉSAR FRANCK: _Symphony in D minor_] [Music: BRAHMS: _First Symphony in C minor_] [Music: TCHAIKOWSKY: _5th Symphony_] [Music: DVO[VR]ÁK: Symphony _From the New World_] It is now necessary for the student to know something about the constructive principles by which large works of music are fashioned; not so much that he could compose these works himself, even if he had the inspiration, but to know enough, so that the reception of the music is not a haphazard activity but an intellectual achievement, second only to that of the original creator. Every genuine work of art in whatever medium, stone, color, word or tone, must exhibit _unity of general effect with variety of detail_. That is, the material must hold together, be coherent and convince the participant of the logical design of the artist; not fall apart as might a bad building, or be diffuse as a poorly written essay. And yet, with this coherence, there must always be stimulating and refreshing variety; for a too constant insistence on the main material produces intolerable monotony, such as the "damnable iteration" of a mediocre prose work or the harping away on one theme by the hack composer. In no art more than music is this dual standard of greater importance, and in no art more difficult to attain. For the raw material of music, fleeting rhythms and waves of sound, is in its very nature most incoherent. Here we are not dealing with the concrete, tangible and definite material which is available for all the other arts, but with something intangible and elusive. We know from the historical record[9] of musical development, that, only after centuries of experimentation conducted by some of the best intellects in Europe, was sufficient coherence gained so that there could be composed music which would compare with the simplest modern hymn-tune or part-song. And this was long after each of the other arts--architecture, sculpture, painting and literature--had reached points of attainment which, in many respects, have never since been equalled. [Footnote 9: Compare Parry's _Evolution of the Art of Music_, passim and D.G. Mason's _Beethoven and his Forerunners_, Chapter I.] Before carrying our inquiries further, something must be said about the two main lines of musical development which led up to music as we know it to-day. These tendencies are designated by the terms _Homophonic_ and _Polyphonic_. By homophonic,[10] from Greek words signifying a "single voice," is meant music consisting of a _single_ melodic line, as in the whole field of folk-songs (which originally were always unaccompanied) or in the unison chants of the Greeks and the Gregorian tones of the early church, in which there is _one melody_ though many voices may unite in singing it. Later we shall see what important principles for the growth of instrumental music were borrowed from the instinctive practise associated with the folk-song and folk-dance. But history makes clear that the fundamental principles of musical coherence were worked out in the field of music known as the _Polyphonic_. By this term, as the derivation implies, is meant music the fabric of which is made by the interweaving of _several_ independent melodies. For many centuries the most reliable instrument was the human voice and the only art-music, _i.e._, music which was the result of conscious mental and artistic endeavor, was vocal music for groups of unaccompanied voices in the liturgy of the church. About the tenth century, musicians tried the crude experiment,[11] called Organum, of making two groups of singers move in parallel fifths _e.g._, [Music: Tu Patris sempiternus es Filius.] but during the 13th and 14th centuries a method was worked out by which the introductory tune was made to generate its own subsequent tissue. It was found that a body of singers could announce a melody of a certain type and that, after they had proceeded so far, a second set of singers could repeat the opening melodic phrase--and so likewise often a third and a fourth set--and that all the voices could be made to blend together in a fairly harmonious whole.[12] A piece of music of this systematic structure is called a _Round_ because the singers take up the melody in _rotation_ and at regular rhythmic periods.[13] The earliest specimen of a Round is the famous one "Sumer is icumen in" circa 1225 (see Supplement of musical Examples No. 1), which shows to what a high point of perfection--considering those early days--musicians had brought their art. For, at any rate, by these systematic, imitative repetitions they had secured the first requisite of all music, coherence. This principle, once it was sanctioned by growing musical instinct, and approved by convention, was developed into such well-known types of polyphonic music as the Canon, the Invention and the Fugue; terms which will be fully explained later on. It is of more than passing interest to realize that these structural principles of music were worked out in the same locality--Northern France and the Netherlands, and by kindred intellects--as witnessed the growth of Gothic architecture; and there is a fundamental affinity between the interweavings of polyphonic or, as it is often called, _contrapuntal_[14] music and the stone traceries in medieval cathedrals. During the 13th and 14th centuries northern France, with Paris as its centre, was the most cultivated part of Europe, and the Flemish cities of Cambrai, Tournai, Louvain and Antwerp will always be renowned in the history of art, as the birthplace of Gothic architecture, of modern painting and of polyphonic music.[15] A great deal of the impetus towards the systematic repetition of the voice parts must have been caused by practical necessity (thus justifying the old adage); for, before the days of printed music, or even of a well-established tradition--when everything had to be laboriously written out or transmitted orally--whole compositions could be rendered by the singers through the simple device of remembering the introductory theme and joining in from memory whenever their turn came. Compositions in fact were often so recorded.[16] The following old English round (circa 1609) shows clearly how the voices entered in rotation. [Music: 1 Three blind mice, three blind mice 2 ran around thrice, ran around thrice; The 3 miller and his merry old wife ne'er laugh'd so much in all their life.] For a Round in strict canonic imitation by the famous English composer William Byrd (1542-1623) see the Supplement, Example No. 2. In due time singers of that period became likewise very proficient in improvising free parts about a given melody or _cantus firmus_, a practice indicated by the term "musica ficta" which was beneficial in stimulating the imagination to a genuine musical activity. [Footnote 10: In comparatively recent times the term has been widened to include music in which there is one _chief_ melody to which other portions of the musical texture are subordinate; _e.g._, the homophonic style of Chopin in whose works the chief melody, often in the upper voice, seems to float on underlying waves of sound.] [Footnote 11: For a complete account of these early attempts which finally led to part-writing see Chapter IV in the first volume of the _Oxford History of Music_.] [Footnote 12: An historical account of this development as far as it is ascertainable may be found in the fifth chapter of Pratt's _History of Music_.] [Footnote 13: Consult the article on the Round in _Grove's Dictionary_.] [Footnote 14: A rather crude English adaptation of the Latin term "Punctus contra punctum" which refers to the notes as punct[=u]s (plural) or dots which were pricked with a stylus into the medieval manuscripts. In this phrase the emphasis is on the _contra_, signifying a combination of _different_ melodies and rhythms, and calling attention to that higher importance which, everywhere in art, is caused by contrasted elements.] [Footnote 15: For an interesting account of this tripartite activity see Naumann's _History of Music_.] [Footnote 16: See the facsimile of the original manuscript of "_Sumer is icumen in_" cited in the first volume of the _Oxford History of Music_, pp. 326-332.] We can now begin to realize the importance of polyphonic music. In fact, it is not too much to assert that _systematic repetition_ in some form or other (several aspects of which we shall describe in due season) is the most important constructive principle in music, necessitated by the very nature of the material. This statement can be corroborated by a glance at almost any page of music considered merely as a _pattern_, quite regardless how the notes sound. We observe at once that some portions of the page look much or exactly like other portions. Frequently whole movements or long parts of a work are based entirely upon some terse and characteristic motive. Famous examples of this practise are the first movement of Beethoven's _Fifth Symphony in C minor_ which, with certain subsidiary themes to afford contrast, is entirely based on the motive: [Music] the Finale of Wagner's opera _The Valkyrie_ (see Supplement, Example No. 3) the chief motive of which [Music] is presented in every phase of modulatory and rhythmic development, and the middle portion of the _Reconnaissance_ from Schumann's _Carnaval_ (see Supplement, Example No. 4.) Music, just because its substance is so elusive and requires such alert attention on the part of the listener, cannot continually present new material[17] without becoming diffuse; but instead, must make its impression by varied emphasis upon the main thought. Otherwise it would become so discursive that one could not possibly follow it. From these historical facts as to the structure of music certain inferences may be drawn; the vital importance of which to the listener can hardly be exaggerated. As polyphonic treatment (the imitation and interweaving of independent melodic lines) is the foundation of any large work of music, be it symphony, symphonic poem or string quartet, so the listener must acquire what may be called a _polyphonic ear_. For with the majority of listeners, the whole difficulty and the cause of their dissatisfaction with so-called "classic music" is merely lack of equipment. Everyone can hear the tune in the soprano or upper voice, for the intensity of pitch makes it stand out with telling effect; and, as a fact, many of the best tunes in musical literature are so placed. But how about the tune when it is in the _bass_ as is the case so frequently in Beethoven's Symphonies or in Wagner's Operas? Some of the most eloquent parts of the musical message are, indeed, often in the bass, the foundation voice, and yet these are entirely ignored by the average listener. Then what of the inner voices; and what--most important of all--when there are beautiful melodies in _all parts_ of the musical fabric, often sounding simultaneously, as in such well-known works as César Franck's _Symphony in D minor_ and Wagner's _Prelude to the Mastersingers_! As we face these questions squarely the need for the listener of special training in alertness and concentration is self-evident. A very small proportion of those who attend a symphony concert begin to get their money's worth--to put the matter on a perfectly practical plane--for at least 50% of the musical structure is presented to ears without capacity for receiving it. In regard to any work of large dimensions the final test is this: can we sing all the themes and follow them in their polyphonic development? Then only are we really acquainted with the work; then only, in regard to personal like or dislike, have we any right to pass judgment upon it. The absurd attitude, far too common, of hasty, ill-considered criticism is illustrated by the fact that while Brahms is said to have worked for ten years on that Titanic creation, his _First Symphony_, yet persons will hear it _once_ and have the audacity to say they do not like it. As well stroll through Chartres Cathedral and say they did not think much of it! [Footnote 17: For a simple, charming example of persistent use of a motive see Schumann's pianoforte piece _Kind im Einschlummern_, No. 12 of the _Kinderscenen_.] We must now speak of the two other manifestations of the principle of _repetition_. Fundamentally, to be sure, they are not connected with polyphonic music; the third type, in fact,--restatement after contrast--being instinctively worked out in the Folk-Song (as will be made plain later) and definitely ratified as a structural principle by the Italian opera composer Alessandro Scarlatti in the well-known Aria da capo. These further applications of the principle of imitation are _Transposition_, _i.e._, the repetition of the melodic outline, and often of the whole harmonic fabric, by shifting it up or down the scale; and the _Restatement_ of the original melody after an intervening part in contrast, thus making a piece of music, the formula for which may be indicated by A, B, Á. Anyone at all familiar with musical literature must have observed both of these devices for securing coherence and organic unity; in fact, the principle of restatement after contrast is at the foundation of any large work, and supplies the connecting link between the structure of the Folk-Song and that of the most elaborate modern music. A convincing illustration of the use of Transposition may be found in Schumann's _Arabesque_, [Music] and in the opening theme of Beethoven's _Waldstein Sonata_, op. 53. [Music] It was a favorite device of Beethoven to impress the main theme upon the hearer by definite repetitions on various degrees of the scale.[18] For an elaborate example of Transposition nothing can surpass the opening movement of César Franck's _D Minor Symphony_, the entire first part of which consists of a literal repetition in F minor of what has been previously announced in D minor. [Footnote 18: Another well-known example is the first theme of the first movement of the _Sonata in F minor_ (_Appassionata_) op. 57. This the student can look up for himself.] Pieces of music which embody the principle of _Restatement after Contrast_ are so numerous that the question is merely one of selecting the clearest examples. In the Folk-Songs of every nation, as soon as they had passed beyond the stage of a monotonous reiteration of some phrase which pleased the fancy, _e.g._ [Music: _ad infinitum!_] we find hardly one in which there is not a similarity between the closing measures and something which had gone before. (See Supplement, Example No. 5.) For the most elementary artistic experience would establish the fact that the only way to avoid a monotonous repetition of the same theme is to change to a different one. And the next step is equally axiomatic--that, presupposing the first theme gives pleasure on its initial appearance, it will be heard with heightened pleasure at its reappearance after intervening contrast. A psychological principle is herein involved which cannot be proved but which is self-justified by its own reasonableness and is further exemplified by many experiences in daily life. Sweet things taste the sweeter after a contrast with something acid; we like to revisit old scenes and to return home after a vacation. No delight is keener than the _renewal_ of some aesthetic experience after its temporary effacement through a change of appeal.[19] This practice is associated with the inherent demand, spoken of above, for Variety in Unity. No theme is of sufficient import to bear constant repetition; in fact, the more eloquent it is, the more sated should we become if it were continued overlong. Monotony, furthermore, is less tolerable in music than in the other arts because music cuts deeper, because the ear is so sensitive an organ and because we have no way of shutting off sound. If a particular sight or scene displeases, we can close our eyelids; but the ear is entirely unprotected and the only way to escape annoying sounds is to take to flight.[20] We inevitably crave contrast, change of sensation; and nothing gives more organic unity than a return to whatever impressed us at the outset. This cyclic form of musical expression, early discovered through free experimentation, has remained the leading principle in all modern works, and--because derived directly from life and nature--must be permanent. We return whence we came; everything goes in circles. We can now understand still more the need of a strong and accurate memory; for if we do not know whether or not we have ever heard a theme, obviously the keen pleasure of welcoming it anew is lost to us. Furthermore, this principle of Restatement has in modern music some very subtle uses, and presupposes the acquisition of a real power of reminiscence. For example, Wagner's tone-drama of _Tristan and Isolde_ begins with this haunting motive [Music] which, with its dual melodic lines, typifies the passionate love of the two chief characters in the story. After three hours or more of tragic action and musical development this motive is again introduced in the very closing measures of the drama, to show that even in the presence of transfiguring death this love is still their guiding power. [Music] [Footnote 19: For some additional comments on this broad principle see the first Chapter (passim) of Parry's _Evolution of the Art of Music_.] [Footnote 20: Everyone has experienced the agony of hearing the beginner practice, in an adjoining room, the same piece for hours at a time!] For those who can appreciate the significance of such treatment, this reminiscence is one of the most sublime touches in all musical drama. The fascinating orchestral Scherzo of Richard Strauss's _Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks_ likewise begins with a characteristic motto, [Music] which says, in the language of music--I now have a story to tell you of a certain freakish character; and then we are regaled with the musical portrayal of a series of Till's pranks. As an Epilogue, Strauss improvises on this opening theme as much as to say--you have listened to my musical story, now let us indulge in some reflections as to the fate of poor Till, for after all he was a good fellow. (See Supplement, Example No. 6.) It is evident, therefore, from the foregoing examples that the basic principles of musical structure are coherence, refreshing variety and such unity of general impression as may be gained chiefly by a restatement, after contrast, of themes previously heard. Our subsequent study will simply illustrate these natural laws of music in their wider application. CHAPTER II THE FOLK-SONG In the preceding chapter we made some general inquiries into the nature of music and of those methods by which emotion and thought are expressed. We shall assume therefore that the following facts are established: that in music, by reason of the intangibility and elusiveness of the material, sound and rhythm, the principle of Unity in Variety is of paramount importance; and that the hearer, if he would grasp the message expressed by these sounds and rhythms, must make a _conscious_ effort of coöperation and not be content with mere dreamy apathy. Furthermore, that Unity and Coherence are gained in music by applying the principle of systematic Repetition or Imitation. (We shall see, as we continue, how Variety has been secured by contrasting themes, by episodical passages and by various devices of rhythmic and harmonic development.) We may now investigate the growth of musical structure and expression, as manifested in the fields of the Folk-Song and of Polyphonic music, beginning with the Folk-Song--historically the older and more elemental in its appeal. We cannot imagine the time when human beings did not use their voices in some form of emotional outpouring; and, as far back as there are any historical records, we find traces of such activity. For many centuries these rude cries of savage races were far removed from anything like artistic design, but the advance towards coherence and symmetry was always the result of free experimentation--hence vitally connected with the emotions and mental processes of all human effort. One of the most significant of the many sayings attributed to Daniel Webster is that "Sovereignty rests with the people"; and it is an interesting inquiry to see what wider application may be made of this statement in the field of art. For it is a fact that there has seldom been an important school of music, so-called--in any given place and period--which was not founded on the emotional traits, the aspirations and the ideals of the people. Surely one of the distinct by-products of the Great War is to be the emancipation of the art of music, along with that of all the other arts. Such a realization of its nature and powers will result that it shall no longer be a mere exotic amusement of the leisure and wealthy classes, but shall be brought into direct touch with the rank and file of the people; even, if you will, with the so-called "lower classes"--that part of humanity from which, indeed, it sprung and with which it really belongs--just human beings, just people. So in music also we may assert that "Sovereignty rests with the people." Although all art reflects popular sentiment to a certain extent, in no one of the arts--as painting, sculpture and architecture--is there such a vital record of the emotions and artistic instincts of humanity as we find in the realm of folk-song.[21] During the early period of Church music, while theorists and scholars were struggling with the intricate problems of polyphonic style, the people in their daily secular life were finding an outlet for their emotions, for their joys and sorrows, in song and in dance. This instinct for musical expression is universal, and just because the products of such activity were unfettered by rules, they exercised in process of time much influence upon the development of modern style. Folk-songs are characterized by a freshness and simplicity, a directness of utterance, which are seldom attained by the conscious efforts of genius. "Listen carefully to all folk-songs," says Schumann. "They are a storehouse of beautiful melody, and unfold to the mind the innate character of the different peoples." They are like wild flowers blooming unheeded by the wayside, the product of the race rather than the individual, and for centuries were only slightly known to cultivated musicians. It should be understood that words and music were inextricably bound together and that, with both, dancing was naturally associated; the very essence of a people's life being expressed by this tripartite activity. Tonal variety is a marked feature in folk-songs, many of them being in the old Gregorian modes, while others show a decided inclination to our modern major and minor scales. Great is the historical importance of Folk-music, because in it we see a dawning recognition of the principles of instrumental form, _i.e._, the need of balanced phrases, caused in the songs by the metrical structure of the words, and in the dances by the symmetrical movements of the body; a recognition above all, of the application of a definite system of tonal-centres, and of repetition after contrast. In fact, as we look back it is evident that the outlines of our most important design, that known as the Sonata Form are--in a rudimentary state--found in folk-music. Folk-melodies and rhythms play a large part in the music of Haydn, Schubert, Chopin, Liszt, Brahms, Grieg, Tchaikowsky and Dvo[vr]ák. It seems as if modern composers were doing for music what Luther Burbank has done for plant life; for by grafting modern thought and feeling on to the parent stock of popular music, they have secured a vigor attainable in no other way. Thus some of the noblest melodies of Brahms, Grieg, and Tchaikowsky are actual folk-tunes with slight variation or original melodies conceived in a folk-song spirit.[22] [Footnote 21: For an eloquent presentation of the significance of Folk-music see the article by Henry F. Gilbert in the _Musical Quarterly_ for October, 1917.] [Footnote 22: For an able account of the important role that folk-melodies are taking in modern music see Chapter V of _La Chanson Populaire en France_ by Julian Tiersot.] As music, unlike the other arts, lacks any model in the realm of nature, it has had to work out its own laws, and its spontaneity and directness are the result. It has not become imitative, utilitarian or bound by arbitrary conventions. As Berlioz says in the _Grotesques de la Musique_: "Music exists by itself; it has no need of poetry, and if every human language were to perish, it would be none the less the most poetic, the grandest and the freest of all the arts." When we reach the centuries in which definite records are available, we find a wealth of folk-songs from the Continental nations: Irish, Scotch, English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Russian, etc.[23] In these we can trace the transition from the old modes to our modern major and minor scales; the principles of tonality and of rudimentary modulation, the dividing of the musical thought into periodic lengths by means of cadential endings, the instinct for contrast and for the unity gained by restatement. No better definition of Folk-songs can be given than that of Parry in his _Evolution of the Art of Music_ where he calls them "the first essays made by man in distributing his notes so as to express his feelings in terms of design." In folk-tunes this design has been dominated by the metrical phraseology of the poetic stanzas with which they were associated; for between the structure of melody and that of poetry there is always a close correspondence. In Folk-songs, therefore, we find a growing instinct for balanced musical expression and, above all, an application of the principle of Restatement after Contrast. The following example drawn from Irish Folk-music[24]--which, for emotional depth, is justly considered the finest in the world--will make the point clear. [Music: THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS] [Footnote 23: The same statement is true of the Oriental nations, the Arabians, Persians and Greeks, who are left out of the enumeration only because their development in many respects has been along different lines from ours. For suggestive speculations as to early music among all nations see _Primitive Music_ by Richard Wallaschek.] [Footnote 24: For illuminating comments on the Folk-music of all the English-speaking peoples see Chapter XII of Ernest Walker's _History of Music in England_. The famous Petrie collection of Irish Folk-tunes should also be consulted.] The statement is sometimes made that the principles of our modern system of tonality and of modulation are derived from Folk-music. This is only partially true, for pure Folk-songs always developed under the influence of the old medieval modes, long before the establishment of our fixed major and minor scales. Furthermore, as these were single unaccompanied melodies, they showed slight connection with modulation or change of key in the modern sense of the term--which implies a system of harmonization in several voices. It is true that there was an instinctive and growing recognition of the importance of the three chief tonal centres: the Tonic or Keynote, the Dominant (a perfect fifth _above_) and the Subdominant (a perfect fifth _below_) and at times the relative minor. All these changes are illustrated in the melody just cited; _e.g._, in the fourth measure[25] there is an implication of E minor, in measures seven and eight there is a distinct modulation to D major, the Dominant, and in the ninth measure to C major, the Subdominant. This acceptance of other tonal centres--distant a fifth from the main key-note--doubtless arose from their simplicity and naturalness, and was later sanctioned by acoustical law; the interval of a perfect fifth having one of the simplest ratios (2-3), and being familiar to people as the first overtone (after the octave) struck off by any sounding body--such as a bell or an organ pipe. The Venetian composers, notably Willaert, had also quite fully developed this principle of Tonic, Dominant and Subdominant harmony in order to give homogeneity to their antiphonal choruses. Even to-day these tonal centres are still used; for they are elemental, like the primitive colors of the spectroscope. But modulation, in the modern sense of a free shifting of the centre of gravity to _any one_ of the twelve semitones of our chromatic scale, was not developed and accepted until after the acoustical reforms of Rameau, and the system of tuning keyed instruments embodied in that work called the _Well-tempered Clavichord_ of Sebastian Bach. Both these men published their discoveries about the year 1720. [Footnote 25: In counting the measures of a phrase always consider the first _complete_ measure,--_never_ a partial measure--as _one_.] As we have just used the term _modal_, and since many Folk-songs in the old modes sound peculiar or even wrong (hence the preposterous emendations of modern editors!) because our ears can listen only in terms of the fixed major and minor scales, a few words of explanation concerning the nature of the medieval modes should here be given. Their essential peculiarity is the freer relationship of tones and semitones than is found in the definite pattern of our modern scales. It is of great importance that the music-lover should train himself to think naturally in these modes; for there has been a significant return to their freedom and variety on the part of such modern composers as Brahms, Tchaikowsky, Dvo[vr]ák, d'Indy, Debussy and others, and some of their most individual effects are gained through the introduction of modal types of expression. The following modes are those most commonly employed in the formation of Folk-songs. [Music: DORIAN] [Music: PHRYGIAN] [Music: LYDIAN] [Music: MIXOLYDIAN] [Music: AEOLIAN] [Music: IONIAN] The Dorian mode, at the outset, is identical with our modern minor scale; its peculiarity lies in the _semitone_ between the 6th and 7th degrees and the _whole_ tone between the 7th and 8th. An excellent example of a modern adaptation of this mode may be found in Guilmant's March for organ (see Supplement, Example No. 7). The mysterious opening measures of Debussy's opera _Pelléas et Mélisande_ also owe their atmosphere to this mode, _e.g._ [Music] The Phrygian mode is one of the most individual to our modern ears with its first step a _semitone_ and with the _whole_ tone between the 7th and 8th degrees. Under the influence of harmonic development there was worked out a cadence, known as Phrygian, which is often found in modern music, _e.g._ [Music] The opening measures of the slow movement of Brahms's _Fourth Symphony_ are an excellent example of a melody in the Phrygian mode, _e.g._ [Music] The contrast between these measures, with their archaic flavor, and the sudden change in measure four to the modern tonality of E major, is very striking. Bach's well-known choral, _O Sacred Head now wounded_ also begins in the Phrygian mode, _e.g._ [Music] For a beautiful modern example of this Phrygian mode see the introduction to F.S. Converse's _Dramatic Poem Job_, for voices and orchestra. The Lydian mode is identical with our major scale except for the semitone between the 4th and 5th degrees. That this change, however, gives a very characteristic effect may be seen in the passage by Beethoven from his String-Quartet op. 132--_Song of Thanksgiving_ in the Lydian mode (see Supplement Ex. No. 8). The Mixolydian mode is also identical with our modern major scale except for the _whole_ tone between the 7th and 8th degrees. This mode has had very slight usage in modern music; because, with the development of harmony,[26] the instinct became so strong for a leading tone (the 7th degree)--only a semitone distant from the upper tonic--that the original whole tone has gradually disappeared. The Aeolian Mode, mainly identical with our customary minor scale, has the characteristic whole tone between the 7th and 8th degrees. Examples of this mode abound in modern literature; two excellent instances being the first theme of the Finale of Dvo[vr]ák's _New World Symphony_, _e.g._, [Music] and the following passage from the _Legend_ for à capella voices of Tchaikowsky, _e.g._ [Music] The Ionian mode corresponds exactly with our modern major scale, and the common people among all nations early showed a strong predilection for its use. The Church, in fact, because of this popularity with the people, named it the "modus lascivus" and prohibited its use in the ecclesiastical liturgy. One of the very earliest Folk-tunes extant--"Sumer is icumen in" (already referred to)--is in the Ionian mode and, according to Cecil Sharp,[27] the majority of English Folk-tunes are in this same mode. [Footnote 26: The chief reason for this leading tone, in addition to the natural tendency of singers to raise their voices as near as possible to the upper tonic, was so that the dominant chord, the third of which is always the 7th degree, might invariably be a _Major_ Triad.] [Footnote 27: For many suggestive comments on the whole subject see his book _English Folk-Song_.] We now cite a few typical folk-songs (taken from national sources) which, in their structure, show a natural instinct for balance of phrase and oftentimes for that organic unity of effect gained by restatement after contrast. [Music: THE TRUE LOVERS' FAREWELL Old English] The pattern of this song, in the Aeolian mode, is A, A, A, B. Unity is secured by the three-fold appearance of the first phrase; and a certain balance, by having the second phrase B twice as long (four measures) as A. [Music: THE SHIP IN DISTRESS Old English] The formula of this characteristic song in the Dorian mode is A, A, B, A; merely an extension, through repetition, of the simple type A, B, A which, in turn, is the basis of the fundamental structure known as the three-part form. This will later be studied in detail. It is evident to the musical sense how complete a feeling of coherence is gained by the return to A after the intervening contrast of the phrase B; evident, also, that this song is a perfect example of the principle of unity combined with variety. We further cite a few examples from Scottish, Irish, French, Hungarian and Russian sources. They all illustrate quaint melodic intervals and an instinct for balance and symmetry. [Music: WANDERING WILLIE Here awa', there awa', Wanderin' Willie, Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame. Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, O tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.] This song[28] expresses that note of pathos often found in Scottish folk-music and is noteworthy also because the lyric poet, Robert Burns, wrote for it words of which we give the first stanza. [Footnote 28: The example quoted, together with others equally beautiful, may be found in the collection edited by the Scottish composer, Hamish MacCunn. See, as well, the _Cycle of Old Scotch Melodies_ arranged for four solo voices with pianoforte accompaniment by Arthur Whiting.] [Music: WOULD GOD I WERE THE TENDER APPLE BLOSSOM] This Irish tune[29] is certainly one of the most perfect that can be imagined, remarkable alike for its organic unity, gained by the frequent use of the first ascending motive, and for the manner in which the successive crises are reached. Note in particular the intensity of the final climax, in measure 13, attained by a repetition of the preceding phrase. [Footnote 29: For Irish folk-songs the best collections are the one by Villiers Stanford and a _Cycle_ by Arthur Whiting, prepared in the same way as that just cited on Scottish melodies.] [Music: EN PASSANT PAR LA LORRAINE AVEC MES SABOTS] This charming song[30] from Lorraine exemplifies that rhythmic vivacity and lightness of touch so characteristic of the French. [Footnote 30: Taken from an excellent collection of _Chansons Populaires_ edited by Julien Tiersot.] Observe the piquant effect, in the final phrase, produced by the elision of a measure; there being in the whole song 31 measures instead of the normal 32 (16 + 16). [Music: Old Hungarian Folk-song] Hungarian folk-music[31] is noted for its syncopated rhythm and its peculiar metric groupings. It is also often highly embroidered with chromatic notes; the Hungarian scale, with _two_ augmented intervals, being an intensification of our minor mode, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 31: The best popular collection of Hungarian melodies is that by Francis Korbay, the texts for which were translated and arranged by the American novelist, J.S. of Dale. It is well known what artistic use has been made of Hungarian melodies and rhythms by Schubert, Liszt and Brahms.] Russia is fortunate in her musical inheritance; for not only has she a wealth of folk-songs, but her famous composers, Balakireff, Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakoff--who are men of letters as well--have published remarkable editions of these national melodies. The Russian folk-songs express, in general, a mood of sombreness or even depression--typical of the vast, bleak expanses of that country, and of its downtrodden people. These songs are usually in the minor mode--often with sudden changes of rhythm--and based on the old ecclesiastical modes, the Russian liturgy being very ancient and having an historical connection with that of the Greek church. The folk-music of no nation is more endowed with individuality and depth of emotion. Five characteristic examples are herewith cited: [Music: I] [Music: II] [Music: III Harmonized by RIMSKY-KORSAKOFF] [Music: IV] [Music: V] This last melody is of particular significance, because Tchaikowsky has used it so prominently in the Finale of his Fourth Symphony. The growing interest in folk-music in America is a tendency concerning which the progressive student should inform himself. For a national basis of creative work, our country has always been at a disadvantage in comparison with nations which, as their birthright, have much music in their blood. Moreover, with the exception of the tunes of the aboriginal Indians and the plantation melodies of the Negroes, it has been asserted that America could boast no folk-songs. Recent investigations have shown, however, that this is not entirely true. Cecil Sharp, Henry Gilbert, Arthur Farwell and other musical scholars have proved that there are several regions of our country, settled by colonists from England, Ireland and Scotland, where folk-songs exist practically in the condition in which they were first brought over. One of the best collections of such material is the set of so-called _Lonesome Tunes from the Kentucky Mountains_, taken down by Miss Lorraine Wyman and Mr. Howard Brockway directly from the mountaineers and other dwellers in that region. These melodies have great individuality, directness and no little poetic charm. It is certainly encouraging to feel that, in this industrial age, there are still places where people express their emotions and ideals in song; for a nation that has not learned to sing--or has forgotten how--can never create music that endures. CHAPTER III POLYPHONIC MUSIC; SEBASTIAN BACH We have traced, in the preceding chapter, some of the fundamental principles of design in musical expression, as they were manifested in the Folk-music of the different nations. All music of this type was homophonic, _i.e._, a single melodic line, either entirely unaccompanied or with a slight amount of instrumental support. Hence however perfect in itself, it was necessarily limited in scope and in opportunity for organic development. Before music could become an independent art, set free from reliance on poetry, and could attain to a breadth of expression commensurate with the growth in other fields of art, there had to be established some principle of development, far more extensive than could be found in Folk-music. This principle[32] of "Thematic Development"--the chief idiom of instrumental music--by which a motive or a theme is expanded into a large symphonic movement, was worked out in that type of music known as the Polyphonic or many-voiced; and Polyphonic music became, in turn, the point of departure for our modern system of harmony, with its methods of key relationship and of modulation. As we have stated in Chapter I, the principle of systematic repetition or imitation--first discovered and partially applied by the musicians[33] of the early French School and by the Netherland masters--finally culminated in the celebrated vocal works (à capella or unaccompanied) composed by Palestrina and his contemporaries for the Roman Catholic Liturgy. Up to this point the whole texture of music had been conceived in connection with voices; but with the development of the organ, so admirably suited for polyphonic style, and the perfection of the family of stringed instruments, the principles of polyphony were carried over and applied to instrumental treatment. The composer who, through his constructive genius, most fully embodied these principles[34] was John Sebastian Bach (1685-1750). We are now prepared to explain the characteristics of polyphonic music and then to analyze some typical examples from Bach and other polyphonic composers. The essential difference between homophonic and polyphonic style is implied by the terms themselves. When there is but one melody, the skill of the composer and the attention of the listener are concentrated upon this single melodic line; and even if there be an accompaniment, it is so planned that the chief melody stands out in relief against it. The pre-eminence of this chief melody is seldom usurped, although the accompaniment often has interesting features of its own. As soon as we have more than one melody (whether there be two, three or still others) all these voice-parts may be of coequal importance, and the musical fabric becomes an interwoven texture of a number of strands. The genius and skill of the composer is now expended on securing life and interest for each of these voices--soprano, alto, tenor, bass--which seem to be braided together; and thus a much more comprehensive attention is required of the listener. For instead of the single melody in the soprano, or upper voice, of the Folk-song, we now must listen consciously to the bass and to both of the inner voices.[35] Too much emphasis cannot be laid upon the recommendation that, in appreciating music, the first task is to train the ear to a wide range of listening. These differences in style are often apparent just as a pattern of design--to be seen from the following examples: [Music: Homophonic Style. Irish Folk-Song] [Music: Polyphonic Style. BACH: Fugue in C Minor] [Footnote 32: The statement might be qualified by saying that, since Beethoven, instrumental style has become a happy mixture of homophony for the chief melodies and polyphony for the supporting harmonic basis. Stress is laid in the above text on the polyphonic aspect merely to emphasize the matter under discussion.] [Footnote 33: Notable names are Léonin and Pérotin, both organists of Nôtre Dame at Paris.] [Footnote 34: Although this is not the place to set forth all the details of this development, in the interest of historical justice we should not think of Bach without gratefully acknowledging the remarkable work of such pioneers as the Dutchman, Sweelinck (1562-1621), organist at Amsterdam; the Italian, Frescobaldi (1583-1644), organist at Rome, and--greatest of all, in his stimulating influence upon Bach--the Dane, Buxtehude (1636-1707), organist at Lübeck. Sweelinck and Frescobaldi may fairly be called the founders of the genuine Fugue, and there is a romantic warmth in Buxtehude's best work which makes it thoroughly modern in sentiment.] [Footnote 35: In connection with the statement that music has developed according to natural law, it is worth noting that the four-part chorus early became the standard for both vocal and instrumental groups for the simple reason that there exist two kinds of women's voices--soprano and alto, and two of men's voices--tenor and bass. Originally, the chief voice in the ecclesiastical chorus was the tenor (teneo), because the tenors _sustained_ the melody. Below them were the basses (bassus, low); above the tenors came the altos (altus, high) and still higher the sopranos (sopra, above).] In the latter example it is evident that there is an interweaving of _three_ distinct melodic lines. The polyphonic instrumental works of Bach and his contemporaries were called by such names as Preludes, Fugues, Canons, Inventions, Toccatas and Fantasies; but since a complete account of all these forms would lead too far afield, we shall confine ourselves to a description of the Canon, the Invention and the Fugue. A Canon (from the Greek [Greek: Kanôn], meaning a strict rule or law) is a composition in which there is a _literal_ systematic imitation, carried out to the end, between two or more of the voices (often with subsidiary voices filling in), and may be considered a kind of musical dialogue in which the second, or answering, part reënforces the message previously uttered by the leading voice. This imitation may take place at any degree of separation; and Canons are in existence at the interval of the second, third, fourth, fifth, etc. The most effective Canons, however, are those in which the answering voice is an octave away from the leading one. Although the Canon is not a form employed frequently by modern composers for an entire composition, Canonic imitation appears so often in all large works for orchestra, string quartet or ensemble combinations, that the music-lover should acquire a certain ease in listening to a structure of this type. The Canon, moreover, is an integral factor in the style of César Franck, d'Indy and Brahms; and illustrations of its use abound in their works. The organ is particularly well suited to the rendition of Canons; since, by its facilities for tone-color, the two voices may be clearly contrasted. Those interested in organ literature should become acquainted with the following excellent examples: The _Canon in B-flat major_, op. 40, by Guilmant; the 4th movement of the _Fifth Organ Symphony_ by Widor; the Canon in B minor, op. 54, by Schumann; the _Canon in F-sharp major_, op. 30, by Merkel, and the set of _Ten Canonic studies_, op. 12, by G.W. Chadwick. In other fields of composition the following should be cited: The set of _Pianoforte Pieces in Canon form_, op. 35, by Jadassohn; a like set by Rheinberger, op. 180; the _Canonic Vocal Trios_, op. 156, by Reinecke and the famous Canon from the first act of Beethoven's opera _Fidelio_. There is also a beautiful bit of Canonic imitation between two of the upper voices in the introduction of Berlioz's _Carnaval Romain Overture_ for orchestra. One of the most appealing Canons in modern literature is the setting for soprano and barytone, by Henschel, of the poem _Oh that we two were Maying_ by Charles Kingsley. This example alone would sufficiently corroborate the statement that the firmness of structure inherent in the canonic form is perfectly compatible with genuine freedom and poetry of inspiration. In the first movement of César Frank's _Symphony in D minor_, at the recapitulation (page 39 of the full score) may be found a magnificent example of the intensity of effect gained by a canonic imitation of the main theme--in this instance between the lower and upper voices. Possibly the finest example of canonic writing in all literature is the Finale of César Franck's _Sonata in A major_ for Violin and Pianoforte in which, for several pages, there is an eloquent dialogue between the two contrasting instruments. The movement is too long for citation but it should certainly be procured and studied. In the Trio of the Scherzo in Beethoven's _Seventh Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte_ there is a free use of canonic imitation which will repay investigation. Lastly, the _Aria with 30 Variations_--the so-called _Goldberg Variations_ of Bach--is a perfect storehouse of every conceivable canonic device. A few standard examples are to be found in the Supplement. These should be played over and studied until they are thoroughly familiar--not only for the pleasure to be derived, but for the indispensable training afforded in polyphonic listening. Ex. No. 9 Canon by Thomas Tallys (1510-1585). Ex. No. 10 Canonic Variation by Schumann from the _Études Symphoniques_. Ex. No. 11 of Bach's _Goldberg Variations_. Ex. No. 12 Canon in B-flat minor, op. 38, Grieg. Ex. No. 13 Canon in F-sharp major, op. 35, Jadassohn. One of the most simple and direct types of polyphonic composition is the form known as the _Invention_ in which, as the term implies, the composer--through his _inventive genius_ and by means of the polyphonic devices of imitation and transposition--develops to a logical conclusion some short and characteristic motive. We are fortunate in having from Bach himself, that consummate master of polyphony, two sets of such Inventions: fifteen for two voices, and fifteen for three. These flights of fancy--in which art so subtly conceals art--though originally composed for the clavichord and harpsichord (the precursors of the pianoforte), are very effective on our modern instrument and should be in the possession of every music-student.[36] A brief analysis is now given of the first one in the set for two voices, and Nos. 4, 8 and 10 in this set are particularly recommended for study; also Nos. 2, 6 and 14 among those for three voices. The opening motive [Music] is the foundation of the entire composition and is at once imitated, canonically, in the lower voice. Then the two voices play about, with figures clearly derived from the motive, until we reach, in measures three and four, a systematic downward transposition of the material. Such transpositions or shiftings up or down in pitch are called _Sequences_. They are very frequent in all polyphonic composition, give a strong sense of unity to melodic progression and are generally carried out in groups of three, _i.e._, the original figure and two repetitions. After the sequence the music naturally works toward the most nearly related key (the dominant) and in the seventh measure reaches in that key its first objective. These Inventions of Bach, as well as the Dance forms soon to be studied, are almost invariably in what is known as _Two-part_ form, _i.e._, the music consists of two main divisions, clearly marked off by cadences[37]; the first of which modulates to the dominant or some related key while the second part, starting in this key, works back to a final close in the home key. In Inventions it early became customary in the second part to begin with the same motive as the first--but in the _opposite_ voice. Thus we see, in the Invention now being discussed, that the seventh measure begins with the original motive in the bass which, in turn, is imitated by the Soprano--a process just the reverse of that in the opening measures. [Footnote 36: The best edition is that by Busoni, published by Breitkopf and Härtel.] [Footnote 37: This technical term as well as others will later be more fully explained.] [Music] In pieces in this Two-part form the second portion is generally longer than the first; for the composer, by the time he has reached this second part, may consider the material sufficiently familiar to be expanded and varied by excursions into more remote keys, and by more intricate manipulations of the chief motive. In measure 11 we find a modulation to D minor and then, after some free treatment of the motive, we reach--in measure 15--a cadence in A minor. A long sequential passage brings us, through a modulation to the subdominant key of F major (in measures 18 and 19), to a strong closing cadence in the home key. It should be noticed that in this Invention and in some of the dance forms there is shown a strong leaning towards a tripartite division of the material as is indicated by the _three_ cadences in measures 7, 15 and 22. Since, however, the middle part is lacking in any strong _contrast_--which is such an essential factor in the fully developed three-part form--it seems better to consider this piece, and others like it, as a tendency rather than as a complete embodiment of tripartite arrangement. It is expected that the music lover will take these Inventions for what they really are and not search in them for those notes of intense subjectivity and dramatic power so prevalent in modern music. They are merely little pieces--a "tour de force" in polyphonic ingenuity; music rejoicing in its own inherent vitality. Accepted in this spirit they are invigorating and charming. The form in which polyphonic skill reaches its highest possibilities is the Fugue; and the immortal examples of this form are the Fugues of John Sebastian Bach, found in his _Well-tempered Clavichord_ and in his mighty works for the organ. The fundamental structure of a fugue is implied in the term itself (from the Latin "fuga"--flight); that is, in a fugue the main theme or subject is always announced in a single voice, and the remaining voices, appearing successively in accordance with definite principles of key-relationship, seem to chase each other about and to flee from pursuit. The several stratified entrances of the subject are relieved by intermediate passages called "Episodes." An Episode, as shown by the derivation ([Greek: ipi hodos], by the way), is something off the beaten path--a digression; and it is in these episodical portions of a fugue rather than in the formalistic portions that the genius of the composer shines forth. This is especially true of Bach, for almost any well-trained musician can invent a subject which will allow of satisfactory fugal treatment according to accepted usage; but no one save Bach has ever invented such free and fanciful episodes--so daring in scope and yet so closely connected with the main thought. The general effect of a fugue is _cumulative_: a massing and piling up of voices that lead to a carefully designed conclusion which, in some of Bach's organ fugues, is positively overwhelming. A fugue may be called a mighty crescendo, like the sound of many waters. There is a popular conception, or rather _mis_conception, that a fugue is a labored, dull or even "dry" form of composition, meant only as an exhibition of pedantic skill, and quite beyond the reach of ordinary musical appreciation. Nothing is farther from the truth, as a slight examination of musical literature will show. For we see that the fugal form has been used to express well-nigh every form of human emotion, the sublime, the tragic, the romantic; very often the humorous and the fantastic. When we recall the irresistible sparkle and dash of Mozart's _Magic Flute Overture_, of the Overture to the _Bartered Bride_ by Smetana, of the Finale of Mozart's _Jupiter Symphony_, and of many of the fugues in the _Well-tempered Clavichord_, it is evident that to call a fugue "dry" is an utter abuse of language. It is true that there are weak, artificial and dull fugues, where the composer--frankly--had nothing to say and merely filled out the form; but the same may be said of every type of composition, _i.e._, among them all are examples inspired and--less inspired. This, however, is no indictment of the fugue _per se_, against which the only thing to be said is that it requires on the part of the listener an exceeding concentration. Some of the masterpieces of the world being wholly or partially in the fugal form, it is the duty of those listening to polyphonic music to train their powers to the same seriousness of attention expected and freely given in the appreciation of an oration, a drama or a cathedral. These latter manifestations of artistic expression, to be sure, are less abstract than the fugue and more closely related to daily life. Yet no effort is more repaying than the mental and emotional energy expended in listening to the interweavings of a good fugue; for, conscious of missing the periodic divisions of the Folk-song, we have to listen to more than one melody at a time. A fugue being a composition, as the French say, of "longue haleine," our attention, in order to follow its structure, must be on the "qui vive" every moment. The fugue, in fact, is an example of the intricate and yet organic complexity found in all the higher forms of life itself; and whenever a composer has wished to dwell with emphasis on a particular theme, he almost invariably resorts to some form of fugal treatment, strict or free. The most effective media for rendering fugues are the chorus of mixed voices, the organ (by reason of its pedal key-board always making the subject in the bass stand out majestically) and the stringed orchestra which, with the "bite" of the strings, brings out--with peculiar sharpness--the different entrances of the subject. The student should become familiar with standard examples in each of these classes and should, above all, seek opportunity to hear some of the organ fugues of Bach performed on a really fine instrument. A few well-known fugues are herewith cited in order to stimulate the student to some investigation of his own. In all the Oratorios of Handel and in the choral works of Bach, such as the B minor Mass, may be found magnificent fugues--as free and vital in their rhythmic swing as the ocean itself. Particular attention should be called to the fugue in the Messiah "And by His stripes we were healed [Transcriber's Note: And with His stripes we are healed]." One of the most impressive fugues in modern literature is the à capella chorus _Urbs Syon Unica_ from H.W. Parker's _Hora Novissima_. From among the organ works of Bach everyone should know the Fugues in G minor, in A minor, in D major[38] and the Toccata and Fugue in D minor. These have all been transcribed for the pianoforte by Liszt and so are readily available; they are often played at pianoforte recitals by Paderewski and other virtuosi. In hearing one of these masterpieces no one can remain unmoved or can fail to reverence the constructive genius which fashioned such cathedrals in tone. For orchestra we have the Prelude to Puccini's opera _Madama Butterfly_, and the beginning of the Prelude to the third act of Wagner's _Mastersingers_. There are striking fugal passages in Beethoven's Symphonies, _e.g._, the first movement of the _Heroic Symphony_ and the rollicking Trio of the Scherzo in the _Fifth Symphony_. In more modern literature there is the fugal Finale to Arthur Foote's _Suite for Orchestra_ and in Chadwick's _Vagrom Ballad_ a humorous quotation of the theme from Bach's _G minor Fugue_ for organ. One of the most superb fugues in free style is the last movement of César Franck's _Prelude, Choral and Fugue in B minor_ for Pianoforte. This movement alone would refute all charges of dullness or dryness brought against the fugue by the unthinking or the unenlightened. A good fugue, in fact, is so full of vitality and demands such _active_ comprehension[39] on the part of the listener that it is not difficult to imagine where the dullness and dryness are generally found. [Footnote 38: Whenever Percy Grainger performs this fugue in his own arrangement for pianoforte, he always electrifies an audience.] [Footnote 39: It is worthy of observation that, for those who will listen to them intelligently, fugues do not merely demand such a state of mind but actually _generate_ it.] At this point by an analysis of a fugue from the _Well-tempered Clavichord_, let us explain some of the technical features in fugal structure. We shall then be in a position to understand the more subtle devices of fugal treatment and to appreciate more enthusiastically some additional comments upon Bach's style in general. FUGUE IN E-FLAT MAJOR, NO. VII, IN THE FIRST BOOK. [Music: Subject Counter-subject Answer] This fugue in three voices begins with a graceful subject, announced in the upper voice. In the third measure this is answered by an imitation of the subject in the alto; while the opening voice continues with a contrasting part called the counter-subject.[40] As the whole subsequent fabric is organically derived from these two motives, both subject and counter-subject should be played frequently and so committed to memory. Observe also the contrasts in rhythm and melodic outline between the subject and counter-subject. In measures 4 and 5 we have a short sequential passage leading, in measure 6, to the third entry of the subject in the bass. Then after another sequential passage, which includes an emphatic assertion of the subject in the soprano (measures 11 and 12), we enter upon a long episode which leads, at measure 17, to our first objective point of rest--a cadence in C minor. With the entry, in this measure, of the subject in the alto we have an interesting example of what is termed "shifted rhythm;" the subject beginning on the third beat instead of the first, as at the outset. In the middle portion of the fugue we have two appearances of the subject in the related keys of C minor (measures 17 and 18) and G minor (measures 20 and 21). Then, following two very vigorous sequences, a modulatory return is made to the subject in the home key, and with its normal rhythm at measure 26. A repetition, in more brilliant form, of one of the previous episodes, in measures 31 and 32, gives a strong impression of unity; leading in measures 34 and 35 to a last appearance of the subject, with a beautiful change in one of the intervals (E-flat-G-flat). The closing measures establish the main tonality of E-flat major, rendered still more expressive by the counterpoint associated with the last chord. As to the general structure of this fugue, it is evidently tripartite, the first part A presenting the material, the second part B affording variety by modulating into different keys, and the third part A´ reasserting the material of A and bringing the composition to a logical close in the home key. (See Supplement Ex. No. 15.) [Footnote 40: It is left to the teacher to explain to the student the key-relationship of Subject and Answer, and the difference between fugues, tonal and real; for as these points have rather more to do with composition they play but a slight part in listening to a fugue.] We should now acquaint ourselves with the more subtle devices of fugal treatment; although but one of these is employed in the fugue just studied, which is comparatively simple in structure. I. Inversion; the melodic outline is turned upside down while identity is retained by means of the rhythm, _e.g._ [Music: BACH: 3rd English Suite Theme Inversion] An excellent example from an orchestral work is the theme of the third movement of Brahms's _C minor Symphony_, the second phrase of which is an Inversion of the opening measures, _e.g._ [Music: Inversion] II. Augmentation and Diminution; the length of the notes is doubled or halved while their metrical relativity is maintained, _e.g._ [Music: BACH: Fugue No. 8, Book I Theme Augmentation] [Music: BACH: Fugue No. IX, Book II Theme Diminution] Augmentation is very frequent in modern literature when a composer, by lengthening out the phraseology of a theme, wishes to gain for it additional emphasis. Excellent examples are the closing measures of Schumann's _Arabesque_, in which the reminiscence of the original motto is most haunting, _e.g._, [Music: Motto] [Music: Motto augmented] the Finale of Liszt's _Faust Symphony_, where the love theme of the Gretchen movement is carried over and intoned by a solo baritone with impressive effect, _e.g._ [Music] [Music: In augmentation _Das ewig Weibliche_] III. Shifted Rhythm; the position of the subject in the measure is so changed that the accents fall on different beats, _e.g._ [Music: BACH: Fugue No. V, Book II Subject Shifted] IV. Stretto; (from the Italian verb "stringere," to draw close) that portion of a fugue, often the climax, where the entrances are _crowded_ together, _i.e._, the imitating voice enters before the leading voice has finished, _e.g._ [Music: _Fuga giocosa_, J.K. PAINE, op. 41 Subject] The effect is obviously one of great concentration and dramatic intensity--with a sense of impending climax--and its use is by no means limited to fugal composition; being frequently found in all large symphonic works of the classic and modern school. For a magnificent example of the climactic effect produced by a Stretto, witness the last part of Bach's Fugue in G major (see Supplement, Ex. No. 16). Although there is considerable complexity in any complete fugue, and although it requires great concentration on the part of the listener, we should avoid thinking of the form as mechanical in any derogatory sense, but rather as a means to a definite artistic end. Certainly no greater mistake can be made than that of considering Bach, the supreme master of polyphonic writing, as too austere, too involved, for the delight and edification of every-day mortals. Bach means brook, and the name[41] is most appropriate; for Bach is a never ceasing stream of musical life, the fountain-head from which spring the leading tendencies of modern music. In these days when stress is laid on the romantic element in music, on warm emotional appeal, it is well to consider the quality so prevalent in Bach of spiritual vitality. Exactly because the romantic element represents the human side of music, it is subject to the whims of fashion and is liable to change and decay. Bach carries us into the realm of universal ideas, inexhaustible and changeless in their power to exalt. Schumann says that "Music owes to Bach what a religion owes to its founder"; and it is true that a knowledge of Bach is the beginning of musical wisdom. By some, Bach is considered dry or too reserved for companionship with ordinary human beings. Others carelessly assert that he has no melody. Nothing can be further from the truth than these two misconceptions. Bach surely is not dry, because his work abounds in such vitality of rhythm. As Parry says, in his biography, "No composer ever attained to anything approaching the spontaneity, freshness, and winsomeness of his dances, such as the gavottes, bourrées, passepieds and gigues in the suites; while many of his great choruses and instrumental fugues are inspired with a force of rhythmic movement which thrills the hearer with a feeling of being swept into space out of the range of common things." The charge of a lack of melody is the same which used to be brought against Wagner. Instead of there being no melody, it is _all_ melody, so that the partially musical, who lack the power of sustained attention, are drowned in the flood of melodic outpouring. A strong claim, in fact, may be made for Bach as a _popular_ composer in the best sense of the term. Many of his colossal works, to be sure, are heard but seldom, for they require the most highly trained executive ability. But if the average music-lover will become familiar with the French and English Suites, with the Preludes and Fugues of the _Well-tempered Clavichord_, with some of the Violin Sonatas, he will find for his imagination and mental machinery a food which, once enjoyed, becomes indispensable. For his music has that greatest of qualities in art as in human relationships--it wears well and _lasts_. We all know that books which reveal everything at a first reading are soon thrown aside, and that people whose depth of character and sweetness of disposition we discern but slowly, often become our life-long friends. Music which is too easily heard is identical with that which is immediately forgotten. The first impulse created by any great work of art is our longing to know it better. Its next attribute is its power to arouse and hold our steady affection. These observations may be applied literally to Bach's music, which can be heard for a lifetime, never losing its appeal but continually unfolding new beauties. Furthermore, in Bach, we feel the force of a great character even more than the artistic skill with which the personality is revealed. In this respect Bach in music is quite on a par with Shakespeare in literature and Michael Angelo in plastic art. With many musicians, there is so disconcerting and inexplicable a discrepancy between their deeds as men and the artistic thoughts for which they seem to be the unconscious media, that it is inspiring to come into touch with one who rings true as a man whatever demands are made upon him; whose music is free from morbidity or carnal blemish, as pure as the winter wind, as elemental as the ocean, as uplifting as the stars. In Bach let us always remember the noble human traits; for the universal regard in which his work is held could never have come merely from profound skill in workmanship, but is due chiefly to the manly sincerity and emotional depth which are found therein. The revival of his works, for which the world owes to Mendelssohn such a debt, has been the single strongest factor in the development of music during the 19th century; and their influence[42] is by no means yet at an end, as may be seen from the glowing tributes paid to him by such modern composers as Franck, d'Indy and Debussy.[43] [Footnote 41: Beethoven, commenting on the name, majestically said: "He is no brook; he is the open sea!"] [Footnote 42: For a very suggestive article on this point by Philip Greeley Clapp see the Musical Quarterly for April, 1916.] [Footnote 43: Some eloquent comments on Bach's style and significance may be found in Chapter III of _The Appreciation of Music_ by Surette and Mason.] Two additional fugues are now given in the Supplement (see Nos. 17 and 18) for the consideration of the student: the _Cat-Fugue_ of Domenico Scarlatti, with its fantastic subject (said to have been suggested by the walking of a favorite cat on the key-board) and the _Fuga Giocosa_ of John Knowles Paine, (the subject of which is the well-known street-tune "Rafferty's lost his pig"). This latter example is not only a brilliant piece of fugal writing but a typical manifestation of American humor. Several eulogies of the fugue are to be found in literature; three of the most famous are herewith appended. "Hist, but a word, fair and soft! Forth and be judged, Master Hugues! Answer the question I've put you so oft: What do you mean by your mountainous fugues? See, we're alone in the loft." --Browning, _Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha_. Throughout, a most fantastic description of fugal style. "Whence the sound Of instruments, that made melodious chime, Was heard, of harp and organ; and who mov'd Their stops and chords was seen; his volant touch Instinct through all proportions, low and high, Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue." --Milton, _Paradise Lost_, Book XI. "Then rose the agitation, spreading through the infinite cathedral to its agony; then was completed the passion of the mighty fugue. The golden tubes of the organ which as yet had but sobbed and muttered at intervals--gleaming amongst clouds and surges of incense--threw up, as from fountains unfathomable, columns of heart-shattering music. Choir and antichoir were filling fast with unknown voices. Thou also, Dying Trumpeter! with thy love which was victorious, and thy anguish that was finishing, didst enter the tumult; trumpet and echo--farewell love and farewell anguish--rang through the dreadful Sanctus." --From De Quincey's _Dream Fugue in the "Vision of Sudden Death_." Truly a marvellous picture of the effect of a fugue in a great medieval cathedral! CHAPTER IV THE MUSICAL SENTENCE Before passing on to an explanation of the fundamental types of musical structure, we must give some idea of the constituent parts of the _Period_ in music. Every art has its units of expression: the straight line, the curve, the arch, the poetic stanza and the prose sentence. Just as poetry and prose are a series of stanzas or sentences, so a musical composition is a succession of definitely organized portions of thought and emotion, in terms of rhythm and sound. In the heart of a composition, to be sure, we often find a great freedom in the phraseology, comparable to blank verse or to a rhapsodic kind of prose; but with few exceptions, such as a Fantasie, every composition always _begins_ with one or two periods which, in regard to subdivision, balance and directness of statement, are carefully planned and are complete in themselves. Before it is possible to follow intelligently the structure of a musical sentence we must gain a clear idea of what is meant by the frequently used terms Tonality and Modulation. Since the evolution and acceptance of our three modern scales:[44] the major, the minor and the chromatic--which gained their sanction chiefly through the investigations and compositions of Bach and Rameau--every melody and the accompanying harmony are said to be in a certain "tonality" (or "key") which takes its name from the first tone of the scale in question, _e.g._, C, E-flat, F sharp, etc. Hence this first tone is called the Tonic or chief tone and from it ascend the other tones of the scale. That is, a melody in E-flat major will employ only those tones found in the scale of E-flat major, and is said to be in that "key," or "tonality." The same would be true of the harmony involved, _i.e._, the chords would consist of combinations of the different tones of this scale. When a melody, as is often the case, employs tones _not_ found in the scale in question, these are called _chromatic_[45] changes, and may or may not effect a "modulation" or departure into another key, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 44: It is assumed that the music-lover has, as his birthright, an instinctive knowledge of the grouping of tones and semitones in our modern scales. Those who may wish to refresh their knowledge are recommended to the second Chapter in Foote and Spalding's _Harmony_, and to the chapter on Scales in Parry's _Evolution of the Art of Music_.] [Footnote 45: Color in music is brought about chiefly through their use.] The most important means of gaining unity and coherence in a composition is to have it written in a clearly defined tonality, especially at the outset. This definite tonality is the "centre of gravity," so to speak, about which the whole composition revolves. If this tonal centre were uncertain or wandering, we should have a feeling of vagueness and perplexity which, except for special dramatic effect, is never found in works of the great composers. Thus we speak of a Symphony in C minor, of a Quartet in F major and of a Sonata in B-flat minor;[46] this foundation key being comparable to the basic color-scheme of a painting. There is also a particular aesthetic effect and color-appeal associated with each key; and the listener should train himself to be sensitive to the brilliance of such keys as D major and E major, the richness of B major, the dignity of E-flat major, the almost cloying sweetness of D-flat major and of G-flat major and the tragic depth of B minor and G minor. No piece, however, should remain for long in the same key; for music cuts so deeply into the consciousness that there would result an intolerable monotony.[47] Even in the simplest folk-songs, therefore, we often find manifested an instinct for those changes of tonal centre which are technically called "Modulations." All the keys founded on the twelve semitones of the chromatic scale are related--though in varying degrees of closeness; and in modern music, no matter how complex the modulations often sound, we may be sure that the composer plans them as carefully as the painter adjusts his color-scheme. For definite acoustical[48] and harmonic reasons, however, the keys most closely related to a given tonal centre are those situated a perfect fifth above--the Dominant; a perfect fifth below--the Subdominant; and the Relative Minor, the key-note of which is a minor third below, _e.g._, A minor in relation to C major, C minor to E-flat major. The relative minors of the Dominant and Subdominant also bear a close relationship to a given tonic; and into these _five_ keys is made a large majority of the modulations in any piece of music.[49] [Music: Subdominant Tonic Dominant Relative Relative Relative Minor Minor Minor] [Footnote 46: As for example the famous one of Chopin.] [Footnote 47: Even great composers have at times made this mistake, _e.g._, Mendelssohn in the first movement of the _Scotch Symphony_, where the interminable length of the portion in A minor (of all keys!) is simply deadening in its effect. Compare also the _Prelude to the Rheingold_; where, however--for dramatic purposes--to depict the world as "without form and void" Wagner remains in the key of E-flat major for some 150 measures!] [Footnote 48: It is left to the teacher to explain, by the ratios found in the overtones of the Harmonic Series, the validity of this statement.] [Footnote 49: Some modern theorists, _e.g._, Calvacoressi (see the New Music Review for September, 1909) have thought that the dominant relationship was "overworked." It is true that the great charm of modern music is its freedom and boldness in modulation; but the dominant keys can never be entirely abandoned, for the relationship between them and a tonic is as elemental as that between the colors of the spectroscope.] Beginning with Beethoven, a modulation into what are known as the _mediant_ keys became frequent; and is, in fact, a favorite change in all modern music--the mediant keys being those situated half-way between a Tonic and Dominant or a Tonic and Subdominant, _e.g._ [Music: Sub-mediant Mediant] Anyone at all familiar with Beethoven's style will remember how often his second theme, instead of following the more conventional line of dominant relationship, is in a mediant key. Good examples may be found in the first movement of the _Waldstein Sonata_ and in the first and last movements of the 8th Symphony. A little thought will make clear that the relationships just set forth include nearly all the possible ones save those of 2nds and 7ths. Even into these apparently distant keys, _e.g._, to D-flat major or to B major from C major, modulations may easily be made by means of the "enharmonic"[50] relationship found in that frequently used modern chord--the Augmented Sixth, _e.g._ [Music: C major B major C major D-flat major] [Footnote 50: Two tones are said to be "enharmonic" when, although written differently, they sound the same on an instrument of fixed temperament like the pianoforte, or organ, _e.g._, D-sharp and E-flat, E and F-flat. A violin, however, can make a distinction between such notes and often does.] Next to rhythm, modulation is the most stimulating and enchanting element in music. No composition of any scope can be considered truly great unless it abounds in beautiful modulations. Certain composers, to be sure, have in this respect more genius than others--notably Schubert, Chopin, Wagner and Franck whose music seems to waft us along on a magic carpet of delight. But just as Unity depends upon a definite basic tonality, so Variety is gained by this very freedom of modulation. Without it is monotony; with too much modulation, an irritating restlessness. By the perfect balance in his works of these two related elements a genius may be definitely recognized. The simplest and on the whole most frequent type of musical sentence or period consists of eight measures, subdivided into two balancing phrases of four measures[51] each--the component parts plainly indicated by various cadences and endings soon to be explained. These four-measure phrases are often, though not invariably, still further subdivided into two sections of two measures each. Let us now corroborate these statements by an examination of the opening sentence of the Scherzo of Beethoven's _Second Sonata for Pianoforte_. This concise sentence is an epitome of the chief principles of organic musical expression. At the outset[52] we see the leading motive, which consists of an ascending broken chord twice repeated. We see also [Music] the first phrase of 4 measures and the second phrase[53] of similar length, alike subdivided into two sections of 2 measures each. In the third measure we find a modulation into the dominant key (indicated by the D-sharp) and in the fourth measure a cadence with a feminine ending in this key. The second--or after--phrase corresponds exactly to what has gone before: we have the same repetition of the motive in a different part of the scale; and finally, in the 8th measure, a cadence in the home key, also with feminine ending. [Footnote 51: This assertion holds for most of our Western European music; though in Hungarian and Scotch music we find a natural fondness for phrases of _three_ measures, and the Croatians are known for their phrases of _five_ measures so often used by both Haydn and Schubert. But it is true that we _tend_ to think in groups which are some multiple of 2, _i.e._, either 4, 8, 12 or 16 measures.] [Footnote 52: Always count the first _complete_ measure as _one_.] [Footnote 53: The two phrases are often designated Thesis and Antithesis.] [Music] When the sentence is played, it is evident how unsatisfactory would be the effect if a complete stop were attempted at the 4th measure; and how symmetrical and convincing is the impression when the eight measures are considered an unbroken sweep of musical thought.[54] There are, in fact, a few complete compositions in musical literature which contain but a single sentence of eight measures. As an example may be cited the song from Schumann's _Lieder Album für Jugend_, op. 79, No. 1. (See Supplement No. 19.) For purposes of practical appreciation[55] it is enough to state that a cadence is an accepted combination of chords (generally the tonic, dominant and subdominant) which indicates that some objective, either temporary or final, has been reached. When the dominant chord or any dominant harmony is immediately followed by the tonic the cadence is called perfect or final, and may be compared to a period in punctuation, _e.g._ [Music] [Music: CÉSAR FRANCK] [Footnote 54: In listening to a clock it is impossible to think of the ticks singly, or otherwise than in groups of two: an accented beat and an unaccented; although the beats are of equal strength and duration. This principle of dual balance is derived from the rhythmic pulsation of the human heart and, as we shall see, runs through all music.] [Footnote 55: Whenever this book is used in class, the teacher can easily explain, on the pianoforte and by charts, the different cadential effects. For those who have sufficient harmonic insight Chapter XIV in Foote and Spalding's _Modern Harmony_ is worth consulting.] A reversal of this order produces what is called the half-cadence, akin to the semicolon, _e.g._ [Music] The union of the subdominant and tonic chords is known as the Plagal Cadence, _e.g._, [Music] and always gives a feeling of religious dignity and impressiveness. Magnificent examples may be found in the closing measures of Wagner's Overture to the _Mastersingers_ and of Brahms' _First Symphony in C minor_. In the final cadence of Debussy's humorous piece for pianoforte, _Minstrels_, the effect is burlesqued, _e.g._ [Music] When dominant harmony is followed by some unexpected chord we have the so-called Deceptive Cadence, which is not unlike the mark of interrogation (?) or even exclamation (!) _e.g._ [Music: WAGNER: _Overture to the Mastersingers_] [Music: TCHAIKOWSKY: _5th Symphony_] This last cadence gives an effect of dramatic surprise--certainly an exclamation of great force. One of the glories of modern music is the daring novelty of cadential effect which has been achieved by such composers as Franck, Debussy and Ravel; the student should try to become more and more familiar with such harmonic combinations. A beautiful example[56] is cited from César Franck's _Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte_. [Footnote 56: See also the strikingly original cadences in Debussy's _L'Isle joyeuse_.] [Music] The two endings for phrases are classified as Masculine and Feminine and they correspond exactly to the same effects in the metre of a poetic stanza. When the second chord of the cadence, whatever it may be, coincides with a _strong_ beat, _i.e._, the first beat of the measure, the ending is Masculine, _e.g._ [Music] When the chord is carried over to a weak beat of the measure the ending is Feminine, _e.g._ [Music] We now give two more examples of the eight measure Sentence which clearly exemplify the principles just stated, _e.g._ [Music: BEETHOVEN: 3rd Sonata] In this vigorous and clear-cut sentence we find in the 4th measure an effect of surprise and suspense; for the chord on the first beat is an inverted position of the dominant chord in the dominant key. Both the endings are masculine, _i.e._, the chords which end the phrases coincide with the strong beats. [Music: BEETHOVEN: 1st Sonata] This graceful sentence is noteworthy for the clear division of the first phrase into two contrasting sections; whereas, in the second phrase, a climactic effect is gained by having no marked subdivision. In the fourth measure occurs a good example of a half-cadence. All the endings are feminine, _i.e._, the cadential chord occurs on a _weak_ beat of the measure.[57] [Footnote 57: Another interesting eight-measure sentence may be found at the beginning of the slow movement of Beethoven's Eighth Sonata, in which every section differs from any one of the others; in the opening sentence of the first movement of the Tenth Sonata--noticeable for the indefiniteness of the cadences until the final close is reached in measure 8, and in the first sentence of the Allegretto of the Sixth Sonata which is one long sweep, with only the faintest indications of subdivision.] Music, however, would be very rigid and would seem measured off with a yard-stick if the sentences were equally of eight measures. The "sing-song" effect of much so-called popular music is due to the stereotyped metrical pattern. You can always tell just where and how you are coming out. In order to gain a free and elastic phraseology, composers early began to combine three four-measure phrases into a _twelve_ measure sentence. It is obvious that with three phrases there can be more subtle effects of contrast and balance than with two, as the following chart makes plain: ____________ / \ A Contrast B Contrast C \____________/ (4 measures) (4 measures) (4 measures) balance \______________________________________/ [Music: BEETHOVEN: 6th Sonata] In this sentence it is evident that we cannot stop at the 8th measure and that our first definite conclusion is in measure 12. Let the student observe the varied melodic outline in the three phrases, and question himself as to the types of cadence and ending. MINUETTO OF BEETHOVEN'S FIRST SONATA.[58] [Footnote 58: Lack of space will prevent hereafter the citation in actual notes of the examples from Beethoven. His works are readily accessible, and it may even be assumed that every music-lover owns the Pianoforte Sonatas.] In this beautifully constructed twelve-measure sentence we have the main motive of the entire movement set forth in measures 1 and 2; then a contrasting secondary motive in measures 3 and 4. The second four-measure phrase, _i.e._, measures 5, 6, 7 and 8, repeats the material exactly, but with a modulation into the relative major. In measures 9 and 10 we find the secondary motive appearing in the alto voice (which should be brought out in performance), and in measures 11 and 12 a free ending in the relative major. The closing measures, 13 and 14, give an echo-like effect, which will be explained when we come to extended sentences. Such a sentence is not to be considered as one of 14 measures, although the literal counting gives that number; for the first complete cadence occurs in the 12th measure at the end of the third four-measure phrase; the remaining measures being supplementary.[59] [Footnote 59: Another excellent example of a 12 measure sentence with an extended cadence may be found at the beginning of the first movement of the Third Beethoven Sonata.] The last type of simple, normal sentence is that of 16 measures, divided into 4 phrases of 4 measures each. A clear distinction must be drawn between two successive sentences of 8 measures and the long sweep of a genuine 16 measure sentence. In the latter case there is no complete and satisfactory stop until we reach the cadence in the 16th measure. FIRST SENTENCE OF THE FIRST MOVEMENT OF THE TWELFTH SONATA. No difficulty will be found in following the cadences and endings of this sentence, the long-drawn out lines of which give an impression of repose and tranquillity. Two more excellent examples of 16 measure sentences may be found in the Adagio of the Fifth Sonata, and in the Scherzo of the Third; the latter movement is remarkable for the polyphonic treatment of the opening motive. Although the three types of sentence just studied, _i.e._, of 8, 12 and 16 measures are the normal ones, and would include a majority of all sentences--especially in smaller works--in large compositions there would be an unendurable monotony and rigidity were there invariably to be cadential pauses at every 4th measure. We all know the deadening effect of poetry which has too great uniformity of metric pattern; and verses of "The boy stood on the burning-deck" type are considered thoroughly "sing-song." It is obvious that elasticity may be gained, without disturbing the normal balance, by expanding a sentence through the addition of extra measures, or contracting it by the logical omission of certain measures or by the overlapping of phrases. The simplest and most common means of enlarging a sentence is by the extension, or repetition, of the final cadence--that effect which is so frequent in the chamber and symphonic music of Haydn, and which has its comic manifestation in the so-called "crescendo" of the Rossini Operatic Overture.[60] [Footnote 60: For a burlesque of this practise see the closing measures of the Scherzando movement of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony.] [Music: HAYDN: _Quartet, op. 74, No. 2_] As Haydn was an important pioneer in freeing instrumental structure from dependence on the metre of words, his periods are always clearly organized; the closing measures of this example seem, as it were, to display a flag, telling the listener that the first breathing-place is reached. Very often both the fore-phrase and the after-phrase have cadential prolongations, an example of which may be found in Haydn's Quartet, op. 71, No. 3. The two following illustrations (the first movement of Beethoven's Fifth Sonata and the third movement of the Fourth) furnish remarkable examples of extended 16 measure sentences; each sentence being normal and symmetrical at the outset and then, as the fancy of the composer catches fire, expanding in a most dramatic fashion. Sometimes the additional measures, in an extended sentence, are found at the start; a clear example of this is the first sentence (with its repeated opening measure) of the Largo of the Seventh Sonata. Sentences are also often expanded by the insertion of one or more measures in the middle of the phrase, _e.g._, the beginning of the first movement of the Seventh Sonata and the corresponding place in the Fourth. In the former sentence the first phrase is perfectly regular, but as we reach our final cadence only in the tenth measure, we must account for some additional measures. The polyphonic imitation of the descending motive of measure 5 makes clear that this measure has two repetitions. In the latter case we reach the end of the sentence in the 17th measure and careful counting, and consideration of the melodic outline, will convince us that the 9th measure, emphasized by the _sf_ mark, is repeated. When an extra measure is systematically introduced into each phrase of 4 measures we have what is known as "five-bar rhythm"--so prevalent in the works of Schubert and Brahms. [Music: SCHUBERT: _Sonata in E[flat] major_] [Music: BRAHMS: _Ballade in G minor_] As everyone is familiar with the latter composition, only the melody is cited. This propulsion of the mind forward beyond the accustomed point of rest always produces a stimulating rhythmic effect.[61] [Footnote 61: Other charming examples of five-bar rhythm may be found in Schubert's Quartet in A minor, op. 29, and in the opening choral (St. Anthony) of Brahms's _Orchestral Variations_, op. 56a.] The normal phraseology of four and eight measures is altered at times by the _omission_ of certain measures. This often takes place at the beginning of the sentence, as may be seen from the structure of the so-called Anglican chant, familiar to all Protestants, _e.g._ [Music: SAVAGE] The beginning of Mozart's _Overture to Figaro_ is also well known, _e.g._ [Music] The elision of a measure often takes place in the middle of a phrase as may be seen from the theme of Mendelssohn's familiar _Spring-Song_. [Music] Just as in the case of the systematic insertion of an extra measure, which produces "five-bar rhythm," so when a measure is omitted in each phrase which would usually consist of four measures, we have "three-bar rhythm." This gives an effect of great concentration and intensity and is a prevalent feature in Scottish and Hungarian folk-music, _e.g._ [Music: Scotch] [Music: Hungarian] Additional examples of three-bar rhythm may be found in the Scherzo of Beethoven's Tenth Sonata and in the Minuet of Mozart's _G minor Symphony_--the latter, one of the most striking examples in literature. When a measure is systematically omitted from the normal structure of the 8 measure sentence we have "seven-bar rhythm"; of which beautiful examples may be found in the Scherzo of Beethoven's Sonata in B-flat major, op. 106, and in Mozart's Quartet in F major, No. 23. As these examples are readily accessible they are not quoted. The humorous effect produced, in the Beethoven example, by the unexpected elision of the 7th measure is very marked. Flexibility in the structure of a sentence is often gained by what is known as "overlapping"[62] of phrases, _i.e._, where the closing measure of a sentence, the 8th or 12th for example, is identical with the first measure of the following phrase. A clear example is this passage from the first movement of Beethoven's Third Sonata, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 62: This effect is clearly brought out in symphonic music where one portion of the orchestra, with a certain tone color, may be ending a phrase at the same moment at which another part, with a contrasting tone color, begins. An excellent example is the first theme of the Slow movement of Schumann's Second Symphony (measures 7-8).] As the principles of sentence-formation are closely involved with the general subject of rhythm, something must be known about the number of beats within the measure itself. While it is true that we Anglo-Saxons tend to think in terms of 2 and 3 or their multiples, _i.e._, our customary measures consist of 2 or 4 beats or of 3, 6, 9 and 12, in modern music--particularly that of other races (the Slavs, Hungarians, etc.)--we often find measures with 5 and 7 beats and even phrases containing a mixture of rhythms. Three excellent examples of compositions with measures of 5 beats each are the Slow Movement of Chopin's Sonata in C minor, op. 4, the F-sharp major portion of d'Indy's Symphonic Variations, _Istar_, and the second movement of Tchaikowsky Sixth Symphony, _e.g._ [Music] A delightful example of a melody with 7 beats a measure is the Andante Grazioso of Brahms's Trio in C minor, op. 101--the result undoubtedly of his well-known fondness for Hungarian music, _e.g._ [Music] The following theme from Tchaikowsky's Quartet in F major, notwithstanding the time signature, certainly gives the effect of a long, seven-beat measure, _e.g._ [Music] Those who wish to do a little investigating of their own in the field of modern music will find interesting examples of 5/4 and 7/4 metres in Ravel's _Daphnis and Chloe_, in d'Indy's Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte and in the Ballet music of Stravinsky. We even find passages where, for special effect, the usual beats are elided or extra beats inserted. Schumann was one of the most daring experimenters in this respect and such fantastic effects are frequent in his pianoforte works--notably in the _Carnaval_, op. 9, and in the _Phantasiestücke_, op. 12, _e.g._ [Music: SCHUMANN: _Carnaval_] With reference to all the foregoing principles and comments the music-lover is cautioned against the assumption that music, from the standpoint of the composer or the listener, is merely a matter of mechanical counting; or that the "swing" of music is as regular as that of a sewing-machine. But, as order is Heaven's first law, it is true that music tends to move in definite, symmetrical groups; and where departure is made from this practise the effect is one most carefully planned. The matter deserves earnest consideration, for, in what is known as the "rhythmical sense," Americans--as a people, in comparison with foreign nations--are still woefully deficient. As rhythm is the basic element in all music, there is nothing in which the listener should more definitely train his faculties than in intelligent coöperation with the freedom of the composer. CHAPTER V THE TWO-PART AND THREE-PART FORMS Now that a clear insight has been gained into the formation of the normal sentence, we are in a position to understand how sentences may be combined to make complete compositions. The simplest and most primitive structure is that which contains _two_ complete sentences; dividing itself naturally into _two_ parts and hence known as the Two-Part Form. This form by reason of its simplicity and directness is often found in the short pianoforte pieces of Schumann, Tchaikowsky, Brahms, Grieg and Debussy. For a long period there was no attempt at differentiation between vocal and instrumental style; music, in fact, during the 15th and 16th centuries was often entitled "buon da cantare ou suonare," _i.e._, equally well suited for voices or instruments. When instrumental players were in search of pieces, they simply transferred to their instruments the voice-parts of the Madrigals and Canzonas which were then so fashionable.[63] With the development of instruments--especially of the Violin family--and with the desire for an instrumental style which should be independent of words, principles of coherent design had to be evolved; and they were suggested by the definite metre in the stanzas of the Folk-song and, above all, by the symmetrical phrases of the Folk-dance, used to accompany the _rhythmical_ motions of the body. By a utilization of these principles of balanced phrases, of contrasted keys and of periodic themes, instrumental music gradually worked out a structure of its own,[64] of which we find examples in National dances and in the compositions of such pioneers of instrumental style as the Italians Corelli and Vivaldi, the Frenchmen Lully, Couperin and Rameau, and the Englishman Purcell. [Footnote 63: For a complete account of this process see Parry's _Evolution of the Art of Music_, p. 115 _seq._] [Footnote 64: This book makes no attempt to give an historical account of the development of instrumental form. The subject is set forth comprehensively in the article on Form in Grove's Dictionary (Vol. II, p. 73) and in the Fifth and Sixth Chapters of Parry's _Evolution of the Art of Music_.] [Music: Viens dans ce bocage belle Aminte, Sans contrainte L'on y forme des voeux; Viens, Viens dans ce bocage belle Aminte, Il est fait pour les plaisirs et les jeux.] In this rhythmic and sprightly dance of exactly 8 measures (an old French _Tambourin_ taken from Weckerlin's _Echos du Temps Passé_) we see clearly the influence of the metrical stanza of words and of the balanced phrases in the instrumental part, necessary to accompany the steps of the dancers. The melody of the accompaniment was played on a flute or some simple kind of pipe, and the bass on a Tambour de Basque--a rude form of drum, which repeated continually the tonic and dominant of the key; the same effect which we associate with the Bagpipe and Hurdy-gurdy. [Music: PURCELL: Jig.] In this Jig, which was a favorite type with the English peasantry--divided into three sentences of exactly 8 measures each--the dance rhythm is very sharply defined. From various dance-patterns a structural type was gradually evolved, of which the chief features will now be indicated. The music was divided into _two_ distinct halves and it became the convention to gain length by repeating each half--in the early days of the form, _literally_ (with a double bar and sign of repeat); later, as composers gained freedom, with considerable amplification. Each half presented the _same_ material (it was a _one_-theme form) but the two halves were contrasted in _tonality_, _i.e._, the first part, beginning in the home-key, would modulate to some related key--generally the dominant; the second part, starting out in this key, gradually modulated back to a final cadence in the original key, and often--especially in Haydn and Mozart--repeated the entire main sentence of the first part. The general effect of such a form has been wittily described[65] as resembling the actions of "the King of France who, with twenty thousand men, marched up the hill and then marched down again"--but he surely had no exciting adventures in between! It is evident that this form, while favorable to coherence and unity, is lacking in scope and in opportunity for variety and contrast. It did, however, emphasize the principle of recapitulation; in fact it became the convention (as we shall see in the dances of the Suite) for the closing measures of the second part to be an exact duplicate in the home-key of that which had been presented at the end of part one. We shall observe, as we continue our studies, that the trend of musical composition gradually swung over to the Three-part form, the essential feature of which is restatement after _intervening contrast_. [Footnote 65: See _The Appreciation of Music_ by Surette and Mason, p. 36.] For illustrations of the Two-part Form see the Supplement Nos. 20, 21, 22, 23, 24. Only in such comparatively simple examples as those just cited is found this perfect balance in the length of the two parts. We often observe extended sentences in the first part; and it became the custom for the second part to be considerably lengthened, to include modulations into more remote keys and even to display certain developments of the main material. For a striking example of a movement which, although definitely in Two-part form, (_i.e._, it is in two clear divisions and has but _one_ theme) is yet of considerable scope and variety, see the Allegretto of Beethoven's Fourth Sonata. It was, in fact, this instinct for contrasting variety in the second part[66] which (as can be shown from historical examples)[67] gradually led to the developing and establishment of the Three-part form. [Footnote 66: As an illustration of this tendency see the Scherzo of Beethoven's Second Sonata, the second part of which has a new theme of its own, although the movement as a whole is clearly in Two-part form.] [Footnote 67: See _The Sonata Form_ by W.H. Hadow, Chapter III.] The essentials of this structure, so frequent in all pianoforte literature, are the existence of _three_ distinct _parts_--hence the name: a clause of assertion in the home-key; a second clause, affording a genuine _contrast_ to the first part in regard to key, melodic outline and general treatment, and a third clause of reassertion, which shall repeat--either literally or in varied form--the material of part one.[68] In the Three-part form, as employed in the classic Minuet and Scherzo, each of the three parts _taken by itself_ is in complete Two-part form; and as the third part was generally a literal repetition of part one, it was not written out, but at the end of the middle part (called the Trio, because it was originally written in three-voiced harmony) we find the direction "Minuet or Scherzo da capo," meaning a return to the first part. A coda or tail-piece is often added to round out the form. As the student will become thoroughly familiar with the Three-part form, in connection with the classic Symphonies soon to be studied (each Minuet, Scherzo or Trio being an example), our illustrations show the use of this form in independent pieces and are chiefly taken from modern literature; the object being so to interest the student in the beauty of these compositions as to convince him that in all good music content and design go hand is hand. For examples[69] see Supplement Nos. 25, 26, 27. [Footnote 68: The three-part form is derived partly from the Italian "da Capo Aria" and partly from the fundamental instinct for restatement which we have seen in the Folk-song.] [Footnote 69: Additional illustrations, which will repay study are the following: the Allegretto of Beethoven's Sixth Sonata; the Schubert Impromptu, op. 90, No. 4; Brahms's Intermezzo, op. 117, No. 1 and the Ballade in G minor, op. 118, No. 3, and for orchestra--in extended treatment--Debussy's _Prélude à l'après-midi d'un Faune_.] CHAPTER VI THE CLASSICAL AND THE MODERN SUITE No sooner had the Two-and Three-part forms become accepted as definite means of instrumental expression, than composers were eager to try their skill in combining dance-movements in such forms into larger groups. These compositions--known in France as Ordres, in Germany as Suites and Partitas and in England as Lessons--though all the movements were in the _same key_, yet showed considerable variety by reason of the contrast in the dance rhythms. They were, moreover, simple, direct and easily understood of the people.[70] This development was furthered by the perfecting of two groups of instruments: The violins, by the great Italian masters; and those precursors of our modern pianoforte, the harpsichord, clavichord and spinet. We find, consequently, the Italians--of whom Corelli was most prominent--combining these dances into groups called Sonate da Ballo: and the French composers Couperin and Rameau, developing the possibilities of keyed stringed instruments in graceful pieces to which fantastic titles, such as _La Poule_, _Le Rappel des Oiseaux_, etc., were often given. The greatest master of instrumental style in these early days was the Italian, Domenico Scarlatti (1685-1757). He was famous both as composer and performer--the first, in fact, of the long line of key-board virtuosi--and in his compositions in dance form and in those of a more abstract type there is a sparkling fancy and an adjustment of the thought to his instrument, which will keep them forever immortal.[71] [Footnote 70: For an interesting and comprehensive account of this development see Grove's Dictionary, Volume IV, article on the Suite.] [Footnote 71: For extensive comments on Scarlatti's style see _The History of the Pianoforte and Pianoforte Players_ by Oscar Bie, pp. 68-90.] The grouping together of dance forms reached its highest development through the genius of Sebastian Bach in the so-called _French and English Suites_.[72] In these compositions--in the Partitas and in the orchestral Suite in D major, which contains the well-known Aria, often played in transcription for Violin solo--the dance-forms are not employed literally but are made a vehicle for the expression of varied types of human emotion and sentiment. Nor should we overlook the twelve _Harpsichord Lessons_ of Handel--especially the superb Fugue in E minor in the Fourth Suite--which are noteworthy for their vigor, though, in freshness and delicacy of invention, not to be compared with Bach's. [Footnote 72: These titles, according to Parry (see his life of Bach, Chapters IV and XII passim), were not given by Bach himself but were assigned, in the case of the French Suites, to denote the delicacy of treatment found therein, and in the English, a certain massive style.] We now give a tabulated list of the customary dance forms, both as found in the Classic and the modern Suite or used as independent pieces; and we shall then analyze those which have the most characteristic rhythmic pattern. LIST OF DANCES _______________________________________________________________________________ NAME | ORIGIN | METER | FORM | CHARACTER ___________|______________|__________|____________|____________________________ Allemande | Suabian | 4/4 | Two-part | Moderately quick; | | | | flowing, with a rather | | | | rich harmonic texture. | | | | {Courante | French | 3/4, 3/2 | Two-part | Running, lively; the 2/2 {Corrente | Italian | | | type always with a change | | | | of meter at the cadences. | | | | Sarabande | Spanish | 3/2, 3/4 | Two-part | Stately, dignified; often | | | | noble and even | | | | dramatically pathetic. | | | | Hornpipe | English | 4/4 | Two-part | Rapid, merry, energetic. | | | | {Gigue | Italian | 6/8, | Two-part | Very lively, rollicking, {Jig | giga, an | 12/8, | | even jocose. | early violin | 4/8 | | | | | | Gavotte | French | 4/4, 2/2 | Two-part | Moderately fast; | | | | well-marked rhythm, | | | | often stately. | | | | Bourrée | French | 4/4 | Two-part | Lively, vigorous. | | | | Minuet | French | 3/4, 3/8 | Two-part | Moderately fast; dainty, | | | | graceful, courtly. | | | | Passepied | French | 3/4 | Two-part | Light, delicately animated. | | | | Loure | French | 6/4, 4/4 | Two-part | Rather slow, stately. | | | | Pavane | Italian | 2/4 | Two-part | Solemn, impressive. | | | | Galliard | Italian | 3/2, 2/2 | Two-part | Lively, merry. | | | | {Branle | French | 4/4, 3/4 | Two-part | Lively, with great abandon. {Brawl | English | | | | | | | Polonaise | Polish | 3/4 | Varied | Dignified and courtly, but | | | | with life. | | | | Mazurka | Polish | 3/4 | Varied | Great range of speed and | | | | effect; at times sustained | | | | and pathetic, often | | | | bright and lively. | | | | Polka | Bohemian | 2/4 | Generally | Merry, animated. | | | three-part | | | | | Furiant | Bohemian | 3/4 | Varied | Very lively, even frenzied. | | | | Waltz | German | 3/4 | Two-part | Graceful; varied in effect; | | | or | at times lively, often | | | three-part | slow. | | | | Boléro | Spanish | 3/4 | Three-part | Brisk, well-marked rhythm. | | | | Tarantella | Italian | 6/8 | Varied | Very lively, impassioned. | | | | Saltarello | Italian | 6/8, 3/4 | Varied | With quick, jumping | | | | rhythm. | | | | Rigaudon | French | 2/4, 4/4 | Varied | Lively, gay. | | | | March | Found in | 4/4 | Varied | Stately, with marked | every nation | | | rhythm. | | | | Csárdás | Hungarian | 3/4, 2/4 | Varied | Impassioned; with great | | | | variety of effect. | | | | Halling | Scandinavian | 2/4 | Varied | Fresh, vigorous, | | | | out-of-doors atmosphere. | | | | Tango | Mexican | Varied | Varied | With reckless abandon. | | | | Habañera | Spanish | 2/4 | Varied | Graceful; with | | | | characteristic rhythm. | | | | Seguidilla | Spanish | 3/4, 3/8 | Varied | Fantastic; sometimes | | | | stately, sometimes gay | | | | and lively. | | | | {Jota, | Spanish | 3/4 | Free | A kind of waltz, but with {often | | | | more freedom in the {Jota | | | | dancing, and of a vigorous {Aragonesa | | | | and fiery nature. | | | | | | | | Malagueña | Spanish | 3/8 | In couplet | A dance of moderate | | | form | movement, accompanied by | | | | guitar and castanets; | | | | languorous and sensual in | | | | mood. | | | | Siciliano | Sicilian | 6/8, | Two-part, | Graceful; of a Pastorale | | 12/8 | three-part,| nature. | | | often a | | | | Rondo | ___________|______________|__________|____________|____________________________ The four indispensable movements of the classic or 18th century Suite were the Allemande, the Courante, the Sarabande and the Gigue; and, between the last two, it became customary to insert an optional number of other dances--the most usual being the Gavotte, Bourrée, Minuet and Passepied. In effect, the Suite was a kind of "international Potpourri" of the dances most in vogue, and affords us a vivid reflection of the manners and customs of the period. Many of the English Suites begin with an elaborate polyphonic Prelude. We shall not give a detailed analysis of all these dance movements; for the main characteristics the tabulated list will suffice, and in the book of Supplementary examples (see No. 35) will be found the 6th French Suite complete. It will be more useful to center attention on those dances which, in rhythmic pattern, are especially typical and are most frequently employed in modern music; and we shall select, as examples drawn from various sources, those dances which make a direct appeal. The most characteristic of the dances are the Sarabande, the Gavotte, the Minuet and the Gigue; and with the last, as exemplifying the same spirit, may be grouped the Rigaudon, Furiant, Tarantella and Saltarello. The Sarabande is a slow, stately dance; always in triple meter indicated by 3/2 or 3/4. Its striking features are the frequent occurrence of the rhythmic pattern [Music] or [Music] in which it is evident that there is a strong accent on the weak beats; and the prevalence of feminine endings in the cadences. The Sarabande always displays great depth of emotion--often of a tragic and impassioned kind; and, in the Suite, seems to have served the composer for the same outpouring of feeling which we associate with the slow movement in the later Sonata or Symphony. The example cited in the Supplement (See No. 28)--taken from one of Bach's Sonatas for 'cello--is considered one of the most beautiful in existence. Other eloquent Sarabandes may be found in the Second and Third English Suites and in Handel's noble Air "Lascia ch'io pianga" from the opera of _Rinaldo_. Two fine modern examples of this dance are the second number in Paderewski's _Humoresques de Concert_, op. 14, and the second number in the set of pieces by Debussy, _Pour le Piano_--_Prélude_, _Sarabande_, _Toccata_. Composers sometimes employ the Sarabande rhythm for its inherent beauty, or for dramatic purposes without indication of the fact. Examples are the theme for variations in Beethoven's Sonata, op. 109, and the opening measures of the _Egmont Overture_ where, by means of the characteristic Spanish dance-rhythm, an atmosphere of oppression and dejection is established, _e.g._ [Music] The Gavotte is an energetic yet dignified dance in duple rhythm (it is almost always played too fast)--the characteristics of which are its beginning on the half-measure and its strongly marked cadences. One of the most stirring examples is that cited from the Third English Suite (See Supplement No. 29) which, with its subdued middle portion, La Musette,[73] is an early example of tripartite arrangement. Other gavottes[74] are the favorite one from the Fifth French Suite, that from Handel's opera _Ottone_ (so often played in organ or pianoforte transcriptions) and, from modern literature, the charming one in d'Albert's _Suite for Pianoforte_, op. 1. [Footnote 73: So-called because it is written on a sustained bass note or pedal point; a feature of the Musette (the French name for Bagpipe) being its persistent drone bass on the tonic and the dominant.] [Footnote 74: An interesting example may also be found in Grieg's _Holberg Suite for Pianoforte_.] The Minuet is of particular interest, not alone because of the many beautiful examples of its use but because it is the only dance which, carried over from the Suite, has remained an integral movement of Symphonic compositions. The Minuet, in its older form, was a stately dance; the derivation of the term (French menu) referring to the dainty steps of the dancers, always in 3/8 or 3/4 metre and beginning on the first beat of the measure. By Haydn the character of the Minuet was considerably changed; the tempo becomes much faster, the music begins on the third beat of the measure instead of the first and the mood is one of playful humor--at times even of downright jollity. In the Minuets of Mozart the peculiar characteristics are grace and tenderness rather than rollicking fun, _e.g._, the charming examples in the E-flat major and G minor Symphonies. Concerning the transformation by Beethoven of the Minuet into the Scherzo, with its fantastic and freakish atmosphere, we shall speak more fully in connection with his Symphonies. Of the examples cited in the Supplement (see Nos. 30 and 31) the former, from the first Finale of Mozart's opera _Don Giovanni_, remains one of the most famous minuets in existence; and the two from Rameau's opera, _Castor and Pollux_, are of inimitable spontaneity and rhythmic grace. They are grouped in contrasting, tripartite arrangement. In modern literature every one knows of the melodious example for Pianoforte by Paderewski (No. 1 of the _Humoresques de Concert_) and the _Menuet Italien_ by Mrs. Beach; that in the last scene of Verdi's _Falstaff_ is also well worth acquaintance. The last of the particularly characteristic dances is the Gigue with its counterparts mentioned above. This is a rapid, animated dance in 6/8, 3/8, 12/8, 12/16 (sometimes 4/4) with marked rhythm; the term being derived from giga (German, geige)--an early name for fiddle--on account of the power of accent associated with the violin family. The Gigue is always the closing number of Bach's Suites, in order to give a final impression of irrepressible vitality and gaiety, and is treated with considerable polyphonic complexity; in fact, his gigues often begin like a complete Fugue. They are all in clear-cut Two-part form; and it became the convention for the second part to treat the motive in _inverted_ form. The example cited from Bach's Fifth French Suite (see Supplement No. 32) is unsurpassed for rhythmic energy; the closing measures sound as if all the bells of heaven were ringing. The example of Mozart (see Supplement No. 33) is noteworthy for its daring use of the dissonant element and for its free modulations. Of the counterparts of the gigue the following are excellent examples: The Rigaudon--the Finale of Grieg's _Holberg Suite_, the vigorous one from Rameau's opera _Dardanus_, and MacDowell's independent piece in this form, op. 49, No. 2; the Furiant--the Finale of Dvo[vr]ák's _Suite for Small Orchestra_, op. 30 (accessible in an effective pianoforte arrangement for four hands); the _Tarantelle_--Chopin's independent piece in this rhythm, op. 43, and the brilliant Finale of Rheinberger's Pianoforte Sonata for four hands, op. 122; the Saltarello--the last movement of Mendelssohn's _Italian Symphony_ and the main portion of Berlioz's _Carnaval Romain Overture_. One additional example is cited (see Supplement No. 34), a Courante by D. Scarlatti, to give an example of his pianoforte style. In connection with these dances, especially the Sarabande, Gavotte, Loure, Pavane, Polonaise and Tarantelle, there should be read the articles treating of each dance in Grove's Dictionary; for these dances are so closely connected with human activity that a knowledge of their development broadens our horizon in many matters pertaining to social life and civilization in general. As to specific examples of the less usual dances, many of the quaintest are found in the works of the early English composers: Byrd, Bull, etc., in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book, _e.g._, _The Lord of Salisbury his Pavan_. An excellent example of the Loure is the well-known arrangement from Bach's third 'Cello sonata. Chopin, in his works, has glorified both the Polonaise and the Mazurka; Bizet, in his opera Carmen, has used the Habañera and the Seguidilla, and there is a wonderful use of the Habañera rhythm in Debussy's descriptive piece _Soirée dans Grenade_. The French composer Ravel in his pianoforte piece _Pavane pour un enfant defunt_ has used with remarkable effect the stately rhythm of that dance. The Spanish composers, Albeniz and Granados, frequently employ national dance rhythms in their pieces. The French composer Chabrier's _Bourrée Fantasque_ is a dazzling modernization of the old form; and his _España_ for full orchestra fairly intoxicates us with its dashing rhythms based upon the Jota and the Malagueña.[75] Debussy's well-known piece _Hommage à Rameau_ is in the style of the Sarabande. The allusions in literature to these dances are so frequent that only a few can be cited. The very spirit of the Jig is given in Pope's line "Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven." In speaking of the antics of Sir Andrew Aguecheek in Twelfth Night, Shakespeare remarks--"I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg that it was formed under the star of a Galliard." One of the most remarkable works of the English composer John Dowland (born 1562) is entitled _Lachrymae, or Seven Teares, figured in seven passionate Pavans_. [Footnote 75: For a vivid description of these dances see Chabrier's _Lettres à Nanette_, Paris, 1910.] The Suite, by reason of its freedom in combining different rhythms and moods, has appealed vividly to modern composers; and the literature of our times contains a number of Suites which should be known to the music-lover. In these modern Suites no attempt is made to conform to the old conventional grouping of dances. The movements are in different keys, are often based on rhythms of an exotic or ultra-nationalistic type--as in Tchaikowsky and Dvo[vr]ák, or may employ any material suggested by the fantastic imagination of the composer--as in Debussy and Ravel. Among the most attractive modern Suites may be cited: The _Peer Gynt_ (put together from incidental music to Ibsen's play) and the _Holberg_ by Grieg; the two _L'Arlésienne Suites_ by Bizet (written to illustrate Daudet's romantic story)--the first, with its dainty Minuet and brilliant Carillons (Peal of bells); Dvo[vr]ák's _Suite for Small Orchestra_, op. 39, with its sprightly Polka and impassioned Furiant; Tchaikowsky's five Orchestral Suites of which the best known are the _Casse-Noisette_ with its exotic rhythms and novel orchestral effects, the _Mozartiana_ and the third which closes with a brilliant Polonaise; Brahms's _Serenades_ for orchestra; Charpentier's _Impressions of Italy_ in which there is an effective use of Italian rhythm and color; MacDowell's _Indian Suite_, with several of the themes based on native tunes; the fascinating orchestral Suite _Adventures in a Perambulator_ by John Alden Carpenter; Arthur Whiting's _Suite Moderne_ for pianoforte; _Stevensoniana_, (based on stanzas from Stevenson's _Child's Garden of Verses_) an orchestral Suite in four movements by Edward B. Hill; Debussy's _Suite Bergamasque_ in which is found the oft-played _Clair de Lune_; Ravel's[76] _Mother Goose_, a delightful work--and by the same composer the _Daphnis and Chloe_ Suite, the material drawn from an opera of the same name. In modern literature easily the most celebrated and brilliant example of this type is the _Scheherazade Suite_ (based on the Arabian Nights) for full orchestra by Rimsky-Korsakoff. This work in the genuine poetic quality of its themes, in its marvellous descriptive power and in the boldness of its orchestral effect remains unsurpassed. [Footnote 76: See also _Le Tombeau de Couperin_ in which is a very novel Rigaudon.] CHAPTER VII THE OLDER RONDO FORM One of the earliest instrumental forms to be worked out[77] was the Rondo, which is merely an extension of the _three-part_ principle of "restatement after contrast" and which, by reason of its logical appeal, has retained its place to this day. Originally the Rondo was a combination of dance and song; that is, the performers sang and danced in a circle--holding one another's hands. The music would begin with a chorus in which all joined, one of the dancers would then sing a solo, after which all would dance about and repeat the chorus; other solos would follow, the chorus being repeated after each. The characteristic feature, then, of this structure is the _continual recurrence_ to a principal motive after intervening contrasts--hence the name Rondo (French, Rondeau); exemplifying a principle found not only in primitive folk-songs and dances but in literature, _e.g._, many of the songs of Burns and the Rondeaux of Austin Dobson. For it is obvious that the form answers to the simplest requirements of unity and contrast. Frequent examples of the Rondo are found in all early instrumental composers: Bach, _e.g._, the charming one in C minor in his third Partita; Couperin, Rameau, Haydn and Mozart. It is found also in vocal works, _e.g._, Purcell's well-known song "I Attempt from Love's Sickness to Fly." From the standpoint of modern taste, however, Beethoven was--with few exceptions--the first to treat the form with real genius; and so our illustrations are taken chiefly from his works and from those of his successors. Although there need be no arbitrary limit to the alternation of the chief part with the subsidiary portions--in fact, Beethoven's humorous _Rondo Capriccio, On a Lost Farthing_ has as many as _eleven_ sections--it gradually became conventional for the form to consist of _five parts_: a first presentation and two repetitions of the main theme together with two contrasting portions called _Episodes_, to which a free Coda was often added. The form would then be A, b, A´, c, A´´, Coda--A´ and A´´ indicating that the repetition need not be _literal_, but often varied rhythmically and harmonically; not, however, so as to obliterate the original outline. For in a well-constructed Rondo the main theme must be one of such direct appeal that we _look forward_ to hearing it _again_; and the successive repetitions must be so planned that we can easily enjoy this pleasure of reminiscence. It also became customary not to block off the sections with rigid cadences but often to insert modulatory passages, thus securing a continuous flow of thought. This practise we see particularly in Beethoven and Schumann. The form which we are discussing is the so-called Older Rondo Form, clearly derived from the dance described above. Beginning[78] with Beethoven, however, we find numerous examples of a different kind of rondo treatment which developed in connection with the Sonata Form--to be explained later. The Rondo-Sonata Form, as it is generally called, is in fact a hybrid type, with certain features derived from rondo structure and certain from the pure sonata form. The Finales to Beethoven's Sonatas, when entitled Rondos, are--with few exceptions--of this Rondo-Sonata type. An excellent example, which should be well known, is the Finale of the Sonata Pathétique. Although there are many cases of _free_ treatment of the rondo principle, they are all based on one or the other of these two fundamental types. Schumann was extremely fond of this Older Rondo Form, as may be seen from his frequent practice of writing two Trios to the Scherzos of his Symphonies. A moment's thought will make clear that a Scherzo with two Trios and the customary repetitions will conform exactly to the pattern given above, _i.e._, A, b, A´, c, A´´ Coda, _e.g._, Scherzo, First Trio = First Episode, First return, Second Trio = Second Episode, Final return and Coda--five portions in all, or six when there is a Coda. For convincing examples see the Scherzos of the First and Second Symphonies. Schumann's well-known _Arabesque_ for pianoforte, op. 18, is a beautiful, clear-cut example of the form; with an interpolated modulatory passage between the first episode and first return, and a poetic Coda which has, for its closing measures, the chief motive in augmentation (already referred to on p. 45). To show Schumann's partiality for this form the student may be referred to Nos. 2 and 8 of the _Kreisleriana_ (op. 16) and to Nos. 1, 2 and 3 of the "Nachtstücke" (op. 23). The third of the _Romances_ (op. 28)--a remarkably free example in the grouping of the material and in the key-relationship--is cited in the Supplement (No. 37). An excellent example (readily accessible), popular by reason of its freedom of treatment, as well as for its inherent sparkle and dash, is the Finale of Weber's Sonata in C major, op. 24--the so-called _Moto Perpetuo_. The most famous example of this form in classical literature is undoubtedly the Finale of Beethoven's _Waldstein Sonata_, op. 53, with its melodious and easily remembered first subject, _e.g._ [Music] [Music] its two episodes in A minor and C minor (which afford most dramatic contrasts to the lyric quality of the main subject) and its glorious, long-extended Coda of about three pages.[79] [Footnote 77: For a complete account of the historical development see the article on Form in Grove's Dictionary Vol. II and Hadow's _Sonata Form_, Chapter IX.] [Footnote 78: There is an early example in the Rondo of Mozart's Sonata for Pianoforte in B-flat major.] [Footnote 79: For a complete detailed analysis of the movement see Prout, _Applied Forms_, pp. 120-121.] As stated above, the Older Rondo-Form has not become obsolete; indeed, by reason of its possibilities for emphasis and contrast it has commended itself to modern composers. Striking examples may be found in the Finale of Brahms's Pianoforte Sonata in F minor, in the Finale of Tchaikowsky's Fourth Symphony and, above all, in the Symphonic Poems of Strauss, _Don Juan_ and _Till Eulenspiegel_, in which the form is admirably adapted to the dramatic needs of these descriptive works. Additional examples, which can be readily procured, are the Slow Movement of the _Sonata Pathétique_, op. 13, Beethoven's well-known _Andante in F major_--remarkable for its brilliant Coda--and his Rondo, already cited, _On the Lost Farthing_. (See Supplement No. 38). Although there is a certain stiffness in this form these examples afford the student excellent rudimentary practise in ease of listening. CHAPTER VIII THE VARIATION FORM Monotony, as previously suggested, is more unendurable in music than in any of the other arts. We should therefore expect to find musicians inventing new devices to vary their thoughts so that the interest of the hearer might be continually sustained and refreshed. Thus there gradually grew up the form known as the Varied Air--a term meaning the presentation of the same musical material under different aspects. As far back as we can trace the development of instrumental structure, there appears this instinct for varying a simple tune by embellishments of a rhythmical and melodic nature. Examples abound in the works of the early Italian masters, in the harpsichord pieces of the English composers Byrd and Bull[80] and in the music of Couperin and Rameau. But all these Variations, however interesting from a historical point[81] of view, are very labored and lack any real poetic growth. They are, moreover, often prolonged to an interminable length--one example, as late as Handel, consisting of an Air with sixty-two Variations; prolixity or "damnable iteration" being as bad a blemish in music as in any of the other arts. In the early days of instrumental composition, about all that composers could do was "to put the theme through its paces." That is, there was no unfolding of the poetic possibilities of the melody. The successive variations were all in the same key; the harmonic basis was practically unchanged and the treatment consisted of dressing up the theme with stereotyped embellishment-figures and of systematic rhythmic animation--produced by the addition of more and more notes to each time unit. A standard illustration of this type of Variations is the so-called _Harmonious Blacksmith_ of Handel from his _Suite in E Major_. This piece owes whatever popularity it may have preserved to the sturdy swing of the main theme and to the fact that it makes no demand on the attention of the most untrained listener. In fairness we should state that on the harpsichord--with its contrasting stops and key-boards--for which the piece was composed, there is possible more variety of effect than on the modern pianoforte. [Footnote 80: We would cite the piece entitled _Les Buffons_ by Bull, and Byrd's variations to the popular tune the _Carman's Whistle_, which latter have considerable archaic charm and distinction; for Byrd was a real genius. These are readily accessible in popular editions.] [Footnote 81: Consult the comprehensive article on Variations in Grove's Dictionary, Vol. V.] Three collateral early forms deserve a passing mention because, notwithstanding a certain rigidity of structure, they have been used by the great masters for the expression of sublime thoughts. These are the Ground Bass (or, as it is sometimes called, the Basso Ostinato), the Chaconne and the Passacaglia[82] which, in modern literature, is well represented by the magnificent "tour de force" that serves as the Finale to Brahms's _Fourth Symphony_. By a Ground Bass is meant a theme, continually repeated, in the lowest voice, each time with varied upper parts. An excellent example (see Supplement No. 39) is the Aria "When I am laid in earth" from Purcell's Opera _Dido and Aeneas_. It is evident that the persistent iteration of a striking phrase in the bass gives an effect of dramatic intensity, as may be seen in the sublime "Crucifixion" of Bach's _Mass in B minor_.[83] The Chaconne and Passacaglia are old dance forms (examples of the former being found in Gluck's Ballet Music) and are closely related to the Ground Bass; since, in the majority of cases, we find the same procedure in the announcement of the theme and in its subsequent treatment. Two examples of the Chaconne from standard literature are the famous one of Bach in D minor for solo violin and Beethoven's thirty-two Variations in C minor for Pianoforte. The Passacaglia is of importance as shown by the striking example for organ in C minor by Bach on the following theme: [Music] Whoever has heard this majestic theme, which seems to bear the sorrows of the world on its shoulders, announced on the deep-sounding pedals will gain a lasting impression of the grandeur of Bach's style. [Footnote 82: For the derivation of the term consult the interesting article in Grove's Dictionary, Vol. IV.] [Footnote 83: A work before which Schumann said every musician should prostrate himself in adoration.] By the time of Haydn, the technical skill of composers had improved sufficiently so that we find in his works some genuinely interesting examples of the Variation form, _e.g._, the set on the well-known Austrian hymn from the _Kaiser Quartet in C major_--in which each of the five variations has a real individuality--and the _Variations in F minor for Pianoforte_: remarkable as an early example of the varied treatment of _two_ themes. Most of Mozart's Variations are based upon popular themes and, in general, may be considered as virtuoso pieces to show off the agility of the performer. We find occasional examples, as in the Clarinet Quintette and in the Sonata in D major, which are of more intrinsic worth. The genius of Beethoven first revealed the full possibilities of the form. In fact, so remarkable was his work that such creative composers as César Franck and d'Indy consider the basic principles for our modern development of music to be found in the Fugue of Bach and the Varied Air of Beethoven. For, deadly dull as is the Variation form when treated in a stereotyped manner, by very reason of its freedom from arbitrary rules it may be a most elastic medium for the expression of poetic genius. The composer has but to invent a striking characteristic theme, rich in potential development, and then to let it develop for as long as he can retain the interest of his hearers. Likewise for a great orator the simple rule is to state a theme on which something worth while may be said and then by presenting it in new lights and with copious illustrations to drive the truth home. The principal and significant changes which we owe to Beethoven are the following: complete freedom in variety of key, so that at times (as in his op. 34) each variation is in a new key; a frequent omission of the rigid stops at the end of each variation, _e.g._, the Slow movement of the _Fifth Symphony_ and the third movement of the _Trio_, op. 96, so that a continuous flow of thought is preserved; the practice, so often followed in modern literature, of founding variations on a double theme--of which the Finale of the _Heroic Symphony_ is a striking example. But the chief advance in Beethoven is the entirely new conception of what variations should be; not, according to him, mere mechanical manipulations of the subject matter, but vital products of the imagination, as varied as the members of a human family having the same mother. Beethoven's variations, in fact, often seem like a series of character-pieces, each with its own individuality and yet retaining an organic relationship to the main thought. His fondness for the form and his mastery over it is seen by the frequency of its use in the last Sonatas and String-Quartets. Every composer since Beethoven has written one or more works in the Variation form; but we can mention only the most beautiful examples and then pass on to the daring conceptions of the modern school. The Variations by Schubert in his String-Quartet in D minor on the Song, _Death and the Maiden_, will amply repay study, and so will the _Variations Sérieuses_, op. 54, for the pianoforte by Mendelssohn. As for Schumann, he was very happy in the use of this form, and his _Symphonic Études_, op. 13--in wealth of fancy and freedom of treatment--are quite unparalleled. His Variations for two pianofortes, op. 46, deserve also to be known. Among the finest examples since Beethoven are the numerous sets by Brahms, remarkable alike for emotional power, for free and yet logical treatment of the material and for solidity of workmanship. They include the _Variations on a theme from Handel_ for pianoforte, op. 24; the set for orchestra, op. 56a, on the _St. Anthony Choral_ of Haydn; and the two sets, op. 35, on themes from Paganini--universally conceded to be the most brilliant examples for the pianoforte in recent literature. To speak now particularly of the modern school, there are five compositions in this form which, for their daring novelty and sustained eloquence, should be familiar to every music-lover and heard as often as possible. For they are elaborate works which must be thoroughly known to be understood and loved. (1), There is the set in Tchaikowsky's Pianoforte Trio in A minor, op. 50; noteworthy for freedom of modulation and for the striking individuality given to the different transformations of the theme--two of the changes being to a Waltz and a Mazurka. (2), _The Symphonic Variations_ for Pianoforte and Orchestra of César Franck, based on two contrasting themes, one in the minor mode and one with modulations to the major. The variations are not numbered and there are no rigid stops; throughout the work Franck's marvellous power of modulation and rich harmonic texture are eloquently manifested. (3), The _Istar_ Variations for orchestra by d'Indy is one of the most original works in the whole field; in that, for dramatic reasons connected with the subject, the usual order is _reversed_ and the variations come _first_, gradually becoming more and more simple until we reach the theme itself, pure and unadorned. (4), The Symphonic Poem, _Don Quixote_, of R. Strauss, a complex set of Variations on _three_ themes which typify respectively the characters of Cervantes' story; the Knight, his attendant, Sancho Panza and Dulcinea. The variations are not confined to a merely abstract or formal treatment of the material but set before us a picture of the attributes of the characters and a description of some of their spectacular adventures. (5), Lastly the _Enigma Variations_ for orchestra by Elgar, so-called because the identity of the basic theme is not revealed. The variations are character-pieces which for individuality and charm are a lasting glory to the genius of the composer.[84] [Footnote 84: For a detailed account see the third volume of D.G. Mason's _Appreciation of Music_ series.] We shall now analyze, with suggestive comments, two[85] of the well-known sets of Beethoven: the first movement of the Sonata, op. 26, and the _Six Variations on an original theme_, op. 34. The variations from the Sonata are an early work; but, although definitely sectionalized and with only one change of tonality, they clearly reveal Beethoven's freedom of conception and his aversion to stereotyped treatment. The theme itself is a suave, appealing melody, already cited as an example of a sixteen-measure sentence, and admirably suited for variation purposes, since it arouses at once the expectation of the listener.[86] The first variation is a kind of shadowy, mysterious outline of the theme just presented, as if the composer were musing upon the latent possibilities of his material. There is a quickening of interest in the second variation which, with the theme in the bass, may be likened to a 'cello solo of a mildly bravura nature. (Note the fantastic accents on weak beats in measures 18, 22, 23, and 24.) In the third variation comes a complete contrast in mood; the key is changed to A-flat minor and the theme is transformed into an elegy, all its joy crushed out. The movement abounds in impassioned dissonances, always emphasized by _sf_ marks, and the throbbing pulsations of the bass--in the second phrase--give a tragic intensity of feeling. With the fourth variation there enters that spirit of playfulness so characteristic of Beethoven--the movement being, in fact, a miniature Scherzo. The fifth and last variation is an idyllic revery in which the composer reviews and amplifies the many beautiful fancies which his imagination has conceived, and closes with a coda, based on the motive of the main theme, of tranquillity and satisfaction. [Footnote 85: These compositions are not printed in the Supplement, as it may be assumed that the student can readily procure them. They are published in a number of editions.] [Footnote 86: For some illuminating comments on the whole Sonata see Baxter Perry's _Descriptive Analysis of Pianoforte Works_. (The Theodore Presser Co.)] The set in F major, op. 34, is a striking illustration of Beethoven's fondness for mediant relationship, since no two variations are in the same key; the tonic of each being a _third_ below that of the preceding. The Key-scheme is F, D, B-flat, G, E-flat, C minor; and then, through the descent of a fifth, back to the home-key, or in actual notes: [Music] The first variation is a highly embellished treatment of the opening theme; the melodic outline being merely hinted at in unimportant parts of the phraseology, _e.g._ [Music: original theme] [Music: 1st Variation] Written in the old ornate style, it is of interest chiefly for the pianistic effect. In the second Variation we have a change both of time and key; the impression being that of a distant march for men's voices or for soft trombones. The third Variation, again with change of time and key, illustrates Beethoven's fondness for a subtle outlining of the theme. In the fourth Variation the theme is transformed into a Minuet of graceful swing; and in the next Variation a strong contrast is afforded by the Funeral March, the minor mode being used for the first time. The last Variation--in the home-key--gives a brilliant summing up of the characteristic features of the theme. Note especially the reminiscent effect of the closing measures. CHAPTER IX THE SONATA-FORM AND ITS FOUNDERS, EMMANUEL BACH AND HAYDN We have now set forth, with representative illustrations, all the fundamental forms of instrumental music, _i.e._, the Canon, Fugue and Invention, the Two and Three-part forms, the Rondo and the Varied Air. Through the perfecting of these means of expression music became a living language of communication, ready for that development which, through the genius of the Classic and Romantic masters, it was destined to show. The essential feature of all the above forms is the emphasis laid on _one theme_. This is strictly true of the polyphonic forms, the Canon, Fugue[87] and Invention and of the Two-part form; and although in the Three-part form we have a second theme, this is merely for contrast and is often of rather slight import. The same comment holds true of the Rondo where, notwithstanding the new contrasting themes of the episodes, the centre of attraction is the _single main theme_, to which constant recurrence is made. Obviously the Varied Air is the expansion of a single theme. But the principal characteristic of the Sonata-Form, now to be studied, is that we find therein _two themes_ of coequal importance, which may well be compared to the hero and heroine of a novel or the two leading characters in a drama. It is true that a composer will often in the creations of his imagination show a marked preference for one theme over the other; just as, in the family group to which the child owes its life, either the man or the woman is likely to be the stronger character. But as there can be no child without two parents, so the organism of the Sonata-Form derives its vitality from the presence and interaction of two living musical personalities, the first and second themes. The first theme is so called because it is the one first presented and because it generally furnishes the prevailing rhythmic pulse of the movement. Yet the second theme,--exactly as important in its own way, is often of a greater beauty; its title of "second theme" implying nothing of a secondary nature, but merely its position in order of appearance. No greater step was ever taken in the growth of musical structure than this introduction of a second coequal theme; for the principle of duality, of action and reaction between two forces, runs throughout nature both human and physical, as is seen from the import of the terms: man and woman, active and passive, positive and negative, heat and cold, light and darkness. The first theme, in fact, often resembles, in its vigor and directness, a masculine personality; while the second theme, in grace and tenderness, resembles the feminine. As long as music confined itself to the presentation of but one main theme it was hampered by the same limitations which beset the early Greek tragedians, in whose primitive plays[88] we find but one chief actor. The introduction of a second theme can not be attributed to _any single man_; indeed it resulted from a tendency of the times, the demand of which was for more homophonic melodies rather than for an elaborate polyphonic treatment of a single one. Embryonic traces of a second theme we find in D. Scarlatti (see Supplement No. 40) and in Sebastian Bach himself.[89] Scarlatti,[90] in fact, was often hovering close to the Sonata-Form and in the example just cited actually achieved it. The systematic employment of the second-theme principle, however, is commonly attributed to Emmanuel Bach (1714-1788), although an undue amount of praise, by certain German scholars, has been given his achievements to the exclusion of musicians from other nations who were working along the same lines. Any fair historical account of the development of the Sonata-Form should recognize the Italians, Sammartini and Galuppi; the gifted Belgian Gossec, who exercised such a marked influence in Paris, and above all, the Bohemian Johann Stamitz (1717-1757), the leader of the famous Mannheim Orchestra, of whom we shall speak further when we come to the orchestra as a medium. In many of Stamitz's Symphonies we find the essential first-movement structure (_i.e._, tripartite grouping with a clear second theme) and, as Riemann says in his _Handbuch der Musikgeschichte_, "Their sincere phraseology, their boldness of conception and the masterly _thematic development_ give Stamitz's works lasting value. Haydn and Mozart rest absolutely upon his shoulders."[91] [Footnote 87: Except in the comparatively rare cases where we have a Fugue on two subjects.] [Footnote 88: Illuminating comments on this point will be found in _Outlines of Musical Form_ from W.H. Hadow's _Studies in Modern Music_ (2nd Series).] [Footnote 89: See the prelude in D major of the second book of the _Well-tempered Clavichord_.] [Footnote 90: For further information consult the first chapter of J.S. Shedlock's _The Pianoforte Sonata_.] [Footnote 91: For an extended account of this development see the second chapter, Vol. II, of _The Art of Music_ (The National Society of Music, N.Y.). See also Chapter XIX of Pratt's _History of Music_.] The other marked characteristic of the Sonata-Form is the _second_ part which is known as the Development Section; for, as we shall soon explain, the structure as a whole is tripartite. In this portion of the movement the composer has an opportunity to improvise, as it were, with his material, using one theme or both as already presented. Dry and labored development sections may, of course, be found in certain Sonatas and Symphonies, but in the great works of such masters as Beethoven, Brahms, Tchaikowsky and d'Indy the development is the most exciting part of the movement. The hearer is conducted through a musical excursion; every device of rhythmic variety, of modulatory change and polyphonic imitation being employed to enhance the beauty of the themes and to reveal their latent possibilities. Before going further, it is well to point out a confusion which often arises between the terms Sonata and Sonata-Form. When we speak of Sonata-_Form_ we mean invariably the structural treatment as to number of themes, key-relationship, etc., of _any single_ movement within a series.[92] By the term Sonata is meant a composition generally in three or four movements, _e.g._, First Movement, Slow Movement, Minuet or Scherzo and Finale; of which, in most examples of the classic school, the First Movement--and often the last--were in Sonata-Form. An alternative name, indeed, for Sonata-Form is First Movement Form. Beginning with Beethoven, however, composers began to exhibit great freedom in the application of the Sonata-Form. We find Sonatas of Beethoven, notably the set op. 31, in which every movement (even the Scherzo) is in Sonata Form or a modification thereof; on the other hand, there are compositions, entitled Sonatas, in which not a single movement is in pure Sonata-Form, _e.g._, Beethoven's Twelfth Sonata, op. 26. These comments apply equally to many other large instrumental works. For a symphony is merely a Sonata for Orchestra, a String-Quartet a composition--of the same general type--for four solo instruments[93] and there is, furthermore, a large group of ensemble compositions: Sonatas for Violin (or any solo-instrument) and Pianoforte; Trios, often for unusual combinations, _e.g._, Brahms's _Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte_; Quintets and even Septets--in all of which the distinction must be made between the terms Sonata and Sonata-Form. Nor is there any rigid rule in regard to number of movements or the moods expressed therein. The classic Sonata, Symphony or Quartet, as we have stated above, generally contained three or four movements, of which the first would be direct and vigorous in nature--a summons to attention--cast in sonata-form, with a wealth of material organically treated, and requiring from the listener concentrated attention. The second movement was generally much simpler in form, affording relief after the tension of the preceding movement--its themes of a lyric nature, often with great depth of emotion, sometimes even of tragic import. The third movement, Minuet or Scherzo, would portray the light, humorous side of life; and the Finale, joyful and optimistic--its themes often bearing strongly the sense of finality--would close the work with a general feeling of satisfaction. It was Beethoven who first modified these principles to suit his own poetic needs. Thus we find some of his Sonatas with only two movements; some have three, some have four. One of Schumann's Symphonies contains five movements and Rubinstein's _Ocean Symphony_ seven! When we reach the modern school, we shall see further freedom as to number, order and type of movements. [Footnote 92: The form is also sometimes used independently, as in Brahms's _Rhapsody in G minor_ and often, of course, in the Overture.] [Footnote 93: _I.e._, 1st Violin, 2d Violin, Viola and Violoncello.] We are now prepared to sum up the essential characteristics of the Sonata-Form; for there is no structure in which it is more important for the music-lover to acquire the art of listening easily, naturally and with a minimum of friction. The Sonata-Form is the instrumental form "par excellence"--the Gothic Cathedral[94] of music--and has retained its place, not because of any slavish regard for form as such, but because it has been worked out, perfected and utilized by the greatest of the composers. Any form with a beginning, a middle and an ending, _i.e._, presenting material worthy of consideration, which allows this material to grow and realize its inherent possibilities and then sums the matter up in a convincing, objective close; which, furthermore, exemplifies the great principle of Duality, _i.e._, reveals _two_ musical personalities, has as little need for argumentative sanction as a tree or a human being. The Sonata-Form--often, to be sure, with free modifications--predominates in all the large instrumental compositions of the Classic, Romantic and Modern Composers, notably of such men as Beethoven, Schumann, Brahms, César Franck, Tchaikowsky, d'Indy and Sibelius. Anyone unable readily to follow movements in this form, if he thinks he is receiving the complete message of the music, is his own dupe. It would be as logical to expect to enjoy the beauties of architecture without perceiving the difference between a nave and a bowling-alley. The obvious way to understand the meaning of a language is to know something of the principles of structure and expression in that language. Music is in very truth a language; and far too many people get from it nothing save the appeal which comes from its emotional power. This exciting experience is important, we may frankly acknowledge, but there are no reasons, save apathy and indifference, why the hearer should not have all this and more too. There is no conflict between warm emotions and an intelligent, well-trained mind. They should go hand in hand; and in any complete artistic appreciation each is indispensable.[95] [Footnote 94: See the eloquent comments on this analogy by d'Indy in his _Course in Composition_, Vol. II, Chap. 5.] [Footnote 95: "Art is not more a riot of the passions than it is a debauch of the senses; it contains, no doubt, sensuous and emotional elements, the importance of which there is no need to undervalue, but it is only artistic if it subordinate them to the paramount claims of reason." W.H. Hadow, _Studies in Modern Music_ (second series), preface.] The three main divisions of the Sonata-Form, with their essential features, are the following: (1) the Exposition, in which two themes in different tonalities are announced for the consideration--and, as the composer hopes, the pleasure--of the hearer. In the works of Haydn and Mozart this contrast of key was invariably that of Tonic and Dominant, _e.g._, C major and G major, or of major and relative minor, _e.g._, A-flat major and F minor. Beginning, however, with Beethoven great emphasis has been laid on _mediant_ relationship, _e.g._, C major and E major or C major and A-flat major; and in modern composers[96] this more stimulating change has largely superseded the former tonic and dominant grouping, _e.g._, Brahms's _Third Symphony_. We thus see that the harmonic feature of the Exposition is _Duality_ of Key-relationship. Between these two main themes there is always a modulatory connection or Bridge Passage which, in the time of Haydn, was generally of a very perfunctory, stereotyped character. Wagner once sarcastically remarked that Haydn's transitions reminded him of the clatter of dishes between courses at a royal feast. In Mozart we find the bridge-passage more deftly planned, more organically connected with what precedes and follows; but it was Beethoven who, in this portion of the movement, first revealed its possibilities. Throughout his works the bridge-passage is never a mere mechanical modulation or a floundering about until the introduction of the second theme, but is so conceived that the interest of the hearer is increasingly aroused until, at the entrance of the second theme, he is in the highest state of expectancy.[97] A bridge-passage of this kind often has a subsidiary theme of its own, or even several melodic phrases, and is planned as carefully as the action by which a dramatist leads up to the entrance of his heroine. After the second theme we generally find a closing theme to round out the Exposition as a whole. This practice dates from Haydn and has been much expanded by modern composers. Witness the glorious climactic effect in César Franck's _Symphony_ and in Brahms's _D major Symphony_ of the closing themes in the Expositions of the first movements. For many years it was the invariable custom to repeat the Exposition, and in Classic Symphonies we always find a double bar with marks of repeat and two endings. This practice was not an integral part of the form but was adopted so that the hearer, by going over the themes of the Exposition twice, might follow more intelligently their growth in the Development. With the advance in public appreciation this repeating of the Exposition has been largely abandoned; for there is no doubt that to begin all over again, when a certain objective point has been reached, breaks the continuous flow of the movement.[98] [Footnote 96: Some composers have also experimented with still freer key-relationships.] [Footnote 97: For striking examples see the Expositions of the first movements of Beethoven's _Third Symphony_ and of Tchaikowsky's _Sixth Symphony_.] [Footnote 98: The ultra-conservative attitude of Brahms is shown by his retention of the double bar and repeat, although this is often ignored by modern conductors.] (2) The Development, for which the Germans have the happy name of "Freie Phantasie," or free phantasy; the composer thus giving rein to his imagination and doing whatever he pleases, so long as he holds the interest of his hearers and neither becomes verbose nor indulges in mere mechanical manipulation. There are, alas! developments in which the composer exhausts his themes and his hearers too;[99] but on work of this kind, since it is not real development but labored jugglery, no powder need be wasted. Beethoven began the practice, in his Developments, of not confining himself to the themes of the Exposition but of introducing an entirely new theme, whenever the main material had fulfilled its purpose. The single most exciting factor in a good development is the freedom and wealth of modulation revealed by the daring genius of the creator; the effect being Plurality of Key-relationship, in distinction from the two closely related keys of the Exposition. It would often seem as if we were taken up into high mountains or borne away to distant seas. For illustrations of this "free phantasy" note the end of the Development in the first movement of Beethoven's _Second Symphony_ where, after great stress has been laid in the Exposition on the two basic keys of D major and A major, we are left in the distant tonality of C-sharp major and are then whirled back, by a dramatic change, into the home-key of the third part. One of the most interesting studies in the workings of a great mind is to observe how Beethoven, in his developments, allows the excitement to subside and yet never entirely die out, and how deftly he leads the hearer onward to the summing up of the main themes of the exposition. [Footnote 99: It was probably a development of this kind which called forth the characteristic comment from Debussy who once remarked to a friend at a concert, "Let us flee! he is going to develop."] (3) The Recapitulation or Résumé, in which both the themes of the Exposition are reasserted, each in the home key--a strong final emphasis thus being laid on _Unity_ of Tonality. The bridge-passage has to be correspondingly changed, for now the modulation is between two themes _both_ in the _same key_. To achieve such a modulation is quite a "tour de force" as every musician knows, and often taxed the ingenuity even of the great Beethoven. The skill by which he always made the second theme sound fresh and vital is astounding. For a case of "academic fumbling"--mere treading of water--in this adjustment of key relationship, see the Recapitulation of the first movement of Brahms's Second Symphony. To secure unbroken continuity and to avoid vain repetitions[100] there is no portion of the Sonata-Form which has been more modified by the inventive genius of modern composers and by the tendency exemplified in the Symphonic Poem (to be explained in due season). The general validity of Restatement, as shown in the Recapitulation of the Sonata-Form, cannot be questioned; for that depends, as so often pointed out, upon the human craving to enjoy once more, after intervening contrast, something which has originally given pleasure. Furthermore this sound psychological principle finds an analogy in our own life: with its early years of striving, its middle period of development and its closing years of climactic retrospect and satisfaction. There is a corresponding structural treatment in the dénoûment of a drama. In the classic composers, the Recapitulation is almost always a literal repetition of the Exposition, although Beethoven began to be freer, _e.g._, in the climax of the Coriolanus overture, where he modifies the form to meet the dramatic needs of the subject.[101] Modern composers, however, have felt that much of this repetition was superfluous; and when they do repeat both themes, one or the other is freely varied and made still more eloquent. For examples, see the résumé of the first movements of Franck's _Symphony_, of Brahms's _First Symphony_ and of Tchaikowsky's _Sixth_. The Recapitulation is often abridged by omitting the first theme altogether and dwelling exclusively on the second; as for example, in the Finale of Schumann's _Fourth Symphony_ and in Sinigaglia's Overture, _Le Baruffe Chiozzotte_.[102] [Footnote 100: See Grétry's amusing comments on the Sonata-Form cited by Romain Rolland in the essays _Musicians of Former Days_.] [Footnote 101: See also Wagner's comments on the _Third Leonora Overture_, cited by Ernest Newman in his _Musical Studies_, pp. 134-135.] [Footnote 102: Additional illustrations of this treatment may be found in Chabrier's Overture to _Gwendoline_ and in the first movement of F.S. Converse's _String Quartet_.] It remains to speak of the beginning and end of the Sonata-Form. With Haydn it became the custom, not necessarily invariable, to introduce the body of the movement by a Prelude which, in early days, was of slight texture and import--often a mere preliminary "flourish of trumpets," a presenting of arms. In Mozart we find some examples of more artistic treatment, notably in the Overture to the _Magic Flute_ and in the prelude to the C major Quartet with its stimulating dissonances. But in this case, as in so many others, it was Beethoven who first showed what a Prelude should be: a subtle means of arousing the interest and expectancy of the hearer; the effect as carefully planned as the portico leading to a temple. To usher in the theme of the Exposition in a truly exciting manner every means of modulation and rhythm is employed; famous illustrations being the introductions to the first movements of the Second, Fourth and Seventh symphonies; and, in modern literature, those of the first movements of Brahms's _First Symphony_ and of Tchaikowsky's _Fifth_. It also became customary to prolong the end of the movement by what is termed a Coda; the same tendency being operative that is found in the peroration to a speech or in the spire of a cathedral, _i.e._, the human instinct to end whatever we attempt as impressively and completely as possible. This Coda, which, in Haydn and Mozart, was often a mere iteration of trite chords--a ceasing to go--was so expanded by Beethoven that it was the real glory of the whole movement. In fact so many eloquent treatments of the main material were reserved for the Coda that it often became a _second_ development; and such was its scope that the form may be considered to have _four_ parts instead of three, _i.e._, 1, Exposition, 2, Development, 3, Recapitulation, 4, Coda; parts 4 and 2 balancing each other in the same way as 3 and 1. For two of the most famous examples in all Beethoven literature see the Codas to the First movement of the _Third Symphony_ and to the Finale of the _Eighth_. We now present a tabular view of the Sonata-Form summing up the features just commented upon. THE SONATA-FORM OR FIRST-MOVEMENT FORM ___________________________________________________________________________ A | B | A´ Exposition | Development | Recapitulation __________________________|___________________________|____________________ | | Introduction (optional) | Free treatment and | First Theme, First Theme | expansion, especially | connecting passage Modulatory bridge-passage | modulatory and rhythmic, | leading to Second Theme | of the themes already | Second Theme (often Closing Theme | presented | in home-key, but (Duality of | Sometimes new material | not always) Key-relationship) | introduced | Closing Theme | (Plurality of Key) | Coda | | (Special stress | | laid on the main | | tonality. Unity of | | Key) __________________________|___________________________|____________________ For actual musical examples it seems best to begin with the works of Haydn. This exclusion of Philip Emmanuel Bach is not meant to minimize what we owe him for his preliminary efforts in formulating the tripartite Sonata structure, with its two themes and its Development portion. Haydn is on record as saying that it was his study of six Sonatas of Emmanuel Bach which laid the foundations for his own instrumental style. But on the whole, the compositions of Emmanuel Bach are of interest rather from a historical point of view than from one purely artistic. The object of this book, furthermore, is not to give a complete account of the evolution[103] of the Sonata-Form; but, accepting the existence of standard works which employ this form, to enable the student to gain a more complete appreciation of those works. P.E. Bach wrote in the so-called "galant style"[104] of the period which has, for our modern ears, too much embellishment and too many meaningless, rhapsodic passages. He made a sincere effort to invent pure instrumental melody, _i.e._, musical expression suited to various instruments that should be unhampered by the too definite balance of the dance forms, by polyphonic complexities or by the conventional artifices of operatic style. But though he wrote skilfully for his instrument and though his style has a certain quaint charm, on the whole it is lacking in genuine melodic warmth and feeling. These qualities alone keep works immortal.[105] [Footnote 103: Those interested in this development should consult _The Pianoforte Sonata_ by J.S. Shedlock, and above all, d'Indy's _Course of Musical Composition_, Part III.] [Footnote 104: This, according to d'Indy, was so-called because pleasing to the ladies who played an important part in the elaborate court ceremonial of that day.] [Footnote 105: Six of P.E. Bach's Sonatas edited by von Bülow are readily accessible and some excellent comments upon the most significant ones may be found in Shedlock (see above).] In Josef Haydn (1782-1809) we are face to face with a musician of a different type. Haydn is popularly known as the father of the Sonata, the Symphony and the String-Quartet; but, according to Edward Dickinson,[106] this estimate is something of an exaggeration, for "it overlooks the fact that a large number of composers were struggling with the same problem and working along similar lines. Haydn was simply the greatest in _genius_ of the instrumental writers of his day. His works have lived by virtue of the superiority, _i.e._, the greater spontaneity and vitality, of their contents. He should be called the 'foster-father,' rather than the father of the symphony and quartet for he raised them from feebleness to strength and authority." To him must be given the honor of establishing the types of instrumental composition which became the foundations of modern music. Haydn, moreover, was the first musician since Sebastian Bach who had a real personality which may be felt in his works. To speak of a piece of music as "Haydnish" conveys as distinct a meaning as to refer to a poetic stanza as "Miltonic." When Haydn arrived on the scene, music--through the labors of many earnest workers--had become a language of definite expression, with a logical grammar and with principles of structure. The time was ripe for the use of this language in a more artistic way, _i.e._, for a more intense personal expression and for more subtle treatment of the material. The composer could count upon the public following his points; and with Haydn, whose heart beat in sympathy with the common people, music begins to be a truly popular art. [Footnote 106: See his _Study of the History of Music_, p. 154.] The striking features in Haydn's works are three: (1) The wealth of spontaneous and sparkling melodies, for he was born with this lyric gift and never had to cudgel his wits for a tune. That instrumental melody could make such sudden progress as we find between the dryness of Emmanuel Bach and the freshness of Haydn, was long a puzzle to scholars, and only recently has the proof been submitted that Haydn was largely of Croatian ancestry. Now the Croatians of Southern Austria are one of the most musical races in the world, with a wealth of folk-songs and dances. Haydn therefore did not have to "invent" melodies in the ordinary sense of the term; they were his birthright. Many of his melodies are adaptations of actual folk-songs[107] or original melodies coming from an imagination saturated with the folk-song spirit.[108] For this reason they seem like wild flowers in their perennial freshness and charm. (2) The precision and clarity with which his ideas are presented. These qualities were due to his well-balanced and logical intellect that impressed everyone with whom he came in contact. His style, moreover, was the result of indefatigable labor, for he was largely self-taught. If the balance of his phrases and the general symmetry of his style seem to our modern taste a bit excessive, we must remember that he was a pioneer and could run no risks in the way of non-acceptance of his message through puzzling complexities. Everything must be so clear that the ordinary mind could at once accept it. Nor is the "sing-song," "square-toed" element so prevalent in Haydn as is commonly supposed. In his melody a distinct feature--no doubt of racial origin--is his fondness for odd rhythms of three, five and seven measures, of which examples abound in the Quartets. In his Minuets and Finales there is a rollicking effect of high spirits which could never have been attained by mere labored pedantry. In his mature works we find a pervading spontaneity which is one of the outstanding examples in all literature of "art concealing art." Never do these works smell of the lamp, and let us remember it is far easier to criticize them than to create them.[109] [Footnote 107: See for example the _Salomon Symphony in E-flat_, every movement of which is founded on a Croatian folk-song.] [Footnote 108: For a comprehensive account of this whole subject consult the _Oxford History of Music_, Vol. V, Chapter VIII, and Mason's _Beethoven and His Forerunners_, essay on Haydn.] [Footnote 109: Witness for example, the attitude taken by Wallace in his _Threshold of Music_, pp. 148-153.] (3) The skillful and eloquent manner in which Haydn adapted his ideas to his favorite media of expression: the orchestra and the string-quartet. Although he wrote a number of pianoforte sonatas, these works, on the whole, do not represent his best thought. For they were composed in the transitional period between the waning influence of the harpsichord and the advent of the pianoforte, not yet come to its own. But as for the orchestra, Haydn established[110] the grouping of the three so-called choirs of strings, wood-wind and brass; to which were gradually added the instruments of percussion. In his works we begin to enjoy orchestral effect for its own sake: the dashing vivacity of the strings, the mellowness of the wood-wind, the sonority and grandeur of the brass. Instrumental works had formerly been composed in black and white, but now we have the interplay of orchestral colors. No less paramount was Haydn's influence in the handling of the four solo instruments known as the String Quartet. In his Quartets the voices are so highly individualized that it seems as if four intelligent and witty persons were holding a musical conversation. Such melodic and rhythmic freedom were hitherto unknown and his style became the point of departure for modern practice.[111] Both Mozart and Beethoven, those great masters of the String-Quartet, acknowledged their debt of gratitude to Haydn. His success in establishing the formation of the orchestra and the string-quartet was chiefly due to the inestimable advantage he enjoyed of being, for so many years, chapel-master to those celebrated patrons of music the Princes Paul and Nicholas Esterhazy, at whose country-seat of Esterhaz he had at his disposal, for free experimentation, a fine body of players.[112] Here Haydn worked from 1762 until 1790; and, to quote his own words, "could, as conductor of an orchestra, make experiments, observe what produced an effect and be as bold as I pleased. I was cut off from the world, there was no one to confuse or torment me and I was forced to become original."[113] [Footnote 110: For the early and significant achievements in orchestral effect of the Mannheim Orchestra under its famous leader Stamitz, see _The Art of Music_, Vol. 8, Chapter II.] [Footnote 111: For interesting comments on the String Quartets see Hadden's _Life of Haydn_, pp. 174-175.] [Footnote 112: _The Oxford History of Music_, Vol. V, Chapter I, and _The Present State of Music in Germany_ by Burney present a vivid picture of the times and of the results of 18th century patronage.] [Footnote 113: For an entertaining account of the two London visits, which took place during the latter part of his career, see the essay _Haydn in London_ by Krehbiel in his _Music and Manners_.] As to the formal side of Haydn's work, he is responsible for several distinct improvements. The different divisions of the movement are more clearly defined--sometimes perhaps, as we look back, a bit rigidly--but no more so than was necessary for a public just beginning to follow easily the main outlines of the form. Haydn leads up to his objective points in a clear-cut, logical way and there is little of "running off into the sand" or of those otherwise aimless passages so prevalent in Emmanuel Bach. In his best works, notably in many of the Quartets, there is also more individuality secured for the second theme;[114] although for highly personified and moving second themes we have to await the greater genius of Mozart and Beethoven. Whenever we are inclined to call Haydn's style old-fashioned we must remember that he wrote before the note of intense personal expression--the so-called subjective element, prominent in Beethoven--had come to the fore. The time just prior to Haydn had been called the "Pig-tail period" (Zopf-Periode) in reference to the stiff and precise dress and manners which had their counterpart in formality of artistic expression. Only towards the end of his career do we feel that breath of freedom in life and art which was generated by the French Revolution (beginning in 1791) and by the many political and social changes of that stirring period. From Haydn on, much more attention should be paid to the content and meaning of the music than to the formal handling of the material. In all worthy music, in fact, the chief point of interest is the _music itself_ which speaks to us in its own language of sound and rhythm. A knowledge of form is but a means to an end: for the composer, that he may express himself clearly and convincingly, and for the listener, that he may readily receive the message set forth. In Haydn's music we find the expression of a real personality--though of an artless, child-like type, without great depth of emotion or the tragic intensity of a Beethoven. Haydn was not a philosopher, or a man of broad vision. During his epoch, artists hardly dared to be introspective. His imagination gave birth to music, simple though it was, as freely as the earth puts forth flowers; but, although he wore a wig, he had a heart which was in good working operation even in his sixty-fourth year when, during his London visit, he fell in love with a charming widow, Madame Schroeter, whom he would have married had not his wife been still alive. [Footnote 114: In many cases Haydn's second theme is merely a varied version of the first.] We should acquire the catholic taste to enjoy every composer for what he really was and not criticise him for what he was not--a state which would imply necessarily different conditions. In criticism there is no worse error, or one more often made, than that of blaming Haydn because he was not Beethoven; or, in our times, Tchaikowsky because his music does not resemble that of Brahms. Blasé pedants often call Haydn's music "tame"; we might as well apply that adjective to the antics of a sportive kitten. As for the "amiable prattle" of his style we do not speak in a derogatory way of the fresh, innocent voices of children, though we need not listen to them continually. Haydn, in short, is Haydn,[115] and the vitality and sincerity of his works will always keep them immortal. In these feverish days we may dwell upon the simplicity of "Papa Haydn," as he was affectionately called; who would kneel down before beginning work, and who inscribed his scores "In nomine Domini." His modest estimate of his own powers cannot fail to touch our hearts. "I know," he said, "that God has bestowed a talent upon me, and I thank him for it. I think I have done my duty, and been of use in my generation by my works; let others do the same." [Footnote 115: Haydn's life is of great interest in showing the traits which are reflected in his music. Everyone should read the biography in Grove's Dictionary, Vol. II, p. 348, and the excellent life by M. Brenet in _Les Maîtres de la Musique_.] We shall now make a few comments on the illustrations in the Supplement (see Exs. No. 41 and 42): the Finale of the _Sonata for Pianoforte in E-flat major_ and the first movement of the so-called _Surprise Symphony in G major_. Haydn, of all composers, needs little verbal elucidation; his music speaks for itself and everyone must be sensitive to its vitality and charm. We regret that it is not practical to give examples from the Quartets which, in many respects--especially in the Minuets with their inexhaustible invention[116] and their bubbling spirits--represent Haydn at his best. But the real effect of his Quartets is so bound up with idiomatic treatment of the strings that in any transcription for pianoforte the music suffers grievously. It is through the score, however, that everyone should become familiar, with the contents of the Quartets in C major, op. 76, and D major, op. 64; the Finale of the latter being one of the supreme examples in all chamber literature[117] of rhythmic vitality. [Footnote 116: Haydn himself used to speak of his melodic invention as "a stream which bursts forth from an overflowing reservoir."] [Footnote 117: In every large city there are, of course, frequent opportunities to hear the Quartets of Haydn played by such famous organizations as the Flonzaley Quartet etc. The student is urged to take advantage of these occasions.] The Finale of the E-flat sonata, in strict Sonata-form, begins with a lively eight-measure phrase which is at once repeated a tone higher. The extension of the sentence shows Haydn's freedom in phraseology; for, beginning with measure 17, we should have to count the measures 1, 2, 3, 3a, 4, 5, 6, 6a, 7, 7a, 8, 8a. In the second theme, which begins in the 44th measure, note the piquant dissonances[118] coupled with sforzando accents. Haydn surely liked spice as well as anyone! The rest of the Exposition is taken up with closing passages which accentuate the tonality of the second theme--B-flat major. The Development needs no comment, as the correspondence between the original material and Haydn's treatment is perfectly clear. The Recapitulation is a literal repetition of the Exposition, with the two themes as usual in the tonic key. The movement may be considered an example of Sonata-form in its clearest manifestation, hence an excellent one for preliminary analytical study. [Footnote 118: Those who erroneously think that there is nothing of the dissonant element in Haydn should examine the Prelude to _The Creation_--a real anticipation, in its use of the chromatic element, of _Tristan and Isolde_.] In the first movement of the _Surprise Symphony_, before the body of the work begins, we have an early example of the Prelude. This slow Prelude, short though it be, is most carefully planned; with its crescendo from _pp_ to a _sf_ forte and its free modulation it arouses a genuine feeling of expectancy. The first theme of the Exposition (Vivace Assai) is a happy illustration of Haydn's sparkling rhythm, and as tossed off by the violins is of irresistible gaiety. The reader is asked to remember that the comments on this symphony--and on all subsequent symphonic works--are based upon the orchestral score; also that the composition, when separated from its orchestral dress, necessarily loses much of its real eloquence. Thus the first theme, of a folk-dance character, is a typical violin melody; only strings--with their incisiveness and power of subtle phrasing--can fully express its piquancy. For private study or for class-room work, a practical version is that for four hands; or better still, when possible, the arrangement for two pianofortes.[119] The second phrase of the first theme is considerably expanded by repetition, as if unable to stop from sheer exuberance, but finally reaches a cadence in the dominant key in the 32nd measure. We are at once taken back, however, to the home-key of G major; and, in measure 40, the first theme is repeated, this time delicately embellished with phrases on the flute. From now on, by reason of the emphasis laid on the key of D major, it is evident that we are in the transitional passage and are heading towards the announcement of the second theme. It must be said that Haydn does not drive very straight at his mark; though it is a pleasant touch of variety in measures 55-57 to introduce the main theme in the minor mode, and though the fiery violin passages in the following measures give an air of considerable excitement. What stands for the second theme begins in measure 67. This portion of the movement has no theme with genuine individuality, but consists of running passages--based exclusively on tonic and dominant harmonies in the new key, and of little import save one of general vivacity. It is, however, decidedly alive--not stagnant or flabby--and in the orchestra it all "comes off." We are rewarded, finally, by a clear-cut closing theme of jaunty rhythm, _e.g._, [Music] which Haydn liked so much that it is presented twice, the second time slightly embellished. The Exposition closes with the conventional insistence upon a strong cadence in the key of the second theme. The Development begins with some rather fragmentary treatment of the first theme; then, after some fugitive modulation into flat keys, contents itself with running passages and a series of iterated notes. Of organic and sustained development, such as Haydn indeed sometimes attained, there is little trace. Even so we must be chary of sweeping condemnation; for there are well-planned dynamic contrasts and the instruments are used in such a natural way--especially the figure in the double basses (measures 149-153)--that the scene is one of animation, though perhaps no more than one of aimless gambols. There is sufficient modulation, so that the principle of Plurality of key is carried out. We are suddenly but gracefully led back, in measure 155, to the repetition of the first theme, thus beginning the Recapitulation. This portion, with certain abbreviations, is an almost exact duplication of the first part and emphasizes the main tonality of G major. That Haydn was not forced to this literal repetition through any lack of fancy is shown by the skilful amplification of the first theme, in measures 177-184. The whole movement sparkles with sunshine; and those ponderous "heavy-weights" who criticise it because it is not deep or "soulful" are looking for qualities which the music does not pretend to contain. It is the work of a wholesome, cheerful-hearted man expressing through his favorite language his joy in life. In listening to the music we have the same delight as in wandering by the side of a rippling brook. The three remaining movements of the Symphony require little comment; being readily accessible they are not given in the Supplement. The second movement, a set of stereotyped variations, contains the explosive chord which gave to the work its descriptive title. Needless to say that this chord does not "surprise" _our_ modern ears to any great extent. The Minuet is one of Haydn's best--full of queer antics in rhythm and modulation. The Finale (Allegro di molto), in the Rondo Sonata form, is the acme of Haydn's vivacity and is a "tour de force" of brilliant writing for the strings. In many passages they seem fairly to burn. [Footnote 119: All symphonic scores give a much better effect when performed on two pianofortes than in a four-hand arrangement for a single instrument. The freedom in control of both pedals possessed by each player secures a greater richness and sonority of tone and it is much easier to make prominent voices stand out in relief.] Haydn's position in the development of music is of the first importance. Whatever his works may "mean," they contain a rhythmic vitality which will keep them alive for ever, and their "child-like cheerfulness and drollery" will charm away care and sorrow as long as the world shall last. CHAPTER X MOZART. THE PERFECTION OF CLASSIC STRUCTURE AND STYLE Although Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus[120] (1756-1791), was, in regard to art problems, no more of a broad thinker than Haydn (Mozart and Schubert being pre-eminently men whose whole nature centered in music), yet on hearing his works we are aware that aspects of form and content have certainly changed for the better. In the first place he was more highly gifted than Haydn; he had from his infancy the advantage of a broad cosmopolitan experience, and he was dimly conscious of the expanding possibilities of musical expression. It is a perfectly fair distinction to consider Haydn an able, even brilliant prose-writer, and Mozart a poet. Haydn we can account for, but Mozart is the genius "born, not made"--defying classification--and his inspired works seem to fall straight from the blue of Heaven. Whereas Haydn, Beethoven and Schubert were all of very lowly parentage[121] (their mothers being cooks--a blessing on their heads!), Mozart's father and mother were people of considerable general cultivation, and in particular the father, Leopold Mozart, was an educated man and somewhat of a composer himself, who since 1743 had been in the service of the Archbishop of Salzburg, as director of his private orchestra. An excellent violinist, he had written and published a treatise on violin playing, which for many years was the standard work on the subject. Both parents were noted for their good looks, were, moreover, of strong character and highly respectable in every way. Among their several children two early exhibited unusual precocity--Maria Anna, born in 1751, and Wolfgang, still more highly gifted. The stories of the boy's skill and general delicacy of perception may be exaggerated, but we have sufficient valid evidence to convince us that he was a phenomenon absolutely "sui generis." Thus, he began to improvise between three and four, actually to compose little pieces (which we have), when he was five, and to perform in public when he was six! In that very year and continuing for nineteen years (until Mozart had reached the age of twenty-five) began the memorable series of concert tours--eleven in all--comprising Vienna, all the chief cities of Italy and Germany, even Paris and London. These tours the father planned and carried through with the utmost solicitude and self-sacrifice--not to exploit the talented children, but to give them a comprehensive education and artistic experience, and eventually to secure for his son some distinguished post worthy his abilities. It is quite impossible to rehearse all the details of these trips. For one who wishes to investigate for himself they truly make fascinating reading. A single incident, however, will show how clearly defined were the two personalities which made up the complete Mozart; and of which one or the other was in the ascendant throughout his life. As a man, Mozart was light-hearted, witty--even volatile--fond of society, dancing, and a good time generally; not of the strongest intellectual power, judged by modern standards, but, as shown by his marvellous dramatic insight, by no means the debonair light-weight he is often represented. Yet whenever music was under consideration he was a changed being; he became instantly serious, and would suffer no disrespect to himself or to his art. During the last sad years of his career in Vienna, when he was in actual want for the bare necessities of life, a publisher once said to him, "Write in a more popular style, or I will not print a note of your music or give you a kreutzer." "Then, my good sir," replied Mozart, "I have only to resign myself and die of hunger." [Footnote 120: Amadeus (the beloved of God).] [Footnote 121: We may appropriately state that in regard to ancestry and environment all four of the so-called Viennese masters, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert are distinct refutations of the claims so persistently made by German scholars that everything good in music we owe to the Teutons. Haydn was largely Croatian; Mozart was strongly influenced by non-Teutonic folk-music (Tyrolese melodies frequently peep out in his works); Schubert's forebears came from Moravia and Silesia; and Beethoven was partly Dutch. If there be any _single_ race to which the world owes the art of music it is the Italians, for they invented most of the instruments and hinted at all the vocal and instrumental forms. We may be grateful to the Germans for their persevering appropriation of what others had begun; only let them not claim _all_ the credit.] In Mozart's works, in distinction from the unconscious, naïve folk-song type of Haydn, we find highly wrought instrumental melodies; although such was his inborn spontaneity of expression that we are never aware of the labor expended. His works are quite as clear as those of Haydn, but they show a more conscious individuality of style. They are not so artless, and the phraseology is more elastic--less cut and dried. There is a higher imaginative vitality; trite, mechanical repetitions are in general avoided, climaxes are led up to in a more subtle manner, and a great gain is made in real organic development. For Mozart, as a master of polyphonic treatment, is second only to Bach. The most striking single feature in his work is the ceaseless flow of expressive melody, notably those wondrous tunes found in his operas, such as "Voi che sapete," "Batti, batti" and numerous others. He had travelled so widely, so keen was his power of assimilation that his melodic style embodied and enhanced the best qualities of contemporary Italian, French and German practice. And yet his innate genius was of sufficient strength to achieve this result without lapsing into formal eclecticism. Whatever suggestions he took he made wholly his own; and his music is nothing if not individual in its inimitable charm and freshness. Whereas Haydn's music often smacks too prominently of the soil, with Mozart we have the fine flower of a broad artistic culture. In his best symphonies and string quartets the art of music made a distinct advance and began to be capable of expressing the universal emotions and aspirations of mankind. The reactive influence--each upon the other--of Haydn (1732-1809) and Mozart (1756-1791) is a most interesting feature of the period.[122] By the time Mozart was ripe for his best work Haydn had formulated and exemplified the main lines of instrumental structure. From this preparatory work Mozart reaped such an advantage that in his last compositions there is a spontaneous flowering of genius--a union of individual content with perfect clarity of style--which has kept them alive to this day. Haydn's last symphonies, the two Salomon sets composed for his London tours, show in their turn abundant signs of the stimulating influence of the younger man. The perennial importance of form and style cannot be better understood than by recognizing the fact that both Tchaikowsky and Richard Strauss, two of the most fearlessly independent of modern composers, have considered Mozart as their ideal. But even if in Mozart's best works we are not beyond the preponderating influence of form over substance, they must be judged on their own intrinsic merits and not with reference to progress made since--of which, nevertheless, they were an important foundation. His technique was quite sufficient to express what he had to say. We seldom feel that the contents are bursting through the form, that the spirit is too great for the body. Purity of conception and faultlessness of workmanship were still the desiderata of music. The world had to wait for a Beethoven before the hearer should be shaken out of himself by a spiritual power, of which the music at best was often an inadequate expression. This statement is meant to contain no disparagement. Because Beethoven was more elemental we must never belittle the genius of his predecessor. Any familiarity with Mozart's works will convince us of the gratitude we owe him for his original harmonies, for the stimulating contrapuntal texture and for the perfect finish and care for detail found therein. Could we be forever content with "abstract music"--that which justifies itself by a fulfilment of its own inherent laws--Mozart's music would remain the acme of the art. His fame to-day rests upon his string quartets, his three principal symphonies, and--above all--the operas, of which Don Giovanni and the Marriage of Figaro are noted examples. For consummate character-drawing (so that, as Rubinstein remarks, "Each acting personage has become an immortal type"), for interest sustained by unflagging musical vitality, for a combination of humor and seriousness and for ingenious and characteristic handling of the orchestral forces, these works were unequalled until the advent of Wagner and even to-day in their own field remain unsurpassed. The real charm of Mozart--that sunny radiance, at times shot through with a haunting pathos--eludes verbal description. As well attempt to put into words the fragrance and charm of a violet. Hazlitt's fine phrase, apropos of performance, says much in a few words. "Mozart's music seems to come from the air and should return to it," and the ecstatic eulogy of Goethe, to whom genius meant Mozart, should be familiar to all. "What else is genius than that productive power through which deeds arise, worthy of standing in the presence of God and of Nature, and which, for this reason, bear results and are lasting? All the creations of Mozart are of this class; within them there is a generative force which is transplanted from age to age, and is not likely soon to be exhausted or devoured." [Footnote 122: For extended comment, see the _Oxford History of Music_, Vol. V, p. 246, _seq._] In studying Mozart's works the special points to be noticed are these: the wider sweep and freer rhythmic variety of the melodic curve; the more organic fusion of the different portions of a movement--Mozart's lines of demarcation being perfectly clear but not so rigid as in Haydn; the much greater richness of the whole musical fabric, due to Mozart's marvellous skill in polyphony. The time had not yet come when the composer could pique the fancy of the hearer by unexpected structural devices or even lead him off on a false trail as was so often done by Beethoven. Both Haydn and Mozart are homophonic composers, _i.e._, the outpouring of individual melodies is the chief factor in their works; but whereas in Haydn the tune is almost invariably in the upper voice, in Mozart we find the melody appearing in any one of the voices and often accompanied with fascinating imitations. See, in corroboration, any of the first three movements of the _G minor Symphony_ or the slow movement of the _E-flat major Symphony_. In the structure of music Mozart made slight changes; the forms were still fresh--having just been established by Haydn--and Mozart with his genius filled them to overflowing. His one important contribution to the development of instrumental form was the Pianoforte Concerto; but, as a consideration of this would lead us too far afield, the student is referred to the life of Mozart in Grove's Dictionary and to the Oxford History, Vol. V. The literature[123] about Mozart and his works is voluminous. Our chief attention nevertheless should be centered on the works themselves rather than on what anyone else writes about them. Certain of these criticisms, however, are so suggestive and illuminating that the student should become familiar with them. [Footnote 123: We recommend especially the refreshing essay by Philip Hale in _Famous Composers and Their Works_; the chapter on Mozart in _Beethoven and His Forerunners_ by D.G. Mason; and, as throwing light on aspects of his personality which are little known, "_Mozart Revealed in his Own Words_" by Kerst-Krehbiel (see especially the chapter on Mozart's religious nature, p. 142 and passim); the fascinating _Reminiscences of Michael Kelly_, a personal friend of the composer; and, above all, the monumental life of Mozart, unhappily as yet incomplete, by Wyzewa and St. Foix. The third chapter of Vol. II of _The Art of Music_ is also well worth reading; and in _Mozart's Operas, a Critical Study_ by E.J. Dent are found valuable comments on his dramatic style, so prominent a feature in many of his instrumental works.] As illustrations[124] for comment we select the _F major Sonata for Pianoforte_, the _G minor Symphony_, the _Magic Flute Overture for Orchestra_ and the little known but most characteristic _Adagio in B minor for Pianoforte_. Here again, as in the case of Haydn, we must regret that it is impracticable to give examples from the chamber music: the String Quartets, the Quintet in G minor or from the entrancing Clarinet Quintet. Any familiarity with Mozart's genius is very incomplete which does not comprise the C major Quartet, especially its heavenly Andante Cantabile; likewise the E-flat major Quartet in the slow movement of which are the following poignant dissonances--a striking anticipation of _Tristan and Isolde_. [Music] [Footnote 124: The first three compositions are not given in the Supplement, because readily available in several standard editions. The same recommendations, as given in connection with Haydn, apply to the performance of the _G minor Symphony_.] The F major Sonata is selected to illustrate Mozart's pianoforte style because it bubbles over with typical Mozartian melody and because the Sonata-form is the basis of all three movements; in the first and last strictly employed and in the slow movement somewhat modified. The structure, while just as clear and easy to follow as that of Haydn, represents an advance in the sustained interest of the transitional passages and in the organic treatment of the Development--this being particularly true of the Finale--the middle portion of the first movement being not so significant. The Sonata, without prelude, begins with a soaring, lyric melody in which the customary eight measure formation is expanded to twelve measures. This expansion is brought about by an imitative treatment of the fifth measure and is a convincing example of the flexible phraseology so prominent a feature in Mozart's style. A balancing sentence of eight measures, with an extended cadence, brings us to the transition which is to introduce the second theme. Observe the increasing animation of the rhythm and how the fresh entry of the second theme (in C major) is enhanced by the insistence on the contrasting tonality of C minor. In measure 41 there begins the second theme, a graceful melody that is repeated with heightened fervour and then expanded by means of various modulatory and rhythmic devices--the interest, for a number of measures, being in the bass. In measure 71 we have a piquant closing theme which ends in the "good old way" with some rather formal groups of cadential chords. The Development is short and, save for the dynamic contrasts in the middle part, not of particular import. But though a bit naïve it is neither labored nor dull. The Recapitulation with the necessary adjustments of key (both themes appearing in F major) corresponds exactly to the Exposition. In the opening melody of the Slow movement--a dreamy, sustained Adagio--we see the beautiful use Mozart made of the "turn," _e.g._, [Music] employing it not as meaningless embroidery or to cover up deficiencies in the instrument but as an integral factor in the melodic line, thus anticipating Chopin and Wagner with his "essential turn." The movement is in abridged[125] Sonata-form, _i.e._, there is a regular Exposition with two themes in the tonic and dominant and a corresponding Recapitulation, but the Development is entirely omitted and in its place we find merely two modulatory measures which take us back to the third part. Such a form arose from the feeling that the Slow Movement should be one of direct melodic and emotional appeal and should not concern itself with protracted discussion of the material. The two closing measures are of a wondrous serenity, peculiar to Mozart. The Finale, Allegro assai, in complete and elaborate Sonata-form, is one of superb vigor and dash, the happiest example possible of Mozart's "joie de vivre." It begins with a brilliant running theme in free phraseology, and then, after a cadence in measure 14, is at once followed by an out and out Waltz tune of a very seductive swing.[126] This is developed to a brilliant climax and then closes _pp_ in a delicate, wistful manner. The transition, with some canonic imitations and stimulating sequences, leads us to the second theme at measure 50. This--one of Mozart's loveliest melodies--is rather exceptionally in the dominant minor (_i.e._, C minor) and with its mood of pathetic revery affords a wonderful contrast to the headlong dash of the first theme. This melody alone would prove that Mozart had his moments of deep emotion. In measure 65 begins a long closing portion which resumes the exuberant mood characteristic of the Exposition as a whole. The Development at first is based upon modulatory changes in the first theme; and then, towards the middle, occurs a passage which seems to be a counterpart of the second theme, save that it is in the major mode. We are now carried onward through a series of passages, with pungent dissonances and imitative phrases, to a fortissimo dominant chord; thence through a descending cadenza-like passage we are whirled back to the Recapitulation. In material and treatment this corresponds exactly to the Exposition and has the same pianissimo ending. Such an effect was a touch of genuine originality and was a delightful contrast to the conventional flourish of trumpets with which the Finale of the period was expected to end. Music is often most impressive when most subdued. [Footnote 125: This modification became a favorite with Beethoven, notable examples being the Slow movement of the Fifth Sonata, where the Development is represented by a single chord; the Slow movement of the D minor Sonata, op. 31; and, above all, the Allegretto Scherzando of the Eighth Symphony, where a series of contrasted accents keeps the interest alive and leads most deftly to the Recapitulation.] [Footnote 126: In measures 20 and 21 may be found some striking syncopations--an anticipation of what now-a-days is known as "rag-time."] The G minor Symphony is universally acknowledged to be the highest achievement of 18th century instrumental music and is also premonitory of that subjective spirit peculiar to the 19th century. It will remain immortal so long as human beings are capable of being touched by a sincere revelation of emotion combined with a perfection of utterance which seems fairly Divine. This delicate treatment and this exquisite finish are two prominent characteristics of Mozart's style. Truly the Symphony is the quintessence of Mozart in terms of sound and rhythm, and we need but to listen to his message and receive it with grateful appreciation. The work contains the four customary movements, all of them (save the three-part Minuet and Trio) in complete Sonata-form. The first movement begins at once with a gracefully poised theme sung by the violins, a theme which may be likened in its outlines to the purity of a Greek statue. The entrancing effect of this melody cannot be realized except on the orchestra, for it seems to float on the gently pulsating chords of the violas like a beautiful flower. Everyone who hears the work is at once arrested by this highly original treatment, _e.g._ [Music] The transition is short but leads us in a happy state of expectancy through a change of rhythm from the graceful outlines of the first theme to the vigorous phrase [Music] and by a bold run, thrice repeated, to the entrance of the second theme in measure 43. This theme, in the customary relative major (B-flat), illustrates Mozart's fondness for the chromatic element which gives to many of his melodies such a haunting appeal. The closing portion, beginning at measure 71, is an example of Mozart's spontaneous skill in polyphonic writing. It is based entirely on the motive of the main theme in delightful imitations tossed about by different sections of the orchestra. The second part is a genuine Development, since the musical life never flags in its contrapuntal vitality; the theme appears in all parts of the texture--upper, inner and lower voices--and we are carried vigorously onward by the daring modulations. Just at the close of the Development we see Mozart's constructive skill in the fusion of this part with the subsequent Recapitulation. A series of drifting chromatic chords in the flutes and oboes, like light fleecy clouds, keeps us in a state of suspended wonder when quietly there emerges the first theme and the return home has begun. It is one of the truly poetic touches in musical literature and has been often imitated--especially by Tchaikowsky in his _Fifth_ and _Sixth Symphonies_.[127] The Recapitulation corresponds exactly with the Exposition, but an added pathos is given to the second theme by its appearance in the tonic key of G minor. Observe the impassioned intensity of the climax in measures 13-19 (counting back from the end). The mood of dreamy contemplation with which the Slow Movement begins cannot be translated into words; why attempt it? We have the music which, coming from the divinely gifted imagination of the composer, reveals in its own language a message of pathetic longing and ideal aspiration. The movement is very concise but in complete Sonata-form, and with an orchestration felicitous in the treatment of the horns and the wood-wind instruments. The Minuet, noteworthy for the three-measure rhythm of the opening phrase, [Music] shows clearly the new life which Mozart infused into the old form by his remarkable polyphonic skill. Note at the outset of the second part the vigorous effect of the theme in the bass and the frequency of biting dissonances. The charming grace and simplicity of the Trio are indescribable; here again we find an eloquent use of the wood-wind group. The Finale, in complete Sonata-form, begins with a perfectly balanced periodic theme, presented in Two-part form, _i.e._, two sentences of eight measures, each repeated. If from our present standpoint we feel that the tone of this movement is a bit light to follow the serious thoughts of the preceding movements, let us remember that it was composed when the Finale was meant merely to "top off" a work; and that, if it radiated a general atmosphere of sunshine and satisfaction, its purpose was fulfilled. For the Finale, which, like the glorious splendor of an autumn day, is the crowning objective towards which the other movements have been striving, we must wait for Beethoven and his modern successors. In fact we may express the general trend of a Haydn or a Mozart Symphony by a decrescendo, thus [decrescendo symbol] _i.e._, the real genius of the composer is shown in the first three movements; whereas, beginning with Beethoven, we find an organic climactic effect[128] from the first movement to the last, thus [crescendo symbol]. But to carry such criticisms too far is ungracious and unjust. Mozart's themes, both the first and the second (beginning in measure 55), with their tripping contredance rhythms, fill our hearts with life and carry us irresistibly onward. And the Development has some surprises in store, for now the dramatic genius of Mozart asserts itself. Note the bold leaps and daring modulations of the opening measures. Nothing trite or formal here! The strong polyphonic treatment of the first theme, beginning in measure 120 and sustained with unflagging energy for seventy measures, makes this one of the most stimulating developments in symphonic literature, not excepting Beethoven himself. The Recapitulation, in subject matter, is an exact duplication of the Exposition and allows us to recover gradually from our excitement and to return to the ordinary world of men and events. The presentation of the second theme, however, shows Mozart's mastery of melodic variation. The substance is the same, but the import of the melody is intensified, _e.g._ [Music: Exposition] [Music: Recapitulation] [Footnote 127: See the Waltz movement of the _Fifth Symphony_ and the second movement of the _Sixth_.] [Footnote 128: This expanding of interest is distinctly felt in Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, in Brahms's First, in Tchaikowsky's Fifth and in that by César Franck.] The Overtures to Mozart's three operas: The _Marriage of Figaro_, _Don Giovanni_ and the _Magic Flute_ are of particular interest, not only for the beauty of their contents but because they are our earliest examples of the Overture fashioned in complete Sonata form. Originally the Overture had been a prelude to the opening of a play, a prelude of the lightest and most meagre nature. Examples, beginning with Monteverde, abound in all the early Italian opera composers.[129] Lully of the French school and Alessandro Scarlatti of the Italian were the first to amplify these beginnings and to establish a definite standard of structure. In both schools this standard represented an application of the Three-part form principle; the French arranging their contrasts, slow, fast, slow (the so-called French overture--of which we have an example in Handel's Messiah) and the Italians, fast, slow, fast (the so-called Italian Overture). Although Gluck (1714-1787) did much to establish a more dramatic connection between the overture and the play, even the best of his Overtures, Iphigenia in Aulis, is a rather loosely expanded tripartite structure with a good many meaningless passages. But Mozart, coming after Haydn's definite establishment of the Sonata-form and with the growing interest of the public in instrumental music for its own sake as an incentive, could take advantage of these circumstances to display his genius and to delight his hearers with a piece of genuine music. This he did and his operatic overtures are of such distinct import and self-sufficiency that they are often detached from the opera itself and played as concert numbers. The Magic Flute Overture is also noteworthy because of the polyphonic treatment of the first theme which is a definite fugal presentation in four voices. The second theme, beginning in measure 64, and soon repeated, is light and winning, meant to supplement rather than to contrast strongly with the first theme, which indeed keeps up at the same time, in the inner voices, its rhythmic impetuosity. The Exposition ends with a graceful closing phrase, _e.g._, [Music] and the usual cadence in the dominant key. It is considered that the Adagio chords for the trombones, interpolated between the Exposition and the Development, are suggestive of the religious element in the play that is to follow. The Development is remarkable for the spirited imitative treatment of the first theme, for the bold way in which the voices cut into each other and for the fusion of its closing measures with the Recapitulation. The chief feature in this brilliant passage is a piling up of the theme in stretto form (see measures 148-153). The Recapitulation is somewhat shortened and the melodic outline of the second theme is slightly changed; otherwise it corresponds with the Exposition. After the closing phrase we have some pungent dissonances, _e.g._ [Music] Rossini, it is said, was never tired of eulogizing this Overture and certainly for spontaneity and vigor it is unrivalled.[130] [Footnote 129: For a complete account of this development see Grove's Dict. Vol. III under _Overture_ and the Oxford History, Vol. IV, page 286, _seq._] [Footnote 130: Its companion in modern literature is the Overture to the _Bartered Bride_ (by the Bohemian composer Smetana), which also begins with a brilliant fugal treatment of the theme.] The last illustration from Mozart is his _Adagio in B minor_ (see Supplement No. 43) an independent piece, far too little known, in complete Sonata-form. The haunting pathos in the theme, the exquisite loveliness in the whole fabric instantly reach the hearer's heart. Analytical comment seems quite unnecessary; a child can "follow" the music, but only he with a ripe knowledge of human life can begin to fathom its deep mystery.[131] When we see such modern passages as the following, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 131: For some illuminating comments on this subtle character of Mozart's creations see the Stanford-Forsyth History of Music, p. 254.] Tchaikowsky's love for Mozart's music is readily understood. Indeed, we cannot refrain from urging everyone to cultivate such a love himself; for in the works of Mozart are found a purity, a sanity and a delight in creation which keep them alive and make them in very truth "things of beauty and a joy forever." CHAPTER XI BEETHOVEN, THE TONE-POET As Beethoven was such an intensely subjective composer, a knowledge of his personality and environment is indispensable for a complete appreciation of his works.[132] [Footnote 132: Hence is given a more extended biographical account than in the case of former composers.] Beethoven, Ludwig van (1770-1827), born at Bonn on the Rhine, though his active career is associated with Vienna, may be called the first thinker in music; for at last the art is brought into correlation with man's other powers and becomes a living reflex of the tendencies and activities of the period. Notwithstanding the prodigious vitality of Bach's work, we feel that his musical sense operated abstractly like a law of Nature and that he was an unconscious embodiment, as it were, of the deep religious sentiment of his time and of the sturdy independence of his race. At any period and in any place Bach would have been Bach. Beethoven's music, however, in its intense personality and as a vivid expression of the ideals of his fellow men, was different from any the world had heard before. There were three paramount advantages in his equipment: first, Beethoven was a strong character who only happened to find in music his most suitable means of self-expression. The full import of his works cannot be understood unless he is recognized, great creative artist that he was, as first and foremost a unique personality. Had he not written a note of music we should have sufficient historical evidence to assure ourselves of the vigor of his intellect and the elevation of his ideals. Whereas Haydn and Mozart are to be judged purely as musicians, in Beethoven it is always something underlying the musical symbols which claims our allegiance. Furthermore he had the inestimable advantage of finding the mechanical structure of instrumental music carefully formulated by his predecessors. The stone had been quarried, the rough cutting done and the blocks lay ready for a genius to use in the erection of his own poetically conceived edifice. And these forms were still fresh and vigorous; they had not yet hardened into formalism. In Beethoven's works we rarely find form employed for its own sake, as a mere "tour de force" of skilful workmanship, rather is it made to adapt itself to the individual needs of the composer. Finally Beethoven's career coincided with momentous changes and upheavals in the social, political and artistic world. He is the embodiment of that spirit of individualism, of human freedom and self-respect which found its expression in the French Revolution, in our American War of Independence and in the entire alteration of social standards. Beethoven at all costs resolved to be himself. With him music ceases to be a mere "concourse of sweet sounds"; it must always bring some message to the brooding human soul, and be something more than a skilful example of abstract ingenuity. These personal tendencies of Beethoven were fostered by the spirit of the times, and his music became in turn a vital expression of revolt against existing conditions and of passionate aspiration towards something better. He was the first musician to free himself from the enervating influence of having to write exclusively for aristocratic patronage. Such was the social emancipation of the period that he could address himself at first hand to a musical public eagerly receptive and constantly growing. His representative works could never have been composed in the time of Haydn and Mozart; for though in formal structure the logical development of preceding methods--Beethoven being no reckless iconoclast--in individual content they reveal a freedom of utterance which took its rise in tendencies hitherto unknown. Beethoven's mighty personality and far-reaching influence can not be stated in a few formulae. An extensive library covering his life and times is accessible to the interested layman, and a thorough appreciation of his masterpieces is a spiritual possession which everyone must gain individually. Since Beethoven's works compel a man to think for himself, the constructive power of the creator must be met with an analogous activity on the part of the receptive hearer. The symphonies, for example, are more than cunningly contrived works of musical art; they are human documents of undying power to quicken and exalt the soul which will submit itself to their influence. Beethoven's great instrumental compositions are few in number in comparison with the voluminous and uneven output of his predecessors. Thus from Haydn we have 125 symphonies, from Mozart about 40, from Beethoven 9. Of Haydn's symphonies possibly a half dozen have permanent vitality; of Mozart's four; of Beethoven's all, with the possible exception of the experimental first. Condensation of subject matter, conciseness of style, a ceaseless exaltation of quality above quantity are the prominent features in Beethoven's work. All adipose tissue is relentlessly excised, and the finished creation resembles a human being in perfect physical condition--the outward mechanical organism subservient to the spirit within. Beethoven's life is of supreme interest and importance, for his music is the direct expression of himself, of his joys and sorrows. His ancestry raises many perplexing questions as to the influence of heredity and the sources of genius. In the first place Beethoven was not a pure-blooded German, but partly Flemish on his father's side. His paternal grandfather, Ludwig van[133] Beethoven, was a man of strong character and of a certain musical aptitude, who had migrated from the neighborhood of Antwerp to Bonn where he served as court musician to the Elector of Cologne. The paternal grandmother early developed a passion for drink and ended her days confined in a convent. The son of this couple, Johann (the father of the composer) was a tenor singer in the court chapel at Bonn and soon became a confirmed drunkard. He seems to be a mere intermediary between grandfather and grandson. In 1767 he married a young widow, Maria Keverich, a woman of warm affections and depth of sentiment, whose life was bound up in the care of her gifted son. The tender love between Beethoven and his mother was a bright spot in his early years, in many ways so sordid and unhappy. Unfortunately she was delicate, of consumptive tendencies, and died when Ludwig was but seventeen. "She has been to me a good and loving mother," he writes, "and my best friend." As we ponder on such facts and then consider for what Beethoven stands, we can only exclaim, "God works in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform." It was early seen that the young Beethoven had unusual ability, and so the shiftless father, with the example of Mozart's precocity before him, submitted the boy to a deal of enforced drudgery in the way of harpsichord and violin practice. He had one good teacher however, Neefe, who records that the boy of thirteen played the harpsichord with energetic skill and had mastered the Preludes and Fugues of the Well-Tempered Clavichord. Beethoven's general education was sadly neglected, and when he was thirteen practically ceased. These deficiencies were a source of mortification all his life. He spelled atrociously, was never sure of his addition and subtraction and so was often involved in altercations with landlords and washerwomen. By nature Beethoven was of strong, eager intellect. He became an omnivorous reader, and later in life acquired a working facility in Latin, French, Italian and English. The first period of his life ends with his departure in 1792 for Vienna, whither he was sent by the Elector to study with Haydn. In summing up its special incidents we are struck first by the vivid and lasting impression which Beethoven, in spite of his lowly origin and deficiencies in education and cultivation, made upon wealthy and refined people of distinction, simply through his extraordinary personality and unmistakable sincerity. Two of these friends were the von Breuning family, including the charming daughter Eleanore--one of Beethoven's early loves--and the cultivated and influential Count Waldstein, in whose companionship he became acquainted with the German poets and with the dramas of Shakespeare. For a vivid picture of these boyish years the student is recommended to the Romance, _Jean Christophe_ (by Romain Rolland) which, though somewhat idealized, is mainly on a historical basis. Two of Beethoven's most unique characteristics date from this period. First, his constant habit of drawing inspiration directly from Nature, of which he was a passionate and persistent lover. He says of himself "No one can love the country as I love it. Here alone can I learn wisdom. Every tree exclaims to me 'Holy, Holy, Holy.'" In long walks through wood and field he would allow his thoughts to germinate, giving himself up utterly to creative emotion. When in this state of mind Madame von Breuning used to say that he was in his "raptus." Consequently, in comparison with the works of previous composers, which often have a note of primness and artificial restraint--they smell a bit of the lamp and the study--those of Beethoven have the elemental power of Nature herself, especially shown in the vigor and variety of the rhythm. Second, he would always carry sketch books in which to jot down ideas as they came to him. These he would polish and improve--sometimes for years--before they took final shape. Many of these sketch books[134] have been preserved and edited, and they illustrate, most vividly, Beethoven's method of composing: slow, cautious, but invincible in its final effect; an idea frequently being altered as many as twenty times. At the age of twenty-two he was chiefly known as a pianist with wonderful facility in improvisation; his compositions had been insignificant. The next eight years--up to 1800, when Beethoven was thirty--were spent in acquainting himself with the Viennese aristocracy and in building up a public clientèle. Then follows the marvellous period until 1815 in which his power of inspiration was at its height, and which gave to the world a body of work for magnitude and variety never surpassed: all the symphonies except the Ninth, the first twenty-seven pianoforte Sonatas, five concertos for pianoforte and orchestra, the opera of Fidelio, several Overtures, numerous string quartets and ensemble chamber music. We realize even more vividly the heroic and sublime character of Beethoven when we learn that, as early as 1798, there began the signs of that deafness which altered his whole life. By nature he was hypersensitive, proud and high-strung, and these qualities were so aggravated by his malady that he became suspicious, at times morose, and his subsequent career was checkered with the violent altercations, and equally spasmodic renewals of friendship, which took place between him and his best friends. His courage was extraordinary. Thus we find him writing: "Though at times I shall be the most miserable of God's creatures, I will grapple with Fate, it shall never pull me down." On the artistic side this affliction had its compensations in that it isolated the composer from outer distractions, and allowed him to lay entire stress on the spiritual inner side of his art; certainly this is one of the strongest notes in his music--the pure fancy manifested therein. As a deaf musician he is comparable to the blind seer who penetrates more deeply into the mysteries of life than those whose physical eyesight is perfect. Beethoven's closing years form a period of manifold complications, caused by the care of his scapegrace nephew, by his settled deafness and precarious financial position. Yet he grimly continued to compose, his last works being of titanic dimensions such as the Choral symphony, the Mass in D and the last Quartets and Pianoforte Sonatas. Beethoven died on March 26, 1827; nature most appropriately giving a dramatic setting to the event by a terrific storm of hail and snow, lightning and thunder. It would take too long to dwell on the many characteristics of the man Beethoven. Power, individuality and sincerity were stamped upon him, and his music is just what we should expect from his nature. He embodied all the longings, the joys and sorrows of humanity, and gave them such burning utterance that the world has listened ever since. [Footnote 133: The prefix van is not a symbol of nobility.] [Footnote 134: See the two _Beethoveniana_ by Nottebohm.] To touch now upon a few of the formal aspects of Beethoven's work, as far as verbal analysis can help, it may be asserted that he is the acknowledged master of the Sonata Form as Bach was of the Fugue, and in his hands this form, and also the Air with Variations, were raised to a potency the influence of which is felt even to-day. From beginning to end every portion of the Sonata Form was made over and vitalized. Instead of the perfunctory "flourish of trumpets" which served previous composers for an introduction, this portion with Beethoven deftly leads on the hearer to a contemplation of the main work, and is as carefully planned as the porch of a great Cathedral. For examples, witness the continually growing excitement generated in the introductions to the Second and Seventh Symphonies, the breathless suspense of the introduction to the Fourth, and the primeval, mysterious beginning of the Ninth. And then what a difference in the character and emotional suggestiveness of the themes, that with Beethoven are actual human voices, dramatic characters, which once met can never be forgotten. As Lavoix says of the Fifth Symphony, "Is not this a drama in its purity, where passion is no longer the attribute of a theatrical work, but the expression of our own individual feelings?" No longer are the transitions mere mechanical connections, but a portion of the structure which, though subsidiary, is yet organically developed from that which precedes and inevitably related to that which follows. In the development section we find the real Beethoven. Here his marvellous freshness of invention found full play. Such inexhaustible fancy, such coherence of structure, such subtlety of transformation were unknown in former times, when development was often as lifeless as the perfunctory motions of an automaton. Beethoven's developments are no mere juggling with tones; they are vast tonal edifices, examples of what the imagination of man controlled by intellect can achieve. Possibly Beethoven's greatest skill as a musical architect was shown in his treatment of the Coda, which became the crowning climax of a movement, a last driving home with all possible eloquence of the message heretofore presented. The end of previous compositions had too often been a mere ceasing to go, a running down, but in Beethoven there is usually a strong objective point towards which everything converges. Fully conscious as he was of the throbbing human message it was his mission to reveal, we may be sure that Beethoven spared no effort to enhance the expressive capabilities of music as a language. Certain aspects of his style in this respect are strikingly noticeable in every one of his representative works. First, the marvellous rhythmic vitality. Note the absence of the former sing-song rhythm of Haydn; in its stead we hear the heart-beat, now fast, now slow, of a living human being. No longer can the hearer in dreamy apathy beat time with his foot. Second, his use of the fiercest dissonances to express the heights and depths of our stormy human existence. In listening to contemporary works nothing should persuade us more strongly to a sympathetic tolerance, or at any rate to a suspension of judgment, than the fact that many of Beethoven's most individual cries (surely in his case the outward expression of what he heard within, those very outbursts which to-day ring longest in our consciousness) were considered at the time of their creation as the ravings of a mad-man. Dissonances, both acoustically and psychologically, are a vital principle in music. In no respect was his music more original than in his Promethean boldness in their use. One of his favorite conceptions was that music should strike fire from the soul of man; it was not meant to lull the hearer into a drowsy revery, but to awaken his spiritual consciousness with a shock at times positively galvanic. A third feature is his subtlety in expression, as is shown by the minute indications in which every page of his work abounds. The crescendos, often leading to a sudden drop to pianissimo, the long stretches of hushed suspense, the violent sforzandos on unimportant beats, the plasticity of periodic formation, all these workings of a rich imagination first gave music its place as the supreme art of human expression. A word must be spoken concerning two forms which we owe to Beethoven's constructive genius. In place of the former naïve Minuet, so characteristic of the formal manners of its time, he substituted a movement with a characteristic name--the Scherzo, which opened up entirely new possibilities. No mere literary distinction between wit and humor[135] can explain the power of Beethoven's Scherzos; only through his own experience of life can the hearer fathom their secrets. The expression of real humor, akin to that spirit which is found in Cervantes, Swift, Mark Twain and Abraham Lincoln, was a genuine contribution of Beethoven. Deep thinkers alone are capable of humor which, to quote a recent writer, is "that faculty of imagination so humane and sympathetic in its nature that it can perceive at the same time serious and jocose things. It can feel the pathos of a scene on life's stage and yet have an eye for the incongruities of the actors. It is imagination, the feel of kinship with the universal human soul." Beethoven's Scherzos are as varied as life itself. Who can forget the boisterous vitality of this movement in the Eroica, which quite sweeps us off our feet, the haunting mystery of the Scherzo of the Fifth Symphony, or listen unmoved to the grim seriousness, alternating with touching pathos, in the Scherzo of the Ninth? Secondly, his conception of the Air and Variations was so different from anything previously known that he may fairly be called its creator. With him variations became poetic transformations, and the notable works in this form of Brahms, Tchaikowsky, Franck and d'Indy are only freer manifestations of Beethoven's method. Upon two last features, his use of titles and his individualizing of the orchestral instruments, we cannot dwell in detail. Although program music in its literal sense dates back several centuries, Beethoven--far more than was customary before--used external suggestions or incidents, often intimate subjective experiences, as the quickening impulse to his imagination. We know from his own words that, while composing, he generally had some mental picture before him. Very often we are not given the clue to his thoughts, but the titles, familiar to every one, which he did use, such as the _Heroic_ and _Pastoral_ Symphonies, the _Coriolanus_ and _Egmont_ Overtures, those to several of the Sonatas, are full of import and show clearly that he was engaged in no mere abstract music making for its own sake. These works are the point of departure for the significant development of modern music along this path. With Beethoven the orchestra began to assume its present importance, and the instruments are no longer treated as mere producers of sound and rhythm, but often as living beings. How eloquent is the message of the Horns in the Trio to the Scherzo of the _Heroic_! Berlioz compares the double basses in the Fifth Symphony to the gambols of sportive elephants, and instances might be multiplied. But words are futile in describing the wonders of Beethoven. A striking tribute is that of Professor John K. Paine. "In instrumental music Beethoven is pre-eminent, from all points of view, formally, aesthetically and spiritually. Like Shakespeare's, his creations are distinguished by great diversity of character; each is a type by itself. Beethoven is the least of a mannerist of all composers. His compositions are genuine poems, which tell their meaning to the true listener clearly and unmistakably in the language of tones, a language however which cannot be translated into mere words." [Footnote 135: The derivation of the word is worthy of note; it means moisture, juice, something not dry. Humor is certainly the juice of human nature.] We are now in a position to approach intelligently, enthusiastically and reverently the mighty works of Beethoven which, though built upon the foundations of Haydn and Mozart, yet take us into an entirely new world of power and fancy. For illustrations we select the first movement of the _Third_ or _Heroic_ Symphony; the _Seventh Sonata in D major_ for Pianoforte; the _Fifth Symphony in C minor_ (entire) and the _Coriolanus_ Overture. In regard to the symphonies it is understood that the emphasis on certain ones and the omission of others implies no ultra-critical attitude. Each of Beethoven's symphonies has its characteristic attributes and each is the work of a genius. But just as in Nature some mountains are more majestic than others, so concerning the nine symphonies we may say that their order of excellence as endorsed by the consensus of mankind would be as follows. The First Symphony is somewhat experimental, composed when Beethoven was working out his technique of expression. It is closely modeled on the style of Haydn and, though showing certain daring touches and though perfectly direct and sincere, is not of marked individuality. In the Second Symphony a long advance is made, for we find numerous traits which are thoroughly distinctive of the genius of Beethoven: the exciting Prelude to the first movement; the heavenly Larghetto, one of the first slow movements of real emotional power; the rollicking Scherzo (note the fantastic touches in the Trio) and the splendor of the last pages of the Finale, which can only be compared to a sunset with its slowly fading colors and its last burst of glory. The general style of the Second Symphony however is that of Haydn and Mozart, though raised to the highest pitch of eloquence. In the Third Symphony the complete Beethoven steps forth. It was his declaration of independence, and in this work, as he himself said, he began a completely new line of activity; it was also his own favorite among the symphonies.[136] Heretofore there had been no such impassioned utterance as is revealed in the first movement of this Third Symphony and there have been few, if any, to equal it since. The Fourth Symphony is an entrancing work and shows Beethoven's inexhaustible variety of mood; since, save for the "grand manner" peculiar to all his works, it differs strikingly from the Third and the Fifth. It was composed during the happiest period of Beethoven's life and is related in its whole character to his emotions and aspirations at that time.[137] The slow movement is the most sublime love-song in music. The Fifth Symphony is undoubtedly the most popular of them all, in the true sense of the term.[138] The reason for this verdict is the unparalleled combination in a single work of the emotional intensity found in the first movement, the touching appeal of the slow movement, the mystery, followed by the reckless display of spirit, in the Scherzo and the paean of rejoicing which rings through the Finale. The Sixth or Pastoral, Beethoven's one excursion into the realm of tone-painting based on natural phenomena, is of interest more as a point of departure for the work of his successors than for its intrinsic message. The conception of the possibilities of musical description has so widened since Beethoven, and the facilities for orchestral color so increased, that this symphony, though it has many characteristic beauties, sounds a bit old-fashioned. The Seventh is one of the most original of them all, incomparable for its rhythmic vitality--the Apotheosis of the Dance, as Wagner called it.[139] If rhythm be the basis of music and of life itself, this symphony is thoroughly alive from start to finish, hence immortal. The Eighth is the embodiment of Beethoven's (possibly) most individual trait--his abounding humor. Never before had symphonic music played such pranks as are found here, especially in the Finale. The Symphony is in fact a prolonged Scherzo[140]--the third movement (a Minuetto) being merely for contrast. The Ninth Symphony, composed in the philosophic period of Beethoven's life, when he was attempting still greater heights, is a vast work, the first three movements purely instrumental, and the Finale, for the first time in symphonic literature, a union of solo voices and chorus with the instrumental forces. The text was taken from Schiller's "Ode to Joy." The spirit of the poem made a strong appeal to Beethoven's humanitarian and democratic aspirations and there is no question of the grandeur of his conception. But it is not carping criticism to say that his thoughts were too heaven-soaring for a perfect realization through any earthly means. Beethoven moreover was seldom happy in writing for the human voice--he thought in terms of the instruments--and it is not to be denied that there are several passages in the Finale which consist of mere boisterous shouting. No one save believers in plenary inspiration can give to this Finale the whole-hearted admiration that is paid to the three instrumental movements which are pure gold; especially the seraphic Adagio and the Gargantuan Scherzo with its demoniacal rhythmic energy. To sum up the foregoing estimates, if the student is forced to select and cannot become equally familiar with all of the nine symphonies, a reasonable order of study would be the following: the Fifth, the Third, the Seventh, the Eighth, the Fourth, the Ninth, the Second, the Sixth and the First. See Supplement No. 44. [Footnote 136: See Beethoven, Kerst-Krehbiel, p. 45.] [Footnote 137: Read the appropriate essay in _Beethoven and His Nine Symphonies_ by Sir George Grove.] [Footnote 138: Vox populi, vox Dei.] [Footnote 139: D'Indy, however, in his _Beethoven_ (p. 61, English translation) dissents from this view; not at all convincingly, it would seem to us. For the basic rhythm of each movement is on a definite dance metre and the theme of the first movement is a regular Irish jig (Beethoven at one time being very much interested in Irish folk-dances) with its typical three final notes, _e.g._ [Music]] [Footnote 140: It was written, to use Beethoven's own words, in an "aufgeknöpft" (unbuttoned) condition, _i.e._, free, untramelled, rather than straight-laced, swaddled in conventions.] We shall now make a few comments[141] on the first movement of the _Third_ or _Heroic Symphony_, merely to stimulate the hearer's interest, for the music may be trusted to make its own direct appeal. After two short, sonorous chords, which summon us to attention, the first theme, allegro con brio, with its elemental, swinging rhythm, is announced by the 'cellos. It is often glibly asserted that these notes of the tonic triad are the whole of the first theme. This is a great misconception, for although the motive in the first four measures is the generative basis for the entire movement, the arresting, dramatic note of the theme is the C-sharp in measure five. This theme in fact is a typical example of Beethoven's broad sweeps of thought; for prolonged with secondary melodic phrases in the first violins and flutes, its real close does not come until the 13th measure, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 141: These are based in this work and in all Symphonic compositions on the full orchestral score (in the Peters edition); the student is therefore recommended to adopt this practise. For in Beethoven and all orchestral writers the thought and expression are so integrally bound up with the tone color and idiom of the various instruments that when their works are reduced to another medium much of the eloquence is lost. For those who cannot handle an orchestral score there are adequate arrangements for 2 hands, 4 hands and for 2 pianofortes in several standard editions. Those who have an advanced pianoforte technique should certainly become familiar with the virtuoso-transcriptions of the Beethoven Symphonies by Franz Liszt.] After a varied repetition of the first motive of the theme, there occurs a passage (measures 23-33)[142] which illustrates one of the most characteristic features in all Beethoven's work, _i.e._, those sharp dislocations of the rhythm, indicated by the sforzando accents (_sf_) on beats usually _unaccented_ and often coupled with strong dissonances. Although the basic rhythm is triple, the beats for several measures are in groups of two quarter notes or their equivalent, one half note, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 142: It is an excellent practise to number the measures of a score in groups of _10_.] No longer can we drift along in dreamy apathy; our vitality is quickened as by the gusts of a tornado. There have been those who for the first time in their lives were jarred from the even tenor of their way by these impassioned onslaughts. When Beethoven's Symphonies were first played in Paris, it is reported that the operatic composer Boieldieu was much disconcerted, because, as he said, he liked "musique qui me berce." The transition (measures 43-81) is a remarkable example of Beethoven's power of creating ever more and more excitement and expectancy. It contains _three_ subsidiary melodic phrases, each of increasing rhythmic animation, _e.g._, [Music] and fairly whirls us into the beautiful contemplative theme at measure 81. This theme embodies some entrancing modulations into remote keys, and then, after one of Beethoven's typical passages of hushed pianissimo (beginning in measure 97) we are led through a series of sforzandos, crescendos and titanic ejaculations to the overpowering dissonances in measure 145, which with the tonic chord close the Exposition in the dominant key. The Development (measures 164-396) is extremely long and varied, but a perfect manifestation of spontaneous, organic treatment--each portion growing inevitably from what has preceded and marching irresistibly onward to its objective goal. Every modulatory, rhythmic and polyphonic device is employed to vary and intensify the message; yet, notwithstanding the diversity of the material, we are held spellbound by the directness and coherence of the thought. Such is Beethoven's passionate insistence on the right to speak out just what he felt that in one stupendous passage (measures 246-277) it seems as if the very Heavens were falling about our heads. At measure 282 a theme of ideal repose is interpolated--just the contrast needed after the preceding cataclysm. The Development proper is renewed in measure 298 and after a repetition of the interpolated theme in measures 320-335 the rhythm of the first theme asserts itself in all its majesty, carrying us upward to a veritable table-land of sublimity. From this we are brought down through a series of decrescendo, modulatory chords, like drifting mists, to an almost complete cessation of musical life--nothing but a pianissimo tremolo on the strings. From this hush there floats in upon us the rhythmic motive of the first theme; then, with a _ff_ chord of the dominant, we are suddenly brought back into the sunshine of the main theme, and the Recapitulation has begun. This portion with certain happy changes in modulation--note the beautiful variant on the horn in measures 406-414, _e.g._, [Music] --preserves the customary emphasis on the main tonality of E-flat major, ending in measures 549-550 with the same dissonances which closed the Exposition. Then are declaimed by the full orchestra those two dramatic outbursts which usher in the Coda and which may be likened to "Stop! Listen! the best is yet to come." The blunt, intentional disjunction of the harmony adds weight to the assertion, _e.g._ [Music] Here we have a convincing illustration of Beethoven's individual conception that the Coda should be a second and final development; special points of interest and treatment being held in store, so that it becomes a truly crowning piece of eloquence. Observe how the reappearance of the interpolated theme balances the Coda with the Development proper and how the various rhythms of the Exposition are concentrated in the last page. Finally a series of bold, vibrato leaps in the first violins--based on the dominant chord--brings this impassioned movement to a close. A lack of space prevents the inclusion in the Supplement of the rest of the Symphony, but the student is urged to make himself familiar with the three remaining movements: the Marcia Funèbre, the Scherzo and the Finale. The Funeral March is justly ranked with that of Chopin in his B-flat minor Sonata and that of Wagner in the last act of the _Götterdämmerung_ as one of the most eloquent in existence, and contains melodies so touching that they could have come only from the very soul of Beethoven. Especially noteworthy is the aspiring melody of the middle, contrasting portion (Maggiore) where the spirit, freed from earthly dross, seems to mount to the skies in a chariot of fire. The third part, where the minor mode is resumed, abounds in dramatic touches; especially that fugal passage, where the ecclesiastical tone, combined with pealing trumpets, brings before us some funeral pageant in a vast, medieval cathedral. The Coda, beginning in A-flat major, with an impressive mood of resignation, illustrates at its close a psychological use of programmistic effect; for the first theme, treated as a real person, disintegrates before our very eyes--becoming, as it were, a disembodied spirit. Nothing can show more clearly than this passage the widening of the expressive powers of music which we owe to the genius of Beethoven. The same effect with a slightly different dramatic purpose is found at the end of the _Coriolanus_ Overture. The Scherzo, allegro vivace, in triple time, but marked _one_ beat a measure = 116 (almost two measures per second!), is unsurpassed for sustained brilliancy and daring rhythmic changes. It is so idiomatically conceived for orchestra that only the barest idea can be gained from a pianoforte transcription. The prevailing background is a mass of shimmering strings, marked by Beethoven "_sempre pp e staccato_" and against this stands out a buoyant, folk-song type of melody on the oboe. After some mysterious and fantastic modulations a _ff_ climax is reached which leads to the famous syncopated passage where the orchestra seems to hurl itself headlong into space, _e.g._ [Music] The Trio, with its three hunting horns, gives a fresh, woodland note typifying Beethoven's love of nature. Some mysterious modulations lead us back from the dim recesses of the forest to the sparkling animation of the Scherzo. In this part of the movement Beethoven plays one of his characteristic practical jokes; for, just where we expect the same syncopated effect as before, the time is changed from 3/4 to 2/2, the duration of the measure remaining the same, _e.g._ [Music] This effect may be likened to the uproarious guffaws of a giant. The Coda has a clear reminiscence of the dramatic C-sharp in the main theme of the first movement, _e.g._ [Music][143] [Footnote 143: D-flat being the enharmonic equivalent of C-sharp. [Transcriber's Note: The music notation contains a D-flat.]] Such an organic connection between movements begins to be very frequent in Beethoven's works. The Finale, Allegro molto, has caused considerable difficulty to the commentators for reasons known only to themselves. Different forms are assigned to it by different critics; one regrets the falling off of inspiration, another asserts that the movement "does not fulfill the requirements which the human mind makes of art; it leaves us confused." Poor Beethoven! But why all this pother? If the inner evidence of the music itself be any justification for structural classification, this wonderful, inspired Finale is a series of free Variations[144] on a double theme of which the parts are related to each other as Soprano and Bass, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 144: The variations are not numbered and the demarcations indicated only by certain cadential objective points.] By beginning the first two variations with the less important of the two melodies (_i.e._, the _bass_) Beethoven is simply indulging in his fondness for piquing the fancy of the hearer by starting him on a false trail--not giving away, as it were, his real purpose too soon. Yet from the first announcement of the leading melody in the Third Variation it assumes increasing importance, through successive appearances in E-flat major, B minor, D major and C major, until after a long fugal development we reach the inspired passage (Poco Andante con espressione), _e.g._, [Music] in which the main theme is stated first in its noble simplicity and then enhanced by an obligato melody on the oboe. It is one of the most eloquent passages in all symphonic literature. At its last appearance the real theme comes fully to its own--for the _first_ time in the _bass_, that fundamental voice--where it is declaimed _ff_ in gorgeous splendor by all the lower instruments of the orchestra. It is evident that not even the most inspired genius can sustain such a flight for ever, and after this magnificent paean the workings of Beethoven's imagination resemble those of Nature herself. Following a tranquil intermediary passage in A-flat major we enter upon one of those long, mysterious periods of hushed suspense which may be compared to a long expanse of open country or to the fading lights on the sea at sunset. The last page, beginning with the Presto, is sheer orchestral jubilation of the most intoxicating kind. We may picture an enthusiastic gathering, with hats thrown aloft and shouts of triumph ringing from every throat. It is of historical interest to know that the theme of this Finale must have been a favorite with Beethoven, for he had used it in three former works: a _Contre-dance_, as the basis for a set of _Pianoforte Variations_ and in the _Ballet Music to Prometheus_. It may not be too fanciful to trace a dramatic relationship between its use in portraying the daring spirit who first stole fire from Heaven and as the crowning message of a work meant to glorify all heroic endeavor. A thorough familiarity with this movement will repay the student not only as exemplifying Beethoven's freedom of expression but indeed as a point of departure for so many modern works in free variation form. See Supplement No. 45. To illustrate Beethoven's Pianoforte compositions we shall now analyze the _Seventh Sonata in D major_, op. 10, No. 3. Only wholesale hero-worshipers consider all of the thirty-two Sonatas of equal significance. It is true that, taken as a whole, they are a storehouse of creative vitality and that in each there is something, somewhere, which strikes a spark; for everything which Beethoven wrote was stamped with his dominating personality. But the fire of genius burns more steadily in some of the Sonatas than in others. It is the very essence of genius to have its transcendent moments; only mediocrity preserves a dead level. It is therefore no spirit of fault finding which leads us to centre our attention upon those Sonatas which have best stood the test of time and which never fail to convince us of their "raison d'être": the _Appassionata_, the _Waldstein_, the _C-sharp minor_, the _Pathétique_, the _Sonata in G major_, op. 14, No. 2, and _all_ the last five, especially the glorious one in _A-flat major_, op. 119. It is futile to deny that some of the early sonatas are experimental and that certain others do not represent Beethoven at his best, being more the result of his constructive power than of an impelling message which had to be expressed. The D major Sonata has been selected for study because, though composed in Beethoven's first period, it is thoroughly characteristic, and because its performance is within the powers of the average intelligent amateur. The full beauty of the later Sonatas can be realized only by great virtuosi who devote to them years of study. The work is in four movements: the first, complete Sonata-form; the second, modified Sonata-form; the third, Three-part; the Finale, a freely treated Rondo-Sonata-form. The first movement, Presto, begins with a vigorous presentation of the main theme which ends in measure 22 with the last of three _ff_ octaves. The unusually long transition, containing a subsidiary theme in B minor, is remarkable for its onrushing excitement and for the playful false leads which usher in the second theme. After a brilliant cadence in the dominant key, one would suppose this theme might be announced in measure 53, but not so; after three measures of cantabile melody, progress is interrupted by a group of descending octave leaps. A second attempt is now made, this time in A minor, only to be thwarted by a still more capricious octave descent. This time, however, after a dramatic pause, we are rewarded with a clear-cut, periodic melody beginning in measure 66, against which the rhythm of the first theme keeps up a gentle undercurrent. Some interesting modulations develop into a series of descending octaves which, accompanied by _sf_ chords, lead to the closing portion. This brilliant passage accentuates the dominant key of the second theme. After a short tranquillo phrase and some free imitations of the main theme we repeat the Exposition, or go on to the Development ushered in by a bold change to the mediant key of B-flat major. After several appearances of the main theme in the bass, Beethoven takes a leaf out of D. Scarlatti's book and revels in some crossing of the hands and some wide leaps. The Recapitulation corresponds exactly with the first part until we reach the Coda in measure 298, which affords a striking example of Beethoven's power of climax. After a long period of suspense an imitative treatment of the first theme, with kettle-drum effect in the bass, leads to a stringendo ascending passage which closes with two crashing dissonances and two peculiarly grouped chords, _e.g._ [Music] They have a hard, cutting brilliance all their own and give just the touch of color needed to finish this dazzling movement.[145] [Footnote 145: By Beethoven everything is carefully planned. Note in performance the contrast of mood suggested by these final chords and the sombre register of the opening chords of the Slow Movement.] In the Slow Movement, Largo e Mesto, there is a depth of emotion quite unparalleled in the early history of music.[146] Certainly no composer since Bach had uttered such a message. As soon as the movement begins we are convinced that it represents the outpouring of a soul capable of deep meditations upon life and its mysteries, and with the eloquence at its command to impress these thoughts upon the hearer. The number of themes and their key relationship are those of Sonata-form, but instead of the usual development we have a new contrasting theme of great pathos in the major mode. Observe the poignancy of the dissonances, _e.g._, [Music] in the second theme of the Exposition which begins in measure 17, and the passionate outcries in measures 35 and 37 of the middle portion. Just before the Recapitulation, in measures 41-43, is an early example of Beethoven's fondness for instrumental recitative--music speaking with a more intimate appeal than words. The movement ends with an impassioned Coda which, beginning with the main theme in the bass and working up, more and more agitato, to a powerful climax, dies away with mysterious fragments of the opening measures. The dissonant element so characteristic of the whole movement is retained to the end, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 146: According to d'Indy it is more truly pathetic than the entire so-called _Pathetic Sonata_.] The growing importance of dissonance may be seen from a comparison of this movement with the average slow movements of Haydn and Mozart These, although they have serenity and grace, beauty and finish of form, and are sincere manifestations of the genius of their creators, are yet lacking in passion. This placid mood and amiability of style is shown by the comparatively slight employment of dissonances. By unthinking and uncultivated persons dissonances[147] are often considered as something harsh, repellant--hence to be avoided. But dissonances contain the real life and progress of music. They arouse, even take by storm our imaginations and shake us out of our equanimity. Consonant chords represent stability, satisfaction and, when over-used, inertia. The genius of the composer is shown in establishing just the _right proportion_ between these two elements; but if there is to be any disproportion let us have _too much_ rather than too little dissonance, for then, at any rate, the music is _alive_. Since Beethoven the whole development of music as a human language shows the preponderating stress laid on dissonance; to this fact a knowledge of the works of Schumann, Chopin, Wagner, Debussy and Franck will amply testify.[148] The same analogy holds equally in all realms of life, human and physical. The truest development of character depends on the warring elements of good and evil. Honest discontent is the first step to progress. Dissonance is the yeast of music and should be welcomed for its invigorating influence. [Footnote 147: A frequent confusion of thought is shown in the use of the words "discord" and "dissonance." A discord is an unrelated noise, as when one bangs with both fists on the key-board. A dissonance is a logical introduction of intervals or chords made up of jarring factors for their stimulating effect upon the imagination.] [Footnote 148: Two of the greatest innovators in this direction, Scryabin and Stravinsky, have been working in our own day, and there is no doubt that by their daring experiments they have enlarged the expressive powers of music. While it is obvious that the dramatic effect of to-day stimulates the experimentation of tomorrow, contrariwise, the immediate contribution of each innovator is to render more clear the work of his predecessor, up to that moment the confessed iconoclast.] The third movement, Minuetto, may be taken as a reply to Haydn's well-known wish "Oh! that some one would write us a new Minuet." Well, here it is--with all the grace and charm of the 18th century type and yet with more import, especially in the Coda with its haunting retrospect. The rhythmic formation of the opening sentence would be clearer if two measures had been thrown into _one_, for the swing is clearly that of a 6/4 measure. The Trio, with its Scarlatti-like crossing of the hands, is a playful bit of badinage, affording a delightful contrast to the Minuetto. Such genuine variety in mood makes the Three-part Form of lasting worth. The Finale, Allegro, with its capricious fortissimo outbursts and unexpected sforzandos is a characteristic example of Beethoven's freedom of utterance. Any cast-iron conception of form was entirely foreign to his nature; instead, he made form the servant of the freest flights of fancy. The movement begins as if it were to be worked out in the so-called Rondo Sonata-form--a hybrid, tripartite structure related to the Sonata-form in that it has _two_ themes in the first and last portions, and to the Rondo in that the middle portion is a free Episode instead of the customary development of former material. The salient feature by which this form may always be recognized is that the Exposition closes with a _definite return_ to the first theme--thus emphasizing the Rondo aspect--instead of with an expanded cadence based upon the second theme. As we have stated before (see Chapter IX), many of Beethoven's Finales are in this mixed form, clear examples of which may be found in the last movements of the Fourth, Eighth and Twelfth Sonatas. The Finale of the Twelfth Sonata has been included in the Supplement in order to make this important form familiar to the student. To return now to the Finale of the sonata we are studying. Its first two portions correspond exactly to the usual practice in the Rondo-Sonata form just explained; _i.e._, we find in the Exposition a first theme, a modulatory transition, a second theme (beginning in measure 17) and a definite repetition of the first theme, in measures 25-32. Then, after two measures of bold modulation, begins the middle, episodical passage which, closing with a whimsical cadenza-like passage, leads back to the beginning of the third part. After a complete, slightly varied appearance of the first theme, Beethoven does not repeat the second theme, as we should expect, but allows his fancy to indulge in a series of brilliant passages, exciting modulations and dynamic contrasts. All this freedom is held together by insistence on the fundamental rhythmic motive (measures 72-83). A final embellished statement of the first theme ushers in the fiery Coda, in measure 92, which ends with a long running passage; beneath, we hear reminiscences of the main theme. It is often stated that Beethoven's Sonatas are lacking in pianistic effect, and it is true that his pianoforte works do not bring out the possibilities of color and sonority as we find them, for example, in Chopin and Debussy--the orchestra and the string-quartet being indeed his favorite media of expression. Yet during his entire early career Beethoven was famous as a performer and improviser on the pianoforte and some, at any rate, of his deepest thoughts have been confided to that instrument. That he was not at all insensible to the beauty of pianistic effect for its own sake is shown by the syncopated, shadowy chords in measures 101-105, the whole justification for which lies in their enchanting sound.[149] [Footnote 149: For a very clear tabular view of the structure of this Sonata see d'Indy's _Cours de Composition Musicale_, Book II, p. 332.] SYMPHONY NO. 5[150] [Footnote 150: This is not given in the Supplement. See preceding remarks apropos of the Third Symphony. The comments are based, as usual, on the full orchestral score.] The _Fifth Symphony in C minor_, op. 67, is deservedly popular because it is so human; a translation, in fact, of life itself into the glowing language of music. Beethoven's emotional power was so deep and true that, in expressing himself, he spoke, like every great philosopher, poet or artist, for all mankind. Which one of us in his own experience, has not felt the same protests against relentless Fate that find such uncontrollable utterance in the first movement? Who, again, is untouched by that angelic message, set before us in the second movement, of hope and aspiration, of heroic and even _warlike_[151] resolution, mingled with the resignation which only great souls know? The third movement (Allegro)--in reality a Scherzo of the most fantastic type, though not so marked--might well typify the riddle of the Universe. We indeed "see through a glass darkly," and yet there is no note of despair. Amid the sinister mutterings of the basses there ring out, on the horns and trumpets, clarion calls to action. While we are in this world we must live its life; a living death is unendurable. The Finale, Allegro maestoso, is a majestic declaration of unconquerable faith and optimism--the intense expression of Beethoven's own words, "I will grapple with Fate, it shall never pull me down"--to be compared only with Browning's "God's in his heaven, all's right with the world," and the peroration to Whitman's _Mystic Trumpeter_, "Joy, joy, over all joy!" No adequate attempt could be made to translate the music into words. The Symphony is extremely subjective; indeed, autobiographic. For all historical details as to its composition, the reader is referred to the Grove essay,[152] and for eulogistic rhapsodies nothing can surpass the essay of Berlioz, that prince of critics. We shall content ourselves with a few comments of a structural nature and then trust the student to seek a performance of the work by a good orchestra. Of the first movement (Allegro con brio)[153] the dominant characteristics, especially in comparison with the wealth of material in the _Heroic_, are conciseness and intensity. It starts at once, without prelude, with the motive--one of the tersest in music--from which is developed, polyphonically, the first theme, _e.g._ [Music[A]] [Footnote 151: This interpretation of d'Indy is based upon the prevalence in the movement of the conventional martial rhythm [Music] and carries, we must acknowledge, considerable weight. It is, however, distinctly subjective and prevents no one from gaining quite a different impression. We should be more inclined to accept the views of the noted French scholar had he not been so wide of the mark, while speaking of the Seventh Symphony, as to deny any appearance of dance-rhythm in the first movement But the Irish composer, Villiers Stanford, has shown conclusively that the theme is based upon the rhythm of an Irish Hornpipe. Thus do the wise ones disagree! Meanwhile, we others have the _music itself_.] [Footnote 152: _Beethoven and his Nine Symphonies_ by Sir George Grove.] [Footnote 153: Beethoven's favorite mark of tempo and expression.] [Footnote A: There are also some _p_ holding notes on the bassoons.] Everything is concentrated in the highest degree and the assault upon our consciousness is of corresponding power. A tempestuous transition leads to two short _sf_ chords and then in measure 59, announced _ff_ by the horns, appears the first phrase of the second theme, based on the same motive as the first, but in the relative major (E-flat), _e.g._ [Music] It is answered by a second phrase of marked simplicity and loveliness--a mood, indeed, of resignation. This is only momentary, however, for the relentless rhythm of the chief motive continues to assert itself in the basses until, as it gathers headway after a short closing phrase (95-99), it is thundered out _ff_ by the full orchestra in a series of descending groups. The Development continues the same resistless impetuosity. Note the grim effect of the empty fifths and fourths in measures 126-127. Once only is there a slackening of the titanic, elemental drive--in the mysterious passage (212-239) where the pent-up fury of the composer seems to have exhausted itself. It is only, however, a lull in the storm which breaks forth with renewed energy in the Recapitulation and Coda. Observe the pathetic commentary which the solo oboe makes upon the main theme at the outset of the third part (268)--a flower growing out of the débris of the avalanche. The Coda begins, at measure 374, with a passionate insistence upon the fundamental rhythm, driven home with sharp hammer-blows and, as in all Beethoven's symphonic movements, furnishes an overpowering climax, not a mere perfunctory close. The second Movement, in A-flat major, is a series of free[154] Variations (five in number) based on a theme, Andante con moto,[155] of great rhythmic vitality, peculiarly rich and suave--announced, as it is, by 'celli and violas in unison, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 154: Free, in that they are not numbered and are not separated by rigid cadences; in that episodical passages--often of a rhapsodic nature--are interpolated.] [Footnote 155: The tempo is often taken by conductors too slowly, thus losing much of its buoyancy.] The first two presentations of the theme are in each case followed by a passage of martial character which bursts triumphantly into C major. There is an orchestral touch of great beauty and originality in the first and second variations (beginning in measures 49 and 98 respectively), where a solo clarinet--later a flute, oboe and bassoon--prolongs a single tone which seems to float above the melody like a guiding star.[156] A passage of special significance is that in measures 123-146, where Beethoven indulges in a touching soliloquy upon his main theme. It is mysteriously introduced by the repetition, eight times, _pp_, of the dominant chord (the simplest medium of suspense) which seems to say "Hush, I have something most intimate reveal." The Coda (Più Moto) begins with a mood of wistful reverie, but the clouds are soon dispelled and the movement ends in radiant sunshine. [Footnote 156: While listening to this passage one is instinctively reminded of Keats's "Bright and steadfast star, hung aloft the night."] The salient structural feature in the last two movements[157] is that they are merged together; there is no pause after the Scherzo; and the movements are further interlocked by an interpolation, in the middle of the Finale, of a portion of the preceding Scherzo--a kind of inter-quotation or cross reference. This composite movement is a striking example of the organic relationship which Beethoven succeeded in establishing--between the different movements of the symphony. Prior to him, it is fair to say--to use a homely simile--that a sonata or a symphony resembled a train of different cars merely linked together, one after the other; whereas the modern work, as foreshadowed by Beethoven, is a vestibuled train: one indivisible whole from beginning to end.[158] But before the Fifth Symphony there had been no such systematic unification; for it is not too much to say that the whole work is based upon the persistent iteration of a single note in varied rhythmic groups. Thus in the first movement we find continually the rhythm [Music]; in the second, in several places [Music]; in the Scherzo [Music]; and in the Finale [Music]. Furthermore a C, repeated by the kettle-drums for fifty measures, is the chief factor in the connecting link between the Scherzo and the Finale. We shall observe this tendency to interconnection still further developed by Schumann in his Fourth Symphony, by Liszt in the Symphonic Poem[159] (to be treated later), and a climax of attainment reached in such highly unified works as César Franck's D minor Symphony and Tchaikowsky's Fifth. To return to the Scherzo, well worthy of note is the Trio, in free fugal form (its theme announced by the ponderous double basses), because it is such a convincing illustration of the humorous possibilities inherent in fugal style. The way in which the voices chase each other about--compared by Berlioz[160] with the gambols of a delighted elephant--and their spasmodic attempts at assertion, produce an effect irresistibly droll. The humour is as broad as that of Aristophanes or Rabelais. Words are powerless to describe the thrill of the last fifty measures which launch us into the Finale. We may merely observe that this long passage, _pp_ throughout until the last molto crescendo, and with the rhythmic element reduced to a minimum, makes more of an impact upon our imagination than that of the loudest orchestral forces ever conceived. We are reminded of the effect of the "still, small voice" after the thunders on Sinai. The Finale, with its majestic opening theme in fanfare, contains a wealth of material and is conceived throughout in the utmost spirit of optimistic joy and freedom.[161] The Exposition has a subsidiary theme of its own, beginning at measure 26, which reappears with rhythmic modification (diminution), and most eloquently announced by the bassoons, in the first section of the final Coda. After the brilliant second theme (45-63) there is an impressive closing theme (with some biting _fp_ dissonances) which forms the basis of the Presto portion of the Coda. The Development is a marvellous treatment of the second theme, in imitation, modulation and climactic growth; the rhythm [Music], so vitally connected with the whole work, persisting with stupendous energy. In the final measures it would seem as if Beethoven were storming the very heavens. Here occurs the quotation from the preceding Scherzo which binds the movements together and serves as a point of departure for a still greater climax. It seems unreasonable to expect a higher flight, but the genius of Beethoven is equal to the effort. If, before, we have reached the heavens, now we pierce them. The brilliant Coda--note the ascending runs for the piccolo--is in three sections, the first based on the subsidiary theme, _e.g._, [Music] the second on the closing theme in quickened tempo, _e.g._, [Music[B]] and the third, a canonic treatment of the opening fanfare, _e.g._, [Music] in which the orchestra seems to tumble head over heels in a paroxysm of delight. The movement closes with prolonged shouts of victory and exultation.[162] [Footnote 157: Taken separately, the movements are perfectly normal; the Scherzo in the usual Three-part form and the Finale in complete Sonata-form.] [Footnote 158: There are traces of this striving for organic unity in several of the early Sonatas, notably in the _Sonata Pathétique_, where the motive of the first theme of the Finale is identical with that of the second theme of the opening movement _e.g._ [Music: 1st Movement] [Music: Finale] Also in the C-sharp minor Sonata, op. 27, we find a case of melodic relationship between a phase in the introductory meditation and the main theme of the Minuet.] [Footnote 159: A Symphonic Poem is a descriptive composition for orchestra which incorporates many of the customary symphonic moods; but the form is free, largely dependent on the poetic basis, and the structure is without stops, being one continuous whole.] [Footnote 160: His exact words are--"Le milieu (the trio) ressemble assez aux ébats d'un éléphant en gaieté--mais le monstre s'éloigne et le bruit de sa folle course se perd graduellement."] [Footnote 161: Its motto might well be Browning's famous lines: "How good is man's life, how fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy."] [Footnote B: This pianoforte figure being a very inadequate substitute for the restless tremolo of the violas, _i.e._, [Music].] [Footnote 162: For suggestive comments by the noted critic E.T.A. Hoffmann, one of the first to realize the genius of Beethoven, and for a complete translation of his essay on the Fifth Symphony see the article by A.W. Locke in the Musical Quarterly for January, 1917.] THE CORIOLANUS OVERTURE This dramatic work is of great importance, not only for its emotional power and eloquence, but because it represents a type of Program music, _i.e._, music with a suggestive title, which Beethoven was the first to conceive and to establish. From the inherent connection between the materials of music (sound and rhythm) and certain natural phenomena (the sound and rhythm of wind, wave and storm, the call of birds, etc.) it is evident that the possibility for Program--or descriptive--music has always existed.[163] That is, the imagination of musicians has continually been influenced by external sights, sounds and events; and to their translation into music suggestive titles have been given, as a guide to the hearer. Thus we find Jannequin, a French composer of the 16th century, writing two pieces--for _voices_!--entitled "_Les cris de Paris_" and "_La Bataille--défaite des Suisses à la journée de Marignan_;" in the former of which are introduced the varied cries of street venders and in the latter, imitations of fifes, drums, cannon and all the bustle and noises of war. In the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book there is a Fantasie by John Mundy of the English school, in which such natural phenomena as thunder, lightning and fair weather are delineated. There is a curious similarity between the musical portrayal of lightning in this piece[164] of Mundy and that of Wagner in the _Valkyrie_. In the _Bible Sonatas_ of the German composer Kuhnau (1660-1722) we have a musical description of the combat between David and Goliath. Anyone at all familiar with the music of Couperin and Rameau will recall the variety of fantastic titles assigned to their charming pieces for the claveçin--almost always drawn from the field of nature: birds, bees, butterflies, hens, windmills, even an eel! It is but fair to state that we also find attempts at character drawing, even in those early days, as is indicated by such titles as _La Prude_, _La Diligente_, _La Séduisante_.[165] Haydn's portrayal of Chaos, in the Prelude to the _Creation_, is a remarkable mood-picture and shows a trend in quite a different direction. All these instances corroborate the statement that, in general, composers were influenced by external phenomena and that their program music was of an imitative and often frankly literal kind. From what we know of Beethoven's nature and genius, however, we should imagine that he would be far more interested in the emotions and struggles of the soul and we find that such indeed is the case. With the exception of the _Pastoral Symphony_ with its bird-calls and thunderstorm and the _Egmont_ Overture with its graphic description of a returning victorious army, his program music invariably aims at the description of character and the manner in which it is influenced by events--_not_, be it understood, at a musical portrayal of the events themselves. This difference in type is generally indicated by the terms _subjective_ and _objective_, _i.e._, program music is subjective, when it deals with the emotions and moods of real or historical persons; objective, when it is based upon incidents or objects of the actual world. It is evident that in subjective program music an adjustment must be made, for the dramatic needs of the subject are to be considered as well as the inherent laws of music itself. We may state that the widening of the conception of form, so marked in modern music, has been caused by the need of such an adjustment; for as composers became more cultivated, more in touch with life and of more richly endowed imagination, the arbitrary conventions of strict form had perforce to yield to the demands of dramatic treatment. This implies not that program music is without a definite structure, only that the _form_ is _different_--modified by the needs of the subject. As there is no other point in aesthetics which has caused more loose thinking, a few further comments may be pertinent. Some critics go so far as to deny the right of existence to all program music.[166] Of course there is good as well as bad program music, but to condemn it _per se_ is simply to fly in the face of facts, for a large proportion of the music since Beethoven is on a poetic basis and has descriptive titles. Others claim that they cannot understand it. But that is their loss, not the fault of the music; the composer writes it and it is for us to acquire the state of mind to appreciate it. Another misleading allegation, often heard, is that a piece of program music should be so clear and self-sufficient that the hearer needs to know nothing of the title to derive the fullest enjoyment. But this simply begs the question. As well say that in listening to a song we need to know nothing of the meaning of the text. It is true that in listening to Beethoven's _Coriolanus_, for example, any sensitive hearer will be impressed by the vitality of the rhythm and the sheer beauty of orchestral sound. But to hold that such a hearer gets as much from the work as he who knows the underlying drama and can follow sympathetically the correspondence between the characters and their musical treatment is to indulge in reckless assertion. The true relationship between composer and hearer is this: when works are entitled _Coriolanus_, _Melpomene_, _Francesca da Rimini_, _Sakuntala_, _L'après-midi d'un Faune_, _The Mystic Trumpeter_, _L'apprenti Sorcier_, and the composers reveal therein the influence such subjects have had upon their imagination, they are paying a tacit compliment to the hearer whose breadth of intelligence and cultivation they expect to be on a par with their own. If such be not the case, the fault is not the composer's; the burden of proof is on the listener.[167] Let us now trace certain relationships between the drama of _Coriolanus_ and the musical characterization of Beethoven. The Overture was composed as an introduction to a tragedy by the German playwright von Collin, but as the play is obsolete and as both von Collin and Shakespeare went to Plutarch for their sources, a familiarity--which should be taken for granted[168]--with the English drama will furnish sufficient background for an appreciation of the music. The scene before the city gates is evidently that in which Volumnia and Virgilia plead with the victorious warrior to refrain from his fell purpose of destruction. The work is in Sonata-form, since the great Sonata principle of _duality_ of _theme_ exactly harmonizes with the two main influences of the drama--the masculine and the feminine. It is of particular interest to observe how the usual methods of Sonata-form procedure are modified to suit the dramatic logic of the subject. The work begins Allegro con brio, with three sustained Cs--as if someone were stamping with heavy foot--followed by a series of assertive _ff_ chords for full orchestra (note the piercing dissonance in the 7th measure), which at once establishes an atmosphere of headstrong defiance. The first theme, beginning in measure 15 with its restless rhythm, is not meant to be beautiful in the ordinary sense of the term--"a concourse of sweet sounds"; rather is it a dramatic characterization, a picture in terms of music, of the reckless energy and the fierce threats which we naturally associate with Coriolanus. The theme is repeated and then the transition develops this masculine mood in an impassioned manner--observe the frequency of _sf_ accents and the crashing dissonances[169]--until a sustained note on the violins, followed by a descending cantabile phrase, brings us to the second theme, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 163: A complete account of this development may be found in the first two chapters of Niecks's _Programme Music_.] [Footnote 164: For an excellent description of this piece, as well as others of the period, see the volume by Krehbiel _The Pianoforte and Its Music_.] [Footnote 165: A comprehensive and invaluable description of the works and style of Couperin and Rameau may be found in the _History of the Pianoforte and its Players_ by Oscar Bie. For an early example of what is now called "poetic atmosphere" everyone should know Couperin's piece _Les Barricades Mystérieuses_ which is more suggestive when played on the claveçin with its delicate tone.] [Footnote 166: A favorite term of opprobrium is that the program is a "crutch."] [Footnote 167: There are several essays which will help the student toward clear thinking on this important subject: the valuable essay _Program Music_ in Newman's _Musical Studies_, the article on the subject in Grove's Dictionary, and the exhaustive volume by Niecks; some of his views, however, are extreme and must be accepted with caution. Above all should be read Wagner's interpretation of Coriolanus in his essay on the Overture (English translation by W.A. Ellis).] [Footnote 168: Twenty-five years' experience as a college teacher, however, has proved that _too much_ may be taken for granted!] [Footnote 169: It is unfortunate that the diminished seventh chord does not sound so fierce to our modern ears as it undoubtedly did in Beethoven's time, but that is simply because we have become accustomed to more strident effects.] This theme, in distinction from the first, typifies the appeal for mercy made by the women in the drama. No contrast could be stronger than that between these two themes--the first, impulsive, staccato, of sweeping range, and in the minor; the second, suave, legato, restrained and in the major. They show indeed how powerfully Beethoven's imagination was impressed by the subject. After an eloquent expansion of the second theme there follow several stormy measures (the deprecations of the women are at first of no avail) that lead through a crescendo to a closing theme, at measure 83, in which the mood of defiant assertion is strongly marked. The exposition closes in this mood, in measure 100, and the following Development accentuates it through several successions of restless, crescendo passages until a _ff_ descent sweeps us back to the Recapitulation, in measure 151. It is now evident that the furious intentions of the warrior have raged themselves out, for not only is the theme which represents him much shortened but it loses somewhat of its former fiery intensity. From here on, the trend of the music is largely modified by the dramatic demands of the subject. That the appeals of the women are beginning to prevail is evident from the emphasis laid on the second theme, which gives its message no less than _three_ times, instead of the single appearance which we should expect in the usual Recapitulation. The third appeal, in measures 247-253, is rendered most pathetic by being expressed in the minor mode. In the Coda there are fitful flare-ups of the relentless purpose, but that the stubborn will has been softened is evident from the slowing down of the rhythm, in measures 285-294. Finally, in the wonderful closing passage, we have a picture of broken resolves and ruined hopes. The theme disintegrates and fades away--a lifeless vision. Although much of the structure in this overture is identical with that which prevails in absolute music--for, after all, the composer must be true to the laws of his medium of expression--there is enough _purely dramatic_ treatment to justify the foregoing analysis. Beethoven, at any rate, called the overture Coriolanus, and we may be sure he meant it to _represent_ Coriolanus and to be something more than a skillful combination of sounds and rhythms. We now add a few last words on the quality of Beethoven's themes in his moments of supreme inspiration. The unshaken hold which his music has upon the affections of mankind is due chiefly to two striking characteristics: first, the way in which he dramatized everything--themes, instruments, even _single_ notes, _i.e._, treating them as actual factors in life itself rather than as artistic abstractions; second, the spirituality and sublimity in his immortal message. The first quality is exemplified in a number of passages, notably in the first movement of the Violin Concerto and in the Finale of the Eighth Symphony. In the opening measures of the Concerto the use of the single note D-sharp, and the entry _pp_ of the F natural in the following passage--in each case, entirely disconnected from the normal rules of musical grammar--are most dramatic, _e.g._ [Music] At the mysterious entrance of the F natural in this passage it would seem as if some mighty spirit were suddenly looking over our shoulder. In the Finale of the Eighth Symphony what can be more startling than the sudden explosive entrance of the unrelated C-sharp--before the orchestra continues its mad career--which can be compared only to the uproarious laughter of Rabelais himself, _e.g._ [Music] There are numerous examples in Beethoven showing his dramatic use of such orchestral instruments as the bassoons, horns, kettle-drums and double basses. Possibly the most striking[170] is the Slow Movement of the G major Pianoforte Concerto--that inspired dialogue, as it has been eloquently called, "between Destiny and the human soul," in which the touching appeals of the solo instrument are constantly interrupted by the sinister mutterings and forebodings of the strings. Observe especially the closing measures where the basses, alone are heard _pp_, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 170: See, however, the octave leaps of the kettle-drums in the Scherzo of the Ninth Symphony.] A spiritual quality escapes verbal definition; but just as we can feel it in certain characters, and just as we recognize the sublime in nature and in such works of art as a cathedral or a Shakespearian Drama, so we may find it in the following specific examples from his works: the Trio of the second movement of the Seventh Symphony; the Slow Movement theme of the B-flat major Trio and the Slow Movement of the Sonata op. 109. (See Supplement Nos. 47, 48, 49.) Anyone who allows these themes to sink into his consciousness is carried into a realm of ideality where he begins to recognize the truth that "the things which are unseen are eternal." Music of this transporting power is far above that which merely excites, amuses or even fascinates; and of such music Beethoven is the poet for all time. We have referred above to the voluminous literature extant concerning Beethoven. Several scholars, in fact--notably Alexander Thayer and Sir George Grove--have devoted a large part of their lives to finding out all there is to be known about his life and works. Obviously the layman cannot be expected to become familiar with this entire mass of historical and critical writing. The following books, however, may be considered indispensable aids to those who would become cultivated appreciators of Beethoven's masterpieces: the _Life of Beethoven_ by Alexander Thayer--a great glory to American scholarship; the life in Grove's Dictionary; the illuminating Biography by d'Indy (in French and in English); _Beethoven and his Nine Symphonies_ by Grove; the _Oxford History of Music_, Vol. V; and the essay by Mason in his _Beethoven and his Forerunners_.[171] We cite, in closing, a eulogy[172] by Dannreuther--in our opinion the most eloquent ever written on Beethoven's genius: "While listening," says Mr. Dannreuther, "to such works as the Overture to Leonora, the Sinfonia Eroica, or the Ninth Symphony, we feel that we are in the presence of something far wider and higher than the mere development of musical themes. The execution in detail of each movement and each succeeding work is modified more and more by the prevailing sentiment. A religious passion and elevation are present in the utterances. The mental and moral horizon of the music grows upon us with each renewed hearing. The different movements--like the different particles of each movement--have as close a connection with one another as the acts of a tragedy, and a characteristic significance to be understood only in relation to the whole; each work is in the full sense of the word a revelation. Beethoven speaks a language no one has spoken before, and treats of things no one has dreamt of before: yet it seems as though he were speaking of matters long familiar, in one's mother tongue; as though he touched upon emotions one had lived through in some former existence.... The warmth and depth of his ethical sentiment is now felt all the world over, and it will ere long be universally recognised that he has leavened and widened the sphere of men's emotions in a manner akin to that in which the conceptions of great philosophers and poets have widened the sphere of men's intellectual activity." [Footnote 171: Suggestive comments from a literary point of view may also be found in these works: _Studies in the Seven Arts_, Symonds; _Beethoven_ by Romain Rolland--with an interesting though ultra-subjective introduction by Carpenter; _The Development of Symphonic Music_ by T.W. Surette; _Beethoven_ by Walker; _Beethoven_ by Chantavoine in the series _Les Maîtres de la Musique_. As to the three successive "styles" under which Beethoven's works are generally classified there is an excellent account in Pratt's _History of Music_, p. 419.] [Footnote 172: This passage is to be found in the Life in Grove's Dictionary.] CHAPTER XII THE ROMANTIC COMPOSERS. SCHUBERT AND WEBER During the latter part of Beethoven's life--he died in 1827--new currents were setting in, which were to influence profoundly the trend of modern music. Two important, though in some respects unconscious, representatives of these tendencies were actually working contemporaneously with Beethoven, von Weber (1786-1826) and Schubert (1797-1828). Beethoven himself is felt to be a dual personality in that he summed up and ratified all that was best in his predecessors, and pointed the way for most of the tendencies operative since his time. For the designation of these two contrasting, though not exclusive, ideals, the currently accepted terms are Classic and Romantic. So many shades of meaning have unfortunately been associated with the word Romantic that confusion of thought has arisen. It is also true that the so-called Romanticists, including poets and painters as well as musicians, in their endeavors to break loose from the formality of the Classic period, have indulged in many irritating idiosyncracies. We are beginning to see clearly that a too violent expression of individuality destroys a most vital factor in music--universality of appeal. Yet the Romantic School cannot be ignored. To its representatives we owe many of our finest works, and they were the prime movers in those strivings toward freedom and ideality which have made the modern world what it is. The term Romantic is perfectly clear in its application to literature, from which music borrowed it. It refers to the movement begun about the year 1796 among such German poets as Tieck, the two Schlegels and Novalis, to restore the poetic legends of the middle ages, written in the Romance dialects, and to embody in their own works the fantastic spirit of this medieval poetry.[173] In reference to music, however, the terms Classic and Romantic are often vague and misleading, and have had extreme interpretations put upon them.[174] Thus, to many, "romantic" implies ultra-sentimental, mawkish or grotesque, while everything "classic" is dry, uninspired and academic. How often we hear the expression, "I am not up to classic music; let me hear something modern and romantic." Many scholars show little respect for the terms and some would abolish them altogether. Everything, however, hinges upon a reasonable definition. Pater's well-known saying that "Romanticism is the addition of strangeness to beauty" is fair; and yet, since strangeness in art can result only from imaginative conception, it amounts to nothing more than the truism that romantic art is imbued with personality. Hence Stendhal is right in saying that "All good art was Romantic in its day"; _i.e._, it exhibited as much warmth and individuality as the spirit of its times would allow. Surely Bach, Haydn and Mozart were real characters, notwithstanding the restraint which the artificialities of the period often put upon their utterance. On the other hand, work at first pronounced to be romantic establishes, by a universal recognition of its merit, the claim to be considered classic, or set apart; what is romantic to-day thus growing to be classic[175] tomorrow. It is evident, therefore, that the terms interlock and are not mutually exclusive. It is a mistaken attitude to set one school off against the other, or to prove that one style is greater than the other; they are simply different. Compositions of lasting worth always manifest such a happy union of qualities that, in a broad sense, they may be called both romantic and classic, _i.e._, they combine personal emotion and imagination with breadth of meaning and solidity of structure. [Footnote 173: For a more complete historical account see the article "Romantic" in Grove's Dictionary and the introduction to Vol. VI of _The Oxford History of Music_. _Rousseau and Romanticism_ by Professor Irving Babbitt presents the latest investigations in this important field.] [Footnote 174: Some very sane comments may be found in Pratt's _History of Music_, pp. 427, 501, 502.] [Footnote 175: "A _classic_ is properly a book"--and the same would be true of a musical composition--"which maintains itself by that happy coalescence of matter and style, that innate and requisite sympathy between the thought that gives life and the form that consents to every mood of grace and dignity, and which is something neither ancient nor modern, always new and incapable of growing old." Lowell, _Among My Books_.] Beginning, however, with Schubert and Weber--the two first representatives of the romantic group--there is a marked novelty of content and style; and if we drop the terms and confine ourselves to the inner evidence of the music itself, we note a difference which may be felt and to a certain extent formulated. To take extreme types for the sake of vivid contrast, let us compare the compositions of Haydn and Mozart with those of Berlioz and Liszt. In the former there is repose, restraint and a perfect finish in the structural presentation; a feeling of serenity comes over us as we listen. In the latter, a peculiar intensity of expression, an attempt to fascinate the listener by the most intimate kinds of appeal, especially to the senses and fancy, regardless of any liberties taken with former modes of treatment. The purely classical composer is always master of his subject, whereas the romanticist is often carried away by it. Classical works are objectively beautiful, commending themselves to everyone like works of nature, or, let us say, like decorative patterns in pure design. Romantic works are subjective, charged with individuality and demand a sensitive and sympathetic appreciation on the part of the hearer. It is evident that many of these tendencies are found clearly outlined in the works of Beethoven. In fact, as has been said, he was not only the climax of the classical school, but the founder of the new era--opening a door, as it were, into the possibilities of a more intense, specialized form of emotional utterance and a freer conception of form. These special characteristics were so fully developed by Beethoven's successors, Schubert, Weber, Schumann, Chopin, etc. that they are always grouped together as the Romantic School. A striking feature in this whole Romantic group is the early flowering of their genius and the shortness of their lives--Weber, forty years, Schubert, thirty-one, Schumann, forty-six, Mendelssohn, thirty-eight, Chopin, forty. In the case of all the composers we have hitherto studied, with the exception of Mozart, their masterpieces have been the result of long years of patient, technical study and hence show that finish and maturity of style which come only with time. But the precocity of the Romanticists is astounding! Many of Schubert's famous pieces were composed in his earliest manhood; Mendelssohn's _Midsummer Night's Dream_ Overture dates from his sixteenth year; Schumann's best pianoforte works were composed before he was thirty. The irresistible spontaneity and vigor of all these works largely atone for any blemishes in treatment. We feel somewhat the same in the case of Keats and Shelley in comparison with Milton, and are reminded of Wordsworth's lines, "Bliss was it in that hour to be alive, but to be young was very Heaven."[176] Why expect senatorial wisdom and the fancy of youth in any one person! [Footnote 176: Compare also the definition of genius by Masters in the _Spoon River Anthology_: "In youth my wings were strong and tireless, But I did not know the mountains. In age I knew the mountains But my weary wings could not follow my vision-- Genius is wisdom and youth."] A most important distinction between a classical and a romantic composer is the knowledge and love of literature shown by the latter. Although Haydn kept a note-book on his London tours, and although we have a fair number of letters from Mozart, in neither of these men do we find any appreciation of general currents of thought and life. In many of Beethoven's works we have seen how close was the connection between literature and musical expression. All the Romantic composers, with the exception of Schubert, were broadly cultivated, and several could express themselves artistically in words as well as in notes. They may not have been on this account any better composers, as far as sheer creative vitality is concerned, but it is evident that their imaginations were nourished in quite a different way and hence a novel product was to be expected. Romantic music has been defined as a reflex of poetry expressed in musical terms, at times fairly trembling on the verge of speech. Music can not, to be sure, describe matters of fact, but the Romantic composers have brought it to a high degree of poetical suggestiveness. Thus the horn-calls of Weber and Schubert remind us of "the horns of Elfland faintly blowing" and much romantic music arouses our imaginations and enchants our senses in the same way as the lines of Keats where he tells of "Magic casements opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn," the chief glory of which is not any precise intellectual idea they convey, but the fascinating picture which carries us from the land of hard and fast events into the realm of fancy. Schumann claimed that his object in writing music was so to influence the imagination of the listeners that they could go on dreaming for themselves. A second characteristic is the freedom of form. Considering that a free rein to their fancy was incompatible with strict adherence to traditional rules, the Romantic spirits refused to be bound by forms felt to be inadequate. Although this attitude sometimes resulted in diffuseness and obscurity, on the whole (as Goethe says of romantic literature) "a wider and more varied subject matter and a freer form has been attained." The chief aim of romantic art being to arouse the imagination, we find a predilection for the use of solo wood-wind instruments, which are capable of such warmth and variety of tone-color. Whereas in the classical masters, and even generally in Beethoven, the melodies are likely to be the upper voice of a harmonic mass, or assigned to groups of instruments, Weber and Schubert in particular showed the eloquence to be gained by the use of such warm-blooded _solo_ instruments as the horn, the oboe and the clarinet. Schubert fairly conjures with the horn, often holding us spellbound with its haunting appeal, _e.g._, in the well-known second movement of the C major Symphony, the calls of which, as Schumann said, "seem to come from another world." Schubert was anything but a thinker, and reflected unconsciously the tendencies which were in the air; but his wonderful gift of lyric melody was thoroughly in keeping with the individual expression for which Romanticism stood. He said himself that his compositions were the direct result of his inmost sorrows. He was steeped in romantic poetry and the glowing fancy in his best work leads us to condone the occasional prolixity referred to by Schumann as "heavenly length." Schubert was well named by Liszt the most poetic of musicians, _i.e._, a creator of pure beauty which enthralls the imagination of the hearer. Why expect the work of any one composer to manifest all possible merits? If we crave dynamic power of emotion or sublimity of thought we may have recourse to Bach and Beethoven; but the spontaneous charm of Schubert never grows old; and it is not without interest to note that his music fulfils the definition of one of the most poetic composers of our time, Debussy, who claims that music is chiefly meant "to give pleasure." We note these same tendencies in Weber as shown in the overtures to his three Romantic operas, _Der Freischütz_, _Euryanthe_ and _Oberon_, which are the foundations of the modern art of dramatic orchestration, _i.e._, the intensification of certain ideas and situations by the special tone color and register of solo-instruments or by a novel use of customary means, _e.g._, the divided violins in the mysterious passage of the _Euryanthe_ overture. Another favorite means of arresting the attention was by modulation; not used in a constructive sense, simply to pass from one point to another, or to connect themes in different keys, but to furnish the ear with a purely sensuous delight, corresponding to that which the eye derives from the kaleidoscopic colors of a sunset. The works of Schubert, Chopin and to a lesser degree of Schumann abound in these shifting harmonies by which we seem to be wafted along on a magic carpet. A final characteristic, shared by all the Romantic composers, is the prevalence of titles--the logical result of the close connection between music, literature and the world of outward events,--thus Mendelssohn's Overture to the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ with its romantic opening chords, his _Hebrides_ Overture, the musical record of a trip to Scotland, and Schumann's _Manfred_, from Byron. Liszt even went so far as to draw inspiration from a painting, as in his _Battle of the Huns_, and again from a beautiful vase in _Orpheus_. We shall now make a few specific comments on the style of Schubert and Weber and then analyze some of their representative works. Schubert was a born composer of songs, and though his works for Pianoforte, String quartet and Orchestra were of marked significance and have proved of lasting value, the instinct for highly individualized, lyric melody predominates, and all his instrumental compositions may fairly be called "Songs without words."[177] It is evident that the solo-song, unencumbered by structural considerations, is one of the best media for expressing the Romantic spirit, and many of its fairest fruits are found in this field. Schubert's songs are often tone-dramas in which the expressive powers of music are most eloquently employed.[178] Note the poetic touches of character-drawing and of description in the _Young Nun_ (see Supplement No. 50). Schubert's pianoforte compositions are miniature tone-poems, mood-pictures--their titles: _Impromptus_ and _Moments Musicaux_, speak for themselves--making no pretense to the scope and elaborate structure of movements in Sonata-form,[179] yet of great import not only for their intrinsic beauty but as the prototypes of the numerous lyric and descriptive pieces of Schumann, Brahms, Grieg, Debussy and others. Their charm lies in the heart-felt melodies and surprising modulations. While neither sublime nor deeply introspective, they make the simple, direct appeal of a lovely flower. In the development of music they are as important as the modern short story in the field of literature; which, in distinction to the old "three-decker" novel, often really _says more_ and says it so concisely that our interest never flags. This tendency to the short, independent piece had been begun by Beethoven in his _Bagatelles_ (French "trifles"); but these, as has been aptly said, were "mere chips from the work-shop" whereas in a short piece of Schubert we find the quintessence of his genius. He was a prolific composer in the field of chamber music, and the Trios for Violin, 'Cello and Pianoforte, the A minor Quartet, the C major Quintet and, above all, the posthumous Quartet in D minor, which contains the entrancing Variations on the song _Death and the Maiden_, are still as fresh as when they were composed. In these works we do not look for architectonic power--we must admit, in fact, at the risk of seeming ungracious, that Schubert is diffuse at times--but our senses are so enthralled by the imaginative freedom and by the splendor of color, that all purely intellectual judgment is suspended. The magician works his wonders; it is for us to enjoy. We have from Schubert seven complete Symphonies and the so-called _Unfinished in B minor_, _i.e._, the first two movements and the fragment of a Scherzo. Of these the _Fourth_ (_Tragic_), composed in 1816, foreshadows the real Schubert and is occasionally heard to-day. But the immortal ones are the B minor and the C major, the latter composed in 1828 (the last year of his life) and never heard by its author.[180] Of this work Schumann said that "a tenth Muse had been added to the nine of Beethoven." This symphony is specially characterized by the incorporation of Hungarian types of melody, particularly in the first and in the last movement. It is indeed a storehouse of beauty, but the "high moments" are in the last two movements--the fairly intoxicating Trio of the Scherzo, which seems as if Nature herself were singing to us, and the gorgeous Finale with its throbbing rhythms. The first movement is laid out on a vast scale and holds the attention throughout, but the second movement, notwithstanding its wondrous theme, suffers from a lack of concentration; the sweetness is so long-drawn out that we become sated. [Footnote 177: Schubert was of incredible versatility and fecundity; he literally tried his hand at everything: operas, church-music, ensemble combinations. Since, however, he exercised little power of selection or revision much of this music has become obsolete. The joke is well-known that he could set a theatre notice to music, and his rule for composing was "When I have finished one song I begin another."] [Footnote 178: For an original, though at times rhapsodic, study of Schubert's vocal style see H.T. Finck's _Songs and Song Writers_, and the last chapter of the Fifth Volume of the Oxford History.] [Footnote 179: Schubert did compose a number of Pianoforte Sonatas in the conventional form, but with the exception of the one in A minor they seem diffuse and do not represent him at his best; they certainly have not held their own in modern appeal.] [Footnote 180: For the account of its exciting discovery in Vienna by Schumann in 1838, after a neglect of ten years, see the life of Schubert in Grove's Dictionary.] As examples[181] for analytical comment we select the Menuetto in B minor from the Fantasia for Pianoforte, op. 78; the fourth Impromptu in A-flat major from the set, op. 90, and the B minor Symphony for orchestra. The Menuetto, though one of Schubert's simpler pieces--the first part in an idealized Mozartian vein--yet exemplifies in the Trio one of the composer's most characteristic traits, the predilection for those bewitching alternations,[182] like sunlight and shadow, between the major and the minor mode. [Footnote 181: For lack of space no one of these compositions is cited in the Supplement, but they are all readily available.] [Footnote 182: This tendency is prevalent in folk-music, especially that of the Russians and Scandinavians. Schubert, however, was the _first_ to make such systematic and artistic use of the effect. For a beautiful modern example see the Spanish folk-dance by Granados, _e.g._, [Music]] The Impromptu in A-flat major, one of several equally fine ones, is notable for the wealth of its iridescent modulations and for the note of genuine pathos and passion in the middle portion in the minor mode. Schubert might well say that his most inspired music came from his sorrows. The _Unfinished Symphony_ requires less comment and elucidation than perhaps any other symphonic composition. The two movements are in definite Sonata-form--the first, strict, the second, with modifications; but the quality of the themes is quite different from that to which we have been accustomed in classical treatment. Instead of the terse, characteristic motive which, often at first uncompromisingly bare, impresses us as its latent possibilities are revealed, we have a series of lyric, periodic melodies which make their instant appeal. In Schubert everything sings; thus in the first part of the Exposition of the Allegro we have _three_ distinct melodies: the introductory phrase, the accompaniment figure which has a melodic line of its own, and the first theme proper. In any consideration of this work from a pianoforte version we must always remember how much the beauty and eloquence of the themes depend upon the solo instruments to which they are assigned. For Schubert was one of the first, as well as one of the greatest, of "Colorists." By the use of this pictorial term in music we mean that the tone-quality of certain instruments--the mellow, far-echoing effect of the horn, the tang of the oboe, the passionate warmth of the clarinet[183]--appeals to our sense of hearing in the same way in which beautiful colors--the green grass, the blue sky, the hues of a sunset--delight our sight. A striking example of Schubert's genius in utilizing tone-color to suit structural needs is found in the transition beginning at measure 38. This is a single tone on the horn (with a modulatory ending) announced _forte_ and then allowed to die away, _i.e._, _sf_ [decrescendo symbol]. So powerful is the horn in evoking a spirit of suspense and revery that this tone introduces the beautiful, swaying second theme more impressively than a whole series of routine modulations. The Development speaks for itself. Though there is little polyphonic treatment, it holds our interest by reason of the harmonic variety and the dramatic touches of orchestration. In Schubert we do not look for the development of a complicated plot but give ourselves up unreservedly to the enjoyment of pure melodic line, couched in terms of sensuously delightful tone-color. The transitional passage of the Recapitulation (measures 231-253) illustrates Schubert's fondness for modulation just for its own sake; we care not what the objective point of the music may be--enthralled, as we are, by the magical shifts of scene. In the Second Movement, likewise, the chief beauty--especially of the second theme--consists in the lyric quality, in the color of the solo instruments, the oboe, clarinet and horn, and in the enharmonic changes, _e.g._, where, in measures 80-95, the theme modulates from C-sharp minor to D-flat major. Note in the orchestral score the charming dialogue in this passage between the clarinet, oboe and flute. The Development, based upon the second theme, with some effective canonic treatment, shows that Schubert was by no means entirely lacking in polyphonic skill. At any rate he can work wonders with the horn, for at the close of the Development (measures 134-142) by the simple device of an octave leap, _ppp_, he veritably transports the listener, _e.g._ [Music] The Coda has a dream-like quality all its own. [Footnote 183: So appropriately called by Berlioz the "heroine of the orchestra."] Weber's permanent contribution to musical literature has proved to be his operas--a form of art not treated in this book. But the whole nature of his genius was so closely related to the Romantic spirit, as shown in the intimate connection between literature and music, in his descriptive powers and his development of the orchestra, that for the sake of comprehensiveness some familiarity should be gained with the essential features of his style. Of Weber it may be said with conviction that there is hardly a composer of acknowledged rank in whom style, _i.e._, the way and the medium by which musical thought is presented, so prevails over the substance of the thought itself. There are few if any of Weber's melodies which are notable for creative power, and as a harmonist he was lamentably weak. It has been scathingly said, though with considerable truth, that all his melodies are based upon an alternation of tonic and dominant chords![184] But when we consider what his themes are meant to describe, the pictures they evoke and their orchestral dress, we must acknowledge in Weber the touch of real poetic genius. To quote Runciman[185]-- "If you look, and look rightly, for the right thing in Weber's music, disappointment is impossible, though I admit that the man who professes to find there the great qualities he finds in Mozart, Beethoven, or any of the giants, must be in a very sad case. Grandeur, pure beauty, and high expressiveness are alike wanting. Weber's claim to a place amongst the composers is supported in a lesser degree by the gifts which he shared, even if his share was small, with the greater masters of music, than by his miraculous power of vividly drawing and painting in music the things that kindled his imagination. Being a factor of the Romantic movement, that mighty rebellion against the tyranny of a world of footrules and ledgers, he lived in a world where two and two might make five or seven or any number you pleased, and where footrules were unknown; he took small interest in drama taken out of the lives of ordinary men and enacted amidst every-day surroundings; his imagination lit up only when he thought of haunted glens and ghouls and evil spirits, the fantastic world and life that goes on underneath the ocean, or of men or women held by ghastly spells." [Footnote 184: A striking illustration of this progression (surely Weber's most characteristic mannerism) is naïvely supplied by Weingartner; when, in his own orchestral arrangement of Weber's _Invitation to the Dance_, for the final climax he assembles all the leading themes in combination--an effect made possible only by their common harmonic basis.] [Footnote 185: This whole article is well worth reading and may be found in that breezy though somewhat erratic volume called _Old Scores and New Readings_.] Weber's present-day fame rests upon the Overtures to his three operas of _Der Freischütz_, _Euryanthe_ and _Oberon_, which are often played in detached concert form and hold their own for their romantic glow and for the brilliancy of orchestral effect. By employing for his thematic material the leading melodies of the operas themselves Weber has created what may be called epitomized dramas which, if we have any knowledge of what the titles imply, present us with realistic pictures. For the use of special tone-color to enhance the dramatic situation Weber is the precursor of that type of orchestration which has reached such heights in Wagner and other moderns. From the above comments it is evident that only the barest idea of the Overtures can be gained from a pianoforte version; we have selected _Oberon_[186] because it suffers less than either of the others. Everyone, however, should become familiar with the mysterious, boding passage in the introduction to _Der Freischütz_ (taken from the scene in the Wolf's Glen) and the Intermezzo from _Euryanthe_ for muted, divided strings,[187] which accompanies the apparition of the ghost. This is _genuine_ descriptive music for it really _sounds ghostly_. (See Supplement No. 51.) [Footnote 186: Not given in the Supplement since good arrangements for two and four hands are numerous. To gain the real effect the student is strongly advised to consult the orchestral score.] [Footnote 187: The genesis of so many similar effects in modern music, notably in Wagner.] The _Oberon Overture in D major_, begins with the intoning of the motto of Oberon's magic horn, and then follows a passage for muted strings (piano e adagio sostenuto) and for delicate combinations of the wood-wind instruments, which gives us a picture of the moonlit glens of fairyland, peopled with airy spirits. The vision is dispelled by a sudden _ff_ chord for full orchestra which, from its setting, is one of the loudest effects in music, thoroughly characteristic of Weber's penchant for dramatic contrast. The main body of the work (allegro con fuoco) opens with a dashing theme for the strings of great brilliancy, most typical of Weber. Though we may feel that it has little substance (note the tonic and dominant foundation of the harmony) we cannot be insensible to its abounding vigor. It is not alone the ponderous things which should move our imaginations; even a soap-bubble is a wonderful phenomenon. The theme is expanded to a climax, in measure 28 (counting from the allegro), of great sonority and considerable harmonic boldness. After some reminiscent appearances of the introductory horn-call, a long-sustained dominant note introduces the second theme which seems a bit cloying, to be sure, but is just suited to the melting tone-color of the clarinet. The closing theme borders on triviality; the Exposition ends, however, with some exceedingly brilliant improvisations on the rhythmic figure of the main theme. The following Development is rather flimsy and we need expend upon it no critical powder. Weber was a great colorist but not a great architect. These qualities are united only too seldom. In the Recapitulation, which is shortened by the omission of the second theme--rather overworked in the Development--he is once more on his own ground of rhythmic life and dazzling orchestral color. At the close we are convinced that the overture has accomplished its purpose of graphically depicting the revels of Fairy-land. Although they are seldom[188] played to-day, no account of Weber would be complete which entirely passed over his compositions for the Pianoforte, _i.e._, the four Sonatas, the concert piece in F minor and the originally conceived _Invitation to the Dance_, often played in the orchestral version of Berlioz which is so much better than the inflated, bombastic one by Weingartner. Weber is classed as one of the founders of the "brilliant school" of pianoforte playing which, chiefly through the genius of Franz Liszt, has done so much to enlarge the sonorous and coloristic possibilities of the instrument. Here again Weber's fame rests more upon his influence than upon lasting achievement; as to the importance of this influence, however, there can be no doubt. [Footnote 188: Perhaps the whirligig of time may restore them; who can say?] The student will be repaid for informing[189] himself as fully as possible concerning Weber's career and artistic ideals, for he was a genuine though early exponent of Romantic tendencies. Of marked versatility, of no mean literary skill and of such social magnetism and charm that he might properly be considered a man of the world, as well as an artist, Weber was thus enabled to do pioneer work in raising the standard of musicianship and in bringing the art of music and ordinary, daily life into closer touch. [Footnote 189: The life in Grove's Dictionary is well worth while; there are essays by Krehbiel and others and, above all, the biographical and critical accounts in the two French series: _Les Musiciens Célèbres_, and _Les Maîtres de la Musique_.] CHAPTER XIII SCHUMANN AND MENDELSSOHN In distinction from pioneers like Schubert, slightly tinged with Romanticism, and Weber who, though versatile, was somewhat lacking in creative vigor, Schumann (1810-1856) stands forth as the definite, conscious spokesman of the Romantic movement in German art just as Berlioz was for art in France. He was endowed with literary gifts of a high order, had a keen critical and historical sense and wrote freely and convincingly in support of his own views and in generous recognition of the ideals of his contemporaries. Many of his swans, to be sure, proved later to be geese, and it is debatable how much good was done by his rhapsodic praise to young Brahms; whether in fact he did not set before the youngster a chimerical ideal impossible of attainment. Schumann early came under the influence of Jean Paul Richter, that incarnation of German Romanticism, whom he placed on the same high plane as Shakespeare and Beethoven. An intimate appreciation of much that is fantastic and whimsical in Schumann is possible only through acquaintance with the work of this Jean Paul. Schumann's first compositions were for the pianoforte--in fact his original ambition[190] was to be a pianoforte virtuoso--and to-day his permanent significance depends on the spontaneity in conception and the freedom of form manifested in these pianoforte works and in his romantic songs. Here we have the "ipsissimus Schumann," as von Bülow so well remarks. Schumann's pianoforte style is compounded of two factors: first, his intensely subjective and varied imagination which, nourished by the love of Romantic literature, craved an individual mode of expression; second, a power of concentration and of organic structure which was largely derived from a study of Bach and of the later works of Beethoven. Schumann saw that the regularity of abstract form, found in the purely classical writers, was not suited to the full expression of his moods and so he worked out a style of his own, although in many cases this was simply a logical amplification or modification of former practice. In his pianoforte compositions, then, we find a striking freedom in the choice of subject, which is generally indicated by some poetically descriptive title, _e.g._, _Waldscenen_, _Nachtstücke_, _Fantasiestücke_, _Novelletten_, _Kreisleriana_, _Humoreske_, etc. The danger in this form of subject matter is that it often degenerates into sentimentality coupled with a corresponding spinelessness of structure. This danger Schumann avoids by a style noticeable for terseness and structural solidity. His effort was to give significance to every note; all verbiage, meaningless scale passages and monotonous arpeggios were swept away, while the imagination was aroused by the bold use of dissonances and by the variety of tone-color. A thoroughly novel feature was the flexibility of the rhythm, which breaks from the old "sing-song" metres and abounds in syncopations, in contrasted accents, and in subtle combinations of metrical groups; every effort being made to avoid the tyranny of the bar-line. [Footnote 190: Because of an unfortunate accident to one of his fingers this ambition, however, had to be abandoned. The world thereby gained a great composer.] Schumann's career was peculiar in that, beginning as a pianoforte composer, he tried successively every other form as well--the song, chamber music, works for orchestra, and for orchestra with solo voices and chorus--and won distinction to a greater or less degree in every field save that of the opera. Notwithstanding the beauty of poetic inspiration enshrined in the four symphonies, a grave defect is the quality of orchestral tone which greets the ear, especially the modern ear accustomed to the many-hued sonority of Wagner, Tchaikowsky, Debussy and others. These symphonies have been called "huge pieces for four hands" which were afterwards orchestrated, and the allegation is not without truth, as real orchestral glow and brilliancy is so often lacking. Each one, however, has notable features, _e.g._, the sublime Adagio of the 2d, and the touching Romanza of the 4th, and each is worthy of study; for Schumann in certain aspects furnishes the best avenue of approach to the modern school. In the Fourth Symphony he obliterates the pauses between the movements and fuses them all together; calling it a Symphony "in einem Satze" and anticipating the very same procedure that Schönberg follows in his String Quartet which has had recent vogue. Schumann's chief contribution to the development of the German Song lay in the pianoforte part, which with Schubert and Mendelssohn might properly be called an accompaniment, however rich and varied. But in Schumann the pianoforte attains to a real independence of style, intensifying in the most subtle and delicate way every shade of poetic feeling in the text. In fact, it is often used to reveal some deep meaning beyond the expressive power of words. This is seen in the closing measures of "Moonlight" where the voice ceases in suspense, and the instrument completes the eloquence of the message. Schumann's great achievement as a literary man was his founding, in 1834, of the _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_, to which he himself contributed many stimulating and suggestive essays, opposing with might and main the Philistinism which so pervaded the music of his time. He even established an imaginary club, called the Davidsbund, to storm the citadel of Philistia. The best eulogy of Schumann is the recognition that many of the tendencies in modern music, which we now take for granted, date from him: the exaltation of freedom and fancy over mere formal presentation, the union of broad culture with musical technique, and the recognition of music as the art closest in touch with the aspirations of humanity. He was an idealist with such perseverance and clearness of aim that his more characteristic work can never die. DES ABENDS. The _Fantasiestücke_[191], op. 12, of which this piece is the first, amply justify their title, for they abound in soaring thoughts, in fantastic, whimsical imaginings and in novel modes of utterance and structure. Every number of the set is a gem, _In der Nacht_ being perhaps the most poetic of Schumann's short pieces for the pianoforte. They are thoroughly pianistic and evoke from the instrument all its possibilities of sonority and color. In point of texture they illustrate that happy combination, which Schumann worked out, of lyric melodies on a firmly knit polyphonic basis. They are also programmistic in so far as Schumann believed in music of that type. There is no attempt to tell a detailed story or to have the music correspond literally to definite incidents. The titles merely afford a verbal clue to the general import and atmosphere of the music. Thus in regard to the piece under consideration, the mere mention of eventide is supposed to be enough to stimulate thought in any one with a sensitive imagination, and the music is a suggestive expression of Schumann's own intimate reveries. The piece is in extended two-part form--each part repeated--and rounded out with an eloquent Coda. The rhythmic scheme is of particular significance for it illustrates not only the composer's fondness for inventing new combinations, but, as well, suggests most delicately the mood of the piece. It would evidently be false art to write a piece, entitled Evening, in a vigorous, arousing rhythm, such as might be associated with a noon-day sun, when we often see the heat-waves dancing over the fields. On the other hand Schumann, by a subtle blending of triple time in the main upper melody and duple time in the lower, suggests that hazy indefiniteness appropriate to the time of day when the life of Nature seems momentarily subsiding and everything sinking to rest, _e.g._ [Music] In many measures of the second part (_i.e._, 21-24) the accent is so disguised that it seems as if we were in a twilight revery, quite apart from matters of time and space. [Footnote 191: As the music is readily procurable the student should make himself familiar with the entire set.] WARUM? This piece is a happy illustration of the intensity of meaning and the conciseness of structure which Schumann gained by the application of polyphonic imitation. It is difficult to say exactly what _Warum_ signifies. It was characteristic of the Romantic unrest of the German mind to question everything--especially "Why am I not more happy in love?" The motto may be considered a Carlyle-like "everlasting why." At any rate the composition is an example of music speaking more plainly than words; for no one can fail to recognize the haunting appeal in the theme with its long-drawn out final note after the upward leap. It is a real musical question, _e.g._ [Music] _Grillen_, the next piece in the set, deserves careful study. It is too long to present as a whole, but we cite the middle part (See Supplement No. 52) as it is such a convincing example of syncopated effect (_i.e._, the persistent placing of the accent on weak beats), and of elasticity in the metric scheme. _Novellette in E major._ This piece illustrates the vigor and massiveness of Schumann's pianoforte style. Note the sonority gained by the use of widely spaced chords. For the brilliant effect demanded, there should be a liberal use of the damper pedal.[192] We likewise find, beginning with the third brace, some characteristic polyphonic imitations which give to the movement a remarkable concentration. In the middle contrasting portion it seems as if Schumann had taken a leaf out of Chopin's book--a beautiful, lyric melody floating on an undercurrent of sonorous, arpeggio chords. The theme is presented in dialogue form, first in the upper voice, next in an inner voice and finally in the bass. (See Supplement No. 53.) [Footnote 192: A beautiful contrast may be made by playing the section in F major with the "una corda" pedal throughout.] SONG, _Mondnacht_. No estimate of Schumann would be fair or comprehensive without some mention of his songs; upon which, together with his pianoforte compositions, his immortality tends more and more to rest. Notwithstanding the many poetic and dramatic touches in Schubert's accompaniments, those of Schumann are on the whole more finely wrought; for he had the advantage of Schubert in being, himself, a pianist of high attainment, thoroughly versed in pianistic effects. His imagination was also more sensitive to subtle shades of meaning in the text and he was inspired by the wonderful lyrics of Heine, Eichendorff and Chamisso who in Schubert's day had written very little. Special features of Schumann's songs are the instrumental preludes and postludes, the prelude establishing just the right setting for the import of the words and the postlude commenting on the beautiful message which the voice has just delivered. In _Mondnacht_, for example, (as previously mentioned), note how the voice stops in suspense and in what an eloquent revery the accompaniment completes the picture. (See Supplement No. 54.) OVERTURE TO _Manfred_. This Overture, the first of a set of incidental numbers which Schumann composed to illustrate Byron's dramatic poem, represents some of his most typical inspiration, and so is well worthy of our study. The music is labored at times, especially in the Development, and the orchestration is often dry and stereotyped. But the conception was a powerful one, and there is a genuine correspondence between the nature of the music and the spirit of the poem. It is evident that the subject made a deep impression on Schumann, whose own imagination, addicted to mysterious and even morbid broodings, was strongly akin to that of Byron's fictitious character. The composition is program music of the subjective order, comparable to Beethoven's _Coriolanus_, _i.e._, the themes are dramatic characterizations: the first typifying the stormy nature of Manfred; the second, with its note of pleading, the mysterious influence over the recluse of the spirit of Astarte. As in all works of this kind the music cannot be readily appreciated without a knowledge of the poem which it illustrates.[193] As for the structure, Schumann clings too closely to the Sonata-form. The music is eloquent just in proportion as he gives his fancy free rein; where he tries to force the themes into an arbitrary mould, the result is unsatisfactory--especially the development, which is neither very dramatic nor interesting from a purely musical point of view. The work opens with three spasmodic syncopated[194] chords, and then follow twenty-four measures (lento and at first pianissimo) of a preludial nature with suggestions of the Manfred theme. The movement becomes gradually faster and more impassioned until, in measure 26, we reach the presentation of the first theme (allegro agitato) which, with its frequent syncopations, is characteristic of Manfred's restless nature. The transition begins in measure 39; at first with a repetition of the main theme, which soon modulates to F-sharp minor, in which key the second theme enters, in measure 51. This theme--in three portions--seems to embody different aspects of the feminine influence of Astarte. The first portion, measures 51-61, with its undulating, chromatic outline, may be said to typify the haunting apparition so real to Manfred's imagination and yet so intangible; the second, 62-67, contains a note of impassioned protest, and the third, 68-77, is a love message of tender consolation. If this interpretation seem too subjective, a careful reading of the drama where Astarte appears (pp. 284-285 in the Everyman's Edition) will, we believe, corroborate it. The rest of the Exposition consists in a treatment of the Astarte motive, primarily of a musical nature; though there is a real dramatic intensity in measures 96-103, which are an expansion of the love message with its characteristic "appoggiatura." The Development, beginning in measure 132, is a striking example of how difficult it was--even for an exponent of freedom in musical expression like Schumann--to break loose from the shackles of arbitrary form. The musical thought is kept in motion, to be sure, but that is about all; for the treatment is often very labored, and nothing is added to the dramatic picture. The world had to await the work of Tchaikowsky, and Strauss for a satisfactory adjustment[195] between the demands of dramatic fitness and the needs of musical structure. In the Coda, beginning measure 258, Schumann--now that he is free from considerations of structure--gains a dramatic effect of truly impressive power. The horns, supported by trumpets and trombones, intone a funeral dirge of touching solemnity (evidently suggested by the closing death scene of the drama) while, above, hover portions of the Astarte motive, as if even in his death her influence was paramount in Manfred's imagination, _e.g._ [Music] Notwithstanding certain blemishes, this Overture at the time of its composition was a landmark in the development of program music, and if to our modern tastes it seems a bit antiquated, this is largely because of the great progress which has since been made.[196] [Footnote 193: The poem is easily procured in a volume of Everyman's Library.] [Footnote 194: These chords are an amusing example of a "paper effect," for unless you watch the conductor's beat, it is impossible to feel the syncopation. There being no first beat proper, the chords are syncopated against the air!] [Footnote 195: For pertinent comments on this point see Newman's essay on Program Music, pp. 134-135, in his _Musical Studies_.] [Footnote 196: In studying this work consult, if possible, the orchestral score. For those who need a condensed two-hand arrangement, the Litolff edition is to be recommended.] SYMPHONY IN D MINOR. This Symphony is selected from Schumann's four, both for the peculiar romantic beauty of its themes and because the form in which it is cast makes it an important connecting link between the freedom of structure, instituted by Beethoven, and the Symphonic Poem of Liszt and other modern composers. All of Schumann's symphonies contain genuine beauties and should be familiar to the cultivated musician. Perhaps the first in B-flat major is the most sustained, and it has a freshness and buoyancy summed up in its title, the _Spring_, by which it is popularly known. The exuberance of the Finale is pure Schumann and is expressed with an orchestral eloquence in which he was frequently lacking.[197] The Second Symphony is notable for its sublime Adagio, Schumann's love-song--comparable to the slow movement of Beethoven's Fourth. At some future day, conductors will have the courage to play this movement by itself like a magnificent Torso, for indubitably the other movements have aged beyond recall. The Third Symphony, known as the _Rhenish_ (composed when Schumann was living at Düsseldorf on the Rhine) is significant for its incorporation of popular melodies from the Rhineland, and for the movement, scored chiefly for trombones and other brass instruments, which gives a picture of some ceremonial occasion in the Cologne Cathedral. [Footnote 197: It is more than a matter of mere chronology to realise that the D minor Symphony was composed in the same year as the B-flat major. It was afterwards revised and published as No. 4, but the vitality and spontaneity of its themes come from the first gush of Schumann's inspiration.] The Fourth Symphony is an uneven work, for there are many places where Schumann's constructive power was unequal to his ideal conceptions. We often can see the joints, and the structure--in places--resembles a rag-carpet rather than the organic texture of an oriental rug. But the spontaneous outpouring of melody touches our emotions and well-nigh disarms criticism. Schumann had constantly been striving for a closer relationship[198] between the conventional movements of the symphony; and his purpose, in the structural treatment adopted, is indicated by the statement published in the full score--"Introduction, Allegro, Romanze, Scherzo und Finale _in einem Satze_" _i.e._, the work is to be considered as a _continuous whole_ and not broken up into arbitrary movements with rigid pauses between. The long drawn-out Introduction,[199] with its mysterious harmonies, leads us into the land of romance, and a portion of this introduction is happily carried over and repeated in the Romanze. The First movement proper, from _Lebhaft_, seems at first as if it were to be in the customary Sonata-form; the Exposition beginning with two themes in the normal relationship of minor and relative major, though to be sure the second theme is more of a supplementary expansion of the first than one which provides a strong contrast. But after the double bar and repeat, this first theme is developed in a free preludial manner as if it were continually leading up to a climax. We are finally rewarded by a new theme of great warmth which amply makes up for any lack of individuality in the second theme proper, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 198: We find traces of this tendency in the First Symphony, where the Slow Movement and the Scherzo are linked together, likewise in the Second, where the motto of the first movement is repeated at the end of the Scherzo.] [Footnote 199: The analysis is based, as usual, on the orchestral score; for class-room study there are excellent editions for two and four hands.] The rest of the movement consists of additional improvisations, rather too rigidly sectionalized, on the first theme and a second appearance of the interpolated theme. This theme, with rhythmic modifications, serves also as the basis for the brilliant Coda; for there is no Recapitulation proper, and it is evident that the movement is an extended prelude for what is to come--a first portion of the work as a whole. After a dramatic pause,[200] which enhances the feeling of expectancy (so prominent in the first movement) followed by a sustained modulatory chord, the Romanze begins with a plaintive theme in A minor. The mood is that of an idealized serenade, and in the original score the accompaniment for the oboe melody was given to the guitar[201] to secure the appropriate atmosphere. After the first statement of the theme there is an interpolated quotation of the characteristic passage from the introduction, which serves to bind the movements together both in structure and in relationship of mood. The movement is in clear-cut three-part form and the middle contrasting section in the major mode reveals a sustained descending melody played by the body of strings, which is delicately embellished by an obligato variant given to a solo violin, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 200: Concert-goers may well be reminded that there should be _no_ applause between the movements of this work. One of the most pernicious ideas of the public is that as soon as the music ceases, handclapping should begin; whereas a complete silence is often the very means the composer employs for intensifying what has been said and preparing for what is to come. Let us ponder the cryptic remark attributed to Mozart that "the rests in music are more important than the notes."] [Footnote 201: This was afterwards withdrawn as impracticable. What a pity that Schumann wrote before the harp as a member of the orchestra had come into its own. For the mood which he was trying to establish compare the scoring of this Romanza with that in the Slow movement of Franck's Symphony.] At first the 'cellos, also, re-enforce this melody. [Music] The effect is that of an ethereal voice commenting on the beauty of the main theme. This obligato part is of special significance, since with rhythmic change it forms the chief theme of the Trio in the following movement. The Romanze closes with a simple return to the plaintive oboe melody, this time in D minor. The tonality is purposely indefinite to accentuate the wistful feeling of the movement--the last chords having the suspense of a dominant ending. After a short pause we are at once whirled into the dashing Scherzo which seems to represent the playful badinage of a Romantic lover. The Trio affords a delightful reminiscence of the Romanze and, from a structural point of view, is an early example of the principle of "transformation of theme"[202] which plays so important a role in the works of Liszt, Franck, Tchaikowsky and Dvo[vr]ák. For the melody, _e.g._, [Music] is a rhythmic variant of the former obligato of the solo violin, and has this characteristic, which gives a peculiar note of surprise, that it always begins on the third beat of the measure. Following a repetition of the Scherzo the movement ends eloquently with a coda-like return to the Trio which, after some modulatory changes, is broken up into detached fragments, seeming to vanish into thin air. There is no pause between the end of the Scherzo and the introduction, based on the theme of the first movement, which ushers in the Finale. This movement is in Sonata-form with a modified Recapitulation--_i.e._, the first theme is not repeated--and with a passionate closing theme, _e.g._, [Music] which atones for the intentional incompleteness with which the first movement ends. The main theme is a compound of a vigorous march-like motive, closely related to one of the subsidiary phrases of the first movement, and a running figure in the bass--the derivation of which is obvious. After a rather labored transition[203]--surely the most mechanical passage in the whole work--we are rewarded by a melody of great buoyancy and rhythmic life, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 202: In Brahms, who was something of a conservative as to freedom of form, there is a striking example in the connection between the second movement and the Finale of the Third Symphony.] [Footnote 203: Schumann was a true poet in the spontaneity of his themes, but often an unsuccessful architect when connecting them.] The free Fantasie begins with a contrapuntal working-out of a figure taken from the first theme, but it suffers from a persistent emphasis on what, after all, is an uninteresting rhythm [Music]; there is, furthermore, a rigid grouping of the phrases in twos and fours. Schumann's instinct was a wise one in omitting the main theme of the Recapitulation and in leading, as soon as possible, to the repetition of the delightful second theme--the gem of the movement--which now makes its orthodox appearance in the tonic. After some ejaculatory measures, which remind us of the beginning of the Development, we have the impassioned closing theme, referred to above, which ushers in the free and brilliant Coda, worked up contrapuntally with ever increasing speed. The movement ends with Schumannesque syncopations. The D minor Symphony, thus, although not a perfect work of art, is a significant one and repays intimate study. A long life may safely be predicted for it by reason of the fervor and charm of its melodies. An important historical status it will always hold, for it is the honorable ancestor of such great symphonies as César Franck's in D minor and Tchaikowsky's in E minor, in which we find the same freedom of form and the same fusion of material attempted by Schumann's daring spirit.[204] [Footnote 204: For a detailed and illuminating study of this symphony and of Schumann's style in general see the last essay in _Preludes and Studies_ by W.J. Henderson. Another excellent essay may be found in _Studies in Modern Music_ by W.H. Hadow.] Closely connected with Schumann, chronologically and also by certain executive associations, _e.g._, the Leipsic Conservatory, is the career of Mendelssohn (1809-1847). There was much in common between the two; they both were extremely versatile, of strong literary bent and naturally drawn to the same media of expression: pianoforte, solo voices and orchestra. And yet, so dissimilar were the underlying strains in their temperaments that their compositions, as an expression of their personalities, show little in common. Schumann, as we have seen, was fantastic, mystical, a bold, independent thinker, the quintessence of the Romantic spirit. Mendelssohn, on the other hand, though not lacking in poetic fancy and warmth, was cautious--a born conservative; and his early classical training, together with the opulent circumstances of his life, served as a natural check upon the freedom of genius. His dazzling precocity--witness the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ Overture, composed while he was in his seventeenth year--and a great popular success were surely not the best stimuli to make him delve into the depths of his imagination. Undoubtedly he did a valuable service, in his day, in uniting the leading tendencies of the two schools: the exuberant fancy of the Romantic, and the reserve and finish of the Classic. He has been aptly called a "Romanticist with a classical equipment." If any appraisement be necessary to the detriment of one or the other, it must be conceded that Schumann was the greater genius. A just estimate of Mendelssohn's work is difficult, for his career was so meteoric and in his life he was so overvalued that now, with the opposite swing of the pendulum, he is as often underrated. He was assuredly a great artist, for what he had to say was beautifully expressed; the question hinges on the actual worth of the message. With perfect finish there often goes a lack of power and objective energy; somewhat the same difference that we feel between skillful gardening and the free vitality of Nature. Although Mendelssohn's music delights and charms there is a prevailing lack of that deep emotion which alone can move the soul. And yet a composer whom Wagner called "the greatest of landscape painters" and whose best works have stood the test of time can by no means be scorned. His descriptive Overtures for orchestra: the _Hebrides_, the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ and the _Fair Melusine_; his _Variations Sérieuses_ for Pianoforte and some of the _Songs without Words_[205] contain a genuinely poetic message, flawlessly expressed. As for the pianoforte music, when the _Songs without Words_ are called "hackneyed" we must remember that only compositions of truly popular appeal ever have sufficient vogue to warrant the application of this opprobrious term. In the pianoforte _Scherzos_ and in the _Rondo Capriccioso in E major_ there is without doubt a vitality and a play of fancy easier to criticize than to create. The prevalent mood in Mendelssohn's music is one of sunny-hearted lightness and emotional satisfaction; and if this be a one-sided presentation of life, it is no more so, as Pratt well says in his _History of Music_, than the picture of gloom and sorrow which certain other composers continually emphasize. The fact that his descriptive Overtures, just mentioned, have been surpassed--owing to the recent expansion in orchestral possibilities of tone-color--must not blind us to the beauty of their content, or make us forget the impetus they have given to modern composers. No one could possibly find in the _Hebrides_ Overture that subtle descriptive fancy or that wealth of orchestral coloring which exists in Debussy's marvellous _Sea Pieces_; and yet the Mendelssohn composition is a genuine reflection of nature in terms of music and can still be heard with sustained attention. Wagner[206] praises highly its orchestral effects; and a modern scholar, Cecil Forsyth,[207] considers the tone-painting quite irresistible. A sincere tribute of admiration should also be paid to Mendelssohn's _Concerto for Violin and Orchestra_. Written in the most idiomatic style for the solo instrument and containing real _violin melodies_ it is still one of the few great works in its class. Any final critical estimate of Mendelssohn--no matter how earnest the effort to be absolutely fair--is inevitably involved with personal prejudices. If his music appeals to any one, it is liked extremely and no one need be ashamed of enjoying it, for it is sincerely felt and beautifully expressed. Mendelssohn, himself, doubtless knew perfectly well that he was not Bach, Beethoven or Schubert. For those whose natures crave a more robust message, more fire and a deeper passion, there are the works of those other composers to which they may turn. [Footnote 205: Several of these were constantly played by both Paderewski and De Pachman, two of the greatest virtuosi of our day: surely a convincing tribute!] [Footnote 206: See the _Oxford History of Music_, Vol. VI, pp. 80-84. Anyone who cares to see what Wagner owed to Mendelssohn may compare the opening theme, and its treatment, of the _Fair Melusine_ Overture with the music of the Rhine Maidens in the _Rheingold_.] [Footnote 207: See his treatise on Orchestration, p. 194.] Let us now analyze the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ Overture,[208] "his first and highest flight" to quote Schumann. In this work we do not find a characterization by musical means of the emotions of the dramatis personae, as in the _Coriolanus_ Overture; and there is little specific correspondence between the type of theme and definite incidents, except possibly at the beginning of the Recapitulation, where the low tones of the Bass Tuba[209] may be thought to represent the snores of Bottom, as the fairies hover about him. Anyone familiar with Shakespeare's play--and such a knowledge is indispensible for a complete enjoyment of the music--will see that Mendelssohn's object was to give a broad, general picture of the fairy world and to intensify, by his music, the fancy and humor found in the play. The introductory sustained chords, pianissimo, are a happy illustration of his deftness in tone-painting; for, assigned to the ethereal flutes and clarinets, they constitute, as Niecks ingeniously expresses it, a "magic formula" which ushers us into the moonlit realm of fairyland. The first theme in E minor (Allegro di molto: throughout _pp_ and staccato), announced by the strings, is a graphic representation of the playful antics of the nimble elves and fairies. Its course is twice interrupted by a peculiar, prolonged chord which seems to say, "Hush! you are listening to the activities of beings not of this every-day, humdrum world." The first theme has a second part in E major (beginning at measure 62) of a pompous, march-like nature, which may be thought to represent the dignity of Duke Theseus and his train. The Overture being in complete Sonata-form, there occurs at this point a short transition based on the rhythm of the first theme; followed by a lovely cantabile melody--the second theme proper--that typifies the romantic love pervading the play. This theme also is expanded into several sections; the first of which may portray the clownish Athenian tradespeople, and the second, the brays of Bottom after he has been transformed into an ass, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 208: This is exceptionally effective in the four-hand version--in fact, it was often played as a pianoforte duet by his sister Fanny and himself--although the real poetic effect is inseparably connected with the orchestral treatment.] [Footnote 209: Originally these tones were played by the Ophicleide or Serpent (now obsolete).] The free fantasia, an improvisation on the first theme--although containing a few perfunctory manipulations--sustains interest, as a whole, by its modulations and by the suggestive orchestral effects. The closing measures, where the pizzicato 'cellos and double basses seem to imitate the light, tripping footsteps of the elves, is genuinely realistic. The Recapitulation, which begins with the same chords as the Introduction, is an illustration of bondage to classic practise; for here they have no dramatic significance and are merely a concession to routine procedure.[210] The first theme and the transition, however, are effectively abridged so that the second theme, by far the most appealing in the whole work, stands out in greater prominence. Then follows a brilliant expansion of the closing portions of the second theme, until we reach the Coda. This begins with a reminiscence of the first theme which fades away into a modified presentation of the Duke Theseus theme, followed by four long-drawn out Amens.[211] These may signify the blessing which, in the play, the elves bestow upon the Ducal house. The Introductory chords dissolve the dream which the music has evoked, and we are back once more in the world of reality. [Footnote 210: This, after all, is a rather subtle point for a boy of seventeen to be called upon to consider. Perhaps if he had been that kind of a boy he might not have written the Overture at all!] [Footnote 211: The ecclesiastical formula for an Amen being the so-called Plagal cadence of subdominant and tonic chords.] To suggest the attitude which we of to-day should take towards Mendelssohn--he may justly be admired as a musician of great natural gifts, of high ideals and of unusually finished technique in many branches of composition. It is ungracious to censure him because he lacks the gripping emotional power of a Beethoven or a Wagner. Those who indulge in such narrow criticism condemn only themselves. CHAPTER XIV CHOPIN AND PIANOFORTE STYLE Although Chopin (1809-1849) was less aggressively romantic than others of the group we have been considering, in many respects his music represents the romantic spirit in its fairest bloom. Not even yet has full justice been done him--although his fame is growing--since he is often considered as a composer of mere "salon-pieces" which, though captivating, are too gossamer-like to merit serious attention. Chopin was a life-long student of Bach; and much of his music, in its closeness of texture, shows unmistakably the influence of that master. Together with Schumann, he broke away from the strict formality of the old classic forms and instituted the reign of freely conceived tone-poems for the pianoforte: the form being conditioned by the poetic feelings of the composer. As far as fundamental principles of architecture are concerned, his pieces are generally simple, modeled as they are on the two and three-part form and that of the rondo. When he attempted works of large scope, where varied material had to be held together, he was lamentably deficient, _e.g._, in his Sonatas. In fact, even in such pieces as the Études and Scherzos, in the presentation of the material we find occasional blemishes. But there are so many other wonderful qualities that this weakness may be overlooked. In spite of a certain deficiency in form, Chopin is indisputably a great genius. Far too much stress has been laid on the delicacy of his style to the exclusion of the intensity and bold dramatic power that characterize much of his music to a marked degree. Though of frail physique,[212] and though living in an environment which tended to overdevelop his fastidious nature, Chopin had a fiery soul, which would assert itself with unmistakable force. His music by no means consists solely of melting moods or languorous sighs; he had a keen instinct for the dissonant element (witness passages in the G minor Ballade); he was a daring harmonic innovator; and much of his music is surcharged with tragic significance. A born stylist, he nevertheless did not avoid incessant labor to secure the acme of finish. So perfect in his works is the balance between substance and treatment, that they make a direct appeal to music-lovers of every nation. In listening to Chopin we are never conscious of turgidity, of diffuseness, of labored treatment of material. All is direct, pellucid; poetic thoughts are presented in a convincingly beautiful manner. He was a great colorist as well, and in his work we must recognize the fact that color in music is as distinct an achievement of the imagination as profound thought or beauty of line. Chopin's position in regard to program music is an interesting subject for speculation. Few of his works bear specifically descriptive titles; and it is well known that he had little sympathy with the extreme tendencies of Berlioz and Liszt. Yet there is, in general, something more than an abstract presentation of musical material, however beautiful. The varied moods aroused by the Ballades and Nocturnes, the actual pictures we see in the Polonaises, must have had their counterpart in definite subjective experiences in the life of the composer, and so from a broad psychological standpoint--even in the absence of explanatory titles--we may call Chopin a thoroughly romantic tone-poet; indeed, as Balzac says, "a soul which rendered itself audible." [Footnote 212: He was born of a Polish mother and a French father, and these mixed strains of blood account fundamentally for the leading characteristics of his music. From the former strain came the impassioned, romantic and at times chivalrous moods, prominent in all Polish life and art; and from the latter the grace, charm and finish which we rightly associate with the French nature. For side-lights on Chopin's intimacy with George Sand see the well-known essays by Henry James and René Doumic.] As Chopin composed so idiomatically for his chosen instrument, the pianoforte, to which he devoted himself exclusively,[213] no understanding or adequate appreciation of the subtleties of his style is possible without some knowledge of the nature and attributes of this instrument which, in our time, has become the universal medium for the rendering of music. All of Chopin's works were not only published for the pianoforte but were conceived in _terms_ of the pianoforte; his style in this respect being quite unique in the history of musical art. For there are noble and poetically inspired thoughts of many composers which may be satisfactorily presented through a number of media: pianoforte, organ, string-quartet or voices. This fact has been the cause of many so-called transcriptions of orchestral or string-quartet music for the organ. A composer, furthermore, often publishes a work for a certain instrument when the inner evidence shows that, during the period of creation, he actually had some other medium in mind. Beethoven's Sonatas abound[214] in effects which, for their complete realization, require an orchestra; so that, notwithstanding the beauty of the thought, his style is often anything but pianistic. In certain of César Franck's pianoforte works we are conscious of his predilection for the organ, as the spirit of the music demands a sustained volume of sound which the organ, with its powerful lungs, alone can give. But if the full beauty of Chopin's conception is to be gained, his music must be played on the pianoforte and on nothing else. The pianoforte has, to be sure, several limitations; it is not per se a loud instrument in comparison with a trumpet or an organ, and the whole nature of its tone is evanescent--that is, as soon as the tone is produced, it begins to fade away, [decrescendo symbol]. This latter apparent limitation, however, is in fact one of its most suggestive beauties; for nothing is more stimulating to the imagination than the dying away of a beautiful sound, as may be felt in the striking of a clear-toned bell, or in the wonderful diminuendo of the horn. This effect, inherent in pianoforte tone, should be more utilized rather than deplored, especially since dwelling on a delightful harmony or a single dramatic note is a definite characteristic of "tempo rubato"--that peculiar feature of Chopin's rhythm. The pianoforte can neither steadily sustain a tone [sustaining symbol] nor increase it [crescendo symbol]; achievements for which the strings and the wind instruments are so valued. On the other hand, the instrument has the merits of great sonority and marvellous coloristic possibilities; and when music is composed for the pianoforte by one who understands its secrets and, furthermore, when it is properly played, it is quite the finest[215] instrument ever yet brought under the control of a single performer. Again, the pianoforte is not meant for great rapidity of utterance, such as, for instance, we associate with the violin, the flute or the clarinet. It is, in fact, often played _too fast_, sounding like a pianola or a machine rather than an instrument with a soul. If there be no lingering over the notes, beautiful effects have no opportunity to be heard. Rapidity and brilliance on the pianoforte do not depend on so many notes per second but on vitality and precision of accent. These admirable qualities of the instrument are due to the great number of vibrating metal strings (in a modern concert-grand, about two hundred and thirty, _i.e._, three strings to each of the twelve notes of the seven octaves, save for a few of the lowest bass notes); to the large sounding board (about twenty-four square feet, on the largest model), and above all to the damper pedal which Rubinstein--so appropriately--calls the soul of the pianoforte. The very term Pianoforte implies a wealth of meaning; for a special glory of the instrument is its power of shading, its flexibility of utterance, from piano to forte or vice versa. The limits themselves, to be sure, are not so striking as in certain other instruments, _e.g._, the pianoforte cannot produce the almost ghostly whisper of which the clarinet is capable, nor can it equal the trumpet or the trombone in intensity or volume. But it can produce a very beautiful pianissimo; and if a sense of relativity be kept, and soft effects begun quietly enough, it can be made to sound with remarkable brilliancy. The pianoforte should always be played with a keen regard for this power of shading, of nuance; the tones should undulate like the winds or the waves. Anything like the steady sostenuto level for which the organ shows itself so fitted is, except for special effects, entirely foreign to the nature of the pianoforte. Nor should we ever attempt to make it, per se, a loud, overpowering instrument. Its forte and its brilliancy are purely relative; and, when forced to do something unsuited to its real nature, it protests with a hard, unmelodious tone. [Footnote 213: The few exceptions being the Polish Songs, the Trio for Violin, 'Cello and Pianoforte and the orchestral accompaniment to the two Concertos.] [Footnote 214: There will occur to every one numerous passages in which the pianoforte is expected to be a kettle-drum, or where the figuration is far better suited to the violin than to the hand in connection with keys.] [Footnote 215: This by reason of its combined powers in melody, harmony and rhythm. Some of these qualities it shares, to be sure, with the organ; but the organ is inherently lacking in rhythm, and its solid, block-like tones do not exercise the same fascination upon the imagination as do the fleeting sounds of the pianoforte. It is, of course, possible and desirable to enjoy both instruments--each in its own proper sphere, and each for its characteristic effects.] Likewise the two pedals,[216] when their technical names are understood, imply their own meaning, just as their popular designations hint at the way in which they are often abused. The pedal employed by the _right_ foot, properly called the "damper pedal," is so named because, by its action, _all_ the dampers of the key-board may be raised simultaneously. This allows the strings to vibrate together and to send forth great waves of colored sound like those produced by an Aeolian harp; an effect similar to that heard when a sea-shell is held to the ear. The pianoforte, in fact, has aptly been called "a harp laid on its back" to which the action of keys has been applied. Accordingly an open, flowing style (arpeggio) is one of the idioms best suited to its nature. To secure proper contrast, a massive, chordal style is sometimes employed by such composers as Schumann, Brahms and Franck--even at times by Chopin himself; but that the extended arpeggio (often merely two voices, with the body of tone secured by the pedal) is the norm may be seen from almost any page of Chopin's compositions. The resonance and carrying power of these waves are intensified by raising the lid[217] of the pianoforte; for then they are brought to a focus and projected into space. The effect produced by raising the dampers is appropriate and beautiful, not alone with consonant chords but, at times, equally with chords that are unrelated; which, were they sustained for long by an organ, would be intolerably harsh. But the tone of the pianoforte is so fleeting that such a mixture ensures great brilliance and warmth without undue jargon, and is thus akin to the blending of strange colors by modern painters. Many people, in fact, play the pianoforte with too _little_, rather than too _much_, pedal; or with too much pedal used the wrong way! A definite attempt should be made to cultivate a feeling for color and warmth of tone; a hard, colorless tone on the pianoforte being a great blemish as it is so unnecessary. The following passage illustrates the above points. [Footnote 216: It is understood that all the comments are based on the action of a concert-grand pianoforte, since on an upright or a square--because of mechanical limitations of space--the effects are quite different.] [Footnote 217: In this connection, even at the risk of seeming to preach, let the advice be given that _nothing_ should ever be put on top of a grand pianoforte: neither flowers, afternoon tea-sets, bird-cages, books, nor even an aquarium! For the lid is not merely a cover, but an additional sounding-board, and must always be in readiness to be so used. The pianoforte as a coloristic instrument, in short, is completely itself _only_ when played with the lid raised.] [Music: CHOPIN: _Barcarolle_] There is really no such thing on the pianoforte as a "pure" single tone. It is an acoustical law that no tone exists by itself, but always generates a whole series of overtones[218] or "upper partials," as they are called, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 218: An instrument designed to reinforce these upper tones, so that they may be clearly heard, is to be found in any Physical Laboratory. That these tones really vibrate "sympathetically" may be proved by striking _ff_ [Transcriber's Note: Music example indicates _sf_] this note [Music: C2 With damper pedal] and then pressing down _very lightly_ the keys of G and E just above middle C, thus removing the individual dampers of these notes. In a quiet room the tones are distinctly audible. For another rewarding experiment of the same nature, see the Introduction to the first volume of Arthur Whiting's _Pedal Studies_ and the well-known treatise of Helmholtz.] Even what we call the perfectly consonant chord of C major, _e.g._, [Music] would be slightly qualified and colored by the B-flat, and this effect has actually been utilized by Chopin in the final cadence of his Prelude in F major, No. 23, _e.g._ [Music] In this example the E-flat must be very delicately accented and _both_ pedals freely used. Let it be clearly understood, therefore, that the damper pedal--popularly but erroneously called the "loud pedal"--has nothing to do with "noise" as such. Its purpose is to amplify and color the waves of sound and these waves may vary all the way from _pp_ to _ff_. The dynamic gradation of pianoforte tone is caused by the amount of force with which the hammer strikes the wires; and this power is applied by the attack and pressure of the fingers. The damper pedal will, to be sure, reinforce fortissimo effects, but logically it is only a _means_ of _reinforcement_ and should never be used so that a mere "roar of sound" is produced. The normal pianoforte tone, however, is that brought forth in connection with the damper pedal, and only to gain an effect of intentional coolness and dryness do we see in pianoforte literature the direction "senza pedal"; passages so marked being often most appropriate as a strong contrast to highly colored ones.[219] [Footnote 219: For a complete and illuminating treatise on the pedals and their artistic use, see the aforesaid two volumes of _Pedal Studies_ by Arthur Whiting (G. Schirmer, New York).] An important adjunct of the instrument, though even less intelligently used, is the pedal employed by the left foot; that popularly known as the "soft pedal," but of which the technical name is the "una corda" pedal. By this device on a grand pianoforte the whole key-board is shifted from left to right, so that the hammers strike but _two_ wires in each group of three, and the third wire of the set is left free to vibrate sympathetically. Thus a very etherial, magical quality of tone is produced, especially in the upper ranges of the instrument. In the middle register, passages played forte or fortissimo will have a richness comparable to the G string of a violin. The effect is analogous to that of a viol d'amour which has, as is well known (stretched underneath the strings, which produce the actual tone) a set of additional strings, freely vibrating. Although this "una corda"[220] pedal may be used in a dynamic sense to reduce, as it were, the size of the instrument, its chief purpose is coloristic, _i.e._, to make possible a _special quality_ of tone. This statement is proved by directions in pianoforte literature as far back as Beethoven, in whose Sonatas we find the dynamic marks of _f_ and _ff_ coupled with the proscribed use of the una corda pedal. In any case, this left-foot pedal should not be abused; for, just because the tone quality produced thereby is so beautiful and characteristic, it soon becomes, if constantly employed, rather cloying. The dynamic gradation of tone is primarily a matter for the control of the fingers, _i.e._, the touch. The damper pedal is for sonority and color; the una corda for special shades, and all three factors--touch and the two pedals--are combined in pianistic effects which only a trained technique and artistic judgment can regulate.[221] [Footnote 220: The term dates from the period when this pedal controlled three shifts: una corda, due corde and tre corde; the hammer striking respectively one, two or three strings. The whole mechanism is well implied in the German word _Verschiebung_, _i.e._, the shoving along--so frequent in Schumann's works, _e.g._, the middle part of his _Vogel als Prophet_ from the _Waldscenen_, op. 82, No. 7.] [Footnote 221: American pianofortes also have a middle pedal called the "sustaining pedal," by which tones in the lower register may be prolonged. It has not proved to be of great value, though there are occasional passages, _e.g._, the closing measures of the second movement of César Franck's _Violin Sonata_, where it may be effectively employed.] Even a slight analysis of Chopin's style proves that it is based upon logical inferences, drawn from the series of overtones as they are generated and reinforced by the very nature of the pianoforte. From the wide spacing of the lower tones of the series Chopin derived the extended grouping of his arpeggios, _e.g._, [Music] [Music: Prelude, No. 19] so that the _chord_ of the _10th_, instead of the former grouping within the octave, may be considered the basis of his harmonic scheme. By this means a great gain was made in richness and sonority. Another striking feature of Chopin's style is found in those groups of spray-like, superadded notes with which the melody is embellished. It is evident, in many cases at least, that these tones are not merely embroidery in the ordinary sense. Rather do they represent a reinforcement of the overtones, ideally or actually present, in connection with bass tones and chords used in the lower part of the musical fabric. As a striking example[222] see the long series of descending non-harmonic tones in the Coda of the _B major Nocturne_, op. 9, No. 3, and note the delicate colors in the closing arpeggio chord (to be played with a free use of both pedals). [Footnote 222: For a commentary on this passage see D.G. Mason's essay on Chopin in _The Romantic Composers_.] [Music] In general, Chopin's style is homophonic--wondrous lyric melodies which seem to float on waves of richly colored sound. But there is also much subtly used polyphony, _i.e._, delightful phrases in inner voices and imitative effects between the different parts. In comparison, however, with Schumann's style (which is largely on a polyphonic basis) Chopin is a decidedly homophonic composer.[223] A great deal of interesting and instructive reading on Chopin is available and the following works are especially recommended: _Chopin, the Man and his Music_ by Huneker; the _Life of Chopin_ by Niecks; the essay on Chopin in Mason's _Romantic Composers_ and in Hadow's _Studies in Modern Music_; the volume on Chopin by Elié Poirée in the series _Les Musiciens Célèbres_; and the same by Louis Laloy in the series _Les Maîtres de la Musique_; the _Life_ by Liszt (well known and most valuable as coming from a contemporary and brother musician); finally a somewhat rhapsodic essay by H.T. Finck in _Chopin and Other Essays_. [Footnote 223: For a detailed analysis of many special features of style see the volume by Edgar Stillman Kelly, _Chopin the Composer_.] We select, as being thoroughly representative, the following works for comment: the first Prelude, the A-flat major Étude, the F-sharp minor Mazurka, the E-flat minor Polonaise, the Barcarolle and the C-sharp minor Scherzo.[224] [Footnote 224: To save space, no one of these pieces except the Barcarolle is given in the Supplement, since they are readily accessible. The _Barcarolle_, however, is given in order to make it better known; for although it is one of the most inspired and beautifully expressed of all Chopin's works, it is heard comparatively seldom. The best editions of the works are those of Kullak, Mikuli and Klindworth.] PRELUDE IN C MAJOR, OP. 28, NO. 1. This Prelude, the first of the set of 24, is an excellent example of the sonority Chopin gained from widely extended chords in the bass; by the use--characteristically bold--of dissonances (measures 13-20), and by the sensuous richness of the closing measures, in which a wonderful wave of sound is produced through the damper pedal, in connection with the blending of the tonic, dominant and subdominant chords. The prelude is a kind of intensified Bach and may well be compared with that prelude in the same key which begins the immortal well-tempered Clavichord. All the Preludes, for their poetic import, finished style and pianistic effect, are masterpieces of the first rank. Schumann well says of them: "They are sketches, eagle's feathers, all strangely intermingled. But in every piece we recognize the hand of Frédéric Chopin; he is the boldest, the proudest poet-soul of his time." ÉTUDE IN A-FLAT MAJOR, OP. 25, NO. 1. This étude, deservedly popular, may be considered the example _par excellence_ of Chopin's style. The lyric beauty of the melody, the fascinating modulations, the shades of color alike justify the following rhapsodic comments of Schumann, "Imagine that an Aeolian harp possessed all the musical scales, and that the hand of an artist were to cause them to intermingle in all sorts of fantastic embellishments, yet in such a way as to leave everywhere audible a deep fundamental tone and a soft, continuously singing upper voice, and you will get about the right idea. But it would be an error to think that Chopin, in playing this étude, permitted every one of the small notes to be distinctly heard. It was rather an undulation of the A-flat major chord, here and there thrown aloft by the pedal. Throughout the harmonies one always heard in great tones a wondrous melody, while once only, in the middle of the piece, besides that chief song, a tenor voice became prominent. After the étude a feeling came over one as of having seen in a dream a beatific picture which, when already half awake, one would gladly once more recall." MAZURKA IN F-SHARP MINOR, OP. 6, NO. 1. As Franz Liszt says in his life of Chopin, "The Mazurka is not only a dance, it is a national poem, and like all poems of conquered nations, is shaped so as to let the blazing flames of patriotic feeling shimmer out through the transparent veil of popular melody." The chief peculiarity of the Mazurka (which is always in triple rhythm, with a latitude in speed from Presto to Mesto) is the scheme of accentuation--the normal accent on the first beat being systematically transferred to the second and third beats. We also find in the Mazurka frequent indications for the use of the so-called "tempo rubato," a proper conception of which is so essential in the performance of Chopin's music. Tempo rubato--so often abused!--literally meaning borrowed time, is simply free rhythm emancipated from rigid, scholastic bonds. As Huneker well says, "Chopin must be played in curves" with emotional freedom; just as the heart, when excited, increases the speed of its pulsations, and in moments of calm and depression slows down. The jerky, really unrhythmical playing of certain performers reminds us of a person suffering from _palpitation_ of the heart. Liszt's description of the rubato is most suggestive: "A wind plays in the leaves, life unfolds and develops beneath them, but the tree remains the same." In Chopin, accordingly, the ground rhythm should always be preserved, though varied with subtle, and yet logical fluctuations. POLONAISE IN E-FLAT MINOR, OP. 26, NO. 11. The Polonaise[225] is the great national dance of the Poles; an impassioned and yet stately pageant in which, as Liszt says, "The noblest traditional feelings of ancient Poland are represented." This dance--or rather, processional march--is always in triple rhythm and based on a definite rhythmic formula: either [Music] or [Music]. The frequent feminine endings are also a characteristic feature, _e.g._, the cadence in the well known military Polonaise in A major: [Music] To return to the example being considered,--it is in Three-part form (A, B, A, with Coda) the first part in the minor mode; the second part beautifully contrasted by being in B major--introduced by the implied enharmonic change from E-flat to D-sharp. This first part, remarkable for its passionate, headlong impetuosity, should dispel any idea that Chopin was a weak sentimentalist. Although of a delicate constitution he certainly had a fiery soul. The second part, sotto voce--note the feminine endings--reminds us of the muffled music of a military band as it passes by. [Footnote 225: For an account of its origin see the chapter in Huneker's book and the article on the Polonaise in Grove's Dictionary.] BARCAROLLE IN F-SHARP MAJOR, OP. 60. This composition, in many ways the most wonderful single piece we have from Chopin, is the quintessence of his genius. It seems, in fact, to contain everything: appealing melodies, wealth of harmony, bold dissonances (note in particular the 6th and 7th measures of the Coda), brilliant embellishments; and withal, it is written in a pianistic style which, for richness and warmth of color, is quite unsurpassed. It is also most sincerely conceived, intensifying the suggestiveness of the descriptive title. Would that objective program music were always so true to life and to the real nature of music! It is in free three-part form, the first part of a calm nature in which we are rocked on gently undulating waves; a more rhythmic second part where, as Kullak says, the bass seems to suggest the monotonous steadiness of oar-strokes; an interlude, marked "dolce sfogato," introduced by some delightful modulations, as if in a quiet nook the poet were dreaming of the beauties of love and nature; an impassioned return to the chief subject, together with a partial presentation of the middle portion; and finally a long and brilliant coda. The composition is unique in romantic literature for its power to arouse the imagination, or, as Schumann so well says, "to set people romancing for themselves." SCHERZO IN C-SHARP MINOR, OP. 39. The four Scherzos, for passion and eloquence, rank among Chopin's most characteristic works, though it seems impossible to trace a logical correspondence between the former classic meaning of the term "Scherzo" and the contents revealed to us in these poems; save that they are all in triple rhythm, hence on a dance-form basis. As Niecks well says, "There is in them neither frolicsomeness nor humor"--such, for example, as we find in Beethoven's Scherzos--and he suggests that "Capriccio" might be a less misleading designation. But, however inexplicable the title which Huneker thinks Chopin may have applied in serious jest, there is no doubt of the uncompromising dignity of the utterance, and there is often a grim irony, a wayward scorn, which a liberal interpretation might well consider attributes of humor. These were marked traits in Chopin's nature, and the Scherzos are their revelation in terms of music. Schumann's well-known comment is apropos--"How is gravity to clothe itself if jest goes about in dark veils?" This Scherzo (Presto con fuoco) is in extended three-part form; the dominant note of the first part being one of feverish agitation, which expresses itself in spasmodic outbursts. The second part, with its broad cantabile melody of a hymn-like character, reveals a calmer mood. The last note of each phrase is adorned throughout with lovely coloristic embellishments. After a return to the first theme, the second part is also repeated; this time with striking modulatory changes which strongly resemble the mood of Wotan's Farewell, in the third Act of Wagner's _Valkyrie_. A long and fiery coda of new thematic material closes the work. The major ending is like a shaft of light dispelling storm-tossed clouds. Chopin's works are so instinct with genius and have proved to be so immortal that they may well be considered as ideal witnesses to the triumph of quality over mere quantity or sensational display. To-day, when we suffer from musical bombast, their refined message is of special significance. CHAPTER XV BERLIOZ AND LISZT. PROGRAMME MUSIC There is no doubt that Hector Berlioz (1803-1869), however varied the appeal of his music to different temperaments, is an artistic personality to be reckoned with; one not to be ticketed and laid on the shelf. Although a century and more has elapsed since his birth the permanent value of his music is still debated, often amusingly enough, by those who seem unaware that, whatever the theoretical rights of the case, in practice his principles are the reigning ones in modern music. As Berlioz stands as the foremost representative of program music and never wrote anything without a title, it is certain that before his music or influence can be appreciated, the mind must be cleared of prejudice and we must recognize that modern program music is a condition--an artistic fact, not a theory--and that the tendency towards specific, subjective expression (whether manifested in song, opera or symphonic poem) is a dominant one among present day composers. It is true that all music is the expression in tones of the imagination of the composer; true, also, that music must fulfil certain conditions of its own being. But imaginations differ. That of Berlioz, for example, was quite a new phenomenon; and as for the working principles of musical composition, they are as much subject to modification as any other form of human experimentation. Berlioz, himself, says that he never intended to subvert the laws of music, only to make a new and individual use of them. As he was no abstract maker of music, his autobiography--one of the most fascinating in the history of art, only to be compared with that of Benvenuto Cellini--should be familiar to all who would penetrate the secrets of his style. Berlioz's compositions, in fact, are more specifically autobiographic than those of any other notable musician. Both in his music and his literary works are the same notes of passionate insistence on his own point of view, of radical dislike for accepting conditions as they were (he says of himself that he loved to make the barriers crack) and of fondness for brilliant outward effect. In considering Berlioz, one is always reminded of Matthew Arnold's lines on Byron, who resembles Berlioz so closely. "He taught us little; but our soul Had felt him, like the thunder's roll. With shivering heart the strife we saw Of passion with eternal law; And yet with reverential awe We watch'd the fount of fiery life Which served for that Titanic strife." Only realize that Berlioz's _Fantastic Symphony_ was composed but twenty-one years after Haydn's death, and compare the simple, self-centered Haydn with the restless, wide-visioned Berlioz, of a mentality positively omnivorous; who, in addition to his musical achievements, was a brilliant critic and _littérateur_, a man of travel and wide acquaintance with the world. Then indeed you will appreciate what an enormous change had come over music. A mere mention of the authors from whom Berlioz drew his subjects: Shakespeare, Goethe, Byron, Scott, Virgil, Hugo, shows the wide range of his reading and the difference in output which would inevitably result. The previous impersonal attitude towards music is shown by the very names of compositions which, broadly speaking (till the beginning of the 19th century) were seldom more than Symphony, Sonata, or Quartet, No. so and so; while the movements, in an equally mechanical way, were known by the designations of tempo: allegro, adagio, andante, etc.--those "senseless terms," as Beethoven himself says. Beginning pre-eminently with Berlioz, composers have had more highly cultivated imaginations, much more to say; and the wider range of emotion resulting therefrom has necessitated differences of form and treatment. A frequent misconception on the part of the layman is that worthy music should be so constructed that the hearer be spared all mental exertion. As long as it was certain that a composer would present just so many themes in a prescribed order and treated in the routine fashion, listening to music was a comparatively easy task. Since Berlioz, music has made ever greater demands on the hearer; who only when his receptivity is of an equal degree of cultivation with the creative power of the composer, can grasp the full meaning of the music. The first step, therefore, toward an appreciation of Berlioz is to recognize the peculiar, picturesque power of his imagination, which was of an entirely new order, and may be called musico-poetic in distinction from purely musical activity. This form of double consciousness is equally necessary on the part of the hearer. As Debussy, the modern French composer, so well says, people often do not understand or enjoy new music because it differs from "une musique" _i.e._, from a conventional and unvarying type which they have in their mind. The real effect of Berlioz's "_Carnaval Romain_" Overture, to take a simple example, is to complement and intensify the mental picture which any well-read person--or better still, any one who has actually visited Rome--will have of this characteristic incident in Italian life. If the work be considered merely as abstract music, notwithstanding the stimulation and delight caused by the rhythmic vitality and by the orchestral effects, the real poetic purpose of the composer remains unfulfilled. This peculiar quality of Berlioz was partly the result of his fiery excitable temperament and partly the reactive effect of the environment in which he found himself. What an amazing group in Paris (beginning about 1830) was that with which he was associated! De Musset, de Vigny, Liszt, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Balzac, Dumas, Chopin, Heine, Delacroix, Géricault: young men representing every art and several nationalities, all under the lead of Hugo, that prince of Romanticists; their object being--revolt from conventional standards and a complete expression of their own personalities. Hugo, as he says in the famous preface to Cromwell, was tearing down the plaster which hides the facade of the fair temple of art; Dumas had just demolished Racine; Géricault and Delacroix, by their daring conceptions, were founding our modern school of painting. Into this maelstrom of revolution, Berlioz--he of the flaming locks, "that hairy Romantic" as Thackeray calls him--flung himself with temperamental ardor; for he was a born fighter and always in opposition to someone. The audacity and dramatic energy of his compositions are but the natural result of the tendencies of the period. Berlioz's early career is of extreme interest to us English-speaking people, because the first strong stimulus to his imagination came from his acquaintance with the dramas of Shakespeare. In 1827, some of the dramas, (such as Hamlet, and Romeo and Juliet) were played in Paris by an English company, and their effect upon Berlioz was overwhelming. He would wander about the streets raving of Shakespeare; he promptly fell in love with the most beautiful actress in the troupe--Henrietta Smithson, whom he later married[226]--and then began the frenzied period of composing and concert giving, which came to a climax in the _Fantastic Symphony_ first performed in 1830. Berlioz's courage and perseverance are shown by his winning the Prix de Rome, after four failures! His two years in Italy (his picture may still be seen at the Villa Medici), replete with amusing and thrilling incidents, were, on the whole the happiest period of his stormy life. [Footnote 226: For a convincing account of this tragic marriage see the volume of _Recollections_ by Ernest Legouvé.] But we must pass to some brief comments upon the characteristics, pro and con, of his style. In the first place it was extremely original; showed little or no connection with former composers; has had no imitators, and cannot be parodied. Berlioz likewise possessed great range of emotion--though he rarely touched the sublime; a power of laying out works on a vast scale, and, in general, of achieving with unerring certainty the effects desired. The poet Heine said that much of Berlioz's music reminded him of "primeval monsters and fabulous empires." And what a master he was of rhythm!--one of the greatest in music! Prior to his work, and that of Schumann among the Germans, the classic rhythms were becoming rather stereotyped; and the vigorous elasticity introduced by these two composers has widened incalculably the range of dramatic effect. But his indisputable claim to lasting recognition is his genius in the treatment of the orchestra. Berlioz had an inborn instinct for sensuous tonal effect for its own sake, and not as the clothing of an abstract idea. With him the art of making that composite instrument, the orchestra, give forth the greatest beauty and variety of sound became an end in itself; and from his ingenious and innovating effects has been evolved the orchestra as we hear it to-day. Berlioz thought, so to speak, in terms of orchestral color. In his melodies we do not feel that the drawing, the contour of the pure line, is the chief thing; but that the assignment of the melody to just the right instrument, and the color-effect thereby produced, are integral parts of the conception. Notwithstanding the fact that some of his effects are extravagant or at times bizarre, he must be credited with revealing possibilities in orchestral shading and color which, still further developed by Wagner, Strauss and Tchaikowsky, have become conventional means of expression. Some of his most celebrated and satisfying works, in addition to those mentioned, are the _Harold in Italy_ Symphony, with its personification by a solo viola of the chief character; the _Romeo and Juliet_ Symphony, for both vocal and instrumental forces (of which the ball-scene with its wondrous love-melody and the _Queen Mab_ Scherzo--unequalled for daintiness--represent his highest attainments as a tone-poet) and, most popular of all, the _Damnation of Faust_ based on scenes from Goethe's poem. The bewitching incidental pieces for orchestra alone, such as the _Ballet of Sylphs_ and the _Rakoczy March_, are often played at symphony concerts, and are familiar to everyone. Certain blemishes in Berlioz's music are obvious and need not be over-emphasized. There is often more style and outward effect than real substance. His works excite, but how seldom do they exalt! For he was frequently deficient in depth of emotion and in latent warmth--qualities quite different from the hectic glow and the feverish passion which his French admirers, Tiersot and Boschot, claim to be genuine attributes of musical inspiration, of power to compel universal attention. We of other nations can only firmly dissent. Without question his work has never succeeded in calling forth the spontaneous love of a large body of admirers.[227] In an eloquent passage the conductor and critic Weingartner sums up the case: "Berlioz will always represent a milestone in the development of music, for he is the real founder of the modern school. He did not approach that ethical depth, that ideal purity which surround Beethoven's name with such unspeakable glory, but no composer since Beethoven, except Wagner, has enriched music with so many new means of expression as this great Frenchman. Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner are the heroes of the last half of the 19th century, just as Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Weber and Schubert were of the first." [Footnote 227: It is understood that this is merely a personal opinion of the writer and might well have been prefaced by the Socratic "it seems to me." Too much criticism reminds us of wine-tasting--Mr. So-and-So likes port, Mr. So-and-So sherry. The object of fair-minded appreciation is to understand clearly just what each composer set out to do, _i.e._, what was the natural tendency of his individual genius; then the only question is: did or did he not do this well? It is futile to blame him because he was not someone else or did not achieve what he never set out to do.] As Berlioz is, if possible, even more idiomatic for the orchestra than Chopin for the pianoforte, no conception of the real quality of his message can be gained from transcriptions, however good. His works[228] must be studied at first hand in the orchestral score and then heard in performance by an excellent orchestra. Some preliminary acquaintance and appreciation, however, of characteristic features in his style is possible from arrangements and so we select for comment the following works and movements: The _Fantastic Symphony_, the _Carnaval Romain_ Overture, the _Ballet des Sylphes_ and the _Feux Follets_ from the _Damnation of Faust_, the _Pilgrim's March_ from the _Childe Harold_ Symphony and the Slow Movement from the _Romeo and Juliet_ Symphony.[229] There is much valuable and stimulating reading[230] about Berlioz and his influence; for, as Théophile Gautier acutely remarks, "S'il fut un grand génie, on peut le discuter encore, le monde est livré aux controverses; mais nul ne penserait à nier qu'il fut un grand caractère." The _Symphonie_[231] _fantastique_, op. 14, _épisode de la vie d'un artiste_, in five movements is significant for being the first manifestation of Berlioz's conviction that music should be yet more specifically expressive, since it is founded on a characteristic theme, called l'idée fixe which typifies the heroine, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 228: The best edition is the complete one, beautifully engraved and with critical comments, by Malherbe and Weingartner. This is expensive, but should be found in any large library.] [Footnote 229: The only citations possible in the Supplement are the Overture and portions of a few of the others.] [Footnote 230: Particularly to be recommended are the following: the essay in _Musical Studies_ by Newman; that by R. Rolland in _Musiciens d'aujourd'hui_ (in French and in English); _Berlioz et la société de son temps_ by J. Tiersot; the essay in _Studies in Modern Music_ by Hadow; Berlioz's own _Mémoires_ (in French and in English) and his entertaining essays, _A Travers Chants_, _Grotesques de la Musique_ and _Soirées d'Orchestre_; the excellent résumé of Berlioz's writings in the _Amateur Series_ by W.F. Apthorp; the _Symphony since Beethoven_ by Weingartner; and, above all, the monumental work by Boschot in three parts--_La Jeunesse d'un Romantique_, _Un Romantique sous Louis Philippe_, _Le Crépuscule d'un Romantique_. There is an amusing but far from convincing assault against Berlioz as a programme composer and, to a certain extent, against Romanticism in general, in the _New Laocoön_ by Professor Irving Babbitt.] [Footnote 231: On the title page of the autograph copy of the full score is inscribed the following quotation from King Lear: "As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods; they kill us for their sport."] This theme, with modifications appropriate to the changes in the character and the environment, is repeated in each movement. As for the theme itself, frankly it does not amount to much; it certainly fails to take our emotions by storm or sing itself into our hearts. Berlioz's harmonization is very bald, and as to his attempts at development,[232] the less said the better. Of course whatever Berlioz writes for the orchestra _sounds_ well; of that there is no doubt. But this is not enough; any more than we are convinced by a person's statements or arguments merely because he happens to have a beautiful speaking voice. This dramatization of a musical theme was, after all, nothing iconoclastically new and Berlioz is perfectly right in claiming that he was merely extending the possibilities of that same type of theme as is found in Beethoven himself, _e.g._, in the _Coriolanus_ Overture and to a certain extent in the Fifth Symphony. If, furthermore, we look back from the dramatic and highly personified use made of themes in modern music, in the works of Strauss, Tchaikowsky, Franck and even Brahms (_e.g._, his First Symphony with its motto-theme) we can see that this symphony of Berlioz is an important link in a perfectly logical chain of development. This melody, then, l'idée fixe, appears in each of the five movements; undergoing, however, but slight purely thematic development, being introduced and modified primarily for dramatic purposes. In the second movement,[233] _Un Bal_, two phrases drawn from it are sung _pp_ by the clarinet as an indication that, amid the gaieties of the dance, the vision of the beloved one is ever present. In the _Scène aux Champs_ it is modified and eloquently declaimed by the flute and oboe, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 232: Dannreuther, in his essay in the Sixth Volume of the _Oxford History of Music_, speaks of the peculiar process of "rabbeting" which serves Berlioz in the place of counterpoint, and the criticism, though caustic, holds much truth.] [Footnote 233: This movement is also of interest as an early example of the Waltz among the conventional symphonic moods. The example has been followed by Tchaikowsky in the third movement of his Fifth Symphony.] At the close of the movement occurs one of Berlioz's most novel and realistic effects--the imitation of the rumbles of distant thunder produced by four kettle-drums tuned in a very peculiar way (see page 75 of the orchestral score, Breitkopf and Härtel edition). In the fourth movement, _Marche au Supplice_, four measures of l'idée fixe are introduced just at the moment when the head of the hero is to be chopped off. This is done for purely theatric purposes and certainly makes our flesh creep--as Berlioz no doubt intended. The most spectacular effect, however, is in the last movement, _Songe d'une Nuit du Sabbat_, where the theme is parodied to typify the degraded appearance which the beloved one takes in the distorted dreams of her lover, _e.g._ [Music] The impression made by the Symphony depends largely upon the attitude of the hearer. In this work we are not to look for the sublimity and emotional depth of a Bach or Beethoven any more than we expect a whimsical comedy of Aristophanes to resemble an epic poem of Milton. But for daring imagination, for rhythmic vitality and certainty of orchestral effect, it was and remains a work[234] of genius. [Footnote 234: For further comments on this Symphony see Mr. Mason's essay in the _Romantic Composers_, an essay which, while thoughtful, strikes the writer as somewhat biased.] THE CARNAVAL ROMAIN OVERTURE (SEE SUPPLEMENT NO. 57) This work is one of Berlioz's most brilliant pieces, with an orchestral life and color all its own. The material is taken from his opera _Benvenuto Cellini_;[235] the checquered career of this artist having made an irresistible appeal to Berlioz's love of the unusual and the spectacular. The body of the work is based on the Italian national dance, the Saltarello; and with this rhythm as a steadying background Berlioz achieves a continuity sometimes lacking in his work. The mere thought of the sights, sounds and colors of that important event in the life of Rome would be enough to inflame his susceptible imagination, and so here we have Berlioz at his very best. The overture begins, allegro assai con fuoco, with a partial announcement of the saltarello theme by the violins and violas, freely imitated by the wood-wind instruments, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 235: For an entertaining account of the subject matter of the opera see Chapter VII of Boschot's _Un Romantique sous Louis Philippe_.] After a sudden prolonged silence and some crescendo trills the first periodic melody is introduced, sung by the English horn--the tune taken from an aria of Benvenuto in the first act. The melody is soon repeated in the dominant key by the violas and then, treated canonically, by the 'cellos and violins. The canon really tells and shows that Berlioz, as is often alleged, was not _altogether_ lacking in polyphonic skill. The rhythm is now gradually quickened and leads to the main body of the work, in 6/8 time, based on the Italian folk-dance--the Saltarello which, as its name implies, is of a "skipping" nature. The music is freely developed from the two following themes; there is no second theme proper, _e.g._ [Music: (_a_)] [Music: (_b_)] Toward the close there is a return to the introductory melody which is treated contrapuntally by the bassoons and other wind-instruments. The saltarello resumes its sway and is worked up to a fiery ending; especially brilliant are the closing chords scored for full brass with trills on the cornets. Two of Berlioz's most poetically conceived descriptive pieces are the _Menuet des Feux-Follets_ and the _Ballet des Sylphes_, incidental orchestral numbers from the _Damnation of Faust_; for they illustrate convincingly what one means by the claim that Berlioz thought in terms of orchestral color and suggestion. To give a musical picture of such airy and fantastic imaginings by the mere repetition of conventional formulae would obviously be of no avail. Berlioz's genius is equal to the situation; and as we listen to the music we can really see the flickering of the Will o' the Wisps and feel the graceful swaying of the Sylphs as they hover about the sleeping Faust. To suggest the Feux-Follets Berlioz ingeniously gives the theme to two piccolos in thirds, which are supported by a rich but subdued mass of wind instruments, horns and trumpets, _e.g._ [Music] With equal felicity does he create the picture of the delicate, graceful Sylphs. Any boisterous rhythmic activity would be quite out of place; and so, above a sustained ground tone on muted 'cellos and basses (which continues through the piece), and the slightest suspicion of motion on the second violins and violas, there floats in the first violins one of the most perfectly rounded and exquisite melodies in existence, _e.g._ [Music] In the closing measures there is a charming shadowy dialogue between kettle-drums (struck with sponge-headed sticks) and harps, in harmonics, carrying out Berlioz's stage directions--"Les esprits de l'air se balancent quelque temps autour de Faust endormi et disparaissent peu à peu." The piece ends with a chord barely whispered on the clarinets, _pppp_, which, as Hadow aptly suggests, reminds us of vanishing soap bubbles. Berlioz's most sustained and perfect work, both in content and treatment, is universally acknowledged to be the _Harold en Italie_ Symphony[236] in four movements for full orchestra and solo viola. There is little actual correspondence between the scenes of Byron's poem and the musical portrayal; and in fact, as Liszt says, "The title clearly shows that the composer wished to render the impression which the magnificent nature of Italy could not fail to make on a soul such as that of Harold languishing in sorrow." The significant features of the work are the melody for solo viola, recurring[237] in each movement, which typifies Harold--that "melancholy dreamer," _e.g._, [Music] and the dazzling sensationalism of the Finale (Orgy of Brigands) which, when it was once played "con amore" by a fine orchestra, called forth from Berlioz the following eulogy,--"Sublime! I thank you, gentlemen, and I wonder at you; you are perfect brigands." The finale is also notable in that the opening portion is a reminiscence, a passing in review, of the chief themes of the preceding movements. Berlioz, we may surmise, was following the precedent established by Beethoven in the finale of the _Ninth Symphony_, and, although his treatment is rather mechanical and lacking in any such dramatic logic as justified Beethoven, a certain organic connection between the movements is undoubtedly secured. A portion of the second movement, _March of Pilgrims_ singing the evening prayer, is cited in the Supplement (See No. 58) chiefly because it is one of Berlioz's noblest inspirations, giving an eloquent picture of a procession approaching, passing by and losing itself in the distance--a long crescendo and diminuendo. At every eighth measure the March melody is interrupted by the muffled chant of the pilgrims, very effectively scored for brass instruments, pianissimo. In the middle of the piece a contrast is gained by the introduction of a religious chant. The closing measures of this movement are of haunting beauty--a mysterious effect being produced by an intentional mixture of tonalities (the sustained B in the flute and oboe being answered by a C on the horns and harp, while beneath are heard fragments of the March theme in the main key on the pizzicato double basses).[238] Berlioz's most pretentious orchestral composition is that called in the full title "Romeo and Juliet, dramatic symphony, with choruses, vocal solos, and a prologue in choral recitative, composed after Shakespeare's tragedy." Notwithstanding many touches of genius, it is a very uneven work and is too much a conglomerate of styles--narrative, lyrical, dramatic, theatric and symphonic--for the constructive ability of the author to weld into a living whole. There are several portions which, however noble and glorious may have been Berlioz's conception,[239] and however inspired by Shakespeare's genius, do not "come off." Two of the numbers, on the other hand, are worthy of the highest praise--the _Love Scene_ and the _Queen Mab Scherzo_. Of the latter Saint-Saëns writes--"The famous Scherzo is worth even more than its reputation. It is a miracle of lightness and gracefulness. Beside such delicacies and transparencies the _finesses_ of Mendelssohn in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ seem heavy." The main theme is fascinating in its daintiness and sparkle, _e.g._ [Music] Berlioz considered the _Love Scene_ his finest inspiration and there are few pieces comparable with it for passionate utterance. The orchestration is wonderful for richness and variety.[240] [Footnote 236: For an extended analysis of the work and also for an account of the alleged connection of the virtuoso Paganini with its composition, see the essay in Niecks' _Program Music_. There are, in addition, interesting comments in _Stories of Symphonic Music_ by Lawrence Gilman.] [Footnote 237: An early example of the modern principle of transformation and transference by theme.] [Footnote 238: A striking illustration of "association of ideas" may be gained from a comparison of the end of this movement with the closing measures of Strauss's _Thus Spake Zarathustra_; it seems incredible that Strauss did not have Berlioz's effect in his mind.] [Footnote 239: See the _Mémoires_ for a rhapsodic account of his state of mind at this time--"basking in the warm rays of Shakespeare's imagination and believing it in his power to arrive at the marvellous island where rises the temple of pure Art."] [Footnote 240: For extended comments and a long citation of the actual music see the Sixth Volume of the _Oxford History of Music_.] After a careful study of the foregoing examples the reader, we hope, is in a position to make a fair estimate of Berlioz's power and to realize his great significance. It should be understood that this music is intensely subjective and so requires a sympathetic and cultivated attitude on the part of the listener. To the writer at least, there remains one vital lack in Berlioz's music,--that of the _dissonant element_. It often seems as if his conceptions could not be fully realized for want of sheer musical equipment, largely due to insufficient early training. For what is music without dissonance? Surely "flat, stale and unprofitable" even if, in Berlioz's case, this deficiency is offset by great rhythmic vitality and gorgeous color. Yet in his best works[241] there is such a strong note of individuality, indeed such real character, that they are deserving of sincere respect and admiration, although by everybody they may not be deeply loved. We should, furthermore, always remember that, if Berlioz's poverty of harmonic effect is sometimes annoying, he never falls into the humdrum ruts of those who have had a stereotyped academic training. His genius was unhampered by any conventional harmonic vocabulary, and hence it could always express itself freely. That he was a real genius no one can fairly doubt. [Footnote 241: For valuable analytical comments on Berlioz's orchestral style see Vol. VIII, Chapter X, of the _Art of Music_ (César Saerchinger, N.Y.), and for biographical details and matters of general import, Vol. II, Chap. IX.] All the qualities which have been enumerated as typical of the romantic temperament: warmth of sentiment, broad culture, love of color and the sensuous side of music, freedom of form, and stress laid on the orchestra as the most eloquent means of expression, reach their climax in Franz Liszt (1811-1886). Born near Vienna of a Hungarian father and a German mother, but chiefly associated with Paris, Weimar, Budapest and Rome, he is certainly the most picturesque and versatile figure in the music of the 19th century; for he worked and won fame as a pianoforte virtuoso--probably the greatest the world has known--as a prolific composer for pianoforte, orchestra and voice, as a teacher, conductor and man of letters, and withal spent a large part of his time, strength and fortune in helping young artists and in producing works which otherwise might never have seen the light. His life is of constant and varied interest, so spectacular at times that it seems like a fairy tale.[242] As a mere boy he began to receive adulation for his precocity; at the height of his career he was loaded with honors and wealth; in his old age he was a favorite with everyone of distinction and influence in France, Germany, England and Italy. Nevertheless he preserved, throughout, the integrity of his character and the nobility of his disposition. Whatever may be the final estimate of his powers as a creative artist, as a man he has earned nothing but eulogy;[243] for seldom has any one been freer from the faults of vanity, petty jealousy and envy which so often mar the artistic temperament. Liszt's generous encouragement and financial support of Wagner in the struggling days of his unpopularity have never been surpassed in the brotherhood of art. [Footnote 242: The best biographies in English are the one by Huneker and that in Vol. 2 of Grove's Dictionary.] [Footnote 243: For a lively description of his influence as a pianoforte teacher see _Music Study in Germany_ by Amy Fay.] Liszt is akin to Berlioz in many respects; we feel the same natural tendency to derive musical inspiration from external sources, poetic, pictorial or from the realm of Nature. Purely as a musician, however, Liszt was far greater, with a wider vocabulary and more power in thematic development. His work also is somewhat uneven; moments of real beauty alternating with passages which are trivial, bombastic or mere lifeless padding. When we bear in mind Liszt's unparalleled versatility, his output in quantity and variety is so amazing--there being well over 1,000 works of about every kind--that it is unfair to expect the style to be as finely wrought as the original conception is noble. A serious and unbiased study of his best compositions will convince one that Liszt is entitled to high rank as a musician of genuine poetic inspiration. The average music-lover is prone to dwell upon him as the composer of _Les Préludes_, the _Hungarian Rhapsodies_, and as the somewhat flashy transcriber of operatic potpourris, such as the _Rigoletto Fantasie_. But _Les Préludes_, notwithstanding a certain charm and the clever manner in which the music (without becoming minutely descriptive) supplements the poem of Lamartine, is yet barred from the first rank by its mawkishness of sentiment and by its cloying harmonies. The most significant among the symphonic poems are _Orpheus_ with its characteristic crescendos and diminuendos; _Tasso_ of great nobility and pathos, and _Mazeppa_, a veritable tour de force of descriptive writing. To hear any one of these masterpieces can not fail to alter the opinion of those who may have considered Liszt as exclusively given over to sensational effects. As for the _Hungarian Rhapsodies_, which Liszt intended as a kind of national ballade and so, for the basic themes and rhythms, drew largely on Hungarian Folk music, here again the public, with its fondness for being dazzled, has laid exclusive stress on the flashy ones to the detriment of those containing much that is noble and of enduring worth. In his transcriptions of standard songs Liszt did as valuable a public service as any popularizer, and has thereby made familiar the melodies of Schubert and Schumann to hundreds who otherwise would know nothing of them. In considering Liszt's pianoforte works we must remember that he was a born virtuoso with a natural fondness for exploiting the possibilities of his instrument, and with an amazing technique as a performer. When the sincerity of a composer is in question there is a great difference as to what should be the standard of judgment, whether the work be for orchestra or for pianoforte. In writing for orchestra the composer naturally centres himself on the pure ideas and their treatment, as the execution is something entirely external to himself. In works for pianoforte, however, the composer who is also a virtuoso will often, and quite justifiably, introduce passages of purely pianistic effect which in other circumstances would amount to a confession of deficient imagination. That Liszt at times abused his facility in decoration need not be gainsaid, and yet how poetic and eloquent are his best pianoforte compositions!--the _Études_, the _Waldesrauschen_, the _Ballade_ and, above all, the _Sonata in B minor_.[244] Much unjust criticism has been expended upon Liszt for treating the pianoforte like an orchestra. As a matter of fact he widened, in a perfectly legitimate way, the possibilities of the instrument as to sonority, wealth and variety of color-effect. According to the testimony of contemporary colleagues, Rubinstein, Taussig and von Bülow who, had they not been convinced of his supremacy, might well have been jealous, Liszt was incontestably the greatest interpreter of Bach, Beethoven and Chopin; and his power as a Beethoven scholar is attested by the poetically annotated edition of the Sonatas. It is often asserted that Liszt lacked spontaneous melodic invention. This is a hard saying unless taken in a relative sense. We may grant that Liszt was neither a Schubert nor a Mozart, and yet recognize in his works some extremely haunting melodies. His creative power was acknowledged by Wagner and in a very practical manner. In fact, after a comparative study of their works, one is amazed at the number of melodies which Wagner borrowed from Liszt and at the generous complaisance of the latter. The reactive influence of Liszt and Wagner, each upon the other, is an interesting chapter in the development of modern art. Liszt was undoubtedly encouraged in his revolutionary aims by Wagner's fiery courage. Wagner, on his side, owed much to Liszt's unselfish generosity; and with his more powerful constructive gifts worked up into enduring form motives which, internal evidence clearly shows, came from Liszt himself. [Footnote 244: For a most entertaining description of this work see the Huneker Biography, pp. 64-70.] Just a few closing words as to Liszt's specific contributions to the expansion of musical structure. He was an advanced leader in the "program school," being endowed with considerably more constructive power than Berlioz, who often fell between two stools: in that while his subject demanded the freest treatment, he lacked the vigor to break away from the formal routine of his classic models. In Liszt's orchestral works, however, the term "Symphonic Poem"--one of his own invention--is fully justified, _i.e._, they are _symphonic_ in that they have organic unity, although this is not attained by preserving the classic number and arrangement of themes; and they are also _poetic_, being not a presentation of abstract tone patterns, but illustrative of some external idea which shapes the course of the music entirely to its own needs.[245] The distinguishing quality of the Symphonic Poem is its unbroken continuity. Although objective points are reached, and while there are broad lines of demarcation with reference to the varied moods of the poem to be illustrated, there are _no rigid stops_--everything is fused together into a continuous whole. Liszt was an advocate of persistent development, _i.e._, the music going out into space like a straight line instead of returning on itself. Inner evidence shows, however, that although he avoided many needless and conventional repetitions, he could not entirely throw overboard the cyclical law of restatement; for there is not one of his _Symphonic Poems_ which does not repeat, at the end, thematic material already heard. Liszt carried the principle of theme transformation still further than Berlioz; and, as a German, tended to lay stress rather on the psychological aspects of character than on those outward theatric events which appeal to French taste. The difference is well shown by a comparison of the _Damnation of Faust_ with Liszt's _Faust_ Symphony, considered his most inspired orchestral work. Liszt must not be forgotten as a song-writer, especially for his settings to Goethe's poems; which, as Huneker says, are masterpieces and contain, in essence, all the dramatic lyricism of modern writers, Strauss included. In these songs the instrumental part is of special import; Liszt in pianistic treatment anticipating Hugo Wolf with his "Songs for Voice and Pianoforte," _i.e._, the voice and the instrument are treated as coequal factors. [Footnote 245: For stimulating comments see _The Symphony since Beethoven_ by Weingartner, pp. 71-86.] The works of Liszt selected for analytical comment are the Symphonic Poem _Orpheus_, the _Faust_ Symphony and the Pianoforte Étude, _Waldesrauschen_. The student, however, should become familiar with several others[246] of the Symphonic Poems, notably _Tasso_, _Les Préludes_ and _Mazeppa_; with the Pianoforte Sonata in B minor in one movement, in which Liszt works on the same plan as Schumann in the Fourth Symphony; with the descriptive pianoforte pieces and études; and with the songs, of which _Kennst du das Land_, _Die Lorelei_ and _Du bist wie eine Blume_ are beautiful examples. [Footnote 246: An enlightening and comprehensive account of each of these may be found in Niecks's _Programme Music_ already referred to. See also Chapter VII, pp. 141-155 in Vol. VI of the _Oxford History_ for what is perhaps a rather biased point of view. There is an excellent tabulation of the themes from _Les Préludes_ in Mason's _Romantic Composers_.] SYMPHONIC POEM, ORPHEUS In this work, as must always be the case in poetically suggestive music, the composer trusts to the general intelligence and insight of the listener. For a mere mention of the name Orpheus may well call up the vision of a majestic, godlike youth proclaiming his message of joy and peace to soften the unruly passions of men and animals. It is said that Liszt's imagination was kindled by a beautiful representation of Orpheus playing on the lyre, which decorates an Etruscan vase in the Louvre. The aim of the music was thus to intensify and supplement the visual effect. The Poem begins with soft, sustained calls on the horns, creating a mood of expectancy, interspersed with modulatory arpeggios on the harp serving to complete the legendary picture. In these Symphonic Poems, we must always observe how closely the nature of the themes and the whole import of the music are involved with the orchestral dress. For Liszt, though not perhaps so brilliant and sensational as Berlioz, was equally a great master of orchestral coloring and poetic suggestion by means of appropriate instruments; often, too, more delicate and refined. In measure 15 begins for sustained strings the stately march which typifies the gradual approach of Orpheus. The second phrase of the march, beginning in measure 38, has received the compliment of being appropriated, almost literally, by Wagner in the second act of the _Valkyrie_ for the march motive with which Wotan is ushered in. Some beautiful modulatory developments of the march theme, with which the original horn calls are united, lead to the impassioned theme in E major, sung by an English horn, which is the message of Orpheus to the sons of men, _e.g._ [Music] The theme is expanded by means of striking modulations until, in measure 102, it is presented by the full orchestra. Some rather meaningless repetitions, in detached phrases, of the Orpheus theme bring us, in measure 130, to a return of the original march which is finally proclaimed _ff_ with great power and sonority. It seems to typify the triumphant justification of Orpheus's appearance. The dissonant modulations in the following passage, beginning measure 155, (in which the double basses take a dramatic part) have been thought by some to represent realistically the uncouth roars of forest monsters. These outcries finally subside and in the Coda, beginning at measure 180, we have first a beautiful reminiscence of Orpheus's message and then a last announcement of the march theme, which is now presented in the form of a long diminuendo, as if the God-like apparition were slowly withdrawing from our sight. A series of shifting modulations (adagio and pianissimo) seems to bring a cloud before our enraptured senses, and the work closes with a long sustained chord in C major, _ppp_, giving an elemental idea of peace and satisfaction. From the standpoint of musical structure the work is a crescendo followed by a diminuendo and, poetically considered, is a convincing picture in terms of music of the effect made upon Liszt's imagination by the legend of Orpheus. Observe that, although the composition is free in form, it is _not_ formless.[247] The main lines are the familiar ones of statement, contrast and restatement, _i.e._, three-part form, and the key-relationship is clear and carefully planned. [Footnote 247: An allegation often brought against Liszt's work by those whose conception of "form" is that of a cast-iron mould.] THE FAUST SYMPHONY This work, although embodying Liszt's favorite ideas of dramatic characterization and transformation of theme as found in the Symphonic Poems, more nearly resembles the ordinary symphony in that it is in three distinct movements--with pauses between--which stand, respectively, for the three chief characters in Goethe's drama: Faust, Gretchen and Mephistopheles. In the _Faust_ Symphony the principle of transformation or metamorphosis of themes is of such importance that it may be defined as their rhythmic, melodic and harmonic modification for the purpose of changing the meaning to correspond with a modification in the characters for which they stand. The first movement sets before us five themes illustrative of the most prominent traits in the complex nature of Faust; the three most important being (_a_) typical of brooding, speculative inquiry, (_b_) the longing of love, (_c_) the enthusiasm and chivalry of Faust, _e.g._ [Music: (_a_)] [Music: (_b_)] [Music: (_c_)] The development of these themes is entirely free, the musical texture being held together by a general application of the principle of contrast and by a logical key-scheme. The second movement has two main themes, _e.g._ [Music: (_a_)] [Music: (_b_)] which portray eloquently the sweetness and dreamy ecstacy of Gretchen's nature. In the course of this portrayal there appear several themes from the first movement showing, by their transformation, the effect upon the introspective Faust of the awakening influence of love. Thus the love theme appears as-- [Music] and also later in this form-- [Music] Towards the close of the movement there is a subtle reference to the chivalrous theme, as follows-- [Music] Much of the appeal of the music depends upon the orchestration which throughout is of remarkable beauty. In the final movement, entitled Mephistopheles, there are a few independent themes which portray the malign influence of the spirit of Evil--the movement is marked Allegro vivace ironico!--but most of the material is a transformation of the Faust themes which are here burlesqued, parodied; as if all the noble aspirations of Faust were being mocked and set at naught. This treatment is a perfectly logical result of the correspondence, for which Liszt was striving, between the music and the spirit of the underlying drama. As for the final impressiveness of his artistic message, the composer may well have felt that the effect would be indefinite without the specific meaning which words alone can give. For the style is very subjective throughout; that is, if the hearer is in a responsive condition, an effect is produced on his imagination--otherwise, not. To close the work, therefore, in the most moving and dignified manner, Liszt, with unerring instinct and following the precedent of Beethoven in the Ninth Symphony, introduces a chorus of men's voices--marked Andante Mistico--which intones the famous stanza "Alles Vergängliche"[248] at the close of the second part of Faust; while, above this chorus, a solo tenor proclaims the motto of the redeeming love of woman, "Das ewig Weibliche"--a sentiment so dear to the German[249] mind and one that plays such an important part in the music dramas of Wagner. A dramatic and musical connection between the movements is established by using, for this solo part, the melody (intensified by augmentation) which in the second movement typified the love and charm of Gretchen, _e.g._ [Music: Das ewig Weibliche] [Footnote 248: Translated as follows by Bayard Taylor:-- Chorus Misticus All things transitory But as symbols are sent; Earth's insufficiency Here grows to Event; The Indescribable, Here it is done: The Woman-Soul leadeth us Upward and on!] [Footnote 249: The way in which the Germans in the recent war have applied this doctrine raises, we must say, many searching questions.] Notwithstanding the ultra sensationalism in some of Liszt's works there is no doubt that, in the closing pages of Faust, he has produced an effect of genuine power and of inspired musical beauty.[250] _Faust_, in fact, may be called a great work because of the character of its leading melodies, its freedom of structure and expression and its wealth of appropriate orchestral color. For these merits we may overlook certain dreary passages where it would surely seem as if the imagination of the composer were not able to translate into tones all the phases of Goethe's stupendous drama.[251] [Footnote 250: That this is the verdict of the public is shown by the fact that, whenever of late years _Faust_ has been given by the Boston Symphony Orchestra, it has had to be repeated by popular request.] [Footnote 251: For further comments on the work see Huneker's _Franz Liszt_, pp. 141-146 and the third part (on Program Music) of Finck's _R. Strauss, The Man and His Works_. Also Chap. VII passim in Vol. VI of the Oxford History.] In a book such as this, chiefly concerned with broad principles of structure and style, it would be out of place to attempt a detailed account of Liszt's numerous and varied pianoforte compositions. But they can by no means be left out of consideration by anyone who wishes to gain a comprehensive estimate of his influence. For although the fundamental principles of pianoforte style, both in writing for the instrument and in playing upon it, are derived from Chopin and Schumann,[252] Liszt so amplified the work of these men and added so many novel features of his own in pianistic effect and especially in execution that he is rightly considered a genius of the instrument. He certainly brought out of the pianoforte a sonority and wealth of color which heretofore had been associated only with the orchestra. The chief groups of the pianoforte works are (1) the transcriptions of songs, notably of Schubert and Schumann, and of operas, particularly of Wagner. In this group should also be included the remarkable arrangement for solo-pianoforte of all the Beethoven Symphonies. (2) The Études, especially the set entitled "_Études d'exécution transcendante_"--a description which clearly shows the idea Liszt set before himself and indubitably attained; of this set the one in F minor is particularly fine. (3) The world-famed _Hungarian Rhapsodies_, fifteen in number, based on national melodies and rhythms. In these Liszt aspired to be the poet of his nation, and they are still among the most important manifestations of the national spirit so prominent in our modern music. Perhaps the most eloquent and celebrated are the 2d, the 12th and the 14th. Even if at times they are overencrusted with effects meant primarily for display, the rhythmic vitality and color of the melodies cannot be withstood. [Footnote 252: Weber and Schubert had, of course, done valuable pioneer work.] CONCERT ÉTUDE, _Waldesrauschen_ (SEE SUPPLEMENT NO. 59) This composition begins with a swaying, cantabile theme for the left hand very characteristic of Liszt, which stands out in relief against some beautifully placed arabesque figures in the upper register of the instrument--the whole to be played una corda, dolce con grazia. It really is a poetic picture, in terms of music, of the delicious murmur of the woods. In the 15th measure the theme is transferred to the right hand, in octaves, over sonorous, widely extended groups below. The theme is expanded through a series of striking modulations and then returns, in measure 30, to the left hand in a single melodic line. This middle portion, measures 30-50, is very beautiful in its genuine atmospheric treatment. Towards its close, however, Liszt's fondness for sensational effect rather runs away with him and there is a good deal, in measures 50-60 (marked martellato, strepitoso and _fff_), which is rather difficult to reconcile with the poetic subject. Perhaps a mighty wind is roaring through the trees! In measure 61 the theme is once more presented in amplified form by the right hand, più mosso and molto appassionata, and worked up to a brilliant climax--ending with an interlocking trill and a long, descending passage of delightful sensuous effect. The closing measures, una corda and dolcissimo, afford a reminiscence of the haunting appeal of the chief melody. All in all, in spite of a certain admixture of alloy, here is a poetic composition, a real tone-picture of the woods and of the effects implied by the title. Certainly a piece which, in its picturesque suggestiveness and pianistic treatment, may fairly be called the ancestor of much that is beautiful in such modern composers as Debussy and Ravel. As a final estimate of Liszt and as a suggestion for the student's attitude we cite from Niecks the following quotation, since, in our opinion, it is true and forcibly expressed: "Liszt's works are too full of originality and striking expressiveness to deserve permanently the neglect that has been their lot. Be, however, the ultimate fate of these works what it may, there will always remain to Liszt the fame of a daring striver, a fruitful originator and a wide-ranging quickener." CHAPTER XVI BRAHMS After the novel and brilliant work of the Romanticists had reached its height in the compositions just studied, it seemed as if there were nothing more for music to do. Wagner, with his special dramatic aims and gorgeous coloring, loomed so large on the horizon that for a time all other music was dwarfed. It is, therefore of real significance that just in this interregnum two men, born in the early years of the 19th century, were quietly laying the foundations for eloquent works in absolute or symphonic music. These men were Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) and César Franck (1822-1890). Following a few preliminary remarks about the significance of symphonic style in general, the next chapters will be devoted to an account of their works and influence. A striking feature in the development of music since 1850 is the number of symphonies produced by the representative composers of the various nations; and the manner in which these works embody certain phases of style and manifest national tendencies is a subject of great interest. Ever since Beethoven, there has been a universal feeling that the symphony is the form in which a composer should express his highest thoughts. If Wagner and Richard Strauss seem to be exceptions, we must remember that their work for orchestra is thoroughly symphonic both in material and in scope. The difference is chiefly one of terms. Wagner claimed that he merely applied to dramatic purposes Beethoven's thematic development; and the tone-poems of Strauss are symphonies in essence though on a free poetic basis. Every composer has taken up the writing of a symphony with a serious purpose and often comparatively late in life. To be sure, Beethoven's first Symphony, op. 21, was composed in his thirtieth year; but for the works which manifest most strongly his personality, such as the Third, Fifth and Ninth, we have to wait until a later period. Schumann essayed symphonic composition only after his technique had been developed in every other field. Brahms's first Symphony, on which he is said to have worked ten years, is op. 68. César Franck looked forward to a Symphony as the climax of his career. The day has passed when a composer could dash off symphonies by the dozen; quality and genuine personality in each work are the modern requirements. Thus from Brahms we have four symphonies, from Tchaikowsky six, from Bruckner nine--a dangerously large number!--from Sibelius five, from Elgar two, from d'Indy three; and, even if a composer write but a single really inspired and noble symphony--as for example, César Franck--he is in so far immortal. For the symphonic form is the product of too much intense striving (think of Beethoven's agonies of conception!) to be treated lightly. Beginning with the operatic overture of Lully and Scarlatti, called "Sinfonia avanti l'opera," down through the labors of Stamitz, Gossec, Emmanuel Bach, Haydn and Mozart, this form, as we know it to-day, is the result of at least a century and a half of sustained, constructive work. A musician who wishes to compose a symphony is brought face to face with the formidable question, "Have I a real message to utter and the technical skill to present it in communicable form?" There are no accessory appeals to the other senses in the way of a dramatic story, scenic effect, dancing and costumes--as in opera--to cloak poverty of invention and to mollify the judgment of the listener. I grant that the composition of an original opera is a high achievement, but we know how many composers have won success in the operatic field from whom we should never expect a symphony. From comparatively few have we great works in both forms. Consider, furthermore, how complicated a tool is the present orchestra, _as_ a tool, to say nothing of the invention of ideas. Many years of study are required to attain a certainty of calculation in sonority and _nuance_, and the mere writing out the score of a symphony requires unremitting toil. We all pay homage to life: human life in men, women and children, and the life of nature in animals, birds, trees and flowers. Let us ever remember that the imagination also has its products and the themes of a symphony may certainly be considered _its_ children. The public often seems to have slight idea of the sanctity and mystery of a musical idea. Composers are considered people with a kind of "knack" in writing down notes. In reality, a musical idea is as wonderful a thing as we can conceive--a miracle of life and yet intangible, ethereal. The composer apparently creates something out of nothing, pure fancy being wrought into terms of communication. Since the close of the Romantic period proper, the Symphonic composers of universal recognition have been Brahms, Franck, Tchaikowsky, d'Indy, Sibelius, Bruckner, Mahler, Dvo[vr]ák, Elgar, and a few lesser men of the Russian and French schools. Their works carry still further the principles which can be traced from Beethoven down through the Romantic School, _i.e._, the chief themes are of a highly subjective nature, often in fact being treated like actual characters in a drama; and great freedom is shown in regard to mood and order of the usual symphonic movements--this being particularly true of Mahler and Bruckner. A distinct feature of interest in the work of Tchaikowsky, Dvo[vr]ák and Sibelius is the introduction of exotic types of melody and rhythm, drawn from national sources. Thus Tchaikowsky, who said that he wished all his instrumental music to sound like a glorified Russian folk-song, uses rhythms of 5 and (in his chamber music) 7 beats a measure, with frequent touches of old modal harmony. Dvo[vr]ák founds his harmony and modulations on the exceedingly chromatic scale of the Bohemians; and his piquant and dashing rhythms could come only from a nation which has no less than forty national dances. In listening to Sibelius, we are conscious of the wild sweep of the wind, of unchained forces of nature; and there are the same traits of virile strength and grim dignity which have made the Kalevala, Finland's national poem, one of the great epics of the world. Although Brahms never lets us forget that he is a Teuton, there are frequent traces in his compositions of the Hungarian element--so dear to all the Viennese composers--as well as of German folk-songs; and the most artistic treatment we have of Hungarian rhythms is found in his two sets of Hungarian dances. It is manifestly beyond the scope of a single book to treat comprehensively each of the symphonists in the list just cited, so I shall dwell chiefly upon the characteristics of Brahms, Franck, Tchaikowsky and d'Indy as probably the greatest, and touch only incidentally upon the others, as of somewhat lesser import; though if anyone take issue with this preference in regard to Mahler and Bruckner I shall not combat him. For I believe Mahler to be a real genius; feeling, however, that his wonderful conceptions are sometimes not expressed in the most convincing manner. There is no doubt that Mahler has not yet received his bigger part in due valuation, but his time will surely come. As for Bruckner, we have from him some of the most elemental and powerful ideas in modern music--witness the dirge in the _Seventh Symphony_ with its impressive scoring for trombones and Bayreuth tubas, a movement Beethoven might have signed; although with the virgin gold there is mixed, it must be confessed, a large amount of crude alloy, and there are dreary stretches of waste sand. Johannes Brahms, like Beethoven, with whom his style has many affinities, was a North-German, born in 1833 in the historic seaport town of Hamburg.[253] Brahms came of lowly though respectable and intelligent parents, his father being a double-bass player in one of the theatre orchestras. That the positiveness of character, so conspicuous in his famous son, was an inherited trait may be seen from the following anecdote. The director of the theatre orchestra once asked father Brahms not to play so loud; whereupon he replied with dignity, "Herr Kapellmeister, this is my double-bass, I want you to understand, and I shall play it as loud as I please." The music of Brahms in its bracing vigor has been appropriately compared to a mixture of sea air and the timbre of this instrument. [Footnote 253: Noted as being the original centre of national German opera and for its associations with the early career of Handel.] Brahms's mother was a deeply religious woman who imbued her son with a seriousness of purpose which runs through all his work. From his earliest years he was trained for music, as a matter of course, and showed marked precocity as a pianist, though it soon became evident that he also was endowed with rare creative gifts. The young student made such progress under Marxsen, a famous teacher of the period, that at the age of fifteen he gave a public concert, on the program of which stood some original pieces of his own. The next few years were spent in diligent study and in the composition of some of his early works, of which the Scherzo op. 4 is the most significant. Brahms was extraordinarily precocious and during these formative years manifested a trait which is noticeable throughout his career--that of knowing exactly what end he had in view and of setting to work quickly and steadily to attain it. Finally in 1853, when he was twenty, he was invited to participate in the memorable concert-tour with the Hungarian Violinist Remenyi, which was the cause of his being brought before the public under the auspices of three such sponsors as Schumann, Liszt and Joachim. It seems that, at one of the concerts in a small town, the pianoforte was a semitone too low, whereupon young Brahms transposed at sight a difficult Beethoven Sonata into the requisite higher key. This remarkable feat of musicianship so impressed Joachim, who was in the audience, that he gave Brahms two letters of introduction--one to Liszt at Weimar and one to Schumann at Düsseldorf on the Rhine. Following up these letters, Brahms now spent six weeks at Weimar with Liszt, assimilating important points of method and style. Although the two natures were somewhat unsympathetic, Liszt was so impressed with the creative power and character of Brahms's first compositions, that he tried to adopt him as an adherent of the advanced school of modern music; while Brahms was led, as some would claim, through Liszt's influence to an appreciation of the artistic effects to be found in Hungarian music. Brahms's visit to Schumann in the autumn of 1853 was in its consequences a significant incident. After hearing Brahms's music, Schumann wrote for the "Neue Zeitschrift" an article entitled "Neue Bahnen" ("New Paths") in which the young composer was heralded as the master for whom the world had been waiting, the successor of Beethoven in the symphonic style. Through Schumann's influence, the publishers Breitkopf and Härtel at once brought out Brahms's first works, which were by no means received by the public with general favor; in fact they provoked as bitter discussion as those of Wagner, and made headway slowly. For four years--from 1854 to 1858--Brahms was in the service of the Prince of Lippe-Detmold, a small principality near Hanover, where the court was a quiet one, thus affording ample time for composition and private study. Brahms's strength of purpose and unusual power of self-criticism are shown by the way in which this period was spent. Although he had made a brilliant début, Brahms now imposed upon himself a course of rigorous technical training, appeared seldom before the public and published no compositions; his object being to free himself from a narrow subjectivity and to give scope to his wide human sympathies and to his passion for perfection of utterance. It seemed to him that a plausible originality might degenerate into mere idiosyncrasy, and that universality of appeal should be a musician's highest goal. When he resigned his post and came before the public with his first large work, a concerto for pianoforte and orchestra, the gain made in increased power and resources was evident. The greatest tribute which can be paid Brahms is that he has summed up and united the classic principles of clearness and solidity of workmanship with the warmth and spontaneity of the Romantic School. In 1862 Brahms settled in Vienna where, for thirty-five years, his career was entirely free from external incidents of note; his time spent in quiet steady work and in the attainment of artistic ideals. His slow logical development is like that of Beethoven, due to the fact that his works were far from numerous, but finished with the greatest care. The standard of creative quality is also very high; comparatively few of Brahms's works are not altogether alive. Matthew Arnold's beautiful lines on labor are applicable to Brahms. "Work which in lasting fruit outgrows far noisier schemes; accomplished in repose; too great for haste; too high for rivalry." Brahms thus described to Mr. Henschel, a former conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, his ideals concerning composing: "There is no real creating without hard work; that which you call invention is simply an inspiration from above, for which I am not responsible, which is no merit of mine." And again, "Whether a composition is beautiful is one consideration, but perfect it must be." The few of his compositions which show connection with outward events are the _Deutsches Requiem_, his best-known choral work (in commemoration of his mother's death) and the _Academic Overture_, composed in place of the conventional thesis, when--in 1880--the University of Breslau conferred on him a doctor's degree. This Overture, based on several convivial student songs, is on the whole his most genial composition for orchestra and has won a deserved popularity the world over.[254] For sustained fancy his most beautiful work for chorus and orchestra is the _Schicksalslied_ (_Song of Destiny_). Symphonic composition, as has been said, came in the latter part of Brahms's career, his first work in that form being op. 68. After that, within a few years, three other symphonies were composed. His last works include the significant pianoforte pieces called _Intermezzi_--not all equally inspired, but many representing the finest flower of Brahms's genius; four serious songs for bass voice, and one posthumous work, _Eleven Choral Preludes for Organ_. Brahms died in 1897 and lies buried in Vienna not far from Beethoven and Schubert. [Footnote 254: Another very fine work in this class is the _Tragic Overture_, worthy of the deepest study.] From Brahms we have beautiful works in every branch of composition save the opera and symphonic poem. (He once said he would risk neither an opera nor getting married!) Very few of his works have titles, and in this respect he stood somewhat aloof from that strong tendency in modern times--the connection between music and poetic and literary sources of inspiration. But he had a right to choose his own line of effort; it is for us to become familiar with his works as they are. They comprise about two hundred songs, three pianoforte sonatas and many lesser pieces, two concertos for pianoforte and orchestra, a wonderfully fine violin concerto, four symphonies--each with a character of its own--and a large group of chamber compositions: string quartets, sonatas for violin and pianoforte, trios, and a number of works for unusual ensemble combinations--the Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte being the best known. As to the nature of Brahms's music the following comments are submitted for consideration. He was not a colorist or a stylist in the broad sense of those terms, _i.e._, color and style were not the prime ingredients in his music. There is light and shade in Brahms but seldom that rich and varied glow found, for example, in Rimsky-Korsakoff--that supreme master of orchestral coloring. As for style, it may be said that his work fulfils Matthew Arnold's definition of that desirable quality, "To have something to say and to say it in the most simple and direct manner possible." We sometimes feel, however, that he is thinking more of what he has to say than of outward eloquence of expression. But when there are so many composers[255] in whom there is far more style than substance, we should not carp at Brahms for the "stuff" in his work. The matter might be put in a nut-shell by saying that Brahms is Brahms; you accept him or leave him, as you see fit. The bulk of his music not only has stood the test of time but becomes more potent each year; surely this is the highest possible endorsement. He is rightly considered a great master of pure melodic line and a consummate architect, especially in the conciseness and concentration of certain compositions, _e.g._, the Third Symphony, and in his superb mastery of the Variation form which is the basis of some of his most famous works for orchestra and for pianoforte. His texture is of marked richness and variety; seldom do we find verbiage or lifeless padding. He has been called the Browning of music--a deep thinker in tones. Genuine appreciation of Brahms presupposes work on the part of the music-lover; and the recognition should be more general that the imaginative stimulation gained only through work is one of the blessings music has to bestow. [Footnote 255: We cite Saint-Saëns, as one instance.] It is often alleged, indeed, that to enjoy Brahms one _has_ to work. Of course, but what repaying work! This may be said equally of Shakespeare, of Dante, of Browning, of Bach and of every poet with a serious message. The vitality of Brahms's creative power, like that of Beethoven, is seen in his rhythm. He had a highly developed rhythmic sense, and in his fondness for syncopations, for contrasted accents and for complicated metric groups he is the logical successor of Schumann. One of his favorite devices is the altered grouping of the notes in a measure, so that there is a contrast between duple and triple rhythm, _e.g._, the following passage in the Second Symphony, where an effect of great vigor is produced. [Music] There are never in Brahms weak or conventional rhythms. He is also one of the great modern song-composers, representing with Strauss, Wolf and Mahler the culmination of the German Lied. In his songs there is a warmth and depth of sentiment as yet unsurpassed, and the accompaniment is always a highly wrought factor in the work. In estimating the value of Brahms's compositions as a whole, it is difficult to hold the balance true. Those to whom he is sympathetic through an affinity of temperament revere him as one of the great geniuses for all time, while to others his message is not of such convincing power. The effect of inborn temperament in the personal appeal made by any composer is vividly shown by the estimate which Tchaikowsky and Brahms had for one another. Each felt respect for the sincerity and artistic skill of his contemporary, at the same time regretfully acknowledging that the essence of the music meant little to him. To Tchaikowsky Brahms seemed cold and lacking in melodic spontaneity; to Brahms, on the other hand, Tchaikowsky seemed superficial, sensational. The gist of the matter is that Brahms was a Teuton and wrote with characteristic Teutonic reserve and dignity. Tchaikowsky, being a Slav, wrote with the impassioned lack of restraint and volatility of mood associated with that people. How could it be otherwise? Each was a genuine artist, expressing his natural feelings with clearness and conviction; and each should be respected for what he did: _not_ one at the expense of the other. In Brahms, however, the question does arise of facility of expression versus worthiness of expression. He had an unparalleled technique in the manipulation of notes but whether there was always an emotional impulse behind what he wrote is debatable. For there are these two contrasting types in every art: works which come from the heart (remember Beethoven's significant inscription at the end of his Mass),[256] and those which come from the head. This brings us face to face with the perplexing question as to the essence of music. To some it is a record of intellectual activity tinged with emotion; to others, an emotional outpouring controlled by intellect. These two types of music will always exist, being the natural expression of the corresponding classes in human nature. [Footnote 256: "From the heart it has come, to the heart it shall go."] Brahms's music is sometimes called dry, but this is a misuse of terms. To draw an analogy from another sense, we might rejoin that the best champagne is "sec," all the superfluous, cloying sugar being removed. There is plenty of saccharine music in the world for those who like it. In Brahms, however, we find a potential energy and a manly tenderness which cannot be ignored even by those who are not profoundly thrilled by his message. He was a sincere idealist and composed to please his own high standards, never thinking of outward effect nor testing the pulse of the fickle public. As a man there is no doubt that he was warm-hearted and vigorous, but his was not the nature to come forward with captivating geniality. On the contrary he expects the hearer to come to him, and is too reserved to meet you more than half-way. That this austerity has proved a bar in the way of a wide-spread fame, while to be regretted, is unavoidable; remove these characteristics from Brahms and he ceases to be Brahms. Those, however, who may think that Brahms is always austere and grim, holding himself aloof from broad human emotion, should remember that he has done more than any other modern composer to idealize the Waltz; and, if the atmosphere of his symphonic style be too rarified, they may well begin their effort in appreciation with those charming Waltzes op. 39 (both for solo pianoforte and for a four-hand arrangement); the _Hungarian Dances_, and--most beautiful of all--the _Liebeslieder Walzer_ for chorus and pianoforte (four-hands). Anyone who knows these works cannot fail to become a genuine lover of Brahms. To be of the earth and yet to strike the note of sublimity is a paradox. For, in Brahms at his best, we surely find more of the sublime, of true exalted aspiration, than in any other modern composer save César Franck. To strike this note of sublimity is the highest achievement of music--its proper function; a return, as it were, to the abode whence it came. Such music is far beyond that which is merely sensuous, brilliantly descriptive, or even dramatically characteristic. Much of present day music excites and thrills but does not exalt. Brahms, in his great moments, lifts us high above the earth. His universal acceptance is alike hindered by a deficiency which, though as natural as his reserve, may yet justly be cited against him--the occasional monotony of his color scheme. In the symphonies, notwithstanding the dignity and sincerity of thought, we find pages in the style of an engraving which would be more effective as a glowing canvas, _e.g._, in the slow movement of the Second Symphony and in the last two movements of the Fourth. Many consider, however, that Brahms's orchestral treatment is exactly suited to the seriousness of his ideas; so it comes down to a question of individual taste. That he had his own delicate feeling for color and sensuous effect is shown in many pages of the chamber music, especially in those works for unusual combinations, _e.g._, the Clarinet Quintet, and the Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte. No one in modern times has used more eloquently that romantic instrument, the horn. See, for example, the Coda to the first movement of the D major Symphony and the slow movement of the Third Symphony. We must gratefully acknowledge the lasting quality of his music--without question it wears well. In fact, difficult though it be to comprehend at a first hearing, the more it is heard, the more it is enjoyed. Brahms's[257] music is steadily growing in popularity. His orchestral works and chamber music are applauded to-day, although twenty-five years ago they were received with apathy and scornful indifference. [Footnote 257: For literature on Brahms the following works are recommended: the comprehensive _Life_ by Fuller-Maitland; the essay in Hadow's _Studies in Modern Music_; that in Mason's _From Grieg to Brahms_; that by Spitta in _Studies in Music_ by Robin Grey; the first essay in _Mezzotints in Modern Music_ by Huneker; the biographical and critical article in Grove's Dictionary; Chapter IX in Volume 8 of the _Art of Music_, and Chapter XIII in Volume 2. There are also some stimulating remarks on Brahms's style in general, and on the attitude of a past generation towards his work, in those delightful essays, in 2 volumes, _By the Way, About Music_ by the late well-known critic, W.F. Apthorp.] As a representative work in each of the four fields in which Brahms created such masterpieces we have selected, for detailed analysis, the _First Symphony_, the _Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte in A major_, the _Ballade in G minor_ and the _Song_, _Meine Liebe ist grün wie der Fliederbusch_. All four of Brahms's symphonies may justly be considered great, each in its own way. For Brahms is not a man with a single message and has not written one large symphony in different sections, as, in a broad sense, may be said of Tchaikowsky. The Second, on account of the spontaneity and direct appeal of its themes, is undoubtedly the most popular. It contains a first movement of a quasi-Mendelssohnian suavity and lyric charm; a slow movement which is a meditation of the profundity of Bach himself; a third movement, allegretto, based on a delightful waltz of the Viennese Ländler type and a Finale of a Mozartian freshness and vigor--the second theme being specially notable for its broad sweep. The whole work is a convincing example of Brahms's vitality and "joie de vivre." The Third symphony is a marvel of conciseness and virile life. The Fourth, though not in all respects so inspired as the others, is famous for its beautiful slow movement--with an impressive introduction in the Phrygian mode (Brahms often showing a marked fondness for old modal harmony)--and for the Finale, which is an illustration of his polyphonic skill in modernizing the variation form, the Passacaglia or ground bass. But the First,[258] it seems to us, is the greatest, in scope, in wealth of material, in its remarkable combination of dramatic, epic and lyric elements and in an intensity of feeling and sublimity of thought peculiar to Brahms. It is extremely subjective, of deep ethical value, and sets forth a message of optimism and undying hope. The structural basis is a motto, often recurring in the work, which (whatever it may mean) is evidently--like the theme of the C minor symphony--some fierce protest against fate. The symphony, as a whole, represents a triumphant progress from darkness to light; and this meaning is made evident by the ever-brightening mood of the successive movements, the tone of which is strengthened by the scheme of key-relationship--based on an ascending series of major thirds, _e.g._ [Music: C Minor, E major, A-flat major, C major.] [Footnote 258: The eloquence of the work is so integrally involved with its orchestral dress that it should always be studied, if possible, in the full score. For class-room work excellent editions are available for two and four hands.] The work is somewhat uneven--never weak--but at times a bit labored; as if the composer were consciously wrestling with great thoughts. This, however, is nothing against it, because equally true of large works in other fields of art, _e.g._, the Agamemnon of Aeschylus or Wagner's Tetralogy. It cannot be understood, much less appreciated, without close attention and earnest thought, for it presents the struggles and aspirations of mankind and is not meant solely to delight or entertain. When the hearer has made it his own it is a priceless possession for all time. The Prelude to the first movement, un poco sostenuto, is of impressive solemnity, developed from the motto, and based on the almost persistent iteration of the pedal notes C and G--the tonic and dominant. It proclaims that a serious meaning is to be revealed, and this meaning is accentuated by the orchestration which with its stratified grouping of melodic lines has a grim strength characteristic of Brahms. [Music] The first movement proper, Allegro, in complete sonata-form, begins with a _ff_ announcement of the impassioned, chromatic motto, _e.g._ [Music] Note the cutting effect of the dissonant tones F-sharp and A-flat! From this motto grows the melodic part of the first theme in two balancing phrases, _e.g._ [Music] Then follow some stormy measures of dissonant chords and warring rhythms until the theme rages itself out, in measure 52. The transition begins with some sharp staccato chords, as if summoning to further attention. It gradually cools down through a series of beautiful modulations and, in measure 84, the second theme--introduced by calls on the horn and sung by the oboe--enters in the relative major key of E-flat. This also is based on the ascending, chromatic line of the _motto_; still further organic unity being gained by the bass, which has the same melodic figure as the second phrase of the first theme, _e.g._ [Music] Much of the previous fierceness, however, has abated and the remainder of the second theme is of a rare loveliness, with mysterious answering calls between oboes, clarinets and horns. The _pp_ dominant ninth chords at the beginning of the closing portion (measures 120-122) give a positively shuddering effect and then the combat of clashing rhythms is renewed. The development begins with a series of shifting harmonies, at first _ff_ and then _pp_--a lull before the storm--as if preparing the way for a still more terrific assault upon our emotions. It is tempestuous throughout; based at first on material taken from the preceding codetta and ending with an extended presentation of the motto over an iterated pedal note on the dominant, _e.g._ [Music] The fusion of the development with the recapitulation is skillfully handled, and the motto is proclaimed, beginning at measure 298, in a series of ascending strata, with overwhelming force. The third part, with slight abridgment and necessary adjustment of key-relationship, conforms exactly to the exposition. There is the same agitato closing portion as before, and then the Coda proper, beginning at measure 421, emphasizes with fiery accents the mood of storm and stress characteristic of the movement as a whole. After the fury has subsided, the dramatic motto asserts itself in the closing measures, poco sostenuto; the problem is still unsolved and the last C major chord is but a ray of light cast on troubled waters. The second movement, andante sostenuto--in three-part form--begins with a tender melody expressing a mood of deep resignation and religious hope. No sooner has it started, however, than there creeps in the sinister motto, as if to remind us that life is undeniably stern and grim, _e.g._ [Music] In measure 17 there enters a closing theme, sung by the oboe, of ineffable beauty which is used in the third part as the climax of the movement. It surely seems to come from another world and is one of the most sublime melodies by Brahms or any one else. Its climax is impressively united with the main theme in the bass, _e.g._ [Music] The middle portion, beginning in measure 38, is a meditation--in dialogue form--for solo oboe and clarinet, worked up to an eloquent climax in the key of the relative minor, C-sharp. The third part, beginning measure 66, with the addition of some lovely modulatory changes, corresponds to part one; save that the melody is varied by Brahms's favorite device of three notes to a beat in one voice against two in another. Beginning in measure 90, the wondrous closing theme of the first part is sung by a solo violin, reinforced by oboe and horn. It is finally entrusted, in the home key, to the horn alone, above which the solo violin soars in ecstacy, _e.g._ [Music] Some diminuendo, descending passages lead to a reminiscent portion of the first theme and then, in measure 116, the grim motto enters, but this time without prevailing; for, in measures 122-124, it is finally exorcised and the movement closes with the seraphic calm of a soft, rich chord in E major, above which is heard a star-like note on the solo violin. The third movement is an Allegretto; it being Brahms's custom in each[259] of his symphonies to substitute a movement of this type in place of the conventional Scherzo or Minuet. This movement clearly in three-part form, is thrown in to furnish relief after the emotional tension of the movement preceding. It has no obvious organic connection with the other movements, but is just the right thing in its surroundings, with a note of vitality which does much to brighten the scene and to prepare the way for the Finale. The opening theme in A-flat major is in two phrases of _five_ measures each--a favorite rhythm with Brahms--given out by the clarinet over a pizzicato bass in the 'cellos. The melodic formation is unusual in that the latter phrase is an inversion of the first, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 259: The only slight exception is the third movement of the Fourth Symphony which, being marked Allegro giocoso, partakes somewhat of the nature of a Scherzo.] After some descending passages in thirds and sixths--one of the characteristic[260] effects in Brahms's style--the theme is repeated in the violins with richer scoring. The descending passage returns and this time leads to the entrance of a subsidiary theme in F minor. In measures 50-51 occurs one of those cases of melodic germination which entitles Brahms to be called a genuine _creative_ artist. The melody with its dashing, Hungarian zest sounds like something brand-new and yet is logically derived from the main theme by diminution, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 260: "Those eternal sixths and thirds." Weingartner later publicly recanted and became a whole-souled convert to Brahms. (See _The Symphony since Beethoven_, latest edition.)] This is real poetic creation, it being the prime object of a poet to create in music something out of apparent nothing. After these vivacious developments the first part ends with a slight repetition of the main theme. The middle part, beginning measure 71, in 6/8 time and in the enharmonic key of B major (E-flat = D-sharp) is noteworthy for its rhythmic swing, bold syncopations and contrasted accents; see especially measures 97-107. At the beginning of the third part there is an effective blending of the rhythm which has just prevailed with the graceful lines of the first theme. The fabric is made up of effective changes, modulatory and rhythmic, in the material from the first part. At the Coda, più tranquillo, there is a delightful reminiscence of the rhythm of the middle portion carried out to the very end by the double basses.[261] [Footnote 261: A similar effect may be found in the closing measures of the first movement of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony.] The Finale is one of the most thrilling perorations in music; not a perfunctory close, but a veritable Apotheosis of victorious aspiration, giving an irresistible contrast to the first movement. Whereas, before, there was nothing but conflict, now all is triumphant joy. This movement is laid out on a vast scale, with a wealth of material, including a long Prelude with a distinct theme of its own and an extended Coda. The body of the movement is in abridged sonata form, _i.e._, there is a complete Exposition with first, second and closing themes, and the usual Recapitulation, but _no_ Development proper. This lack is made good by considerable variation and expansion in the first part of the Résumé. The Prelude begins Adagio with some strains which, like smouldering embers, remind us of the sinister motto of the first movement--note the same dissonant tones A-flat and F-sharp. The following measures are of indefinite nature, beginning piano and pizzicato as if a great body were gathering headway slowly. The pace gradually quickens and we are led through a series of impetuous stringendo runs to a _ff_ chord which, accompanied by a _ff_ roll on the kettle-drums, sounds like a clap of thunder and which, as the reverberations die away, ushers in a most moving theme[262]--given out forte and sempre passionato on the horn over a _pp_ muted tremolo on the strings with a background of _pp_ trombones, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 262: There is a striking analogy between the intervals of this theme and those of a well-known peal in a cathedral chime, _e.g._ [Music] In both the same elemental effect is produced by using the natural tones of the harmonic series (see page 193).] This inspired passage[263] has been eloquently described by W.F. Apthorp as follows: "Amid hushed, tremulous harmonies in the strings, the horn and afterward the flute pour forth an utterly original melody, the character of which ranges from passionate pleading to a sort of wild exultation according to the instrument that plays it. The coloring is enriched by the solemn tones of the trombones, which appear for the first time in this movement. It is ticklish work trying to dive down into a composer's brain, and surmise what special outside source his inspiration may have had; but one cannot help feeling that this whole wonderful episode may have been suggested to Brahms by the tones of the Alpine horn, as it awakens the echoes from mountain after mountain on some of the high passes in the Bernese Oberland. This is certainly what the episode recalls to any one who has ever heard those poetic tones and their echoes. A short, solemn, even ecclesiastical interruption by the trombones and bassoons is of more thematic importance. As the horn-tones gradually die away, and the cloud-like harmonies in the strings sink lower and lower--like mist veiling the landscape--an impressive pause ushers in the Allegro." [Footnote 263: See also a similar eulogy by Weingartner in his _The Symphony since Beethoven_.] After the flute has repeated this theme there is an interpolation of an important choral-like phrase (referred to above), _e.g._ [Music] for it is later used as the climax of the Finale--in fact, of the whole work--and its tone of religious fervor, accentuated by the scoring for trombones and bassoons, is a clear indication of the ideal message which Brahms meant to convey. The body of the movement, Allegro non troppo ma con brio, begins with a majestic, sweeping theme[264] of great rhythmic vitality and elasticity announced by the strings, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 264: There is a statement in many books that this is a reminiscence of the theme in the Finale of the Ninth Symphony. How such a legend started it is difficult to say; it must be due to what the late W.F. Apthorp called "purblind criticism." For my part I see a resemblance in only one measure--save that both melodies are in quadruple rhythm--between the theme of Brahms and the following:-- [Music]] It is at once repeated with richer scoring and then some exciting transitional passages lead, after a slight phrase taken from the chief theme of the prelude, to the second theme, animato, in G major, _e.g._ [Music] This has some rhythmical expansion and then a quieter part, dolce e piano, beginning measure 71. Some rushing _ff_ passages bring us, in measure 107, to the brilliant closing theme with its staccato, triplet rhythm. The Exposition ends in E minor, in measure 122, after a series of forte, staccato chords. The Recapitulation begins at once after two modulatory chords, and though sufficient stress is laid on the _first theme_, there is so much development of previous material that it serves for both the customary second and third parts. A good deal of adverse criticism has been expended on this portion of the movement and it is possible that Brahms's remarkable technique in handling his material ran away with him. But the music is always striving toward some goal, and even if it has to plough through desperate seas, there is no weakness or faltering. This part of the work is not beautiful in the popular sense of the term, but no one can fail to be impressed with its character. A climax is finally reached, in measure 224, with a fortissimo statement of the chief theme of the prelude, and then, after this has cooled down, diminuendo e calando, the second theme enters in the home key. The rest of the recapitulation corresponds closely with the exposition. The Coda begins, in measure 306, with a shadowy outline of modulatory chords, as if slumbering forces were slowly awakening; and, becoming more crescendo and stringendo, reveals its full glory at the Più Allegro. This portion, based on quickened phrases of the first theme, seems charged with superhuman energy, and mounting higher and higher culminates in a majestic proclamation of the choral-like motto of the prelude, _e.g._ [Music] On hearing this it always seems as if the heavens above us really opened. The rest of the Coda is a scene of jubilation with ever more life and light. The dissonant tones of F-sharp and A-flat try to lift their heads but this time are crushed forever by the triumphant fundamental chords of C major, _e.g._ [Music] The movement, in keeping with its serious message, ends with a prolonged and brilliant Plagal Cadence in which the double basses and the trombone surge upward with elemental power. SONATA FOR VIOLIN AND PIANOFORTE Of Brahms's three Sonatas for violin and pianoforte, respectively, in D minor, A major and G major, that in A major has been selected to give some idea of his chamber music, on account of the spontaneous appeal of its melodies and because its performance is possible for fairly well equipped executants. In many respects the D minor Sonata is the greatest of the three, but it is a work exceedingly difficult of execution and interpretation. The A major Sonata needs few comments, as the music speaks for itself. The work is in three movements, the first in complete sonata-form with the two customary themes, each of distinct lyric charm and hence eminently suited to the singing qualities of the violin; the second movement a fusion of the two normal middle ones, and the Finale a Rondo, freely treated. The first movement, Allegro amabile, begins with a suave theme, _e.g._, [Music] the first interval of which, a descending leap from the third to the leading tone, always seems to make a distinct appeal.[265] After the customary transition appears the second theme, announced by the pianoforte in measure 50, _e.g._, [Music] showing Brahms's fondness for contrasted rhythms--three notes to a beat in one hand against two in the other. After a repetition by the violin there is a spirited closing theme in measure 75, of great importance later. The Development, one of Brahms's best, manifests real organic growth; there is nothing labored or perfunctory. It is based on the first theme and the closing theme of the Exposition, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 265: It is used at the beginning of three other well-known melodies, _e.g._, the slow movement of Beethoven's _Ninth Symphony_, in the middle part of Schumann's _Aufschwung_ and in the first phrase of Wagner's _Preislied_.] The Reprise beginning in measure 158, shows the usual treatment. The Coda, from measure 219, is long and, like codas of Beethoven, has features of a second development. The movement ends with brilliant arpeggios in the pianoforte against octaves and double stops in the violin. In the second movement, Andante tranquillo, in F major, Brahms fuses[266] together the moods usually associated with the slow movement and the scherzo, playing one off against the other; the slow theme appearing three times--at its final appearance with eloquent modulations--and the rapid one twice, with contrast gained the second time through pizzicato effects on the violin. The two themes are as follows:-- [Music] [Music] [Footnote 266: This practice he has adopted in several other works and it is also the structural feature in the slow movement of César Franck's D minor Symphony.] The short, dashing Coda is based on the vivace theme, with sonorous chords on the violin, both pizzicato and arco. The Finale, Allegretto grazioso, is a convincing example of how such a rigid form as the Older Rondo can be freshened up and revitalized by the hand of a master, for the main theme, _e.g._ [Music] has such genuine melodic life that we always recur to it with pleasure and yet at each appearance it is so deftly varied that no monotony is felt. The two episodes afford stimulating contrasts and need no comment. The main theme at its third appearance is in the subdominant key, with effective rhythmic modifications. The movement is a remarkable illustration of idiomatic style for each of the instruments: the violin part, sustained and cantabile; the pianoforte part, broken up and of remarkable color and sonority. The last page of the Coda, almost exclusively in double stops for the violin, brings a rousing close to a masterpiece. BALLADE IN G MINOR FOR PIANOFORTE (SEE SUPPLEMENT NO. 60) Although the most important factor in Brahms's pianoforte pieces is Brahms himself, a careful examination of his works in this field shows that his style is fashioned from an intelligent, and by no means slavish assimilation of important features in the works of his great predecessors. Thus we find the same melodic warmth as in Schubert, the rhythmic vitality and massive harmony so prominent in Schumann and the extended arpeggios and chords, the color and richness, peculiar to Chopin. From among the numerous and beautiful compositions of Brahms for solo pianoforte we have selected the Ballade in G minor because it represents a somewhat unusual and hence seldom recognized side of his genius--the specifically dramatic. When a composer calls his piece a Ballade, as in the case of compositions so entitled by Chopin and Liszt, we may assume that there is some dramatic or subjective meaning behind the notes; and the hearer is at liberty to give play to his own imagination and to receive the message as something more than music in the ordinary abstract or absolute sense. From the inner evidence of this Ballade of Brahms it seems to the writer[267] not too fanciful to consider it a picture of a knight-errant in medieval times setting out on his adventures. Observe the vigorous swing of the opening theme in that five-measure rhythm so dear to Brahms. But in the middle portion, in the romantic key of B major,[268] the woman appears--perhaps some maiden imprisoned in a tower--and she sings to the knight a song of such sweetness that he would fain forsake duty, battle, everything! The contrast of opposing wills[269] is dramatically indicated by an interpolation, after the maiden's first appeal, of the martial theme of the knight, as if he felt he should be off instead of lingering, enchanted by her song. Notwithstanding a still more impassioned repetition of the song, the Knight is firm, tears himself away and continues on his course; how great the wrench, being clearly indicated by the unusual modulations in measures 72-76. The enchanting song, however, still lingers with him and he dwells with fond regret upon bygone scenes and dreams which were unattainable. In this piece is seen Brahms's aristocratic distinction in the treatment of program music. The subject is portrayed broadly--there are no petty details--and the music itself, to anyone with a sensitive imagination, tells the story clearly. Hence a detailed poetic interpretation is out of place, since only to the suggester would it have meaning. [Footnote 267: It is to be understood that this is a purely personal interpretation and if any one wishes to consider the piece merely as absolute music with a strong masculine theme in the minor, a lyric melody in the major for the natural contrast, and a coda referring in a general way to the first theme, there is no way to disprove the contention. That Brahms, however, was not entirely averse to out and out programmistic treatment is seen from his two pieces on specific poetic texts, _i.e._, the first number in op. 10 on the _Scottish Ballads of Edward_ and the _Lullaby_ in op. 117 on the Scottish Folk-song _Sleep Soft, My Child_.] [Footnote 268: The same key that Wagner uses for the end of _Tristan and Isolde_ and César Franck for the gorgeous Finale of the _Prelude, Chorale and Fugue_.] [Footnote 269: The subject is the same as the story of the Sirens in the _Odyssey_ or of the _Lorelei_ in German Legend.] So many of Brahms's pianoforte compositions are of great beauty and significance that, although space is lacking for further comment on definite examples, we urge the music-lover to study the following: the second Intermezzo[270] in B-flat minor of op. 117, perhaps the most beautiful single piece Brahms has written--remarkable for its rhythmic texture and for the equalization of both hands, which was one of his chief contributions to pianoforte style; the second Intermezzo of op. 119, the middle part of which is significant for the extended arpeggio grouping for the left hand (Brahms following Chopin's lead in this respect); the sixth Intermezzo of op. 118, a superb piece for sonority and color; the third Intermezzo in op. 119, (grazioso e giocoso) and the B minor Capriccio op. 76--both in Brahms's happiest vein of exuberant vitality; the sixth Intermezzo in op. 116, a beautiful example, in its polyphonic texture, of modernized Schumann; and, above all, the mighty Rhapsodies in E-flat major, op. 112 No. 4 and the one in G minor op. 79--this latter, one of Brahms's most dramatic conceptions, and an example, as well, of complete sonata-form used for an independent composition. [Footnote 270: For further comments on the phraseology see _The Rhythm of Modern Music_ by Abdy Williams, pp. 75-77. We may add that the pieces called _Intermezzi_, are generally of a meditative, somber nature; whereas the _Capriccios_ are more sprightly, even whimsical in spirit.] SONG--_Meine Liebe ist grün wie der Fliederbusch_ (SEE SUPPLEMENT NO. 61) Whatever Brahms is or is not, he is universally recognized as an inspired song-composer and those who do not know his songs are cut off from one of the greatest joys music has to offer. As Huneker so well says, "Although his topmost peaks are tremendously remote, and glitter and gleam in an atmosphere almost too thin for dwellers of the plains, in his songs he was as simple, as manly, as tender as Robert Burns." In Brahms's songs we cannot say which is the most significant factor: the words, the vocal part or the accompaniment; all go together to make up a perfect whole. Brahms had discernment in the selection of texts suited to inspire poetic creation. His melodies are always appropriate to the spirit of the words, yet truly lyric and singable, and the accompaniment catches and intensifies every subtle shade of meaning. If any one factor is of special beauty, however, it is the instrumental part; for here Brahms's great genius in pianoforte style came to the fore and in utilizing every resource of the instrument to glorify the spirit of the text, he is a worthy successor of Schubert, Schumann and Franz. Note how in this song the passionate glow of the poem is reflected in the gorgeous modulations and sonority of the pianoforte part. Especially remarkable is the interlude between the stanzas, with its wealth of dissonances and waves of flashing color. After this surely no one can say that Brahms had no feeling for sensuous effect, at any rate on the pianoforte. Other famous songs of Brahms which should be familiar to the student are the following: _Wie Melodien zieht es mir_, _Feldeinsamkeit_, _Minnelied_, _Von ewiger Liebe_, _Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer_, _Sapphische Ode_, _Vergebliches Ständchen_. An excellent essay on Brahms as a song composer will be found in the preface to the _Forty Songs of Brahms_ in the Musician's Library (The Oliver Ditson Company). The foregoing illustrations have made clear, we trust, the inspiration and power of Brahms's varied message. His music, therefore, must be approached reverently, sympathetically and with an earnest desire for a better understanding, for Brahms is veritably a giant. CHAPTER XVII CÉSAR FRANCK Before an appreciation of the significant works and influence of César Franck can be gained, it is necessary to have a broad historical perspective of what had been the trend and the limitations of French music prior to his career. Since the time of Couperin and Rameau, musical composition in France had been devoted almost exclusively to opera--with its two types of grand opera and opéra-comique--and in this field there had been some French musicians of real, though possibly rather slight, genius: Philidor, Méhul, Grétry, Boieldieu, Hérold and Auber. One searches in vain through French literature for great symphonies, string-quartets, violin sonatas or pianoforte compositions of significance. Berlioz, as we have seen, had composed a number of orchestral works; but, from the standpoint of absolute music, even these rather beg the question as they are so extremely programmistic, dramatic or even theatric. This one-sided development of French music was chiefly caused by the people's innate fondness for the drama, and by the national genius for acting, mimicry and dancing. Prior to the advent of Franck there were two important pioneers in the broadening tendency which finally became noticeable, Saint-Saëns and Lalo. For great assimilative power, for versatility, for clarity of expression and a finish and finesse peculiarly French, Camille Saint-Saëns (1835-still living) is certainly one of the most remarkable musicians of the nineteenth century. His works are numerous, always "well-made" and, though lacking in emotional depth, by no means without charm and grace. They comprise ensemble works: trios, etc., several concertos and symphonies and four symphonic poems. Of these, the third concerto for pianoforte, with its Bach-like introduction, the third violin concerto, the two symphonic poems, _Le Rouet d'Omphale_ and _Phaëton_ and, in particular, the third symphony in C minor, still hold their own. Whatever Saint-Saëns has to say is well said; and if the French have modified their previous opinion that the only vehicle for musical expression was the opera, it is largely through the influence of his compositions. This C minor symphony, first performed in London in 1886, shares with Lalo's symphony in G minor (1887) the claim to be, in all French literature, the first instrumental work of large scope free from programmistic tendencies. Saint-Saëns[271] and Lalo fairly popularized the Sonata form and their works are worthy of great respect; since, through them, the public became accustomed to symphonic style and was prepared for the subsequent greater works of Franck, d'Indy and Chausson. Although not so versatile as Saint-Saëns nor so varied in output, Eduard Lalo (1823-1892) should decidedly not be overlooked. He was of Spanish origin and this racial strain is noticeable in the vivacity of his rhythm, in the piquant individuality of his melodies and in his brilliant and picturesque orchestration. His characteristic work is represented by a series of Concertos and Rhapsodies in which he employs Spanish, Russian and Norwegian themes. He did not escape the French predilection for operatic fame and his best work is probably the well-known opera _Le Roi d'Ys_, from which the dramatic overture is often played separately. His G minor symphony, however, will always be considered an important landmark in the development of French instrumental music.[272] [Footnote 271: For further comments on the style and influence of Saint-Saëns see the essay Mason's _From Grieg to Brahms_; the article by Professor E.B. Hill in the third volume of the _Art of Music_; and, for some pungent and witty remarks, the Program Book of the Boston Symphony Orchestra (edited by Philip Hale) for Nov. 22, 1918.] [Footnote 272: For a comprehensive and discriminating account of his style see the Boston Symphony Orchestra Program Book, for January 17, 1919.] César Franck (1822-1890) was a composer of such innate spirituality that to analyze and classify him in a formal manner seems well-nigh irreverent. His music once heard is never forgotten, and when thoroughly known is loved for all time. Nor is an elaborate biographical account necessary; for Franck, more than any other modern composer, has been fortunate in that his life and works have been sympathetically presented to the world by a distinguished contemporary, his most famous pupil d'Indy--himself a gifted composer and a man of rare literary powers. His biography of César Franck (in French and in English) should certainly be read by all who would keep abreast of modern tendencies. Franck's message, however, is so remarkable and his style so individual, that a few definite comments may be made concerning the structural features of his work and the essential attributes, thereby expressed, of his inspiring personality. Franck was a Belgian born at Liège--one of that long line of musicians who, though born elsewhere, have become thoroughly identified with French thought and standards; and there is much in his music which finds a parallel in the literary qualities of another Belgian artist, Maeterlinck, for in both is that same haunting indefiniteness, that same symbolic aspiration. Nothing in Franck is rigid, square-toed; his music is suggestive of a mystic idealism, the full expression of which, from its very nature is unattainable. Franck's outward life was simple, without excitement or diversion of any kind. When he was not giving lessons or composing, he was active in the service of the Roman Catholic Church, in which he was a devout believer. For a number of years he was organist at Sainte Clotilde, and his style thereby was influenced strongly. A distinct note of religious exaltation runs through much of his music; for Franck was a fine character, of spotless purity of life and of such generosity and elevation of soul that his pupils looked upon him as a real father and always called him "Pater Seraphicus." He was universally acknowledged to be the greatest improviser on the organ since Bach himself. Even Liszt, who heard him in 1866, left the church, lost in amazement; evoking the name of the great Sebastian as the only possible comparison. Franck's services to the development of music are twofold: 1st, as an inspired composer of varied works, which are more and more becoming understood and loved; 2d, as a truly great teacher, among his notable pupils being d'Indy, Chausson, Duparc, Ropartz, and the gifted but short-lived Lekeu. In Franck's music, fully as remarkable as the content--the worthy expression of his poetic nature--is its organic structure. He was the first composer of the French School to use adequately the great forms of symphonic and chamber music which had been worked out hitherto by the Germans: Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, etc. If during the last thirty years, composers of the modern French School have put forth a number of instrumental works of large dimensions (chamber music, symphonies, symphonic poems and pianoforte sonatas), it is to Franck more than to any other man, by reason of his own achievements in these fields and his stimulating influence on others, that this significant fact is due. A striking feature of Franck's music is the individual harmonic scheme, fascinating because so elusive. He was a daring innovator in modulations and in chromatic effect; and has, perhaps, added more genuinely new words to our vocabulary than any one since Wagner. The basis of Franck's harmony is the novel use of the so-called augmented harmonies which, in their derivation, are chromatically altered chords. These are resolved by Franck in a manner remarkably free, and are often submitted to still further chromatic change. In revealing new possibilities he has, in fact, done for these chords what Wagner did for the chord of the ninth. Any page of Franck's music will exemplify this statement, and as an illustration we have cited, in the Supplement, the first part of the Prelude in E major. A life-long student of Bach and Beethoven, Franck believed--as a cardinal principle--that great ideas were not enough; they must be welded together with inexorable logic. And so his chief glory as a musical architect is the free use he makes of such organic forms as the Canon, the Fugue and the Varied Air. Franck was likewise a pioneer in establishing in a sonata or symphony a new conception as to the relationship of the movements. This he effected by the use of what may be called "generative motives" which, announced in the first movement of a work, are found with organic growth, modulatory and rhythmic, in all the succeeding portions. Such a method of gaining unity had been hinted at by Beethoven in his Fifth Symphony, was further developed by Schumann and Liszt and, since the example of Franck, has become a recognized principle in all large cyclic works. The following estimate of his music by F. Baldensperger is worthy of citation. "The contemplative character of Franck's music which explains his entire technique is rare at the epoch in which his life was cast, an epoch of realism, generally inspired by a taste for the picturesque and the dramatic. Posterity will place César Franck in a niche similar to that of Puvis de Chavannes, whose inspiration, indifferent to all worldly solicitations, flowed willingly, like that of Franck, into the paths of reverie, and pursued its way like a beautiful river of quiet waters, undisturbed by waves or rapids, and reflecting the eternal calm of the sky." As representative works[273] we have chosen, for analytical comments the _D minor Symphony_ (Franck's only work in this field), the _Sonata_ for violin and pianoforte and the _Symphonic Variations_ for pianoforte and orchestra. Franck has also composed a very beautiful Quintet for strings and pianoforte--considered by some the most sublime chamber work of recent times; a String Quartet, notable for its interrelationship of themes and movements; two elaborate compositions for pianoforte solo, the _Prelude, Chorale and Fugue_ (the fugue showing a masterly combination of strict fugal style and free form) and the _Prelude, Aria and Finale_; a wealth of organ works--the three _Chorales_ being of special beauty--and several Symphonic Poems of lesser importance. His purely vocal works, oratorios and church music lie outside the province of this book. [Footnote 273: On account of the length of these works it is impossible to include any of them in the Supplement.] The Symphony[274] in D minor is in three movements; the first in complete and elaborate sonata-form, the second a fusion of the two customary middle movements, and the Finale (though fundamentally on a sonata-form basis) an organic summing-up of the chief themes of the entire work. The first movement begins, Lento, with the main theme proper (thesis) the motive[275] of which is the foundation of the whole work, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 274: Study, if possible, the orchestral score. For class-room work there is an excellent four-hand arrangement by the composer, and one for two hands by Ernest Alder.] [Footnote 275: This terse phrase is identical with motives from several other works, _e.g._, the beginning of Liszt's _Les Préludes_, the motive "Muss es sein?" in Beethoven's quartet, opus 135, and the Fate motive in Wagner's _Valkyrie_.] The phraseology of the theme is noticeable for its flexibility; since the first phrase is expanded to five measures and the second phrase (antithesis), with a descending motive, to seven, _e.g._ [Music] The harmony of this second phrase illustrates a striking feature in Franck's style, namely the fact that his resolutions seldom come out as expected but, instead, drift imperceptibly into other channels. In measure 13 there begins a long series of modulatory developments of the main theme--of a preludial nature--but _not_ a mere prelude in the ordinary sense. That this entire opening portion is the _main body_ of the work is seen by a comparison with what takes place at the beginning of the recapitulation. In measure 29, allegro non troppo, we begin with a presentation of the motive in the usual first-movement mood. The answering phrase, antithesis, is now quite different; and, in measure 48, is developed--with some new contrapuntal voices--to a half cadence in F minor. This whole portion, both the Lento and the Allegro, is now repeated almost literally (the one slight change being in measures 56-57) in this new key, a minor third higher than the original. To begin a first movement in this way, _i.e._, with such a strong contrast of moods is very novel and striking, but as Franck was a devoted student of Beethoven, it would seem that, by presenting his theme in different strata, he was simply expanding the practise[276] of that master in order to impress his message upon the listener's memory. The repetition of the Allegro part now leads through some rich modulations to the entrance of the second theme, in measure 99. This lovely melody, characteristic of Franck's tenderness, [Music] is noteworthy for the imitations between the violins and the 'cellos and basses. It shows, furthermore, that peculiar quality in Franck's style which comes from his elusive modulations. In measures 109-110 we are at a loss to tell just what direction the music will take when almost miraculously, in measure 111, we find ourselves in D-flat major--in which key the whole theme is now repeated. Some stimulating modulations bring us, in measure 129, to a most energetic and aspiring melody, considered by some another part of the second theme, but which certainly has the note of a closing theme and also the structural position of a closing theme, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 276: See for example the opening measures of the _Waldstein_ and of the _Appassionata_ Sonata.] It is developed with great brilliancy through a series of mediant modulations, in which the originality of Franck's harmonic scheme is very apparent. The exposition ends with some dreamy, pianissimo reminiscences of the closing theme in the mediant keys of F, D and B major, delicately scored for the wood-wind instruments and horns. The development begins, in measure 191, with the motive of the closing theme which, combined with other phrases from the exposition, is used persistently in the bass for a number of measures. The material is developed climactically until, in measure 229, we find an impressive treatment of the second descending phrase of the first theme--originally in augmentation and later in diminution, _e.g._ [Music] and [Music] The rest of the development is clearly derivable from material already presented. After a final _ff_ climax there begins, in measure 287, a series of beautiful entries _pp_ of the closing theme for the clarinet, oboe and flute. This is the spot in a sonata-form movement where appears the hand of the master; for the excitement of the free fantasy must cool down without entirely dying out, and there must also be a fresh crescendo of energy for the restatement of themes in the part following. Franck handles the situation with convincing skill; and some climactic measures, in which the main theme hints at the return, lead us, in measure 333, to the recapitulation. This is one of the most powerful and eloquent parts of the movement, for the whole first theme is presented canonically--the announcement in the trombones, tuba and basses being answered, a half measure later, by trumpets and cornets. The rest of the recapitulation, with necessary modulations and slight expansion, corresponds closely to the first portion. The coda, beginning after the same echo-effects heard at the close of the exposition, is founded on one of the counterpoints of the first subject, _e.g._ [Music] Gathering headway it leads to an imposing assertion _fff_, in canon form, of the main motto which concludes, with a widely spaced chord, in the brilliant[277] orchestral key of D major. [Footnote 277: Brilliant by reason of the fact that the four principal tones in D major, D, A, G, E are _open_ strings on the violin.] The second movement begins with a series of subdued, pizzicato chords (for strings and harp) which establish the mood and later furnish the harmonic background for the main theme. This haunting melody, announced--in measure 16--by the English horn and afterwards strengthened by the clarinet and flute, is clearly derived from the motto of the first movement, _e.g._ [Music] and is a notable example of the free phraseology and long sweep peculiar to Franck. Although extending 32 measures it never loses its continuity, for every measure grows inevitably from what has preceded. It begins with two identical eight-measure phrases; the second of which, with a different harmonic ending, is varied by a cantabile counter theme in the violas--causing thereby, with the upper voice, some delightful dissonant effects. The last eight-measure phrase, also varied by a counterpoint in the 'cellos, ends with a characteristic, Franckian modulation; keeping us in suspense until the last moment, and then debouching unexpectedly into B-flat major. In this key there follows a long-breathed, cantabile melody--at first for strings alone, but scored with increasing richness. It abounds in modulatory changes and expresses, throughout, the note of mystical exaltation so prominent in Franck's nature. It ends in measures 81-86 with an eloquent cadence, largamente and pianissimo, in B-flat major and is followed by a partial restatement of the first theme; thus giving, to this portion of the movement, a feeling of three-part form. Then, after some preliminary phrases, begins the piquant theme in G minor, in triplet rhythm, which takes the place of the conventional Scherzo, _e.g._, [Music] for, as we have stated, the structural feature of this movement is the fusion of the two customary middle movements. This theme, mostly _pp_ (con sordini and vibrato)--daintily scored for strings and light wood-wind chords--closes, in measures 131-134, with a cadence in G minor. The following portion, beginning in E-flat major, but often modulating--its graceful theme sung by the clarinets, dolce espressivo, answered by flutes and oboes--_e.g._, [Music] evidently takes the place of a trio and is one of the most poetic parts of the movement. After some effective development there is a return, in measure 175, to the G minor scherzo-theme in the strings; soon joined, in measure 183, by the slow theme on the English horn--the structural union of the two moods being thus established, _e.g._ [Music] The rest of the movement is a free but perfectly organic improvisation on the chief melodies already presented. It is richly scored, with dialogue effects between the several orchestral choirs; especially beautiful are the two passages in B major, poco più lento, scored _pp_ for the complete wood-wind group and horns. The closing measures have lovely echoes between wood-wind and strings, and the final cadence is one of the most magical in all Franck; holding us off to the very last from our goal and finally reaching it in a chord of unforgettable peace and satisfaction, _e.g._ [Music] The Finale in D major, allegro non troppo, is a remarkable example in modern literature of that tendency, growing since Beethoven, not to treat the last movement as an unrelated independent portion but, instead, as an organic summing up of all the leading themes. This cyclic use of themes--transferring them from one movement to another--is one of Franck's important contributions to musical architecture. The movement has two themes of its own, _e.g._ [Music: 1st theme] [Music: 2d theme] and at first proceeds along regular sonata-form lines, _i.e._, with an exposition, development and recapitulation. After vigorous summons to attention the first theme is given out by the 'cellos and bassoons. It is expanded at some length, repeated _ff_ by the full orchestra, and then after bold modulations leads, in measure 72, to the second theme in B major, happily called by Ropartz the "theme of triumph."[278] After a quieter portion of sombre tone in B minor we reach, in measure 124, an interpolation of the slow movement theme, _e.g._, [Music] sung by the English horn against a triplet accompaniment in the strings; the fundamental beat--the time now changed from 2/2 to 3/4--preserving the same value. Now we begin to foresee that this theme is to be the climax of the whole work. In measure 140 the development proper is resumed; based, at first, on some modulatory and imitative treatment of the first theme and followed by two _ff_ sostenuto announcements of the jubilant second theme. After these have subsided there are a number of measures (più lento) of a shadowy outline, developed from preceding melodic phrases. The pace gradually quickens, the volume of sound increases and we are brought, through a series of pungent dissonances and stimulating syncopations, to a brilliant assertion of the first theme in D major. This again waxes more and more eloquent until it bursts into a truly apocalyptic proclamation of the slow movement theme for full orchestra which, closing in D major, is the real climax of the movement and indeed of the work. Franck, however, still wishes to impress upon us some of his other thoughts--they are really too lovely not to be heard once more--and so, after an intermediary passage consisting entirely of successive ninth chords,[279] there is a reminiscence of the whole closing theme of the first movement now for low strings alone--the violins playing on the G string--later for the wood-wind and finally echoed by the high strings _ppp_. As this fades away we reach one of the most inspired passages of the whole work--in its mood of mysterious suggestion truly indescribable. Over a slow elemental kind of _basso ostinato_ there appear first the dramatic motto and then other portions of preceding themes, as if struggling to come to the light. A long exciting crescendo leads to a complete statement of the main theme of the Finale, with a canonic treatment of which the work ends, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 278: The scoring of this theme for trumpets, cornets and trombones has been severely criticized and it is true that the cornet is an instrument to be employed and played with discretion. The writer, however, has heard performances of this work in which the cornets seemed to give just that ringing note evidently desired by Franck.] [Footnote 279: The harmony of this passage is most characteristic of Franck and should be carefully studied.] That both the first and last movements end with canons is indeed noteworthy; Franck thus clearly showing his belief that in no other way than by polyphonic imitation could such intensity of utterance be gained. SONATA FOR VIOLIN AND PIANOFORTE IN A MAJOR This Sonata ranks with those of Brahms as being among the great works in its class. Some of its lovers, in fact, would risk an unqualified superlative and call it the greatest. It certainly is remarkable for its inspired themes, its bold harmonies, its free and yet organic structure and for that sublime fervor which was the basis of Franck's genius. It is, in two respects, at least, a highly original work: in the unusual moods of the several movements, and in the relationship between the two instruments. For although it is a violin sonata, the emphasis in many respects is laid on the pianoforte part which requires great virtuoso power of performance,--the violin, at times, having the nature more of an obligato. There are four movements, the first in abridged sonata form, _i.e._, there is no development; the second in complete and elaborate sonata form; the third, a kind of free rhapsody, supplying an intermezzo between the third and fourth movements and organically connected with the Finale. This, in free rondo-form, with a main theme of its own treated canonically, sums up the chief themes which have preceded. The work exemplifies Franck's practise of generative themes; for d'Indy claims[280] that the whole structure is based on three motives, _e.g._, [Music] the rising and falling inflexion of which he typifies by what is called a "torculus" ([torculus symbol])! Whether such minute analysis is necessary for the listener may be open to question; but it is true that in hearing the work one is struck by the homogeneity of the material. The first movement is an impassioned kind of revery--in a mood more often associated with the slow movement, in character somewhat like the beginning of Beethoven's C-sharp minor Sonata. After some preludial ninth chords the dreamy first theme is given out, molto dolce, by the violin, supported by rich harmonies on the pianoforte, the use of the augmented chords being prominent, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 280: See his _Course in Composition_, book II, pp. 423-426.] Some natural expansion and development lead, in measure 31, to the broad and vigorous second theme, sempre forte e largamente, announced by the pianoforte, _e.g._ [Music] This ends in F-sharp minor and is at once followed by a closing portion, _i.e._, a repetition of the second theme with an elaborate arpeggio accompaniment and some fragmentary phrases of the first theme on the violin. Its last measures[281] are striking for the bold use of augmented chords and for the wide spacing which gives an organ-like sonority. The recapitulation, beginning in measure 63 with still richer harmonization, is almost identical with the exposition; the second theme appearing logically in the home key. The closing measures of the coda, which starts in measure 97, illustrate Franck's genius in the chromatic alteration of chords. [Footnote 281: Note the correspondence between these measures in the first part and the measures just before the end in the second part.] The second movement, in a structural sense the most normal of the four, speaks for itself. It is stormy and dramatic, with a number of passages marked passionato and molto fuoco, and presents a rather unusual side of Franck's quiet nature. The two themes are strong and well contrasted: the first for the pianoforte, the second for the violin, _e.g._ [Music: 1st theme] [Music: 2d theme] The development begins at the quasi lento, measure 80, with the second (_b_) of the generative motives which is to play an important role in the Fantasia and the Finale. It is rather broken up into sections, but holds the interest through its unflagging rhythmic vigor and daring dissonances. Franck's contrapuntal skill is shown here in the closing measures (130-134) where a phrase from the second theme on the violin, dolcissimo espressivo, is united with a phrase of the first theme on the pianoforte, hinting at the return. The recapitulation, beginning in measure 138, is perfectly normal and leads to a coda which, becoming more and more animated, ends with brilliant bravura effects for each instrument. The third movement, entitled _Recitative-Fantasia_, is notable for its long declamations for the violin alone, and for its introduction of a theme from the preceding movement and of one to be repeated in the Finale. Thus the organic relationship between the various movements is shown and is still further emphasized in the Finale. The mood is often very impassioned (once _fff_) and dramatic, with several passages specifically marked. This music alone, which sounds like nothing before or since, would stamp Franck as an absolutely original genius. In measure 53 appears a long pianissimo meditation by the violin on a phrase--the second generative motive (_b_)--from the preceding movement, supported by beautifully spaced arpeggio chords on the pianoforte, _e.g._ [Music] In measure 71 occurs the first appearance of the bold theme which is to be twice used for episodes in the Finale, _e.g._ [Music] The closing cadence[282] of the movement, one of the most original and truly beautiful in all literature as it seems to the writer, furnishes a marvellous contrast to the stormy measures immediately preceding. [Footnote 282: Already cited on page 57, Chapter IV.] The Finale is perhaps the most spontaneous canon in existence, an imitative dialogue between the two instruments; this form (which is often rigid and mechanical) being used so easily that it seems as if each instrument were naturally commenting upon the message of the other. Observe also the sonorous background provided for the violin melody by the widely spaced chords on the pianoforte, _e.g._ [Music] The first episode, beginning in F-sharp minor at measure 38, is based on the third generative phrase (_c_) brought over from the Fantasia and embroidered by running passages (delicato) on the violin. This leads to a return of the canonic first theme which, with an interchange of statement and answer and with free modulations, is developed to a brilliant climax--the canon still persisting--in the dominant key of E major. Some transitional modulations, in which the excitement cools down, bring us to the second episode, in B-flat minor. This at first develops the phrase (_b_) from the middle part of the second movement, _e.g._ [Music] and later, also in the bass, a phrase from the main theme, _e.g._ [Music] It is soon followed by a bold entrance of the dramatic theme from the Fantasia which, twice presented--the second time grandioso--leads to a thrilling cadence in C major. The third and last refrain is a complete restatement of the original canon and closes in A major with a still more brilliant imitative treatment of the passage formerly in the dominant. The last measures--with the high trill on the violin and cutting dissonances on the pianoforte--are far too exciting for mere verbal description. SYMPHONIC VARIATIONS FOR PIANOFORTE AND ORCHESTRA This is one of Franck's most significant works, containing all his individual characteristics: melodic intensity, novel chromatic harmony and freedom of form combined with coherence. Franck always claimed that the variation form, rightly treated, was a perfect medium for free, imaginative expression; surely this work is a manifestation of his belief. A careful study will justify the statement that his style is founded on that of Bach and Beethoven; for the naturalness of these melodic variations can be compared only with the _Passacaglia in C minor_, and the general structure of the work finds its prototype in the Finale of the _Heroic Symphony_. It is a set of free variations, or rather organic transformations of two themes; the first sombre, entirely in the minor, the second brighter, with some passing emphasis on the major. The variations are not numbered and there are no rigid stops; though, of course, when objective points are reached, there is natural punctuation. The two themes, as follows--a striking example of Franck's peculiar harmonic scheme--should be carefully studied, _e.g._ [Music: 1st theme] [Music: 2d theme] The work opens with a series of restless dotted notes for the strings _ff_ which diminish and retard to an entrance of the first theme, più lento, for the pianoforte; the two phrases of which are interrupted by a passage, somewhat modified, from the introduction. Some preludial measures, expanding the material presented, bring us at B[283] to a premonitory statement of the second theme _pp_ (in wood-wind and pizzicato strings) over a muffled roll of the kettle-drums on C-sharp, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 283: The indication by letters is the same in the full score as in the version for two pianofortes.] Then follows a long rhapsodic presentation of the first theme for pianoforte solo--the melody in octaves and the accompaniment in the widest arpeggios possible. This passage is one of great sonority and reveals clearly the influence of the organ upon Franck's style. Some further measures of general development, containing at E a reminiscence of the first theme, bring us (after an elaborate half-cadence on the dominant of F-sharp minor) to the entrance of the second theme. Now that all the melodic material has been presented, Franck allows it to grow and blossom. In the first variation at F we have phrases of the second theme broken up into a dialogue between strings, wood-wind and pianoforte; and in the second at G the violas and 'cellos sing the whole second theme accompanied by some ingenious figuration on the pianoforte. This is followed at H by a brilliant amplification for the solo instrument, lightly accompanied on the orchestra, of phrases already heard and leads at I to a fortissimo orchestral tutti in D major--the next variation--which proclaims a portion of the second theme. This is developed with great power on both instruments and is combined, nine measures after J, with a variant of the first theme. At K there is a bold treatment of the second theme (sostenuto) for oboes and clarinets against rushing octaves on the pianoforte. At L we have some further development of the second theme, the melody being in the strings with a background of broken triplet chords on the pianoforte. We now reach at M--molto più lento--the most poetic variation of the work. All the 'cellos, dolce e sostenuto, sing the second theme in the rich key of F-sharp major, the closing phrases answered by the wood-wind; while the pianoforte supports them with coloristic, arabesque-like broken chords containing a melodic pattern of their own. At N the 'cellos continue with phrases from the first theme, the accompaniment being in extended arpeggios against a background of sustained strings (_ppp_ con sordino). A climax is gradually reached which ends, smorzando, with a descending chromatic run on the pianoforte, followed by a long trill on C-sharp which ushers in the closing portion of the work. The structure, as a whole, is divided into three main portions: the first preludial, the second sombre and often meditative--largely in the minor--the third entirely in the major and of extraordinary brilliance and vivacity. At the Allegro non troppo after the trill, we find a variant of the first theme for the 'cellos and basses in F-sharp major, _e.g._, [Music] accompanied by broken chords on the pianoforte and wood-wind. This is followed at P by a free treatment for pianoforte, con fuoco, of the first theme which develops at Q into a most pianistic presentation (in the upper register of the instrument) of the phrase just announced by the 'cellos. In the fifth measure after R the basses begin, pizzicato but forte, a modified statement of the second theme, accompanied by a new counter melody on the pianoforte, dolce ma marcato, _e.g._ [Music] This leads into a brilliant climax for orchestra alone based on the first theme which, at the very end, modulates to E-flat major. Then follows an episodical portion of unusual beauty--a long, dreamy passage, dolce rubato, for solo pianoforte, in which the first theme is merely hinted at in shadowy outlines, _e.g._ [Music] Abounding in fascinating modulations and coloristic effects it shows Franck's genius equally for real melodic germination with an avoidance of all perfunctory manipulation of his material. This leads, four measures after T, to an entrance _pp_ in the wood-wind, of a variant of the first theme. Due to the effect of contrasted accents the passage is most exciting--two rhythms being treated at once. A climax for full orchestra brings us at V to a repetition of the former pianoforte presentation of the first theme, followed as before, at W by the counter-melody against the second theme, forte, in the basses. The first theme, now in complete control, is here proclaimed most eloquently in antiphonal form between the full orchestra and pianoforte, _e.g._ [Music] The work ends with a rapid iteration, molto crescendo, of the first motive--in diminution. Now that we have reviewed the entire composition, there is one feature worthy of special emphasis. The structure as a whole (as we have stated) is clearly divided into three main parts; but when we examine the third part by itself, we find that it follows the lines of the sonata-form. For there is a first portion, with a main theme in F-sharp major, and a second theme--the new melody--in D major; the passage for pianoforte in E-flats major stands for the development, and the movement concludes with a distinct third portion, both first and second theme being in the home key. Thus the structure represents a carefully planned union of the variation form and the sonata-form which were special favorites of Franck. The work, which, after earnest study, will surely be enjoyed and loved, ranks with the _Istar Symphonic Variations_ by d'Indy and the two sets on themes from Paganini by Brahms as the acme of what the variation form may indeed be when treated by a master. CHAPTER XVIII THE MODERN FRENCH SCHOOL--D'INDY AND DEBUSSY Not only as the most distinguished of César Franck's pupils, but by reason of his undoubted musicianship and marked versatility--his works being in well nigh every form--Vincent d'Indy (1851-still living) is rightly considered to be the most representative composer of his branch of the modern French school.[284] Whether history will accord to him the rank of an inspired genius it is as yet too early to decide; but for the sincerity and nobility of his ideas, for his finished workmanship and the influence he has exerted, through his many-sided personality, in elevating public taste and in the education of young musicians, he is worthy of our gratitude. D'Indy is a patriotic Frenchman believing profoundly that French music has an important _rôle_ to bear; who has incarnated this belief in a series of works of such distinction that, if not unqualifiedly loved, they at least compel recognition. If he swings a bit too far in his insistence upon the exclusive glories of French genius, let us remember that the modern Germans[285] have been just as one-sided from their point of view--and with even less tangible proof of attainment. For it seems incontestable that, since the era of Wagner and Brahms, the modern French and Russian Schools have contributed to the development of music more than all the other nations combined. It is for us in America who, free from national prejudice, can stand off and take an impartial view, to appreciate the good points in _all_ schools. A detailed account of d'Indy's life and works will not be necessary, for the subject has been admirably and comprehensively treated by D.G. Mason in his set of _Essays on Contemporary Composers_ and in the article by E.B. Hill in the _Art of Music_, Vol. 3. [Footnote 284: This school may be said to contain two groups: one, the pupils of César Franck--d'Indy, Chausson, Duparc, Rousseau, Augusta Holmès and Ropartz, the chief feature in whose style is a modernization of classic practice; a second consisting of Debussy, Ravel, Dukas and Florent Schmitt, whose works manifest more extreme individualistic tendencies.] [Footnote 285: The well-known German scholar and editor Max Friedländer, who visited this country in 1910, acknowledged--in a conversation with the writer--that he had never even heard of Chabrier!] D'Indy's compositions, as in the case of Franck, are not numerous, but finely wrought and of distinct and varied individuality. His chief instrumental[286] works comprise a _Wallenstein Trilogy_ (three symphonic poems based on Schiller's drama) notable for descriptive power and orchestral effect; a Symphony for orchestra and pianoforte on a mountain air[287]--one of his best works, because the folk-song basis furnishes a melodic warmth which elsewhere is sometimes lacking; a set of Symphonic Variations on the Assyrian legend of Istar; a remarkable Sonata for violin and pianoforte; a String-Quartet, all the movements of which are based on a motto of four notes, and lastly the Symphony in B-flat major--considered his masterpiece--in which the same process of development from generative motives is followed as in César Franck. All these works contain certain salient characteristics proceeding directly from d'Indy's imagination and intellect. There is always an ideal and noble purpose, a stoutly knit musical fabric and melodies--d'Indy's own melodies, sincerely felt and beautifully presented. Whether they have abounding power to move the heart of the listener is, indeed, the point at issue. Since d'Indy is on record as saying, "There is in art, truly, nothing but the heart that can produce beauty," it is evident that he believes in the emotional element in music. That there is a difference of opinion however, as to what makes emotional power is shown by his estimate of Brahms (set forth in his _Cours de Composition Musicale_, pp. 415-416) in the statement that, though Brahms is a fine workman, his music lacks the power to touch the heart (faire vibrer le coeur). There is no doubt that, in any question of Brahms versus d'Indy, such has not been the verdict of outside opinion. D'Indy is admired and respected, whereas Brahms has won the love of those who know him; and the truth in the saying, "Securus judicat orbis terrarum" is surely difficult to contravene. D'Indy's melodies can always be minutely analysed[288] and they justify the test; but we submit that the great melodies of the world speak to us in more direct fashion. For there is, in his music, a seriousness which at times becomes somewhat austere. He seems so afraid of writing pretty tunes or ear-tickling music, that we often miss a sensuous, emotional warmth. He hates the commonplace, cultivating the ideal and religion of beauty. Bruneau, himself a noted French critic and composer, says, "No one will deny his surprising technique or his unsurpassed gifts as an orchestral writer, but we might easily wish him more spontaneity and less dryness." We cannot, however, miss the dignity and elevation of style found in d'Indy's works or fail to be impressed by their wonderfully planned musical architecture. His music demands study and familiarity and well repays such effort. D'Indy's work, as a teacher, centres about the "Schola Cantorum" so-called, in which several talented American students from Harvard and other Universities have already worked. Here all schools of composition are thoroughly studied, and the rigid and formal methods of the Conservatoire abandoned. D'Indy believes that the materials for the structure of modern music are to be found in the Fugue of Bach, and in the cyclical Sonata Form and the free Air with Variations of Beethoven--these forms, by reason of their inherent logic and simplicity, allowing scope for infinite freedom of treatment. D'Indy is also a thoroughly modern composer in that he is an artist in words as well as in notes. His life of César Franck is a model of biographical style, and he has recently published a life of Beethoven refreshingly different from the stock narratives. In fine, d'Indy is a genius, in whom the intellectual aspects of the art, rather than purely emotional appeal, are clearly in the ascendant. [Footnote 286: D'Indy's significant contributions to operatic and choral literature, such as _Fervaal_, _L'étranger_, _Le Chant de la Cloche_ and _La Légende de St. Christophe_, lie without our province.] [Footnote 287: From the Cévennes region whence d'Indy's family originally came.] [Footnote 288: See the elaborate analysis by Mr. Mason in the essay above referred to.] We shall now comment briefly on one, only, of d'Indy's compositions, the Symphonic Poem, _Istar_, which is a set of variations[289] treated in a manner as novel as it is convincing; the work beginning with variations which gradually become less elaborate until finally only the theme itself is heard in its simple beauty. This reversal of customary treatment is sanctioned by the nature of the subject, and the correspondence between dramatic logic and musical procedure is admirably planned. The story of the work is that portion of the Assyrian epic Izdubar which describes, to quote Apthorp's translation of the French version, "how Istar, daughter of Sin, bent her steps toward the immutable land, towards the abode of the dead, towards the seven-gated abode where He entered, toward the abode whence there is no return." Then follows a description of the raiment and the jewels of which she is stripped at the entrance to each of the gates. "Istar went into the immutable land, she took and received the waters of life. She presented the sublime Waters, and thus, in the presence of all, set free the Son of Life, her young lover." The structural novelty of the work is that, beginning with complexity--typifying the gorgeously robed Istar--the theme discloses itself little by little, as she is stripped of her jewels, until at last, when she stands forth in the full splendor of nudity, the theme is heard unaccompanied, like Isis unveiled or, to change the figure, like a scientific law which has been disclosed. The work is based on three generative themes; the second, derived from the first and of subsidiary importance, called by d'Indy the motif d'appel. It plays its part, however, since it introduces the work and serves as a connection between the variations, seven in all. These themes are as follows: 1. Principal theme: [Music] 2. Motif d'appel. [Music] 3. Subsidiary theme, in form of a march. [Music] [Footnote 289: For a detailed analysis the student is referred to the account by the composer himself in his _Cours de Composition Musicale_, part II, pp. 484-486; to Gilman's _Studies in Symphonic Music_ and to Vol. 3 of Mason's _Short Studies of Great Masterpieces_.] By following the poem the imaginative listener can readily appreciate the picturesque suggestiveness of the composer. The work opens with a mysterious intoning, by a muted horn, of the motif d'appel, and then follows a triple presentation of the march theme in F minor, scored for wood-wind and low strings--the melody sung at first by the violas and clarinets and later by the bass clarinet and 'cellos. This original scoring establishes just the appropriate atmosphere for an entrance to the abode of captivity. [Music] The first variation, in F major, employing all the tone-color of the full orchestra, is a gorgeous picture of the Oriental splendor of Istar. It is noteworthy that each variation contains a modulation to a key a semitone higher, thus affording a factor of unity amid the elaborate flowerings of the musical thought. The second variation, in E major scored for strings and wood-wind, is significant for the way in which the original theme is expanded into a flowing melody. The logical derivation of the fabric from the first intervals of the main theme is obvious, _e.g._ [Music] The fourth variation, in F-sharp major, scored for pizzicato strings and staccato wood-wind, with light touches on horns, trumpets, cymbals, triangle and harps, introduces the scherzo mood into the work and with its persistent 5/4 rhythm is of fascinating effect. [Music] The loveliest variation for warmth and emotional appeal is the sixth, in A-flat major (at O in the orchestral score) for strings with the gradual addition of the wood-wind and harps. Its climax certainly does much to atone for any dryness found in d'Indy's other works. [Music] In the next variation, at P, the trend of the work becomes increasingly manifest for it is written in only two voices, scored for flute and violins and is a dramatic preparation for the announcement of the complete main theme which is now proclaimed in unison by the full orchestra. The work closes with a transformation of the opening march into F major, its majestic rhythm symbolizing the successful result of Istar's quest (See Supplement No. 62.) Debussy, Claude Achille, (1862-1918) is certainly the embodiment, as a composer, of Pater's saying that "Romanticism[290] is the addition of strangeness to beauty"; for when we listen to his music we are conscious of material and of forms of treatment which we have never heard before. Debussy has listened to the promptings of his own subtle imagination and has evolved a style as novel as it is beautiful. As with all real originators, Debussy at the outset was fiercely challenged, and his music even to-day calls forth intolerant remarks on the part of those who are suspicious of all artistic progress and evolution. In this connection it is worthy of note that the French, notwithstanding their national doctrine of liberty, have been chary of applying this to composers who were departing from the beaten path. Berlioz, whom now they acclaim as one of their greatest artists, was welcomed as he deserved only after his fame had been established among the Germans. Bizet was but slightly appreciated during his life. Franck met with fierce opposition from the routine members of the profession; and Debussy, although the work by which he won the "Prix de Rome" in 1884 was acknowledged to be one of the most interesting which had been heard at the Institute for years, was afterwards severely criticized for the setting made in Rome to Rossetti's _Blessed Damozel_ because, forsooth, he had strayed too far from established and revered tradition. We Americans may have a distinct feeling of pride in the knowledge that the music of Debussy, the strongest note of which is personal freedom--the inherent right of the artist to express in his own way the promptings of his imagination--was widely studied and appreciated in this land of the free before it had begun to have anything like a universal acceptance among the French themselves. [Footnote 290: From this comparison we should not wish it to be understood that Debussy is merely an addition to the standard Romantic group of Schumann, Chopin, Liszt, etc.; his style, however, is surely Romantic in the broad sense of the term, _i.e._, highly imaginative and individual.] But can any connection with the past be traced in the style of this remarkable[291] composer, and can we discover any sources, in the world of nature, from which he has derived the materials for his novel and fascinating harmonies? When we definitely analyze Debussy's harmonic scheme, we see that he looks both forward and back. Much of his original tone coloring is derived from the old church modes such as the Lydian, the Dorian and the Phrygian; for example, the mysterious opening chords of his opera, and the following passage from _La Cathédrale engloutie_. [Footnote 291: The _très exceptionnel, très curieux, très solitaire Claude Debussy_ as he has been aptly characterized.] [Music] He is also extremely fond of a scale of whole tones, which had been somewhat anticipated by Liszt and members of the Russian[292] school. In this the normal perfect 4th and 5th and the major 6th become augmented, thus producing a very peculiar but alluring harmonic basis. [Music] [Footnote 292: The first authentic use being probably by Dargomijsky in his opera the _Stone Guest_.] [Music] [Music: _Reflets dans l'eau_] Modern composers have been feeling for some time that harmonic scope was needlessly limited by clinging too closely to the major and minor diatonic scales; and Brahms, Tchaikowsky and Franck have all introduced the old modes for special contrasts of color. But no one has used them so subtly as Debussy. In his music they often take the place of our customary scales with their deep-rooted harmonic tendencies and perpetual suggestion of traditional cadences. This return to the greater flexibility and variety of the old modes is a significant feature in modern music and Debussy's example in this respect has been highly beneficial. As to his alleged use of new material, an astute French critic has observed that "a revolution is merely an evolution rendered apparent." By no means all of music can be found in nature, but the basis is there, and it remains for the artistic imagination to select and to amplify. Already many years ago the scientist Helmholtz said, "Our system of scales and of harmonic tissues does not rest upon unalterable natural laws, but is partly at least the result of aesthetic principles of selection, which have already changed, and will change still further with the progressive development of humanity."[293] In other words the limits of receptivity of the human ear cannot be foreseen nor can the workings of the artistic imagination be prescribed. The so-called Chord of Nature,[294] consisting of the overtones struck off by any sounding body, and re-enforced on the pianoforte with its large sounding board, contains in epitome this basic material of music; and the several octaves represent in a striking manner the harmonic combinations used at different periods of development. Thus during the early centuries nothing but triads were in use; only gradually were 7th chords--those of four factors--introduced. Wagner was the first to realize the possibilities of chords of the 9th, 11th, and 13th. In Debussy these combinations are used as freely as triads, _e.g._ [Music: _Pelléas et Mélisande_] [Music: _La fille aux cheveux de lin_] [Music: _Reflets dans l'eau_] and he has gone far beyond anything known before in a subtle use of the extreme dissonant elements, his sensitive imagination evidently hearing sounds hitherto unrealized. This surmise is corroborated by Debussy's own statement that, while serving as a young man on garrison duty, he took great delight in listening to the overtones of bugles and of the bells from a nearby convent. This chromatic style had been anticipated by Chopin whose use of the harmonic series in those prismatic, spray-like groups of superadded tones is such a striking feature in his pianoforte works. There is, therefore, nothing outré or bizarre in Debussy's idiom; it is but a logical continuation of former tendencies. His works show great variety and comprise pianoforte pieces, many songs, a remarkable string quartet, some daringly original tone-poems for full orchestra, several cantatas, and--most unique of all--his opera of _Pelléas et Mélisande_, based on the well-known play by Maeterlinck. A few comments may profitably be made on each of these types. With few exceptions all his pianoforte pieces have suggestive titles, _e.g._, _Reflets dans l'eau_, _Jardins sous la pluie_, _La soirée dans Grenade_, _Poissons d'or_, _Voiles_, _Le vent dans la plaine_, _Bruyères_. They are mood-pictures in which the composer has tried to imprison certain elusive states of mind--or the impressions made on his susceptible imagination by the phenomena of Nature: the subtly blended hues of a sunset, the changing rhythm of drifting clouds, the indefinite murmur of the sea, the dripping of rain. For Debussy, like Beethoven before him, is a passionate lover of Nature. To quote his own words, he finds his great object lessons of artistic liberty in "the unfolding of the leaves in Spring, in the wavering winds and changing clouds." Again, "It benefits me more to watch a sunrise than to listen to a symphony. Go not to others for advice, but take counsel from the passing breezes, which relate the history of the world to those who listen." Thus we see that Debussy submits himself to the spells of Nature and tries to transmute them into sound. The only analogies to use in a verbal description of his music must be drawn from nature, for in each are the same shadowy pictures, the same melting outlines.[295] Debussy has a close affinity with that school of painters known as impressionists or symbolists--Manet, Monet, Dégas, Whistler--and is doing with novel combinations of sound, with delicate effects of light and shade, what they have done for modern freedom in color. His music has been called a "sonorous impressionism." It might equally well be phrased "rhythmic sound." To those conservatives who find it difficult to think in terms of musical color, and wish _their_ imagination rather than that of genius to be the standard, the retort of the artist Whistler is applicable: To a lady who viewing one of his sunsets remarked, "But, Mr. Whistler, I have never seen a sunset like that" came the reply "Yes, Madam, but don't you wish you had?" In his songs Debussy has been most fastidious as to choice of texts, his favorite poets being Verlaine, Baudelaire and Mallarmé, called "symbolists," since the aim of their art is to resemble music and to leave for the reader a wide margin for symbolic interpretation. His songs throughout are imaginative and fanciful in the highest degree, and the instrumental part a beautiful background of color. Of Debussy's compositions for orchestra the one to win--and possibly to deserve--the most lasting popularity is _L'après-midi d'un Faune_, which is an extraordinary translation into music of the veiled visions and the shadowy beings of an eclogue of Mallarmé in which, as Edmund Gosse says, "Words are used in harmonious combinations merely to suggest moods or conditions, never to state them definitely."[296] By perfect rhythmic freedom, and by delicately-colored waves of sound Debussy has expressed in a manner most felicitous just the atmosphere of remoteness, and of primeval simplicity. By many this work is considered the most hypnotic composition in existence, and the writer trusts that his readers have heard a poetic interpretation of it by a fine orchestra. The salient features of Debussy's style are found in _Pelléas et Mélisande_--by far the most important operatic work since Wagner. Maeterlinck's play deals with legendary, mysterious, symbolic beings, and the entire subject-matter was admirably suited to Debussy's genius. As Maeterlinck says, "The theatre should be the reflex of life, not this external life of outward show, but the true inner life which is entirely one of contemplation." This opera is quite different from any previously written, in that the characters sing throughout in _recitative_ now calm, now impassioned, but never in set, periodic arias. In fact, here we have at last a true musical _speech_, which is indeed another thing from music set to words. Debussy has defended this peculiar style in the following words: "Melody is, if I may say so, almost anti-lyric, and powerless to express the constant change of emotion or life. Melody is suitable only for the song (_chanson_), which confirms a fixed sentiment. I have never been willing that my music should hinder, through technical exigencies, the changes of sentiment and passion felt by my characters. It is effaced as soon as it is necessary that these should have perfect liberty in their gestures as in their cries, in their joy as in their sorrow." [Footnote 293: For an enlightening amplification of this point see the first chapter of Wallace's _The Threshold of Music_.] [Footnote 294: See page 193.] [Footnote 295: For further suggestive comments on Debussy's style consult the _Essay on Pelléas et Mélisande_ by Lawrence Gilman (G. Schirmer, New York) and in particular an article by the same author in the Century Magazine for August, 1918.] [Footnote 296: Gosse also calls it a _famous miracle of intelligibility_.] Now that we may look forward to no more compositions from Debussy[297]--he died in March, 1918--it is certainly fitting to attempt a forecast as to the permanent worth of his achievements and his influence upon future development. Like all music his compositions may be judged from several points of view: the worth of the content, the perfection or inadequacy of style and the manner in which the media of presentation are used. To begin with the last characteristic--there is no doubt that Debussy has enlarged the resources of our two chief modern instruments, the pianoforte and the orchestra. By him the pianoforte is always treated according to its true nature, _i.e._, as an intimate, coloristic instrument and, in amplifying all its resources of tone-color, flexible rhythm and descriptive power he is the worthy successor of Chopin. In his orchestral compositions such as the _Nocturnes_ (_Clouds_, _Festivals_ and _Sirens_), the _Sea Pieces_ and _Images_, of which the _Rondes de Printemps_ and _Ibéria_ are the most significant, there is a union of warmth and delicacy as individual as it is rare. _Ibéria_, in fact, for vitality of imagination and flawless workmanship may be considered the acme of Debussy's orchestral style. The great resources of the modern orchestra are often abused. Compositions are rich and gorgeous but at the same time inflated, turgid and bombastic. Certain works of Richard Strauss and Mahler are examples in point. Debussy's treatment, however, of the varied modern orchestra is remarkable for its economy. The melodic lines stand out clearly, there is always a rich supporting background and we are convinced that everything sounds just as the composer meant. As to the structure and style of his music, these are more subtle matters to estimate. We may acknowledge at once that Debussy's style is free and individual, for he has written his music his own way, with slight regard for academic models. But a thorough examination of his works shows no evidence of carelessness or uncertainty of aim. There is, to be sure, nothing of that routine development of musical material which we associate with classic practice--instead a free, imaginative growth. But there is always a definite structural foundation to support the freedom of expression. This coherence is sometimes gained by a single dominating note about which everything is grouped, as, in the _Soirée dans Grenade_, the C-sharp and in the _Reflets dans l'eau_, an F. Most of Debussy's compositions imply the principles, albeit freely used, of Two- and Three-part form and the fundamental laws of key-relationship and of artistic contrast. [Footnote 297: The best books yet written on Debussy and his style are those by Mrs. Liebich and Louis Laloy. Consult also the comprehensive essay by E.B. Hill in Vol. III of the _Art of Music_.] In considering the value of Debussy's message, _i.e._, the content of his music, the animus and predilection of the hearer have to be taken into account. For his music is so intensely subjective and intimate that you like it or not, as the case may be. Many persons, however, become very fond of it, when they have accustomed themselves to its peculiar idiom. The charge that there is in Debussy no melody of a purely musical nature, as some critics have asserted,[298] seems to the writer too sweeping and not supported by the inner evidence. It may be granted that Debussy's melodic line is very fluid and elastic, like Wagner's "continuous melody," not definitely sectionalized by balanced phrases or set cadences. But it surely has its own right to existence--music being pre-eminently the art of freedom--and let us remember that Nature herself has melting outlines, shadowy vistas and subtle rhythms. Debussy, in fact, is the poet of the "indefinite" and the "suggestive" and his music has had a great influence in freeing expression from scholastic bonds. Even from the standpoint of the popular conception of "tune" it is difficult to see what objection can be made to the following melodies: [Music: _L'isle joyeuse_] [Music: _Poissons d'or_] [Music: _Cortège_] [Footnote 298: See the 2d volume of _Great Composers_ by D.G. Mason and also the essay on Debussy in _Contemporary Composers_ by the same author.] It cannot be denied that such an individual style as Debussy's is liable to manneristic treatment, though whether he should be called "the prince of mannerists"[299] is decidedly open to debate. Some critics feel that he has over-used the whole-tone scale and it must be confessed, he has a rather affected fondness for a formula of block-like chords, _e.g._ [Music: _Danse sacrée_] [Footnote 299: According to Ernest Newman in a well-known article in the Musical Times (London).] But these, after all, are but "spots on the sun." To sum up our conclusions: the following merits in Debussy's music, it seems to me, cannot be gainsaid. He has widened incalculably the vocabulary of music and has expressed in poetic and convincing fashion moods which never before had been attempted. In his work are new revelations of the power of the imagination. As Lawrence Gilman keenly remarks, "He has known how to find music (in _Pelléas et Mélisande_) for the sublime reflection of Arkel, 'If I were God, I should pity the hearts of men.'" Debussy was also gifted with rare critical ability and many of his observations are worthy of deep consideration. For example--"Music should be cleared of all scientific apparatus. Music should seek humbly to give pleasure; great beauty is possible between these limits. Extreme complexity is the opposite of art. Beauty should be perceptible; it should impose itself on us, or insinuate itself, without any effort on our part to grasp it. Look at Leonardo da Vinci, Mozart! These are great artists." No account of modern French music would be satisfactory which omitted to mention several composers who, though of somewhat lesser importance than d'Indy and Debussy, have nevertheless achieved works of distinction and charm. These are Chabrier, Fauré, Duparc, Chausson and Ravel. Chabrier (1841-1894) is noted for a bold exuberance and vividness of expression, for a sense of humor and for a power of orchestral color and brilliance which have not been duplicated. His style is entirely his own and he is a veritable incarnation of "vis Gallica." Born in the South of France, the hot blood of that magic land seems to throb in his music. We have from him several pianoforte compositions of marked originality, in particular the _Bourrée Fantasque_, some inimitable songs, _e.g._, _Les Cigales_ and _La Villanelle des petits Canards_ and, most famous of all, his Rhapsody for orchestra entitled _España_, based on Spanish themes. This work has proved to be a landmark in descriptive power and shares with Rimsky-Korsakoff's _Scheherazade_ the claim of being the most brilliant piece of orchestral writing in modern times. Some of Chabrier's best work is in his opera of _Gwendoline_, especially the Prelude to the second act which is often played by itself. Although Fauré (1845-still living) is more versatile and prolific than Chabrier, his fame rests upon his achievements in two fields--the song and pianoforte composition. Some of his pianoforte pieces are, to be sure, of a light, _salon_ type; yet in many we find a true, poetic sentiment and they are all written in a thoroughly pianistic idiom. In fact, prior to Debussy Fauré was the only Frenchman worthy to compare in mastery of pianoforte style with Chopin, Schumann and Liszt. As a song composer Fauré ranks with the highest in modern times. The exotic charm and finesse of workmanship in such songs as _Clair de Lune_, _Les Roses d'Ispahan_ cannot be denied and the instrumental part is always worthy of the composer's genius for pianoforte style, _e.g._, the accompaniment to _Nell_ being a model in its free polyphony and richness of effect. Fauré has been fastidious in his selection of texts and he is fortunate to have been able to avail himself of the genius of such lyric poets as Leconte de Lisle, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Sully-Prudhomme and others. Indeed as a song-composer Fauré may fairly be grouped with the great German masters. His songs are not German songs, but they are just as subtle in expressing all that is fine in French spirit as those of Schumann and Brahms in their Teutonic sentiment. For this reason alone Fauré is a commanding figure in modern French music. He is also the author of a violin sonata which has enjoyed a popularity second only to that of Franck and a Quintet for pianoforte and strings of distinct originality. Duparc (1848-still living) one of the earliest of César Franck's pupils--though working in practically but a single field and though by reason of ill health he has written nothing since 1885--will always hold high rank for the beauty and breadth of his songs, especially _L'invitation au Voyage_, _Extase_ and _Phydilé_. This last is considered by the writer the most exquisite song in modern literature; its melody, its modulations, its accompaniment alike are flawless.[300] [Footnote 300: An excellent collection of modern French songs may be found in the two volumes published by the Oliver Ditson Co. in the Musicians Library.] Chausson (1855-1899) the most gifted of Franck's pupils, though without d'Indy's strength of character, was killed by an unfortunate accident[301] just as he was ready for an adequate self-expression. He had a sensitive imagination, an individual harmonic style; and in those works which he has left--notably several songs, a Quartet for pianoforte and strings and the Symphony in B-flat major, op. 20--there is found a spirit of genuine romantic inspiration. [Footnote 301: While he was riding a bicycle.] Although Ravel (1875-still living) cannot claim to be a pioneer like Debussy--since in his music there are frequent traces of the exuberance of Chabrier, the suavity of Fauré, the atmosphere and impressionistic tendencies of Debussy and the exoticism of the Neo-Russians--yet he is indeed no empty reflection of these men, for he has his own bold, fantastic style and has been a daring experimenter in freedom of harmony and structure. One finds a power of ironic brilliance and of unexpected harmonic transformations certainly new in modern literature. Ravel[302] is one of the most versatile and prolific of all the younger Frenchmen having composed significant works in at least four fields: songs, particularly the set entitled _Histoires Naturelles_, which reveal an unusual instinct for delicate description; and pianoforte pieces of which _Miroirs_, the dazzling tour de force _Jeux d'eau_, the _Valses nobles et sentimentales_, the _Sonatine_, the _Pavane_ and, above all, the Poems, _Gaspard de la Nuit_ (_Ondine_, _Le Gibbet_[303] and _Scarbo_) are conspicuous examples of his style. Furthermore in the field of chamber music are found a String Quartet, remarkable for inspiration and for certainty of workmanship, and a Trio (for pianoforte, violin and 'cello) which is one of the most brilliant modern works, of convincing originality in its freedom of rhythm, _e.g._, the opening measures of the first movement. [Music] [Footnote 302: The best account of his works and style is to be found in the volume _Maurice Ravel et son oeuvre_ by Roland Manuel.] [Footnote 303: _Le Gibbet_ is without doubt the most realistic piece of musical description in our time.] Finally, for orchestra his _Spanish Rhapsody_ ranks with Chabrier's _España_ and Debussy's _Ibéria_ as the acme of descriptive power and of orchestral color. His _Mother Goose Suite_ (originally a set of four-hand pieces but since orchestrated with incomparable finesse) illustrates his humor and play of fancy. It has become a truly popular concert number. Ravel's chef d'oeuvre the "choreographic symphony" _Daphnis et Chloé_ displays an extraordinary synthetic grasp, for all the factors--plot, action, the musical fabric, a large orchestra and a chorus of mixed voices behind the scenes--are held together with a master hand. This work ranks with Debussy's _Pelléas et Mélisande_ as the most significant dramatic work of recent years. It is evident, we trust, from the foregoing somewhat condensed estimates that the modern French school is very much alive, that it has to its credit numerous distinct achievements and that it contains the promise of still further growth. The French nature, which is highly emotional and yet, at its best, always controlled[304] by a regard for fitness and clarity of thought, is particularly suited to express itself worthily in music, for in no other form of artistic endeavor is this balance more requisite. Music without emotion is, to be sure, like "sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal" and dies in short order. On the other hand, music which is a mere display of crude emotion soon palls. The works of modern French composers deserve enthusiastic study for their charm, their finish and their refined emotional power. [Footnote 304: Witness the wonderful manifestation of these qualities by the French in the recent war.] CHAPTER XIX NATIONAL SCHOOLS--RUSSIAN, BOHEMIAN AND SCANDINAVIAN Before beginning an account of Tchaikowsky, the most noted though not necessarily the greatest of the Russian composers, a few words may be said concerning nationalism in music, the chief representatives of which are the Russians, the Bohemians, the Scandinavians and the Hungarians. Of these, however, the present-day Russian School is the most active and contributes constantly new factors to musical evolution. This grafting of forms of expression derived from the outlying nations on to the parent-stock of music--which for some three hundred years had been in the exclusive control of Italy, Germany and France--has been a stimulating factor in the development of the last half-century. For the idiom of music was becoming somewhat stereotyped, and it has been noticeably revitalized by the incorporation of certain "exotic" traits, of which there run through all national music these three: (1) the use, in their folk-songs, of other forms of scale and mode than are habitual with ourselves; (2) the preference given to the minor mode and the free commingling of major and minor; (3) the great rhythmic variety and especially the use of groups foreign to our musical sense, such as measures of 5 and 7 beats, and the intentional placing of the accent on parts of the measure which with us are ordinarily unaccented. Every country has its folk-songs--the product of national rather than individual genius--but Russia, in the number and variety of these original melodies is most exceptional. The Russian expresses himself spontaneously in song, and so we find appropriate music for every activity or incident in daily life: planting songs, reaping songs, boating songs, wedding songs, funeral songs; Russian soldiers sing on the march and even enter upon a desperate charge with songs on their lips. In certain battles of the Crimean War this fact caused much comment from the English officers. For many centuries the bulk of the Russian people has been downtrodden; and the country, with its endless steppes and gloomy climate, is hardly such as to call forth the sparkling vivacity found in the Scandinavian and Hungarian songs. The prevalent mood in Russian folk-songs is one of melancholy or of brooding, wistful tenderness--very often in the old Greek modes, the Aeolian, Dorian and Phrygian. From this we see the close connection existing between the Russian and Greek Churches. The Russian liturgy is exceedingly old, and Russian church music, always unaccompanied, has long been celebrated for its dignified character, especially those portions rendered by men's voices, which are capable of unusually low notes,[305] as majestic as those of an organ. [Footnote 305: In Grove's Dictionary, under Bass, occurs this statement: This voice, found, or at least cultivated, only in Russia is by special training made to descend to FF [Music].] During the entire 18th century the development of music in Russia was in the hands of imported Italians; the beginnings of a national type being first made in the works of Glinka, born 1804. By the middle of the 19th century two schools had arisen, the Neo-Russian group of Balakireff, Borodin, Cui, Rimsky-Korsakoff and Moussorgsky, who believed in the extreme development of national traits in melody, rhythm and color; and a second group which was more cosmopolitan in its tastes and believed that Russian music, without abandoning its national flavor, could be written in a style of universal appeal. The chief members of this group were Rubinstein and Tchaikowsky, and distinguished pupils of the latter, in particular Rachmaninoff and Glazounoff. To the world at large Tchaikowsky, of them all, has made the strongest appeal; though he himself said that Rimsky-Korsakoff as an orchestral colorist was more able, and certainly Moussorgsky has a more strongly marked individuality. Tchaikowsky (1840-1893) like so many of the Russian composers, began as a cultivated amateur who showed no special musical gifts, save a sensitive nature and a general fondness for the art. He studied in the school of jurisprudence and won a post in the Ministry of Justice. In 1861, however, his musical nature awaking with a bound, he gave up all official work and for the sake of art faced a life of poverty. Under the teaching of Nicholas Rubinstein at the Petrograd Conservatory he made such amazing progress that in five years he himself was Professor of Harmony at Moscow and had begun his long series of compositions--at first operas of merely local fame. There now followed years of great activity spent in teaching and composing--well-known works being the first String Quartet and the Pianoforte Concerto in B-flat minor, first performed by von Bülow at Boston in '88. At this period his health completely broke down, the immediate cause being an unhappy marriage. He finally rallied but had to travel abroad for a year, and for the rest of his life his temper, never bright, was overcast with gloom. There now entered Tchaikowsky's life Frau von Meck, the woman who played the part of fairy godmother. She greatly admired his music, was wealthy and generous and, that he might have entire leisure for composition, settled upon him a liberal annuity. Their relationship is one of the most remarkable in the annals of art; for, fearing that the ideal would be shattered, they met but once, quite by accident, and Tchaikowsky was "acutely embarrassed." We have a lengthy and impassioned correspondence, and Tchaikowsky's 4th Symphony, dedicated "à mon meilleur ami," is the result of this friendship. In 1891, invited to New York for the dedication of Carnegie Hall, he made his memorable American tour. His success was genuine, and was the beginning of the popularity his music has always enjoyed in this country. For several years Tchaikowsky had been working at his Sixth Symphony, to which he himself gave the distinctive title "Pathetic." This work ends with one of the saddest dirges in all literature, although Tchaikowsky, during its composition, as we know from his letters, had never been in a happier state of mind or worked more passionately and freely. He himself says, "I consider it the best, especially the most open-hearted of all my works." When, however, he suddenly died in 1893, there were rumors of suicide, but it is now definitely settled that his death was caused by cholera.[306] [Footnote 306: The writer had this statement from the lips of Tchaikowsky's own brother, Modeste.] To turn now to his achievements, it may be asserted that Tchaikowsky was marvellously versatile, composing in every form save for the organ; for productiveness, only Mozart, Schubert and Liszt can be compared with him. His works comprise eight operas, six symphonies, six symphonic poems, three overtures, four orchestral suites, two pianoforte concertos, a violin concerto, three string quartets, a wonderful trio, about one hundred songs and a large number of pianoforte pieces. In addition he made several settings of the Russian liturgy and edited many volumes of church music. Whatever may be the final estimate of his music, it assuredly has great vogue at present, for it is an intense expression of that mental and spiritual unrest so characteristic of our times. As Byron was said to have but one subject, himself, so all Tchaikowsky's music is the message of his highly emotional and feverish sensibility. He is invariably eloquent in the presentation of his material, although the thoughts are often slight and the impression made not lasting. He pours out his emotions with the impulsiveness and abandon so characteristic of his race, and this lack of serenity, of restraint, is surely his gravest weakness. We are reminded by his music of a fire which either glows fitfully or bursts forth into a fierce uncontrolled blaze, but where a steady white heat is too often missing. His style has been concisely described as fiery exultation on a basis of languid melancholy. To all this we may retort that what he lacks in profundity and firm control, he makes up in spontaneity, wealth of imagination and, above all, warmth of color. It is illogical to expect his music to be different from what it is. He expressed himself sincerely and his style is the direct outcome of his own temperament plus his nationality. Tchaikowsky was widely read in modern literature--Dickens and Thackeray being favorite authors--and had travelled much. The breadth of his cultivation is shown in the subjects of his symphonic poems and the texts of his songs, which are from Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe and Bryon. However much estimates may differ as to the import of Tchaikowsky's message, he is universally recognized as a superb "colorist," one of the masters of modern orchestral treatment; who, by his subtle feeling for richness and variety of tone, has enlarged the means of musical expression. This is especially shown in the characteristic use he makes of the orchestra in its lower ranges. As Brahms, for depth of thought, was compared with Browning, so Tchaikowsky may well be likened to such poets as Shelley and Swinburne, so exquisite is his instinct for tonal beauty and for delicacy of shading. At times, to be sure, he fairly riots in gorgeous colors--this being the result of his Slavic blood--but few composers have been able to achieve such brilliancy without becoming vulgar. As to the charge of pessimism often made against Tchaikowsky, he was a thinker, an explorer into the mysteries of human aspiration and disappointment,[307] and his music seems weighted down with the riddle of the universe. This introspective dejection, however, is a natural result of his temperament and his nationality. If to us of a more hopeful outlook upon life it seems morbid, we should simply remember that our conditions have been different. A distinction must likewise be made between the expression of such feelings in art and their influence in actual life. As a man Tchaikowsky was practical, conscientious, and did not in the least allow his feelings to emasculate him. He was a prodigious worker and throughout his career, in the face of ill health and many adverse circumstances, showed immense courage. His creed was no ignoble one--"To regret the past, to hope in the future, and never to be satisfied with the present; this is my life." And to a gushing patroness of art who asked him what were his ideals, his simple reply was "My ideal is to become a good composer." Certain English critics in their fault-finding have been particularly boresome, because, forsooth, Tchaikowsky's music does not show the serenity of Brahms or the solidity or stolidity of their own composers. To the well-fed and prosperous Briton "God's in his Heaven, all's right with the world" is hardly an expression of faith, but a certainty of existence. Not so with the Russian, upon whom the oppression of centuries has left its stamp. This same note of gloomy or even morbid introspection is found in some of the great literature of the world--in the Bible, the Greek Tragedies and in Shakespeare. Granted that optimism is the only working creed for every-day life, until the millenium arrives a sincere and artistic expression of the sorrows of humanity will always strike a note in oppressed souls. [Footnote 307: See the passage from his diary (quoted on page 504 of the _Biography_ by his brother) in which he writes--"What touching love and compassion for mankind lie in these words: 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden!' In comparison with these simple words all the Psalms of David are as nothing."] Each of Tchaikowsky's last three symphonies is a remarkable work. The Fourth is most characteristically Russian and certainly the most striking in its uncompromising directness of expression. The first movement announces a recurrent, intensely subjective motto typical of that impending Fate which would not allow Tchaikowsky happiness.[308] The slow movement is based upon a Russian folk song of a melancholy beauty, sung by the oboe, and another, already cited (see Chapter II, p. 33), is incorporated in the Finale. The Scherzo is unique as an orchestral _tour de force_; for, with the exception of a short middle portion for wood-wind and brass, it is for the string orchestra playing pizzicato throughout. The effect is extremely fantastic and resembles that of ghosts flitting about in their stocking-feet or of sleep-chasings, to use Whitman's expression.[309] The Finale is a riot of natural, primitive joy, a picture--as the composer says--of a popular festivity. "When you find no joy within you, go among the people, see how fully they give themselves up to joyous feelings." Fate sounds its warning, but in vain; nothing can repress the exultation of the composer. "Enjoy the joy of others and--you still can live." The work is sensational, even trivial in places; but it reveals sincerity and elemental life. The composer lays himself bare and we see a real man--not a masked hypocrite--with all his joys and sorrows, caught, as Henley would say, "in the fell clutch of circumstance," bludgeoned by Fate. [Footnote 308: See the detailed program by the composer himself, cited in Nieck's _Program Music_.] [Footnote 309: For this simile I am indebted to Mr. Philip Hale.] The Sixth Symphony, the Pathetic, is the most popular and, on the whole, Tchaikowsky's most sustained work. It owes its hold upon public esteem to the eloquent way in which it presents that "maladie du siècle" which, in all modern art,[310] is such a prominent note. The mood may be a morbid one but we cannot mistake the conviction with which it is treated. The work is likewise significant because of the novel grouping of movements. The first is in complete sonata form and for finished architecture will stand comparison with any use of that form. The themes are eloquent, well contrasted and organically developed. The orchestration is a masterpiece.[311] The second movement is the one famous for its use of five beats a measure throughout; and its trio, on a persistent pedal note D, is a striking example of the Russian tendency to become fairly obsessed with one rhythm. It is an intentional, artistic use of monotony and may be compared to the limitless Russian Steppes. If it seem strange to Western Europeans, it should be remembered that the music is Russian and portrays a mood perfectly natural to that people. The third movement is a combination of a scherzo and a march--of a most unbridled fury. The Finale is a threnody, one of overpowering grief, the motto of which might be "vanity of vanities, all is vanity." It abounds in soul-stirring orchestral eloquence and invariably makes a deep impression. [Footnote 310: For further comment see the Life of Tchaikowsky by Rosa Newmarch.] [Footnote 311: As may be seen by the number of illustrations from it in text books!] For special comment we have selected Tchaikowsky's[312] Fifth Symphony in E minor since, being a union of Russian and Italian characteristics, it reveals that eclecticism so prominent in his style. It is also an admirable example of organic relationship between the movements. This symphony, like the Fourth, contains a recurrent motto of sombre nature in the minor mode which, appearing in the first three movements with some dramatic implication, is changed in the Finale to the major and used as the basis for a march of rejoicing. The first and last movements are in elaborate sonata-form; the second and third in three-part form. The Finale is one of the most striking examples in modern literature of a _résumé_ of preceding themes and hence a convincing proof of the composer's constructive power. The symphony begins with a long prelude announcing the motto. Scored for clarinets, bassoons and low strings it shows vividly that peculiar impression which Tchaikowsky secured by using the lower ranges of the orchestra. [Footnote 312: The authoritative work on Tchaikowsky is _The Life and Letters_ by his brother Modeste; the abridged biography by Rosa Newmarch should also be read. There are excellent essays in _Mezzotints in Modern Music_ by Huneker; in Streatfield's volume _Modern Composers_ and in Mason's _From Grieg to Brahms_.] [Music] The melody itself seldom moves above middle C, and its effect is enhanced by the quality of the clarinets in their chalumeau register. The first theme of the movement proper (beginning at the Allegro con anima), on the same harmonic basis as the motto and derived from it rhythmically, is given out _pp_ by a solo clarinet and solo bassoon, accompanied by very light detached chords in the strings, _e.g._ [Music] This is elaborately and brilliantly developed until, in measure 79 (counting from the Allegro), we reach a transitional, subsidiary theme in B minor. This is followed by some striking sequences, exquisitely scored, and then (at un pochettino più animato) there is a quickened presentation of the transitional theme, interspersed by syncopated calls--on the horns and wood-wind--a presentation which introduces the second theme in D major, marked molto più tranquillo. This melody, sung by the violins against an obbligato in the wood-wind, is clearly Italian in its grace and suavity and establishes that wonderful contrast so prominent in Tchaikowsky--the warmth and exuberance of the South set against the grim austerity of the North. [Music] This theme, expanded (stringendo and crescendo) into a series of exciting climaxes _fff_ leads, after some modulatory phrases derived from the transitional theme, to the Development which begins in B-flat major. Throughout this is a fine piece of work--with real thematic growth, bold modulations and no "padding." It should refute completely any erroneous opinion that Tchaikowsky was lacking in power of organic treatment. The connection between the Development and the Recapitulation is skilfully managed and the third part does not bore us but is welcomed as something we would gladly hear again. There is a long and stormy Coda--a second development in true Beethoven style--which finally ends _ppp_ in the lowest depths of the orchestra, in the same mood as the opening measures. The second movement, Andante cantabile, con alcuna licenza, with its melting theme on the solo horn, _e.g._, [Music] --accompanied later by answering phrases on the clarinet--might seem a bit too "luscious" were it not for the beauty and finish of the orchestration. The movement is in rather loose three-part form--as the title would imply--the joints being somewhat obvious in certain places, _e.g._, measures 39-45. The themes, however, have that intensity peculiar to Tchaikowsky, and the original orchestral treatment, especially in the use of the horns, enhances their effect. The middle contrasting portion, starting in F-sharp minor, shows some very effective polyphonic imitations based on the following theme: [Music] At the climax of its development the motto is proclaimed _fff_ in a most arresting manner--its effect being due to the unusual pedal point which makes a chord of the second with the upper voices, _e.g._, [Music] The third part with slight expansions corresponds to the first. At its close, just before the Coda, we have a second appearance of the motto--this time, on account of the fierce dissonances, with even more sinister effect.[313] The closing measures are of great beauty by reason of the imitations on the strings and the dreamy, reminiscent phrase on the clarinets, _e.g._ [Music] [Footnote 313: The passage has already been cited in Chapter IV as an example of a deceptive cadence.] The third movement, a Waltz, with a graceful theme, in clear-cut three-part form, needs little comment. If any one considers it too light or even trivial for a place in a symphony he might study the individual orchestration and then try to compose one like it! The second and third parts are ingeniously fused together--Tchaikowsky following the practise of Mozart, his favorite master, in the first movement of the G minor Symphony. In the Russian philosophy of life, however, there is no such thing as perpetual joy; so, even amid scenes of festivity, the motto obtrudes itself as if to ask "What right have you to be dancing when life is so stern and grim?" See measures 23-28 from end of movement. [Music] The Finale, in complete sonata-form and laid out on a large scale, for several reasons is of distinct significance. It is a carefully planned _résumé_ of preceding themes; it contains several examples of those periods of depression or exultation (especially on a pedal-point) so characteristic of the Slav, and lastly, there are pages of extreme brilliancy. In fact, the orchestration throughout is of such convincing power that it refutes any charge of sensationalism or mere bombast. If to us the music seem unrestrained, unbridled, we are to remember that the Russian temperament is prone to a reckless display of emotion just as in their churches they like to "lay the colors on thick." The movement begins with an extended prelude in which the original sombre motto is transformed into a stately, march-like theme. This is presented twice with continually richer scoring and more rhythmic animation. The closing measures of the prelude are a specific instance of that protracted mood of depression spoken of above. The movement proper begins at the Allegro vivace with a fierce, impassioned theme, [Music] which leads, in measure 25, to a subsidiary theme treated at first in free double counterpoint[314] and later canonically. [Music] [Footnote 314: By double counterpoint is meant such a grouping of the voices that they may be inverted (the upper voice becoming the lower and vice versa) and sound equally well. For further comments, together with illustrative examples, consult Chapter IX of Spalding's _Tonal Counterpoint_.] [Music] This is developed with more and more animation until the announcement, in measure 71, of the second theme in D major. Here we see the first instance of that organic relationship for which the movement is noted; for this theme [Music] is evidently derived by rhythmic modification from that of the preceding slow movement. It is brilliantly expanded and leads directly--there being no double bar and repeat--to the development in measure 115. This part of the movement evades description; it is throughout most eloquent and exciting. In measures 153-160 all the bells of Russia seem to be pealing! With measure 177 begins (marcato largamente) an impressive treatment in the bass of the second theme, answered shortly after in the upper voice. This is developed to a climax which, in turn, is followed by one of those long periods of "cooling down" which prepare us for the Recapitulation in measure 239. This corresponds exactly with the Exposition, ending with two passages (poco meno mosso and molto vivace),--based upon the rhythm of the motto--which usher in the long, elaborate Coda. This begins, maestoso, with an impressive statement of the march theme, scored in brilliant fashion, with rushing figures in the wood-wind instruments. It seems to portray some ceremonial in a vast cathedral with trumpets blaring and banners flying. A still more gorgeous treatment (marziale, energico, con tutta forza) leads to the Presto based on the subsidiary theme (cited on page 312), which fairly carries us off our feet. The last portion of the Coda (molto meno mosso) is an animated yet dignified proclamation of the main theme of the first movement--the work thus concluding with an unmistakable effect of unity. [Music] The subject of Russian music[315] is too vast for any adequate treatment within the limits of a single book, but there are several other composers in addition to Tchaikowsky of such individuality and remarkable achievement as to warrant some notice. These men, Balakireff, Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakoff and Moussorgsky, have done for the free expression of the Russian temperament in music what Pushkin, Gogol and Dostoyevsky represent in literature. "To understand fully the tendencies of Neo-Russian music, and above all to sympathize with the spirit in which this music is written, the incredible history of Holy Russia, the history of its rulers and people--the mad caprices and horrid deeds of the Romanoffs, who, in centuries gone by, surpassed in restless melancholy and atrocity the insane Caesars, and were more to be pitied, as well as detested, than Tiberius or Nero--the nature of the landscape, the waste of steppes, the dreariness of winter, and the loneliness of summer--the barbaric extravagance of aristocratic life--the red tape, extortion, and cruelty of officers--the sublime patience of the common people--the devotion of the enduring, starving multitude to the Tsar--all this should be as familiar as a twice-told tale. There should also be a knowledge of Russian literature, from the passion of Pushkin and the irony of Gogol, to Turgenieff's tales of life among the serfs, and the novels of Tolstoi, in which mysticism and realism are strangely blended. Inasmuch as Neo-Russian music is founded upon the folk-songs of that country, one should know first of all the conditions that made such songs possible, and one should breathe the atmosphere in which musicians who have used such songs have worked."[316] [Footnote 315: The most authoritative work in English is the _History of Russian Music_ by Montagu-Nathan; in French there are the Essays _Musiques de Russie_ by Bruneau.] [Footnote 316: Quoted from the chapter on Russian music in _Famous Composers and Their Works_ (2d series).] The first real leader after the wholesome beginnings made by Glinka (with his operas, _A Life for the Czar_ and _Ludmilla_) was Balakireff (1837-1910) who finding his country almost entirely under the dominion of Italian and German music, proclaimed the doctrine that Russia, with its wealth of folk-songs and its undoubted emotional power should create its own music. Like many of the Russians Balakireff was an amateur, but in the true sense of that term, _i.e._, he loved music for its own sake. He therefore set to work vigorously to combat foreign influences and to manifest in original works a spirit true to his own genius and to the tendencies of his native land. Though educated as a lawyer he had acquired through a study of Mozart, Berlioz and Liszt a thorough technique and so was equipped to put into practise his watchword which was individual liberty. "I believe in the subjective, not in the objective power of music," he said to his pupils. "Objective music may strike us with its brilliancy, but its achievement remains the handiwork of a mediocre talent. Mediocre or merely talented musicians are eager to produce effects, but the ideal of a genius is to reproduce his very self, in unison with the object of his art. There is no doubt that art requires technique, but it must be absolutely unconscious and individual.... Often the greatest pieces of art are rather rude technically, but they grip the soul and command attention for intrinsic values. This is apparent in the works of Michelangelo, of Shakespeare, of Turgenieff, and of Mozart. The beauty that fascinates us most is that which is most individual. I regard technique as a necessary but subservient element. It may, however, become dangerous and kill individuality as it has done with those favorites of our public, whose virtuosity I despise more than mere crudities." Balakireff's actual works are few in number since he spent most of his time in organizing schools of music and in teaching others; but in those works which we have[317] there is a strong note of freedom not to be missed. His Symphonic Poem _Tamara_ and his fantasy for pianoforte _Islamey_ are remarkable for that semi-oriental exotic spirit so prevalent in Russian music. Many of his songs also are of genuine beauty. [Footnote 317: Towards the end of his life he destroyed many of his compositions.] Borodin (1834-1887) is the ne plus ultra example of that versatility in which the modern Russian School is unique. As a surgeon and doctor he enjoyed a high position; as a chemist he made original researches and wrote treatises which were recognized as distinct contributions to science; he was one of the earliest scholars in the world to advocate that women should have the same education as men and was one of the founders (about 1870) of a medical school for women in Petrograd. So tireless was he in these varied activities, it seems a miracle that he could also become one of the best pianists of his time (he played well also the violin and the flute) and according to Liszt,[318] one of the most able orchestral masters of the nineteenth century. But as evidence of this amazing fact are his works, comprising two symphonies (the second in B minor often heard in this country) two string quartets, the first strikingly original, thematically, harmonically and in idiomatic use of the instruments; a small Suite for pianoforte, of which the Serenade is cited in the Supplement; an opera, _Le Prince Igor_--remarkable for its picturesque description and Oriental coloring, of which the composer himself said "Prince Igor is essentially a national opera, which can be of interest only to us Russians who love to refresh our patriotism at the sources of our history and to see the origins of our nationality live again upon the stage;" a symphonic poem _Dans les Steppes de l'Asie centrale_ and--showing some of his most characteristic work--the _Paraphrases_ written in collaboration with Korsakoff, Liadoff and Cui as a kind of musical joke. This composition,[319] a set of twenty-four variations founded on the tune popularly known as "chop-sticks" is dedicated "to little pianists capable of executing the theme with a finger of each hand." For the paraphrases themselves a player of considerable technique is required. In Borodin's style we always find a glowing color-scheme of Slavic and Oriental elements. As a modern Russian composer says, "It is individually descriptive and extremely modern--so modern that the audience of to-day will not be able to grasp all its intrinsic beauties." [Footnote 318: For a delightful account of the friendship of these two composers consult the volume _Borodin and Liszt_ by Alfred Habets (translated by Rosa Newmarch).] [Footnote 319: According to Liszt "a compendium of musical science in the form of a jest."] The most widely known and in many respects the most gifted of the Neo-Russian group is Rimsky-Korsakoff (1844-1908). He has been aptly characterized as the Dégas or Whistler of music, and for his marvellous powers of description, especially of the sea, and for his command of orchestral tone-painting he is considered the storyteller par excellence in modern music. As in the case of Borodin we are filled with amazement at the power of work and the versatility in Korsakoff's nature. For many years he was an officer in the Russian navy and throughout his life was involved with official duties. Yet he found time for a number of compositions of originality and finished workmanship. These comprise the symphonic poems _Antar_, _Sadko_ and _Scheherazade_;[320] a _Spanish Caprice_ for full orchestra; twelve operas of which the best known in this country is the fascinating _Le Coq d'Or_; a concerto for pianoforte and orchestra; a large number of songs and many choruses for men's and women's voices. His treatises on harmony and orchestration are standard works, the latter being the authority in modern treatment of the orchestra. His _Scheherazade_ is undoubtedly the most brilliant descriptive work in modern literature, for an account of which we quote the eloquent words of Philip Hale. [Footnote 320: This work in structure is a Suite, _i.e._, there are four distinct, separated movements.] "_Scheherazade_ (Op. 35) is a suite inspired by the Arabian Nights. The Sultan, persuaded of the falseness and faithlessness of woman, had sworn to put every one of his wives to death in turn after the first night. But Scheherazade saved her life by interesting him in the stories she told him for a thousand and one nights. Many marvels were told by her in Rimsky-Korsakoff's fantastic poem,--marvels and tales of adventure: 'The Sea and Sinbad's Ship'; 'The Story of the Three Kalandars'; 'The Young Prince and the Young Princess'; 'The Festival at Bagdad'; 'The Ship that went to pieces against a rock surmounted by a bronze warrior.' As in Berlioz's _Fantastic Symphony_, so in this suite, there is a theme which keeps appearing in all four movements. For the most part it is given to a solo violin. It is a free melodic phrase in Oriental bravura, gently ending in a free cadenza. There is no development of themes in this strange work. There is constant repetition in different tonalities; there is an exceedingly skillful blending of timbres; there is a keen sense of possible orchestral effects. A glance at the score shows how sadly the pedagogue might go astray in judgment of the work, without a hearing of it, and furthermore, the imagination of the hearer must be in sympathy with the imagination of the composer, if he would know full enjoyment: for this symphonic poem provokes swooning thoughts, such as come to the partakers of leaves and flowers of hemp; there are the stupefying perfumes of charred frankincense and grated sandal-root. The music comes to the listener of western birth and mind, as the Malay who knocked among English mountains at De Quincey's door. You learn of Sinbad, the explorer, who is nearer to us than Nansen; of the Kalandar Prince who spent a mad evening with the porter and the three ladies of Bagdad, and told of his incredible adventures; and Scheherazade, the narrator, she too is merely a shape in a dream; she fades away, and her soul dies on the high note exhaled by the wondering violin. "The melody of this Russian is wild, melancholy, exotic; a droning such as falls from the lips of white-bearded, turbaned, venerable men, garrulous in the sun; and then again, there is the reckless chatter of the babbler in the market-place, heated with unmixed wine." The most boldly individual of all Russian composers is Moussorgsky[321] (1831-1881). Although of intense inspiration and of uncompromising ideals his musical education was so incomplete that his technique was inadequate for the expression of his message. As the French critic, Arthur Pougin well says, "His works bizarre though they be, formless as they often are, have in them a force of expression and a dramatic accent of which no one can deny the intensity. It would be unjust to pretend that he spoke for the purpose of saying nothing; unfortunately he is too often satisfied with merely stammering." As Moussorgsky himself says: "Art is a means of talking with men; it is not an end. Starting with the principle that human speech is subject to musical laws, I see in music, not only the expression of sentiment by means of sound, but especially the notation of a human language." In fact the dominant idea of his music was to bring it into closer relation with actual life. [Footnote 321: For biographical information consult the volume by Montagu-Nathan.] "In order to understand Moussorgsky's work and his attitude towards art, it is necessary to realise the social conditions under which he lived. He was a true child of the sixties, of that period of moral and intellectual ferment which followed the accession of Alexander II and the emancipation of the serfs. Of the little group of composers then striving to give musical expression to their newly awakened nationality, none was so entirely carried away by the literary and political movements of the time as Moussorgsky. Every man was asking himself and his comrades the question posed by the most popular novel of the day: 'What shall we do?' The answer was: 'Throw aside social and artistic conventions. Make art the hand-maiden of humanity. Seek not for beauty but for truth. Go to the people. Hold out the hand of fellowship to the liberated masses and learn from them the true purpose of life.' To this democratic and utilitarian spirit, to this deep compassion for the people, to this contempt for the dandyism and dilettantism of an earlier generation Moussorgsky strove to give expression in his music, as Perov expressed it in painting, as Tchernichevsky, Dostoyevsky, and Tolstoi expressed it in fiction. We may disagree with his aesthetic principles, but we must confess that he carried out with logical sequence and conviction a considerable portion of his programme. In his sincere efforts to attain great ends he undoubtedly overlooked the means. He could never submit to the discipline of a thorough musical training as Tchaikowsky and Rimsky-Korsakoff. He preserved his originality intact, but at a heavy cost. The weakness of his technique has been exaggerated by those who put down all his peculiarities to ignorance; but in some respects--particularly as regards orchestration--his craftsmanship was certainly unequal to the demands of his inspiration, for his aims were very lofty. Had this been otherwise, Moussorgsky's name would have been more closely linked with those of Berlioz and Richard Strauss."[322] [Footnote 322: Quoted from the article in Grove's Dictionary.] His acknowledged masterpieces are first, the songs, especially the series the _Nursery_ and the _Songs and Dances of Death_, in which we see mirrored with extraordinary fidelity the complex nature of the Russian people. Rosa Newmarch has called him the Juvenal of musicians. Second, his national music drama, _Boris Godounoff_--dealing with one of the most sensational episodes in Russian history--which, for the gripping vividness of its descriptions, is quite unparalleled. "_Boris Godounoff_, finished in 1870, was performed four years later in the Imperial Opera House. The libretto of this opera he took from the poetic drama of Pushkin, but he changed it, eliminating much and adding new scenes here and there, so that as a whole it is his own creation. In this work Moussorgsky went against the foreign classic opera in conception as well as in construction. It is a typically Russian music-drama, with all the richness of Slavic colors, true Byzantine atmosphere and characters of the medieval ages. Based on Russian history of about the middle of the seventeenth century, when an adventurous regent ascends the throne and when the court is full of intrigues, its theme stands apart from all other operas. The music is more or less, like many of Moussorgsky's songs, written in imitation of the old folk-songs, folk dances, ceremonial chants, and festival tunes. Foreign critics have considered the opera as a piece constructed of folk melodies. But this is not the case. There is not a single folk melody in Boris Godounoff, every phrase is the original creation of Moussorgsky."[323] [Footnote 323: Quoted from the _Art of Music_, Vol. III.] In concluding this account of Russian music let the statement be repeated that only by a thorough knowledge of the life and character of this strange yet gifted people can their music be understood. It is necessary therefore to become acquainted with Russian literature and pictorial art--with the works of Gogol, Tolstoi and Dostoyevsky and the paintings of Perov and Veretschagin. In this way only will be made clear what is otherwise inexplicable--the depth and sincerity of the Russian soul. The other two prominent national schools in modern times are the Bohemian and Scandinavian. Although from neither of these have we products at all comparable in breadth; or depth of meaning with those of the Russian school, yet each has its note of exotic individuality and hence deserves recognition. The Bohemian School centres about the achievements of Fibich, Smetana[324] and Dvo[vr]ák, and its prevalent characteristics are the variety of dance rhythms (Bohemia having no less than forty national dances) together with the peculiarly novel harmonic and modulatory scheme. The dances best known outside of Bohemia are the _Polka_[325] and the _Furiant_; the former being used so frequently by Smetana and Dvo[vr]ák that it has attained an international status. The first of the above group, Fibich (1850-1900), was a composer of marked versatility--there being extant over seven hundred works in every form--and no little originality. Many of his pianoforte pieces have distinct charm and atmosphere and should be better known. Fibich was strongly influenced by Schumann, and there is found in his music the same note of fantastic freedom prominent in the German master. But the first impression of Bohemian music upon the world in general was made by Smetana (1824-1884). An ardent follower of Liszt, he definitely succeeded in the incorporation of Bohemian traits with the current musical idiom just as Liszt had done with Hungarian folk-music. Smetana's style is thoroughly original, his form is free yet coherent and he has a color sense and power of orchestral description peculiar to his race. Bohemia is one of the most picturesque countries in the world and the spirit of its woodlands, streams and mountains is always plainly felt in Bohemian music. The Bohemians are an out-of-door people with an inborn instinct for music (with its basic factors of rhythm and sound) by which they express the vigorous exuberance of their temperament.[326] Smetana's significant work lies in his numerous operas, his symphonic poems and in the remarkable String Quartet in E minor entitled "Aus meinem Leben." The operas deal with subjects so strongly national that they can have but little vogue outside their own country. However, _Prodana Nevesta_--_The Bartered Bride_--has been universally recognized as one of the genuine comic operas in modern times and its spirited Overture (the first theme on a fugal basis) is played the world over. His six Symphonic Poems, comprised under the title _Mein Vaterland_, are works of considerable power and brilliant orchestral treatment. Perhaps the finest sections are _Vltava_ (Moldau), celebrating the beauties of Bohemia's sacred river, and _Vy[vs]ehrad_, a realistic description of the national fortress at Prague.[327] The Quartet in E minor, noted for its freedom and intimacy of style, has become a classic. Whenever it was performed Smetana wished the sub-title "Aus Meinem Leben" to be printed on the program; for, as he says in a letter to a friend, "My quartet is no mere juggling with tones; instead I have wished to present the hearer with pictures of my life. I have studied theory; I know what style means and I am master of it. But I prefer to have circumstances determine form and so have written this quartet in the form which it itself demanded." In the first and last of the four movements there is a long sustained high E, symbolic of the buzzing sound which the composer constantly heard as his congenital deafness increased. This malady finally affected his mind and was the cause of his tragic death in an asylum at Prague. [Footnote 324: His surname is to be accented on the first syllable--a fact which may be remembered from the story attributed to Liszt who, once asking Smetana how his name was to be pronounced received this reply: My name is always [Music: _Overture to Fidelio_ Smétana, Smétana, Smétana] but never [Music: _Overture to Leonora, No. 3_ Friedrich Smetána Friedrich Smetána.]] [Footnote 325: For example in the second movement of Smetana's Quartet and in Dvo[vr]ák's Suite for small orchestra, op. 39.] [Footnote 326: For a graphic description of the country and the customs of its people consult the essay on Dvo[vr]ák in Hadow's _Studies in Modern Music_.] [Footnote 327: A detailed account of these works may be found in the article on Smetana in _Famous Composers and their Works_ (2d series).] Although in some respects not so characteristic as Smetana, Dvo[vr]ák[328] (1841-1904), by reason of his greater breadth and more cosmopolitan style, is considered the representative Bohemian composer. Dvo[vr]ák's music in its simplicity and in its spontaneity of treatment is a reincarnation of Schubert's spirit; we feel the same overflowing musical life and we must make the same allowances for looseness of structure. Dvo[vr]ák, however, has made one contribution thoroughly his own--his skill in handling the orchestra. He was a born colorist and his scores in their clarity, in the subtle distinctions between richness and delicacy, are recognized masterpieces. As a sensuous delight to the ear they may be compared to the fine glow of certain Dutch canvases--those for example of Vermeer. Dvo[vr]ák's compositions are varied and fairly numerous (some 111 opus numbers) comprising operas, cantatas, chamber music, symphonies, overtures, pianoforte pieces and songs. From 1892 to 1895 he was in this country as director of the National Conservatory in New York. Three works composed during this period, a _Quartet_, a _Quintet_ and _The New World Symphony_, are of special interest to us since they were meant as a compliment to the possibilities of American music and also reflect Dvo[vr]ák's attitude toward the sources of musical inspiration. A true child of the people, and the embodiment of folk-music, he naturally searched for native material when he wished to compose something characteristically American. But folk-music in our country, as has been stated in Chapter II, is (or was at Dvo[vr]ák's time) practically limited to that of the Indians and the Negroes. It is often stated, in fact, that the New World Symphony is founded upon Negro tunes. This, however, is a sweeping assertion. There is no doubt that Dvo[vr]ák found a strong affinity between certain of the Southern plantation melodies and the songs of his native land, _e.g._, the following melody (the second theme of the first movement) which is similar to "Swing low, sweet chariot." [Music] [Footnote 328: For his biography, consult the Hadow essay (referred to above) and the chapter on Dvo[vr]ák in Mason's _From Grieg to Brahms_.] But the individual tone of the melodies could come only from a Bohemian and if they seem both Negro and Bohemian it simply proves the common bond existing in all folk-music.[329] This _New World Symphony_ has had a great vogue and by reason of the warmth of its melodies and the rich, colorful scoring is indisputably a work full of charm.[330] Two prevalent traits of Dvo[vr]ák's music are noticeable in this symphony--the unexpectedness of the modulations and the unusual harmonic scheme.[331] The structure is at times rather loose, particularly in the Finale where the joints often crack wide open. But, as an offset, there is great rhythmic vitality--observe in particular the swing of the Trio from the Scherzo--and that sensuous tone-color peculiar to the composer. In fact, the scoring of the slow movement with its magical theme for English horn would alone compensate for many structural blemishes. This movement closes with a mysterious chord for divided double basses (four solo instruments) which is one of many touches in individual treatment. The Finale, in accordance with modern practise, although containing themes of its own, finally becomes a _résumé_ of preceding material. The two main themes are striking and well contrasted; but Dvo[vr]ák was a mediocre architect and the movement, in comparison with the Finales of Franck and Tchaikowsky, is more of a potpourri than a firmly knit organic whole. The final page is stimulating in its bold use of dissonances. But we must take Dvo[vr]ák as he is. There is no question of his genius, for his music is spontaneous, never labored, and he has expressed with convincing artistic skill the emotions and ideals of his gifted race. [Footnote 329: The author has heard this symphony played in Prague and other continental cities under Bohemian conductors. It is always welcomed as being thoroughly characteristic of Bohemia.] [Footnote 330: For detailed analytical comment consult Vol. III of _Short Studies in Great Masterpieces_ by D.G. Mason.] [Footnote 331: Note for example the chords at the opening of the slow movement.] Scandinavian music, ethnologically considered, would comprise that of the three related nations, the Swedes, the Danes and the Norwegians; some would include even the Finns, with their eloquent spokesman Sibelius. Although the Danes have considerable folk-music, and as a people love music, they have produced no composer of distinction save Niels Gade (1817-1890), who was so encrusted with German habits of thought that his music is neither one thing or the other--certainly it is not characteristically Danish. The best known of the Swedish composers is Sjögren from whom we have some poetic songs. He also attempted the larger instrumental forms but without notable success. Scandinavian music, as far as the outside world is concerned, practically centres about the Norwegian composer Grieg[332] (1843-1907) just as its dramatic art centres about Ibsen. The names, however, of four other Norwegian composers deserve mention: the pioneers Kjerulf (1815-1868) noted for his melodious songs; Svendsen (1840-1911) endowed with a fine sense for orchestral color; and Nordraak (1842-1866) the first self-conscious representative of the Norwegian spirit: a talented musician who exerted a marked influence upon Grieg--his promise cut short by an early death. In modern times the mantle of Grieg has fallen upon Sinding (1856-still living) whose songs and poetic pieces for the pianoforte have become household favorites. In Norwegian music we find the exuberant rhythmic vitality typical of a people living in the bold and highly colored scenery of that sun-lit land.[333] Grieg, a born lyric poet saturated with folk-music, has embodied this spirit in his works. His fame rests upon his songs and descriptive pianoforte pieces; though in his Pianoforte Concerto, in his Peer Gynt Suite, in the Violin Sonatas and String Quartet he proved that he was not lacking in power to handle larger forms. But most of his work is in miniature--the expression, like the music of Schubert and Chopin,[334] of moods short and intense. While Grieg's music is patterned upon Norwegian folk-dances and folk-melodies it is something far more. He has evoked from the characteristics of his native land a bold, original harmony and a power of color and description thoroughly his own. He might say with de Musset "Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais je bois dans mon verre." In his music we feel the sparkling sunshine and the breezes of the North. In fact, Grieg was the first popular impressionist and for his influence in humanizing music and freeing it from academic routine his fame will endure. We have cited in the Supplement (Nos. 68, 69) one of his most original songs--the melody of which was used also for the work _Im Frühling_ for string orchestra--and a pianoforte piece which illustrates his rhythmic life and also in certain measures that melodic line typical of all Norwegian music: the descent from the leading tone, _i.e._, G, F-sharp, D. [Footnote 332: The best biography in English is that by H.T. Finck; the work, however, is somewhat marred by fulsome praise.] [Footnote 333: During the summer solstice it is dark for only a few hours; and further north, in the land, so-called, of the Midnight Sun, for a few weeks there is perpetual daylight.] [Footnote 334: He was called by Bülow the Chopin of the North.] For a complete appreciation therefore of national music, we must always take into consideration the traits and environment of the people from which it sprung. Music, to be sure, is a universal language, but each nation has used this language in its own way. The most striking fact in present-day music is the variety gained from a free expression of nationalism[335] without infringing upon universality of appeal. [Footnote 335: An admirable treatment of the whole subject may be found in Vol. III of _The Art of Music_.] CHAPTER XX THE VARIED TENDENCIES OF MODERN MUSIC Modern music--broadly speaking, music since the beginning of the twentieth century--is certainly manifesting the characteristics which the preceding survey has shown to be inherent in its nature: that is, it has grown by a course of free experimentation, it is the youngest of the arts, and it is a human language as well as a fine art. Hence we find that modern composers are making daring experiments in dissonance, in rhythmic variety, in subtle blends of color and, above all, in the treatment of the orchestra. In comparison with achievements in the other arts music often seems in its infancy; being limited by no practical or utilitarian considerations, and employing the boundless possibilities of sound and rhythm, there is so much still before it. The truth contained in the saying, that music is the youngest as well as the oldest of the arts, becomes more apparent year by year; for although a work which originally had imaginative life can never die, yet many former works have passed out of recognition simply because they have been superseded by more inspired ones, composed since their day. We can no longer listen with whole-hearted enthusiasm to many of the older symphonies, songs and pianoforte pieces, because Brahms, Franck, Debussy and d'Indy have given us better ones. These experiments, just referred to, have been particularly notable on the part of two composers of the neo-Russian group, Stravinsky and Scryabin. Stravinsky,[336] in his brilliant pantomime ballets, _L'Oiseau du Feu_, _Petroushka_, and _Le Sacre du Printemps_, has proved incontestably that he is a genius--it being of the essence of genius to create something absolutely new. These works, in their expressive melody, harmonic originality and picturesque orchestration, have widened the bounds of musical characterization. Scryabin[337] (1871-1915) is noted for his esoteric harmonic scheme, shown in a series of pianoforte preludes, sonatas and, above all, in his orchestral works, the _Divine Poem_, the _Poem of Ecstacy_ and _Prometheus_ or _Poem of Fire_. The effect of Scryabin's harmonies is one of great power, and, as previously said of Debussy in his earlier days, his imagination has undoubtedly heard sounds hitherto unrealized. The sensational style of _Prometheus_ is augmented by the use of a color machine which flashes upon a screen hues supposed to supplement the various moods of the music. How many of these experiments will be incorporated into the accepted idiom of music, time alone will tell; but they prove conclusively that modern music is thoroughly awake and is proving true to that spirit of freedom which is the breath of its being. [Footnote 336: For a detailed account of his life and works consult the essay in _Contemporary Russian Composers_ by Montagu-Nathan and Vol. III of _The Art of Music_.] [Footnote 337: For a comprehensive estimate of his style and achievements the following works will prove useful: the _Biography_, by Eaglefield Hull; the Essay, by Montagu-Nathan in the volume referred to, and an article by W.H. Hadow in the Musical Quarterly for Jan. 1915.] Music is, furthermore, not only a fine art in which have worked and are working some of the best intellects of our race, but is inevitably becoming a universal language. We see this clearly in the rapid growth of music among peoples and nations which, comparatively a short time ago, were thought to be quite outside the pale of modern artistic development. No longer is music confined exclusively to the Italians, French and Germans. A national spokesman for the Finns is the gifted Sibelius, the composer of five symphonies, several Symphonic poems, numerous songs and pianoforte pieces; his second Symphony in E minor being a work of haunting beauty, and the Fourth noted for its bold use of the dissonant element. The Roumanians have come to the fore in Enesco, who has written several characteristic works for orchestra. The Spaniards are endeavoring to restore their former glories--for we must not forget that, in past centuries, the Spanish composers Morales and Vittoria ranked with the great painters which that nation has produced. Three Spanish composers, indeed, are worthy of distinct recognition: Albeniz for his pianoforte pieces, _tangos_, _malagueñas_, etc., in which there is such a fascinating treatment of national dance rhythms; Granados,[338] with several operas to his credit, and Laparra, the composer of a fantastic suite recently played by the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Spanish rhythms, melodies and local color have been frequently incorporated in the works of other composers, _e.g._, by Bizet in _Carmen_, by Debussy in _Ibéria_, and in the pianoforte piece _Soirée dans Granade_, by Chabrier in _España_, by Lalo in several works, and by the Russians, Glinka and Rimsky-Korsakoff, in brilliant orchestral works. The Spanish influence,[339] in fact, may be called one of the most potent in modern music. [Footnote 338: Who lost his life on the Sussex when it was torpedoed by the Germans.] [Footnote 339: For a comprehensive account, historical and critical, of this influence consult the volume by Carl Van Vechten _The Music of Spain_.] Although there is no doubt of the strong musical instinct inherent in the Hungarians--witness the prevalence of Hungarian rhythms in Schubert, Liszt, Brahms and others--their country has always been so torn with political dissensions that the lack of a national artistic culture is not to be wondered at. Recently however three Hungarian composers, Dohnányi, Moor and Béla Bartok, have produced works embodying racial tendencies and yet of such significant content and sound workmanship as to attract the attention of the world outside. Italy, also, is awakening from a long sleep, and there is now a group of young men representing New Italy (of whom Malipiero and Casella are the best known) which should accomplish results worthy of the glorious musical traditions of that country. England is shaking off her subserviency[340] to the influence of Handel and Mendelssohn, and at last has made a promising start toward the achievement of works which shall rank with her glories in poetry, in fiction and in painting. Among the older group we have such names as Sullivan, with his inimitable series of operas, the _Mikado_, _Gondoliers_, _Iolanthe_, etc.; Parry, with some notable choral works, and Stanford--a most versatile man--Irish by birth, and with the humor and spontaneity natural to his race; his _Irish Symphony_ and his opera _Shamus O'Brien_ would give lustre to any period. The only genius of the first rank however which England has produced since the days of Purcell is Edward Elgar (1857-still living). Practically self-educated and spending his early life in his native country he escaped the influences of German training which so deadened the efforts of former composers, such as Pierson and Bennett. Elgar's music is thoroughly English in its sturdy vigor[341] and wholesome emotion. With something first-hand to say he has acquired such a technique in musical expression that his compositions rank in workmanship with those of the great continental masters. In his use of the modern orchestra Elgar need be considered second to none. His overtures _In the South_ and _Cockaigne_, his two Symphonies and his _Enigma Variations_ are universally acknowledged to be models of richly-colored and varied scoring. Although his music is English it is never parochial but has that note of universal import always found in the work of a real genius. Among the younger men there are Wallace, both composer and writer on musical subjects (his Threshold of music being particularly stimulating), Holbrook, Vaughan Williams, Roger Quilter, Arthur Hinton, Balfour Gardiner and John Ireland, a composer of genuine individuality, as is evident from his Violin Sonata in D Minor. [Footnote 340: Some pithy remarks on the habitual English attitude toward music may be found in the history of Stanford and Forsyth, page 313, _seq._] [Footnote 341: See for example the broad theme in the middle portion of the March, _Pomp and Circumstance_.] Even such outlying parts of the world as Australia and South America have contributed executive artists of great ability though, to our knowledge, as yet no composer. What, now, in this connection can be said of America? This much at least: when we consider that, beyond the most rudimentary attempts, music in our land is not yet a century old, a start has been made which promises great things. Such pioneers as Paine, Chadwick, MacDowell, Foote, Parker, Osgood, Whiting and Mrs. H.H.A. Beach have written works, often in the larger forms, showing genuine inspiration and fine workmanship, many of which have won permanent recognition outside of their own country. Of late years a younger group has arisen, the chief members[342] of which are Converse, Carpenter, Gilbert, Hadley, Hill, Mason, Atherton, Stanley Smith, Brockway, Blair Fairchild, Heilman, Shepherd, Clapp, John Powell, Margaret Ruthven Lang, Gena Branscombe and Mabel Daniels. These composers all have strong natural gifts, have been broadly educated, and, above all, in their music is reflected a freedom, a humor and an individuality which may fairly be called American; that is, it is not music which slavishly follows the "made-in-Germany" model.[343] The composer of greatest genius and scope in America is undoubtedly Charles Martin Loeffler; but, although he has become a loyal American, and although his best works have been composed in this country, we can hardly claim him as an American composer, for his music vividly reflects French taste and ideals. His inspired works--in particular _La Mort de Tintagiles_, _The Pagan Poem_ and a Symphony (in one movement)--are of peculiar importance for their connection with works of literature and for consummate power in orchestration. Not even Debussy has expressed more subtly the tragic spirit of Maeterlinck than has Loeffler in _La Mort de Tintagiles_; and _The Pagan Poem_, founded on an Eclogue of Virgil portrays most eloquently the romance of those pastoral days. Loeffler's latest work, a String Quartet[344] dedicated to the memory of Victor Chapman, the Harvard aviator, is remarkable for the heart-felt beauty of its themes and for advanced technique in treating the four solo instruments. [Footnote 342: This valuation of American composers is made solely on the basis of published compositions.] [Footnote 343: For additional comments on this point see an article by the author in the Musical Quarterly for January, 1918.] [Footnote 344: Performed recently several times by the Flonzaley Quartet.] Let us now indulge in a few closing remarks of advice to the young student faced with all this perplexing novelty. Our studies should have made plain two definite facts: first, that the real message of music is contained in its melody--that part of the fabric which we can carry with us and sing to ourselves. Harmony and color are factors closely involved with melodic inspiration, but their impression is more fleeting; and in general, no work lacking in melody, however colorful or filled with daring harmonic effects, can long endure. But we must be judicious and fair in estimating exactly what constitutes a real melody. The genius is always ahead of his time; if he thought just as other men, he would be no genius. New types of melody are continually being worked out; all we can say is that the creative composer hears sounds in his imagination, the result of his emotional and spiritual experiences and of his sympathy with the world. He recreates these sounds in terms of notation, hoping that, as they mean so much to him, they may be a delight and inspiration to his fellowmen. If enough people like these works for a long enough time, they _are_; that is, they live--no matter how much they differ from _a priori_ standards as to what music should be. The second fact concerns the structure of music; that is, the way in which the thought is presented. We have seen that music always has a carefully planned architecture--that being necessary by reason of the indefiniteness of the material. But let us always remember that without abandoning the fundamental principles of all organic life, form may be--and should be--free and elastic. Every work which lives reveals a perfect balance between the emotional and imaginative factors and their logical presentation. If we are puzzled by the structure of a new work the assumption should be, not that it is formless but that, when we know the work, it will be seen to employ simply a new use of old and accepted principles; for the works analyzed must have convinced us that the principles of unity, contrast, balance and symmetry are eternal; and, however modified, can never be abandoned. The normal imagination must express itself logically, and can no more put forth incoherent works than the human body would give birth to misshapen offspring. Musical compositions, which after study prove to be incoherent, diffuse and flabby, are to be considered exceptional and not worth condemning; they are only to be pitied. The chief aim of the music-lover should be to become an intelligent and enthusiastic appreciator of the great works already composed, and to train himself liberally for the welcome of new works. Towards such an end we hope that this book may offer a helpful contribution. Index A _Academic Overture_ of Brahms, 233. Aeolian mode, 24. Aeschylus, compared with Brahms, 239. Albeniz, pianoforte pieces, 327. answer (to a fugue), 42. Apthorp, W.F., comments on Brahms, 238; eulogy on Brahms's _First Symphony_, 246; comments on _Istar_, 283. arabesque, 83. Aristophanes, his humor compared with Beethoven's, 150. Arnold, Matthew, lines on Byron apropos of Berlioz, 203; stanza applicable to Brahms, 233; definition of style, 234. Atherton, Percy Lee, 329. Auber, 255. augmentation, definition of, 44. B Babbitt, Irving, book on Romanticism, 161; _The New Laocoön_, 207. Bach, Emmanuel, use of two themes, 93; contributions to the Sonata-form, 100. Bach, J.S., _Well-tempered Clavichord_, 23; choral (Phrygian mode), 25; polyphonic style, 34; _Goldberg Variations_, 37; celebrated organ fugues, 41; analysis of _Fugue in E-flat major_, 42-43. _Bagatelles_, of Beethoven, 166. Balakireff, works and features of style, 315-316. Baldensperger, F., eulogy of Franck, 258. Ballet music to _Prometheus_, 140. Balzac, comment on Chopin, 189. _Barcarolle_, of Chopin, color effect therein, 193; analysis of, 200-201. _Bartered Bride Overture_, 121, 322. basso ostinato, 86. Baudelaire, 293. Beach, Mrs., _Menuet Italien_, 78, 329. Beethoven, 2, 5, 8: motive of _Fifth Symphony_, 12; _Waldstein Sonata_, 15; String Quartet (Lydian mode), 26; fugal passages in symphonies, 41; sentences from sonatas, 58-61; _Egmont Overture_, 77; _Rondo Capriccio_, 82; sets of Variations, 88; biography, 122-126; love of Nature, 125; features of style, 126-129; development of the Sonata-form, 126-127; treatment of the Coda, 127; variety of rhythm, 127-128; use of dissonances, 128; humor, 128-129; development of Program music, 129; development of varied air, 129; characterization of the Symphonies, 130-132; estimate of the Pianoforte Sonatas, 140; pianistic effect in Sonatas, 145; as a programmistic composer, 153-154; quality of themes, 156; dramatic use of single notes, 156-157; theme of _Ninth Symphony_ compared with theme from Brahms's _First Symphony_, 247. Béla Bartok, 328. Berlioz, quotation from _Grotesques de la Musique_, 21; canon in _Carnaval Romain_ Overture, 37; comment on Trio of _Fifth Symphony_, 150; biography, 202-205; names of his Parisian friends, 204; features of style, 205-206; _Fantastic Symphony_, analysis of, 207-211; _Carnaval Romain_ Overture, analysis of, 211-212; _Damnation of Faust_, instrumental numbers from, 213-214; _Harold in Italy_ Symphony, analysis of, 214-215; _Romeo and Juliet_ Symphony, comments on, 215-216. Bie, Oscar, 74; on the style of Couperin and Rameau, 152. Bizet, _L'Arlésienne Suites_, 80. Bohemian School, 320-321. Boieldieu, comment on Beethoven, 134, 255. _bolero_, 75. Boris Godounoff, description of, 320. Borodin, works and features of style, 316-317. Boschot, work, in three parts, on Berlioz, 207. _bourrée_, 75. Brahms, _First Symphony_, 8, 14, 21, 44; modal expression in works, 23; _Fourth Symphony_ (Phrygian mode), 25; canonic style, 36; _C minor Trio_, 67; sets of variations, 88; biography, 231-233; features of style, 233-238; analysis of _First Symphony_, 239-249; of _Violin Sonata_, 250-252; of _G minor Ballade for Pianoforte_, 252-253; attitude toward program music, 253; the nature of his _Intermezzi_, 253; of the _Capriccios_, 253; his _Rhapsodies_, 254; analysis of song _Meine Liebe ist grün_, 254; other songs, 255. branle (brawl), 75. Branscombe, Gena, 329. Brenet, M., _Life of Haydn_, 104. Brockway, H., on American folk-songs, 33, 329. Browning, 1; quotation apropos of the fugue, 49; quotations apropos of the _Fifth Symphony_, 146, 150. Bruckner, movement from _Seventh Symphony_, 231. Bruneau, _History of Russian Music_, 314. Bull, John, 79, 85. Bülow, _Sonatas_ of E. Bach, 100; comment on Grieg, 325. Burney, on the 18th Century, 103. Buxtehude, 34. Byrd, William, 12, 79, 85. Byron, influence on Schumann's style, 177. C _C minor Symphony_ (Beethoven), analysis of, 145-151. _C minor Symphony_ (Brahms), analysis of, 239-249. cadences, 55-57. Calvacoressi, on dominant relationship, 52. canon, 11; account of, 36-37. canzona, 69. _Carnaval Romain_ Overture, analysis of, 211-212. Carpenter, John Alden, _Adventures in a Perambulator_, 80, 329. Casella, 328. _Casse-Noisette Suite_, 80. Cellini, Benvenuto, compared with Berlioz, 202; opera by Berlioz, 211. Chabrier, _Bourrée Fantasque_, 80, 297; _España_, 80, 297; Overture to _Gwendoline_, 99, 297; account of style, 297. _chaconne_, 86; Bach's for violin solo, 87. Chadwick, _Canonic Studies_, 36; fugal passage in _Vagrom Ballad_, 41, 329. Chamisso, texts for Schumann's songs, 170. Chantavoine, Life of Beethoven, 159. Charpentier, _Impressions of Italy_, 80. Chausson, Ernest, account of style, 298. Chavannes, Puvis de, compared with Franck, 258. Chopin, type of melody, 10, 21; _Sonata in C minor_, 67; biography and features of style, 188-189; analysis of _Prelude in C major_, 198; _Étude in A-flat major_, 199; _Mazurka in F-sharp minor_, 199; analysis of _Polonaise in E-flat minor_, 200; of _Barcarolle_, 200-201; of _Scherzo in C-sharp minor_, 201. chromatic changes, 51. Clapp, P.G., 48, 329. coda, definition and examples of, 99. color, in different keys, 51. Combarieu, Jules, 2. Converse, F.S., Dramatic Poem, _Job_ (Phrygian mode), 26; _String Quartet_, 99, 329. Corelli, 70, 74. _Coriolanus_ Overture, analysis of, 152-156. counterpoint, definition of, 11. counter-subject (of a fugue), 42. Couperin, 70, 74, 81, 85; descriptive pieces, 152, 255. _courante_ (_corrente_), 75. Croatian Folk-songs (in Haydn), 101-102. _csárdás_, 76. D _D major Sonata_ of Beethoven, analysis of, 140-145. _D Minor Symphony_ of Schumann, 179-184. d'Albert, _Suite for Pianoforte_, 78. _Damnation of Faust_, instrumental numbers from, 213-214. Daniels, Mabel, 329. Dannreuther, eulogy on Beethoven, 159; comment on Berlioz's counterpoint, 209. Dargomijsky, use of whole-tone scale, 289. Debussy, modal expression in works, 23, 288-289; _Pelléas et Mélisande_ (Dorian mode), 24; comments upon, 294; _Minstrels_ (cadence in), 55-56; _Sarabande_ for pianoforte, 77; comment on development, 97; compared with Mendelssohn, 185; apropos of new music, 204; features of style, 287-297; whole-tone scale, 289-290; titles of pianoforte pieces, 292-293; on his pianoforte style, 295-296. de Musset, quotation apropos of Grieg, 325. deceptive cadence, 56. Dent, E.J., _Mozart's Operas_, 112. De Pachman, playing of Mendelssohn's pieces, 185. De Quincey, quotation from the _Dream Fugue_, 49. _Deutsches Requiem_, 233. development section of Sonata-form, 93-94, 97-98. Dickinson, Edward, estimate of Haydn, 101. diminution, definition of, 44. d'Indy, modal expression in works, 23; canonic style, 36; Symphonic Variations, _Istar_, 67; comments on the Sonata-form, 95, 100; comment on Beethoven's _Seventh Symphony_, 131; comment on _Sonata Pathétique_, 142; comments on D major Sonata, 145; comments on _Fifth Symphony_, 145; Life of Beethoven, 159; comments on Franck's themes, 268; biography and features of style, 280-282; _Istar_, analysis of, 283-287. dissonance, discord, distinction between terms, 143. Dohnányi, 328. Dominant, acoustical and harmonic importance of, 22-23, 52. _Don Giovanni_, 111, 119. _Don Juan_, 85. _Don Quixote_, 89. Dorian mode, 24. Dostoyevsky, 314, 319, 320. Doumic, René, essay on George Sand, 189. Dowland, John, his _Pavans_, 80. Duparc, Henri, account of his style, 298. Dvo[vr]ák, _New World Symphony_, 9, 21; modal expression in works, 23; _New World Symphony_ (Aeolian mode), 26; _Suite for Orchestra_, 79; works and features of style, 322-324. E Eichendorff, texts for Schumann's songs, 176. _Eighth Symphony_ of Beethoven, Finale, 157. Elgar, Edward, works and features of style, 328-329. Ellis, W.A., translation of Wagner's Essays, 154. Enesco, 327. enharmonic, modulation, 52-53. episode, definition of, 39-40. exposition of Sonata-form, 96. extended cadences, 62-63. F _F major Sonata_ of Mozart, analysis of, 113-115. Fairchild, Blair, 329. _Fantastic Symphony_, analysis of, 207-211; quotation from, 207-209. Farwell, Arthur, on folk-music, 33. Fauré, Gabriel, account of style, 297-298. _Faust_ Symphony, analysis of, 223-226. Fay, Amy, account of Liszt, 217. feminine ending, 57. Fibich, 321. Finck, H.T., _Songs and Song Writers_, 265; _Chopin and Other Essays_, 198; comments on Program Music, 226; biography of Grieg, 324. Fitzwilliam Virginal Book, 79, 152. five-bar rhythm, 63-64. Flonzaley Quartet, 105. folk-songs, principle of restatement in, 16; origin and importance of, 19-33. Foote, Arthur, fugal Finale to _Suite_, 41, 329. Forsyth, Cecil, eulogy of Mendelssohn, 185. _Francesca da Rimini_, 154. Franck, _Symphony_, 8, 15; polyphonic structure, 13; canonic style, 36; canon in _Symphony_, 37; in _Violin Sonata_, 37; _Fugue in B minor for Pianoforte_, 41; comparison of his scoring with that of Schumann, 181; limitations of his pianoforte style, 190; his fusion of movements compared with that of Brahms, 251; biography, 256-257; features of style, 257-258; analysis of _D minor Symphony_, 259-268; of _Sonata for Violin_, 268-274; use of generative themes, 268; _Symphonic Variations_, 274-280; comparison of his style with that of Bach and Beethoven, 274; his group of pupils, 280. French folk-song, 29. French Overture, 119. Frescobaldi, 34. Friedländer, Max, apropos of Chabrier, 281. fugue, 11; definition of, 39. Fuller-Maitland, life of Brahms, 238. _furiant_, 75, 321. G _G major Pianoforte Concerto_ of Beethoven, 152-158. _G minor Symphony_, analysis of, 115-119. Gade, Neils, 324. _galliard_, 75, 80. Galuppi, as a pioneer in Sonata-form, 93. Gardiner, Balfour, 329. Gautier, Théophile, eulogy of Berlioz, 207. _gavotte_, 75; account of, and examples, 78-79. Gilbert, H.F., on folk-songs, 20, 33, 329. Gilman, Lawrence, essay on Berlioz, 214; comments on _Istar_, 283; essay on Debussy, 293; comments on _Pelléas el Mélisande_, 297. Glinka, 301, 315. Gluck, Ballet music, 87; Operatic Overtures, 119. Goethe, eulogy on Mozart, 112. Gogol, 314, 320. Gosse, Edmund, comment on Mallarmé's eclogue, 293. Gossec, as a pioneer in Sonata-form, 93. Granados, Spanish folk-dance, 167; works, 327. Gregorian Chant, 10. Gregorian modes in folk-songs, 20. Grétry, comments on Sonata-form, 98, 255. Grieg, 21; Canon for Pianoforte, 37; _Peer Gynt Suite_, 80; _Holberg Suite_, 80; works and features of style, 324-325. ground bass, 86; from Bach's Mass, 86. Grove, _Beethoven and his Nine Symphonies_, 130. Grove's _Dictionary_, 70, 73, 79, 81, 86, 104, 119, 154, 161, 172, 200, 217, 238. Guilmant, March in Dorian Mode, 24; Canon for Organ, 36. Gurney, _The Power of Sound_, 2. H _habañera_, 76. Habets, Alfred, account of Borodin and Liszt, 316. Hadley, Henry, 329. Hadow, W.H., 72, 81, 92, 96; _Studies in Modern Music_, 184, 198, 207, 238; essay on Dvo[vr]ák, 321; article on Scryabin, 326. Hale, Philip, comments on Saint-Saëns, 256; comments on Lalo, 256; essay on Mozart, 112; comments on _Scheherazade_, 317-318. _halling_, 76. Handel, fugue from the Messiah, 41; _Harpsichord Lessons_, 74; Air in Sarabande rhythm, 77; _Harmonious Blacksmith_, 86; Overture to _Messiah_, 119. Harmonic Series, 51. _Harold in Italy_ Symphony, analysis of, 214-215. Haydn, 21, 81, 87; ancestry, 101; features of style, 101-105; his freedom of rhythm, 102; development of the String-Quartet and the Orchestra, 102-103; _Sonata in E-Flat major_, 105-106; _Surprise Symphony_, 106-108; comment on Minuet, 144; Prelude to the _Creation_, 152. Hazlitt, comment on Mozart, 111. _Hebrides_ Overture of Mendelssohn, 185. Heilman, William C., 329. Heine, texts for songs of Schubert and Schumann, 176; comment on Berlioz's music, 205. Helmholtz, 193, 291. Henderson, W.J., _Preludes and Studies_, 184. Henschel, vocal canon, 37; conversation with Brahms, 233. _Heroic Symphony_, analysis of, 132-140. Hérold, 255. Hill, Edward Burlingame, _Stevensoniana_, 80; comments on Saint-Saëns, 256; essay on d'Indy, 281, 329. Hinton, Arthur, 329. Hoffman, E.T.A., Essay on _Fifth Symphony_, 151. _Holberg Suite_, 80. Holbrook, 329. Holmès, Augusta, 280. homophonic, 10. hornpipe, 75. Hull, Eaglefield, Biography of Scryabin, 326. Huneker, Life of Chopin, 198; on the playing of Chopin, 199; comment on Chopin's Scherzo, 201; Life of Liszt, 217; comment on Liszt's Songs, 220; essay on Brahms, 238; essay on Tchaikowsky, 306. Hungarian folk-song, 30, 328. _Hungarian Rhapsodies_, 227. Hungarian rhythms in Schubert, Liszt and Brahms, 30; in Schubert's Symphonies, 166; in Brahms's First Symphony, 244. I _Impromptus_ of Schubert, 165-166. _Indian Suite_, 80. invention, 11. _Invention in C major_, analysis of, 38-89. inversion, definition of, 43-44. Ionian mode, 24. Ireland, John, 329. Irish Folk-song, 29, 35. _Istar_, Symphonic Poem of d'Indy, as example of a varied air, 89; analysis of, 283-287. Italian Overture, 119. J Jadassohn, Canonic Pieces, 37. James, Henry, essay on George Sand, 189. Jannequin, descriptive pieces for voices, 152. _jota_ (_aragonesa_), 76. K _Kaiser Quartet_, 87. Keats, quotation apropos of _Fifth Symphony_, 148; quotation from, 163. Kelly, E.S., _Chopin the Composer_, 198. Kelly, Michael, _Reminiscences of Mozart_, 112. _King Lear_, quotation from by Berlioz, 207. Kjerulf, 324. Korbay, F., _Hungarian Melodies_, 30. Krehbiel, essay on Haydn, 103; _The Pianoforte and its Music_, 152. _Kreisleriana_, 83. Kuhnau, _Bible Sonatas_, 152. L Lalo, Eduard, works and features of style, 256. Laloy, Louis, Life of Chopin, 198; essay on Debussy, 294. Laparra, 327. _L'apprenti Sorcier_, 154. _L'après-midi d'un Faune_, 154, 293-294. Lavoix, estimate of the _Fifth Symphony_, 127. Legouvé, _Recollections_ of Berlioz, 205. Lekeu, 257. _L'idée fixe_, 207-210. Liebich, Mrs., essay on Debussy, 294. Liszt, 4, 21; characterization of Schubert, 164; _Faust_ Symphony (theme in augmentation), 45; Life of Chopin, 198; biography, 217-218; features of style, 218-219; analysis of Symphonic Poem, _Orpheus_, 221-222; of _Faust_ Symphony, 223-226; pianoforte compositions, 226-227; alleged influence on Brahms, 232; use of whole-tone scale, 289. Locke, A.W., article in _Musical Quarterly_, 151. Loeffler, Charles Martin, works and features of style, 329-330. _Lonesome Tunes_, 33. _loure_, 75; example of, from Bach, 79. Lowell, J.R., definition of a classic, 161. Lully, 70, 119. Lydian mode, 24. M MacCunn, Hamish, _Scottish Melodies_, 28. MacDowell, _Rigaudon_, 79; _Indian Suite_, 80, 329. madrigal, 69. Maeterlinck, compared with Franck, 257; comment on the theatre, 294; influence on Loeffler, 330. _Magic Flute_ Overture, analysis of, 119-121. Mahler, comments on his style, 231. _malagueña_, 76. Mallarmé, 293. Malipiero, 328. _Manfred_ Overture, 177-179. Mannheim Orchestra, 102. Manuel, Roland, life of Ravel, 299. march, 75. _Marriage of Figaro_, 111. masculine ending, 57. Mason, D.G., 7, 9; essay on Haydn, 102; on Mozart, 112; comment on Chopin's style, 196; essay on Berlioz, 211; on Saint-Saëns, 256; on d'Indy, 281; comments on _Istar_, 283; essay on Debussy, 295; on Tchaikowsky, 306; on Dvo[vr]ák, 322; as composer, 329. _mazurka_, 75. mediant relationship, 52, 96. Méhul, 255. _Melpomene_ Overture, 154. _Melusine_ Overture of Mendelssohn, 185. Mendelssohn, 89; biography and features of style, 184-186; Violin Concerto, comments on, 185-186. Merkel, canon for organ, 36. _Midsummer Night's Dream_ Overture, analysis of, 186-187. Milton, quotation from _Paradise Lost_, 49. minuet, 75; account of, and examples, 78. Mixolydian mode, 24. modal, chart of modes, 23-24. modulation, 51-52. _Moments Musicaux_ of Schubert, 165-166. Montagu-Nathan, _History of Russian Music_, 314, 326. Monteverde, 119. Morales, 327. Moor, 328. _Mother Goose Suite_, 81. Moussorgsky, works and features of style, 318-320. Mozart, _Magic Flute_ Overture, 40; Finale of _Jupiter_ Symphony, 40, 81; biography, 108-110; features of style, 110-112; Mozart and Haydn, reactive influence, 110-111; polyphonic skill, 110, 112; dramatic power, 111; examples from works, 113-121. Mundy, John, descriptive pianoforte piece, 152. _musette_, 78. _Mystic Trumpeter_, 154. N National Music, distinctive features of, 300-301. Neefe, Beethoven's teacher, 124. _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_, founded by Schumann, 174. _New World Symphony_, critical comments on, 323-324. Newman, _Musical Studies_, 154, 178, 207; comment on Debussy, 296. Newmarch, Rosa, _Life of Tchaikovsky_, 305. Niecks, _Programme Music_, 152, 214, 221, 305; _Life of Chopin_, 198; eulogy of Liszt, 228. Nordraak, 324. O Organ, the, its tone compared with that of pianoforte, 191. organum, 10. _Orpheus_, Symphonic Poem, analysis of, 221-222. Osgood, George L., 329. overtones, chart of, 193. _Oxford History of Music_, 10, 12, 102, 103, 110, 119, 161, 165, 185, 216, 221, 226. P Paderewski, 77; Minuet of, 78; playing of Mendelssohn's pieces, 185. Paganini, connection with Berlioz, 214. Paine, J.K., _Fuga Giocosa_, 46, 49; tribute to Beethoven, 129, 329. Palestrina, 34. Parker, H.W., fugue from _Hora Novissima_, 41, 329. Parry, _Evolution of the Art of Music_, 9, 16, 21, 69, 70; choral works, 328. _Passacaglia_, 86; of Brahms, 86; of Bach for organ, 87. _passepied_, 75. Pater, Walter, remark on Romanticism, 161. _pavane_, 75; example from Ravel, 79. pedals of the pianoforte, the damper and the una corda, 192-195. _Peer Gynt_ Suite, 80. period, definition of, 50. Pérotin, 34. Perry, Baxter, 90. _Phaëton_, 256. Philidor, 255. Phrygian cadence, 24-25. Phrygian mode, 23; Brahms's use of, 239. pianoforte, the, account of its characteristics, 189-195. plagal cadence, 55. _polka_, 75, 321. _polonaise_, 75. polyphonic, 10. polyphonic music, complete account of, 33-49. Poirée, Elié, Life of Chopin, 198. Pope, apropos of the jig, 80. Pougin, Arthur, comments on Moussorgsky, 318-319. Powell, John, 329. Pratt, _History of Music_, 10, 93, 159, 161. prelude (to Sonata-form), 99. _Prix de Rome_, won by Berlioz, 205; by Debussy, 288. Prout, 85. Puccini, fugal prelude to _Madama Butterfly_, 41. Purcell, 70; his Jig, 71. Pushkin, 314. Q Quilter, Roger, 329. R Rabelais, his humor compared with Beethoven's, 150, 157. Rameau, acoustical reforms of, 23, 70, 74, 81, 85; descriptive pieces, 152, 255. Ravel, _Daphnis and Chloe_, 68; his Pavane, 79; _Mother Goose Suite_, 81; works and account of style, 299-300. recapitulation (or _résumé_), 98-99. Reinecke, Canonic Vocal Trios, 37. Remenyi, Brahms's tour with, 232. repetition, importance of, 12, 13; types of, 14-18. Rheinberger, _Canonic Pieces_, 87; _Tarantelle_ for Pianoforte, 79. rhythmic variety (five and seven beats a measure), 66-68. Richter, Jean Paul, influence on Schumann, 172. Riemann, 93. _rigaudon_, 75; examples of, from Grieg, Rameau and MacDowell, 79, 81. Rimsky-Korsakoff, works and features of style, 317. _Roi d'Ys, Le_, 256. Rolland, Romain, account of Beethoven in _Jean Christophe_, 125; _Life of Beethoven_, 159; essay on Berlioz, 207. Romanticism and Romantic School, account of, 160-165. _Romeo and Juliet_ Symphony, comments on, 215-216. rondo, account of, 81-85. rondo-sonata form, 144. Ropartz, 257; characterization of a theme in Franck's Symphony, 266. Rossetti, _Blessed Damozel_, set by Debussy, 288. Rossini, "crescendo" in Overtures, 62; eulogy of Mozart, 121. _Rouet d'Omphale, Le_, 256. round, 11; _Old English Rounds_, 12. rubato (tempo), definition of, 199. Rubinstein, movements in _Ocean Symphony_, 95; estimate of Mozart, 111; characterization of the damper pedal, 191. Runciman, quotation apropos of Weber from _Old Scores and New Readings_, 169-170. Russian folk-songs, 30-33. Russian music, general tendencies of, 314-315. S Saint-Saëns, 1, 2; comment on Berlioz's _Romeo and Juliet Symphony_, 216; account of works and style, 255-256. _Sakuntala_, 154. _saltarello_, 75; Berlioz's use of the rhythm, 211. Sammartini, as a pioneer in Sonata-form, 93. Santayana, 5. _sarabande_, 75, 76, 77. Scandinavian Music, 324. Scarlatti, Alessandro, Aria da capo, 14; operatic overture, 119. Scarlatti, D., the _Cat-Fugue_, 48; as virtuoso, 74; anticipation of Sonata-form, 93; _Courante_ for pianoforte, 79; crossing of hands in Beethoven, 141, 144. Schumann, 7; motive from the _Carnaval_, 13; from the _Kinderscenen_, 13; _Arabesque_, 14: saying about folk-songs, 20; Canon for organ, 36; Canonic Variations, 37; _Carnaval_, 68; _Phantasiestücke_, 68; his use of the Rondo, 82-83; Variations, 88; comment on Schubert, 166; biography and features of style, 172-174; analysis of _Des Abends_, 174-175; of _Warum_, 175-176; of _Novellette in E major_, 176; of Song, _Mondnacht_, 176-177; of _Manfred_ Overture, 177-179; characterization of the four Symphonies, 179; _Symphony in D minor_, analysis of, 179-184; eulogy of Brahms in the _Neue Zeitschrift_, 232. Schola Cantorum, account of, 282. Scottish folk-tune, 28. Scryabin, as harmonic innovator, 143; works and features of style, 327. _seguidilla_, 76, 79. sentence, complete analysis of, 53, 54. sequence, definition of, 38. _Scheherazade Suite_, 81. scherzo, of Beethoven, 128-129. Schmitt, Florent, 280. Schubert, 21; Variations, 88; account of style and works, 162-169; character of songs, 165; symphonic style, 166; chamber music, 166; pianoforte style, 167; as great colorist, 167-168; analysis of _Unfinished Symphony_, 167-169. seven-bar rhythm, 66. Shakespeare, 1; apropos of the galliard, 80. Sharp, Cecil, _English Folk-Song_, 27; on American folk-songs, 33. Shepherd, Arthur, 329. Shedlock, J.S., 93, 100. shifted rhythm, 46. Sibelius, features of his style, 230, 324, 327. _siciliano_, 76. Sinding, 325. Sinigaglia, Overture, 99. Sjögren, 324. Smetana, _Bartered Bride Overture_, 40, 121; works and features of style, 321-322. Smith, Stanley, 329. Smithson, Henrietta, her life with Berlioz, 204-205. sonata and sonata-form, distinction between, 94-95. sonata-form, account of 91-100; tabular view, 100. _Song of Destiny_, Brahms, 233. _Songs without Words_, Mendelssohn, 185. Spanish music, its influence in modern times, 327-328. Spitta, essay on Brahms, 238. Stamitz, J., influence on Sonata-form, 93. Stanford, Villiers, Irish folk-songs, 29; features of style, 328. Stanford-Forsyth history, 121, 328. Stendhal, remark on Romanticism, 161. _Stevensoniana_, 80. Strauss, R., motive from _Till's Merry Pranks_, 18; _Don Juan_, 85; _Till Eulenspiegel_, 85; estimate of Mozart, 111. Stravinsky, as harmonic innovator, 143; works and features of style, 326-327. Streatfield, essay on Tchaikowsky, 306. stretto, 46. string-quartet, definition of, 94. subdominant, acoustical and harmonic importance, 22-23, 52. subject (of a fugue), 42-43. suite, the classical, 73-80; the modern, 80-81. _Suites, French and English_, 74. Sullivan, Arthur, operas, 328. _Sumer is icumen in_ (Ionian mode) 27. Surette, T.W., comments on Bach's style, 48, 72; _Development of Symphonic Music_, 159. _Surprise Symphony_, analysis of, 106-108. Svendsen, 324. Sweelinck, 34. Symonds, Arthur, _Studies in the Seven Arts_, 159. _Symphonic Études_, 88. symphonic poem, definition of, 149, 220. symphonic style, development of, 228-231. T Tallys, Thomas, vocal canon, 37. _tambourin_, 71. _tango_, 76. _tarantella_, 75. Taylor, Bayard, translation of stanza from _Faust_, 225. Tchaikowsky, Modeste, biography of his brother, 306. Tchaikowsky, P., _Fifth Symphony_, 8, 21; analysis of, 306-314; modal expression in works, 23; _Legend_ (Aeolian mode), 26; _Fourth Symphony_, finale of, 33; analysis of, 305; _Sixth Symphony_, 67; analysis of, 305-306; _Quartet in F major_, 67-68; variations from Trio, 89; estimate of Mozart, 111, 121; biography, 302-303; features of style, 303-305. Thackeray, W.M., characterization of Berlioz, 204. Thayer, Alexander, _Life of Beethoven_, 159. thematic development, 34. three-bar rhythm, 65-66. three-part form, complete account of, 72-73; examples of, 73. Tiersot, J., on folk-melodies, 21; _Chansons Populaires_, 30; work on Berlioz, 207. _Till Eulenspiegel_, 85. Tolstoi, 315, 319, 320. tonality, principles of, 50-51. tonic, acoustical and harmonic importance of, 22-23. _Tragic Overture_, Brahms, 233. transformation of theme, its use in Schumann, 182. Turgenieff, 315. two-part form, definition of, 38; complete account of, 69-72. V Van Vechten, book on Spanish music, 328. variation form, account of, 85-91. _Variations, in F minor_ of Haydn, 87; on _Death and the Maiden_, 88; _Sérieuses_, 88; _on a Theme from Handel_, 88; on the _St. Anthony Choral_, 88; (_Enigma_) by Elgar, 89; _Symphoniques_, 89. Verdi, Minuet from _Falstaff_, 78. Veretschagin, 320. Verlaine, 293. _Violin Concerto_ of Beethoven, 156-157. Vittoria, 327. Vivaldi, 70. von Breuning family, 125. W Wagner, comment on operas, 4; quality of themes, 8; motive from the _Valkyrie_, 12; polyphonic structure of operas, 13; motive from _Tristan and Isolde_, 17; fugal Prelude to third act of the _Mastersingers_, 41; comments on _Leonore_ Overture, 98; eulogy of Mendelssohn, 185. _Waldesrauschen_, Étude of Lizst, 227. Waldstein, friendship with Beethoven, 125. _Waldstein_ Sonata, 83. Walker, E., on English folk-music, 22. Wallace, estimate of Haydn, 102; _Threshold of Music_, 291, 329. Wallaschek, R., on primitive music, 21. _Wallenstein Trilogy_ (d'Indy), 281. _waltz_, 75. Weber, _Moto Perpetuo_, 83; orchestral treatment in his Overtures, 164-165; account of style, 169-172; _Invitation to the Dance_, arrangement by Weingartner, 169; compared with that by Berlioz, 171; _Oberon_ Overture, analysis of, 170-171; compositions for pianoforte, 171. Weckerlin, example from _Echos du Temps Passé_, 71. Weingartner, eulogy of Berlioz, 206; comments on the Symphonic Poem, 220; comments on Brahms's _First Symphony_, 244, 246. Whistler, compared with Debussy, 293. Whiting, Arthur, _Scottish Melodies_, 28; _Irish Melodies_, 29; _Suite Moderne_, 80; _Pedal Studies_, 193, 194, 329. Whitman, 1; quotation from _Mystic Trumpeter_, 146. Widor, canon for organ, 36. Willaert, harmonic basis of choruses, 23. Williams, Abdy, on Brahms's rhythm, 253. Williams, Vaughan, 329. Wordsworth, quotation from, 163. Wyman, Loraine, 33. LIST OF COMPOSITIONS REFERRED TO IN THIS WORK I. _Sumer is icumen in._ Old English Round. II. _To the Green Wood._ Round by Byrd. III. Finale of Wagner's _Valkyrie_. IV. _Reconnaissance_ from Schumann's _Carnaval_. V. Irish Folk Song. VI. Epilogue of Strauss's _Till's Merry Pranks_. VII. _March in Dorian Mode._ Guilmant. VIII. _Movement in Lydian Mode._ Beethoven. IX. _Canon._ Thomas Tallys. X. _Canon_ from _Études Symphoniques_. Schumann. XI. No. VI of the _Goldberg Variations_. J.S. Bach. XII. _Canon for Pianoforte._ Grieg. XIII. _Canon for Pianoforte._ Jadassohn. XIV. _Two-voiced Invention in C major._ J.S. Bach. XV. _Three-voiced Fugue in E-flat major._ J.S. Bach. XVI. Final portion of _Organ Fugue in G major_. J.S. Bach. XVII. _Cat Fugue for Pianoforte._ D. Scarlatti. XVIII. _Fuga Giocosa for Pianoforte._ J.K. Paine. XIX. Song, _The Evening Star_. Schumann. XX. _Gavotte in F major._ Corelli. XXI. _Waltz in A-flat major._ Schubert. XXII. _Träumerei._ Schumann. XXIII. _Prelude in A major._ Chopin. XXIV. _Lyric Piece in E-flat major._ Grieg. XXV. _Nocturne in F major._ Chopin. XXVI. _Berceuse in G major._ Grieg. XXVII. _Intermezzo in E-flat minor._ Heilman. XXVIII. _Sarabande in D major._ J.S. Bach. XXIX. Gavotte from _Third English Suite_. J.S. Bach. XXX. Minuet from _Don Giovanni_. Mozart. XXXI. Two Minuets from _Castor and Pollux_. Rameau. XXXII. _Gigue in G major._ J.S. Bach. XXXIII. _Gigue in G major._ Mozart. XXXIV. _Courante in F minor._ D. Scarlatti. XXXV. _French Suite in E major._ J.S. Bach. XXXVI. _Soeur Monique._ Rondo by Couperin. XXXVII. _Romance in E major._ Rondo by Schumann. XXXVIII. _Rondo à Capriccio in G major._ Beethoven. XXXIX. Aria from _Dido and Aeneas_ (Ground bass). Purcell. XL. _Sonata in C major._ D. Scarlatti. XLI. Finale from _Sonata in E-flat major_. Haydn. XLII. First Movement from the _Surprise Symphony_. Haydn. XLIII. _Adagio in B minor._ Mozart. XLIV. First Movement from the _Heroic Symphony_. Beethoven. XLV. _Sonata in D Major._ Beethoven. XLVI. Finale from _Sonata in A-flat major_. Beethoven. XLVII. Portion of Slow Movement of _Seventh Symphony_. Beethoven. XLVIII. Slow Movement of _Trio in B-flat major_. Beethoven. XLIX. Theme of Slow Movement from _Sonata in E major_, Op. 109. Beethoven. L. _The Young Nun_. Song by Schubert. LI. Intermezzo from the _Euryanthe Overture_. Weber. LII. Portion of Fantasy Piece, _Grillen_. Schumann. LIII. _Novellette in E major._ Schumann. LIV. _Moonlight._ Song by Schumann. LV. _Venetian Boat Song._ Mendelssohn. LVI. _Barcarolle._ Chopin. LVII. _The Carnaval Romain Overture._ Berlioz. LVIII. _March of the Pilgrims_ from the _Harold in Italy Symphony_. Berlioz. LIX. _Forest Murmurs._ Étude by Liszt. LX. _Ballade in G minor._ Brahms. LXI. _My Love is Green as the Alder Bush._ Song by Brahms. LXII. Finale of Symphonic Poem, _Istar_. D'Indy. LXIII. _Chanson triste_ for Pianoforte. Tchaikowsky. LXIV. _Invocation to Sleep._ Song by Tchaikowsky. LXV. _Serenade._ Borodin. LXVI. _Cradle Song of the Poor._ Moussorgsky. LXVII. _Silhouette._ Dvo[vr]ák. LXVIII. _Spring Song._ Grieg. LXIX. _Dance of Spring._ Grieg. CRITICAL and HISTORICAL ESSAYS _By Edward MacDowell_ (_Lectures Delivered at Columbia University_) Especially valuable to that circle of readers who desire to secure the essential elements of a liberal culture in music. 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